love, as a verb | kmg
→ pairing: mingyu x f!reader → warnings: feelings of anxiety/insecurity, hurt/comfort, crying, etc., suggestions of sexual activity (minors dni) → word count: 1.8k → note: happy birthday to my dearest emma emily emberly emberliana @gyuswhore <3 ily sm i don't know what i would do without you!!!! our single mom who works two jobs!!!!!! none of us at studio butt stuff deserve you!!!!!!!!!!
——
You're nervous.
You haven't washed your hair in a couple of days. Your slacks dig into your waist a little more than you remember. You haven't had anything to eat all day but iced coffee and Wellbutrin, and you ran out of your house in pumps and made it all the way to the subway station before you realized—too late, in the reflection staring back at you from your phone—that you'd only drawn eyeliner on one eye. Also, your feet ache from putting out fires at work and there's a blister throbbing on the back of each heel.
You have half a mind to text him, various apologies at the tips of your fingers. Sorry, I think I'm coming down with something. My boss is keeping me late at work. I forgot I have a huge presentation tomorrow, can we postpone? You're in no fit state to see anyone—in fact, you camped out in your office for the better part of the afternoon, only emerging to use the restroom or grab something from the printer. You didn't want to be perceived like this, unkempt and miserable. Run through the wringer by deadlines, endless emails, and the constant, looming pressure of not being good enough. Of imminent failure.
You can't, you decide. The two of you just made things official a week ago. The relationship is far too fresh for him to witness you in all your disheveled, post-work glory. You pull out your phone, scroll down to the text thread you have with Kim Mingyu, type out Hey, I'm so sorry to do this—
Suddenly, a shiny black sedan rolls to a stop right beside you. Your shoulders instantly shoot up to your ears, your hand closing around the strap of your bag—to use as a weapon if necessary, of course. You've heard the stories. Men in cars snatching unsuspecting young women right off the curb, swiping them clean off the street and funneling them right into human trafficking schemes, and you'll be damned if you let yourself become a missing person flyer at the police station—
The driver's side door opens, and you're just about ready to swing when you realize who it is.
"Hey, I—" Mingyu stops short a few steps from you, frowning. "Why do you look like that? Did I scare you?"
You roll your lips to hide your laugh. He might be six feet tall and built like a quarterback, but you're reminded that Mingyu, your boyfriend, is the most harmless thing on earth. He looks unbearably sweet like this: eyebrows lifted in surprise, mouth in a tiny pout, curling in on himself like he's afraid to touch you. "No—sorry, I just—you're early."
He breaks into a smile, and not for the first time, you think he must be the most gorgeous person on earth. Mingyu's is a sweet, mellow beauty, comforting and stunning all at once. Like spring sunlight. Like mint leaves.
You're not sure exactly what he sees in you, but you like him so much it scares you. So much that you wonder how bad it'll hurt if he ever leaves.
"Where'd you go?"
You blink, crashing back to reality. He's staring at you with that world-ending smile, head tilted a little to one side. "Sorry," you rush out. "I'm just—um. I—long day."
"Ah." He closes the distance and folds you into his arms. It's so sudden—so unexpectedly natural—that you freeze up for a moment, but then you wrap your arms around him, too. He smells nice. Like clean cologne, cotton and wool, something fresh mixed with something warm.
He bends down to press a kiss to the part in your hair, and for the briefest moment you can't remember what had you so upset.
"I'm sorry you had a rough day," he says, just loud enough for you to hear. "Let's go home. You should eat and rest."
——
The drive to Mingyu's is short. He lives in one of the swanky new developments just one highway exit off from your office building. When you first met him through mutual friends, you thought he was a model, or an actor, but no—he much preferred the behind-the-scenes work, running the finances of his friend Seungcheol's entertainment agency . As Seungcheol tells it, SC Entertainment would crumble without Mingyu's effortless, boundless charm to hold it up.
Anyway. This is the first time you've been over, and you're alarmed because it's nice. Very nice. Mostly marble and leather and monochrome accents, but there are little signs of life: a triptych of sweet family photos on the end table, a knit blanket thrown over the couch, a rich, savory smell wafting from the kitchen.
You, on the other hand, live in what only the most generous person would call a dwelling. You have a single burner and a showerhead that hangs over the toilet and a fridge that only sometimes fits leftovers you're hoping to keep for tomorrow. You feel distinctly out of place as you watch Mingyu bounce around his well-equipped kitchen—a dash of salt here, a handful of green onions there. He's got a Zwilling electric pepper grinder, a set of Miyabi knives, one of those fridges that looks like a cabinet. For fuck's sake, he's cooking you dakdoritang in a Le Creuset that probably costs more than a month of your rent.
