nayiana0

[nayiana0]

thank you so much for reading !!! 🥰🥰🥰

"Just This Once"

you just got dumped, and honestly, showing up to work feels like dragging yourself through hell. you’re tired, raw, and not really holding it together the way you want to. mingi notices. he notices everything. and that’s how it starts — the glances, the conversations, the comfort you didn’t know you needed. slowly, something shifts.

wc : 18k

tags : explicit content , (kinda a quick smut scene?) , protected sex, oral (f receiving), aftercare, emotional vulnerability, eating disorder mention/tw, mentions of suicide/self harm, reader is going thru it, lingering heartbreak, slow burn, readers ex - physically & emotionally abusive, messy emotions, alcohol use, language, angst w comfort, cafe setting.

genre : romance, angst, smut.

a/n : haven’t posted in a while. just didn’t feel like it tbh. so i stepped back. spent the last few days writing this instead. first angst fic. hope u like it.

You haven’t been yourself lately.

It’s not just in your head — you can feel it in the small things. The way your feet drag just a little slower when you walk into work. The way your makeup bag has sat untouched for five days now. 

The way food has started tasting like nothing. 

You’ve been moving through life like it’s underwater, and everything takes more effort than you have left to give. You don’t even know why it hit you this hard this time. 

It’s not like you haven’t been dumped before. But maybe it’s the way it happened. Or the timing. Or maybe it’s just the accumulation of everything — a slow avalanche of little losses.

And today... you didn’t even want to show up. But you did. You always do.

The café is warm, bright, filled with the usual buzz of music and half-hearted small talk. 

You’re in your uniform, hair tied back, apron looped loosely around your waist, and everything feels too tight. The lights are too bright. The sound of espresso machines is too loud. 

The people are too much.

And then there’s Mingi.

He’s always been around. Tall. Warm smile. Soft eyes. Just kind of… present.

You’ve worked alongside him a hundred times, but it’s never been more than casual hellos and polite jokes. 

You know he’s dated a couple of girls here and there — not that you paid that much attention. He’s sweet. Too sweet, maybe. And somehow, they never seemed to last.

But he’s not your problem. Never was. You never even thought about being his. Until now.

“Hey,” he says when he sees your name on the shift schedule beside his. He grins. “Looks like it’s you and me today.”

You manage a faint smile. “Yeah. Lucky you.”

He laughs softly, doesn’t push it. “You doing okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah, just tired.”

It’s a lie. You can tell he knows it.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

Halfway through your shift, you’re wiping down the counter when a customer — a woman, late 30s maybe, dressed like she wants everyone to know she shops somewhere expensive — squints at you.

“Shit, you look tired,” she says, frowning.

“Sorry?” you say, trying to stay polite.

“You sick? You really shouldn’t be handling food if you’re sick.”

You blink. “I’m not sick.”

“Well, you look sick,” she says, like that somehow makes it better. “Maybe put on a little makeup next time, honey. I wouldn’t want to be served by someone who looks like they’ve been crying all morning.”

You feel it like a slap. No warning. Just raw and direct.

“Anyways,” she sighs, “I’ll have a matcha latte. Oat milk. Extra hot. And one of those almond croissants, if they’re fresh.”

You punch in the order with trembling fingers. Nod. 

She doesn’t thank you. Just taps away on her phone as you turn to prep her drink, your breath catching in your throat, the back of your eyes burning. Again. You don’t even realize how fast it all comes rushing back.

The way your reflection haunted you this morning. The guilt. The sickness in your stomach — both real and imagined.

You hand her the drink when it’s done. She doesn’t make eye contact. Just takes it and leaves, her heels clicking against the tile like punctuation marks. You stare at her for a second too long, then mumble something about taking your break, slipping into the back room before anyone can stop you. 

You don't wait for Mingi to offer help or ask questions. You don’t even look at him. You can’t.

The second the door swings closed behind you, you collapse down against the wall, knees to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield, and you just— break.

No one’s there to see. Just your own silence, except it isn’t silence, not really. It’s breathing that won’t regulate. 

It’s the sound of your tears hitting your sleeves. It’s your chest heaving in stuttered sobs as everything in you just... caves in.

You don’t know how long you’re there. Could be two minutes. Could be ten. But then the door clicks open, and you flinch.

“Hey, you okay? Man, it’s crazy out there,” Mingi says lightly, before the door even fully shuts — like he’s trying to make a joke out of it.

And then he sees you.

“Oh,” he says, voice dipping instantly into something softer. “Oh—shit.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t even look at him.

There’s silence. Then the sound of a paper towel dispenser. He crouches beside you, slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a bird.

“Here,” he murmurs, offering a handful of napkins.

You take them with trembling hands. Still don’t speak.

He doesn’t ask anything. Doesn’t press you to explain. He just lowers himself down beside you, legs stretched out, back against the wall, and sits in silence.

You cry. Quietly now, softer, the edges of it worn down just a little. The weight of someone else in the room, not judging, not demanding, not fixing — just being — somehow makes it easier to breathe.

Eventually, your tears slow. Your chest stops shaking. You wipe your face, take one deep, uneven breath, and force yourself to speak.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

You glance at him, finally, and his eyes are already on you — not pitying. Just kind. Steady.

You push yourself up to stand, wobbling slightly, and he rises with you.

“Thank you,” you say, voice quiet. “Even though you didn’t really… I mean. Not that you didn’t do anything, but—just being there made it feel less—” 

You stop yourself, eyes flicking away.  “I’ve felt really alone this week. That meant a lot.”

There’s a pause.

Then he smiles. A little crooked. A little sad.

“You’re nervous,” he says, and there’s something fond in his tone that makes your chest ache.

“I know,” you murmur, laughing wetly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re welcome. And… I know we haven’t really talked like this before. But if you need someone, I’m here.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek.

And when you walk back out — blinking under the lights again — the world doesn’t feel fixed. But it feels a little less heavy. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re not entirely alone after all.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The next morning, you wake up with the same dull ache behind your eyes and a heaviness that feels stitched into your limbs. You stare at your phone screen — the brightness too harsh — and blink at the time.

You’re late.

There’s no time for breakfast. Not that it matters. The thought of food still turns your stomach. You barely manage to throw your uniform on, brush your teeth, pull your hair into something halfway presentable. Still no makeup. You don’t even have the energy to pretend you’re okay.

By the time you arrive at work, everything feels like it's tilting sideways. 

The fluorescent lights stab at your temples, the noise drills into your skull, and your stomach feels like a hollow drum echoing with nothing.

You're not okay. But you smile anyway. It doesn’t take long before Mingi spots it.

You’re restocking the pastry case, trying not to sway on your feet, when you hear his voice behind you — soft, but curious.

“Hey. You good?”

You turn halfway, forcing a quick nod. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”

He tilts his head, unconvinced. “You look… kind of pale.”

“I always look pale.”

He doesn’t laugh like you hoped he would. “No like.. you look like you’re about to pass out.”

You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter. “I swear, I’m good.”

Mingi doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you for a moment. 

His brows knit together like he’s debating something—

“Okay, no. You’re not good.” He steps forward, gently takes your arm. His hand is warm. Firm but careful. “Come to the back. Let’s get you something to refuel.”

You hesitate, caught off-guard by how quickly he decided for you. He’s not usually like this. Not pushy. But there’s something about the concern in his voice that makes it impossible to argue.

So you follow.

Your arms are crossed, your body language tight. He doesn’t seem fazed. The back room is quiet again, the low hum of the fridge and the muffled buzz of voices outside the only sounds.

Mingi moves to one of the storage shelves, rummages for something, then turns to the mini-fridge. He pulls out a bottle of water and unscrews it, dumping in a small scoop of something from a ziplock bag.

You watch, curious despite yourself.

“Electrolyte mix,” he says, shaking the bottle with practiced ease. 

“It’s got potassium, sodium, magnesium — all the good stuff. Helps with fatigue, dizziness, all that fun stuff.”

You raise a brow. “Why do you keep that on you?”

“You ever tried working eight hours on just espresso shots and trauma? This stuff’s a lifesaver.”

He holds it out to you. You hesitate.

“I know the flavor’s not great,” he adds quickly, like he can read your mind. “Tastes like strawberry-flavored chalk. But it helps.”

You take it. Fingers brushing. The bottle is cold in your hands, condensation slick against your skin.

You sip.

He wasn’t lying. It’s not great. But it’s not bad either. You swallow, nod once, and take another sip.

Mingi grins. “Told you.”

He leans back against the counter beside you, arms folded, still watching you — not with intensity, but with this soft kind of attentiveness. 

Like he’s checking to make sure you’re actually still breathing.

“So,” he says, casual, like you didn’t just almost collapse in front of him, “Do you ever, like, eat? Or are you surviving on stubbornness and spite?”

You almost choke on the drink, a small laugh escaping your throat before you can stop it. You glance at him, and he’s smiling — wide, boyish, unbothered.

You shrug. “Guess I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

His smile falters just a little. “Yeah. I figured.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you drink again.

He fills the silence, like he always does. 

Talking, easy and constant, about nothing in particular — how the new manager miscounted the till again, how the espresso machine makes a weird groaning noise when it’s pissed off, how one of the customers tipped him in foreign coins last week and he’s now the proud owner of what might be an Icelandic króna.

You give him short replies — a few nods, a small smile here and there — but mostly you just listen. Because he talks. And he’s bright. For the first time in over a week, you forget how empty you’ve been feeling.

It’s not that the sadness disappears. It’s still there, quiet and distant, like a storm sitting far out at sea. But here, in this little room with harsh lights and half-melted protein powder, it doesn’t feel like it’s crushing you.

You finish the drink.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. A little.”

He smiles, and you think maybe he’s relieved.

“You know,” he says after a beat, more serious now, “you don’t have to wait until you’re falling over to ask for help.”

You stare at the bottle in your hands. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not.”

He says it so easily. No hesitation. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you — with that same softness he had yesterday when he sat beside you on the floor. 

That same quiet understanding. Like he knows you’re unraveling and isn’t scared of it.

“I don’t really know how to talk about things,” you admit, voice small.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Then don’t. Just... let someone sit with you when it gets heavy. That’s enough.”

There’s a pause. Then you nod.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“You keep saying that like I’m doing you a favor,” he says. “But I want to be here.”

You look down, cheeks warm. “Now come on,” he adds, nudging your shoulder gently. “Let’s finish this shift so we can complain about it later.”

You smile — a real one this time — and follow him back out. And somehow, everything doesn’t feel quite as fragile anymore.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

It’s been a few weeks since you broke down in the back room with Mingi. Things have shifted since then.

Nothing huge — just small things. Subtle. Like how you actually smile when you walk in now. 

Like how Mingi always finds a way to ask you how you’re doing, even if it’s through sarcasm and jokes. Like how, when things slow down between rushes, you two lean against the counter together and talk.  About music. About bad tattoos.

You still don’t talk about the week — the one where everything fell apart. But he doesn’t bring it up either. It’s like you made a silent agreement: the past can stay in the background. What matters is now.

You’ve started eating again. Not a lot, not consistently, but enough that your body isn’t screaming for help. Enough that your mind feels a little clearer. And that, somehow, is enough for now.

Today feels okay. You’re halfway through a lull in the shift. 

Mingi’s finishing a story about how he once accidentally gave a man two shots of dishwater instead of espresso (you still don’t know if he’s lying or not), and you’re laughing, light, real — until the bell over the door rings.

And everything in you goes still.

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. The voice — his voice — slides in like ice against skin.

“Holy shit,” he says, loud enough for you and Mingi both to hear, “I forgot how much I missed this place.”

Your stomach turns. You glance up, just barely. And there he is.

Your ex.

Smiling like nothing happened. Like he didn’t gut you and walk away without blinking. Like he didn’t leave you questioning your own worth for weeks.

He walks up to the counter, eyes locking on yours like it’s a challenge. And he smirks.

“You still work here, huh?” he says, pretending to look around. “Figures. You always liked pretending you were better than this place, but I guess you came crawling back too.”

You don’t say anything. Your heart’s hammering too loud in your ears.

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. “Not gonna say anything?”

You press your lips together. He clicks his tongue. “Still doing that silent treatment thing, huh? You were better at that when you were sneaking around.”

You blink. Hard. A few customers are still lingering nearby. 

Mingi is watching from the side, slowly going still. His expression darkens. You exhale quietly. “What do you want to order?”

He raises his eyebrows like he’s impressed. “Alright. Business mode. I respect it.” He gives you his usual order, like nothing’s wrong. You make it quickly, efficiently. Your hands are shaking.

When you set the cup down, he takes it — then hesitates.

“You’re really not gonna say anything to me?”

You don’t look at him. But you feel the eyes on you. Mingi’s, specifically. His gaze is sharp now, focused.

Your ex follows that glance, and turns.

“What’s up with this guy?” he says, gesturing toward Mingi. “He supposed to help you? He your little therapist or something?”

Mingi doesn’t say anything. But he takes a single step closer. Subtle. And that’s it.

You step around the counter, grab your ex by the arm — firmly, but without a scene — and mutter, “Come outside.” He doesn’t hesitate. He never did. Not when he was being given attention.

The air outside hits your skin cold. The sidewalk is mostly empty. The sky is grey. You turn on him before he can say another word.

“You can’t just come to my job and do this.”

He laughs. Like you said something hilarious. “Do what?” he shrugs. “Order a drink? Talk to someone I used to know? I didn’t realize I was violating your healing journey.”

You glare. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Oh, so now you’ve got words,” he says, smile hardening. “Where were all those when I found out you were making out with some dude at that party? Huh?”

Your voice catches. “I was drunk,” you snap. “I told you! I explained! I said sorry so many times!”

“Yeah, and that’s supposed to fix it?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “You really convinced yourself you’re the one who got hurt, didn’t you?”

You step back, hands clenched. “I was in a bad place. We both were. We hadn’t spoken in days, and I— I made a mistake.”

“You always make mistakes,” he says coldly. “And somehow I always end up being the one who pays for them.”

Your throat burns.

“Why are you still doing this?” you whisper. “Why are you still trying to tear me down after you left?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d changed.”

You scoff. “You don’t want me to change. You want me to stay the same so you can keep blaming me for everything.”

He doesn’t respond. You barely have time to flinch before his hand is on you — not hard at first, but wrong. Fingers tight around your wrist.

“Let go,” you snap, trying to pull away.

He doesn’t.

“Seriously—let go.”

You try again, but this time he grabs you harder, other hand coming up fast, catching you just below the chin — rough, not quite choking, but holding.

“You still talk so fucking much,” he mutters, voice low and dangerous. “But you don’t listen, do you?”

You try to twist out of his grip — but suddenly his mouth crashes into yours. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t wanted. It’s possessive, like he thinks he still owns you. You shove at his chest, panic kicking in, but he doesn’t let go until he wants to.

And when he does, he steps back just slightly, breathing heavy, eyes flat. Then he laughs — like he’s disgusted with himself.

“You know what?” he spits. “I don’t even know why I kissed you. Probably just muscle memory at this point.”

You’re still reeling, lips burning, voice stuck in your throat.

“I spent that night wondering where the fuck you were, if you were safe, if you were okay,” he continues, tone venomous. “But you were too busy giving your lips to some random asshole at a party. Guess I should’ve been kissing someone else, too, right? Just to keep up, yeah?”

You try to speak — to say anything — but your throat is tight, your whole body frozen in shock. His eyes flick down at you, then up again — sharp, judgmental.

“God, it's almost like I can taste him on you,” he mutters, voice dripping with cruelty. “You’re not even worth the fucking effort.”

Then he steps back. Smooths his shirt. Straightens like he’s the one who’s been wronged. “I’ll see you, Y/N,” he says, tone casual — like you didn’t just get shoved and kissed and shredded all at once.

Then he walks away. And you just stand there — cold, stunned, humiliated. You don’t cry.

Not yet.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

When you step back in, the bell above the café door chimes softly. Mingi’s head snaps up immediately. He’s still by the counter, mid-way through restocking cups — but the moment he sees your face, everything in him stills.

Your skin’s pale. Your lips are blotchy. And something in your eyes is just… off. He clocks it all in a second.

“Y/N?” His voice is quiet, cautious. “What happened?”

You shake your head too fast. “Nothing.”

It comes out tight. Too tight. You clear your throat, force your fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ear like that’ll make you look less shaken.

“Just… just some guy from high school. An old friend.”

Mingi doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares. Slowly, his jaw flexes.

“Friend?” he repeats, low. “The one that made you look like you just saw a ghost?”

You try to smile — you do. But it slips, too fast. Doesn’t touch your eyes. “Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “Something like that.”

Mingi doesn’t push. But the way his eyes search your face — like he’s reading a page only half-torn — tells you he doesn’t believe a single word.

Still, he just nods, quiet. His voice, when it comes, is calm but edged. “Okay. Well. If that ‘friend’ ever shows up again…” — he glances toward the coffee machine, then back at you — “…I’ve got a full pot and excellent aim.”

That pulls a laugh out of you. Soft. Shaky. Not quite enough to push the nausea down. But enough to keep you on your feet.

You mouth a quiet “Thank you.” And Mingi just nods once, like he’s promising more than coffee.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

It’s been a few days since he came in. You haven’t been the same since. It’s subtle, at first. A little quieter in the morning. A little more distracted on the floor. 

You mess up an order you’ve made a hundred times. You catch yourself zoning out when Mingi talks. He notices, of course. He always notices. But he doesn’t say anything — not yet.

He just keeps doing what he always does: showing up for you. Bringing you a smoothie he swears has “life-restoring properties” (it tastes like banana-flavored regret). 

Sliding you his half of a muffin when he notices you haven’t touched yours. Making you laugh even when you don’t want to. It should help.

But it doesn’t. Not really. Not when your mind keeps echoing that one thing: “You really convinced yourself you’re the one who got hurt, didn’t you?”

The more Mingi smiles at you, the more it hurts. Because you can’t understand it — how someone like him still looks at someone like you and sees something worth saving.

You start retreating again.

Skipping meals. Avoiding eye contact. Pretending everything’s fine even when your hands are trembling so bad you nearly drop a tray.

Eventually, Mingi corners you — gently, but deliberately.

You’re out back behind the café, where the dumpsters reek of old coffee grounds and soggy cardboard. 

You told the others you needed a breather. The cool air bites at your skin, but you don’t move. You just crouch down against the wall, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to breathe through the noise in your head.

The door creaks open. You hear his footsteps before you see him.

“Hey,” Mingi says softly. “You okay?”

You close your eyes. Of course it’s him. You don’t answer.

He takes a few steps closer, crouches beside you but doesn’t touch. Doesn’t crowd. He’s always so gentle.

“Talk to me,” he says. “Please.” You open your eyes slowly, stare at the concrete.

“Why are you still trying?”

He blinks. Tilts his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You laugh, bitter, sharp. “Why are you always here? Smiling. Acting like I’m not just dragging you down every time I fall apart.”

His brows draw together. “You’re not dragging me down.”

You shake your head. “Yes, I am! I have been. Since the day you found me crying in the back like some pathetic wreck.”

“You’re not pathetic—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Your voice cuts sharper than you mean it to. But now that it’s out, you can’t stop. “God, you’re always so nice,” you spit. “So... so happy all the time, like nothing touches you. Like you’ve never broken anything. Or anyone.”

His expression shifts — barely. But you see it. That flicker of something behind his eyes. You’ve never seen him not smile. It feels like everything in you is splintering.

“I don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking. “Why do you care so much? Why do you keep showing up when I clearly don’t deserve it?”

There’s silence. He studies you, long and quiet. Then, carefully:

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s true,” you say.

You stare at him. His voice isn’t angry. Just... hurt. Confused.

And that’s what makes it worse. Because part of you does want him to help. But another part — the one that's screaming inside you — is scared. Scared of being seen like this. Scared of him realizing you’re not worth the effort.

He shakes his head. “You’re pushing me away because you’re scared.”

So you say it. The one thing you know will make him stop. “Yes,” you say, flat. Hollow. “I am. So leave me the fuck alone.”

Mingi stares at you.

No reaction for a long second. Just stillness. His lips part like he’s going to say something — and then he doesn’t. He just nods, once.

And walks away. The door shuts behind him with a soft click. And suddenly, all the cold you were trying to hide from is inside you.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The few days that follow after that, You don’t show up to work.

Not at open. Not at noon. Not for the afternoon shift change.

Mingi doesn’t text you. He doesn’t call. But he checks the break room three times like you might suddenly appear behind the storage crates. 

Every hour that passes, he feels it more — the absence. The silence where your voice usually lives. The way no one hums off-key behind the counter. 

He tells himself you’re okay. He tells himself you just needed rest. That maybe you lost track of time. That maybe your phone died, or you forgot to set an alarm.

But none of it feels right. So by the time closing nears, his jaw is tense. His patience worn down to threads.

He tries not to let it show. But it’s there — in the way he scrubs the espresso machine with too much force. In the way he keeps glancing toward the door every time the bell doesn’t ring—

CRASH.

The door slams open like it’s been kicked in by a storm.

“I’m here!”

Your voice, slurred and frantic, rips through the near-empty café like a crack of thunder. You stumble through the doorway, wide-eyed, hair messy, makeup smudged, apron tangled around your arm like you tried to tie it in the alleyway.

“Don’t—don’t fire me,” you stammer, voice cracking. “I’m here. I’m at work. I showed up.”

Mingi’s already moving from behind the counter, wide-eyed. “Y/N?”

You blink slowly, sway on your feet, and then nearly trip over one of the chairs you didn’t notice was pushed out. Your hand slams down on a table to steady yourself.

Your eyes find his, but they won’t hold. They flit away, jittery, ashamed. That’s when he sees it. The subtle sway in your stance. The gloss in your eyes that isn’t just tears.

Your words start to blur together. You say something about being sorry. About trying. About not sleeping. About making it in time.

“But I’m good,” you mutter, trying to shove your head through the apron’s neck hole, but it’s backwards. “I’m here to work, okay? I’m working. This job that kills me every fucking day.”

“Okay,” Mingi says carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’re drunk.”

“Nooo,” you drawl sarcastically, then laugh too loud. “I’m sooo sober right now. I'm, like, the queen of responsibility.”

He steps closer. “Y/N, sit down before you hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine, Mingi!” you say, spinning — and then nearly tipping into a table. He catches your elbow.

“Whoa. Okay, no, not fine.” His voice softens. “Come on. Back room. Now.”

You try to protest, but he’s already guiding you toward the back. His hand on your arm is the only thing keeping you from faceplanting into the espresso machine.

He sets you on a stool by the mop sink, then disappears for a second. You blink and try to focus on the blur of the wall in front of you. Your head is heavy. Everything spins in waves.

He returns with a cup of water. Kneels down in front of you.

“Here,” he says. “Drink this. Please.”

You look at him — really look at him. He’s frowning. His forehead is tight. His voice is gentle, but there’s something worried buried in it.

“Why are you even here?” you mumble. “You’re always here. Why are you always here?”

“I work here,” he says carefully, “and you’re the one who barged in like a tornado five minutes before closing.”

You lean forward, squinting at him. “You’re so… pretty.”

He blinks. “Okay. That’s new.” You nod solemnly, like you’ve made a critical discovery. 

“Too pretty. For someone who makes smoothies and takes shit from customers all day.”

Mingi gives a half-laugh, unsure. “And you’re wasted.” He presses the cup into your hands again. “Drink this.”

You take a tiny sip. Water never tasted more like regret. He sighs and pulls over a crate, sitting across from you.

“I was wondering why you didn’t come in today,” he says softly. “Were you… okay? Before this?”

And that’s when it starts. The spiral.

You shake your head once — then again, faster, like you can’t get it off of you. The tears are already burning behind your eyes before you realize they’re even there.

“I’m not okay,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move. Just watches you.

“I’m not okay, and I haven’t been okay for a long time,” you go on, voice wobbling. “And I thought I could hold it together, I thought I could pretend, but I keep… breaking. And I keep making you watch it.”

Mingi’s mouth opens like he wants to interrupt — but he doesn’t.

“I don’t even know why I came here tonight,” you breathe. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your hands shake around the cup. The tears are spilling now. Drunk, hot, and endless. “I didn’t want to kiss him,” you blurt. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t even mean to.”

Mingi blinks. “Huh?—what?”

“If—” Your voice cracks. “If you were my boyfriend… would you leave me because I got drunk and .. and someone forced me to kiss them?”

He goes still.

“What…?”

“I didn’t want to,” you sob. “I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t even know what was happening. We weren’t even in a good place, and I tried to tell him that but he didn’t listen, and then they told my boyfriend like I wanted it, and then my boyfriend—he—he hurt me. And then he broke up with me.”

Mingi doesn’t breathe.

You laugh bitterly through the tears. “And now I’m here. Crying into a mop sink like an idiot. What the fuck.”

“Y/N,” Mingi says, stunned. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“I know,” you murmur. “I don’t even know why I told you. You were just supposed to give me a water and tell me to go home.”

You blink at him, suddenly childlike.

“I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. And I just fucking drank to cope. I just wanted to shut it up. Shut it all up.”

And then your head tilts against his shoulder. The sobs start again — full-body, messy, weeks-worth of grief crashing out of you in waves. You cry like you’re breaking in half.

And Mingi… he doesn’t flinch. He wraps his arms around you, tight, grounding, warm. You don’t remember the last time someone held you like this.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Your fingers clutch at his shirt like you’re drowning.

You cry and cry until you can’t anymore. Then you pull back just slightly. Your breath is ragged. Your eyes are swollen. He meets your gaze gently. His hand rests on your shoulder.

“Can you please drink some more of this water?” he asks again, voice low, steady. “Please.”

You nod. You drink. And it doesn’t fix everything.

But it’s the first thing you do for yourself that doesn’t hurt.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

You wake up warm. That’s the first thing you register — warmth. Softness under your cheek. Something heavy draped over your body.

The second thing is the smell. Clean. Faint cedarwood, laundry detergent, and coffee grounds.

You blink slowly. Your head is pounding. Your mouth is dry. But the soft material under your fingertips is unfamiliar — plush, woven fabric. Not your bed. Not your sheets.

You lift your head. Big mistake. The room tilts. A wave of nausea rolls through your stomach, and you wince, closing your eyes again.

Then… it clicks. This isn’t your apartment.

The couch beneath you is L-shaped, dark gray. There’s a succulent on the coffee table. A record player in the corner. Shoes neatly lined by the door.

Your heart kicks into your ribs.

And then you hear it: the low clatter of something in the kitchen. A pan against a burner. A spoon scraping the inside of a mug. You sit up fast — too fast — and the blanket falls off your shoulders.

You’re wearing a hoodie. Not your hoodie. It swallows you whole. Soft. Worn. It smells like that same cedar-laundry-coffee mix. It smells like—

“Morning.”

You snap your head up toward the voice.

Mingi stands in the doorway, a mug in one hand. He’s wearing joggers and a faded shirt, hair a mess, like he’s been up for hours but hasn’t looked in a mirror yet.

You freeze. He freezes, too — then holds the mug out toward you like it’s some kind of offering.

“Ginger tea,” he says gently. “You looked like you might die if I gave you coffee.”

You just stare at him. Mouth dry. Brain spinning.

“...I’m so.. sorry,” you croak.

Mingi blinks. “For…?”

“What happened?” you whisper. “Last night — I—why the fuck am I on your couch? Did I—how did I even get here?”

“You don’t remember?”

You shake your head, eyes wide. He walks over slowly and sets the tea on the table beside you. “You came into work wasted out of your mind,” he says quietly. “Tried to clock in like you were about to pull a full shift. Then you told me… a lot of things.”

Your heart plummets. “No,” you breathe. “No, no, no—please tell me I didn’t say anything crazy..”

Mingi sits on the armrest beside you. Not touching. Just there.

“Well,” he says. “You said .. a lot. And then you cried. And then I brought you here because you couldn’t go home like that.”

You pull the hoodie tighter around you. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says immediately.

You look at him — really look at him — and you’re bracing yourself for the part where he pulls away. Where he tells you that was too much, that you crossed a line, that you scared him off.

But he’s just watching you. His eyes are gentle, but unreadable. You exhale shakily, hiding half your face in the collar of his hoodie.

“I didn’t mean to dump all that on you,” you mumble. “I didn’t even mean to come to work. I was just… walking. And then I ended up there. And you were there. And everything was just too loud and I needed it to stop.”

“I figured,” he says softly. You look away.

The silence stretches, and it burns. “I shouldn’t have said all that,” you whisper.

“Why?”

You blink at him. He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees. “Why shouldn’t you have said it?”

“Because it’s—ugly. Because it makes me sound weak. And pathetic. And like I haven’t moved on. And I don’t want you to see me like that.”

“I already saw you like that,” he says. “And I’m still here.”

You flinch.

“I’m not here to fix you, Y/N,” he adds quietly. “But I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t hear what you said. That shit matters. It’s not small. And it’s not something you deserved to go through alone.”

You stare at him. The weight of what he’s saying presses into your chest. And he gives a small, almost shy smile.

“Also, you called me pretty. Like, aggressively. So I’m kinda gonna hang onto that one.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Please let the ground open up and kill me.”

He chuckles. “No can do.”

A beat passes.

Then, gently: “Are you hungry?” You hesitate.

Every instinct in you is screaming no. Say no. Don’t eat. You don’t deserve to feel okay yet. But you remember what you said last night. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. And I fucking drank to cope. You remember the look on Mingi’s face. Not pity — care.

You peek up at him through your lashes.

“...Maybe. A little.”

His smile softens. “I made eggs and toast,” he says. “I’ll reheat it.”

You nod slowly.

“Okay.”

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

You sit at the tiny square table tucked into the corner of Mingi’s kitchen. It’s small — just two chairs and a window that lets the late morning sun in, casting warm rectangles across the hardwood.

Your hands are wrapped around the fresh cup of tea. 

The hoodie you’re wearing slips down over your knuckles, swallowing your hands. You feel impossibly small inside it. Across from you, Mingi is standing at the stove, scraping eggs onto a plate. 

He toasts two new slices of bread, then grabs a banana and cuts it in half before placing everything down in front of you.

It’s too much. You know it’s not — but it feels like it. You don’t deserve a plate that full. You don’t deserve anything after—

“Hey,” he says, nudging the plate closer. “Eat. Please.”

You nod. You pick up the toast first, mostly to give your hands something to do. It’s warm. Crunchy. Simple.

The silence is heavy, but not cruel. It’s not like the kind of silence your ex used to wield — quiets that felt like threats. This is just… unsure. Still settling.

“I’m really sorry,” you murmur again, eyes fixed on your tea.

Mingi doesn’t say anything.

You swallow. “I shouldn’t’ve come to work like that. That was—so embarrassing. And irresponsible. I could’ve gotten you in trouble if any one else was there. I just—I don’t know what I was doing.”

Still, no response. You glance up at him, expecting annoyance, maybe even a tired I told you not to apologize.

But Mingi’s just buttering his toast. You fidget.

“I’m sorry about what I said too,” you add. “Seriously. Dumping all that on you? You didn’t ask for that. You were just trying to help, and I—you didn’t sign up for any of that.”

He finally looks up. His eyes are steady. Not soft, not harsh — just... quiet.

“Are you gonna eat your eggs?” he asks calmly.

You blink. “What?”

“Your eggs. They’re probably getting cold.”

You hesitate — then take a bite, mostly to comply. You chew in silence. The food is decent. Seasoned, even. Mingi didn’t half-ass it.

A few more seconds tick by. Then he speaks again.

“I had a friend once,” he says casually, like he’s talking about the weather. “Back in high school. Real close. Like, we did everything together. Band, classes, gaming. Almost every day after school.”

You glance up slowly.

“One night, he got wasted,” Mingi continues, staring out the window. “Sent me this long, messed-up text about how he felt alone all the time, how he didn’t think anyone actually saw him. Said if I didn’t respond, he was gonna do something stupid.”

You stop chewing. Mingi shrugs once. “I saw the text hours later. My phone had died. He was already gone.” There’s no change in his voice. But his knuckles go white around his mug.

“He wasn’t kidding.”

You’re stunned. You search his face, and you realize there’s an edge under all that warmth he carries — something sharp and buried, something heavy he keeps quiet.

“I didn’t talk about that with anyone for years,” he says. “Didn’t even cry. Just kind of… kept showing up. For school. For work. For everything. Like it didn’t happen. But it did.”

Your heart cracks in a new way.

“I couldn’t fix him,” Mingi says quietly. “Didn’t get the chance. But you’re here. And you didn’t scare me off, Y/N.”

You swallow hard.

“You probably think I’m happy all the time,” he adds with a small smile. “That I don’t go through shit. But I do. I just got good at putting light in the room, because I know what it feels like when there’s none.”

Then, quietly:

“I don’t want another friend that I can’t save.”

Your throat is tight. It takes you a few seconds to respond.

“Mingi…”

He cuts you off gently. “So, please don’t apologize again. Just this once, let me be the strong one for you.”

You blink fast, eyes wet.

“Okay,” you whisper.

A long pause.

Then, softly — “Thank you.”

He nods once. “That one I’ll take.”

You both eat in silence after that. It’s not awkward anymore. It’s quiet in the right kind of way — the kind where things settle, where breathing gets easier, where food goes down without your stomach turning against you.

You finish most of your plate. When Mingi stands up to grab the mugs, you look at him and say, quietly:

“I’m really glad I came here. Even if I didn’t mean to.”

He turns back toward you. His voice is soft.

“Me too.”

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The dishes clink softly as Mingi rinses them in the sink. The water runs steady. Warm light filters in through the window — it’s late afternoon now, golden and still.

You’re curled up on the couch again. Same spot as this morning. His hoodie still swallows your frame, sleeves tucked over your hands. You’re half-watching him, half-dozing, head resting against the cushion.

You hadn’t meant to stay this long. Or eat this much. Or talk this openly. But somehow, the longer you’re here… the safer you feel.

Not fixed. Not perfect. Just… less alone.

Your eyes start to close again. The sun is hitting your face just enough to warm your skin. The quiet of the apartment hums around you — the fridge buzzing, the occasional car passing outside.

You let out a slow breath.

And somewhere between the hum and the warmth, the heaviness of everything finally catches up with you.

The exhaustion in your bones. The emotional toll of the last few weeks. The release of telling someone what really happened.

It all folds in on you like a wave. And you drift.

Not fully asleep. Not fully awake. That in-between space where your body’s still, your breath soft, your mind finally taking a break.

You don’t hear him turn the sink off. You don’t see him glance over. But Mingi notices.

He walks back into the room, towel in his hands, and stops a few feet from the couch. You’re curled on your side now, legs pulled up slightly, one hand resting near your cheek.

Your lips are parted slightly with your breath. Your lashes are dark against your skin. There’s a faint crease between your brows — like your mind hasn’t quite let you go, even in rest.

He stares for a moment. Not in a weird way. Not like he’s sizing you up. Just… quiet.

Watching the way you’ve finally let go, even if it’s just for now. Watching the difference between the girl who walked into work drunk last night, trembling and wild-eyed — and the one breathing softly on his couch now, wrapped in his hoodie, finally still.

Mingi grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch. It’s soft and faded — navy blue, worn at the corners.

He kneels beside you, careful not to wake you, and drapes it over your body. Gently. Slowly. Like he’s done this before.

The hoodie’s hood slips a little, revealing the curve of your shoulder. He tucks it back into place.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t linger too long.

He just stays crouched for a few more seconds — eyes on your face, watching you breathe — and then slowly stands again. Walks into the kitchen. Pulls out his phone. Sits down at the table.

And lets you sleep. No questions. No pressure.

Just him — close by. In the quiet. In case you wake up and need someone again.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

You blink awake slowly, the world returning in a haze of muted colors and soft textures.

Couch cushions. A blanket pulled over you. The faint scent of Mingi’s hoodie still clinging to the fabric near your neck — something warm and clean, like citrus and pine and laundry detergent.

Your eyes open fully and you sit up too fast.

Shit.

Not because you’re in danger or something’s wrong — but because this isn’t your house. You’re on his couch. Again. And it’s starting to feel way too natural.

You rub your eyes with the backs of your sleeves and groan a little. Your hair’s a mess. Your mouth is dry. You definitely drooled on the inside of the hoodie sleeve at some point.

You mumble to yourself: “This is not my house. This is not my house. Why am I getting so comfortable—”

“Hey,” a voice says gently from across the room. “You’re up.”

You glance over.

Mingi’s leaning on the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, holding a half-eaten granola bar like he’s been waiting for you. He looks like he’s just showered — hair damp, face clean, a plain gray tee and joggers on.

His voice softens even more. “You okay?”

You stretch out your legs and nod, blinking hard. “Yeah… yeah. Just… wow. That was a really good nap.”

He lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”

You nod again, almost sheepish. “I don’t remember the last time I slept like that. I mean, peacefully. Like I wasn’t gonna wake up panicking or anything.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just gives a small smile and takes a bite of the granola bar. Then, under his breath — soft and a little cocky:

“Maybe you should sleep here all the time.”

You pause. “Huh?”

He looks up like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Huh? What? I didn’t say anything. You’re hearing things.”

You squint at him, half grinning. “Right.”

He clears his throat, like he’s trying to reset the atmosphere but can’t quite hide the pink tint brushing the tips of his ears.

“So,” he starts, casually. Too casually. “We have work tomorrow. Early. And you still look kinda wrecked—no offense—so I was thinking, like… you wanna…”

You tilt your head. “Wanna?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “You wanna just, like… sleep over?”

You stare at him. “Sleep over?”

“I mean—not like that,” he says quickly, waving his hands. “I mean just sleep. On the couch or—like, wherever you’re comfortable. I just… I don’t know. You looked comfortable here. And you were safe. And I don’t know if you’re eating at home or if it’s even quiet there, and I was just thinking, maybe it’d be easier for you if you just stayed.”

You blink a few times. Processing.

Then you smirk. “Okay but—what am I gonna wear?”

Mingi pauses. Then smiles like he’s already got a plan.

“I mean… we could go to your place, pick some stuff up. Or, like—I dunno, we could hit the store, grab some sweats or something. You want SpongeBob pajama pants? I got you.”

You huff a quiet laugh, leaning your head back against the couch. “You really don’t have to do all this for me, Mingi.”

He frowns, stepping forward. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

You go quiet.

His voice softens again. “Look… I know you’ve been through a lot lately. And maybe it feels like you’re too much. Or like you’re making things harder. But you’re not. I’m here because I want to be. Not out of obligation. Not out of pity. Just—because I care. Okay?”

You look down at your hands. You feel it — that sting behind your eyes again. That vulnerable ache that’s been there for weeks, like an exposed nerve.

“Mingi…”

He steps a little closer. “Just say yes. Come on. One night. We’ll get snacks. I’ll give you the good blanket. I’ll even let you pick the Netflix movie without complaining.”

You shake your head slowly, biting back a smile. “You don’t complain anyway.”

“Exactly. I’m a catch.”

You finally nod. Quiet. But real.

“…Okay.”

He lights up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you say again. “Just one night.”

“Just one,” he repeats, already walking toward the door to grab his keys like it’s settled. “But full disclosure—I make killer popcorn. You might never wanna leave.”

You laugh softly, pulling the blanket off and stretching your arms.

There’s still so much to sort through. So much you haven’t said. But this? This feels like a start. A soft place to land. And for the first time in a long time … You say yes.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

Your apartment is quiet. Dim. The curtains are still drawn from earlier in the week — light bleeding through, but not enough to fill the room.

You let Mingi in with a muttered, “Sorry it’s a mess,” even though it’s not. Not really.

It just feels that way because you feel that way. Like everything around you has been sitting in silence, waiting for you to come home and feel something.

He walks in without hesitation, looking around. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t judge. Just takes it in with that soft, unreadable look he gets when he’s trying to understand without making you explain.

You go to your room and start pulling a few things from drawers: an old hoodie, some pajama pants, a small pouch of skincare stuff you rarely use anymore. You toss them into a tote bag, moving quickly, trying not to think too much.

But then your hand freezes. There it is.

A photo tucked into the corner of your mirror — half-buried under a curling sticky note, almost forgotten. You hadn’t touched it in weeks. Maybe months.

You pull it free. It’s you, smiling — real and big — pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with your ex. A party, maybe. You can’t even remember when. You look so happy you barely recognize yourself.

Mingi walks past your doorway just then, carrying your phone charger you’d forgotten in the kitchen. He slows.

Notices the photo in your hand. You glance up, startled, and try to shove it back in the drawer, too fast. Too late. But he saw. He pauses, gaze lingering on the frame, then on your face.

“…Is that him?”

You nod slowly, setting the photo down face-first.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “That was a long time ago.”

Mingi doesn’t respond right away. His eyes stay on yours. Not accusing. Not jealous. Just… soft. Searching.

He steps a little closer. “You looked different.”

You furrow your brow. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder, voice quiet. “I don’t know. Just… different. Brighter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that.”

You blink. It’s not cruel. He’s not trying to dig at you. But it still makes something in your chest ache. You open your mouth to say something — a deflection, maybe — but then you see it.

The look in his eyes. It’s changed.

He’s looking at you differently now. Not with pity. Not even just concern. But like he wants to know who you were before all this broke you down. Like he’s wondering who you could still be.

The moment hangs between you like held breath. So you laugh. A little too quickly.

Brush it off. Grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder like you didn’t just feel that shift in the air.

“Well,” you say, forcing a smirk. “Good luck seeing that version of me again.”

Mingi doesn’t smile back right away.

Then — quietly — “I wouldn’t mind meeting her.”

Your heart trips. You don’t answer. You just head for the door and mumble, “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

Back at his place, the air feels lighter again.

You kick your shoes off at the door and drop your bag near the couch. He flicks on a lamp in the corner, casting the room in soft gold.

It’s clean but lived-in — blankets already out, pillows fluffed. He prepares a pack of microwave popcorn on the counter and two soda cans on the coffee table like he actually planned this.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Wow,” you murmur. “You weren’t kidding about the snacks.”

“I take my movie nights very seriously,” Mingi says with a grin, holding up a bag of sour gummies like a trophy. “I even got the sad girl candy.”

You snort, flopping onto the couch. “God, you’re annoying.”

“And yet, here you are,” he teases, tossing the gummies at you.

You catch them. Barely.

You unzip your bag and pull out your hoodie — the old one you never wear anymore — and excuse yourself to the bathroom to change. When you come back out, he’s setting up a blanket fort situation with a kind of ridiculous amount of care.

He glances up, sees you, and his smile softens. Not in a flirtatious way. Not playful.

Just… warm.

Like the version of you he saw in the photo isn’t gone after all. Maybe just buried. You sit down beside him and pull the blanket up over your legs. He offers you the remote without a word.

And even though nothing’s been said outright — about the picture, about the past, about how he’s looking at you now — something in the air feels heavier. More real. And you don’t run from it this time.

You just stay.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The movie plays, but you’re barely watching.

You’re curled into the corner of Mingi’s couch, blanket over your legs, knees tucked up — and he’s right there beside you. Not touching. Not really. But close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the quiet presence of someone who doesn’t make you flinch.

You reach for the popcorn at the same time — your fingers brush. You both pause. He glances at you. You glance at him. Just a second too long.

Then you both pull away, and he says something — some soft joke to break the silence — but you don’t catch it. Your ears are still ringing with the contact. The casual graze that felt like a fuse being lit.

You try to focus on the screen. You try.

But the weight of him next to you is louder than anything coming from the TV. His thigh presses against yours now — not entirely by accident, but not quite deliberate either. It stays there. Warm. Solid.

You don’t move.

You can feel every shift in his breathing. The way he leans back a little, then forward again, like he’s trying to decide something.

You don’t look at him. But you feel him look at you.

And then—quiet, tentative—he speaks.

“…I was gonna say something earlier.”

His voice is barely there, like he’s afraid it’ll break the air. You glance over slowly, heartbeat picking up.

“About what?” you ask, keeping your voice light, like you don’t already know.

He hesitates. Eyes flick from your face to your lips and back.

His voice drops.

“About the way I—”

But then he stops. Swallows. Looks away. 

Silence. Your breath catches. You wait. But he doesn’t finish.

Instead, he leans forward, grabs the popcorn again, and pops a piece in his mouth like he didn’t just almost confess something that you felt in your bones.

You turn back to the screen. Pretend to focus. Pretend you didn’t hear the way his voice cracked halfway through that sentence.

But your heart is racing. You try to act oblivious, like nothing’s different, like you didn’t feel that moment nearly swallow you whole.

But your knees are still touching. And he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The movie ends. Neither of you move to start another. The credits roll, and the soft hum of the TV fills the silence.

You’re lying on the floor now, side by side now in the little blanket pile Mingi made — some makeshift nest of pillows and worn comforters that smells like laundry soap and him.

You’re half on your side, one arm curled under your cheek, your knees still barely brushing his under the blanket. You thought the quiet might make things less tense.

It’s worse.

He sighs softly beside you. You hear the rustle of his hand running through his hair, the subtle creak of the floor beneath him as he shifts to face you more fully.

You keep your eyes on the ceiling. But you feel it.

His eyes on you.

“…You good?” he says eventually, voice hushed like the moment might shatter if he speaks too loud.

You nod, slow. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hums low in his throat. “You can just go to sleep. I mean—if you want.”

You nod again. Then silence.

You hear him move — an elbow sliding beneath his head. He’s laying like you now, turned toward you, just watching.

You finally turn your head to meet his gaze. And there it is again. That look. Soft. Heavy. Something tugging behind his eyes.

You hold his stare for a long time. He’s the one who speaks first.

“…You know you scared the shit out of me, right?”

Your breath stutters a little. “What?”

“Last night,” he says, voice low. “When you showed up drunk. Slurring your words. Barely able to stand.” He pauses. “I didn’t know what the hell had happened to you. I thought maybe—fuck, I don’t know. I was just scared.”

You look away. Your throat feels tight.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“Stop saying that.”

You glance at him again. He’s still looking at you like he’s trying to memorize something.

Then, softly, almost too quiet:

“I just… I wish you would’ve called me or told me. Before it got that bad.”

You blink. “I didn’t think I could,” you murmur.

“Why not?”

You shrug, fingers curling in the edge of the blanket. “You didn’t owe me anything. I wasn’t your responsibility.”

Mingi sits up a little, resting on his elbow. He’s closer now. You can see the way his brow furrows, the way his lips press into a line before he speaks again.

“You’re not a responsibility,” he says. “You’re a person I care about.”

The words are quiet. But they land hard.

Your eyes flick to his, searching for something — a crack, a doubt, a laugh. There isn’t one. You feel your heart pick up.

And then he exhales, like he’s been holding something in for too long.

“What I wanted to say a few minutes ago is .. uh .. I think about you all the time,” he says suddenly.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t try to laugh it off this time.

“I think about you when you’re not at work. I notice when you haven’t eaten. I notice when your smile’s fake. I notice everything. And I didn’t mean to, at first. I didn’t even realize how much I was paying attention to you until I couldn’t stop.”

Your chest is so tight you forget to breathe.

“…Mingi.”

He shakes his head, voice softer now. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I just—I needed you to know.”

You want to say something. Anything. But your thoughts are foggy, like your body hasn’t caught up to your heart yet.

He’s looking at you. Really looking.

His eyes flicker down — to your lips — then back up. He blinks like he’s trying to think better of it, but something’s unraveling behind his expression.

Something wild and tender and real. He exhales — barely.

“I just—” he murmurs, voice so low it sounds like it’s afraid to exist.

Then he leans in. No hesitation. No question this time.

His mouth brushes yours softly — like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. But when you don’t pull away, he deepens it. 

His hand lifts to your jaw, gentle, grounding, thumb resting at the curve of your cheek. He kisses you like he means it — slow, steady, devastatingly careful. Like you’re something holy.

And you kiss him back. Your hand curls in the fabric of his shirt. You press in closer, hungry and aching and too full of things you haven’t said. But then—

It happens. Your stomach turns. Your heart flips.

A hot wave of nausea rushes over you like cold water. Suddenly, all you feel is—

Disgust. Not at him. At yourself.

It slams into you so fast you barely breathe before you’re pulling away, blinking like you’ve woken up underwater.

“I—” your voice cracks, eyes darting. “I need to use the bathroom.”

You don’t wait for him to answer. You shove the blanket off, push to your feet too fast, stumbling slightly as you walk away barefoot.

You don’t see his expression when you leave. You don’t look back. You close the door behind you and collapse against the sink. The bathroom is quiet.

Too quiet. The mirror stares back at you — too harsh, too honest — and you can see it.

The softness in your cheeks. The way your body looks when it’s not empty. You can still taste the food. Still feel it.

You hate how good it felt to be held. To be touched. To want something. Too much.

You sink to the tile. Cold and hard beneath your knees. You press a hand to your stomach like it’s wrong for existing. Then — without thinking — you kneel over the toilet.

Fingers down your throat. Quick, clean and quiet.

You do it like you’ve done it before. Because you have.

And when it’s done — when you flush, rinse, wipe your face — the emptiness feels like a relief you don’t deserve. You open the bathroom door.

Expecting to sneak back onto couch, maybe pretend none of this happened. But he’s there. Mingi.

Standing right there in the hallway. His back straight, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He doesn’t speak at first.

Just looks at you. His face unreadable. But his eyes — His eyes are all betrayal and heartbreak and worry.

“Did you just make yourself throw up?”

