Pairing: Prince! Kim Mingyu x Concubine! F. Reader
Themes:Â Smut | Angst | Strangers to Lovers | Forbidden Romance | Historical AU | Secret Affair | Class and Gender Inequality | T.W.: mentions of punishment, violence, death
Wordcount: 27.4K
Playlist: âI can reach youâ - LEE JI YONG | âWindâ - Jung Seung Hwan | âFalling blossomsâ - HUTA | âCherry Blossomâ - OCTOBER | âYouâre Everything to Meâ - Shin Yong Jae | âMy nameâ - 2nd Moon
Smut Warnings:Â Explicit sexual acts - Oral (F. Receiving) - Praising - Use of petnames - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Mentions of virginity - Slight cumplay - Slight breeding kink - Semi public
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
The palace gates are not built for mortals. They tower above you like mountains clothed in vermilion and jade, swallowing the sky with tiled wings that gleam black-blue in the sun. Their shadow falls over you as if to remind you of scale: you are small, you are nothing, you are already consumed.
The men in uniform do not slow. Their steps drum against the stone as though this march were inevitable from the day you were born. You stumble after them, your thin shoes slipping against flagstones polished smooth.
A eunuch in blue silk glides forward, his voice cold. âThis way.â You follow because there is nowhere else to go.
The womenâs quarters are a braided hush tangled with whispers. A matron waits beneath the eaves, hair built high as a crown of lacquer, mouth pinched. Her name is not offered; her authority is enough.
âStrip her,â she says.
It is not a request, and so your rough cotton is peeled from your limbs; the sting of air on your bare arms a cold slap. You want to fold yourself small, hide the plain stubborn bones of your body, but the room gives you no shelter. Hands, practised and impersonal, lift your arms and measure your waist. A basin appears, steam trembling the surface. Another woman scrubs your skin with scented cloths until you are raw and new, and no longer yourself.
The robe they pour you in is heavier than it looks, a pale blossom patterned with moons; the underskirt murmurs against your calves. Your hair is combed until it crackles and pinned into an obedient, shining shape. When they set the final hairpin, something within you clicks shut with it.
In the bronze mirror, a stranger blinks. The strangerâs mouth is soft and quiet; yours has lines bitten into it. The strangerâs eyes gleam; yours are rimmed with sleepless red. You lift your gaze and meet yourself anyway. The silk is beautiful. You are not moved.
The matron looks you up and down. âBetter,â she says. âRemember, your head must bow and your voice must sweeten. Remember whose air you breathe.â
The words taste like iron on your tongue. âWhose?â The matronâs smile does not reach her eyes. âThe Crown Princeâs, of course.â
A tremor starts in your left hand. You crush it by curling your fingers into the silk and anchoring them there. You have the sudden, foolish thought that if you runânowâyou might still find the street outside your house where the fishmonger shouts and the stray cats argue over fish heads and your fatherâ
Your father, who could not meet your gaze that morning when the men came.
The memory unfurls without permission. The yard smelled of damp straw. Your fatherâs hands shook, the dirt forever lodged under his nails. He kept saying your name, and you kept thinking he would laugh, he would swing you into his arms and say you were too old for such tricks, he would tell the men to go. But the men did not go. They had papers. Seals. The smooth, expensive silence of men who move with the weight of the palace behind them.
âItâs only service,â your father said then, as if words could blunt the blade. âHonourable. You will be fed. You will be safe.â
âYou sold me,â you said, and watched the words reveal the truth in his face.
Now, in the palace, the matron claps, and the memory snaps shut. âThis way,â she says, and you are shepherded into a low room whose floor smells of rice paste. A group of women sit on cushions, wrapped in silks like yours but better. Their mouths are lacquered into timid roses. Their eyes roam over you the way crows consider shiny things.
A lady in pale jade presides at the head, her hair adorned with pearls that drip from their pins. Her face is beautiful the way a blade is beautiful. She does not introduce herself either. She does not need to. You bow because your world depends on it.
âShe is the new one,â the matron announces.
A low flutter moves through the room. You hear your nameâyour real one, the one your mother used to sing into your hairâoffered up to their mouths and rewritten there. The jade lady studies you with palate-cleanser calm.
âStand straight,â she says. âSmile. No teeth.â
You shape your mouth.
âShe is plain,â murmurs a woman to your left.
âBut fresh,â another counters.
The jade lady raises a hand, and the whispers die. âYou will be instructed,â she says, âin comportment and conversation. You will learn the Princeâs preferences and how not to become troublesome. You will not forget your place, which is below the law and within my sight.â
A soft laugh moves around you. You do not laugh. You regard the jade ladyâs hands: long fingers, nails dull, the skin where a ring once sat a little paler than the rest. She has been here long enough to shed pieces of herself and learn not to be noticed.
âToday,â the matron says, âyou will learn the corridors.â
Corridors. A dull word for a labyrinth. They unfold like a thousand lines: the passage with its painted lotus floor, the corner smelling of cedar and womenâs nervous sweat; a narrow door leading to a courtyard where carp make slow turns beneath the lily pads; another door to a colonnade that frames an inner garden. You file with the other women behind the matron as she narrates the rules you must memorise to go on breathing.
âDo not cross the Red Pavilion without express summons. The Prince walks there when he pleases.â
âDo not speak to men unless they speak to you, and then only what is pleasing to hear.â
âDo not eat fruit unless it is offered by the proper hand.â
âDo not look directly into the Queenâs eyes if you are questioned. It is taken for insolence.â
At the mention of the Queen, the womenâs shoulders tighten. The jade ladyâs mouth softens a breath. The matron leads you into a hall resplendent with a painted flock of cranes. You think their wings must know the shape of escape.
As you pass, the women brush you with words disguised as kindness. âPoor child.â âLucky girl.â âDo you know how to sing?â âCan you embroider?â âThe Prince admires quiet.â âThe Prince admires beauty.â âThe Prince admires obedience.â
You admire air. You admire roads. You admire a door that opens onto a street that is not guarded by men with spears.
In the afternoon, they bring you to another room. A girl with moth-soft hands paints your lips the proper red and draws a crescent moon at your temple. âPretty,â she murmurs, though her eyes look far away, as if searching the backs of her eyelids for a different life.
The jade lady returns with graceful disapproval. She adjusts a fold of your robe with two fingers and a sigh. âYou will not stare,â she instructs. âYou will keep your voice low. You will bow until you are told to rise.â Her gaze drifts to your hands. âYou have workerâs scars.â
âThey are mine,â you say.
A thin smile. âNot anymore.â
They take you to the antechamber of the Red Pavilion. The floor gleams with the kind of care that requires someone elseâs back to break. Outside, pine trees shape the courtyard. A small fountain speaks to itself. The guards at the far doors remain perfectly still.
The jade lady arranges you on a cushion with the others. You are placed near the back, the place for fresh acquisitions.
âYou will be summoned as he wishes,â says the jade lady. âDo not speak unless address is clear.â
Time passes achingly slow. Somewhere, a bell counts the hour. Your knees ache; the silk grows hotter; the scar at your right thumb throbs its small, stubborn drumbeat. You watch a bee struggle against the paper lattice of the window until it finds a hole and escapes into the courtyard. You wonder if you are the bee or the lattice.
Footsteps. The eunuch emerges from the inner chamber, his expression the practised neutrality of a man who has mastered both service and survival.
âHer Highness will see you,â he says, and the words fall over the room.
The Crown Princeâs wife enters not with a flourish but with a silence that forces the air to still. She wears white, the exact shade of disdain, and her hair is a temple of jewels. Her face is beautiful the way winter is beautiful: precise, bloodless, absolute. The women bow low; you follow, the floorâs wax kissing your forehead. When she speaks, her voice is clear.
âRise.â
You rise. Her eyes pass over you as one might pass over a ledger. âThe new one,â she says; it is not a question. âStand.â
You stand. The jade lady shifts; a note too careful in a composition of carelessness.
The wife comes closer. âYou understand your good fortune,â she says, and the line between statement and threat is a hairâs breadth.
You hold her gaze because you have not yet learned not to. Behind her eyes, there is calculation; behind the calculation, a certain fatigue. You realise with a jolt that she is not old. Power has made its mark upon her early.
âI understand I am here,â you say.
The wifeâs mouth tilts, not precisely a smile.
âPretty,â she responds. âUntrained, but pretty.â She turns away dismissively. âSee that she is taught the songs he favors.â
The jade lady bows. âYes, Your Highness.â
âAnd the rules,â the wife adds, lightly, like a benediction. âEspecially the rules.â
She glides away. The room exhales, and the jade ladyâs fingers tighten on your shoulder for the briefest momentâpossession or warning, you cannot tell.
Evening sinks its ink into the lattices; the light stains the floor a last amber and then withdraws. Lamps are lit, their halos small domestic suns. Dishes appearâfruits cut into half moons, rice plump, soups breathing steam. You taste none of it. The other women eat with beautiful mouths, telling small, careful jokes. Laughter hangs and vanishes.
Then the inner door opens.
He enters without ceremony, which is a ceremony of its own. The Crown Prince is tall, his shoulders kept rigid by the invisible hands of expectation. His robe is cerulean blue, the embroidery at the hem the colour of gold you were never invited to have. His hair is bound with a simplicity that must have cost someone else an hour. His face is handsome, yes, in the unimpeachable way a coin is stamped. But his eyes are somewhere else entirely, tilted towards a horizon that can never be reached.
The women bow, and you bow with them, forehead to the floor, silk hushing around you. The Prince pauses; you feel it in the small hairs at the back of your neck. You want to look up because you were born with that flaw, the one that insists on knowing the source of the shadow. You do not look up.
âRise,â he says finally.
He does not look at you. He does not look at anyone in particular. He accepts tea with a flick of his fingers; he accepts a song with a nod of his head. His voice is quiet when he uses it; mostly, he does not.
You watch him from beneath your lashes and understand what this place is: a stage with one audience whose gaze is averted. A shrine whose god has elsewhere to be. A game of fortunes played with pieces that bruise and bleed.
When he stands to leave, he leaves as he came: with his attention neatly folded. The womenâs eyes follow him. Your eyes stay on the floor.
The jade lady tilts her head. âYou will be shown your quarters.â
You rise. Your knees complain.
In the small chamber that is now yours, a single lamp flickers on a low table. The bed is narrow, its frame plain wood lacquered in black, the blanket neatly folded, the pillows stacked too high and too soft. On the chest at the foot of the bed lies a folded bundle of garmentsâanother silk robe, underlayers, and a set of instructions neatly stitched into the fabric.
You lower yourself onto the mattress, the silk of your robe whispering against itself as you move. The pins in your hair tug sharply with every tilt of your head, a constant reminder of the weight now fastened to you.
You press your palms together and feel the calluses the matron noticedâthe humble proofs of a life that asked your hands to work honestly. They are not gone. They are only hidden.
It is only service, your fatherâs words echoing in your head. You will be fed. You will be safe.
Safe feels like a word someone else invented to sell you to a softer cage.
You close your eyes and see the Princeâs profileâaloof, disinterested, a mountain that will not acknowledge the pilgrim. You open them and see the ceilingâplain, immovable, yours for the staring. Between the two is a sudden realisation that tastes like iron: you are not here to be loved. You are here to be arranged.
The palace has always had a particular way of reminding Mingyu of his station.
It does not scold; it arranges. Rank is the angle of a roofline, the hush inside a threshold, the way a corridor seems to narrow for one son and open for the other. Even the flagstones participate: they remember which feet matter.
As a boy, he misread all this. He thought the carp rose because they loved his humming, that the cranes in the painted screens shifted their eyes to follow him, that the moon collected itself in the slick of stone for his delight. He learned the true alphabet of the palace the first time his brotherâs name moved through a room and every head turned toward that sound.
There was a spring day, blossom heavy in the air, when he sent an arrow clean through a tossed gourd. It broke in a fragrant shiver; men turned; boys shouted; the captainâs brows liftedâbrief, real recognition. Mingyu tasted it, sweet and new. He ran to where the King stood beneath the pines, the Crown Prince at his side, and held up the bow as if holding up a relic.
âAppa, did you see?â
The Kingâs gaze slid past him and landed, gentle as habit, on the elder son. âYour brother will require men who shoot true,â he said, not unkindly. âYou will be one of them.â
A wall disguised as a blessing. Mingyu clapped when his brotherâs arrow later missed by the width of a fingernail, and the court applauded as if the sun had learned courtesy. Such applause is the palaceâs native weather: it falls where it falls.
He remembers a winter morning when ink bled obediently beneath his brush and the calligraphy master let praise escape him. The King studied the page, nodded once.
âYou will copy your brotherâs edicts someday. Write them clean.â
Recognition turned to utility so neatly that one could mistake it for generosity. Mingyu looked for it for years afterwardsâon the hunt for the moment affection becomes function, family becomes committee, son becomes instrument.
He did not envy the title. He watched the Crown Prince carry an egg-shaped stoneâdelicate and impossible, always threatening to crack into something living or to remain, stubbornly, a stone. Mingyu did not want that egg. He wanted to be counted in the room where it was weighed.
The Queen once told him he was fortunate. âSpared the crownâs hunger,â she said, smoothing his hair.
âThen why am I still eaten?â he asked without planning to, and her laughâthat soft, tired soundâwas the first time he understood that comprehension and power sleep in different beds.
So he learned to build a smaller country where he could be sovereign: the patient release of a bowstring; the blade that sings if you angle it right. He became competent in the quiet things.
Mingyu is in the practice yard, a staff warm in his hands, body moving through drills when the summons arrives. The eunuchâs bow is exact.
âHis Majesty requests Daegunâs presence.â
Request is a courtierâs word for come now. Mingyu wraps the staff with oiled cloth and follows.
The throne room is a landscape arranged to remind you of scale. Mountains glide along the walls; a single chair insists that altitude can be sat in. The King sits as if carved there. The Crown Prince stands to his right, straight-backed, attentive, a man who has trained his breath to serve him in public.
Mingyu bows, the floor meets his forehead.
âRise,â says the King. âYou are appointed to the Guard.â The words drop with finality, leaving no room for rebuttal.
âYou will see to the new girl,â his father continues. âA debt sent her. She will require⊠supervision. It will give you purpose.â
Purpose settles sour in his mouth. He has always had purpose, but this is the kind that arrives with a leash and calls itself benevolence. âYes, Father.â
The Crown Princeâs eyes flickerârelief, perhaps, or gratitude at having one complication removed from his circumference. Mingyu does not resent him. The Crown Prince must live at the point of every circle. Second sons learn to measure radius.
âDiscretion,â the King adds. âThe palace is a drum; whispers are hands.â
Mingyu bows again and leaves. He stands a moment beneath the eaves and lets that nearly-rain cool his face.
Purpose. Fine. He will do it. He will also resent it in the particular way he has trained himself to resent: tidy, bloodless, silent.
The womenâs quarters receive him with professional quiet. The matron arrives, lacquered hair and careful eyes.
âDaegun.â
âThe King sent me,â he says, which is to say: do not pretend this is avoidable.
She leads him through the halls and shows him the room.
You sit too straight to be comfortable, hands folded in your lap. Silk tries to tame you and fails; it makes the attempt obvious. Your chin tilts that fraction above obedience; your mouth is a line that understands it is being asked to become a flower and refuses. Eyes forward, not glassyâfocused.
Recognition is the first danger. It finds him before he can duck.
It isnât your beauty that strikes him first, though beauty is thereâunvarnished, a river rock shown to light. It is the way you refuse to let the room name you before you have finished pronouncing yourself. He knows that refusal. It has lived under his tongue for years in the shape of swallowed retorts and renegotiated breaths.
The jade ladyâhe knows her as the wifeâs favourite instrumentâbows in polished reverence. âDaegun honours us.â
âThe King honours order by believing it lives here,â he replies dryly.
Her eyes measure him, then flatten. âWe keep peace.â
âPeace without bruises is the durable kind.â
He doesnât say why heâs here. To announce you are to be watched is to place a hat on a fox and call it a hunter. He will do this the way he knowsâconstant, invisible.
âContinue,â he says, and steps back into a pillar.
A zither starts quietly. Women move in practised patterns. He allows his gaze to pass. When it reaches you, he does not let it stop. He will not give the room a place to set its hooks.
Still, he catches the first thread of your voice when a woman leans over her own prettiness. âHow fortunate you are.â
Your answer is for yourself and for anyone listening. âFortune is a word with a debt inside it.â
Mingyu rolls the sentence on his tongue, surprised at how it tastes like the truth. He catches the faint scars across your knucklesâworkâs punctuation. He thinks of his own years spent excelling at things that made other people comfortable.
The lesson ends. You rise with the others.
âDaegun,â the jade lady says, âshall we show you the new girlâs quarters?â
âBriefly.â He is not here for spectacle, but sometimes the corridor you are forced to walk offers a view worth noting.
Your chamber is the same geometry of comfort they all are: a lamp, a bed, a window. You pause before entering, as if the threshold might bite. He remains a respectful distance behind, as etiquette requires.
âWelcome,â the jade lady says to you, and Mingyu hears the softest note of contempt.
Your nod. âThank you.â
Without looking at you, he speaks to the air near your window. âThe nights here are colder than they look.â
A glance. âCold reminds you that you are alive.â He allows a breath to become almost a smile. âSo does heat.â
That is enough. He cannot overstep. âEnsure she knows the rules,â Mingyu tells the jade lady. âAnd ensure the rules know her.â
By the time he returns to his compound, the sky opens up. He sits and lets the storm comb his thoughts. Memories linger, uninvited.
Once, fever held him like a tight-laced robe. The tutor insisted on lessons regardless; the Crown Prince sat upright, preventing the indignity of a second-born lying down in his presence. Mingyu recited until each character tasted like copper. The Princeâs head nodded toward sleep and then jerked back, again and again, a bird refusing the water. When the lamps finally sank, the Prince patted the chair. âSleep,â he said. No argument, no pity, only that one syllable.
In the morning, their father said, âYour brother was dutiful to keep you from idleness. Learn from him.â
There are others: the first time Mingyu beat a captain at the cutting of strawsâand the captainâs grin was wide and delighted until the King walked past and turned it into an advisory nod for the Crown Prince to receive. The afternoon when the Queen smuggled him a handful of roasted chestnuts and said nothing, which was better than saying the wrong thing. The evening he stood on a roofline and stared at the city lights, wondering how many lives do not hinge on a month and a womb.
He thinks of your chin, which refuses instruction, and the way silk fails to domesticate you.
Mingyu stands, the world beyond his door glistening. He walks the outer ways, the backs of buildings, where servants laugh softly when they think they are alone. A guard nods. Mingyu nods back.
He pauses beneath the eaves facing the small court outside your chamber. He does not look directly at your lattice; there is safety in angles. A servant passes with linens. Another with empty cups. Rain beads along the roofâs lip and drops, evenly spaced.
His mind returns to the throne room. âThis will give you purpose,â the King said, and meant: Be useful inside the shape I have cut for you. Mingyu hears it and translates: Take the sharp thing that lives in you and dull it against obedience.
But there are sharp things the palace cannot reach. He has kept some of them where they cannot be seizedâquiet loyalties, a private hunger for a kind of justice that is small and meticulous, rarely grand. He has done harm in the palaceâs service and learned to call some of it unavoidable. He has also learned the leverage of a half-hour, the use of a hinge, the power of getting someone the right fruit at the wrong time. The world turns on such pettiness. The world is saved by such pettiness.
He thinks of you. Fortune is a word with a debt inside it, you said, and he wants to know what you would name the creditor. He suspects you will not grant the palace that dignity. He hopes you wonât.
He turns back, takes the long path to his rooms, knowing every board that will creak under his steps. The rain slims into a fine veil, each drop a small pin prick in the nightâs fabric. He lies down on his mat, waiting for sleep to overtake him.
In the morning, duty will put on its robes and call his name. He will watch. He will speak softly. He will do what needs doing.
âPurpose suits a spare son,â his father had once said.
Perhaps. Perhaps purpose will have to be taught how to suit him.
You measure the palace by shadows.
They stretch long across the flagstones in the morning, cut sharp at noon, and pool by the evening. Every corridor teaches you a different shape of darkness, and you come to know them better than the painted walls or the gilded beams. Sometimes you walk faster, thinking you might step free of them; sometimes you slow, testing if they will loosen their grip. They never do. The palace is a sundial, and you are the mark it keeps drawing, whether you consent or not.
Prince Mingyu is there. Always there.
The first day, he is little more than a blur at the edge of your vision, a presence you convince yourself youâve imagined. By the second, the pattern is undeniableâevery corridor carries him like a second shadow, every doorway frames him just long enough for you to notice. By the third, his persistence grinds at you; what was once ignorable now presses like a stone inside your shoe, small, constant, impossible to forget.
He keeps a distance so exact it must have been measured by rule and string. A length of silence between youârespect on paper, surveillance in practice. His footsteps do not hurry you, yet you walk faster, as if speed might shear him off. It does not.
When you sit to learn songs in a room full of women who have already mastered the art, he takes a place along the far screen. He studies the pattern of bamboo someone has painted there: black leaves, white joints. You want to believe he is enthralled by paint. You want to believe you are not the subject of a lesson about obedience.
His faceâwhen you allow yourself a fraction of a glanceâis ironed into neutrality. You cannot read what language his eyes speak. They are too calm for comfort, too steady for safety. He is not looking at your mouth; he is not looking at your hands; he is not looking at youâuntil he is, and then it is a fraction, a glance that comes and goes.
You tell yourself you have survived worse gazes. This is merely a prince, and you are merely a woman he will forget to remember.
âAgain,â the tutor murmurs, and your voice joins the others. You shape the courtâs favoured melodies as if they were delicate bowls you might chip with breath. The jade lady makes small approving sounds. Your throat aches with politeness.
The day unrolls in its appointed knots. Etiquette, posture, embroidery. âSmile without teeth,â the jade lady says.
When they release you for air, you go hunting for a piece of sky; the inner garden offers a rectangle of it. Pines lift their hands in permanent prayer; carp idle like old men beneath lily pads; a stone lantern wears its moss as if it had grown it deliberately. You sit at the edge of the path and tell yourself you are resting. What you are doing, in fact, is listening.
There: the steady presence, a few steps behind, as if he, too, were a lantern given legs. You refuse to look. A silence you cannot stomach makes your jaw knot. Finally, you say, without turning, âIs there a crime in my steps I have not been told?â
He responds. âNone that I have seen.â
You look then. He stands under the eaves, his robe disciplined into lines your fingers would refuse to follow. You hate, abruptly, the way the palace makes people into statues and then blames them for being stone.
âThen why are you there?â you ask. The words fall hard. His expression does not change. âI am assigned.â
âAssigned,â you repeat, tasting the letters. âLike a guard to a doorway. Am I a doorway now?â
He looks at your eyes because to avoid them would be to concede shame. âYou are under the palaceâs protection.â
âProtection,â you scoff. âCall it what it is.â
There is a flicker in him so small you would miss it if you were not the sort of person who has taught herself to live on the crumbs of honesty. The flicker is not gloating. It is not apology. It is something more troubling: understanding.
âIf you prefer another word,â he says, âI will use it in my head.â You laugh, a single chortle of sound. âUse it in your orders instead.â
He does not defend himself. He does not say the obvious thingâthat orders do not consent to be rewritten by the mouths of those who receive them. He inclines his head, the gesture so perfectly measured it angers you anew.
You stand, unable to bear his stillness. âOf course,â you say, the words sharp enough to cut. âWhy should I expect otherwise? A prince is a princeâtrained to keep his mask still, to hold himself above the rest of us.â
Mingyu does not flinch. His hands remain easy at his sides. Where the Crown Prince had seemed untouchable, distant in the way thunder is distant even when it shakes the ground, Mingyu chooses another kind of distance: a refusal to give you the satisfaction of breaking his calm. His silence offers you nothing to strike against, and that denial stings worse than open disdain.
âSay something,â you snap, before you can stop yourself. âDefend him. Defend yourself.â
âWhat would satisfy you?â
The question is not a challenge; it is a bench offered to a woman too tired to stand. You refuse to sit. âTruth. At least once, in this palace built of lacquer and lies.â
âTruth is a guest here,â he says quietly. âWe are asked to feed it but not to let it sleep.â You make a sound that resembles amusement if only you were feeling giddy. âYou speak like a book that learned despair.â
âBooks do not despair,â he replies. âPeople do. Books keep them from drowning.â
The conversation has gone off the rails that were meant to keep you safe. You cannot bear it. You bow a fractionâa mockery of courtesyâand leave him beneath the eaves.
Back in the womenâs hall, the jade ladyâs scent arrives before she does.
âYou should not address the Daegun unless he speaks first,â she murmurs. âIt is⊠unbecoming.â
âWhat does it become?â you ask.
Her smile is perfectly polished. âTrouble.â
That afternoon, you see the Crown Prince once. He does not look your way. In that neglect, there is a relief you hate yourself for needing.
All the while, the other prince is there. You keep your eyes on the floor, or the bowl, or the seam you are stitching into a flower. Still, you feel him like a shadow.
On the second evening, you slip through a side door you tracked earlier, the one that opens onto a narrow court where the stars shine more brightly. The stone is cool beneath your soles; the air carries a thread of sandalwood. You lean against the red wall and let your skull press into the wood. One, two, threeâyour heart counts itself.
âYou should not be here,â says a voice.
You open your eyes and do not turn. âI have learned the rules. I am trying to meet them halfway.â Mingyu steps into your peripheral vision. He keeps his distance, that faithful dog. âHalfway,â he repeats. âThe palace prefers obedience that is given fully.â
âAnd yet you are here.â
A pause. âI am the exception that proves the cruelty.â
âYou mean the rule.â
âRules are cruel,â he says.
You close your eyes because exhaustion is a tide and you are tired of building sandcastles in its path. âThen let me break one.â Silence, then. You expect the lecture. You expect a hand on your arm. Neither comes.
âFive minutes,â he says instead, so softly the wind drifts the words away. âThen return by the long corridor, not the near, and if you pass the Red Pavilion, walk like a woman who has a good reason.â
You turn despite yourself. âWhat reason is good enough to be me?â
âAlmost any reason, if you walk as if it were yours.â
A humourless smile lifts the corners of your mouth. âIs that how you live here?â He does not answer, which is answer enough.
You look away, toward the slice of sky, taking in the ragged clouds. Your five minutes feel like stolen grain: small, coarse, sustaining. For them, you are grateful, and gratitude makes you disloyal to your anger. You hate that.
On the third morning, you decide, as you tie the last ribbon on your robe, that you will ignore him. You will make him into furniture, a column to be circled. You will not give the palace the theatre of your agitation. You step outside with your head the proper angle above humility.
You last until midday.
In the practice court, the women rehearse bowsâsuch useful rehearsal, bowing to the space where a man might be. Your back complains; your knees recite their chagrin. After an hour, your temper flexes and demands air. The jade lady raises an eyebrow. You bow once more and step away.
A boy is sweeping the far colonnade, the broom pushing dust over stone. Beyond him: a red painted gate. You walk toward it, not because you intend to crossâfor that would be stupid, and you are done being stupidâbut because you want to see the world framed by another red than the pavilion.
You make it halfway when the air announces his presence.
âDo you plan to test the guards?â he asks calmly.
âDo you plan to leash me in the courtyard?â
âIf I intended to leash you,â he says, âyou would not be this close to the gate.â
You stop. The gate is a portal. Beyond it, you imagine streets that do not end in doors guarded by men. Your throat tightens. âThen let me stand here and pretend I have legs.â
You hear him exhale. âPretend is often the first draft of freedom.â
âAnd the last,â you say.
Another silence. The palace is full of them; you are beginning to distinguish their idioms. This one says: I understand, and I refuse to help you destroy yourself while proving it. Anger rises again because it is easier than grief. You pivot and step toward him. âAsk me to be quiet. Give me a rule I can hate.â
âNo,â he says, which is not what you expected. âI will not teach you to hate the wrong thing.â You flinch. You do not ask what the right thing is. You are afraid he will name it, and you will be forced to admit you already knew.
That eveningâthe thirdâbrings you a third glimpse of the Crown Prince you receive in these first days. He crosses a veranda diagonally to your antechamber, attendants flocking around him. You bow because there is a floor. He passes without a glance downwards.
You straighten slowly. Your neck feels older by a year.
Later, in your small room, you sit on the edge of the bed and inventory your chains. Costumes. Rules. The shape of corridors. The jade lady. The Prince you barely see. And the otherâthis quiet sentinel whose presence drags on your mood. You add them up and arrive at a number too large for your throat.
You shake the thought away.
Somewhere in the corridor, a step pausesâMingyuâs, you are sure of itâand then moves on without claiming your sleep.
You do not thank him. But, for the length of one breath, you admit that the chain he is may not be the chain you thought. Then you bury the admission and dream of a road that does not end in gates.
The summons arrives at dusk.
The Crown Prince has returned from council, his steps louder than usual, his attendants hurrying to keep up. There is a tightness in his jaw, and when he lowers himself onto the raised platform of his chamber, the silence about him is as sharp as unsheathed steel.
Mingyu is waiting. He has learned to be near whenever the council ends, because the aftertaste of politics is unpredictableâsometimes his brother will drink it down with ease, sometimes it will sour his temper so quickly the servants tremble before the wine is poured. Tonight it is the latter.
âSend for the new girl,â the Crown Prince says abruptly, his voice clipped. âIf I must endure poison in daylight, I will have balm at night.â
The attendants bow and prepare to obey. Mingyu feels his body stiffen before his mind has caught up. The words are ordinary, the command no different from others his brother has given. And yet, dread lands in him. He cannot name why, only that the image rises unbidden: you walking into this chamber, forced to kneel, your defiance curling useless against the weight of his brotherâs ennui.
It is not the act itself that sickens him. He has seen such summons before. He has learned to silence the disquiet they bring. But tonight, the thought of you as a concubine, stripped of your unyielding chin and bitter wit, feels unbearable.
He steadies his breath and steps forward.
âHyungnim.â
The Crown Prince glances at him, irritation already sparking. âWhat is it?â Mingyu bows, not too deep. A second sonâs bow must always hover between humility and presence. âThe new girl has been⊠unwell.â His brother narrows his eyes. âUnwell?â
âYes.â Mingyu keeps his voice flat, factual. âThe matrons reported fever after the lessons. They were concerned the timing was ill-omened.â
The Crown Prince scoffs. âIll-omened? Since when do I heed the gossip of old women?â
âSince the Queen herself placed weight on such signs,â Mingyu answers smoothly. âIf the new girl enters your chamber under sickness or omen, tongues will wag. Some will call it an insult to your dignity. Others will say the heavens frown upon it.â
The words are a gamble, but he has learned how to shape them like dice weighted to his favour. He watches his brotherâs face for the small flicker of hesitation.
âYou speak as if you are my keeper,â the Crown Prince says at last, voice cold. Mingyu bows his head again. âI speak as your brother.â The silence that follows is thin and dangerous. Mingyu holds it without blinking. Finally, the Crown Prince exhales, long and sharp. âVery well. If she is weak, I will not waste my night. Choose another.â
The attendants bow deeper, grateful for the decision that spares them from carrying out a command turned sour. A name is whispered, a different girlâs fate sealed for the evening. Mingyu steps back, his pulse loud enough that he fears it may be heard.
He leaves the chamber without haste, though every part of him aches to run. He closes his eyes for the briefest moment, steadying the lie he has set loose.
When he opens them again, he knows where to go.
You are in the womenâs hall, seated apart from the others. Their laughter runs carefully and rehearsed. Yours does not join. Instead, your fingers play with the hem of your robe. Mingyu takes a place near the column and watches, content to let you believe the night is simply another night without summons.
The other concubines, however, notice.
A girl with glossy hair leans close to you, her smile sugared. âStrange, is it not? The Prince usually favours the newest among us first. Perhaps you do not please the stars.â
Another laughs softly into her palm. âOr perhaps he is merciful. Some would envy your reprieve.â A third tilts her head, voice dripping pity. âBut what is a concubine without summons? A vase that is never filled with flowers. Decorative⊠but unnecessary.â
They scatter their words like petalsâpretty, fragrant, hiding thorns.
Mingyu watches you lift your chin, watches your eyes gleam. âThen I am fortunate,â you answer evenly. âAn unnecessary vase does not crack under use.â The women titter, feigning admiration at your sharpness. But when their laughter dies, they exchange glances that do not mask their contempt.
Mingyu sees your hand tighten on your robe. Outwardly, you are untouchable. But when you look away, he sees it: the flicker of doubt you cannot quite swallow.
When the others go to their quarters, he hears your whisper to yourself. âIf I am not summoned, then why am I here?â
You laugh, quiet and bitter, and shake your head to yourself.
One of the concubines pauses at the doorway, just long enough to murmur: âPerhaps you were meant only as ornament.â Then she drifts away, her silks floating behind her.
Mingyu lets the silence absorb the insult, though it burns in him. If only you knew. If only you knew that your bitterness is built on the scaffolding of his deceit, that the reason you sit untouched is because he has painted you with sickness, with omen, with danger. That he has risked his brotherâs anger to keep you free for one more night.
But he cannot tell you. If he does, you will see the chain for what it is, and chains are never forgiven, even when they save. So he remains silent, watching as you rise and leave the hall too, your shadow long against the paper screen.
In the courtyard, he finds you alone. You stand with your hands clasped behind you, staring at the pond.
He does not mean to speak, but the words slip out. âWhy do you laugh if it wounds you?â You turn, startled, your eyes narrowing. âWhat does it matter to you?â
He shrugs, though his heartstrings are pulled taut. âLaughter should be a blade you choose, not one that cuts you in passing.â
Your mouth twists. âSpare me philosophy, Your Highness. If you shadow me to measure my obedience, then write your report and be done.â
âI was not ordered to report,â he says quietly. That silences you for a moment. The pond ripples. Finally, you look back at the water. âThen perhaps you are simply bored.â
He lets you think it. Better bored than revealed. Better unwanted than a secret saviour you would resent. You sigh, and the sound is heavy in the silence. âAt least he does not call for me. That is something.â
Mingyu feels the words strike. They are gratitude directed at the wrong man. He clenches his hands behind his back until the ache steadies him. âYes,â he answers. âThat is something.â
You do not see the way his throat tightens. You do not see the storm gathering inside him. You only see a prince who refuses to step closer, who lets the night close around you.
When he returns to his own quarters, the storm breaks within him. He sits at the low table and stares at his hands. They are steady, capable hands, hands that have strung bows and carried swords, hands that have obeyed orders all his life. And tonight they lied. Tonight they shielded. Tonight, they proved themselves useful in a way no one will ever know.
He thinks of you, laughing at your own undesirability, and feels a strange furyâat his father, at his brother, at the palace itself, at the fact that you, who burns brighter in defiance than any of the silken women who bow too easily, should sit alone and believe yourself unwanted.
For now, he chooses silence. For now, he lets you believe you are overlooked. For now, that lie is mercy.
The banquet hall is a world unto itself.
Lanterns hang from gilded beams, their light spilling over rows of tables set low to the ground. Musicians sit at the far end of the chamber, plucking zithers and striking drums in patterns meant to please, though the sound is mostly drowned by laughter and polite cruelty.
You sit among the concubines. Silk hems brush against yours, and hairpins glint sharply when the women turn their heads. They lean toward each other, their laughter subdued yet barbed, a constant stream of comparisons and insinuations.
âHis Highness smiled today.â
âAt you? Surely not.â
âHe preferred the song, not the singer.â
âStill, a smile counts as a favour.â
The words fall on deaf ears with you as you keep your eyes on your cup. The plum wine burns your throat when you swallow, but at least it reminds you that you are alive.
Before you, the table groans under a feast lavish enough to shame hunger itself. Whole gilt-skinned pheasants glazed in honey, their wings tucked neatly. Towers of jeonâegg-battered pancakes layered with fish, zucchini, and lotus root. Porcelain bowls of steaming rice, flanked by soups fragrant with beef bone and ginseng. Platters of yakgwa and honeyed persimmons glisten beside trays of nine delicaciesâgujeolpanâarranged like a painterâs palette, each sliver of meat and vegetable awaiting thin crepes to wrap them. Even the humble kimchi is dressed in elegance: baek-kimchi, pale and delicate, perfumed with pear and chestnut.
You taste little of it.
At the head of the chamber, the Crown Prince sits beside his wife. She is resplendent in white, her posture a picture of perfection, every gesture a performance of control. He leans toward her often, speaking in tones too low for others to hear, his attention a gift he only grants her. When he turns from her, it is only to acknowledge another concubine who has positioned herself artfully in his line of sight.
Not once does his gaze find you.
You tell yourself this is mercy. That his neglect is protection, a shield you did not earn but will take all the same. And yetâsomething in you knots with each moment of dismissal. A murmur rises near your elbow. A concubine in pale lavender tilts her head toward you, her smile syrup-sweet. âThe Prince must not favour wildflowers. He seems to prefer blossoms already trained to bloom.â Another, her lips lacquered in the deepest red, chuckles. âOr perhaps our new sister is too shy to catch his eye. Shyness can be charmingâif it doesnât fade into invisibility.â
You shape your mouth into a smile and say nothing. To answer would be to prove them right.
The Queen sits further down the hall, her expression unreadable, the weight of her presence pressing. Her gaze slides across the rows of concubines and lingers only briefly, as though she is tallying currency. When her eyes pass over you, they do not pause. You are counted but not considered. The heat in the room builds, oppressive, the smoke of braziers and roasted meats heavy in your lungs. You shift, longing for air. Your gaze drifts against your will.
And finds his.
Mingyu sits on the opposite side of the chamber, slightly apart. His robe is as dignified as ever, but the space around him is barren. No wife at his side, no concubines clustered near to curry favour. Even the servants approach him more cautiously, as though wary of the silence that clings to him. He eats sparinglyâjust a spoonful of clear beef broth, a bite of rice, a morsel of grilled fishâhis movements deliberate, careful not to demand notice.
Like you, he is a shadow in a hall of lanterns.
But unlike the othersâwho do not see you, who refuse to see himâhis eyes do not pass over. They linger. Not boldly, not enough to draw whispers. Just long enough to remind you what it feels like to exist in someone elseâs sight.
And it terrifies you.
Because in that gaze there is no dismissal, no condescension. There is recognition. The kind that threatens to undo you, to unravel the careful armour you have been weaving since the day your father sold you into your newly designed fate. You tear your eyes away and fix them on the untouched platter before you, where honey-glazed chestnuts gleam. But the knowledge remains, thrumming beneath your ribs: you are seen.
The music swells, the courtiers toast, and the Crown Prince leans back in his seat. His gaze shifts across the hall, then lands on Mingyu. âYou are quiet, brother,â he remarks, loud enough for the nearby guests to hear. âDo you not find the feast to your liking?â
Mingyu bends his head, his voice steady but soft. âThe food is well prepared. I have eaten.â A thin smile curls on the Crown Princeâs lips, one without warmth. âAlways measured. Even at a banquet, you train yourself for restraint.â
âRestraint keeps the blade sharp,â Mingyu answers. The air stills. Before the Crown Prince can reply, the Queen speaks from her place, her voice calm but weighted. âSons should not quarrel where wine is poured. The court looks to you both for harmony.â
Mingyu bows slightly in acknowledgement, while the Crown Prince raises his cup and drains it. The musicians play on, their notes sharper than before.
You find yourself staringâunable to look away from the tension strung tight between the two men. Brothers, yet each word between them feels like a weight laid on a scale, one shift away from imbalance. You risk another glance towards Mingyu. He has turned back to his plate. Yet, you know that he had been watching, and that he will again.
You hate him for it. You hate yourself more for the comfort it brings.
When the banquet finally ends, you walk in silence, your chin lifted. You are unseen by the Prince. You are ignored by the Queen. But in the corner of your vision, you still feel the weight of eyes that refuse to erase you.
And you do not know whether that is salvation or another chain.
The palace does not celebrate as the city does.
Within the walls, the Lantern Festival is a rehearsal, not a revelry. Lanterns line the garden paths in rigid order: lotuses, dragons, scrolls, all painted with approved verses, each tassel cut to an identical length. The Queen parades among them at dusk, the Crown Prince and his wife close behind, courtiers bowing on cue. Every flame burns at the same height, every reflection in the ponds lies flat as if too afraid to ripple.
Beyond the walls, joy ignores rulers and lines. Lanterns bloom where hands can reach and where they cannotâdangling off eaves, clustered along alleys, bobbing from poles hoisted by laughing boys, drifting out on the river. The air fills with voices that do not wait for permission to be heard.
Mingyu knows this difference in his bones. He learned it as a boy when the Queenâs carriage rattled past a street fair and he pressed his forehead to the lattice, trying to draw the colour through the wood. That ache returns tonight, the moment he sees you angle toward the southern gate.
He steps from the shadow before you lay your hand on the latch. âThe southern path is watched,â he says, not unkindly. You halt as if his words bit you. âThen I will test their eyes.â
âAnd be seen,â he answers. âBeing seen is the only crime that never requires proof.â You donât back away. You tip your chin, daring him to make you relent. âYou spend your days shadowing me, and your nights telling me where I may place my feet. Is there anything not owned by your rules?â
He could tell you the truth: that this is the shape of protection in a place that carries wrath inside compliments. He doesnât. Instead, he reaches past you and lifts a different latchâthe one hidden behind stacked cords of woodâand opens it into a slit of dark.
âThis way,â he murmurs.
You study him as if this might be another trick. The lanterns outside the wall wobble with a breeze and paint your cheek in strokes of gold. Then you nod once, quick and fierce, and slip through.
The passage smells damp. Slits in the stone catch light from above and spill it in thin bars across the floor. You say nothing. He counts your steps and notices how your hands hover at your sides, unsure whether to grip your robe or let it swing. You catch on a loose stone, stumble, and right yourself. He stops his hand before it can reach you. Touch is not a language heâs allowed to use.
At the end waits a low door hidden behind stacked kindling. Mingyu pushes it open, and the city rushes in.
Lanterns. Hundreds. The first of them close enough to warm your face, the farthest making a trail to the river. A vendor passes with skewers of grilled mackerel, the skin blistered and salt-flecked; a girl runs with a rabbit-shaped lantern; a monk moves among the crowd with a wooden clapper. A man balances a bamboo pole across his shouldersâthe pole hung with paper fish that jostle like live onesâshouting âFresh rice cakes! Hot!â while steam escapes a clay pot at his hip.
You stay still, taking everything in. Itâs as if your whole body has turned into listening. Then your mouth remembers how to smile, and the surprise of it hits him hard, sharp and sudden.
Mingyu thought he knew the shapes you could takeâangry, proud, sharp-tongued, or silent. But not this: eyes widening at an ink-seller painting blessings onto fans, feet carrying you closer to a string of bird-shaped lanterns until their painted claws almost catch your hair, breath slipping out freely, as though youâve just remembered the world might still hold places where you arenât punished for being alive.
You turn your head toward a candied haw stall. Red hawthorns gleam under lacquered sugar, skewered three to a stick. The vendorâs smiles. âPrincess,â he croons to no one in particular, âmake a sweet night sweeter.â
Mingyu steps forward with coins before you can decline. He pays too much, and when the vendor tries to offer change, Mingyu only shakes his head. It isnât generosity; itâs habitânever linger long enough at a stall to be remembered.
He hands you the skewer. âTry,â he says, his voice careful. You part your lips and bite. The sugar shell cracks, giving way to the tart fruit beneath. Your eyes widen, then brighten, and an unguarded laugh escapes you. You lift the skewer in mock defence. âIt bites back.â
âGood things often do,â he answers.
You take another bite, and he watches youâridiculously, helplesslyâas your mouth wrestles with sweetness and sharpness all at once. The sight leaves him aching. He despises himself a little for the hunger it stirs, a hunger that isnât for food. He tells himself this is simply what it means to be alive, to have eyes and a heart that refuses to stay asleep.
A drum troupe takes one end of the square. Their leader, bare-armed and grinning, raises his stick; the others follow. The rhythm starts. You step closer to the ring of watchers, your shoulder near his sleeve, and for a moment, he lets the crowdâs jostle decide the distance between you.
âI thought the palace had drums,â you say. âIt does,â he answers. âThey behave.â That earns him a side glance, lit with something almost like mischief. âThese do not.â
âNo,â he agrees. âAnd theyâre better for it.â
He buys sweet rice cakes from the man with the clay pot because you look at them too long, and because he wants to know what else makes you laugh. The rice is hot enough to push heat through the crack in the paper; you juggle it between your fingers and hiss through your teeth, then break it open. He does not note the way the sesameâhoney paste glistens. He is busy pretending he does not want to lick the sweetness from the crease of your knuckle.
You move through the crowd like a leaf finally choosing its current. A puppet show gathers a knot of children, and you pause, kneeling briefly behind them. The puppetâa fox with a paint-chipped grinâsnatches a paper coin from a farmer, only to return it with exaggerated shame when the farmerâs baby begins to cry. The children shriek forgiveness, as children always do.
You donât join them. Your mouth shifts, folding then unfolding, caught between mockery and something sadder. Mingyu canât tell which it is, so he looks at the puppet instead of your face, giving you the dignity of privacy.
As you rise, he asks quietly, âWhat would you buy if you had a coin?â âA door,â you answer without hesitation. Then, hearing the weight of your own reply, you soften it. âAnd a pair of shoes that donât squeak when I try to be quiet.â
âYou donât squeak,â he says. You shoot him a look that hovers between humour and defence, a shield masquerading as jest.
The festival draws you onward. Mingyu shows you where the older women sit with lacquer boxes, their tiny brushes painting lantern skins with careful symbolsâcranes for longevity, carp for perseverance, plum blossoms for endurance in winter. You linger near the stall, eyes moving over the painted lanterns without reaching for one. An auntie with walnut-brown hair pats the space beside her. âCome,â she beckons, as though you were a niece overdue for a visit. âA word for your light.â
You shake your head once. âI donât ask for favours anymore.â The woman only tsks and dips her brush into ink. âThen call it advice, not favour.â She picks a lantern the colour of milky tea, draws a single bold character across its centre, and blows gently until the shine fades into matte. Holding it out to you, she lifts her brows. âTake it. You have a face that argues with the dark.â
You glance at Mingyu. He feels the pull of two instinctsâone to nod, one to shake his head. He chooses the first. You accept the lantern. Your thumb finds the edge of the brushstroke and lingers there, as though touch might soften meaning.
âWhat does it mean?â you ask. âêČŹ,â the woman answers. âSteadfast.â The word makes you almost flinch. âCruel word.â
âTrue word,â the woman replies. âYou can hate it later. Tonight, carry it.â
You carry it. You let Mingyu tie the thin cord around your wristânot a tether, just a way to keep from dropping what glows. His fingertips graze your pulse.
Later, a boy with a brush and a pot of ink calls, âWish-scrolls! Hang your wish!â A rope has been strung between two posts, bowed by slips of paper: I want a brother back from the war; I want a mother to live to see spring; I want to be tall; I want to marry the one who laughs like rain. You stop in front of them and read quickly. You nearly reach for the brush. You pull your hand back as if burned.
âNo wish?â Mingyu asks gently. âI have had enough of wishes not being granted,â you say. âWhat about curses?â he offers, and your head snaps toward him, astonished. He shrugs. âInk doesnât only make blessings.â You smile. âI wouldnât waste a curse on paper.â
He is supposed to be clever. He cannot find a clever way to say I would defend you from any god you wrote to that would not ruin the night, so he says nothing.
The river calls next. People kneel at its edge, the mud sucking quietly at their knees, and place small, floating lanterns onto the ink-dark surface of the water. You stand just behind the line of kneeling backs and hold your rented light a little higher, as if it could guide ships. He stands at your shoulder, slightly back, so he will not be the first thing you feel if you step into the notion of turning.
You say, almost to yourself, âIf I put one out there, the river brings it to the sea, and the sea brings it to larger things, and somewhere it burns unseen and is still flame.â
âYes,â he says. The answer seems insufficient. He tries again. âSome lights are only themselves by leaving.â
âAre you trying to teach me philosophy again?â
âI am trying to agree with you,â he says, and you huff a giggle. A girl of seven drags her grandmother toward you. âAjumeoni,â she says to you without shyness, âyour lantern has a strong word.â She points. âDoes it work?â You crouch to eye level, the silk of your robe dragging over the mud. âOnly if I carry it.â The girl thinks very hard about this answer and then nods with gravity. âGood.â She looks at Mingyu then, very seriously. âAjusshi, your face looks like you forget to sleep. You should sleep.â Mingyu bows to her solemnly. âYes.â
You laugh, and for a second, he feels foolish and young. It is not a sensation he despises.
The crowd thins near a shrine built where the river narrows. In the shrine courtyard, a man plays a reed flute poorly, and his wife looks at him as if talent had nothing to do with staying.
You drift toward the courtyardâs edge. He stops choosing to watch the crowd and chooses to watch you. You feel it. You turn. The lantern hangs between you, swinging once, twice.
âWhy?â you ask, and the question returns. âWhy this?â You do not name what this isâcity, night, you and him standing in a shrinking pocket of unattended space.
âBecause the walls were swallowing you,â he says. âBecause I have desired to do something right and small for so long that I forgot right can be small.â You search his face. âAnd what do you want in return?â
âNothing,â he says, because the right answer is nothing. The wrong answer is everything. âOnly for you to breathe.â
âI do not owe you breath,â you tell him. âI know,â he responds.
You stand with that, weighing it, and he can almost hear the balance creak. A breeze lifts the ribbon on your lantern, brushing your wrist. Far behind you, someone drops a tray, porcelain shattering into astonished silence, then noise. The world makes space, accidentally or by mercy.
