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studioeisa · 9 months ago

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lost in translation ♾️ minghao x reader.

“being good to you is the easy part.” # day eight of (the)8 days of minghao. ♡ happy birthday, minghao!

☆ includes: translator/interpreter!reader, idiots in love, yearning!!!, hurt/comfort, confessions. alcohol consumption, reader gets a [minor] surgery. mandarin & other languages are all courtesy of google translate. word count: 25.8k (damn.)

Minghao learned early on that there were words that didn’t always have a translation.

He had grown up with Shenyang Mandarin, only to have to learn Korean, English, and even some Japanese. It was always such a frustrating feeling, to have the Mandarin word at the tip of his tongue then to need to swallow it or substitute it.

He’s never felt that way with you, at least.

You, PLEDIS’ skilled, multilingual interpreter-slash-translator. Minghao remembers the day you came in, nine years ago. How he had felt a spark of hope when you slid into the dialect that was all-too familiar to him. Finally, Minghao had thought.

He had started off as your pupil, your tutee for Korean. Over time, it blossomed into genuine friendship. He can count on one hand the things that he has in Korea. The group. The fans. The other Chinese idols. And you.

It’s comfortable and easy with you. It’s always been. It’s why Minghao is fine with seeking you out at the company, with sliding into the seat next to you even though you’re working on something on your laptop. Checking subtitles for a SEVENTEEN video, it seems.

He waits until you’ve noticed him before he holds out the book he had been reading. It's a Korean novel. Almond by Sohn Wonpyung. He points to a particular phrase— 눈치가 빠르다— before speaking, but the words aren’t in Korean.

“Is there a Mandarin word for this?” he asks in Mandarin, his voice taking on the lower pitch of the dialect. His eyebrows knit together in a look of utter concentration. “Or is this one of those untranslatables?”

You pull out your earphones, a mild look of amusement on your face at Minghao’s sudden appearance. When you realize what he’s asking of you, a small huff of laughter escapes, but you concede to looking at the book in his hands. You say the phrase under your breath, as if testing it out.

“It’s not untranslatable,” you say, sliding right into Mandarin to match Minghao. “The literal translation is observant or perceptive. But in Korean contexts, it’s meant to describe— I suppose, comprehension that something is going on with a friend, or a family member. Like, ah—”

You pause. And then you code switch, again, this time, to English. “A gut feeling?”

“Ah.”

Minghao’s expression clears as comprehension filters across his face, his mouth forming that little ‘o’ shape as he repeats the phrase as well. “A gut feeling... okay, like intuition.”

He pulls his legs up on to the chair, resting his chin on his knee. “Do you think it's something that is universal? A gut feeling. Is there a word for that in Mandarin?”

You’re far too used to Minghao getting philosophical, to him pressing for more than the first answer. “Gut feeling in Mandarin... zhíjué?” you offer.

“Zhíjué,” Minghao repeats quietly, mulling the word over. There’s something satisfying and soothing about rolling the syllables on his tongue, the way he does it. The way they come from the back of his throat— a language that's as intimate as his mother's lullabies when he was a child.

He lets the word rest in his mouth for a while— zhíjué, gut feeling— before he looks back at you, his chin tilting forward in a nod. He gives you a little smile, appreciative.

"Mhm," he says. "That’s close enough."

You chuckle before slipping right back into Korean. It’s a dizzying back-and-forth between at most three languages, at any given time. The two of you have been called out for it, but Minghao secretly enjoys the challenge.

"I’ve been meaning to check that out from my neighborhood's library," you note as you tap at the spine of Minghao's copy of Almond. He privately marvels at how your voice sounds more mellifluous in your first language, almost missing the question you pose. “How are you liking it so far?”

He looks down at the book in his lap, thumbing through the pages idly. “It’s good,” he answers simply. There’s a pause, but it's not quite awkward. It's something else... an afterthought. The next words are quieter than the last. “A bit sad.”

“That’s what most reviewers have said about it,” you muse, leaning back against your chair to stretch your legs underneath you. “Maybe I’ll finally pick it up this weekend.”

Minghao doesn’t look at you directly when you start to stretch out, when your shoulders roll forward. Instead the focus of his eyes is on the book on his lap, but his mind is most definitely not on the words on the pages.

When you mention picking it up that weekend, he nods in silent agreement, the movement a bit stiff. And then, in that same beat: “Have you gone to the doctor about your back pain?”

The question is quiet but pointed, with just a hint of concern to his voice. He spots all the tells of you preparing to lie to him— the tick in your jaw, your tongue peeking out between your clenched teeth. “Of course I have,” you lie smoothly. “It’s just your regular back pains that come with sitting in a chair a lot.”

“Hm.”

Even this late in the game, you still thought you could lie to Minghao. And maybe you could, and he would let it slide, in favor of being considerate and polite.

But only for a bit, because he knows you haven't seen a doctor about the back pain that started recently. Knows that you’re being a hypocrite, always asking him to take care of himself when you aren’t even doing the same for yourself.

He’s not entirely surprised, admittedly. You’ve always been so focused on your work and on taking care of others that it was sometimes hard to think that you focused on yourself. Not that Minghao is one to talk, when it comes to taking time for his own health. But this was you.

He sighs, just barely, before he reaches over to nudge you on the shoulder, like he would do with Jun or Soonyoung or any of the other members. “Liar.”

A sound between a huff and a laugh escapes you, but then you raise your palms in a show of surrender.

“I haven't really had the time to go to the doctor,” you admit sheepishly. “There’s been a lot of content to translate. And I’ve been preparing for the group's Japan showcase next week.”

Minghao knows you well enough to know that you'd probably work yourself till you dropped, if you had the chance. The thought makes him want to roll his eyes.

“Mm,” he responds, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You can stop working for ten minutes to go to a clinic. You have enough money. And even if you don’t, I could—”

He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. The words nearly slipped.

— take you to one, he had meant to say.

The offer is on the tip of his tongue; the thought of you walking around with such bad back pain that you could barely walk without hobbling having pissed him off. Some part of him, some tiny selfish part, is holding him back from saying anything.

Maybe he just wants to see what you do. If you’ll finally do something about it, if only because he’s asked you to care for yourself for once.

There’s a flicker of surprise on your expression, though it's quickly smoothed out by something more akin to affection. Minghao had always been the thoughtful kind. It had taken some time for him to warm up to you, but around three or so years into your friendship, you’d started becoming a recipient to his quiet care and compassion.

“I’ll get a proper checkup once the Japan showcase is over,” you finally concede, if only to put his mind at ease. “The whole thing. A CT scan and all that.”

Minghao let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding out in silent relief, his shoulders dropping. When you promise that you'll go for a checkup when the Japan showcase is over, part of him wants to say I don��t believe you or I’m coming with you or even I’ll take you there myself.

But he decides to keep his mouth shut. There's no point in arguing, unless he wants to give you even more of a headache. He huffs with faux annoyance. "I’ll hold you to that," he tells you.

Minghao’s little show of annoyance does little to unnerve you, especially when you know it’s just that. A show. You shake your head with amusement before glancing at the table in front of you, where your laptop rests, forgotten.

“I still have to finish this, though,” you say almost ruefully to Minghao, tilting your head slightly as you look back at him. “Do you have any other schedules for the rest of the day?”

“I don’t,” he says. “We have a free day today. My only plans were to bother you.”

Minghao’s definition of bothering was a lot different from, say, what Mingyu or Jeonghan would call being a bother. No, for Minghao, bothering you entailed simply being in your space— mostly in silence.

“Knock yourself out, then,” you say with a slight wave of your hand, essentially giving Minghao the carte blanche to stick around, maybe read, as you finish off your work. “I'll probably be done in half an hour. Let's grab something to eat after?”

“Thirty minutes,” he agrees. “And I get to pick the place.”

For the next half hour, Minghao makes an effort to not bother you in the way most of the other members would. No unnecessary comments, no sudden pokes with a pen or a random finger tapping at your shoulder.

He simply sits there, legs crossed out in front of him, one hand flicking through the pages of the book he was reading earlier, the other hand on his knee. Every so often, he glances up, just a brief glance to check if you’re still swamped with work.

It’s hard for anybody, even the most unobservant of people, to miss the sight of the two of you sharing the couch in the company lounge. Two such different people— you, with your cool temperament and soft features, and Minghao, with his sharp eyes and his sharper tongue.

And yet, the sight of the two of you is more familiar than anything else. Anyone who’s been around the company long enough has seen the two of you sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Serene. At utter peace with each other's company.

There are others who want to interrupt, but the intensity of Minghao’s gaze as he glances up briefly is enough to discourage them. It’s a silent challenge and a promise that they better not disturb the two of you.

By the end of the thirty minutes, you’re nearly done with the video subtitles, and Minghao is about five or so pages from finishing his book. The book has been set aside on the table by then, his gaze now focusing on your work, rather than the story in his hands.

You hammer out the last of your subtitles with a mumble of “I’m done, I’m done.”

You shut your laptop with a slight snap, groaning slightly as you sink back against the back of the couch. “That was rough,” you huff as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “My French is getting rusty.”

“You say that about every language,” he points out. He watches you for a moment more before he reaches over, fingers wrapping around one of your wrists to tug at your arm. “Come here.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d used touch to get your attention. Minghao wasn’t the most outwardly tactile, but he had his moments. Touch was an easy, unspoken thing; it required no language, it spoke volumes.

This was one of those rare, intimate, moments of his. The moments where he let his guard down, the walls around him falling away. He tugs again, pulling you a little closer to him.

“Come here,” he says again. The word comes out in Mandarin, his fingers gently squeezing around your wrist, his other hand going to your hip to encourage you to lean in.

“So demanding,” you huff in the same language.

You’re complaining, but there isn’t any bite or any real annoyance in your tone. If you were really bothered, you’d pull your arm away and snap at him in Korean. Instead, you go along with what he’s doing, allowing him to pull you closer, even as you continue to grumble under your breath in Mandarin.

You give too much, he thinks silently, as his hand moves up from your hip to gently press your head into his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist instead. You let me have too much.

It’s a compromising position, especially in the company lounge. No other idol would be caught dead cozying up to a staff member like this, but Minghao was just a little bit above it all and HR had long since given up on lecturing you both about propriety.

Your hand absentmindedly rests over his knee, the platonic touch hidden underneath the table. You stick to Mandarin as you hum “This is nice.”

Minghao can’t help but agree with your words, his eyes fluttering close as he rests his cheek on the top of your head. Even with a company full of people around you and a door that anyone could walk through at any second, the two of you are tucked away in your own little world. He hums in response to your words, his own hand moving slightly to lace his fingers through yours.

Despite the fatigue weighing down on you both, the two of you stay like that, tangled together on the couch in a way that's more akin to a couple than just friends.

Eventually, the silence and stillness between you two is broken by a gentle knock on the wood.

Minghao’s eyes flutter open; he lifts his head up slightly to glance towards the door. “It’s open,” he says, his voice not betraying that you’re tucked into his side or that his hand is tangled with yours.

The door creaks open a crack, and Jeonghan peeks in. His eyebrows shoot up slightly. His mouth opens and closes, as if to say something, but you can see a knowing look pass across his face.

“Ah,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s laughing.

You code switch to Korean, unsurprisingly. “Jeonghan,” you greet, raising your free hand to wave at the older boy. You make no real effort to disentangle from Minghao. If anything, the fact that it's just one of his members makes it easier for you to just relax a bit more. "Hao kept me company while I was working."

"I can see that," Jeonghan says with no shortage of amusement. He steps into the room, decisively closing the lounge door behind him. "I figured he'd be here."

Jeonghan takes a few steps closer to the couch before he halts, just a few steps away, his legs slightly apart and his arms folded over his chest. He looks between the two of you, his gaze drifting meaningfully from the arm wrapped around your waist, to the fingers still entwined with Minghao's.

“He's good at keeping company,” Jeonghan agrees, his head slightly tilted.

“Shut it,” Minghao grumbles in response, irritation obvious in his voice.

He doesn’t move his head or his arm wrapped around your waist. Instead, he raises his other hand— the one that’s still holding your hand— to give Jeonghan a gesture that clearly means for him to go away.

Jeonghan just laughs in response to the gesture, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “What, are you two lovebirds too busy for me?” he says, his tone deliberately saccharine. “I just wanted to tell you that the boys scheduled a game night later.”

Minghao glances down at the watch on his wrist, before looking back at the two of you. “What time?” he grumbles to Jeonghan, visibly displeased at the thought of having to disentangle from you.

“In about an hour,” Jeonghan sing-songs.

“Don’t be late,” he adds cheerfully, before promptly turning around and leaving the room.

“There goes our dinner plans,” you deadpan to Minghao once Jeonghan has left, although you don’t really sound upset about it. It’s more of a statement of a fact.

“Guess so,” he responds, his chin still resting on top of your head. Your hair is soft, and his fingers absently brush against the strands.

There’s a beat of stillness between the two of you, before he speaks again. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the word quiet and soft. He knows you’d probably been hoping to eat before going back to subtitles.

“No apologies necessary,” you say easily, because this was just sometimes the reality of our friendship. You always had a dozen other things pulling at you in different directions, and so a couple of stolen hours was always a welcome reprieve.

You give Minghao's hand a gentle squeeze. “Let's stay like this for— five more minutes,” you bargain, a slight smile tugging at your lips as you stare ahead. “And then we can pack up.”

“Five more minutes?” Minghao repeats, his voice low. He thinks over your words for a moment, before he lets out a soft sigh, his hand tightening around yours. “Okay.”

There aren’t many moments when he isn't in control, or when he lets his guard down. But this— with you, with your soft hair and comfortable warmth, is something he can’t resist. He lets his chin rest on top of your head, the weight of his head resting against you. He closes his eyes, and simply lets himself breathe.

The minutes pass by in comfortable silence, the two of you still tangled together on the couch. For those few moments, Minghao has nothing to worry about and nothing to think about. He has no choreography to practice, no schedule to keep.

Five minutes spin into seven, then ten. Neither of you are keen to pull away. At the fifteen-minute mark, you finally do try. “We’ve had more than five minutes,” you say against Minghao’s shoulder.

Minghao’s arm tightens around your waist, his fingers curling around your hip in a silent bid to keep you in place. He can feel the reluctance in your tone, the hesitation, and that’s what spurs him to be a little selfish.

He lets out a soft breath, his words a low, reluctant mumble. “Just... one more minute.”

“We have to go, xīngān,” you mutter absentmindedly.

It’s unfair, the way a single word in Mandarin sounds perfect in your voice. He doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you just called him darling— maybe it was a lapse in the switch to Mandarin, maybe it was intentional.

Either way, it doesn’t take more than a single moment for his heart to skip a beat, the sound of the word making something flutter and stir in his chest. His fingers involuntarily tighten around your hip.

“Okay,” he responds, his own voice coming out quieter than usual.

He does let go of you afterwards, the loss of your body heat making his hand feel a little cold. The couch feels noticeably larger and cooler without your side pressed against his, and he already misses the weight of your head against his shoulder.

Minghao tries very hard to look collected as he stands up from the couch, his face almost carefully neutral. His lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile before he offers you a hand to help you up as well.

He holds your hand a little longer than is necessary before letting go slowly. Silence drifts over the two of you as you make your way to the door, and for once, Minghao isn’t quite sure what to say. All he can think about is the single word you’d used— xīngān, in that warm tone of yours.

It’s an endearment he’s heard from friends, family, and fans. It’s a simple, innocent term. The only thing that makes it strange is that he’d never heard you use it for him until now.

He clears his throat, trying— and failing— to keep the quiet waver out of his voice. “Hey,” he says, the word falling from his lips a little more softly than he'd intended.

He pauses for a beat, as you turn to look at him questioningly. He doesn't know how to voice what he wants to say, so he opts to keep things as simple as possible.

“You called me xīngān,” he says point blank.

For a moment, the silence drags on as you keep walking. "Xīngān," you repeat a little dumbly, your eyebrows furrowed as you try to remember how the word translates in. When it seems to dawn on you, you stop dead in your tracks.

You’re speaking in Korean when you frantically wave your hands in front of you, your eyes slightly wider than before. “I’m sorry,” you say, panicked. “I think I was aiming for yīngjùn de. You know, ‘handsome.’ I don’t know why I called you—”

Minghao's shoulders nearly slump in disappointment. It’s a stupid, pointless feeling. It’s just a word, and a common endearment, at that— and yet he’s disappointed to learn that you were trying to say something else.

He gives a little scoff, not bothering to keep the petulance out of his voice. “Oh,” he responds, his hand lifting to rub absently at the back of his neck. “Damn.”

“Did you— like being called xīngān?” you ask, and then you try for the term in your smooth, easy Korean. “Yeobo?”

Minghao hesitates, the slightest hitch in his breath as you repeat the word in Korean.

The truth is a stupid, pointless one. The truth is that his heart almost jumped into his throat the moment he heard that single word, those two syllables. The truth is that he did like being called that. He liked being called darling. He liked it a lot, to be quite honest.

He gives an aborted nod, his gaze falling away from your face. “Maybe. A little.”

“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod.

“Do you prefer yeobo,” you start, the Korean term rolling easily off your tongue. “Or xīngān?”

Your Mandarin version is a little more hesitant, more reserved, but just a touch more sweeter.

Both, Minghao nearly blurts out, before he stops himself. He doesn't know which one it is he likes more— the sweet, gentle lilt of the Mandarin, or the smooth, almost-familiar Korean. All he knows is that the sound of being called ‘darling’ in your voice, in any language, makes something in his chest flutter and tighten.

He hesitates, but again— there's no point in being coy about it, is there?

“Both,” he answers softly, his eyes lifting up to meet yours.

“Darling,” you test out— this time not in Mandarin or Korean, but in English. It's heavily accented and clumsy, but the sentiment is still the same. Minghao sucks in a breath, his heart skipping another beat. It's stupid, he’s stupid, but—

He likes how you sound, speaking English. He likes the way your words soften and drag, the way your tongue wraps around the syllables, the gentle flow of your sentences. It’s all so stupid, and yet his heart can't help but skip another beat as he listens to you speak.

The corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I like that one too,” he responds.

“In any language, huh?” you tease lightly, a light pink dusting your cheeks. The two of you begin to walk, again, because you do have places to be.

In an absentminded way, you begin to mumble the ways you know ‘darling’ is translated in other languages.

Spanish. Cariño. Portuguese. Querido. Italian. Tesoro. French. Chérie. German. Liebling.

If nothing else, Minghao has to admit that watching your cheeks flush— and hearing you speak all these other languages— is very distracting.

He’s still busy mentally storing away this new, intriguing tidbit of information that he's learned about himself, but he still can't help his mind from wandering at the sound of other languages falling from your lips. A few of them are familiar, having seen or heard them before, but some of them are entirely new.

Minghao can’t help his mind from dwelling on how good they sound when you say them.

"Wait— what about Arabic?" he asks, cutting into your little list.

It’s the only one he can think of. He just wanted to hear you say this one, too.

“I haven’t touched Arabic in ages,” you mutter distractedly. Minghao can’t help but silently laugh as he watches your facial expressions flicker in a series of micro-emotions, each one slightly different from the other. Frustration, confusion, a pinch of annoyance— and all of it over this little thing.

“I think it's maḥbūb,” you answer after a full moment's pause. Your nose scrunches up in mild frustration; the endearment accented in the language you don’t use often.

His laugh turns into a little scoff, before he finally just lets the laugh roll right out of his lungs. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” he tells you fondly, the words falling from his mouth before he can help himself.

Shit.

He'd planned on saying that, but not so— casually. So off-handedly, without a thought to the meaning behind the sentiment. It’s a little much, and yet he can't take the words back now that they’re out there. Thankfully, you take it in stride.

“And you’re cute for liking to be called darling,” you tease right back.

The words hit Minghao square in the chest like one of your punches. He’s glad you’re a few paces ahead of him so you can’t see the way his mouth parts slightly, the way he nearly stumbles. He’s thankful for the few beats of silence before you pipe up once more.

“I think I’ll stick to xīngān,” you commit.

And just like that, he’s breathless again.

He’s a sucker for that term, the way it rolls off your tongue. The way you choose it, like it's the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. “Xīngān,” he finds himself echoing, his voice softer, breathier than he’d meant it to be.

The sound of it leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest. He likes the safety of the word, the way it makes something in his chest flutter. He can’t help the slight smile from tugging at his lip.

“I like the way you say it,” he admits, no longer bothering to keep up the charade of nonchalance.

“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.

Minghao isn’t even fully convinced that you realize that this is flirting. He’d always gotten that feeling, that you don't always notice when something turns into that sort of casual teasing. He knows you can flirt; he’s witnessed some of your flirtations personally and he’s heard plenty of stories from the others.

