🎧 Late Night Transmission - now playing: Track-03
Summary: Between neon nights and radio static, your rhythm falters together. The listeners hear laughter, but only you hear what’s missing. Every joke you toss carries a heartbeat; every glance you share feels like a dare. The storm outside isn’t the only thing ready to break — and you both know it.
Pairing: Mingi x fem!Reader
Genre: Fluff, Soft angst / quiet heartbreak.
Tropes: Friends-to-Lovers / Secret Love, Angst & Miscommunication, Workplace/Creative Partners Romance, Slice-of-Life / Domestic Intimacy, Conflicted Confession / Fear of Rejection, Public vs Private Persona / The Internet Ship, Slow-Burn Romance, Protective/Jealous Love Interest (nothing toxic, i swear!)
Warnings: weed use, strong language, heavy romantic tension, brief mention of emotional restraint, yearning you can’t shake
Word Count: 5.6k
a/n: hii!! 💖 tiny update before you dive in — sooo, you might notice a little shift in the story 😳 i experimented with switching from third person into second person. i know it’s kinda mid-fic, but i was curious how it’d feel, and omg… i love how immersive it got!!
edited the past two chapters too so now the whole story flows the same ✨ hope you like it as much as i enjoyed tweaking it 🥹💖
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Rain whispers against the windows — a slow, persistent rhythm that fills the silences between words. The neon sign from the shop across the street flickers pink and green through the blinds, washing your small studio in colors that pulse like a heartbeat.
Empty donut boxes litter the table between you, mixed with scribbled notes, vinyl sleeves, and two half-drunk cans of energy drink. The air smells faintly of sugar and static.
You adjust your mic, fingertips grazing the metal. Across from you, Mingi sits cross-legged, leaning close enough that your knees brush beneath the table.
“Alright,” Mingi says into the mic, voice low and lazy, the way he always sounds when it’s past midnight. “We’re live. So, if you’re up — congratulations, you’ve made the worst life decision possible.”
You chuckle, chin propped on your hand as you adjust your headphones. “Don’t listen to him. It’s not that bad. We’re keeping you company, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” he says, glancing at you sideways. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The chat on the laptop beside him blooms with comments.
“lowkey shipping this so hard”
“OMG live?! This is a treat”
“do you take listener requests?”
“i literally waited all week for this live”
“is it too late to start a fan club?”
“please hold hands, we’re begging”
“stop teasing her, mister”
You see it and laugh softly, shaking your head. “See? They’ve figured you out.”
“Me?” he says, pretending to be offended. “I’m just here to share my expertise on heartbreak and late-night snacks.”
“Emphasis on the snacks,” you say, flicking an empty chopstick wrapper at him.
He catches it midair, grinning. “Emphasis on the heartbreak.”
Your laugh falters, quiet and short, fading as the rain whispers against the window. You glance down at your notes, pretending to read. He notices, of course — he always does.
To fill the silence, Mingi clicks open the next listener question. “Okay, this one’s from Jo. They say: ‘How do you stop thinking about someone you can’t have?’”
You exhale softly, pen tapping your notebook. “Starting light tonight, huh?”
He smirks. “You picked the questions.”
You mirror his look, deliberate, challenging. “Fine. My answer: you don’t. You just… make peace with the haunting.”
“That’s dark,” he murmurs.
“That’s honest.”
The comment feed speeds up, hearts and crying emojis rolling fast. ‘y/n’s been through something.’ ‘Damn, that hit deep.’
“Your turn,” you say, nudging his knee with yours.
He hesitates, then leans slightly closer. The mic picks up the faint sound of his breath. “You don’t stop thinking about them,” he says quietly, gaze steady on you. “You just… change the shape of it. Pretend it’s friendship. Or work. Or… something else.”
You blink, pulse skipping. Your mind spirals a little — is he talking about you? You swallow, shaking yourself, forcing it away.
“That sounds suspiciously personal,” you say finally, voice lighter than your thoughts.