His voice is quiet. Too controlled. Like he’s afraid of how loud his hurt might sound. You freeze. Blood drains from your face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—” you try to brush past him, but he stops you with a hand on your arm. Not rough. Just… firm.

“Don’t,” he says softly. “Don’t lie to me. Please.”

You stand there. Caught. The air between you is cold again — but not because he’s angry. He looks like he’s watching someone he cares about bleed. And not knowing how to stop it. You drop your gaze.

“It’s not a big deal,” you whisper.

His brows pull together. “Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.” Your voice gets sharper — defensive. “You don’t get it. I just… sometimes I feel better after, okay? That’s all. I’m not like—doing it every day. It was one time—"

“And how many more 'ONE TIMES' before you break?” he shouts suddenly.

You flinch. The silence that follows is deafening.

He breathes hard, running a hand through his hair. He turns away, like he can’t even look at you.

“I’m sorry—”

“No!” he yells, sudden and sharp. “No! You don’t get to say sorry and make it disappear! I watched you crumble last night. I held you while you broke apart. And then this morning, I—I cooked for you, I sat with you, I watched you—I didn’t say a word because I didn’t want to pressure you—"

“Mingi—”

“—and the second I let myself think maybe you’re okay, maybe you're letting me in—"

His voice cracks again.

“—you go and punish yourself. You go and hurt yourself.”

“Why are you always trying to save me?” you snap. “Why are you even still here? What is this, huh? Some fucked up pity thing? You think you can fix me or something?”

“I’m here because I care!” he yells, voice echoing through the apartment. “I’m right fucking here, trying to help you. Trying to stay, even when you make it so damn hard. But I can’t fight you and the parts of you that want to self-destruct. I can't fight you and your past and your ex and your silence and your shame and your guilt all at once!”

“Stop,” you gasp, voice trembling. “Please—Mingi, stop yelling—”

He freezes, mid-breath, his mouth still parted like he has another sentence ready to throw, but the look on your face guts him. Your hands are shaking, clutching at yourself like you can hold all the pieces together.

“I—I can’t—” The words crack, high and thin. Your knees threaten to give, and suddenly you feel smaller than you’ve felt in years, like a child being scolded, cornered, helpless. “Please—don’t—”

You cover your face.

“I’m trying,” you whisper. “I swear I’m trying.”

“Fuck.” His voice breaks on the word. “I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—”

Before you can shrink back further, he closes the space between you and pulls you into his arms. His hold is desperate, trembling, like he’s terrified you’ll slip right through his fingers if he lets go.

You close your eyes. You don’t know how to carry this. You don’t know how to let someone stay.

But when you open them again—he’s still there.

Not moving. Not pushing.

Just holding you like the world could shatter and he’d still be right here in the ruins with you.

His chin rests against your temple, his breath unsteady. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, softer now, like a vow. “I’ll never yell at you like that again. I swear it. I just—I can’t lose you to yourself. I can’t.”

And all you can do is grip his shirt tighter, like maybe, just maybe, you believe him.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The morning light filters in through Mingi’s windows — hazy gold through slanted blinds, soft and warm against your cheek where you’ve curled up on the couch under the blanket you barely remember pulling over you.

You wake slowly. Not with a jolt. Not with dread clawing at your throat like usual.

Just … Quiet.

You feel tired, but not the hopeless kind. There’s soreness in your throat from crying. Your stomach feels hollow. But your heart — your heart is beating steadier than it has in weeks.

You blink up at the ceiling. The soft sound of something sizzling draws your attention.

The kitchen.

You sit up slowly, the fabric of your hoodie slipping against your skin. It still swallows you whole, draped over your knees, sleeves hiding your hands. You rub at your eyes, peek over the couch.

Mingi’s at the stove. Barefoot. Hair a mess. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Moving quietly, pouring scrambled eggs into a pan like it’s muscle memory.

He glances over when he hears you shift.

“Morning,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. A soft smile. “You were out cold.”

You stretch slightly, wincing at the stiffness in your shoulders. “Yeah… sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He pokes at the eggs. “We’re not working today, anyway.”

That makes you blink. “Huh?”

He shakes his head, still focused on the pan. “I called us both in sick.” He glances over, more cautious this time. “Figured you probably didn’t wanna deal with customers after… everything.”

You pause. Heart stuttering. “…You did that for me?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his voice softens. “Did it for us. I needed a day too.”

You look at him a long moment. Then say, quieter:

“Thank you.”

He nods once. Then, casually, like he’s trying not to make it a thing:

“You want something to eat?”

You hesitate. But there’s no tension in his voice. No pressure in his eyes. Just… a quiet offer.

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walk over slowly, settle into your usual stool at the counter. Your legs fold under you, sleeves still too long, fingers hidden.

He plates the food and slides it in front of you. Eggs. Toast. Sliced strawberries.

Simple. Gentle. You pick up your fork. You don’t feel him watching you this time. At least — not like that. He’s trying so hard not to hover. 

You can see it in the way he busies himself, turning to rinse a pan that doesn’t really need rinsing. Opening a cupboard and closing it again. Pretending to scroll on his phone.

You chew a bite of toast. Then say, around a mouthful:

“You’re being weird.”

He lets out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe I was glancing. Just wanted to make sure you were good.”

You look down at the plate. Poke a strawberry.

“I’m not gonna make myself throw up,” you say, simply.

He freezes.

You glance up. “You don’t have to tiptoe.”

He turns fully now, leaning on the opposite side of the counter. Voice low. “I know. I just… don’t wanna smother you either.”

You meet his eyes. And for the first time, there’s no guilt between you. Just truth.

“I’m trying,” you say.

He nods once. “That’s all I care about.”

You eat a little more. A strawberry. Half the eggs. Enough. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t count. You catch him sneaking a piece of toast off your plate instead.

You swat at him with your fork. “Hey!”

He grins, mouth full. “It’s my house.”

You almost smile. Almost. The grin lingers on his face for a moment, then fades. He sets the toast down, clears his throat. His eyes find yours again, steady but heavy.

“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink. “For stealing my food?”

He huffs a laugh, but shakes his head. “For last night. For yelling. For… scaring you.” His voice falters, raw. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The look on your face. I never want to be the reason you feel that way again.”

You set your fork down slowly, sleeves still swallowing your hands. “Mingi…”

But he’s already shaking his head, like he’s determined to say it all. “I know words don’t fix it. But I need you to know I’m not going anywhere. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”

You swallow hard, something unsteady shifting in your chest.

And for the first time, it feels like maybe you could believe him.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The sky’s overcast but soft — silver clouds diffusing the light, making everything feel quieter, slower. Like the world’s trying not to startle you.

You and Mingi walk down the block, shoulders brushing every few steps.

You keep your arms crossed, sleeves tugged over your hands. His hands are shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie.

His other hoodie — the one he pulled over your head this morning without a word before stepping outside— hangs loose on your frame. Too big. Too soft. It makes you feel smaller and safer all at once.

“You always this quiet in the morning?” he asks.

You glance over. “I’m always this quiet after falling apart in someone’s hallway.”

He huffs a soft breath. “That wasn’t falling apart. That was being honest.”

You hum. Noncommittal.

“Besides,” he adds, bumping his shoulder against yours, “I think your version of falling apart is still kinda cute.”

You snort. “That’s not a compliment.”

He tilts his head, smirking. “It’s kinda a compliment.”

You roll your eyes — but it’s easier now, lighter. After a few moments of silence, you say it, like it just occurred to you:

“Your hoodie’s really comfy.”

He blinks. Glances down at you. “Yeah? Looks better on you.”

You pause. You feel the pause.

And before you can say anything, you catch him doing that thing he always does — the flirty line he plays off like it was nothing, like his heart didn’t just slip out of his mouth by accident.

But this time — You stop walking.

“Say it again.”

He turns, confused. “What?”

You’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk now, facing him. The clouds casting a soft, silvery glow around you both.

“You heard me,” you say. “Say it again.”

He swallows. Eyes dart between yours. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

He shifts his weight. Runs a hand through his hair. And for the first time, you realize Mingi looks… nervous.

When he finally meets your gaze again, he says — quiet, careful:

“I said it looks better on you.”

Your breath catches.

You step closer. Hands still buried in the hoodie sleeves. Your eyes on his mouth now, then back to his eyes.

Then you lean in. And kiss him. Soft and warm.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all morning, mouth moving against yours slow and certain. His hands find your waist — hesitant, then firmer when you don’t pull away.

You kiss until the sidewalk disappears, until the quiet stretches into something sacred. You pull back first. He lingers. Eyes still closed. Lips parted.

Then, after a beat—

“I’ve been wondering,” he murmurs, eyes opening. “If you…”

He hesitates. And you feel it — that flicker of doubt behind his eyes. Like he’s afraid he misread everything.

“If I what?” you whisper.

His voice is quiet. “If you like me.”

Your chest tightens. You stare at him. That soft, open face. The boy who watched you break and didn’t run. Who called in sick. 

Who made breakfast. Who walked beside you in silence without asking for more than you could give.

And still — that ache rises.

That fear that you’re too much. Too ruined. That you’ll never be able to give him what he deserves.

“…I do,” you whisper.

His shoulders drop just slightly, like he’s been holding that question too long. You continue, barely audible:

“I just… don’t always know how to let someone like.. me.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Not pitying. Not pushy.

Just present.

“That’s okay,” he says finally. “You don’t have to know. I’ll be here anyway.”

You blink fast. Look away, lips pressed tight. He squeezes your hand.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Let’s keep walking.”

And this time — you don’t hesitate. You walk with him. Fingers tangled in his. Steps slow. Breath even.

And for the first time in what feels like forever — You don’t feel like running.

You feel like maybe… Staying.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

That night, 

The TV plays low in the background, forgotten halfway through the episode.

You’re curled up on one side of the couch, legs tucked under you, Mingi beside you — close but not touching, like even in the comfort, there’s a reverence. Like he’s still afraid to take too much.

He leans over and places a small bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, next to two bottles of ginger ale and a sleeve of Oreos, already halfway gone.

“Dinner of champions,” he mutters, grinning.

You let out a soft breath of a laugh. “It’s perfect.”

He watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then sits back. Arms draped lazily over the couch, fingers drumming lightly against the cushion. The silence stretches, but it isn’t awkward. Not at first.

Until it settles. And something inside you starts to twist.

You stare down at your hands. They’re resting in your lap, thumbs fidgeting. The blanket he draped over both of you earlier is half-fallen off your shoulder. You don’t fix it.

“Mingi?”

He turns his head. “Yeah?”

You hesitate. Your throat is tight again. Your heart too loud in your chest.

“I don’t…” You breathe. “I don’t know if I really like you.”

His body shifts. He turns to face you more fully, blinking once, twice.

“What?”

Your voice is soft. Barely audible. “Wait – I mean, I don’t know. I just… I always do this. I ruin things. When it starts getting better, when someone’s actually good to me, I freak out. And I just — I don’t know what I’m saying. I do like you, I just…”

You trail off, the words turning to static in your mouth. He’s still. Silent for a moment.

Then he says, slowly, carefully: “…But I asked.” 

“You told me you liked me.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I know I did. I meant it. I just… I don’t know. It’s like my brain won’t let me feel something good without trying to crush it.”

His brow furrows. Eyes searching yours like he’s trying to find you inside the chaos. You look away, shame crawling up your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

Silence.

“Are you… still not over him?”

You blink. “Who?”

“Your ex.”

You inhale sharply, like he’s cracked something open with those words. Your lips part. Close. Then—

“I want to move on,” you say. “I want to. I just…”

You swallow. Look at him. Really look at him.

“I want to move on with you. But I’m scared.”

His voice lowers. “Scared of what?”

Your heart clenches. “I don’t—”

He leans forward now, brows drawing together.

“Are you scared of me?” His voice is soft, but there’s a new tension there. A confusion edged with concern. “Of us? Why would you be scared?”

You shake your head. “No — it’s not you.”

“Then what?”

You suck in a breath.

“I’m scared of me, Mingi.”

He stares.

You press your palms together like you’re trying to hold yourself still. Like if you let go, the pieces might scatter.

“I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want to mess you up. You’re already— you’re so good. And I’m just…” Your voice cracks. “I’m still carrying all this shit. I don’t know how to not let it spill into the good stuff.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away.

He just leans back. Runs a hand through his hair. Breathes out slow. Then he shifts closer. Resting his elbows on his knees. Facing you fully.

“Okay,” he says. “Listen to me.”

You look up.

“I don’t expect you to be healed,” he says. “I don’t want you to pretend you’re fine just to make me feel more comfortable. You don’t need to shrink yourself to keep me around.”

Your throat tightens. He keeps going.

“I know you’re still figuring it out. That’s not a flaw. That’s being human. And yeah — you’re messy sometimes. You push and pull. You say things you don’t mean when you’re scared.”

You wince.

“But you always come back. You show up again. And that? That matters more than anything.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes warm. Steady.

“I want the real you. Not the version you think I’ll like better. Not the edited, polished, keep-it-together-you. I want this you. Scared. Raw. Trying anyway.”

You’re quiet. Staring at him. Searching his face for any flicker of doubt.

You don’t find it. And suddenly your hands are on his cheeks — both of them, cupping his face like you’re anchoring yourself there. Your thumbs brush the stubble along his jaw.

Your voice trembles:

“I just… I don’t understand.”

His eyes soften. “What don’t you understand?”

“Why are you doing this?” Your breath shakes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Tears slip down your cheeks.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, brokenly. “You’re still so fucking pretty.”

He exhales, a little stunned by the intensity, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reaches for one of your hands and presses a kiss into your knuckles. Soft. Intentional.

“I’ve never felt like this with anyone before,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You stare at him. And suddenly you can’t breathe.

Your eyes trace the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the part of his lips. You want him. You want this. So much it aches.

You crash forward. Your lips slam into his.

A soft gasp escapes him as you climb into his lap, straddling him, the blanket falling away. Your hands knot in his hair, mouth desperate, deepening the kiss with tongue and teeth and heat.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting months for this — like you’re air and he’s starving.

His hands hover, unsure where to land, fluttering from your hips to your thighs to your back, breath catching as he groans softly against your mouth.

You grind down slightly and his hands finally grip, holding you there, his body giving in to yours completely.

But then — He breaks the kiss. Gasping, chest heaving, lips swollen.

“I—” He swallows. “I don’t want us to go too fast.”

You blink, still breathless.

“I just… I need to know,” he says, looking you dead in the eye, “Are you okay with this?”

Silence. You freeze for a second.

That flicker of fear again. Then — You nod. Slow. Steady.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m okay. I promise.”

His chest rises and falls beneath you, eyes searching yours for the truth. He finds it. Your mouth is on his again — hungry, urgent — but there’s nothing casual about it anymore.

It’s not the kind of kiss that leads to distraction. It’s the kind that leads to unraveling.

He groans low in his throat when your fingers tangle tighter in his hair, and suddenly his hands aren’t hesitant anymore — they’re everywhere. 

Palming at your waist, sliding up beneath the borrowed hoodie you’re still wearing, fingertips hot against bare skin.

You shift in his lap, straddling him more firmly, your hips grinding down just enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispers into your mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile, a little breathless. “You’re handling it fine.” He exhales a short laugh, but it’s wrecked — like he’s already undone, already trying to keep himself together while you’re melting against him.

Then his hands slip up your back — slow but firm — and he pulls the hoodie up and over your head in one motion. Tosses it aside.

His eyes drop. He freezes. You’re bare underneath. No shirt. No bra. And for a beat, he just stares.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice gone low and reverent.

You go to cover yourself instinctively — it hits fast, that insecurity, that urge to hide — but his hands catch your wrists, gently, holding you still.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Please don’t hide from me.”

You look at him. His eyes are wide. Dilated. His mouth parted just slightly like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “It’s — kind of unfair.”

You blink, heart hammering.

“Say that again.”

He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the edge of your neck. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice raspy against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You sigh — broken and soft — and tilt your head back, giving him more. He takes it, lips trailing down your throat, teeth dragging lightly as he goes.

And then his hands find your hips again. Grip. Lift. He stands — stands — with you in his arms like it’s nothing. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Mingi—!”

He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, almost messy, like he’s losing the last of his restraint.

He carries you to the bedroom, one hand splayed against your lower back, the other curling under your thigh like he needs to be touching you everywhere at once.

He lays you down like you’re breakable — but he climbs over you like he’s starving.

The weight of him settles between your thighs, and suddenly you feel everything: the warmth, the hardness pressing into you through both your clothes, the trembling need that’s been building for weeks.

You hook your fingers in the hem of his shirt and tug.

“Off.”

He obliges immediately — lifts it over his head, tosses it aside. And when your hands roam over his chest, down his stomach, you feel him shiver.

“Mingi…”

His mouth finds your collarbone. Then your chest. He kisses you slow there, open-mouthed and hot, tongue tracing the edge of your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and you gasp — hands flying to his shoulders, your back arching.

He groans like that sound undid him.

“God, the things I want to do to you,” he murmurs. “You have no idea.”

He kisses down your stomach, slow and purposeful, until he reaches the waistband of your shorts. Hooks his fingers in them. Looks up.

“Can I?”

You nod. “Yes. Please.”

He pulls them down — slow, watching you as he does it — and tosses them to the floor. Then kisses the inside of your thigh like it’s sacred.

You whimper.

“Mingi—”

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And then he’s lowering his mouth between your legs — tentative for half a second, just testing — until he gets that first shaky moan out of you and something in him clicks.

And God, he’s good at this.

He licks slow, deliberate, like he’s learning what you like in real time. Like he wants to hear every reaction.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you there, opening you wider for him, and then he flattens his tongue — sucks — and your hips buck.

“Fuck—”

“Yeah?” he breathes, glancing up. His mouth is glistening, his lips swollen, his hair messy from where you’ve been pulling at it.

“You like that?”

You nod desperately. “Yes, yes, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

He devours you — hungry, focused, like the only thing he wants is to make you fall apart in his mouth. Your hands knot in his hair, pulling tight, and when your thighs start to tremble, he groans into you, the vibration making your vision blur.

And just when you’re about to cum — on the edge of it, right there — he pulls back.

You whimper. “Why—”

He’s already kissing his way back up your body, whispering, “Wanna feel you cum on my cock instead.”

You whine, and he catches your mouth with his again, slow and deep and so fucking sweet it makes your chest ache.

“Condom?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he exhales, eyes fluttering open to look at you. “Top drawer.”

He reaches for the drawer, opens it, and when he finds it, he tears the wrapper with shaking hands.

He strips off his boxers — and you both pause for a beat, your breath catching at the sight of him.

Because yeah. He’s big.

He doesn’t make a show of it. He’s not smug.

But when he rolls the condom on and looks down at you again — flushed, panting, legs open for him — he knows he’s wanted.

He lines himself up, and his voice is raw:

“Tell me if anything’s too much.”

You nod. “I will. I promise.”

He pushes in slowly, watching your face the whole time — every twitch, every gasp — until he’s fully inside you, bottomed out, his mouth hanging open like he’s never felt anything like this before.

You’re both quiet for a second — just breathing.

Then he moves.

Long, slow thrusts at first, deep and deliberate. His eyes flicker between your face and the way your bodies meet, like he can’t decide what’s more beautiful.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist, holding him close as he fucks into you — harder now, rougher, but still with that same quiet reverence.

You moan his name. Over and over. And every time, he fucks you deeper. Like he’s trying to give you everything he has.

His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate, swallowing your gasps.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking good.”

Your nails drag down his back. “Don’t stop, Mingi— I’m close— please—”

“Cum for me,” he breathes, his pace relentless. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

You do.

It crashes into you, white-hot and blinding, your whole body shaking as you cry out his name — and he follows soon after, stuttering inside you, hips jerking as he buries himself deep and groans into your neck.

The room goes still.

You’re both panting. Slick with sweat. Clinging to each other. And after a long, trembling silence, he lifts his head. Your eyes meet. There’s no teasing. No smirking. Just that same softness. That same quiet awe.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You nod. Your voice cracks.

“I’ve never felt that with anyone before.”

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

“Me neither.”

And then he pulls you close again. Holding you like you’re something precious. Like you’re real. Like you’re his.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The room is quiet now.

Just the slow hum of the night outside the window, the softened rhythm of both your breathing, and Mingi’s hand — warm and steady — still resting against your waist.

You’re lying on your side, facing away from him, your body loose but your chest tight in that familiar, sinking way.

He moves behind you gently, not to crowd, just enough to wrap an arm around your middle. He presses the softest kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with sleep and something softer. “You okay?”

You nod once. He doesn’t believe you.

You can feel it in the way he lingers — that silence that stretches, waiting for truth.

So you force a breath out, one that shakes a little on the way up.

“…Yeah.”

You expect that to be the end of it. For him to let it go.

But Mingi surprises you. Again.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Wait here.”

You blink. Before you can process, he’s already shifting, easing up from the bed, slipping on his boxers, disappearing for a second into the hallway.

You hear the faucet. Water running. A cabinet opening and closing.

You sit up slowly, the blanket pulled around your chest. You don’t know why you suddenly feel like crying.

He comes back in with a damp, warm towel and a bottle of water.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shh,” he cuts in, quiet and firm, kneeling in front of you.

He starts cleaning you up with slow, careful hands — gentle, like he’s afraid he might hurt you. He’s quiet while he does it, not making it awkward or clinical. Just… kind. Respectful. Like it matters to him that you’re okay even after all the heat of the moment’s faded.

Like you matter. And you don’t know what to do with that.

When he finishes, he hands you the water and presses a soft kiss to your knee.  Then he climbs back into bed and pulls you close without even asking — tucking you under his arm, one hand stroking your hair.

You’re quiet for a long moment. Too quiet. He notices. You feel his thumb trace the back of your hand where it rests against his chest.

“Talk to me,” he says softly. “Please.”

You try to force the lump down in your throat.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that.”

You close your eyes. It’s stupid, the way your heart hurts. Stupid how nice he’s being. So you whisper it, raw and quiet:

“I don’t deserve this.”

Mingi stills.

You wait for him to pull away. To say something reasonable. To agree, even.

But instead, he tightens his hold on you — arms wrapped fully around your body now, like he’s anchoring you in place.

“Please don’t say that,” he breathes. “Please stop saying that.”

You squeeze your eyes shut harder. “I’m serious. You’re— You’re so good to me and I don’t know how to let myself believe it’s real. I keep thinking I’m gonna mess it all up. That I’ll ruin this. Ruin you.”

His voice breaks a little when he responds.

“Y/N… I’m not going anywhere. You don’t ruin things just by existing. You’ve been surviving with no one to catch you for so long, I think maybe… you forgot what it feels like to be safe.”

He keeps talking, quieter now, like a secret just for you.

“You don’t have to earn kindness. Or care. Or love.”

You feel your chest splinter. He presses his lips to your temple.

“You deserve softness,” he whispers. “You always have.”

You don’t say anything — you can’t — but your tears slip hot and quiet into the hollow of his throat where you’ve buried your face. He doesn’t point it out. Doesn’t make it a moment.

He just holds you tighter. Your breathing slows.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself fall asleep feeling safe.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

That morning, you wake up slowly. Not like the usual startled, tight-chested jolt that’s been your norm lately, but… warm. Heavy in a good way. Like your bones remembered how to rest for once.

The morning light peeks in soft through Mingi’s curtains. The room smells like him — laundry and cedar and something faintly citrus, maybe his shampoo. Your body aches in a way that makes your cheeks warm remembering the night before, and—

Right. You’re naked. Completely.

You blink, glancing down. The sheets are tangled around your legs, but your chest is bare, one of Mingi’s arms looped loosely around your waist. He’s still asleep — you think — soft breaths ghosting over your shoulder, his face tucked somewhere near the crook of your neck.

Your heart gives a little squeeze.

You shift carefully, trying not to wake him, planning to slip out of bed and steal one of his hoodies so you can at least walk without flashing someone. You’re halfway out of his grip, feet barely touching the floor—

And suddenly that arm tightens, fast and firm around your waist, yanking you back against him.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles groggily.

You feel his nose nuzzle softly under your ear, his hand flattening against your stomach. His body is warm and solid behind you, and the pull to stay is dangerously strong.

You settle back, just for a moment, tucking your hand over his forearm.

“You’re clingy when you’re half asleep,” you murmur.

“Mmhm,” he hums. “Only with you.”

Your chest warms at that. You turn your head slightly to peek at the clock on the nightstand.

Your eyes widen. “Shit.”

“What?” he asks, still sounding a little drunk on sleep.

You sit up fully now. “It’s already past seven. We have, like, thirty minutes to get up and get ready for work.”

That wakes him up.

“What?” he bolts upright, hair sticking up in ten different directions. “Holy shit. What time is it?”

You grab your phone. “7:12. We have to leave in thirty minutes if we want to make it on time.”

“We’re so fucked,” he says, already tossing the covers off. “We’re so fucked. We’re gonna get fired. You’re naked, I barely have anything on, we have thirty minutes—”

You’ve never seen him this panicked. He looks like he’s calculating battle plans in his head, muttering to himself as he pulls on a pair of boxers and stumbles toward his dresser.

“Okay, okay,” he says, pointing at you like he’s assigning a mission. “Get ready in here, I’ll use the bathroom down the hall.”

You pause for a second, then say nothing. You’ve been using the hall bathroom since you started crashing at his place — all your stuff’s in there — but in this moment of chaos, it doesn’t feel worth it to point that out.

You nod. “Okay.”

He disappears down the hallway, and you hop up and head into the bathroom. You turn on the sink, start rinsing your face, running fingers through your hair — only to freeze when you realize:

All your stuff — skincare, toothbrush, makeup — is still in the other bathroom.

“Dammit,” you whisper to yourself, wiping your face with the towel.

You wrap one of Mingi’s hoodies around you quickly and dart down the hall. The bathroom door is cracked open just enough that you can hear the shower shut off, steam still wafting into the hallway.

You knock lightly and push the door open.

“Sorry— sorry,” you blurt out, eyes squeezing shut like it’ll undo the moment. “I just need my stuff, I—”

Mingi’s standing by the sink, towel low on his hips, hair wet and dripping onto his shoulders. He blinks at you, startled but not upset.

“It’s okay, baby—”

He freezes. You freeze.

He clears his throat. “—I mean, Y/N. Just… just get ready in here. It’s fine.”

Your cheeks heat immediately. But you pretend not to hear it.

“Thanks,” you mumble, moving past him to grab your things.

The bathroom’s small. Your shoulders brush as you reach for your toothbrush, and when you turn to grab your moisturizer, your eyes flicker — very briefly — down his torso.

He catches it. His mouth twitches, like he wants to smirk but knows better.

You work in comfortable silence for a few minutes. You brush your teeth. He runs a comb through his hair. The domesticity of it all hits you in a weird, sudden wave. How natural it feels.

When you finish putting on the tiniest bit of concealer, you glance up at him.

“How do I look?”

He turns to look at you fully, then gives you that sleepy, slightly dazzled grin.

“You look great.”

You smile back. “You look good too.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, grabbing his shirt from the counter. “Okay—” he glances at the clock again, “How much time do we have left?”

You check your phone.

“Ten minutes.”

“Ten?!”

You both scramble for the hallway.

“We’re so late—”

“Not yet, we’re not!”

He’s grabbing his keys off the hook, shoving his feet into his sneakers.

You laugh, still half out of breath as you tug your shoes on and grab your bag.

“Why do I feel like we just speedran an entire relationship in the span of like, ten hours?” you mutter.

He grins at you, flushed, hair still slightly damp.

“Because we did.”

You both burst out the door, nearly tripping over yourselves as you head to his car.

The windows are fogged up from the humidity. He starts the engine with a sigh, runs a hand through his hair, then glances at you as you click your seatbelt in.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly, just before pulling out of the driveway.

You look at him. At the curve of his jaw. The soft worry in his eyes. The little accidental “baby” still echoing in your chest.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.” He smiles. It’s a little crooked. A little too fond.

“Alright,” he says, shifting into drive. “Time to see if we can keep our jobs.”

You both laugh — tired, messy, still aching in places from the night before — but something feels lighter between you now.

Like maybe you’re not just running late. Maybe you’re running forward.

Masterlist Next

[nayiana0]

"Just This Once"

you just got dumped, and honestly, showing up to work feels like dragging yourself through hell. you’re tired, raw, and not really holding it together the way you want to. mingi notices. he notices everything. and that’s how it starts — the glances, the conversations, the comfort you didn’t know you needed. slowly, something shifts.

wc : 18k

tags : explicit content , (kinda a quick smut scene?) , protected sex, oral (f receiving), aftercare, emotional vulnerability, eating disorder mention/tw, mentions of suicide/self harm, reader is going thru it, lingering heartbreak, slow burn, readers ex - physically & emotionally abusive, messy emotions, alcohol use, language, angst w comfort, cafe setting.

genre : romance, angst, smut.

a/n : haven’t posted in a while. just didn’t feel like it tbh. so i stepped back. spent the last few days writing this instead. first angst fic. hope u like it.

You haven’t been yourself lately.

It’s not just in your head — you can feel it in the small things. The way your feet drag just a little slower when you walk into work. The way your makeup bag has sat untouched for five days now. 

The way food has started tasting like nothing. 

You’ve been moving through life like it’s underwater, and everything takes more effort than you have left to give. You don’t even know why it hit you this hard this time. 

It’s not like you haven’t been dumped before. But maybe it’s the way it happened. Or the timing. Or maybe it’s just the accumulation of everything — a slow avalanche of little losses.

And today... you didn’t even want to show up. But you did. You always do.

The café is warm, bright, filled with the usual buzz of music and half-hearted small talk. 

You’re in your uniform, hair tied back, apron looped loosely around your waist, and everything feels too tight. The lights are too bright. The sound of espresso machines is too loud. 

The people are too much.

And then there’s Mingi.

He’s always been around. Tall. Warm smile. Soft eyes. Just kind of… present.

You’ve worked alongside him a hundred times, but it’s never been more than casual hellos and polite jokes. 

You know he’s dated a couple of girls here and there — not that you paid that much attention. He’s sweet. Too sweet, maybe. And somehow, they never seemed to last.

But he’s not your problem. Never was. You never even thought about being his. Until now.

“Hey,” he says when he sees your name on the shift schedule beside his. He grins. “Looks like it’s you and me today.”

You manage a faint smile. “Yeah. Lucky you.”

He laughs softly, doesn’t push it. “You doing okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah, just tired.”

It’s a lie. You can tell he knows it.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

Halfway through your shift, you’re wiping down the counter when a customer — a woman, late 30s maybe, dressed like she wants everyone to know she shops somewhere expensive — squints at you.

“Shit, you look tired,” she says, frowning.

“Sorry?” you say, trying to stay polite.

“You sick? You really shouldn’t be handling food if you’re sick.”

You blink. “I’m not sick.”

“Well, you look sick,” she says, like that somehow makes it better. “Maybe put on a little makeup next time, honey. I wouldn’t want to be served by someone who looks like they’ve been crying all morning.”

You feel it like a slap. No warning. Just raw and direct.

“Anyways,” she sighs, “I’ll have a matcha latte. Oat milk. Extra hot. And one of those almond croissants, if they’re fresh.”

You punch in the order with trembling fingers. Nod. 

She doesn’t thank you. Just taps away on her phone as you turn to prep her drink, your breath catching in your throat, the back of your eyes burning. Again. You don’t even realize how fast it all comes rushing back.

The way your reflection haunted you this morning. The guilt. The sickness in your stomach — both real and imagined.

You hand her the drink when it’s done. She doesn’t make eye contact. Just takes it and leaves, her heels clicking against the tile like punctuation marks. You stare at her for a second too long, then mumble something about taking your break, slipping into the back room before anyone can stop you. 

You don't wait for Mingi to offer help or ask questions. You don’t even look at him. You can’t.

The second the door swings closed behind you, you collapse down against the wall, knees to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield, and you just— break.

No one’s there to see. Just your own silence, except it isn’t silence, not really. It’s breathing that won’t regulate. 

It’s the sound of your tears hitting your sleeves. It’s your chest heaving in stuttered sobs as everything in you just... caves in.

You don’t know how long you’re there. Could be two minutes. Could be ten. But then the door clicks open, and you flinch.

“Hey, you okay? Man, it’s crazy out there,” Mingi says lightly, before the door even fully shuts — like he’s trying to make a joke out of it.

And then he sees you.

“Oh,” he says, voice dipping instantly into something softer. “Oh—shit.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t even look at him.

There’s silence. Then the sound of a paper towel dispenser. He crouches beside you, slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a bird.

“Here,” he murmurs, offering a handful of napkins.

You take them with trembling hands. Still don’t speak.

He doesn’t ask anything. Doesn’t press you to explain. He just lowers himself down beside you, legs stretched out, back against the wall, and sits in silence.

You cry. Quietly now, softer, the edges of it worn down just a little. The weight of someone else in the room, not judging, not demanding, not fixing — just being — somehow makes it easier to breathe.

Eventually, your tears slow. Your chest stops shaking. You wipe your face, take one deep, uneven breath, and force yourself to speak.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

You glance at him, finally, and his eyes are already on you — not pitying. Just kind. Steady.

You push yourself up to stand, wobbling slightly, and he rises with you.

“Thank you,” you say, voice quiet. “Even though you didn’t really… I mean. Not that you didn’t do anything, but—just being there made it feel less—” 

You stop yourself, eyes flicking away.  “I’ve felt really alone this week. That meant a lot.”

There’s a pause.

Then he smiles. A little crooked. A little sad.

“You’re nervous,” he says, and there’s something fond in his tone that makes your chest ache.

“I know,” you murmur, laughing wetly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re welcome. And… I know we haven’t really talked like this before. But if you need someone, I’m here.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek.

And when you walk back out — blinking under the lights again — the world doesn’t feel fixed. But it feels a little less heavy. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re not entirely alone after all.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The next morning, you wake up with the same dull ache behind your eyes and a heaviness that feels stitched into your limbs. You stare at your phone screen — the brightness too harsh — and blink at the time.

You’re late.

There’s no time for breakfast. Not that it matters. The thought of food still turns your stomach. You barely manage to throw your uniform on, brush your teeth, pull your hair into something halfway presentable. Still no makeup. You don’t even have the energy to pretend you’re okay.

By the time you arrive at work, everything feels like it's tilting sideways. 

The fluorescent lights stab at your temples, the noise drills into your skull, and your stomach feels like a hollow drum echoing with nothing.

You're not okay. But you smile anyway. It doesn’t take long before Mingi spots it.

You’re restocking the pastry case, trying not to sway on your feet, when you hear his voice behind you — soft, but curious.

“Hey. You good?”

You turn halfway, forcing a quick nod. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”

He tilts his head, unconvinced. “You look… kind of pale.”

“I always look pale.”

He doesn’t laugh like you hoped he would. “No like.. you look like you’re about to pass out.”

You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter. “I swear, I’m good.”

Mingi doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you for a moment. 

His brows knit together like he’s debating something—

“Okay, no. You’re not good.” He steps forward, gently takes your arm. His hand is warm. Firm but careful. “Come to the back. Let’s get you something to refuel.”

You hesitate, caught off-guard by how quickly he decided for you. He’s not usually like this. Not pushy. But there’s something about the concern in his voice that makes it impossible to argue.

So you follow.

Your arms are crossed, your body language tight. He doesn’t seem fazed. The back room is quiet again, the low hum of the fridge and the muffled buzz of voices outside the only sounds.

Mingi moves to one of the storage shelves, rummages for something, then turns to the mini-fridge. He pulls out a bottle of water and unscrews it, dumping in a small scoop of something from a ziplock bag.

You watch, curious despite yourself.

“Electrolyte mix,” he says, shaking the bottle with practiced ease. 

“It’s got potassium, sodium, magnesium — all the good stuff. Helps with fatigue, dizziness, all that fun stuff.”

You raise a brow. “Why do you keep that on you?”

“You ever tried working eight hours on just espresso shots and trauma? This stuff’s a lifesaver.”

He holds it out to you. You hesitate.

“I know the flavor’s not great,” he adds quickly, like he can read your mind. “Tastes like strawberry-flavored chalk. But it helps.”

You take it. Fingers brushing. The bottle is cold in your hands, condensation slick against your skin.

You sip.

He wasn’t lying. It’s not great. But it’s not bad either. You swallow, nod once, and take another sip.

Mingi grins. “Told you.”

He leans back against the counter beside you, arms folded, still watching you — not with intensity, but with this soft kind of attentiveness. 

Like he’s checking to make sure you’re actually still breathing.

“So,” he says, casual, like you didn’t just almost collapse in front of him, “Do you ever, like, eat? Or are you surviving on stubbornness and spite?”

You almost choke on the drink, a small laugh escaping your throat before you can stop it. You glance at him, and he’s smiling — wide, boyish, unbothered.

You shrug. “Guess I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

His smile falters just a little. “Yeah. I figured.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you drink again.

He fills the silence, like he always does. 

Talking, easy and constant, about nothing in particular — how the new manager miscounted the till again, how the espresso machine makes a weird groaning noise when it’s pissed off, how one of the customers tipped him in foreign coins last week and he’s now the proud owner of what might be an Icelandic króna.

You give him short replies — a few nods, a small smile here and there — but mostly you just listen. Because he talks. And he’s bright. For the first time in over a week, you forget how empty you’ve been feeling.

It’s not that the sadness disappears. It’s still there, quiet and distant, like a storm sitting far out at sea. But here, in this little room with harsh lights and half-melted protein powder, it doesn’t feel like it’s crushing you.

You finish the drink.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. A little.”

He smiles, and you think maybe he’s relieved.

“You know,” he says after a beat, more serious now, “you don’t have to wait until you’re falling over to ask for help.”

You stare at the bottle in your hands. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not.”

He says it so easily. No hesitation. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you — with that same softness he had yesterday when he sat beside you on the floor. 

That same quiet understanding. Like he knows you’re unraveling and isn’t scared of it.

“I don’t really know how to talk about things,” you admit, voice small.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Then don’t. Just... let someone sit with you when it gets heavy. That’s enough.”

There’s a pause. Then you nod.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“You keep saying that like I’m doing you a favor,” he says. “But I want to be here.”

You look down, cheeks warm. “Now come on,” he adds, nudging your shoulder gently. “Let’s finish this shift so we can complain about it later.”

You smile — a real one this time — and follow him back out. And somehow, everything doesn’t feel quite as fragile anymore.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

It’s been a few weeks since you broke down in the back room with Mingi. Things have shifted since then.

Nothing huge — just small things. Subtle. Like how you actually smile when you walk in now. 

Like how Mingi always finds a way to ask you how you’re doing, even if it’s through sarcasm and jokes. Like how, when things slow down between rushes, you two lean against the counter together and talk.  About music. About bad tattoos.

You still don’t talk about the week — the one where everything fell apart. But he doesn’t bring it up either. It’s like you made a silent agreement: the past can stay in the background. What matters is now.

You’ve started eating again. Not a lot, not consistently, but enough that your body isn’t screaming for help. Enough that your mind feels a little clearer. And that, somehow, is enough for now.

Today feels okay. You’re halfway through a lull in the shift. 

Mingi’s finishing a story about how he once accidentally gave a man two shots of dishwater instead of espresso (you still don’t know if he’s lying or not), and you’re laughing, light, real — until the bell over the door rings.

And everything in you goes still.

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. The voice — his voice — slides in like ice against skin.

“Holy shit,” he says, loud enough for you and Mingi both to hear, “I forgot how much I missed this place.”

Your stomach turns. You glance up, just barely. And there he is.

Your ex.

Smiling like nothing happened. Like he didn’t gut you and walk away without blinking. Like he didn’t leave you questioning your own worth for weeks.

He walks up to the counter, eyes locking on yours like it’s a challenge. And he smirks.

“You still work here, huh?” he says, pretending to look around. “Figures. You always liked pretending you were better than this place, but I guess you came crawling back too.”

You don’t say anything. Your heart’s hammering too loud in your ears.

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. “Not gonna say anything?”

You press your lips together. He clicks his tongue. “Still doing that silent treatment thing, huh? You were better at that when you were sneaking around.”

You blink. Hard. A few customers are still lingering nearby. 

Mingi is watching from the side, slowly going still. His expression darkens. You exhale quietly. “What do you want to order?”

He raises his eyebrows like he’s impressed. “Alright. Business mode. I respect it.” He gives you his usual order, like nothing’s wrong. You make it quickly, efficiently. Your hands are shaking.

When you set the cup down, he takes it — then hesitates.

“You’re really not gonna say anything to me?”

You don’t look at him. But you feel the eyes on you. Mingi’s, specifically. His gaze is sharp now, focused.

Your ex follows that glance, and turns.

“What’s up with this guy?” he says, gesturing toward Mingi. “He supposed to help you? He your little therapist or something?”

Mingi doesn’t say anything. But he takes a single step closer. Subtle. And that’s it.

You step around the counter, grab your ex by the arm — firmly, but without a scene — and mutter, “Come outside.” He doesn’t hesitate. He never did. Not when he was being given attention.

The air outside hits your skin cold. The sidewalk is mostly empty. The sky is grey. You turn on him before he can say another word.

“You can’t just come to my job and do this.”

He laughs. Like you said something hilarious. “Do what?” he shrugs. “Order a drink? Talk to someone I used to know? I didn’t realize I was violating your healing journey.”

You glare. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Oh, so now you’ve got words,” he says, smile hardening. “Where were all those when I found out you were making out with some dude at that party? Huh?”

Your voice catches. “I was drunk,” you snap. “I told you! I explained! I said sorry so many times!”

“Yeah, and that’s supposed to fix it?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “You really convinced yourself you’re the one who got hurt, didn’t you?”

You step back, hands clenched. “I was in a bad place. We both were. We hadn’t spoken in days, and I— I made a mistake.”

“You always make mistakes,” he says coldly. “And somehow I always end up being the one who pays for them.”

Your throat burns.

“Why are you still doing this?” you whisper. “Why are you still trying to tear me down after you left?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d changed.”

You scoff. “You don’t want me to change. You want me to stay the same so you can keep blaming me for everything.”

He doesn’t respond. You barely have time to flinch before his hand is on you — not hard at first, but wrong. Fingers tight around your wrist.

“Let go,” you snap, trying to pull away.

He doesn’t.

“Seriously—let go.”

You try again, but this time he grabs you harder, other hand coming up fast, catching you just below the chin — rough, not quite choking, but holding.

“You still talk so fucking much,” he mutters, voice low and dangerous. “But you don’t listen, do you?”

You try to twist out of his grip — but suddenly his mouth crashes into yours. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t wanted. It’s possessive, like he thinks he still owns you. You shove at his chest, panic kicking in, but he doesn’t let go until he wants to.

And when he does, he steps back just slightly, breathing heavy, eyes flat. Then he laughs — like he’s disgusted with himself.

“You know what?” he spits. “I don’t even know why I kissed you. Probably just muscle memory at this point.”

You’re still reeling, lips burning, voice stuck in your throat.

“I spent that night wondering where the fuck you were, if you were safe, if you were okay,” he continues, tone venomous. “But you were too busy giving your lips to some random asshole at a party. Guess I should’ve been kissing someone else, too, right? Just to keep up, yeah?”

You try to speak — to say anything — but your throat is tight, your whole body frozen in shock. His eyes flick down at you, then up again — sharp, judgmental.

“God, it's almost like I can taste him on you,” he mutters, voice dripping with cruelty. “You’re not even worth the fucking effort.”

Then he steps back. Smooths his shirt. Straightens like he’s the one who’s been wronged. “I’ll see you, Y/N,” he says, tone casual — like you didn’t just get shoved and kissed and shredded all at once.

Then he walks away. And you just stand there — cold, stunned, humiliated. You don’t cry.

Not yet.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

When you step back in, the bell above the café door chimes softly. Mingi’s head snaps up immediately. He’s still by the counter, mid-way through restocking cups — but the moment he sees your face, everything in him stills.

Your skin’s pale. Your lips are blotchy. And something in your eyes is just… off. He clocks it all in a second.

“Y/N?” His voice is quiet, cautious. “What happened?”

You shake your head too fast. “Nothing.”

It comes out tight. Too tight. You clear your throat, force your fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ear like that’ll make you look less shaken.

“Just… just some guy from high school. An old friend.”

Mingi doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares. Slowly, his jaw flexes.

“Friend?” he repeats, low. “The one that made you look like you just saw a ghost?”

You try to smile — you do. But it slips, too fast. Doesn’t touch your eyes. “Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “Something like that.”

Mingi doesn’t push. But the way his eyes search your face — like he’s reading a page only half-torn — tells you he doesn’t believe a single word.

Still, he just nods, quiet. His voice, when it comes, is calm but edged. “Okay. Well. If that ‘friend’ ever shows up again…” — he glances toward the coffee machine, then back at you — “…I’ve got a full pot and excellent aim.”

That pulls a laugh out of you. Soft. Shaky. Not quite enough to push the nausea down. But enough to keep you on your feet.

You mouth a quiet “Thank you.” And Mingi just nods once, like he’s promising more than coffee.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

It’s been a few days since he came in. You haven’t been the same since. It’s subtle, at first. A little quieter in the morning. A little more distracted on the floor. 

You mess up an order you’ve made a hundred times. You catch yourself zoning out when Mingi talks. He notices, of course. He always notices. But he doesn’t say anything — not yet.

He just keeps doing what he always does: showing up for you. Bringing you a smoothie he swears has “life-restoring properties” (it tastes like banana-flavored regret). 

Sliding you his half of a muffin when he notices you haven’t touched yours. Making you laugh even when you don’t want to. It should help.

But it doesn’t. Not really. Not when your mind keeps echoing that one thing: “You really convinced yourself you’re the one who got hurt, didn’t you?”

The more Mingi smiles at you, the more it hurts. Because you can’t understand it — how someone like him still looks at someone like you and sees something worth saving.

You start retreating again.

Skipping meals. Avoiding eye contact. Pretending everything’s fine even when your hands are trembling so bad you nearly drop a tray.

Eventually, Mingi corners you — gently, but deliberately.

You’re out back behind the café, where the dumpsters reek of old coffee grounds and soggy cardboard. 

You told the others you needed a breather. The cool air bites at your skin, but you don’t move. You just crouch down against the wall, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to breathe through the noise in your head.

The door creaks open. You hear his footsteps before you see him.

“Hey,” Mingi says softly. “You okay?”

You close your eyes. Of course it’s him. You don’t answer.

He takes a few steps closer, crouches beside you but doesn’t touch. Doesn’t crowd. He’s always so gentle.

“Talk to me,” he says. “Please.” You open your eyes slowly, stare at the concrete.

“Why are you still trying?”

He blinks. Tilts his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You laugh, bitter, sharp. “Why are you always here? Smiling. Acting like I’m not just dragging you down every time I fall apart.”

His brows draw together. “You’re not dragging me down.”

You shake your head. “Yes, I am! I have been. Since the day you found me crying in the back like some pathetic wreck.”

“You’re not pathetic—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Your voice cuts sharper than you mean it to. But now that it’s out, you can’t stop. “God, you’re always so nice,” you spit. “So... so happy all the time, like nothing touches you. Like you’ve never broken anything. Or anyone.”

His expression shifts — barely. But you see it. That flicker of something behind his eyes. You’ve never seen him not smile. It feels like everything in you is splintering.

“I don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking. “Why do you care so much? Why do you keep showing up when I clearly don’t deserve it?”

There’s silence. He studies you, long and quiet. Then, carefully:

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s true,” you say.

You stare at him. His voice isn’t angry. Just... hurt. Confused.

And that’s what makes it worse. Because part of you does want him to help. But another part — the one that's screaming inside you — is scared. Scared of being seen like this. Scared of him realizing you’re not worth the effort.

He shakes his head. “You’re pushing me away because you’re scared.”

So you say it. The one thing you know will make him stop. “Yes,” you say, flat. Hollow. “I am. So leave me the fuck alone.”

Mingi stares at you.

No reaction for a long second. Just stillness. His lips part like he’s going to say something — and then he doesn’t. He just nods, once.

And walks away. The door shuts behind him with a soft click. And suddenly, all the cold you were trying to hide from is inside you.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The few days that follow after that, You don’t show up to work.

Not at open. Not at noon. Not for the afternoon shift change.

Mingi doesn’t text you. He doesn’t call. But he checks the break room three times like you might suddenly appear behind the storage crates. 

Every hour that passes, he feels it more — the absence. The silence where your voice usually lives. The way no one hums off-key behind the counter. 

He tells himself you’re okay. He tells himself you just needed rest. That maybe you lost track of time. That maybe your phone died, or you forgot to set an alarm.

But none of it feels right. So by the time closing nears, his jaw is tense. His patience worn down to threads.

He tries not to let it show. But it’s there — in the way he scrubs the espresso machine with too much force. In the way he keeps glancing toward the door every time the bell doesn’t ring—

CRASH.

The door slams open like it’s been kicked in by a storm.

“I’m here!”

Your voice, slurred and frantic, rips through the near-empty café like a crack of thunder. You stumble through the doorway, wide-eyed, hair messy, makeup smudged, apron tangled around your arm like you tried to tie it in the alleyway.

“Don’t—don’t fire me,” you stammer, voice cracking. “I’m here. I’m at work. I showed up.”

Mingi’s already moving from behind the counter, wide-eyed. “Y/N?”

