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Like... I hope this is the end, man. I'm done.
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I... I'm tired




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WHEN IS HIS CONTRACT WITH CK GOING TO END?????

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Rumour [teaser]
Part of the Light's Out collab hosted by @camandemstudios!
Kim Mingyu x f!reader
teaser word count: approx. 570 || est. full word count: 15k (??? we will never truly know)
est. release date: August 31st
contains: f1driver!mingyu, race engineer!reader, fluff, angst, smut, coworkers to lovers, beloved by all mingyu, mentions of a crash, teaser is v basic more to come in the full fic!!
synopsis: It’s hard to dislike Mingyu, an acknowledgement he risks his modesty for. So when he approaches you with rose tinted glasses, clad in the team kit of his dreams, he’s ready to build a rapport of a lifetime with his brand new race engineer. Until, the brakes screech loud enough for the entire paddock to hear. It’s hard to dislike Mingyu, but you make it look easy.
���️ JOIN THE TAGLIST by sending an ask or replying under this post. AGE INDICATORS ON YOUR BLOG ARE NECESSARY. ‼️
[a/n]: another gyuswhore long fic about gyu who else cheered!!!! please check out the light's out collab master list linked at the top and sign up for the taglist, sosososo many great writers on our lineup coming soon!!!
masterlist
BAKU 2025
Mingyu’s head feels like an anvil.
He isn’t sure if the hat that hinders half his vision is helping or not, but he makes no move to remove it. The back of his eyelids are reprieve from the lights of his room on the paddock, only to turn into a canvas for his racing thoughts.
A knock on the door is a sledgehammer to his brain, a grimace making its way onto his tired face as he braces himself to perceive the empty room. His sister’s voice filters through the door, quiet and guarded.
“They’re ready for you,” she says. Timid, transposed for the usual abrasion she directs at him.
The acid in his chest feels like it could burn a hole through him. But he gets up, a difficulty in his joints as they protest the move. Minseo says nothing as she takes him in, silently leading him to the hoard of press that sits before a table, ready to grill him on the events of today.
Mingyu wants to go home.
There’s a chorus of greetings as he enters the room, cameras already flashing. He’d long suppressed the irate impulse of shoving cameras away from his face, but he might be regressing.
He responds with a mild acknowledgment of the reporters that gather round the table, shifting into the chair set out for him. It’s crowded, too many people in a secluded area of the Baku paddock, huddled with too big cameras and microphones around a round coffee table.
The post race conference had presumably wrapped up, but Mingyu was not one of the three podium standers to grace that particular hall.
Somebody from behind him lets them know they can begin hounding Mingyu with questions.
“I’m gonna start by asking how you’re doing?” one of the closest ones to him asks. His face is blank, tone monotonous.
“I’m alright. Looked worse than it was,” he responds plainly, nodding.
“That’s good to hear.” The reporter pauses, like he’s attempting to phrase the obvious. “So, would you tell us what exactly happened at turn 15?”
“What seems to happen at turn 15 a lot," Mingyu responds matter-of-factly. “The Mercedes was on my tail and I thought I could risk a delayed brake. Wheels lock up and then I’m suddenly in the wall.”
“Do you think it could’ve been a podium for you if it weren’t for the crash?” another asks.
“Who knows.”
“Would you classify this as a mistake or a gap in skill?”
Mingyu hopes they don’t catch his jaw tightening, but they probably did.
“It was a lapse in judgement. It’s a difficult turn and I let myself get cornered. Could’ve been better off taking the risk of Lee overtaking me but that’s not how it turned out.”
“Mingyu, you’ve appeared to have high morale since joining Ferrari this season, will this incident be affecting future performance?”
“Absolutely not. It’s lesson learnt, that’s all.”
Another one pipes up. Someone in the corner with eyes like a hawk. “And what of the rumour that’s been circulating in the press in recent weeks?”
Mingyu was not moving, or else they would’ve caught the way he’d halt entirely. A sour taste fills his mouth, metallic and uncomfortable.
Mingyu had known this would happen, the only question was when—he’d gotten his answer. He sits there attempting to gulp inconspicuously, to dry his mouth before opening it.
“What rumour?”

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SO INSANEEEEE

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my man my beautiful man
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I just wanted to share that in the midst of my desperation to find a code for the pre-sale, a friend I made here gave me the code without asking for anything in return... I don't even have words to thank you for that!
#My heart is incomprehensible right now...#I just want to cry because of how grateful I am#I can't believe I'm really going to see the guys.... I'm going to see Kim Mingyu... That's crazy#svt#seventeen#mingyu
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Anyone who wants to share their carat membership code with me??🥲
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the wrong kind of right



⊹ overview - pairing: seungcheol x f!reader genre: messy love · bittersweet · introspective drama · mild angst themes: quiet yearning, moral ambiguity, situationship, guilt and desire. cw: sexual content (MDNI), infidelity, emotional cheating, alcohol, suggestive situations, pet names, unprotected sex.
minors do not interact!
summary: you don’t belong to him and he doesn’t belong to you. tet through whispered conversations, soft touches, and the way he looks at you when it’s just the two of you, he’s the secret you keep tucked away.
from kai: i was listening to the weekend by sza and… well. this happened. kind of.
it was supposed to be dinner. nothing fancy. just a place you liked, a reservation made two weeks ago, and a text that arrived half an hour too late.
babe, the guys just dropped by unexpectedly. can we move dinner to sunday?
you read it once. then again. no sorry this time. just logistics. like you were another appointment.
your wine was already poured by then. the waitress had just lit the candle at your table when the message came through.
you sat there a little longer than you needed to, staring at the plate of pasta in front of you like it might blink first.
you didn’t cry. didn’t throw your phone across the table or curse his name under your breath. you just asked for the check, signed it without looking, and stepped out into the street like you weren’t sure where else to go.
the bar next door wasn’t unfamiliar. warm lighting, quiet music, a vaguely vintage smell of oak and orange peel. a safe place to disappear for a bit.
somewhere you used to come before things felt like routines.
you sit at the bar and order something stronger than wine. pretend to scroll through your phone while you decide if it’s sadder to go home early or stay and look like you’re waiting for someone.
you’re not even supposed to be talking to anyone. that was the deal you made with yourself the second you sat down at the bar. no rebound flirting, no trying to “salvage the night.” just one drink and then home.
except now there’s this guy two stools over, arguing with the bartender about the jazz playlist like he owns the place.
“you seriously changed it?” he says, mock offended. “after everything we’ve been through?”
the bartender laughs. “you only show up when you get dumped.”
“i was not dumped. it was mutual ghosting.”
“uh-huh. tell that to your sad playlist.”
you try not to stare. try not to smile. but it’s already tugging at the corner of your mouth when he catches your eye.
“don’t judge me,” he says, raising his glass like a toast. “i’m having a deeply personal moment with chet baker.”
you raise your own glass in response. “chet’s been through worse.”
his grin widens. “you know jazz?”
“i know heartbreak.”
“same thing, really.” he shifts one seat closer. doesn’t ask permission.
“he canceled on you?”
you turned toward the voice.
he didn’t smile. just sipped and looked at you like he already knew the answer.
you raised an eyebrow. “what makes you think that?”
“your glass is too full, and you keep looking at the door like you’re giving someone five more minutes.”
you looked down. your hand was resting near your phone.
“he postponed. technically.”
“ah. even worse.” he nodded. “delayed disappointment. classic.”
you tried not to let it affect you.
“you always this nosy with strangers?”
“only the ones who walk in like they’re trying not to be seen.”
“what does that mean?”
he shrugged. “you have the look.”
“what look?”
“like you needed a quiet place to be mad.”
you huffed. not quite a laugh, but not denial either. he leaned slightly closer, just enough for you to smell the whiskey on his breath.
“don’t worry,” he said. “i’m not here to flirt.”
“good.” you replied. “because that would be a waste of time.”
he chuckled. “noted.”
“what’s your name?” he asks.
you hesitate. you shouldn’t. you really shouldn’t. but you tell him.
he nods. repeats it under his breath, like he’s trying it on for size.
“pretty...” he says. “but not soft. just like you.”
you narrow your eyes. “you don’t know anything about me.”
“well, i know that you’re here. alone. wearing a ring.”
your fingers curl slightly on instinct, brushing over the thin gold band. not a wedding ring. just a simple promise.
you wait for the question. the judgement. something. it doesn’t come.
“i’m not married.” you say.
“didn’t say you were.”
“you implied it.”
“to be honest, i’m just curious...” he says, voice low. “he must be a very secure man to leave you alone in a place like this.”
you should be annoyed. but there’s something in his tone... not pushy, not smug. just... present. you let the silence stretch between you. then, like it’s nothing:
“seungcheol.”
he offers it like a passing thought, not something he expects you to keep. you nod once. don’t repeat it.
“you’re still not flirting?” you ask.
he smiles again, slower this time. “if i were, you'd be laughing by now.”
you roll your eyes. but your lips curve with it. he doesn’t try to close the distance. doesn’t ask where your boyfriend is. doesn’t mention the ring again.
instead, he traces the rim of his glass with one finger, thoughtful. then looks at you again.
“you look like you’re about to leave.”
“maybe.”
“shame.”
“why?”
“conversation was just getting interesting.”
you finish your drink in one swallow. stand up. he doesn’t stop you. just watches as you slip your coat back on.
you turn once before walking out and that’s when he moves. reaches for a napkin, scribbles something quickly, and offers it to you with two fingers.
“in case you feel like being seen, next time.”
you glance at the numbers. no name.
“that’s bold.” you say.