“It’s called empathy.”
“It’s called deflection,” you reply, forcing a smile, but the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen.
He laughs — soft, but not happy.
Then, another question flashes on the screen: ‘Have you ever fallen for someone you shouldn’t?’
“Oh, come on,” you groan, leaning back, but the sound comes out too breathy. “You’re just picking chaos tonight.”
“I’m just following the people’s will,” he says, grinning, though his hand trembles slightly as he scrolls.
“Fine,” you say at last. “No names, no context — yes.”
Mingi swallows. “Same.”
The storm hums outside, thunder distant, vibrating softly in your ribs.
You clear your throat. “So we’ve established we’re both disasters.”
“I think that’s what makes the show work.”
Your knees brush again. You don’t move. Neither does he.
You squint at your screen, the chat scrolling fast. One comment blinks, and a small smile tugs at your lips. “Okay… this one’s good. Listen to this: ‘When you’re mastering a track, do you have a part of the spectrum you start with?’”
Mingi leans back, tapping a finger against his lips. “Honestly? I usually start with the low end. If the bass isn’t sitting right, everything else fights for space. Once that’s stable, the mids and highs almost… fall into place naturally. It’s like building a foundation before worrying about the paint color.”
You tilt your head, watching him for a second too long. He always gets this way — precise, deliberate, like every word is a carefully placed note. Your chest tightens a little. “Wow,” you breathe. “How am I supposed to top that?”
He smirks, shrugging as if it’s nothing. “You could try. But no pressure.”
You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Pressure’s my specialty. Although… you make it sound almost… too easy.”
He shakes his head, exhaling slowly. “It’s not easy. It just… makes sense to me. Dangerous, though, because now everyone expects it to make sense to them too.”
You smile, fingers brushing the notebook absentmindedly. “I’d just… make sure the silence between the notes speaks louder than the notes themselves.”
Mingi blinks, half-grinning, half-dumbfounded. “Wow. That’s… actually perfect.” He leans back, eyes flicking to you just a little longer than necessary. “And here I was, thinking I was the only one allowed to sound smart.”
“You’re overestimating me,” you say, laughing softly, though your pulse flutters in a way he can sense even without looking. “I just… pay attention.”
He catches your meaning — the small, quiet weight of it — and smirks. “That’s dangerous too.”
“Dangerous is kind of my thing,” you tease, leaning closer over the desk, the dim glow of the monitor lighting the edges of your face.
Mingi’s grin tugs upward, though he keeps his hands on the keyboard, pretending to focus. “I should’ve known better than to let you sit here before coffee.”
“Or maybe I should’ve known better than to ask a question that lets you nerd out like this,” you shoot back, warm, teasing. “But I don’t regret it.”
He exhales softly, letting a small laugh escape. “You really do this on purpose, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” you say, leaning closer, “just to see if you notice,” you whisper, the words falling into the brief pause between you like a note held too long — just like you said about the silence in music.
Another comment blinks into view, bright and teasing:
‘Do you two ever…?’
You stiffen — heartbeat stumbling just once.
“Uh, we’re just friends,” you say quickly, tone a shade too casual.
Across from you, Mingi’s mouth twitches. His gaze doesn’t lift from the mic.
“Exactly,” he murmurs, low enough the listeners can’t catch it. “Just friends…”
You hear it anyway.
The words land somewhere between your ribs. Your laugh comes late, light and practiced, fingers tapping your pen like it could steady your pulse.
“Alright,” you say, forcing brightness into your voice. “Next question before we get canceled.”
He smiles faintly — the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. His fingers brush the table between you, almost reaching yours. Almost.
Then a soft chime from the playlist queue; a listener request slides in. He clicks it, and the opening chords of one of your first episode tracks fill the room — low, nostalgic, familiar.
“Oh,” you murmur, recognizing it instantly. “That one.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice gentler now. “Feels like forever ago.”
