seungcheol tries his best to keep his cool during arguments. he really does—he's used to the boys always getting on his nerves and carrying everyone's weight, so he likes to think if there's anyone he should be able to handle himself around, it should be you.
he knows it's futile to stop small arguments, but you both are somewhat playful when it comes to the petty, occassional fights. it comes to the rarer, more serious fights—much like the one you're having now—which seungcheol usually tries to prevent.
yelling in each other's faces is never what you want, but with cheol, it's often inevitable. heat flushes to your cheeks, and you can hardly even see him through the tears in your eyes—you know he doesn’t mean what he’s saying, you’re sure of it, but you can’t help but let the harsh words get to your head. it’s all catching up to you, and you’re finding it harder to bite back, harder to find the voice in your throat, harder to find it in you to say anything at all. after seungcheol’s finished with the tangent he’s on, he notices how you’ve stilled.
giving you a moment to respond, the silence gives you both a moment to let your emotions to sink in properly. after a few minutes of silence, both of calming down your breathing and tears, seungcheol will talk again. “baby i’m sorry.” you’re quiet for a moment before you take a deep breath.
“let’s talk about this in the morning,” you finally say, “i think we’ve both said enough tonight.” he nods in agreement as you turn on your heel to grab a blanket and pillow from your shared room, but he catches on quickly.
"baby no," he quickly remarks, grabbing the pillow from your arms. "what are you doing?"
"sleeping on the couch," you huff, trying to act more nonchalant than your heart allows. frustrated by his relentless grip, you tug your pillow harder. "let me go," you murmur, averting your gaze so you don't meet his pleading eyes.
"baby," he says quietly, trying to move closer. quickly, you shuffle away.
sighing, you reply, "let me go. i just want my space." seungcheol frowns.
"let me take the couch."
"no, let me go cheol."
"baby—"
"choi seungcheol, let me go now," you say so sternly that cheol almost jumps back. you soften upon catching the defeated look on his face. "your body doesn't even fit on the couch. let me ... let me take it for the night and we can talk in the morning, okay?" you say more softly this time, finally meeting his gaze.
"fine ..." he defeats, sulking off to the room as you turn away.
jeonghan
jeonghan would easily be one of calmest members in an argument, no matter how heated it seems to get. he's a bit goofy and playful at times, and will maybe press some of your buttons every now and then, but when he notices the cracks in your voice, the soft quiver in your lips, the glossing of your eyes, he learns to be very careful. careful of his words, he reactions, his actions, and mostly, he's careful with you.
he has you both at the dinner table, hands interlaced, and whenever you're talking and he notices you start talking faster, more angrily, more heated, he'll stroke a thumb over your knuckles. you're still a bit angry but how can you feel anything but endearment when he's doing everything in his power to understand you?
you really can't imagine any argument with jeonghan where you're both yelling and he says anything he regrets, just because he's be so perceptive and strict with himself about the course of your argument. sometimes though, he understands that some issues take more time to be resolved however if you even suggest the idea of you sleeping in a different room, he'll be very against it, insisting that wherever you're sleeping, he's sleeping.
joshua
arguments with joshua are, to say the least, rare. he's so good at that, you know? so good at catching your tears before they fall, so good at apologizing before a complaint even has the chance to escape your lips, so good at diffusing any situation before it gets out of hand—out of hand much like this one.
you always tell your girlfriends that shua knows you so well—that he knows you inside and out. it's in moments like these that you wonder if joshua knows just too well—and that when he's batting, he’ll be ready to strike where it hurts, throwing out words he wouldn’t imagine saying if he was in his right mind.
you aren't used to joshua like this—mean, sharp, and worst of all: cold. you’re not sure how to handle this, because as far as you know, the shua you know and love is not the same as the man frowning deeply in front of you know.
it's when he's spitting out something that you'd never in a million years think he'd ever say that you start go quiet, letting his words sink in to both of your minds. you're suddenly wiping away at your cheeks, furiously trying to get your tears to stop because you're mind is just so clouded and scrambled that you can hardly think.
"baby, i—" joshua's voice is softer the next time he speaks after realized just exactly what he's said, but you cut him off.
"i'm—" you start with a shaky breath, "—i'm gonna sleep on the couch tonight." joshua physically winces at your proposition but he also knows that he brought this upon himself, so he doesn't protest, rather collecting himself and using his time alone tonight to think about how to approach this situation the next morning. he doesn't say anything more, knowing that it'll only be poking the bear.
a/n: life falling apart, romance dead, bladee on repeat, perfect conditions to write some angsty slop
Synopsis: All you wanted was a quiet night while your gamer roommate screamed at Valorant. What you didn’t expect was for the Wi-Fi to die, the rage to kick in, and your hormones to betray you spectacularly. One minute he’s cursing at his monitor, the next you’re wondering if asking your roommate for a “favour” counts as friendship or a really bad life choice.
Genre: smut with plot, failed attempt on comedy
Trigger Warnings: explicit sexual content (!mdni!), consensual sex, fingering, oral (f. receiving), p in v, protected sex (condom), some dirty talk, praise, nipple play, honestly nothing too crazy?, yunho calls the reader good girl once, hand kink???
WC: 7k
Author’s Note: hi.... so, ekhem, the long-awaited smut… is FINALLY HERE 😳 IN MY DEFENCE! LISTEN. I was whatever Yeosang’s username is (im_ovulation) and… WELL. IT’S YUNHO, OKAY?? do you think i could resist him??? do you??? NO. and let’s be honest, i know i feed you angst on a daily basis, so this?? this smut?? it comes once in a super rare blue moon. savour it. worship it. burn it into your brain. you’re welcome.
side note: beta reading and smut editing was done by @pixlpxie 🙏🏻 so thank her too because if she hadn’t guided me through this… it would have been an absolute disaster.
Yunho had been holed up in his bedroom for hours, completely sucked into another Valorant match. You could hear the furious clicking of his keyboard and the occasional curse slipping through the door. It was typical of him—when he wasn’t working, he threw himself into gaming like his life depended on it. Usually, you let him be. Roommates needed their own space, and his hobby kept him out of your hair.
But today, you were restless in a way that had nothing to do with boredom.
You’d tried sinking into a show, flipping through a book, scrolling your phone—nothing stuck. An uncomfortable warmth curled low in your stomach, the kind that made you overly aware of your own body and how alone you were in it. You shifted on the couch for what felt like the hundredth time, but even the soft brush of fabric against your skin made everything worse. You groaned into your hands. Of all days for your hormones to riot, it had to be a day when you were stuck at home with an infuriatingly attractive man who made noises that were borderline pornographic when he played games.
Your thoughts drifted against your will—broad shoulders hunched toward a screen, sleeves pushed up over forearms, fingers dancing across his keyboard with focused precision.
You’d pretended not to notice details like that before. Being attracted to your roommate was already dangerous territory—you didn’t need your imagination turning it into a full production.
Still, it betrayed you.
You caught yourself picturing what he’d look like leaning back in his chair, stretching that long body, maybe glancing at you with that half-smile he got when he was feeling smug about a win. And worse—you imagined what it would be like if he actually knew what kind of mood you were in.
A shout of triumph erupted from his room. You jolted and then immediately cursed yourself. He really was in there having the time of his life while you suffered like the world’s neediest houseplant.
You flopped onto the couch with a dramatic exhale. Maybe you could bribe him out of his cave with food. Or pretend you needed help reaching something stupidly high. Or “accidentally” make enough noise that he’d come check on you.
Another muffled “yes!” came from behind his door—happy, breathy, entirely too easy to reinterpret if you let your mind go there.
Living with Yunho was supposed to make splitting rent easier—not slowly destroy you from the inside out. If he would just leave the apartment for a few hours, you could deal with this in peace, get it out of your system and move on. But with him on the other side of the wall, every thought felt too loud, every breath too obvious. Trying to take care of things with him so close wasn’t even on the table.
You buried your face in the couch cushion and groaned into it, hoping the fabric would muffle your misery. The apartment suddenly felt too small, like the walls were closing in with every muffled sound he made. You thought about taking a cold shower but even that felt risky—what if he heard the water and got curious? What if he knocked on the door to ask something stupid, like if you’d seen his charger?
Another shout—victory, probably—rattled from his room. You glared at the wall like it was personally mocking you.
You were debating whether running a quick errand would help clear your head when his bedroom door finally creaked open. Your whole body tensed. Footsteps padded down the hallway—slow, lazy, totally unsuspecting. A moment later, he emerged in the doorway of the living room, stretching one arm over his head, shirt riding up just enough to flash a strip of skin.
“Thought you went out,” he said casually, brushing his hair out of his eyes. His voice was raspy from hours of not talking.
“I didn’t,” you managed, hoping your face didn’t give anything away.
He nodded, eyes still half on whatever match he’d just finished. “I’m grabbing water. Want anything?”
Yes, you thought. Absolutely not water.
But out loud, you cleared your throat and said, “I’m good.”
He hummed in acknowledgment and headed toward the kitchen. You kept your eyes glued to the TV—even though it wasn’t on—because watching him move around the apartment in that loose, sleep-worn shirt and those grey sweatpants was not going to help your situation.
A cabinet opened. A glass clinked. The faucet ran. You focused on breathing like a normal human being.
Then, because the universe apparently hated you, he called out, “You okay? You look kinda flushed.”
You stiffened. “I’m fine. Just warm.”
He poked his head back into the living room, brows slightly raised. “I can turn the AC up?”
“No!” you blurted, too fast. “It’s fine. Seriously.”
He blinked, then shrugged like he couldn’t be bothered to figure you out right now. “Alright. Holler if you change your mind.”
And with that, he padded back down the hall, door closing behind him with a soft click.
You exhaled like you’d been underwater.
Great. Back to square one—with even more images you didn’t ask for now elbowing their way into your brain.
Would it really be that crazy to ask him?
The thought slipped in quiet and shameless, and you froze like you’d been caught thinking it out loud. You and Yunho were close. Closer than most roommates ever got. Months of shared takeout, late-night movie marathons, venting on the couch at 2 a.m.—you trusted him. You were comfortable around him.
Too comfortable, maybe.
The idea sat there, bold and reckless. If anyone would take you seriously—even in the most painfully awkward scenario—it’d be him. He’d never made you feel judged for anything before. And wasn’t that what friends were for? Favours, help, honesty?
Except this wasn’t asking him to pick up milk or plunge the sink.
You sank deeper into the couch, pressing your palms to your burning face. You couldn’t even imagine forming the words without combusting. But then your brain, messy traitor that it was, whispered: he wouldn’t have to say yes. He could laugh it off. Pretend it never happened. You could blame hormones or delusion or heatstroke. You’d both move on, maybe with a few weeks of mutual avoidance, but you’d survive.
And if he didn’t laugh?
If he actually considered it—
You shut that door in your mind so fast it nearly came off the hinges.
Still, the question lingered like static in your blood: was it really that out of bounds to want something from someone you already trusted with so much of your life?
You stared at the hallway, at the sliver of light under his door.
You were not going to ask.
Probably.
Maybe.
God, you needed help.
The floor creaked in the hall, and you shot upright like you’d been caught with contraband thoughts. Before you could collect yourself, his door flew open with a bang.
“What the actual fu—” Yunho stormed halfway into the living room, face twisted with raw frustration. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking beneath his skin, and a vein pulsed visibly along the side of his neck, pronounced and throbbing with each angry breath. “Did the Wi-Fi just die completely?” His voice was louder than usual, sharp-edged and bristling. “I was in the middle of a fucking match and everything crashed! We were winning—I had the last kill lined up and—” He raked a hand through his hair roughly, making it stick up at odd angles, his chest heaving with the kind of anger that came from hours of buildup suddenly snapping.
You blinked at him, words dissolving in your throat. The flush across his cheekbones, the way his shoulders were tensed and drawn up, the visible strain in his neck… Your brain, scrambled beyond repair, reached for the first possible lifeline.
“Do you… have any single friends?” you blurted.
Silence.
His brows pulled together slowly, like he was running diagnostics. “What?”
You wanted to crawl into the couch cushions and never return. “I mean—uh—just curious. You know. For—uh. Research.”
“For… research,” he repeated, expression unreadable. Then, as if deciding not to question it too hard, he chuckled under his breath and shook his head. “You’re so weird sometimes.”
He padded back toward his room, muttering something about restarting the router.
The second his door clicked shut again, you dropped your face into your hands and groaned. Out of all the possible things to say, that was what your brain had offered? Fantastic. Just fantastic.
You told yourself to just sit there. Be normal. Pretend the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened.
But normal had packed its bags hours ago.
Before your dignity could wrestle your mouth shut, you called out, “Wait!”
His door stopped halfway through closing. Yunho leaned back out, one hand on the frame. “Yeah?”
Your brain fired off exactly zero sensible sentences, so you picked the worst possible one.
“Are you… leaving tonight?”
He stared. Not even suspicious—just confused in the purest, most innocent way. “Leaving?” he echoed. “Like… the apartment?”
You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Or, like, hanging out with someone. Or going to a friend’s. Or… I don’t know. Doing something that’s not here.”
His face did a slow-motion frown, like he was trying to load context that didn’t exist. “Why would I go anywhere? It’s almost midnight.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Just asking.”
He squinted a little. Not accusing—just baffled. “Are you okay? You’re being weird. Like, weirder than usual.”
“I’m fine,” you lied, probably unconvincingly.
He held up his hands in surrender. “Alright. I’m gonna reset the damn router and finish my game.” And with that, he disappeared back into his room, door clicking shut while you sat there wondering if spontaneous combustion was a thing that could be willed into existence.
The problem was that he looked concerned. Not annoyed. Not amused. Just… worried. And that somehow made everything worse.
You went into his gaming room before your brain could veto it. His chair was still spun halfway toward the door, his monitor glowing with a paused match. You stood in the middle of the room like a stray cat having an episode.
He looked at you with raised eyebrows. “Okay,” he said carefully, “start from the top. What’s going on with you?”
You opened your mouth, absolutely intending to lie. Something vague and dismissible. Something recoverable.
What came out instead was:
“I’m too horny to function and you won’t leave!”
Silence.
Not quiet—dead. Like the world buffer-spun and disconnected.
Yunho just stared. His brain visibly bluescreened.
You slapped both hands over your face and let out a noise that sounded like a ghost getting tasered. “Oh my GOD, I can’t believe I said that, please kill me, actually kill me—”
He made a sound. A soft, stunned laugh of disbelief. “Wait—what?”
You turned away like maybe if you didn’t see him, he didn’t exist. “I told you I’m having a crisis! My body is… doing stuff! And you’re over here making noises through the wall like—I don’t know! Sound porn?!”
“I was playing VALORANT!” he said, both horrified and defensive.
“You grunt when you’re focused!” you accused, pointing at him like that was a crime.
“I—what was I supposed to do, stop breathing?!”
“Yes! No! I don’t know! Move out!”
“That escalated—”
“I told you I needed you to leave!” you wailed. “I was trying to handle it like a normal, sane person but I can’t do that when you’re in the next room moaning every time you get headshotted—”
“I DO NOT MOAN—”
“YOU DO ENOUGH.”
You were breathing like you’d just outrun the cops. He looked like he was considering reincarnation.
Finally, he raked a hand through his hair and said, weakly, “So… just to confirm… you’re—like—turned on and I’m the problem?”
You threw your hands up. “Congratulations, you’ve solved the mystery.”
He made another noise—somewhere between a laugh and a stunned exhale. His ears were bright red. “And your solution was to ask me if I had single friends?!”
“I WAS SCRAMBLING!”
“And then you tried to evict me from my own apartment for the night?”
“Yes! Because I have self-control! Until I don’t!”
He just… stared at you for a long, long second.
Then, very quietly, very carefully, he said, “You know I’m single too… right?”
And THAT was the moment your soul evacuated your body.
You swore something in you tightened at his words—an involuntary pulse of heat that made you want to sink through the floor. Your mouth went dry. You just stared at him like an idiot, eyes wide, brain blank, body unhelpful.
Yunho, of all people, was blushing. Not a little, either—his ears were red, the tips of them practically glowing, and colour was creeping up his neck like he’d been caught doing something illegal. He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out a touch higher than usual. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
You blinked once. Twice. “Because—I didn’t—You’re—You can’t just SAY that.”
“I was trying to help!” he shot back, flustered and defensive and very much avoiding eye contact. “You were yelling at me to evacuate the premises so you could—handle—whatever, and I— I don’t know! I panicked!”
You dragged a hand down your face. “You can’t just… offer yourself like a make-up sample.”
“I DIDN’T—” He stopped, groaned into his palm, and muttered, “Okay, maybe I did a little.”
Silence crawled back in, thick and buzzing. Your heart was thudding like it was planning an escape. His gaze flicked to you, then away, then back again, like he couldn’t decide if looking at you made this better or worse. Finally, he said, quietly, “So… what do we do now?”
Your brain responded with static.
Your body responded with betrayal.
And you? You just stood there, staring at him like a glitching sim, praying the Earth would develop a sinkhole under your feet immediately.
You’re dying inside. Each second that passes is torture, and the way he’s standing there—uncertain, flustered, his fingers nervously tapping against his thigh—is making everything worse. When did his hands become so goddamn fascinating? The way his fingers flex, the veins that trace up his wrists, the little nervous habits you’ve never noticed before are suddenly the most distracting thing in the universe.
He clears his throat. “Maybe we should just forget about—”
“I need you to fuck me right now,” you blurt out, the words practically exploding from your mouth, “or just tell me which one of your friends would be willing to. Because I’m losing my damn mind.”
Yunho’s eyes go wide, mouth dropping open in shock. He stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head. “I—what?” he stammers, his voice cracking. “My friends? You want me to—” He stops, processing what you just said. “Wait, did you just ask me to—”
“Yes,” you say, past the point of embarrassment. “I did. Because apparently subtlety isn’t working.”
He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it slightly, and you swear the simple gesture sends another wave of heat through your body. You’re going to combust if he keeps doing things like that.
“You...” His voice catches. “You can’t just say that.” Something shifts in his expression—a flash of heat behind the shock. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and it’s such a small gesture but it makes your stomach do a free-fall.
“I just did,” you say, and your voice doesn’t even sound like yours anymore. “Look, I’m going insane here. You keep doing—” you gesture vaguely at all of him, “—THAT.”
“What am I doing?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“EXISTING!” you practically shout. “Standing there with your stupid hands and your stupid face and—god, you were just playing with your hair and I swear I almost launched myself at you.”
His eyes widen fractionally, and then—oh no—his lips curve into something that’s almost a smirk. Almost. “So...” he says slowly, “you’re saying I’m the problem?”
“Yes! No! I don’t know!” You run your hands through your hair in frustration. “I’m the problem. My body is the problem. The fact that you won’t stop fidgeting with your hands is the problem.”
And then, because apparently you’ve lost all control, you point accusingly at his fingers, which are currently drumming a nervous pattern against his thigh. “THAT. That right there! Stop it!”
He immediately freezes, looking down at his own hand like it’s betrayed him. “I’m not doing anything!”
“You’re breathing too loud!”
“I’m—” he sputters, “I can’t control that!”
“Exactly my point! ” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “So either help me solve this problem or point me to someone who will, because I am DYING here.”
There’s a split second where time seems to stop. Yunho is staring at you, his pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Before you can process what’s happening, he moves.
In two quick strides, he’s in front of you. His hands cup your face, rough and urgent, and then his mouth crashes against yours. His fingers thread through your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall.
“Is this what you want?” he growls against your mouth, his voice so low it sends shivers down your spine. “You want me to fuck you senseless? Make you forget your own name?”
The sudden change makes your knees weak.
Your answer is to grab his shirt and pull him back to you, kissing him hard. “Shut up and do it already,” you whisper.
You found his lips again, hungry and desperate. There was no time to waste. Your mouth met his wild and uninhibited—a delicious mess of pure want. You didn't care that your kiss betrayed a hunger that left no room for grace. But could you be blamed? Every single touch burned you from the inside out.
Something in him snaps. Your soft, desperate sounds pull him under completely. The kiss turns fierce—your mouths clashing, breath mingling, tongues chasing each other in a dizzying rhythm. His hands roam everywhere at once—up your sides, over your hips—before gripping firmly and lifting you as if you weigh nothing.
You gasp, a small, startled sound that quickly melts into a moan when your back hits the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, drawing him closer, the friction between you sparking heat that steals your breath. The world narrows to this moment—his body against yours, the taste of his mouth, and the hunger that refuses to be tamed.
He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing the rapid beat of your pulse. His hands slip beneath your clothes, and the moment his skin meets yours, you swear nothing else has ever felt like it. His touch is addictive leaving searing trails across your skin that make you gasp and arch into him, desperate for more.
You’re burning from the inside out, every touch sending electric currents through your body. Yet even through the fire, a shiver runs down your spine—not from cold, but from the dizzying rush of it all. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you up with effortless strength. You barely notice how hard he’s gripping you until you feel the dull ache blooming under his fingertips—marks you know will linger, proof of how completely you’ve given in.
His breath is hot against your ear when he murmurs, “Been thinking about this for months…” The confession sends a shiver straight through you. You can’t hold back the sound that escapes your throat when his fingers slide higher, teasing at the edge of your underwear. Your head falls back against the wall, offering yourself up as he trails open-mouthed kisses down your neck.
“About how your body would feel under mine,” he whispers between kisses, his lips dragging heat across your skin. “How you’d taste.” Each word is punctuated by another mark, another slow press of his mouth, until you can feel every bruise blooming where his lips have been.
He doesn’t seem to care who might see the evidence later—but you know you’ll wear each one like a secret, a quiet kind of pride.
His mouth lingers against your neck, a low sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, the words half-growl, half-confession. Every movement is firm, deliberate—claiming, not asking.
“Need you...” you gasp as his hands slide over the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively, earning a moan from you. “I’ve never—ah—never needed anything this badly.” A sharp sting follows—he can’t stop himself from slapping your ass again. The faint burning on your skin is addicting.
Yunho’s teeth graze your earlobe. “Tell me how badly,” he demands, his voice rough with desire. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.” He kneads the soft flesh in his hands a bit more, only to move them up to the most dangerous zone, where it feels like you are about to burst. He drags his long fingers along your skin till he finds your heated core. The slight touch makes your stomach flip—like free-falling.
His fingers tease at your entrance through the thin fabric of your underwear, and you whimper, pressing against him desperately. The evidence of his arousal is hard against your core, making your entire body throb with anticipation. You curse under your breath, not sure if Yunho caught it or not.
“I want— ” Your breath catches, a shaky moan leaving your lips as his thumb circles exactly where you need it most. It's slow and deliberate, each move tantalising. The fabric—no matter how thin—keeps you from feeling him completely. It's torturous, like chasing a mirage. A moan rumbles deep in your throat. Shivers run down your spine. You try to continue. “I want to feel you inside me. Want you to make me scream your name.” Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. The pain seems to fuel him, you catch him smirking — he shifts his grip to support your weight with one arm while the other finally, finally pushes your underwear aside. The chill air hits your warm core for a brief second, making you shiver.
“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, his slender fingers meeting with your warm slick, voice filled with wonder as his fingers slide through your folds.
“It’s your fault” You roll your hips against his hand, seeking more friction. “Take responsibility for it.” He plays with your aching bud a little more, making you squirm with need.
He captures your mouth again, swallowing your moans as one finger slides inside you. He wasn’t rushing not to hurt you, letting you take him in with delicacy. You inhale sharply, the length of his finger alone takes your breath away. The stretch is exquisite, but not nearly enough. “Another,” you plead against his lips. “More, please—”
He loves hearing you beg. He obliges gladly, adding a second finger, curling them in a way that makes your vision blur at the edges. “Like this?” he asks, smirking as you cry out. “Is this what you’ve been so desperate for?” His fingers move inside you, in and out, almost—but not quite—touching where you need him most.
“Don’t—ah—don’t tease,” you manage to say in between pants, your voice breaking as his thumb finds your clit, already swollen with arousal. “I’ve been thinking about your hands on me for so long.”
His rhythm falters for a split second. “You have?” The question sounds genuinely surprised—almost vulnerable—despite the position you're in.
“Yeah,” you admit, cupping his face and forcing him to meet your gaze. “Every time you walk around shirtless after a shower. Every time I hear you through these paper-thin walls.” You roll your hips against his hand for emphasis. “Every. Fucking. Time.”
The confession is the last drop—the leftover inhibition dissolving in an ocean of primal desire. Without warning, he withdraws his fingers, leaving you whimpering at the loss. Before you can protest, he’s carrying you to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.
Yunho lays you on the bed with surprising gentleness, then stands back to pull his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. As the light reflects off his skin, you realise his form is no different than the ancient statues people gaze at with awe. The sight of his bare torso—all lean muscle and smooth skin—makes your mouth go dry. You can’t help but watch the subtle flex of his muscles, your gaze lingering on the v-line that disappears into his sweatpants. Each move feels like an invitation to touch him. Your fingers instinctively find his body, trailing down the lines the light contours to perfection. He isn’t a game your mind is playing—he’s flesh and bone in front of you—yet it feels surreal.
“Take your clothes off,” he says, pulling you out of your deep haze, his voice a command that sends heat pooling between your thighs. “I want to see all of you.”
You comply eagerly, tugging your shirt over your head and shimmying out of your bottoms. His gaze is heavy on your skin, tracking every movement as you reveal yourself to him.
When you’re down to just your underwear, you hesitate, suddenly feeling a flash of vulnerability. Yunho seems to sense your uncertainty. He leans down to press a surprisingly tender kiss to your lips. “So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”
The confession makes your heart stutter. “Yun...”
“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, pressing kisses down your neck, your collarbone. “Let me make you feel good.” And you surrender to him.
His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before moving to unhook your bra. He helps you slip it off, then kisses his way down to take a nipple into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue sends sparks of pleasure racing through you. Your nipples harden under his attention. His mouth works wonders—sucking the soft skin as if he's been parched and deprived, flicking the hard bud with deliberate strokes of his tongue. Your moans overpower every other sound in the room.
You arch into him, one hand fisting in his hair while the other grips his shoulder hard enough that your nails dig crescents into his skin. “More,” you gasp, the word barely coherent as he switches to your other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. The heat between your legs is unbearable now, your body begging for him to touch you where you need it most.
He lavishes attention on one breast, then the other, alternating between gentle licks and firmer suction that has you writhing beneath him. He bites down too—small, sharp nips that leave subtle red marks you know will darken by morning. All the while, his hands explore, learning every curve and dip of your body like he's memorising you by touch.
When his mouth travels lower, pressing hot kisses across your stomach, your breathing becomes shallow with anticipation. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, looking up at you for permission.
“Please,” is all you can say, lifting your hips to help him.
He slowly drags the fabric down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity of his gaze makes you feel exposed in the most exhilarating way. Once you’re completely bare, he takes a moment just to look at you, he studies each and every curve of your sweet body, memorising the landscape of your figure with a devouring gaze.
A possessive smile creeps on his lips slowly, “Spread your legs for me,” he says, his voice hoarse with want. You comply, knees falling open as he settles between them.
The first touch of his breath against your core makes you shiver.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to taste you,” he confesses, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “How many nights I was thinking about making you come on my tongue.” Each word is rewarded with kisses on your sensitive skin. The closer he gets, more you start to tremble with anticipation.
The words alone nearly push you over the edge. “Then do it,” you challenge, tangling your fingers in his hair. “Show me.” You pull on the soft strands as you pant.
His eyes flash with determination before he lowers his head. And you can swear you just went to heaven and back, the moment his mouth meets your core you feel ecstatic. The first swipe of his tongue has you crying out, its wide across you, stimulating each nerve there at once. Your hips buck involuntarily. His tongue is warm on your wet core. The sensation is immaculate, you can’t help but to melt in his mouth. He pins you down with strong hands on your thighs, holding you open as he works you with his mouth.
“Oh god—Yun—” You can barely form words as he circles your clit with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and targeted precision that makes your toes curl. “That’s—fuck—right there.”
He hums against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your body. He could swear he's never tasted anything sweeter. Your slick coats his mouth—he loves devouring you, loves the mess of it all. It's driving him insane. As he sucks on your clit, he slides two fingers inside you, heightening the pleasure. He curls them to hit that perfect spot while his tongue continues its relentless assault. You feel yourself rapidly approaching the edge.
“I’m close,” you warn, voice breaking. “So close—”
He redoubles his efforts, establishing a rhythm that has you gasping for air. The combination of his fingers and his tongue sends you careening over the edge. Your back arches off the bed as pleasure explodes through you, waves of it crashing over you as you cry out his name, hand harshly pulling his hair.
He works you through it, gentling his touch as you become oversensitive, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you struggle to catch your breath. He gladly cleans your sweetness from you with his tongue.
When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking up at you with a mixture of awe and smug satisfaction that should be illegal. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, slowly making his way back up your body.
You pull him down for a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on his wet lips. “Your turn,” you murmur, reaching between you to palm the hard length still confined by his sweatpants.
He groans into your mouth, hips instinctively pressing into your touch. “These need to come off,” you insist, tugging at his waistband.
Yunho strips off his remaining clothes. Your mouth waters at the sight of him—all of him—finally bare before you. He’s gorgeous, his body lean and strong, his arousal evident and impressive. You can’t fathom what's waiting for you. If his fingers alone reached so deep inside you how would his dick feel?
“Condom,” he mutters, fumbling in his bedside drawer. You watch, still pleasantly dazed from your orgasm, as he rolls it on with practiced ease.
When he returns to you, hovering above your body, there’s a moment of perfect stillness. His eyes search yours, a question in them that goes beyond physical want.
Something in his expression shifts, softens, then blazes with renewed hunger. He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing against your sensitised flesh.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” he says, voice strained with the effort of holding back. He gives his length a few strokes. Then, with a groan that sounds like surrender, he pushes forward, entering you in one slow, deliberate thrust that has both of you gasping. The stretch is delicious, your body accommodating his size with a pleasure that borders on pain. The girth is not what you’re used to, no, this is revolutionary.
“Fuck,” you breathe, his forehead pressed against yours, his body trembling. “You feel—you're so big—” He’s clearly amused by your words, pride flickering across his face. You dig your nails into his shoulders. “Oh—fuck.” You clench around him, the grip so tight it nearly prevents him from moving any further, and he moans at the sensation of your walls wrapped around his cock.
