Pairing: Jeong Yunho x Song Ming
Summary: Mingi is perfectly content to stay hidden in the kitchen, until an unexpected barista absence forces him to face the café’s most loyal customer.
1 | 2 | 3
“Oh, hey, you’re new?”
The man’s voice was bright, casual, and his smile—wide and genuine—felt almost as warm as the scorching sun outside.
Mingi jolted slightly, looking up from the jewelry catalog he’d been pretending to read. He yanked out one of his earbuds in a rush, cheeks flushing pink as he realized someone had been standing there long enough to speak.
He straightened his posture quickly, almost knocking over a stack of clean glasses as he did, and licked his lips before managing a reply. “No—no, not really. I just stay more in the kitchen, usually.”
He offered a quick, hesitant smile, one that flickered across his face like it wasn’t sure it belonged there.
The customer nodded, still beaming. He was dressed neatly, too neatly for this weather; short-sleeved button-up tucked into crisp slacks, the fabric uncreased like he’d stepped out of a commercial. His smile didn’t shift, even as he adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, almost as strong as his gaze. It clung to his face effortlessly, curving his pink lips and rounding up his cheekbones.
Mingi tried not to stare. His hair was a soft chocolate brown, tousled in a way that looked both natural and deliberate, the fringe falling just above brows.
“Woo—the other barista—he’s on health leave,” Mingi added quickly, as if explaining himself. “So I’m… filling in.”
He cleared his throat, glancing toward the espresso machine like it might rescue him. “Can I, um, take your order?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the guy said, waving a hand as though they’d known each other forever. “Iced honey tea. No ice.”
Mingi frowned, tilting his head to the side as if it would shake his brain into understanding.
“So, hot then...?”
The customer shook his head, “no, no. Cold, still, but with no ice. Only chilled.”
Mingi kept on staring.
“With the proportions of the iced version,” the man clarified, leaning towards the counter as he gestured with his hands. “I just don’t like ice messing with the flavor. Or clinking around. It just… hits different.”
Mingi paused, then nodded slowly, eyebrows still knitted together. “Right. Got it.”
He turned toward the drink station, mumbling more to himself than anything else. “Iced honey tea. No ice.”
As he reached for the shaker and a chilled glass, he heard the man speak again.
“I’m Yunho, by the way.”
Mingi glanced back over his shoulder, surprised. Yunho’s chin was resting in his hand now, expression easy, expectant.
“Mingi.”
Yunho repeated the name under his breath, like he was testing the weight of it. “Cool.”
For a moment, Mingi thought that was it. But then Yunho added, voice soft and bright all at once:
“Well. See you tomorrow then, Mingi.”
[…]
And the next day, he was there, like clockwork. Same time, same order, same smile plastered on his lips.
Mingi had started the morning so early he felt like a ghost haunting his own skin. The café was a small one, tucked on a quiet corner of a side street, owned by an ajumma who had known him since he was a kid—close enough to be family, but just far enough to still make him work like a dog.
It was usually just him and Wooyoung holding the place together. Mingi stayed in the kitchen, where he belonged, where the world stayed behind a swinging door and he could focus on spices, simmering sauces, fresh bread, the scent of butter sizzling. And Wooyoung—brilliant, chatty, infuriatingly charming—ran the counter like it was a stage made just for him.
But two days ago, as Mingi jumped on the bus, his phone lit up with a few messages from the other boy.
woo: bro i’m dying. flu. ur up?
woo: tell my fans i love them. don’t burn the place down
Mingi hadn’t replied, but he’d sighed so hard the windows fogged.
Now here he was, elbow-deep in espresso and awkward customer service, when all he wanted was to be back behind the kitchen door, talking to no one. Enjoying music in his solitude as he handled the stove.
He wasn’t even good at making coffee. He knew shit about steaming milk and would cry internally every time someone asked if he could make a heart foam. To spare himself and everyone else the disappointment, he’d scribbled a warning beneath the daily specials on the café’s chalkboard wall:
“Our barista is away. I’m the cook. I’m bad at coffee. Be nice.”