You blink slowly, sway on your feet, and then nearly trip over one of the chairs you didn’t notice was pushed out. Your hand slams down on a table to steady yourself.

Your eyes find his, but they won’t hold. They flit away, jittery, ashamed. That’s when he sees it. The subtle sway in your stance. The gloss in your eyes that isn’t just tears.

Your words start to blur together. You say something about being sorry. About trying. About not sleeping. About making it in time.

“But I’m good,” you mutter, trying to shove your head through the apron’s neck hole, but it’s backwards. “I’m here to work, okay? I’m working. This job that kills me every fucking day.”

“Okay,” Mingi says carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’re drunk.”

“Nooo,” you drawl sarcastically, then laugh too loud. “I’m sooo sober right now. I'm, like, the queen of responsibility.”

He steps closer. “Y/N, sit down before you hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine, Mingi!” you say, spinning — and then nearly tipping into a table. He catches your elbow.

“Whoa. Okay, no, not fine.” His voice softens. “Come on. Back room. Now.”

You try to protest, but he’s already guiding you toward the back. His hand on your arm is the only thing keeping you from faceplanting into the espresso machine.

He sets you on a stool by the mop sink, then disappears for a second. You blink and try to focus on the blur of the wall in front of you. Your head is heavy. Everything spins in waves.

He returns with a cup of water. Kneels down in front of you.

“Here,” he says. “Drink this. Please.”

You look at him — really look at him. He’s frowning. His forehead is tight. His voice is gentle, but there’s something worried buried in it.

“Why are you even here?” you mumble. “You’re always here. Why are you always here?”

“I work here,” he says carefully, “and you’re the one who barged in like a tornado five minutes before closing.”

You lean forward, squinting at him. “You’re so… pretty.”

He blinks. “Okay. That’s new.” You nod solemnly, like you’ve made a critical discovery. 

“Too pretty. For someone who makes smoothies and takes shit from customers all day.”

Mingi gives a half-laugh, unsure. “And you’re wasted.” He presses the cup into your hands again. “Drink this.”

You take a tiny sip. Water never tasted more like regret. He sighs and pulls over a crate, sitting across from you.

“I was wondering why you didn’t come in today,” he says softly. “Were you… okay? Before this?”

And that’s when it starts. The spiral.

You shake your head once — then again, faster, like you can’t get it off of you. The tears are already burning behind your eyes before you realize they’re even there.

“I’m not okay,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move. Just watches you.

“I’m not okay, and I haven’t been okay for a long time,” you go on, voice wobbling. “And I thought I could hold it together, I thought I could pretend, but I keep… breaking. And I keep making you watch it.”

Mingi’s mouth opens like he wants to interrupt — but he doesn’t.

“I don’t even know why I came here tonight,” you breathe. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your hands shake around the cup. The tears are spilling now. Drunk, hot, and endless. “I didn’t want to kiss him,” you blurt. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t even mean to.”

Mingi blinks. “Huh?—what?”

“If—” Your voice cracks. “If you were my boyfriend… would you leave me because I got drunk and .. and someone forced me to kiss them?”

He goes still.

“What…?”

“I didn’t want to,” you sob. “I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t even know what was happening. We weren’t even in a good place, and I tried to tell him that but he didn’t listen, and then they told my boyfriend like I wanted it, and then my boyfriend—he—he hurt me. And then he broke up with me.”

Mingi doesn’t breathe.

You laugh bitterly through the tears. “And now I’m here. Crying into a mop sink like an idiot. What the fuck.”

“Y/N,” Mingi says, stunned. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“I know,” you murmur. “I don’t even know why I told you. You were just supposed to give me a water and tell me to go home.”

You blink at him, suddenly childlike.

“I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. And I just fucking drank to cope. I just wanted to shut it up. Shut it all up.”

And then your head tilts against his shoulder. The sobs start again — full-body, messy, weeks-worth of grief crashing out of you in waves. You cry like you’re breaking in half.

And Mingi… he doesn’t flinch. He wraps his arms around you, tight, grounding, warm. You don’t remember the last time someone held you like this.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Your fingers clutch at his shirt like you’re drowning.

You cry and cry until you can’t anymore. Then you pull back just slightly. Your breath is ragged. Your eyes are swollen. He meets your gaze gently. His hand rests on your shoulder.

“Can you please drink some more of this water?” he asks again, voice low, steady. “Please.”

You nod. You drink. And it doesn’t fix everything.

But it’s the first thing you do for yourself that doesn’t hurt.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

You wake up warm. That’s the first thing you register — warmth. Softness under your cheek. Something heavy draped over your body.

The second thing is the smell. Clean. Faint cedarwood, laundry detergent, and coffee grounds.

You blink slowly. Your head is pounding. Your mouth is dry. But the soft material under your fingertips is unfamiliar — plush, woven fabric. Not your bed. Not your sheets.

You lift your head. Big mistake. The room tilts. A wave of nausea rolls through your stomach, and you wince, closing your eyes again.

Then… it clicks. This isn’t your apartment.

The couch beneath you is L-shaped, dark gray. There’s a succulent on the coffee table. A record player in the corner. Shoes neatly lined by the door.

Your heart kicks into your ribs.

And then you hear it: the low clatter of something in the kitchen. A pan against a burner. A spoon scraping the inside of a mug. You sit up fast — too fast — and the blanket falls off your shoulders.

You’re wearing a hoodie. Not your hoodie. It swallows you whole. Soft. Worn. It smells like that same cedar-laundry-coffee mix. It smells like—

“Morning.”

You snap your head up toward the voice.

Mingi stands in the doorway, a mug in one hand. He’s wearing joggers and a faded shirt, hair a mess, like he’s been up for hours but hasn’t looked in a mirror yet.

You freeze. He freezes, too — then holds the mug out toward you like it’s some kind of offering.

“Ginger tea,” he says gently. “You looked like you might die if I gave you coffee.”

You just stare at him. Mouth dry. Brain spinning.

“...I’m so.. sorry,” you croak.

Mingi blinks. “For…?”

“What happened?” you whisper. “Last night — I—why the fuck am I on your couch? Did I—how did I even get here?”

“You don’t remember?”

You shake your head, eyes wide. He walks over slowly and sets the tea on the table beside you. “You came into work wasted out of your mind,” he says quietly. “Tried to clock in like you were about to pull a full shift. Then you told me… a lot of things.”

Your heart plummets. “No,” you breathe. “No, no, no—please tell me I didn’t say anything crazy..”

Mingi sits on the armrest beside you. Not touching. Just there.

“Well,” he says. “You said .. a lot. And then you cried. And then I brought you here because you couldn’t go home like that.”

You pull the hoodie tighter around you. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says immediately.

You look at him — really look at him — and you’re bracing yourself for the part where he pulls away. Where he tells you that was too much, that you crossed a line, that you scared him off.

But he’s just watching you. His eyes are gentle, but unreadable. You exhale shakily, hiding half your face in the collar of his hoodie.

“I didn’t mean to dump all that on you,” you mumble. “I didn’t even mean to come to work. I was just… walking. And then I ended up there. And you were there. And everything was just too loud and I needed it to stop.”

“I figured,” he says softly. You look away.

The silence stretches, and it burns. “I shouldn’t have said all that,” you whisper.

“Why?”

You blink at him. He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees. “Why shouldn’t you have said it?”

“Because it’s—ugly. Because it makes me sound weak. And pathetic. And like I haven’t moved on. And I don’t want you to see me like that.”

“I already saw you like that,” he says. “And I’m still here.”

You flinch.

“I’m not here to fix you, Y/N,” he adds quietly. “But I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t hear what you said. That shit matters. It’s not small. And it’s not something you deserved to go through alone.”

You stare at him. The weight of what he’s saying presses into your chest. And he gives a small, almost shy smile.

“Also, you called me pretty. Like, aggressively. So I’m kinda gonna hang onto that one.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Please let the ground open up and kill me.”

He chuckles. “No can do.”

A beat passes.

Then, gently: “Are you hungry?” You hesitate.

Every instinct in you is screaming no. Say no. Don’t eat. You don’t deserve to feel okay yet. But you remember what you said last night. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. And I fucking drank to cope. You remember the look on Mingi’s face. Not pity — care.

You peek up at him through your lashes.

“...Maybe. A little.”

His smile softens. “I made eggs and toast,” he says. “I’ll reheat it.”

You nod slowly.

“Okay.”

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

You sit at the tiny square table tucked into the corner of Mingi’s kitchen. It’s small — just two chairs and a window that lets the late morning sun in, casting warm rectangles across the hardwood.

Your hands are wrapped around the fresh cup of tea. 

The hoodie you’re wearing slips down over your knuckles, swallowing your hands. You feel impossibly small inside it. Across from you, Mingi is standing at the stove, scraping eggs onto a plate. 

He toasts two new slices of bread, then grabs a banana and cuts it in half before placing everything down in front of you.

It’s too much. You know it’s not — but it feels like it. You don’t deserve a plate that full. You don’t deserve anything after—

“Hey,” he says, nudging the plate closer. “Eat. Please.”

You nod. You pick up the toast first, mostly to give your hands something to do. It’s warm. Crunchy. Simple.

The silence is heavy, but not cruel. It’s not like the kind of silence your ex used to wield — quiets that felt like threats. This is just… unsure. Still settling.

“I’m really sorry,” you murmur again, eyes fixed on your tea.

Mingi doesn’t say anything.

You swallow. “I shouldn’t’ve come to work like that. That was—so embarrassing. And irresponsible. I could’ve gotten you in trouble if any one else was there. I just—I don’t know what I was doing.”

Still, no response. You glance up at him, expecting annoyance, maybe even a tired I told you not to apologize.

But Mingi’s just buttering his toast. You fidget.

“I’m sorry about what I said too,” you add. “Seriously. Dumping all that on you? You didn’t ask for that. You were just trying to help, and I—you didn’t sign up for any of that.”

He finally looks up. His eyes are steady. Not soft, not harsh — just... quiet.

“Are you gonna eat your eggs?” he asks calmly.

You blink. “What?”

“Your eggs. They’re probably getting cold.”

You hesitate — then take a bite, mostly to comply. You chew in silence. The food is decent. Seasoned, even. Mingi didn’t half-ass it.

A few more seconds tick by. Then he speaks again.

“I had a friend once,” he says casually, like he’s talking about the weather. “Back in high school. Real close. Like, we did everything together. Band, classes, gaming. Almost every day after school.”

You glance up slowly.

“One night, he got wasted,” Mingi continues, staring out the window. “Sent me this long, messed-up text about how he felt alone all the time, how he didn’t think anyone actually saw him. Said if I didn’t respond, he was gonna do something stupid.”

You stop chewing. Mingi shrugs once. “I saw the text hours later. My phone had died. He was already gone.” There’s no change in his voice. But his knuckles go white around his mug.

“He wasn’t kidding.”

You’re stunned. You search his face, and you realize there’s an edge under all that warmth he carries — something sharp and buried, something heavy he keeps quiet.

“I didn’t talk about that with anyone for years,” he says. “Didn’t even cry. Just kind of… kept showing up. For school. For work. For everything. Like it didn’t happen. But it did.”

Your heart cracks in a new way.

“I couldn’t fix him,” Mingi says quietly. “Didn’t get the chance. But you’re here. And you didn’t scare me off, Y/N.”

You swallow hard.

“You probably think I’m happy all the time,” he adds with a small smile. “That I don’t go through shit. But I do. I just got good at putting light in the room, because I know what it feels like when there’s none.”

Then, quietly:

“I don’t want another friend that I can’t save.”

Your throat is tight. It takes you a few seconds to respond.

“Mingi…”

He cuts you off gently. “So, please don’t apologize again. Just this once, let me be the strong one for you.”

You blink fast, eyes wet.

“Okay,” you whisper.

A long pause.

Then, softly — “Thank you.”

He nods once. “That one I’ll take.”

You both eat in silence after that. It’s not awkward anymore. It’s quiet in the right kind of way — the kind where things settle, where breathing gets easier, where food goes down without your stomach turning against you.

You finish most of your plate. When Mingi stands up to grab the mugs, you look at him and say, quietly:

“I’m really glad I came here. Even if I didn’t mean to.”

He turns back toward you. His voice is soft.

“Me too.”

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The dishes clink softly as Mingi rinses them in the sink. The water runs steady. Warm light filters in through the window — it’s late afternoon now, golden and still.

You’re curled up on the couch again. Same spot as this morning. His hoodie still swallows your frame, sleeves tucked over your hands. You’re half-watching him, half-dozing, head resting against the cushion.

You hadn’t meant to stay this long. Or eat this much. Or talk this openly. But somehow, the longer you’re here… the safer you feel.

Not fixed. Not perfect. Just… less alone.

Your eyes start to close again. The sun is hitting your face just enough to warm your skin. The quiet of the apartment hums around you — the fridge buzzing, the occasional car passing outside.

You let out a slow breath.

And somewhere between the hum and the warmth, the heaviness of everything finally catches up with you.

The exhaustion in your bones. The emotional toll of the last few weeks. The release of telling someone what really happened.

It all folds in on you like a wave. And you drift.

Not fully asleep. Not fully awake. That in-between space where your body’s still, your breath soft, your mind finally taking a break.

You don’t hear him turn the sink off. You don’t see him glance over. But Mingi notices.

He walks back into the room, towel in his hands, and stops a few feet from the couch. You’re curled on your side now, legs pulled up slightly, one hand resting near your cheek.

Your lips are parted slightly with your breath. Your lashes are dark against your skin. There’s a faint crease between your brows — like your mind hasn’t quite let you go, even in rest.

He stares for a moment. Not in a weird way. Not like he’s sizing you up. Just… quiet.

Watching the way you’ve finally let go, even if it’s just for now. Watching the difference between the girl who walked into work drunk last night, trembling and wild-eyed — and the one breathing softly on his couch now, wrapped in his hoodie, finally still.

Mingi grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch. It’s soft and faded — navy blue, worn at the corners.

He kneels beside you, careful not to wake you, and drapes it over your body. Gently. Slowly. Like he’s done this before.

The hoodie’s hood slips a little, revealing the curve of your shoulder. He tucks it back into place.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t linger too long.

He just stays crouched for a few more seconds — eyes on your face, watching you breathe — and then slowly stands again. Walks into the kitchen. Pulls out his phone. Sits down at the table.

And lets you sleep. No questions. No pressure.

Just him — close by. In the quiet. In case you wake up and need someone again.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

You blink awake slowly, the world returning in a haze of muted colors and soft textures.

Couch cushions. A blanket pulled over you. The faint scent of Mingi’s hoodie still clinging to the fabric near your neck — something warm and clean, like citrus and pine and laundry detergent.

Your eyes open fully and you sit up too fast.

Shit.

Not because you’re in danger or something’s wrong — but because this isn’t your house. You’re on his couch. Again. And it’s starting to feel way too natural.

You rub your eyes with the backs of your sleeves and groan a little. Your hair’s a mess. Your mouth is dry. You definitely drooled on the inside of the hoodie sleeve at some point.

You mumble to yourself: “This is not my house. This is not my house. Why am I getting so comfortable—”

“Hey,” a voice says gently from across the room. “You’re up.”

You glance over.

Mingi’s leaning on the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, holding a half-eaten granola bar like he’s been waiting for you. He looks like he’s just showered — hair damp, face clean, a plain gray tee and joggers on.

His voice softens even more. “You okay?”

You stretch out your legs and nod, blinking hard. “Yeah… yeah. Just… wow. That was a really good nap.”

He lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”

You nod again, almost sheepish. “I don’t remember the last time I slept like that. I mean, peacefully. Like I wasn’t gonna wake up panicking or anything.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just gives a small smile and takes a bite of the granola bar. Then, under his breath — soft and a little cocky:

“Maybe you should sleep here all the time.”

You pause. “Huh?”

He looks up like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Huh? What? I didn’t say anything. You’re hearing things.”

You squint at him, half grinning. “Right.”

He clears his throat, like he’s trying to reset the atmosphere but can’t quite hide the pink tint brushing the tips of his ears.

“So,” he starts, casually. Too casually. “We have work tomorrow. Early. And you still look kinda wrecked—no offense—so I was thinking, like… you wanna…”

You tilt your head. “Wanna?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “You wanna just, like… sleep over?”

You stare at him. “Sleep over?”

“I mean—not like that,” he says quickly, waving his hands. “I mean just sleep. On the couch or—like, wherever you’re comfortable. I just… I don’t know. You looked comfortable here. And you were safe. And I don’t know if you’re eating at home or if it’s even quiet there, and I was just thinking, maybe it’d be easier for you if you just stayed.”

You blink a few times. Processing.

Then you smirk. “Okay but—what am I gonna wear?”

Mingi pauses. Then smiles like he’s already got a plan.

“I mean… we could go to your place, pick some stuff up. Or, like—I dunno, we could hit the store, grab some sweats or something. You want SpongeBob pajama pants? I got you.”

You huff a quiet laugh, leaning your head back against the couch. “You really don’t have to do all this for me, Mingi.”

He frowns, stepping forward. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

You go quiet.

His voice softens again. “Look… I know you’ve been through a lot lately. And maybe it feels like you’re too much. Or like you’re making things harder. But you’re not. I’m here because I want to be. Not out of obligation. Not out of pity. Just—because I care. Okay?”

You look down at your hands. You feel it — that sting behind your eyes again. That vulnerable ache that’s been there for weeks, like an exposed nerve.

“Mingi…”

He steps a little closer. “Just say yes. Come on. One night. We’ll get snacks. I’ll give you the good blanket. I’ll even let you pick the Netflix movie without complaining.”

You shake your head slowly, biting back a smile. “You don’t complain anyway.”

“Exactly. I’m a catch.”

You finally nod. Quiet. But real.

“…Okay.”

He lights up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you say again. “Just one night.”

“Just one,” he repeats, already walking toward the door to grab his keys like it’s settled. “But full disclosure—I make killer popcorn. You might never wanna leave.”

You laugh softly, pulling the blanket off and stretching your arms.

There’s still so much to sort through. So much you haven’t said. But this? This feels like a start. A soft place to land. And for the first time in a long time … You say yes.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

Your apartment is quiet. Dim. The curtains are still drawn from earlier in the week — light bleeding through, but not enough to fill the room.

You let Mingi in with a muttered, “Sorry it’s a mess,” even though it’s not. Not really.

It just feels that way because you feel that way. Like everything around you has been sitting in silence, waiting for you to come home and feel something.

He walks in without hesitation, looking around. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t judge. Just takes it in with that soft, unreadable look he gets when he’s trying to understand without making you explain.

You go to your room and start pulling a few things from drawers: an old hoodie, some pajama pants, a small pouch of skincare stuff you rarely use anymore. You toss them into a tote bag, moving quickly, trying not to think too much.

But then your hand freezes. There it is.

A photo tucked into the corner of your mirror — half-buried under a curling sticky note, almost forgotten. You hadn’t touched it in weeks. Maybe months.

You pull it free. It’s you, smiling — real and big — pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with your ex. A party, maybe. You can’t even remember when. You look so happy you barely recognize yourself.

Mingi walks past your doorway just then, carrying your phone charger you’d forgotten in the kitchen. He slows.

Notices the photo in your hand. You glance up, startled, and try to shove it back in the drawer, too fast. Too late. But he saw. He pauses, gaze lingering on the frame, then on your face.

“…Is that him?”

You nod slowly, setting the photo down face-first.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “That was a long time ago.”

Mingi doesn’t respond right away. His eyes stay on yours. Not accusing. Not jealous. Just… soft. Searching.

He steps a little closer. “You looked different.”

You furrow your brow. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder, voice quiet. “I don’t know. Just… different. Brighter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that.”

You blink. It’s not cruel. He’s not trying to dig at you. But it still makes something in your chest ache. You open your mouth to say something — a deflection, maybe — but then you see it.

The look in his eyes. It’s changed.

He’s looking at you differently now. Not with pity. Not even just concern. But like he wants to know who you were before all this broke you down. Like he’s wondering who you could still be.

The moment hangs between you like held breath. So you laugh. A little too quickly.

Brush it off. Grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder like you didn’t just feel that shift in the air.

“Well,” you say, forcing a smirk. “Good luck seeing that version of me again.”

Mingi doesn’t smile back right away.

Then — quietly — “I wouldn’t mind meeting her.”

Your heart trips. You don’t answer. You just head for the door and mumble, “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

Back at his place, the air feels lighter again.

You kick your shoes off at the door and drop your bag near the couch. He flicks on a lamp in the corner, casting the room in soft gold.

It’s clean but lived-in — blankets already out, pillows fluffed. He prepares a pack of microwave popcorn on the counter and two soda cans on the coffee table like he actually planned this.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Wow,” you murmur. “You weren’t kidding about the snacks.”

“I take my movie nights very seriously,” Mingi says with a grin, holding up a bag of sour gummies like a trophy. “I even got the sad girl candy.”

You snort, flopping onto the couch. “God, you’re annoying.”

“And yet, here you are,” he teases, tossing the gummies at you.

You catch them. Barely.

You unzip your bag and pull out your hoodie — the old one you never wear anymore — and excuse yourself to the bathroom to change. When you come back out, he’s setting up a blanket fort situation with a kind of ridiculous amount of care.

He glances up, sees you, and his smile softens. Not in a flirtatious way. Not playful.

Just… warm.

Like the version of you he saw in the photo isn’t gone after all. Maybe just buried. You sit down beside him and pull the blanket up over your legs. He offers you the remote without a word.

And even though nothing’s been said outright — about the picture, about the past, about how he’s looking at you now — something in the air feels heavier. More real. And you don’t run from it this time.

You just stay.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The movie plays, but you’re barely watching.

You’re curled into the corner of Mingi’s couch, blanket over your legs, knees tucked up — and he’s right there beside you. Not touching. Not really. But close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the quiet presence of someone who doesn’t make you flinch.

You reach for the popcorn at the same time — your fingers brush. You both pause. He glances at you. You glance at him. Just a second too long.

Then you both pull away, and he says something — some soft joke to break the silence — but you don’t catch it. Your ears are still ringing with the contact. The casual graze that felt like a fuse being lit.

You try to focus on the screen. You try.

But the weight of him next to you is louder than anything coming from the TV. His thigh presses against yours now — not entirely by accident, but not quite deliberate either. It stays there. Warm. Solid.

You don’t move.

You can feel every shift in his breathing. The way he leans back a little, then forward again, like he’s trying to decide something.

You don’t look at him. But you feel him look at you.

And then—quiet, tentative—he speaks.

“…I was gonna say something earlier.”

His voice is barely there, like he’s afraid it’ll break the air. You glance over slowly, heartbeat picking up.

“About what?” you ask, keeping your voice light, like you don’t already know.

He hesitates. Eyes flick from your face to your lips and back.

His voice drops.

“About the way I—”

But then he stops. Swallows. Looks away. 

Silence. Your breath catches. You wait. But he doesn’t finish.

Instead, he leans forward, grabs the popcorn again, and pops a piece in his mouth like he didn’t just almost confess something that you felt in your bones.

You turn back to the screen. Pretend to focus. Pretend you didn’t hear the way his voice cracked halfway through that sentence.

But your heart is racing. You try to act oblivious, like nothing’s different, like you didn’t feel that moment nearly swallow you whole.

But your knees are still touching. And he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The movie ends. Neither of you move to start another. The credits roll, and the soft hum of the TV fills the silence.

You’re lying on the floor now, side by side now in the little blanket pile Mingi made — some makeshift nest of pillows and worn comforters that smells like laundry soap and him.

You’re half on your side, one arm curled under your cheek, your knees still barely brushing his under the blanket. You thought the quiet might make things less tense.

It’s worse.

He sighs softly beside you. You hear the rustle of his hand running through his hair, the subtle creak of the floor beneath him as he shifts to face you more fully.

You keep your eyes on the ceiling. But you feel it.

His eyes on you.

“…You good?” he says eventually, voice hushed like the moment might shatter if he speaks too loud.

You nod, slow. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hums low in his throat. “You can just go to sleep. I mean—if you want.”

You nod again. Then silence.

You hear him move — an elbow sliding beneath his head. He’s laying like you now, turned toward you, just watching.

You finally turn your head to meet his gaze. And there it is again. That look. Soft. Heavy. Something tugging behind his eyes.

You hold his stare for a long time. He’s the one who speaks first.

“…You know you scared the shit out of me, right?”

Your breath stutters a little. “What?”

“Last night,” he says, voice low. “When you showed up drunk. Slurring your words. Barely able to stand.” He pauses. “I didn’t know what the hell had happened to you. I thought maybe—fuck, I don’t know. I was just scared.”

You look away. Your throat feels tight.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“Stop saying that.”

You glance at him again. He’s still looking at you like he’s trying to memorize something.

Then, softly, almost too quiet:

“I just… I wish you would’ve called me or told me. Before it got that bad.”

You blink. “I didn’t think I could,” you murmur.

“Why not?”

You shrug, fingers curling in the edge of the blanket. “You didn’t owe me anything. I wasn’t your responsibility.”

Mingi sits up a little, resting on his elbow. He’s closer now. You can see the way his brow furrows, the way his lips press into a line before he speaks again.

“You’re not a responsibility,” he says. “You’re a person I care about.”

The words are quiet. But they land hard.

Your eyes flick to his, searching for something — a crack, a doubt, a laugh. There isn’t one. You feel your heart pick up.

And then he exhales, like he’s been holding something in for too long.

“What I wanted to say a few minutes ago is .. uh .. I think about you all the time,” he says suddenly.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t try to laugh it off this time.

“I think about you when you’re not at work. I notice when you haven’t eaten. I notice when your smile’s fake. I notice everything. And I didn’t mean to, at first. I didn’t even realize how much I was paying attention to you until I couldn’t stop.”

Your chest is so tight you forget to breathe.

“…Mingi.”

He shakes his head, voice softer now. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I just—I needed you to know.”

You want to say something. Anything. But your thoughts are foggy, like your body hasn’t caught up to your heart yet.

He’s looking at you. Really looking.

His eyes flicker down — to your lips — then back up. He blinks like he’s trying to think better of it, but something’s unraveling behind his expression.

Something wild and tender and real. He exhales — barely.

“I just—” he murmurs, voice so low it sounds like it’s afraid to exist.

Then he leans in. No hesitation. No question this time.

His mouth brushes yours softly — like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. But when you don’t pull away, he deepens it. 

His hand lifts to your jaw, gentle, grounding, thumb resting at the curve of your cheek. He kisses you like he means it — slow, steady, devastatingly careful. Like you’re something holy.

And you kiss him back. Your hand curls in the fabric of his shirt. You press in closer, hungry and aching and too full of things you haven’t said. But then—

It happens. Your stomach turns. Your heart flips.

A hot wave of nausea rushes over you like cold water. Suddenly, all you feel is—

Disgust. Not at him. At yourself.

It slams into you so fast you barely breathe before you’re pulling away, blinking like you’ve woken up underwater.

“I—” your voice cracks, eyes darting. “I need to use the bathroom.”

You don’t wait for him to answer. You shove the blanket off, push to your feet too fast, stumbling slightly as you walk away barefoot.

You don’t see his expression when you leave. You don’t look back. You close the door behind you and collapse against the sink. The bathroom is quiet.

Too quiet. The mirror stares back at you — too harsh, too honest — and you can see it.

The softness in your cheeks. The way your body looks when it’s not empty. You can still taste the food. Still feel it.

You hate how good it felt to be held. To be touched. To want something. Too much.

You sink to the tile. Cold and hard beneath your knees. You press a hand to your stomach like it’s wrong for existing. Then — without thinking — you kneel over the toilet.

Fingers down your throat. Quick, clean and quiet.

You do it like you’ve done it before. Because you have.

And when it’s done — when you flush, rinse, wipe your face — the emptiness feels like a relief you don’t deserve. You open the bathroom door.

Expecting to sneak back onto couch, maybe pretend none of this happened. But he’s there. Mingi.

Standing right there in the hallway. His back straight, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He doesn’t speak at first.

Just looks at you. His face unreadable. But his eyes — His eyes are all betrayal and heartbreak and worry.

“Did you just make yourself throw up?”

His voice is quiet. Too controlled. Like he’s afraid of how loud his hurt might sound. You freeze. Blood drains from your face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—” you try to brush past him, but he stops you with a hand on your arm. Not rough. Just… firm.

“Don’t,” he says softly. “Don’t lie to me. Please.”

You stand there. Caught. The air between you is cold again — but not because he’s angry. He looks like he’s watching someone he cares about bleed. And not knowing how to stop it. You drop your gaze.

“It’s not a big deal,” you whisper.

His brows pull together. “Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.” Your voice gets sharper — defensive. “You don’t get it. I just… sometimes I feel better after, okay? That’s all. I’m not like—doing it every day. It was one time—"

“And how many more 'ONE TIMES' before you break?” he shouts suddenly.

You flinch. The silence that follows is deafening.

He breathes hard, running a hand through his hair. He turns away, like he can’t even look at you.

“I’m sorry—”

“No!” he yells, sudden and sharp. “No! You don’t get to say sorry and make it disappear! I watched you crumble last night. I held you while you broke apart. And then this morning, I—I cooked for you, I sat with you, I watched you—I didn’t say a word because I didn’t want to pressure you—"

“Mingi—”

“—and the second I let myself think maybe you’re okay, maybe you're letting me in—"

His voice cracks again.

“—you go and punish yourself. You go and hurt yourself.”

“Why are you always trying to save me?” you snap. “Why are you even still here? What is this, huh? Some fucked up pity thing? You think you can fix me or something?”

“I’m here because I care!” he yells, voice echoing through the apartment. “I’m right fucking here, trying to help you. Trying to stay, even when you make it so damn hard. But I can’t fight you and the parts of you that want to self-destruct. I can't fight you and your past and your ex and your silence and your shame and your guilt all at once!”

“Stop,” you gasp, voice trembling. “Please—Mingi, stop yelling—”

He freezes, mid-breath, his mouth still parted like he has another sentence ready to throw, but the look on your face guts him. Your hands are shaking, clutching at yourself like you can hold all the pieces together.

“I—I can’t—” The words crack, high and thin. Your knees threaten to give, and suddenly you feel smaller than you’ve felt in years, like a child being scolded, cornered, helpless. “Please—don’t—”

You cover your face.

“I’m trying,” you whisper. “I swear I’m trying.”

“Fuck.” His voice breaks on the word. “I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—”

Before you can shrink back further, he closes the space between you and pulls you into his arms. His hold is desperate, trembling, like he’s terrified you’ll slip right through his fingers if he lets go.

You close your eyes. You don’t know how to carry this. You don’t know how to let someone stay.

But when you open them again—he’s still there.

Not moving. Not pushing.

Just holding you like the world could shatter and he’d still be right here in the ruins with you.

His chin rests against your temple, his breath unsteady. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, softer now, like a vow. “I’ll never yell at you like that again. I swear it. I just—I can’t lose you to yourself. I can’t.”

And all you can do is grip his shirt tighter, like maybe, just maybe, you believe him.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The morning light filters in through Mingi’s windows — hazy gold through slanted blinds, soft and warm against your cheek where you’ve curled up on the couch under the blanket you barely remember pulling over you.

You wake slowly. Not with a jolt. Not with dread clawing at your throat like usual.

Just … Quiet.

You feel tired, but not the hopeless kind. There’s soreness in your throat from crying. Your stomach feels hollow. But your heart — your heart is beating steadier than it has in weeks.

You blink up at the ceiling. The soft sound of something sizzling draws your attention.

The kitchen.

You sit up slowly, the fabric of your hoodie slipping against your skin. It still swallows you whole, draped over your knees, sleeves hiding your hands. You rub at your eyes, peek over the couch.

Mingi’s at the stove. Barefoot. Hair a mess. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Moving quietly, pouring scrambled eggs into a pan like it’s muscle memory.

He glances over when he hears you shift.

“Morning,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. A soft smile. “You were out cold.”

You stretch slightly, wincing at the stiffness in your shoulders. “Yeah… sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He pokes at the eggs. “We’re not working today, anyway.”

That makes you blink. “Huh?”

He shakes his head, still focused on the pan. “I called us both in sick.” He glances over, more cautious this time. “Figured you probably didn’t wanna deal with customers after… everything.”

You pause. Heart stuttering. “…You did that for me?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his voice softens. “Did it for us. I needed a day too.”

You look at him a long moment. Then say, quieter:

“Thank you.”

He nods once. Then, casually, like he’s trying not to make it a thing:

“You want something to eat?”

You hesitate. But there’s no tension in his voice. No pressure in his eyes. Just… a quiet offer.

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walk over slowly, settle into your usual stool at the counter. Your legs fold under you, sleeves still too long, fingers hidden.

He plates the food and slides it in front of you. Eggs. Toast. Sliced strawberries.

Simple. Gentle. You pick up your fork. You don’t feel him watching you this time. At least — not like that. He’s trying so hard not to hover. 

You can see it in the way he busies himself, turning to rinse a pan that doesn’t really need rinsing. Opening a cupboard and closing it again. Pretending to scroll on his phone.

You chew a bite of toast. Then say, around a mouthful:

“You’re being weird.”

He lets out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe I was glancing. Just wanted to make sure you were good.”

You look down at the plate. Poke a strawberry.

“I’m not gonna make myself throw up,” you say, simply.

He freezes.

You glance up. “You don’t have to tiptoe.”

He turns fully now, leaning on the opposite side of the counter. Voice low. “I know. I just… don’t wanna smother you either.”

You meet his eyes. And for the first time, there’s no guilt between you. Just truth.

“I’m trying,” you say.

He nods once. “That’s all I care about.”

You eat a little more. A strawberry. Half the eggs. Enough. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t count. You catch him sneaking a piece of toast off your plate instead.

You swat at him with your fork. “Hey!”

He grins, mouth full. “It’s my house.”

You almost smile. Almost. The grin lingers on his face for a moment, then fades. He sets the toast down, clears his throat. His eyes find yours again, steady but heavy.

“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink. “For stealing my food?”

He huffs a laugh, but shakes his head. “For last night. For yelling. For… scaring you.” His voice falters, raw. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The look on your face. I never want to be the reason you feel that way again.”

You set your fork down slowly, sleeves still swallowing your hands. “Mingi…”

But he’s already shaking his head, like he’s determined to say it all. “I know words don’t fix it. But I need you to know I’m not going anywhere. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”

You swallow hard, something unsteady shifting in your chest.

And for the first time, it feels like maybe you could believe him.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The sky’s overcast but soft — silver clouds diffusing the light, making everything feel quieter, slower. Like the world’s trying not to startle you.

You and Mingi walk down the block, shoulders brushing every few steps.

You keep your arms crossed, sleeves tugged over your hands. His hands are shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie.

His other hoodie — the one he pulled over your head this morning without a word before stepping outside— hangs loose on your frame. Too big. Too soft. It makes you feel smaller and safer all at once.

“You always this quiet in the morning?” he asks.

You glance over. “I’m always this quiet after falling apart in someone’s hallway.”

He huffs a soft breath. “That wasn’t falling apart. That was being honest.”

You hum. Noncommittal.

“Besides,” he adds, bumping his shoulder against yours, “I think your version of falling apart is still kinda cute.”

You snort. “That’s not a compliment.”

He tilts his head, smirking. “It’s kinda a compliment.”

You roll your eyes — but it’s easier now, lighter. After a few moments of silence, you say it, like it just occurred to you:

“Your hoodie’s really comfy.”

He blinks. Glances down at you. “Yeah? Looks better on you.”

You pause. You feel the pause.

And before you can say anything, you catch him doing that thing he always does — the flirty line he plays off like it was nothing, like his heart didn’t just slip out of his mouth by accident.

But this time — You stop walking.

“Say it again.”

He turns, confused. “What?”

You’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk now, facing him. The clouds casting a soft, silvery glow around you both.

“You heard me,” you say. “Say it again.”

He swallows. Eyes dart between yours. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

He shifts his weight. Runs a hand through his hair. And for the first time, you realize Mingi looks… nervous.

When he finally meets your gaze again, he says — quiet, careful:

“I said it looks better on you.”

Your breath catches.

You step closer. Hands still buried in the hoodie sleeves. Your eyes on his mouth now, then back to his eyes.

Then you lean in. And kiss him. Soft and warm.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all morning, mouth moving against yours slow and certain. His hands find your waist — hesitant, then firmer when you don’t pull away.

You kiss until the sidewalk disappears, until the quiet stretches into something sacred. You pull back first. He lingers. Eyes still closed. Lips parted.

Then, after a beat—

“I’ve been wondering,” he murmurs, eyes opening. “If you…”

He hesitates. And you feel it — that flicker of doubt behind his eyes. Like he’s afraid he misread everything.

“If I what?” you whisper.

His voice is quiet. “If you like me.”

Your chest tightens. You stare at him. That soft, open face. The boy who watched you break and didn’t run. Who called in sick. 

Who made breakfast. Who walked beside you in silence without asking for more than you could give.

And still — that ache rises.

That fear that you’re too much. Too ruined. That you’ll never be able to give him what he deserves.

“…I do,” you whisper.

His shoulders drop just slightly, like he’s been holding that question too long. You continue, barely audible:

“I just… don’t always know how to let someone like.. me.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Not pitying. Not pushy.

Just present.

“That’s okay,” he says finally. “You don’t have to know. I’ll be here anyway.”

You blink fast. Look away, lips pressed tight. He squeezes your hand.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Let’s keep walking.”

And this time — you don’t hesitate. You walk with him. Fingers tangled in his. Steps slow. Breath even.

And for the first time in what feels like forever — You don’t feel like running.

You feel like maybe… Staying.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

That night, 

The TV plays low in the background, forgotten halfway through the episode.

You’re curled up on one side of the couch, legs tucked under you, Mingi beside you — close but not touching, like even in the comfort, there’s a reverence. Like he’s still afraid to take too much.

He leans over and places a small bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, next to two bottles of ginger ale and a sleeve of Oreos, already halfway gone.

“Dinner of champions,” he mutters, grinning.

You let out a soft breath of a laugh. “It’s perfect.”

He watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then sits back. Arms draped lazily over the couch, fingers drumming lightly against the cushion. The silence stretches, but it isn’t awkward. Not at first.

Until it settles. And something inside you starts to twist.

You stare down at your hands. They’re resting in your lap, thumbs fidgeting. The blanket he draped over both of you earlier is half-fallen off your shoulder. You don’t fix it.

“Mingi?”

He turns his head. “Yeah?”

You hesitate. Your throat is tight again. Your heart too loud in your chest.

“I don’t…” You breathe. “I don’t know if I really like you.”

His body shifts. He turns to face you more fully, blinking once, twice.

“What?”

Your voice is soft. Barely audible. “Wait – I mean, I don’t know. I just… I always do this. I ruin things. When it starts getting better, when someone’s actually good to me, I freak out. And I just — I don’t know what I’m saying. I do like you, I just…”

You trail off, the words turning to static in your mouth. He’s still. Silent for a moment.

Then he says, slowly, carefully: “…But I asked.” 

“You told me you liked me.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I know I did. I meant it. I just… I don’t know. It’s like my brain won’t let me feel something good without trying to crush it.”

His brow furrows. Eyes searching yours like he’s trying to find you inside the chaos. You look away, shame crawling up your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

Silence.

“Are you… still not over him?”

You blink. “Who?”

“Your ex.”

You inhale sharply, like he’s cracked something open with those words. Your lips part. Close. Then—

“I want to move on,” you say. “I want to. I just…”

You swallow. Look at him. Really look at him.

“I want to move on with you. But I’m scared.”

His voice lowers. “Scared of what?”

Your heart clenches. “I don’t—”

He leans forward now, brows drawing together.

“Are you scared of me?” His voice is soft, but there’s a new tension there. A confusion edged with concern. “Of us? Why would you be scared?”

You shake your head. “No — it’s not you.”

“Then what?”

You suck in a breath.

“I’m scared of me, Mingi.”

He stares.

You press your palms together like you’re trying to hold yourself still. Like if you let go, the pieces might scatter.

“I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want to mess you up. You’re already— you’re so good. And I’m just…” Your voice cracks. “I’m still carrying all this shit. I don’t know how to not let it spill into the good stuff.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away.

He just leans back. Runs a hand through his hair. Breathes out slow. Then he shifts closer. Resting his elbows on his knees. Facing you fully.

“Okay,” he says. “Listen to me.”

You look up.

“I don’t expect you to be healed,” he says. “I don’t want you to pretend you’re fine just to make me feel more comfortable. You don’t need to shrink yourself to keep me around.”

Your throat tightens. He keeps going.

“I know you’re still figuring it out. That’s not a flaw. That’s being human. And yeah — you’re messy sometimes. You push and pull. You say things you don’t mean when you’re scared.”

You wince.

“But you always come back. You show up again. And that? That matters more than anything.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes warm. Steady.

“I want the real you. Not the version you think I’ll like better. Not the edited, polished, keep-it-together-you. I want this you. Scared. Raw. Trying anyway.”

You’re quiet. Staring at him. Searching his face for any flicker of doubt.

You don’t find it. And suddenly your hands are on his cheeks — both of them, cupping his face like you’re anchoring yourself there. Your thumbs brush the stubble along his jaw.

Your voice trembles:

“I just… I don’t understand.”

His eyes soften. “What don’t you understand?”

“Why are you doing this?” Your breath shakes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Tears slip down your cheeks.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, brokenly. “You’re still so fucking pretty.”

He exhales, a little stunned by the intensity, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reaches for one of your hands and presses a kiss into your knuckles. Soft. Intentional.

“I’ve never felt like this with anyone before,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You stare at him. And suddenly you can’t breathe.

Your eyes trace the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the part of his lips. You want him. You want this. So much it aches.

You crash forward. Your lips slam into his.

A soft gasp escapes him as you climb into his lap, straddling him, the blanket falling away. Your hands knot in his hair, mouth desperate, deepening the kiss with tongue and teeth and heat.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting months for this — like you’re air and he’s starving.

His hands hover, unsure where to land, fluttering from your hips to your thighs to your back, breath catching as he groans softly against your mouth.

You grind down slightly and his hands finally grip, holding you there, his body giving in to yours completely.

But then — He breaks the kiss. Gasping, chest heaving, lips swollen.

“I—” He swallows. “I don’t want us to go too fast.”

You blink, still breathless.

“I just… I need to know,” he says, looking you dead in the eye, “Are you okay with this?”

Silence. You freeze for a second.

That flicker of fear again. Then — You nod. Slow. Steady.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m okay. I promise.”

His chest rises and falls beneath you, eyes searching yours for the truth. He finds it. Your mouth is on his again — hungry, urgent — but there’s nothing casual about it anymore.

It’s not the kind of kiss that leads to distraction. It’s the kind that leads to unraveling.

He groans low in his throat when your fingers tangle tighter in his hair, and suddenly his hands aren’t hesitant anymore — they’re everywhere. 

Palming at your waist, sliding up beneath the borrowed hoodie you’re still wearing, fingertips hot against bare skin.

You shift in his lap, straddling him more firmly, your hips grinding down just enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispers into your mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile, a little breathless. “You’re handling it fine.” He exhales a short laugh, but it’s wrecked — like he’s already undone, already trying to keep himself together while you’re melting against him.

Then his hands slip up your back — slow but firm — and he pulls the hoodie up and over your head in one motion. Tosses it aside.

His eyes drop. He freezes. You’re bare underneath. No shirt. No bra. And for a beat, he just stares.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice gone low and reverent.

You go to cover yourself instinctively — it hits fast, that insecurity, that urge to hide — but his hands catch your wrists, gently, holding you still.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Please don’t hide from me.”

You look at him. His eyes are wide. Dilated. His mouth parted just slightly like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “It’s — kind of unfair.”

You blink, heart hammering.

“Say that again.”

He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the edge of your neck. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice raspy against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You sigh — broken and soft — and tilt your head back, giving him more. He takes it, lips trailing down your throat, teeth dragging lightly as he goes.

And then his hands find your hips again. Grip. Lift. He stands — stands — with you in his arms like it’s nothing. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Mingi—!”

He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, almost messy, like he’s losing the last of his restraint.

He carries you to the bedroom, one hand splayed against your lower back, the other curling under your thigh like he needs to be touching you everywhere at once.

He lays you down like you’re breakable — but he climbs over you like he’s starving.

The weight of him settles between your thighs, and suddenly you feel everything: the warmth, the hardness pressing into you through both your clothes, the trembling need that’s been building for weeks.

You hook your fingers in the hem of his shirt and tug.

“Off.”

He obliges immediately — lifts it over his head, tosses it aside. And when your hands roam over his chest, down his stomach, you feel him shiver.

“Mingi…”

His mouth finds your collarbone. Then your chest. He kisses you slow there, open-mouthed and hot, tongue tracing the edge of your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and you gasp — hands flying to his shoulders, your back arching.

He groans like that sound undid him.

“God, the things I want to do to you,” he murmurs. “You have no idea.”

He kisses down your stomach, slow and purposeful, until he reaches the waistband of your shorts. Hooks his fingers in them. Looks up.

“Can I?”

You nod. “Yes. Please.”

He pulls them down — slow, watching you as he does it — and tosses them to the floor. Then kisses the inside of your thigh like it’s sacred.

You whimper.

“Mingi—”

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And then he’s lowering his mouth between your legs — tentative for half a second, just testing — until he gets that first shaky moan out of you and something in him clicks.

And God, he’s good at this.

He licks slow, deliberate, like he’s learning what you like in real time. Like he wants to hear every reaction.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you there, opening you wider for him, and then he flattens his tongue — sucks — and your hips buck.

“Fuck—”

“Yeah?” he breathes, glancing up. His mouth is glistening, his lips swollen, his hair messy from where you’ve been pulling at it.

“You like that?”

You nod desperately. “Yes, yes, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

He devours you — hungry, focused, like the only thing he wants is to make you fall apart in his mouth. Your hands knot in his hair, pulling tight, and when your thighs start to tremble, he groans into you, the vibration making your vision blur.

And just when you’re about to cum — on the edge of it, right there — he pulls back.

You whimper. “Why—”

He’s already kissing his way back up your body, whispering, “Wanna feel you cum on my cock instead.”

You whine, and he catches your mouth with his again, slow and deep and so fucking sweet it makes your chest ache.

“Condom?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he exhales, eyes fluttering open to look at you. “Top drawer.”

He reaches for the drawer, opens it, and when he finds it, he tears the wrapper with shaking hands.

He strips off his boxers — and you both pause for a beat, your breath catching at the sight of him.

Because yeah. He’s big.

He doesn’t make a show of it. He’s not smug.

But when he rolls the condom on and looks down at you again — flushed, panting, legs open for him — he knows he’s wanted.

He lines himself up, and his voice is raw:

“Tell me if anything’s too much.”

You nod. “I will. I promise.”

He pushes in slowly, watching your face the whole time — every twitch, every gasp — until he’s fully inside you, bottomed out, his mouth hanging open like he’s never felt anything like this before.

You’re both quiet for a second — just breathing.

Then he moves.

Long, slow thrusts at first, deep and deliberate. His eyes flicker between your face and the way your bodies meet, like he can’t decide what’s more beautiful.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist, holding him close as he fucks into you — harder now, rougher, but still with that same quiet reverence.

You moan his name. Over and over. And every time, he fucks you deeper. Like he’s trying to give you everything he has.

His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate, swallowing your gasps.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking good.”

Your nails drag down his back. “Don’t stop, Mingi— I’m close— please—”

“Cum for me,” he breathes, his pace relentless. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

You do.

It crashes into you, white-hot and blinding, your whole body shaking as you cry out his name — and he follows soon after, stuttering inside you, hips jerking as he buries himself deep and groans into your neck.

The room goes still.

You’re both panting. Slick with sweat. Clinging to each other. And after a long, trembling silence, he lifts his head. Your eyes meet. There’s no teasing. No smirking. Just that same softness. That same quiet awe.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You nod. Your voice cracks.

“I’ve never felt that with anyone before.”

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

“Me neither.”

And then he pulls you close again. Holding you like you’re something precious. Like you’re real. Like you’re his.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The room is quiet now.

Just the slow hum of the night outside the window, the softened rhythm of both your breathing, and Mingi’s hand — warm and steady — still resting against your waist.

You’re lying on your side, facing away from him, your body loose but your chest tight in that familiar, sinking way.

He moves behind you gently, not to crowd, just enough to wrap an arm around your middle. He presses the softest kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with sleep and something softer. “You okay?”

You nod once. He doesn’t believe you.

You can feel it in the way he lingers — that silence that stretches, waiting for truth.

So you force a breath out, one that shakes a little on the way up.

“…Yeah.”

You expect that to be the end of it. For him to let it go.

But Mingi surprises you. Again.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Wait here.”

You blink. Before you can process, he’s already shifting, easing up from the bed, slipping on his boxers, disappearing for a second into the hallway.

You hear the faucet. Water running. A cabinet opening and closing.

You sit up slowly, the blanket pulled around your chest. You don’t know why you suddenly feel like crying.

He comes back in with a damp, warm towel and a bottle of water.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shh,” he cuts in, quiet and firm, kneeling in front of you.

He starts cleaning you up with slow, careful hands — gentle, like he’s afraid he might hurt you. He’s quiet while he does it, not making it awkward or clinical. Just… kind. Respectful. Like it matters to him that you’re okay even after all the heat of the moment’s faded.

Like you matter. And you don’t know what to do with that.

