Facing the aftermath of broken trust, you and Mingyu reclaim your future together through complete honesty, equal partnership, and a vow to never hide from the shadows again.
Matthew steps back from the hug.
His hands linger on your shoulders a little longer than necessary, but the gesture is warm, not malicious. His eyes find yours, soft and reassuring, without any expectations, no hidden hope. Just the quiet certainty of someone who showed up when you needed him and is now stepping aside.
"You've got this," he says.
You manage a small smile. "Thank you, Matt."
He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze, then turns toward his car. His footsteps crunch across the gravel as he walks to the driver's side, his hand lifting in a casual wave. "Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything."
"I will."
He opens the door, pauses, and looks back at the porch. His gaze travels past you, landing on the figure standing in the doorway. Matthew's expression shifts into something respectful, almost solemn.
"Take care of her," he says.
Mingyu's voice comes from behind you, steady and quiet. "I will. Thank you for taking her home."
Matthew nods once, then slides into his car. The engine hums to life, and he pulls away from the curb, his car gliding down the street until it disappears around the corner.
The morning air settles around you.
You stand there, your bag still slung over your shoulder, your heart beating in that strange space between arrival and uncertainty. The house looms behind you. Mingyu stands in the doorway, waiting.
The porch steps creak under your weight as you turn.
He's wearing that gray sweater, the one that hangs loose on his frame, the one that makes him look softer than he usually lets himself appear. His hair is disheveled, pushed back. The dark circles under his eyes tell stories of sleepless nights, of hours spent staring at ceilings, of a house that felt too empty.
He doesn't move toward you. Doesn't speak. Just watches, his hands hanging at his sides, his posture open and unguarded in a way you've rarely seen.
The silence stretches.
And then you make a decision.
Instead of walking through the door he's holding open, you turn and sit down on the top step. The wood is cool beneath you, worn smooth by years of footsteps and weather. You set your bag beside you and look out at the street, at the big tree swaying gently, at the ordinary morning unfolding around you.
You hear him exhale. A long, slow breath that carries the weight of days.
Then the porch creaks again as he lowers himself beside you.
He doesn't sit too close. There's a gap between you, wide enough for the morning light to pass through, wide enough for you to feel the absence of his warmth. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands clasped loosely in front of him.
He waits.
You turn to him.
"I love you."
The words come out quiet, steady, carrying the weight of everything you've been holding for days. His head lifts slightly, his eyes meeting yours.
"I love you," you repeat, "and that's why this hurt so much."
His jaw tightens. His hands clench, then relax.
"I came back because I choose you. I choose us. But I need you to hear me when I say that what you did... keeping that threat from me, handling it alone, letting me believe the danger was gone while you carried it by yourself, it almost broke us."
Your voice wavers at the end, but you push through.
"I'm not fragile, Mingyu. I'm not a secret you need to protect. We're supposed to be partners. And partners carry things together."
He stares at his hands for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough, scraped raw.
"My father."
"Growing up, I watched him love my mother. And I use that word loosely, because what he called love was really just... control. He decided what she needed to know. He decided what was too heavy for her. He made every decision about her safety without ever asking her what she wanted."
His voice cracks.
"I swore I would never be him. And then I looked in the mirror, and I saw his hands. I heard his words coming out of my mouth. I did exactly what he did, I decided you couldn't handle the truth. I decided I knew better. I decided I would carry it alone because that's what men are supposed to do."
He turns to you, and there are tears in his eyes.
"I'm terrified of becoming him."
The confession lands like a stone dropped into still water.
You reach out. Your hand finds his, your fingers threading through his, wrapping around his cold skin. His breath hitches at the contact.
"Look at me."
He does.
"You are not your father."
The words come out firm, certain.
"Your father kept secrets to control people. You kept secrets because you were afraid. Those are not the same thing. Your father never once questioned whether he was doing the right thing. You're sitting here, terrified that you hurt me, desperate to make it right. That alone proves you're nothing like him."
His hand tightens around yours. A tear escapes, trailing down his cheek.
"You're a good man, Mingyu. You made a mistake. A big one. But mistakes don't define you. What you do next does."
He nods slowly. His other hand comes up to cover yours, holding it between both of his like something precious.
"I don't want to lose you," he whispers.
"Then don't shut me out again."
"I won't." The words come out fierce, certain. "I swear to you, I won't."
You sit there for a while longer, hands intertwined, the morning warming around you. The weight between you hasn't disappeared, but it's shifted. Become something you can carry together.
He stands first, offering you his hand.
You take it.
The front door opens into a house that smells like lemon and clean linen.
The floors are polished. The surfaces gleam. The cushions on the couch are fluffed, arranged with care. The kitchen counters are clear, the sink empty, the refrigerator door free of fingerprints.
He spent your days away cleaning.
Not just tidying. Scrubbing. Washing. Stripping. Every corner of this house, every surface that might have held a trace of her intrusion, erased and remade.
You walk through the living room, your fingers trailing along the back of the couch. The curtains are open, letting in the golden light. The air feels different. Lighter.
You turn to face him.
He's standing by the kitchen island, his hands gripping the edge, his eyes tracking your movements like he's afraid you might disappear if he looks away.
You walk over and pull out a stool. Sit down across from him.
He doesn't move to sit beside you. Doesn't try to close the distance. He stays where he is, his posture open, his guard lowered.
"Talk to me," you say. "No managing. No fixing. Just talk."
He takes a breath.
"I don't know how to do this differently."
His voice is quiet, raw.
"I've spent my whole life learning to handle things alone. My father taught me that asking for help was weakness. That showing vulnerability was an invitation to be destroyed. That the only person I could trust was myself."
He looks down at his hands.
"Then you came along. And suddenly I had someone I wanted to trust. Someone I wanted to share everything with. But every time something went wrong, every time danger came close, every instinct I had screamed at me to push you away. To protect you by keeping you in the dark."
He looks up, meeting your eyes.
"I don't want to be that person anymore. But I don't know how to stop."
The confession sits between you, raw and honest.
You reach across the island, your hand landing on his.
"Then we learn together."
His eyes glisten.
"We start small. We practice. When something scary happens, you tell me. Even if it's hard. Even if you're scared of my reaction. You tell me, and we figure it out together."
He nods slowly.
"And if I mess up?"
"Then we talk about it. You don't hide it. You don't try to fix it behind my back. You come to me, and we work through it."
His hand turns over under yours, his fingers lacing with yours.
"Together," he says.
"Together."
The word settles between them like a seal.
Later that afternoon, the doorbell rings.
You're curled up on the couch, a book open in your lap, the afternoon light slanting through the windows. Mingyu is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the cutting board filling the house with a sense of normalcy.
He wipes his hands on a towel and moves to the door.
Wonwoo stands on the porch, a manila envelope in his hand. He looks tired but composed, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light as he steps inside.
"Everything's settled," he says.
You set down your book and walk over. Mingyu's hand finds yours, pulling you close as Wonwoo lays the envelope on the kitchen island.
"Sarah's family checked her into a private facility yesterday. Voluntary admission. She's going to get the help she needs."
The words land with a strange mix of relief and sadness.
"Her legal team drafted these." Wonwoo taps the envelope. "A formal non-disclosure agreement covering everything related to the break-in, the stalking, and any information she has about either of you. And a restraining order that prevents her from contacting you, approaching your home, or coming within five hundred feet of either of you."
He slides the documents out.
"They're ready to sign. Once they're filed, this chapter is closed."
Mingyu looks at you.
His hand tightens around yours.
"Let's do it together."
He places the documents on the island. Hands you a pen. Then picks up another one for himself.
You lean over the papers side by side. Your shoulder brushes his. Your breath mingles as you read through the clauses, the legalese, the final terms of a nightmare finally ending.
Your pen touches the signature line.
You sign your name.
Mingyu signs his beneath yours.
The ink is still wet as Wonwoo slides the papers back into the envelope.
"I'll file these first thing tomorrow morning."
He looks at you both, something soft in his expression.
"You're safe now. Both of you."
After he leaves, the house feels different.
The shadows seem less sharp. The silence less heavy. You walk through the rooms, your fingers tracing the surfaces, and for the first time in months, the paranoia doesn't follow.
That night, you lie in bed with the window cracked open.
The cool night air drifts in, carrying the scent of damp grass and distant rain. The curtains stir gently, catching the moonlight.
Mingyu lies beside you, his body turned toward yours, his hand resting on your hip. His breathing is slow, even, his eyes closed, his face slack in a way it hasn't been in weeks.
You watch him.
The rise and fall of his chest. The slight part of his lips. The way his fingers curl against your skin even in sleep, as if holding on even in dreams.
The phantom footsteps outside are gone.
The dread that lived in your chest for weeks has loosened its grip.
You close your eyes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, sleep comes without resistance.
You wake to light.
Not the gray, hesitant light of early morning, but golden, warm, streaming through the curtains in thick bands that paint the room in shades of honey. The air smells different. Clean. Fresh.
You stretch, your limbs heavy with the kind of rest that only comes after true peace.
And then you realize.
The spot beside you is empty.
Your hand reaches out automatically, finding cool sheets where his warmth should be. A flicker of something. Not panic, not yet, but a small prickle of worry touches the edges of your mind.
He usually wakes up later than you.
You sit up, your eyes scanning the room. His clothes from yesterday are gone. The bathroom door is open, the light off. The house is quiet.
But then you catch it.
The smell.
Coffee. Freshly brewed, rich and warm, drifting through the hallway. And beneath it, something else. Bacon. Eggs. The unmistakable aroma of a full breakfast being prepared.
You swing your legs out of bed, your feet finding the floor. The shirt you're wearing, his shirt, the one you stole from his drawer days ago, hangs to your thighs as you pad down the hallway.
The kitchen comes into view.
And you stop.
Mingyu stands at the stove, his back to you. He's wearing only a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants, hanging loose on his hips, the muscles of his back shifting as he moves. The morning light catches the curve of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the way his hair falls slightly damp across his forehead.
A plate of pancakes sits on the counter. A bowl of fresh fruit beside it. Coffee brews in the pot, filling the air with its warmth.
He turns, a spatula in his hand, and sees you standing there.
His face breaks into a smile.
Not the guarded smile he wears in public. Not the careful smile he uses in difficult conversations. This one reaches his eyes, soft and open and full of something that makes your chest ache.
"Morning."
His voice is warm, rough with sleep and contentment.
You step into the kitchen. "You cooked."
"I cooked." He gestures at the spread with the spatula. "Figured we deserved a proper breakfast. First day of the rest of our lives and all that."
You laugh, the sound surprising you. "That's very dramatic."
"I'm a dramatic person."
He sets down the spatula and walks toward you. His hands find your waist, pulling you gently against him. His skin is warm from the stove, his chest solid against yours.
"Good morning," he says again, softer this time.
"Good morning."
He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your lips, soft and lingering.
"Come eat before it gets cold."
He pulls out a chair for you, and you sit. He plates the food with careful attention, sliding pancakes onto your plate, adding fruit, pouring coffee into your favorite mug.
You watch him move through the kitchen, comfortable in his skin, at home in this space you've built together.
He sits across from you, his own plate in front of him, and reaches across the table to take your hand.
"Before we eat, I have something."
He releases your hand and reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants. When his hand comes back, it's holding a small velvet box.
Your breath catches.
"Before you say anything," he says quickly, "it's not what you think. Not yet. I mean, someday. Definitely someday. But not yet."
He opens the box.
Inside rests a ring. Silver, simple, elegant. A thin band with a small, delicate star set into its center. It catches the morning light, throwing tiny prisms across the table.
"This is a promise ring."
He takes it out, holding it between his fingers.
"It's a promise that from this day forward, I will never shut you out again. A promise that you will always know the truth, even when it's hard. A promise that we face everything together—the good, the scary, the uncertain."
He looks at you, and his eyes are bright.
"I love you. And I'm done protecting you from the world. I want to protect you with the world. With everything I have. But only if you're standing beside me, not behind me."
He reaches for your hand.
"This ring doesn't mean I own you. It means I choose you. Every day. In every way."
He slides the ring onto your finger.
It fits perfectly.
You look down at it, the silver warm against your skin, the tiny star catching the light.
When you look up, there are tears in your eyes.
"Say something," he whispers.
You stand. Round the table. Wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss that says everything words can't carry.
When you break apart, your forehead rests against his.
"I love you," you say. "And I choose you too."
He kisses you again, softer this time.
"Now," you say, pulling back with a smile, "let me eat those pancakes before they get cold."
He laughs, the sound filling the kitchen, filling the house, filling the space between you with something new.
Something unburdened.
Something whole.
---------------------
PS. I will be posting an epilogue to this soon.
Warnings:- Smut (MDNI), oral (fem. Recieving), fingering, mingyu talks to your meow meow.
A/n:- This is so wild and.. WILD. LMAO. Blame my ovulation for this. Also my impulses. Not proofread
Mingyu knelt between your spread thighs, his face hovering close to your slick folds. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide as he stared at your exposed pussy like it was the only thing in the world. "Goddamn, look at this pretty thing," he rasped, voice low and slurred with hunger. Then his gaze lifted to meet yours. "You see how she's pulsing for me? So pink and puffy, leaking all over the sheets. You're throbbing already, aren't you? Just from me looking at you."
You bit your lip and answered, "Yes, Mingyu... keep talking to her like that."
He pressed his nose against your mound and inhaled deeply, a shaky moan escaping him. "Fuck, that scent. Sweet and musky and all mine. I could bury my face here forever." His tongue flicked out, dragging slowly through your slit from bottom to top. "Mmmph, taste that. So creamy on my tongue. Your little clit is peeking out, begging for attention. Hi, gorgeous. You like when I talk to you like this?"
You gasped and replied, "She loves it... I love it. Don't stop."
Mingyu sealed his lips around your clit and sucked softly, eyes fluttering shut. "Yeah, you do. I can feel you twitching right against my mouth. So sensitive. Suck... lick... circle..." He demonstrated each word with precise motions, alternating between firm pulls and gentle laps. Two fingers slid inside you without resistance, curling to stroke your inner walls. "Oh shit, you're gripping me so tight. These walls are pulsing, sucking my fingers deeper. So hot and wet inside. I want to feel every flutter."
You moaned louder, "Mingyu, your fingers... fuck, right there."
He pumped his fingers steadily while his tongue worked your clit in relentless circles. "Listen to that. All those wet sounds you're making for me. Squish... squelch... fuck, it's obscene how soaked you are. Your pussy is drooling down my chin and I love every drop. Don't hold back, pretty girl. Clench harder. Show me how much you need this."
"Harder," you begged, your voice shaky. "Talk more."
Mingyu's free hand spread you open wider as he flattened his tongue and lapped broadly. "You're swelling up so nicely. This clit is getting bigger under my tongue. I could suck on it for hours. Would you like that? Just me down here, worshipping every inch of this perfect cunt. Kissing... licking... fingering... until you're shaking apart." His fingers twisted and scissored inside you, stretching you gently while he moaned against your skin. "Fuck, I can feel you getting closer. Those little spasms around my fingers. You're going to come all over my face, aren't you? Drench me. I want it."
"Yes, I'm close," you panted. "Keep going, please."
He doubled down, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue. His fingers thrust faster, curling on every pull to hit that sensitive spot inside. "That's it, baby. Give it to me. Flood my mouth. Your pussy tastes even better when it's coming. So fucking addictive. I could stay pussy-drunk on you all night."
synopsis: When a ride home becomes something much more... interesting.
Your interactions with Mingyu have been getting weird during the last group meeting. There’s a certain tension in every act of kindness he does for you — it could be you overanalyzing friendly acts, or maybe Kim Mingyu wants you as much as you want him.
pairing: mingyu x reader
wc: 3,6k
warnings: unprotected sex; kinda public car sex; dry humping; fingering (f receiving); loss of virginity; cock riding; mating press?; Mingyu is a teasing little shit; slight size kink; huge man in cars; dacryphilia perhaps?; mentions of alcohol; inappropriate language. MDNI.
You don't know when you started feeling this way about Mingyu, but lately he's been... different. He's hot, but you already knew that. Everybody did.
Mingyu is tall, tanned, has a charming smile and beautiful sparkling eyes that goes along with the sweet and patient personality he always has when he's with you and the boys. But something is different.
You don't know what happened, but Mingyu's every attitude seemed different tonight and what would normally be “your friend's caring and concerned way” was making you crave his attention in a way you've never felt before.
💬 3 🔁 237 ❤️ 3331 · diet pepsi · synopsis: When a ride home becomes something much more... interesting.
Your interactions with Mingyu hav
You were convinced your neighbor was either a serial killer or having some kind of breakdown at 1 AM. Turns out he was just really, really into garlic. Now he shows up at your door nightly with an apology plate and insists he is not a “thirst trap chef.” (He is, in fact, a thirst trap chef.)
Genre: strangers-to-lovers, smut
Pairing: Kim Mingyu x afab!reader
Warnings: idk man, lmk, huhu, explicit sexual content, mdni
Notes: 19.2k words. Listening to Next Door by Amelia Moore & ASTN. it's been a hot fucking minute!!! There was an asmr cooktok video where I saw a reply that said smthg like, 'imagine being your downstairs neighbor'. And then I snorted and went, "Sounds like a good Mingyu fic." And when I tell you, the epiphany came to me the moment those words left my mouth. I wasn't even remotely thinking about SEVENTEEN at the time, or Mingyu. it just suddenly occurred to me and so here it is, a Mingyu fic :> I hope you like it! LMK WHAT YOU THINK!
Disclaimer: This story is fictitious. I do not know them, nor claim they would ever, irl, behave the way they were portrayed in this fic. ENJOOOY!
Someone next door was awake.
A faint scrape carried through the wall, like something dragged across a countertop. A cupboard door shut a moment later, then a soft hiss. At first, you thought your neighbor was putting something away. Then came the steady, rhythmic knocking again. Not loud enough to complain about, but loud enough to make you pause typing.
During the day, the sounds would have disappeared beneath traffic, conversations, and the general noise of the city. At two in the morning, though, they slipped through the paper-thin drywall one by one, enough to make you wonder what was going on next door.
Late nights had been like this ever since you moved into the apartment complex a little over a month ago. From your small living room-turned-office, you always heard the same scraping, knocking, and soft thuds drifting through the walls. They were faint enough to ignore, easy enough to tune out.
But you never did.
Sometimes it was simply more interesting to listen to your neighbor’s unexplained noises than to work. Not that work demanded much attention most days. As a work-from-home IT support engineer, you were paid surprisingly well for a job that often required you to do very little at all.
You told a friend once, and she asked, “What if your neighbor is a serial killer?”
That was certainly a possibility. You’d never even met said neighbor and knew nothing about them. And there was also the possibility that you didn’t have a neighbor in the first place and the sounds of existence you’d been hearing were simply episodes of psychosis. Maybe you’d gone crazy from staying inside for so long and not getting enough sun!
“I need to go out more,” you muttered, looking down at yourself.
You were still wearing the bathrobe you'd thrown on after your shower that afternoon, with absolutely nothing underneath. At some point, getting dressed had started to feel less like part of your routine and more like something you only bothered with if you had to leave the apartment—which, apparently, wasn’t often enough.
The next morning—which, for you, meant sometime after one in the afternoon—you woke up to sunlight leaking through the gap in your curtains. You blinked at the ceiling for a long moment before remembering the promise you’d made to yourself about going out more.
You almost laughed. The idea had sounded much more reasonable at two in the morning.
Still, after enough convincing, you dragged yourself out of bed, changed into actual clothes, and left the apartment before you could change your mind.
You had no idea where to go exactly. So you just wandered into a café a few blocks away and ordered an iced latte simply because it gave you an excuse to sit outside. After that, you stopped by a bookstore, then walked through the small park across from your apartment complex. You sat on a bench beneath the shade of a tree and pretended to read the first chapter of a novel you’d impulsively bought from the bookstore.
You managed exactly three pages before putting it down. But you didn’t leave yet.
Mostly, you watched people. Parents chasing toddlers across the grass. Students stretched out on picnic blankets, an elderly couple sharing a bag of bread for the pigeons.
It was nice. Quiet in a different way. Not noiseless like your apartment, but peaceful.
By the time the sun had begun to dip behind the neighboring buildings, your social battery had already started to deplete. You figured a successful outing was one you ended before wanting to go home became unbearable.
Maybe you’d do this again next week. No. Maybe tomorrow. Baby steps. For now, you really need to go home and bedrot the rest of the day before your shift begins.
Perfect timing, you pondered as soon as you walked into the lobby where the elevator literally just arrived.
You stepped inside and pressed the button for your floor, already looking forward to lying in bed and scrolling through TikTok.
“Hold the door!” someone called out just before the doors slid shut. You quickly tapped the button and waited until the person slipped inside.
It was a tall guy. Dark hair, neat appearance. You were admittedly not the best person to ask when it comes to describing appearances, but you could easily deduce that he was a good-looking guy. He smiled when he thanked you, and you offered a small smile of your own in return.
“Oh great, same floor,” he said after the doors closed.
You gave a small nod before returning your attention to the glowing floor numbers. Then the ride settled into the kind of silence where acknowledging someone else’s existence beyond a polite smile felt like breaking an unwritten rule.
In your mind, you wondered why you had never seen him before and what was in those large grocery bags he was carrying. It’s probably because I barely leave, you thought to yourself. That’s probably groceries.
You both got off on the same floor, as expected. As you made your way to your unit, you turned and noticed he did too. Then you made a left, and so did he. Your apartment came into view just as you started wondering why this man seemed to be following you.
But then he stopped in front of the unit next to yours and reached into his pocket.
You glanced over, one hand on your doorknob. “You’re my neighbor?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
He paused, then looked between you and the apartment door before shrugging. “I guess? Yeah.”
“Oh, I see,” you mumbled, nodding. “You’re the one who’s been making all those noises every night.”
His brows furrowed, confused or offended; you weren’t sure. “Sorry, what?”
“Oh my god,” you added immediately, hand flying to your mouth. “That sounded way more accusatory than I meant.”
His brows remained furrowed, now eyeing you with curiosity. You chuckled nervously and said, “Sorry. But yeah, I’ve been hearing noises from your unit every midnight.”
The color drained from his face. “You can hear that? And every night?”
You shrugged. “Yeah, the walls are kind of thin.”
His shoulders visibly dropped. “You’re the new tenant? Have I been bothering you this whole time?”
“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Not at all. I’m usually awake anyway.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was loud.”
“It wasn’t, really,” you assured him.
“You sure? I would have felt bad if I had been keeping you up.”
“You weren’t.” You smiled. “I can’t say I’m not curious about what you were doing, though.”
He looked momentarily embarrassed before glancing down at the grocery bags in his hand. Then he laughed. “I cook.”
You followed his gaze. Only then did you get a good look at the tops of fresh vegetables peeking out of one bag, along with cartons of cream and what looked like several different kinds of mushrooms.
“In the middle of the night?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… I film cooking videos.” He smiled sheepishly. “I film at night because it’s my only free time and it’s quieter.”
That explained a lot. The mysterious late-night sounds you’d spent a month inventing increasingly ridiculous explanations for.
“I thought you might’ve been a serial killer cleaning up.” The confession escaped before you could stop it.
His eyes went wide. “Seriously?”
