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How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days

pairings: mingyu x f!reader wc: 20k (forgive me please) genre/warnings: fake dating, slow burn, themes of manipulation(bets/hidden motive), mild angst, too many cringey nicknames, how to lose a guy in 10 days inspired (too many similarities 😔), mentions of mingyu's abs 🫦 (a/n): this is for the caratboxd collab by svthub, thankyou for giving me an opportunity to write this! I'm very sorry for the wc, i didnt think it would get this long. this is one of my all time favorite movies so i hope i did justice to it. please lmk how it was :)) a big big big thanks to luna (@belovedgyu) and daisy (@flowerwonu) my love for beta-ing this, y'all are the best <3 (if the paragraphs are in a weird format, I'm sorry, tumblr was not allowing me to post fic this long so I had to try smth)

You hate mornings in New York. Not because of the city. The city is the only part you still like—how the early sunlight slices between high-rises, pooling gold on the sidewalks, the corner bagel carts already open, the air already sticky. No, it’s not the city. It’s the job. Writing the same celebrity gossip over and over, making silly how-to lists no one needs, staying up late for headlines you don’t even care about. You work at Viva, a glossy lifestyle magazine that used to mean something before the internet sucked the life out of print. Now it’s all clickbait headlines and viral content, and you’re one of the many underpaid writers tasked with making that happen. Lists, quizzes, recycled relationship advice—you’ve done it all. You didn’t go to journalism school for this. But dreams don’t pay rent in Manhattan.

So here you are, iced coffee sweating in your hand, weaving between suits and tourists in Midtown as you mentally prep for another pitch meeting. Another round of trying to convince your editor to let you write something that actually matters. Another day of swallowing the frustration when she doesn’t. Your phone buzzes. jinnieee: heads up. bosszilla is in a mood.

Great. That’s going to go well.

You finally swing into the elevator of the Viva office building, adjusting your blazer. The doors slide open to reveal the chaos of the open-plan office—half glass, half noise. Your desk is a corner near the window, not glamorous but close enough to the skyline to pretend you’re important. You’re barely halfway through your iced coffee when you slump into your desk chair, Yunjin already perched on the edge of it like she’s been waiting for gossip. She spins lazily side to side, grinning like she knows exactly what she’s about to ask.

“So? How was your hot date?”

You glare at her over the rim of your cup. “Don’t say hot.”

“That bad?”

You sigh, tossing your bag under the desk. “Worse. He spent twenty minutes talking about his investment portfolio. Then asked if I wanted to see his home gym—at midnight.” Yunjin cringes. “Ew.”

“I know.”

You toss your phone down, face first. “God, I wish there was like… some foolproof method to get rid of a guy. Like a guaranteed way to make him lose interest so I don’t have to ghost him.”

“You want to invent man-repellent,” she snorts.

“I’m serious. If there was a handbook, I’d buy it.”

Before Yunjin can respond, a sharp voice cuts through the chatter of the office.

“Glad to hear you’re both hard at work.”

You both freeze. You don’t even have to look up to know it’s Vivian—your editor-in-chief, heels clicking as she approaches.

You sit up straighter, scrambling to look busy. “Morning.”

Vivian stops by your desk, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “Morning. How’s that next pitch coming, by the way?”

You freeze. Shit. That was due yesterday.

Yunjin senses your panic and jumps in. “Actually,” she chirps, “we were just talking about that!”

You whip your head toward her, puzzled, but she keeps going, voice a little too chipper.

“Yeah, we were just saying how... it gets really frustrating with men sometimes, you know? Like, you want to get rid of them, but you don’t want to do the actual dumping—you want them to do it for you. It’s a whole thing.”

Vivian raises an eyebrow. “And?”

Yunjin gestures vaguely, thinking fast. “And… what if someone documented that? Like—how to make a guy break up with you. Step by step.”

You stare at her, then at Vivian, who just blinks. Waiting. Impatient.

Yunjin claps her hands together. “Right! How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. That’s what she’ll be writing.”

Your mouth falls open. You shoot Yunjin a look that screams are you kidding me, but Vivian’s gaze is fixed on you now, her interest visibly piqued.

“Is that real?” Vivian asks. “You’re actually doing that?”

Your pulse jumps. You glance back at Yunjin, who nods encouragingly like this was your idea all along.

You clear your throat. “Uh… yes.”

Vivian’s lips curl into a slow grin. “Interesting. I’ll want a draft by Monday."

Then she turns on her heel, striding away with the confidence of someone who’s just assigned Pulitzer-worthy work.

You turn to Yunjin, eyes wide. “What the hell was that?”

Yunjin shrugs, unbothered. “You’re welcome.”

—

Mingyu barrels out of the elevator, cursing under his breath as he weaves between interns and assistants in the hallway, coffee sloshing in his hand. The meeting started ten minutes ago. His phone is buzzing nonstop, and he knows it’s Seokmin texting “where the hell are you!?”. But there’s no time to check.

He swings open the conference room door just as the lights dim, a giant screen lighting up the space with sleek mockups and bold campaign slogans.

There’s one empty chair at the far end. He sinks into it quietly, catching his breath, pretending he’s not half-sweating through his shirt. But then he hears it—the pitch. The voice narrating his idea, the one he stayed up all night refining, the one he was supposed to present today.

“Wait,” he says, sitting up straighter, hands splayed in protest. “Hey, hey, wait. This is—this is my idea.”

The presenter pauses. Everyone turns. Mingyu’s boss, stationed at the head of the table, stares at him with an expression that borders on exhausted amusement.

“Mingyu,” his boss says flatly, “you can’t even show up on time. How am I supposed to take you seriously?”

“I’m serious,” Mingyu insists, chest heaving lightly. “I’ve been working on this for weeks. I—look, I’ll do anything for this account. You know that.”

There’s a pause, a brief flicker of attention shifting across the table.

“Anything?”

From halfway down the table, Jeonghan leans back in his chair, stretching out his legs with the kind of grin that always means trouble. He and Mingyu are friends—or as close as anyone can be to a guy who thinks mild chaos is a form of affection.

Jeonghan tilts his head, his smile curling like he’s already thinking three steps ahead. “Good to know.”

Their boss chuckles low, shaking his head. “We’ll see how serious you really are, Mingyu.”

The meeting moves on, the presenter picking up where they left off, but Mingyu barely hears any of it. He can still feel Jeonghan’s gaze lingering—not unkind, not friendly either. Just curious.

The party’s already in full swing by the time you and Yunjin get there—music low and bassy, laughter echoing off tall glass windows, strings of lights crisscrossing above heads like someone tried to make the rooftop look effortlessly cool. Everyone’s holding a drink, pretending not to network, but you can tell by the practiced laughs and the way people scan name tags like they’re memorizing stats. You weren’t even supposed to come. But Yunjin had insisted, saying it was “half-business, half-fun”, which really meant you’d both spend the night judging people’s outfits and deflecting finance bros. You find a corner to loiter in, drinks in hand, and you both start your people-watching commentary whispered between sips, rating strangers’ flirting techniques, or lack thereof. It doesn’t take long before the first guy drifts over. Then another. And another.

One tries the classic “you look familiar, have we met before?”, another just awkwardly lists all the rooftop bars he likes. None of them land. But when the next one approaches—tall, well-dressed, with the kind of easy smile that looks practiced—you give Yunjin a subtle nod. This one.You step away, smoothing your dress, weaving through the crowd until you’re standing in front of him. He looks up from his drink, eyes flicking to yours, clearly waiting for you to speak first.

“Let me guess,” you say, crossing your arms, “you’re in real estate.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Consulting.”

“Close enough.”

He grins, and for a second, you think maybe this won’t be terrible. But then your gaze drops—to his hand lifting his glass—and there it is. A wedding ring. Bold, unmistakable, like it wasn’t even meant to be hidden. You pause mid-sentence, then just shake your head, backing up a step. “Right. Of course.”

He blinks, confused, but you’re already turning on your heel, retreating to where Yunjin waits, leaning coolly against a column with her glass half-empty and one eyebrow raised.

You don’t say a word. You just hold up your hand and point to your ring finger. Yunjin’s lips curl, half in pity, half in amusement. You sigh, already exhausted, and plop down on the nearest barstool, resting your elbows on the bar island. The cold marble feels good against your arms, and you almost consider ordering something stronger. “You’re really killing it tonight,” Yunjin teases, sliding onto the seat beside you.

“Shut up.”

You groan, head dropping to your arms. This night couldn’t end fast enough.

On the other side of the party, Mingyu lounges on a low velvet couch, nursing a drink while Jeonghan and Seokmin argue about something. Their boss sits with them, swirling his whiskey, looking more entertained by the banter than involved.

Jeonghan leans forward, eyes skimming the crowded bar area. “You know, picking up a girl at a party like this isn’t the same as making her actually fall for you.”

Mingyu scoffs, sitting back. “What, you think I can’t make a girl fall for me?”

“Exactly, bro.”

“First of all,” Mingyu mutters, “I’m not your bro. And second, I don’t have those concerns. There’s no girl who wouldn’t fall for this face.” He gestures vaguely to himself, grinning. Jeonghan laughs under his breath, swirling his glass. “This’ll be good. If you pull it off, I’ll give the pitch back to you. Consider it… proof of commitment.”

Mingyu squints at him. “That’s blackmail.” “I like to call it an incentive,” Jeonghan grins.

Their boss hums, tipping his glass lazily. “Frankly, if you’re this persuasive in love, I’ll know you’re persuasive enough for clients. Win-win.” Mingyu clicks his tongue, but the grin is already creeping in. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Okay, which one?” Jeonghan’s eyes scan the room, his smirk widening when he spots you. “That one,” he says, pointing. Mingyu follows the direction of his finger, eyes landing on the girl in the green dress—Yunjin. His nose wrinkles. “The one in the green?”

Jeonghan laughs. “No, no. Behind her. The blue one.”

Mingyu’s gaze shifts—and that’s when he sees you, leaning on the bar, looking borderline done with the night. You don’t even look like you’re trying to enjoy yourself. He sighs inwardly. Great. Still, he shrugs, finishing the last of his drink. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Seokmin watches him warily. “Gyu, you don’t have to listen to him, you know that, right? This is gonna come back to bite you in the ass.”

Mingyu grins as he gets to his feet, adjusting his jacket. “Nah, I’ve got this.”

Their boss lifts his glass. “If you crash and burn, at least entertain me while doing it.” Mingyu just shakes his head, heading off toward the bar with Jeonghan calling after him, voice laced with mock encouragement, “Go get her, Romeo.”

As Mingyu disappears into the crowd, Seokmin watches after him, then turns to Jeonghan, incredulous. “Did you really just ask our friend to ask a random girl out?” Jeonghan shakes his head, sipping leisurely from his whiskey, eyes still trained on the bar. “Not just any girl.”

Seokmin frowns. “What?”

Jeonghan finally glances over, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “She works at my cousin’s magazine. Apparently, she’s writing some column… ‘How to Lose a Guy’ or something like that.”

Seokmin stares, confused. “So?” “So,” Jeonghan smirks, tapping his glass, “I want to see how long he holds.”

You’re hunched over the bar island, elbow propped up, eyes fixed on the rim of your glass when a shadow looms at your side. Someone slips into the empty stool next to you in a not-so-very-subtle way. You glance sideways, expecting another finance bro. But the guy sitting there is—unfortunately—ridiculously attractive. Tall, sharp jawline, hair slightly messy in a deliberate way, and he’s already smiling like he’s got the upper hand just by showing up. “Hey,” he says, voice smooth and casual. “You look like you’re one bad conversation away from throwing yourself off this rooftop.” You blink, caught off guard, before a small laugh escapes you. “What gave it away?” “The sighing. The dramatic slump. And the way you’ve been glaring at your drink like it said something offensive.”

You huff, lips curving despite yourself. “Observant.” “Years of practice,” he grins, swiveling his stool slightly to face you better. “Mind if I sit?” “You’re already sitting,” you deadpan. “Right,” he chuckles, hands up in mock surrender. “Then... mind if I stay?” You eye him, skeptical but amused. “Depends. Are you married? Engaged? Secretly in a long-distance relationship with someone who thinks you’re loyal?”

He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “None of the above. Single. Fully unattached. Zero entanglements.” “Hmm,” you hum, leaning on your palm. “You’ll forgive me if I ask for proof.”

“I’ll do you one better,” he says, patting down his jacket like he’s checking for a pen. “I’ll write you a resume right now. Skills include: great with dogs, decent cook, tall enough to reach things on the top shelf, not married.” You shake your head with a soft chuckle. Yunjin, who’s been silently watching the exchange, leans in just then and murmurs, “I’m gonna find the bathroom. Or maybe someone hotter. Don’t die.”

“Not planning on it,” you mutter, as she walks off with a wink.

“Coworker?” the stranger asks, watching her go. “Yeah,” you nod. “And my best friend.”

“Lucky her,” he says smoothly. “Getting to work with you all day.” You roll your eyes, though your smile betrays you. “Does that line usually work?”

“I’ll let you know in five minutes,” he says, grinning.

You finally sit up straighter, giving him a more thorough once-over. He’s annoyingly handsome and somehow worse—charming. “What’s your name, charmer?” “Mingyu,” he says, sliding his hand into yours. His grip is warm, fingers curling around yours just enough to make it noticeable. “And you are?” You give him your name, and he repeats it back with a smile, like he’s testing how it feels on his tongue.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, still not letting go right away. “I had a good feeling about tonight.”

“Did you?” you smirk.

“Yeah. And now I’ve got proof.”

