— my boyfriend, his stupid plants, and that bitch with the bangs
feat. nanami kento
summary. you don’t get jealous — people get jealous of you. so why are you crying in a cinema bathroom over nanami kento explaining photosynthesis to another girl? after an emotional meltdown worthy of an award, nanami steps up to prove you’re his priority—setting boundaries, choosing you loudly, and holding you through every tear and tantrum. slowly, painfully, beautifully, you relearn what it means to be loved without having to perform for it.
triggers/warnings. non-sorcerer au x college au, jealousy, emotional breakdown, crying in a public bathroom, mild emotional manipulation (unhinged brat behavior), swearing, threats of violence (mostly botanical-themed), possessiveness, and unhealthy coping mechanisms that eventually lead to healthy communication and comfort.
the day was offensively bright, the kind of sunlight that made glass buildings glitter like they were mocking anyone who couldn’t afford to exist beautifully, and you—obviously—were the exception; if the universe had taste, it would put a spotlight on you the moment you stepped out, and today felt like one of those days where the pavement should’ve rolled out a red carpet simply because your shoes touched it.
the campus was buzzing in that nauseatingly enthusiastic way students got after midterms, everyone acting like sun exposure and iced coffee was enough to cure the generational trauma of academia, and god, just breathing the same air as these people felt like charity work.
still, you strutted down the pathway leading to the campus café—miu miu cropped knit in a red so sinful it should’ve come with a warning label, the tiny matching buttons straining against the shape of your chest in a way you knew made nanami rub his forehead like he suddenly had a migraine from “dealing with you,” which translated directly to “you look too good and it stresses him out.” your black alaïa pleated mini skirt swayed with each unapologetically privileged step, wolford sheer tights hugging your legs like a second skin, white miu miu socks folded just right above your glossy chanel mary janes, each click of your heel on the pavement sounding like a verdict—everyone else was underdressed.
you held your iced latte—oat milk, two pumps of vanilla, and emotional superiority—raised delicately between manicured fingers as if the cup itself was beneath you, but unfortunately necessary for survival. the tiny vintage chanel handbag slung over your shoulder bounced against your rib as you walked, and you didn’t even bother pretending you were rushing because punctuality was for people with nothing better to do. truthfully? you didn’t even go to class today. like hell you were going to drag your soul out of your egyptian-cotton-bed cocoon before noon just to listen to some underpaid academic talk about things google could teach you in five minutes. but nanami didn’t need to know that. your boyfriend would give you that glare—the one that could make a country surrender—and you really weren’t in the mood to be lectured by the only man who could make discipline sound like intimacy.
you approached the café, a place plagued by the aesthetic curse of trying too hard to look indie and failing spectacularly. the outdoor seating was crowded with students who thought reading murakami made them profound, but your eyes zeroed in on the table by the glass wall—the round one far too small for six people, which was exactly why those idiots chose it. gojo’s white hair was like a flag of chaos even from a distance, geto lounged like the cult leader he could easily become, shoko looked chronically done with everyone including herself, and haibara radiated optimism like a deranged labrador. but none of them mattered the second you saw nanami’s back.
the black short-sleeved knit polo you picked for him stretched over his shoulders like the fabric was praying for mercy, the sleeves hugging his biceps tight enough that your teeth tingled with the urge to leave evidence. his arm rested on the table, forearm flexed casually, veins visible—disgustingly attractive. he sat so straight, so composed, like he personally invented posture and everyone else should pay him royalties. even from behind, you could sense that irritating calm aura of his—your own personal grounded planet you orbited, even if you’d rather die than admit it out loud.
you didn’t slow down. you didn’t greet them like a normal person. no, normalcy was too cheap for you.
your free hand slid onto nanami’s shoulder the moment you reached them, fingers pressing into the warm, firm muscle like you were checking if heaven was solid. you leaned forward just enough to cast your shadow across their conversation, smiling like a disney villain in silk gloves.
“afternoon, children,” you said, voice honeyed and teasing, because you knew how to command a room without even trying.
gojo looked up first, his grin instantaneous. “look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he said. shoko muttered something you didn't bother to hear, but you were already sliding into place, which meant you didn’t have to answer.
nanami turned, eyes already giving away that quiet mix of exasperation and affection he reserved solely for you. you leaned down, pressed a kiss against his cheek like you were marking territory, murmuring, “hi, baby.”
he hummed low in his throat, one arm looping around your waist in automatic surrender. the other hand—warm, steady—rested on your thigh, thumb brushing over the sheer fabric of your tights like he was reminding you to behave, though you both knew that was a lost cause.
“you’re late,” he said quietly.
“i’m fashionable,” you corrected, twisting slightly so you could face the table, still perched neatly on his lap. “there’s a difference.”
gojo snorted into his drink. “yeah, about three hours’ worth.”
“you can count? proud of you, sugarcube.”
haibara laughed, bless his innocent heart, and geto just smiled behind his cup like he’d seen this play a hundred times before. nanami’s fingers tightened on your thigh, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that the show had an audience.
you tilted your head, looking down at him. “you missed me?”
he didn’t look up, but the smallest smirk tugged at his mouth. “you were gone for four hours.”
“and that’s four hours too long,” you said, leaning in until your lips brushed his jaw. “don’t be shy, you can say it.”
his eyes flicked to you—sharp, restrained, golden under the café light. “behave,” he murmured, just for you.
you smiled sweetly. “no.”
shoko groaned. “if you two start making out, i’m leaving.”
“then leave,” gojo offered. “less witnesses.”
“you’re all disgusting,” shoko said flatly, sipping her drink anyway.
you grinned, cheek lean on nanami’s head. “we’re adorable.”
“you’re unbearable,” nanami corrected.
but his hand didn’t move from your thigh.
you basked in the warmth of him, the way his presence steadied you even as you tried to poke holes in it. he was too serious, too controlled, and you were everything he shouldn’t have fallen for—spoiled, dramatic, perpetually five minutes away from chaos. it wasn’t that you wanted to make him jealous or tired or undone. it’s just that you loved watching the cracks form in that composure. loved being the one person who could unmake him.
the conversation at the table moved around you—movie plans, class gossip, haibara’s endless optimism—but your focus stayed where it always did. the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, the quiet flex of muscle under his sleeve, the pulse that beat steady against your thigh.
gojo squinted at you over the rim of his iced matcha like a nosy suburban aunt pretending to be subtle, which, obviously, he wasn’t. his sunglasses were perched unnecessarily on his head despite being indoors, because he had a disease called “attention-seeking,” and he leaned forward with that shit-eating grin that made you want to shove his face into the table.
“question,” he announced, finger pointed at you like a courtroom accusation, “why didn’t i see you anywhere on campus today? don’t tell me you skipped again.”
you didn’t react at first. you simply blinked, slow, turning your gaze towards him as if he had personally offended your bloodline. then, with the grace of a woman who knew silence was powerful, you dragged your eyes from gojo to nanami—very slowly—because if anyone was going to kill the mood, it was the tax-paying adult you were dating.
nanami’s profile was stoic, but his head turned just a fraction, not enough to be dramatic, just enough to say: i heard that. answer correctly if you value your life. his hand remained on your thigh, thumb frozen mid-stroke, waiting. he didn’t speak—nanami didn’t need to. his expectation sat in the air like a guillotine.
you shook your head quickly, too quickly, a little too eager to throw the lie forward before anyone could breathe. “no,” you said, voice falsely innocent, like a kid denying stealing cookies while covered in crumbs. “i did not skip class, actually. thanks for the concern, satoru, really. very touching.”
your friends reacted like you’d just given the worst performance in the history of lying. haibara tried to hide his laugh behind his hand, geto smirked into his drink, and shoko—who didn’t believe in sugarcoating unless it was on donuts—snorted so loud the table next to you turned.
“you definitely skipped,” shoko said flatly, deadpan as if stating the weather. “i was looking for you in lecture earlier and you were nowhere. not even in the bathroom pretending to cry so someone would comfort you.”
you gasped at the accusation and placed a hand on your chest, clutching invisible pearls because real pearls would’ve required more wardrobe planning this morning. “excuse me? i did fucking not skip.”
geto didn’t even look up. he just lifted a brow lazily. “yeah? then where were you?”
your mouth opened… and absolutely nothing came out. your brain went to file excuses and found the cabinet completely empty except for a metaphorical moth. you inhaled sharply, turned away from all the eyes staring at you, and reached for nanami’s drink like it was diplomatic immunity. you took a sip—an unnecessarily long sip—as if green tea could save your soul from the social execution happening around you.
nanami let you drink it, which should’ve been a red flag in itself. he only let you touch his drink when he was either (1) too tired to argue or (2) preparing to lecture you.
you placed the glass back, very gently, very slowly, the way one disarms a bomb, and then turned to face nanami with your sweetest, most weaponized smile—the one that got you out of legal consequences once.
“baby, listen—”
he didn’t raise his voice. nanami didn’t need theatrics. his disappointment alone could level civilizations.
“you skipped class.”
“i— no, i didn’t skip, i just… didn’t attend,” you argued, hands moving in useless little gestures as if rearranging air could make your excuse sound less idiotic. “there’s a difference.”
nanami blinked once. slowly. the way a man does when mentally calculating if prison is worth it. “and what,” he said, tone calm to the point of terrifying, “is the difference, sweetheart?”
gojo leaned in like a hyena. “yeah, educate us, princess.”
you shot satoru a look that could curdle milk. “the difference,” you said, straightening your back on nanami’s lap, as if delivering a thesis, “is that skipping sounds intentional and irresponsible. i simply chose peace and preserved my mental health by not exposing myself to academic distress. self-care. you should try it.”
shoko wheezed. geto covered his smile with his hand like a scandalized victorian woman in church. haibara actually clapped quietly, the traitor.
nanami stared. “you overslept.”
“i—” you lifted a finger, offended, “no. i rested.”
“until one in the afternoon,” nanami clarified, because of course he checked.
you clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes and looking away because you refused to be wrong in front of an audience. “god, you say that like it’s a crime.”
“it is when you’re paying for courses you don’t attend,” nanami replied, adjusting your position on his lap like he was grounding you into sanity. “do you intend to graduate, or do you plan to survive on generational wealth alone?”
gojo grinned. “i vote for generational wealth. it suits her.”
“shut up, satoru!” you snapped, smacking his arm across the table.
nanami caught your wrist mid-swing—gentle, firm, thumb pressing into your pulse like a warning. he leaned in, voice low enough that it curled down your spine like expensive silk. “behave.”
and your friends, the demons you called family, burst into laughter like they’d been waiting for that exact moment.
your face heated—not embarrassed, because you didn’t do embarrassment—just… strategically annoyed. “are you all done enjoying my suffering, or should i perform a tap dance too?”
geto raised his cup. “please do, bonus points if you fall.” you scowled, sinking further into nanami’s chest, arms crossed like a brat, mumbling, “you’re all mentally ill.” shoko took a drag from her vape and exhaled smoke right over your hair. “and yet, we go to class.”
six of you slipped back into conversation, the kind that required zero brain cells—mostly gojo lying, geto enabling it, haibara believing it, and shoko regretting her existence—but it was comfortable chaos, and nanami’s arm around your waist grounded you, thumb tracing slow circles on your thigh in that absent-minded you’re mine, don’t start way he did.
and then she appeared.
a girl materialized beside the table with the unwanted presence of an unsolicited ad popup. weird bangs—like she cut them during a psychotic episode or let a blindfolded toddler do it—long black hair, cardigan buttoned wrong like a cry for help. she beams at gojo first, all teeth, dimples, and misguided optimism.
“gojo-kun! hey!”
of course she knew him. everyone with bad decision-making skills did.
gojo lit up like a dumb golden retriever who just saw its leash. “ohhh, utahime! guys, this is utahime! she’s in my and nanamin’s major.”
you zoned out at the name because it sounded like a villain from a discount fairytale. irrelevant. what wasn’t irrelevant was gojo pulling out a chair for her—the chair right across from nanami.
oh. so this is the type of day we’re having.
“utahime, this is geto, shoko, haibara, and—” gojo gestured vaguely at you and nanami, “—nanami and his girlfriend.”
you lifted your hand with the grace of royalty blessing peasants. “hello.”
she glanced at you for half a millisecond, uttered a bland “hi,” then turned fully to nanami like you were an aesthetic prop that came with the table.
“nanami, right? i think i’ve seen you around in the literature department.”
you stared at her like she’d grown a second head. you were literally sitting on his lap and she still managed to mentally crop you out of the frame like a bad ex. the audacity smelled like drugstore perfume.
nanami nodded politely, because unfortunately he was raised with manners. “yes, we share a few lectures.”
she smiled at him. smiled. like she had teeth specifically for him. “i thought so. you always look very focused. it’s impressive.” your eyelid twitched. impressed? what was he, a circus act?
nanami, oblivious to your growing homicidal aura, replied with that calm, respectful tone that made professors love him. “i just prefer not to fall behind.”
gojo elbowed geto under the table, whispering loudly, “she’s so into him.”
geto hummed. “dead on arrival. she has no idea who she’s messing with.” shoko exhaled smoke into the shape of a middle finger. “she’s brave. or stupid. likely both.”
utahime didn’t hear—tragedy. she settled in, and somehow, like a cursed domino effect, the conversation shifted. you were mid-complaint to shoko about how leggings weren’t pants when you noticed nanami and utahime were… talking.
like, actually talking.
animated.
engaged.
she asked about some assignment or some book, and nanami—your nanami, the man who rationed his words like they were wartime supplies—responded with actual sentences.
you narrowed your eyes. suspicious.
you tuned back in when you heard utahime say, “you’re part of the campus horticulture and sustainable agriculture society, right?”
you blinked. the campus what?
nanami nodded. “yes. the horticulture and sustainable agriculture society—HSAS. we’re focusing on soil health improvement this semester. most students ignore the foundational care required for—”
“soil health,” you repeated blankly under your breath, like the words themselves gave you indigestion.
shoko chuckled. “oh look, your boyfriend’s having his plant ted talk.”
utahime leaned in, elbows on the table, chin in hands, like nanami was reciting poetry in italian. “that’s fascinating. i’ve been wanting to grow herbs in my apartment but everything i touch dies. what soil do you recommend for beginner plants?”
nanami actually warmed up. warmed up. his voice gained depth, like she just unlocked npc dialogue level two. “well, herbs require well-draining soil. most beginners overwater because they assume more water means faster growth, but it increases the risk of root rot—”
you stared. root rot? this man barely used more than five words with anyone and suddenly he was the david attenborough of basil plants?
gojo leaned toward you with a grin that deserved jail time. “look at nanamin go. bro’s flirting plant-style.”
you hissed, “one more sound and i will shove your matcha straw so far up your nose you’ll taste grass.”
haibara laughed nervously. “guys, be nice…”
geto sipped his drink, amused. “this is fantastic. i’ve never seen nanami talk so much to anyone who wasn’t her.” he tilted his head at you. “how does it feel to be replaced by fertilizer talk?”
you glared at him, jaw tightening. “i’m not bothered.”
you were absolutely bothered.
it was like watching your golden retriever boyfriend suddenly become conversational with a passing pigeon. who the fuck was she to get this much dialogue from him?
nanami continued, utterly unaware of the storm brewing on his lap. “if you’re new to plants, start with mint or rosemary. they’re resilient and don’t require much intervention.”
“wow,” utahime said softly, eyes big enough to irritate you on a spiritual level, “you know so much.”
you could feel your soul leave your body, hover above the table, and consider flipping it.
shoko leaned over and whispered, “you gonna let her herb-flirt with your man like that?”
“i’m unbothered,” you repeated, nails digging into nanami’s thigh hard enough to pierce through his soul. nanami’s hand tightened on your waist—not painfully, just enough to say behave without interrupting his fucking spinach seminar.
geto smirked. “you look seconds away from committing eco-friendly homicide.”
you whispered through a closed-teeth smile, maintaining your princess composure, “i swear to god if that girl asks him one more plant question, i’m ripping the rosemary out of her hypothetical garden and making her eat it.”
gojo cackled. “i will literally pay to see that.”
and nanami, sweet plant-talking, politely smiling nanami—was still answering her question about sunlight exposure like he wasn’t currently sitting under a girlfriend-shaped nuclear bomb.
you inhaled, slow, deliberate, eyes narrowing as utahime leaned closer to him again.
your grip on nanami’s thigh tightened, nails sinking in.
he paused mid-sentence, finally turning his head just enough to look at you, brow slightly raised—only a millimeter, but on nanami that equaled what are you plotting.
you smiled, all teeth.
if he didn’t stop this herbal bonding session soon, you were about to water that girl with holy water and bury her in “well-draining soil.”
as everyone left the café to walk toward the cinema, the situation deteriorated with the same speed as your patience. what was supposed to be your afternoon—your boyfriend, your friends, your post-class movie date—had now been hijacked by the bangs-gone-wrong herbal witch who somehow glued herself to nanami’s side like an unwanted sticker on a luxury bag.
you should’ve known gojo was capable of this level of treason. he was skipping ahead like a golden retriever who found a ball, proudly leading utahime into your circle as if he’d discovered fire. the bitch was now walking in front, beside nanami—beside your nanami—talking about plants. still. they were still talking about the horticulture club (you mentally renamed it the horti-culture-of-ruining-your-day-club), her voice full of curiosity and fake academic interest, while nanami nodded and responded like he was a responsible mentor in a children’s education program.
normally, nanami would hold your hand, walk beside you, adjust your pace like you were the center of his orbit. now? you were behind him. behind. like a side character. a background extra. a cautionary tale.
gojo slung an arm over your shoulder, grinning like he was waiting for popcorn to watch you combust. shoko walked on your other side, hands in her pocket, already scrolling her phone. behind you, geto and haibara chatted about something that wasn’t nearly as important as your personal crisis.
you crossed your arms over your chest, eyes drilling holes into the back of utahime’s skull. maybe if i stare hard enough, a giant plant pot will fall on her head from a cosmic balcony and she’ll go back to photosynthesis permanently. you were not wishing for her death—you were merely manifesting a gardening accident poetic enough to send her away.
gojo glanced down at you, smirk widening. “you look like you’re planning a homicide using fertilizer.”
“don’t tempt me,” you muttered, voice low, venom-dipped. “i’m one intrusive thought away from repotting her six feet under.”
shoko snorted without looking up. “you’re dramatic.”
you whipped your head toward her, offended. “i am realistic.”
gojo gasped in exaggerated betrayal. “so you’re jealous.”
you turned slowly, face blank, tone flat but dangerous. “jealous? of who? of that… bangs-with-a-personality-disorder? please. the only thing i envy is the delusion she has that she belongs here.”
geto actually choked on air behind you.
gojo wiggled his eyebrows. “she’s just talking to nanami. they’re bonding.”
“over fucking soil, satoru. soil.” you hissed, voice cracking like your sanity. “tell me why my boyfriend is suddenly the plant whisperer for an outsider? what is he, some kind of agricultural tinder? people swipe right and he waters their basil?”
shoko sighed. “you’re spiraling.”
“i’m descending,” you corrected, gesturing passionately with one hand while the other murderously clutched your chanel bag. “this is a free-fall.”
nanami glanced back briefly—just a fraction—to check if you were keeping up. normally that look would soften you, but today it made your rage glitter. he didn’t even offer his hand. he just turned back to the demon-spawn herb girl and resumed discussing mint infestations like he was the ceo of oregano.
you leaned in to your friends, voice dangerously polite. “look at them. walking together. talking. breathing the same oxygen. disgusting.”
haibara, sweet innocent soul, tried to reassure you. “i’m sure nanami is just being polite—”
“polite?” you snapped softly. “he is my boyfriend. the bare minimum is him being rude to other women. loyal men don’t discuss rosemary ratios with anyone except their girlfriend. i should be the only herb in his life.”
gojo wheezed. “you did not just call yourself a herb.”
“shut your mouth before i season you with salt and eat you alive.”
utahime laughed at something nanami said. oh, she laughed. she laughed like she understood him. like she had the right. your eye twitched so hard it could’ve powered a light bulb.
“i hope,” you said calmly, like a villain making a vow, “she tries to plant basil and it sprouts a fungus. i hope her rosemary wilts. i hope her soil becomes a cursed wasteland. and i hope nanami’s watering can leaks all over his shoes so he remembers this betrayal every time he walks.”
shoko stared at you. “…girl. therapy is right there.”
you ignored that. “and him.” you gestured toward nanami, voice rising an octave of offended royalty. “he should know better. he shouldn’t look at other women—”
“he’s not,” haibara pointed out gently, “he’s literally staring at the pavement while talking.”
“bare minimum!” you shriek-whispered. “he shouldn’t talk to other women either! silence is free!”
gojo hummed. “so you want nanami to be mute to everyone except you?”
“yes,” you said without hesitation. “and to plants, apparently, since that’s his thing now.”
geto laughed quietly. “you’re insane.”
“i’m in love,” you corrected, nose in the air. “there’s a difference. love makes you gracious and kind.”
shoko stared. “you literally manifested a potted-plant accident five minutes ago.”
you shrugged. “compassion has levels.”
ahead of you, utahime giggled again—at something plant-related—and nanami, sweet oblivious nanami, slightly nodded along like he was a guest speaker at a gardening conference. you inhaled sharply. “i’m about to photosynthesize rage.”
you kept walking, seething so loudly it was a miracle the concrete under your feet didn’t crack from the sheer force of your offended aura. the world should’ve stopped. the sky should’ve darkened. alarms should’ve gone off. your boyfriend was talking to another woman—and about botany, of all the unsexy, grandma-coded subjects—and everyone around you was acting like this wasn’t a catastrophic betrayal of romance, loyalty, and personal branding.
you sped up half a step so you could hear them better—because how dare he have a conversation you weren’t the main character of—and the words “nitrogen fixation” drifted back to you like a personal insult.
you gagged dramatically. “jesus christ, he’s talking about soil nutrients. does he want to get cheated on? because that’s how men get cheated on.”
gojo raised both brows, arm still lazily over your shoulder. “wow. plants are now infidelity?”
you turned to him, eyes wide with religious conviction. “plants are a gateway drug to emotional affairs, satoru. first it’s rosemary, then it’s sharing gardening tools, and next thing you know she’s repotting her heart into his hands.”
shoko made a noise that was half-laugh, half-choke. “you’re sick.”
you ignored her diagnosis.
up ahead, utahime tucked her limp tragic hair behind her ear, leaning a little too close to nanami as she asked something about photosynthesis like it wasn’t common knowledge taught to six-year-olds with crayons and carrot sticks. nanami answered with that calm, informative tone he used when guiding lost children or explaining tax forms to you so you wouldn’t cry.
he didn’t look at her—no eye contact, bare minimum, congratulations—but he responded. willingly. completely. as if she deserved personalized nanami tutoring services.
you stared at the back of his head like you were trying to set his hair on fire telepathically.
“i can’t believe this is happening,” you muttered, crossing your arms tighter, suffocating in betrayal and your own expensive perfume. “this was supposed to be our movie time. our date. our quality time with the background characters we call friends. and now?? now we’re the supporting cast in gojo’s charity show-and-tell featuring some stray cat with bangs.”
gojo snorted. “be nice, she’s new.”
“and she can stay new,” you shot back. “new and far away. new and outside the group. new as in return to sender.”
geto chimed in from behind, amused. “you realize she can’t hear you, right?”
you whipped around so fast your hair nearly slapped him. “trust me, if she could, she would compost herself on the spot.”
haibara, ever the sunshine idiot, tried to calm you. “maybe she just wants to make friends?”
“oh, please. look at her.” you gestured violently at utahime’s back, nearly elbowing gojo in the ribs. “she’s walking like she’s auditioning to become the new moral compass of this group. we don’t need a moral compass. we barely need a compass. we are lost and we like it.”
shoko raised a brow. “you? moral compass? please. you’d sell this group for a birkin bag.”
you blinked. “shoko. don’t be ridiculous.” you paused. “it would have to be a limited edition birkin. crocodile leather. gold hardware. preferably one-of-one.”
“see?” shoko mumbled.
you ignored the truth because it was inconvenient.
you focused on your boyfriend again—your gorgeous, infuriating, plant-talking boyfriend who should’ve been holding your hand, kissing your temple, ignoring every female organism in a 50-meter radius—and instead he was giving unsolicited gardening advice like some attractive greenhouse consultant.
you hissed under your breath, “he shouldn’t be talking to her. he shouldn’t be talking to anyone. he should be carrying me like a princess and stepping on rose petals while doing it.”
gojo actually laughed. “you want nanami to be your servant?”
“i want nanami to act like a man in love,” you snapped. “not a walking national geographic episode.”
geto added, “you could just walk next to him, you know.”
you gasped as if he suggested you lick hospital floor tiles. “i will not chase him. i am not a golden retriever. i am the ball. people chase me.”
shoko pinched the bridge of her nose. “you are not the ball.”
“i am the ball, the player, the coach, and the entire damn tournament. everyone attends because of me.”
you said this right as utahime laughed again at whatever nanami said and your blood pressure skyrocketed so hard you nearly astral projected.
“i hope,” you said with the serenity of a cursed prophet, “that she wakes up tomorrow and every plant she owns is dead. i hope the leaves turn black. i hope her basil commits suicide. i hope her fertilizer expires. i hope her watering can cracks. and i hope nanami—”
gojo perked up. “ooo, what do you hope happens to nanamin?”
you inhaled deeply. “i hope nanami’s plants grow mold. i hope his little gardening gloves shrink. i hope his stupid herb club—”
“horticulture society,” haibara corrected softly.
“—i hope his STUPID herb club,” you emphasized, “loses funding and they have to sell carrots on the street like failed vegetables.”
shoko stared at you, dead-eyed. “seek help.”
you ignored that. again.
“he should only discuss plants with me,” you muttered, wounded, betrayed, dramatically heartbroken. “i don’t even like plants. but he should only talk to me about them.”
and with that, you stared ahead, at the back of your boyfriend walking beside another woman, and you thought, in the most poetic, dostoevsky-meets-deranged-princess way possible:
if this is what love is, no wonder russian literature is full of suffering.
when you all reach the theatre entrance, the neon lights flickering like a cheap attempt at glamour, gojo’s arm is still slung over your shoulder, the weight of it both grounding and irritating because it wasn’t the arm you wanted. nanami was still walking beside utahime, still talking, still breathing the same air as her, and your eye twitched so violently you were convinced you developed a new facial tic.
gojo followed your burning stare, eyes darting from nanami to you, and with a dramatic sigh—like he was babysitting a rabid raccoon in couture—he tugged you toward the ticket counters. “come on, princess,” he muttered, steering you away, “let’s just forget about him. ignore him too.”
he didn’t even wait for your response, just dragged you away, and you let yourself be pulled only because your body had entered that numb, offended, heart-bruised autopilot that happened once every blue moon—specifically when nanami kento, the one man in the universe who never, ever, not even for one second, failed to give you attention—shifted it to someone who wasn’t you.
you looked over your shoulder at them, your steps slowing, just to witness nanami tilt his head slightly toward utahime as she spoke, his hands in his pockets, posture polite but relaxed—not intimate, not flirtatious, just… engaged. it wasn’t even what he was saying. it was the absence of what he usually did with you—glancing at you, checking if you were next to him, adjusting your bag strap, brushing your hair behind your ear, telling you to watch your step, holding your waist in crowded places.
those things didn’t exist right now.
you faced forward again, jaw locking. you tried not to care, truly, you tried to swallow it with the dignity of a queen who refused to crumble in public, but the petulant, deeply spoiled part of you—the part nanami privately adored and publicly tamed—was clawing at your ribs like how dare he.
nanami had never denied you. not attention, not affection, not his time. you were the center of his carefully organized galaxy and he orbited you with steady devotion. and now? one afternoon of neglect and you felt like the moon had been kicked out of the solar system.
and the worst part? beneath the rage, beneath the jealousy, beneath the desire to poison a plant so it symbolically represented your emotional suffering—there was something softer, uglier, something you hated admitting even to yourself: it hurt.
after gojo paid for the tickets—because you sure as hell weren’t taking out your card for anything under a thousand dollars—he pulled you toward the concession stand where shoko, haibara, and geto were gathering with popcorn and drinks.
the moment they saw you approach—quiet, stiff, lips pressed together—they exchanged glances like doctors diagnosing a terminally ill patient who still thought she had the flu. geto’s eyes flicked over your shoulder, confirming the sight of nanami still with utahime before his gaze returned to your face.
he leaned closer, voice low, non-judgmental but smug enough to rankle. “are you actually upset about them?”
you didn’t trust your voice, so you hummed—short, flat, unimpressed—lifting one shoulder like an attempt at nonchalance, but the tension in your jaw exposed you like a confession written in blood.
geto hummed back, almost sympathetic, handing you a drink like it was medication. “then talk to nanami. if you feel ignored, tell him.”
of course, gojo—diplomatic as a drunk pigeon—ruined the moment.
“oh please,” he scoffed, snatching a handful of popcorn with his free hand, “she feels ignored when a houseplant gets more sunlight than her. miss spotlight here needs constant admiration or she wilts.”
you elbowed him in the stomach, sharp and precise, making him grunt. “shut the fuck up, satoru, before i rearrange your ribs into modern art.”
shoko snorted into her drink, haibara coughed to hide a laugh, and geto smiled behind his cup like he was enjoying a theatre show that didn’t require tickets.
you inhaled sharply through your nose, lifted your chin, and let the dam break.
“he should give me attention,” you snapped, keeping your voice low enough not to cause a public scene but sharp enough to cut god, “he is my boyfriend. my boyfriend. i shouldn’t have to beg for it like some charity case. i shouldn’t have to tap him on the shoulder like a fucking waiter asking for the bill. attention is part of his job description. loving me includes looking at me.”
your words were venom-wrapped silk, but your fingers—clenching your straw, the slight tremble at the tips—betrayed the vulnerable thread under the rage.
geto exhaled through his nose, head tilting, his voice kinder this time, “it makes sense you feel that way. you’re used to him being… very present with you. he set that standard, so it’s normal you expect it.”
you blinked at him, thrown off for a second by the emotional validation that hit you like someone offering you a blanket mid-tantrum.
but geto wasn’t done.
“just… maybe give him a minute? she’s new, he’s trying to be polite—”
you scoffed instantly, an unhinged, offended laugh escaping. “polite? no. no. absolutely not. nanami does not get to be ‘polite.’ he is not a community library. he is not available for public use. if he wants to be polite he can hold the door, say thank you, and move the fuck on. conversation is intimacy and intimacy is mine.”
gojo burst out laughing, a hand slapping his knee. “oh my god. you sound like a medieval king guarding his royal concubine.”
you raised your cup and pointed the straw at gojo’s throat with threatening precision. “say one more word and i will introduce your face to the popcorn machine and butter you like a croissant.”
gojo, shaking with laughter, held his hands up in surrender. “fine, fine—jealousy looks adorable on you. like a chihuahua guarding a yacht.”
“i’m a rottweiler,” you growled.
“you’re a poodle with diamond fur,” he corrected.
you glared at him, then turned to geto, voice dropping, unfiltered, raw, but still dipped in drama.
“if my boyfriend wants to suddenly audition for earth’s next top botanist with bangs mcgee, he can enjoy watering plants alone in his dorm for the rest of his natural life. because i swear, if i have to tell my boyfriend to notice me? to look at me? to choose me? i would rather swallow fertilizer.”
shoko blinked slowly. “please don’t.”
you shrugged. “depends on how long they keep talking.”
and geto, annoyingly calm, annoyingly wise, annoyingly right, just corrected quietly, “you don’t have to ask him to choose you. he already does. every day. you just haven’t told him you feel ignored.”
you hated that logic.
you hated that he was right.
you hated most of all that it made your anger taste like sadness. and you crossed your arms, chin raised, choosing violence over vulnerability—for now.
the popcorn machine hummed behind you, the smell of butter thick in the air, sticking to your skin and your mood alike, and you stood there rigid, spine straight, arms crossed so tight across your chest your bracelets dug into your skin, like your body was trying to hold your ego together before it shattered on the sticky cinema floor. geto’s words lingered like a bitter aftertaste—annoyingly sensible, nauseatingly calm, the verbal equivalent of someone placing a warm blanket on you while you’re trying to commit arson.
you stared at him, lips curling, because if there was one thing you hated more than utahime’s haircut, it was being psychoanalyzed correctly.
