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Crossing without steps ||K.M.G

pairing: mingyu x f!reader wc: 13k warnings: arranged marriage, classism, fluff, angst, jealousy (as always), oral sex (f!recv.), love at first sight(?), a bit fast paced, might contain inaccuracies(i tried my best), NOT beta-read glossary: i used some slangs used in 1920s to maintain some relevance to the theme (😭) playing goosberry- thirdwheeling, bee's knee's- extraordinary person, to carry a torch- to have a crush on someone, salesroom- salesroom, joe- common man (a/n): part of puttin' on the ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt. thankyou for hosting another fun collab. i swear all the themes are so good for me to give it up. do read all the other fics, everyone has worked so hard :) don't forget to reblog if you liked it and tell me what you like and not like so that i can improve in future :3

“Take your eyes off that book for once and live in the real world.” Pa’s voice pulls your attention from the page to his face, though he is already stepping out of the car. You glance to your side, to where your mother had been sitting, only to find her giving you that familiar look. The one that says you know Pa does not like seeing your nose buried in a book.

You sigh as you slip the book closed and follow your mother out of the car, smoothing your dress as your feet touch the pavement. The building before you is neat and imposing, its tall windows gleaming under the afternoon light.

The bell above the door chimes as the three of you step into the salesroom, the space opening up into polished counters and neatly displayed marvels of modern living.

A man approaches almost immediately, his suit crisp and his smile practiced. You assume he must be the manager from the way he carries himself, the way his attention goes straight to Pa. "Mr. Hong," he says, extending his hand. "Welcome."

Pa greets him in turn. Your mother lingers at his side while you trail half a step behind, hands folded, eyes wandering over rows of new inventions you are meant to want.

“We’re preparing for a wedding,” Pa says after the pleasantries, straight to the point. “Looking for something practical. Something useful.”

The manager’s eyes brighten at that, and he gestures toward a display near the back. He begins explaining the merits of several electric refrigerators, their ability to preserve food longer, the mark of a modern household. Pa listens intently as the man opens doors, points out compartments, lists features meant to impress.

Pa runs a hand along the smooth metal, thoughtful. Then he turns slightly toward your mother. “Charles would like this, wouldn’t he?”

Charles.

The name settles in your chest the way it always does. Charles Whitmore. Your fiancé. A man born into old money and old expectations. The engagement had been arranged long before either of you were asked how you felt about it, two families aligning their interests with practiced ease.

He is polite to a fault, always saying the right thing, always standing straight, always mindful of who might be watching. Reputation matters deeply to him, perhaps more than anything else. Appearances must be maintained, traditions respected, nothing ever allowed to stray too far from what is deemed proper.

You don't hate him. Charles is not cruel, nor careless. He treats you with courtesy and kindness. Yet, there is something about him that feels distant, like a man already married to the life expected of him.

You suppose that, in his eyes, this refrigerator makes sense. Another sensible purchase. Another step toward a well ordered future.

You know better than to interfere. Decisions like these are not meant for you. Your role is to agree when spoken to, to smile when appropriate, to trust that the people who know better have everything under control. So when your parents’ attention remains fixed on the manager and his endless explanations, you take the opportunity and slip away.

You wander past the polishes appliances until something tucked slightly to the side catches your eye. A phonograph rests atop a polished wooden cabinet. Your fingers brush the edge of the cabinet, tracing the smooth finish, then hover near the horn. You imagine music filling a room, imagine evenings softened by sound rather than silence.

“Do you like it?” Assuming the question isn't for you, you don't answer. You continue looking at the phonograph until the lack of response becomes noticeable. You glance up.

A man stands nearby, watching you with a faint smile.

You point to yourself, unsure. “Me?”

He nods.

“Uh… yes. No. I mean,” you falter, embarrassed. “I was just looking.”

He chuckles softly and steps closer. “It’s a good one,” he says, gently. “Clear sound. Strong needle. If you take care of it, it’ll last years.” There is a warmth in his voice as he speaks, a fondness, like he is talking about something dear. “Music sounds different on these.”

You listen, drawn in despite yourself. Somewhere between his explanation, your focus drifts. You notice the shape of his eyes, expressive and bright, the way his hair falls slightly out of place, the softness in his smile that feels entirely unpracticed.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Kim Mingyu,” he answers.

You smile. “Mingyu. Do you like it?” you ask, gesturing to the phonograph.

His eyes light up, and he continues, speaking about music, about evenings spent listening. You nod along, asking small questions wanting to hear him speak more. You do not realize how long you have been standing there until a familiar voice cuts through the moment.

You turn to see your parents waiting, already prepared to leave.

“It was nice to meet you,” you say softly. “Mingyu.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he replies.

“See you again,” you add, unsure whether it is something you are allowed to say.

You settle back into the car, skirts smoothed, posture proper, the familiar weight of your parents on either side of you. The door closes with a dull thud, sealing you back into your place.

Your father is the first to speak. "Charles is coming home tonight,"he says, almost casually. "We should start planning about the engagement now."

Ma hums in agreement, asking him if there is anything to be prepared for the meeting with their future son-in-law. You nod when expected, a small sound of acknowledgment leaving you, though the words barely reach you at all.

Your gaze drifts instead to the salesroom window as the car begins to move. Through the glass, you spot him. Mingyu stands near the display, hands resting on the cabinet, his attention elsewhere now.

As the car begins to move, the image shifts, the glass carrying him farther and farther away until he is nothing more than a shape behind light and reflection. You do not look away until the salesroom disappears from view.

A few days roll by, slow and uneventful, until you find yourself out again, this time for dress shopping.

Martha is with you today, like always. She has been there for as long as you can remember, lingering in the background of your childhood. If anyone has ever known you in all your unguarded moments, it is her. She is older than you by years, and yet indulgent enough to let you forget that sometimes.

The shop is bright and filled with fabric, layers of silk and lace draped over polished counters. You move between racks with a lightness you rarely allow yourself, lifting skirts, holding them up to your frame, spinning just enough to feel the fabric sway.

“Careful,” Martha chides, arms already full of garments. “You’ll wrinkle everything before we even get to the fitting room.”

You slow, offering her a sheepish smile that you know she cannot resist. She sighs, shaking her head, but her lips betray her.

You both leave the shop with bags in hand. you insist on ice cream, dragging Martha along despite her protests about sugar and melted hems. You buy two cones— chocolate for you and vanilla for her.

She sets the shopping bags down with visible relief, flexing her fingers as you press the second cone into her hand.

“For me?” she asks, surprised.

“For you,” you say simply, already taking a step ahead.

“Miss,” Martha calls, juggling the cone and bending to pick up the bags at the same time. “Wait. These are heavy.”

You glance back, walking backward now, licking at the edge of your ice cream. You smile at her, bright and teasing. “Hurry up, Martha.”

And then you bump into someone.

Your steps falter, ice cream nearly slipping from your hand as you instinctively step back preparing yourself for an apology.

"Oh!"

It's him.

For a moment, you simply stare, surprised in a way that steals your breath. You had not expected to see him again. At least not like this. And yet, a quiet, unwelcome gladness settles in your chest before you can stop it.

“I’m so sorry,” you begin, then pause.

“Mingyu,” he says followed by your name. “You were at the shop the other day.”

“I was,” you say, warmth creeping into your voice. “How do you know my name?”

He nods. “Heard it that day, at the salesroom. It was pretty hard to forget you—it.” He quickly corrects himself.

Your cheeks warm at that, and you shift slightly, suddenly aware of the way you are standing, the ice cream slowly melting in your hand. Your gaze drifts, then settles on the flowers in his hand—a modest bouquet of lilies and sunflowers.

You glance around and realize where you are. A flower shop sits just behind him, its door open, the scent of petals lingering in the air.

"Are those for your lover?" you ask, even thought you know you might be overstepping, you kind of envy the woman he thought of while buying these.

“No,” he says quickly, almost tripping over the words. “No, I'm not in a relationship.”