He raises a hand. He makes it slow enough so it can be refused without pain. You do not refuse. His knuckles skim your cheekbone. The skin is warmer than night but cooler than his palm; he did not know that would matter until this second. Your breath hitchesânot in fear. He is practised enough at fear to recognise when it isnât in the room.
Mingyu kisses you.
He is not a boy. He knows the difference between wanting and rushing. So he does not press. He offers. Your lips are soft, but they do not yield; you meet him as an equal, not as someone conquered. His hand steadies along your jaw, anchoring you both. Somewhere in the distance, a child laughs, a dog barks, the river stirsâbut none of it touches the space he shares with you.
You lean toward him, though it feels less like surrender and more like a choice. Your lips part, and he tastes the memory of sugar, the tart ghost of hawthorn, and something nameless he knows will haunt him long after tonight. He closes his eyes, not to deepen the kiss but to honour it. Above, the lantern swings once, its glow circling your joined shadows.
When he pulls back, it is only slightlyâjust enough to breathe. Your faces remain close, your exhales tangled, the air between you charged. Any closer, and restraint would break. Any further, and the moment would be denied. He holds the fragile middle ground.
You whisper: âWhy?â The question is the same as before, but now it asks something deeperâwhat of him answered in this act.
âBecause I could not bear not to,â he replies. The words feel reckless even as he knows they are the only true ones he has. You look down at the lantern tied to your wrist. The brush character pulses. êČŹ. Steadfast. The auntie declared a wish when you refused to make one.
He wants to speak; he will not. It is your turn to decide if the night broke you or mended something. You lift your gaze again, meet his with an expression he has never been given: allowance, not surrender.
âDo not ruin it,â you murmur. âI am already trying not to,â he answers, and finds the truth is bitter and redemptive both.
He kissed you in a city whose gossip moves faster than lanterns. He led you through a passage no one should know he knows. He set himself not only against the Kingâs notion of usefulness but the wifeâs notion of comfort and the Crown Princeâs sense of ownership. He taught his mouth a habit that his duties cannot forgive.
And worst: he gave the night a version of you that the palace will want to erase if it learns of it.
âWe should go back,â he says, very low. You nod without saying why now. He is startled by your acceptance. He admires it. He hates the necessity that demanded it. He guides you through streets beginning to empty of their brightness. Vendors stack away their product; a drunk sings a war ballad with the wrong words in the right places; two boys quarrel over who gets to carry the last lantern home.
The hidden door opens quietly. You duck through first; Mingyu follows, and the passage closes the world behind you. The silence lingers between you until you reach the cooler air of the womenâs quarters. Then he stops. You stop too.
âIf there is a summons tonight,â he says, âit will not be for you.â You look up sharply. âHave youââ
âNo,â he interrupts, lying. âI only think the Crown Prince has grown tired of pageantry.â It is a poor excuse, and he knows you hear it. Quickly, he adds, âI will be near.â
Your mouth almost curves into a smile, but then it fades. âIf I am not summoned, and not free⊠what am I?â The word Mine rises in his throat, reckless and unwise. He swallows it and says instead, âYou are the one who tied a lantern to her wrist, called it cruel, and carried it anyway.â
You blink at him, startled. âThat sounds like a curse.â
âIt is admiration,â he answers.
You study him for a quiet moment. At last, you nod and turn away, your lantern flickering in the draft before catching the light again.
He remains very still until your shadow has vanished from the corridor. Only then does he move.
At his brazier, he goes through familiar motionsâcharcoal, waterâyet none of it soothes him. The kiss returns again and again, burning brighter than the lanterns he saw. It should make him feel alive, and it does. But with it comes the sharp weight of consequence.
He knows what he has risked: his brotherâs suspicion, his fatherâs judgment, the palaceâs cruel appetite for disobedience. More than that, he knows he has crossed a line he cannot uncross. Not because of the kiss alone, but because it was a beginning.
He sits in silence, tasting both sweetness and dread, and understands what he has done is reckless. He knows it may cost more than he can pay. Yet he also knows he would not take it back.
He has made his mistake. He has made his vow. The night can keep both.
The morning after the festival, the concubines are speaking.
Every corridor carries their voices, thin threads of sound that dare not rise above a murmur. Behind painted screens, in the shade of pavilions, between the sweep of silk sleeves. Their language is not the bluntness of commands, but the slanted cruelty of whispers.
âShe was gone during the festival.â
âUngrateful girl. Others would give their life for a glimpse beyond the walls, and she hides.â
âPerhaps she thought herself too fine to join the procession.â
âOr perhaps she hoped to be missed, to test His Highnessâs patience.â
The words float, impossible to wave away. You keep your face still, your steps measured, but each sentence presses closer, like fingers at your throat.
By the lotus pond, two concubines lean together, their fans raised in mock secrecy. âShe plays at being invisible. It will not last. The Crown Prince grows weary quickly.â
âDo you think he will cast her out?â
âIf he doesnât, the Queenâs patience will.â
Your hands clench in your sleeves. You do not stop to give them the satisfaction of your presence. Still, their laughter follows.
That night, sleep evades you. The paper walls are too thin, the silence between candle flickers too loud. Every sound in the hall becomes a herald of doom: a eunuchâs cough, the shuffle of feet, the hollow clap of doors. You lie rigid on your mat, braced for the inevitable summons that never comes.
By dawn, the hearsay has multiplied. You hear it whispered in the garden as you passâhow you feigned illness, how you refused your duty, how the Crown Prince has already tired of you. Each comment wears a different robe, but all of them bear the same face: your ruin.
And then, as suddenly as they rose, the whispers falter.
The Jade Lady speaks.
Her words move fast, carrying to every corridor, every mouth: âThe girl was unwell. A fainting spell during the procession. His Highness himself ordered her to rest.â
Shock sweeps through the harem. âUnwell? I saw her walking.â
âThe Jade Lady never lies. If she says the Prince excused herââ
âThen it must be so.â
The whispers still, but you know better.
The Crown Prince has never spared you more than a flick of his gaze. He would not excuse your absence. The Jade Lady would not bend her tongue for your sake.
There is only one name the lie can belong to.
Mingyu.
The memory of him at the festivalâthe brush of his hand as he tied the lantern cord around your wrist, the taste of hawthorn still clinging to your lips, the kiss stolen under swaying lightâreturns with a sharpness you were not prepared for. He has shielded you. Not once, but twice.
The question seethes inside you until it burns. You cannot keep still.
You find him at dusk.
The palace is quieting, servants retreating, the courtyards heavy with the scent of pine smoke. He stands at the edge of the training grounds, back straight, hands folded behind him, his figure cut against the orange bleed of the sinking sun. He looks as though he belongs to another world entirelyâuntouchable, distant, carved from the very walls that cage you both.
Still, you step forward.
âIt was you,â you say, your voice sharper than you intended.
He does not turn. âWhat was me?â
âThe Jade Ladyâs words. The alibi. You gave her the lie that saved me.â
At that, he glances over his shoulder, his expression infuriatingly calm. âIf you already believe so, why ask?â
Your nails bite into your palms as you clench your hands. âBecause I need to hear you say it.â
He exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh. âNeed?â he echoes. âOr want?â
You falter, heat prickling at your cheeks. âWhat difference does it make?â
His gaze sharpens, though his tone remains steady. âEnough of one.â
The air thickens between you. You take another step closer. âWhy? Why protect me? You could have left me to their teeth. You should have.â
His jaw tightens, the smallest crack in his composure. He looks away, toward the distant roofs gilded by the last of the sun. For a long time, he says nothing. Then:
âBecause they are already waiting for you to fall. I will not help them push.â
Your breath stutters.
Anger, confusion, and something far more dangerous twist inside you. His words are not a vow, not a declarationâjust a simple refusal. And yet, the ground beneath you feels altered, unsteady.
You search his face. âIs that all?â
He holds your gaze. âDoes there need to be more?â
You swallow hard. The memory of his mouth on yours re-ignites in your chest. You want to strike him. You want to thank him. You want to demand the truth he is keeping behind his silence.
Your voice trembles despite yourself. âI donât understand you.â
A faint curve touches his lips. âThen you understand me perfectly.â
The words sting, though not in the way you expect. You take a half step back. Gratitude wars with suspicion, longing with rage. You are a woman made of contradictions, and he is the fire that keeps them alive.
You turn before the tears gathering at your lashes can betray you.
Behind you, his voice reaches softly, barely more than a whisper in the air. âDo not thank me. Gratitude is a weight I never asked you to carry.â
You pause, your back still to him. A hundred words rise to your tongue, none willing to be spoken.
So you walk away, your footsteps too quick, your heartbeat too loud.
That night, you lie awake once more, but the silence is different. The whispers have died; no one speaks of you now. The palace has moved on to a new target, a new cruelty.
But the echo of his words clings to you.
I will not help them push.
You turn onto your side, fists pressed against your lips, the memory of lantern light and the taste of candied hawthorn flooding your senses until you cannot tell if you are burning or drowning.
Mingyu has placed himself between you and ruin. And you do not know whether to hate him for itâor to let yourself breathe in the space he has carved.
You have always liked the rain.
Even as a child, when the roof leaked and the floor grew slick, you would press your face against the open window and breathe in. Rain was honest. It did not flatter or deceive. It did not whisper behind doors or weigh you against your neighbours. It simply fellâon tiled roofs and thatched ones, on fields rich and poor, on children who danced barefoot until their mothers dragged them inside.
The palace does not welcome it. Here, rain is a nuisance: courtyards flooded, silks ruined, servants scolded for letting water sneak past the eaves. But for you, rain is a reprieve. It blurs the sharp corners of your cage, muffles the laughter of concubines, washes clean the air that so often smells of resin and incense.
So when the storm breaks, you do not run from it. You walk into the garden and let yourself be drenched. The silk clings, heavy, but you lift your face and open your mouth to the night. The water tastes like memory, like hills you once climbed and roads you once promised yourself to follow. For the first time in weeks, you feel as if the world belongs to you again.
âYou will make yourself ill.â
Mingyuâs voice has learned how to arrive without scaring you. You open your eyes and find him: the fringe of his hair pasted to his brow, robe heavy with water. He looks taller in the rain, or perhaps it is only that heâs closer than the palace permits.
âLeave,â you say. âThis is my storm.â
He steps into your rain as if youâve told him the opposite. He unclasps his cloak, shakes it once, and settles it across your shoulders. The wool holds the dayâs heat and, absurdly, the faint scent of pine smoke. The weight drags you back into a body you had almost let the rain carry away.
He touches your sleeve, and you let him guide you toward the pavilion at the gardenâs edge.
The pavilion is small and open; you sit with your back to a beam worn smooth by generations. Mingyu lowers onto the bench beside you and says nothing. The cloak anchors your shoulders. Water threads off the roof and splits into droplets before hitting the ground. The world shrinks to the square of floor you share.
âWhy are you here?â you ask, keeping your eyes on the watery curtain. âTruly.â
âBecause you are,â he answers.
You let out a breath. âYou keep saying that as if itâs a reason.â
âSometimes reason is only that simple.â
You pull the cloak tighter and stare past the rain at the dark shape of the apricot tree, leaves shaking. âI cannot trust you.â
âI know.â
âYou are the palace.â
âI was born in it.â He considers. âIt was not my choice.â
âNone of this is,â you say, and you hate how fragile your voice sounds.
He doesnât reach for your hand, doesnât move closer, doesnât pushâonly waits with you. The waiting loosens something inside you. Words rise, and this time you donât silence them.
âWhen I was little, there was an apricot tree just beyond the paddies,â you say, tilting your chin toward the dark shape beyond the pavilion. âThe fruit wasnât ours. The tree leaned into the path, the way generous things do. In spring, the petals would fall like late snow. I used to lie under it and pretend I could hear the petals land.â
âCould you?â
âNo.â A thin smile. âBut I told myself I could. My mother said that was a good beginning for a writer.â
The word hangs between you. Mingyu turns toward you, interest softening his mouth. âA writer.â
âI wanted to be one.â The admission comes out small. âNot a poet for courtâdonât laugh, I wasnât foolishâbut a woman who keeps memory with ink. The kind who can write a village into staying, even when people leave it. The kind who puts the right names to things so they wonât be stolen.â
Clouds thunder. You can see it now: your motherâs hands stained with chili and salt from autumn kimjang, rinsing again and again until the sting eased; the way she pushed a stray lock behind your ear with her knuckle because her fingers were busy; the sound of hemp thread humming through a needle; the bowl of soot you stole a pinch from to grind with water and pretend it was ink.
âThere was a scribe who came through each season,â you go on. âHe carried a box of brushes and hanji and a quietness that made people lower their voices without being told. I used to watch him copy petitions. He made the characters bloom as if theyâd always been waiting in the paper. Once, he let me sharpen a brush. He said, âSoft, always soft, or the hair will sulk and refuse to hold the ink.ââ
âDid you write?â Mingyu asks, voice so gentle you almost miss it.
âI learned hangul from an auntie who taught children their letters,â you say. âThe men laughedâthey always doâbut the auntie said letters make good company when food is scarce.â You smile, then swallow it. âI wrote on scraps. On leaves. In dust behind the granary. My mother saved rice paper for me whenever the scribe sold to us cheap. I kept a little book under our floor mat, stitched out of flour paste.â
âWhere is it?â
You lift the cloak as if it might produce the book like a parlour trick. âGone. The night beforeââ The words stick. You force them through. âThe night before the broker came, I took it out to read and found the pages damp. A pot had cracked; water crept in. The ink bled until my words turned into indecipherable pools.â
You are grateful for his stillness. You would have resisted comfort.
âI made maps,â you admit quietly. âThey werenât good. Lines for the river and dots for the houses, a crooked square for the market, a bigger dot for the apricot. I thought if I drew the road far enough toward the hills, it would reach the sea.â You rub your thumb along the cloakâs seam. âOnce I climbed the ridge and the whole world opened. I could see the river glinting, then twisting away. I promised myself Iâd follow it. I promised myself Iâd write down what it told me.â
âWhat did it tell you?â
You look at him. âThat leaving is not the same as being lost.â
You wipe rain from your cheek and donât pretend itâs only rain.
âI liked markets,â you continue, because stopping now would be cowardice. âNot for buying. For watching. There was a woman who sold thread by looping it around her fingers and letting it slide, clicking her tongue at knots. A man who could carve a bird from a piece of gourd and make its beak open and close. A boy who learned every vendorâs shout and mimicked them until the whole lane laughed. I wrote the shouts down and practised them alone. I wanted a voice that could gather people without scaring them.â
âYou have one,â he says.
âNot here.â
A gust flings rain under the roof; drops spatter your wrists. Mingyu shifts closer to shield you with his shoulder. The gestureâunadvertisedâmakes you want to cry more than pity ever did.
âSay the worst of it,â he says after a moment.
You brace your elbows on your knees and interlock your hands. âMy father taught me how to lift sacks by bending the knee, not the back,â you say. âHe taught me the feel of good rice from its chaff. He taught me to look a horse in the eye before judging its gait. And then he taught me something I didnât ask to learn: the sound of a man lying sweetly.â The cloak tightens with your small shrug. âDebts. They pull like traps. First your ankle, then your knee, then your soul.â You fix your gaze on the edge of the floor. âI donât know when the number he owed became a number I was worth.â
Mingyu exhales. âWorth,â he repeats. âThat is a word men soil with their hands.â
âThey made a ledger of me,â you say. âMeasured like grain.â
Silence.
âMy mother tried to stop it,â you finally continue. âShe shut the door and pushed the bolt across with her hip and told me to run. I didnât.â You look down at your crossed fingers. âI thought if I ran, I would lose the ground my mother was standing on.â Your mouth twists. âThe brokers laughed in our courtyard and called my mother dramatic. My father said it would be an honour.â
âIt was not,â Mingyu says flatly.
âNo,â you agree. âThe morning after they came to measure me, I climbed the ridge once more. I took my small book. I drew the apricot blossom at the corner of a page and wrote, âI, who wanted to write the world, am being written by it.ââ You lift your hand to the lanternâs trembling glow. âThe ink bled in that corner too.â
Your breath shudders in your throat.
âSay the best of it,â Mingyu asks then, and the question surprises you.
âThe best?â
âGive me a scene that refuses to make your hope die.â
You search in the caverns of your mind. The memories come easier than you expect.
âNew barley,â you say. âThe year the rain remembered to come in time. The fields were low, green, and then high, green, and then green with a gloss of gold. My mother sent me with a bowl of cold barley tea to the men in the field.â The memory blooms. âAfter harvest, the whole village put mats in the lane and ate outside. Someone burned pine cones. The scribe told a story about a princess who kept her name hidden in a gourd. That night, I dreamed I could put mine in one and plant a new life.â
You look at him and find that he is already looking at you.
âWhat would you write about me?â
You shoot him a look that wants to be scorn yet keeps failing. âThat depends on what you do next.â
He huffs, almost a laugh, and tilts his head toward the rain. âWrite me as a man who knows the sound of a closed door and the weight of it, and is tired of holding it shut.â
âThatâs too many words for a line,â you say.
âYou can make the letters smaller,â he says, and you smile again.
Lightning strikes the sky. Thunder follows.
Mingyu shifts, his arm brushing against yours. His hand rests in his lap, fingers flexing once as if he is deciding something. Then, slowly, he turns his palm upward and reaches for yours. The touch is gentleâhis fingers finding yours as though he expects you to flinch away.
But you donât.
The surprise is not in his boldness but in your own stillness. You do not pull back. You do not hate the warmth that seeps through your damp skin. Instead, you let your hand remain inside his, the silence between you deepening.
âTell me another,â he says. âSomething with honey in it.â
âPersimmons,â you answer at once. âWe dried them on strings behind the house, little lanterns turning slowly in the wind. My mother would nick the skins with her fingernail and say, âPatience is a sweet-maker.â When the frost came, we ate them with our hands and licked the honey off our wrists.â
His mouth softens. âAnd the worst thing you ever wrote?â he asks.
âA letter I never sent,â you say. âTo a future me. I told her I hoped she had learned to be brave. I told her to keep a clean brush and a clean heart. I told her she would not have to apologise for wanting more.â You press your fingertips against his. âI ended it with my name. The only time I wrote it large.â
âSay it now,â he asks, âas if the person you wrote to is here.â
You shut your eyes and breathe air into your lungs, then you speak your name. It sounds different in a pavilion with a prince listening. You open your eyes and find he has not flinched from it.
âThank you,â he says simply.
âFor what?â
âFor saying yourself aloud.â
Something in you shifts. You should have guarded that shift; you let it happen. His face is closer now, so close you can count his lashes.
You are the one who swipes your mouth to his.
The kiss begins softly, tentatively, but it does not stay that way. Mingyuâs hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing the damp edge of your jaw. When his mouth parts, yours answers without hesitation, letting grief and hunger spill into the space between you. You lean closer, closing the small gap until your chest brushes his, until the storm outside feels like nothing compared to the storm youâve invited in.
His lips coax, then deepen. When your mouth opens to him, his tongue finds yours, tasting what words cannot carry. The lantern above you swings, throwing light and shadow in trembling circles, and for one suspended heartbeat even the rain seems to forget itself.
You move even closer, drawn by something older than reason, and his grip on your jaw tightensâas if he is afraid you might vanish mid-breath. Heat climbs through you, fierce and disarming.
And then you feel itâthat terrifying ease, how natural it is to fall into him, how quickly you are becoming willing. The realisation sears through you. You tear yourself back, breath shattering, the echo of him still on your lips.
âI canât,â you say.
He doesnât chase you. He doesnât comment on your refusal.
âAll right,â he simply responds as he lowers his hand.
You stand too fast; the cloak slips. You catch it and shove it at him, then realise you donât want to give up its heat, then hate yourself for wanting anything, then hate the palace because it is easier. The storm yawns; you step into it.
âWait.â He doesnât say it loudly. It still stops you. âLet me walk you to the eaves.â
âNo.â Your head shakes of its own accord. âIf you come, I will not go.â Itâs too honest. You turn and vanish into the rain before the truth can blush.
You run until the pavilion is a ghost and the garden takes itself back from your feet. Rain finds every seam and insists on becoming you. Your hair plasters to your neck; the silk drags; your teeth click once and then refuse to. You slip under the womenâs eaves, into your chamber and hold a post at your doorway until the world decides to stop moving.
You do not send yours tonight.
The storm takes a long time to end. You let it. You have been speech for too many other mouths. In this thunder, at last, you heard your own.
The doors to the antechamber part, and she enters.
The Crown Princeâs wife arrives without spectacle. The concubines rise and fold themselves to the floor in practised angles.
âJeongsil,â they chorus, and the room bows as one body.
She saunters, as if inspecting furniture she did not order. The jade lady trails at her shoulder, eyes bright with the pleasure of usefulness. Every few paces, the wifeâs fan snaps open and closedâshade, light, verdict, reprieve. She pauses to compliment the neatness of one girlâs hair, to correct the set of anotherâs shoulders, to ask a third whether she understands the difference between sweetness and cloying.
When she stops before you, the room holds its breath.
You kneel correctly. You look at the floor, not at her face. Your hands rest where they should, palm to palm, no tremor.
The fan opens. âThere is an edge to your gaze,â she says, her tone calm but edged with disdain. âIn a man, such sharpness may be called resolve. In a woman, it is untidy⊠unbecoming.â
She lets the silence stretch, then adds, âDo you know what men want from the women they are given? Softness. Patience. A voice that does not bruise when it speaks.â Her smile is rehearsed. âLearn this quickly. A concubine is chosen to adorn, not to argue.â
Her eyes flick down and then back up, appraising you once more. âYou are new. New things are sometimes indulged, but indulgence is not affection. Do not mistake one for the other.â The fan snaps shut. âJade madam, see that this one learns how to lower her eyes without lowering her worth. Wildness belongs in poetry, not in the chambers where men collect promises.â
The concubines do what they do best: they let their faces become mirrors to whatever authority wants to see. A ripple of sympathetic sighs that says, âAh, the lesson has been learned.â You bow your head further and say nothing. You do not break. Mingyu feels you choose not to break.
He stands behind a screen, exactly where a daegun is meant to stand when the wife inspects what the palace calls delicate things. He cannot see your eyes, only the angle of your neck, the way your shoulders hold. The first hot note of anger hits him in his stomach and refuses to settle. He thinks, with treacherous clarity: you are speaking to a woman, not a piece of property.
At the threshold, the wife slows. She bends her head toward the jade lady, her words so low the concubines cannot hearâonly Mingyu does.
âShe will be trouble if she learns she can be. Watch where she looks.â
The jade lady nods, eyes glittering.
A seed, planted. Not yet watered. Seeds remember rain.
Mingyu later finds you at the turn where the Willow Cloister becomes the narrow servantsâ corridor. Your face wears no injury; only the skin beneath your eyes has discovered a new shade.
You try to pass him, eyes lowered, determined not to draw notice. But as you step by, his voice cuts softly through the corridor.
âWalk with me.â
You study him, as if testing for a trap. He does not offer explanations. He turns and walks, expecting you will follow. Your steps arrive behind his at the fourth flagstone.
He takes a path no one chooses on purpose: past a dead-end storeroom where old festival banners hang, under a beam whose carvings the servants have stopped dusting, behind a shed where kindling is stacked. A low door waits, half-swallowed by ivy. He lifts the bar, the wood answering with the patient groan.
Inside, the garden is alive with quiet sound: the low hum of bees, the soft creak of bamboo brushing against itself. Four walls of old brick hold the space, open to the sky aboveâa hidden square the palace has forgotten to name.
At its centre, a stone basin catches water from a narrow spout, each drop falling with steady patience. Moss carpets the ground where no feet tread. Along the sunlit ledges, chrysanthemums push toward their season, while beneath the eaves, orchids burn like delicate flames. A crooked plum tree leans freely, unashamed of its shape. Two shallow tubs cradle lotus long past their bloom, their round leaves still holding the stormâs last drops like scattered pools.
You stop at the threshold. Your eyes widen in a way Mingyu has learned to recogniseâthe way you look when the world offers you something and does not ask you to pay for it.
âWhat is this?â
âA mistake the palace forgot to correct,â he says. His voice feels different here; it belongs to him.
He leads you along a path edged in river stones he carried in two at a time the first winter he found this place. A low table sits by the plum, an inkstone worn smooth, brushes drying in a rack, a roll of hanji that looks innocent if you didnât know the price of paper. A small knife. A lacquered case half-open, revealing neat stacks of sketches weighted down.
Mingyu sits, waiting to see whether you will ask.
You rise and drift toward the table. Your gaze lands on the rack with its brushes. âYou paint,â a statement, not a question.
âI try to,â he answers. He pulls a few sheets from beneath the weight and sets them where you can see: One shows a bouquet of plumâthree quick strokes for each petal, a darker mark anchoring the flower at its calyx. Another sketch features bamboo, with its straight segments and pointed leaves evoking a sense of patience. A third shows orchids, their round leaves curved, their blossoms modest and unshowy. The last is a chrysanthemum, dense and layered, rendered with the slow weight of endurance.
âThe Four Gentlemen,â you murmur. âPlum, bamboo, orchid, chrysanthemum.â
âThey behave better on paper than people do,â he says, and for the first time, laughter comes out of him freely. It startles both of you. The sound is lighter than he remembers it being.
You look up at that laugh, a smile touching your mouth. âYou laugh like a man,â you say. âNot like a prince.â
âHere I am allowed to be smaller,â he says, honest in a way he cannot be elsewhere in the palace.
You circle the table and let your finger hover above the case. You do not touch the paper. You have a village girlâs surety around work that is not yours. âDo you show anyone?â
âNo.â He taps the inkstone with a knuckle.
You turn your head toward the entrance in the wall you had walked through. âHow did you find it?â
âBy following a cat,â he says, and when your eyes flash, amused, he adds, âVery dignified story.â
He points at a gap near the base of the far wall. âI was a boy and angry. A catâs curiosity was louder than my anger. I chased it and ended up here. I shared my food. We signed a treaty.â He gestures to the ivy. âThe garden was forgotten when I came. Yet, the water still ran. Someone once meant this to be a place.â He pauses. âI decided to finish the meaning.â
You kneel, touching the moss at your feet. âDo you tend all of it?â
âMost.â He shows you the chisel marks where he braced loose stones, the way he has trained the plum not to go where it will break itself, the slender bamboo he planted three years ago that just now has learned the word stand. He names the moths that come in late summer and the way lotus leaves grip rain.
âAnd you hide,â you interrupt, gentle but not blind.
âNot hide. Breathe. Out there, every glance asks something of me. Here, no one is watching to decide what I am worth.â He admits.
You sit back on your heels, weighing the truth of it. Mingyu sees the wifeâs words still clinging to you, but here, under this square of open sky, the weight of them seems lighter. You lift your gaze, following the strip of blue, then lower it back to him.
He does not look away. He lets you catch him watching, lets the silence between you stretch. The caution of the past days remains, but it is no longer alone.
âShow me,â you say, nodding at the brushes.
He sets the stone near you, pours just enough water, and grinds an ink cake until the surface is covered in colour. He hands you a soft brush. You hold it incorrectly at firstâfist, not fingersâand he moves closer, letting his hand hover over yours to show the angle. You correct yourself. You dip. Your first stroke is too shy; your second is better. You do not try to be perfect. You draw not a flower but a road: a line that wavers and then firms, a bends toward something unseen.
âI always draw the road,â you say confidently.
âKeep drawing it,â he responds.
You set the brush down and look at him across the table. âThe wife will not forgive me my eyes.â
âShe forgives nothing she cannot control,â he replies, and his anger returns. âIt is her practice.â
âThat is also the palaceâs practice.â
He wants to reach for your hand; he lays his palm on the tableâs edge instead. âI wanted to take the fan from her hand.â
Your eyes widen a fractionâsurprised at his boldness. âAnd then?â
âAnd then I would have destroyed what little protection I can still give you,â he continues. âAnger makes good kindling. It does not keep anyone warm.â
You breathe out. âI hate this fate,â you confess. âThe rules that make me force smiles. The way absence becomes a crime, presence becomes an expectation. How a woman must show herself to survive and hide herself to live.â You look down at the road you just drew. âI hate the way I can already hear my voice imitating theirs when I am tired.â
He closes his eyes because he recognises the shape of that hatred. âYou are describing me,â he murmurs. âWith different words.â
You consider him for a long time. âYou look like a man who knocks and waits,â you say at last. âWho has learned to stand straight while doors decide whether they will be doors.â
He opens his eyes and lets you see him without the second skin he wears for court. Loneliness must be visible in him; it is a muscle that has been doing labour too long. You see it. He watches you see it. The look on your face is not pity. It is comprehension.
âIf I were only myself,â he says, âI would leave this place, follow a river, hire a cart when my legs complained, lie under a different tree each week, and draw every roofline I met.â He smiles, but sadness creases the lines of his mouth. âAnd perhaps I would follow a woman who laughs like she is learning a new country.â
Colour fills your cheeks. âIf I were only myself, I would sell a good story to pay for ink and keep walking.â
A bee tacks between chrysanthemum buds.
Mingyu takes a clean sheet and, without looking at you, draws a single line that could be a stem or a horizon. He stops. He pushes the brush toward you.
âFinish,â he says.
You add a second line, and the two become a path in the act of being a plant. You chuckle at the trick and shake your head at yourself. He laughs backâan easy sound, unarmoured. This time, you donât look surprised.
He thinks, not for the first time, about choosing: passion over loyalty.
He pictures consequences as a soldier would: who bleeds, where, and how long it takes to stop. The two visions of his life overlap until he cannot tell which one is the lie he has lived and which one is the truth he has been avoiding.
A foot scuffs a pebble outside the garden wallâsomeone passing by, no moreâbut both of you still. He waits. No second sound. He hears instead the echo of the wifeâs words: Watch where she looks. He remembers how suspicion grows in this placeâfirst a seed, then a trellis appears, and no one admits to building it.
âWe cannot be careless,â he says, quietly.
âWe have not been,â you whisper back.
âNot yet.â
You set the brush down and wipe a dot of ink from your knuckle with the corner of your sleeve. You lift your hand then and extend it across the table. He meets you halfway. Your fingers, stained now in the same places, rest against his.
No one will know that for the span of three breaths, two people decided to be less alone. No one will suspect that in a walled square of green, a prince learned how to laugh without an audience and a concubine remembered what it felt like to choose the next line on a painting.
You draw your hand back first. You stand. Mingyu rises with you.
At the door, he looks once more around the garden, memorising where the shadows fall at this hour, as if he could set them back in place with his hands later if someone disturbs them. He bars the door when you have slipped through, the ivy falling back into its place.
In the corridor beyond, the air smells of the public world again. Somewhere behind a screen, a maid from the wifeâs household lingers longer than a maid needs to linger, the way a person does when they know where to stand to hear without being seen. Mingyu marks her face without letting his own change.
Watch where she looks.
He walks you to the bend at the edge of the Red Pavilion. You do not thank him. Gratitude would make this a transaction.
âRemember the road,â he says instead, nodding at your ink-stained hand.
âRemember the door,â you reply, and he grins.
Mingyu leaves you there and turns toward the duties that will wear his other face. As he walks, he carries the weight of what you look like when you do not belong to the palace.
And for the first time since he learned the word duty, he lets himself imagine a different word as his future.
The summons reaches you by accident.
Two women speaking behind screens in the washing court â the jade ladyâs voice overlapping with the matronâs. âThe Prince will request the new girl tomorrow. The King has pressed him to renew his vigour. She will be sent.â
The words fill you with dread. Tomorrow. The chains will tighten tomorrow.
And so, tonight, you go.
The corridors are melancholic, bathed in moonlight and the hush of sleep. Your steps are soft but urgent, your robe pulled close, your heart a drum within the cavern of your chest. At the old ivy door, your fingers hesitate only once before sliding it open. The wood gives way.
Inside, the hidden garden waits. And him.
Mingyu is already there, sleeves pushed to his forearms, brush laid aside. The lamplight he keeps pools beside the inkstone. When the door closes, he looks up. His stillness does not last. âWhat has happened?â
You swallow. âThey saidââ Your voice breaks. âTomorrow, he will summon me. The Crown Prince. If you do nothingâif I do nothingââ
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He takes one step and then another.
âYou came here,â he says, the rough edge of disbelief sanding the words.
âI could notââ You shake your head; your hands tremble, and you order them to be still. âI could not let the first time be with him. I will not give him what I did not choose.â
You lift your face to him, and the admission is final. âI choose you.â
He exhales harshly, his lungs struggling against his ribs. âDo you know what you are saying?â
âYes.â The word leaves no room for hesitation. âIf tonight ruins me, then let me be ruined by my own will.â
Mingyu reaches you. His hands riseâhesitate at either side of your faceâand then cup your cheeks. His forehead tips to yours, his brow brushing yours. âYou undo me,â he whispers, the confession raw. âYou are my undoing.â
âThen be undone,â you answer.
The kiss feels inevitable.
It is not careful, not the way you have kissed before, soft and untested. His mouth covers yours and claims, the sound he makes vibrating onto your tongue. You clutch his robe and feel muscle, heat, the build of him. He moves you without thinking until your back hits the garden wall, the roughness of old brick shocking against the silk you wear. His body shields you from the night.
Your lips part; breath mingles with breath. The kiss deepensâfirst cautious, then certainâas he listens to every sound you cannot keep back. When he pulls away, it is only to trace your cheek with his mouth, to find the tender skin beneath your ear, to press against the pulse that carries your blood.
âTell me you want this,â he pleads, mouth warm at your throat, âTell me now, and I will never let him touch you.â
The answer is instant. âI want this,â you say, and the truth falls between you. âI want you.â
He groans against your skin, relief and hunger braided into the sound. He sinks to his knees, robes darkening as they gather the damp of the moss. His hands travel the lines of your hips, leaning the curve of your body. When his forehead presses to your stomach, you feel the breath he releases warm your skin through the fabric.
The garden keeps its silence as he bares you. Cool air brushes your thighs, and gooseflesh pricklesânot from chill, but from the startling reverence of being seen this way. He lifts your foot and sets it gently on a low ledge, spreading you wideânot to claim, but to look, to take you in. His hands stroke the insides of your thighs in long, unhurried passes that make you arch before his mouth has even lowered.
âBeautiful,â he murmurs, breath ghosting over your core, âMy light.â
Your head thuds softly against the wall. Your fingers fall into his hair as he parts your folds with his tongue, slow at first, mapping the length of your core, then deeper. His hand comes up, two fingers circling your entrance before slipping inside, the stretch making you gasp as they learn how your walls flutter with every curve inwards. Mingyu doesnât stopâhis lips and tongue work a steady pace that unravels you. Your world fixes to this: the wet heat of his mouth, the slip of his fingers, the claiming grip of his hand on your hip, keeping you against the wall.
Release takes you by surprise, smothering your cry against your wrist as the wave crashes over you. He does not rush you through itâhe stays, patient, murmuring soft praise while your body trembles and stutters against him.
He rises. His mouth glistens, his eyes dark, tender, dilated by want. You grab for him: his collar, his neck, the truth that he is yours because you chose him. Your palms skim down his chest, learning the shape of him through his silks until you find the hardness straining against his trousers. He shudders, breath shaking as you rub his clothed cock gently, squeezing and pressing against the heat. Your fingers tug at his sash; fabric loosening.
With trembling care, you free him, and the weight of his hardness fills your hand. You brush your thumb over the flushed tip, slowly and curiously. Mingyu curses low, his hands tightening on your face as if to anchor himself.
âIf I take you now, there is no going back. Do you understand?â
âI donât want to go back.â
His restraint breaks. Mingyu gathers your thighs and lifts you, the wall holding your balance. When he presses forward, his cock finds your holeâthick shaft sliding into your wet cavern. He pushes slowly, a single steady stroke that parts you, fills you, and stretches you until the sound that breaks past your lips is half pain, half awe. He stills, buried deep, trembling with the effort not to move, his mouth pressing to your ear.
âEasy⊠I have you. I have you.â
You breathe through it. The ache foldsâyour body relearning itself around him. You tighten your grip on his shoulders; the tremor in your thighs steadies. You nod, a small, wild yes pressed into his temple.
He begins to move. Slow at first, hips rocking, searching the place where your pleasure tips into need and makes you push back for more. The friction pulls a gasp from you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck in response.
When the angle shifts and he finds the spot that makes your vision blur, your nails biting his skin
âMy light,â he gasps, the words falling out of him.
Your hand finds his jaw; you force him to look at you, eyes blown wide, heart in your throat. âMy moon.â
He makes a sound that could be prayer, could be surrender. His mouth comes down hard, swallowing your gasp, and the rhythm builds. When he breaks away, you clamp a hand over your mouth to quiet the cry that wants to climb; Mingyu groans into your shoulder, whispers skimming over your skinâperfect⊠taking me so well⊠mine, only mineâŠ
You clutch his behind with your free hand to pull him in deeper, greedier. He answers, thrusts quickening. He braces you higher, your bare heel slipping against his flank, your body opening like it had been made for this.
âIâll fill you,â he groans, voice broken, âIâll keep you so no one else can touch you.â
Heat envelops youâfearless, claimed. âYes,â you gasp, head thrown, âYesâplease.â
The plea takes him. He thrusts deep, deeper, the last stroke a finality. He buries himself to the hilt and goes still, body locked. His groan is low, his forehead touching yours, breaths mingling as his seed spills into you, pulse after pulse searing a promise against your walls.
Time loses count.
When the world returns to its shape, you are still pinned between him and the wall, your heartbeat answering his. His cock softens inside you, and the slick heat escapes in a slow, indecent slide. The loss makes you whimper. He feels it, and it drags another sound out of him. His hand drops between your thighs, thumb circling your entrance.
âKeep it,â he murmurs, thumb pushing his cum back in. âKeep all of me inside you.â
You bite down on your lip, eyes closing, the gentlest tremor rolling through you at his careful touch. He holds you there, not moving until the shiver passes and only warmth remains.
He lowers your legs slowly, hands attending to every inch, steadying you when your knees threaten to buckle. Your robe falls closed, hiding the reddened marks his fingers left on your skin.
You do not feel owned. You feel keptâlike something valuable you decided to give and were given back, more.
He tucks you against his chest, his breath easing finally. His mouth finds your hair, your temple, the place above your brow.
You pull back just enough to see his face. The mask is nowhere. He looks younger and older at once, a man who has finally taken something for himself and is astonished not to be struck down.
A breeze crosses the garden; the plum leaves answer in rustles.
You let your weight rest against him, your cheek pressed to his collarbone, and listen to the hush your bodies have left in the air. Tomorrow waits just beyond the walls. You feel it. He must, too; his jaw tightens, then eases, a decision deferred.
He does not say I will lie for you or I will burn for this. He does not break the fragile clarity of what you have made together. Instead, he takes your hand and lifts it to his mouth, kissing each knuckle slowly.
You tilt his face up with your palm, making him meet you. In his eyes, you find what he saw in yours the first night he kissed you: not rescue, not salvation. Recognition.
Your thumb brushes along his jaw. âMingyuâŠâ It is all you say, but it feels like a whole confession.
He bends closer, his voice raw. âIf I had nothing elseâno name, no placeâtonight would still be enough.â
Your chest tightens.
âYou should go before the patrols change.â
You swallow. âI donât want to.â
âI donât want you to.â His mouth curves, but the smile falters. He presses one last kiss to your temple. âBut Iâll be here. Whenever you come, Iâll be here.â
You draw him down again, one more kissâslow, sealing, ardentâand then you step back, your hand sliding from his body.
The ivy door groans. You glance over your shoulder. He is still standing there, the moon silvering his skin, his eyes fixed only on you.
The door closes. The ivy will fall into place. But the moon will remember. So will you. So will he.
The summons comes at dusk.
The eunuchâs voice is formal, but the weight beneath it is audible: the Crown Prince wants to claim what he is owed. It is time.
Mingyuâs body stills. He has known the night would comeâhas bought you time with excuses, with whispers of ill omens, with feigned rituals that delayed the inevitable. But he cannot stretch the thread forever. And now it frays.
Not tonight.
The thought comes with a violence he cannot temper. His hands curl in his sleeves as though his body means to shield you even here, in the hollow of his chambers.
When he enters the princeâs hall, the Crown Prince is lounging with his fan half-open, a glass of rice wine dangling loosely in his grip.
âWhere is she?â his brother asks.
Mingyu bows low, his voice level, though his heart pounds. âForgive me, hyungnim. She is unwell again. The matron feared her presence would bring illness to your chamber.â
The fan stills. His brotherâs eyes narrow. âUnwell?â
âThe signs were clear,â Mingyu presses. âThe physician recommends she remain apart until the moon turns.â
For a long moment, silence stretches between them. Then the Crown Prince laughs hollowly. âIf she proves useless, I will send her back where she came from.â
Mingyu bows again, concealing the fury in his throat. âAs you command.â
He leaves with his pulse hammering, the echo of his brotherâs disdain following him outside. By the time he reaches the womenâs quarters, the decision is already made. He will not wait for tomorrow. He will not gamble with fate again.
He goes for you.
You startle when you see himâno servant, no matron, just Mingyu, his mask removed. He doesnât give you time to ask. He only whispers, urgent: âCome with me. Now.â
Your robe swishes as you follow, steps light but quick, fear and fire tangled in your blood. You slip past courtyards, through the narrow ivy door, into the secret garden that has become your world.
The door closes, the ivy falls back, and the storm breaks.
He is on you before you can form words, his mouth claiming yours, his hands clutching at your hips. The kiss is frantic, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. He cups your face, then your breasts, desperate to feel your whole body pressed to his.
âWe donât have long,â you pant against his lips. âPleaseâjust take me. I donât want to lose this moment.â
His heart lurches at the plea. He wants to worship, to spend hours unravelling you again, but the truth is written in your eyes: you have only stolen minutes.
âLet me ready you,â he begs.
âThen be quick.â Your cheeks flush with urgency. âI can bear itâI want you too much not to.â
He curses softly, dragging you into the shadows of the wall, lifting your robe with trembling hands. His fingers slip between your thighs, finding your folds already slick, your body betraying its hunger. He strokes your clit once, twice, then presses two fingers inside. You gasp, your head falling against the wall, and he feels your walls clench, hot and needy around his digits.
âYouâre perfect,â he murmurs, his lips at your neck. âSo ready for me⊠my light.â
âMingyuââ your voice cracks, âplease. Now.â
The sound of your begging shatters his restraint. Mingyu pulls out his fingers, grabs your waist, and turns you swiftly. He bends you forward, his hand pressing between your shoulder blades until your palms find the wall. âHold it,â he commands, voice rough, trembling with urgency.
You obey, fingers splayed against the cool stone, your breath hot and uneven. Behind you, he frees himself with shaking hands, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your slick entrance. He pushes forward in one swift thrust, burying himself, letting you accustom to the stretch. Your hips rock back in reply, impatient, desperate for more.
With a groan, he pulls back and drives even deeper.
You muffle your cry against your arm, your body arching beneath the weight of him.
The fit is perfect, unbearable. Your walls are tight around him, slick and hot, pulling him deeper. He braces one hand against the wall, the other gripping your hip.
âMine,â he gasps, thrusting faster. âAll mine.â
You push back against him, your voice breathless. âEven if the world condemns me⊠I would rather belong to you for one stolen night than live unloved for a lifetime.â
The confession undoes him. His rhythm grows faster, harder, his hips slam into yours with the desperation of a man who knows time is both enemy and witness. Each thrust jolts a cry from your lips, swallowed quickly into your skin to keep them hidden.
âSo good⊠so perfect,â he praises, his words whispered against the shell of your ear. âTaking me so well⊠made for me.â
âYes,â you gasp, shuddering beneath him. âYours.â
Your words drag him closer to the edge. Mingyu reaches around, his fingers finding your clit again. You clench around him as his thumb rubs tight circles on the nub, your whole body shaking with the force of release.
Your orgasm tears him apart. He drives into you once, twice more, then spills deep inside, groaning your name into your hair, his body shuddering with the sheer violence of it. He presses himself tight against you, holding you there.
âKeep all of me inside you. My light⊠my only.â
You whimper at the fullness, clutching the wall as though it were the only thing anchoring you.
When he finally pulls back, his seed slips down your thighs. His thumb catches it, pushes it gently back into you, just as he did last night.
âLook,â he murmurs behind you. âYour body keeps me. You were always meant to.â
Your eyes flutter closed, a sound half-sob, half-laughter leaving you. You lean your forehead against the wall, then turn just enough to whisper back: âAnd you were always meant to find me.â
He gathers you against him then, despite the haste, despite the danger. He kisses your hair, your temple, every place his mouth can reach.
You have minutes left, perhaps less. But here, in this garden, pressed together in ruin and worship, it feels like eternity has bent just long enough to give you this.
The days after look peaceful from a distance.
Mingyu knows better. Calm is how the palace hides a storm.
He keeps you untouchedâonce, twice, three times moreâby small moves that look like coincidence. A moon-day unsuited to intimate rites. A physicianâs note, gently acquired, that suggests rest is prudent. Each excuse buys a night. Each night costs him something he does not calculate until dawn.
The Crown Princeâs wife counts, too. She is a woman who inventories absence.
She noticed that the new concubineâthe one with the eyes that do not stay downâremains unclaimed.
She comes to the womenâs hall without announcing herself, and the floor learns again how to shine. The concubines fold; the jade lady glides behind her. The wifeâs fan opens and closes, a soft arithmetic of verdicts.
âHow is the new oneâs health?â she asks idly.
âDelicate, Jeongsil,â coos the jade lady. âThe air still weighs on her.â
âThe air weighs on all of us,â the wife replies. âSend for the physician. Send for the matron. Send for the girl.â
Mingyu hears about this not from the servants who owe him favours, but from the way the corridor itself changesâfootsteps that begin to circle instead of passing straight through, voices that lower only after the first word. Danger is a scent learned in his childhood. He smells it now.
He widens the space between his shadow and yours. He takes different routes. He lets the captain of the guards find him on the captainâs terms, not his. He issues neat, forgettable orders that look routine. In the hidden garden, he slides the brush rack from the open table into a low chestânot because anyone will look, but because the act steadies his hands.
The jade lady examines your chamber. She admires your hairpins, your robes, your comb, and leaves a ribbon tucked deep under the folded silksâdyed a shade the Queenâs household uses for stewardâs sashes, cut to a length no servant would wear. She watches a maidâs fear grow, then buys the fear with a handful of coins and a promised promotion. She visits the scribe who writes letters for women who cannot ask men for help and pays him twice to describe your hand. She sends a runner to a gate guard with a message that registers as a warning: Tell me what you see, or I will ask someone with sharper eyes.
The letters appear three days later, crisp and smelling faintly of cedar.
They are found, of courseâtucked behind the lintel of your door where only a frightened maid would dare to dust. The jade lady holds them by their edges, as if avoiding blame. The physician, who was instructed to bring a brazier for colds, is instead made to warm wax for seals.
Mingyu reads the copies in secret. They are not given to him, but he knows how to find what others would keep hidden. The handwriting is wrong: too careful where yours would move, too ornate where you would choose simplicity. Yet the voice they have forged is perilously close to yours.
There are lines about secret meetings under eaves. About a lantern tied to a wrist. About a princeâs shadow that lingers too long. Some even name himâMingyuâas if to knot the noose tighter, hinting at a bond between you that would shame his blood.
The Crown Prince had seen the forgeries before he did, and the smugness still clings to his words. âSo much for your watchful eyes, little brother. You couldnât even guard what was given to you. If she has strayed, perhaps itâs you sheâs strayed with.â
Mingyu swallows the retort that claws up his throat. He cannot say this is not her hand without being asked how he knows. He cannot protest that the words echo things that have not happened without revealing how closely, how often, he has been in your presence.
Instead, he goes to the captain of the guards.
âSearch again,â he instructs. âTruth behaves consistently. If there are letters, there are couriers; if there are couriers, there are payments. Trace them.â
The captain bows, loyal to a fault and to the Crown above faults. âWe have a witness, Your Highness.â
âWho?â
âA gate boy who saw a woman pass a folded paper to a laundry girl near the Southern Eaves.â
âHe saw without seeing faces?â
âHe saw a sleeve and a hairpin.â
Mingyuâs fingers press the bridge of his nose.
He goes to the Queen, because her eyes sometimes see differently than the Kingâs. She receives him with the calmness of a woman who has shaped men into choices for longer than he has lived. He bows low; she gestures for him to rise. He speaks carefully, circling the truth.
âThere is mischief in the womenâs hall,â he begins. âIf left unchecked, they could corrode more than reputation.â
Her fan stirs the air once. âRumours are the palaceâs second language. Why should this one trouble me?â
âBecause it is falsehood with teeth,â he replies, his voice harder than he means. âAnd once it bites, it will not release.â
Her gaze fixes on him, unreadable. âWhat would you have of me, then?â
He holds her eyes, offering her a weapon that could as easily be turned on him. âLet it be examined quietly. No proclamations, no punishment until certainty is beyond question.â
She tilts her head, tapping her fan against her palm. âYou are asking for time.â
âI am asking for fairness,â he says, though the words taste weak even to him.
The Queen studies him for a long moment. Then her mouth curves, the faintest shadow of a smile. âFairness,â she repeats softly, as if testing the weight of the word. âTell me, my sonâfairness for which woman?â
He bows again and leaves without a reply.
His brotherâs wife does not wait for justice. She cultivates certainty.
Two maids swear they have seen you slip out at night. A eunuch remembersânowâthat your lantern burned longer than it should have. A gate boy repeats his story until he forgets who taught it to him. The jade lady produces a scrap of blue-green cord that once lived in Mingyuâs cloak hem, a thread she lifted weeks ago from the hidden gardenâs threshold after a night when he was not careful enough to leave no trace. The cord is pressed into wax by the physician like a signet.
Word arrives that the King will hear the matter at noon.