When you lean forward to adjust your mic, your wrist grazes his hand. He doesn’t pull away.
“This song always makes me feel like I’m missing something,” you say, trying to sound composed. “Even if I don’t know what.”
“Maybe you’re not missing something,” he says — voice dipping, intimate, almost reverent. “Maybe it’s someone.”
Your lips part — a breath, a flicker, something dangerous in your eyes.
“Careful,” you whisper. “We’re live.”
He smiles back, slow and wrecked and knowing. “Yeah,” he whispers, voice warm and wrecked. “I know.”
For a heartbeat, the room goes still — no words, just static and breath, the quiet between you humming like a secret too close to the mic. You blink first, gaze falling to your notes, pretending the heat in your chest is just the lamp beside you.
“Anyway—” you begin, voice a little too quick. “Did you know the first take of The Black Keys’ ‘Weight of Love’ was recorded on an old tape machine they had to fix with duct tape? I mean, the irony’s kind of poetic.”
Mingi chuckles, leaning back — grateful for the detour, aching from it. “Poetic,” he echoes. “Yeah. You like things that almost fall apart but somehow keep playing.”
You laugh, too soft, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Oh my god… You never change, do you?”
He leans forward again, elbows on the table, eyes glinting under the mixer’s white light.
“Someone’s gotta stop you from giving our listeners unsolicited therapy.”
You smirk. “We’ve discussed this. We’re not therapists.”
“Right,” he says, deadpan. “We’re emotionally irresponsible adults with microphones.”
The chat window explodes with emojis — laughter, hearts, chaos.
You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You’re not wrong,” you murmur, fingers tapping out a restless rhythm on your notepad.
Mingi’s laugh comes quieter this time, like he doesn’t trust it not to spill over. “Read the next one,” he says, nodding at the screen.
You scroll, squinting. “Oh, here’s a dangerous one — ‘If you had to pick one song that describes your co-host, what would it be?’”
He hums, eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, that’s dangerous.”
“Why?” you tease, twirling your pen between your fingers. “Afraid to be honest?”
He tilts his head, studying you like you’re the melody he can’t unhear. “Maybe. Honesty’s… bad for ratings.”
You smile, lips curving in challenge. “Or good for them.”
The air shifts. Even the storm outside seems to listen. Neon lights from the window paint your face green, then pink, then gold — flickering like a heartbeat.
Finally, he speaks, voice stripped bare. “There’s a song — track four from that indie record you love. The one with the line about wanting something you’re not supposed to want.”
Your breath hitched — just enough to betray you. You force a small laugh, but your fingers are still on your notes. You know that song. Too well.
“Dramatic, aren’t we?” you say lightly.
“Only on air.” His chuckle is soft, self-protective, cracking just at the edge.
Outside, thunder rolls — low, patient, like it knows the truth you’re both too afraid to name.
You lean back, letting the sound fill the space between you. “You really think people want to listen to us psychoanalyze each other live?”
He smirks, gaze unwavering. “They already do.”
For a second, it almost breaks — the act, the boundary, the fragile fiction you’ve built for the sake of the show. Your knee brushes his under the table. Neither of you moves.
You exhale softly, reaching for your notes again. “Let’s take another question,” you say, voice steady, a tremor tucked beneath the calm.
Mingi nods, forcing his gaze to the chat instead of you. The screen blurs. Rain patters against the window. Tension hums on — steady as a heartbeat, aching as truth.
The red light above the mic flickers, signaling you’re still live. The chat, however, has completely derailed.
“Okay,” you sigh, squinting at the stream. “This one says—” You pause, then snort. “‘Tell Mingi to stop talking like that, my serotonin levels can’t take it.’”
Mingi bursts out laughing, head dropping forward as he covers his face with his hands. “See? Public service,” he says between chuckles. “I’m single-handedly curing seasonal depression.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You’re insufferable.”