He watches you laugh, clearly pleased with himself, then leans in a little, voice easy. “You wanna get out of here? Somewhere quieter?”

You give him a look, brows raised. “That’s literally what every kidnapper says.” Mingyu chuckles, placing a hand over his heart. “Swear I’m not a creep. Zero kidnapping experience. Cross my heart.”

You stare him down, unblinking. Just to be sure. “Okay—how about just a walk?” he suggests, nodding toward the terrace doors. “Public space. Lots of witnesses. If I try anything shady, you can scream. Real loud.”

You squint, pretending to think. “Screaming does sound fun.” “See? Win-win.” He grins. “And if you survive, I’ll buy you another drink.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. You slide off the stool and look around for Yunjin. You see her dancing with a blond guy, arms wrapped around his neck. You give her a look, notifying her that you are leaving and she just winks at you. Mingyu laughs, stepping aside to let you go first. “See? Trust. We’re building it already.” The night air outside is cooler, the city lights turning everything a little gold, a little blurred. “So,” he says, hands tucked in his pockets. “What’s your excuse for being there? Networking? Or do you just like suffering?” You smile. “Coworker dragged me. She said it was fun.”

He huffs. “Was she wrong?” You glance sideways at him, pretending to think. “I guess not entirely.” He laughs, bumping his shoulder gently into yours. “You’re welcome.”

“So, what do you do when you’re not charming strangers at parties?” you ask. “I’m in advertising,” he says, gaze flicking to you. “Account exec. I’m the poor guy who has to make products sound exciting.”

You hum, unimpressed. “So you’re the reason my social media is cursed with ads for shit I talked about once.”

“Guilty,” he grins. “And you?” “Journalist.” You sigh, then correct yourself. “Writer, technically. At a lifestyle magazine.” “Nice,” he says, genuinely. “Anything I’d know?”

You snort. “If you’ve ever wondered which Taylor Swift song you are based on your breakfast choices, that was probably me.” He laughs, eyes crinkling. “Essential work.” “Vital,” you deadpan. “But it pays rent. Mostly.” He looks at you a beat longer, then says, “You’re too smart to write that stuff forever.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity. You look away first.

Eventually, after the chatter softens, he says, “Wanna head somewhere quieter? My place isn’t far.” The walk winds past closed storefronts and street vendors packing up. You’re halfway through a story about your worst date when he stops in front of an apartment building, tilting his head toward the door. “I live here,” he says.

“Ooh! Fancy.” you tease nudging his arms. He laughs. He unlocks the door, holding it open with an exaggerated gentlemanly gesture. You follow him up a few flights until he pushes open his door—a surprisingly tidy place, some plants, warm lighting, a skyline view from his living room window. “Not bad,” you murmur, taking the cold beer he pulls from the fridge and popping it open with a satisfying hiss. “Thanks,” he says, watching you curiously as you start wandering.

You take your time strolling through his apartment, peeking into the living room, eyeing the art on his walls, tapping the edge of his dining table, pretending to judge the place like a critic. When you push open the door to his bedroom, he follows with an amused smile tugging at his lips. You let out a pleased hum and toss yourself onto the bed, sinking into the mattress with a grin. You pat the spot beside you, eyes flicking to his.

“C’mon. Sit.”

He laughs, shaking his head, settling instead on the couch across the room. Takes a sip of his beer and pats beside him.

You laugh, rolling your eyes, but you get up, dragging your beer with you. For a while, there’s just the low hum of the city outside, your quiet sipping, his gaze occasionally flicking to you.

Then you shift. You straddle his lap without a word, your beer clinking faintly as you set it aside. His eyes flash wide for a second before your mouth finds his—warm, exploratory, a little tentative at first. You taste the cold beer on his tongue, your lips pressing, pecking, teasing. Mingyu lets you take the lead for a beat, his hands hovering at your hips. Then he leans back slightly, breath catching. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Let’s not go too fast, hmm?”

You blink, lips parted, incredulous. “Yeah,” you scoff, climbing off with a huff. “Okay.” You pick up your beer, taking a slow sip. But then his hand finds your waist, curling firm and deliberate, tugging you back in. He’s looking at your mouth again. His eyes flick to your lips—then the space between you vanishes. He kisses you, properly this time, deeper, hungrier. Your hands thread through his hair, his lips warm and urgent, his palms smoothing down your sides. Between kisses, he lifts you effortlessly, you laugh into his mouth as he carries you to his bed, still kissing between breaths.

He’s on you immediately, his body heavy, his mouth tracing your neck, the scrape of his teeth sending shivers down your spine. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, up your back—like he doesn’t know where to settle. But just as it starts to blur—heat, breath, friction—you push a hand to his chest, panting. “Wait,” you manage, your pulse thudding. “We’re going too fast.” He stops instantly, chest heaving. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, his expression wrecked—like he’s hanging by a thread. “I want you to respect me,” you add, half-laughing but breathy, like you’re still catching up with yourself.

Mingyu swallows hard, gaze flicking between your eyes, your mouth. He nods, lips pink and swollen. “I respect you.” Then he adds, “I want you to respect me.”

You snort, dropping your head back against the pillow. “I respect you for respecting me.”

His grin widens. “I respect that.” You both stare at the ceiling, chests rising and falling. He glances sideways, a smile still playing on his lips. “Wanna stay?” You shake your head, lips twitching. “No. But thanks.”

He chuckles, sitting up to grab his jacket. “Let me drop you.” The ride back is quiet but comfortable, his knee brushing yours, neither of you moving away. Now, parked outside your building, he watches as you gather your things. You pause at the door, facing him. “Thanks for driving me,” you say. Mingyu shrugs. “I’m just making sure you get home safe. Like a gentleman.” You roll your eyes as you get out of the car. “Goodnight, Mingyu.”

He doesn’t drive off. He stays, waiting, eyes following you until you make it up the front steps. When you turn back to glance at him, he’s still there, arm resting on the steering wheel, grinning. You purse your lips, then blow him a dramatic, lazy flying kiss from the top step. Mingyu catches it mid-air, just to play along, his grin widening.

“I’m going to make you wish you were dead,” you mumble to yourself, waving your hand in a half-hearted goodbye. Mingyu catches the gesture, eyes crinkling with a grin as he mutters to himself in the car, “You’re already falling in love with me.” You roll your eyes, watching his car pull away before finally turning to head inside, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

The first thing you see when you settle at your desk is Yunjin, already swiveling in her chair to face you, eyes glinting with expectation.

“So?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in that don’t-play-dumb way.

“So what?” you reply, feigning innocence as you power up your laptop.

“The hot guy from yesterday. What happened? Did you fuck?”

You grimace, nose scrunching up. “First of all—ew. You’re disgusting. Second, I left him a little something. If he’s smart enough, he’ll pick up on it.” Yunjin’s about to ask what you mean, but right then, a delivery guy appears at your table, arms full. A massive bouquet—vibrant wildflowers mixed with deep red roses and soft pastel peonies, wrapped in brown craft paper and tied with twine—lands right in front of you, stealing both your attention. There’s a small note tucked into the blooms. Good morning, pretty lady.

Yunjin practically squeals. “Ooh! Is it from him?” You don’t answer—mostly because you don’t get the chance. Your phone lights up with an incoming call from an unknown number. Yunjin leans over your desk, eyes wide. “Is it him?” she whispers, grinning. You shrug, fighting back your own smile and swipe to answer. “Hello?” “Good morning, m’lady,” a familiar, too-smooth voice says on the other end. You bite back a laugh, phone pressed to your ear. “Um… who is this?” Yunjin immediately leans closer, eyes wide, and whispers, “Put it on speaker!” You swat her away with a glare, but she just grins, wiggling her brows in encouragement. With a sigh, you roll your eyes and tap the speaker icon. On the other end, the voice chuckles. “Wow. Forgotten already? It’s Mingyu. Tall, handsome, potential kidnapper? Ring any bells?” Yunjin gasps silently, mouthing “it’s him!” while barely containing her squeal. You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady. “Hmmm. Vaguely familiar.” “Harsh. And here I thought my bouquet would earn me some points.” You glance at the flowers, pretending to sound unimpressed. “I’ve seen better.” Yunjin slaps your arm lightly, giving you a ‘don’t be a menace’ look.

He laughs. “Good thing I’m not a florist, then. But I am pretty decent company. So—what do you say? Want to see me again? Maybe a proper date this time.” You twirl your pen between your fingers, letting the silence stretch for just a second longer. “Depends. Are you going to send flowers every time you ask?” “If that’s what it takes,” he says, amused. “Tell me where and when, pretty lady.” You hum, pretending to think. “I’ll let you know... if I’m free.” “I’ll wait for your yes, pretty lady.” “Damn girl! You have him wrapped around your finger.” Yunjin lets out a laugh. You just laugh, twirling the note between your fingers. When Mingyu texted you the name of the place, you had to double-check the spelling—then double-check the location. It was one of those restaurants. The kind with tall glass windows, black-clad valets, and a dining room that looked like it belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine. The air smelled faintly of wine and expensive things you couldn’t name. You almost dressed up more, but then decided if he was going to play rich and charming, you’d at least make him wait. You show up fifteen minutes late, just because you can. And because you’re curious how long he’ll wait before texting some passive-aggressive “on your way?”

But when you finally walk in, the first thing you see is Mingyu sitting at the table near the window, a glass of wine in front of him, scrolling through his phone with his bottom lip jutted out. Pouting. When he looks up and sees you, the pout drops immediately into a grin. He stands, all tall and annoyingly good-looking in a black button-up that fits a little too well. “You’re late,” he says, pulling your chair out for you. You shrug, dropping your coat onto the back of the chair as you slide in. “You looked like you needed to practice waiting.” Mingyu laughs as he sits. “I was starting to think I got stood up. Again. Painful for my ego.” “Oh?” You tilt your head. “Has that happened before?” “Once,” he grins. “But I didn’t send her flowers, so maybe that’s on me.” You roll your eyes, fighting a smile as the waiter approaches to pour you wine. “So what? You just wait fifteen minutes and give up?" “I was giving it five more before I started posting sad Instagram stories,” he deadpans. “You’re lucky.” You laugh, taking a sip. “Oh yeah? What were you gonna post? ‘Can’t trust anyone these days’ over a black-and-white selfie?”

“Exactly,” he smirks. “Then maybe a poll: ‘Will I ever find love? No or No.” You shake your head, lips curving as you pick up the menu, though you’re barely reading it. He watches you, chin resting on his palm, a lopsided smile on his face.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing. Just glad you showed up.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re easy to please.”

“Not always,” he shoots back. “But when it comes to you... maybe.” You snort, covering your smile with the menu. The conversation flows easily after that—him trying to guess your favorite food and getting it wrong every time, you making him describe the most embarrassing date he’s ever been on (which involved an allergic reaction and a bathroom window escape), and him teasing you for being ‘the mysterious blue dress girl.’ When the mains arrive, you pretend to feed him a bite, only to pull your fork back at the last second. He pouts dramatically. “Wow,” he mutters. “A thief and a tease.”

“Gotta keep your guard up,” you shrug, popping the fork into your mouth.

You rest your elbow on the table, chin in your palm, watching him nurse his wine with a smile that’s almost innocent.

“So,” you start, voice light, “what’s your love language?”

Mingyu looks up, eyes crinkling. “We’re talking love languages already?”

“I like to be efficient,” you shrug. “I need to know if we’re compatible.”

He chuckles under his breath, clearly entertained. “Okay, um… physical touch, maybe. Quality time.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Mine is gifts.”

“Gifts?” he repeats.

“Mhm.” You nod, swirling your wine. “I like nice things. But I don’t like asking for them, you know? I like when people just know.”

Mingyu grins, biting back a laugh. “Okay, noted. Any particular preference? Designer bags? Jewelry?”

You tilt your head like you’re actually thinking. “Honestly? A promise ring would be cute.”

He almost chokes on his wine. “A promise ring?”

“Yeah, you know. Just so it feels serious,” you say, keeping a straight face. “Like, I don’t want to be that girl who’s wondering what we are after a few dates.”

Mingyu raises his brows, both impressed and horrified. “You give a timeline for that too?”

“Three days,” you answer without missing a beat. “If it takes longer than that, you’re wasting my time.”

He laughs, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. But you just sip your wine, expression calm, eyes locked on his.

“Oh,” you add, as if remembering something, “and I get jealous. But like... cute jealous. Like ‘who’s that girl in your Instagram likes?’ kind of jealous.”

“Noted,” he grins, resting his chin on his hand. “Anything else I should be warned about?”

You press your lips together, as if seriously considering it. “I’d need your location sometimes.”

Mingyu’s laugh bursts out before he can stop it. “Wow.”

You shrug again. “It’s for safety.”

“My safety?”

“Exactly.”

He stares at you for a beat, then lets out another quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

“Only a little,” you smile sweetly.

The waiter comes by, offering dessert, but Mingyu waves it off, eyes still locked on you. “I think I’m full on surprises.”

“Already? It’s only the first date,” you tease.

“I know,” he chuckles. “What a ride.”

When the check comes, he insists on paying. You don’t argue, just watch with an amused grin as he signs the bill.

The city’s quieter by the time he’s driving you home, the glow of streetlights painting gold streaks across his dashboard. The windows are cracked just enough to let the night air in, mingling with the faint sound of the radio playing something soft and forgettable.

You don’t say much. Neither does he. But it’s not awkward—just easy.

When he finally pulls up to your building, he shifts into park, glancing at you with that grin that still hasn’t faded since dinner.

“I’ll see you soon?” he asks, voice low.