“i won’t hold my breath.” he replies, finishing his drink. “but thursdays can be unpredictable.”
you leave the bar lighter than when you walked in and you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. you don’t text him that week. or the one after.
but you think about it. more than once.
the days pass. your boyfriend keeps canceling. dinners, movies, weekends. things you used to look forward a little too much to. things that now feel like maybe they were never really for you.
at first, he has good reasons. work’s been hectic. he’s exhausted. something urgent came up. his brother’s in town. he needs a night with the guys. you say okay. every time. you want to be understanding. you really do.
but the excuses start piling.
and the effort? that doesn’t.
he forgets small things. the book you told him you were reading. your big meeting last week. your sister’s birthday dinner. he kisses you without looking up from his phone. asks “what’s wrong?” like he hasn’t already ignored your last three texts.
you try bringing it up. gently. once.
he sighs. tells you you’re being dramatic. says “you know how much i care about you” and somehow it sounds like “can we not do this right now?”
so you stop.
you stop asking when he’ll be free. stop reminding him of your plans. you stop expecting anything at all. you just shrink around it.
you still see him, sometimes. but even when you’re in the same room, you feel like background noise. a fixture in the apartment. a maybe. a later. a rain check with legs.
the silence between you gets heavier. and you keep thinking that maybe it’s just a phase. maybe everyone gets like this eventually.
but then thursday rolls around again. you’re already home this time. a takeout bag still warm on the counter. candles lit in your bedroom like you were trying to make it feel like something. like it meant something. you didn’t even tell him to come over. you just hoped he might.
your phone buzzes.
they want to grab a drink. it’s been months. you understand, right?
nothing more. no i’ll make it up to you. just assumption. expectation. like of course you’ll understand.
you don’t reply. you just sit there for a moment, still. like maybe if you stay still enough, you won’t feel the ache settling in your chest. like maybe it’s your fault for hoping. for waiting.
you blow out the candles. walk to the kitchen. and open the drawer where you keep old receipts, forgotten pens, and a napkin you were absolutely not supposed to keep.
your fingers find it too easily. your thumbs hover over your phone for a long time.
you type. delete. type again.
and then:
you guess you were right about thursdays
the response comes quicker than you expect.
seungcheol didn’t think i’d hear from you but i was hoping
you bite your lip. heart a little too loud.
you i wasn’t gonna text you
seungcheol and yet
a pause.
seungcheol where are you?
your breath catches. your fingers tighten around the phone.
you home. alone.
one minute. then two.
seungcheol do you want company?
you don’t answer right away. you reread the last message. and the one before that. and suddenly the silence of your apartment feels unbearable.
so you type slowly.
you maybe just a drink
seungcheol sure just a drink
you don’t believe him. and maybe that’s why you get up to change.
it’s the same bar. same lights, same low music. same seat at the corner that feels like it’s been holding its breath.
he’s already there when you walk in. same shirt. same chain. same look in his eyes when he sees you. amused, unreadable, like he saw this coming before you did.
you slide onto the stool beside him. he doesn’t say anything at first. just slides a glass in your direction, like it’s habit.
you glance at it, then at him.
“don’t assume i drink the same thing every time.” you say.
he shrugs. “didn’t seem like the night to experiment.”
you take the glass anyway. the first sip burns. he watches you like it doesn’t.
he lifts his drink. “to whatever brought you in.”
you clink, barely. no toast in return.
you talk, eventually. but it stays on the surface. music, cities, random half-stories that make you both smile. he doesn’t ask about your boyfriend. doesn’t say “so, what changed?”
he doesn’t need to.
his knee bumps yours once, then doesn’t move.
his eyes flick to your mouth more than once, and every time they do, your breath feels a little less steady. his thumb runs absently along the rim of his glass, and all you can think about is how it would feel against your skin.
you set your drink down and ask: “why are you so confident? so sure of things?”
his smile is lazy. “it’s not confidence if i’m right.”
you roll your eyes, but the heat in your chest doesn’t fade. you stare at him for a second too long. and maybe it’s the drink. or the week you had. or the way he looks at you like he already knows what you taste like.
but when you say it, your voice doesn’t shake.
“wanna come over?”
he doesn’t blink. doesn’t hesitate.
“just one more drink?” he says, like it’s a joke. like he’d already said yes the second you walked in.
your place is dim. a little messy. the kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound louder than it should.
you open a bottle of wine and pour into mismatched glasses, the only ones clean.
he follows without asking. just steps inside like he’s done it before, like he belongs there. doesn’t sit. just stands in the middle of your living room and watches you take a sip, fingers wrapped tight around the glass.
you try not to look nervous. fail completely.
“so…” you start. but don’t finish. because he’s already walking toward you. slow. certain. and suddenly there’s no space left to pretend this is casual.
he takes the glass from your hand and sets it down on the counter without looking. then, like he’s asking something simple:
“come here.”
you don’t think. you just move.
his hands are on your waist before you reach him. his mouth on yours before your next breath. the kiss is slow, not soft. there’s a difference. he doesn’t rush it, doesn’t fumble.
he kisses you like he’s been imagining it in pieces, and now he’s putting them together one by one. his hands slide down your hips, anchoring you. fingers splayed, certain. he pulls back just enough to look at you.
his voice is low, near your jaw:
“you want this or you’re just lonely?”
you meet his eyes.
“does it matter?”
he smiles. dark. “not to me.”
you nod. he doesn’t ask again.
he lifts you easily, like it’s instinct. and starts walking you backward, lips brushing your neck, knuckles grazing skin. your back hits the bed before you realize how far you’ve made it.
he undresses you slowly. not teasing, not showy. just… deliberate. like this part matters. like every layer is something he earned.
he doesn’t ask for permission with every touch. just watches your face, waits for the way your breath catches like that’s all the yes he needs.
when he looks at you bare, he exhales sharp. something between reverence and hunger.
“fuck...” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
his fingers trail lower. measuring. learning. and when his mouth follows, slow at first and then not, you gasp. too hard, too loud.
you reach for his hair. he doesn’t stop. just holds you down, steady, until your thighs are trembling and your breath comes in broken pieces.
when he finally kisses you, you taste yourself on his lips.
his fingers slide between your thighs again, slick and sensitive. you flinch. he hums against your mouth.
“not used to this, huh?”
you try to speak. fail. you can’t even lie. he slides in slow. one long thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.
your mouth falls open. no sound. just pressure. full and overwhelming.
he fucks you deep and steady, one hand gripping your waist, the other braced beside your head.
he doesn’t talk much, but when he does it’s a low string of things you weren’t ready to hear.
“look at me, pretty.”
“is this what you needed?”
you nod, gasping, fingers digging into his arms. he kisses you like he’s claiming you. fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else.
and by the time you come again, you’re half-sure he’s already succeeded.
after, he stays. not awkward. not obligated. just… stays. like it never crossed his mind to leave.
you’re half-draped across his chest, legs tangled. neither of you says anything for a long time. his hand moves slow down your back, tracing nothing in particular.
you wonder if this is where the guilt is supposed to kick in. but all you feel is warm. and his breath, steady against your neck.
you close your eyes.
just for a second.
you wake before him. his arm is heavy across your waist. your sheets smell like wine, sweat, and something deeper. something not yours alone anymore.
you don’t move.
when he stirs, you let your breath even out. pretend. he says your name once, then again. softer the second time. you keep still.
you feel the mattress shift as he gets up, the quiet sounds of him dressing. zipper, keys, the door unlatching.
then silence.
you stare at the ceiling, trying to find the feeling you’re supposed to be having.
guilt. shame. regret.
nothing comes.
only the memory of his voice, rough and close: look at me, pretty. you close your eyes again. you don’t want to forget it.
after that, you don’t text him. not that day. not the next. you go back to your life. the one with morning coffee, dry kisses, and half-finished grocery lists.
your boyfriend doesn’t notice anything. he’s busy. distracted. work, gym, group chats, meetings. he falls asleep on the couch half the week.
when he kisses you, it’s soft. detached. like muscle memory. you match the energy. nod at the right times. laugh on cue. you smile when you’re supposed to. and it should feel wrong.
but it doesn’t.
and that’s what starts to eat at you. not the sex. not the lie. just the absence of guilt. the weightless way it all fits together.
you think about seungcheol more than you mean to.
the way he looked at you like you were real. like you were seen. you remember the weight of his body. the voice. the calm kind of control that made your pulse spike.
you don’t delete the messages but you stop replying. and he doesn’t push.
a few texts come in:
seungcheol i know you’re busy just checking in
seungcheol did thursday get boring without me?
then nothing.
you try to feel relieved. you don’t.
the knock on your door comes a week later. friday night. your boyfriend’s out, drinks with coworkers. you expect delivery but when you open the door, it’s him. black hoodie, wind in his hair, one hand in his pocket like he’s holding back everything he wants to say.
you freeze.
“what the fuck?”
“hi, pretty.”
your heart stutters.
“what are you doing here?”
he shrugs. “returning the favor. figured we owed each other a drink.”
you glance behind you, pulse climbing.
“you can’t just show up like this.”
he lifts a brow. “why not? i already know the way.”
“my boyfriend could’ve been here.”
his mouth twitches. “but he’s not.”
you want to slam the door. you don’t.
you step back and he walks in like the place still remembers him. he doesn’t hesitate. just turns to you, hands in his pockets.
“you ghosted me.”
you cross your arms. “i had to. it wasn’t... sustainable.”
he scoffs. “funny. felt pretty natural to me.”
you narrow your eyes. “you’re being an asshole.”
“am i?” he takes a step closer. “or am i the only one telling the truth?”
you hate how steady he is. how your body reacts before your brain decides.
“why are you really here?” you ask, quieter now.
he’s close. not touching you but close enough that your skin feels aware of it.