“oh look at you,” you muttered, shifting your weight onto one leg, jutting your hip out, your manicured nails tapping sharply against your bicep, “dr. phil reincarnated with a man bun. how poetic. how wise. how about you diagnose my foot up someone’s ass too while you’re at it?”
geto didn’t flinch—he never did, which made him infinitely more punchable in moments like this. he held your gaze, eyes soft, voice level, his cup cradled loosely between his palms like he was warming his hands on the heat of your fury. “you’re allowed to feel ignored. anyone would be upset if their partner suddenly shifted attention. it’s valid.”
you scoffed, dramatic and sharp, head tossing back as if you’d been insulted by god personally. “oh great, thank you, priest suguru, for telling me my feelings are valid. how groundbreaking. next you’ll tell me water is wet and gojo is stupid.”
gojo, who was now sipping his drink like he was watching a romcom unfold, lifted a lazy hand. “both true.”
you ignored him and leaned closer to geto, your voice lowering into that venom-laced whisper reserved for emotional emergency or homicide, whichever came first. “validation doesn’t fix shit. i don’t want to feel better about being ignored. i want him to stop fucking ignoring me.”
you felt your throat tighten—not enough to show, never enough to show—but enough to force you to look away, down at your own fingers gripping your cup like it might explode if you loosened your hold. you repositioned your stance, shifting the weight of your body just slightly so you leaned against the counter, but even that wasn’t relaxed; it was defensive, closed off, chin tilted up in futile superiority.
geto exhaled through his nose, elbows resting on the counter, leaning a little closer so you couldn’t run from the truth he was about to drop like a boulder onto your fragile, dramatic ego. “you’re hurting because you expect the version of nanami who’s always glued to you. but he’s allowed to exist as his own person too. you want devotion, not a hostage.”
your brows flew up, disbelief etched across your face as you pointed your straw at him like a weapon. “first of all, how dare you speak logic to me when i’m actively spiraling. second, nanami being obsessed with me is not hostage behavior, it’s romance. third, don’t stand there with your jesus hair and tell me to be understanding. i’m rich. i don’t do understanding. i do receiving.”
gojo wheezed.
shoko pinched the bridge of her nose, already exhausted.
haibara looked like he was watching a car crash in slow motion.
geto, still impossibly calm, still infuriatingly kind, lifted a hand in surrender. “fine. you don’t have to understand. but talk to him. he doesn’t know you feel this way yet.”
you gave him a slow, sarcastic blink. “wow. brilliant. stunning. inspiring. what a fabulous idea. i should talk to my boyfriend. how revolutionary. no one in the history of existence has ever thought of communication before. should we hold a press conference? maybe write a thesis?”
geto raised a brow. “so you won’t talk to him.”
you inhaled sharply through your teeth. “of course i will not talk to him. talking requires vulnerability. vulnerability requires humility. i have neither.”
gojo cackled. “at least she’s self-aware.”
you snapped your head toward him, eyes blazing. “self-awareness is not the virtue you think it is. it’s the burden of the elite.”
geto sighed but the corner of his mouth twitched, because even when you were insufferable, you were entertaining. “he cares about you. deeply. you know that.”
you bit down a bitter laugh. your throat felt tight, your stomach twisting, nails scraping lightly against your arm through your sweater sleeve. “yeah? well he should show it. i shouldn’t have to perform emotional gymnastics to earn the attention he used to give freely. if i wanted to beg for scraps, i’d date a man who makes minimum wage.”
shoko actually choked on her drink this time, coughing. “jesus christ.”
geto stared at you. “you do realize nanami is allowed to have conversations with other women, right?”
your head snapped toward him so fast your hair whipped over your shoulder like a weapon. “and you do realize i don’t give a singular microscopic fuck about what men are ‘allowed’ to do, right? he is my boyfriend. my emotional support adult. my legally binding emotional investment. if he wants to discuss rosemary with another woman, that woman better be me in a wig.”
haibara blinked slowly. “why would you need a wig?”
you waved him off. “for dramatics, haibara, please keep up.”
and there it was—the truth sitting on your tongue, bitter and humiliating, but ready to spill because no amount of sarcasm could bury it forever.
you exhaled shakily, your voice dropping half an octave, quieter but no less sharp. “i just… i shouldn’t have to ask to be seen.”
and the silence that followed was loud—accompanied only by the violent popping of kernels in the machine behind you, like applause for the tragedy of your own making.
the waiting area outside the theatre was cramped and buzzing, the kind of space where the floor was sticky with decades of spilled soda and regret, circular tables placed close enough that strangers’ conversations bled into each other. all six of you crowded around one of those round tables, chairs stolen from nearby like barbarians claiming land. the digital screen above the hallway flickered with “screen 4 – seats cleaning, please wait”, and everyone settled into that pre-movie limbo — except you, who sat with your back painfully straight, pretending nanami wasn’t sitting right beside you with his hand on your thigh like he owned real estate there.
you tried to ignore him. ignore the warmth of his palm through the sheer wolford tights, ignore the weight of his fingers curving around the top of your thigh like you were his favorite page-turning novel, ignore the small absent-minded circles his thumb drew — gentle, steady, familiar — the exact type of touch that usually melted you, soothed you, tethered you to him.
but right now? it felt like salt on a wound.
because while his hand was on you, his attention wasn’t. nanami was still talking to utahime. still. like the universe hated you personally.
you stared at the table, chin tilted slightly away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your eyes, while on your left, geto raised his brows at you, a silent talk to him written across his face. you shook your head once, small, stubborn, your lips tightening, and he sighed, leaning back like he was watching a predictable tragedy unfold.
nanami didn’t seem to notice your emotional apocalypse. his posture was relaxed, other hand resting on the table, his voice low and polite as utahime asked him something about club meetings or plant pots — you didn’t care, you refused to care, but it clawed at you anyway.
you snapped.
you slowly leaned in, one elbow on the table, your body turning toward nanami, your hair falling like a curtain over your shoulder, your voice dipped in honeyed poison. “what were you two talking about?”
nanami turned instantly — and god, you hated that your heart reacted before your brain could block it. his gaze softened the moment it met yours, that small, warm smile appearing — the one that was just for you, the one that made you feel chosen, the one that usually cured every storm inside you.
his knuckles brushed your cheekbone, tender, affectionate, familiar enough to make your inhale stutter. “just some things about the plants,” he dismissed gently, thumb brushing your skin like he was smoothing your irritation away. “utahime is thinking of joining the horticulture club.”
the club again. as if the word itself didn’t sound like an allergy.
you hummed, but your eyes didn’t soften, and your jaw was wired tight. “what things?” you asked, voice light to the untrained ear, but razor-edged if anyone listened with their soul. “tell me.”
it wasn’t a question. it was a command masked as a request. you wanted him to elaborate, to include you, to bring you into the conversation where you belonged — beside him, not outside of him.
nanami exhaled, a small barely-there laugh from his nose, the kind a man makes when he thinks you’re cute for being ridiculous. “you wouldn’t understand, sweetheart,” he murmured, tone meant to soothe, not belittle — yet it sliced through you cleanly anyway. “don’t stress your pretty head about it.”
and then — the fucking bastard — he turned his attention back to utahime as if you hadn’t just spoken. as if your opinion, your presence, didn’t demand the gravitational pull it always had.
you froze.
your frown carved in deeper, lips pressing so tightly together your lipstick nearly cracked. your chest hollowed in that humiliating, nauseating way pride bleeds when pricked. and from the corner of your eye, you caught it — the smallest twitch of utahime’s lips. not a smile. a smirk. subtle, fleeting, but you saw it. the kind of expression one makes when they think they’ve been chosen over someone else.
you bit the inside of your cheek so hard the metallic taste of blood bloomed on your tongue.
nanami kento had just dismissed you. in public. in front of people. for plant girl.
humiliation and fury tangled inside you like barbed wire.
you didn’t speak. you couldn’t — because to speak now would be to either cry (never allowed) or stab (socially frowned upon). your pride was a spoiled, overfed beast, raised in luxury, pampered with attention, never starved a day in its life — and suddenly nanami had fed someone else first. your ego didn’t know how to process deprivation. it was built on the unshakeable fact that you were the exception to rules, not subject to them.
nanami had always been one of those things placed into your palms without effort — not because he was easy, no, he was one of the only things you actually wanted badly enough to hold with care — but because he chose you endlessly, without hesitation, without question, making you believe his devotion was fixed, guaranteed, unshakable.
and now? now he had shifted his attention for a moment too long, and it felt like a throne had been pulled an inch from under you. not enough to fall — just enough to wobble, enough to threaten your crown.
your voice finally emerged, low, venom-soaked, each syllable enunciated like a curse. “you know,” you said, staring at the table because if you looked at him you’d either combust or kiss him and both would be humiliating, “i must be delusional to expect my boyfriend to act like he gives a shit when i’m sitting right next to him.”
nanami blinked, head turning slowly back toward you, brows gently knitting, confusion and concern surfacing in equal measure. “i do give a—”
you cut him off, a cold laugh escaping you, sharp enough to slice the air. “really? because you’re acting like i’m some decorative throw pillow you keep around for aesthetics. should i sit on the floor so you can focus better on your little garden club recruitment?”
geto sucked in a breath. shoko mumbled “oh, fuck.” gojo was already grinning like a hyena at a feast.
nanami’s hand on your thigh tightened, firm, grounding, not rough but authoritative enough to demand your gaze — so you turned, finally meeting his eyes, and god, you hated that the warmth there made your chest ache.
“i wasn’t ignoring you,” he said softly, calmly, trying to stay level-headed like he always did with you. “she asked questions. i answered. it wasn’t meant to make you feel left out.”
you tilted your head, smile slow and poisonous. “well congratulations, you failed. gold star. ten out of ten on the ‘make my girlfriend feel like a side character in her own life’ scale.”
nanami sighed — not annoyed, not angry — but patient, because of course he was patient. “i’m sorry you felt that way. but you know you’re important to me.”
your lips curled again, a mocking echo of sweetness. “important? i’m not asking to be important, nanami. i’m asking to be prioritized. you can’t treat me like the main course one day and a mint garnish the next. pick a menu.”
and even as you stabbed him with your words, your chest throbbed with something awful, something you didn’t allow to surface: you were scared. scared of being replaceable. scared of indifference. scared because nanami was the one person you didn’t know how to exist without winning.
he held your gaze, thumb rubbing soothing circles again — this time not absent-minded, but intentional. “i should’ve paid more attention to you,” he admitted quietly.
you wanted that to fix it.
it didn’t.
not yet.
and that line — “i should’ve paid more attention to you” — should’ve knocked the fury out of your bones, wrapped you in silk, lulled you into that soft spoiled-brat slumber where you win simply because nanami surrendered first. it should’ve been enough to stop the spiral dead in its tracks.
because nanami didn’t deny you, didn’t gaslight you, didn’t tell you you were “doing too much.” he validated you. he handed you the crown back with his own hands, kissed your ego gently and placed it on the throne again — no resistance, no argument, no double meaning. pure, steady sincerity.
but you?
you were a dramatic piece of shit.
your entire existence was built on ego the way temples were built on sacred ground — your pride wasn’t a personality trait, it was the spine you walked with. one microscopic moment of humiliation felt like being stripped naked in public. you weren’t wired to crumble gracefully. you were wired to explode, self-destruct, resurrect, and then deny it ever happened.
you prided yourself on being untouchable, above nonsense, above insecurities. you prided yourself on being that girl — the one who didn’t flinch, didn’t break, didn’t chase. the one who ignored gojo’s existence for an entire freshman year because he annoyed you and you refused to give his ego oxygen. you were a monument of indifference when you wanted to be.
so admitting something got to you? that a girl with tragic bangs shook your composure enough to make you feel?
fucking humiliating.
you were supposed to be the one people cried over — not the one hiding tears.
and the worst part was knowing utahime heard you argue, saw you demand attention, witnessed the crack in your armor. she should’ve been the one feeling threatened by you — not you feeling anything over her.
your chair scraped back sharply, the sound slicing through the table’s chatter. nanami’s hand instantly reached for your wrist, instinct kicking in, but you jerked your hand away like his touch burned. the shock that flickered across his face — brief, quiet, wounded — nearly broke something inside your ribcage, but you bit down on it, rose to your feet with your chin high, spine rigid, and walked away.
you didn’t look back.
you refused to give them the image of your eyes shining.
you could hear footsteps behind you — one pair, steady, controlled (nanami), another lighter and lazier (gojo), and a third too bored to hurry (shoko). you prayed it wasn’t nanami, because if he saw your eyes, saw the crack, saw the tear that fought to slip free, your pride would shatter so loudly the universe would hear it.
you pushed the bathroom door open with more force than necessary, the fluorescent lights too bright, mirrors too reflective for fragile emotions. it was empty — stalls open, silence echoing off the tiles — a sanctuary for humiliation to decompose in peace.
you braced your palms on the counter, head tilted up toward the ceiling like you were begging gravity to pull the tears back into your skull instead of down your face. you grabbed tissues, folding them like they were fine linen napkins, pressing them beneath your waterline carefully — because you would rather die than let mascara betray you. ugly crying on top of public humiliation? no. you had standards, even in breakdowns.
your shoulders trembled once — quickly — the way a spoiled princess shakes only in private, only for a second, only before putting the mask back on.
the door creaked open. shoko entered, leaning against the sink beside you, arms crossed, chewing her gum like she was watching a circus she didn’t buy tickets for.
“that was dramatic as hell,” she sighed, like this was episode twelve of a show she couldn’t stop watching. “even for you.”
you snapped your head toward her, eyes glossy but sharp, whisper-hissed so your voice wouldn’t crack, “shut the fuck up, shoko, unless you want to be the next victim in my emotional homicide spree.”
she raised both brows, unimpressed. “i’m just saying — storming off mid-conversation like a telenovela villain after her husband cheats with the maid? iconic, but dramatic.”
you glared, aggressively patting the tissue under your eyes with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. your voice was tight, vibrating with swallowed rage. “i am trying not to cry, okay? if uta-fucking-hime makes me cry just by breathing in the direction of my man, i’ll bury her in the community garden next to the fucking carrots.”
shoko huffed a laugh, shaking her head as she grabbed another tissue and handed it to you. “you’re insane.”
“i’m territorial,” you corrected sharply, dabbing at the corner of your eye, making sure your eyeliner stayed crisp. “and i refuse to let some no-name, middle-class herb girl with a discount shampoo routine see me cry. she will not get that satisfaction. i will set myself on fire first.”
shoko shrugged, leaning next to you in the mirror. “you know nanami didn’t mean to hurt you.”
you threw the tissue away like it offended you. “he dismissed me, shoko. me. in front of her. do you know how humiliating that is for someone with my upbringing? i grew up in a house where the sun rose when i woke up. i am not emotionally equipped to be treated like… like fucking background noise!”
shoko sighed, but there was something gentler in it this time. “you felt replaced for a second. it happens.”
you clenched the edges of the sink, knuckles white, nails digging into porcelain. “i don’t get replaced.”
your voice broke on that line — just slightly, enough that shoko’s gaze softened — and you sniffed, anger and vulnerability tangling in your throat like poison.
“i don’t get replaced,” you repeated, quieter, like you were reminding the universe. “especially not by basil-enthusiast barbie.”
shoko handed you another tissue, her tone flat but honest. “you won’t be. nanami’s obsessed with you. it’s gross.”
you swallowed hard, eyes lifting to your reflection — furious, wounded, beautiful, trembling. you whispered, voice shaking but trying so hard not to break, “then why did it feel like i was… optional?”
the door creaked again, interrupting the moment before your throat could fully tighten around the confession, and a voice—annoyingly recognizable, obnoxiously casual—floated in:
“you’re not optional.”
you closed your eyes like god was testing you personally. shoko didn’t even react—meaning she expected this circus act.
gojo stepped in, sunglasses pushed up on his head like a headband, hair a mess like he styled it with electricity. he took in the scene—your glossy eyes, shoko leaning like a bored therapist, tissues everywhere—and he sighed dramatically.
“jesus, you’re really in here having a main-character mental breakdown in a bathroom,” he muttered, walking closer. “and not even a luxury bathroom. this is tragic. i expected better from you.”
you glared at him, voice already cracking with rage and humiliation. “fuck off, satoru.”
he didn’t. he reached out, plucked the tissue from your hand with surprising gentleness, and guided your chin upward with two fingers so you were forced to look at him. his movements were slow, almost annoyingly tender, as he dabbed beneath your lashes to catch the tears before they could fall.
“nanamin is disgustingly obsessed with you,” he said, tone matter-of-fact, almost bored. “like, clinically. it’s gross. if he could lock you in a little glass display case so no one breathed the same air as you, he would. he’s feral about you.”
you scoffed, voice trembling not from disbelief but from how badly you wanted to believe him. “this is my fucking fault,” you muttered, shoulders curling inward as you snatched the tissue back just to shred it between your fingers. “all my fucking fault.”
gojo hummed. “yeah. kinda.”
shoko’s head whipped toward him. “satoru—”
but you raised a hand sharply to stop her, because weirdly, you needed the honesty, even if it sliced. “no. he’s right. it’s my fault because i let myself get… bothered.” the word felt dirty, like weakness, like rust on a crown. “i shouldn’t be this… affected. i shouldn’t fucking care. i’m me. i don’t do insecure. i don’t do threatened. but here i am—crying in a fucking cinema bathroom like a side character in a netflix teen drama.”
you gestured around wildly, voice rising again, hysteria bubbling because once you started, you couldn’t stop. “and not even a nice bathroom! do you see the tiles? this place looks like it was decorated by a depressed cockroach. if i have to emotionally collapse in public it should at least be inside a hotel restroom with marble counters and a couch.”
gojo nodded seriously. “you deserve chandeliers with your breakdowns.”
“exactly!” you snapped, pointing at him like he was the only person with IQ in the room. “i am too expensive for this kind of emotional scenery.”
shoko leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you unravel like yarn. “you’re spiraling.”
you shot her a glare through the mirror. “i am aware. now shut up and let me spiral with dignity.”
you turned back to gojo, eyes burning. “and it’s your fault too.”
gojo blinked. “my fault? how did i enter the chat?”
you jabbed a finger into his chest with the force of an entitled squirrel on caffeine. “you brought that farm-fresh disney side character into our group. you let her tag along. you encouraged her. and now i’m crying over miss herbal-essence-reject because she dared to breathe within ten inches of my boyfriend.”
gojo’s lips twitched. “okay, fair, i’ll take partial responsibility for releasing the eco-friendly demon into our circle.”
shoko snorted.
you ran both hands through your hair, pacing a small circle, your heels tapping aggressively against the tiles, movements sharp, emotional energy radiating like static. “i am so embarrassed. do you understand? embarrassed. i do not feel. i make other people feel. i do not chase, i get chased. i do not compete, i get worshipped. and suddenly i’m… this.” you gestured to yourself like you were a cursed portrait. “this pathetic puddle of emotional goo because my boyfriend decided to talk about fucking plants with someone who isn’t me.”
gojo placed a hand on his chest, tone solemn. “plants are disrespectful like that.”
you nearly laughed—almost—before the ache returned, tightening your throat.
“i hate that i care,” you whispered, eyes dropping again, thumb rubbing at the tissue in your hand like you could scrub the feeling away. “i hate that she got under my skin. i hate that he let her. i hate that she saw me crack.” you swallowed, voice thinning with raw embarrassment. “she’s not even on my level. i shouldn’t feel anything. she should feel inferior, insecure, irrelevant — not me.”
and there it was again—your truth, ugly and spoiled, but honest.
gojo’s voice softened just slightly, just enough to cut through your tantrum. “you care because he matters. that’s not pathetic. it’s just… love. the messy, vomit-inducing kind.”
you clenched your jaw, lip trembling despite your effort to kill it. “i don’t want love to make me look stupid.”
shoko spoke this time, voice dry but real. “yeah, well… that’s kind of the default package. love fries brain cells.”
you stared at your reflection. eyeliner still sharp. mascara intact. lipstick only slightly smudged. you looked angry and beautiful and fragile and terrifying all at once. you exhaled shakily, like forcing out poisoned air, “if loving someone means i cry in a public bathroom that smells like buttered trauma, then i want a refund.”
gojo stared at you for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes dimming just enough to reveal something almost… human. sympathy, guilt, the faint wrinkle of someone realizing oh shit, i accidentally kicked a puppy while trying to pet it. he let out a breath, long and uncharacteristically genuine, his hand settling briefly on your shoulder—not heavy, not mocking, just there.
“okay,” he said quietly, “i’m sorry. i didn’t think bringing her would… you know, make you feel like this. i didn’t mean to dump emotional compost on your royal garden of delusion.”
you sniffed, wiping the corner of your eye with a new tissue as if dabbing at expensive wine spilled on silk. “as you should be sorry.” your voice was hoarse but sharp. “you’re lucky i’m emotionally unstable right now or i’d be charging you for emotional damages. and trust me, my invoices come with interest.”
a small laugh puffed out of him, but he nodded. “i know. you come first. always. dramatic loyalty oath or whatever.”
you flicked your wrist like a queen accepting tribute. “good. as you should choose me first. imagine picking her.” you scoffed like the idea itself was beneath language. “ew.”
gojo leaned back against the sink next to shoko, crossing his arms, shoulders slumping, expression turning thoughtful in a way that made him look borderline competent. “you know,” he said, head tilting, “if i did actually like her—like like her—I’d be spiraling, too. probably worse than you.”
you gestured at him with the damp tissue. “exactly. you are the blueprint of being a dramatic clingy bitch in this friend group. i learned from the best.”
shoko snorted, arms crossed as she leaned beside him. “he’s dramatic, not psychotic. your issue is… more advanced.”
you didn’t hesitate. you threw the crumpled tissue at her face with perfect aim.
“shut the fuck up, shoko, or I’ll flush your vape down the toilet.”
she caught it mid-air, dropped it in the trash, and exhaled like dealing with you aged her in dog years.
you turned back to gojo, brows furrowing as you wiped under your eye again carefully, preserving the wing of your eyeliner like it was a fragile national treasure. “seriously, though. how are you not losing your shit? miss herbal shampoo is out there flirting with nanami in 4k, and you’re just… breathing. like normal. aren’t you supposed to be performing a one-man telenovela by now? throwing yourself dramatically over the concession counter? faking a fainting spell? something?”
gojo shrugged, pushing his sunglasses further into his hair as he examined his nails like he was filing his feelings away. “i mean, i don’t really care-care. she’s cute, but not ‘cry-in-a-bathroom’ level. the crush wasn’t crushing, you know?”
you gawked at him, scandalized. “so you brought a girl you didn’t even like like into our sacred circle of dysfunction? you contaminated the ecosystem for a lukewarm crush? are you deranged?”
he lifted both hands, palms out. “in my defense, my standards are confusing even to me.”
you threw your hands up. “so you emotionally derailed me for absolutely no fucking reason except your brain short-circuited and thought ‘hey let’s invite the human embodiment of a compostable tea bag to movie night’?”
he opened his mouth. closed it. then nodded. “yeah that sounds about right.”
you gasped, pressing a hand to your chest like a heart-broken victorian widow. “i swear to god, satoru, if i ever commit a felony, you will be the reason.”
shoko muttered under her breath, “you’ll commit a felony no matter what.”
you shot her a look. “not the point.”
you turned to the mirror again, tilting your head to assess your reflection—puffy waterline, makeup still salvageable, lashes intact, lip gloss slightly faded but fixable. good. you could still walk out there and look untouchable. but the humiliation? still boiling.
your voice softened—not weak, but the kind of softness anger uses when it starts eating itself.
“i just… i hate that someone like her got under my skin,” you admitted, picking at your thumbnail, your reflection looking back at you like a stranger you didn’t consent to be. “i hate that i cracked over something so… beneath me. she’s not even competition. i shouldn’t have felt anything.” your throat bobbed, your pride bleeding slowly. “i’m supposed to be the storm. not the one caught in it.”
gojo bumped your shoulder lightly with his. a rare, gentle gesture. “storms still get tired.”
you stared at him through the mirror, eyes narrowing as if evaluating whether to accept the comfort or set him on fire.
“i don’t get tired,” you muttered.
he arched a brow. “you’re literally crying next to a hand dryer.”
you inhaled sharply, scanning your reflection once more, lifting your chin a millimeter higher, as if that alone could glue your dignity back into place.
“fine,” you said, swallowing pride like poison. “maybe i got… temporarily… inconvenienced by emotion.”
shoko snorted. “inconvenienced? you sprinted out of there like nanami announced he was marrying utahime on wednesday.”
you pointed at her again. “keep talking and i will bite your face.”
but your reflection didn’t lie: you were shaken, cracked, and scrambling to rebuild the throne inside your chest before anyone else saw the fracture.
you weren’t done spiraling—but you were done being seen falling apart.
and just as you braced your palms on the sink to steady yourself, the bathroom door opened again.
this time, footsteps were steady. familiar. slow.
nanami.
the sound of those footsteps—measured, unhurried, familiar in their quiet certainty—slithered under the bathroom door crack and hit your spine before the door even opened. nanami’s footsteps always sounded like intention, like calm inevitability, like consequences arriving dressed in beige and self-restraint.
the door pushed open with a soft click. gojo and shoko both straightened, not out of respect but because nanami Kento entering a bathroom while you were mid-breakdown was the emotional equivalent of a nuclear inspector walking into a live warzone.
nanami stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him, his eyes scanning the room until they found you. his posture was composed, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared yet soft, like he was approaching a frightened animal he didn’t want to spook. his gaze moved from your blotchy waterline to the tissue shreds on the counter, and something in his expression shifted—pain, regret, a flicker of guilt tightening the muscles of his jaw.
gojo cleared his throat, stepping slightly in front of you like a bodyguard wearing clown shoes. “hey, we’re having a very important emotional meltdown here—private screening, by invitation only.”
nanami didn’t look away from you. “step aside, gojo.”
gojo opened his mouth to argue—then saw the look in nanami’s eyes and decided he valued his life. he lifted both hands in surrender. “roger that. therapist daddy mode activated, we’ll leave.” shoko followed him out, but not before patting your shoulder like she was petting a traumatized cat.
the door shut again. silence fell, thick and suffocating as expensive velvet.
nanami took one step closer. you instinctively straightened, lifted your chin, wiped the corner of your eye with a sharp swipe like erasing evidence. your arms crossed over your chest, your body angling away from him—not quite running, not quite ready to forgive, suspended in the ugly in-between of pride and pain.
he spoke first, voice low, steady, the kind that softened even when saying hard things. “you walked out. can we talk?”
you scoffed, avoiding his gaze in the mirror, fixing an imaginary smudge on your eyeliner. “wow, you noticed. truly a christmas miracle.”
he exhaled slowly, stepping closer but leaving enough space so you didn’t feel cornered. “i noticed the second you stood up.”
“congratulations,” you muttered, tossing the ruined tissue into the trash with surgical precision. “a little late though, don’t you think? maybe if you had noticed i existed five minutes earlier, we wouldn’t be starring in this bathroom drama.”
he ran a hand through his hair—once, a small tell he was gathering patience. “i wasn’t ignoring you.”
you spun around to face him fully, arms still crossed, heart still bleeding but covered in barbed wire. “you dismissed me, nanami. in front of her. i asked you to include me and you basically told me to go play with crayons because my stupid little brain couldn’t understand your plant science shit.”
nanami’s brows knit, genuinely pained. “that’s not what i meant. i wasn’t belittling you. i thought you were frustrated already and—”
“oh, so now i’m fragile? delicate? mentally allergic to academia?” your laugh was dark, humorless. “please, enlighten me, professor horticulture—explain how telling your girlfriend ‘don’t stress your pretty head’ while turning your back to her isn’t dismissive. i’ll wait.”
he closed the distance by half a step, hands lifting but not touching you yet, as if waiting for permission you would never verbally give. “i was trying to keep the conversation light, not make you feel inferior.”
your throat tightened. you hated how badly you wanted to believe him. how much you wanted him to fix the bruise he caused.
you turned away again, pacing a small line near the sinks, heels clicking like punctuation to your rant.
“do you have any idea how humiliating that was?” your voice cracked before you forced it steady again. “i don’t do… this.” you gestured angrily to the bathroom, your face, your reflection—your vulnerability. “i don’t get affected. i don’t compete. i don’t chase attention. i am the attention.”
nanami’s voice softened. “you are.”
you ignored the way that hit you. “and suddenly i’m crying in a public bathroom that smells like expired mops because some random girl dared to speak to my boyfriend like she—” your breath wavered, “like she was entitled to his time.”
nanami’s shoulders softened, and he stepped closer again, slow, deliberate. “you are not optional. you are not second to anyone.”
you snapped your gaze to him, eyes burning. “then why did i feel like a placeholder? like a side character sitting there while you entertained fan mail from some herb-obsessed homewrecker apprentice?”
nanami pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling, then met your eyes again—direct, unwavering. “i should have put my attention on you. i should have noticed you were upset. i got caught up in answering her questions and didn’t see how it affected you. i’m sorry.”
his apology wasn’t defensive. wasn’t performative. wasn’t sugar-coated.
it made it worse.
because now you had no villain to fight but your own fear.
you scoffed to keep from letting it soften you. “sorry doesn’t un-humiliate me. sorry doesn’t make her forget she saw me beg for attention like some common mortal.”
“you didn’t beg,” he said firmly. “you asked. because it mattered to you.”
you bit back the ache behind your teeth. “well, it shouldn’t have. i shouldn’t care this much. tears over plants? is this what i’ve become? an emotionally unstable salad?”
nanami’s lips twitched—not mocking, but like he wanted to smile at the sheer absurdity of you. “you care because you love me.”
you rolled your eyes so fast you saw heaven. “don’t say it like that. it makes me sound weak.”
“loving someone isn’t weakness.”
you scoffed, pacing again, resorting to sarcasm like armor. “easy for you to say. you weren’t the one crying next to the tampon dispenser.”
nanami took another step, closing the gap, his voice low. “i love you. i am allowed to talk to others, but you are the one I choose. always.”
you swallowed, hating how your pulse reacted to hearing him say it plainly.
you lifted your chin, clinging to the last shard of drama left. “you better. because if i have to keep sharing your attention with some botanical disney princess, i swear i will uproot her entire bloodline, replant them, and watch them wilt.”
nanami nodded, dead serious. “noted. i’ll make it clear to her that we won’t be having more one-on-one conversations.”
you blinked. “…oh.”
your ego perked up like a spoiled cat being offered caviar again.
his hand finally reached for yours—slow, giving you time to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. he held your fingers carefully, like they were something precious he almost dropped once and refused to lose again.
“you come first,” he said quietly. “if i made you feel anything else, i’ll fix it.”
and for once, you had no witty comeback ready.
your pride hated how good that felt.
and yet—because you were you—you sniffed, wiped under your eye again, and muttered, “you better, because i refuse to cry in a 2-star bathroom twice in one day. my reputation can survive one mental breakdown per quarter at most.”
but here’s the universal truth mothers should stitch into baby blankets so no girl grows up delusional: men are fucking liars. even the good ones. even the morally-upright, self–righteous, tax-paying, cardigan-wearing, philosopher-souled species of man. the ones who read books without pictures, the ones who sort their recycling, the ones who speak gently to old people and cats.
yes—even nanami kento.
your precious boyfriend, the man who lectured you about honesty like it was a religion and he was the last pope standing—turned out to be a man with a mouth capable of lies. small ones, yes, but lies nonetheless. lies sprinkled in moral salt. lies marinated in good intentions. but lies.
because after all that cinematic bathroom telenovela meltdown, after all the comforting, the forehead kisses, the “i’ll fix it,” the “you come first”…
utahime was still there.
not only there.
everywhere.
the bitch multiplied like mold in humidity.
somehow, she burrowed into nanami’s horticulture club like a tick with a dream. and because the club wasn’t just weekly—it was meetings, garden maintenance, farmer’s market volunteering, seed exchange events, greenhouse cleanup, weekend plant fairs—she was suddenly permanently glued to his schedule like ivy choking a wall.
every time you turned a corner on campus—she was there. carrying a watering can. laughing too loudly. holding seedling trays like they were newborns.
every time you looked out the window during class—you saw her walking with nanami to the greenhouse.
every time you checked instagram—someone posted a story of the club and guess who was standing too close to him?
every time you waited outside his lecture—she walked out with him, talking, giggling (yes, giggling—like you didn’t threaten to bury her under a basil farm).
she joined the same library study group.
she sat two rows behind him in lectures she didn’t even take.
she suddenly found “reasons” to be in the cafeteria when he got lunch.
the girl was haunting your life like a stalker ghost with bangs.
and worse? nanami didn’t shut her down like he promised he would.
so you did what any self-respecting spoiled princess with injured pride and an inflated sense of self-worth would do:
you ignored him.
full commitment. full silent-treatment olympics. gold medal performance.
you didn’t text first.
you didn’t sit next to him in class.
you left his messages on read and sometimes—just to inflict psychological warfare—delivered.
you walked past him in hallways with your chin up like a widow attending the funeral of a husband who died in dishonor.
and the audacity of nanami?
the man noticed and chased.
today, he cornered you outside the library, hand gently curling around your wrist—not forceful, just enough to halt your dramatic strut. his voice soft, tired, laced with concern.
“you’ve been ignoring me.”
you turned slowly, sunglasses on despite being in the shade, chewing gum like violence, your posture dripping with aristocratic disdain. arms crossed, hip popped, chin lifted—your entire body language declared: try me, peasant.
you took a long, theatrical breath. “ignore you? no, darling, i simply redirected my attention. i’m sure utahime is thrilled to receive the overflow.”
nanami’s jaw flexed—a tell. “you know it isn’t like that.”
you barked a dry laugh, head tilting with enough sarcasm to slice a man. “really? because from where i stand, it looks exactly like that. she’s glued to your side like you’re the last functioning brain cell on this campus.”
his brows knit, his hand loosening slightly on your wrist so he wouldn’t hold you if you pulled away. “she keeps approaching me. i’m not entertaining anything inappropriate. i’m just being courteous.”
you ripped your hand out of his hold, stepping back like his touch burned. “courteous? you were supposed to make it clear—your words, not mine—that there would be no one-on-one interactions. ring a bell or do you need me to write it on your forehead with permanent marker?”
nanami sighed through his nose, the way he did when he was trying so hard to remain patient with your unfiltered psychopath era. “i didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the club. she’s new. she hasn’t done anything wrong.”
your head snapped back as if slapped by the stupidity of that sentence. “not done anything wrong? existing near you is wrong enough for me. breathing your air is a felony in my book.”
“you’re being unreasonable,” he murmured gently.
your spine straightened, chin lifting a millimeter higher, eyes narrowing into slits of diamond-cut rage. “don’t you dare call me unreasonable. i am extremely reasonable for a woman who hasn’t committed aggravated assault yet.”
he stepped closer, voice lower. “i understand you’re upset. but i’m doing my best to handle this without causing unnecessary conflict.”
you scoffed, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “newsflash, nanami: conflict is necessary. humiliation isn’t. and you let me look like a clown that day. so now? i’m protecting my dignity.”
his expression softened in that maddeningly stable nanami-way. “you’re not a clown.”
you shrugged, indifferent mask slipping back on. “maybe not. but i felt like one. and you didn’t stop it.”
a beat of silence.
the truth sat between you like a wounded animal.
nanami’s voice came quieter, careful, the way a man sounds when stepping on emotional landmines. “i should’ve set boundaries more firmly. i thought I could handle it politely, but I see now that it hurt you. I’m sorry.”
and god, he made it so hard to stay angry when he did that—when he offered accountability instead of excuses.
but you weren’t done bleeding yet.
you clicked your tongue, looking him up and down like he was a disappointing purchase you were considering returning. “sorry isn’t enough this time. fix it. or i swear i will start a rumor that you and your plants are in a polyamorous relationship.”
nanami blinked. “that… doesn’t even make sense.”
you smirked coldly, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper of rich, spoiled poison. “watch me make it make sense.”
and then, because pride demanded a dramatic exit, you turned on your heel and walked away—leaving the scent of expensive perfume, ego, and emotional carnage in your wake.
but here’s the cruelty in the universe that no one warns you about because it would make little girls grow up violent: men will swear on their grandmother’s grave that they won’t do something… and then go do that exact thing with clean conscience and a student-discount coffee in hand.
and nanami kento — your nanami, the man built from ethics and moral consistency, the man who looked like he’d file a police report if he saw someone cut in line — turned out to be a man, too.
a man capable of promising and then failing.
after the cinema meltdown, after the bathroom breakdown, after nanami held your hand and said the equivalent of you’re my priority, after he placed metaphorical rose petals on your ego and vowed to do better…
utahime didn’t disappear.
no, the bitch multiplied.
like she was photosynthesizing off your rage.
and the worst part? she wasn’t just present. she was strategic.
she was everywhere nanami was — like she subscribed to his personal movement calendar.
everywhere, meaning: when you went to meet nanami after class? utahime was there, “coincidentally” packing her bag slower than a glacier melts. when nanami had club duty in the greenhouse? she was already inside with gloves on, hair clipped back all “i’m such a hardworking little plant fairy” aesthetic.
library study sessions? somehow she “didn’t understand the homework” and asked nanami for help. she sat next to him — next — not across, not diagonally. group lunch with your friends? she slithered in like a side character trying to make herself relevant, tray in hand, pretending she “just happened to be here too.”
and your friends saw it. gojo saw it first (and enjoyed it like live theatre). geto sighed like a disappointed parent. shoko made nicotine-laced commentary. haibara tried to “give her a chance” until you threatened to drown him in fertilizer.
you did what any self-respecting, pride-soaked, ego-driven, spoiled girlfriend with an image to protect would do: you went full cold war.
if nanami wanted politeness, he could enjoy silence instead. you ignored him with the elegance of a duchess excommunicating a traitor. and nanami noticed immediately because you didn’t just ignore — you withdrew.
you didn’t sit next to him in class — you sat between gojo and your bag like a chastity belt.
you didn’t touch him — no hand on his arm, no kiss on the cheek, not even a hair tuck.
you didn’t text first — and when he texted, your responses were so short they were practically Morse code:
him: are you free after class?
you: busy.
him: can i call you?
you: no.
him: are you upset with me?
you: ask your club member.
you left his “goodnight”s on read.
you left his “are you okay?” on delivered because read would be too generous.
in the group, it was worse — because nanami tried public damage control, which was humiliating for you and painful for him.
like earlier today, all of you were at your usual table in the campus café. you arrived last, sunglasses on, iced latte in hand, a picture of uninterested royalty. nanami pulled out the chair beside him for you — your usual seat — and you walked right past it and sat between shoko and geto instead, crossing your legs like a throne had been rolled under you.
nanami’s hand hesitated mid-air before lowering. everyone saw.
a muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing — at first.
then, after ten minutes of group chatter, he tried to join your space.
he leaned slightly toward your side of the table, voice low enough for you but audible to others, “you’re quiet today.”
you didn’t look at him. you sipped your drink, adjusting your sunglasses, and responded with a tone dry enough to produce drought:
“maybe i’m photosynthesizing.”
gojo choked on his muffin. shoko coughed to hide a laugh. geto stared into his drink like it was a portal to escape reality.
nanami inhaled, patient but cracking. “can we talk later?”
you smiled — cold, polite, corporate-HR-email kind of smile. “why? so you can politely ignore me again in favor of plant girl? i’m busy later. very, extremely, unprecedentedly busy.”