But this sort of thing— this banter, the way you tease him with a casual sweetness in your voice— it’s new flirting territory. It’s something he's never experienced in your presence.

He follows you silently to the doors of the company, his heart pounding in his chest. The two of you walk side-by-side, your hips and shoulders nearly brushing with every two steps.

Neither of you bother to slow down as you near your inevitable separation. There isn’t a point, after all. Why draw out the goodbyes?

Before he loses the confidence, Minghao reaches out to snag your wrist. He can only hope that you’re less oblivious than he’s afraid you are.

“Hey,” he calls you back, his voice just a touch breathless. “You free this weekend?”

You tilt your head to one side, only momentarily thrown off. It wasn’t unnatural for you to meet with the boys when they didn’t have a schedule. Sometimes, it was a language lesson; other times, it was a spontaneous hangout. It was always discreet, never anything to really read in to.

You and Minghao have had your fair share of escapades. Chinese takeout on the floor of your apartment, trips to a local library. They’re few and far between, but always welcome.

“I’m free Saturday evening. I have to work in the morning, and I have a family thing on Sunday,” you answer. “What’s up?”

Minghao feels the slight tension in his shoulders loosen at your answer. It’s not a no, not when it comes with a little extra clarification, as though you had been expecting something of a meetup anyway.

He drops the grip on your wrist, his fingers loosening just enough that you can pull away if you want. “Do you want to—” he starts, the words catching in his throat. Is it just him, or is the hallway warm? “Do you want to go to the movies?”

“The movies? Sure. What did you want to watch?" you inquire, your head tilting further as your curiosity is piqued.

The overhead lights catch the soft, sharp lines of your face, illuminating the features that Minghao knows like the back of his hand. The gentle tilt of your chin, the way you’re slightly shorter than he was, the way your hair frames your face in a messy but unfussy way— as though you didn’t try, but the effect was pleasing nonetheless.

It’s an effect that isn't lost on Minghao, that leaves something warm and fond twisting in his chest. He struggles to get a hold of himself.

“There's a film festival,” he says. “An international film festival, over in Gwangjin.”

If Minghao were a weaker man, he would have beamed at your reaction— the excitement in your voice, the way you reached out to squeeze his wrist in turn.

“That sounds fun,” you say happily. “I’d love to go.”

He knew you were passionate about languages, about cultures— one of the reasons you two have gotten on so well, as you’re the only person he’s ever met who shares that sort of enthusiasm. The only person who understands it in a way that doesn’t feel too much.

He gives you a little flicker of a smile before he answers. “Good.”

There's a beat of silence as he contemplates his next few words— and what exactly he was about to propose. “You know…” he finally says, his tone just a little hesitant. “There's a… there's a film that I really wanted to see. In the festival, I mean.”

“It’s in Mandarin,” he quickly clarifies, the words tumbling from his mouth in a way that feels a little too much like panic. “Um— will your Mandarin be up to it? No subtitles.”

“I’ll be up for it,” you assure Minghao laughingly. “If I miss anything, I guess I’ll just have to ask you.”

Ask him? The idea— the mere implication that you’d be leaning in, closer, to ask him. That you’d be needing something, some sort of clarification, a better context.

The way you'd need him.

And perhaps it was obvious, the way you and he were constantly switching back and forth— him with his Mandarin and your Korean and English, to fill in the blanks. But the words still set something loose in his chest, to know that he would be there to help you if you needed it.

“Yeah,” he says, once he finally manages to remember how to speak. “Yeah, you can ask me.”

As you begin to step away, you speak up. “It’s a date, then,” you say casually, still painfully unheeding to the implications of everything. “Will you pick me up or should I meet you there, xīngān?”

Minghao has never felt more simultaneously grateful and betrayed by your lack of awareness.

Because how could you be so casual, how could you just drop that right in front of him— calling it a date, calling him ‘darling’— as though it was nothing more than just another hangout? It leaves him reeling in a way that makes it impossible to respond.

He can only offer a nod, his throat dry, as one hand lifts in a half-wave. “I’ll pick you up,” he says, his brain lagging behind with the rest of his body.

You give a small wave back, your smile just as bright and friendly as the rest of you. This was going to be a thorn in Minghao's side, it seemed. Your brain wasn’t good at half measures. You needed clarity, needed straightforwardness to confront abstract feelings.

You disappear through the revolving front doors of the company, leaving Minghao in the company lobby that suddenly feels all-too warm. His phone pings in his pocket; a text from Jun.

You're late to game night, his member teases. Get away from the love of your life and get your ass over here. ㅋㅋㅋ

Because of course Jeonghan had tattled to all the other boys where Minghao had been. He rolls his eyes as he glances down at the screen, tapping out a quick response.

I'm coming. Don't cheat.

He glances up and back at the glass revolving doors, knowing full-well that you're already on the street at this point.

Minghao, for all his bluntness, has suddenly found himself in a situation where all he can do is beat around the bush.

Minghao arrives outside your apartment building on time, his hands shoved deep in his pockets against the early evening chill. His heart is pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing in his veins.

He had dressed up. He had put on cologne. He was taking you to a film festival. What could possibly happen that would go wrong?

It's a thought that is interrupted when a horn beeping snaps Minghao's attention away from his inner thoughts, as he straightens and glances down the street. There's no one parked on your street, no one walking down the sidewalk. He takes a step forward, peering across to the other side of the street— and there you are, stepping out of the building.

It takes everything he's got to keep a straight face. It feels like something out of a drama, and he's still not entirely sure he's not dreaming.

The fact that you're dressed up too is not lost on him. Damn it, of course you'd look good to him, no matter what you'd chosen to wear.

Minghao straightens as you draw closer, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Does he pull you in for a hug? Offer up a casual, friendly greeting?

He settles for a nod, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his jeans, doing his best not to stare. "Hey."

"Hey," you greet right back, flashing Minghao a dimpled smile. You give Minghao a once-over.

"You look nice," you say like it's the most casual observation in the world.

The praise sets something aflutter in Minghao's stomach, his hands gripping his car keys a little tighter to try and keep them from shaking. "Thanks," he responds, somehow finding it in himself to step closer and unlock the car door for you. "You look good, too."

Good doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks as he goes to slide into the driver’s seat.

"You got me nervous," you say as you pull the seat belt over yourself, suddenly slipping into Mandarin. "About the film having no subtitles, I mean. So I ended up brushing up on my Mandarin."

He lets out a small huff of a laugh that's bordering on a scoff. "Since when have you had to brush up on anything?" he responds in Mandarin as well, flicking on the turn signal and pulling the car out into the street. "Your Mandarin is perfect."

"I'm always studying. You know me," you chirp, leaning forward slightly to fiddle with the knobs of Minghao's car radio. You’ve been in his passenger seat enough time to feel comfortable doing this; you settle on a station playing mostly Western indie songs.

"And my Mandarin always has room for improvement," you go on. "I'm still working on that C2-level proficiency."

Of course you weren't satisfied with just good. You had to go and be an overachiever. Minghao finds himself shaking his head at the thought of how your drive for excellence in everything was— for lack of any better word— admirable and adorable all at the same time.

"You're insane," he says under his breath, still so awed by self-imposed standards. "You really don't need to do that, you know. You're great the way you are."

"How is it that you're both goading and complimenting me at the same time?" you tease.

The way you speak sounds effortless and yet Minghao can pick up on the little moments where your tongue would just ever so slightly stumble. He could correct you, but God, he's never quite heard that same sound before.

In fact, he's suddenly very aware of just how different you two sound when you speak his mother tongue.

"It's called being a good friend," he responds, fighting the rising urge to say something else.

"You're a pain in the ass, but I love you, anyway," he continues, his hand settling on a knob on the center console to change the radio station to something with a bit more of a modern beat. You always had to listen to indie music.

As the sounds of some Top Fifties pop song filters through the car, you let out a snort of laughter and respond noncommittally to Minghao's jab. "Love you, too," you say with no shortage of sarcasm. The words, in Mandarin— wǒ yě ài nǐ— still sound soft and sweet and lilting, despite your best effort to sound mocking.

Minghao suddenly has to swallow against his very dry throat. He hadn't expected that response from you, not when the last time he had said those words to you was months and months ago during an argument between the two of you. A particularly stressful work week, a squabble that neither of you talk about anymore.

"You better," he manages to respond, his voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable of 'better'. He hopes it goes unnoticed.

That little stutter, that tiny stumble around the last syllable of 'better', was the only indicator that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was hammering out the wildest beat in his chest.

He knows it's a sign of his own impending nerves when he turns the radio volume all the way up, drowning out any chance of conversation between the two of you for the rest of the ride to the venue.

Far too used to Minghao's pockets of peace, you pay no heed to the fact that the rest of the car ride is spent in companionable silence. You only break it once Minghao is pulling up into the parking lot of the theater house.

"You should go ahead. I'll get us snacks," you offer delicately, this time in Korean. The reminder of how the two of you had to hide any sort of public interaction settles like a stone at the very bottom of Minghao's stomach, and yet he nods anyway, silently agreeing with the logic of your suggestion.

You ask, "Is there anything you want to eat?"

He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. "Popcorn," he responds, his eyes skimming over your form as you unclick the seatbelt to leave. "With M&Ms."

The familiar request makes a small smile tug at your lips. It was the same thing, still, that Minghao asked for after all these years of movie-watching. "Got it," you say, sliding out of his car. "I'll find you in a bit."

Even through the closed car door and over the sound of the car radio turned up to its highest, he can still clearly hear the smile in your voice. It sets that now familiar thump in his chest into overdrive.

"Hurry up," he responds in all of his usual nonchalance, despite the fact that his eyes are still following your figure, taking in the way you carry yourself as you walk away.

Shit, he's so gone for you.

Minghao's choice of seats are typical as always. In the very back of the theater, to keep him away from possible prying eyes.

You settle into the seat at his right, carefully balancing the food you’d gotten the two of you. "I couldn't carry two popcorn buckets, so we'll have to share this big one," you whisper to him as you pass him his pack of M&Ms and a bottle of soda.

"Thanks,” he murmurs over the sound of advertisements playing over the big screen.

"I've heard a lot of good things about this film," you mumble. "No making fun of me if I cry."

"I would never," he replies, voice as light as yours.

Sure enough, the opening of the film has Minghao leaning forward on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the drama unraveling between the characters on-screen. It's like he was that sixteen year-old boy in the movie, struggling to find his place in the world.

He's all but quiet in his consumption of popcorn, a hand sneaking into the bucket at times to munch on a few pieces idly. A few times, when the food almost runs out— he accidentally brushes his fingers against yours. The touch is brief, accidental, but each time, his skin feels like it's singing, and he fights the impulse to grasp your hand altogether every time he reaches for popcorn.

He does notice, however, when you seem to encounter unfamiliar words. His gaze flicks over to you as your lips wordlessly form the nickname they call the main character. Xiǎoshì.

It's a term, sure, but it's far more than that to him.

For him, it's a moment. A time in his life that was so brief, but one he remembers like it happened yesterday. A small part of him wants to tell you all about it, but he can't now.

And so he settles on another form of communication. With your attention still on the screen, Minghao reaches over— and finally grasps your hand. Interlocking your fingers together.

As your fingers grasp with his, a part of him hopes that you don't pull away. He almost wants to look sideways at you, just so he can see your reaction— read your face as you focus on the movie in front of you, as your heart beats fast, loud, against your ribcage.

He doesn't dare to hope, though. He keeps his hand in yours, holding on tightly, as the movie continues to play out, the scenes getting more familiar to him.

The main character gets into a particularly nasty row with his mother about following his dreams, about leaving home, about wanting a better life than the one they had in their province. His gaze flinches slightly at the familiar scene before him and the memories, the emotions, that it all brings up in him.

It's a tense scene, spoken in the scathing language he'd grown up in, and you can tell the way it's affecting him. Instinctively, you reach your free hand over to gently press at the side of Minghao's head; a quiet invitation for him to rest his head on your shoulder.

Minghao takes you up on your invitation, the touch of your hand almost a command to him. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, not unlike a weary puppy. He can practically hear his mother's voice in some parts of the argument playing out in the movie. He can hear his own words echoing in his ears— almost as if he himself was the one speaking on-screen.

He wants to stay in the moment, with you, in the darkened theater as the movie continues to play. He doesn't think he can tear his eyes away from the screen, just like how he feels like he can't let go of your hand.

But it's a movie— a coming-of-age one, at that— and so all ends well. The boy and his mother reconcile. The main character is not any older by the last part of the film, but he's wiser, and the whole thing ends with him looking out at the Beijing skyline, humming an old lullaby for comfort.

The credits roll. The lights stay off as they do, and you finally, finally, bring yourself to pull away from Minghao's shoulder.

You keep your hand in his, though, as you let out a quiet, watery laugh. "Xu Minghao," you reprimand in Mandarin. "You took me to the saddest movie ever."

"I told you," he responds back lightly, in Mandarin, his own voice a little rough from trying to hold himself back just a bit. "My friend said it was a sad one, when he recommended it. And you said you were fine."

He squeezes your hand again, shifting in his seat so that he was facing you, a hint of teasing in his tired eyes.

Absent-mindedly, you rub your thumb on the back of his palm. "How did you like it?" you ask, pitching your voice lower, still, despite no one being within your vicinity.

Minghao's eyes soften a little at the tender gesture on your part. He feels the light, comforting motion of your thumb brushing against the back of his palm and he lets out a small, shaky sigh of his own. "It was... a little difficult to watch," he admits, his voice quiet, his eyes focused on your interlocked hands between you.

"Do you want to talk about it over dinner?" you offer, your smile just a touch rueful. "Or we could just... have dinner and not talk about it at all. Whichever works best for you."

At your offer, a small, almost self-deprecating smile quirks at the corner of Minghao's lips. He squeezes your hand one more time. "Dinner, yes. Talking, no."

The walk back to the car is a quiet one. Once you’re in your seats, Minghao puts the burden of deciding on you.

"There's this barbeque place I've really been wanting to try out over in Myeongdeong," you rave, but then your fingers freeze over the GPS screen. You glance at Minghao over your shoulder, suddenly a bit sheepish. "It's a bit out of the way from your dorm and my apartment, though. Is that alright?"

He lets out a small, soft laugh, shifting in his seat a little before reaching over to lightly flick your ear. "When has distance ever stopped me?" he retorts, his usual dry tease in his voice. "Let's go, I'm starving."

"Alright, alright," you huff as you plug in the address. The directions to the restaurant— somewhere twenty minutes away, barring traffic— appear on screen as you move back into your seat, still pouting slightly at your ear being flicked. "I just thought you'd be sick of me after the movie."

"Sick of you?" He scoffs at your words as he begins to peel out of the parking lot. "I think I would die of boredom without you, actually."

“Ah. Because no one else will keep up with you like this, hm?"

"They're not quick enough. You're one of the rare ones who don't make me want to tear my hair out."

"You're laying it on thick tonight. Is this a ploy to get me to pick up the dinner bill?” you tease. "Because really, Hao, there's a rather big difference between the salaries of idols and translators."

He chuckles a little at your comment, his grip around the steering wheel tightening slightly. "No, this is not a ploy to make you pay for dinner. I'm treating tonight. I'm rich, remember?"

"Yah, you're not treating!” you shoot back. “We’ll pay for our own shares. You should only spend your money on things that are important.”

"And treating you isn't important? You're always important to me. Don't deny it."

When you suddenly go silent as a flush starts to creep up your face, Minghao can't help but look away from the road for a few moments to glance at you from the corner of his eye. He can only see the side of your face, the blush that colors your cheeks glowing against your skin.

"You can't just say stuff like that so casually," you snap, though your tone is soft around the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."

"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he muses. "I'd rather tell you all the time."

In a bid to regain a bit of an upper hand, you keep your eyes out the window as you mumble in Mandarin, "Just keep driving, xīngān."

Seeing your flustered face flush an even deeper color of red gives Minghao a sort of satisfaction, his lips tugging up at the corners. He can't help but chuckle a little more when he hears the words that leave your mouth in Mandarin, his mind taking a few moments to register the nickname he's grown to like.

"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says, voice slightly muffled as he continues to focus on the road. "My heart can only handle so much."

You finally glance over at him. The blush still lingers, but there's a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes now. "Should I warn you, then, if I'm about to use it?" you say sweetly, sticking to his mother tongue for the sake of seeing how far you can go with it. "Should I only save it for special occasions?"

"Yes," he manages to hiss out after a beat, a small scowl on his face when he realizes that you're taking advantage of his weakness. "I'd much prefer you to warn me in advance. And only use it on occasions that actually count."

"I'm about to use it," you warn instantly, leaning slightly forward to turn down the radio. There had been some other group's song playing, filling the car with the sweet, lilting sounds of a ballad.

"This occasion counts, xīngān," you sing-song. "Every moment with you counts."

At your obvious mockery, Minghao's scowl only deepens, not that he really minds. Your sweet words have his heart thudding loudly in his chest in spite of his protests.

"Stop being so cheesy. You're only saying this because you know that I like it, aren't you?"

"I'm saying it because I like it," you answer. "It suits you. I'm about to use it again."

You pause for a beat. "Darling," you say, this time cycling between English, Korean, and Mandarin. "Yeobo. Xīngān."

This time, Minghao can't help but chuckle. He's definitely going to be having a good time tonight.

"Are you going to spend the rest of the night calling me that?" he questions, finally having to pause at a red light. He turns to look at you for a few moments. "Just so I know what to expect."

"Do you want me to?" you ask right back, your eyebrows raised slightly.

"If you did," he starts, the words coming out before he even fully registers them, "I wouldn't stop you."

The light turns green. The cars in front of you move forward a bit, and that means that you have to as well. The moment passes ever so slightly as Minghao is forced to lurch forward, to turn the corner that will finally have you at the barbecue place you'd recommended.

You look ahead, away, the smile on your face widening just a bit. And because he said he wouldn't mind, because he'd given you something akin to a go-ahead—

"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.

The term of affection in your voice has Minghao's heartbeat rising, the nickname ringing in his ears, filling his chest with a sort of sweetness at the sound of it. It was like music to his ears, he thinks, the way you say it, the way it sounds.

Once again, he can't help the smile that finds a place on his face, though he hides it by turning away to concentrate on the road ahead, trying to focus on it instead of the way his heart just won't stop racing in his chest.

The meal is comfortable. You talk about everything and nothing; you take turns cooking the meat. If sometimes you fall silent, neither of you feel the need to fill that quiet. You're so assured in each other's presence that we're fine to just be.

It's easy, with you— easy to relax in a way that he sometimes can't with others. He feels comfortable with you, safe around you, and he doesn't really have to think about what words he uses or the right thing to say.

You make it easy for him. And he's grateful for it.

As the night continues, though, the light conversation seems to eventually die down. Not that it bothers him; no, as Minghao has said before, the two of you do well with silence.

In the quiet that now surrounds the two of you, though, his mind begins to wander. A thought that has been in the back of his mind since earlier that night resurfaces again.

"Xīngān," he begins tentatively, his eyes still on the grill in front of him as if staring at it is supposed to give him some strength. Once again, he finds himself turning to Mandarin for the question, the words feeling like home on his tongue.

It feels, somehow, more fitting to ask you this question in the language that's his, one that he's comfortable and practiced in. "Do you believe in fate?"

Mìngyùn. Fate. Your mouth soundlessly tries out the word, the two syllables lolling on your tongue.

"Like— the red thread of fate," you say, just a little dumbly, as you contemplate Minghao's question. You don't even notice the way you've switched over to Mandarin to match his pace. "Like that kind of fate? Or something else?"

He takes a beat before he answers, trying to figure out how to word his question, how to express what he means in a way that makes sense, even to himself. "I mean that kind of fate," he clarifies. "Like, soulmates."

"Do you?" you ask suddenly, throwing the query back to him.

"I do."

"What version of the red string of fate do you believe in?"

He hesitates when you ask him the question, not quite sure how to explain the kind of fate he believes in. "I believe in things that are inevitable."

"I mean— I believe in things that are destined," he continues, trying to elaborate. "I believe the people— the ones who are supposed to be together— will always find each other, in a way, no matter what happens. No matter how much time passes, or what obstacles there are between them."

The way the corner of your mouth twitches when he says the word inevitable sets something ablaze inside him.

He knows the look you're giving him is just one of interest, not a look of affection, but to him, it feels like a look of affection.

Your lips twist into a slightly rueful smile as you take a moment to flip the meat on the grill, trying to keep it from burning. It's your turn to keep your gaze evasive as you answer.

"I'm not sure if I believe in fate," you say, your Mandarin deliberately careful and slow. "Or soulmates. Not in the way that you do, at least."

The words strike a painful sort of ache in his chest and Minghao finds himself having to bite down on the inside of his lip, trying to quell the way his heart seems to clench at the confession.

