summary: When Minho’s toddler son shows up to the dorm dressed as Leebit for Halloween, the usually composed idol completely falls apart over how deeply and innocently his little boy loves him.
authors note: so sorry for not posting! i’ve been busy the past few weeks, but i am back and i’m going to be posting a lot more. enjoy~ 🫶🏻
🏷️: fluff, domestic.
Masterlist.
Halloween at the dorms was never quiet.
With eight grown men running around in various stages of costume disasters, fake blood smudged across expensive hoodies, and someone—definitely Han—screaming because Hyunjin had hidden plastic spiders in his shoes again, silence was impossible.
But Minho had expected chaos.
What he hadn’t expected was for his entire emotional stability to collapse the second his front door opened.
Because standing there, clutching your hand with tiny fingers, was his son.
Dressed as Leebit.
For a moment, Minho genuinely forgot how to breathe.
The little white bunny hoodie swallowed your son whole, oversized ears flopping sideways as he stared up at his father with wide, sparkling eyes. Tiny whiskers were drawn onto his cheeks in slightly crooked lines, and the fluffy tail attached to the back bounced when he shifted his weight excitedly.
And then—
“Appa!”
Minho made a sound that no one in the history of humanity had ever heard before.
Somewhere between a gasp, a wheeze, and his soul physically leaving his body.
Behind him, Changbin blinked. “Oh my god.”
“I think he died,” Felix whispered.
“No, seriously, look at his face,” Jeongin said, already laughing.
Minho couldn’t hear any of them.
Because his son was wearing his character. Tiny. Round-cheeked. Looking unbearably proud of himself.
“Surprise,” you said carefully, already grinning because you knew exactly what kind of reaction this would get.
Minho just stared.
Then he slowly crouched down in front of your son like he was approaching a wild animal.
“…Who are you?” he asked softly.
Your son giggled immediately, bouncing on his feet. “Leebit!”
“Leebit?” Minho echoed weakly.
A nod so aggressive the bunny ears flopped into his eyes.
Minho put a hand over his mouth.
“Oh, he’s gone,” Chan muttered from the kitchen.
“Someone catch him.”
Your son grabbed the edge of Minho’s sleeve. “Appa, look!” He turned around in a circle to show off the costume properly, tail bobbing. “Eomma made it!”
Minho looked at you with genuine betrayal.
“You did this to me on purpose.”
You laughed. “Maybe.”
He looked back at your son.
The tiny hoodie sleeves covered half his hands. His little sneakers squeaked against the floor when he moved. The face paint on his nose had smudged slightly from him rubbing at it in the car.
Minho felt his heart physically cave in on itself.
He reached out carefully, almost reverently, and tugged one floppy bunny ear between his fingers.
“…You’re so precious,” he whispered like it personally offended him.
Your son beamed.
That was apparently the final blow.
Minho grabbed him instantly, hauling him into his arms with a dramatic groan and burying his face into the tiny bunny hood.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—”
Your son squealed loudly, kicking his feet. “Appa!”
“You can’t do this to me,” Minho mumbled into his shoulder. “You can’t just show up looking like this.”
“Hyung is literally shaking,” Jisung announced from the couch.
And he was.
Minho was actually trembling a little as he held him.
Because it wasn’t just the costume.
It was the way your son had clearly been excited all day. The way he kept patting the bunny ears proudly. The way he looked at Minho like he’d hung the moon itself.
Like dressing up as Leebit was the coolest thing imaginable because it belonged to his dad.
Minho was weak to a lot of things.
Cats.
You.
Late-night fried chicken.
But nothing—absolutely nothing—destroyed him faster than his son loving him openly.
“Take a picture of us,” Minho demanded suddenly.
Felix already had his phone out. “Way ahead of you.”
“No, wait.” Minho adjusted the bunny hood carefully around your son’s face. “Okay. Now.”
Another squeal escaped your son when Minho started nuzzling his cheeks aggressively.
“Too cute,” Minho muttered. “Actually criminal.”
“Appa, breathing is important,” Seungmin said dryly.
Minho ignored him completely.
Your son suddenly grabbed Minho’s cheeks with both hands.
“Appa where your ears?”
The room burst into laughter.
Minho blinked. “My ears?”
“You need bunny ears too.”
“Oh, he’s right,” Hyunjin said immediately. “Hold on.”
Within thirty seconds, someone had shoved a pair of white bunny ears onto Minho’s head. Your son looked absolutely delighted by this development.
“Same!” he shouted excitedly, pointing between them.
Minho looked like he might cry.
Actually cry.
Chan saw it first and started cackling. “He’s emotional!”
“I am not emotional.”
“You absolutely are.”
Minho tightened his hold on your son defensively. “He said we match.”
“That’s your breaking point?” Changbin laughed.
“Yes.”
Honestly, fair enough.
Your son leaned against Minho’s chest comfortably, playing with the bunny ears on his father’s head while Minho looked at him like he’d personally invented happiness.
And maybe it was ridiculous.
Maybe it was just a costume.
But Minho couldn’t stop thinking about how small he still was.
How one day those tiny hands wouldn’t reach for him automatically anymore.
How eventually Halloween costumes would become “embarrassing” and he’d stop asking his parents to match him.
The thought alone made Minho hold him tighter.
Your son noticed immediately.
“Appa?”
Minho kissed the top of the bunny hood softly. “Hmm?”
“You squishing me.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Noooo,” your son giggled dramatically.
“Too bad.”
“You’re obsessed with him,” you told Minho knowingly.
Minho looked at you blankly. “Obviously.”
And honestly?
It only got worse from there.
-
By the time the group actually went out for Halloween activities, Minho had fully transformed into one of those unbearable parents who wouldn’t stop showing people pictures of their kid.
Every five minutes:
“Look at him.”
“We know what he looks like, hyung.”
“But look again.”
The pictures got progressively more ridiculous too.
Your son sitting on Minho’s shoulders with bunny ears falling sideways.
Your son holding a tiny pumpkin bucket bigger than his torso.
Your son asleep against Minho’s chest while still wearing the costume.
Minho nearly cried at that one.
“He fell asleep mid-candy,” he whispered emotionally.
Seungmin looked exhausted. “Please stop narrating your feelings.”
“No.”
Outside, Seoul buzzed with Halloween energy. Kids in costumes ran around excitedly while decorated storefronts glowed orange and purple in the evening dark.
Your son, however, only cared about one thing.
“Pudding.”
“Ah,” Minho nodded seriously. “A man of culture.”
Tiny fingers wrapped around Minho’s hand as they walked down the street together, bunny ears bouncing with every step.
And Minho kept glancing down.
Just checking and making sure this was real. Because there was something so absurdly soft about your child waddling around dressed as a mini version of his dad’s character.
At one point, a STAY walking past recognized them.
Her eyes widened immediately.
“Oh my god—is he dressed as Leebit?”
Your son perked up proudly. “Yeah!”
Minho physically puffed up with pride beside him.
“He picked it himself,” Minho informed her immediately.
You snorted because that was technically not true.
Minho had absolutely influenced him by constantly giving him Leebit plushies.
Still, the STAY looked like she was about to melt too.
“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I know,” Minho replied without hesitation.
You stared at him. “You said that so fast.”
“Because it’s true.”
Your son tugged on Minho’s sleeve then pointed dramatically toward a decorated candy stand where they also sell puddings.
“Appa. Puddings.”
Minho gasped softly. “He even likes the same snacks as me.”
“Please calm down,” Jeongin said.
“No.”
Minho bought him the puddings immediately.
And then a candy bag.
And another.
“Minho,” you warned.
“He’s celebrating.”
“He’s three.”
“Exactly.”
Your son sat on Minho’s shoulders afterward happily eating his pudding while playing with the bunny ears on his father’s head again.
At some point, he leaned down and whispered loudly:
“Appa.”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
Minho stopped walking.
Completely.
Like someone had pressed pause on him.
Your son blinked innocently. “Appa?”
Minho looked genuinely emotional now.
Chan saw it and immediately lost it laughing again.
“Oh my god, he’s REALLY gone.”
Minho ignored him entirely.
Instead, he reached up carefully to squeeze your son’s tiny hand where it rested on his head.
“I love you too,” he said quietly.
Then after a beat:
“More than pudding.”
Your son gasped dramatically.
That apparently meant everything.
-
Back at the dorm later, things somehow became even more chaotic.
Because now the members had decided your son was the official mascot of the evening.
He was passed around between them constantly while still wearing the Leebit costume.
Felix fed him chocolate carefully.
Changbin let him sit on his shoulders.
Hyunjin kept fixing the bunny ears dramatically like a stylist on a runway shoot.
And Minho?
Minho hovered nearby the entire time like a possessive cat.
“That’s my kid,” he kept saying randomly.
“We know,” Seungmin replied for the fiftieth time.
“No but look at him.”
“We ARE looking at him.”
Your son eventually waddled over to where Minho sat on the couch and climbed directly into his lap with sleepy determination.
The sugar crash had officially arrived.
His tiny body curled automatically against Minho’s chest.
“Mmm sleepy.”
Minho’s entire face softened instantly.
The room quieted a little too because everyone knew this look on him.
The unbearably soft one.
The one reserved only around his family and cats.
He adjusted the bunny hood gently away from your son’s eyes.
“You had fun?”
A sleepy nod.
“Got lots of candy?”
Another nod.
Then, barely audible:
“Best Halloween.”
Minho looked destroyed by the statement.
Absolutely obliterated.
Your son’s eyelashes fluttered sleepily while he played absentmindedly with the zipper on Minho’s hoodie.
And Minho just watched him.
Like he couldn’t believe someone this precious existed.
“You’re staring again,” you murmured fondly from beside him.
“He’s cute.”
“I gathered.”
“No, but you don’t understand.”
You laughed quietly. “I think I do.”
Minho shook his head seriously. “He’s dressed as me.”
“As Leebit.”
“Same thing.”
That made you laugh harder.
But honestly? You understood.
Because Minho loved deeply.
Sometimes too deeply to explain properly. He wasn’t always loud about it. Wasn’t always openly affectionate in front of others. But when it came to the people he loved, he gave them every soft piece of himself without hesitation.
And your son had him wrapped around one tiny finger from the moment he was born.
Maybe even before that.
Your son shifted sleepily again before mumbling, “Appa bunny.”
Minho visibly melted.
“Oh no,” Jisung whispered. “He called him Appa Bunny.”
Minho closed his eyes briefly like he was trying not to combust.
“Yeah,” he whispered back to your son. “Appa bunny.”
That was it.
Hyunjin actually had to turn away because he couldn’t stop smiling.
“This is sickeningly cute.”
“Disgusting,” Seungmin agreed.
Chan pulled his phone out again. “I’m documenting this.”
“No pictures,” Minho said immediately.
Chan blinked. “You’ve taken literally four hundred tonight.”