“you’re upset,” nanami said softly — and god, he sounded like he was trying not to touch a wild animal, “and I understand why, but i told you, i’m not entertaining anything. she’s new and i’m trying to be decent.”
you turned your head just enough to look at him over the rim of your sunglasses — only the lower half of your gaze visible, dripping with contempt and luxury.
one brow lifted. “decent? don’t use words you clearly don’t understand. decent would’ve been keeping your promise.”
geto winced. haibara whispered “oh no.” gojo grabbed popcorn like entertainment had begun.
nanami kept his voice steady, though his fingers tapped once against his cup — a tiny crack in composure. “i didn’t break the promise. i haven’t spoken to her alone outside of club responsibilities, and when she—”
you cut him off with a laugh — sharp, cruel, aristocratic. the kind a queen gives when a peasant offers excuses.
“club responsibilities,” you repeated, mockingly. “what a sexy phrase. truly. i’m so thrilled you found a morally sound loophole in your vow. maybe next you’ll say ‘we only breathed air in the same vicinity for charity reasons.’”
his brows pulled together — he was trying, really trying. “you’re twisting my words.”
“no,” you said, leaning back with one arm draped over the back of your chair, looking him dead in the eyes, “i’m repeating them. just slower. so they sound as stupid as they actually are.”
nanami exhaled, steady but strained, and the worst part? he still validated you because he loved you like it was a discipline. “i understand why you’re hurt. you’re right to feel neglected. i should’ve enforced stronger boundaries.”
you shrugged, inspecting your nails like the conversation bored you. “words, words, words. if i wanted rehearsed accountability, i’d date a politician. i wanted results.”
nanami’s voice dipped lower. “i’m trying to fix it.”
you stared at him, expression blank, voice sugar-poisoned, “try harder.” and after that, you went back to ignoring him — because you weren’t done punishing him yet. your pride demanded interest.
nanami kento, for all his monk-like patience and buddhist-level self-control, was still a man with limits, and you—blessed, cursed, loved, unbearable you—had been kicking those limits like a toddler on a sugar high. he missed you. painfully. he missed the chaos, the clinginess disguised as entitlement, the way you demanded affection like it was your birthright, how you’d climb into his lap without asking because why the fuck would you ask, the iced coffee orders you shoved into his hand when he picked you up, the kisses you gave like they were currency and he was the only bank that accepted them.
he missed you so much it made him irritable, and nanami kento being irritable was a rare supernatural event—like the northern lights or a government official being honest.
so he did the only logical thing: he showed up at your stupidly large house.
the house you didn’t call a mansion because “mansion sounds tacky” but where the staff wore uniforms and the ceiling height legally required a parachute. the kind of house that had wings—plural—as in east wing, west wing, wife’s-attitude-control wing.
the workers knew him by now. the butler gave a respectful nod. one of the maids greeted him by name. none of them questioned the expensive, tall, blond man walking through the front door like he paid the mortgage. nanami climbed the spiraling staircase—custom marble, cold under his palms when he used the railing—and walked the long hallway to your room at the far end, because of course the princess needed isolation and acoustics for dramatic exits.
your door was ajar just enough for him to push gently, and he entered quietly.
there you were.
sitting in the center of your ridiculous, king-plus sized bed like a pissed-off deity. silk pajamas clinging to your shoulders, the color soft and expensive, the kind of fabric that looked like it refused to touch poor people. your hair damp from a recent shower, strands falling around your face, lashes dark against your cheeks, skin still warm from steam. you looked soft enough to hold and sharp enough to stab—your default state.
you looked up, saw him, and rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle you didn’t see your brain. you didn’t say a word. not “why are you here,” not “go away,” not even “fuck off.” nothing. the silence itself was an insult.
nanami closed the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed in the large room, and walked further in, footsteps slow, gaze steady on your face—even if your expression screamed i hope you step on lego barefoot for eternity. he took a moment to just look at you, as if memorizing your resentment was better than not seeing you at all.
you snapped, voice sharp and flat: “what.”
nanami hummed, that infuriatingly calm, deep hum of his. “can we talk?”
you scoffed, leaning back on your palms, chin tilting with aristocratic disgust. “i don’t talk to pieces of shit. and you’re a big one. like, family-sized. extra value pack.”
nanami blinked once, head tilting a fraction, absorbing the insult without flinching. “i’m a piece of shit?” he repeated, tone so soft it made the words sting more.
you crossed your arms tight over your chest, silk rustling. “yes. obviously. congratulations on finally joining the rest of your gender.”
instead of defending himself like most men would—loudly, stupidly—nanami did something worse.
he accepted it.
he quietly dragged one of your chairs—one of those stupidly soft velvet ones meant for “decorative reading” you never actually used—across the floor and set it directly in front of you. he sat down, knees spread slightly, forearms resting gently on his thighs, posture straight but not intimidating. it was the posture of a man prepared to listen, not fight. which made your chest tighten and your temper spike—because you wanted to be angry, not understood.
he met your eyes, unwavering, voice low, even, heartbreaking in its steadiness.
“then tell me why,” he said. “why am i a piece of shit?”
and just like that, the floor was yours—your stage, your arena, your battlefield. and nanami kento sat there, ready to let you stab him with every word.
you stared at him for a long moment, the kind of stare that wasn’t silent—no, it was loud, screaming, accusing, trembling at the edges with wounded pride you refused to show. your jaw tightened, your fingers curled into the silk pooling around your thighs, and when you finally spoke, your voice came out low, cracked with disbelief and venom.
“do you ever think,” you began slowly, eyes narrowing at him, “how fucking humiliating it was for me to sit there—your girlfriend—fighting for your attention against nobody but uta-fucking-hime?”
nanami didn’t flinch, but his throat bobbed.
you continued, leaning forward, one finger stabbing the air at him like you were pointing at a suspect in court, “she’s not even competition. she’s a filler character, a background extra with tragic bangs and soil under her nails. i shouldn’t have to compete with that. i shouldn’t have to try. but there i was, reduced to fighting for scraps like some desperate peasant dog waiting for the king to drop crumbs from the fucking banquet table.”
nanami opened his mouth, but you kept going, steamrolling him because if he spoke now, you’d crumble, and weakness was not on tonight’s agenda.
you huffed a humorless laugh, sitting upright again, crossing your arms tight across your chest, chin lifting with aristocratic disgust. “do you understand how degrading it felt? i don’t fight for attention. i’m used to being the center of gravity. people orbit me. planets shift because of me. i don’t beg. i don’t chase. i don’t sit there like some forgotten decorative pillow while you—” your voice sharpened, “—politely entertain some herb-collecting homewrecker apprentice.”
nanami inhaled, eyes soft but steady. “i never expected you to fight for my attention. i’m sorry you felt you had to.”
you scoffed, rolling your eyes and looking away because his softness was a knife to your ribs. “yeah, well, congratulations, you put me in that position. so yes, you’re a piece of shit.”
you extended a hand toward him like you were listing charges in court, each finger flicking upward with another bullet of rage.
“one: you dismissed me. like i was some stupid little decoration on your arm. like i was a shiny accessory you forgot to polish that day.”
nanami sat straighter, hands clasping gently between his knees, voice calm. “i didn’t intend to dismiss you. i thought—”
“wrong,” you cut him off, glare sharp, “your intentions don’t fucking matter if the result still makes me want to drown myself in fertilizer.”
nanami pressed his lips together, accepting the hit.
you held up a second finger.
“two: you told me you would set boundaries. you said you’d stop the little one-on-one herb therapy sessions with her. and guess what? she’s still glued to you like mold on bread. if this is your definition of ‘boundaries,’ i fear what chaos your freedom must look like.”
nanami exhaled a long, controlled breath. “i did limit our interactions. i haven’t spoken to her outside the club and—”
you barked a laugh that was almost a choke. “oh, outside the club—wow. such discipline. such restraint. truly, a saint among idiots. i’m so touched. should i nominate you for boyfriend of the year or just frame your bullshit and hang it in a museum?”
his brows pulled together, a muscle flexing in his jaw—but he stayed calm, infuriatingly so. “i’m telling you the truth. i’m not entertaining her.”
you leaned closer, voice dropping to a slow, lethal whisper. “you don’t have to entertain her for it to still feel like betrayal. the bare minimum for a boyfriend is to make sure his girlfriend never questions whether she comes first. and you didn’t do that. you left space. you left opportunity. you left room—and she ran into it like a stray dog finding an open door.”
that one hit. nanami looked down for a second, breath steadying, his hands loosening on his thighs as if unclenching invisible tension. “you’re right. i shouldn’t have left any room for doubt.”
and god, the way he agreed so easily made your anger burn hotter—not colder—because part of you needed him to fight back so you could keep throwing knives. his accountability cornered you into feeling instead of yelling, and you hated it.
your voice wavered very slightly, and you looked away quickly to hide it. “and three,” you whispered, throat tight, “you made me feel small. and i don’t get to feel small. ever.”
nanami’s head lifted, eyes on you instantly, body leaning forward just enough to reach you if you needed grounding. “you’re never small to me. not for a second.”
you swallowed, back stiffening, legs crossing and uncrossing because the vulnerability made your skin itch. “well, that’s what it felt like. and feelings are facts now because mine are expensive.”
nanami nodded once, accepting your twisted logic as truth because to you, it was. “then i’m sorry. for every part of this that made you feel less.”
you blinked hard, jaw clenching, because his calm acceptance was suffocating in the most disarming way.
you wanted to stay angry. you wanted to scream. you wanted him to beg. but he just sat there—quiet, steady, unshaken—offering himself as the place for your rage to land, not deflecting it.
and that—somehow—was worse.
so instead of softening, you scoffed again, looking away with a shaky breath, because god forbid he sees the crack forming.
“you should be sorry,” you muttered, voice smaller than you meant, “because if i ever have to feel that kind of humiliation again, i’m burning down the greenhouse with you both inside. i’m not joking, nanami. i will commit arson in the name of love.”
you weren’t done—oh no, your rage had chapters, footnotes, an appendix, and a director’s cut. and nanami sitting there so calmly, giving you space to unravel, only fed the fire.
you pushed off the mattress and sat up straighter, the silk of your pajama shirt sliding against your skin as you hugged your knees loosely to your chest, posture defensive but regal, like a dethroned princess still wearing the crown out of spite. your fingers dug into the soft duvet, knuckles whitening as the words clawed up your throat.
“and another thing,” you snapped, pointing at him again, your voice shaking—not with fear, but with insulted pride, “you made me look fucking stupid.”
nanami’s brows drew in, but he didn’t speak—he knew better than to interrupt when you were winding up.
“do you have any idea how that felt?” you continued, your tone rising in waves, “you made me sound like some brain-dead bimbo who couldn’t comprehend the basic concept of sunlight and leaves. like i’m incapable of understanding the most entry-level plant shit. me. you treated me like i’m stupid.”
nanami shook his head, voice quiet, “that wasn’t my intention.”
“but that’s what you did,” you shot back immediately, not letting softness leak in. “i asked what you two were talking about at the cinema—my boyfriend, talking to another girl—and you dismissed me. like i was some annoying toddler interrupting grown-ups having a cultured conversation. like i couldn’t hold a single fucking sentence about your club.”
your voice cracked, and you hated that it did.
your fingers curled tighter into the blanket, nails sinking into the velvet fabric.
“before,” you went on, quieter for a second, “when i asked about your club, when i tried to show interest in the nerd shit you like, you’d tell me things. short things, but still things. and i listened. i tried.”
nanami opened his mouth slightly, and you saw the apology forming, but you didn’t let it land—you surged forward, fueled by humiliation you hadn’t digested yet.
“but the moment uta-fucking-hime bats her dollar store lashes and asks you something?” your voice rose again, bitter, sarcastic, acidic, “suddenly you’re hosting a fucking TED Talk on soil acidity and root trauma. suddenly you’re plant Jesus delivering parables. suddenly you found the fucking words you never bothered using with me.”
nanami’s chest expanded with a slow inhale, his elbows resting lightly on his knees, fingers intertwined—not defensive, not reacting, just listening, which somehow made it worse.
you dragged a hand through your damp hair, pushing it back sharply, pacing a few steps in front of him like your body couldn’t contain the indignation.
“do you know how fucking humiliating that was?” your voice trembled as you paced, silk pajamas swaying with every sharp turn. “you didn’t just ignore me. you made me feel like i wasn’t smart enough to be included. like i didn’t belong in your world when i’m the one who’s supposed to be in it the most.”
nanami finally spoke, tone soft but steady, “i didn’t share more with her because she’s special. i did it because she asked specific questions, and i—”
you spun on him, eyes burning. “so when i ask, what? my questions aren’t specific enough? sorry for not speaking fluent Plant Nerdish. should i learn latin and photosynthesis formulas to earn basic politeness?”
he shook his head immediately, “that’s not what I—”
“because it sure as hell felt like it,” you spit out, arms crossing again, hugging yourself without wanting to look like you needed comfort. “felt like i wasn’t worth the same energy. like you didn’t think i’d care. like you assumed i’m too shallow to understand anything that isn’t shopping, lipstick, or chaos.”
nanami’s eyes softened further—the exact softness you avoid because it disarms you. “i never thought that of you. i know you can understand anything you want to. i just didn’t want to bore you or overwhelm you when you already seemed upset.”
you stared at him, chest rising and falling quickly, the fight still trembling inside you like a caged animal.
he continued gently, “with utahime… i wasn’t thinking about you in that moment the way i should have. i should’ve noticed how it made you feel and prioritized you instead. i’m sorry.”
and because your pride was a skyscraper—tall, expensive, reinforced with ego—you refused to let his sincerity dissolve your anger.
you scoffed, wiping under your eye with the back of your hand before the tear could fall. “you better be sorry. because if i ever have to watch you give some other girl a powerpoint presentation while i get the toddler-version explanation again, i’ll personally make sure your precious rosemary never sees sunlight again.”
nanami actually huffed a quiet breath—half a sigh, half a disbelieving laugh.
you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like a warning blade, voice low and lethal:
“try me, kento. i’ll turn your little greenhouse into a botanical graveyard.”
he stared at you gently, the smallest curve at the corner of his lips—not mocking, but full of something unbearably tender.
“i believe you,” he said.
and for a split second, the room pulsed with something that wasn’t anger—but you shoved it back into its cage before it could soften you.
you sat down on the very edge of the bed, like the mattress might swallow you whole if you dared to sit properly, silk pajamas pooling around your thighs, your spine stiff and your hands gripping the duvet so tightly the fabric bunched under your fingers. your legs were tense, knees angled inward, like you were holding yourself together through sheer ego alone. your chin trembled—not enough to expose you, just enough to betray the strain of holding everything in.
your eyes burned, lashes wet, vision blurring in that humiliating way that felt like defeat. you blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall because crying in front of him felt like handing over your crown—but your voice betrayed you, coming out raw, cracked, furious.
“do i have to learn fucking plants now?” you snapped, glaring at the floor because looking at him would break you. “is that it? i have to memorize soil pH and fucking photosynthesis just so you don’t have to talk to uta-fucking-hime?”
nanami inhaled, slow, steady, as if bracing himself to not crumble at the sight of you unraveling. “no,” he said gently, “you don’t—”
you cut him off with an unhinged laugh, bitter and broken at the edges. “because apparently that’s what it takes to get your attention these days. maybe i should start growing basil out of my ass too. will that help?”
nanami’s eyes widened a fraction—not at your vulgarity (he was used to that) but at the complete sincerity under the sarcasm. he took a slow breath, leaning slightly forward in the chair, hands clasping together, his voice careful. “you don’t need to learn any of that. i don’t want you to change. you don’t have to pretend to care about something just because I do.”
your head snapped up at that, eyes flashing, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “aren’t i already pretending?” your voice wavered, then steadied through force. “i sat there, listening to you talk about leaves and soil and mint like it was the fucking cure to cancer, trying so goddamn hard to look interested, to support you—because it mattered to you, so i made myself care.”
nanami’s face softened, guilt pooling in the lines of his expression, but you continued before he could speak.
“and the one time—ONE TIME—I ask to be included, to be part of your little plant world, you shut me out like i’m some airheaded idiot you have to protect from botany knowledge.” your hand flew to your chest, pressing there like the pressure could keep your heart from cracking open. “what is that? what do you think i am?”
nanami’s voice dropped, quiet but urgent, “i didn’t shut you out because i think you’re stupid—”
“no?” you snapped, leaning forward, your anger trembling with hurt. “then why did you treat me like i’d break a nail if you explained what fucking soil is? why did she get the encyclopedia version while i got the kindergarten summary with sparkles and crayons?”
his brows pulled together, jaw tightening, but his voice stayed gentle—too gentle. “i thought I was making it easier for you. i didn’t want to overwhelm you with details when you were already upset.”
you scoffed again, wiping under your eye aggressively with the heel of your hand, smudging nothing because your skincare was too expensive to budge. “then you should’ve shut up, not dumb it down. i don’t need you to simplify the world for me like i’m some fragile porcelain doll who’ll shatter if exposed to big words.”
your throat tightened painfully, words spilling before pride could stop them.
“i’m not broken,” you whispered, then louder, sharper, “i’m NOT stupid.”
nanami’s face softened entirely, his voice warm and low and infuriatingly tender. “i know you’re not.”
your lips trembled, but you forced them still.
he tried to reach for your hand, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away—but you did, snatching your hand back to your lap, your body curling slightly inward, shoulders tightening, like you were trying to shrink away from the hurt without letting him see the wound.
“i don’t want to learn about plants,” you spat, voice thick with tears you refused to let fall. “i don’t want to join your stupid club. i don’t want to talk about soil or herbs or whatever the fuck rosemary trauma you deal with. i just…” your breath shook, “i just want you. and i shouldn’t have to study for the role of being your girlfriend.”
nanami’s eyes softened further—dangerously, heartbreakingly so—and he leaned forward just a little, elbows on his knees, voice steady in a way that threatened to unravel you completely.
“you already have me.”
you laughed—ugly, shaky, self-mocking. “do i? because it sure as hell didn’t feel like it when you were looking everywhere but at me.”
the tear finally escaped.
you swiped it away so fast it barely had time to fall.
he saw that tear—just one, microscopic, fast—but nanami was the kind of man who could feel an earthquake from a single tremor. his expression shifted, softened, his breath leaving him in something almost pained as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely like he was holding the weight of this carefully, terrified of crushing it.
“i’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice low, raw, without any of the neat composure he’d tried to maintain. “i hurt you. i shouldn’t have dismissed you, and i shouldn’t have allowed room for you to feel replaced or lesser. that was my failure.”
you scoffed instantly, curling further away from his sincerity like it burned. “oh, wow. an apology. revolutionary. should i clap? maybe roll out a red carpet? you want a medal for saying sorry like a big boy?”
nanami accepted the jab without flinching. “i’m not asking for praise. i’m telling you the truth—i’m sorry.”
“yeah, well,” you muttered, sniffing harshly as you dragged the sleeve of your silk pajama top across the corner of your eye before the next tear could betray you, “sorry doesn’t erase the fact that i looked like a fucking clown.”
nanami’s brows pinched at the word, but his voice stayed steady. “you didn’t look like a clown.”
you laughed—sharp, bitter. “don’t lie to me now. i humiliated myself for a man—you, unfortunately—and she watched. that’s worse than death. i should fake my own disappearance and move to monaco under a new name at this point.”
he shook his head, leaning closer on instinct, like his body couldn’t stand the space between you. “you reacted because you care about us. there’s nothing humiliating about caring.”
you snapped your gaze to him again, fury flaring through the heartbreak. “stop saying caring like it’s cute. it’s pathetic. i don’t do pathetic. i’ve never been pathetic. i don’t cry over boys. boys cry over me. that’s the natural order of the universe.”
nanami’s voice softened even more—a tone you hated because it saw right through you. “you’re not pathetic. you’re hurt. because I made you feel like you weren’t valued. that’s on me.”
you shook your head fiercely, hair falling forward, fingers tugging at the silk on your thigh like you needed something to anchor you. “you made me feel like some… irrelevant, dumb, useless accessory. and i know i’m spoiled and dramatic and ridiculous but—” your breath broke again, “but i shouldn’t have to beg to matter to the one person who’s supposed to love me most.”
nanami swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, thicker. “you never have to beg for that. you never should have felt you did.”
you scoffed again, but weaker, because his sincerity was cracking your armor. “well, congratulations, you made me feel exactly that. you can add it to your achievement list: hurt your spoiled girlfriend enough to make her almost learn about basil.” you sniffed deeply, then glared at him like it was his fault oxygen existed. “do you know how low that is? i almost googled plants for idiots. that’s rock bottom.”
nanami blinked, then exhaled a breath that was almost—almost—an amused disbelief, but he restrained it because he knew laughing now was equivalent to suicide. “you don’t need to learn anything for me. i don’t want you to pretend interest for my sake.”
“but she asked,” you hissed, leaning forward, hands dropping to the mattress, gripping the edge as if the bed would levitate otherwise, “and you gave her the whole encyclopedia of plant shit like you were teaching a masterclass. meanwhile, when i ask, i get don’t stress your pretty head. do you hear how insulting that is?”
nanami closed his eyes briefly—guilt flickering across his features like a shadow—and when he opened them, he held your gaze firmly. “you’re right. that was condescending. i thought i was protecting you from stress, but i see now that it sounded like I was belittling you. that wasn’t my intention, but it doesn’t change how it made you feel.”
you stared at him, breath shaky, throat tight, and your voice dropped into something almost small—but still edged with venom because you refused to hand him the pure version of your pain.
“i don’t need protection from information. if i don’t understand, i’ll ask. i’m not fragile.”
nanami leaned forward more, hands loosening, as if fighting the urge to reach for you but respecting the invisible wall you kept between you. “i know you’re not. you’re strong, sharper than anyone I know. i should’ve respected that instead of trying to soften things for you.”
the compliment, the acknowledgment, the correction—it hit somewhere deep you didn’t want him to reach, so you snapped, defensive:
“you should have. because now? now i look like the stupid girlfriend who can’t keep up, while miss horticulture homewrecker gets the professor edition.”
“you’re not stupid,” nanami repeated, firm enough to anchor the air around you.
you looked away again, jaw clenching, your voice barely above a whisper: “but you made me feel like i was.”
he inhaled deeply, voice steady but pained. “then i failed you. and i’m sorry.”
this time, the apology didn’t feel like words— it felt like weight. and your pride, your last line of defense, forced your chin up, even as your voice cracked, “you should be. because if you ever make me feel like that again, i’m ending us both. emotionally, socially, and possibly legally.”
he apologized again—soft, steady, without flinching—and you opened your mouth, ready to snap back with one of your signature lines that would absolutely emotionally assassinate him and then ruin your life five seconds later, but he lifted a hand ever so slightly.
not commanding.
not silencing.
asking.
“can you… listen to me first?” he said, voice low, gentle, the kind that didn’t demand obedience but somehow earned it.
you hated that tone.
because for all your unhinged chaos, you weren’t heartless—you weren’t immune to the way nanami spoke when he genuinely needed you to hear him. his voice dipped lower, his posture leaned in—not towering, not intimidating, not challenging—just close enough to show sincerity, far enough to give you space to breathe.
you clenched your jaw, eyes narrowing, but you nodded once—sharp, reluctant—like you were granting an audience to a criminal on trial.
your body language screamed i’m listening against my will, but you stayed quiet, arms still folded, nails digging into your silk sleeves, your chin tilted up just a fraction as if to remind him you were still pissed, still wounded, still royalty on her throne of spite.
nanami exhaled, relieved you didn’t storm out or throw a pillow at his head.
his voice stayed calm, steady—because he was talking to a hurricane, not a person, and he knew it.
“i didn’t handle things correctly,” he began, his tone soft but anchored. his hands rested on his thighs, fingers relaxed now, not clasped tight like before. “i thought I was doing the considerate thing. you were upset that day, and I didn’t want to overwhelm you with details or make you feel out of your depth. i thought simplifying things would help. i see now it came across as dismissive and condescending.”
your lips twitched—because yes, that’s exactly what it was—but you held yourself back, biting your tongue, letting him continue because you agreed to listen and your pride wouldn’t let you break your own rule.
he kept going, breathing slow, every word careful:
“with utahime, I didn’t realize how it looked. she kept asking questions, and I answered because I thought I was being polite, not because I found her more deserving of my time.”
he swallowed once, eyes softening as they held yours. “but intention doesn’t erase impact. and the impact was that you felt second. that’s on me.”
the words hung in the room like incense—heavy, honest, impossible to ignore.
you shifted on the bed, uncrossing your arms just to cross them again tighter, because your heart tried to soften and your pride screamed no, not yet. your foot tapped once against the floor—restless, emotional energy leaking out in movement because sitting still with feelings was dangerous territory.
nanami continued, leaning in a little—not invading, just closer, grounding:
“you felt replaced. dismissed. stupid. and that’s the last thing I ever wanted you to feel. you’re the person I respect most. you’re the person whose attention I cherish, not hers. you matter to me more than anyone else does.”
your throat tightened. you looked away, staring at the edge of your vanity table, anywhere but at him, because if you looked directly at the warmth in his eyes you would break.
he let the silence settle a moment—not awkward, not rushed—just enough for his words to land, to breathe, to reach the place in you that still cared through all the rage.
“i should’ve shut the conversation down sooner,” he admitted quietly. “i thought staying polite would avoid unnecessary tension, but it cost you peace instead. and that isn’t worth it to me.”
your hands loosened just a little in your sleeves—barely—but enough for him to notice.
nanami breathed out, voice softer:
“I’ll fix it. properly this time. not just with words, but with action. I won’t let you feel sidelined again.”
you sat there in silence for a few seconds, your heart pounding against your ribs like a prisoner demanding release, your pride fencing every emotion like a guard dog on steroids.
and because you can never sit in vulnerability without throwing a knife to feel balanced, you finally muttered, voice low, biting, but thinner around the edges:
“if you start defending her, i swear to god i’ll shove your plants up your ass root-first.”
nanami blinked, then nodded, dead serious, as if you hadn’t just threatened him with horticultural assault. “i’m not defending her. i’m explaining myself to you, because you deserve that.”
your jaw clenched again, and though the rage was still there, the ice around it had begun—just barely—to crack.
you sighed, dramatic, exhausted, wiping at your lower lash line with your thumb like the tears were dust you could remove and pretend never existed.
“okay,” you muttered, still refusing to fully face him. “go on. i’m listening. finish the monologue before i change my mind and kick you out.”
and nanami—ever patient, ever steady—continued. and the more he spoke, the harder it became to keep your armor intact. his voice wasn’t trembling or begging, he wasn’t groveling or panicking — no, that would’ve been easier to reject. instead, he spoke in that devastatingly calm, steady, nanami way, the way that slipped past your defenses because he wasn’t trying to win, he was trying to understand you.
“you don’t deserve to share space with doubt,” he said, tone low, warm, maddeningly sincere. “you don’t deserve to question your place in my life. you are the person i choose, every day, in every room. i should’ve made that impossible to doubt — especially for you.”
you swallowed, your throat clicking, jaw locked so tightly that your teeth ached. you looked everywhere but at him: the chandelier reflection in your mirror, your perfume bottles arranged like a shrine to your vanity, your silk pillowcases, the edge of your nail on your thumb — anything that wasn’t his eyes because you knew one direct second of eye contact would flatten you.
nanami didn’t move closer, didn’t reach out, didn’t try to touch you before you allowed it — and that alone made your chest twist painfully. he knew pressure would make you bolt, so he simply sat there, giving you space to break at your own pace.
“i love you,” he continued, voice smoothing out like velvet pulled taut, “and i don’t expect you to hide your feelings or pretend you’re unaffected. you feel deeply — loudly — and it’s overwhelming sometimes, yes, but it’s also one of the things i adore most about you. you love in color. in flame. in extremes. i would never want to dim that.”
your lip trembled — actually trembled — and you pressed your teeth into it to physically punish the weakness.
nanami’s voice gentled even more, if that was somehow possible. “i will make sure you never feel like a second option again. i will be clearer. firmer. i will not leave room for anyone to assume my attention is available. i’m yours. you don’t need to fight for that.”
you breathed out — a fragile, uneven sound that almost wasn’t a breath at all. something in your ribcage shifted.
your shoulders sank an inch.
your fists loosened.
your vision clouded.
you hated it.
you hated how easily he could peel your rage back and expose the soft, shaking thing beneath. hated how his calm didn’t belittle your chaos — it held it. hated how he didn’t match your fire with ice or irritation, but with something worse: understanding.
you blinked, and a second tear slipped — traitorous, slow, warm against your skin. you swiped it away angrily, like it offended you. “fuck you,” you muttered — not hateful, not sharp — just broken. “fuck you for talking like that. i can’t stay mad when you talk like that.”
nanami’s gaze softened so achingly you had to glance away again. “i don’t want you to stay mad. i just want you to feel safe with me.”
your breath hitched — actually hitched — and suddenly the space between you felt unbearable. the absence of his touch felt like a scream against your skin.
you slid forward on the bed — once, hesitantly, like pride was clinging to your ankles — then again, knees brushing his, breath shaky, silk whispering across your thighs. nanami didn’t move, didn’t reach first, didn’t break the fragile consent of your approach — he waited, letting you choose him.
you moved that final inch — your knees between his legs, your hands trembling as they reached for his shoulders — and then you climbed into his lap, settling with your legs curled around him, your forehead pressing into the warm column of his neck like you were hiding in him, not hugging him.
the moment you made contact, nanami’s arms came up — slow, careful, then firm — wrapping around your waist with the kind of hold that said i’m not letting you go unless you ask me to. one hand cradled the back of your head, fingers sinking into your damp hair, the other anchored at your spine, steady, grounding, warm.
the first sob was silent — a sharp inhale into his shirt, your nails clutching at his shoulders like you were falling and he was the only surface left on earth. the second made a sound, a small broken one, like a wineglass cracking.
nanami tightened his arms around you, one thumb stroking the back of your head, his lips brushing your temple, voice low against your skin. “i’ve got you. i’m here.”
you hated how safe it felt — hated how quickly you melted — hated that after all your swearing and threatening arson and botanically themed murder monologues… you were crying in his lap anyway.
you sniffed against his neck, voice muffled, angry even through tears: “you’re still a piece of shit.”
nanami nodded into your hair. “i know.”
you curled tighter into him, your pride bleeding into his shirt, your voice cracking, “but you’re my piece of shit.”
his hand stroked your back, slow, intentional — the kind of touch that rebuilt things quietly. “always.”
and just like that, the storm inside you finally collapsed — not because he forced it to, but because he sat in it with you until you could breathe again.
it took a while—long enough for your breathing to steady, long enough for your fists to unclench in the fabric of his shirt, long enough for the heat behind your eyes to settle into a dull throb instead of a storm. you stayed in his lap even after the crying slowed, face tucked into the warm crook of his neck, your weight fully resting on him now like your body had finally surrendered to the truth that you felt safest with the same man you threatened to bury alive with his plants.
his palm stroked your back in slow, absent circles, the kind that weren’t meant to hush you but to anchor you. it was disgusting how much it worked.
after a long stretch of quiet—your kind of quiet, the heavy kind where pride is still limping around the room—you exhaled against his skin, voice rough, reluctant, and grudgingly soft.
“…i shouldn’t have… lost my shit like that.”
nanami didn’t speak, just hummed, a subtle vibration against your cheek that meant i’m listening.
you shifted slightly on his lap so you could look at him, but you didn’t move far—you stayed close enough to breathe the same air, your fingers still curled lightly over his shoulder, your forehead almost touching his. your voice stayed low, as if it would break if you raised it.
“i was fucking mean,” you muttered, eyes darting away because eye contact made honesty more painful, “i insulted your hobby like it’s stupid and i know it’s not stupid. it makes you happy. it gives you peace or whatever. and i shit all over it like a bitch having a tantrum.”
nanami cupped your jaw with one hand—not forcing you to look at him, just holding you gently, thumb brushing your cheek with steady warmth. “you were hurt. you reacted from that place. i don’t take it personally.”
you rolled your eyes with a watery scoff, wiping your face with the sleeve of your silk top, smearing your expensive moisturizer but not caring for once. “you should take it personally. i called you soil jesus. who even says that? what the fuck is wrong with me?”
the corner of his mouth twitched—the ghost of a smile—but he kept it small, respectful of your fragile dignity. “you’re passionate. and dramatic. it’s part of who you are.”
you glared half-heartedly. “that’s a diplomatic way to say i’m a fucking menace.”