This time, you slide into Korean, desperate to get your point across in the language that you know, in the tongue where you won’t be misconstrued. "I want to. I want to believe that soulmates exist— that there's someone out there for all of us," you say with a little more firmness, the change in speech giving you some more conviction.

"But I think that if soulmates do exist, they're not found; they're made." You pause to bring your gaze back up to Minghao. "People meet, they get a good feeling, and they get to work building a relationship. And that will lead to the inevitable."

He's not quite sure why it feels like a loss, somehow, to no longer be speaking in Mandarin, and it makes his fingers itch for something to do. There's a moment where Minghao has to process the words you say, the way you express yourself so firmly and deliberately, as if you've given this some thought. Slowly, he gives a nod. "Like working in a relationship. Like making it work."

"Like making it work," you concede.

You gently place the last pieces of meat on Minghao's plate. "The concept of the red string of fate has always scared me," you admit, your mouth twitching upward in a slightly wistful smile. "What if the person on the other end follows the string only to realize they don't like what they find?"

Minghao's gaze drifts down to the plate of food you've assembled for him, a gesture that feels oddly domestic, somehow, to have someone prepare a plate for him, and his heart gives a warm, affectionate little squeeze.

He looks back up when you speak, his face a carefully stoic mask in spite of the way his heart is giving a painful thud, thud, thud inside his chest.

"I think..." he begins slowly, his eyes still on you, the words leaving his lips careful and deliberate, as if he's trying to pick them out slowly from a tangled mess in his mind.

There's an intensity to his gaze, a gravity that's hard to miss. "I think even if the person on the other end of the string doesn't like what they find, it's what they're supposed to have. It's what they're destined for."

"Ah. Destiny."

Minghao had stuck with Mandarin; you say it in Korean. The two words— mìngyùn, unmyeong— are the two faces of the same coin.

"And who do you think I'm destined for, xīngān?" you ask with just the right amount of teasing, making it a point to still refer to Minghao with the Mandarin term of ‘darling’ despite speaking the rest of the question in Korean.

It's supposed to be nothing more than a good-natured joke, but Minghao feels the sudden urge to be honest.

He knows it's a joke, he knows it's meant to be a lighthearted question, but something in the back of his head, something sharp and cruel, his traitorous, selfish heart keeps repeating the question back to him: Who do you think I'm destined for?

The thought that you'd be destined for anyone but him makes him feel like there's something lodged in his throat, something painful and sharp, and he wants to reach out and grab you, hold you, pull you tight against him and just never let go.

But instead he just looks at you and he forces the corners of his lips to tug up into a smile. "You're destined for someone wonderful," he says in his soft Mandarin, his trademark sincerity.

It's a non-answer; a cop-out, a way to avoid confessing things he shouldn't, but it's the best he can manage at this moment, when I wish it was me is screaming so loud in his head, it's all he can hear.

You smile softly.

Minghao had told the truth. You are destined for someone wonderful.

He just wishes he could have been more specific.

The next time he sees you is ahead of the boys’ Japanese showcase. Minghao had been lagging behind in the airport; he'd managed to get a few moments of shut eye on the plane, but it did little to stave off the exhaustion he still felt.

He walks a few steps behind Seungcheol, his eyes flitting idly through the crowd, until they land on you, walking slightly ahead.

You were already moving efficiently, keeping your gaze straight as you walked next to Seungcheol, your eyes focused and unflinching even as the press and fans yelled out at you.

Minghao's eyes don't leave your figure, following you and Seungcheol as you navigate the throngs of airport patrons with practiced ease. He's almost unsettled by how effortless you seemed— walking through the crowd as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll through the park, your expression set and unwavering as you translate for Seungcheol in a low, firm tone.

Once you finally get past the front doors of the airport, there's a lull as the boys all pile into a twelve-seater van. You stay by the door, finally stealing seconds to see each of them as they pass by you.

Vernon dips his head in a nod. Mingyu throws you an exaggerated wink. Jun mouths 'hello' to you in Japanese.

And then it's Minghao's turn to get in the van, to pass by you. There's not much either of you can do or say yet, considering the fact that there are still fans and press scrutinizing your every move, but he still has this. A moment of acknowledgment, however he deems fit.

Minghao's mouth tugs up at one corner as he sees you smile at him, the sight immediately making something warm bloom in his chest.

He can't help the subtle, almost instinctual reaction as he stops ever so slightly in passing you. He wants to say something, but words elude him.

Instead, his hand just grazes against your wrist— the merest press of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm. It's a tiny gesture, but one that speaks volumes.

For the rest of the car ride to the hotel, Minghao struggles.

He's stuck in a car full of members, all exhausted from the flight, all loud and noisy and rowdy, and the van feels suddenly stifling. He spends most of the time looking out the window, trying to focus on whatever he sees.

Anything to distract himself from thoughts of you and the ghost of your soft, warm skin under his fingers.

The next time you're slated to see the group is in the dressing room before their showcase. It's hours later. Hours you spend translating, liaising, transcribing. The dressing room is as lively as ever, most of the members having already changed into their stage outfits. Several of them are sitting around, idly eating snacks or watching videos.

You carefully push open the door. "Hey," you greet, and you're met with the instant chorus of thirteen boys welcoming you.

Seungkwan excitedly calls out, "Hey, hey, hey!"

Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.

You let out a huff of laughter, already acutely familiar with the boys' habits. "Just wanted to check in on everyone before the showcase," you say as you lean against the doorframe.

Minghao is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, his eyes on you as you say your reason for coming to see them.

"We're all good here," Jeonghan answers, one hand propping his chin up. "You look like you could use a sit, though."

Your laugh is just a little strained, your smile a touch forced. But your façade stays intact, even as you shake your head. "I've still got some preparations to do," you say lightly, and then you shift gears before anyone can press. "How was the flight?"

"It was fine," Seokmin pipes up. "You know, nothing out of the usual. We were well-behaved."

"Well-behaved," Wonwoo echoes from the couch. "If by well-behaved, you mean Soonyoung and Vernon got extremely handsy in the plane."

"Hey," Vernon protests, whipping his head around to look at Wonwoo, "don't say it like that!"

On the couch, Jihoon lets out an amused snort, shaking his head in fond, exasperated disbelief. "No, no, please," he encourages, his voice laced with sarcasm, "tell everyone how you two almost got us yelled at by the stewards because you were roughhousing over some food."

Soonyoung pouts, his expression instantly adopting a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insists. "I was a perfect angel."

While the other boys are all busy ribbing on Vernon and Soonyoung, Minghao makes his way over to where you're standing against the doorframe.

He stops when he's standing next to you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smile as he takes in your distant, almost out of it expression. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough for you to hear but low enough that the others can't, barely more than a whisper.

"You look tired."

You give him a sheepish smile as you pat out invisible wrinkles on your linen blazer. "Hao," you greet quietly, still a bit hesitant to use xīngān in front of his members.

Your gaze flickers briefly to the rest of the room before you switch to Mandarin, a clear indication that you want your next words to be for Minghao and Minghao alone.

"I am tired," you admit in his native tongue. "But it's nothing crazy. Just the usual exhaustion."

"You always work too hard," he responds, matching your switch to Mandarin. His gaze sweeps over your form, taking in the weary lines of your frame, the subtle stiffness in your stance. "You look like you'll fall over any second."

You roll your shoulders a bit, unconsciously leaning closer toward him. "It's my back, still," you confess. "Making things a little harder than usual. I really will get it checked when we're back in Korea."

A concerned frown tugs at the corners of Minghao's mouth when he hears you say it's your back, his eyes sweeping over your frame once again. "How long has it been bothering you?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over you.

He tries not to seem too obvious about it, but he steps a little bit closer, shifting a fraction of an inch closer in case you do fall over. His arm brushes up against yours, the contact between the two of you almost imperceptible.

"This morning," you say with a rueful smile, your hand reaching behind to massage the small of your back from over your layers of clothing. "The plane was a bit cramped."

Minghao's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch when he hears the reason, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I told you to get it checked before the flight," he says.

You give Minghao a look that's mildly exasperated and wholly exhausted. "I'm already booked to see a physician once this trip is over," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up at Minghao.

"You always say that," Minghao responds, the hint of annoyance in his voice a clear indication of just how frustrated he is. "It's clearly bothering you every day. If you just took some time off, maybe even just a week, maybe you'd—"

"Minghao."

The quiet, stern way you say his name— just his name; not Hao, not xīngān— cuts right through his frustrated tirade. A flicker of surprise passes across Minghao's features, the almost snap in your tone shutting him up.

"I'm going to go," you inform him stiffly, slipping back into Korean and away from the language you reserved for each other. "We need to prepare for the showcase."

His jaw clenches, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he tries to keep his mouth shut for once, biting back the words he wants to say, the protests that are so close to leaving his lips. He lets out another huff of air, forcing his expression to stay neutral.

"Yeah," he replies in the same language, the one word filled with annoyance. "See you."

When the showcase rolls around, you maintain a backstage presence. Your role, as always, entails that you pay complete attention to the boys as they speak. Whenever they address the crowd as a whole, you translate their Korean into Japanese.

For some reason, hearing the familiar sound of your voice coming out of the speakers, the smoothness of your Japanese, still feels somewhat calming to Minghao. In the chaos of lights and loud music, hearing the rhythm of your words through the speakers makes it feel like, at least for the moment, you're still right there beside him.

When the songs pass and the showcase ends, the members are all still riding the high of the excitement of their performance, the energy of their fans still buzzing in the atmosphere.

They all make their way backstage, the hum of their conversations filling the air, a sense of excitement and satisfaction, each and every one of them energized. Minghao, once again, makes his way over to where you're standing, his eyes on you, his expression almost intense.

You don't immediately notice Minghao approaching because a staff member is talking to you in rapid Japanese about some interviews you need to coordinate, need to play the role of interpreter for. You're trying to bargain for a moment's break, but it's a losing battle.

The staff then suddenly folds into a bow, and only then do you realize that Minghao had come up to you. You dip your head in an equally respectful bow of acknowledgement.

In Japanese, you tiredly assure the staff member you'll be there for the press circus; she leaves Minghao and you alone at your reassurance. You flash Minghao a weary smile, slipping, this time, into Korean. "Good job with the showcase," you say benevolently. "You did well."

He can't help the subtle frown that forms on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow in concern. The fact that you're once again hiding behind that professional exterior of yours, the friendly, polite smile you're shooting him, does nothing to soothe his frustration.

"Thanks," he mutters, his tone somewhat clipped.

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you. "Hey," he eventually says. "Come with me for a second."

You cast a glance around backstage. The boys are all off doing their own things— chugging water, ribbing each other, taking photos. In a gaggle of thirteen, it's easy to fly under the radar at any given time.

"You have a magazine interview in fifteen minutes," you tell Minghao, clueing him in on the conversation you had with staff just moments prior. "We can't really go anywhere—"

"I know," Minghao responds, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he'd meant it to be, frustration getting the better of him.

He takes a quick glance around the backstage area, confirming that the others are all occupied enough that they won't notice, before his gaze lands back on you. "We won't be long," he assures you, already grabbing your wrist.

His grasp on your wrist is firm, his hand strong and his fingers wrapping around the limb easily, pulling you along with him, with no room for any protest. He doesn't break his pace until he's found a small, secluded bathroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you before anyone could notice.

"Minghao," you hiss under your breath, still obviously pissed in the way you forgo both his nickname and pet name. "You can't just drag me off when we have work."

Even in his already frustrated state, Minghao finds himself momentarily distracted by your pissed off tone, and the use of his name without a nickname or pet name. He likes you calling him by some form of a cute or affectionate moniker far more than just plain, unadorned Minghao.

"We still have a couple more minutes," he retorts, mirroring your tone even as his hand slides down to lace your fingers together.

His eyes are heavy on you, his expression intense even as he takes an unabashed, close-up look at your face, studying the weariness in your expression, and the strain that's clearly weighing down on you.

He makes a move to reach down, his gaze on your cheek, to brush away a strand of stray, loose hair. His heart lurches when he sees the way your expression softens subtly, even when you're still trying to be mad at him. The way you immediately intertwine your fingers in his— God.

"We look very suspicious right now," you say dryly, your free hand gesturing vaguely to the fact that Minghao practically has you pinned against the bathroom wall. "Is this what you pulled me away for?"

"We'll make it quick," he manages to reply, sounding slightly hoarse, before closing the already-minimal distance between the two of you, one arm snaking around your waist.

"We shouldn't—" you protest weakly, because there's just some things you can't explain away. Like how Minghao and you might be caught hugging in this bathroom when you were colleagues at worst, good friends at best. "We're going to get in trouble."

"We won't," he responds, his tone firm, stubborn.

His other hand comes up to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in even closer, burying your face in his chest, the other arm still looped firmly around your waist. He lets out a sharp exhale of air, the frustration and tension of the moment melting into something akin to relief.

"Just—" he mumbles, his breath hot in your ear. "Let me hold you. Just a little— for a second."

A small flicker of relief fills his chest when he feels the tension ease as a result of his embrace, the way you lean against him, almost as if you're allowing yourself just to relax. To melt against his body the way you almost never did in public.

When you mumble Mandarin against his chest, your words are slightly muffled. "I'm sorry about earlier," you whisper. "I was really stressed."

"I know," he responds, just as quietly. "I'm sorry too."

This was how it was with the two of you— the quick-tempered arguments, the stubborn disagreements, and then the inevitable apologies that always followed. Minghao knew he was stubborn, maybe even a little irritable, and he would admit that he could've handled his response better.

But, for some reason— in the moment, at least— all of that tension that had been between the two of you in that moment just evaporated in the embrace. "You're working yourself to the bone," he mutters quietly, into your collarbone.

He knows how hard you work, in general, but it's become increasingly worse as of late. The endless translation, the interviews, the subtitles and scripts. It all seemed to be getting too much, even for you.

"I know it's not my place to tell you this but—" he continues, his voice becoming even more hoarse and heavy in worry. "You need to take better care of yourself. You can't just keep pushing yourself like this. Not like you've been doing. You're going to burn out at this rate."

It's just the way the two of you were— you, the overworked, over-stressed, and over-tired, and him, almost constantly worried about your general well-being, worried about you working yourself to actual exhaustion.

The moment you gently run your fingers through his hair, he instantly melts against you even more, practically nuzzling against your shoulder.

"You do have some right to tell me this. We're friends," you sigh, tilting your head to press your lips to the side of Minghao's temple. "And you're right— I'll look into taking a medical leave for a bit, once we get back home."

"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm. "You need a break. And I—" he pauses, hesitating.

He doesn't like seeing you like that, he wants to say. He doesn't like seeing you so tired and so stressed every day. He doesn't like how you barely have any time together anymore. He doesn't like seeing you overexert yourself so much.

He stops himself from saying it out loud, instead letting out a soft huff before continuing. "I really worry about you, you know?" he mutters against your shoulder.

"I know, xīngān," you respond, slipping into Mandarin in a bid to comfort Minghao a little more. A beat. And then, ever so quietly: "I worry about you, too."

You slide your hand up and down his back. "We're both fools," you whisper with a slight huff of laughter.

"Yeah," he agrees with an exhale of a laugh at your last words. "We are both fools."

But we're fools for each other, his mind unhelpfully reminds him as he dares to hold you for just a moment more.

He just has to go and mess it all up by insisting, "I wish you’d let people take care of you."

People, meaning him. He had meant to say I wish you’d let me take care of you, but instead something entirely else came out. He knows he ought to back down the moment he feels you tense under his grasp, but Minghao was nothing if not adamant.

"I don’t need to be taken care of," you persist.

Minghao huffs into your hair. "That’s bullshit and you know it."

"Hao—"

"It’s not a sign of weakness—"

"You keep treating me like—"

"I’m not—"

"Minghao!"

You’ve all but pulled away now, your earlier softness replaced with a new kind of tension. It’s not the same tiredness from being overworked; no, it’s the frustration of the two of you trying to speak over each other. The push and pull of your words. Your mutual inability to communicate just what you mean.

Minghao’s fingers ball into fists at his sides to hide his almost trembling hands. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching back out for you.

"I'll go ahead," you whisper decisively, your gaze fixed on the door. "I'll see you at the magazine interview."

An almost visceral, physical pain shoots through Minghao's chest at the mention of you leaving. His mind screams no, don't leave, don't go. But he swallows down his own irrational, impulsive desires, his own selfish longing for you.

"I— yeah," Minghao responds slowly. "I'll meet you there."

He watches silently, almost helplessly, as you make a beeline for the door.

The interview is with NYLON JAPAN. You interpret and translate for both the interviewer and the boys, once again acting as an off-camera presence— an intent, constant figure quietly relaying questions and answers.

There's some benefit in SEVENTEEN being thirteen members strong. That way, Minghao is in the second row, some distance away from you. If you avoid his gaze, it almost feels negligible.

For the duration of the interview, Minghao can hardly concentrate on the questions and answers being traded between the members and the interviewer. His focus is firmly drawn towards you.

He can't help but glance in your direction every so often. Every time your gaze accidentally meets his, it's like a jolt of electricity straight to his chest, his stomach clenching at the painful realization of how close you are and how far away you feel.

When the interviewer begins to ask member-specific questions, you do your job as well as you always do. The first two are for Seungcheol, then Chan. And then, of course, there it is.

You nod a bit as the interviewer poses his question. "Jun and Minghao," you translate, your voice wavering imperceptibly on the second name. "You two are the members that have given up a life in your home country in exchange for being an idol. How are you able to cope with that?"

As you translate Jun’s answer to the interviewer, Minghao can hardly focus on the actual words he's saying. He’s only half-listening as he watches the subtle flutter of your eyelashes, the slight parting of your lips, the crinkle in your forehead as you concentrate hard on getting the Japanese translation perfect.

His chest feels tight, like there's a band wrapped around his entire body, constricting his airflow.

When your gaze finally moves back to him, locking eyes with his own, a rush of breath leaves his lungs, his heart jumping in his throat. The look in your eyes, the distance between the two of you— it’s nothing short of exaggerated.

For a brief moment, he's not answering a question for a Japanese magazine interview. He's answering a question for you.

"It's hard," Minghao answers, his voice quiet and low, somewhat hoarse. "It’s really hard and lonely sometimes."

Every word that leaves his lips feels like a struggle to get out, like they're getting stuck in his throat, choking him.

"But I have the members, and we have the fans," he continues, a quiet yearning in his eyes. "And so it’s bearable," he says, despite the pit still present in his stomach, despite the ache of needing more.

He keeps his gaze focused on you, letting every word he says hold a meaning beyond the answer to the interviewer’s question— as if he’s answering for you and not the interviewer. But he has to keep his words vague, just in case those damned cameras picked up on his words and the way he looks at you.

"It's bearable," he repeats, swallowing hard, letting his eyes convey what he really means, even if his words can’t. You make it bearable.

There are some things that don't need to be translated. The pinched look on Minghao's face. The way he's openly staring at you. The subtle shift among the members— all of whom seem to pick up on something Minghao isn’t saying.

"Is that all?" you ask Minghao in Korean, your voice steady as ever despite the flicker of emotion in your gaze.

That aching, yearning expression is still present on his face as he responds.

"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."

Minghao's phone is tucked under his pillow, the device set to vibrate.

He jolts awake the moment it begins to buzz, a habit he had grown after years of being under the spotlight and on the road. His hand flies out to grab the phone.

His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision. A slight smile involuntarily tugs at his lip when he sees your message, his eyes skimming over the contents of it several times.

i'm sorry about today. (yesterday, technically?) i hope you're resting right now. ily.

"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.

You don't have anything to apologize for, he replies quickly. It's not your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've been more patient with you.

How are you? Are you okay?

i'm ok. fell asleep on the couch and woke up suddenly. but did i wake you? it's so late. you should be asleep.

A quiet sigh leaves Minghao's lips as he reads your response, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt, as if knowing he was the reason you were awake right now.

You did wake me. But don't worry. I'm glad you texted me. Can you call me?

A beat.

let me just step out onto my balcony so i don't wake my roommates.

The image of you carefully sneaking out onto the balcony to talk, just so you wouldn't wake your roommates, briefly flashes through Minghao's mind. It reminds him of his own sleeping roommates a mere few feet away from him.

He sighs softly, quietly pulling himself out of bed, careful to not disturb Mingyu and Jun as he quietly makes his way out into the balcony from the door to his left.

The air is cold and the night sky is clear. Those are the two of the three things Minghao registers when he steps out on the balcony of his hotel room. The third thing comes after you call him and there’s a slightly amused edge to your tone as you say, "Look to your right, xīngān."

