Mingi’s Queen 😘

[ 🐻 ] Mingi's Queen ✨ [ 🍰 ] 1997 [ 🌻 ] 🤫 [ 🎈 ] Female 😌😘 Hello Loves 😘 Welcome to my account!!! As a proud black plus size woman 🥰, I am excited to share stories that are not only plus size friendly, but also celebrate black girls ✨. Join me on my journey!!! I love kpop (of course 💁🏾‍♀️), Disney and old music that's honestly bout it 💜 (You can find me on Wattpad by the same name 🙃) ❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

[mingis-queen97]

Main Masterlist

Welcome lovelies ❤ this is my main Masterlist!!! I'm just a kpop write if you can't tell!!! I write for the plus size black girlies mostly. I only do ambw one short and maybe put full stories up as well. I'm also taken requests on for different kpop groups, members and soloists. Don't worry I also write smut... More than I should probably, but hey it's alright!!!

Kpop :

Nct

Ateez

TogetherxTomorrow

Boy Next Door

Straykids

Seventeen

The Boyz

BTS

Tag: @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

My hybrid ~~~ Christopher Bang / BangChan

Disclaimer ⚠️❗⚠️❗: None

Summary : In which Alyona is hybrid getting adopted by Christopher

Alyona’s POV

Right now, I’m sitting and waiting for my new owner. Yes, I said owner. You see, I’m a hybrid. Most days I stay in my puppy form.

I’m actually fully grown, but my dog form stayed small—permanently puppy-sized. You’d think that would help me get adopted sooner, but it hasn’t. The shelter keeps a quiet hum—fluorescent lights, distant barking, the clean smell of disinfectant—and I’ve been here long enough to recognize every sound. I know which door means a volunteer with treats and which squeak means someone stopping to peer in and then move on.

In my human form, I’m a Black woman. In Korea, that means the stares last a little longer, the whispers get soft and tight, and the questions turn careful in ways that aren’t really careful. Some people take me home because I’m a novelty, a story to tell, something to gawk at for a while. They like the idea of me without liking me. Then they bring me back with polite apologies and restless eyes that never quite meet mine. After a while, even hope learns to wear a smaller coat.

Christopher doesn’t feel like that.

He visited last week and stayed the whole day. He didn’t hover. He sat on the floor so I wouldn’t have to crane my neck. He let me sniff his hands, then his sleeves, then the hem of his jacket where the wind still clung to it. He asked me questions like they mattered and waited for my answers, whether they were words or wagging. He laughed softly when my tail thumped against the crate door—just a little laugh, the good kind that makes your shoulders lower. When we put our foreheads together for a second, the electric fence around my heart flickered off.

He dropped off an outfit for me, too. It’s folded neatly on the chair beside me now—soft black leggings, an oversized cream hoodie that feels like a hug, and a warm beanie with little ear-holes so I don’t have to hide. There’s a small note tucked in the pocket: “For today. For comfort.” I keep running my thumb over the handwriting. It’s steady. People with steady handwriting don’t usually leave.

I pull the hoodie on and the fabric slides over me like a promise. My ears poke through the holes and twitch-twitch with their own little happiness, and my tail—traitor that it is—starts thumping against the bench in a steady rhythm. My smile gets too big to hold back. I try to sit still, but stillness is a tight dress I never learned to wear.

The door at the front clicks. Footsteps. I know the sound of his walk, measured and warm, like someone counting time by the way a heart ought to beat. My ears perk before I even see him. And then there he is—Christopher—filling the doorway with that familiar half-smile and the same navy jacket from last week. Our eyes catch, and something in my chest lifts like a balloon that finally got its string untangled.

I’m up without thinking, paws skittering for a heartbeat as I shift into a smaller shape to close the distance—then back, because I want him to see all of me. He doesn’t hesitate. He opens his arms. I leap, and he catches me, strong and sure, like he was always planning to. He spins me once, my laugh bubbling out on its own, the room lifting into a circle of light and air. When he sets me down, his hands stay at my elbows just a second longer than necessary, the kind of extra that says I’m here without needing to say anything at all.

“Ready???” he asks.

I nod so hard my beanie slips sideways. He adjusts it for me, gentle fingers, careful touch, and my cheeks ache from smiling. The shelter worker brings the paperwork. I sign. He signs. The scanner beeps over my microchip. The printer hums. I’ve done this part before, too many times—but today my stomach doesn’t drop. Today, it floats.

We step into the hallway. Each step sounds different when you know it’s the last one you’ll take in a place. Outside, the air tastes like early autumn—clean and a little sharp, with a hint of roasted chestnuts drifting from a street cart. The city is loud in all the usual ways—buses sighing, scooters whining past, a chorus of crosswalk chirps—but the noise feels like a song I could learn.

Christopher opens the car door and offers a hand. I climb in, tucking my legs under me, and he buckles me in like I’m something precious. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t talk just to fill the quiet. He glances over and smiles the kind of smile that says we’ve got time.

As we pull away, the shelter shrinks in the side mirror, the way old chapters do. My ears settle against my head, relaxed and warm under the beanie. I smooth the front of my hoodie and find that little note again. For today. For comfort. I press it flat against my palm and hold it there until the paper picks up my heat.

I’ve made myself small for a long time. Today, I feel bigger than I’ve ever felt—even in a tiny puppy body. Maybe that’s what home is: the place where small doesn’t mean less.

Christopher reaches across the console, not to take, just to offer. I curl my fingers around his, and everything in me, all the skittish parts and clever parts and lonely parts, exhales.

I have to say it—out loud, to make it real: “I think I’ve found my forever home.”

♧⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞♧

End Of POV

♧⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞♧

Tags: @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

His sick... Seventeen's Jeonghan

Disclaimer ⚠️❗️⚠️❗️: Mention of sickness

Summary : Which Aileen rushes to see about Jeonghan at the hospital

Aileen's POV

I'm on my way to see Jeonghan, clutching my phone like it's the only thing keeping me upright. Joshua called ten minutes ago-his voice tight, words tumbling-Jeonghan passed out at practice. I told him not to go. I told him. He was a furnace against me last night, skin damp, breath shallow. But did he listen??? Of course not. Now I'm dodging pedestrians and traffic lights that take too long, replaying his hoarse laugh when I said, "Please, just skip tomorrow." He kissed my knuckles and said, "I'll be fine." He wasn't.

The hospital smells like antiseptic and old coffee. Fluorescent lights hum above the reception desk, casting this washed-out glow that makes everyone look fragile. I check in, get a room number, and there-Seungcheol's already waiting, shoulders squared like he can hold the ceiling up if it falls. When he spots me, some of that iron softens.

We fall into step down a narrow corridor, floor polished to a mirror's shine.

"What even happened???" My voice comes out thinner than I mean it to.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. "We were in the middle of practice. I caught it in the mirror-one second he's moving, next second he just... drops. Like his legs forgot how to be legs. When I got to him, he was burning up."

Something in me buckles, a quiet crack. "He wasn't feeling well last night," I say, staring at the scuffed toe of my shoe as it squeaks on the floor. "He spent half the night over the toilet. Fever, chills-the works."

Seungcheol's jaw tightens. "He didn't tell me any of that. If I'd known..." His voice trails, frustration catching on the words. "He wouldn't have gone."

I nod because I don't trust my mouth. The hallway turns, and we pass a vending machine humming to itself, a poster about handwashing, a nurse pushing a cart with neatly coiled tubing. Everything is too calm for the way my heart is rattling.

We reach his room. The door is half open, and the staccato beep of the heart monitor cuts through the sterile air. He's there. Jeonghan looks small in the bed, which is ridiculous because he never looks small-he looks like he could bend a room to his will with a smile-but now the sheets swallow him. There's an IV in his arm, a plastic clip on his finger blinking a soft red. His hair is messy, falling into his eyes.

He's still out.

I cross the room before I realize I'm moving. The chair squeals when I pull it closer, and I sit. His hand is warm under mine, warmer than it should be, and I run my thumb over his knuckles, tracing the soft ridges and tiny, familiar scars. He always has a new one. He jokes that the choreography bites back. I swallow around the ache in my throat.

Joshua slips in quietly, hovering by the door. He looks tired in a way that sinks into bones. "They said dehydration and a high fever," he says. "Probably a stomach bug, maybe gastritis. They're running tests."

"Is he in pain???" I ask.

"They gave him fluids and something for the fever." Joshua's eyes flick to Jeonghan and then to me. "He'll be okay."

The words are soft and careful, like he's laying a blanket over me. I nod, still brushing my thumb over the back of Jeonghan's hand. His fingers twitch, barely, like he's dreaming of reaching for something.

A memory presses up against me-last night, the bathroom light harsh against tile, him hunched over the sink, cheeks pale, eyes watery. I made ginger tea with too much honey because that's how he'll drink it. He thanked me and made a joke about me being a good nurse, and I said, "Don't even." He shivered, and I put another blanket over him and tucked it under his shoulders like he was going to run away, and then I asked him to promise he'd rest. He nodded without looking at me, and I let it go because I wanted to believe him.

Seungcheol drags a hand over his face. "Doctors said his blood pressure dropped when he stood up too fast," he says. "Between the fever and being dehydrated, his body just said no."

I glance up at him. "He listens to the music more than he listens to me."

"He listens to the music more than he listens to anyone," Seungcheol says, and despite everything, it makes me laugh-short, wet, real. His mouth twitches. "I'll handle the manager. He's not stepping back on a dance floor until you say so."

Joshua snorts. "Until his fever's gone and he can stand without wobbling would be a good start."

Silence settles, but it's not awkward. The kind of quiet where everyone is breathing together. The monitor keeps time for us. The IV drip clicks. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings and rings and then stops.

I lean closer. "Hey, idiot," I whisper to Jeonghan. "You scared me." The words catch on a laugh that's more like a sob. "I told you not to go. Next time you argue with me, make sure you win in a way that doesn't involve fainting."