“It’s a joke, obviously,” you replied, scoffing. “It was my friend who planted the idea.”
He laughed, looking a bit more relaxed now. “I promise I’m just making pasta or cooking some fish. Some days it’s sauces made from scratch.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” You smiled, fishing your keys from your pocket. “Good luck with your videos.”
You had just unlocked your door when his voice stopped you. “Wait. I didn’t catch your name.”
You turned. “I didn’t say it.”
“Well, I’m Kim Mingyu,” he said, striding over and offering a hand for a shake.
You gave him your name and shook his hand. “Nice to officially meet you.”
“You too,” you replied. You let go first, and he started slowly backing away.
“If I’m ever too loud…” he gestured vaguely toward the wall. “Just knock. Or you can yell.”
Your brows furrowed, and when he saw that, he said, “Not at me. I mean…” He shrugged. “You know what I mean.”
You smiled. “Good night, then.”
He responded by nodding and waving a hand. You stepped into your apartment, shutting the door behind you. It was nice to finally put a face and a name to the mysterious late-night noises that had kept you company on many quiet nights. The serial killer, the hallucination.
You chuckled. Turned out your neighbor was just making cooking videos. Somehow, that was less exciting.
written2
The noises drifted through the drywall again that night. Muffled and faint but unmistakable. This time, you did not need to make wild guesses about what could be going on on the other side of your wall. You finally recognized what you were listening to.
There was the sound of a knife striking a cutting board. It paused, followed by the scrape of a drawer and the metallic clatter of something dropped into a sink. You could hear cabinets opening and closing, a pan set down with a dull thunk, then the unmistakable hiss of something hitting hot oil.
You glanced at the clock: 1:03 am. Now that you thought about it, it made perfect sense. Filming at night was a good idea for several reasons. It was quieter, the lighting could be adjusted, and if he were anything like you, he probably functioned better at nightfall. Maybe he was just as nocturnal as you were.
A beeping sound pulled your thoughts away from your neighbor. You glanced at your screen and saw that your friend Pam was trying to call you. You adjusted your headphones and clicked ‘answer’.
“Slow night?” she asked as soon as the call connected.
“Slow night,” you affirmed, looking at your PC monitor.
“Just like every night?” Pam asked again.
You nodded. “Just like every night.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty slow here in the office too,” she sighed. “I wish I could just go home and sleep through the shift.”
“You’re the one who wants to work onsite when work from home is an option.”
Pam scoffed from the other line. “Unlike you, I have a very involved social life.”
Now it was your turn to scoff, indignant, albeit playfully. Pam added, “And I get to save electricity and internet costs when I work on site.”
“You’re literally your own boss. You can afford paying for your utility bills ten times over.”
“How do you think I stay rich?”
You were about to retort when you heard something clattering from the other side of the wall. Your neighbor seemed to have dropped something on the floor.
“Oh my god, Pam,” you blurted excitedly. “Remember my neighbor? The one who makes the weird noises next door?”
“The serial killer?”
You snorted. “Yeah. I met him today and it turns out the noises were kitchen noises and he’s not a serial killer.”
“Sounds like something a serial killer would say.”
You hummed. “Okay, fair point.” You leaned back in your chair. “But he’s… quite handsome though.”
“You know who else was handsome? Ted Bundy.”
You rolled your eyes. “You need to get off CrimeTok.”
“And you need to be more suspicious of strangers!”
She was right, but you’d never tell her that. Before you could think of anything to say, the sound of the doorbell ringing made you glance towards the door.
“Hold on. Someone’s at the door,” you told Pam, standing up at once and walking to the door.
“Who is it?” she asked conspiratorially. “Oh, my god. Is it Next Door Bundy?”
You tapped the video intercom and saw Mingyu’s face first thing. “Kim Mingyu?” you asked.
Mingyu perked up. “Hi, yes. It’s me. Do you have a moment?”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
He chuckled sheepishly. “I know. I was… um, I was hoping you were still awake.”
“Can I help you?” you asked, hesitating to open the door.
He lifted his hands to show a plate of food to the camera. “I was cooking. And I made an extra plate for you.”
Your brows furrowed, but you didn’t say anything. Mingyu continued. “You know, as a peace offering. You’d been putting up with my racket every night.”
“Don’t open the door!” Pam warned in your ear.
You heard her. But you chose to ignore her as you reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open. Mingyu was standing outside, holding the plate steady in one hand while the other offered a small wave.
“Were you working? Did I disturb you?” he asked, noticing the headphones you had on.
“Yes,” you replied. “I mean, yes, I’m working. But you didn’t disturb me or anything.” Your eyes immediately locked onto the mouth-watering lasagna sitting on sparkly white china, its aroma as delightful as its appearance.
“That’s a relief,” he said, then offered you the plate. “Here. It’s lasagna.”
“You didn’t have to,” you said, even as your hands had already started reaching for the plate.
“I know. I just… Thought I should.” Mingyu shrugged. “I was already cooking anyway, so I figured I might as well just share and apologize while I’m at it.”
You carefully took the plate from him. It was still warm, and not microwave warm but fresh-from-the-oven warm. The smell alone nearly convinced you to have a bite right then and there. “Were you filming content?”
“No. I was recipe testing for the next content,” he replied, smiling.
“Must be exhausting.”
He shook his head as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Not really. I quite enjoy cooking.”
“I can tell,” you quipped. “All that racket every single night.”
Mingyu’s jaw dropped in shock, and almost as quickly, his shoulders sagged in embarrassment. “You said it wasn’t that loud.”
“I didn’t say it was,” you chuckled. “I only meant it was consistent.”
“Well, ma’am, I’ll try to keep it down,” he quipped, chuckling.
“I won’t count on it,” you retorted, smiling. “Thanks for the food. It looks good.”
Through your headset, Pam gasped dramatically. “Don’t accept it! Did you accept it?”
You blinked, one hand instinctively reaching for your ear. “Oh.” You’d almost forgotten she was still there.
“I should leave you to it, then,” said Mingyu, excusing himself. “I hope you enjoy the food.”
“Yeah. Thanks again.”
“Oh, and I would appreciate any feedback,” he added, pointing at the plate. “I’m still learning and improving, so any comment is helpful.”
“Of course. I’ll let you know if I have any.”
A comfortable silence settled between you. Then it dragged on for a few seconds too long and you realized neither of you had figured out how to end this interaction.
“So…” You lifted the plate slightly. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“...I’ll wash the plate.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I feel like I do.”
He shrugged. “Fair.”
Another awkward pause. “Good night?”
“Good night,” he said.
You turned around first, offering a glance before closing your door. Pam didn’t waste a second.
“I cannot believe you accepted mysterious midnight lasagna from a man you met six hours ago.”
You carried the plate to the kitchen. “He has a face and a name.”
“What?”
“I’ve seen his face, and I know his name,” you reiterated. “It makes him statistically less likely to be a serial killer.”
“That’s not real statistics.”
You looked down at the lasagna again. “It smells really good. And if you can see this right now, you’d have accepted it too.”
Pam groaned. “I’ve lost you!”
That lasagna would soon become the first of many. The next night, Mingyu rang your doorbell again. Same time, same sheepish smile, and a plate in the same hand. Only this time, it was seafood pasta.
“I liked the feedback you left on my door earlier,” he’d said.
Right. After the lasagna, you washed his plate and left it in front of his door along with a note with your feedback written on it. “8/10. Amazing, but could use more cheese.”
“Thank you,” you said with uncertainty, already accepting the plate.
“No problem,” he beamed. “I hope you enjoy this one too.”
“How do I check for poison?” you quipped just as he was walking back to his door.
Mingyu turned with a grin. “Unless you’re fatally allergic to shellfish, that plate won’t kill you.”
“Yeah, very reassuring, thanks,” you said sarcastically, but you didn’t wait for him to respond and just went back inside your unit.
It was the same time the following night. 1:30ish AM, one doorbell, and one smiley Mingyu. This time, it was pizza, and he asked you to pay special attention to the dough because it was his first time making it from scratch.
The next time it was ragu. Another night, dumplings he claimed to have made from scratch too. One particularly memorable evening, he’d shown up a little late with crème brûlée and an apologetic expression. He said he was late because he burned the first batch.
Sometimes he lingered for five minutes to chat. Sometimes he handed you the plate and disappeared before you could say thank you. Either way, a dinner or a snack arrived around one-thirty.
One time you bumped into each other at the elevator and he asked if you liked raw fish.
“Like, sushi?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
His eyes lit up like he didn’t think you’d respond at all. “Yeah, sushi. Exactly.”
“Yeah. I like sushi,” you said, smiling though your brows furrowed slightly.
He’d given you a triumphant smile. “Good. Great!”
That night, as expected, a small boat of sushi was delivered at your doorstep by him.
Every single night, with no fail, Mingyu always delivered food to you. Each one more elaborate and delectable than the last. You were grateful but also felt bad for not being able to offer him anything. So you tried to make up for it by adding some of your snacks with your notes.
A 6/10 rating came with a piece of candy. 7/10 came with a granola bar. An 8 got a can of strawberry Milkis. And a 9/10 came with a bag of your favorite Honey Butter Chips.
You weren’t much of a food critic, so your notes often looked like: “8.5/10 Needed more salt.” “7/10 The crust was really good, but the whole thing was a bit dry.” “9/10. How did you make the sauce?”
You also went ahead and looked him up online. Unfortunately for you, there were plenty of Kim Mingyus on the internet, but no one who was a food vlogger. You tried to find his socials instead, and after much scrolling and squinting at photos, you found one with his face on it.
Unfortunately, once again, it was a dud. His account was private, and you were far too embarrassed to give him a follow request.
“I can’t possibly have him thinking I was stalking him on the internet!” you told Pam, exasperated.
“Girl, he’s been feeding you every night for two weeks. I’m sure he wouldn’t think you’re psycho for looking him up online,” she deadpanned, and you could almost imagine the way she’s rolling her eyes at you from the other line.
Fair point. But you still won’t follow him.
“Anyway, where were we on my theory that he might not actually be a food vlogger but a real serial killer who’s slowly poisoning you to death with all this food?”
You groaned. “My god, Pam.”
“Maybe he’s fattening you up before murdering you!”
All things considered, Mingyu became a constant presence in your daily routine. Somewhere between the lasagna and the sushi, you stopped wondering whether Mingyu would ring your doorbell that night, instead, you started wondering what he’d bring.
Fridays were your least favorite.
They were the one day of the week everyone in the company had to report onsite, regardless of whether they worked the rest of the time remotely.
Which meant trading your bathrobe for slacks, pretending to be sociable for eight hours, and listening to Pam tease you in person instead of over a headset.
“Who are you?” Pam teased, gazing up and down at your neat and crisp suit.
“Good day to you too, boss,” you replied, not looking up from your screen.
“You’re wearing a blazer today,” she continued.
“Can I help you? If not, I have work to do.”
“There’s hardly ever any real work to do here,” she huffed, looking around at all the other employees idling on their desks. She turned to you. “Tell me about your hot serial killer neighbor.”
The workday passed the way most Fridays did—with very little actual work and far too much conversation. Before you knew it, it was 5 pm. You clocked out with almost everyone on the team and went to a team dinner. You went for barbecue and drinks. Then for another round at a karaoke room. It was fun, and you weren’t planning on getting drunk, but you indulged in a few drinks yourself.
At some point in the night, your coworker Liz scooted closer to you to show you a video. “This guy is so hot.”
The video opened on a close-up of a simmering pot, the camera lingering on the glossy red sauce before cutting to a pair of hands sprinkling chopped parsley over the top.
“He’s so dreamy,” she sighed.
You blinked. “...You’re looking at his hands.”
“They’re hot hands.”
“They’re... hands,” you said, trying not to laugh.
She sighed dramatically. “Just watch.”
You humored her. The creator never showed his face. There was a close-up of butter melting in a pan. A quick cut to garlic being minced. Another cut to a knife gliding effortlessly through herbs. Then—
A forearm entered the frame, and your coworker let out the world’s most dramatic sigh.
You glanced sideways. “Seriously?”
“Just focus!” she chided playfully. “You won’t see the vision if you keep judging.”
“I’m not judging,” you chuckled and looked back at the screen.
The editing was actually kind of incredible. Every cut landed perfectly with the music. Steam curled through warm lighting. The sizzling sounded almost unnaturally crisp. The creator himself barely appeared beyond fleeting shots of broad shoulders, toned arms, and the occasional glimpse of his jaw whenever he leaned over the counter.
Whoever edited these videos knew exactly what they were doing. “See?” your coworker whispered.
“I see why you don’t get any work done.”
She narrowed her eyes at you. “You said you’re not judging, but I feel so judged.”
“You should,” you quipped.
The video continued. The finished pasta was lifted carefully onto a wide white plate with tiny silver speckles around the rim. Your brows knitted together. “Wait.”
You’d seen that plate before.
The creator adjusted a sprig of basil, wiped a smear of sauce from the rim before sliding the plate toward the lens. Your eyes widened. “No way. Pause it.”
Your coworker frowned but tapped the screen. You leaned closer. You pointed at the plate. “I know that plate.”
“How?”
You looked up slowly. “My neighbor serves me dinner on it.”
There was silence between you, and all you could hear was Pam’s tone deaf singing in the background.
“Your WHAT?”
a***kl: The recipe? Yeah sure, whatever.
fan***C: Respectfully, I barked.
dea***11: I’m looking at the cutting board respectfully.
may***x: Can someone tell me how much garlic he used?
-> lei***z: Girl be serious rn
“No fucking way,” Pam mumbled over your shoulder.
You, her, and Liz were crouched by the sidewalk, peering down at Liz’s phone watching more of (allegedly) Mingyu’s videos. “So he’s really a TikToker? Not a lying psycho serial killer?”
“To be fair, he could still be a serial killer,” you said matter-of-factly. “Some people live double lives, you know.”
“My internet crush is your neighbor, and you never told me?” Liz exclaimed.
“Girl, I’m only finding out right now. I’m not even sure if it’s him,” you replied.
Liz sighed dramatically, eyes twinkling with intrigue. “And you said he brings you food every night? Oh my god, I think he might have a crush on you.”
“Okay, let’s not jump to conclusions now,” you chided, standing up and dusting your knees. “Can you send me a link to his profile?”
“On it,” said Liz, tapping briskly on her screen.
“Ask him and let me know how it goes,” Pam demanded, grinning like a maniac.
You grimaced. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
She shook her head vigorously. “No. I’m too invested in this.”
Liz cut in. “Me too. Tell me how it goes too!”
Great, now you have two nosy women all up in your business.
Being the more sober one, you hailed a taxi and made sure both of them got home safely before heading home yourself. Once you were finally alone on the ride home, you scrolled through Mingyu’s profile and videos.
His username wasn’t Kim Mingyu or anything like that. No wonder you hadn’t found him. It was some clever screen name that gave absolutely nothing away. You scrolled further. Lasagna, pizza, the mushroom risotto from last Tuesday.
Yep. That was definitely your neighbor. Not to mention the occasional showing of his jaw and lower face.
“That’s definitely him,” you mumbled, just as you stepped into the elevator of your apartment complex.
When you reached your floor, you were surprised to see Mingyu loitering outside your door. The familiar white plate was sitting on his hand. Warmth crept up your neck, embarrassed at the idea that you had just been scrolling through his posts until two minutes ago, and now he was standing there in front of you.
You glanced down at your phone and saw that it was already past 1 AM. “Mingyu,” you called out, chucking your phone into your bag.
Mingyu turned at the sound of your voice, flashing a big toothy smile as soon as he recognized you. “Hi. I didn’t realize you weren’t home.”
You walked towards him, eyes fixed on the plate in his hand. “Yeah, I was working onsite today. How long have you been standing here for?”
“Not long,” he replied, showing you the steaming plate of gyoza dumplings. “See? Fresh out the pan. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Thank you,” you beamed, taking the plate. You realized then that you had never once declined food from this man. You could already imagine how Pam would react to that level of complacency.
“I already ate, though,” you told him, apologetic. “I was at a team dinner with my coworkers.”
“Team dinner? Must have been fun,” said Mingyu, and you couldn’t tell if that was honesty or polite interest.
“It was, but it was also exhausting. Actually, I watched your—” You stopped yourself midsentence, unsure if you should continue.
“Sorry, what?” he prompted, big oblivious eyes looking at you.
Should you tell him you found his TikTok? Probably not. You werent sure how he would react to that. If he had been comfortable about it in the first place, he would have shown you the account himself. You closed your mouth and swallowed your words. “Nothing. Don’t mind it.”
Mingyu seemed curious, but he didn’t press. “You look tired.”
You scowled, feigning offense at what seemed like a comment about your appearance. “Thanks?”
“No, I don’t— That’s not— You just said you worked all day, so—” he fumbled with his words. “I meant…” He gave up and just sighed. “You know what I meant.”
You laughed, amused at how easily flustered he was. “Do you wanna come in?”
He paused, staring at you like he hadn’t expected you to say that. “What?”
“Oh, it’s just, this is quite a lot for me to eat by myself. And you probably worked hard to make these,” you explained, motioning to the dumplings. “You could join me, if you want.”
There was a brief pause between the two of you, one that made you regret inviting him in and hope you could just leave right then and there and pretend none of this happened.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” he replied a second later. “I’ll just fetch something real quick.”
That was a relief. You nodded. “Or we could go to your place,” you offered.
Mingyu paused mid-step, now looking less nervous and more horrified. “What? Why?”
You frowned like the answer should have been obvious. “You’re the one who cooked. Your kitchen’s probably already set up for eating.”
You walked toward him, but he blocked you, the entire six feet of him standing between you and his door. You never realized how much bigger he was than you were until now.
“It’s not. I just finished cooking, so it’s a bit messy,” he said briskly, nervously. “There’s clutter and filming equipment everywhere, and there’s practically no space on the table,” he added, trying hard to convince you for some reason.
“You know what? I don’t need anything from there; let’s just go eat,” he said, motioning toward your door.
You were thoroughly confused and suspicious, but didn’t argue and just opened your door.
Your apartment didn’t have a dining table. It didn’t have much of anything, really—a couch, a coffee table doubling as a desk, and a suspicious number of unopened boxes still lining the wall by the window. So the two of you ended up sitting on the floor, the plate of gyoza between you on the coffee table, using the least mismatched pair of chopsticks you owned.
“They’re bamboo skewers,” you corrected. “I ran out of actual chopsticks.”
“How does someone run out of chopsticks?”
“How does one run out of something they never had in the first place?” You gestured at the general emptiness around you.
He huffed something that might have been a laugh. With visible concentration, managed to spear a dumpling with one skewer like a very small, very sad kebab.
“If you’re gonna complain, we should have gone to your place instead. I’m sure you have plenty of fancy cutlery and china sitting around,” you chided.
“Oh, I don’t mind eating like this,” he said through a mouth full of food. “I’m not picky.”
You watched him eat for a second, noticing the way he moved with little to no finesse. He seemed like a clumsy guy, leaving sauce droplets on the table and shoving entire dumplings into his mouth like it was nothing. It was almost hard to believe someone so careless knew how to plate dishes so beautifully.
“I can tell. You cook a wide variety of cuisines,” you replied, poking a dumpling with your skewer.
Mingyu smiled, cheeks swollen with food. “I’m not good at any of them yet. But I’m learning. That’s why I appreciate you rating my dishes.”
You chuckled softly, watching him stuff an entire gyoza in his mouth again like a starved bear. “I don’t think any of it helped. I’m not a foodie, let alone a food critic.”
Mingyu grinned in amusement. “I can tell.”
You rolled your eyes at that, though you didn’t find it offensive. Mingyu continued. “But I’m curious about one thing.”
You hummed, prompting him to continue.
“You’ve never once given me a 10 out of 10 rating,” he pointed out. “But you’ve never given me anything lower than 6 either. Why is that?”
That was true. You finished chewing your food before answering. “No reason, really. As I said, I’m no food critic. I have no idea what’s worth a perfect 10.”
Mingyu chuckled, content with the answer. “You don’t have to think about it so hard, you know. If you love something, just say it’s a ten. If you don’t, that’s fine too; say it’s a three, a zero, whatever it actually is.” He shrugged, spearing another dumpling. “It's just food. Nobody's grading you on being right. The only wrong answer is picking the middle just to be safe.”
Oh.
Oh wow, he can be surprisingly deep too. “Your fans don’t rate your food?” you asked.
Mingyu’s brows furrowed. “Fans?”
“You said you’re a content creator.”
“I make content as a hobby, yes,” he corrected, chuckling. “It’s not my day job.”
“What is your day job?”
“Take a guess.” He flashed a mischievous smile before shoving another piece into his mouth.
You rolled your eyes. “My coworker showed me a foodtok video earlier,” you started, completely ignoring his attempt at guessing games.
You kept your eyes on the dumplings, casual, casual. “This dude had really good editing. Really good lighting. Showed a lot of forearm, for someone whose content is supposedly about food.”
Mingyu went very still.
“Weird thing is,” you continued, pressing your index finger on the edge of the plate, “his plates looked exactly like this one.”
“Huh,” he said, in the tone of someone who was trying not to slip. “Really?” he asked with exaggerated amazement.
“White. Silver speckles around the rim.”
“Oh, wow. What a coincidence,” he replied, shoulders squared, feigning (and failing) indifference.
“Sure.”
“Lots of people own that plate,” he added, struggling to hide a grin and biting his lower lip to fight it.
“Of course,” you said again, not even concealing your amusement.
He set his skewer down like a man setting down a losing hand. “Fine. Yes. That’s me.”
“I know.”
Mingyu deadpanned. “You knew, and you let me say ‘that’s a common plate design’?”
“I wanted to see how far you’d take it.”
He rolled his eyes, equal parts embarrassed and clearly a little impressed. You chuckled.
“So, are you one of those cringey TikTokers who sexualize the food in their videos?” you accused, pointing a skewer at him.
Mingyu’s eyes widened so much it looked like they would bulge out of their sockets. “No, I’m not! I swear to god I’m not.”
You snorted, then started laughing. “Fine, you’re not. So defensive.”
But he was not done convincing you. “We have similarities, okay? But I don’t sexualize the food. I never have!”
You stopped laughing for a moment. “Oh? How are you similar then?”
Mingyu’s ears turned redder than they already were. He looked even more embarrassed now, looking down at the plate to avoid your gaze. “I thisirafovi,” he mumbled, looking away.
“What’s that?”
He exhaled sharply, looking the opposite way from you. “Thirst trap,” he said quietly.
You heard it, but wanted to tease him. “Nah, I didn’t catch that.”
He turned to you now, glaring indignantly, ears tomato red and his lips downturned into a pout. “I’m what you call a thirst trap TikTok chef,” he said in one breath, louder and clearer this time.
You burst out laughing, so much you were rolling on the floor. Meanwhile, Mingyu’s face remained deadpan, seemingly regretting the moment he walked into your door.
“You done?” he asked when you finally sat back up.
You sighed, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “Please don’t tell me you cooked this with nothing but an apron.”
He looked genuinely indignant. “No, I had pants on too. I never cooked without pants on.”
You paused, unsure why he said that. Then the realization sent you into another fit of laughter. Mingyu looked so done, but also amused, if the faint smile on his lips as he watched you was any indication.
“You’re mean,” he muttered. “For the record, it wasn't even my idea originally,” he said defensively.