“Oh, wait, here’s another one—” He leans in to read, grin widening. “‘The way he says “oh, yeah?” could fix my entire childhood.’”
He barely finishes before laughter spills again, warm, boyish, impossible to ignore — a sound that fills the room like sunlight.
You duck behind your laptop, pretending to scroll, hiding the way your chest tightens. Your brows furrow, mouth pressed into a stubborn line. Why does that bother you?
The chat always thirsts over Mingi. That’s half the fun. You’ve even teased him about it before.
And yet, hearing him like this — laughing freely, eyes bright, cheeks flushed — it tugs at your chest in a way you hadn’t expected.
Then you freeze at the next comment. Hesitating, you read it aloud, voice light but threaded with something else.
“If y/n’s not gonna claim Mingi, she should step aside and let me do it.”
Mingi’s head jerks up. Something flickers in his eyes — unreadable, sharp. Then he laughs, slow and teasing, letting the weight hang long enough for your chest to constrict.
A pause. Then real laughter — deep, genuine.
“Oh wow,” he says, leaning into the mic, eyes glinting. “You’re really starting fights in the chat now?”
You force a laugh, shaking your head. “Apparently.”
He grins wider, teasing alive in every line of his face. “Guess you should be quicker next time.”
Your heart skips — just a beat — but you brush it off with a snort. “Please. As if anyone could handle you.”
“Ouch,” he says, smiling still. “See that? She breaks hearts live on air.”
For a second, you forget the mic is on. The air feels thick, humming again — not the storm or static this time. Awareness. Maybe jealousy. Maybe something harder to name.
The chat explodes: ‘SHE’S IN DENIAL’, ‘MINGI FLIRTING LIKE HIS LIFE DEPENDS ON IT’, ‘GET A ROOM’ — chaos, laughter, heat flooding the little studio.
You smile through it, pretending the sting in your stomach doesn’t exist. Pretending you don’t care that someone else — even the thought — makes your chest ache in a way that’s both childish and too real.
And yet, when Mingi reads the next message, his tone softens. Just slightly. “Mingi, you’re too nice for your own good.”
He smiles faintly — the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he says quietly, just low enough for you to catch the weight. “Maybe.”
You look up. Just for a second.
Something in his expression — still, tired, trying so hard to laugh — makes guilt rise in your throat like a tide. You want to say something. Joke. Deflect. Fix it.
But the next track loads, music spilling into the room again — bright, loud, easy.
So you smile instead.
Then, as if the universe takes pity on you, another message pops up. Mingi leans closer to the screen, reading aloud with mock seriousness.
“‘Can someone tell y/n her voice could make a grown man cry?’”
You blink, caught off guard. “What?”
He grins — that lazy, teasing grin that always feels like it sees too much. “That’s what it says.”
“Oh, please,” you mutter, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, trying not to blush.
“No, no — listen, they’re right. The way you said ‘dramatic, aren’t we’ earlier? Yeah. I felt that.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re annoying.”
“Emotionally irresponsible,” he corrects, smiling softly. “Remember?”
The chat erupts again — hearts, screaming emojis, someone typing ‘just kiss already!’ in all caps.
Your throat tightens, but you force a light laugh. “They’re ridiculous.”
Mingi leans back, arms crossed, eyes still on you. “Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “They are.”
You glance at him, then at the comments flooding in — lines of hearts, jokes, thirst. It’s funny. It really is.
So why does your pulse trip when he smiles like that?
Your laptop screen dims for a moment, reflection catching your face — flushed, amused, a little lost.
“Let’s, uh… take one more,” you say quickly, pushing past the flutter in your chest.
Mingi nods, pretending not to notice the softening of your voice as you smile again. He clicks on a random question, squinting at the screen as he reads aloud.
“Do you think it’s possible to love someone quietly? Like… without them ever noticing?”
The words settle in the room and stay there.
His voice falters halfway, something soft cracking behind the usual ease. He blinks at the screen, throat working once, then looks away. No smirk. No teasing comeback. No laugh. Just silence.