He gives you a moment to adjust, stroking your hair as you both breathe against each other’s lips. “You okay?” he whispers.
“Yeah.” You nod, then roll your hips, taking him even deeper, and the broken moan that tears from his throat is your new favourite sound.
He finally begins to move, setting a rhythm that has you clutching at the sheets. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure radiating through your body, building on the sensitivity from your previous orgasm. The drag of him inside you is exquisite—filling you completely before withdrawing just enough to make you chase the sensation.
“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, his voice strained as he watches where your bodies connect. “So tight around me—so fucking perfect.” He’s mesmerised by the sight of you taking him in completely, like you were made for each other. It drives him wild.
You can’t help the whimpers escaping your throat with each roll of his hips. The pressure is building again, faster than before, coiling tight in your lower abdomen. “Harder,” you plead, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist. “Need you deeper.”
Yunho’s eyes flash dark with desire. Seems like that’s what he wanted to hear desperately. He shifts his angle, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to drive even deeper. The new position hits something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. As the new position offers you more freedom, he is now plunging in the deepest spots of your core. Each thrust is making you cry out with screams of pleasure, rocking your body and pushing you closer to the edge.
“There!” you cry out, back arching off the bed. “Right there—don’t stop—fuck!”
His rhythm becomes more urgent, more desperate. His thrusts are precise, relentlessly hitting the spot that has your eyes rolling back. The sight before him is almost pornographic: your eyes rolled behind your lids, the whites peeking through; your mouth agape, tongue practically lolling out; your body twitching with each stroke. Sweat beads on his forehead, his muscles tensing under your fingertips as he chases both your pleasure and his own. “Touch yourself,” he commands, voice rough with exertion. “Let me see you come again.”
You slip a hand between your bodies, obeying his command, finding your clit swollen and sensitive.
“Good girl.”
The praise sends another surge of heat through you. Your movements falter for a second—you're so lost in pleasure that your body struggles to obey. The dual sensation of your fingers and his cock has you spiralling toward the edge almost immediately. Your moans grow even louder, as if that were possible considering how vocal you’ve been all along.
“God my cock is so wet going in and out of you.” Your fingers move faster against your clit, matching the rhythm of his increasingly erratic thrusts. “You love being filled like this, don’t you?”
His words only drive you closer to the edge. “Look at me,” he demands, and your eyes snap open to meet his. The intensity in his gaze nearly undoes you. “I want to see your face when you come on my cock.”
The building pressure snaps like a wire pulled too tight. You come with his name on your lips, your inner walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. The intensity of it leaves you gasping, arching, trembling, clutching at him like he’s the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he groans, his rhythm faltering as your walls clench around him. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—I’m gonna—” His words dissolve into a guttural moan as he follows you over the edge, his hips stuttering as he spills into the condom. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as aftershocks roll through both your bodies.
For several long moments, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing. He collapses beside you, careful not to crush you with his weight, and pulls you against his chest. His heartbeat thunders under your ear, gradually slowing as you both come down from the high.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and reverent—a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before. “That was... ” he starts, then laughs softly, seeming unable to find adequate words.
“Yeah,” you agree, smiling against his skin. “It really was.”
A moment passes between you, the air heavy with what just happened. Yunho shifts slightly, and you notice a flicker of uncertainty cross his face—so different from the confident man who just took you apart.
“Do you...” he starts, then clears his throat. His eyes dart away from yours briefly before returning. “Do you want to stay? Here? With me?” The question comes out hesitant, almost shy, as if he’s bracing himself for rejection. The vulnerability in his voice makes something warm bloom in your chest. You reach up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead, letting your fingers linger against his skin.
“I’d like that,” you reply softly. “Very much.”
He smiles, relief washing over his features, before pulling away briefly to dispose of the condom. When he returns, he gathers you back into his arms, and the comfortable silence stretches between you, your fingers still absently tracing patterns on his chest. Yunho shifts slightly, catching your hand in his. He brings it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your palm that makes your heart flutter.
“Can I...” he starts, then stops, a blush creeping up his neck. He looks surprisingly bashful for someone who was so commanding just minutes ago. “Can I kiss you? Again, I mean.”
“You know,” you say, smiling as you trace his bottom lip with your thumb, “for someone who just had his dick inside me, that’s an adorably hesitant question.”
His blush deepens, but he laughs, the sound rumbling pleasantly against your skin. “Yeah, well... that was in the heat of the moment. This feels... different.”
You understand what he means. The desperate hunger has given way to something more tender, more vulnerable. More dangerous, in its own way.
Instead of answering, you lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s gentle but unmistakably wanting. When you pull back, his eyes remain closed for a moment longer, as if savouring the sensation.
“How many rounds of Valorant did you play today?” you ask, your voice low as you trail a finger down his chest.
He blinks, thrown by the sudden change in subject. “Uh, seven or eight, I think? Why?”
You push him gently onto his back, swinging a leg over to straddle his hips. His hands automatically come to rest on your thighs as he gazes up at you.
“Because,” you say, rolling your hips just enough to make his breath catch, “I want at least that many rounds with you.”
A slow, dazed grin spreads across his face. “Well, you know what they say about gamers,” he murmurs, his thumbs making small circles on your skin.
“What’s that?”
His grin turns wicked as he flips you suddenly, pinning you beneath him with a smoothness that makes your pulse race. “We have excellent stamina and very, very good finger control.”
As his mouth finds yours again, more demanding this time, you think that you’ve never been so grateful for his gaming obsession.
“So,” you murmur when you finally break apart, “does this mean you’ll take more breaks from Valorant now?”
His laugh vibrates through both your bodies. “For this? I’d uninstall the damn game completely.”
maybe burnt out depressed reader (not speaking from experience lol that’d be weird…🫣)
could be non idol au or not i don’t really have any other ideas tbh :/ but maybe this sparks some kind of idea for you XD
omg this ask… instantly fed my brain. thank you.
I hope you don’t mind that I picked San for this one. he just carries that energy, you know? patient husband, a whole temple of safety built into one man. also… yunho requests have been overflowing lately and I’ve been missing my San brainrot, so this felt like fate!! and hey, I’m sorry things are rough right now if they are, even secretly. genuinely. sometimes the world feels like wet cement and we’re just trying to wade through. if this piece gives you even a pinch of comfort or escape, then I’ll be stupidly happy. this one ended up a little shorter than normal, but don’t let that fool you — it’s packed with all the feeling. I really hope you like how it turned out!
Let Me Stay - San x Reader
Burnout hits hard. Marriage hits harder. But San reminds you that loving each other means sharing the weight, even when you swear you can carry it alone.
Pairing: Husband!San x Fem!Reader
Tropes: Unconditional Love, Comfort after Breakdown, Established Relationship Marriage, Domestic Fluff / Domestic Angst, Raw Vulnerability, Love as Action, Safe Space.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Soft Angst.
Warnings: (buckle up) emotional abuse/harsh words, fighting, yelling, burnout, work stress, overwhelming situations, crying, emotional breakdowns, marital conflict, tension, infertility, struggles with getting pregnant, body-image guilt, feeling of “failure,” stress and guilt surrounding trying for a baby, pushing/shoving, being physically rebuffed, sadness, helplessness, despair, raw grief, panic, fear, intense emotional vulnerability, tears, sobbing, moments of feeling isolated or alone, arguments about expectations and frustration
Word Count: 3.7k
masterlist
The house has been waiting.
Lights on in the rooms you use most. Not bright, not dim. The familiar, careful middle that says I thought about your eyes. There is food on the stove, not plated, not posed. Something warm. Something meant to last. Something that knows hunger is not always romantic.
San checked the clock an hour ago. Then again. Then again, with that quiet patience he has trained himself into. This isn’t new. This is marriage. Waiting without resentment. Hoping without keeping score.
He sent one text earlier. Just one.
Did it run late?
No question mark parade. No follow-up. No guilt bait. He slid the phone face down after, like he always does, like it might vibrate out of pity if he stares too hard.
He reheated the food once already. Stood there, watching steam curl up like it was thinking about leaving. He hates that it might dry out. Hates that even nourishment can suffer if it waits too long.
On the counter, half-hidden beneath the mail, there’s a folded catalog. Onesies. Soft colors. Little feet printed on cotton. He didn’t mean to leave it out. He didn’t mean to look at it again tonight. He moved it aside earlier, neat and careful, like he was tucking the thought in to sleep.
No pressure. Not tonight.
He hears the door before it opens. The specific sound of your key, fast, clipped. Like you’re already bracing.
The door swings open. You step in with momentum, coat still on, shoulders tight.
“Hello love!” San says immediately.
Your eyes flick up, find him, then slide away almost immediately. You cross the space between you and lean in just long enough to press a kiss to his lips.
A peck.
Quick. Efficient. No pause to breathe him in. No curve of a smile. No “I missed you.” No warmth lingering in the space after.
It’s automatic. Protective. A way to say I did my part.
San notices. He always does.
Something flickers in his expression, so brief it barely exists. A muscle remembering disappointment and letting it go. His smile stays. Not forced. Practiced. Gentle enough to carry weight.
“You’re home.”
“Mm.”
You slip past him before he can say anything else, toeing off your shoes harder than necessary, dropping your bag by the door like it weighs a hundred pounds. Your phone buzzes immediately in your hand. You don’t even check who it is. You just grip it tighter, screen glowing. Slack notifications stacking. Email subject lines sharp and demanding, like accusations you haven’t answered yet.
San watches you move through the space you share, familiar and distant all at once. He doesn’t say anything else yet. He tells himself there will be time.
There is always time.
San follows you into the kitchen.
Not close enough to crowd. Not far enough to pretend he isn’t there. His presence moves behind you like a held breath. You feel it before you see him, that quiet orbit he keeps when he’s trying not to spook you.
You walk straight to the kitchen sink, turning the faucet on even though you don’t need water. The sound fills the space between you and gives you something to hide behind.
He gestures to the stove, the pot still warm, the care still intact.
“I made dinner,” he says. “It’s still warm.”
“I’m not hungry.”
It lands flat. Too fast. A sentence you’ve been using all week like a shield.
It’s a lie. Or a half-lie. Or maybe just the kind of truth that ignores the body entirely. Either way, it hits him. You see it in the way his hand stills on the counter.
“I can save it,” he says, quick to adjust. Always adjusting. “Or we can eat later. I just thought—”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
Your voice sharpens without permission. The words come out clipped, like you’re cutting the air between you into something manageable.
You don’t look at him. You can’t. Because you know if you do, if you see his eyes already searching your face, already worried, already open, something inside you will split right down the middle.
San nods once. A tiny thing. He tries again, quieter, like lowering the volume might make it easier to hear.
“You didn’t eat lunch either.”
Your spine goes rigid, turning off the faucet with a sharp twist.
That’s monitoring. That’s numbers and hours and watched patterns. That’s work. That’s everyone counting what you didn’t do, what you missed, what slipped.
Your chest tightens.
“Can you not keep tabs on me?” you snap, the edge in your voice sudden and bright.
It’s instant. Guilt flares hot and immediate, but it’s swallowed just as fast by the weight sitting on your chest.
The meetings that ran long. The way your boss looked at you like you were disposable. The email you reread a dozen times, trying to understand what you did wrong.
San doesn’t raise his voice. He never does.
“I’m not keeping tabs,” he says. No defensiveness. Just truth. “I’m worried.”
“I don’t need you to worry.”
It comes out harder than you mean. Like a door slammed instead of closed.
San exhales through his nose. His jaw sets, not angry, just steadying himself against something heavy.
“That’s not really your call,” he says quietly.
You turn then, finally, eyes flashing. Tired. Raw. Full to the brim with things you haven’t said to anyone.
“God, can you just—” You drag a hand through your hair, pacing once. “Can you give me a minute?”
“I’ve been giving you minutes all week.”
The words aren’t loud.
That’s what makes them hurt.
They hang there, between the stove and the sink, between the food cooling again and the space you keep widening. San doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. But this time, he doesn’t step back either.
He’s still standing there when you look at him. Still open. Still waiting.
Eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing anchoring him in the room. He looks tired too. Not burnt out. Just worn thin from loving someone who keeps slipping through his hands.
And for the first time tonight, you feel it.
The weight of how long he’s been holding the door open. And you hate yourself for noticing.
The words come anyway. Messy. Out of order. Like you’ve ripped open a drawer and everything spills at once.
Deadlines moved up without warning. A meeting that went sideways because someone hadn’t read the deck. A pause, too long, when a question was thrown at you and the room decided that meant something. Someone smiling while they questioned your judgment. Your competence. Your right to be there.
“Today was hell,” you say, and your voice is already fraying at the edges. “Absolute hell. I don’t have the energy for this.”
“For what?” San asks. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just trying to find the shape of the problem.
“Eating?” he continues gently. “Sitting down? Talking to your husband?”
The word husband catches. Scrapes. Pulls something tender and exposed to the surface. It suddenly feels heavy, loaded with expectations you don’t have room to carry.
“I don’t need a conversation,” you say quickly. “I just need quiet.”
“You don’t get quiet by shutting me out.”
There it is. The line you didn’t want him to draw.
Your words start coming faster now, clipped and precise like if you keep them small they won’t fall apart.
“I’m holding it together,” you say. “I can’t screw up, San. I can’t. If I mess up even once—”
“You’re allowed to mess up.”
The interruption snaps something.
“No, I’m not.”
It’s immediate. Reflexive. The truest thing you’ve said all night. In your world right now, mistakes don’t land softly. They stick. They get remembered. They become evidence.
San steps closer without thinking. Instinct. Muscle memory. His body knows how to reach for you when you’re breaking.
He opens his arms. Just a little. Not trapping. Not demanding. Just offering somewhere to land.
You flinch.
The reaction is sharp, ugly, louder than words.
And then you push him.
Not hard. Not violent. But firm enough to mean it. Your hands press to his chest and he stumbles back half a step before he stops himself.
You start to walk back immediately, needing space, needing him not so close when the air between you has gone thin and you’re drowning. When you feel this close to breaking.
Two steps. Three. Your back hits the counter.
San freezes.
The hurt on his face is immediate and devastating. The warmth drains out of it, replaced by something naked and hurt. Something that doesn’t know where to go.
His hands drop slowly to his sides like they’ve lost purpose.
That hurts more than if you’d yelled.
“Don’t,” he says quietly. Not angry. Wounded. “Don’t do that.”
The words sink into you like stones.
Regret crashes into you all at once. Immediate. Crushing. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t mean that. You want to reach for him, to explain, to apologize, to take it back.
But pride has its teeth in you. Exhaustion sits heavy on your chest. Your mouth stays shut, because you know if you start talking, you won’t stop. And you can’t afford that.
And the space between you doesn’t close.
It just grows.
San doesn’t move closer this time.
That’s how you know something has shifted. He stays where he is, hands at his sides, shoulders squared like he’s bracing himself against weather.
“You can push the world away if you want,” he says. His voice is calm. Level. Worse than shouting. “But I’m your husband. I’m not optional.”
You bristle immediately. The word husband again. The claim. The permanence. It feels like pressure when you’re already cracking.
“I didn’t ask you to fix me.” Your voice shakes, so you sharpen it, turn it into something with edges. Something that can defend itself.
“I’m not trying to fix you.”
“Then stop hovering.”
His jaw tightens. Just once. A controlled thing. He inhales through his nose before he answers.
“You are my wife,” he says evenly, “I don’t hover you. I stay with you.”
Silence crashes down between you. Thick. Unavoidable.
You hate it. Hate how it makes everything echo. Hate how it gives your thoughts room to be cruel.
And then, without planning to, you go for the one place that’s already bleeding.
“Maybe if I wasn’t failing at everything else,” you say, and your voice betrays you, cracking straight through the middle, “I wouldn’t be failing at that too.”
Your hand lifts before you can stop it. A small, helpless gesture toward the counter. Toward the folded catalog you pretended not to see.
San freezes.
Not stiffens. Not tenses. Freezes. Like the air’s been pulled from his lungs all at once. You can see it in the way his fingers twitch. His lips tremble for a fraction of a second before he presses them together, hiding the quiver.
He knows exactly what you mean.
The careful waiting. The quiet hope. The tests hidden in drawers. The way every month starts with possibility and ends with you staring at the bathroom floor like it’s delivered a verdict.
“You are not failing,” he says, gentle but firm. There’s a slight catch in his voice, almost imperceptible, like he’s anchoring himself to the truth so it won’t drift away.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” he whispers, and it slips out a little ragged this time. His chest rises and falls faster than before, as if holding the words back has cost him something. “And I know this isn’t you talking.”
A bitter laugh escapes you, sharp and humorless.
“Then why am I not pregnant, San?”
The room suddenly feels too small. The walls press in. The ceiling lowers. There’s nowhere for the words to go once they’re out.
He swallows hard. You see it. The way his throat works, the tremor in his jaw. He’s hurting too. You know he is. But he refuses to let it turn into something that could cut you.
He lets himself blink once, and you see the raw edge of sadness in his eyes. Then he steadies himself, smooths the tremor from his voice, and continues, soft and sure, still yours.
“I… I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking softly, careful not to hurt you. “I wish I did. I wish I could help you. To make it happen. I… I just know it’s not your fault.”
“Then whose is it?” you snap back, breath coming too fast, too shallow. Your chest feels like it’s bound with a tight band. “Because it feels like mine. My body… it’s just—” You choke on the words. “Failing me. Like everything else.”
“Don’t say that. You are not broken,” he says finally, voice rougher now, threaded with pain he can’t hide. “Not your body. Not your heart. Not any part of you.”
You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold your ribs together. To keep your heart from cracking open.
You focus on staying upright. On breathing evenly. On not letting him see how close you are to shattering.
But San sees right through you. His eyes soften, dark with something heavy and careful.
“You don’t have to earn rest,” he continues, “or love. Or a family. You don’t have to do this alone. Ever.”
“Then why isn’t it happening?” you demand again, the words tearing out of you. “Month after month— why do I get nothing but disappointment? Why can’t I even do that right?”
“Because bodies aren’t machines,” he says quietly, keeping his eyes locked on yours. “They need space, patience, care… and that doesn’t make you any less special. We’ll get there, together, at our own rhythm — and I’ll be here, every step of the way. And I would wait a lifetime,” he continues, swallowing hard, “if it meant you didn’t look at yourself like this.”
That’s it. You stare at him, chest heaving. The walls of control you’ve built crumble. Your knees give out.
You don’t so much fall as collapse onto your knees, strength draining out of you all at once. The sob that rips out of your chest is ugly and loud and unstoppable.
Your body curls inward, hands pressing against the cold tiles, as if holding yourself upright could somehow keep the world from breaking you completely.
San is on the ground with you instantly. His knees hit hard, but he doesn’t care. There’s no hesitation, no pause. He gathers you into his chest before you can push him away again, like instinct, like his body knows exactly what to do even while his heart is breaking.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, over and over. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
His own chest shakes faintly, but he refuses to let it show, refusing to let it become about him. Every inhale is deliberate, steadying himself. Steadying you.
He’s devastated — seeing you this tired, this done, this sad — but he swallows the tears that threaten to spill, because right now, you need him more than you need his grief.
Your apologies spill out between sobs, tangled and broken.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have pushed you—I’m so sorry—”
He kisses the crown of your head, slow and steady. Your hair. Your temple. Each one a quiet promise. You hear the catch in his throat before he swallows it down.
“I know,” he says, voice cracking despite his best effort to stay steady. “I know you didn’t.”
You cling to him now, fingers digging into his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.
“Please don’t be mad—I love you,” you cry harder, guilt twisting in your chest for being harsh with him, the one person who’s never anything but patient and loving.
A shiver runs through him, the ache of helplessness he refuses to name. He presses more kisses into your hair, your temple, your forehead, holding you close, letting you break.
One tear slips from his eye — he’s good at hiding it, but it lands anyway.
“I’m not mad,” he whispers immediately, catching your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. “I’m scared for you. Scared you’re carrying it all alone.”
You bury your face against his chest, voice muffled, shaky. “I… I don’t want to bother you,” you manage to say, stubborn even in your exhaustion, trying to shrink yourself small.
San shakes his head, a little sharp, but still gentle, still tethered to care. “You could never bother me,” he murmurs. “I hate seeing you suffer. You don’t have to carry it all alone. Not as my wife, not as anyone. You can lean on me—always.”
You cling to him a little tighter, letting his words sink in, even if your pride still trembles in your chest. His lips brush your hairline, soft, patient.
“Let me hear it,” he whispers. “Tell me everything. The pain, the frustration, the anger… I want to carry it with you. I love you, and I need you to trust me with it. With all of it.”
Your fingers fumble at his shirt. Words catch in your throat. You’re tired, stubborn, but you allow a quiet breath to escape.
He hums against your hair, rocking you slightly. “You’re strong,” he says, voice low but steady. “Strong enough to manage the world, yes—but you don’t have to do it all by yourself. I’m here. I’m always here.”
The shaking doesn’t stop all at once, but slowly, imperceptibly, it begins to ease. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t try to quiet you. He just stays, arms firm around you, breathing with you, letting the storm pass.
Even then, he doesn’t let go. Not for a second.
“Let me take care of you,” he says softly, the words gentle enough to feel like a vow.
You nod. Barely. Just enough. That’s all he needs.
He lifts his hand to your face, cupping your jaw as he tilts your head up. Your eyes meet his: watery, red and puffy, mascara smudged at the corners, brows pulled tight, lips trembling in a small pout. And still, he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
His thumb brushes a tear from your cheek.
“I love you,” he whispers, voice rough, close enough that you feel it against your mouth.
Your breath catches; something warm flickers through the exhaustion.
“I—I love you too,” you whisper back, a small, shy smile tugging at your lips despite everything.
San’s lips curve too — tiny, timid, like he can’t stop it even if he tried.
He leans in, presses a shaky, tender kiss to your mouth, sealing the words between you.
Then he rises slowly, hands still on you, steadying you as he helps you up off the floor — careful with every movement, afraid to hurt you.
The kitchen, the catalog, the emails — they don’t matter anymore. San guides you toward the bathroom with his hand at the small of your back, walking slow, making sure you’re steady. The light is soft in there, warm on your skin. He turns the tap and lets the water run until steam curls around the air, testing the heat with his fingers before nodding to himself.
You’re quiet, wiped out, eyes distant. He doesn’t ask you to talk. Just helps you out of your clothes like it’s something you’ve both done a thousand times — gentle, respectful, never rushing you.
“Easy,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles along your jaw before guiding you under the stream.
The water hits your shoulders, hot and soothing, and something in you finally loosens. He works shampoo through your hair with slow circles, fingertips pushing just enough pressure to pull the headache from your scalp. The smell of soap rises around you, familiar and safe.
His thumbs trace along the knots in your shoulders, steady and patient. You feel your body sag forward. He doesn’t say anything about it, just catches you, holds you there, keeps working the stress away like he has all night to do it.
“You don’t have to hold everything together right now,” he murmurs into the back of your neck. “I’ve got you.”
You make a small sound that isn’t quite a reply. Words feel heavy, clumsy, and he doesn’t ask for them.
When the water runs clean, he wraps you in a towel and dries you off himself, patting slow and tender, like every part of you matters. You’re exhausted to the bone, trembling with leftover tears.
He helps you into soft pajamas, careful with each movement, making sure nothing sticks or pulls. By the time he’s done, your eyes are barely open.
When you start to apologize again, voice barely above breath, he shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.
“No more tonight,” he whispers. “Just breathe.”
He lifts you with familiar strength, and your arms loop around his neck without thought. Nothing awkward. Nothing forced. His heartbeat thuds against your ribs, slow and sure, telling you the truth: love isn’t grand speeches, it’s this. Showing up on the dull days, the painful days, the days where you feel like dead weight.
He brings you to bed and settles with you tucked against his chest.
“Sleep,” he murmurs into your hair, voice warm and certain. “I’ll handle the rest.”
You try to fight it, to stay awake out of guilt, but your body sinks, surrendering. Exhaustion, grief, fear — they seep out like breath into the sheets. Your breathing evens. Your fingers finally unclench.
He doesn’t move. Not once.
He stays awake, watching the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks, the slow rise and fall of your chest. His hand rests on your back, tracing circles so gentle they barely exist, counting each inhale, each exhale, grounding himself in your survival.
At some point, he leans forward, his lips brushing your hairline, voice a quiet confession meant only for the dark:
“I married you so I could choose you every day. Even like this. Especially like this.”
You don’t hear it. But he needed to say it.
He will wait for the baby.
He will wait for your healing.
He will wait for tomorrow.
No fixes tonight. No neat conclusions. Only commitment.
The house feels warmer somehow, fuller. Not because everything is perfect, but because two exhausted people keep choosing each other in the quiet.
Love breathes here.
Because you stayed. Because he stayed. Because some promises are lived, not spoken.
masterlist
taglist: @bloomyroses @livonianmaia @keels-8
dedicated to @darjeelinglemontea because today the universe gave us your birthday and I wanted to give something back. happy birthday!! <3 (and yes, I brought hurt/comfort to the party… it’s who I am.)
✨ my taglist and requests are open right now. ✨ drop me a message! i love seeing your ideas and making them come to life. 💖
summary: You’ve never been the most lucky person, and when your AC breaks on you in the peak of a southern summer, you think you just might have seen it all. But when your temptation in a bottle of a neighbor offers to help fix it for you, the sweat on his skin makes you reconsider your hatred for the heat.
warnings: neighbors to lovers, older!san, comedy, fluff, biceps, tan skin sannie(drools), sweat, tension, suggestive popsicle eating(lmao), flirting, pet names, (beautiful, sweetheart, babydoll, etc.) oral(m! & f! receiving), against the wall, sloppy makeouts, kinda feral, desperation, choking, eye contact, fingering, creampie
wc: 7.9k
notes: is it december? yes. is this a summer fic? also yes. hop off, i live in the south it’s still hot down here
tracklist: r.e.m., hands to myself, talk
It started with your ring camera.
When a very feline man showed up on a clip while you were checking your footage one day.
Your cat had gone missing a few days prior, and you had never been more broken up about something in your life. You spent days searching far and wide around the neighborhood, but to no avail.
As much as you were perturbed about the disappearance of your cat, you still had to drag yourself to work every morning.
But when you came home that day, a notification sitting untouched on your phone about your ring catching a recording, it all flipped around.
“Hey, I found this little lady wandering around my apartment somehow? I think she got in through an open window, but I remember her being yours. She’ll be with me for now, but come over when you have the chance to scoop her up? She keeps trying to start hissy fits with my cat.”
A warm, charming smile and pretty little dimples. Freckled caramel skin and a strong jaw.
Tousled black hair and sweet eyes that crinkled at the corners, his large arms holding your cat up to the birds-eye camera, giving her a silly look. She meows, seeming content in the strange man’s arms, and he walks away to his own apartment, cooing softly at her as he cradles her in his arms.
That’s how you met San.
He had found your cat and ever so graciously stopped by your door in hopes of dropping her off while you weren’t home. As soon as you saw the recording, you ran out of your home and down the hall to San’s door, knocking gently, trying to mask your excitement.
When he opened the door to your face beaming with happiness, he knew right then and there, he had to find some way to make sure he kept seeing you.
He’s asked to cat sit a few times. You’ve asked him to water your plants while you were out of town. He’s offered to fix your fridge when it started to leak. You offered to collect his mail when he was on a trip.
You scratched his back, and he scratched yours. A sweet and simple relationship that sometimes has blurred lines.
Like when he looked at you like you were beauty embodied, but you brushed it off. Or when you literally felt your heart stop when he held your cat in his arms, littering her little face in kisses, but the heart was a weird thing. He was a little older than you, and sometimes his age showed in the conversations he would hold with you.
But San was always pleasant to talk to, inviting you over for coffee, letting you rant about work, and listening to his stories about his travels around the world with his buddies. All this time living next door to him, and you had never spoken a word to each other until now.
It was a soft, platonic, crutch of a relationship. A person you could talk to after a long day and just be real with. San made you feel real.
Well, things would change very quickly.
And it was all because of a near heatstroke, the electrifying power of the sun, and a broken AC.
It was the dead of summer, one hundred degrees outside, and asphalt you could fry an egg on. And your AC gave out on you, the shitbox.
You had done everything you could to try and remedy it, but no matter what you tried, it was useless. Every YouTube video provided no help, the toolbox under your sink looked like an airplane cockpit to you, and you were so overheated it was getting hard to form thoughts.
Stripped down to just a thin sweat-soaked tank top and volleyball shorts, you rested your forehead against the edge of your balcony, the door wide open as you tried to catch any breeze that the gods felt generous enough to grace you with.
You tried standing in front of your open fridge, but you knew that would raise your bill, so your last resort was begging for wind on your balcony. You closed your eyes and sighed when a moment of fresh air washed over your wet skin, but it was gone just as quickly as it arrived.
“You look like you’re having fun.”
You nearly let out a moan of relief, the familiar voice flooding your ears like God himself was sent to help you.
“San…” you whined weakly, not lifting your head from your balcony. “I need you to rescue me.”
His sweet little laugh hits your ears, and you turn your head to see him standing on his own balcony, smiling at you fondly. “You know I’m just a door away; you could have just knocked and asked.”
You pouted and winced guiltily. “But I’ve been bothering you so much lately and-“
San interrupts you with a raise of his eyebrow and a snort. “You’re never bothering me, sweetheart. I’m always more than willing to help you out, you know that, don’t you?”
An angel, really.
“San, you’re the best.” You hang your head, and droplets of sweat fall onto the hot wood of your balcony. San is already walking back inside his apartment with a knowing smile.
“Let me grab my things.”
-
“How are you alive?”
The moment San stepped into your home, he immediately began to sweat. Your apartment really was that hot. Carrying his toolbox and a determination to bring coolness back to your abode, he nearly soaked his grey tank top upon stepping through your door.
You laugh dryly. “I guess I’m really resilient.”
San runs his free hand through his hair, inhaling deeply as he takes in the situation. “How long has it been like this?” he murmurs, still seemingly in shock over the temperature of your home.