“you are,” he agreed evenly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear with maddening tenderness. “but you’re my menace.”
you inhaled sharply, offended at how easily that softened you again. “stop saying things like that. it makes it hard to stay mad and i deserve to be mad for at least another six business days.”
nanami leaned in just enough that his forehead almost touched yours, his voice dipping lower, sincere in a way that stripped you bare. “you don’t need to punish yourself for feeling jealous. or threatened. you’re human.”
you clicked your tongue. “i don’t want to be human. i want to be a god. untouchable.”
nanami’s thumb stroked your cheek again, slow, grounding, annoyingly gentle. “i don’t want an untouchable goddess. i want you. spoiled, dramatic, sharp-tongued, mean when you’re hurt, soft when you think no one is watching—you.”
your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t painful, it was warm and terrifying.
you sniffed once, shifting again in his lap to hide the growing softness in your features. “i’m still sorry for being… like that. insulting your club. your plants didn’t deserve that verbal abuse.”
“no,” nanami said calmly, “they didn’t.”
you glared, offended that he agreed so easily. “you’re supposed to say ‘no, baby, you were totally valid in threatening my rosemary.’”
nanami’s lips curved slightly. “you weren’t valid in threatening my rosemary.”
“fuck you,” you muttered, but it had no heat. “i’ll poison your basil first.”
he nodded, indulgent. “i know.”
you sighed—heavy, dramatic, collapsing your full weight against his chest like the universe exhausted you. your fingers fisted lightly in his shirt for stability as you mumbled into his collarbone, voice muffled:
“i am such a bitch sometimes.”
nanami’s hand slid up your back, resting at the nape of your neck, his thumb rubbing small, rhythmic circles there that made your muscles melt one by one. “yes,” he said softly, honestly. “you can be… very mean.”
you jerked back just enough to glare at him, eyes still glossy, mouth open in disbelief. “you’re supposed to disagree, you emotionally constipated goldfish!”
nanami held your glare without flinching. “you asked me to listen and be honest.”
you blinked at him, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “…i hate that you’re right.”
“i know,” he repeated, with infuriating calm.
you stared at him a second longer, lips parted, then shook your head slowly, your voice lowering into something almost vulnerable, almost small.
“and you still want me? like this? spoiled, mean, psychotic gremlin behavior and all?”
nanami didn’t hesitate. not even a breath.
“i like my girl spoiled and mean,” he said, voice warm and sure, eyes steady on yours. “i love you exactly as you are.”
something inside you cracked again—but this time it didn’t shatter into sharp pieces.
it softened. melted.
you swallowed, heat burning behind your eyes again, but you didn’t fight it this time as you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his, your voice breaking in a whisper, “you’re still a piece of shit.” nanami smiled—small, real, adoring—and whispered back, “i know.”
you end up horizontal without even remembering the transition — one moment you were sitting on his lap falling apart like a wet cupcake in the sun, the next nanami was lying beside you on your absurdly large bed, both of you under the soft weight of your overpriced duvet. the room was dim now, only the soft bedside lamp on, throwing a warm gold across his cheekbone and making him look disgustingly gentle, the kind of gentle that made your chest ache in that embarrassing, sentimental way you would sooner die than admit in daylight.
you were curled against him, your head on his chest, your leg thrown over his like you owned every square inch of him (you did), and his hand was in your hair — fingers combing through the damp strands slowly, over and over, like he was memorizing the texture of you. his other arm was wrapped around your waist, palm splayed over your back, thumb tracing slow circles beneath the silk that made your skin warm.
your voice came out small, muffled against his shirt, “are you staying tonight?”
you hated how you sounded — soft, almost shy, like a child asking if the thunder would stop — but nanami didn’t tease, didn’t smirk, didn’t make you regret vulnerability. he tightened his arm around you, his nose brushing your hair as he answered, voice low enough to settle into your bones,
“yes. i’m not going anywhere.”
you exhaled, long and slow, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric at his chest, not in anger this time but in that instinctive don’t leave yet way that made your throat squeeze. “good. because if you left after all that emotional nonsense i’d actually pull a juliet and poison myself.”
he huffed a laugh against your forehead — quiet, warm, fond — and pressed a soft kiss there, his lips lingering like he was sealing the promise into your skin. “please don’t poison yourself. it would ruin the sheets.”
you swatted his chest weakly, raising your head to glare at him with no heat left in your body. “i hate you.”
he tipped his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, soft in the lamplight as his thumb brushed your cheekbone. “you love me.”
your lips twitched. “tragically.”
he smiled — a real one, warm and a little tired from the emotional hurricane you put him through — and he pulled you closer, tucking you just under his chin so he could speak against your hair. “i love you more than i know how to say. more than anything.”
his fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, not stopping for even a moment, like he needed the contact as much as you did. you let yourself melt into him fully now, all the claws retracted, all the sharpness dimmed. it was embarrassing how good it felt to be held like this — safe, wanted, adored — and you hated how much your body relaxed because of him.
“i missed you,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt, and this time your voice didn’t come out defensive or dramatic — just honest, soft in a way only nanami ever got to hear. “i was so pissed at you and i still missed you the whole time.”
he angled his head down, his lips brushing your temple again, then your hairline, then the corner of your forehead — as if he was following a map of where to place comfort. “i missed you too. more than i expected. i didn’t like the distance. not from you.”
you shifted up just enough so that your face hovered near his, your nose brushing his jaw, your fingers moving to lightly trace the line of his throat — slow, absent, intimate. “you better never do that again,” you whispered, soft threat with no teeth left behind it. “i can’t handle missing you and being mad at you at the same time. it’s emotionally exhausting. i could’ve died.”
nanami smiled into your hair, one hand sliding down from your back to your hip, resting there with a protective weight that made your heart turn into warm pudding. “i won’t. i’ll do better. i promise.”
you sniffed, leaning up to press a tiny, barely-there kiss at the corner of his jaw — feather light, like your lips were shy now that they weren’t arguing. “good. because you’re mine. and i’m yours. and i don’t share.”
his grip tightened at your hip, gentle but firm, like the words hit him somewhere deep. “i know. and i don’t want you to.”
you hummed, content now, your body molded against him like you were crafted to fit there. his hand drifted up again, sliding into your hair, fingers massaging your scalp slowly, like he wasn’t even thinking about it — just needed to touch you in some way, any way, constantly.
“you’re very clingy,” you whispered, eyes growing heavy.
he kissed the top of your head again — slow, deliberate, warm.
“only with you.”
you smiled — soft, sleepy, safe — and buried your face in his chest again, breathing him in like warmth, like home. for once, you didn’t feel like you had to perform, or prove, or defend, or win. you just existed in his arms, and he held you like that was enough.
it turned out nanami wasn’t just a man who talked pretty—he actually followed through, which was infinitely more dangerous for your heart because now you couldn’t even stay mad at him for fun. the very next day, when you showed up at the greenhouse after class — not because you suddenly cared about plants, but because you needed to see his promise in action — he proved himself in 4k HD.
you arrived looking like sin among seedlings: hair perfect, lip gloss expensive, outfit curated to silently declare “i own the man in charge here”. the greenhouse smelled like damp soil and mint and academic overachievement. nanami was inside, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing while watering something green you didn’t know the name of but decided to internally call “future pesto.”
he noticed you instantly — his entire posture softened, jaw unclenching like you were oxygen. he put the watering can down and walked straight to you, one hand sliding around your waist with a confidence that made your pride purr. he pressed a brief kiss to your temple in greeting, low enough for only you to hear when he murmured, “hi, sweetheart.”
and then—she appeared.
utahime and her tragic bangs, holding a notebook like she was auditioning for a role in “botany for people with no charisma.” she approached, clearing her throat, and launched into yet another question, voice way too chipper for a woman who should’ve learned fear by now.
“nanami, can you explain again why the rosemary is wilting even though i watered it twice? i think i’m still doing something wrong—”
nanami didn’t even let her finish.
he turned slightly, keeping you tucked to his side, his hand on your waist tightening possessively — polite, but unmistakably boundary-marking — and said in a level, courteous tone that somehow carried a scalpel:
“i’ve explained that twice already. i’m spending time with my girlfriend now — you can ask one of the senior members for help.”
the silence that followed was delicious, like a gourmet dessert made of karma.
utahime blinked, startled, clearly not expecting the polite brick wall. “oh, i— right. sorry, i didn’t mean to—”
you smiled sweetly, leaning your head onto nanami’s shoulder, nails tracing along his forearm as you added, voice dripping with honeyed poison:
“maybe try listening next time. watering every time you feel emotional isn’t how plants work, babe.”
utahime stiffened. nanami squeezed your waist — warning, but gentle — though you could feel him trying not to laugh. she retreated toward some other helpless club member, and nanami turned his face into your hair for a second, exhaling like he was holding back amusement.
“be nice,” he murmured.
you scoffed, pulling back to look at him. “i was educationally constructive. i’m contributing to the learning environment.”
he kissed your cheek. “you’re impossible.”
you smirked, looping your arms around his neck. “and you like it.”
later that week, the friend group witnessed Proof #2: nanami’s boundary olympics.
you were all at your usual table — coffee, snacks, gossip, geto reading something philosophical he didn’t understand. you sat on nanami’s lap, his arm around your waist like a permanent seatbelt, your legs draped over his like you owned the throne and the king.
utahime walked into the café — of course — and spotted you all. either god hated you or you were starring in a sitcom. she approached, smiling like she wasn’t the antagonist in your personal novella.
“oh! i didn’t know you guys were here. do you mind if i join?”
already pulling a chair. already delusional.
before you could unsheathe your verbal knives, nanami beat you to it — politely, gently, firmly.
“we’re having quality time with our friend group right now,” he said, voice almost warm but with an iron spine. “maybe another time.”
shoko, sipping her iced coffee, didn’t miss a beat. “yeah, we’re trauma-bonding. it’s exclusive.”
gojo grinned with all teeth, draping himself over the back of his chair. “also we’re at maximum capacity for straight-laced energy. one more person with no sense of humor and we’ll combust.”
geto added thoughtfully, “we reached our quota of new people three years ago.”
haibara waved apologetically, “maybe next time! like… next century.”
utahime froze, blinked, and did the walk of shame back to the counter.
you leaned in, whispering into nanami’s ear with prideful satisfaction, “i could kiss you right now.”
nanami didn’t hesitate — he turned and kissed you softly in front of everyone.
gojo gagged loudly. “okay but i didn’t mean in front of me, have some respect for my single trauma.”
you flipped him off without looking.
and the thing is — nanami didn’t just do it once for show.
he kept doing it.
day after day, little actions stacking like bricks rebuilding trust. when utahime approached him during club, he redirected her to literally anyone else. he kept you close — hand at your back, fingers intertwined, lips brushing your hair, gentle touches that said mine without needing to say it
he included you deliberately in plant conversations, explaining things properly — not simplified, not dismissive. he sent you photos of his plants with captions like “this is thriving. like us.”. when people asked about his schedule, he said, “i’m with my girlfriend,” like it was a valid unbreakable appointment (it was). he texted you good morning and goodnight like rituals of devotion. he left club early to walk you to class, iced coffee in hand, your order memorized down to ice quantity and foam thickness
and slowly — painfully, annoyingly, wonderfully — your anger had nothing left to feed on. nanami didn’t leave space for doubt anymore. he made it obvious — to you, to your friends, to utahime, to the plants, to the universe — that you were his priority.
one evening, as you curled into his side again, your voice barely above a whisper, you muttered, “…you’re still a piece of shit.”
nanami kissed your forehead, fingers tracing your spine.
– synopsis: two years of dating, over a hundred bowls of gamjatang and a million and one kisses later - you lose jihoon to the idea of comparison.
— genre: exes to ??? au ; angst, fluff. mentions of suggestive things but nothing on screen.
– pairing: ex-boyfriend!lee jihoon x fem!reader.
— word count: 7.8k
– rating: 18+. minors do not interact.
— warnings: swearing, food/eating and alcohol. mentions of breakups, they cry a little. jihoon feeling like he's not adequate enough. i don't know i'm sad and i just wanted to wallow in it for a second before i returned to my regular scheduled programming. also i love soup so...gamjatang!
– what to listen to: stay here - gaho ; how can i love the heartbreak, you're the one i love - akmu ; somebody - justin bieber ; how do i breathe - mario ; silver springs - fleetwood mac.
— author's note: i told you i missed jihoon. for @shinysobi.
EVERYTHING ABOUT YOUR RELATIONSHIP WAS EASY.
The dates, the shared meals, the phone calls. He'd worry when you had the night shift, you'd worry when he wouldn't sleep staying up to talk to you. He'd walk down from his apartment to pick you up at shift change, grumbling about there being no reason that a girl like you should be working until four in the morning to afford her apartment.
You met three years ago, through his good friend Soonyoung. Soonyoung had been dating your coworker, Jian, for three years at that point — and Jian begged and pleaded to be your double-date couple buddies. She tugged at your sleeve, she bought you your favorite tube of lipstick, and Soonyoung even gave you pocket money just to meet them for a double date.
Meanwhile, you're absolutely bewitched by Lee Jihoon; entranced, enchanted, charmed. Sharp eyes that catch everything, soft hands that wrap around the edges of tables and counters so you don't get hurt. Careful words chosen for efficiency, lips gentle against yours and the ability to pick up on what you liked and didn't — simply from the twitch of your body at his touches.
He liked you, loved you. You liked him, loved him.
You love him. You think he might love you, still. Maybe.
You hope.
You were together, went on dates. You went on trips. You had conversations.
Typical, casual boyfriend-girlfriend conversations — if you'd eaten, if you slept well, if you wanted him to come over. Over a quick kiss in greeting, when he handed you a bottle of water, when you complained about the bed being too cold.
Flirty, enamored boyfriend-girlfriend conversations — if he could get a kiss, if you could take your top off, if he could go down on you. These were more hushed begs from his lips, whispered pleas from your mouth as your hands carded through his hair.
Serious, committed boyfriend-girlfriend conversations — when you'd get married, buy a house, if you'd keep working…if you'd maybe have a kid. Fewer than the others, farther between but always ending in a sudden silence before either of you switched the subject.
Until he was no longer your boyfriend, you were no longer his girlfriend and the casual endearment seemingly slipped away from night to morning. You weren't sure what happened, and he wouldn't tell you — simply ending your relationship over a bowl of gamjatang at your usual date-night restaurant. A restaurant you chose for the privacy he valued more than anything, and a restaurant you haven't been to since.
It's been a year. Winter, spring, summer…now, autumn.
And it took exactly one week after the breakup for you to fully realize Jihoon was not someone who could let go easily, even if he was the one to pull the plug on it. He was so engraved in your life, in his routine, and you wondered if that part of him held every part of you that he shared — dancing in his living room together, sleeping in your bed with your limbs entangled, and eating gamjatang at that restaurant.
You wonder if he's been back since.
You wonder if the aunties that had grown to love you both so dearly ask him about you.
The biggest proof that Jihoon could not let you go was that, like clockwork, he stood in front of the shop with a cigarette in his hand and a cup of coffee from the 7-Eleven across the street from his apartment every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Four in the morning, dressed in head-to-toe black and his stupid watch that made you feel insane — just to carry your bag and walk you home. Sometimes share a cigarette, and on the even more rare occasion — hold your hand on the walk up. His fingers curl around yours, holding it inside his pocket as you wonder if he'll kiss you next.
And you wonder why you would allow it.
Probably because it's Jihoon.
You never talk during these walks, either. You don't bring up his job, he doesn't bring up that your unbuttoned work shirt shows a fading hickey on your collarbone from the last time the two of you slept together. He doesn't ask questions, and you pretend that your chest doesn't ache when he slips into your apartment to make you breakfast before leaving without so much as a goodbye.
It's weird. It's weird and you can't say you hate it, but you can't say you love it, either. It felt like a strained relationship, a bodyguard of sorts, that took care of you without expecting anything in return aside from a paycheck. Except you didn't pay Jihoon, and he didn't call or text — he simply knew your schedule by heart.
"Shift change, babe."
You hear Jian crack her gum as she walks into the shop, stopping at the sunglasses display to swipe on her signature red lipstick. She rubs her lips together as you chuckle inwardly, signing your name on the envelope that holds your register count and sliding it into the safe below the counter. She smiles brightly as she hops over the counter, bumping her hip to yours in greeting.
"How're you this morning? You took your break, right?" She asks nicely, crossing her arms as she leans on the counter. She twirls a lighter in her hand, one that looks oddly like one you'd gotten Jihoon in Japan — and you shrug one shoulder as you greet a tired man practically crawling through the door. She unwraps a piece of bubblegum halfway, holding it out to you. You take it between your teeth, tucking it into your cheek as she dumps the wrapper into the trash can next to you.
"Yeah. I'm…tired, I guess. I just wanna go home." You admit, counting cash to slip into the register for her. She cracks her gum again, patting your hip as she gestures towards the door. You're punching your employee number into the system, clocking out as she speaks.
"Loverboy's here. Here, he left this when he came over to see Soonyoung earlier, and I figured I'd let you guys have something to talk about." She holds it out, and you see your initials engraved onto the silver lighter, right next to the tiger's head etched into the metal. You tongue your cheek as the tired man drags his way up to the counter, holding his items to his chest tightly. "I've got it. You go home. I'll see you later, babe."
"Bye, Jian." You murmur, grabbing your bag out from under the counter and slipping around it. You roll your shoulders back, draping your coat over your arm as you make your way out. The door jingle makes Jihoon look up, and he pushes off the side of the shop to fall into lockstep with you. He doesn't have a cigarette this time — instead, holding a lollipop that stains his lips, between his teeth. He reaches for your bag silently, slipping it off your shoulder as you stare at the ground, opting to tug your coat on so you don't catch a cold.
You hold the lighter out to him as you both make your way up the hill, the only sound the crunch of your shoes on fallen leaves. He stops as you shove your hand in his chest, his fingers brushing your palm as he takes it. It's silent for another moment, before you glance over your shoulder at him.
"Jian found it. Don't lose it again, I'm not getting you another." You mutter, shoving your hands in your pockets as you clench your teeth around your gum. He doesn't reply, and you keep walking when you realize he's stopped a few feet behind you. You check your watch, rolling your eyes as you walk backwards to meet his eyes.
"If you're not going to walk—"
"I missed your voice."
The admission is so soft, you almost don't catch it. You blink, his hand still held to his chest where you shoved the lighter, clenched so tight his fingertips have turned white. You glance at his face, raising a brow as you scoff.
"Are you?" He asks, his other hand tightening around the strap of your bag. You feel an odd rage crawl up your throat at the insinuation that it's not home without him, even if you know it's the truth. Your jaw clenches, his eyes traveling your face as he takes half a step closer. "Is it home?"
"You don't get to do this to me, Jihoon."
"I'd argue that I can do whatever I want. I have free will."
"You dumped me."
"Which makes it my job to fix things, and beg for another chance. Not yours." He says pointedly, looking at you with that stupid look that tells you he knows he's right. "I should fix this."
"There is nothing to fix, Jihoon. We broke up. It happens." You feel like you're yelling, but you can hardly hear yourself as he leans forward, almost like he can't hear you. You still, looking at him like he's out of his mind when he shrugs.
"It bothers me."
"It doesn't matter if it bothers you. We're broken up. It's over."
"Is that why you're holding your breath like you're expecting something crazy to happen?"
"I don't do that," You mutter, but feeling annoyance bubble in your belly as you let out the breath you'd had stuck in your throat. He nods, stuffing his hand in his pocket as he twists the lollipop with his tongue, moving forward. "You can't act like you care now, Jihoon. It's not fair to me, especially when you didn't even give me a reason."
"I've always cared. And I don't remember you asking for a reason."
"I wanted to trust your judgment. Maybe you knew something I didn't; but the decent thing to do is give a reason when you are breaking up with someone. Even it's not you, it's me would've been a reason, albeit a shitty one."
He shrugs again, a tick in his jaw as he blinks at you, "maybe I was did, and maybe I was wrong. Why would I half ass a breakup by adding some lame excuse like it's not you, it's me?"
He scoffs, turning the lollipop in his mouth again, "let's get you home, you'll catch a cold and you won't let me take care of you if you do."
Your hands clench in your pockets as he starts walking again, and you hate how easily you follow after him, opting to walk just a foot behind him. He glances over his shoulder, opting to stop every few steps before you get annoyed and move in front of him.
You hate the way your heart beats a little faster when his hip bumps yours at a stop sign.
The way to your apartment is straight for fifteen minutes, take a left for five and a right for another ten. Typically, you're home by 4:32 AM at the latest — with the time it takes to get into the elevator and get to the second floor, plus unlocking your front door.
If you were headed to Jihoon's apartment, you were there by 4:19 AM. Twelve minutes straight, a right for three and then four minutes trying to surpass his stupid lobby guy that always insists you're not on the approved visitors list when you literally are.
Well, you were.
You're kicking gravel, eyes glued to the ground when you see the doormat of Jihoon's complex under your feet. He punches the code into the door, the beep familiar as you hesitate to duck into the lobby. He holds the door open, checking his watch almost obnoxiously to help you make a choice.
You duck into the warm building with a huff.
"Hello, Mr. Lee…Miss Y/N."
Your head snaps up, the same grating voice that makes your ears hurt. The receptionist blinks back at you, your scowl evident as you look at Jihoon, who is coolly making his way towards the elevator. He presses the button, looking over his shoulder as if asking are you coming?
You glance at the watch on your wrist, reading 4:16 AM. Your eyes remain fixed on the ground as you tongue your cheek, huffing inwardly as you move to stand behind Jihoon as the elevator opens. You both duck inside, and you press your lips into a thin line as you hit his floor button. You shove your hand back into your pocket, but you don't miss the way he nods slightly, in that way that he does when he's surprisingly impressed.
No words are shared between the two of you, and you angrily chew your gum — feeling his thumb suddenly pad between your eyebrows. You swat his hand away, only for him to grab your wrist and interlace your fingers. Your fingertips are warm against his cool skin, and you instinctively pull it into your pocket; ignoring the flame of heat that coats your cheeks.
The elevator opens, and you both slink out, walking down the hall with the cadence of your boots bouncing off the empty walls. He punches in his key code, the familiar beeping making your stomach hurt as you remember that it's your birthday. The door opens, and he steps inside, pulling you with him before letting go of your hand to close the door behind you.
You hate the way tears prick at your eyes at the familiar detergent smell that fills his home. Detergent, and something a little musky. His cologne, probably, and you feel around the wall for the light switch. You find it, flicking it on to see the foyer is still meticulously organized, and you slip onto the bench to untie your boots.
He kneels in front of you, untying the laces before you can say anything. He pulls the boots off, carefully slotting them on his shelf before standing up and hanging your bag on the wall hook. He shrugs his jacket off, holding his hand back for your coat. You slip it off silently, handing it to him and making your way out of the foyer. Your hands are shoved into the pockets of your work pants as you walk into the living room — everything is the same, except the blankets that are usually folded on the side table are strewn on the couch. There's a bottle of water on the coffee table, and his television is quietly playing Shark Tale.
He doesn't speak as he slips past you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants as he walks to the kitchen. You rock on your heels, leaning against the back of his couch with your eyes fixated on the television. You force yourself not to get too comfortable, glancing over your shoulder once as you hear the click of his stove being turned on.
He slides back in front of you, yielding a paper towel in his hand. You glance at it, and he raises a brow as he moves it closer to your lips, "spit your gum out."
You do just that, keeping your eyes glued to the ground as he takes it and tosses it into his kitchen trash can. You tongue your cheek, rolling your shoulders back as you hearing clinking around behind you. You shift your weight from foot to foot, before hearing him suck his teeth.
"You can sit down, you know."
You respond almost robotically, gripping the armrest of his couch before awkwardly perching on it. He huffs, holding a bowl in his hand as he walks over. He pushes your shoulder gently, and you scowl as your butt slides off the armrest, your back hitting the cushion. You frown up at him, moving to sit up when he settles the bowl on the coffee table, sliding a spoon in your hand before turning back to his kitchen.
"Want coffee?"
"Want to know what the hell we're doing, Lee Jihoon."
"I'm feeding you. Do you want coffee or you wanna be a brat?"
"Why not both?" You mutter, shoveling the rice into your mouth. It's warm, covered in broth and sliced egg. You look up when you see a glass of water being slid onto the table, before he glances down at you. He holds a mug in his hand, stirring the spoon in it lightly.
"No coffee for me?"
"No answer for me?"
He shrugs as he mocks you, and you click your tongue, rolling your eyes.
"Can I have—"
"Absolutely."
You feel your cheeks hot as he slides a mug of coffee on the table — perfect amount of cream as the steam hits your face.
"You're an ass."
"And you're a spoiled brat, but I still love you."
You huff, rolling your eyes as you reach for the mug, your heart fluttering in your chest like a dumbass. You take a quick sip as he moves around the room, folding the blanket and fluffing his cushions as the movie plays the penthouse musical number. He sweeps the living room, and you fold your legs under you as he runs the broom around the coffee table. Your spoon clatters the empty bowl and he takes it from the table as you lean back on the couch with the glass of water in your hand.
"You want more?" He asks from the kitchen, and you raise your hand to give him a thumbs down as your eyes grow slightly heavy. You slide the glass back onto the table, leaning your head against the back of the couch when he leans into your space. You blink up at him, "hey."
"Hey. Sleepy?"
"A little."
"You wanna come lie down?"
You scoff, folding your arms on your chest as he tucks a stray curl behind your ear. He thumbs at the earring looped through your lobe — a small pair of gold hoops he'd gotten you for Christmas during your first year together. He pulls at the black hair tie in your mess of curls, letting it slide up his wrist as he runs his fingers across the back of your head where the ponytail sat tightly. He tilts you back a bit more, smoothing his fingertips up and down the side of your throat, before cupping your jaw gently. His thumb pulls at your lower lip, "I miss you."
"Why did you break up with me?" You mumble, and he sighs. A blush creeps up his cheeks as he nibbles on his lip, "because I'm a coward."
You furrow your brow, your knees sinking into the cushion as you turn to look at him. Your hands hold the back of the couch, your nose almost brushing his from how close you are to his face. His breath hitches in his throat, eyes full of guilt…and an adoration that makes your heart beat all that faster in your chest, despite the wave of rage crawling up your throat.
"What the hell does that mean?!"
"It means I bought a ring and I let my insecurity get the best of me before I could do anything with it."
Your eyes widen, your courage faltering. "You…what?"
He runs his hand over his face, "I bought a ring. Two months after we started dating, and I freaked out because I wanted to be everything to you and…"
He trails off, carding his fingers through his hair and letting a groan of frustration out, "and I thought you'd be better off with someone else. Someone who doesn't have to hide in obscure restaurants because he values privacy more than love, someone who can hardly make time for you because I'm always working. Someone that doesn't have to keep arguing with the fucking concierge about you being on the approved visitors list because you'd fucking live with me instead of still paying up the ass for that fucking apartment that we hate. Why do you still live there? Why don't you live here!?"
"Because you're a coward." You whisper, leaning forward. "That's why. Because when I said yes, you said no. When I said up, you said down. Everything was always the opposite, you always wanted—"
"I want you." He interrupts, "I want you so bad, it makes me fucking sick. I'm constantly worried about you, I'm constantly asking Jian about how you're doing when you're not at work. I had Soonyoung make sure you made it home the other day because your icon on FindMy stopped moving at eleven at night and I was stuck at work. I can't stop being in love with you. I can't do this, where I can't sleep three times a week because you're working overnight when you shouldn't have to fucking work at all; when you should be here. Asleep in our bed, with your name on the fucking lease and we're together."
He takes a deep breath, his eyes brimming with tears as he looks away, "but I can't stop you from being independent. This is also about what you want, and what you need to feel fulfilled. It's not that I said no when you said yes, or down when you said up. I just wanted you to feel…free. Like you can do what you want and I'll still be here because you can, but God, it's so hard to act like I don't want you glued to my hip all the time. It's infuriating to want you so much, because I was hindering you, I am hindering you. You wanna live in that apartment? Fine. You wanna work, fine. Work. Just…not until four in the morning, when you're supposed to be asleep. If not for the sake of your own health, then because I love you. And because I know you love me."
He doesn't wipe the tears that fall from his face, staring at the floor like the absolute coward he is.
"Two years, Jihoon." You whisper softly, your voice thick as he meets your eyes. His own soften more, if humanly possible — as you take in a choked breath. "Two years of watching you work yourself to the bone, of begging you to go to sleep on nights I worked until four. Two years of gamjatang every Friday night before I went to work because you valued privacy and I valued you. We went to Japan. We kissed, we held hands, we slept together, Jihoon. I met your mother. I met your mother, and you introduced me as her daughter-in-law."
Your hands tighten around the back of the couch, your throat tight as you try to clear it.
"How can you throw that away with the excuse of being a coward?"
"On top of it all, I'm also an idiot. That's how. And I'm so, so sorry."
He sniffles, looking up at the dim ceiling light as he clears his throat. He doesn't speak, and you find yourself clambering over the back of his couch and wrapping your arms around him tightly. He doesn't stiffen, immediately melting into your chest with a sag of relief in his shoulders.
"You're stupid." You mutter, dragging your fingernails across his upper back, "you're an absolute fool."
"Please, don't leave me without you." He murmurs, voice thick as he yanks the back of your shirt up, untucking your thermal as his fingers grow desperate for the warmth of skin on skin. "Please forgive me, please."
"You're an idiot. You make me fall in love with you for two years, you parade me around, you take me on trips, just to dump me because you're a fucking wimp. You're absolutely awful and there is no reason that I should forgive you, because I deserve more." You grumble, and he buries his face into your neck, his lips brushing against your skin. Your eyes prick with tears, feeling his arms squeeze you tighter.
"And I wish you would've said something earlier." You sigh, your lips brushing his cheek as you sniffle, "I wish you would've told me because I would've told you that you're wrong. And you knew you were wrong, too. That's why you feel stupid now."
"I do. God, I feel so fucking stupid."
"Good."
There is a moment of silence, his hands sliding up and down your sides as he holds you impossibly closer. You rest your head on his shoulder, sighing before he pulls back. He peers at you through wet lashes, making you shake your head as you hold five fingers up. You put your thumb down, "one, if I leave my apartment, you are paying that fat fee they're gonna charge me for breaking my lease."
His eyes widen slightly as you put your forefinger down, "two, you desperately need a new mattress. The one you have is too soft and it does nothing for my back."
"Three: you are gonna talk to Jian about my schedule. You want me around? You make that effort." You put your middle finger down, before putting your ring finger down as well, "four, we are not together. You're gonna court me, all over again, and I want to go to Mingyu's diner. Tonight, at six."
He doesn't interrupt you, glancing at your pinky finger still up.
"And five, I need a toothbrush. Get me one." You pat his chest, giving him a curt smile as you move to pull away; only for his arms to tighten around you. You look at him, brows raised as he juts his lip out, "no way you're pouting right now. Is this Lee Jihoon?"
You knock on his head gently, and the pout only grows deeper as you let out a laugh of disbelief.
"Stop laughing at me."
"You're so cute."
"I love you."
"I know, Jihoon." You nod, cradling his cheeks in your hands, "I know you love me. But that doesn't mean I'll forgive you right now."
"I'm not asking you to." He says softly, "I just want you to know. To hear it from me."
"Show me, Jihoon." You press a chaste kiss to his lips, ignoring the absolute eruption of fluttering in your lower belly at the feeling of his soft lips on yours. You give him another, his hands on your sides squeezing tightly as he tries to deepen it — but you use all the willpower you have to pull away. "Toothbrush. Need it."
"I'll be back." He nods, but can't seem to let go of you. He keeps himself rooted to the ground, and you hold his face gently, "you've gotta get a move on. I'm tired."
"Don't leave. Please. Be here when I get back."
"Where would I go?"
"Home?"
"I wasn't aware you wanted me to go with you?" Your voice is cheeky, and you press a kiss to his jaw before squeezing his shoulder. "Hurry back."
Jihoon is forces himself out of his spot as you slip out of his grasp, and you stretch your arms over your head as you make your way to his bathroom — the apartment hadn't changed a bit. Your eyes are glued to all the photos on the wall, your chest warming as you see the one of you; your first anniversary, and you had gone out in a pretty black dress that Jihoon chose, to a restaurant neither of you ended up liking.
And the photo was taken at your gamjatang place right after. Your dress strap had fallen from your shoulder, and you were holding a soju bomb with a wink. It was in a heart-shaped frame, the receipt from that date night tucked into the edge of the frame with the stamp of your red lipstick on it.
You stood closer, looking around the wall of framed photos. So many of you — so many small memories tucked into frames. Receipts, movie tickets, two concert ticket stubs from when you both got to see AKMU. There was dozens of little papers with your red lipstick kissed onto it, and in the middle of all the photos was you and him — a photo taken from behind that you don't remember ever seeing. He's kissing your cheek in front of Gwangjang Market, your hands clutched inside his pocket as your brown coat compliments his navy blue one that he only wore on dates with you.
Even if it was just to get gamjatang.
There is a gum wrapper stuck to the frame, folded into a small heart. You glance over your shoulder, not seeing Jihoon as your fingers ghost over it. You pluck it off, peeling it open to see yesterday's date scrawled across the top in familiar handwriting, scrunched to fit the small canvas.
september 14: day 369 since you made the biggest mistake of your life.
how can you love the heartbreak, when she's the one you love? i know you still do. i know you listen to that song and think of her. stop being a coward and get her back. double date gamjatang awaits you!
- your friendly neighborhood matchmaker, jian (and hoshi!)
You blink, the smell of the gum still fresh though mixed with the ink. You look at the photo, the white strip at the bottom also having something written on it. This time, in Jihoon's penmanship.
The One I Love — February 17.
Your eyes burn with tears as you fold the gum wrapper back perfectly, sticking it back in the corner as you wrap your arms around yourself. There is a photo of you on your second anniversary, in another black dress chosen by Jihoon — the sleeves long, covering your arms aside from the sparkle of a gold bracelet Jihoon had gotten you earlier that day. You were smiling brightly in the photo, Jihoon's hand seen holding yours at the bottom of the frame, where another receipt sat.
Your handwriting, your lipstick stamped over it once more.
always yours, my angel! ♡ i love you, lee jihoon.
Hot tears roll down your face, and you fan at your face as you trill your lips.
"Stupid man." You grouse, wiping at your face haphazardly as you make your way to his bedroom. You sniffle, your hand shoving his door open to reveal his neatly made bed. Fumbling around for the light switch, warm lighting fills the room as you move around. Opening drawers, procuring shirts and sweatpants he doesn't wear because he once told you they're too heavy.