You just smile, pushing the car door open. “If you’re lucky.”

You step out and disappear up the stairs, not bothering to look back—but you know he’s still watching. And he is. He waits until the front door closes before sighing and resting his hands on the steering wheel. He’s about to drive off when he catches something in the corner of his eye—your jacket, forgotten and draped on the passenger seat. He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Smooth.”

The next day, Mingyu asks if you want to go to the fair in your neighborhood. Normally, you would’ve said no—fairs were sticky and loud and full of screaming children—but tonight, they were playing a re-run of The Notebook on the big outdoor screen afterward. And more importantly… you figured a little more time with Mingyu wouldn’t hurt.

(It will help with your article, you reasoned. Get to know him better. Make the piece more interesting.)

Just as he promised, Mingyu picks you up that evening. The ride to the fair isn’t long, but you spend most of it arguing over which carnival game you’ll beat him at—and him insisting that you’ll obviously lose because “I’m tall. That’s an advantage in everything.”

When you reach the fair, the air is warm and loud, music spilling from every corner, neon lights flashing and flickering. Mingyu parks the car and quickly jogs to your side, waving at you to stay put as he opens the door with a dramatic bow.

“Your chariot, madam.”

You roll your eyes but step out with an amused grin.

Inside the fair, it’s a whirlwind—he insists on winning you a stuffed toy at the shooting game, which he fails miserably, but redeems himself by completely destroying the basketball hoops. He buys you cheesy nachos, and you buy him candied apples in return. Every few minutes, someone bumps into the two of you in the crowded lanes, but Mingyu never lets go of your hand—like he’s afraid of losing you to the crowd.

Eventually, you find yourself walking toward the ferris wheel, sharing a big cloud of pink cotton candy between you, your hand still tucked in his.

“You want some?” you ask, pulling a fluffy piece off and holding it up to him.

“I’m good,” he says, chuckling.

“You sure? It’s really good,” you tease, waving it closer to his face.

He tilts his head, eyeing you playfully. “Well, since you’re insisting so much…”

Before you can react, he leans forward—not toward the candy, but toward you—and presses a soft kiss to your lips, just enough to taste the sugar there. You freeze, the candy still in your hand, eyes wide.

“Mhm, sweet,” he mutters, licking his lips with a satisfied grin.

You blink, your mouth opening but no words forming. “Wha—why—I—” you stammer, pointing weakly at the cotton candy.

“You told me to taste it,” he says coolly, like it’s the most logical thing in the world.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Oh no, did I make you uncomfortable?” he asks quickly, his expression softening.

“NO—” you clear your throat, heat rushing to your face. “No, I was just… surprised.”

His shoulders relax, a relieved smile tugging at his lips. He squeezes your hand gently then tugs you toward the ferris wheel.

“Come on, before the line gets longer.”

The ferris wheel is slow and creaky, but the view from the top is worth it—the whole fair stretching beneath in a glittering, chaotic sprawl. At one point, your cart rocks slightly, and you grab Mingyu’s arm out of instinct, which only makes him laugh.

“Scared?” he teases.

“No,” you lie, keeping your grip tight.

By the time you make it to the open-air movie, the park is already buzzing. People are everywhere—camp chairs, blankets, couples tangled like noodles, toddlers tripping over popcorn bags. It’s like half the city decided to show up and watch Ryan Gosling cry in high definition under the stars.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, clutching your popcorn and surveying the crowd. “We’re not going to find a spot.”

“Not with your height, no,” Mingyu smirks, standing on tiptoe like he needs it. Then, with a triumphant little point, he spots a patch near the front. “There. Come on.”

He grabs your hand and maneuvers through the crowd, murmuring apologies as you squeeze between couples and families until you reach an empty space. It’s barely wide enough for two, but you drop down onto the blanket with a relieved sigh, brushing popcorn crumbs off your jeans.

Just in time. The screen flickers to life. The Notebook.

Mingyu's eyes are on the screen, a small frown of concentration between his brows. He’s invested.

You glance at him, then lean in, your voice soft but probing. “So, who is it?”

He doesn’t look at you. “What?”

“The girl you’re thinking about,” you say, eyes still on him.

A guy behind you groans. “Can’t hear.”

Mingyu flicks a glance toward you, confused. “No one.”

“Oh, please,” you whisper. “You can’t be watching Rachel McAdams for two hours and not think about some girl. So, who is she?”

He exhales slowly, then flicks his gaze to you. “It’s you.”

Your lips twitch threatening to smile but you control yourself. “What about me?”

“I’m thinking,” he says, voice dropping just enough to make your heart skip, “how ridiculously beautiful you look sitting next to me. How unfair it is that I get to do this with you.”

You blink. Then your face melts into a sugary, over-the-top grin. “Awwww, my sweetcheeks was thinking about me,” you coo, pinching his cheek and planting a dramatic kiss on the other one.

Another annoyed grunt from behind. “Now I can’t hear and I can’t see.”

You whip around. “If you don’t shut up, my boyfriend here is going to handle you.”

Mingyu chokes on his popcorn. “I—what.”

The guy behind scoffs. “Keep her like a dog. One that doesn’t yap every time you go out.”

You both freeze.

Mingyu turns slowly, expression darkening. “Hey,” he says, voice low. “Don’t talk to my girl like that. You wanna settle this?”

The guy stands up, massive and broad. “Sure,” he growls. “Let’s settle it.”

By the time you can stop him they are already gone. You jog to Mingyu and tug on his hand. “Gyu. No. That man wrestled bears in another life.”

But Mingyu’s already standing, determined. “No one talks to my girl like that.”

Before you can say anything else—boom. One punch. No words. Just fist-to-face. Mingyu hits the grass like a sack of potatoes, groaning.

“Mingyu!” You scramble beside him, horrified.

“Nobody messes with me.” The guy wipes away a single tear, sniffing. “Now I’m going back to watch Rachel McAdams kiss Ryan Gosling in the rain.”

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter, turning to Mingyu. “Are you okay?”

He groans something unintelligible.

You cup his face gently, inspecting the forming bruise. “Gyu, I think we should take you to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles.

“No, you could have a—” you stop. He’s rubbing his cheek against your chest. A very specific part of your chest.

“…Gyu,” you say, trying not to laugh.

He shifts again, nestling closer. “Oh yeah. That’s… starting to feel a bit better.”

You let out a laugh, louder now. “Kim Mingyu!”

“What? It’s therapeutic.”

You gently push his shoulder. “You’re fine. Get up.”

He stays on the grass, dramatically sprawled.

You stand, brushing off your knees, then extend your hand toward him with a smirk. “Come on, big boy. Let’s get you up before someone else thinks you need CPR.”

He takes your hand with a groan, milking it for all the drama he can. “I better get another cheek kiss for bravery.”

“Only if you don’t get punched again.”

“No promises.”

You’re halfway to the car when you hear a tiny, sharp-pitched bark.

You both stop in your tracks. At first you think it’s your imagination—maybe it’s a child’s squeaky toy—but then it comes again. A pitiful little whine.

Mingyu squints toward the alley. “Is that a…?”

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

There, under a crooked lamppost and beside a half-tipped trash can, is a scrappy, wide-eyed, dirt-smudged puppy. Small, trembling, the color of burnt toast and sadness.

“Oh my god,” you repeat, already crouching.

“No, don’t—” Mingyu reaches out instinctively, but you’re already scooping the fluff ball into your arms. It immediately curls against your chest, shivering.

“Look at him!” you gasp, already baby-talking. “He’s so tiny. And dirty. And emotionally neglected.”

Mingyu leans in. “Or he’s a sewer rat in disguise. You don’t know.”

You clutch the dog closer. “His name is Sir Barksalot and he’s ours.”

“Barksalot?”

“Because he barks a lot.”

The puppy sneezes.

Mingyu pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, then—very carefully—reaches out and scratches behind the puppy’s ear. The dog lets out a happy sigh, tongue lolling out. He’s won over in three seconds.

“…Shit,” Mingyu mutters.

You grin. “You love him.”

“I tolerate him.”

“You’re already attached.”

“I don’t even know this dog.”

“You just gave him a head massage.”

Mingyu shoots you a sideways look but doesn’t argue. Instead, he gently plucks a leaf out of the puppy’s fur. “If we’re keeping it—him—he’s getting a bath. Like, twice.”

Then he glances at you—the way your eyes crinkle when the dog licks your hand and he smiles without meaning to.

—

“Damn, dude. That looks bad.” Seokmin squints at Mingyu’s cheek like he’s trying to diagnose it with his eyes alone.

Mingyu shrugs, unbothered, passing a crumpled bill to the hot dog guy. “Honestly? Getting punched in the face sucked. But being nursed back to health by a cute girl in the grass under the stars?” He gestures to his hot dog like it’s the moral of the story. “Could’ve been worse.”

Jeonghan takes a dramatic bite of his own. “Florence Nightingale syndrome. Classic.”

“Don’t feel bad,” he adds, voice half-muffled because of the food, “If I had a nickel for every time I got into a fistfight during a chick flick…” Seokmin looks at him. “You’d have… how many nickels?” Jeonghan just raises a finger and wipes mustard off his lip. “More than I’m proud of.”

“You want me to tape the Knicks game for you tonight?” Seokmin asks, nudging Mingyu. “Y’know, assuming you’re off the grid, being spoon-fed soup or whatever.”

“No need, my friend.” Mingyu turns to face them, walking backwards now with way too much swagger for a man who was recently decked. “I’ll be watching the Knicks game from the comfort of my house tonight.”

Jeonghan swallows his hot dog. “How’d you swing that?”

Mingyu gets in front of them, walking backwards. “What’s coup de grâce? Heavy weight?”

Jeonghan snickers. “You’re making the lamb?

“Voila!” Mingyu winks. “Every woman loves a man who can cook.”

Jeonghan claps him on the back. “Bringing out the big guns. Respect.”

You’ve always believed there’s a special place in hell for people who mess up lunch orders. Right next to the ones who chew with their mouths open and the ones who say “calm down” when you’re already calm.

So when you peel the tomato off your sandwich—despite very clearly asking for no tomatoes—your mood sours instantly.

“I still can’t believe you got that guy knocked out,” Yunjin says, stealing a fry from your tray.

“Only for a few seconds,” you say breezily, turning in your chair to face her. “He was the most adorable unconscious man I’ve ever seen.” You take a victorious bite of your burger.

Yunjin hums. “So. Plans tonight?”

“Yup.” You wipe your fingers, already smiling. “Dinner. His place.”

Her eyes widen. “Ooh. Taking it to that level already, huh?”

You grin, tossing a fry at her. “Don’t get too excited. For all I know he’s going to open a can of beans and call it rustic.”

Yunjin leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “You like him.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m observing him.”

“Uh-huh. Observing how?”

“Through casual social experiments and occasional light emotional manipulation.”

She laughs. “Sounds like the start of every good love story.”

You grab your drink and shake your head with a dramatic sigh. “It’s not a love story. It’s research.”

“Mm-hmm. Just try not to fall too hard.”

You arrive at Mingyu’s place like a woman on a mission—both arms full, bag handles digging into your elbows, dog leash tangled around your wrist, and a precariously cradled houseplant balanced on your hip.

“Hi,” you say sweetly, greeting him with a quick peck on the lips the moment he opens the door.

Mingyu stares—not at you, but at the absolute parade of items trailing behind you. “Are you... moving in?”

“No, honey.” you laugh as you step in, setting Sir Barksalot down who immediately starts sniffing every corner of the apartment,

“Tadaaaa!” you sing-song, hoisting the potted plant directly into his face.

“This,” you announce with the flair of a talk show host, “is a Love Fern.”

He blinks. “You brought a plant... wow.” An awkward laugh escapes him.

“Not just any plant,” you correct him, placing it gently by the biggest window. “This symbolizes our love. If it thrives, so do we.”

He lets out an unsure laugh. “Wow, that's… beautiful.”

You beam, “I know!”

“Make yourself at home,” he says after a moment, trying to sound casual as he heads toward the kitchen. “I’ll just check on dinner.”

You follow close behind, peeking around him as he lifts a pan. “Whatchu cookin’, handsome?”

“Do you like lamb?”

“Ohh, I love lamb.”

He exhales, visibly relieved. “Thank God, because I don’t have anything else prepped.”

You both laugh, and just as things start feeling... almost normal, you grab your toiletry bag. “Hey, can I use your washroom?”

“Yeah, of course. Down the hall, first door on the right.”

And with that you vanish.

His bathroom is exactly what you'd expect—gray towels, one sad bottle of 3-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-body wash, and a toothbrush that’s seen better days. You waste no time. Pink towels? Hung. Your rose-gold toothbrush? Propped in the cup next to his. Hello Kitty slippers? Placed sweetly by the door. You scatter a few face creams on the counter, casually drop a few fashion magazines on the back of the toilet, and step back to admire your handiwork. You smile proudly at your work and return to the kitchen.

Mingyu is stirring something fragrant, looking adorably domestic. You glide up behind him and loop your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his back.

“So,” you hum sweetly. “I was thinking we could have a June wedding. Not too hot, not too cold. Maybe Tuscany? Or something local, for the grandmas.”

He nearly drops the pan. “Wedding?”

You nod, now holding his hand and dragging him to the couch. “And our house—I saw this listing with a pool and a pink double-door fridge, it screamed us. Three kids. No, wait—two. I don’t want to lose my waist. And I already have a Pinterest board for the nursery. Want to see?”

Mingyu freezes mid-stir. “Kids?”

You nod brightly. “We already have Sir Barksalot, but I figured we should give him siblings.”