“Those are different.”
“How?”
“Because I took them.”
“No logic whatsoever,” Changbin muttered.
Your son was almost fully asleep now, warm little body heavy against Minho’s chest.
The bunny ears drooped over his forehead.
Minho brushed them back carefully.
Then softer than anyone expected, he whispered:
“Thank you for loving things connected to me.”
The room went quiet.
Because yeah.
There it was.
The real reason Minho looked so emotional all night.
Your son didn’t care about fame. Didn’t care about popularity or performances or schedules.
He just loved his dad.
Enough to want to become a tiny version of something associated with him for Halloween.
And Minho—who often acted unaffected by everything—was devastatingly weak to that kind of love.
Your son stirred slightly at the sound of Minho’s voice.
Then, without opening his eyes, lifted one tiny hand and patted Minho’s cheek clumsily.
“I love Appa.”
Minho made the tiniest wounded sound.
“Oh he’s DONE done,” Felix whispered.
Minho looked genuinely close to tears now.
Not dramatic crying. Just that quiet, overwhelmed softness sitting visibly in his eyes.
He kissed your son’s forehead slowly.
“I love you more than anything.”
And he meant it with terrifying sincerity.
-
Getting your son out of the costume later that night turned into its own ordeal.
“Noooo,” he whined sleepily, clutching the bunny hoodie. “Wanna wear it.”
“You have to sleep, baby.”
“Leebit sleeps too.”
Minho immediately turned to you. “He’s right.”
You stared at him flatly. “Don’t encourage him.”
“But he made a valid point.”
“He’s stalling.”
Your son looked between both of you before deciding Minho was clearly the weaker parent.
“Appaaaa.”
Minho folded instantly.
You watched in disbelief. “Unbelievable.”
“He can wear it a little longer.”
“He’s covered in chocolate.”
“A little chocolate builds character.”
“That is not how parenting works.”
Minho hugged your son protectively. “You’ll never take us alive.”
Your son giggled deliriously.
Eventually, after much negotiation and promises that the costume would still exist tomorrow, your son finally allowed you to change him into pajamas.
Though not before insisting Minho wear the bunny ears one more time.
So now there sat Lee Minho—kpop idol, terrifyingly sharp dancer, intimidating sarcastic menace—
Wearing fluffy white bunny ears while tucking his son into bed. And somehow it suited him perfectly.
Your son looked so tiny under the blankets.
Still smelling faintly like candy and outside air.
Minho sat beside him carefully, brushing soft hair away from his forehead. “Did you have the best Halloween ever?” he asked quietly.
A sleepy nod.
“And next year?” your son mumbled. “You match me again?”
Minho’s expression cracked instantly.
“Of course I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Your son smiled sleepily.
Then reached for Minho’s hand beneath the blanket.
Minho went still immediately before curling his fingers carefully around the tiny hand holding his.
It hit him suddenly then.
How fast this was all going.
How one day his son wouldn’t need bedtime tucks-ins anymore.
Wouldn’t ask him to match costumes.
Wouldn’t reach for his hand automatically.
And the thought terrified him a little.
Because Minho loved fatherhood more than he’d ever expected to.
Loved every sleepy cuddle.
Every random “Appa look!”
He wanted to freeze moments like this permanently.
Your son blinked slowly up at him.
“Appa?”
“Hmm?”
“You happy?”
Minho smiled softly.
“So happy.”
That seemed to satisfy him.
Within minutes, your son was asleep completely.
One tiny fist still loosely wrapped around Minho’s finger.
Minho didn’t move for a long time.
Just sat there quietly in the dim light of the night lamp.
Looking at him.
Memorizing him.
Eventually, you leaned against the doorway softly.
“He asleep?”
Minho nodded without looking away.
“He was really excited about tonight,” you whispered.
“I could tell.”
“He kept saying he wanted to be like Appa Bunny.”
Minho physically melted at the sentence.
You noticed immediately and smiled knowingly.
“Oh, there it is.”
“He said that?”
“Mhm.”
Minho looked back at your sleeping son again with an expression so unbearably tender it made your chest ache.
Then quietly:
“I don’t deserve him.”
You walked over immediately. “Don’t say that.”
“He’s just…” Minho exhaled shakily. “He’s so good.”
You leaned your head against Minho’s shoulder gently.
And for a moment, neither of you spoke.
The room was peaceful now. Your son’s quiet breathing filled the silence.
Minho finally stood carefully, making sure not to wake him before pulling the blanket higher around his tiny body.
Then he leaned down and kissed his forehead again.
“So cute,” he whispered helplessly.
You laughed under your breath. “You’ve said that at least fifty times today.”
“Still true.”
He switched off the lamp afterward, and the two of you quietly left the room together.
But halfway down the hallway, Minho suddenly stopped walking.
“What?”
He looked at you seriously.
“I think this was the best day of my life.”
You burst into laughter instantly.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious.”
“All because he wore a bunny costume?”
“He dressed as MY bunny.”
“That is not different.”
“It is to me.”
You shook your head fondly, reaching up to fix the bunny ears still sitting crookedly on his head.
“You’re completely whipped.”
Minho looked entirely unashamed.
“Yeah,” he admitted easily. “I am.”
And honestly?
Watching him completely melt over your son all day had made you fall in love with him all over again too.
Because beneath the teasing and sarcasm and dramatic complaints, Lee Minho loved with his whole heart.
Especially when it came to his child.
Especially when tiny hands reached for him like he was home.
Minho suddenly pulled out his phone again.
You groaned immediately. “More pictures?”
“I need to look at them again.”
“Minho.”
“He was tiny.”
“He still IS tiny.”
“But emotionally tiny.”
“That sentence made no sense.”
Minho ignored you, already smiling stupidly at another picture of your son in the Leebit costume.
Then quieter this time, almost to himself:
“I hope he still wants to match me when he’s older.”
Your heart softened instantly.
“He will,” you said gently.
Minho looked unconvinced.
“What if he thinks I’m embarrassing?”
You snorted. “You are embarrassing.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“But he’ll still love you.”
Minho looked down at the photo again.
His son’s gummy smile. The floppy bunny ears. The pure excitement in his eyes.
And something warm settled deep in his chest all over again.
Maybe one day things would change.
Maybe his son would grow taller and quieter and too cool for matching costumes.
But tonight?
Tonight, he had tiny bunny ears.
Sticky pudding and candy hands.
And a little boy who looked at him like he was the center of the universe.
That was enough. More than enough.
Minho smiled softly to himself before locking his phone.
Then he looked at you with complete seriousness.
“We’re saving that costume forever.”
You laughed. “Of course we are.”
“No, like forever forever.”
“I know.”
“And if he tries to throw it away someday, I’m stopping him.”
“That feels emotionally manipulative.”
“I don’t care.”
You shook your head fondly before taking his hand.
“Come on, Appa Bunny.”
Minho smiled happily at the nickname.
And as the two of you headed to bed, he glanced back toward your son’s room one last time with the kind of love that felt too big to fit inside a single person.
summary|| you have a weird habit of....squeezing minho randomly? and he is very confused
gener|| established relationship, fluff
a/n|| not my proudest piece, the more it sits in the drafts the more i hate it i just wanna get rid of it before i delete it
𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕
minho was sitting in the living room, plopped down on the sofa and scrolling through his phone, the tv playing a random channel with a random show he wasn't paying attention to. he heard footsteps coming from behind him and when they stopped he looked up to see you looking down at him "hi?" he said in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing so adorabley
you leaned down, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in them, minho was taken aback for a second before leaning against you still so confused, it started to feel nice that is until you suddenly bit his cheek, he let out a yelp and threw himself away from you–looking at you with wide eyes full of questions, you only sucked in a breath and ran back to the bedroom leaving your boyfriend confused AND worried.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹────୨ৎ────⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
with a sigh minho got out of the recording booth, flipping his hair away from his forehead, he went to sit down before chan stopped him "hey leeknow–ah, your phone has been buzzing non-stop" he said and handded him his phone that was lying on the table, minho thanked him as he took his phone and went to sit down.
when he opened it he saw at least ten messages from you, and all of them were random love emotions or a keyboard smash, he let out a short breathy laugh as he looked through all of them before he started typing a response "i love you too?" he smiled to himself imagining how you looked behind the screen while sending these messages.
it wasn't usual for you to do this–not like he is complaining, but it is weird nonetheless
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹────୨ৎ────⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
a week later minho has had enough of thinking this over, half of his body is sore from all the sudden bites and squeezes he got، it was cute yes, he certainly loved being showered in your love but he wanted to know the reason, and all of this confusion got him distracted, so today he'll ask you about it and clear everything.
"jagiya, I'm home." minho declares as he stepped inside–putting his bag down to take his shoes off, "welcome home!" he heard you scream from inside, the sound coming from the bedroom. he quickly took his shoes off and hurried to you.
he climbed slowly into the bed beside you–who was watching some show on the phone that was propped against your legs, you paused the show when you felt him beside you, "hey?" you looked at him questioning as he was getting comfortable.
"i have a question" he said, you fixed your sitting position to focus on him more "sure" , "is there something going on with you?" you blinked at him once, twice, before your expression turned to utter confusion "what?" he shrugged, like what's he is asking should be obvious "I'm asking–these past few days you've been acting unusual" "like?" he looked at you with a weird look before quickly pulling his sleeve up, showing a very obvious bite mark that starting to fade
you raised your eyebrows as you finally understood what was he referring to "oh that! yeah you're just too cute" you said so casually, like it was something minho has to understand right away "huh?" he asked, getting more lost, now it was your turn to shrug "you're cute, i see something about you online and i just can't handle myself" you move closer to him, taking his face between your hands "such a soft ball"
he was taken aback for a few seconds before coming to his senses and letting out a laugh "that is so you" he said and collapsed down on the bed, you matched the smile he had "hm?" minho pulled the covers over him as he got more comfortable "nothing...don't bite me while i take a nap" you giggled at him and went back to your show
synopsis: when jisung and hyun do you and minho a little favor by pinning up mistletoe in every possible location in the dorm
pairing: minho x f!reader
genre: fluff?? idk they just make out it doesn’t count as smut
contains: minho being cocky, kissing, kissing in front of people, implied sex at the end (kinda?? idk i’m bad at tagging)
word count: 1.4k
now playing: somebody - keshi
[a/n]: i panic wrote this at 3am. i swear to you i will redeem myself in the future, trust T-T
the dorm is a trap.
that’s the first thing you realize when you step through the front door and spot the first sprig of mistletoe dangling innocently above the entryway.
the further you wander into the dorm the more you find. there’s another over the kitchen doorway. and another in the hallway. and—fucks sake, there's one over the bathroom door too.
"jisung," you say flatly, dropping your bag by the door.
he looks up from the couch and his expression gives him away immediately. he’s far to pleased with himself, lips pressed into a smug smile. "yes?"