Whatever that means.
You change your clothes, folding your work uniform into a neat little pile and putting it atop his dresser — opting not to hide your black bra under your shirt. Wandering into his bathroom, you see the picture of you and Jihoon brushing your teeth the first time you ever slept over still nailed to the wall by the light switch — a wink from both of you as you held the camera high. You feel a small smile tug at the corner of your lip, turning his sink on to wash your face when you hear the beeping of his front door.
You hear him walking around slowly, the rustle of a bag in his hand getting closer as he lets out a breath of relief when he crosses the threshold of his bedroom. You snort inwardly, swiping some of his face moisturizer on your cheeks as you lean back out of the bathroom to see him moving your clothing into an empty drawer in his dresser, and he's wearing pajamas. He glances at you, and you raise a brow before shaking your head and moving back into the bathroom.
"You don't like that toothpaste." He mumbles as he slides in behind you, your hands smoothing the rest of the cream into your neck as you look down at it. It's cinnamon-mint, and you scrunch your nose, "you're right. Ugh, why do you like that stuff?"
"It feels fresh longer! I explained this to you so many times." He huffs, and you purse your lips as he pouts, pulling a new box of toothpaste out of the bag. He picks at the box, tearing into it before holding the tube out to you. You take it gingerly, opening it as he fishes the toothbrush out. Pink.
You brush your teeth in silence, neither of you saying anything as you disregard his cinnamon-mint toothpaste on the sink. You glance at him, holding the toothbrush between your teeth before holding your hand out.
"Give me your phone."
He pats his pockets, reaching into the left one before handing it over. You swipe onto the camera, holding it high as you pull him closer. You wink at the camera, watching him do the same as you press the shutter. You shove his phone back into his pocket, crossing your arm over your chest as you continue brushing your teeth.
"Send it to Jian later." You mutter when you rinse your mouth out, rooting around his medicine cabinet for floss. He hands it to you from the drawer, giving you a deadpan look as you make a point to place it in the medicine cabinet. You continue about, giving him room to wash his face as you obnoxiously gargle mouthwash while walking around his room.
"They're kind of annoying, aren't they?" You ask as you flick the lights off, watching him dab on lip balm as he snorts.
"Who, Jian and Soonyoung?"
"Yes, Jian and Hosh. Who else?"
He shrugs, swiping his finger in the pot of lip balm once more and holding it out to you. You oblige, letting him swipe it on as you think.
"I think they just care."
"I mean, obviously. But why? Why do they need double dates?"
"Couple friends are just important as regular ones, honey."
"Sure, but why do they know everything about us?" You put your hands on your hips, tapping your socked foot as Jihoon nods, pulling his duvet back. You quickly round the bed, pulling your corner out and hugging the display pillows to your chest, "Jian calls you Loverboy when you go pick me up."
"Soonyoung says your name out of nowhere to psych me out. Asshole." He grumbles. You bite back your smile, placing his pillows at the bench on the end of his bed. You stretch your arms over your head, rolling your shoulders back before sliding into bed. Jihoon dims the lights down but doesn't turn them all the way off, the clock on his nightstand reading six-forty-nine in the morning.
"You're gonna be late to work." You sit up, and he shakes his head, sliding under the covers.
"I took vacation time."
"Why?"
He turns on his side, looking up at you with tired eyes. You slide back down, resting your face on the back of your hand as you face him.
"I wanted time to settle myself if you said no." He admits, "I wasn't prepared for this today. I thought I'd have more time. If I hadn't left my lighter at Soonyoung's, you wouldn't be here right now."
"Then I don't think you missed me as much as you want me to believe." You scoot closer, the minty smell of toothpaste wafting up as you rest your forehead on his. He scrunches his nose as you press a kiss to it, "was it hard? Without me?"
He nods as much as your proximity will allow, a tear rolling down his face and onto his pillow as he looks away. You sigh, throwing your leg over his hip and pulling him into you. His arm immediately wraps around you, his face burying into your neck as you dip your fingertips into the collar of his shirt. He shivers, inching impossibly closer to you.
"You'll tell me more later, right?" You whisper into his hair, feeling him nod as his lips brush your throat. He presses a kiss to the skin, nuzzling the area with his nose before you click your tongue.
"Goodnight, Jihoon."
"I love you."
You trace circles into the nape of his neck, smoothing your fingertips across the necklace he never takes off. His breathing slows, his fingers gripping the back of your shirt loosening slightly as he falls asleep with your perfume filling his nose. You feel tears brim your eyes, and you let out a shaky breath as you card your fingers through his hair.
"I love you, too."
ONE YEAR LATER — SEPTEMBER 10.
You nibble on your lip as you stare at the door. It's a Friday night, and Jihoon is standing next to you with your sweater draped over his arm and chewing his cheek. The aunties were the fear here, knowing you'd get scolded for disappearing after they've had a bunch of pictures of you both posted up on their guest wall like you were celebrities. Mrs. Kang was the owner, and you are worried.
You hadn't been here in two years. Two full years, and much to your surprise — Jihoon had also stopped coming. He'd stopped eating gamjatang period, saying it reminded him of you and the break-up only soured it for him. You both agreed you'd go back when you felt ready, and you'd go together…
So now, six months into your rekindled relationship, you stand in front of it. Your hand is in his, and you're wearing a pretty white dress, holding your purse strap tightly; watching him reach for the door. He pulls it open, and you take a deep breath as you walk in, not letting go of his hand as the aunties barely glanced up from the counter. You glimpse at him as he closes the door behind him, your hand tight around his as Mrs. Lee, an older woman with dyed burgundy hair that had scolded Jihoon for spilling soup on you once, tells you to take a seat anywhere in the empty restaurant and she'll be right with you — without looking up from the register.
Jihoon pulls you into the corner booth you used to sit in, the left side of the booth still comforting as you slid in first, his thigh brushing yours as he sat next to you. Neither of you bother to speak, his hand in yours pinching the hem of your dress skirt and pulling it down slightly to cover the bite mark on your inner thigh. You feel your cheeks hot as you rest your chin on his shoulder, making him look at you as you silently beg for a kiss.
He presses a chaste one to your lips as clambering is heard, one of the aunties carrying two steaming bowls of gamjatang to your table when her eyes meet yours.
Mrs. Kang.
She blinks, sliding the bowls onto the table as you shift slightly. She crosses her arms on her chest, looking at you like she's disappointed. Jihoon's hand squeezes yours, almost like he's bracing for something when she throws her hands up.
"It's about time you find your way back to one another. This was getting ridiculous." She huffs, your cheeks burning hot as she yells over her shoulder for rice wine. "Do you know how annoying your friends are? They eat here every Thursday, whine about the two of you breaking up for an hour and they drink like fish. I had to take your pictures off the wall because they kept crying against it."
"I'm sorry." You both murmur, Jihoon earning a soft smack on his shoulder.
"And you! How can you break this poor girl's heart, Jihoon? Two years! You came to my restaurant every Friday for two years, and that's not counting the other times you were here together! Two anniversaries I saw you celebrate together, four birthdays!" She shoves his shoulder lightly, huffing with tears pricking at her eyes. Your own widen as she lets out an annoyed breath.
"Don't do it again! I won't have it!" She scolds, before her hand picks up one of the bowls. She rolls her eyes, "you still hate perilla leaf?"
You shift again, nodding silently as she scoffs, "picky girl. I missed you."
She bites back her smile, whisking the bowl away as Jihoon pouts.
"How come she misses you and not me?"
"You wanna ask her?"
"Absolutely not. She scares the socks off me."
Jihoon waits patiently for Mrs. Kang to return with your bowl, leaning his head against yours as you rest your cheek on his shoulder. You watch the steam rise off his bowl, your stomach growling just as Mrs. Kang makes her way back — the door nearly being torn off the hinges and making you all jump. You look over Jihoon to see Soonyoung and Jian standing in the threshold, sweaty and out of breath with Jian's phone on full brightness; her screen displaying your location on FindMy.
"You're here!" Jian cries, shoving past Soonyoung and throwing her arms over you and Jihoon. Mrs. Kang scowls as Soonyoung joins the dog pile, giving you an annoyed look as she holds up your soup and a kettle of rice wine. You hurriedly pat Jian's back, and she pulls away with a quickness that rivals the beating of your heart as Jihoon covers the bite mark on your thigh with his hand.
"Sorry," you breathe out, and Mrs. Kang just shakes her head as she slides your bowl onto the table. Soonyoung and Jian greet her quietly, making her suck her teeth, "two more?"
"Please," Jian nods, and she purses her lips as she turns on her heel. She stops, glancing over her shoulder at Soonyoung, "no perilla leaf?"
He nods quickly, practically shoving Jian into the booth as she disappears back into the kitchen. You all watch her walk away, before Jian kicks Jihoon under the table.
"You bitch! Why didn't you tell us you were coming? I said gamjatang double date." She complains, and Jihoon just scowls as you rub his shin.
"We hadn't been back yet." You reply, rolling your eyes. "Mrs. Kang hates you guys."
"No she doesn't." Soonyoung argues, and Mrs. Kang appears next to his head with two bowls.
"Yes, I do. Stop crying in here. I had to take down my favorite pictures because of you." She huffs, setting the bowls down and procuring a camera from her apron pocket. "Y/N and Jihoon, take two?"
You grin, inching closer to Jihoon as he fixes the pendant on your necklace. A gold locket — holding a picture of you and him.
"Ready? 3, 2, 1, money!" She holds it up to her face, and you both smile brightly as you smush your cheeks together. The flash goes off, and you feeling Jihoon's lips press a quick kiss to your cheek. You see Jian and Soonyoung pout across the table from you as you blink away the effects of the flash, and Mrs. Kang tongues her cheek as she moves to your side of the booth, resting her arm around the back and leaning down.
"What do you think? Jian and Hoshi, take one?" She smiles, and you nod your head as they wrap their arms around each other excitedly, pressing their cheeks together with animated smiles. She rolls her eyes, taking their picture before patting your head, "welcome back, sweet girl."
"Thank you." You smile softly, your cheeks sore as she rubs her knuckles on the back of Jihoon's head, making him pout as she huffs, "be good to her. She loves you."
"I will! I am!" He sulks, sinking into the booth as she chuckles, "you want extra broth? I'll bring you some, sit tight."
You watch her walk away again, laughing as Jihoon rubs the back of his head, "see? She missed you, too."
"Whatever." He huffs, reaching for spoons as Soonyoung and Jian lean across the table. He raises a brow at them, "what!?"
Soonyoung grins, "so…double dates again?"
"We can get ice cream after this! Double trouble!" Jian claps her hands cheerfully, and you give Jihoon an amused look. He tongues his cheek.
"They are annoying." He mutters, sliding a spoon into your soup and draping his sweater over your lap so you won't stain your dress. You snicker, "ice cream sounds good. We're in."
"Perfect! Because I also have sixteen other places we need to hit before the end of the year. Oh, and how do you feel about Japan for New Years? I really wanna go back to Mr. Iguchi's, he's been texting Hoshi nonstop!"
You and Jihoon let your friends ramble on and on, eating quietly as Mrs. Kang refills your rice wine pot twice before cutting it off when Soonyoung and Jian start getting sappy. He sends you up to pay with his card, helping Jian pull a heavily tipsy Soonyoung to his feet as Mrs. Kang gives you a receipt.
"Can I get a pen, please?" You ask softly, and she hands you one as you carefully reapply your lipstick. She watches you with her arms crossed, a lopsided smirk on her face as you scribble your note on the top of the receipt paper before kissing it gently.
"You be good, okay? I'll see you on Friday." She says, eyes pointed as you give the pen back.
"Yes ma'am. I will see you on Friday. Thank you!" You stuff his card in your purse, carefully folding the receipt as Jihoon lugs Soonyoung out the door with shouted thanks to the aunties. She waves you off, and you quickly catch up to them as Soonyoung forces himself upright at Jian's mention of ice cream. The door shuts behind you, and you press a kiss to Jihoon's cheek as his arm wraps around your waist. His cheeks are warm from the alcohol, but you watch the way his eyes soften before pressing his lips to yours.
"Do you like the ring?" He whispers, and you glance down at your left hand. It sparkles up at you, like it knows something. You fix it so the stone is centered on your finger, and you hold it up the light, "it's pretty on me, isn't it?"
"Stunning."
"You're buttering me up, I know it. We're already engaged, knock it off."
"Why would I need to do that? You're mine anyway. Something about 'til death do us part, I heard." He rolls his eyes, pressing another kiss to your cheek as you make it outside, the air cool against your hot skin. You rest your head on his shoulder, his fingers squeezing your waist lightly before pressing another kiss to your head.
"I love you, honey."
"I love you, my angel."
You make a note to stop and by a picture frame, and to pick up your copy of the photo from Mrs. Kang next Friday.
After all, you've got a new little scrap of paper.
let's take the long way home, my angel. ♡ i love you so much, lee jihoon. always yours, take two!
hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.
⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader.
⚽ word count: 20.4k
⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse.
⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo.
⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3
🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.
▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH.
The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.
You love the Kims. Really, you do.
His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?
Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.
And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.
You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.
“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”
You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”
He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”
You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”
The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents.
Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.
“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”
Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”
His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”
“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”
It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”
His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”
“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.”
You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.
Nose scrunch. Head shake.
Not in this lifetime.
There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.
You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.
Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.
And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.
He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall.
Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.
You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.
Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.
You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.
“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.
He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”
You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.
The camera clicks.
This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.
“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”
“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”
“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.
Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”
You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother.
There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.
And you’re perfectly fine with that.
▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE.
Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.
“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”
Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”
Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.
And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.
You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.
The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.
Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”
“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life.
Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”
Vernon blinks. “Oh.”
Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs.
Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”
Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.
“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort.
You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech.
For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles.
Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”
“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”
Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?”
“So, what?”
The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”
Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”
Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”
It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on.
“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”
Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.
“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”
Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.”
“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he adjusts his cleats.
“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”
He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”
Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”
Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”
“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu.
His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.
When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was.
When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’
And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.
Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.
“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.
Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”
That one’s easy.
“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu.
Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”
Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off.
The feeling was most definitely mutual.
The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.
Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”
Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”
Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.
The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.
Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”
Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”
Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”
“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply.
Vernon blinks. “What bet?”
“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol.
Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.
How long it’ll take the two of you to get together?
“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.
Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”
Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding.
“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does.
He watches as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.
There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.
Huh.
A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills.
“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle.
▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR.
You don’t know why you always end up here.
Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators.
Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”
You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”
“You say that every time.”
You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.
The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.
“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”
“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”
He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”
“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”
“Okay, but—”
Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.
And then everything goes black.
For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.
Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.
“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”
You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”
“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.
You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”
But then you actually look at him.
The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.
Oh.
Oh.
He’s genuinely scared.
A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”
“I just—” Mingyu gulps. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”
And then it clicks.
You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.
He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.
But you knew.
Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.
Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”
Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”
“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.
You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”
He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax.
“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”
“I will murder you.”
An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”
“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face.
“You are kind of pathetic.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.
With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.
Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”
He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff.
It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him.
Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.
He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though.
“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again.
“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”
“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.
As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine.
“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.
Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”
“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.
You make a face. “Be serious.”
He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”
“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic.
You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”
Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back.
“You don’t have taste.”
“Excuse you—”
“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”
Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.
You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude.
“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way.
You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation.
What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.
Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.
Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.
▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT.
Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you.
He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it.
He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.
Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight.
If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself.
But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him.
Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights.
“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt.
The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.
He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend.
It takes him all of three minutes to find you.
Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried.
It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick.
He hates it. He hates you.
He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too.
Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump.
Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling.
Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.
It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most.
He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news.
And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you.
“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”
Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone.
“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—”
“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”
Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow.
“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?”
He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple.
Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you.
You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu.
He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.
“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?”
Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same.
“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.”
The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.
“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this.
Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself.
That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth.
“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”
In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were… kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true.
In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’.
The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other.
“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement.
Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you—
You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger.
The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.
Mingyu, still paces away.
By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.
“We’re going,” he announces.
The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss.
“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves.
“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”
Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car.
You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further.
“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.”
“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”
“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it.
That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle.
“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
“Your mother asked me to—”
“Well, she can go and—”
“Please!”
Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together.
“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.”
You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up.
“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night.
“You are,” he responds exasperatedly.
“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.
You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—”
“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat.
You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”
If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago.
A beat. And then—
“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips.
To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground.
You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car.
▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER.
You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber.
Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.
Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.
The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.
Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab.
And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.
You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.
Stop drinking. -KMG
You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.
There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.
Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is.
You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.
Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.
With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”
“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”
There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later.
Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.”
The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.
“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”
You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.
As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.
And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?
You shove it deep down where it belongs.
Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.
His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.
Today, Mingyu is untouchable.
The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”
Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”
Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”
It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.
But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.
Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.
And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.
Mingyu’s jaw tightens.
When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.
Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”
Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.
You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.
And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.
That’s just the cherry on top.
He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible.
Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing.
▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME.
Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section.
The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time.
Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.
“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.”
Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.”
The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”
As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.
He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job.
Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.
The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen.
But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.
His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.
It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.
Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory.
Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes?
He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.
And then— what the hell is he doing?
Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s.
That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo.
“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires.
“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell.
He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you.
(In the other side of the mall—)
▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP.
You love shopping.
Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.
Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.
It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.
You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.
“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.
You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.
Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”
The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.
“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”
A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.
The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.
You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.
The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.
A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders.
Mingyu’s shoulders.
You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.
You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.
Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.
Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it.
You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.
But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.
It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.
What the hell are you doing?
Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.
You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.
No. Absolutely not.
You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.
Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.
▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.
It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.
And yet, here you are.
Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.
He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.
The worst part? It works.
Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.
He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.
Instead, he heads straight for you.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.
You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”
Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”
You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.
Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.
But he does.
It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.
Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.
A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.
Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.
The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.
A one-point lead. Game over.
He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in.
Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.
He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching.
Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.
There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today.
Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.
He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage.
“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.”
“Excuse me?”
He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”
You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”
That sets him off.
“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”
You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”
Your jaw clenches.
“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”
The words hit harder than they should.
The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.
He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”
You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it.
But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”
Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”
“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”
He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”
You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.
Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.
For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.
This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.
Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.
Just… because.
It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night.
He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”
Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here.
Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.
The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.
His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?
Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.
“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”
Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”
He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”
To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.
The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.
Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.
Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.
And, maybe, so is he.
It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.
He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—
But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.
Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.
By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.
▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.
The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive.
It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.
You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.
Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered.
That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.
You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.
“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.
Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.
He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.
You blink. Then blink again.
The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—
Oh, God.
With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.
You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.
You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.
You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.
“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.
“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”
Your stomach does a weird little flip.
Well, then.
If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.
You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.
A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.
The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor.
You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.
You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”
You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.
It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it.
You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer.
You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.
“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.
Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”
You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”
“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks.
You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”
A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in.
The moment is bizarre.
His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours.
It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.
It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.
The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.
You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.
“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.
“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.
You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.
It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.
The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...
The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”
Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.
Shit.
You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”
But the thing is— you can’t ignore it.
Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.
A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.
Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.
“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor.
“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”
You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”
“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.
You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.
You are warming up to Mingyu.
It hits you like a truck.
Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.
Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.
By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.
You need to stop being too nice to him.
▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH.
Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching.
He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.
And then, as expected—
“Kim.”
Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.
He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.
He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.
“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.
You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”
“No.”
Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.
“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”
Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”
“I need a favor.”
Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet!”
“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”
Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”
Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”
You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”
He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”
“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”
Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.
And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.
“I need help moving some furniture.”
Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”
He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.
“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges.
“Because you owe me?”
He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”
“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”
Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team.
“Not my problem,” he settles on saying.
“You’re the fucking worst.”
“And yet, here you are.”
The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a headache, Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.
Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough.
“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”
To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed.
Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”
Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”
“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”
“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”
The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.”
You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”
You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.
Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.
“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic.
Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.
He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.
But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.
You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon.
▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON.
The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.
“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”
Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”
You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.
Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”
Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”
The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.
Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately.
So you double down.
You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”
Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.
There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head.
Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you?
The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.
As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”
You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.
But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air.
The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.
Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you.
“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly.
He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs.
“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”
Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”
You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”
“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”
You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.
Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead—
“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful.
You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”
“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”
If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful.
You hate it.
You hate him.
Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.
You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players.
One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too.
In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option.
It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that.
If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse.
He had pretended not to.
You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.
“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.”
Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut.
The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he?
But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to.
Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.
Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant.
You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit.
Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away.
You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word.
His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause.
Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.
“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”
You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant.
Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called.
▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE.
Mingyu doesn’t get it.
He’s been off his game for days.
It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.
It pisses him off.
The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.
Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority.
Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest. “One more round.”
“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”
Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.
As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump.
Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.
You?
You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing.
It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.
Instead, he’s a goddamn mess.
Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.
It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate.
He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.
You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.
But then—
You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told.
You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.
Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.
And what’s worse—
Why does he want it?
He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.
He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.
Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.
The realization slams into him all at once.
His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.
Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel.
Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.
He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have.
“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
He’s fucked.
▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING.
You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.
It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes.
Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.
It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it.
Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return.
“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”
Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”
He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”
“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”
Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.
Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole.
“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."
“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."
“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”
“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”
“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”
Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”
“... Lighting?”
He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”
Something twists in your stomach.
The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating?
You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”
“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”
“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”
There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.
It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you’re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition.
The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.
“Table for two?”
“Yeah,” Mingyu says.
She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”
For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted.
He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”
The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.
“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.
As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”
“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”
He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You knew that when you got in the car.”
The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again.
“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”
His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."
Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead.
“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song.
“Absolutely not.”
You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?”
“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.”
Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas.
The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces.
And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.
You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.
But maybe that’s not the whole truth.
The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered.
Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage.
Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.
“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”
Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”
“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”
It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women.
Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?
Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”
“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”
You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”
“Yeah? What does that even mean?”
It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.
“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”
The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.
You know someone like that.
Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.
You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged.
Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”
You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”
From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.
You don’t dare look at him.
You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like—
▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE.
Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is.
He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.
The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.
Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.
He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.
Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?
He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.
It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.
“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.
And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him.
Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.
You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom.
Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now.
Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—
You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when you’d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.
The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter.
It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.
His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.
The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off.
Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.
Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?
Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?
Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.
Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—
What would you sound like?
In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—
“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself.
He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—
“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”
Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.
Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.
You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.
A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it.
You pucker your lips.
A flying kiss.
Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.
▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE.
Seven minutes.
You could do anything in seven minutes.
Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.
You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.
The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.
“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty.
This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.
Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated.
The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people—
“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.
Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim.
To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.
You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.
You don’t.
It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.
You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu’s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him—
“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”
Fuck.
You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter.
He opens one eye. “You totally did.”
You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.
But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging
The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.
Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back.
No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”
You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”
“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”
You don’t answer right away.
Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?
“It’s complicated,” you gripe.
Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Shut up.”
He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”
That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound.
It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.”
You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.
“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.
You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid.
The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.
Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.
And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.
After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.
“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.”
You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you.
Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”
“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.”
“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything.
“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—”
“Let’s not go there.”
He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips.
You take a deep breath, and then you follow.
It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes.
You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly?
That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red.
You have never wanted Mingyu so badly.
▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’.
He doesn't want to be mad.
Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it.
He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.
You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant.
Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.
You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.
He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.
But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”
“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet.
He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.
“Can you not?”
“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”
Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.
He does.
“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”
You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended?
“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—
“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”
There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung.
It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest.
He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—”
“Why didn’t you kiss me?”
And there it is.
The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.
Mingyu’s head spins.
You wanted him to kiss you.
You wanted him to kiss you.
His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.
Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen.
Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.
When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you.
You look as crazy as Mingyu feels.
“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”
“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”
His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.
Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe.
You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night.
His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.
“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”
Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer.
He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.
He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years.
And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.
Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.
It might be a mistake. He knows that.
He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.
But then you kiss him back.
You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there.
Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.
His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life.
“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.
And for once, you don’t fight him.
▸ S01E17: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE.
The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly dinner in his car with its one working speaker, and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.
You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering.
If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask.
Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.
“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.
“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”
He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved.
Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it.
Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection.
It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.
Almost.
Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking.
At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.
It’s all suspicious.
Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out.
Under the table, something changes.
You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.
You don’t.
It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.
He’s already looking at you.
His expression is half-agony, half-hope.
And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now.
You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win.
No. This is a game you no longer have to play.
You lace your fingers through his.
Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.
You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.
— synopsis: kim mingyu is a dear friend. a dear friend that spends nights in your arms, said nights set aflame with the tick tick tick of your gas stove when he makes you dinner, and searing kisses when he lays you down in your bed. yes, kim mingyu is a dear friend...and you wish he were more.
– genre: friends with benefits to lovers au; fluff, angst, some suggestive/smutty content.
— pairing: kim mingyu x fem!reader
– word count: 11.8k
— rating: 18+. minors do not interact.
– warnings: they're stupid. literally so fucking stupid. fighting, mentions of infidelity, jealousy & insecurities. mildly sexual themes and content: brief p in v scene, there's a titty in his mouth, etc. kissing, pet names (babe/baby, sweetheart, honey, etc.)
— what to listen to: ribs - lorde ; starbright - dabin, trella ; people watching - conan gray ; hard part's over - hoang, page ; like real people do - hozier ; fineshrine - purity ring.
– author's note: thank you to @/saradika-graphics here on tumblr for these daisy dividers! that being said, this is not proofread, but it was beta'd by my dear @starlightkyeom. another fic for thee gyuldaengie ever, @gyuswhore because i posted late and i just love you that dang much. dedicated to em (again!) i love you. ♡
KIM MINGYU COULD VERY WELL BE THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE.
Sweet, thoughtful, and delicate. Fragile, even: in ego, in sex, in love.
Sometimes, you think he’s made for you. Like Eve was made for Adam, by the rib. Sometimes you feel an ache in your left side, and you wonder if it’s the lack of Mingyu’s lingering presence – only to see him a week later, shown up to your front door with a beautiful bouquet and a bottle of wine.
Kim Mingyu is the petals of every flower in all the bouquets he’s ever given you. Velvety soft, perfectly cared for and beautiful.
But just as he is all those things – he is your Achilles’ heel. You can never say no to Kim Mingyu, can never admit that he something more to you than you care to acknowledge beyond just that – something more.
And just as easily as those flowers of yours were picked, they were tossed. Once they died, they served no value. You’d watch the petals fall onto your desk for a while, dried and crisp; before inevitably swiping them into the trash can and dumping the dirty water into the sink. The vase waited, empty (like you,) to be refilled once Mingyu swung by for his bi-monthly fix.
It wasn’t always like this.
You used to save some of the petals, some of the flowers themselves. Press them in wax paper between heavy books and forget about them until you read the books again. You’d toy with the dried petals, before they eventually became littered around your apartment – in the form of coasters, framed on the walls, even a pair of earrings you once made at a crafts class.
Because in the beginning, in the very beginning – Mingyu was just your friend.
He was your very nice, very attentive friend that brought you gorgeous bouquets from his florist friend’s shop, always picked out by Mingyu himself – down to the colorful paper wrapping and satin bow. You’d rarely see him more than once or twice a month as it was, because Mingyu is a very busy man – so the flowers were always accompanied with an apologetic smile and a quick kiss to your cheek. You’d make dinner together, or he’d cook for the two of you; his presence warm and inviting even in your own home.
He’d serve you a glass of wine or three, plate your dinner like you’re at a nice restaurant and hand you extra silverware in case one of you fell victim to his butterfingers – and he knew your apartment like the back of his hand. He knew you like the back of his hand.
Then, you kissed.
One time. By complete and utter accident.
You had moved into his typical cheek kiss in greeting, the both of you springing away almost immediately when you felt each other’s lips. You both spewed apologies like geysers, talking over one another before you both laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.
“No more kisses, got it. Could’ve said something earlier, you know.” He joked, but finally greeted you with a warm hug paired with a mumbled it’s so nice to see you that made your stomach flutter for the first time ever. You were wide eyed as you allowed yourself to be enveloped in the warmth of his body, in the soft feeling of his cashmere sweater that you’d given him for his birthday many moons ago.
Unfortunately, the attempt to make dinner together was awkward. You were both anxiously trying to keep things level, trying to crack jokes and talk about your lives outside of each other when you just sighed; your hands on your hips as you glanced at him in your pink apron that was much too small.
And he kissed you – this time, with purpose. He held your face gently between his hands, your own fisting the stupidly expensive cashmere sweater that left you without eggs and bread that month.
Dinner wasn’t homemade, after all. He’d turned the stove off in your frenzy to pull his belt off, his hands holding you flush to him as he led you both to your bedroom – where he’d shown you exactly why his ex-girlfriend can’t leave him alone, and why your ex-boyfriend constantly felt inferior to him. He made it clear he wanted you, even if it was just for the night – and he wasn’t about to fuck up the only potential chance he’d gotten.
You both fell asleep before either of you could say anything about the missed dinner, and the morning after was full of shy stares and a silent agreement – after you asked him if he’d even wanted to be your friend, if this was his plan all along. He admitted honestly that he’d never anticipated something like this and he never secretly wanted you, either – that he’d been your friend because he loves you, because you’re sweet and funny, because you’re you.
Twice a month. Dinner. Sex. Repeat. Just to get the taste of each other off your tongues, to fill the void of feeling someone next to you while you’re sleeping.
Eventually, you realized that things between you and Mingyu had grown to be just that – a fix. A bi-monthly, sometimes tri-monthly, fix; where he came to your apartment and still yielded those beautiful flowers. He’d gotten more into making dinner on his own, and you’d choose somethnig to watch – and you’d spend an hour or so filling each other in about your time apart over the warm meal and some stupid movie, if not Gilmore Girls.
Until one of you leans in for the first kiss of the tumble, and the illusion of romance shatters at your fingertips.
Not because Mingyu isn’t romantic; if anything, the guy could drown you in romance. In soft touches, in mood lighting, in catering to your every need while still meeting his own with little intereference. He’s kind and gentle, with an edge that makes your skin prickle when he works you over with his tongue between your thighs after peeling your clothes off with needy hands. He’s a bitch when his teeth nip at the skin of your thighs, his fingers digging into the meat of them like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he makes the wrong move; and you can feel the way he smiles against you as he brings you to the first orgasm of the night.
He’s yours when he kisses you like you mean everything to him, when he holds your knees to your chest while you cry on his cock. He’s yours when he holds you close, massaging your hips and kissing the expanse of your bare shoulders.
And you are his.
You are absolutely, irrevocably his when he slips inside you for the second time that night – his teeth sinking lightly into your shoulder at how sensitive he is but he loves the way you feel. Shuddered whimpers will fill the room, murmurs of missing you when he’s gone as he nibbles on your earlobe; he leaves a mess between your thighs, snugly wrapped in your walls as you both drift to sleep.
Every. Single. Time.
Maybe it’s not all that romantic.
Maybe it’s just...sex. Casual sex that convinces you it’s more the moment you press your lips to his because you’re so certain Heaven is a place on Earth – and it’s in Kim Mingyu’s arms.
That’s where it all ends, anyway. He’s gone in the morning without much conversation; you’ll shower together like real couples do and he’s started keeping a few changes of clothes in your apartment. You’ll brush you teeth together like real couples do; he’ll even rub lotion on your back before kissing the back of your neck and asking if you want breakfast. If you say no, he leaves.
If you say yes...he’ll make breakfast, an entire spread. He’ll make coffee, and he’ll sit right next to you in the cute breakfast nook that sold you on your apartment three years ago – right after you’d broken up with that ex-boyfriend that never liked Mingyu. For who he was, what he stood for or what he could provide...you weren’t all that sure.
But you don’t really care, either.
Mingyu helped decorate your apartment. He helped you make it yours and even slept on the floor of your bedroom with you when you were too scared to be alone on the first night. He didn’t complain about his very obviously sore neck the next morning, only giving you a quick hug goodbye as he left to his apartment six blocks away for a shower – and returning within two hours to help you paint your bathroom.
They say that friends to lovers is the best way to go. Friends that know each other’s coffee orders by heart, turning into lovers that deliver said coffee with a kiss on the lips. Friends that help each other pick an outfit for a night out, becoming lovers who take said outfit off at the end of the night with their lips running down each other’s shoulders and other unnamed places.
Lovers, who mean it more than words can explain, and the warmth of a fire could never rival the true heat behind it – the three little words that linger on your tongue.
That stupid, stupid I love you.
But you are you, and Mingyu is...well, he’s Mingyu.
You’re not sure what you are. You’re certainly not friends, but you’re not lovers...you’re just Y/N and Mingyu, in limbo. No label, no questions and consequently, no answers.
And you want an answer. You want to know what it’s like for him to hold you closer when you move away to slip out of your bed in the morning. You want to know what it’s like for him to flip you onto your back and kiss you despite the morning breath, what it’s like to be Mingyu’s, eternally, and never have a way out.
But...you are you.
And you know better.
IT’S WEDNESDAY NIGHT WHEN YOUR PHONE PINGS ACROSS APARTMENT.
You move out of the kitchen, making your way to it and grabbing it off the coffee table before flopping onto your couch.
NEW! (3) Messages From: Mingyu ♡
[4:21 PM] hey, y/n
[4:21 PM] just a quick question, are you free this friday?
[4:21 PM] no pressure 💘
You’re aptly draped across the couch for a distressed sigh as you read the messages. You throw your arm over your eyes, your heart beating just a little faster – there's a pot of stew heating up on the stove, and the whole house smells delicious as you close your eyes, knowing exactly how this could go.
He’ll show up at your doorstep, ten minutes before he said he’d be there. He’ll be wearing one of his nice shirts – maybe it’ll be that baby blue one that you love – maybe it’ll be the dark red that he always tucks neatly into slacks. Maybe he’ll be dressed down, something you don’t to see all that often – sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie, but he’ll still be carrying that stupidly large bouquet of flowers and a bottle of your favorite wine. He’ll kiss you hello again, but it won’t be on your cheek – no, he’ll kiss your lips.
He’ll kiss your lips and hold your waist gently, pulling you into him. He’ll nip at your lower lip, inching his way into the apartment and shutting the door with his foot before setting the flowers down on the foyer table and pulling away. He’ll say it’s nice to see you, that he missed you, that he wants to hear about your day before kissing you breathless.
Because he’s Mingyu.
“And I’ll fall for it every damn time,” you sigh, staring at the screen. Your fingers move quickly, typing a singular ‘sure’, only to see his read receipt pop up before you can even sit up. Like he’s waiting for you to answer – sat at his desk, the one that’s shoved in the corner of his office and way too cramped for a guy his size. The one that’s piled high with confidential documents, that he eats his lunch at that he packs himself early in the mornings.
The one he’s sent you a few suggestive pieces of media from, the image of his silver watch moving up and down your screen still burned into your mind.