You frown, studying him. You’ve seen him tired, wired, drunk, high — but never speechless. Never this still.
“Min?” you prompt, voice barely above the static hum of the equipment.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, gaze dropping to the table. “That’s… that’s a hard one,” he says finally, rough, raw — too real to fit the radio persona he wears so easily.
The silence stretches, heavy and fragile. Rain presses against the windows, filling the space you can’t.
And before you can stop yourself — before your brain can soften or filter it — you speak.
“I think,” you say slowly, “that sometimes we don’t love quietly because we choose to… but because we’re scared of what might happen if we don’t.”
Mingi’s head lifts, eyes catching yours, something almost hopeful flickering there.
You swallow hard, realizing too late how personal it sounds, how it hangs between you, uncomfortably intimate. You laugh lightly, trying to smooth it. “You know, hypothetically,” you add, voice cracking on the last word.
He smiles — small, tender, a little wrecked. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Hypothetically.”
And that’s it. You move on, take another question, laugh again. But beneath the static and the soft hum of the soundboard, something has shifted — small, trembling, impossibly alive.
The red light blinks off with a soft click. And just like that, the room exhales.
You pull your headphones off, rubbing at your temples, voice bright and fast, almost desperate to fill the silence. “Okay, that was a good one! The chat loved it. We should do more late-night sessions — the energy’s always different, don’t you think?”
You move around the space, fussing with things that don’t need fixing — slipping the last vinyl back into its sleeve, coiling cables that will be tangled again by tomorrow. “Oh! And that punk record I told you about? The one with the weird percussion? You have to listen to it before next week, it’s so—”
Your words falter when you turn to look at him.
Mingi is still in his chair, shoulders slightly slumped, laptop open but untouched. The screen’s glow paints his face pale, revealing the storm behind his eyes. He’s not just quiet; he’s dangerous in his stillness. Love and frustration pool there, raw and magnetic. He watches you with an intensity that makes you pause mid-step, pulse skittering.
“Min?” you venture softly. “You… okay?”
He blinks once, slow, like he’s just remembered where he is. His voice comes low, almost swallowed by the storm outside.
His gaze flicks to you, steady and unblinking. “Did you mean that?”
You freeze. “Mean what?” Your voice is lighter than you feel, faster, trying to outrun the tension curling in your chest.
“That thing you said,” he murmurs, voice low, almost a whisper, “about… loving quietly. Because we’re scared of what might happen if we don’t.”
The words land like a secret held too long.
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, fingers fumbling with the vinyl in your hands.
“Oh… I, uh… I just meant people in general,” you say quickly, forcing a laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Listeners relate to that sort of… sentiment. Makes the show sound more—”
Mingi doesn’t listen to your excuses. Not really. His eyes soften, a faint tug at the corner of his mouth — not teasing, not smug. Just quiet. Understanding something you’re not ready to admit.
He doesn’t let you finish. The stillness between you is alive, a subtle hum of something unspoken, tempered by restraint and curiosity.
“Yeah,” he says finally, leaning back, jaw relaxed, voice low but casual. “People in general.”
Your stomach twists, chest tight. You turn, busying your hands with scattered notes, pretending the tremor in your fingers isn’t for him. You know he’s watching — every twitch, every glance — even if you can’t see the quiet warmth behind his eyes.
The storm outside taps a steady rhythm against the window, the room humming with energy from the podcast, the laughter from earlier, and something quieter, slower, that lingers just between you.
You try to focus, arranging cables and notes, keeping your hands moving, while your mind keeps drifting toward him. And he’s still watching, memorizing your movements, with a care that’s almost impossible to name.
Finally, Mingi breaks the silence, voice low, almost casual. “You want to… go for a walk? Late night. Just us.”
You blink, chest tightening, hands pausing mid-motion. A small smile tugs at your lips, a soft chuckle slipping out — not at him, you would never laugh at him — but at the thought of stepping outside, where rain pours relentlessly, hammering against the windows like the sky is trying to drown the city.