He even added a frowning stick figure holding a cup. It felt honest.
Some people laughed. One person had asked if it was a marketing gimmick, but most of them didn’t question any further.
It was early afternoon now, and the lull between lunch and the after-work crowd settled over the café like a sleepy sigh. The sunlight stretched long across the counter, and Mingi leaned back against the espresso machine, absently wiping his hands on a dish towel, when the bell above the door chimed.
And there he was again.
Yunho.
As consistent as time.
He wore a cream knit vest over a soft blue shirt today, slacks a little more casual than yesterday, hair still somehow flawless. And that same damn smile—that same warm, open expression that made Mingi feel both seen and like he should immediately hide.
Mingi straightened instinctively.
“Iced honey tea, no ice,” Yunho said before even reaching the counter. “Unless you’re still against it?”
Mingi snorted—just barely. “Can’t refuse a paying costumer.”
He turned to prepare it without further comment, but Yunho stayed by the counter, watching him work like it was a performance. Not in a mocking way. Like in an experiment.
“New memo, I see” Yunho pointed at the blackboard. “How’s that working out?”
Mingi opened the fridge where he kept the chilled tea he made in the morning, since he knew Yunho would be back in the evening. “I still get coffee orders,” he muttered, pouring the golden liquid carefully into a glass. “But at least they were warned.”
“Ah! You made tea just for me?” Yunho placed a hand on his chest, tilting his face to the side.
Mingi felt his cheeks heating up from the recognition. “I thought it would be better like this, since the one I served you yesterday was still warm.”
Yunho blinked, then smiled—but this time, it was softer. Less performative.
“That’s very considerate,” he said, accepting the glass when Mingi slid it toward him. Their fingers brushed briefly, and he drew his hand back quickly, as if burned against the cold surface.
Yunho didn’t mention it. He took a sip and hummed. “You’re good at this.”
“I am bad at coffee” Mingi pointed at the blackboard. “Not at tea.”
“Well, maybe you should switch roles with Wooyoung for real, he always ends up adding ice to my tea in protest.”
Mingi tightened his lips, looking down at the dish towel on top of the counter, grabbing it to keep his hands busy. “I’m not good with people.”
“You seem good enough to me” Yunho smiled, the sunlight now shifting to his shoulders, almost blindingly.
Mingi didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure he could. His throat felt tight, and the words caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth, unsure whether they wanted to escape or stay hidden.
Instead, he turned to the sink, flicking on the tap and letting the sound of running water fill the quiet. He focused on the dishes sitting in the basin—two mugs and a plate—rinsing them carefully as if they required intense concentration.
“I’ll let you work,” Yunho said softly, reading the atmosphere like it was second nature.
He raised his glass in a casual toast—half a goodbye, half a promise—and turned away, walking toward his usual table by the window. Sunlight trailed him like it was tethered to his back, catching in the rim of his glass and the soft edges of his hair.
Mingi watched him go, pretending he wasn’t.
He turned back to the sink, scrubbing a plate that was already clean. But every few moments, despite himself, his gaze flicked sideways—drawn like a magnet to that quiet silhouette by the window. Yunho sat with his phone in hand, one leg crossed loosely over the other, sipping his tea with the kind of calm presence that didn’t demand attention but somehow held it anyway.
Mingi looked away quickly when Yunho shifted, suddenly feeling foolish. His cheeks burned.
God, he was being pathetic.
[…]
The next shift felt heavier in the air, even before the café opened.
Mingi arrived earlier than usual. He got so distracted the day before he forgot to prep the bread dough and the broth. Already annoyed with himself, he put on his headphones and chopped some chives to place in the freezer, only to cut his middle finger. Cussing to himself, he placed a small band-aid and placed things aside since he couldn’t work with a bleeding.
He moved through the motions with extra care, pouring the honey tea into the glass bottle he now kept chilled in the fridge—because of course he did. The first time was courtesy, this one was a forming habit he was trying not to be too attached on.
At least that’s what he told himself.