“A few hours, maybe.” You bite your tongue and avoid looking at him, arms crossed as you take a sudden interest in the ceiling.
San scoffs, “It should have taken you 5 minutes to decide to come ask for my help (Name).” You could feel his eyes on you, and it was burning more than the sun.
“Well, excuse me-” before you could finish your sentence, he whistled loudly.
“Hey, over here.” He snaps, and you whip your head in his direction. Your eyes lock, and you watch as they fall from concentration to a strange softness.
“There you are.” His voice lowers to something so gentle it makes your stomach flip. “Hi, neighbor. So you want this fixed or not?” San lifts his bag and raises his eyebrow in question. Your arms remain crossed, and you nod silently, words seeming to have left you.
“Alright then, c’mon. I want you to watch so you know better next time you’re too embarrassed to ask for my help.”
Your nervousness leaves you as he walks away from you, and you follow with a pep in your step and an annoyance in your tone. “I was not embarrassed, I just didn’t want to drag you out of your comfy air-conditioned home to come sweat off ten pounds trying to fix mine.”
San laughs as he makes a beeline to the closet in your hallway where your air conditioner is located, the metal in his bag clinking with each step. "Sounds like you’re jealous, actually.”
San gets to quick work to diagnose the problem, his head disappearing in the closet as he begins to poke and prod around the broken contraption, murmuring things to himself as he works. Some clanking around and a few screws loose, and he pokes his head from out of the closet.
He looks down at you, your eyes wide and hopeful at the chance of finally being able to feel air conditioning again. He smiles sheepishly, and you already knew bad news was coming.
“Bad news, the entire thing is frozen over.” You let out a defeated groan, and San rests his hands on your bare upper arms.
“Don’t pitch a fit, it’s an easy fix, but you may not like it.” San’s voice is gentle, his hands softly squeezing your arms. You try to ignore the way his skin sticks to yours from the sweat. Pervert.
“What?” You ask dejectedly. San lowers his voice to a whisper.
“You have to turn the heat on.”
You blink a few times, and you feel your entire body go into fight or flight.
“I’d rather you shoot me.” You deadpan, and San squeezes your shoulders one last time before slipping away.
“I’d rather not, babydoll, you give me work to do with my hands. I’d be bored without you.” His grin is genuine, his dimples on proud display, the tendons in his neck flexing, the sweat dripping off his brow. His eyes flick over your face and along your jawline. He licks a drop of sweat off his bottom lip.
And he wants to turn the heat on?
“Is that your way of saying I cause enough trouble to keep you busy?” You gnaw on your bottom lip as San reached behind him and turned the thermostat onto the heat, full blast.
“You could say that.” He smiles and shuts the closet to the AC, and you could immediately feel the heated air start to flow from the vents around the house.
“I’m gonna die in here.” You whine, wiping the side of your neck with a disgusted face.
San sets down his toolbox, which it seems he brought for almost nothing. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay, and we can die together.”
You can’t help but crack a smile as you walk away and fall onto your carpeted floor with a tired thud. “You know you don’t have to, San.”
He only nods and lies down right next to you, spreading his limbs like a starfish and turning his head to face you. “I know.”
-
The rickety rotating fan San brought over from his apartment did little for your sweltering skin. You sat on your knees directly in front of it, sighing each time the rotation made it to your face, and groaning when it started to spin away.
San was sprawled across your couch, lips wrapped around a blue popsicle you had offered him from your freezer. His arm draped over the back as he watched you on your knees in front of the fan, the sweat trickling down your shoulder blades and leaving streaks on your tank top.
San’s eyes were lidded as his tongue traces absentminded patterns along the icy treat, his gaze fully trained on you. You were too focused on catching the flow of the fan to notice how intensely San was staring at you. His eyes followed the slope of your neck and the divots on your lower back where your tank top rode up over your hips.
The way your hair sticks to your slick skin and how your shoulders rose and fell with each breath you took. The way your whole body would relax when the air finally reached you, and how it would tense right back on when it moved away.
The AC was not the only thing that was making San feel hot all over; he couldn't take his eyes off you. Dribbles of sugary blue melted down his wrist, and just when he lowered his mouth to clean up the mess, you turned to ask him a question.
His eyes lock with yours as you turn, but his mouth doesn't cease its movement. His pretty pink tongue slips out and licks up the trail that dripped down his tan wrist.
He mumbles out a low ‘hm?’ as his tongue lies flat against his skin and drags it up his wrist. Your words fail you once again as your eyes fall to his mouth against his skin, and yet San can’t find it in him to rip his gaze away from your pretty, desperate eyes.
“Do- is it good?” You stumble over your question, completely forgetting what you were originally going to ask him. San smiles and licks up the side of the popsicle until he stops and bites the end off of it with a silent snap.
“Very, thank you, sweetheart.” He chews on the blue ice, and you swallow.
“It's the best I can do since you won’t let me pay you.” You swirl your body around so you can fully face him, and grin as he bites off another small piece.
“Your company is payment enough.” He tells you that every time, because every time it goes the same way.
Something breaks, and San comes to your rescue. While he fixes it, you chat idly, and after he’s done, the conversation just seems to flow on even longer. He considers that his payment, always insisting that your time was his currency.
You’ve tried to shove at least a 20 down his throat, but he’ll never take it. You opened your mouth to argue some more, but as you did, your cat walked around the corner of the couch with a soft meow.
“Oh, and where have you been?” You call to her as he rubs herself on San’s man spread legs with a happy meow. San sticks his ice cream into his mouth and reaches down to scoop her into his arms.
“Hello, little lady.” He coos at her, rubbing his nose against hers and scratching her neck as he cradles her. She purrs contentedly, and you watch in near awe.
“Your mom's grumpy about her AC.” He whispers to her, and you roll your eyes. Almost as if she could understand, she meows quietly.
“I hope you’re not conspiring with my cat.” You narrow your eyes playfully, and San gently sets her down back on the ground. She meanders her way over to you, placing her front paws on your knee as you reach down and pet her gently.
“I would never.” His popsicle is dripping again; it’s gotten down his chin this time, along his strong jaw, and dropped onto his tank top.
You inhale sharply. “You’re making a mess on my couch.” Your cat bounds away quietly, off to whatever little secret spot she’s been hiding in this entire time.
San looks down at the blue spot on his shirt and laughs softly. “Oops.” He lifts his thumb to his chin and wipes the river of blue on his chin. But as he moves to dip his thumb into his mouth, you move quicker.
You stand from your spot and snatch his wrist, and slip it into your mouth without hesitation. You clean the sticky sugary mess off his thumb, swirling your tongue around it slowly, keeping your eyes on him. San’s eyes are wide, surprised, and intrigued.
You’re not sure what on earth possessed you to do that, so you move back away from him. But San doesn’t let that happen.
His fingers curl around and grip your jaw, keeping your head in place, his thumb pressed down against your tongue, and he guides your head closer to him. You were trapped in his strong hold, and you felt your head begin to swim.
His fingers press into the flesh of your cheek, pursing your lips around his thumb, and the heat in your blood increases substantially when he keeps your head still so you can’t direct your embarrassed gaze away from him.
“Was that worth it?” He teases with a small grin, the hand with the popsicle lifting to slip the pop back into his mouth, running it up and down his tongue, which had turned blue by now. All the while, the thumb in your mouth mimicked his movement, stroking your tongue slowly.
You totally don’t notice the way his legs slightly spread further open, how he readjusts the angle of his hips. He totally doesn’t notice the way your thighs clench together and how your teeth scrape against his nail. You also don’t notice the way he looks at you like he wants to eat you, and he for sure doesn’t notice how you look at him like that’s all you’ve ever wanted in the world.
He slips his thumb out of your mouth so slowly it seems like time itself has been paused, a very thin trail of saliva connected between his nail and your parted lips, snaps like a silent cue.
Your eyelids flutter, and San’s tongue darts out and licks a stripe up the pad of his thumb, before popping the ice cream back in his mouth.
He stands, leaving you dumbfounded on the floor below him. “Let’s go check and see how much that AC has thawed; this heat is getting unbearable.”
-
“I’d give it at least another hour before we can run the cool again.” San peers into the closet, and you feel a sigh of relief rack your body, wiping your chest to clear it of the sweat that had gathered there.
San turns to see you looking at him with eyes glimmering with adoration and hope, and he doesn’t catch the way your heart leaps when your eyes follow the droplet of sweat that clings to his chin.
“I really can’t thank you enough.” You sigh, trying to gather your bearings.
“I promise you, as easy a fix this was, I mean you could have done it yourself-“ San’s lips spread into a sly grin, and you’re already rolling your eyes.
“You literally insisted on helping me.” You turn around to walk away, but his arm reaches out to grab your wrist as he drags you back to his chest.
“I know- hey, I’m talking to you, don’t walk away from me, c’mere…” he stops you from leaving, and you're standing in front of him again, much closer this time. He looks down at you, and your words die in your throat; his hand on your wrist doesn’t leave, it only squeezes tighter.
“Hi there.” San murmurs. “Listen to me.” You swallow quietly and nod slowly.
“I love helping you out. Love working for you, babydoll.” His thumb rubs gentle circles over the pulse in your wrist, and his soft voice sends shockwaves to your belly.
“It’s a privilege if anything, I want you to always come ask for my help. But I am expecting a thank you.” He raises an expectant eyebrow, and you force your voice to come out, albeit small.
“Thank you, Sannie.” You speak lowly, and you feel his hands squeeze your wrist only slightly. He inhales slowly and lowers his lips just shy of your earlobe.
“You're welcome, beautiful, anytime.” You stifle a whimper when you feel the way his warm breath travels over your ear, and suddenly, you want to rip your skin off because you feel like you’re burning from the inside out.
You needed to divert.
“You should change your shirt, you look a mess.” You clear your throat, but San wasn’t done having fun with you.
“What, you don’t like me all messy?” He smiles and drags his fingertips every so gently across your exposed collarbone, and your skin shivers beneath his touch.
“You’re even messier than I am now, sweetheart. You’re soaked.”
You know he’s talking about your tank top, which was, in fact, soaked with sweat. But you both knew he knew it’s a lot more than just that.
You bite your inner cheek nervously, and your limbs twitch. San’s fingers trail over your collarbone, along your shoulder, down your inner arm until he’s intertwining his fingers with yours.
His other hand cups around the back of your neck, gently massaging the nape, and a small, satisfied moan slips from your lips. Your eyes fall shut, and San keeps his gaze on you, enamored with every expression you make.
“San.” You whisper, your eyes still closed.
“Yeah?” He purrs, continuing to massage the tight knot on your neck with purpose. He subtly pulls you closer by the grip on your neck, and you can feel his nose ever so gently brush yours. His breath fans over your lips, and you can smell his scent. The sweat, the warm, woodsy notes of his fading cologne.
“It’s hot.” Your eyes flutter open, and your knees nearly give out on you when you see just how close he is to you. You can point out every freckle on his face, every discoloration of skin, and every pore. And his eyes are so intense that it makes your stomach fall.
Lidded eyes and low lashes, his lips just barely quirked up into the slightest of smiles. “I know, baby, I know.”
“How much longer until we can turn the AC back on?” You're inching closer to him as you speak, and your breaths come shallowly.
San's lips move away from yours, and he’s pressing them in featherlight kisses against your neck. “You’re shivering like you’re cold, sweetheart.” A kiss below your ear, and one in the crook of your neck.
“M not cold.” You murmur, and you do in fact shiver each time his soft lips make contact with your skin.
“You hot, baby?” He coos against your ear, and your arms grab the thick straps of his tank top and pull him away from your ear, back to face you. You nod.
“San.” You whine, your eyebrows knit together in desperation. “Please.”
“I’m gonna make it worse, beautiful.” He pouts playfully, poorly masking the want laced in his words. “You want me to make it worse?”
You can’t help your honesty. “I want you to do whatever you want.” You pull him closer, and your lips are just thin skin brushing thin skin, your breaths mingling, and your noses bumping.
“Oh, you shouldn’t say that to me.” He groans against your lip, his eyes locked on your hazy eyes. “I don’t want to do very gentlemanly things.” The hand he had interlaced with yours slips away, and you feel it trail up your inner thigh, and he’s pressing against the thin fabric of your volleyball shorts.
You whimper against his skin, and San’s lip parts in mock surprise. “Knew you were soaked.” He sighs, and he finally gives you what you want.
A slow, tasting kiss, savoring every flip of your tongue and soft whine. Your mouth is warm and sweet against his, the faint taste of your lip gloss and your sweat dancing on his taste buds. His fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, wasting no time.
You were so unbelievably slick, it was mind-baffling. San’s fingers immediately become soaked in your arousal, his eyes closed, and eyebrows knit in concentration as his fingertips slip all over your cunt.
When he pressed up against your clit you accidentally bit his tongue in surprise, and you ripped your mouth away from the kiss and pressed your forehead against his broad chest. Your breath comes heavy, and your hands slip away from his tank top straps and ball into fists against his pecs, your legs already beginning to shake.
San moves around so your back is pressed against the hallway wall, forcing the back of your head against the wall. “Uh uh.” He bites out, rubbing slow circles against your clit, your thighs squeeze around his wrist as the pleasure flows through your blood.
“At me.” His hand on your neck forced your head to crane upwards, and you locked eyes with him again and simply melted. His eyes are heavy and hot, looming over you as he plays with your cunt. “Here, baby, right here.”
You let a pathetic moan slip from your mouth when he trails his fingers down and slides one inside of you, thick and full against your warm walls. Your knees buckle, but San keeps you up by your neck.
“Don’t look away from me, babydoll.” His presence overwhelmed you, his body molded to yours, and his fingers knuckle deep inside of you, curling and pressing spots so deep it made you lightheaded.
Your eyes watered, and San bit his bottom lip, a smirk spreading across his face. “So fucking pretty, yes, you are, baby.” He curls his fingers deeper, and your mouth falls open. San takes the opportunity to kiss you nasty and deep, sliding his tongue over yours and groaning down your throat. “Yes, you are...” he purrs into your mouth, and your whole body feels like it’s on fire.
You were both overheated, but the broken AC had no contribution. You wanted your clothes off, you wanted to feel his skin on yours. You wanted San-
“You want me to fuck you, baby?” He growls into your mouth, slipping his fingers out of you to tease your clit, before they’re right back inside of you, stirring up your guts with deep, pressurized drags.
You nod breathlessly, giving him the sweetest little puppy dog eyes you didn’t even know you were making. San just had that effect on you; he awakened your instinct to beg.
His hand slides up and buries its fingers into your hair, gently pushing you away from his lips. His fingers slip out of your cunt, and you whine in protest, but then he’s pushing you to your knees.
You watch as he gradually grows taller the further you sink to your knees, and your hands grip his massive thighs through his jeans until you’re eye level with his bulge.
He cocks his head to the side, looking down at you like you were the sweetest thing. His fingers massage your scalp in slow circles, his other fingers sinking into his mouth as he slowly licks your slick off of them, all while never diverting his heated gaze from you.
Once clean, he wipes his saliva across his shiny chrome belt buckle, leaving a wet streak across the metal. Then he’s slowly unbuckling it, teasingly slow.
“I’ll consider this my thank you.” He says as he lets his belt fall open. You reach your hands up and unbutton his jeans, sliding down the zipper and letting your hands slip into his boxers.
You can feel him twitch as soon as your palm finds him, and as you pull him out, San’s breath hitches. Thick, heavy, and hot in your hand, you hold San’s cock, and you’re barely able to wrap your fingers around the length of him.
Pretty and pink, San runs his tongue over his lower lip when he catches the way your throat bobs as you take in the size of him. You raise your eyes to look at him as you stroke him languidly, and he's groaning under his breath.
His thumb hooks on his belt loop, his hand in your hair slipping from your hair and gripping himself at the base. “Tongue, baby.”
You obey, letting your tongue fall from your mouth. San lifts his cock and oh so gently slaps his pink tip against your tongue, drops of pre falling into your mouth. San can’t help the low giggle that rumbles from his chest at how willing you were for him.
“Relax for me, okay?” he whispers, and you grab either of his hips to hold yourself steady. “You gonna let me fuck that pretty mouth?”
“Yes, Sannie,” you whimper, and he slaps himself against your tongue a few more times before both of his hands wound through your hair.
“Alright, sweet girl, breathe through your nose.” You relax your jaw and keep your eyes on his as he slides his cock past your lips, along your tongue, and into your mouth. You feel the thick vein against your tongue and the way he twitches when you hollow out your cheeks for him.
His grip in your hair tightens the further he glides into your mouth, and he comes to a stop just before his tip hits the back of your throat. Your eyes watered, and tears gathered on your lower lashes, and San was doing everything in his power to be a gentleman and not fuck your mouth to tears, but you were making it so hard.
Your tongue twitches against the underside of his length as he slowly slides out of your mouth, then thrusts back in in a muted, gentle rhythm.
He gnaws on his bottom lip, his flushed, sweaty skin giving him a glow that makes your thighs clench below you. His eyebrows are knit together, and his lips part in a quiet moan when he slips further down your throat. “Oh baby…” he sighs, rewarding you with a soft moan that makes your stomach do flips.
He pushes himself deeper into your mouth, and your nails dig into his thighs, but you’re taking it so well.
“Yeah… atta girl. So fucking precious,” he praised around hitched breaths and whiny groans. Drool slips down the corner of your mouth the further he pushes himself further down your throat. His scent, his taste, everything about him was overwhelming you to the point of painful arousal, and all you wanted to do was feel him everywhere.
You moan around his cock, and San’s grip on your scalp tightens, the vibrations of your sweet voice making it impossible to keep it together. “Make too much noise, and I’ll cum down your throat, sweetheart. Let's have manners, please.” He moans lowly as he pulls himself out of your mouth, your lips suctioning around his tip with a wet, dirty kiss.
You let your tongue fall out and drag it along the underside of him, and he shivers in bliss when you drag it up and gently tease his head.
San can’t take it any longer, and he’s lifting you by your hair and practically throwing you against the wall. He’s on his knees next, spreading your thighs and hiking one over his shoulder. He doesn’t even bother to take off your shorts or your panties, as he’s simply pulling the flimsy fabric to the side and cupping your dripping cunt with his mouth.
Warm and wet, his tongue dives between your folds, licking up, down, left, and right. Your hands bury themselves in his hair. His large, rough hands hold your thighs open for him as he bullies your pussy with his mouth, open kisses, and greedy licks. His lips wrap around your clit as he buries his face as deep as he can between your thighs like he can’t get enough. He’s groaning and cooing into your cunt, getting off on how wet he’s managed to make you just by being here.
His tongue swirls around your clit, and you gasp aloud, your head falling back against the wall in desperation.You could see the blue that the popsicle he had earlier stained on his tongue.
Muffled and heavy, San’s voice travels through your cunt when he speaks. “Babydoll, look at me.” You force your head to crane back down and look at him.
His mouth between your thighs and his eyes stare up at you with a burning intensity that you can feel in your stomach.
“There she is, hi baby.” Keeping his eyes on yours, he teases your clit with suckling kisses, his fingers gently dragging through your slick folds as he watches your face fall in pleasure.
The sweat on his brow and your arousal on his lips, you feel like falling apart. “Keep looking at me while I eat this pussy. Please?” he whines as he begs, but the sly smile on his face is all telling as his fingers slip inside of you and curl up, his tongue laving flat over your puffy clit.
The hand on your thighs rubs gentle circles against the soft skin, all the while his tongue draws patterns on your clit, and his fingers work you inside out like he knows your body like the back of his hand.
“F-fuck… San…” you whine, tears threatening to spill from your eyes, his warm mouth almost too much for you.
“Don’t whine,” he groans, curling his fingers harder inside of you. “You’re not nearly wet enough, and I’m a big boy baby.” He smiles around your clit, his teeth nipping at it gently.
Your muscles tense, and you moan drunkenly at each press and prod of his thick fingers; each slip of his tongue has your brain fogging over.
“Need you to cum at least once before I fuck you, I might hurt you, beautiful.” All sweet sugary words, but the sinful grin and the precise way he works out your cunt make everything he says fall on deaf ears.
“So get nice and wet for me, soak yourself, so I don’t break you when I put you through this wall.” San’s fingers move faster, deeper, his lips staying attached to your clit as he sucked on it greedily, and your legs began to shake.
His promises make your orgasm fly towards you faster, and coupled with him suckling on your clit, he moans lowly around it, the vibrations setting your nerves on fire.
“I feel you, you’re right there.” San’s fingers press against your G-spot with the perfect pressure, circling the pads of his fingers against that spongy spot with mind-melting purpose. “Keep your eyes on me and cum on my tongue, mkay?”
Your breath shudders in your lungs, and your hips buck against his mouth, and then you’re shattering around his fingers. Your entire body shakes as he drags his fingers against your walls slowly, his tongue lapping at your clit to help you ride it out.
“There you go, that's it… let it go, baby.” You whine loudly, gripping his hair so tightly he growls in pain, but his fingers never cease their movement, his lips moving away from your clit and peppering kisses against the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
“Rock your hips, let it run its course… like that. Such a good listener.” Your hands eventually fall from his hair, your body twitching, his warm tongue dragging up your inner thigh and licking the sweat of your skin.
With one final kiss to your knee, he lifts himself from below you and backs you up against the wall, giving you no room to run. His forehead presses against yours, a hungry glint in his eyes as his hands cup the underside of your thighs and lift you against the wall, secure in his big arms. His mouth finds yours again, all heat and desperation on his lips as he kisses you into a fever.
“San, it's too hot, please…” You cry pathetically. “Take it off.” San groans and flattens his tongue against yours, drool slipping down your chin as he kisses you so deeply it makes you dizzy.
He’s holding you against the wall with just the force of his body alone, reaching down and pulling your shorts and panties off your legs. Your tank top is next, all but ripping it off your body. He reached back and pulled his own sweat-soaked top over his head, throwing it across the heated hallway.
His mouth dips down and takes your nipple in his mouth, swirling his thick tongue around it and sucking hungrily. You whimper, your hands flat against his back, your nails scratching pretty red patterns against his skin as the stimulation rocks through your nervous system.
He kisses up your chest, along your neck until his mouth slots with yours once again with a sick kind of greed. “Need you so bad…” he groans against your lips, massaging your thighs as you feel him line his leaking tip up with your fluttering cunt. Hot and pulsing against you, you bite his soft bottom lip and look up at him, your eyes glazed over and begging for him.
He wraps his hands around the back of your neck, his forehead firm against yours. His dark eyes bore into yours like he’s trying to peer past them, and you’ve never felt so exposed.
You feel as he teases your entrance, just barely slipping the tip inside of you. You began to shy away, your eyes fluttering shut to escape his heated gaze. But San’s hands cup the back of your neck harder, fingers locking at your nape, brushing his lips over yours a little less gently this time.
“Stop running.” He purrs dangerously, and slowly he slides his cock inside of you. Each inch that breaches your walls, he stops when your eyes roll, and only continues filling you up when your eyes meet his once again.
Your mouth falls open against his, he pushes further inside of you, and every pulsing inch of his length grazes your walls so perfectly. San winces and sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, the warmth of your insides thinning his string of composure.
“Taking it so fucking good, babydoll, such a needy pussy, she’s sucking me in.” His thumbs stroke your heated cheeks, and he catches the drool that slips down your chin, promptly sliding his thumb in your mouth.
“Keep your spit in your mouth, baby. We’re already messy enough, don’t you think?” When his hips press flush against yours, you sigh aloud, feeling so full your bones rattle in satisfaction.
San’s brow furrows, keeping his thumb in your mouth, he pulls his hips back slowly, dragging every thick inch of his dick against every nook and cranny of your insides, sliding back in with a low moan.
You whine around this thumb, his fervent eyes making you want to cry. You could not escape his gaze, his hands, his thick, hot cock splitting you open against your hallway wall. He rolls his hips into you, his fat tip nudging that spot deep inside that makes your legs clench around his hips. The hands on your neck hold your head steady and still so you can’t look away, and he’s easing into a rhythm.
Lazy and deep, he slides in cock in and out of you like he was trying to rock you to sleep, but the pressure only made your body tingle. Your fingernails rake up his back, and San winces, kissing the corner of your mouth, grinding his cock so sincerely into you that your moans come out in sad, desperate gasps.
“Yeah baby…” he coos against your skin, the resonant sounds of your slick cunt trying to suck him back in each time he glides out, sending your brain into overdrive. “Slow, deep strokes. Let you feel everything…”
His thumb presses down against your tongue, and your eyelids shake, doing your very best to keep your eyes open. “San..” you mumble around his thumb. San cranes his head upwards so he was looking down at you, his lids low and his mouth parted in continuous soft moans.
Every time he bottoms out, he's sure to grind into you, to really torture you, forcing you to feel every thick centimeter of him brushing every nerve inside of you. He eases into a meaner pace, slipping his thumb out of your mouth and dragging it down your bottom lip. His hands move to the front of your neck, his fingers cradling your jaw while his thumbs press against the sensitive soft spots on the sides of your throat.
He presses just hard enough to limit your airflow, and your head begins to buzz quietly. He drags his hips back slowly one last time before he sinks back in with renewed vigor, fucking you hard and deep against the wall.
Pounding your pussy with a passion that made your chest flutter, moaning weakly as he stared down at your bliss twisted face with nothing short of pure adoration. And maybe a bit of pity. He was kind of bullying you, but he wouldn’t say he was loving watching you struggle to take his cock.
Struggling to accommodate his change in pace, struggling to breathe around deep strokes and feeling so full it felt like you had no space to take in oxygen.
“Pretty little girl…” he bites out around a bassy whine, pressing his thumbs harder against your throat. “You feeling full, babydoll?”
You can’t even nod with the hold he has on your head, and you cry out when he targets a hard, sharp thrust against your sensitive gspot.
“I know baby....” he taunts you with his pouty voice, teasing you about your sensitivity. “But it feels so good doesn’t it?” San swallows your swollen lips in a consuming kiss, grinning when he feels your moans fall down his throat. “Doesn’t it?” he murmurs into your mouth.
“Y-yes! Fuck.. feels s-so good..” you cry against his lips and hes fucking you harder, driving his cock into you with a force that has your slaps of skin echoing down the dimly lit hallway.
“Yeah…” he laughs lowly, biting your tongue playfully. “No more running, you take it like you’re meant to sweetheart. God you’ve been driving me fucking crazy.”
His breath stutters when you clench around him, breaking the kiss and pressing his forehead against yours, directing his gaze to the nasty sight below. His thick cock rutting into you smoothly, you cream coating the length of him with each thrust, your cunt sucking him back in like it had a mind of its own.
This pulls a loud, deep moan from San, and you take a moment to attempt to catch your breath now that his attention was directed elsewhere. He slows down to really watch the way he slides in and out of your guts, mesmerized by the sight. He’ll pick up the pace again, transfixed over how your bodies connected, how your bodies seemed to crave each other.
The slick coating your inner thighs, the sweat trailing down the rolls in your stomach, the drops of wet that fell down the dips in his abs. He was addicted in the best way.
“Do you understand how crazy you make me feel (Name)?” He’s working his way back up to that deep punishing pace, gathering drool in his mouth before he’s spitting on his cock as it slips in and out of you, drunk off the feeling of your warmth around him.
He drags his eyes back up to yours and his gaze is feral, and you can’t help but whimper pathetically. Rolling his body into yours his pace grows sloppy, too lost in the pleasure, soft, heavy moans falling from his lips.
“Please, need you to cum again. Not gonna stop- fuck… not till you cum. Please, baby…” San begs lowly, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his warm tongue dragging across your skin, his warm pants of breath fanning over your ear.
He’s adjusting the angle of his hips, searching for that perfect angle to send you over the edge. Your nails dig harder into his back, and you nearly squeal when he hits that spot just right.
“Right there?” San groans, and he stays just like that, pounding against that sweet spot nice and rough, and blood pumps, and your brain melts as he fucks you against the wall with the sole intention of unravelling you.
“Mmhm, right there. C’mon babydoll, jus’ wanna be good to you. Jus’ wanna make you feel good, you turn me on so much. Fuck, it's insane.” He's rambling, your moans drowning out his low voice when he slots his lips with yours in a wet kiss.
You stutter over your breathless words, trying to tell him you were cumming, but he can feel you, he can feel you pulsing around him and gushing all over his cock.
“Fuck!” you whine, your thighs shaking around his hips as he fucks you through your orgasm, rocking his hips into you to drag that climax out of your body.
His hips slow to a heavy grind, your constant clenching making his sensitive cock twitch inside of you. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” San whines, pressing his forehead against yours.
“Look at me, please, baby.” He whispers against your lips, his hands holding your face like you were everything. “Look at me while I fill you up.”
You bite your bottom lip and whimper softly, giving him those sweet little needy eyes. “Wan you to cum in me Sannie…” you whine, your breath fanning over his lips. “Please, wanna feel it spilling out of me.”
San’s eyes roll, his breath laboured and breaking. He presses his lips to yours, sinking his cock deep into you one more time before he’s cumming, filling you up with his seed. He groans into your mouth, his deep noises cracking as he rolls his hips into you, fucking your pussy full of him, riding his orgasm out with your spent body.
“Fuckkk me…” San runs his tongue over yours, his breathing coming to something calm as his high finishes washing over him.
As soon as you catch your breaths, you glance up at him expectantly. “You think we could turn the AC on now?”
San raises an eyebrow and laughs out loud. “You still hot, sweetheart?” You smile and half roll your eyes.
“Well, I’m certainly not cold, San. I think we got a little distracted.” He smiles so softly it makes your heart go fuzzy, and he's kissing you tenderly and slowly. You giggle against his lips when his hands gently caress your sides, helping you down off the wall and onto your feet.
You stumble a little bit, but he catches you, being sure to make sure you don’t crumble to the floor. “Well, let’s see then.”
He reaches next to him and slides open the closet door, and lo and behold, the AC has defrosted. He leads you over to the thermostat, and with a flip of the switch, you can hear the familiar whirring of your functional HVAC system, and you nearly cry tears of joy.
“Well would you look at that, good as new.” San smiles, his little dimples on show as he massages your shoulder. “It’ll take a minute for the air to cool but you should be good for now.”