Your eyes flick back to the bouquet, questioning without meaning to be.

“Oh,” he adds, realizing, a soft laugh escaping him. “These are for my grandmother.” He scratches the back of his neck, shy, almost boyish. "She really likes sunflowers."

"That's so sweet."

His eyes meet yours, and for a second the look he gives you feels thoughtful, curious, like he is seeing you rather than simply looking at you. You glance away first, suddenly conscious of your ice cream, the slow drip threatening your fingers.

He laughs softly. “It's melting.”

You look down with a small gasp. “Oh. Right.”

You fumble for a napkin, and before you can properly manage it, Martha appears at your side, bags in hand, eyebrow raised ever so slightly.

“There you are,” she says. “I turn my back for one moment.”

You smile innocently. “I ran into someone.”

Her gaze shifts to Mingyu, assessing but kind. He straightens instinctively, offering a polite nod.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

Martha hums in response, then looks back at you. “Shall we continue, or are we planning to block the pavement all day?”

You suppress a laugh. “We were just leaving.”

Mingyu steps back to give you space, though there is reluctance in the movement. “It was nice seeing you again,” he says. “I didn’t expect—” He stops, smiling instead. “I’m glad I did.”

“So am I,” you say quietly.

Mingyu shifts his weight slightly, adjusting his grip on the bouquet as if wanting to continue this conversation with you but the way Martha was gaping at him suddenly made him aware of how long he had been just standing their and admiring you.

“Well,” he adds, lifting the bouquet slightly, “I should take these."

You nod. “Of course.”

You hesitate, then add, “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

His smile returns, warmer now. “I’d like that.”

You walk a few steps before Martha speaks again, her pace unhurried, perfectly measured beside yours. The street noise rushes back in, filling the quiet he left behind.

“Well,” she says at last.

You glance at her. “Well what?”

She gives you an amused look. “You seem to have developed a habit of bumping into interesting people.”

You feel your face warm. “It was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” Martha replies, adjusting the bags in her hand. “Accidents can still be interesting.”

That earns a sheepish grin from you. You lick at the melting edge of your cone, buying yourself a moment. “He was just someone I met once before.”

“Ah,” she says, drawing the word out. “Just someone.”

You walk in silence for a bit, the street opening up ahead of you, warm and alive. Then Martha speaks again, gentler this time.

“He seems kind.”

You glance at her, surprised. “You think so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” she replies.

Your steps slow slightly at that. You say nothing, because you do not trust your voice to remain steady.

Martha squeezes your arm briefly as you walk. “It’s nice to see you laugh like that,” she adds. “You don’t do it enough these days.”

You look down, smiling to yourself. “Neither do you.”

She scoffs. “I laugh plenty. Just not at men who bump into me on the street.”

The next time you see Mingyu, it is raining.

It falls with no warning, one moment the sky is clear, the next it opens up entirely, rain pouring down hard enough to scatter people off the street.

You stand beneath the narrow awning of the post office, hands tucked into your coat, watching the rain hit the pavement. A letter has just been sent, sealed and addressed carefully to your brother.

You miss your brother terribly—you had been inseparable since forever. But he left years ago, chasing work the city could not offer him, and ever since, his visits have been few and fleeting. So, now you settle for letters instead.

You snap out of your thoughts when the sudden gust of cold misty air hits you. You have no umbrella and your empty hands make that painfully clear. Midst of debating whether to make a run for it or not, you notice someone step closer, shoes stopping just short of the edge of the shelter. You glance up.

Mingyu.

“Hello,” he says first, a little breathless, like he had not expected this either.

“Hello,” you reply, surprised and quietly pleased all at once.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, then quickly adds, “I mean, not here here. Just… the post office.”

You smile faintly. “I was sending a letter. To my brother.”

He nods, understanding softening his expression. “I had some installation work nearby,” he says. “They needed help setting something up inside.”

For a moment neither of you speak.

“Why are you standing here?” he asks.

You lift your palms slightly, as if the answer is obvious. “No umbrella.”

“Ah,” he says, tapping the tip of his umbrella lightly against the ground, using it for support as he settles beside you. “That would do it.”

The rain pours down relentlessly, filling the silence between you. Without quite deciding to, you shift a little closer to him, drawn in by the warmth radiating from his body as the chill settles into your bones. You tell yourself it is only that, that you are cold and nothing more, an excuse you cling to even as you know better. He smells like lavender and the thought stays with you longer than it should. If he notices the way you move nearer, he gives no sign of it, says nothing.

You wait, half expecting him to speak, while he seems to be doing the same, both of you lingering in that quiet moment, unsure of who should say something first.Then, as if by instinct, you both step forward at the same time.

“Why aren’t you—” you begin.

“Do you want to—” he says.

You stop, then let out a soft laugh. Mingyu too laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly shy. You gesture for him to continue.

He clears his throat, suddenly nervous. “Would you like to share an umbrella with me?” he asks, words tumbling slightly over one another. “I mean, the rain does not look like it is stopping any time soon, so…”

You look at him, something warm blooming in your chest. “You would not mind?”

His head jerks toward you immediately. “Why would I mind?”

You giggle softly. “Then… yes. I would like that.”

His smile comes easily now. He opens the umbrella and steps out into the rain, pausing just ahead of you, holding it steady. You join him, the space beneath the umbrella small but enough. His arm brushes yours as you fall into step together.

The streets glisten underfoot, puddles rippling as drops fall on the ground. He matches his pace to yours without thinking, slowing when you do, angling the umbrella whenever the wind shifts.

You walk beneath the umbrella together, the space close but careful, his arm steady as he shields you from the rain. The street gleams under the downpour, puddles breaking apart with every passing drop.

“Well,” he says, glancing down at you, “this is not how I imagined my afternoon.”

You smile. “You did not plan on rescuing strangers from the rain?”

“Hardly strangers,” he replies. “We have collided twice now. That feels intentional.”

You laugh. “By that logic, I should start watching where I walk.”

“Please don’t,” he says easily. “I’d miss the chance.”

You shake your head, amused. “Do you always say things like that?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” he admits. “Which is unfortunate, because it seems to happen often around you.”

“That is good to know,” you tease. “I was beginning to think you were just naturally bold.”

He scoffs lightly. “I am many things. Bold is not one of them.”

“You did offer to share your umbrella,” you point out.

“After standing there far too long debating it,” he says. “I almost convinced myself the rain would stop out of politeness.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “I am glad it didn’t.”

He smiles at that, adjusting the umbrella as you turn a corner. “So am I.”

A gust of wind cuts through the street, blowing rain beneath the edge of the umbrella. Cold drops kiss your sleeve and cheek, making you flinch.

“Oh,” you murmur.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, adjusting the umbrella, angling it closer. “The wind has a mind of its own.”

“Much like you,” you tease. “You seem to appear when least expected.”

He laughs. “I will take that as a compliment.”

You feel warmth bloom despite the cold, rain still tapping insistently against the fabric above you. You open your mouth to reply when the sound of wheels rushing over wet stone grows louder.

A motorcar barrels past the edge of the street. Before you can react, Mingyu reaches out and pulls you toward him. The car speeds by, splashing water onto the empty stretch of road you had been standing on moments before.

Your breath catches.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, loosening his grip. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You shake your head, still a little stunned. “No. It’s fine. I just—”

You trail off, suddenly aware of how close you are now, how the umbrella shelters you both, how his hand lingers near yours as if reluctant to pull away entirely.

He clears his throat, stepping back just enough to give you space. “You were saying?”

You blink, then laugh softly, a little breathless. “I… honestly do not remember.”

Mingyu just laughs, shaking his head.

The walk slows as you turn onto your street, the rain easing just slightly, as if it knows the journey is nearly over. Your house comes into view, its windows lit warmly against the darkening evening.

You smile, a little shy. “This is me.” As you reach the gate, you turn to face him. "Thank you,” you say. “For walking me home. And for the umbrella.”

“Of course,” he replies easily. “I’m glad I could.”