He turns to look to his right just as you asked, his eyes searching the balcony area in the distance. He can't quite make out any details on your figure in the low lighting, but when his eyes finally land on you, his heart skips a beat all the same.

"Found you," he murmurs.

"I didn’t mean to wake you," you say softly. "We could have talked in the morning, you know."

"I know," Minghao responds. He leans against the railing of his own balcony, the metal cold to the touch, his eyes fixed on you. He's sure you can't see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter at this moment.

He was looking at you, and that was enough.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says simply, the words said without a trace of shame, just quiet honesty.

"What did you want to talk about?" you ask, giving him the liberty to set the pace for tonight, to pick and choose his battles.

There are a lot of things Minghao could say right now, a lot of things he wants to say. But instead, he settles for, "How are you?"

"Better now," you say simply, your gaze still fixed on Minghao in the distance. And it's the truth, even if the second half of your answer goes unspoken. Better now, that you're talking to him.

He stands there silently, still watching you from a distance. Despite his earlier confidence in talking to you, he's suddenly feeling uncharacteristically timid. Tongue-tied, almost, with his words caught in his throat. He can’t bring himself to speak for a moment, a part of him still feeling guilty about earlier.

He swallows the tightness in his throat, taking a deep breath, before finally forcing the words out. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "For what happened in the bathroom."

Perhaps it's the years you’ve known each other, the herculean task you’ve both faced. But Minghao and you know better than anyone that things were so easily lost in translation, that there’s only so many emotions that can be grasped in all the languages of the world.

"We just have to get better at using our words, I guess," you sigh.

Something in his chest settles at your response— at the understanding in it, at the fact that you don't hate him. The knowledge washes over him like a sudden warmth, the guilt he'd felt earlier slowly evaporating with each passing moment.

"We do," he replies quietly.

There's a comfort, still, in being just a couple of balconies away. How you can make out each other's vague silhouettes in the late evening of this foreign country.

It feels like you're standing on the precipice of something, of possibility.

But instead of confronting it, you opt to dance the line a little longer. Your eyes are still trained on the sky as you slip into Mandarin.

"The stars out here are so clear, xīngān," you muse thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"

The change in language registers quietly in Minghao's mind, his brain taking a second to get used to it after speaking in Korean and stilted Japanese most of the day.

He looks up at the night sky for a moment in quiet contemplation, taking in the beauty of the stars as you'd described them, before turning his gaze back to the shadowed outline of your figure in the distance.

Something about the sight, about you, makes his heart ache a little bit. Beautiful, you had said about the stars, but he’s not looking at them.

He responds softly, longingly, in Mandarin, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. "It really is."

The next day, you both get on separate flights back to Seoul. As Minghao had poked and prodded you to do, you finally take the medical leave from work— a one-week block, which was the longest you’d ever gone away from PLEDIS since you first started nine years ago.

Roughly three days into your break, Minghao is in dance practice when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He frowns when he glances at the screen and sees your name.

can i call?

The sight of the message, so unlike your usual lighthearted air, makes his heart drop instantly in his chest. There's no text-speak, no cutesy words, no emoji— just a simple question. He drops whatever he's doing, ignoring the questioning stares from the members as he steps out into the hallway and quickly dials your number without a second thought.

"Xīngān," he greets you, a little breathless from the rush he'd felt upon seeing your message. There's a hint of concern in his voice as his heart races in his chest, his mind whirling with thoughts.

He doesn't even bother with pleasantries or small talk, diving straight into the issue at hand. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"

Much to Minghao's chagrin, you bother with pleasantries. "Hey," you say back in Mandarin when he greets you. For a moment, you hesitate; like you're not quite sure which language you want to speak to Minghao in.

"I'm sorry," you say in Korean. "Did I bother you?"

Minghao shakes his head even if you can't see him. He's silent for a moment, mulling over his words before replying, "No. Never. You didn't bother me, xīngān."

The words are uttered quietly, his voice soft and gentle, as if he's afraid that the volume of his own voice might somehow scare you away.

"I finally visited a doctor for my back," you say, finally. "It's a herniated disc, and I'm being slotted in for a surgery in two days."

His heart drops into his chest at your admission, the words feeling like a sudden weight upon him. Herniated disc.

The words feel like a sudden strike to his heart, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "A herniated... disc," he repeats, his voice a little breathless, a little shocked, as he quickly tries to process what he'd just heard.

He doesn't realize he's switched to Mandarin, his own words spoken in a rush. "How bad is it? What are the doctors saying?"

You stubbornly stick to Korean, likely because it's easier to accurately relay your medical results in the same language you'd received them in. "It's not bad," you say firmly. "The operation is an open discectomy on my lower back. It will take at most an hour, and I'll only need to stay in the hospital for up to three days."

There's a flicker of irritation in Minghao's eyes at your insistence to continue speaking in your language, frustrated at the lack of comprehension and understanding it brought. He wants to protest, to argue, to tell you to just use Mandarin— but it disappears when he hears your firm voice, when he realizes what it is you're telling him.

An hour-long operation. Three days in the hospital. It didn't sound bad, per se, and logically, he knew that you would probably be fine. It still didn't make him worry any less.

"What are the risks?" Minghao asks after a moment.

Normally, he would have just looked up whatever answers he wanted, searching it up in medical databases and online articles. But, for some reason, he's suddenly terrified to hear anything other than the sound of your voice— your words, reassuring him that everything will be okay.

"No change to the back pains," you rattle off. "A five to fifteen percent chance of a revision discectomy if the herniated disc returns. A lower chance of an unstable spine. It's— they're truly not bad risks, Hao."

"Five to fifteen perc— no, that's not a 'truly not bad risk'," Minghao counters immediately, his voice sharp and frustrated, as if scolding a child that was being too nonchalant.

"You— it's surgery, xīngān—" he continues in Mandarin, his tone almost pleading. "Five to fifteen percent chance— it— what if something goes wrong?"

He feels a little bit frustrated at his sudden loss for words in both languages, as if his own limited vocabulary couldn’t express the rush of emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed him.

"Hey," you say softly into the receiver, this time switching over to Mandarin. Because it had always been more soothing to him, more familiar in the sense that mattered. "Take a moment and breathe for me, xīngān."

There's a sense of calm that washes over him as he finally hears the change in language. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts down seconds.

Slowly, the panic, the fear he'd felt gradually starts to subside, leaving his heart and breath steadier— but not completely unbothered.

After a moment, you go on in Mandarin, calm and measured. "It's a surgery with a high success rate of sixty to ninety percent," you maintain. "I need it to address the persistent back pains, xīngān. If I don't do it now, the pain will only get worse and more of my spine could be affected."

You pause, letting the words sink in. "These doctors are good," you go on. "They do their job well."

Minghao takes several more slow, steady breaths as he listens, the sound of your voice alone calming him down, helping him keep his mind clear and focused. He knows you're speaking to him in Mandarin because it's easier to communicate with him this way, but he can't help but notice the subtle firmness, the reassurance in your tone.

The statistics, the numbers, the facts— they're hard to deny, and as he takes another shaky inhale and exhale, he realizes that you're right. "Sixty to ninety percent success rate," he repeats to himself, his voice a soft murmur.

"Sixty to ninety percent," you reaffirm. Then, in a more shy tone, you add, "I'm sorry for springing this on you. I— I just didn't know who else to call."

He notices it then, the meekness in your words, the small hint of vulnerability in your voice. Any remaining anxiety he felt from the situation suddenly dissolves with the realization that you needed this.

You had called him because you’d needed to hear a familiar, comforting voice, a sense of reassurance after what you'd just confessed. He swallows back his fears, his worries, any thoughts about the risk and that lingering, unpleasant feeling in his chest, because you needed him to be calm, to be steadfast.

"Don't... Don't apologize, xīngān," he says almost immediately after. He swallows again before continuing, mentally berating himself for letting his anxiety and irrational fears take over his brain. "No, don't— I'm glad you called. I'll always pick up the phone."

"Are you free tomorrow?" you ask tentatively. "We could grab a meal before I have to check into the hospital."

As he hears the question, his mind immediately begins to run through his schedule for the next day.

He knows what he should do. He knows what the logical part of his brain, the part that's in control of his rationality, is supposed to do. But when he thinks of you— of you, in the hospital, waiting to undergo a surgery (it's safe, it's a safe surgery, he chants in his brain) alone, without him—

"I'll clear my schedule," he tells you.

"No, you don't have to," you say quickly, falling back on Korean in an attempt to express your haste. "It's okay. We can just meet once the operation is over—"

"I'm clearing my schedule,” he repeats, his voice firm, final. “I’m going to be there. We’re eating before the surgery, and I’m going to be at the hospital with you afterwards. I’m not letting you go to the hospital alone."

A beat. While there are things that Minghao and you have yet to clear about the nature of your friendship, one thing stands true regardless of label.

"You're too good to me, Xu Minghao," you say softly, shifting to his mother tongue for the sake of sentiment.

He lets the sound of your voice, the familiar language, wash over him. As it does, it soothes the anxiety that still gnaws at the corners of his mind.

"It’s…” he begins quietly, a small, almost sheepish smile forming on his lips, “not really…”

There’s a moment of silence before he sighs softly, his expression growing more earnest as he continues. “Being good to you is the easy part.”

"And it’s xīngān, not Xu Minghao," he adds quickly, and he’s sure you can hear the pout in his voice.

It draws a laugh out of you— one that's still quiet, but a lot more genuine. A moment of levity. A brightness that only Minghao could truly give you. The sound of your laughter, even over the phone, is enough to lift his spirits, his heart swelling in his chest in relief.

"Xīngān," you amend, and your voice is just a little too fond to be friendly.

For a moment, Minghao can convince himself that all will be alright in the world again.

The discectomy is relatively uneventful, which can only mean that it was good. There's no way of Minghao knowing this, of course, not as he spends the entire morning in a group meeting he can't really skip.

Regardless, all the members can tell that Minghao's heart isn't really in it. That he's physically at the PLEDIS building, sure, but his mind is on you— somewhere in an operating room, under anesthesia.

Seungcheol broaches the topic carefully. "Ah, it’s their surgery today, isn’t it?" the leader asks almost too casually, to no one in particular. There's a murmur of agreement across the table of thirteen boys. Some shifty, knowing glances at Minghao.

Minghao nods in response to Seungcheol's question, his expression still entirely too… anxious. "Yeah," he replies, keeping his voice as controlled as he possibly can, even as he feels his dread build up inside of him. "I'll be going to see them, after this."

It doesn't go amiss to anyone that Minghao doesn't even bother to extend the invite to anyone else. Jun is the only one who looks vaguely miffed about it, but they're all mostly understanding of how different Minghao felt with you compared to their own concern, their own affection.

Joshua offers the next best thing.

"I was thinking we could chip in to send flowers," he says, and there's easy assent across the group. Minghao feels a small flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of how you'd receive these messages of their care and concern.

As Vernon and Jeonghan debate what arrangement to send, Jun throws a glance at Minghao and almost smiles. Almost.

"What flowers did you get them?" Jun says in Mandarin, so no one else in the room can pick up how quickly the other Chinese man had clocked that Minghao was already three steps ahead.

Minghao glances over to his friend, his expression unreadable, as he answers in the same language. "Sunflowers," he replies, not missing a beat.

Jun can only smile faintly at Minghao's answers. "Sunflowers for your sunshine," Jun teases good-naturedly, still in the tongue that none of the other members will understand.

There's something about the way the Mandarin word for 'sunshine'— yángguāng— that sounds just so right. The Chinese term falls from the older man's lips like a blessing, a wish for good luck and health and goodness for all those involved.

Minghao isn't sure if he'd imagined it, not exactly, but he sees the way Jun looks at him right after he says the word. For a split second, Minghao's chest tightens, his throat clenching up, because maybe Jun thinks his feelings for you are obvious.

Maybe Jun thinks he's been obvious all this time. In his head, Minghao had already been thinking it— yángguāng, sunshine, mine— And it's only now that he realizes that he was never the only one who saw it that way. That saw you and Minghao as something inevitable.

He glances at Jun, eyes softening, filled with almost a wave of gratitude.

"Sunflowers for my sunshine," he repeats, hoping it will somehow manifest like a prophecy.

You wake up after your operation with one less disc in your spine and one too many floral arrangements in your hospital room. As you blink against the vestiges of your anesthesia, you register the absurd, almost comical amount of flowers piled on the couch, and it doesn't take you more than a couple of seconds to realize it came from the boys.

One of whom is dozing off in a chair next to you. You watch with mild amusement as Minghao's head dips in his restless slumber, his fingers still surprisingly firm around the bouquet of sunflowers in his lap. The affection you feel for him then threatens to overwhelm you.

You manage to tamp it down in favor of gently prompting, "Minghao."

Your voice is still hoarse, still a little rough around the edges. Not quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. After two or so more attempts, you go for what you know will wake him up.

"Xīngān," you call out with no shortage of fondness.

The sound of your voice jolts Minghao awake, and he opens his eyes in an instant. For a moment, his vision is still blurry, the world around him seeming almost vague, fuzzy with sleep, but then it snaps into focus when he sees you.

When he sees you awake, alive, and looking at him. His heart does somersaults in his chest.

"Yángguāng," he answers, his voice low, soft and affectionate, barely above a whisper.

"That's a new one," you say in Mandarin; your voice is still scratchy, but your amusement is not any less evident.

He thinks he'll never get tired of watching that. Of watching your lips move that way. "You like it?" Minghao asks.

He doesn't need an answer to his question, because he already knows that you do— but he can't help himself, needing the confirmation, needing to hear your answer. The thought of calling you 'sunshine' isn't a new one, but saying it out loud to you for the first time, when you're awake? It feels like a miracle.

"I could live with it," you answer with a soft smile— even though both Minghao and you knew that you would now never be able to live without it.

Minghao wants to laugh at the way you shrug his question off, at the way you seem so nonchalant, even as you give him that sweet, sweet smile that is so bright that it could rival the very sun itself.

Because he knows the truth. He knows you're happy about it. He knows you love it. He can tell it in the way you're looking at him, in the way your eyes glitter with affection.

"I'm glad," he answers, playing right into your charade because he knows every little trick in your book.

And then, in a fit of bravery— one that he almost feels like applauding himself for— he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.

When he pulls away, the bouquet of sunflowers still clutched in his hands, he's sure he can see it. The happiness in your eyes. The sheer, blinding affection in your smile.

"Thank you," you whisper earnestly. Partly because your voice is still shot; partly because you don't trust yourself to speak any louder. "For coming to see me."

He has to swallow hard to regain control of his emotions, because he is so terribly, terribly in love. He laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. Maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?

"I'll always come see you," he answers, instead, making a promise for the future.

He leans in again with that thought on his mind, and he presses another kiss to your temple, softer, longer, his lips lingering against your skin for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

He pulls away to meet your gaze, and he almost feels like laughing at the way he can see his feelings reflecting in your eyes, shining in the pools of your irises. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. How is he going to live with that?

Minghao leans in again, but this time, he kisses the corner of your lips, right where your smile is.

And it's astounding, really, just how terrible Minghao and you still are at this whole thing. Despite all the years between you, you still falter and stumble in getting your feelings across.

There was always something. A job to do. A reputation to uphold. And now, a hospital bed, a recovery period.

But, for once, you can only laugh breathlessly as Minghao gives you two more kisses, as you feel the upward curve of his lips against your face. Your heart stutters at the peck on the corner of your mouth; it's not quite what you both want, what you both need, but you'll take it. God, you'd take it.

"Stop that," you try to chide in between your giggles. "Get off me, Hao—"

The sound of you laughing is like a revelation in Minghao's chest. As if a chord of tension that had been strung taut within him for so long had been cut.

He pulls back with a look of satisfaction on his face, that teasing grin playing on his lips as he does. "But why?" he asks in an absolutely, unbearably sweet tone, a tone that is laced with faux innocence, even though he knows why. You were recovering. You had to be careful.

A part of him is almost glad he hadn't kissed you properly. Because if he so much as feels the softness of your lips against his, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.

But God, does that make him want it even more— the fact that he can't, the fact that you're so close and still beyond his grasp. He forces himself to look elsewhere then and his gaze falls to the bouquet on his lap, to the flowers he'd brought you.

Sunflowers, because he doesn't think they make flowers that even compare to the brightness of your smile, or the way your eyes glitter when you laugh— at least, not flowers that make him think of you and you alone.

He holds the bouquet out to you. "Do you like them?" he can't help but laugh. He had chosen them and bought them for you, and yet, in true Minghao fashion, he finds himself still asking for your approval.

"I love them," you say easily, readily, already reaching out to take the arrangement from Minghao.

Three sunflowers in full bloom, flanked by chamomile and irises and baby's-gypsophila. Your smile is bright and wide as you look down at it, as you hold it delicately.

When you look back up at Minghao, there's that touch of amusement again. That tinge of disbelief that seems to wordlessly communicate, I can't believe you.

"You didn't have to," you point out with a low chuckle, shifting slightly in your hospital bed as your fingers go imperceptibly tighter around his flowers. "But thank you."

The sight of the smile on your face is enough to almost make him want to kiss you all over again.

It's not the first time he'd given you an arrangement of flowers, but it's the first time it's made Minghao feel like he's just given you his heart, too.

"No, I didn't," he agrees lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the very tips of his fingers brushing against your soft skin. But I wanted to.

The boys all come to visit, one after the other. In small groups, in age order, until they have to be kicked out for being too noisy and potentially drawing too much attention to themselves. There are doctors, too, and nurses. All of whom are a little shell shocked at the idols just milling about in your hospital room, making themselves at home.

Throughout it all, Minghao stays. His usual quiet, steadfast presence. He absorbs all the diagnoses; he tells off his members when they get overwhelming. And, when no one's looking, he'll squeeze your hand or press his fingers into your shoulder.

As always, there are some things neither of you have to say out loud.

He's more than happy to play the role of your protector, even as he continues to worry, even as he's filled with dread over the possibility of you not recovering fully and what that might mean.

See, Minghao would never describe himself as a man of prayer. He doesn't go to temples nearly as often as he should, though he does go often, and he doesn't consider himself not spiritual.

He finds himself praying anyway. To the universe and whatever is out there, begging for the chance that all of this would work out for you.

But for now, at this moment, all Minghao can do is wait, and focus on the way your hand feels in his— a source of comfort in and of itself.

That's how your mother finds you, actually, on the evening that she deigns to visit.

Minghao is at your bedside, playing with your fingers, and the two of you are debating over something trivial— the merits of adapting dramas into other languages— with your heads bent together. It would've been negligibly friendly if it weren't for the obvious affection in your petty argument, the way you practically lean into each other's touch.

That's why it takes a moment for either of you to register that a third person had entered your hospital room. You look up at the sound of a throat clearing, and you're just about to apologize when you register who the silver-haired woman by the entryway is.

Your spine goes rigid; your eyes, imperceptibly wide. "Eomma," you choke out in a slightly strangled whisper.

Minghao goes still the moment the word leaves your lips, and his mouth goes dry when he registers the figure at the door. He doesn't exactly know what kind of a relationship the two of you had, but Minghao can only hope, for the sake of politeness and respect, that she doesn't despise him.

"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.

Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.

"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.

Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye

"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.

There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.

"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.

He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.

"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"

There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."

You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.

"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.

The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"

"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.

He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.

"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.

You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.

As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—

"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.

When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.

"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."

There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.

You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.

You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.

As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.

Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.

The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.

But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.

After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.

"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."

"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.

"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."

"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.

Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.

She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.

Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.

Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.

He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."

The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.

"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"

"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."

Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.

He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.

Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.

But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.

"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.

The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.

Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.

It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.

Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.

"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"

Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.

He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.

He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.

"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.

"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.

He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.

He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.

Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."

The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"

"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.

Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.

Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.

"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"

Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.

He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.

"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.

"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.

The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.

Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.

It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.

"How much do you like them, Haohao?"

The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.

"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.

It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.

"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.

"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."

The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.

He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.

"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.

When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.

Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.

In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you.

"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.

He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.

He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?

The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.

By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.

When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.

You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.

It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.

Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.

He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.

He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.

You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.

You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.

It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.

He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.

By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.

You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.

"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.

Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.

The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.

He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.

He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.

The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.

Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.

Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction.

Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.

Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.

"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.

Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.

The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.

There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.

No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.

And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.

When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.

"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.

And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.

It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.

Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.

It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.

He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.

And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.

He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.

"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."

That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.

You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.

Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.

His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.

"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.

Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.

"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."

When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.

And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.

"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.

Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.

There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.

This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.

Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.

Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.

For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.

Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.

But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.

When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.

The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.

As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.

"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.

The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.

His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.

"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.

And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—

Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.

"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.

Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.

"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.

The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice.

And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.

Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.

And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.

Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.

"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.

"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.

Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.

It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.

The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.

"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.

Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.

It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.

Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.

He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.

"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”

"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"

Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?

