under the same roof. 03.
mx shownu x babysitter reader
explicit, smut, mdni, chapter 1, 2
Behind closed doors you share an effortless, stolen paradise with him, until a single quiet question from his wife shatters the illusion.
You wake to warmth all around you. Morning light shines through the curtains.
A solid weight presses against your back. An arm heavy across your waist. A slow and even breathing, stirring the strands of hair at your nape. You're still tangled in him, his chest flush against your spine. You feel his strong thick thighs bent to fit yours.
You blink, and the world comes into focus. White linens. The wooden dresser. The window facing the backyard. Your room. His body wrapped around yours like he's afraid you'll disappear.
He shifts behind you, and you feel the hardness of him against the curve of your ass. His arm tightens, pulling you closer. A sleepy growl vibrates against your shoulder.
"Good morning."
His voice is rough, scraped clean of sleep.
You turn in his arms, and there he is. Propped on one elbow, looking down at you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction. The morning light catches the sculpted lines of his shoulders, the defined ridge of his collarbone.
He smiles, soft and genuine. "You're even prettier in the morning."
Your voice comes out a croak. "I have bed head."
"You have morning face." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "It's cute."
"Shut up."
He laughs, low and warm, and the sound sends a flutter through your chest.
You ask what time it is, and he glances at the nightstand. "9:15."
"Hyunwoo-ssi. Don't you have a recording session?"
He stretches, his muscles pulling under his skin. "I do."
"Aren't you going to be late?"
He reaches for his phone, his expression flat and calm. The call connects. "Hey. I'm not coming in today. Yeah. Move everything to tomorrow."
He hangs up without waiting for a protest. Tosses the phone aside. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest. His skin is warm. His heartbeat thuds against your ribs.
"Where were we?"
He kisses your forehead. Lingers there. Then your nose. Then your lips.
The kiss is slow at first, gentle, like he's relearning the shape of you. His thumb brushes your cheek. Your hands find his shoulders, fingers tracing the muscle there. He tastes like sleep and warmth, and you sink into it.
You kiss for a long time. Little pecks at the corner of your mouth. A soft press, then a pull away, then another. His teeth graze your lower lip, and you shiver.
"Brunch," you finally say against his mouth.
"Mm."
"Hyunwoo. I'm starving."
"Do we have to?"
"You canceled work for this. We're doing brunch properly."
He groans, dramatic, and rolls off you. The bed dips. Then he's on his feet, and before you can swing your legs around, he scoops you into his arms.
You yelp. "Put me down!"
"Nope."
He carries you down the hallway, barefoot, his chest still warm against your side. He's wearing only his boxers from last night. You're wearing only his shirt which is huge on you. The hem ends just above your thighs, and nothing else covers you.
The kitchen is bright, sunlight spilling across the marble counter. He sets you down on the countertop like you're made of glass.
"Stay."
"I'm not a dog."
"You're my favorite person." He's already opening the fridge, pulling out eggs. "Now show me how the pancakes work."
You slide off the counter. Gather flour, milk, eggs. The mixing bowl. The whisk. He moves around you, making coffee, his presence a constant gravitational pull.
"You're going to burn those," he says.
"I've made pancakes before."
"Not with my stove. It runs hot."
"Then come help instead of criticizing."
He steps behind you, his arms boxing you in as he reaches for the measuring cup. His chest presses against your back. Warm. Solid.
Then his phone rings.
He frowns. "I need to grab that."
He pads back down the hall, back to your bedroom where his phone was. You hear his voice, low and careful. "Hey... Yeah, I switched it... No, everything's fine, I just needed the day... Okay. Tonight. Got it."
Ana.
The whisk scrapes against the bowl in steady circles. You focus on the batter. The texture. The heat. You don't want to hear more.
He comes back. His arms wrap around you from behind, his face burying in the curve of your neck. He breathes in slow, his chest expanding against your back.
"Everything okay?" you ask.
"She wanted my schedule." His lips press against your pulse. "Said she'll be home tonight."
"Okay."
You keep mixing. His hands settle on your waist. Then you feel it, the hard press of him against your ass. Your movements slow.
He doesn't move away. Instead, he presses closer. Grinds against you.
Your breath catches. You press back.
"Hyunwoo what are you doing?" you seductively ask.
A low sound rumbles in his chest.
"Just keep mixing," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear.
His hand slides under the hem of the shirt. Up your stomach. His palm is warm, calloused, covering your ribs. Then his fingers find your breast, and he cups it, his thumb circling your nipple.
You keep mixing. Your hand moves, but your focus scatters. The batter sloshes in the bowl. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, and it hardens into a tight peak.
"That's it," he breathes. "Just keep making breakfast."
He grinds into you. Only the thin line of his boxers separates him from the curve of your ass. You feel the length of him, thick and hot, and your mouth goes dry.
Then you hear it. The whisper of fabric. His waistband shifting.