"why."
"holiday spirit?" he offers, but the grin splitting his face tells you everything you need to know.
hyunjin pokes his head out from the kitchen, also grinning. you feel a part of you shrivels and die because of course hyun is in on it, too. "we thought it would be fun."
"fun for who, exactly?"
"for us, obviously." hyunjin says cheerfully. "now every doorway is a potential romance zone."
you're about to respond when you hear footsteps behind you, and your entire body goes rigid. you don't need to turn around to know who it is—you can feel minho's presence like a gravitational pull.
"romance zone?" minho's voice is low, amused. he's close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. "interesting."
“you guys,” you start, taking a very deliberate step to the side. you’re careful to avoid the mistletoe overhead as you make a beeline for the living room. “have so much fun. i am not participating in whatever this is."
the evening proceeds exactly as you'd feared. you map out the mistletoe locations in your head like some covert tactical operation, calculating safe routes through the dorm like your life depends on it.
kitchen? go around through the living room. bathroom? hold it. bedroom? you'll just... stay in the living room forever, actually.
the problem is that minho notices.
of course he notices. minho notices everything.
you’ve learned over the time you’ve known him that he has this uncanny ability to pick up on the smallest details, the slightest shifts in behavior. and you've been painfully obvious in your efforts of avoiding doorways for the past hour.
you catch him watching you when you take the long way around to reach the couch. his eyes track your movement with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. when you awkwardly squeeze past felix to avoid the kitchen doorway, minho's lips quirk up at the corner.
he's onto you.
worse, he seems to find it entertaining. that’s what the little sparkle in his gaze says, anyways.
"you okay?" changbin asks at one point, when you've been sitting in the same spot for forty-five minutes. "you need something from the kitchen? water?"
"nope," you say too quickly. "i'm fine. very comfortable. not moving."
across the room, minho smirks.
you last another twenty minutes before your bladder betrays you. you eye the bathroom door from your position on the couch, weighing your options. the mistletoe hangs there like a threat. maybe you can just... duck under it really fast?
you make your move during a commercial break, when everyone's distracted. you're fast, efficient, ducking your head as you approach the doorway and—
walk directly into a solid chest.
"going somewhere?" minho asks.
how the hell did you not notice he’d also gotten up??
you look up to see him (and you) standing directly under the mistletoe. you don’t even have to question the fact that he's absolutely done it on purpose. his eyes are bright with mischief, his smile lazy and confident.
"move." you say.
"can't," he gives a small gesture to the door frame above you. "mistletoe rules."
"that's not- those aren't real rules."
"ji and hyunjin seem to think they are." he glances over his shoulder, where the two culprits are watching with unconcealed glee. "and it would be rude to waste their hard work."
"minho, when have you ever cared about what they’ve said?"
"just one kiss," he presses. "that's the rule, right? then i'll let you pass."
you could push past him. you could duck under his arm. you could do a lot of things that aren't meeting his gaze and muttering, "fine. one kiss."
minho clicks his tongue in a way that screams satisfaction. he leans down to kiss you, and it's supposed to be quick, just a peck, just enough to satisfy the stupid mistletoe rule.
except minho's hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face just so, and his lips are softer than you expected, warm and sure against yours. and instead of pulling away after a brief press of lips, he lingers.
you linger.
his thumb strokes along your cheekbone, and you make a small sound in the back of your throat that you'll definitely be embarrassed about later.
later. because right now, minho is kissing you deeper, his other hand sliding to your waist to pull you closer. when you grab onto his shoulders for balance and feel him smile against your mouth.
"that's not a quick peck," you manage to say once you break apart for air.
"no," he agrees, and then he's kissing you again.
someone in the living room wolf-whistles. someone else—probably jisung—says something that sounds like "i knew it," but it's hard to focus on anything except the way minho kisses like he's been thinking about it for a while, like he's got all the time in the world to explore the curve of your lips and the angle of your jaw.
you end up pressed against the doorframe with both of minho's hands framing your face. you're pretty sure you're supposed to be doing something—going somewhere—but you can't remember what. can't remember anything except the weight of his attention focused entirely on you, the way he hums low in his throat when you kiss him back with equal fervor.
"okay, okay, that's enough," hyunjin's voice breaks through the haze. then a little quieter he grumbles "we created a monster. we created two monsters."
minho pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead resting against yours. "you're the ones who hung mistletoe everywhere."
"we didn't think it would work this well," jisung mutters.
you're breathless, flushed, incredibly aware that you have an audience. minho doesn't seem to care, not with the way he's still holding your face like something precious, his eyes searching yours.
"you've been avoiding me," he says quietly, just for you.
"i was avoiding the mistletoe."
"why?"
because you knew damn well if you kised him once you wouldn't want to stop. because you’ve been trying very hard not to think about kissing minho for months now. because he’s minho and you’re you and it all seemed so complicated.
"seemed safer." you say with a shrug.
his smile is soft, almost fond in a way you’ve only seen when he’s playing with his cats. "and how's that working out for you?"
"terribly."
minho laughs and then he kisses you again, gentle and quick this time. "good," he whispers against your lips. "because i've been trying to get you under the mistletoe all night."
"you have?"
"mm. you're very good at evasion. made me work for it."
and suddenly your face feels like it's on fire. "i really do need to use the bathroom."
"okay." but he doesn't move, just looks at you with those a knowing look.
"minho."
"one more?"
you should say no. you should definitely say no, except you're already leaning in, already meeting him halfway for another kiss that's supposed to be quick but somehow isn't.
from the living room, someone groans. "they're going to do this at every doorway now, aren't they?"
"definitely," felix snorts, sounding delighted.
you break away with a breathless laugh, pushing lightly at minho's chest. "bathroom. now."
"don't take too long," he says. "there's mistletoe over the bedroom doorway too."
your heart does something incredibly complicated in your chest at the same moment your stomach swirls with an unlabeled heat. "is that right..?"
"mm." he hums, smirk far too dangerous for just a random tuesday.
you flee to the bathroom before you can do something stupid like kiss him again in front of everyone.
꒰ 𝓁ee 𝓂inho x wife.ᐟreader ꒱ 𝔀𝓬 : 750 ˎˊ˗ 𝓼oft 𝄞 𝒻luffy ⸝⸝⸝ « married with baby » ⤷ 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 kysa's catalogue
minho finally had the day off today, and with the sweetest wife and the cutest baby boy, he couldn't wait to spend the entire day with both of you. he had already set an alarm for early after sleeping in early yesterday, getting all the rest he needed before spending an entire day with his family.
minho woke up as his alarm rang, quickly turning it off as you were sleeping beside him, softly snoring away. your little three-year-old baby boy, joonie, was sleeping in the crib beside the bed. after glancing at both of you with loving eyes, he tiptoed into the kitchen.
yes, minho had a plan — every weekend, minho made a breakfast spread to thank you for being there for him and your lil babybun.
he pulled out all the stops. first, he whisked together a thick waffle batter with extra vanilla, pouring it into the iron until the kitchen smelled like a bakery. then, he moved to the pancakes, flipping them into perfect golden circles. for the sandwiches, he toasted thick brioche slices until they were warm and soft, layering them with savory fillings and slicing them into neat triangles. he moved onto fresh berries, washing and mashing some into joon’s warm milk and pouring a tall glass of chocomilk for you.
he looked up from the kitchen counter to find you wobbling out of the room with joonie holding your hand, both of you rubbing your eyes with one hand. the toddler gave him a toothy smile as he ran up to minho.
"appa appa appaaaaa !"
minho's face instantly lit up, abandoning the spatula to crouch down with open arms. "there’s my little baby ! did you have sweet dreams ? come here !"
he picked up the toddler, holding him securely as he flipped the last of the pancakes. you slowly moved towards him, smiling as you hugged him, his free arm wrapping around you as he dropped a soft kiss on your forehead.
"have a seat baby, i'm gonna plate the breakfast."
"you're so sweet, min," you pouted, heart melting at the sight of him.
he put the toddler in the high chair, cutting up his pancakes and topping them with syrup and chopped berries. "here you go, joonie-yah. careful, it’s still a little warm. is it yummy ?"
he assembled plates for both of you and carried them to the table. you all ate together, the room filled with the quiet, happy sounds of a perfect morning.
"min, seriously, how are you so good at everything ?" you asked, taking a massive bite of the brioche sandwich. "the waffles are so crispy, and these sandwiches are literally better than that cafe we went to last month. you're a literal chef, i'm so spoiled."
minho's ears turned a faint pink, a bashful smile tugging at his lips. "it's just breakfast, baby. as long as my two favorite people are full, i’m happy."
"stwabewwyyy !!!!" joonie cheered, pointing at his plate with a syrup-covered finger.
minho laughed, reaching over to boop the toddler's nose. "that's right, joonie. only the best strawberries for you. you like them that much, hm?"
then, suddenly, a lil excited, mischief expression appeared on your face. you leaned towards the toddler and whisper:
"say thank you to appa, baby !! he made yum yum food for us, hm?"
minho watched in wonder as joonie said, "taaank yeww," with a strawberry-filled mouth, singing his words to express his gratitude.
"you're so welcome, joonie ," minho replied, his voice dripping with honey. "appa would make you a mountain of strawberries if you asked."
"and now the special thing, baby ? mumma taught you yesterday right ? for your lovey lovey people ?"
joonie brought his small, chubby hand to his lips and a soft 'mwah' escapes his lips as he blew a flying kiss right at minho.
minho watched, astonished in adoration. his jaw dropped and he actually dropped his fork, his hands coming up to cover his mouth as his eyes crinkled with pure, unfiltered joy.