“Out there?” you say, voice trembling just enough to betray your amusement. “You do realize it’s practically a monsoon.”
He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mischief and something warmer, darker, harder to name. “Since when has a little rain ever stopped us?”
Your laugh bubbles up despite yourself, quick and breathy, and you shake your head. “You’re insane,” you say, though the corners of your mouth lift.
“And yet,” he replies, smirk back in place, “you’d still come with me.”
You freeze, chest tightening. You open your mouth, ready to protest, to remind him of the pouring rain, to give yourself a reason to say no.
But you catch his eyes — the impossible, puppy-dog earnestness lurking behind that grin. And just like that, you feel yourself melt.
“Okay,” you say, voice small, almost surrendered, a reluctant laugh threading through it. “You win. We’re going.”
Mingi’s smile softens, warmer now, slower, almost tender. He leans back slightly, eyes never leaving yours, letting the quiet victory linger — not gloating, just… fully present.
You shake your head, chuckling to yourself, feeling that familiar flutter in your stomach. You know you’ll never actually be able to say no to him. Not now, not ever.
You step into the street, hoods pulled low, the umbrella barely enough to shield you. Rain hisses against the fabric, slick streets reflecting neon lights. The storm has grown, drumming against the pavement like a restless heartbeat.
You tug your hood higher, laughing softly when a gust sends droplets to your face. “Some walk,” you tease, wiping your cheek.
“You doubting my planning skills?” he says, mock-offended.
“Your timing, maybe,” you shoot back, eyes glinting.
The rain picks up, drumming harder. He tilts the umbrella closer to you, but the wind has its own plans. Droplets sneak through anyway.
Without thinking, you loop your arm through his. “There,” you say, half-smiling. “Easier to fit under.”
Mingi freezes for a heartbeat. Your hand is warm through his sleeve, your weight leaning subtly into him. Simple, careless, thoughtless — yet it shifts something inside him.
His chest tightens, a small, hesitant smile flickering across his face. Fingers fumble with the umbrella handle, unable to look anywhere but at your hand resting against him. “Y-yeah… easier,” he murmurs, low, a tiny hitch catching his words. “I… I mean, perfect.”
He adjusts the umbrella, angling it just enough to keep you drier, feeling absurdly proud — over raindrops, over you. That you would let yourself be that close, even just for shelter.
The city blurs around you, the streetlights reflected in puddles, your steps syncing to the rain’s rhythm.
You chatter on — about the playlist for next week, about a new artist you’ve found — your voice light, easy. But he barely hears you. He’s too busy memorizing how your laugh sounds here, close; how your chin tucks against the rain; how your arm curves naturally into his side, like it belongs.
He smiles quietly, heart taut, thinking: If you only knew how far he’d go to keep you out of every storm.
Then, as if sensing his quiet attention, you elbow him gently. “You’re not paying attention, are you?”
“Am I supposed to?” he shoots back, voice low, teasing, though his eyes betray him — lingering, scanning you like you’re the only thing that matters in the streetlights and rain.
“Maybe I like having your full attention,” you say, a grin tugging at your lips, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Mingi snorts softly, nudging your shoulder. “Hey, careful,” he says, umbrella wobbling slightly as you dart sideways, always one step too quick.
“You call this protection?” you tease, dodging a puddle and sending a splash of water his way.
He laughs, shaking his head as droplets scatter from his hair. “Why are you like this?” he asks — low, amused, but with something softer threading beneath it.
“Like this?” you echo, tilting the umbrella just enough to let the rain kiss your cheek. “I’m giving you a challenge.”
His eyes catch yours, and for a heartbeat, the teasing quiets — replaced by something warmer, heavier. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, almost too quiet, but not quiet enough.
“Do I look like I care?” you shoot back, smirking — though the flicker in your eyes gives you away.