When you step a bit away from him, you notice one shoulder of his his coat is noticeably darker, damp from where the rain had slipped in while he made sure you stayed dry.

“Oh,” you say, frowning slightly. “You’re wet.”

He glances down, then shrugs. “Oh. Yeah. It’s no problem.”

“It is,” you insist. “You got wet because of me.”

“It’s just a coat,” he says quickly. “It’ll dry.”

You hesitate, then reach out, fingers brushing the fabric. “Let me have it,” you say. “I’ll get it cleaned.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to—”

“Please,” you say, more earnestly now. “Otherwise I’ll feel really bad.” You do not realize you are pouting until his lips twitch, a quiet chuckle escaping him.

“Well,” he says, surrendering, “I suppose I don’t stand a chance.”

You brighten immediately, taking the coat from him with care. “Of course.”

He smiles at you, rain still falling lightly around him. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” you reply.

You watch him leave for a moment before stepping inside, the door closing softly behind you. The house is warm and quiet. You hold the coat a second longer than necessary.

It smells like him.

You are halfway up the stairs, still holding onto that quiet, foolish smile, when a familiar voice stops you.

“Where have you been for so long?”

You turn slowly. Pa sits on the sofa, cup of tea cradled in his hand, watching you over the rim. Opposite him, legs crossed neatly, posture impeccable, is Charles.

The smile fades.

“Charles,” you murmur, more to yourself than to anyone else.

Pa’s expression hardens. “You are to be married soon,” he says sharply. “It is not appropriate for you to be wandering about like this. ”

Your fingers tighten around the railing.

Charles lets out a small laugh. “Uncle, do not worry,” he says smoothly. “Everything will change once we are married.”

He looks at you then, expectant, waiting for agreement. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Another soft laugh from him, unbothered. He sets his hands on his knees and turns back to your father. “May I spend a little time with her alone?”

Pa gives him a small smile. “Of course! There's no need to ask me, you are to be married anyway.”

Charles stands and gestures toward the stairs. “Shall we?”

He goes ahead of you, already climbing as if this is his house. You follow a step behind, slower, your stomach tightening with every stair. You already dread the conversation waiting for you.

He enters your room first.

Charles looks around with polite curiosity, eyes moving over the shelves lined with books, the desk cluttered with loose papers and half finished thoughts. His lips press together. He clicks his tongue once, quietly.

“You still…write,” he remarks, glancing at the chaotic pile of papers on your desk.

When no reply comes, he turns to face you, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “I came as soon as I landed,” he continues smoothly. “There is much to prepare for, and I thought it best to ask your opinions on certain things.”

You nod. “Of course.”

His attention drifts downward then, to your hands. You are holding a coat you do not recognize as yours, the fabric dark damp, which he assumes is because of the rain. As he looks closer, something shifts in his expression. He inhales lightly, once, then again. The scent clinging to the coat is unfamiliar. Not the soap used in this house. Not yours.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“You were out longer than expected,” he continues, voice still calm. “People notice these things.”

“I was delayed by the rain,” you say.

He hums. “You should be more careful. Soon, your actions will reflect on both of us.”

There it is. The thing he always returns to.

He glances back at your books. “You will not have as much time for these after the wedding,” he says lightly, as if discussing the weather. “A household requires attention.”

You manage a small smile. “I imagine it does.”

Charles steps closer, his voice warming, softening into something meant to reassure. “You will adjust,” he says. “I am sure you will.”

You look up at him. His hand lifts, brushing your cheek before tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

"You know I care about you, right?" his voice warm.

You nod, though your grip tightens around the coat.

He smiles and puts his hand down. "Well, I should let you rest. You must be tired."

He leaves your room your room a moment later, the scent lingering, the weight of the coat still warm in your hands.

You close the door behind him and cross the room, the weight of the moment finally settling into your bones. You let yourself fall back onto the bed, arms spreading out against the covers as a long sigh leaves you. The ceiling blurs above you as your thoughts tumble over one another—the conversation, Charles, the future laid out so neatly for you, whether you want it or not.

You turn your head and your gaze lands on the coat resting beside you. The faint scent still clings to it, unmistakable now in the quiet of your room. Your lips curve into a small, private smile before you can stop it.

You can't wait to meet Mingyu tomorrow.

The next noon, you ask the driver to park a little distance away from the store.

You sit there longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the small bag in your lap. You check your reflection in the hand mirror once, then again, then a third time, smoothing hair that refuses to be out of place. You inhale. Exhale. Too many times to count.

It is not like you are meeting Mingyu for the first time, but all those times before were coincidences ,and this was somewhat planned and you wanted to look presentable for the first time.

When you finally step inside, no one rushes to greet you the way they did when you came with your parents. You are simply another presence in the room, and strangely, you do not mind. It gives you time to look around the store— to look around for the one you came here for.

You spot him in the corner.

Mingyu is bent over a machine, sleeves rolled up, hands busy adjusting something delicate and precise. His brow is furrowed in concentration, hair falling forward just enough to look careless. There is grease smudged faintly along his fingers, his focus so complete that the world around him might as well not exist.

He does not seem to notice when you get near him. You clear your throat to get his attention.

He looks up, surprise flashing briefly across his face before it softens into a smile. He straightens quickly, wiping his hands on a cloth nearby.

“You look really busy,” you say, smiling.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little breathless. “No! No, actually, just finishing up.”

For a moment, you simply look at each other. Then you extend the bag toward him.

“I came to return this.”

He takes it, curious, and peeks inside. The coat is there, neatly folded. And beneath it, a small box, wrapped carefully.

He pauses. Frowns slightly. Then opens it.

Inside rests a small brooch, simple but elegant. He looks up at you, confused.

You smile. “Thank you. For yesterday.”

“I was just—” he begins quickly. “I mean, I was just doing my job.”

You shake your head. “It is not your job to walk me home safely.”

“But—”

“Take it, Mingyu,” you say gently. “Thank you for yesterday. I really enjoyed spending time with you.”

Color creeps up his neck, unmistakable. He clears his throat, closes the box, and places it carefully back in the bag.

“It’s no big deal,” he mutters, embarrassed.

“It is to me,” you reply.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, his smile changes into a softer one. Mingyu hesitates, shifting his weight, fingers tightening briefly around the bag in his hand.

“Um,” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “Do you want to maybe… have lunch together?”

He barely lets the words settle before he rushes on, tripping over himself. “You know what, it’s okay. You must be busy and I should probably get back to work and—”

“I am not busy,” you say quickly.

He blinks.

“And lucky for you,” you add, smiling, “I am actually very hungry.”

His expression brightens instantly, relief and excitement mixing in a way that makes it hard not to smile wider. He comes around the table in a few quick steps. “Well, that’s great. If you could just wait a moment, I’ll clean up real quick.”

You nod, watching as he moves with surprising speed, wiping his hands, setting things aside, already halfway back to you before you expect him to be.

“Ready,” he says, a little proud.

You step out together, the bell above the door chiming softly behind you. The street feels different in daylight, livelier, warmer.

“Do you have a place in mind?” you ask as you walk.

“I do,” he says immediately. “There’s this small cafe down the street. Nothing fancy, but they serve really good sandwiches. And soup. Their bread’s always fresh. I have lunch there almost every week, actually.”

He keeps talking, filling the space easily, telling you about which days they bake extra, which seat near the window gets the best light, how the owner remembers his order without asking.

Then he stops.

“…But,” he says slowly, glancing at you, “I’m not sure if you’ll like it.”

You tilt your head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Well. You know. Because you’re…”

You understand what he means without him finishing it. You scoff, leaning a little closer. “Mingyu, you seriously underestimate me. I love food,” you say, dragging out the words, “and I’m very glad you’re taking me with you today.”

He smiles at that, a little shy, and you feel a small flutter at the corners of his mouth.

Soon, you reach the cafe. The bell above the door chimes as you step inside, and the owner, a round, cheerful man with a perpetually flour-dusted apron, greets Mingyu warmly.