You pat his chest and wipe the side of your neck. “Next time it frosts over I’m just coming to your place, no way I’m sitting in the heat like that again.”
San lowers his lips to your neck and kisses it softly with a smile, tickling you. “C’mon, it wasn’t that bad now was it?” He murmurs, his hands hooking at your hips and pulling you closer.
You barely resist his soft touches before you’re shimmying away. “You’re all sweaty San, you need a cold shower, bad.”
He clicks his tongue as he follows you to your bathroom. “Hey, you literally are too, if not more than me.” With a click of your bathroom door, you pull him inside and run the cold water, sighing softly as he kisses you stupid against your vanity mirror.
Your free spirit of a cat is perched on the windowsill of your neighbor’s apartment, meowing softly at San’s cat, who’s sprawled on the floor in the comfort of the working AC in his home.
She bounds down onto the floor and nuzzles up against the male cat, purring softly.
One problem after another is solved. Your leaking fridge, your cracking floorboards, and now your AC. Next on the list is probably trying to find out how your cat keeps breaking and entering your neighbor’s house.
But you’re sure he won’t mind, you’ll be seeing a lot more of each other after all.
pairing﹢song mingi x fem!reader
genre﹢smut. fratboy + uni!au. alcohol consumption, inexperienced reader. first time + unprotected sex. big dick mingi agenda, praise, dirty talk, possessiveness, mentions of multiple orgasms, jealousy + obsession themes, fratboy catches feelings.
synopsis﹢mingi’s used to being chased, but when he finally meets someone who won’t give in, he becomes the chaser. thinking he was playing a mindless game, turns out, he’s the one falling hardest.
FRATBOY!MINGI is used to getting whatever he wants. parting, girls, free alcohol, numbers scribbled on his hand by the end of the night, and then there’s you. the pretty girl who's always just out of reach and knows how to play her cards right. suddenly he doesn’t even look at anyone else.
you’re his favorite girl — not because you give him everything, but because you don’t.
he walks into a party and scans the room automatically, not for hookups, simply for you. once he finds you, that's it, he is on cloud nine. attention fixes on you, shoulders relaxing, a wider and softer grin, while everyone else fades into background noise.
you sit on his lap like you are already dating, arms around his neck, lips brushing his jaw, letting him think he’s close, alas never close enough. kissing him slowly and teasingly, the taste of jaeger sweet on his lips, letting him get worked up. big hands sliding to your waist, your thighs, wanting to get under that skirt… then you stop him.
not rudely or showing that you don't like him, but the way your acrylic nail is pressing on a part of his chest that is revealed, considering how he unbuttoned his shirt earlier. all he does is look down at your finger then at you. a soft smile, a kiss pressed right at the corner of his mouth instead of where he wants it.
“not yet,” and it drives him insane.
he groans into your neck, forehead dropping to your shoulder, big hands flexing like he’s trying not to lose it. he’s hard, needy, frustrated, and weirdly attracted to the butterflies you are giving him. he turns down girls without even thinking about it now. doesn’t flirt back, entertain, or even give free shots to everyone, just to his friends.
because why would he, when you exist?
and when he gets invited to a big party once again, he tells his friends he’s “not in the mood” or when wooyoung comments about another girl looking at him, he says “already got someone,” even though they know he hasn’t slept with you. a little suspicious because mingi never turns down a party or a one-night stand. what’s worse than being teased nonstop by your closest ones: aww, the big bad boy has gone soft, isn't he adorable?
making out with him is messy and heated. he is so desperate, kisses lingering too long, biting your lip like he’s trying not to let you go. whines when you pull away, laughs breathlessly when you tease him about how horny he gets.
you’re not mocking him about it; you still curl into his side and melt under his touch. and still kiss him goodnight when you have to leave the party, so you just don’t let him take that last step.
mingi waits, patient in the way only someone completely interested and hooked can be, knowing that when you finally say yes, whenever that is, it’ll mean something.
because you didn’t give him your body right away, as every girl did before. you made him fall first, turned the one who was chases into the chaser, and now he needs you in a painfully obvious way.
FRATBOY!MINGI has been fed with only breadcrumbs for the past few months.
kisses that linger just long enough to make his head spin. your fingers brushing his wrist, his hands, the hem of his hoodie, and then pulling away right when he leans in. sitting too close on purpose, knees touching, whispering things meant only for him in crowded rooms. letting him feel wanted, but never satisfied.
a perfect little cat-and-mouse game.
mingi is visibly fascinated by it. he gets quieter around other girls, less interested, and less playful. all his energy funnels into you; every party ends with him finding you. every night ends with him asking you if you’re coming over, and you smiling, saying, “sorry, not tonight,” and you watch how his smile turns into a frown, muttering something like, “yeah, i think i’m not going either. next time, then?”
then comes the group project, and how you end up meeting san and wooyoung at the library, one of his closest friends, and mingi isn’t there yet, running late, and somehow the conversation drifts to him.
san laughs first, peeking from his laptop. “you know he’s down bad, right?”
you barely look up from your notes, not interested, but you are secretly nosy about it. “yeah, like i haven't heard that before. he just likes to talk about girls.”
wooyoung snorts. “no, seriously. he hasn’t touched anyone since you.”
that gets your attention as san nods, more serious now. “he turns girls down, like… actually turns them down. all he talks about is you.”
“or he likes bragging about body count, feeding his ego...typical men, no offence.”
wooyoung shakes his head, putting his hands in a ‘timeout’ like position. “nah, this is different. he doesn’t even brag about his sex life anymore…instead, he gets stupid when your name comes up.”
“he thinks you believe him that he will use you for one night, and that’s going to be it,” san adds as he notices you suddenly stopped writing with your pen, “and that scares him more than you saying no.”
when mingi finally shows up, slightly out of breath, eyes immediately locking onto you, as he puts your favorite sweet treats over your textbook, your heart suddenly does a whole 180-degree loop. you see it now, the way his face softens, and he wears glasses? the way his shoulders drop, looking relieved just seeing you there, and that boyish smile appears on his stupid, handsome face… it makes you feel things.
later, when you’re walking out together, he gently taps your shoulder, scared about such a simple thing, because he wanted to ask you out on a date. opening his mouth, closing it, and rubbing the back of his neck, and all that came was: “what’d i miss?”
and suddenly, he doesn’t look like a party animal at all, more like the shy and clumsy nerd. cute, you think, a total loser in the best way.
“nothing,” you say, hiding everything you learned about him, while leaning and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, and pulling back before he can react. “don’t slack off, tho. do your part of the project, okay?”
behind the corner, san and wooyoung watch him lift a hand to his cheek like he’s never been kissed before in his life, even if you kissed a million times already, blinking as you disappear down the hall.
yeah, he’s done for.
the moment mingi starts dressing like a normal person instead of a guy who forgets what shirts are, that’s when everyone knows — he’s serious about you.
FRATBOY!MINGI and you don’t even know if it’s because you’re both wasted, or because you tug his hand and try to pull him away from the crowd, clinging to him in a way you never have before. you’ve never been this affectionate, so obvious, and it finally clicks for him when you lean in and whisper, all soft and needy, “can we go somewhere else… just the two of us?”
mingi doesn’t even stand a chance, especially not with that face of yours, that voice, and the look in your eyes. he nods immediately, letting you lead him through the house until you find a bedroom, door lock included, thank god, and even better, untouched, clean sheets waiting.
and the second the door clicks shut, you’re onto him.
jumping into his arms like you’ve been waiting months for this moment, hormones spiking higher than mount everest, body buzzing, and he finds it insanely hot. for once, he is grateful for getting absolutely wasted because what do you mean the girl he likes finally gives him the whole loaf of bread, warm and fresh, instead of just the crumbs? and you, you're so beautiful that you make him wonder if he really wants to feel you physically, and not emotionally. but the fact that your hands are everywhere, mouths crashing together, kissing messy and desperate, saliva shared as clothes disappear piece by piece.
before he can even think, you’re both naked, his body pressed against yours, his cock lined up at your wet folds…finally going in his dream destination.
you’re nervous, but brave. a virgin who somehow knows more than you should, cheeks warm from the alcohol you drank just for courage.
he is buzzing with adrenaline, the kind that makes his hands shake just a little when he realizes what this means. yeah, he’s had sex before, sure, had his first time with a pretty classmate of his a few years ago, but this is his actual first time with the girl he actually likes. the one he waited for without even realizing he was waiting.
“you sure ’bout it, baby?” he murmurs, mouth brushing your collarbone, breath hot as his hands tighten instinctively when you move, excitement and anxiety mixing in your body. he knows how important this is for you, and how you’ve been saving yourself for someone worth this moment. “’cause once i start… i won’t be able to stop. shit– never seen such a pretty pussy before.”
when he pushes inside, slow and careful, you feel the stretch immediately. he’s big, bigger than you expected, everything deliberate, meant to make you feel safe instead of rushed. clinging to his shoulders, whining and gasping as he takes his time, letting you adjust, easing himself deeper inch by inch, he’s completely focused on you.
when he finally starts moving, slow thrusts find a rhythm, creating a tempo both of you would enjoy. all you can do is pant and moan, angelic sounds mixing with the faint clinks of his chains and necklaces. your eyes sting with tears, overwhelmed by the reality since you’re really letting him have you. yes, him. song mingi, the infamous fratboy who’s been hopelessly in love with you for months, who’s proven over and over that he’s serious, that this isn’t another game.
and then he whimpers.
actually whimpers like all soft and broken sounds that spill from him, even though he’s the one in control. it’s absurdly hot, with him dominant, needy, praising you breathlessly while still feeding his own ego because he can’t help it.
that boy moves knowing exactly what he’s doing. the way his hips roll, so controlled, aware when to press hard, the way his body stays perfectly in sync with yours: it’s obvious he’s experienced. and yeah, he uses that as an advantage, not to show off, because he wants you to feel good, and special. every movement is intentional, every deep thrust of his body meant to pull another sound from you, another reaction or orgasm. it’s overwhelming because no one has ever put this much care into making you feel wanted, loved, cherished, and most importantly, desired.
what gets him, though, is how fast he loses himself in the pleasure you offer him. mingi’s never been like this before. never came so quickly, or felt so affected by someone else’s body, reactions, personality, hence their trust. and instead of him being embarrassed that he is no better than that nerd yunho, who has been throwing not-so-secret glances at you during classes, can’t even hold a conversation without saying something uncanny, a total fucking weirdo, and visibly a big simp for you… he just accepts it, meaning, he’s in deep, metaphorically and realistically.
from there, it blurs like the alcohol in your system. bodies moving in sync, positions changing every five minutes, by the time you realize how wrecked you are, you’ve already come more times than you can count. limbs shaking, head spinning, mingi still holding you, but he pulls back just long enough to look at you, eyes filled with so much love and lust.
“neither of us will probably remember a single thing in the morning,” he confesses, voice low and husky, “some random dude knocking on the door, waking us up… but fuck that. tonight, you’re mine.”
he cups your face, kisses you again, hands sliding down to your hips, tracing every curve. “so… i’m gonna make you cum again,” he whispers, thumb brushing your clit, with his dick still inside you at a faster pace, with this stimulation it will help you come faster. “at least once more before… yes, baby, i know you’re tired, but i want to have you… properly, without worrying about being in someone else’s house, okay?”
his fingers and cock work in perfect sync, teasing, and pressing, rubbing, until your legs shake. “fuck– yes… harder… please, m-mingi harder,” you moan, and then you are clenching around him, screaming his name as your stomach twists, “mingi, please, ah—!”
mingi groans, head dropping to your shoulder, body trembling as he holds and talks you through it.
he’s never heard anything like it. never seen a girl come so desperately, so loudly, so completely on his stupid, big cock. his hands grip your hips tighter, murmuring praise between ragged breaths: “shit… you’re so perfect… so fucking mine…”
FRATBOY!MINGI has never invited a girl back to his apartment before. honestly, he’s never left a party this fast, either. he helps you dress after he dresses himself; his movements are clumsy, slipping his jacket over your shoulders to show everyone that you are his. he wipes your thighs with something, the sheets maybe, he doesn’t even check. big hands stay firm on your waist, mouth trailing along your neck, pulling you back into him every chance he gets, and you can feel how hard he already is again through his pants. it frustrates him because he wants more but knows better.
he’s drunk, but he’s forcing his brain to work somehow, because one thing is crystal clear: he needs privacy, and can’t wait another second.
you expect the smell of cigarettes and spirt when the door opens. drunk people everywhere, couples making out, bodies pressed together in dark corners. instead, it’s quiet, and then you see someone.
standing there with a plastic cup in his hand, frozen like he’s been caught eating those godforsaken cookies from the jar. mingi’s mouth is still on your neck mid-kiss. your hands resting over his when NERD!YUNHO stares like he’s just walked into something he was never supposed to see, and so the cup slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor as he swallows hard.
mingi finally looks up, so annoyed and irritated, throwing him a sharp, territorial glare. “get lost,” he snaps. “the hell are you staring at?”
it doesn’t even register at first. the fratboy doesn’t recognize him, because in his head, yunho is just some awkward guy, a background character — a nobody. someone who shouldn’t look like that, so stylish and handsome that it makes you, his girl, stare for even more than a second.
and whose party was this again? yeonjun’s? he doesn’t know, or care.
mingi drags you toward the stairs, fingers laced with yours, already halfway gone. you follow behind him, but something makes you look back.
your head is still foggy, but you know exactly who it is now. the smart guy who helped you study for that impossible exam, the one who smiled nervously when you thanked him, since he stayed late explaining formulas when everyone else gave up. he was actually cute, you thought, and his ears went bright red when you complimented him on his academic achievements.
then you smile sweetly at him, mouthing a soft bye, as he’s still standing there, cup forgotten, watching you go with an expression he hopes you never see him with. looking nothing like the awkward nerd everyone assumes he is. and if mingi knew the truth, that yunho was your first, long before tonight, he wouldn’t be pulling you away so confidently.
"PUT YOUR LOVING WHERE YOUR MOUTH IS, YOUR SUGAR TALKING ISN'T WORKING TONIGHT"
MASTERLIST
SUMMARY: a few weeks after being ghosted by your summer "fling" you finally got over him. that is until you find out he goes to the same college as you, and unfortunately you have a run-in with him.
RELATIONSHIP(S): female!reader x kim mingyu, chwe hansol x boo seungkwan, tiniest bit of son chaeyoung (twice) x choi seungcheol
TAGS: college au, one night stand to 'enemies' to lovers, fluff, teeny tiny bit of angst, roommates hip hop unit, they are annoying i'm sorry
WARNINGS: mentions of and allusions to sex, alcohol consumption and also alcohol as a coping mechanism, food consumption, kissing
WC: 8.4k
NOTES: okay, whew here it is! my first ever fic! i'm scared. all and any feedback is welcome and it is also encouraged as i am here to learn!! i hope you enjoy <3 (i am also aware that these are real people, this is purely my characterization of them!)
“I’M SORRY, YOU SLEPT WITH WHO?”
You winced at the sound of Chaeyoung’s voice. While your best friend was loving and kind, she was also way too scattered for your liking, especially in this moment.
“Not so loud, Chae!”, you whisper-shouted at her, taking a quick look around the room to ensure nobody heard.
Students sat around tables, some laughing with their friends, some reading books and some having the same lunch you and Chaeyoung were.
Luckily, nobody seemed to react to Chae’s announcement of your summer “activity”. You stifled a laugh at her face, her lips pressed shut to stifle a laugh of her own.
She turned to her left and stole another look over at the little group of people you had pointed to earlier after noticing a familiar face.
“You’re telling me you hooked up with Kim Mingyu at some random party, in a random town, out in the middle of nowhere?”, she now, luckily, whispered.
“First of all, don’t call my hometown ‘middle of nowhere’, second of all, I didn’t even know he goes here!”, you told your wide-eyed friend, feeling a blush creep up your neck at the possibility of him recognizing you and remembering that night.
Kim Mingyu, who apparently went to the same college as you, was sitting at a table in the corner of the large cafeteria. Next to him were a few guys you recognized as frat guys. You think one of them was named Hansol, and the guy next to him you recognized as Wonwoo.
Wonwoo sat a few rows behind you in your photography class last year. A nice guy, but quiet, as you had learned the hard way when you had to discuss something during class together and you had done most of the talking.
Though you couldn’t really blame the guy, you weren’t particularly fond of talking to strangers either, especially when forced to.
“I’m calling it the middle of nowhere because it is. What was he even doing there? And how in the world have you not noticed him going here? He’s in the same frat as Hansol and Seungcheol!”, you rolled your eyes at Chae’s line of questioning, smiling as you did so because you could never really get annoyed at her.
Speak of the devil, you could say, right after her statement Seungcheol walked in the room and over to the rest of the guys who sat around the table.
Choi Seungcheol, who you knew the others called Coups sometimes (though you could never understand why), was undoubtedly handsome, but not really your type. However, he was absolutely Chaeyoung’s type, and you could see how her eyes basically turned into hearts at the sight of him.
Seungcheol sat down at the table with Mingyu and the rest of them, nodding and murmuring something you couldn’t hear as he did so.
“Speaking of Seungcheol,” you wiggled your eyebrows, knowing she had been eyeing him since they met at a party last winter, “how’s that going?”
Chaeyoung immediately looked away from the blonde who just walked in, and smacked your arm lightly, earning a quiet “ouch” from you.
“Do not try to change the subject, you’re seriously telling me you slept with Kim Mingyu?” She placed her hand on your arm and patted the spot where she had smacked you. “How was it? Is he a good kisser? Is he good at anything else? How bi-”
Now it was your turn to smack her arm, laughing as you did so.
“Stop asking! Yes, I slept with him, yes, he is a good kisser, but that doesn’t matter anyway. He doesn’t want anything to do with me, it was a one time thing.” You sighed, and picked up your bag to place your leftover stuff in, wanting out of this room before Mingyu noticed you, or before Chaeyoung somehow beckoned him over.
Chaeyoung mirrored your movements and started packing her own bag, seemingly taking the hint of your, frankly desperate, need to leave.
“He doesn’t want anything to do with you? What does that even mean? Did he say that?” Chaeyoung’s furrowed brows made you laugh quietly, and you reached out to remove the wrinkles between her eyebrows which were formed by her frown.
“No, he didn’t exactly say it, but he didn’t need to. We slept together, he asked for my number, we talked for a few days and then nothing. Radio Silence. I was nice enough to take the hint and stop bothering him.” You finished your statement with a shrug.
Before Chaeyoung could ask any more questions about your “situation”, a call of your name was heard from across the room. You looked up to see Chan, your roommate and another of your friends.
You lived with Chan and your other friend, Seungkwan. The three of you had gotten to know each other during your first year, bonding over a horrible writing class which turned into one of your favorites as it was the only class the three of you had together.
You moved into an off-campus apartment with the two boys a few months later, and soon after you had befriended Chaeyoung. She didn’t live with you, but she might as well be, seeing as she was around most days of the week.
Another shout of your name made you roll your eyes, and Chan started jogging lightly towards you two. His backpack was half-way open, books and loose papers threatening to fall out.
“Close your backpack, idiot”, you told him when he reached the pair of you, accepting his half-hug. Chan had been away for a week’s time, something about his family wanting him home while some relatives were visiting. He had agreed, seeing as he usually skipped most of his classes anyway.
“I missed you,” he squeezed your arm, turning to Chaeyoung. “And you too, Chae!” His smile wide as he leaned toward her for a hug, only getting a pat on the back in return. You stifled a laugh at his dejected look, closing his backpack for him.
“Okay, now what have I missed? What are the two of you talking about?” Chan looked between the pair of you as you shared quick glances, silently agreeing not to say anything. Chan was a great friend, but if you wanted a secret out and known quickly, you simply had to tell him to keep it.
“Nothing, Channie, we were just heading out.” You smiled at him, and before he could ask anything else a voice called his name.
You looked over to see who you assumed was Hansol waving Chan to the table where he and the other guys sat, among them the one guy you wanted to avoid the most.
You turned to Chaeyoung, signalling for her to leave the room with you, so you could go home and think about something else.
Fate was not on your side.
“Hansol!” Chan waved back at the brunette and the rest of the frat guys, all of them now having turned to look in your direction. You looked over only to lock eyes with Mingyu. Your breath caught in your throat.
His skin was still tan, though not as much as it was earlier this summer, when the two of you had met in the backyard of your cousin's house party. His hair was hidden under a backwards baseball cap, fortunately for you so you could avoid thinking about running your fingers through his dark locks while he was kissing down your neck.
He had walked up to you standing under a string of lights, sipping from a red solo cup. Some horrible mixture made by god-knows-who, but it did the trick. Smiling with all his teeth he had introduced himself.
Your cousin had disappeared off to hook up with some dude, good for her, you had thought, but now you didn’t really know anyone else. Mingyu appeared, and with his good looks and angel-like personality he might as well have fallen down from heaven and landed in front of you.
The two of you had talked the whole night, eventually ending up back at your place. You shivered thinking about that night and how he had, frankly, worshipped you. You had never felt like that before.
In the days following your parents had grown tired of your constant talking on the phone, bedroom door-slamming whenever his name showed up on your screen paired with the words “incoming call”.
Mingyu and you talked like you had known each other forever, and you told him things you never told anyone. He just felt trustworthy. He felt right. Well, that was until the calls stopped coming, your texts left on read.
You had spent the rest of the summer wondering what went wrong, what you had done. And just as you had gotten over it, deciding it just wasn’t meant to be, here he was. Looking at you with those dark-brown eyes you could almost see when you closed your own.
A tug on your arm stopped your train of thoughts, and you broke your way-too-intense eye-contact with Mingyu.
“Come on guys, let’s go say hi to them!” Chan dragged you and Chaeyoung behind him, making your heartbeat quicken at the nearing proximity of your summer fling. Could you even call it that? You didn’t even know, didn’t understand why you were feeling this way.
You really should be angry at him, sleeping with you and making you think he wanted more, talking to you everyday after, until the day it just stopped.
“I’m trying to get in with these guys so we’ll get invited to more of their parties, they throw the best parties on campus.” Chan whispered to you and Chae through gritted teeth, and the both of you rolled your eyes at the boy before following him over to the table.
At the table all of them were looking towards the three of you, clearly expecting an introduction, which was delayed due to Hansol embracing Chan with a pat on his back.
“Guys this is Chan, he’s really cool, we’ve been playing soccer together.” Hansol said, and the rest of the table nodded in Chan’s direction. You caught the eye of your former classmate, and a small smile formed on your face which he returned.
“Hey Y/N, glad to be done with Mr. Kang’s class this semester?”, Wonwoo asked you, referring to your shared photography class. You ignored the others looking towards the two of you, clearly not knowing you had shared a class.
“More than glad, Wonwoo, no more surprise formatting-pop-quizzes or random group assignments. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of.” You responded to him, laughing a little at the small snort of agreement that came out of him while he pushed his glasses a bit longer up his nose bridge.
A murmur of your name from across the table caught your attention, and your eyes turned toward Mingyu.
His eyes were as wide as they had been earlier during your way-too-long eye contact, seemingly equally shocked as you are at the fact that the both of you go to the same college.
You smiled at him, and nodded your head slightly, feeling your ears turn red.
“You two know each other?” Wonwoo asked, looking between the pair of you. Chaeyoung shoved an elbow in your side, apparently finding this extremely amusing now that she had stopped staring at Seungcheol, who was busy picking something out of his food.
“Yeah, during the summer-” Mingyu started, but you interrupted him.
“We met briefly during the summer, I dropped my purse and Mingyu here was kind enough to pick it up for me. We exchanged names quickly, that’s it.” You forced a smile, trying to avoid Mingyu’s eyes. “I didn’t know you went here.”
“Yeah, she dropped her purse. And what am I if not a gentleman?” Mingyu quickly hid his surprised expression, and his little joke earned him a few eye-rolls and huffs from the rest of the table. “I didn’t know you went here either.”
Mingyu looked down, almost looking ashamed. You wondered if it was because of his poor joke or some type of regret for what he did to you.
You just nodded, wanting to get out of here as soon as possible, but of course Chan had to get involved.
“Yeah, she lives with me and Seungkwan! You know Kwan, Hansol, he played soccer with us that one time.” Chan smiled at the brunette, who just nodded, a strange expression on his face.
“We should hang out sometime, all of us!” Chan continued, and you mentally slapped his head. “Yeah, Y/N here doesn’t get out much and we know you guys throw great parties-”
This time you physically smacked the back of his head, earning a low laugh from Seungcheol and another snort from Wonwoo.
However, it was Mingyu’s small laugh that made you smile, remembering it from your late night phone calls.
You quickly wiped the smile off your face, not wanting Mingyu to get some sort of ego-boost, and took Chan’s left arm in your right.
“Well, that’s our cue! Seungkwan will be wanting us home now, right Chan?” You looked at his eyes, trying to look as strict as possible without being too obvious. The boy nodded, murmuring an agreement before the three of you started to turn around.
Hansol murmured something at Chan about soccer practice tomorrow, and Chae made her last heart-eyes at Seungcheol. Your heartbeat was too loud in your ears for you to really pay attention.
“We’ll see you guys around!” Chills ran down your back at the sound of Mingyu’s voice, speeding up to avoid having to answer him.
Well, it looks like you have spun yourself quite the web of lies.
Walking between Chan and Chaeyoung you only fell deeper in your tunnel of thoughts. Mingyu ghosted you, but now he was telling you he’ll see you around all of a sudden? And almost telling everybody about your meeting this summer? Who does he think he is, leading you on like that?
You let your anger bubble while you walked to Chae’s car, hoping Mingyu and his friends would just go away and that this whole thing could be behind you.
What a way to start the week.
A loud clang from the kitchen woke you up from your midday-turned-afternoon nap. You groggily sat up in your bed, rubbing at your eyes. As any daytime nap you woke up overheated and dehydrated. Taking off the hoodie you shared with Seungkwan without his knowledge, you walked out of your bedroom and into the kitchen to investigate.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty!” Seungkwan’s voice was loud, and you covered your ears, not ready for this type of noise right after you woke up. The speaker on the counter playing “Shake It” by Sistar didn’t exactly help.
You observed the kitchen island and stifled a laugh. Seungkwan was known for making a mess in the kitchen every single time he attempted to cook. Emphasis on attempted.
“What are you snorting at? I’m feeding the family here!” He put his hands on his hips and you couldn’t help but laugh then, looking at his baby blue apron and blonde messy hair.
“Thank you, Kwannie!” You said sing-songy, sticking your pinky in whatever stew he had been making, earning you a smack on the hand with a ladle. You hummed at the taste, walking over to grab a water bottle from the fridge to cure your nap-induced dehydration.
Chan walked into the room, observing the scene before him.
You in your pjs, hair messy and chugging a water bottle, and Seungkwan angrily stirring the stew, tossing spices in the pot, wearing his baby blue “kiss-the-chef” apron.
“Guys, I’m sorry but we have to go do something. This is just sad.” Chan said, making the both of you scowl at the youngest.
“It’s Friday! And what are we doing? Nothing! Stone-cold-sober, wearing silly aprons and pjs!”
His statement did nothing to lessen your frowns, but it was an unfortunate reality check, and you sighed in unison.
“Well, what is your idea then Mr. "I-know-best?" Seungkwan huffed at him, running a hand through his blonde mess of hair.
The smile on Chan’s face grew wider, which was never a good thing.
“That Mingyu guy messaged me! The tall one we met yesterday, you remember.” He looked over to you. “He told me to bring my friends and come to the frat party tonight.” He said with a proud smile.
You almost crushed the empty water bottle in your hand.
Kim Mingyu, who you didn’t even know went to the same college as you before yesterday, was now suddenly messaging your best friend encouraging you to come to a frat party?
No way, he doesn’t get to do that. Not after ghosting you.
“Channie, that’s great but I don’t want to go. Like at all.” You looked at the boy with pleading eyes, but he only shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to. We need to get you out there. Maybe you even could get laid?” Chan said, and your jaw almost dropped.
“What? You haven’t gotten laid in forever!” He said, emphasizing the forever and rolling his eyes. If only he knew, you thought, but no way were you going to tell him about that.
“Am I wrong? Wasn’t the last guy your shitty ex? The one who dumped you during spring break? What was his name? Jaehyun, something?”
You rolled your eyes at him, “Taehyun. And yes, there hasn’t been anyone since,” A lie. “But it’s not like I’m desperate. I don’t need to go to some stupid party just to get laid, tell him, Kwannie!” You turned to the blonde who had been suspiciously quiet during this whole ordeal.
“I don’t know, Y/N, maybe it’ll be good for you to at least get out there? And I hear they throw the best parties.”
Seungkwan murmured without looking into your eyes, and Chan let out a cheer, punching his hands in the air.
“Well, it’s decided then! Two against one, come on, go get dressed, take a shower or something.” He looked at the two of you, but backed down at the sight of your scowl.
“Maybe we’ll eat first,” He meagerly said, sitting down at one of the barstools lined up next to the kitchen island.
You were not looking forward to this. You quickly found your phone and texted Chaeyoung to tell her the unfortunate news, begging her to come over.
If you were to go to this thing you could at least have your best friend with you.
A knock on the door interrupted the yelling coming from the bathroom, Seungkwan and Chan arguing over who would get to shower next.
You had dibs on shower privileges, seeing as you took longer showers than them. Well, you and Seungkwan were neck and neck. You think Chan just walked in the shower and then out again.
You were still wrapped in your bathrobe, having started on your make-up. You opened the door to reveal Chaeyoung standing there, all dressed up and holding up two bottles of vodka.
“Somebody’s ready I see.” You smiled at her, stepping aside to let the girl in. Chae placed the bottles on the kitchen counter just as Seungkwan walked in, apparently having lost the discussion to the youngest. The two of them hugged, and Chae immediately started her drink-mixing.
“I figured that if you were going to stand to see Kim Mingyu’s face tonight you would have to not be completely sober, so here I am with the solution!” She laughed briefly, before seeing your wide eyes and Seungkwan’s confused expression.
“Why would Y/N not stand seeing Kim Mingyu’s face? Didn’t you just meet him yesterday?” Seungkwan questioned, looking directly at you.