“He’s a dog.”

You gasp, stepping back like he just slapped you. “Oh my god,” you whisper, hands flying to your chest. “Do you… do you not want a future with me?”

Before he can say a word, your bottom lip trembles. Your eyes well up dramatically—almost too fast.

“Wait, are you crying?” he asks, panicked.

“I just—” Your voice breaks as you force out a breathy sob. “I got us a love fern. I thought—I thought you loved me.”

He blinks. “Loved?”

You sniff loudly, wiping a tear that may or may not be real. “Past tense. It’s okay. I get it. Not everyone wants love. Or children. Or a Pinterest board titled Our Forever Home.”

He panics, hands held up like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “No, no, no, baby—I want love! And—and Pinterest! Show me the board! I want to see the board, please.”

You sniff again, peering up through damp lashes. “You mean it?”

“I mean it,” he says with the resigned tone of a man who just agreed to raise two imaginary children with a stranger.

You dramatically collapse onto the couch and pull out your phone. “Okay, so this is the nursery with the cloud wallpaper. This one’s the ‘boho-chic Montessori learning nook.’ And here’s our wedding venue if it’s Tuscany, but if we go Grecian, then obviously we’ll need new color swatches—”

Just then, Sir Barksalot hops onto the pool table and lifts a leg.

You shriek with laughter. “Aww, do you think he thought it was grass?”

Mingyu groans, pinching the bridge of his nose before wordlessly retreating to the bathroom. A splash of cold water hits his face. He looks up into the mirror, exhales, and turns to dry off—only to find himself staring at a hot pink towel. And matching face cream. And magazines. His eyes slowly drift to the Hello Kitty slippers.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Breathes.

Then he walks out calmly and calls your name.

“Babe, I don’t think we can do dinner tonight. Or the game. Uh... something came up. Work. Urgent.”

You don't question how his phone nor his laptop is anywhere near him.

“Really?” you pout, “but I got us tickets to the real game.”

“What?”

You shrug, backing toward the door. “I mean, if you’re really busy—”

“Wait—no, no, no. I mean... work can wait. You come first. Always.” He reaches for his jacket.

You light up, leaning in to kiss him. “Aww. My snookums.”

When you arrive, the stadium buzzes with energy, the air warm and sticky with excitement. You grab his hand without thinking, dragging him toward the entrance like you’ve done this a hundred times before. He just lets you, a pleased look on his face.

The first quarter, you’re subtle. You gasp dramatically whenever the other team scores, clutching Mingyu’s arm like it’s personally offensive. When he cheers for a good play, you shush him with wide, disapproving eyes.

“Whose side are you on?” you whisper, scandalized.

“What? Our side!” he laughs.

“Then don’t cheer like that,” you pout. “It stresses me out.”

He laughs but doesn’t argue, his eyes crinkling as he watches you with a kind of bewildered fondness.

By the second quarter, you ramp it up. Every ten minutes, you’re pressing snacks into his hands—a pretzel, then popcorn, then a hotdog.

“Eat,” you insist, pushing the food in his mouth. “You’ll get low blood sugar.”

“I’m fine,” he laughs, but takes a bite anyway.

“Good,” you nod, wiping his chin with a napkin like he’s a child. “I can’t have my Baby Gyu fainting in public.”

At that, he pauses mid-chew. “Baby Gyu?”

You blink innocently. “Aren’t you my baby?”

EWW. CRINGE!! Why would you say something like that?

He groans, throwing his head back, but he’s laughing all the same. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously caring,” you correct, squeezing his arm.

You don’t stop there. Whenever the opposing team scores, you shout “No! Not my man!” loud enough for the people around to glance at you. Mingyu turns red from laughing, trying to pull his cap lower to avoid attention, but you’re relentless.

Somewhere in the third quarter, while you’re mid-rant about how the referee must be secretly paid off, the arena lights dim just slightly and the big screen flickers—zooming in on couples in the crowd. A bubbly voice announces, “You know what time it is! Kiss cam!”

You glance up, half-interested, until the camera lands on your section. Mingyu is busy popping popcorn into his mouth when the screen lands directly on you two—your faces taking up the entire jumbotron.

The crowd around you erupts into whistles and cheers. Mingyu freezes with a kernel halfway to his lips.

You blink. Then, with the most devilish grin, you nudge him. “Well? Everyone’s watching.”

His eyes widen a fraction. “Wait, for real—?”

You don’t give him time to process. You cup his jaw with both hands and pull him in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s way softer, way sweeter than you planned.

For a second, Mingyu just sits there, stunned—but then his hands land on your waist and he kisses you back, smiling against your mouth like he can’t help himself. The crowd around you cheers even louder, someone behind you shouts “Get it, man!” and you can’t help but laugh into the kiss.

When you pull back, his cheeks are flushed, lips pink, eyes still trained on you like you’ve knocked the air out of him.

By the fourth quarter, Mingyu’s laser-focused—elbows on his knees, eyes sharp, barely blinking. The score’s close, the arena tense, but he’s dead silent, jaw tight and brows furrowed like he’s the one playing.

Now’s the time.

You lean over to Mingyu with an exaggerated sigh, your head flopping onto his shoulder.

“I’m thirsty,” you groan, dragging the word out like you’ve been stranded in a desert. “Can you get me a coke?”

Mingyu laughs, eyes still fixed on the court. “Can’t you wait? There’s like five minutes left.”

“Baby,” you whine, drawing out the nickname in the most saccharine tone. “I’m parched. My throat’s so dry I can feel it cracking.”

He glances at you, incredulous. “You seriously can’t wait five more minutes?”

You sigh, patting your throat dramatically. “It’s okay. I’ll go get it myself—if I pass out, I pass out.”

Mingyu groans, running a hand down his face. “No, no, sit. I’ll get it.”

“Really?” you beam, eyes wide and sparkly.

“Yes, really,” he mutters, standing and stretching his legs like a man on a mission. “What do you want?”

“Diet Coke,” you chirp. “Extra ice!”

He grumbles something under his breath, but when you flutter your lashes, he just shakes his head and jogs up the stairs, weaving through the packed aisle.

Now’s the time.

But at the concession stand, the universe seems to conspire against him. The server is painfully slow, his every move exaggerated like he’s preparing the last Coke on earth.

“Regular or diet?” the server asks in a bored tone.

“Diet,” Mingyu replies quickly.

“Crushed ice or cubed?”

“Dude—any ice is fine.”

“Lid or no lid?”

“Just—anything!”

By the time Mingyu snatches the Coke from the counter, he’s practically sprinting back to your seats, dodging people and mumbling apologies. He slides into the row, breathless, just in time to shove the drink in your hands.

You sip it, then immediately scrunch your nose. “This isn’t diet.”

Mingyu stares at you, chest rising and falling. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” You shake your head, making a face. “It’s too sweet.”

He groans loudly, but before you can say anything else, he’s already up and running again, weaving through the crowd like his life depends on it.

At least I’ll catch the ending on the screen, he thinks, sprinting down the hall. But by the time he reaches the TV monitors, the buzzer goes off, the crowd roaring inside the stadium.

He stops in the middle of the hallway, hands on his hips, catching his breath. The game's over. He missed it.

By the time he gets back to you—diet coke in hand, chest still heaving, you’re already on your feet, clapping and cheering along with the crowd, a smug little smile playing on your lips.

You turn to him with wide, excited eyes. “Oh my god, this was so fun,” you gush, barely hiding your grin. “You should’ve seen the last basket, babe. It was crazy.”

He says nothing, just nods.

You loop your arm through his. “Gyu,” you say, voice soft, eyes peeking up through your lashes, “you must be angry at me, right? I made you miss the ending…”

You pout, your bottom lip sticking out just enough to look apologetic, even if your eyes are glinting with amusement.

He glances down at you, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself. “You’re trouble,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“But cute trouble?”

“The cutest,” he sighs.

The last thing Mingyu expects on a Wednesday morning is to look up from his monitor and see you in his office doorway—dressed in suspiciously soft pastel tones, hair a little too perfectly curled, grinning like you hadn’t just broken ten HR rules by being here unannounced.

And pushing a stroller.

His heart stops. “Hey… what are you doing here?”

“I come bearing a gift!” you sing, wheeling the stroller right up to his desk and—God help him—onto it. “A precious little bundle of joy.”

Mingyu leans forward slowly, brow furrowed. “Is that… a baby?”

You lift the stroller’s covering like it’s a grand reveal on The Price Is Right, and sure enough—a baby. Real, pink-cheeked, and already trying to eat its own socks.

Mingyu blinks. “Oh my god. Whose baby is this?”

You beam, like this is the most normal lunch drop-off in the world. “My niece!”

He doesn’t move. “Okay. So. Your niece. Cool. Why is she… here?”

“Well,” you say, brushing imaginary dust off your skirt, “my sister had this last-minute doctor’s appointment, and she dropped the baby at mine, but then I remembered I had this super important client meeting—so I figured…”

You gesture toward the baby. “You’d watch her.”

There’s a long pause.

“I’d… watch her,” he repeats slowly, as if he’s translating an alien language.

“Yes, thank you so much, baby, you’re the best.” You lean down and kiss his cheek before he can process anything. “I knew I could count on you.”

Mingyu’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “I—wait, no. I have calls. I have a meeting. I don’t know how to care for a baby!”

You’re already halfway to the door. “She’s super chill! Only cries when hungry, or tired, or scared. You’ll be fine.”

“I—I’m not even—do babies eat solid food? Can she choke on air?”

Before he can spiral further, Jeonghan pokes his head in the office. “Hey, Mingyu, that client from LA just—” He stops. Blinks. Then looks at the baby. Then at you. Then at Mingyu.

“What the hell,” Jeonghan says, voice flat.

“Hello, we’re meeting for the first time, right?” you introduce yourself.

“Jeonghan,” he nods. “Is that yours?”

“No, she’s my niece.”

“And she’s… here. Why?”

“Mingyu’s watching her while I go to a meeting.”

Jeonghan blinks twice, then looks at Mingyu, who is standing completely frozen behind his desk.

Just then, Seokmin walks in holding a coffee cup and immediately trips over the baby bag lying on the floor.

“What the—? Did someone bring a baby to work?” he exclaims, catching himself on the wall.

You perk up. “Hi! Yes, she’s my niece. And she loves music. Sing to her sometime.”

Mingyu looks at him, desperate. “You sing well. Babies love music. Can you stay for five minutes?”

Seokmin holds up both hands. “I’m not legally certified to babysit anything with motor control.”

The baby lets out a happy squeal, kicking her sock off entirely.

Mingyu groans. “She’s already losing clothes. This is a disaster.”

“Don’t worry!” You’re already heading toward the door, waving like this is just any other Tuesday errand. “She’s really chill. Text me if she eats something weird. Or like, vomits. Or stops breathing.”

“WHAT?!”

“Love you, honey! You’re the best!” You blow a kiss and disappear down the hallway.

The room falls into stunned silence.

Jeonghan looks at Mingyu. “This is what happens when you date women who make Pinterest boards for their dream wedding after one week of going out.”

Mingyu groans and drops into his chair, rubbing his face. “I swear to god, this is karma for something. I don’t know what, but I’ve done something to deserve this.”

When you return that evening, the sun’s dipped low, the office lights are flickering on, and the lobby security gives you a look that says, ‘you again?’ But you stride in with a smile, toting a tote bag of baby supplies in one hand and a half-empty bottle of formula in the other.

You step into Mingyu’s office and stop short.

The stroller is tipped over. Baby wipes are stuck to the wall. The clean carpet now has something that looks like mashed banana smushed into it. And Mingyu—sweet, handsome, completely falling apart Mingyu—is sitting on the couch, staring into space.

On his lap sits your niece, face smeared in something orange, hair in total disarray—but she’s laughing.

“Hey,” you say, blinking at the scene. “You two look cozy.”

Mingyu turns to look at you. Slowly. His expression is a mix of exhaustion, trauma, and something dangerously close to pride. “She threw up. Twice.”

You smile sympathetically and walk over, plucking the baby from his lap with practiced ease. “That’s nothing. She once peed on a priest mid-baptism.”

Mingyu doesn’t react.

“I fed her mashed carrots,” he mutters.

“Oh no,” you say, gently bouncing the baby. “She hates carrots.”

“I know that now.”

You laugh and lean over to kiss his cheek, right where a tiny handprint is still faintly visible in dried banana goo. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

Just then, Jeonghan appears in the doorway, holding a towel like he’s just stepped out of a war zone. “If I ever have kids, I’m moving to a cave.”

“She seemed to like you,” you laugh, setting the now sleepy baby back into her stroller and adjusting the blanket. “She only screams around people she doesn’t trust.”

Jeonghan scoffs. “She screamed for an hour.”

Mingyu stands, brushing carrot flakes from his lap. “Are you taking her home?”

“Yup. Sister’s done at the clinic. I’m just here to grab her.”

He walks you and the baby down to the lobby. As the elevator doors close, you look up at him with a grin. “You did good today, Gyu.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You kiss his cheek again. “You passed the test.”

“The test?”

You step into the elevator, holding the stroller like it’s a designer handbag. “The Dad Test. You aced it.”

The doors begin to close. He watches you disappear, a stunned expression on his face.

Jeonghan, beside him, crosses his arms. “You know what they say.”

Mingyu sighs. “No, what?”

“You raise a baby with her, you marry her.”

Mingyu turns to him slowly. “Shut up.”

His whole body aches. His dignity’s in shambles. He’s never been more sleep-deprived without staying up all night. And he’s still got five more days of this ridiculous arrangement left.