He lifts the hem of the shirt, baring your ass to the warm morning air. His hand guides his cock between your legs. You feel him. Bare. Skin to skin.
He slides the head of him through your slick folds, and your knees buckle.
"Hyunwoo."
"I need you." His voice is rough, scraped raw. "Just like this. Please."
He pushes in.
The stretch is a sweet ache. He fills you inch by inch, and your hand grips the edge of the counter. The whisk hangs forgotten in the other.
"Fuck," he hisses. "So tight. So perfect."
He starts to move. Slow, deep strokes that rock you forward. His hands stay under the shirt, cupping your breasts, his fingers still playing with your nipples.
His mouth is at your ear, his breath hot.
"So good," he whispers. "Taking me so well. Look at you, standing there making me breakfast with my cock inside you."
Your face burns. You push back to meet him, and he groans.
"That's it. That's my girl."
The kitchen is warm, bright, smelling of flour and coffee and sex. He fucks you slow and deep, and the sounds you make are broken, swallowed, your hand pressed to your mouth.
He pulls your hand away. "Let me hear you."
"Hyunwoo, I can't..."
"Just me." He nips your earlobe. "No one else is here. Let me hear you."
His thrusts quicken, and a moan escapes your lips. He groans in approval.
"God, that's pretty. You sound so pretty when I'm inside you."
His hand slides down your stomach, finds your clit, circles it in time with his thrusts. The pressure builds, curling through your pelvis.
"Come for me," he whispers. "Want to feel you come on my cock."
The orgasm hits you hard and sudden. Your body clenches around him, your head falling back against his shoulder, a sharp cry breaking from your throat.
He groans, his rhythm faltering. He pulls out, his hand stroking himself twice, and then he spills across your lower back. Warm. Thick. The moment stretches, his breath ragged against your neck.
He sways, his forehead pressing between your shoulder blades.
"Shit."
A breathless laugh escapes you. He reaches for a paper towel, gently cleaning your back. His touch is careful, almost reverent. Then he kisses your shoulder.
"Now," he says. "Pancakes."
The day unfolds like a dream.
Brunch is a mess in the best way. He flips pancakes too high, and two of them land on the stove. He blames the pan. You blame his form. You eat at the counter, stealing bites from each other's plates, his bare knee pressed against yours.
You wash the dishes. He dries them, his hip resting against the sink. The afternoon light makes his skin look golden.
Then the sofa.
He pulls you down beside him, and you end up nested in his arms. His back against the cushions, yours against his chest, his legs bracketing your hips. A movie plays, but neither of you watches. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your bare thigh.
"Put on something else," he says.
"What's wrong with this one?"
"Too much talking."
You scroll. He keeps kissing your shoulder. You land on an action movie, and he settles, his chin resting on your head.
Midway through, you fall asleep.
You wake to his hand stroking your hair. The light has shifted to amber.
"Hey," he says softly. "You were out."
"Mm. You're comfortable."
He smiles, kissing your forehead. "Couch or rug?"
"Rug."
You end up on the living room rug, lying on your stomach. He's on his side beside you, his hand stroking your bare back. His touch is slow, hypnotic.
"You know," he says, quiet, "when I met Ana, I thought I had everything figured out. Career. Family. The whole picture."
You stay still, listening.
"We were good for a while. Then the work got bigger. She got busier. I got quieter." His hand stills. "Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like a husband. I became a roommate. A co-parent. A line on her schedule."
The words land heavy in the quiet room.
"I didn't realize how dead I felt until you moved in." His voice drops. "The way you laugh with the baby. The way you make tea without being asked. The way you hum while you cook. I started coming home early hoping to catch you in the kitchen."
Your throat tightens.
"I fell for you," he says simply. "You brought life into this house. Warmth. I fell for all of it."
You push yourself up, kneeling. He mirrors you, his eyes searching your face.
Your voice comes out small. "My last relationship was a shit show. He was controlling. Always angry about something. I had to explain every text, every friend, every minute I was late." You swallow. "I left the province to get away from him. Packed one bag. Moved to the city. And somehow, I ended up here."
His jaw tightens. "He sounds awful."
"He was."
"You deserved better."
"I'm trying to believe that."
He takes your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles. "No more talking about marriages." He lifts your hand, presses his lips to your palm. "and exes."
He leans forward, kissing you soft.
"I don't want this weekend to end."
The ache in your chest is sweet and painful. You kiss him back, pouring everything into it, letting every unsaid word collapse between your lips.
Late in the afternoon, before everything can pull you back to reality, the bathroom fills with steam. The rush of hot water against the tiles becomes the only sound in the world. Under the steady spray, your hands find the familiar line of his shoulders, slick with water, while his fingers trace the damp path down your spine. There is no rush in the way he pulls you close. Only a quiet, desperate touch that makes your breath catch in your throat.