He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.

"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.

This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.

"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.

It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.

He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.

"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.

He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.

You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."

He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way.

He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you.

"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though."

"I'm never letting you go," he responds.

There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.

He just has one question that he wants an answer for.

"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"

Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.

It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"

With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."

The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.

"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.

"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face.

If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him.

"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.

The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.

A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.

"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."

"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.

He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.

"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.

"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.

It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak.

Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.

He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.

"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."

You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.

A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.

"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.

A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.

As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much.

And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué.

Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.

"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.

You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ.

But, no. Minghao is done.

He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath.

He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work.

"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.

He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese.

Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you.

It feels like forever before you respond.

When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over.

You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know.

Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something.

It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian.

I hear you.

I hear you loud and clear.

2K notes · View notes

cheolaholic · 16 days ago

Text

entangled hearts; jww & kmg

summary; you find yourself caught between Mingyu's bright smile and Wonwoo's knowing stare, it's an entangled mess. but what if there's enough room to love for three?

modern! au • university! au • fluff, angst, smut

pairing; jeon wonwoo x fem!reader x kim mingyu | wc; 16.1k | rating; 18+ explicit nsfw

contains; part-time model! reader, part-time model! mingyu, streamer! wonwoo, art major! mingyu, criminal psychology major! reader, psychology major! wonwoo, hoshi is reader’s cousin, woozi being woozi, friendship breakups, false rumours being spread abt reader, reader accidentally walking in on wonwoo’s stream, brief appearances of other svt members, takes place in the same au as ROL

mature/trigger warnings; poly relationship, dom! wonwoo, switch! mingyu, sub! reader, spitroasting, fingering, begging, oral (f&m receiving), womb stimulation (i think that’s the term), choking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), multiple orgasms, creampies, praising, mentions of alcohol, some form of anxiety/panic attack, gaslighting/manipulation tactics

petnames; Wonwoo (Wonu) // Mingyu (Gyu) // hers (Princess, Kitten)

a/n; that’s right yall, it’s a wongyu fic 😋 remember the wongyu couple i teased and mentioned about in rol, well, here it is !! not beta read, we die like soldiers 🫡 this is my first time writing a threesome so i had to REALLY read through some other threesome fics & doujins for inspo/references. if any similarities are found, it is not my intent to copy or plagiarise them 🙏🏻

✨ support me by becoming a patreon (enjoy exclusive perks & content) OR tip me on kofi !! 💜 if you are unable to do so, you can also show support by reblogging your favourite works of mine !!

👾 join my general taglist here !!

“Excuse me?”

You turned, instinctively taking a step back while your friends quieted beside you. A woman – tall, confident – stood just outside the café entrance. A leather-bound portfolio tucked beneath one arm, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair.

“I’m sorry, cupcake, I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said, her smile warm but calculated, “but have you ever considered modeling?”

Your friends exchanged surprised glances, and you blinked at her, unsure if she was serious or if you were about to have your organs harvested and sold on the black market.

The woman’s gaze swept over you again, this time more admiring than analytical. “I have an eye for these things, cupcake, and you have it. You have a presence, a posture, even the way you carry that outfit. It’s simple, yet very editorial.” She gestures lightly at your clothes, causing you to glance down at the outfit you’d thrown together.

“That skirt with that jacket? Effortless. You know what you’re doing, even if you don’t realise it yet.”

You felt your cheeks warm, fingers curling slightly around your cup of iced coffee.

“I’m a talent scout,” she adds, flipping her portfolio and pulling out a sleek business card, offering it to you. “If you’re open to it, give me a call. I’d love to talk more.”

“Soonyoung–”

“Please, ___!” Your cousin pleads with you for the nth time that week, hands clasped dramatically in front of his chest. “You’re overwhelmed with studies and your modelling gig. You need a manager and I can totally do it!”

You raise your head and shoot him a skeptical look from over your laptop. “Since when do you know anything about being a manager?”

“I Googled it,” he says, expression dead serious. “And I’ve watched like… dozens of documentaries. Plus, I already help you with blocking out your schedule half the time anyway. Remember that shoot you had last week? Who reminded you to bring backup heels?”

You sigh, knowing Soonyoung was right. He was there when that talent scout spotted you outside the cade; and your life had shifted in ways you’ve never imagined. Castigns, fittings, shoots, and runway preps… It was a lot to balance on top of your academics.

“Just imagine, cuz,” he continues, hands in the air like he’s pitching to a boardroom. “You walk on the runway all calm and collected while I deal with scheduling nightmares and last-minute fittings. You won’t even have to look at an email unless it’s good news!”

“No offense, Soonyoung, but I put more trust in Jeonghan. At least he’s close with Joshua, and Shua knows Jihoon.”

Soonyoung gasps, dramatically placing a hand over his chest like you’d just told him the tiger in his living room wasn’t his son, and instead a taxidermy. “Excuse me!? Both of us quite literally grew up with Jihoon! I even performed with him!”

You raised a brow, “You mean that HxW stage you both put together during the uni fest?”

“Yes! You know how rare it is to perform with the Lee Jihoon?”

“You and Jidae screamed into the mic, and Jihoon looked like he’s one second away from whooping your ass for your Horanghae agenda.”

“He still stayed, though. That is what you call art.”

You stare. “You almost flicked his forehead and I saw your life flash before your eyes.”

He huffs. “Art is messy, ___. But Jihoon and I? We had chemistry, you can’t deny that. He called me ‘not terrible’ after so that definitely means something.”

“Heard Soonyoung appointed himself as your manager.”

You glanced up from your notes, blinking as Jihoon slid into the seat across from you like he hadn’t just dropped the biggest statement like it was small talk. You’re tucked away into your usual corner of the library – headphones halfway in, highlighter stopping mid-way from making contact with your notes.

“He what?” You asked, sliding off your headphones and letting them rest around your shoulders, padded cups pressing lightly against your collarbones.

Jihoon shrugs, resting his arms on the table. “He’s been sending me business emails using an address that ends in horanghae101.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

He cracked the smallest hint of a smile. “He’s oddly persistent. But surprisingly organised.”

“That’s what makes it worse,” you muttered, before narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you know that..?”

“Because the signature he used was Executive Brand Director & Emotional Support to ___.”

You slowly shake your head, “No… You’re lying.” Jihoon simply turned his tablet around, and there it was – screenshot and all.

“Holy fucking shit,” you whispered.

“But,” he said, tone shifting just a little. “His chaos aside, I actually came to talk to you about something else. A little more serious, if you will.”

You raise a brow, straightening in your seat as he pushes the tablet toward you. “Because you set me as your reference in the forms when you signed under Semicolon, and before Soonyoung self-appointed himself as your manager, I was the one getting most of your gig offers.”

“There’s this Dior campaign. Couple’s concept and minimalist luxury. It’s an editorial-style shoot with subtle intimacy. They saw your Vanguard test shots and flagged you immediately.”

You blinked, “Me..?”

“You.”

Tilting your head to the side, your brows knit together, “I’m just doing modeling as a part-time thing, though… Or freelance, as some of them call it. Why me? Why not those full-timers?”

Jihoon gestures to you, “Because you’re… you. I don’t know how to say it, but best way I can put it is you don’t try too hard, y’know? You’re natural. Authentic. Something all these big brands are desperately chasing for ever since authenticity became ‘trendy’. They want someone who doesn’t look like they’re trying to be iconic, but somehow is.”

You stared at him. Jihoon doesn’t usually hand out compliments, that’s something you learnt in the many years you’ve spent growing up with him and Soonyoung. But, when he does, though not straightforward, they carry weight. Subtle and rare – paired with his own natural talent and how he’s already made a name for himself as a producer – it means something.

Jihoon never says things just to be nice – never sugar coating or entertaining the idea of false praises.

And everyone in the entertainment industry knows it.

So if he thinks you’re a right fit, it’s not just flattery.

“...And the other half of this couple’s concept?”

He non-chalantly replies, “Mingyu.”

Your jaw drops. “Mingyu? As in Kim Mingyu? Pledis’ talented art major?”

“Giant. Heartthrob and walking cologne commercial?” Jihoon adds on before nodding, “The very same one. Let’s just say that Dior is looking for chemistry, some kind of beauty and the brain vibe.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Brains? Mingyu? I once saw this man run into a glass door.”

The young producer snorts back a laugh, clearing his throat while he pulls up the pitch deck for the shoot and showing it to you. “Hey, it could be the other way around. Point is, they think you and that giant could balance each other. Visually and energy-wise.”

You take a look at the pitch – mock-ups of the set, mood boards, wardrobe swatches.

Everything looked impossibly real.

“You interested?”

You glanced back at Jihoon, mind still processing the news. “Can Soonyoung come if I say yes?”

Jihoon laughs, reaching out to show you a separate screen. “He’s already trying to print name cards.”

The soft hum of the engine shifts as the plane starts to descend. Through the oval window, the clouds are scattered like pulled cotton, revealing a quilt of lights stitched into the city below. You lean your head against the frame, the glass cool against your skin.

“Soonyoung,” your voice was barely louder than the thrum beneath your seat, but you know he’s listening. “Do you think people assume I’m not that good of a person because I’m in this whole… modeling thing?”

You don’t look at him, but you feel the slight shift in his posture. You can tell he’s frowning just from his voice, “Is this because of the fall out you had with Haemin and the rest?”

You nod faintly, still watching the night view of the city from the plane.

“She said I’ve changed,” you reply. “That ever since I signed with the agency and gone freelance, I’ve been… different. Distant. That all I talk about besides my studies were castings or editorials.”

You pause, “She said I don’t like myself anymore.”

Soonyoung is quiet, but you can tell the new information upsets him. He knew about the fall-out you had with your friend group, but he never knew the exact reason until now. His jaw tightens – he always hates it when people put you down or your self-doubt gets the best of you.

You had potential.

He knows and sees it.

“If she can’t be happy that you’re making a name for yourself,” he starts, voice low but firm, “and she’s saying all these things to make her look like a better person… is she really a friend?”

The edge in his voice takes you by surprise..

“The same goes for the rest of them,” he adds. “They were so quick to side with Haemin without even hearing you out. That’s not what friends do, ___. You know that.”

You turn your head towards him slowly. You know he’s not angry, just tired of watching you carry guilt that was never yours to begin with.

“I don’t… I don’t think they meant to hurt me…” you murmur quietly.

Your cousin shakes his head, “No, but they did. And yea, maybe they didn’t mean to. But they chose to listen to just one side of the story. It was easier for them to pick a side than sitting in the middle, trying to understand the whole picture. That tells you what kind of person they are, ___.”

The plane dips again, wheels lowering beneath the roar of wind and drag. The seatbelt sign dings softly above as it lights up.

You slump into the chair a little, “It just… It just sucks,” you whisper. “To feel like I’m losing people just because I’m doing what I love or doing good in something I wasn’t expecting to.”

Soonyoung gives your knee a reassuring squeeze, his voice softer now. “You didn’t lose them, okay? They let go of you. There’s a difference.”

You don’t say anything. The runway lights rise to meet the plane, and the wheels touch down with a jolt – screeching, then slowing as gravity catches up. Soonyoung doesn’t take his eyes off you, not even as the cabin fills with sounds of buckles clicking, phones buzzing back to life and the polite announcements in two languages.

“You’re not a bad person, ___,” he says simply. “You’re just growing. And it’s okay if not everyone keeps up.”

DIOR: L’Instant à Deux

You barely have time to take in the studio before the director drags Soonyoung to the side to discuss the details of the shoot while a stylist guides you past racks of garments and light fixtures that hum softly. Heels click over concrete – the set smells like linen, coffee and something that you assume to be either jasmine or orange blossom.

It smells like there’s a small promise floating in the air.

“Hi, Kwon ___, right?” a staff member asks with a smile. She’s dressed in head-to-toe black, with a headset slung around her neck with a tiny Dior pin glinting on her collar.

“That’s me,” you respond with an equally warming smile.

“You’re early for call time,” she chuckles, flipping through the printed shoot-sheet in hand. “But, that’s a good thing! Gives us a little breathing room before we get started.”

“Yeah, our family has this whole ‘arrive earlier than stated’ in our blood,” you joked, fingers brushing your coat lapels while you try not to look as jittery as you feel. You glance over at the set – and it was breathtaking as hell.

Like the inside of a Parisian style apartment that’s been plucked from a property magazine. Ivory curtains billow in the breeze of a hidden fan, and there’s a table on the side that's been set for two, the candle just waiting to be lit.

Everything is so carefully curated, yet somehow there’s a romantic feel in its stillness.

“So, welcome to L’Instant à Deux, officially.” She gives you a brief wink before continuing, “The theme is modern intimacy. Not the ‘fire that burns the brightest also goes out the fastest’ kind. Think quiet moments between two people in love. The synergy and chemistry is just there. NO words are exchanged, but one look and you know exactly what the other needs.”

“Dior made it very clear that they want connection. Eye contact. A kind of vibe that makes people believe you’ve known each other for years.”

You hum in understanding, already understanding the picture she’s painting out.

“After this short briefing, they’ll start styling you for the first set. It’ll be a morning shot so you’ll be dressed in soft neutrals and satin, like you just woke up in love in the penthouse. Then we’ll transition to more tailored looks in the afternoon.”

“Any night shoots that need to be done?”

She raises an eyebrow, as though asking if you had any plans later that night. “Oh, I don’t have anything going on. Just curious if you guys planned some kind of ‘night in the romantic city’ kind of shoot.”

She thinks about it, “We didn’t… But, I like the sound of that. Let me ask the director and Mingyu’s manager if they’re up for the idea!” She then glances at her watch, “Oh, and yes, Mingyu’s already here. He’s being fitted right now, so you’ll see him on set soon enough.”

Your breath catches just slightly, but you try to play it cool. “He’s taller in person,” the staff casually adds as she walks away, grinning. “And hella charming. You’ll need a lot of luck surviving that.”

You laugh softly to yourself, staring down at the subtle embroidery on the hem of a dress that’s been draped over the rack.

‘Lots of luck indeed…’

“Talent on set!”

You’re ushered out of wardrobe as the soft thud of the shutter click is tested in the background. Your bare feet sink into the plush carpet of the set – a cozy, soft-sunlight bedroom scene complete with cream sheets, books scattered around, and a half-drunk (or at least it looked like someone drank it) glass of water sat on the nightstand.

Everything looked lived in.

Intimate.

Like a Sunday morning you never want to end.

Then you hear a low laugh.

You turn, and sitting on the edge of the bed was Kim Mingyu. The photographer probably said something funny with how he threw his head back. One hand loosely resting on his thigh, the other pushing his hair back in a way that’s so effortlessly charming that you aren’t sure if it was muscle memory or instinct.

As if sensing you, he looks up. And when his gaze meets yours, he stands.

“Hey, took you long enough,” he teases, walking over with a slow yet confident stride that only someone like him could do. “I was starting to think they paired me with a ghost and that this was an early Halloween shoot.”

You managed a smile, extending your hand. “Would’ve made your job easier, though.”

He chuckles, taking your hand in his to give it a shake. His palm feels warm, his grip firm – but not overbearing, or as though he was trying to size you up.

“Mingyu.”

“___.”

He repeats your name, like he’s trying it on for size. But the way each syllable rolls off his tongue feels almost too intimate for a first meeting, like he wants to memorise it.

“Alright, let’s get into position!” the photographer calls.

You’re guided towards the bed, the director explaining the scene as she walks with you. “It’s a gentle start. You just woke up, morning light, lazy touches, soft smiles… Like it’s the kind of love that has you falling even more, understood?”

You and the giant settle in under the covers, shoulders brushing as the makeup artist gives Mingyu’s look some final touch ups. He leans over to you and whispers, “Is this weird? Lying in bed together before we even had coffee?”

You laugh, the sound surprising even you with how natural it felt. “Maybe a little.”

His canines show as he grins, eye crinkling, “Well, guess we’ll just have to make it look like we’ve done this a hundred times.”

“And it’s a wrap!” the director calls out, voice tinged with exhaustion but pride. “Thank you everyone!”

You let out a quiet breath, somewhere between relief and exhaustion. Your cheeks still carry traces of highlighter, your body humming from hours of adjusting, holding and smiling.

“Here.” Mingyu holds out a bottle of water, already uncapped, like he somehow knew you wouldn’t have the energy to do it yourself.

“Thanks…”

Mingyu rolls his shoulders with a sigh, “Think my back is permanently imprinted with the Dior headboard.”

“I think your collarbone probably has its own Instagram account by now,” you joke.

He snorts, “Please, I’ve seen someone use mingyusleftasscheek as their username.”

You laugh again, but softer this time. It lingers in the air – comfortable and familiar.

“Heard from your cousin, well, manager; that this is your first big gig,” he starts, “You did really well today.”

“Thanks,” you reply, voice a little softer now. “So were you.”

He leans a little closer, like he’s about to whisper a secret. “I’m not gonna lie, I thought it’d be awkward. Like forced smiles, hands in weird places…”

You hum in agreement and he continues, “But with you, it didn’t feel that way.”

Your heart stutters, but not in a bad way. You look back towards the set where hours ago, you had to pretend to wake up in bed beside him, to fall in love in the busy streets and champagne toasts.

“Same,” you admit, eyes returning to him. “Didn’t feel too fake.”

“Guys,” one of the staff calls out, “Wrap up dinner, let’s go! Director said it’s on him!”

You and Mingyu chuckle. He stands first, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Guess that’s our cue.”

You stand after him seconds later, pulling at the sleeves of the sweater Dior insisted you bring back as a souvenir. Part of you already misses the quiet bubble you’d been sitting in with him. He slings his jacket over one shoulder, eyes flicking to you with casual ease but it doesn’t hide the spark beneath it, “You coming?”

You nod, walking beside him as you both walk towards the rest of the crew.

gyu 🐶: heyyyy gyu 🐶: here’s my personal number ;)) gyu 🐶: i got yours from your manager gyu 🐶: hope you’re cool with it !! gyu 🐶: this is easier for less business talk gyu 🐶: and i kinda wanna talk to you more aside from gigs whatnot gyu 🐶: as in i wanna know you more as a person gyu 🐶: like genuinely

It’s strange when you think back to that first shoot you had with Mingyu.

You still remember how he looked like he was trying to memorise everything about you in one blink. How neither of you really knew each other, yet somehow managed to make it look like you’ve shared Sunday mornings for years.

That was a year ago.

Now?

Now, it’s nothing to see his name lighting up on your phone late one night because he found a ridiculous meme. Or for you to text him if he could be a subject for your practical.

The campaign ended, but a friendship began in its place.

So now, you’re here – pressed into the corner booth of an 80s themed diner with Mingyu sitting beside you, shoulders brushing yours every time he shifts his weight. Sitting across from you were two of his closest friends – Seungcheol and Vernon.

“Seungcheol’s hyung is the oldest of us, natural leader. He’s taken so if you’re thinking of hitting him up, may as well abandon ship. He’s crazy loyal for his pup.”

You raise a brow, “Pup? You call your girl ‘pup’?”

The blonde man shrugs with a grin, “It’s a nickname I gave her since we were kids. Kinda stuck and never left.”

You nod, “With that kind of context, lowkey cute.”

“Vernon, or Hansol, is the youngest. He’s either about to say something philosophical… or the most cursed shit you’ve ever heard. There is no in-between when it comes to this man.”

Seungcheol takes a sip of his milkshake, “So this is the Dior Princess, huh? Mingyu talked about you a lot.”

After the campaign had gone viral, the internet was quick to dub the two of you Dior’s Prince and Princess. The nickname stuck and it didn’t help that the behind-the-scenes footage captured stolen glances and quiet laughter that fans clung to like gospel.

From the photos plastered on billboards, magazines; to fanedits that circled the web, it was clear that the chemistry between you two was almost impossible to ignore.

You glanced at Mingyu who takes a bite out of his fries like it’s suddenly the most fascinating he’e ever seen and tasted.

“He did, huh?”

Vernon snorts, “Not in a weird way. Mostly in an admirable way since he kept repeating how natural it felt. Which reminds me of the time he fell asleep mid-study and woke up reciting a skincare ad.”

Mingyu groans, “Please, stop reminding me of that.”

Halfway through eating your mac-n-cheese, Vernon pops another question, “Is Wonwoo not coming?”

Seungcheol shakes his head. “Midterms are coming up. He’s probably in the library going through his notes.”

The giant next to you snorts, “No joke. I called him earlier to ask if he’s coming. Bro picked up just to say, ‘I’m busy with midterms’ and hung up.”

“Wait,” you pause, glancing up when Seungcheol mentioned Wonwoo’s midterm prep like he’s mapping out a whole war strategy on the fire nation. “Is Wonwoo a psych major?”

A look of surprise crosses their face, “Yeah, he is. Why?”