When he finishes, he hands you the water and presses a soft kiss to your knee.  Then he climbs back into bed and pulls you close without even asking — tucking you under his arm, one hand stroking your hair.

You’re quiet for a long moment. Too quiet. He notices. You feel his thumb trace the back of your hand where it rests against his chest.

“Talk to me,” he says softly. “Please.”

You try to force the lump down in your throat.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that.”

You close your eyes. It’s stupid, the way your heart hurts. Stupid how nice he’s being. So you whisper it, raw and quiet:

“I don’t deserve this.”

Mingi stills.

You wait for him to pull away. To say something reasonable. To agree, even.

But instead, he tightens his hold on you — arms wrapped fully around your body now, like he’s anchoring you in place.

“Please don’t say that,” he breathes. “Please stop saying that.”

You squeeze your eyes shut harder. “I’m serious. You’re— You’re so good to me and I don’t know how to let myself believe it’s real. I keep thinking I’m gonna mess it all up. That I’ll ruin this. Ruin you.”

His voice breaks a little when he responds.

“Y/N… I’m not going anywhere. You don’t ruin things just by existing. You’ve been surviving with no one to catch you for so long, I think maybe… you forgot what it feels like to be safe.”

He keeps talking, quieter now, like a secret just for you.

“You don’t have to earn kindness. Or care. Or love.”

You feel your chest splinter. He presses his lips to your temple.

“You deserve softness,” he whispers. “You always have.”

You don’t say anything — you can’t — but your tears slip hot and quiet into the hollow of his throat where you’ve buried your face. He doesn’t point it out. Doesn’t make it a moment.

He just holds you tighter. Your breathing slows.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself fall asleep feeling safe.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

That morning, you wake up slowly. Not like the usual startled, tight-chested jolt that’s been your norm lately, but… warm. Heavy in a good way. Like your bones remembered how to rest for once.

The morning light peeks in soft through Mingi’s curtains. The room smells like him — laundry and cedar and something faintly citrus, maybe his shampoo. Your body aches in a way that makes your cheeks warm remembering the night before, and—

Right. You’re naked. Completely.

You blink, glancing down. The sheets are tangled around your legs, but your chest is bare, one of Mingi’s arms looped loosely around your waist. He’s still asleep — you think — soft breaths ghosting over your shoulder, his face tucked somewhere near the crook of your neck.

Your heart gives a little squeeze.

You shift carefully, trying not to wake him, planning to slip out of bed and steal one of his hoodies so you can at least walk without flashing someone. You’re halfway out of his grip, feet barely touching the floor—

And suddenly that arm tightens, fast and firm around your waist, yanking you back against him.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles groggily.

You feel his nose nuzzle softly under your ear, his hand flattening against your stomach. His body is warm and solid behind you, and the pull to stay is dangerously strong.

You settle back, just for a moment, tucking your hand over his forearm.

“You’re clingy when you’re half asleep,” you murmur.

“Mmhm,” he hums. “Only with you.”

Your chest warms at that. You turn your head slightly to peek at the clock on the nightstand.

Your eyes widen. “Shit.”

“What?” he asks, still sounding a little drunk on sleep.

You sit up fully now. “It’s already past seven. We have, like, thirty minutes to get up and get ready for work.”

That wakes him up.

“What?” he bolts upright, hair sticking up in ten different directions. “Holy shit. What time is it?”

You grab your phone. “7:12. We have to leave in thirty minutes if we want to make it on time.”

“We’re so fucked,” he says, already tossing the covers off. “We’re so fucked. We’re gonna get fired. You’re naked, I barely have anything on, we have thirty minutes—”

You’ve never seen him this panicked. He looks like he’s calculating battle plans in his head, muttering to himself as he pulls on a pair of boxers and stumbles toward his dresser.

“Okay, okay,” he says, pointing at you like he’s assigning a mission. “Get ready in here, I’ll use the bathroom down the hall.”

You pause for a second, then say nothing. You’ve been using the hall bathroom since you started crashing at his place — all your stuff’s in there — but in this moment of chaos, it doesn’t feel worth it to point that out.

You nod. “Okay.”

He disappears down the hallway, and you hop up and head into the bathroom. You turn on the sink, start rinsing your face, running fingers through your hair — only to freeze when you realize:

All your stuff — skincare, toothbrush, makeup — is still in the other bathroom.

“Dammit,” you whisper to yourself, wiping your face with the towel.

You wrap one of Mingi’s hoodies around you quickly and dart down the hall. The bathroom door is cracked open just enough that you can hear the shower shut off, steam still wafting into the hallway.

You knock lightly and push the door open.

“Sorry— sorry,” you blurt out, eyes squeezing shut like it’ll undo the moment. “I just need my stuff, I—”

Mingi’s standing by the sink, towel low on his hips, hair wet and dripping onto his shoulders. He blinks at you, startled but not upset.

“It’s okay, baby—”

He freezes. You freeze.

He clears his throat. “—I mean, Y/N. Just… just get ready in here. It’s fine.”

Your cheeks heat immediately. But you pretend not to hear it.

“Thanks,” you mumble, moving past him to grab your things.

The bathroom’s small. Your shoulders brush as you reach for your toothbrush, and when you turn to grab your moisturizer, your eyes flicker — very briefly — down his torso.

He catches it. His mouth twitches, like he wants to smirk but knows better.

You work in comfortable silence for a few minutes. You brush your teeth. He runs a comb through his hair. The domesticity of it all hits you in a weird, sudden wave. How natural it feels.

When you finish putting on the tiniest bit of concealer, you glance up at him.

“How do I look?”

He turns to look at you fully, then gives you that sleepy, slightly dazzled grin.

“You look great.”

You smile back. “You look good too.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, grabbing his shirt from the counter. “Okay—” he glances at the clock again, “How much time do we have left?”

You check your phone.

“Ten minutes.”

“Ten?!”

You both scramble for the hallway.

“We’re so late—”

“Not yet, we’re not!”

He’s grabbing his keys off the hook, shoving his feet into his sneakers.

You laugh, still half out of breath as you tug your shoes on and grab your bag.

“Why do I feel like we just speedran an entire relationship in the span of like, ten hours?” you mutter.

He grins at you, flushed, hair still slightly damp.

“Because we did.”

You both burst out the door, nearly tripping over yourselves as you head to his car.

The windows are fogged up from the humidity. He starts the engine with a sigh, runs a hand through his hair, then glances at you as you click your seatbelt in.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly, just before pulling out of the driveway.

You look at him. At the curve of his jaw. The soft worry in his eyes. The little accidental “baby” still echoing in your chest.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.” He smiles. It’s a little crooked. A little too fond.

“Alright,” he says, shifting into drive. “Time to see if we can keep our jobs.”

You both laugh — tired, messy, still aching in places from the night before — but something feels lighter between you now.

Like maybe you’re not just running late. Maybe you’re running forward.

Masterlist Next

[nayiana0]

ಇ/ᐠ ̥ᵔ  ̮  ᵔ ̥ ᐟ\ಇ

[nayiana0]

"Velvet Violence" III

san is all sharp edges and rough kisses, possessive hands and dangerous moods.

he fights for you, hurts for you. hurts you. and you? you stay.

but the night he brings you to that hidden, smoke-filled room... someone else is watching. mingi, quiet, calculating, dangerous in a different way. he looks at you like he already knows how this ends. now you're caught between the boy who owns you - and the one who wants to steal you.

wc : 10k

i cannot stress this enough, please read with care. this story does and WILL continue to contain sensitive and potentially triggering material.

tags : toxic relationship dynamics, gun violence, break in, anxiety, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, possessive behavior/ jealousy, verbal arguments, emotional tension, alcohol usage, mentions of physical violence/assault , cigarettes/smoking indoors, implied past trauma/bullying, power imbalances, possessive & obsessive love themes, gang-adjacent / criminal underworld setting, lots of vague language, love triangle.

genre : smut (eventual..) dark romance, gangster au, angst.

a/n : cant believe we're almost at the last two chapters omg enjoyy

"The Closet"

The car crunches up the winding gravel road, tires slipping slightly on wet stone as the forest closes in tighter with every turn.

Outside, the trees are impossibly tall — ancient pine and cedar, black-barked and wind-whipped. Fog snakes between them like it’s alive, curling low along the forest floor and hugging the bends in the road.

The windows are chilled from the inside out. Everything smells like pine sap, old earth, and cold metal.

Yunho leans forward over the wheel, squinting through the fog.

“Aaaaand we’re here,” he mutters.

The trees part, and the road spills out onto a small plateau — wide, flat, and completely isolated. The headlights sweep across a clearing, and then—

A cabin emerges from the dark.

Not small. Not rustic.

Massive.

Built from blackened logs and gray stone, it rises from the earth like it belongs there — wild and beautiful and deeply unnatural.

Every window glows low with amber light, flickering behind thick wood beams.

The porch wraps around both sides, and a second-floor balcony looms up top like a watchtower. There are lanterns on the steps. Two rocking chairs. And beyond that—

A lake. Still. Black. Glossy like oil.

You blink, trying to sit up, but San’s arm tightens around you.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, voice low. “I got you.”

Yunho parks.

Silence. Then the engine cuts. Doors slam.

San opens his side and steps out first. Cold night air pours in. You shiver, instinctively curling in.

“Yo,” Yunho calls. “Sleeping Beauty. You want me to carry her or you got it?”

San glares over the roof. “Touch her and you’re losing a fucking tooth.”

Mingi sighs, flicking his cigarette away into the gravel, ember trailing like a firefly.

San bends down, slides one arm behind your knees, the other around your back, and lifts you clean off the seat like you weigh nothing.

Your arms instinctively loop around his neck, and your voice is quiet against his jaw. “I could’ve walked.”

“Sure,” he says. “But this is faster. And I like holding you.”

Yunho snorts from the porch steps. “Jesus Christ. We get it. You’re in love.”

San ignores him, carrying you up the steps like he’s done it a hundred times. The porch creaks under his shoes.

The front door opens before he even touches it.

Mingi swings it wide with one hand and steps aside.

You expect dust. Coldness. Something hollow.

Instead—

Warmth.

The inside of the cabin is gorgeous. Vaulted ceilings. Dark wood beams. A massive stone fireplace already lit, crackling in the center of the open living room. Leather couches. Persian rugs. Windows stretched floor to ceiling. A long hallway leads into the back, rooms branching off into the shadows. The whole place smells like cedarwood, clean linen, and smoke.

There’s music playing low from somewhere deeper inside — something jazzy and soft, vinyl crackling beneath the melody.

But the fire’s already going. 

“Haven’t been here in a while,” Mingi says, shutting the door behind you. 

San finally sets you down on your feet in front of the fire. Your legs wobble slightly, and his hand stays on your waist. You stare around the room.

The way the shadows stretch up the walls. The quiet hum of the cabin settling. The overwhelming, inescapable realness of it all.

Yunho drops his bag on the couch and flops down like he owns the place. “Dibs on the room with the tub.”

“Bro, let me have it. You took it last time,” Mingi says.

“I was here first.”

San leans down next to you, low enough that only you can hear.

“You okay?.”

You nod — slow. Hesitant.

“I think so.”

He tilts your chin up. Kisses you once. Gentle. The kind of kiss that says you’re safe even if everything around you feels like it’s on the verge of chaos.

“We’ll unpack in a sec,” he says, brushing his thumb over your jaw. “You wanna choose a room? Then warm up?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “But—San…”

He watches you, brows pinched slightly, waiting.

You swallow. “This place is actually.. beautiful. But it still feels like … like something bad could happen.”

He doesn’t lie.

He just says, “If it does? I’ll keep you safe.”

And that’s what breaks you. Because the scariest part isn’t the cabin or the lake or the cash or the gun. It’s how much you believe him.

You slide your hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Okay.”

Yunho kicks his boots off. “We gonna eat or what?”

San smirks. “You can’t go five minutes without whining.”

Mingi disappears down the hall, grumbling something about choosing beds before anyone else gets ideas.

And as San walks you towards the rooms, his palm warm against your lower back, the fire flickering gold across your face…

You realize this isn’t just a cabin. This is where the next chapter starts.

And you don’t know if that should thrill you—or terrify you.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You glance into the first room on the right. Smaller. Minimal window. Cozy but tight.

The next is already claimed — Yunho’s duffel exploded across the bed, hoodie on the floor.

You wrinkle your nose and keep moving.

Then—

You open the last door on the left. And stop.

It’s huge.

A queen bed sits dead center against the wall, framed by dark wood headboards and thick black blankets. A massive window stretches across the side wall, revealing a sliver of fog-covered lake and silhouetted pine trees. The bathroom door is slightly open, showing marble tile, a glass shower, and the soft hum of a heated light strip along the mirror.

San steps in behind you and glances around. “This one?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah… this one.”

He smirks. “You got good taste, baby.”

Before you can say anything, he tosses his bag into the corner, shuts the door behind him with a quiet click, and turns back to you.

The silence is different now. Quieter. Softer. Private. You step toward the bed, press a hand into the mattress, testing it.

San watches you.

Then—With no warning—

He walks over, grips your waist, and kisses you onto the mattress. A little rough, a little fast. Just enough to make you yelp and fall back with a gasp.

You land on your elbows, looking up at him. “San—”

He grins down at you, hands braced on either side of your head now, his weight hovering over you like a storm about to break.

“Let’s test the bed.”

Your brows lift. “Test it?”

“For durability.”

He says it completely straight.

You blink. “Durability—?”

Then he shifts his weight forward suddenly, rocking his hips into the mattress — not on you, just over you — like he’s trying to break the bed in with brute force.

It creaks slightly under the sudden force.

You burst out laughing. 

“What?” he pants, rocking forward again, harder this time. “This is important data.”

“You’re gonna break the fucking frame!”

“It’s called stress testing,” he says with mock seriousness, then leans down to kiss you again, slower now. “It’s perfect for the two of us.”

You’re still giggling beneath him, your fingers sliding up under his shirt now just to feel the warmth of him.

He rests his weight gently over you, pressing soft kisses to your mouth, your cheek, your jaw—until your stomach lets out a long, high-pitched growl.

You go still.

“…I’m hungry,” you whisper against his neck.

San pulls back just slightly, eyes glinting. “Yeah?”

He kisses you again, this time just at the corner of your mouth.

You nod. “Mmhm.”

He sighs dramatically, brushing your hair out of your face like he’s heartbroken. “And here I was thinking we’d spend the whole night breaking the bed in for real.”

You pout up at him. “Can’t make love on an empty stomach.”

“Sure you can,” he says, kissing you again, then stands with a groan. “But you’re right. Let’s wait to see what hell Yunho’s cooked up.”

You sit up, stretching. “Can he even cook?”

San laughs, grabbing your hand to pull you toward the door. “You’re gonna have to see, baby.”

He opens the door to the hallway, still holding your hand, voice raised as he calls out—

“YUNHO! Feed my woman!”

Yunho yells back, “TELL HER TO LOWER HER STANDARDS!”

And the evening rolls on from there.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The smell hits first.

Garlic. Chili flakes. Olive oil. Pasta water just on the edge of boiling over.

You wander into the kitchen half-expecting chaos—flames, smoke, maybe even Yunho cursing at a raw chicken—but instead…

Yunho is calmly plating pasta.

No apron. Just a black hoodie, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and a cigarette tucked behind one ear like he’s running a Michelin-star kitchen. 

The gas stove flickers low beneath the cast iron, the only other light coming from the warm sconces above the counters and the fireplace still flickering in the next room.

You blink. “You… actually.. cooked?”

Yunho doesn’t even look up. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“What is it?”

“Aglio e olio.” He points at the pan like you’re dumb. “Garlic, oil, pasta, spice. Simple. Clean. Sexy.”

“It actually smells good,” you murmur, almost disappointed.

San slides in behind you, arms coming around your waist, chin dropping to your shoulder. “Told you,” he murmurs against your ear. “He’s annoying but not useless.”

You lean into him slightly, eyes still locked on the steaming plates as Yunho slides them onto the counter.

“Dinner is served,” Yunho says dramatically. “Or whatever.”

Mingi walks in last, hands in his pockets, eyes on the stove first—then on you.

Just a quick glance. Nothing said. His jaw tightens. Then he looks away.

“I’m not eating that shit,” Mingi mutters, turning for the fridge. “I’ll order something.”

Yunho doesn’t even turn around. “You say that every time and then end up hovering over my plate like a fucking seagull.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re lying.”

You stifle a laugh and walk over to the plates. San follows, sitting beside you at the oversized kitchen island. The stools creak faintly under the weight of all this unsaid tension.

You take a cautious bite.

…and blink.

It’s actually good. Really good.

Garlicky, just the right kick of spice, perfectly cooked pasta.

You glance at San. He’s already watching you with that boyish grin, fork twirling slowly in his fingers.

“Told you,” he says.

You smirk. “I stand corrected.”

He leans forward suddenly, offering you a forkful off his plate. Not yours. His.

“Try mine,” he says, like it’s not the same exact thing.

You roll your eyes, cheeks heating just slightly, and lean forward. His eyes stay glued to your mouth as you take it, lips brushing the metal, his free hand lightly resting on your thigh beneath the counter.

“Good girl,” he says low under his breath, and your stomach flips.

Mingi opens the fridge and stares into it like it personally offended him. Still not eating.

Yunho finally breaks the silence. “You gonna act like a child the whole time or just half the night?”

Mingi doesn’t look back. “I’ll order food.”

He slams the fridge shut.

But not before giving you another glance. Subtle. Just one second too long. Then nothing.

San notices. Of course he does.

But he doesn’t say anything.

He just reaches over, takes another bite, then wipes a speck of oil from the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb—slow, sweet, like you’re not sitting between two barely-restrained disasters.

Yunho pulls a drink from the fridge and mumbles, “I should get a fucking tip for this.”

San grins. “You want a kiss?”

Yunho flips him off.

And you sit there in the middle of it all—warm pasta, warm bodies, a kitchen full of tension—and wonder when exactly this cabin started to feel like home.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

San finishes first, setting his fork down with a soft clink, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he leans back.

Yunho’s halfway through another cigarette by the sink, Mingi’s still pretending he isn’t hungry, and you’re just… full. Warm. A little sleepy.

San’s palm rests lazily on your thigh, thumb tracing idly back and forth, like it’s just habit now. “You good?” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear over the hum of the stove fan.

You nod, swallowing the last bite, but you can feel his gaze lingering like it’s waiting for something you haven’t given him.

He pushes off the stool before you can say anything, grabs your empty plate, and stacks it on his own. “Come on.”

You follow without thinking, the warmth of the kitchen fading behind you as the hallway swallows you both up.

The bedroom’s just as you left it — dark wood, the thick weight of fog pressing against the window.

The lake is a ghostly smear beyond the glass, nothing moving but the faint ripple of light from the porch lantern.

You unzip your bag slow, folding a sweater into a drawer. He watches you in the reflection of the glass as he digs through his own bag.

“Did you take my charger?” It’s so casual, you almost miss the edge in it.

You glance up. “No.”

His head lifts. “Then where is it?”

You turn back to your bag. “How would I know?”

There’s a pause — short, sharp. Then the rustle of fabric stops. “You used it earlier. Before we came here.”

You freeze, trying to remember. “…I gave it back though.”

San exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to keep something down.

“Right. Sure.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Why are you acting like I’d lie about a charger?”

He doesn’t answer right away — just picks up a folded shirt, sets it down too neatly, too slow. “It’s not about the charger,” he says finally. “It’s about you touching my stuff without fucking asking.”

You stare at him. “…Are you serious right now?”

His eyes flick up, catching yours in the dim light. “Dead serious.”

And just like that, the air changes. The warm kitchen, the pasta, the quiet… gone. The space between you feels thinner now, sharper.

You zip your bag closed, maybe a little harder than necessary.

“It’s exhausting how you turn everything into some weird test.”

He smirks — not kind. “It’s exhausting how you can’t just admit you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.”

San takes a step closer, voice lower now. “You wanna argue with me?”

“No. I want to unpack my stuff without being accused of stealing a fucking charger.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The tension hums, alive and restless, like the cabin itself is holding its breath.

Then — He laughs under his breath, brushing past you toward the bathroom. “You’re cute when you’re pissed.”

It’s dismissive, and it makes your skin burn.

You mutter, “.. You’re so fucking dramatic”

He pauses in the doorway, glances back with a look that’s part warning, part something darker. “You know I don’t like it when you talk to me like that,” he says softly.

The bathroom door shuts with a quiet click, and you’re left in the dim room, your pulse still running too fast for something so stupid.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

When San finally comes out, his hair’s damp, a black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, sweats hanging low on his hips. 

He doesn’t look at you right away — just crosses the room, grabs his phone from the nightstand, and scrolls like you’re not there.

You move around each other quietly as you finish unpacking. Two people in the same room. Not speaking.But everything in the air feels jagged.

By the time you slip into the bathroom to change, you’ve already decided you’ll sleep with your back to him.

When you come out, the lights are off except for the soft glow of the lamp by his side of the bed.

San’s already lying down, one arm behind his head, phone lighting his face. 

He glances at you once — just enough for you to know he sees you — then goes back to whatever he’s reading.

You climb in on your side without a word, pulling the blanket up to your chin, body angled away.

For a while, there’s only the faint rustle of sheets when one of you shifts. You focus on your breathing, on the weight of the quilt, on the fogged glass of the window in front of you.

Then his voice comes, low in the dark. “You mad?”

You don’t answer.

There’s a pause. The mattress dips behind you.

“Don’t be like that,” he murmurs.

You feel the heat of him at your back now — his chest close enough to warm your spine, his breath brushing your hair. One of his hands slides under the blanket, finding your hip.

You stiffen.

“Don’t,” you say quietly.

His thumb presses into the curve of your waist anyway, slow circles like he’s trying to soothe you — or remind you he can touch you whether you want him to or not. “Don’t what?” His voice is calm. Almost amused.

You turn halfway, glaring over your shoulder. “You can’t just pick a fight and then—”

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “—and then what?”

You swallow hard. “And then pretend like nothing happened.”

He exhales, the sound warm against your skin. “I’m not pretending. I just… don’t care about the stupid part. I care about this part.”

His hand moves from your hip to your stomach, tugging you gently back into him until your spine curves into his chest.

You should pull away. But the truth is, the heat of him is… comforting, even when you’re angry.

“You’re such an asshole,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he says softly, settling in behind you. “But I’m your asshole.”

It’s infuriating — the way he ends it there, like that’s supposed to make everything okay.

But he stays pressed against you, breathing steady, hand resting heavy at your waist. 

And eventually, your eyes slip shut even though the argument is still somewhere between your ribs.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You wake to the smell of coffee. Deep, rich, curling through the air like a hand tracing your spine.

Somewhere down the hall, voices. 

Low at first, then sharp enough to cut through the haze — Yunho, unmistakable, in the middle of some grand monologue about “ungrateful houseguests” and “Michelin-star potential.” 

There’s the faint clink of cutlery against plates. The hiss of something on the stove.

It’s still early. The light spilling through the window is pale, thin as gauze, filtered through fog. 

Outside, the trees blur into shadow shapes — tall, still, watching. The cabin feels cocooned in it, sealed away from everything else.

And then— The weight at your waist.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, voice still sandpapered from sleep.

You don’t answer right away. Just slide a hand off the blanket, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. His arm doesn’t move.

“You’re still mad,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You hum, low and noncommittal, scrolling through nothing. He exhales through his nose, that half-laugh he does when he knows he’s testing your patience. “What, we’re gonna do the silent treatment thing now?”

Still nothing. You tug the blanket higher, a childish move you hate yourself for doing, but you can’t help it.

There’s a pause, then his hand slides over your hip — not groping, just holding — his palm heavy and warm through the fabric of your shirt. “You’re ridiculous when you’re like this.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you say, a little too fast, a little too clipped.

There’s a pause. Then the mattress dips as he props himself on one elbow, looking down at you. 

His hand finds your chin before you can turn away, thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth. “C’mere,” he says softly, and before you can argue, his lips are on yours.

It’s warm. It’s infuriating. It’s too easy to melt into. When he pulls back, there’s a ghost of a smile playing on his mouth — the one that says he knows he won.

You sigh through your nose, more reluctant than you mean to be, and lean forward just enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “I'm still mad at you,” you mutter.

“Mhm,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You sit up, stretching, blankets slipping down your shoulders. San watches you like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your silhouette against the light.

You slide out of bed and start gathering your stuff. He follows.

There’s something intimate about getting ready next to him in this unfamiliar cabin bathroom — you brushing your hair, washing your face, applying a little lip balm, while he stands beside you in sweatpants, rubbing moisturizer into his face with one hand and leaning on the counter with the other like this is your shared apartment and not a forest crime lodge.

He nudges you gently. “Give me some of that,” he murmurs, nodding at your lip balm.

You pass it over wordlessly.

He puts some on — smirks. “Gotta stay kissable.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

You both finish getting ready at the same time. Side by side. Like it’s routine. Like you’ve done this before. And when you’re both finally dressed, San grabs your hand casually as he leads you toward the kitchen—

Like it’s nothing ever happened.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The kitchen smells like sugar and cinnamon and fresh coffee.

The fire’s already lit in the living room, casting that soft gold across the wood-paneled floors.

Yunho stands by the stove with a spatula in hand, flipping pancakes like he’s the star of a cooking show no one asked for. 

He’s in a tank top and sweats, hair damp, and humming off-key to whatever playlist he started blasting from the Bluetooth speaker half an hour ago.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Yunho says without turning around as you and San walk in. “Five-star dining experience. Limited seating. No substitutions.”

San snorts, still holding your hand, and pulls a chair out for you at the kitchen island before sitting beside you like some gentleman criminal boyfriend straight out of a fever dream.

And that’s when you notice— Mingi is already seated at the table.

Hood down. Hoodie zipped halfway. Legs spread slightly, arms resting on the table like he’s been sitting there a while.

He doesn’t say anything.

But when you walk in, he looks up.

Just once.

Eyes flicker to you. Stay there. Then drop back down to the cigarette burning between his fingers.

Unreadable. Unshifting. But watching.

Yunho slaps a plate in front of you with a dramatic flourish. “For the lady.”

Then another for San. “For the menace.”

San reaches over and starts cutting your pancakes for you without asking. “You need syrup?”

“I can do it myself,” you mumble, already flustered.

“I know,” he says, voice soft, teasing. “But I want to.”

He pours the syrup with slow precision, then uses his fork to steal the first bite off your plate and hums like it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten. 

You swat him with your napkin, and he just grins, boyish and smug.

You almost forget where you are.

But then Yunho sets down his own plate, drags a chair over to the table, and the atmosphere shifts.

The second he sits— All the lightness in the room folds in on itself.

“Alright,” Yunho says, mouth full. “Let’s talk.”

San’s still smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes now.

“Did Demarco give a time?” he asks casually, like they’re planning brunch and not an op.

Yunho nods. “Afternoon. Said it’s ‘low pressure’ this time, whatever the fuck that means.”

“Means he’s lying,” Mingi mutters, exhaling smoke through his nose, still not looking at you.

Yunho shrugs. “Obviously.”

San leans back in his chair slightly, one hand still resting on your knee under the counter, fingers flexing slow. “He give you names?”

“Two,” Yunho replies. “New blood. Not locals.”

Mingi finally speaks again. “That’s a problem.”

“Mmhm,” San hums in agreement. “Means someone’s watching.”

You glance between them, fork frozen mid-air.

The warmth from the pancakes feels too hot now. Your stomach twists.

Yunho keeps going, like this is just another grocery list. “So. We’re going light. No flash. No signals. Just a handoff. In, out, done.”

San finally looks at you, notices the tension in your jaw.

He leans over, voice low. “Don’t worry, baby. We’re just talking. You’re not in it.”

But you are. You know you are.

Mingi shifts in his seat and stands, walking toward the back door without a word, his plate barely touched. The door creaks open—cold rushes in. He disappears onto the porch again.

Yunho leans back, lets out a low whistle. “I swear, if he starts talking about the trees again I’m calling a priest.”

You exhale slowly.

San picks up your fork and feeds you another bite.

“Eat,” he murmurs. “You’re safe with us. Promise.”

And you nod. But your eyes keep flicking toward that back door.

Because this cabin is warm.

But everything outside of it feels like it’s waiting to catch fire.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You don’t finish your plate.

Not because the food’s bad—it isn’t. It’s warm, rich, better than it has any right to be—but your stomach’s too tight. Your thoughts keep looping.

Who are the “new blood”?What’s the trade?What if something goes wrong?

San doesn’t push.

He just watches you quietly as you set your fork down and excuse yourself from the kitchen. You walk slow, careful not to look toward the back door where Mingi disappeared.

Instead, you drift down the hall, your fingers brushing the smooth cabin walls, and end up back in the bedroom almost on instinct.

You sit on the edge of the bed.

And he follows.

You hear him before you see him—his footsteps always easy to recognize. Confident. Steady.

The door closes behind him.

San walks straight to you, not saying anything at first. He kneels between your legs, rests his hands on your thighs, and looks up at you like he’s memorizing every micro-expression on your face.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks softly.

You swallow. “…I don’t even know where to start.”

He nods, like he gets it. His thumbs rub gentle circles into your legs through the fabric of your sweats. “Then don’t. We don’t have to talk. We can just… stay right here.”

You nod.

He leans forward, presses a kiss to your knee, then your thigh, then crawls up beside you and tugs you into the blankets without warning.

You giggle a little from the suddenness, landing half on your back, half on his chest.

“I’m not letting you walk around all tense like that,” he says, his arms wrapping around you tightly. “You’re too pretty to be stressed.”

You roll your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Does to me.”

You bury your face in his chest again, your cheek pressing into his warm skin, and he smells like the woods and a hint of citrus from whatever body wash he uses. 

His hand is on the back of your head, slow strokes through your hair. The kind that says stay. The kind that feels like a lullaby.

“You ever think about just staying here?” you ask suddenly.

His hand pauses. “…What do you mean?”

“Like—never going back. Not really. Just disappearing for a while. No phones. No deals. No guns hidden in boxes.”

He breathes in deep. “All the time.”

You tilt your head up. “Really?”

San nods. “Only thing is… people like us, we don’t really get to disappear. We just get better at hiding.”

You stare at him, heart heavy in your chest.

“And you?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You still wanna go home?”

You hesitate.

“I don’t know where that is anymore,” you whisper.

That finally pulls something out of him. His face softens—completely. Like your words cracked something wide open.

He leans in and kisses you again.

Not deep. Not rough. Just slow. Certain.

Then he pulls you fully on top of him, blankets pulled tight around you both. Your hand rests over his heartbeat.

“I’ll make you a new home,” he murmurs against your temple. “Promise.”

You don’t answer. But the way you cling to him is enough.

The silence after that is warm.

Heavy. Safe. Too safe.

Because beneath the stillness—you can feel it. Like the wind outside’s about to change.

Then:

“We should teach you how to shoot.”

You blink. Pull back a little to look at him.

“…What?”

He’s still holding you, but there’s a spark in his eye now—something alert. Intentional. Not teasing. “Seriously. You’re here now. Shit could go sideways. I want you protected.”

You sit up fully. “With a gun?”

San nods like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You don’t need to be a pro. Just… know what you’re doing. Enough to hold your own.”

You hesitate.

He reaches under the bed, lifts a panel like he’s done it a hundred times, and pulls out a pistol wrapped in cloth and tucked beside a spare magazine.

You flinch. “C’mon,” he says gently. “Just come look.”

And maybe it’s his voice. Maybe it’s that part of you that wants to be strong. Either way, you follow.

The wood’s cold under your feet as you both walk out the back door. It creaks once, just enough to echo down the porch.

“Mingi!” San calls out toward the trees. “C’mere!”

You spot him a second later—leaning on the side railing near the edge of the porch, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, blunt almost dead between his fingers. 

He turns without a word, flicks the end of it into the ashtray, and follows.

You don’t know where you’re being led—until you’re a little ways down the hill, past the porch steps, where the clearing opens up and the trees break just enough to show the mossy remains of a fence and a few shattered cans half-stuck into old logs.

“This is where we shoot,” San says casually, handing you the cloth-wrapped gun. “Learned here. Taught Yunho here. Even Mingi—”

Mingi shrugs. “Already knew what I was doing.”

San rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He turns to you, gently uncovers the gun, and sets it in your hands.

It’s heavier than you expect. The cold metal sits wrong against your palms.

“Try holding it up,” San says, stepping back slightly. “Not shooting yet. Just getting a feel.”

You lift it. Your arms tremble.

San steps behind you, adjusting your grip, smoothing your thumb into place with slow, careful pressure. “Keep your stance wide. Elbows soft. Don’t lock ‘em.”

Mingi watches. Doesn’t interrupt. Not at first.

But then San steps away.

And Mingi steps in.

He moves behind you without warning—closer than San did. One hand finds your waist, the other brushes along your shoulder to your elbow.

Your breath catches.

“Too stiff,” he murmurs, voice lower than you expected. “You’ll strain.”

You nod.

He adjusts you again—his hand smoothing down your arm, angling your wrist just right, the pad of his thumb pressing into the space between your knuckles. 

He’s so close. His chest at your back. Taller, broader, heavier in presence than San.

Your skin tingles under every inch he touches.

“You scared?” Mingi asks, voice near your ear.

You nod once. “…Yeah.”

He leans in just enough that you feel the heat of his breath at your neck.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispers. “Guns don’t pull themselves. You’re in control now. You point it, you mean it. That’s all there is.”

You swallow hard.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Then shoot.”

You exhale slow. Squeeze the trigger.

The shot rings out. Sharp. Real. Final.

You gasp. Mingi steadies your arms again gently.

“Good,” he says, voice almost a hum. “Not bad. Posture needs a little more work though.”

You nod, heart racing.

He smirks. “If you want more help…” A pause. “I’m right here.”

And then he winks.

Your breath catches again. You look away.

San’s back at your side now, already reaching for the gun.

He takes it from your hands slowly, but doesn’t look at Mingi.

He just presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then lower—his lips brushing down your jaw.

“Go back inside, yeah?” he murmurs.

You nod.

But as you walk, you feel Mingi’s gaze still lingering.

And the tingle where his hands adjusted you?

It doesn’t leave.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You’re back inside.

The cabin is warm again, the fire flickering lazily in the hearth, but your hands still feel cold. Your pulse won’t settle. You set the water running in the kitchen sink, more out of habit than anything—like the sound might quiet the other noise in your head.

You lean over the counter. Try to breathe.

You don’t hear the door open. But you feel him before he speaks.

Mingi’s voice is low. Clipped. Like he never really left the moment in the woods.

“You handled that better than I thought.”

You turn, startled.

He’s already halfway into the kitchen—hood off now, hair a little mussed from the wind, hands shoved in his pockets.

“…Thanks,” you say, voice soft.

He doesn’t come any closer.

But he doesn’t leave, either. There’s a silence between you, thick and charged.

You turn back to the sink. Let the water run. It doesn’t help.

“I’ve never touched a gun before,” you say, not sure why you’re admitting it. “I thought I was gonna drop it.”

“You didn’t,” he says. “You listened.”

You nod.

Another beat of silence.

Then:

“You were shaking.”

You look over your shoulder. His eyes are on your hands.

“I was nervous,” you say.

He hums low in his throat. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a scoff.

“Thought so.”

You try to swallow the lump in your throat.

“You got real close,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He tilts his head. “Didn’t hear you complain.”

Your stomach drops. He’s looking at you now—really looking. That unreadable Mingi expression, half-hooded eyes, mouth twitching like he might smile but won’t.

You turn back again.

But this time, he walks closer.

“You trust him now?” he asks.

Your heart jumps. “San?”

He nods.

“I guess,” you answer quietly. 

He steps in slowly, enough that you feel the heat of him at your side now. Not touching. Just there.

“He’s not always gonna be there to cover you.”

You turn your head, lips parting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mingi’s eyes dip down. To your lips. Then slowly, back up.

“Means you gotta start thinking for yourself. Feeling things for yourself.”

You take a breath like you’re about to say something. But nothing comes out.

Because his voice drops again, this time so low it barely carries:

“And if your hands ever shake again… I’ll be there to steady them.”

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

He leans in just slightly—not close enough to touch, but close enough to make your whole body tense.

Then?

He pulls back. Just as slowly as he came.

And leaves the kitchen without another word. Leaving you there with your hands gripping the edge of the counter like you’re about to fall.

And that’s when you hear the footsteps.

San rounds the corner and stops when he sees you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You turn. Try to smile.

He walks closer, takes one look at your face, and lifts a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. His touch is gentle. Protective.

“You good?” he asks, brushing his thumb along your jaw.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just—tired.”

He looks at you for a second longer. Something flickers behind his eyes. Like he knows you’re not telling the whole truth. But he doesn’t push.

Instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead, then lingers there.

And says, low:

“We have to meet. Now.”

You stiffen. “Meet… who?”

He pulls away, already walking toward the couch. “Not who. Just us. Planning.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Yunho,” he says, already dialing. “Living room. Now.”

You just stand there.

And thirty seconds later, Yunho walks in, still chewing something, arms covered in fresh tattoos you didn’t notice yesterday. “What’s up?”

San doesn’t answer. Just gestures toward the couch.

And then— Mingi comes back in.

Silent. Casual.

He doesn’t look at you at first. Doesn’t even glance.

Just walks past and drops down onto the couch like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t just inches from you ten minutes ago, whispering things you can’t stop replaying.

They all settle into place.

San sits in the middle, elbows on his knees, head tilted like he’s already calculating. Yunho slouches back, half-focused, half-impatient.

Mingi lights another cigarette and leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs, smoke curling upward from his lips. You sit last. Off to the side. Close enough to hear—but not to speak.

San starts, voice low but clear.

“Demarco’s changing the time.”

Yunho curses under his breath. “Fucking knew it.”

Mingi doesn’t react.

“He wants us there by five,” San continues. “Same place. Same trade. New players.”

Yunho’s jaw tightens. “New blood?”

“Mmhm.”

Mingi takes a drag. Finally speaks. “We don’t know if it’s a test.”

“We assume it is,” San says. “Always assume.”

Yunho kicks his foot against the coffee table. “This is how people get tricked.”

“We won’t,” San says. Simple. Final.

They fall into rhythm after that— Talk of routes. Codes. Contingencies. You barely understand half of it.

“Do we take the car?”“We leave the car.”“Too many moving pieces.”“Everyone carries.”

You try to keep up.

But you’re just watching the shape of the conversation. The glint of metal at San’s waistband. The slow drag of Mingi’s cigarette. The way his eyes—dark, unreadable—keep flicking toward you.

He’s not even subtle.

He glances at you once when San’s distracted mid-sentence. Again, when Yunho is mid-rant. And again—when you’re already looking back.

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just holds your gaze for half a second too long. Then looks away like it meant nothing.

But it did.

You don’t know what you’re sitting in the middle of — But you know it’s about to change.

And the only thing more dangerous than being left out of the plan… Is being part of it without knowing how deep you're already in.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You’re standing near the hallway as the three of them move through the living room, the kitchen, back to their rooms in sharp, purposeful lines. 

A rhythm, a ritual. Nobody’s saying much. Just the sounds of zippers, latches, metal clips locking in place.

Yunho’s first to change—black cargo pants, dark jacket, utility belt like it’s nothing. He’s quiet now. No jokes. No snark. Just that sharp-eyed edge he gets when it’s go time.

He checks the clip on a handgun with a snap, mutters something under his breath, and pockets his phone after turning it off.

“Ten minutes,” he says, already walking out to the porch.

Mingi is next.

He moves slow, but deliberate—dark hoodie swapped for a zip-up tactical jacket, low-profile vest underneath. He adjusts something at his waistband, then disappears into the kitchen for a second.

When he reappears, he catches your eye.

Doesn’t say a word. But the look is enough.

Like he’s asking, You still scared?

Like he knows the answer.

And then San.

San walks out of the bedroom last, pulling on a worn jacket that fits him too well, sleeves rolled, watch glinting at his wrist. You know the one. The one he only wears when he needs to look composed—calm, professional, untouchable.

He sees you and stops for a second.

“Where are you going?” 

He brushes your knuckles with his thumbs. “Same place. Same setup. It’ll be fast.”

“But…” Your voice lowers. “It’s not just a trade anymore, is it?”

His jaw flexes once.

“No,” he admits.

Your stomach sinks. He leans in and presses his forehead to yours. “You stay here. You hear me? Don’t open the door. Don’t answer the phone unless it’s me or Yunho.”

You nod, but it’s shaky.

“I don’t want you to go,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says softly. “But I need to.”

He leans in again, kisses you slow. Like he means it. Like it might be the last. Then pulls back.

And pulls a pistol from his waistband, holds it out to you.

Your eyes widen.

“San—”

“Just in case,” he says. “It’s clean. Safety’s on. Keep it close.”

You take it. Your hands shake. He notices. Holds your face in both hands, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re safe. We’ll be back before dark.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know, baby.” He kisses your cheek. “That’s why I’m going.”

You hold onto his jacket for one last second. He squeezes your hand.

Then turns. Yunho’s already outside, starting the car in the garage. Mingi is lingering by the door, pulling a baseball cap low over his eyes.

And right before he walks out—

He looks at you. Just one last time.

Not like San. Not gentle. Not sweet.

Just… intent.

And then the door shuts behind them.

And you’re left with the silence.

The echo of weapons. Of footsteps. Of the calm, unraveling.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

9:30 pm

The silence is unbearable.

You check the time. Then check it again.

It’s only been twenty-seven minutes.

But it feels like hours.

The cabin creaks around you—wood shifting, wind brushing the porch, branches ticking against the windows like nails. You’ve turned on every light, locked every door. But it still doesn’t feel like enough.

You sit. Then get up. Then sit again.

The gun San gave you is on the coffee table,staring at you like a dare.

You keep glancing at the door.

No phone call. No texts. No updates.

You chew your thumbnail raw.

In the corner of your eye, the hallway seems darker than it was before.

And when something knocks at the back porch—just once, soft, like a branch falling—

You nearly scream.

You grip the edge of the couch, breath caught, heart racing.

You wait. Nothing follows it. But the fear doesn’t leave.

It just settles.

Low in your belly. Heavy. Sticky.

Like something’s about to go wrong.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

10:45 pm

You hear the tires first.

Crunching gravel. Fast. Too fast.

Then the garage door groans open.

You run. Fling the front door wide and dart out onto the porch just as Yunho cuts the engine. The car is silent for a beat, steam hissing from the hood.

Then the doors swing open.

Yunho gets out first—face grim, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the trees even though you’re miles from town.

Mingi is next—hood up, head down, moving to the back to grab something heavy from the trunk.

And then San.

San stumbles out of the passenger seat, gripping his bicep—blood soaking through the sleeve of his jacket, wet and dark.

“San—!”

You’re already moving. He looks up at you, teeth gritted in a smile, eyes tight with pain.

“Hey, baby,” he says, voice strained. “We’re back.”

You reach him just as he starts to sway, throwing his weight against the side of the SUV.

“Jesus, you’re bleeding—what happened—?”

“Just grazed,” he pants, waving you off weakly. “Bullet clipped me. Not deep.”

Yunho slams his door shut. “We need to call Demarco.”

“Later,” San hisses. “Let me breathe.”

Mingi reappears beside the car, looking San over like he wants to say something—but doesn’t. He tosses a duffel bag onto the steps, silent as always.

Yunho runs a hand down his face. “That was a fucking setup. One of theirs turned on ‘em. No way they knew we’d be at that angle.”

San groans as you help him toward the porch. “Details later. Inside.”

You wrap an arm around his waist, guiding him carefully, your heart racing under your skin.

“You need a doctor—”

He shakes his head immediately. “Nah, I’m good. I got you.”

He drops onto the couch inside with a wince, shirt sticking to the wound.

You kneel beside him, already peeling back the fabric. “You’re gonna need stitches—”

“Just clean it for me,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back as he leans his head against the cushion. “I trust you.”

Yunho is pacing near the kitchen, pulling out his burner phone. “We gotta tell Demarco. He’ll hear about the ambush if he hasn’t already.”

“Not yet,” San says, eyes half-lidded. “Let me rest. Thirty minutes. Then call.”

Mingi leans against the wall, arms crossed. “It was too clean. Whoever they brought in knew exactly how to bottleneck the lot. That wasn’t just a hit. That was a message.”

You glance at him. Mingi’s gaze is on San—but it shifts to you for just a second. A flicker. Like he’s checking if you’re okay too.

You turn back to San, heart thudding.

“You sure you’re okay?” you whisper, wiping the blood off his skin as carefully as you can.

He nods, though his jaw is locked. “I will be. You got me, right?”

“I got you,” you whisper back.

But that fear? That knot in your chest?

It’s not leaving.

Because the blood’s still fresh. Demarco doesn’t know yet. And the look in Mingi’s eyes said it all—

This isn’t over.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You’re sitting beside San on the couch, gentle and steady as you clean the graze on his arm.

The sharp sting of antiseptic fills the room, but the warmth between you two is something else entirely.

San winces, biting his lip, but lets you work. His fingers find yours, giving a light squeeze.

“Sorry,” he murmurs softly, voice rough but sincere.

“For what?” you ask, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“For putting you through this. For getting hurt.”

You shake your head, heart tightening. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t mean for it to happen.”

He smiles weakly. “Still sucks. I hate seeing you scared.”

You lean in and press a kiss to his temple. “I’m scared because I care.”

He catches your hand, holding it to his cheek. “I care too.”

For a long moment, you just sit there—quiet, close, breathing each other in. Then the silence is broken by Yunho’s voice.

“San. Phone.”

San sits up, rubbing his arm gingerly. “Yeah. Gotta tell Demarco.”

You hand him the burner phone. His fingers are steady now, but there’s a tension you can’t miss.

San dials quickly.

You sink back into the couch, pretending to relax but straining to listen. The phone clicks, then DeMarco’s voice fills the room—low, clipped, dangerous.

“What the fuck happened?”

San’s voice is steady but guarded. “Setup. Someone flipped.”

Demarco’s sharp breath. “Names.”

“Too early to say. Could be anyone. New blood trying to make a move.”

“Don’t let this blow back on us. Clean it up.”

San nods, but you can’t see him.

Demarco continues, voice dropping lower, almost a hiss.

“If Yunho or Mingi slips up, it’s on you. No mistakes.”

San’s jaw tightens.

“You hear me?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

Then Demarco’s tone shifts, cold and calculating:

“And that girl—”

Your heart skips.

“You keep her out of this. She’s not part of the game.”

You freeze.

San’s voice softens, almost protective.

“She’s still with me. I’m watching her.”

Demarco’s voice hardens.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

The line goes dead.

You sit there, pulse racing.

San lowers the phone, eyes locking with yours.

You want to say something.

But suddenly, being with him—with San—feels a hell of a lot more dangerous than it did a few hours ago.

“I’m gonna go lay down,” San says, his voice quiet, unreadable. “I’ll be in the room if you need me.”

You nod without looking at him. You hear his footsteps retreat, the soft click of the door, and then—nothing.

Except Mingi.

Mingi is leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, smoking quietly.

He watches you—silent at first—but then his gaze sharpens.

“Hey,” he says, voice low enough to not startle you but firm enough to cut through the tension.

You don’t answer. He takes a slow drag, then exhales, eyes never leaving you.

“Look, I’m not great at this… talking about feelings stuff,” he admits, voice rough.

You glance up, just for a second.

“That call? Yeah. Not good.” He shrugs. “But we’re still here. Still breathing.”

You bite your lip, words stuck. He steps closer, flicks the cigarette away.

“Don’t let it eat you whole. You’re tougher than that.”

You laugh, small and shaky.

“Paranoia's got me pinned,” you whisper.

He smirks, a glint of something softer behind those dark eyes.

“Paranoia’s part of the job description. Just don’t let it be the only thing.”

He pauses, then gestures toward the porch door.

“Come on. I’ll show you the stars. They don’t care about all this bullshit.”

You hesitate, then nod. Mingi leads the way outside.

The cold hits you both at once. He lights a blunt, takes a slow drag, and takes a deep breath.

You lean into the night, feeling just a little lighter.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say.

“For now,” he grins.

For a while, it’s just quiet.

Then— His head tilts. Not much. Just enough that you notice.

“What?” you murmur, but his hand is already up, telling you to shut up.

He’s not looking at you anymore—his eyes have shifted toward the line of trees at the edge of the property.

The smoke in his hand fades to nothing between his fingers.

You hear it then. The faintest rustle.

It could be wind. Could be an animal. But Mingi’s stance changes—looser somehow, but more dangerous. The kind of loose that means ready.

And then—

CRACK.Gunfire.

The first bullet hits somewhere in the dirt beyond the porch, splintering wood from the railing.

Mingi moves so fast you almost don’t process it—he’s in front of you, one hand gripping your arm, the other already pulling a pistol from under his jacket.

“Behind me,” he snaps, and there’s no room for argument in his voice.

“What—?!” you start, but another shot whistles too close, and suddenly he’s forcing you toward the door, his body a solid wall between you and the open night.

“Get inside. Now.”

“Mingi—what’s—”

“GO!” His voice is sharp, dangerous. He shoves you through the doorway, scanning over his shoulder while his gun follows the sound.

Your pulse is a pounding blur in your ears. He’s moving you faster now, deeper into the cabin.

“Closet,” he orders, pushing you toward the back hallway.