NEW! (2) Messages from: Mingyu ♡
[4:26 PM] hm, don’t know if i liked the way you answered that.
[4:26 PM] are you okay?
Are you?
You don’t get much of a chance to reply before he’s calling you. You quickly decline it, texting back with the excuse that you’re in the shower.
NEW! (2) Messages from: Mingyu ♡
[4:27 PM] you’re literally laying on your couch. you don’t shower until six.
[4:28 PM] this is your ‘lazy girl’ time, you’ve told me. i know.
“Curse your memory, Kim Mingyu,” you grumble, fumbling around to call him on Facetime. He picks up on the second ring, putting his AirPod in – but he’s not dressed the way he usually is after work. Or rather, during: he’s still got thirty minutes to his workday.
But you’re not complaining at the sleeveless white shirt, feeling your cheeks hot as he raises a brow at you through the screen.
“What are you doing?” You prop yourself up on a throw pillow, only for Mingyu to flip the camera and show the inside of your favorite grocery store, “what are you doing there? It’s Wednesday, you should be at work.”
“And you should tell me what’s got you so pouty.” He says pointedly, propping you up in the cart as he grabbed a bag for tomatoes. You’re silent as you watch him pick them out carefully, gentle fingers you miss wrapped around your throat squeezing the fruit softly. You blink as the thought leaves your mind, your mouth dry as you shake it off while he ties the plastic bag expertly.
“So? What’s got you so iffy?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a horrible liar.”
Mingyu gives you a stern look as he hunches over the cart, pursing his lips as his eyes dart around the store for the next item to take him. Maybe peppers. Maybe a tub of soybean paste.
Maybe someone else to fill his bed, his heart. His stomach, with delicious meals he never lets you cook for him anymore because, in his words – you're tired. You work so hard and you’ve had a long day, sweetheart. Just sit on the island and keep me company.
“Need an answer sooner rather than later, sweetheart.” His voice is gentle as he grabs your attention again, only making you scoff as you wave him off with your hand.
“Seriously, I’m fine.”
“I dunno. First, you give me a one-word answer. Never in our six-year friendship have you responded to me that way, even when you’re in a bad mood.”
You tongue your cheek as he stops the cart in the snack aisle, your eyes floating immediately to the cinnamon biscuits right next to his head. He reaches for them, tossing the box into his cart without a second thought before reading the ingredients on a box of almond cookies, “next, you lie to me. A bold-faced lie, and to my face, at that.”
“I lied to your phone screen, dramatic ass.” You mutter, watching the way his fingers drum against the yellow box. He’s wearing the ring you’d given him for Christmas last year, the white gold snug on his thumb as he hums. He puts the box back, grabbing another with a click of his tongue.
“That I pay the bill on, mind you. So, you’re wasting time and money instead of just telling me what your deal is.”
“There is no deal, Mingyu. I’m not BOGO.” You snort, shifting on your couch and resting your arm under your head. He looks at the phone, tossing the cookies into his cart, “I should be glad, BOGO of you would kill me. You’re more like buy one, get one half off.”
“I think I’m more of a buy-two, get one free.”
“That’s even worse. One of you is more than enough. And that’s coming from me, someone who gets all of you regularly and happily, at that.”
“‘All of me’ is a technicality.” You roll your eyes, only watching the tips of his ears turn pink as he analyzes yet another box. Crackers this time, cheddar ones. Not your favorite, and infinitely inferior to the Parmesan ones.
“Be realistic, there’s no one but me. You’re just for me.” He murmurs, but the microphone catches it anyway. You tongue your cheek as he puts the box back, instead grabbing the Parmesan ones and throwing them in the cart. Your cheeks heat slightly as he nibbles on his lip, likely deep in thought as he looks over his cart.
“Even if that’s true, you could still be nice to me.”
“I’m so nice to you! I make you dinner, I buy you flowers, and I check in with you regularly. I get you gifts, I fixed your leaky faucet, and I rewired your entire gaming system after you moved into your apartment and didn’t want to figure it out. I’m the nicest guy ever, especially to you.” He huffs, and you let out a chuckle that makes his lips twitch. He masks it by sucking his teeth, and you shrug with an amused look on your face.
“You cook me dinner because you want to, you buy me flowers because you feel guilty and you check in with me because your job keeps you from actually seeing me more than once or twice a month. You get me gifts to make up for the fact that you’re not around as often, you fixed my leaky faucet because I practically begged you to, and you rewired my gaming system because you and Wonwoo wanted to play GTA for six hours.” You point your finger at him, watching the way he nods before picking up his phone. The camera pauses, the sound of Left Right by XG playing in the store the only sound coming from his end.
NEW! Message from: Mingyu ♡
[5:10 PM] i also go down on you because i want to, and i fuck you because i want to. but i don’t hear you complaining about that, hm?
“Because I want it, too.” You ignore the heart surging on your cheeks as you watch the message bubble pop up again.
NEW! Message from: Mingyu ♡
[5:11 PM] then be nice to me before i stop doing that for us, pillow princess.
“I am not a pillow princess! You just never let me do anything!”
The camera unpauses, showing Mingyu rolling his eyes and feigning disinterest before he sets the phone back down, “tell me what’s up or I’m coming over impromptu. I won’t give you time to tidy up, either.”
“You wouldn’t do that; you probably have a nice steak in your basket. You wanna go home and cook it and text me all about how I’m missing out because I live six blocks away and won’t walk to your place because those heels I wear make me too tired.” You snicker, watching the way he mimics you and moves his hand in a talking motion. You only laugh harder, “Mingyu!”
“Little louder, sweetheart. The neigbors know my name, anyway.”
“Kim Mingyu, I am a lady.”
“A loud one,” he snorts, sucking his teeth as he makes his way down the liquor aisle. “Are you free on Friday or not? Enthusiastically free, happy-to-see-your-Mingyu free. Not that sure shit, have some respect.”
“My Mingyu?” You smirk, but it’s a front. Your stomach is fluttering like crazy and you watch the way he bites back his smile to raise a brow at you.
“You know any other Mingyus?”
“Park Mingyu from the finance team that has had the hots for me since before you moved to the city.”
“He doesn’t count, he’s in finance. You’d get bored in two days.” He rolls his eyes again, “yes or no, sweetheart? My schedule fills up fast and I’m actively trying to get you in.”
“More like you’re trying to get in me.”
“That too, but all I’m hearing right now is that you hate me. That’s not all I have you around for, you know.”
You roll your eyes, sighing. He’s raking his eyes over you through the camera, grabbing a bottle of wine off the shelf as if it’s muscle memory. The label reads EISA Cabernet – your favorite. Particularly, when he makes you a thick steak with scalloped potatoes and asparagus that almost guarantees you fuck him within an inch of his life.
And he never complains.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, Gyu. I promise.”
He crosses his arms, “I don’t believe you.”
“Then don’t.”
“You hate me.”
“Sometimes, when you make my steak too rare or you pull out.”
“Haha, so funny.” He sticks his tongue out at you, and you can tell by the signs on the ceiling that he’s moving to the checkout line. “You’re really not gonna tell me what’s up with you?”
“What do you want me to say, Mingyu? That I’m in distress? That I’m having a bad day?” You joke, before pouting exaggeratedly, “oh, please, Mingyu. I’ve had such a long, lonely day. Come over, I need you.”
“Stop that.” He huffs, crossing his arms as he leans on the cart. You laugh again, running your hand through your hair as you feel his eyes trailing you. You raise a brow as his eyes stop on your chest, and you dramatically cover the bit of cleavage your V-neck sweater shows. He scoffs, tonguing his cheek as he gets a register, carefully parking the cart. “Tilt the camera to your face, I don’t need strangers seeing your whole chest.”
“It’s not even my chest, dipshit. It’s my necklace at best.”
“Necklace I gave you.”
“Never pegged you to be a jealous, possessive man, Mr. Kim.”
“You don’t know a lot of things about me,” he shrugs, and you stick your tongue out at him as he scans his things. He shakes his head as you watch him, your eyes shamelessly trained on his arms as he moves about, before he snaps his fingers in front of the camera, “must you eye fuck me like that?”
“Listen, friends can admire one another’s beauty. That’s part of it.”
“Sure, sweetheart. Friends also tell each other what’s bothering them, but I guess we’re not all that of friends, hm?”
The double entendre makes you scoff as he swipes his card, his receipt printing loudly as he makes faces at you. You don’t speak as he takes the receipt and tucks it into his pocket, listening to him sweetly thank the aunties at the exit as he leaves with his cart. He whistles, “so? What’s wrong with you?”
You don’t reply, simply turning onto your belly and resting your cheek against the heel of your palm. You prop your phone up against the armrest of your couch, making a show of pulling your sweater down enough that it shows the white lace of your bra.
“Tease.” He chides as he pops the trunk, “come on, tell me. Because you’re gonna piss me off and then we’re both in a mood.”
“I’m really fine, Gyu. I’m tired, I’m gonna eat some leftovers...maybe watch a movie. It's just one of those days, you know?” You shrug, “it’s not like anything is particularly wrong. I just feel weird, and that’s okay.”
You’re lying through your teeth, but he doesn’t look all that convince anyway as you hear the timer in your kitchen start going off. You give him a quick smile, “my food’s ready, so I gotta go but I’ll see you on Friday, Gyu. I promise I’m excited to see you.”
“Well, you’d still need the context of what’s happening on Friday, but sure.” He shrugs, “just...are you sure you’re okay? I can cancel. I’ll work around you, honey, just let me know.”
You smile inwardly, pushing off the couch and taking your phone with you into the kitchen. You prop it up against your toaster as you reach for a bowl on your tiptoes, “I would say no if I didn’t want to see you, Mingyu.”
“I know, but—”
“Mingyu, baby, please.” You set the bowl down, putting your hands on your hips. He’s in his car now, pulling his seatbelt on as he balances you on the steering wheel. He’s pouting, “expect that impromptu visit anyway.”
“You never follow through with those, so I will not be cleaning my apartment tonight and I will be in my PJs by nine.” You respond, crossing your arms on your chest as you watch him roll his shoulders back – the fabric of his shirt taut against his chest. He catches you staring at him, his ears tinging pink once more as you smile cheekily, “I’ll see you on Friday. Drive safe, okay?”
“I will. I’ll see you later, baby.”
The call ends before he can see you process the petname. Your cheeks are hot as you stare at your home screen, a picture of you that Mingyu took at a burger joint after you and your ex-boyfriend broke up. You had a smear of ketchup on your cheek and Mingyu’s fingers pinching the other – he'd taken you out because you had been the one to break things off after yet another jealous fit about you being friends with Mingyu.
When you think about it, he ended up being right – just six months after the breakup, you’d slept with Mingyu for the first time.
Jaehyun had always been iffy about Mingyu, but you didn’t understand it then, or ever. The two of you had been dating for six months when he met Mingyu, your friend of two years at that point. They met at your birthday party, and Mingyu had been incredibly sweet – he'd greeted him with a firm handshake, complimented his shirt and watch, and asked what he was drinking. Jaehyun had stiffened slightly, likely at the way Mingyu towered over him; but his face soured when Mingyu greeted you next, the way he always had.
With that damn cheek kiss.
His aftershave was particularly minty that night, and it made something in your stomach lurch but you ignored it. Jaehyun was quiet that entire night, even later when you were both in bed together and he was on top of you – he murmured it, effectively killing your buzz and starting a fight.
“I don’t like that Mingyu guy.”
Your relationship was no more than two years of weird jealousy afterwards. Jaehyun, however, was worse than you were in the weird terms and conditions of dating these days – he still followed his ex-girlfriends on social media and frequently engaged with their posts (you didn’t care.) He still talked to his most recent ex-girlfriend's mother, who he claimed said that he was like a son to her (again, you didn’t give a shit.)
It seemed to bother Jaehyun that you did not care what he was doing with his ‘friends’ of the opposite sex. He seemed annoyed that you could frequently hang out with your friends without caring about what he thought – posing in photobooths for pictures with your life-long friends Kwon Soonyoung and Lee Seokmin, getting dinner with your old coworker (and BFF-by-proxy) Hansol Chwe, taking shots with said BFF Boo Seungkwan at your favorite bar to celebrate his birthday...
Posting pictures of you and Mingyu at a farmer’s market the autumn before the breakup, trying spiked apple cider and pumpkin soup that you ended up bringing home for him to try.
Jaehyun didn’t like that you had friends he didn’t like. He didnt like that you had male friends period, but you simply did not care and especially not when he went on and on about Mingyu like he had a crush on him. You listened to his jealous rants about Soonyoung, Seokmin, Seungkwan and Hansol silently, merely peering up at him through your lashes and sipping whatever drink was closest. However, he really amped it up when he met Mingyu – and went as far as saying he was sure Mingyu wanted to sleep with you.
Only for you to find out in two weeks time that Mingyu had been across town that same night, breaking up with his girlfriend for saying the exact same thing about you.
She was so sure you wanted Mingyu.
And the truth was, you’d never thought about it – ever. You’d met Mingyu in grad school, through Seokmin – and your first memory of one another was at a horrible group interview for an internship that neither of you got. You stayed in touch following the months after graduation, only getting closer as Mingyu moved to your city a year after and needed friends to hang out with.
You were almost always one of those friends. If you couldn’t make it, he still made it a point to swing by your place and bring you something from wherever it was that he’d gone. Sometimes it was a thick slice of chocolate cake, sometimes it was an entire baked potato that he’d ordered to-go so you’d have something for lunch the next day. Sometimes it was just a handful of butter mints he’d stolen from the register attendant along with a colorful toothpick.
Mingyu is just like that. Sweet and caring and he is a good man. A Good Man, even, with capital letters and capital claim on your heart.
You sigh, turning your phone off and leaving it on the counter as you limply serve yourself your dinner. The stew isn’t as filling as it would’ve been had Mingyu made it, but you don’t let your mind linger on him too much as you eat on your couch and watch a YouTube video dissecting Pretty Little Liars.
Because thinking about Mingyu is bad for your heart. You can’t close your eyes when you do it, either – or his body flashes in your mind, the sounds he makes when he’s got your hands pinned to the mattress, the way he calls you baby between kisses that make your skin feel like it’s on fire. You can’t close your eyes without remembering the smell of his aftershave filling your nostrils, his fingers tugging at your clothes or the way he coos when you beg him to touch you anywhere.
Or...it’s worse, and you remember how good a boyfriend he would be. How good of a husband he would be – always having a spare change of shoes for you in his trunk for those times you’d go out to dinner or to hang out. Always offering his jacket, always holding your hand when you cross the street, always pulling you close when someone thinks it’s okay to get too comfortable with you. How he smooths a hand over your hair out of nervous habit as you worm through farmer’s markets and malls, how he’s easily thrown you over his shoulder several times when you’re throwing an embarrassing fit at a pub or a bar.
When he kisses you slowly, in his car that smells like him and you before you both get down. How he thumbs at your earrings when you’re sitting next to him at a restaurant or the movies, and his arm is draped over your shoulders. How he speaks to you softly and listens to you intently – actively interested in everything you have to say and what it means to you.
How he cares.
It has to be torture, being involved with Kim Mingyu the way you are.
But is it torture, at hands so gentle? Lips so soft, words so sweet, a heart so full?
You don’t think so.
9:32 PM.
You’d finished dinner hours ago, and your television was quietly playing some random Spotify playlist. The Kill by Thirty Seconds To Mars is filling your ears as you trill your lips dramatically and scroll on your work laptop, finalizing a presentation while sprawled across your couch.
Against your better judgment, you’d cleaned your apartment haphazardly and you took a long shower – but like any girl awaiting potential company, you put on yet another sweater and a skirt (that you dug out of the back of your closet; one that you’d caught Mingyu staring at you in ages ago.) Your pajamas laid neatly folded on your pillowcase, and you told yourself you’d get in bed by 9:45.
It’s unlikely that Mingyu will come by. You checked his location ten minutes ago, and he was at his apartment – likely cuddled up in his bed with all six of his pillows. Mingyu rarely leaves the house after eight on weekdays, anyway...unless he’s seeing you.
The time barely ticks past 9:33 p.m. when you hear a soft knock at the door – making you jolt up so fast, you feel something pinch in your neck. You still – glimpsing at the time on your laptop before checking your phone for any potentially missed messages. Mingyu usually texts you if he’s actually coming over...so it can’t be him.
No lights are on in your apartment but your stove one, so it only makes the atmosphere more tense. You stand up quietly and set your laptop down on your coffee table before hearing another knock – louder this time, the clink of metal on glass making you jump.
“Y/N, open this damn door.”
Mingyu’s voice on the other side makes all fear in your body dissipate in favor of annoyance, and you make your way over; unlocking the door quickly and huffing as you open it. He’s leaning coolly against the frame, holding a bouquet as usual – but you put your hands on your hips as you look up at him.
You hate the way your cheeks grow hot at his soft smile.
“It’s not Friday, Kim Mingyu.”
“I can still bring you flowers, baby.”
“Blah, blah, blah.” You make a face at him, opening the door further to let him in and turning on your heel – only to feel his arm wrap around your waist and gently pull your back into his chest. He smells like that same aftershave, your skin prickling as you glance up at him.
“Is that how you greet your guests?”
“You’re hardly a guest, Mingyu. Guests don’t know where my silverware is.”
“Or that you keep lube in your nightstand.” He whispers, squeezing your hip as you swat at his arm. You scowl at him as he presses a kiss on your forehead, “I told you I was coming.”
“It’s damn near ten at night.”
“So? I can just stay over.”
“You just wanna fuck me.”
“Or I miss you, baby.” He murmurs, pressing another kiss to your temple. “I miss you a lot, actually.”
“Breaking news: Kim Mingyu admits he misses his dearest, smartest, prettiest friend ever. More at eleven.” You snort, letting him turn you around as he smiles. You let him fully wrap his arms around you, your nose filling with that damn aftershave as he smoothly picks you up; your legs wrapping around his waist and your arms around his neck as he kicks your door shut with a kiss to your cheek.
“Kim Mingyu does,” he replies gently, and you feel shy as he nuzzles his nose against your cheek before kissing it again. Once, twice, three times. “I stopped by Chan’s, but he only had these and a few others. You like?”
You can hardly see the flowers, and Mingyu seems to recognize that as he flicks on your dining room light. Warm yellow rays fill the area, your eyes blinking rapidly to adjust as you glance at the flowers between you. Large white daisies are mere centimeters from your face, and you stop yourself from smiling to raise a brow at him.
“These are your birth flower.”
“You’re supposed to like everything about me, and that includes my birth flower.”
You roll your eyes, thumbing at the petals as he presses another kiss to your jaw, “yeah, they’re cute. I like.”
“Good, because I fucked up and also ordered another one for next week when I’m not going to see you, so you’ll be getting this twice but as delivery. I might get another just to apologize but that’s a quest for Later Mingyu.” He speaks against your cheek, pressing kiss after kiss on the warm skin, “missed you, missed you, missed you.”
“You’re smothering me!” You whine, feeling him pepper the side of your face with kisses, “Mingyu!”
“You complain I don’t see you enough, and you complain when I do. You’re never satisfied,” he jokes, carefully setting the flowers down on your dining room table to hold you closer. His hands are gripping your thighs, the material of your skirt straining against them as you press a kiss on the column of his throat, “thank you for the flowers.”
He shivers, “you always say thank you. Don’t thank me for the bare minimum.”
“I don’t get you flowers, Mingyu.”
“You should start. I like flowers and being smothered and impromptu visits with at my apartment with my dearest, smartest, prettiest girl, Y/N.”
You roll your eyes, ignoring the fluttering in your belly as you shake your head, “you’re impossible, Kim Mingyu.”
“Yeah, well...you love me anyway.”
“That’s an incredible assumption.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.” You scoff, limply shoving his shoulder. He sucks his teeth, kicking his shoes off and clearly choosing to ignore your bait as he tightens his hold on your thighs, “what are you doing here, Mingyu? You’re not making dinner, and you clearly don’t have a plan in mind...so what do you want?”
He raises a brow, “I want to see you. Ask about your day. Also, steal some of those almonds you have hidden in your nightstand, next to your lube.”
“You just want me for what I can provide.”
“I want you for lots of things and lots of reasons, but what can you provide that I won’t willingly give you, anyway?”
You can smell the mint on his breath, like he’d brushed his teeth before getting to your apartment. Your eyes trail him silently, taking in the soft fabric of his casual t-shirt against the inside of your knees. Your skirt is starting to ride up, snug against your midthighs as you click your tongue in defeat.
“Exactly.” He says pointedly, squeezing your thigh as he flicks the dining room light off again, making you tighten your grip around him as he moves to turn on the lamp in your living room. He looks over your head at the television with an amused look, “are you sure you’re not sad or something? What’s with the ambiance?”
“You insist something is wrong with me, but I promise you,” you lamely hit the side of your closed fist to his chest, “I am fine.”
He gives you a knowing look in the moody lighting, before leaning down slightly. He glances at your lips, silently begging for a kiss only for you to roll your eyes and do the same. He smiles shamelessly, kissing you gently before looking around once more.
“It’s so dark in here.”
“I was just finishing stuff for work.”
“What have I told you about working off the clock? Stop working for free, they pay you shit as it is.” He squeezes your thighs for emphasis, and you suck in a quick breath involuntarily. You scrunch your nose as he grins, before smacking his shoulder gently.
“You’re the last person who can tell me that, you’re a workaholic. I see you twice a damn month because you’re always holed up in that office.” You shove a finger in his chest, only for him to press another kiss to your lips as you pout, “Mingyu!”
“You are so annoying, baby.” He murmurs, nipping at your lips like he might die if he doesn’t. “You can’t even appreciate that I took time out of my very busy schedule to come see you. And let’s not forget you love my job when it means you get to see me in a suit.”
“I’m going to ignore that for the sake of my sanity. What is so important about having dinner and jerking off for an hour that you think you’re doing me a favor?”
“I do not jerk off for an hour.” He scoffs, "I merely think about you for forty minutes and then I—”
“Enough. The point is that you do it. Like a loser. You’ll get carpal tunnel, you know.” You say with a sniff, your lips twitching as he laughs. He makes his way to your couch, sitting on the chaise at the end of it. He leans back into the cushions, smoothly adjusting you on his lap as he stuffs a throw pillow under his head to look at you. “Tell me why you’re here, Mingyu.”
“If you need a reason, it’s that I genuinely missed you. If that wasn’t already obvious.” He speaks sincerely, raking his fingers gently through your hair and earning a shiver. He tugs at it lightly, smirking as you let out a quipped whine before smacking his hip, “I just wanted to see you.”
“You’re holding me hostage against you, Mingyu.”
“Because you’ll sit a mile away unless I do. It’s like you avoid me.”
“I don’t avoid you, idiot. You just radiate so much heat that it makes me wanna die, I hate sweating.” You remind him, lowering yourself so you’re chest-to-chest with him, but propping yourself on your elbows to still hover over him. He plucks at the hem of your sweater, dipping his fingertips beneath the fabric; cool against your hip as he tilts his head, “that is true.”
“I know.”
“Can you hurry up and say you missed me, too? I’m starting to feel a disconnect.”
You purse your lips as you hold back your laughter, his pouted lips making you cover your mouth as you swallow your cackle.
“I did, I missed you.” You admit wholeheartedly, shrugging your shoulders as he tugs at the necklace he gave you, “of course I missed my Mingyu.”
“Not Park Mingyu from finance, right?” He sulks, tucking his chin to his chest as you chuckle, pinching his cheek between your knuckles carefully.
“Not Park Mingyu from finance, no. Don’t you know? I’d be bored in two days.”
“Exactly,” he huffs, wrapping his fingers gingerly around your throat, “can I stay? Or do you want me to leave?”
“It’s always nice when you stay over. However, you’re late for dinner and lack of punctuality does knock ten points off for Kim Mingyu. Still in first place, but you’re pushing it.”
“I’m sorry,” he nods, squeezing the sides of your neck gently before his lips plant a soft kiss on your forehead, “should we go to your room?”
“That’s incredibly suggestive, Mr. Kim.”
“It’s only suggestive if you make it suggestive, baby.”
“You calling me baby only cements my point.”
“Okay, maybe. But you could have some mercy on me.” He mumbles, pressing another kiss to your nose. You raise a brow, “are you sure you’re not the one who has a problem? You’ve been in my face since you got here, I’m literally on top of you. The world won’t end if you’re not touching me, you know.”
“I’m just used to having you close.” He shrugs, “I missed you.”
“Mingyu, you’ve said that so much that the words don’t even sound real anymore. You’ve been here for ten minutes and you’ve said it six times.”
“So? Is there a problem?” He mumbles against your lips, your breath hitching as he bridges the gap. His hands move to your hips, fingertips digging into the fabric of your skirt as he sits up carefully. Your hands palm at his chest as he pulls you impossibly closer, your skin littering with goosebumps as he slides his hands down your thighs. Your own shoot out to grab his wrists, pulling his hands away and pinning them to the couch before pulling away with a soft pant. He tries to kiss your jaw, his lips brushing your skin as you crane your neck away.
“What on Earth has gotten into you? Did you finally give into those stupid honey packs that Soonyoung was talking about the last time we all hung out?”
He scoffs, “absolutely not. You know I like this skirt, don’t play coy.”
You snort, dropping his hands to cross your arms on your chest. His fingers trace tight circles into your left knee, before he glances at your sweater with an amused look. He leans back on one hand, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he raises a brow.
“You knew I was coming.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then you were hoping I would, baby.”
“Shut up. You’re supposed to be at home, and I should be in my bed right now.” You mutter, tonguing your cheek as you see your laptop turn off due to inactivity out of the corner of your eye. You glance back at him, his eyes trailing the slope of your neck as you clear your throat and run a hand through your hair, “how was your day?”
“Funny you should ask. Kim Mingyu has had his first official bad day at the office.” He nods, pressing his lips into a thin line that makes you bite back a laugh. “People are entitled, and I usually get through it pretty well, but today was just off the damn charts. I was late to work this morning, and I had to push back a presentation because I fucking lost my thumb drive because I left it at home. An intern tried to tell me my numbers were wrong, when I checked the math not once, but three separate times. We got into a nasty argument, also something new for me.”
He shrugs, “I sent her home early and I left an hour after lunch. Bought groceries, made dinner...life goes on but today was actually such shit. So...it’s nice to see you.”
“I think you forgot ‘tried to flirt with Y/N’ somewhere in there. I think during the whole ‘brought groceries’ part.” You let your cheeks warm as you tilt your head at him, only to earn a devilish smile paired with a one-armed shrug as he taps your knee with his knuckle.
“I didn’t try to do anything.” He leans back on his elbow, sucking his teeth as you raise a brow at him, “I was merely stating facts. I’m nice to you, and you’re a pillow princess. One plus one has always been two, baby.”
“You are nice to me, that’s true. But you’re the one—”
“A lady like yourself mustn’t get her hands dirty for pleasure. That’s what I’m here for.”
His eyes are pointed, and you conjure an annoyed look as you poke a finger into his side. He squeals, grabbing your wrists and pulling you down on top of him, “stop that. Tell me about your day.”
“Nothing happened.” You shrug, pushing yourself up. Your hands are on either side of his head as you stick your tongue out at him, only for him to do the same and touch the tip of yours with his. You scrunch your nose as he snorts, before calling your bluff.
“You’re lying.”
“Hm...I broke my favorite pair of earrings. I tripped going up the stairs when I came back from getting lunch at that bistro we like in downtown. Park Mingyu from Finance asked me to dinner. Nothing insane.”
It’s not a lie.
But it’s been a few weeks since it happened. It was a rare day in the office for you, and you’d been in and out of meetings all mornings – but he caught you just as you got in the elevator to meet Soonyoung for lunch.
Park Mingyu wasn’t bad looking, and he was nice enough. He just...worked in finance, of all things, and had that same monotonous voice most finance men do. He didn’t slouch, but his tie was almost always haphazardly thrown on and you’d fixed it for him one time – but you figured one time was enough to get him hooked.
Kim Mingyu is looking up at you through his lashes, his hands seemingly now lost on what to do as he pulls them off your waist. His eyes are darting all over your face – likely looking for a hint at you kidding. A quirk of your lip, a twitch of your brow, something – but the silence between you only gets thicker as his jaw grows slightly tense.
“...did you give him an answer?”
“No. I said I’d think about it.”
Mingyu scoffs.
He actually scoffs, like how dare you have the audacity to tell someone else you’d think about giving them a positive answer to their dinner invitation? How dare you, when you know you’d likely not like your food? And then it’s awkward for weeks, before you get a paragraph to your work number about how Park Mingyu is such a nice guy – from Park Mingyu himself.
The man beneath you runs a hand through his hair, and you sit up to allow him to do the same. He does, unzipping his sweater and shrugging it off before he tosses it over the side of your couch.
You resist the urge to run your hands up his bare arms, cursing the way his shirt fits against his chest so snugly.
“When did he ask you? During lunch? Did you go to the office today?”
“Two weeks ago.”
You shift slightly in his lap, your cheeks hot as he stares at you. There’s a mix of emotions in his gaze – confusion, amusement...a bit of anger, you want to think.
A bit of jealousy.
“And you’re telling me this now?”
“I didn’t think I had to tell you. We’re not...dating.”
The word comes out choked. You feel it; he hears it, and your legs tighten subconsciously around his thighs. He glances down at them, his eyes catching a faded bite on your inner thigh from two weeks ago; his thumb pushing the hem of your skirt up high enough to make it visible to your eyes, should you look down.
“Are you gonna say yes?” His voice is level, but he’s not looking at you. In the low light, you can see the tightness in his jaw, the way he tongues his cheek before you feel his fingers tap your thigh, “are you?”
Your throat feels dry as you steal a glimpse of the flowers on your dining table.
“Y/N.”
You let out a forced chuckle, “c’mon, you know me, Gyu. He’s in finance. I really would get bored in two days. A few hours, even.”
He doesn’t seem convinced, “that’s not a no.”
“What do you want me to say, Mingyu?” You run a hand down the front of your sweater nervously, bunching the fabric in your palm as he leans forward slightly. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, not managing to shake his focus like the action usually would.
“That you’ll say no.” He says plainly, before scoffing as a smile of disbelief crosses his lips. “In fact, I don’t even know why you’re entertaining the idea of it when we both know you’d never say yes unless something happened between us.”
For a moment, you dislike Mingyu. Your eyes narrow as you look down at him, tracing his features as he clicks his tongue.
“What is this ‘us’ you’re referring to?” You speak softly, but clearly – splaying your hands on your knees as you lean into his space. “What do you mean by ‘us,’ Mingyu? What does ‘us’ mean to you?”
“You and I.”
“What about you and I?”
His hand leaves your thigh, and he has the gall to roll his eyes as he runs it over his face.
“You’d never say yes to Park, because you have me. You don’t need anyone else.”
“What makes you think I even need you?”
“The fact that you melt in my hands the moment I walk through that door.” He’s in your face, his breath wafting against your lips as he maintains eye contact. “You forget the world exists when I’m with you, and it’s the only time I’ve ever seen you relax. You love having me around, and you love me. You don’t have to say it for me to know.”
You want to pretend that he can’t feel the way you freeze on top of him. His eyes widen slightly as you swallow carefully, “love...is a stretch, Kim.”
“We both know it’s not.”
“You’re insane.”
“Then what does that make you, hm?” His hands are back on you, massaging the tension in your thighs that only makes your back rigid. A shiver snakes down your spine as his thumb brushes the cotton of your underwear, “what does that make you, baby?”
“I hate it when you call me that,” you blurt, and he has an unimpressed look on his face when you double down, “I hate it, Mingyu.”
“Yet, you pout when I call you Y/N.”
“Well, just call me Y/N anyway.”
You huff, moving to get up but he holds you in place – his grip firm as he pulls you into him. Your chest hits his as you avoid his gaze, your arms stiff between your bodies as you give up on getting off him.
“Still wanna tell me nothing’s wrong?” He mumbles, his eyes soft as he wraps his arms around your waist. You don’t reply, tonguing your cheek as you feel the stupid burn in your throat as you focus your line of sight on the flowers he put on the table.
Cute. Soft. Delicate.
An extension of him.
You swallow hard, blinking rapidly as you speak quietly, “what are we doing?”
He sighs, resting his forehead against your shoulder, “I don’t know. I thought I’d have an answer by now.”
“You don’t know,” you repeat, “because you didn’t want to ask me or because you thought I’d ask first?”
“Both.”
“Coward.”
The word is bitter as it leaves your mouth, but you can’t move. You don’t want to move – the fear of him slipping through your fingers overpowering as your hands grip his shoulders like he’s going to disappear. He leans into your touch, burying his face into the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his lips brush against your skin as you wrap your arms around his neck. Your fingers card through the hair at the nape of his neck, the smell of his shampoo making you melt into his embrace.
“Tell me I’m yours.” His voice is muffled against your neck, “please. Please.”
“I don’t know if you are, Mingyu.” You can’t recognize the sound of your own voice, thick and uncertain. His grip on you tightens, and you feel a shaky breath against your neck as you pull back, trying to meet his eyes. He stares at the necklace around the base of your throat, the seashell-shaped locket glinting in the light.
“I can be. I want to be.” He’s barely speaking above a whisper as his fingertip taps the locket, hooking around the chain and giving a careful tug. “Do you know why I gave this to you?”
You glance down at it, “because you were in Bali and it was on sale?”
He snorts, the air around the two of you settling evenly on your shoulders, “no. Well, I was in Bali, but no it wasn’t on sale and that’s not why I got it.”
“All I’m getting is that you went to Bali without me.”
“Yeah, well. I couldn’t be around you in all those pretty dresses you wear when it’s hot out.” He sighs, “seashells are a symbol of love.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re in love with me.”
He shrugs slightly, popping the shell open to reveal it empty, “it’s said that seashells are associated with Aphrodite, the goddess of love. That they represent the warmth and care and security of love, because they protect the pearl that grows inside that shell.”
He clears his throat, closing the locket with a click.
“The point of the locket was to put a picture of us in there, someday. It’s been six months since I gave this to you, and I think about it everyday.” He ducks his head like he’s afraid of the truth spilling from his mouth, but he can’t stop talking. “Sometimes, I think you were made for me, as stupid as that might sound. Like Eve was made for Adam, from his rib, or something like that.”
You can feel your eyes burning as you watch him nibble on his lip, his hands restless as he moves them from around you to the hem of your skirt before gripping the cushion beneath you both.
“I don’t know much about falling in love,” he admits, “but...I know that you saved all the flowers I gave you, bits of them, even before we started doing whatever we’re doing. A part of me wants to believe that you saved them because you wanted to keep me around, even if it was just the flowers I gave you...because I’ve kept all the receipts from Chan’s shop when I’ve bought them. I always liked giving you flowers because you like them, but after the first time we kissed...it felt romantic and I just wanted to make your life even just a little brighter and, ugh, I don’t know. Tell me I’m ruining this and I’ll shut up.”