“Mingyu! Back again, eh?” he says, eyes lighting up. “And… who’s this pretty lady?”

Mingyu clears his throat, slightly flustered. “This is… uh… my friend,” he says.

The owner laughs, clapping him on the back. “Ha! You seem to know a lot of pretty ladies, lucky bastard!”

Mingyu’s cheeks pink instantly, and you can’t help the small twinge of jealousy that prickles your chest. Who else has he brought here before?

You both head to a table in the corner, Mingyu moves ahead of you pulling out a chair for you. You don't think much of it, head filled with questions.

You pick up the menu but can’t resist. “So… who else have you brought here?” you ask, voice light but teasing.

“Huh?” he looks genuinely confused.

“The owner said you know a lot of pretty ladies,” you explain, glancing at him, “so I was just wondering… which other pretty lady you’ve brought here.”

Mingyu shakes his head. “I’ve never brought anyone here. You’re the first.”

You can’t help but smile— he looks like shy bird.

He continues, his voice dropping slightly. “He… he once saw me with a customer, and since then he’s been on my back. He’s crazy… no one is prettier than you.”

You feel the heat rise immediately, cheeks warming, heart skipping.

Mingyu seems to realize it too, his eyes flicking to yours, expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and pride.

“Let’s… let’s order,” he says quickly, clearing his throat, and lifts his glass for a large gulp of water. You hide your smile behind your menu, trying not to look too pleased, but failing spectacularly.

The cafe visit passes in a blur of laughter, shared bites, and easy conversation. The walk back to the salesroom is comforting— you get to know about Mingyu's obsession with reading books— one thing you both had in common among other things.

The conversation drifts effortlessly, touching on little curiosities and passions, until the shop comes back into view, and the comfort of the walk lingers long after.

When you reach the entrance, you pause. “Thank you again, Mingyu,” you say, smiling. “I had a really nice time.”

“Me too,” he replies, his own smile warm, a little shy.

Mingyu watches you go, shoulders tense for a moment, eyes following your figure until it disappears from sight. He doesn’t even notice the hum of the street around him.

A voice cuts through his thoughts. “Are you in love, my boy?”

Mingyu jumps, spinning around to see Jeonghan peeking over his shoulder, smirking.

“What?” Mingyu says, heart suddenly racing.

Jeonghan's smile turn into a genuine one. “You're carrying a torch, oh my god.”

“I’m not,” Mingyu insists, brushing it off, though his voice wavers.

Jeonghan just shakes his head and sings, loud and teasing, “You are in love, so in love…” before turning back to his work with a triumphant grin.

Mingyu groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not in love, okay? She’s just… a friend.”

Jeonghan, still smirking, hums teasingly, “Loooveeee…”

“Shut up!” Mingyu snaps, red creeping across his ears, but there’s no real conviction in his voice. You linger in his thoughts far longer than he cares to admit.

Much to Mingyu’s quiet dismay, a week passes without a single glimpse of you.

He keeps himself busy, or at least he tries to. He throws himself into work, fixes machines with more focus than necessary, lingers longer than usual while locking up. Still, his eyes wander. Every other day he finds himself passing the flower shop, slowing near the post office, pretending he has errands when really he is only hoping. Each time, he leaves with empty hands and a heavier chest.

He even postpones his monthly trip to the bookstore, something he never does, telling himself he will go next week when his head is clearer. It never quite is. By the end of the week, the absence feels loud enough that he gives in and heads to the bookstore anyway, convinced a stack of fresh pages might help.

It is there, between shelves and spines, that the heavens finally take pity on him.

As he turns into another aisle, he bumps straight into someone. He looks up, already forming an apology, and then his breath catches.

Your name slips off his tongue with an unmistakable excitement.

He blinks, half certain he has imagined you, then immediately stiffens, realizing how creepily cheerful that must have sounded. You, on the other hand, look delighted.

“I’m so happy to see you,” you say, eyes bright. You glance around at the shelves. “Are you here to buy books too?”

His shoulders ease as he smiles. “Yeah. I was starting to think I’d never run into you again. I’m glad we met like this.”

“I’ve been busy this week,” you say. “My birthday preparations took over everything and—.” Then, quieter, almost lost between words, “I missed you.”

He stills, surprise flickering across his face. Thinking how wrong it might have come off as, you shake your hand quickly.

“No, no” you rush, cheeks warm. “I mean—it was fun spending time with you. I missed spending spending with you.”

His laugh comes easy, relieved. “I missed you too.”

“Really?” you ask, smiling.

He nods, then tilts his head. “It’s your birthday? I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

You laugh. “How could you? I never told you.”

“Well,” he says gently, “happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” you reply, then pause. “It’s tomorrow. If you’re free… I’d really like you to join.”

You pull an invitation card from your purse and hold it out to him. He takes it carefully, like it might disappear if he grips it too tightly.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll try to come.”

Before you can say more, a familiar voice calls out to you from the front of the shop, reminding you that you have to leave, that your father will be home soon. It's the same woman he saw you with the other day.

"Just a minute, Martha." you call back, then turn to Mingyu once more. “I really hope you’d come.”

You give him a smile, warm and lingering, before moving away to check out your books.

Mingyu stands there a moment longer than necessary. The faint scent of vanilla trails in your wake, already missed. He looks down at the invitation card in his hands, thumb brushing the edge, a small smile settling on his face.

He folds the card neatly and slips it into his coat pocket, right over his heart, before finally turning back to the shelves. The books blur together now, their titles meaningless. His mind is already elsewhere, already counting the hours, already hoping.

For the first time all week, the wait feels bearable.

Mingyu stands outside your house longer than he should, invitation card folded and unfolded between his fingers. The place is lit up like it is holding its breath, windows glowing warm against the night, laughter slipping out through the walls. He looks down at himself, suddenly aware of how little he belongs here, and for a brief moment, he considers turning back.

But it is your birthday.

So he straightens his coat and steps inside.

The house is transformed. Garlands of soft lights trail along the banisters, flowers spill from vases in careful arrangements, pale ribbons woven between them. Music hums low and elegant, conversations overlapping in polished tones. Everyone looks effortless and expensive, silk dresses brushing marble floors, tailored suits pressed sharp. Mingyu feels like he has walked into another world, one he is only meant to observe.

He accepts a glass of wine from a passing servant, murmurs a thank you, and drifts toward the corner of the room where he can breathe. He tells himself he will just wait, wish you well, and leave quietly.

When you appear, the room seems to notice before him— conversations pause, heads turn. You descend the stairs in a burgundy floor-length gown with intricate black beadwork, a fitted silhouette, and you look—you look angelic.

Compliments follow you down the steps, voices praising your beauty, your grace. You thank them all with a practiced smiling but your eyes wander around the room looking for a particular someone.

When your eyes land at him your smiles changes to a warmer one. You lift a hand and wave. Mingyu lifts his glass in return, heart thudding a little too fast.

You start toward him but are intercepted, pulled gently into another conversation.

Fifteen minutes go by and eventually the cake is brought out, candles lit, people crowding close to feed you the first bite.

A man, who's almost Mingyu's age, stands constantly beside you, too close for his comfort. Mingyu does not know who he is, but the sight leaves something unsettled in his chest.

He looks away, focuses instead on the table beside him. Cheeses laid out in careful rows, shapes and textures he has never seen before. He takes another sip of wine, pretending to study them, pretending he does not feel out of place. Mingyu knows that he shouldn't be feeling all this, he shouldn't be here at the first place, he shouldn't…like you.

A hand lands on his shoulder. He turns startled.

You are there, smiling up at him, close enough that he can smell your perfume.

“Happy birthday,” he starts to say.

You do not let him finish.

You take his hand, and without a word, you pull him gently toward the stairs, away from the noise, away from the watching eyes, leaving the party humming behind you as you lead him upstairs.

As you both reach the terrace you turn to face him, hands still warm from his. You tilt your head, eyes bright with expectation. “So?” you ask.

He blinks. “So…?”