“i haven’t stopped thinking about you” he says. his hand brushes your arm. “your mouth. your voice. how you sound when you come apart. fuck…” his voice falters, almost like he hates hearing himself say it. “you’re in my head all the time, pretty.”
you should push him away. but instead, you tilt your chin and say,
“you don’t get to call me that.”
he smiles, slow. “you didn’t mind it before.”
you don’t deny it. you don’t say anything at all.
his thumb skims your bottom lip. “want me to leave?” he asks, soft now.
dangerous.
you don’t answer but he knows.
he kisses you like he’s angry at how long it’s been. like restraint was never really on the table. your back hits the wall and his hands are everywhere. under your shirt, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.
you gasp when he lifts you. legs wrap around his waist without hesitation.
“missed this...” he breathes against your skin. “missed you.”
you’re already breathless.
“you shouldn’t be here.” you whisper.
he laughs. low, amused, a sound that hums against your neck. “but you want me here.” a kiss under your jaw. “don’t you?”
you close your eyes. “fuck.”
he carries you to the couch. lays you down with urgency, like the moment might slip away if he’s not careful.
this time, he’s faster. pulls your shirt off like it doesn't matters how it comes off. you squirm under his gaze.
“don’t look at me like that.” you say.
“like what?”
“like you care.”
he leans in, kisses your sternum. then lower. then lower still.
“maybe i do.” he murmurs. his voice is rough now. “would that be so bad?”
you don’t answer. you can’t.
his hands slide under your waistband. he takes his time. when he kisses your thigh, you say his name once, barely a breath. and he exhales like it undid something in him.
then his mouth is on you. again. he eats you like he’s starving. not for release, for you. like the taste is proof you’re real. your hips jerk and he presses you down, firm.
“stay still.” he murmurs.
“let me.”
you come too fast, too hard. and before you can catch your breath, he’s on you again. mouth, hands, heat, everything.
his belt clinks. your thoughts scatter. he fucks you slow this time. but still deep. sure. like he wants you to remember every second of it tomorrow. you clutch at him. his back, his shoulder, anything.
you don’t say his name again. but you think it. over and over. like a secret. like a prayer.
when he speaks, it’s low. honest. unguarded.
“i can’t stop thinking about you.”
“he doesn’t get to have you like this.”
and then, right before you fall apart again, voice barely a whisper:
“say you’re mine. just for now. say it.”
and you do. because in that moment, you are.
after, you lay on the couch, tangled and silent. his hand is on your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. you try not to think about what this means. you try not to look at the time. you try not to imagine your boyfriend walking in.
but none of that happens.
the world is quiet. and seungcheol is warm beside you.
“you okay?” he asks, finally.
you nod. “yeah.” then, after a beat:
“you can’t keep showing up like this.”
he doesn’t flinch. “then don’t make me miss you.”
you laugh. tired. frustrated. “it’s not that simple.”
“it is for me.” he says. “i want you. that’s it.”
you turn away, suddenly overwhelmed. he presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“i’ll go.” he murmurs. “just... tell me if you’re gonna shut me out again.”
you don’t promise anything. but when he gets up to leave, you don’t stop him. you just lie there. quiet. and when the door clicks shut behind him, you already miss him.
it becomes routine faster than you expect. thursdays, mostly. sometimes mondays. you don’t talk about it. you don’t have to. he texts. you show up. sometimes you stay for an hour. sometimes all night.
always at his place now. a quiet apartment on the edge of the city with clean sheets and soft lighting and music that never stops playing.
he never asks questions. never pushes. but he always opens the door like he’s been waiting. and you like that. you like how he looks at you like you’re not cheating.
he still calls you pretty. sometimes in bed. sometimes when you’re just sitting there, drinking his whiskey in one of his hoodies, legs tucked under you like you belong there. you hate how right it feels.
your boyfriend starts to notice. at first, it’s nothing. a passing comment:
“you seem happier lately.”
“you look really good this week.”
and then it builds.
“wanna do something friday? just us?”
“i miss this. you and me.”
you nod. you smile. you let him hold your hand across the dinner table. but your mind is still stuck on the way seungcheol holds your hips when you ride him. the way he says your name with his mouth full of need.
and it gets harder to juggle. you start making excuses.
"i'm working late."
"i told a friend i'd help her move."
"my mom's been calling a lot lately."
and your boyfriend buys it. until he doesn’t.
it happens on a tuesday. you’re in the shower, phone on the bathroom counter, music playing. he walks in, says something about ordering dinner. you shout back, "anything's fine!"
he says okay. you don’t notice the pause. don’t hear the phone buzz under the steam and music. when you walk out, towel wrapped around you, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.
yours.
your heart stops. you freeze in the doorway.
he looks up, eyes unreadable.
“who’s seungcheol?��� he asks. it’s not loud. not angry. just quiet. and you feel the floor shift under you.
your mouth opens. closes.
“what?”
he shows you the screen. a single notification:
seungcheol you left your sweater, pretty.
just that. nothing else. but it’s enough.
you step forward, towel clutched tighter.
“he’s just...it’s not like that.”
“so what is it like?” his voice still calm. too calm.
“he’s just a coworker. he calls everyone that. it's... it's just his thing.”
he stares at you. like he’s trying to see through you. you smile, shaky.
“you know i’d never do anything.”
he nods. too fast.
“right.” he says. then stands. “i’ll order something.”
he walks out of the room. doesn’t say another word. and you stand there, dripping, heart racing, stomach twisted, wondering if this was it.
if it’s already falling apart. if you’ve gone too far to come back.
you wipe the steam from the mirror. look at your reflection.
you look good. a little flushed. a little wild. like someone in love.
and that’s the problem.
you shouldn’t have gone to his place that night. but you did.
the city was too loud. your boyfriend too quiet. and the ache in your chest too familiar.
you texted two words:
you you home?
and he replied in under a minute.
seungcheol always for you, pretty
you didn’t even say hi when you walked in. you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him like you were trying to shut yourself up. he let you. hands on your waist. mouth on your throat.
you pulled off his shirt. he pressed you to the wall. clothes hit the floor without ceremony. he fucks you hard this time.
not unkind but intense. like he’s trying to burn his name into your spine. your nails leave red trails on his shoulders. you moan too loud. you don’t care.
when it’s over, you lie there in the dark, chest still heaving. he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, checking something. you sit up.
“cheol...”
he looks over.
you swallow. “you need to stop texting me first.”
he blinks.
“…what?”
“i mean it. don’t reach out unless i text you first. it’s... risky.”
he sits up slowly. you feel the shift in the air.
“risky.” he repeats. “but what we’re doing isn’t?”
“it’s different.”
“it’s not.” he says. then quieter, “but sure. whatever makes you feel better.”
you can feel the weight in his words. you know he’s hurt. you see it in the way he doesn’t look at you as he grabs his shirt. you pretend not to notice. because acknowledging it would make it real.
you stay the night, anyway.
things start to press down on you after that. not like guilt. more like gravity.
being with two people is exhausting. two versions of yourself, two stories to tell, two worlds you’re keeping from colliding.
you’re good at it but you’re tired. and then it gets worse.
you’re out with your boyfriend, some rooftop bar he found online. warm lights, clinking glasses, music low enough for conversation.
he’s holding your hand again. touching your waist like he remembered how.
“i missed this” he says.
you smile. you nod. you lie. you turn your head to avoid the weight of it and that’s when you see him.
two tables away. black shirt. same chain. drink in hand. and a girl beside him.
she’s laughing. touching his arm like she’s done it before. and he’s letting her.
your stomach twists before you can stop it. your pulse stutters. your jaw tightens. jealousy blooms in your throat like something rotten. ugly and hot and sudden. and you have no right to feel it.
you watch them too long.
your boyfriend says something beside you but it’s muffled, far away. like you’re underwater.
you stand before you even think to. legs moving without permission. you walk over like it’s casual, like it’s nothing, like your entire body isn’t vibrating.
“hey” you say, too cheerful.
seungcheol looks up slowly. blinks.
“hi.” he says. voice unreadable.
you gesture vaguely over your shoulder. “my boyfriend’s here. just thought i’d say hi.”
there’s a pause. too long.
you glance at the girl. “and this is…?”
she smiles before he can speak. “i’m jihye, nice to meet you.” she says, light and easy.
seungcheol lifts his glass. “she’s my friend.” he says, dry.
you meet his eyes. there’s something bitter there. but neither of your dates seem to notice.
you turn just in time as your boyfriend joins you.
“babe, this is seungcheol.” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t shake. “the friend i told you about.”
friend. you could choke on it.
your boyfriend nods, polite. they shake hands. the girl stays quiet. just keeps watching you.
you smile too wide. “well. don’t let us interrupt. looks like a great date.”
seungcheol raises an eyebrow. but he says nothing.
you turn around. walk away before your mouth does something reckless.
you don’t look back.
you show up at his door an hour later. no text. no warning. he opens it, surprised. his shirt is off. he looks tired. annoyed.
“what are you doing here?”
“where is she?”
he raises an eyebrow. “she left. why?”
you push past him, walk into his apartment like you live there. he shuts the door behind you, slow.
“you okay?”
you turn, arms crossed.
“were you gonna sleep with her?”
he laughs. dry. “are you serious?”
“answer me.”
“why do you care?” his voice is sharper now. “you’re the one who keeps leaving. you’re the one who goes home to someone else.”
“that’s not the point.”
“then what is?” he steps closer. “you don’t get to be jealous, pretty. not when the only place we exist is this apartment.”
your mouth goes dry. “you were the one who said you didn’t care” you whisper.
he laughs again, but it doesn’t sound like humor. “yeah, well. i lied.”
the silence stretches. you feel it like a bruise. your throat tight. your heart worse.
“so what now?” you ask.