Five more days of chaos, surprise visits, weird emotional whiplash, and your stupid, perfect smile that makes him forget how absolutely unhinged this situation is.

He drags a hand down his face and groans.

“Just five more days,” he mutters under his breath. “Five more days and then I never have to babysit anything again.”

Jeonghan claps him on the back. “You’re so in love, it’s gross.”

Mingyu glares at him.

“No, really. Shut the hell up.”

The conference room was buzzing with low voices and the gentle shuffle of papers as the team filtered in, laptops snapping open and coffee cups being nursed like lifelines. Vivian stood at the head of the table, pristine in her cream blouse and perfectly poised with her iPad already in hand.

“So.” she says scanning the room, “how’s the dating piece coming around?”

Your pen stills. “It’s still on track,” you say. “Still in the setup stages, but I’ve got the angle figured out.”

“Good,” Vivian replies, barely glancing your way before turning her attention to the next person. “I want punch, stakes, emotional chaos. We want people yelling at their phones in the comments section.”

You smile politely. You can do that.

The meeting crawls forward with a few more half-hearted pitches and a painfully long tangent about formatting. Eventually, Vivian claps her hands once and stands. “Alright, let’s get to work, people.”

Chairs scrape back. Laptops snap shut. Everyone starts filing out.

You gather your notes slower than necessary, waiting until the room clears a little. Then you approach Vivian near the head of the table, still composed but with a hopeful edge.

“Vivian, can I talk to you for a moment?”

She looks up, distracted but listening. “Sure. Walk with me.”

You fall into step beside her. “So, um—about the piece I emailed you last week. The draft on inflation and how it’s affecting single-income households—”

“I remember.” She doesn’t stop walking.

“I was wondering if, after this dating piece wraps, I could shift back to that. It’s something I really want to explore. Maybe even long-form.”

Vivian slows just enough to glance at you, then places a hand briefly on your shoulder. “We’ll talk about it later.”

That’s it. No yes, no no. Just the vague, practiced nod of someone who’s mastered the art of deferring without denying. She keeps walking. You just stand there for a second, lips pressed together, then sigh softly and gather your things.

Back at your desk, you flop into your chair and start shutting down tabs you don’t even remember opening. Yunjin rolls her chair over, sipping an iced coffee, looking far too cheerful for a Monday.

“Wanna hang out later?” you ask without looking. “I need a drink. Or seven.”

Yunjin pouts. “Can’t. Going to the game with my boyfriend.”

You pause. “The game is today?”

She nods, slurping through her straw. “Knicks.”

You go quiet, staring at your screen for a second—then slowly, a mischievous little smirk curls onto your lips. You lean back in your chair, already plotting.

Yunjin narrows her eyes. “What’s on your mind?”

You just smile, shaking your head as you pull your laptop back toward you. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. It’s the perfect idea.

The plan is simple. Dinner at a cozy little Chinese restaurant tucked in a quiet street, just the two of you. Romantic, right? You pick the restaurant carefully— low lighting, vintage wallpaper, red paper lanterns, and not a single television screen in sight. When you suggest it over text, you toss in a cheerful “craving dumplings” as if it’s a spur-of the-moment idea and not part of your grand master plan to make him miss the Knicks game tonight.

“Wait,” Mingyu says as he opens his menu across from you, “isn’t the Knicks game on tonight?”

You blink innocently sipping water. “Oh, is it? I had no idea.”

“It’s okay, I can catch it on the highlights later.” he smiles at you.

Dinner starts out normal enough. You order your favorites—stuff you know takes longer to cook. You stab at your dumplings, chew very, very slowly, nodding along as he tells you about his day. Then, right on cue, you place a gentle hand on your stomach and wince.

“You okay?” he asks, mid-bite.

You give a tiny, pained smile. “Yeah. It’s just my stomach… I’ll be back in a minute.” You slip out of your chair and head toward the back, offering a brief “excuse me” to the server before darting through the swinging kitchen doors. Inside the kitchen, chaos. Fryers hissing, cleavers thudding, steam clouding every surface. But above the prep counter? A tiny, dusty TV mounted in the corner, just visible if you tilted your head.

Bingo.

You linger in the shadows, eyes glued to the screen. It was already the second quarter — tie game. Barett-one of the players had just missed a layup, and you hiss under your breath.

“NO!”

A chef glances over, confused. “You with delivery?”

“Yep,” you lie, eyes never leaving the screen.

Five minutes, max. Then you sneak back to the table, cheeks flushed and breath quick.

Mingyu looked concerned. “Better?”

“Ugh! Stomach’s acting weird.”

He watches you cautiously, “maybe eat slower?”

You nod, stabbing your noodles halfheartedly, and just when you think you’re in the clear, he waves over the waitress.

“Hey—any chance you know the Knicks score?”

The waitress blinks. “Do I look like someone who knows the Knicks score?”

“Oh,” Mingyu laughs, taken aback. “No—I mean—just figured—”

She rolls her eyes and turns to you, all attitude gone in a flash as she coos, “Honey, you’re not eating. Is something wrong?”

You sniff, eyes wide and suddenly shimmering. Around you, the clink of plates slows. Conversation dims.

“My boyfriend…” You pause, lower your gaze, then cry out loud, “My boyfriend thinks I’m fat.”

Mingyu chokes on his tea.

“What?! No! That’s—wait—what?! I never said—”

The waitress’s jaw drops. She looks him up and down like he just confessed to a war crime. Two older women at the next table audibly gasp. Someone near the entrance mutters, “Men.”

“I just need a minute,” you say softly, pushing back your chair like your heart is in pieces. You press your napkin to your mouth and turn dramatically for the bathroom—but really, you’re beelining back to the kitchen.

Inside, the Knicks are down by one. You watch the next two plays, clutching the counter like it’s sacred. Then you slip back to your seat, eyes slightly red for effect.

Mingyu, mortified, is still fidgeting with his chopsticks.

“Hey,” he starts gently, “I swear I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” you say with a sad little smile, grabbing a dumpling. “I overreacted. It’s probably just the soy sauce talking.”

When the check comes, he practically throws his card at the server. You don’t offer to split—it’s the least he can do after publicly humiliating you, right? Back at his place, he looks a little more relaxed. He tosses his keys into the bowl by the door and slumps onto the couch, grabbing the remote.

“I just wanna check the highlights real quick.”

You flop beside him, fighting back a grin. The screen flashed to a final-minute play. Barrett had the ball, wide open, heading toward the basket. Mingyu leans forward, eyebrows up. “Come on, come on…” “He’s gonna miss it,” you mutter. He doesn’t respond, just keeps watching, jaw tight. Onscreen, Barrett went for the layup and the ball bounced clean off the rim.

“No!” Mingyu shouts, hands flailing as he flops onto the couch beside you like someone had shot him in the chest. “How did you know he was gonna miss that?”

You wave him off, eyes not quite meeting his. “He always misses it.”

He sighs. “He never misses it man!” You don’t answer. Instead, you crawl into his lap and start undoing the buttons on his shirt. He blinks, caught completely off guard. “Whoa—what are you—”

“Let’s not talk basketball,” you whispered, lips ghosting over his abs. “Let’s talk about how unfair it is for one person to have this many abs.”

Your hand slides lower. He groans. Then you whisper in a sultry voice, “let’s see what Madam Jiggle’s working with.” “Woah—woah what,” he pushes you off, getting off the couch. “Madam what?” “What?” you blink innocently.

Mingyu let’s out a disbelieving chuckle. “You can’t name someone’s dick that.” He’s wearing his pants back. “Would you prefer General Wiggly?”

“I—what—no??” You peeked at him over the pillow. “You’re not into naming?” “No! No.” Mingyu lets out an exasperated sigh. “Darling, I’m getting tired. Come on, I'll drop you off.” He doesn’t even let you respond and is already out of the door. You smirk, tossing the pillow aside.

The morning drags like wet cement. Yunjin took a day off today. You’ve already pretended to work through two emails, spun around in your chair just for the fun of it and rearranged your desk succulents by height and mood. Now you’re reclining with your feet tucked beneath you, twirling the leaf of your office plant like it’s the stem of a long-stemmed martini.

With a cheeky smile, you pick up your phone and dial. It rings once, twice—

“Hello?” Mingyu’s voice comes through, low and distracted. There’s clattering in the background. He sounds… busy.

You immediately drop your voice into your most syrupy sweet tone. “Hey, munchkin,” you purr, drawing lazy circles on the desk with your fingertip. “How are you today?”

There’s a pause. A little exhale. “Uh… good. Just a bit caught up. What’s up?”

You grin at the ceiling like you’re the heroine of your own rom-com. “How about a date tonight? Just you and me.”

“Ah, babe—I would. But the guys are coming over tonight. Game night. I totally forgot we planned it last week.”

You tsk softly. “Oh well,” you say, not sounding disappointed at all. “There’s nothing we could do then, huh? Tragic.” You sigh dramatically and flick at the leaf you were tormenting.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, sounding apologetic.

You hum. “You better. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You hang up and set the phone down gently. A moment passes. Then you smile to yourself.

Game night, huh?

Mingyu’s apartment is hazy with cigarette smoke, half-empty bottles of beer scattered around the coffee table. Jeonghan and Seokmin are hunched over a pool table, arguing about the rules, while two other men shuffle a deck of cards at the couch.

Then the door opens.

“Hey, honey!”

Every head turns.

There you are—standing at the door with a massive canvas bag slung over your shoulder like you live there, and Sir Barksalot tucked securely in your arms. Mingyu freezes mid-sip, his beer halfway to his mouth. You smile sweetly, set the dog down and kick the door shut behind you.

Seokmin blinks slowly. “She has a key?”

Wonwoo murmurs, deadpan, “Is that… legal?”

Mingyu opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Babe,” he calls out, loud enough to reach you who had disappeared into the kitchen, “I wasn’t expecting you! How’d you get a key?”

You pop your head out. “Oh, Ben—your super—made me a copy!”

Mingyu stares at his beer. “Ben, huh?”

You come out and slide up next to him, resting your hand on his shoulder. “You’re not mad, are you, Gyu-gyu?”

“…No. I’m not mad,” he says slowly, eyes darting to his friends as if to gauge their reactions.

You beam like the sun and clap your hands together. “Great!”

Mingyu clears his throat and gestures around. You know the guys—Jeonghan, Seokmin, you’ve met. That’s Wonwoo and Seungkwan.”

“Hi guys!” you chirp waving with exaggerated sweetness. “So nice to finally crash one of your boy nights.”

Jeonghan mouths help to no one in particular.

You return to the kitchen and come back with a plate. “I brought some healthy-healthy snacks,” you announce, just as Jeonghan was biting on a pizza slice.

You stride up, pull the slice out of his mouth mid-bite. “Yucky, Hannie. Yucky yucky, pizza,” you coo, swapping it for a cucumber sandwich. “Here, try this. Yummy sandwich.”

Jeonghan, stunned into silence, accepts the bite like a toddler being fed by his overly enthusiastic aunt.

You place the plate on the table, proudly. “See! Isn’t it better?”

The guys awkwardly grab sandwiches. Mingyu takes one from the plate too, trying to play along, and reacts with a thumbs up.

They resume their game, lighting up fresh cigars. You let out a long exaggerated cough.

Everyone turns. You look at Mingyu directly, fanning your hand in front of your face and coughing louder, pointedly glancing at the cigarette between his fingers.

He raises an eyebrow, confused.

You give a little wheeze and mime at him to stub it out.

Mingyu sighs and stubs it in the ashtray.

You blow him a kiss. “Thanks baby!” “That goes for you too, cutie.” you said to Seokmin, who reluctantly puts it out like a scolded schoolboy.

You casually drift behind Jeonghan and peer at his cards. “Ohhh, I see what you’re doing! Play the king next. Definitely the king.”

The boys exchange glances with each other. You just smile at them and make your way back to the kitchen.

Now what? Your eyes scan the kitchen searching for anything you can use now.

Bingo. Your eyes land on a box of tissues. Pulling out a couple, you head back to the living room and hold it in front of him.

“Blow.”

Mingyu blinks. “What?”

“Come on, Mr. Sniffles.”

Mingyu lets out the deepest sigh of the night, leans in, and blows into the tissue.

You examine it like a proud nurse. “Such a healthy boy.”

Everyone watches in stunned silence as you fold it and toss it away. Then your eyes drift to the window and lock on something.

“Oh no,” you whisper, horrified. “No, no, no.”

You dart over to the plant on the window. “Our love fern!” you cry. “It’s dead!”

“It’s not dead,” Mingyu tries to reason. “It’s… sleeping.”

You spin around, holding the withered pot to your chest. “You let it die, Mingyu.” Your voice cracking. “Are you gonna let us die too?”

When no words come out of Mingyu’s mouth, you give him a look and make your way back to the kitchen.

Wonwoo leans in, “is she okay?”

“God, I hope so!” Mingyu exhales loudly, pointing to his temple and spinning his finger in the universal crazy gesture.

Unfortunately for him, you return at the exact same time.

“Are you saying I’M SOME SORT OF MENTAL PERSON?” Everyone freezes.

You grab your bag, yank the love fern out of its tray, and hold it dramatically in one arm.

“I’m taking our love fern with me.”

You spin around and march out the door.

“What the hell is a love fern?” Seungkwan whispers.

Mingyu turns his head to see all the boys looking at him. “Hang on.” he points to them before following you.

“Hey! Hey, hey. Ho ho!” he stops you in front of the lift. “What the hell just happened in there?”

“Look, this is getting really creepy, all right?” he continues. “You’re acting completely insane.”