You tut playfully, lips forming a small pout. “You know,” you say, dragging it out. “You’re the only one who hasn’t given me a gift.”

His eyes widen just a fraction. “I—” He hesitates, then exhales. “I was going to—”

You chuckle watching him stutter as if caught doing something wrong. "It's okay, I was just joking."

Mingyu's hand reaches to his pocket, feeling the box inside. He hesitates for a bit before taking it out and handing it to you.

“It’s not that good,” he rushes out. “I couldn’t think of anything and I didn’t know what you’d like and I’m terrible at this, I swear—” Mingyu keeps on blabbering which stops when he hears you gasp.

A locket with your name engraved on it.

Before he can react you step forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face against his chest. He freezes for half a second—then his arms come around you, tentative, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong.

“I love this,” you murmur, voice thick. “A lot.”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re crying.”

“I am not,” you sniff, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your eyes are glossy, smile soft. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You glance back down at the locket, fingers tracing the engraving. “Help me put it on?”

His hands brush your neck as he fastens the chain, careful, reverent. When he’s done, his fingers linger for half a second too long.

Mingyu’s hands drop back to his sides, but you can still feel the ghost of his touch at your neck. He clears his throat. “It looks… nice on you.”

You turn to look at him properly, "thank you, for this." you motion to the locket which rests beautifully on your neck now. "And for coming today. I would've have been really lonely today."

"Anything for you." Mingyu whispers.

What began as chance meetings quietly turned into something deliberate. You started sneaking out at late hours, excuses ready on your tongue, just to steal a few moments with him over shared snacks and hushed laughter.

The salesroom became familiar, almost comforting, its corners holding pieces of your routine now. You knew the creak of the floorboards, the hum of machines, the names and habits of the people who worked there. Jeonghan, who always seemed to be around, took an immediate liking to you, greeting you with exaggerated bows and relentless teasing, much to Mingyu’s embarrassment.

Bookstores became another refuge, aisles and back corners offering privacy. You were rarely together in open spaces, a rule Mingyu insisted on, always careful, always wary of being seen. You thought it unnecessary, even foolish, argued with him more than once, but he never budged, his concern quiet and unyielding.

When the walls of public places felt too thin, you found yourselves retreating to his house instead—talking, reading, doing your own things in the same room.

The more time you spent at the salesroom, the more curious you became about the machines themselves. You asked questions endlessly, about gears and levers and sounds, watching the way Mingyu’s hands moved as he worked.

You knew you distracted him, could see it in the way he paused mid task to answer you, so one evening you asked properly, if he would teach you how one of them worked, a phonograph sitting proudly near the front. He had smiled then, surprised but pleased, and agreed.

Now it is past ten, the city outside long settled into sleep. Jeonghan has already gone, leaving the closing to Mingyu as promised.

The salesroom looks different at night. When Mingyu switches on the small table lamp, only one corner of the room is washed in warm yellow light, the rest sinking into shadows. The phonograph sits between you. Mingyu rolls up his sleeves and begins to explain, careful and patient, pointing out each part, his voice softer than usual in the quiet. You nod along, eyes following his hands more than the machine itself.

“Now you try,” he says, stepping back to give you space.

You do exactly as he showed you. Or at least, you try. The needle slips, the sound comes out wrong, and the machine gives a weak, pitiful noise. You freeze, then burst into laughter.

“Gently,” he says, guiding your hand. “You rush things.”

“I am being gentle,” you protest, concentrating far too hard.

You try again but the needle slips.

"Wow. So impressive." Mingyu says flatly.

You swat his arm. “You’re a terrible teacher.”

“I showed you exactly what to do.”

“And I did exactly that,” you insist, fiddling with the machine again, tongue peeking out in focus.

He stops correcting you. Just watches. The way you lean closer, the way your brows knit together in concentration, the way you smile to yourself when the sound almost comes out right. There’s something soft in his gaze now, something unguarded, like he’s already lost a battle he never meant to fight.

“Careful,” he murmurs, quieter. “You’ll break it.”

“Then you’ll just have to fix it,” you say lightly, not looking at him.

You both might have been a bit too loud, because you hear footsteps echoing outside the door.

Mingyu stiffens. “Oh shit.”

In one quick motion, he switches off the phonograph, plunges the room into darkness, and tugs you down with him beneath the table. You let out a small, breathless giggle before you can stop yourself, the thrill of it all bubbling up. His hand comes up instinctively, covering your mouth as he leans close.

“Shh,” he whispers.

You nod, eyes wide, laughter trapped behind his palm. You don’t struggle. You just look at him, close enough now to make out the shape of his face in the dark.

The footsteps pause. Mingyu holds still, barely breathing, eyes scanning the sliver of light beyond the tablecloth. Seconds stretch. Then the steps move on, fading into nothing.

Slowly, his attention comes back to you.

He lowers his hand, careful, hesitant. “You alright?” he whispers.

You nod again. He breathes out, relief softening him, and then he notices the way you’re still looking at him. He says your name, barely more than a breath.

He leans in too, instinct overtaking sense, and then the reminder settles heavy in his chest—this is wrong, you are engaged. He pulls back abruptly and tries to stand, forgetting entirely where he is.

Thump. Mingyu's head hits the table. “Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his head.

You reach for him immediately. “Are you alright?”

He lets out a short laugh. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he says, then straightens, suddenly all nerves. “I think the guard’s gone. We should leave. Before we get caught for real this time.”

You nod, even as disappointment settles quietly in your chest. You follow him out of the darkened salesroom, heart still racing.

On your way back, you don't talk as much as you do usually. He drops you off a little distance away, careful as always. You slip back into the house quietly, shoes in hand, heart still racing but unworried. Pa and Ma would be fast asleep by now. You climb the stairs on light steps, already picturing your bed, when a voice stops you cold.

“You shouldn’t be out at this time.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. “Martha,” you whisper, clutching your chest, “you scared me.”

“And you doing this scares me,” she replies, unimpressed.

You resume walking, Martha following close behind. “Doing what?” you ask, though you already know.

“Spending time with a joe,” she says, lowering her voice, “and that too this late.”

You sigh. “Martha, not you too.”

Inside your room now, you slip off the coat and place it carefully on the chair. You sit at your dressing table, fingers moving automatically as you unclasp your jewellery, the quiet ticking of the clock suddenly too loud. Martha stands behind you, arms folded.

She calls your name softly. “It was fine till the birthday party. But I fear this is escalating into something that will put you in a difficult position.”

You turn your head slowly. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, then says it anyway, voice dropping at the end. “I've been noticing how you've changed since you've met him. You can't do things like this—like sneaking out of the house late at night, like lying to your parents, like… like falling in love.”

Your eyes widen as if she has uttered something forbidden. “Martha!”

She exhales, tired. “Love can be fickle, dear. Mingyu is a nice person, no doubt. But you are engaged. And if anyone even gets a whiff of what you’re doing, it would do great harm. To Charles. To your family. To him” Her voice softens. “I care for you, honey. I’m worried about your future.”

You say nothing. Just look at her through the mirror.

Martha sighs again, defeated. “You should sleep. You have breakfast with Charles tomorrow.”

She leaves, closing the door gently behind her.

You turn back to the mirror. The girl staring back at you looks unfamiliar, cheeks still warm, eyes too bright. Your gaze drifts to the coat resting nearby, still carrying his scent, faint and unmistakable.

You swallow.

You, in love with Mingyu?

Charles insists on breakfast outside, saying it would be nice to have some time alone before the day properly begins. You agree, though a part of you would have preferred the quiet safety of home. The café he chooses is refined, all polished tables and hushed voices.

He pulls out your chair for you, smiling. “You look well this morning,” he says, warm, familiar. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Yes,” you reply, managing a smile of your own. “Thank you for asking.”

You talk easily at first, about small things, about the weather, about the wedding preparations that seem to follow you everywhere. Charles asks your opinion on flowers, on the guest list, on trivial details, listening attentively, nodding as if each answer matters. A server approaches, a young man fumbling slightly as he pours water, spilling a few drops onto the tablecloth.