“Uh-huh.”
“It wasn’t! My friend, the one who edits my videos, said engagement doubled the first time I rolled my sleeves up on camera, so now it’s just—” he gestured vaguely at his own arms, betrayed by his own body, “—part of the brand.”
“It’s impressive, actually. I gotta give you that. And apparently, it works,” you said, pointing at his hands. “I saw my coworker getting weak in the knees just seeing your hands.”
“Is that coworker the one who found my account?” he asked, narrowing his eyes suspicsiouly at you. “Or did you scour the internet in search of me?”
“Let’s not be delusional now,” you snorted, though it was partly true that you tried to look him up. Saying you ‘scoured the internet’ was a bit of a stretch. “Why didn’t you just tell me in the first place?”
He had the decency to look sheepish. “I panic sometimes about— people I actually finding it. It’s different when it’s strangers.”
You hummed. “Understandable. I’d also panic if my neighbor found out I thirst-trap in front of a camera every night.”
Mingyu scoffed, but didn’t retort. He had the expression of someone who's completely done with the conversation now. He looked around in search for something to change the subject to, and his eyes landed on the boxes stacked against the wall.
“Your apartment looks empty,” he said. Not a tease this time, just an observation.
“Yeah, I haven’t really unpacked my stuff yet,” you admitted, also glancing at the stack of boxes.
“Hasn’t it already been a month?”
You nodded. “A month and two weeks, yes.”
“Any reason, or—” he asked, gesturing vaguely.
You narrowed your eyes at him playfully, then smiled. “That’s a conversation over drinks,” you said, popping the last dumpling into your mouth before he could ask anything further.
Mingyu raised an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”
“No.”
“You sure? I have a great bottle of red back in my place.”
“We’re not there yet,” you said, and he laughed heartily, not the sheepish half-laugh he usually did on the doorstep.
Eventually he stood up, gathering the empty plate, waving off your protest that you’d wash it. “I'll just wash it at home.”
“Okay.”
He lingered by the door for a second, the way he always did, like leaving was a quiz he needed to get right in one try.
“Good night,” he said finally, stepping out of the door.
“Good night, Mingyu.”
He stood there for a moment, waiting for you to close the door. Offering a small wave, you closed it, the sound of the lock clicking echoing in your apartment.
“I think he’s a himbo,” you told Pam over the call. “Or not? He seems smart sometimes, but most times he’s… I don’t know, clueless?”
“Why are we overanalyzing your neighbor?” Pam asked on the other line.
That made you pause, a siren going off in your head. “Right. Why?” you asked back, catching yourself off guard.
You sat up straight in front of your computer, looking down at yourself and the way you seemed to be paying your nice neighbor too much attention these days. “I don’t like him,” you blurted, making Pam chuckle on the other line.
“No one’s saying you do.”
Yes, but the idea has been planted in your head now. Sure, you like him. He was nice, and he was a good cook. But it was not ‘liking’ in a romantic sense. You just liked him as a person, as a friend. But then—
The doorbell rang just before you started losing your mind. It’s true what they say: speak of the devil, and the devil appears.
“I’m hanging up,” you told Pam, not waiting for a response before taking your headset off.
The midnight deliveries continued as usual. Some nights Mingyu would bring two servings and stay to eat, settling into the same spot on your floor like it had been assigned to him by now. One night, between bites of his hand-pulled noodles, he asked, “Do you cook?”
“Sometimes,” you said, shrugging. “When I’m feeling productive.”
Mingyu’s eyebrows shot up like you’d just told him you were secretly royalty. “You do?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked,” he said, very clearly shocked. He glanced around your apartment—the boxes, the coffee-table-slash-desk, the general emptiness—and then back at you, the implication written all over his face.
“I just moved in,” you said, for what felt like the hundredth time.
He huffed, unconvinced, and gestured vaguely at the room. “I decorated my whole place the day I moved in. Curtains, plants, all the works.”
“That’s you. Not me.”
He shook his head slowly, like he was brainstorming something, and then, without warning, pushed himself up off the floor with a look of sudden, mildly alarming purpose. “You know what? I have just the thing.”
“For what?”
He didn’t answer. He was already at your door, out of it, and back a moment later, hauling what appeared to be a folding table under one arm. “Where do you want it?”
“Where do I want— what is that?”
“A table,” he said, like this was self-evident. “I have an extra.”
“You just had a spare table lying around?”
“I bought two by accident. Different question, focus.” He was already scanning your living room. “Here?”
You pointed, mostly out of resignation, and he set it down with a satisfied little thud, unfolding the legs and giving it a firm shake to make sure it wouldn’t collapse.
“There.” He straightened up, hands on his hips, surveying his work. “Do you have a tablecloth?”
“A what?”
“A tablecloth. For the table.”
“Mingyu, I didn't even have the table five seconds ago,” you complained, walking into your bedroom anyway to look for one.
You found one, buried in a box you were fairly sure was labeled MISC in your own handwriting, a long piece of fabric that may or may not have been a scarf. You held it up with visible skepticism.
“Here. This could work.”
He took it from you and draped it over the table with a flourish that was, frankly, unnecessary for what was essentially a folding card table wearing a scarf.
“There we go,” he said.
You crossed your arms. “Are you done?”
“Almost.” He reached into his jacket pocket—which, in retrospect, had been suspiciously bulging this entire time—and produced, with the reverence of a man revealing a great treasure, a small glass vase. No flowers in it, just the vase.
He set it directly in the center of the table with both hands, like it might tip the balance of the universe if placed off-center. Then he stepped back to admire it, the scarf-tablecloth, the empty vase, the whole absurd tableau, and fingers on his chin as he nodded approvingly.
“Some fresh flowers, and you’re good,” he said, smiling at you. “A sign of life.”
You scoffed at his theatrics, although you did appreciate his effort. “So dramatic,” you huffed, standing beside him to admire his work.
Mingyu would soon do a lot more in your house than deliver food. Over the following weeks, he replaced the flickering light in your hallway, helped you wrestle curtain rods into place above windows that had been bare since you moved in, and started showing up with actual flowers for the vase. According to him, his little “sign of life” vase apparently required maintenance that he was happy enough to shoulder.
You hadn’t asked for any of it. He just kept noticing things and fixing them, the way some people couldn’t walk past a crooked picture frame without straightening it.
One night, he arrived with dinner in one hand and found you sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by the graveyard of boxes you’d been avoiding since move-in day. You had overestimated the sudden burst of energy that came over you earlier that day, and opened everything. Your plan of organizing and decorating failed miserably and you were now left with a sea of clutter.
“Should I come back later, or..?” he asked from the doorway.
“Please. Stay,” you deadpanned, sarcastic. “Stay. And witness my suffering.”
He set the food down without comment and lowered himself onto the floor beside you, peering into the nearest box. “What are we dealing with here?”
“Oh you’ll be surprised,” you scoffed, pushing a cardboard box with an IKEA nightstand in it toward him. “It’s new furniture. Past me apparently had ambitions to decorate.”
Mingyu peered into that box. “Huh. It’s brand new.”
“Well, yeah. But it sat in that corner for more three months unopened, so,” you shrugged. “Is it still considered brand new?”
“I think it varies from people to people,” he replied with a chuckle.
Between the two of you, you unearthed a disassembled bookshelf, a box of brand new 70inch TV you got from Pam as a birthday gift before you moved in, and—at the bottom of the pile, suspiciously heavy for its size—a flat-pack box so large it had been sat on top of everything else.
Mingyu read the label out loud. “Queen bed.”
Recognition dawned on you. “Oh, my god. Yeah. I remember buying that.”
“You have a queen bed. In a box. That you have not built.” His brows furrowed. “Where do you sleep?”
“I have a mattress,” you said, a little defensively. “It’s just—”
“On the floor?”
You didn’t answer, which was, in itself, an answer.
Mingyu turned to look at you properly now, something between horror and disbelief settling over his face. “Your mattress has been on the floor this entire time?”
“I don’t see what’s the issue,” you replied, lifting your chin defensively.
“The issue,” he said, gesturing at the unopened bed frame, “is that you’ve had an entire bed sitting in a box for over a month while sleeping on the floor like a—” he seemed to search for the least insulting way to finish that sentence and failed, “—like a broke fresh graduate.”
You huffed a laugh. “It’s not that deep. I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
He glanced at the box again, then back at you. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I did the same thing when I first moved in next door.”
You blinked. “You slept on the floor?”
“For like four months,” he replied, showing four fingers, looking like he couldn’t believe it either. “As you know, this is an expensive neighborhood. And after paying the deposit, I didn’t have enough money left for a bed frame. Priorities were... elsewhere.”
“You could’ve rented a smaller place.”
He shrugged. “I could have, but I really like this place. I knew I wanted to live here as soon as I saw it. I didn’t know how I knew, I just did.”
You weren’t sure what to do with that. The mental image of him, before all this, sitting alone on a mattress on his own floor in an apartment he’d apparently decorated the same day he moved in except for the one thing that actually mattered.
He didn’t seem sad about it though. In fact, he even sounded amazed talking about it. “You’ve come a long way.”
“One year and counting,” he said proudly. He nudged the box with his foot, considering it. “I could help you build this.”
You looked at the sheer size of it. The diagrams were visible through the shrink-wrap, easily forty steps of increasingly small hardware. You glanced at the clock, which read well past one in the morning, and then at the plate of food slowly going cold on your coffee table.
“Or,” you said, “we could eat first and deal with my poor life choices another day.”
Mingyu considered this seriously, then nodded. “That’s alright. Baby steps,” he smiled, already standing and offering you a hand up. “When you're ready, just let me know, and I'll help you build it.”
“'Cause you're very reliable, aren't you?” you quipped, taking his hand as you crossed the sea of mess.
“I am. Thank you very much,” he replied, grinning.
You knocked on his door on a Saturday morning, which was, according to Mingyu’s face when he opened it, apparently unprecedented.
“You are upright in broad daylight,” he said, leaning against the door. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“I need your help moving furniture.”
He narrowed his eyes on you. “No ‘good morning’? No ‘hello, Mingyu, thank you for the lamb last night, I never properly—’”
“I bought a couch,” you spoke over him, cutting him off. “It’s on its way here.”
His eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “A couch, you say?”
The couch was real this time, not a floor cushion or an old bean bag, an actual couch, delivered by two men who clearly had no idea what they would be dealing with. Mingyu directed traffic like he was overseeing a small military operation, barking things like “other left” and “no my left, your other left” until the thing was finally wedged into place beneath the window.
He stood back, hands on his hips, surveying it with pride for his work, which had mostly consisted of pointing. “Look at that,” he said to you. “An actual living room.”
Then you decided it was also the perfect time to put up the TV, the one Pam had gotten you. Mingyu mounted it on the wall with a level and a drill and an expression of intense concentration. When he finally stepped back to check it was straight, he looked very pleased with himself.
You noticed his arms then. The way they flexed when he adjusted the bracket, a thin sheen of sweat along his forearms from hauling the large TV.
You’d seen the TikToks. You’d made fun of the TikToks. You were like, what about these arms and hands are attractive? Now you see it. Now you’re like, Oh. That's why people are like that about him.
Ironically enough, it was harder to maintain your distance in person than it had been from the safety of Liz’s phone screen.
“I think this is the first time we’ve hung out during the day,” he said, dropping onto the new couch like he’d personally paid for it, testing the cushions with obnoxious little bounces.
“What do you mean? We’ve seen each other during the day before,” you said, thankful for the conversation that distracted you from ogling his biceps and his pecs.
“You mean in the elevator for two minutes? Twice a week, if we’re lucky.”
“Doesn’t that count?” you asked.
“It does not count. We should do it more often.” He stretched his arms along the back of the couch, feeling the leather. He looked at the TV, then at you. “Should we watch a movie?”
You didn’t think before you said it. which, in hindsight, was the whole problem. “Oh, I’m actually going out later. Need to grab a few more things for the place.”
“Are you asking me out?” he asked, face lighting up.
Your brows furrowed. “No. What did I say to make you think that?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe you’re just shy and that was secretly an invitation to go on a date with me,” he said, chuckling under his breath
“Get out of my apartment,” you said monotonously, pointing to the door.
“I built your TV mount.”
“Thank you. Get out of my apartment,” you said, already walking to the direction of your bedroom. “Respectfully.”
He left, laughing, and you spent the next five minutes getting ready to go out before your doorbell rang again. It was him, jacket on, absolutely uninvited.
“I know this incredible weekend market by the coast,” he said, like you’d asked. “Ornaments, candles, all your decorating needs.”
You nodded. “Okay. I’ll check it out,” you said, going back inside to put your shoes on.
Mingyu followed. “Alright. Let’s go.”
“I didn’t say you could come.”
“You also didn’t say I couldn’t.”
You let him come. You didn’t really have a good reason not to so you just went with it.
The market turned out to be exactly the kind of place you’d have wandered into alone and left forty-five minutes later with nothing, except now you had Mingyu narrating everything like a very enthusiastic, mildly unhinged tour guide. He knew which stall had the best candles, which one was a scam, he knew the guy three booths down made his own ceramics.
You were listening, looking around at the stalls and their products but not moving to buy anything yet. You were waiting for Pam, who you’d made a plan to go out with.
And there she was, waving at you from beside a table of hand-thrown pottery. You waved back. Beside you, Mingyu had stopped talking.
You glanced at him. “It’s my friend, Pam.”
“You didn’t say you were meeting someone.”
“You didn’t ask if I was going alone.”
“That feels like the wrong answer,” he said. “Don’t people normally go, ‘Oh, I’m going out later with my friend’.”
“I didn’t ask you to come,” you said, watching Pam walk toward you. “So put up with it or go home.”
But he didn’t want to go home, it seemed. He put up with it admirably, trailing a respectful distance behind while you and Pam picked through candles, occasionally getting roped into opinions he clearly had (strong ones, about scent, which nobody expected) before wandering off again to “look at something,” which you were fairly sure was code for giving you space.
The second he was out of earshot, Pam rounded on you, leaning conspiratorially. “You weren’t lying. He is good-looking.”
You leaned towards her and quietly said, “He built me a TV mount and put the TV up himself.”
Pam gasped softly, one hand covering her mouth for added effect. “That and he cooks. He’s so hot. I mean, not my type, but like, objectively, scientifically, he is hot. Damn, I can’t believe I’m saying this about a man.”
“Stop saying he’s hot,” you chided softly, peering over your shoulder to see if he was within earshot.
Mingyu was inspecting a stall of lemons, engaged in a conversation with the vendor, oblivious to your conversation. Pam pulled you closer.
“Why haven’t you boned him yet?”
“Pam!” you exclaimed, scandalized.
“No, because, seriously,” she insisted, chuckling. “Why not?”
“He’s a friend.”
“He’s hot.”
“He’s a friend who just happened to be hot,” you said again, like repetition might make it more convincing the second time. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Pam wasn’t buying it. “No guy installs your TV, replaces your lightbulbs, brings you flowers for a vase, and brings food every night for a girl he’s not into.”
“Maybe there’s a handful of decent men left in the world,” you said, “and he happens to be one of them.”
“You believe that?” she asked, grimacing.
“No,” you replied without missing a beat. “But I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Okay. He’s nice because he’s a decent guy. Not because he likes you,” Pam shrugged, finally letting up. “Which is too bad because you clearly like him.”
You didn’t have a comeback for that one because it was true. You glanced across the market to where Mingyu was still crouched at the lemon stall, laughing with the vendor. His side profile looked ethereal in the golden glow of the sunlight, and you thought, with real and growing dread: Pam was right.
The problem with feelings was that, more often than not, they ruin friendships. You value the friendship you’d built with Mingyu in the last two months. For someone who rarely made friends, feelings and romance was a complicated variable which inevitably ruins things.
One Friday night, you bumped into him in the elevator, which even now was a rare occurrence. He was still in his office suit, and he was carrying bags of groceries, as usual.
“Do you like steak?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Good. Come watch me cook.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation or a summon?”
“Would you prefer a formal one?” He cleared his throat and lowered his head with exaggerated ceremony. “You are cordially invited to witness me cook a steak. RSVP now, we’re about to reach our floor.”
You went. Mostly out of curiosity, because you’d spent two whole months speculating about what his apartment actually looked like, and here it was, finally, unlocking in front of you.
It was, against every expectation you’d built up, immaculate. Cozy and neat living room area, clean counters, oraganized kitchen, even the knives were in a row, arranged by size. Not remotely the disaster zone he’d once described.
“You lied to me,” you said, standing in the doorway. “You said it’s a mess in here, but this looks straight out of a condominium showroom.”
“It’s early,” he said, like that explained everything, already tying an apron around his waist. “I haven’t started cooking yet. Give it twenty minutes.”
“So the mess is only when you’re cooking?”
“The mess,” he said solemnly, pulling a cast iron pan from the cabinet, “is an inevitability. My cooking skills are not on par with my mom’s yet. She preps, cooks, and cleans simultaneously. I always tried, but I can never do that.”
You didn’t believe him at first, but started to within ten minutes of him doing prep work. By the time he started searing the steak, there was butter on the counter, a rogue sprig of thyme on the floor, and flour dusted across one forearm despite there being, as far as you could tell, no reason for flour to be involved in this dish whatsoever.
But you could see why he struggled with that. He seemed to be the type to focus on one thing at a time. So when he was cooking, his full attention was on the food. A hundred percent of it.
“Why aren’t you filming this?” you asked.
Mingyu glanced at you briefly. “It’s not for content.”
“It’s not?” you asked, looking at all the prepared ingredients on the counter. “Why not? I think it’s shaping up to be a fancy plate.”
He chuckled, but didn’t say a word. You decided to fish your phone out and take a shot at recording him.
“Can I record you?” you asked, already opening your camera app. “It won’t be as fancy as your videos, but I’ll try to match it.”
“Please,” he said, smiling. “Be my guest.”
You started recording, not in a fancy way with all the angles and the B-shots. You simply just recorded him, his face, the food, his kitchen counter, the flour on his arm.
“You’re supposed to record the cooking process,” he chuckled, watching you record yourself putting garlic peels into the trash.
“It’s a BTS video,” you replied without missing a beat, then turned the camera back at him.
“You’re very good,” you told him, peering into the pan before positioning your camera in front of it.
Seeing his cooking in person wasn’t as breathtaking as his TikTok videos—which were obviously shot in different angles and edited to look good. But you could tell he knew what he was doing. He moved with precision because he memorized his own kitchen. He knew where to find things and where to put stuff away. At one point, he rolled his sleeves up, completely in his element in a way you hadn’t seen before. He looked confident, relaxed, and good with his hands in a way that had nothing to do with a screwdriver this time.
He’s so sexy—
What?!
You blinked, realizing you’d been focusing the camera to his face.
Get your mind out of the gutter. This is a man basting a steak. Get it together.
Except he kept doing things that made getting it together increasingly difficult. Leaning in close to check the angle of your shot, one hand braced on the counter beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. Or plating the finished steak and holding a piece out for you to taste directly off the fork instead of, you know, a normal plate, like a very normal very platonic friend, and waiting there, watching your reaction.
“Well?” he asked.
“It’s good.”
“Just good?”
“It’s… very good?” you replied with uncertainty. He huffed a laugh that made you scowl. “I told you I’m not a good food critic.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you’re a cute one.”
He smiled, seemingly normally, except it was not because what is that warm, almost dreamy glint in his eyes?
“That’s a very low standard,” you huffed, rolling your eyes.
Mingyu crossed the distance between you in one stride, and all of a sudden, he was standing close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. He placed his palm on top of your head, measuring your height against himself. Then stepped back, looked down at his hand on his collarbone, and nodded.
“I think it’s perfect,” he said approvingly. “Just the way I like it.”
You stood there, flustered. Things were happening so fast and your neurons were going into overdrive trying to catch up. You managed a scowl, hiding behind the facade of annoyance.
“You’re being weird tonight,” you said.
“Weird how?”
“Flirty weird.”
“I’m always like this.”
“No, you’re not,” you opposed. “You’re talking in riddles. And you’re not making any sense.”
“I like to think I was being pretty forward there,” he said, and took one more step, too close, close enough that you had to tip your head back slightly to keep looking at him. Close enough that his voice dropped without him seeming to do it on purpose, close enough that you could count exactly none of the thoughts currently happening in your head because there weren’t any.
His eyes were fixed on yours, then they flicked to your lips, staying there for a few seconds before flicking back your eyes. You held your breath, your grip tightening around the phone still recording in your hand. When you took a step back, Mingyu took one forward. You didn’t even notice that you were already caged on the corner of the counter, his hand bracing on the tile behind you, gaze still never leaving yours.
With much effort, you found your voice, low and breathy, close to a whisper. “I think you should leave.”
Mingyu’s forehead creased very slightly. “What?”
“I think you should leave. Go. Get out of my apartment,” you repeated, a little louder now.
He looked past your shoulder, then back at you. “But this is my apartment.”
Your brain short-circuited, neurons frozen in place as you looked around, actually processed your surroundings for the first time in what felt like several minutes, and oh my god. It was. Obviously it was.
You were the one who’d wandered in here an hour ago, filmed his steak, made unhinged internal commentary about his forearms, and were now, apparently, trying to evict him from his own home.
“Right…” you said, with as much composure as you could muster on short notice. “Okay. Then I’ll leave.”
You said it very calmly, but you were already moving at 4x speed, pushing past him, muttering something about the hour and needing to log on soon, and you were out the door. You heard him say something about your steak and today being Friday.
But you were already opening your own apartment, fumbling with the doorknob and slamming it shut. Only then did you let yourself breathe, heart going at a pace that was definitely not caused by the three steps you took between his door and yours.
Through the wall, faintly, you heard him laughing.
Mingyu stood on your desk chair, one arm braced against the ceiling, the other twisting the new light fixture into place. His shirt had ridden up somewhere around the third turn of the screwdriver, just enough to show a glimpse of a stomach you had absolutely no reason to be looking at.
You looked anyway.
It’s just skin, you told yourself. Everyone has skin. You have skin.
“Can you hand me the little cap thing?” he asked, not looking down.
You blinked, then scrambled for the small plastic piece sitting innocently on the coffee table. “The... little cap thing,” you repeated, mostly to buy yourself a second to compose yourself.
Replacing the light fixture in your living room was something you’d already agreed to do. After the disastrous steak night, you had hoped he’d forgotten about it, but alas, here he was. Sunday, as agreed.
“The finial. I think that’s what it's called.”
“Sure. That.” You handed it up to him, and his fingers brushed yours for exactly one second too long to be an accident and exactly one second too short to be anything else.
You retracted your hand like you’d touched the stove.
He didn’t seem to notice. Or he did and was better at pretending than you were. Hard to tell with him standing above you like that, forearm flexing slightly as he twisted the finial into place, a faint sheen of sweat at his temple even though installing a light fixture should not, by any metric, require one to sweat.
He’s just tall, you reasoned. Tall people look attractive when they reach for things. Doesn’t mean they are attractive for real. Not Mingyu, though. He IS attractive for real.
“There,” he said, stepping down from the chair with the complacency of someone who had never once in his life worried about his knees giving out on a wobbly desk chair. He flicked the switch. Warm light bloomed across your ceiling, soft and yellow, exactly the vibe you’d pictured when you bought the thing and then promptly ignored it in its box.
