babybreadddd

[babybreadddd]

The snow falls, we fall apart.

summary: when heartbreak looms on your life, and winter becomes a time you loathe, hyunjin helps you rewrite your memories with the season, and with it, everything you once believed about love.

genre: producer student!hyunjin x reader. roommates!au. friends to lovers. acute descriptions of heartbreak and general sadness. slow burn. hurt/comfort. healing and hopeless romantic hyune. very inspired by long for you so lots of pining and yearning. (wc: 13k)

warnings: mentions of alcohol. it is implied that reader was in an a very toxic relationship but no details are shared.

a.n: happy birthday to my hyunjin, my muse, my light. thank you for being so full of love that it made me love love again in return. this is i think my most personal piece, and i hope it reminds those who need it that love should be soft and kind, that it shouldn’t hurt, that it should heal not break. i love you guys and i love you my xi, writing this collab with you has been a true honor <3 also!! please listen to long for you while reading :,)

winter falls masterlist.

You’ve only ever felt utter despair twice in your life.

First, when you were seven years old, playing hide and seek with your cousins at your grandma’s house. It was a warm summer afternoon, the air sweetened by pastries you devoured hours ago. You decided to hide in a wooden cabinet up in the attic, only to end up stuck there. The walls felt like they were closing in on you, the oxygen seeping away from the cracks underneath the door, leaving you deprived of air, of life.

Second, at twelve, when you've come to discover sorrow's new facet, clad in grief's heavy cloak. Your parents adopted a hamster for your birthday, but they did not know he had a terminal disease. You were distraught, to say the least, when you awoke to its still form, death claiming a frail heart unaware of its imminent fate.

And now, third, many many moons later, you are knocking on Hyunjin’s door a few minutes after midnight. It is cold out, tears tracing rivulets on your cheeks, your fingers tinted pink from roaming outside in the harsh winds, your heart much heavier than when you were a child. More grief-stricken, at your own hands, this time.

A disheveled Hyunjin opens the door, his blonde ash hair tousled and sticking upwards, a clear indication of the many times he had run his hands through it in fits of frustration. His gray hoodie zipped up hastily, revealing the silver cross necklace he was wearing, nestling perfectly against his honeyed skin.

You've always had an aversion to seeking comfort, saw it as revealing your deepest vulnerabilities to a world that isn't always kind. It was easier, much simpler to do so when you were a clueless child— when you sank in your cousin Lia's hold as she attempted to steady your breathing, when your mother cradled you in her lap after Pinky died.

It is much harder now, much more embarrassing because Hyunjin has never seen you this sad, never glimpsed your shadows that now swarm his doorstep, unannounced.

“What's wrong?” he quickly asks, eyes darting over your figure in a rapid search for visible wounds. He wouldn’t find any. All your injuries stem from within— blood doesn’t have to be spilled for your heart to weep.

You had rehearsed a lie as you walked up to his doorstep. You would say that your car broke down near his place and ask if you could stay over for the night. He would insist he could drive you to your place and you’d refuse, saying that it was too late and you did not wish to bother him. You’d sleep on the couch and slip away in the early hours of the morning.

Yet, it is the genuine worry etched in his eyes that dismantles the fortress you've hidden in, melts the lie in your throat, morphing it into a steel lump coiling in your throat. He looks concerned when all you’ve had directed towards you recently was anger. And you missed someone looking at you in care, not reproach.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” You admit, your voice shattered, fragments of your vocal cords scattered out in the wind like a broken mosaic, the sound of it scraping against your ears.

Blow one hurt. It felt like your body turned against you as it deprived you of oxygen. The sobs that escaped you once you perceived the light pained you, perhaps more than being confined in the darkness.

Blow two was even worse, it was your first time experiencing grief. It was too hard of a concept for your innocent heart to grasp, too complicated for you to find solace in anything as adults do.

You promised yourself that you’d reserve blow three for monumental agonies— big pains and big sorrows only. That’s how you managed to keep all your tears at bay for most of your life. Would they be worth losing your third sob for? No, you've always found the answer to be.

