Synopsis: han jisung as the third wheel who is not really a third wheel at all
A/n: ahh this had made me want to write for these two even more if anyone has any requests i would love to write them!
Wc: 3,267
Dating Minho came with rules.
Not official ones, of course. Minho wasn’t the type to sit you down with a serious face and a bullet-pointed list of relationship terms. He was more the type to silently place the last piece of meat in your bowl, glare at you until you ate it, and then call you dramatic when you got emotional about it.
Still, the rules existed.
One: Soonie, Doongie, and Dori were to be spoken to with respect at all times.
Two: if Minho cooked, you were expected to praise him properly. Not too much, because then he’d accuse you of being fake. Not too little, because then he’d sulk in silence for exactly twelve minutes.
Three: if you were dating Minho, you were also dating the fact that Han Jisung came attached.
That third rule was the one no one warned you about.
You had discovered it slowly.
At first, Jisung appeared on casual outings. A café trip here, a convenience store run there. Minho would text you, I’m outside, and when you opened the car door, Jisung would already be sitting in the back seat with a packet of crisps, waving at you like he had been invited.
“Hi,” he’d say cheerfully. “Don’t mind me.”
You would glance at Minho.
Minho would stare straight ahead, one hand on the wheel. “He was hungry.”
That was always the excuse.
He was hungry. He was bored. He looked lonely. He said he wanted coffee. He was whining. He followed me out. He has separation anxiety.
Jisung never denied any of it. In fact, he seemed rather proud.
Over time, he stopped sitting in the back seat.
Now, he sat in the passenger seat when Minho drove, because he claimed he got carsick in the back, even though everyone knew that was a lie. You sat behind Minho, reaching forward occasionally to poke his cheek or fix the collar of his jacket. Jisung would watch in the mirror, lips pursed.
“You never fix my collar,” he complained one afternoon.
“You’re wearing a hoodie,” Minho said.
“So?”
“So there’s no collar.”
Jisung turned around to look at you with wounded eyes. “Do you see how he speaks to me?”
You leaned forward and gently adjusted the drawstrings of his hoodie instead. “There. Better?”
Jisung immediately melted back into his seat, smiling smugly. “Much better.”
Minho clicked his tongue, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
That was how it always went.
Jisung complained. You fussed. Minho pretended to be annoyed. Then, when Jisung wasn’t looking, Minho would do something stupidly tender, like pass him the first bite of food or tug his hood up because the wind was cold.
It was impossible not to love them together.
It was also impossible to go on a normal date.
You had tried.
Not because Jisung was rude about it or anything. He wasn’t. That was the thing people didn’t always get about him.
For all his dramatic whining and his tragic little sighs whenever Minho said he was busy, Jisung knew when to step back. He knew when a date was a date. A proper one. The kind where you dressed up, Minho booked a table somewhere nice, and Jisung sent exactly one text saying, Have fun, bring me dessert if you love me.
Which, obviously, Minho pretended to ignore.
And then brought him dessert anyway.
That was how it usually went.
Tonight had been one of those proper dates.
You had spent too long getting ready, changing your outfit twice before settling on something you knew Minho liked. Not because he was hard to impress — he really wasn’t, no matter how much he acted like he was — but because the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention still made your stomach do stupid little flips.
When he knocked on your door, you opened it before he could text you something annoying like hurry up, I’m ageing outside.
Minho stood there in a black coat, hair soft over his forehead, one hand tucked into his pocket.
For once, he didn’t immediately say something sarcastic.
His eyes moved over you, slow and obvious, and his mouth parted just slightly before he caught himself.
You leaned against the doorframe. “What?”
He blinked, then looked you right in the eye.
“You look gorgeous.”
There it was.
No mumbling. No pretending. No weird
dodge.
Just Minho, looking at you like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and deciding, apparently, that you deserved to hear it.
Your face warmed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His gaze dipped again, softer this time. “Really pretty.”
You tried to play it cool. You failed immediately.
“Careful,” you said, stepping out and locking the door behind you. “Compliment me too much and I might start thinking you like me.”
Minho took your hand before you could overthink it, lacing his fingers through yours. “Shit. That would be embarrassing.”
The date itself was perfect in that quiet, sort of way.
He complained about the lighting in the restaurant and then still took a picture of you because he said you looked too good not to. He told you not to order something spicy because you’d regret it, then swapped plates with you halfway through when you did, in fact, regret it. He reached across the table to wipe sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, called you messy, and smiled when you kicked him lightly under the table.
It was romantic.
It was just yours.
No interruptions. No Jisung dramatically appearing.
Because Jisung wasn’t a dick.
He might be clingy. He might text Minho twenty-seven times in a row because he saw a cat that “looked similar” to him. He might act like being left alone for three hours was the same as being abandoned in the wilderness.
But he respected you.
He respected Minho.
He respected the relationship.
And maybe that was why you liked letting him into it so much.
By the time dinner was over, you and Minho were walking back to the car hand in hand, your shoulder tucked against his arm, the night air cold enough to make you shiver.
Minho noticed immediately.
Without a word, he unwound his scarf and looped it around your neck.
You smiled. “You’ll be cold.”
“I’m strong.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re gorgeous. Be quiet.”
You laughed, tugging the scarf closer around yourself. “You can’t just say that whenever you want me to stop arguing.”
“It worked.”
“It did, actually.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and for a moment, everything was calm and warm and easy.
Then his phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Minho didn’t even check it at first.
You did.
Not the messages, just the name lighting up on his screen.
Han Jisung.
You snorted. “Your son is calling.”
“He’s older than a son.”
You snorted again. “Your other half is calling.”
The phone buzzed again.
Minho sighed like the weight of the world had personally chosen him. Then he answered, putting it on speaker before you could stop grinning.
“What?”
Jisung’s voice came through instantly. “Wow. Hello to you too, sunshine.”
“What do you want?”
“First of all, rude. Second of all, nothing. I’m just checking you’re alive.”
“You texted me nine times.”
“Because you didn’t answer.”
“I was on a date.”
“I know! That’s why I only texted nine times. I was being respectful.”
You covered your mouth, laughing silently.
Minho glanced at you, his expression flat, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “What happened?”
There was a pause.
Then Jisung said, quieter, “Nothing happened.”
Minho stopped walking.
You stopped too.
His voice changed, not by much, but enough that you heard it. Softer. More focused.
“Han.”
Jisung made a small noise. “Don’t do the scary voice.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing bad. I just…” Another pause. “I finished my schedule and everyone’s doing their own thing and I’m bored as fuck.”
You looked at Minho.
Minho looked at you.
You leaned closer to the phone. “Did you eat?”
Jisung gasped. “Oh my God, hi.”
“Hi, Sungie. Did you eat?”
“Define eat.”
Minho closed his eyes. “Han Jisung.”
“I had crisps.”
“That’s not dinner,” you said.
“It was a big bag.”
Minho was already pulling his keys from his pocket. “We’re picking you up.”
Jisung went silent.
Then, suspiciously soft, “You are?”
You glanced at Minho, raising your eyebrows.
He shrugged like this hadn’t been his decision before you even said anything.
“Our date’s finished,” you said. “And Minho owes you dessert.”
“I do not,” Minho said.
“You bought it already.”
Jisung made a delighted sound. “You bought me dessert?”
“No,” Minho said.
“He did,” you said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You asked the waiter to pack an extra slice of cheesecake.”
“That could be for me.”
“You don’t even like cheesecake that much.”
Jisung’s voice wobbled with pure, ridiculous emotion. “You got me cheesecake?”
Minho unlocked the car. “I’m hanging up.”
“Hyung.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
Minho froze for half a second.
You watched him carefully.
His face didn’t change much, but his ears went pink again.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Stay where you are.”
He hung up before Jisung could make it worse.
You slipped into the passenger seat this time, still wrapped in Minho’s scarf, still warm from dinner and his compliments and the easy weight of his hand in yours.
As soon as he started the car, you looked over at him.
He didn’t look back. “What?”
“You’re cute.”
“I’m driving. Don’t annoy me.”
“You got him cheesecake.”
“He’s annoying when he wants something sweet.”
“You love him.”
Minho’s fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel.
For a second, you wondered if you’d pushed too far.
Then he said, very quietly, “So do you.”
You smiled.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “I do.”
He glanced at you then, quick and careful.
Not jealous. Not uncomfortable.
Just checking.
You reached over and rested your hand on his thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“I love you too, you know.”
Minho’s face softened immediately.
“I know,” he said.
Then, after a beat, “I love you.”
You grinned. “See? Was that so hard?”
“Awful. Nearly died.”
“You’re so brave.”
He smiled then, small but real, and took one hand off the wheel just long enough to lift your hand to his mouth and kiss your knuckles.
By the time you pulled up outside the studio, Jisung was already waiting near the entrance in an oversized hoodie, bouncing slightly on his heels from the cold.
The second he saw the car, his whole face lit up.
“Oh, he is so pleased with himself,” you said.
Minho sighed. “Don’t encourage him.”
“You say that like we aren’t literally here to pick him up and give him cake.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“He’s pathetic.”
Jisung opened the back door before you could answer and immediately leaned between the front seats. “I heard that.”
“Good,” Minho said.
Jisung ignored him completely and looked at you. “Hi, pretty.”
“Hi, princess.”
His smile turned smug instantly.
Minho groaned. “Don’t call him that. He gets worse.”
“I deserve nice things,” Jisung said, climbing into the back seat and shutting the door. “I have suffered.”
“You were alone for two hours,” Minho said.
“Exactly.”
You turned around in your seat and reached back to fix the hood slipping off Jisung’s head. His hair was messy underneath, fluffy and sticking up at the sides.
“You’re freezing,” you said.
“I know, I’ve been suffering out here.”
Minho reached for the heater without being asked.
Jisung noticed.
You noticed him noticing.
Minho noticed both of you noticing and immediately looked pissed off about being perceived.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Jisung pressed his lips together.
You did the same.
The silence lasted three seconds.
Then Jisung said, “You love me so bad.”
Minho put the car into drive. “I’m taking you back.”
“No, you’re not. You have cheesecake.”
“Had cheesecake.”
Jisung gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
You reached into the bag at your feet and pulled out the takeaway box. “He wouldn’t. He was very serious about making sure they packed it properly.”
Minho muttered something under his breath.
Jisung leaned forward, eyes shining. “Can I have it now?”
“No,” Minho said.
“Yes,” you said at the same time.
Jisung looked between you both. “Mum said yes.”
Minho’s head turned slowly.
You burst out laughing.
“Do not call her that,” he said.
Jisung looked between you both. “Your gorgeous date said yes.”
Minho’s head turned slowly. “Don’t flirt with my date.”
“I’m complimenting her.”
“That’s flirting.”
Jisung smiled around his fork. “You’re jealous.”
You reached back and gently pinched Jisung’s cheek. “Eat your cheesecake before he takes it back.”
Jisung immediately clutched the box closer. “He wouldn’t. He loves me too much.”
He took one bite and immediately slumped back against the seat, eyes closing. “Fuck, that’s good.”
Minho glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “Seatbelt.”
Jisung, still chewing, blindly reached for it.
You watched Minho watching him.
That was the thing about dating Minho. People who didn’t know him properly always acted like he was hard to read, like his love had to be dug out from underneath layers of sarcasm and blank stares.
But you had never really seen it that way.