“Oh,” you said, looking up at it instead of him. Much safer, looking at a light fixture. “It’s nice.”
“Just nice?”
“Very nice.”
“Is very the best thing you can come up with?” Mingyu chuckled. “You should stick to numeric ratings. Personally, I think that’s a ten.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t hand out tens for lighting fixtures, Mingyu. My system is built for rating food.”
He huffed, amused, and dropped back down onto your couch like he lived there, arms stretched along the back of it, entirely too comfortable in a way that made your apartment feel smaller than it had five minutes ago. You tried not to ogle, but it was hard not to when his arms and muscles were in full display for your eyes to feast upon.
Is he doing it on purpose?
“Like what you’re seeing?” he asked, flexing his muscles.
He IS doing it on purpose.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” he chuckled, sitting up and reaching for a glass of juice you’d prepared for him.
Once again, your eyes betrayed you, fixing themselves on his muscles as he lifted the glass to drink. They landed on his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, then they followed a drop of sweat trailing on his neck, all the way down to his collarbone before getting absorbed by his tank top. His toned chest was visible underneath his top, and you could almost see the pectorals that—
“Oh my god!” you exclaimed, catching yourself. You turned around, feeling the warmth creep up from your neck to your face.
You heard Mingyu chuckle. “You okay there?” he asked, the lilt in his voice a clear indication that he knew exactly what was going on.
You took a deep breath and crossed your arms over your chest before facing him. “Yeah, fine. You done?” you said, keeping your gaze on his face.
In your defense, you were a woman who hadn’t had any action in God knows how long. And you didn’t need to check your chart to see that you were ovulating this week.
“You seem on edge these days,” he pointed out, setting the glass back down. He straightened up slowly, then ran his hand through his hair. Doing it on purpose again. “How long has it been since you last—”
“I’m not answering that,” you cut him off completely, looking away.
“That’s fine,” he replied, picking up the tools and packing them away.
You watched him, realizing something you’d never noticed before. “Now that we’re on the subject,” she began, pointing at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you bring a woman home before.”
The grin on Mingyu’s lips was menacing when he glanced back at you. “Were you listening in? Hoping to hear something?”
You jaw dropped. “I was not!” you exclaimed. Really, you weren’t, but it sounded defensive even to your own ears. “Gross.”
Mingyu threw his head back, laughing. “Are you curious if I’m getting laid or not?”
“No. I only thought, given how thin the walls were, I would have heard something, once or twice, whatever,” you blurted, then raised an index finger to his face. “But I was not listening for it. Nor do I care about your sex life.”
He nodded in acknowledgment, crossing his arms over his chest. You were momentarily distracted by the way his biceps flexed, but looked away before he could catch you.
Those damn muscles!
“I do get laid,” he confessed, shrugging. “But I don’t bring them to my place. It’s easier that way. No strings attached.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You talk like you do it regularly.”
“Not much these days. But I’m pretty confident I can get some anytime I need it,” he said, confidence evident in his expression.
You grimaced. “Are you a whore?”
“Are you slut-shaming me?”
You shrugged. “You’re not a very good whore since you haven’t been able to get into my pants yet.”
“If I wanted to, I would’ve already made a move on you.”
You blinked. Did he just tell you that he didn’t like you?
“Not that I don’t want to. That’s not what I’m saying,” he doubled back. “I’m just saying I can’t.”
Your brows furrowed. Right, because he didn’t like you.
“Okay. That sounded worse.” He sighed, almost amused by the look on your face. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re not like other girls. I don’t want to ruin this for a temporary fix.”
He paused, looking at you. “I like you a lot. So I can’t cross that line with you.”
You stared at him for a second, then hummed approvingly. “Well, I like you too.”
Mingyu’s eyebrows shot up. “You do?”
“Platonically.”
“Oh.” He looked genuinely offended. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He stared at you for a moment before a slow grin spread across his face. “Okay. I respect that.”
You nodded, satisfied. “But if you want,” he continued, stepping closer, “we can have sex, you know.”
Your eyes widened.
“Platonically,” he added, like that somehow made it sell better. “Get you out of your dry spell.”
“Get the fuck out of here.” You pushed him toward the door, and he laughed, his head lolling back as he let you shove him all the way out. You opened the door and kicked him out, the grin on his face making you want to punch him. “Thanks for the lights. Don’t come back.”
“If you change your mind,” he called, turning around as he started walking backward down the hallway, “you know where to find—”
You slammed the door shut before he could finish.
You thought you’d have a break from Mingyu’s shenanigans for a few days when he told you he’d be swapped with work for a whole week. But not even a day later, he appeared in front of your door, holding up what looked like an expensive bottle of wine.
“Employee of the month,” he’d announced before you’d even said ‘hello’.
He invited you back to his apartment, saying he had set up a dinner for two with smoked salmon on the menu. You let yourself be pulled inside, warning you not to bolt out for no reason again like you did before. That made you wanna punch him in the face because he knew exactly why you had to run away then.
The salmon was amazing, as expected from Mingyu himself. You talked about random things, from the most recent foodtok trends on TikTok, to the most generous vendor at the weekend market. Your table was filled with much laughter and the occasional glaring you’d thrown at each other when one of you made a joke at the expense of the other.
“So.” You prompted, halfway through the meal. “Employee of the month, are you finally going to tell me what you do?”
“You had over three months to guess,” he quipped, noticing that your glass had been emptied and reaching for the bottle. “What theories do you have?”
“Okay,” You held up a finger. “It’s not culinary, obviously. Nor is it anything film-related.”
Mingyu hummed in agreement, shaking his head as he refilled you a glass. “And it’s definitely an office job. You don’t have the pallor.”
He laughed, mid-pour. “The pallor?”
“You know, the appearance. Office workers have this pallor about them, like they’re always tired or stressed out of their mind,” you explained. “You’ve got main-character-outdoor-adequate Vitamin D energy. Office people look like they haven’t had the sun touch their skin.”
“Well, not all of them.” He set the glass in front of you, and something about the way he said it made you pause.
“It is an office job, isn’t it?” you said slowly.
He took a sip of his own wine, peering at you over the glass. “It is. I’m an accountant.”
You stared at him, your jaw dropping slowly. “You’re lying.”
“I have a badge. I have a lanyard. And I have a staggering number of spreadsheets in the office.”
“You cook like this—” you gestured at the stove, the careful plating, the entire operation, “—and you film like that, and you’re telling me you spend your days doing taxes?”
“Audits, mostly. But close enough.”
“That doesn’t make sense to me at all.”
He smiled, genuinely amused by your disbelief. He sat down across from you, turning his glass slowly by the stem.
“I like film,” he said. “And cooking, obviously. But it wasn’t a practical career path at the times, so." He shrugged. “I went to business school, took accounting. Graduated, went on internships, got hired, the whole shebang. I was pretty good at it, I guess.”
“Hence the employee of the month award?” you added, smiling. “So what happened to cooking?”
“I have always cooked my own food. Then I started filming it because—” he paused, like he was deciding how much to actually say, “—because it’s kind of lonely, cooking for one, every night, with no one to tell you if it’s any good. Then the whole TikTok thing took off. I thought I should give it a shot. And here we are.”
You didn’t say anything for a second. It wasn’t the kind of thing that fit neatly into the banter you two usually ran on, and you got the sense he knew that too, from the way he kept drinking small sips from his glass and looking away.
“Anyway. Turns out enough people watched that I could probably make a living off it now,” he continued. “But I haven’t worked up the nerve to actually quit the stable, soul-crushing job for the unstable, joy-giving one.”
He said it lightly, but there was a real weight sitting under the joke. You’d notice this pattern now with Mingyu. He often said the true thing, then smiled so it didn’t turn into a heavy conversation.
“For what it’s worth,” you said, “I think that’s kind of impressive. Knowing what you actually want. Most people don’t even get that far.”
He hummed, looking at you now, seemingly relieved that the conversation was not about him anymore.
“I picked IT because it was the cheapest major that was also very practical in terms of employability.” You turned your glass, mirroring his earlier gesture without meaning to. “Fell into it, honestly. Turned out I was decent at it, even started to like it somewhere along the way. But I wouldn’t call it a passion. It’s just... the thing I do. I like doing it, for the most part, but I don’t actually know what I want. Not the way you do.”
“Huh.” He studied you for a second. “Who are you? My neighbor’s not usually this deep and wise.”
You huffed a laugh. “Screw you. I’m being sincere here.”
“I know,” he said softly, though his grin was mischievous. “I appreciate it. And I believe you, you know. Heck, you don’t even have the passion to assemble your own bed.”
“Okay, that’s a low blow.”
“I’m not sorry,” he replied without missing a beat.
You laughed, so did he. Then there was a pause,the kind that had started happening more often lately, where someone said something and then you just exchanged glances knowing you were thinking the same thing. He was looking at you in that way again.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” you asked.
“I hope so,” he replied.
You grinned, rising to your feet. “Let’s build that fucking bed.”
“Let’s build that fucking bed, indeed,” he echoed, mirroring you and tossing his napkin on the table.
The bed took considerably longer than either of you anticipated, mostly because Mingyu—a man capable of reading a fourteen-page IKEA manual, correctly identifying which of the forty identical bolts went where, and holding an entire headboard steady with one arm without breaking a sweat—turned out to be catastrophically, almost supernaturally clumsy.
He dropped a bolt within the first ten minutes. It vanished immediately, as bolts do, never to be seen again. Then he stepped on that missing bolt twenty minutes and let out a sound so undignified you nearly fell over laughing, which did not help the structural integrity of the side panel he’d asked you to keep steady.
“Those hands are not made for hard labor,” you teased.
“They are,” he insisted, hopping on one foot, “Losing a bolt is not equivalent to being bad at the job.”
“Losing a bolt? More losing to a bolt,” you replied, then burst out laughing again.
Mingyu rolled his eyes. “Don’t laugh at my pain.”
“Oh, I would never,” you said, still laughing.
Soon the last bolt was tightened, the frame standing regally. You helped him lift the mattress and hoist it onto the bed, both of you sweaty and slightly delirious from sleep deprivation. By the time it was over, the sky outside had gone a pale blue color, an indication that sunrise was not far off.
And only then did you discover the problem. The bed was heavier than either of you had accounted for, and with your combined 3 brain cells at 3am, you’d assembled it directly in the path of the balcony door, which now would not budge past the frame’s edge.
Mingyu elaborately explained how you could turn it on its side and move it away from the balcony door, but none of it was registering because you were drowsy out of your mind.
“Or,” you cut him off, lowering yourself onto the mattress. Your knees seemed to thank you for it. “We could just accept the fact that we were dumb.”
He climbed in after you. Because there was no other logical place to sit in a room dominated by an unmovable bed. The two of you ended up stretched out side by side, staring out through the half-open balcony door at the sky slowly transitioning from grey to deep blue, to something almost pastel blue.
“That sky reminds me of my teenage years,” Mingyu said, still looking at the sky. “My rebellious phase. Just so you know, I wasn't always responsible-accountant-slash-thirst-trap-chef.”
You snorted. “Pray tell.”
“I sneaked out a lot, and always came home at the crack of dawn,” he began, smiling faintly at the memory. “I skipped class. Dated someone my parents hated specifically because they hated her.” He added with a laugh. “Grew out of it eventually.”
You hummed, watching the sky too. “Sounds fun.”
“What about you? What did you get up to when you were sixteen and trying to be edgy?” he quipped, turning to you.
You kept your eyes on the sky, considering how much of this you actually wanted to get into. Somewhat to your own surprise, you realized you didn't mind. Not with him, not at four in the morning, on a bed you couldn’t close the door around.
“Can’t say I did anything like that. You see, I moved around a lot," you began. “I was in foster care. A few different families, a group home for a while in between. Never anywhere long enough for it to actually feel like anything or, a home.”
Mingyu didn’t say anything right away, and you were grateful for that because you didn’t have to watch him scramble for the right response, or visibly flinch out of pity. He just gave you room to keep going.
“I put myself through school after I aged out,” you continued. “Hence the IT thing. It was easy and it was practical. Same instinct as you and accounting, probably.” You shrugged against the mattress. “But I’m not sad about it or anything. It was just a long time ago, mostly. Doesn't really have much to do with who I am now. I just never really learned how to settle anywhere, is all. Old habit. Guess it followed me here.”
“Is that why it took you a long time to unpack?”
“Yeah, well, some part of me is always half-expecting to have to pack them again,” you said plainly, honestly. “Doesn’t mean I’m not trying. I am. Slower than most people, maybe.”
He turned his head on the pillow to look at you properly, and whatever he was about to say, he seemed to think better of it, choosing instead something kinder. “You’ve unpacked every box now though, especially this bed frame.”
“That was mostly you.”
“Yeah, but,” he paused, shrugging. “I wouldn’t have if you didn’t let me. So in a way, it was still you.”
You almost laughed, and it came out softer than you meant it to, something in your chest loosening slightly at how easily he made you feel validated without brushing past what you’d actually said.
Outside, the sky had gone properly sky blue now, the city starting to wake.
“For the record,” Mingyu said, after a while, voice quieter than usual, “I think you’re doing well enough on your own.”
You didn’t say anything to that. You just kept looking at the sky, very aware of how close his shoulder was to yours on a bed that, for once, wasn’t going anywhere.
You woke a few hours later with no memory of actually falling asleep save for the hazy transition from talking about foster homes and unpacked boxes to, apparently, unconsciousness, still fully clothed, still tangled slightly in a blanket neither of you had bothered to arrange properly.
Mingyu was asleep beside you, one arm thrown over his face, mouth slightly open, entirely unglamorous and somehow still managing to look good doing it, which felt, frankly, unfair.
You allowed yourself exactly thirty seconds of staring. His sleeping face wasn’t any different from his regular face—still as peaceful, as nice, and handsome. He was a good guy. So relentlessly, exhaustingly good to you, in every small and enormous way.
Then you remembered it was Friday, and the sheer terror of being late to onsite work outweighed whatever this feeling was, so you peeled yourself off the bed as quietly as possible and left him to sleep some more.
“Does he like you or does he not?” Pam said later that day in the office, somewhere between her second coffee and her third time coming over to your desk to gossip. “How hard a question is that? Yes or no, done.”
“I’m done talking about this,” you replied, not peeling your eyes from your computer.
“I’m just saying. Man builds you furniture. Man cooks for you nightly. Man definitely did not just casually set up a nice wine and dine in his kitchen and happened to invite you. It was premeditated.”
“I’m doing a housewarming party,” you told her, completely ignoring what she just said even though every word registered clearly in your mind. “Tonight. You should come. You need to come.”
Pam blinked. “Now? You've lived there for what, five months? And you’re only doing housewarming now?”
“Well it only started feeling like a proper house now that I have assembled the bed,” you replied. “Just come. You and Liz. We don’t need to cook. We’ll order in and you can help me move the bed.”
“Housewarming? Is Mingyu invited?” Liz nearly knocked over her own coffee.
“I have to go,” you said.
“It’s not even noon yet.”
You shrugged. “I’m clocking out early. I have to get the house ready for later, you know,” you replied, already standing, already walking away.
You came home that afternoon to find your apartment clean. The empty boxes were gone from the corners, the bed no longer marooned in front of the balcony door but shifted neatly against the wall where it belonged. Even the vase had a new batch of fresh lilies in it.
You were still standing in the doorway, processing this, when your doorbell rang. Mingyu, unsurprisingly, was on the other side of it.
“Hi,” He greeted, smiling with pride. “I hope you don’t mind. I did a bit of cleaning. After fixing the bed situation.”
“Yeah, I noticed. How did you even move that thing? It was so heavy.”
“Oh, I didn’t move it alone,” he confessed. “I asked the building’s utility guys very nicely. Threw in some ragu. Everyone wins.”
“You bribed maintenance with ragu.”
“I bribed them with excellent ragu,” he corrected. Then he held out something, a folded set of bedding, still in its packaging, soft blue with a pattern you might have picked yourself if you’d ever gotten around to picking anything.
“It’s a housewarming gift,” he said. “I don’t know if you already had one, but knowing you, I’d assume you didn’t. But now that your apartment looks and feels like a home, you should probably throw that party.”
You chuckled softly, taking the gift. “I actually literally just invited my friends over for a housewarming party. Tonight.”
“Oh, wow. Look at that. Great minds think alike.” He beamed, entirely too pleased with the coincidence, entirely too pleased in general with everything. Something about the accumulation of it, the whole list of things this man had done for you over the last few months without ever once asking for anything back, finally encourage something in your chest that you had been holding very carefully in place.
“Kim Mingyu,” you started, your tone more serious now. “Do you like me?”
Mingyu blinked. For one long second, you fully expected him to deflect, or joke about it, or say you were delusional. You’d have accepted it. You’d almost have preferred it, honestly, some escape hatch for both of you.
Instead, he just looked at you, his expression one of genuine astonishment. “You’re only figuring that out now?”
“What?” you asked back, your brain lagging.
“Yes. I do. I liked you,” He said it plainly, matter-of-factly even. As if it should have been something you already knew. “I thought you already knew that.”
You lifted a hand between you, half warning, half surrender. “Okay. Nope. We are not having this conversation right now.”
“Why not? You started it,” he chuckled, stepping closer. “Let’s talk about it. Get it all out in the open.”
“Nope. Not today.” You were already steering him backward, one hand on his shoulder, toward the door he’d just walked through. “I have a housewarming to plan. You can come, if you want. Bring food. Don’t bring—don’t bring this—” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, “—don't bring whatever this is, not tonight.”
“But we will discuss it though, right?” he asked, letting himself be pushed while grinning from ear to ear, entirely too happy for a man being physically removed from an apartment.
“Goodbye, Mingyu.”
“I’ll bring the ragu.”
“Get out.”
He went out laughing, unbothered, grinning the whole way down the hall like a man who’d just won something, which, you supposed, watching the door click shut behind him, he probably had.
Your housewarming party had exactly three guests, which felt, if you were honest with yourself, entirely proportional to the size of your social circle. Pam showed up first, wine in hand and a suspiciously small box as her housewarming gift. Liz arrived ten minutes later with a plant she insisted was ‘the easiest to grow and most impossible to kill’ which felt like a challenge more than a gift. Mingyu came last, unsurprisingly bearing food. A full spread of it, easily enough for twelve people.
“Mingyu, is this a housewarming for four, or a small wedding reception?” Pam asked, laughing. “But I am not complaining because it looks good and I am starving.”
“Everything looks amazing, Mr. Kim,” said Liz.
“Please, just Mingyu,” Mingyu said, offering a hand.
Liz was practically vibrating. “I’m a big fan. I’ve been following you on TikTok for a year now. So nice to finally meet you in person, Mr Kim.”
“Mingyu.”
“Yes, Mingyu,” Liz repeated, still shaking his hand. Mingyu looked down at it, and only then did Liz realize and finally let go.
“Thank you. You must be the coworker she told me about,” he said, glancing briefly at you. “She found my account because of you.”
Liz blinked at Mingyu, then at you. “Is that bad? That sounds bad.”
You shook your head, mouthing, ‘It’s not.’
The evening went the way evenings usually went with the three of you, too much wine, too much food, Pam recounting exaggerated stories from their college years, Liz still not entirely over the fact that her TikTok crush was, in fact, real and standing in your kitchen refilling everyone’s glasses.
It was somewhere around glass four that Pam turned to Mingyu. “So,” she said. “Have you told her you're in love with her yet?”
You choked, mid-sip, coughing hard enough that your eyes watered, while Liz and Pam continued their conversation around you like this was a perfectly normal thing to say out loud at a housewarming party.
Mingyu, entirely unbothered, rubbed a slow circle on your back until you got your breath under control. “Yeah,” he said. “She knows.”
“No I don’t!” you protested.
“But I already told you,” he said.
“Yeah, two hours ago!”
Mingyu shrugged. “Okay, but you should have already known the whole time. I wasn’t being subtle about it.”
Your jaw dropped at his ridiculous logic. “Or you could’ve just told me directly. That’s not on me.”
Pam nearly fell off the couch laughing. Liz looked delighted in the specific way of someone who had correctly predicted a plot twist. The rest of the night centered around that conversation, Pam demanding a full replay of the doorway confession, Mingyu recounting it with dramatic flourish each time, and you threatening to kick all three of them out of your apartment, and nobody taking the threat remotely seriously.
Soon, Pam and Liz finally left, late into the night and very loudly, blowing exaggerated kisses at both of you from the hallway. Silence swallowed the entire apartment, as if someone had suddenly turned off a very loud speaker blaring deafening music. But it wasn’t unpleasant, if anything, it was a relief.
Your gaze fell on Mingyu, gathering the plates, humming under his breath.
“No, leave it,” you said, panicking at the thought of someone else cleaning after you. You approached the table, picking up the remaining dishes he hadn’t reached yet and then bringing it over to the sink.
“It’s alright,” said Mingyu, trailing after you to the sink. “You should get some rest. I’ll take care of the rest,” he added, placing the dishes carefully in the dishwasher.
You watched him move, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “I can’t possibly let you do that.”
He shook his head. “I don’t mind,” he said, putting the last dish in the machine before rising to face you. “Did you have fun?”
You nodded, smiling. “You? I know they can be a bit much.”
He shrugged, appearing to think. “Yeah, well, they are a bit too loud. Feels like being in a party with twenty people, but they’re cool. I like them.”
“Do you, now?” you chuckled. “They liked you too. They don’t usually warm up to people that quickly.”
He leaned back against the counter beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours. “Really?”
You nodded. “Really.”
He hummed, looking down at the floor for a moment before turning his head toward you. “I’m glad.”
You met his gaze. “Why?”
“Because I like being around you,” he said matter-of-factly.
Your heart gave a stupid little flutter. “You still like me?”
“Hell yeah.” He chuckled. “You think I changed my mind at some point in the last five hours?”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “No, but like… Who knows?”
The apartment suddenly felt much quieter than it had a few minutes ago. Maybe it was because Pam and Liz had been filling every corner of it with their voices all night, but now that they were gone, you became painfully aware of how close Mingyu was standing.
You glanced at him, and found that he was already looking at you. “What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
You rolled your eyes, turning away from him. “You should go home.”
“I live three feet away.”
“You know what I mean.”
He smiled. “Do you want me to?”
You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The question suddenly felt a lot more serious than it should have.
“I…” You cleared your throat. “I don’t know.”
He nodded slowly, looking down at the counter. “Okay.”
Neither of you moved. A few seconds passed with him just watching you. Then he reached toward you. You instinctively stiffened, but he only brushed his thumb along the corner of your mouth.
“You’ve got something here.”
“Huh?” you blurted, cheeks flushing. “What was it?”
He looked at his thumb, then back at you. “This,” he said, lifting his fingers.
A finger heart.
You huffed, unamused. The look on your face made Mingyu laugh, head lolling back carelessly. “You’re an idiot,” you muttered.
“Yeah?” he said, still grinning.
You rolled your eyes, turning away from him. “Go home.”
“I live three feet away.”
“You know what I mean.”
His laughter faded, but the smile remained. You kept your deadpan, arms still crossed, but the humor was already gone. Neither of you said anything at first. Then the smile on his lips disappeared, leaving something softer in its place. His eyes stayed on yours for a moment before dropping briefly to your mouth.