“you tell me...” he says. “you’re the one juggling hearts like glassware.”
you stare at him. and for the first time, you’re not sure which one you’re more afraid of losing.
after that night everything changed between you and seungcheol. the easy back-and-forth, the electric pull that used to crackle in the air whenever you touched. it all shifted.
his messages became sparse, his words clipped, and the warmth you used to find in his eyes was replaced by a quiet distance that made your chest ache.
it was like you were holding onto a ghost, reaching out through the silence but feeling nothing but cold air.
you tried to tell yourself he just needed space, that maybe he was sorting through his own mess. but the silence grew heavier every day. your phone would buzz and you’d hope it was him, but often it wasn’t.
and when you did hear from him, it was just a word, a sentence. never the late-night confessions or teasing you craved.
the gap between you widened, and with every unanswered text, the weight in your chest tightened.
the loneliness started to claw at you, and one night you couldn’t hold it back anymore. you sent the simplest message you could think of:
you can you come over?
seungcheol on my way
when he arrived, the air between you was thick, heavy with things neither of you said. his eyes searched yours, like he was trying to read all the words left unsaid.
you sat close but felt miles apart, the quiet stretching until you couldn’t take it anymore.
“seungcheol, how am i supposed to leave him...” you whispered, voice shaking, “when i don’t even know you? when what we have feels like just this... something physical, something temporary?”
his jaw tightened, and for a moment he said nothing. then, quietly, he said, “you never gave me a chance to be more.”
those words hit you harder than you expected, a sudden crack in your carefully guarded walls. you swallowed, the ache growing deeper.
“you think i wanted it to be like this?” you say, quiet but firm. “living my life like you’re not part of it? but it’s not that simple.”
he stood up, slowly, like your words had pushed him back. “then maybe you shouldn’t have started something you weren’t ready for.”
your breath caught. “i didn’t mean to...”
“but you did.” his voice wasn’t loud, but it cut clean. “we don’t need to have this conversation. not if you’re still choosing someone else.”
you flinched. “i’m not choosing him.”
“you know what? that’s true...” he said, bitter now. “it feels like you’re not choosing anything. not him. not me. just whatever hurts less in the moment.”
you stared at him, suddenly cold. “so what, you’re done?”
he exhaled, eyes fixed on the floor. “i’m not a detour. and i’m not going to keep waiting for you to decide if i’m worth it.”
you didn’t stop him when he walked to the door. you didn’t ask him to stay. you watched the door close.
and this time, the silence answered for you.
you don’t go back to seungcheol. not that night. not the one after.
you don’t text. you don’t call. you just sit with it. the weight of everything, the way your heart aches in places you didn’t even know existed.
you think about the way he looked at you that night. how quiet he went when you said the wrong thing. how badly he wanted to be more, and how little you let him.
it’s around 3 a.m. when it hits you. curled into the far end of the couch, silent, wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t feel like warmth anymore.
you’ve been shrinking. pulling yourself in at the seams, little by little. and maybe that’s what this was always about.
not him. just you.
you ask your boyfriend to come over. he says yes, too quickly. like he’s relieved. like maybe he’s been waiting for this to feel normal again.
he brings wine. you don’t drink it. you sit on opposite ends of the couch, the distance screaming louder than either of you.
you take a deep breath. start slow.
“we need to talk.”
his eyes flick to yours. guarded. calm. you expect confusion. anger. something. but all he does is nod. like he’s already bracing for the hit.
“i’m ending this.” you say. “we’re not working. we haven’t been. and i’ve been lying to you.”
his mouth twitches. not a smile. something smaller.
“you think i didn’t know?”
you blink.
“you think i don’t smell his cologne on your clothes?” his voice doesn’t raise. it sharpens. “you think i don’t see the marks on your body? the ones i didn’t leave?”
your breath catches. he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“you think i don’t notice when you shower twice before bed? or when you smile at your phone like it’s holding something sacred?”
you stare at him.
“you’re just confused,” he says, like that explains it all. “it’s okay. i’ve been there. i had a thing, once. a girl i couldn’t stop thinking about. but it passed.” he shrugs.
“it always passes. you realize it’s just a phase, a distraction. some affair to escape real life for a while.”
you clench your fists. “this isn’t about him.”
“no.” he says, with a strange, soft certainty. “it’s about us. it’s always been about us. this is us. and deep down, you know that.”
you shake your head. something dark stirs in your chest.
“no, it’s about you being a selfish, inattentive, emotionally lazy piece of shit who didn’t notice i was slipping away until it was convenient to care.” his face shifts, just slightly.
“you want to know the truth?” you whisper. “i didn’t feel guilty. not once. not even the first time.”
he goes still.
“and it wasn’t because i stopped loving you.” you continue, “it’s because somewhere along the way, you stopped deserving to be loved.”
his jaw tightens.
“this was never about him. not really. he was just the first person in a long time who saw me. who wanted me. who listened when i spoke. who looked at me like i was still alive.” you exhale. “so no... i’m not confused. i’m just done.”
silence.
you watch him absorb that. watch him break without breaking. he nods. once. stands up. doesn’t say a word. he walks to the door.
pauses.
“you’ll regret this.” he says, not looking back.
“maybe,” you reply. “but at least i’ll regret it for myself.”
and then he’s gone. you sit there for a long time. longer than you mean to.
you breathe in.
breathe out.
and for the first time in weeks, you feel light. not healed. not free. but closer.
but after that night, you don’t go after seungcheol. again. not because you don’t miss him. not because you don’t replay his voice in your head when everything goes quiet.
you never gave me a chance to be more.
he was right and that’s exactly why you don’t call. because if you went now, after everything, it would feel like he was what’s left.
and he doesn’t deserve to be what’s left. he deserves to be a choice. and you’re not ready to choose anything yet, not even yourself.
the days that follow move slow, like the world is giving you room to breathe.
you spend the first week in silence. not the heavy, guilty kind, just the kind that wraps around your apartment like a fog. you sleep better.
you leave your phone on do not disturb and stop checking it like it holds your pulse. for the first time in months, you feel still.
you go for long walks without a destination. buy fresh flowers. drink your coffee without company and realize how much better it tastes that way.
you say yes to your friends again. not because you’re running away from the quiet, but because you finally have room to enjoy it.
some nights are harder than others. some nights you lie awake and wonder what it would’ve felt like to fall asleep next to seungcheol without consequence. not hiding. not rushing. not lying.
but you don’t text. you don’t open old messages. you let the thought pass through you like wind. and you don’t chase it.
you stop waiting. for him, for anyone. you stop hoping for closure or answers or a version of this story that hurts less.
and somewhere in the middle of that, you start living. your laugh gets louder. your hair gets longer. your presence, bigger. not for someone else, just for you.
and still, sometimes... in a song, in the shape of someone’s shoulders on the street, in the space beside you at a dinner table, he appears.
just for a second. just long enough to make you wonder what could’ve been. and that’s okay.
it's another thursday. not a poetic one. not a repeat. just a thursday where the air feels nice and you don’t want to go home just yet.
you end up at the bar again. not because you need distraction, just because you like it. you like the dim light. the soft hum of conversation. the way no one asks anything of you here.
you order a drink. sit in your usual spot. cross your legs and let your shoulders relax. it’s quiet.
you’re not waiting for anything. and then you see him.
not right away, just out of the corner of your eye. a shift in movement. the sound of a voice that lands like something familiar in your chest.
you look. and there he is.
seungcheol.
same bar. same broad frame. same profile you used to trace with your eyes when you thought he couldn’t feel you watching.
a few seats away, facing slightly away from you, elbow on the bar, fingers drumming absently against a glass that looks mostly untouched.
he’s wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled, hair a little longer than before, eyes a little tired. the kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep but from carrying something too long.
you take him in quietly. he hasn’t seen you yet.
and you don’t look away.
you watch the way he shifts his weight, how his jaw tightens when the bartender asks if he wants another.
he just nods, runs a hand through his hair and exhales. like he’s trying to breathe something out of him.
and then, you move. slowly. like gravity is pulling you toward him.
you sit one stool over. not quite close. not quite far. just enough to be undeniable. he glances at you, casual, instinctive. then does a double take.
you meet his eyes with a soft smile. lift your drink slightly.
“she canceled on you?”
his expression barely changes, but you catch the flicker in his gaze. surprise. then something warmer.
“what makes you think that?” he says. his voice still has that rough edge you remember.
“your glass is too full, and you keep looking at the door like you’re giving someone five more minutes.” you say.
he lets out a quiet laugh, barely a breath. “you always open with that line?”
“only when it works.”
there’s a pause. his eyes flicker down, like he’s trying to process something and you know the moment he notices.
your left hand, resting against the base of your glass. bare. no ring. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t need to. the acknowledgment sits there between you like a breath held and released.
“what’s your name?” you ask, mirroring that first conversation, letting the words stretch into something gentler now.
he tilts his head slightly, amused. “we’re doing this again?”
“i just like the idea of meeting you properly this time.”
he holds your gaze. “seungcheol.”
you repeat it. like it’s new.
“and you?” he teases, softly.
“still me.”
he hums, eyes crinkling a little at the corners. you set your drink down and shift toward him slightly. your knee almost touches his.
“can i ask you something?” you say.
he nods.
“where did you go to school?”
he looks caught off guard. blinks. “what?”
“like. where did you study? what do you do? what’s your thing, seungcheol?”
he watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for the punchline. but it doesn’t come.
“i studied music.” he says eventually. “switched to sound engineering halfway through. now i do studio work. production, some mixing. freelance stuff.”
you smile. “that sounds like the coolest job i’ve ever heard.”
he shrugs, eyes flicking down to his glass. “pays the bills.”
“do you like it?”
“i do,” he says after a second. “especially when no one’s breathing down my neck about deadlines.”
you nod. and then, before you lose your nerve, you say,
“i want to know you.”
his eyes lift again. sharp. steady.
“for real this time.” you add.
his mouth parts. just slightly. and then he laughs, a real one. full and breathy and stunned.
“what are you doing?” he asks, not defensive, just curious.