Never, not once, had you lied directly to Seungkwan and gotten away with it, so why would you start now?
You exchanged a look with Chaeyoung, and she gave you a tiny nod, reaching for a shot glass in her purse. She poured you a tiny shot and you took it immediately, the harsh liquor burning down your throat.
“I slept with Mingyu.”
Seungkwan’s gasp was so loud you had to cover his mouth so that Chan didn’t hear anything in the bathroom. You frowned at him, shaking your head.
“You can not tell Chan, I don’t want everybody hearing about how I slept with Mingyu and got ghosted afterwards, that’s too embarrassing.” You looked at Seungkwan with stern eyes, waiting for his nod of approval before removing your hand from his mouth.
“You told Chan you hadn’t slept with anyone since Taehyun! And now you’re saying you slept with Kim Mingyu? Frat guy Kim Mingyu? Seven feet tall, extremely handsome, tan Kim Mingyu?” Seungkwan’s wide eyes made Chaeyoung laugh, and she handed him a shot of his own.
“How was it? Was he any good? He’s so tall, I bet it’s bi-”
Once again you threw your hand over his mouth, and Chae almost fell over laughing behind the kitchen counter.
“That’s what I said, Kwan!” She snorted out between laughs, holding her stomach. Hilarious, you thought.
“It’s terrifying how similar the two of you are. Evil." You said, staring at the pair of them before something wet touched the palm of your hand. You yelped.
“Boo Seungkwan, you did not just lick my palm!” You made a noise of disgust, causing him to stick his tongue out at you.
An outsider looking in on this would have thought you were kindergarteners, not college students.
Just then, Chan walked out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his hips and hair dripping. He looked at the three of you and then over to the vodka bottles. He gave a small nod of approval and a thumbs-up.
He gave Seungkwan a quick pat on the shoulder.
“The shower’s all yours, Kwan”, he said walking toward his bedroom and closing the door with a soft slam. Seungkwan looked towards you.
“Well, if Mr. Kim Mingyu wants to ghost you.. Let's make him regret it.” An evil smile spread across his face, and you stared deadpan at him.
“And how will we be doing that?”
“We’ll show him just what he’s missing out on.”
Chaeyoung nodded in agreement, and shoved another shot your way.
The music from the party could be heard from down the street, and you walked hand-in-hand with Chaeyoung, Chan and Seungkwan following closely behind you.
The four of you had already been drinking for a while, and you had the perfect buzz to even stomach the thought of walking toward the noise.
Seungkwan, as he had decided earlier, wanted to show Mingyu what he was missing out on by ghosting you, and you must admit he did a good job. He put you in a dress you hadn’t worn since your first year, when you did a lot more partying.
The color of the dress matched your features well, and fit you perfectly. The pair of boots you had on completed the outfit, and your make-up was just the cherry on top.
You had to admit you felt confident, and decided to make the best out of this forced event.
Chae held your hand tightly, also wearing a dress that Seungkwan had chosen, mumbling something along the lines of, “Seungcheol won’t be able to keep his eyes off you,” which had made her giggle.
You walked up the driveway to the house, ignoring the guy spilling his guts into the bushes, and a girl crying on the front steps being comforted by her friend. You managed a small smile at the pair, feeling bad for her. You had definitely been there.
The noise you had heard from down the street was tripled when you walked in, greeted by cheers, people walking shoulder-to-shoulder, and what you thought was somebody singing karaoke in the distance.
Seungkwan heard the karaoke machine, and like a moth to a flame he was gone, dragging Chan behind him. Perfect, now you only had Chaeyoung to lean on.
She tightened her grip on your hand and pulled you after her through the crowd of people, seemingly looking for a kitchen or somewhere, anywhere, with drinks that you could ensure weren’t drugged.
At last you found a kitchen, filled with red solo cups and bottles of different alcohols piled together on the island. You, once again, tried to ignore your surroundings, two girls making out in the corner of the kitchen and three people seemingly arguing beside them.
Chae snorted at your expression and started her apparently new job as a rookie bartender. You didn’t complain and took whatever she handed you, feeling the heat travel down your throat, relishing in the feeling.
“Don’t look so frightened, let’s go dance or something?” She proposed, nodding her head towards where people were dancing to some old BIGBANG song. Before you could respond a shout of your name came from behind you.
You turned to see Wonwoo, obviously tipsy and very happy to see you. You gave him a hug, glad to see a familiar face.
“I’m happy you guys are here,” he said, smiling at the two of you and keeping his arm around your shoulder giving it a comforting squeeze. You leaned your head on his broad shoulder, returning the same statement to him.
“We were going to go dance a bit, do you wanna join us?” Chae asked, again nodding her head toward the dancing crowd. He responded with a cheer and followed Chaeyoung, keeping his arm around you and taking you with him.
The BIGBANG song which played when you got there ended, and was replaced by some house-party remix of 2NE1’s “I Am The Best”. The intro made you and Chae cheer, earning a loud laugh from Wonwoo.
The three of you immediately got to dancing, and you could feel all your worries from before the party go away as whatever Chaeyoung made you earlier started to hit.
You closed your eyes as you danced, before you felt a tap on your arm. Opening your eyes you saw Wonwoo looking at something, which turned out to be someone, behind you.
“Okay, don’t look now, but Mingyu is staring at you,” he smirked at you, clearly amused by the situation. He saw your shocked expression and quickly clarified, “He told me about this summer, you and him.”
You could barely hear him over the music, but you nodded at him. You knew the two lived together, along with Seungcheol and Hansol, so you assumed as much. You remember Mingyu telling you about his best friend during the summer, now connecting the dots that he could have been talking about Wonwoo.
“And did he say anything about why he suddenly stopped talking to me, like an asshole?” you asked, feeling your anger rising at the mention of the tall brunette.
Wonwoo shook his head, “I’m sorry, but even if he did I wouldn’t tell you.” Seeing your wide eyes made him laugh. “Not like that! You’re cool and all, but I bet he would like to tell you himself.”
During your conversation he had leaned a lot closer to you than he originally was, and Chae had found some of her girlfriends on the dance floor and disappeared into the crowd.
Before you could answer Wonwoo, you felt a large hand grab your upper arm.
You turned to see Mingyu holding onto you, obviously trying to pull you away from there. Your heart skipped a beat, not expecting him to come up to you this way. Where everyone could see.
“Let’s go,” he said, tugging at your arm. You wanted to talk back to him, tell him to remove his hand and leave you alone. But his touch alone had rendered you speechless, and you let yourself be dragged by him, giving Wonwoo an apologetic smile. He mirrored your smile and disappeared off to where you think you saw Vernon earlier.
Mingyu kept his hand on your arm all the way to a quiet corner of the hallway before you shook it off.
“I’m sorry, but what do you want from me?” You asked, angrily staring up at him, damning the fact that your boots didn’t have a very tall heel. He looked down at you, those brown eyes of his glistening in the soft light.
You take this moment to admire his appearance, the little mole on the tip of his nose you’ve kissed, his hair mostly slicked back except for a few strands falling down onto his forehead, his pink lips which were opening and closing like he was trying to say something.
“Well?” You were growing impatient with him and his lack of an answer, and stared sternly at him.
“Don’t dance with Wonwoo,” he murmured, almost so low you didn’t hear him over the music spilling out into the hallway. You rolled your eyes at his statement.
“I’m sorry?” you said, scoffing. “Don’t dance with Wonwoo? Are you serious? Who are you to decide that?” You huffed, running a hand through your hair in frustration.
“No, you don’t get to tell me that. Not after ghosting me. Not after making me believe you wanted more than just that one night,” you started, feeling tears forming in your eyes. “That’s not how it works, Mingyu, I’m sorry but you had your chance.”
A single tear of frustration falls down your cheek, and his eyes soften. You quickly wipe it away with the back of your hand, not wanting him to see.
He opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it just as quickly. You push past him with a huff, and walk back over to the room which he so impolitely dragged you out of.
On your way out you hit a firm body with a crash, making the person grab your shoulders to steady you.
“Woah there, Y/N, right? I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” Seungcheol says, letting go of your shoulders now that you’re steady on your feet. You nod, giving him a quick smile, which doesn’t reach your eyes.
“That’s okay, hey, have you seen Chan, or Seungkwan, or Chaeyoung? Or anyone?" you manage a small laugh, looking around you.
He notices your teary eyes, his eyebrows furrowing. His hand is back on your shoulder, a thumb stroking back and forth. You almost laugh at his expression, looking like a concerned father.
“Is everything okay? Let’s go find them together, yeah?” you nod and he places an arm around your shoulder. Not expecting this kindness from someone you basically just met earlier this week, you smile softly and walk with him further into the party.
You spot Chan, Seungkwan and Hansol sitting on a couch with a few other people. Seungcheol leads you there, and Seungkwan spots you walking up to them. He immediately interrupts whatever conversation he was having with Hansol, murmuring a quick “Hold on,” before rushing over to the two of you.
“Are you okay? Did something happen? Who did this?” You laugh at him, giving him a quick pat on the cheek. His cheeks are warm and red from all the drinking, and most likely blushing, he has done this evening.
“I’m fine, Kwannie, go back to your conversation. I just need a drink or something, can I hang out here, please?” You smile at him, and he wipes the mascara off your cheeks making sure all traces of your tears are gone. He nods, quietly thanking Seungcheol who sits down in a chair around the little group that has formed.
“Was it Mingyu? Did he say something?” Seungkwan whispers at you, ensuring nobody else hears. You brush him off, not wanting to talk about it.
He sits back down on the couch, placing himself between you and Hansol. You quickly take the drink you recognize as Seungkwan’s, downing it in one go.
“Okay, so that’s where we’re at,” Seungkwan laughs, and you laugh along with him and lean your head on his shoulder, his presence already making you feel better.
He introduces you to the guy who you end up sitting next to, Minghao, apparently. Minghao seems nice enough, and you immediately join the conversation around the table.
From the corner of your eye you can spot Mingyu walking back in from where you had talked with him. He meets Wonwoo on his way, who pats his shoulder and the two of them start talking.
For some reason you can’t take your eyes off Mingyu. The way his hand flexes as he runs it through his dark hair, trying to get some of those fallen locks back into place. As mad as you were at the fact that he assumed he could boss you around, you couldn’t help but feel giddy at the sight of him.
In the midst of your admiration of him he looks over at your group, his eyes locking with yours.
You decide to challenge him, and stare right back at him. Heat spreads through your body, and you look him up and down, seeing the way he shrinks under your stare.
You smirk, and decide to look away, returning to your conversation with Minghao, who excitedly starts talking about some art project he’s working on. You feel kind of bad, not being able to pay proper attention to his words, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Somehow, you know Mingyu is still looking at you from the other side of the room, and you revel in it. You want him to regret what he’s done, regret doing that to you.
You try to avoid Seungkwan and Hansol’s obvious flirting right next to you, laugh along with Minghao, take shots from Chan, and joke around with Seungcheol.
All with a pair of dark brown eyes burning holes in the side of your face, making heat spread through your body.
The day after you’re awoken by laughing from the living room. You sit up in your bed, trying to rub away the hammering headache from yesterday’s one too many drinks. You quickly check your phone, 1:34 P.M. Alright, not too bad seeing as you were home at 4? 5? A notification directly below the time makes your heart jump in your chest.
“Text message from: Kim Mingyu,” You stare at the notification, rubbing your eyes and looking again. You quickly press it, reading over the short text quickly.
“I’m sorry, can we talk?” The words stare back at you, and your heart pounds louder than your party-induced headache. Kim Mingyu, apologizing? Wanting to talk?
Your mind immediately goes to the conversation in the hallway. The way he had grabbed your arm like he owned you, that pissed you off first of all, then telling you not to dance with your friend? Who was also his best friend?
Then you remember the look on his face as he realized you were crying, saying something about him ghosting you and pushing past him before he could answer. Now that made you feel kind of bad. He should at least get to explain himself, you thought.
Or maybe you just had a soft spot for him. Stupid soft spot.
You quickly type up a response, just to delete it and type a new one. This repeats itself a few times before you land on your answer, pressing send.
“Where and when?”
You hadn’t gotten out of your bed after sending the response, staring at the ceiling and every bone in your body aching from last night. After a while you decided enough is enough, and walked out of your bedroom and into the living room.
On your couch sat Chan and.. Hansol? Not Seungkwan?
“Well, there she is! Good morning, princess,” Chan said, smiling and clapping his hands together, making you wince. The brunette next to him also winced, but gave you a quick nod and a smile.
You walked over to the couch, and sat down on the floor opposite them.
“Remind me to not drink again,” you said, rubbing your temples and making the two boys laugh. You looked around to check if Seungkwan was around, seeing him nowhere.
“Where's Kwan?” you asked the two of them, who then exchanged a look before Hansol answered. “He’s, uh, still in bed,” he said, his cheeks turning an adorable dusty pink. You snorted, and Chan shoved Hansol’s elbow, earning a giggle from the man. Cute.
“Okay then, who wants some breakfast? I’m personally in the mood for something greasy, but I’ll take suggestions,” Chan said, looking between the two of you, both of you nodding in agreement.
“Greasy it is!” He clapped his hands together once again (he really had to stop doing that) and walked over to the kitchen. The two of you follow after like two children waiting to get fed.
Your phone dings on the counter, and a quick glance down tells you exactly what you feared. It’s from Mingyu.
“Today? The café on campus?”
You sighed, typing out a quick thumbs up and asking him to send the address, before turning on “Do Not Disturb” and laying your phone screen down on the counter.
Hansol eyes you, before coughing slightly when you return his stare with strict eyes and a shake of your head.
If he knew anything about this situation he better not say anything in front of Chan, who’s luckily turned his back to the two of you to get started on eggs and bacon, with ramen on the side, of course.
It wouldn’t be a Lee Chan meal without ramen.
A door opening and closing catches all your attention, and the three of you turn your heads toward Seungkwan walking out of his bedroom.
His blonde hair sticks out in every direction, looking a lot like your own style. He’s wearing a pair of black pyjama pants, paired with a graphic tee you’re pretty sure used to be yours.
Seungkwan walks over to the kitchen, giving Hansol a quick kiss on the back of his head, before turning toward you and stroking your cheek with the back of his pointer finger. He then turns toward Chan and sticks up the middle finger, which earns him a “Hey!” and a laugh from you and Hansol.
“Morning, princess,” you copy Chan’s nickname from earlier and Seungkwan rolls his eyes at you, sitting on the top of the counter. His hands are like magnets toward Hansol, as he starts fiddling with his earlobes. Hansol doesn’t react, other than a small smile at the blonde, and the blush on his cheeks you recognize from earlier. Cute, again.
Eventually Chan finishes the meal, now for the four of you, and you gather in the living room to debrief the earlier night. Obviously not addressing the elephant(s) in the room, who are basically sitting in each other's laps, making you and Chan exchange small looks as if to say, “Are you seeing this too?”
You manage to muster down a bit of ramen and a few bacon pieces, whining when Chan chastises you for hogging the bacon pieces.
Quickly you realize how late it’s turned into, time flying by when sharing stories from yesterday’s party.
You hear about how Chan had attempted flirting with a girl called Yunjin, emphasis on attempted. The situation had apparently gotten him in trouble with her girlfriend, whom he was not aware of.
Not having heard from Chaeyoung, you ask the others, who tell you they spotted her talking a few times with Seungcheol through the night after she had been dancing with her girlfriends. You smile at that, making a mental note to call her later to get the updates.
But for now you have your own drama to deal with, drama with the name of Kim Mingyu, on his way to a café to talk with you.
You quickly clean up your dishes and get dressed, making sure you look presentable and not like you just woke up, before making an excuse to the three boys and rushing out the front door.
The café is almost empty, save for a few friend groups sitting around here and there, some doing homework and others talking quietly. You notice Mingyu sitting in a booth in the corner, and take a moment to admire him before he notices you in the doorway.
His hair is covered by a black beanie, a pair of glasses on his face and wearing a grey hoodie, which looks very comfortable. He’s looking out the window, seemingly very nervous, picking at his fingernails.
You swallow your butterflies and walk over to him.
Mingyu looks up at you, hearing the sound of your approaching steps. He gives you a small smile, standing up when you walk up to the booth.
“Hi,” he breathes out, and you return it with a small smile, which doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You don’t really know if you’re mad at him or not, the events of last night still swirling around your mind.
He gestures to the booth and allows you to sit down before sitting back down himself. You look to the table to notice a coffee in front of him and a hot chocolate on your side of the table. You raise an eyebrow at him questioningly.
“I ordered you a hot chocolate, if you still prefer that over coffee, it’s okay if you don’t want it,” he says shyly, looking away from you and down.
Your heart nearly bursts in your chest.
He remembered the fact that you don’t like coffee, and that you haven’t ever since you sneaked a taste from your mother when you were a teenager. Coffee was a lot more bitter than expected.
You don’t even remember telling him that, but you obviously did. And he remembered.
“Thank you,” you say honestly, and take a sip from the cup in front of you. The hot chocolate warms you up, and you hum appreciatively. Mingyu smiles a toothy smile at you.
A beat of silence follows, the both of you just drinking your respective drinks, not really knowing where to start.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Mingyu starts, just as you say, “You remembered.”
You share a small laugh, having a small exchange of “You go,” and “No, you go,” before you eventually say, “You remembered the hot chocolate.”
His eyes soften, and you suddenly feel a lump in your throat at his expression. Like he’s genuinely shocked that you assumed he wouldn’t remember.
“Of course I did, I remember everything,” he says, ending the sentence with a whisper of your name. You sniffle, looking up at him, his face turning serious suddenly.
“I’m so sorry. For everything,” he starts, stopping to consider his wording. “I didn’t mean to just stop talking to you, you didn’t deserve that and I’m sorry.”
Your eyes once again fill with tears. Stupid feelings, you think.
“Then why did you?” you muster the courage to ask, and blink away the glistening tears in your eyes, looking at him straight. He looks away, like your expression is hurting him.
Like it physically hurts him to see you sad.
“I don’t know,” he starts, “I mean, we met and then we had that night and that was great. And talking to you the days after was great, it was perfect. Nobody has ever made me feel so understood before, I swear it felt like..” he pauses, and you finish his sentence.
“Like we had known each other forever,” you whisper, and he nods slowly.
Mingyu takes your hands which rest on the table, and places them in his own, his thumbs stroking soothing circles on them.
“Exactly, and I told you things I’ve never told anyone else. Not even Wonwoo. And I tell Wonwoo way too much about myself,” he says with a laugh, and you laugh along with him. You can almost picture Wonwoo rolling his eyes at Mingyu’s oversharing tendencies, which you realised he had a knack for already the first time you met him.
“And I got scared, Y/N, I was so scared. I was scared because I caught feelings for you, big time,” your breath hitches, and his hands tighten around yours. “I was scared because I’ve never felt like that before, and you had told me about that shitty ex of yours, and I got scared that I would end up hurting you too.”
Mingyu’s confession renders you speechless, and he goes on.
“It’s so stupid, I see that now. But I didn’t want to be just a shitty guy who ended up hurting you, because you’re the last person in the world that deserves that. I was scared that I wasn’t good enough for you, and I decided to pull away before my feelings got any stronger,” he breathes out the last part like it’s been weighing him down for weeks, and maybe it has.
“Because of me being too scared to hurt you, I ended up actually hurting you, and it’s been eating me alive. And then I saw you here, at my college, and I couldn’t believe it. It was like I was given a second chance, you know?” he says, tears forming in his own eyes suddenly, and he blinks, making one travel down his cheek.
You reach a hand out to wipe away the stray tear, and Mingyu immediately leans into your touch like he’s been craving it.
“It’s okay, Mingyu,” you say, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I get it. I was hurt, yes, I was angry too. But I can make my own decisions. I can choose who I want to risk getting hurt for,” you smile softly at him.
“If you’d just asked me I would’ve risked that for you, Gyu,”
The nickname you hadn’t used since summer made Mingyu put his own hand on top of yours on his cheek.
“Would you give me another chance?” he timidly asks, and now tears are streaming down your own cheeks, and Mingyu immediately leans over the table to kiss them away, one by one.
You nod, and laugh through your tears, bringing both your hands to his cheeks and he looks at you. Those dark brown eyes that you missed so much. His scent, cinnamon, fresh linen and something inherently him.
A quick glance down to your lips is all it takes for you to lean in.
Your lips connect and everything else disappears. It’s just you and him. Mingyu and his stupid beanie, and stupid hands, and stupid gorgeous face. When you pull away he leans in and presses small kisses all over your face, making you giggle.
“Should we take a walk?” he asks, and you nod, both of you downing your drinks and standing up. He immediately engulfs your cold hand in his warm hand.
You smile to yourself at the fact that you fit together so well, your hands always cold and his always warm.
The two of you walk out of the café, noticing it’s gotten dark outside. You start your walk, Mingyu swinging your connected hands back and forth between your bodies, making you snort.
You’re pretty sure you’ve never been as happy as you are at this moment. Mingyu’s hand in yours, you feel light as a feather. His smell takes over your senses and you lean into him, your shoulders touching. Still, there’s one question left.
“Mingyu?” you murmur, and he hums, squeezing your hand as if saying “go ahead.”
“Why was it such a problem that I was dancing with Wonwoo?” You ask, and he stops, suddenly laughing. You look confusedly at him, laughing at your serious question. He pulls you into an embrace, his head on top of yours, and you push back enough to tilt your head up at him.
You manage to make the angriest eyes you can at the boy, not lasting long because he just laughs harder. You whine, and he hugs you tighter.
“I’m sorry, you’re cute when you’re angry,” he says and you huff. “Wonwoo was trying to see if I would get jealous. I told him I had feelings for you and he wanted me to tell you, but I was too much of a coward.” You look up at him, slowly connecting the pieces.
“Obviously, I got jealous, and he got exactly what he wanted, didn’t he?” Mingyu says, taking in your puzzled expression. “What?”
“So he did know why you stopped talking to me!” you exclaim, pulling away from Mingyu. “That sneaky bastard, he told me he didn’t know,” you take a moment.
“Though he did also say he wouldn’t tell me if he did know,” you say, and Mingyu snorts, taking your hand and continuing your walk.
“Well, that’s your own fault then,” he laughs, and you hit him jokingly. He puts his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him.
You throw your arms around his waist, basking in his warmth. He kisses the top of your head.
After a while the two of you end up outside your apartment, and you lead him inside by his hand.
Opening the front door you’re greeted by Seungkwan, Chan, Hansol and Chaeyoung all staring at you from the living room. Seungkwan and Hansol smile like they saw this coming, and you hear a tiny squeal from Chaeyoung.
Chan looks at the two of you, down to your connected hands and back up to your faces.
“Wait, when the hell did this happen?” He exclaims, and Seungkwan smacks the back of his head jokingly.
The two of you walk in, greeting the four of them before heading to your bedroom. Seungkwan yells out a tiny “Wear protection!” as you pass them, and you throw up a middle finger in his general direction.
Mingyu shuts the door behind the two of you and you pat the bed, gesturing for him to sit down.
“Not even gonna buy me dinner first?” He tuts jokingly, and you roll your eyes, laying down and opening your arms.
Immediately he lays down in your embrace, placing his nose in the curve of your neck, breathing in your scent and humming.
“Just wanna hold you,” you say, taking off his beanie and raking a hand through his hair, your nails softly digging into his scalp.
“Don’t ever say you’re not good enough for me, you hear me, Kim Mingyu?” you say sternly, referring to his earlier statement. He looks up at you with doe eyes before pressing a kiss to your neck, and you return one to his forehead.
He doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. You don’t need to. For now, this is enough.
For now you can stay here, embracing each other, and that’s enough.
i need to get back on obsessing over realistically unattainable boys cuz idk who i am getting all fulttery over a boy who's disgustingly (said in awe) loyal. i caaaaaaaant
sunghoon is going to marry you someday. he’s sure of it.
although, if he said this to anyone they would find it ridiculous — this guy isn’t even dating you. yet, he already has your entire future planned out in his head. a future where he is your husband.
for now, he’s nothing more than your roommate, a friend, even. but sunghoon wants more, so much more. he already started his three years long plan to get you to date him. there are times where he wants to skip every step and kiss you senseless.
like right now. when you are perched on the bathroom counter with your legs dangling.
“do you really want me to do this?” you ask, a white towel spread across your laps — in the utmost hope it will prevent you from making an absolute mess.
sunghoon’s stands between your knees. face freshly splashed with warm water, cheeks pink. he’s clean, hair wet and scent of his shampoo hanging in the air. he is still shirtless, a towel around his waist.
“i do,” he answers. already imagining how beautiful you’d look in your wedding dress. the music. the place. he has everything in mind already.
you smile, gentle and nervous as you reach for the shaving cream. you squirt a generous amount on your palms.
your hands approach his face carefully. you smooth the cream over his jaw with an impeccable focus and care. he closes his eyes. breathes as you touch him.
he thinks he is falling in love with you here. perhaps, he already was since the first time he saw you. it’s getting aggravating now — with how gentle you are. as if he was a doll you were scared to break.
even when you fumble, smearing foam on his lips, you gently wipe it with your sleeve, “sorry,” you quietly laugh.
“it’s fine,” he says, eyes still closed as he hums, melts into your touch, “take your time.”
he doesn’t want this moment to end. he wants to stay there, with the weight of your touch on his skin. with your face close. knees squeezing his hips.
he tilts his head obediently as your hand rests under his chin. the razor in your hand approaches his neck.
“i could kill you right now,” you giggle under your breath.
i’d still love you, he wants to say. he decides to not open his mouth. he can’t talk. not when you are so close, when he is at the urge of spilling his feelings for you — just because of your touch.
it’s surprising how good you are at this. you drag the razor down his cheek with the perfect pressure, as if you’ve done this all your life. you are so careful, in your own little world, your nose brushes his and your breath fans over his mouth. tempting.
sunghoon flinches. chasing the thoughts in his head.
“are you okay? did i hurt you?” you ask, obviously worried at the sound of your voice.
sunghoon opens his eyes. yours meet his immediately. your face is pretty — painted with worry. his stomach turns with affection. strong enough to feel like gravity.
“no—no… you’re doing good, you’re…” you furrow your eyebrows, confused. he continues, breathing out, “you’re perfect.”
your eyebrows flicker up in sheer surprise. he thinks he sees you blush, but he can’t trust his instincts at the moment. he just knows that you are pretty and is only sure of how much he wants to kiss you.
“close your eyes,” you mutter, focusing back on your job. and he does, without asking any questions.
when you are bossy like that, sunghoon wants to build you a house with his bare hands.
even more so, with how much care is filled in each one of your moves. it’s like you are a professional. not one nick on his skin, perfectly smooth and shiny— as if your fingertips were magical. just as sunghoon thinks you are.
he can’t stop staring at you, upon his eyes open. his eyes shoot pink hearts at you while you clean him up, warm towel on his face and your hands rubbing balm on his skin.
he doesn’t move. even when everything is done.
“i finished,” you giggle.
sunghoon blinks, eyes fluttering upen when he opens them after a millisecond. during that short period of time, he imagined himself getting on one knee, with a tiny box in his hand.
when you get married, he’ll ask you to help him shave all the time.
“i know,” he breathes out.
your voice is barely above an whisper, yet it sends chills down his spine, “you look cute, sunghoon.”
and he’s a strong man. a very strong individual with a great height and big muscles — but not that strong. not strong enough to not be moved by the sound of your voice complimenting him with that teasing grin.
is it him or you who leaned in first? he doesn’t know. but he’s glad someone finally did.
he feels it, your grin, when he gets a taste of your lips. he doesn’t regret skipping his elaborated plan when your warm hand touches his naked shoulder. or when you cup his smoothened jaw.
sunghoon holds onto the bathroom counter for dear life, your legs wrapping around his hips making his knees go weak. he’s too shy to reach out, to put his hands on your precious skin.
until you wrap your arms around his neck. only then he allows himself to press his palm against your back.
he has never dreamed of something better than this feeling right there. never craved anything more than finally kissing you.
“i did a great job,” you say between a kiss. shamelessly complimenting your work.
his lips are attached to yours, barely letting you pull away in the slightest to speak. even when he answers, “yeah, you did,” it’s against your mouth.
and god, not only you are perfect but the way you kiss drives him crazy. give him a few months. he’ll put the prettiest ring on your finger, he can promise that.
Pairing: art dealer fem! reader x idol! kim namjoon
Summary: You fall in love with Kim Namjoon. A love full of passion, a love that burns quietly and intensely. But what’s the point of love if no one’s willing to risk for it?.
note: bring ur tissues and a cup of tea cuz i’m about to write my longest fic ever hoes
The apartment wasn’t loud about you leaving.
There was no shouting. No slammed doors. Just the gentle zip of a suitcase being opened for the first time in months, the sound of folded sweaters being laid down like old apologies. Even the air felt subdued, like the room was holding its breath with you.
You moved slowly, deliberately, the way someone does when they’re unsure if what they’re doing is brave or stupid. Your fingers hesitated over every item. The scarf from the Amalfi trip. The beanie he used to steal from your drawer because he said it smelled like your shampoo. A mug he bought at a gas station in Seoul because it had a crooked cat on it and made you laugh for five minutes straight— You touched those things like they were burning.
Should you throw it or keep it?
That line had been circling your brain for weeks now—at the gallery, on the subway, even during your meetings, where you were supposed to be discussing lighting angles and shipping crates but instead you were wondering how it was possible to be surrounded by beauty and still feel so hollow.
You didn’t even know when the emptiness started. That was the cruel part. It wasn’t a moment. Not one big, ugly heartbreak. It was slow. Like rot beneath paint. Like silence growing in a house until it swallowed everything else. The pain had become numbness— and then just… nothingness.
You were tired of waiting for something, of just waiting for basic things. You were tired for even trying to ask for basic things your partner was supposed to give you in a relationship. Romance, touch, a place— nothing. You hated how you started not expecting, not making it such a big deal. Trying to understand had become a task, a reflex. And you hated it. You were so understanding that it had become a fight for your standards. Now nothing was accomplished. Nothing was expected anymore.