“What? Mingi—”

“Closet, Y/N!” His tone leaves no room for anything but doing what he says. He opens the hallway panel — A built-in wall space, reinforced. Panic room. Kind of.

“I swear to God, Y/N, listen to me—until it’s me, Yunho or San, Don't open it, don’t make a fucking sound.” 

You nod, breathing shallow.

He pushes you inside and shuts the door. It seals automatically. Dark.

Your breaths start going shallow.

The click of it closing is the last thing you hear before his footsteps fade, and you’re left in the dark with the sound of your own heartbeat — and the faint, distant pop pop pop of Mingi returning fire.

Then you hear it — boots stomping. Someone shouting orders. Then—closer. Wood splinters. A voice: “Go — down the hall, check the closets.”

Check the closets.

You can barely breathe now. You dig into your pocket. Your hands are shaking so badly you almost drop your phone.

You dial.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I—gunshots. There’s men—they’re—they broke into the cabin, I’m hiding, I’m hiding in a closet—please.”

“Ma’am, I need you to take a deep breath. Are you safe?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. Please send someone—he has a gun—”

“What’s the address?”

Your blanks goes cold. You don’t really know — just some backwoods hideout, off the grid, no signs or names.

A place Demarco keeps locked down tight, where nobody outside his circle ever finds their way in.

“I— I don’t—” your breath breaks, ugly and loud. “I don’t know the address!”

“Ma’am—”

“It’s near—off Route—oh God—” Your voice cracks. You’re crying now and you can’t stop; the panic is chewing holes in your words.

Somewhere outside the closet, the footsteps stop.

You freeze.

The silence is worse than the sound.

“I know someone’s in here,” he says, voice calm, almost casual. “I heard the door close. I’m not fucking stupid.”

The operator is still in your ear. “Ma’am? Are you okay? I need you to stay calm—”

The closet door rattles. Once. Twice.

“You in there alone?” He chuckles under his breath. “You sound alone.”

Somewhere deeper in the cabin— BANG.A different gun. Then shouting.

It’s muffled through the walls, but you swear you hear San’s voice, sharp and furious. Another yell — Mingi, low and clipped. A third—Yunho, maybe—cursing hard enough to shake something loose in your chest.

Then another shot. Right through the closet. 

You scream, dropping the phone. 

The bullet doesn’t hit you—it can’t, the walls are reinforced—but it echoes like thunder and the whole closet shudders.

“Please,” you cry, fumbling for the phone again. “Please, he’s—he’s shooting, he has a gun—please hurry—”

“I heard a gunshot,” the operator says. “We’ve dispatched officers. Ma’am, stay on the line with me.”

Outside, the man mutters, “Did you just call the fucking cops?”

You press your back to the far wall, phone in one hand, the other clamped over your mouth.

“Thought you were gonna wait for little San… or Yunho to come back and save you?” he sneers. “But no. You called the police. That’s rude.”

Another shot. This one tears through the wall and grazes your arm.

You cry out, gripping the wound. Warm blood slicks your elbow.

“Oh, now you wanna scream,” the man chuckles. “Bitch, I asked you a question. You ignore me, but call the fucking cops?”

The door shudders again.

He starts ripping into the bullet hole, drywall crumbling in chunks. “I said answer me.”

You’re sobbing now. Curled up. Phone still in your hand. 

Then you hear it—his fingers clawing in, prying. The hole rips wide enough that he sees you.

“Ah,” he says. “There you are.”

He reaches in. You fight, scream—but he grabs your phone right out of your hand.

“Who’s this?” he says into it, mock cheerful. “Yeah, nah, she’s busy now. Got herself a little hole in her arm.”

There’s a pause. You hear the dispatcher: “This is not the same person. Who am I speaking to?”

But then—

BANG.

The man drops, screaming. Blood sprays. He’s been shot—in the leg.

And then—

San.

Kicking the closet open like his life depends on it. Eyes locked on you. You’re bleeding. Crying. Covered in dust and trembling.

His whole face drops.

“No—no, no, no, no—baby—” He drops to his knees, grabbing your face, your arms, scanning you. “Fuck. Fuck. You’re bleeding. Are you hit? Did he shoot you?”

He sees the phone still lit up on the ground.

“You called the police?”

You nod, shaking. Blood smeared across your palm.

San’s whole body locks up.

“Shit. Fuck. Fuck, baby, look at me—breathe, alright?” He cups your face, and you’re crying, nodding, but your whole body’s trembling.

He looks back at the hallway where Mingi is yelling something. Yunho’s voice, faint, arguing. The man still groaning on the floor.

You’re whimpering. Shaking. Holding your arm.

San cups your cheeks again. “Okay. Okay. I got you. We’ll figure it out.”

But even as he says it—he’s still trembling. Because you called the cops.

His jaw is locked, eyes wild, darting back and forth between your face and the entry wound.

“It’s all gonna be alright,” he whispers, and kisses your forehead, frantic but sweet. “Okay. Listen to me. Listen.”

There’s yelling downstairs—Yunho’s voice. Mingi is barking out orders. You hear a dragging sound. Something heavy. Something wet.

San grabs your face again, leans in close so your foreheads are touching. “You’re gonna stay right here. When they get here, you let them take you to the hospital, alright?”

“What—what about you?” Your voice cracks. “What about Yunho and Mingi?”

He swallows. You feel the tension ripple through him. “We’re gonna get arrested. We all got records. They’re not gonna let us off easy.”

“No, no, San, you can’t—”

“Listen to me!”

He yells it—sharp, guttural—and it shuts you up instantly. He exhales hard, instantly regretting it, but he keeps going.

“Demarco can handle it. There’s money in the basement, enough for whatever’s next. But you have to go with them, okay?”

You’re shaking your head, dazed, still bleeding. “What’s.. going on even..?”

He hesitates. And then:

“They tracked us down.”

“… How did they? Why didn’t you tell me?”

You blink at him. You don’t even realize your breathing’s gotten shallow, high in your chest.

The reality of the situation finally hits—not just danger, not just pain.

“Hey—hey.” He squeezes your cheeks. “Don’t spiral. Not now.”

There’s a loud bang downstairs. A crash.

San turns toward the hallway, swears under his breath. Then he looks back at you. You swear he’s memorizing you—your face, your fear, your breath.

“I love you so much, okay?” He kisses you fast, urgent, fierce. Then again, softer. “So fucking much.”

And then he’s gone. Running down the hallway. You hear him shut the basement door.

A moment later, you hear sirens. Red and blue flash through the windows.

And you’re alone in the closet again. Bleeding. Shaking.

And praying it’s not too late.

A few minutes that feel like an hour pass and the door swings open. You flinch, eyes squeezed shut, already bracing for the next shot — But it’s not them.

It’s the cops.

Two officers burst into the room with rifles drawn, yelling— “Hands up! Don’t move!”“Victim in the closet—she’s bleeding!”“I’ve got her, I’ve got her—ma’am, it’s okay now, we’ve got you.”

Strong arms help you up. You’re clutching your arm, your phone slipping from your fingers, the blood now sticky and drying against your skin. You stumble forward. Someone wraps something clean around your arm. The bright flashlight in your eyes blinds you for a second.

But you manage to look back as they take you outside —

And it feels like it's all in slow motion.

Yunho. Mingi. San.

All of them in cuffs.

Yunho’s got blood on his shirt, his jaw clenched, unreadable as ever. Mingi is smoking as they escort him out, not even fighting it. Calm. Dangerous.

And San—

San’s looking for you. Desperately. His eyes meet yours, and they soften immediately, but his wrists are being pulled behind him as the cop shoves him toward the cruiser.

You’re screaming. You think you are. But your voice doesn’t come out.

Just the sound of sirens and shouting.

And then—

Black.

Masterpost Prev Next

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taglist : @idontreallyknow-12 @hopefulstrangeravenue @thuyting @alienvibecheck @m00njinnie @kyunlov @mingisg00dgirl @hopefulstrangeravenue @nichoswrld

[nayiana0]

i never reread my fics after posting them but i’m rereading owned and shit wait i kinda cooked 🧐

[nayiana0]

“Owned” ₊˚⊹ ᰔ J.YH ⌗ 2

: ̗̀➛ you were raised in blood and champagne — the mafia princess everyone feared, envied, or wanted to ruin. after a break-in shatters your illusion of control, your father assigns you a new bodyguards. yunho is cold, quiet, calculating — and unlike everyone else, he doesn’t fall for your charm. maybe that’s why you fall for him. but falling in love in a world built on power, manipulation, and violence has consequences. especially when your father starts to notice. and especially when yunho starts caring back.

: ̗̀➛ pairing : spoiled mafia heiress!reader × emotionally repressed bodyguard!yunho

: ̗̀➛ wc : 13k ...

: ̗̀➛ tags : explicit content, mafia au, fingering, oral (f receiving) , in-car , oc is kind of insane.. wants yh to herself, possessive behavior, light degradation, dom/sub dynamic, consensual but intense rough sex , light choking/throat play, toxic family, bruises and implied physical violence, strong language, emotional vulnerability and power dynamics, possible triggers: physical dominance, verbal degradation, mutual obsession™ : mutual pining, yunho is mean, slowburn (kinda), long fingers. heavy breathing, she’s begging him, he doesn’t want to love her but he does, manipulation, and gaslighting toxic masculinity, references to trauma triggers, verbal degradation, power abuse within family dynamics. omg..

: ̗̀➛ genre : dark romance / mafia au / psychological drama / slow burn / angst / emotional roller coaster / elegant / heavy with foreshadowing.

: ̗̀➛ a/n : last part !! kinda chaotic lmao thanks for all the support on part one. i couldnt end this fic w/o having oc and yunho playing mermaids in the pool as bonding lol not proofread hopefully theres no mistakes PART 1

The car ride is quiet at first—too quiet for how expensive the damn thing is. 

The kind of silence that clings, heavy and awkward, like neither of you quite know what to do with the fact that you're actually spending time together. The interior is pristine, of course. Matte black leather.

Subtle gold accents. The hum of the engine deep and smooth like it costs more than most people’s houses. 

Your dad’s wrist, weighed down by that obnoxiously thick watch, rests casually on the steering wheel like he owns the road—and maybe he does.

You wouldn’t be surprised.

You're angled toward the window at first, legs crossed, trying to stay small in the passenger seat. But then you glance down at your phone. Open the front-facing camera.

And pause.

You actually look good.

Mascara's clean. Your lips are glossy. Hair falling just right over your shoulder. Your skin has that glow from crying, that flushed, tragic look, like a beautiful girl in a music video who just escaped a bad situation. 

You're half embarrassed at the thought, but also… you don’t look as broken as you felt an hour ago. You tilt your chin. Swipe a strand of hair behind your ear. Zoom in. Re-adjust.

“You done?” his voice slices through the quiet, lazy and amused.

You don’t answer at first. Just smirk a little at your reflection, then glance over at him.

He already has one eyebrow raised. “Jesus. You’re more in love with yourself than anyone else ever could be.”

You shrug, turning back to the mirror. “Someone has to be.”

“Tch. You look just like your mother when you do that.”

“Good,” you mutter, still focused on fixing the gloss. “She’s hotter than you.”

He lets out a short laugh. “Hotter than me, huh? I’m me, kid. I made her hot.”

You pause. Turn to look at him, slowly. “What does that even mean.”

“I mean,” he grins, smug as hell now, “your mom was a mess before me. I refined her. Polished her up. Gave her something real to look forward to.”

You roll your eyes. “God, you’re so narcissistic.”

“And you’re not?” he shoots back instantly. “Look at you. Flipping your hair and pouting at yourself like you’re about to shoot a music video. Don’t act brand new.”

You snort. “I’m fixing my lip gloss. Calm down.”

Then, like he can’t help himself, he adds: “You know you came out of my balls, right?”

You choke. “What?!”

He grins wider. “I’m just saying. All that—” he gestures vaguely at your whole body, “—that’s all me, sweetheart. My genes. My work.”

“Oh my God—” you groan, covering your face. “You’re disgusting.”

“Nah, I’m real. You just don’t like hearing the truth.”

You shake your head. “That is so foul. I should’ve stayed in bed.”

“And missed this quality father-daughter bonding?” he scoffs. “C’mon, you’re glowing. You look like a damn influencer. Don’t pull that quiet-crying-pathetic shit again. You got too much of me in you for that.”

You go quiet. He glances at you sideways, but doesn’t press. Not directly.

“Buy whatever the fuck you want. Rack up my card. Empty a whole store if it makes you feel better.”

“…Thanks,” you mutter.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, merging into traffic with one hand on the wheel, sunglasses finally sliding on. 

“Let’s see if you still mean it when you’re trying on heels and I’m ten minutes from blowing my brains out in the Fendi store.”

You roll your eyes. But you’re smiling now. Just a little.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You hit the mall like a storm—no hesitation, no modesty, no maybe I shouldn’t. Your dad hands you the black card and leans against a column outside the first designer store, nodding like he’s just activated some kind of weapon of mass destruction.

“Go crazy,” he says, deadpan. “But if you embarrass me by crying over a boy in a Chanel fitting room, I’m cutting you off mid-swipe.”

You take that as permission and unleash.

The first store is Dior.  You grab what you like. No checking tags. 

No hovering by the mirror wondering if you “need” it. 

You deserve it. 

Half the workers already know who your father is—eyes on you, voice extra soft, they don’t even flinch when you ask for champagne while browsing. You try on a pair of heels that don’t just hug your feet—they worship them. 

You walk out to model them for him.

He looks up from his phone. Scans you.

Tilts his head.

“You want ‘em?”

You nod.

He waves to the nearest employee. “She’ll keep those on. Box the rest.”

Like it’s nothing.

Halfway through Gucci, you’re fixing your lip gloss in the mirror when he walks up behind you and mutters:

“You know you’ve been looking at yourself more than the clothes.”

You roll your eyes. “I actually look good today. Why not admire it?”

He gives you a once-over. “You look like you crawled out of my bank account.”

You pause. “That’s your way of saying I look good?”

He shrugs, smug. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

You scoff. “You literally just called me expensive.”

“That was the compliment.”

You smack his arm with a hanger and he actually—almost—smiles. Not quite. But the corners of his mouth twitch.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The bags are in the trunk. The silence is in the front seat.

The car ride back isn’t like the one there. There’s no banter this time. No mascara checks or smug jokes or half-laughs through lip gloss.

Just leather creaking under you, soft traffic outside, and the heavy thud of your heartbeat echoing with every streetlight that flashes across your face.

You’re angled toward the window again. This time it’s not to be small—it’s so he won’t see your expression.

Your dad doesn’t say anything for a while.

Then, finally:

“You and Yunho.”

You freeze. Not completely. Not visibly. But enough. He catches it

You blink once. Twice. Still looking out the window. “What about us?”

 “You two just .. kissed or did you actually have sex with him?”

You turn your head slowly to face him. His hands are still on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Voice calm. But that calmness is fake—the kind that comes right before something explodes.

“I didn’t—” you start, then stop. No point lying. Not to him.

Your voice is low when you speak again. “Yes.”

He exhales, through his nose. The kind of exhale people do when they’re disappointed but trying not to lose it.

 “Jesus fuck, are you serious?”

Silence.

Then a soft, dangerous: “Do you know what that makes you look like?” he seethes. “Fucking with the help like some slut —”

Your chest tightens. Your grip clenches slightly on your thighs. But your voice? Steady. Ice-slick. “If you didn’t want him near me, maybe you shouldn’t have put him on guard duty.”

His jaw tics. “You think this is funny?” he says tightly.

“No. I think it’s your fault.”

He slams the brakes harder than needed at a red light, throwing both of you slightly forward in your seats. You barely catch yourself.

He turns to look at you. Eyes unreadable. Voice low and calm, but a vein’s popping in his neck.

“You don’t know who that man is. What he’s done. What I let him do.”

You match his stare. “Yeah? And maybe you don’t know who I am.”

His eye twitches. “Don’t start.”

You lift your chin. “No, really. If you think I’m just gonna be some little girl you parade around in dresses and lock away from the people who actually make me feel something—”

“I raised you to be better than some washed-up enforcer with a criminal record and a short fuse —”

“You raised me to be a prisoner with pretty shoes.”

“Don’t push me.”

“Don’t test me,” you spit back. “I’ve kept my mouth shut about a lot of things.”

He goes quiet. That dangerous kind of quiet.

And then — He looks away. Back to the road. Shifts gears so smooth it’s eerie.

You think it’s over. But he speaks again, voice low.

“Just tell me one thing.”

You wait.

“Did he force you?”

Your stomach drops.

“What? No.”

His knuckles flex on the wheel. “Did he take advantage?”

“No,” you say sharply. 

Silence.

He swallows. Sets his jaw. Then says— “Don’t let him hurt you.”

You hesitate. Because it’s not permission. But it’s not a threat either. Not yet.

You exhale. “What if it’s too late for that?”

The car keeps moving. But the silence, again, gets louder.

“So that's why you were crying this morning.”

You freeze. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move his hands off the wheel. He just asks it like it’s a business matter. But you feel it anyway—how sharp his focus is. How he already knows, and he’s giving you the chance to say it yourself.

You swallow hard. Eyes flick out the window, then back to your lap. You could lie. But it wouldn’t matter.

So you murmur, “He said something last night.”

“Hm.”

You pause. That’s not enough of an answer for him. He’s waiting. You go on, voice small, raw. “He said he didn’t want me. That… this was just a job to him. That I was just a needy slut.”

The words hit the air like glass shattering.

You don’t look at him. There’s a thick pause.

Then a quiet, dry scoff from the driver’s seat. “Told you he bites.”

You blink. Look at him. “You’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m furious,” he says lightly, turning the wheel with one hand. “But not at him.”

You stare, confused.

“I’m mad at you,” he continues, that same smug calmness bleeding into every word. “You’re letting your little feelings get hurt by a man who probably couldn’t even look at you straight when you cried.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he cuts in, voice cool. “Don’t lie. You were crying for someone who probably doesn't even know how to touch you right.”

He smirks. Doesn’t even glance at you.

“Forgot who you are again, huh?”

You don’t answer.

He chuckles under his breath, slow and condescending. “You really thought some ex-con with a haircut and trust issues could define you?”

“Stop—”

“No. you stop.” His voice hardens slightly. “You wanna cry over a boy? Fine. Do it in your room, mascara ruined, door locked. Then get the fuck up, fix your face, and remind him that he wasn’t your first, and won’t be your last.”

You flinch at the tone. But something about it also… steadies you.

“You’re not disposable,” he mutters. “You’re the product. Everyone wants you. That’s your power.”

He pulls into the estate gates.

“And if he can’t handle that,” he adds as the iron gate shuts behind you, “then he’s just another sad little man getting hard off pretending not to want you.”

Silence.

You exhale shakily, trying to laugh but it comes out bitter. “That’s really your advice?”

“That’s survival,” he says flatly.

Then he throws the car in park.

“Now,” he adds, glancing over at you for the first time, “fix your face before he sees you looking weak again. You want him to beg? Let him.”

The car shifts into park.

You don’t move right away. You wipe under your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, mouth pressed flat. He watches you, head tilted, gaze sharp and amused like he’s waiting to see whether you learned anything at all from that little lecture.

Then your door opens.

Yunho.

He’s standing there with one hand braced against the frame, already reaching for the bag in your lap.

“Don’t,” you say quickly.

He pauses.

Your father doesn’t move from his seat.

Yunho lets out a slow breath and straightens up slightly. “Just—trying to help.”

You stare up at him.

The air is thick. His eyes flick over your face—your lipgloss smudged, the faint red still around your eyes, the stubborn tilt of your chin. You look better than you feel, and worse than you should. And he knows it.

But he doesn’t say anything.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter.

You don’t answer.

Behind you, the driver’s door opens. Your father steps out. Doesn’t say a word—just shuts the car door gently behind him and leans against it. 

Close enough to be heard. Close enough that Yunho can feel the heat of his presence in the back of his neck.

You see Yunho notice.

You see his jaw tense. His body subtly straighten. The air around him changes like he’s being watched by a predator.

He is.

Your father lights a cigarette. Doesn’t even pretend to hide his smirk. Doesn’t interrupt. Just observes — like this is some kind of audition and he’s grading the performance.

Yunho shifts.

“I’ll carry your bags,” he murmurs again, trying to stay casual, trying to pretend he doesn’t feel your father’s gaze drilling into the side of his skull.

Your father exhales smoke. “Let her.”

Yunho freezes.

You don’t say thank you. You don’t say anything. You just slide out of the car slowly, letting your bags rest heavy on your shoulder as you move past Yunho—carefully not brushing against him.

You feel his eyes follow you the whole way. So does your father.

Yunho doesn’t move again until you’re already up the stairs. When he does, your father’s voice stops him.

“She’s not the problem, y’know?”

Yunho turns, stiff.

Your father doesn’t look at him.

“Next time you wanna play hard to get,” he says softly, “at least wait until she’s not bleeding for it.”

A long pause.

Then he flicks the ash from his cigarette and walks past Yunho like he isn’t there.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Your door creaks open.

You don’t look up.

You look like a girl who’s trying not to feel anything.

And you’re pissed.

You’re shaking.

You grab the nearest thing—a glass perfume bottle—and hurl it at the wall. It shatters with a crack that rings out like a gunshot. 

Pieces scatter across the floor like your fucking pride. Like the sweet little moment he gave you and then tore away.

“FUCK!” You scream so loud your throat burns. You’re pacing now, fists clenched, wild-eyed. “Fuck you, Yunho! I fucking hate you.”

You yank the covers off the bed. Pillows hit the floor. You swipe your arm across your vanity, sending makeup clattering everywhere, lipstick smearing like blood on the tiles. 

You don’t even care what you’re breaking anymore. You want everything around you to feel as wrecked as you do inside.

And then the maid opens the door, cautious and wide-eyed. “Miss—?”

“Get OUT!” you shout, spinning around. “You’re supposed to clean this place, right? Then fucking clean it!”

She flinches. “Miss, I just—”

“Don’t talk to me!” Your voice is hoarse now, words seething out between clenched teeth. “Just do your fucking job.”

She stammers an apology and backs out fast, and you don’t even wait for the door to click shut before you’re storming past her.

You push through the back doors, past the dining room, and out into the garden.

The afternoon air slaps your face. You march past the hedges, the marble fountain, straight to the pool. 

You don’t stop walking until you’re at the edge, arms crossed so tight they hurt. Your whole chest is heaving like your heart’s trying to punch its way out.

You want to cry. You want to scream again. You want him to come back.

You stare at the water. Its surface is calm, mocking you. Like it didn’t just watch your world collapse.

You crouch down, arms draped over your knees, trembling all over. 

Your throat tightens.

You mutter to yourself. “He doesn't get to do this to me.”

But you already know—he did.

Your fists pound against the pool chair, the tiles, your own thighs. You’re sobbing now but you don’t even notice.

Your voice cracks, and your whole body is shaking, and you want to break every single thing he’s ever touched. You want to break him.

He made you feel something and then left. Slipped through your fingers with that soft voice, those sweet words, those lies dressed up like love.

Your mascara’s running. Your lips are trembling. Your chest aches so bad it feels like it’s folding in on itself. And you say it again, quieter now, more broken:

“Why won’t you just stay?”

The sliding glass door opens with a hiss, and you don’t even look up.

You hear the measured sound of shoes on stone, deliberate and expensive. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes. 

It’s worse than yelling. It’s worse than anything—how calm he is in the face of your chaos.

“You want to tell me,” your father says slowly, coolly, voice like a knife gliding along silk, “why there’s shattered glass on the floor, the housekeeper in tears, and you screaming like some fucking feral stray?”

When you look up at him—God—you wish he’d just hit you instead of looking at you like that.

With disgust.

Like you’re a problem to be solved.

You blink hard. Swallow the lump in your throat. “No,” you rasp. “I don’t.”

He sighs like you’re boring him. “Is this about him again?”

He kneels—kneels beside you, his polished shoes creaking against the stone, and grips your chin between his fingers like you’re still five years old.

“I’ve been patient with you. I’ve let you run around like some little brat playing princess. But enough is enough.” He releases your chin with a small flick.

“You’ll clean up, fix your face, and behave. Or I’ll make sure he disappears for good since he’s such a problem. Do you understand?”

You flinch.

And you nod.

But your hands curl into fists. Because behind your eyes, the rage is white-hot again. Not at Yunho. Not even at yourself. But him.

Because he’s the reason you can’t have anything good.

And one day?

You’re going to make sure he regrets everything.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The room is a quiet hum when you return, chaos now subdued under the soft sweep of a broom. 

The maid doesn’t look at you right away—doesn’t have to. The red in her cheeks and the way her eyes flick nervously toward the broken vase says enough.

You stand in the doorway, arms limp at your sides, still vibrating from the fire in your veins. Your voice comes out low. “I’m sorry.”

She pauses. Straightens. Blinks at you.

You repeat it, this time clearer. “I shouldn’t’ve yelled. I was just… mad. Not at you.”

She nods slowly. Doesn’t smile, but her shoulders loosen. “It’s okay, Miss.”

You press your lips together, watching her sweep up the last of the glass, and then slip into your bathroom. You touch up your face—lips redone, eyes smudged to smoky, gloss on thick. You look dangerous now. Beautiful. Untouchable.

Perfect.

Your phone buzzes.

Then again.

And again.

It's your groupchat.

mia: club tonight. 11. we just got invited to eclipseeeeeee

mia : vip table. security. no boys unless they’re hot and can pay

val: OMG YESSS

zara: is y/n still alive or is she still crying over that dude

mia : y/n u coming or what??

You stare at the screen for a second.

Then glance toward your closet.

Then toward the window.

Sun’s lower now. Golden hour glow melting into the expensive marble.

Your reflection in the glass is sharper this time—gloss gleaming, lashes long, skin still humming from the rage that made you feel alive again.

You type back slowly.

you: maybe. i’ll let u guys know.

You toss your phone on the bed and move toward the door.

If you’re going out, you’re not going to be driven there like a little girl.

You’re going to ask him.

You spot him before you even open the front foor fully.

Outside. By the stone planter near the entrance, where the hedges are trimmed like secrets.

Yunho.

Leaning back against the edge of the marble column, black shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show forearm veins. Head tilted down, scrolling through his phone slowly like he has all the time in the world.

But his body is still.

Too still.

Waiting.

You step out.

He doesn’t look up at first.

But he knows. He always knows.

When you cross the threshold and walk toward him, his thumb pauses over the screen.

You stop a few feet away.

Silence.

He finally looks up. Eyes rake over you once—subtle, but not subtle enough.

He notices your lips first. Then the gloss.

Then how steady your hands are now.

“You look…” His voice is low. Drier than usual. “…put together.”

You blink at him slowly. “Disappointed?”

He scoffs. “Never said that.”

You step closer. The air between you ripples, taut and fragile. “I need a ride later.”

He raises a brow. “Where to?”

You shrug. “Club. Eclipse.”

A beat.

Then that infuriating smirk twitches at his mouth. “Let me guess. Girls only?”

You narrow your eyes. “What, you jealous?”

“No,” he says, eyes flicking to your lips again, then back to your eyes. “Curious.”

You tilt your head, voice cool. “You’re not invited.”

He laughs, low and smug. “Didn’t ask to be.”

Silence again.

The sound of birds somewhere. A car passing far off. You shift your weight slightly, but he doesn’t move. He just watches you.

You cross your arms. “So? You driving me or not?”

He exhales, slow. That unreadable smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. “Depends.”

“On what?”

His gaze drops to your mouth again.

Your pulse skips. He doesn’t answer.

You step closer—barely. But enough that the light hits the shimmer on your cheekbone and you know he sees it.

“Say it,” you whisper.

“Say what?”

“That you want to.”

His eyes darken just a shade. That quiet restraint of his cracking at the edge.

He leans forward slightly. “I’ll take you. It's my job.”

You blink.

“But,” he adds, voice low, deliberate, “you sit in the front. You don’t talk to any guys I wouldn’t approve of. And you text me the second one of your so-called friends goes missing to cry in the bathroom.”

You stare. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

He shrugs. “The one who’s driving.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

He pushes off the column, standing tall now. Close enough to touch. “Be ready by nine.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

His gaze dips one more time. Lingers. “Fix your lip gloss,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches. “Why?”

His eyes flick up to yours—steady, quiet, burning.

“Because if I have to stare at your mouth all night, I want it to look good when you lie to me.”

He turns. Walks away.

And you don’t move for a long time.

Not until your heart stops trying to claw its way up your throat.

Not until you realize—

You’re smiling again.

You’re smiling.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

10:25 pm

You’re stretching, arms overhead and spine curved deep into the mattress, letting out the most dramatic yawn known to man. 

Not because you’re tired—God, you’re not—but because you know Yunho’s nearby, and you’ve got a performance to finish.

The room’s warm, lights low.

Outside your door, you hear footsteps.

Three sharp knocks.

Then his voice, low through the crack. “You ready?”

You smile into the crook of your arm.

“Almost,” you call back sweetly. “Come in.”

He does. Slowly. Cautious already, like he knows better.

Yunho’s in all black. Black boots, black jacket, sleeves pushed to his forearms. He’s got that bodyguard look again—bland and dangerous—but his eyes betray him. 

The second he sees you still in that tank top, lounging like you’ve got no plans, something in his jaw flexes.

“I thought you said you were going out.”

“I am,” you hum, “Just getting ready now.”

He watches you sit up. Watches you stretch again, arms overhead, shirt lifting just enough to show skin.

Then you perk up like it’s an afterthought. “Oh, by the way — I’ll be out of the club like.. before 3.”

His brow lifts. “That’s… late.”

You blink innocently. “You said you’d drive me.”

He nods. “I will.”

But his voice has gone tighter. His hands, looser in his pockets.

You bounce off the bed like it’s nothing. “Cool. Just need like 20 minutes.”

You disappear into the bathroom with a smile.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

You come out glowing.

The dress you chose isn’t just short—it’s criminal. Jet black, barely-there straps, clinging like it was sewn onto your skin. 

Your thighs gleam. Your back’s out. The hem flutters when you move. One wrong breath and it’s all over.

You look like vengeance in heels.

Yunho’s sitting in your desk chair, scrolling through his phone with a scowl so subtle it almost hides his discomfort.

Almost.

“Okay,” you chirp, fluffing your hair. “What do you think?”

He looks up—

—and then immediately looks away.

“You’re gonna wear that?” he says, flat but fraying.

You smile at your reflection. “Yep.”

He shifts. Crosses his legs. Uncrosses them. “It’s… fine.”

You giggle under your breath. Pick up your lip liner. Line slowly, deliberately. Then “accidentally” drop it. Right in front of him.

“Oops,” you say sweetly.

Then you bend over. Slow. Hips tilted, one hand braced against the desk for balance. Your ass brushes against his knee—then lower.

You feel him tense like a live wire. Like he’s been set on fire and doesn’t dare move.

You straighten casually, liner in hand.

He’s frozen.

You smirk. “You okay?”

“I—” He clears his throat.

When he stands, he’s frozen, legs tight, eyes blank, breathing uneven.

“I’m—I’m just gonna use the bathroom real quick.”

You stifle a laugh.

He tosses you the keys. “Sit in the car. I’ll be down in a sec.”

You watch him go.

You beam.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

In the car, you flip down the mirror and take a few photos. 

Your dress is riding dangerously high and the glow from the streetlight makes your skin pop. You pick your angles, fluff your hair. 

You look so good it’s actually unfair.

Then you glance at the house. He’s taking a while.

So you open instagram and snap a few more pics for your story.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

He barely shuts the bathroom door before he’s leaning against it, hand already in his pants.

Your perfume is everywhere. His thighs are still burning from the brush of your body. He can feel where you touched him.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

The first stroke is fast and rough—he’s so hard it hurts.

He pictures that dress. The way it clung to you. The way you bent over, like you knew exactly what you were doing. The sound of your giggle when he threw you the keys.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, forehead pressed to the cool tile.

Your ass pressed against him.

Your lips.

He whimpers, actually whimpers, into the crook of his elbow.

Bites his fist and moans into his hand like he’s twenty and hasn’t seen skin in years. Shame and arousal swirl together until he’s panting into the mirror.

Two more strokes and he’s done.

Panting.

Fucked out.

Completely ruined.

He leans against the counter, breathing hard. Then runs the water, washes his hands, fixes his hair like nothing happened.

Comes out five minutes later like the picture of calm.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

You’re fiddling with your bracelets when he slides into the car. You look at him immediately. His cheeks are flushed. His shirt’s sticking to his back.

“Why’re you panting?”

He clicks his seatbelt. “I ran.”

You squint. “Ran? Down one flight of stairs?”

“Yeah. Your house is fucking huge and I didn’t wanna keep you waiting.”

You squint. “Why are you sweating?”

“It’s hot,” he says. Too fast. Then reaches for the A/C. 

“Isn’t it hot?” He fiddles with the air vent. 

“Is it?”

“Yeah.”

You watch him adjust his seatbelt unnecessarily.

You smirk. “Yunho.”

“What.”

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

He glances at you—then away. Again.

You tap your lips with a compact, eyes still on him. The way he’s gripping the steering wheel?

Too tight.

The way he won’t look at your legs?

Too deliberate. You say nothing.

He clears his throat. “You ready to go?”

You glance at him again. He’s still flushed. Still adjusting his seatbelt like it’s bothering him.

And he does not meet your eyes.

Suspicious. Very suspicious.

But you say nothing.

You just smirk to yourself, gloss your lips again, and say, “Let’s go.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

The bass in the car makes your bones rattle and your brain fizz with excitement. “Woo!” you grin, twisting the knob to blast the song even louder. “I love this one, holy shit—” 

You don’t even finish the sentence before your body starts moving in your seat, dancing along to the beat. 

It’s BTS Cypher Pt. 3, the one that makes you feel untouchable, like you’ve got fire in your chest and a vendetta to settle. 

You’re grinding your hips a little, swaying, flipping your hair, letting the music possess you like it always does, mouth moving like you know every word even if you’re just yelling gibberish with full confidence.

Yunho is dead silent.

Like, abnormally silent.

You glance over your shoulder once and he’s got one arm gripping the steering wheel, the other hand covering his mouth and nose, elbow braced on the door like he’s going through it. 

His eyes are locked forward but they’re bloodshot. He looks like he’s being tortured. You tilt your head, squint a little.

“You good?”

“I’m fine.” His voice is tight. It practically squeaks.

“Are you sure?” you smirk, because now you’re suspicious. “You’re awfully quiet for someone who just told me my dress was ‘too much.’”

“I didn’t say that,” he mutters.

“Okay, well you looked like you wanted to say it.”

“I didn’t.”

You shrug innocently, still bouncing to the beat. You don’t even realize how high your dress has ridden up or how your thighs are completely exposed as you kick your feet, shimmying along to the bass drop.

Yunho is dying. You don’t know it yet—but he is.

He finally pulls up in front of the club. Your friends are waiting outside in glitter and heels, waving as they spot you through the windshield. 

You squeal, unbuckling and getting ready to jump out, when suddenly—

A hand wraps around your arm.

You freeze.

He fucking whimpers.

“Wait,” he blurts out, eyes wide in horror. “Shit—sorry. I didn’t mean to—fuck.”

You stare at him like what? Then you follow his gaze.

Down. To your lap.

To your dress—what little there is of it—and how it’s hiked up way too far. He swallows. Hard.

“Wait…” he breathes, “Are you—are you not wearing underwear?”

You smirk, cocking your head like it’s nothing. “Didn’t think I needed it.”

“Y/N.”

You roll your eyes and reach for the handle. He tugs you back again, this time harder. His voice breaks.

“Please don’t throw yourself at some random dude in there.”

Your jaw clenches.

“…Excuse me?”

He doesn’t answer fast enough. You yank your arm from his grasp like it burned you. “Don’t flatter yourself, Yunho. You’re not my fucking father.” 

SLAM. 

The car door nearly bounces back from the force.

You walk off in your heels, head high, ignoring his voice behind you. Your friends are already pulling you into hugs and handing you a shot as you vanish into the club.

In the car, Yunho’s still hard.

He’s in hell.

He slams his palm against the wheel, cursing. “Fuck.”

It echoes in the car, raw and cracked. His hands are trembling. His thighs ache from the tension. You’re in that club with no underwear. Drunk. Angry. Barely clothed.

And he’s sitting out here like a guard dog with his dick pressed to his zipper and his pride in shreds.

He runs both hands down his face. Grips the wheel so hard his knuckles go white.

Because the worst part?

He can’t even blame you.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

The second you step through the doors, it’s like you’ve been reborn.

“BITCHHHH—” Val screeches, tackling you in a hug so hard it knocks your heel off balance. Mia squeals too, already shoving a shot glass into your hand. 

There’s another girl you barely know who starts hyping you up immediately—"Oh my god who let you leave the house looking like that??"

“Yunho,” you giggle. “Kinda.”

"Cheers, whore!" Mia screams.

You clink your glass and throw it back, the tequila burning your throat. “Ughhh, I needed that.”

“Let’s get another,” Zara yells, grabbing your wrist and tugging you straight to the bar.

You lose count after round three.

You're dancing with your friends, arms in the air, hips moving to every beat like your body’s made of honey. 

A random guy tries to come up behind you but Mia pushes him away with a death glare. Val gets on a table. There’s glitter on your collarbone and someone spilled something on your thigh but you couldn’t care less.

You’re laughing too hard, way too free, flushed and lightheaded and deliciously unbothered.

For a second — just a second — you forget Yunho exists.

You make it halfway to the bar before someone else grabs your wrist.

A tall guy. Tatted up. Good-looking, sure. But cocky.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

You lean in, smiling—drunk and dangerous. “Guess.”

He grins, sliding his hand lower down your back. “You got a boyfriend?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe.”

Then you feel it. That gut feeling. That heat.

But you ignore it.

“What's your name?” you say, sugary sweet, your fingers ghosting down the stranger’s forearm like you’re painting it with honey.

His right hand is on your waist like he owns it. “It’s Leo.”

“Leo,” you echo, biting your lip just enough to keep him interested. “What do you do, Leo?”

“I box,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Used to do MMA. You?”

“Well I’m really good at making bad decisions.” 

He laughs, loud and cocky.

You lean closer. “Wanna make one with me?”

Leo blinks. “Are you—”

You run your hand up his chest. He blinks again.

You turn around to face the bar, swaying your hips a little extra as you lean over it.

Leo comes up behind you again—hands on your waist, voice in your ear now. “You wanna dance?”

You nod, toss your hair back, reach for your drink and down the last of it.

But he starts feeling himself a little too much.

You’re stunning—drunk off the music, sparkling with sweat and attention, and moving like the night belongs to you.

And Leo? He thinks he’s won.

So he spins you around. Too fast.Too confident.

“C’mere,” he says, eyes locked on your lips.

He leans in, and that’s when you stop it. Two fingers pressed gently—but firmly—against his mouth.

He freezes. So close. So cocky.

But that little smirk of yours cuts through all of it.

You shake your head. Slowly. Teasingly. “Mm-mm.”

He blinks. “You’re such a tease.”

You wink.

Then you spin around again—back to the music, back to the rhythm—and let yourself fall into it. Let your hips grind against his front like nothing happened.

Leo groans.

His hands slide down your sides. Bold. Everywhere. Gripping your hips, inching under your dress. One hooks around your waist, another brushes just under the curve of your chest.

He thinks this is still about him. He thinks he’s got you right where he wants you.

But your smile’s gone now. Your eyes don’t sparkle the same.

His touch… It’s not Yunho’s.

It’s not rough in the right way. Not dangerous. Not hot enough to burn.

It’s just hands. Just skin. Just wrong.

And as his palm slips a little too high, you flinch.

Just a little. Just once. But it’s enough.

Your body isn’t dancing anymore. You’re just moving now. Going through the motions.

It doesn’t feel good. Not fun. Not wild. It’s too much.

The music’s booming even louder now and your heart’s still racing from the dancefloor when Leo leans down next to your ear and says,

“Lemme buy you a drink.”

You smile, just barely, still catching your breath. “Yeah, sure.”

His hand’s already on your back, guiding you toward the bar like you couldn’t find it on your own. He orders something quick—tequila, again—and you don’t argue. 

You sit down on one of the stools, smoothing the dress down a little as you cross your legs.

But his hand doesn’t leave you.

It slides along your thigh—innocent at first, a palm resting just above your knee. you ignore it.

He hands you the shot. 

You throw it back in one clean motion and chase it with a sigh, licking the salt off your hand like it’ll help. You feel a little dizzy. Warm. Looser than before.

“You’re not wearing anything under?” his voice cuts right through the haze.

Your gaze snaps to him, but you’re already biting your lip before you can even think about it.

He looks thrilled. like you just gave him a prize. He doesn’t even try to hide how turned on he is.

“Fuck,” he laughs under his breath. “You’re unreal.”

He waves the bartender over and gets you another one. watches you drink that one too, a little slower this time.

And while you’re still swallowing, his hand moves again. Higher.

Past where it should’ve stopped. Right against your inner thigh. You freeze.

His fingers drag up like he owns you. like he’s trying to check.

And that’s when your hand snaps down—hard—slapping his away.

He jerks back with a blink, like he didn’t expect it. Didn’t think you’d care. didn’t think you would say no.

“Chill,” he says, holding both hands up like he’s innocent. “It's not that serious.”

But your face says otherwise. Your whole body does. You’re stiff now. done pretending. And that alcohol warmth? it’s curdled into something bitter in your gut. You should’ve stayed in the damn car.

You didn’t mean to be this drunk. It wasn't supposed to be this much.

But everything started going so fast, and now it’s hot in here, and leo’s too close—way too close.

He leans in again, breath warm against your cheek, whispering, “You know you came out here for this, right?”

His fingers trail your leg again, mouth brushing your jaw. You pull back.

“Stop,” you mutter. It barely comes out. He ignores it

“You’ve been teasing me all night. acting like some sweet little thing,” he smiles against your skin.

“But we both know what you are.”

“Stop.” You say it louder. you try to move. but his hand’s on your throat now.

Tight.

Just for a second—but it’s enough.

His mouth turns cruel. “You think you’re special? I’ve had better girls dressed cheaper.”

He sits back like nothing happened, like he didn’t just say that. Laughs. sips his drink. starts talking to someone else.

You don’t wait.

You’re up. storming out. your friends call your name— “Y/N? Where are you going?” “Wait! babe???”

But your ears are ringing and your balance is off and your words are all wrong.

“ ’M fine,” you slur. “I'll text you. I said I'm—I said I'll…”

You almost miss a step going down the stairs. The air outside hits you too fast. Your head spins.

You slide into the passenger seat without a word, slamming the door behind you. You don’t look at Yunho right away. You're breathing too hard. Your knees are bouncing. 

You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.

“I’m such a loser,” you mutter under your breath.

He doesn’t answer at first. just starts the car.

Then, after a pause— “You kinda are.”

You look at him and then you laugh.

Your lip quivers as you lean in and press your mouth to his — quick, messy, too much teeth. He jerks back.

“Y/N — Y/N, stop. You’re drunk.”

But you don’t. You climb onto him now, hands in his hair, breath hot, kisses needy and wet. “Want you,” you whimper. “Please please — I want you so bad —”

“Fuck,” he mutters, trying to push you off again. “Not like this.”

You pull back just enough to look him in the eye, lips parted, voice slurring —

“You ever think about fucking me in that stupid driver’s seat? When I sit here in my little dresses and talk all sweet and mean? When I stretch my legs out like this — do you think about it? Do you think about making me shut up?”

He stares at you. Completely frozen. And you just smile.

“You wanna tell me to shut the fuck up so bad, don’t you?”

He swallows. Hard.

“…Why were you in the bathroom so long earlier?”

He freezes. Looks at you like you just caught him stealing.

“I—what?” he stammers. “I wasn’t—I just—what are you talking about—”

“Mmhmm,” you smirk, your lips already back on his jaw. “Weirdo.”

You don’t let him answer. You’re crawling into his lap, dragging your hips down over his thighs, sighing when the pressure hits you. 

Right. No panties. You’re soaked—already—and his jeans are rough and firm right where you need them.

“God,” you whisper. “Don’t move.”

“Huh?”

“Just—don’t. stay like that.”

You plant your feet, press your palms to his shoulders, and grind.

Slow. Deliberate. Right on the seam of his zipper, where the pressure lines up perfectly with your clit.

Yunho’s eyes go wide. He grips the steering wheel like it’ll keep him tethered to reality.

“Y/N…”

Then—hesitantly—he glances down. Down at your hips, rolling slow against him. At the way your slick stains the front of his jeans.

Then back up at you, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Like he might just die right here in this fucking car.

You roll your hips again. Then again. You whimper into his neck.

“F-Feels s’good,” you slur, giggling, breath hot. “Fuck, stay still, Yunho. Don’t—don’t move, okay?”

And he doesn’t.

You keep going. Eyes fluttering, mouth open, breathing getting faster. 

You’re so wet now, it’s sliding so easy, that perfect drag of denim where you need it most.

Your body twitches as the tension builds. You hide your face in his collar, voice cracking—

“Yunho, I’m—mmn—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Your hips stutter and you cry out as it hits, the waves rushing through you, making you shiver. You squeeze his arm. Cling to his shirt. Your thighs tremble on either side of him.

And then… silence.

You let your forehead fall against his chest, breathing hard. Drunk and wrecked and satisfied.

Eventually, you climb off him with a lazy giggle and flop back into the passenger seat. You glance over.

There’s a giant wet stain across his lap. You gasp—and howl laughing.

“Holy shit” you wheeze. “I ruined your pants.” 

He looks down at his lap. The mess.

The way your slick’s soaking into the denim, dark and shiny and impossible to ignore.

You watch him. Watch his throat bob as he swallows. Watch the way he grabs a napkin from the glove compartment with the most defeated, slow-motion sigh. 

He dabs at the wet patch, expression blank, like if he pretends hard enough that he’s not painfully hard right now, then maybe none of this happened.

You giggle again. And that—somehow—that tips it.

Not the teasing. Not the stain. Not the grinding. But your giggle.

You sniff, suddenly overcome, and then—

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Yunho glances over. “What?”

You’re crying. Your face crumples. The laughter fades. And now you’re clutching your chest like your heart hurts.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, breath hitching. “I didn’t mean to—I just—you’re so sexy, Yunho. I couldn’t—god, I couldn’t stop, you’re just—your thighs, and your face, and your fucking voice—” You hiccup. “I’m so fucking horny and you’re so hot, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin your pants.”

Yunho’s entire body is stiff. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. He won’t look at you.

He’s trying so hard not to react.

“Do you…” he swallows. “Do you wanna go home?”

You nod, crying harder now, voice shrill and messy. “Yes. Yes, please.”

He puts the car in drive. But then—

You turn to him. Lip trembling. Drunk and broken and still desperate.

“… Can we fuck in the backseat?”

“No.”

“Please—”

“No, Y/N.” His voice cracks a little. “You’re drunk. I’m not doing that. I’m not gonna let you wake up tomorrow and hate me.”

“But I wouldn’t—I want to—”

“I know what you want,” he says through gritted teeth, finally looking at you, eyes dark, jaw clenched, “and I want it too. Believe me.”

You burst into louder sobs.

Now it’s ugly crying. Your mascara’s running. Your head’s falling into your hands. You’re still so turned on you feel like you’re vibrating, thighs rubbing together in the seat, body twitching like it doesn’t know whether it needs release or comfort more.

“I’m—I’m such a loser,” you wail. “I got groped and then I c-came on your pants and you don’t even like me and I’m just—pathetic—”

“Stop it,” he says softly. “You’re not pathetic.”

You sniff and glance at him again. He’s focused on the road. Not talking. Not touching you. Not doing anything to make it worse.

He’s being… good. And somehow, that just makes you cry harder.

“Can you at least…” you sniffle, voice thick and trembling, “Can you at least finger me?”

Yunho doesn’t even look at you this time.

“No.”

“Just a little—please, Yunho—”

“No,” he says again, sharper. “Stop.”

You’re quiet for a beat. And then you laugh.

It bursts out of you suddenly—wet and wild and hollow—your face streaked with tears, your voice raw. 

You’re hunched over, giggling into your hands, shoulders shaking like you’ve completely lost it.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “I’m such a fucking whore.”

“Hey—”

“No, like seriously,” you go on, laughing bitterly. “This is so embarrassing. Who does this? Who gets rejected for sex and cries about it like a psycho? God. I’m disgusting.”

“Y/N.” He glances over now, voice low, serious. “Stop.”

You blink at him, your eyes rimmed red, cheeks wet, mascara smudged halfway to your jawline. He doesn’t look mad. He doesn’t even look turned on anymore. He just looks—

Sad, tired and worried.

“You’re not disgusting,” he says. “You’re drunk. And you’ve had a shitty night. And you need to get home and go to sleep. That’s all this is.”

You swallow hard.

You want to argue. You want to beg. You want to crawl into his lap and cry until you fall asleep against his chest. But all you can do is lean your head against the window.

And whisper: “…I wish I didn’t like you so much.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Silence stretches between you both.

The soft hum of the car. The faint throb of the bass still echoing in your skull. You sniff, reach for your phone, and wipe your nose with the sleeve of your dress. Your voice is raspy when you speak.

“What time is it?”

You squint at your screen, nose crinkling at the blur, then fumble to open the camera app instead. Your reflection stares back — ruined makeup, lips swollen, hair all over the place. 