His eyelids flutter, a flicker, and then nothing. I smooth his hair away from his forehead. It's sweaty again, but cooler than it was last night. Progress measured in degrees.

A doctor steps in with a clipboard and a brisk smile. She introduces herself, gives us the update-fluids are helping, fever is coming down, labs pending, likely a gastrointestinal infection compounded by overexertion. "He needs rest," she says, like the word is a prescription. "No training, light foods when the nausea settles, and plenty of fluids. We'll keep him a few more hours for observation."

Seungcheol straightens. "We'll make sure he rests."

"Good," the doctor says, making a note. "One of you can stay with him while he wakes up. Keep him calm. Dehydration can make people feel foggy."

After she leaves, Joshua squeezes my shoulder and says he'll go call the others. Seungcheol checks his messages-manager, schedule, the world outside this room. He moves to the window, and I can see the careful calculations in his posture, the rearranging of commitments. Everything bends around Jeonghan in its own way, and that's another thing I love about them-even when they forget to love themselves.

I sit there and hold his hand like it's a promise I'm making to both of us. I tell him about the tiny details of the day-the crooked poster in the hallway, the vending machine that only takes coins, how the nurse's scrubs have tiny lemons on them. I tell him mundane things so that when he swims up out of sleep, he has a shoreline to aim for. I tell him that when he wakes up, I'm going to argue with him loudly but only after he eats something. I tell him that I'm not mad-well, I am, but only because I was scared.

When his lashes finally tremble again, it's like the room exhales. His eyes open slowly, unfocused, pupils adjusting. He turns his head toward the sound of the monitor and then toward me, as if triangulating where he's supposed to be. He tries a smile; it's weak and beautiful.

"Hey," he croaks.

"Hey," I say, and the relief makes me dizzy. "Welcome back."

He licks his lips, grimacing a little. "Water???"

I reach for the cup and guide the straw to his mouth. He takes a few careful sips, the tendons in his throat moving. "Slow," I say, because I have to say something, because if I don't, the leftover fear will spill out of me.

He sinks back, eyes half-mast. "Sorry," he whispers, and I know he means for all of it-for scaring me, for pushing himself, for the thing inside him that wants to give more than his body can hold.

I shake my head. "We're not doing sorry yet," I tell him. "First we're doing rest. Then we're doing soup. Then we'll see about sorry."

He huffs a ghost of a laugh, eyes sliding to where Seungcheol stands guard by the window. "Cheol's mad."

"Cheol's relieved," Seungcheol says without turning around. "Mad comes later if you try to get up before you're told."

Joshua reappears, breathless with news-everyone sends love, the manager says focus on getting better, someone's already on their way with extra clothes and a charger. Jeonghan's eyes get glassy in that grateful way he has, like kindness surprises him even after all this time.

I rub circles over the back of his hand with my thumb, matching the rhythm of the monitor. "Sleep," I tell him softly. "We've got you."

He closes his eyes, not out cold this time, but settling. The room returns to its small, steady noises: the beep, the drip, the quiet shuffle of shoes in the hall. I let my shoulders drop, finally, and breathe. In and out. In and out. Holding his hand, keeping the shoreline close...

♧⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞♧

End Of POV

♧⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞⌝⌟⌜⌞♧

@ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

My wife has what... ~~~ straykids' Seungmin

Disclaimer ⚠️❗⚠️❗: Mention of Stomach Cancer

Summary : In which Seungmin tells Jeongin, Christopher, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jisung and Felix his wife Christopher twin sister has stomach cancer

Seungmin’s POV

I watched YN finally drift off, tears still glistening on her cheeks. They clung there like they didn’t want to let go—like grief had found a place to rest. I wanted to wipe away every single one, to take her pain with them, but after today’s news I could barely hold myself together. Stomach cancer. The words wouldn’t stop echoing, an endless, awful loop.

I made sure her hair is in her bonnet, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and tucked the blanket under her chin the way she likes. Her breathing evened out—soft, shaky, then steady. I lingered for one more second, memorizing the rise and fall of her chest, the faint crease between her brows. Even asleep, she looked like she was fighting.

The hallway felt too long. The house too quiet. Every sound was loud—the click of the door, the hum of the fridge, the heavy thud of my heart. I followed the flicker of the TV light into the living room.

They were sprawled around the couch, the guys—controllers on the table, a half-finished bag of chips collapsed on its side, someone’s hoodie draped over the armrest. The movie was paused on a bright, frozen frame. Easy smiles faded the second they saw my face.

“What’s the matter, hyung???” Jeongin asked, already pushing himself upright.

“It’s YN,” I said, and my voice came out smaller than I expected.

Christopher sat up straight, the leader in him taking over even as his eyes searched my face. “What’s wrong with my sister???”

I swallowed. The words burned. “She went to the hospital today,” I managed.

“And...” Minho’s voice was careful, bracing, like he already knew we were standing at the edge of something and didn’t want to push me over.

“She has stomach cancer.”

Saying it out loud broke something in me. My knees hit the carpet, and the sobs came—sharp, ugly, unstoppable. The room blurred. Hands were suddenly everywhere: Felix’s arms pulled me into a tight hug, warm and steady; Changbin’s hand anchored between my shoulder blades; Hyunjin pressed a tissue into my palm with shaking fingers; Jisung knelt beside me, his forehead almost touching mine like he was trying to share the weight. Jeongin hovered close, eyes red and wide, like he was trying not to cry and failing. Christopher wrapped an arm around my shoulders and didn’t say anything at first—just breathed with me until my breathing remembered how.

No one moved for a while. The only sounds were the quiet, ragged breaths around the room and the soft tick of the wall clock. The paused TV felt like another person in the room, holding its breath.

“Did she tell you anything else???” Christopher asked finally, voice low, careful.

I nodded, wiping my face, taking a moment to find words that didn’t break in the middle. “She… she said she went alone because she didn’t want to worry us unless it was real. She said she’ll get more tests. I asked if I could tell you. She said yes. She… she didn’t want to do this alone.” My voice cracked on the last word.

“She never has to,” Felix said, his accent thicker when he’s upset. He tightened his arm around me once and then let go, sitting back on his heels, eyes glassy.

Minho leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it could give him answers. “Okay. First—she’s sleeping???”

“She cried herself to sleep,” I said. The image of her face made fresh tears sting my eyes. “I didn’t want to leave, but I knew—” I looked around at them. “I knew I had to tell you.”

“You did the right thing,” Hyunjin murmured. He took a breath, straightened, and wiped his own eyes with the back of his hand. “We should make a plan.”

That was all Christopher needed to hear. He shifted gears, not cold, just steady. “We keep this tight for now. No leaks. No rumors. We protect her first.”

Heads nodded around the room.

“I’ll call management,” Christopher continued. “We’ll clear schedules where we can. If we have to move things, we move them. No shows are more important than her.”

“I’ll cook,” Minho said immediately. “Porridge, broths—gentle stuff. No spices that will hurt her stomach. We’ll make a weekly plan.”

“I’ll make a playlist,” Jisung blurted, then winced at how small that sounded. “I mean—I want her to have something that feels like a hug when she can’t sleep. And I’ll write with her in mind. Songs that… hold her.”

Jeongin nodded hard. “I can drive her to appointments,” he said. “Even if they’re early. I’ll clean the car, make it nice. I’ll keep snacks she can have.” Then softer, “I’ll sit with her if she wants quiet.”

“I’ll stay tonight,” Felix offered. “On the couch. In case she wakes up and needs someone. If she needs tea, water, anything.”

Changbin’s jaw was tight. “I’ll research,” he said, then caught Christopher’s warning look. “From real sources. Carefully. Second opinions. Questions to ask. I won’t drown us in the internet. I’ll print what matters.”

Hyunjin squeezed my arm. “I’ll make her room calm,” he said. “Fresh sheets. Open the window a little for air. Soft light. I’ll put her favorite photos where she can see them.”

“And I’ll talk to her,” Christopher said, meeting my eyes. “Tomorrow. Not to pry—just to let her know we’re here and we’re not going anywhere.”

I nodded, overwhelmed by the way they filled the spaces I couldn’t, by the way love in this room was something you could touch. “She’s scared,” I said. “But she was trying to be brave for me. Kept joking about hospital gowns like they’re the worst fashion in the world.” I tried to smile and almost managed. “She asked if I thought she could pull off the ‘patient chic’ look.”

A few quiet laughs slipped out around the room—wet, hiccuping, human.

“Of course she can,” Jisung said, sniffing. “She can pull off anything.”

Silence settled again, but it was a different kind—soft, held together by purpose. I could breathe without my chest caving in.

“I should check on her,” I said.

“Wait,” Minho said, already on his feet. “Take this.” He came back from the kitchen with a glass of water, the kind of simple thing that felt like salvation. “If she wakes up.”

I took it with both hands. “Thanks.”

The hallway felt less endless on the way back. I nudged the door open with my foot and slipped inside, setting the water on the nightstand. The room smelled like her shampoo. Moonlight painted a faint square on the floor. She stirred, barely, and I froze.

“Seungmin???” her voice floated up, more breath than sound.

“I’m here,” I whispered, perching on the edge of the bed. “Go back to sleep.”

Her lashes fluttered. “You okay???”

No. Yes. Somehow both. “I will be,” I said. “We will be. The guys know. They’re here. We’re all here.”

A tear slid from the corner of her eye into her hairline, but her face softened. “Okay,” she breathed. “Don’t go far.”

“Never,” I said, brushing my thumb under her eye. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She sank back under, sleep tugging her down. I sat there a while, counting her breaths like they were prayers.