And you had stayed. For too long. Giving CPR to a relationship that hadn’t had a heartbeat in ages. And mow you moved quietly through the bedroom you two had once made it feel like home. Your home. Your place to land, a place for you. Now it was just a big, boring apartment.
You folded the last shirt and paused. Your eyes landed on the nightstand. His nightstand. And you hated yourself for opening it one last time to see it.
There it was. The ring.
In a box that was already more than eight months old, waiting for the right moment that was never going to arrive. It was just… there, like him. You hadn’t put it on. Not the first time you accidentally found it, excited. Not when he told you he was waiting for the right time to ask you to marry him. Not three months later when you were bored. Not ever— And not because you didn’t want to. But because you had been waiting. Waiting for the moment he’d really ask the question. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the fight. Waiting for him to see you.
But he hadn’t.
You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, ring glinting dully in the low light. Your throat felt like it was full of water, like if you opened your mouth, it would all come spilling out. And you looked at the ring and thought that maybe you could’ve stayed. Maybe if he had just said something. Done something. Fought for you… But all you’d gotten was silence. And silence had a way of becoming truth.
Your hand hovered over the nightstand, opening the drawer to leave the box inside. Down all the mess of papers and cables. You left it there, becoming dust as it already was. And you hated yourself for a second, for staying there more than necessary, wishing for a change of heart. For a fight that was never coming. For a life that you had planned with him in your mind. For him. For something… but nothing came. It was just you. Like always.
Your gaze drifted to the window, where the city lights blinked in soft, distant rhythms. And somewhere in the quiet, somewhere in the ache, a memory stirred—of an art gallery.
Of a man in sunglasses.
Of the first time Namjoon made you smiled.
< Four years ago. Manhattan, USA. >
The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, warm shadows across the polished concrete floor. You moved quietly among the canvases and sculptures, your heels muted against the cold surface. The space smelled faintly of turpentine and fresh paper—an honest scent, one that grounded you even on the most restless days.
You were adjusting a label next to a large canvas when the front door chimed. A man entered, head low, wearing a faded baseball cap and oversized sunglasses that hid most of his face. The kind of low-key disguise that almost screamed the opposite. Definitely trying not to be noticed, which was always the most noticeable thing a person could do in a room like this.
Some visitors needed to be approached. Others needed to be left alone until the silence got too heavy. He was the latter. You let him wandered, let him take his time since there wasn’t a lot of people to entertain as it was getting late.
He drifted toward the centerpiece of the current exhibit you were standing in front of—a sprawling, abstract piece by Maya Lin, whose sculptures and installations played fluidly between form and space, light and shadow. This particular canvas was a riot of twisted metal shapes and soft washes of color, both chaotic and meticulous. The man lingered, taking his glasses and studying it with the kind of focus usually reserved for something personal.
After a moment, he said quietly, “It’s strange. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel unsettled or calm looking at this.”
You nodded, folding your arms thoughtfully. “Well, Maya’s work isn’t about giving you an answer. It’s about making you sit with the tension—between order and disorder, permanence and fragility. This piece—‘Fragmented Horizon’—is her take on how modern life fractures time and memory. There’s a sort of… simultaneous push and pull in the shapes.”
He nodded slowly, eyes tracing the jagged lines. “Like trying to hold onto something slipping away.”
“Exactly,” you said. “But without nostalgia or softness. More like… acceptance of the messiness.”
He chuckled. “That’s one way to make chaos feel elegant.”
You smiled, watching how the afternoon light hit the canvas and made the colors shift. “That’s Maya for you. Always precise, but never neat.”
He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his tone. “Do you come here often? I mean, to places like this.”
You considered the question. “Well, they send me here since I was in the city for vacation and they were exposing Korean artists. They needed someone to speak the language so—”
“Working in holidays, you must like your job.” he muttered, interested. “Are you a translator?.”
“I’m an art dealer. I mostly work with living artists, commissioning pieces, managing exhibitions, negotiating with collectors who want to own a bit of that chaos.” you shrugged.
His eyes sparkled. “Sounds like you get to know the chaos pretty well.”
You laughed softly. “More than I care to admit.”
He paused, then said, “I talk a lot about art. I like to come to galleries and met new artists, they always have good stories to tell with their art.”
“Stories are everywhere,” you replied, “but it’s rare to find someone who listens.”
He smiled, a genuine, almost shy expression that softened the guarded set of his jaw.
“Speaking of stories,” he said, “what about the piece over there?” He gestured toward a smaller sculpture—a delicate, twisting form made from layered sheets of transparent resin.
You followed his gaze. “That’s by Lee Ufan. He works with space and material in a way that makes the invisible visible—like the silence between sound, or the emptiness around matter. It’s minimal, but it forces you to rethink presence and absence.”
He looked impressed. “I like that. It’s… quiet. But it says a lot without saying much.”
You nodded. “That’s the goal with good art— it’s always better when you can discuss it with someone.” your eyes met his briefly.
A beat passed.
He hesitated. “Do you… do you usually give your number out at galleries?”
“No,” you said slowly, “I don’t unless is work related.”
“Lucky for me.” He smiled. “I’m an art activist. I know a lot of small artist who are dying to have a place. As an art dealer I think you would be great for that. You have a place in Korea, right?.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Do you have credentials?”
“Uhm— not really, but would you pass an opportunity like that?.”
He looked a little nervous. You liked his courage. You thought for a moment, then walked to the counter to grab your card. A small business card that said your name, work number and the gallery you worked in.
“You’ll have to book a meeting if you want an actual art deal.” you said.
“Work phone” he nodded, slipping the card carefully into his pocket. “Y/n, I like your name.”
“And you are?.”
He stretched his hand and you grabbed it, delicate and soft. He had a musician’s hands, long and unpolished.
“Kim Namjoon.”
For a second, the hum of the gallery seemed to quiet around you two.
You knew that name. Of course you did. The disguise might’ve fooled most people, but not someone who paid attention for a living. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t let the recognition bloom on your face. And for that, he looked almost—grateful.
“Do you usually ask for numbers in art galleries?.”
He chuckled. “I usually don’t ask for numbers at all. But I’d knew I regret it if I didn’t.”
You smiled. “I’m hoping it is because of my great work.”
“That, and something else.” He didn’t let you say anything more, turning around to leave. “Y/n. I’ll be in touch.”
And then he was gone. But his absence stayed in the air, like music that had just stopped.
— — — — —
It took Namjoon only a day to text you. A Saturday night.
Unknown Number: Hi. I keep thinking about the sculpture made of resin.
Unknown Number: The one about presence and absence. That stayed with me.
You were curled on the hotel’s couch when the message came through, bare feet tucked under you and a cup of green tea slowly going cold on the table. You read it twice before replying. You’d given your number before and never expected much from it. This felt different. Still uncertain. But thoughtful. You typed slowly.
You: Lee Ufan.
You: He’s brilliant. Still refuses to overexplain anything, which makes everyone else write 6,000-word essays about him to cope.
A minute passed.
Unknown Number: So basically, he’s a mystery that intellectuals are desperate to solve.
Unknown Number: Sounds familiar.
You smiled.
You: Are you referring to yourself or to the sculpture?
Unknown Number: … Both.
Unknown Number: But I’m easier to approach in daytime.
You: And without sunglasses?
Unknown Number: Maybe.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then—
You: I’m not sure that’s true. You walked around the gallery like you’d been briefed on how not to be noticed by anyone.
Unknown Number: Was I that obvious?
You: Obvious in a very practiced, low-effort kind of way. The hat was a nice touch. Very 2010s indie musician energy.
Unknown Number: Ouch.
Unknown Number: Now I regret not buying the resin sculpture to distract you.
You: You couldn’t afford it.
Unknown Number: You don’t know what I do.
You: I know that people who buy art like that don’t wear Converse with holes in them.
Unknown Number: You noticed my shoes?
You: I notice everything.
There was a pause. A longer one. You wondered if you’d overstepped. But then:
Unknown Number: So do I. That’s probably why I came back.
A small knot twisted in your chest. You stared at the screen.
You: You came back?
Unknown Number: Three times, before I said anything.
Unknown Number: You were always rearranging a frame, or telling a couple that “meaning is subjective” with that one eyebrow lift you do.
Unknown Number: I think I liked that more than the art.
You snorted at how cheesy that was.
You: So what do you do for living?.
Unknown Number: Music. A bit of writing. Some pretending I’m not in music.
Unknown Number: still an art dealer?
You chuckled at that.
You: Yes, but not in the evil capitalist way. I find work for the artists who still rent apartments with roommates.
Unknown Number: That sounds noble. Also suspiciously underpaid.
You: I also make deals with big people, that’s where I get my checks from and how I can get not-much-known artists to the gallery
Unknown Number: Very smart.
You: That’s why I accepted your number request. High risk, high reward.
Unknown Number: Is this your way of saying you want to meet again, or of keeping me guessing?
You: Maybe both
There was a pause again. A beat that stretched just long enough to make you think the moment had passed. Then:
Unknown Number: Next Friday, in Seoul. I’ll be in your gallery.
Unknown Number: Of course, asking for a tour. This is a business thing.
You: I see, only professional matters. I have a group at 7pm you can join.
You: Only if you agree to remove the hat this time.
Unknown Number: Done.
—————
Friday next week came pretty quickly.
And the gallery had never felt so still.
It was 8:52 PM. The lights were dimmed—soft, intimate track lighting casting long shadows over the concrete floor. Outside, the city was moving in its usual Friday-night blur, but inside, everything had slowed to a hush. Specially since it was 8 minutes from closure and the person you had been waiting for didn’t show up to the tour you had given an hour before. But you were okay with that. Finally able to get a rest while finishing the closure.
You stood barefoot behind the front desk, about to flip the lock on the gallery door. You’d swapped your usual heels for flats and hour ago and pulled your hair up into a loose twist that had started to fall by the time he arrived. Namjoon walked in wearing a dark coat and no hat this time, his sunglasses tucked into his front pocket, not on his face.
Good. He was trying.
“Evening,” he said softly, stepping inside.
“You’re late,” you said, not looking up from the wine you were uncorking.
“Traffic.”
You understood it was probably because he didn’t want to be notice by so many people. You could deal with that. So you handed him a glass without asking his preference. He took it with a small nod of thanks.
“No hat. New shoes. You kept your word,” you noted, glancing down. He was wearing clean boots. Expensive ones, slightly scuffed. Still lived-in.
“I felt like the gallery deserved more respect this time.” His tone was dry but sincere. “And I didn’t want to get roasted again.”
You smirked and walked toward the center of the room. “Come on then. You wanted the tour.”
You moved from piece to piece, your voice low but certain. Not a script—just fluid context. Enough to make him look twice at something he thought he understood.
“This one,” you said, pausing at a large mixed-media piece hung on raw linen, “was done by Hyun Seo Kim. She uses burned textiles, thread, and ash in her work. Her whole process is destructive—controlled chaos. But then she stitches it back together. The idea is that memory can’t be preserved, only reconstructed.”
Namjoon stepped closer. “I’ve never seen ash look… gentle.”
“That’s because she bleaches it after. She doesn’t want the trauma to be obvious. Just present.”
He studied it in silence. “That feels honest.”
You turned to him. “Most honest things do.”
He didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, like he was storing it for later.
You two moved through the space in slow, deliberate loops—glass in one hand, silence in the other. You weren’t trying to impress him. You didn’t perform your intelligence. You just let it unfold, like a door left half-open for him to walk through if he wanted. And he did. When you both reached the back alcove, you stopped in front of one of your favorite works—a minimalist installation of hanging wires and glass, perfectly balanced so that even the weight of breath shifted the alignment.
“It reacts to people,” you said. “Subtly. Like the way someone’s mood changes the feel of a room.”
He leaned in, careful not to disturb the piece. “So it’s never still.”
“Exactly. But the movement’s so small, most people miss it.”
He looked at you. “You don’t.”
You shrugged. “I spend a lot of time with things that don’t speak.”
He took a sip of wine, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. “That’s funny. I make a living off speaking and I still can’t say half the things I mean.”
You didn’t respond right away. Your fingers traced the edge of your glass. “What is it you want to say right now?”
The question hung between you two like one of the wires—weightless, waiting.
Namjoon’s brow furrowed slightly. Not defensive. Just… unpracticed. Like no one asked him questions he didn’t already have answers to. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I haven’t thought about music once since I got here. That feels… rare.”
You tilted your head, curious. “That’s a compliment or a warning?”
He smiled. “Both.”
You two stood there in the hush, just watching each other for a few long seconds— Then you turned, setting your glass down on the narrow bench against the wall.
“Well, since you didn’t book an official tour, this is where the curated experience ends.”
“No encore?” he teased.
You walked back toward the front desk, your voice thrown over your shoulder. “You’ll have to come back and pretend to like conceptual video art like the rest of our donors.”
“I might do it.” He followed you slowly, letting his fingers brush the edge of a sculpture as he passed.
When you reached the desk, you glanced at him sideways. “So?”
“So…?”
“Was it worth it?”
He didn’t smile this time. He just said, “Yes.”
You exhaled, a laugh almost escaping. “Good. I was worried I’d have to break into the champagne fridge to rescue the night.”
He stepped closer, not touching, just close enough that you could smell the trace of whatever cologne he wore—something cedar-based and quiet.
“You still might have to,” he murmured.
Your pulse kicked just slightly. “Maybe next time,” you said, steady. “We close in five minutes.”
“I thought we were already closed.”
“I’m very professional,” you said. “Even during off-hours.”
He looked at you for a moment, really looked. Then pulled his phone from his coat pocket and opened a new contact.
“Remind me to thank Lee Ufan,” he said. “Without him, I’d still be pretending to care about Rothko in Chelsea.” You took his phone, typed your personal phone number and name before handed it back. And just before he left—hand brushing the door handle, head half-turned—he said: “Y/n?”
“Hmm?”
“I haven’t wanted to stay somewhere in a long time. But this was… good.”
You watched him go. You said nothing… But as the lock clicked into place behind him and you turned off the lights, you realized you were smiling. And you hadn’t done that in days
< Four years and a half. Seoul, Korea. >
It started with tea.
Neither of you two had wanted more wine. It was already past one, the air inside heavy and comfortable, and you had stood, stretched, and mumbled something about chamomile. Namjoon had followed you into the kitchen, because he couldn’t not. Now, two mugs sat cooling on the coffee table, untouched. You were curled at one end of the couch, socked feet tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Namjoon lay on his side across the other end, head propped on a throw pillow.
He didn’t want to go home. Not yet.
“I still think you’re lying about never writing a book,” you said, pointing a finger at him like it was a scandal.
“I told you,” he said, grinning, “I tried one time an I got so stressed for it to be perfect I had to throw it out. I almost had to take pills for anxiety.”
You snorted. “You probably are better just writing music and poems.”
“You’re cruel.”
“I’m honest.”
He looked at you, really looked—your hair tied back in a loose knot, a small smudge of eyeliner still clinging to the corner of your eye. You always looked like you were halfway between leaving and staying forever.
“Your turn,” he said, lazily. “Ask something.”
You pressed your lips, thinking. Then: “What do you miss most about before things got big?”
Namjoon blinked. “That’s a surprisingly good question.”
“I’m full of them.”
“I miss…” He paused. “Having time to be bored. Back then, I used to wander for hours. Not even writing. Just… looking. People, cracks in the sidewalk, signs on buses. Now everything’s either scheduled or monetized. Or both.”
You watched him. “You sound older when you say that.”
“I feel older when I say it.”
“Do you regret it?”
“The music?”
“No. The scale of it. The attention.”
He thought about it. Then shook his head. “No. But sometimes I wish I could mute it. Like—have it without the echo.”
You nodded slowly, as if you understood without needing him to explain more.
“Okay,” he said, recovering his grin. “Now you: what’s something no one knows about you?”
“I once wanted to be a florist.”
He blinked. “Really?”
“For about four days when I was twelve. I used to rearrange bouquets from the grocery store and get upset when they were ‘imbalanced.’ I told my mom I was going to run a flower shop where people could come in and say how they were feeling and I’d match them to a bouquet.”
“I’d be selective,” you corrected. “No carnations. No baby’s breath. And absolutely no Valentine’s Day roses.”
He laughed, soft and full.
There was a moment of quiet again—not awkward, just long enough for the air to shift. Then he asked, “Do you believe in soulmates?”
You looked at him for a moment, eyes unreadable.
“I think some people fit. In a way that doesn’t have to be explained.”
“Not fate?”
“No,” you shook your head. “More like… they recognize something in each other. Something old. Something familiar.”
Namjoon watched you for a long second. “You sound like someone who’s already met theirs.”
You smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, you asked, “What’s your worst habit?”
He grinned. “Interrupting people when I’m excited.”
“Accurate.”
“Also… leaving too soon. From everything.”
You raised a brow. “Even from people?”
“Especially from people,” he said, then added, more quietly, “Until now.”
You looked down at your hands, picking at the hem of your hoodie. He could tell you were deciding whether or not to believe him. Eventually, you said, “You haven’t left yet.”
He nodded, and said, “Ask me something else.”
You smirked. “What’s my middle name?”
Namjoon grimaced. “…Do I get a hint?”
“No.”
“Is it tragic?”
“That depends on your taste in poetry.”
“Oh god.”
You leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Guess.”
“Something with vowels. It feels like vowels.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Something French?”
You shook your head. He sighed dramatically. “Is it… Eleanor?” You blinked. “Is it Eleanor?!”
You smiled, then mouthed, “maybe.”
Namjoon threw his head back. “I am a genius!”
“It’s not Eleanor.”
“Yah!” he frowned. “I got excited.”
“I just wanted to break your hopes of being a genius.”
He smiled, like you just told him the biggest compliment. “You’re in love with me.”
“I am not.”
He smirked. “You’re very close.”
And you said nothing, but didn’t look away.
Outside, a car passed. The candle flickered. The playlist looped again. And somewhere between the questions and the not-quite confessions, you both realized: This wasn’t temporary.
—————
You were lost.
Not metaphorically. Actually lost.
A wrong turn, a closed road, and a stubborn GPS had led you two somewhere outside of Busan city, into a mess of winding hills and stone walls and olive trees that all looked like something from a postcard Namjoon had definitely lied about sending once… It was your first road trip/travel with him. Now that you were dating you were spending more and more time together so a little travel while you two had time off was great. Specially since it was only the two of you. But this— this was a mess. And it had been funny for the first twenty minutes…
Now you had your feet on the dash, sunglasses slipping down your nose, and Namjoon was squinting at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.
“Why don’t you just ask someone?” you offered, trying not to roll your eyes.
“Because I’m a man and I’m supposed to figure it out through trial, error, and unnecessary detours.”
“That’s not charming. That’s a cliché.”
“Exactly. And clichés are comforting.”
You finally did roll your eyes and leaned over to look at his phone. “We’re fifteen minutes from the villa. You just missed a left after the sheep farm.”
“That could describe this entire region.”
You smirked. “So dramatic.”
He pulled the car to the side of the dirt road, sighed, and finally looked at you. “Okay,” he said. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever sarcastic thing you’ve been holding in for the last twenty minutes. I deserve it.”
You tilted your head. “I was going to say this might be the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”
Namjoon blinked.
“That… wasn’t sarcastic.”
“I know.”
He looked at you. Really looked. The sunlight was pooling in your lap, catching the hem of your linen shorts, the small scar on your knee, the lazy twist of your smile. Your hand was curled around a bottle of water, your nails chipped, your phone face-down on your thigh. You were quiet. Present. Not curating anything.
He hadn’t written a song in two weeks and hadn’t even cared. And maybe that should have terrified him. But instead, what slipped out of his mouth—simple and sudden—was:
“I love you.”
You stilled.
He felt it immediately—the way the air changed. Not colder. Not distant. Just heavier, like the room had shrunk and the road had stopped moving and time was now very, very slow.
You looked at him, your eyes unreadable behind the glasses.
“You said that like you didn’t mean to.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
He swallowed. “Because it’s true.”
A beat.
Then another.
You reached up, slid your sunglasses into your hair, and studied him. Not like a critic. Not like a curator. Just a girl who’d been kissed in the middle of a detour and hadn’t expected it to feel like a beginning.
“I don’t think I can say it yet,” you said softly.
“I know.”
“But I’m not getting out of the car.”
He smiled—something small, barely there, but real.
“Good.”
You reached over, laced your fingers through his, and said, “Now turn the car around before I start doubting your sense of direction and your emotional timing.”
He laughed. It shook out of him without resistance.
And when he drove back toward the sheep farm, your hand stayed in his the whole way.
—————
It was late.
Not late like the night you’d always stayed up talking till sunrise. This was the quiet late—the end of a long day, the kind that left your bones a little heavier, your thoughts a little slower.
You had come back from a full weekend at the gallery—an opening, a surprise artist visit, two canceled deliveries, and a handful of clients who talked too much and bought too little. Namjoon had waited up for you. Not because you asked him to. He just always did. He liked to be in your apartment, waiting for you when he was available. Seeing you, being with you anytime he could. He liked being available for you, even in your worst moods.
You came in, dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes with one hand still holding your phone, hair messily pinned, and your lipstick worn off in the center. He didn’t say anything at first—just handed you the takeout he’d ordered and a glass of water. And you two sat on the couch like you’ve been doing the last couple of months when you gave him the key to your apartment, when you came home like this: your legs over his lap, your head leaned back on the armrest, one of his hands tracing slow, lazy lines down your tights.
“You smell like oil paint,” he said quietly.
You didn’t open your eyes. “Someone spilled gesso all over the hallway. I slipped in it. My knees are a war crime.”
He laughed under his breath. “You’re very sexy when you’re bruised and tired.”
“I’m always tired.”
“You’re always sexy.”
“Your standards are deeply flawed.”
He smiled. “They’re deeply yours.”
And then there was quiet for a while.
You were finishing your noodles slowly. His fingers hadn’t stopped tracing your skin. The TV was on but muted—some cooking show with too much steam and too many close-ups of butter. It wasn’t a romantic night. There were no candles. No dramatic pauses. Which is why it felt exactly right when you suddenly said it.
“I love you.”
Namjoon blinked, mid-chew. He swallowed too quickly and coughed once. You didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. You just looked at him with this almost-shy, almost-tired certainty, like the words had been sitting under your tongue for weeks and simply slipped free before you could second-guess them.
He opened his mouth, but you spoke again, softer this time. “I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want it to sound like… thanks. Or obligation. Or like I was catching up.” He nodded slowly, still not trusting himself to speak. “But I do,” you added. “I love you. I know it. And it’s quiet, but it’s… constant. Like breathing. I don’t have to check if it’s there anymore.”
Namjoon didn’t say anything right away. He just reached for your hand, lifted it gently, and kissed the inside of your wrist—the same spot he’d brushed his thumb across that first night on the floor you two spent together. And then, without needing to say it again, he smiled that slow, stunned smile people only make when they hear what they didn’t know they’d been waiting for.
“About damn time,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes, but let him pull you close.
And in the quiet, with nothing grand or profound around you both, you thought: this is great. This is perfect.
< Three years ago. Seoul, Korea >
You two were cooking.
Or trying to. The kitchen was a mess—half-sliced vegetables, three open spice jars, a pan smoking slightly on the stove. You had flour on your cheek, and Namjoon was holding a wooden spoon like he was conducting an orchestra.
“Okay,” he said, voice stern. “I don’t want to alarm you, but we may have invented a new form of food poisoning.”
You glanced at the pan, then at him. “That’s just… slightly over-caramelized garlic.”
“It looks like regret.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m a realist. A realist with a fire extinguisher under the sink.”
You rolled your eyes and leaned over to nudge him out of the way with your hip. “Move. I’m saving this.”
“You’re gonna dump it.”
“I’m going to elevate it.”
“Oh, now it’s Chopped?”
You gave him a look. “You’re lucky I love you.”
He paused. Still every time you said it. Like it rearranged something in him.
“You’re even luckier,” he said, quieter. “Because I would eat your elevated garlic poison a thousand times.”
You two grinned at each other for a moment. Then you turned back to the pan. He didn’t move. Just watched you. Then, softly: “Do you think about where this is going?”
You didn’t turn around, but he saw the way your shoulders shifted.
“Sometimes,” you said, casual but not distant. “Do you?”
“All the time.”
He stepped closer. Rested a hand on the counter beside your hip.
“I think about what it would be like to wake up next to you somewhere quieter. Somewhere with windows that face east and a real coffee machine.”
Your voice was light. “You hate waking up early.”
“For you, I’d tolerate sunrises.” You smiled at the pan. Stirred once. He went on. “I think about your bookshelves of art history in my space. My guitar in your hallway. Arguing over what color to paint the bedroom.”
“We’d never agree.”
“Exactly. That’s how I know it would work.”
You turned then, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, wooden spoon still in hand. “You’re making this sound a little like a proposal.”
Namjoon stepped closer, but didn’t touch you. “I’m making it sound like a possibility.”
You studied him—eyes sharp, searching, soft.
“And you’re not scared?” you asked.
He shrugged. “Terrified.”
“But?”
“But I love you more than I fear the part where it could all fall apart.”
A silence passed, then you said, “I think I’d want a balcony. Wherever we are.”
Namjoon grinned. “See? That’s already a ‘we.’”
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. And then you reached out, quietly, fingers brushing his.
“We could take it slow.”
Namjoon nodded. “We could take it together.”
The garlic burned. The pan hissed. Neither of you moved. Because in that moment—over smoke and risk and flour on your cheek—the future stopped feeling theoretical. It started to feel like something you could build.
Not in one night— But maybe, If you two kept choosing it— Every night after.
—————
The gallery was already humming.
Rows of suited collectors, critics, young interns holding wine glasses too tightly. Warm lighting made everything glow just a little too perfectly. You stood near the entrance to the main room, your talk scheduled in less than twenty minutes. You weren’t nervous. Not about the speaking. You’d done this before—art history, curation, your specialty in contemporary Korean painters—this was your terrain. What was sitting heavy in your stomach was the ghost of Namjoon’s absence.
You hadn’t expected him to come. Really. He was across the country, prepping for an upcoming televised performance that morning, stuck in rehearsals and press for the next week too. He’d sent a voice note that morning. Tired but warm. “You’ll be brilliant, and I’m not only saying it because I love you but because I know you. You don’t need me there to see it. I’m proud of you, baby.”
And you understood. You always understood. Still. You kept catching yourself glancing at the door.
“Y/n,” someone said—Sophie, your co-curator, adjusting her headset. “They’re ready for you in five.”
You nodded, adjusted your blazer, smoothed your palm against the small stack of notes you wouldn’t end up using. You moved toward the front of the space, where the podium stood framed by two large pieces from the exhibit—bold, saturated strokes and raw canvas textures behind you. It was a big night. You were hoping to expand your contacts, specially after your conference. The microphone gave a small feedback pop as you stepped forward.
You were two lines into your opening when it happened.
A flicker of movement near the back of the room. Someone slipping in quietly. You didn’t pause. Not really. Just a half-breath longer between phrases. But your eyes caught him— Namjoon. Hair a little messy, jacket half-buttoned, eyes red-rimmed from a redeye flight. His body carried the energy of someone held together by caffeine and adrenaline and the sheer force of trying.
He was here. He shouldn’t have been.
But he was.
You kept going—finished your opening, sliding into your thoughts on spatial symbolism and absence in modern Korean brushwork—but your heart was no longer still. It beat like it knew him again. Like it was grateful. When the talk ended, the applauses were polite, enthusiastic, a few flashes from someone with a press badge. But you stepped down and walked past all of it—past compliments and handshakes and gallery assistants offering you wine—and headed straight toward him.
Namjoon stood near the wall, half out of the spotlight, holding a paper cup of truly terrible gallery coffee.
“You’re not real,” you said, quietly, breathless.
“I’m very poorly rested, but real,” he answered.
“You said you—”
“I changed my mind at 1 a.m. Took the first flight out. Rehearsals be damned.”
You stared at him. “Did you just show up?” you asked, voice smaller now.
“No,” he said. “I came through. There’s a difference.”Your throat tightened. “You were amazing,” he said. “I mean, I only caught the last twenty minutes, but I wanted to stand up and yell like a lunatic.”
You exhaled a shaky laugh. “I didn’t ask you to come.”
“I know.”
“And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”
“I know that too.” He looked at her gently. “That’s why I had to.”
You stepped forward then, and for a moment you didn’t hug him, didn’t kiss him. Just stood in front of him, looking.
“Are you flying back tonight?” you whispered.
“No. we’re going back to the apartment. I plan to sleep for eighteen hours and then take you to that place you love. The one with the ugly chairs and perfect tiramisu.”
You smiled. “You remembered.”
“I remember everything,” Namjoon said.
“I love you so much.” You leaned into him. Tired. Grateful. A little stunned.
And he kissed you hair, right there between gallery walls and strangers, and whispered, “I love you.”
—————
You knew how Namjoon’s world worked… barely. He knew yours pretty well since every time he had an open space he tried to spent it with you at work or home. It was really rare for you to tag alone with his since it was mostly out of country or when you were working. The most you had been with him at work was at concerts, small shows or when he was working in music in his studio at the company.
So when you were on vacation for two weeks, you decided to tagged along to one of his normal days.
“It’ll be boring,” he warned. “Just me in a chair and people talking too fast.”
But you’d smiled, kissed his shoulder, and said, “I like chairs.”
So you went. And it wasn’t boring. It was… relentless.
From the moment you two arrived at the studio, people swirled around Namjoon like a weather system—stylists, managers, PR handlers, producers. His name was said in every sentence, but never to him. He was always in motion: adjusting in front of a camera, changing his shirt, signing something, nodding through directions, practicing lines.
You sat on a folding chair in the corner of the dressing room, half-listening to the buzz. You pulled out your laptop to answer emails, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. And at one point, he caught you watching. He mouthed, Rescue me. You smiled.
Later, when there was a brief break, he slumped beside you, stealing your water bottle.
“How do you do this every day?” you asked.
“I don’t,” he said. “Some days I hide in closets.”
“Respect.”
He leaned against you lightly. “You okay?”
You nodded. “Just absorbing it all.”
“It’s not always like this,” he added quickly. “This week is… extra.”
You didn’t challenge him. But you also didn’t say, It seems like it’s always ‘extra.’ Instead, you said, “Do you have an actual lunch break?”