“i don’t know...” you say, grinning now. “trying again. starting over. meeting you without the mess.”
his shoulders relax a little. “that’s a new one,” he says. “meeting someone you’ve already—”
“don’t say it.”
he laughs again, quiet and warm.
the conversation moves easily from there. small things, light things.
you talk about terrible dates and strange pets, favorite takeout orders and the music that makes you cry when you least expect it. at one point, he asks if you still sleep with socks on. and you roll your eyes, say you’re reformed now.
he calls you a liar.
it feels easy. not rushed. not performative. just two people in a bar. trying. softly.
the night gets late, but you don’t check the time. the air smells like citrus and leather. the noise around you fades into a low blur. and then he leans slightly closer, elbow brushing yours.
“so...” he murmurs. “you’re not gonna ask me back to your place for a drink?”
you blink at him. not shocked. just careful.
“no.”
his expression stills. not hurt, not angry. just… unreadable. a quiet breath held in his chest.
you wait a second. then say,
“but i was gonna ask if you’re free tomorrow.”
he looks at you. eyes softening.
“i was thinking something stupid. like a picnic or whatever. somewhere public. full daylight. no bedroom in sight.”
he tilts his head. “trying to prove something?”
“trying to... unlearn something.” you say.
he smiles. and it’s a real smile now. slow and easy, like he’s letting it happen without thinking too hard.
“i’d like that.” he says.
“me too.”
the words sit gently between you and he doesn’t say anything for a moment. just looks at you like maybe for the first time, you’re really seeing him. not through the blur of want or the ache of something forbidden, but just… him.
here. now. choosing him, simply because you want to.
you finish your drinks slowly.
there’s no silence to fill. just a kind of quiet you both settle into, like it belongs to you.
he helps you with your jacket before you even think to reach for it. you laugh when his hand brushes your shoulder.
you walk out together. the air outside is cooler now, clean on your skin. the kind of night that hums low, full of things waiting to happen.
he doesn’t reach for your hand. you don’t reach for his.
because this time, there’s no need to rush toward the next thing. no need to blur the lines to feel close. this time, you’re both choosing to build something slowly.
openly. no shadows. no secrets. no scripts to follow.
just the quiet unfolding of something new. something soft, and good, and real.
and as you walk beside him, shoulders barely touching, you feel it settle in your chest:
you don’t know exactly where this is going.
but for the first time, that doesn’t scare you. because it doesn’t feel like an ending. it feels like the part right before everything begins.
just you, him and a sky wide open with possibility.
#This is so gooooooood!!!!!! Omgggg#As someone said in the comments I will take the liberty of asking for a second part🙏🏻🙂↕️#seungcheol x reader#scoups x reader
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team building (and other questionable choices)



⊹ overview - pairing: mingyu x f!reader genre: frenemies to lovers · office romance · slice of life · fluff themes: trying to play cupid (and failing), witty banter, accidental intimacy, one bed trope, mutual pining, clichés. a lot. cw: mild sexual content (MDNI), workplace setting, suggestive humor.
summary: when two overworked assistants team up to secretly play matchmaker for their clueless bosses, the plan is simple: coordinate schedules, fake a little chemistry, and absolutely not fall for each other.
minors do not interact!
from kai: i can't stop writing about mingyu. i need help. this one's loosely based on set it up (2018), but a little more chaotic? enjoy.
now playing: my type - saint motel
you’ve met kim mingyu four times.
the first: when your bosses scheduled two meetings at the exact same time in the same conference room and you both had to play rock-paper-scissors in front of the ceo to decide who got it. (he won. with scissors. a rookie mistake. you never forgave yourself.)
the second: in the elevator. he spilled half a latte on your shoes and said “at least they’re not suede...” like that was helpful.
the third: when you accidentally replied-all to an internal memo about performance evaluations, calling your boss “a capitalist goblin with a caffeine addiction.” he just replied "bold of you to speak truth in this economy. solidarity."
the fourth: now. every day. too often. always.
the thing is: you don’t work together. not really. you work adjacent. which is worse.
he’s the assistant to ms. seo, who runs strategy like she’s planning war. sharp heels, sharper tone, and a calendar color-coded within an inch of its life. mingyu walks two steps behind her like a loyal retriever, clipboard in one hand, existential dread in the other. he smiles too much for someone who gets cc’d on every meltdown in the building.
you, on the other hand, work for mr. yoon. a man with a god complex, a phobia of silence, and a diet that consists almost exclusively of espresso and the souls of junior staff. he once called your lunch “visually distracting” because it had “too much sauce”. you haven’t forgiven him either.
and because the two of them (ms. seo and mr. yoon) are in constant, competitive collaboration, it means you and mingyu are stuck in a never-ending tug-of-war of email threads, late-night reschedules, and passive-aggressive calendar invites.
the dynamic?
you’re the ghostwriter of your boss’s bad ideas. he’s the translator of his boss’s mood swings.
you text each other more than you text your actual friends. and you’re not sure if you hate him or if he just reminds you of your own job too much.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] your boss just moved lunch to 1 mine is fasting for "clarity of mind" so i'll be dying quietly in the corner
you clarity of mind is wild for someone who screamed at a stapler last tuesday
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] she said it was "threatening her aura"
you i'm scared it might've been right
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] justice for the stapler
by week three of back-to-back “urgent” requests, you’ve memorized the way he sighs through his nose when ms. seo cancels a meeting thirty seconds before it starts. you’ve also learned that he eats lunch in exactly four minutes and always forgets a fork. you’ve stopped offering him one. mostly out of principle.
“you’re not a real person.” you tell him one thursday. “you’re like a mirage. a corporate hallucination.”
he blinks. “thanks?”
“not a compliment.”
but he’s already scrolling through his phone, completely unfazed.
“you realize we’ve been yelled at by our bosses for the exact same meeting reschedule like, four times now.” he says. “at some point they’re gonna think we’re doing this on purpose.”
you sigh. “i wish we were. at least then it’d be satisfying.”
he throws his head back dramatically, groaning. “i’m too pretty to get fired.”
"you’re too clumsy,” you correct. “and you owe me a new pair of shoes.”
the idea comes after the fifth minor disaster of the week: a double-booked call, a vegan lunch delivery sent to a man who once called kale “a scam”, and a particularly pointed all-caps message from ms. seo.
you’re both slumped in the break room. the vending machine, as usual, has betrayed him. again.
he’s chewing your emergency chocolate like it’s keeping him alive.
“i’m just saying...” he starts, mouth half full. “if they were hooking up, maybe they’d stop using us as pawns in their weird power game.”
you blink at him.
“you’re not saying that.” you say. “you’re not actually suggesting this.”
“yoon and seo.” he says, nodding. “they have tension. it’s weird. disgusting. undeniable.”
“no.”
“hear me out.”
“no!” you repeat, louder this time. “are you insane? what part of this place makes you think romance is the solution?”
he blinks, caught off guard.
“do you even understand where we work?“ you go on. “we work for emotionally repressed narcissists with god complexes and matching calendars. this isn’t a rom-com, mingyu. this is hell.”
he opens his mouth, but you cut him off again.
“and you...” you say, jabbing a finger in his direction, “you think you're clever because you smile through the misery, but you’re just as trapped as me. stop pretending this is some cute little team-up.”
he’s quiet for a moment. you expect him to bite back, but he just tilts his head a little, watching you with something unreadable in his face.
“okay.” he says softly. “message received.”
you leave before you say something worse.
twelve minutes later, your phone rings. your boss's name lights up your screen.
“my office. now.”
you barely have time to close your tabs before you're in his doorway, arms crossed.
he doesn't look up from his monitor.
"you sent this?” he asks, pointing to a printed email. yes. printed.
“yes, sir.”
he reads a sentence aloud like it personally offended him. “‘apologies for the mix-up — i’ve reattached the correct file for your convenience.’”
“yes,” you say again. “because the original pdf had a broken...”
“this.” he interrupts, stabbing the paper with his finger. “is passive-aggressive.”
you blink. “it’s standard wording.”
“your tone” he says, “undermines my authority. and by extension, yours. if you ever want to be taken seriously in this industry, you need to learn how to communicate without sounding like you’re rolling your eyes.”
he leans back in his chair.
“do you think you’re indispensable?”
you don’t answer.
“because you’re not. you’re efficient, but so is every other assistant here. i could replace you by monday.”
he lets that sit for a beat.
then gestures to the door. “that’s all.”
you walk out of the office with a tight jaw and something sharp curling in your chest.
you sit back at your desk. your screen is full of open tabs, blinking messages, a reminder to pick up dry cleaning you can’t afford and a google search for “can stress cause actual brain damage.”
your phone buzzes.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] so the plan's back on, yeah? just checking.
you don’t look up. not right away. you type slowly.
you if i say yes it's not because i believe in it it's because i want peace
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] peace is valid so is revenge
you i still think it's a terrible idea
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] perfect now it feels balanced again
the plan doesn’t take shape immediately. it starts as a joke.
you’re both in the supply closet, pretending to look for toner while avoiding being assigned yet another last-minute revision to the joint quarterly review deck.
he leans against the shelf like it’s a bar counter.
“okay, hypothetically...” he starts, “if we were to interfere with the romantic fates of our bosses, how would we do it?”
you snort. “we wouldn’t.”
“but if.”
you sigh, and, against your better judgment, answer.
“it’d have to feel natural. like a coincidence. accidental. you know. a narrative beat.”
he raises an eyebrow. “you’re disturbingly good at this.”
you ignore him. “it can’t be too obvious. no weird setups. no ‘i booked the same table for two’ bullshit.”
“agreed.” he says. “they’d see through that.”
there’s a pause.
then, you both say it at the same time:
“coffee.”
you blink.
“no way.”
“you said coffee too.” he says, pointing.
you groan. “i hate this...”
he’s already typing into his phone. “they both get coffee, right?”
“dude, we can’t make them run into each other...” you say. “it has to be a cliché.”
he grins like that’s the best thing he’s heard all week. “a cliché.”
you nod. “every great romance starts with one.”