Mingyu sits very still on the edge of his mat.
He could confess. He could ruin the letters by burning himself in front of them. He could say I took her to a garden that should not exist, I kissed her, I took her body as she took mine, and every lie you punish her with is a lie you owe me first. He could. He runs the scene in his mind and sees where the blade falls: on you. Confession from a prince is romance in a poem; in a court, it is a net that tightens around the smaller neck first.
He dresses. He ties his sash too tightly and does not loosen it. He goes to the hall at noon.
They come for you when the shadows are shortest.
The womenâs hall opens its mouth, and the jade ladyâs smile gleams from the gaping crevice. Guards stand in a neat row behind her. The concubines do not need instruction; they have been rehearsing their faces since morning.
âYou are called,â the jade lady says, all duty.
âCalled for what?â you ask.
âTo answer,â she replies. âBring only yourself. You will not need⊠ornaments.â
They remove your hairpins, they unhook your sash, not because they need toâyour robe would holdâbut because the looseness will read as shame when you walk. They take the finest silk and leave only the inner layer, which wrinkles when a hand presses it. Your hair falls in a single heavy rope you do not have fabric for to bind; a maid reaches with a strip of plain cotton and ties it with a firmness that says I am sorry without saying anything at all.
As you pass, the concubines show sympathy for each other and malice for you in alternating breaths.
âPoor thing,â one murmurs.
âPride will do it,â another answers.
âShe always looked beyond the walls,â a third offers, as if seeing were a crime.
The throne room is colder than your chambers. The King sits as if he has grown out of the seat. The Queen is a painting of calm. The Crown Prince wears a satisfaction that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with being bowed to. The wife stands a half-pace behind his shoulder, the jade lady behind hers, and together they form a line that points at you no matter where you move.
You kneel. The stone remembers every person who has pressed their forehead against it and records you now.
Mingyu is there.
He stands to the side where lesser men of royal blood stand when they are meant to be useful but not central. His face is a flawless mask. Under it, the muscles in his jaw are tight. You look at him only once, and you do not beg with your eyes, because you have learned that begging is a performance this room enjoys. You only look and place your breath where his breath is.
The jade lady reads the letters.
âFound hidden in the defendantâs chamber,â she says, âdescribing assignations and conspiracy. The hand is consistent. The content is damning.â
You do not rebut. You have no self to lend her lines. When she finishes, she offers the papers up to the Crown Princeâs wife.
The King nods. âWitnesses.â
The first maid cries delicately. âI saw her by the southern eaves with a folded paper.â
The second complements the first. âI was told to keep my mouth shut, but I must not place loyalty above truth.â
The gate boy bows so low his forehead will bruise. âI saw a sleeve. It was not plain. It moved like hers.â
The jade lady produces her piece of thread with a flourish. âA token,â she says, âcaught where her path should never have crossed a daegunâs.â
Mingyu watches the thread and knows its history in a single flashânight air, ivy, his laugh unguardedâand understands that something he was careless with has learned how to be poison.
The King looks at you.
âWhat say you.â He does not waste a question mark on it.
Your mouth is dry. You hold the word innocent in it until it tastes like ash.
âI did not write those letters,â you say. Your voice is steady because you make it be. âI have left the womenâs quarters only when ordered.â
A hum like interest moves through the hall. It is not sympathy.
The wifeâs fan opens. âYou lowered your eyes properly this morning,â she observes kindly. âOne must learn to lower oneâs habits as well.â
You turn your face without turning your head. âJeongsil,â you say, âI am being made into a story you have written ahead of me.â
A soft intake from the concubinesâaudacity will always be admired when it is punished elsewhere.
The Queen lifts her chin a fraction. âChild,â she says, and the word is both balm and warning, âyou stand before a throne. Be careful of speech.â
You bow again, your forehead to cold stone. âI speak only myself.â
Mingyu closes his eyes for the length of one breath. When he opens them, the wife is already looking at him. Her smile is revealing. She knows. Not everything. Enough.
The King says, âStrip her of these outer robes.â
You do not cry when the fabric is taken. You do not cry when your hair is untied fully and falls like a curtain along your back. You do not cry when the jade lady steps forward and draws a line of red across your name tag with a brush, striking it through. You save crying for places that have earned it.
âPending sentence,â the King says, âshe is to be held below.â
Mingyu hears the decision fall.
He takes the smallest step forward.
âFather,â he says, âthe palace earns dignity when it matches accusation with care. Allow me to overseeââ
The King turns his eyes to him with slow displeasure.
âYou will oversee nothing,â he says. âIf you would like purpose, look to your brotherâs campaigns and not to his women.â
The Crown Prince smiles, enjoying the old game. âOur daegun forgets where usefulness ends.â
Mingyu bows. When he straightens, he is a man with a rope around his throat pulled just tight enough to keep him breathing.
He leaves the hall before the Queen can call him back by name. He is not sure what his mouth would do in this room if he were to stay.
They take you then, not with violence, but with efficiency, which is worse. Two guards, one at each arm. You rise without stumbling. You walk without being dragged. The hall swallows your figure quickly.
The dungeons smell of metal and the apprehension of men who have counted days and lost track of them anyway. The light here is sparse, not right. It slopes through grates too narrow and leaves bars striped across the walls.
The cell is not the worst. It has straw that has been changed this week. It has a basin that has been scrubbed. It has a bench that remembers other backs.
When the gate slams, your breath trips.
You sit. You place your hands in your lap because that is how you have trained them to look calm. You stare at the wall, but you donât see it. You see apricot petals. A little book. A river that promised you a road. A cloak that smelled of pine smoke. A man who learned how to laugh without permission.
You had not meant to rely on him. Reliance is a dangerous verb here. It invites ownership. It invites punishment. And yet, you had measured your days lately by small certainties: the direction his steps made across the stones, the way the air shared heat with your skin when he stood one pace closer than courtesy required, the existence of a door that opened with a bar you knew where to find.
How fragile, you think, and the thought is not bitter, only accurate. How beautifully fragile.
The women above you know your name again now that it is in trouble. Their whispers come down through the cracks.
âShe did it.â
âShe thought she was different.â
âShe always looked like she was listening to walls.â
You lean your head back against the wall and close your eyes. Behind your lids, the garden squares itself: the basin, the plum, the little rack of brushes, the low table with ink pooled like twilight. If you breathe slowly enough, you can still smell wet moss. If you borrow the right memory, you can feel a thumb on your knuckles, counting without saying numbers.
Footsteps come and go. One set stops outside your gate and stays. You open your eyes.
It is not him. It is the jade lady, with a guard who looks everywhere but at you.
She holds the lettersâand the way she holds them tells you they have already done their main work and are now props for an encore.
âDo you want to say anything useful?â she asks pleasantly. âUseful means true, of course.â
âTruth and usefulness are rarely related here,â you answer, and your voice is rough from disuse already.
Her smile is quick. âThat is truer than it is safe. You must be tired.â
âI am.â
âRest, then,â she says. âTomorrow will require stamina.â
âTomorrow?â
âA hearing that will look like mercy,â she says, and drifts away, satisfied with the taste she has left in your mouth.
You go quiet for a while. Then you let yourself cry.
You wipe your face with your sleeve and resent the fabric for not being silk anymore, and then resent yourself for caring about fabric.
You think of what you did not say at the throne. You think of what you did say.
You picture Mingyu standing in the throne room.
You do not let yourself ask if he will come. Men with freedom rarely walk toward cages, and princes are taught early to turn their faces from pity. And yetâyou have seen him stare into a basin as if the water itself were teaching him how to be decent. You have watched him lift a brush as though each stroke could preserve more than paper. You have felt his mouth shape your name into something even the moon might choose to keep.
You rest your head against your arm and speak your name into the straw until it sounds like a promise again.
Above, the palace performs orderâtorches lit, incense burned, doorways bowed through, bells tapped to tell rooms they can sleep. Below, your cell practices the old, old art of not taking a person away from herself.
You open your eyes to the seam of light under the door and think:
I will not let their story be the only one.
Somewhere beyond the corridorâs curve, steps beginâmeasured, muffled, familiar in their way of refusing to hurry. The guard at the far end coughs and then decides not to. Keys do their metal screech. A flame lowers the dark by one shade.
You lift your head, not hopeâreadiness.
The steps stop. Silence stands up next to your gate.
You breathe in once. If it is Mingyu, there is danger. If it is not, there is danger. In both rooms, you plan.
The key does not turn. The footsteps move on.
You lean your head back and let your heartbeat slow one notch at a time.
In the hidden garden, a plum leaf loosens and settles in the basin. In a chamber with too much air, a prince sits on the edge of his mat and twists a paintbrush in his hand.
Night pools. The story sharpens its quill. You close your eyes and hold fast to yourself.
For now, it is enough to be unbroken where no one can abuse it.
Mingyu keeps to the edge of the dungeon, footsteps lighter than the guards deserve to hear. He had borrowed a key and chosen the moment between patrols when the path would have been empty. He breaks every law of his duty by walking downwardâpast storerooms; past the turning; past the last guard, who had been dragged underneath sleepâs weight.
The sound is too loud when he turns the key.
You are there on the other side of the bars. When you look up, the dim torchlight finds your face. Your name rises in Mingyuâs throat; he swallows it.
âMy moon.â
Just that, and the whole journey crashes into purpose.
He grips the bars first, because the act of opening them would end you both. The iron is cold. His forehead bows to it, breath joining yours in the narrow space. He forces his voice into quiet.
âI am here.â
âYou shouldnât be,â you whisper, moving closer until your hands find his through the gap. âIf they catchââ
âThey will not.â He is not sure, but he lets certainty become a bridge anyway and walks you both across it. âI could not leave you to this silence.â
Your fingers tighten over his, the bars press between your knuckles.
âAre you hurt?â he asks, searching your face, the line of your throat, the place beneath your eyes.
You shake your head. âOnly frightened. Not of death.â The smile that touches your mouth wavers. âOf what the palace will make of my name.â
He has no remedy for it. He has only his face, unmasked. He lets you see the man who has been walking the length of his room all day, learning the floor with a new kind of devotion.
âI tried,â he says, the admission low, raw. âI went to the Queen. I sent the captain back over every step. The thread they holdââ
âIs yours,â you finish, too gently. âAnd they shaped it into a noose meant for me.â
He hates that you are right. He hates that he did not notice the cord missing, the ivy disturbed, the way fate can be braided out of a single careless strand.
He leans in until the bars kiss his cheek and yours. Through iron, your mouths find each other, the kiss awkward, yet urgent, stubborn. Tears fall without permission; neither of you bothers to hide them. Salt meets iron and iron learns salt.
When he pulls back, it is only enough to speak against your mouth. The words arrive before caution can draft a replacement.
âI love you.â
They are not elaborate. They are not princely. They are only truth.
Your breath catches. Your eyes close, open. Your answer comes.
âI love you.â
The walls do not know what to do with such sentences. They have been trained to hold rulings, not vows.
He rests his brow to the bars and shakes with the relief and terror of having said it aloud. âForgive me,â he whispers. âFor being late. For not burning their lies before they learned to speak.â
âForgive me,â you return, âfor giving you something you must now keep safe from your own blood.â
He laughs brokenly. âThen we absolve each other.â
You fall into the small choreography of solaceâhis thumbs circling the backs of your hands, your forehead leaning to the cool iron and then to his, kisses like stitches placed where fear might tear. You speak in fragments that make a whole: âI will find a way.â âDo not ruin yourself.â âWhat else am I good for if not this?â âFor living.â âOnly if living keeps you in it.â
Footsteps brush the corridor and move on. A torch sighs. Your time thins.
He tries to plot aloud and gives up. He returns to vows because they are the only currency left that he owns.
âIf they set a day,â he says, âI will cut it apart. If they send a rope, I will place my throat before yours.â
You flinch, not from the image but from the part of him that means it. âDo not offer death as if it were a gift.â
âAnd what would you have me offer?â He cannot keep despair from roughening the whisper. âPetitions? I am a petition they have never signed.â
Your hands slide down the bars and lower, until your lips meet again through the cold. âOffer me tomorrow,â you breathe. âEven if you must lie to do it.â
He nods, once, the movement small and decisive. âTomorrow.â
Neither of you knows the corridor is not empty.
In the shadows, the Crown Prince stands, silent witness to his brotherâs ruin. He does not interrupt. He only watches, storing every word, every touch, every tear, until the night has given him more than enough. Then he turns, leaving just as soundlessly as he arrived.
Mingyu kisses your fingers, one by one, and then the thin inside of your wrist where your pulse proves he has not lost you yet. âMy light,â he says.
âMy moon,â you answer.
He goes because to stay would be to choose discovery. He goes because leaving is sometimes the only way to carry a vow into motion.
Morning shows its teeth too early.
By midday, the court gathers, arranged into near architectural angles. The King sits in judgement; the Crown Princeâs smile is measured and expensive. Behind him stands the wife, fan shut; behind her, the jade lady glows with the satisfaction of a tool that fits the hand.
They bring you in. You do not stumble. Mingyu admires how, even now, you move as if rooms cannot quite claim you.
Charges are recited. Letters appear again, their false breath held steady by seals. Witnesses repeat what they were trained to remember. The cordâhis own small sin of carelessnessâenters once more, damning not by nature but by stewardship.
The King turns a stone gaze to the room. âThe scandal has grown beyond patience,â he says. âThe palace will not be made a stage for it.â
The Crown Prince speaks the sentence. His voice is steady and smooth, savouring every syllable with satisfaction. âShe is to die by hanging. A concubine who stains the house is better ended than endured.â
Mingyuâs heart drops to his stomach. He steps forward before wisdom can chain him still. âYour Majestyââ
The King lifts a hand, silencing him. His gaze is angry, carved by disappointment. âYou would defend her? Already, the court whispers that you failed your duty. And now, your brother tells me you did moreâthat you reached for what was not yours to touch. If she is guilty, then you are guilty too.â
The Crown Princeâs mouth tilts. âLittle brother mistakes the womenâs hall for his hunting ground. Here, his strength avails him nothing.â
Mingyu bows because to do otherwise is rebellion. But when he rises, the mask is gone. He chooses the only weapon left to him: himself.
âThen let the sentence fall on me,â he says, each word measured, unflinching. âIf impropriety was born, it was in the space I carved for her to breathe. I failed my charge. I pursued what I should not, and I will not let her pay for what I asked her to share.â
He drops lower, his voice ringing across the chamber. âStrip me of rank. Exile me. Break me. But do not grind an innocent woman to dust only to make this hall smell clean.â
The room stirs, gasps curling like smoke. What he has held in secret is now naked before the throneâevery vow, every trespass, every truth too sharp to bury.
The Queenâs fan pauses. Something like pain crosses her eyes but is folded away. The King regards him, then you. The room waits for the air to be less suffocating.
You lift your head. He watches you inhale. When you speak, your voice is clearânot to save yourself, but to take the blade from him.
âYour Majesty,â you say, bowing just enough to honour the throne but not enough to hide your face. âThe daegun lies. He shoulders blame because he has always carried what others will not. But I acted alone. I let pride twist itself into secrecy, let rumor become a ladder I climbed with my own hands. No prince guided me. No prince touched me. Every misstep is mine.â
The room stirs.
Mingyu breaks. âThat is notââ
The Crown Princeâs wife cuts him off. âYou dare call a prince a liar? Even in your last moments, you reach for insolence.â
But you do not flinch. You do not answer her. Instead, you turn your eyes, pointed and unyielding, to the Crown Prince. The silence between you speaks louder than protest: you know where the true rot sits, and you are no longer afraid to let him see that you know.
The King nods once. âVery well. At dawn tomorrow, she will hang.â
Tomorrow. How cruel faith can be.
The Crown Prince bows, relieved to be done with this nuisance. âThe house will be grateful for your decisiveness, Father.â
The wifeâs fan opensânot for air, but in silent victory. The jade lady glows, already drafting the measures that make your quiet death look like good housekeeping.
They take you away. You do not look back, not because you are heartless, but because you are disciplined enough to follow up on your promises.
When the hall empties, Mingyu remains where he is expected to stand, because the thought of moving might make him collapse. The Queen passes and pauses. For a long beat, she says nothing. Then:
âIf you mean to be a fool,â she murmurs, âbe an excellent one.â
It is not permission. It is not a map. It isâperhapsâthe only pity she can legally offer a son who has already chosen his path.
The evening bell sounds in the distance, counting the hour. The sound awakens Mingyu to start moving before the emptiness of the room can claim him.
Outside, the night waits, testing whether men can ever be braver than their titles. His pulse steadies as he stepsâanger beaten into rhythm, resolve sharpening with every pace.
He does not know yet what saving will look like. He only knows the shape of ruin if he does nothing. And so, he chooses: he will not let you die while he still breathes.
Tomorrow, you told each other.
A whole rebellion can fit into that word.
The night before your death arrives, the palace has never been quieter, as if it were ashamed of itself.
You draw your knees closer and lace your fingers in prayer until the ache convinces you your hands still belong to you.
Keys rattle in the corridor.
You do not rise. There is no use in spending your body before the moment demands it. The keys pause, a breath, then try the lock. A second torch joins the first, and the shadows climb the wall.
Your gate does not open. It lifts.
The bar comes free in a single quiet motion, a hand catching its weight so the iron does not clatter. The lock turns with a softness that should be impossible for metal. The door swings open in a careful span.
He is there. Mingyu. Bareheaded, breath damp, his face stripped of every courtly habit. He has cut his hair at the nape. All that remains is the man. âCome,â he says, and the word is both plea and command. âThere is no time.â
âYou will lose everything,â you answer, because truth is the first language you shared.
He steps into the cell, into the narrow space of straw and stone, and kneels so fast his robe scrapes the floor. The chain at your ankle shivers when he lifts it; the lock clicks open. He moves to your wrists. Cold iron kisses air, and then your skin remembers how to be only skin. âI already did,â he says, eyes never leaving yours. âI lost it the first night I chose you.â A swallow. âI am choosing you again.â
You say the only thing that fits the shape of the moment. âThen I will not let you run alone.â He pulls you to your feet.
Mingyu blows the torch low with a careful breath as you pass through the corridor; the dark leaning in but not biting. He leads, counting steps under his breath in the old guardâs rhythm, and you find his count without being taught. At the corner, he holds up a hand. A guard turns in a chair, snorts, and returns to the bargain it made with wine. Mingyu slides a coin on the bench by the manâs elbow as if paying for silence were a courtesy, not a crime.
Stairs spool upward. A door. Another key. An empty courtyard. The moon hangs over the roofline and lays a paler path on the flagstonesâjust wide enough for two. âWe will be seen,â you whisper. âThen they will learn we are faster,â he answers.
At the laundry eaves, he has left a bundle: a plain cloak for you, a soldierâs cap to shade his face, a strip of cloth for your hair. He ties it quickly, fingers gentle. A rope ladder waits inside a rain spout; he draws it out, hooks it to the lip, and tests the pull. The wall rises. You look at it and laughâonce, shocked at the boldness of your lungs.
âDo you trust me?â he asks, already bracing the ladder. âYes,â you say, because you already leapt when you said I love you. âMore than I trust the ground.â
You climb. Your feet remember the ridge above your old village, the way stone gives when you ask it properly. The wallâs top is a thin barrier between two lives. You throw your leg over, look back onceânot at the palace, not at the lattice of windows where women fold and unfold their daysâbut at him. He comes up after you, eyes brighter than anyone should afford in this moment.
As you reach the far side, you see trees that were cleared out long ago and then grew back anyway. A lane where carts drag. Space. At the backside gate, a single horse stands, head down. Two bundles hang from the saddle: water, a pouch of coins, a roll of cloth, a wrapped packet that will turn out to be rice cakes and dried persimmons and a knife. Mingyuâs hands move like he memorised the motions.
He cups your foot and lifts you to the saddle. He mounts behind you, one arm circling your waist, the other finding the reins. His mouth is at your ear. âHold,â he says. âAnd do not look back.â
You look forward at the lane, and he clicks his tongue. The horse answers, and the world begins. You do not look back.
The first alarm sounds much later than it should. A horn sounds from the inner court, then another. Torches wake like small stars. A gong beats the night, and the night throws it back.
In the Kingâs chamber, word arrives in a rush and collapses at his feet. He sits up with the cruelty of being summoned by betrayal rather than pain. âWhich son?â
The servant does not dare say the name at first. âThe daegun,â he answers because he must. âWith the condemned.â
The Kingâs breath goes thin. A lifetime of choosing between father and law tightens into a single, exhausted line. He issues orders as if the words will stave off the ache.
âStrip him of title. Strip him of rank. By morning, he is no more than a man with a name. Send riders.â
In the Queenâs rooms, the message arrives softer, as if kindness could be folded around this kind of news. She closes her eyes because she had seen this end before it could be written. When she opens them, her gaze is clear.
âTell the Jeongsil,â she says to her women, âthat she has won a smaller victory than she thinks.â
The Crown Prince is already awake, as some men always are when they have invested in a bad harvest. At the report, satisfaction lifts his mouth and then falls. He motions with his hand, sharp and neat.
âSend riders,â he says, âfast and quiet. Bring the girl back before dawn. If you cannot bring her back, bring the proof that she will not walk again.â
He does not mention his brother. The omission is not mercy.
The wife stands at her window, watching the courtyard fill with hurried men. She holds only a cup. In the glass, she can see her own expression. She speaks to the jade lady without turning.
âSet another place at my table,â she says. âFor absence.â
The jade lady bows her head. The Jeongsil drinks from her cup.
The road unwinds.
Fields sleep in their winter stubble. Ditches hold thin ice that breaks like old lacquer at the horseâs hooves. Your hands learn the sinew of the animal, the way it moves under your knees, the language of speed.
Behind you, faint at first and then less faint, a courier bell taps: one, twoâsilenceâone. Soldiers. The old message: We are coming.
Mingyuâs arm tightens. You can feel his breath notch and smooth, notch and smooth. You lean into him to remind him on how to keep moving.
âLeft,â you whisper at a break in the hedges, because a childhood of climbing walls gives you a nose for gaps. He turns the horse; branches scrape, then fall away; an ox track becomes a path becomes a trail becomes a thumbprint of hard dirt between scrub pines.
âYou planned this,â you say, half accusation, half awe.
âI hoped for it,â he answers, then corrects himself. âI decided on it when I said I loved you to iron.â
There is only truth in his confession. Your chest loosens and tightens at once.
The path narrows. A stream, newly arrogant with snowmelt, chatters and then hides again. The horse takes a slope. You find a rhythmâbreath, hoof, twig, the occasional call of a bird.
On a high shelf of ground, you dismount to spare the animal. Mingyu leads; you follow, your hand at the saddle, the horse tossing its head. When the trail kinks around a boulder, Mingyu halts, listening with his whole body.
âTwo riders,â he says. âOne farther back.â A pause. âNo dogs. Good.â
âHowââ
âHoofs argue with gravel,â he says, as if it were a proverb.
You smile without meaning to. He catches it with a glance andâGod, even nowâfinds a way to look a little astonished that joy would choose your face.
The first riders appear low on the slope. Mingyu takes your hand and pulls you into a cut where the ground has slumped, a pocket of earth with just enough thorn to suggest no passage here. The horse lowers its head and pretends to be a bush.
You press shoulder to shoulder, heart to back, breath to breath. The riders pass. One speaks and the other laughs. Their bells say nothing.
When the sound fades, Mingyu does not move. He turns his face into your hair.
âSay it again,â he whispers.
âWhat?â
âAnything that belongs only to us.â
You find the words easily now. âI love you,â you say, and everything in you says it with you.
He exhales as if he has been holding a plank above his head for a month.
âI love you,â he answers, and everything in him answers with him.
You move again.
The mountains meet you like old godsâaloof, patient, unconcerned with human names. A frozen fall locks itself to a cliff. Spruce lift black spires into the air.
At a fold in the ridge, a hut reveals itself. Mingyu pulls the door beam free. Inside: a low hearth, a broom worn to its last dozen straws, a pallet that remembers other fugitives, a jar with three chestnuts and a handful of cracked barley. Enough to call this a place.
He has stashed a bundle under the floor plank where the wood darkens. Coins. A second knife. A pair of coarse coats too large to be yours but small enough to be better than cold. He spreads a blanket, lights the ashes until a sigh of heat rises, and knuckles each log as if greeting a fellow.
You lower yourself. Mingyu drops to his knees in front of you and takes your feet in his hands as if feet were things princes cared to touch.
âBreathe,â he says gently.
âI am.â
âAgain.â
You do.
When he looks up, he is smiling, a secretive, helpless tilt that lives on in your mind.
âI have no title,â he says softly, as if introducing himself. âNo land. No right but what we make.â
âYou have a name,â you answer, âand you gave it to me to keep.â
You eat in silence, grateful for barley that refuses to stop being itself even when boiled to softness. The chestnuts tilt toward sweetness. Mingyu unwraps the persimmons and hands you the one that kept its shape best. You bite and taste a memory you did not know you would need: frost and honey and the cleverness of patience.
When the light thins to the blue that comes before deep blue, he pulls another blanket around your shoulders and draws you outside.
The moon is polished tonight.
It hangs above the black line of the next ridge, round and gleaming. Beneath that calm and patient eye, he wraps his arms around you from behind and fits his chin to your shoulder.
âDo you regret it?â you ask tentatively.
âChoosing you?â His breath warms your ear. âIf ruin were the price, I would have paid it sooner.â
You turn in his arms. The mountains do not look away. You touch his cheek with the back of your fingers, a gesture you learned from women who handled hot pots and loved grandly anyway.
âWe are free,â you say. âWe are hunted,â he says.
âBoth can be true,â you answer, and the night, which has been listening impolitely, murmurs its approval in the firs.
From far down the valley a bell speaksâfaint, uncertain. Riders at the foot of the mountain. You do not stiffen. You lean into him and feel how a body holds against anotherâhow two warm places make a third.
âWe can keep moving,â he offers. âNorth to where the river forgets its name. East to a village that never learned ours. West to a coast so wide your maps would have to be stitched to hold it.â
âOr we can stay,â you say, looking at the hut. âA season. Enough to learn what the wind calls this ridge.â
âAnd after?â
âAfter,â you say, and you smile, âwe will see which direction wants us.â He laughsâthe sound startles the night and then pleases it.
âSay it again,â he asks, selfish for once. âI love you.â He closes his eyes. âI love you,â he returns, no less greedy.
You finally kiss him. Slowly, knowing you will return to the motion tomorrow and the next day.
At the palace, banners are moved, seals are pressed, a name is stripped clean of its titles and set back on the table like a plain bowl. The King signs. The Queen folds her hands and does not open them again that night. The Crown Prince sends men with tired horses to bad ground and calls it diligence. The wife sleeps with a straight back and wakes with the taste of iron in her mouth.
A servant will say later that a plum leaf fell into the stone basin in the hidden garden and refused to float.
None of that lives here, on this shoulder of the mountain.
Here, your breath creates soft clouds that move in and out of each other. Here, the horse pushes its nose into Mingyuâs hand and tells him in the old animal language that it will carry you farther if asked. Here, frost writes thin letters on the plank, and you read them as permission.
You are cold. You are not unarmed.
When you finally lie down, he draws you into the hollow under his collarbone as if you were made to live there. He says nothing more of kings or brothers. He listens to your heart until his own decides to walk the same pace.
In the hours before dawn, you wake and realise that even hunted, even hungry, you are more yourself than you have ever been. You wake with your name intact.
âReady?â Mingyu asks.
âReady,â you say, and mean it twice.
The trail runs ahead, a thin thread on the foundation of the earth.
You step into the future. You are not forgiven. You are not condemned. You are chosen, and you are choosing.
The soldiers will come and then go. The Crown Prince will sit taller and then wonder at the ache in his back. The King will grow old, the Queen older, the wife will eventually learn that victory is a room with no windows. The jade lady will count seeds and someday lose track of which season she is in.
You will count streams. You will find a market where the thread-seller loops patience around her fingers. You will map a coastline that tastes of salt and forgiveness. You will stop under an apricot tree when spring remembers it is allowed, and you will lie beneath it and pretend you can hear the petals land.
My light, Mingyu will say, not because he wishes to own you, but because he needs a word for the way you turn the world visible.
My moon, you will answer, not because he lights your path every night, but because he knows how to stay when the sun decides to be elsewhere.
A/N: Have I ever written a piece this long? No. Am I very unconfident with how this turned out, but did I post it anyway? Yes. Did it break my heart while I wrote this? Heck yes. I hope you enjoy reading it! And I apologise in advance for any historical inaccuracies I may have made, I tried my best. đ
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)
This had genuinely kept me up at night. Like i knew im a fast reader and 27k words would be devoured in an hour and a half for me but THIS oml. I had to savor every word and breathe in this world slowly. I genuinely can't believe I got to read this for FREE like??? wdymmm???!!! Thank you thank you so much for sharing this with us @memoiresofaneternaldreamer, it was such a breathtaking read. Please bear with me as i share my favorite lines and moments. I'm sorry cause im mostly just rambling. i just love it sm.
SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT
A matron waits beneath the eaves, hair built high as a crown of lacquer, mouth pinched. Her name is not offered; her authority is enough.
âStrip her,â she says.
-This. I felt the immediate shame and that what had been stripped away were far greater than MC's clothes. The description of such a grand yet unforgiving place sets the tone for the whole story.
Itâs only service,â your father said then, as if words could blunt the blade. âHonourable. You will be fed. You will be safe.â
âYou sold me,â you said, and watched the words reveal the truth in his face.
-i loved how much of her background you encapsulated in two paragraphs. this part in particular hurt me so much because you can really feel the sharp betrayal from someone who was to keep you forever.
The wife comes closer. âYou understand your good fortune,â she says, and the line between statement and threat is a hairâs breadth.
You hold her gaze because you have not yet learned not to. Behind her eyes, there is calculation; behind the calculation, a certain fatigue. You realise with a jolt that she is not old. Power has made its mark upon her early.
âI understand I am here,â you say.
-SHE'S A FIGHTER I LOVE HER SM. Those quick, plain, and truthful retorts she makes have become my favorite.
His face is handsome, yes, in the unimpeachable way a coin is stamped.
-So initially i thought the Crown Prince was mingyu BUT this description made me question myself LMAO i just loved the way you worded this. It later tells what kind of a person he is, owned by the monarchy and stiff, idk if it was intentional or not. Looking back, its so fitting.
âAppa, did you see?â
The Kingâs gaze slid past him and landed, gentle as habit, on the elder son. âYour brother will require men who shoot true,â he said, not unkindly. âYou will be one of them.â
...
âYou will copy your brotherâs edicts someday. Write them clean.â
-the ache i felt for mingyu on this one. i like how you capture how the palace is cruel even to its own. That a royal family can be unfeeling. I sort of expected a direction towards what is always known about royalty (riches, power, leisure etc.) but you had captured the cruel reality of it, how kingdom and the next heir's safety is of higher regard.
The jade ladyâhe knows her as the wifeâs favourite instrumentâbows in polished reverence. âDaegun honours us.â
âThe King honours order by believing it lives here,â he replies dryly.
Her eyes measure him, then flatten. âWe keep peace.â
âPeace without bruises is the durable kind.â
-the mouth of this one and the way he pulls tension so peacefully ugh i wanna kiss him sb.
The evening he stood on a roofline and stared at the city lights, wondering how many lives do not hinge on a month and a womb.
He thinks of your chin, which refuses instruction, and the way silk fails to domesticate you.
He thinks of you. Fortune is a word with a debt inside it, you said, and he wants to know what you would name the creditor. He suspects you will not grant the palace that dignity. He hopes you wonât.
-love how beautifully worded this was and how he had seen her and their similarities in just that observation alone.
âTruth is a guest here,â he says quietly. âWe are asked to feed it but not to let it sleep.â You make a sound that resembles amusement if only you were feeling giddy. âYou speak like a book that learned despair.â
âBooks do not despair,â he replies. âPeople do. Books keep them from drowning.â
-I have a feeling each dialogue is read like profound wisdom and i was right.
You open your eyes and do not turn. âI have learned the rules. I am trying to meet them halfway.â Mingyu steps into your peripheral vision. He keeps his distance, that faithful dog. âHalfway,â he repeats. âThe palace prefers obedience that is given fully.â
âAnd yet you are here.â
A pause. âI am the exception that proves the cruelty.â
-Truly love how their rebellion is always teasing but never fully committing.
âHyungnim.â
The Crown Prince glances at him, irritation already sparking. âWhat is it?â Mingyu bows, not too deep. A second sonâs bow must always hover between humility and presence. âThe new girl has been⊠unwell.â His brother narrows his eyes. âUnwell?â
-OH BOY HE'S ATTACCHHEEDDDDD
Like you, he is a shadow in a hall of lanterns.
But unlike the othersâwho do not see you, who refuse to see himâhis eyes do not pass over. They linger. Not boldly, not enough to draw whispers. Just long enough to remind you what it feels like to exist in someone elseâs sight.
..
Because in that gaze there is no dismissal, no condescension. There is recognition. The kind that threatens to undo you,
-stop, i had to stop. Do you know how emotional that made me feel?? THIS EARLY ON?? I just love how this simple act of gaze meeting conveys more than meets the eye. Theres recognition, theres admiration, theres a bond over something theyve yet to discover.
Then your mouth remembers how to smile, and the surprise of it hits him hard, sharp and sudden.
Mingyu thought he knew the shapes you could takeâangry, proud, sharp-tongued, or silent. But not this: eyes widening at an ink-seller painting blessings onto fans, feet carrying you closer to a string of bird-shaped lanterns until their painted claws almost catch your hair, breath slipping out freely, as though youâve just remembered the world might still hold places where you arenât punished for being alive.
-the gasp i gusped. i could envision the festival so beautifully and how smitten mingyu was just seeing her finally smile. But that moment meant so much to her because she could truly live.
Holding it out to you, she lifts her brows. âTake it. You have a face that argues with the dark.â
..
âAjumeoni,â she says to you without shyness, âyour lantern has a strong word.â She points. âDoes it work?â You crouch to eye level, the silk of your robe dragging over the mud. âOnly if I carry it.â
-i love her so much YOU DONT UNDERSTAND. her strength speaks volumes omg.
âAnd what do you want in return?â
âNothing,â he says, because the right answer is nothing. The wrong answer is everything. âOnly for you to breathe.â
-this was the first time i had to put my phone down and stare at my ceiling and swear because that line was so perfectly delivered. the right answer is nothing. the wrong answer is everything. HOLY SHITT mingyu wants her everything.
Mingyu kisses you.
He is not a boy. He knows the difference between wanting and rushing. So he does not press. He offers.
..
Above, the lantern swings once, its glow circling your joined shadows.
-listen, i've been so stuck on the picture of this as i kept reading. especially when i think about how mc had measured shadows and even called mingyu one. AND I HAD SLAMMED MY FISTS ON MY BED LATER THE MOMENT MINGYU CALLS HER "MY LIGHT" IKHKFHGKJ I NEED TO BE SEDATED. THEY KISSED. AND THE IMAGERY
âBecause they are already waiting for you to fall. I will not help them push.â
-OHHH BOIIIIIII
âLeave,â you say. âThis is my storm.â
He steps into your rain as if youâve told him the opposite. He unclasps his cloak, shakes it once, and settles it across your shoulders. The wool holds the dayâs heat and, absurdly, the faint scent of pine smoke. The weight drags you back into a body you had almost let the rain carry away.
-HEđGAVEđHERđHISđCLOAKđ JUST KISS AGAIN PLEASE
âSay the best of it,â Mingyu asks then, and the question surprises you.
âThe best?â
âGive me a scene that refuses to make your hope die.â
-ooofff mannn, this whole scene of her sharing these stories about her childhood just felt really bittersweet, magical, and powerful at the same time. it tells you so much of who she is and how much bigger life was for her before she had been taken. the attention mingyu has with her stories too like ugh brother u wanna kiss her so bad
You turn your head toward the entrance in the wall you had walked through. âHow did you find it?â
âBy following a cat,â he says, and when your eyes flash, amused, he adds, âVery dignified story.â
-i giggled a bit because i could just picture this tall ass clumsy man fumbling and bumping into things also ugh painter mingyu ughhhhh
You lift your face to him, and the admission is final. âI choose you.â
He exhales harshly, his lungs struggling against his ribs. âDo you know what you are saying?â
âYes.â The word leaves no room for hesitation. âIf tonight ruins me, then let me be ruined by my own will.â
Mingyu reaches you. His hands riseâhesitate at either side of your faceâand then cup your cheeks. His forehead tips to yours, his brow brushing yours. âYou undo me,â he whispers, the confession raw. âYou are my undoing.â
âThen be undone,â you answer.
-the way i would have BAWLED. She chose HIM ugh i cant with these two. the whole scene felt so desperate, raw, truthful and a death sentence. (which surprise surprise would be)
âBeautiful,â he murmurs, breath ghosting over your core, âMy light.â
-THIS IS WHAT I WAS FUCKING TALKING ABOUT IDK IF IT WAS INTENTIONAL BUT MINGYU AS A SHADOW IN THE BEGINNING THEN MC BEING HIS LIGHT IM---BYE
You push back against him, your voice breathless. âEven if the world condemns me⊠I would rather belong to you for one stolen night than live unloved for a lifetime.â
He leans in until the bars kiss his cheek and yours. Through iron, your mouths find each other, the kiss awkward, yet urgent, stubborn. Tears fall without permission; neither of you bothers to hide them. Salt meets iron and iron learns salt.
When he pulls back, it is only enough to speak against your mouth. The words arrive before caution can draft a replacement.
âI love you.â
They are not elaborate. They are not princely. They are only truth.
Your breath catches. Your eyes close, open. Your answer comes.
âI love you.â
-i just love love that grows and thrives even the darkest and cruelest places.
Tomorrow, you told each other.
A whole rebellion can fit into that word.
-I was so devastated and nervous at this segment like WAIT IS IT GOING TO BE A HAPPY ENDING CAUSE I WILL CRY AND RIOT IF IT ISN'T I NEED TO KNOW WHAT WERE THEY THINKING. THEYRE SOULMATES AND SO INTUNE EVEN I CANT PREDICT WHAT THEYRE PLANNING ON.
âYou will lose everything,â you answer, because truth is the first language you shared.
âI already did,â he says, eyes never leaving yours. âI lost it the first night I chose you.â A swallow. âI am choosing you again.â
The mountains meet you like old godsâaloof, patient, unconcerned with human names. A frozen fall locks itself to a cliff. Spruce lift black spires into the air.
..
âI have no title,â he says softly, as if introducing himself. âNo land. No right but what we make.â
âYou have a name,â you answer, âand you gave it to me to keep.â
..
Mingyu unwraps the persimmons and hands you the one that kept its shape best. You bite and taste a memory you did not know you would need: frost and honey and the cleverness of patience.
-You know when i started reading this bit, i could literally feel the cool air of the mountains. it tasted like freedom. I could cry for these two.
At the palace, banners are moved, seals are pressed, a name is stripped clean of its titles and set back on the table like a plain bowl. The King signs. The Queen folds her hands and does not open them again that night. The Crown Prince sends men with tired horses to bad ground and calls it diligence. The wife sleeps with a straight back and wakes with the taste of iron in her mouth.
-I kept rereading this line because its so satisfying. i love how you came back to these characters so central to the plot than leave it on an open ending with just mingyu and mc. I was so satisfied knowing that these people have lost and have obsessed over something they will never have control over. I still think about the line about the wife "she will see that victory is a room without windows" and how true it was for everyone mingyu and mc left behind. These two are free, those in the palace are not.
My light, Mingyu will say, not because he wishes to own you, but because he needs a word for the way you turn the world visible.
My moon, you will answer, not because he lights your path every night, but because he knows how to stay when the sun decides to be elsewhere.
-i stared at nothing for a long time. im left breathless from a beautiful adventure of a world and the soul. your writing has brought me back to the childlike wonder i had when i first discovered books. it revived something dormant in me. I love your writing and how careful and witty you've threaded the words together. The circling back, the banter, the wise retorts, and the danger that bites under the veneer of royal courtesies. Words cannot truly express how alive this made me feel. You have such a wonderful gift and thank you thank you for sharing it to us. I'd like to kiss your brain with consent. I hope that if one day, you wish to write a book, it will touch people the way you do ours and it will be so successful and memorable. UGH im so sorry im not so eloquent right now but i hope i put my point across. Brilliant work, will be coming back to this A LOT. I hope you have the bestest day ever <3
kmg x reader: healing comes in small doses masterlist
pairing: husband! dad! kim mingyu x afab! mom!reader
general tags: domestic fluff, established relationship, lots of talk about marriage and family situations, nonidol!au, they have a daughter together,
warnings: a lot of this will be talking about healing as adults, some topics will be difficult like coming to terms with things you didn't have and not having to villainize anyone for it. be ready and be open minded with what you read!
a/n: Like to build a home, I will not follow a linear timeline as it is mostly drabbles on their lives. I hope you enjoy and kindly reblog with tags as they help me reach others <3 thank you so much! <3
timeline marks as i've posted these randomly: dating stage -âŠ, early marriage -⣠with family -â
Summary: what the title suggest, Mingyu being clingy towards you :)
Wc: 689
Warnings: none!
A/n: this had me kicking my feet oml down bad for this man UGH
MASTERLIST
-
Mingyu gets like this sometimes.
You first notice it when youâre sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while the late afternoon sun spills through the windows of his apartment. Mingyuâs stretched out beside you at first, long limbs taking up more space than necessary, but within minutes heâs inching closer. Then closer again. Until his thigh is pressed flush to yours, warm and solid.
You donât say anything. Youâve learned better.
A minute later, his hand slides over, fingers hooking lazily around your wrist. He tugs, gentle but insistent, until your arm ends up draped over his chest. You feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palm, slow and steady, and his other arm comes around your waist like it belongs there.
âGyââ you start, amused.
He hums, low and satisfied, already half-buried in your neck. âJust stay,â he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. His nose brushes along your jaw, nuzzling like a giant, affectionate puppy. âDidnât get enough of you today.â
âYou saw me this morning,â you point out, trying to sound serious even as your fingers curl into his shirt.
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes soft, lips in a faint pout. âThat was hours ago.â
Before you can reply, he shifts againâbecause of course he doesâpulling you fully into his lap. You squeak in surprise as he manhandles you with ease, legs on either side of his thighs, his hands settling securely at your hips. He leans forward immediately, forehead pressing into your shoulder.
Thereâs something almost needy about the way he holds you.
âComfortable?â you tease.
He exhales, long and content. âNow I am.â
His hands donât stay still. They never do when heâs like this. One traces slow, absent-minded circles along your lower back, the other sliding up your side, thumb brushing under the hem of your top like heâs checking to make sure youâre real. Every few seconds he presses a kiss somewhereâyour shoulder, your collarbone, the side of your neckâsoft, lingering, unhurried.
You tilt your head back slightly when his lips find that sensitive spot below your ear. âYouâre being extra clingy,â you murmur.
âMm,â he agrees easily, lips curving against your skin. âBad day.â
That explains it.
You soften instantly, one hand coming up to thread through his hair. He melts into the touch, eyes fluttering shut, grip tightening just a little as if heâs afraid you might disappear if he loosens it.
He stays like that for a while, breathing you in, cheek pressed to your chest, arms wrapped around you fully now. You can feel his heartbeat through his hoodieâstrong, steadyâmatching yours little by little.
When you shift to reach for your phone again, he clicks his tongue in quiet disapproval and traps your hand between his palms.
âHey,â you laugh. âI was scrolling.â
He brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours. âPay attention to me.â
The way he says itâsoft, almost shyâmakes your chest ache.
âNeedy,â you whisper fondly.
âOnly for you,â he says without hesitation.
Later, when you move to stand, he follows immediately, arms wrapping around your waist from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder, body pressed flush to your back, tall frame curving around you protectively.
âWhere are you going?â he asks, voice low.
âKitchen. I was going to grab water.â
âIâll come.â
âYou donât needââ
âI want to,â he interrupts gently, squeezing you once before lacing your fingers together. He walks you there like that, hand-in-hand, refusing to let go even when youâre filling a glass.
When you finally turn to face him, he looks at you like youâre everything. Like the room would feel empty without you in it.
He dips down, pressing his forehead to yours. âStay with me tonight,â he murmurs, even though you already were planning to.
You smile, hands sliding up his chest. âIâm not going anywhere.â
His shoulders relax instantly, relief written all over his face as he pulls you into another tight hug, chin tucked over your head.
Summary: Mingyuâs obsession with your ass đđ
Wc: 482
Warnings: suggestive
MASTERLIST
~
Mingyu has always been tall, broad, all long limbs and easy confidenceâbut itâs his hands that get you.
Big, warm, possessive hands.
You notice it first in private, when thereâs no one around to call him out on it. Youâll be standing in the kitchen of his apartment, phone in hand while you scroll mindlessly, and suddenly there he is behind you. No warning. No sound. Just his chest pressing into your back and his hand settling shamelessly on your ass like it belongs thereâbecause, to him, it does.
âMingyu,â you mumble, trying to sound annoyed while failing miserably.
He just hums, low and pleased, chin dropping to your shoulder. âMm? Iâm just sayinâ hi.â
His fingers squeeze once, slow and deliberate, like heâs testing your patience. You swat at his arm, but youâre smiling, and he knows it. He always knows.
The thing isâhe doesnât stop in public either. Thatâs the real problem.
Youâre walking through a crowded street, fingers laced together, masks on, when you feel it. His hand slides from your waist just a little too low, palm settling comfortably against you like itâs the most natural thing in the world. You hiss his name under your breath, glancing around, heat rushing to your cheeks.
âThere are people,â you whisper.
âSo?â he replies innocently, lips twitching. âThey donât know.â
You shoot him a look. He grins back at youâwide, dimpled, unapologeticâand gives you the slightest squeeze before pulling his hand away like heâs done nothing wrong.
He absolutely has.
When youâre out with the boys, itâs worse. Theyâre all laughing, teasing, talking over one another, and Mingyuâs arm is slung around your shoulders like usual. From the outside, it looks harmless. Protective. Sweet.
Only you know his hand has wandered.
You elbow him lightly, warning. âBehave.â
He leans down, mouth brushing your ear as he murmurs, âYouâre the one wearinâ these jeans.â
You regret everything immediately.
Later, when youâre sitting on the sofa together, legs tangled, heâs restless. Always touchingâthumb tracing circles on your thigh, fingers absentmindedly flexing like he needs to feel you just to stay grounded. When you shift to get comfortable, his hand follows, settling right back where it clearly loves being.
âYouâre so annoying,â you tell him.
He looks at you like youâre his favourite thing in the world, eyes soft but dark, smile lazy. âYou love it.â
And the worst part?
Heâs right.
Later, when itâs just the two of you, he pulls you close, forehead resting against yours, hands finally still.
âFor the record,â he murmurs, voice low and warm, âI grab you âcause I like you. A lot.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling as you wrap your arms around his neck. âYou grab me because you have zero self-control.â
He laughs, deep and soft, and gives you one last, gentle squeeze before kissing your temple.
Youâre halfway down the stairs when you stop, fingers curling around the banister, because the kitchen looks exactly like a memory you didnât know youâd been saving for this moment.
Your father stands at the counter in his thick knit sweater, sleeves rolled up the way he always does, methodical and calm. And right beside himâtoo tall for the space, shoulders slightly hunched so he doesnât hit the cabinetâis Mingyu.
Your husband. Your boy. Your home.
Heâs barefoot, hair still a little messy from sleep, wearing the old hoodie you stole from him years ago and never gave back. Heâs holding a spatula like itâs a serious responsibility, nodding along as your father speaks, the pan hissing softly beneath his hands.
You donât realize youâre smiling until your cheeks start to hurt. Behind you, your mother pauses, takes it in for half a second, then leans in and whispers with quiet satisfaction, âI knew you married well.â
She doesnât wait for your reply, just heads down the stairs like this is exactly how things were always meant to be. âGood morning, omma,â Mingyu says immediately, voice warm and respectful, bowing his head just enough. Your mother hums happily, âSmells good.â Then Mingyuâs head lifts. His eyes find you instantly.
And there it is, that cheeky, boyish smile thatâs been yours for almost ten years now. The one that says there you are without a single word. The one that still makes your chest feel stupidly full. âMorning,â he says softly.
Thatâs when it happens.
His hand slips. The pan shifts. A sharp hiss âAh!â. Youâre moving before your brain catches up. âMingyu!â He winces, pinkie already flushed red, and you grab his wrist gently but firmly, tugging him toward the sink.
âTypical Mingyu...â you mutters and sigh, turning on the cold water and guiding Mingyuâs hand underneath it. He watches you instead of his finger.
You cradle his hand like itâs the most natural thing in the world, thumbs brushing his skin as you hold it under the stream. His shoulders relax almost immediately, a small smile tugging at his lips. âI was making your eggs,â he says, like that explains everything.
âYouâve been making my eggs for ten years,â you reply, glancing up at him. âAnd you still burn yourself. Everytime.". "Hazard of loving you,â he grins.
You roll your eyes, but your grip softens, thumb rubbing slow circles over his knuckle. He leans down slightly, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head, voice low enough that only you hear it. âCold?â he murmurs. âA little.â
He reaches out with his uninjured hand, tugging your sleeve down, instinctive, careful, just like earlier when he tucked the blanket over your ears before leaving the bed.
You let go of his hand only when youâre sure heâs okay. He squeezes your fingers once before turning back to the stove, pinkie wrapped in a towel now, humming softly. You step back, leaning against the counter, watching him move around your childhood home's kitchen like he belongs there. Because he does.
And when he glances back at you againâsmiling, warm, completely at homeâyou realize something simple and steady settle into your chest.
This.
This is the life you chose.