He checked the blackboard, the same note written in chalk still there, untouched. He wiped down the stick figure, thinking the frowning face didn’t suit it anymore.
This time, he added a smiley face. Just a small one. Almost invisible.
By the time late afternoon rolled in, Mingi had already rearranged the pastry case, cleaned the espresso machine twice, and checked the front door every time it chimed, even when he knew it wasn’t time yet.
But when the bell rang at exactly 4:03, Mingi didn’t need to look up to know.
It was the shift in the air. The warmth. The sound of shoes too clean for this dusty street.
“Iced honey tea, no ice,” Yunho said, already smiling as he made his way to the counter, voice curling with its usual easy warmth.
Mingi didn’t let himself smile back—but he didn’t frown either. That had to count for something. He reached down to open the fridge, careful not to bump his bandaged finger.
“What happened there?” Yunho asked from behind, catching him off guard.
He glanced down like he’d forgotten. “Cut myself this morning. It’s nothing.”
Yunho gasped, all mock-drama as he stepped up to the counter. “You bled for my tea? That’s real dedication.” He pressed a hand to his chest, eyes wide with theatrical awe. “I’m honored.”
Mingi rolled his eyes, scoffing quietly as he stirred honey into the glass with steady hands. He slid the drink across the counter with practiced ease, refusing to meet Yunho’s gaze.
Yunho accepted it with both hands like it was a sacred offering. He took a slow, exaggerated sip, then let out a satisfied sigh, eyes fluttering closed. “Ah. I can taste the blood, sweat and tears you poured into this fine drink.”
Mingi raised an eyebrow. “It’s just tea.”
“To you, maybe.” Yunho opened one eye. “But to me? It represents the art of suffering.”
That got the ghost of a smile out of Mingi—not full, but real.
Yunho paid for his drink and the newfound silence between them started to become a burden, intruding a little too much.
Mingi cleared his throat, wiping at an already clean spot on the counter. “You only drink tea?” he asked, the question tumbling out like it had been waiting for an excuse.
Yunho glanced up, mid-sip. “Not really. I get free coffee at the office.” He set the glass down. “I come here for tea because it’s too late in the day for caffeine. And it’s good, also”
Mingi blinked. “That a compliment?”
“Depends,” Yunho said, smiling behind the rim of his glass. “Do you want it to be?”
Mingi rolled his eyes and looked away, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him again.
“You work nearby?” he asked after a beat.
“Mm-hmm,” Yunho nodded. “Two blocks over. IT company. Lots of quiet people and humming computers. This place is my afternoon oxygen.”
He said it like it was nothing, but something about the way his eyes lingered on Mingi made it feel like more than a passing comment. He wondered why the other guy didn’t decide to go sit on the tables today.
“Must be nice,” Mingi said, voice quieter. “Having somewhere to go after work to breathe.”
Yunho leaned in a little. “Is this that place for you?”
Mingi froze—not outwardly, but inward, like something hit a nerve.
“…not at all,” he admitted, drying his hands on the towel again just for something to do. “I try to keep work and fun separated.”
Yunho smiled like he’d just been told a secret. “So what is your ‘fun’?”
Caught off guard, Mingi leaned back a little, his brows drawing together. His eyes flicked toward the window, like the answer might be hiding in the light.
“It’s stupid,” he said automatically.
“C’mon,” Yunho said, lifting his glass with a grin. “You make me my stupid tea every day. Fair’s fair.”
Mingi hesitated, thumb brushing the edge of the counter.
“I… I like making things. Jewelry, sometimes. Or little crafts.” His voice dropped like he regretted saying it already. “I don’t know. Stuff that feels small.”
Yunho blinked. Then smiled.
“How’s that stupid?” He tilted his head, like a puppy would. “That’s cool.”
Mingi scoffed under his breath. “You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not,” Yunho said, resting his chin in his hand. “It actually makes sense.”
Mingi raised a brow. “How?”
“You just seem like someone that pays a lot of attention to details” Yunho widened his smile. “Like the art on the bread, how things are all organized here, even your writing on the board is very neat.”