You stayed where you were, your breath catching as his face drew closer. His hand came up to your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as he gave you one last second to change your mind.
You didn’t protest. Mingyu flashed a small smile before his lips met yours, softly and tenderly.
Your fingers curled against the edge of the counter as you kissed him back, your heart pounding so hard you were convinced he could hear it. He pulled back just enough to look at you and for a second, neither of you moved. Then you reached for the front of his shirt and pulled him back in.
The second kiss was nothing like the first. It was warmer, deeper, a culmination of all the tension you both brushed aside for the sake of your friendship.
His hand slipped from your cheek to the small of your back, holding you gently as you leaned into him. When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing a little harder, faces so close your noses were almost touching.
“Well?” he breathed, a grin tearing through his lips, unable to hide his delight. “That was not platonic at all.”
You stared at him for a second before laughing breathlessly. “No. It wasn’t,” you replied, giggling.
He pulled you into another kiss, pulling you flush against him. It turned into more than a kiss quickly, into the bedroom, onto the sheets he’d bought you as a housewarming gift, which felt both extremely fitting and extremely funny in a way you filed away to laugh about later.
Your hand was firm against his chest, feeling the muscles you’d only daydreamed about. The other was on his neck, tugging him closer as if he wasn’t literally skin to skin with you already.
His hand slipped under your shirt, feeling the skin underneath. It kept moving, tracing the line of your belly, to your sternum, pausing just between the cusp of your breasts. You pulled back slightly. “We shouldn’t.”
Mingyu groaned—a real, genuine sound of loss—but he stopped immediately. “It’s too soon, isn’t it?”
You nodded, lips downturned. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s alright. Don’t be,” he said, cupping your cheek and pressing a soft kiss on your lips. He didn’t argue or hesitate, instead, he pulled you into a hug instead, arms wrapping around you loosely.
“This is okay, though, right?” he asked, voice muffled against your hair.
“It’s okay.” More than okay, honestly, but you didn’t say that part.
You lay there for a while after, talking softly about nothing important, the party, Pam’s wine choices, Liz’s plants. You talked about the new robot vacuum you’d purchased online. Anything and everything, like you often did.
Except Mingyu kept shifting restlessly, squirming behind you in a way that started to genuinely annoy you.
“Can’t you stay still?” you chided, looking over your shoulder.
“Sorry. Sorry, I—” He cleared his throat. “I should probably head back to my place.”
Your heart ached a little. “Why?”
“I have... business… to take care of.”
You blinked, propping yourself in your arms to face him properly. “It’s midnight. What business—”
You felt it before you could finish your question—the business, hard and very insistently poking your side. You glanced down at it, bulging unmistakably inside his loose sweatpants.
“Oh my god,” you blurted before you could stop yourself.
Mingyu’s face went instantly, spectacularly red. He was out of the bed and halfway to the door before you’d even fully processed what had just happened, muttering something about respecting boundaries and giving you space, tripping slightly over his own discarded shoe in his hurry to escape with whatever dignity he had left.
You called out just as his hand hit the doorknob. “You don’t have to leave.”
He froze, pressing his head against the door. “I have to. I’m a man. I can’t be trusted,” he muttered.
“Really,” you insisted, sitting up. “You don’t have to take care of that business alone,” you added, and you knew exactly what you were talking about.
Mingyu turned back slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “Are you serious?”
“I’m serious.”
The shift from sheepish to shocked to hungry in Mingyu’s face was instant. His eyes darkened, and whatever composure he’d been holding onto by a thread simply dropped away. He crossed the room toward you in two long strides, climbing the bed briskly and without a warning, pulled you by your neck to crash his lips against yours.
“Mingyu!” you rasped, your voice strained from trying to be quiet.
His head was between your legs, hands gripping your legs tight to keep you from closing them. Your fingers were threaded through his hair, tugging and pushing with each time her tongue met your cunt.
He was shameless, sucking and licking with much gusto. He was relentless, his tongue finding the exact spot that made your hips jerk uncontrollably. He was a man possessed, driven by a need that demanded he push you further than you had ever gone before.
You could feel yourself reaching your breaking point, your body tensing as you prepared to shatter. Mingyu pulled back just enough to look up at you. His face was flushed, his eyes wild and dark with hunger.
“Give it to me,” he said hoarsely, his expression one of desperation, his breath hot against your inner thigh. “Come for me, please. Show me how much you want this.”
Without a warning, you felt two of his fingers pushing into your cunt, making you gasp in both surprise and pleasure. He moved them expertly, rubbing and pushing, fast but gentle, all while watching your face intently, brows creased with concentration. He watched the way you whimpered, the way your back arched, and the way your face contorted with pleasure.
“That’s right, baby,” he breathed, his grip on your knee tightening. Whether it was to keep you from closing your legs, or to keep himself steady, Mingyu wasn’t sure. Maybe it was both.
Your body stiffened as the first wave of pleasure tore through you, back arching, fingers tightening on the sheets as you let out a cry that you couldn’t stifle. The sound echoed off the walls of the room, making Mingyu’s lips twitch. Your inner muscles clenched around his fingers, then convulsed violently as your orgasm claimed you, sending ripples of electricity from your core to your fingertips.
Mingyu didn’t let up, fingers still going at it, letting you ride the high. He drank in your reaction, his own arousal spiking at the sound of your undoing. Your eyes fluttered closed, head rolling back as you surrendered to the overwhelming sensation he had coaxed from you.
When the tremors finally began to subside into shaky breaths, Mingyu didn’t let you recover. He moved between your thighs, his manhood hard inside his boxers, precum staining the fabric. He cupped your cheek, pushing hair out of your face before planting a soft kiss on her lips.
“You good?” he asked softly, though the look in his eyes was anything but soft.
You sighed, relief more than anything. “Very good,” you whispered, still breathless.
Mingyu grinned, canine flashing. “How would you rate that numerically?”
You laughed weakly, chest vibrating. “A solid 9?”
Mingyu pouted in disappointment. That only made you laugh again. How could he make that face after what he did to you just now?
“Fine, I’ll take it,” he resigned, moving between your legs. “Shall we see if the rating improves when I’m done with you?”
Your pussy clenched at the challenge in his voice. “Shall we?” you asked back, biting your lip.
He responded with a smirk. Then he grabbed your hips, thumbs digging into your flesh as he positioned himself at your entrance. His breathing was turning ragged again, eyes locked onto yours with a terrifying intensity.
“Brace yourself,” he said, pulling his boxers down and letting his manhood spring free. You almost gasped at the sheer size of it, but managed yto cover your mouth before it came out. Mingyu clocked that.
“You like it?” he asked, grinning cockily.
His hands moved to your knees, guiding your legs wider. He let the tip of his cock press against your cunt, sliding it up and down a few times before trying to push it in. The first few inches were a slow, agonizing stretch that made you whimper.
Your hands found purchase in his arms, eyes closed, nails digging into his skin as you stifled your own voice.
“Look at me, baby,” he said, softly, almost pleadingly.
You opened your eyes, immediately meeting his gaze. He leaned down, bracing his hands on the mattress beside your head. He buried his face on the crook of your neck, his own breathing ragged and unsteady.
“You are so tight,” he hissed against your skin. “So fucking perfect.”
For a moment, he simply stayed there, buried deep inside you. The sensation was overwhelming the heat, the wetness, the way his cock seemed to mold perfectly inside you, as if you were two halves of a whole.
The moment the initial shock of penetration passed, he began to roll his hips, carefully at first. Carefully but deeply, savoring the feeling. But then it soon turned into something more frantic and demanding. He moved with a relentless, driving rhythm, his cock hitting deeper into you with each plunge, sending sparks of electricity through you. The sound of your bodies connecting, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin filled the quiet room, mixed with your helpless whimpers and his soft grunts.
“Open your eyes, baby,” he commanded, his voice dark and husky. “Open your eyes and look at what you’re doing to me.”
You obeyed. His face was… majestic. He hovered over you, hair hanging messily on his temples, his forehead creasing ever so slightly with every thrust. You could see the pleasure and the need warring in his expression, beads of sweat forming and rolling down his face.
You reached up, caressing his face before lifting your head just enough to kiss his lips. “Mingyu,” you whispered against his lips. “You fuck so good, Mingyu.”
“Fuck,” he groaned, deep and guttural.
His pace increased, his movements becoming more desperate as the friction drove him closer to his peak. He was losing himself in you, in the scent of your skin, in the way your nails scraped down his back, leaving red uneven lines in their wake.
Meanwhile, your lip was starting to swell from biting it too much, stifling your moans, knowing the walls were thin and your other neighbor could hear. Mingyu noticed this, grinning as he leaned to kiss the side of your lips.
“It’s okay to let it out, you know,” he coaxed. “I’m sure they won’t mind.”
“I would,” you managed to croak out, your body tensing with his every thrust.
It was maddening, a delicious torture that made every nerve ending in your body scream for release. You could feel your walls milking him, pulsing around his cock with every thrust, and the sensation was so overwhelming you could barely maintain your grip on reality.
You could feel it forming, the familiar knot in your lower belly, getting tighter and tighter. Your grip on his shoulder tightened, his arching to meet his as you chased your own orgasm.
“I’m coming,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.
You were too, but you couldn’t open your mouth to say that, pleasure building higher and higher until your second orgasm came. But you didn’t have time to process that, as Mingyu’s movement became more erratic, pushing deeper and harder until—
“Ah, fuck,” he roared, his voice breaking as the climax seized him. His body stiffened completely, his muscles locking as he drove himself inside you one last time with devastating force.
Then he slumped against you, his chest heaving against yours as he fought for air, his forehead resting on your shoulder. You let him stay there, your limbs limp and your entire body tingling in the aftermath.
Mingyu pulled back just enough to look at you, his green dark and unfocused, pupils blown wide. His lips curled into a hungry smile that held none of his usual boyish charm, only the raw hunger of a man who had found something he never wanted to let go.
“Are you sleepy?” he rasped against your ear, his teeth grazing your lobe before his lips moved down to your neck.
“No.” You tilted your head, giving him more access.
“Good,” he grinned, lips claiming yours once more. “We’re just getting started.”
You woke up tangled in sheets that were, thankfully, entirely appropriate for what had happened on them, sunlight filtering through the curtains Mingyu had installed himself months ago, his arm heavy across your waist. You could feel his breathing, slow and even against the back of your neck.
You lay there for a while, just doing the math in your head—how he’d gone from being a stranger on the other side of the drywall to this, warm and real and thoroughly, undeniably yours now.
He stirred eventually, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder before he’d even fully opened his eyes. “Good morning.”
“Morning.”
“I’m still here,” he murmured, turning on his back, eyes still closed.
“Yes you are,” you replied, turning to face him, propping your head against your elbow.
His eyes fluttered open, suddenly wide awake. “I’m still here?” he asked, eyes darting around. Then he suddenly sat up, looking around properly before looking at you.
“I’m still here,” he repeated, more matter-of-factly now.
“You’re very observant,” you deadpanned.
Mingyu ignored that, grinning widely as he leaned closer to kiss you, one hand cradling your face. “Good morning, baby.”
“Isn’t it too soon for an endearment?” you asked, but you were smiling, stomach fluttering at the endearment.
“You didn’t think that last night,” he teased, grinning mischievously.
You rolled your eyes. “Get out.”
“I don’t want to,” he chimed. He propped himself up on one elbow, mirroring you while looking entirely too pleased with the general state of things—the room, the bed, you, all of it. “What’s the verdict? In my opinion that was—”
“If you say ten out of ten I will end this relationship before it starts.”
He grinned. “Why did you bother refusing if you were gonna end up sleeping with me anyway?”
“Are you complaining,” you retorted, playfully raising an eyebrow.
“No, not at all,” he said, shaking his head. He lay back down, pulling you in with him and wrapping you in his embrace. “I like my women mean and undecided.”
The weeks that followed were disarming and unfamiliar, in a good way. Mingyu quit the accounting job three weeks after the housewarming. According to his dramatic retelling, he walked in, gave his notice, and walked out feeling lighter. He even implied that he’d thrown his badge into the sea, even though you were fairly sure he’d just handed it to HR like a normal person.
“Now I’m just gonna have to pray TikTok keeps paying me,” he told you one night, very seriously with his apron on and a spatula in hand.
You crossed the space in his kitchen and wrapped your arms around his waist. “Don’t worry baby. I make good money.”
“You do?” he asked, peering at you over his shoulder. “How good?”
You tiptoed, whispering your monthly salary in his ear. Hearing it made him gasp, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “I didn’t know IT people make that much money.”
“Not all of us, but I’m a cloud architect, so my job’s pretty important,” you replied, grinning proudly.
“That’s cool. I don’t mind being a stay-at-home husband,” he said, grinning. “I’ll be waiting for you to get home from work every day. Wearing nothing but this apron.”
“We’re not even married.”
“Not yet,” he corrected. “Give it time.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a promise.” He flipped the pancakes in the pan.
“Now it sounds like pressure.”
Mingyu laughed, his shoulders shaking. He turned to face you, showing you the back of his left hand. “I’ll have you know I’m not putting anything less than 7ct on this finger,” he said with mock seriousness, wiggling his fingers.
You rolled your eyes, but you let him pull into a hug.
You started cooking with him some nights, instead of just receiving whatever he handed you at the door. Your knife work was embarrassing enough that he’d taken to standing behind you to ‘correct your form,’ which wasa blatant lie because he obviously just wanted an excuse to hold you from behind and put his mouth near your ear.
More than once, dinner went cold on the stove because you’d both gotten distracted somewhere around the chopping board, him lifting you onto the counter with ease, lips locked with yours and his hand slipping under your shirt or into your shorts. Cooking would be forgotten entirely until one of you smelled something burning.
“We are never going to finish a meal at this rate,” you said once, breathless, his hands still braced on either side of you.
“It’s alright. I have something else I wanna eat,” he said, entirely unbothered, and went back to kissing you like the stove wasn’t actively on fire behind him.
You’d also, somewhere along the way, stopped being an audience. The girl who used to accept whatever he handed her with grateful, uncomplicated delight had turned into someone with opinions. You would text him requests before he even knocked, veto dishes, once sending him back to his own kitchen because there was “too much vegetable.” He pretended to be offended by this every single time and was, in fact, thrilled by it, because it meant you trusted him enough to actually want things from him instead of just being grateful for whatever showed up.
“You’ve gotten so picky,” he complained, not sounding remotely upset about it.
“You make really good food, so technically, I became picky because of you.”
Your apartment changed too, slowly, in ways you only noticed in hindsight. The boxes were long gone, replaced by things you’d chosen together, a rug that matched nothing on purpose, photos finally up on the walls, more flowers than the vase could reasonably hold, half of it clearly Mingyu’s doing and half of it, you realized with some surprise, yours. You’d started buying things for the apartment without being nudged into it.
You still hadn’t moved in together. Pam brought it up first,over drinks one night. “You’re basically already living together, why do you even pay two separate rents?”
You and Mingyu had exchanged a look that was asking the same question. Then you just ended up laughing.
“We like the wall,” Mingyu said.
“No, it’s so I can kick him out when he’s being annoying,” you countered.
“She’s lying. She’s never kicked me out,” Mingyu said, entirely serious. “And that wall has sentimental value. We are not giving up our noise-related origin story.”
Pam grimaced. “I’m gonna throw up. You guys look so happy.”
Truth was, Mingyu’s apartment had been serving more like a studio these days. It’s where he makes content, and cooks food. But there was something else you liked about it—the short walk between two doors instead of none at all, the doorbell still ringing some nights with a plate of something in hand, the fact that even now, even after everything, some nights still started with him knocking and asking if you were hungry. You weren’t ready to trade that in yet. Maybe you never would be. Maybe it didn’t matter, since the space between your door and his had stopped meaning distance a long time ago.
You told Mingyu the story once, the actual story, the whole thing, the way you used to tell it back when it was just funny, just a hallway mystery.
“You didn’t genuinely think I was a serial killer, did you?”
You chuckled. “Of course not. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I was glad you’re just a hot TikTok chef who makes content at 1am.”
“Who’s also a very good kisser,” he added. “Don't leave that part out. That part is important.”
You could still hear him sometimes, through the wall, when he stayed at his own place to film. The familiar scrape of a knife, the hiss of oil, the occasional muttered curse when his clumsy ass dropped something. It didn't feel mysterious anymore.
The Secret Sunset
Mingyu x Wonwoo
Mature | Explicit | Smut | MDNI
On their last days in Bali, a lost ring and a sudden fan encounter bring the real world back into focus, driving them to spend a final, passionate evening hidden away on their private beach.
Part 3
Morning light streamed through the open glass walls, covering the bedroom in a soft warmth. Mingyu stirred first, his arm stretching across the empty side of the bed. The sheets were cool. He propped himself up on one elbow and found Wonwoo standing at the bathroom counter, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair damp from the shower.
“Good morning,” Mingyu said, his voice rough with sleep.
Wonwoo glanced over his shoulder. “Morning. I was thinking we should go out today.”
“Out?”
“Yeah. Downtown. Into Seminyak. Do some shopping. Eat something that isn’t room service. Explore.”
Mingyu stretched, his joints popping. “Disguises?”
“Maybe a little.”
An hour later, they stood in front of the villa’s full-length mirror, assessing their light attempt. Loose linen button-downs, both in muted earth tones. Sunglasses that covered half their faces. Bucket hats pulled low. Mingyu turned sideways, checking his profile.
“I look like a tourist.”
“You are a tourist,” Wonwoo said.
“I look like a tourist who got lost on the way to a yoga retreat.”
Wonwoo laughed and adjusted his own hat. “That’s the point. Ready?”
Mingyu grabbed his wallet and phone. “Ready.”
The taxi wound through the narrow streets of Seminyak, past storefronts spilling with native fabrics and wood carvings. The air was thick with the smell of incense and fried food and ocean salt. Mingyu leaned back in the seat, his hand resting on his thigh, his ring catching the light.
Then he glanced at Wonwoo’s hands.
His left hand was resting on his own knee. Bare.
Mingyu’s head snapped up. “Hey.”
“What?”
“Where is your ring?”
Wonwoo looked down at his hand. His expression shifted from confusion to realization to mild panic in the span of a second. “Oh! Oh no.”
“Oh no? That’s all you have to say?”
“I was washing my face this morning. I must have left it by the sink.”
Mingyu’s jaw dropped. His hand flew to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. “You left it. You left your wedding ring. On our honeymoon. You’re already acting like a bachelor.”
Wonwoo winced. “I’m not acting like a bachelor.”
“You forgot your ring! The thing that symbolizes our promise to forever! The thing we put on each other’s fingers in front of all our friends! The ring!” Mingyu being his usual dramatic self.
The taxi driver glanced in the rearview mirror, his expression carefully neutral.
Wonwoo reached over and took Mingyu’s hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed his knuckles, right over the ring. “I’m sorry. It was an accident. I’ll put it on the second we get back.”
Mingyu’s lower lip jutted out. “You better.”
“I will.”
“And you have to make it up to me.”
Wonwoo’s mouth curved. “I was planning on it.”
The taxi pulled up to the curb near a row of boutiques and open-air cafes. They stepped out into the heat, the sun shining through a the soft clouds. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists and locals, the soft roar of scooters filling the air.
Wonwoo adjusted his sunglasses and started walking.
Mingyu stuck to his side like he was glued there.
In the first boutique, a narrow shop filled with racks of linen shirts and handwoven scarves, Mingyu followed Wonwoo down an aisle so tight their shoulders brushed with every step. When Wonwoo stopped to examine a pale blue shirt, Mingyu pressed up behind him, his chest against Wonwoo’s back, his hand sliding onto his waist.
“Mingyu,” Wonwoo said, his voice low.
“What?”
“We’re in public.”
“No one knows us here.”
“That’s not the point.”
Mingyu’s hand stayed where it was. “I’m still upset about the ring.”
Wonwoo sighed, but there was no real frustration in it. He picked up the shirt, pretended to examine the stitching, while Mingyu’s thumb traced a slow circle on his hip.
They moved to the next shop. Then the next. In a store selling leather goods, Mingyu stood behind Wonwoo while he tried on a pair of sandals, his hands resting on Wonwoo’s shoulders, his chin nearly touching his hair. The shop owner, a woman in her fifties, watched them with a knowing smile.
“You two are brothers?” she asked.
Wonwoo’s ears turned red. “We’re friends.”
“Very close friends,” Mingyu added, his voice flat.
The woman’s smile widened. She said nothing else.
Outside, on the crowded sidewalk, Wonwoo grabbed Mingyu’s wrist and pulled him aside. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“Being impossible.”
Mingyu’s sunglasses hid his eyes, but the smirk was visible. “I’m just staying close to my husband. Is that a crime?”
“We’re supposed to be low profile.”
“We are low profile. I’m just a very friendly low-profile person.”
Wonwoo shook his head, but he was smiling. He let go of Mingyu’s wrist and kept walking.
Mingyu caught up in two big strides. His hand found Wonwoo’s. Their fingers touched. Then Mingyu’s pinky hooked around Wonwoo’s, a tiny deliberate touch hidden between their swinging hands.
Wonwoo didn’t pull away.
They rounded a corner and found themselves in a small open air square. A café spilled out onto the pavement, tables shaded by umbrellas. A few tourists sat sipping iced coffees, phones in hand. Mingyu was scanning the menu board when he felt Wonwoo’s hand tighten around his.
“Don’t look now,” Wonwoo murmured, “but I think we’ve been spotted.”
Mingyu slowly turned his head. A young woman stood near the café entrance, her phone clutched to her chest, her eyes wide. She looked young, early twenties, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked like she was trying to decide whether to approach.
She decided to approach.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice shaky. “Are you… are you Mingyu and Wonwoo from Seventeen?”
Mingyu’s shoulders relaxed. He pulled his sunglasses down just enough to show his eyes. “Hi.”
The woman let out a small squeak. “Oh my god. I’m such a big fan. I’m so sorry to bother you, I know you’re on vacation, but could I please get a photo? Just one. I promise I won’t bother you after.”
Wonwoo stepped forward, his smile easy and warm. “Of course. A photo.”
She almost dropped her phone in her excitement. She fumbled with it, trying to get the camera open, her hands trembling.
Mingyu moved beside Wonwoo. He slung his arm over Wonwoo’s shoulder, casual and familiar, the same pose they had done a thousand times for fans. The same pose that said best friends. Bandmates. Nothing more.
The girl lifted her phone. She angled it to capture all three of them.
Click.
She lowered the phone, her face bright. “Thank you so much. I’m so sorry again for interrupting. Have a great vacation!”
“Thank you,” Wonwoo said. “Enjoy Bali.” He gestured faintly toward her phone. “Just a small favor... Would you mind holding onto that picture for a few days before posting it? We're trying to keep things quiet.”
Her eyes widened slightly, and she tucked the phone away. “Of course! Absolutely no problem,” she said, nodding earnestly.
She walked away, already looking at her phone, her smile wide. Mingyu watched her go, his arm still draped over Wonwoo’s shoulder.
Then Wonwoo nudged him with his elbow.
“See?” he whispered. “My forgotten ring just saved us from a rumor.”
Mingyu’s smirk returned. He dropped his arm from Wonwoo’s shoulder and slid his hand down, hooking his finger through Wonwoo’s belt loop. He pulled him closer, their hips nearly touching.