“Oh, so now I’m insane?” “No! You’re acting insane.”

Right on cue, Sir Barksalot starts barking like he’s backing you up. Mingyu shoots the dog an exasperated look. “Shut up, you stupid dog.”

You gasp, offended. “He’s an animal!” “Exactly, he’ll live just fine. I’m talking to you.”

“I don’t know if I can be with somebody who doesn’t like animals and thinks I’m mentally unstable.” You roll your eyes getting into the lift.

“This is what I’m talking about.” He holds the elevator doors. “Where’s the sexy, funny, cool you that I knew?” “The one who wanted to be a serious journalist, huh?” he points at you. “You’re up, you’re down. You’re here, you’re there. You’re like a freaking one woman circus!”

“So I guess this means we’re over.” you lean back on the wall. “I guess so.” Mingyu moves back, letting the elevator doors close.

You roll your eyes with a sharp scoff, tilting your chin up as if daring the empty elevator to challenge you.

Mingyu walks back to his house, holding the dog. “It’s over.”

“No! No!” Seokmin and Jeonghan drag him into the kitchen. “It’s over man. It’s over.” “No! Four more days.” Seokmin smacks Mingyu’s shoulder, encouragingly. “Dude, you just saw what happened.” “Yea I did, and I thought it was sexy.” Jeonghan states. “It was not sexy, okay?” Mingyu rolls his eyes.

Seokmin sighs, “yeah, you’re right. It was not sexy.” He leans onto the counter and looks at Jeonghan. “You think the intern would like his new office?” “HEY!”

Jeonghan agrees, “yeah, he’s also gonna get like a really good douche campaign.”

“Okay fine! Fine. What should I do now?”

“Couples therapy.” Seokmin points. “Every time my wife says she wants a divorce I suggest a session of couples therapy.”

“Therapy?” Mingyu raises his brow. “Couples therapy.” Jeonghan corrects him.

“Couples therapy” Mingyu repeats.

“COUPLES THERAPY! COUPLES THERAPY!” they all shout in unison.

Mingyu runs to his balcony, jumps on the emergency stairs and starts running down. Jumping on each floor.

Just when you reach the main exit, you hear his voice call out your name. Your eyes widen. How the hell did he get here so quick?

Mingyu skids to a stop in front of you, slightly out of breath. “Listen, sugar plum, can you please forgive me?”

You stare as he drops to his knees right there on the pavement. “I—I don’t know what I was thinking, okay? I’m sorry.”

“I was completely out of line, baby. Just—just give me one more chance.”

“Haven’t you had enough?” you deadpan.

“I’ll do anything.” His eyes are big, sincere, and desperate. “Anything, honey.”

“Get up.”

“I am getting up.” He slowly rises like a soggy piece of bread. “Look, what do you think about… couples therapy?”

Your eyebrow shoots up. “Couples therapy?” “Look, Seokmin knows this hell of a guy—”

“No,” you cut him off, voice dry. “I know a therapist who’ll work wonders on someone like you.”

“Yes! That’s what I need,” Mingyu nods fervently.

“I’ll call and schedule an emergency session.”

“Baby whatever it takes!” “A kiss?”

He pauses, then leans in very carefully and plants a soft peck on your cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’m the luckiest man alive to have such an understanding girlfriend.”

You smile tightly. “I love you, Gyu… but I don’t have to like you right now.”

And with that, you turn and walk away—leaving him standing there.

The second you’re out of sight, Mingyu groans, spins in a circle, and punches the air in frustration.

“Damn it!” he mutters, pacing in a tight little angry circle. “Fucking hell!”

“If you’re really going to commit to this,” you glance over your shoulder at Mingyu, “you’re gonna have to open up. No holding back.”

“I’m trying!” he says. “But this is a lot.”

“You know this is our only chance to fix things,” you deadpan as you knock on the door. “Deep-rooted issues need deep, emotional excavation.”

The door swings open.

A woman appears—late thirties, glasses perched low on her nose, hair in a tight bun, crisp white blouse, professional air. Very no-nonsense therapist. Very qualified.

Mingyu straightens a little.

You blink at her outfit. You hadn't seen your sister dressed like this ever. Now that’s commitment.

“Come in,” she says in a calm, practiced tone.

Mingyu steps in, scanning the minimalist living room filled with therapeutic clichés: a Himalayan salt lamp, a tiny bonsai tree, throw pillows that say ‘Feelings First’ and ‘Namaste in Bed’. The scent of sandalwood is aggressively calming.

You both settle on the couch. She sits across from you, legs crossed, clipboard in hand.

“Before we begin,” she says gently, “let’s talk logistics. How will you be paying?”

You smile sweetly at Mingyu. “Sweetie?”

He coughs. “Uh… how much is the session?”

“Three hundred dollars,” she says, without blinking.

“Three—” He lets out a stunned laugh, looks at you in disbelief, then sighs, pulling out his wallet. “I mean… whatever it takes. For us.”

She smiles. “Good. So… how long have you two been together?”

“Seven days,” you say proudly.

“…Seven?” Her voice is perfectly neutral, but you swear her left eye twitches.

“Is that too soon for therapy?” Mingyu asks cautiously.

“Gyu, seven days isn’t, like, a lifetime or anything,” you say casually.

“It’s a week,” he mutters.

You immediately whip around and gasp. “Did you hear that tone? That’s what I’m talking about. How are we supposed to emotionally connect when he speaks to me like I’m customer service?”

The “therapist” scribbles something down. “Interesting. Let’s explore that. How are things between you… sexually?”

You let out a dramatic “Ooohh!” and tsk. “You see, Mingyu here has little problem.” you say, pinching the air between your thumb and forefinger.

“No! No— we haven’t— I don't have a problem.” “Yes you do…” you drag out.

“Alright look,” he turns to your sister, “the one time we were even close to having sex, she decides to nickname my…” he points down.

“Penis?” your sister continues.

“Yes…she named it Madam Jiggles.” “I thought it was cute,” you argue.

Your sister hums sympathetically. “And when did you first realize you liked men?”

Mingyu does a double take. “Wait—what?”

You gasp theatrically. “Oh my god. That’s what this is about?!”

“No—what?! No, I don’t like men.”

“I mean, it’s okay if you do,” your sister says kindly. “We’re in a safe space.”

“I’m very much into women!” he protests. “Extremely! Chronically!”

You lean toward her and stage whisper, “Methinks the man doth protest too much.”

He shoots you a look. “This. This is exactly what I mean.”

“Mingyu, I’m hearing a lot of latent anger,” your sister says gently, jotting down nonsense. “Have you considered where that might be coming from?”

“I’m not angry!” he insists.

She reaches out and places a calming hand over his. “Just breathe. Let it out.”

“Would you two like to be left alone?” You scoff, “should i leave?” “What?” Mingyu turns to you.

“You’re hitting on our therapist. Oh my god!”

“No I’m not”

“Yes you are, you are a pathological flirt!” you snark.

“Why would I need to hit on another woman when you’ve got more than enough personalities to keep me occupied?”

“That hurt,” you clutch your heart.

Your sister, completely unfazed, turns to him. “Mingyu… are you ashamed of her?”

He blinks. “No! I—what? Of course not!”

“Of course he is! He doesn't want me—” you sigh.

“He doesn’t want me around his friends or family,” you accuse, crossing your arms. “He wants to hide me from his world like I’m some dirty secret!”

“Okay, you know what?” Mingyu throws his hands up. “It’s my fault for dating someone like you.”

You freeze.

“It is my fault for dating the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I get jealous. Okay? I get insecure. The idea of someone else taking you away from me drives me nuts.” You blink.

“Oh,” you say softly. “I’ll introduce you to everyone. My friends, my family—hell, I’ll take you to my childhood pediatrician if that helps.” Your sister gasps. “Now that is a positive idea!” “It is?” you ask, sniffling, eyes glassy. “Yes! Go meet his parents! A mini getaway… bonding… beautiful.” You slowly turn to her with narrowed eyes, the what the hell are you doing look only a sister can decode. Mingyu turns to you, smiling stiffly. He reaches for your hands. You give him a small smile in return.

You’re standing outside his parents’ house less than 24 hours after the ‘therapy’.

Because, apparently, Mingyu doesn’t take suggestions lightly — especially when they come from a woman in a cardigan with a clipboard and a very convincing clinical psychology degree from “Stanford.”

And now, here you are, blinking up at a quaint two-story home with climbing ivy, flower pots by the windows, and an iron gate.

“You nervous?” you ask, adjusting your blouse.

Mingyu exhales through his nose. “Why would I be nervous?”

You glance at him. He’s bouncing one leg, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shirt tucked in like he’s going to a job interview.

“I don’t know,” you say innocently. “Maybe because you’re bringing the love of your life to meet your family?”

He shoots you a sideways look. “You don’t have to keep saying stuff like that.”

“What? I’m just playing my part,” you smile sweetly, smoothing his collar with both hands. “This is what couples do, right? They fight. They see therapists. They meet the parents.”

He looks like he might turn around and run.

Instead, the door swings open.

Too late.

You loop your arm through his. “Smile, baby. We're about to make memories.”

The door opens to reveal a woman with warm eyes and a familiar face. You know instantly it’s his mother.

“You must be the girlfriend!” she says, arms already outstretched. You walk into her hug like a seasoned daughter-in-law.

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you,” you say, sugar dripping off every syllable.

She pulls back to look at Mingyu. “She’s prettier than you said!”

“Even a prettier personality,” he mutters.

As you step inside Mingyu’s dad greets you with a handshake and a dad joke.A framed photo of baby Mingyu stares at you from the mantle.

You’ve been the perfect guest all day—attentive, respectful, charming.

Everyone has migrated to the living room by now, half the family squeezed onto the couch while the rest are perched on mismatched chairs. Conversation drifts easily—small town updates, neighbor gossip, the kind of comfortable chatter that doesn’t need much from you beyond a polite smile and the occasional nod.

The front door clicks open again, and Mingyu’s sister steps in, balancing a baby on her hip and a diaper bag over her shoulder. The room lights up instantly—his mom coos, his dad leans forward to make silly faces, and you catch the way Mingyu’s whole face softens.

It’s all going great until a soft, unmistakable sound breaks through the moment.

Silence. The baby blinks up at everyone, wide-eyed and innocent.

His sister sighs. “Okay, poop alert. I’ll—”

But Mingyu is already standing. “I got it.”

She freezes mid-step. “You what?”

“I’ll change him,” he says easily, holding out his hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “C’mere, little man.”

Everyone stops. You could hear a pin drop.

“Mingyu?” his mom blinks. “You… you know how to change a diaper?”

He holds the baby like a pro, walking toward the hallway.

“I guess someone trained me,” he says, shooting you a look.

Everyone turns to you and you just offer a sheepish smile.

His mother laughs, “I don’t know what you’re doing but keep it up.”

Lunch is a quiet kind of lively—everyone gathered around the table, chopsticks clicking against plates, the air filled with the smell of home. His mother has made the kind of spread that makes you wonder if she’s been cooking since sunrise: bubbling kimchi jjigae that steams up ones’ glasses, glossy japchae glistening under the light, crisp pajeon cut into neat squares, little banchan dishes scattered everywhere. You eat until you’re full but somehow still craving more, his mom slides extra side dishes your way with a soft, “Eat, eat.”

After the lunch, most of the family drifts off to their rooms, the house falling into a comfortable hush. You find yourself in the kitchen beside his mom, sleeves pushed up as you rinse dishes at the sink. She dries them, but mostly she talks—little stories about Mingyu when he was a kid. How he used to climb the tallest tree in their yard to rescue his cat. How he once tried to cook ramyeon for the whole neighborhood when he was seven and nearly set the stove on fire. You laugh at every one, and she tells them with that fond exasperation only mothers have.

Then she suddenly gasps, eyes bright. “Have you seen his childhood photos?”

You grin. “The one on the mantle?”

Her eyes widen like you’ve just insulted her. “Oh honey, that’s nothing.” She sets down the dish towel and loops her arm through yours, tugging you away from the sink.

As you’re stepping out of the kitchen, Mingyu walks in, still clearing the table. His mom doesn’t miss a beat. “Mingyu, wash the rest of the dishes.”

He freezes. “Huh?” His gaze flicks between you and her, as if he’s just been betrayed in real time. But you’re already being whisked into the living room.

“Sit here,” his mom says, patting the sofa before disappearing down the hall.

She returns with a thick, slightly worn photo album and settles beside you, flipping it open with a triumphant little smile.

The first page reveals a naked baby Mingyu in a towel, looking deeply unbothered about his lack of clothes. You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh.

“Oh, he was such a chubby baby,” she says fondly, turning the page to a shot of him in a watermelon-printed hanbok, grinning with his two front teeth missing. Each picture comes with a new story—his first day of school, his awkward middle school haircut, the summer he refused to take off his Spider-Man costume for a week.

“Mom?!”

You turn, startled, to see Mingyu standing behind you, looking horrified. In two strides, he’s at the sofa, snatching the album from his mother’s lap.

“Why would you show this to her?” he asks, voice halfway between outrage and disbelief.

“She should know what you looked like before you got tall and smug,” his mom fires back without missing a beat.

You try to smother your laugh, but Mingyu catches it. “Don’t encourage her,” he says to you, pointing accusingly, though his ears are turning pink.

His mom just rolls her eyes. “Go take her around the place.”

Mingyu takes you around the neighbourhood, pointing out his favourite places.

“That café? Best waffles in the city,” he says, nodding toward a corner shop. “And that bookstore over there—don’t go unless you want the owner to judge your taste in novels.”