"oh my god," minho gasped, his voice barely a whisper as he looked at you with a face full of wonder. he looked back at joonie, who was giggling at the dramatic reaction. "did you just... did you send that to me ? joonie-yah, you’re trying to give appa a heart attack ?"
he reached out into the air, 'catching' the invisible kiss with both hands and pressing them firmly against his heart, leaning back in his chair with a breathless, happy laugh as you giggled at their antics. "i caught it ! i’m keeping it right here forever. can you do it again ? appa needs one more !"
kysa's note: another long pending request when the skz code with kids came out >.< oh how i love dad!skz akjsjsjsj — anyways this is a bit rushed but i wanted to get it out today :p lemme know your thoughts in the comments below — hope you enjoy .ᐟ xoxo
you were only in the street fighting industry for the internship hours.
paramedic training had its ups and downs, sure, but the best perk by far was the freedom to pick where you logged your hours. the last thing you wanted was to spend your days shadowing clinical rounds in some sterile hospital, or twiddling your thumbs in the back of an ambulance bay.
so here you are now, crouching on a folding stool at the edge of a chain-link cage, knuckles wrapped in tape and chalk dust still on your palms—not because you’re fighting, but because it looks more official that way. the air reeks of sweat, spit from thrown punches, and something metallic you try not to identify until it crosses over into your medic corner. adrenaline thrums like a constant heartbeat through the dimly lit warehouse, where the overhead bulbs buzz in protest and gaggles of fans shift in the stifling late-night heat.
your eyes scan the fighters as they dart in and out of your corner, logging vitals, noting ragged breaths, checking small cuts before they turn serious. each grunt, each slip, each jab demanded attention— and you gave it, professional instinct kicking in, even if your stomach twists at some of the violence.
he was there, of course. he always is.
he’s leaning against the far corner tonight, just beyond your reach but impossible to ignore. lee know. a fighter, an enigma, and somehow entirely predictable in his unpredictability. the first time you noticed him, he’d barely spared a glance at the corner; a flick of his gaze, a quirk of the brow. that was all you got. and yet somehow the moment had carved itself into memory.
he’s utterly recognizable wherever he goes in the warehouse, with that dark hair like a raven river sweeping across his forehead, sometimes fluffy, sometimes matted with sweat; and those broad shoulders always pulling deliciously at whatever tank he’s thrown on, arms lined with muscles that serve to power punches like nothing you’ve ever seen before.
he never spoke much whenever he deigned to let you patch him up after some of his rougher fights. just stared up at you with those piercing eyes that could make even the worst sinners blush like a saint. he was as stoic as he was skilled, but you tried not to let it deter you.
you filled the silences with your own chatter; if he minded, he never let on. but he always kissed his knuckles before throwing a punch after letting you bandage him up.
tonight, like always, his eyes find yours in the crowd. he doesn’t wave. he doesn’t smile. his presence is just… there, looming taut, dangerous, a little too magnetic. and when one of the fighters in the match preceding his takes a heavy blow in the ring, your pulse spikes— not for the fight, not yet— but for the quiet certainty that he’ll be there, watching, assessing, seeing the way you work against the damage he inflicts.
your coworker is dragging the sore loser of the last fight toward the small med station, murmuring reassurances you only half-register. your eyes stay locked on the ring. the fight is over, but a new one is about to begin— and the moment lee know steps in, the world shrinks.
he moves like water held in check: precise, controlled, but with the underlying promise of force ready to spill. you catch him stretching first– the slow rotation of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms, wrapped fingers splayed like he’s mapping the air itself. calves shift, heels rise, then land solid against the canvas, measuring distance with muscles you didn’t know could move that cleanly, that tautly.
he bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, a rhythm that’s both a warm-up and a warning. every shift of weight, every flick of his head, is deliberate. his eyes sweep the cage with surgical attention, noting angles, distances, posture, every detail that could become a weakness— or an opportunity. you swear you can see calculations running behind his gaze, lightning-quick, merciless. ready to win.
the air seems to bend around him. there’s heat, yes, but it’s not from exertion yet— it’s the aura he carries: taut and charged, a predator in pause. he traces imaginary punches midair, elbows slicing diagonals, wrists flicking out to test the arc. each movement is fluid, effortless, but it carries threat; the kind that makes your stomach tighten and your pulse spike even if nothing has touched you.
your notebook— meant to log vitals— is forgotten on the bench. your hands itch to touch, to reach out and feel how controlled every muscle is, how he could crush or protect with the same motion. the way his back flexes, the lines of his shoulders, the subtle twist of his torso as he shifts from one stance to another— he’s poetry, danger wrapped in sinew and solid intention.
he stops for a moment, eyes narrowing, scanning the cage. your chest aches for the briefest acknowledgment, some sign that he knows you’re watching. the corner of his mouth quirks up; not quite a smile, but almost.
it’s enough. you smile despite yourself.
then he loosens his fists, lets them fly in slow, deliberate shadow punches as he warms himself up. the sound of air slicing past— almost a hiss— draws your full attention. every punch has purpose, and you can see the lines connecting shoulder, elbow, wrist, knuckles, snapping back into guard. it’s motion honed to a razor’s edge, and your chest tightens with each strike.
and then he pauses at the center of the ring. stance perfect, posture relaxed but primed, gaze sweeping the space, measuring, calculating. the aura shifts— it’s less warm-up now and more for intimidation. he breathes, slow, steady, but every inhale seems to draw the air tight around you. you feel it. the temperature rises. the buzz of anticipation makes your fingers curl around your pen.
your coworker nudges you back to reality with a quiet, “you should be taking notes,” but the words barely register. all you can see is him: fluid, precise, unshakable.
and in that moment, you’re caught completely. enthralled, heart hammering, notebook abandoned, the taste of adrenaline sharp on your tongue.
he’s a fighter, yes.
but he’s also a storm, a controlled one; and you’re already teetering dangerously close to being pulled in.
—
the fight has been dragging on for the better part of an hour now.
the crowd’s roars are a distant hum in your ears, but the impact of each hit thuds through the cage, vibrating up your spine. lee know moves like water cutting stone— smooth, fast, lethal— but his opponent refuses to crumble. every jab, every hook, every measured strike is met with stubborn, ragged resistance.
you know you’re not supposed to be partial to any of the fighters; your job is to patch them up no matter what. but you can’t help it.
you clutch the edge of your bench, knuckles white as you watch him duck under a wild swing, pivot, and land a sharp hook to the ribs that makes his opponent grunt and stumble— just slightly, never enough to finish. sweat glistens along lee know’s jaw, the muscles in his neck flexing with every rotation, every strike controlled, purposeful, like he’s a hurricane contained in sinew.
then it happens.
a flash of movement you almost miss: the opponent counters with a sharp uppercut that snaps lee know’s head back, then rakes his nails across his jaw in a split-second scrape. you gasp, heart in your throat, as crimson beads bloom along the pale skin of his handsome face. the referee jumps in instantly, shouting for a time out.
lee know drops to the bench next to you like a wolf finally acknowledging the muzzle, shoulders sagging but still radiating danger. you jump to your feet, grabbing madly for your kit; he lets you cradle his head in your hands without protest, and suddenly all the chaos of the fight is replaced by this small, charged pocket of closeness.
“you’re a mess,” you murmur, reaching for the damp cloth; but there’s a tension in your voice, a flutter in your chest that betrays your calm exterior. your fingers trace the lines of his jaw, dabbing at the cut on his nose, pressing gently to stop the blood from dripping onto his shirt.
he smirks faintly, eyes glittering with mischief and sweat, even in pain. “only for you,” he rasps, and it’s just enough to make your heart pound ever harder in your chest.
you bite back a laugh, returning to the task. you wipe at his temple, cradle his cheek with care, adjusting the antibiotic cream before you lay little white bandages over the scrape. your hands linger a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips brushing against tense skin, memorizing the curve of his jaw and the tilt of his head.
“you always this careful?” he asks softly, voice hoarse, teasing in the barest of ways.
“someone has to keep you in one piece,” you reply, tone clipped but your heart racing. the words are professional enough, but your pulse betrays your growing awareness of just how close he is.
he tilts his head into your touch, eyes closing briefly. “maybe i like it when you fuss,” he admits quietly, almost shy if you didn’t know any better; but there’s heat in his chest and throat that you can feel through your palms.
the time-out bell is ticking down, the distant hum of the crowd returning. you give him one last dab at the wound, press the cloth to the scrape along his jaw, and lift your gaze. he watches you with an intensity that makes the air between you electric, his near-smirk returning as he grips the bench. you rewrap his knuckles with lightning speed– just to be sure.
“am i all patched up, y/n?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, teasing, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
you smile back against your better judgement and nod. “go get ‘em, tiger,” you say softly, and he raises his freshly wrapped knuckles to his mouth, kissing them once with a smirk before the bell rings and the fight resumes.
—
the gym is almost empty now, the crowd thinned to the last few diehards who shuffle toward the exit, shouting their goodbyes or slapping each other on the back. the overhead bulbs hum low, casting long shadows across the sweat-slicked canvas. your coworker has already packed up, leaving you alone with him, the quiet settling like a second skin.
lee know is still sitting on the bench, shoulders tight from the fight, knuckles still wrapped in your white tape, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his forearms. you crouch in front of him again, kit open at your side, fingers brushing against the newest shallow cut along his cheek as you dab at it with antiseptic. his jaw is tight, lips pressed together; but he leans into your hands, just enough to tell you that your touch doesn’t feel like an intrusion.
“you should ice this one,” you murmur, careful, tracing the curve of his jaw where a faint bruise promises to bloom later. it’s only yellow for now, but it’ll brighten into an ugly purple soon enough if he’s not careful.
“i’ll live,” he answers lowly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a fraction of a second before returning to where he’s slowly unraveling the wraps around his fists.
“you always brush your injuries off,” you press, tone soft but insistent, wanting to hear more than the clipped surface. you smooth out the tiny white bandage across his nose, whispering a soft sorry when he winces ever so slightly.
“habit,” he murmurs with a shrug, letting the word hang. it’s neutral enough; but the tilt of his head, the way his gaze keeps catching yours, says otherwise.
your fingers linger, brushing gently over the edge of his cheek where the blood has dried in a faint line. his eyes are half-lidded, chin tipped just so that your touch reaches the curve of his jaw. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jerk away; he just lets you patch him up, stoic, silent, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. like he’s letting you anchor yourself to him.
“does it hurt?” you ask softly, though you already know the answer– he always says no. your hand hovers over the still-healing cut on his temple from a previous fight, your thumb brushing the edge of his skin as if testing for a reaction. he doesn’t lean in, but he doesn’t pull back, either.
“not like it did last week,” he murmurs, voice clipped, but there’s something in the tone— barely perceptible— that tells you he’s amused by all your fussing. a flicker in his eyes betrays it.
you dab lightly at the last little scrape, antiseptic cooling against his warm skin, tracing the line of the cut with care. your pulse hammers a little harder in your chest with each brush of your fingertips. he shifts subtly, just a fraction, trusting you to take care of him. you always do.
“you’re quiet,” you murmur, brushing the damp cloth across his temple again. “usually you’d be muttering complaints or some cryptic advice.”
“not tonight,” he says flatly, gaze dropping to the floor. the words are short, yes, but there’s weight to them. he doesn’t want to speak, but he also doesn’t move away. he allows this— he allows your hands on him; allows your focus, your presence.
you tilt your head, studying him. there’s a faint sheen of sweat along the curve of his jaw, along his neck, and the muscles beneath flex gently under your fingertips when he adjusts his posture. your eyes trace him with care, memorizing the lines, the tension, the way his body moves even when he’s still. you press the damp cloth to his forehead once more.
“you let me do this too easily,” you say; your voice is almost a whisper, your fingers still lingering over the scrape along his cheekbone.
he meets your eyes, and you swear you forget how to breathe. “yeah, well. someone’s gotta keep me from falling apart.” he leans his head into your hand for a fraction more than necessary, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat through his skin. it’s steady, strong, almost mocking your own racing pulse.