You shrug casually, “Ah, then that means he’s prepping for the same midterm I have next week.”

Vernon leans forward, his curiosity piqued. “You’re in psych?”

You smiled, “Criminal psych to be specific.”

Mingyu’s head almost snapped with how quick he turned it, “Wait, seriously?"

“I know it’s not exactly a major people expect for someone who spends half their time in front of a camera, but–”

“Oh no, no, no,” Vernon intervenes, “It’s hella cool, actually. Fits you too.”

You blink, tilting your head to the side, “Fits me?”

“Yea. You observe, ask questions at the right time. You listen more than you talk that it makes people think you’re just nodding along.”

There’s a brief moment of silence.

“Well, Vernon, remind me to psychoanalyze you later. Strictly for academic purposes, of course.”

Vernon grins. “Can’t wait to be a case study or thesis paper.”

Seungcheol groans, “Don’t give her ideas of us being test subjects, please.”

“Too late!”

The campus library is unusually crowded for a weekday afternoon, almost every table claimed by open laptops, notes, and the quiet hum of caffeine-fueled panic. Finals week always brought the worst out of everyone.

You hold your drink in one hand, your laptop tucked under your arm as you scan the library for an empty table. A small corner table clears up for you, the students packing up their things and you quickly slip into it, relieved to finally be off your feet.

Then you see him.

Head down, headphones on, walking with that unreadable expression he always had, making it almost impossible to tell whether he’s in a good mood, a bad mood, or just deep in thought. He had a thick folder tucked under an arm, dressed plainly with his glasses perched on his nose bridge.

Jeon Wonwoo.

You don’t move – not because you don’t want to, but because you can’t.

You half expected him to recognise you or notice you – either because you shared some classes or because Mingyu had introduced you a few days ago when you were visiting their apartment.

But it never came.

He walks right past your table like you don’t exist.

No sneaking glances, no hesitation whether or not he should greet you.

Nothing.

And then you hear them.

Seated just a little further behind you was your old friend group – laughing and whispering. You can’t hear what they say, but the assumption has begun to build. Maybe Wonwoo did see you, but he’s been told to ignore you. Your fingers tighten around your cup and you glance down at your notes, trying to refocus; but your mind’s already spiraling.

They definitely said something. Maybe it wasn’t straight to the point, but it could be subtle – just enough to plant a seed of doubt.

“Don’t bother with her, she’s not who she makes herself out to be.”

“She’ll make you look bad.”

“She always plays the victim. Like she wasn’t the one who started everything.”

You exhale through your nose, trying to shake out the bad memories before then forcing yourself to flip through your midterm review.

‘If Wonwoo believed whatever he heard, that’s on him,’ you tell yourself.

But still.

Part of you was disappointed because you thought that maybe he’d known they’d be lying. He’s a psych major after all.

Then again, it was Wonwoo’s decision to believe what he wants.

You sat on the floor of Mingyu’s room, your knees pulled to your chest while he leaned against his bed, watching you with quiet concern. He passes you a bottle of water, “What’s bothering you, princess?”

You peeped at him, “Princess?”

He grins, his canines showing whenever he does. “Yeah. That’s what I’m calling you from now on, Princess.”

You give him a look, and he just chuckles, nudging the bottle closer to you. “Come one, you’ve been dubbed Dior’s Princess ever since that shoot with me.” Your lips curved slightly, but the weight in your chest didn’t lift completely and he noticed; his voice softening again, “So, what’s actually bothering you?”

“Wonwoo…” you murmured, fingers twisting the cap of the bottle. Mingyu’s expression flickered, but he didn't say anything. “He… I guess he was kinda nice when we first met..? But lately… He’s been distant… Sometimes he just walks by me like I wasn’t even there.”

You hesitated, then added quietly, “I… I think maybe he’s heard some gossip or rumours about and because of that, he’s not acknowledging me…”

Mingyu’s jaw clenches and for a brief second, he looks away. When he turns back, his eyes are a little darker – not of anger, but there’s definitely conflict in them. “Wonwoo isn’t the kind of guy to believe rumours blindly,” he finally says, voice low. “He’s careful, guarded. But not unfair. Plus, he’s a psych major; you of all people know psych majors don’t take words at face value.”

You stared at him.

He gives a small smile. “Plus, you said it yourself last time. If you want to know what’s going on, you’re gonna have to ask or talk to the person.”

You chewed your lip, still unsure. Mingyu continues, “Wonwoo is always rational. Sure, he malds over his games, but he won’t let some rumours cloud his judgment of a person.”

He leans in just slightly, a teasing grin on his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Unless you’d rather stay here with me instead.”

You blinked and he laughed, “I’m kidding, Princess. Well, kind of.”

“You’re impossible, Gyu…” you mutter, half-exasperated, half-flustered.

“Hey, I’m honest.”

And that was true.

You sighed and stood, nerves coiling in your stomach. “Okay. I’ll go talk to him.”

The Dior Prince doesn’t follow you, but you could feel the way his gaze lingered until you disappeared out his door.

You paced outside Wonwoo’s room longer than you should have, your nerves going haywire.

The door was cracked open just enough for you to hear the low murmur of his voice.

“...no, chat, I’m not going to get Princess back on stream just so you can be down bad for her. One, Coups would behead me and two, he’ll either ban you or put you in time out.”

You blinked.

Chat?

You pushed the door open just a little, just to peek a bit more – and sure enough, there he was. Seated comfortably in his gaming chair, headset on, the glow of the LED strip lights casting his room in a red hue. His voice sounded deeper; he sounded more focused, sarcastic, teasing.

It takes a minute for you to register.

Wonwoo was streaming.

Live.

You carefully stepped inside just as he leaned back slightly and stretched. You then noticed how massive his audience was when you saw the chaos flooding his vertical monitor. Then, his viewers noticed you in the frame.

uriboobear: no fucking way uriboobear: THE DIOR PRINCESS???? woozi_factory: gurl wtf are you doing there woozi_factory: are you banging him and the color blind model horanghae_kwon: wts horanghae_kwon: i feel so betrayed rn iamadino: what the fuck iamadino: dior princess sighting iamadino: #holyfuckingairball iamadino: SOMEONE CLIP QUICK 📎 cheolcoups clipped your stream! — Dior Princess Sighting [View Clip] hannieangel: thanks coups cheolcoups: np

Wonwoo froze, then very slowly turned to look over his shoulder.

Sure enough, you stood next to his door looking like an absolute deer-in-headlights. Your voice was soft, but the mic picked it up, “Hi…”

His chat exploded.

junmoonhui: BROOO I THOUGHT IT WAS AI junmoonhui: UR TELLING ME SHE’S REAL junmoonhui: AND IN HIS ROOM????? the1&only8: okay damn the1&only8: do yall live together or banging hannieangel: and the way he turned lmfaoooo hannieangel: also drop the game bro hannieangel: drop dead gorgeous just walked in like a cutscene

The streamer blinked, then quickly muted his mic and lifted his headset off. “Everything okay?” he asked, voice softer than the one his chat had been watching seconds ago. You nodded, awkwardly stepping in further. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were a streamer and going live. I wanted to talk to you about something but I– I can come back another–”

Wonwoo stood up immediately. “No. It’s okay, we can talk.”

And his chat went feral.

horanghae_kwon: holy shit horanghae_kwon: bro stood up so fast iamadino: that ain’t a friend stand up yall iamadino: that’s a mfcking lover stand up the1&only8: and they way he looked at her???? the1&only8: jun hold my hair im abt to throw up junmoonhui: you have a mullet hao the1&only8: sybau n play along

Wonwoo reached over and without hesitation – ended his stream. No sign-off. No raid.

Just black screen.

Silence followed after for a few seconds.

“You didn’t need to–”

“If you came here, ___, it means you came to talk to me about something.” He turns to look at you fully, “And I’m assuming it’s something important with how much you’re shaking.”

You awkwardly sat on the edge of his bed, fingers fidgeting in your lap. Wonwoo dropped his headset on the desk and pulled his gaming chair closer – close enough to talk, but far enough for the space to feel cautious.

“Why have you been treating me like I don’t exist?”

He doesn’t respond right away, but you notice the way his fingers flexed against the arm of the chair.

You take a breath, “I mean, I know we don’t know each other that well, but since we’re friends with Mingyu, I thought we’d at least… y’know… be somewhat friends too… But, you always just… treat me like I’m air and–”

“Whoa, easy there, ___,” he cuts in, “Why don’t you breathe in for me first?”

You blink, cough off guard by the interruption. His voice isn’t cold. If anything, it was calm and steady, like he’s trying to anchor you. You do as told and he scoots a little closer, “Good girl.”

“Now out.”

He waits, eyes not leaving yours. “Again.”

You follow, heart still pounding in your chest, but the air starts to flow a little easier.

Wonwoo sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re transparent. It’s clear I’m not great at this whole… social thing.” He glances over your shoulder, then back at you. “But, I do see you, ___. It’s hard to not notice you when you’re in my class while also being plastered all over magazines and editorials.”

His voice drops just a little, almost too soft to catch. “That’s the problem.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Mingyu,” he starts, leaning back with his hands loosely capped between his knees as he exhales. “There’s no easy way to sugar coat this so I’ll just come right out with it. Gyu and I… we’ve always shared the girls we’re ‘seeing’ or at least somewhat into. It could be some model chick he’s met, some girl we met at a bar or club… It was easy because things were always just physical between us. Nothing that stuck. No jealousy or complications.”

“What does that have anything to do with me? With why you’re–”

“It has everything to do with you, ___.” Wonwoo sighs, “Gyu’s been talking about you like you’re more than just another girl. Like he’s not just wanting to get up your skirt and make it a one time thing, y’know?”

You swallowed, “And you think that means I’m off-limits? Even if it’s a simple friendship?”

Wonwoo shrugged, “Things between Gyu and I… At least in a scenario like this where he looks at you like he means it, like it’s not just fun – like he’d actually stay. If he wants to be serious with you, I figured I need to respect it. That’s all.”

“But–”

“I’m sorry if my behaviour or actions made it seem like I’m ignoring you on purpose, ___. But, I promise I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. I didn’t want to be in Gyu’s way of finally having an actual connection or relationship with someone. And since he wasn’t exactly subtle about his feelings with you, I shouldn’t be pretending to not notice it. So… I kept my distance.”

The quiet settled again.

You didn’t know what to say after that.

And neither did he.

The silence that settled between you wasn’t cold, but not exactly comfortable either. It was just there.

Until you asked, “Would you trust me if people told you rumours or gossip about me?”

“C’mon, ___,” he chuckles, “This is me we’re talking about. You really think I’ll believe the words of a stranger over a person’s actual personality?”

He’s got you there.

Then, he moved.

He leaned in, almost cautiously, like he didn’t know what he was doing either. And then, in a very uncharacteristic gentle manner, press a kiss to your forehead.

You both froze and the moment lingered; warm skin against skin, his breath brushing your hairline, and something unspoken seeping into the silence. When he finally pulled back, his expression was unreadable. You probably mirrored it.

“What… What was that..?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. As though he was still processing his actions.

“Just a habit of mine,” he replied.

Liar.

But you didn’t press, and neither of you said anything more about it.

When you stood to leave, your chest felt just a little tighter. Like something had settled into place, but neither of you had the words for it yet.

And when the door clicked shut behind you once you left, Wonwoo still stood there…. Thumb brushing across his lower lip.

Wondering why it felt right.

🎓Pledis Pressboard 📰

Where tea spills, news thrills & everyone’s in the loop! Student-run.

📌 IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENTS & UPDATES

Club & Societies Fair moved to Next Weds, 3PM @ Main Quad

Prof. Hakyeon’s Thurs 9AM Lecture: Cancelled (Replacement Class to be Announced Soon)

Lost Airpods in Stitch Casing in Library! Approach Lost & Found to claim.

🧠 NEED TO KNOW

Next Sem Schedule Drop: 7th Jul 20XX

New study area opened in East Wing – fully air-conditioned too!

👀 GOSSIP BOARD

💬 anon: anybody else noticed the Dior Princess on Wonwoo’s stream? Are the banging eo or like, it’s a three-way thing between him & the roommate?

anon1: nah like i wanna know too anon1: also did yall see the way he looked at her? anon2: bffr he looked so in love anon3: frrrrr anon3: like damn, i wished someone looked at me like that too anon2: if she banging them both anon2: she hit the jackpot frfr anon4: nah anon2 anon4: if she’s dating them both anon4: that’s the jackpot

🎓Pledis Pressboard 📰

Where tea spills, news thrills & everyone’s in the loop! Student-run.

📌 IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENTS & UPDATES

Pledis Fall Party @ NU’EST

Hey boys and girls + non-binary peeps! To celebrate the start of the new fall semester, NU’EST has announced that everyone is invited to their upcoming frat party!

📍 Venue: NU’EST Frat House (right behind North Quad)

📆 Date & Time: This Friday, 8PM till late

🪩 Theme: 70s Disco

🍻 Live DJ sets, drink specials, real food & surprise performances. Come for the drinks, stay for the vibes. You might leave with a few numbers or with someone. wink-wonk.

📮 This party is an open invite, all students are welcomed! (Queer friendly, no cover, no drama!)

Got questions? Hit up @renminki.NU or check the pinned IG post on @HouseOfNu

Let’s make it a night you won’t ever forget… or only half remember 😉

The party was loud.

Lights dim and pulsing, music vibrating through the floor and through your ribs; clusters of people scattered across the living room and onto the balcony. Voices rose and fell like waves of static in your ears, laughter echoed – and somewhere in the house, someone was already tipsy enough to dance on a coffee table (yes, it was Soonyoung).

These kinds of parties were never your cup of tea. Contrary to popular belief, you were a homebody – you preferred the comfort and quietness of your studio compared to the thrum of bass-heavy music and bodies pressed up against each other in a sweaty, alcohol-fueled haze.

But Jihoon had insisted that it would be a ‘low-pressure’ thing, that he’d stick by your side the entire night (until Joshua or Jisoo swooped in and took him off to discuss something about an upcoming Open Mic). Soonyoung had also texted you five separate times the second the announcement rolled out.

tiger couz 🐯: pleaseee tiger couz 🐯: just come hang with us tiger couz 🐯: it’ll be fun! tiger couz 🐯: just drinks n dancing tiger couz 🐯: no drama, promise

You didn’t have much of a choice since they both self-invited themselves into your place hours before the party, and your cousin practically shoved you into a pink glittery mini dress with flared sleeves and matching headband.

They meant well. They always have, even when you were kids. Which is what you love about the two dorks even though there were times you’d want to strangle them for their dumb ideas.

The hours were closing in to 10PM, and so far you were fine.

Until you saw him.

Wonwoo.

He’s leaning against the balcony railing, drink in hand, dressed in all black, expression unreadable… then his eyes found yours. And just from his gaze alone, your stomach dropped because you knew something was wrong.

He pushed off the railing and strode towards you, each step purposeful. His mouth was set in a firm line, eyes locked on yours. “Can I talk to you?”

Your heart rate picked up, but you nodded.

Wonwoo leads you to an empty guest room, door slightly ajar behind you – the room was still dim, still loud; but it was removed just enough that his words could be heard.

“I ran into someone earlier,” he starts, voice low, almost careful – but still tight. “Her name was Haemin. Said she used to be a friend of yours.”

Your breath caught and you stared at him, frozen.

“She… She said you aren’t who you make yourself out to be. That you ruined someone’s reputation, twisted the story to turn everyone against her and–”

“Do you believe them?”

“I didn’t want to,” he said. “I still don’t. But the way she said in such a confident manner, how you seemed on edge whenever someone said they’ve heard things about you… It made me wonder…”

He trailed off.

Your throat closed. “You… You think I’m playing the victim?”

His expression cracked just a fraction. “I don’t want to believe that, ___. But, I need you to help me understand all this–”

“You think I haven’t tried that, Wonwoo?” you snapped, voice rising before it cracked. “You have no idea what it felt like. To lose everyone. To have your name turned into a warning. To try and clear my name, but nobody would listen. And now, you’re asking me if I was the villain because of some hearsay?”

You hate how you’re being interrogated like you were in the wrong. You’ve tried to prove those rumours wrong, but nobody was willing to listen. Whenever you tried to explain, all you got were dismissive;

“It’s true, though… You’re a model…”

“You’re a psych major. Who’s to say you’re not psyching us?”

He blinked.

Then it hit you – the tears threatening behind your eyes, the voices blurring and the walls of the room slowly tilting.

It was all too much.

“I need to go,” you whispered, already turning.

“Wait–”

But you were already walking.

You pushed through the crowd, heart hammering and no seeing faces, just shapes and shadows. You weren’t sure if you were angry, scared or just done with the feeling of always having to defend yourself. You barely made it past the hallway when a hand caught your wrist, their grip firm but gentle.

“Hey.”

Mingyu.

You turned.

He looked worried, conflicted even. “You okay?” he asked gently, “Did Wonwoo say something to you?”

You blink fast to clear your vision, “Gyu, not now–”

You want to brush it off, to escape, but then the giant puppy steps closer. “I saw him kiss your forehead the other night.”

You froze.

Mingyu’s hand dropped slowly from your wrist, like he’d just realised how much you were shaking. He continued, his voice steady despite the conflicted undertone. “Wonwoo… Look, I’ve known him for years and he doesn’t do that. Ever. Not with anyone. Not unless it means something.”

You swallowed thickly, “Mingyu, now isn’t–”

He shakes his head, “No, please, ___, just hear me out. I’ve known him for years and I know that was far from casual. And… And I see the way he looks at you. Even if he’s too scared to admit it, I know he felt something.”

Your eyes were wide when you looked up at him.

“And I did too.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I’m not saying this to make things harder, but I need you to know that I like you. I have for a while now. A-And I can’t keep pretending that I don’t have these feelings for you. If Wonwoo is too much of a pussy to face his feelings, I’m not.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Your thoughts start to spin like they’d all slammed into each other at once – maybe because the room felt too small. Maybe because you were already on the edge.

You blinked rapidly, the sting behind your eyes too much to swallow.

The party around you was getting too loud. Too bright.

Soonyoung and Jihoon were nowhere in sight.

Wonwoo’s confrontation.

Mingyu’s confession.

“I… I can’t,” you choked out. “I need to go…”

You stepped back and before Mingyu could say another word, you slipped past him; away from the noise, from the crowd – away from both of them.

The shared apartment was strangely silent, save for the soft hum for the air conditioners and the occasional clink of the ice melting in the glass beside him.

He’s sat at his desk, not streaming, editing, gaming and not even trying to be productive. His fingers hovered over the keyboard without purpose, his monitor dimming on its own as if recognising the stillness.

He wasn’t sure when these feelings had started.

It wasn’t at the party, that much he was sure of.

How could he when you looked like that under the strobing lights? The way your voice cracked when you asked if he thought that you were the villain. Not even when the sting of guilt clung to him as he watched you walk away.

No, it had to be way before that.

Maybe it was the first time you challenged him in class – voice soft, but your mind was most definitely sharp; sometimes making or asking statements that would make even the professor pause.

Maybe it was the time you fell asleep on the couch without realising it, laptop open, playlist still playing with one of your reports halfway done.

Or maybe it was the night you brought hot tea to Mingyu after he got sick after finals and casually handed him a cup too, telling him, “Don’t think I don’t know you were doing that sub-a-thon thing.”

Wonwoo closed his eyes, drawing in a slow breath as he let his head fall against the headrest. He hadn’t realised he’d already started falling until it hurt to watch her walk away. This wasn’t your average crush that’s all fire and flash; it crept in quietly. Almost gentle.

This crush of his was something that’s always been there and it wasn’t until the weight of what if sat heavier than anything than they’d both said.

And maybe that’s why it sat like a stone on his chest.

Wonwoo isn’t someone who did feelings out loud. He doesn’t wear them on his sleeves, and doesn't spill them into crowded rooms.

He lets out a slow breath, finally moving his eyes away from the dark monitor, his gaze landing on his bed where he had pressed a kiss to your forehead weeks ago. You weren’t there, but the echo of your presence lingered in the air.

In the space he hadn’t realised he’s carved out.

Maybe he had been falling for you for a while – he just didn’t know how to land without breaking.

Wonwoo’s door swung open, though he didn’t turn around to look at the person who had the audacity to barge into his personal space.

He didn’t need to.

“What do you need, Mingyu?” He sighed.

Mingyu’s voice was flat, cutting – it was out of his character unless he’s pissed. “You talked to her. At the party.”

“So?”

“You asked her about her past, didn’t you?” He scoffs before continuing, “I thought you were better than this, hyung. You of all people know that you shouldn’t judge a person based on rumours or gossip. So, why the fuck were you–”

Wonwoo stood from his chair, the calm gone from his expression as he turned to look at the model. “Kim Mingyu, don’t come in here and like you’re some kind of moral compass.”