And on a quiet winter morning in childhood home, with scrambled eggs on the stove and family all around you, it feels exactly right.
A homage to Mingyu's fangs (aka my obsession)- a drabble
gets slightly suggestive at the end btw
edit: i keep coming back here and finding more mistakes, my bad. all good now though, i think. also, i wrote this right after listening to the magnus archives so, if you happen to know what that is, i encourage you to read this in jon's voice
Ever since dating mingyu, you've started to develop a little habit.
It's harmless, though, from an outsider's perspective, it would perhaps be considered a bit odd. Freaky, even.
See, you have a bit of a hyperfixation with him. No one would blame you, of course, I mean, look at him. Who wouldn't be hyperfixated on all of that? But, there's one small thing about him, one particular thing that you've been obsessed with since even before you started dating.
His fangs.
Those two, cute little teeth with their slightly sharp, pointed ends have a chokehold on you. You don't know why. Perhaps it just makes his smile that much cuter; whenever he giggles or grins wide, those two little teeth are like extra treats, a cherry on top of his wonderful smile.
Anyway, you've developed a habit: you like pressing the pad of your thumbs onto their sharp ends.
Usually, you'd do it when you happen to be standing higher than he isâwhich is rare, considering he's taller than 80% of the population, including youâ like if you happen to be standing on a platform, or he's sitting on a chair and you stand over him.
When you first did thisâaround a month after dating and you had let your intrusive thoughts winâ you were met with confused participation.
Mingyu had been whining about something, pressing his face against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist like snakes. You had been fondly exasperated and overcome with a sudden cuteness aggression that you can't help but cup his cheeks, tilt his head back and just- squish his cheeks.
But then he whined even more, revealing those cute fangs, and you simply slipped your thumbs between his teeth and pressed against them, making him unable to close his mouth properly.
His whining stopped and he only blinked up at you in confusion, eyes wide and so puppy-like that you can't help but bite your lip, or else you'd let out an inhumane squeal.
"Huh?" He mumbled, mouth still parted, arms still tight around your waist.
You pressed slightly harder, forcing him to widen his mouth even more, and you proceeded to shake his head around simply because you can't help it.
He only ever whined louder, and that's that.
So that's the start of your odd habit. Whenever Mingyu's head happens to be somewhere lower than yours, you'd cup his cheek, tilt his head back to look up at you and slip your thumbs past his lips, pressing them against his fangs.
He had grown used to it by this point, in fact, he seems to like it whenever you do this. Sometimes he'd close his teeth, nibbling at your thumbs playfully. Sometimes he'd simply stare up at you, waiting for you to release him, wide brown eyes almost sparkling. And he knows exactly what he's doing, because you had never been able stop yourself from kissing all over his face whenever he looks at you like that.
Sometimes, though, when he's feeling particularly needy, he'd stare at you through his lashes and gently press his tongue against your thumb, licking at it.
That usually leads to both of you tangled up in each other's arms. In bed. Naked.
Anyway, the fact that he likes to bite so much doesn't help your case either.
If you have a habit of grabbing his little caninesâ like one would when training puppies to be gentle with their teethâthen, he has a habit of biting. No, chewing, more like.
Anywhere he can reach. Your arms, your neck (his favorite spot), your stomach (second favorite), your collarbones, the soft meat of your thighs (also second favorite, jury's still out), your ears, your cheeks, even.
It's not unusual to wake up after a night of passion with bite marks littered all over your body, and mingyu takes pride in his work every single time.
He'd even take pictures sometimes. "For the memories," he'd said. Though you're pretty sure it's to add to his jerk off materials.
He'd lay you in bed, even make you pose for it. The pictures look good, you'd have to admit. There's a certain aesthetically pleasing, pinterest-like quality to the way he'd take them. More often than not, your face wouldn't even be in the shot. They would just be artistic photos of your marked neck, or the glimpse of your waistline beneath a shirtâalso marked, or even a tasteful shot of your bruised thighs.
So it seems that you both have odd habits, and you're both chronic enablers for each other. A match made in heaven.
p/s: got a little sidetracked at the end ngl. but the concept of mingyu taking aesthetic, smexy pics of you hmmmm having thoughts and visions
in the meantime, check out my other works under the wormyz works tag!! (i havent made a proper masterlist yet cause im lazy :3 )
Title: Boyfriend Privileges
Pairing: Mingyu x gn(femme presenting)!reader
Genre: fluff, suggestive, established relationship
Wordcount: 9.9k
Rating: 18+
Synopsis: The ten times Mingyu has shown off his "boyfriend privileges"
Warnings: suggestive content not suitable for anyone under the age of 18, food mention, pet names, reader presents as feminine at one point (wearing a dress) but it still reads as gender neutral, slight angst, bathing together
Disclaimer: The scenarios and depictions in my works are fictional and do not represent real-life situations. They do not aim to reflect the complexities of any culture, city, or individual. All characters are entirely fictional, regardless of names or descriptions.
A/N: this fic was created before i decided to leave this blog permanently, and put on queue to be posted now. this blog is still not active. read here to find out why
MDNI: Adults only. Minors are not allowed. Any minors found will be blocked.
Masterlists
You're not sure exactly when it began or what prompted it, but a few months into your relationship, Mingyu started asking you to do little tasks for him. They're always small, often tedious things. Whenever you hesitate, he flashes a charming smile and invokes "boyfriend privileges." Maybe it's the playful way he says it or the endearing look in his eyes, but you always end up giving in.
Mingyu, ever perceptive, has noticed this and teeters on the brink of abusing his "powers." But it doesn't bother you. You'd happily indulge your boyfriend's privileges.
Mingyu is a large puppy that just doesnât understand how big he is. At least, that's how you see him. Whenever your boyfriend comes home from an especially rough day at work, he wants cuddles. It doesn't matter what you're doing, he'll pout and beg until you sit down on the couch and let him cuddle up in your lap.
"You're crushing me," you mutter.
You're sitting with your legs over the couch cushions, your back against the armrest. Mingyu's laying over your body like a human blanketâone of those electrical blankets that people use in winter. The man is warm.
"Boyfriend privileges," he mumbles, his voice muffled against your skin.
You sigh because you know he's right, you'd let him do this even if he's crushing your bones. Letting your fingers tangle in his hair, Mingyu let's out a sound of approval and nuzzles his head deeper into the crook of your neck. His arms are around your torso, making sure that you don't even try to move. Not that you would.
"Did you have a long day?" you ask softly and he hums. "My poor baby..."
You coo at him, and he whinesâhe's relishing in being doted on. Mingyu's arms squeeze you a little, a silent sign that he wants you to continue.
"You work so hard, don't you?" You wait for Mingyu to nod before you coo again, "My hardworking Gyu, you're doing such a good job. People love you, you know that? They appreciate your work. So do I."
Mingyu tilts his head up, his eyebrows raised as he silently asks for confirmation. "I really do," you add.
"Thank you..." He puts his forehead against your chest and sighs. "I needed this... needed you."
"I know, puppy." You smile and ruffle his hair.
Mingyu groans and lifts his upper body off of you, his arms resting on the armrest behind you. "Oh, finally! I can breathe!" you exclaim dramatically.
"Sorry," he mutters.
You cup his face in your hands. "I was kidding. I don't mind." You lean in and press a kiss on his pouty lips. "You're like my blanket... or like a Saint Bernard who's forgotten he's not a puppy anymore."
Mingyu smiles at that, before leaning in to litter your face with pecks that have you giggling and squealing.
You're in line for a ride at an amusement park when Mingyu suddenly turns to you. It's been at least five minutes since you started waiting, and you can tell he's getting impatient. His foot taps rhythmically on the ground, and he keeps glancing at his watch.
"Can you give me a massage? My shoulder's stiff," he huffs, rubbing the offending spot for emphasis.
"Again?" Your eyebrows furrow with concern. "Gyu, you should really go see a specialist..."
Mingyu pretends to ponder this suggestion, then shakes his head with a playful grin. "I don't need a specialist if I have you."
You sigh and roll your eyes, but can't help smiling at his pleading expression. His big, puppy-like eyes, the way his smile showcases his adorable canines, and his hands clasped together in a mockery of prayer make it impossible to refuse. "Sure," you mutter, already resigning yourself to his request.
The line moves a little, and you both shuffle forward a few steps. You're momentarily distracted by the imposing structure of the rollercoaster ahead, watching as the cart sends passengers hurtling through loops and dips at breakneck speed. Your reverie is interrupted by Mingyu poking your side.
"What?" you ask, looking back at him.
"Please?" he repeats, his tone even more imploring.
"Now?" You glance around at the crowd surrounding youâthough no one seems to be paying attention, you feel self-conscious.
"Now," Mingyu insists, nodding earnestly.
"Babe, I can't massage you here. You know you shouldn't take off your shirt in public, right? Even if we do find somewhere private, I don't have any oilsâ"
"Not a big one." He interrupts, holding up his hand with his index finger and thumb inches apart. "A small one. Just on the spot on my shoulder."
"Gyuâ"
"Boyfriend privileges," he pleads quietly, eyes wide and hopeful.
You can't say no to him when he gets like this. With a resigned sigh, you motion for him to turn around. He does so eagerly, bending his knees slightly to give you better access to his shoulder. Placing one hand on his neck and the other on his shoulder, you begin to work your thumb into the knot you find there.
Mingyu lets out a soft, contented sigh, only audible to your ears, as he relaxes almost immediately under your touch. The tension in his shoulder melts away, and his head drops forward slightly, eyes closing in relief. The gentle hum of the amusement park, the chatter of the crowd, and the distant screams from the rollercoaster all fade into the background as you focus on easing his discomfort.
Despite the oddity of the situation, there's something intimate and endearing about the moment. The world around you blurs, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of your own making. And as you massage Mingyu's shoulder, you can't help but feel a warm rush of affection for him and his silly, endearing ways.
The restaurant is alive with the hum of conversations, the clinking of cutlery, and the occasional burst of laughter. However, all of this fades into a distant background as you focus intently on Chan's story. It's a rare opportunity to meet the members in person, despite your boyfriend working so closely with them, so you want to make the most of every second.
Mingyu, on the other hand, is lost in his own world. Ever since he finished his meal, heâs been zoned outâleaning back in his chair with a distant look in his eyes. You can't decide if he's impatiently waiting for Chan to finish or if he's just succumbed to a food coma. But when he casually reaches over and steals a fry from your plate, your doubts about the food coma vanish. You glance at him, and he meets your gaze with a small, mischievous smile before grabbing another fry. You let him.
A sudden gasp beside you snaps you back, and you turn to see Jun staring at you with mock jealousy from across the table. You smile and tilt your head questioningly.
"What?" you ask, bemused.
"You hit my hand when I tried to borrow a fry from you," Jun accuses, his eyes narrowed at you.
"First of all, I gently slapped it," you correct him. "Second of all, you were stealing, not borrowing. Don't try to make your crime sound better."
Jun huffs dramatically, and you can't help but grin. Meanwhile, Mingyu, taking advantage of the distraction, nabs another fry from your plate. There are almost none left now. As Jun reaches out to make another attempt, you slap his hand away with a swift motion.
"But heâ" Jun starts to protest.
"Boyfriend privileges," Mingyu interjects smoothly, popping the last two fries into his mouth with a triumphant grin.
You hear a collective groan from the others at the table, but you just chuckle at Mingyuâs proud expression. "Mhm, boyfriend privileges," you repeat softly, unable to suppress a smile.
You lift a hand to gently brush the hair out of Mingyu's face, and he looks at you with a loving smile that makes your heart flutter. The warm feeling in your stomach is more than just the satisfaction from the delicious food you've eaten.
"Can I finish telling my story now?" Chan interrupts, a hint of exasperation in his voice.
You pull your gaze away from Mingyu and refocus on Chan, giving him your full attention once again. "Go on," you say, eager to hear the rest of his tale.
The feeling of someone's soft breaths feathering against your face makes you scrunch your nose in sleepy annoyance. Mingyu's warm hands travel to your waist with the familiarity of someone whoâs done it a million times before. And he has. His touch is intimate and assured, sliding over your skin with practiced ease. He knows you're awake now, evident by the low hum you let out, so he presses a few tender kisses on the bare skin of your clavicle, each one like a gentle spark of warmth.
"G'morning," you mutter, your voice still heavy with sleep, the words blending into a sigh.
"Good morning," he whispers softly, his breath tickling your skin.
You recognize his morning voiceâhis "I just woke up" voiceâso you can tell heâs been up for a while. His voice sounds clearer, more alert, like heâs had time to turn around and take a sip of the water he always leaves on his bedside table.
"Have you been awake for long?" you ask, your words barely above a whisper as his lips continue their gentle exploration, each kiss a tender reminder of his affection.
"Since eight-thirty," he answers between kisses, each one a delicate attempt to keep you as close as possible.
You glance at the clock, seeing that it's almost nine already. "Babe, you've been awake for half an hour... why didnât you wake me up?"
Mingyu pauses his kisses to look up at you, his expression soft and affectionate, his eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion. Turning his head slightly, he looks over at the clock and hums thoughtfully.
"I was busy," he says with a playful glint in his eyes. He nestles his head back in the crook of your neck, his warmth enveloping you, but doesnât resume his kisses, much to your dismay.
"Busy doing what?" you murmur, curiosity piqued, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his back.
"Looking at you," he admits with a giggle, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His gaze is filled with affection, his eyes sparkling with sincerity, and he's trying his best to hold back a big grin. "It's my boyfriend privilege. Only I get to see you like this."
"It's a privilege to see my bed head?" You snort, but Mingyu stays serious, his eyes unwavering, his hand gently stroking your cheek.
"Everyday," he replies softly, his voice a tender caress.
You feel a rush of warmth at his words, and you can't help but smile. You reach up to run your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer for a soft, lingering kiss. His lips are warm and inviting, the kiss deepening with the love and tenderness that has grown between you over the months. The world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you in this quiet, intimate moment.
When you finally pull back, Mingyu's eyes are half-lidded, his expression content and serene. He gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek, his touch light and loving. "I love these quiet mornings with you," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm to your soul.
"Me too," you whisper back, your heart swelling with affection, your eyes locked with his.
You snuggle closer, your bodies fitting together perfectly. The world outside can wait a little longer as you bask in the warmth of each other's presence, the quiet intimacy of the morning making everything else fade away. Mingyu's hands continue their gentle caresses, his fingers tracing soft lines over your skin. You feel utterly cherished, each touch and kiss a testament to the love you share. The gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the warmth of his body against yours create a cocoon of contentment that you never want to leave.
"Gyu!" you shout from the bathroom, "What time is it?"
The sound of his long steps come closer and closer until the bathroom door pushes open. Mingyu's head peeks through the gap in the door, and smiles as soon as he sees you. You're wearing the new dress he bought you, the cute sundress that couldn't help himself from buying when he saw you looking at it.
"You're pretty," he murmurs and slinks into the bathroom.
He wraps his arms around you, your back relaxing into his chest. "Mingyu," you repeat.
"What?" He pulls his eyes away from the dress to meet your eyes.
"What time is it?" you ask again with a teasing smile.
"Oh, it's around three-thirty." His hands find your waist. "We should leave in half an hour."
You nod and start packing up your make up. "Good, I think I'm done anyway... do you think I look okay?"
Mingyu lets go of you, spinning you around to face him. You can only grin while he studies you carefully with his lips pursed and his eyebrows furrowed in focus. After a few seconds, he nodsâsatisfied with what he's seen.
"Perfect." He puts his hand right below your jaw, careful not to disturb the make up on your face. "You look perfect, baby."
His smile remains radiant as you arrive at his family's get-together, a constant beam of joy that lights up the entire evening. Mingyu keeps you close, his arm possessively yet gently wrapped around you, presenting you to the members of his family you haven't yet met. Every introduction is accompanied by a glowing remark about you, his voice brimming with pride. You feel like a movie star at a film premiereâthe constant pampering, the way his eyes sparkle every time he looks at you, and the sneaky photos he snaps when he thinks you're not looking.
Mingyu can't seem to stop showering you with compliments. "This is my partner," he says, beaming, as he introduces you to yet another relative. "They're incredible, you know. Smart, kind, and absolutely stunning." He turns his head to you, trying to contain his big smile by biting down on his bottom lip.
You blush, murmuring polite responses, but his praise never ceases. It's in the way he looks at you, eyes full of adoration, and the way he never lets go of your hand, his thumb occasionally brushing against your skin in a soothing gesture.
Throughout the evening, Mingyu is a constant presence by your side, his touch grounding you amidst the whirlwind of social interactions. His family is warm and welcoming, their smiles genuine as they embrace you into their fold. The air is filled with laughter and conversation, the smell of delicious food wafting through the house, creating an atmosphere of warmth and togetherness.
Mingyuâs playful nature shines through as he snaps candid photos of you, his grin widening each time you catch him in the act. "Youâre just too beautiful not to capture," he explains with a cheeky smile, earning a soft laugh from you.
As the night progresses, you find yourself growing more and more flustered under the weight of his unending compliments. Yet, there's a thrill in itâa heady mixture of embarrassment and joy at being the center of his universe. His family notices, and they tease him gently about his lovesick behavior, but it only makes him hold you closer, whispering sweet nothings in your ear that make your heart flutter.
By the time the evening winds down, youâre overwhelmed with affection, feeling cherished and adored in a way that leaves you breathless. The warmth of Mingyuâs family, combined with his constant praise and tender glances, has wrapped you in a cocoon of love and contentment. As you prepare to leave, Mingyu wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close for a tender kiss on your temple, his lips lingering just enough to send a shiver down your spine.
"Thank you for coming with me tonight," he murmurs, his voice soft and filled with genuine gratitude. "You made everything perfect."
You smile, leaning into his embrace, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your own. "Thank you for taking me along... I don't think I've seen you like this before," you admit, your voice a gentle whisper in the quiet of the night.
"What do you mean?" He cocks his head, his eyes curious and endearing, making you laugh softly at his obliviousness.
"You were trying to show me off all night," you explain, a playful note in your voice. Seeing his slightly worried expression, you quickly add, "It was sweet, Gyu. Really, it was."
Relief floods his features, and he leans in to press a kiss on your lips. The kiss is soft, lingering a second longer than it should, filling you with a warmth that spreads through your entire body. "It's my boyfriend privilege to get to show you off," he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief and affection.
You groan playfully, rolling your eyes at his words as he starts giggling, the sound infectious and heartwarming. Taking your hand in his, he leads you to the cab he's ordered to take you home. The night air is cool and refreshing, a gentle breeze rustling through the trees, but Mingyu's hand in yours keeps you warm.
As you approach the cab, he pauses for a moment, turning to look at you with a tenderness that makes your heart swell. "You know," he says softly, brushing a stray hair from your face, "You should wear that dress more often."
"Oh yeah?"
Your breath catches in your throat at his words as he pulls you into a tight embrace. "Yeah," he whispers.
With one last lingering kiss, you both get into the cab, his arm never leaving your shoulders. As the city lights blur past the window, you lean into Mingyu, feeling his warmth envelop you.
When you enter the apartment, none of the lights are turned on. You worked late that day, but not so late that Mingyu would've gone to sleep already. The apartment is eerily quiet, devoid of the usual warmth and liveliness. Toeing off your shoes and putting away your outerwear in their rightful places, you start to wonder if he's not home. He usually texts you when he gets home, but you haven't received any messages.
Concern etches between your brows as you walk further into the apartment. The kitchen is spotless, with no pots or pans on the stoveânot that you always expect Mingyu to cook, but he had told you earlier today that he'd have something ready for you when you got home. You open the fridge, finding it just as you left it this morning. The absence of any signs of recent activity deepens your worry.
As you pass the bathroom by the guest room, you flick on the lights, casting a warm glow to see the path to your shared bedroom. By the ajar door, you notice a piece of fabric slumped together on the floor. Picking it up, you realize it's Mingyu's jacket. You drape it over your arm and continue to the bedroom, your heart pounding with unease.
He's not there, but you see that the light in your bathroom is on, a soft glow seeping through the cracks in the door. You place his jacket on the edge of the bed before approaching the bathroom door, only to find it locked.
You knock softly, pressing your ear against the door. "Mingyu, I'm home... are you okay?"
"I'm okay, baby," he replies, but his voice is thick with tears. "Sorry, I didn't have time to make you dinner... I think there's some leftovers from yesterday."
"Please, open the door." Ignoring his suggestion about dinner, you grab the door handle. "I can hear that you're not okay."
You hear him sigh, and his footsteps approach the door. Stepping back, you wait as the door swings open. The first thing you see is his bloodshot eyes and red nose. He sniffles and looks away, trying to hide his vulnerability.
"I'm..." He hesitates, torn between lying and being honest.
Before he can decide, you engulf him in a hug, wrapping your arms tightly around his torso. "Oh, baby..."
The dam breaks as a sob bubbles up Mingyu's throat, a raw, heart-wrenching sound that shatters the silence. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hot tears streaming down his cheeks and soaking into your shirt. You can feel the wet warmth of his tears spreading, a tangible sign of his anguish.
You rub his back soothingly, your hand moving in slow, comforting circles. Each sob wracks his body, causing his shoulders to tremble violently. His fingers clutch at your shirt, holding on as if he might drown without this anchor.
Minutes pass, each one heavy with his sorrow, until finally, his sobs begin to subside. His shoulders stop shaking, and his breathing slowly evens out, though occasional hiccups still break through. Only then do you loosen your embrace, though you don't fully let go. Instead, you gently take his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears that cling to his skin. His eyes are red and swollen, filled with a mixture of lingering sadness and gratitude.
"Do you want to talk about it?" you ask softly.
"...can I tell you later? I'll start crying again if I tell you now." He lets out a choked laugh, trying to relieve the tension, but your frown remains.
"Okay. Let's get you cleaned up."
You gently wipe away Mingyuâs tears, your thumb brushing over his cheeks with tender care. His skin is warm and damp, his eyes still glistening with the remnants of his sorrow. Your touch is gentle and reassuring as you guide him to change into more comfortable clothes. You help him out of his work attire, unbuttoning his shirt with careful fingers, and replacing it with a soft, worn-in t-shirt that brings him comfort. Each movement is deliberate, designed to soothe and calm him. You then help him into a pair of loose, cozy sweatpants, ensuring he's enveloped in softness and warmth.
Once heâs settled, you guide him to the couch in the living room, your arm around his waist, supporting his slow and heavy movements. The weight of his exhaustion is impossible to miss, his shoulders slumped and his steps dragging. He collapses onto the couch with a weary sigh, sinking into the cushions as if they might absorb some of his burden.
You start to leave for the kitchen, intending to get him something to eat or drink, but he grabs your hand. His grip is firm yet desperate, his fingers curling around yours with a silent plea for you to stay.
You turn back to him, your heart aching at the sight of his vulnerable expression. Mingyu looks up at you, his eyes wide and filled with a mixture of fear and need. "Don't leave," he whispers.
"I'm going to heat up some leftovers," you explain. "You haven't eaten yet, have you?"
Mingyu shakes his head no and lets go of your hand. You feel his eyes on you as you walk around the kitchen, quickly putting something together. It's not fancy, and it's nothing like what he usually makes you, but it's enough for the two of you right now.
When you return to his side, you give him his bowl before settling down next to him. You eat in silence, letting Mingyu sit as close to you as he pleases. When you're done, you take the dishes to the kitchen. Although you want him to sit still and rest, he follows youâhis arms wrapped around your waist the entire time.
It's hard to move around, but you don't complain. Soon enough, the dishes are done and you're back on the couch. Mingyu has his arms wrapped tightly around you as you lay on top of him.
"Thank you," he mutters.
"You don't have to thank me." You lean up to look him in the eye. "Me taking care of you is your boyfriend privilege."
He smiles and presses a chaste kiss on your lips before closing his eyes. The two of you end up falling asleep on the couch on accident. But your stiff body is worth it when you get to see Mingyu smiling at you the next morning.
On the flight back home from a much-needed vacation, Mingyu booked the two of you first-class seats. It was partly because he loves spoiling you, but also so you could sleep comfortably on the way home. The plush seats and extra legroom were a perfect idea, promising a restful journey, but right now, that comfort feels like a far-off dream.
The flight was delayed by a few hours, leaving you and Mingyu stuck at the gate. The airport buzzes with the quiet hum of late-night travelers, the occasional announcement crackling over the PA system. The two of you sit in the lounge, surrounded by weary passengers slumped in their chairs, eyes glazed with fatigue. The smell of coffee and cleaning agents lingers in the air, mingling with the soft rustle of newspapers and the muted clatter of luggage wheels.
Mingyu tries to make the best of the situation, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. His warmth seeps into you, a soothing balm against the weariness. "Just a little longer," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. Despite the delay, his presence is a comforting anchor in the sea of exhaustion, his voice a soft murmur that calms your racing thoughts.
You glance at the clock, the minutes ticking by slowly. The soft lighting of the lounge casts a warm glow, but it does little to chase away the tiredness settling into your bones. Mingyu's fingers trace soothing patterns on your arm, his touch gentle and reassuring, each stroke a silent promise of love and comfort.
"I can't wait to be home in my bed," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, heavy with exhaustion.
Mingyu leans his head on your shoulder, his soft hair brushing against your cheek as he closes his eyes with a contented sigh. The weight and warmth of his head against your shoulder provide an unexpected comfort, grounding you in the moment. "This is enough for me," he says softly, his breath warm and reassuring against your skin.
"My shoulder?" you ask, a teasing lilt in your voice, feeling the vibration of his chuckle through the closeness.
"Yes," he replies, his tone earnest and affectionate. His closeness feels intimate and safe, a bubble of tranquility amidst the chaos of the airport.
"And why should I let you have my shoulder?" you tease, a smile tugging at your lips as you relish the closeness.
"Boyfriend privileges," he replies matter-of-factly, his lips brushing against your neck as he speaks. The slight pressure of his lips against your skin sends a wave of warmth through you.
You sigh, a mixture of amusement and tenderness filling your heart. The playful banter and the sincere love in his voice make your heart swell. You tilt your head to rest against his, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. The world around you fades into a comforting blur, the distant chatter of the airport and the mechanical hum of the environment becoming mere background noise.
For a moment, it's just the two of you, wrapped in each other's warmth and love. His presence is a cocoon of safety and affection, and you close your eyes, allowing yourself to relax fully in his embrace. The gentle rhythm of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart, and the soft, warm pressure of his head against yours create a symphony of comfort that lulls you into a peaceful state.
Your peace is soon interrupted, however. Finally, the boarding announcement crackles through the speakers, breaking the heavy silence of anticipation and sparking a collective sigh of relief that ripples through the gate area. The weariness of the long wait begins to lift as passengers gather their belongings. Mingyu helps you gather your things, his hand never leaving yours as you make your way to the boarding line. His touch is a reassuring anchor, grounding you amidst the bustling crowd.
"Almost there," Mingyu whispers, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.
"Thank goodness," you reply, offering him a tired smile.
The atmosphere shifts as you step onto the jet bridge, a mix of excitement and fatigue hanging in the air. The cool, conditioned air of the plane greets you as you board, offering a welcome contrast to the stuffy terminal. The flight attendants greet you with warm smiles, guiding you toward the plush sanctuary of first class.
Settling into your spacious seats, the world outside begins to fade away. The soft cushions envelop you in comfort, and the generous legroom allows you to stretch out and relax. Mingyu stows your carry-ons in the overhead compartment with ease, his movements fluid and practiced.
As he sits down beside you, the overhead lights cast a gentle glow. "This is so much better," you murmur.
Mingyu smiles, reaching over to adjust your blanket, tucking it around you with a tenderness that melts your heart. "I told you it would be worth the wait," he says softly, his eyes filled with affection.
You can't help but smile at the thought of curling up next to him, the hum of the plane's engines a soothing backdrop. "You always know how to spoil me," you whisper, leaning into his touch.
"It's my favorite thing to do," he replies, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Besides, you deserve it."
As the plane takes off, you lean into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. The world outside the window shrinks to a distant blur, and you close your eyes, surrendering to the warmth of his embrace.
"Thank you, Gyu," you murmur, your voice heavy with exhaustion.
"For what?" he asks, his lips brushing against your forehead.
"For everything. For this. For you," you whisper, your words trailing off as sleep begins to claim you.
"Always," he replies softly, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your arm. "Sleep well, my love."
Wrapped in the comfort of his love and care, you drift off, the promise of restful sleep finally within reach. The gentle touch of his fingers lulls you into a peaceful slumber
When someone called out for lunchtime, the members collectively let out a big sigh of relief. With tired limbs, they make their way to the cafeteria. While everyone else lines up to buy something, Mingyu heads straight to the fridge and retrieves a carefully prepared meal. He sits down at a table, placing the metal box with a wooden lid in front of him. A pink, stretchy band adorned with tiny red strawberries holds the spoon in place. His face lights up with a smile as he spots the small note on the lid.
Hope practice is going well! I know you're working hard, so please enjoy your lunch and eat well! Can't wait for you to come homeâĄ(>áŽâą)
Mingyu carefully folds the pink post-it and tucks it into his phone case, a cherished reminder of your thoughtfulness. By then, people have started sitting down beside him, their eyes subtly glancing at the box in front of him. Nobody says anythingâthey already know what it isâuntil he opens it.
Inside the box is a beautifully arranged Korean lunchbox. The main compartment holds perfectly steamed white rice, topped with a sprinkling of black sesame seeds. Nestled beside it is a portion of crispy fried chicken, golden brown and glistening with a light coating of sweet and spicy sauce. The other sections are filled with a variety of colorful banchan: neatly sliced kimchi, lightly seasoned spinach, sweet and tangy pickled radish, and tender strips of stir-fried beef bulgogi. Thereâs even a small section of rolled omelette, its yellow hue bright and inviting.
The delicious aroma wafts up, drawing envious glances from his fellow members. The savory scent of fried chicken and the tangy hint of kimchi fill the air, making everyone's mouths water.
"Did Y/N make you another lunchbox?" Seokmin asks, his eyes wide with curiosity.
"Yeah, they were working from home yesterday, so they had some extra time on their hands," Mingyu replies, a small smile playing on his lips as he inspects the beautifully arranged food.
"It's not fair that only you get homemade lunches from Y/N!" Seungkwan whines, his tone a mix of genuine envy and playful teasing.
Mingyu responds by sticking his tongue out at Seungkwan, making the younger man groan in exasperation. "Boyfriend privileges," Mingyu states proudly, his grin widening.
As he digs in, Mingyu lets out a contented sigh, savoring the flavors and the love that went into preparing his meal. The meat is perfectly seasoned, the rice fluffy, and the banchan vibrant and flavorful. Each bite is a reminder of your care and effort, making the meal taste even better. The members watch with a mix of admiration and envy as Mingyu enjoys his lunch.
As you walk the last bit to the door of your apartment building, you notice a figure in the distance. A tall man, vaguely boyfriend-shaped, waving both of his arms over his head with enthusiasm. Your heart skips a beat, and your smile matches Mingyu's as you break into a run, closing the gap between you. Heâs sweaty from the gym, his skin glistening in the fading light, but you donât mind. You launch yourself into his embrace, pressing yourself as close as possible, feeling the familiar warmth and comfort of his body.
"Are you trying to squeeze me to death?" he asks jokingly, his voice vibrating against your ear.
You loosen your grip slightly, looking up at him with a soft smile. "You have no idea how much I've missed you today."
Instead of teasing you, Mingyu gently pats your head, his fingers threading through your hair with a comforting touch. He sees the weariness in your eyes and the way your hair seems to stick out in all the wrong places, evidence of a long, hard day. "Bad day, hun?" he asks, his voice filled with concern.
The moment he speaks, you feel your guard drop completely. Your lips naturally fall into a pout, and your hands grip the material of his shirt a little tighter. You nod, unable to find the words to describe the exhaustion you feel. Mingyu coos at you softly, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering for a moment, offering silent comfort. He then guides you to the door, his hand resting on the small of your back, a steadying presence.
"Do you want to take a bath with me?" he asks as he opens the door for you, his voice gentle and soothing.
"Okay," you murmur.
Once inside, the apartment feels like a sanctuary, the chaos of the outside world fading away as the door clicks shut behind you. The familiar scent of home, mingled with Mingyu's comforting presence, immediately begins to soothe your frazzled nerves. He leads you to the bathroom, his touch a constant, reassuring anchor as he guides you down the softly lit hallway. The gentle hum of the apartment envelops you, creating a cocoon of tranquility.
In the bathroom, Mingyu starts running the bath, the sound of water filling the room like a calming symphony. You watch as he carefully adds your favorite bath salts, the granules dissolving into the warm water and releasing a soothing aroma. The scent of lavender and chamomile fills the air, creating a spa-like atmosphere that begins to unwind the knots of tension coiled within you.
Mingyu helps you undress with tender, loving movements, his touch feather-light yet filled with purpose. His fingers trace the contours of your body with a delicate touch, each gesture a silent reassurance of his love and care. The way his hands glide over your skin, unhurried and gentle, sends a wave of warmth through you, dispelling the dayâs weariness.
He sheds his own clothes with practiced ease, the fabric slipping off his toned frame effortlessly. The sight of his familiar form, strong and comforting, brings a sense of security and warmth. His skin, slightly glistening from the exertion of the day, catches the soft light, highlighting the lines of his muscles and the contours of his body. There's a serene beauty in the way he moves, each action unhurried and filled with quiet confidence.
Stepping into the bath first, Mingyu eases himself into the steaming water with a sigh of contentment, the sound mingling with the gentle lapping of the water. He settles into the tub, the water enveloping him like a warm embrace. His eyes, inviting and filled with affection, lock onto yours as he extends his hand towards you. The look in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent invitation wrapped in love and intimacy.
You take his hand, feeling the warmth and strength in his grip as he helps you into the tub. The water envelops you in a gentle embrace, its warmth soothing your tired muscles. You settle between his legs, leaning back against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting lullaby against your back.
As you relax into his embrace, Mingyu's arms wrap around you, holding you close. His hands begin to gently massage your shoulders, his fingers working out the knots of tension with skillful precision. The sensation is both relaxing and intimate, his touch a balm to your weary soul. You close your eyes, surrendering to the moment, feeling the stress of the day melt away under his tender ministrations.
The soft glow of the bathroom light casts a golden hue over everything, enhancing the sense of intimacy and warmth. Shadows dance along the walls, creating a serene and almost magical ambiance. The only sounds are the gentle sloshing of water and the occasional sigh of contentment from both of you.
"I love you," you whisper, your voice soft and content.
"I love you too," he replies, his lips brushing against your ear.
You stay like that for a while, the water lapping gently around you, the only sounds the occasional drip from the faucet and the steady rhythm of Mingyu's breathing. Itâs a perfect moment of peace and connection, wrapped in the comfort and love that only he can provide.
After a few minutes, Mingyu shifts slightly behind you, his movements gentle yet purposeful. "Can you wash my hair?" he asks softly, his voice laced with a boyish charm that makes your heart flutter.
You smile, turning slightly to look at him, your eyes meeting his. "Of course," you reply, your voice warm and affectionate.
He hands you the shampoo, and you pour a generous amount into your palm. Mingyu dips his head back into the water, wetting his hair thoroughly before leaning forward to give you better access. The rich, lathering scent of his shampoo fills the air, mingling with the soothing aromas of the bath salts, creating a calming symphony of fragrances.
Your fingers work through his hair, massaging his scalp with gentle, circular motions. The silky strands slip through your fingers, and you take your time, ensuring each section of his hair is coated with the fragrant lather. Mingyu lets out a contented sigh, his eyes closing as he leans into your touch, his body visibly relaxing under your ministrations.
"This feels amazing," he murmurs, his voice a low, relaxed hum that sends shivers down your spine.
You smile, continuing your careful work. "You deserve it," you say softly. "It's your boyfriend privilege, isn't it?"
Mingyu chuckles, the sound a soft, comforting vibration against your chest. Before he can respond, you pick up the shower head, adjusting the temperature before gently rinsing out the shampoo. Tilting his head back with a gentle hand, you let the warm water cascade through his hair, washing away the suds and leaving his hair clean and soft.
He leans back against you once more, his hair damp and silky against your skin. His eyes are half-lidded with contentment, a serene smile playing on his lips. "Thank you," he whispers, his voice filled with gratitude and affection.
"Anytime," you reply, wrapping your arms around him and holding him close. The warmth of the water and the intimacy of the moment create a cocoon around you, shutting out the rest of the world. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, a steady, reassuring rhythm that syncs with your own. Mingyu's hands rest gently on your arms, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin as you both bask in the tranquility of the bath.
The two of you stay like that, cocooned in warmth, the soft glow of the bathroom light casting a golden hue over everything. The sounds of the water and your synchronized breathing create a peaceful ambiance.
You were already in your pajamas, nestled comfortably in bed with your book, when Mingyu walked in, still dressed in his suit but without his tie. The crisp white shirt accentuated his broad shoulders, and the slight dishevelment of his attire made him look irresistibly charming. His hair was slightly tousled, a few strands falling over his forehead, adding to his effortlessly handsome appearance. He didn't have to say anything; the moment your eyes met his, you were already putting your book to the side and swinging your legs out of bed, the anticipation of helping him a welcome routine.
"Where's your tie?" you ask, a hint of amusement in your voice, tilting your head slightly.
Mingyu pulls the piece of fabric from his pocket and hands it to you, a weary yet appreciative smile playing on his lips. The tie is cool and smooth in your hands, its silk gliding between your fingers. Rising to your feet, you step close to him, your fingers deftly slipping the tie around his neck. The familiar action feels intimate, almost like a ritual between the two of you, a small moment of connection in your busy lives.
As you slowly begin to tie it, your fingers working methodically, you glance up at him. "How long is the event?" you ask, your voice soft and caring, eyes meeting his with genuine concern.
"I probably won't be home until after two," he says with a sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as the weight of his long night ahead settles in. The lines of fatigue on his face tug at your heart.
"It's okay. I want you to have fun," you murmur, focusing on the tie but feeling the sincerity of your words. "I'll be busy with dinner and my book anyway."
Mingyu watches you, his eyes softening as he takes in your familiar, comforting presence. "I wish you could come with me," he says quietly, his hands gently resting on your hips as you finish tying the knot. His touch is warm and grounding, a silent promise of his affection.
You tighten the tie and smooth it down, patting his chest gently. "You know I'd love to, but someone's got to hold down the fort here," you reply jokingly, your smile warm and reassuring.
He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, resonating in the quiet of the room. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. "What would I do without you?" he murmurs, his voice filled with a mix of gratitude and love.
You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a warm embrace. "Let's not find out," you whisper, your cheek pressed against his, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours.
Mingyu hugs you tightly, savoring the closeness, the scent of his cologne mingling with the comforting smell of home. When he finally pulls back, he looks down at you with a mix of love and reluctance. "I really should go," he says, though he doesn't make a move to leave just yet.
"I know," you reply, your fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, tucking it back into place. "You'll be amazing, as always."
"Mm, especially with such a well-tied tie," he smiles playfully at you, his eyes twinkling with affection. "I'm so lucky for my boyfriend privilege."
You chuckle softly, resting your hands on his chest. "Yes, you're very privileged," you tease. "Just remember that when you're out there charming everyone."
Mingyu grins, leaning down to press another kiss to your forehead. "How could I forget? My number one fan is waiting for me at home."
You roll your eyes, but your smile is fond. "Just don't let it go to your head."
He laughs, the sound warm and rich. "No promises... I'll miss you," he says, his voice softening as he cups your face in his hands.
"I'll miss you too," you reply, covering his hands with yours.
He gives you one last lingering kiss, his lips warm and tender against yours, a promise of his return. "I'll try to be back as soon as I can," he promises, his voice filled with genuine affection, his hand squeezing yours gently.
"I'll be waiting," you say softly, watching as he finally turns to leave, the door clicking shut behind him. The room feels a little emptier without him, but you return to bed, your book waiting patiently. For a moment, you just sit there, feeling the lingering warmth of his presence and the subtle ache of his absence, already looking forward to his return.
The winter chill had settled in, but the warmth of Valentine's Day wrapped the city in a blanket of love and excitement. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of snow, mingling with the fragrance of roses that seemed to bloom on every corner. Everywhere you looked, couples were bundled up in cozy scarves and gloves, holding hands, sharing tender smiles, and exchanging sweet nothings. The city streets were transformed into a romantic wonderland, with heart-shaped lights casting a soft, warm glow on the cobblestone paths, creating a dreamy ambiance that made everything feel just a little more magical.
Mingyu had planned the entire day with meticulous care, wanting to make every moment special for you. The day began with the gentle sound of his voice waking you, and when you opened your eyes, there he was, holding a tray with breakfast in bedâfluffy pancakes drizzled with syrup, topped with fresh berries, and a steaming cup of your favorite coffee. The sweet aroma filled the room, and as you shared the meal, you couldn't help but smile at how perfectly the day had started.
The afternoon was spent strolling through the city, the two of you arm in arm as you visited all your favorite spots. The streets were alive with the hustle and bustle of the holiday, but for you, time seemed to slow down, every moment stretching into something memorable. You laughed over shared memories, pointing out familiar landmarks and reliving inside jokes that only the two of you understood. The cold air bit at your cheeks, but it was no match for the warmth of Mingyu's hand holding yours, or the way his laughter seemed to melt the chill away.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a soft, golden light over the city, Mingyu surprised you with dinner at the restaurant where youâd had your first date. The sight of the familiar entrance made your heart skip a beat, and when you stepped inside, the ambiance was perfectâlow lights that cast a gentle glow over the intimate setting, soft music playing in the background, and a table tucked away in a quiet corner just for the two of you. Mingyu looked absolutely perfect, the flickering candlelight highlighting his features, making his eyes sparkle with a warmth that mirrored the love in your heart.
He was wearing the turtleneck you had gotten him last December, the deep burgundy color standing out beautifully under his sleek black coat. The sight of him, so effortlessly handsome, made you fall in love with him all over again.
The dinner was delicious, every bite savored as you reminisced about that first date and how far you'd come since then. But as the evening went on, you noticed a certain tension in Mingyuâa subtle shift in his demeanor. He was attentive as always, but his hand gripped yours just a little tighter, and his eyes, though filled with affection, seemed to hold something moreâan emotion he hadnât yet put into words.
When dessert was finished and the check was paid, Mingyu suggested a walk through the park. The idea seemed simple, but there was something in his tone that made your heart flutter with anticipation. The park was beautifully decorated for the holiday, with twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the trees and heart-shaped lanterns swaying gently from the branches. The path was dusted with a light layer of snow, which crunched softly underfoot as you walked side by side, the sound mingling with the distant laughter of other couples enjoying the night.
The cold nipped at your nose, but Mingyuâs presence kept you warm. He walked close to you, his shoulder brushing against yours with every step, and as you made your way deeper into the park, you couldnât help but notice how quiet he had become. His hand, warm and reassuring in yours, was steady, but there was a nervous energy beneath the surface, a sense of something important hanging in the air between you.
The two of you walked in comfortable silence, the world around you gradually fading into the background as you simply enjoyed being together. The park was peaceful, the night air crisp and clear, with the soft crunch of snow underfoot being the only sound between you. The distant twinkle of lights reflected off the lake's surface, casting a serene, almost magical glow over the scene. The sky above was an expanse of deep navy, dotted with stars that peeked out from behind the clouds, adding to the romantic atmosphere.
As you approached a secluded bench near the lake, Mingyu began to slow down, his footsteps becoming more deliberate. His breath was visible in the cold air, curling upward in soft, white puffs. The quietude around you seemed to intensify, amplifying the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. Mingyu stopped walking and turned to face you, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the lights strung up in the trees, making them look like they were sparkling with unshed emotions.
"Are you cold?" he asked, his voice gentle, almost tender, as he pulled you closer. Without waiting for your response, he wrapped his coat around you, his touch protective and warm.
"Not with you here," you replied with a smile, leaning into his embrace, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. But as you looked up at him, you noticed something different, a subtle tension in his expression. "... you're unusually quiet tonight. Is everything okay?"
Mingyu smiled, though there was a trace of nervousness in his eyes, a flicker of vulnerability that made your heart skip a beat. "There's something I've been wanting to say all day," he began, his tone serious but laced with affection, each word carefully chosen. "Valentine's Day is all about celebrating love, right?"
You nodded, curiosity piqued, your gaze never leaving his. "Right..."
He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs before he released it slowly, his hands still holding yours, their warmth grounding you both. His expression softened, and the affection in his eyes deepened, becoming almost palpable. "Well, I wanted to celebrate us... You know how I've always said I'm lucky to have boyfriend privileges?" His lips curled into a small, playful smile, the familiar phrase bringing a rush of warmth to your chest. It was an inside joke that had grown between you, a phrase that had come to symbolize the depth of his love.
You laughed lightly, nodding, your heart fluttering. "You've mentioned it a time or two."
"Well," he continued, the playful edge in his voice giving way to something more serious, more profound. His grip on your hands tightened slightly, as if anchoring himself for what he was about to say. "I've been thinking a lot about what that really means. About how much I love you, and how my life has been so much better with you in it. I don't just want boyfriend privileges anymore. I want... something more."
The air around you seemed to still, the world shrinking down to just the two of you. Mingyu's words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and you found yourself holding your breath, your heart pounding in anticipation.
"Mingyu... what are you saying?" you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you searched his eyes, hoping for confirmation of what you suspected.
"... I want husband privileges," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. The words tumbled out like a secret he had been holding close to his heart, and as they settled between you, the weight of them was almost overwhelming.
Your heart skipped a beat as his words sank in, sending a rush of emotion through your entire being. Before you could fully process what was happening, Mingyu reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. The deep burgundy of the box stood out against the black fabric of his coat, catching the faint light from the lanterns around you. Your breath caught in your throat as he dropped to one knee, the world around you dissolving into a blur. The soft glow of the lights reflected in his eyes, making them shine with a love so intense it took your breath away.
"Will you marry me?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly, each word laced with raw emotion. "Will you let me spend the rest of my life loving you, taking care of you, and being your forever? I want to be your husband, not just today, not just tomorrow, but every day for the rest of our lives."
The sincerity in his voice, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly as he held the ring, and the sheer vulnerability in his gaze made tears well up in your eyes. Your hand flew to your mouth in disbelief, your heart pounding in your chest as the magnitude of the moment hit you. The world seemed to stop, the night holding its breath as you looked down at him, his expression filled with hope, love, and adoration.
"Mingyu," you whispered, your voice shaking with emotion, each word carrying the weight of your love for him. "Yes. Of course, I'll marry you!"
The tension in his shoulders melted away as his face broke into the widest smile, relief and joy flooding his features. His eyes sparkled with happiness as he carefully slipped the ring onto your finger, his touch gentle and reverent. The ring was perfectâsimple, elegant, and exactly what you would have chosen. It glimmered softly in the light, a tangible symbol of the promise you had just made to each other.
Without hesitation, Mingyu stood up, wrapping you in his arms and lifting you off your feet. He spun you around in a joyful whirl, the cold air forgotten as you both laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet park. The night seemed to come alive with your happiness, the trees around you swaying gently as if to share in your joy.
When he finally set you down, his arms remained around you, pulling you into a kiss. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs gently brushing against your cheeks, his touch warm and steady. The tenderness in his grip made your heart swell, and as he leaned in, you could feel his breath mingling with yours, a soft, shared anticipation hanging in the air. When his lips finally met yours, it was as if time itself slowed. The kiss was soft at first, a delicate, reverent connection that conveyed everything words couldnât.
But then, it deepened, his lips moving against yours with a slow, purposeful intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. Each movement was deliberate, filled with a passion that burned through you, igniting every nerve. His kiss wasnât just an expression of loveâit was a promise, a vow sealed with every ounce of emotion he had been holding back. You could feel his love in the way his hands held you, not too tight, but firm enough that you knew he never wanted to let go.
As his lips molded perfectly against yours, the rest of the world faded into oblivion. The cold night air, the distant sounds of the city, even the twinkling lights around youâall of it dissolved into the background, leaving only the warmth of his kiss, the rapid beat of your heart, and the overwhelming flood of emotion between you. It was as if the two of you existed in your own universe, a moment suspended in time where nothing else mattered.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips, his voice filled with reverence and devotion, as if the words were sacred.
Tears still glistening in your eyes, you smiled up at him, your heart bursting with happiness. "I love you too, Mingyu. I hope you're ready for all the husband privileges."
He laughed, the sound rich and full of joy, resonating with the happiness that radiated from him. It was a laugh that spoke of a future filled with love, laughter, and countless more moments like this. He pulled you into another embrace, his arms holding you close as if he never wanted to let go. "This is the best Valentineâs Day of my life," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion.
"Itâs just the beginning, baby," you whispered back, your fingers tracing the outline of his jaw as you looked up at him, memorizing every detail of his face, every line that spoke of his love for you.
The two of you stood there in the park, wrapped in each otherâs arms as the lights twinkled around you, the cold air nipping at your cheeks but failing to penetrate the warmth that enveloped you both. The world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in a moment that felt like it would last forever.
As you walked back home, hand in hand, the silence between you was filled with contentment and the unspoken promises of what was to come. You couldnât help but glance down at the ring on your finger. The excitement of what lay ahead filled you with warmth, and as you leaned into Mingyu, you knew that your life together would be filled with endless love, laughter, and, of course, husband privileges.
Summary: Mingyu had ignored you last night and you will make sure he'll pay for that.
I'm sorry, i'm just full of fluff these days:)
You woke up with a bitter feeling in your chest. Unconsciously, a scowl appeared on your face as the rays of sunshine invaded your sleep. What time is it? you thought, squinting at the bedside clock. It was 9 a.m.âSunday.
You stayed in bed for a few more minutes, replaying last nightâs events in your mind. The scenes came rushing back, each memory sharp and painful, making your heart clench. You turned your head towards the empty space beside you, where Mingyu should have been. The sheets were cold, and you sighed deeply.