You pout and take a quick selfie anyway. It’s stupid. But makes you feel a little more in control. 

You grab some tissues from the middle console and dab at your cheeks, pat your face until you look presentable. Or at least, less tragic.

Then—ding.

A notification slides across the top of your screen. Your heart drops.

You stare at it like it’s radioactive. Your fucking ex. He slid up on your story.

You laugh. Just a little. Just under your breath. Then it breaks. Again.

You start crying. Again.

Yunho lets out a small groan, not annoyed—just exhausted.

“What now?”

You wipe your eyes, hold up your phone. “He texted me.”

He exhales. “We’re almost home.” 

You’re not even listening. You press your forehead to the window. Cold glass. Your voice is quiet and frighteningly calm.

“I’d slit my own throat just to see if he’d cry at the funeral. Because I know he doesn’t really care.”

Yunho’s knuckles tighten slightly around the steering wheel.

“…How many drinks did you have tonight?” he asks, a little too calm now.

You shrug. “Dunno. Ten-ish?”

“That’s not a number.”

You ignore him, eyes drifting down to his hands on the wheel. The veins. The shape. The way his thumb taps just slightly when he’s trying not to be overwhelmed.

Your thighs press together instinctively. Fuck his hand, you think. You could cry just looking at it. You keep staring at his hand on the wheel, lashes fluttering. 

Your thighs clench again, tighter this time, heat simmering low in your belly even through the haze of everything else. But you don’t touch him.

Not again.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Your pulse skips when the car finally slows. The tall, wrought-iron gates of the estate loom ahead, and for a second you feel something close to dread. The kind that sobers you just enough to make your heart race.

You’re home.

The car eases through the open gates, tires crunching over gravel. The house glows in the distance like it knows what you’ve done.

The engine cuts.

You don’t move. You stay in your seat, arms crossed over your chest, knees drawn in slightly. Yunho gets out first. You watch him walk around the front of the car through the windshield, the curve of his broad shoulders illuminated by the porch lights.

He opens your door.

“C’mon.”

You stare past him, into the night.

“...No.”

“Why?” His voice is gentle, but tight. Like he already knows. You look at him then. Finally. Eyes glassy, lips trembling. “Because they’re all gonna look at me.”

A pause. He blinks once. Steps closer.

“Who?” he murmurs.

You swallow. Your voice breaks. “The guards.”

He doesn’t ask you to explain. You do anyway.

“I don’t like how they look at me,” you slur. “Makes me feel small.”

His jaw tenses for a moment. There’s a flicker in his eyes—rage, maybe, but brief.  He swallows it fast. Instead, he nods once, briskly, like he’s solving a problem.

“Okay,” he says under his breath. “Okay. Um—wait.”

He walks to the back of the car, opens the trunk, rummages for a second, and comes back with a black jacket in hand. It’s one of his. Smells like him, too.

He holds it out. “Use this. Just… cover yourself, alright?”

You hesitate for only a moment before taking it from him, draping it around your bare shoulders. It’s warm. Heavy. Comforting. It hides the worst of your dress—the part that clings too tight, the part that made you feel small.

You nod once, wordless. And he places a hand behind your back, steady and protective, as he leads you through the entrance. You keep your eyes on the floor. You don’t check if anyone’s looking.

Inside, the air is quiet. Cold. You’re still dizzy. He walks you to your room. Opens the door. Turns on the light. And he’s about to leave.

But your fingers twitch. And the words escape you before you can think twice.

“…Don’t go.” He freezes in the doorway.

And then—he doesn’t hesitate. He just walks right back to you. Stands in front of you. Sees your face. All the mess you tried to fix and couldn’t.

He sits on the bed and pulls you into his chest like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

His arms wrap around you, strong and warm and sure. His hand cups the back of your head gently, shielding you from everything—even the sound of your own sobs. You bury your face into his shirt, breathing him in, heart breaking all over again for reasons you don’t understand yet.

You don’t say thank you. You don’t say sorry. You just hold him like you’ve needed this all night. And he holds you back like he knew that the whole time.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

You wake up like death. Head pounding. Mouth dry. Legs sore. The inside of your skull feels like it’s being scraped by a fork. 

You groan quietly into your pillow —

Except it’s not a pillow.

It’s a person.

You freeze.

You’re tangled in Yunho. Full-body contact. Chest-to-chest. One of your thighs is slung over his like you paid for premium access. 

His arm is around your back, palm splayed warm and solid across your spine like he owns it. Your nose is practically in his neck. You are inhaling him. You are deep in it.

And the worst part?

He is holding you like he does this all the time. Like this is normal. Like you're a weighted blanket and he sleeps better wrapped around you.

You blink into his skin and think :

Hello? How the fuck did this happen?

Two days ago, this man called you a slut and said he didn’t want you.

Now he’s cuddling you like a liar.

Your heart stutters. And your stomach flips.

Because ugh, it’s kind of nice.

Too nice.

You whisper, voice raspy, “Yunho?”

He shifts, just barely, but doesn’t let go. You try again, nudging his chest with your nose. “Yunho.”

This time he stirs. Blinks awake slowly, brow creased like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming.

Then he looks down. At you. At how close you are. At how wrapped around him you are.

You catch the second it hits him. His arms tense. His eyes widen the tiniest bit.

And you? You smile. Smug.

“Morning,” you croak, voice still a little ruined.

He clears his throat, pulling back a few inches like he’s suddenly aware of how much he was touching you. His hand drops from your back to your waist, but stays there.

“Uh. Morning.”

You blink up at him. “Slept well?”

He hesitates. Then mutters, “Guess so.”

“Mm.” You stretch, just enough to make it obvious that you’re still pressed against him. “You’re kinda clingy when you sleep, huh?”

He gives you a look. “You were literally on top of me.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

His jaw ticks.

His eyes flash. “You were hungover.”

You feign a gasp. “Oh, so that’s your excuse? Taking advantage of my weakened state?”

He groans and drops back onto the pillow. “You’re so annoying.”

You hum, letting yourself settle again—cheek on his chest now, listening to his heartbeat. You swear it jumps.

He goes still.

Then:

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says, quiet but not cruel.

You smile against him. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“You’re smug.”

“You’re soft. Don’t move.”

He looks down at you again.

And you meet his gaze, slow and steady. “So,” you say, “you only call me a slut when you’re not cuddling with me?”

He sighs. “Can we not do this right now?”

You smirk. “No promises.”

He doesn’t reply. But his arm stays around you.

And when he thinks you’ve drifted off again, he shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher around your shoulders—careful. Thoughtful. Gentle.

You don’t say anything. You just close your eyes.

And let him hold you like he didn’t mean a single word he said that night.

Because deep down?

You don’t think he did. Not really.

Not this guy. Not the one wrapping himself around you like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t.

“You good?” he murmurs. “From last night. You hungover?”

You blink slowly. Your head aches, but it’s dull now. Manageable. “A little,” you whisper.

He leans in, nose brushing along your jaw before he smirks faintly. “You smell good.”

Your eyes flick toward him. “Now I smell good?”

He doesn’t answer that. Just shifts a little closer, forearm firm around your waist. But you’re already climbing into that sharp edge of tension, the one that always sits just beneath moments like this.

“So,” you mutter, searching his face, “you want me now?”

His hand stills where it had been lazily tracing your side. “What?”

“You heard me.”

A scoff. He closes his eyes, like he’s already exhausted with this. “Why do you do that?”

“What?’’

“That thing — where you act like I’ve been rejecting you for years when it’s literally been one night of you getting shitfaced and another with you grinding on me like we weren’t in the middle of a fight.”

“I didn’t mean to do that,” you snap, flushing hot. “I was drunk.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, “you were.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Did you?” He tilts his head at you, mouth pressed into something unreadable. “You’re not even sorry. You’re just pissed I didn’t want to fuck you when you were stumbling around slurring my name like I’m supposed to forget everything just because you touched me.”

Your chest tightens. “I didn’t touch you.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You sure about that?”

You glare at him. “You could’ve pushed me off.”

He’s calm. Cold, even. That’s worse than yelling.

“I said I’m sorry,” you repeat, quieter now.

He doesn’t say anything. The silence swells between you, sharp and humming. 

The kind of silence where you remember all the shit you haven’t said, and everything you wish you could take back. You hate how vulnerable it makes you feel. How small.

You speak again. “You still don’t ..  feel anything for me?”

And that—that’s the part that breaks whatever nerve he was pretending to hold.

He exhales, slow. Sits up slightly, his weight pressing into the mattress like a shift in gravity. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” Your voice cracks.

“That thing. Where you turn this into some pity-fuck narrative just because I didn’t give in for once.” His tone is low now, bitter. “You know damn well I want you. That’s the problem.”

Your throat goes dry.

He looks at you then, eyes narrowed like he’s looking through you, or past you, or into something he doesn’t like. 

“I’d still fuck you, y’know” he says, voice flat now.

The way he says it—it lands like a slap.

You blink.

“Cool,” you say stiffly, turning away.

“I’m not trying to be cruel,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m just saying what you clearly want to hear.”

“No, you’re not.” You sit up now, the sheet dropping. “You’re just saying what hurts.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it is,” you cut in. “You do this thing where you say shit like that so I’ll feel bad for needing something from you. Like I’m the only one who ever fucks things up.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He sighs again, this time more tired than anything else. “You don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

“Because you don’t actually talk! You throw knives and then go quiet.”

“And you get drunk and grind on me and pretend that fixes it.”

You flinch. Then: “So, what, now I disgust you?”

His gaze flickers, softens for half a second. “You don’t disgust me.”

“Right. You’d still fuck me.”

“I meant I still want you,” he says quietly. “Even when I don’t want to. Even when I shouldn’t.”

And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? The ugly, twisting part neither of you want to say aloud.

You stare at each other. The room is warm. Your limbs ache. Your heart’s doing that thing again—where it hopes, and then regrets hoping.

You speak carefully. “Then why won’t you just—be with me? For real?”

He looks at you. That look again—the unreadable one.

“Because I don’t know how to love you without hurting you,” he says.

And you don’t know what to say to that.

His hand drags across your stomach, rough fingers lazy with sleep and stubborn want. 

He leans down, face close enough that you feel his breath against your cheek, and it hits you all over again how dangerous he is like this. 

How stupid it is to want this when everything still hurts.

He tilts his head, nose brushing yours, eyes dropping to your mouth—and just before his lips can meet yours, you turn away.

“.. No,” you murmur.  

He freezes. The space between you stills.

“No?” he repeats, like he didn’t hear you right. Like the word tastes wrong in his mouth.

You nod once, sharp and quiet, still facing the wall.

He sits back slowly, his hand pulling away from your skin. “No?” he says again, but this time it’s different—smaller. Like he’s confused. Like you hit something soft inside him he didn’t know was still exposed.

“You were gonna kiss me,” you say, voice low.

“Yeah,” he answers plainly.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?” He’s frowning now. “Because I wanted to.”

“You make me feel stupid,” you whisper.

A pause, then : 

“You’re not stupid.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

“I want you,” he says finally, evenly. “I do. But I want all of you. Not the version of you that’s desperate to prove something, or pissed off, or punishing me for things I didn’t say. I want you when you know I want you.”

You breathe in slowly. “Then show me.”

He stares at you. Doesn’t move.

You whisper, “Then show me you mean it.”

He leans in again, slow, cautious. But this time when his mouth hovers over yours, he doesn’t push.

“You gonna turn away again?” he asks, voice a little rough.

You blink at him, then shake your head.

“…No.”

His mouth brushes yours—not rushed, not messy. Just warm. Just there. Steady. And somehow, that makes it feel worse.

It’s not gentle—not even close. He kisses you like it’s punishment, like he’s trying to make a point. His mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth and heat. 

His hand curls around your jaw, keeping you in place, thumb pressing into your cheek just enough to keep your lips parted for him. 

He tastes like mint and regret, bitter on his tongue, sweet where it mixes with yours. You let out a sound—shocked, maybe, maybe not—and he drinks it in like it’s all he’s been starving for.

When you try to pull back, he follows. Deeper. Hungrier. His hand slides down, hooks around the back of your neck, and the other snakes low—gripping under your thigh and dragging you over him in one rough pull.

You’re on top of him before you even realize what’s happening. Your knees on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his bare chest, and he’s grinning into your mouth like he’s already won.

“Still don’t want me?” you gasp when he finally lets you breathe.

“Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll make sure you feel wanted. Real fuckin’ quick.”

You shove at his chest, but your hips roll with him anyway, traitorously, and his head tips back with a groan so deep it buzzes through your spine.

“Say ‘no’ again,” he murmurs, pulling you down by the waist, “see if I listen this time.”

You reach for him, your fingers trembling slightly—not from hesitation, but from the overwhelming heat curling up your spine. 

He’s already hard, already waiting, already watching you like he’s two seconds from losing control. 

His breath hitches the moment you take him in your hand, the muscles in his abdomen twitching beneath your thighs as you position yourself over him.

“You sure?” he rasps, voice low, guttural, strained with restraint.

You just look at him. Nothing about you is unsure.

He groans as you guide him to your entrance, dragging his blunt head through your slick folds slowly, cruelly, making him feel just how ready you are for him. 

His hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. 

You sink down inch by inch, his mouth falling open, his head tipping back against the pillow as a curse slips past his lips.

“You’re so deep,” you breathe.

He’s so thick, it knocks the breath out of you. He tries to move, but you press your palm against his chest.

“Stay down,” you whisper.

And fuck, he listens.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he groans. “Ridin’ me like this — you don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You do, though. You feel the way he’s twitching inside you. You see how he’s watching you like he’d worship the floor you walk on. You lean over, kiss down his throat, whisper —

“Whimper for me, pretty boy.”

He actually whines.

“Jesus Christ—”

You start to move harder, faster—bouncing on him now, fucking him like you’re the one in control, and he’s losing his mind beneath you. 

One of his hands flies to your ass, gripping so hard it stings.

Your moan catches in your throat as your pace quickens, eyes fluttering shut, arms around his neck now for balance. 

His hands guide your hips but he's not leading anymore—you are.

You moan into his mouth as you kiss him, filthy and deep, tongues tangling, bodies drenched in sweat. 

You grind just right, and he’s the one whimpering again, hips twitching up into you.

“You’re mine,” you whisper. “Say it.”

“I’m yours—I’m yours, fuck, I’m—”

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave—violent, intense, body shaking—and Yunho holds on like his life depends on it, crying out your name, losing it as he fucks up into you and follows you over the edge.

Your bodies go still, tangled, trembling, hearts pounding in sync. The room smells like sweat and sex and desperation.

Yunho breathes hard, lips brushing your jaw.

“…You’re unreal,” he murmurs.

You laugh, weakly. “You didn’t even last.”

“Don’t start. I was doing fine ‘til you started ridin’ me like you wanted to steal my soul.”

You grin and kiss him again.

Still straddling him. Still out of breath.

Until—

A knock. It’s your father’s voice.

“Y/N. Open the door. Now.”

You scramble off of him so fast you almost trip over the sheets.

“Shitshitshitshitshit—”

Yuhno's already halfway off the bed, dragging his boxers back on, his shirt twisted in his hand. “Where the fuck is my—goddamn belt—?!”

You yank on your robe, tying it unevenly. “The bed looks like a fucking war zone.”

Yunho glances at the door, panic in his eyes. “He’s gonna kill me, Y/N —”

“Get your pants on!”

“They are on—!”

The handle rattles. “Open this fucking door, or I’ll break it down.”

You shout, “One second!”

Yunho’s grabbing pillows, trying to make the bed look halfway normal while you run a hand through your hair and wipe at the smudged lip gloss around your mouth.

“Do I look—okay? Do I look like we didn’t just—”

Yunho grabs your waist, kisses your forehead real quick. “You look like my worst mistake. Go open it.”

“Thanks,” you hiss, unlocking the door.

It swings open immediately.

Your father steps in like a storm—eyes sweeping the room, landing on the unmade bed, then Yunho standing stiffly at the corner of it. Then you, flushed, trembling, arms crossed tight over your chest.

The silence is painful.

You open your mouth. “Okay, I know what this looks—”

“Don’t,” your father cuts in, sharp and flat. “Don’t even try to fucking explain.”

You wince. “..Okay.”

He stares for a long, long second. A beat. Two.

Then: “So you two just fucked?”

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath, clutching your robe tighter. “Dad—”

He turns to Yunho. “Really? My daughter? In my house? This early in the damn morning?”

Yunho swallows hard. “Sir—”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me right now.”

You jump in, rushing to defend: “It’s not—it’s not like that, we weren’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You shut up immediately.

Your father sighs, stepping further into the room, hand to his temple like he’s nursing a headache. “You couldn’t even wait until you moved out? Huh? Thought we were past the whole rebellious make-terrible-decisions-under-my-roof phase.”

You frown. “Okay, first of all—”

He holds up a finger. “Don’t.”

Yunho clears his throat gently. “Mr. Y/L/N… I just wanna say—this wasn’t planned. I didn’t come here for this. I made sure to stay with her and take care of her. After last night. She was… not doing great.”

You glance sideways at him.

He’s speaking low. Respectful. No excuses. Just honesty.

Your father blinks, the tension in his brow twitching a little. “You came to take care of her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ended up half-naked in her bed?”

Yunho doesn’t flinch. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t— we didn’t plan it.”

You watch your dad’s face carefully. The judgment is there, but it’s not fury anymore—it’s something quieter now. Disappointment, maybe. Confusion. Like he doesn’t know what to feel.

“I know I’ve messed up,” Yunho says. “And I know… I said things to her that I shouldn’t have. But I care about her. I always have.”

Your dad crosses his arms.

“She means a lot to me. I know I probably don’t deserve to be standing here, but I’m not gonna lie about how I feel.”

A pause. Silence thickens the air again.

Then your father turns to you. “You trust him now?”

You blink. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Your lips part, then close again. You look over at Yunho—at the messy hair, the bruises on his neck you definitely gave him, the frantic half-dressed panic a moment ago—and then back to your father.

“...Yeah,” you say, voice soft but certain. “I do.”

Another long silence. Your father exhales through his nose, rubs at his jaw. Then—shockingly—he nods.

Not big. Just once. Subtle. But it’s there. And then he mutters, almost to himself, “Well… could’ve done worse, I guess.”

You and Yunho both freeze. “What?”

“I said, you could’ve done worse. At least he’s not a complete idiot.”

You stare. “...That’s your approval?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t say that. I said he’s not a complete idiot.”

You grin.

Yunho looks like he just got granted parole.

“I want the bed made,” your father says, walking toward the door. “The sheets cleaned. If I come back and the room still smells like sex, I’m spraying Lysol myself.”

“Noted,” you say, biting back a laugh.

“And no more of this under my roof,” he calls as he exits. “If you’re gonna screw around, do it somewhere I don’t have to think about it.”

“Thanks for the… support,” you mumble as he walks down the hall.

Once the door shuts — You and Yunho collapse into laughter.

“I can’t believe we survived that,” you wheeze, falling back onto the mattress.

“He definitely knew what we were doing,” Yunho groans, flopping next to you.

You both laugh harder.

And for the first time in days, it feels easy again.

He wants you. You want him.

And for once, neither of you are pretending otherwise.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Few weeks later …

The two of you sit together on a lounge chair—food in your lap, his close beside you, the warm breeze tickling your skin. You’re all giggly and pink-cheeked and soft. 

Yunho’s flirtier than usual. You’re feeding each other little bites and kissing between chews and occasionally he leans over just to press his lips to your shoulder or jaw. No reason. Just because he can now.

He feeds you a bite of fruit and grins when you hum. “Tastes better when I give it to you, huh?”

You narrow your eyes. “Is that what this is? You trying to seduce me with grapes?”

“Is it working?” he whispers against your ear.

You elbow him lightly and he still doesn’t back up. If anything, he shifts closer. One hand on your thigh now, fingers tracing shapes.

Then, quietly—

“You wanna swim?”

You pause mid-bite. “Of course I wanna swim.”

He grins and leans in again, voice lower this time, sultry and teasing:

“Okay. Go put on your sexy—”  he kisses your jaw  “—tiny—” kiss on your chin “—bikini—” kiss on your lips “— right now.”

You giggle, gasping out a soft, “Get off me,” as he starts kissing all over your face, too affectionate and chaotic for you to function.

He’s on top of you now, pinning you to the chair, lips on your neck, his hand brushing under your shirt, just barely. His weight, his warmth—it’s addictive. He’s not even doing anything that dirty, but your brain’s already melting.

“Go get ready,” he groans, giving your thigh a final squeeze. “I can’t wait to see your boobs in that bikini. You have no idea.”

You swat at him again, laughing even as you blush. “You're literally insane.”

He claps once. “Go! Now! Chop-chop! I need to mentally prepare myself.” You roll your eyes and retreat to your room. And you put on your favorite bikini.

It’s flattering, technically. You’ve worn it before and felt good. But now? With Yunho waiting out there, already shirtless and hot and perfect and seeing you for the first time like this?

You feel… weirdly shy.

So when you walk back out, towel in hand, arms crossed a little too tightly over your chest, you hesitate at the doorway.

And then you see him.

Already in swim trunks, shirt off, toned as hell, and lounging poolside like he knows he’s God's favorite. Hair a little messy. Skin golden. Smirk already forming when he catches sight of you.

He stands up. Walks toward you.

You tense. “Don’t look too hard…” He stops in front of you. Tilts his head. And says, low and slow, “Don’t hide. You’re beautiful.”

You blink up at him.

“Like—actually. You’re stupid hot right now. I don’t even know what to do with myself.”

Your stomach flutters and you look away, cheeks burning.

He grins—and then? He grabs you. “What are you—Yunho, no—!”

Too late. He scoops you up in one motion and throws you into the pool. You crash into the water with a squeal, resurfacing in a splash, hair everywhere, laughing and sputtering. “You asshole!”

He’s laughing too, stripping off the towel from around his shoulders before diving in right after you. Smooth, perfect, dolphin-core form. He pops up right in front of you. Grinning like a menace.

Then he grabs your waist under the water—pulls you flush against his chest. You gasp. Hands on his shoulders now. His skin’s slippery and warm and his muscles flex under your fingers.

“You’re…” He lets his eyes wander—face to chest to hips to thighs under the water. “...so fucking beautiful. It’s actually not fair.”

“Stop…” You whisper, voice breathy.

“I’m not even joking,” he murmurs. “Your eyes. Your neck. Your thighs. Your waist. Your hips. Your lips. Fuck. Your smile?”

You lean in and kiss him. Hard. Your lips meet underwater-wet, slippery and warm, and his hands slide up your sides like he owns you.

Tongues, breathless whines, clumsy underwater grinding—he’s grabbing you like he’s going to disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight.

You giggle, soft and dazed. “You’re gonna say more stuff that makes me fall in love with you.”

“I want you to,” he murmurs. “Fall harder. I can take it.”

He kisses the side of your mouth. “I want everything.” You blink at him.

“…Can we play mermaids?”

Without hesitation—dead serious—he goes: “Yes.”

You light up. “Really?!”

“I’m literally already imagining the storyline in my head. I’m the cursed merman prince, obviously.”

You both start splashing and spinning in the pool like dramatic sea creatures, creating lore, coming up with fake ocean names, doing tragic tail flips and reenacting movie-worthy underwater longing.

And in between the chaos? He still kisses you.

The mermaid saga comes to a dramatic close with your final, tearful “death” at sea (you insisted on floating face-down while Yunho screamed like he was winning an Oscar). And once the performance is properly applauded—with a splashy round of applause and a dramatic bow—you both quiet down.

Now, you’re floating.

Your arms are wrapped around his neck. Your legs are looped lazily around his waist. Your cheek’s pressed against his shoulder, humming something soft under your breath.

Just the two of you drifting in the center of the pool, water rippling gently around you, sun warm on your back, the air thick with chlorine and something sweeter—something that settles like peace in your chest.

His arms cradle you with that terrifying gentleness. You feel like a baby.

His baby. You sigh happily. And then, out of nowhere:

“Wanna be my girlfriend?”

You stare for maybe half a second.

Then: “Fuck yes.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Masterlist

taglist: @asciendo @sinn-gyu @bluebaie @honeygonebads-blog @cheolliehugs @cxr-cam @yvanillelate @heartsforyeoo @coffeecares @joongieology @miracle-sol @bakusatxuki @sabrinaschild17

[nayiana0]

contemplating on two different endings for velvet violence i’m ab to flip a coin 🥹🥹

[nayiana0]

“Owned” ₊˚⊹ ᰔ J.YH ⌗ 1

: ̗̀➛ you were raised in blood and champagne — the mafia princess everyone feared, envied, or wanted to ruin. after a break-in shatters your illusion of control, your father assigns you a new bodyguards. yunho is cold, quiet, calculating — and unlike everyone else, he doesn’t fall for your charm. maybe that’s why you fall for him. but falling in love in a world built on power, manipulation, and violence has consequences. especially when your father starts to notice. and especially when yunho starts caring back.

: ̗̀➛ pairing : spoiled mafia heiress!reader × emotionally repressed bodyguard!yunho

: ̗̀➛ wc : 8.7k ...

: ̗̀➛ tags : explicit content, mafia au, fingering, oral (f receiving) , in-car , oc is kind of insane.. wants yh to herself, possessive behavior, light degradation, dom/sub dynamic, consensual but intense rough sex , light choking/throat play, toxic family, bruises and implied physical violence, strong language, emotional vulnerability and power dynamics, possible triggers: physical dominance, verbal degradation, mutual obsession™ : mutual pining, yunho is mean, slowburn (kinda), long fingers. heavy breathing, she’s begging him, he doesn’t want to love her but he does, manipulation, and gaslighting toxic masculinity, references to trauma triggers, verbal degradation, power abuse within family dynamics. omg..

: ̗̀➛ genre : dark romance / mafia au / psychological drama / slow burn / angst / emotional roller coaster / elegant / heavy with foreshadowing.

: ̗̀➛ a/n : wanted to write something for yunho so.. this'll be in 2 parts. this fic dives deep into the messy, raw edges of desire and control—where vulnerability meets danger. slow burn of power, pain, and passion colliding, please remember this fic is 18+ only — consent is complicated but always present, and the dynamics explored are intense. handle with care.

You live in a house with fifteen bedrooms and no love.

The kind of house with imported marble floors, bulletproof windows, and a chandelier so big it had to be lifted through the ceiling by a crane.

A house that’s always too cold, no matter how high the heat is cranked.

One that smells like new money, old power, and perfume that never quite covers up the scent of gun oil.

You’ve had boyfriends. Pretty ones. Popular ones.

Boys who moaned your name against your collarbone and left in the morning with fresh cash in their wallets.

You’ve had parties that roared through the night like war — glitter-stained floors, champagne towers, laughter echoing through halls your parents never walked.

You’ve been touched by a lot of hands.

But never once have you felt truly seen.

Because no one knows the truth. Not your friends, not the girls who call you spoiled, not the men who fall for your curves and your money and your perfectly painted mouth.

They don’t know that your father is a monster in a suit.

That his empire isn’t built on stocks or oil or tech — but blood.

And they don’t know what he did to you when you were twelve.

They don’t know about the night he locked you in the wine cellar for crying in front of his men.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It was cold. You remember that.

You were barefoot, still in your recital dress, sparkly tights torn at the knee from when he shoved you too hard.

He’d grabbed your wrist so hard, there were faint marks blooming beneath the skin — ugly little ghosts of the moment he lost control.

“You embarrassed me,” he’d spat.

His voice was calm. Too calm. The way it always got when something awful was about to happen.

“I said I didn’t want to sing that song—”

“So you disobeyed me. In front of everyone.”

“I’m sorry!”

“You’ll fucking learn.”

Then the door slammed shut, and you screamed.

Your voice echoed down shelves of old liquor and forgotten secrets. He turned the light off before leaving.

You cried until your throat gave out.

You learned something important that night — that you can only scream for so long before you start to go quiet.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You’ve never told anyone. Not even your mother.

Especially not your mother.

She was upstairs the whole time, drunk and humming, drowning in a cocktail dress and denial.

Since then, the rules have been simple.

Your father doesn’t care what you do as long as you’re at the top of your class.

Your mother doesn’t ask questions as long as your photos on social media look expensive.

And you? You party. You flirt. You fuck boys when you’re bored.

But you never sleep. Not really.

Not peacefully.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It changes the night your house gets raided.

It’s chaos — shouting, footsteps, glass breaking, your mother screaming.

You hide in the upstairs bathroom with a knife in your shaking hands, teeth chattering even though it’s summer.

It lasts maybe fifteen minutes.

Your father’s men fend them off, but it doesn’t matter.

It was enough to terrify you. It was enough to remind you.

The next day, your father upgrades security.

Three new bodyguards. One for the house. One for transport. And one for you.

You meet them in the living room, seated with perfect posture while your father talks like a man offering thrones.

All three men are tall, intimidating, dressed in black.

But your eyes lock on one.

“Yunho.”

He’s taller than the others. Broader.

A scar along his jaw. Cold eyes. He doesn’t smile when he shakes your hand.

He doesn’t bow, but your father doesn’t expect him to. Not with the amount he’s paying him.

Yunho is quiet. Calculated. Efficient.

And you hate that he makes your stomach twist when he brushes past you.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You’re assigned to him full-time.

He walks you to class. He drives you to functions.

He waits outside your nail appointments.

At first you ignore him, act like he’s beneath you.

But he’s not like the others.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t leer. He just watches. Learns.

He reads your schedule. Memorizes your routine.

And he knows when you’re lying.

“You didn’t eat today,” he says once, as you collapse onto the couch after class.

“I did.”

“Don’t lie to me. You get all mean and bratty when you’re hungry.”

You don’t respond. Your heart’s beating too loud.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Weeks pass. Then months.

Yunho teaches you things your father insists you know.

How to fight. How to shoot.

How to calculate profit margins in dirty business deals.

He’s the one who holds your wrists too tightly during training — and triggers something ugly in your chest.

“Please don’t touch me like that.”

He blinks, surprised. “I barely even touched you.”

“I said don’t—”

But you’re already crying. Panicking.

Shaking like you’re twelve years old again and the lights just went out in the cellar.

He doesn’t speak. Just stares at you, jaw tight.

And for the first time since you met him, Yunho looks confused.

You lie in bed that night, unable to sleep. His voice echoes.

“I barely even touched you.”

You believe him.

You know he didn’t mean to hurt you.

But it doesn’t matter — it felt the same.

That’s what trauma does.

It tricks your body into flinching even when there’s no real danger.

You should be angry.

But all you can think about is the way his voice softened when he realized.

The way his hands stayed at his sides.

The way he didn’t run.

So, after that day, you start watching him .. differently.

How he moves.

How he never lets anyone stand behind him.

How he always glances toward the exits.

How he carries a knife inside his jacket and a burden behind his eyes.

He starts watching you too.

You feel it in the mornings, when your robe slips off your shoulder.

At parties, when you laugh too hard.

In the car, when your skirt rides up and you pretend not to notice.

He never touches you.

But you wonder what he’d feel like if he did.

You’ve had sex before. More than once. More than a few times.

But no one’s ever made you ache like this.

No one’s ever looked at you like you’re the danger.

And deep down, you know what’s happening.

Yunho isn’t just your bodyguard anymore.

He’s your weakness.

And if you’re not careful — he’s going to become your favorite sin.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

You’re not listening.

You’re pretending — nodding your head, pen twirling between your fingers, eyes narrowed like you're focused — but the truth is, you’ve heard nothing in the last five minutes.

Yunho is sitting next to you, broad shoulders leaning over your desk, fingers moving smoothly across the paper as he works through the equation.

There’s a slight crease between his brows, that little furrow he gets when he’s explaining something complex.

You’ve noticed it before.

You’ve noticed a lot of things.

Like the way his lashes fan out against his cheek when he blinks.

The way his voice drops a little when he says your name.

How his shirt stretches across his biceps when he leans forward.

And God, the way he smells — like clean soap, gunmetal, and whatever cologne he thinks you can’t recognize.

You’re so wet. You hate how easily it happens around him now.

Hate that just existing near Yunho does something to your body you can’t explain.

You shift in your seat and bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying to focus.

He glances at you.

“Are you listening?”

You blink. Swallow. Sit up straighter.

“Yeah,” you say, too quickly. “You said to isolate the variable before you cross-multiply.”

He pauses. Nods slowly. His voice stays flat.

“Good.”

He doesn’t compliment you.

He never does. Not with words.

But the slight dip of his head, the way his eyes flicker to yours for a split second — it’s enough to make you warm.

You press your thighs together.

He moves to the next problem.

Keeps talking. But you’ve completely lost the thread.

Your eyes are on his hands now — the veins in his forearm, the way his fingers grip the pen, the tension in his jaw.

You don’t know why it’s happening like this today. But it’s unbearable.

You want him.

Not just the way you’ve wanted others before.

You want to see him break. You want to see him give in.

You want to ruin him like he’s been ruining you for months now — slowly, carefully, without ever touching you—

“You’re not focused.”

His voice snaps you out of it. You look up, eyes wide. Innocent.

“I am.”

He sets the pen down. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

“Y/N.”

Fuck.

He says your name like a warning.

A low, controlled rumble that hits somewhere deep in your spine.

Your stomach flips. You can’t help it — you smile. Just a little.

“What?”

He doesn’t answer.

He reaches across the desk, fingers curling around your wrist.

His grip is firm — not painful, but firm — and then he presses two fingers just beneath your palm. Against your pulse.

Your breath hitches.

“Your pulse is racing. You’re lying,” he says softly.

You stare at him. His eyes haven’t left yours. He’s still holding your wrist.

He can feel it, the way your heart is racing.

You try to pull away, but he tightens just slightly, trying to get you to answer.

It’s too much.

It’s too fast.

And suddenly the panic rises in your throat like it always does — thick, hot, choking.

“Stop. Stop—stop—”

You yank your hand away, voice sharp.

You flinch. Back away.

You don’t even realize how much until the chair scrapes.

Yunho’s eyes widen just slightly. His mouth opens — no sound comes out at first. Then:

“Why do you do that?”

He’s not angry. He’s confused. Frustrated.

You can tell he’s trying to keep his voice calm.

“I wasn’t even gripping your wrist that hard.”

You look away. You can’t answer.

You don’t know how to explain that it wasn’t about his grip — it was the moment.

The power.

The cold calculation in his eyes that wasn’t really cold at all, just misunderstood.

He looks like he wants to say more. Ask more.

You panic again — but this time, in a softer way.

A different kind of defense.

You press the intercom button beside your bed.

“Can someone bring me some fruit?” you say, loud enough to cover the silence in the room. “Strawberries. Pineapple. Mango if it’s ripe.”

Yunho says nothing. His jaw is tight. His gaze lingers, still trying to solve you like you’re some equation he can’t balance.

A few minutes later, the maid knocks gently and delivers a silver tray with glass bowls of perfectly cut fruit.

You thank her and pick up a piece of pineapple. Slowly. Casually.

You take a bite.

The juice hits your tongue — bright, sharp, cold.

You close your lips around the rest of it.

Suck a little harder than you need to.

Yunho doesn’t move. But you see it.

The way his eyes flicker.

The way his hand curls slightly on the desk.

Like he’s forcing himself not to react.

You smile. You’re good at this. Too good.

You eat another piece. Then another.

“Are we done with math?” you ask, like nothing happened.

He exhales through his nose.

Picks up the pen again. Opens his mouth.

Begins to explain another problem, voice tight.

You lean in.

Slowly. Casually. Your knees brush under the desk.

Your arm slides across the wood, your hand almost touching his.

He pauses for a second. Then continues.

You shift closer. Until your lips are barely a breath away from his cheek.

You don’t warn him.

You just kiss him.

It’s soft. Barely there. Just enough to taste him.

Just enough to feel the heat of his skin.

And he—

He doesn’t kiss you back.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t shove you away. Just… stillness.

And then?

He turns back to the paper.

“You missed a step in problem six,” he says flatly. “Try again.”

You blink. Stare at him.

He keeps going. As if you didn’t just kiss him.

As if nothing happened at all.

You start giggling. You can’t help it.

It bubbles up in your throat like champagne — soft, dangerous, mocking.

“Seriously?” you say. “That’s all I get?”

Yunho glances up at you, barely.

“You’re not ready for what you think you want.”

Then he keeps going.

Like he didn’t just set your body on fire and walk away from the flame.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Every time you sit down with Yunho for homework, it starts the same way — a notebook, a sharp pencil, a half-done assignment.

You pretend to care. You chew your lip.

You lean in just a little too close when he starts explaining anything with numbers.

You watch him more than you listen. The slope of his neck.

The flick of his pen. The way his lips part slightly when he's thinking.

Sometimes you reach for your water just to give your mouth something to do.

Sometimes you don't even try to hide it — you just stare.

You kiss him now. Every time.

Like clockwork.

Soft. Deliberate. A single brush of lips to cheek.

To his jaw. To the corner of his mouth. Never long. Never messy.

And he never stops you.

But he never kisses you back, either.

He just… allows it.

Like it’s something he’s decided not to fight.

Something he can’t justify punishing. Something that wouldn’t even be worth the argument.

You don’t know what to make of it.

Every other guy you’ve known wanted to own you within ten minutes.

They complimented you like they were afraid you’d vanish.

Reached for your waist. Called you princess.

Fawned. Worshipped. Fell.

But Yunho?

Yunho just lets you.

And the worst part? It makes you want him even more.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Tonight, you’re sprawled on your stomach across your bed, chin propped in one hand, eyes fixed on the way Yunho’s legs are planted wide in the chair beside you.

He’s explaining an economics worksheet — something about interest, probably — and you haven’t heard a single word.

You watch his fingers. His hands.

The vein in his forearm.

You imagine them around your throat. Not rough. Just… firm. Controlled.

Like the way he held your wrist that day.

“Y/N,” he says suddenly, glancing up. “What did I just say?”

You blink. Innocent smile.

“Something about compound debt.”

“Compound interest. Jesus.”

You giggle. Flip onto your side.

Your skirt rides up a little. His jaw ticks.

He looks away. Of course he does.

“You’re distracted again,” he mutters.

“You’re distracting.”

He doesn’t respond to that.

You sit up on your elbows, tilt your head.

“You know I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Don’t.”

“But you’ll let me anyway.”

He exhales through his nose. Doesn’t argue.

So you lean forward. Again. Soft, slow.

You kiss the edge of his jaw, just beneath his cheekbone.

You linger there a moment longer than usual. You feel him tense.

He doesn’t move.

You lean back. Watch him carefully.

He says nothing.

Just circles something on your paper and keeps explaining the formula like you didn’t just kiss him.

Like it didn’t make his pulse jump.

You smile. You smirk, even.

Lean back on your arms, heart pounding. You feel drunk and you haven’t had a drop.

"You're the only guy that I’ve met who like … doesn’t want me.”

“Not true,” he says instantly.

You freeze.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you, but his jaw tightens.

He flips to the next page like he didn’t just crack his own armor.

“Then why don’t you kiss me back?” you whisper.

The silence is thick. Heavy. His pen stops moving.

“Because I can’t afford to want you. Focus, Y/N.”

There it is.

You stare at him. You blink.

You want to scream. Cry. Crawl into his lap.

Make him take it back. Make him want you out loud.

But you don’t.

You just whisper:

“Then stop letting me kiss you.”

He looks at you, finally.

Eyes dark. Hungry. But still unreadable.

“You’re the one who keeps doing it.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t touch you.

He just sits there, still steady as stone, pretending like he hasn’t imagined dragging you onto his lap and bending you over the fucking desk.

You press your thighs together, hard.

“Fine,” you lie. “I won’t kiss you anymore.”

He just nods. Goes back to the worksheet.

Like he believes you.

Like he’s not begging you to prove yourself wrong.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

For the past two weeks, you’ve barely looked at him.

He still shows up like always — same time, same chair, same notebook.

But you don’t flirt. You don’t touch. You don’t kiss him.

You pretend he doesn’t exist.

And it hurts.

But not as much as watching him pretend you mean nothing.

And now he’s here again, explaining something about supply curves, his voice low and steady like he doesn’t feel the shift in the air.

Like he doesn’t notice the way you’re gripping your pencil like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the room.

But you do.

You feel everything.

And tonight, it breaks.

“Why don’t you ever kiss me back?”

The words spill out of you like blood.

Yunho doesn’t answer.

His eyes flick up from the paper — unreadable, cool, so calm it makes your stomach twist.

“Seriously,” you say. “Why do you let me do it if you don’t want it? Do you like messing with me? Is that it?”

He blinks once. His jaw tightens.

You stand. Move toward him.

“Say something.”

“Stop Y/N. Sit down.”

“No. I’m not fucking stopping anymore.”

And before he can stop you — before you can even think — you grab his face and kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Like your life depends on it.

He doesn’t kiss you back.

He just sits there.

Still. Frozen. A statue beneath your lips.

You rip away from him, throat burning.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whisper, voice shaking. “Why are you doing this to me? Why do you do this to me?”

He doesn’t look at you. He looks… up.

Into the corner of the room.

“What?”

Your voice is quieter now.

You follow his gaze.

You hadn’t seen it before.

But it’s there.

A camera.

Small. Black. Discreet.

Pointing directly at the desk.

At you.

And at Yunho.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping back. “Oh my god.”

Your heart is pounding so hard it echoes in your ears.

“Listen, no one checks the feed unless there’s a trigger,” Yunho says quickly. “Motion sensors. Alarms. Noise thresholds. We’re fine.”

You’re not fine. You feel like you’re gonna be sick.

“He’s gonna kill me. My father’s going to kill me—”

“Shhh,” Yunho says, grabbing your wrist.

“There’s a blind spot. Over there. Near your bed. Come on.”

You don’t know why you listen. Maybe it’s fear.

Maybe it’s him.

But you let him pull you — away from the desk, away from the camera — until you’re standing near your headboard, half-panicked, half-breathless.

“He’ll kill me. He’ll kill you—”

“Alright then let’s make it worth it.”

Yunho’s voice is low. Controlled. Deadly calm.

And then he’s pulling off his jacket.

Then his shirt.

And you— you stop breathing.

Because you’ve imagined it, of course you have.

You’ve dreamed about it.

Touched yourself to the idea of it.

But nothing prepared you for the reality of how he looks shirtless — lean and hard, all abs and muscle and quiet danger.

Veins in his forearms. That scar near his ribs. Jesus.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

“What?” he says flatly, tossing his shirt on your floor. “Don’t you wanna fuck me before I get fired?”

“You’re not getting fired—”

“Yes I am.”

“No— no, I won’t let him—”

He laughs at you.

Like you’re a child. Like you’re stupid. Like you just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“God,” he mutters, stepping closer. “You really are a dumb little thing, aren’t you?”

The breath knocks out of your lungs.

“What, you think you run this house? You think you can protect me?”

“You think you’re special just ‘cause I let you kiss me? You’re not.”

His voice is low. Cruel. Each word sharper than the last.

You open your mouth to respond— but he grabs your jaw, tilts your face up, and—

He kisses you.

Your back hits the wall behind your bed and he’s on you — pressing into your body, dragging your mouth open, tasting every inch like he’s starving.

You gasp into it.

He grabs your hips. Lifts you. Carries you effortlessly to the bed and drops you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing.

���This what you wanted?” he growls, crawling on top of you. “This what you’ve been begging for?”

You nod. Breathless. Dizzy.

“Say it.”

“Y-Yes—”

“Louder.”

“Yes. Fuck, Yunho— I wanted this, I want you—”

He kisses you again. Rougher. Dirtier. His hand sliding beneath your skirt, gripping your thigh like he owns it.

Your head spins. Your heart races. You’ve never felt so scared and so wanted in your life.

“So what now?” he says. “You wanna keep pretending this is just homework?”

“Fuck no.”

His lips twist into a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he grabs you.

You gasp as he yanks you forward by your waist, mouth crushing against yours. It’s bruising—needy—nothing like the delicate kisses you’ve been sneaking past his defenses.

His hands are all over you, under your top, squeezing your tits through your bra, palming your ass like it’s his.

And you let him. You want him.

“Fucking finally,” you moan against his lips.

He pulls away, hand wrapping around your throat, not tight—yet.

“You like this?” he growls.

“Fuck yes.”

“You want me to ruin you, princess?”

“Yes, yes—fuck, please—”

He tightens his grip, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your legs shake.

He drags your panties down in one rough motion and doesn’t even bother taking your shirt off — just pushes it up so your tits bounce out, then drops to his knees between your legs.

You’re soaked.

He doesn’t even tease—just spits on your pussy and slides two thick fingers in, curling them until you cry out.

“Damn,” he mutters, watching you writhe. “You this wet just from a kiss?”

“For you,” you whimper. “Only for you.”

He curses and stands, unbuckling his belt, eyes never leaving yours.

His cock’s thick, already hard, and your stomach clenches at the sight of it.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he says. “You sure?”

You nod frantically. “Yunho, please.”

The first thrust knocks the air out of you.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust—just starts pounding into you, fast and brutal, one hand on your hip, the other back on your throat.

You moan loud, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You’re so fucking spoiled,” he pants, hips snapping harder. “Waving your pussy around like a prize. You don’t even know what to do with it.”

“Teach me,” you beg.

He growls something filthy and leans down, fucking you even deeper now, forehead pressed to yours.

His breath is hot.

Your orgasm creeps up fast—dangerously fast—and when he chokes you harder, your mouth falls open.

“Cum,” he commands.

And you do, with a sob, cunt tightening so hard he groans and pulls out just in time, stroking himself fast until he comes across your belly in messy, hot streaks.

There’s silence.

Your chest heaves.

He tucks himself back in without a word.

You blink up at him, dazed. “...Will you be back tomorrow?”

Yunho pauses at the door.

“Maybe,” he says flatly, but then catches your eyes—wet, vulnerable, confused—and his expression softens. Just a little.

He walks back to the bed, brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, and kisses it gently. “Don’t cry,” he says with a teasing smirk. “You’ll mess up your pretty face.”

Then he’s gone.

Like nothing happened.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You wake up sticky and sore.

Your thighs ache. Your neck too. You don’t even know what time it is, only that the sun is harsh and the silk sheets feel colder without him in them.

You blink a few times at the ceiling, dazed—still breathless from last night.

Like you’re floating in it, replaying every second.

The way he touched you. Fucked you. The way he left.

And maybe… maybe he’ll come back.

You’re still clinging to that hope when the yelling starts.

Deep. Male. Explosive.

It’s not just yelling — its screaming, something crashing downstairs.

You can hear a maid sobbing and pleading.

Your bedroom door swings open without knocking this time.

The maid is pale, mascara running, eyes darting behind her like she’s being followed.

“Out,” you snap, pulling the blanket to your chest. “I’m not—”

“Your father needs you,” she blurts out, eyes wide and glossy. “Now.”

Everything inside you goes still.

You move fast—toss on whatever’s near, a hoodie and shorts, no time for anything else—and follow the sound.

Dread wraps around your spine with every step.

The doors to his office are cracked open.

You walk into your father’s office and it’s dark—no light except the eerie red glow of the security monitors in the corner.

Yunho is there. Standing by the desk.

Hands behind his back and head down like he’s being .. disciplined.

Then your father appears.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares at you for an uncomfortably long time. Then—

SLAM.

He walks toward you, slowly, like a predator, like he’s enjoying this too much.

You open your mouth, but he’s too fast—his hand wraps around your neck and slams you up against the nearest wall.

“You disgusting little slut,” he growls, his mouth inches from your face.

You’re choking, panicked, trying to claw at his wrist, trying to scream, but nothing comes out.

“Think I wouldn’t find out? You think I don’t know what goes on in my own fucking house?”

Then, suddenly, he drops you. You fall to your knees coughing, vision blurry. You look up—

And Yunho is still. Still as stone. No protest. No fear. No guilt.

“He told me everything.” your father sneers.

Your gaze darts to Yunho instinctively — something in you searching, desperate, anything—but he’s still looking at the floor.

Still silent.

And then — God — you see it.

The way his lip twitches. The way his cheek lifts.

He’s laughing?

Your heart stutters.

“He said you’ve been throwing yourself at him. Touching him. Moaning in front of him like a fucking dog in heat. He said he pushed you away — again and again. That you wouldn’t stop.”

You try to stand, voice cracking.

“He’s lying — he’s lying, it wasn’t like that, We just—”

Your father cuts you off with a harsh backhand across the face. You reel.

“Dont fucking lie to me,” he hisses.

Your chest caves. “It wasn’t —”

“You think I didn’t see? The way you acted like a cheap little whore every time he walked into your room? You think I don’t watch the fucking cameras?”

You’re frozen. Trembling. “We didn’t even do anything like that. I just—I kissed him. That’s all. That’s all, dad..”

He laughs. Loud. Sharp. Mocking.

“Oh, so now it’s just a kiss? You think I’m gonna let my men look at you like that? Disrespect you in my house? You don’t get to decide what’s harmless. You don’t get to make choices. You’re my daughter.”

You recoil. “Then why’d you leave me alone with him?”

He stops. His eyes go cold. Something shifts.

He grabs the desk and slams it—papers scatter, a heavy object topples—and you jump like he shot a gun.

“He doesn’t give a shit about you!! You’re entertainment. You’re a job.”

You try to speak but your throat closes. Your mouth is dry.

His hand twitches toward his belt.