“Don’t fucking lecture me about crossing lines when you confessed to her and basically outed my feelings in the same breath.”

Mingyu frowns, “I didn’t out anything.”

“Really? You told her I kissed her like it meant something.”

“It did and you know it. You don’t just show affection or care like that to anyone, Woo.”

Silence.

“You used what I did, what I wasn’t ready to talk about; you still outed me. You don’t think that’ll push her further away?”

Mingyu blinked, the accusation finally sinking in – and it sank deeper than he expected. “I’m not trying to use it against you. I didn’t even mean to out you in a way that–”

“But you still did,” Wonwoo’s voice was quieter now. “Maybe not on purpose, but it still happened.”

The model looked away.

“You said yourself, Gyu,” the streamer muttered, “That kind of affection from me is rare.��

Mingyu’s voice softened, “Because I know how hard it is for you to show it, hyung.”

After a beat, he speaks again. “Maybe that’s why she ran… Because if it really meant something to you, to her – then you questioning her is basically saying it means nothing.”

Wonwoo closed his eyes, shoulder tense. And for the first time, his voice cracked just a bit. “The look she gave me… When I asked her about her past, when I asked her if the rumours were true… She looked at me like she was bracing herself for the world to fall apart again.”

Neither of them spoke after that.

They didn’t have to. Didn’t need to.

Because for once, they both understood one thing:

They were both falling.

And so was she.

DA BOIS 🍻

cheol: so uh cheol: anybody gonna tell me wtf is going on with woo n gyu cheol: cuz why the hell do yall look like you’re one wrong breath away cheol: from tearing out each other’s throat alien-non: girl problems tallgyu: how the fuck do you know that cheol: if you’re this pissy then it’s true cheol: jihoon mentioned his friend’s been shutting herself in for days with no contact cheol: that your girl? gameboi: that should be her gameboi: and hansol’s right gameboi: it’s a girl problem cheol: so basically cheol: us joking abt you two liking the same girl has manifested into an actual thing cheol: holy fuck alien-non: have you talked to her? gameboi: she’s ghosting everyone tallgyu: i asked her cousin tallgyu: said it’s smtg normal for her n she’ll come find us if she wants to talk cheol: so you’re giving her space rn gameboi: yea alien-non: cool alien-non: good luck tho cheol: and prayers cheol: yall defo gonna need it

Time’s passed by in a haze for you.

You hadn’t answered any messages.

Not Soonyoung’s, “You doing alright?”

Not Jihoon’s, “You alive bitch?”

You didn’t eat much, either – your appetite probably on a wanted post somewhere downtown.

You wanted to cry, but the tears never came. It just stayed stuck behind your eyes, heaving and aching. You had put your phone on DND before throwing it onto the coffee table, now it’s probably buried underneath the mass amounts of junk food and books.

Your studio was silent and you were about to resume whatever pity party that was going on until the lock clicked.

You froze, a blanket draped over your legs while you sat on the couch, wearing the same hoodie you’d cry into four nights ago. Familiar footsteps fill your studio – soft and confident that it announces who your visitors were.

“Couz, you still alive in here?”

You don’t move.

Seconds later, Jihoon’s head poked into the living room, followed by Soonyoung who was carrying a large takeout bag.

You cringed at how hoarse your voice sounded when you whispered, “You used the spare key.”

Jihoon shrugs, “You gave it to us.”

“In case of emergencies.”

Soonyoung snorts, “And you ghosting everyone, probably not eating properly for days isn’t an emergency? You went off the grid, ___.”

Jihoon sat next to you, “We got worried. Last time you went off the grid, you actually went mia for like, three months?”

“I’m fine,” you tried to assure them, but your voice cracked on the last word. Soonyoung sets the takeout bag on your kitchen counter. “Yea, sure. And I’m Jihoon’s assistant producer.”

The breath you huffed out might’ve been a laugh had it not felt like someone has a tight grip on your throat.

Jihoon doesn’t say anything – if anything, he’s just like Wonwoo, but just a little more expressive than the tall streamer. He rests an arm on the back of the couch and looks at you to make sure you weren’t going to lie to him.

“We’ve known you for years, ___,” he starts quietly. “Talk to us.”

“I messed everything up,” you murmured.

“No,” the blonde next to you was quick to interject, “You’re just a human with feelings.

Soonyoung walks up with a bottle of water in hand. “You always carry shit that’s not even your fault. You think the people who care about you won’t do anything about it, but we’ve always got your back.”

You took the bottle with shaking hands, pressing it to your lips as you downed at least half of it to distract yourself from the way your throat tightened as you’re reminded about how your cousin and childhood friend always got your back.

“Even if you shut down or disappear for a bit, we’re still going to show up.”

“You don’t need to explain everything right now,” Soonyoung adds. “Just let us stay the night and keep you company. You’re not alone, yea? You have us!”

For the first time in days, you felt relieved.

You nodded.

Without uttering another word, Jihoon reached over and tucked you into his side while Soonyoung reached for your remote, selecting a random movie like tonight was any other movie night.

Soonyoung cooked you a bowl of ramen, laying out the fried chicken and kimbap he had brought over onto the coffee table; even promising he won’t judge if you cried into it again.

Jihoon sat next to the furniture, poking through your neglected phone to clear the notifications that’s been piling up from the days you hadn’t touched it.

You slurped a bite in silence before speaking.

“He confessed.”

Soonyoung blinked, pausing his movements of taking a piece of kimbap. “Jihoon?”

Jihoon smacks his shoulder, “No, you idiot.”

“Mingyu,” you clarified, staring down at the bowl of ramen soup in your hands. “He… He came up to me at the party and said he liked me.”

Soonyoung’s jaw dropped, the kimbap half-chewed in his mouth and Jihoon had to shut it for him.

“He said… He said he saw Wonwoo kiss my forehead that night. Said he knew it meant something because Wonwoo doesn’t just… do things like that. Not with anyone and… Mingyu said there has to be something going on between us.”

Jihoon’s brows lifted just a little, “What did you say?”

“I… I didn’t say anything. I just left.”

Soonyoung winced, “Yikes. Must’ve hit him hard.”

You shrugged as Jihoon took the bowl of soup away from you. “I dunno… Wonwoo… Wonwoo came to talk to me before Mingyu confessed. He…” Your voice dropped, “He asked if the rumours were true…”

“The one Haemin started?” Jihoon asked slowly.

You nodded again. “I… Someone from that group must’ve talked to him and it definitely messed with his head. He wasn’t like… I don’t know, extremely mad about it, just… He just looked like he didn’t know who he was looking at anymore. Was he looking at the real me or a front I put up?”

Soonyoung reaches out a hand to hold yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. “He didn’t believe them, right?”

“I think part of him didn’t want to believe it. Or… he was scared that it could be true. That I was a manipulator, a –”

“You aren’t.” Jihoon’s voice was stern. “That bitch twisted things. That’s a manipulator, ___. You? You’ve always been honest. Haemin is always bitter when people are doing better than her so she’ll always find ways to tear them down. That’s her game.”

“She always shuts you down whenever you mention a new gig, telling you to stop rubbing it in everyone’s faces. I didn’t want to say anything back then because she was your friend, but it always pisses me off.”

You notice the way his jaw clenched, fingers curling into a fist on his lap. “You were proud. You should’ve been – it was one hell of an achievement for you. And this bitch made you feel like you were bragging just for existing.”

“Yea, like, I know how much you value those around you, and that’s a good trait of yours. But Haemin is always putting you down because she thinks she’s better than you. You were excited about something good happening in your life, that’s human – not annoying. She just couldn’t stand not being the center of attention.”

A silence settled for a moment. It was heavy, but not hopeless.

Jihoon’s gaze softened when he looked over. “You’ve been second-guessing yourself all this while because of her. And now she’s got him second-guessing you, too.”

“It’s not your problem if she doesn't like people seeing you shine,” Soonyoung adds. “That’s hers.”

You didn’t really plan what else to do once you got here – in front of Wonwoo and Mingyu’s shared apartment.

Sure, you planned to finally talk to them, but you hadn’t planned the rest. Your heart hammered against your chest like it was trying to crawl out. Your hands were covered by your sleeves, fingers twisting the fabric in a nervous rhythm as a grounding method.

Where the hell do you even begin?

Do you apologise for dropping off the grid? Acknowledge Mingyu’s confession?

Or do you explain yourself to Wonwoo?

The silence stretched in the doorway and you swore it was somehow louder than last week’s party.

You stared at the doorbell like it might explode if you touched it.

Just press it. Say something. Breathe.

Ding-Dong.

Silence.

One second. Two. Three–

Nope nope nope.

You went into full-blown panic.

You can’t do this.

You look like you haven’t slept in a week. You hadn’t even planned what to say.

What if they hated you? What if Wonwoo regretted ever holding any affection towards you? What if Mingyu had changed his mind? What if–

Your feet moved before your brain could reason otherwise. You spun on your heel, fully intent on getting the hell out of there before the door could open. Maybe they could pretend it was a mistake. Wrong floor. Wrong unit. A ghost.

You were probably two steps away from the door when–

“Were you seriously going to ding-dong-ditch us?”

You froze.

Mingyu’s voice sounded half amused, half exasperated.

You turned around slowly, cheeks flushed when you found them both at the doorway.

Mingyu had one hand on the doorframe, eyebrows raised in disbelief. Wonwoo leaned casually against the other side, arms folded and his lips pressed in a faint line.

You gave the weakest shrug known to mankind. “I… I was testing the doorbell..?”

Mingyu blinks. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You disappeared for a week,” Wonwoo adds, his voice low but not angry. “And your comeback strategy was ding-dong-run? Really, Princess?”

The pet name caused your breath to hitch.

“I… I panicked…” you muttered.

Mingyu snorts, “Clearly.”

He steps aside, “Come on in before you sprint back to whatever blanket cave Jihoon said you’ve been rotting in the past week.”

You step closer, chewing on your bottom lip. “Are… you mad?”

“Mad?” Wonwoo responded in a way that you’ve just asked the most ridiculous question. “We were worried, ___. That’s not the same thing.”

The living room felt warmer than the last time you were here. Not in temperature, but it felt like the air carried more weight to it. You sat on the couch, legs pressed together, hands locked in your lap. The fabric of your sleeves are twisted between your fingers, Mingyu sat across you on the floor, back resting against the coffee table.

Wonwoo sat next to you on the couch. There’s some distance between you, but it was to test the waters whether you’d allow him back into your personal space; his elbows resting on his knees.

The silence was thick, but it wasn’t hostile.

Just… there.

You shifted again, pulling your sleeves over your knuckles.

“So… Where do you wanna start?”

You tried to speak. Failed. Tried Again.

“I… I…”

Wonwoo scoots closer, one hand reaching out to give your thigh a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay, Princess. Take your time.”

Mingyu nods, giving you a faint, reassuring smile. “We’re not gonna poof into thin air, y’know?”

You nodded.

You took a breath.

Then another.

And finally:

“Haemin tried to break up a couple back in Pre-U.”

Mingyu blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Back in Pre-U, there was this guy called Hyungwon and she kept flirting with him despite knowing that he was taken. And when I told her that was a low move, even for her, she got pissed. Said I had no right to judge her when I’d done the same, if not worse. Which I hadn’t.”

Your voice trembled as you continued, “So she twisted the story. Said I was the one trying to break them up. That I told her I could have anyone I wanted because I was a model and guys would drop their girlfriends for me.”

Mingyu’s jaw dropped slightly, stunned into silence while his brows creased like he couldn’t decide whether to be shocked or furious. You barely notice the moment when Wonwoo shifts, only realising how close he’d gotten when his fingers gently curled around your wrist and tugged you closer.

You don’t resist.

The streamer maneuvered to sit across his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms steadily wrapped around your body, grounding you as your pulse pounded in your ears. You don’t know if it was the warmth of his body or the way they listened to you explain your story. Regardless, your chest felt lighter and you continued.

“She used the fact that people were starting to pay attention to me, and everyone believed her because she said it with a smile. Nobody bothered to ask for my side. They just stopped texting. Stopped talking. They whispered every time I walked into the room.”

The words linger in the air, but your chest felt… lighter. Like you’d finally let something out that’s been weighing you down for years.

Mingyu hasn’t moved, his eyes locked on your form while trying to decipher every emotion on your face; like he was trying to figure out if he could somehow carry the hurt for you. Wonwoo’s arms stayed wrapped around you, it wasn’t tight but it was steady.

Mingyu finally spoke, his voice hoarse and eyebrows pulled together. “Nobody should’ve made you feel like that. Least of all people who were supposed to be your friends.”

“I just… I thought if I just stayed quiet long enough, maybe… maybe it’d all go away.”

“You don’t need to stay quiet anymore.” Wonwoo’s voice was low as he tilted your chin so you’d look at him. “You’ve been carrying all this by yourself. I didn’t make it any better by questioning you.”

Your breath hitches when your eyes meet. “It’s okay, Wonu… You were just trying to understand…”

He raises a hand to brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Fuck,” Mingyu muttered, catching your attention. “I-I’m sorry, Princess. I… I can’t believe I confessed to you when you clearly weren’t in the headspace. I-I just–”

Wonwoo’s arms loosened slightly, not pulling away but to make room so you could adjust yourself. You turned to Mingyu, “It’s okay, Gyu. You… You don’t have to take it back.”

He looks surprised by your words.

You swallowed, “I… I don’t know. It’s just… I’m scared… I feel something for both of you. That… That’s terrifying to me because–”

“You think it isn’t for us?” Mingyu cuts in.

Wonwoo shoots the model a look and he’s quick to shut up, muttering a quiet apology. “It’s just… This is way too fucking insane, even more me. Literally two dudes sitting in the same room with a girl they’ve both fallen in love with and figuring things out.”

Wonwoo’s voice was low and careful when he added, “We also don’t expect you to choose.”

“I don’t want to lose either of you,” you whispered, looking up at Wonwoo before your gaze drifts to Mingyu.

“Well,” Wonwoo says with a shrug that was way too casual. “Polygamy is a thing.”

You and Mingyu blink, caught completely off guard by his words. “What?”

The elder’s gaze doesn’t waver, mouth twitching at the corners like he knew exactly what he was doing. “I’m just saying. I’m into her. You’re into her. Clearly she’s overwhelmed by the idea of choosing when the idea of losing either of us will wreck her. ”

Mingyu stared at him, “Hyung, you’re not ser–”

“I am. You know I don’t joke about the things I want, Gyu.” He tilts his head, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder with you still nestled on his lap. “Like I said, polygamy exists. When done right – with proper communication, consent, and nobody being left in the dark; it’s possible.”

The room was filled with tension, but it wasn’t demanding. You looked between them both, “Is this… Is this something you two want?”

“I’d rather share than walk away, ___.” Wonwoo presses a gentle kiss to the column of your throat, sucking in a sharp breath when you let out a whimper.

Mingyu lets out a breath. “Same here…”

You swallowed, “And… And if you asked me what I want..?”

The streamer hums while the model leaned forward, both asking in unison, “What do you want, Princess?”

Your answer was quiet.

“I want you both…”

tiger couz 🐯: yo tiger couz 🐯: new job offer alert tiger couz 🐯: ok technically not a job offer prettay couz 🎀: wassup tiger couz 🐯: rmb that Dior couple campaign from a year ago? tiger couz 🐯: the one you did with Gyu? prettay couz 🎀: yea prettay couz 🎀: what abt it? tiger couz 🐯: they wanna do some kind of appreciation dinner for everyone involved prettay couz 🎀: a dinner? prettay couz 🎀: why a year after it tho? prettay couz 🎀: seems kinda prettay couz 🎀: idk, off-timing? tiger couz 🐯: the success rlly impressed them tiger couz 🐯: and their investors tiger couz 🐯: hence dinner tiger couz 🐯: we’ll talk deets once jihoon gets back from that Open Mic

“Good girl,” Wonwoo praises, his voice a calm purr as he takes your phone out of your trembling hand. “Good job in replying to your cousin properly while Gyu eats your pretty pussy.”

You’re seated on his lap, back pressed tight against chest, his clothed cock hard beneath you. HIs free arm is wrapped around your waist, keeping you steady while Mingyu keeps his tongue buried in your soaked cunt. His large hands kept your thighs spread while groaning like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he’s allowed to eat.

Your head lolls back onto Wonwoo’s shoulder, lips parted in a loud moan as Mingyu sucks your clit harshly. Your thighs twitch in response, hips bucking forward, but Wonwoo holds you still. “W-Wait..! Hngh!”

“Shh,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re so sensitive here, Princess. Has nobody ever eaten you out?”

You shake your head, voice barely audible over the wet sounds between your legs. “N-No.. Hngh!”

The streamer chuckles low against your ear, hands sliding underneath your sweater to teasingly pinch your nipples. “Poor thing,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. Mingyu’s good at eating pussy. He’ll take care of you.”

Mingyu lets out a growl, hands digging into your thighs as he tongue fucks you deeper, nose bumping against your clit. The lewd sounds of him eating you out fill the room, wet and messy; mixed with your whimpers and the quiet rasp of Wonwoo’s breath against your ear.

You feel more arousal drip out your pussy when he tugs on your nipples. “Hear that, Princess? That’s the sound of a pretty pussy being eaten well.” Then, he gives your clit a spank, causing you to yelp and arch in surprise, the sudden sting sparking through the heat bubbling in your core.

“Better cum soon, ___. Gyu’s not stopping until he’s had enough, and I’m not letting you go until you soak his face.”

Wonwoo turns your face towards his, fingers tilting your chin up. “You’re doing so good for us,” he murmurs, eyes dark and hooded. “Let me kiss you, Princess.”

You can barely manage a nod before his lips are on yours – hot, slow… His tongue slides against yours, stealing your breath as he swallows every needy noise you make. The kiss quickly deepens, getting messier and dizzying.

Mingyu groans between your legs, the sight of you moaning into Wonwoo’s mouth has his cock throbbing in his jeans. He flattens his tongue against your clit and drags it in tight circles, causing you to break from the kiss and your hips twitching.

“G-Gyu! Hngh!”

“That’s it, pretty girl. Cum all over his face.”

Your body obeys, thighs closing in around Mingyu’s head as your orgasm crashes into you. A loud cry rips from your throat, swallowed by Wonwoo’s lips as he kisses you through your climax.

Mingyu continues to lap at your pussy, even when your body’s still trembling from the aftershocks. If anything, he gets hungrier – like he could die in between your thighs and still beg for more. His tongue stays locked on your clit, sucking on the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes you jolt – sliding two fingers into your soaked cunt, curling right against your g-spot.

“G-Gyu,” you whimper, trying to squirm away from the relentless pressure.

But, you can’t move.

Wonwoo wraps an arm around you like a cage, while the other slides up. His fingers brush along your throat before tightening with just enough pressure that makes your breath catch.

“Stay still,” Wonwoo orders, his breath warm against your cheek. “Let him play with your pretty pussy a bit longer.”

You gasp, eyes fluttering open to meet his. That’s when you see it.

There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes as his lips curled into a wicked grin at your reaction. He notices the way your thighs clamp tighter, how your head tilts back.

“Oh?” Fuck, he sounds so hot. “You like that, Princess?”

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t deny it. You’ve always known Wonwoo was the dominant type – maybe it’s the way he carries himself, but what you didn’t know was that he’s kinky too.

And God help you, you’re so into it.

Mingyu groans against your pussy, clearly enjoying both your reactions. He scissors his fingers inside you, bullying your g-spot in a way that has your back arching and breath stuttering. His tongue flicks over your clit in tight, rhythmic strokes, matching the pace of his fingers thrusting into you.

“Wo-Wonu,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I… I’m gonna..!”

Wonwoo tightens the grip he has on your throat, angling your face to look up at him again. “Yea? Gonna cum over his tongue while Gyu eats your sweet cunt? Go on then. Show him just how good he’s making you feel.”

And your body obeys.

Your walls clenched violently around Mingyu’s fingers while your entire body tenses. Letting out a loud cry, liquid gushes out from your pussy, spraying over his face and chin.

That doesn’t stop him, though.

He’s absolutely pussydrunk. His tongue greedily laps through your release like it’s the only thing he’d drink up. His fingers don’t falter either, working you through every tremor and drawing out your high until your legs shake and your moans turn into helpless whimpers.

Wonwoo leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth, hand still snug around your throat. “Such a good girl… Now, the real fun begins.”

Very gently, he guides you off his lap. You’re still trying to catch your breath but you let him maneuver you onto all fours, the cold air hitting your pussy and you could feel how sticky your thighs were – soaked from squirting thanks to Mingyu’s tongue.