“how do you do it?” you ask suddenly, voice low. “how do you keep so… precise? so controlled in there?”
“practice,” he answers, clipped, eyes finally meeting yours, “years of it.” his gaze is sharp, calculating, but something softer flickers in it— respect, acknowledgment, maybe even a trace of humor.
“come on. there’s more to it than just practice,” you press, leaning in just slightly, your hand brushing over his shoulder as you adjust a bandage you’ve fussed over too many times already.
and then the words crystallize before you have time to think about them: “teach me.”
he freezes. for a fraction of a second, his expression remains unreadable, lips pressed tight. then his eyes flick down to your hands, brushing against his skin, brushing against him in ways that maybe aren’t just for clinical care. he swallows, subtle, and finally exhales. “maybe someday.”
you catch his eye with a spreading grin, “someday? c’mon, you’ve got to give me a starting point,” you pester, refusing to let him hide behind his usual stoicism. “just a little. just enough for me to understand. i’ll be careful, i promise.”
he glances away, jaw tight, fingers flexing. the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “mm…you’re relentless, you know?” he murmurs, voice low, almost indulgent, almost a warning.
“if you’re trying to flatter me into dropping it, that was a miserable failure,” you say teasingly, eyes locking with his. the heat between you thickens, silent and charged. your hands hover near his temple again, touching nothing yet holding everything. your fingers squeeze the cloth still in your grasp like it’s a tether to reality.
he finally leans back slightly, that smirk firming into something more real. “fine,” he concedes eventually— but the weight in his tone is enough to make your chest lift. “i’ll teach you. step by step. but not now; i apparently have some injuries i need to ice tonight.”
you smile despite yourself, pulse still fast, savoring the victory hidden in the concession. “deal,” you say firmly. the promise of learning how to hold your own hangs heavy in the quiet gym, louder than any fight you’ve watched tonight.
he watches you a beat longer, expression still revealing too little, but the faintest warmth in his eyes betrays some small part of him that’s already anticipating the lesson. your fingers twitch, itching to trace the lines of his face again, but you no longer have any real reason to do so. nothing professional, anyways.
so you step back, careful; letting him remain ever the enigma, the storm, the controlled force that yields to you in small and stolen moments.
and as the last of the sparse crowd files out, the gym hums low, filled only with the two of you, the quiet aftermath of chaos, and the unspoken promise of what’s to come.
—
the practice room is half-dark by the time lee know wanders in, the overhead light buzzing like it’s on its last leg. the stale air smells like chalk dust and old sweat, concrete floor stained where gloves and knuckles have bled out. you’re perched on a low bench, knees bouncing.
you catch his eye as he approaches, smiling faintly; he doesn’t grant you one back, but you do catch his lips twitching once before he drops onto the stool in front of you without a word.
he’s holding a roll of hand wraps.
“give me your hand.” his voice is flat, the kind that doesn’t bother making room for argument; you have half a mind to ask why. but you find the words die out on the tip of your tongue.
you hold a hand out for him, palm stiff, like you’re not entirely sure what you signed up for. he catches it, and his hand dwarfs yours— skin rough, knuckles scarred, but grip steady. the cloth stretches as he threads it around your wrist the way you’ve done for him so many times; tight, but not too tight. his fingers brush the inside of your palm when he anchors it between each of your fingers, and you swear your heart hits the ceiling.
he doesn’t look at you, only at the slow rhythm of wrap after wrap, like you’re another fight he’s breaking down into steps. “you’ll break your thumb if you tuck it wrong,” he mutters. when you shift into making a fist with the hand he’s wrapped, he huffs through his nose— annoyed— and repositions your grip himself.
his touch is clinical. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but it does.
he removes your thumb from inside the fist and nudges it to the side, then presses over your closed fingers once to check your strength. he sighs, but doesn’t move you any further; you must’ve done something right. he moves on to wrapping your other wrist.
by the time he finishes the second hand, he’s close enough that his knee knocks yours when he straightens. he nods sharply toward the bag hanging in the corner. “stance.”
you copy what you’ve seen him do a hundred times from your side of the ring— feet planted, fists up. it earns you nothing but his signature exhale. “too wide. weight’s off.” he says shortly. he taps your heel with the toe of his shoe until you shift. then he presses your shoulder, making you bend just slightly. “lower.”
you roll your eyes. “are you always this bossy?”
his gaze flicks up, unreadable. “depends, princess. you always this sloppy?”
you should fire back. you should. but his chest brushes your back when he steps in to adjust your form, and your brain blanks out completely at the touch. his hand closes over yours, angling your wrist until the punch feels like it could actually land.
he doesn’t move away once he’s done fixing your stance; just stays there, breathing steady, the air between you far too heavy to ignore. finally, he steps back, allowing you to drive a jab into the bag.
the sound is satisfying—sharp, solid. you think it’s a decent enough punch.
but before you can pull back for another, his hand flashes out and catches your fist mid-air, sparks humming to life in your veins. the cloth’s tight against your skin, your pulse hammering into his palm through it.
he studies you for a beat too long. “not bad.” the praise comes low, almost reluctant. and then he lets go like he’s been burned, stepping away before you can ask what the hell that look in his eyes was.
“you need more weight behind it though,” he says, “throw your body into it.” he jerks his chin toward the bag again. “punch.” so you do. or— you try.
your fist thuds against the bag, more of a sloppy swing than a clean strike. the bag barely shivers, and you hear that sigh you could recognize anywhere from behind you once more. “again.”
his voice is clipped, but not wholly unkind. just focused– like you should be.
you throw another. you’re still off.
he exhales yet again, the sound closer to a growl this time, and steps in. one scarred hand circles your wrist, the other steadying the back of your elbow. he guides you through the motion slow, almost painfully slow, showing you the correct form.
“straight line, no curve. your shoulder leads.” he pushes until your arm extends exactly the way he wants it, knuckles brushing the bag. “you don’t throw with your arm. you throw with everything.”
you crane your head back to blink at him, confused. “everything?”
he doesn’t bother explaining; instead, his palm finds your hipbone, nudging it until your stance shifts, then taps your core with two fingers. you think your eyebrows can’t possibly fly any higher up your forehead. “here. start here.”
the touch is fleeting but it leaves heat under your skin nonetheless, like he’s markimg you through the fabric. you feel like if you were to peel the material away, you’d see his handprints branded over every place he’s touched you tonight.
“try again.”
this time you hit the bag with the full twist of your body. the sound is louder, cleaner. you look back for his reaction; his mouth barely twitches— approval, maybe— but he doesn’t linger on it.
he circles around, pacing. “give me some combinations. one-two, right-left.” you follow his example after he punches the bag in demonstration, jabbing twice after him. the second throw slips, and your fist collides weakly with the bag.
he catches your hand before you can reset. “stop aiming for power, y/n. aim for precision. power comes later.”
you want to snap at him— you’re trying, damn it— but he’s already moving, standing directly behind you now, one arm guiding yours through the motions again like a puppeteer. your back presses flush with his chest every time you extend, driving you slowly mad. the bag sways gently with the echo of your punches.
the room has gone too quiet, still except for the drag of wraps with every punch, the smack of fabric on canvas, the rasp of both your breaths. finally, he steps back, eyes narrowed. “spar it.”
your jaw threatens to drop. “you mean… spar with you?”
he shakes his head, gaze unreadable. “with the bag.” then, after a beat, “i’ll push.” he braces the bag with his forearms, those muscles lining his arms pulled taut, waiting.
you hit it again— jab, once, twice. each strike drives the bag into him, but he doesn’t budge. just stares at you over the top of it, sweat beading along his temple, absorbing your every move like it’s nothing. his mouth is a firm line, just as unyielding as the rest of him.
“harder.”
you grit your teeth and throw another set, putting your whole body into it. your knuckles sting under the wraps, your lungs burn, your muscles protest loudly; but the feeling is liberating, addictive. you keep going under his neverending gaze. his voice cuts in low, steady: “better. go again.”
by the time your arms ache to the point of screaming, he finally lets the bag swing free. it collides back into your chest harder than expected, knocking you back a step with an ungraceful ‘oomph’.
he lets out a chuckle; it might be one of the first you’ve ever heard from him. you think he should laugh more. “maybe i should teach you dodging next,” he mutters.
you roll your eyes, taking the chalk he’s offered from his outstretched hand. “shut up, minho.”
–
you find yourself back in the gym the following week, lee know at your side as he shows you how to block incoming punches.
the lights overhead flicker faintly, buzzing like they’re the only other ones awake this late. sweat and chalk hang heavy in the air, and the bag sways idly from its chain as if it’s already bracing for impact. you’re jittery with anticipation, fists balled, ready to swing like last time.
but before you can even so much as cock your arm back, his palm flattens firmly against your wrist, halting you mid-motion.
“guard first,” he says evenly, eyes cutting to yours in a way that makes the order sharper than the words themselves. “you’ll get wrecked if you can’t protect your face. fists up.”
you frown, but obey, raising your hands. they hover somewhere near your cheeks— close enough, you think.
apparently not.
he huffs through his nose, stepping closer until his shadow nearly swallows you. his fingers slide over your knuckles, nudging them higher into a more protective position. the rough drag of his hard-fought calluses over the back of your hand sends sparks down your spine.
“too low,” he mutters. “like this.”
he curves your elbow inward with a guiding press, his touch patient but unyielding. your chest tightens. he’s not even really looking at you, more focused on your stance than he is on the deep blush rising to your cheeks, but every adjustment has you fighting to keep your pulse steady.
you drop your guard instinctively just to catch your breath. big mistake.
his hand darts out, quick as a strike, flicking you lightly on the forehead. “dead,” he says simply, smirk curling at his lips.
your jaw drops. “you didn’t even—”
“exactly.” he interrupts smoothly. his gaze finally flickers up, that same half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “block, or take a hit. there’s no in-between in a fight.”
you groan but reset anyways, throwing your hands up again. he doesn’t look impressed.
when he raises his own hand, curling it into a loose fist, you realize belatedly that he intends to test you. “ready?”
you nod, determined this time— only to flinch when his knuckles ghost slowly toward your cheek, the barest shell of a punch meant only to simulate reality. your hands fly up too long after they should’ve.
he catches your wrists midair, holding them in place. “you’re distracted,” he murmurs observantly. “can’t afford to be distracted in a real fight, though. if you ever get in one.”
your pulse is erratic against his grip– you are distracted, far too caught up in how his hair is falling into his eyes and not worried enough about your less-than-perfect guard form. he doesn’t squeeze your hands, doesn’t fully restrain; but somehow the steadiness of his grip feels stronger than anything.
“again,” he orders, releasing you.
this time you plant yourself, knees bent, fists tighter. when his hand comes forward, you meet it with your forearm. the block isn’t clean, but it’s contact.
a quiet hum escapes him, low in his throat— approval, maybe. he takes your elbow then, shifting the angle. “closer. you don’t want space for anything to slip through.”
his chest brushes your shoulder as he leans in to demonstrate, his own arm lifted in a perfect guard. the proximity alone makes your head spin.