You both break into a run, laughter spilling into the storm. The city blurs around you — neon bleeding into puddles, the air electric and alive. The umbrella flails between you, half-useless, rain catching in your lashes, but neither of you slows down.
By the time you stop, breathless, you’re standing before the warm, glowing window of your favorite late-night diner — the small one tucked in a narrow side street. Its neon sign buzzes like a heartbeat in the rain.
“Saved by the neon,” Mingi says, running a hand through his soaked hair before holding the door open for you.
The bell above the door gives a tired jingle as you step inside.
Warm air meets you — thick with the smell of coffee and something sweet left too long on the griddle. The diner’s old lights hum, bathing the chrome counter in a haze of dull yellow and electric blue. Outside, the storm softens to a murmur against the glass, the world beyond melting into a watercolor of taillights and reflections.
Mingi shakes the umbrella dry by the door, then follows you to your usual booth — the one tucked behind the broken jukebox that hasn’t worked in years. The vinyl seat sighs beneath you, familiar and forgiving.
Only two other tables are taken: a trucker nursing his coffee, and a couple sharing fries in silence. The quiet feels companionable — like the city is letting you rest.
You sit on the same side, shoulders almost touching. You lean your back against the cool window, brushing damp strands from your face as you laugh softly. “You always pick the most romantic spots,” you tease, glancing around the flickering lights and faded linoleum.
Mingi smiles, leaning back. “Hey, this place has character.”
“Character?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah. The kind of place where deep conversations happen right before someone says something stupid they can’t take back.”
Your laugh comes easy — warm, genuine. “So… your kind of place.”
He looks at you then — really looks. Your cheeks still flushed from the cold, your hair a little wild, your smile tugging at something in his chest he can’t name. The noise around you dulls, replaced by the low hum of the diner’s lights.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it is.”
You hold his gaze a beat too long before reaching for the menu, pretending to read. “So, same order?”
“Always,” he says, his smile lazy but soft. “Routine’s romantic too, right?”
“Only if you’re paying.”
He chuckles, leaning back, eyes catching the glow of the neon. “That’s fair,” he murmurs. “You always were the expensive kind of habit.”
Your order arrives the way it always does — two steaming plates and a shared basket of fries, edges browned and too salty, just how you like them.
Outside, the world has blurred into streaks of color on the fogged windows. Inside, time feels slower, softer. Mingi pours cola into your glass before his own, and you pretend not to notice — though you always do.
You steal the first fry before the plate even touches the table, grinning when he scowls in mock outrage.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Didn’t even let it land.”
“It’s called efficiency,” you say, mouth full, reaching for another.
He catches your wrist halfway. “That one’s mine.”
You smirk, leaning closer. “You gonna fight me for it?”
“Maybe,” he says, but he lets go anyway. You take the fry, victorious.
You eat like that — teasing, laughing, your voices low against the diner’s lazy hum. Sometimes you steal something off his plate; sometimes he slides something toward yours without realizing.
When a drop of sauce lingers near your lip, he hands you a napkin before you even notice.
“Thanks,” you say, dabbing at the corner of your mouth.
Mingi smiles. “You’d starve without me.”
“Or get scurvy,” you shoot back, reaching for another fry.
“Romantic.”
“Tragic,” you correct, grinning.
To anyone watching — the two of you leaning close, shoulders brushing, laughter catching in the glow of flickering neon — you look like a couple.
And maybe you are. Just not the kind either of you dare name.
Mingi watches you trace idle shapes in the condensation of your glass, your laughter still echoing softly between you. When he looks at you, his chest aches with something quiet, certain — something he’s long since stopped trying to deny.
You, though, can’t look too closely. Can’t let yourself see the way his eyes soften every time you smile, or how his hand lingers a moment too long when he passes you the napkin. To see it would make it real. And real is dangerous.
So you laugh again, a little too loud. “You’ve got sauce on your cheek,” you say, tossing him a napkin back.