You laugh, putting your hands in your backpocket. “Sounds like my kind of place.”

The tour is messy, unplanned. He forgets half the street names and cuts himself off mid-story when something else catches his attention but you’re smiling more than you want to admit.

At a tiny basketball court, he picks up a ball someone’s left behind. “Okay, watch this.” The shot goes nowhere near the hoop.

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh. “Wow. Inspirational.”

“I’m just warming up,” he protests, hands raised. “My glory days are still ahead of me.”

By the time you reach the ice cream stall, your cheeks are already sore from all the grinning and laughing. Mingyu orders two cones—one pistachio, one strawberry and hands you the pistachio.

The scoop barely touches your hand before it slides off and splats unceremoniously onto the pavement.

“Nooo,” you gasp.

Mingyu looks at the melting mess, then at you, then sighs. “Here, take mine.”

You shake your head immediately. “No, you keep it. I’ll be fine.”

He watches you for half a beat, then without warning lets his cone slip from his hand, hitting the ground with the same tragic splat.

Your jaw drops. “Why would you do that?!”

He just shrugs. “Now we’re even.”

You groan, half-annoyed and half-fond, and shove his arm as you start walking again. He grins, hands in his pockets, like the chaos was worth it.

The two of you wander aimlessly, stopping to peek into store windows and bicker over which bakery smells better. You lose track of time until a sudden drop of moisture hits your cheek. Then another. And suddenly, it’s pouring.

“Run!” Mingyu grabs your wrist, both of you breaking into a sprint. Rain pelts down so hard you can barely see, your laughter mixing with the sound of water splashing under your shoes.

By the time you tumble through his front door, you’re both dripping and breathless. Mingyu doesn’t even pause and heads straight for the bathroom, tugging you along.

“Sit,” he orders, nudging you onto the closed toilet lid. You’re still catching your breath when you glance around and notice a small stack of your magazines on the bathroom shelf.

You point at them. “Are those mine?” He follows your gaze, lips twitching. “Maybe.”

“Why are these here?” you flip through the pages.

“I don’t know.” He grabs a towel from the rack. “Guess someone was really eager to meet you.”

He steps closer, draping the towel over your head. His fingers work gently through your hair, squeezing out water, brushing against your cheeks now and then. “You should shower before you freeze.”

“You too,” you murmur, meeting his eyes through the folds of the towel.

Mingyu doesn’t move right away, just keeps towel-drying your hair with slow, distracted motions. The rhythm falters until the towel rests against your head, forgotten. His fingers brush the side of your jaw as he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

You meet his eyes for a beat, neither of you saying anything. Then he leans in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to your lips.

“Shower?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Shower.”

The moment you agree, Mingyu grins faintly, tugging his soaked shirt over his head and tossing it into the hamper. Water-slicked skin and the faint lines of his abs catch the bathroom light.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking at you, turning the shower knob until steam begins to fog the mirror.

You scoff, leaning back on the toilet lid. “I’m literally not.” He glances over his shoulder with that ‘sure you’re not smirk’, water running over his hand as he checks the temperature.

Then he steps closer, crouching slightly so he’s level with you. “Up.” You raise a brow but stand, his hands brushing against your arms as he straightens your shirt hem. It’s a simple touch, but it sends warmth crawling under your skin.

“Still freezing?” he asks. “Little bit.” He hums, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost against your jaw. “We can fix that.”

You’re half ready to shove him into the shower first just to get some space, but when you try to step past, he gently catches your wrist.

He chuckles under his breath, and before you can say more, and leans in again—this time kissing you deeper, his hand sliding to the back of your neck.

When you part, your pulse is loud in your ears. He grins, the playful edge still there. “Come on,” he says, stepping into the shower first and holding the glass door open for you.

Steam curls around both of you as you step inside, the heat hitting your rain-chilled skin. Water runs down his shoulders, catching in his hair, and you can’t stop looking. He notices. Of course he notices.

“What?” he asks, pretending innocence. You shake your head. “Nothing.”

You’re still towel-drying your hair when you wander into the dining room, the cotton of Mingyu’s oversized T-shirt hanging loose on you. The rain outside hasn’t let up—it lashes against the windows, blurring the garden into smears of green.

His mother appears from the kitchen carrying a tray with two steaming mugs. “Oh—tea,” you say, straightening a little.

She sets the tray on the table, smiling like she’s been waiting for you. “Ginger. Good for the cold weather.”

You wrap your fingers around the cup she offers, letting the warmth sink into your palms. “Thank you,” you murmur.

She takes the chair opposite you. “The rain won’t stop anytime soon,” she says, glancing at the windows. “You should stay the night.”

“Oh, no, I—” You shake your head quickly. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“Bother?” She waves a dismissive hand. “You’re barely a bother. I insist.”

You glance toward the hall, where you can hear Mingyu moving around upstairs. “I really appreciate it, but—”

“No buts.” She leans in slightly, lowering her voice like she’s letting you in on a secret. “If I send you out in this weather, I’ll never hear the end of it from others.”

That earns a soft laugh from you.

Her smile widens. “So stay the night. You’ll have your own room—fresh sheets, extra blankets. And breakfast in the morning.”

There’s a beat where you weigh politeness against the fact that your socks are still damp and the rain sounds like it could go on for hours. Finally, you nod. “Alright… if you’re sure.”

She reaches over and pats your hand. “I’m sure.”

Upstairs, you hear a muffled, “Ma! Where’s the spare charger?” followed by the sound of him stumbling into something. She sighs fondly. “You’ll get used to that part.”

You smile into your tea, the steam curling up between you and the sound of rain wrapping the whole house in its own kind of hush.

You find him in his room, halfway through straightening his sheets, hair still damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

“Welcome,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the bed like he’s unveiling something grand, “to my humble abode.”

You snort. “Humble? You have, like, half the trophies in this town.”

“Hey,” he says, plumping a pillow like it’s part of the tour, “hard work and natural talent.” You wander further in, eyes scanning the framed photos on his wall—little Mingyu in oversized jerseys, his arm slung around teammates, medals around his neck. Then something catches your eye: a large cardboard box jammed into the top of a shelf, a few old toys and bits of fabric spilling out like it’s too full to close. “What’s that?” you ask, pointing. He follows your gaze and waves it off. “Nothing much. Just some of my childhood stuff.” You tilt your head. “Can I see?” He pauses, one eyebrow lifting. Then he shrugs. “Why not?” Before you can step forward, he’s already behind you. His arm cages you in for just a second longer than necessary, the warmth of him making it hard to focus on anything except how near he is. His chest brushes your back as he reaches up to pull the box down, his arm grazing yours. “Careful,” he says, his voice low near your ear. “It’s heavier than it looks.” You take it from him and sit cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, leaning back against the frame as you start pulling things out—a scuffed action figure, a baseball glove clearly too small for him now, a tangled friendship bracelet. “Wow,” you say, holding up a lopsided clay mug. “This is… beautiful. Is it modern art?” He groans. “That’s from fourth grade ceramics, thank you very much.” You laugh, setting it down carefully. “So sentimental.” He drops down beside you, knees bumping yours, and for a while you sift through the little pieces of his younger self, trading stories and teasing each other. There’s a kind of easy quiet between the laughs, the kind that feels warm instead of awkward. Eventually, he stands and stretches. “Alright,” he says, glancing at the clock. “Goodnight.” You blink up at him. “Wait—you’re not sleeping here?” His mouth curves into a soft smile, his eyes holding yours for a beat longer than necessary. “We have more time for that.”

You’re not sure if he means tonight, tomorrow, or something much bigger than either, but before you can ask, he turns and heads for the door. He lingers for a second, gaze still on you, then slips out, closing it gently behind him.

The smell of something sweet and buttery drags you awake before the sun can fully find its way through the curtains. You shuffle into the hallway, rubbing your eyes, as the low murmur of voices leads you towards the kitchen.

Mingyu’s mom is at the stove flipping pancakes, his dad is slicing fruit, and Mingyu… is standing at the counter, sleeves pushed up, whisking something in a bowl with unnecessary enthusiasm. His hair’s still damp from his shower, sticking up in random directions, and there’s flour dusting the front of his shirt.

“Morning,” you say, voice still husky from sleep.

Three heads turn toward you—his mom instantly lights up. “Good morning! Sit, sit. We’re making breakfast before you two leave.”

You slide into a chair while Mingyu sets down a glass of orange juice in front of you. “This one’s mine,” he says, before adding, “but you can have it.”

You roll your eyes but take a sip anyway, the tang waking you up.

Breakfast ends up being a full spread—fluffy pancakes stacked high, scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and a small mountain of fresh fruit. Mingyu’s mom keeps sliding more food onto your plate no matter how many times you say you’re full.

“This is so good,” you tell her, cutting into your pancakes. “You didn’t have to go all out.”

“Nonsense,” she says with a wave of her spatula. “You’re our guest.”

Mingyu smirks from across the table. “Guest? Mom, you basically adopted her overnight.”

She swats his arm with the dish towel. “Better her than you.”

You laugh, nearly choking when his mom starts telling you about the time Mingyu tried to make pancakes in elementary school, forgot the sugar, and cried because no one wanted seconds. Mingyu groans, “Mom—seriously?” while you grin at him, loving how he looks both embarrassed and resigned.

As you both pack to leave, his dad hands you a bag full of strawberries he bought from the farmers market, which he had cleaned and packed last night and his mom sneaks you a small jar of homemade jam. “So you’ll think of us when you eat breakfast,” she says, patting your hand.

At the door, Mingyu leans down so only you can hear, his voice low and a little smug. “See? Told you… they already like you more than me.”

You glance at his parents over his shoulder—they’re both watching you with quiet fondness. “Maybe,” you murmur back, “but I think they’d miss you more.”

His eyes flick over your face for just a second too long before he straightens up and grabs your bag.

The drive back from his parents’ place is quieter than the ride there. The late afternoon sun spills through the car windows, painting the dashboard gold. You’re still carrying traces of the day—his mom’s cooking in your clothes, the faint, sweet scent of his sister’s baby on your hands, and the warmth from how easily you’d been pulled into his family’s orbit.

Mingyu hums along to the radio, one hand draped over the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. Every so often, his gaze flicks to you, like he’s making sure you’re not lost in your own thoughts for too long.

By the time the skyline starts breaking through the horizon, the quiet has turned comfortable.

By the time Mingyu pulls up in front of your building, the streets are their usual blend of honking cars, chatter, and the smell of food from the corner deli. He puts the car in park, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“They liked you,” he says simply, his mouth curving like that fact is both surprising and not surprising at all.

You laugh, push open the door, and sling your bag over your shoulder. “I’ll text you later.”

You’ve just stepped into the lobby when you hear him call from behind you. “Hey—wait a sec.”

You turn. One of his hands is scratching his head and the other is in his pocket.

“Umm,” he starts, a little hesitant, “there’s this party tomorrow night. I kinda closed this big deal and the company’s celebrating me for it.”

Your face lights up. “Mingyu! That’s great.”

He pauses, licking his lips like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I was wondering if you’d wanna come with me… you know, as my plus one.”

You lean on one leg, biting back a smile. “Is this you asking me on a date, or do you just need someone to distract you from boring speeches?”

“Maybe both,” he says, a hint of a smirk in his tone.

You pretend to think it over, drawing it out. “Well… I guess I could be convinced.”

“You guess?” he says, feigning offense. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ll be there,” you finally say. “What’s the dress code?”

“Anything that makes you look good.” Then, after a beat, “So… basically anything you own.”

When you turn again to leave you hear him call you once again.

“Just sealing the deal,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a quick, warm peck against your cheek. His lips linger for half a second too long before he steps back with a lazy grin.

“See you tomorrow, plus one,” he says, heading back toward his car.

You stand there a moment longer, smiling to yourself before slipping inside.

The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the city noise. You kick off your shoes in the hallway, dropping your bag on the console table before making a beeline for the kitchen. Your phone is still warm in your hand from holding it too tight, but you’re already scrolling for Yunjin’s name.

She picks up on the second ring, the background noise of some Netflix show spilling through before her face fills the screen. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite suburban escapee,” she says, curling up on her couch.

You laugh, propping your phone against the coffee maker as you pour yourself a glass of water. “I just got back. Figured you’d want the debrief.”

Her eyes light up. “Obviously. Start from the beginning—no, actually, skip to the good part. How was it?”

You lean against the counter, smiling without meaning to. “Honestly? I had such a good time. His parents are the sweetest people. Like, genuinely so welcoming. His mom even made me tea last night and tried to convince me to stay over—”

“Wait,” Yunjin interrupts, grinning. “You stayed over at Mingyu’s parents’ house?”

“Yeah,” you say, already knowing where this is going. “It wasn’t a big deal. He gave me his room—”

She raises her eyebrows. “Interesting.”

“Not like that,” you clarify quickly, though your cheeks warm a little. “Anyway, they were just… nice. The whole time. And Mingyu—”

“Ah, there it is,” she cuts in. “That tone shift. You said his name like you’re about to recite poetry.”

You roll your eyes but don’t deny it, taking a sip of water to buy yourself time.

Yunjin narrows her gaze. “Okay, be honest—are you in love with him?”

You freeze, glass halfway to your lips. For a second, the hum of your refrigerator is the only sound in your apartment. “I—”

“Oh my God, you are,” she says, grinning like she’s just won something.

“I didn’t say that,” you mutter, setting the glass down.

“You didn’t have to,” she teases. “Your silence said it all.”