“copy it,” he tells you, voice steady, but you can feel the heat radiating off him where he lingers.
you mimic his posture, and he adjusts slowly, one fingertip tapping the dip of your ribcage to tell you to tighten up; then a palm steadying your wrist, his other hand ghosting over your jawline just to tilt your face into the right alignment.
you’re melting. completely. utterly.
he notices— of course he notices— but his expression doesn’t betray more than the faintest twitch of amusement, of awareness, before he drops his hand back to his side.
“better,” he says simply. then, after a beat, “again.”
you block the next slow jab cleaner. the one after that is even sharper. he doesn’t praise, not outright; but his eyes linger a little longer on your stance, and when his hand comes to reset your elbow once more, it feels less like correction and more like… confirmation.
“you’ll get there,” he murmurs, almost too low to catch.
your chest is tight, your fists trembling— not from the exertion, but from the way every brush of his hand leaves an aftershock. a trail of fire zips down your skin, radiating, spreading from each point of contact.
lee know doesn’t comment on it. doesn’t have to. the twinkle in his dark eyes says it all.
when the bag sways in the corner, begging for more strikes, you glance at it eagerly; but his voice cuts through. “not yet. you should work on your guard until it’s second nature.”
you pout petulantly, “but punching is the fun part.”
his lips twitch again, fleeting amusement warming the otherwise cool set of his features. “punches are only fun if you’re still standing to throw one.”
and then his fist comes toward you again in slow motion, testing, relentless— forcing you to block, to feel the weight of his presence in every correction, until your muscles ache and your chest heaves.
by the time your arms feel like lead and your guard’s trembling more than holding, he finally steps back, head tilting as he studies you. his gaze flickers from your fists to your flushed face, then back again. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think there’s an appreciative glint behind those dark eyes you’ve become so fond of.
“…good enough,” he says at last, almost begrudging. “you’ve earned a swing.”
you don’t bother hiding your grin as he jerks his chin toward the bag. the thing sways gently, chain creaking overhead like it’s mocking you.
you draw back your fist, exhilaration rushing your veins— only to feel his palm flatten lightly between your shoulder blades. you jolt.
“not like that.” his voice rumbles close to your ear, his breath grazing the side of your face. “reset.”
your knees nearly buckle, but you obey, planting yourself again.
his hand doesn’t leave. it slides down, pressing at your spine, coaxing you to square your shoulders. the heat of him is everywhere— his chest just behind you, his knee brushing the back of yours when he nudges your stance narrower.
“weight here.” his palm finds your hip, guiding until your balance shifts. “drive through it.”
your throat goes dry. you’re barely listening to the words— only the cadence of them as they brush past your ear from behind, steady and close. the hand on your hip is purely instructional; but it’s not. right now, it’s so much more. it leaves you dizzy and exhilarated, fighting for your next breath as much as you’ve been fighting to keep a perfect form.
he doesn’t wait for you to ask. his hand covers yours over the wraps, guiding your arm back into position. “again. with me this time.”
you punch forward, his hand slowly directing your line and then releasing as you put power behind it. the bag shudders weakly.
“better,” he mutters. but he doesn’t move away. instead, his other hand lands lightly on your stomach, fingertips just grazing your abdomen as he presses. “tighter here. everything comes from here– all your strength and power.”
you swallow hard, pulse hammering. your whole body feels strung taut between his steady hands, splayed almost possessively over your skin– shoulder, stomach, everywhere.
the next strike lands sharper, cleaner. the sound echoes with a satisfying thwack across the empty gym.
his approval doesn’t come in words, not at first; only in the way his grip lingers a fraction longer than necessary before falling away, and you find yourself missing it instantly.
finally, he circles around with an arm that trails your waist too gently, sliding himself in front of you. his own fists rise, demonstrating a quick one-two against the bag. the muscles in his arms shift, smooth and powerful, and you swear you forget how to breathe.
he lowers his fists and cocks his head at you. “copy.”
you mimic his form, your punch colliding with the bag. this time, when it rebounds, it drives into his forearms where he braces it, his body catching the weight of your throw; off-kilter, but not wholly bad. a solid enough punch that he nods, just once.
your knuckles throb. your chest heaves. you can’t look away from the faint smirk curling at his lips, from the way his eyes pin you steady to the spot.
“see?” he says, low and even. “power’s nothing without control.”
you’re not sure if he’s talking about boxing anymore.
you drop to a bench, arms shaking, chest heaving. your fists still wrapped, sweat stinging your eyes from exertion and— honestly— how close he’s been.
he steps up to you, quiet. no words yet, just presence. his fingers brush your forearms, and you freeze, looking up into those captivating eyes.
“hand.” his voice is clipped as always, but there’s a softness beneath it you catch only because you know him.
you hold out both your fists. he cups your wrist in one hand with a touch so soft you could cry and gently starts to pry the tape free, rolling it down your wrists with care, each tug deliberate but tender. his thumbs brush lightly over the back of your hands as he inspects your knuckles, eyes scanning smudges of chalk and faint bruises from your swings. it’s an odd thing to be the one receiving care instead of giving it, especially from him; but you’re far from complaining.
“you’re raw in a few spots,” he murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear. he presses a fingertip to a tiny scrape at the base of your knuckle, testing the sting. “not bad. pretty clean for a beginner.”
you tilt your head back, letting him work, marveling at the way his hands are confident and careful all at once— like he’s simultaneously checking and protecting.
“don’t laugh,” he warns softly as he tightens the last wrap around your wrist, “but i’m actually a little impressed. you’re a fast learner.”
you grin, chest pounding with how loudly your heart has taken to calling his name. “a high compliment, coming from you.”
he smirks faintly, but the tension in his shoulders softens just a fraction. “i’ll teach you more next time. but for now…” he trails off, brushing a hand over the back of yours one last time before letting go, lingering long enough that the warmth presses into your skin.
you glance down at your hands, pulse still high, and back up at him. “thank you.”
he meets your gaze, eyes flicking to your flushed cheeks. “you don’t have to thank me, y/n.”
you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, smiling despite the ache in your arms, the fire in your chest, and the pull of him so close, so careful. “if you say so.”
he steps back finally, giving you a little space— but not too much, not entirely. you can feel the residue of his presence, the weight of him in the quiet gym, the soft insistence that he’ll be there, guiding, teaching, protective… his eyes say that he’s nowhere near immune to all your small, stolen moments.
and as you stretch your sore fingers, rubbing at the knuckles he just checked with such tender care, you can’t stop the grin spreading across your face.
he’s addictive.
and you’re already hooked.
—
the bell rings sharply, echoing through the packed warehouse, and the sound is electric. lee know moves like a hurricane trapped in the ring— controlled and fluid, every step sure, every pivot deliberate. he circles, eyes scanning his opponent, reading angles and posture and intent. his opponent shifts, tries to bait him into throwing an early punch; but lee know is untouchable, a predator already three moves ahead.
your eyes are glued to him, heart hammering, chest tight. every flex of his back, every tight rotation of his shoulders, it all screams power and precision. the world shrinks to the canvas beneath his feet and the rhythm of his body moving like liquid steel.
then the dam breaks.
in a flash— too fast to fully process— his opponent lands an unfair elbow to the face, a strike meant to sneak past defenses. lee know’s head snaps back, blood spurting from his nose. the sound hits your ears like a physical blow. your stomach drops.
“no!” you shout instinctively, leaping to your feet, kit forgotten, muscles coiled to charge in– only to realize you can’t. you’re frozen in the medical corner, eyes locked on him.
lee know hits the mat— just for a heartbeat— and everything around you stops. silence presses against your ears, thick and suffocating. the referee starts a countdown.
then he’s rising slowly after the second count, flicking the blood from his nose with a tilt of his head; he’s deadly calm, controlled, unshaken. every movement is deliberate, measured; nothing betrays the sting of the strike. your chest swells with relief and something else, something like fierce admiration.
he resets exactly the way he’s been teaching you to do in practice: stance perfect, hands guarding, weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet. his opponent hesitates, suddenly aware of the storm standing before him. lee know’s eyes sweep, calculating, laser-focused, pupils sharp, measuring the tiniest shift, the slightest weakness.
the first punch is clean, precise, a snapping jab that makes the opponent flinch. lee know doesn’t overcommit, doesn’t rush— each strike is surgical. the crowd barely registers the rhythm, but you can feel it in your bones: this is more than just punching. it’s choreography, deadly and beautiful.
he pivots, fluid, whipping a combination of hooks that land exactly where he wants— rib, shoulder, side of the head— enough to unbalance without overextending. his footwork is hypnotic, a dance of power and grace.
the opponent swings wildly, anger breaking his form, desperation cutting into technique. lee know reads it instantly, sidestepping, slipping punches that would floor anyone else. the thick blood trickle down his face glistens under the harsh gym lights, sweat and red mingling, but he moves as if nothing weighs on him but the fight itself.
he sets up— his stance lowering, weight shifting, muscles coiled. the precision is art. jab, uppercut, hook; every motion exact, every strike timed with the calculation of a master. the opponent wobbles, staggered, realization dawning.
and then— he unleashes the final move.
a combination that’s all him: three hits, pivot, snap. every strike lands clean, deliberate, the last punch folding the opponent onto the mat, finality in the thud. silence fills the gym, only broken by the countdown climbing until it hits ten, a bell ringing to declare a knockout. lee know stands, chest heaving lightly, eyes scanning the ring, the canvas, the aftermath.
the crowd roars. the bell rings again to signal the end of the match, and lee know graces the audience with a smile– small, but real. deadly sharp. a little proud.
your own breath comes in bursts, heart thundering. you can’t stop staring, frozen by the violence, the beauty, the precision, him. he wipes at his blood again, calm and composed; your hands ache to reach out, to cradle that jaw, to steady that proud, stubborn head.
finally, he steps toward the ropes, glancing at you. a flicker of acknowledgment. a twitch of a smirk until that smile softens; and just for a fraction of a heartbeat, the storm that is lee know becomes something more tender in your chest. kingly and untouchable, yes, but tethered to you in ways that leave your pulse electric.
the fight is over. victory is his. and you know, you know, you’ve just witnessed something rare: controlled chaos, lethal grace. a man who fights not just with skill, but with the full weight of his presence.
he steps out of the ring, sweat still dripping down the sharp lines of his face, blood from his nose streaking in slowly-drying lines that aren’t nearly enough to mask his intensity. every motion is controlled, deliberate, even as exhaustion tugs at the edges of his posture.
your kit is open in your hands before he even reaches the bench, your fingers itching to touch him after watching that display of raw, calculated power.