You blink at him silently, shaking your head before sliding your hands down his arms, “have I told you that you talk a lot?”
“Many times.”
“Have I ever told you to stop?”
You raise a brow as you find his hand, slotting your fingers with his and curling them around his palm. His rings dig into your skin but you don’t care, “continue, Mr. Kim.”
“I hate when you call me that.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know,” he rolls his eyes, but his cheeks are pink as you press your lips to them gingerly, “I’m not...it’s hard for me to make time for people. You’ve seen it, you know it’s true because I’ve only been able to get you in every couple weeks and trust me, it’s fucking torture. They say that distance makes the heart grow fonder but I truly cannot fathom ever wanting to be away from you. It makes my chest hurt when I wake up after seeing you and I have to leave.”
“You don’t have to.” You shrug, “leave, I mean. You can stay. Forever, if you wanted to.”
His chuckle is almost humorless, “I’d never get anything done.”
You nod silently, tracing circles into the back of his hand with your thumb before you glance up at him. You let go of his hand to cradle his cheek carefully, watching the way he leans into your touch. His arm wraps around your waist again, pulling you down with him as he lays back against the cushions once more.
“So...I can be yours. If you want me to be. If you’ll have me, rather.”
You don’t respond, chewing on your cheek while pinching his between your knuckles. A silence blankets over you both, even as he brushes a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. You scrunch it, before resting your head on his chest with a click of your tongue, feeling his hand push the hem of your shirt up – fingers drumming against the warm skin of your hip.
“Earlier, you said I needed context for Friday. What’s that about?”
“My parents are in town.” He blurts, and your eyes widen as you jerk away from him, “I wanted you to meet them.”
You scan his face, your lips parting as you sit up. Your knees dig into his hips as you run a hand through your hair, letting out a chuckle of disbelief.
“Surely they don’t know we’re in this entanglement.”
“...They think we’re together.”
“Mingyu!” You choke on his name, earning a wince as you give his shoulder a slight shove. He pouts, grabbing your wrists and pulling you back on top of him, “why would you tell them that?! Why do they even know about me?!”
“Because I love you.” His voice makes you still, his eyes serious as he bores them into you. A wavering uncertainty is laced in them, mixed with that same pure adoration that he always held in even a wayward glance your way. Your hands curl into fists, your nails digging into your palm before he forces them open and interlaces your fingers. His thumbs trace circles on the back of your hands, nervously nibbling on his lip before he clears his throat.
“I love you, and I’m a coward but I cannot imagine being without you. It makes my stomach hurt to think about it, it makes me nauseous when I think about someone else having you the way I do. Someone else bringing you flowers and making you dinner and kissing you stupid when they don’t deserve you to begin with is an atrocious thing to think about. I love you, and I want to be your emergency contact. I want to make you dinner and rub your feet and I want to put a shiny ring on your finger. I want to listen to you sing in the shower, I want you to tell me it’s not a duet when I join in and I want to make good on any and every promise I ever let fall into you. I love you, and I want you, only. For the rest of our lives.”
Your nose burns as tears prick at your eyes, and you tear your hands from his to dig the heels of your palms into your eyes – coating them in said hot tears. Your voice is thick, “God, you suck.”
“I just put my heart on a platter for you.”
“That’s exactly why you suck, because now I can’t tell Park Mingyu I’ll have dinner with him.”
Your joke is ill received as he scoffs, crossing his arms on his chest as you wipe at your face haphazardly before leaning over and pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. Your hands cradle his face gently, thumbs rubbing his cheeks back and forth as he sulks, “I love you, Mingyu.”
“Kim Mingyu.”
“I love you, Kim Mingyu.”
He lets you kiss him, uncrossing his arms and pulling you close. His fingers dip beneath your sweater, squeezing your hips as he teases his tongue into your mouth – minty and gentle as your hands move to tug at his shirt. He stops you by abruptly sitting up, cupping your ass as he stands from the couch. Your legs wrap around his waist as his lips trail your jaw, nipping at your neck as he takes you to your bedroom, nudging the door closed with his foot.
“Wanna prove it?”
“Not a pillow princess, my ass.” Mingyu’s arm is tight around your waist, his hand holding your phone as your fingernails dig into his shoulders. “Pretty girl gave up a minute in.”
“I’m just used to a...certain lifestyle,” you whimper into his neck, before hearing the unmistakeable sound of a call dialing. You look over your shoulder wearily, watching Mingyu put the call on speaker. It picks up as he holds it to your face, pulling your head back gently by your hair, “tell him you’re having dinner with your in-laws.”
“Hello?”
“H-Hey, sorry for c-calling so late,” you stutter, your eyes squeezing shut as Mingyu’s hips rock up into you slowly. “A-are you busy?”
“Never too busy for you. Are you alright? You sound...choppy.”
Mingyu gives a hard thrust then, a whine tearing from your throat as you attempt to cough, “sorry, I’m g-good! I just w-wanted to let you know that I c-can't have dinner.”
“Oh...can I ask why? I mean, I’ve been pretty nice to you for as long as I’ve known you. Could warrant a date night.”
“She’s having dinner with her in-laws, bud. Tell him, baby.” Mingyu speaks clearly, an embarrassed moan falling from your lips as his grip on your waist tightens, “tell him.”
“I’m having d-dinner with m-my in-laws...” You pant out, your lips brushing his neck as your hand blindly reached around to hang up on the Finance Guy rambling about how you led him on. Mingyu tosses your phone to the side as his hand snakes between you to cup one of your breasts in his hand, “you might have to quit.”
You nod breathlessly as he sucks your nipple into his mouth, “they pay me shit anyway.”
“New position at my firm opened up.”
“God, shut up and fuck me.”
He chuckles, flipping you onto your back smoothly and pressing a kiss to the side of your face.
“Pillow. Princess.”
“THREE YEARS IS A LONG TIME WITH NO RING, MINGYU.”
Mrs. Kim’s eyes are pointed as her son tongues his cheek, and you bite back your smile as you tip your wine glass towards your lips.
He had mentioned they’d say something along these lines – of course, he only mentioned more details of the ‘relationship’ they knew on the car ride there. Everything in the storyline was essentially the same, if you ignored that Mingyu admitted he’d fallen head over heels in love with you after the first time you slept together and the two of you had only been officially in a relationship for the last thirty-six hours.
“Y/N just started a new job, Mom. It wouldn’t be wise to...take that step in this juncture of her career.” He’s spitballing, and his sister nearly spits her wine out across the table as Mr. Kim snorts. “It’s true! Babe, tell them!”
You fail at holding in your laughter, your shoulders shaking as you nod, “I did just get a new job. But I agree, three years is a long time without a ring.”
“Babe.”
“I’m just saying, you could put some pep in your step.”
He sulks in his chair, barely sinking down two inches as everyone at the table bursts into fits of giggling, “I’m trying to take your life into consideration, too!”
“Time is money, Mingyu.” You say, pinching his cheek between your knuckles. You lean over, pressing a soft kiss to the apple of his cheek – leaving a stamp of your lipstick on the skin as the waiter returns with the check. Mrs. Kim smiles as you reach for it instinctively, the grin only growing wider as Mingyu snatches it out of your hand and shoves his card inside the booklet before you can even protest.
“At least tell me he’s taking good care of you.” Mrs. Kim’s voice is soft as you all step out of the restaurant, and you feel your cheeks heat in the cool November air as you nod.
“Mingyu is a good man,” you start, patting his arm. He beams with pride, before sticking his tongue out at his sister that makes a gagging face. You snicker, squeezing his bicep gently, “if it were up to him, I wouldn’t lift a finger.”
“But it’s not.” He sighs dramatically, “she lets me make dinner and that’s it.”
“Let is the wrong word. He barges into my apartment with groceries and I feel bad for the guy,” you feign a pout, earning a scoff from your boyfriend as his parents share a warm look, “but...I love him. What can I do, say no to a nice steak and a foot massage?”
“Yes.” Minseo pipes up, before Mingyu scowls. You snort, checking the time on your watch before his parents lean in to hug him good night. You try to stand to the side, but his sister pulls you into the familial embrace.
“We’ll catch up with you both in two weeks. Mingyu, get the girl a ring!” Mr. Kim gives your shoulder a soft pat, and Mrs. Kim slips something into Mingyu’s pocket. She tries to be discreet, but your eyes dart to her hand as she waves goodbye. You do the same, your face hot at the idea of marrying into such a loving family.
Mingyu slides his hand in his pocket as you both walk to his car, his eyes widening as he pulls it back out. Two rings glimmer in the moonlight, ones you’d complimented on his mother’s hand at the beginning of dinner.
“Little soon for marriage, huh?” He thumbs at the diamonds, and you chew on your lip as you look at them. Your eyes flicker to his, a sparkle of excitement as you see him already looking at you. You clear your throat, holding your left hand up, “well...we can just see if they fit.”
“And if they do?”
“Then I guess we’re engaged, oh boyfriend of three-years.”
“I was nervous!”
Your laughter rings out in the nearly empty parking lot, “well, I love you, anyway. Three years or two days, you said forever and that you’d make good on that.”
“I did say that.” His hands are gentle against yours, trembling slightly as he slides both rings on. They fit snugly at the base of your finger, and you wiggle them with a little smile on your face.
“We can just be ‘engaged’ for like, two years. No one suspects anything then, wedding planning takes ages.”
“Or we can get married in six months. I have contacts everywhere and that’s when you’ll have enough PTO accrued for a honeymoon.”
“You’re crazy.” You scoff, “crazy and calculated, Kim Mingyu.”
“Crazy in love with you, but sure.” He rolls his eyes, opening the passenger door for you. “Mrs. Kim Y/N, in six months. Pencil me in, babe.”
“In your dreams.”
Kim Mingyu is the love of your life.
Sweet, thoughtful, and delicate. Fragile, even: in ego, in sex, in love.
You know he’s made for you. Like Adam was made for Eve. He still shows up with a bouquet every week, but your kitchen is now shared and nicely stocked with your favorite bottles of wine.
Kim Mingyu is the petals of every flower in all the bouquets he’s ever given you. Velvety soft, perfectly cared for and beautiful.
And just as he is all those things – he is your Achilles’ heel. You can never say no to Kim Mingyu, but you can finally admit that he is something more to you..perhaps, everything.
Friend, lover, soulmate – all in one. A BOGO deal, you’d say, and he’d argue he’s at least a buy two, get one.
But, no matter what – Mingyu knows exactly who he is in your life, and you in his. Glued together at the hip, working together (though you get to boss him around and he never thought he’d be into that, a thought penciled in for much, much later when you’re both working ‘overtime’ — read: his head between your thighs at your desk with your office door locked.)
Friends, lovers, soulmates – married (six months in, just like he’d said) and in love, two idiots held safely in the other’s ribcage.
there are certainly worse ways to tire yourself out.
summary: it’s 2:00 am, and you can’t turn your brain off. thankfully, your boyfriend knows just how to scramble it.
pairing: lee jihoon x reader
au: established relationship
type: one-shot (smut)
word count: 5.2k
rating: 18+
cw: reader is afab but no pronouns are used; reader has insomnia (unspecified re: prof. diagnosed or self-diagnosed); there’s a sentence about reader taking “an inadvisable amount of melatonin gummies” — don’t do this! — but they’re not impaired in any way; reader’s internal monologue is kind of angsty/self-deprecating at times; blonde!woozi has his hair in a bun, which is a warning in and of itself; completely unedited because my perfectionism has killed every wip i’ve attempted for months.
✰ minors do not have my consent to interact with me and/or my work.
smut warnings: big dick lee jihoon™️, nipple stim, v fingering, unprotected p in v penetration, wee bit of aftercare. there are a total of six (6) orgasms in here because i believe in going big from home, incl. nipple stim & a-spot orgasms.
a/n: i haven’t written anything in forever, due in large part to the fact that i’m exhausted but can never fucking sleep. i truly hope this isn’t incoherent garbage. 😵💫 dedicated to my fellow woozi-simping insomniac, @sailorrhansol. may we eventually rest in peace.
multi permanent taglist. seventeen permanent taglist.
You should be asleep.
With the day you’ve had, you should’ve drifted off the second your body hit the sheets; and you should’ve stayed that way — unmoving, unconscious — for several hours, at minimum.
If the week’s worth of sleep debt wasn’t exhausting enough in and of itself, every single circumstance surrounding you begs you to give into the weight of your eyelids. To let yourself be lulled, just this once. Soothed.
From the vent in the corner, the gentle hum of the aircon goads you. It does its very best to convince you to curl up under the softness of your comforter, and to some extent, you’ve listened. You’re burrowed beneath your blankets with only the upper half of your face exposed, which should be more than enough to sway you.
It’s not, though.
With no ability to keep your eyes closed, you stare dejectedly at the wall in front of you. Laying on your side, gazing straight ahead, you watch the faint echoes of the city lights as they wash over white paint. Not much bleeds through the blinds, leaving only hints of cobalt and red to blend into some sleepy shade of lilac. Whether or not you want to be awake to perceive it in the first place, you have to admit it: it’s beautiful.
But it’s not enough.
You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing down the groan building in your chest. With how closely he’s got you nestled against his body, Jihoon would feel it if you let that frustration manifest. You already ache from the sheer amount of time you’ve been policing your own posture; making any amount of noise now would interrupt the slow, delicate breaths he’s aiming into the back of your neck. Frankly, you’d rather die.
Taking his silence as a sign that you’ve remained off his radar, you let out a measured sigh, too worried that the full rise and fall of your chest will disturb him.
Nothing.
But then, the arm draped over your waist shifts.
“Fuck,” you mouth to no one.
It wouldn’t be out-of-character for Jihoon to feel the restless energy pouring out of you in waves, even in the depths of a sleep cycle. He senses every tiny change in your ecosystem long before you do. As unlikely as he is to ever admit it, it has to be exhausting to be attuned to someone so neurotic. He deserves every second of sleep he can manage to get.
You grit your teeth and demand yourself to calm down, all while refusing to acknowledge how completely your actions and commands conflict.
Maybe, you attempt to bamboozle yourself, you can sleep vicariously through him.
He’ll wake up rested, and when you look in the mirror later, the first thing you see won’t be the cartoonish bags under your eyes.
It’ll be fine.
It’ll be fine.
If you go to sleep right now, you’ll get five hours and thirty —
“You haven’t unclenched a single muscle since you climbed into bed,” notes the world’s groggiest voice from over your shoulder.
Jihoon’s lips brush against the sensitive skin of your neck when he speaks. Without that tickling sensation, you might’ve deluded yourself into thinking that you were simply hearing things just now. That it was merely a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and the inadvisable number of melatonin gummies you ate before brushing your teeth.
He shifts again. This time, there’s no mistaking his movements. The arm slung over your side pulls you closer. So close, in fact, that you can feel the contented sigh leave his body, like his isn’t separate from yours at all.
With the distance erased, his face — the cold tip of his nose and the sheet-creased warmth of his cheeks — can nuzzle properly into the crook of your neck. You swear you feel the hint of a smile there somewhere, too. If you had to guess, it matches the upward curve on your lips.
“What are we spinning our wheels over tonight?” He asks without a hint of judgment, as if your burdens are automatically his, too.
The fact that he can’t see your face doesn’t stop you from frowning. Yet again, you’ve managed to drag him into your insomnia. Jihoon may never fault you for it, but you don’t need him to. You’ll hold it against yourself — grudge by proxy.
“I don’t even know,” you admit with a frustrated huff. “There’s nothing coherent going on up there.” You lift your hand and gesture vaguely in the dark. “Nothing articulable, just… blender brain.”
“Mmm.”
Jihoon sounds so fucking sleepy, so at peace next to you, that it makes your stomach hurt. You wish you could be like him. For as calm as his presence makes you, you’ve learned that you’re incapable of feeling fully relaxed. At least, not in the way he is when he’s got his arms around you. He deserves to have that effect on you.
A beat passes in silence, save for his soft breathing. For a minute, you’re convinced that he’s fallen back asleep; and you pray to whoever that he has. He deserves that, too.
“How do we unplug the blender?”
You have to bite back a smile for two reasons: the way his words sound slurred when delivered directly to your skin, and the distinctly Jihoon drive he has to fix a problem that isn’t his.
When the love sickness leaves you down bad, and you forget to respond with words, Jihoon prompts you softly. “Hmm?”
He punctuates this reminder with a kiss to your shoulder, then lets his lips linger against your skin, musing, “I can think of two things that usually do the trick: getting you hotteok from that cart down the block, which is currently closed, and —”
The rest of that thought fades out. Leaving you on the edge of your seat, Jihoon continues to kiss a languid line along the perimeter of your shoulder, as if he’s conducting some meticulous, geographical survey. Like missing a single spot will have grave consequences. A perfectionist through and through, even half-asleep.
You feel yourself melting, bit by bit, into his torso; the warmth of his bare chest against your back only expedites the process. Nevertheless, you peep, “What’s the second thing?”
His answer comes with a slip of his hand, down down down along the slope of your waist to your hip, long before he verbalizes it. It’s simple, delivered in that rough, early-morning voice you love so much. It’s more than enough to make you shiver:
“Making you cum.”
But as crazy as that statement makes you, you can’t make yourself act on it.
At any other time, you’d jump on that opportunity — jump on him — in a heartbeat. All you’re able to do now is jump to the worst conclusion in a single bound.
Somewhere, deep down, you know he wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t truly want it, want you; but that goddamned, sleep-deprived goblin taking up space in the far reaches of your mind is far louder than the voice of reason.
He’s only offering so you’ll stop keeping him awake.
He’s as exhausted as you are, if not more so for having to deal with your disorder again.
Burden.
Placing your hand on top of his, you slip your fingers into the spaces you find and squeeze once for emphasis. “I love you,” you start. He stills. “But, Jihoon, you’re so tired. I can hear it in your voice. Please, go back to sleep. It’s okay — I’m okay.”
Jihoon doesn’t push back. He stays within bounds, honors your shitty decision because, after all, it’s yours to make. With another kiss to your shoulder and a squeeze to your hand, he murmurs, “Love you,” before relaxing back against the pillows.
Minutes pass.
Maybe hours, for all you know.
As the window of opportunity creaks shut, regret seeps through the gap. You know you’re wrong; you know he meant it; and you know that someone would have to be out of their fucking gourd to politely decline what he’s offering.
The unbearable heat licking up your neck is either embarrassment or the ghost of orgasms lost coming to haunt you.
Maybe you’d be better equipped to tell the difference if you could just — fucking — sleep.
Driven half mad, you try to keep from squirming.
You fail.
Maybe, since you can’t sleep, you and your wilted little brain should’ve let your perfect, empathetic boyfriend fu —
“That’s enough,” Jihoon grunts.
The hand underneath yours is suddenly above it, overtaking it and tugging carefully until your whole body moves. In the time it takes for you to roll from your side, Jihoon sits up and clears space for your frame to settle. You barely have time to blink dumbly up at him from your back before he cages you in with one hand on either side of your head, knees now on either side of your thighs.
Your breath seems to have gotten lost in the fray, but it’s not the sudden moves that shook it loose; it’s the sight of him looming over you, damn near scowling despite his lead-lidded eyes. It’s the disheveled bun of platinum hair at the crown of his head, which must’ve shifted in his sleep and spilled out the tendrils that now frame his set jaw.
The very best you can come up with is, “You’re awake.”
“So are you,” he retorts without missing a beat.
That face — god, that face — doesn’t budge. On the contrary, your stomach flips. This the most stern you’ve ever seen him. Confusingly, his tone isn’t even remotely harsh when he continues, “If those gears in your head grind any louder, the whole neighborhood will be, too.”
Grimacing, you open your mouth to apologize, but Jihoon’s eyes are searching your face with a distinct flicker of concern. You know that look. You also know that nothing you can think to say will make it disappear.
He speaks when you don’t, hard edges softening slightly. “I can fix it,” he insists, though you know him well enough to hear the plea hidden in there.
Let me take care of you.
That little spark of desperation burns you up in a flash. You wonder if he can feel the fire spread when he lifts his right hand off the mattress just to swipe his thumb slowly over the edge of your cheekbone. Without thinking, you let go of the tension in your neck. Your head tilts automatically, seeking comfort you’ve only ever found in him, and rests against his palm.
“I have to admit it, though,” Jihoon confesses. “Yours isn’t the only mind that’s restless.”
He moves his hand away from your face but keeps his eyes trained on you. The incessant need you feel to apologize bubbles up yet again, uninvited. You swallow it. As you do, his fingertips trail down the length of your neck at a snail’s pace, effectively turning your thoughts to static.
“I’ve been holding you for hours now, and all that time —”
He pauses just long enough to glance down at his hand, which hasn’t.
“— I’ve been wondering if I should have you channel that energy and tire yourself out on top of me —”
His touch whispers over your collarbone. It’s the only proof that you have any bones at all. Until now, you were sure that the rest of you had melted entirely, puddling uselessly on the sheets below. This time, when you bite your lips and swallow weakly, it’s not an apology that you’re keeping to yourself but a whimper.
“— or lay you back against the pillows —”
You don’t mean to directly contradict his statement the moment he makes it, but you can’t help it. The thin, cotton fabric of your top does nothing to dull the sensation of his hand on your left breast; leaves you with the unmitigated brush of his thumb tracing delicate swirls over your nipple. The breath you’ve been holding comes out shuddered, back arching off the mattress to chase his touch.
Emboldened by your reaction, Jihoon pulls his gaze off his own ministrations and directs it through his lashes back up at you. One eyebrow momentarily flexes in challenge. “— Take my time, and —”
Whatever desperate look you give him earns you some amount of mercy. He picks up where he left off in that dizzyingly deep voice of his, words molten, and drags the hem of your shirt up your torso. “Fuck you deep, until the only thing you can do is relax.”
Gobsmacked is too weak a word for the impact that suggestion has on you. The idea alone sparks a kind of relief so foreign and so sorely needed that it almost makes you cry.
You don’t, thankfully.
Instead, you stagger along the borderline of babbling.
“I want that,” you announce on a shaky exhale. Then, with a shake of your head, you correct yourself, “No, it’s not even want. It’s —” Frustration over your inability to form a coherent thought drives you to scrub your hands over your face. “— need. I need you.”
You accompany that declaration by slapping your hands down at your sides, finishing off with a muted thump when your palms hit the mattress with enough force to bounce them upwards again.
Even with your eyes screwed shut, you know Jihoon is sitting back on his knees, watching you with equal parts surprise and amusement. There’s no need to open them to confirm it, but you do anyway. His pupils have dilated widely enough to rival the moon floating over the skyline.
Though he’d be well within bounds to tell you to chill the fuck out, he doesn’t. He never has, as far as you can recall. In fact, Jihoon doesn’t say a thing. His hands speak for him, reaching for the shirt he so nearly got off your body before you lost whatever was left of your mind.
Keeping his word, as always, Jihoon takes his time. He takes care in sliding that tank top up and over your head without snagging your earrings, then he wordlessly drops it off the side of the bed to be forgotten about.
With your chest bare, it’s obvious how rapid your breathing is. Noting the quick rise and fall, he traces the curve of your waist with the side of his right index finger and softly says the quiet part out loud: “Let me take care of you.”
And you do.
You let him maneuver your body so he can settle with one knee between your thighs, rather than straddle them. You let go of your death grip on the sheets and thread your fingers through his hair when he leans back down to kiss you; and when he licks into your mouth, you let him swallow the moan that builds under the delicious weight of his body on yours.
Already, you feel every shitty, stupid thought begin to dissolve. You should’ve known this would be the case.
He said he’d fix it, didn't he?
And here he is, proving to you that his touch is magic. All it takes to coax the tension out of your muscles is the tender pass of his hand.
Whatever effect Jihoon has on you seems to be mutual. When he pulls back, he’s equally as breathless, likely just as starry-eyed. Awash in that lilac glow peeking in from the outside, he’s downright celestial — almost too divine to look at directly without watering eyes.
Undeterred, you stare right back at him and sigh, “You’re beautiful.”
His nose scrunches for a split second, just like it always does when you make him suffer through a compliment. Your exposure therapy is working, though. For once, Jihoon doesn’t groan or tell you to keep your praise to yourself. The corner of his mouth curves upward — just barely — and he shakes his head.
“I mean it,” you quietly insist.
Smirking slightly, he extends the index finger on his right hand and holds it to his lips. “You’re relaxing, remember?”
Though you could double-down, any fight you might’ve had in you fizzles out the second he bows his head and connects his lips to the underside of your jaw. Your head tilts further back with every centimeter he trails down the length of your neck, granting him increased access to wreck you even further. You have to keep your hands on whatever you can grip of his biceps — which ultimately isn’t much at all — to keep from floating away.
“Bold of you to call me beautiful,” he murmurs against your body, “When you just exist like this.”
You don’t argue. You can’t argue with a man who sounds so fucking reverent. Not in good faith, anyway. He says it with the kind of sincerity that underlines an undisputed fact; and you know better than to debate an expert.
With nothing to say, all you have left is to keen and melt even further into the mattress.
Like everything else he does, the way Jihoon kisses you is rhythmic. Steady and thoughtful, each feather-light graze of his lips on your skin causes your eyelids to flutter until you eventually decide to keep them shut. To cut out the visual and hone in on the physical sensation; to be truly present in the body he can’t get enough of.
As it turns out, being present earns the gift of his tongue circling one of your nipples. Soon after, you get the plush heat of his mouth enveloping the sensitive bud; the slow, deep pull of the suction he creates.
Eloquent as always, you moan, “Fuuuuck.”
The hand not holding up his weight massages your other breast, too considerate to leave half of you lonely. Whatever gentle pressure he maintains there builds inside you, further down.
It’s incredible.
No, it’s fucking perfect.
Jihoon switches sides, grazes your other nipple carefully with his teeth, and it’s over for you. You shudder beneath his body, back arching and a breathy sigh floating out of your chest.
Apparently, he’s just as surprised by this turn of events as you are. Your eyes blink open and find him hovering over you with his jaw partially dropped, still smiling somehow.
Your questions overlap.
“Did you just —”
“— make me cum from this?”
His bemusement switches in an instant to something you can only describe as bewitched. Voice gravel-lined, Jihoon groans, “Oh, shit.” Adding immediately and twice as earnestly, “Goddamn.”
A flash of conflict makes him freeze. You know he’s facing the same internal debate that you are: he needs to be inside of you in the worst way, right now, but that’s not a conclusion the pair of you can just — leap to.
There’s simply too much of him to take if he doesn’t fuck you open with his fingers first.
Jihoon shakes his head, as if he’s telling himself no. Like he’s reminding himself of what he promised — or threatened, more like — earlier, that he’s taking his time.
As much as you want to beg otherwise, you know you shouldn’t. So, you don’t. You reach out, encircle his wrist in your hand, and bring him back within reach.
With undivided attention and darkening eyes, Jihoon watches you take his index and middle finger into your mouth, cheeks hollowing and tongue circling. He fights to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head, all the while professing, “You’re perfect.”
Not generally, no.
However, Jihoon has a habit of ending up correct, even if you disagree. This isn’t a battle worth picking. In this moment, you’re willing to entertain the possibility that you’re perfect for him.
A soft pop underscores your choice to release him. His mouth must’ve gotten jealous; it swiftly replaces his fingers, tongue reclaiming any territory he wrongfully assumes he’s lost.
You’d be content to stay this way forever — and likely could, if it came down to it — but Jihoon has an agenda. He sticks to it, to the letter, and in dropping his hand down your body, he lets his knuckles drag softly over the trail he blazes. The little sleep shorts you wear are moved aside, and your thighs part for him, too, offering unrestricted access.
Two fingers slip inside of you easily, no doubt aided by the orgasm that snuck up on you — the one you’re still thinking about; the one he’ll secretly hang his hat on forever, having brought it on without touching you here at all.
“Listen to you,” he smirks against your lips with a curl of his fingers.
As if you weren’t already acutely aware of the way you’ve drenched him to the base knuckles, he rolls his wrist, stroking your g-spot while the heel of his hand nudges your clit. Even the dulcet hum of the aircon isn’t enough to mute the obscenity; you hear the slick rush with every slow thrust of his fingers.
You respond with some sort of whimper. The sound barely registers without any breath behind it. If Jihoon hears it, he doesn’t let it affect his pace — just the stretch. He scissors his middle and index on the way out, then returns with his ring finger, unearthing a proper moan from the very bottom of your lungs.
His head tilts to the side. Warm breath hits the shell of your ear, prompting a contradictory shiver. “I think you’ve got another one for me, don’t you?”
Buried in you, he taps his fingers against that same, spongy spot. Every neuron you have begins to buzz.
“In fact, I think you want to cum all over my fingers,” he whispers, goading you with his rough voice dropped low. “Think you wanna soak my fucking hand, so I can fill you properly.”
You think you’ll have to apologize later for the crescent-shaped indents your nails leave on his shoulders.
When your second orgasm overtakes you, you feel it tingling all the way up at the crown of your head. Just like the first, it’s not a clap of thunder but a roll — patient. The intensity only builds, the longer it lasts. Jihoon makes sure it does — makes no adjustment to the slow, steady tempo, as it pulls you fully apart.
Every muscle you tensed as you came goes limp. It’s anyone’s guess whether you have any bones left. You’re sure that the only thing keeping you from seeping like honey through the mattress, or pooling on the floor below, is Jihoon’s body caging you in.
“Don’t ask me what my name is.” Your head droops to the side, and you mumble, “I do not remember, and I do not care.”
He kisses the temple that isn’t smushed against his left forearm, which, coupled with his elbow, now holds both of your weight. “If you’re spent, I can sto—”
“Don’t you dare.”
The emphatic look you muster lacks energy, you’re sure, but the point still stands, even if your stamina doesn’t. Half-lidded, you stare at him with all the force you can find.
“I’ll stay awake for the rest of my life if you stop now. I swear to you, Lee Jihoon, I will die on this hill.”
“Easy, tiger,” he purrs. Out of the corner of your narrowed eyes, you clock the fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The whole point of this was for you to relax.”
To prove that you haven’t lost the plot entirely, you close your eyes, rather than roll them. Then, you cave completely.
You whisper, leaving no question as to how badly you need him, “Jihoon… Please.”
“I’ve got you.” He nudges your temple with the tip of his nose. “But I can’t fuck you unless you give my arm back.”
Begrudgingly, you scoot your head several centimeters across the pillow, heaving a put-upon sigh as if he’s asked you to move a mountain instead. You give yourself a moment to mourn the loss of your headrest, then you open your eyes. As you do, any thought of pouting flies out the window.
Having crawled back to the end of your bed, Jihoon gets to his feet. Once there, he drops his hands and eyes to the loose knot cinching the waistband of his sweatpants. It’s a sight you’ve seen a thousand times — his naked chest so pale in contrast with his usual, all-black attire — yet it’s one you’ll never truly get over. Even harder to cope with is the fact that he’s never been in a hurry; not once in his goddamn life.
If you’re being honest, that’s one of the things you’ve always loved most about him. Envied, even. You fret endlessly about the process, whatever that may be; he trusts it. You scale the walls in anticipation; he’s never been caught sweating.
The best example of this comes the second he finishes addressing that knot. His sweatpants pool at his ankles; he kicks them aside; and you immediately set to wondering how in the motherfuck he managed to be so patient with you when he’s this incomprehensibly hard.
Really, you don’t deserve him.
Nevertheless, you get him anyway.
Him pushing his flyways out of his face; him reaching out slowly to hook his fingers under the elastic band of your shorts; him cursing under his breath when he tosses those shorts over his shoulder and finds you wet and wanting.
In return, Jihoon gets you right where he wants you — trembling underneath him, with pliant legs opening wider at the request of his hands on your thighs. When his body fills the space between them, those same legs wrap around his back to keep him close, just like the arms you slink around his neck.
“Deep breath,” he reminds you as he lines himself up, only half-jokingly.
It’s good advice — something Jihoon probably should’ve heeded.
He doesn’t.
You keep your eyes on his when he slides inside of you, and you swear you see his mind blow in real time. Not that you have room to judge, however. In fact, that’s precisely what’s causing you to short-circuit: the perfect pressure of his length within your heat, sinking in slowly so as to not shock the system.
When he eventually bottoms out, low moan splintering from the depths of his chest, you have to blink quickly to keep tears within your waterline.
To check in, Jihoon runs his hand along the side of your thigh then back again. “Alright?”
Whatever you say in response comes out through a dreamy sigh, framed in quotation marks by fluttering lashes. Nonsense, most likely, or never better. In either case, he’ll understand; he always does.
Placing your hand on his, you slip your fingers over the top and pull him forward. He lets you, comes down carefully until the comfort of his weight against your frame makes you feel anchored. With every inch that’s erased between you, he fills you further, pushing out whatever air remains in your lungs through some needy little whine.
Among the million sensations you have to grapple with, the most hard-hitting, ironically, is comfort. Pure and unadulterated. You enveloping him, enveloping you.
To prove it to yourself that you’re not dreaming, you slip your fingers into his hair, nails scratching delicately over his scalp. In return, he rolls his hips forward, just like he promised — slow, steady, deep. You clench around him involuntarily, a reflex your body must’ve learned to keep him close.
“Love the way you grip me, but...” Jihoon exhales a sigh against your neck, head tilted to keep your face in his periphery. Pulling out further just to thrust in deeper, he warns, “You keep that up, and I’ll cum too soon.”
He’s one to talk.
Every time he grinds his hips languidly towards yours, you have to talk yourself off the ledge.
If you let him wear you down again, you fear that there won’t be enough left of you to savor this; and you never want this moment to end. You want to live in it — to feel the delicious drag of his cock along your walls — to hear that obscene tide ebb and flow whenever he fucks himself further in you — to feel so fucking full — for as long as he gives you.
It was a valiant effort on your part, if you do say so yourself. Futile, though, because Jihoon pulls out all the stops. The next time he pulls himself from you just to roll back in, he swivels his hips as he thrusts, ensuring that you feel him everywhere.
“Oh.”
One syllable on a gasping breath, then you forget every single word in your vocabulary. Like warm molasses, bliss washes over you at half-speed, seeping in and sticking until the blender motor in your brain is fucked beyond repair.
At least you’re not the only one.
“Fuck, fuck —”
Holding him as closely as you are, you feel each muscle in Jihoon’s body tense one-by-one, rippling as your third orgasm steals his first, going lax when his release floods. “— Fuck,” he groans, all the while twitching inside you.
Though he slows, he doesn’t stop. It’s not until he pants, “Kiss me,” that you realize it: Jihoon doesn’t intend to stop.