He must be up already, maybe hitting the home gym or making breakfast in the kitchen, like he often did on weekends. Just as you were about to bury yourself back under the duvet, you heard the door creak open softly. Your eyes flickered toward the entrance, and your heart softened at the sight of a bright little face peeking in.
âMummy!â An excited chirp filled the room, and your son bounded towards you, his small arms wrapping around you as he jumped onto the bed. His joy was infectious, and you couldnât help but smile, welcoming him with warm hugs and kisses.
âHow was your sleep, baby?â you asked gently, brushing a lock of hair away from his forehead.
He stopped giggling, his smile faltering slightly. âI had a nightmare,â he confessed, looking up at you with worried eyes.
Your heart tightened. âOh, really?â you murmured, concern lacing your voice.
He nodded, his little face serious. âI was so scared, Mummy. I got out of my room and ran to Dad in the workout space.â
You smiled softly, proud of his courage. âYou did a good job, baby.â You whispered to him to join his dad in the kitchen, watching as his face brightened again.
âMummyâs awake!â your son announced loudly as he dashed into the kitchen, settling himself at the dining table. You followed him slowly, your gaze falling on the plates set out with a nutritious breakfast. His toy car lay abandoned next to the fork and knifeâanother small reminder of childhood innocence. Mingyu looked up from the stove as he heard the commotion, his eyes lighting up as soon as he saw you.
âThereâs my beautiful girl,â he murmured, wiping his hands on a towel before walking over to you. He wrapped you in his strong embrace, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. âGood morning,â he said softly, his voice a mix of warmth and concern. But as he pulled back to study your face, he noticed your frown.
He tried to brush it off, but as breakfast went on, your silence deepened. You barely touched your food, and when Mingyu asked you if you wanted more coffee or juice, you just shook your head, eyes downcast. Mingyu glanced at your son, silently asking if something had happened, but An simply shrugged, focusing on his food.
âDid Mummy wake up grumpy today?â Mingyu teased lightly, trying to coax a smile out of you. Your son quickly shook his head.
âNo, Dad. Mummy was already awake when I came in,â he answered truthfully. Mingyuâs brows furrowed, confusion darkening his gaze. Did he do something wrong that he didnât realize?
Breakfast dragged on, the awkward silence lingering between you. Mingyu couldnât shake the unease in his chest, but he decided to let it go for now. After finishing his meal, he called An to take a bath and get ready for his Sunday art class. You remained seated, eyes distant as if lost in thoughts far away from the bustling kitchen.
Once Mingyu dropped An off at the class, he returned home, still unsettled by your distant demeanor. He expected to find you in the living room, but you were nowhere to be seen. Worry gnawed at him. He headed to the bedroom, his footsteps quickening. The sight of you lying under the duvet, motionless, sent a jolt of fear through him.
âLove?â he whispered softly, stepping closer. He reached out hesitantly, his hand brushing your arm through the fabric. You didnât flinch, but your eyes opened slowly, meeting his gaze for a brief second before you turned away, showing him your back.
âHeyâŠâ Mingyuâs voice wavered slightly. He crouched beside the bed, his heart aching at your silence. âAre you okay? Are you feeling sick?â
You remained quiet, eyes closing again as if to shut him out.
âDid I⊠Did I do something wrong?â His voice was low, almost pleading. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to piece together what he might have missed. âWhy are you ignoring me, sweetheart?â
The room felt heavy, your silence echoing louder than words.
Frustration simmered inside Mingyu as he watched you lie there, avoiding him. He crossed his arms, the bed dipping slightly as he sat on the empty space beside you. He looked down at you, his brows knitted together in concern and confusion.
âItâs mean, you know⊠You shouldnât ignore me like this,â Mingyu mumbled, his voice soft but carrying a hint of hurt. His lips unconsciously pouted as he waited for you to respond.
You slowly opened your eyes, staring blankly at the wall in front of you. You knew he was right. You knew it was childish to give him the cold shoulder over something as irrational as a dream. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldnât shake off the weight on your chest, the bitter pang of pain that resurfaced every time you recalled the scene from last nightâs nightmare.
âIf I made a mistake, you should tell me,â Mingyu continued, his tone earnest as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. âYou shouldnât treat someone you love like thisâleaving me to wonder what I did wrong.â
His words hit you like a punch in the gut, guilt instantly washing over you. He was right. You groaned inwardly, frustration now directed at yourself. Why does he have to be so mature? You thought bitterly. Mingyu was always patient, always understanding, and here you were acting like a sulking child. It made you feel embarrassed, yet at the same time, it only made you love him more.
Taking a deep breath, you pushed yourself up, sitting up in bed almost too quickly. You turned to face him, but your eyes remained fixed on the floor, too ashamed to meet his gaze. Mingyu watched you with wide eyes, his posture straightening at the sudden change.
âYou ignored me first,â you muttered under your breath, barely audible.
Mingyu blinked, clearly caught off guard. âWhat?â he asked, his voice laced with confusion. âWhen did Iââ
âIn my dream!â you blurted out, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment.
There was a moment of stunned silence before Mingyu let out a breathy laugh, his expression softening. âA dream?â he repeated incredulously, his smile growing wider. He scooted closer to you, his thigh brushing against yours. âSo, youâre upset because of something I did⊠in a dream?â
You nodded reluctantly, feeling utterly ridiculous now that you said it out loud. But Mingyuâs reaction wasnât what you expected. He didnât laugh or tease you further. Instead, he gently cupped your cheek, tilting your head up so that you had no choice but to look at him.
âHey,â he murmured softly, his thumb brushing against your skin. âIâm sorry if I hurt you, even if it was just in a dream. But you have to tell me these things, love. Iâm not a mind reader, and I hate seeing you upset and not knowing why.â
Your heart swelled at his sincerity, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You leaned into his touch, sighing softly. âIt was just⊠a really bad dream, Mingyu. You were ignoring me, pushing me away⊠I know itâs silly, but it felt so real, and I woke up feeling like Iâd lost you.â
Mingyuâs expression softened further, a look of understanding washing over his features. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. âIâm right here,â he whispered against your hair, his voice filled with reassurance. âIâm not going anywhere, okay?â
You nodded, the ache in your chest finally beginning to fade. âIâm sorry for being difficult,â you murmured, your voice muffled against his shirt.
âJust remember one thing,â Mingyu murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he cupped your cheeks gently, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. âI would never ignore you. Youâre my drop-dead gorgeous wifeâthe love of my life. I would never do something as stupid as ignoring you, love.â
His dark eyes bore into yours, the intensity of his gaze making your heart flutter. You immediately pulled back, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment at his sweet words. But Mingyu found your reaction adorable, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
âAh, there she is. Shy as ever,â he teased, his grin widening. He didnât give you a chance to retreat any further. Before you could even react, he wrapped his arms around your waist and effortlessly pulled you onto his lap, settling you comfortably against him.
âMingyu!â you squealed, instinctively placing your hands on his chest to steady yourself. He smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. His embrace was firm yet gentle, and you could feel his warmth seeping through the fabric of your clothes.
âYes, love?â he whispered, his voice low and dangerously smooth. The way he looked at you sent shivers down your spine. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke, sending a wave of heat coursing through your body. âYou know you canât escape me that easily, right?â
His words made your heart race, and you felt your resolve weakening under his gaze. Mingyu shifted slightly, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch feather-light against your skin. He traced lazy circles along your sides, his fingertips brushing just above the waistband of your shorts. Your breath hitched, the sensation both ticklish and electrifying.
âYouâre so cute when youâre flustered,â he murmured, his lips now ghosting along your jawline. His breath was warm, his scent intoxicating, making it hard for you to think straight. âBut I have to sayâŠâ He paused, his lips hovering just a fraction away from yours, âI much prefer seeing you like thisâso close, so vulnerable.â
Your gaze flickered to his lips, and you swallowed hard. The tension between you was palpable, the air thick with anticipation. âM-MingyuâŠâ you stammered, unable to find the right words. His name came out more like a plea, making his smile widen in satisfaction.
âHmm?â He hummed softly, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. âWhat is it, love? If you want something, you have to tell me.â He tilted his head, his eyes darkening with a mixture of adoration and something elseâsomething far more dangerous. âOr do you want me to guess?â
Before you could respond, his lips captured yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. He took his time, savoring the feel of you against him. Your hands gripped his shirt tightly as his kisses grew deeper, more demanding. He gently nipped at your bottom lip, drawing a soft gasp from you, which he took as an invitation to explore further.
Your heart pounded wildly as he shifted again, his hands roaming up your back, pulling you closer until there was barely any space left between you. You could feel every ridge of his muscles under your fingertips, every beat of his heart against your chest. When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless, your cheeks flushed.
âSee what you do to me?â Mingyu whispered, his voice husky. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. âYou drive me crazy, love. Absolutely crazy.â
You bit your lip, feeling the heat spread through your entire body. âMingyuâŠâ His name slipped past your lips again, and this time, it held a different meaning. You felt his hold on you tighten, his gaze never leaving yours.
âTell me what you want,â he urged softly, his fingers tracing patterns on your thighs. His touch was tantalizing, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. âBecause Iâm more than ready to give it to you.â
Your heart raced, every inch of your skin tingling with the promise in his voice. You hesitated for only a moment, your gaze locking with his, before whispering the words that sent his heart racing as much as yours.
âI want you, Mingyu.â
The atmosphere shifted instantly. His expression grew even more intense, the playful smile replaced by a look of pure desire. Without another word, Mingyu wrapped his arms around you, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you to the middle of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours.
âI was hoping youâd say that,â he murmured against your lips, laying you down gently. He hovered above you, his gaze sweeping over you with a mix of reverence and need. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and finally, your lips.
âLetâs see if I can make up for what dream-Mingyu did,â he whispered, his voice a velvety promise as his hands began to explore, his touch igniting every nerve in your body.
You shivered, anticipation and excitement flooding your senses. âMingyu... Please.." You brethed out, your voice trembling with want.
His eyes darkened even more, smile turned into smirk. "Anything for you love, just tell me where to start.."
*
Later in the afternoon, the sun dipped lower in the sky as you and Mingyu stepped out of the house. The fresh autumn breeze brushed against your skin, making you shiver slightly. Without a second thought, Mingyu slid his hand into yours, intertwining your fingers. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, and before you could glance up at him, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles.
âYouâre too good to me, you know that?â he murmured softly, his voice still carrying that familiar hint of warmth. His eyes, however, glinted mischievously. âMakes me want to keep you inside the house all dayâno distractions.â
You felt a rush of heat spread across your cheeks, remembering the intimacy you had shared just hours ago. Before you could get too lost in the memory, Mingyu nudged you playfully with his shoulder, his expression turning even more teasing.
âYou think the neighbors heard us?â he whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. âMaybe thatâs why Mrs. Song next door was looking a little flustered this morning.â
âMingyu!â you hissed, your eyes widening as you tried to stifle a laugh, your face turning even redder. You playfully smacked his arm, but that only made him chuckle.
âWhat? Just asking!â He shrugged, a smug grin playing on his lips. âYou were a little⊠loud, you know.â
You huffed, trying to act indignant, but it was impossible to hide the smile tugging at your lips. âThatâs your fault!â you retorted, your voice a bit quieter now. âIf anyone should be embarrassed, itâs you.â
âMe? Embarrassed?â Mingyu scoffed, shaking his head. He took a step back, his hand still holding yours, pulling you closer as you made your way to the car parked in the driveway. âYouâre mistaken, love. Iâd shout it from the rooftops if I could.â
Your heart skipped a beat at the sheer confidence and adoration in his voice. Mingyu pulled you in for a quick kiss on the cheek before opening the passenger door for you with a flourish, bowing slightly like a chauffeur.
âYour chariot awaits, my lady,â he announced, his tone lighthearted.
You couldnât help but laugh as you slid into the seat, watching him circle around to the driverâs side. Once he settled in and started the car, Mingyu reached over, placing a warm hand on your knee.
âYou know, Iâve been thinking,â he said, his voice casual, but you could see the playful glint still present in his eyes. âWe should enroll An in a few more weekend courses.â
You blinked, glancing at him curiously. âOh? Whyâs that?â
Mingyu smirked, his gaze flicking over to you before he looked back at the road. âBecause⊠if heâs busy all weekend, then we get more time to do⊠other things.â He paused, his lips curving into a sly grin. âLike what we did this morning.â
Your mouth dropped open slightly in shock before you burst out laughing, shaking your head. âYou canât be serious!â
âCompletely serious,â Mingyu shot back, his expression almost comically solemn. âJust imagineâart classes, sports practice, music lessons⊠weâll have so much free time, I might never let you out of bed.
âStop it!â You laughed, swatting at his shoulder, but the laughter in your voice only encouraged him further.
âIâm just saying,â he continued, his tone mock-defensive. âItâs for our own sanity. We need some alone time, too. Right?â
âRight,â you drawled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. But you couldnât deny the warmth blooming in your chest. His words were playful, but the underlying sentimentâthe desire to cherish every moment with youâwas unmistakable.
Mingyuâs grin softened, and he gave your hand a quick squeeze as you both fell into a comfortable silence, the car humming gently as it cruised down the road.
âMaybe weâll find some balance,â you mused aloud after a moment, leaning back in your seat, your gaze flicking to him. âBut I still think youâre a little too eager.â
Mingyu chuckled, his deep voice reverberating through the car. âCan you blame me?â He glanced at you, his gaze brimming with affection. âYouâre everything Iâve ever wanted and more. So, yeah⊠Iâll never get enough of being around you.â
Your smile widened as you felt a rush of emotion at his sincerity. You knew he was joking earlier, but the way he looked at you nowâwith a mix of love, contentment, and yearningâmade you realize just how much he meant every word.
âI love you, Mingyu,â you whispered softly, reaching out to lace your fingers with his.
âI love you, too,â he replied immediately, squeezing your hand once more before lifting it to kiss your knuckles again. âNow, letâs go get our little troublemaker. Iâm sure he has a million stories to tell us about art class.â
With that, you both shared a quiet, knowing smile as Mingyu drove on, the warmth and love between you two filling every corner of the car.
you offer to shave mingyuâs face for the first time, despite having no idea what youâre doingâand he lets you, all smiles and patience. between messy foam, playful threats, and him trying (and failing) to stay quiet, the slow morning turns soft in all the ways that matter. [wc. 1k]
PAIRING. husband!mingyu x wife!reader
GENRE. fluff
NOTE. come back after god knows how long, hoping that you enjoy this.
âokay. sit. donât talk. donât move.â
mingyu raised both brows as he lowered himself onto the small stool in the bathroom, the one you usually kept tucked under the sink. it wobbled slightly under his weight.
âyou sure this thingâs safe?â
âwell, if it breaks, thatâs on you for being massive,â you muttered, grabbing the can of shaving foam and shaking it aggressively.
he smirked, adjusting the towel around his shoulders. âwow. love the support, babe.â
âjust shut up,â you said, but you were smiling too.
he obeyed, lips twitching as he pressed them together dramatically and tilted his chin up. he looked ridiculousâbare-faced, sleepy-eyed, hair still damp from his shower, and way too amused for someone about to have a first-timer drag a razor across his face.
you stared at him for a second, holding the razor awkwardly. âyou know iâve never shaved anyone else before, right?â
âmm-hmm,â he hummed.
âlike, i know how to shave my legs and stuff, but this is your face. your pretty face. what if i mess up?â
he opened one eye. âyou wonât. i trust you.â
you groaned and leaned in to press some foam onto his jaw. âyouâre so annoying. why are you always sweet when iâm trying to be mad at you?â
he smiled, lips still sealed, and made a little mmm sound to tease you.
you rolled your eyes and started carefully spreading the foam across his face, moving slowly like it was some kind of art project. the cream coated his jawline and chin easily, but then he opened his mouth slightly to speakâ
âstop.â
you pointed the nozzle directly at his lips. âiâm warning you.â
he blinked, then tried to say something again, just to be difficult.
so you squirted a big blob right over his mouth.
âthere,â you said proudly. âyou talk too much anyway.â
his eyes widened. he made a muffled noise and reached up to wipe it, but you slapped his hand away.
ânope. hands down. let the professional work.â
he laughed through his nose, head tilted back slightly as you brought the razor closer to his face.
you moved slow at first, dragging the blade carefully across his cheek. every tiny scratchy sound made you more nervous, but mingyu didnât even flinch. he just sat there quietly, eyes flicking up to yours every now and then, like he was studying your face more than he cared about his own.
you paused halfway through and frowned. âdo i⊠go up or down?â
he tapped the counter behind you twice with his fingers â his way of saying âdown.â
you nodded to yourself. âright. that makes sense. i think.â
he made another sound, like a muffled laugh, but you just wiped more foam on him to shut him up again.
âthis is harder than it looks,â you said under your breath. âyou have such a big face.â
he pointed to himself proudly. big face, big brain.
you rolled your eyes and kept shaving.
it took longer than you thought. he had a lot of facial hair, and you were being extra careful not to nick him. your hands were a little shaky at first, but eventually, the rhythm settled. foam, razor, wipe. again. again.
at one point, you felt his eyes on you again â really watching you this time â and you glanced at him.
âwhat?â
he shrugged slightly.
âyouâre staring.â
he raised both brows and gestured like youâre cute, duh.
you narrowed your eyes at him. âstop being romantic. iâm holding a blade.â
he smiled through the foam. âmmph.â
finally, you finished the last section on his neck and stepped back, exhaling like you just ran a marathon.
âokay. done. donât touch anything yet.â
he sat still, eyes curious, while you grabbed a damp cloth and gently wiped the leftover cream from his skin. the towel was warm from the water and smelled like your fabric softener. you could feel the way his skin was smooth now under it, freshly shaved and clean.
he didnât say anything, just let you wipe his face like it was the most normal thing in the world.
âthere,â you said softly. âmission complete.â
he reached up to touch his face and let out a soft, impressed, âwoah.â
you blinked. âwhat? did i miss a spot?â
he grinned. âno. itâs good. really good.â
you looked at him suspiciously. âyouâre not just saying that to make me feel better, right?â
he stood up and leaned down to kiss your forehead, hands on your waist. ânope. you actually did a great job.â
you felt yourself smiling as you leaned into his chest. âi was scared the whole time. youâre lucky i love you.â
âi know,â he said, kissing the side of your head. âi could feel the love in every terrified little stroke.â
you smacked his shoulder lightly, laughing. âshut up. go get ready. youâre gonna be late.â
âdonât wanna leave now,â he mumbled, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on top of your head. âyou just pampered me. feels wrong to go.â
âmingyu.â
âokay, okay,â he sighed, finally pulling away and heading to the bedroom.
you stayed behind to clean up the mess â foam on the sink, water on the floor, the little towel you used to wipe his face. five minutes later, he came back out fully dressed, wearing that navy button-up you loved.
you paused when you saw him. âyou look really good.â
he smiled and opened his arms dramatically. âbecause my amazing wife shaved me.â
you laughed, stepping into his hug again. âyeah, yeah. just donât let anyone else touch that face today.â
âonly you,â he said easily. âalways.â
you walked him to the door and kissed him goodbye â once, then again, because he always stole a second one.
âtext me when you get there,â you reminded him.
âi will.â
âand donât skip lunch just âcause youâre busy.â
âi wonât.â
you watched him leave, the front door clicking shut behind him, and let out a breath.
quiet mornings like this were your favorite â where nothing big happened, but everything still felt soft and full. shaving cream in your hair, mingyu being annoying in the best way, your little apartment filled with sleepy laughter.
synopsis: in which, you're trying to get a message across your oblivious husband.
w.c: 6,7k
genre: domestic fluff
tags: npr, non idol!au, established relationship, gendered terms, terms of endearment (baby, babe, honey), reader is shorter than mingyu, soft mingyu, fluff, family dynamics, pregnancy
warnings: nsfw mentions, suggestive joke, sickness (pls let me know if i missed anything!)
takes place as newly weds and before seo ah!
a/n: the dialogue and idea of dropping hints are by my lovely alratatata @temptaetions <3 thank you so much, alta! I appreciate you for always having these boundless dialogues!
also i need creative input for my banner. it's my first attempt ksghfdk. i was exhausted towards the end soo...i hope you guys enjoy! ~
Minors/Blank Blogs/Spam Likers will be blocked!
as always, i i thrive on tags, reblogs, and comments!<3
No one told you that part of the highs of being newlyweds was the giddy feeling of choosing the right colors of furniture, picking up on a main recipe for banchan to suit your preference for savory and your husband's affinity for spice, and to your surprise--budgeting.
It was something you both learned the hard way. Though you thought having a partner would make you accountable with your spendings, sometimes the excitement just gets the both of you. Like that ridiculous marble and glass coffee table whose granite color did not compliment your cozier apartment at all. Or that thrifted shoe rack you both got because it was âvintageâ but you had to constantly nail together or choose which shoes could balance out the weight on each layer. Or the fact that you both lapsed into an unhealthy addiction for Mrs. Kwonâs fried chicken and that Mingyu picks up iced americano for you each weekend on his way back from his morning runs.
The attention towards your spending habits as a couple came to light when one evening, Mingyu decided to surprise you with his own take of said fried chicken. Being the amazing cook that he is, he nearly outdid Mrs. Kwonâs recipe. You immediately looked through the receipts, did a calculation and total of all your spendings. To your horror, you sat your husband down to tell him that you could have saved nearly 700,000 KRW if you had just had some self-discipline.
So, you sell the eyesore of a coffee table, use the money to get a good deal for both a new coffee table and shoe rack from IKEA. You get your own espresso machine later and make use of the tumblers your cousin bought you for your wedding day.
What you've both discovered with budgeting was, there were certain items you could save up on by simply doing it yourselves. Initially, you were hesitant about the prospect of doing a terrible job with DIYs that you end up spending more for the damage than saving. Luckily, Mingyu is very good with his hands. Any task or skill he'd put his mind into would always come out great.
You've both started baking your own bread for example. Just last week you've learned to culture your own yogurt. Mingyu, on the other hand, took up some carpentry classes for the sake of custom-building furniture in the odd corners of your home. In the beginning, you thought it was a stretch, not really keen on competing with Nara Smith. But considering that you were both starting on your savings goal for a new home, you let him.
Nearly a year into marriage and budgeting for two had been an adventure, and you've learned it at times didn't have to be strictly practical. You had fun with it too.
Tonight, for example, you gave into your week-long urge to dye your hair and your husband offers to do it for you.
"I never do these steps when I dye my own hair," you mutter, Mingyu scoops a generous dollop of vaseline on his fingers. The rough pads of his fingers smooth the product over the skin near your hairline.
"Yeah, me either," he whispers as if his concentration would break if he was any louder.
You snicker, imagining seventeen-year-old Mingyu and his chestnut brown hair that earned him a suspension and that one picture Wonwoo showed you of Mingyu at twenty-years old with the box-bleach hair fail.
Your husband immediately knew where your mind went with that sparkle of mirth in your eyes. He groans with a pout, "Donât. "
You giggle once he reaches the back of your ears, "I didnât even say anything!"
âYour face carries all the subtitles,â he huffs out before carefully applying towards the last few areas of skin the hair dye would touch.
It's incredibly endearing, you think, that Mingyu chose to do this extra step so you'd avoid the annoyance over the stains on your skin without the protection of the vaseline.
"Thank you, babe," you shoot him a dopey smile as he secures a plastic bag over your (his) old t-shirt. The man only smiles, quickly pecking your nose before slipping gloves over his hands. He looks over the bathroom counter. Plastic over the tiled surface, mixed hair dye, a brush, a comb, and towel.
You help him out by sectioning your hair and setting up a show for you both to watch from your phone. You don't even watch him brush the hair dye on to the first locks of hair. Simply setting your eyes on the show playing on your screen with full trust.
"It doesn't smell...strong or chemical-y," you note, briefly glancing at the mirror to see that your husband has covered half of your hair.
He smirks proudly, tapping at the box, "It's ammonia free~"
"Cool," you say, raising a disbelieving brow at him towards the mirror, "How'd you know about this stuff?"
"Only two failed hair-dyeing can teach ya."
"Oh, I'm starting to think you shouldn't be doing this."
âPlease, thatâs the exact reason why I should be doing this.â
You give him a look but let him be. You know how careful Mingyu is when it comes to you anyway.
An hour later, youâre drying your hair while your husband cleans up the bathroom of all paraphernalia and stains from the dye. True to his word, the color looks promising, a little darker than expected and you notice a section thatâs uneven but you didnât mind, it was at the back of your head anyway. It still scratches the itch for a new look without anything drastic. You catch Mingyu glancing towards the mirror from time to time, like heâs anxious youâll hate it as if you didnât choose the color and do this to yourself. You find it cute.
You also find it cute to tease him too, so you keep your expression neutral and finish up drying your hair.
Mingyu looms behind while you brush your hair and mindlessly style it to frame your face. You love it. The longer you look at it, the more the darker shade grows on you that you decide you love it more than your first choice.
You donât say anything though, even when your husband compliments you. You only hum and after a while, release a deep sigh. His eyes hold that glassiness in them like it does when heâs worried and he gnaws on his bottom lip a little.
âYou donât like it?â
You tilt your head, doing your absolute best not to crumble at the way his voice sounded so small. But you stifle your smile and pull out the uneven section of hair, âWellâŠyou missed a spot.â
A low whine escapes the back of his throat and he looks at you through the mirror while brushing his fingers through your hair. Wrapping his arms around you, he nuzzles his face into your neck in apology.
âBut you look really pretty,â he rests his chin on your shoulder. âWould it help if we dyed your eyebrows too?â
Thatâs when you burst out in giggles unable to resist his poutâwhich grows 10x worse once he realized your ploy.
âBully,â he pinches your side. You squeal, tilting your head up and reaching with one hand to cup his face and kiss the corner of his mouth. Then you keep pressing kisses anywhere your craned neck could reach till his mock offended expression falls away.
âSorry, babe,â you smile, âI love it. Thank you for doing this for me.â
âOf course, baby,â Mingyu kisses the top of your head, a pleased smile stretching across his lips when his choice of brand of dye doesnât smell of chemicals but rather a soft scent of a fruity conditioner. âThe color really brings out your eyes.â
You laugh a little, endlessly amused and endeared how Mingyu speaks to you like heâs your girlfriend. You both take a few seconds to admire his handiwork. He hasnât let go of you yet, swaying your bodies from side to side while you put away your things.Â
âDo you think our kids will have your eyes?â your husband asks.
You nearly drop your hairdryer along with the sudden swoop of your stomach at the question. You pause and sputter out a quiet, âWhat?â
Looking back at the mirror, you notice that he has that far off gaze in his eyes. He shrugs, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
âYeah, I mean, Iâd love it if they would, yâknow? Or your noseâespecially your smile,â thereâs a ghost of a cheeky smirk on his mouth, âBut if they got my height though. Oh, the world is not prepared.â
A flush creeps up to the back of your neck and even while your brain is trying to process the conversation, you answer him dumbly, âYeahâŠsure.â
You talked about kids before you got married. Only in passing and mostly in light hearted conversations such as:
âImagine if our kid sees this photo then calls it vintage.â
âHope the clumsiness isnât genetic. Iâd hate that for our kid.â
âBabe, can you imagine Soonyoung wants a whole ass baseball team? Think we can top that?â
Those countâŠright?
With the way Mingyu talks about children, sends you random cute baby reels, and plays with his little cousinsâyou know that heâs great with kids and that heâd probably want them in the future.
Still, that was when you were dating.
Being married makes the prospect even more real and nearer than you thought. And maybe Mingyu was right that your face carries all the subtitles because he suddenly pales.
âOh babyâŠweâŠsorry...we never talked about it, havenât we?â he composes himself and loosens his hold because it looked like you wanted to hurtle towards the toilet and vomit.
âI-âŠyeah âŠI guess?â you manage to mumble.
It was not like you and Mingyu couldnât talk about serious topics. It just caught you off-guard and quite frankly you were still trying to imagine what it would be like to have child with the current set up you have now. Everything was just so easy with Mingyu but the idea that youâre married and doing life together after years of self-preservation--it was still something youâre getting used to. Now if you think about having a child to the mixâ
You meet Mingyuâs eyes in the mirror, eyes naturally drawn to the glint of his wedding ring from the hand he has on your bicep.
Then your shoulders relax.
When you had your first heartbreak, you had thought that this wouldnât be possible for you. No one could care for you better than you could care for yourself. And while your parents did their best for you, their marriage was not one youâd want for yourself. Coupled with having unhappily married co-workers and speaking with divorced ladies that constantly warned you about the woes of marriageâyou unconsciously villainize the concept of union. Besides, the only happy marriages you personally know of are ones that donât have kids.
You didnât want to be spending evenings, exhausted after work explaining how the stove works. You didnât want to be the one deciding which color fits the kitchen or argue over the difference between titanium white and eggshell white. You didnât want to endure the broken doorknob for two weeks all the while you nag and remind your husband to get it fixed. You didnât want to be that one exhausted mother with a newborn having to explain to her husband how to prepare a baby formula when all you want is a five-minute shower.
You werenât keen on being on your own in a marriage when youâve done better being self-dependent your whole life.
But then there was Kim Mingyu.
Kim Mingyu and his blanket hogging tendencies. Mingyu and the random songs he belts when he potters around the apartment. Mingyu and how he inhales your three spoons in one go. Mingyu and his low whiny voice that increases in 1.75x speed when heâs convincing you to humor him. Mingyu and him risking getting his tongue burnt when heâs too excited to try something youâve made. Mingyu and his stupid little urgent waddles and cheers from the counter to the freezer when heâs purchased your favorite ice cream.
Being in love with Mingyu was easy. He was the easiest âyesâ and the easiest âI do.â Mingyu made marriage look easy and fun.
Because Mingyu beats you to your alarm to cook breakfast when he knows you prefer slower mornings. Mingyu, who proactively listens to you ramble about how you should re-do the kitchen and take you to trips to IKEA and Costco all the while sharing his preferences. Mingyu, who always cleans up and never leaves the dishes out until theyâre all piled up because to him itâs an eyesore. Mingyu, who makes every grocery trip interesting and fun because heâs simply giddy with the thought of purchasing things for your home together. Mingyu who notices how often you scoot towards his pillow in your sleep then purchases the same exact kind for your own side of the bed.
Mingyu is always paying attention even towards the things you donât know you need.
All of the sudden you realize; marriage was fun because it was him.
He was a good man, a wonderful husbandâand without a doubt, you know heâd make an incredible father.
âBaby?â
âMm?â
âWere you listening to me?â
You donât realize that you werenât listening to him nervously ramble at all. Your husbandâs gnawing his bottom lip, voice softer and lower than usual. The same tone he uses when heâs unsure. Is this okay? Did I do good? What do you think of this color? Do you like it?Â
Taking a deep breath with newfound reassurance, you spin in his hold and drape your arms over his shoulders. You look up at him with adoring eyes, quietly apologizing before asking him to repeat it.
â âS okay, honey,â Mingyu squeezes your waist, âI just⊠asked how you felt about having kids? I know we havenât been married for long. But youâŠmake me love life more. I love everything about you and I love everything about us. You make me feel like we can do anything.âÂ
 Your husbandâs eyes stare deeply on your own and he swallows, licking his lips, âOf course, whatever your answer is, it wonât change that fact.â
You play with the collar of his shirt, âAnd what about you?â
Thereâs a sweet smile that quirks up the corner of his lips, and even when he doesnât tell you, you know what his answer is. Heâd rather just not say in fear of pressuring you to agree with him.
Everything about this used to feel like a task, a call that revokes your freedom, and takes away your happiness.
But then there was Kim Mingyu.
Before him, you realize that you didnât think youâd get married because you were too afraid of neglect and unfulfillment that you ultimately depend on your own. Before him, the thought of bringing life into a world where youâd exhaust everything for them only to have your partner do the bare minimum would be unfair for the child.Â
It wasnât a question of what you want but rather the unease of slipping back into relying on yourself for these big responsibilities.
Yet of all the people you could choose to share them with, you were glad it was him.
Because with Kim Mingyu all those fears remain âbefore him.â
A child, half you and half himâit fills you with a foreign warmth you canât name. You feel your cheeks ache at the thought of a mini version of yourselves, running around and picking up on your habits. You try to put a face on them and while you know your husband thought it firstâyou wish theyâd have his kind eyes. And it's bizarre how there exists a love for a life that has yet to exist simply because theyâre yours âand Mingyuâs.
So you shoot him a bashful grin before pecking his chin because the poor guy looked like he would faint if you kept him on edge like this.Â
âYes, Gyu.â
The answer doesnât make sense and you belatedly realize you donât know how to answer his question. But his eyebrows raise and he blinks, âReally?â
His smile stretches out into a full grin as you nod and he just keeps asking you over and over again if you were serious.
And with how casually and out of the blue heâs brought the topic, you think it's only fair to answer just as chaotically. You reach for the drawer behind you, pull out the packets of your birth control pills, and toss them into the bin, all the while you maintain eye contact.
Mingyuâs surprised giggles fill the bathroom. The kind of giggle youâd never expect from a man his size, shoulders shaking and reaching the high pitched tone when heâs giddy and flustered.
The comfort and peace you felt over something so life changing has never left your mind. Youâre a little freaked out with how easily you had given into the idea of being a mom rather than the idea of being a mom itself. Well, with Mingyu as the father, it does make sense. Especially with how he had cradled your face, kissed your forehead and told you that you were both in no rush. That everything will happen in its own time. The last thing he wanted was for you to pressure yourself to deliver (literally and figuratively) when it was something you both should enjoy.Â
Still, it was good to be prepared as you adjust your budget once more to start saving up on a house and funds for raising a child.
The longer the idea of family sits between you and the more open you both are talking about it, you quickly realize how you had nothing to worry about at all. Because between your conversations and how adoringly and consistently cares for you, heâs always viewed this life together as a partnership. Not in a corporate way but rather he never found the dishes or cleaning to be solely one personâs job but both of yours. You never had to go through it alone.
Every task had always been shared. A seamless dynamic that moved like clockwork. You knew when Mingyu was too tired to cook that youâd take over dinner. Or when it's both late and youâre both exhausted, Mingyu has delivery on the way. When you took trips across town, you had fun with it by playing rock, paper, scissors to see who gets to be passenger princess for the day. Daily cleaning was a must by Mingyuâs standards, such as vacuuming, wiping down surfaces, and putting away the dishes. They were easy, you find that it leaves your mind less cluttered too, more relaxed. The laundry was when either of you noticed first if it was full. The folding however, was another story. It was a task you both werenât very fond of, so it either went through another game of rock, paper, scissors or a bribe to vacuum the carâs interior instead.Â
It felt nice and it felt right, knowing you felt capable but also supported. You loved doing life with Mingyu and you just know your worries of feeling alone or becoming a âmarried single momâ will never come into fruition.Â
Of course, it has not always been easy and you always lived by love not being enough. But being with Mingyu further proved your point. Because it was not only love that sustained you both throughout. So did consistency, communication, consideration, empathy, wisdom, and friendships that further nurture what you had.
You distantly wonder if that will still be enough when you find yourself five months later, in your workplaceâs bathroom, staring at the striking two lines on your pregnancy test.
Between Mingyu starting his new position over his workplace, and your own week off, youâve had enough time to get another test at the doctorâs and process the same positive results that you are indeed five weeks into pregnancy.
It shouldnât come as a surprise, considering how your conversation in that bathroom coaxed a more feral and shameless side of Mingyu in bed. He took the whole breeding kink to the next level, pounding you into the mattress like it was nobodyâs business. While his stamina has always been crazy, youâre still in awe of how easily he came and how much he had to give. And for the first time in your whole career, you had used up your sick leaves simply because your legs were too sore and knees wobbly.
Your husband had been apologetic about it, making sure to dote on you in ways youâd sometimes find obnoxious with how shamelessly whipped he was.Â
Though you donât miss the smug edges of his smirk when you waddle to the warm baths he draws for you.
The nerves settle into excitement and youâre searching up creative ways to tell your husband that you are pregnant.Â
Wrapping up the test as a presentâgross, you peed on that thing.
Placing a bun in the ovenâit wonât be fun, not with how you can predict yourself explaining the pun to Mingyu.
Gifting an infantâs onesieâthatâs more of something youâd rather do for your parents and his.Â
Writing over your belly with a washable markerâinstant no, you donât have the patience to mirror your writing.
You sigh, slumping on the couch contemplating between letting one of your mutual close friends know or stubbornly keeping on the idea that your husband should be first to know. There were too many ways to tell him and you just want to make it special.
Then it clicks.
Maybe you didnât have to have only one big reveal.Â
You donât have a meticulously curated step by step plan. The goal was to simply drop vague hints until Mingyu eventually gets it. Itâs perfect since it was fun to tease your husband and though heâs the most observant person you know, he has his oblivious tendencies that were both infuriating and amusing.
And this morning, as your nails dig into the bathroom tiles and you empty your stomach of its contentsâin spite of the nauseating sensationâ you think this could be your opportune moment to drop your first hint.
âYouâre okay, baby, breathe,â Mingyu whispers, voice low and rough with sleep while he holds your hair back and runs a big palm up and down your spine.Â
It pushes you to curl over the bowl and retch. At this point, all you have left is bitter liquid and it tells you thereâs nothing more to expel. It leaves you lightheaded as you lift your head, weakly swiping the spit that spilled down your chin. Your husbandâs soothing touches ground youâhis hand rubbing up and down your arm, the other coming up to brush the sweaty strands of hair clinging to your forehead and neck.Â
He softly kisses your temple, âDonât fight it if thereâs more.â
Something about the gesture, his raspy sleepy voice, and patience makes you a little teary-eyed.Â
âSorry,â you croak.Â
Mingyu tsks, a sound of protest as he squeezes your arms, âWhy are you apologizing, baby? Thereâs nothing to be sorry for.â
The apology comes as an instinct by now, the guilt of inconveniencing people deeply ingrained in you. Even after years together, itâs still something youâre learning to unlearn.Â
The smell of your vomit makes you suddenly gag, and Mingyu is quick to reach over and flush its contents. Heâs back to rubbing your back, encouraging you to release if there was more. Slowly, the twisting in your stomach quells, and your breathing regulates as you lean back against his chest, the warmth of him calming you down.
After a few moments, once heâs sure youâre fully okay, he kisses the top of your head again.Â
âThink you can stand up and gargle for me? Iâll get you a cup of water.â
You hum, scared that if you nod, youâd get dizzy.Â
Washing your hands and rinsing your mouth makes you feel significantly better. The heavy footsteps of your husband fill the hall and he appears beside you in the mirror. He sleepily smiles, brows dipped in worry and his hair fluffed up and sticking in odd directions. His old t-shirt is rumpled and the collar is tugged to one side in his haste to stumble after you when you had quite literally jumped out of bed. Itâs probably around 2AM by now, judging by the lack of light outside and how it's only been a few hours since you went to bed.
He must have noticed the apology in your eyes because he cuts you off once your mouth opens.
âBaby, donât. Please.â
You sigh and nod, taking the glass from his hand and letting him love you, letting yourself be okay with being sick. Well, not the exact reason why youâre this way but the side effects of pregnancy was definitely feeling sick.
Mingyu cradles your face, thumb rubbing over your clammy cheeks. His eyes have always been expressive and you can see the disquiet in them. âThis is the third time this week, Iâm bringing you to the doctorâs this afternoon.â
The sudden panic nearly swings you back to nausea because you didnât want him to know the real reason why youâre like this. At least not from the doctor but from yourself.
âNo, i-itâsâŠI mean,â you fumble a little, âI already went the other day actually.â
Mingyuâs brows furrow, not recalling you ever telling him you did. He looked a little confused, you always told him where you went and while heâs not particularly the type to monitor your every movement, heâd expect that you would at least tell him something as important as a doctorâs appointment.
Before he could ask further questions, youâre quick to explain, âItâs nothing serious, babe.â
âBabyâŠâ
Oh, boy, heâs pouting now.
You bite your lip, trying not to fiddle with your fingers to give away your white lie, âItâs justâŠa stomach bug.â
âA stomach bug?â
âYeah, IâŠhave a stomach bug.â
Stomach bug. You inwardly flinch a little and apologize to your unborn child that you likened them to a sicknessâŠa bug.
 Mingyuâs searching your face, not fully convinced but you do your best to keep your expression neutral. He could easily read you, heâs always paying attention to you and youâre hoping you're somewhat achieving your goals here. Not that soon but just enough to keep him on his toes. You guess that it's the exhaustion on your face and his own that makes him acquiesce to your reasoning.
He sighs, rubbing your hips before heâs ushering you back to bed.
âOkay, honey, but will you remember to tell me about these next time?âÂ
You flush a little, feeling flustered over his worry and a slight guilt that you did it on purpose. But you nod and apologize, he shakes his head planting a firm kiss on your mouth before he snugly tucks you in. He doesnât settle in bed though, promising you heâll be back as he heads out of your bedroom.
You listen to his shuffling in the kitchen, the refrigerator and cabinets opening, then the light bumps here and there that are typically Mingyu. Sleep takes over you quite fast, you donât know if it's the gradual changing of your body or if youâre truly exhausted. He joins you later, out like a light and softly snoring.Â
The next day, you nearly give in and tell your sweet husband the big news when you learn that he went through your whole pantry to check the expiry dates and freshness of your foodstock, clearing out any potential food that could have made you sick.
âDo you think it was the kimchi?â
âHuh?â
âI think I might have over fermented the kimchiâŠnow it gave you a stomach bug.â
âUhâŠyeah, probably?â
âIâm really sorry, babe. I should have thrown it out earlier.â
âOh, GyuâŠthis isnât your fault.â (technically, it was.)
âIt isâŠnow youâve got some weird kimchi monster making you sick.â
âHm, youâre right. I should name it little Kim Chi, âcause yâknowâŠthe father is Kim Mingyu.â
âHa ha.âÂ
Youâre at the grocery store a week later, watching your husband effortlessly reach over the top of the shelf for toilet paper. Youâve always enjoyed these trips with him, never growing tired of the thought that youâre both caring for yourselves and your home together. Itâs mundane, itâs routine, but somehow it always feels special.
Mingyuâs mumbling out loud and counting calculations while he compares two brands of toilet paperâone being your usual and the other being on sale. That is usually your forte, something heâs quickly picked up on but youâre content watching him furrow his brows, lips jutting out as he calculates the tax. He must have said something you missed because heâs tilting his head over to you now, and coming around the cart to where youâre leaning on the handle.
âHm? Sorry, babe, whatâs that?â you lift your head from your arms.Â
âYou look tired,â he says with a worried frown. He places an affectionate hand over your head before he gently nudges you away from the cart with his hip. âCâmon, just a few more on the list and weâre done.â
He takes over your self-assigned role as the âcart-driverâ, while you stand there dumbly before following after him. You tuck your hands into your pocket and sigh.Â
You knew pregnancy would change your body but you donât realize it comes up in ways that you donât even recognize or even this early on. Like just ten minutes ago, you had to speed through the produce aisle cause you could not stand the smell of citrus. Then suddenly, everything about you feels so sluggish which didnât make sense considering you just had the week off.
All the while your husband obviously thinks that it's simply due to your little stomach bugâlittle Kim Chi.
On your way to the personal hygiene aisle, you both find yourselves going through the baby aisle. Your eyes gloss over the nappies and baby formulas while your footsteps slow into a halt. Something in you twists and blooms into warmth when you think about how youâll be finding yourselves here more often very soon.Â
With a quick glance over to your husband whoâs busy cupping his pockets for your rumpled grocery list, you smirk and call him over to look at whatâs caught your eye.
âGyu, look here. Glass baby bottlesâŠdonât you think thatâs dangerous?â
Mingyu blinks, processing your question then scrutinizing the row of bottles you point at.Â
âI dunno, babe. All the stuff they put in plastic bottles kinda freaks me outâŠokay, I feel like a crunchy mom saying that and we donât even have kids.â
âNot yet, anyway,â you add, leaning your cheek against his bicep while he picks up one out of curiosity.
âOh? You wanna have my kids?â Mingyu tilts his head over to you, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
You roll your eyes and huff, âGyu, weâre married and weâve literally talked about this.â
Plucking the bottle from his grasp and taking another one in a pastel yellow shade to go with it, you walk towards your cart and place it there. You fight off the flush creeping up your neck, seeing the tiny baby bottles amongst the stacks of produce, seasonings, toilet paperâall things for your home.
Puzzled, your husband asks, âWhy are you putting baby bottles in the cart?âÂ
âI dunno,â you shrug, resisting the urge to break character and giggle, âMaybe itâs for when we have one. Iâll tell her that Eomma had her planned for a while.â
âHer? What makes you think itâll be a girl?â
âYouâre so girl dad coded, babe. I can see it now. Sheâll put pigtails and pins on your hair and youâre crouched uncomfortably in her play set with a tiny teacup in your hands-â
âAre you ovulating?â
You cross your arms and shoot him your deadliest glare, âWow, ask that louder why donât you?â
Poor Mingyu, his cheeks are stained pink and heâs looking at you with wide eyes as he stammers, âIâIâm just saying! You never talk about babies like this, much less come into this aisle. We donât even have a kid, honey.â
Your gaze falls to the ground, finding the scuffed up edges of your sneakers interesting, âWe could thoughâŠâ
Your husband takes note of your flustered state, distantly wondering whether youâre pressuring yourself into giving him children. He reaches a careful hand toward your arm, pulling you to his side.
âI mean, yeah, we couldâŠin time,â he quickly pecks your head in reassurance, âBut even then, we wouldnât have to be here for a couple of months. Put that back! Werenât we aiming for budgeting wiselyâespecially, for our future baby?â
You plant your feet firmly, blocking your husband from the cart as you look up at him with a pout you know he can never resist, âB-but, it's such a cute color! Imagine holding your newborn in butter yellow!â
Itâs working, you know it, you can tell with how quickly heâs turning red and the sparkles in his eyes that he loves that idea as much as you do.
âThereâs no newborn yet! Jeez, babe, was last night and this morning not enough tell you, Iâm working hard to make that happenâŠpun intended-â
âGyu, thatâs nasty!â
âSo was the way you were all over m-â
âKim Mingyu!â
He chuckles as you weakly slap his chest, âWhat Iâm saying isâŠwe can always come back when we do have a baby.â
âOrâŠwe can buy it now.â
âHoney.â
âMingyu.â
The man stares you down. Youâre rarely this whiny that heâs quite frankly stunned that it's this very topic that coaxed this side of you.
He sighs, then makes a poor attempt to look strict by scowling, âFine, fine. But just this and donât pin this on me the next time you go through our budget then call it a waste of money.â
You smile, satisfied and victorious. You lean up on your tippy toes to kiss the corner of his lips that resist the urge to stretch into a fond smile.Â
âCall it planning for the future.â
The days flew by and so do your hints over Mingyuâs head, each one being more obvious than the last.Â
He doesnât question you when thereâs a set of baby blankets youâve carelessly left by the laundry basket. Or that one time heâs gone shopping with you and youâve been extremely particular and vocal about keeping the fit around the belly area loose. Or that you requested for your bottoms to be twice your normal size. Heâs only ever freaked out over a package of parenting books by your door before shrugging then picking up a volume to read, chucking it off to future planning.
If he only knew how much present that was.
You donât know if it's the hormones or that youâre not being obvious enough, but youâre starting to feel restless over keeping your whole pregnancy to yourself for nearly three weeks after youâve received your results. Youâre nearing your eighth week now, and the solo doctorâs checkup earlier makes you feel odd that Mingyu isnât there with you. Sometimes youâre giving into the urge to just toss a dinner roll over his head and yell that thereâs a bun in the oven! But even then, youâre sure heâll just rush over the oven and ask you where?Â
And while youâre cuddled up to his side, watching some boring nature documentary of the deep sea, you deduce that youâd much prefer this annoyed feeling over anxiety of how this news will change the trajectory of your lives.Â
It makes you smile to yourself, the thought that youâre just so secure and safe with Mingyu as your husband and a soon-to-be-father. Thereâs a fluttering in your chest you canât suppress and you grin even wider. You snuggle deeper into his chest and Mingyu, whoâs been scrolling through his phone, sets it down to look down at you.
âWow, you must really like watching how the octopus eats its mate.âÂ
You blink, readjusting your focus to the scene playing out before you. Youâre a little startled to see that it was indeed a female octopus mauling a smaller male octopus. You feel your husbandâs chest rumble and he knows you were simply zoned out. He lowers the volume, scooting back into the couch and running his fingers up and down your arm.
âWhatâs on your mind babe?â
Thereâs a mesmerizing shot of a jellyfish, floating and drifting through the deep blue current. The sunlight above it penetrates through its blushing hues. Youâre entranced for a moment, feeling the steady rise of your heartbeat before you speak.
âYou ever wonder what life is like inside a bag of water?â
Mingyu hums in thought, and youâre once again, endeared by how easy it is to have silly conversations with him. âYou mean likeâŠa fish going home from a pet store?â
âOrâŠback in the womb.â
âI donât think Iâd wanna be there again. Iâm too large.â
You burst into a fit of giggles, an intrusive image of this 6â2ââ man fitting himself inside a belly.Â
Shaking your head, you add, âItâs also dark.â
âI hate the dark,â he agrees, nuzzling his nose into your hair. âItâs spooky.â
âDo you think the baby likes it?â
âConsidering that itâs their firstââ he pauses, processing your wording, â...what baby?â
âOur baby.â
You feel every muscle that holds you start to stiffen and seize up. You will yourself to stay calm and as nonchalant as you can, hoping that this timeâyour husband understands what you mean.