“that was insane,” you murmur, voice a mix of half-scolding, half-admiring. “i’ve never seen anyone move like that. like.. a storm on the mat.”
he doesn’t respond right away, just lets the words hang, eyes flicking up to meet yours. a glint of something soft, almost shy, flickers there— a brief flicker of flattery, humility, before his stoic mask reasserts itself. “storm’s not the word i’d use,” he says lowly, voice clipped, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “just… precise.”
you step closer, crouching beside him as he lowers onto the bench. your fingers hover over his jaw first, brushing away a bead of blood from a lesser scratch along his chin. he tilts his head slightly into your touch the way he always does; never quite enough to admit vulnerability, but always enough to let you in. the contact sends molten heat straight to your chest.
“you haven’t had a bleed this bad in a while,” you murmur, dabbing at the thick gush of blood from his nose with an antiseptic towelette. your touch is gentle, almost reverent against his skin, warm beneath your palms, muscles taut even as they finally start to release some tension. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jerk away, and you feel that quiet trust settling between you like a dust cloud.
“don’t make it sound like i’m delicate,” he murmurs back, just above a whisper, but the edge is gone. there’s no sharpness— just acknowledgment, and maybe even relief that he can lean on you, even a fraction.
“i’m not saying that,” you reply softly, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, memorizing the tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders, the sweat-slicked muscles that move under your fingers when he shifts slightly. “i’m just saying…you’re something else.”
he lets out a short breath, half a chuckle, half a sigh, and leans just slightly closer, enough to let you cradle the back of his neck while your other hand smooths out the wraps over his knuckles. each adjustment is slow, careful; you linger just a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips brushing the sharp planes of his hand, memorizing him.
“you always fuss like this?” he asks, tone teasing just enough to make your heart stutter.
“someone has to make sure you survive your own fights,” you murmur, brushing the last streak of blood off the bridge of his nose. your fingers linger on his cheek, tracing the scar from last week, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.
he tilts his head into your touch again, eyes closing for the briefest second, and your chest hammers. you swallow, heart racing, and finally reach for the final act of care: undoing the knuckle wraps. your fingers work slowly, teasing the tape away, revealing the scarred, steady hands beneath. he flexes his fingers gently, letting you examine each knuckle as if you were checking him under a microscope.
then, almost on impulse, you bring his hand to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his rough knuckles. your eyes lift shyly to his, cheeks warm. “speeds up the healing process,” you murmur, voice almost lost under the weight of the moment. “or at least that’s what i’ve heard.”
he freezes, chest rising slightly faster than normal, pupils dark, molten, unreadable— before the faintest smirk tugs at his lips. “should’ve had you kiss it to make it all better ages ago,” he says quietly, a little teasing and a lot more appreciative. you feel your ears flush bright red.
your pulse threatens to burst out of your chest, but you can’t help smiling, lingering just a moment longer, fingers still brushing his. he doesn’t pull away— doesn’t move a muscle, letting you claim this small, stolen tenderness.
finally, you set the hand down, both of you catching breaths. for a heartbeat, the gym feels like it’s shrunk to just the two of you: quiet aftermath of chaos, the hum of distant lights, and the weight of unspoken promises. lee know’s stoic front is cracking, just a fraction, revealing the man beneath— the one who lets you in, who yields, who lets himself be cared for.
and you? you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
—
the gym smells of sweat and anticipation tonight. you bounce on the balls of your feet, fists up, heart hammering— not just from exertion, but from the thrill of being here with him. lee know stretches casually in front of you, chest rising and falling steady, the muscles in his arms flexing with every small movement. he looks effortless, untouchable… and yet, somehow, he’s about to let you punch him.
“ready?” he asks, voice teasing just enough that your stomach flips. he shifts into his stance, weight balanced perfectly, feet planted like a predator. his hands hover— guarded, precise, like he’s daring you to even try.
“ready,” you say back, forcing your best glare, though your knees are bouncing and your pulse is racing. he chuckles faintly at your weak attempt to intimidate.
he lunges first, slow, exaggerated; it’s barely an attack, more like a suggestion of one. he meant it when he said he’d go easy on you. you throw a jab and it’s sloppy, more of a flail than a punch, and his eyes flick to yours, one eyebrow raised. “hmm,” he mutters, almost a laugh laced in the tone. “you’re trying for power too soon. focus on the footwork, y/n. balance comes first.”
you huff, frustrated, circling him, trying to anticipate, trying to land something. he moves like water, slipping and shifting just enough to make you swing too early or miscalculate. each near-hit sends your chest pounding, not just from effort— there’s something else in the way his eyes never leave yours, the way his body glides next to you, the brush of his shoulder when he shifts slightly too close.
“hey—hey! stop teasing me!” you snap, panting, swinging a left jab that he catches mid-air with just the tip of his fingers. your pulse rockets when his hand brushes yours, guiding, correcting, but there’s a treacherous weight in the touch.
“teasing?” he says softly, just a murmur; but the smirk pulling at his lips gives him away. “i’m just teaching.”
you glare, but there’s no real bite behind it— just embarrassment and attraction and frustration, all tangled in a tight knot rising to your throat. his cheek threatens to dimple with the hint of a real smile; and the smirk, the calm, the impossibly-still control, makes your chest ache.
he steps in, adjusting your elbow with one hand, nudging your shoulder with the other. his chest brushes yours, and your brain shorts out. “control,” he murmurs. “fists first, follow through second.”
you throw again, trying to put more into it, and this time he lets your fist hit him— the impact is soft, but it’s not nothing. the fleeting contact sends a shock straight up your arm. he barely reacts, but the faint twitch of his lips betrays him anyway.
“not bad,” he says, clipped, almost reluctant, and you glare at him but can’t deny the thrill.
you pivot, lunge, try for a sloppy roundhouse; he steps into you before you have the chance to execute, chest pressed tighter against yours, guiding your motion with firm, steady hands. his fingers brush over your ribs and forearm as he corrects your form, and you swear you’re melting under the sheer proximity.
“direct your body weight, y/n,” he instructs, his voice private, intimate even when he’s masking it as instruction. “power comes from stance. not just arms.”
you groan before reluctantly throwing another series, and he moves behind you, arms brushing yours as he guides each motion. you can feel the heat radiating off him. every pulse of his muscles under his skin, every adjustment, every gentle nudge feels like he’s imprinting himself on you.
“stop swinging blindly,” he mutters, leaning close enough that his shoulder grazes yours, his chest brushing your back. you inhale, and the air feels charged, humming with electricity. “precision first.”
“ugh, you’re so impossible!” you gasp, sweat running down your temple, hair sticking to your forehead, and he just chuckles softly behind you, the sound low, dark, intimate.
“i’m your teacher,” he says, voice clipped but amused, hand pressing flat and sure against your back to adjust your stance. “so pay attention.”
you throw a jab— too slow, too high— and he catches it, fingers brushing yours, and your heart skips a beat. his eyes flick to yours, molten and teasing; you trip over whatever words you’d been about to fire back.
he doesn’t let you go.
instead, he tugs– just a fraction, just enough to send you off balance; and suddenly your stumble tips you forward into him. his shoulders meet yours, solid heat pressing through the fabric between you; your hands falter in their guard, falling to land on that broad chest. every muscle dances under your fingertips, pulled taut, waiting.
your breath stutters, your own chest rising sharp against his. he doesn’t move back— doesn’t let you go. one wrapped hand rises to cup over yours, anchoring you to him; his weight holds you caged, steady, immovable as his fingers brush over your knuckles in secret rhythm.
his eyes flick down— too fast. too telling. the smallest shift, the barest tilt of his head, it all gives him away despite the stone set of his face. his heated gaze lands on your lips and stays there; and you’re suddenly sure he’s going to close the distance. heat coils low in your stomach, every nerve begging for the brush of his mouth.
lee know is about to kiss you. and you’re going to shamelessly let him.
he leans in closer, so close that the heat of him presses through the thin fabric, every inch deliberate. the sharp inhale he steals just before your lips nearly brush sets your blood roaring; your pulse hammers like it wants to break your ribs. his exhale feels like velvet when his breath canvasses across your lips.
his gaze flicks back up to your eyes, his own dark and deliberate, assessing, tasting the possibility. the space between you is electric, strung tight with want, your knees threatening to give under the weight of proximity. your chest is caught in a perfect trap between his restraint and your certainty.
your eyes begin to flutter closed, waiting, wanting.
and then— he doesn’t close the final millimeter.
he holds himself there instead, suspended, his mouth hovering just shy of yours. he’s so close; you can taste his breath, but not the kiss you’re aching for. your pulse hammers against your ribs in heady anticipation.
then, with precision so measured it’s almost cruel, he eases back half an inch. not enough to free you, just enough to smother the promise. his gaze lingers on your mouth for one last beat before it sharpens, cutting clean.
“keep your guard up,” he says evenly, as if nothing just happened; as if your knees aren’t about to give out. he releases your wrist and nudges at your stance like it’s any other spar.
you swallow hard, still reeling, every nerve screaming from the almost that just slipped through your fingers. he doesn’t look rattled at all, damn him— only that faint glimmer in his eyes betrays him, the one that says he wanted it, too.
“my guard is just fine,” you mumble hotly, trying to regain composure. you start swinging again. he dodges just enough to make you adjust– just enough to keep your focus on him, just enough to make you want to get closer, hit harder, be near him.
he steps back finally, letting you land a clean hit on the outside of his right arm. he yields to it, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable; but the faintest hint of approval is evident in the way he tilts his head.
“better,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost private, and your chest swells. you swing again, adrenaline and tension coiling together, heart hammering in time with every contact of your fists falling against him in sparring.
he moves in when you go for a new shot, adjusting, correcting, guiding— his body brushing against yours, hands resting lightly on your elbows, shoulders, even just a ghost of a touch across your back— and you can’t stop the heat rising in your cheeks. your brain knows he’s teaching, that he’s careful, that he’s professional; but every second, every brush of skin, every whispered instruction sends molten sparks through your chest.
finally, he steps back completely, allowing you to spar him more freely, your fists clean, your soft hits sharp, your body twisting properly. he watches your stance, the way your muscles flex, the sweat dripping down your neck. he doesn’t move in closer— doesn’t have to— but you can feel the intensity in his gaze.
“next time,” he mutters, voice low, clipped, but something softer flickers in his eyes, “we’ll spar properly.”
you grin, exhausted, exhilarated, and a little weak in the knees. “i’m holding you to that,” you tease. he smirks faintly, silent, controlled— but those searing eyes betray that he’s already anticipating it.
the gym hums low around you, your bodies still warm from more than just the exertion. the air feels thick, electric. almost like it’s charged with all the touches, the corrections, the proximity, the teasing, the heat— teaching, sparring, melting, all of it rolled into one chaotic, perfect storm.