When I rejoined the others, the living room had changed without moving a thing. The TV was off. The lights were low. There was a list started on a notepad with small, neat handwriting—Hyunjin’s, probably—bullet points for groceries, phone calls, reminders. Felix had folded a blanket on the couch. Changbin had a folder set out on the coffee table with a pen tucked in the spine. Jisung was humming under his breath, a melody that already sounded like comfort. Jeongin was quietly stacking the controllers, tidying what he could control. Minho was in the kitchen, a pot warming, steam rising like a promise.

I sank onto the arm of the couch, and for the first time that day, the ache in my chest loosened.

“We don’t know what’s going to happen,” Christopher said, not pretending otherwise. “But we know what we can do today. We’ll take this one step at a time. We’ll make sure she never has to face a single second of this alone.”

I looked around at them—my family—and felt the shape of a vow forming, solid and unbreakable.

Whatever the tests say. Whatever the road looks like. However long, however hard.

We will be there for her. Always...

≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫

End Of POV

≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫

Tags : @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

The Aftermath 😔 ~~~ BTS's Namjoon

Disclaimer ⚠️❗⚠️❗: Death, lose, coping... Mainly just said sad

Summary : In which Namjoon is struggle after the death of his wife, but his girl best friend help with his daughter...

Namjoon's POV

Right now I'm rocking my daughter-our daughter.

The living room is dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the blinds, and the hum of the fridge sounds like an ocean I can't reach. My arms are numb, my back is on fire, and Sumiko is a small, warm moon on my chest, orbiting in and out of sobs. She's three weeks old and I swear most of her life has been spent crying. I get it. Some nights I want to cry with her until there's nothing left.

I lost my wife the day Sumiko was born. Postpartum hemorrhage. They kept saying things like "her vitals are stable" and "it's within normal limits," and we kept saying, "she's cold" and "she's lightheaded" and "please, please listen," and nobody did. I'm suing the hospital, not because I think a courtroom can fix anything, but because I need it on record that she mattered and we weren't crazy. Still, none of it brings her back. I still wake up trying to text her. I still reach out at night for a hand that isn't there.

The worst part is knowing Sumiko was pressed to her mother's chest when the monitors flattened. The nurse later told me the baby quieted for a second like she heard something go quiet inside the woman who made her. I don't know if babies can remember that. But sometimes, when Sumiko cries like the sound is leaving claw marks on her throat, I feel like she knows exactly what's missing and can't say it.

"Jimin, Taehyung, Jeongguk, Seokjin, Yoongi and Hoseok" have been showing up in shifts. Groceries appear. Laundry disappears and comes back folded like a miracle. Someone installed blackout curtains. Someone assembled the bassinet twice because the first time I did it with shaking hands and made it crooked. My phone buzzes with, You sleeping at all??? and Send me a list, hyung, don't argue. It helps. It doesn't fix. Both can be true.

And Minsoo-

Minsoo has been a lifeline. She and my wife were close like sisters, the kind that fight about nothing and then show up with soup ten minutes later. She has keys to the apartment and permission to look at me and say, "Eat." She's been here almost every day, moving quiet, moving gentle, holding the baby with the same care she used on my feelings when everything shattered.

I'm still rocking Sumiko when I hear soft steps and the whisper of cotton on the hallway wall. Minsoo wanders in, hair in a messy knot, rubbing sleep from her eyes with the back of her hand.

"My milk is coming in now," she says, voice hoarse with not enough rest. "Let me try."

I nod before I can even line the words up. My yes is a flood. I stand and shift Sumiko to her, careful with her head, careful like handing over a planet. Minsoo sinks into the chair by the window and unclips her nursing tank with a practiced awkwardness I've learned is normal. She brings Sumiko to her breast, guides her gently, waits. There's a tiny pop, then a latch. Minsoo flinches, face tightening. She closes her eyes and breathes.

"Something wrong???" I whisper, because everything in me is wired to fix what hurts and I keep learning there are pains you can only breathe through.

"It hurts," she murmurs, voice a thin thread. "But Sumiko needs this. The formula is only making her sick."

I think about the pediatrician's office and the way Sumiko's little belly arched and how the formula came right back up, sour and stubborn. I think about the rash that bloomed on her cheeks, red as a scream. I think about standing in the kitchen at 3 a.m. googling hydrolyzed this and hypoallergenic that while the kettle screamed too. I nod. My chest is tight in a way that might break me or hold me together; I never know which.

Minsoo started medication to induce lactation last week. Her doctor walked us through it, slow and careful, asked a thousand questions, made sure we understood. It wasn't a small decision. It wasn't casual. She looked at me in the parking lot afterward, hand on the car roof, eyes wet. "If I can do this," she said, "I want to. For her. For you. For her." It took me a full minute to answer because the gratitude was too big to fit in my mouth. I think I just nodded then too.

Now Sumiko takes a breath and then starts swallowing for real-little gulps, pause, gulps again. Minsoo's shoulders drop a fraction. Relief is a quiet thing in this room, but it's here. I sit on the edge of the coffee table facing them, elbows on my knees, hands clasped like a prayer I keep forgetting the words to.

"Do you need anything???" I ask. "Water??? Pillow??? I can-"

She cracks an eye open. "Sit," she says. "If you hover you're going to pass out."

I smile, lips pulling at a grief that doesn't know how to let go. "Yes, ma'am."

We sit like that for a while. The clock ticks. A car door slams somewhere far away. Sumiko's breathing shifts into that soft, rhythmic sigh babies do when the world has finally given them something they recognize. Minsoo winces again and then exhales, shoulders softening each time like waves pulling off the shore.

"You're doing something impossible," I say, not expecting an answer.

She snorts. "It's biology. Women have been doing impossible forever."

"I know," I say. "Still."

When Sumiko unlatches, she's heavy with milk and sleep. Minsoo burps her carefully, rubbing small circles on her back, and a perfect little froggy sound burbles out of my kid like we rehearsed it. We both laugh-real, quick, surprised laughter that feels like finding a light switch in a dark room. Minsoo kisses the top of Sumiko's head without thinking about it, then catches herself and looks at me.

"Is that okay???"

"Please," I say. "She should be kissed. A lot."

Minsoo nods, wipes under her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I'm going to pump after I put her down, build a stash. If she tolerates this, we can keep going. I'll need to take breaks to rest my breasts. And you need to promise me you'll sleep when she sleeps or I'll hide your phone in the freezer."

I put a hand over my heart. "Swear it."

She rolls her eyes, but there's warmth there that keeps me from unraveling. She stands, bones clicking, and lowers Sumiko into the bassinet beside the couch. We both watch to make sure our tiny tyrant stays asleep. She does. I didn't know relief could have a sound, but it's us exhaling in the same second.

While Minsoo sets up the pump in the bedroom, I gather the bottles and parts from earlier. Hot water. Soap. The slow ritual of washing plastic and silicone like I'm cleaning artifacts from a life I didn't know I'd be living. The kitchen smells like coffee and baby shampoo. There's a sweater of my wife's still draped over the chair by the island. I move it sometimes to wipe down the surface, then put it back where it was like I'm not ready for the room to forget she was here.

My phone buzzes: You good??? Need anything???The group chat is a steady hum. I text back a photo of Sumiko's sleeping face and write, We got her to latch. Minsoo is a hero. A rain of heart emojis and exclamation points hits the screen. Then: Proud of you. Then: Eat something or I'm coming over with dumplings. I type Okay and say it out loud so it counts.

Later, after a nap I didn't mean to take and a shower where I cried without making any noise, the lawyer calls. We talk about dates and timelines, about records we need, about the nurse who left a note in the file that contradicts her earlier statement. I stand at the window, watch people walk their dogs, feel the world going on like it's allowed to. When I hang up, I find myself in the nursery.

My wife chose the wallpaper-little paper cranes flying across a pale blue sky. She said the room needed something that made it look like hope, not just storage for diapers. There's a mobile above the crib she assembled with precision and joy; I'm terrified to touch it in case I knock the balance off and everything clatters. I sit in the rocking chair and let it move me because I can't make myself move on my own.

Minsoo appears in the doorway, leaning on the frame. "She took the other side," she says, voice soft. "It was better. Less pain."

"Does it ever not hurt???" I ask.

She thinks about it. "Some days it won't. Some days it will and you'll do it anyway because love is stubborn. You know that."

I do. I nod. She steps in, puts a small tin on the dresser. "Lanolin," she says. "For me, but also... I put some lip balm for you there too. You look like you've been walking through the desert."

I laugh, a watery sound. "You're rude."

"I'm correct," she says, grinning, and that makes me feel like the floor is steady.

In the evening, when the sun is low and the apartment turns gold, Sumiko winds up again. We try all the tricks-swaddle, sway, shush, that ridiculous white-noise machine that sounds like a jet engine. I hum the melody my wife used to hum when we brushed our teeth together, some nonsense tune we made up that got stuck in our heads for days. Sumiko blinks up at me and then screams anyway. Minsoo takes her, paces the hallway, holds her high on her shoulder so the belly pressure shifts. The crying stutters, then stops, then starts again. Finally, finally, we settle into the chair together-me on the ottoman, Minsoo with Sumiko to her breast-and it quiets. I feel the night shift around us like it's making space.

"I can't repay you," I say, voice barely there.

"You're not supposed to," she says. "This isn't a debt. This is a family."

The word lands in me like a flare. Family. I want to tell her I love her, not like I loved my wife-nothing is the same as that-but in a way that's rooted in the ground we're standing on, the messy, holy, everyday work of keeping a tiny human alive. I don't say it. I'm too raw and the world is too fragile right now. Instead, I get up, make her tea, put it by her elbow, sit back down.

"Thank you," I say. It feels too small, but it's true.

She nods. "Get some rest."

I do. On the couch, under a thin blanket, listening to the soft pull and swallow of my daughter feeding and the steady breath of the woman who showed up and kept showing up. The apartment smells like milk and clean cotton and the ghost of my wife's perfume that lives in the closet and follows me like a memory. I sleep.