He made a face. “Technically, yes. Practically, no.”
You pulled something from your bag—a sandwich you’d picked up that morning, wrapped in wax paper and still a little warm. Namjoon stared at it like you had pulled gold from a shoe.
“I forgot what love tasted like,” he said dramatically, taking it.
You nudged his foot with yours. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“I haven’t eaten since… yesterday, I think?”
“You’re the reason I carry snacks.”
He grinned around a bite. “Marry me.”
“I’ve seen how you cook. Absolutely not.”
He laughed, mouth full.
You two sat like that—your laptop balancing on your knees, him chewing too quickly, his head resting briefly on your shoulder. Just a moment, in the eye of the storm. And still… you felt the distance. Not between you two exactly—but between this life and yours. Between the slow, curated hush of gallery walls and the frantic, blinking pulse of his world.
You didn’t resent it. But it felt… heavy.
When he got pulled into his next segment, you stayed behind. Alone again in the dressing room. You looked at the schedule taped to the wall. Seven more things to go. A different building after this one. No end in sight. You opened your phone and scrolled through your messages with him. A few voice notes. A photo he’d sent last week of you eating breakfast half-asleep, captioned “Exhibit A: cutest person alive.”
You smiled. But something inside you tugged. You started typing: “Can we maybe block a day off next week? Just us? Nothing huge. Just… be still?”
Then you stared at it. Deleted it. Instead, you sent:
You: You’re killing it today, proud of u
He replied seconds later.
Namjoon: Only cause ure here
You locked your phone. Stared at your reflection in the makeup mirror. Still smiling. Still here. Still wondering how long you could keep up with the pace of a life that never paused. But you were sure you could as long as you want it, because you love him. And if he was always trying for you. You could try for him too.
—————
Rain tapped lightly against the kitchen windows, the kind of soft, even rain that didn’t interrupt plans so much as cancel them without asking. You had moved in only three months ago—bare walls, bare windows, the kind of clean that felt temporary. But tonight, it was warm.
You stood barefoot in front of the stove in an oversized sweatshirt that definitely used to belong to Namjoon. Your hair was twisted into a low bun, lazy and lopsided, and you were humming—off-key and quietly—to a song playing through the tiny Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Something old. Sam Cooke, maybe. Or Ella. You liked to listen to music that made you feel like you were in a slower decade. And your boyfriend always had great recommendations.
Namjoon leaned in the doorway, holding a peeled orange in one hand, watching you stir something in a small pot.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you pretend you’re not a domestic goddess, but you are. Like—look at you. Apron, slippers, vintage jazz, homemade jam?”
“This is store-bought jam,” you said.
“Doesn’t matter. The energy is jam you made at midnight while processing intergenerational grief.”
You turned slightly to glare at him. “Why do you talk like that?”
“Because I’m in love with a woman who makes toast look romantic,” he said, stepping closer and placing the orange in you mouth before you could protest.
You laughed, cheeks puffed, chewing exaggeratedly. “You’re ridiculous.”
He gave you a peck. “You like it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“You adore it.”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stirred. You leaned into him, sighing softly.
The world felt quiet here. Warm, not in the literal sense—though the stove certainly helped—but in the way your back pressed into his chest, in the rhythm of the rain, in the simple reality of two people with nowhere else to be.
“What are we making again?” he asked.
“Chai.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s enough.”
He smiled into your hair. “You’re enough.”
You didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for the mugs and poured, carefully, like it was a spell. He watched your hands—how precise they were, how steady—and thought about all the things you touched that weren’t meant to last but somehow lasted anyway. You two sat at the little table by the window, legs tangled under the chairs, sipping the tea in silence for a while.
Then Namjoon said, “When we’re eighty, can we still do this?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll still like me when I’m eighty?”
“No,” he said dramatically. “I think I’ll worship you. I’ll be the weird old man in the building who writes poems about his wife and forgets to wear matching socks.”
“Joke’s on you,” you said. “I’m going to make you wear orthopedic shoes.”
“I’ll write a song about that too.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re smiling,” he said, nudging your foot under the table.
You were .
And in that tiny kitchen, with your knees touching and the storm rolling gently outside, you thought: If it always feels like this, I’ll never want more.
< Two years ago. Seoul, Korea >
It was late afternoon when he showed up.
You weren’t expecting him to be back yet. He’d been in back-to-back rehearsals for days, barely texting, let alone appearing in person. Specially since he was supposed to be in another country soon. But there he was—sweaty, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy under a cap. The kind of entrance that always made you pause halfway through whatever you were doing.
“I had a twenty-minute window,” Namjoon said, breathless, stepping inside. “Thought I’d spend it doing something irresponsible.”
You raised a brow, arms crossed. “Oh? And what exactly is your idea of irresponsibility?”
He grinned. Walked toward you like he already had the answer.
“Kissing you until I forget how time works.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Bold plan. Does it come with snacks?”
Namjoon leaned in, hands settling lightly on your waist. “Just me. Very limited edition.”
You didn’t move away. Not when he bent closer. Not when his mouth brushed yours, slow and soft like a question he already knew the answer to. The kiss deepened easily—like you’d missed it. Like you two had both been holding tension in your shoulders, your spines, your jaws. He kissed you like he was catching up, and you responded like you’d been waiting. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers brushing warm against your skin. You gasped slightly, which only made him smile against your mouth.
“I forgot how good you smell,” he murmured. “Like coffee and painting and—whatever it is you put on your neck that drives me insane.”
“I can’t believe that works on someone famous.”
“I’m extremely weak for you,” he whispered, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Pathetically so.”
You laughed, pulling him down onto the couch with you, your legs sliding around his. His body pressed into your, heavy and warm, and for a second, it felt like everything outside that room had stopped. No shows. No flights. No noise. Just him. Just you.
Your hands were in his hair. His fingers curled under your thigh. Both of your breathing picked up, uneven, mouths parting between kisses like you were saying each other’s names without sound. And then—
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
His phone, on the floor. Lighting up like it knew exactly what it was doing.
Namjoon groaned into your shoulder. “No.”
You didn’t move. “Ignore it.”
“I want to.”
“Then do it.”
But he was already reaching for the phone. Still half on top of you, reading the message with a growing frown.
“Shit.”
You sighed. “You have to go.”
“I do,” he said, not moving. Still hovering above you. Still touching you like he didn’t want to stop.
You stared at the ceiling. “You always have to go.”
Namjoon looked at you then. Really looked. “I don’t want to leave.”
“But you will.”
“I’ll come back.”
“And I’ll wait.”
A beat.
Then he kissed you again. Slow. Like a promise. Or maybe an apology.
When he stood, he adjusted his hoodie, cheeks flushed, lips still red. “I’ll text when I land.”
Yoy nodded, quiet. And when the door closed behind him, the room stayed warm—but only with the ghost of him.
You curled into the couch, your body still tingling with all the things you two didn’t have time to finish. And outside, the sun dipped behind the buildings. An unhealthy understanding was growing.
—————
The golden hour fell across the apartment like spilled honey.
You sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a glass of wine balanced on the edge of a book you weren’t really reading. Namjoon was curled up sideways on the rug beside you, head resting in your lap, hair still damp from a shower, one sock missing. His eyes were half-closed. Music played low from the speakers—something string-heavy and slow, the kind of instrumental that made the windows feel like museum glass.
You two hadn’t had a day like this in months. No flights. No soundchecks. No exhibitions. No rehearsals. Just this—sunlight and soft clothes, the smell of jasmine from the candle you always forgot to blow out, the quiet hum of domestic peace. You had called in sick to have a moment for you two, you had missed it.
You trailed your fingers through his hair. “You’re shedding.”
“I’m molting,” Namjoon murmured. “It’s part of my rebranding.”
“To what? A golden retriever?”
“No. A misunderstood sculptor. Quiet, mysterious, tragic.”
You snorted. “You’re none of those things.”
“I’m trapped in rap persona, Y/n. Don’t mock my inner artist.”
“Your inner artist drinks chocolate milk and watches anime at 3 a.m.”
He grinned, eyes still closed. “Exactly.”
You two sat like that for a while—just breathing. Just being. Then Namjoon said, “You know that piece we saw in Berlin? The one with the floating glass?”
“The installation with the suspended shards?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”
“Why?”
“It looked fragile,” he said slowly, “but it was all anchored by invisible tension wires. If you didn’t know the structure, you’d think it was about to fall apart.” You nodded, thoughtful. “And it made me think,” he continued, voice softer, “that love is kind of like that.”
“Like invisible tension wires?”
“Yeah. It looks like it’s floating, like it could fall any second—but there’s stuff holding it together that you don’t always see.”
You looked down at him, touched. “That’s very you,” you said.
“What? Romantic?”
“No. Structural.”
He laughed. “I’m trying to be profound, woman. Don’t ruin it.”
You smiled, leaned down, and kissed his forehead. “I love your brain.”
“I love that you’re the only person who never makes me feel like I have to perform smart.”
“You are smart.”
“You’re smarter.”
“True.”
You two grinned at each other. His hand found yours. Fingers tangled like habit.
The apartment smelled like soy candles and laundry. The light was amber and fading. The dishes from the late lunch were still in the sink. Your blouse was hanging from a chair, his hoodie on the floor. Everything was a little bit messy, a little bit imperfect.
But he was here. And you were here. And time—for once—wasn’t the enemy.
So you took everything to make that day even better. Deciding in the night to have a cozy dinner to chat and just be homebodies, at least for a night.
At night the apartment smelled like garlic, olive oil, and ambition. You stood barefoot at the stove, chopping cherry tomatoes with practiced ease. Your hair was half up, your sleeves rolled, and you moved like someone who actually knew how to cook without setting off the smoke alarm. Namjoon, meanwhile, stood to your left, holding a bell pepper like it was a small animal he wasn’t sure how to approach.
“You’re watching it like it’s going to blink,” you said, not looking up.
“I’m observing it,” he said defensively. “I believe in understanding your enemy.”
“It’s not an enemy. It’s a pepper.”
“It’s raw. Which I believe is an important stage in its villain origin story.”
You rolled your eyes. “Cut it into strips. Not chunks. Not chaos. Strips.”
He squinted. “Define ‘strip.’”
You turned, raised an eyebrow, and took the knife from him. In one fluid motion, you sliced a piece and handed it to him. “This. This is a strip.”
Namjoon took it. Bit into it dramatically. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Culinary genius.”
“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you said, taking the knife back.
He grinned, stepping closer behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “And smart,” he murmured.
“Depending on the topic.”
“Rude.”
“Or honest?.”
You nudged him away with your hip, still focused on the sauce pan.
“Okay,” he said, hands in his hoodie pocket, “book question.”
“Hit me.”
“Would you rather live inside a Haruki Murakami novel or a Donna Tartt novel?”
You paused, considering. “So, either surreal existentialism with a chance of magical cats and jazz… or beautiful ruin, Greek references, and murder?”
Namjoon nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”
“I’d die in a Tartt novel.”
“You’d thrive in a Tartt novel,” he corrected. “You’d be the one saying devastating things about beauty over a glass of wine right before the plot collapses.”
“And you?”
“Murakami,” he said. “I already feel like a guy wandering through metaphors, missing the point, haunted by dreams.”
You smiled at that. “You just want to talk to a ghost as well.”
“Maybe.”
You stirred the sauce. “Do you ever miss reading just for pleasure?”
“Always,” he said. “Sometimes I get two chapters in and then I get a call or an edit note and it’s over. Makes me feel like my brain is made of bubble wrap.”
“I know the feeling,” you said. “I miss reading slowly. Like… the kind of slow where you reread a sentence five times because it sounds good in your mouth.”
Namjoon walked over to the counter and perched on it, stealing a cherry tomato from the bowl. “What’s the last sentence you did that with?”
You looked over your shoulder at him, smiling softly. “Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”
Namjoon blinked. “Tartt?”
You nodded.
He whistled low. “Yeah, okay. I’d die in her world too.”
“Probably in a linen shirt. Tragic and elegant.”
“Promise me if I get murdered by aesthetics, you’ll make it sound romantic in the eulogy.”
You smirked. “I’ll say you died holding a first edition and looking mysterious.”
“Perfect.”
He slid off the counter and came to stand beside you again, watching you stir the bubbling sauce. “You’re really good at this,” he said softly.
“At what?”
“This,” he said, gesturing around. “Making things feel warm. Real. Like we’re just… people.”
You looked over at him, eyes soft. “We are just people.”
“Sometimes I forget.”
“Then remember.”
And you leaned over and kissed him, fingers brushing his jaw lightly.
Outside, the city glowed through the windows. Inside, the pasta boiled over, and neither of you two moved to stop it right away. Because sometimes, you let the water spill— when the conversation is that good. When the love feels that close. When time, for once, is yours.
—————
You were late to your own morning.
You’d woken up disoriented—your phone lighting up with a 9:17 a.m. alert and three missed calls from Sophie. You hadn’t meant to sleep in. But Namjoon hadn’t come in until 3 a.m., and when he did, you’d stayed half-awake for an hour listening to him wind down in pieces—shower running, suitcase unzipping, soft cursing as he looked for a charger. He’d crawled into bed around four, smelling like cold air and exhaustion. And even then, he reached for you.
So you stayed awake a little longer. Just so he wouldn’t feel alone.
Now, your hair was still damp from the fastest shower in recorded history, and you were pulling on a wrinkled blazer with one hand while tying your boots with the other. You texted Sophie—“On my way, sorry, cabbing now.”
Your calendar pinged. You’d missed your standing espresso run with Mina, the new artist you had brought in to curate a modernist reinterpretation series. A small thing. Just coffee. But it was already the third time this month.
In the hallway mirror, you caught herself. Tired eyes. Lipstick half-finished. You used to be early to everything. Precise. Present. Punctual. Now?. You’d started sleeping in his rhythm. Eating in his rhythm. Turning down dinners with friends because he might be back in town that night. You’d canceled a trip to Berlin because his rehearsals shifted and he “might have a free weekend.” He didn’t, in the end. You never rebooked.
You smoothed your collar. Stared at your reflection. Said out loud, “You’re still you.”
And for a second, you weren’t sure if you believed it. Because that night, you got home after 8. Namjoon was already there, sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, hair damp from a shower. There was takeout on the table—he’d actually ordered this time—and a bottle of wine he must’ve picked up on the way back.
“You look like capitalism chewed you up,” he said, grinning.
You dropped your keys. “I feel like it.”
He opened his arms. “Come here.”
You did. You sat beside him, tucked yourself into his chest. Let yourself sink. You loved him so much. You were exhausted and tired, but here, with him now— it felt good. You were risking so much, your job, your time, your life. But everything disappeared in a moment like this, when you were tangled in his arms and he was whispering sweet things in your ear… So you had something to ate. You two watched something neither of you really paid attention to. He kissed your temple and made you laugh. Everything felt okay.
But later, when he dozed off, arm still draped across your waist, you looked over at your laptop. Unanswered messages. Missed calls. That gallery invite you meant to RSVP to. A workshop you forgot to confirm— Your life was shrinking. Not disappearing. Just… folding around his.
And you weren’t sure he’d noticed.
< A year ago. Seoul, Korea. >
You had never been one for anniversaries.
Not the showy kind, at least. No big speeches, no couple selfies with champagne flutes. But you did believe in marking things. Quietly, intentionally. A special dinner. A handwritten card. A night with no interruptions. A day that reminded you why you’d stayed. Namjoon was good in that too. At least for the first one, he had flew you to Paris and took you to an art museum you were dying to go. The second one he was in a tour but bought you a ticket to Barcelona where you two had dinner and he introduce you to a painter you loved. Everything was magical with him.
This year, the anniversary fell on a Tuesday.
You had work all day—client meetings, artist calls, a minor crisis about a mislabeled shipment. You were exhausted by the time you got home, but you still lit the candles in the kitchen. Still set the table for two. Still wore the green dress Namjoon once said made you look like you were about to ruin someone’s life in a French film. And he loved it— Namjoon wasn’t in the country. He and the group had a show overseas—a major one.
You hadn’t expected him to cancel it. But the show had wrapped the night before. You’d watched it from your laptop in bed, wine in hand, wrapped in his old sweatshirt. He’d looked beautiful under the stage lights. Exhausted, yes, but alive.
He hadn’t said he was flying back. But he hadn’t said he wasn’t, either.
And Namjoon was always good at the last-minute surprise. The unannounced flight. The knock on the door just when you’d given up. He had that kind of magic, the kind that made you believe in things even when you knew better. So in a special night like that day, when you knew he was only eight hours and could make it in time, you decided to go on with the schedule.
You went to your share favorite restaurant—the one with the rooftop and the quiet view of the city lights. You already had a reservation, Namjoon had made it weeks ago thinking it would be a great place— before the show was confirmed. However, he didn’t cancel it, nor he say he wasn’t going. He did tell you he might not make it and it was very obvious it would be a surprise if he actually did but he always did that. Specially since he didn’t text you all day. So, you decided to wait for him, like always.
At 8:00 p.m., you ordered a glass of red.
At 8:15, you declined the menu—just in case.
At 8:40, you checked your phone.
At 9:00, the waiter asked gently if you’d like to order. You shook your head, throat tight.
The food smelled amazing. The candle flickered between empty seats. Your phone buzzed at 9:12.
Namjoon: Happy anniversary. I love you.
That was all it said.
You stared at the message for a full minute before locking the screen.
The waiter came back. “Still waiting?”
You smiled, small and practiced. “No. I think I’ll take the check.”
You walked home slowly, heels in your hand by the end of the block, the city alive around you in a way you weren’t. You didn’t cry. You didn’t text him back. You didn’t even take off the dress when you got home—just sat on the edge of the bed, lights off, wondering when it had started to feel like this. Like something one-sided. Like hope was an embarrassing thing to hold onto.
It was embarrassing now waiting for him. Did it make you a bad person?. After everything he did for you, was this something to punish him for?. But he had make you have big standards about him, about how he could do anything to see you. And you did the same. But why now it felt like you shouldn’t be hurt?. A little mistake, a little thing under the bridge. Was it something to worry? or was it just something you were making a big deal?.
Was waiting for someone to show up too much now?.
The light was soft and grey when you woke. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on top of the covers, still in the green dress from the night before, makeup smudged beneath your eyes like a fading memory. You sat up slowly, your body stiff, your mouth dry, your phone still beside you on the bed, screen black. You didn’t reach for it right away. The apartment was quiet—almost aggressively so. The kind of silence that hums in your ears, that dares you to fill it. You made coffee without thinking, poured it into the chipped blue mug he always used when he was home. Then—almost accidentally—you poured yourself a second cup.
You stared at them both for a while.
The phone buzzed around 8:45 a.m. Namjoon
Incoming call
You hesitated only a second before picking up.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep, but too alert. The kind of voice that knew it was calling a fire it couldn’t put out.
“Hi,” you answered. Calm. Soft. Nothing in your tone gave you away.
“I wanted to call last night, but everything was chaos. Press, crew dinner. I tried to find a flight, but there was nothing that would get me to you in time.”
“I figured,” you said.
“I thought about video calling, but I didn’t want to…” He trailed off.
“Don’t worry.”
A pause. “How was dinner?”
“I didn’t stay long.”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “I should’ve done more.”
You sipped your coffee. It was still too hot, but you didn’t flinch. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“No,” you agreed quietly. “It’s not.”
He was silent on the other end. You imagined him sitting in some hotel bed, probably still in stage makeup, phone pressed to his cheek, trying to read you through the static.
“You’re mad,” he said.
“No,” you said again, and this time it wasn’t soft—it was far. “I’m just tired.”
“Of me?”
“Of hoping for things you used to do without thinking.”
He exhaled hard. “Y/n…”
“I’m not going to fight with you over the phone,” you said gently.
“I’m not trying to fight.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
He didn’t answer right away.
“I love you,” he said finally, quiet and uneven.
“I know.”
Another silence. This one worse than all the others.
“I’ll be back in two days,” he said.
You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. “Okay.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
You closed your eyes. Hating that word. You hated hearing that— always did. But more so now than ever.
“Okay,” you repeated, and it sounded like maybe.
Not yes. Just… maybe.
He didn’t come back the next day. It was a week later he finally had time to come back to the country. And almost two days later he was able to be back home. But by that time— it was already too late to talk about something that has already passed. So you two stayed quiet. And for the first time and not last, that night it was just something small that happened.
—————
You found it on a Wednesday, tucked in the back of the nightstand drawer he never used. You were searching for a charger. His drawer was chaotic—full old receipts, ticket stubs from cities he barely remembered, notes of night thoughts. And then, under a stack of guitar picks and a long-dead pen, you saw it. A small, square box.
You paused. Everything in you stilled. Your fingers hovered above it for a breath, then two. You opened it.
Inside: an engagement ring.
Simple. Elegant. A soft, brushed gold band with a quiet, imperfect diamond that looked more chosen than flashy.
Your heart gave a quiet, panicked lurch. You didn’t cry. Didn’t gasp. Just closed the box slowly and put it back exactly where you found it. You didn’t say anything to him either Not that night. Not the next. You didn’t know why. Maybe because it felt like looking at a letter addressed to you that hadn’t been sent yet. It felt like love in transit. Like something that belonged to his timing, not yours. And you trusted him. Even if everything was hectic. Even if you were fraying around the edges.
You trusted him to get there.
It was two weeks later, near midnight, when he finally told you.
The night was unusually quiet. Outside, the city seemed to hold its breath—no honking, no sirens, just the low hum of a world that had finally decided to rest. Inside your share apartment, the windows were cracked open to let in the cool air, and the sheets tangled loosely around your legs as you two lay there, close but not speaking yet. It had been one of those rare days when the two actually had time. Real, unscheduled time. A slow morning. Grocery shopping. Making pasta without burning it. Watching a movie neither of you finished because you fell asleep halfway through, limbs knotted, breath in sync.
Now, the lights were off. Only the occasional gleam from a passing car painted stripes across the ceiling. You lay on your side, your fingers tracing slow, absentminded lines along Namjoon’s chest. His arm was wrapped around your waist. He hadn’t spoken in a while.
Then, softly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it: “I’ve been thinking about marrying you.”
You didn’t move, didn’t stiffen. Your fingers paused briefly, then continued their path across his skin.
“I mean, not just thinking,” he said, a small, sheepish laugh escaping. “Planning, really. Secretly. Clumsily.”
Your smile was audible, even in the dark. “That sounds very on-brand.”
He let out a breath, clearly relieved you weren’t panicking. “I keep trying to find the perfect moment. The kind you tell stories about later. But every time I think I’ve got it, something happens—another show, an art event, a delay, a rehearsal running late. You didn’t interrupt. “I just…” His voice grew a little quieter. “I want to do it right. For you. You deserve something beautiful. Not rushed. Not after a long flight or in a hallway or between meetings.”
You turned slightly, tucking your face into the space where his neck met his shoulder. You could hear the nervous flutter in his chest. Like your silence was the only thing louder than the city.
Namjoon gently shifted his hand to cradle your face. “Can I ask you something?”
“Mm-hm.”
“If I asked you… someday soon,” he said carefully, “would you say yes?”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, fixed on you like you were the only thing he could see.
Your voice was steady and warm, no hesitation. “Of course I would.”
Namjoon’s face softened completely. He looked stunned by how easy it was for you to say. Like part of him had been bracing for uncertainty, and instead got home. “Yeah?” he asked, because part of him needed to hear it again.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Without blinking.”
He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’d taken all day, burying his face in you shoulder with a groan. “God, I love you.”
You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “I know.”
“I mean it,” he mumbled. “I want all of it. Boring weekends. Matching mugs. Bad schedules. Waking up next to you every day until we’re old and weird.”
“We’re already weird.”
“Okay. Older and weirder.”
You kissed the top of his head. “I want that too,” you said. “All of it. And more.”
Namjoon looked up at you again, eyes sleepy and full of so much love you almost couldn’t hold it. “I’ll find the right time,” he promised. “It won’t be long.”
“I’m not in a hurry,” you said. “As long as it’s you.”
He kissed you once—lazy, warm, and deep with knowing. And when you two fell asleep, it was with yours hands clasped between both, like two people who had already chosen each other—formally or not.
The ring stayed hidden. And you let it. Because you already had the answer. And he already had your heart.
< Seven months ago. Seoul, Korea >
You two were supposed to go away that weekend.
Just the two of you. A quiet place in the countryside, two hours outside the city. No cameras. No phones. No work. Just a cabin, a fireplace, books, and each other. You had planned it for weeks. Namjoon hadn’t had a proper day off in months. You wanted to give him a weekend where he didn’t have to perform, or talk about a setlist, or be anything except yours.
He seemed excited when you told him. He even kissed the tip of your nose and said, “God, I need that. You. Us.”
You booked it that night.
But on Thursday evening, two days before the trip, he called while you were at work. His voice was careful.
“Babe, listen—I know we had the cabin this weekend, but I might need to stay in the city. Something came up with Badu’s label and they want to do a session on Saturday. I know, I know, it sucks.”
You sat in the storage room of the gallery, your phone pressed to your ear, surrounded by crates of borrowed sculptures. You didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Is it urgent?” you asked finally.
“It’s… time-sensitive. I think they’re trying to fast-track something before Badu flies out to Tokyo. I can say no. I mean—if this is a big deal for us, I’ll say no.”
But he said it the way people do when they don’t want to say no. When they’re already halfway to saying yes.
You smiled, though he couldn’t see you. “It’s okay. We’ll reschedule.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. You should do it.”
“Rain check?”
“Rain check,” you repeated, soft.
You hung up, and you stared at the weekend itinerary you had printed out. His favorite bakery for the drive. A wine tasting in a small town. That local bookstore you thought he’d love. Even a museum you wanted to visit… You folded it all up and slid it into a drawer.
When you got home that night, he was already asleep. Studio hours were brutal. You curled in next to him, your arm across his back, your nose against his shoulder. You didn’t cry. You didn’t get angry. You just waited for him to say something about it the next day. Maybe suggest a new weekend. Maybe show up with coffee and a smile and say, “Hey, let’s pick a new date.”
He didn’t. It was just one weekend, you told yourself. Just one plan. People get busy. People cancel. Still, it sat with you—quiet and dull—like a match that never got lit.
Not a flame. Not yet. But something you wouldn’t forget. Something was changing.
< Six months ago. Seoul, Korea. >
You locked yourself in the gallery’s back office and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since 10 a.m. The artist had walked out. Just like that—mid-meeting, hands flailing, voice raised—and declared he wouldn’t be participating in the upcoming show. Something about the press release tone being “too colonial,” which you had tried to explain wasn’t even written yet. Your director blamed you. The interns stared at you like a live grenade. And to top it all off, you’d spilled coffee on your blouse five minutes before a meeting with one of the museum board members.
By the time it was 7:00 p.m., you felt like the whole day had been gnawing at you from the inside out.
You didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Instead, you curled up on the lumpy chair in the corner of the office, legs pulled up, jacket still on. The gallery lights were out except for a low amber track that lit the sculptures like ghosts. You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.
He answered on the third ring, his voice half-absent. “Hey, love. You okay?”
“No,” you said.
You didn’t mean to sound so small, but it leaked out anyway.
He hummed. “What happened?”
You exhaled. “Everything.”
“Specifics?”
You tried to organize it, the chaos of your day, into something coherent. “The artist dropped out. Just—walked out mid-meeting and said we were culturally tone-deaf. My director was furious. I got blindsided in front of the entire board.”
“That sucks,” Namjoon said, still distracted.
There was a pause. You could hear faint voices in the background, maybe someone talking over a beat. Music. Studio noise. You imagined him in his headphones, half-listening. You waited. Nothing else came.
“I just feel like I’m failing,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him. “Like I’m drowning in details and no one else sees the full picture. Or me.”
Namjoon clicked his tongue. “You’re not failing. You’re just being dramatic because you’re tired.”
You went quiet. He didn’t notice.
“I’ve gotta finish this mix,” he said after a beat. “But do you want to come by later? We’ll order something.”
“I don’t really want to be around people tonight,” you said, tears starting to form in your eyes of frustration you couldn’t get out. “I just wanted to talk.”
“You’re the strongest person I know,” he replied, not unkindly. “You’ll be fine.” Then, softer: “I’ll text you when I’m done, yeah?”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Sure.”
“Love you.”
“You too.”
He hung up.
You stayed in the dark a little longer.
Your phone screen dimmed in your hand, and you didn’t move. You weren’t angry—at least not in the dramatic sense. No door slamming. No actual tears. Just a subtle ache, like the one you get when you realize a song you loved doesn’t hit the same way anymore.
You had needed to feel heard. Held. Instead, you’d been reassured like a child with a scraped knee.
“You’ll be fine.”
You always were. You always had to be. Of course you will be fine later but you wanted someone to actually hear you out. For the first time, you wondered what it would be like to be with someone who didn’t expect you to already have the answers. Someone who wouldn’t call your strength a reason not to show up.
You stood, stretched your legs, and grabbed your bag. The gallery was quiet, but you left the light on in the main room as you walked out. Let it shine for someone, even if it wasn’t going to be you.
< Five months. Seoul, Korea. >
It wasn’t an anniversary. Not a birthday. Not anything capital-I Important. It was just a Wednesday night you two had agreed on a week ago, in the quiet way people do when they’ve both been slipping through the days without touching each other long enough to notice. You both. were sitting on the couch when Namjoon had looked over at you—half-asleep, feet on his lap, a half-finished script on your tablet—and said, “We should have dinner together next week. Just… be normal for a night. Just us.”
You smiled. “Wednesday?”
“Perfect,” he said. “Wednesday.”
You had marked it in your mind like you do when you don’t want to hope too much, but still want to remember. It had been so long since you two had made time. The kind that wasn’t reactionary. The kind that wasn’t just falling asleep next to each other with takeout on the floor and emails still open. So you planned.
On Wednesday, you left the gallery early. You picked up fresh pasta from that little place down the hill, the one with the handmade ravioli Namjoon once called “dangerously life-changing.” You bought wine—nothing fancy, just something warm and red and meant to be shared. You even found the candle you two used on your first official dinner date, now half-burned and tucked into the back of a drawer.
By seven, the table was set.