After a beat, Mingyu slowly pulls back to look at you. His eyebrows furrow,Â
âOur baby?â
You rest your chin on his shoulder, looking up at him with an expectant gaze and soft smile before you nod. You watch him unravel: his brow relaxes and his pink lips partâthe gears in his head clicking and turning. His eyes are shimmering as they scan your face.Â
âYou mean,â he licks his lips, mouth dry, âYouâreâŠwe haveâŠone?â
You nod again, the edges of your vision blurring.Â
Mingyu twists his body, tenderly cupping your jaw. Pink dusts his cheekbones and his own eyes are teary and hopeful as they gaze into yours. You feel a warm shaky hand brush over your tummy, âYouâŠhave oneâŠin there?â
You burst into a watery laugh, âYes, honey. Iâm pregnant.â
Thereâs a strained wheeze at the back of his throat and Mingyu all but throws himself into your arms. You grunt at the sudden weight off him, falling back into the cushions behind you. Your husband tucks his face into your neck, giggling and nuzzling beneath your jaw. Just as youâre about to return his enthusiastic embrace he pulls himself off, standing up and throwing his hands over his head. Itâs like heâs overwhelmed, he doesnât know what to do with his hands as he paces in nonsensical patterns, running a hand over his head.
âIâmâŠIâm going to be a dad? And youâre going to be a mommy?â he asks breathlessly, eyes wide in wonder.Â
âYes, Gyu, weâre going to be parents,â your cheeks hurt so much from grinning.Â
Never did you think that breaking this kind of news would feel this wayâoverjoyed, and giddy. And you certainly didnât expect the high pitched giggling your behemoth of a husband has while he bounces on his feet. His grin is bright, eyes crinkled into beautiful crescent moons as he stumbles back into your embrace. You can literally feel him vibrating and soon enough, you feel dampness gather into your collarbones.Â
âAw, Gyu,â you coo, tenderly rubbing his head.
âIâm so happy,â he croaks into your skin, âI love you so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you.â
The warmth this man envelops you in, his soft cries, his joy and tendernessâthey tell you that marriage, pregnancy, and starting a family, all things that you were terrified of were not scary at all. They were beautiful only because Mingyuâs presence allowed it to be. What you have is so filled with love that you canât wait for your little one to thrive in it. You donât know what theyâll be yet but you promise yourself that they will not lack the love they deserved.Â
Theyâd grow up with a mommy and daddy whoâd dote on them, whoâs comfortable with their affections, and whoâs willing to give them better than what they once had. You vow to always pay attention, to never dismiss their excitement, and to unlearn the ways youâve been raised.Â
Theyâd be with a wonderful man as their father, the kind that would make silly breakfast pancakes, the kind whoâd crawl on the floor with them and risk a backache for their pretend tea parties, and the kind that would show them how big the world is but thereâs nothing to fearâbecause mommy and daddy would be there.Â
You ball your fists. Donât cry, donât cry. But you canât help how in love you are with your husband and a child youâve yet to meet.
âI love you,â Mingyu repeats, lifting his head to kiss your damp cheeks. He smiles at you, eyes still glossy with tears as he slides onto the carpeted floor. Gently resting his forehead on your tummy that is yet to show, he presses a sweet kiss just above your belly button, âAnd nice to meet you, stomach bug.â
You crinkle your nose. With a chuckle, you correct him, âLittle Kim Chi.â
Your husband shakes his head with a grin before he lays his cheek against your stomach. He whispers his own promises to the child you're yet to meet--the only thing you hear however,
Genre: fluff, dad au!, pregnancy au!, smut (mdni!)
Word Count: 5k
Summary: Practice makes perfect. Determined to be an amazing father for his child, Mingyu threw himself wholeheartedly into parenthood even before the baby was born.
Mingyu froze in place as he stared at the text on his phone. It was the middle of dance practice for the end-of-year performance, and sweat dripped down his temple as he tried to catch his breath during the short break. Reaching for his water bottle, he noticed an unread message from you. That was unusualâyou hardly ever texted him. Youâd once laughed and said it felt unnecessary since you saw each other so often.
Curiosity piqued, he unlocked his phone, expecting something casual, maybe a quick update or a question. Instead, his eyes widened as he read your words. His heart skipped a beat, and his hand flew to cover his mouth. A sharp, audible gasp escaped him, breaking the chatter and drawing the attention of the other members.
âWhatâs wrong?â
âMingyu, are you okay?â
Seungkwan was the first to rush over, crouching down in front of him. Mingyu wordlessly handed his phone over, unable to speak. His legs felt like jelly, and he sank to the floor, his back against the wall as the weight of your message settled over him.
Seungkwanâs eyes scanned the screen, his brows furrowing before his mouth fell open. âNo way,â he mumbled, disbelief laced in his voice. Then, louder, âY/n is pregnant.â
The practice room erupted into chaos as gasps and cheers rang out in unison.
âWhat?!â
âNo way, really?!â
âCongrats, man!â
The members swarmed around Mingyu, their excitement palpable. They clapped him on the back, ruffled his hair, and threw him into a whirlwind of congratulations. But Mingyu still sat frozen, his mind racing.
âY/nâs pregnantâŠâ he muttered to himself, his voice shaky but filled with awe. The reality of it hit him like a tidal wave, and suddenly, his lips curled into a dazed smile. His hands trembled as he took his phone back from Seungkwan, rereading the text as if to make sure he hadnât imagined it.
âYouâre gonna be a dad!â Soonyoung exclaimed, shaking Mingyuâs shoulders enthusiastically.
âHave you called her yet?â Jeonghan asked, already planning a celebratory dinner in his head.
âLet him process first,â Seungcheol said with a laugh, though even he couldnât hide the proud grin tugging at his lips.
Mingyu finally looked up, his eyes glossy with emotion. âIâm⊠Iâm going to be a dad,â he repeated, this time louder, as if saying it out loud would help him believe it.
âAnd youâre going to be a great one,â Joshua reassured him, his voice calm amidst the excitement.
The practice room turned into an impromptu celebration, with the members already making plans for baby gifts and teasing Mingyu about what kind of dad heâd be. But Mingyu was too busy typing a shaky reply to you, his heart overflowing with love and gratitude.
Mingyu didnât waste a second after practice. The moment it ended, he grabbed his bag and practically sprinted out the door, ignoring the playful shouts from his bandmates. His mind raced the entire drive home, replaying your text over and over. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and by the time he reached the apartment, his heart was thudding so hard he could barely hear anything else.
The door clicked open, and he immediately spotted you curled up on the couch, scrolling through your phone with a blanket draped over you. You looked up when you heard him, a smile spreading across your face as you started to sit up.
âBabe, youâreââ
Before you could finish, Mingyu crossed the room in long, determined strides and pulled you into his arms. His hug was so tight it felt like he was trying to fuse you into him. âLove,â he breathed, his voice trembling slightly as he buried his face in your shoulder.
âMingyu,â you laughed softly, wrapping your arms around him. âI missed you too, but whatâs going on?â
He leaned back just enough to look at you, his brows drawn together in the most exaggerated pout youâd ever seen. âWhy did you have to drop the news like that, love? By text? Youâre killing me here.â
You blinked at him, a small grin tugging at your lips. âI thought itâd be easierââ
âEasier?â He scoffed, his hands sliding down to grip your waist as he stared at you in disbelief. âEasier for who? I almost collapsed on the studio floor when I read it. I was this close to crying in front of the members.â
You couldnât help but laugh, cupping his face. âI didnât mean to shock you, babe. I just⊠didnât know how to say it.â
âSay it?â he repeated, shaking his head as he leaned closer. âYou tell me in person. You look me in the eyes, love, and tell me Iâm going to be a dad. Thatâs how you say it.â
You bit your lip, feeling a little guilty now. âI know. Iâm sorry, baby. I just got nervous.â
You held Mingyu's hands in yours, your fingers trembling slightly as you took a deep breath. Looking up into his eyes, you mustered the courage to speak, your voice soft but filled with emotion. âWeâre having a child, Mingyu. Youâre going to be a dad.â
Mingyuâs eyes widened, glistening with unshed tears as the weight of your words sank in. For a moment, he didnât say anything, just staring at you with pure awe. Then, with a tenderness that made your heart ache, he cradled your face in his large hands, his thumbs gently brushing over your cheeks.
âIâm so happy,â he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and comforting, before leaning down to capture yours in a soft, heartfelt kiss.
Tears started streaming down your cheeks, and you let out a shaky laugh as you wiped them away with the back of your hand. âThis is exactly why I didnât want to tell you in person,â you said with a small pout, your voice breaking slightly. âI knew Iâd cry like this.â
Mingyu let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his hands slid down to rest on your shoulders. âLove, if you think Iâm not crying right now too, youâre wrong.â
You blinked, realizing his eyes were indeed glossy, a few stray tears slipping down his cheeks. It made your heart swell even more, knowing how deeply he felt about this.
âBabe,â you murmured, reaching up to wipe his tears with your thumb.
He smiled, leaning into your touch, his hands moving to rest gently on your stomach. âYouâre carrying our baby. How could I not cry? This is the happiest moment of my life.â
Your pout melted into a soft smile, and you placed your hands over his, feeling the warmth of his touch. âYouâre going to be an amazing dad, Mingyu. I just know it.â
âAnd youâre going to be the best mom,â he replied, his voice filled with conviction. He leaned down again, resting his forehead against yours as his hands stayed firmly in place over your stomach. âIâm going to take care of you both, love. You and our baby. Always.â
His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and you felt a deep sense of security and love. In that moment, you knew this was only the beginning of something extraordinaryâa journey you would face together, hand in hand, as a family.
Mingyu had always imagined this momentâthe day youâd tell him you were carrying his child. For years, heâd dreamt of it, picturing how he would be the most attentive, loving husband, ready to spoil you and your little one with everything he had. Now that it was finally happening, the reality was even sweeter than his imagination.
The two of you had been married for years, and trying for a child had been a journey of hope, patience, and longing. When it finally happened, Mingyu was nothing short of ecstatic. This new chapter in your lives felt like a gift, a blessing that he was determined to cherish with every fiber of his being.
From the very next day, Mingyu slipped seamlessly into his role as the doting husband and soon-to-be dad. He started waking up earlier than you every morning, tiptoeing out of the bedroom to prepare breakfast. Heâd make sure it was filled with all the nutrients you needed, carefully laying out the food and your pregnancy milk on the table before waking you up with a soft kiss on your forehead.
âGood morning, love,â heâd whisper, his voice laced with warmth. âBreakfast is ready, and so is your milk. You need to eat well for our baby, okay?â
Mingyu also developed a nightly ritual, one that you couldnât help but find adorable. Before sleeping, heâd lean down, placing his hands gently on your stomach and speaking softly to your growing baby.
âHey there, little one,â heâd say, his voice filled with tenderness. âMom is going to sleep now, so be good, okay? Let her rest. Iâll take care of her, so donât you worry.â
Sometimes, youâd catch him smiling to himself as he talked, his eyes sparkling with excitement and love. He would even sneak in little promises to the baby, like how heâd teach them how to cook or build the best pillow forts when they were older.
Mingyu also insisted on being by your side for every doctorâs appointment. He cleared his schedule without hesitation, making sure nothing would stop him from being there for you. During the visits, heâd sit beside you, his hand holding yours tightly as he listened intently to the doctorâs updates.
âIs this normal?â heâd ask, pointing at the ultrasound or a note in the medical chart. âWhat about her nutrition? Does she need more vitamins? How can I make sure sheâs comfortable at home?â
His questions were endless, and you could see how serious he was about ensuring everything went smoothly. Though you sometimes teased him for being overly concerned, you couldnât deny how much it warmed your heart to see how deeply he cared.
Mingyuâs excitement was contagious, filling your days with laughter and love. Whether it was reading parenting books together, shopping for baby clothes, or simply lying in bed and imagining the future, every moment felt magical with him by your side.
âIâve waited so long for this, love,â heâd say, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple as you rested against his chest. âYou and our baby mean everything to me. I promise to give you both the best life I can.â
One evening, Mingyu burst through the front door, his face lit up with excitement, holding a small pot in his hands. You were curled up on the couch, reading, but his dramatic entrance made you look up with curiosity.
âLove!â he called out enthusiastically, making his way over to you. âI have a plan!â
You raised an eyebrow, closing your book and setting it aside. âA plan?â you asked, eyeing the pot he was holding. âWhatâs this about?â
Grinning from ear to ear, Mingyu placed the pot on the coffee table. Inside was a tiny green sprout, barely poking out of the soil. âWeâre going to raise this plant together,â he announced proudly.
You blinked, trying to process his sudden enthusiasm. âA plant?â you repeated, your lips twitching into a smile. âWhy a plant?â
âItâs practice!â he explained, sitting beside you and taking your hands in his. âBefore our baby arrives, we can use this little guy to learn how to take care of something together. Watering it, making sure it gets sunlight⊠itâs like a warm-up for parenting!â
You couldnât help but laugh at how serious he sounded. âBabe, you do realize a plant is not even close to the same as raising a child, right?â
âI know,â he said, undeterred, his excitement unwavering. âBut itâs a start! Plus, I read somewhere that taking care of plants is good for relieving stress and boosting your mood. And with you carrying our baby, I thought it might be nice to have something green and alive around us.â
You tilted your head, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. âThatâs actually really sweet,â you admitted, reaching out to touch the sproutâs leaves gently. âWhat kind of plant is it?â
âA money tree,â Mingyu said, his grin widening. âItâs supposed to bring good luck and positive energy. I figured we could use all the good vibes we can get for this next chapter.â
You chuckled, shaking your head at how thoughtful he was. âAlright, fine. Letâs raise this plant together.â
Mingyuâs face lit up as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. âThatâs my girl,â he said, pressing a kiss to your temple.
Over the next few days, Mingyu was more serious about the plant than you couldâve imagined. He gave it a nameâLuckyâand made sure it had the perfect spot by the window for sunlight. He even set reminders on his phone to water it on schedule.
âLuckyâs looking great today,â heâd say, inspecting the leaves like a proud dad.
You watched him with amusement, realizing how this little plant had somehow become a symbol of his excitement for fatherhood. âIf youâre this attentive with a plant, I canât even imagine how amazing youâll be with our baby,â you told him one evening.
Mingyu looked at you, his eyes softening. âItâs because I have the best partner to do this with,â he said, pulling you close and resting a hand on your belly. âAnd soon, weâll have the best little team member to join us.â
Lucky mightâve been just a plant, but it became a small reminder of how much love Mingyu already had for the life you were building together.
*
"No, love. The last time we did it, you got cramps," Mingyu said firmly, gently pulling himself away from your embrace even as your lips brushed against his neck, sending shivers down his spine. His hands rested lightly on your arms, his concern etched clearly on his face.
"Nothing will happen this time, I promise," you whispered, your breath warm against his skin, making it nearly impossible for him to resist. Your voice was soft but persuasive, and the way your lips lingered so teasingly made his resolve waver.
Mingyu let out a shaky sigh, his eyes flickering between worry and longing. "Love⊠you say that, but what if you get hurt again? You're carrying our baby. I can't risk anything." His voice was low, filled with a mix of tenderness and frustration as he tried to hold his ground.
You cupped his face, your eyes locking onto his with determination. "Babe, you're always so careful with me. But trust me, I'm okay. Nothing will happen."
He hesitated, the intensity of your gaze weighing heavily on him, and as he looked into your eyes, he saw the desire, need, and love mirrored in their depths. Mingyu sighed softly, surrendering to your request, even if it meant pushing past his own doubts. "Alright, but promise you'll tell me if anything's wrong."
A smile bloomed on your lips as you felt his arms wrap around you once more. "I promise, and thank you."
You leaned in for a deep, passionate kiss, your tongues entwining, and in that moment, everything else faded away, leaving just the two of you, connected in the most intimate way. "You're making it so hard for me, love," Mingyu whispered against your lips, his hands now gently roaming over your curves as he began to guide you back towards the comfort of the bed.
As you lay on the bed, your body gently rising with each breath, Mingyu moved behind you, his hands resting on your swollen stomach. He looked down at the tiny life growing within you and couldn't help but smile, a feeling of protectiveness surging through him.
"You're so beautiful, love," he whispered, his voice filled with admiration and love. You turned slightly to face him, a playful glint in your eye as you reached out for him.
"I want you, Mingyu. I need you," you said softly, your fingers trailing along his chest. Your body tingled with desire as you felt him responding to your touch, his heartbeat quickening, and the bulge in his pants growing more prominent.
He leaned in to kiss you, his lips soft against yours, but his tongue explored your mouth with urgency. He broke the kiss and trailed hot, wet kisses along your jawline and down your neck, nipping softly at your skin, causing you to arch your back and moan softly.
Mingyu began to undress you, his eyes never leaving your body, drinking in every curve and change. The sight of his love, pregnant and wanting him, was enough to set him on fire. He quickly stripped down, eager to be as close to you as possible.
Positioning himself behind you, he ran his hand over your bump and then down to your lower back. "How do you want this, love?" he asked, his breath hot on your ear, making shivers race down your spine.
You shifted onto your side, facing him, and patted the spot next to you on the bed. "Make me feel loved, baby," you whispered, your voice filled with desire.
He grinned and moved to lay next to you, his arm resting on the bed behind you as he pulled you close, your heads nearly touching. His hand began to gently massage your swollen breasts through the thin fabric of your nightgown. The sensation caused your nipples to stiffen, and you let out a soft moan.
Mingyu slid one hand down your side, under your gown, his fingers gently parting your thighs as he began to stroke the damp skin there. You bit your lip and leaned into his touch, your desire growing with each gentle caress.
Slowly, Mingyu lifted your gown over your stomach, revealing the lace of your panties. He brushed a finger along the wet fabric, teasing you before hooking it and slowly sliding it down your legs.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked again, his eyes filled with concern.
You nodded, your voice caught in the thick heat filling the room. "Yes, I want you," you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist, urging him closer.
With gentle precision, Mingyu aligned himself at your entrance. He pressed in slowly, allowing your body to adjust, his pace unhurried and full of love. Once fully inside you, he began to move, his hips rocking gently at first, but picking up speed as your moans grew more insistent.
Your hands gripped the sheets as the pleasure built, your body responding to his rhythmic thrusts. The connection between the two of you was palpable, love and lust intertwined, driving you both higher.
As the climax approached, Mingyu whispered sweet nothings into your ear, his voice a balm to your soul even as the waves of ecstasy threatened to consume you. "You're mine, and I'm yours," he breathed against your skin.
With a cry of joy, you came undone, your body trembling as Mingyu followed moments later, filling you with his warmth. The two of you lay there, intertwined, the warmth of your shared passion enveloping you both as you basked in the afterglow.
"Youâre so into me these days," Mingyu teased, a playful grin on his lips as he pulled you into a soft kiss. His warm hands gently caressed your six-months-swollen belly, his touch filled with love and care.
You rolled your eyes but couldnât hide the smile tugging at your lips. âMaybe itâs because youâre so irresistible, babe,â you replied, your voice dripping with mock sarcasm as you leaned into his touch.
He chuckled, the sound deep and comforting, his forehead resting lightly against yours. âIâm not complaining,â he murmured, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles over your belly. âIt just makes me happy knowing you want me close all the time.â
âWell, donât let it go to your head,â you said, your tone teasing but laced with affection. âItâs not just me. Someone else is pretty fond of you too.â You gestured to your belly, earning a wide grin from Mingyu as he leaned down to kiss it gently.
âOf course they are,â he said, his voice soft and full of adoration. âThey know theyâve got the best dad in the world.â
You rolled your eyes, laughing. âConfident much?â
âJust stating facts, love,â he replied cheekily, giving you a playful wink before sitting back.
Feeling bold, you slipped your arms around his neck and nuzzled close, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, âHow about we do it again, babe?â
Mingyu froze for a moment, his breath hitching at your words, but then he let out an awkward cough. âUh⊠love, Iâd really love to, butâŠâ
You pulled back, narrowing your eyes at his suddenly flustered expression. âBut what?â
He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, avoiding your gaze. âI havenât watered Lucky today,â he mumbled, almost too quiet for you to hear.
You blinked at him, completely caught off guard. âYouâre kidding, right? Youâre turning me down because of a plant?â
âItâs not just a plant!â Mingyu protested, his voice rising in mock indignation. âLucky is part of the family now. I have to make sure theyâre taken care of too!â
You stared at him, a mix of disbelief and amusement spreading across your face. âMingyu, Lucky doesnât care if youâre late watering it by an hour. I, on the other hand, do care if my husband chooses a tree over me.â
Mingyuâs lips twitched as he tried not to laugh, but the look on your face was too much. He burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking. âOkay, okay, youâre right,â he said, holding his hands up in surrender. âLucky can wait. Youâre my top priority.â
âDamn right I am,â you huffed, crossing your arms, though a smile was already tugging at your lips.
Mingyu leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. âYou know I canât resist you, love,â he murmured, his voice warm. âBut donât blame me if Lucky looks a little sad tomorrow.â
You rolled your eyes again, finally giving in to his teasing. âFine, Iâll forgive you. But youâre watering Lucky first thing in the morning.â
âDeal,â he said with a grin, pulling you closer into his arms. âNow, where were we?â
"No! Now, I'm not in the mood." you snapped, crossing your arms and turning away from Mingyu.
*
Mingyu stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his bottom lip jutting out in a dramatic pout as he watched you. You were sitting on the nursery room floor, your eight-month-pregnant belly making it slightly awkward for you to lean forward, but you were stubbornly twisting the screws to attach the crib legs.
"Love, please," Mingyu tried again, his voice soft but tinged with desperation. "I'll do it. You should be resting."
You didn't even glance at him, your focus entirely on the task at hand. "You had your chance," you muttered, twisting the screwdriver a bit more aggressively than necessary. "Twice. But you were too busy giving Lucky a pep talk."
Mingyuâs pout deepened. He shifted from one foot to the other, staring helplessly at you. "I wasnât giving Lucky a pep talk. I was just making sure it knew I was proud of it for growing so well."
You paused, finally looking up at him, your expression deadpan. "So proud that you ignored me when I asked you to help?"
"I didnât ignore you! I justâ" Mingyuâs voice faltered, and he let out a sigh, stepping closer. "Love, Iâm sorry. I just⊠Iâm trying to be good at this dad thing."
"And Iâm trying to make sure our baby doesnât roll out of a half-finished crib because someone was busy with their plant," you shot back, though your tone had softened slightly.
"Thatâs not going to happen," Mingyu mumbled, crouching down beside you. "Please let me do it. Please. I promise I wonât get distracted again."
You held his gaze for a moment, then sighed, handing him the screwdriver. "Fine. But Iâm watching. And if you talk to Lucky even once, Iâm taking over again."
"Deal!" Mingyuâs face lit up with relief, and he immediately got to work, his hands moving with careful precision.
But not even a minute later, as he tightened a bolt, he whispered under his breath, "Lucky, wish me luck."
You shot him a glare. "Mingyu!"
"Iâm kidding! Iâm kidding!" he yelped, flashing you an apologetic grin. "Focus on the crib. Got it."
"Love, it's been six months since Lucky joined our little family. Learn to love it," Mingyu said with a gentle chuckle, carefully aligning the crib legs as he secured them, making sure each screw was tightened properly.
You stood beside him, arms crossed, watching his focused expression with a mix of affection and mild annoyance. "It keeps stealing my husband's attention from me. What do you expect?" you muttered, the faintest pout on your lips.
Mingyu paused, glancing up at you, his smile widening as amusement danced in his eyes. "You do realize that you'll get hate from plant lovers if you ever say that in public, love," he teased, turning his gaze back to the crib.
You rolled your eyes, but a small smile betrayed your sulking. "Well, maybe I should go on record. âMy husband is obsessed with a plant,â" you quipped, earning a soft laugh from Mingyu.
"Obsessed is a strong word," he defended, wiping his hands on his sweatpants as he straightened up. "I just like making sure Lucky is happy and healthy. It's⊠calming."
"Calming for you. Frustrating for me," you countered, leaning against the wall. "Every time I ask for help, youâre too busy whispering sweet nothings to a tree."
Mingyu's eyes widened, a playful look of shock crossing his face. "Sweet nothings? Love, those are words of encouragement! Lucky needs positive energy to grow."
You couldnât help but laugh, despite your best efforts to stay annoyed. "Oh, so the tree needs encouragement, but your pregnant wife has to practically beg for help?"
Mingyu quickly closed the gap between you, his large hands cupping your face gently. "Hey, thatâs not fair. You know Iâd choose you over Lucky any day." His thumbs brushed your cheeks, his warm gaze filled with affection. "And you know Iâm only teasing, right? Iâm here for you. Always."
You sighed, leaning into his touch, your irritation melting away. "You just know how to sweet-talk your way out of anything, donât you?"
He grinned, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Only when itâs you, love."
*
You had just woken up from a brief three-hour sleep, your body heavy with exhaustion. Last night had been a test of patienceâMinji, only three weeks old, had decided to shake the world awake with her cries, stubbornly refusing to sleep at three in the morning. You had spent the next three hours cradling her in your arms, humming soft lullabies until she finally surrendered to slumber.
Now, it was nine oâclock. You stepped out of your bedroom, the soft morning light spilling through the curtains, and the sight in the living room instantly melted your fatigue. Mingyu was sprawled on the couch, his head tilted awkwardly to one side, his mouth slightly open in a deep sleep. Minji lay peacefully on his chest, her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, a little drool pooling at the corner of her lips. Her gentle breathing rose and fell in perfect sync with Mingyuâs, a quiet, heartwarming rhythm.
A tender smile tugged at your lips. Careful not to wake either of them, you leaned down, gently lifting Minji from Mingyuâs chest. She stirred slightly but remained asleep, her tiny face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. With Minji safely cradled in one arm, you made your way to the kitchen, the cool tiles beneath your feet grounding you as you began preparing breakfast.
But just as you cracked an egg into the pan, a sudden, frantic shout echoed from the living room.
âLove!â Mingyuâs voice was filled with panic. âI thought I lost her!â
You turned, suppressing a laugh as you saw him sitting up on the couch, his eyes wide with fear, his hair an adorable mess. But the moment his gaze landed on you, relief washed over his face. He let out a sigh so dramatic you almost laughed.
âSheâs right here, babe,â you teased, bouncing Minji gently in your arms. âSafe and sound with her very sleepy mommy.â
Mingyu dragged a hand through his hair, shaking his head with a sheepish smile. âYou almost gave me a heart attack, love.â
âMe? Youâre the one who fell asleep while on baby duty,â you teased, turning back to the stove. âBut I have to admit⊠you two looked so adorable, I almost didnât want to wake you.â
âWell, I couldnât let you handle everything alone,â Mingyu mumbled, shuffling to the kitchen, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. âYou did the night shift, so I tried to give you some sleep.â
You leaned into his embrace, letting the warmth of his touch melt your remaining fatigue. âLooks like we both need some more sleep,â you whispered, glancing at the sleeping Minji in your arms.
âYeah,â Mingyu chuckled softly. âBut for now, letâs survive breakfast.â
After the breakfast, Mingyu stood by the window, the morning light casting a soft glow over his figure as he carefully poured water onto Lucky's vibrant green leaves. He smiled, watching the water drip and soak into the soil.
"You know what, Lucky?" he began, his voice a quiet murmur. "You're not enough." He chuckled, shaking his head as if the plant could somehow understand his confession. "People say practice makes perfect, but it turns out having a baby is a whole other level."
He tilted the watering can, letting a few more drops fall. "With you, itâs simple. Water you, give you sunlight, talk to you sometimesâeasy. But Minji?" His voice softened, a gentle fondness filling his tone. "She has this tiny cry that could shatter my heart one moment and then turn into the sweetest smile that makes me forget I havenât slept properly in days."
Mingyu sighed, leaning a bit closer to Luckyâs leaves as if sharing a secret. "I thought I was ready, you know? But every time she stirs, every time she cries, I get scared. Scared I wonât be enough, that Iâll mess up.â
A soft rustle of the leaves seemed to be Luckyâs silent reply. Mingyu chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "But maybe thatâs just part of being a dadâalways worried but trying your best."
He turned his gaze toward the couch, where you were swaying gently with Minji in your arms, humming a soft tune as you stirred the hot chocolate. His smile widened, and a warm glow filled his chest.
âAnd I guess as long as I have her,â he whispered to Lucky, âand you, I might just survive this dad thing.â
Just then, you looked at him, catching him in his quiet conversation with the plant. âMingyu, are you confessing your dad struggles to a plant again?â you teased, a laugh in your voice.
He turned, feigning a scandalized look. âExcuse me, but Lucky is a great listener!â
âMaybe you should water yourself while youâre at it, Mr. Sleep-Deprived,â you joked, but your smile was filled with warmth.
Mingyu set the watering can down and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around you and Minji. âNah, I get all the love and energy I need right here.â
You leaned into his embrace, Minji still sleeping soundly between you. âSmooth talker.â
âI learned from the best,â he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
Warnings: showering together/naked
Pairings: Mingyu x Reader
Genre: Non-idol, romance, soft hours, & boyfriend!mingyu,
Word Count: 938
a/n: I'm literally delulu for soft boyfriend Mingyu who is just sooooo lovable!
Might make this a mini-series about boyfriend Mingyu! He's just so perfectly boyfriend-coded. He would do anything for you, showing you physical affection because one of his love languages is acts of service.
It was one of those days when you were surrounded by many clients, putting on your most professional game, and setting up outdoors for an event.
You were an event planner and somehow on the hottest day of the year, the client had to choose to have an event outdoors where you ran around for hours since 8am.
Because of all the mishaps that had occurred with the vendors, you were unable to get a lick of water and eat a proper meal. And because it was the hottest day of the year, the heat did not help, making you lose your appetite even more.
By the time you had gotten home, it was already 9:17pm and you all you wanted to do was sleep. You dropped your bag on the shelf before you fell onto your couch. You just wanted to lay down for just a minute, close your eyes, and not think of a single thing.
But that moment turned into an hour.
You heard a deep, yet soft voice calling out your name, carefully shaking you awake.
When you fluttered your eyes open, you saw your boyfriend Mingyu smiling at you. You felt his thumb stroking your face and smiled. You took that chance to press your cheeks into the palm of his hand, melting into him.
You heard him let out a soft chuckle before he got onto his knees.
He leans in and plants a kiss on your forehead. âWhy are you sleeping out here?â he whispered softly.
You loved the way your hand fit so perfectly in his hand, you barely paid attention to what he was saying.
He stroked your cheek again with his thumb as he titled his head, watching you breath.
âIâm so tired Gyu,â you softly whined.
âOkay, but you have to take off your makeup and shower,â he softly said.
You moaned, âI know.â
You were somewhat of a germaphobe, the type to remove your makeup and take a shower no matter how drunk you were. You hated the idea of having outdoor clothes in bed and not washing your hair after a long day of being outdoors.
And Mingyu knew you all too well.
âI just got back from the gym, do you want to shower together?â he suggested.
Immediately, you shot your eyes open.
You pursed your lips and with puppy eyes, you nodded your head, making him chuckle.
Mingyu pulled your arm to help you sit up before standing up. You followed behind him, holding his hand as if you were a child, scared to lose him.
The two of you showering together was nothing new.
As usual, he turned on the water as you took your makeup off and brushed your teeth. While brushing your teeth, you began to unbutton your shirt in a daze when Mingyu saw you were fumbling with the buttons. He immediately came to help you, making you smile with your eyes to let him know you appreciated his help.
You were too cute to resist. He pinched your cheek softly, cooing at you. âYouâre too cute,â he compliments.
Swiftly after that, you rinse as he proceeds to take off his own clothes before he stepped into the shower first. You took off the rest of your clothes and saw that he had his hand out to assist, guiding you into the shower.
Immediately, you wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your bare body against him with your eyes closed.
As you cling to him, he rinsed your bodies throughly with the detachable shower head. Then he pumped the shampoo into his hand to wash your hair. More than you, he always did such a great job massaging your head and this made you want to melt into him even more.
While he continued to conditioner your hair, you pulled away and smiled at him as you thought to yourself, how you got so lucky with a man like Mingyu.
âWhy are you looking at me like that?â he asked, chuckling.
You smiled bashfully before you shook your head, burying your face in chest where you felt his chest rumbling from laughing at you.
After both of your heads were washing off the conditioner, he prepared the body soap on the loofa for you to scrub your body, promptly followed by the face cleanser.
Once you both were out of the shower and dried, you stood in front of the mirror and did your skin care as he dried your hair.
You looked at him through the reflection of the mirror, watching him. Somehow, you felt bad for making him do so much for you. However, all of those thoughts disappeared with he noticed you looking at him. He flashed you one of those smiles that said, "It's okay, I got you."
When your hair was dried, you groggily walked to your bedroom that you shared and began looking for sleeping attire while Mingyu continued to dry his own hair.
You found one of Mingyuâs t-shirts that slipped onto you like a dress, with it cutting off mid-thigh.
Once you heard the hair dryer turn off followed by the light switch turning off the light, Mingyu walked out of the bathroom and into the room.
You hand him the pair of boxers that you had taken out for him. He took them and smiled softly at you before he removed the towel from his hip and hung it.
You watched him as he put the boxers on before turning off the lights. You first crawled into the bed with the cool comforter, thanks to the blasting AC. And the moment Mingyu slid in next to you, he wrapped his arms around your body, evening out the warmth and cold.
You shifted for a moment before settling your face into his chest, taking in his scent. You loved the way you fit into his arms was like he was perfectly made for you.
Perfectly yours.
You thought of the things he willingly does for you without asking, and you couldnât be more grateful to have him.
âThank Mingyu. I love you.â You speak in a sleepy tone.
He plants a soft and loving kiss on your forehead. âI love you, too, baby. Sweet dreams,â you hear him say as you slowly drift into sleep.
SYNOPSIS. You canât afford to be burnt out, especially during a crucial era of your life: being in medical school. Enter your best friendâa boy with a tough-looking exterior, a skateboard thatâs seen better days, and a heart softer than his beat-up converseâLee Chan, with his backpack full of snacks, and an uncanny ability to show up exactly when you need him most. He may not be a doctor, nor exactly your therapist, but he certainly is a heartthrob, and your heart canât help but always page him.
PAIRING. skater boy!lee chan x med student!fem!reader (ft. lowkey stoner!vernon, med student!jeonghan, med student!joshua, soonyoung)
GENRE. fluff, childhood best friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, suggestive, slow burn, college au
WARNINGS. heavy swearing, food + drinking mentions/consumption, so much fucking mutual pining!!!, reader experiencing burnout + self-doubt issues, chan has a mullet, piercings, and tattoos yes, (3) shirtless chan scenes, chan is a self-critical perfectionist, mention of scars, descriptions of minor injuries, hospital mentions + visits, mental health topics, drug use (weed & vaping), reader has a panic attack and passes out, kissing, terms of endearment, vernon makes a sex joke at the end lmao
WORD COUNT. 24.2k
notes: hi hi everyone! this fic is part of the @camandemstudios "the lonely heart's cafe" collab! it also takes part in the same universe as my favourite horangdan @etherealyoungk upcoming fic with hoshi HAHA. ty to skye and also @bananabubble + @imujings listen to me ramble abt this too. pls don't forget to show love all the other authors in this collab <3 HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEE CHAN!!! đ«¶
You slam your textbook shut. You donât think you can reread the same page about neurotransmitters and synaptic transmissions any longer without losing your mind for the third time that night.Â
Your head feels like itâs two seconds away from combusting, and the pressure coming from upcoming exams, assignments that are constantly due the very next day, along with endless clinicals is suffocating. Youâve been staring at this textbook for what feels like hours or even days, but nothingâs sticking. Itâs as if your brain has reached its limit for the day, and youâre left grasping for focus that you canât find.
âScrew it,â You mutter under your breath, closing the textbook and tossing it to the edge of the bed where it threatens to fall off if you donât catch it in time, but you ignore it, too tired to even care, and it falls onto the floor below with a soft thud.
Running a hand through your hair, you can feel a headache beginning to creep in, a dull throb behind your eyes. Your body feels heavy, as though itâs been holding in all your exhaustion for the past five months. Accepting your fate, you flimsily fall back onto the bed, granting the greenlight for the comfort of the sheets to swallow you whole.Â
Then a tap hits your window.
You ignore it at first by grabbing your pillow and burying your face in it, too bummed out to scold the freshmen who think that itâs cute to throw pebbles at peopleâs windows for the hundredth time this semester.Â
Another tap follows, then another, becoming more insistent after each one. At this point, they may as well blow a missile through your damn window. But then you hear itđthe sharp hiss of a psst, before a muffled, yet unmistakable voice holler out your name. A groan escapes your lips as you drag your body off the bed and shuffle towards the window, pulling the curtain aside and sliding the sash up. Youâre immediately greeted by a whiff of cold air hitting your face.Â
The irritation leaves your body within a second once you spot the figure thatâs waving up at you from the ground below. Thereâs a jump to your heart when you catch a glimpse of the scheming grin that runs across their face.Â
âChan? What the hell?â You whisper-yell down towards him, glancing around you as if your voice was loud enough to wake up your next-door neighbours. âItâs midnight!âÂ
You wouldnât be surprised if you somehow mistakened your best friend as a burglar from how the dark hoodie heâs wearing engulfs him. But you watch as he pulls his hood down and adjusts the scratched-up skateboard tucked underneath his armpit, flashing you that boyish grin that never fails to disarm your guarded-up walls. His breath curls in the cold night air, and you catch the glint of his lip piercing when he tilts his head back to look at you.
âCome on, Y/N, I got reinforcements!â He reveals a black plastic bag from somewhere behind his back, waving it up to you like heâs just discovered some kind of treasure.Â
You squint, trying to make out whatâs in the bag, but itâs too dark to see anything clearly from your window. âWhat is that?â
âSnacks,â he calls back, his grin widening. âAnd caffeine. Actually, waitđâ He reaches a hand inside the bag, shuffling throughout its contents. âNo caffeine, because you need to get your insomniac ass to sleep.âÂ
You roll your eyes at that. âYouâre actually a goddamn idiot.â
âSo Iâve been told many times. Now, are you going to let me in before that stupid security guard comes and tackles me to the ground again?âÂ
Briefly, you canât help but smile at the memory of that one specific time a few months back where Chan had been caught sneaking around the apartment complex. The poor elderly security guard nearly had a heart attack when he found Chan struggling to climb the side of the building with a skateboard in hand because you jokingly refused to let him inside your messy apartment. You had to spend an hour talking your way out of that one, and even then, you werenât sure if all your talking and dumb excuses were enough to convince the security guard that Chan wasnât a robber trying to get to you through your window.Â
âUgh, fine. Give me a second,â You relent, pulling away from the window and hurrying to unlock the door. After a minute, you could already hear the recognisable, obnoxious stomps from the stairs that were echoing throughout the quiet hallway of your apartment.Â
When you see Chan emerge all breathless like heâs run a marathon in that oversized hoodie, skateboard still tucked under his arm, you canât help but shake your head, crossing your arms together as he gallops down the hallway and to your door.Â
Then he looks at you, and for some reason, it almost seems like he looks⊠different. You donât know why, because in your eyes, he still looks the same. His dark hair had grown longerđpretty much a mullet at this pointđand he had recently changed his lip ring to a sleek silver hoop that catches the faint light in your apartment hallway. The hoodie he wore was thrifted from this store in a sketchy part of town that closed up two years ago, its print faded and frayed at the cuffs of the sleeves. His beat-up Converse shoes are practically at the verge of dying. You think heâs definitely worn it more than a million times, but that wasnât anything new. There wasnât anything on the surface that was new.Â
Yet as he stands there, rosy cheeks flushed from the cold, his grin as radiant as always, thereâs something about him that makes your heart stutter for just a moment.
âOkay⊠Youâre doing that staring thing again.â Chan snaps his fingers in front of your face, bringing you back from your head. âYou gonna let me in or not?â
You snap out of it, quickly stepping aside to let him in. âYouâre so annoying, you know that?â
âAnd yet, you still tolerate me.â He shoots you a wink before brushing past you, and you observe as he leans his skateboard against the wall of your place. Then he flops onto the wobbly chair in front of your desk like its second instinct, like this place is his second home, and in a way, it is, because youâll always be the first to let him in.Â
Chan lifts the black plastic bag as if heâs showing it off to you and sets it down on your cluttered desk, which has been overtaken by textbooks, flashcards, and an impressive collection of empty coffee mugs. You feel yourself fall into a pit of embarrassment at the mess, but this is Chan youâre talking aboutđheâs seen you at your worst, or⊠the worst heâs seen so far.Â
âYou know, Iâve heard these snacks are scientifically proven to cure stress,â he claims while handing you a plastic bowl of cup ramen.
You snort at that as you grab the cup of ramen from his grasp and place yourself down on the floor right by him. âOh, really? Did you read that in The Medical Journal of Lee Chanâs Dumbass Theories?â
âDamn right I did.â He flashes you that lopsided grin, popping open a bottle of water and taking a sip before passing it to you. âDrink. You look like you havenât had anything but coffee for days. Canât imagine how much shit is in your head right now.â
You pinch the bridge of your nose at the thought. âI know. Iâve got a headache trying to memorise whatever the hell is in these textbooks.â
âAnd whatâs the medical term for a headache again?â
You peer at him with narrowed eyes when you take another sip of water. âCephalalgia.â
âSee, youâve still got it in you,â he quips wholeheartedly while leaning back in the chair, a leg propped up on his knee, a pleased smirk to his face when he captures the faintest sight of a smile to your features.Â
You only let out a scoff as you stand up to fill water into your cup of ramen, placing it in the microwave right after. Even then, you swear you can still feel the way his eyes are wandering over you as you move around the small kitchen, the tonnage of his gaze making your skin tingle. You try to shake off the odd sensation, focusing on getting your ramen prepared. You can hear Chan shifting in the chair behind you, the sounds of rustling hitting your ears as he rummages through the snacks.
Silence overtakes the both of you for a few minutes. Itâs comfortable. It always is when itâs with him.Â
Itâs a bit scary, too. Even though it shouldnât be.
âI went to the skatepark earlier,â Chan suddenly pops in.Â
When the microwave dings, you carefully take out the cup of ramen. âPracticing your 900?â
âWhat can I say? Iâll be the next Tony Hawk,â he teases amusedly. âIâm just kidding. Could never be on that manâs level.â
âYouâre going to hurt yourself one day doing all those⊠tricks and shit,â You say as you settle on your bed, pushing away pieces of paper of horrendous math calculations, making them fall down to the ground.Â
Chan shrugs, looking nonchalant as he leans back in his chair, casually stretching his arms behind his head. He was always pushing himself, always looking for the next adrenaline rush, no matter how reckless it seemed. It's a bit worrying sometimes. âEh, Iâll survive. A little pain is part of the game.â
âStill. Just⊠be careful, alright?â The softness and genuine concern to your tone isnât hard to miss as Chan looks over at you, the teasing spark in his eyes dimming for a second.
Chan plops a chip into his mouth, the crunch bouncing off the walls of the room.Â
âI will, donât worry.â Then he leans in like some sort of villain in a superhero movie. âSo⊠Iâd like to propose an idea.â
You already know what heâs about to propose. âChan, nođâ
âYou, me, these snacks I robbed from the store, and a few episodes of Gilmore Girls.âÂ
You pause mid-bite, your spoonful of ramen hovering just inches from your mouth as you stare at him in disbelief. A part of you wonders if the lack of caffeine in the bag had somehow changed his brain chemistry, but then again, this is the Lee Chan youâve always known since you were fourteenđspontaneous, reckless, and somehow endearing despite it all.
âYouâre such a weirdo,â You murmur under your breath, but the smile on your face betrays you as it always does.
âCome on! You know you want to, Y/N,â he says smugly, and as he catches the slight unsureness to your features, he lets out a sigh. âRelax with me, please?â
For a moment, your mind weighs about the mountain of work thatâs bound to be dumped on you, the looming exams, the clinical hours youâve been drowning in⊠and then you think about the weight lifting off your shoulders every time Chanâs around. Even just for a little while, the world seems to slow down when heâs here.
Heâs a goddamn terrible influence on you in the oddly best way possible. Oh, the irony.Â
âOkay, fine. Just⊠one or two episodes, alright?â You give in.
The way Chanâs eyes light up from your words sends a flip to your stomach, and heâs quick to leap off the chair to sink himself down right next to you on the bed. His warmth is quick to surround and engulf you, making himself comfortable in a way that feels so familiar it almost makes your heart race. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you shift slightly to make more room for him, attempting to ignore how suddenly hyper aware you are of his closeness to you.
He rolls his sleeves as if heâs prepared to commit his entire being to this mini-marathon of episodes, and you catch a peek of the tattoos that roam up and down his arms. Youâve seen them countless times before, but tonight, they seem to catch your attention more curiously than ever, and your gaze lingers for just a second too long before you snap your attention back to the screen of the laptop being placed between the two of you.Â
The bed creaks slightly as he adjusts himself, pulling the blankets up over both of your legs and getting comfortable as if he owns the place, before pressing the play button.
Even as the episode rolls in front of you, your mind⊠wanders to the boy right next to you. To Chan. To your best friend.
He isnât looking at you when youâre looking at him, too focused on the scene playing before you. And just the single thought of him is enough to fill every part of your mind, every crevice in your heart. Itâs overwhelming.
But itâs not just tonight. Itâs not just this moment.
Itâs every time heâs around.
The warmth of his body against yours feels too comforting to ignore. The way his carefree smile that youâve seen thousands of times over the years always makes you forget the time, the way his eyes seem to see through you sometimes that you feel almost bare, the way out of the eight billion people walking this planet right now, heâs the only one who knows you better than anything else.Â
Your heart stutters in your chest.
Is this it? Is this what people talk about when they say it just clicks?
You want to laugh at how oblivious youâve been, but the thought that keeps echoing through your mind is no, this isnât newđitâs been there for a while.
But as you steal another glance at him, the realisation hits you like a fucking bulldozer, like a speeding train, like a bullet penetrating through your body, like a punch to the gut youâre sure will leave a bruise. You nearly choke on your ramen.
Youâre falling for him. Youâre falling for your best friend.Â
No, scratch that. Youâve already fallen. Hard. For God knows how long. Fuck.Â
And the worst part? He doesnât even know. Youâre utterly screwed.
You were at the cusp of middle school and high school when you met Lee Chan. Even though youâre only a year ahead of him, the eighth graders at your school seemed to have a superiority complex bigger than their egos could contain. Back then, he was just another scrawny seventh grader running around with wild passions, and you were just trying to survive through these awful years of awkwardness, or just middle school in general.Â
It was during one of those ridiculous dares that you met. Some eighth grader had dared him to steal a soda can from the teacherâs lounge fridge, and heâd been caught red-handedđby you, unsurprisingly, as you were sent to pick up some paperwork for your office aide duties. And instead of being embarrassed or causing a ruckus in the middle of the hallway, he had grinned at you like he threw the most disastrous prank in history.
âYou wonât snitch, right?â he had asked, while holding the can of soda behind his back.Â
âWell, Iâm an office aide after all,â You had responded sarcastically, crossing your arms together. âI could totally report you to the principal.âÂ
âLet me give you a reason not to then,â he had said, revealing the soda can from behind his back and offering it to you. You had stared at him in disbelief, and after a short while, you'd finally taken it. He had just shot you a smile and shuffled past you, as if nothing had happened, but not before adding, âCome to the playground after school. Iâll show you something cool.â
By something cool, he showed you something called a kickflip. You had no idea what a kickflip was at the time, but Chan was way too eager to show you as he grabbed hold of a skateboard that was once used by his father. You had watched him try and fail repeatedly, but never once had he looked embarrassed or frustrated. It was that lighthearted attitude of his that drew you in, something you admired even then. And so, you stayed after school, watching him persist until he finally nailed the trick, his smile wide and victorious. Maybe the world felt lighter in those moments toođthat maybe going to high school wouldnât be an absolute shitshow.Â
That as young and dumb that you were, maybe life had good things for you.Â
Because it was with him.Â
You didnât call it a crush though, because all the eighth graders who were stuck in their heads all mentioned how crushing on seventh graders was disgusting and gross, that going after the hot high schoolers was cooler. Thus, you ignored the small flutter in your chest whenever he made you laugh after nearly face-planting while practicing, turned a blind eye to the way your heart skipped when he gave that ungodly smile after nailing another trick.Â
You told yourself it was nothing. You were just friends. Best friends, even.
âI think I have a crush on my best friend,â You downright admit in the middle of the cafeteria, unconsciously stabbing your salad in front of you with a plastic fork.
Jeonghan peers at you while slurping up his banana milk. âEat your ugly salad.â
You glare at him but take a begrudging bite of your salad anyway, chewing slowly as if it might somehow alleviate the embarrassment swirling in your chest. Itâs been almost a week since youâve come to terms with your feelings for your best friend. Jeonghan sets his banana milk down and leans forward, propping his chin on the palm of his hand with the kind of smug expression that tells you heâs about to make this conversation even worse.
âWell, you couldđâ
âShut up.â
âI didnât even say anything!â Jeonghan raises his hands in the air like heâs surrendering, letting out a scoff. âHow inconsiderate of you.â
âJustđDonât you get it, Jeonghan?â You ask after stuffing a piece of cold lettuce in your mouth. âThis is medical school. The pressureâs insane, and everything is a goddamn mess. I canât just throw everything away over a stupid crush. And itâs not like Chan would feel the same way. Weâve been friends for so long⊠and itâs just stupid to think about anything more. Iâm stupid for even falling for him in the first place.â
Jeonghan watches you carefully while mulling over your words, then his lips curl into a slight smirk, yet a hint of softness to his eyes.