You shake your head, but your lips curve anyway. “Well, if I were, hypothetically… he did just invite me as his plus one to his company’s big celebration party tomorrow.”

Yunjin’s eyes go wide. “Shut up. That’s huge. This is your moment. You should totally confess.”

You blink. “At a company party? You think?”

“Yes!” she says without hesitation. “Nothing says romance like champagne, low lighting, and him in a suit.”

You snort, but your chest tightens a little at the mental image. “I don’t even know what I’m wearing.”

Her mouth drops open in exaggerated offense. “Girl. No. We’re not doing this. Turn your camera toward your closet.”

You laugh and carry the phone into your bedroom, flipping it to show the open wardrobe. “Alright, stylist. Have at it.”

You dump half your closet on the bed while Yunjin sits cross-legged on video call, sipping wine like she’s judging a runway show. “Too corporate.” You toss the navy dress aside. “Are you going to feed ducks or what?” The beige one is out of sight in a second. After seven failed attempts, you stand in front of the mirror in a slinky yellow satin dress—the back open, straps crisscrossing, the fabric catching the light. Yunjin’s jaw drops. “Oh my god… that’s it.” You turn, smoothing the dress. “It’s a little… too much.” “Exactly,” Yunjin says, smirking. “If he hasn’t fallen for you yet, he will now.” You bite back a shy smile, trying to hide it by folding the dress over your arm. “You’re ridiculous.” “And you’re welcome,” she says, leaning back on her couch like she’s already secured the happy ending.

The doorbell rings just as you’re clipping your earrings in.

When you open the door, Mingyu’s standing there in a perfectly tailored black suit, holding a bouquet of fresh lilies and tulips. His mouth parts slightly as he takes you in.

“Wow,” he says, almost under his breath. “You look… you’re beautiful.”

“Oh, Mingyu, you didn’t have to…” You glance down at the flowers, cheeks warming. “Thank you, I love them.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, still looking like he’s not entirely over the sight of you.

“Let me put these in a vase. Come in.”

While you arrange the flowers in a vase in the kitchen, Mingyu wanders in like he’s already at home, loosening his tie just enough to get comfortable. When you return, you sling your purse over your shoulder.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod, locking your arms with his.

The venue is buzzing when you arrive, lights bouncing off crystal glasses and polished marble floors. You enter arm-in-arm, turning heads in your direction. It’s not long before a few colleagues swoop in, pulling Mingyu into congratulatory handshakes and claps on the back.

“I’ll be right back,” he says with an apologetic smile.

“Go,” you wave him off, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

You’re taking in the space when someone slides up beside you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Jeonghan says, giving you a once-over that’s more admiring than he probably means it to be. “You clean up nice.”

You smirk. “Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself.”

Before you can say more, a tipsy man in an expensive suit slides in between you, practically leaning on the bar for balance. He takes your hand and presses a damp kiss to your knuckles. You freeze.

Jeonghan’s smile tightens. “She’s Mingyu’s date.”

“Aah,” the man says, brightening. “Man of the hour!”

You give a polite, awkward smile, hoping he’ll take the hint and move along, but he barrels on, words spilling faster than his brain can keep up.

“You know,” he says, pointing a swaying finger at you, “if it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t have closed this deal.”

Your brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on.” He laughs like you’ve told a joke. “The bet! The whole thing about—”

Jeonghan straightens instantly, his posture tightening like a string pulled too taut.

“What bet?” you press, your voice low but sharp.

The man is oblivious, still talking, each word feeling heavier than the last. You’re not sure whether to dismiss him as a rambling drunk or take him seriously—until you catch Jeonghan’s expression.

“That boy said he could make any girl fall for him in ten days—close the deal and win the client, all in one go. Thought it was just him talking big, but damn, he actually pulled it off.” He chuckles, nearly spilling his drink. “Guess you were the lucky test run.”

It’s not denial. It’s panic.

You turn fully toward him. “Is this true?”

“I—uh—I mean—” Jeonghan stammers, eyes darting everywhere but yours.

“Jeonghan,” you say again, more firmly this time. “Is it true, what I’m hearing?”

And his silence is enough to tell you everything.

Across the room, Mingyu is halfway through explaining the final numbers to a client when a tap on his arm pulls him away.

“Sorry to interrupt,” a tall brunette says, smiling like she already knows him. “You’re Kim Mingyu, right?”

“Uh—yeah,” he says politely. “And you are…?”

“Friends of the firm,” she replies vaguely, gesturing to the woman beside her. “We’ve seen you around. Didn’t realize you’d be here tonight.”

He gives a small nod. “Work thing. I just closed a deal with—” He glances around for you, spots you near the champagne table, and points. “That’s my date, actually.”

The two women follow his gaze. One of them raises her eyebrows, then looks back at her friend. “Oh,” she says, her tone somewhere between surprised and amused. “She’s still doing it?” Mingyu frowns. “Doing… what?” The friend gives a little laugh, as if she’d been caught gossiping but doesn’t care enough to stop. “That article she’s writing. The ‘how to lose a guy’ thing? We assumed it wrapped days ago.” He blinks. “Article?” “Yeah. We work at the magazine.” She tilts her head. “You really don’t know?” Mingyu feels his mouth go dry. “Why would I?" She gives a shrug that somehow looks both apologetic and smug. “Guess I thought you were in on it.” Before he can push further, the emcee’s voice booms over the sound system, calling Mingyu to the stage. The emcee beams as he joins them, handing him the mic. “Good evening,” Mingyu says, his smile practiced but his eyes already scanning the crowd. “Tonight’s about celebrating wins—and the people who helped us get here. Because none of this happens without trust… honesty… and the right partners.”

His gaze snags on you across the room, and something flickers in his expression.

“Partners who don’t… pretend to be someone they’re not,” he adds, his voice smooth but laced with an edge only you would catch. “Because at the end of the day, the truth always comes out. And when it does, you find out who’s really on your side.”

You shift uncomfortably, and he watches as you turn away, edging toward the exit. The rest of the room fades for him.

He hesitates mid-sentence, jaw tightening. “You know what—uh, excuse me a second.”

He hands the mic back to the emcee without explanation, hops down from the stage, and weaves through the crowd—ignoring the puzzled looks—until he’s out the doors and right on your heels.

Mingyu catches you just as you’re heading for the coat check, his smile a little too tight, his voice dipped in honey but laced with steel.

“Leaving already?” he says, tilting his head. “Guess the party’s not good enough for you?”

You plaster on your own sugary smile. “Oh no, it’s great. Free drinks, free food, free… revelations about my date. Couldn’t ask for more.”

His laugh is sharp. “Right, I’m the one who’s been hiding things. As if you weren’t treating me like some test subject..”

Your smile falters. “Excuse me?”

“You did, didn’t you? Used me for your little magazine project. God, you even made me miss the big game for that.”

You cross your arms. “I’m sorry, I made you miss it? No, Mingyu, you did that all on your own—between the staged dates and your ego the size of this fucking building.”

You turn sharply heading for the door.

He takes a step closer, the party inside muffling into background noise. “Oh, so now you’re running away?”

You spin toward him, heat rushing to your face. “I’m not running away. I’m walking away from you. You used me to get ahead in your work, you arrogant, backstabbing jerk.”

“Yeah? And you nearly drove me insane just to get your precious article.” His voice hardens. “That’s what I was to you? A guinea pig? Somebody you could test your theories on?” You blink, once, twice, the words catching in your throat. “And… and I was just a girl somebody picked out at a bar.” He laughs without humor, shaking his head. “Yeah, you know what? Big deal. You can put it in your article—make it the plot twist. People will eat it up.” You force a smile. “It’s a good idea. Maybe we should bet on it.” Something shifts in his face—his jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. He leans in just enough for you to feel the words when he says, low, “You did a great job! You wanted to lose a guy in ten days. Congratulations. You just lost him.” He turns to go, but you call after him. “No, I didn’t, Mingyu!” Your voice wavers, but you don’t stop. “Because you can’t lose something you never had.” He freezes for half a second, just long enough for you to see his expression falter, then keeps walking, disappearing back into the party, leaving you in the quiet hallway with your chest heaving and your heart pounding.

The morning after the party, the air in the office feels heavier. Not tense exactly—no one’s talking about what happened on stage. But every greeting, every passing glance feels like people are keeping their voices low for a reason.

Mingyu has buried himself in work, sleeves rolled up, pen scratching over notes with mechanical focus. He hasn’t checked his phone since last night. He hasn’t even made coffee. He’s just been… pushing through, like if he stays busy enough, he won’t have to think about you.

But then, when he reaches for another file, something catches his eye.

A magazine, left crooked on the edge of his desk, probably from yesterday’s mail drop. He pulls it closer, idly flipping through—until a headline stops him cold.

Your headline.

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days

You can lose a guy in 10 days—it’s not hard. Push too much. Pull away at the wrong time. Say things you don’t mean, and hold back the things you should have said. You can follow every silly rule in the book, and yes, you’ll lose him.

But what I didn’t expect was to find someone I didn’t want to lose. Somewhere between the ridiculous stunts and the games we played, I stopped playing. I forgot the rules. I forgot my “assignment.” I forgot everything except him.

And in the end, I didn’t lose him because of what I did wrong. I lost him because I wasn’t brave enough to tell him the truth. That I love him.

So maybe this isn’t an article about losing a guy. Maybe it’s about how to lose your heart. And how, if you’re lucky, you might just get it back.

He reads the first line. And the next. And then he’s gone, pulled into the rhythm of your words, tracing every sharp observation, every precise choice of detail. His jaw is tight at first, almost bracing for a jab at him hidden in the subtext. But the further he reads, the more his expression shifts.

By the time he reaches the last sentence, his pen is on the desk, forgotten. That tightness in his jaw is gone. In its place is something far more dangerous.

Determination.

He pushes the magazine away, stands so fast his chair rolls back into the wall. Jacket. Keys. He’s not going to let you walk out of his life without a fight.

Minutes later, he’s shoving through the glass doors of your office building, the echo of his steps cutting through the hum of conversation. Heads lift from desks, a few whispers ripple across the room, but he doesn’t slow down. He’s scanning every corner—your desk, the hallway leading to the conference rooms, even the break area. But you’re nowhere to be seen.

Across the room, Yunjin is seated at a small table, a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. Mingyu strides straight toward her, ignoring the curious stares following him.

“Where is she?” he asks, voice low but sharp enough to make her blink up at him.

“She quit,” Yunjin says carefully. “She’s moving to Boston for a new job.”

That’s all he needs. He’s already spinning on his heel, pushing through the doors, ignoring the confused look she throws after him.

The roar of his bike splits the city noise as he speeds toward your apartment, weaving through traffic like nothing else matters.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing by the curb, hauling your suitcase into the trunk of a yellow taxi. The wind tugs at your hair, and for a second, his chest aches like he’s already too late.

He shouts your name but the city swallows his sound.

He speeds up, trying to close up the gap but a bus pulls right in front of him, blocking his way. By the time it lumbers past, the taxi is gone. Or… not gone exactly. There are now six of them in a row, all identical, taillights glowing in the distance.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t blink. Just swerves between lanes, scanning every backseat, ignoring the blaring horns behind him.

There you are.

He’s at your window in seconds, one hand gripping the handlebar, the other rapping hard against the glass.

“Mingyu? What—what are you doing here?” You turn, startled, eyes going wide. “Since when do you own a bike?”

“Pull over!” he shouts over the wind.

“Mingyu, are you—” You glance at traffic ahead, panic rising. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Yes!” His voice is raw, unwavering. “If that’s what it takes—pull over.”

“Sir,” you exhale. “Could you— could you pull over, please?”

The taxi eases toward the curb. Mingyu keeps pace on his bike, eyes locked on you like if he looks away for even a second, you might vanish again.

You step out of the taxi, the door slamming harder than you mean it to. “Mingyu—what the hell was that?”

He’s already off his bike, helmet tucked under one arm, the other holding up something you instantly recognize. The magazine. “Is this true?” His voice is sharp, urgent.

Your eyes flick to the glossy cover, then back to him. “Gyu… please—”

“Is it true,” he presses, “or was it just to sell copies?”

The lump in your throat is instant. “I meant every word.”

“Then why are you running away?”

Your jaw tightens. “I’m not running away. I’m—moving on. I have a job there.”

“Bullshit!” he snaps. “You tell the world you fell in love with me. And then you just… leave?”

You turn away, eyes on the skyline stretching beyond the bridge. “You don’t understand—”

“Then make me understand,” he cuts in. “Explain how you can write that and still get in this cab like I don’t matter.”

Your chest tightens, the pressure of unspoken things pushing to the surface. “Because I thought I had already lost you.”

Mingyu’s eyes soften but he doesn’t move away. “You didn’t. You were just too busy telling yourself it was over to fight for it.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. Just the steady hum of traffic and the hard thump of your heartbeat. Then he reaches for your hand, his fingers warm against your cold skin.

“If you really want to go,” he says, “I won’t stop you. But if you’re in that taxi because you think this can’t work, you’re wrong.”

The words lodge in your chest, heavy and aching. Ten days. Ten stupid, messy days—and somehow they’d changed everything. Your eyes sting. “I don’t want to lose you,” you whisper.

A slow, almost relieved smile tugs at his mouth. “Then don’t.”

Before you can reply, he closes the distance and kisses you—hard enough to steal your breath, desperate enough to make your knees go weak. His hand cups the side of your face, warm and steady, while your fingers twist into the front of his jacket, clinging like you might fall without him.

When you finally break apart, your breathless laugh trembles. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, grinning that boyish grin you fell for, “but I’m your kind of insane.”