Charles’ expression hardens instantly.

“Do be careful,” he snaps, sharp and cutting. “This isn’t a roadside stall.”

The server stammers an apology, face flushing as he hurriedly wipes the table. Charles waves him off with an impatient gesture, already turning back to you.

“Honestly,” he says lightly, as if nothing has happened. “Standards seem to slip more every day.”

Your chest tightens. You glance at the server retreating, shoulders hunched, and something twists painfully inside you. You think of Mingyu, of his patience, his quiet respect, the way he spoke to everyone as if they mattered. The contrast is jarring.

Charles fixes his sleeve, turning to you with a tight smile, and continues to talk. His voice is steady and composed, but the words drift past you without settling. Your mind keeps wandering back to Mingyu, to the warmth of his laugh, the way he looked at you like you were something rare. Martha’s words from the night before echo again, heavier now, harder to ignore.

“—and the guest list should be finalized by next week,” Charles says.

You don’t respond.

“Darling?” he tries again.

Nothing.

He says your name once more, firmer this time. “Are you listening?”

You blink, startled, pulled back into the present. “I’m sorry, what?”

He studies you for a moment, concern flickering across his face. “I was saying we need to decide on the venue for the rehearsal dinner. Mother prefers something formal. I thought perhaps the Whitmore estate would be suitable.”

“Sounds good,” you say automatically.

He continues, warming to the subject. “We’ll need to schedule fittings, and there’s the matter of the invitations. I want everything to be impeccable. People remember these things.” He smiles at you, reaching for your hand. “I want our life to begin properly.”

You nod, but the thought makes your chest feel hollow. You try to imagine it, standing beside him, building a life that looks perfect from the outside. But you can’t picture your heart racing the way it does with Mingyu, can’t imagine laughing without restraint, or feeling seen in the quiet moments.

Charles squeezes your hand gently. “You’ll be happy,” he says, certain. “We’ll be very good together.”

But inside, you know it isn’t the same. He doesn’t make your pulse quicken. He doesn’t linger in your thoughts when he leaves the room. Your heart doesn't beat for him the same way it does for Mingyu.

And that realization settles in your chest, heavy and undeniable.

You push your chair back suddenly, the sound scraping a little too loud against the floor.

“I need to go,” you say.

Charles looks up at you, startled. “Go? Now?” He sets his cutlery down, confusion clear on his face. “Where do you need to be? I can have the driver take us.”

“It’s something I just remembered,” you reply quickly, already reaching for your bag. “You don’t need to trouble yourself.”

He studies you, concern creeping in. “Are you unwell?”

“No,” you say, softening your voice. “I’m fine. Truly.” You manage a small smile. “Thank you for breakfast, Charles.”

You don’t trust yourself to say anything more. You turn and leave before he can ask another question.

The car ride is quiet. Your hands twist in your lap, thoughts racing, heart pounding with a strange urgency you don’t fully understand. When the driver slows near the salesroom, you step out almost before the car comes to a full stop.

You take a few hurried steps forward.

Then you stop.

Not far from the entrance, Mingyu stands with a woman you don’t recognize. She’s close to him, closer than you’ve ever been in public. She reaches up, brushes his hair aside with easy familiarity, laughing at something he says. He bends slightly toward her, smiling, relaxed in a way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t like the way it looks. You don’t like how quickly your throat tightens. You don’t like how small you suddenly feel.

Without thinking, you turn back.

You open the car door and slide in, avoiding the window. “Take me home,” you say quietly.

With only a month left to the wedding, everything around you moves at a relentless pace. There are fittings and meetings and lists that never seem to end. And yet, in the quiet moments between it all, your thoughts betray you. They drift to Mingyu. To that night at the salesroom. To the way you stopped going there after seeing him with that woman. You have not spoken since.

“I like this one. What about you, honey?” your mother’s voice pulls you back.

You lift your eyes to the mirror. The gown you’re wearing is white and luminous, silk falling softly against your figure, delicate embroidery catching the light with every small movement. It is beautiful. Effortlessly so. Anyone would look at you and see a bride ready for her future. You look at your mother’s reflection and nod, smiling.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s lovely.”

She smiles back, pleased, adjusting the veil with gentle hands. “You look radiant,” she says, proud.

The drive home is quiet, the gown carefully packed away, your mind still elsewhere. When you step inside the house, setting your things down, a familiar voice carries from the sitting room.

You stop short.

You freeze for half a second before your heart leaps. “Joshua?” you call out, disbelief turning into joy as you rush forward.

He barely has time to brace himself before you throw your arms around him. He laughs, arms wrapping around you just as tightly. “Missed me that much, huh?”

You pull back just enough to look at him, smiling so wide it almost hurts. “You have no idea,” you say, hugging him again, holding on like you’re afraid he might disappear.

Joshua pulls back just enough to look at you properly, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, annoying way that means he’s knows everything.

“Well,” he says slowly, lips twitching, “I’ve been told you’ve been acting… strange.”

You frown. “Strange how?”

He hums, pretending to think. “Quiet. Distant. Smiling at walls. Very unlike my little sister.” He leans closer, mock-serious. “Someone even said you look like you’re about to bolt at any given moment.”

You scoff and jab him lightly in the stomach. “Stop listening to gossip.”

He laughs, catching your wrist easily. “I knew it. Hit a nerve.” His voice softens as he lets go. “Big wedding coming up. Guess that’ll do that to a person.”

You shrug, suddenly finding the carpet very interesting. “It’s just… a lot.”

Joshua studies you for a moment, the teasing fading into something gentler. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can see that.”

Joshua spots your mom hovering near the doorway and immediately lights up.

"Ma," he says fondly, stepping past you. He bends down and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “You look as beautiful as ever.”

She laughs, swatting lightly at his arm. “Flatterer. When did you get so smooth?”

“Born this way,” he grins, then glances back at you, eyes sparkling. “Clearly the good genes skipped someone, though.”

“JOSHUA,” you protest, shoving him again.

Joshua laughs, pinching your cheeks, muttering how cute you are.

You both settle at the long dining table, the chandelier above casting a warm, honeyed glow over polished wood and porcelain. Joshua leans back in his chair, watching you with that familiar, knowing grin.

“So,” he says lightly, reaching for a napkin, “my little bookworm—found any new treasures lately?” His eyes flick past you, toward the doorway. “Martha tells me you’ve been frequenting the bookstore more than usual these days.”

Martha appears right on cue, placing a small plate between you—warm buttered scones dusted lightly with sugar, still smelling faintly of the oven. You shoot her a look sharp enough to cut glass. Traitor. Martha, unfazed, merely smooths her apron and disappears back into the kitchen as if she hasn’t just exposed you.

Joshua is already helping himself, breaking a scone in half and popping a piece into his mouth. “Mm,” he hums. “Still undefeated.”

“Just trying to give myself a break from all the wedding preparations,” you reply, reaching for one yourself. The scone flakes softly between your fingers, crumbs scattering onto the plate.

He turns toward you then, expression softening. “That makes sense,” he says gently. “Don’t push yourself too hard, yeah?” He dusts his hands together, clapping off the sugar and crumbs before resting them on the table.

Joshua stands, nudging your shoulder with his hip as he passes. “Go rest for now. You look exhausted.” He smiles, warm and teasing. “You can play tour guide later—I expect a full tour. It’s been far too long since I’ve been home.”

Two weeks slipped by. The city moved on, the house filled with florists and seamstresses and quiet congratulations, and suddenly the wedding was no longer an idea but a date looming only two weeks away.

Your father insisted on hosting a party in your name, something grand and respectable, something that would assure everyone that everything was exactly as it should be. You smiled when required, stood where you were placed, listened when spoken to. And all the while, missing Mingyu felt like a clean cut under silk.