Minho loved in a way that was almost impossible to miss if you paid attention. He held your hand without thinking. He fixed Jisung’s hood when it slipped off his head. He kept his palm warm against the small of your back when you walked through busy places, guiding you gently without making a big deal out of it. He bought the cheesecake. He turned the heating up. He told you that you looked gorgeous and said it like he meant every single letter.
He could tease, obviously. He could be dry and blunt and annoying as hell when he wanted to be.
But cold?
Never.
Not with you.
Not with Jisung.
Not when he looked at the two of you like you were something soft he had been trusted to take care of.
By the time you got back to the dorm, Jisung had already eaten three bites of the cheesecake in the car despite Minho telling him to wait until you were all inside.
He had agreed, very seriously, and then opened the box the second Minho looked back at the road.
“You have no self-control,” Minho said, unlocking the door.
Jisung walked in first, cheesecake tucked protectively against his chest. “I have joy. You should try it sometime.”
“Don’t say that while holding a plastic fork,” Minho said.
“Why?”
“It ruins the effect.”
You laughed, slipping past Minho into the dorm. “So there was an effect?”
Minho looked at you, then down at your outfit again, the same way he’d been doing all night when he thought he was being subtle.
“There is when you do it,” he said.
Your face warmed immediately.
You took your coat off, still smiling, and before you could reach for the hook, Minho stepped behind you and lifted it gently from your shoulders.
His hands lingered for half a second.
“You really did look gorgeous tonight,” he said, quieter now.
You turned your head slightly, smiling at him over your shoulder. “You’ve told me that already.”
“I know.”
“And you’re telling me again?”
His mouth curved. “Problem?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He kissed your cheek before hanging your coat up, quick and casual enough to make your heart feel stupid.
When you glanced towards the living room, Jisung was already on the sofa, cheesecake balanced on his lap, fork held loosely in his hand.
He wasn’t saying anything.
Which was, honestly, how you knew something was up.
Usually, Jisung filled every room he was in. A little hum here, a comment there, some dramatic noise just to remind everyone he existed and deserved to be looked at. But now he was just sitting there, lips pushed into the smallest pout, poking at the corner of his cheesecake without actually eating it.
You softened immediately.
Minho noticed too.
His eyes flicked over Jisung’s face, and all the teasing left him at once.
You sat down beside Jisung, still smiling, and reached over to fix the hood of his jumper where it had bunched awkwardly behind his neck. “Poor Sungie.”
Jisung’s pout deepened, but he leaned into you almost instantly, like he’d been waiting for permission.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled.
“No, you’re not.” You reached up and pushed his hair back from his forehead, gentle with it. “You’re sulking.”
“I’m not sulking.”
“You’re holding your fork sadly.”
His eyes dropped to the fork in his hand.
Then, very quietly, he said, “Maybe a little.”
Your chest went all warm and soft.
You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing lightly over his skin. “Did you want some attention too?”
Jisung didn’t answer straight away.
He just leaned heavier into your hand, cheeks going pink.
That was answer enough.
Before you could say anything else, the sofa dipped on Jisung’s other side.
Minho sat beside him, close enough that their knees touched, and reached over to take the cheesecake box from his lap before it could slide off.
Jisung looked at him.
Minho looked back, expression gentle in a way that always made your heart ache a little.
“You went quiet,” he said softly.
Jisung shrugged, suddenly very interested in the sleeve of his hoodie. “Didn’t wanna interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting.”
“You were being cute.”
Minho’s face softened even more.
Then he reached up and tucked a messy piece of hair behind Jisung’s ear, his fingers lingering there.
“You’re allowed to want attention,” he said.
Jisung blinked.
The room went quiet for a second.
Not awkward. Just soft.
Then Jisung mumbled, “That’s embarrassing.”
Minho smiled a little. “You’re embarrassing.”
“Hyung.”
“Cute, though.”
Jisung’s head snapped up.
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.
Minho didn’t look away from him. He didn’t roll his eyes or pretend he hadn’t said it. He just looked at Jisung like he adored him because he did. Like Jisung being needy and pouty was something precious, not annoying.
Then Minho leaned in and kissed his forehead.
Jisung’s eyes fluttered shut immediately.
The pout disappeared from his face so quickly it was almost funny.
You leaned in too, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Jisung made a tiny sound, pleased and shy all at once, before hiding half his face behind his sleeve.
“You’re both so mean,” he mumbled.
You laughed softly. “We kissed you.”
“Exactly.”
Minho’s hand slid to the back of Jisung’s neck, thumb rubbing there gently. “Spoiled.”
Jisung peeked over his sleeve. “Loved.”
Minho’s smile was small, but so warm.
“Yeah,” he said. “Loved.”
Jisung went quiet again, but this time it wasn’t sulking.
You settled closer against his side, and Minho stayed right there on the other, sandwiching Jisung between you both until his shoulders finally relaxed.
After a moment, Jisung picked up his fork again and took a tiny bite of cheesecake.
“There he is,” Minho murmured.
Jisung leaned into him, still chewing. “Don’t talk about me like I’m a cat.”
Minho brushed his thumb once more against the nape of his neck. “Then stop acting like one.”
You reached over and wiped a bit of cheesecake from the corner of Jisung’s mouth with your thumb.
He smiled, completely shameless now.
“Can’t help it,” he said. “I like being taken care of.”
synopsis: you left minho because your family demanded it. a year later, you see him again, and nothing feels finished. between sharp words and softer moments, you discover some loves don’t fade, they wait.
warnings: heavy angst, mentions of family control/pressure, emotional manipulation, smoking, some drinking, and swearing.
wc: 14,472
part of nini’s 3k special event (requests closed)
part 2
The wedding is dazzling. Too dazzling, almost, like the whole place has been dipped in gold and polished until even the smallest imperfection would shriek beneath the lights. The hall blooms with chandeliers and towering floral arrangements, pale roses spilling over crystal vases, their petals pristine as if they had never known the dirt of soil. The air is heavy with perfume, layered too thick, orchids and champagne, musk and powder and it clings to you like invisible hands, reminding you that everything here was built to impress.
Your heels click against the marble floor as you step inside, the sound sharp, hollow, echoing. The kind of sound that draws eyes, the kind of sound that whispers: You belong here, don’t you? You’re one of us.
Your family moves ahead with practiced ease, their laughter carrying like fine-tuned instruments. Your mother’s pearls gleam, your father’s hand rests casually on the back of your chair as you’re led to your assigned table. They are comfortable in this world of silk gowns and perfect smiles, where deals are whispered between toasts and fortunes are displayed not through words but through the shimmer of cufflinks and the cut of a suit.
You, however, your chest tightens. The beauty of the venue doesn’t ease you; it presses down, reminding you of everything you once believed in, everything you once fought for, and everything you let slip away.
You tell yourself you can’t think of him tonight. It’s been a year. A year since your mother’s voice, calm and cold as glass, told you what was expected. A year since your father explained with gentle but unyielding authority how your relationship with Minho was not sustainable, not appropriate, not befitting of you. A year since you tried to argue, tried to defend him, only to be drowned out by phrases like your future, our reputation, what will people think.
A year since you left him, and in leaving, tore yourself apart.
You had justified it, back then. You told yourself love would only weigh him down, that he deserved someone who wouldn’t be pulled in two directions. That maybe, if you walked away, he would hate you less than if he had to watch you wrestle your family every day for the rest of your lives. You said these things in silence, to the ceiling of your room, to the emptiness in your chest. But in truth, the moment you turned your back on him, you knew, you hadn’t chosen his future. You’d chosen your family’s expectations over the one thing that had ever made you feel like yourself.
The weight of it still sits in you now, like glass shards you never spat out.
“Don’t frown,” your mother hisses softly beside you as you lower yourself into your chair. She dabs at her lipstick with a napkin, eyes scanning the room with precision. “You look like you’re at a funeral.”
You force your lips into a curve, brittle but passable. A smile that photographs well, a smile that could survive the scrutiny of women who measure worth with their eyes. You let the hum of conversation and clinking glasses drown your thoughts, or at least try to.
The bride and groom sweep past in a whirl of silk, faces shining like the advertisements for love your family had always approved of. You clap when expected, sip at champagne when it’s offered, nod politely to distant relatives who praise your dress. You play your part.
And yet, beneath it all, your heart feels raw. Every laugh you hear around you is too sharp, every sparkle of a diamond ring another reminder of the chains your family wrapped around you.
The music swells, violins spiraling in the background, and you let your gaze wander, restless, desperate for something to ground you. You scan over the glittering crowd, the twirling dancers, the tall vases of white lilies. And then, beyond the edge of polished perfection, you notice movement, not among the guests, but in the background.
A man in black uniform, weaving through the crowd with a silver tray balanced in one steady hand. His posture is straight despite the weight, shoulders squared, movements efficient, practiced. His face is angled slightly down as he maneuvers through the sea of satin gowns and tailored tuxedos.
And when the light catches him, your breath stops.
Minho.
Your chest lurches so violently you nearly choke on the air. For a moment, you think it’s a hallucination, some cruel trick of your guilt shaping a stranger’s features into his. But no, the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the sharp, deliberate grace of his movements, it’s him. There’s no mistaking him.
He hasn’t seen you yet. He is too focused on balancing glasses of champagne, his attention locked on the path before him. But you see him with a clarity so sharp it hurts. Every memory comes roaring back in one unrelenting rush: his laugh against your ear, the warmth of his hands when they covered yours, the nights you spent whispering promises you couldn’t keep.
And then, tangled in those memories, comes the truth. The last time you saw him, his voice broken, his eyes glassy with betrayal, the way he had asked you if this was really what you wanted. How you had nodded, because you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.
Now here he is, in a hall lined with chandeliers and gold trim, not as a guest, not as a friend, but as part of the staff. Carrying trays for people who would never see him, never recognize his worth. People like your family. People like you.
The world tilts slightly, as though the chandeliers above have shifted, threatening to fall. You grip the edge of the table to steady yourself, your pulse thrumming in your ears.
Your mother notices your distraction, follows your gaze briefly, and frowns. “Don’t stare,” she murmurs, her voice sharp enough to cut. “It’s impolite to gawk at the staff.”
But you can’t look away.
Because in the span of a heartbeat, you know tonight isn’t about a wedding anymore. It’s about him. It’s about everything you lost. And everything you never had the courage to fight for.
It takes everything in you to move. Every instinct tells you to stay in your chair, to fold your hands in your lap and keep playing the role your parents carved out for you. Your mother is laughing at something your father just whispered, pearls shaking softly against her neck. Their attention is elsewhere, their guard temporarily down, and still you hesitate.
Because standing feels like betrayal. Because walking toward him means acknowledging what you did, what you destroyed, what you still can’t forgive yourself for.
But the sight of Minho, so close, so real has pulled something loose inside you. A thread you can’t knot back in place. And before you can stop yourself, you’re on your feet, weaving through the glitter of gowns and the thick scent of roses, your pulse a frantic drum in your throat.
He doesn’t see you until you’re right in front of him.
“Champagne?” His voice is flat, professional, offering the tray out to you with the same polite smile he’s given to strangers all night. Not warm, not familiar. Just courteous. As though the two years you spent together, the laughter, the tears, the secrets whispered in the dark, they never happened.
You look at the tray but don’t take anything. The stem of a glass gleams like an accusation.
“Minho…” you breathe, his name tumbling out, breaking the thin layer of composure you’ve tried to keep.