You once again surrender completely your body to him. You let the water carry away the last of your defenses as his mouth finds yours again, slow and deep. Every touch feels heightened, mark on heated skin and your fingers tangled with his against wet glass. His grip on your hips is steady, grounding you while the gentle heat wraps around you both, turning the small space into a haven where nothing exists but the beat of his heart against your palm. You give in to the quiet intensity of his gaze, matching the rise and fall of his chest, lingering onto a beautiful mistake.
When the stream is finally turned off and the steam slowly clears from the mirror, the quiet weight of the afternoon clings to your skin.
Dinner comes too fast.
The kitchen is warm, the windows dark. You cook together, his body a constant presence beside you. He tells you about his first year as an idol. The cramped dorms. The endless rehearsals. The way he learned to sleep standing up.
You laugh at his impression of a strict manager.
Then he looks at the clock.
"I need to go to the gym."
The words settle over the room like a cold front. Your hands pause over the vegetables. "Now?"
"Tomorrow's packed. I won't have time." He rubs the back of his neck. "I'll be back in a couple hours. Ana won't be home until later."
"Okay."
You don't look at him. You keep chopping.
He gets dressed. Gym shorts, a compression shirt and rubber shoes. The transformation is jarring. He looks like the version of him that exists for the outside world, more guarded, less soft.
You stand at the door, watching him tie his laces. He straightens. Crosses to you. His hands cup your face, and he kisses you slow and deep. You lean into the touch, clinging to the pull of his lips because you don't know when you'll have him again, or if you ever will. You memorize the shape of his mouth. The sweep of his tongue. The way his thumb brushes your cheekbone.
"I'll be quick," he says against your lips.
"Be safe."
He presses his forehead to yours. "You'll be here when I get back?"
"Where else would I go?"
He kisses you again, quick and fierce, then he's gone. The door clicks. The house falls silent.
You eat alone.
The food goes cold. You push it around the plate, your thoughts circling. The kitchen feels too big. The silence too loud.
Then the driveway lights flash.
Headlights sweep across the kitchen wall. Your heart seizes.
You rush to your room. Pull on jeans, a neat top. You spray on your own sweet cologne at the attempt of masking any traces of him on you. You tuck your hair behind your ears. Your reflection looks pale, eyes too wide. You press your hands to your cheeks, forcing a breath.
By the time you reach the entryway, the door is already opening.
Ana steps in first. Sleek in a black blazer. Hair glossy even after a weekend away. Behind her, her parents shuffle in, holding Rosie.
The baby is asleep, her head lolling against her grandmother's shoulder. Tiny lips parted. Fingers curled against the blanket.
"Hey," Ana says, barely glancing at you. "Sorry it's so late. She passed out in the car."
"No problem." Your voice sounds thin. "How was the weekend?"
"Busy. My mom kept her up too late last nights. I'm going to have to re-set her schedule." She reaches for Rosie, and her mother hands her over. The baby doesn't stir.
"Do you want me to put her down?"
"Please."
Ana transfers Rosie to your arms. The weight is familiar. The scent of baby shampoo, soft and powdery. You carry her to the nursery and lay her down in the crib. She curls onto her side, her hand finding the corner of her blanket.
A soft breath. Still asleep.
You stand there, watching her chest rise and fall. The pure, simple trust of it. A baby who doesn't know anything about the complicated mess of the grownups around her.
Ana appears in the doorway.
"She's out," you say quietly.
"She always sleeps best after being at my parents'. No idea why." Ana leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed. "So. How was your weekend?"
"Good." You keep your voice light. "Chilled. I rested a lot. Watched some Netflix."
"Nice."
She doesn't leave. Her eyes travel over you. Your face. Your clothes. You feel exposed under the weight of her gaze.
"And Shownu?" she asks. "Where is he? How was he this weekend?"
"He went to the gym. I think. He was wearing gym stuff when I last saw him." You shrug. "I was in my room most of the day. Only came out to make dinner."
"Did he mention why he skipped his session today?"
"Uhh no. H-he just told me he was taking the day off."
Her head tilts. A beat passes. Two.
"You'll tell me, right?"
The question drops like a stone.
"What do you mean? Tell you what?"
She steps closer, her voice dropping to something softer. Probing. "If he's cheating. I just thought... maybe you can see signs. Living here. Like... Maybe he brought a woman home this weekend."
Your heart stops. Your face stays still.
"You'll tell me, right?"
A millisecond stretches into an eternity. You can feel the lie forming in your mouth before you speak it.
"Y-yes." Your voice is steady. "Of course, Ana. I'll tell you."
She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. She squeezes your arm, her nails pressing lightly into your skin.
"Thank you. I knew I could count on you."
She turns and walks out. Her footsteps fade down the hall. A door closes.
You sink slowly to your knees beside the crib. Rosie sleeps on, oblivious. The room is quiet. Too quiet.
You press your hand to your mouth, holding in the sound that wants to crawl out of your chest.