If anything, the nearness of the wedding had only made it worse. The farther you forced yourself from him, the more he occupied you. Every time you thought of going to the salesroom, of finally speaking, of ending this ache properly, something tightened inside you—fear, duty, cowardice, you didn’t know—and you would turn back before you ever reached the door.

Now you sat before the dressing table as Martha did the work for the evening, brushing your hair, pinning them with floral hair pins.

The party echoes faintly downstairs—laughter, music, glasses clinking but it felt miles away. You already know how it is going to be— greeting people with a put on smile, mingling in small talk with people you've never even met, searching every face without meaning too for a particular someone—someone who won't even be here.

"I miss him."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

You lift your eyes to the mirror to look at Martha behind you. Your reflection wavers, lips parting as if the truth has been pressing against them for days, waiting.

"I miss him," you breathe. "I miss Mingyu."

Her hands still. Just for a second. When she meets your gaze in the mirror, there’s no surprise there—only a tired sort of pity that says I knew this moment would come. She exhales softly and resumes tying your hair, gentler now, as though you might shatter.

You don’t wait for her to speak.

“It’s everywhere,” you say, words tumbling out. “When I wake up, when I try to read, when someone laughs and it isn’t him. I keep telling myself it will pass—that it has to—but it hasn’t, Martha. It’s only gotten worse.” Your fingers curl into the edge of the dressing table. “I haven’t even seen him and still he’s… still there. Like he’s carved himself into me.”

She swallows, her eyes lowering for a moment before lifting again. “Oh, my dear,” she murmurs, barely audible.

“I try,” you continue, voice trembling now. “I truly try to think of Charles, of my family, of what’s expected. I try to be grateful. But when I imagine the rest of my life…” You trail off, shaking your head. “He doesn’t disappear from it. Mingyu doesn’t disappear. And that scares me.”

Martha’s hands come to rest on your shoulders, warm and grounding. “I was afraid of this,” she admits quietly. “Not because you’re wrong to feel it—but because love like that… it doesn’t listen to reason.”

Your eyes sting. “Am I terrible for this?”

She leans down, resting her forehead briefly against your hair. “No,” she says firmly. “You’re human. And you’re in love.”

"You're in love?" Your head snaps to the door.

Joshua stands there, one hand still on the knob. He’s dressed sharply—as always—in a dark three-piece suit, waistcoat snug, his hair is neatly combed back, but his expression is anything but composed.

He steps into the room slowly, eyes moving from your face to Martha, then back to you.

“Who are you in love with?” he asks, voice deceptively calm. “It’s not Charles, is it?” A short, humorless laugh escapes him. “The way you’ve been acting this past month—I doubt it’s Charles. So then who is it?”

You say nothing. Your gaze slips away.

Joshua’s jaw tightens. He studies you for a moment, something clicking into place. “Is this the person that caused your frequent visits to the bookstore??” he asks quietly.

Silence.

His voice rises. “I’m asking you something!”

The dam breaks. You fold in on yourself, sobs tearing out of your chest as apologies spill from your lips—soft, broken sorrys that don’t even make sense anymore.

Joshua says immediately, crossing the room. He grips your shoulders, firm but careful, forcing you to look at him. His eyes soften, then harden again with disbelief. “The wedding is in two weeks,” he says, slower now. “And you’re—” He exhales sharply. “In love?”

He scoffs, dragging a hand down his face. “Does he love you too?”

“I—” Your voice cracks. You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

Joshua stiffens. “You don’t— you don’t know?” His grip loosens. “Does he even know you love him?”

Another shake of your head.

His hands drop completely. He turns away, pacing the room like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he says nothing. Then he stops in front of you.

“Go tell him.”

You look up, stunned. “What?”

“Go tell him,” Joshua repeats, voice firm, resolved. “Tell him you love him.” He meets your eyes fully now. “Whatever happens after that—we’ll deal with it after. But you don’t get to suffocate like this in silence.”

Your breath catches. “But the party—”

“I’ll take care of it,” he cuts in without hesitation. “I’ll make excuses. I’ll lie if I have to.” His expression softens, just a little. “You’re my sister. I won’t watch you marry someone while loving another.”

The room feels suddenly too small. Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure they can hear it.

Joshua steps aside, gesturing toward the door.

“Go,” he says quietly. “Before you convince yourself not to.”

The music from downstairs still hums faintly through the walls as you slip out of the house, shoes in your hands, heart racing louder than the party ever could. You move down the back steps, past the hedges, into the waiting car Joshua arranged without questions.

Your chest aches the whole way. Fear, hope, guilt, relief—everything tangles together until you can hardly breathe. You think of his laugh, the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t watching, the restraint that always sat heavy on his shoulders. You think of the woman you saw him with and how it twisted something ugly and unfamiliar inside you. You don’t even recognize myself anymore, you think. But you know this—you can’t lose him without trying.

When you reach his building, you barely wait to steady yourself. You knock one too many times to be polite. The door finally opens.

Mingyu stands there, hair slightly mussed, sleeves rolled up, confusion flashing into shock the second he sees you. Your name slips out of his mouth.

“I love you.”

The words tumble out before you can lose your nerve. “I love you, and I have for some time now. I tried to stop it. I swear I did. I tried to be sensible, to be good, but every time I stayed away it hurt worse.” Your voice shakes, but you keep going. “I hated seeing you with someone who wasn’t me. I hated the person I became because of it—jealous, restless, reckless—but I hated even more the thought of never telling you.”

He just stares, stunned, whispering your name like it’s something fragile.

“I don’t care if it’s inconvenient or foolish,” you press on, tears burning your eyes. “I don’t care if it ruins everything I’m supposed to want. I only know that I—”

“I love you too.”

The words cut clean through you. You freeze, just for a heartbeat, as if your mind can’t quite catch up. Your gaze drops to his mouth.

You finally kiss him with all the weeks you lost, all the words you swallowed, all the wanting that never had anywhere to go.

He exhales against your lips, hands finding your waist as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The door shuts behind you without either of you noticing.You cling to him, fingers fisting in his shirt, heart pounding wildly as if it finally knows where it belongs.

Kissing him is nothing like you rehearsed in your head on all those sleepless nights. In your imagination it had been softer. This isn’t. This is messy and immediate and a little desperate, like both of you have been standing on opposite sides of a locked door and someone finally turned the key.

You pull back only long enough to breathe, but he follows you instinctively, forehead brushing yours, his nose grazing your cheek as if distance, even an inch of it, is suddenly unacceptable.

"Need you." you whimper around his lips.

His eyes search yours for a second, just making sure—and whatever he finds there breaks the last bit of restraint he had left.

He kisses you again, deeper this time. One hand slides from your waist to your back, flattening against your spine, pulling you flush against him. The heat of him startles you. You can feel his heartbeat, fast and uneven, matching the chaos in your own chest. Your fingers slide up into his hair, and he makes a quiet sound against your mouth.

He pulls away just barely, his thumb brushing your cheek, slower than any movement so far, as if he’s reminding both of you to breathe. Your chest rises and falls unevenly anyway. You don’t realize how tightly you’re holding his shirt until his other hand gently covers yours where it’s fisted in the fabric.

“You’re okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, but the word doesn’t come out. You can barely think past how close he is—how every place he’s touching you feels suddenly more sensitive than it has any right to. He kisses you again. Your shoulders relax under his hands, and you lean into him without realizing, trusting the steadiness of his grip.

His mouth leaves yours and for a second you think you did something wrong. Then his lips brush the corner of your jaw.

You inhale sharply. His hand slides slowly down your arm. Your fingers curl into his shoulder to steady yourself as his mouth traces lower.

He pulls your skirt up, revealing your wet undergarment. He pulls your panty down.

"Oh baby." He sighs as if he's seen the gates of heaven.

His face moves closer to your heat. He licks you slowly from hole to clit, humming pleasantly at the taste, making you clasp a hand over your mouth.

He slowly drags his tongue, circling your clit, before sucking it hard, making you arch your back.

His fingers and tongue work in harmony—curling inside you, as he ruins your pussy.