“You still owe me for leaving it behind.”
Wonwoo’s breath hitched. “I know.”
They stood there for a moment, two men in linen shirts and bucket hats, hidden in plain sight. The plaza buzzed around them. No one looked twice.
Mingyu let go of the belt loop. “Come on. I want to find more cute stuff for the boys.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a slow, lazy haze. They wandered through more stores, bought a few small things. A scarf for Seungkwan. A wooden carving for Dino. Mingyu found a pair of handmade sandals that he insisted were the most comfortable thing he had ever put on his feet. Wonwoo bought a book from a small English-language bookstore, a novel set in some remote island, the cover faded and soft.
They ate lunch at a small stall tucked down a side street, sitting on plastic stools, eating nasi goreng off banana leaves. The woman who served them didn’t recognize them. She just smiled and refilled their water and asked if they wanted extra chili.
“Yes,” Mingyu said.
“No,” Wonwoo said at the same time.
They looked at each other. The woman laughed.
“Extra chili on the side,” she decided.
By the time they flagged down a taxi to take them back to their airbnb, the sun was beginning its descent. The sky had shifted from pale blue to a soft, hazy gold. Mingyu leaned his head against the window, watching the palm trees blur past.
Wonwoo sat beside him, his hand resting on his thigh, the skin where his ring should be still bare.
Mingyu reached over and covered his hand with his own. “I forgive you.”
Wonwoo turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together. “I wasn’t aware I needed forgiveness.”
“You did. But you have it now.”
“Generous of you.”
“I’m a generous person.”
Wonwoo squeezed his hand. The taxi wound up the cliff road, the ocean appearing and disappearing through gaps in the trees. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of salt and wet stone.
The driver dropped them at the villa gate. Mingyu paid and tipped. Then they stepped through the carved wooden doors together.
The moment the gate clicked shut behind them, the air changed.
Wonwoo walked toward the bathroom, his steps purposeful. “I’m putting my ring on.”
He reached the bathroom counter. The ring sat where he had left it, a small shiny circle on the cool stone. He reached for it.
Mingyu’s hand got there first.
He picked up the ring. Turned it over in his fingers. Then he took Wonwoo’s left hand and held it, palm up.
“Let me.”
Wonwoo’s throat moved. He nodded.
Mingyu slid the ring onto his finger. The metal glided over his knuckle and settled into place. He held Wonwoo’s hand for a moment, his thumb pressing the ring in, making sure it was secure.
Then he looked up.
His eyes were dark. Quiet. Possessive.
“There,” he said. “Back where it belongs.”
Wonwoo’s breath came shallow. “Thank you.”
“Don’t take it off again.”
“I won’t.”
Mingyu released his hand. The moment stretched, thin and electric. Then he turned and walked toward the back of the villa, where a narrow stone staircase led down the cliff.
“Where are you going?” Wonwoo asked.
“There’s a beach. Private. I saw it on our booking, private beach access.”
Wonwoo followed.
The steps were steep, carved directly into the rock, worn smooth by years of salt and rain. They wound down the cliff, the sound of waves growing louder with every step. The plants thickened around them. Ferns and creeping vines and flowers that bloomed in clusters of various colors.
The stairs ended on a small cove.
The sand was pale gold, fine and soft. The water was a light shade of blue, clear enough to see the rocks beneath the surface. The cove was enclosed on three sides by towering stone walls, covered in moss and dripping with moisture. The only way in was the staircase. The only sound was the ocean.
Mingyu stepped onto the sand. He pulled off his bucket hat and tossed it onto a dry patch near the rocks. His sunglasses followed.
Wonwoo came up beside him. He took off his own hat, his sunglasses, and set them down.
The sun was low, bleeding orange and crimson across the horizon. The light caught the water, turned it to liquid fire.
Mingyu pulled out his film camera.
It was an old thing, a vintage Canon with a metal body and a satisfying mechanical click. He raised it to his eye and focused on Wonwoo.
“Don’t move.”
Wonwoo stood still. The light hit his face, warm and sculpting. His linen shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the wind pressing the fabric against his chest. His ring caught the sun.
Click.
Mingyu lowered the camera. “Turn your head. Toward the water.”
Wonwoo obeyed. The line of his jaw sharpened against the glowing sky.
Click.
“Now look at me.”
Wonwoo turned back. His eyes met the lens. Dark. Calm. Trusting.
Click.
Mingyu took a few more shots. Close-ups of Wonwoo’s hands, the ring prominent. A wide shot of him standing against the rock wall, the ocean stretching behind him. A candid where Wonwoo laughed, caught off guard by a gust of wind that whipped his hair across his face.
Mingyu lowered the camera. “Perfect.”
Wonwoo walked toward him. He reached out and gently pushed the camera down until it hung from the strap around Mingyu’s neck. Then his hand slid up to Mingyu’s jaw.
“Your turn,” Wonwoo said.
“For what?”
“To stop hiding behind the lens.”
He pulled Mingyu down into a kiss.
The contact was deliberate. Heavy. Full of the restraint they had held onto all afternoon. Mingyu’s hands found Wonwoo’s waist, pulling him close. The camera pressed between them, a cool metal barrier that neither of them cared about.
Wonwoo’s mouth opened under his. The kiss deepened. Mingyu’s tongue slid against his, slow and searching, and Wonwoo made a sound low in his throat.
Mingyu broke the kiss and pulled back just enough to look at him. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”
“I could tell.”
“Every time you bent over to look at a shirt. Every time you laughed at something I said. Every time you touched me.”
Wonwoo’s hands were already working at the buttons of Mingyu’s shirt. “Then stop talking.”
The shirt came off. Mingyu shrugged it onto the sand. Wonwoo’s followed. Their skin glowed in the amber light, warm and salt-kissed.
Mingyu reached out and traced the line of Wonwoo’s collarbone. Then his chest. Then the sharp curve of his hip. His fingers lingered on the waistband of his shorts.
“Lay down,” Mingyu said.
Wonwoo sank onto the sand. The grains clung to his back, his shoulders, the damp skin of his arms. He lay back, propped on his elbows, watching Mingyu with heavy-lidded eyes.
Mingyu knelt beside him. His hands went to Wonwoo’s shorts, pulling them down over his hips, his thighs, his ankles. Wonwoo lifted his hips to help, and then he was bare, stretched out on the warm sand, the last light of the sun painting his skin in shades of bronze and rose.
Mingyu took a moment to look at him. The lean lines of his body. The way his chest rose and fell. The ring on his finger, catching the dying light.
“You’re so beautiful,” Mingyu said.
Wonwoo didn’t answer. He just reached up and pulled Mingyu down.
Mingyu settled between his legs. His mouth found Wonwoo’s thigh, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin there. Then higher. His tongue traced a path along the crease where thigh met hip.
Wonwoo’s breath caught.
Mingyu’s mouth moved higher. He took Wonwoo’s length into his hand first, stroking once, twice, watching the way Wonwoo’s head fell back and his eyes slipped shut. Then he lowered his head and took him into his mouth.
The sound that escaped Wonwoo was raw. Bare. Mingyu worked him slowly, his tongue pressing flat, his cheeks hollowing with each draw. The sand was warm beneath his knees. The waves crashed against the rocks. The taste of salt and skin filled his mouth.
Wonwoo’s hand found his hair. His fingers tangled in the dark strands, not pulling, just holding.
“Mingyu.”
The name came out broken. Mingyu responded by taking him deeper, his hand working the base in tandem with his mouth. The rhythm was steady, relentless. Wonwoo’s hips began to move, small thrusts that matched the pace Mingyu set.
The ocean roared. The sun bled lower. The sky turned violet at the edges.
Wonwoo’s breathing grew ragged. His grip tightened in Mingyu’s hair.
“I’m close,” he gasped. “Mingyu, I’m—”
Mingyu didn’t stop. He pushed forward, taking him as deep as he could, and Wonwoo came with a cry that was swallowed by the sound of the surf. His body arched off the sand, his hand clutching at Mingyu’s hair, his release hot and pulsing.
Mingyu stayed with him, working him through it, until Wonwoo’s grip loosened and his breathing began to slow.
He pulled back gently. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Crawled up Wonwoo’s body and settled beside him, their legs tangled, their skin slick.
Wonwoo turned his head on the sand. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted.
“That was…”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
They lay there for a while, watching the sky darken. The first stars appeared, faint pinpricks in the deepening blue. The waves kept their rhythm, steady and endless.
Mingyu’s hand found Wonwoo’s. Their rings clicked together.
“We should wash off,” Mingyu said.
“The water’s warm.”
They stood and waded into the ocean. The water was bath-warm, lapping at their waists, then their chests. Mingyu ducked under, letting the salt rinse the sand from his skin. When he surfaced, Wonwoo was right there, his hair slicked back, his face close.
“I love you,” Wonwoo said.
Mingyu kissed him. The water moved around them, gentle and dark.
They walked back up the stone steps hand in hand, the sand washed away, their skin cool and clean. The villa lights glowed ahead, warm and welcoming.
Mingyu led him past the main building, past the pool, to a corner of the property he had noticed since they got there but never found the perfect time to try. A small outdoor shower, tucked behind a screen of tropical plants and stacked stones. The shower head jutted out from a wooden post, the water fed from a copper pipe.
Mingyu turned the handle. The water sputtered, then streamed out, warm and steady.
He stepped under it. The water ran over his shoulders, down his chest, darkening the waistband of his shorts. He gestured for Wonwoo to join him.
Wonwoo stepped under the spray. The water hit his skin and immediately began to stream off in rivulets, tracing the lines of his body. He reached out and placed his palms flat on Mingyu’s chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under the warm cascade.
Then Wonwoo gently took of Mingyu's shorts and briefs letting his husband's thick and hard cock free. Then he does take his off too. His own cock starting to harden again.
They didn’t speak. The only sounds were the water hitting the stone and their quiet breathing.
Mingyu’s hands settled on Wonwoo’s waist. He pulled him closer, until their bodies were flush, the water running between them. His mouth found Wonwoo’s, slow and soft. The kiss tasted like salt and clean water.
Wonwoo’s hands slid up from Mingyu’s chest to his shoulders, then into his wet hair. He pulled him deeper into the kiss, his tongue sweeping in, and Mingyu responded with a low sound that vibrated against his lips.
Mingyu’s hands moved lower, cupping Wonwoo’s backside, squeezing gently. Wonwoo’s hips pressed forward, their lengths sliding together under the water. The friction was slick and warm, and both of them gasped into the kiss.
They moved together, slow and deliberate. Their cocks rubbed against each other, the water providing a smooth glide. Mingyu’s hands gripped Wonwoo’s hips, guiding the rhythm. Wonwoo’s arms wrapped around Mingyu’s neck, his forehead pressing to his.
“My man,” Wonwoo whispered.
“My Husband.”
The words sent a shiver through both of them. The pace quickened, just slightly. Their breathing turned ragged, mixing with the sound of the falling water.
Mingyu’s hand slid between them. He wrapped his fingers around both their lengths, holding them together, and stroked. The sensation drew a sharp moan from Wonwoo, his hips bucking into the grip.
“Together,” Mingyu breathed.
Wonwoo nodded, his eyes squeezed shut.
The strokes were fast now, urgent, the water streaming over their joined hands. Mingyu’s other arm locked around Wonwoo’s waist, holding him steady.
Wonwoo came first, with a broken cry, his release mixing with the water streaming down their bodies. The sight of it, the feel of his body tightening and shuddering, pushed Mingyu over the edge. He followed with a groan, his forehead dropping to Wonwoo’s shoulder.
They stood there, panting, the water still going. The steam rose around them, curling into the night air.
Mingyu lifted his head. He looked at Wonwoo, the gorgeous love of his life.
“I love you,” Mingyu said.
Wonwoo smiled, soft and real. “I know.”
They finished rinsing off in comfortable silence. Mingyu turned off the shower, and they wrapped themselves in the oversized towels that hung on a nearby rack. The night air was cool on their damp skin.
They walked back into the villa, through the open living area, and stopped at the edge of the terrace. The stars were out now, scattered across the sky like salt on dark cloth. The ocean stretched below, invisible but audible, a constant, breathing presence.
Wonwoo leaned against the railing. Mingyu came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, his chin settling on his shoulder.
“Going back home soon,” Wonwoo said quietly.
“Yeah.”
“It’s going to be different.”
Mingyu pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “We’ll be different.”
“The rings stay on.”
“The rings stay on.”
Wonwoo’s hand came up to rest over Mingyu’s. The band caught the light from the villa, a small, steady gleam.
“What we shared here,” Wonwoo said, “it stays with us.”
.✦ ݁⋆ ── notas: “Você só poderia ter Kim Mingyu pelas madrugadas e nada além disso!”.
.✦ ݁⋆ ── avisos: Smut, abordamos infidelidade como tema central, a pp é amante que não tem lar. Se não é confortável, melhor não ler, ok? Sexo desprotegido. (Mingyu x leitora)
A campainha toca, emitindo um eco estridente pelos corredores da casa grande e solitária, o moreno alto coçou os olhos enquanto descia as escadas ainda sonolento.
— Um minuto! — Kim Mingyu balbuciou quando a campainha voltou a tocar por duas vezes seguidas, o deixando agora levemente irritado. Eram duas da madrugada de uma sexta-feira, quem o importunaria metendo o dedo na campainha desse jeito?
A porta da frente é aberta e o semblante irritadiço na face do homem desmanchou-se para um leve enfado predominar.
— Você — Murmura, coçando a nuca. — Tá fazendo o quê aqui?
— Que cara horrorosa, Gyu! — Diz com uma vozinha dissimulada, cruzando a porta e passando pela silhueta grande e máscula. — Não tá feliz em me ver?
— Sabe que horas são agora?
Ele bate a porta vendo você se desfazer do tênis all star, largando sua bolsa em um canto qualquer da sala e se jogando preguiçosamente no sofá dele.
— Acho que são quase uma da manhã, acertei?
— Duas. — Corrige, apagando as luzes do jardim da casa, passando direto por você. — Vai pra casa.
— Porque eu deveria? — Tomba a cabecinha no encosto do sofá, encarando o teto bonito, já esteve ali tantas vezes e em tantas formas diferentes que já nem era uma estranha. Os cachorros de Mingyu já até te conheciam. É claro que só pousava os pés ali durante as madrugadas, nunca durante o dia, por motivos óbvios.
— Escuta. — A voz masculina dá o pontapé inicial agora num tom sério demais para um homem que ganhava a vida conquistando os outros pela lábia e simpatia. — Você não pode ficar. Tem gente dormindo lá em cima e alguém poderia ter visto você entrando.
— Pfff! — Bufa, revirando os olhos. — Por favor! Eu sei que ela não tá aqui, sua preciosa esposinha tá viajando. Você mente mal pra caralho!
— E como é que você sabe? — Te estende um copo com o que parecia whisky com gelo. Bebericou um tanto antes de entregar pra você.
— Eu sigo ela no Instagram, tá em Paris, não tá? Deixou você sozinho de novo.
— Gosto de ficar aqui sozinho. É bom pra pensar.
O homem se vira para fazer um coquetel pra ele, sabia que já havia perdido aquela luta pra você, só estava adiando o inadiável. Mingyu possuía uma carinha fadigada de sono, mas você não tinha pena nenhuma, não mesmo.
Observa agora os bíceps apertadinhos na camiseta preta enquanto ele prepara aquele drink azul esquisito no bar da sala, era viciado nisso e se orgulhava por ser tão bom criando aqueles coquetéis.
Dá um golinho do whisky que ele te deu — sabia que às 2h da manhã, era só isso que você bebia. — migra os olhos para a calça de moletom cinza que o homem usava, dava margem à bundinha masculina que te derretia inteira, até se esquecia de que ele era um puto traidor.
— Bebe isso e vai pra casa, praga.
Murmura como se já soubesse que estava o encarando por trás das costas. Você se levanta do sofá, caminha lentamente até o homem de pé todo concentrado nas especiarias e se encosta no mini balcão do bar, o observando melhor de perto.
— Tira esse casaco. — Pede a você, sem tirar os olhos do copo com gelo.
— Está frio…
Sem estabelecer muito contato visual, Mingyu solta a coqueteleira de lado, alcançando o controle universal da sala para ligar o aquecedor pra você. Vocês trocam olhares rápidos, gélidos e o moreno se posiciona por trás, retirando a peça de couro que você usava tanto que já estava surrada, passa por seus bracinhos um por um e a pendura com cuidado na cadeira do bar.
Logo, se encosta no balcão de madeira e te encara como sempre fazia, rígido, parecia um pai.
— Vai ficar só me olhando a noite toda, Kim?
— Acabou. — Fala logo alto e claro. — Eu disse que acabou da última vez que nos vimos.
— Qual última vez? A que você disse que a gente não ia mais transar e mesmo assim foi me caçar numa boate? Ou, na vez em que me seguiu até em casa de carro? Qual das?
— Você estava sozinha e era tarde.
— Eu sei o caminho da minha própria casa. — Exclama sem conseguir conter um riso desacreditado dessa vez. — Nem você acredita mais nisso. Tá comendo outra? É isso?
— Não estou.
— Não precisa mentir pra mim Mingyu, não sou sua esposa.
— Não tô!
— Sabia que faz mais de um ano e meio que a gente tá saindo e sempre que o aniversário de casamento de vocês se aproxima você vem com essa ladainha de que “acabou”, “não tá dando mais”, “quero fazer meu casamento dar certo”. Porra, vai se foder!
— Já falei que acabou! Não se faz de burra! — Mingyu se afasta e você nota o brilho naqueles olhos fartos pra você, ele estava segurando bravamente pra não deixar que nenhuma lágrima se formasse ali, te passando uma impressão errada. Te chamava de “praga” por um motivo, você era uma maldição na vida dele, um câncer do qual não conseguia mais se livrar, não sabia como.
— Você não me escuta, não me leva a sério. Pensa que sou esses moleques que você trepa sem qualquer responsabilidade?
— Não! Mas, você age como eles!
Já pega seu casaco para ir embora de vez como ele queria. Foi até ali por um motivo e se ele iria te privar de sexo, não ficaria nem um minuto a mais.
— Acha que sou nova demais pra você, né? O grande e fodão Kim Mingyu é demais pra uma menina boba!
— Eu nunca disse isso.
— E nem precisa.
— Espera aí. — Mingyu alcança o seu pulso e você encara a mão dele te mantendo ali como se ainda tivesse alguma moral pra te fazer ficar. — Você sabia que mais cedo ou mais tarde isso teria que acabar, eu sou casado, tenho 38 e você… você tem…
— E daí?
— Porra, tenho idade pra ser seu pai, garota, acorda!
— Não me chame desse jeito! — Puxa o pulso de volta, indo em direção à porta de saída, entretanto, o homem grande invade o seu caminho, botando o peitoral na sua frente, impedindo sua passagem. — Sabe que eu odeio quando me chama de “garota”, eu tenho um nome!
— Eu sei, desculpa.
— Sabe o que eu acho mais engraçado? Se ela é tão melhor do que eu, porque ela nunca tá aqui?? Hm? Passou seu aniversário sozinho porque ela preferiu estar em Roma, Escócia, sei lá onde, do que estar com você!
— Esse assunto não é da sua conta, nada disso te diz respeito, então para de gritar!
— É, eu sou jovem demais pra entender a sua vidinha “complexa” de casado.
Mingyu arfa, irritado, como se quisesse te largar ali, estava cansado disso, você também estava. Não era a primeira e nem seria a última vez que teriam aquela conversa sofrível.
— Já te disse que isso nunca daria certo, eu poderia ser seu pai.
— Mas, não é!
O homem dessa vez não aguenta e ri, ri de como sempre tinha uma resposta afiada na ponta da língua. Era uma das coisas que Mingyu admirava em você, o fato de nunca conseguir ficar calada ou omissa, sempre o enfrentava independente de estar certa ou não.
— Tô apaixonada por você!
— Não me enrola com esse papinho — Retira a jaqueta das suas mãos e joga-a longe, como se não soubesse que era verdade. — Comigo, não.
— Eu tô sim!
— Não está, só pensa que está.
— Agora quer ditar o que eu sinto também? — Você se joga no sofá de novo, estava puta, queria dar na cara dele sempre que agia como o dono da verdade. — Kim Mingyu agora quer ditar o que eu devo ou não sentir? Eu já sabia onde estava me metendo!
— Se soubesse, entenderia que não teríamos nada, eu sou casado e estava bem ciente disso.
— Se divorcie! Não ama a sua esposa!
— Eu a amo.
— Se amasse não treparia com uma garota que tem idade pra ser sua filha!
Touché! Ele não tinha mais respostas. Voltou para o coquetel sem discutir, completamente vencido, afinal discutir com você era impossível. Uma tarefa que nem mesmo ele, com anos de experiência em diálogos persuasivos conseguiria lidar.
— Onde você estava? — Muda de assunto, voltando para as especiarias no balcão.
— Quê?
— Tá arrumada, onde estava?
— Não importa.
Ele senta-se folgado no sofá com a bebida azul na mão, apesar das briguinhas enfadonhas sempre ficava relaxado com você. Você não era do tipo que adulava ele, apesar de querê-lo tanto, bajulações não faziam o seu tipo, era o tipo de tratamento que fazia falta pra ele em seu cotidiano. Você o tratava como igual, as vezes até como se fosse superior a ele, não era como as menininhas que se desmanchavam na presença de um cara mais velho. Não mesmo.
Você ditava o que queria sem respeito algum, o dominava, o controlava. Sempre que terminavam de transar, Mingyu te deixava adormecida e ia tomar uma ducha fria, ficava incontáveis minutos encarando o próprio reflexo no espelho se perguntando o quê caralhos estava fazendo da própria vida. Ele era um homem feito e se culpava por se sentir tão bem e tão satisfeito com você.
— Não respondeu minha pergunta.
— Eu saí com uma galera.
— E a “galera” fez isso aí no seu pescoço? — Ele retira o copo de whisky da sua mão, trocando com o drink que ele preparou. Encarava a marca levemente arroxeada em sua pele. — Experimenta.
— Não quero.
— Experimenta, anda. — Você revira os olhinhos, tomando logo dois goles seguidos da bebida que ele fez com tanto cuidado. Fica encarando de perto, curioso pela sua reação. — E então?
— Fraco.
— É porque não é puro álcool como tudo que gosta de beber, deve ser apreciado.
— Ainda assim, é fraco.
Mingyu troca com você de novo, mas agora deixando o copo na mesinha de centro.
— É fraco como tudo o que você oferece, amor fraco, bebida fraca, fraco em tudo.
— Eu sou fraco?
— Sim é, além do mais você… você… — Sua voz vai falhando na medida em que Mingyu retira a camisa do corpo, passando pelos braços malhados, fica sentadinha observando o que ele iria fazer.
— Seus pais vão ficar preocupados se não voltar pra casa hoje?
— Eles acham que estou em uma amiga.
— Uma amiga. — Ele estende a mão pra você. — Então, vamos subir.
— Nem pensar! — Puxa sua mão de volta. — Não gosto do seu quarto… nem da sua cama, vamos ficar aqui.
Deita com o corpinho no sofá, puxando-o para se deitar sobre você. Sente que ele estava com o torso pegando fogo, o homem grande se deita com muito cuidado pra não te machucar, apoiando os braços ao seu redor.