Mingi blinked at him. Yunho’s gaze was steady.
“It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’d make something delicate with your hands,” Yunho said. “You don’t even realize you’re already doing that here.”
Mingi looked away, suddenly overwhelmed by how exposed he felt. He covered his face to hide a blush, letting out a cough to mask it.
“I just like to keep things in place…” he muttered, “and quiet.”
Yunho took another sip. “I like quiet things too,” he said. Then, with a slight smile: “Especially when they talk back once in a while.”
Mingi’s gaze lifted, sharp and unsure. His lips pressed tight, searching for a response—but none came. His mind had already started spiraling through the weight of Yunho’s words, looping over what they meant and why they landed the way they did.
Before he could sink deeper into his own thoughts, the other guy brought him back to reality. “You ever close early?”
Mingi narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
Yunho shrugged. “Just wondering. Maybe one day I’ll get to see what you drink when you’re not the one behind the counter.”
That tugged something in Mingi’s chest.
He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the invitation, or the fact that he didn’t immediately want to say no.
So instead, he said nothing. He looked down, tugged the towel tighter in his hands, and tried to ignore the faint, rising warmth in his ears.
Yunho didn’t push. He took one last sip and set the glass gently on the counter.
“I’ll be around,” he said, stepping back. “Same time tomorrow, if you don’t change the locks.”
Mingi huffed a quiet breath, something close to a laugh caught beneath it.
“No promises.”
Yunho smiled, wider now, and gave a small wave as he turned toward the door.
The bell chimed gently behind him as he stepped into the streetlight-softened dusk.
And Mingi stood there a moment longer, hand still resting on the counter where Yunho’s glass had been, the ghost of condensation slowly drying under his fingertips.
Pairing: Jeong Yunho x Song Ming
Summary: Mingi is perfectly content to stay hidden in the kitchen, until an unexpected barista absence forces him to face the café’s most loyal customer.
1 | 2 | 3
“Oh, hey, you’re new?”
The man’s voice was bright, casual, and his smile—wide and genuine—felt almost as warm as the scorching sun outside.
Mingi jolted slightly, looking up from the jewelry catalog he’d been pretending to read. He yanked out one of his earbuds in a rush, cheeks flushing pink as he realized someone had been standing there long enough to speak.
He straightened his posture quickly, almost knocking over a stack of clean glasses as he did, and licked his lips before managing a reply. “No—no, not really. I just stay more in the kitchen, usually.”
He offered a quick, hesitant smile, one that flickered across his face like it wasn’t sure it belonged there.
The customer nodded, still beaming. He was dressed neatly, too neatly for this weather; short-sleeved button-up tucked into crisp slacks, the fabric uncreased like he’d stepped out of a commercial. His smile didn’t shift, even as he adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, almost as strong as his gaze. It clung to his face effortlessly, curving his pink lips and rounding up his cheekbones.
Mingi tried not to stare. His hair was a soft chocolate brown, tousled in a way that looked both natural and deliberate, the fringe falling just above brows.
“Woo—the other barista—he’s on health leave,” Mingi added quickly, as if explaining himself. “So I’m… filling in.”
He cleared his throat, glancing toward the espresso machine like it might rescue him. “Can I, um, take your order?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the guy said, waving a hand as though they’d known each other forever. “Iced honey tea. No ice.”
Mingi frowned, tilting his head to the side as if it would shake his brain into understanding.
“So, hot then...?”
The customer shook his head, “no, no. Cold, still, but with no ice. Only chilled.”
Mingi kept on staring.
“With the proportions of the iced version,” the man clarified, leaning towards the counter as he gestured with his hands. “I just don’t like ice messing with the flavor. Or clinking around. It just… hits different.”
Mingi paused, then nodded slowly, eyebrows still knitted together. “Right. Got it.”
He turned toward the drink station, mumbling more to himself than anything else. “Iced honey tea. No ice.”
As he reached for the shaker and a chilled glass, he heard the man speak again.