“so what?” he says. “we drop a folder? one of them bends down to pick it up? brushes hands? instant chemistry?”
“too forced.”
“they reach for the same croissant?”
“getting warmer.”
“they both complain about us at the same time in the same line and bond over how ungrateful we are?”
you raise your eyebrows. “you think they’d do that?”
“they already do…” he mutters.
you roll your eyes. “okay. listen. we know their orders. their schedules. their routes. if we can time it just right…”
he finishes your sentence: “...they’ll think it’s fate.”
later that day, you’re back at your desk, scrolling through mr. yoon’s calendar like a bored private investigator.
he’s consistent. pathologically so.
coffee at 10:15. always the same place. same corner seat. same cappuccino. sometimes with extra foam. depending on his mood.
you open the app and look up ms. seo’s location history. mingyu already gave you access. you're not sure how. you don’t ask.
“they’ve been in the same place five times in the last two weeks” he whispers from behind your chair.
you jump. “jesus. do you materialize now?”
“only for dramatic effect.”
you look back at the screen. “five times.”
“and they didn’t notice each other once.”
“so what we’re saying is... we know them better than they know themselves.”
“yup.”
“that’s bleak.”
“deeply.”
he leans over your shoulder. “so. next tuesday. 10:15. table near the window.”
“you handle ms. seo.”
“you handle yoon.”
“if this backfires...”
“we were never here.”
you shake your head and open a new tab.
you’re not proud of it.
but you google “best pastries for accidental eye contact.”
tuesday arrives like a slow-moving disaster. you wake up late, spill coffee on your shirt, and have to switch to your “i’m pretending to be calm” blouse. the one that’s too stiff at the collar and makes you look like a very tired lawyer.
but none of that matters, because today is operation cliché.
phase one: coffee collision.
the location? a minimalistic café on the first floor of the neighboring building, where all the tables are identical and everything smells like lavender and oat milk. it’s the kind of place that sells banana bread for twelve dollars and calls it “seasonal.”
you arrive at the café twelve minutes early. mingyu's already there, sitting in the corner like he’s a spy. you slide into the seat across from him. “what's the plan again?”
he doesn’t look up right away. just nods once like he’s been waiting for this briefing all his life.
“simple.” he says. “they both come here every tuesday. always between ten and ten fifteen. always order the same thing. they never notice each other because they’re too busy speed-reading emails and being vaguely terrifying.”
you raise an eyebrow. “go on.”
“so,” he continues, “i called ahead. asked the barista to delay both orders until exactly ten seventeen. give or take thirty seconds.”
“and then?”
“and then,” he says, leaning in slightly, “they both get called up at the same time. same tray. same awkward pause. eye contact. emotional disarmament. destiny.”
you blink. “you’ve really thought this through.”
“of course i have” he says. “i’m deeply invested in my own survival.”
“and you think this will work?”
he shrugs. “every great romance starts with an inconvenient beverage.”
you snort into your cup. you hate how much sense that makes.
ms. seo arrives exactly on time. she doesn’t wait in line, she orders like she owns the place and claims her table with one glance. mr. yoon enters two minutes later, slightly out of breath and already annoyed by the background music. he hates piano jazz. you know this.
you both sink lower in your seats.
“this is so dumb...” you whisper. “they’re not even-”
“wait for it.” he mutters.
there’s a pause.
a blink.
the barista calls both names at once.
they reach for the same tray.
your breath catches.
and then:
“oh...” mr. yoon says, taking a step back. “didn’t see you there.”
ms. seo raises an eyebrow. “you never do.”
and for one moment the tiniest moment they smile.
smile.
mingyu looks at you like he just saw god.
“we’re geniuses” he whispers.
“don’t jinx it.”
you watch them sit. not together, but closer than usual. angled slightly toward each other. enough to talk, if they want to. enough to notice.
“they’re talking...” mingyu says.
“this is happening.” you nod, stunned.
you don't say it out loud, but it does feel like a movie. you don't believe in fate. but maybe you believe in timing. and coffee. and croissants that carry plot.
they leave separately.
she goes first. phone in hand, shoulders back, the way she always walks when she’s thinking. he waits thirty seconds, then follows, not too close. but closer than usual.
you and mingyu don’t move.
you just sit there, two overcaffeinated employees hiding behind an aggressive fern, watching your bosses walk away like characters from the end of act one.
“okay." you say. “that was... weirdly successful.”
“i’m scared” he says.
“same.”
you finally stand. his drink is empty. your croissant is gone. neither of you remember eating it.
outside, the air smells like too much perfume and half a dozen corporate regrets. you stop at the corner.
“so what now?” you ask.
he grins. “phase two.”
you roll your eyes. “of course there’s a phase two.”
“come on” he says, already walking backward toward the building. “we made them smile. that’s practically engagement.”
“don’t say engagement.”
“too late.”
you don’t see him again until after lunch.
mr. yoon pulls you into three back-to-back meetings, one of which is just him ranting about fonts. you think he’s in a good mood. or at least a neutral one. it’s hard to tell.
by the time you get back to your desk, your phone buzzes.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] you owe me a thank you croissant that was art they both reached for the tray like it was scripted
you you ate my croissant i'm the one who deserves a thank you
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] fine i'll meet you halfway supply closet in 15 bring no expectations, only snacks and your most chaotic ideas
you you're unbelievable
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] and yet deeply necessary
you stare at the screen for a beat too long. and then, before you can stop yourself, you type:
you make it 10 minutes i have a very dumb idea
the supply closet is barely a closet.
more of a broom-sized purgatory. it smells like dry erase markers. someone left a sad motivational sticker on the inside of the door that says you’ve got this! and it feels like a threat.
you’re already there when he arrives.
he knocks twice, unnecessarily, before slipping in and closing the door behind him with too much ceremony.
“you’re late” you say.
“you said ten minutes. i gave you eleven. that’s generosity.”
“that’s procrastination.”
he holds up a granola bar like it’s a peace treaty. “i come bearing carbs.”
you take it, mostly because you’re hungry, but also because the wrapper says crunchy with a hint of sea salt and you feel vaguely called out.
“so...” he says, leaning against a shelf of printer paper like he’s hosting a TED talk. “what’s your dumb idea?”
“you go first” you say.
“you told me to come because you had the idea.”
“and now i don’t trust it.”
“why not?”
“because you’re looking at me like you already love it.”
“i do love it. i just don’t know what it is yet.”
you sigh and break the granola bar in half, handing him a piece.
“okay.” you start, mouth full. “we can’t do another run-in. it’ll look too convenient.”
“agreed.” he says, through granola. “we need escalation.”
“we need... a shared cause.”
he blinks. “like... activism?”
“like fake activism” you clarify. “a team-building initiative. professional development. something they can co-lead.”
he nods slowly. “a task that forces prolonged contact. good. close proximity. subtle emotional vulnerability.”
“something high-pressure, low-stakes.”
“something where they think they’re in control.”
you both pause.
and then, at the exact same time:
“leadership retreat.”
you stare at each other in horror.
“that’s...”
“terrible.” he finishes. “dangerous. complicated.”
“they’ll kill us.”
“...we have to do it.”
you groan and slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor between two boxes of branded mugs.
he lowers himself beside you.
“okay.” he says. “if we pitch it right... this can work.”
“how do we pitch it?”
he pulls out his phone, opens a notes app already titled operation chicle, and starts typing.
you lean in without realizing.
your shoulders brush. neither of you move.
mingyu taps at his phone, brow furrowed in mock concentration.
“okay, proposal: joint leadership off-site to boost collaboration. location… somewhere with bad wifi and strong coffee. schedule: two-hour brainstorm, four-hour tension.”
you tilt your head. “you mean four hours of suppressed resentment disguised as productivity.”
“exactly!” he says, not looking up. “it’s authentic.”
you lean in slightly, peeking at his screen. “add ‘quiet team bonding’ and ‘organic interpersonal growth’. make it sound like we read a book about it.”
he types obediently, nodding. “love that. very linkedin-core.”
then he pauses. “should we make a deck?”
you snap your head toward him.
“if you make a deck” you say, deadly calm, “i’ll kill you.”
he grins, not even pretending to be sorry. “you say the sweetest things.”
you try not to smile. you fail. just a little.
you don’t leave the closet together.
but as you step back into the hallway, you realize your hand still smells like granola and printer ink. and that he didn’t mock your idea. and that, somehow, sitting on a dusty floor with him felt more peaceful than your own desk.
thursday morning.
you’re in the small conference room, the one with flickering lights and a very aggressive print of a lighthouse on the wall, watching mingyu adjust the brightness on his laptop for the sixth time.
“stop it.” you mutter. “it’s fine.”
“it’s washed out.” he says. “the slides have to pop. we’re selling transformation.”
“we’re selling emotional manipulation in a power suit.” you correct. “no one’s buying.”
“not with that attitude.”
he clicks through the deck one last time. every slide is a masterpiece of corporate nonsense: gradient backgrounds, buzzwords in bold, and fake statistics like “teams who bond off-site are 63% less likely to initiate passive-aggressive email chains.”
you sigh. “we’re going to hell for this.”
“it’s fine” he grins. “we’ll carpool.”
the pitch goes disturbingly well.
ms. seo barely blinks. she nods halfway through slide two and says, “this could be efficient.” which, from her, is basically a standing ovation.
mr. yoon interrupts twice to talk about thought leadership and uses the phrase “executive synergy” like it’s a personality trait.
when you finish, there’s a pause.
then:
“you two will run it.” ms. seo says.
“what?” you blink.
“i’ll be in singapore next week,” she says, already opening her phone. “you’ll facilitate on our behalf.”
you turn to mr. yoon, desperate. “sir?”
he waves a hand. “sounds like a perfect opportunity for growth. report back with a summary. keep the receipts.”
you open your mouth.
close it.
then open it again, for good measure.
mingyu says nothing. absolutely nothing.
you both leave the room in silence. outside the conference room, you stop walking.
he stops too.
you stare at him.