Une então seus labiozinhos ao de Mingyu pela primeira vez naquela noite, num beijo quase doloroso pra você, sente a mão grande adentrar no seu jeans, indo parar dentro da calcinha e ele invade o seu meinho sem cerimônia.
— É… bem ai! — Murmura num miado doce pra ele, que se encaixa gostoso no meio das suas pernas.
— Acha que não conheço o caminho? Conheço… até demais. — Ondula um dígito no seu clítoris, assistindo a própria mão masturbando-a por baixo daquele jeans apertado, mal conseguia se movimentar direito. Logo, se cansa e desabotoa tudo, te livrando da peça rasgada de uma vez.
— Que calcinha é essa?
— É nova.
— Transou com alguém?
— Com quem eu transaria? — Se faz de desentendida enquanto o homem abaixa a própria calça de moletom, evidenciando que não usava nada por baixo dela. Faz o pau duro e grande pular pra fora de uma só vez.
— Como “quem”? Você não tem um namoradinho ou sei lá como vocês chamam hoje em dia? — Já começa a beijar e a lamber o interior das suas coxas nuas, causa um arrepio por toda a sua espinha, Mingyu sobe mais, contendo o próprio falo com uma das mãos. Gostava de ver ele se tocando enquanto te chupava.
— Qual deles? Hansol? Wonwoo? Seja mais específico! — Questiona, audaciosa. Mingyu sobe pelo seu corpo, leva a palma grande até seu rostinho e acerta um tapa alto e ardido no centro da sua bochecha.
— Você é uma vagabunda do caralho e ainda se orgulha? — Segura o seu rosto com uma certa violência, fazendo formar ali um biquinho na sua boca, encara seu sorrisinho travesso com raiva. Ficava louco de saber que se envolvia com tantos caras além dele. Você era a única fora do casamento, porque não podia ser o único também?
— Deu pra todos eles? Acha que eu não sei que sai pra essas festas e transa com esses moleques tudo ao mesmo tempo? Não sei como tua buceta aguenta.
— Eu não transei!
— Mas, teve vontade?
— Tive! — Fala pausadamente bem na cara dele. — Por isso eu vim pra cá.
— É? Porquê me procurou? Não tem tantas opções?
— Porque você é o melhor! Sabe muito bem disso! Agora cala a boca! — Ele ri, sabia que era verdade e era convencido.
Mingyu desce a boquinha quente pelo seu corpo semi nu, voltando pro meio das suas pernas. Amava se meter ali sem hora pra sair.
— Isso porque você só transa com moleques. São só moleques, certo?
— Pra quê tantas perguntas hoje, Kim? Tenho que passar por um interrogatório pra quicar no seu pau agora? — Já abre bem as perninhas pra ele e Mingyu posiciona uma delas no encosto do sofá, analisa bem os seus labiozinhos expostos como se quisesse tirar prova, observa sua entradinha melada, piscando, mas não estava vermelha, era sinal de que não tinha dado mesmo naquela noite.
— Só quero ter certeza de que não vou lamber a porra de outro cara.
— Você é tão idiota, tem 38 anos e é tão infant… ai… porra… Gyu! — O som sai ardido da sua boca, quando sente o homem meter a língua carnudinha e dentro da carne molhada, já começa a mamar seu clítoris causando estalinhos gostosos por toda a sala. No fundo, nem se importava de verdade se estava gozada ou não, quando Mingyu queria você, queria de qualquer jeito.
— Argh… assim! Assim, por favor! — Ondula o quadril na boca masculina, ele te lambe, baba você inteira a ponto de deixar sua polpinha melada, faz uma bagunça gostosa com a saliva ao ouvir os sons das suas unhas fincando no estofado de couro dele. Mas, você queria mais, queria ele se afundando em você, então sem avisar o puxa pra cima.
— Não posso nem brincar um pouco?!
— Porque se casou com ela?
— Ah, porra… — Pragueja. — Pra quê falar disso agora? — Resmunga contra a pele do seu pescoço, beijando e mordendo ali. — Eu já te contei mil vezes, ela engravidou e…
— Vocês se casaram, ela perdeu o bebê, você ficou com pena e não quis se divorciar! Eu sei!
— Então, chega desse assunto.
— Se eu engravidar você casa comigo?
— Não. — Murmura convicto, sem parar os carinhos que fazia. — Não cometeria esse erro duas vezes, por isso você toma regularmente o remédio que eu te dei. Você tem tomado, certo?
— É, eu tenho tomado! Canalha! — Estapeou-o de leve e Mingyu ri, te beijando.
— Filhos não são brincadeira, princesa. — Sela todo o seu rostinho carinhosamente com aqueles lábios perfeitamente desenhados. Era loucura pensar que Mingyu seria um ótimo pai mesmo sabendo que ele não criaria nem uma planta com você?
— Acredite em mim, é melhor assim. — Colocava todo o peso em cima do seu corpinho, sem dó nenhuma de te esmagar. — Vamos trepar sem pensar nessas coisas? Pode ser?
— Uhum!
Já estavam na posição favorita de vocês, então pra que esperar? Muitos preferiam posições mirabolantes, de quatro, em pé, de costas, mas você e Mingyu gostavam do simples e costumeiro “papai e mamãe”, porque ele ficava por cima, havia tato, havia olho no olho, pele na pele, trocavam silêncios que só vocês dois sabiam decifrar. Era perfeito.
— Você ainda vai acabar comigo, praga — Sussurra, esfregando o falo em sua bucetinha fervorosa antes de colocar.
— Eu não tenho nada a perder, já você…
O homem se guia para dentro e enfia a glande dura em você, aquela era a única forma de sentir que Mingyu era seu. Quando ele estava dentro, conectado, com as mãos grandes sobre as suas, entrando fundo olhando nos seus olhos como se não tivesse pressa, como se só existisse você no mundo. Porra, Mingyu!
Ele se move devagarinho, penetrando lento, ondulando o quadril, acaricia seu cabelo com ternura, mantinham seus lábios unidos, mas sem beijar, só encostando. Se perguntava se ele transava com a esposa ali também, naquele mesmo sofá.
— Você é linda. — Sussurra contra sua boquinha úmida. — Eu senti falta de você.
Por mais que tivesse a plena consciência de que o que faziam era errado, você se esquecia disso sempre que via aquele par de olhos castanhos mirando os seus. Pelo menos ele nunca te enrolou, nunca te prometeu nada, foi você quem se meteu nessa sozinha.
— Você sentiu falta de me comer, isso sim!
— Você fala tanta besteira.
Você aperta o traseiro do homem para que ele aumente a velocidade. Ambos já gemiam contra a boca um do outro, Kim franzia o cenho, ficando com a respiração cada vez mais pesada. Logo, percebe Mingyu mexer no próprio cabelo, o gesto típico faz seu peito se encher de ardor. Não queria, mas acaba se entregando a aquela atmosfera perigosa, porque queria ele pra sempre, queria Mingyu mexendo nos cabelos assim pra você todas as manhãs, mas ele nunca seria seu de verdade, aquilo era sexo. E só.
Você aperta a garganta, prende a respiração numa tentativa falha de acalmar o coração e…
— Gyu…
— Hunf?
Não conseguiu obter êxito. Uma lágrima caiu.
— Eu te amo.
O homem abre os olhos, te fitando imediatamente. Interrompe os movimentos que fazia por cima do seu corpo e sequer conseguiu compreender o semblante inexpressivo que ele esboçou. O seu peito se agita, não consegue se mexer ou respirar direito com o peso dele por cima, não deveria ter dito aquilo, não deveria, mas não aguentava mais tanta coisa presa dentro de si.
— Eu sei — Os batimentos cardíacos dele vão se acalmando enquanto fixa o olhar naquela lágrima solitária no seu rosto. — Eu também te amo, de alguma forma.
Você segura um ou dois soluços sem piscar, sabia que era mentira, Mingyu só queria te reconfortar com palavras vazias. O homem então leva o polegar direito ao seu rostinho, limpando os resquícios da lágrima perdida.
— Não chora, por favor.
Você se desmancha, porque sabia que só teria isso dele, algumas brechas durante as madrugadas, alguns minutos roubados durante o dia, mas nada além disso. Se desvencilhar de Mingyu era imprescindível ou nunca seria livre pra viver algo verdadeiro com alguém. Ele já havia botado um ponto final, faltava você.
— Acabou. — Murmura contra os lábios masculinos e o homem te olha confuso.
— Como?
— Você tinha razão, não dá mais, essa coisa entre nós não existe de verdade.
Falou numa convicção tão efetiva que o faz duvidar se ouviu aquilo realmente vindo de você.
— Espera, vem conversar aqui.
— Não tem nada pra conversar! Sou uma amante e sempre serei, então acabou!
— Está blefando.
Você ri, se desvencilha do corpo grande, se vestindo de novo, ele fica parado onde está, não move um músculo.
— Me deixe te levar em casa.
— Já ouviu falar em táxi?
Mingyu larga as chaves do carro de volta na mesinha, arfando alto.
Quando você tocou a maçaneta da porta amadeirada pra sair, pensou em dar uma última olhada pra ele, mas essa não era você. Então, apenas parte sem deixar absolutamente nada seu pra trás, nenhum objeto, motivo ou brecha, nada.
Kim Mingyu fica no sofá encarando seus copos pela metade, pega o celular e procura o seu número e vê que a sua foto havia sumido, você era decidida quando queria.
— Praga. — Ele larga o celular de lado, passa as mãos pesadas pelos cabelos, pronto pra subir e tentar dormir de novo como fazia antes de você chegar.
Você tinha colocado um ponto final em tudo, mas e dai? Mingyu iria te procurar nos próximos dias… só pra ter certeza.
Seeking refuge in your past forces you to re-evaluate the boundaries of forgiveness, leading you back to the life you almost gave up on.
The morning light falls across the bed. You've been awake for a while now, watching the way the sun traces the line of Mingyu's shoulder, the curve of his jaw, the dark fan of his lashes against his cheeks. He sleeps like someone who hasn't rested in months, deep and heavy, his face slack in a way it never is when he's conscious.
Your chest aches.
Not the sharp pain from yesterday, not the raw wound of seeing Sarah on her knees. This is something slower. Deeper. A realization that's been building since you woke in Wonwoo's guest room, since you watched that video, since you heard Mingyu's explanation and felt yourself start to forgive him.
He kept you in the dark.
The text message. The threat. The weeks of looking over your shoulder. He handled it all behind a curtain, letting you believe the danger had passed, letting you pour yourself into building a life while he stood guard over secrets you never knew existed.
Love is supposed to mean partnership. Trust. Two people facing the same storm together.
He gave you shelter. But he didn't give you the truth.
You slide out of bed slowly, careful not to disturb the mattress. Your feet find the cold floor. The shirt you're wearing, his shirt, hangs to your thighs as you cross to the small bag you brought from Wonwoo's place.
Jeans. A sweater. Your phone charger. The bare essentials of a life you're not sure you recognize anymore.
Your hand hovers over the pillow. You should leave something. A note. An explanation. He deserves at least that much, even if the words feel inadequate.
You find a pen in the bedside drawer and a scrap of paper from an old receipt. Your handwriting comes out shaky:
I need time. I'll be fine. I'll call you if something goes wrong.
You place it on your pillow, and your fingers linger for a second too long against the fabric that still holds the warmth of his body.
Then you're moving. Down the stairs. Through the living room where Wonwoo's laptop still sits on the coffee table. Past the kitchen where you made breakfast together just yesterday morning, when the world still felt whole.
The front door closes behind you with a soft click.
The sun hasn't fully risen yet. The neighborhood is painted in shades of gray and pale gold, the streetlights still glowing, the air cool against your skin. You walk to the main road, your bag slung over your shoulder, and call a cab from your phone.
The driver doesn't talk. You're grateful for that.
The city slides past the window. Familiar streets, unfamiliar angles. The mansion appears at the end of a long driveway, its iron gates standing open as if waiting for you to return.
You pay the driver and step out.
The gravel crunches under your feet. The front door looms ahead, tall and dark and heavy with memory. Your hand raises to the brass knocker, but before you can touch it, the door swings open.
Your mother stands in the threshold.
She's wearing a cream-colored robe, her hair slightly disheveled from sleep. Her eyes take you in. The bag, the borrowed clothes, the shadows under your eyes and something in her face crumbles.
"Come here, baby."
Her arms open, and you collapse into them.
The tears come before you can stop them. Ugly, heaving sobs that shake your entire body. Her hand cradles the back of your head, her other arm wrapping tight around your waist, and she holds you there in the doorway like she's been waiting for this moment your whole life.
She leads you inside. Through the grand foyer, past the sweeping staircase, into her private sitting room where the curtains are still drawn and a half-empty cup of tea sits on the side table. She settles you onto the velvet couch and sits beside you, her hand never leaving yours.
"Tell me everything."
So you do.
The words spill out like water from a broken dam. The threatening text. The weeks of fear. Sarah breaking into the house. Sarah's naked body on the kitchen floor. The way Mingyu told you to leave, even if he had a reason. The video. The explanation. The hollow realization that he chose to carry the weight alone instead of trusting you to share it.
"He loves me," you say, your voice cracking. "I know he does. But love without honesty—what is that? What am I supposed to do with that?"
Your mother is quiet for a long moment. Her thumb traces slow circles on the back of your hand.
"I spent countless years with a man who thought love meant control," she says, her voice soft and steady. "Your stepfather. He didn't tell me things because he believed he knew what was best for me. He made decisions about my life without consulting me because he thought I couldn't handle the weight of them."
She looks at you, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
"That's not what Mingyu is doing. I've watched that boy. I've seen the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he talks about you." A pause. "He's not trying to control you. He's terrified of losing you. And that fear makes him stupid. It makes him protective in the wrong ways. But it doesn't make his love any less real."
Your throat tightens. "Then how do I know the difference?"
"You feel it." She presses her hand to your chest, over your heart. "In here. A man who controls you makes you feel small. A man who makes mistakes because he's terrified for you... he makes you feel like the most important thing in the world, even when he's getting it wrong."
The words land somewhere deep, settling into the cracks you didn't know were there.
"He's still learning," she continues. "And so are you. The question isn't whether he made a mistake. The question is whether he'll learn from it."
You lean into her, resting your head on her shoulder. The familiar scent of her perfume wraps around you like a blanket.
"I don't know if I'm ready to go back yet."
"Then don't." She presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay as long as you need. This is still your home too."
The morning passes in slow, quiet moments. Your mother makes you tea and toast, even though you're not hungry. She tells you about the garden she's been tending, the book she's been reading, the way she's started taking evening walks through the neighborhood just to clear her head.
You listen. You nod. You let the normalcy wash over you.
Before retreating to your old room, you decide to walk through the house. Your feet carry you down the long hallway, past the paintings you've memorized, past the doors you've opened a thousand times.
You round the corner and stop.
Mingyu's father stands by the tall window at the end of the hall, looking out at the garden. He's older than you remember. His shoulders are less square, his posture less commanding. The tailored suit hangs looser on his frame, as if the past months have hollowed him out from the inside.
He turns at the sound of your footsteps.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches, heavy with all the words that were never said.
You step forward.
"I want to apologize."
The words feel strange leaving your mouth. You owe him nothing. But you're not speaking to him as his stepdaughter or as the girl who slept with his son. You're speaking as yourself, finally free of the weight he tried to place on your shoulders.
"For the mess. The broken engagement. The family." Your voice stays steady. "I'm not sorry for loving Mingyu. But I'm sorry for the damage. For the way it happened. For the hurt it caused."
His eyes narrow. His jaw tightens. He opens his mouth.
But no words come.
You realize, in that moment, that he has no leverage here. No threats to make, no deals to offer, no way to reach you. You don't want his money. You don't want his approval. You don't want anything from him at all.
"I'm not asking for your forgiveness," you continue. "I'm not asking for anything. I just wanted you to hear it from me directly."
You turn and walk away, leaving him standing in the window, the morning light falling across his face.
Your old room looks exactly as you left it. The white duvet. The bookshelf filled with novels from your childhood. The window that overlooks the garden where you used to read in the afternoons.
You sit on the edge of the bed, and the silence settles around you.
Your phone stays silent. No texts. No calls.
Mingyu doesn't reach out.
The night passes slowly. You sleep in fits, waking to shadows and the creak of the old house. Your hand reaches for the empty space beside you before you remember why it's cold.
Morning comes, gray and quiet.
Your online lectures help. They give you something to focus on, something to anchor your thoughts to. You take notes mechanically, participate in discussions, let the academic rhythm carry you through the hours.
After the online classes, you step into the upstairs living room, settling onto the couch, to rest. Then you suddenly realize this is where Mingyu found you that heated afternoon, fast asleep, dressed in almost nothing. This is the very cushions that witnessed where the two of you first crossed the line.
Now, the walls of the mansion press in around you.
By afternoon, you need to breathe.
You pull out your phone and scroll through your contacts. Your thumb hovers over a name you haven't spoken to in months.
Matthew.
You press call before you can second-guess yourself.
He picks up on the second ring. "Hey. This is a surprise."
Your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Hey. I know this is random, but. I could really use a friend right now."
A pause. Then: "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
True to his word, he pulls up to the mansion gates in his silver sedan, wearing jeans and a worn leather jacket, his hair windswept like he just rolled out of bed. He doesn't ask questions. Just gives you a small, warm smile and waits for you to climb in.
"Where are we going?" he asks.
"Anywhere but here."
He drives you to a quiet café a few blocks from campus. You sit at a corner table with mismatched chairs and a view of the street. The afternoon light filters through the windows as you tell him everything.
The words come easier the second time. The text. Sarah. The morning you walked in on her. Mingyu's explanation. The way he held you after. The realization that he'd been carrying secrets even as you built a life together.
Matthew listens without interrupting. His elbows rest on the table, his coffee growing cold, his eyes fixed on you with an attentiveness that feels safe rather than intrusive.
When you finish, he leans back in his chair.
"Can I say something that might piss you off?"
"You can try."
He smiles, but it fades quickly. "Mingyu's a fucking idiot."
You laugh despite yourself. "Yeah. He kind of is."
"But." Matthew holds up a finger. "He's an idiot for a reason I think you're not seeing."
Your eyebrows rise.
"Think about how he grew up," Matthew says. "His father used information as a weapon. Every secret was leverage. Every piece of knowledge was something to be held over someone's head. That's the model he had for how men protect what matters to them."
He leans forward.
"And then Sarah. A woman who wouldn't take no for an answer. A woman who stalked him, manipulated him, broke into your house and your bed. He learned that letting someone in means giving them the power to destroy you."
Your hands wrap around your cup. "So you're saying his secrecy is... what? A survival instinct?"
"I'm saying he doesn't know how to protect people without turning himself into a shield." Matthew's voice is soft, deliberate. "He's not hiding things from you because he doesn't respect you. He's hiding things because he's terrified that if he lets you carry any of the weight, you'll break under it. And he can't handle the thought of you breaking."
The words settle into the space between you.
"He needs to learn," Matthew continues. "And you have every right to demand that from him. But I don't think his silence came from a place of control. It came from fear."
You stare at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with your fingertip.
"The love is real," you say quietly. "I know that."
"Yeah." Matthew nods. "It is."
"But love with so much secrecy—"
"Isn't fair. I know." He finishes your sentence like he's known you long enough to complete your thoughts. "That's why you left. Not because you stopped loving him. Because you need him to be better."
Your eyes sting. "Yeah."
Matthew reaches across the table and takes your hand. His grip is warm, solid, grounding.
"You're doing the right thing. Setting a boundary isn't cruel. It's necessary." His thumb brushes your knuckles. "And if he's smart, which I think he is, he'll figure that out before it's too late."
You squeeze his hand back.
"Thank you, Matt."
"Always."
The conversation shifts after that, lighter now. He tells you about law school, about the case he's been working on, about the disastrous date he went on last month, and then offhandedly mentions he's officially dating someone now. You find yourself laughing for the first time in days, the quiet ache of his news tucked neatly beneath the sound.
Two more days pass in the mansion's quiet halls.
Your mother brings you tea in the mornings. You attend your lectures. You take long walks through the garden, the autumn air crisp against your skin.
Mingyu doesn't call. Doesn't text. He respects your space in a way that hurts more than it comforts.
On the third day, a maid finds you in the library.
"Visitor for you, miss. In the foyer."
You walk down the stairs, your heart beating faster than it should. The figure standing near the entrance isn't Mingyu.
It's Wonwoo.
He's holding a small cardboard box, his wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew, his dark hair falling across his forehead. He looks tired, but his eyes soften when he sees you.
"Hey." He holds out the box. "Mingyu asked me to bring this over."
You take it carefully. Inside, you find your university textbooks, your spare contact lens case, and the loose-leaf tea you've been craving for days—the one you left in the cupboard three houses down from his place.
"He wanted to make sure you had what you needed for class," Wonwoo says.
And then he pulls a sealed envelope from his jacket pocket.
"He asked me to give you this too. No pressure to read it now. Or at all. Just. He wanted you to have it."
You take the envelope. Your name is written across the front in Mingyu's careful handwriting.
"Thank you, Wonwoo."
He nods. "I'll be close if you need anything. You know where to find me."
He leaves before you can say more.
Your room feels smaller with the envelope in your hands. You sit on the edge of your bed, turning it over twice before you break the seal.
Inside is a single sheet of paper, covered in his handwriting. The letters are slightly uneven, as if he wrote it in a hurry—or as if his hand was shaking.
I don't know where to start, so I'll just start.
I was wrong to keep things from you. I told myself I was protecting you, but I think I was just protecting myself. I was so terrified of losing you that I forgot the one thing that makes you stay is trust.
The house feels empty without you. I keep reaching for you in my sleep, and there's nothing there. I keep cooking enough for two before I remember.
I'm not asking you to come back immediately. I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm asking for a chance to earn it.
Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here waiting when you're ready to come home.
—Mingyu
Your fingers trace the last line.
The tears come, but they're not the ugly ones from before. These are softer. Cleaner.
Two more days pass.
You take long walks through the garden. You talk to your mother over dinner. You attend your lectures and write your papers and let the routine steady you.
But the mansion's walls start to feel like a cage.
You miss the sound of his laugh. The way the floorboards creak when he walks across the kitchen. The smell of his skin in the morning. The way he holds you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
You're ready.
You pack your bag, say goodbye to your mother, and prepare to order a ride when the front door swings open.
Matthew stands on the threshold, his hands in his pockets, his smile easy and warm.
"Heard through the grapevine you might be heading back," he says. "Thought I'd offer a ride."
You laugh, the sound surprising you. "You're a terrible liar. You don't have a grapevine."
"It's your mom." He shrugs. "Same thing."
You grab your bag and follow him to his car. The drive is easy, quiet music filling the space between light conversation. He asks about your lectures. You ask about his new girlfriend. The miles pass without weight.
The familiar streets of the neighborhood come into view. The magnolia tree. The white craftsman house. The patch of paint near the gutter that still doesn't quite match.
Matthew pulls up to the curb.
You step out, your heart beating against your ribs. The house looks the same. The porch, the windows, the garden you've been neglecting.
Matthew gets out too, walking you up to the porch.
You turn to him, and before you can think, your arms wrap around his neck. The hug is deep, grateful, full of everything you can't put into words.
