When you try a new diet to help with bloating and accidentally drop a pound or two, Mingi reacts like it’s a national emergency, determined to protect every inch of the body he adores while you laugh at his dramatic devotion.
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The kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of a spoon against ceramic.
You leaned against the counter, swirling something green and suspiciously healthy around in a bowl. Mingi stood across from you, arms folded, tall frame practically looming over the island as he stared at your lunch like it had personally offended him.
“What is that?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
“Yogurt. With flaxseed. And some stuff that’s supposed to help with bloating.” You popped a spoonful into your mouth and shrugged. “It’s not that serious.”
He didn’t respond right away. He was staring at you instead now. Not in a dreamy way. In a calculating way.
You squinted at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He stepped closer. Too close. His hands landed on your waist automatically, thumbs pressing into the soft curve of your stomach like he was checking for structural damage.
“You look smaller.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You do.” His brows pulled together, genuine concern settling into his expression. “Your waist. And here.” His large hands slid over your hips, squeezing gently like he needed confirmation. “And here.”
You burst out laughing.
He looked betrayed. “Why are you laughing? This is serious.”
“It is not serious,” you said between giggles. “I told you, I’m just trying to not feel bloated all the time. That’s it.”
“You’ve lost weight.”
“I dropped like a pound. Maybe two.”
His eyes widened like you’d just confessed to something catastrophic.
“Two pounds?” he repeated, horrified.
You clutched the counter to steady yourself because his tone was so dramatic it was unreal. “Mingi, it’s water weight.”
He paced a single step away from you, tall body moving restlessly. “No. No, this diet is suspicious. We need to stop it.”
“We?”
“Yes. We are a team. If you’re losing weight, I’m involved.”
You laughed again, louder this time. “Why are you acting like this is a tragedy?”
He stopped pacing and turned to you, hands on his hips. Even annoyed, he was pretty. Tall, broad shoulders, hair falling into his eyes as he looked at you like you’d committed a crime.
“Because,” he said slowly, stepping back into your space, “I love you exactly how you are.”
“I’m still exactly how I am.”
“But smaller.”
“Barely.”
His hands slid back around you, wrapping fully around your waist this time. He bent slightly so his chin could rest on top of your head, engulfing you in warmth. You could feel the tension in him, even if you found the whole thing hilarious.
“You don’t need to change anything,” he muttered into your hair.
“I’m not changing. I just don’t want to feel like a balloon after I eat.”
“Then we fix the bloating without shrinking you.”
You leaned back enough to look up at him. “Shrinking me?”
“Yes.” He looked genuinely distressed. “Do you know how perfect you are? How am I supposed to function if you start disappearing?”
You snorted. “I’m not disappearing.”
He pulled back just enough to cup your face in both hands. His palms were warm, thumbs brushing your cheeks as his gaze softened.
“I love this,” he said quietly, sliding one hand down to squeeze your hip. “And this. And this.” His hand trailed over your stomach, firm but reverent. “I love how you feel. I love how soft you are. I love how I can hold you and there’s so much of you to hold.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “So much of me?”
He nodded firmly. “Yes. I’m tall. I need space to grab. And you are perfect for me.”
You shook your head, smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious.” His voice dropped, still affectionate but more intense. “When I wrap my arms around you, I feel calm. When you sit on my lap, I feel grounded. When you lay on top of me, I feel like the luckiest man alive. Why would I want less of that?”
Your smile softened, but there was no insecurity there. Just warmth.
“It’s not about wanting less,” you said gently. “It’s about wanting to feel comfortable.”
He exhaled, shoulders relaxing slightly.
“Fine,” he said after a moment. “Comfort is allowed. But if this yogurt steals even three pounds, I’m fighting it.”
You laughed again and leaned forward to steal a quick kiss.
“I promise,” you said against his lips, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed you back, slow and lingering, hands settling possessively at your hips again like he needed reassurance.
“Good,” he murmured when he pulled away. Then he immediately went back on his tangent, eyes lighting up as he looked at you like you were art. “Because your thighs? Incredible. Your hips? Life changing. Your stomach? I literally think about it daily. And don’t get me started on—”
“Mingi,” you cut in, laughing as you covered his mouth with your hand.