“you ruined my life.” you say calmly.
“technically, they approved the plan.”
“technically, you were the one who said leadership retreat like it was a good thing.”
“you said it at the same time!”
“and i regret it.”
he lifts both hands, grinning. “look, it’s fine. we’ll run a few workshops, do some trust falls, eat a buffet dinner, and be back in three days.”
“do not say trust falls like it’s a fun concept.”
“do you want me to start a shared document?”
“i want you to get hit by a metaphorical bus.”
“great” he says. “i’ll add that to the parking lot.”
you walk away before you start laughing.
later that afternoon, your phone buzzes.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] new plan: we fake food poisoning or burn down the lodge or both
you i knew this was a bad idea i KNEW mingyu you've doomed us you've condemned us to team-building hell there will be icebreakers there will be name tags we will be forced to share feelings
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] can’t wait to see you cry during trust circle
you if i disappear tell people i died doing what i hated: corporate bonding
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] should i pack snacks?
you pack dignity you’ll need it
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] never had it to begin with
you close the chat with a groan.
three days to the retreat. no bosses. no escape. just you. him. and four hours of scheduled “guided reflection.”
god help you both.
the corporate retreat center looks exactly like you imagined it would.
a beige lodge in the middle of nowhere, flanked by pine trees and suspiciously cheerful signage. there's a wooden welcome board near the entrance that says “unlock your inner leader!” in three fonts too many.
“i already hate it.” you mutter, dragging your suitcase over a gravel path that definitely wasn’t meant for heels.
“look on the bright side,” mingyu says, way too cheerful for someone carrying a duffel bag that looks like it holds gym trauma. “bad wi-fi. no bosses. and apparently a breakfast buffet.”
“if you make this sound fun one more time i’m leaving you in the woods.”
he grins. “you say that now, but wait till you see the lanyards.”
you check in at the front desk.
the woman behind the counter gives you your room key and a chirpy, “we went ahead and upgraded you two to the executive suite! hope that’s alright!”
you blink. “we’re not...”
“thanks!” mingyu cuts in, snatching the key. “very alright. super alright.”
you narrow your eyes. “what did you do?”
“nothing.” he says. “probably.”
the room is… cozy.
too cozy.
small fireplace. two mugs on a tray. mood lighting that tries too hard. and one large bed in the center of the room.
you stop in the doorway.
mingyu walks in, drops his bag, looks around once, then turns to you.
“what?” he says innocently. “you said it yourself.”
you stare at him.
“every great romance...” he quotes, smug. “starts with a cliché.”
you blink. once. twice.
“i hope you die.”
“listen, it’s fine. we’ll pillow-wall it.”
“we’re not pillow-walling anything.”
he flops onto the bed with too much confidence. “you can have the blanket majority. i’ll sleep on the floor like a gentleman.”
“you’ll sleep on the floor because you brought this on yourself.”
you find a yoga mat in the closet and throw it at his head. he catches it midair like a reflex, then sighs dramatically.
“pray for me.” he says. “i have fragile joints.”
later that night, you sit side by side on the bed, legs barely touching, a bag of overpriced mini bar chips open between you. the room smells like lavender pillow spray and artificial air freshener, and the fireplace crackles in the most suspiciously cozy way imaginable.
mingyu has the printed retreat schedule unfolded across his lap like it’s a classified document.
he clears his throat.
“7 a.m. sunrise meditation,” he reads aloud. “8 a.m. partner walk. 9 a.m. circle of trust. 10 a.m...” he pauses for dramatic effect. “feelings breakout.”
you make a noise of pure disbelief. “are they trying to kill us? circle of trust sounds like a cult.”
“circle of trust is a cult.” he says. “i’ve seen documentaries.”
you take a chip. crunch thoughtfully.
“do you think if we hold hands and run, we can make it to the road before they catch us?” he says, head tipping toward you just slightly.
“only if you leave the yoga mat behind.” you add. “it’ll slow you down.”
he sighs, deeply. “cruel. but fair.”
the chips rustle between you. somewhere outside, a tree creaks. inside, it’s quiet enough that you can hear the soft shift of his sleeve when he leans back against the headboard.
you don’t say anything for a while. neither does he.
but you don’t move apart, either.
and that, somehow, says enough.
the next day feels like a slow-motion trial.
you wake up to the faint sound of birds and the less-faint sound of mingyu already moving around, getting ready like he’s preparing for some kind of emotional boot camp.
breakfast is painfully organized. you share a table, not by design but because every other seat is taken. he slides you the salt shaker without looking, and you catch his fingers brushing yours for a split second.
the morning starts with the sunrise meditation. you try to focus on your breath, but mingyu is the only one who manages to stay still. mostly because he fell asleep sitting up, chin resting on his chest, looking like an angel who didn’t get the memo.
later, during the partner walk, you find yourselves naturally walking side by side, matching pace without planning it. the trail winds through pines and sun-dappled clearings, the air fresh and cool.
he makes a dumb joke about how this is “nature’s way of making us confess our feelings,” and you pretend not to laugh. but you do.
the circle of trust comes next, exactly as terrifying as it sounds. when it’s your turn, he looks at you like you’re both in on the joke, and you mumble something about “trust falls being a trap.”
he catches your eye and shrugs. “at least we don’t have to actually fall.”
the afternoon is a blur of workshops, icebreakers, and group exercises where everyone is trying (and failing) not to make it awkward.
when the sun starts to set and the temperature drops, mingyu notices you shivering and without a word, pulls his hoodie off and drapes it over your shoulders.
you don’t say anything. you just let it hang there, the fabric warm between you, the silence saying everything.
it’s ridiculous. it’s perfect. and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
the evening settles in with the kind of hush that only happens after a day of mandatory bonding and dried-out protein bars. everyone else has disappeared to their rooms, leaving behind half-finished mugs of herbal tea and the lingering scent of essential oils.
you and mingyu are still awake.
he’s on the floor, stretching like someone who read about mindfulness once and committed to the bit. you’re on the edge of the bed, aimlessly scrolling through your phone, pretending not to watch him try (and fail) to touch his toes.
“you’re gonna pull something.” you say.
“i’m increasing my hip mobility” he replies, completely serious. “for leadership.”
“of course.”
he glances up at you, grinning. “jealous?”
“of your hamstrings? wildly.”
he pushes himself upright with a groan and collapses onto the bed beside you, dramatically boneless.
“okay...” he sighs, “real talk. are we actually gonna sleep at a normal time or…”
you glance at the clock. 10:12 p.m.
“...or what?” you ask.
he shrugs. “i don’t know. talk about our feelings. play two truths and a lie. make a series of increasingly bad decisions.”
“tempting” you say. “but i think i’m out of feelings.”
“you sure?” he asks, turning toward you, head propped on his hand. “because earlier, during the circle of trust, i definitely saw emotion in your eyes.”
“that was rage.”
“i find rage very sexy.”
you roll your eyes. “you find everything sexy.”
he pauses. “not true. powerpoint presentations. deeply unsexy.”
you laugh. a real one, loud and sudden and he looks pleased with himself.
“what?” you say, noticing.
“nothing,” he says. “just thinking.”
“about?”
“how weird it is that we ended up here.”
you raise a brow. “in a romantic cult lodge?”
“in the same room. same bed. same… whatever this is.”
he’s closer now. not enough to crowd you, but enough that you feel the warmth radiating off his skin. your knees bump. neither of you pulls away.
“well, you set this up.”
“yeah, i know. but still...”
you tilt your head. “do you regret it?”
“not even a little.”
he looks at you for a long second, like he’s trying to decide something. then his eyes drop.
“you’re in my hoodie.” he says.
“wow. thank you for the update, captain obvious.”
“no, i mean…” he pauses. “you’re still in my hoodie.”
you glance down at the sleeves, bunched around your hands. “is this a problem?”
he shakes his head. “no. just… you should probably know it looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
your mouth opens, ready to hit back with some flirty insult but the words don’t come. instead, you look at him a beat too long.
“you always talk this much when you’re nervous?” you say finally, voice quieter now.
“only when i think i’m about to do something stupid.”
“like?”
he doesn’t answer. just keeps looking at you like the answer’s obvious.
your fingers tighten around the hem of the hoodie. his knee presses into yours again, this time deliberate.
“like kiss you.” he says.
you go still. “are you going to?”
his smile flickers, slower this time. “i’d like to.”
“then maybe stop talking and do it.”
so he does.
it’s not rushed. not urgent. just intentional. like he’s been thinking about this since the first time you told him off in a staff meeting, and now that it’s happening, he wants to get it exactly right.
he kisses like he speaks. confident, a little playful, always testing the edges. his hand finds your waist. yours fists in the front of his sweatshirt. there’s no hesitation in the way your mouths move, just heat and muscle memory that shouldn’t exist, but does.
after a moment, you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes glinting with something playful.
“you know,” you say, voice low and teasing, “i’ve always wanted to do this.”
he grins, a slow, knowing smile. “really? all this time, i thought that cold shoulder, the eye rolls, the ‘i’m-so-over-you’ attitude was just you being tough.”
“oh please...” you scoff, but you’re smiling. “that was all hate.”
“hate?” he raises an eyebrow, mock offended. “i always suspected it was just repressed attraction.”
“yeah, sure.” you say, nudging him with your knee. “keep telling yourself that.”
he leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “honestly? i think you’ve been into me since day one. all that ‘hate’ was just a cover-up for the fact that you thought i was too cool for you.”
you laugh softly, shaking your head. “too cool for me? i was the one who threw the first punch.”
“exactly” he says, “which is code for ‘i’m interested, but i’m also awkward.’”
you bite your lip, thinking how ridiculous yet kind of cute this all feels.
then your fingers find the hem of his hoodie, tugging gently.