When I wake up, it's dark and quiet and my phone tells me it's 2:17 a.m. Minsoo is asleep in the chair, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, a halo of flyaways catching the streetlight. Sumiko is curled on her chest, milk-drunk, fingers twitching like she's dreaming of grasping something. I stand and watch them breathe. I put a blanket over Minsoo's knees. I touch Sumiko's back and whisper, "We've got you. We've got you." It's a promise I plan to keep with every tired, ordinary, stubborn breath I have...

≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫

End Of POV

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Tags : @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

Asthma attack ~~~ TXT's Yeonjun

Summary : In which Soulynn ends up have a asthma attack...

Soulynn's POV

We're still tangled in the sheets, skin warm, hearts slowing back down, when the air goes thin on me. At first I think it's just the afterglow-breathing hard, a little dizzy-but then that familiar tight fist closes around my chest and won't let go.

Nope. Not now. Please not now.

I try a slow breath. It scrapes. The next one is worse. Every inhale feels like trying to sip air through a coffee stirrer. Heat blooms under my skin. Sweat sticks my hair to my neck. Panic nips at the back of my tongue.

I roll off the bed, because the floor is cooler, because cold helps, because moving feels like doing something. The thud is louder than I meant it to be. The wood is blessedly cool under my cheek. I press my palm to my chest, like I can pry it open. In, out, in-nope. My throat whistles. The room tilts a little. Black confetti dots the edges of my sight.

Where's my inhaler. Where's my-why didn't I put it back on the nightstand? I paw blindly at the rug, fingers closing on nothing. The cool tastes like dust. My lips tingle and I hate that I know what that means.

Yeonjun, I try to call, but it comes out as a broken squeak. My ribs feel cinched with tape. I purse my lips like they told me to, try to keep the exhale slow, count it out-one, two, three, four-but the numbers skip because my lungs don't want to listen.

Not your fault, I tell myself, even though guilt pricks hot anyway. Not his. Not mine. Just my stupid lungs throwing hands at 2 a.m.

My vision flickers. There's a soft thud beside me, a rush of warm, steady hands, and that's when I finally let the panic wobble, because he's here.

≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫

End of POV

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Yeonjun's POV

The thud yanks me out of whatever hazy dream I was floating in. The bed is suddenly too empty. Cold air slaps my skin when I sit up, and then I see her-curled on the floor, eyes wide and glassy, mouth open, pulling for air that isn't coming. Her lips are edging purple-blue.

Everything in me wants to freak out. I don't. We practiced this. Asthma. Move.

"I've got you, babe," I say, and keep my voice low, soft. I slide an arm under her shoulders, lifting her just enough to get the pillow under her head so her chest can open. Her fingers scrabble at my wrist-tight, scared. "In with me. Slow as you can."

The nebulizer is where it always is, bottom drawer, right side. My hands are already moving. Snap the drawer. Vial, mask, tubing. The plastic bites cool against my fingers. I break the seal, twist in the med. Machine hums alive, a little rattly. The sound has never been prettier.

Mask on her face. Elastic slides over her hair. I hold it snug, not tight. "You're okay. Medicine's going in. Listen." I turn her toward the flow, watch the vapor curl, watch it fog the inside of the cup.

She tries to speak. Don't. I shake my head, give her my eyes, steady. "Save your breath, love. I've got you."

Blue candle by the bed is still lit-stupid. I blow it out, crack the window, flick every fan to high. The room shifts from heavy to moving air. I peel the duvet off her legs, grab a cold washcloth and press it to the back of her neck. She shivers. Good. Cooling helps.

I sit on the floor and tuck my knees under hers so she feels held without me crushing her. My thumb hovers over my phone. We said call if the lips stayed blue, if she couldn't speak, if she wasn't improving. I watch the color like it's the only thing that matters. The blue stills. Doesn't get worse. Please, please.

"Look at me," I say. Her eyes drag to mine. "We're gonna breathe together, okay??? In for two, out for four. If you can't do four, do three. If you can't do three, do two. It still counts."

I breathe loud enough for her to hear me over the hum. In-one, two. Out-one, two, three, four. Her shoulders tremble on the inhale, but the exhale starts to lengthen. The wheeze is high and angry, then it dips, just a little, to that softer, lower tone I've learned to love because it means the meds are landing.

Her fingers find mine. Squeeze. It's weak, but it's there.

"Thumbs up if you're okay," I say, because sometimes words are rocks. Her thumb twitches. Half a sunbeam shows through the storm.

I brush the damp hair from her forehead. "I'm sorry," tumbles out of me before I can stop it. "I should've turned on the fan and cracked the window. I should've-"

She scowls at me around the mask. Even now, even balloon-chested and panting, my girl has attitude. She gives a little shake of her head, squeezes my hand a second time. The message is loud anyway: stop blaming yourself.

"Okay," I whisper. "Okay. Not my fault. Not yours. Just lungs being drama."

Minutes stretch. The hum and the fan and the rhythm of her breaths become the whole universe. The blue recedes. Pink creeps back into her lips. Her shoulders lower a fraction. The worst of the wheeze gives way to that soft, damp cough. Her hand shakes-the albuterol tremors-but I'll take shaky over blue any day.

I swap the mask to the other hand so I can rub small circles between her shoulder blades, pressure gentle but steady. "That's it. Medicine's doing its thing. I'm right here."

When the cup starts to sputter, I tap it so the last drops go through. I let it run another minute because anxiety is loud, then click it off. The room feels too quiet without it.

She blinks up at me. "Water," she croaks, voice scratchy, and it's the best sound I've ever heard. I grab the glass on the dresser, tuck the straw under the mask for a tiny sip. She takes it slow, then another.

"Jittery," she says, showing me her trembling fingers like I might have an off switch.

"Jittery is good," I say, kissing the knuckles. "Jittery means oxygen's coming back to the party."

She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifts. I peel the mask away, check her nails, check her lips. Still pink. Still breathing. I set the neb aside, wipe her face with the cool cloth, and she leans into my hand like a cat.

I help her sit up against the side of the bed, pile pillows behind her so her chest stays open. The fan tosses her hair; the window breathes cool night into the room. I tuck a throw over her legs. Stupid candle is cold wax now. Good.

"Hey," I say, softer. "We're moving the inhaler to the nightstand. Like, clipped to it with a carabiner. And I'm cleaning that candle out tomorrow. No more scents in here, deal?"

She nods, tiny. "Deal," she whispers. Then, after a beat, "You okay???"

It makes me laugh, helpless and a little wet around the edges. "Am I okay??? You're the one who tried to fight the air with your bare lungs."

She leans her head against my shoulder. "I didn't want to wake you," she admits, voice small.

"Wake me. Always wake me," I say, instantly. "Kick me. Throw a pillow. Hit me with the inhaler. I don't care. Just wake me."

Her fingers twist in my shirt. "I hate that it happens after... y'know."

"I know," I say. "We'll set the room up first next time. Window, fans, water, neb primed like we're defusing a bomb. Very sexy."

She snorts, then coughs, and I rub her back through it until it eases. The tremor in her hands is less now. The lines at her eyes are smoothing out. She tips her chin up, and I kiss her forehead, the bridge of her nose, the spot between her brows that always unknots when I find it.

"Thank you," she says, so quiet I almost miss it.

"Always," I say. "That's the gig."

We sit on the floor until her breathing sounds like breathing again, not fighting. The city outside is a hush of tires and a dog three buildings over complaining at nothing. The fan hums. The window lets in a ribbon of cool. Eventually I ease us both back into bed, propping her on extra pillows because it helps, pulling the lighter blanket up instead of the heavy duvet.

I set the nebulizer within arm's reach, coil the tubing neat, put her inhaler on my side of the bed too, because redundancy is love language. I take the candle off the dresser, drop it in the trash, and she gives me a sleepy thumbs up that makes my chest ache in the best way.

When I slide in beside her, she immediately tucks into me, nose to my collarbone, breath warm and even. I keep one hand on her back, counting the rise and fall out of habit until the count itself starts to lull me.

"In," I murmur, half to her, half to me. "Out." And for the first time since the thud, I let my own lungs do it easy...

≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈°

End Of POV

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Tags : @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

Accident ~~~ The Boyz' Hyunjae

Disclaimer ⚠️❗⚠️❗: Blood, sickness, medical talk.

Summary : Hyunjae is running away from some "fans" I crashed into Nalani...

Hyunjae’s POV

I’m running flat out, lungs burning, cap pulled low, mask tugged high. My sneakers slap the pavement in a frantic rhythm that doesn’t drown out the shrieks behind me.

“Daddy!!! Make me pregnant!!! I’ll do anything!!!”

They’re laughing as they say it, but it hits like a punch. Phones are up, flashes like lightning. My heartbeat stutters. I duck down a side street I’ve taken a thousand times without thinking, the route muscle memory carved for emergencies like this. I shouldn’t have gone out alone. I shouldn’t have thought the hoodie would be enough.

I risk a glance over my shoulder—rookie mistake—and collide with someone coming around the corner. The impact is solid, human, soft where I’m all bone and adrenaline. She spins, heel catching the lip of a planter, and goes down. The sound her head makes when it clips stone is the kind of sound that lives in your ears afterward, a dull, awful crack that turns my blood cold.

For a heartbeat I just stare. Then I’m on my knees in glassy sunlight, hands shaking as I reach for her. She’s young. Not a kid, but young. There’s a smear of blood snaking through her hairline, and her eyes slit open, glazed with shock, not focusing on me or anything at all.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” My voice is breath and panic.

The crowd hits the mouth of the alley like a wave finding a cove. A chorus of gasps, the metallic whisper of more cameras raised. Someone says my name—my real one—and my skull tightens. I shrug out of my jacket and wrap it around her head and shoulders, shielding her face from the lenses, from the world. I slide an arm under her knees, another under her back, and lift. She’s lighter than I expect, or maybe adrenaline makes me stronger. Either way I’m moving, legs churning, shoulder to the wind.

