I think most of this doesnt make sense, don't come at me i wrote this half-asleep.
Not proof-read.
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The rooftop garden smells like rain that never fell and the faint jasmine from the neighbor’s overgrown planter. The string lights flicker like they’re on their last breath. It’s late enough that the city feels distant, and you’re both a little loose from soju, sitting on the low ledge with your legs swinging into nothing.
Minho has been quiet too long. Then, suddenly:
“I like you.”
Flat. Direct. Annoyed at his own timing, probably.
You freeze. Blink. “You’re serious?”
He finally looks at you, eyebrow arched. “Would I joke about this?”
You laugh once, short and nervous. “I mean… I like you too. A lot. For a while. I just thought you—”
You stop.
He waits, patient in that dangerous Minho way.
“You thought i was what?”
“I just thought you were gay.”
The silence that follows is so thick you could cut it with a spoon.
Minho stares at you like you’ve personally offended every cat he’s ever owned.
“…What?”
“I mean—” You gesture at him helplessly. “You. The cats. The skincare. The way you talk about choreography like it’s poetry. JiSung. The crying at Fez. It added up in my head.”
He drags a hand down his face, slow, like he’s recalibrating his entire existence.
“I’m not gay.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not.”
“Got it.”
“I like women.” He says it very clearly, very slowly. “You, specifically. Right now. A lot.”
Heat floods your face. “Right. Got it.”
He studies you for another second, then huffs a laugh—short, disbelieving. “You really thought I was gay this whole time?”
“I mean… yeah?” You shrug, helpless. “It made sense in my head.”
“In your head,” he repeats, deadpan.
Then he steps closer, hands braced on the ledge on either side of your thighs, caging you without touching. Close enough that you can see the tiny mole on his nose.
“So,” he says, quieter now. “To be clear. I’m straight. I like you. I want to date you. Only you. No third party required.”
You nod, still a little dazed.
He tilts his head, studying your expression.
Then, because Minho is Minho and can’t resist poking the bear:
“Unless you’re disappointed.”
You blink. “Disappointed?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I could’ve been dating Jisung. We could’ve asked you to be our third. Lavender marriage and all that. You’d be the perfect beard.”
Your mouth drops open.
He’s smirking now, barely, the evil little curve he saves for when he knows he’s winning.
“You—wait. Are you actually dating Jisung?”
“No,” he says immediately, smirk growing. “I don’t like him like that. He’s my annoying soulmate, not my boyfriend.”
You exhale, half-relieved, half-laughing. “Okay good, because I was about to say—”
He raises a brow. “Say what?”
You bite your lip, then decide fuck it.
“Well… if you did like him like that? I would’ve said yes to the lavender marriage thing. I’d marry you. Be your wife. Raise cats with you. Let you and Jisung do whatever in the guest room while I pretend I don’t hear anything.”
Minho’s smirk vanishes. Replaced by something softer. Surprised. Almost… touched.
“You’d do that?”
You shrug, trying to play it cool even though your heart is trying to escape your ribs. “Yeah. I mean. I like you enough that I’d want you happy. Even if it looked different from what I pictured.”
He stares at you for a long moment, something flickering behind his eyes.
Then he leans in—slow, deliberate—until his forehead rests against yours.
“I’m not dating Jisung,” he murmurs. “I’m not gay. And I don’t want a lavender marriage.”
Your breath catches.
“I just want you,” he finishes, voice low. “Normal. Boring. Boyfriend-girlfriend. Kissing in public. Holding hands. Fighting over who gets the last tteokbokki. That kind of thing.”
You laugh under your breath, shaky.
He pulls back just enough to look at you properly.
“So. Can I kiss you now? Or do I need to propose a fake marriage first?”
You roll your eyes, smiling so wide it hurts. “Just kiss me, idiot.”
He does.
Soft at first. Careful. Like he’s still proving something.
Then deeper when you kiss him back, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck. He tastes like soju and mint and relief.
When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. Nose brushing yours.
“Still think I’m gay?” he whispers.
You pretend to consider it. “I might need regular proof.”
He kisses you again—harder, smiling against your mouth.
“Proof,” he mutters. “I’ll give you so much proof you’ll forget this whole conversation ever happened.”
You laugh into the kiss, hands fisting the front of his hoodie, pulling him impossibly closer.