—
the bell clangs for the third and final round of the night, sharp and unforgiving– the crowd’s roar swells with it, a tide that thrums through the ring and up your spine.
you’re pressed against the barrier, knuckles gripping the metal, heart in your throat. lee know circles his opponent like a king patrolling his domain: muscles coiled, eyes sharp, every movement calculated, fluid, lethal. sweat gleams along his forearms, along his jaw, catching the overhead lights like a blade. small scratches litter his cheeks, proof of the grueling first two rounds.
they trade blows like it’s a language only fighters can speak. the first few hits reverberate like drums beating in your chest. his opponent is skilled— fast, hungry for the win— but lee know is faster, smoother, reading each motion like it’s an open book. every counter, every pivot, every jab is poetry in motion; but there’s fire in it, raw energy that makes your chest ache with anticipation.
then— a hard, sudden jab lands square on lee know’s cheek. the crowd gasps in unison. your hand flies to your mouth. a thin line of red drips from the corner of his lip, and your stomach plummets. most people would stagger, maybe falter. maybe even fall to the mat.
not him.
his head snaps back, eyes flashing with the tiniest flicker of surprise— and then calm, razor-sharp control sets in. he shakes it off as if it were nothing, resets his stance like a predator, and the air in the ring seems to shift, dense with intent.
he pivots. he ducks a counter. his strikes come now— calculated, brutal, precise, every movement a testament to his years of mastery. the blows land on his opponent with the weight of a hurricane contained in muscle and sinew, each punch a statement: he’s still standing. he’s in control. he’s unstoppable.
the opponent stumbles. the audience leans forward, breathless, watching the reversal, the artistry in the violence. lee know doesn’t let up— he whirls, he pivots, he strikes. his face is a mask of focus and feral energy, lips pressed tight even as blood blooms red at the edges of them; his brows are furrowed with the force of his focus, every line of his body screaming discipline and raw power.
then— a crushing hook, a sharp uppercut, and the opponent collapses, breath wheezing, chest heaving.
lee know steps back with his fists raised, his own chest heaving too, sweat and blood streaking across his skin like war paint. he looks like some kind of god standing alone in the ring, opponent bowed before him in defeat.
the referee calls the match: it’s over. victory, earned. brutal. raw. hard-fought.
and you— heart hammering, knees weak, fingers trembling on the barrier over in your medical corner— feel every pulse of him in the aftermath. every strike, every dodge, every calculated blow is burned into your memory.
he lowers his hands finally, his face slick with sweat, lips parting just slightly, breaths coming in short, controlled bursts. his eyes sweep the crowd, but when they land on you… the intensity doesn’t break. it sharpens, sure and quiet and magnetic, and you know: he sees you.
only after the crowd roars fade and the adrenaline lingers does he step toward the edge of the ring, every movement measured, and your chest aches– because even bruised, beaten, bloodied, he carries himself like a king who’s just proven his reign. a king coming home to you.
the fight’s left him wrecked; the roar of the crowd is still echoing through the cement walls when lee know stumbles into the corner, sweat running down his temple, blood dripping from a split at his lip. his chest heaves like the air itself is burning him alive.
you’re already there with gauze in hand, jaw set tight, muttering under your breath as you start fussing over ever little cut and scratch before he can even sit down. “you could’ve dodged that one blow, you know. he almost had you on the ropes in the second round.”
he doesn’t answer. doesn’t even flinch when you press the gauze to his cheek, murmuring a soft warning for the sting of the antiseptic. he just stares down, eyes locked on you, that sharpness softening only for you even in the noise and heat of the crowd at every angle.
“you’re impossible,” you snap, voice shaking as the hand with the gauze trembles against his cheek. you cup his face if only to still your fingers, holding him upright. “one day you’re not going to walk out of that ring and—”
his hand shoots up, catching you mid-motion. his rough, bandaged fingers circle your wrist.
his voice is hoarse, ground down to gravel, but the words cut clean like a right hook to the heart:
“you’re a knockout.”
your brain blanks. air sticks hard in your throat, wedged deep by the shock of his composure breaking.
and then he pulls you in before you can find an answer.
the kiss is brutal and tender all at once— bloody and slick and desperate, his mouth crushing itself to yours like he’s been starving for it through every round he’s ever fought in this dingy warehouse. copper floods your tongue where his split lip works against you, but it doesn’t matter. not when his hand is steady at the back of your neck, holding you close to him like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.
his other hand snakes to your waist, pressing you impossibly close, letting you feel the tense pulse of muscle beneath skin. every ragged breath he steals vibrates against your lips, mixing with your own contented sigh, echoing in your chest like a drumbeat you can’t escape.
the crowd’s chants melt into nothing along with the sounds of the bell that signals the next match starting and the referee’s sharp whistle. nothing matters but this. the world has shrunk to this small, electric pocket where time has slowed, where only the press of his body and the desperate rhythm of your mouths exist.
your free hand clutches the damp wrap at his wrist like a lifeline, anchoring him back. the gauze you’d been pressing to his cut falls useless to the floor. your fingertips trace the tension along his forearm, memorizing every line, every hardened muscle, every twitch of effort as he folds himself into you, yielding fully, finally.
he tilts his head just slightly, deepening the kiss; it’s a slow, consuming kind of ache that spreads somewhere deep beneath your ribs. a groan— low, muffled, unintentionally yours— slips past his lips, and it rattles through your chest, your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of want and exhaustion and adrenaline.
the heat between you is suffocating, intoxicating; it coils hot in your bloodstream, threads along your spine, sets your pulse hammering in tandem with his. his tongue teases, claims, works you until you’re pliant in his arms, and you answer back with the same fierce urgency– desperate for every inch, every taste, every second.
his grip at the back of your neck tightens imperceptibly, a silent plea for proximity, and your hands— one planted on his chest, the other drifting up to cradle his jaw with tender fingers— draw him impossibly closer. sweat and blood mix at your lips, his heartbeat thrumming under your palm like a war drum.
a shudder runs through you both as his arms encircle you fully, silent but volcanic, and he doesn’t pull back— can’t, won’t— letting the moment stretch until it feels like the air itself is charged, trembling with the collision of want and the rawest kind of vulnerability.
finally, somewhere deep in the marrow of both your bones, the kiss loosens just enough to leave you gasping, noses brushing, breaths mingling, lips swollen and raw.
when he finally pulls himself back, he stays close. forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting, the air between you thick with sweat and heat and everything you’ve been refusing to say.
a beat of silence. then, rough, the corner of his mouth twitching in something almost like a smile— “told you.”
you shove him softly before he catches you and drags you back in for another slow, tender kiss.
and this time, you can taste how freely he smiles.
Synopsys: I don't know what this is, I wrote it at 1 am, please bear with me. Minho is soft and sleepy tho. 😭
Genre: fluff
Word count: 889
ENJOOOY!!!!
Lee Minho doesn’t love you.
He must like you, because the two of you have been spending a lot of time together, have been a couple for more than eight months—but he doesn’t love you.
It’s the middle of the night. You’re in his apartment, his clothes and his scent lingering around you after an intense night of him rearranging your guts. Minho is intense in every sense of the word, and he shows he cares like no one else, but that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t love you.
You’re sitting in his bathroom, the one connected to his bedroom. After all, it would be mortifying if Han Jisung walked into the shared bathroom and found you on the floor with your back against the bathtub at the crack of dawn, bawling your eyes out because Minho doesn’t love you.
It’s an irrational thought—one that kept you up all night, even after your boyfriend fell asleep with his arms around you, murmuring sweet nothings into your ear like people do. However, none of those words were I love you or anything of the sort. And despite how Lee Know shows he cares—a lot—your overwhelmed little brain enjoys making fun of you and filling your thoughts with doubt, because you know you’re annoying and too much sometimes.
You’re mid-sob when the bathroom door opens, and a very dissatisfied Minho walks in, his checkered pajama shorts hanging low on his hips, worn inside out. His eyes are barely open, his hair tussled and sticking out in every direction—the result of your hands going to town mere hours ago, abusing those strands like he abused your insides with his intensity. He looks so effortlessly handsome, even half-asleep. It’s unfair.
He’s clearly still out of it, because he walks up to the toilet, braces one hand against the wall for balance, and starts peeing without a care in the world. Then he glances back at you and squints, the harsh bathroom light probably still bothering his sensitive eyes.
“Here you are. I’ve been waiting in bed for you for the past fifteen minutes,” he says, not caring about the absolutely horrendous situation you’re in right now.
Your face flushes red as you observe him—how comfortable he looks doing what he has to do in front of you like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Which is insane, because it feels way too intimate… a thought that sounds absolutely idiotic in your head after the intense lovemaking that happened just a couple of hours ago.
“Minho, what are you doing? Aren’t you a bit too comfortable right now?” you ask sheepishly.
He glances at you again, does a little shimmy-shake, and tucks himself back into his shorts.
“What do you mean? This is natural. People in love are supposed to be this comfortable around each other,” he explains casually as he walks to the sink to wash his hands with the sakura-scented soap you bought at that fancy shop—the one he liked so much he made you buy every product they sold. Now you have shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and even a candle, all with the same scent.
“People in what now?”
“People in love, jagiya. Like us. Why am I explaining this in the middle of the night while you’re sitting on the bathroom floor?” he asks as he dries his hands on a towel and squats down in front of you.
That’s when he notices the tear streaks on your cheeks. His expression softens instantly, and he wipes them away gently with his thumbs.
“You love me?” you ask, eyes big and hopeful.
Minho looks downright offended.
“Yah, what kind of question is that?” His hands slide into your hair, pulling you into his bare chest as he strokes your head carefully. “Of course I love you, pabo. You think I’d let you meet my kids, cook for you, and share my pudding with you if I didn’t love you?”
“You never said it,” you whisper, suddenly feeling a little dumb for overreacting. But hey—brains are evil like that.
“Jagiya, I don’t say most of the shit that’s in my head. That doesn’t mean I don’t think it or feel it,” he says seriously, looking straight into your eyes to prove he means it. “I just don’t think love needs to be said. I think it’s supposed to be shown.”
“And you show it by peeing in front of it?” you tease lightly.
Minho laughs—out loud, full and warm, the kind of laugh filled with pure joy despite the late hour.
“Of course,” he says, kissing your forehead softly. “I love you. And next time you start questioning my feelings for you—which is rude, by the way—just wake me up. Don’t cry on the bathroom floor while I’m tossing and turning in bed looking for you. Deal?” He offers you his pinky.
You hook yours around his.
“Deal.”
“Good. Now—back to bed.” He picks you up effortlessly, carrying you as you cling to him like a koala.
“Silly woman, thinking I don’t love her,” he mutters under his breath. “What am I to you, a houseplant without feelings?”
There’s no remorse in his tone—only affection.
You smile into his shoulder, breathing him in, because after all… Minho loves you. Apparently, enough to say it. Enough to be vulnerable.