“Move!!!” I bark at the knot of bodies. For once, they do. A path opens. I keep my face down, my pace steady. Someone screams that I’m kidnapping her. Someone else laughs like this is content and not a disaster. I fix my eyes on the gate ahead—black iron, blessedly close—and force myself not to sprint. Sprinting is sloppy. I can’t drop her. Not now.

Gate. Code. Beep. Beep. The lock gives and I shoulder inside, slam the metal behind me, and twist the deadbolt. The sudden quiet rushes in like a vacuum. My hands won’t stop shaking as I cross the courtyard into the house, kick the door shut, and lay her gently on the couch. I peel the jacket back.

Blood is a bright, rude color on soft skin. It runs from her hairline in thin trails, beads along her temple, dapples her cheek. One of her eyes is trying to stay open; the other is a reluctant half-mast. She looks like the world tilted and forgot to right itself.

“Hyungs!!!” The word rips out of me. “Hyungs!!!”

Footsteps hammer through the hall. The living room explodes with bodies—Sangyeon first, all tension and leader’s eyes; Jacob right behind him, palms up, scanning; Younghoon on their heels, already halfway to annoyed because that’s how he handles fear.

“What did you do???” Younghoon demands, voice sharp because he’s scared. His stare bounces from me to her to the blood and back.

“Her head—Hyunjae, she’s bleeding. It’s not a scratch.” Jacob’s already moving, sweeping magazines off the coffee table with one arm and yanking the first-aid kit from under it with the other. He flips it open like a pro.

Sangyeon doesn’t raise his voice, but it cuts cleaner than a shout. “Explain. Now.”

I swallow, taste iron, and the words tumble out. “Fans. A lot. I looked back for half a second and ran into her, and she fell, and I couldn’t leave her with them, and—” I’m gesturing toward the door, to the jacket, to the blood. “I brought her.”

The girl gags. It’s a small, desperate sound, and fear threads through it. Jacob thrusts a small trash bin into my hands. “Sit her up. Slowly.” I wedge an arm behind her shoulders, lift carefully. She retches, and bile hits the bottom of the bin with a wet sound. I rub circles between her shoulder blades, steady with a hand that doesn’t feel like mine.

“You’re okay,” I murmur because I don’t know what else to do. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Younghoon’s already on his phone. “Dr. Lee. Head injury, bleeding, probably a concussion,” he says, eyes pinned on the gash. “Address is the same. Hurry.” He listens, nods, then hangs up. “Ten minutes,” he tells us.

Jacob digs out sterile gauze and a bottle of saline. “Hyunjae, I need you to hold pressure. Like this. Not too hard.” He places my hand, the pad of gauze snug against the gash, and I press. Blood wells, then slows. It coats my fingers, warm and real. The girl flinches, breath shuddering.

Sangyeon kneels on the other side of the couch, palms open, voice soft. “Hey. Can you hear me???” She blinks slow. “What’s your name???” No answer. “Okay. That’s okay. Can you look at me???” Her eyes try. He glances at me. “Keep talking to her, Jaehyun.”

“Hyunjae,” I say, automatic. “Call me Hyunjae. It’s okay.” I wipe at the sweat pricking my neck with my shoulder. “What’s your name???” Nothing. “Do you have a phone??? I can call someone.”

She swallows, grimaces. “Bag,” she whispers, breath thin. It’s the first sound she’s made besides gagging. Jacob finds a small crossbody that must have skittered under the couch. He hands it to me. I pull out a phone, hands clumsy, thumb hovering.

“Passcode???” I ask. She blinks, disoriented. “It’s okay,” I repeat. “We can wait.”

“She needs to stay awake,” Jacob mutters, voice calm but edged. He slides a folded towel under her head to keep pressure even. He checks her pupils with the small penlight we keep for performances, eyes narrowing. “They’re responsive.”

My phone buzzes on the table—three, four, five notifications in a row. Trends brewing. Photos already up. My name. The word kidnap, that ugly, easy word. A familiar dread coils around my ribs. Sangyeon must see my eyes flick; he shakes his head, tiny, a command to focus.

We breathe with her. The room narrows to just that sound. She retches again, less. I push the bin closer. The air smells like saline and metal and fear.

Footsteps outside. The door opens before it knocks, and Dr. Lee strides in like a storm front—tall, gray at the temples, eyes that miss nothing. He drops a duffel beside the coffee table and sanitizes his hands in one smooth motion.

“Good job on the pressure,” he says, already snapping on gloves. “Let’s see.” He crouches, peels the gauze back carefully. Blood sticks, then loosens under a saline rinse. “Scalp wounds bleed a lot. Don’t panic at the volume.” He angles her face gently. “Miss??? Can you tell me your name???”

Her eyes flutter. “Nal… ani,” she whispers, voice sandpaper.

“Hi, Nalani. I’m Dr. Lee. Can you tell me what year it is???” He checks her pupils again with a brighter light. She winces.

“Two… twenty twenty-five???” she mumbles. Close enough; we all exhale a fraction.

“Good.” He palpates around the wound. She hisses. “Sorry, sorry. You fell and hit your head. I’m going to clean this and close it. You might have a mild concussion. Nausea is common. Any neck pain???” She shakes her head minutely. “Dizziness???” A nod. “Blurred vision???” Another small nod. He looks at me. “She needs a CT if symptoms escalate. For now, we can manage here.”

He irrigates the cut thoroughly, the saline hissing. Blood thins, pink streams trailing down to a towel Jacob swaps out like he’s been doing this all his life. Dr. Lee swabs with something that smells like a hospital memory—iodine—and then leans closer.

“Local anesthetic,” he warns, pulling a tiny syringe. Hyerin’s eyes go wide with the kind of fear that ignores sense. “Just a pinch.” She flinches as the needle touches skin. I find her hand without thinking, and she grips hard, fingers cold.

“You’re okay,” I say, because it’s the only thing I have. “Squeeze if you need.”

She does, and I let her. My knuckles ache by the third stitch. He doesn’t actually stitch—he uses those thin adhesive strips and a medical glue because the cut’s more of a split than a tear. It’s quick and neat and so impersonal it almost calms me.

“All right,” he says after a few minutes, voice smoothing out the edges of the room. He tapes gauze over the repair and secures it with netting through her hair. “No sign of skull fracture. Pupils are reactive. Vitals are steady.” He takes them without comment—pulse, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, each number a lifeline. “She’s concussed. She needs observation for the next twenty-four hours. No screens. No alcohol. Small sips of water. If she vomits more than two or three times, gets a severe headache, becomes unusually drowsy, or if her speech slurs or she can’t recognize people, you go to the ER.”

Sangyeon nods, already absorbing it into a plan. “She shouldn’t go home alone.”

Nalani swallows. “I… I don’t live far,” she says, voice steadier now, tentative. “I can call my roommate.” Her eyes flick to me and away, embarrassment rising under the paleness.

“Let’s have your roommate come here,” Jacob suggests gently. “You should rest before moving.”

“Please,” I add, too fast. Her gaze returns, caught between gratitude and confusion. “We’ll cover your taxi. Or drive you. And… I’m sorry.” The apology tastes thin compared to the weight of it in my chest. “I shouldn’t have—”

“You didn’t push me,” she says, surprising me. “I wasn’t looking either.” Her mouth twitches like she’s trying to make it easier on me. “I’m not… a fan. I mean, I know who you are, but I wasn’t—” She stops, blushes, then winces because blushing apparently hurts right now.

Younghoon clears his throat, rescue disguised as impatience. “Names and numbers,” he says, shoving a notepad and pen at me. “For logistics. Also, we should call security. The front is probably a mess.”

As if summoned, the distant swell of voices leaks through the walls, a blurred chorus of speculation and the occasional scream of a name. My phone vibrates again, relentless. Sangyeon catches my eye. “I’ll handle the gate,” he says, already moving. “No one in. No one out.”

Dr. Lee hands over a small card with aftercare instructions in neat print. “She’ll be sleepy. Don’t let her sleep for more than an hour at a time for the next six hours. Wake her, check orientation—name, date, where she is. If she’s fine after that, she can rest. Painkillers only acetaminophen. No ibuprofen for the first day.” He softens, just a fraction. “You did the right thing bringing her out of that crowd.”

It doesn’t feel like it in my gut, but I nod anyway. “Thank you,” I say, and mean it. He packs up with a surgeon’s efficiency and is gone as fast as he came, leaving the living room smelling faintly of antiseptic and something like relief.

We shift gears. Jacob brings a glass of water, straw bending toward Nalani like a sunflower, and she takes small, careful sips. Younghoon sets a cool pack, wrapped in a towel, along the uninjured side of her head to ease the ache. I hover, useless, wanting to do everything and nothing at once.

“Do you want us to call someone for you???” Jacob asks again, softer.

“My roommate,” she says. “Minji.” She tries to sit up straighter and sways. I slide a hand behind her shoulders, guiding her back. She doesn’t flinch at my touch this time, and the fragile trust lodges under my ribcage like a splinter.

“Passcode?” I ask, lifting her phone. She hesitates, then tells me. I unlock it and find Minji in her favorites. The call connects on speaker, and a bright, worried voice answers on the second ring.

“Nalani??? Where are you??? Your location’s weird—there’s a crowd outside our block—”

“This is… a friend,” I say, stumbling over the word. “Nalani had a small accident near our place. She’s okay, but can you come here??? We’ll send the address. The crowd is… not ideal.”

There’s a beat, then a wary, “Who is this???”

“Hyunjae,” I say, and wince, because there’s no way to make that not sound like a lie. Silence, then a muttered curse, then, “I’m coming. Ten minutes. Keep her safe.” The line goes dead.