His eyes flicker to yours. Briefly. And in that split second, the polite mask drops. His gaze hardens, sharp and unyielding, like a knife slid quietly between ribs.
“I’m working,” he says evenly, but the bitterness beneath it is impossible to miss. He shifts slightly, adjusting the tray, already angling his body to move past you.
Panic jolts through you. “Please—just wait. Can we talk?”
But he doesn’t stop. He moves, steady and deliberate, forcing you to step aside or collide with him. You fall in line behind him instead, your heels clicking too loudly against the marble, drawing glances you pretend not to notice. He moves quickly, with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times, and you struggle to keep pace, weaving between clusters of laughing guests.
You manage to catch him near the far side of the hall, where the light is dimmer, where the music muffles beneath the weight of distance. He sets his empty tray down on a side table, straightens, and turns to face you at last.
“Don’t,” he snaps, the word cutting sharper than glass. “Minho, please,” you whisper. “Just a minute.”
That’s when he stops. Not because he wants to, but because your voice cracks, and for a second it’s too raw to ignore. He turns, and when his eyes lock on yours, there’s no mask now. Just fury. Just pain sharpened into something unrelenting.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, low, biting. “Not with me. What would they think?” His gaze flicks deliberately toward the crowd, where your parents laugh with their friends. “Their perfect daughter chasing after the waiter?”
You flinch. The words land heavy, each syllable a blow. But you deserve it. You know you do.
“I don’t care what they think,” you say, your voice trembling with urgency. “I never cared—”
He cuts you off with a harsh laugh, one that sounds nothing like the warmth you remember. “Don’t. Don’t stand here and lie to me. You cared enough to walk away, didn’t you?” His voice rises just enough to make your stomach twist in panic, though no one seems to notice. “You cared enough to leave me the second your parents snapped their fingers.”
Your throat tightens. You open your mouth, close it again, the words tangling, sticking. Because he’s right. Every word he throws at you is a truth you can’t argue with, no matter how much it tears you apart.
“Minho—”
“You said you’d stay forever.” His voice cracks for the first time, but it’s not weakness, it’s rage wrapped around hurt, barbed and unyielding. “But I guess forever was just a word to you.”
The world stutters around you. His words hit harder than anything else could have, because they cut into the very heart of what you once had. The promises you whispered under dim streetlights, the vows you carved into the silence of his bedroom when you swore you didn’t care about money, about appearances, about the suffocating grip of your family.
You had said forever. A hundred times, maybe more. You said it when you clung to him after fights with your mother, sobbing that you didn’t want this life, that you didn’t want to be paraded like a prize. You said it when you kissed him in the dark, desperate and trembling, when you told him he was the only part of your world that felt real.
And now those words are nothing but ash between you.
Your vision blurs. You can’t tell if it’s the glitter of the chandeliers above or tears stinging your eyes. “I meant it,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I meant forever when I said it, I swear I did. I hated them, I hated the way they forced me into all of this. I hated leaving you.”
But Minho just shakes his head, his jaw tightening as if to keep something from spilling out. He looks at you like you’re both a stranger and the most familiar wound he’s ever carried.
“Don’t tell me what you hated,” he says, his voice trembling with restrained anger. “You hated it so much you chose them anyway.”
The words slice through you, and you realize your chest physically aches, like your ribs are too tight for your lungs. The distance between you feels endless, though it’s only a few feet. The kind of distance that no step could ever close.
You’re still standing there, heart splintering in your chest, when the sound of laughter bursts from the other side of the hall. A ripple of champagne glasses clinking. The music swells, strings layered over piano, a melody that feels wrong too sweet, too triumphant for the way your insides are unraveling.
Minho’s eyes flicker past you for a moment, sharp and alert. His jaw tightens. You don’t have to follow his gaze to know what he’s seen, you can feel it, heavy as a weight pressed against the back of your neck.
Your mother.
You can imagine her perfectly: seated at the table in her flawless gown, posture regal, eyes trained on you with that unrelenting, icy precision. The kind of glare that once silenced you as a child and still, even now, makes your spine straighten. You don’t need to turn your head to know she’s watching, her judgment slicing across the room like glass.
Minho exhales through his nose, sharp, as if it takes effort to hold himself together. “She’s been glaring at me since you walked over,” he says quietly, but the venom in his voice makes it feel like a shout. “You should go back before she decides to make a scene.”
“Minho, please—” Your voice cracks, desperate, raw. “Just listen to me. Just for a minute. I know I don’t deserve it, but—”
He shakes his head, already stepping back. “You don’t get it, do you?” His words are low, but they thrum with anger, each syllable like a lash. “You already had your minute. You had years. And when it mattered, you didn’t choose me. You chose them.”
The air between you is suffocating. Every word cuts deeper because they’re true. There’s no argument, no clever excuse, no soft defense that could erase the truth. You hadn’t fought. You hadn’t stayed.
“I know,” you whisper. Your throat feels shredded, but the words stumble out anyway. “I know I did. And I hate myself for it every single day.”
Something flickers in his expression pain, maybe, or longing, but it’s gone before you can grasp it, buried under the steel of his anger. He laughs, but it’s bitter, hollow.
“You think that changes anything? You think that gives me back the nights I stayed awake wondering what I did wrong? The mornings I woke up alone? You think guilt fixes that?”
You flinch, tears burning hot against your lashes. He’s right, again. Always right. And still, you reach for him not with your hands, because you don’t dare, but with your words, trembling and broken.
“No,” you admit, your voice so soft it almost disappears beneath the music. “It doesn’t fix it. Nothing will. But I still love you, Minho. I never stopped.”
For a heartbeat, silence. His eyes lock on yours, dark and unreadable, and the world seems to hold its breath. Then he shakes his head again, the movement final, slicing clean through whatever fragile hope had been clinging to you.
“You don’t get to say that,” he says, voice low and trembling with restraint. “Not anymore.”
You open your mouth, but before you can speak, his gaze flicks past you once more, to the other side of the hall. To her. Your mother. Watching, unrelenting.
“That glare,” he mutters, his lip curling. “That’s all I’ll ever be to her. To them. A mistake you were stupid enough to make. And the second you walked over here, you made me one again.”
The words crush you. You can’t even form a reply, because they’re true in ways you don’t want to admit.
He steps back, shoulders squared, composure forced back into place like armor. When he speaks again, his voice is calm, but colder than ever.
“Go back to your table. Enjoy the party. Leave me alone.”
And then he turns, slipping through the service door behind him, swallowed by the shadowed corridor that leads to the kitchen. Gone.
You stand there frozen, the laughter and music crashing back into your ears, dizzying. Around you, guests glide across the marble floor, dresses shimmering, glasses raised. To them, nothing is out of place. To them, this is just another beautiful night.
But you.. you can’t breathe. You’re surrounded by glitter and glass and golden chandeliers, and still you’ve never felt more alone.
Because the truth is clear, undeniable, carved deep enough to bleed: You lost him. And you were the one who let go.
You force yourself to move. Each step back across the polished marble feels like wading through water, heavy and dragging, as if the floor itself resents your return. You keep your head high, though your insides are cracked and bleeding. You’ve learned how to wear a mask, your parents trained you well and tonight that mask might be the only thing keeping you upright.
The music swells behind you. Guests laugh, toasting to love, to forever, to all the illusions you once believed in. The sound cuts against you, jagged, until every burst of cheer feels like mockery.
When you reach your table, your mother doesn’t say a word at first. She doesn’t have to. Her gaze, sharp as a blade, slides over you as you sink back into your chair. It lingers, calculated, like she’s weighing every flaw, every imperfection.
“Your lipstick’s smudged,” she says finally, her voice low, calm. But you hear the acid beneath it. Her hand flicks toward you, a dismissal more than a gesture. “Fix it. People are watching.”
You press your lips together, tasting the bitterness of champagne you never drank. You reach for the napkin by your plate, dabbing at your mouth with mechanical precision, though your hands tremble faintly.
Your father, oblivious or pretending to be, is leaned toward another man at the table, already buried in conversation about investments, politics, the sort of things that have always mattered more than people. His laughter rumbles, deep and careless, filling the space where your voice doesn’t belong.
Your mother doesn’t break eye contact. “I told you not to wander off.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you open your mouth, you’ll either break down in sobs or scream in her face. Neither would be acceptable. Neither would survive this cage of silk and glass.
Instead, you lower your gaze to your plate. The food is artfully arranged, colors bright, textures gleaming under the chandeliers. Perfect. Beautiful. Tasteless.
Across the hall, servers move swiftly, silent shadows against the light. You search for him without meaning to. Your eyes scan over black uniforms, trays held steady, shoulders squared. For one frantic moment, you think you see him again, but when the man turns, it’s someone else. Not Minho. Not the boy you loved.
The ache in your chest deepens, sharp and relentless.
You want to scream. You want to stand, overturn the table, shout at everyone here, tell them that love is not a commodity, not a weakness to be traded away. You want to tell them that you had something real, something precious, and you destroyed it because of them. Because of their expectations, their greed, their obsession with appearances.
But your voice sticks in your throat. Because you’ve tried before. And you lost.
Your mother takes a sip of wine, eyes still on you. “Whatever it was, it’s finished. Don’t embarrass yourself or us by making it anything more.”
Her words are quiet, clinical. They should feel like commands, the way they always have. But tonight, they land differently. Not like iron chains, but like dirt on a coffin. Heavy, final.
You nod, the movement tiny, almost imperceptible. And you hate yourself for it. Hate the way you still obey, even as your heart lies broken in the kitchen of a wedding hall, carried away by the man you once promised forever.
The rest of the evening blurs. Applause rises as the couple shares their first dance. More champagne flows, laughter echoing under crystal lights. People compliment your dress, your posture, your grace. You smile, nod, respond with practiced charm. No one sees the way your nails bite into your palms under the table.
Because no one is looking close enough. No one ever does.
The world spins on, golden and gleaming, and you sit in silence, choking on the truth that will never leave you now:
You could have fought for him. But you didn’t. And forever was only ever a word.
-
The wedding rages on inside, but out here it’s quiet. Too quiet, almost like the night itself has pressed its palm over the music, muffling it into something distant and hollow. You’ve slipped away from the laughter and glitter, past the painted smiles and crystal glasses, until you’re standing at the service entrance tucked behind the venue.
The air smells different here. Less of roses and perfume, more of grease and damp pavement, faint smoke curling from the metal trash bins lined against the wall. The door creaks every time it opens, letting out a flash of light, a burst of voices, before closing again and leaving you in shadow.
You wait.
Each time the door swings open, your heart leaps. You straighten, breath catching, hoping it’s him. But it’s not. It’s another server, a chef, a dishwasher, faces you don’t know, faces that glance at you with mild confusion before moving on.
The minutes crawl. Your heels scrape against the concrete as you shift, arms wrapped around yourself against the chill of the night. Your dress doesn’t belong here. It shines too brightly under the weak yellow light above the door, a reminder of the world you came from, the world that tore him from you.
Another man steps out, a younger server balancing a stack of empty trays. He pauses when he sees you, eyebrows lifting. “Uh—are you waiting for someone?”
“Yes,” you manage, your voice tight. “Lee Minho. Do you know where he is?”
The boy nods quickly, posture shifting the way people do when they realize they’re speaking to someone important. His voice takes on a kind of practiced courtesy, the kind your family has always commanded without asking.