You don’t have enough time to balance yourself because you feel the cushions dip in front of you, Wonwoo having one hand wrapped around the base of his long cock. It was thick and the tip was flushed red, already leaking pre-cum from watching you get pleasured by Mingyu earlier.

“Open up for me,” he instructs, tapping the tip against your lips.

You do as you’re told and he slides in slowly, head thrown back as he lets out a low groan at the way your warm mouth wraps around him. “Fuck, yeah,” he breaths, tangling one hand in your hair and starts to guide you lower. “Let me see how much of this dick you can take.”

Your lips stretch around his girth, eyes fluttering shut as the weight of his dick lays on your tongue. He starts to shallowly thrust, letting you adjust before going deeper.

“Shit, Princess,” he groans, hips rolling forward as he watches your cheeks hollow around him. “Look so fucking hot with mouth full of my cock, pussy still dripping… S’like you were made for this.”

Behind you, Mingyu trails kisses along your spine, his hands roaming your body, thumbs digging into the softness of your flesh. You feel him line his cock up against your soaked folds, tip nudging at your entrance.

“Squirted all over my face and you're still this wet for me?" he teases, dragging the leaking cockhead through folds, giving your sensitive clit a few taps. “Think you can fit my whole cock in, Princess?”

You whine around Wonwoo’s cock and the elder just smirks, “Oh, don’t whine like that. We know you can take it. You’re our good girl, aren’t you?”

Mingyu slowly pushes in, grunting at how your walls clenches and unclenches rhythmically around his length. Your thighs quiver, mouth still full of Wonwoo’s cock, and your eyes tear up as you try to breathe through it.

“Fuuuuck,” the model behind you groans, bottoming out inside your heat. “So fucking tight.”

The streamer above you lets out a dark laugh, shallowly thrusting into your mouth again. “Yeah? Never had a cock as big as Gyu’s inside your little pussy, Princess?”

No, you haven’t.

The burn of the stretch has your toes curling, but it fades into pleasure once Mingyu starts thrusting. The pace he sets is deep and hard, making your hips rock back into him instinctively to feel more of the pleasure. Your mouth goes slack around Wonwoo’s cock for a moment and he notices.

He moves his free hand to cup your face, “You alright, Kitten?”

“S-Shit,” Mingyu stutters. “She just got tighter.”

You managed a muffled moan, nodding as your tongue presses against the underside of his cock.

Then, he begins to move in sync with Mingyu – thrusting forward just as the model pulls back. You can tell they’ve done this multiple times, not just from the stories they tell, but how they match each other’s pacing.

“Greedy Kitten,” Wonwoo mutters, his eyes glued to your face. “Taking two cocks at once. What would the media say when they find out, hm? That their pretty little Dior Princess is nothing but a cock hungry whore.”

You choke on a moan, the pleasure coiling in your belly hot and fast.

Mingyu tightens his grip on your hips, snapping his against yours in a rougher pace. “Shit, she’s trembling. Gonna cum again, Princess?”

You sob around Wonwoo’s cock, tears sliding down your cheeks as you try to hold yourself up between them. Every thrust rocks your body forward – Wonwoo fucking your throat slow and deep, Mingyu rutting into your soaked pussy like he never wants to pull out.

Mingyu’s calloused hand slides around your waist, fingers slipping between your thighs and finding your swollen clit. Your entire body jolts like a live wire when he starts to rub it in tight circles.

“Mmh!” your voice is muffled around Wonwoo’s cock, hips bucking back against Mingyu’s. “Fuck, you’re twitching,” he pants, still rutting into your soaked cunt while his fingers work your clit relentlessly.

Wonwoo grunts, fisting your hair gently so he could pull back just enough to let you breathe, eyes focused on the flushed, glassy-eyed face. “Go on, Princess,” he coaxes, voice thick with arousal. “Cum for us. Let us see just how much you love it when we wreck you.”

Your body seizes as you’re pushed to the edge, the orgasm crashing into you harder than the previous ones. Your cries are muffled by Wonwoo’s cock, spit glistening on your lips as your vision blur and your cunt clenches violently around Mingyu’s cock.

Mingyu’s hips stutter as the way you clamp down around him, more slick gushing down your thighs. “Holy fuck– Shit, you’re milking me so good, Kitten.” The lewd squelching of his dick pistoning in and out of your dripping pussy echoes through the room. His fingers never leave your clit – if anything, he presses against it harder and rubs faster.

Wonwoo’s pace quickens too, hips snapping into your mouth with more urgency. You hollow your cheeks, moaning around his thick length, the vibrations pushing him closer to his own climax. He tightens the grip he has on your hair, “Just like that. Sweet mouth of yours is gonna make me cum down this pretty throat soon.”

A few more thrusts and the streamers spills his hot cum down your throat with a strained groan. His release floods over your tongue, thick and hot; and you try your best to swallow it all. “God damn,” he pants, pulling back slowly to watch the way a string of cum and saliva cling to your lips. “That’s the best fucking head I ever got.”

Before you could respond, Mingyu slams his cock deep into your pussy with a loud roar of your name, hot spurts of cum filling your needy hole to the brim and leaking out around where he’s still buried. Your fourth orgasm tears through you without warning, cunt twitching around his cock as he starts to grind into you.

Mingyu presses his forehead against your shoulder, his breaths coming out in heavy pants. “Fuck… You’ve got the best pussy ever, Princess.”

Your body’s still trembling, barely recovering from the last orgasm when Wonwoo gently shifts your limp form. He slides his hand beneath you to lift and reposition your body with ease. “You did so well, Princess,” he coos, laying you on your back before spreading your legs. His gaze drops to your pussy – dripping with Mingyu’s cum and clenching like you want more.

You do.

He kneels between your thighs, cock glistening with your spit as he slowly gets hard again.

“Will you let me fuck you, Princess?” he asks. Your breath hitches at his question. After wrecking you just moments ago, he’s still asking you if he has your consent to continue. The tenderness beneath his dominance catches you off guard, and God, you’d be lying if it didn’t make your heart stutter and just a tad bit hornier.

“Please, Wonu…”

He lets out a guttural moan, rubbing his cockhead against your slick folds, letting it catch on your swollen clit before nudging it down your entrance. The tease alone has you moaning, body trembling with anticipation of being stretched and filled by him.

“My Princess is so polite,” he chuckles, pressing the tip in slowly. “Asking me to fill her needy pussy so sweetly.”

He pushes in slowly, letting you feel every inch of his cock while he loses himself in the way your walls flutter around him. “Fuck you’re still so wet,” he chuckles. You mewl, back arching as he sinks deeper into your sensitive cunt until he fully bottoms out. Some of Mingyu’s cum drips out of your stuffed pussy, staining the couch cushions below.

“Messy little thing.”

Your legs weakly, but instinctively wrap themselves around his waist the moment he starts thrusting, mouth falling open in a breathless moan. “Wonu… Feel s’full…”

He groans, hands tightening the grip they had on your hip. “And you… Feel. So. Fucking. Perfect.”

Each word is punctuated with a hard thrust.

“Can’t wait to creampie this messy cunt, Princess.”

He speeds up, the sound of your sopping pussy growing louder, wetter, filthier with every thrust. You cling to him, grabbing at his shoulders as you feel your orgasm creep up on you again. Your body is overstimulated, but you can’t bring yourself to care – not when two hot men are stuffing you full.

Wonwoo doesn’t warn you that he’s cumming. Instead, he leans into your neck and buries himself to the hilt before warm, thick spurts of cum flood your pussy once again. He stays buried inside you for a few seconds, wanting to keep every drop of his release stuffed inside you. Your walls flutter weakly around his length, body trembling and brain clouded in an overstimulated heat.

But he’s not done.

He pulls away from your neck and straightens his back. You feel his hands roam your body, like he’s trying to ground you – until he presses his palm firmly on your lower belly, right where you feel the thick fullness of him pressing against your womb.

“W-Wonu–!” you gasp, body jolting as the pressure sends a sharp wave of pleasure straight to your core. Your pussy clamps down around his cock, like you were trying to milk more of his delicious cum.

The streamer grins wolfishly, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Does it feel good when I do that?” he purrs, rubbing slow circles on the soft swell of your lower belly before pushing down just enough to feel his cock pressing back up into you. “Can you feel me here, Princess?”

You nod frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as your body feels like you’re on cloud nine, hazy with pleasure and overstimulation.

Beside you, Mingyu groans – one hand wrapped tight around his cock, fisting it hard as Wonwoo toys with your fucked-out body. His eyes are glued to the way your belly bulges from both his and the elder’s cum, how you whimper whenever he presses down.

“Shit,” he breathes, stroking himself faster. “That’s so fucking hot.”

Wonwoo looks over to the model, still stimulating you from your belly, his grin never fading. “You just gonna stand there and jerk off? Put that mouth of hers to work, Gyu.”

You’re still dazed but you listen to Wonwoo, turning your head and parting your lips, tongue flicking out as Mingyu steps closer; cock flushed and slick in his hand. He groans when you take him in your mouth, tongue swirling around the tip before sliding down further. Meanwhile, Wonwoo doesn’t stop pressing down on your belly, marvelling in the way your body twitches as you choke around the model’s dick.

The sight was sinful as hell.

Pussy stuffed and dripping, your mouth doing its best to give Mingyu a blowjob and the very act of your submission setting every one of his nerves on fire.

“Oh shit,” Wonwoo curses, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Atta girl. Our Kitten is so messy, but still so eager. ”

Your eyes are watery, cheeks flushed as your throat works around his cock, the tip hitting the back of your throat with each roll of his hips. One hand is tangled in your hair, setting a rhythm while grunts of approval and pleasure fall from his lips, eyes fixed on the way your swollen lips are wrapped around him.

Wonwoo’s cock is nestled perfectly against your g-spot, your pussy full and warm with both men’s cum. His hand continues to apply a steady pressure over your womb, already growing addicted to the way his cock pushes up just slightly inside you every time he pushes down.

He can’t help but let out a low laugh as he watches your thighs tremble, your hips twitching involuntarily as he continues his ministrations. “Look at her, Gyu. Our Princess is so sensitive. Every time I press here, she squirms.”

Mingyu groans, gaze flicking down to your lower belly. “Such a perfect Princess for us,” he pants, his thrusts growing a little rougher.

Your body jolts again when Wonwoo’s fingers find your overstimulated clit with ease, rubbing it in quick, insistent circles while simultaneously pressing down on your lower belly. Your thighs kick out, hands clutching the cushion beneath you.

“Gonna squirt for us again, Kitten?”

You try to answer, but you can’t – not when your mouth is full of Mingyu’s thick dick. Not that it matters anyway because Wonwoo applies more pressure to your lower belly, rubbing your clit faster.

Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. You sob around Mingyu’s cock as a fresh gush of liquid soaks Wonwoo’s thighs and the cushion beneath you. Your body convulses, mouth going slack as your cunt clenches uncontrollably around Wonwoo’s still-hard length.

“F-Fuck–” Wonwoo growls, hips jerking forward at the milking compression of your pussy. The fluttering spasms of your walls trigger his own orgasm, his cock twitching before pumping another load of hot semen into your already stuffed cunt. “Take it, Princess. Fucking taking my cum in your greedy pussy.”

The sight of you squirting and being creamed by Wonwoo was enough to tip Mingyu right over the edge, too. With a low, choked moan, he pushes his cock into your throat one last time and spills his load into your mouth, groaning as the way your throat flexes around his length with every spurt of his release.

Moments later, Mingyu carefully pulls out from your mouth, hand slipping from your hair to cradle your jaw, wiping the mess from your lips with his thumb. “Can’t believe you all of that, Princess…”

Wonwoo stays inside your pussy just a little longer, basking in the aftershocks before he too pulls out, eyes never leaving the sight of his cum leaking out from your fluttering, overstimulated hole.

The room is quiet now, save for the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional rustle of fabric as they both slowly calmed down from their highs.

You’re still sprawled across the couch, body limp and trembling, the air of the room thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Shit, if you didn’t look sinful before this, you definitely do now – cheeks flushed, lips swollen and thighs slick with cum.

Wonwoo moves first, arms wrapping around your torso to gently pull you into his chest. His hands gliding up your sides in soothing motions, peppering kisses across your face as you melt into him. “You okay, Princess?” he murmurs against your hair, “Hope your body isn’t too sore.”

You let out a broken laugh, “Umm… I might be limping for a few days.”

Mingyu chuckles, returning from the bathroom with a damp towel and kneels between your legs. His hands are careful as he starts to wipe between your thighs, murmuring soft apologies against the skin every time you twitch and flinch.

“You made such a mess,” he says affectionately. “And you look so pretty when you cum, too.”

You hum in response, too hazy to think of a proper answer, but your fingers find his wrist and give it a gentle squeeze. Once he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and settles beside you and Wonwoo on the couch. The streamer adjusts your sweater to cover your upper body, gently brushing away the sweat-matted hair of your forehead.

“Do you need anything? Water? Some sweets?”

You shake your head, eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself melt further into his arms. Mingyu reaches a hand out and gives your thigh a squeeze, “You were incredible, Kitten. Took everything we gave you.”

“Didn’t know you could squirt like that, too,” Wonwoo adds, smirking against your skin.

“Shut up…” you mumble, cheeks heating up.

They both laugh, low and warm.

Neither of you move for a long while, their soft touches making your heart swell despite the dull ache you feel.

🎓Pledis Pressboard 📰

Where tea spills, news thrills & everyone’s in the loop! Student-run.

👀 GOSSIP BOARD

💬 anon: anyone else noticing wonwoo n mingyu following the Dior Princess lately?

anon1: omg i thought i was the only one anon1: it’s not even the creepy or friends kind yk anon2: omg is my three-ship finally sailing???? anon3: bro wtf anon3: they’re dating the same girl??? anon3: not to yack their yum but like??? anon2: @anon3 bro it’s 20XX anon2: poly relationships are a thing anon4: real anon4: and if it bothers you then idk anon4: sounds more of a you problem than their problem tbh

Wonwoo wasn’t in a rush.

His next class was across the quad, warm sunlight filtering through the trees as students filed past. He’d been in a good mood, mind trailing back to the way you smiled at him that morning – wearing Mingyu’s hoodie, half-asleep and kissing his jaw like it was second nature.

“Wow, speak of the devil,” someone said behind him.

He stopped.

Turned.

There they were – the same girls from the party weeks ago. The ones that had cornered him and smiled while spouting poison in his face. He recognised the one in the middle – Haemin, and she was smiling far too bright for his liking.

“We heard a rumour,” she said, strolling up and standing next to him like they were friends. “You and Mingyu… dating her..?”

He doesn’t answer.

Another girl giggled. “Didn’t think you’d fall into her trap. Guess she is good at what she does.”

The third girl added, “I know they say psychology students try to fix people, but didn’t think you’d double down on the whole ‘damaged girl’ fantasy.”

“You remember what we told you, right? It’s just that… Well, we thought after what we told you, you migh’ve… y’know, figured out she’s what she seems. She’s a manipulator, Wonwoo. We’d hate to see you and Mingyu get hurt over someone like her.”

Still, he doesn’t say anything, but he watches them – staring at them like he was waiting for them to finish their script.

Haemin leans in, “She always finds her way into guys’ beds. She plays innocent but she’s only ever good at spreading her legs. She’s a model, after all – kinda comes with the package.”

The silence that followed stretched like a taut wire. Wonwoo’s expression didn’t twist, his eyes remained unreadable. Hell, he didn’t even look angry. He took a step forward, the slight shift in his posture made all three girls tense.

“Y’know,” he began, voice low and calm. “I find it funny how loud people get when they think they got away with something, thinking the truth will never get out.”

Haemin’s smiles faltered.

“You may have gotten away with pinning things on ___, but did you really think the consequences of your actions in the past wouldn’t come back to bite you?”

The other girls stiffened.

Wonwoo leans down, just enough to mutter, “What would happen if word got out you were the one that was trying to break up Hyungwon and girlfriend back then?”

Her eyes widened.

“___ was nice enough to not fight back, to let you paint her as the villain. You used her face and her reputation to twist the narrative. And when people believed you, you doubled down. Why? Perhaps it’s because that was easier than admitting you were bitter, petty and jealous.”

“She told you that?” Haemin scoffs, crossing her arms as a means of defense. “God, she has you wrapped around her finger worse than I thought.”

Wonwoo shrugs, “I have no shame in admitting I’m whipped for my Princess. You, on the other hand? You’re so used to controlling the narrative that you forget some people don’t buy into this kind of gossip that should be left in high school.”

His jaw tightened. “You know what sets you and ___ apart? After all these years, not once has she tried to make anyone look bad. Not once has she spoken about you the way you speak about her, and that tells me a lot of who she is as a person.”

They instinctively took a step back as he took another step forward. Wonwoo didn’t raise his voice, didn’t cause a scene, but the air around him was terrifying in a sense that the calmness made people feel unsafe.

“I honestly don’t give a shit about what you think of her, and I sure as hell don’t give a fuck how many people you’ve fooled with the stories you’re spreading. But, I do care when someone insults her. Once again, she’s my girlfriend and you don’t get to talk about her like that.”

He looked at each of them in turn.

“And if I ever hear you speak of her name like that again, I promise you that you will regret it.”

Haemin looked like she wanted to scoff. Wanted to claim back some control. But the way Wonwoo stared down at her, like his gaze alone could tear her apart, kept her silent. He took one final glance at them and walked away without another word.

When he steps out of the hallway and onto the stone paths, the cool air greets him first – crisp and damp with the scent of earth and moss. Then, his phone buzzed with a message from you.

🎀 princess 👑: i miss you :(

The glow from the TV flickers across the living room, casting shadows over bowls of half-eaten popcorn, a forgotten beer can and the three of you tangled on the couch. You’re sat between the men, legs stretched across Mingyu’s thighs while your head rests against Wonwoo’s shoulders, his fingers idly playing with your hair.

Mingyu’s feet were propped up on the coffee table, occasionally popping popcorn into your mouth while his free hand lazily rested on your shin. A horror movie was playing on the screen, courtesy of Mingyu, who was far too invested in it for someone who claims to hate jump scares.

However, there’s been a question itching at the back of your mind all evening. Mingyu had casually mentioned seeing Wonwoo with them near the main campus earlier that day. At the time, you sort of just hummed and dismissed it, changing the subject; but now, hours later, it still bothered you.

You lifted your head slightly, voice soft. “Wonu?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the movie. “Hm?”

“Gyu said he saw you talking to Haemin earlier.”

The silence that follows cut sharper than the violins on the soundtrack.

Mingyu goes still next to you and Wonwoo shifts beneath you, pausing the movie with a quiet tap of the remote. He turns his head towards you, his expression calm and steady, but his eyes are focused on you.

“Are you mad?” he asks, voice soft.

You sat a bit straighter, “I’m… I’m not mad, promise. I just… I just…”

He hooks two fingers underneath your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. “Hey, hey… Look at me, Princess. They came up to me on my way to class. Said they heard rumours that we’re in a poly relationship, tried to get underneath my skin.”

Your lips stretched into a thin line, a sinking feeling in your stomach. “And… you entertained them?”

He shrugs, “Honestly, I didn’t really care much about what they said. That is, until she said something that crossed the line.”

“What did she say?”

Wonwoo hesitated, his jaw flexing slightly. “She said you always found your way into guys’ beds. That you were only ever good at spreading your legs because you’re a model.”

Mingyu stiffened beside you, “Fuck’s sake…”

Your stomach dropped, the blood in your face drained. “She really said that?”

Wonwoo nodded, “She did. And I snapped.”

You blinked.

“Told her that I knew what she did in Pre-U. Well, at least I pretended to look like I knew what happened. Also told her that if she ever talks about my girlfriend like that again, they’ll regret it.”

The room was quiet again, but it wasn’t the heavy kind this time.

You exhaled, your breath a little shaken. Then you leaned into him, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “You didn’t have to do that…” The streamer almost purrs at the feel of your lips against his skin, “I’m not about to let some petty bitches think they have the right to talk down on or to you. Nor am I gonna let them rewrite your worth just because they’re bitter.”

Mingyu leans over, pecking your cheek. “You’re not alone anymore, ___. You have us, and we’ll defend you through hell and back.”

You chuckle softly, “You two wanna protect me that badly, huh?”

The model snorts, “Obviously. You’re our Princess.”

Wonwoo ruffles your hair, laughing when you swat at his hand. “So let us, yea? End of discussion.”

The three of you relax once again – Mingyu unpausing the movie and Wonwoo shifting close so you’d all be cuddled closer. Fake screams fill the room again, but Gods, your heart felt so safe.

So loved.

taglist !!

@syluslittlecrows @itaewonsquad97 @gyuhao365 @prettypeachprincesz @babycaratdeul @chloe856112 @minhui896

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