He doesn’t. But he takes it anyway — because if teasing you is how he gets to stay close, then that’s enough. For now.
By the time the rain eases into a mist, the city outside has quieted — streetlamps flickering, pavement still slick and glistening.
You step out into the damp air.
Without warning, Mingi reaches for your hand. “Come on,” he says, tugging lightly, already moving.
“Mingi—wait—!” you laugh, half-running to keep up, shoes splashing through shallow puddles. “Where are we going?”
He only turns once, grinning. “You’ll see. Just trust me.”
“Easy for you to say! You’ve got legs for days!”
But you follow. You always do.
He moves fast, long strides, fingers still laced with yours — a little too tight, a little too eager. He doesn’t mean to pull; he’s just… happy. Whole. Like this stupid, breathless run through wet streets is something he’s been waiting for all week.
When you stop — an old fire escape behind an empty brick building — you blink, breath fogging in the cold.
“This is your secret hideout?”
Mingi nods proudly, helping you up the ladder. “My kingdom, actually.”
You roll your eyes, gripping the cool metal. “Right. A very royal fire escape.”
You climb until the city’s noise fades beneath you — a low hum swallowed by height and distance. The air up here is still, faintly electric. From this vantage, the world feels far away. Just the two of you and the pulse of neon.
You sit side by side, legs dangling over the edge, arms brushing against the cool railing. Mingi pulls a pre-rolled blunt from his pocket, sparking it with easy familiarity.
“Still can’t believe you bring me to all the fancy places,” you tease.
“You’re welcome,” he says, exhaling a slow curl of smoke. “Not everyone gets an invite to my rooftop therapy sessions.”
When he passes it to you, your fingers brush — a fleeting, barely-there touch that sends something sharp and warm through him. You inhale, head tilting back.
The smoke drifts lazily between you, soft and silver against the night.
Below, headlights sweep by, painting your faces in streaks of gold and white.
“So,” you murmur, “you come up here to think?”
“Sometimes.”
“About what?”
He glances sideways, a half-smile ghosting his lips. “You don’t wanna know.”
You smirk, taking another drag before handing it back. “Mysterious. Very on brand.”
“Gotta keep the listeners guessing.”
“We’re off air,” you remind him, bumping his shoulder.
“I know.”
Silence settles again — not empty, but charged.
Your voice comes quieter this time. “Don’t look at me like that.”
He tilts his head, feigning confusion. “Like what?”
“Like…” you hesitate, eyes flicking away. “Like that.”
He doesn’t stop. Can’t. Because years of restraint press hard against his ribs, and Yunho’s voice still echoes in his head: Just tell her, man. Just tell her.
But what if it ruins everything? What if you laugh? Walk away? The show—
No. Enough. That isn’t living. You can’t hide it forever, Mingi.
“How else am I supposed to look at the person I—”
A low rumble of thunder rolls across the distance, swallowing the rest of his confession. Mingi flinches — just slightly — a small jump that would’ve gone unnoticed if you hadn’t been watching.
And still, he lingers, heart hammering, mind replaying every failed attempt, every casual hookup that never measured up, every night spent imagining your hand in his.
You blink, pretending not to notice the way he startles, or the ache that slips through his calm. You force a laugh, light but unsteady. “You’re dramatic, you know that?”
He smiles — slow, crooked — but inside, everything warred: fear and longing, devotion and hesitation. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice low, “you’re dangerously close to stepping on my heart.”
You smirk, trying to match his tone, though your voice trembles just slightly. “Then maybe you should move it.”
He laughs — low, broken — the kind that hits you right in the chest, warm and aching. Then he leans back on his palms, eyes drifting toward the sky.
Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow I’ll tell her. Or maybe not.
But tonight… tonight he can just be here. See you. Love you quietly.
Down below, the city pulses on, oblivious.
Up here, though — in the hush between thunder and heartbeat — something shifts.
Something real.
Something dangerously close to breaking free.
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