The house settles around us. Noise outside ebbs and surges, distant thunder. Security messages ping: gate secured, perimeter watched, photos prohibited. Too late for that last part, but it’s a gesture. The others drift into roles we’ve all learned—the quiet efficiency of people who’ve dealt with fear in different shapes. Sangyeon returns, locks something on his phone, nods at me. Jacob starts tidying the threshold of chaos: packaging in a neat pile, towels in a basket. Younghoon parks himself by the window, a sentinel with a furrow between his brows that doesn’t match the joke he’s probably already drafting to use later, when it’s okay to laugh.

“Does your head still hurt???” I ask Nalani, because silence presses too hard. Stupid question. Of course it does. She blinks at me, then nods, a tiny dip.

“Less,” she says. Her eyes settle on my hands, still stained along the cuticle lines despite two hasty swipes with a wipe Jacob tossed me. “You have… blood.”

“It’s yours,” I say, and then immediately hear how insane that sounds. “Not in a weird— I mean, it’s from helping— I—” My mouth keeps digging until Jacob snorts softly, the sound a relief valve. Nalani’s mouth curves, just a little, and that feels like sunlight. Then she winces, and guilt spikes sharp again.

“I’m really, really sorry,” I say, quieter. “About the fans. About running. About not looking. About… all of it.”

She studies me for a second, like she’s deciding something. “It’s not your fault people are weird,” she says, then adds, “Mostly.” Her gaze flicks toward the front door, where noise swells. “Is it… always like that???”

“No,” Younghoon answers before I can, eyes still on the window. “Sometimes it’s worse.” He glances back, softening the line with a lopsided smile. “You got the deluxe tour.”

Minji arrives like a hurricane with better shoes—bangs askew, tote bag slamming her hip, eyes slicing the room until they find Nalani. Relief collapses her shoulders, and then she’s at the couch, crouched, hands fluttering.

“What did you— Who—” Her gaze finds me, and she calibrates. “Okay. You’re you.” She points a finger. “If this ends up on the internet, I will—”

“It already is,” I admit, throat tight. “But not this. Not… you, here. We won’t let that happen.”

She narrows her eyes, scanning me for sincerity like a metal detector. Whatever she sees, it passes. “Fine.” She focuses on Nalani, voice gentle. “How’s your head???”

“Loud,” Hyerin says. “But attached.”

Minji’s laugh is wet, shaky. “Good.” She smooths hair back from the bandage, then meets Jacob’s gaze. “Instructions???”

Jacob delivers them like he was born with them. Minji nods along, asks smart questions, takes photos of the card so she won’t lose it. She thanks Dr. Lee even though he’s gone and then looks back to me.

“Do you have a back way???” she asks bluntly. “I don’t want to parade her through a zoo.”

“We do,” Sangyeon says, already moving. “Garage. We’ll pull the car around and drop you a block away.”

“I can cover her with a hoodie,” I offer, halfway to standing. “And—” And what??? Apologize again???Ask to pay their rent for a year??? Something that might feel like penance??? I sit instead. “And I’ll, um, send for the jacket later,” I finish lamely, nodding at the one still draped over the armrest.

“You can keep it,” Nalani says. “It’s probably a biohazard now.”

“Frame it,” Minji deadpans. “List it online. ‘Idol’s medically compromised jacket.’”

Younghoon snorts. “It’d sell in five minutes.”

“Not helping,” I mutter, but the edge of fear blunts with the banter. It feels like the room remembers how to be a living room and not an ER.

We move carefully. Jacob helps Nalani stand. She wobbles; I’m there without deciding to be, an arm a lever she can lean into. She fits under it like she was always supposed to be there, and then I’m stepping back because that thought is ridiculous and the world is already watching too much.

“Thank you,” she says, looking at each of us in turn. When her eyes reach mine, they stick for a second. “For… everything.”

“I’m going to check on you later,” I blurt, then realize that sounds like a threat if you don’t know me. “If that’s okay. To make sure you’re— I mean, I’ll text Minji.”

“That’s fine,” Minji says, forestalling the awkward. She squares her shoulders, re-centers. “Let’s go.”

We funnel through the quieter hallways to the garage. Security opens the side gate. The car is nondescript on purpose. Sangyeon takes the driver’s seat. Jacob slides into the passenger side to text directions. Minji helps Nalani into the back, tucking the hoodie around her face like a barrier. For a second, before the door closes, her eyes find me again. I lift a hand in a small, helpless wave. She mirrors it, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth, then the door soft-closes and the car glides out into the day.

The garage is suddenly too empty. The house is too quiet. Outside, the crowd has migrated to the wrong gate, pouring their noise into the wrong corner. It buys us a pocket of silence. I stand in it, jacketless and buzzing, and feel everything all at once.

Younghoon claps a hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm. “Next time,” he says, a grin tugging because that’s his reflex, “take me. I’m bigger than you. I can punch a fan.”

“Please don’t punch a fan,” Sangyeon calls as he reenters, tossing the keys into the bowl by the door with a sigh that ends in a laugh. “That’s a worse headline.”

Jacob nudges my elbow with a wet wipe. “You did good,” he says, simple, like he’s handing me a fact. “You didn’t leave her. You kept your head enough to get her help.”

I look down at my hands. The blood is mostly gone now, faint rust along the nail beds. “I should have kept my head before I ran into her.”

“Both things can be true,” Jacob says. “Do better tomorrow. That’s all any of us do.”

My phone vibrates. A flood of messages—manager, group chat, my mother, three friends, one number I don’t recognize. It resolves into a new contact Minji must’ve sent: Nalani’s. I stare at it for a second, then type.

This is Hyunjae. Don’t worry about replying. Just rest. I’m sorry. If you need anything—anything—text this number.

A dot appears, then disappears. Then: Thanks. Please be careful. And… it’s okay.

I exhale, a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding since the street. Outside, the tide of voices shifts, thins. Security texts: crowd dispersing. The house relaxes with me.

“Eat,” Sangyeon orders, because he is who he is. He steers me toward the kitchen, this time more big brother than leader. Younghoon opens the fridge with enthusiasm like the last twenty minutes didn’t happen. Jacob sets a plate in front of me before I can argue, and I realize my hands are still shaking faintly as I pick up a spoon.

Later, we’ll do statements and security briefs and meetings about routes and escorts and schedules. Later, there will be headlines to outrun and jokes to make so we can breathe around them. For now, there’s food and the hum of the air conditioning and the afterimage of a stranger’s hand in mine, cold and fierce and trusting for the length of three butterfly strips and a promise I intend to keep...

≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫

End Of POV

≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫≪ °❈° ≫

Tags : @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

BTS Masterlist

Seokjin(Jin) ~

Yoongi (Suga) ~

Hoseok(J-Hope) ~

Namjoon(RM) ~

The Aftermath 😔 (OneShot)

Jimin ~

Taehyung(V) ~

Jeongguk(JK/Kookie) ~

Will you be mine??? (Oneshot)

[mingis-queen97]

Will you be mine??? BTS's Jeongguk

Summary ~ In which Jeongguk finally confuse his feelings to his friend Chobi 💜❤

Jeongguk’s POV

On the way to Chobi’s place,

my brain is doing laps. Like, full-on Olympic freestyle. Hands sweaty, heart loud, playlist on shuffle but I can’t hear a single lyric because… yeah. Today’s the day. No more “maybe next time.” I’m confessing. Fr.

I text her: “outside in 5, don’t roast my hair today pls 😂”

She replies instantly: “no promises, Kookie. hurry up~”

It’s a warm Seoul evening, sky pink-orange, the kind that makes everything feel cinematic. When I step into her building, it smells faintly like laundry detergent and someone’s cooking kimchi jjigae on another floor. My phone buzzes—Taehyung: “you got this bro. don’t be weird.” Jimin: “be weird but in a cute way.” I put my phone on silent because if I look at it again, I’ll bail.

I knock. The door opens and there she is: oversized tee, gold hoops, a glossy lip that catches the light, braids pulled up in a bun that somehow looks both effortless and intentional. She smiles so wide I feel it in my ribs.

“Kookie!!!” she sings, and I swear I melt a little.

She wraps me up in a hug that smells like vanilla and citrus. I bury my face in her shoulder for half a second longer than usual, then we break apart like nothing’s different, even though everything is. Inside, her place is its usual cozy-chaotic vibe—plants thriving in the window, vinyls stacked next to a totoro plush, a half-finished watercolor on the table, sticky notes in Korean and Japanese on the fridge because of course she’s practicing both at once.

“Shoes off, sir,” she teases, pointing. “House rules.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, slipping them off. “Don’t yell at me in front of my socks.”

She laughs, that warm, bell-like sound. “You hungry??? I got mochi and leftover kimbap.”

“Always, but let’s sit first.” My voice comes out a little breathless. She narrows her eyes like she can tell something’s up, but she flops onto the couch anyway, tucking her legs under her.

“So,” she says in that dramatic show-host voice, “what brings you here today???”

I sit. My knees bounce. I press my palms against them and try to inhale like a normal human. “You know we’ve been friends for years… right???”

She smirks. “No way. For real??? Thought we met last Tuesday. Yeah, Kookie, I know. It’s been amazing being your friend.” She softens on the last words. “Like… life-saving amazing sometimes.”

That hits. My throat does this tight thing. Ngl, I could cry just thinking about every late-night call, every I’m-on-my-way when one of us was falling apart, every karaoke night where she screams-sings anime openings and I pretend I don’t know every word.

“Okay, then.” I swallow. “I don’t wanna make this weird but… I think I need to say it before my brain sprints out the window.”

She leans in, eyebrows up. “Say what???”

I rub my palms again. “I love you.” It’s out there, no decorations, no jokes. “I mean—I really love you. Not like a little crush. Like I wanna be with you, for real. I think about you when I wake up and when I crash. I plan my Saturdays around your free time like a clown. I—yeah.” I laugh, shaky. “I want to be with you.”