“Apologize.” His voice drops into something poisonous. “To him.”

Your heart pounds. “For what?”

He shoves a lamp off the table. It shatters.

“Just fucking do it!”

Your throat goes dry. You turn to Yunho, hating him. Hating this.

Your voice cracks.

“…I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Your father’s voice slices through the silence. “I can’t fucking hear you.”

You clench your fists. Your eyes sting.

“…I’m sorry,” you say louder. “Yunho. I’m sorry.”

You swear his eyes flick toward you for a second — just a second. Blank. Like you’re nothing.

And then your father breathes deep, nods once, and speaks.

“Effective immediately,” he says, “he’s no longer assigned to you.”

The floor drops.

You feel it in your knees, in your ribs. “What…?”

“No more Yunho,” he says, too casual. “You’ll get someone else. One of the older men.”

“No—” Your voice shakes. “No, you can’t—”

“Don’t talk back.”

Tears burn your eyes now. You can’t stop them.

“I didn’t even do anything,” you choke. “You don’t even know what he said to me—what he did—”

“Oh, now you’re gonna cry?” He throws a look of disgust your way. “You like to play the victim, huh?”

“I’m not—”

“Enough. I don’t want to hear it. He lifts a hand and starts counting on his fingers –

– “no parties. No phone. No cards. You’ll stay in this fucking house for one week. Maybe more, depending on how much more shit I find on those tapes. One week.”

You stare. “One week?”

He turns on you again, finger pointed. “Say one more word and it’s two.”

Your mouth shuts. The tears spill. You hate that he can see them. Hate that Yunho can too.

Your father waves you off like you’re an insect.

“Get the fuck out.”

You don’t hesitate. You storm out.

The hallway feels colder than usual.

You wipe your cheeks, breathing fast, heart broken and mind racing.

Yunho fucking lied.

And you don’t even know why.

But you’re gonna find out.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You haven’t left the house in days.

Not because you couldn’t — but because it felt… off. Everyone looked at you different now.

Yunho hasn’t spoken to you once.

You see him sometimes in the halls, his shoulders squared, eyes straight ahead like he’s guarding something important — just not you anymore.

His posture’s rigid, formal. Like nothing ever happened.

Like your mouth had never touched his. Like he hadn’t laughed while you were being choked against a wall.

He doesn’t even glance your way.

Which wouldn’t bother you, not really — not if everyone else didn’t start looking too long.

The older guards, the ones who used to nod politely and say Miss, now smile too slow.

Let their eyes drag down your legs.

One even said something under his breath when you passed.

“Daddy’s favorite little slut.”

You stopped walking. Whipped around.

But he just laughed and walked away.

No one says anything directly. But you can feel it.

The weight of their assumptions. Their judgment.

Their approval, even. Like your shame had made you one of them.

You’ve stopped wearing anything tight. No makeup. Hair tied back.

You stay in your room unless you have to eat, and even then, you don't go to the dining room anymore — just the kitchen, early, before anyone’s up.

The maids avoid eye contact.

Everything feels sticky. Too quiet. Like the house is watching you.

You lie on your back in bed, staring at the ceiling.

There's a camera in the corner — you know now. You know exactly where it is.

You wonder if it’s blinking. You wonder if it’s recording right now. You wonder if Yunho’s watching.

Your stomach twists.

Why did he lie?

Why did he let him say those things?

Why hasn’t he even looked at you?

And worse: why do you still want to see him?

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You keep remembering it in flashes.

His mouth on yours.

The way he never pushed you. Never pulled you closer either.

The tiny twitch in his jaw like he wanted to.

Or didn’t.

You don’t know anymore.

You thought maybe he didn’t kiss you back because he was good.

Respectful. Loyal. Different.

But maybe he wasn’t because he fucked you.

Maybe he liked that your father found out. Maybe he liked watching you squirm under your father’s rage.

Maybe he wanted to hurt you.

And now?

Now the guards still joke when you walk by. One of them winked at you today.

You don’t even know their names.

You don’t want to eat. You don’t want to sleep.

And yet when you do, your dreams are of Yunho again.

Standing at the end of your bed. Silent. Smirking.

And then gone.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You sneak down in a hoodie and socks, hoping no one’s around.

But one of the older guards — Dominic, maybe? — is already there, leaning against the counter, sipping coffee like he belongs there.

He looks at you, long and slow.

“Didn’t expect to see you down here. Still on house arrest, right?”

You grab a glass, don’t answer.

“No need to be shy now,” he says, voice low.

“We’ve all seen what you’re into.”

You freeze. Glass halfway full. Your throat closes. You can’t even look at him.

He chuckles.

“Bet he liked it, too. That one’s quiet, but he’s not stupid.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, backing up.

“Or what? You’ll whine about it?”

He steps forward. “You’re not special anymore. You made yourself real clear.”

Your blood runs cold.

“Leave me the fuck alone.”

And just like that—he does. He shrugs, raises his hands, still grinning.

“Relax. Just teasing.”

You run back upstairs without your glass. Slam your door. Lock it.

You sit at your vanity. Eyes hollow. Lips dry. You haven’t cried yet. You don’t know why.

You keep watching the hallway through the crack in your door.

You keep waiting for Yunho.

Not to save you.

But to explain.

To say anything.

But he doesn’t come.

And you’re starting to wonder if he ever will.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The week has passed. The house feels different. Cold. Quieter. No one talks to you unless necessary. The maids walk around you like you're a live wire. The older guards you used to ignore?

Their eyes still trail your legs when you leave a room. And you hate it.

They think you're a whore.

Yunho’s nowhere. Not on patrol. Not in the halls. Not outside your door. And no one dares tell you where he’s been reassigned. You’re furious. You’re humiliated. You’re obsessed.

Not with what happened—but with how he left you.

Did he lie to your father? Did he do it to protect himself? Or was it to hurt you? You can’t figure it out. You go over it in your head like a ritual. The way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. Rough. Like he needed it.

And then he just… left.

When the maid knocks and says your father wants to see you, your stomach doesn’t even twist anymore.

You just get up. Wordless. Numb.

You’ve been like that all week — quiet, obedient, blank.

You walk down the long hallway barefoot, still in sleep shorts and one of your oversized sweaters.

No makeup. No jewelry. The cameras blink when you pass.

You knock.

“Come in.”

His voice is calm.

You step in and it’s exactly like it always is: dim, stuffy, suffocating.

He’s behind the desk, a drink already in hand, phone face-down beside him. He doesn’t look angry.

He looks... pleased.

“Sit.”

You do.

He eyes you carefully — the bags under your eyes, the limpness in your posture.

“So,” he says slowly, swirling the drink. “Have we learned our lesson?”

You don’t answer.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” you say softly.

“Good girl.”

His smile grows, sharp and thin. “I knew you weren’t stupid.”

He leans back in his chair, relaxed.

“I’ve decided your privileges can come back. Credit cards, shopping, parties, all of it. Your friends miss you, I’m sure. Or maybe you’ve finally figured out which ones actually do.”

You stare at the floor.

He gets up, comes around the desk, and sits on the edge in front of you. Fingers reach out and lift your chin gently.

“You’re still my daughter. You’re still the future of this family.”

“I’m hard on you because I love you. You understand that, don’t you?”

You nod slowly. It’s not even worth pretending to argue. You just want this to be over.

He kisses your forehead like everything is fine.

“Make good choices this time, sweetheart. You’ve made enough of a mess already. Here’s your phone.”

You say thank you. Like you’re supposed to.

“You can go.”

You get up. Your legs feel hollow. But there’s a strange flicker inside you — something curling awake again. You shut the door behind you and finally exhale.

The silence in the house feels different now. Less like a prison. More like a stage.

You glance at your phone. Messages piling up from friends who noticed you dropped off the earth. Invitations. Selfies. Gossip.

A girl named Rina saying she’s bored and someone just got a new rooftop suite.

You toss your phone onto the bed and pace.

A week. A whole week of silence, shame, paranoia.

And he thinks he broke you?

No.

You're not staying quiet anymore. You’ve been locked in this house like a ghost and it’s time to remind them all who you are.

So you’re going to throw a party. Not just any party — the party. Loud. Indulgent. Shameless.

Let them talk.

Let them watch.

Let them wonder.

You dig out your old group chat. Post a single message:

🎉 back. friday night. mansion. theme: don’t tell daddy. bring your vices.

Within five minutes, replies are flooding in. Excitement. Curiosity. Jealousy.

You text a caterer. A DJ. A guy who owes you a favor for bailing him out last year.

You text your favorite designer. Something short. Something reckless. Something that makes you feel untouchable again.

You pour a glass of wine and lean on the balcony, looking down at the backyard.

The moon is out. The pool is quiet. But not for long.

Your reputation might be dirty now.

Fine.

You’ll make it dirtier.

You’ll drown in it.

And maybe — just maybe — he’ll look at you again.

Because Yunho hasn’t said a word.

And you want him to suffer, too.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Your house is glowing. Music spills out of the windows. Glasses clink. Guests laugh. Hands touch.

And you?

You’re stunning. Makeup perfect. Dress tight. Every step calculated.

You sip wine like it’s vengeance. You haven’t seen Yunho all night but you feel him.

And finally—there he is.

Leaning against the far wall. Black shirt. Cold stare.

Watching you dance. Watching other men flirt with you. Watching your fingers graze arms and chests and shoulders.

Unreadable.

And then—his jaw tightens. His gaze darkens. He pushes off the wall.

He cuts across the room like a shadow and doesn’t say a word. Just grabs your arm gently, firmly—

—and leads you through the crowd. Past the laughter. Past the lights. Onto the balcony. Into the quiet night air.

The music muffles. The sky stretches dark above.

You’re drunk. Swaying a little.

“Let go,” you slur, tugging at his hand. “What, you miss me now?”

He says nothing.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you say, poking his chest. “You kissed me. You lied about me. Then — then fucked me and disappeared. And now—now you’re dragging me out here like—like—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You freeze.

Yunho’s eyes lock on yours, hard and low.

“I told him what I had to. Because if I hadn’t, he would’ve pulled a gun on me. Or you. Or both. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it.”

You blink.

“I didn’t lie about you. I lied for you.”

You stare at him. Mouth dry. He steps closer.

You square your shoulders, defiant. "You’re a coward."

He huffs a dark laugh. "Right. And you’re just some innocent little princess? You’re a fucking idiot."

Your breath catches.

"You think I’m here because I want to be?" He steps in closer. “You’re just some spoiled little brat who thinks sex means something.”

"Then why the fuck are you still here?" you snap, eyes glassy. "You’re the one who brought me out here like some jealous asshole—"

“I brought you out here,” he growls, “because watching you grind on every low-life in that room made me want to break something.”

"You don’t get to be mad. You’re the one who lied—”

“I protected you, you fucking slut.”

Your mouth falls open. His words hit like a slap.

“You let me fuck you and now you think you’re special? You’re just bored. Horny. Desperate for attention. That’s all you’ve ever been.”

You glare at him, fury in your throat, “Fuck you.”

You lunge at him, fists curled, but he grabs your wrist mid-swing and slams you back against the wall.

You gasp.

His hand wraps around your jaw, tight. “Say it again.”

You glare at him, fury in your throat. "I'll fucking — I’ll tell my father you touched me.”

A silence. Long. Heavy.

Then: “Then tell him.”

He leans in. “Tell him how you moaned under me. Tell him how you begged for more. Tell him you cummed so hard you cried.”

You’re breathing hard now. Your whole body shaking.

"Tell him how his perfect little daughter opened her legs for a nobody guard she barely fucking knows.”

And then he kisses you. Violent. Possessive.

His mouth crashing into yours like punishment.

You push at his chest, but it only makes him growl deeper, push in harder, pin you tighter.

When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen. Your eyes wet.

You glare up at him. "I fucking hate you."

He smirks. “No, baby. You want me. That’s worse.”

And he kisses you again.

“Miss—?”

The balcony door creaks open.

You freeze.

Yunho stiffens, lips still brushing yours, breath hot against your mouth.

His hand releases you slowly—too slowly—as you both turn toward the voice.

It’s Rosa. The maid. One of the newer ones, barely a year into her contract.

And she’s standing in the open doorway, staring.

Mouth parted. Eyes wide.

She’s seen everything—your smeared lipstick, Yunho’s hands still at your waist, the panic flaring behind your eyes.

Her voice wavers. “Someone’s—someone’s asking for you inside. I—I didn’t know you were—”

“Don’t.” You step forward, shaky, eyes begging. “Please, Rosa, don’t say anything.”

She blinks at you. Then at Yunho. Her gaze hardens slightly.

“Please,” you whisper again. “He—he can’t know. No one can know.”

Yunho stays silent. He doesn’t try to explain.

Doesn’t even look remorseful. Just stands there behind you like he owns your body and doesn’t care who sees it.

Rosa’s hands are trembling. “It’s—” her voice drops. “It’s Mr. Navarro.”

Your stomach drops.

Your father’s rival. A man you weren’t even aware had been invited to the party.

Yunho’s voice is low behind you. “You shouldn’t talk to him.”

You don’t even turn around. “I have to.”

“No,” he says. Firm. Final.

Rosa still hasn’t moved.

She’s frozen in place, watching like she’s witnessing something she shouldn’t—again.

You grab her hand. “Please. If you tell anyone about this…”

Rosa’s eyes flick to Yunho, then back to you. And something in her expression softens. She nods. Once. Tight.

“I’ll say you were in the bathroom.”

And then she’s gone. The door clicks shut behind her.

Silence again.

Your hands go to your face, shaky. “Oh my god…”

Yunho finally speaks. “Get rid of him.”

You turn on him, raw. “Who?”

“Navarro.”

“I can’t just get rid of him—”

“You’re not hearing me.” Yunho steps in again. “You don’t talk to him. You don’t look at him. You stay the fuck away from him.”

You blink at him. “.. I can't .. he’s .. I’m supposed to marry him to end the rivalry."

His eyes cut into you. Dark. Sharp.

“Men like him don’t want your last name,” Yunho says. “They just want your blood.”

You don’t respond.

You just walk out.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The party’s pulse is different now.

You feel it the second you walk back inside — like the air’s gone heavier, like every laugh and clink of glass is covering something that doesn’t want to be seen.

And then you see him.

Navarro.

Leaning against the bar like he owns the place. Black suit, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, a gold ring glinting on his finger as he swirls his drink.

He’s talking to one of your father’s men, but his eyes cut toward you the moment you step in.

He’s been waiting for you.

You steel yourself.

You’re good at this — at performing.

So you fix your hair, adjust your dress, and cross the room slowly, every step rehearsed in your mind.

But when you get close, that smile of his curls in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Ah,” Navarro says, lifting his glass slightly. “The princess finally emerges.”

You keep your voice smooth. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He watches you closely. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“I forget many things,” you reply sweetly. “Not people.”

Navarro chuckles, deep and amused. “Is that so?”

He motions to the seat beside him.

You hesitate.

Somewhere behind you, you feel Yunho watching.

Like a heat against your back. But when you glance over your shoulder—he isn’t there.

Not yet.

So you sit.

Navarro doesn’t waste time.

“I heard you’ve been… restless lately.”

Your eyes flick to him, wary. “From who?”

He shrugs. “Does it matter? Word travels.”

You swallow. “What kind of word?”

He leans in, just slightly. “That the golden daughter of—” he says your father’s name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, — has been reckless — little whispers about your behavior. Late nights. Missing clothes. Boys getting reassigned.”

Your stomach flips.

You don’t answer.

He studies your face. “Your father says it’s under control.”

You lift your chin. “It is.”

His stare flickers downward—slow—then back up again. “Hm. I’m not so sure.”

You shift in your seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” Navarro tilts his head. “Throwing a party a week after being locked in the house for ‘disciplinary reasons’? That’s a bold move.”

You clench your jaw.

He leans closer still. ��I’m impressed.”

You don’t respond.

“But you should be careful,” he continues, voice low now, like a secret being slid across a table. “Some men in your father’s position might take a disobedient daughter and clip her wings. Others… might offer her new ones.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t look at him. Not directly.

“Are you offering me something?”

“Me?” Navarro smirks. “I’m just drinking your liquor and admiring the view.”

You stand.

But he catches your wrist—lightly, not enough to cause alarm, but enough.

You flinch.

His voice turns cruelly amused. “Do you know how many people saw?”

“Saw what?”

“You know what.”

You can’t speak.

“You’re a ticking bomb,” he murmurs. “And I’m very, very curious to see who you take out when you go off.”

You swallow hard.

Behind you, you sense movement. You glance subtly—

Yunho.

He’s moved closer. His posture rigid, his jaw tight. Watching Navarro now with something lethal behind his eyes.

Navarro notices, too.

He smiles wider.

And then turns to you again, amused. “He follows you like a fucking dog, doesn’t he?”

Your heart pounds.

“I’d have broken him of that already,” Navarro says. “If you were mine.”

“Be careful, princesa,” he says, gaze sharp now. “The wolves in this room don’t just bite. They mark.”

You yank your wrist back, heart hammering. “Enjoy the party,” you say.

And you walk off—fast, heels clicking against marble, not daring to look behind you because your skin still burns where he touched you, and your mind is spinning, and—

Yunho’s waiting for you at the end of the hall.

Silent. Hands in his pockets. Watching you.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You storm up to him, breath catching, mascara smudged from how hard you wiped your eyes.

“You told him,” you hiss.

Yunho doesn’t blink. “Told who what?”

“Navarro,” you snap. “He knows. About us.”

His jaw flexes. “There is no us.”

It feels like a slap. Your throat tightens so fast it burns. “Don’t do that—don’t fucking do that, Yunho, not now.”

He shrugs, infuriatingly calm. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to stop acting like I made it all up!” you cry. “You kissed me. You touched me. You looked at me like—like I mattered.”

Yunho stares at you like you’ve grown two heads. “You think that meant something?”

You stumble a step back, chest rising fast.

“You—” your voice catches. “You’re lying.”

He scoffs.

He lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “You’ve been acting reckless. Of course people are gonna start talking.”

“Don’t fucking do that,” you hiss, chest heaving. “Don’t twist this around on me.”

“You’re just bored. Lonely. Daddy doesn’t love you enough so now you want me to pretend I do.”

Your stomach lurches.

“You think this is some epic love story?” he scoffs. “It’s pathetic.”

You flinch.

“I like you,” you whisper, like maybe if you say it soft enough, it won’t sound so small. “Yunho, I like you. I’ve liked you for so long, I—”

“No,” he cuts in. “You like being wanted. That’s not the same thing. You’re playing with me.”

“I’m not playing with you,” you plead, stumbling closer. “We’ve known each other for almost a year—please, Yunho, I’ve never felt this way before, I swear I haven’t—”

“Stop.”

“I can’t,” you breathe, eyes glassy. “I can’t. I think about you all the time, I can’t stop, I—I want you, I need you to say you want me too, please, just say it, just say it—”

Your body is shaking. Completely wrecked.

Yunho’s expression doesn’t change.

“Please,” you whisper. “Say it.”

He stares down at you like he doesn’t even recognize you. Like you’ve turned into something disgusting in front of him.

“Just — Stop..”

“Not until you say it.”

“There’s nothing to say,” he replies, voice clipped. “I don’t want you. I never did.”

You blink hard, tears spilling hot and fast.

“You’re lying,” you whisper.

Yunho steps back. Like the sight of you makes him sick. “You’re an assignment, a job. Nothing more.”

You just stay there. On your knees. Numb. Humiliated.

“You’re not special,” he says coldly. “You’re just good at pretending you are.”

You shake your head. “Yunho —”

But he’s already turning.

Already walking away.

And you can’t breathe.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

That morning, the sun rises without you.

You don’t move.

Your face is swollen, your throat feels like sandpaper, and your eyes sting every time you blink.

The room still smells faintly of last night’s perfume, champagne, cigarette smoke clinging to your skin like a bruise.

You’d crawled back into bed after the party and haven’t moved since.

The silk sheets are damp where you cried yourself to sleep.

And then kept crying long after you woke up again.

A soft knock pulls you halfway out of it.

“Miss?”

You flinch.

It’s the maid. The same one from the hallway.

You curl tighter into the blankets. Hide your face in the pillow.

She steps inside carefully, voice gentler now. “I… I brought fresh water. And toast. You didn’t come down for breakfast.”

You can’t speak.

You try.

But your voice catches in your throat, a broken rasp of nothing.

You suck in a breath and swallow it back down.

She hesitates. “Your father’s asking for you.”

You still can’t talk. Can’t even turn your face toward her.

Your lip trembles. You manage to whisper, barely:

“Tell him I don’t feel well.”

She pauses. Then: “Okay.”

Quiet footsteps.

Then she’s gone.

And you cry again.

Hours pass.

You don’t eat the toast. You don’t touch the water. You don’t get up to pee.

Until—

The door slams open.

Light floods in.

“Get the fuck up.”

Your father.

He storms in like a goddamn earthquake.

Pulls open the curtains with one sharp jerk, sunlight stabbing through the blackout drapes.

“What is this?” he snaps. “Some kind of performance art?”

You don’t move.

“Don’t play dead. I said, get up.”

When you don’t, he storms across the room and rips the blankets off you.

Then stops.

Because he sees your face.

Your red, puffy, hollow-eyed, ruined face.

You flinch at the sudden chill, arms curling around yourself like armor.

He stares at you for a long second.

Then: “…What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You don’t answer.

“I said, what the fuck is—”

“Nothing,” you whisper hoarsely.

He exhales sharply. “No. No, fuck that. Tell me.”

Silence.

Then he narrows his eyes.

“This isn’t about Yunho, is it?”

Your breath catches.

But you don’t answer.

Not even a twitch.

He swears under his breath. Runs a hand through his hair. Paces for a beat like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Then, surprisingly, his voice lowers.

Still sharp. Still rough. But not… angry.

Not this time.

“You let people get under your skin too easy,” he mutters. “You wanna survive in this world, you better toughen the fuck up.”

You swallow hard. Tears well again. Your face crumples.

“Don’t cry,” he sighs. “Jesus Christ—stop that. Stop it, c’mon…”

You bury your face in the pillow, sobbing harder.

Ugly, shaking sobs that rip straight out of your chest.

He groans. “Fuck’s sake…”

Then his voice softens again. Just slightly.

“…You want something? Huh? Come on. I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

You sniff.

Lift your head an inch.

“…Anything I want?”

“Yes,” he says, exasperated, “anything.”

You blink at him.

A beat of silence.

Then:

“…Even if it’s stupid?”

He sighs again. “Everything you want is stupid. Doesn’t mean you can’t have it.”

Your lip trembles.

And somehow, that’s worse.

That he means it.

That his version of love is giving you the world while still making you feel like you never deserved it.

He grabs his phone. “You want a bag? A car? A vacation? Tell me.”

But all you want is Yunho.

And you’ll probably never admit it.

"I wanna spend time with you," you mumble, voice hoarse.

He blinks. “What?”

You look down, eyes burning again, whispering, “I.. wanna go with you. Spend time. Like we used to…”

A silence drags.

You chance a glance up.

He’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head.

Then—he scoffs, shakes his head like he’s disgusted, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the sneer.

“You wanna go shopping. With me,” he repeats, like the idea alone is offensive. “Jesus Christ. You’ve really lost it.”

You wipe your eyes again, starting to regret saying anything. You turn your face away.

But then he mutters, “Fine.”

You look at him. He avoids your eyes.

“You wanna come? Then come. You’ve got fifteen minutes to clean yourself up. I’m not walking into Dior with a daughter who looks like she got hit by a truck full of feelings.”

You almost laugh—almost—but it turns into a sob as you nod quickly, scrambling off the bed, heart thudding.

“And don’t make me wait,” he says over his shoulder. “You want my time? Earn it.”

But he waits in the hallway.

You move on autopilot at first—bathroom light harsh, your reflection worse.

Puffy eyes, red nose, lips chewed raw from nerves. But you force yourself through it.

You brush your teeth, rinse with cold water, press a towel to your face until the heat of crying fades.

Your fingers tremble while you fix your hair—taming it into something soft, something passable.

You pick out a cute outfit, something flattering but not too loud. Something he won’t comment on. Something safe.

Then mascara. Lip gloss. A spritz of perfume at your wrists. You check the mirror again—still a bit hollow, but alive.

Presentable. The kind of daughter he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with. Maybe.

You slip on sandals, grab your phone, and head to the door before you can second guess yourself.

He's still there. Standing in the hallway with his phone in one hand, sunglasses in the other, suit sharp, jaw tense.

His eyes flick to you. Up. Down.

A pause.

Then: “Better.”

And he turns and starts walking.

You follow.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Masterlist Part 2

this wouldve been 20k words if tumblr didnt have that fuckass 1000 word block

[nayiana0]

velvet violence not coming out anytime soon i’m on a fucking boat and i miss my computer AND IDK WHERE TO GO FROM HERE ??!!!???????!!??????!

[nayiana0]

nearly 2k notes on “keep talking ??!!” LMAO thank u guys i was nnotttt expecting this be prepared for future fire posts like tht one 🔥🔥🔥🔥

[nayiana0]

It’s July 20 and no velvet violence😢

out now 🤭

[nayiana0]

"Velvet Violence" II

san is all sharp edges and rough kisses, possessive hands and dangerous moods.

he fights for you, hurts for you. hurts you. and you? you stay.

but the night he brings you to that hidden, smoke-filled room... someone else is watching. mingi, quiet, calculating, dangerous in a different way. he looks at you like he already knows how this ends. now you're caught between the boy who owns you - and the one who wants to steal you.

wc : 10k

i cannot stress this enough, please read with care. this story does and WILL continue to contain sensitive and potentially triggering material.

tags : toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, possessive behavior/ jealousy, verbal arguments, emotional tension, alcohol usage, mentions of physical violence/assault (off-screen), cigarettes/smoking indoors, implied past trauma/bullying, power imbalances, possessive & obsessive love themes, gang-adjacent / criminal underworld setting, lots of vague language, love triangle.

genre : smut (eventual..) dark romance, gangster au, angst.

a/n : went to the ateez concert (life-changing, obviously) and finally back on here after a bit—feels like it’s been forever lol. excited to start sharing the new chapters soon, but for now, just enjoy this one. hopefully theres no mistakes!!

"Wrong Place"

Your eyes peel open to light that cuts too sharp across the room.

Everything’s… so.. hazy.

Muted, like sound underwater.

You blink, slow and sluggish, and the ceiling above you is unfamiliar — high, off-white, faint water stain in the corner. 

A fan spins overhead, lazy. Uneven. One of the blades squeaks every time it completes a turn.

Your body’s warm. Trapped, almost. Heavy with heat that isn't yours.

A blanket is thrown over you — scratchy, cotton-blend, smells faintly like smoke and cologne and leftover whiskey. One of your legs is tangled beneath someone else’s.

And then it hits you—

You’re on San.

His chest rises slow and steady beneath your cheek. 

His arm is slung low over your waist, fingers still curled where they must’ve landed hours ago.

You try to remember last night.

You blink hard, throat dry, stomach curling uncomfortably.

A groan escapes you. Too low to wake him.

The drinks. The music.

Mingi.

That whole scene…

You shift slightly, the pounding in your skull like a dull hammer. 

Your throat is dry, your stomach a little off. 

Something in your chest itches — like you know something happened, or almost happened, and your body clocked it even if your brain hasn’t caught up yet.

You groan again, softly.

The noise stirs San. He grunts beneath you, squints one eye open, then drops his head back.

“Fuck. .. My neck.”

You sit up a bit, the blanket falling slightly from your shoulder.

“Why am I this hungover?” you whisper.

He smirks — lazy, sleepy, smug.

“‘Cause you were tryna out-drink me.”

He shifts again, turning his face towards you.

“You were real funny last night. Slurring all over me. Clingy as hell.”

You glare weakly.

“I shouldn’t have drank that much.”

San hums. Shrugs.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You shouldn’t have.”

That’s it.

No you okay? 

No hand on your back. 

No glass of water. 

Just that smug little smirk and the knowledge that he’s gonna tease you for the rest of the day about the way you babbled in his lap last night.

You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders. 

Try to blink the fuzz out of your eyes.

Your mouth tastes awful. Your head’s still swimming.

And then—

Footsteps.

Soft, then louder. 

Closer.

You freeze.

San doesn’t move, doesn’t even look up. His arm flops over his eyes.

But something in your gut tightens.

You glance toward the sound — and stop breathing.

Mingi.

Shirtless.

Loose black joggers hanging off his hips, drawstring barely tied. 

His chest is broad and defined, abs tight, arms relaxed at his sides like he doesn’t even realize how obscene he looks this early in the morning.

But you think he does.

His chain catches the light when he steps into the room. 

His hair is slightly damp, pushed back carelessly like he towel-dried it on the way out of the bathroom. 

There’s a tattoo peeking out from under his collarbone — you can’t make out what it is. Some kind of script.

You’ve never found anyone else other than San attractive. 

But your eyes betray you.

They flick down, just for a second too long.

And Mingi notices.

He pauses just before the couch.

And his gaze drops.

To you.

Blanket still wrapped around you, hair a mess, clearly hungover, still tangled with San.

He smirks — subtle, just at the corner of his mouth — and mutters a low, “Morning,” before dropping onto the armchair across from you. Like he owns the room.

You look away. Quickly. But not quickly enough.

He lights a cigarette — smooth, one-handed — and flips on the TV without asking.

The screen blares.

San groans under his arm.

“Can you turn the fucking TV down, man? It doesn’t need to be that loud.”

Mingi doesn’t look at him. 

He just taps the volume down a few notches, then exhales a slow stream of smoke through his mouth.

Then his gaze returns to you.

Like it never left.

Your head is swimming. 

You sit up straighter, the blanket slipping, exposing one bare shoulder. You tug it back up quickly. Self-conscious.

You press your fingers to your temple, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

The nausea is worse now.

Heat behind your eyes, a metallic taste in your mouth.

You’re pretty sure San noticed nothing.

But Mingi?

His voice cuts through again, softer this time.

“You want something to drink?”

San grunts. Doesn’t move.

“No, I don’t want anything to fu—”

“I’m not talking to you, San.”

His voice is calm. Flat. Unbothered.

The interruption slices through the air.

San lowers his arm, eyes squinting.

Mingi still doesn’t look at him.

He’s watching you.

“I’m talking to your girlfriend. She looks rough,” he says. “And you’re not doing shit to help.”

The room goes still.

You feel your cheeks heat. 

Embarrassment or something else — you can’t tell. 

You hate that he’s right. Hate that he noticed. Hate that you feel seen by someone who shouldn’t be looking.

Still, you hesitate.

Then nod.

Mingi rises without another word. Walks into the kitchen — the faint hum of the fridge opening.

He comes back with an energy drink. Condensation dripping down the side.

He pops the tab for you, holds it out.

“Here. This’ll help you feel a bit better.”

Your hand shakes slightly when you take it.

You sip.

It’s cold. Sweet. Slightly carbonated. Sharp enough to sting your tongue.

It goes down easier than expected.

You take another sip.

And when you lower the can again —

He’s still watching you.

Not just curious. Not friendly.

Deliberate.

His eyes move slow over your face, to your lips, to the spot where your collarbone peeks above the blanket.

It’s not overly vulgar. It’s not even inappropriate.

It’s calculated.

Measured.

He’s letting you know he sees you.

And worse —

That he wants you to know he sees you.

San groans again.

“You gonna watch her drink it or something? Damn. Fuck off.”

Mingi still doesn’t look at him.

Just holds out his hand.

You offer the can back, ready for him to set it down.

But instead —

He drinks the rest.

Tips it straight back and drains it in one clean motion.

Your lips were just on that.

Your mouth.

And he drinks it like it’s nothing.

His throat bobs once. Twice.

Then he licks a drop from the corner of his mouth.

Smiles.

Winks.

San doesn’t see. His eyes are covered again. Half-asleep. Half-annoyed.

But you?

You saw everything.

You sit there — blanket clutched tight, your heart in your throat, your stomach flipped — and Mingi leans back, cigarette between his fingers, TV humming in the background.

Like it never happened.

Like he didn’t just steal something invisible right out of San’s hands — right in front of him.

And your silence?

It tastes like guilt.

You shift beside San, gently nudging his side.

“Hey,” you whisper, “can we go home?”

He groans dramatically. Doesn’t even open his eyes.

“I can’t even get up right now. You’re pissing me off. Wait it out. Five more minutes.”

You blink.

The words hit you square in the chest.

Five minutes that’ll turn into fifteen.

Or thirty.

You know this pattern.

Your mouth opens. But you don’t say anything.

Because if you push back now? He’ll start. He’ll twist it. Make it your fault. 

Pick apart your tone, accuse you of nagging, start raising his voice in front of Mingi — and you don’t want that.

You don’t want that.

So you just… sit back.

Blanket still around your shoulders.

Silent.

He didn’t even notice the drink Mingi handed you. The tension in the room. The way his friend — his fucking friend — just undressed you with his eyes five minutes ago.

You glance to the side, barely.

Mingi’s already looking at you.

Like he already knew San would respond like that. Like his point from last night is playing out perfectly.

Like he’s being proven right.

You remember it — the cigarette glowing faint in the dark, the way he leaned close and said:

“Y’know… a guy like him, he’s gotta be rough. Real rough. Not just with guys like me — but you too, yeah?”

“He’s not like that,” you mumbled.

Even as you said it, your voice cracked.

You knew it was a lie.

“You ever just… want to see what safe feels like?”

That part?

That part stuck with you.

Safe.

You snap back to the present.

Your mouth still feels dry, the energy drink you’d basically shared with Mingi long gone. 

Your stomach twists with hunger now — the kind that comes after a hard night of drinking and no real sleep.

You glance at the kitchen.

Then at Mingi.

He’s watching the TV now, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling in lazy tendrils.

You open your mouth — pause.

Your voice comes small.

“…Can you get me another one of those? The, uh… energy drinks.”

He doesn’t look over at first.

Then he exhales a long drag and says, calm, not cold: “Get it yourself. Top shelf in the fridge.”

Not dismissive. Not rude. Just matter-of-fact.

Like he’s offering you control, not denying you help.

You blink. “Oh… okay. Thanks.”

Your voice feels weird. Tight in your throat.

You push off the couch and walk toward the kitchen, your legs slightly unsteady.

When you open the fridge, it’s almost surprising how neat everything is.

Rows of energy drinks, all the same brand. 

Lined up like they were arranged by color, labels all facing forward. 

There’s water bottles, too. A row of protein bars. Leftover takeout, neatly stacked.

You grab another energy drink and one of the protein bars. 

Your stomach grumbles embarrassingly loud, and you wince, glancing over your shoulder.

Mingi hasn’t moved.

Still lounging back, cigarette low between his fingers, jaw tense, eyes flicking across the screen.

You head back to the couch.

San’s still in the same position, like nothing in the world matters.

You sit down next to him and wrap the blanket around your legs again. 

Pop the tab on the drink. It’s cold again. Nice. The sugar hits your tongue fast.

You open the snack bar, take a slow bite, and finally pull out your phone — just to feel normal for a second. 

Just to give your hands something to do..

San shifts beside you but doesn’t say anything. 

Doesn’t ask if you’re okay. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even look at you.

Mingi?

You don’t check if he’s watching.

But you feel it.

Like a weight on the back of your neck.

Like you’re not just being seen.

You’re being studied.

And deep down, a part of you knows…

He’s still right.

· · ─ ·����· ─ · ·

You scroll on your phone for a while.

Nothing on your screen really matters. You’re just trying to stay anchored.

Across the room, Mingi is still stretched out in that same lazy sprawl. Still shirtless. Relaxed.

Cigarette still burning slow between his fingers.

You keep catching him glancing at you out of the corner of your eye.

Eventually, you break the silence.

“So… uh..  who owns this place?”

It sounds casual — like small talk. But your voice is tight around the edges.

Mingi glances over.

“We all do.”

You blink.

“Like — you guys— ?”

“We all pitched in,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Split it between us. Down payment, monthly, the whole deal.”

A pause, then :

“… San didn’t tell you?”

That question hangs there, heavier than it should be. You don’t answer. You can feel Mingi smirk.

“He really doesn’t tell you a lot of things, huh?”

You roll your eyes and go back to scrolling, pretending the comment didn’t land. But it did

Mingi doesn’t press it — not directly. He exhales slow, a thick cloud of smoke curling around his words.

“So what, you just show up to places with him? No idea who’s who, what’s what? You don’t ever wonder how he can afford the shit he buys you?”

You shrug, but your voice gives you away.

“I mean… I guess I’ve wondered before. It’s just—he never really says anything.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Mingi mutters, and you know there's more coming. You glance back at him, curious now. Suspicious.

“So where does the money come from?”

You gesture vaguely around the place, the massive TV, the designer couch. 

“All of this. None of you have day jobs. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Mingi lets out a soft laugh. He leans back, elbows on the armrest, his cigarette trailing smoke up toward the ceiling.

“You seriously don’t know?”

You hesitate. “I have an idea.”

“Yeah? What’s the idea?”

“…You guys deal?”

He scoffs. “Sure. Sometimes.”

“… Like.. guns .. drugs?”

“Occasionally.”

Your stomach tightens. His voice doesn’t waver. Doesn’t hide.

“Money talks. Loud as hell. But San? He talks real fucking quiet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mingi shrugs like he’s innocent. “It means your man’s not who he pretends to be. You think he's got you wrapped up in this life by accident?”

You go quiet.

“San’s the kind of guy who smiles at you with one hand in your hair and the other in someone’s wallet. Or their ribs. Depends on the day.”

You swallow hard.

Mingi watches you carefully.

“But you already know that, don't you?” he murmurs. “You’ve seen it. Felt it.”

He nods toward San’s sleeping form — his back rising and falling slow.

“You just keep pretending he’s not who he is. But he is. You just don’t want to admit what that makes you.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

He leans back again, casual now — like he didn’t just gut you with those words.

“I’m just saying… there’s a difference between being protected and being owned. Some girls get that. Some don’t.”

“You talk a lot,” you say finally, voice flat.

But Mingi isn’t done.

“What’d he say when he got outta jail?”

You pause. Your stomach tightens.

“…He told me he got in a fight. It was a misunderstanding—”

Mingi hums, smirking. “That’s all?”

You stay silent again. Of course San left out important details. He always does.

Mingi leans forward now, elbows on his knees, voice low and matter-of-fact.

“It wasn’t just a fight. It was a warning.”

Your eyes flick to him. He’s not even looking at you — just watching the smoke curl upward from his cigarette, casual like he’s telling you the weather.

“That guy? The one San laid out? He just said some slick shit about you. Thought it was funny. Said something about your mouth, if I remember right. I was there.”

You go still.

“He thought San wouldn’t hear him. He did.”

You blink. “Wait—what?”

“San knew him,” Mingi says simply. “Not well. Just enough to know where to find him. Knew he wouldn’t talk to the cops. Knew he’d keep his mouth shut. All San had to do was put him in the hospital.”

You’re frozen.

Because you remember that night — the call… the cell ..

Mingi takes a drag. Blows it out slow.

“See, you think he’s protecting you. But really, he’s marking you.”

You finally look at him.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He meets your gaze now, eyes dark but steady.

“Because you deserve to know what you’re caught up in. San doesn’t keep secrets for your sake. He keeps them for his.”

You flinch like it’s instinct. Like a wound he’s pressed too hard.

He softens—just a fraction. Leans back again.

“I get it. It’s hard to walk away from someone like him. All the fire, the jealousy, the way he says your name like he owns it.”

He glances over at San’s still body, sprawled out under the blanket.

“But you ever think about why he gets so jealous?”

A pause. Then—

“It’s 'cause he knows guys like me exist.”

That stings. You look away.

Mingi doesn’t let up.

You clench your jaw.

He tilts his head at you. Calm. Collected. And so damn sure of himself.

“Maybe one day you’ll figure out the difference between being owned and being wanted.”

The silence that follows is thick. You don’t have anything to say. Not really.

Because the worst part? Some of what he’s saying — it’s already been in your head. He’s just saying it out loud.

Mingi leans back again, looking at the TV like nothing even happened. He flicks his cigarette ash and exhales.

“...But maybe if you were mine, you wouldn’t have to ask questions like that.”

You look toward him. Your mouth parts—ready to fire something back—but—

San groans beside you. His hand brushes against your leg.

He’s waking up.

Mingi gets up and leans in towards you:

“Ask him why he actually ended up in jail again later,” he whispers. “See what answer you get.”

Then he disappears down the hall.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

“Damn,” San mutters, cracking one eye open, “You’re still up? Thought you drank more than me.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at him.

Your mind’s still reeling. Mingi’s words loop through your head like smoke, thick and lingering. The mouth comment. “He marks you”.

San stretches lazily and sits up beside you, rubbing his face with a low sigh. You feel the couch shift as his arm drapes around you — the same way it always does, casual, heavy, possessive.

“I might have to stay today,” he says suddenly, like it’s no big deal. “Just remembered. We got some business to handle down here.”

You blink slowly. “… What kind of business?”

He shrugs. “The usual. Don’t worry about it.”

You turn to him this time. “No. Tell me the truth, San.”

That gets a reaction. He tenses. His eyes narrow.

“What—” he scoffs, like it’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard, “You think I’m lying to you now?”

“I didn’t say that,” you snap back, sharper than you expected. “But you clearly don’t think I can handle the truth.”

He stares at you, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. “Watch how you talk to me.”

“No,” you shoot back, sitting up straighter. “I’m tired of this, San. Tired of you dodging everything. You never tell me anything unless it’s already too late—”

“I keep you out of it for a reason — but you just have to dig, don't you?"

That shuts you up. Not because you’re afraid of him. But because that’s his way of saying I don’t care.

He slumps back, pulling out his phone like he’s done with the conversation. 

And you? You cross your arms, jaw tight, holding back every what the fuck am I doing here that’s rising in your throat.

Then—

A voice from down the hall. Loud. Female. Breaking.

“Get off me! I told you I’m done, Yunho!”

You both look up. It's Aisha — the girl from last night. 

She stumbles out of one of the side rooms, shirt half-buttoned, mascara smudged, eyes puffy and wild.

The other guy you met last night, Yunho , follows close behind, shirtless, jeans halfway on, clearly still drunk.

“Aisha, come on,” he slurs, grabbing her wrist. “Don’t make a scene —”

“You already made it, Yunho! You think just cause you got me in bed, I’m yours again?!”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Bullshit! You only talk to me when you’re high or horny. You don’t care about me.”

“I do,” he says, but it’s weak. Hollow.

She yanks her arm away. “Fuck you.”

Then she turns — eyes catching yours for a second, wide and glassy — before she storms out, slamming the door behind her.

Yunho stands there in the hallway, frozen. 

His chest rises and falls hard with every breath. 

Then he glares back toward the room, then to San.

“You ready or not?” he snaps. “We got twenty minutes.”

San nods once. 

Yunho turns to go, but not before his gaze flicks to you — unreadable, cold — then he slams the bedroom door behind him.

The silence after is eerie.

San stands. Stretches. Walks off without a word.

And for some reason, you follow.

Your bare feet touch the cool concrete stairs as you trail behind him down into a dim, narrow basement hallway. 

The walls are painted a muted grey, lined with flickering bulbs and thin smoke hanging low in the air. 

There are multiple doors — each one with a small silver number, like dorms in a crime-riddled college.

He opens one. Room 05.

And it’s… nice. Surprisingly. Cleaner than you expected. Made bed. Folded blankets. His cologne in the air. A sleek black closet.

He walks straight to it and pulls open the doors — stacks of shirts, jeans, black jackets all folded with military precision.

“You wanna change too?” he asks casually, like none of the last thirty minutes happened.

You scoff.

“I want to shower. At the apartment. In my home. With my stuff.”

He doesn’t even look back at you when he says:

“You can’t go home right now.”

You freeze.

“…Why?”

He finally turns, voice low and edged. “Because it’s not safe anymore. Don’t leave until I come back.”

That stops you cold.

“…But I’m safe here, right?” you spit, stepping forward, anger rising. 

“In this smoke-filled shit hole with broken girls screaming down the hall and Mingi saying you nearly killed a guy for talking about me?”

His jaw flexes. “Don’t talk about shit you don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand, San! ”

He flinches. Like he didn’t expect that. You’ve never yelled at him before. Not like this.

A beat passes.

Then he turns back to the closet. Calm. Detached.

“You know what? You wanna go home so bad?” he mutters. “Go ahead. Get hurt. And don’t blame me for anything.”

Your chest tightens. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Throwing it back on me. Making me feel guilty. I just—I want to feel normal again. I want to be able to ask you a question without getting attacked.”

He’s quiet.

Then —

“Oh I get it. You think Mingi is gonna give you that, huh?”

You blink. “…What? What does that have to do with—”

“I saw the way he looked at you,” San mutters darkly. “All sweet, all helpful. Like he’s any better.”

Your mouth opens — but nothing comes out. Because the answer isn’t no. You did notice. And for the first time… you didn’t hate it.

He finally turns again. Steps toward you. Slowly. Voice soft but dangerous.

“You really think he wouldn’t do worse to you, given the chance?”

You stare up at him — this version of him — angry, wounded, trying to pull you closer even as he pushes you away.

And all you can think is:

What the fuck did I get myself into?

Then he starts changing right in front of you.

Like it’s nothing.

Shirt tossed off, belt unbuckled, pants riding low on his hips. 

He moves slowly, deliberately — back turned at first, the muscles in his back flexing with each motion. 

His skin is warm under the fluorescent basement light, golden from summer and still marked with faint bruises from the fights you’ve stopped asking about.

You hate how sexy he looks.

God, you hate it.

Because even now — after everything — your body still reacts to him before your heart can tell it not to.

He turns around, bare chest rising and falling as he pulls a clean black tee from the hanger. 

But he doesn’t put it on yet. Not right away.

Instead, he steps toward you, holding the shirt loosely in one hand, his voice dipped low and smooth.

“You know I’m the only one for you, right?”

You blink, startled by the sudden declaration.

“Huh?—”

“.. Mingi,” he says, voice curling like venom. “He can’t treat you better than I can. He doesn’t know you like I do. He didn’t build this shit for you. He didn’t get locked up for you.”

He steps closer. His shirt drops to the floor.

“You think he’d take a charge like that for you?”

“San…”

“You think he’d fight every man who ever looked at you wrong?”

His hand grazes your jaw. Soft at first. Then heavier, like he’s trying to ground you — or pin you. 

Like he doesn’t want to hear your answer, just wants to feel you agree with him.

He leans in. Kisses you. Slow and claiming.

And then that voice again — deep, gravelly, threaded with lust:

“These walls…” he whispers, lips brushing yours, “soundproof. Whole basement’s wired that way. This room? This is ours now.”

His hand drops to your waist, gripping tight.

“If you ever wanna fuck without anyone hearing… this is the spot, baby. I’ve missed your touch so fuckin’ bad.”

He kisses you again — deeper this time, like he’s trying to erase every thought that isn’t him. But something’s wrong. You don’t kiss him back. Not really.

Your mouth is there, your body still, but your mind is distant.

You’re thinking of Mingi.

Of his words. And then —

Click.

The door swings open.

You both turn, still frozen in the half-intimacy of the moment.

It’s Mingi.

He stands there in the doorway, jaw tight, expression unreadable as his eyes scan the room.

Shirtless San. His hand on your waist. Your face — flushed, dazed, caught.

Mingi tilts his head slightly.

“We gotta go,” he says flatly, eyes lingering just a second too long.

The tension hangs heavy — you can feel it pulsing between them.

San doesn’t move. Just groans, annoyed. “Don’t fuckin’ rush me. I’m coming.”

Mingi doesn’t argue. 

He just rolls his eyes — tongue poking his cheek as he lets out a breathless laugh like ‘this is what I’m talking about’, then slams the door shut behind him.

The silence after feels even heavier.

You push San’s hand off you gently. He lets it fall.

“I don’t know what this ‘business’ is,” you say, voice soft but strained, “but… please don’t get hurt. I’m begging you.”

Something flickers in his face. For a moment, he looks almost surprised. Then smugness slides back into place like a mask.

“I’m not gonna get hurt, baby,” he murmurs, cupping your cheek, “You forget who I am?”

He kisses you again — and this time, you let yourself melt into it. 

Because you’re scared. And he’s still yours, no matter how confused you feel.

When he pulls away, his tone shifts again. More commanding.

“I gotta go.”

You nod. 

“Stay here. Don’t move,” he says, like he’s giving you rules more than reassurance. “There’s food in the fridge. Order something if you don’t want it.”

He pauses at the door.

“And call me if you need anything. I’ll pick up.”

You give him a small nod, eyes cast down. “Okay.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And suddenly, the room is too quiet.

The weight of the last twenty-four hours settles over you like fog.

Your fingers hover over your phone.

But you don’t call anyone.

You just sit there.

Alone.

Wondering how many more times you’ll choose him before it finally breaks you.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

A few minutes have passed.

You've calmed down. A little.

The silence is starting to press on your ears, that eerie kind of stillness that feels too controlled. 

San’s been gone for a while now. The house — or whatever this place is — has settled into a strange, sleepy hush. 

The occasional creak. A distant voice. A door shutting somewhere upstairs.

You tuck your phone into the waistband of your skirt and slide off the bed.

If you're gonna sit here any longer, you’ll lose your mind.

So you creep out of the room.