“He’s on cleaning duty tonight,” the boy says, almost deferential. “But he should be out soon. If you’d like, I can tell him you’re here.”
“No,” you cut in quickly, too quickly. His tone made your stomach twist, the way he spoke to you like royalty, as if Minho was just another servant beneath you. You hated it. Hated how easily that distance was assumed, how it mirrored exactly what your family had said all along. “No, thank you. I’ll wait.”
The boy hesitates, then nods again before disappearing back inside.
So you wait.
The air grows colder. Your legs ache from standing, but you don’t move. The muffled music inside slips into a slower melody, another dance, another toast and time stretches until it feels endless. You check the door every few seconds, breath held, heart pounding harder with each disappointment.
And then, finally the door swings open.
Light spills out into the alley, catching on the edge of a black jacket, a backpack strap slung over one shoulder. And there he is.
Minho.
His hair is damp, like he’s washed the sweat from his face after hours of work. His uniform is gone, replaced by a simple t-shirt under the jacket, casual, worn. A cigarette rests between his lips, unlit, his lighter poised in his hand. He looks tired, heavy, weighed down in ways you don’t remember from before.
And then he sees you.
The lighter stills. His whole body freezes, the cigarette half-forgotten. For a heartbeat, shock flickers across his face quick, sharp but it’s gone in an instant, buried under something harder.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” His voice is rough, low, disbelief tangled with frustration.
Your throat tightens. You’ve rehearsed nothing. You’ve thought of nothing except waiting, waiting for him. And now, standing in front of him under the yellow glow of the service light, every word you thought you might say has fled.
You’re left with only the truth.
“I had to see you.”
The lighter clicks, and the flame flares. For a moment, it paints his face in gold and shadow, the hollows of his cheeks sharper, his eyes darker. Then the cigarette catches, smoke curling upward, dissolving into the cold night air. He inhales, slow, deliberate, before exhaling a stream of gray mist that drifts between you, a wall of smoke you can’t see through.
“You’re still smoking?” The words leave you before you can stop them, trembling, too soft against the bite of the air. “I thought you quit.”
His laugh is bitter, a single exhale sharper than the smoke itself. “Yeah. I thought I did too.” His eyes flick to yours, unyielding. “Turns out some things stick. Especially when there’s nothing left worth quitting for.”
The words slam into you, harder than you’re ready for. You wrap your arms around yourself, the thin fabric of your dress useless against the chill, against the way his voice cuts.
“Minho…” Your throat burns, but you force the words out anyway. “Just—please. Just listen to me. I know I don’t deserve it, but I still—” Your voice cracks, fragile, breaking in your mouth. “I still love you.”
He scoffs, smoke escaping in a harsh puff. “Love?” He shakes his head, eyes narrowing. “You don’t get to use that word with me anymore. Not after what you did.”
“I know,” you whisper, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “I know I don’t have the right. But it’s the truth. I never stopped.”
His jaw clenches, the muscle twitching as he inhales again, smoke filling his lungs. When he exhales, it’s sharp, as though he’s spitting the word out with it. “You keep saying that, but where was that love when it mattered? Where was it when your family told you to choose? You had your chance. You made your choice.”
“I was scared.” Your voice is rising now, breaking under the pressure of everything you’ve held back. “Scared of losing everything I’d known, scared of the fight, scared of disappointing them. I was a coward. But I loved you—I love you—doesn’t that count for anything?”
“No.” His answer is immediate, a blade without hesitation. “Because love without action is nothing. You didn’t fight. You left. That’s what I’ll remember.”
The words tear through you. You can’t breathe, not through the ache in your chest, not through the smoke drifting between you.
And then the door creaks open.
A young woman steps out, balancing a stack of folded linens in her arms. She pauses when she sees you both, her eyes darting between you before landing on Minho. Her face softens, a quick smile flashing, and she bows slightly. “Sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt.”
She passes by, but not before her gaze lingers just a moment too long on Minho. A faint blush colors her cheeks, her eyes dropping quickly as she walks past, vanishing into the night with her bundle of linens.
You watch her go, then turn back to him, the question spilling out before you can stop it. “Is she your girlfriend?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at you. He only raises the cigarette back to his lips, inhales deep, and exhales another puff of smoke into the cold air.
The silence feels louder than words. Louder than any answer could have been.
Your chest twists, jealousy and grief tangling into something unbearable. You stare at him, at the way the shadows cling to his face, at the tired lines under his eyes. This distance feels permanent now, like no matter how close you stand, you’ll never reach him again.
And then, softly, broken you ask the only thing that comes to you. “How are the cats?”
The smoke falters in his exhale. His eyes finally flicker to yours, guarded, unreadable.
“Soonie and Doongie,” you continue, voice shaking. “And… and Dori.” The name comes out fragile, carrying a thousand memories with it. “Do you still have them?”
You remember the night Dori came into your life, clear as though it happened yesterday. Minho had stumbled into the apartment, clothes soaked through, jacket clutched tight around a trembling bundle. When he peeled it back, there was a tiny, shivering kitten, eyes wide with fear. You had both worked frantically to dry him, to feed him, to coax him into safety. That night had ended with the three cats curled together in a heap, and you and Minho sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor, laughing softly through your exhaustion.
You hadn’t seen them since the breakup. You hadn’t even allowed yourself to think of them. Until now.
The cigarette burns lower between his fingers. He doesn’t answer, not with words. But something shifts in his expression, a flicker of pain, of memory, quickly buried. He looks away, exhales one last plume of smoke, and lets it dissolve into the dark.
For a long moment, the only sound between you is the faint hiss of his cigarette burning down. The ember glows against the dark, a small, angry star. He keeps his gaze fixed somewhere past you, as if you’re nothing more than another shadow against the wall.
Your chest tightens with every second of his silence. The quiet feels deliberate, punishing. But you push through it, because silence has always been the most unbearable thing.
“Do they still sleep in the window?” Your voice comes out unsteady, fragile. “They always loved the sun there. Especially Soonie. He’d stretch out so far I thought he’d fall.”
His eyes flick to you, just for a moment, sharp and cutting before dropping again. He drags in another breath of smoke, exhales slow, deliberate. “They’re fine.”
Two words. That’s all he gives you.
But it’s enough to make your throat ache. Enough to crack open the flood you’ve been holding back.
“I miss them,” you whisper, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “I miss all of it—coming home to them, to you. The way Doongie used to curl up against my legs, the way Dori wouldn’t sleep unless I was on the couch with him. I miss… I miss us, Minho. I miss you.”
His jaw tightens, his hand trembling slightly as he lowers the cigarette. He crushes it out against the wall with too much force, the ember flaring one last time before dying. He drops the butt to the ground, grinding it under his heel.
When he speaks, his voice is low. Dangerous.
“Don’t.”
You step forward anyway, desperate. “Why? Why can’t I say I miss you? Why can’t I tell you I never stopped loving you? That I—”
“Because it’s too fucking late!”
The explosion rips through the quiet, raw and jagged, his voice shattering against the walls of the narrow alley. Your breath catches, the world narrowing down to the fire in his eyes, the sharp tremor in his voice.
“For a year,” he spits, his chest rising and falling fast, “I’ve kept this inside. I told myself I had to move on. That I had to forget. But you—” He points at you, hand shaking. “You’re standing here, acting like you can just walk back into my life with your perfect dress and your perfect family watching from inside, and say you love me?”
Tears spill hot down your cheeks, but you don’t move, don’t breathe.
“You don’t get it,” he continues, voice breaking now, anger tangled with something heavier. “I begged you—do you remember that? I begged you to stay. I told you I didn’t care if it was hard, if we had to fight for it. I wanted you more than I wanted anything. And you looked me in the eye and walked away.”
“Minho—”
“You didn’t just leave me.” His voice drops lower, but it’s sharper, deadlier. “You left us. Everything we built. Every promise. Every forever. You threw it away the second it became inconvenient.”
Your whole body trembles. The air feels too heavy to breathe, but you force words out anyway, even as your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to—”
“But you did!” His shout cuts you off, reverberating in the night. His hands ball into fists at his sides, shoulders shaking with the force of it. “You did. And I had to live with it. I had to learn to breathe without you, sleep without you, wake up every fucking day and remind myself you weren’t coming back.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, and your tears blur the world into nothing but his outline, tall and unmovable against the wall.
You swallow hard, throat raw. Your voice comes out small, almost childlike. “I’m sorry.”
The words hang there, pathetic against the storm of his fury.
“I don’t want your sorry,” he says finally, quieter now, but no less sharp. His eyes glisten under the dim light, but he doesn’t let it show, doesn’t let it break. “Sorry doesn’t give me back what you took.”
You stand there in the cold, broken open, desperate for even the smallest piece of him to hold onto. But all he gives you is silence, heavy and final.
The silence after his outburst is suffocating. The kind of silence that hums in your ears, where even the muffled music from inside the hall feels distant, unreal. You can still feel the sting of his words, echoing sharp in your chest, cutting deeper than any blade.
He stands a few feet away, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His fists are still clenched, knuckles pale, but he doesn’t look at you anymore. He’s staring at the ground, at the crushed cigarette butt beneath his heel, as though it can anchor him.
You wipe at your cheeks with trembling fingers, though the tears keep falling, hot and unstoppable. Your throat aches, raw from holding back sobs. But you force yourself to speak, your voice breaking, fragile as glass.
“I know I don’t deserve it. Any of it. Not your time, not your words, not even your anger. But… I needed you to know. I needed you to hear me. Because I can’t live with just silence anymore.”
For a moment, nothing. The weight of the night presses down, heavy and final. You think he’s going to turn, walk away, leave you with nothing but your own brokenness.
But then, barely, almost unwillingly he exhales. Long, shaky. His fists loosen.
“Doongie still sleeps by the window,” he mutters, voice low, rough.
Your heart stutters. You lift your eyes, stunned, searching his face. He doesn’t meet your gaze, he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the ground, but the words are there, real, undeniable.
“And Soonie,” he continues after a beat, quieter still. “He still waits by the door when I come home. Like he’s expecting…” He cuts himself off abruptly, jaw tightening, but you know what he meant. Like he’s expecting you.
Tears burn hotter in your eyes. You bite down on a sob, clutching your arms tighter around yourself as though you can hold in the ache.
“And Dori?” you whisper, the name trembling on your lips.
His throat bobs. He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling again, rougher this time. “He’s fine. Eating too much. Still knocks things off the shelves when he wants attention.”
A tiny laugh escapes you, broken and wet. The memory of that mischievous kitten crashes into you so vividly it hurts. The night Minho had brought him home, wrapped in his soaked jacket, his eyes soft as he handed the tiny creature into your arms. The way you’d both stayed up feeding him, shivering with exhaustion but smiling through it.
Minho glances at you then, just for a second. His eyes are dark, tired, but not as hard as before. There’s something else there now, something cracked, unwilling but alive.
“I shouldn’t have told you that,” he says gruffly, breaking the moment. He straightens his jacket, adjusts the strap of his backpack. “You don’t get to have that anymore. Not after everything.”
“I know,” you breathe, your voice a sob and a prayer all at once. “I know, Minho. But thank you. For telling me anyway.”
He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath you can’t catch. His shoulders are still tense, his walls still high, but they aren’t as unbreakable as they were minutes ago. For the first time in a year, you see not just his anger, but the remnants of the boy you loved. The boy who once promised you forever. And it hurts even more. Because that glimpse, that fraction of softness, is enough to remind you what you lost.