“I’m Yunho, by the way.”
Mingi glanced back over his shoulder, surprised. Yunho’s chin was resting in his hand now, expression easy, expectant.
“Mingi.”
Yunho repeated the name under his breath, like he was testing the weight of it. “Cool.”
For a moment, Mingi thought that was it. But then Yunho added, voice soft and bright all at once:
“Well. See you tomorrow then, Mingi.”
[…]
And the next day, he was there, like clockwork. Same time, same order, same smile plastered on his lips.
Mingi had started the morning so early he felt like a ghost haunting his own skin. The café was a small one, tucked on a quiet corner of a side street, owned by an ajumma who had known him since he was a kid—close enough to be family, but just far enough to still make him work like a dog.
It was usually just him and Wooyoung holding the place together. Mingi stayed in the kitchen, where he belonged, where the world stayed behind a swinging door and he could focus on spices, simmering sauces, fresh bread, the scent of butter sizzling. And Wooyoung—brilliant, chatty, infuriatingly charming—ran the counter like it was a stage made just for him.
But two days ago, as Mingi jumped on the bus, his phone lit up with a few messages from the other boy.
woo: bro i’m dying. flu. ur up?
woo: tell my fans i love them. don’t burn the place down
Mingi hadn’t replied, but he’d sighed so hard the windows fogged.
Now here he was, elbow-deep in espresso and awkward customer service, when all he wanted was to be back behind the kitchen door, talking to no one. Enjoying music in his solitude as he handled the stove.
He wasn’t even good at making coffee. He knew shit about steaming milk and would cry internally every time someone asked if he could make a heart foam. To spare himself and everyone else the disappointment, he’d scribbled a warning beneath the daily specials on the café’s chalkboard wall:
“Our barista is away. I’m the cook. I’m bad at coffee. Be nice.”
He even added a frowning stick figure holding a cup. It felt honest.
Some people laughed. One person had asked if it was a marketing gimmick, but most of them didn’t question any further.
It was early afternoon now, and the lull between lunch and the after-work crowd settled over the café like a sleepy sigh. The sunlight stretched long across the counter, and Mingi leaned back against the espresso machine, absently wiping his hands on a dish towel, when the bell above the door chimed.
And there he was again.
Yunho.
As consistent as time.
He wore a cream knit vest over a soft blue shirt today, slacks a little more casual than yesterday, hair still somehow flawless. And that same damn smile—that same warm, open expression that made Mingi feel both seen and like he should immediately hide.
Mingi straightened instinctively.
“Iced honey tea, no ice,” Yunho said before even reaching the counter. “Unless you’re still against it?”
Mingi snorted—just barely. “Can’t refuse a paying costumer.”
He turned to prepare it without further comment, but Yunho stayed by the counter, watching him work like it was a performance. Not in a mocking way. Like in an experiment.
“New memo, I see” Yunho pointed at the blackboard. “How’s that working out?”
Mingi opened the fridge where he kept the chilled tea he made in the morning, since he knew Yunho would be back in the evening. “I still get coffee orders,” he muttered, pouring the golden liquid carefully into a glass. “But at least they were warned.”
“Ah! You made tea just for me?” Yunho placed a hand on his chest, tilting his face to the side.
Mingi felt his cheeks heating up from the recognition. “I thought it would be better like this, since the one I served you yesterday was still warm.”
Yunho blinked, then smiled—but this time, it was softer. Less performative.
“That’s very considerate,” he said, accepting the glass when Mingi slid it toward him. Their fingers brushed briefly, and he drew his hand back quickly, as if burned against the cold surface.
Yunho didn’t mention it. He took a sip and hummed. “You’re good at this.”
“I am bad at coffee” Mingi pointed at the blackboard. “Not at tea.”
“Well, maybe you should switch roles with Wooyoung for real, he always ends up adding ice to my tea in protest.”
Mingi tightened his lips, looking down at the dish towel on top of the counter, grabbing it to keep his hands busy. “I’m not good with people.”
“You seem good enough to me” Yunho smiled, the sunlight now shifting to his shoulders, almost blindingly.