Her eyes go big. She doesn’t breathe for a second. Then she does that thing where she tucks her bottom lip in, like she’s thinking hard. “Do you actually mean that???” Her voice is soft but there’s steel under it. “Or are you just… caught up in a moment??? I’ve been fooled before, Kookie. Not doing that again.”

“Hey.” I shift closer, careful. “I mean it. I’ve meant it for… a while.” I can’t help the little laugh. “You remember when we met at that ramen spot and you roasted me for not slurping properly???”

She snorts. “You were eating like you were in a library.”

“Exactly. And then you taught me and I pretended I hated it but I went home and practiced like an idiot. I’ve liked you since then. Then we turned twenty-five, and you cried on my hoodie after that trash date—remember???—and I promised myself I’d wait until you were ready, until I was sure I wasn’t just being… impulsive.” I exhale. “I’m sure. Jinjja.”

Her eyes get glossy. “You’re gonna make me cry, and you know I did my eyeliner nice today. Don’t play with me like this.”

“I’m not,” I say, voice quiet. “I’m so serious. No games. If you say no, we’re still us. If you say yes… I’ll do right by you. Slow if you want. Honest always.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not empty. It’s warm, charged, like that moment before a chorus drops. Then she whispers, “Kookie…”

I lean in, giving her every second to pull away. She doesn’t. Our lips meet—soft, careful, like we’re both scared to break it—and then she exhales against my mouth and kisses me back. My brain goes static in the best way. Her hand finds my hoodie, bunches the fabric like she’s anchoring herself. I slide my palm to her cheek, thumb brushing that tiny constellation of freckles she always covers with highlighter because she thinks they’re “too cute.” They are. She is.

When we part, I rest my forehead against hers, and we both breathe for a minute. She’s smiling, small and real. My chest feels too full. I wanna bottle this and drink it when I’m eighty.

“Okay,” she says, voice wobbly. “Okay.” A short laugh. “Wow. Um. Hi.”

“Hi,” I whisper, grinning like a fool.

She wipes the corner of her eye with a pinky. “I was not prepared. Like, I’ve maybe—low-key—had a thing for you since… I don’t even know. Maybe the day you tried to teach me that dumb footwork combo and I almost sprained a soul I didn’t have.”

“Impossible. Your soul is elite,” I say. “Your feet, though…”

“Shut up.” She laughs, then sobers, searching my face. “Listen. I’m not gonna lie. I’ve got trust stuff. Folks said sweet things before and dipped when it got hard. And I’m complicated—like… I’m a Black girl who grew up in Japan and lives in Korea. Sometimes I feel out of place everywhere and everywhere at once, and I need someone who won’t make me explain my whole existence when I’m tired.”

I nod. “Then I’ll be the person who already knows. Or learns without making you teach when you don’t want to. I wanna be where you feel like you exhale. If I don’t get it right, I’ll listen. I’ll do my homework. No ego.”

She looks at me for a long second, like she’s checking if the light’s really on behind my eyes. Then she smiles—slow, bright. “You’re gonna make me fall in love stupid, huh.”

“Manifesting,” I say, and she swats my arm.

“Okay, okay,” she breathes. “We can try. Slow. Very slow. Like… daijoubu pace.”

“Arasso,” I nod. “Slow I can do. I’m not in a rush. I just—wanted us on the same page.”

“We are,” she says, then squints. “Mostly. One question.”

“Hit me.”

“Are you still gonna let me win at Mario Kart or was that a friendship-only perk???”

I gasp. “First of all, I have never let you win.”

“Lies.” She pokes my forehead. “I saw you brake on Rainbow Road like a coward.”

“That was a strategic drift gone wrong.”

“Mmhm,” she hums, unconvinced, dimples out. “Fine. New deal. Boyfriend privileges include: carrying my heavy groceries, reaching the top shelf, and continuing to lose at Mario Kart.”

My brain short-circuits on the word. “Boyfriend???”

She blushes, cheeks warm against my fingertips. “If you want.”

I can’t help it; I grin so big it’s embarrassing. “Yeah. I want.”

She leans in and pecks me, quick, shy, and then hides her face in my shoulder like she didn’t just detonate my whole nervous system. We stay like that—her heartbeat against my chest, my hand drawing lazy circles on her back—while the city hums outside and one of her plants dramatically droops because it’s a drama queen.

“Okay, boyfriend,” she says finally, voice muffled in my hoodie. “Wanna celebrate with tteokbokki??? Or should we be fancy and order… drumroll… convenience store kimbap and banana milk.”

“Both,” I say. “And mochi.”

She grins. “Greedy.”

“For you??? Always.” I stand, offer her my hand. She takes it, fingers slipping between mine like they’re supposed to be there. We grab our shoes, bicker about which slippers are whose (they’re identical, we’re both wrong), and head out.

In the hallway, she squeezes my hand. “Kookie???”

“Mm???”

“I’m happy.”

“Same,” I say, and it doesn’t even scratch the surface. But it’s a start. It’s everything...

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶

End Of POV

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶

Tags : @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

Anniversary Dinner ~~~ The Boyz Juyeon

Summary : In which Juyeon and Toni have a anniversary dinner

Toni's POV

Right now, Juyeon and I are sitting at an elegant restaurant, the atmosphere filled with soft jazz and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the polished table. It's a special occasion, so I decided to dress up—a little black dress that hugs my curves perfectly and some simple but elegant jewelry. I wanted it to be memorable, and honestly, it feels like we’re in a scene straight out of a movie.

Juyeon looks incredible in his sharply tailored suit, every detail perfectly in place. He exudes confidence, and I can’t help but feel proud to be sitting across from him. As we wait for our food to arrive, I can sense his gaze on me, steady and warm. It’s a feeling that sends little butterflies fluttering in my stomach. When I finally glance up at him, he’s grinning like a little kid who just got his favorite toy. That contagious smile makes my heart skip a beat, and I can’t help but mirror it.

“What’s going on, love?” I ask, a teasing lilt in my voice.

He leans back slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “Nothing... Just thinking about how lucky I am...”

I tilt my head, a little confused. “Lucky for what? You’re the one stealing the show here!” I gesture to his dapper look, trying to lighten the mood.

Without missing a beat, he meets my gaze with a warm, meaningful look. “How lucky I am to have you in my life.”

His words hit me like a gentle wave, and I feel my cheeks flush. I can’t help but smile wider, my heart swelling with emotion. “I think I’m the lucky one,” I reply, sincerity in every syllable. “Ever since that first day at the fan signing, when you took the time to chat with me and make me feel special, you've always been there—supporting me through everything, no matter what.”

He chuckles softly, and I can see his eyes light up as he reminisces. “I remember that day. You were so nervous but also so passionate. It reminded me why I love what I do.”

I reach across the table and gently caress his cheek, my thumb brushing against his skin. He leans into my touch, and I can see the affection in his eyes. “You make it easy to be passionate about life,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Just then, our food arrives, breaking the moment, and the waiter sets down our plates with a flourish. Juyeon flashes a charming smile at the waiter, and I can’t help but laugh at how effortlessly he can charm anyone. After the waiter leaves, Juyeon leans closer across the table, his expression softening even more.

“I’ve always wanted to be the person who makes you happy,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “And I hope I’m doing a good job.”

The warmth of his words fills me with happiness. “You're doing an amazing job. Honestly, I’m just so grateful that we’re together, no matter what life throws at us,” I reply, squeezing his hand that’s resting on the table.

He smiles, his eyes sparkling as he lifts my hand to his lips and plants a soft kiss on my knuckles. In that moment, surrounded by the gentle hum of the restaurant, I realize how lucky I am to share my life with someone like Juyeon. It’s moments like these that make everything worth it—the laughter, the challenges, the little daily adventures—as long as we have each other.

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

**End of POV**

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

Tags : @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

Friends to lovers ~~~ NCT Kun

Summery : In which Kun finally ask Monica to be his girlfriend

Monica's POV

Right now, I’m on my way to see my best friend, Kun, who invited me over to the house he shares with his roommates: Doyoung, Chittaphon, Jaehyun, Sicheng, Jungwoo, Mark, Xiaojun, Hendery, Renjun, Jeno, Donghyuck, Jaemin, YangYang, Chenle, Jisung, Sion, Riku, Yushi, Jaehee, Ryo, Sakuya, Johnny, Taeyong, and Yuta. Honestly, just listing that makes me giggle a little. It's always such a lively atmosphere with all of them. But today feels special; Kun mentioned he had a surprise for me, and you can bet that I dressed to impress!!! I picked out my favorite outfit, hoping to look cute and maybe a little glamorous.

The walk over wasn’t too long, but my heart raced with excitement and a sprinkle of anxiety. I kept wondering what the surprise could possibly be. As I approached their door, I took a deep breath—okay, time to find out!!! I knocked, and the door swung open almost immediately, revealing Doyoung, who looked a bit frazzled.

"Hey!!! Is everything okay???" I asked, concern flooding my voice.

Doyoung glanced back into the house, a hint of worry etched on his face. "The surprise isn’t quite ready yet…" He almost seemed hesitant, like he was trying to manage some chaos behind the scenes.

My curiosity piqued. "So, everyone’s in on this, huh???" I raised an eyebrow, trying to gauge what was happening.

He nodded, an awkward smile creeping onto his face. Just as I was about to pry for more information, the door swung open wider, and there stood Kun, looking vibrant and full of energy.

"Kunnie!!!" I exclaimed, a wave of joy washing over me.

His face lit up, and he wrapped me in a warm embrace. I couldn’t help but laugh at how his hugs could make all my worries melt away. When he pulled back, I noticed his eyes—the way they sparkled with an emotion I couldn’t quite place—made my heart skip a beat.

"Come on, I want to show you something!!!" he said, taking my hand and leading me inside.

As we navigated through the living room, I couldn’t help but notice the rose petals scattered on the floor, creating a delicate trail that led us deeper into the house. I gave him a questioning look, and he just smiled, that look on his face encouraging me to follow. My heart thudded in my chest—this was definitely not what I expected!