Your feet are bare. You’re careful not to make noise as you walk the hallway, lit only by the low glow of some far-off bulb. 

The rooms down here all have weird, half-finished numbers scratched or half-painted on—except one. The door at the end.

No number. Just jagged black lines, like something scraped across it in a rush.

You glance over your shoulder once.

Then reach for the handle.

It’s not locked.

The door swings open silently, and the light flickers on automatically—motion sensor maybe. 

You take a cautious step inside.

Your breath catches.

It’s not a bedroom. It’s not even a normal room.

It’s a fucking walk-in vault.

Glass display cases—clean and cold, like something out of a museum—stretch along both sides of the room. 

Velvet stands, shimmering metal, curated rows of necklaces and rings and watches that gleam under the recessed lighting. 

Gold. Silver. Diamonds.

Some pieces are delicate. Feminine.

Others are thick, bold, obviously meant to be worn with swagger and blood still on your knuckles.

You’re stunned for a second. You walk slowly, eyes wide, trying not to touch anything but unable to stop yourself from admiring it all. 

Some of this jewelry—hell, all of it—looks custom. Like it was made for someone who wanted to be looked at.

At the very end of the room, against the back wall, there’s a safe.

Big. Grey. Steel.

And locked behind a keypad that blinks red.

You stop in front of it, heart suddenly ticking a little faster. 

Something about it makes you uneasy — not just what’s inside, but why it’s hidden down here, so far away from everything else.

Whatever's in there... it’s important.

You stare for a second longer. Then turn to go.

Only to nearly slam right into someone’s chest.

“Shit—!” You squeal, stumbling back a step.

It’s Mingi again.

He’s right there. Close. Way too close.

You swallow hard. “What—what are you doing? I thought you left.”

He raises an eyebrow, slowly dragging his eyes over you.

“What are you doing?” he says, voice lazy but sharp. “I came back to get something.”

You try to think of something to say. Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“I was just—”

He steps closer. And then—

His hands start patting you down.

You flinch, grabbing at his wrists. “What the fuck—?!”

“You didn’t take anything from in there, did you?” he mutters, hands quick, efficient, but not entirely… professional. 

He’s searching you, yeah — but you can tell he’s enjoying how flustered you are too.

“I didn’t—” you try to jerk away, “— I didn’t steal anything!”

“You sure?” he asks, voice low now. Dangerous. He’s towering over you, gaze unreadable.

“Yes,” you snap. “I’m sure.”

A beat passes. His eyes linger. You feel it. The weight of his stare.

Then, without another word, he brushes past you.

He walks into the room casually, like none of that just happened, grabs something small from one of the top shelves — some kind of velvet pouch — and heads back toward the door.

You stand there, frozen, pulse racing.

He doesn’t stop. Just walks by you with a smirk.

But just before he’s out of the room, he says over his shoulder:

“Curiosity’s a dangerous thing around here, pretty girl.”

And then he’s gone.

Leaving you standing in a room full of gold with nothing but your pounding heart and the creeping sense that maybe… you don’t want to know the answers after all.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You head upstairs again.

It’s… fine, you guess. 

The upper level has its charms — that big-ass TV, and couch that looks way too expensive, and a full bar stocked with everything imaginable. 

It’s a far cry from the dark, concrete gloom of the basement. 

Up here, it almost feels normal. Livable. Comfortable even.

But none of it matters.

Because you’re over it.

You’re over everything.

You want to go home. You want to be in your bed, in your own shirt, with clean sheets and no smell of cigarettes or cheap alcohol lingering in the air. 

You want a shower. You want to change clothes. You want food that isn’t some sketchy bag of chips or whatever you grabbed earlier.

You’re starving. Pissed. Exhausted.

You head back down the stairs, bare feet hitting cold tile again as you stomp toward San’s room — Room 05. 

That little tucked-away corner of the basement that smells like him, feels like him, traps you like him.

You close the door behind you with more force than necessary.

And that’s when you see it.

A second door—small, tucked into the far corner. One you didn’t notice before.

You approach, hand on the knob.

It creaks open to reveal—

Thank God.

A bathroom.

A real one. Not fancy, but clean. 

Tiled floor, decent lighting, and a mirror above the sink. And on that mirror, taped crookedly at the corner—there’s a polaroid.

Your chest tightens.

It’s you and San. A photo booth snapshot. 

You’re smiling, cheeks puffed out, and he’s got his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapped around you from behind. His mouth’s in your hair. You look so happy. He looks happy.

You remember that night. You’d laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Now?

You sigh. Your reflection feels like a stranger.

You strip quickly, trying not to think too much, and step into the shower. 

The water pressure is actually amazing. 

You find a bottle of his body wash — smells like him — and it makes your chest twist. 

You rinse your mouth with a bottle of mouthwash you find near the sink. It's strong. Cleansing. Temporary.

When you get out, the mirror is fogged up, but that picture is still there.

Still smiling.

You walk back out and grab one of his shirts—an oversized, faded black tee with a cracked graphic on the back. 

It falls perfectly on you, soft and worn in all the right places. You keep your skirt on, though. 

No way in hell you’re walking around here in just his shirt.

You move quietly back upstairs.

You scroll through your phone. Sit with your knees pulled up to your chest. Sip water. Try not to think.

Try not to think about Mingi.

About San.

About how this is your life now.

Because if you think too hard, it might all come crumbling down.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

A few hours crawl by in silence.

You’ve been pacing rooms, going downstairs and coming back up, scrolling aimlessly, sitting, standing, lying down again. 

You curl up with the blanket on the couch, letting the TV play something you’re not even watching. Your eyes are heavy, body sluggish. Everything feels muted.

And then—

The front door slams open — hard.

You jump, dropping the half-eaten snack on your lap as footsteps thunder in, loud and uncoordinated.

San and Mingi come stumbling through the entrance.

They’re both laughing.

Laughing.

You blink, stunned.

There’s blood on San’s lip. 

Mingi’s shirt is stretched at the collar, dark smears near the shoulder. 

His knuckles look raw. 

You sit up, frozen on the couch.

San’s eyes find you first.

“Babe,” he breathes, grinning. “Babe—yo—I gotta tell you what happened…”

He stumbles toward you, one arm outstretched, hand hovering just above your thigh. 

He doesn’t touch you, not yet, but his weight leans dangerously close.

Mingi is watching the two of you. Or maybe just you. 

His gaze is unreadable — but it lingers.

You ignore him.

San’s story spills out in pieces—slurred, tangled.

“So—so this dude, right? Fuckin’ Yunho’s cousin or some shit—he starts running his mouth during the trade, yeah? Saying some wild shit, so Mingi — Mingi, tell her!”

Mingi huffs a breath, not even looking over.

“He was asking for it.”

“Exactly. Like—fuck. I was like, shut the fuck up, bro. And then I swung, and he fell like — like, flat on the ground. And then Mingi was like—”

He doesn’t finish.

You’re still staring at the busted cut near his jaw.

“You have cuts and bruises all over you,” you say quietly, voice flat. “Again, San.”

His smile falters just a bit.

You don’t wait for him to respond. 

You push yourself up and walk off toward the bathroom.

The rag under the sink is clean enough. 

You wet it, squeeze it tight, and walk back with your jaw set.

You kneel beside San and start gently dabbing at the split on his cheek. He winces but doesn’t stop you. 

Just tips his head back and lets you work.

Then you pause and glance up, just slightly—to the other couch.

Mingi.

He’s laid out lazily, one leg bent over the couch arm, hair a mess, neck veins popping, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched like he’s holding something back.

You can see the blood on his knuckles from here. 

He’s watching the ceiling like it’s more interesting than anything else in the room.

God, you hate that they both look so good like this.

You sigh.

“Is there any ointment?”

San mumbles, “Top shelf. Bathroom.”

You nod once and get up, heading back into the bathroom. 

You find it quickly, one of those half-used little tubs, and when you return—you pass by Mingi.

You stop.

He doesn’t even look at you.

You hover there a second longer, then walk over slowly, wordless, and kneel beside him too.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches you with those dark, heavy eyes as you approach.

You kneel next to him.

“Sit up,” you mutter.

He does—slowly—legs spreading as he leans forward just slightly. You dab the cut on his jaw first, then the blood on his knuckles.

He keeps looking at you.

Not blinking. Not saying anything.

“You’re staring,” you say flatly.

“Am I not allowed?”

Your hand falters for a second.

You don’t answer. 

He exhales, smoke still faint on his breath. “You got a soft touch, y’know that?”

“Shut up.”

He smirks.

You press the cloth to his bruised cheek, and he winces—but doesn’t pull back. If anything, he leans into it.

You dab at the busted corner of his lip, with the ointment and he watches you the whole time. Doesn’t look away once..

“You like taking care of people?”

“Only when they don’t act like idiots.”

“So never?” he says.

You roll your eyes and keep working.

He lets out a breath—slow and deliberate—and you feel the weight of his gaze lingering as your fingers smooth ointment across his cheekbone.

Then from behind you—

“Baaaaabe,” San slurs, still half-conscious on the couch, “Come sit with me again. I miss you.”

You ignore him.

Mingi smirks, biting back a laugh.

You finish up quickly, screw the lid back on the ointment, and hand Mingi the rag without another word.

But just before you stand—

The eye contact doesn’t break.

His voice drops, just barely.

“…Thanks.”

And for some reason, it sounds way more serious than it should.

After a beat, you finally ask, quietly, “What happened?”

You sit back, the ointment lid still in your hand, your fingers sticky with leftover cream. 

San shifts on the couch beside you, leaning closer — too close. 

You smell the alcohol on him again, thick and warm. His breath ghosts against your cheek.

“You smell like me,” he murmurs suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

He nuzzles into your neck, his nose brushing just beneath your ear. “Mmm,” he hums, voice slurred, “Like my soap… my shirt… my bed.”

You stiffen.

“I asked what happened,” you say, voice low, controlled. You glance at Mingi across the room. “Where are the others?”

Mingi exhales through his nose, one arm slung over the back of the couch, eyes following San’s every move.

“They left,” he says simply. “Yunho .. never showed up. The rest of the guys… dipped out after the fight.”

“What fight?” you ask, slowly pulling away from San’s mouth pressing into your jaw.

Mingi sighs. “We were talking over drinks. It was supposed to be a chill drop-off. San—” his eyes flicker, “—didn’t like the way Yunho’s cousin was talking.”

“Talking?” you echo, brows pulling.

“He said something slick,” Mingi says, watching your face carefully. “San flew off the handle. Pushed him. Broke a bottle. It got loud. Messy.”

“He was talking about my girl,” San says suddenly, his voice slurred but sharp, “That’s what he fucking did.”

You glance over. His lips are at your shoulder now, kissing the bare skin that peeks out from under his borrowed shirt.

“He kept talking about you,” he mumbles. “Wanted what’s mine. They always do.”

“San,” you warn, voice tight, “Not right now.”

He doesn’t listen.

His hand is on your thigh, thumb dragging slow circles. 

He leans in again, breathing heavy, warm. His lips trail up your jaw.

“You look so pretty right now,” he whispers. “You know I missed you, right? You miss me too?”

You shift away, uncomfortable, tension creeping up your spine. 

You can feel Mingi watching now, feel the way the room has shifted — like everything’s gone too quiet, like something bad is tiptoeing toward you.

“San,” you say again, more firm. “Stop.”

He doesn’t.

His other hand comes up, fingers brushing your neck, tilting your chin.

“You’re mine,” he mutters, “Mine. Say it.”

You push him — gentle, but solid. “Just — get off.”

He stares at you, stunned for a second.

“You got a problem with me?” he breathes.

You don’t look at him. “Not now. I’m serious.”

The rejection hits him like a slap. 

His expression folds in on itself — first confusion, then frustration, and then that look. That shift.

“Oh,” he scoffs, “Right. You’re mad now.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what this is, huh?” 

His tone turns sharper, more biting. 

“You always do this shit. One second you’re all over me, the next. You’re what? — embarrassed? Because Mingi is watching? 

You flinch.

“God,” he laughs, bitter and tipsy, “You love making me the fucking villain.”

You glance at Mingi instinctively.

He’s not smirking anymore. 

He’s watching San — really watching him. His jaw ticks once. Silent.

“I’m not doing this,” you whisper.

San leans in again, like he didn’t hear you. “Just c’mere, baby—”

You move your head.

His lips catch only your cheek.

He pulls back, blinking at you, and finally… he gives up. 

Falls back onto the couch, exhales hard, rubbing a hand down his face. 

Muttering something under his breath you don’t quite catch.

The silence after is thick.

You can feel Mingi’s stare.

You look over—and his eyes meet yours for the briefest second before flicking to San.

He saw all of it.

And you don’t know what scares you more—San’s hands, or Mingi’s silence.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You’re on the edge of the couch now, your hands twisting in your lap, skin still tingling where he touched you. 

You can feel the anger creeping up your throat like a sickness.

Finally, San speaks.

“Y/N…”

You don’t look at him.

“I didn’t mean to come off like that, alright?” he says, quieter now. “I was drunk. I am drunk. You know I don’t think straight when I’m like this.”

You still don’t look at him.

“I just…” his voice dips lower, more intimate. 

“I hate when people talk about you. Like they know you. Like they have any right to you.”

“San—”

“I love you,” he says it too fast. “You know I love you. I’m just trying to protect you. That’s all this ever is.”

You finally glance at him.

He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glassy from the alcohol and something else. His voice softens.

“Tell me you know that. Please.”

And just as the words form in your mouth —

The door swings open without urgency this time.

Yunho walks in slow, a pair of sunglasses pushed up into his hair, his hoodie half-zipped.

Yunho gives a long look around the room.

Then he pauses.

“The fuck happened to you two?”

Mingi lets out a short breath, “A lot.”

Yunho raises a brow. “What happened?”

San doesn’t say anything.

Mingi sighs, stretches his neck like he’s already tired of retelling it. 

“The trade was going fine. Talked over drinks. Then your cousin decided to open his mouth and San —”

Yunho turns. “You’re the one who put your hands on him?”

San finally looks up. Shrugs. “He was being disrespectful.”

Yunho laughs once, sharp. “What’d he say? That your girl’s hot? Wow. Call the cops.”

You go still.

San leans back, grin forming slow. “No. He said a bunch of shit. Not just that. Don’t water it down.”

Mingi glances at you. “Yeah. He said some shit about her.”

That silence feels heavy. You feel it. 

Like everyone’s waiting for your reaction, but no one’s asking you directly.

Yunho’s face twists. “You beat him for that?”

San’s jaw flexes. “I warned him.”

“So now warning means breaking a bottle over his shoulder?” Yunho snaps. “You can’t handle a conversation without swinging first?”

San scoffs. “Don’t make it sound like I just started swinging. He was talking about her like he knew her. Like he wanted something.”

Yunho stares at him for a long moment.

“You ever stop and ask if maybe that’s not your fucking call to make?”

San’s eyes narrow. “And you think it’s yours? Funny—I don’t see her in your bed.”

You flinch slightly.

Yunho doesn’t react right away. He just sighs.

Then:

“He was drunk and said you had a pretty girl. That’s it. That’s all.”

He leans against the counter now, eyes darkening. “You started that shit. You always start it.”

San’s voice drops, low and venomous. “You don’t know the full story, Yunho. You weren’t even there. Stay in your lane.”

“My cousin ended up in the backseat of a car with his eyebrow split open and blood on his shirt,” Yunho snaps. “That’s my lane.”

Mingi shifts slightly, chewing his inner cheek. He doesn’t interrupt.

Yunho glares at San now, arms crossed. 

“You wanna fight every man that looks at her, go ahead. But don’t drag the rest of us into your bruised ego.”

San chuckles under his breath. “You think that’s what this is?”

“Isn’t it?” Yunho shrugs. “You’re not protecting her. You’re making shit worse.”

The silence after that is unbearable.

You stare at the floor.

No one speaks for a moment.

Finally, Yunho pushes off the counter. “Don’t bring that energy to the next trade. Or we’re all fucked.”

Then he turns to leave, muttering under his breath: “Fucking acting like we’re still eighteen.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You breathe again.

San taps his thumb against his knee. Still smug. Still unreadable. Like none of this landed.

And that — that — might be the part that hurts most.

“San,” you say quietly, turning to where he’s laying back on the couch, one arm draped across his eyes. “I really wanna go home. I—I don’t feel good.”

Nothing.

Just a sigh from him.

Then, lazily, like it’s a chore: “I need a nap first. Just chill. You’ll be fine.”

That’s it.

That’s all he says before rolling onto his side and sinking deeper into the cushions.

You’re left there, confused, arms limp at your sides. Like you’d been dismissed.

Mingi is still watching from across the room.

And then :

There’s a knock.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

But before anyone can get up, the door swings open — slow, deliberate.

The man who walks in doesn’t move like a guest. Doesn’t even glance around to ask permission. He knows he doesn’t need it.

He’s older, but not in a way that softens him. There’s something coiled beneath his movements — something calm and watchful, like he’s always five steps ahead of the room. 

His black dress shirt is rolled to the elbows, sleeves crisp, collar open, and he carries no visible weapon. He doesn’t need one.

Mingi straightens up immediately.

Yunho comes out from the hallway without needing to be called — like he felt him arrive.

San doesn’t move from the couch, but you see the tension return to his shoulders, jaw tight.

You shift in your seat, instinctively sitting straighter. You don’t know why. He hasn’t looked at you yet.

Demarco’s eyes sweep the room like he’s taking inventory. Calculating. Judging.

Then they land on you.

A pause.

His brow lifts, just slightly — not surprise, but interest.

“Well… who’s this beauty?”

His voice is smooth. Not warm. Not cold. Just dangerous in the way silk can still choke you.

You open your mouth, unsure what to say.

San’s voice cuts through.

“She’s with me.”

Demarco glances his way, then looks back at you, unconvinced.

“Mm,” he hums. “Does she speak?”

You swallow hard. “I—yeah. I’m just—sorry, I’m…”

He waves a hand like he’s brushing the words aside.

“No need to apologize. You’re fine. Just didn’t expect to see a new face.”

Then, with no further explanation, he claps his hands once, loud enough to make Mingi flinch.

“Alright. Everybody — come close, listen.”

Yunho’s already moving. Mingi follows silently, flicking his eyes to you once.

You hesitate, unsure if that means you too — but Demarco turns his head, slow, eyes finding you again.

“You too, sweetheart.”

It doesn’t sound like a request.

You stand, heart pounding. San moves slightly to give you space as you sit beside him, though he doesn’t look at you.

Yunho leans against the wall instead of sitting, arms crossed. 

Mingi perches at the armrest, alert but unreadable.

Demarco lets the quiet stretch for a moment — lets it sit.

Then, without fanfare:

“Black Grove. We got movement.”

You glance around, confused. Everyone else stiffens.

“Someone’s been sniffing around the drop site. Not locals. Not feds either. Outsiders, probably hired — possibly out of state.”

San’s face darkens.

Yunho swears under his breath. “We just moved weight last week.”

Demarco nods. “Exactly. Someone’s following the pipeline. I want eyes, ears, and steel on it. No fuck-ups this time.”

His gaze passes over them all, pausing just a breath too long on Mingi, who meets it coolly.

“And her?” San finally asks, voice sharper now.

Demarco’s eyes drift back to you.

“She’s coming.”

You feel your stomach drop.

San turns. “Why the fuck—”

Demarco doesn’t blink. “She’s already involved. She's here and will get closer to all of you than she should be. I want her there. Eyes wide. Mouth shut.”

Yunho cuts in. “She’s not built for that shit. We don’t even know her.”

But Demarco’s tone doesn’t change. “She’ll learn.”

You try to speak — to say something — but your voice doesn’t come.

San sits forward now, fists clenched.

“This wasn’t part of the deal.”

Demarco shrugs, slow. “Neither was you bashing someone’s head in over jealousy, but here we are.”

That silence creeps back in — cold, mean, heavy with threat.

Then Demarco adjusts his cuffs, steps back toward the door like he’s already done here.

“Be ready by tomorrow night.”

He turns, pauses at the threshold.

“And someone get her a gun. Teach her how to fight. I don’t like liabilities.”

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You don’t realize how tightly you’re clutching your hands until Mingi gently taps your knee.

“Hey,” Mingi says gently, moving across the room. “Hey — look at me.”

You don’t know why, but you do. Barely. Your eyes are already glossy.

Your hands are trembling in your lap and your chest is tightening. Not just fear — confusion.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be involved.

San shifts beside you. Yunho curses and kicks the bottom of the wall.

Mingi’s the only one still watching you. Quiet. Careful.

You blink fast, trying to keep it down, but your throat feels too tight to swallow it back.

“I don’t—” you shake your head. “I don’t understand what just happened. Why am I—why would he even want me there?”

Your voice cracks on ‘me’. You hate it. You sound too exposed, too raw.

Mingi crouches in front of you, hands resting lightly on your knees.

“Because you’re already in it,” he says, not cruel, just honest. “Whether you meant to be or not.”

You press your palms to your eyes. “I’m not built for this. I’m not like you guys. I don’t know anything about—any of it. I don’t even know what the hell Black Grove is.”

“You don’t need to,” he says. “Not right now.”

You lower your hands and look at him — the first face that doesn’t feel sharp or loaded or disappointed.

He offers a faint smile. “You’re not going in blind. The place we’re heading to—it’s out in the middle of nowhere. Big cabin. Huge porch with a bar. Lake in the back.”

You blink. “What?”

“It’s peaceful,” Mingi continues. “Quiet. No neighbors. We go there sometimes when things get loud here. Think of it like a vacation home”

You’re still breathing hard, like your lungs haven’t caught up. “Why are you telling me that?”

“Because I know how it sounds,” he says. “Like you’re being dragged to some hellscape. But it’s not. You’ll have space. You’ll have time.”

He stands slowly, eyes scanning your face.

“You’ll be okay.”

You nod once, numbly, even though you’re not sure you believe it.

San finally speaks behind you, low and certain.

“We’ll go back to the apartment. Get our stuff. Go from there.”

You turn slowly to look at him.

He’s standing now, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Like this is normal. Like none of this shook him.

You whisper, “This doesn’t scare you?”

San tilts his head slightly. “What scares me is the idea of you not coming with me.”

Your stomach twists.

He walks over and taps his fingers against the back of the couch once.

“You trust me or not?”

You hesitate. You want to. That’s the problem.

Yunho mutters from across the room, not looking at anyone, “Cabin’s got cameras now, right?”

Mingi answers, “Yeah. And motion sensors.”

Yunho nods once and disappears down the hallway.

San reaches a hand out to you.

You stare at it for a second.

Then —

You take it.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

San grabs his keys off the counter and flicks his chin toward the door.

“C’mon.”

You follow him without a word.

The ride is dead silent.

No music. No talking. Just the hum of the road and your thoughts chewing through each other.

You stare out the window, your heart punching your ribs in uneven rhythm.

You feel sick, but not the kind that comes from your stomach — it’s behind your ribs, in your throat. Spreading.

When he pulls into the apartment garage, you move on autopilot.

He parks, unbuckles, and waits for you like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

You follow him up the stairs.

He punches in the code at the door, shoulder brushing yours.

Beep.

Click.

You step into the dim, quiet space.

Same place you left. Same smell. Same furniture.

Different everything.

San heads straight for the closet.

“San,” you call softly, stepping in after him. “Can we talk? I—I’m scared.”

He kneels in front of the built-in shelving, ignoring your words as always. 

You see him reach toward a box marked Old Tech, but then—he lifts it out. 

Underneath it is a plain black duffel bag, stashed behind a second box. Hidden.

He unzips it, pulls something out.

Your heart stutters.

A handgun. Then a stack of banded cash. Then another.

Your mouth falls open. “San. What the fuck—”

He calmly zips the bag halfway, slides the gun and cash in with practiced ease.

“This is just insurance,” he says, voice cool. “Everyone has a go-bag.”

“The fuck is a go-bag?!” you echo, stepping back. “What is this? None of this is normal..”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just stands, slings the bag over his shoulder.

Then he walks toward you and cups your cheek gently, pulling you in.

His lips press against yours, soft and slow and steady.

Like it’s routine. Like nothing’s changed.

Like you’re not panicking.

When he pulls back, his eyes are steady on yours.

“Don’t worry, baby. Yeah?”

Another kiss, this one just below your jaw.

“You’re with me. With us.”

Your breath catches, and somehow, stupidly, it settles something in your chest.

Still — you whisper, “I’m gonna be in a house with three men for god knows how long.”

San chuckles under his breath. “They’re tidy and nicer than they look. Don’t worry.”

You blink up at him, still shaken. Still mad, in that hollow, scared way. But you nod.

Your fingers twitch as you pull out your small suitcase and start quietly packing.

Toothbrush. Pajamas. Skincare. Makeup. A hoodie you always reach for when you’re anxious.

San walks past behind you and tosses a fresh shirt into a bag. Then, without turning around—

“Also get something nice to wear. We like to go out when we’re free.”

You pause. “Out? Like… to a bar?”

He glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “Clubbing. Sometimes we need to unwind.”

You sigh, mutter under your breath. “Right. Guns, cash, and clubs. Normal.”

Still, your hands go to the side drawer.

You grab two of your favorite dresses — one black and sleek, one red and risky. 

You toss them on the bed without looking at him.

San zips up his duffel and walks over to you again.

“Don’t overthink the clothes,” he says. “We can always buy more when we’re there. Yeah?”

You finally look at him. There’s that same grin on his face, a softness in his eyes like he’s already made peace with this life and expects you to do the same.

And still, despite everything, his calm is infectious.

You breathe out, chest loosening slightly. Just enough.

Not safe. Not comfortable.

But not alone.

You whisper, “Okay.”

But your hands are still shaking when you fold your makeup bag.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

By the time San pulls back in front of the house the sun’s dipped behind the trees, casting long shadows across the pavement. 

The house looks even more ominous than you remember — quiet, tall, too still.

He shifts the car into park, leaves the keys inside without a word.

You blink. “Aren’t you—?”

“Won’t need it,” he says, already getting out.

You follow, confused, but when you round the side of the house—

“ROAD TRIP!” someone yells from the open garage door.

You jump slightly.

Yunho stands there, backpack over his shoulder, sunglasses on despite the fact that it’s dusk. 

Mingi is next to him, already exhaling smoke toward the open rafters of the garage.

You stop walking. “There’s a garage?”

Yunho turns, grinning. “Oh, there’s a garage.”

You step inside slowly and your jaw slackens. The space is huge — cement floors, overhead lights humming faintly. 

Lined up along the wall are three matte-painted sports cars, each sleeker than the last, all clearly touched by illegal money.

And at the far end — tucked almost shyly beside them — is a slightly beat-up, black SUV. Boxy. Unassuming. Just big enough for the four of you.

“That’s ours,” Mingi says, flicking ash toward the drain. “For, you know. Discretion.”

You laugh once, half-nervous. “Why does it look like someone’s mother drives that car?”

“Because someone’s mom did, probably,” Yunho shrugs. “We bought it from a guy named Hector in Jersey for like twelve hundred and a Snickers bar.”

“Felt like a good deal,” Mingi adds dryly, stubbing his cigarette.

San opens the trunk with a thump. You toss in your bag, still stunned this is actually happening. 

No one else looks surprised. This is normal for them.

Within minutes, the bags are loaded, the garage door groaning shut behind you, and you’re sliding into the backseat with San again — his hand on your waist before the car even pulls out.

Yunho’s driving. Mingi in the passenger seat, window cracked just enough for him to rest his arm and light up another cigarette.

The road starts to blur — long stretches of blacktop swallowed by trees, headlights bouncing off passing signs and foggy patches of air.

In the backseat, San slouches deep into the cushions, draping his jacket across both your laps again. 

His thigh is warm beside yours. His hand slips between your legs, not in a dirty way — just possessive. Calm. Anchoring.

You lean into him, cheek brushing his jaw.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice just for you.

“I think so,” you whisper. “You guys are fucking insane.”

He smirks. “You love it.”

“I love you,” you correct, voice barely audible.

“Even worse,” he teases, kissing your forehead.

His fingers drift lazily along your inner thigh, just over your sweats. 

Nothing scandalous. Just enough to remind you he could wreck your entire world from a single seat in the back of an old SUV.

You feel it in your stomach. That helpless, stupid ache for him.

But your eyes are getting heavy. 

The hum of the car, the distant rumble of Mingi’s cigarette exhales, the slight crack in Yunho’s window letting in just enough wind — it’s all pulling you under.

You press your face to San’s neck, mumble, “Wake me up when we get there…”

“You’ll know when we do,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “You’ll feel it.”

And you doze off like that — tucked into your criminal boyfriend’s side, breathing in the warm scent of cedar, ash, and danger.

Up front, Mingi glances in the rearview mirror.

Yunho scoffs. “Look at them.”

Mingi exhales smoke, lets it curl out the window. “Fucking disgusting.”

Yunho mutters, “Should’ve taken the two-seater.”

But he doesn’t turn the music up. He doesn’t interrupt.

Because no matter how much they complain, none of them want to be the reason you get hurt.

Masterpost  Prev Next

taglist : @idontreallyknow-12 @hopefulstrangeravenue @thuyting @alienvibecheck

[nayiana0]

"Velvet Violence" - Masterpost

san is all sharp edges and rough kisses, possessive hands and dangerous moods.

he fights for you, hurts for you. hurts you. and you? you stay.

but the night he brings you to that hidden, smoke-filled room... someone else is watching. mingi, quiet, calculating, dangerous in a different way. he looks at you like he already knows how this ends. now you're caught between the boy who owns you - and the one who wants to steal you.

fic status : chapter three in progress

genre : smut (eventual..) dark romance, gangster au, angst.

warnings : will be posted each chapter.

a/n : currently writing the ending and giirlllll im not saying anything but the way its all coming together is insane im losing my mind a little bit

-

"open up your mind, you can find the love

girl you ain't alone we all been alone

baby just be honest." (XO) ~ the weeknd

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Ⅰ - velvet violence ⅠⅠ - wrong place ⅠⅠⅠ - the closet Ⅳ - ?? Ⅴ - ??

[nayiana0]

So sorry for nagging, but when is the Vevlet violence coming?❤️🥰🥰🥰

definitely sometime this week! i just need to get settled first. 🥰

[nayiana0]

I must say, your ‘Keep Talking…’ fic was peak literature. It was amazing. Can’t say that enough. It was nice seeing the fic delve deeper even after the aftercare. ✨

omg ty!! that’s means so much i had way too much fun writing that one lol 💖

[nayiana0]

No where is velvet violence?????😭😭😭😭 I’m shitting myself waiting

soon babe soon !!!! masterpost will be out soon 🥰

[nayiana0]

“Birthday Heat”

it’s San’s birthday, and this year… you want to give him more than gifts. and when he realizes just how far you’re willing to go to make him feel wanted — he makes sure you feel every inch of his love in return. rough, raw, and reverent.

wc : 3.8k

tags : explicit content, established relationship · soft dom!san · birthday sex · rough sex · fingering · praise kink · slight dom/sub dynamics · lingerie · creampie · romantic smut · shy but filthy reader · slow burn to filth · emotionally charged sex · you did this for him · overstimulation · (yk how much i love overstimulation) · oral sex (f recieving) & aftercare (i can never end it without the cute aftercare).

a/n : quick lil scheduled fic before i catch my flight for ATEEZ in NYC!!!! had to give my man san the birthday of his life first lol. hope you guys enjoy this one — super soft, super filthy, just how we like it.

happy birthday choi san you deserve it ALL. 🎂🎂

It’s San’s birthday. And this year… you’re ready.

You’re usually the quiet one, the soft one. 

Physical touch isn’t always your thing—not because you don’t crave him, but because… well, it’s hard to say. 

It’s easier to show him love in other ways. 

Let him take the lead. Let him adore you like he always does. 

And San does—without question, without complaint. He’s never rushed you. Always patient. Always gentle, even when he’s rough.

But today? You want him to feel wanted. Ravished. Celebrated.

And you want to be the one to give that to him.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

8:17 AM

The front door clicks shut after San leaves for work, his cologne still lingering in the air. 

You stand there for a second, heartbeat already thudding, butterflies alive in your belly. Then, like a switch, you kick into gear.

First stop? The store. A cake—chocolate, his favorite. Candles. Roses. 

A headband that reads “Happy Birthday” in silver letters, because you already know he’s going to laugh when he sees you in it. 

You grab a red candle tucked near the back of the aisle—the scent called "After Dark." 

You crack the lid in the store and instantly blush. It smells like… sex. Deep and musky and heated.

Perfect.

Back home, you start your mission.

You carefully press rose petals into a path—from the front hallway, leading straight to the bedroom. 

You scatter more across the sheets, fluff the pillows, dim the lamps, and set that “After Dark” candle on the nightstand. You’ll light it later, right before he sees everything.

Then the playlist—soft, sensual. Nothing too on-the-nose, but enough that the low bass sets the mood.

The cake goes on the island in the kitchen. You pipe “Happy Birthday, San” across the top, a little messy, but full of love. You light a single candle in the center. One wish.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

6:55 PM

You shower. Shave slowly. Soap up with your best vanilla body wash. You lotion every inch of skin until it gleams. 

Then… the lingerie. Black. Lacy. 

Thin enough to make you feel bare but supported in all the right places. A sheer band that hugs your waist and cups your breasts just right. 

You slip on the ridiculous little “Happy Birthday” headband and check yourself in the mirror.

You’ve never done this before. Not for him. Not for anyone.

But it’s his day.

And you want him to end it inside you.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

7:25 PM

Everything’s in place. 

The house is dark, just the candle on the cake flickering softly in the kitchen. You crouch behind the island, heart pounding. 

The second you hear the keypad click and the front door push open, you nearly forget to breathe.

“Baby?” San calls.

You pop up, a little too fast. “Surprise! Happy birthday!”

He freezes in the doorway, eyes wide in the low light. “What the hell—?”

You grin and walk toward him with the cake in your hands. “Make a wish.”

He stares at you, soft awe written all over his face. Then, slowly, he leans in and blows out the candle.

You giggle and swipe a bit of frosting with your finger, smearing it across his soft lips. “There.”

San chuckles, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re trouble.” He leans in to kiss you—slow, warm, sugary.

But he mumbles against your lips, “Turn on the light — I can’t even see you.”

His hand finds your waist. Then the bare skin of your side.

He pulls back, just enough to glance down. “Hold on — .. are you naked?”

You bite your lip and reach to flick on the light.

His jaw drops.

His eyes trail down your body like a man starved. 

He doesn’t speak right away, just stares—at the sheer black lingerie hugging your frame, the soft curves, the sweet little birthday headband sitting crooked on your head.

You shift awkwardly, fingers curled at your sides. “I, um… did this for you.”

San leans in closer, slow and deliberate, towering until you’re forced to tilt your head to look up at him.

“You did all this… for me?” His voice dips into something deeper, something gravelly. “Fuck, baby…”

You glance away, cheeks burning. “I just wanted you to feel special.”

He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you tight against his chest. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“You already make me feel like the luckiest man alive every day.”

You press your hands to his chest, finally letting your gaze meet his. “Wait till you see our room.”

His brow lifts slightly, intrigued. “Yeah?” His voice is low—curious, but dangerous. “What else did my girl plan?”

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you let your hand drift down his chest, lingering at the hem of his shirt before slipping your fingers through his. 

You lace them together, soft but certain, and start to pull him gently toward the hallway.

He follows with zero resistance, trailing behind you like he’s already under your spell. 

But as you pass the kitchen table, you feel it—his hand lifting, then—

Smack.

His palm lands hard on your ass. Sharp. Loud in the quiet dark.

You let out a tiny, breathless squeal, more surprised than hurt, and stumble forward a step. 

Your grip on his hand tightens, but you don’t stop.

You glance back at him, lips parted, a little dazed.

And he’s not looking at your face. His eyes are glued to your body.Like he’s scanning you all over again, taking inventory of every inch of lace, every inch of skin you left bare for him.

You bite your lip and let your gaze drop too—he looks so good. 

So big. Shirt still on, but loose around his frame. Chest rising just a little too fast. 

Hands twitching like he’s barely holding himself back.

The tension coils tight between you as you reach the bedroom door.

You pause for a second, hand hovering over the knob, the moment thick and hot and heavy behind your back.

Then, slowly, you open it.

And San stops cold in the doorway.

The candlelight glows low and golden across the sheets.

Rose petals cover the bed, the floor, like you bled your heart into the room. Soft music hums from the speaker on the dresser.

And that warm, dark scent—the one that smells like skin and heat and sex—wraps around both of you the moment you step inside.

San exhales like he’s been punched.

“Holy shit…” he whispers. “Baby…”

He stares for a long second. Then down at you. Then back to the room.

You glance up shyly, voice quiet. “You like it?”

His jaw works. 

Then he moves—hands on your waist, dragging you into his chest like he needs to feel you just to believe it.

“I fucking love it,” he breathes into your neck. “I love you.”

You hum softly, your fingers gripping the back of his shirt.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark. Intense.

“I haven’t even opened my gift yet.”

And then — he’s kissing your neck, your shoulder, your jaw.

You gasp softly, fingers tangling in the hem of his shirt as the kisses trail up to your mouth.

Then, it’s all tongue and heat and breathy moans. 

He lifts you up easily, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, like habit. You kiss him deeper, more urgently.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers between kisses. “I don’t even — fuck, I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” you breathe, your head dizzy with his scent and his hands.

He lays you back on the bed, petals crushed beneath you. 

Gently, reverently. He shrugs off his shirt, and it’s just him — bare-chested, belt and pants still on, muscles tensed, eyes dark.

He leans over you again, brushing your hair back with one hand, gazing down like he’s seeing a painting, not a person.

“We don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “Not if it’s just for my birthday. I swear, baby —”

You cut him off with a kiss, firm and soft all at once.

When you pull back, your voice shakes a little, but your eyes are steady.

His eyes flicker down to your lips when you say it :

“I want this. I want you to end your birthday with me.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you. Quiet. Chest rising.

Then…

Click.

His hand goes to his belt, eyes never leaving yours. 

You hear the slow slide of leather—your thighs squeeze together before you even mean to.

The sound alone could ruin you.

He tugs it out of the loops, lets it fall to the floor with a soft thud.

“Take your time,” you whisper, voice barely there.

San’s jaw ticks. “You don’t get to tell me that when you’re laid out like this, baby.”

You let out a shaky breath, and he leans down, one arm beside your head as his fingers start to stroke along your thigh, just barely brushing where you want him most.

“You sure?” he murmurs again, lips ghosting your neck. “Last chance. You say the word and I’ll stop.”

You nod fast, almost breathless. “I’m sure.”

“Say it.”

“I want you, San. I want you so bad.”

His groan is deep and low and raw. “God, baby… you don’t even know what that does to me.”

He crawls over you, even closer now, one knee pressing between your thighs to open them wider. You shiver.

“How the fuck am I supposed to stay gentle now?” he murmurs. 

His mouth captures yours hard—hungry, almost messy. 

His tongue pushes past your lips like he’s already desperate to taste every inch of you. 

And all you can do is whimper, already clinging to his bare shoulders.

His hand slips between your thighs, cupping your pussy through the soaked lace.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re dripping, baby.”

“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” you gasp.

“Yeah?” He hooks his fingers under the waistband and rips the lingerie down your legs—tosses it over his shoulder like it’s nothing. 

“Thinking about me using this pussy again? Fucking it like I did that one night?”

Your hips roll into his palm before you can stop yourself.

“Please —”

“Mmm.” He presses a kiss to your jaw. “Love when you beg. Don’t stop.”

He slides two thick fingers inside you without warning—deep, a little faster than you’re ready for. You jolt, gasping his name.

“Yeah, that’s it. So fucking tight,” he grits out, fingers pumping rough and steady. 

“Look at you. Look at what I do to you.”

Your legs try to close but he hooks an arm under your knee and yanks them open wider.

“Nope. You asked for this, baby. Don’t get shy on me now.”

You moan, hips canting up to meet every thrust of his fingers. Your body’s burning, coiled tight, needy.

“Shit—shit, San, I’m gonna cum—”

“Already?” he groans, thumb brushing your clit now. 

“God, you missed this, didn’t you?”

You nod wildly, words slurred. “Yes—I missed you—I missed how you fuck me—”

“Then cum,” he growls. “Cum for me, baby. Soak my fuckin’ hand.”

You scream his name as it rips through you—your body trembling hard, clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking under his grip. 

And he keeps going, not slowing down, dragging it out like he wants to leave you wrecked.

When your body finally collapses back into the sheets, he kisses your lips, slow and deep again.

“So good for me,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

“Mhmm,” you breathe, dazed.

He grins, voice lower now. “That’s one.”

“One?”

“You think I’m done with you? Birthday just started.”

He stands just long enough to push his pants down and kick them off. You can’t stop staring — thick, flushed, hard, tip already leaking, pulsing.

He strokes himself once and lines up, dragging the head through your slick folds.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he murmurs. “Not soft. Not slow. You take what you asked for, yeah?”

You nod fast, trembling. “I want it— I want all of you.”

He pushes in all at once — deep and hard — and your breath leaves your lungs in a gasp.

“That’s it,” he snarls. “God damn, baby, this pussy’s still so fucking perfect.”

He doesn’t wait. He fucks into you hard — snapping his hips, thrust after thrust, deep and bruising. 

His hands grip your hips like he owns you, like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

Your moans are shameless. You’re clawing at his back, your legs shaking, body rocking with every thrust.

“You’re taking me so good,” he growls. “You were made for this. For me. For this dick.”

“Yes — yes — yes, San, I love it — I love you —”

“Say it again.”

“I love you, I love you so much—fuck, don’t stop—”

He presses one hand flat over your belly, right where he’s hitting deep, and groans.

“You feel that, baby? That’s me. So fucking deep inside you I can see it.”

You cry out—your whole body overwhelmed, your orgasm building again, hotter this time, tighter.

“Cum again,” he demands. “Now. Squeeze my dick, baby, don’t hold back.”

You break.

You cum with a loud, messy sob—your walls clenching, thighs twitching around his waist, body spasming as you soak the sheets.

“Gonna fill you up, baby — gonna fuckin–”

“Do it,” you cry. “Cum inside me — please —”

With a strangled groan, he slams in deep one last time and cums—hot, thick spurts spilling inside you, pulsing as he presses his body against yours.

San breathes hard into your neck, a deep groan still rumbling from his chest as he rolls his hips once — slow, lazy, like he can’t stand to be out of you just yet.

“Fuck,” he pants. “You felt so good—so fuckin’ good.”

You whimper, overstimulated, soft little gasps falling from your lips as your fingers claw lightly down his back.

Then you feel it.

The warmth dripping between your thighs, thick and wet where his cum is already starting to leak out around him.

He pulls back just enough to look down between your bodies—and smirks.

“Goddamn…” he mutters, gaze locked on where you’re still joined. “You made such a fucking mess, baby”

You try to close your legs on instinct, but his hands grip your thighs and keep them open.

“Uh uh. Don’t hide it,” he says, almost teasing. “Look at this — all mine.”.

You blush so hard it burns, breath catching when he runs two fingers through the mess and pushes it back into you slowly.

“Still leaking for me, huh?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as you whimper beneath him. “Maybe I should clean it up…”

You reach down weakly, fingers pressing against your inner thighs, legs shaking. “San — no more, please…”

He kisses your knee, one hand sliding down your stomach. 

Then… his fingers dip between your folds again. You grab his wrist instantly, squeezing tight.

“Don’t,” you gasp. “I can’t. I swear, I—I can’t.”

Your whole body jolts when his fingers move inside you again — slow, shallow pumps, just enough to make you squirm and cry out.

“Shhh,” he coos. “C’mon, baby… it’s my birthday…”

You shake your head frantically, voice catching in your throat.

“No, no, San — please, I’m serious — t-too sensitive—”

He pouts. Actually pouts.

Eyes soft and playful, lower lip jutting out like he’s the one being denied.

“But I wanna taste you…”

You grip his wrist harder, trying to push him back, thighs still twitching under his body.

“Please, I-I can’t —”

“Hmm.. can’t or won’t?” he says, cocky and sweet at the same time. 

“You’re still clenching my fingers like you want it.”

You moan helplessly as he curls his fingers deep and slow—so gentle it’s infuriating, so precise it makes you dizzy. 

You try to close your legs again, but he kisses up your thigh, trailing closer and closer.

“I’ll be gentle,” he whispers. “Let me clean up our mess…”

“Don’t — don’t —” you whimper, but he’s already there.

He lowers his head, way too slow, and your heart stutters in your chest.

You’re still holding his wrist, still trying to keep him back, but the second his breath ghosts over your soaked, sensitive clit, you gasp—

And then his lips press against it.

Soft. Intentional. Possessive.

“Fuck…” you breathe, legs jerking. “San, please—”

He hums against you, tongue parting your folds, licking up everything he spilled inside you. 

The motion is slow, drawn out, completely unhurried. 

He moans when he tastes it—you mixed with him—like it’s the best fucking dessert he’s ever had.

Your hips buck and your grip on his wrist tightens, but he just slides his other arm around your thigh to hold you still.

“Baby,” he mutters between licks, “you’re not gonna stop me. You gave me all this for my birthday… now let me enjoy it.”

“San — fuuuck,” your voice cracks, thighs shaking again.

His tongue flicks over your clit just right and your entire body jolts. 

He sucks softly, lips wrapped around it, tongue circling, fingers still inside you, curling at that perfect, insanely sensitive spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he says into you, voice muffled and smug.

You don’t even get a chance to answer. 

Your orgasm hits you hard — sudden, sharp, overwhelming. 

Your back arches off the bed, legs trembling violently, a strangled sob tearing out of you as your vision goes white.

He doesn’t stop.

His tongue keeps working you through it — slow, deliberate, greedy — like he’s trying to memorize how you taste when you break for him. 

You're too gone to beg anymore. All you can do is moan, sob his name, twitch beneath the weight of his mouth.

He lets your thighs fall, lets your body breathe. 

His hands gently smooth up your legs and he presses one last, soft kiss to your overstimulated clit, like a goodbye.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice hoarse as he crawls up over you again. “That’s my girl.”

You’re still shaking.

Your fingers barely have the strength to reach for him, but he catches your hand, laces your fingers together, and pulls you into him.

Bare chests flush. Legs tangled. His lips brushing your hair, your temple, your cheek.

And finally… he just holds you.

You can feel his heartbeat, still fast. His breath still a little ragged.

But then, in the softest voice — like he’s been waiting to say it all night—he whispers:

“Best birthday of my life.”

You smile sleepily, your voice barely more than a breath. “Happy birthday, Sannie.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re all I ever wanted, baby.”

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Afterward, when you’re nothing but loose limbs and shaky breaths, San doesn’t move right away.

He stays curled around you, nose pressed into your temple, fingers gently stroking your thigh like he’s still reminding himself that you’re real. That this actually happened. That you did this — for him.

You’re half-asleep on his chest, completely wrecked, legs still twitching from the overstimulation.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs eventually, voice low and warm. “Let me clean you up.”

You whine a little, barely coherent, clinging to him tighter like you don’t want to move.

“I got you,” he says, scooping an arm under your legs. “Not gonna let you do anything. Just hold onto me.”

He carries you to the bathroom like it’s nothing.

The water’s warm. Steam curls around you both. He steps in with you still pressed against his chest, and you feel him sigh softly when the heat hits his skin.

You’re barely upright — legs useless, words slurred. Your face stays tucked into his neck as the water trickles down your back.

San holds you like something precious. One arm around your waist, the other reaching for the body wash. He lathers it between his hands and slowly runs them across your skin—tender, gentle strokes over your shoulders, your arms, your hips.

“You okay, baby?” he murmurs. “Talk to me.”

You nod against him. “Mmhm…”

“Too fucked out to speak?” he teases softly, kissing your wet hair. “You did so good.”

You hum again, barely able to hold your eyes open. Your hands stay curled against his chest, not moving.

He washes you carefully. Even between your thighs—especially there—he’s gentle, soothing. 

He kisses your forehead when he rinses you off, then tilts your chin to meet his eyes.

“Still with me?”

You look up at him, tired, hazy, but smiling.

“Best birthday?” you whisper.

San grins and kisses you slow.

“The fucking best.”

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

After the shower, he dries you off and pulls you into one of his soft t-shirts — way too big, hanging off your shoulder, smelling like him. 

He throws on sweatpants, grabs a blanket, and lifts you right back into bed like you weigh nothing.

And then disappears for a second.

When he comes back, you blink through your haze and see him holding the little birthday cake — a slice cut, with a fork stuck in the side.

“Didn’t forget,” he says, kneeling beside you. “You bought this for me. Now I’m sharing.”

You smile sleepily, back against the pillows, knees tucked under the blanket.

He feeds you the first bite. Then the second.

You lick the frosting off the fork, and he groans softly, eyes locked on your lips.

“If I wasn’t so wrecked…” you mumble.

“Don’t tempt me,” he laughs, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “We’re sleeping tonight. You need rest.”

“You wore me out.”

“Damn right I did.”

He sets the cake down, climbs under the blanket, and pulls you into his chest like you’re the only thing he needs to survive.

And that’s where you fall asleep — warm, full, adored, with San’s hand stroking your back, his lips pressed to your hair, and the softest little whisper against your skin:

“Thank you for the best birthday ever.”

Masterlist

after i see creep live evb's gonna be sickkk of whats ab to come frm this laptop