Mingi didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure he could. His throat felt tight, and the words caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth, unsure whether they wanted to escape or stay hidden.
Instead, he turned to the sink, flicking on the tap and letting the sound of running water fill the quiet. He focused on the dishes sitting in the basin—two mugs and a plate—rinsing them carefully as if they required intense concentration.
“I’ll let you work,” Yunho said softly, reading the atmosphere like it was second nature.
He raised his glass in a casual toast—half a goodbye, half a promise—and turned away, walking toward his usual table by the window. Sunlight trailed him like it was tethered to his back, catching in the rim of his glass and the soft edges of his hair.
Mingi watched him go, pretending he wasn’t.
He turned back to the sink, scrubbing a plate that was already clean. But every few moments, despite himself, his gaze flicked sideways—drawn like a magnet to that quiet silhouette by the window. Yunho sat with his phone in hand, one leg crossed loosely over the other, sipping his tea with the kind of calm presence that didn’t demand attention but somehow held it anyway.
Mingi looked away quickly when Yunho shifted, suddenly feeling foolish. His cheeks burned.
God, he was being pathetic.
[…]
The next shift felt heavier in the air, even before the café opened.
Mingi arrived earlier than usual. He got so distracted the day before he forgot to prep the bread dough and the broth. Already annoyed with himself, he put on his headphones and chopped some chives to place in the freezer, only to cut his middle finger. Cussing to himself, he placed a small band-aid and placed things aside since he couldn’t work with a bleeding.
He moved through the motions with extra care, pouring the honey tea into the glass bottle he now kept chilled in the fridge—because of course he did. The first time was courtesy, this one was a forming habit he was trying not to be too attached on.
At least that’s what he told himself.
He checked the blackboard, the same note written in chalk still there, untouched. He wiped down the stick figure, thinking the frowning face didn’t suit it anymore.
This time, he added a smiley face. Just a small one. Almost invisible.
By the time late afternoon rolled in, Mingi had already rearranged the pastry case, cleaned the espresso machine twice, and checked the front door every time it chimed, even when he knew it wasn’t time yet.
But when the bell rang at exactly 4:03, Mingi didn’t need to look up to know.
It was the shift in the air. The warmth. The sound of shoes too clean for this dusty street.
“Iced honey tea, no ice,” Yunho said, already smiling as he made his way to the counter, voice curling with its usual easy warmth.
Mingi didn’t let himself smile back—but he didn’t frown either. That had to count for something. He reached down to open the fridge, careful not to bump his bandaged finger.
“What happened there?” Yunho asked from behind, catching him off guard.
He glanced down like he’d forgotten. “Cut myself this morning. It’s nothing.”
Yunho gasped, all mock-drama as he stepped up to the counter. “You bled for my tea? That’s real dedication.” He pressed a hand to his chest, eyes wide with theatrical awe. “I’m honored.”
Mingi rolled his eyes, scoffing quietly as he stirred honey into the glass with steady hands. He slid the drink across the counter with practiced ease, refusing to meet Yunho’s gaze.
Yunho accepted it with both hands like it was a sacred offering. He took a slow, exaggerated sip, then let out a satisfied sigh, eyes fluttering closed. “Ah. I can taste the blood, sweat and tears you poured into this fine drink.”
Mingi raised an eyebrow. “It’s just tea.”
“To you, maybe.” Yunho opened one eye. “But to me? It represents the art of suffering.”
That got the ghost of a smile out of Mingi—not full, but real.
Yunho paid for his drink and the newfound silence between them started to become a burden, intruding a little too much.
Mingi cleared his throat, wiping at an already clean spot on the counter. “You only drink tea?” he asked, the question tumbling out like it had been waiting for an excuse.
Yunho glanced up, mid-sip. “Not really. I get free coffee at the office.” He set the glass down. “I come here for tea because it’s too late in the day for caffeine. And it’s good, also”
Mingi blinked. “That a compliment?”
“Depends,” Yunho said, smiling behind the rim of his glass. “Do you want it to be?”