He kissed your palm.
“I just love your body,” he said, softer now but still absolutely sure. “Exactly like this. However it is. It’s yours. And I’m obsessed.”
You leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his waist, cheek pressing against his chest.
“Drama king,” you muttered fondly.
He held you tighter.
“If loving you loudly is dramatic,” he said, resting his chin on your head again, “then I’ll be dramatic forever.”
You leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his waist, cheek pressing against his chest.
“Drama king,” you muttered fondly.
He held you tighter.
“If loving you loudly is dramatic,” he said, resting his chin on your head again, “then I’ll be dramatic forever.”
The kitchen felt smaller suddenly. The hum of the fridge faded to white noise.
His heartbeat was steady under your ear, until it wasn’t.
You felt the subtle shift first: the way his fingers flexed against your lower back, spreading wider, pressing you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. His breath hitched, just once, barely audible, but it was enough.
You tilted your head back to look at him.
Mingi was already watching you.
Not calculating anymore. Not distressed.
Something darker and hungrier had settled behind his eyes. The kind of look that made your stomach flip even when you tried to play it cool.
His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle over the dip of your waist, right where he’d been “checking” earlier. Then it slid lower. Not far. Just enough to hook under the hem of your shirt and graze bare skin.
Your breath caught.
He felt it. You knew he did, because the corner of his mouth curled, slow and knowing.
“You said you’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice rougher now, quieter, like the words were only for the small space between your mouths.
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
His other hand came up to cradle the back of your neck. Long fingers threaded into your hair, tilting your face exactly where he wanted it. He didn’t kiss you yet. He just held you there, close enough that every exhale brushed your lips, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him in waves.
“Then stay right here,” he said, almost a growl, “while I remind you why I’m never letting even one more inch of you disappear.”
His thumb pressed into the soft flesh just above your hip bone, firm, possessive, reverent all at once. Your knees threatened to forget how gravity worked.
“Mingi—”
He finally closed the distance.
Not gentle.
Not rushed either.
Deep. Slow. Devouring. Like he was trying to prove something with every slide of his tongue, every scrape of teeth against your bottom lip. One hand stayed locked at your nape while the other dragged down the length of your spine. His palm flattened over the small of your back, arching you into him until you gasped against his mouth.
He swallowed the sound.
When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. His pupils were blown wide. His chest rose and fell too fast.
“I love every fucking curve,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Every soft place I can grip. Every spot that makes you shiver when I touch it.” His hand flexed on your hip, squeezing once, hard enough to leave the memory of his fingers. “Don’t ever think I’d survive you getting smaller. I wouldn’t.”
Your hands fisted in his shirt, trying to anchor yourself.
He kissed you again, shorter this time, but somehow more dangerous. A promise instead of a plea.
Then he stepped back.
Just one step.
Far enough that you felt the sudden absence of him like a physical thing.
But not far enough to miss the way he dragged his gaze down your body, slow, shameless, starving, like he was already mapping out exactly where he’d put his mouth next.
He reached behind him without looking, blindly grabbing your forgotten yogurt bowl off the counter.
He held it up between you like evidence.
“This,” he said, voice low and rough-edged, “is allowed to stay. But only if it stops trying to take you from me.”
He set it down again, harder than necessary.
Then he stepped back into your space, towering, crowding, until your back met the edge of the counter and there was nowhere left to go.
His hands found your thighs.
Lifted.
Set you on the counter in one smooth motion like you weighed nothing to him.
He stepped between your knees. His palms slid up the outside of your legs until his thumbs pressed into the crease where thigh met hip.
“Tell me you’re keeping all of this,” he whispered against your jaw, lips brushing skin, breath hot. “Tell me I still get to worship every part of you tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.”
Your fingers dug into his shoulders.
“I’m keeping it,” you managed, voice unsteady. “All of it.”
He exhaled against your throat, half relief, half victory.
Then he kissed the pulse point there. Open-mouthed. Slow. Deliberate.