By eight, the pasta was cold.
You texted him around 7:30.
You: Everything okay?
He didn’t respond.
You waited until 8:10 before calling. It rang four times before it went to voicemail.
You tried not to spiral. He probably lost track of time. Maybe a recording session ran late. Maybe he was caught in traffic or had bad signal. You checked his location, then immediately felt guilty. It pinged from his studio downtown. You opened the wine anyway. Not to be dramatic—just to keep your hands busy.
At 8:44, your phone buzzed.
Namjoon: Shit. Fuck. I’m so sorry.
You stared at it for a second. No follow-up. No call. Just those four words blinking on your screen. That’s it?. You typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.
You: It’s okay.
You put your phone down, slowly, and stared at the food. The wine bottle. The candle burning low. It wasn’t the missed dinner that hurt most—it was how easily it had happened. How he hadn’t thought about it until too late. How you didn’t even feel surprised.
At 9:03, your phone buzzed again.
Namjoon: I have an open hour but I’ll have to go back to the studio later
Namjoon: I’ll go now, should I bring dessert or something?
You closed your eyes. Bit the inside of your cheek.
You: It’s late. I’ve got work early.
Namjoon: I’ll make it up to you. I swear.
You didn’t answer.
You turned off the candle. Put the wine in the fridge. Packed the cold ravioli into a Tupperware. You washed the dishes slowly, methodically, like you were erasing the evening in reverse. The bubbles slid over your rings. The water turned lukewarm. The kitchen dimmed as the sun fully disappeared. When you finally sat on the couch, the apartment was quiet. Not sad, exactly. Not angry. Just… silent. Like nothing had happened. And that, you thought, was the worst part.
Because this was supposed to be the night you two tried. The night you looked at each other again, for real. But instead, you looked at your glass of wine. Still full. Still waiting.
And you wondered, When did I start doing this by myself?
< Four months ago. Seoul, Korea. >
You had told him about it a month ago. You had brought it up at dinner—early, gently, the way you do when you’re trying not to pressure someone into caring about something that matters deeply to you.
“I’m giving a talk,” you had said, slicing your vegetables with slow precision. “It’s for the Rothko Foundation event. Big gala. Black tie, way-too-much-champagne type of thing.”
Namjoon glanced up from his phone, nodded absently. “That’s amazing.”
“They picked me to speak about the new acquisitions,” you continued, not hiding your excitement. “I’m going to be in the program. I have ten minutes. It’s kind of a huge deal for the gallery.”
He smiled. “Look at you, Miss Spotlight.”
You’d laughed. “It’s important for me. Would you be there?.”
Namjoon smiled slightly, nodding slowly, like a promise. “Of course I will.”
You’d worked your ass off for it. Navigated donor egos and fragile artists, put together the exhibit proposal in a week, fought for your voice at the table when everyone else wanted a safer, duller speaker. And they chose you. That night, you sent him the event details. He RSVP’d yes.
But it would have been less disappointing if he had just tell you that he’ll try to be there.
The night of the gala, you stood in front of the mirror in your shared bedroom, adjusting the sleeves of your navy-blue dress. The fabric fell just below your knees, structured and classic, the kind of thing that made you feel confident without trying too hard. You wore your hair up. Your earrings shimmered when you moved. There was a part of you—stupid and stubborn and hopeful—that still expected him to knock on the bathroom door with a “Wow,” and a kiss on the cheek, and a “Let’s go make rich people uncomfortable with your brilliance.”
But the apartment was quiet. Namjoon wasn’t home.
At 6:34 p.m., you checked your messages.
Namjoon: Hey, baby. I hate this so much. They moved up the shoot. We’re filming all night now. I’m so, so sorry.
There was a second message.
Namjoon: I sent something to the venue for you. Should arrive before the talk. I love you.
You didn’t reply.
You sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet. Your heart was doing that thing—folding in on itself like paper too many times creased in the same place. He’d known. He’d known this was important. Not optional. Not a charity auction or a friends-of-the-gallery dinner. This was your night.
And once again, work had won.
The way to the gallery was quiet, frustrated and almost too annoying. Specially since it was a special night where you were supposed to be excited or nervous— Instead you were angry with your boyfriend.
The venue was beautiful, if clinical. Crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, lacquered smiles. You shook hands with people whose names you couldn’t remember. Your name was printed in the program beneath a black-and-white headshot you hated. And at 8:12 p.m., just before your speech, an usher approached you with a bouquet of white orchids. There was a small card attached. Handwritten.
You’ll kill it tonight. So proud of you.
— N.
You stared at it like it had come from a stranger.
“You’ll kill it tonight.” you repeated.
It sounded like something you’d write to a colleague, not a partner. Not the man who knew what this moment cost you, who’d kissed your forehead while you wrote your talking points and rubbed your back during your mini spiral about what to wear. Not from a man that promise that he would be there tonight when you told him it was important for you.
You folded the card and threw it in the trash.
The worst thing that night was that your speech was perfect. You spoke for ten minutes. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t shake. It was flawless, perfect in any way a good and smart speech could be. Everyone clapped. Someone on the board teared up. The director beamed at you like you were an investment finally paying off.
And Namjoon wasn’t there.
When you stepped off the stage and walked backstage alone, the applause didn’t stick. What did was the silence waiting for you in the dressing room. The hollow space where he should’ve been. No hug. No “You did it.” Just orchids in a vase, propped against a wall.
You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.
It rang once. Twice.
He answered, breathless, wind muffling his voice. “Hey, babe. I’m still on set. Can I call you in a bit?”
“I just finished the talk,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.
He hesitated. “Shit—already? How did it go?”
“Well,” you said quietly. “It went well.”
“That’s amazing. Knew you’d kill it,” he said. There was a clatter on his end, voices shouting something in the background. “Sorry, hang on—what was I—yeah, we’re good—sorry, babe, what were you saying?”
Your throat was tight. “I just… I really wanted you to be here.”
A pause.
“Y/n,” he sighed, and not unkindly—just tired. “I wanted to be there too. You know that.”
“I know. I do.” you leaned against the edge of the vanity, your hand clutching the phone tighter. “But it mattered. It wasn’t just about the speech—it was about you seeing it. Being in the room. With me.”
More voices. A door opened and shut.
“I sent the flowers,” he said, gently. “Didn’t they get there? I thought they’d be there before you went on.”
“They did,” you replied. “They were… fine.”
He chuckled, not catching the edge in your voice. “That’s the most Y/n response ever.”
You closed your eyes. “Namjoon.”
“I know this sucks. Believe me, I know. But I can’t get into this right now. We’re literally rolling in ten minutes, and I still have to fix my makeup. I just—I need to focus for a bit, okay?” You didn’t speak. “Can we talk later?” he added. “I want to talk. I just need to get through tonight.”
You almost nodded out of habit. Almost said, Of course, it’s fine, I get it, go be brilliant.
But something inside you ached to say it out loud. To ask him to stay, to make it a big deal and fight. Instead, you murmured, “Sure.”
“You’re amazing,” he said. “Love you.”
You didn’t answer. He didn’t notice. He’d already hung up.
You sat still for a long time, phone in your lap, your hands folded like someone waiting for a train that wasn’t coming.
That’s when it hit you.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love you. It’s that now he loved you comfortably.
He loved you like something that would always be there, even when neglected. Even when ignored. Even when standing alone in a velvet dressing room with someone else’s applause still echoing in your ears. And your pain? It didn’t fit in his schedule anymore. it was only an imposition.
You blinked hard, once. Twice. And then the tears came. Not loud. Not messy. Just steady. A soft unraveling, like thread pulled from the edge of a seam that no one bothered to sew back up.
You cried for ten minutes. Then you stood. Smoothed your dress. Wiped your eyes and went outside to continue the event. Because even if he was not there, it was still your night.
< Three months ago. Seoul, Korea. >
Another fight unraveled the same week. Fight after fight without any income had been followed you two. And the last one came because of laundry.
You had asked him, gently, to please not mix your wool sweaters with the rest of the wash—again. You were tired. You’d been working weekends. The gallery’s next exhibit was massive, and you were overseeing three interns who didn’t know the difference between a loan form and a press release. And Namjoon—half-distracted, headphones slung around his neck—said something like:
“It’s just laundry, Y/n. Not a crisis.”
That was it.
That was the crack that splintered into something bigger than either of you two meant it to.
“Do you know how much I’ve been doing lately?” you asked, trying to stay calm, even as your voice wavered. “I ask for one thing. One thing.”
“You always make everything sound like an indictment.”
“And you make everything feel like it’s not worth your energy.”
He turned then, clearly hurt. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” you said, and your voice was rising now, sharp with every silent moment you’d swallowed those past months. “Do you even know what I’m working on? Who I’m curating next? Have you even asked?”
“I’ve been drowning, Y/n.”
“So have I. The difference is I still check in. I still try.”
He rubbed his face, eyes heavy. “I didn’t come home to fight.”
“You barely come home at all.”
You two stared at each other. The apartment was still. The dryer buzzed in the background. It wasn’t the first fight but you were with the same exhaustion as the ones before.
After a long pause, he dropped his shoulders. “You’re right,” he said, quieter now. “I’ve been selfish.” You blinked, a little surprised. “I’ve been stretched so thin I stopped noticing what I was letting go of,” he continued. “I hate that I made you feel like I wasn’t trying. I am trying, Y/n. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am.”
You didn’t say anything. Not right away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because you weren’t sure if it mattered anymore.
He stepped forward, reached for your hand. “Can we start over tomorrow? I’ll make dinner. We’ll talk. I’ll actually show up.”
You nodded. You let him hug you. Let his arms wrap around your waist. Let him kiss the side of your head and tell you how much he loved you. And you said it back—softly, automatically.
Later that night, you two lay in bed, facing each other in the dark. He whispered one more apology, then fell asleep with his hand over your waist like a promise. And you stared at the ceiling. You weren’t sad. You weren’t angry. You were just… tired. Tired of trying to be the whole relationship. Tired of reminding him who you two used to be. Tired of convincing herself that love should be this hard all the time.
And the worst part? You realized you didn’t feel much of anything anymore. No ache. No flutter. No rage. Just quiet. Like your heart had packed its bags long before your hands ever would.
Next week was normal, it felt natural. But two weeks later Namjoon was leaving again. And with him, his trying too. And your empathy and understanding were no longer there. Because words meant nothing anymore. Because love can survive almost anything—except being met with indifference
< Two weeks ago. Seoul, Korea. >
It started with nothing.
No fight. No harsh words. Just a missed message. A day passes. Then two. You didn’t text first. You told yourself it wasn’t a test—but of course it was. Not the childish kind. Not a game. Just a quiet question you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud:
If I stop trying… will he even notice?
The weekend blurred. You worked a long day at the gallery, came home to a half-empty apartment, cooked yourself pasta you didn’t finish. The wine bottle you two opened earlier that week still sat on the counter, uncorked and flat. You kept checking your phone, out of habit more than hope. But there was nothing.
No hey, how’s your day?
No sorry, been crazy, thinking of you.
Not even a meme, a song, a voice note.
It felt surreal. The kind of surreal that doesn’t hurt yet, just itches at the edges. Like something vital is missing but you don’t realize it until you go to touch it.
On the third day, You ran into Sophie, your coworker of years, the one you almost tell everything. You two chatted about curation and studio space until she tilted her head and asked, “How’s Namjoon?”
You smiled too quickly. “Busy.”
Sophie nodded, awkward. “You two are so… I don’t know. Solid. I love that.”
You laughed, soft and brittle. “Yeah. Thanks.”
You didn’t mean to lie. You just weren’t sure what the truth was anymore.
That night, you lay in bed scrolling through old photos of the two of you. Namjoon at the park in spring, lying in the grass, one arm shielding his face from the sun. Namjoon holding a cat that didn’t like him, grinning anyway. Namjoon in your old kitchen, burning pancakes, laughing while you mocked him. It used to be like that. We used to be like that.
At 1:23 a.m., you turned off your phone. Not out of drama, but fatigue. Not to make a point. Just because the ache of waiting was heavier than the ache of stopping.
He finally texted on the fourth day.
Namjoon: Hey. Sorry, this week’s been brutal. Everything okay?
You stared at it.
Not I missed you.
Not I’m sorry for going silent.
Just… a check-in. Like you were a loose appointment on a calendar he’d finally flipped back to. You could’ve said so many things. But all you wrote was:
You: All good. You?
He replied twenty minutes later.
Namjoon: Tired. Always tired lol.
You didn’t write back.
You weren’t angry. You weren’t even sad. Just… done.
Not the kind of done that comes from bitterness or rage. The kind that comes from knowing. From finally understanding that what you’d been holding together with two hands for months was already slipping through the cracks, because he wasn’t holding it with you. Because loving someone isn’t enough if they don’t love you back in the same language, with the same weight.
And sometimes, silence tells you everything you need to know.
< Three days ago. Seoul, Korea >
The apartment was too quiet when Namjoon came home. It was almost midnight, but every light was on. He kicked off his sneakers by the door, half-listening to the click of the lock behind him, the low hum of the refrigerator. He spotted you at the dining table, still as glass. Your coat was still on. Your hair pinned up like you hadn’t touched it since morning. There was a glass of wine in front of you, mostly full. You weren’t drinking it.
“Y/n?” He stepped toward you, rubbing his temple. “Hey. Today was a nightmare—my phone died in the studio, then we lost the mix and—”
“Namjoon.”
The way you said it. Low. Level. Like a wire pulled tight. He looked at you properly now. And he saw it. Not the exhaustion—he was used to that. But something else. Something quieter, colder. Final.
He straightened. “What’s wrong?”
You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him with eyes that looked like they’d already wept and dried a hundred times in silence.
“We need to talk,” you said.
He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 11:43 p.m.
“I leave for Tokyo in six hours,” he said gently. “Can this wait?”
“No,” you said. “It can’t.”
At first it was small things. Your voice low, steady, almost rehearsed. It started with you asking questions.
Did he know how long it had been since you spent a whole day together? Did he remember the last time you two laughed without checking the time? Did he remember you, even—outside of the girlfriend title, outside of the steady, convenient role you played in the margins of his life?
He got defensive. You got louder.
And then it all came out.
The missed dinners. The forgotten promises. The way he used to look at you like you were art, and now you felt like a painting nobody wanted to buy.
“You think I’m being dramatic,” you snapped. “But I’ve been trying for months, Namjoon. You didn’t even notice I was disappearing.”
He paced. Ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not true. Don’t make this into—”
“What?” you shouted. “Into what it is?”
“I’ve been doing everything I can to keep things together—”
“No,” you cut in. “You’ve been doing everything you can to keep your life together. Your job, your music, your deadlines. And you expect me to just—what—applaud from the sidelines while I shrink myself smaller and smaller so I don’t get in the way?”
Namjoon threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you want from me anymore, Y/n!”
Your voice cracked. “I want you to do something!” He stared at you, stunned. “I want you to stop making me the only one sacrificing,” you said, trembling. “I want you to stop treating this like a luxury—like love is this extra thing you do when your calendar clears.”
“I’m not choosing work over you.”
“You are,” you said. “You just won’t admit it because your dream looks noble, and my hurt looks selfish.”
He stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. “So what, you want me to blow up my career? Throw a tantrum? Cancel everything and make myself the bad guy—what, to prove a point?”
You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Not always. Not recklessly. But yes—once in a while, yes!” He opened his mouth, but you didn’t stop. “I want you to risk something! Just once. Not because I asked. Because you want to. Because being here, with me, matters enough to make other people mad. To screw up your schedule. To miss a flight. To let someone down who isn’t me.”
His mouth opened. Closed. You could see it—he wanted to fix it, say something, anything, but there was nothing left that words could fix.
You went on, quiet now, your voice laced with every scar.
“I’ve missed meetings. I’ve rescheduled events. I’ve lied to clients and board members because you needed me. I’ve left rooms I fought to be in. I’ve given things up—not because you asked me to, but because I love you. And I thought… if I just held on a little longer, you’d meet me halfway.” Your voice broke then. “I don’t want perfection. I don’t want you to quit. I want you to want me enough to inconvenience yourself.”
Silence.
Heavy. Crushing.
Namjoon looked away, jaw clenched. “So what—what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I can’t keep doing this alone.”
He looked at you like you’d struck him. “You’re not alone. That’s not what this is.” He shook his head, searching for words. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” you whispered.
Silence fell between you two again.
You turned from him, brushing your hands down the front of your coat like you were smoothing your own rage. “You love me when it’s easy,” you said. “When I’m quiet, supportive, soft. When I don’t ask you to make space. But the moment I need more, I become a burden. An inconvenience.”
“That’s not what this is,” he said, stepping forward. You didn’t move. He lowered his voice. “Y/n, I’m under so much pressure right now. I didn’t think—”
“I know you didn’t think,” you said. “That’s the problem.” Your voice broke again, and he flinched. “I thought we were building something. I thought this was real. But now? Now it feels like I’m holding all the weight while you fly above it all. And you don’t even look down.” Namjoon was silent. “Say something,” you said, almost begging.
He ran his hands through his hair again. “I can’t fix this tonight. I have to go. I have a flight—”
“I know,” you said softly. “You always have to go.”
He stepped toward you. “Please. When I get back, I’ll fix this. We’ll take time. I’ll plan something. I’ll make this right.” You didn’t answer. He reached for your hand. “Y/n… please. Say something.”
You looked down at his fingers touching yours. But you didn’t hold them back. Because this wasn’t a pause in the storm. This was the end of the rain. He’d leave. And you’d still be here. Alone. Picking up the pieces of a love that had been cracking for months while he sprinted toward a future that no longer had room for you.
“Just go, Namjoon,” you whispered.
“I’m coming back,” he said, almost desperate now. “I’ll fix this—”
But you turned away. Not because you wanted to hurt him. Because you knew: you’d already left a thousand times in your mind. You were just finally listening to yourself.
The tears didn’t come right away. Not that day, or the next. Because this wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that arrived in an instant. This was the heartbreak of staying too long. Of trying too hard. Of loving someone who didn’t even realize they were letting go. You looked around the apartment—your shared apartment—and thought of all the promises you had made in silence. All the ways you had made yourself small to keep you two alive. And then you walked to the closet, pulled out your suitcase, and continued what you had started days ago in your head.
The slow, deliberate act of leaving.
The familiar click of the key turning in the lock was supposed to bring relief — a signal that he was finally home. Instead, it felt like the first note of a dirge. Namjoon pushed open the door, the creak sharp in the stillness. The air inside was colder than he remembered, stripped of warmth. His boots echoed on the hardwood floor, too loud in the silence that swallowed the apartment whole.
He set down his luggage by the door, eyes searching the space instinctively for some sign of life. The small collection of framed photos on the wall — now oddly bare — caught his eye. His breath hitched. The couch where you two used to curl up together was devoid of the usual scatter of blankets and pillows. The side table was clear except for a lone coaster. He moved deeper in, heart thumping unevenly, the pit in his stomach widening. The soft glow of streetlights filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows over the empty rooms.
In the kitchen, his eyes darted to the counter. The bottle of wine from three days ago — gone. The small dishes you always left soaking in the sink — all cleared away.
His throat tightened, a sudden chill crawling over him. He stepped into the dining area. There — a half-packed suitcase sat on the chair, its contents sparse, folded with a cold kind of care. Clothes he didn’t recognize, a scarf you must have left behind, and the space where your things used to overflow. His hands shook as he reached toward the fabric, but recoiled before touching it.
Suddenly, a cold wave of panic swept over him, dragging his breath into a tight, ragged gasp.
“No,” he whispered, voice trembling.
He stumbled back, clutching the wall to steady himself. You’re gone. The weight of it crashed down like a falling building. He pulled out his phone with shaking hands, desperate to hear your voice, see any sign that this was a mistake, that maybe you had a last minute trip, an emergency. Maybe it was a bad dream.
He dialed your number. Ring. Ring But the line never connected. A terse message flashed on the screen.
The number you have dialed is not in service.
He pressed buttons frantically, trying again, but it was the same.
His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs. He sank to the floor, hands pressed over his face as tears began to fall. His breath came quick, shallow, uneven. A tightening gripped his chest. His vision blurred. He tried to focus on something — anything — but the room spun, the walls closing in.
Please, please, he thought, don’t let this be real.
But it was. The apartment, the ring, the suitcase — everything was proof. And now, the cruelest truth of all: he couldn’t reach you. You had cut him off completely. You didn’t want to see him. Panic seized him fully, and he couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked his body as he crumpled into himself on the floor. He gasped, his hands shook as he reached toward his drawer to grab the little box that was under all his mess. The small velvet box, its lid slightly open. The engagement ring gleamed like a painful secret. He was supposed to asked you this week. You were supposed to be here. “I’m sorry.” he sobbed, his voice breaking through the silence.
He closed his eyes, wishing desperately for a second chance, a sign, anything that could undo the emptiness you left behind. But the only sound was the echo of his own heartbreak.
How could he fix it?.
Namjoon sat on the cold floor for what felt like hours, clutching the engagement ring box like a lifeline. The panic slowly ebbed into a crushing weight — exhaustion threading through his grief. Finally, wiping the tears from his face with trembling hands, he forced himself to stand. He needed to find you.
The cold night air stung Namjoon’s cheeks as he stepped out of the apartment building. His legs still trembled from the panic attack that had clawed at his chest moments before, and his fingers trembled as he pulled the small velvet box from his pocket again—the engagement ring, a symbol of everything he thought he could fix but had only ever endangered. He didn’t know what he expected when he arrived at the gallery — maybe to find you there, or maybe just to stand in the place that had once held your laughter, your quiet moments of shared wonder. It was worst. You were actually there.
The gallery’s lights were low, the air tinged with the faint scent of turpentine and old paper. Chairs had been stacked and art pieces carefully covered, but the quiet hum of closing time lingered like a fragile bubble waiting to burst. He stood just inside the door, clutching the small velvet box in his palm, as if it alone could hold together the pieces of everything breaking inside him. You sat behind the receptionist desk, your shoulders slumped beneath the weight of exhaustion. The sharp lines around your eyes had deepened, etched by months of sleepless nights and silent compromises.
When you saw him, a flicker of surprise and something colder flashed across your face. You said his name quietly, without invitation.
“Namjoon.”
He swallowed hard, stepping forward. “Y/n, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for everything — for the time I missed, the promises I broke, for making you feel like you weren’t enough.”
You didn’t meet his eyes. “Namjoon, I have a lot of work—.”
“Please—”
“I don’t want to hear you. I’m not in the mood.”
“Y/n.”
“What?!” you exploded, looking at him. “I don’t want to hear more words. I’m tired of hearing you out.”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “But I mean it, every time. But this — us — it’s the most important thing in my life. I’ve been a fool to let everything else swallow me up.”
Your fingers drummed on the desk, sharp and impatient. “You say all the right things when you want something. But what about the times you didn’t? The times I was waiting, and you were gone?”
He bit his lip, desperate. “I was caught up, I know. But I want to fix it. I want to make it right.”
You looked up then, eyes tired but steady. “Fix it? Namjoon, you can’t fix things with words. Your words don’t mean anything anymore.”
“I’m willing to try,” he pleaded. “Every day, every moment. I’ll change — I’ll be better. I swear it.”
Your laugh was bitter. “You say that like it’s a choice. Like you can just flip a switch.”
“I know it’s not that simple. But I’m trying — I’m really trying.”
Your gaze sharpened, a flicker of something distant in your eyes. “Trying feels like a job you clock out from. Like it’s not me you’re fighting for, but your own guilt.”
Namjoon’s throat tightened. “I want it to be you.”
You exhaled slowly. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding here?”
He reached out, but you pulled back, a wall rising between the two of you.
“Y/n, please. I love you. I know I don’t deserve your patience, but I’m begging you — don’t give up on us. Not like this.”
Your eyes shimmered with tears now, but your voice was cold. “Namjoon, I’m done.” you said. “I’m tired of being the only one who shows up. I’m tired of carrying us when you’re too busy to hold my hand.”
The words hit him like a blade.
Namjoon closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I’m sorry I made you doubt us.”
You shook your head, voice shaking. “It’s more than doubt. It’s exhaustion. I’m worn down, Namjoon. So worn down.”
His lips pouted, he tried to clean his tears. “I don’t want to lose you— ”
“You already did.”
There was a silence. Hard. Cold. The way you looked at him, like a decision was already made. Like leaving him was something you had planned for months and finally got the courage to do it. It break him.
He took a deep breath. Then, in a fast and crude way took your hand to put the velvet box you already knew very well.
“If you’re leaving,” he said, voice breaking, “take this with you. It’s yours. Always was.”
You stared at your hand, your throats tightened. And you thought how of a bitch he was for making you do that.
“It was never mine.” You pushed to his chest with anger. Leave
He wanted to beg, to get on his knees and fight for you. But the way you were looking at him. The way you were so exhausted, the way you were angry. He knew he couldn’t make you change your mind in the moment, not when you were so out of reach with your mind and heart— so far away from him.
And just like that, the distance became unbridgeable.
< Three months later. Seoul, Korea. >
The city had softened by spring. The cold that once clung to the buildings like regret had lifted, replaced by light that poured between high-rises and cracked sidewalks like apology. You crossed the street with your coat half-buttoned, a coffee in one hand, the hem of your skirt brushing your legs with each careful step. Your heels clicked a quiet rhythm, one that no longer needed to keep pace with anyone else.
You had moved. Not far — just far enough to start again. A new apartment, a quieter part of town. You still worked at the gallery, but now you curated independently, traveling to other cities for new artists, giving talks where your voice didn’t tremble anymore. You were learning how to live without waiting. You didn’t think about him as much anymore — not like you used to. But sometimes, still, in the stretch of silence between waking and sleep, he would appear in your mind like a fading note of music. Still familiar. Still unfinished.
It didn’t hurt that much anymore. Because you knew he regret it. He was still looking for a way of calling you, sometimes sending you coffee or things you had forgotten in your shared apartment. You hadn’t being able to unblock him, not really looking for another conversation where you knew would just revive everything that had happened. Specially since it was still new. But you tried to keep your mind busy and away from him.
And it was working— at least a little bit.
That day, your last meeting ended early, and you found yourself walking through a museum you hadn’t visited in years. No one knew you were there. No one expected you. You wandered slowly, the hush of the gallery pressing gently around you like a blanket. And then — like muscle memory — you turned the corner and froze.
There he was. Kim Namjoon.
Standing alone in front of a large canvas, hair longer, posture more closed. He looked like someone who had learned how to carry regret without crumbling under it. He saw you immediately. And before you could make a run, he was walking slowly to you. Standing just in front. And you could have left. Should have. But you didn’t. You two stood there in silence for a beat — not the old silence, thick with grief and expectation. This one was gentler. Like you two were ghosts in a place that had once belonged to both.
“Hey.” you said softly.
He swallowed. “Hi.”
Another pause.
You nodded toward the painting. “You still come here?”
“Sometimes.” His voice was rough. “It’s quieter than my apartment.”
A sad smile tugged at your lips. “It always was.” Silence again. “I heard about your solo project,” you said, eyes meeting his. “The foundation. The benefit shows. That’s… big.”
Namjoon shrugged, sheepish. “It felt like the first thing I did for someone other than myself.” You nodded. Then he said it — gently, carefully: “I miss you.” You didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything. He looked down. “I wasn’t brave enough.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “No,” you finally said. “You weren’t.”
He blinked. “Do you hate me?”
“No.” your voice was soft. “But I think I spent a long time trying to forgive you before you’d even asked for it.”
He looked like he might cry — but didn’t. You stood there, letting the quiet settle in again.
“I’m sorry.”
Finally, you smiled and took a step back. “Take care of yourself, Namjoon.”
He gave you a nod, tight and broken. “You too.”
You turned to leave but he was quick to grabbed your wrist. You looked back confused. Namjoon had a broken gaze and looked nervous. like he was about to break.
“What are you—.”
“Before you leave. I need to say it. Finally. I need to do something.” You didn’t move. “I’ve been waiting days around your gallery wondering how to tell you this and I found you here casually… It can’t be casual— I need to tell you” he sighed, eyes getting glassy. “You left, and I didn’t stop you. I didn’t even reach out— Not because I didn’t care. Because I was a coward. I thought if I stayed quiet, if I didn’t fight… I wouldn’t lose. But I did.”
“Look Namjoon—“ You looked away but he kept talking, cutting you off.
“You asked me to risk something and I didn’t. You asked me to do something and I stood there like a goddamn statue. But I’m here now. And I’m risking everything.”
You frowned confused. “What exactly do you think is left to fight for?” you said, voice like a bruise. “There’s nothing now, Namjoon.”
He stepped closer—just one step, but it felt like a hundred miles. He kept holding your wrist “You, you’re the only thing left I want, even if it’s your hate and resentment. Even if you just want to punch me in the face and scream at me or give me the silent treatment. I’ll take it, I swear I’ll take it. I’ll take anything from you, anything I can have… And I see it now—I see you. Everything you gave. Everything I didn’t.” His voice cracked. “You told me I was losing you. And I just let it happen. I kept waiting for something to change on its own. But love isn’t autopilot. It’s not maintenance. It’s war. It’s showing up.”
You shook your head. “There nothing anymore. Why are you telling me this now?”
He didn’t blink. “Because this time, I’ll risk being wrong. I’ll risk hearing no. I’ll risk everything I should’ve risked when you still believed in me— I love you,” he said. “And I’m not asking you to forget what I didn’t do. I’m asking you to give me one chance to do something now. To fight for you the way you fought for me. Because I swear to god, Y/n— I’ll risk everything for you.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was holding its breath.
You looked at him like you didn’t recognize him. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe now, this time … he was someone new.
i’m so in love with open endings rn
now bitch why tf i can’t write more than 1k paragraphs tfff???? i had to delete so many shit and make the paragraphs bigger i hate itttt
itttt but anyway here’s a namjoon little story that i was going to make it a long fic but thought it would be better as just one. i hope you like it >_< my man fr (let’s hate him on here a lil bit tho)
also, i study art history for a month so don’t quote me on the comments of the artist cuz i don’t know shit i was just trying to be quirky and shit,, also with the books 😓🙏🏼