Mingi rolled his eyes and looked away, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him again.
“You work nearby?” he asked after a beat.
“Mm-hmm,” Yunho nodded. “Two blocks over. IT company. Lots of quiet people and humming computers. This place is my afternoon oxygen.”
He said it like it was nothing, but something about the way his eyes lingered on Mingi made it feel like more than a passing comment. He wondered why the other guy didn’t decide to go sit on the tables today.
“Must be nice,” Mingi said, voice quieter. “Having somewhere to go after work to breathe.”
Yunho leaned in a little. “Is this that place for you?”
Mingi froze—not outwardly, but inward, like something hit a nerve.
“…not at all,” he admitted, drying his hands on the towel again just for something to do. “I try to keep work and fun separated.”
Yunho smiled like he’d just been told a secret. “So what is your ‘fun’?”
Caught off guard, Mingi leaned back a little, his brows drawing together. His eyes flicked toward the window, like the answer might be hiding in the light.
“It’s stupid,” he said automatically.
“C’mon,” Yunho said, lifting his glass with a grin. “You make me my stupid tea every day. Fair’s fair.”
Mingi hesitated, thumb brushing the edge of the counter.
“I… I like making things. Jewelry, sometimes. Or little crafts.” His voice dropped like he regretted saying it already. “I don’t know. Stuff that feels small.”
Yunho blinked. Then smiled.
“How’s that stupid?” He tilted his head, like a puppy would. “That’s cool.”
Mingi scoffed under his breath. “You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not,” Yunho said, resting his chin in his hand. “It actually makes sense.”
Mingi raised a brow. “How?”
“You just seem like someone that pays a lot of attention to details” Yunho widened his smile. “Like the art on the bread, how things are all organized here, even your writing on the board is very neat.”
Mingi blinked at him. Yunho’s gaze was steady.
“It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’d make something delicate with your hands,” Yunho said. “You don’t even realize you’re already doing that here.”
Mingi looked away, suddenly overwhelmed by how exposed he felt. He covered his face to hide a blush, letting out a cough to mask it.
“I just like to keep things in place…” he muttered, “and quiet.”
Yunho took another sip. “I like quiet things too,” he said. Then, with a slight smile: “Especially when they talk back once in a while.”
Mingi’s gaze lifted, sharp and unsure. His lips pressed tight, searching for a response—but none came. His mind had already started spiraling through the weight of Yunho’s words, looping over what they meant and why they landed the way they did.
Before he could sink deeper into his own thoughts, the other guy brought him back to reality. “You ever close early?”
Mingi narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
Yunho shrugged. “Just wondering. Maybe one day I’ll get to see what you drink when you’re not the one behind the counter.”
That tugged something in Mingi’s chest.
He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the invitation, or the fact that he didn’t immediately want to say no.
So instead, he said nothing. He looked down, tugged the towel tighter in his hands, and tried to ignore the faint, rising warmth in his ears.
Yunho didn’t push. He took one last sip and set the glass gently on the counter.
“I’ll be around,” he said, stepping back. “Same time tomorrow, if you don’t change the locks.”
Mingi huffed a quiet breath, something close to a laugh caught beneath it.
“No promises.”
Yunho smiled, wider now, and gave a small wave as he turned toward the door.
The bell chimed gently behind him as he stepped into the streetlight-softened dusk.
And Mingi stood there a moment longer, hand still resting on the counter where Yunho’s glass had been, the ghost of condensation slowly drying under his fingertips.
My adaptation of the God of Arepo short story, which was originally up at ShortBox Comics Fair for charity. You can get a copy of the DRM-free ebook here for free - and I'd encourage you to donate to Mighty Writers or The Ministry of Stories in exchange.
Again it's an honour to be drawing one of my favourite short stories ever. Thank you so much for the original authors for creating this story; and for everyone who bought a copy and donated to the above non-profits.
pixelskylines
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
discoholicmusic
blakekathryn
prguitarman
ellievsbear
dededos
baratheonpilled