Eventually, we reached his room, the door slightly ajar, and he pushed it open. My breath caught in my throat. A heart made of rose petals adorned the floor, and at its center was a small gift, carefully placed and wrapped with a big pink bow that screamed “special occasion.”

I turned to Kun, feeling a whirlpool of emotions. "Wait… You’re not playing with my feelings, are you???" My voice wavered slightly; I couldn’t shake the feeling of insecurity creeping in, especially after all the times I’d been let down before.

He shook his head, adamant. "No way!!! I promise!!! I know you’ve been hurt before, and I’m so sorry about that. But I really want to give you the love you deserve… if you’ll let me." His words floated in the air, heavy with sincerity.

He reached out, gently caressing my cheek, and his touch sent shivers down my spine. Looking deeply into my eyes, I searched for any sign of deceit, but all I found was a glimmer of hope and affection. My heart raced anew, but this time with something more optimistic.

With my heart in my throat, I nodded slowly. "Of course, I’ll give you a chance." There was a genuine smile spreading across my face, one that I couldn’t control if I tried.

The relief that washed over Kun was palpable, and his own smile mirrored mine as he leaned in closer. Our lips met in a sweet, tentative kiss, soft yet electric, as if we were both testing the waters. It felt so right. In that moment, surrounded by rose petals and the warmth of his affection, I believed—more than ever—that I had finally found the right man for me.

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

**End Of POV**

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

Tags : @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

He gets sick ~~~ TXT's Hueningkai/Kai

Disclaimer⚠️❗⚠️❗ : Sickness

Summery : In Which Keona and Hueningkai are supposed to be going to a photoshoot, but Kai ends up getting sick...

Keona's POV

Right now, I’m just scrolling through my phone, waiting for my husband, Hueningkai, to make his way downstairs. We’ve got a photoshoot together today, something we’d both been looking forward to for weeks. I’m all pumped up, ready to get our cute couple shots. After a few minutes, I finally hear him entering the room. As I glance up, my heart drops. He looks terrible—really pale, almost as if he’s about to faint any second.

He tries to smile, forcing it like it’s a shield against how bad he really feels. “You ready, Mamas???” he asks, but there’s a tremor in his voice that sends alarms ringing in my mind.

Before I can respond, I see his expression change. Panic shoots through me. I quickly rush to his side, guiding him to the bathroom before he starts being violently sick in the sink. I can’t just stand there; I need to support him. I rub his back gently in slow circles, trying to ease his discomfort.

“Oh, baby…” I whisper, my heart aching for him. “What’s going on??? You’re scaring me.”

It doesn’t take long before he finally stops being sick, and he leans back against me, his breath still shaky. I can see tears glistening in his eyes, and it breaks my heart to see him like this.

“I’m… sorry, Mamas,” he stammers, trying to sound brave. “We can still go… I’m a bit… better…”

I can’t help but frown, my instinct to protect him kicking in. “Oh no, we’re not going anywhere,” I insist, my voice gentle but firm. “You’re getting back in bed, and I’m calling a doctor.”

His eyes meet mine, and although he nods, I can tell he’s still not entirely convinced. I gently help him up, wrapping my arm around his waist as we make our way back to our room. I can feel his body leaning on me more than usual, and it makes my heart ache. Once we’re in our cozy sanctuary, I manage to get him changed into comfortable clothes—a soft t-shirt and some sweatpants that always make him feel better.

As I pull away momentarily to grab my phone, I see him sink onto the bed, looking so vulnerable. I can’t take my eyes off him. Should I be worried??? What if it’s something serious??? I push the thoughts aside for now; I need to focus on him.

Once I get the doctor on the line, I keep my free hand against his back, rubbing small circles to reassure him. “Hey, I’m just calling to check on my husband,” I say into the phone, my voice steady despite the chaos swirling in my heart. “He’s feeling really unwell and needs some help.”

After providing the necessary details, I hang up, my heart still racing. “The doctor is on their way, okay??? You're not alone in this,” I tell Kai, trying to sound as calming as possible. He just nods, leaning heavily against the pillows, his eyes starting to flutter closed.

I can’t just sit here and wait. I grab a cool washcloth from the bathroom and return to his side, gently placing it on his forehead. “How are you feeling???” I ask softly, trying to gauge his condition.

“Just tired... and, um, a bit dizzy,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. He offers me a weak smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Rest, baby. Just focus on breathing. I’ll be right here,” I assure him, tucking the blanket around him. Deep down, I have this instinctive protective urge to shield him from whatever is hurting him. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know one thing for sure: I’m not leaving his side, not now. We’re a team, and whatever this is, we’ll face it together...

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶

End Of POV

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶

Tags : @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

Where is she??? Nct's Jaemin

Disclaimer ⚠️❗⚠️❗ : This mention of a accident, hospital and bruises.

Summery : In which Jaemin is waiting on his wife yn at the restaurant, but something happened...

Jaemin’s POV

Right now, I’m anxiously waiting for my wife, YN, at our favorite restaurant. It’s been two hours since she was supposed to arrive, and the longer I sit here, the more my heart races. She never misses a dinner date without letting me know; it’s just not like her. My mind races through a hundred scenarios, each worse than the last. Did she get caught in traffic??? Did something happen???

I glance at my phone again—still no messages. I know she would at least send me a quick text, even if she was running late. The silence is heavy, and a knot of worry starts to twist in my stomach. Just as I contemplate getting up and searching for her, my phone suddenly buzzes on the table, the jarring sound pulling me from my thoughts. I look down and see an unknown number lighting up the screen. A sense of foreboding washes over me, but something deep inside urges me to answer.

“Hello???” I say, my voice a mixture of hope and dread.

“This is Mr. Na Jaemin???” The voice on the other end is calm and matter-of-fact.

“Yes, this is he…” I reply, anxiety creeping into my tone.

“I’m Officer Choi. I’m calling about your wife, Na YN. She’s in the hospital as we speak.”

At that moment, my heart drops. Confusion courses through me, quickly followed by an overwhelming wave of fear. “She’s… alive, right???” I can barely get the words out, my throat tightening.

“Yes, she’s alive, but she’s not out of the woods yet,” the officer says, his voice steady but marked with urgency.

Those words hit like a punch to the gut. I struggle to process what I’m hearing. “What happened??? Is she okay??? Where is she???” I fire off the questions, my mind racing.

“Sir, I can’t discuss details over the phone. But she was involved in an accident. I’ll text you the hospital information,” he replies.

As he speaks, my fingers tremble, gripping the edge of the table so hard I think I might break it. My surroundings begin to blur; the soft hum of conversation fades into the background as panic sets in. I barely register when he tells me the name of the hospital, but the weight of his words sinks in deeply.

With barely a thought, I toss cash onto the table, heedless of the amount, and bolt from the restaurant, my heart pounding in my chest. Each step feels heavier than the last, fueled by sheer terror. I don’t even know what happened, but the thought of YN in pain, alone... it’s unbearable.

As I run through the streets, anxiety and fear propel me forward. The bustling sounds of the city—a cacophony of laughter, honking cars, and the distant sound of music—fade into a dull roar. All I can focus on is getting to her, ensuring she’s okay.

Images of her flood my mind: her smile that brightens my darkest days, the way her laugh rings like music, the warmth of her hand in mine. I can’t lose that. I won’t.

I finally reach the hospital, breathless and frazzled. The bright fluorescent lights make my heart race even faster. I rush to the front desk, adrenaline coursing through me. “I’m looking for my wife, Na YN,” I say, my words tumbling out in a breathless rush.

The receptionist looks up, her expression serious. “Please have a seat; I’ll get someone to assist you.”

I can’t sit. I can’t do anything but pace, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. Time stretches endlessly as I wait, each second feeling like an hour. I glance around, the sterile smell of the hospital overpowering my senses, coupled with the anxiety that clings to me like a second skin.

Finally, a nurse approaches, her face kind but serious. “Mr. Na, I’m here to guide you to your wife. She’s stable, but…”

I nod, hardly hearing her words as I follow her through the winding halls. All that matters is getting to YN, seeing her with my own eyes.

As we enter the room, my breath hitches in my throat. There she is, lying in the hospital bed, bruised and fragile, but alive. Relief washes over me, but it’s tinged with fear as I take her hand, trying to ground myself in the moment. I won’t let her go through this alone—she’s my everything, and I’m going to be right here by her side. Always...

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶

End Of POV

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶

Tags : @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

Thank you to everyone who got me to 1000 likes!

[mingis-queen97]

The Boyz Masterlist

Sangyeon ~~

Jacob ~~

Younghoon ~~

A Great Lose (OneShot)

Hyunjae ~~

Accident (Oneshot)

Juyeon ~~

Anniversary Dinner (Oneshot)

Kevin ~~

Chanhee(New) ~~

Changmin(Q) ~~

Sunwoo ~~

Youngjae (Eric) ~~

Tag: @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

Seventeen Masterlist

Seungcheol ~~

Soulmate??? (Oneshot)

Jeonghan ~~

His sick... (OneShot)

Joshua ~~

Junhui(Jun) ~~

Soonyoung(Hoshi) ~~

Wonwoo ~~

Jihoon(Woozi) ~~

Seokmin(DK) ~~

Mingyu ~~

Minghao(The8)~~

Seungkwan~~

Hansol(Vernon)~~

Chan(Dino) ~~

Tags : @ericshoney

[mingis-queen97]

Straykids Masterlisr

Christopher(Bangchan)~~

My hybrid (OneShot)

Minho(LeeKnow) ~~

Changbin ~~

Allergic Reaction (Oneshot)

Hyunjin ~~

Jisung(Han) ~~

Felix ~~

Seungmin ~~

My wife have what... (OneShot)

Jeongin(I.N) ~~

Tag: @ericshoney