He shifts his weight, ready to leave, but something in the way his voice faltered when he spoke of the cats gives you courage you didn’t think you had left.
You take a step closer, heart pounding so loud you’re sure he hears it.
“Minho,” you say, and his name feels like it belongs in your mouth, like it’s been waiting there for a year. “Please. Just—please, can we try again?”
He freezes, the strap of his backpack slipping slightly down his shoulder. His head tilts, just barely, as if he can’t believe what you’re asking.
“Try again?” His voice is hoarse, incredulous. “After everything? After you walked away, after you left me standing there like I was—like I was nothing to you?”
“You were never nothing,” you whisper fiercely, desperation cracking your voice. Tears blur your eyes, but you don’t care anymore. “You were everything. You still are. And I was stupid, I was weak, I let them control me—” You press a trembling hand against your chest, as though you can hold your heart in place. “But I can’t stop loving you, Minho. I’ve tried. I’ve tried. But I can’t.”
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. For a moment, he looks like he might explode again, but when he drops his hand, his expression is different worn, weary.
“You don’t get to just come back and say that.” His voice is quieter now, softer, though it still trembles with anger. “Do you know how many nights I sat awake, hating you for leaving me? Do you know how many times I wanted to pick up the phone, just to hear your voice, and then remembered you chose them over me? That doesn’t just go away because you decided you regret it.”
You nod quickly, tears spilling freely now. “I know. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. But I’m not asking you to forget. I’m asking you for a chance. Just a chance to show you I’m not that coward anymore. That I’d fight for us this time.”
His lips part, but no words come. His eyes search yours, like he’s looking for a lie, like he’s waiting for you to falter.
“You said forever,” he mutters finally, his voice breaking just slightly. “Do you know what it did to me, realizing forever meant nothing to you?”
“It did,” you insist, your voice shaking but fierce. “It meant everything. I ruined it, but it meant everything. And I want it again, Minho. I want you again. Even if it takes years to earn back your trust, even if you hate me every day until then I’ll take it. I’ll take anything, as long as I don’t lose you for good.”
The silence that follows feels endless. He stares at you, his eyes dark, unreadable. You can hear the faint thrum of music from inside the hall, laughter spilling through the walls, but out here it’s just you and him, the weight of your words hanging heavy between you.
And then, slowly, something shifts. His shoulders sag, just slightly, as though the fight has drained out of him. The sharpness in his gaze dulls, replaced by something rawer, more vulnerable.
“You don’t make this easy,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I want to stay angry. I should stay angry.”
“Then stay angry,” you whisper, stepping closer, your voice trembling but sure. “Hate me if you need to. But don’t shut me out. Please, Minho. Don’t let this be the end of us.”
He exhales, long and unsteady. His eyes close briefly, as though it hurts him to look at you. When he opens them again, there’s still pain there, but also something else. Something softer.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says quietly, the words fragile. “Not in this alley. Not waiting for me. Not after everything.”
And yet, he doesn’t walk away.
He stands there, torn between fury and longing, his heart fighting the walls he’s built. And though he doesn’t say yes, though he doesn’t reach for you, the crack is there, undeniable. The door isn’t open all the way. But it isn’t closed anymore either.
Minho shifts, dragging a hand through his hair again, eyes flicking toward the street as though he might walk away. His backpack slips further down his shoulder, and he grips the strap like it’s the only thing tethering him.
“I shouldn’t…” His voice falters. He clears his throat, sharper this time. “I shouldn’t even be standing here. I should’ve gone home an hour ago.”
Your chest tightens. You step closer before he can slip away, your voice trembling. “Then why are you still here?”
He freezes. His jaw works, and for a long moment, he doesn’t answer. You see it, the war inside him, the pull between anger and longing, between walking away and stepping toward you.
Finally, he exhales, sharp and uneven. “Because I don’t trust you.”
The words sting, but they’re not unexpected. You bow your head, nodding. “I know. I don’t blame you. I don’t trust myself either—not the version of me that left. But I’m not her anymore.”
His laugh is low, bitter. “You say that like it changes what happened.”
“It doesn’t,” you admit softly. “But maybe it can change what happens now.”
Silence stretches. He shakes his head, like he wants to shut this down, but something holds him still. His eyes flick to yours for the briefest second raw, conflicted and then away again, as though he can’t stand to look too long.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Rougher. “The cats… they looked for you. For weeks after you left. Doongie wouldn’t sleep on the bed unless I left the door open. Soonie would sit by the door every night. Dori kept pawing at your drawer like he thought you were hiding in there.”
Your breath catches. Tears prick your eyes, spilling before you can stop them. The image of those cats waiting, searching for you, pierces deeper than any of his anger.
“I told myself it was just them,” he continues, his voice breaking despite himself. “That they didn’t understand. But the truth is—” He swallows hard, shoulders tense, as though dragging the words out costs him everything. “The truth is I did the same damn thing. I kept expecting you to come back. Every time I walked through the door, I thought maybe…”
His voice cracks. He cuts himself off, biting down on the rest. His hand trembles slightly where it grips his backpack strap, knuckles pale.
You take another step forward, tears blurring your vision. “Minho…”
He shakes his head quickly, as if to stop you, as if he regrets every word that just slipped out. “Don’t. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
But it’s too late. The softness is there, raw and unguarded. The crack in his armor is wider now, and through it, you glimpse the truth he can’t hide anymore.. he missed you. Just as much as you missed him.
And though fear still pulls at him, though he almost steps back into silence, he doesn’t. He stays.
The cold creeps into your skin, seeping through the thin fabric of your clothes, but you don’t move. You can’t, not when Minho is standing there, torn open, his words still hanging heavy in the night.
He grips his backpack strap like it’s a lifeline, his shoulders hunched, body angled away from you. Even now, when he’s cracked enough to confess, he won’t let you close the space between you.
Your voice is barely a whisper. “I missed them too. Every day. I missed you.”
He exhales sharply, his jaw tightening, and for a long moment, you think he’s going to walk away. His body shifts like he’s about to step back into the dark, into silence.
But he doesn’t.
He stays rooted, trembling, his breath uneven.
“I don’t want to hear that,” he says finally, but his voice is different now, thin, fraying at the edges. “I don’t want to believe it.”
“Then don’t believe it,” you whisper, your tears hot and unstoppable. “But it’s still true. And I’ll keep saying it until you can’t ignore it anymore.”
The muscles in his shoulders tense, his hand white-knuckled on the strap. His head drops forward, hair falling into his eyes, and for the first time tonight, you hear it, his breath hitching, a sound so small and broken it nearly undoes you.
“I tried,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I tried so fucking hard to hate you.”
Your chest aches. “I know.”
“And I almost did,” he goes on, voice shaking harder now, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. “I told myself you didn’t care. That you never loved me like I loved you. That you left because it was easy. But no matter how many times I said it, no matter how many times I tried to believe it…” His voice cracks, sharp and raw. “…it never felt true.”
The tears you’ve been holding back spill freely now, your whole body trembling. You want to reach for him, to close the distance, but you hold back, afraid one wrong move will send him retreating again.
He drags in a ragged breath, shoulders shaking. His other hand lifts to his face, pressing against his eyes as though he can hide the fact that he’s breaking. “I hate this,” he mutters, voice splintering. “I hate that I can’t stop wanting you. That I can’t stop…”
He doesn’t finish. He can’t.
You step forward, slow, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. Your hand hovers, shaking, before brushing lightly against his arm. He flinches, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Minho,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. Not with me.”
For a moment, he’s still, caught between recoil and surrender. And then, slowly, his grip on the backpack slackens. His shoulders sag, and his head drops further, his breath hitching again.
You move closer, gently resting your hand on his arm, then sliding it down until your fingers graze his. He doesn’t stop you. His hands remain limp, trembling, but he lets you hold them.
When his first sob breaks free, muffled and raw, you pull him into you, hesitant at first, but firm when he doesn’t resist. His body is rigid in your arms, trembling, fighting the comfort even as he leans into it.
“I shouldn’t let you,” he mutters against your shoulder, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t let you touch me like this.”
“Then don’t,” you whisper back, holding him tighter. “But stay anyway. Just for tonight. Please.”
He exhales shakily, his fists curling weakly into your dress. And for the first time in a year, he lets himself collapse into you not fully, not freely, but enough. Enough to feel the weight of him against you, enough to feel his walls crumble piece by piece as you hold him through the breaking.
And in that fragile moment, you know: he’s still yours, even if he doesn’t want to be.
For a long time, the only sound is his breathing against your shoulder uneven, trembling, but slowly beginning to calm. The harsh edges of his sobs fade into a hush, and the cold night air presses in around you both, smelling faintly of smoke and city rain.
You keep your arms around him, careful, not gripping too tightly, not giving him a reason to pull away. You don’t speak. You just hold him as if you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are red-rimmed, lashes wet. He swipes at his face with the back of his hand, avoiding your gaze. “You should really go back inside,” he mutters, his voice hoarse but steadier now. “Your family’s probably wondering where you are.”
You shake your head immediately. “I don’t care.”
“You should.” His gaze flicks up, brief but sharp. “You know how they are. If they see you out here with me—”
“Let them.” Your voice is quiet but firm. “I don’t want to be in there. I don’t want to sit at some table pretending I’m happy. I want to be with you.”
He lets out a small, disbelieving huff. “You can’t just say that.”
“I’m not just saying it.” You draw in a shaky breath. “I want to go with you. With the cats. To your place. I want to feel… comfortable again. Free again. Like I used to there.”
For a moment, he just stares at you. His lips part as if to speak, but no words come. His eyes search yours, like he’s waiting for the lie, like he can’t quite believe you mean it.
Then, almost without meaning to, he laughs. It’s so soft you almost don’t catch it a small, rough sound that’s over before it begins.
The sound makes your chest ache.
“I still have stuff there,” you whisper, half a plea, half a confession. “You know I do. Books, sweaters, that mug with the chipped handle you hate. It’s still there, isn’t it?”
His gaze flickers, something unreadable in his expression. “Some of it.”
You swallow, hope and fear tangling inside you. “Then… let me come back. Just for tonight. Just to see them. Just to be somewhere that feels real again.”
He looks away, jaw tightening. For a long moment, the silence stretches, heavy with everything unspoken. But his shoulders have softened, his grip on the backpack loose. The fight is still there, but it’s quieter now, dulled by exhaustion and the weight of the year between you.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You make everything complicated.”
You almost smile through your tears. “I always did.”
Another silence. He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face again. “I can’t promise you anything,” he says finally, his tone uneven. “I can’t promise it’ll feel the same. I can’t promise I won’t regret it.”
“I’m not asking for promises.” You step closer, voice trembling. “I’m just asking for a chance.”
His eyes flick to yours, and for a moment, the walls slip entirely. You see it there, the longing, the ache, the love he’s been trying to bury. He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. But the softness in his gaze is an answer of its own.
And for the first time since you walked out of his life, you feel the possibility of stepping back in.
He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, heavy, the kind that makes your stomach twist with both fear and hope. His eyes are fixed on the pavement, jaw tight, as though he’s turning the weight of your words over and over in his mind.
You can’t take it anymore. The question tumbles out, small but sharp.
“Would your girlfriend be upset if I came?”