"I can hear you thinking from here."
You flush, but Mingyu's smiling, the tips of his canines flashing. He walks over to the counter and sets the dish down on a trivet. Brings you a bowl of fresh barley rice and a set of silver utensils that feel heavy in your hand. You wait for him to sit beside you before you take a bite—it's amazing, rich and spicy, and you eat in silence for a bit before he speaks up again.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Damn. Your sisters always used to say your face was an open book, and now you're wondering if you've been spoiling the mood of the occasion—your first time over at his home, your first time having his cooking. He clearly had gone to some lengths to prepare for your visit by tidying and setting up the ingredients for dinner, had even gone out of his way to pick you up directly from work so you wouldn't have to fuss with bus and subway directions.
You think about your ex. You think back to walking through winding, unlit alleys under the cover of nightfall to make it to his place after work. Eating cold leftovers straight from the fridge while he slept. Avoiding him, eventually, waiting until you knew he was in bed to get on the bus home because you were too exhausted for the inevitable argument.
Mingyu's done the opposite of all of that. Gave you a look like you'd insulted his mother when you suggested you could find your own way to his place after work, and here you are. Stuck in your own head. Some company you are. Some girlfriend you are.
You muster what you hope is a pleasant expression. "No, it's nothing. This is so good, Mingyu. Did you use sugar? Or fruit?"
He fixes you with a look. "Baby."
You feel your cheeks and ears pinking. It's his first time calling you anything but your name.
He reaches for your hand. "I don't want you to think that—I know we only just made things official, but I don't—I wish you wouldn't keep things to yourself. I want to be there for you. I want to hear what you're thinking. What you're going through. I know you're private, but I hope you don't feel like you have to keep anything from me."
You feel horrible. The last thing you want to do is make Mingyu feel bad, and now you just feel bad for making him feel bad, and the overwhelming weight of it all has tears pricking in your sinuses. "I'm sorry," you blurt, voice thick, unable to come up with anything else. "I didn't mean—"
His eyes soften, and without another word he's pulling you into his chest. You sniffle into his sweater, smearing mascara and snot all over the fine knit. He just holds you for a bit, whispering small and comforting things into your temple, the weight of his hand pressing into your back.
He's so good. He's so, so impossibly good to you, and you marvel at the fact that there have been guys like him out there all this time and that it took you this long to find one. It dawns on you how lucky you are, to know him. To be known by him.
You pull back, wiping at your eyes. You tell him about your awful day—starting off on the wrong foot, being called into your boss's office and hit with half a dozen extra projects to complete before Christmas, your subsequent work on those tasks being interrupted by panicked pings from your juniors and seniors, everyone seeming to need you for something. The intern remembering everyone's lunch order but yours. The coffee stain on your blouse you've been trying so hard to hide. It'd be comical if it weren't happening to you, so absurd that it was almost impossible to believe. And yet.
By the time you're done, Mingyu has a funny look on his face. Like he's trying to fight a laugh, but also like he's genuinely upset for you and is having trouble working out which one should win out, which all has the effect of just making him look constipated. You smile a little, because he's cute and he's trying so hard, and he cracks a smile in return. Holds your face in his hands and wipes away stray tears with his thumbs. You close your eyes and lean into his touch.
It feels good. To be able to rely on someone, to be able to tell someone about your shitshow of a day, to be comforted. You almost forgot what it felt like.
"Do you still want to stay over?" he asks after a while, hesitant. "I can take you home if you want, but—"
"Yes."
"But it's okay if you don't want to, really, I don't want to make—"
"Mingyu."
You stand up. Get up on tiptoes, so you can loop your arms around his neck and kiss him. A real kiss, even though both of you taste like chicken and gochujang and your cheeks are still tacky with tear tracks.
Maybe you did something right, because this sweet, gorgeous man would move mountains to make you just the tiniest bit happier—and you get the feeling he wouldn't do this for just anyone.
"Yes," you whisper, when you finally break apart. "Yes, I would like to stay over."
He smiles against your mouth. "Good," he murmurs. You squeal as he hoists you into his arms, so effortless like you don't weigh a thing, and carries you toward the bedroom. "I was hoping you'd say that."
——