âYou know,â he starts, leaning back in his chair, swirling the banana milk in his cup. âItâs not stupid to have feelings. Itâs natural. Whatâs stupid is throwing those feelings under the rug and leaving them to the dust mites.âÂ
âBut I justâŠâ Your voice trails away as you struggle to find the right words. âI already have a lot on my plate right now, and it almost feels wrong to think of him that way. As someone more than a friend. I feel like a pervert or somethingđI donât know.â
âA pervert?â Jeonghan questions with a raised brow. âAw, do you dream of giving him a little smooch on the lips?âÂ
You choke on the next bite of your salad, coughing and trying to hide your face in your hands as Jeonghan just snickers, completely pleased at your reaction.Â
âYouâre actually the devilâs worst nightmare personified,â You mutter under your breath, but thereâs no anger behind it.Â
âAh, well, thatâs a new one,â Jeonghan remarks amusedly. âBetter than the devilâs knight in shining armour, I suppose.âÂ
You sigh, dropping your fork and slouching in your seat. You donât think you have the energy to think about all of this right now. Thereâs a certain heaviness that settles in your chest as you reluctantly chew your way through the rest of your salad. You have other things to worry about right now, such as the mountain of schoolwork on your desk, your pathology exam on Friday, and having to impress your grumpy fifty-year-old attending tomorrow.Â
âCome on, letâs get through pharmacology.â You start to pack up your belongings, sealing off the remains of your unfinished salad and stuffing the container inside your backpack. Jeonghan watches you knowingly with a sigh as he gathers his own things.
âYouâre avoiding the conversation,â he points out, standing up and tossing his empty drink into the trash bin.
âI know,â You admit, standing up to join him. âI just donât have the mental space for it right now. I have so much to do, and thinking about Chan and... whatever this is... itâs not helping.â
Jeonghan doesnât say anything after that, and you appreciate the quiet while shoving your laptop and notebook inside your backpack before flinging it over your shoulder. He doesnât want to apply more pressure on the wound than needed.Â
One day, he thinks, youâll have to face it, and that itâll come to bite you in the ass sooner or later.Â
You could really use a shower right now.
After an entire day of clinicals and back-to-back lectures, all you want to do is melt in your bed and let the world fade away. But instead, you find yourself trudging towards the skatepark, because you promised to meet up with Chan for God knows why. By all means youâre definitely late, and you arenât even sure if Chan would be at the skatepark as heâd have to wait almost an hour for you to show up, yet the thought of disappointing him somehow hurts more than the aching fatigue in your legs.
You spot him instantly. Heâs mid-trick when you approach, his skateboard spinning in the air before he lands effortlessly with a triumphant grin. You see him fan himself, wiping his sweat off with his shirt he retrieves from the ground, catching sight of his exposed form and the tattoos that run up and down his skin. His back is turned towards you as well, and you catch a glimpse of another tattoo that he has: a series of Japanese letters that trail down his spine, spelling out his zodiac sign, Aquarius.
After a mere pause, he turns his head and spots you, his face lighting up like it always does, and you feel that familiar flip in your stomach again.
âYouâre late,â he calls out, kicking the skateboard up into his hands and jogging over to meet you.
You roll your eyes but canât help the small smile tugging at your lips. âBlame my neuro attending. That man has the stamina of a marathon runner and the patience of a saint. Could rival Derek Shepherd, to be honest. I think I aged ten years today.â You set your bag down on the floor next to a nearby bench. âYou didnât wait long, did you?â
âNah, not that long. You actually came after Vernon leftđidiot left his vape here,â Chan says while fishing the vape out of his pocket and taking a shameless hit from it, a cloud of vapour floating into the air when he exhales, before offering it to you with a teasing grin. âWant a hit?â
You scrunch your nose, shaking your head with a laugh. âOffering me, a med student, that shit is crazy. My lungs are precious thank you, unlike you and Vernon.â
âTell that to those bozos.â He points to the noisy teenagers at the other side of the park, before sitting right next to you on the bench. âCanât even roll over there without getting smacked in the face with weed.â
Your smile falters just slightly as you watch him lean back, his face tilting towards the darkening sky. The dim light of the streetlamps catches on the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the relaxed purse of his lips, and highlights the sleek dragon tattoo that snakes up his arm. He looks... peaceful. Content. Like the world isnât asking too much from him tonight, like thereâs no ginormous weight of expectations pressing on his shoulders, unlike you.Â
âI messed up today during clinicals,â You randomly confess, making Chan turn toward you. âThere was this patient today⊠a girl. Seventeen years old, has a tumour thatâs basically about to split her brain in half. I kept arguing with my attending about treatments, and I was so sure I was rightđthat we could do something more about itđbut in the end, I just... made it worse. I felt like such an idiot, because⊠because there wasnât anything we could do. She only has one chance with surgery, and she took it, despite her low chances of surviving.â
Chan listens to you, his eyes gentle and thoughtful, understanding but not pitying. Itâs the same way he used to listen when you were venting back in high school, always patient, never rushing you to fix yourself or your emotions.
âYouâre not an idiot,â he tells you, but his tone is nothing like a scold. âYou care. Thatâs the difference. Not everyone would have fought that hard for her, even if you didnât win. Youâve got a heart the size of the ocean, dude, you know?âÂ
You smile faintly, chest tightening a little to his words. âThe mother-fucking ocean?â
Chan grins at your lightheartedness, nudging you with his elbow. âYeah, the mother-fucking ocean. Youâre stubborn as hell, but youâve got that heart. And thatâs what makes you good at what you do. Itâs what makes you you.â
You look down almost in guilt from his words, unconsciously playing with your fingers in your lap. You donât know why, but it hits harder than usual tonight, and for a second, the rush of everything youâve been holding back hits youđthe exhaustion, the worry, the feeling that youâve been carrying more than your fair share of burdens these days. They almost threaten to burst out of you, but right now, they donât. Not yet at least.
âYouâre gonna be a good doctor,â Chan continues. âI donât even have to be a doctor to know that. You just⊠you get it. Youâre going to go out there and do great things. Maybe even better things than me.â
You almost want to laugh at that, almost want to tell Chan just how much shit heâs done that is far greater than what you could ever dream of. Youâre not sure if he realises it himselfđhow great he is, how much you admire him, love himđbut you think you could spend more than a lifetime telling him just that if you could.Â
Maybe youâve been avoiding these feelings for too long, but the truth is, theyâve been there for as long as you can remember. You canât pinpoint the exact moment these feelings shifted from friendship, to admiration, to something moređmaybe it was when he helped you get through the first few years of high school, or when he held your hand during a school dance, not in some romantic gesture but because you were scared of your anxiety acting upđbut itâs always been there. Heâs always been there.Â
âI⊠Thank you, Chan,â You say softly. Then you tilt your head back, looking at the same sky he is, the heaviness in your chest easing just a little. âYouâre kind of annoying, you know that? But youâre also... youâre really great yourself. Like, better-than-I-deserve great.â
Chan just chuckles at that. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, turning his head slightly to look at you. âThatâs probably the dumbest thing youâve ever said, and Iâve heard a lot of dumb shit from you.â
âWow, okay. Forget all that I said then,â You retort back playfully, shaking your head and crossing your arms together. âYouâre the worst person alive, actually.â
When youâre busy gazing up at the sky above, Chan turns to you. His eyes flit over you, basking how your eyelashes slowly bat together from tiredness, how your lips are slightly curled up in relaxation, how your features glow from the singular street lamp illuminating the skatepark. He doesnât say anything for a moment, and glances away, his thoughts racing faster than he can keep up with.
âYou meant it though, right?â he asks.
âWhat?â You question, turning towards him.Â
âAbout me being great or whatever.â You can tell heâs trying to brush off the hesitation, but you sense the uncertainty in his voice. âYou meant it?â
Out of all times, you wonder why heâs questioning it right now, at almost midnight in the middle of the skatepark. Youâve told him countless times how great he is, always hyping him up for skate competitions and giving him comfort on the times heâs down himself. Why⊠is he suddenly asking if you meant it?
âWell, I⊠Of course, I meant it,â You respond, catching his eye. âWhy wouldnât I?â
For a short period, thereâs just silence, comfortable, a pinch of awkwardđa word you can pretty much never associate with your interactions togetherđyet heavy. The way Chanâs features soften on his face from your words seem more important than the stars blinking up in the sky right now.Â
Then all it takes is a tiny giggle from him, and you canât help but groan.
âOh no,â You grumble pesteringly, shooting him an exasperated glance, but your tone is light, teasing. âI fueled your ego now, didnât I?âÂ
âYep. I can walk around like Iâm the best thing since sliced bread,â Chan jokes, puffing out his chest with pride. âMy greatness has been confirmed by a certified medical professional.â
âWhatever, big head,â You sneer back playfully.Â
Chan stretches out a bit more on the bench, his legs extending and his arms behind his head. You can tell heâs getting more comfortable too, probably ready to call it a night, just like you, and you canât help but let yourself soften a little.
Without thinking, you shift your body and lean your head down to gently rest it in Chanâs lap. His body stiffens for a few seconds as if he wasnât expecting it, but he doesnât pull away. Instead, he lets you settle, and after a beat, his hand comes to gently rest in your hair, and something tugs at your heartstrings from the feeling. Your eyes slowly flutter to a close.Â
âYou okay?âÂ
Those words almost make you want to cry.Â
âYeah,â You reply quietly. âIâm fine.â
âDonât lie to me.âÂ
When you open your eyes back up, Chan is looking down at you, studying you, his thumb tenderly tapping the top of your head as he waits for an answer.
âAlright.â You let out a deep inhale, blinking back up at him. âIâm not.â
Then his hand stops moving, and you nearly regret even telling him that.Â
âDo you want to talk about it?â he asks cautiously.Â
The corners of your lips tug up slightly, another sigh leaving you. All you can do is shake your head.
âNot really.â
Chan just pulls away, not entirely, but enough to give you a little space. His hand stays near, though, and heâs still watching you, his expression soft.
âOkay.â
For now, the two of you let your gazes drift back up to the sky, and you thinkđmaybe falling for your best friend isnât the worst thing in the world.
The number 87 is scratched at the top of the page of your medical jurisprudence exam.Â
âThanks for letting me cheat off you, by the way,â Jeonghan chimes in jokingly over your shoulder, nudging you in the arm before walking past you and out the door.Â
You roll your eyes at his comment but remain standing right where you are at your seat, and you donât know why you canât get yourself to move. Your fellow classmatesđall dressed in their finest set of scrubsđbrush past you and out of the classroom, but you could only clench your first around the paper in your hand.Â
An 87 isnât bad; if anything, itâs great. Hell, itâs probably better than some of the other people in your class. You should be happy about it. But for some reason, you canât shake the feeling that thereâs something off. Itâs the fact that youâre standing here, staring at a number thatâs supposed to represent your hard work, your achievements, yet it feels empty, hollow, even.
You donât feel proud of yourself.Â
All you can think about are the countless nights youâve spent studying for something that doesnât even feel fulfilling anymore. Your mind wanders over the sleepless nights, the skipped meals, the times you could hardly breathe because rotations had you stuck in the hospitalđwhat was it all for? A number? A stupid grade on a piece of paper?
You take a deep breath, trying to push the thought away.
âYouâre doing fine,â You remind yourself, quietly, under your breath. But somehow, it doesnât sound as convincing as you need it to. âYou did good. Youâre fine.â
Yet, thereâs a voice that echoes off the walls of your head: you can do better.Â
You meet Jeonghan and your other mutual friend Joshua in the hallway after managing to finally leave the large lecture hall. The two of them are chatting enthusiastically amongst each other, comparing their exams and the questions they received credit for along with the ones they got wrong.Â
You force a smile to slip across your face when you approach, though it merely feels like a mask youâre getting tired of wearing.
âIf I manage to survive this program, then I better be gifted with twenty years worth of coffee,â Jeonghan says while stuffing the exam paper inside his backpack. On the other hand, Joshua seems to be way more organised than you and Jeonghan combined, slipping his paper into a colourâcoordinated folder before holding it under his arm.Â
âWhat did you want to go into again? Pediatrics? Canât imagine you with children for the life of me,â Joshua comments playfully.
âAlright, mister, youâre the one who wanted to go into plastics,â Jeonghan retorts with a smirk, nudging Joshua in the ribs. âI can totally see you standing in front of a mirror practicing how to say, âOh, maâam, youâll look amazing after this rhinoplasty.ââ
Joshua rolls his eyes but laughs. âAt least Iâll make my patients happy. Iâm not sure kids would survive under your care without learning sarcasm as their first language.â
âSarcasm builds character, my friend,â Jeonghan states matter-of-factly, wiggling a finger up in the air as if to emphasise the point. âDonât worry, Iâll teach those little demons how to get through life in the correct way.âÂ
You give in a chuckle at their banter, clumsily folding your exam paper in half and stuffing it deep inside your bag, hoping youâd probably forget all about it by the end of the day. Though the tension inside you doesnât seem to want to disappear quite easily. You should feel happy to be surrounded by friends whoâve stuck with you through this hellish journey, but instead, youâre just... floating.Â
Itâs like youâre suspended between reality and expectation, unsure of where you really fit into either world. You try to push it down, but the feeling keeps creeping back, making your chest feel tight.
âNow I think this calls for a celebratory shot of champagne, or Iced Americano, whatever you want to call it,â Jeonghan announces to you and Joshua as all of you are walking outside.
The time has nearly reached evening by this point, the warm hues of the sky painting the sunset thatâs illuminating the campus. Itâs a sight that would normally give you a sense of peace, an opportunity to relax, but it doesnât give you that feeling right now. Far from it. You should be happy, you remind yourself again and again. Youâve been working towards this for your entire life, yet here you are, dragging yourself through the motions like a robot programmed to survive but never to live.
And maybe that's what hurts the mostđthe thought that youâve lost yourself somewhere along the way. You canât remember the last time you felt truly at ease, or when you last let yourself just... breathe.
Your steps donât fall in rhythm with Jeonghan and Joshua as you trail behind them. All of your energy feels like itâs been drained out of your body, and that youâd much rather be in the comfort of your apartment to study and distract yourself.Â
âYou guys can go ahead,â You say to Jeonghan and Joshua with a soft, yet tired smile. âI think Iâm just going to head home and get some rest. Catch up later?â
Joshua frowns, noticing the tension in your voice. âYou sure?âÂ
âYeah,â You reply nimbly with a half-shrug, even though the word feels like a lie when it leaves your lips. âJust⊠tired. You know how it is. You two deserve to celebrate, though. Go and enjoy yourselves.â
Before you could give Jeonghan or Joshua any chance to respond, you give them a half-hearted wave before hiking off in another direction. You blink away the heat that was threatening to form in your eyes, keeping your gaze focused on the ugly, cracked pavement ahead as you hurriedly make your way back to your apartment. Each step feels heavier than the last, and you swear you feel yourself sinking with each step you take. You tell yourself itâs fineđthat youâll feel better once youâre home, but you canât tell if youâre just trying to convince yourself that.Â
By the time you arrive at your apartment building, perhaps more time has gone by than you expected. The sun has nearly set at this time, making way for the moon to take over with its nightly duties, casting its pale glow over the world around you. But it doesnât seem to paint its glow on you.Â
When you start trudging your way towards the entrance to your building, a voice freezes you in your path.Â
âY/N! Wait up!âÂ
Your heart sinks in your chest at the voice, almost urging you to step inside your place before that particular gnaw of guilt could grab you, but you freeze nonetheless. You reluctantly turn around to none other than Chan jogging up to you, his skateboard nearly falling from his grip as he lands right in front of you. Heâs breathing a bit heavier than usual, as if heâd been running to catch up.
âYou havenât texted me all day,â he tells you breathlessly.
You lift a brow at that, a corner of your lip lifting up at his clinginess. âAnd you ran all the way here to tell me that?âÂ
âWell, duh, I have to make sure youâre alive.â He wipes off some sweat from his forehead. You could tell he just rolled here all the way from the skatepark.Â
As you let your eyes scan over him, you canât help but notice how effortlessly cool he looks with his messy fair falling in front of eyes, and the way he still seems to be trying to catch his breath from the exertion of running up to you. Thereâs a softness in his expression that makes your chest tighten, and itâs enough to make you lose focus on everything else. The exhaustion, the doubt, the ache in your chestđall of it vanishes when you look at him.Â
Truthfully, you missed him too. You always do.Â
âYouâre such a dork,â You prod, trying to suppress the soft warmth that spreads through your chest. You know heâs only teasing, but his concern still cuts deeper than you expect. âSee? I'm alive and breathing.âÂ
Chan eyes you suspiciously, before grabbing ahold of his skateboard from under his arm. âAlright, if you say soâŠâ
Before he could place the skateboard on the ground, you stop him.
âWait, Chan.â
Chan shoots his attention back to you, and perhaps thatâs enough to make your legs feel like jelly and your throat to go dry. You hesitate, biting back the emotions threatening to spill out of your mouth, but something about the softness in Chanâs gaze makes it feel like this is the right time to let it out. Even if itâs just a little bit.Â
Without thinking, you take a step forward, then another, and another, before leaning in to gently let your head fall on his shoulder. Chan freezes, his body tensing at the sudden contact. For a second, you wonder if youâve done something wrong, but then he exhales, his warmth radiating against your temple. You donât notice the way his hand hovers uncertainly over your back, contemplating, before he ultimately brings it back to his side.Â
âI got my results for an exam today,â You admit quietly.Â
Chan thinks he knows where this is going, breathing out a defeated, âOh. Did it⊠I mean, did youđâ
âI passed,â You mutter with a slight chuckle. âWith flying colours.â
Chan doesn't respond immediately, the only sound being the gentle rustling of the evening breeze. You can feel his shoulder shift slightly under your head, not out of discomfort, but then you feel his arm gently slide over your shoulders, pulling you a little closer to him. Maybe youâre close enough to the point he can feel your heartbeat.Â
âThen why do you sound so down?â he asks. âIf you passed, you should⊠you should be celebrating, right? Thatâs a big deal.â
âI am celebrating.â You huff out a breath. âNow that youâre here, I-I could celebrate.â
Chan tenses at that, like your words rendered him speechless. âBecause⊠because Iâm here?âÂ
You nod lightly against your shoulder. âItâs⊠easier to breathe when youâre here, I guess.â And then you smile faintly, even Chan can feel it. âDonât let that get to your head, though.âÂ
But it does. It does go to Chanâs head in more ways than one as he feels that familiar heat crawl up his neck from how those words fall naturally off your lips, like it was such a normal thing to say. And no, it doesnât fuel the prideful ego he claims he has, doesnât make him smug or self-assured; no, it goes straight directly to his heart, as your words always do. Heâs glad the dim evening light hides the full extent of his reaction, but he knows his heart isnât probably nearly as subtle.
And when you lift your head off his shoulder and pull away slightly, he canât help but stare at you. You donât say anything either, the words sitting in the air between you. But then you smileđtiredly, genuinely, not forced or hiding anythingđand the first thought that comes to his head is that⊠youâre beautiful.Â
âYou reek of sweat,â You suddenly point out teasingly, scrunching your nose. âHow many hours did you stay at the damn park?âÂ
âOh, you know, only a good seven hours,â Chan replies sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. âPlus I did go to the gym with Soonyoung tooâŠâ
âAnd let me guess, no knee pads or helmet?â You ask with a raised eyebrow.Â
Chan opens his mouth in defense. âWell, Iđâ
âAlright, Iâve heard enough,â You cut him off playfully, rolling your eyes dramatically.Â
Then Chan lightly nudges you with the skateboard. âAt least youâll be there to patch me up, yeah?âÂ
âNope, sorry, Iâm leaving you at the mercy of the cranky ER nurses,â You tell him, wiggling a dismissive finger toward his face.Â
Chan just steps back up to you, a twinkle of mischief that you capture in his eyes, before he grabs hold of the skateboard under his arm and shoves it in your hold, a low oof escaping out of your mouth. Then you watch with a scoff as he brushes past you and into your apartment building, and you jog to catch up with him.
âWhat the hell are you doing, Chan?â You call out after him, trying to juggle the weight of the skateboard in your hands. Chan glances over his shoulder with that signature grin of hisđhalf playful, half smugđand itâs enough to make you want to smack him with the board. âAnd take this thing back, Iâm not carrying it! Lee Chan!âÂ
Chan looks back at you with his tongue sticking out, before disappearing around the corner. âSorry, Iâm going to use your shower!âÂ
And for the first time the entire day, the laugh that leaves you is real. A real, genuine laugh that comes from deep in your chest, bubbling up before you can stop it.
âHey, Lee Dino! Youâre up!â
Chan picks his head up from where he sat on the bench, scrunching the empty water bottle and aimlessly tossing it in the trash bin beside him. He stands up, tugging his shirt off that was nearly drenched in sweat and throwing it aside near his belongings. The cool air of the afternoon hits his skin, caressing over the tattoos that paint his skin.Â
His muscles flex as he stretches his arms above his head, relieving whatever tension was flowing through his body. The key factor to skateboarding is balance, but itâs also about rhythmđfinding the flow between body and board, and Chan knows it all too well.Â
He inhales deeply, eyes scanning the open park in front of him, full of potential for the next challenge.
âLetâs see what you got today, Lee Dino,â Chan mutters to himself, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Dino. A self-proclaimed nickname that was at first given to him by his father when he was just a kid and fascinated by the strength and coolness of dinosaurs in those silly comic books. His dad had joked that he wanted his son to dominate the world like the dinosaurs once did, and that nickname stuck ever since. It felt fitting to Chan, even now.
He strides confidently toward the half-pipe, his worn-out skateboard tucked under his arm. Placing the skateboard on the ground, he pushes it back and forth a few times with his foot, the wheels scraping the pavement below. He eyes the ramp ahead, its steep curve teasing him, almost daring him to take it head-on.Â
Chan doesnât hesitate.
In one singular, fluid motion, he plants one foot on the board and pushes forward, flying off with a burst of energy that propels him toward the ramp. The world around him blurs for a split second as his focus narrows entirely on the slope ahead. His heart races, not out of fear but exhilaration. The crowd that had gathered around the park watches, a mix of awe and excitement in their eyes.
He hits the curve of the ramp, leaning into it just the right amount, and in one smooth motion, he launches himself into the air. The adrenaline kicks in, but itâs all muscle memory that fills himđhe knows exactly how to control his body.
Time seems to pause and the world around goes on mute as he floats above the ground. The board twists under his feet with the familiar flick of his ankle. His body moves effortlessly, adjusting for the perfect landing, and searching for the right second to take in a deep breath.Â
He lands back on the pavement with the grace of a dancer, his knees absorbing the shock of the landing, and the cheers of his friends and his fellow skaters power up to full volume right to his ears when the world comes back to him. But as he rolls around the bowl, his focused eyes are already scanning for the next trick heâs about to perform.Â
One trick after another, he continues, smoothly flowing from one move to the next. A quick Ollie here, a grind on the edge there, his body dancing on the board with a sense of freedom following right after him. He can feel the eyes of the crowd who have curiously gathered around the park to watch, but right now, itâs just him and the board.Â
One last run, he tells himself. Chan rolls again, more faster this time, building up speed as the seconds of anticipation pass. As he nears the highest point of the ramp, he shifts his weight and takes in one last deep breath. Heâs going for a bigger one this time. A heelflip, followed by a 360-degree spin mid-air.
The muscle memory kicks in again as he pushes off for one final time. He feels the rush, the levity to his bones that make him fly, the thrill as the world spins around him. But as he spins, something doesnât quite feel right, and he could sense it right away. A rush of cold wind catches him off-balance, and for a split second, he hesitates mid-air, yet heâs just a millisecond too late.Â
Itâs a tiny momentđone probably wouldnât be able to notice it from how fast he was goingđbut itâs enough to throw him off. His body is barely in the perfect alignment it needs to be. Panic flashes through his eyes.
And his heart sinks as he realises heâs not going to stick the landing.
Chan manages to land the board, but itâs far from the smooth he was expecting, slamming harshly that his body doesnât fully absorb the shock. His right foot misses the edge of the deck just slightly, and the board wobbles beneath him. He tries to adjust quickly, but the momentum carries him a bit too far, and before he knows it, heâs stumbling off the side and onto the rocky ground, the skateboard shooting out from under him and skidding into one of the nearby flatrails.Â
âShit,â he mutters to himself.Â
Collective gasps ripple through the air as he finds himself laying flat on the ground, his breathing heavy. Chan rolls onto his side, groaning in frustration.
âMan, you good?â Vernonâs voice pops in, the boy picking up Chanâs skateboard and jogging towards him. âThat looked like a bad fall.â
Chan pushes himself up from the ground, shaking his head and laughing lightly, wiping his palms against the asphalt and feeling the sting of scraped skin. The fall had been harsh, his body aching slightly from the impact, but the sting is nothing compared to the frustration burning in his chest. Heâs taken worse falls before, but this one felt different. This time, he knew he shouldâve nailed it.
Maybe he was a bit too cocky. A bit too confident than he needed to be.Â
âYeah, Iâm good, dude.â He grabs hold of Vernonâs outstretched hand and stands back up on his feet with a grimace. âGuess I miscalculated that a bit, huh?â
âYou sure about that?â Vernon asks skeptically, handing Chan back his skateboard. âYou look like youâve taken a hit.â
Chan just chuckles, downplaying himself playfully. âNah, Iâm fine. Maybe just a little bit of a bruised ego.â
But even with that, his mind races, still replaying the trick, analysing the split-second mistakes he made. Why had he hesitated? Was he not focused enough? Was it the wind? Or maybe, was it that nagging feeling of doubt that had crept in when he least expected it?
âYouâve been pushing yourself harder lately,â Vernon says, eyeing him knowingly. âYouâre going to burn out if you keep going like this.â
But Chan only shakes his head dismissively.Â
âItâs just a slip-up.â Then he pats Vernon on the shoulder. âItâs all good, man.â
But deep down, heâs unsettled. Heâs used to pushing through challenges, always looking ahead and striving for the next trick. But now, he feels like somethingâs holding him back, and itâs not just the fall.
He canât help but think about you. A while ago when youâd reassured him, telling him he was great and making his heart do flips more than it should. Maybe he hadnât fully processed it then, but now, with the fall still fresh like a wound, the words hold more poundage than ever. The words he told himself about his worth, the words you told him about his greatness⊠they donât seem to line up with the failure he feels now. Maybe you were just saying it to make him feel better.Â
Or maybe he really isnât as great as everyone thinks.Â
Because if youđthe one person who knew him bestđsaw something in him, then maybe it was real. Maybe his greatness wasnât just an illusion he crafted to keep himself from falling apart.
Later that evening, Chan finds himself taking a mindless hit of his vape. The skatepark has cleared away at this point, leaving only him and Vernon sitting on the edge of the half-pipe, the cool night air settling over the empty ramps and rails. The rush of adrenaline from earlier is now long gone, replaced by a quiet hum of exhaustion and contemplation.
Chan exhales slowly, watching the vapour dissipate into the dead of night, the faint flavour of Sour Fucking Fab coating his tongue. The nicotine buzzes in his veins, a distractionđtemporary, but enough.
His fingers absentmindedly tap against his skateboard, the frustration from earlier still simmering beneath his skin. Vernon leans back on his elbows, glancing at him with that same knowing look he always has when Chan is overthinking.
âYou wanna talk about it now?â Vernon finally asks after exhaling a cloud of vapour of his own, leaning back on his palms.
Chan lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. âNot really.â
Vernon doesnât push. He never does, seemingly having the unbotheredness that could rival a rock. The boy just nods, stretching his legs out in front of him, letting the silence do the talking instead. They sit there for a while, watching the overhead lamps flicker across the park, and the occasional car passing by.
Chan lets his legs dangle over the edge of the ramp, his skateboard resting beside him, scuffed and worn from years of practice. He takes another slow drag of his vape and drops his back down on the cool pavement below, sealing his eyes shut.Â
âYou good?â Vernon asks again, his voice cutting through the silence.Â
Chan blinks, shaking himself out of it. âYeah. Just thinking.â
âAbout your fall?â
Chan hums noncommittally. âAmong other things.â
Vernon leans back against the rail, watching him closely. âYouâve been weird lately.â
Chan only lets out a breathy chuckle, yet doesnât respond right away. Itâs funny how one fall is enough to mess with his head. He just blankly stares up ahead at the night sky. He doesnât have an answer. At least, not one heâs ready to say out loud. But Chan knows Vernon, and Vernon knows him, and heâs not going to let this go that easily.
âDo you think Iâm actually good at this?â he asks suddenly, voice quieter than before.
Vernon turns his head slightly, eyes narrowing. âAt skating?â
âYeah.â Chan swallows the lump in his throat. âOr at anything, really.â
Vernon frowns puzzledly, sitting up properly. âDude, what are you talking about? Youâre literally one of the best skaters here."
âYeah, but what if Iâm just⊠I donât know, pretending?â The words come out before Chan can stop them. âWhat if Iâm just tricking myself into thinking Iâm great when Iâm really just average?â
Vernon studies him for a long while before letting out a slow breath. âMan, if that were true, you wouldnât be out here busting your ass every day till the crack of dawn. You wouldnât get back up after a fall. You wouldnât care this much.â
Chan doesnât respond right away, only pushing himself back off the ground. Then his mind drifts again, back to youđyour head resting in his lap, the way you looked up at him with something unreadable in your gaze. The impact of your words still lingers. Youâre really great yourself. Like, better-than-I-deserve great.
âHave you ever thought that⊠maybe people see you as something more than you really are?â
Vernon lifts up a brow. âYouâre speaking hieroglyphics.â
Chan scoffs annoyedly, running a hand through his messy hair. âLike, they think youâre this⊠great person, right? Someone whoâs got it all figured out or whatever. But then, you screw up. And suddenly, you donât know if youâre actually that person, or if they just convinced themselves you were.â
Vernon eyes him conspicuously. âDude. Thatâs just imposter syndrome.â
A dry laugh leaves Chan. âWell, shit.â
âOkay, so you mess up one fall and suddenly youâre questioning your entire existence?âÂ
Chan snorts, but thereâs no real amusement behind it. âMaybe.â
Vernon stares at him a little longer, a little harder, then sighs.Â
âIt isnât just about the fall, is it?âÂ
Chan hesitates, his fingers tightening around his vape. He wants to say yesđthat itâs just about the fall, just about that one pivotal mistakeđbut he knows itâs not. He knows Vernon is right.
Because if it were just about the fall, he wouldnât feel this restless. He wouldnât be sitting here, staring at the cracks in the pavement like they held the answers to all the questions buzzing in his head.
And the thought of you wouldnât keep creeping into his mind, either.
He smiles faintly at the thought of you, and he swears he could almost feel the warmth of your body when you laid your head on his shoulder the other day.Â
Maybe fallingđon the board, for you, for everythingđwasnât the worst thing in the world.
Maybe he just had to figure out how to land.
âYou ever think that maybe no oneâs expecting you to be perfect except yourself?â Vernon questions suddenly.Â
Chan turns to look at him in surprise.Â
âThink about it.â Then the boy breathes out a cloud of vapour, hitting Chan square in the face, accusingly pointing at him with the mouth of his vape. âAnd wipe that disgusting lovesick shit off your face.â
Chan chokes from his words.Â
âChan?â
â...hm?â
You lightly flick the tip of your pencil on his head, causing him to stir in front of you. The two of you were in the library of your campus, and Chan for some reason voluntarily wanted to come with you, despite it being one of your boring study sessions. Heâs sitting in the chair right across from you, hoodie over his face and face buried in his arms on the table, clearly dozing off.
âYouâre sleeping,â You say, raising a brow. âWhy did you even come if you were just gonna pass out on me?â
Chan slowly lifts his head, eyes heavy with drowsiness. His hair is a mess, sticking up in odd angles, and his face is creased from where he had pressed it against his arms. He blinks sluggishly at you, eyes still heavy with sleep, but thereâs something else theređsomething softer, something warm.Â
âMmm⊠moral support?â Then he shoots a glance towards your opened textbook and computer screen. âI barely understand any of the shit youâre studying anyway.â
You roll your eyes, fighting the smile threatening to spread across your face. âYou couldâve just stayed home and slept, you know.â
âThatâs boring,â he groans, rubbing his eyes before propping his chin on his palm. He studies your bare faceđtired eyes, a bit of breakout to your cheek, the way you chew on your bottom lip when youâre frustrated. âTalk to me.â
âAbout what?â
âAnything. I donât knowđyour shitty commute to school or if that one shitty nurse bothered you today. Just talk to me.âÂ
You sigh, stretching your arms above your head before setting your pencil on top of your textbook. You could feel Chanâs eyes waiting for you as you try to rack your brain for anything to talk about. Anything that didnât revolve around you practically moping through your coursework the entire day.Â
And then your face lights up.
âA baby held onto my finger last night,â You say, eyes softening from the memory. âHer name is Nabi, and she was sooo tiny, Chan, you have no idea. She wasnât even my patient, so I had to sneak inside the nursery to see her, butâŠâ You lean back in the chair, glancing down at your calloused fingertips from all the times youâve practiced sutures. âI donât know. She wrapped her tiny hand around my finger, then all I felt⊠was peace. It was relaxing. I havenât felt peace like that in a long time.âÂ
Now thatâs an image that comes to Chan's head.Â
For a moment, like a spell, heâs lost in it. His mind wanders, as it always does when he lets himself think about you too much. He can imagine you there, looking down at Nabi with that quiet wonder in your eyes, watching you care for this tiny life. He pictures you cradling a baby of your own with the same peaceful look on your face as you guide them gently through the world.Â
And the thought hits him like a tidal wave: Youâd be an incredible mother.
Itâs not something heâs imagined before, not something heâs consciously thought of. But now that youâve said it, now that you single-handedly planted the concept in his head, he canât push it away. Heâs seen it when you did volunteer work for young children back in high school, seen it when you showed him pictures of you cradling the newborn baby of your cousin with the fondest look on your face. He can see it so clearly.Â
âYouâd be a great mom,â he blurts out suddenly, and he hardly processes the words until after theyâve left his mouth.
You blink at him, dazed. âWhat?âÂ
Chan clears his throat awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. âI-I just think youâd be really good at it. Youâve always been great with kids, soâŠâ
You blink at him again, unsure of what to say, and he canât quite tell what youâre thinking in your head. But in reality, his words seem to hit you more than you expected. Perhaps youâve been too caught up in your studies that itâs hard to imagine that kind of future for you right now. Yet, if somehow, life gave you that kind of situation, then maybe it wouldnât be so bad.Â
Maybe this would all be worth it in the end.Â
And so, you smile. Itâs a small, just barely noticeable quirk of your lips, but itâs soft, and for some reason, it makes Chanâs heart skip.
âYeah,â You murmur quietly. âMaybe.âÂ
âNabi was lucky to have you there, though,â Chan adds in. âMaybe she also felt peace too.âÂ
You peer at him with an amused look. âAre you getting a soft spot for babies now?â Then you scoff sarcastically. âI guess the tough-looking skater boy can get soft, after all.â
âDonât tell anyone,â he jokes, trying to brush off the warmth spreading across his chest. âIâve got a reputation to maintain.â
You could only roll your eyes. âSure, Iâll keep your secret, buttercup.â
Chan just chuckles. He doesnât mind being the soft version of himself with you. He doesnât have to wear the hard exterior that everyone expects from him: the reckless skater with tough edges who never cracks under pressure. Itâs easy, he thinks, to be soft around you. Itâs easy for you to make him soft in the first place, with just a single glance, a smile, just you.Â
The room grows quiet now, other students filing their way out of the library for the night, leaving only the two of you. You glance down at your work, but your thoughts drift, still lingering on the conversation, and on Chan. You notice how his gaze has relaxed, lips curled like heâs trying to hide a smile. You donât mind itđthis side of him. The one that feels less like a skating rebel and more like a person youâre learning to understand more every day.
He watches you as you get back to your work, highlighting parts of your textbook with that quiet concentration that he admires. Itâs occasions like these when he finds himself noticing even the smallest details about you.Â
Yet his mind keeps repeating about the peace you mentioned, and thereâs a sudden urge in him to bring it back to you.
âCome on.â He rises from the seat, stretching his arms over his head before grabbing his skateboard from where it rests against the table. âLetâs get out of here for a bit.â
You blink at him, confused. âWhat?â
âYou need a break,â he states simply. âAnd I need to clear my head too. Letâs go do somethingđanything but this.â He gestures at your pile of notes and textbooks like they personally offended him.
You stare at him like heâs proposed the most ridiculous thing in the world, hesitation making you stiffen. You glance between your opened textbook and unfinished papers. You still have a lot to study, and it looms over you like a cloud. But then you meet Chanâs eyes, and your heart gets lodged in your throat.
Itâs tempting. More tempting than you want to admit. You bite your lip, considering.
âChan.â You narrow your eyes at him. âYouâre on thin ice right now.â
âOh, come on,â he coaxes, tiling his head amusedly as if he knows heâs getting under your skin. âJust for a little bit, please?â
You groan, throwing your head back dramatically. âYouâre a bad influence.â
âIâm a wondrous influence, thank you,â he corrects smugly, already swinging his backpack over his shoulder. âNow come on. Pack all that gross knowledge up.âÂ
âJust so youâre aware, one day all this shit could help me find some revolutionary cure in the future,â You point out while stuffing all your belongings in your backpack. âCatch me on the front page of the New York Times.â
Chan smiles at that. Honestly, with already knowing how smart and studious you are, he wouldnât even be surprised if that someday were to happen. Heâs never once doubted your abilities, never once doubted that youâll potentially save the world in some way, shape, or form, never once doubted that youâll accomplish great things.Â
âAlright, whatever, as long as you donât forget about me,â Chan says as you pack the last of your belongings.
You hit him gently on the shoulder. âIâd never do that to you.â
Chanâs heart does the familiar jump once again.Â
The two of you make your way out of the library, the cool night air hitting your skin as soon as you step outside. Campus is quieter at this hour, streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement. Chan hops onto his skateboard with ease, gliding a few feet ahead before spinning back around to face you, rolling backwards.
âOkay, so⊠whatâs the plan?â You ask him.
He pretends to think, tapping his chin dramatically. âWe could get ice cream.â
âItâs freezing, idiot.â
âOr we could break into the football field and stare at the sky like weâre in some coming-of-age movie.â
You scoff airily. âWeâre not breaking into anything, Chan.â
âUgh, youâre boringgggg,â he exaggerates teasingly, but thereâs no real disappointment in his voice. He kicks off again, rolling beside you as you walk. Then, as if something clicks in his head, his expression shifts and his face brightens up. âI know what weâre doing.â
You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. âI donât like the sound of that.â
Chan merely grins, and you know you have to give in. âYouâll love it, trust me.â
Thatâs exactly what someone who is about to get you in trouble would say.
Chanâs place has always been so⊠Chan. He shares it with another roommateđa chill guy named Vernon who youâve interacted a few times when you would visit the skatepark. The apartment is dimly lit, a shelf at the corner of the slightly unkempt living room containing a collection of vinyls and old CDs.
Posters of old rock bands and underground artists fill the walls. Thereâs another skateboard propped up by the door right next to a disorganised row of shoes and a stand propping up an electric guitar. The living room table is littered with books about sports you arenât familiar with, loose papers, and a bong sitting casually beside an ashtray that contained some old rolled-up joints.Â
Itâs been a while since youâve visited his place personally as youâre used to him visiting you instead. It looks a bit different this time, some new furniture and decorations added that you havenât seen before, but it still oozes the familiar comfort rightfully belonging to Chan.Â
âBro, can you turn it down a little?â You hear Chan knocking a few times on Vernonâs door.
A voice is muffled on the other side, then the door swings open, and Vernonâs head pops out from the room. The two of them exchange a few words before Vernon turns his head to shoot you an acknowledgement.
âYo, Y/N,â he greets you casually.
âHey, Vernon,â You respond back with a quick smile.Â
Vernon faces back to Chan, glancing between the two of you, before poking him in the chest and muttering quietly, âDonât fuck this up with her, man.â
Chan just swats Vernonâs hand away with a scowl, feeling the heat spread up to his ears. âShut up.â
Vernon just shoots a knowing smirk before heading back into his room. You hear the music from inside lower slightly, yet still audible through the walls. Chan turns back to you, and you catch him fiddling lightly with one of his ears, but you donât question it.
âWant something to drink?â he asks, slipping past you to head into the small kitchen area.
You give a nod. âSure.â
You watch as he rummages through the refrigerator, half-expecting for him to pull out two bottles of beer or even just plain water. But instead, he fishes out two small juice boxes, sending you back to old memories of your middle school lunches and lazy summer days at the skatepark, and you bite back a chuckle.Â
He throws one to you, and you catch it mid-air.
âSeriously?â You question while stabbing the straw through the carton.Â
Chan only shrugs. âTheyâre Vernonâs. He bought them in bulk last time he got shit-faced high. Said they were âthe peak of human inventionâ or whatever.â
You roll your eyes, but when you take a sip, Chan watches in amusement as you dive in for more.Â
âTold you. Peak of human invention,â he muses while taking a sip of his own. âOur middle school has to take notes.âÂ
âFor sure,â You agree wistfully, sitting yourself down at the arm of the couch. âAlright, so whatâs this grand plan of yours?â
A mischievous glint flickers in Chanâs eyes, and he disappears for a few minutes inside his room. When he comes back out, he has a few blankets hung over his shoulder.
âRooftop,â he chimes eagerly with a grin.
You lift up a brow, eyeing him with skepticism. âI⊠Are we even allowed up there?â
Chan merely shakes his head, already walking toward the window where the fire escape is. âNope.â
You groan but follow him anyway because, despite everything, you trust him. Heâs always been the reckless one, the one who always takes risks, the one who hardly thinks before acting, but somehow, whenever youâre with him, you never feel unsafe.
The climb up the fire escape is easy, and soon, the two of you are on the rooftop, looking out over the other unappealing suburban apartment buildings beneath your feet. Thereâs a slight inkling of fear that youâll get caught up here, but at this point, would it be the worst thing in the world? The answer is quite easy.Â
The night air is cool, a minor breeze driving through the air, blending with the soft music Chan plays from his phone. He spreads out the blankets, plopping down with an exaggerated sigh before patting the space next to him.
You settle down beside him, tucking your knees up to your chest. The streetlights ahead cast golden halos to the ground below, and for a few moments, neither of you decide to speak. But it isnât uncomfortable per seđfar from it, honestly. Itâs just a simple silence where words arenât necessary to fill it.Â
âJunior year, Christmas break,â Chan says after a long pause, glancing toward you with a fixed look. âSenior year for you.âÂ
You take a contemplative sip of your juice box. âThe time you gaslighted me into running away with you for a night? Right before that embarrassing Christmas party at my house?â
âI was a pretty bad kid back then, wasnât I?â Chan chuckles softly at the thought.Â
âYeah, dude, what the hell happened to you? You used to be this scrawny little kid who spread rumours about snakes being at the playground so that other classes wouldnât come.â You lean back on the blanket with him, exhaling a deep sigh. âNow youâre all⊠responsible and weirdly philosophical.âÂ
Chan eyes you with a raised brow. âYou havenât changed.â
âI havenât?â
âNope. Youâre still the same stubborn smartass girl whoâd rather kill themselves in textbooks than touch grass once in a while.â
âOkay. Rude, first of all.â Then you lift your gaze up towards stars, and something in your chest aches. âBut I guess some things never change, yeah?â
Chan stares up towards the sky as well, watching the same stars as you. âYeah, I guess not.âÂ
The two of you sit in another pit of comfortable silence for a while. You feel his shoulder brush against yours as he adjusts himself on the blanket, and for a brief second, your breath catches. Itâs such a small thingđhis warmth seeping into your skin, his presence right beside youđbut it makes your stomach flutter in a way you donât want to acknowledge.
You turn your head slightly to catch a glance of him. The sleeves of his hoodie have ridden up, revealing the large tattoo on his arm. You could tell how intricately designed the ink is on his skin, lines and shapes weaving together in patterns you canât quite decipher but are distinctly, undeniably Chan.
âYou ever think about it?â
âHuh?â You utter out.
âThe future.âÂ
You blink at him with surprise. Chan isnât usually the type to dwell on these things. He lives in the moment, takes on whatever the hell life throws at him. If anything, you were usually the one to think about the future. You were always known for having a plan for everything, knowing exactly the kind of path youâll take. But now, it seems more unclear than ever.Â
âI⊠donât know,â You admit unsurely. âI think about what I want to do, who I want to be. But when I think about it now, with everything going on, IâŠâ You find your voice trailing away, guilt slithering up your spine. âItâs hard to imagine it now.âÂ
The only response you hear from Chan is a low hum, before he clears his throat.Â
âI think youâd be happy.âÂ
Your breath catches. âWhat?â
He turns his head to look at you, his eyes soft even under the night sky. âI think that no matter where you end up, no matter what you do⊠youâll be happy. You deserve to be.â
Something warm unfurls in your chest, like a flower coming in full bloom. You donât know what to say to that, and even if you did, you wouldnât be able to let it out. Your throat suddenly feels dry, your hands clammy, and you force yourself to look away in a flash to blink back some heat in your eyes.Â
Chan notices the pensive look to your face, but doesnât push for anything more. He sits himself up on the blanket, taking a quick hit of his vape before exhaling a thin cloud of vapour into the night air. You fix your eyes on him, the dim light casting shadows over his face as he exhales.Â
His gaze drifts out to the neighbourhood of buildings ahead, but he seems to be lost in thought, withdrawn, like heâs fighting with himself about something he doesnât know how to voice. The silence stretches again, but this time itâs heavier, differentđmore intimate than youâre used to.
Then, you clear your throat. âWe should probably head back soon.â
Chan doesnât move from his spot on the blanket. âYeah. Probably.â
But neither of you make an effort to actually get up. He wordlessly offers you his vape without looking, and you hesitate momentarily before shamelessly taking it from him, inhaling a little too deeply, but not caring enough to stopđjust to feel something other than this. The taste is odd at first, unfamiliar, but it quickly becomes something soothing in the cool night air as you breathe it out. You pass it back to him, your fingers brushing over the warm skin of his hand.
âY/N?â
Your heart stutters when he calls your name. âYeah?â
Hesitation lingers in the air. Chan sucks in a deep breath.Â
âYouâre my favourite person, you know?â
Your breath gets caught in your throat at that, but you quickly mask it by giving him a playful shove in the arm, probably ruining the sentimental moment.
âI know, idiot,â You retort playfully, hoping it would be enough to hide the way your heart is racing. âYouâve told me that many times already.â
Chan just shakes his head, his expression unreadable. âI mean it.â
Your fingers nervously knead at the fabric of the blanket pooling around you. You canât get yourself to look at him. You canât.
Because you know. You know exactly what heâs saying.
And you donât know what to do about it.
So instead, you swallow hard, keeping your gaze ahead. âYouâre mine too, Chan.â
Chan doesnât respond right away, and you donât catch the faint smile that was beginning to bloom across his face. Thereâs a sigh that leaves his lips, almost one of relief, and he leans back on the palm of his hands, his eyes glued to your side profile.
âYeah,â he mutters softly. âI know.âÂ
Neither of you say anything more.
âOkay, listen, hereâs the catch. Sheâs like⊠really great. Like⊠she spoils me and all that. Itâs so overwhelming,â Soonyoung huffs out after dropping his deadlift and standing up. âI donât know how to be a good boyfriend for her! Iâve never dated anyone before! How the hell do I ask her to go to the movies with me?âÂ
Chan is listening. Well, not entirelyđSoonyoungâs words seems to be going in one ear and flowing out the other. Heâs been listening to the older boyâs rant about this sudden new addition to his dry love life, the best part being that itâs his older sisterâs best friend. Chan nods along anyway, keeping his gaze fixed on the gym floor as he absently rolls his water bottle between his palms.
Soonyoung only continues to ramble, pacing a little in front of him with his hands to his hips. âLike, what if I mess it up? What if she realises I have no idea what Iâm doing and decides Iâm not worth it? Or what if Iâm too much?â
Chan hums, taking a long drawl of his water. âIf sheâs with you, she probably already thinks youâre too much, bro.â
The older boy shoots him a measly glare, popping down on the bench right next to him. âWow, thanks, genius. Youâre sooo encouraging. Youâve never been in love before, anyway.âÂ
When Soonyoung snatches his water bottle, a few beats of silence fills the air. Chan continues to stare down at the gym floor like it contains all the answers in the world, all the answers heâll never have, and Soonyoung gives him a few curious looks. And then, it clicks in his head.
âWait a damn minute.â Soonyoung fixes his posture right away as his eyes widen, sitting up straighter. âChanđâ
âMan, you really are blind are you?â Chan retorts with an amused click of his tongue. âNo wonder you suck at being a boyfriend.â
âShut up!â Soonyoung shoves him in the arm, before grabbing him by the shoulders like heâs just made the greatest discovery in history. âNo way, is it Y/N? Itâs Y/N, right?â
Chanâs reaction is immediate, the sound of your name already sending those familiar flutters to the pit of his stomach. This only makes Soonyoung beam up even more, and Chan already knows that the older boy will take this right into his damn grave.Â
He tries to pry Soonyoung off him, but he only relents.
Soonyoung is practically vibrating with excitement. âDude, wow, didnât you used to tell me you were going to marry her or something?â
âWhy the hell do you still remember that?â Chan groans and rubs a defeated, embarrassed hand over his face. âI was, like, fifteen. A dumb, didnât know their right-from-left kid. She was way out of my league at the time.âÂ
âBut not anymore.â
Chan rolls his eyes. âYouâre insufferable.â
âCome on, look at you! Youâre hot, like a total eye-catcher and mouth-drooler material. Of course sheâd be into you,â Soonyoung persists, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. âLiterally anybody would swoon over you.âÂ
Chan rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. âItâs different now, though. Med school is swallowing her whole, and she barely has time to breathe anymore. Besides, itâs just⊠complicated, you know?âÂ
âYouâre each otherâs person,â Soonyoung affirms with confidence. âDonât forget that.âÂ
Chanâs heart thrums loudly at that. Now, the only thing he could think about was his conversation with you the other night. He can still feel the soft brush of your shoulder against his, the comfort of your presence beside him. Youâre my favourite person, he had said; Youâre mine too, you had said. It echoes in his mind like a tenacious virus infecting his thoughts. Itâs true, he knows it is. Youâre his person.