His head jerks up, eyes flashing in surprise before narrowing slightly. “Girlfriend?”
You glance toward the service door, where the girl had walked past earlier, her blush impossible to ignore. “The one who walked by. She looked at you like…” You trail off, suddenly unsure if you want to finish the thought.
For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, with a scoff, he shakes his head. “She’s not my girlfriend.” His voice carries a touch of disdain, though not unkind. “She’s just someone who makes it… very clear she has a gigantic crush on me.”
The tension in your chest loosens, enough for you to let out a sound that’s half relief, half laugh. You clap a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it slips out anyway, soft and helpless.
His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smile too, but he shakes his head instead, looking away quickly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” you murmur, still biting back a grin.
Another pause. His hand adjusts the strap of his backpack, fingers tightening and loosening like he’s working through something invisible. Finally, he exhales, the sound heavy but resigned.
“I can’t promise my place is anything like your mansion,” he says slowly, the words deliberate, careful. “It’s small. Cramped. Old. And I can’t give you the kind of things you’re used to. I live paycheck to paycheck, and half the time, I’m behind on bills. It’s not—” His throat bobs, his eyes flicking to yours with something almost vulnerable. “It’s not the kind of life your family thinks you deserve.”
Your heart swells so hard it hurts. You force yourself to hold the excitement in, to keep your voice even, though the smile threatens to break free anyway. “I don’t care, Minho. For your information, I’ve been to your place plenty of times. And I loved every single time I was there.”
For a moment, he studies you, his eyes sharp as if he’s searching for cracks, for insincerity. But all he finds is the truth.
And then, finally, he nods.
It’s small, almost imperceptible. But it’s real.
Your breath catches, your heart stumbling over itself. He doesn’t say yes, doesn’t say come home with me, but the nod is enough. More than enough.
Because for the first time since everything shattered, he’s letting you back in.
-
The ride is quiet, the hum of his old car filling the silence. The engine rattles every time he shifts gears, the dashboard lights dim, and the passenger-side window buzzes faintly as the car bumps along uneven streets. You don’t care.
You can’t stop looking at him.
His hands on the wheel, the way his brow furrows as he watches the road, the faint smudge of exhaustion under his eyes. He pretends not to notice your gaze, keeping his focus locked forward, but the tips of his ears burn red, betraying him.
You bite back a smile, your chest aching with a familiar tenderness. It feels strange and familiar all at once, sitting here beside him again, like no time has passed and yet like everything has changed.
When the car finally pulls into the cracked parking lot of his apartment complex, he kills the engine with a rough twist of the key. For a moment, neither of you move. The night air is still around you, heavy with unsaid words.
He clears his throat, reaching for his backpack. “Don’t expect much.”
You shake your head, your smile soft. “It’s already enough.”
The hallway leading to his apartment is dim, the overhead light flickering weakly. The door creaks when he unlocks it, and the scent of home hits you immediately: faint traces of coffee, laundry detergent, and the unmistakable warmth of cats.
But when he pushes the door open, the apartment is quiet.
The cats don’t come running.
They’ve always rushed to greet him before, meowing and weaving between his legs. Tonight, the living room stays still. Minho kicks off his shoes with a sigh, muttering under his breath, “Traitors.”
You step inside, heart pounding. For a second, fear pricks at you, what if they’ve forgotten? What if a year was too long?
But then you kneel by the couch, your voice trembling as you call softly, “Soonie? Doongie? Dori?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, the sound of paws scrambling against the floor.
Soonie bursts out first, tail high, his meow loud and demanding. Doongie follows, a softer cry, and Dori is last, bounding toward you with clumsy eagerness.
They rush you all at once, circling, rubbing against your legs, purring so hard it vibrates through the floor. Your laugh breaks into a sob as you reach for them, stroking their fur, whispering their names like a prayer.
“They didn’t forget,” you choke out, tears slipping down your cheeks as Soonie presses against your hand, Doongie curls close, and Dori clambers awkwardly into your lap. “They didn’t forget me.”
Behind you, Minho huffs, crossing his arms as he watches the chaos. “Unbelievable.” His tone is sharp, but there’s no real bite to it. “You leave them for a year, and they act like I don’t even exist.”
You glance up at him through your tears, laughing softly as the cats nuzzle into you, their purrs filling the room. “Maybe they just missed me more.”
He rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch, see the way his shoulders relax for the first time all night.
For a brief, fragile moment, the apartment feels alive again. Warm again. Like home.
And though neither of you says it out loud, the truth hums in the air between you, undeniable: They missed you. And so did he.
The cats eventually calm, sprawling across your lap and the couch cushions, their purring a steady hum in the small apartment. You run your fingers through their fur, tears drying on your cheeks, while Minho busies himself in the kitchen.
The space hasn’t changed much. The same scuffed counters, the same dent in the fridge door, the same magnet with a chipped cartoon fish you teased him about once. Being here again is dizzying, you remember where everything belongs, remember how you once fit here like it was yours too.
The faint clatter of pots and pans pulls you back. Minho moves with quiet efficiency, shoulders squared, his focus sharp on the cutting board. He doesn’t ask if you’re hungry. He just starts cooking, the hiss of oil filling the silence.
You watch him from the couch, the cats curled close, your heart swelling with something tender and heavy all at once. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he cuts in, not looking up. His voice is calm, almost flat. “But you haven’t eaten. You were too busy chasing after me at the wedding.”
A faint smile tugs at your lips, but the weight in his tone keeps it from reaching your eyes. You stand, padding into the kitchen, leaning against the counter just out of his reach.
The smell of garlic and soy drifts through the air, familiar and comforting. It feels like stepping back into a life you thought you’d lost forever.
He doesn’t glance at you as he stirs the pan. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”
Your chest tightens. “What do you mean?”
“This—” he gestures vaguely with the spatula, the sizzle punctuating his words “doesn’t mean everything’s okay. It doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you. I don’t want you thinking that just because I’m feeding you, we’re suddenly back where we were.”
The words sting, but you nod slowly, forcing yourself to accept them. “I know. I’m not asking you to forget. I’m just… grateful you’re letting me be here at all.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he plates the food, sliding the dish in front of you with a clatter that’s harsher than it needs to be. He finally meets your gaze, his eyes sharp but glimmering with something deeper.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
Your throat burns as you lower your eyes to the plate, steam rising in the small space between you. “I won’t.”
For a while, neither of you speak. You eat quietly, the flavors pulling you back into nights spent exactly like this, late shifts, exhaustion hanging heavy, and him at the stove making sure you never went to bed hungry.
It’s heavier now, though. Every bite tastes like memory and loss.
When you glance up again, you catch him watching you. Not with anger this time, not with sharp edges, but with something softer, something he tries to hide by looking away too quickly.
And in the quiet, with the warmth of the food in your stomach and the cats curled close, you realize this is what you’ve been aching for not perfection, not forgiveness, but being here, with him, even if it hurts.
The meal is simple, but you eat every bite like it’s the finest thing you’ve ever had. The cats weave between your legs under the table, tails brushing against you, as though trying to remind you that you’re still part of this space, that you belong here as much as they do.
Minho doesn’t eat right away. He leans against the counter with his arms folded, watching you with an unreadable expression. You force yourself not to squirm under his gaze, even though your dress feels tighter with every passing second, its sequined fabric digging into your skin. You’d been tugging at the hem and shifting in your seat all night, the perfect picture of discomfort.
When you finally set your chopsticks down, sighing softly, Minho mutters something under his breath and disappears down the short hallway.
You blink after him, confused, until you hear the familiar creak of the closet door.
A minute later, he returns with a folded bundle in his hands: an oversized hoodie you’ve seen him wear countless times, its cuffs frayed from years of use, and a pair of sweatpants that look just as worn. He sets them down on the table with a thump, as if dropping them there distances him from the gesture.
“You look uncomfortable in that thing,” he says, gesturing at your dress. His tone is gruff, but there’s no mistaking the way his gaze flickers away from yours, the faint color rising at the tips of his ears again.
You glance from the clothes to him, then back, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I was.”
His jaw tightens, but the corner of his mouth threatens to twitch upward before he catches himself. “Then change. Bathroom’s the same as it always was.”
You reach for the clothes, your chest tightening at the simple, ordinary intimacy of it. Slipping out of the glittering armor your family insisted on and back into something soft and lived-in, it feels like shedding more than just fabric. It feels like shedding all the distance, the weight of expectation, the forced perfection.
You clutch the bundle to your chest, warmth blooming in your throat as you whisper, “Thank you.”
He just grunts, turning away to busy himself at the sink, but the tips of his ears stay red, and for the first time all night, the heaviness between you eases into something almost like peace.
-
The bathroom light flickers to life with a faint buzz, the mirror streaked with age and the faint smell of laundry soap clinging to the air. You set the folded bundle on the sink and stare at it for a moment his hoodie, his sweatpants. It’s been a year, but the sight of them is like stepping back into another life.
Your fingers brush the fabric. Soft, worn, faintly smelling of him.
Peeling yourself out of the sequined dress feels like tearing off a costume, glitter catching faintly in the light before it pools uselessly on the floor. The hoodie slips over your head with ease, the hem falling to your thighs. It swallows you whole, heavy and warm, sleeves dangling past your fingertips. The sweatpants are loose too, the drawstring cinched awkwardly at your waist, but they’re comfortable. They’re him.
When you catch your reflection in the mirror, you almost laugh. Gone is the polished stranger in glitter and heels. What looks back is someone softer, someone real. Someone who belonged here once.
You step back into the hallway, bare feet brushing the cool floor. Minho is still at the sink, sleeves rolled up as he rinses dishes, back tense with focus. He doesn’t look up at first.
But when he does, his hands stilling under the stream of water, something flickers across his face. His eyes widen just a fraction, enough to betray him before he looks away too quickly, grabbing a towel to dry his hands like the motion itself might cover the moment.
The tips of his ears are red again.
You can’t help the small smile that curves your lips. “Better?” you ask softly, tugging at the hoodie’s sleeve where it drowns your hand.
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You look ridiculous.”
But his voice doesn’t match the words. It’s too quiet, too unsteady around the edges.
You pad closer, leaning against the counter beside him. “Comfortable ridiculous,” you counter, grinning.
This time, his mouth twitches, so fast you almost miss it but it’s there. A ghost of a smile. He shakes his head again, muttering, “Unbelievable,” before reaching for another plate.
You stay there, shoulder brushing the cabinets, watching him work. The clink of dishes, the running water, the cats weaving in and out of your feet, it all feels achingly domestic. A fragile peace suspended in the small apartment kitchen, something so ordinary and yet, after everything, almost sacred.
You don’t stay on the sidelines for long. After a few moments of watching him rinse plates with sharp, precise movements, you push off the counter and roll up the sleeves of the hoodie, the fabric swallowing half your arms.
Minho notices immediately. His brow furrows, and his voice comes out dry. “What are you doing?”
“Helping,” you say simply, reaching for a clean dish towel.
He scoffs, turning back to the sink. “People like you don’t even know how to wash dishes. You’ll probably break something.”
The jab stings more than it should, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you step closer, bumping your hip against his. “Excuse you—I used to help you with dishes all the time. And laundry. And vacuuming. Don’t act like I didn’t.”
“That was different,” he mutters, though there’s a flicker in his voice, like he knows you’re right but refuses to admit it.