And in all the twisted scenarios you’ve conjured up in your mind, deaths and illnesses and the haunting tale of failure, you did not imagine that it would happen on Hwang Hyunjin’s doorstep. That you’d burst into sobs at the compassionate look in his gaze, and the sad smile he sent your way. As if he knew, as everyone did around you. That you had handed a knife to a serial killer and it was only a matter of time before he stabbed you in the heart.

Two weeks ago.

“I’m trying to understand you but you aren’t helping me,” Seungmin is frustrated as he paces relentlessly before you from left to right like a swinging pendulum. You sit on the couch, beholding only his shoes, avoiding his gaze that would reflect the truth you dare not confront.

“He’s sucking the life out of you, can’t you see that?”

You can, out of everyone that surrounds you, you can see it the most. You feel as if you are carrying a skin that isn’t your own, weighed down by a relationship that has taken everything from you. But admitting it is admitting that you were wrong, in trusting him, in loving him. You couldn’t bear it.

“We are fine!” you shout back, the defiance in your voice surprises even you. This is a familiar script with Seungmin, a recurring conversation spurred by your puffy eyes and diminishing appetite. He tells you, begs you to leave, but where could you go? How could you leave a home where you've shed all your treasured belongings at the door— your skin, your bones, your very self.

What place would welcome you now that you're stripped bare of your soul?

“When was the last time he made you smile, huh? All he does is hurt you, and you...” he chuckles incredulously, running his hand through his hair. “You are letting him.”

Deny, deny, deny.

“This isn’t true. He loves me,” the words taste foreign in your mouth like rusty metal dragging across your lips. A small voice whispers that love shouldn't feel like this, but you quiet it down.

“Are you hearing yourself? Yn, I…” he kneels before you, his hands resting comfortingly on your knees. This is Seungmin, your best friend of five years. You know he has your best interests at heart, you are even more sure of it when his voice softens, shakes slightly when he utters your name. “Yn, please. I’m trying to help you. Please.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” you push away his hands, standing up. “I don’t want your help, and I don’t need it.”

You quickly leave Seungmin’s dorm, your heart heavier than when you entered it, foolishly hoping that he'd ignore your distressed state after yet another fight with your boyfriend. But Seungmin doesn't understand, no one around you does— you’ve gambled your heart, and you cannot stop drawing the cards, even in the face of losing strikes.

❁ ❁ ❁

Hyunjin offers you a cup of tea with a gentle smile and you grab the steaming drink from his hands. The smell of chamomile wraps around your senses, and your brain fizzles out for a second before the soothing aroma. But it is a fleeting respite, the tempest of your thoughts crashes back onto you with an unsettling force, causing you to almost drop the drink as your hands shake. You place it down the table without taking a sip.

“I’m sorry for coming unannounced,” you apologize, wincing at the intrusion, “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“I always sleep late. Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, but you know it isn’t a genuine grin, because his eyes betray an unsubdued concern, refusing to morph into their usual moon crescents.

You’ve always thought that Hyunjin wears his emotions openly— when he laughed, he did so loudly, his boisterous giggles traveling around Seungmin’s dorm. When he hurt himself, everyone in the vicinity would know so from his loud yelps. And when something worried him, he would bite his lip, toying with the plush flesh to ease his nerves.

As he is doing now. Looking at you.

“We broke up,” you quickly say, and your words hang over you like a gloomy cloud. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you want me to fight him? I’ll bring changbin too,” he suggests a serious tone underlying his playful offer, and it manages to tear a reluctant giggle out of you.

“Changbin doesn’t know me well enough to fight for me,” you counteract and he shakes his head. “He’ll fight for me, I'm his princess.”

“Are you now?” The giggle escapes your mouth less forcefully, and the smile that graces Hyunjin’s face is a genuine one.

“I am. My proposal stands,” he extends his hand and you wrap your fingers around his palm. “Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind,” you smile but he frowns, flipping your hand around in his hold.

“You are freezing,” he whispers, using his other palm to rub warmth into yours.