The big question is, though, how the hell does he gain the courage to finally face it?
Chan had never been the one to overthink things. Heâs always been the careless kind. But with you, he finds himself replaying every single little memory with you, and it makes him almost want to combust.Â
Running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, Chan grimaces, tapping his foot out of unease.
âLove really is a piece of shit,â he mutters.Â
Soonyoung leans back on the bench with a reflective sigh. âYeah, it really is.âÂ
Chan side-eyes the older boy for a second, nudging him lightly in the shoulder. âLet me give you a piece of advice then.â
Soonyoung turns to face him with a puzzled look.
Chan just smirks, shoving Soonyoung in the forehead with his index finger.
âStop being a pussy and your girlfriendđdo I need to spell it out for you? Your girlfriendđto the damn movies already, you loser.âÂ
No, this is not happening.
A tear squeezes past your eye and lands somewhere by your feet as you stare at the bold, unforgiving letters of the word FAIL written at the very top of an exam you took the other day. You will yourself to blink as if it would miraculously make the words change, for some mistake to have been made. But nothing changes. The numbers donât rearrange themselves, the percentage doesnât miraculously rise above the passing threshold. It stays theređpermanent, irreversible, mocking like a goddamn clown.Â
No, no, no, no.
Your throat tightens.
This is the fourth exam you failed in a row. You had studied until your eyes dried up and burned, pushed yourself past the brink of exhaustion, drained every last drop of energy you had left into preparing for this exam, hoping to make up for the list of others you scored below average on. You sacrificed sleep, skipped meals, ignored texts from friends. And for what? For fucking what?Â
For this shit?Â
Your vision swims.
Your pulse hammers loudly right to your ears, loud enough youâre sure it could drown out any kind of sound. Your knuckles tighten its grip around the paper until they turn white, nails digging into the palm of your hand.Â
Your breath hitches, and suddenly, it feels like the walls around you are closing, eager to shut you in. The room suddenly shrinks into a confined space thatâs hard to properly breathe, the air too thick, your own skin too suffocating to be in. Your heart pounds painfully against your ribs, and a cold sweat trickles down the back of your neck.
You had been barely holding it together as it was, restrained by the threats of burnout. Long nights, endless studying, the constant weariness sitting heavily on your bones. And now? Now you have proof that none of it was enough. That none of it was worth it. That you werenât enough.
A ding from your phone startles you out of your thoughts for a split second. You barely manage to catch the notification that jumps at you.
[10:37pm | dumbass đč]
y/n?? are you okay?
i donât know whatâs happening,
but your friend jeonghan ran into me
saying about how you ran away crying??
A choked sob escapes you before youâre able to stop it. You can feel the anxiety creeping its way from down your feet and up through your bones. You hardly realise how much youâre trembling from your hardened grip on your phone.
[10:39pm | dumbass đč]
y/n answer me please
i know youâre not okay
A cold panic grips your chest achinglyđyouâre sure thereâs a bruise there forming in some disgusting mental form.Â
What does this mean for you?
Your future?
Your dream?
[10:43pm | dumbass đč]
y/n please iâm worried
about you. i care for you
so so much
Thereâs a tug at your heartstring at his text, but then you feel another tug, one thatâs more stronger, more desperate. Itâs almost as if the final nail to the coffin had been hammered. You crumple the piece of paper in your hand aggressively before flailing it somewhere across your apartment. Thereâs a darkness that seems to loom right over you, goosebumps dancing up and down your skin as you sit yourself down at the edge of your bed.
One last ding from your phone.
[10:47pm | dumbass đč]
iâm coming over, okay?
stay there for me, y/n
i'll be there in 5 mins
You stare at the screen of your phone, the words blurry through the tears that wonât stop raging down your face. You can barely process Chanâs messages. You know heâs worried. You know heâs trying to be there for you, but the weight of failure seems to crush your body like a boulder, and you arenât even sure if you have the willpower to face him.Â
You canât let him see you like this. You canât allow him to see this weak, vulnerable, and ugly part of you. You canât.Â
Time seems to tick by slowly as you pace around your room, but at every angle, all you can see is your scattered textbooks, the countless notes youâve taken that never seemed to stick into your brain like it was meant to. All you see is the so-called effort that kicked you right back to this point. Your mind races with a million thoughts, each one a reminder of how much youâve failed, how much youâve fallen short of the finish line. The clock ticks mercilessly, and before you even realise it, Chan is at your door.
You freeze.
The knocks are insistent. Suddenly, the thought of Chan allows you to exhale a deep breath; the first, real one.Â
âY/N? Open the door, please,â Chan urges, voice muffled through the door.Â
You could only stand there, staring at the door as if it could open by itself. Your heart is pounding even faster, your mind screaming at you to do something. You can just yell back that youâre fineđthat thereâs nothing to worry about, but the truth is that you donât fucking know whatâs wrong with you.
âY/N, please⊠Iâm not going anywhere. Just⊠let me in.â
The pure softness to his voice seeps through the door and hits you square in the chest, and something inside your cracks. You know you should let him in, but your failure feels so raw, so final, that itâs hard to imagine someone, especially someone like Chan, still wanting to be around you.
And yet, heâs here, attempting to reach you.
Taking a deep breath, you wipe away your tears, and against every thought in your mind telling you to retreat, you reach out and open the door.
On the other side, Chan stands with an arm leaning against the doorframe, his dark hair tousled and messy from the wind, his breathing rapid and fast like heâs just run from the other side of the world just to get to you. The thought only deepens the cut even farther.Â
âY/NâŠâ His voice falters immediately at the sight of your face: puffy, reddened eyes, your body shaking like the world is crumbling right at your feet.Â
His heart lurches at the sight, jaw tightening slightly as his instincts to protect you, to lash out at whatever did this to you, flare up. He doesn't even hesitate. Without another word, Chan steps forward, his arms wrapping around you in an instant, pulling you against his chest. You donât do anything but fall right into his grasp, and itâs almost as if you fit perfectly in his hold. Like the space was always meant for you.Â
You allow yourself to believe it for just a moment.Â
âShit, youâre cold and shaking,â Chan mutters under his breath, tightening his hold around you a little bit more, but you already know the chill comes from somewhere elseđsomewhere deeper that you know he canât fix just like that.Â
For the first time in what feels like forever, you exhale a breath that doesnât feel like itâs cutting you from the inside out, your fingers digging desperately into the fabric of his hoodie. You feel the heat radiating off him, the comfort of being in his arms, but a sinking feeling grows heavier in your chest. You donât deserve this. Not his warmth, not his care, not his worry. You canât let him in, not like this.Â
But for a moment, just for a moment, you do.
âItâs okay,â he murmurs, his breath hitting the temple of your head. âIâve got you.â
You swallow a breath at that.
You shouldnât let him do this. You shouldnât let yourself melt into him like this, shouldnât let yourself believe that this is where you belong. Because it isnât.
Because you know better.
Because you know this warmth is only temporary.
Because you know the second you let yourself rely on him, really rely on him, itâll all come crashing down.
Slowly, the grip you have on his hoodie loosens, and you start to push yourself off him.
At first, Chan doesnât notice. His hold on you remains firm, as if he thinks youâre just shifting, adjusting. But then your hands push against his chestđjust barely at first; itâs a hesitant, silent plea for distance.
He stiffens.
His hold loosens, just slightly, but his arms donât drop completely.Â
âY/N?â The way he calls out your name comes out in a mere echo, like his presence is far away, even when it isnât. Even when heâs just right there in front of you.Â
You donât answer. You just push a little harder. I canât let myself love you like this.Â
And thatâs when he lets go. The cold is swift to settle back over your skin, the safety of his warmth disappearing in an instant. Chan looks like he wants to reach for you again, a twitch to his arms that doesnât go unnoticed, but he doesnât. He waits.
And thatâs somehow worse.
You take a step back, putting more distance where there shouldnât be any. âYou should go.â
Chan flinches like youâve slapped him, his eyes widening at your words, clearly taken aback, his expression completely faltering. He stays completely still in his spot.Â
âWhat?â He croaks out, his voice cracking weakly. âYou canât justđâ
âYou donât have to do this,â You say, forcing the words out even as they feel like shards of glass in your throat. âYou donât have to take care of me.â
âWhy wonât you justđâ He stops himself, exhaling sharply before lowering his voice. âWhy wonât you just let me be here for you?â
âBecause itâs not fucking fair, Chan.â
âBullshit,â he hisses out, but his voice is not angry, just desperate, hurt. âI donât give a damn about fairness, Y/N. Whatâs not fair? That I care for you? That I want to be here when you need me? That IâŠâ
âIâm not your responsibility!â
â...Iâve loved you for so fucking long itâs physically killing me inside?â
The truth spills from his lips like a flood he can no longer hold back. Silence swallows the room entirely, your feet sinking into the floor like quicksand. Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, the world around you comes to a halt. The tension stirring in the air has enough power to crush you all at once.Â
You shut your eyes, willing yourself to feel nothing, willing yourself to pretend like his words didnât just stab you straight through the heart.Â
But they do.
Because you love him. God, you love him so much.
But you canât give in.
Because if you do, youâll shatter. And if you shatter, heâll be the one trying to pick up the pieces.
âYou need to leave,â You deadpan, forcing the words out even if they cut through your throat like shards of glass.
But Chan only stands his ground, and takes a few steps towards you until heâs close enough that you could feel his familiar warmth again. Your hands twitch at your sides as he stands right before you, and for a singular second, you steal a glance down at his lips.Â
âDonât do that,â he urges, leaning in a little more, the edge of your bed from behind pressing into the back of your knees. âDonât act like this doesnât mean anything to you.â
Maybe heâs close enough to catch the subtle shakiness to your breath, to see the way your eyelashes imperceptibility flutter, to see the way your lips part ever so slightly. And maybe, just maybe, heâs close enough to make you forgetđfor a fleeting, dizzying momentđwhy youâve spent so long trying to push him away.
If you gave the world one more second, his mouth would be on yours. One more second, and youâd finally know what it feels like to kiss the boy youâve loved for as long as you can remember.
Yet like a punch to the gut, reality slams into you.Â
You swallow hard. âIt doesnât.â
The lie tastes like poison on your tongue.
Chan lets out a broken laugh, shaking his head as if he couldnât believe you. âYouâre a shitty liar, you know that?â His voice comes out hoarse and rough. âYou can tell me whatever the hell you want, but I know you, Y/N. I know⊠I know that you feel something, too.â
You bite down on your lip so hard you swear you could taste blood. You donât respond. You canât.
âSo just say it,â he presses on desperately, his hands clenched into fists at his side. âSay it, and Iâll go. Say it, and Iâll stay. Look at me in the eyes and tell me Iâm wrong. Tell me you donât love me. God dammit, just give me something, Y/N, please.âÂ
The way his voice becomes soft and pleading breaks something in you. Right now, youâre staring at the boy who has always been there for you, who has always known you better than you know yourself. The boy who is giving you a chance. A singular chance to pull him back. A singular chance to confess that youâve loved him since before you knew what the hell the word love even meant.Â
And that same boy is staring at you like youâre his whole world, like youâre the only thing keeping everything from falling apart. You want to tell him the truth. You want to throw yourself into his arms and let him hold you together into eternity when you feel like youâre crumbling apart. But you canât.
Because one day, heâll wake up and realise that loving you is exhausting. That being around you is suffocating. That he deserves someone who isnât this broken, utter mess of a failure.Â
So you do the only thing you can. You force yourself to break him before he can break you.
âGo home, Chan.â
âNo,â he resists firmly, yet a pinch of shakiness to his voice. âNot until you say it⊠Not until you tell me that you love me too.â
âI donât love you, Chan.âÂ
Lie.
Lie.
Lie.
Silence.
You see the exact second the words hit. The exact moment his heart breaks.
You catch the way his body visibly deflates, the way the colour drains out of his face. Every fibre of his form tenses, and Chan swears to himself that he canât breathe, as if your words completely knocked the wind out of him, tearing his heart out of his chest and right down to the ground. Heâs still staring at you, searching your rigid faceđfor hope, for any hint of regret, for something at this fucking pointđbut he doesnât find anything. His lips part slightly as if he was about to say something, but nothing comes out.Â
And then slowly, finally, he gives a nod.
âRight,â Chan says quietly, and his words are barren, empty. âOkay.â
He takes a slow step back, then another. And you almost call out to him, almost take it all back, almost tell him the truthđthat you love him more than anything, that youâve loved him since you were kids, that pushing him away is the hardest thing youâve ever had to do.
But you just clench your fists at your side. Chan stands at your doorway.
Then he turns back to look at you, his hand right on your doorknob, and you canât read his face, yet you feel the way his eyes are piercing right through you. He pauses. Heâs waiting.Â
âGoodnight, Y/N,â is the last thing he tells you before crossing onto the other side.Â
The second the door clicks shut behind him, your legs give out beneath you. Your entire body trembles as you press a cold hand to your mouth, a loud sob spilling out of you before you could stop the dam from breaking.Â
Because you love him.
And you just let him go.
The burning sensation of alcohol runs down Chanâs throat, the bitter taste of beer stinging his tongue.
He finds himself out of breath, standing at the very edge of the half-pipe with his skateboard gripped tightly in his hands. Heâs been here for what feels like hours, but the night air is still too cold to shake off the sting in his chest. Skating is the only way he could cope with all the pain, the confusion, the longing, with everything thatâs been lingering on his mind every night.
âDude, are you just going to skate until you die?â Vernonâs voice punches through his thoughts, the boy sitting splat on the pavement, an unlit joint at the tip of his mouth.Â
Chan doesnât even acknowledge the question at first, his eyes boring holes through the concrete beneath his feet. Then, with a leap of faith, he places a foot on the skateboard and pushes himself down the ramp. The evening breeze catches in his hair as he concentrates on getting to the other side of the half-pipe, the wheels screeching loudly against the pavement as he flies through the air.Â
Just for a few seconds, he wills himself to not think about you, but when he lands on the other side of the ramp with a hard thud, the feelings all come rushing back. He slows down, rolling in a few mindless circles before strolling back up to where Vernon is. He flicks his skateboard on his foot, letting it rest against his knee as he takes another deep breath.Â
âChanđâ
âIâm fine.â
âYouâre not fine,â Vernon pesters, concern edging his voice. âYou canât just keep skating away from this, man.âÂ
âIâve been in love with her for years, donât you get it?â Chan jabs his skateboard into the ground, frustrating coating his words. âSheâs everything to me and she just⊠she just let me go. I left because thatâs what she wanted. It fucking sucks.â
Vernon lights the joint between his lips and leans back on his palms, exhaling a trail of smoke into the air that disappears into the dead of night. He watches as Chan swallows another swig of beer and clumsily plops himself down on the ground right next to him, letting his skateboard roll away a few inches before pulling it back with his foot. The only sounds that interrupt the heavy silence are the nearby chirps of crickets and the clicks from Vernon absentmindedly fiddling with the lighter between his fingers.Â
I donât love you, Chan, are the words that have been replaying like a broken record in Chanâs mind ever since that night. And now here he is, at the fucking skatepark in the dead of night, trying to outskate a heartbreak that clings to him like a second skin.
Chanâs eyes drift up towards the darkened sky, a contemplative sigh leaving him.
âI donât think Iâll be able to stop, you know?â
Vernon lifts a brow. âStop what?â
âLoving her,â Chan finishes, tapping his fingers against the can of beer. âItâs crazy how itâs always been easy to love her. Maybe even easier than breathing sometimes.âÂ
Vernonâs eyes flicker from the glowing tip of his joint to Chanâs solemn face. âSounds like youâre in deep.â
This earns a bitter laugh from Chan. âYouâre not helping, dude.â
âDonât stop loving her then,â Vernon mutters like it was the most simple thing in the world. âBut donât let it eat you alive either.â
Chan scoffs, shaking his head. âEasier said than done.â
A beat of silence passes.Â
âListen, when I first started skating, I used to wipe out all the time. Like, bad. Iâd eat shit and bust my ass so hard I thought Iâd never get back up again.â Vernon pauses, taking another long-winded drag. âBut I did, because thatâs just how it works, man. You fall, you get hurt, you get back up.â
Briefly, Chan casts a glance down to his hands, taking note of the fading scars on his knuckles from all the times heâs taken falls throughout his life, all the times heâs hit the pavement and gotten back up again.
And he thinks about you.
And he thinks about you, wondering: how many times have you fallen without anyone there to catch you?
He thinks about the way your hands trembled that night, the way you practically crumbled in his hold, the way your eyes looked so exhausted, so defeated. He thinks about the way your voice cracked when you told him to go, how you looked at him like he was both the thing you wanted most and the thing you couldnât bear to hold onto.
Chan swirls the can of beer in his hands, taking one last swig before slamming the can on the pavement with a loud clink, the lingering metallic taste mixing in with his bittersweet thoughts.Â
He should have stayed. Should have fought harder. Should have told you that even if you pushed him away, even if you tried to convince yourself that you didnât need him, he wasnât going anywhere, because no matter which direction he goes, the path always leads back to you.Â
Because thatâs what love is, isnât it? Itâs staying even when someone tells you to leave. Itâs holding on even when they donât have the strength to do it themselves.
He thinks about you again. About how you looked at him with that same damn expression you had the night your parents got into this big fight back during your freshman year of high school, the night you broke up with your first boyfriend during junior year who was an absolute dickhead to you, the night you first told him you didnât believe in happy endings.
âShit,â Chan breathes out frustratingly. âWhat the hell do I do now?âÂ
Vernon shrugs, flicking the ash off his joint onto the ground until it dissolves into nothing. âFigure out if youâre willing to fall again.â
Chan lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. âYeah? And what if I hit the pavement even harder this time?â
âThen youâll get back up,â Vernon says casually, with his cool, calm, and collected demeanour thatâs almost irritating, even if the younger boy knows that heâs right. âJust like you always do.â
A plastic-wrapped sandwich is placed on the bedside table beside you, but you don't make a move to even acknowledge it. You know you should eat, you know you should do a lot of things, but your limbs feel like lead, and the thought of food makes you want to gag.
âY/N? You need to eat.â
The worried tone of Jeonghanâs voice rings out from behind you, yet you could only find yourself sprawled atop one of the beds in the on-call room, your back turned towards the door and your eyes staring hazily into the dull, sterile hideous walls of the hospital.Â
Thereâs a defeated sigh that you hear come from Jeonghan, the noise of the hospital fading away when the door closes shut. Another presence enters into the roomđJoshuađand you could only shut your tired eyes close as you mentally prepare yourself for them to attempt to dig you out of your hole once again.
But youâre beyond caring at this point. You canât remember the last time you had a full night of sleep or felt anything other than the overwhelming deadweight of exhaustion and isolation pressing down on you. The only thing that seems to matter now is just getting through the damn day, making it to the next hour, then the next, until the cycle starts all over again.
The faint shuffle of footsteps signals Joshuaâs approach, and despite how worn out you are, you canât help but tense up slightly. You donât want to explain yourself anymore. You donât have the energy to.
âY/N, at least drink some water,â Joshua assures, and you hear the snap of a water bottle opening and being placed on the bedside table right next to you.Â
You donât reply at first, your gaze still fixed on the blank wall. Youâre so tired, but somehow, sleep feels impossible. You feel your chest tighten, the heaviness of everything pressing down on you. The hospital. The clinical hours. The endless patient charts. The constant rush to keep up, to not fall behind. But beneath it all, another thing has been gnawing at youđthe night you pushed away the only person who could keep you from completely drowning.
Chan.Â
Thinking of his name alone is enough to send a wave of guilt crashing over the dam in your mind, and you bury your body even further within the sheets of the bed, willing yourself not to think about the way his face fell that night, the way his hands clenched into fists like he was holding himself back from reaching out to you.Â
You hurt him. You told him to leave. You told him you didnât want him. You saw it in his eyes. And perhaps thatâs what makes it worseđknowing that you did it on purpose.
For a few minutes, Jeonghan and Joshua donât say anything else. Theyâre not leaving; of course, they arenât. The two of them have been hovering around you like ghosts for the past two weeks just watching, waiting for you to crack open enough to let them in. But some wounds donât heal with a sandwich and a bottle of water. Some wounds donât heal at all.
Then finally, a voice cuts through the thick silence.
âThis isnât healthy, Y/N. You canât keep doing this to yourself,â Jeonghan rebukes, sitting himself at the edge of the bed.
Your jaw tightens, flipping your body on the bed to finally face them. âDoing what?â
âThis,â Jeonghan points out. âLocking yourself away, pretending like youâre fine when youâre not.â
âI donât need a lecture,â You mumble flatly.
Joshua exhales sharply, crossing his arms as he leans against the bedside table. âWeâre not here to lecture you. Weâre here because we care. And you canât keep wasting yourself away like this. Itâs not healthy.â
Something inside you flinches, but you swallow it down, forcing yourself to remain still. Youâve gotten good at that lately. Theyâre right, of course. You know that theyâre right.
A bitter laugh leaves you. âIâm still here, arenât I?â
Joshuaâs face softens, and he crouches down so that heâs level with you. âBeing here and actually living are two different things.â
His words make you pull the sheets tighter around yourself, as if that will somehow shield you from their concern, from the way theyâre looking at you like youâre slipping right through their fingers. You catch a glimpse of the unopened sandwich and water bottle standing on the bedside table, the sight making your stomach twist, and for a brief second, you consider reaching for itđjust to ease the worry etched into their faces.
But before you could make any decision, the overhead intercom jolts you to life.Â
âCode blue, third floor east wing. Code blue, third floor east wing.â
The words send a chill down your spine, and your body reacts before your mind can catch up. In an instant, youâre throwing the sheets off, shoving past Joshua and Jeonghan as you bolt out the door.
A patient is crashing. Thereâs no room for hesitation. No room for exhaustion.
Your feet pound relentlessly against the linoleum floor as you barrel down the hall, your body moving on autopilot as you dash down the hallway. The rush of adrenaline keeps pushing you forward. A part of you senses that Joshua and Jeonghan are right behind you, but you barely register their presence as you weave past other nurses and patients, making a beeline toward the east wing.
And thenđjust as you round the corner, just as nurses and doctors rush in from all different directions, the sound of their voices mixing with the frantic beeping of monitorsđthe world tilts.
Your vision blurs, black spots dancing in the corner of your eyes, parts of your body growing numb.Â
And then⊠nothing.Â
The last thing you hear before the world fades to black is the sound of Jeonghan frantically calling out your name. Your knees buckle, and suddenly, the cold, unforgiving hospital floor is rushing up to meet you.
âIs this like, what, our second time meeting ever?â
Chan shoots his gaze over to Jeonghan, who was still dressed in his scrubs and walking towards him with his arms crossed together. Chan leans his back against the wall behind him, his skateboard tucked securely under his arm. He steals a quick glance at the closed door right in front of him, and his chest aches knowing that youâre right behind it.Â
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he tightens his grip on his skateboard when Jeonghan stands right next to him. He barely knows the guy, but thereâs something in Jeonghanâs gaze that makes it feel like heâs already sized Chan up.
His jaw tightens at the urge to barge into your room. But what would that accomplish? What would he even say? Would you even want to see him?
âThird,â he mutters, keeping his eyes trained on the door. âIf we count the time we had a staring contest last week in the parking lot.â
Jeonghan scoffs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. âI still havenât ruled it out.â
Chan exhales sharply through his nose, the faintest hint of a laugh escaping before his expression hardens again. He wants to be angry at Jeonghan, at Joshua, at anyone whoâs been standing between him and you these past few weeks. But the hard truth is that heâs not angry at them. Heâs angry at himself, specifically. Because while they were theređstaying, fighting for youđhe wasnât.
âDid she ever tell you?â he asks Jeonghan.
Jeonghan lets out a contemplative hum. âTell me what?âÂ
âIf she ever wants to see me again.â
Jeonghan stares at the younger boy for a moment. He leans against the wall as well, letting his uncrossed arms fall back to his side, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his scrubs.
âDo you really need her to say it?â Jeonghan asks, the question hanging in the air. âI think you already know the answer.â
And fuck, that stings.
Chan swallows at that. He feels restless, like his body is demanding him to move, to do something, anythingđkickflip down the hallway, punch a hole through a wall, slap reality into himself, burst into your room to shake you awake and demand to know why the hell you keep doing this to yourself. But he knows none of those things will change anything.
Minutes later, the door to your room opens, and out comes a disheveled-looking Joshua.Â
âSheâs knocked out,â he says while stepping up to Chan and Jeonghan. âGot a minor concussion from the collapse, but the doctor says she should be okay once she rests for a little while.â
Guilt gnaws at Chan even more. Taking a leap of faith, he takes a step up.
âCan I go in?â he hesitantly asks.
Joshuaâs eyes flicker towards Jeonghan, the two of them exchanging a knowing look between one another.Â
âMake it quick,â Jeonghan tells him. âWeâll cover you.âÂ
Chan doesnât need any more encouragement than that. He brushes past Jeonghan and Joshua, pushing open the door to your room with a bit too much force, the quiet click of the latch echoing throughout the quietness. His grip tightens around his skateboard, his heart hammering against his ribs as he lays his eyes on you for the first time in weeks.
And God, you look wrecked.Â
Heâs greeted with the steady beep of the heart monitor. The hospital blanket is draped up to your chest, your body curled within like youâre trying to disappear. Even in sleep, you donât look anywhere close to peaceful. Your brows are furrowed, lips parted like youâre caught in some action-packed dream you canât escape from.
Chan rests his skateboard down against the wall, silently pulling up a chair beside your bed and sinking into it. He doesnât reach for your hand, at least not yet, even though he wants to. He doesnât dare.
Because what right does he have?Â
His fingers twitch where they rest against his knee, resisting the urge to grab onto your hand. You look so much different from the last time he saw you. Your face looks drained of colour, the hollows beneath your eyes painted dark from exhaustion. Your chest rises and falls steadily, and an IV stands intimidatingly at the side supplying fluids into your body.Â
For weeks, heâs been running through every possible scenario in his headđwhat he would say, how he would say, what he would do if you push him away again. But now that heâs here, staring at the way your fingers weakly clutch as the sheets, all those words fall apart in his throat.Â
Rubbing a hand over his face, he leans a bit forward, forearms braced against his thigh.
âYou really know how to scare the shit out of people, huh?âÂ
A humourless chuckle leaves him, but itâs quick to fade away when he catches sight of your fragile form again.
Silence. You donât stir or react. But Chan keeps talking anyway, because gosh, he doesnât know what else to do.Â
âI wanted to be mad at you,â he admits quietly, gaze flitting down to the floor for a moment before he forces himself to look back up. âI wanted to be so fucking mad because you told me to leave, and IâŠâ His voice falters, shaking slightly as his breath hitches. âI actually listened. Iâm so fucking stupid.âÂ
Still no response from you.Â
âYou donât even know, do you?â he mutters. âHow much everyoneâs been losing their minds over you. Jeonghan has been glaring at me like he wants to kill me, which, to be fair, he might actually want.â A scoff leaves his mouth, shaking his head. âYour other friend Joshua wonât even look at me half the time. Vernon is probably done with my shit. Soonyoung is having his own existential crisis. And me? Iâve⊠Iâve just been trying to figure out if you meant it that night. When you told me to leave.âÂ
His hands clench themselves into fists against his lap, the same way they had that very night. Memories hit him like a wave as he remembers the harsh adamancy to your voice, the way you stood there like you had already made peace with hurting him.Â
But then his eyes drift over to your hand and his breath catches in his throat. Without thinking, he reaches over to brush his hand over yours. His heart skips at the subtle warmth of connection, even through your cold skin. The pulse in his neck quickens at the touch. You still donât move.
Slowly, he closes his fingers around yours, not expecting much. Itâs tentative, almost apologetic, and it hits him at how much heâs wanted to do thisđto hold your hand and feel the comfort that came solely from you.Â
âYouâre not invincible,â Chan whispers under his breath. âNo one is. Itâs not a weakness to let someone love you. To let me love you.âÂ
A small, helpless laugh escapes him at the sudden confession, but itâs not like he could go about his days without telling you at least. He shifts in the chair, but his hand refuses to leave yours; if only, they tighten just a little bit more, his thumb gently caressing over your knuckle.Â
âFuck,â he murmurs as his gaze rakes over you once more, the corners of his lips quivering upwards. âI could love you for the rest of my life.âÂ
The room returns to its deathly quietness. Nothing to let him know that youâre hearing him. Nothing that would assure him that he isnât just speaking into the void. Nothing but the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the faint hum of the hospital outside your room. Chan simply stays like that, his fingers resting lightly against yours, waiting. Hoping. Promising to stay here for as long as he can.Â
And thenđso slight he almost misses itđyour fingers twitch against his.
You find yourself running.Â
Itâs three in the morning, youâre dressed in your sleep clothes and stumbling out of your apartment with a pair of slippers. You were given very specific instructions by Jeonghan, Joshua, and your clinical instructors to rest for a few days after your collapse, but after being spammed with messages from Vernon that Chan had injured himself from an accident while skateboarding, your feet seemed to make the decision before your mind could process it.Â
So now, here you are, pushing open the door to your building and bolting out into the quiet, empty streets like a woman possessed out of her damn mind. Your frantic breaths fog into the air, the cold nipping at your skin as you dash off in a desperate sprint all the way to Chanâs apartment.Â
Vernonâs texts had been frustratingly vagueđjust a series of frantic messages about Chan taking a bad fall at the skatepark, about blood and bruises and the possibility of a broken wrist. The words had been enough to send your already fragile heart spiraling, and now, the only thing driving you forward is the need to see him. Why would Chan do something so reckless?
But deep down, you already know the answer, donât you? Chan has always been reckless, not because he doesnât care, but because he does. Too much.
You hardly remember the last time you ran this fast, and your lungs burn as you push forward out of pure desperation, slipper-clad feet slapping against the pavement. Every breath you take feels suffocating, an aching pressure squeezing into your ribs, but you canât stop. Not until you see him. Not until you know heâs okay.
By the time you reach Chanâs apartment complex, you donât even hesitate to burst through the doors. For a minute, you contemplate taking the elevator, but that would mean wasting the few extra seconds you could use to head straight to his place.Â
One flight of stairs. Two flights of stairs. Three flights of stairs. You nearly trip on the last step as you shove open the door to his floor and make a straight beeline toward his place. When you land at the doorstep, you lift a fist and pound a few times on the door.Â
The seconds pass torturously long before the door swings open, and youâre greeted with Vernon.
âWhere is he?â You ask him demandingly, letting out breathless pants.Â
Vernon appears almost shocked at your presence before he steps aside to let you in. âHeâs in his room. I got a first-aid kit on the kitchen countđâ
You donât waste anymore time than that, pushing past Vernon and into the apartment. Stomping all the way to Chanâs door, you raise another fist up and pound against the wood, loud and insistently.Â
âChan!â
Silence.
You knock again, harder this time. âChan, open the door!â
Still nothing.
Frustration and worry boil over all your thoughts, and without thinking, you hectically twist the doorknob. Locked still. Of course.Â
âLee Chan, if you donât open this goddamn door right now, I swear tođâ
The lock clicks.
Your breath catches when the door slowly opens, revealing Chan standing under the dim lighting of his room, and your gaze sweeps over him closely. His right wrist is wrapped in some sort of sloppy, rushed, makeshift plaster, a bruise painted at the corner of his jaw, and thereâs a nasty scrape running down his forearm. His skateboard sits abandoned against the frame of his bed, and from the looks of it, one of the wheels is barely hanging on.
He looks tired. More than thatđhe looks completely shocked to see you. Something tightens in your chest.
Chan opens his mouth. âWhat are youđâ
âAre you insane?â The words spill out before you can stop them, your voice shaking. âWhat the hell were you thinking?â
Chanâs eyes widen at your words, startled. âI-Itâs just a sprain, itâs not that bad.â
âNot that bad?â You goad, motioning over his figure. âVernon made it seem like you broke half your bones!â
Chan shoots a glare over your shoulder to where Vernon was looming idly in the background. The boy only shrugs with his arms hanging in the air innocently.
âI panicked, alright? Sue me,â Vernon admits shamelessly, before disappearing around the corner and back into his room.
You release a heavy sigh, running a frustrated hand through your hair. You head back into the kitchen area to retrieve the first-aid kit before storming past Chan and into his bedroom.
Before Chan could say anything, you point to his bed. âSit down.âÂ
Chan doesnât budge.
Your expression darkens. âChan.â
When he catches sight of the desperate look on your face, he knows that resisting even more would be basically useless. He finally relents, placing himself at the edge of the bed as you quietly begin to rummage through the first-aid kit for antiseptic wipes and bandages.Â
The silence that follows is thick and heavy, tense in a way neither of you have the courage break and instead just let settle awkwardly. You bend down in front of him, carefully unwrapping his poorly done plaster. The scrape on his forearm is worse than you thoughtđangry and red, still oozing slightly at the edges.
âYouâre an idiot,â You mumble while carefully dabbing the antiseptic wipe against his warm skin, causing him to jerk slightly, a hiss leaving his lips. âStay still.â
Chan silently watches as you clean his scrape, gazing over the worried lines etched on your features as you lean in closer, his muscles twitching from your gentle touch. For some time, neither of you speak, and you cautiously grab his hand. Itâs only when you start wrapping the fresh plaster around his wrist that he finally breaks the silence. You definitely need to take him to the hospital after this to get a proper splint.Â
âYouâre supposed to be resting,â he states quietly. âYou literally got a concussion, like, three days ago.â
You purse your lips together into a thin line as you glance over the bandage to make sure itâs secure and firm. âI know.â
When you step back from him slightly, your eyes land on the bruise to the corner of his jaw, and one of your eyebrows shoots up suspiciously. The bruise doesnât appear that fresh. Chan can tell that you caught onto him.Â
âWhere else are you hurt?â You ask with a pointed look.Â
At first, Chan hesitates, yet he could only shrink like a snail seeking into its shell under the serious expression painted on your face. His eyes drop down to the floor in guilt, and you watch as he shifts cautiously, reaching with one hand to clutch the ends of his wrinkled shirt before pulling up over his head.Â
Your heart stutters at the sight, and you canât help but drink in his bare, topless form. You capture the entirety of the dragon tattoo thatâs snaking up his arm and curling over his shoulder, the head of the dragon resting at the base of his neck, beneath the line of his trapezius muscle. The dark and bold lines making up the scales and claws are almost glistening under the faint lighting, contrasting heavily with his pale skin. Youâve never had the chance to appreciate the beauty of the art painted over his skin, at least not this up close. His toned chest and visible lines of his abs causes your throat to dry up and sends heat creeping up your neck.Â
But your admiration is quick to diminish when his muscles flex under the strain of the movement, and you spot another glimpse of a scrape to his collarbone, as well as a small cut on the superficial skin of his shoulder thatâs hidden quite well from his tattoo. Without thinking, you let a finger delicately caress around the area of the one on his shoulder, and Chan visibly tenses up from that.Â
All you can do is simply stare, your heart clutching inside your chest.Â
âChanâŠâ You call his name so softly.
Chan bites the inside of his cheek. âItâs not as bad as it looks.â
You lightly shove him in the shoulder. âThatâs a load of bullshit.â
A wry chuckle leaves him, and it seems to lift a bit of tension in the room. âYeah, maybe.âÂ
Only giving a shake of your head, you reach out hesitantly, letting your fingers caress over his skin before you can stop yourself. Chan flinches from your touch, but he doesnât pull away; instead, he traces your every movement as you carefully inspect the minor wounds painted over his body. Anytime your fingertips ghost over his skin, shivers run up and down his spine, but he forces himself to remain still. Just for you.Â
Youâre being impossibly gentle as you grab another antiseptic wipe to clean the scrape to his collarbone, his Adamâs apple bobbing from your tenderness. He has to suck in a breath when you lean in even closer, swearing he could feel your warmth radiating onto himđitâs comforting and terrifying all at once.Â
Thereâs something different in the way you look at him, as if youâre trying to commit to memory every new mark on his body, as if youâre desperately searching for more wounds he might be hiding from you. And maybe he is.
âYou ran all the way here, didnât you?â he asks, cutting through the silence.Â
Your fingers still for a second before you wearily sigh, firmly pressing down a band-aid over the scrape on his collarbone. âYeah.â
His lips part slightly, like he wants to say something, but then he just laughs softly, shaking his head. âYouâre an idiot too, you know that?â
You roll your eyes, snatching another band-aid and routinely moving onto the cut on his shoulder. âTakes one to know one.â
This time, you stand up from the floor and sit down right next to him on the bed, undoing the wrapping from the band-aid and carefully applying it over the cut to his shoulder. You canât get yourself to look at him as you press a tiny bit of pressure over his skin to ensure the band-aid sticks, but you feel his own gaze lingering on you, burning a hole right through your heart. Itâs almost like a touch itself from him.Â
As you pull away from him, you lift your eyes to meet his, and for a singular millisecond, his focus drops down to your mouth before looking back up to your face again. Then, all he gives you is a faint, almost teasing smile. You nearly give in from just that.
âHigh school, freshman year. Sophomore year for you,â he suddenly says. âLast week of school. Friday.â
You lift a puzzled brow. âWhat?â
An almost dreamy look crosses his features. âThatâs when I first knew I started having a stupid crush on you.â
Your stomach lurches from his words. Time seems to come to a halt as a wave of memories wash over you from that particular day.Â
âRemember? It was my very first skateboarding competition, and I was an absolute nervous wreck after fucking up my boardslide. You were there, cheering me on even though you had no idea what you were watching.â He laughs faintly to the memory, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly with his uninjured hand. âBut then you smiled at me, and somehow, everything felt okay.â
You do remember. You remember that day very well. You remember being late to his competition because you had to attend the last student council of the year meeting back at school, yet you caught him just in the middle of his performanceđa performance that didnât go entirely well. He had fallen, just like now, and you recall the way his face was flushed with embarrassment when he struggled to stand back up. But then he shot a quick glance your way, and you couldnât help but loudly cheer him on, despite the pensive looks on other people in the crowd, and his face lit up immediately just from that alone.Â
Then the thought harshly slams into you. Lee Chan has been in love with you for more than ten years.
Chan shifts awkwardly in his position, his injured hand resting in his lap as he continues to hold a steady gaze on you.Â
âKinda embarrassing, right?â he mutters with an uneasy chuckle, shaking his head. âHolding onto something like that for so long. Even when I tried to tell myself that it was all stupid hormonal shit, I could never get you out of my head.âÂ
You still donât respond, only the pounding of your heart answering for you that youâre sure as hell Chan could hear. For the past many years, you knew that youâve been holding onto something for him too. But ever since youâve indebted yourself to the consequences of medical school, with the burnout, the pressure, the exhaustionđit made you feel like you had no right to hold onto love.
So you pushed those feelings away; the same way you had pushed him away.Â
But now, here he is. Still here. Looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky.
And it breaks you.
You turn away, staring down at the floor, curling your fingers against the sheets of his bed. âIâm a mess, Chan.â
âI donât care.â His response is immediate, firm.
Your breath stutters. âI pushed you away.â
âI know.â
âI hurt you.â
âI know that, too.â
âSo whyâŠâ Your voice trails off curtly as you regain your thoughts. âSo why are you still here?â
âBecause Iâm stubborn,â he says with a shameless smirk, a glint of fondness in his eyes, before his face softens once again. âBecause youâre my best friend, my favourite person; because Iâve loved you since we were kids; because Iâve always known your heart was the one I wanted to carry, even if itâs heavy. Your pain is mine to hold, too. It doesnât scare me.â
Your mouth falls open, but the words get stuck in your throat, like theyâre too fragile to speak, too big to fit. You donât even realise how close Chan is to you until you feel his warm breath fan against your cheek, his presence so close you could almost taste it.Â
His face hovers near yours, and your pulse quickens in response. His gaze flickers down to your lips, just mere inches from yours, the softness of his features tugging at your heartstrings. The world seems to slow down, and your mind racesđwhy is it so hard to just breathe?
And yet, you donât pull away.Â
Then, just as he leans in a tiny bit more, his lips barely a breath away from yours, he pauses, and itâs almost as if your beauty punches him in the gut for the very first time again. He sees everythingđthe weariness that plagues your face, the glassiness to your eyes, the way you sneak a glance down to his mouth as well. He forces himself to swallow a lump in his throat.Â
You still donât pull away.Â
âGod,â he mutters softly under his breath, voice full of pure, unadulterated awe. âYouâre beautiful.â
Your stomach twists violently at his words, completely knocking the wind out of your lungs.
âChan?âÂ
He blinks up at you, waiting.
âHave you ever been scared of⊠crossing that line?âÂ
Chan blinks at your question, and for a minute or two, he doesnât answer. Instead, he searches over your face, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.
âTerrified out of my goddamn mind, actually,â he corrects with amusement. âBut now⊠I do know that when I cross that line, I wouldnât⊠I wouldnât want to go back.âÂ
Amongst the heaviness in the air, those words almost single-handedly dissolve the barrier between you. Before you can second-guess yourself, before doubt can sink its claws into you again, you shoot one last sure glance down at his lips and lean in to finally close the distance between the two of you.
Chan lets out a groan at the sudden contact, your mouth bumping against his lip ring, but he throws that discomfort out the window.
Itâs barely anything at first. Your breath catches against his warm and slightly chapped lips, but itâs enough. Enough for him to take it as permission, enough for him to finally cross that line with you. His lips meet yours softly and tentatively, like heâs afraid you might pull away. But when you donâtđwhen you press just a little closer, letting your fingers curl against his bare shoulderđhe deepens the kiss, exhaling shakily into your mouth, his uninjured hand coming to pull you closer by your waist.Â
He tastes like something sweet and a little dangerous, like honey laced with fire.
Chan kisses you like heâs been waiting for this opportunity his entire life, and to be fair, he did wait that long. His eyes flutter to a close as he lets nothing but feeling take over, as if heâs memorised the shape of your lips in his head a million times over but only now gets to experience how soft and perfect they really are. How much he wants to kiss you even more.Â
Your fingertips drag lightly, carefully, over his bare skin, tracing the markings of the large dragon tattoo down his arm. He shivers and his muscles tense under your touch, a quiet, barely audible groan slipping from him, making his grip on your waist tighten. His thumb brushes over the fabric of your shirt, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He has to fight his restraint to fully consume you, like he wants to brand this moment down into his very bones.Â
âFuck,â he curses, voice muffled against your mouth. âI knew it.â
Your body burns at his touch. A second hardly passes as you could breathe out, âKnew what?â
âThat if I ever kissed you, I wouldnât want to stop,â he rasps hoarsely, his breath shallow as his lips brush against yours again like heâs not quite ready to pull away, merely determined to make up for all the lost time and finally taste what heâs been holding back. âIâm so weak for you, baby.â
Chan has waited ten years for this. He isnât going to waste a single second.Â
A shudder runs through you from the pet name and the way his voice sounds so low and full of longing. His hands slowly yet delicately drift under the hem of your shirt, and he inhales the little noises you canât quite hold back. You feel his calloused fingertips from all his years of skateboarding meet the skin of your waistđnot pushing, just touching, worshipping. Your hand drifts to caress the contours of his back, drawing over the smooth, defined lines of his muscles beneath the ink of where his Aquarius tattoo is imprinted on his spine.
âIâm addicted to you,â he says in between kisses, his weight pressing down on you as your back falls against the bed. âI shouldâve kissed you years ago.âÂ
His lips move against yours sweetly, intoxicatingly. Thereâs a quiet moan that leaves your mouth, barely audible yet enough for Chan to feel it, and it sends a rush of desire coursing through him. But he doesnât rush it. He knows how long heâs waited for this moment, how long heâs dreamt of it. And now that itâs finally happening, heâs cherishing every second like itâs his last day on earth, willing himself to memorise every subtle shift of your facial expression, every breathless sound you make, every brief contact of your skin on his.Â
You.Â
Thatâs all his mind is screaming at him.
You, you, you.
âTell me to stop,â he whispers against your lips, but his grip on your waist tightens like heâs begging you wonât.
You donât.
Your fingers dig desperately into his shoulders, feeling the rising tension in his muscles, and youâre suddenly aware of the effect you have over him, the effect youâve always had over him. Heâs practically losing himself in you. His injured hand twitches at his side, somewhat frustrated at the thought that he canât hold you in the way he wants to. But his other hand drifts a tiny bit more under your shirt.Â
You sigh into his mouth, and Chan swears heâs never heard a sound more intoxicating than that.
âYouâre not real,â he mumbles, and you feel him smile against you. âYou canât be real.âÂ
The chuckle you let out at that quickly dissipates when you feel his mouth trail to the corner of your jaw. Then his breath meets the pulse point by your ears, and he plants a soft, affectionate kiss at that spot. You melt into the bed just by that.
âFor years,â he continues breathlessly, lips slowly ghosting over the shell of your ear. âIâve been patient. So fucking patient. I swear to God, baby, Iâll give you everything.â
His words make you dizzy, like youâre floatingđweightless, like your body has been set ablaze from the inside and out.Â
When he pulls away after some time, his breathing uneven and heavy, his half-lidded gaze meets yours.
âAre you okay?â he asks quietly, worriedly, studying over your nervous expression.
You swallow hard against the dryness in your throat, still feeling the tingle at your lips from the kiss or kisses. You sit up in his bed slightly.
âYeah, IâmâŠâ You lower your eyes in a pit of shyness. âIâm okay. Are you?â
A sheepish grin blooms on his face. âOh, Iâm good. Iâm grand. Half-busted clearly still, butâŠâ
You lightly flick him on the head. âYouâre supposed to be resting, dummy.â
âAnd youâre supposed to be resting too, idiot,â he retorts playfully, but then his face falls into nothing but affection. âAnd kissing me.â
The two of you let out a series of giggles at that. Your hands rests unsurely on bare skin of his chest and shoulderđhardly realising how they got there in the first place. Youâre both tangled in this delicate new dynamic, and yet, in a way, it feels so natural. Everything has changed, and now you find yourself standing right at the edge of something beautiful and uncertain, but still worth falling for.Â
Then, before you could kiss him again, a cough interrupts the two of you. You both look towards the doorway, and thereâs Vernon standing there with his arms crossed.
âAlright, not to kill the mood, but before yâall start breaking the bed or whatever, at least close the door first,â he says with an impish smirk.
Chan grumbles annoyingly, burying his head in the crook of your neck. âSeriously, dude?â
âHey, I just wanted to check if you two needed anything,â Vernon shrugs innocently. âDidnât mean to walk on yâall eating each otherâs faces. But for the record, fucking finally.âÂ
âWhatever, bye, Vernon!â Chan staggers off the bed to shut the door in the boyâs face, groaning something under his breath before plopping down right beside you.
The laugh youâve been suppressing tumbles out of you all at once, a sense of relief and giddiness taking over. Chan looks over at you with a sheepish grin, chuckling along with you, his fingers gently brushing against the lines of your palm as you both try to calm your laughter.
âChan?âÂ
âYeah?â His face lights up when you call his name. Cute.Â
âI love you.â
The utter vulnerability in the crack of your voice makes his heart lurch. Chan stares at you, as if heâs afraid that you might vanish if he blinks. But when he does blink, youâre still here in front of him. And when you blink, heâs simply smiling at you. Itâs the same smile he wore when you were kids, the kind that could outshine all the stars in the sky, the one that made you feel like you could take on the world. Only now, it feels different. It feels like home.Â
Heâs been knocking on this door for years, and youâve finally let him in.
âI love you too,â he mumbles quietly, leaning back to tenderly press his forehead against yours. âFuck, you have no idea how long Iâve been waiting to hear that.â
That line between friendship and love? Yeah. Erased.Â
Thereâs no going back, it seems. But for the first time in a long time, youâre beginning to look forward.
Yuin's note: An anon requested for bf! Mingyu but I deleted the ask by mistake đ„Č I'm terrible sorry, but here it is! Hope you like it, and thank you so much for your kind words, it means a lot to me (℠Ꭰâ„)âĄ
Bf! Mingyu, who liked to flirt with you as friends and saying he was just joking, but he was dying inside at your shy reactions, his heart flustered.
Bf! Mingyu, who helps you with simple things and does acts of service just because: He knows youâre capable of opening that jar or doing the dishes, but he still does it so you donât have to.
Bf! Mingyu, who takes you to different places from time to time, and makes sure that every date is a special moment that both of you can remember with joy, even if it doesnât turn out as expected. Going out with Mingyu is always such an experience filled with joy and hilarious moments.
Bf! Mingyu, who makes sure that youâre taking good care of yourself. Not only eating properly and doing some exercise, he also keeps an eye on your mental health and if itâs not going well, you can rely on your lovely boyfriend to make you smile with his antics.
Bf! Mingyu, who loves when you borrow his stuff! He never gets tired of seeing you wearing his t-shirts, or smelling his favourite perfumes when you hug him. Mingyu will never say it openly, but he thinks that's kinda hot and makes him so weak on the inside.
Bf! Mingyu, who hugs you whenever he has a chance, even if itâs for a brief moment. Holding you in his arms is like a medicine during his difficult times, a piece of happiness. And even if everything is alright, hugging you is still a serotonin boost.
Bf! Mingyu, who loves you in many ways and is not afraid to prove it, be it tender or teasing, he showers you with love every single day.
Gyubieboo Is My Husband @otgyufi - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