You snatch a dripping cup from the drying rack and flick a bit of water at his arm. He jerks back, startled, turning toward you with an incredulous glare.
“Did you just—”
You grin, unable to help it. “Oops.”
His lips part like he’s about to scold you, but instead, you catch the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the beginnings of a smile he tries hard to suppress. He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath you can’t quite catch, and turns back to the sink.
You take the opportunity to grab a plate from him, carefully drying it before stacking it neatly on the counter. “See? Not broken. Perfectly capable.”
“Beginner’s luck,” he deadpans, though his shoulders have eased, less rigid than before.
You bump his arm with your elbow, playful. “Admit it—I was always useful.”
This time, he lets out a quiet huff of laughter, so soft you almost miss it under the running water. “Useful is a strong word.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you, light in the cramped little kitchen. For a second, it’s as though nothing ever broke between you, that you never left, that his bitterness never existed. Just the two of you, the cats wandering at your feet, the sink filled with suds, and the soft rhythm of ordinary life.
And for Minho, you catch it: the faintest smile tugging at his lips, unguarded, before he quickly turns away again. It’s not forgiveness. Not yet. But it’s something.
The laughter from the kitchen lingers faintly in the air even after the dishes are stacked neatly away, drying on the counter. For a while, neither of you speak. The small flickers of warmth that had broken through, the splash of water, the rare twitch of a smile fade into a quieter space between you.
Minho leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching the cats curl up on the couch. His face has settled back into its unreadable mask, the softness hidden away again.
You dry your hands on the towel, heart thudding as the silence stretches. You want to hold onto the small moment of ease, but you can feel the weight pressing back in, heavier than before.
“You know this doesn’t mean anything,” he says suddenly, his tone clipped, like he’s trying to remind himself more than you. His gaze doesn’t meet yours. “You can’t just walk in here after a year and think a few dishes and a hoodie make it better.”
The words sting, sharp and true. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I know. I’m not trying to erase the past. I’m just… trying to be here. With you.”
He scoffs softly, shaking his head, but before he can say anything more, the front door bursts open.
“Minho!” a voice calls, followed by the unmistakable sound of shoes clattering against the entryway tile.
Three figures tumble in, carrying a plastic bag clinking with beer bottles. Their laughter and chatter fill the apartment instantly, the familiar noise of friends who’ve walked through this door countless times before.
But as soon as they step into the living room and see you standing there, everything freezes.
Seungmin halts first, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, his usual composure cracking in surprise. Jisung nearly drops the bag, his mouth falling open, and Hyunjin lets out a small gasp, eyes going wide.
The silence is thick, their disbelief hanging in the air like smoke.
Minho pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan. “Why the hell do you guys always let yourselves in like this?” His voice is sharp, a note of exasperation covering the sudden tension.
But none of them are paying him any attention.
Jisung is the first to move, his steps quick and unsure. His eyes flick over you like he’s trying to confirm you’re real and not some cruel hallucination. “No way,” he whispers, voice cracking. “It’s—you’re—”
Before you can say a word, he drops the bag on the table and pulls you into a hug. His arms are warm, desperate, and you feel him sniffle against your shoulder. “You’re really here. You’re really here.”
Your throat tightens as you hug him back, guilt and comfort tangling painfully inside you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m here.”
When Jisung finally pulls back, eyes glassy, Seungmin shakes his head slowly, disbelief still etched across his face. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, though his voice softens a fraction as he looks at Minho. “Guess you don’t have to keep crying over her anymore.”
The words land heavy.
Minho’s glare could cut steel. “Seungmin.”
The warning in his tone makes Seungmin raise his hands in mock surrender, though his mouth twitches like he doesn’t regret saying it.
You laugh softly, the sound shaky, trying to ease the weight. “It’s not… it’s not like that. We were just talking. That’s all.”
Seungmin’s gaze flicks between the two of you, his suspicion sharp and unrelenting. He doesn’t say anything, but the silence is loud enough.
Hyunjin, on the other hand, breaks into a grin, clasping his hands together with a theatrical gasp. “Wait, wait—does this mean we can watch a movie? Like old times? Please, it’s been forever!”
The apartment stills again, all eyes turning toward Minho. His jaw tightens, his mouth opening as if to say No. She has to go.
But before the words can form, you perk up, your smile breaking through. “I’d like that,” you say softly, hope shining in your voice.
Minho freezes.
His throat works, eyes darting between your eager expression and his friends’ expectant ones. You can see the battle written across his face, his instinct to shut this down, to protect himself, against the pull of nostalgia and the quiet crack of his defenses.
Finally, he exhales sharply through his nose, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “Unbelievable,” before turning away.
Which, from Minho, is as close to yes as you’ll ever get.
And in that moment, with Jisung’s watery grin, Hyunjin’s bubbling excitement, Seungmin’s wary silence, and Minho’s reluctant acquiescence, you realize something you hadn’t dared hope for.
You’re not just standing in Minho’s apartment. You’re standing in his life again.
-
The apartment is suddenly alive in a way you haven’t seen in a year. Hyunjin has already sprawled across the couch like he owns the place, his long legs taking up more than his fair share of space. Jisung sits cross-legged on the floor, bouncing with restless energy, while Seungmin perches neatly in the armchair, his sharp eyes still flicking toward you now and then like he’s trying to puzzle you out.
The questions start immediately.
“Where the hell have you been all this time?” Jisung blurts, tugging a blanket around his shoulders. His voice is incredulous, but the worry buried underneath makes your chest ache.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Hyunjin leans forward, hair falling into his face. “We thought you just—” He cuts himself off, glancing toward Minho’s rigid back before finishing carefully, “—moved on.”
Seungmin, sharper than the rest, folds his arms. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
The barrage makes you falter, words tangling on your tongue. “I… I’ve been around. Just—busy. My family kept me tied up in a million things, and—” You catch yourself, your throat tight. “It wasn’t easy. I missed you guys.”
Jisung’s expression softens instantly. He’s always been the emotional one, wearing his heart on his sleeve. He scoots closer, his hand brushing yours briefly before he drops it, eyes shining. “We missed you too. It sucked. Everything sucked without you.”
Hyunjin nods fervently, his voice gentler than usual. “You were one of us. It wasn’t the same.”
The weight of their words burrows deep, heavy with both guilt and warmth. These weren’t just Minho’s friends, you’d claimed them as your own once. And they’d claimed you back. Losing Minho meant losing them too.
You try to answer their rapid-fire questions, about what you’ve been doing, if you’ve seen anyone else, if you thought about reaching out, but your responses are shaky, fragments of truths you can’t fully voice. You keep glancing toward Minho, as if searching for an anchor.
He doesn’t join in. He moves quietly around the room, flicking through the stack of DVDs with a furrowed brow, avoiding the conversation entirely. His silence feels deliberate, a wall between your voice and his.
Finally, he selects one and slides it into the player with a snap. “Sit down,” he mutters, his tone clipped.
The others obey quickly, like this has always been the rhythm of their group.
When the opening credits roll, Hyunjin leans closer to whisper something, but Minho cuts him off with a sharp, “Shhh.”
The sound makes your lips twitch. You try to suppress the smile, but it slips free anyway. Because this, this is exactly how it used to be. You and the boys talking endlessly, laughing over inside jokes, until Minho inevitably shushed the lot of you, grumbling about wanting to actually watch the movie.
The familiarity stings and soothes all at once.
For a while, it’s quiet. The glow of the TV washes the room in flickering blues and greys. Hyunjin finally digs into the bag of snacks, tossing a bag of chips at Jisung, who nearly drops it in his lap. The hiss of a soda can cracks open, laughter murmurs low.
Your gaze keeps drifting to Minho, who sits at the far end of the couch, his posture deceptively relaxed. But you catch it, the subtle flick of his eyes toward you when he thinks you’re not looking. You hold back a smile, though your chest warms with each stolen glance.
And when your eyes catch his, even for the briefest second, it feels like a secret no one else in the room can see.
Then, without warning, Minho pushes himself up. He grabs two bottles from the table, his movements casual but deliberate. When he turns, his eyes lock on yours.
He doesn’t speak. He just lifts the bottles slightly, the barest tilt of his head, a signal. An invitation.
Your heart leaps.
“I’ll be right back,” you whisper, setting aside the snack Hyunjin had handed you.
Jisung’s head pops up immediately, eyes wide. “Wait, but the best part’s coming up—” He reaches for your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.
Before his fingers can brush you, Seungmin catches his sleeve, shaking his head firmly. His eyes flicker between you and Minho, something knowing hidden in his gaze. “Let her go.”
Jisung pouts but drops his hand, muttering under his breath.
You mouth a quick thank you to Seungmin, then follow Minho out of the living room.
The air shifts instantly once you step through the sliding glass door. The fire escape is just as you remember it, narrow metal steps, the faint smell of rust and city air, the hum of traffic below. You’d spent so many nights out here with him, tucked into the quiet, sharing whispered words under the glow of streetlamps. It had been your spot.
Minho sets the bottles on the railing with a soft clink. For a moment, he just stands there, hands braced against the metal, his shoulders tense in the dim light.
And as you step out onto the fire escape, the familiarity of it all crashes into you. The air is colder here, sharper, but your chest feels warm, full of ghosts and hope all tangled together.
This was where forever used to live.
The air on the fire escape is sharper than inside, cool against your skin, carrying the faint tang of metal and city smoke. From down below comes the distant hum of traffic, a motorcycle revving, laughter from strangers passing on the street. But up here, the world feels suspended, quieter somehow.
Minho leans against the railing, his fingers drumming idly on the rusted bar. He doesn’t look at you. His profile is lit by the pale glow of the streetlamp, sharp and unreadable. The unopened bottle of beer sits beside him, condensation gathering and dripping into small, wet rings on the paint.
You don’t speak right away. Neither does he. The silence stretches, thick and weighted, almost familiar in its heaviness. Once, you used to share silences like this, comfortable, steady. Now it’s charged, every second that passes pulling at your chest.
You settle on the step across from him, tucking your legs up. Your hands fiddle with the hem of his hoodie where it covers you, sleeves swallowing your fingers.
Finally, you murmur, “I didn’t think I’d be here again.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move. “Yeah. Neither did I.”
The words sting, but you swallow past them. Your eyes drift toward the street, watching the blur of headlights below. “I used to love it out here. With you. It felt like ours.”
That makes him glance at you, quick, sharp, then away again just as fast. “Don’t romanticize it. It was just a fire escape.”
You let out a soft breath, half laugh, half ache. “It wasn’t just anything. Not to me.”
Another silence. His fingers tap once, twice more against the railing before curling into a fist.
You push through the tension, voice quieter, raw. “Why did you bring me out here, Minho?”
His gaze finally cuts to you, steady and sharp. “Because I needed space. And because they don’t need to hear this.”
Your heart stutters. “Hear what?”
He exhales slowly, the sound heavy. His free hand rubs at the back of his neck, and for the first time tonight, he looks less like the unshakable version of himself and more like the boy you remember, the one who used to hold you out here, whispering dreams into the dark.
“I don’t know why you’re here,” he says at last, his voice low, edged. “I don’t know what you want from me. You show up after a year, at the one place I least expected to see you, and suddenly you’re back in my apartment, sitting with my friends, wearing my clothes like nothing happened.” His voice breaks just slightly, and he clenches his jaw. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?”