The stimulation causes you to clamp your thighs around his face. Mingyu's fingers dig on your hips, as he pulls away from you, gasping. "You good, love?"

You sigh out loud. Unable to form any words, you just nod. Giving you a small smile he dives back, tongue fucking you. His index finger moves tauntingly inside you, his thumb never leaving your clit.

Mingyu whispers soft endearments, each one followed by another long lick that makes your hips buck against his face.

"Mingyu—" you gasp as his tongue explores your insides. Your body starts throbbing profusely as heat builds up in your cunt, his digits going knuckle deep before pulling out again, just to thrust all the way in, hitting every single nerve that leaves you cumming in no time, letting out a soft, choked moan as your entire being spasms and trembles with exertion.

Mingyu laughs as he pulls his tongue out of you, his face still pressed on you. He gives your clit one final kiss before getting up to kiss your mouth.

His lips linger against yours, as though savoring the simple fact of being allowed to be this close to you. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like there is nowhere else he needs to be but here, with you.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, his smile barely there but unmistakably tender. His hand slides from yours to your waist.

He exhales a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice thick with feeling. “For choosing us—for choosing me.”

He leans in, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, then pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he doesn’t.

Morning comes softly in his house.

Light slips in through thin curtains, settling over the familiar walls and the quiet hum of a city just waking up.

You turn your head to see Mingyu still asleep beside you, one arm flung loosely above his head, hair falling into his eyes in a way that makes him look younger.

The sight of him sends a strange, tender ache through your chest. Last night feels almost unreal now, like something you might’ve imagined if the warmth of him weren’t still right here.

As you sit up slowly, you feel the mattress beside you shift.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You turn back to him, smiling before you can stop yourself. “Good morning.”

He blinks at you for a second, then smiles too—slow, disbelieving, like he’s still making sure you didn’t vanish with the night. He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist, grounding himself. “You’re still here.”

“I am,” you say quietly. “I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

That does something to him. You can see it in the way his shoulders relax, the way he exhales. He sits up beside you, close but not crowding, as if he’s relearning how to be with you without restraint.

Neither of you talks about what comes next. Not the wedding. Not the fallout.

For now, there’s just the morning light, the shared silence, and the simple, terrifying truth that you chose each other—and for the first time in weeks, the weight in your chest eases.

Mingyu presses his forehead to yours, gentle this time, reverent.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says.

You believe him. It's going to be alright. You just need to talk to your father and—it will be fine, you tell yourself.

By the time you reach your house, the weight of reality settles in. You pause at the door longer than necessary, fingers resting on the handle. You draw in a breath, square your shoulders, and step inside, already wondering how to begin saying what can no longer be unsaid.

When you step into the sitting room, it feels like walking into the quiet before a storm.

Your father is seated on the sofa, spine straight, hands resting on his knees as if he has been waiting for this moment. Your mother sits beside him, her shoulders drawn in, fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Joshua stands near the wall, leaning against it, arms crossed tight across his chest. His jaw is clenched, eyes fixed on the floor like he already knows what is coming.

“Where were you?” He asks too calmly, his voice stripped of warmth.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You don’t trust your voice.

He takes a step forward. “Where were you?” he repeats, deeper now, heavier.

When you still don't answer, his control fractures. “You spent a night in another man’s house,” he says, his voice rising, anger breaking through at last. “And that too a regular fella. Did you forget that you are engaged.”

Your mother gasps, "darling—"

"He's not just anybody, I love him." You finally find your voice.

He lets out a sharp, humorless huff. “Love.” He paces once, agitated. “You embarrassed me in front of everyone for this childish love. I don't care, you can show all the love you want after you’re married to Charles.”

Your eyes sting. “I can’t marry someone I don’t love.”

“Do you hear yourself?” he huffs. “After everything that has been arranged. The invitations. The guests. The name attached to ours.”

"I hear myself very well," your voice becomes bold. "This is the first time I ever decided something for myself,and you cannot tell me to change it."

“I don’t want to see you anymore,” he says at last, voice cold and final. “If you insist on shaming this family, then stay out of my sight.”

Joshua straightens slightly. “Pa—” Your father lifts a hand without looking at him.

Your mother reaches for his sleeve, shaking her head gently. Tears brim in her eyes, but she keeps her voice steady.

“Please,” she says. “This is still our daughter.”

Your father pulls his hand from your mother's grip and looks away from you, as though the sight of you pains him. "Stay out of my sight."

You turn to leave.

In your room, you sit heavily on the edge of the bed before letting yourself fall back against the mattress, still in yesterdays dress. You stare up at the ceiling, tracing the familiar cracks and shadows, feeling hollowed out and sore in places you didn’t know could ache but no tears come. Your heart is filled with satisfaction. After all for the first time in your life, you chose yourself, and the weight of that choice presses gently, relentlessly, against your chest.

A knock comes not long after.

You sit up.

Your mother enters first, her eyes glassy, lashes wet. Joshua follows her in, closing the door quietly behind them, as though sound itself might shatter you.

Your mother crosses the room in two quick steps and pulls you into her arms. You fold into her instinctively, breathing her in, the familiar warmth of her holding you together.

“Oh, my darling,” she whispers, her voice breaking despite herself.

Joshua lingers near the foot of the bed, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders tense. “You did nothing wrong,” he says firmly, as if daring the world to argue.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you murmur into your mother’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“I know,” she says softly, brushing your hair back with trembling fingers. “But I would rather you be brave than obedient. I would not want my daughter to be stuck in a loveless marriage.”

Joshua exhales. “Don’t carry all of it tonight,” he says. “Pa is… Pa. He’ll come around. Maybe not soon. But someday.”

You look between them, heart aching but full. “I hope so.”

Joshua hesitates, then moves to sit beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. A crooked smile tugs at his lips. “Seeing you spend the night outside, I'm taking everything went well."

A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it. You glance at him, nodding, a shy smile curving your mouth.

Joshua lets out a satisfied hum. “Well,” he says, leaning back on his hands, “I’d really like to meet the bee’s knees who managed to make my sister fall head over heels.”

Your smile softens, something warm blooming behind your ribs. You don’t answer—don’t need to. The way your eyes drift, the quiet in your breathing, says enough.

Your mother watches the exchange, her expression easing. She reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek, slow and tender. Then she cups your face fully, studying you the way she did when you were small, pressing a kiss on your forehead.

“Rest now,” she whispers. “You’ve been strong enough for one day.”

You lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling again as they leave. Your chest still aches, the future still uncertain, but beneath it all is a steady warmth. Because now, you have Mingyu with you now.

Things do not fix themselves overnight. You learn that slowly.

Your father still does not acknowledge Mingyu’s. Mingyu, to his credit, never pushes.

Joshua, on the other hand, is a lost cause.

They take to each other like they have been separated at birth and only just reunited. Inside jokes form within days. They argue over food, over music, over which one of them would survive longer in the wild.

Sometimes you sit between them, listening to them bicker, both talking over each other, and you realize you're playing gooseberry in your own relationship.

But you don't mind.

Your mother warms to Mingyu quietly, the way she warms to all things she trusts. She notices the way he listens when you speak, the way he reaches for your hand without thinking, the way his voice softens around you. She asks him if he’s eaten, if he’s tired, if he’s happy. She presses an extra helping of food onto his plate and says, “You’re too thin.”

You see the way his eyes shine at that.

Life is calmer now—not easier or perfect, but you're happier now. You and Mingyu build something slow and sturdy. Morning routines. Shared silences. Arguments that end in laughter or apologies murmured into skin. Love that does not demand you shrink or bend.

Some nights, when the house is quiet and the world feels far away, you lie beside him and think of the girl you used to be—the one who thought love was something that happened to you, not something you chose.

You chose this.

You chose him.

And when Mingyu turns to you in the dark, half-asleep, arm pulling you closer like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you know—with a certainty that settles deep in your bones—that whatever matters remain unfinished, whatever bridges yet await their crossing, you are, in that moment, precisely where you are meant to be.

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