“off” you say, barely a whisper.
he looks down at your hand, then back up at you, a mischievous sparkle lighting his eyes. “was that an order?”
“definitely.”
he smirks, sitting up a bit. “well, then… say please.”
you roll your eyes, but the smile never leaves your face. “please.”
he laughs quietly, pulling the hoodie off over his head like a trophy.
you sit up just enough to look at him in the low firelight. his hair’s a little messy, his chest rising and falling, eyes bright.
you touch his chest. lightly, tracing a line from his collarbone to just below his ribs. he twitches under your hand.
“ticklish?” you tease.
“no” he lies. “i’m just emotionally overwhelmed.”
you laugh again, but it catches in your throat when he leans down and kisses your neck. not soft, not featherlight, but with purpose. like he wants to leave a thought behind.
his hands are everywhere. exploring. mapping. learning. he touches you like a puzzle he’s been waiting to solve, like every button undone is a secret, every sigh a new language.
when your shirt’s gone and his jeans are halfway off and you’re both out of breath, you look up at him. flushed, disheveled, ridiculous. and say, “this is a terrible idea.”
“yeah” he breathes, eyes dark. “do you want to stop?”
you pull him down by the front of his waistband.
“that’s what i thought.”
what happens next is messy and slow and fun. it’s not cinematic. it’s not even that graceful. he accidentally knees you in the thigh. you tug his sock off too hard and it hits the wall. at one point he tries to say something sexy and chokes on his own breath.
but it’s good. so good.
he kisses like he’s memorizing you. like he wants to make you laugh and make you beg. your hands slide down his back, nails dragging lightly, and he shudders. not from pain, but from surprise.
he touches your thigh, then higher, watching your face the whole time. you arch into him, your name falling from his mouth like a promise.
and when it finally happens, when all the ridiculous tension finally snaps, it’s not explosive.
it’s intimate.
his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, still smiling even as you fall apart together.
after, you lie tangled in the sheets, his hoodie now lost somewhere under the bed, your leg over his hip and his fingers drawing circles on your stomach like he doesn’t want the moment to end.
you stare at the ceiling.
“we are absolutely not talking about this at work” you say.
“agreed.”
“no weird glances across the copy machine.”
“never.”
a pause.
“but” he adds, “we can maybe do it again sometime?”
you glance at him.
he’s grinning.
“i’ll think about it.” you say.
but you’re already smiling too.
day three begins with the kind of awkward optimism only a mandatory leadership retreat can inspire.
you wake up tangled in mingyu’s hoodie, which now smells like campfire and him. it’s too warm, slightly bunched around your hips, but you don’t take it off.
you find him in the kitchenette, making coffee like it’s a lab experiment. precise measurements, silent concentration, a grim kind of determination.
“morning” you say, sliding in beside him, pretending this is normal.
he hands you a mug without looking. “you look like you slept on a bed of spreadsheets.”
“i feel like i did” you mutter, taking a sip. “you?”
“dreamt i was being chased by performance reviews” he says. “woke up in a cold sweat.”
“how corporate trauma of you.”
he snorts into his mug. “don’t diagnose me before coffee.”
you both sip in silence for a few seconds. his arm brushes yours when he lowers the mug, and he doesn’t move away.
you nudge his hip with yours. “so, uh… about last night.”
he raises a brow. “which part? the part where you insulted my hamstrings? or the part where you kissed me first?”
“okay, bold of you to rewrite history like that.”
“what can i say...” he grins. “i’m a storyteller.”
you shake your head, laughing into your coffee.
later, on the partner walk, you fall into step without thinking. the trail winds through pine trees and patches of sunlight, and every now and then he reaches out to steady you. like when you nearly trip on a root, or when a bee flies too close and you squeal louder than you'd like to admit.
“you know” he says, “for someone who claims to be outdoorsy on their dating profile, you’re doing a lot of swatting and stumbling.”
“for someone who can’t touch his toes, you’re awfully smug.”
he grins. “that’s because you find it charming.”
you open your mouth to argue but... fine. maybe you do.
he points at a squirrel making off with someone’s granola bar and mutters, “even the wildlife here is stressed.”
“at least it’s honest,” you say.
he glances over at you, and this time when your shoulders bump, he leans just a little closer. not obviously. just enough that it feels like a secret.
you keep walking.
the workshops in the afternoon feel less painful than usual. maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. maybe it’s mingyu passing you a sticky note with a terrible drawing of your retreat leader mid-lecture. maybe it’s the way you keep catching each other’s eyes and trying not to laugh.
he offers to be your “accountability buddy” during the trust-building activity and then immediately betrays you in a group exercise. you pretend to be outraged. he apologizes with gummy bears and a dramatic bow.
when your hands brush reaching for the same marker, he says, “careful. i bite.”
you roll your eyes and say “noted” but don’t move away.
by the time evening rolls around, it’s cold enough that sharing a blanket on the couch feels justifiable. he drapes it over your laps casually and doesn’t say a word when you lean against his side.
the fire flickers, casting golden shadows over his profile.
“did you know that i can’t actually sing ‘kumbaya’?”
you grin. “i was hoping you couldn’t.”
a pause.
your eyes lock. again.
he kisses you. again.
slower this time. a little longer. like he’s learning the shape of you, one brush of lips at a time.
you smile into it. and when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“still team-building” he murmurs.
“i’ll allow it.”
on the last day of the retreat, there’s a closing circle.
the room smells like whiteboard markers and lemon disinfectant. someone’s playing a spotify playlist called reflect & renew. the volume is too low to be inspiring, but just loud enough to be annoying.
everyone’s handed a blank feedback form and a final question:
what did you learn about yourself this week?
you write: i can survive on granola bars and passive aggression and turn it in without a second thought.
mingyu doesn’t.
he stays behind, pen tapping against his clipboard, brows furrowed in concentration like the question matters more than it should.
you don’t ask, not right away.
but later, on the shuttle ride home, when the trees blur past and the windows fog with soft breath and leftover heat, he says it.
softly. like he’s not sure he means to say it out loud.
“i wrote your name.”
you turn to him.
he’s looking straight ahead, at the back of the seat in front of him.
“on the form. under what i learned.”
you blink.
your chest does something weird and slow.
you want to say something clever. or funny. or soft. maybe all three. but your throat’s too full of whatever this is.
so instead, you just let your shoulder fall against his. let his hand drift close enough that your pinkies touch.
and leave it there.
returning to the office is like stepping into a parallel universe.
the emails are worse. the coffee is worse. the printer is somehow worse.
but everything’s different.
you see it in the way he lingers by your desk instead of breezing past.
in the way your conversations drift. less complaints, more curiosity.
and when he texts at 12:31 p.m. asking “lunch?”, you don’t even pretend to hesitate.
at first, it’s casual.
shared takeout at the back of the break room. eating out of the same box without acknowledging it. him stealing your last dumpling like it’s tradition. you letting him.
then it becomes routine.
tuesday: curry. thursday: overpriced poke. friday: him remembering you don’t like cilantro. you pretending not to notice that he remembered.
the others don’t question it.
you’re assistants. you’re allowed to coordinate.
no one asks why he walks you out some nights.
or why your lipstick keeps fading around 4 p.m.
the supply closet becomes your shared religion.
there’s something hilariously undignified about kissing someone between boxes of toner and spare lanyards. but that’s where it happens most. tucked into the corner, his clipboard jammed under his arm, your breath catching before you even close the door.
it’s never dramatic.
it’s always sudden.
like gravity just... tips.
his hand finds your jaw. yours fists in his shirt. you both laugh too much after. you both leave with your heart doing that thing it’s not supposed to do during work hours.
sometimes he texts you while you’re ten feet away.
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] your boss just called his 47-slide deck "visionary" thoughts?
you immediate prison
mingyu [work enemy adjacent] same cell or separate?
you supply closet. ten minutes. no witnesses.
your boss seems pleased lately.
“your tone’s changed” he tells you one morning. “you’re more solution-oriented. less... sharp.”
he thinks it’s the retreat. thinks you came back wiser. calmer. aligned.
maybe he’s not wrong.
but he doesn’t know that the thing that changed isn’t you.
it’s that now, when the workday gets unbearable, when the chaos piles up and the caffeine runs out, there’s someone waiting by the copier with a smirk and a post-it that says:
“lunch?” “you look like you need a minute.” “i’m stealing you. don’t argue.”
and maybe that’s all it takes.
maybe the retreat didn’t fix your job. maybe it didn’t fix your boss.
but it gave you something else.
something stupid and ridiculous and kind of beautiful.
and you’re not giving it back.
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Lord, have mercy, please


#I don't know Mingyu has me fed up#im so sick of him uggghhh#love you baby#mingyu#svt#seventeen#kim mingyu
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https://www.tumblr.com/akeminy/782950821369380864/do-you-read-svt-fanfic-if-so-who-are-your-fav?source=share
Which Mingyu fic? I'm totally in need of reading a new one 😭what was it about (I've read a lot)
Well, first thanks for asking, lol
I was talking about this one:
It's not finished, but for me it's a total gem! So I'll wait as long as I have to wait until the author is ready to continue it🙂↕️
Another recommendation is this one, I had also seen it here but I couldn't find the author's blog again so I put the link to ao3. This one made me cry for God's sake! And in my opinion.... I would have said a few things to Mingyu🗿 (It's angs, by the way)
https://archiveofourown.org/works/15742212?view_adult=true
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Just wtf, he made me come out of my grave just to say that


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“ i can admit that i’m scared. i want to be taken care of—not in the way a mother cares for her child, or a friend cares for you. i want my soul to be nourished by my lover; but i can’t get that, he’s far away and i’m scared. lover when will i get to hug you?”
excerpts from a diary I found at goodwill
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