The words hit you like a punch, every syllable vibrating with hurt. Your throat burns, but you force yourself to meet his eyes. “It feels like I’ve been holding my breath for a year, and I finally let it out the second I saw you again.”
For a moment, neither of you move. His eyes lock on yours, and you see it, the flicker of longing he doesn’t want to admit, buried under layers of anger.
You watch him, carefully, like he might vanish if you blink too long. His profile is harsh in the glow of the lamps, but you know the softness beneath it. You’ve known it since the first time you leaned against him on a night much like this one, the two of you whispering silly jokes until you were laughing so hard the neighbors yelled at you to keep it down.
You swallow the lump in your throat. “Minho…”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he exhales slowly, his breath visible in the chill. Then, with a subtle shift, he looks at you.
It’s not the sharp, angry glare from before. It’s quieter. Wearier. His eyes flicker over your face like he’s searching for something he thought was gone.
Finally, his voice breaks the stillness. “It feels nice to have you back.”
The words are soft, almost tentative, like he isn’t sure he should be saying them at all.
Your chest tightens. The sting of guilt is still there, sharp and unforgiving, but it tangles with a blooming warmth you can’t suppress. You bite your lip, trying to stop the smile that threatens, but it slips free anyway, small, unsteady, but real.
“Yeah?” you whisper, your voice fragile.
He huffs, almost like a laugh but not quite, and looks away again. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still upset. That doesn’t just… disappear because you showed up wearing my hoodie and looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” you ask, your tone lighter than you feel.
His jaw ticks. “Like I matter.”
The admission guts you. Because of course he mattered, he always had, more than anything else. And you know you failed him by letting your family’s demands convince you otherwise.
You lean forward a little, your arms circling your knees. “You do matter. You always did, Minho. I just… I didn’t fight the way I should have.”
He studies you for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders ease.
“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” he says quietly, his tone stripped of anger now, replaced by something rawer, more vulnerable. “But…” He trails off, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to say. “…I want to try. With you.”
The world tilts. Your breath catches, and suddenly you can’t stop smiling gentle, almost shy, your chest aching with a hope you thought you’d buried.
“Me too,” you murmur. “I want to try too. However long it takes.”
For the first time tonight, something fragile flickers across his face. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But a softness, a crack in the walls he’s built around himself.
He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t reach for you. But he doesn’t look away, either.
The silence that follows doesn’t burn like it did before, it hums, tentative but gentler, as if the city itself has softened to give you both a fragile reprieve.
Minho is still standing at the railing, his posture straighter than it needs to be, like he’s trying to hold himself together. His fingers curl loosely around the cool metal, and every now and then his thumb taps against the railing, a restless little rhythm.
You watch him for a long moment, your heart aching with all the words you’ve yet to say, all the apologies and promises tangled inside you. But you don’t push them now. Instead, you inch closer on the step, the sound of the metal creaking faintly beneath you.
He notices immediately. His eyes cut to you, sharp and wary, but he doesn’t move away.
“I just…” You hesitate, then let the words out in a breath. “Can I—”
He exhales through his nose, a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a sigh. Then, without looking at you, he shifts just slightly, loosening his stance, creating a space beside him. “Do what you want.”
It’s not permission spoken sweetly. But it’s not rejection either.
Carefully, almost afraid he’ll change his mind, you rise from the step and close the distance between you. The railing is cool beneath your palms as you settle beside him. For a moment, you just stand there in the quiet, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching.
And then you lean. Slowly, gently, you let your weight tip toward him until your head comes to rest against his shoulder.
Your breath catches, waiting for him to flinch, to shrug you off, to remind you of all the distance you’ve created between you.
But he doesn’t.
His body goes still at first, tense under your touch, and you hold your breath. Then, slowly, the rigid line of his shoulders loosens. He doesn’t lean into you, but he doesn’t move away either. That’s more than you expected, and the relief almost makes your eyes sting.
The smell of him wraps around you: laundry soap, faint cologne, something warm and familiar that sends your chest aching with memory. You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into it, into him.
The rhythm of his breathing is steady against your ear, grounding. You close your eyes for a moment, just soaking in the small miracle of being allowed this close again.
“This feels… normal,” you whisper, the words trembling. “Like it used to.”
Minho hums, a low sound in his chest. His tone is careful, but there’s no bite in it now. “Don’t hold on to the past too tightly. We can’t go back there.”
“I know,” you admit softly. “But maybe… we can start somewhere new.”
For a while, he says nothing. Just the faint creak of the fire escape, the hum of cars far below, and the warmth of him beside you. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he murmurs, “Maybe.”
The single word is fragile, a thread of hope he doesn’t want to name.
You smile against his shoulder, your chest full, and let yourself lean into him just a little more.
And this time, he doesn’t tense at all.
//
masterlist.
[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @euphysia @shinygubbins @hhwangsmoon @geni-627 @enhacolor @lunaspov @sunshinesliife @fadedglitterpunk @jisuperboard @hyujim @alondra6011 @you-dont-know-my-name @bemyaehiweloveskz @luvvvivi @maddy24207 @inmyfelixera @senaenabear lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]
warnings+”: language, some sexual (18+)
photos ‧₊ .ᐟ 2 per member, 16 total
notes ִֶָ ࣪˖ hiii everyone!! yall gave so much love to the ateez texts I thought why not make one for skz!!! I hope you love this one too:) reblogs and comments help us out the most!! take care of yourselves and check on your loved ones<3
⋆˚࿔bang chan
⋆˚࿔minho
⋆˚࿔changbin
⋆˚࿔hyunjin
⋆˚࿔jisung
⋆˚࿔felix
⋆˚࿔seungmin
⋆˚࿔jeongin
✩*ೃ.⋆ || skz masterlist , main masterlist
thanks for stopping by , I hope you come back soon <3 !!
ᯓ★Tags: cumming inside,Minho calls reader a slut, just smut with no plot, they're all horny idk 🤷🏽♀️
˖࣪ ⊹𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯⊹ ࣪ ˖
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Chan could always tell when you were ovulating...imo I feel he would be the kind of boyfriend that would like to keep track of your cycle so he could know when he needs to buy you snacks and spoil you completely rotten BUT when it comes to ovulation that's a different story. He loves to tease you and see how riled up you get, like coming behind you and kissing your neck, knowing how much you love it, he whispers into your ear, pressing his clothed bulge against you but the moment you start to press back and softly moan he pulls away, leaving you hornier than you already were. :'(
Don't worry though, he'll fuck you after. And he's rough. he knows that's how you like it when your ovulating, your face pushed into a pillow as he pulls your hips back to meet his.
"Fuckk..you take it so well baby, gonna cum deep inside you"
˖࣪ ⊹𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘰⊹ ࣪ ˖
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He knows that your ovulating but he makes you wait for it, he pretends not to notice your lustfull gazes at him or your lingering touches, he can't help it he just loves to tease you, but he can only deny you so long before he wants you just as bad. He fucks you relentlessly. Face shoved into a pillow with your ass up, you love being fucked dumb by him, wheather you're ovulating or not. Harsh slaps to your ass as he tells you how much of a slut you are. True paradise. 🤌🏽
"Such a slut aren't you? want me to breed your pretty pussy, baby?~"
˖࣪ ⊹𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘣𝘪𝘯⊹ ࣪ ˖
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He secretly loves it. You get so worked up just seeing his muscles. he makes sure to wear sleeveless shirts and tank tops around you just to see you fight back demons, he lets you do whatever you want because he knows how rapid you become during ovulation, he lays back with an arm behind his head as you ride him. He tells you how beautiful you are ontop of him and you swear you see stars...maybe one baby wouldn't hurt ? 🤩
"so pretty baby—fuck, you feel so good"
˖࣪ ⊹𝘏𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘫𝘪𝘯⊹ ࣪
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Of course, Hyunjin would give you whatever you wanted during ovulation. He secretly likes it too, 🤫. He's hitting it from the back, your fucked out moans filling the room, your turn your head back and start mumbling words.
"What's the matter baby? Talk to me" he grins as he sees your face, your practically drooling on yourself.
"Mmm...take the condom off...wanna feel all of you~" you whine, He grins at your request, he does as he's told before immediately sliding back inside you, your eyes rolling back at his quickening pace, the tip of his cock kissing all your sweet spots. This was a surprise to Hyunjin because you're usually so on top of using protection and judging by the way you're rolling back to meet his thrust, moaning and whining like a baby and telling him to fuck you raw...oh you're definitely ovulating, it turns him on seeing you so desperate for his cum like this.
"Such a nasty girl, huh? Wanting me to fuck you raw"
He says lowly as he leans down and kisses your neck, You nod as you push back against him more.
"Oh my goddd...fuck I'm gonna cum, baby please~" You whine as you bury your face into the pillow.
"Please what?" He teases, leaning up against the shell of your ear, whispering into it knowing full well what you're asking for, He just likes to hear you say it.
˖࣪ ⊹𝘏𝘢𝘯⊹ ࣪ ˖
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This sex addict doesn't even notice a change. You two fuck so often that when you randomly want to go a couple more rounds than usual he thinks nothing of it.
"pleasee~ want you to fuck me againnn" you whine as you claw at his back, you've both cum like 4 times already and he's becoming sensitive but like I said, He doesn't stop. Overstimulating himself in your pussy is like a dream to him, he could do it for the rest of his life and die happy.
"Mm, gonna milk me fucking dry aren't you, baby?~"
˖࣪ ⊹𝘍𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘹⊹ ࣪ ˖
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He would be a obvious to it at first, as he cuddles with you he notices that you groan when his head shifts on your chest...he look at you with his cute little concerned face before speaking
"What's wrong? Am I hurting you?" He asks softly, you chuckle and Shake your head
"No you're fine, my breast are just a bit sensitive..I'm ovulating" you admit and it all strarts to make sense why you've been so clingy and sensitive lately. His cheeks flush a light pink.
"Oh, I'm sorry, love" he apologizes as he pulls you closer to him, he kinda feels bad for not noticing sooner. He apologizes by burying his face in between those beautiful thighs of yours, eating you out till you cry 💖
"You always taste so good angel, cum on my face one more time, yeah?"
˖࣪ ⊹𝘚𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘮𝘪𝘯⊹ ࣪ ˖
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He knows something is up when you become extremely clingy. It's something you always tend to do when that time comes around. You sit straddled on his lap as you softly make out, he doesn't question nor deny you when you're like this, who is he to turn down mind-blowing sex? He listens to everything you babble to him as he fucks into you.
"You want me to cum inside of you? I wanna hear you beg for it first~" He chuckles menacingly at your pathetic high pitched pleas.
˖࣪ ⊹𝘑𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯⊹ ࣪ ˖
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This nasty boy operates as if he can ovulate too. It doesn't matter what you're wearing or how you look, he's gonna get rock hard just looking at you. You're doing laundry, throwing the clothes in the washer and you feel him sneak up behind you, already feeling his bulge press on your lower back.
"I just wanna bend you over this machine and fuck you right now" he whispers into your ear, nibbling on the lobe, you feel him push into you more, you bite your lip as his hands come up to knead your breast, you sigh in pleasure before pushing your ass against him.
"Then why don't you do it then?~" you grin as you turn you head back to meet his gaze, you certainly don't have to tell him twice, he fucks you like there's no tomorrow, like he'll never see you again. It's enough to leave your legs wobbly for a couple days but it's worth it
"Can you feel me deep inside you, baby? Gonna let me cum inside of you?"