Neither, it seems, do you.
Maybe you’re greedy. Maybe you’re too obsessed with the brush of his tip against your cervix with every gentle, shallow thrust. Maybe, above all, it’s the way his cock doesn’t soften inside of you but his face does when he catches you looking at him from under a heavy curtain of lashes.
You catch him by the mouth, just like he asked. It’s indulgent — messy, echoing the other point where the two of you connect. Licking into him while he fucks himself into you, ragged breaths barely loud enough to overpower the explicit, sodden sound below.
“Can you still speak in sentences?” He pants in a rare moment when his lips break from yours.
Can feel you in my stomach, you want to say.
“I’m — you’re gonna make me —”
You can’t choke out the words, though you suspect Jihoon gets the point. This far in, his touch reaches a detonator you didn’t even know existed; there’s no way he misses the explosion of pleasure throughout your entire goddamn body.
He’s caught in your blast radius, your walls pulsing and spasming to such an insane degree that he can barely move. Mind blown to fucking smithereens, your ears ring too loudly to hear whatever he says to you when he cums again — hard — and the arms bearing his weight buckle.
Jihoon’s flushed cheek winds up pressed to your shoulder. He stays there while your joint trembling subsides, then any muscle that could make him move is too spent to do so.
“What just happened?” He sounds as delirious as you feel. “That was… shit. What did your body just do?”
You have no idea.
You have no capacity to form any.
All you have is the weight of his frame on yours and that of your eyelids, which flutter as you try and fail to keep them open. The best you can give is a non-responsive, utterly fucked-out sound — not enough shape to be a word, not enough breath to be a sigh.
Eventually, although you can’t imagine how, Jihoon finds enough strength to shift himself off of you. You don’t see anything that happens next, but you feel it all — the kiss to your temple; the hollowness when he pulls out and the sticky rush that chases him when he leaves.
“I’m coming back to clean you up,” he promises in a hushed tone from a million miles away. Chuckling despite his own sleepiness, he adds, “Don’t move.”
I won’t, you think but don’t say.
And you don’t move.
At least, not until the smell of hotteok reaches you eight hours later.
wc: 0.4k warnings: lowkey suggestive, choking but not rlly? its more like jst resting his hand on ur neck, CASUAL DOMINANCE 🫠🫠🫠 an: so i caught myself resting w my hand on my neck today and i was like huh.. i want cheol to do that to me. so here we are. anyways vernon is up next in the series so stay tuned !!! fav kisses mlist !!
seungcheol wouldn’t really consider himself bossy. you’re independent, you do what you want, and he accepts it.
..however, he does sometimes like to, how should he say it, guide you around.
sometimes it’s with his words, asking you to do something for him, or telling you what he thinks you should do. other times it’s with his body, large palm resting against your waist or the back of your neck to help lead you through crowds or through the store on a shopping trip he’s paying for.
more particularly, he likes to place his hands on the most beautiful part of your body, at least to him; your neck.
he didn’t know how much he liked it at first.. he noticed you, always sitting idle with a hand, or some sort of weight on your neck, and when he asked, you were surprised. you didn’t even notice the habit. it’s just something that felt.. grounding in a way. it helped you relax, and even helped you focus at times.
eventually, he started doing it for you. during cuddle sessions, his hand would find its way around your neck, not squeezing but laying there. it makes you feel safe. when sleeping, he’ll keep an arm around your waist, the other wrapped around your neck. it’s comfortable, and you always fall asleep so warm and comfy when he does it for you.
he’s definitely not trying to control you, never! there’s just something about the way you let him hold you like that, how you allow yourself to be so vulnerable, that makes him want to boss you around. take care of you.
his love for your neck turned into something a little bigger upon learning what it could do to you. your brain turns so fuzzy the moment you feel his hands against your neck, and you turn from miss independent to cheollie’s baby girl, smiling up at him and letting him do everything for you.
whenever you let him treat you, he’s so elated that he gratefully kisses you on your neck, his favorite place. you finally let him pay for your things? thank you baby, he’ll say, even though you should be the one doing the thanking, showing his gratitude by letting his lips graze your neck. you let him hold your bags? you’ll hear a good girl, followed by the warmth of his hand on your nape and his lips right above your clavicle.
it’s the perfect way to ease his possessiveness, calm that little spark in him that arises when you won’t rely on him. all it takes is grazing against that sweet, sensitive spot, and you’re like putty in his hands. his lips could stay there all day, and they do. at any time he’ll pull you into him and just hold his lips there, resting against your pulse point. it’s starting to become grounding for him too, feeling your heartbeat against his mouth, reminding him that you’re his.
synopsis; after a tense fight with your boyfriend, you flee out into a brewing rainstorm. luckily, suguru is always willing to warm you up again.
word count; 6.2k
contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader, copious amounts of hurt/comfort, no really that’s literally all this fic is, sugu snaps at you for worrying about him, (and then promptly spirals), he makes it up to you though :), healthy communication ensues, [name] is used exactly once, switching povs, soft & fluffy ending <33
a/n; going back to my roots (mindless hurt/comfort) 🙏🙏 i just think that if suguru picked me up like a small kitten and put me in his lap it would fix me
you’re cold.
little shivers run through your body, down your spine, and all you can do is clench your chattering teeth and dig your nails into the skin of your palms. the heavy rain falls down without mercy, going pitter patter as it hits the asphalt. a sudden lightning strike lights up the town, flashing in the reflection of puddles, and you manage a weak jolt.
dark clouds blanket the whole sky, not allowing even a sliver of blue to shine through the darkness of the rainy evening. enveloping you, surrounding you, soft earthy scents — wet asphalt, roses blooming to your left and right, bushes with sweet-smelling flora guiding your path, little petals glistening with droplets and bouncing with the force of the rain.
it’d be comforting, were it not for one simple fact;
you don’t have an umbrella.
at this point, thirty minutes into your solemn, sniffly walk, you’re absolutely soaked. with only a measly hoodie to cover your body and head, and a tank top sticking to the skin beneath it — you were stupid to think you’d get out of it unscathed. your shoes feel uncomfortable, wet soles sticking to the asphalt, two heavy weights carrying you down the familiar street ahead of you.
you let out a shuddering breath.
gosh, this was stupid. you knew it was going to rain, but still walked out without a care in the world; despite the weather forecast, despite suguru’s warnings over breakfast, despite the dark clouds covering the milk-blue sky. you just didn’t think it’d be this bad. you just felt so helpless.
you just couldn’t stay there.
some fresh air, and a bit of space. that was all you needed. just that one sliver of comfort.
so, yeah, maybe you weren’t thinking very clearly when you stormed out. maybe you weren’t thinking nearly enough, not enough to even grab one of the umbrellas hanging off the coatrack. hanging there just for you, the cutest little frog umbrella, one suguru bought for you himself. big, googly eyes, and a big smile. the most perfect shade of green.
(he put it there just for you.)
maybe you weren’t thinking at all. maybe you just needed to get away, away from him, away from the frustration on his features. arguments with suguru are few and far between — it only adds to the sting of his cold voice still ringing in your ears. you bite down on your bottom lip again, just to stop it from wobbling so pitifully. blinking rapidly, tears and raindrops clinging to your lashline.
you were just worried. is that so awful?
(why did he have to be so fucking mean about it?)
a sigh flows from your lips, heavy and defeated and undeniably tired. you hate feeling like this, this bitter, hate feeling like you’ve done something wrong. more than anything, you hate arguing with him — hate the idea of him being angry with you. hate the way his voice turns colder, just a little sharper, an octave lower. he never raises it, never ever, but somehow he still sounds so scary.
it bothers you. bothers you how sensitive you are when it comes to him. just that shivering tilt of his voice, coupled with the annoyance in his eyes, was enough to make your eyes a little glassy. one little sentence, and you were close to breaking out into a sob. because suguru was angry with you, and that alone makes you feel like you’ve done nothing right in your life.
so you left. because that was all you could do.
sure, the sharp pelting of the rain hurts a little, and the thunder is scary, and you’re awfully cold — but anything is better than having suguru see you burst into tears over such a small argument. you know he’d try to soothe you, know he’d feel guilty. but that just makes it all the more embarrassing.
(all the more pathetic.)
so you left, rushed out of your own apartment, and before you knew it the storm was rolling in above you. rain and thunder, something to rival the ache in your chest. it still hasn’t been that long, a little over half an hour, and you still haven’t fully calmed down. you still don’t know how to face him. but —
but fuck, it’s cold. and an undeniable part of you yearns to run back into his arms, to make up with him, to hear his voice turn warm and see his eyes go soft. you want him to soothe you so, so badly. like he always does.
another sigh — more resigned this time — slips from out your lips. your bones feel sore, you’re almost certain you’re going to catch a cold, and it’s getting late. you’re all alone, and it’s raining, and you look vulnerable and helpless.
you want to go home.
it’ll be awkward, but maybe you can sneak in somehow — without him noticing. then you can go straight to sleep, on the couch, and maybe you’ll feel a little better tomorrow. the two of you can talk it out over breakfast, over warm coffee, and you can tell him what you meant to say without stumbling over what words to use or dancing around the subject like a scared little child.
you’re just too tired to argue anymore.
he just made you feel so stupid. so very, very small. suguru’s been working so hard lately, coming home late, exhausting himself. all you wanted was to make sure he was okay. that, and to coax him into relaxing a bit; maybe take a day off to recharge. that was all.
but he just brushed you off.
and, well, maybe you should’ve backed off after that. maybe you should’ve taken that as a sign that suguru didn’t feel up to answering your questions. but you were just so worried, so pitifully anxious, and you just wanted to help him so, so badly.
suguru is always so dependable. always there to help you, to ground you, to console you. even when you push him away or insist you don’t need it. he can be pushy, when he feels like he needs to, when your health is at risk — and it’s frustrating, but you’ve always appreciated it. you just wanted to return the favour. push him, just a little, to show him how much you care. show him that he can depend on you the way he insists you do with him.
but then he grew frustrated.
”suguru… you’ve been working so much, i’m —” you bite down on your bottom lip. ”i’m just worried that you’re overdoing it.”
”… god. how many times do i have to say it? i know my limits, [name].”
”but — you just look so tired —”
”well, i’m sorry for that.” a cold smile. ”am i not living up to your expectations?”
(that’s not what you meant. he knows that’s not what you meant.)
and it makes you feel frustrated, too. pardon you for being worried. for wanting to be there for him, for once, for wanting to be a supportive partner and not just a burden.
pardon you for feeling a little lonely, with him coming home so late, leaving so early. with him not giving you the affection you’re so used to, and never confiding in you about his stress.
pardon you for wanting him to trust you, a little, even just a sliver more than not at all.
god, you’re exhausted. you just want to sleep — can’t you have that, at least? just that one thing? you don’t mind sleeping on the couch, don’t mind feeling like a stranger in your own home, as long as you get to rest your eyes. just for a little while.
your brain spins in circles, bitterness and longing heavy on your tongue, as you grumble over what to do or how to feel —
while your feet have already begun taking you home. moving almost on their own, on instinct, walking past rose bushes and backyards, the smell of glucose and rotting apples.
and you’re there before you know it: in front of the familiar door to your shared apartment, soaked from head to toe. still feeling a little lost.
for a second, you hesitate.
maybe he’s still angry. maybe he was happy to get some time away from you. maybe you’re just making things worse by doing this, maybe you should just —
but your fingers have already fished out the key from within your pocket, unlocking the door in one swift motion. moving up to curl around the doorknob, a desperation in your veins guiding you closer to his steady warmth.
and before you have the chance to waver again, you pull the door open and step inside.
you move slowly, gentle and careful, almost cautious. softly closing the door behind you and taking a couple quiet steps forward, only to shrug off your hoodie — heavy, soaking wet and discomforting as you pull it over your head. clumsily, you try to get it off you, squirming when the warm indoors air meets your sweaty tank top. it feels soothing on your bare skin, though, ghosting over your shoulders and collarbone, hoodie now clinging to your elbows.
in the middle of the taxing endeavor, you almost fail to notice the presence of a certain someone, standing just a little farther away.
almost, because it’d be impossible for you to miss him, that heavy gaze of his.
and before you can think the thought to do anything else, you’ve locked eyes with him — arms still tangled up in the wet sleeves of your hoodie, raindrops and sweat sticking to your skin.
(suguru takes a moment to look at you.)
not daring to say anything, afraid to part your lips, you simply stand there. in silence, like a deer in headlights. for some reason, you can’t really read his expression — you’re a little too tired, a little too caught off guard.
you can only blink, worry surely evident in your furrowed brows, as the seconds tick on and on. tense, tense, tense.
and then he’s walking away again.
crestfallen. that’s probably the best way to describe how you feel right now, watching him disappear around the corner. dejected, as your eyes fall to the floor, and your posture wilts like a dying rose. you finally shake off your hoodie and watch it fall to the floor with a gross, wet plap.
it hurts. you want to cry. you can’t help it. even though a part of you is still upset, even though a part of you fully expected this to happen…
another part was still hoping he’d be happy to see you. as if just seeing his smile again might’ve fixed everything.
but he didn’t even give you that.
that’s that, then. there’s nothing you can do except proceed with your original plan. you’ll change into some warm, dry clothes, and go to sleep on the couch like the miserable dog you are. you’ll leave everything troublesome and disheartening for tomorrow’s you to handle.
for now, you just have to worry about getting some sleep. you don’t have to think about suguru, or his cold voice, or the way he just walked away without saying anything.
you don’t have to think about him at all.
(don’t think. don’t think. don’t —)
— the soft patter of footsteps breaks you out of your anxious spiral. they come closer and closer, until a certain silhouette enters your vision out of the corner of your eye.
a certain suguru geto, hair down and cascading past his shoulders, wearing a comfortable sweater and loose sweatpants with a fluffy towel in tow.
once again, you can only blink. a vaguely confused deer in headlights. suguru comes closer and closer, until you can clearly see his eyes, amber gold, full of an emotion you finally manage to identify —
worry.
(ah.)
before you can say anything, he’s draped the towel around you. it feels nice, a soft texture on your skin, big enough to engulf you completely, cocooning you. cozy and snug. you can’t help but melt a little when suguru places his big hand over the towel and smooths it over your cheek, drying off your skin so gently that you feel like crying again.
”are you cold?” he asks, concern evident in his voice. to your immense relief, it sounds nowhere near as scary as before. ”you’re soaked…”
suguru almost seems to be pouting, bottom lip jutting out the slightest bit, eyebrows furrowed softly. still rubbing the raindrops off your skin. he looks awfully troubled, undeniably anxious, and the way he’s caressing your skin feels so earnestly caring. the towel feels warm, like he went the extra mile to heat it up for you.
and, more than anything, the feeling of suguru’s big hands cupping your face is almost heavenly. even though the touch is indirect, you can’t help but bask in his warmth, almost desperate to cling to it after escaping from the harsh cold of the rain. like he could slip away and leave you again if you don’t stay perfectly still, just like this.
it’s soothing. so, so soothing. but it also makes you feel kind of meek.
you sound sheepish when you answer, voice a little hoarse after your grueling walk. throat dry from all the crying. ”nah, ’m fine…”
the words are tiny, fragile like pieces of glass, and they only make suguru’s brows furrow further, pout turning into a soft frown as he gazes down at you.
(he hates how small you look. like you’re curling in on yourself.)
as soon as you left the apartment, a wave of regret washed over him. it was expected, obviously, because that’s what always happens after the two of you argue — which is almost never, which only makes the cut in his heart run deeper.
he felt frustrated. and tired, so tired. but when he saw your troubled expression, the way your eyes watered slightly before you rushed out…
he could only feel guilty.
and that sensation only deepened as he sat on the couch and spiraled, over the course of forty long minutes, playing the interaction back inside his head. over and over, thinking about your words, his words, some of which he desperately wishes he could take back.
and when it started raining? suguru could only feel regret, hot and ugly, dragging him into his own thoughts. could only drown in his worries, look out the window anxiously. thinking of you, his sweet baby, stuck under the onslaught of dark clouds and lightning strikes and heavy rain.
(you didn’t bring an umbrella.)
suguru waited. that was all he could do.
he didn’t think it was possible for him to feel so useless. fighting with himself, the part of him that wanted to give you the space you needed clashing with the part that yearned to run after you — scoop you up and apologize, hold you tight and protect you from the rainfall. you weren’t answering his calls, and he didn’t want to overwhelm you, didn’t want to make you feel even worse. afraid to scare you off for good.
so he could only sit there and worry, sit there and wait, wallow in his own shame until he heard the faintest sound of the front door unlocking. followed by the sound of it creaking open, slowly — and that was all he needed.
and there you were. standing by the entrance, entirely soaked, tank top sticking to your skin and that flimsy hoodie hanging off your arms, cheeks a little red from the cold and strands of hair sticking to your skin.
like a tiny kitten left out in the rain.
it made him feel so painfully anxious. his heart aching so deeply, so viscerally, while all he could think about was smothering you in affection. taking care of you, like he always wants to do, needs to do to stay sane. so suguru left, to go grab something to dry you off with —
and now he’s here. in front of you, smothering you with the towel rather than his love, fretting over you like an overprotective mother.
suguru yearns to soothe you. to take care of you. always, always, always, his hands on your skin and lidded amber eyes staring deeply into yours. offering himself like a shelter to a stray dog, hoping so tenderly that you’ll take the bait.
(he just wants you to feel safe with him again.)
so he stumbles for something, anything to say, afraid of overstepping or making you uncomfortable. you did just argue, and suguru was anything but patient with you. usually he would be; he’d make sure to be. but with work piling up, and exhaustion clinging to every pore of his skin…
he failed at maintaining his composure.
he needs to make it up to you. despite everything — even though he feels a little awkward, a little restless, still drowning a little in shame — he just wants to tend to you. that, and nothing more.
”hang on,” he exhales, stepping back and letting go of the towel. ”i’ll go draw you a bath…”
”ah — no need,” you smile, a little forced, swiftly reassuring him. he can tell you don’t really know how to act after everything that happened; still walking on eggshells. ”i’ll just take a quick shower.”
suguru wants to protest, wants to coax you into taking a proper bath, into letting your cold skin and aching bones relax completely —
but he can only hum, a little unsure. a little sad.
”… okay. got it.”
perplexed, he tries his hand at another tactic. still so desperate to take care of you in whatever way you’ll allow, like always, but he thinks it’s worse now. even more desperate, after the fight you had, after seeing your frail, shivering self. resisting the urge to scoop you up and coddle you is a struggle.
”i can make you tea?” he tries, inwardly wincing at the way the words spill from his lips; uncertain, awkward. what a mess.
but you smile, slightly more genuinely this time, a soft little thing. it soothes some of the anxiety rotting through his ribs.
”tea would be great, thank you.”
you brush past him, warm towel still hanging off your shoulders. ”i’ll just take a shower in the meantime,” you murmur, and suguru can do nothing but nod, watching you go.
he swallows thickly.
(that’s that, then.)
tea. right. what kind of tea? something warm, and soothing, and good for your throat. chamomile? peppermint? he’ll add a spoon of honey, just the way you like.
suguru’s mind spins in circles while his feet take him to the kitchen, hands swiftly rummaging through cabinets and getting the electric kettle ready. placing teacups and a teapot on the table, cute little floral designs he couldn’t help but fill your kitchen with. pouring hot peppermint tea into the pot, a strong scent drifting through the kitchen, drowning his senses in bliss.
caught up in his own head, losing track of time, suguru fails to notice you walking from the bathroom — stopping by the threshold of the kitchen, hesitant to make your presence known. a few silent moments pass. with a tiny inhale, mint invading your senses, you take a step forward. calm and sleepy, skin still pleasantly hot from the warm shower, hair still a little damp.
only then does suguru notice you, his gaze drifting to your figure as if instinctively drawn to it.
you’re clad in some comfortable sweatpants, and an oversized hoodie — his hoodie, the one with the unreasonably soft texture, the one you tend to gravitate towards — the one he likes to see you in the most, because you always look so thoroughly comfy in it. almost drowning in the fabric.
seeing you all warm and cozy, in his clothing no less, sends a tremor of pure warmth running through suguru’s chest. sprouting in his heart and spreading throughout his entire body. he can’t bring himself to resist the soft curl of his lips, gazing at you so fondly he’s almost sure you notice it.
”i made peppermint,” he says, a little breathless, already pouring boiling tea into two cups on the table. ”that okay?”
”yeah,” you answer, instantaneous. stifling a yawn. you’d have been fine with anything, really.
the shower worked wonders for your muddled mind; chasing away the shivers down your spine, that unpleasant chill to your skin. most importantly, it gave you a moment to simply relax, to bask in the peace and quiet. feel the hot water surround you, melt your bones like softened clay. you feel a little better, now. still anxious, more than a little sleepy, but better. and right now, that’s all you need.
with a groggy kind of pep in your step, you stumble over to the kitchen table, plopping down on the chair across from where suguru is sitting. trying to get comfortable, knees pressed against your chest, muttering a soft thank you while gingerly touching the rim of the cup.
(suguru frowns, just barely, at the sight. usually you’d sit right next to him. but now you’re in front of him, so very far — as if you’re strangers.
it breaks his heart, a little bit.)
a soft hum leaves your lips when you take a sip of the tea — all warm and comforting and minty on your tongue, a vague taste of something sweet. it’s relaxing, more than anything, and it makes you feel a little more okay with everything.
suguru only watches you, drinking absentmindedly from his own cup. not really tasting anything.
finally, he opts to clear his throat — and your attention falls on him instantly.
”hey,” he starts, ready to address the elephant in the room. his voice is gentle, but decisive, firm somehow. ”about before…”
your body tenses, ever so slightly, fingers uncurling around the handle of the teacup. there’s a kind of shift in the air around you, in suguru’s tone of voice — and you were expecting it, waiting for it anxiously, but that doesn’t make it any less harrowing.
here it comes, your mind seems to sing. here comes the moment everything shatters again.
with as much strength as you can muster, you smile. a little sheepish, just a tad forced, refusing to meet his eyes from across the table. staring into the murky green of your cup and hoping in vain that you can somehow escape this discomfort.
(you just want to rest. you just want to not have to think about anything.)
”it’s fine, suguru,” you cut him off. softly, but there’s a certain tilt to your voice that strikes him as rather cold. ”we can just drop it.”
the decision in his eyes doesn’t waver. you look meek, awfully troubled, and he hates to force you into another discussion when you’re undoubtedly tired — but suguru’s mind is set. he’s been evasive enough, today.
”no. i want to talk about it properly.”
at that, you seem to deflate a little. suguru is nothing if not stubborn, a quality that always manages to coexist with his gentleness, his desire to be a good partner for you. you can tell he won’t allow you to wriggle away, now that you’re both finally calm. he’s not doing it to exhaust you, not doing it to gain some sort of satisfaction out of ”winning” the argument — he’s doing it because he knows it’s the right thing to do. even if it makes you both a little uncomfortable.
communication is important, immensely so. suguru knows it very well.
and you do, too.
so all you do is curl into yourself, shifting in your seat, allowing him to speak his mind and sipping quietly on your tea. biting back a disgruntled huff, gaze lingering on the tablecloth, little calico cats etched into the fabric. he wanted one with yellow stripes, but still bought this one just for you. just like the ugly matching couple mugs you forced him into buying, the green colour of your kitchen wallpaper. he always places you before himself.
(all you wanted was to change that. just for a night, if nothing else. and he got mad at you for it.)
suguru sighs. it sounds fatigued, not frustrated or disappointed. he runs a hand through his hair, and you can’t help but follow the movement, the soft silky strands and the way he smooths them over. practiced, familiar, absentminded. you could watch him do it forever.
”i had a lot of time to think while you were gone,” he begins, recalling the mental gymnastics he went through while you were away. just sitting on the couch and running himself ragged, trying to be impartial, trying to see your point of view without letting his own bias get in the way.
you sink a little further into the chair, eyes downcast. inhaling the scent of peppermint, trying to prepare yourself for what he might say, the ways this could all go wrong.
”and i realized that you were right.”
…
you blink. once, then twice.
hesitantly, you raise your head, searching for suguru’s gaze. he isn’t looking at you, staring out at the rainfall through the window as if in deep thought. his gaze shifts to meet yours, and something soft flickers through his golden eyes.
he looks troubled, though. trying to find the right words, mind clouded by guilt. chewing at his bottom lip anxiously.
it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts, to weigh the words in his mind, just to make sure he gets them across as smoothly as possible. he’s had more than enough time to verbalize his feelings, to think about what he wants to say to you. it was all he could do while he waited.
so his voice is earnest, when he continues, sincerely apologetic and thought out.
”i’m always telling you not to overwork yourself. and here i am, doing the same thing…” another sigh. ”you were just worried. i shouldn’t have lashed out — you didn’t deserve that.”
suguru searches for your gaze, and manages to find it. you falter a little under the weight of his eyes, but they’re warm, remorseful. a setting sun.
”i’m sorry.”
a moment of silence passes. then two. three, five. you look down at your cup, the purple hyacinths etched into the porcelain. crumbling under his gaze, at the sound of his genuine apology.
and suddenly, you feel silly — silly for being so scared, for thinking suguru might still be angry with you. for thinking he wouldn’t spend as much time as needed to properly think about your words, your feelings, even if he might not have been ready to do so when he first heard them.
suguru can be stubborn, if he’s convinced that he’s in the right. but he always, always seeks you out eventually, always makes sure to genuinely look at things from your perspective.
and, really, it means everything. it means enough to wash away all your leftover irritation, from having him brush you off when you know you didn’t do anything wrong. all the leftover sadness from being pushed away, from not being allowed to take care of him the way he always does for you.
suguru isn’t perfect, but he tries harder than anyone you know. tries his very best to be as close to perfect as he can possibly get — for you, for the both of you. he’s considerate enough, mature enough to take the time he needs to properly communicate. that’s how much he loves you.
and yes, doing so makes you a little uncomfortable. but when faced with something like that, someone so kind, who loves you like the rain loves the ground — how could you ever bear not to do the same?
”… it’s fine,” you start, softly. ”maybe i overreacted a bit. ’s just —” a gulp. you’re trying your best to verbalize your feelings, the way suguru just did, the way he always does.
and he waits, patiently. for as long as you need. looking at you from across the table softly, already immensely relieved at the lack of tension in the air.
”i don’t like seeing you so tired. i know that your work is important, and i support you, but…” your voice goes quiet, as you trail off, hoping he’ll understand what you mean. ”you know.”
and suguru does. he does understand, he always will. so he hums.
”i know,” he murmurs, softly. ”it wasn’t an overreaction. i just didn’t realize it myself. got too caught up in everything,” a sharp exhale leaves his lips. ”it’s been… a long week. i’m not using that as an excuse, though.”
you listen attentively, eyes softening at his words. you can tell that he means it, that you finally got your message across. all you wanted was for him to take a break, to take care of himself.
to let you take care of him.
suguru continues. he makes it a point to look into your eyes as he speaks — a little intimidating, especially in a situation like this — but you know it reassures him, that it lets him know you really understand what he’s trying to say.
so you hold his gaze, as steady as you can, glancing down at his collarbone when it becomes just a little too much.
”i’m grateful that i have you,” he says, voice dripping with softness, gazing at you with a fondness that has you crumbling all over again. ”and that you care enough to set me straight when i need it.”
and suguru means it. he means it more than anything else. not once has he ever stopped appreciating you, all the things you do for him; always so sweet and caring, even when it’s subtle. this was no exception. you’re always worried, always looking out for him. he feels awful for getting so defensive. for pushing you away, when you were trying so earnestly to reach him.
but he’ll make up for all of that, starting now.
”i mean it. i appreciate you so much, you have no idea — i’m so sorry if i made you think otherwise.” for a moment, his eyes look a little glassy, swimming in remorse. ”i really, really am.”
(and when he looks at you like that, when he speaks so very gently —
how could you ever bear not to forgive him?)
you shift in your seat again. gazing down, chewing at your bottom lip. his honesty makes you falter, makes it hard for you not to do the same; even if your voice ends up sounding awfully tiny and awfully close to breaking apart.
”… i was just worried,” you mumble, meekly, shooing away any tears you have left with rapid blinks.
”i know,” suguru soothes. the smile on his face is genuine, comforting, honey and peppermint and warmth. ”i was being immature. you were right — i’ve been burning myself out.”
you don’t say anything. only letting his words console you, feeling yourself relax at the sound of him opening up a little. just enough to make everything all better again.
”i was thinking of taking tomorrow off,” he continues, searching for your timid gaze and smiling gently once he finds it. ”what do you say?”
you brighten a little, so obvious in the way you sit up straighter, the way something soft and hopeful blossoms in the scope of your iris. the sight coaxes suguru’s patient smile into widening a smidge, his eyes crinkling at your barely contained excitement.
”that’d be nice…” you murmur, averting your gaze once more. but suguru can tell you like the sound of that, that it’s exactly what would finally put your anxious mind at ease.
a smile, bright and fond. suguru opens his arms.
”then i will.”
for a moment, you simply stare. at him, his outstretched limbs — that soft smile, as he waits for you to get the hint. and you blink.
oh.
you look down at your lap. a little sheepish, almost shy. it takes you another moment to raise your head, again, only to see another gentle flicker in suguru’s eyes — and then you finally get up from your seat.
it feels a little strange. a little awkward, as if some of your bones still can’t help but tread on eggshells, afraid of making him upset again. but it’s suguru, and he loves you, and his arms are waiting patiently to hold you.
and you want that more than anything.
so you fall into his arms, softly, curling up in his lap and wrapping your arms around his waist. suguru has one hand on the back of your head and the other on the small of your back, rubbing comforting circles into your spine to make you relax.
it works wonders. despite your initial hesitance, you melt into the embrace without putting up a fuss — happy to be in his arms again, to feel the anxiety dissipate when you realize that everything’s finally alright.
and suguru is just as happy, just as content. breathing out a sigh of relief he didn’t know he was holding. he strokes your hair lovingly, and you nuzzle into him a little more; making his lips quirk up, eyes filling with adoration. finally, he can relax. having you in his arms feels so soothing. and you’re so sweet, curling into him, seeking comfort and warmth that he’s more than happy to provide.
how long has it been since he had a chance to hold you like this? he made sure to be affectionate whenever he could, before leaving for work and after coming back — but in the midst of all the paperwork and stress…
suguru sighs, a little sadder this time, watching you bask in the attention he had been robbing you of this whole time. without even realizing it.
”and i’m sorry for neglecting you, too,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. muffled by your hair as he presses a kiss against the crown of your head.
that certainly gets your attention.
”neglecting me?” you sputter, eyes suddenly wide open and lips parted in disbelief. flustered, heat rushing to your neck and ears. ”wha — what am i, some high-maintenance puppy? you didn’t neglect me.”
suguru only chuckles, biting back a soft coo that he knows would only fluster you more. instead, he pulls away a little, just to look at you, and pecks your forehead softly.
”well, i’m sorry for not being around much, then. i’ll make it up to you. okay?”
hiding away in his collarbone, again, you mutter a soft okay that has suguru’s heart squeezing in his chest. he cradles you close, engulfs you in his embrace, and hopes you can feel his love through the action. hopes you can feel it in the way his arms fit around you like they were always meant to be right there.
and you do feel his love. feel it smooth away the leftover turmoil in your brain, caress your skin softly. it’s soothing, and comforting, and you feel so incredibly safe. here, in suguru’s embrace, with the sound of rain hitting the window and the scent of peppermint wafting through the kitchen — it’d be impossible not to relax.
before you know it, your eyelids have fluttered shut, breathing softening out and heartbeat slowing down. a peaceful rhythm, carrying you away. suguru notices it before you do.
”you sleeping, baby?”
you jolt a little in his arms — murmuring something unintelligible into his neck, and he only chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest like a soothing thunderstorm.
”c’mon. let’s get you to bed, hm?”
suguru smooths a hand down your back, arms tightening around you before he scoops you up and gets up from his seat. ”there we go,” he hums, helping you hike your legs around his waist. ”you can sleep, angel. i’ve got you.”
your arms tighten around him, and you inhale his scent; grounding and comforting, raindrops and roses. tomorrow you can bask in it properly, can take care of him properly. you’ll coddle him all day.
but for now, you need to get some rest.
allowing your senses to dull away, clinging to suguru like a makeshift pillow, you absently listen to the storm still raging on outside. faraway, cold and harsh, but comforting when you’re in his steady grasp.
a yawn escapes your honey-soothed throat.
you don’t miss the i love you murmured into your ear, accompanying you into dreamland as your eyes flutter shut.
A/N: hi everyone! It’s been somewhat long since the last I posted…something. this is requested by @thecutiepieme and this took waaaaaay longer than I would like it to be, but here we are! As usual, this becomes much longer than I thought and I tweaked a lot of details in this so I’m sorry if this isn’t up to your liking 😖 plus this is my first time writing actual angst and… I’m not sure if this is angsty enough. This isn’t spellchecked and such so please forgive me for any mistakes :( Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this 🖤
➝ idol!Wonwoo x Reader
➝ word count: 6258 words.
➝ angst // idol!au
➝ warnings: mentions of cheating, umm.. anxiety?, self doubt?
You didn’t think you signed up for this when you started dating Wonwoo.
A week. It has been a week since the last time you spoke to Wonwoo. You’ve been ignoring his texts since you told him you needed some time to yourself; away from him. You’re pretty sure he’d be on your door by day 3 had it not been for his busy schedule.
He didn’t accept it at first; he tried to call you every few hours, wanting to talk and all that until you eventually picked up. You don’t even remember half the things he said because you weren’t in a good state. In the end, you said you need some time by yourself and you will call him once you’ve calmed down—which is taking longer than you’ve expected.
You know you’d be too emotional if you were to talk to Wonwoo right away, which is why you asked for some time alone to begin with. It is a big deal for you, and if you start talking with your train wreck of emotions, you know it would not end up pretty.
To be completely honest, you’re not sure what you’re doing; are you running away like this? Does this mean you don’t trust Wonwoo as much as you thought you did? Is this a product of insecurity? Is it a good choice to be away from your boyfriend at times like this? Should you have stuck together instead?
📢: Boyfriend!Seokmin // slice of life // est. relationship // 770 words
“They look so happy, don’t they?” Seokmin nudges you, making you turn to the couple dancing together, too focused with each other that they don’t mind the people around them.
Even from a distance, you can tell that Junhui is looking at his now wife as if she’s the light of his world, and you don’t doubt one second that it’s true.
You’ve never thought your best friend, Hanna, would end up getting married to Junhui when you introduced them to each other a few years ago. It’s a really pleasant surprise, but you, of all people, know how much Junhui takes care of her and you’re pretty sure there’s no one that fits her better than him.
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