"Thank you for everything, Matt. Truly."
He hugs you back, his hand patting your shoulder. "Anytime. You know where to find me."
The heavy front door swings open.
You turn.
Mingyu stands in the doorway. He's wearing a gray sweater and worn jeans, his hair slightly disheveled, dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. He looks like he's been holding his breath.
His gaze lands on you.
Then on Matthew's arms still around you.
His jaw tightens. His hands curl at his sides. The silence stretches, fragile and electric, as the three of you stand frozen on the porch.
>>>the one where you annoyingly need an alpha and it feels way too real
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 : 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭
pairing: k.mg / f!reader
𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: 18+, 𝘔𝘋𝘕𝘐, 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘵
summary: you're an omega who rarely has heats...until you do, and it's horrible and makes you desperate enough to try the ridiculous seventeenth heaven alpha service you keep seeing advertised - and you end up with an emergency alpha, mingyu, to get you through a bad moment, except that neither of you exactly want it to end when the time is up
word count: 4.8k
genre / warnings: alternate universe | non-idol | omegaverse (a/b/o) | soulmates | alpha!mingyu | lwk escort!mingyu | omega!reader | heat/rut dynamics | soft!mingyu | service top!mingyu | very slight angst | painful heat (until it's not) | mentions of bad past s3xual experiences | penetrative s3x | fingering | knotting | scent as soulmate mark
[unknown sender]
hi, lovely i’m messaging you from 17th heaven about our alpha services
we can handle all your omega needs
txt us back and give us all ur heat
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
You had stared at that message a million times. It was so corny.
You had marked it as spam before, even, but it always seemed to pop back up. It made you wonder what you had signed up for that had sold your phone number - you or someone you hated who wanted to kill you via mild annoyance.
But there were billboards for it. Ads and flyers, too. It was everywhere. You saw it when you were commuting and buying groceries - there was no escaping the painfully cute ads about ‘alphas who just want to help.’ Whatever - that was your take on it. More like alphas just looking to take advantage of omegas.
But your neighbor had even mentioned it to you when you happened to both be poolside.
“They’re really gentle,” she’d said, her face breaking into a soft smile. “I subscribed to their quarterly service,” she admitted in a whisper, like it was some guilty secret.
You had shrugged it off, even if you did consider her fairly astute. You would suffer through your heats because alphas were … generally so ick. Their second gender was their entire identity. It was part of why you lived in an omega-only building.
Even the buyer’s agreement included an alpha clause - alphas could only spend more than two nights if, and only if, they were aiding an omega through their heat, and never during an alpha’s rut. There was even a special entrance and elevator so everyone didn’t get blasted with pheromones when one of them visited.
To you, it made life easier. You worked in an alpha-dominated industry, so you got enough of their side eye and disgusting, lascivious looks.
Even when you had the same, or better, education, experience, everything - they still got to look down on you because of that stupid little box you were required to check in your HR profile. On your ID.
Everywhere you went, being an omega followed you.
You didn’t need an alpha in your personal life reminding you just how they got to constantly fail upwards and blame all their failings on their omega parent.
Instead, you saw a hormone specialist to get blocks for your scent and monthly packs of control pills to balance your heat cycles.
At this point, you had maybe two heats a year. And they only lasted for a few days at most. You weren’t dealing with them every single month. So why even bother having an alpha help with something so limited, you wondered.
But then again, you hadn’t had a heat quite like this in several years.
You’d woken up, knowing something was wrong.
Your body ached, everywhere. You were certain you could feel it in your bones, even. You were drenched in sweat, and you had this horrible need that seemed to come straight from your womb and consume your mind and body like some demonic force.
You needed an alpha.
You needed your alpha - whatever the fuck that meant for someone without one.
You tried getting off a few times, and each time you came, it was like a drop in an ocean. The pain was still there, surging through your limbs, unstoppable. You cried softly, just wanting it to end.
And that was when your phone pinged and you saw the message.
There was a number at the bottom that you quickly copied and pasted. You messaged asking about their services, and almost immediately got a call back.
The male voice on the other end of the line was gentle, asking what part of your cycle you were in (the part that hurts!), what you normally did (not that much), what methods you used (meds and toys), if you’d ever been with an alpha for your heats (a few times / not recently), did you have any preference for an alpha type (not a dick head? no one bossy).
You wanted to scream at this person for being so thorough in their job. You did start to cry a bit towards the end, which he seemed to clock, asking quickly if you were staying hydrated and eating (no, duh).
Apparently, you were considered an ‘emergency case’, which meant you got one of their ‘standby’ alphas. You had no clue what that meant. But someone would be with you quickly.
You were sent contact information for your alpha. His name, phone number, and a photo so you could verify him. There was also a code word that you provided for safety, since he needed to enter your home. You had decided on ‘mittens’ for some reason that seemed rational in the moment.
And within the hour, you heard the soft knock at your door. You threw on your robe and made your way to the door, groaning and doubling over in pain in the hallway before you reached the door. After breathing deeply for a few breaths, you stood and made it to the door. Still breathing carefully, you glanced through the peephole and saw that he looked like the alpha from the contact details.
Same dark hair you’d seen in the photo, bangs falling neatly across his face, looking freshly showered and dried as he glanced down the hallway. You winced as he turned towards the door, holding your stomach. You hadn’t showered since the day before. Still, you paused, staring for just a moment before your body rebelled.
You whined softly, leaning against the cool wood of the door. “Can I just let you in or what?”
He glanced up. “You need to ask for your password so I can confirm it,” he answered softly.
You pressed your fingertips against the door, trying to find some imaginary grip. “What’s my password?” you asked, your annoyance and discomfort growing and intertwining because why did you even need to do this, even though you understood exactly why - it’d been drilled into you in a million afternoon movies - safety, knowing you let the right alpha in…
“Mittens,” he answered.
“Thank fuck,” you muttered, as you flung the door open and waved him in. Any semblance of patience or caring was out the window.
He was dressed plainly, just jeans and a jacket over a t-shirt - sneakers.
His scent hit you hard, though. Salty air, and dried wood, and something a little citrusy - it was like craving something you hadn’t even known existed.
Your mouth started to water almost immediately - you swallowed hard, wanting to ignore whatever it was about him, but your body had its own mind and seemed to have picked up on something from him - more than just his scent.
He glanced back at you as you closed the door. And fuck if he wasn’t handsome…better than the ID-style photo in your messages. Better than the odd distortion that came with the peephole’s slightly fish-eye view.
He was the kind of handsome that was striking...even for an alpha, he was noticeable - gorgeous in a major way. Gorgeous in a way that shouldn’t just be appearing on your doorstep.
You whimpered, clutching your stomach. “Okay, what now?” You breathed, knowing what you wanted to happen, quickly…
He smiled, though, holding out his hand. “I’m Mingyu,” he said.
You shook his hand. “Right, yeah, sorry, Y/n,” you groaned at the niceties - it wasn’t the customer service you were visualizing.
“How is your pain?”
And it kept going. You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know, horrible? 12 out of 10? I might be dying,” you concluded.
He nodded. “Okay, you probably aren’t dying,” he said with a soft smile, “but you don’t have heats often?”
You shook your head, wanting badly for him to hurry through whatever this was. “No, maybe two to three times a year,” you answered flatly.
“Has your doctor explained breakthrough heats, ones like this?” he asked, his voice entirely too polite, too soft and gentle. His bedside manner was better than your doctor’s, actually.
You blinked at him. “What? No, I - I had to change from one type of therapy to another recently, though,” you answered, closing your eyes, wishing that you had read all the pamphlets.
He nodded. “Right, changing therapies can cause this too - it can happen this way for a few cycles and go back to being more manageable,” he said softly.
As he’d gone through all the small, tedious things, he’d been walking closer to you. He reached out, his hand making soft contact with your forehead, feeling your temperature. You were surprised that he kissed your cheek too, a tender brush of his lips that made your eyelids flutter closed. “I’m sorry it hurts,” he murmured, his voice suspiciously sincere and warm against your skin.
You nodded and opened your eyes. “Thanks,” you mumbled.
You remembered what your neighbor had said about their service being ‘gentle’ - this was almost shockingly gentle. The way he cupped your cheek and held you for a moment, just gazing into your eyes. You told yourself it was probably just to figure out if your pupils were dilated.
He stroked your cheek, though. “Have you eaten?”
You shook your head. Because no, massive pain. Duh.
He nodded, still gazing at you softly. “Will you show me where you’re nesting?”
You nodded, leaning into his touch, realizing how badly you wanted the contact - how badly you wanted him, maybe. Even what he was doing, the barest of the bare minimum, was soothing somehow.
You didn’t want him to stop touching you.
He kissed your temple, like he knew what you were thinking. “I’m right here, everything’s okay,” he whispered, his voice low and sweet, as his arms looped around your waist, hugging you close for a moment. You noticed the way he pulled you gently into him, your upper body connecting with his, point-by-point, feeling his warmth - and the second soft kiss he pressed to your temple. It was the first moment you felt yourself relax. You held his shoulder, squeezing it, not having words for the way certain muscles were starting to unwind - you pressed your fingertips deeper into the muscle of his upper arm.
After a few moments, he let you go, and you led him to your bedroom. Your nest was unbelievably half-assed, just some blankets from your sofa - ones you liked, but still, it wasn’t the kind of nest you would see in any omega magazine. But you rarely had heats like this. You didn’t have a bunch of clothes from a mate or anything like that. You just had what was cozy.
And felt warmth creep into your cheeks because why were you letting someone see you like this again?
You sighed and sat on the bed, glancing at him like he might be judging you for being a ‘bad’ omega.
“Does this like go into my notes or something? ‘Sub-par at nesting’?” You asked.
He shook his head. “No, and when I say ‘nest’ - it’s just wherever you feel safe and comfortable,” he said, walking closer, reaching out, his fingers going gently to your temples, rubbing small circles, the pads of his thumbs brushing along your cheeks.
Your eyes closed. This was nothing like your last time with an alpha.
After a few moments, he asked, “Is your pain still as bad?”
“It doesn’t have the same edge, but it’s still there,” you whispered, leaning into him again. It was a strange feeling to crave someone’s touch.
“Do you want to try some different things?” He asked.
Your brows knitted - his fingers still making the same small movements. “Different how?” you asked.
You could hear his small laugh. “Um, things like massage - touch that isn’t necessarily sexual,” he explained. “But it can also help calm you down and help you get used to my being here, too,” he added.
You nodded, understanding what he meant. Some omegas could have intense reactions to alphas they weren’t partnered with - even if they were close to one another normally. It could be a bit more predator and prey than anyone asked for…or freezing up. Heats could be a strange time for an omega.
“That sounds like a good place to start,” you murmured.
You listened to him when he asked you to move back onto the bed - to lie down. Because why not? His scent was stronger in the room - the wood notes were dry like kindling, not green.
Lying there, you closed your eyes and listened to him moving around, each little sound letting you know exactly where he was, how close, and that he paused, his fingertips tracing along the top of your foot. “Still okay?” he asked, voice small.
You nodded, eyes still closed.
You heard him return to undressing, the soft landing of his jeans on the hardwood. You felt the lightest touch against your ankle - his thumb and first finger squeezing carefully. “Turn over for me?”
You did what he asked, turning over, letting your robe move with you. You felt the bed shift as he joined you - he was straddling you, his knees on either side of your low back.
“Is it okay for me to touch you?” His voice was soft.
You nodded, still surprised by the careful way he was approaching you. His hands traced down the center of your back and out over your ribs, then down to meet at your tailbone.
You felt and heard the way you exhaled as your body settled. He stayed there, hands working along your back through your robe.
It worked to acclimate you, but you knew it was starting to feel more like edging at some point when you whined and turned and caught his hands. “I need - this isn’t enough,” you said, voice rushed as you flopped back down. You’d barely made eye contact, but you felt the way your panties were starting to stick to your pussy.
“Tell me if anything is too much?” he asked.
You nodded.
He smoothed your hair to the side and pulled the collar of your robe down. You shifted for him, freeing your arms from the silk, feeling it trail softly down your back as he exposed your almost naked skin.
He smoothed oil over your shoulders and down your back. His hands felt amazing as they traced over your back, squeezing gently in certain places. You could feel some of your muscles relaxing, even if his approach still felt slightly cautious to you.
You sighed, soaking in his warmth.
“Is it okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
He wasn’t applying any intense pressure, just enough to soothe you, and for you to be surrounded by his scent. You were surprised by how much stronger it had become since he had arrived, actually.
“Do you feel okay with me doing more?”
Again, you nodded.
When his lips brushed the nape of your neck, though, you felt a warmth tingle through you. You moaned softly.
The sound seemed to have been the invitation he was waiting for.
It was like a moan had unlocked a different experience. You gasped with relief as he kissed along your shoulder, biting you gently, just the pressure of his canines against your skin made you shiver and ache in a new way - a sweet way.
You could feel how hard he was getting behind you. His cock heavy against the swell of your hip. You wanted to feel that heaviness buried inside you.
He moved, his lips trailing to your throat, kissing and licking. You gasped, mumbling his name as you reached back, letting your fingers catch in his hair. You felt his hips grind gently against you.
“So beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, kissing down your spine. “Lovely little omega,” he breathed, “want to breed you full,” he whispered, “give you all my pups.”
You shivered, hearing his voice so close and his words that seemed to resonate deeper than you wanted to think about.
His hands traced down your ribs and sides as he spoke - down and under your hips, pulling your ass back and up. You could feel his dick pulsing against you as his hands slid to grasp your inner thighs. You felt his hips rut into you more seriously.
You tugged his hair gently, moaning and whimpering with need. “Please,” you asked softly, “hurts - needs to be full,” you whined with a gasp as you felt his fingers shift and start to tease you open.
“I know,” he mumbled, “I can feel just how much you need me - so wet already - smell so sweet, too,” he said, still teasing and kissing your throat.
You shivered, loving his voice, his touch, the way his teeth grazed your sensitive skin. You wanted to sink back on his fingers, his dick, anything really. Whatever he would give you.
It was his fingers first - long, thick fingers. They pushed into you - in and out, deeper and deeper - you didn’t care how obscene it sounded. You were leaking slick, your pussy weeping to be full before he’d even started. You heard his breath catch as he worked his fingers deeper - the soft way he sighed as he fitted them fully into you. You hadn’t expected that - for him to sound like he was enjoying it so much.
“Taking me so well,” he said under his breath.
You nodded, humming in agreement. “Feels so good,” you breathed, your own fingers wound into the edge of a blanket, squeezing tightly against the orgasm you knew was approaching.
You weren’t sure why, but you had assumed it would be clinical and stiff, or someone who was rough, too rough, probably.
But he was neither.
He was gentle, listening to every sound you made for him, seeming to be just as turned on as you were and just as needy for you to come.
It barely took a few minutes for you to orgasm around his fingers - you were dripping for him already. And it was such a relief. Such an intense relief - you could breathe again. He hugged you - your back pressing to his chest, and his fingers still working inside you, knowing you could keep coming.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” he said, swallowing loudly. You nodded, mewling softly as another orgasm started to build.
You came with a small cry, “Oh, fuck.” You whined, shivering and trembling, his fingers still inside you.
“Shh, doing so well, pet,” he said, his voice reassuring. “Just relax for me, let me take care of you,” he whispered.
You nodded, already soft and pliant in his arms and on the precipice of another orgasm.
You came again, almost soundless besides your breathing.
He finally sat up and moved to turn you over. You watched the way he looked at you, his eyes trailing down your body like he was memorizing you. It was almost like a caress.
It was sweet - he was sweet - everything was sweet. You pushed him back gently, running your hands down his chest and abs and further down his stomach. He was so hard, leaking, too.
You grasped him, giving his dick a small stroke. He hummed, grinning. “You don’t have to—”
You licked your lips. “I know.”
‘Need’ wasn’t the point - you wanted to - you wanted to make him come. You teased his slit and felt his hand cover yours, squeezing you to tighten your grip on him, slowing your pace. “Like that,” he mumbled.
You smirked, letting him set the pace, feeling the easy way he guided you along his entire length, squeezing at the base, just right.
You watched his head drop to one side - his eyes closed. “Close?”
He nodded.
“Don’t move - do it here,” you said, wanting it where he was, on the sheets, in your barely-a-nest nest.
He didn’t move, even as he came, dripping over both your hands, onto your side, the sheets. It was easy then, the way you both wiped your hands in the sheets that definitely smelled like both of you. He barely gave you a moment before he was sliding in - all of him, but the slide was so easy - so fucking good.
You whined and groaned, your fingers digging into his shoulders and back as he fucked into you. You knew you arched off the bed through another orgasm.
But he just pulled you into a new position. Him behind you, you on all fours, open - and again, he pushed in, pulling your hips where he was hitting the sweetest spot with every thrust.
You buried your face in the sheets, your hand wrapping in them uselessly - you moaned into the mattress through your next orgasm.
He was still hard, though. “Still good?” he asked, voice ragged at the edges.
You leaned up, barely surfacing, nodding. “Yeah, don’t stop,” you managed.
“Good,” he muttered, as his hands squeezed your ass like he wished he could leave fingerprints.
He didn’t need to be rough, though. He was too relentless to be rough, too - every move of his hips was so perfect and consistent that every sound you made after some point was a soft cry.
He turned you over, though, leaning in, kissing you slowly. “One more?”
You nodded.
He grinned and moved onto his knees - he caught your ankle and pulled your leg over his shoulder, his hands moving under your ass, holding your hips where he wanted them as he sank into you.
You blinked hard at the sudden feeling of it, so full, so stretched - too good to worry if you could breathe…you yelped softly as he started to move, his cock hitting every single spot you could ever fathom needing someone to hit.
You came fast and hard, adding to everything already on your sheets, earning a grin from him. “Love when it’s like that,” he said, his hips working faster then - you only heard him and that specific sound of skin against skin.
And then he was groaning, slowing, and the heat filling you was new and sweet.
“Fuck,” he moaned, finally looking finished.
He leaned down, kissing you. His lips were soft against yours. He stayed there, his cock still inside you - you could feel his knot - he hadn’t knotted you - he’d done everything but. Maybe later, you decided. Your heat wasn’t over yet.
He pulled back slowly, his fingers grazing your jaw as he gazed down at you. “Any cravings?”
You blinked. “Besides this?” You flushed, wondering where that response came from.
He smirked. “Besides me,” he smiled, looking pleased. “You need to eat,” he whispered as he smoothed your hair.
You nodded, trying to think. You hummed softly, leaning into his hand. “Name some foods,” you said, half-teasing, but he started to list things off anyway.
⊹ ₊ ݁.
You ended up with a burger and fries. It was perfect, though. A perfect break. He showered with you while you waited for food and sat eating with you in your living room.
When you were finished, you climbed into his lap, still needy, still wanting touch. His touch. You nuzzled into him, you could swear his scent was more intense, almost slightly sweet around the edges.
You sighed, nuzzling against his throat. “How does it work? Do you stay?” You asked, voice barely audible.
He nodded. “Until you’re through it, yeah,” he answered, his fingers trailing through your hair.
You hummed softly. You wanted to ask him things, like why he was so…whatever he was. You wondered what the job description was, even. But you didn’t. That small inner voice of doubt kept you from asking anything that might be meaningful.
He held you close the rest of the night. He slept next to you. And when you woke up crying during the night, he held you close - his dick sliding in so easily - he fucked you tenderly until your tears slowed. He held you delicately, filling you with every thrust.
You could feel his knot growing. You trailed your fingers through his hair, staring up at him, holding his gaze. “Please,” you breathed into the dark.
He licked his lips. “You sure?”
You nodded. “Need it, need you, need my alpha,” you said, groaning at the way he started to push in further. You had no idea how big his knot was, but you could feel yourself stretching to take him. You wanted every bit of him.
You whimpered, coming when he did, feeling your body finally relaxing, giving in as his knot filled you, calming you, keeping everything inside, just like it was supposed to be.
You fell asleep like that.
⊹ ₊ ݁.
You woke up to him still holding you. His scent surrounded you like a soft blanket. You didn’t want to move. It was strange, the feeling of not wanting to part from someone. Worse was the deeper feeling that it would hurt when you did. It made you anxious, the idea that he would leave after another day or so. You guessed that you would probably never see him again.
He sighed gently. “Don’t worry,” he whispered as his fingers traced gently against your side.
You swallowed tightly, knowing you hadn’t said anything out loud. You had only thought those things. And he had answered you. He nuzzled closer, murmuring for you to try to sleep, to rest. You nodded, hoping sleep would clear your mind.
⊹ ₊ ݁.
When you woke up for the second time, there was breakfast, and sex, and movies, and cuddling, and sex, and lunch, and so on. You fell asleep after he knotted you late that night.
And things started to ebb the second morning with him. And by the third morning, you started to feel almost normal.
You were still sad for him to leave, though. You tried telling yourself that you were just a client - he did this with other omegas. It was his job to be nice to you - he could hate you and be really good at hiding it.
None of that mattered, though - you didn’t want him to leave. And you had no idea how to tell him either.
It was painful to walk him to the door. You were still holding his hand, even as he crossed the threshold. He squeezed your hand gently, telling you it would be ‘okay.’ You managed to hold back your tears until the door was firmly closed.
You sat in your hallway, miserable, a different kind of ache settling over you than what you had started with. You sat there for a long time, wondering if you were right about what you had felt. You closed your eyes tightly, telling yourself it wasn’t real.
You stood up and tried going about your day, catching up on emails. But you were still feeling a bit tired and sore, so you’d taken a nap in what was left of your nest. His scent was still there, soothing you, even if he was gone. You prayed it would last, that his scent would linger. You weren’t sure you could sleep without it.
And when you woke up to hear rain pelting against your windows - it was like the weather had decided to match your mood. You felt despondent, lying there, knowing you needed to wash your sheets.
You decided that you couldn’t hang on to him. That you were being unreasonable. And that you probably needed to eat.
But even walking into your kitchen, it smelled like him. The air smelled like him. You almost cried. Because you didn’t believe in mates and finding someone with that scent that stuck in your mind - that one scent that was only ever meant for you - the one that you could follow through a crowd of people if you needed to because it would always lead you to him.
You leaned against the counter, wondering what you were even supposed to do - it was a service and not for matchmaking. You sighed, trying to collect yourself. Trying to forget his scent and the way he seemed to read your mind at various points.
You finally started looking for food. And that was when you found his parting gift.
He’d left you food, something he made while you were sleeping. You were surprised to find the lemon cake waiting for you. Something citrusy and sweet. It almost hurt to look at.
But then you saw the note he’d left too. And there was his number written neatly, and a more hastily written note, asking you to call him if it had felt ‘real’ to you too.
You stared at it, reading it more than once. Checking the paper to make sure it was real and not something your mind had created.
You tried to play it cool. You told yourself that you would wait a few days.
But that hadn’t lasted. You made it all of ten minutes before texting him and asking him if he had plans for dinner.
Because it had felt very real for you.
a/n: if you didn't know i enjoy writing omegaverse, now you do ^^ and mingyu...i haven't posted for him yet, so why not some omegaverse with soulmates who meet in a sort of weird way
love it - hope you had fun reading
okieeee byeee
xx
♡ 𝚝𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝
read more here mingyu m.list | seungcheol m.list | general m.list