“It’s fine,” you lie, slipping your hand out of his grasp, not feeling deserving of his kindness.

Wordlessly, Hyunjin stands, walking into what you assume is his bedroom. You only know of his place because you dropped off Seungmin here some time ago. You are too exhausted to even drink in the interior.

“Here,” he returns, handing you a navy hoodie of his and black joggers. “This will keep you warm at night.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, hesitating for a few seconds before speaking again. “Can you please not tell Seungmin, I... I can't face him right now.”

“Of course. I’ll be awake still if you do need something.”

Hyunjin’s clothing is warm, although peeling away your own garments felt like shedding layers of your skin, as if the fabric melted into your very flesh, just like memories from the day did. You have never felt this worthless before, discarded like a forgotten leaf on the roadside, one he stepped on for his own enjoyment, leaving you crushed in his wake, unable to fly away again.

Hyunjin’s rose perfume wraps around you, and you find relief in sleeping somewhere where your, his, scent was no longer around. You foolishly hope that if you close your eyes hard enough, you’ll manage to convince yourself that you’re someone else, tonight. Someone who isn’t tethered to the heartache, someone who can slip away from the clutches of a love that hurts more than hate could ever manage to do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Heartbreak isn’t beautiful, no matter how eloquently you try to dress it in the syllables of poetry, no words can soften the burn in your lungs, the searing ache that courses through your very core, reminding you that deep within, down to the fundamentals of your being and the most basic alchemy that ties your atoms together— you are unlovable. Whether you cut your hair or allow it to grow, change your heart, or leave it as it has always been, you will remain so.

You don’t remember much of the past week, blurry fragments here and there that float in your mind like a distorted water reflection. There is little room for memories when you are busy trying to remember how to breathe— one inhale in, one exhale out. The simple concept seems harder when there are unkind hands permanently lodged into your heart, squeezing it tight.

What you do remember is telling Seungmin through text the next day, because you couldn’t bear the way his eyes would soften if you spoke to him in person. No signs of surprise cast on his figure, because he knew that it was long coming, a train with one final inevitable destination— you in shambles, him okay.

You remember Seungmin cradling you in his arms when he came to see you, and you trying desperately to keep the tears at bay— too focused on pinching your arm to let Seungmin’s warmth radiate through your being, Hyunjin lingering uncomfortably by the entrance of his living room.

You remember begging Seungmin to grab your belongings from the apartment you shared with your ex because you were unable to face him, him, and everything that your old place spelled out for you. Stand in the ruins of what you once thought would be your permanent home.

And now, you watch as Seungmin and Hyunjin bring suitcases full of your stuff into the latter’s place. And you feel like an outsider in your own body, standing at the corner of the room gazing at utter destruction, unable to stop it, unable to mend it. Seungmin quickly reassures you that you could crash in his and Minho’s place until you find a new one to live in, already taking out his laptop to search for new apartments for you.

But you did not care for it, your eyes zeroed in on the satin shirt peeking out of your suitcase. The one he bought you on your first month anniversary. Back when love felt like a gentle feather running down your spine, and not a dull knife slicing away at your skin.

“This place's expensive too,” Seungmin sighs, rubbing his temple warily. Your logical best friend could not fix your heartbreak but he took it to heart to alleviate your other troubles. You would thank him for it, later, when your tongue finds enough will to move.

“What if you move in with me?” Hyunjin suddenly says and his words filtrate through the fog in your mind easily, as if he rehearsed them enough times so they’d roll out smoothly out of his mouth. “I mean, Felix is away for the next year since he went back to Australia. And I was looking for a new roommate anyway.” He shrugs and Seungmin turns to look at you, his eyes convey the question his mouth doesn’t articulate— is it okay with you?

“I don’t…” your voice is croaked, so you clear your throat. “I don’t want you to do things out of pity.”

“I’m not. If I was, I would've told you to move in with me for free. I still need you to pay rent,” he raises his eyebrows, a playful tease and you smile in relief, nodding, “Okay, I will. thank you.”

Heartbreak is ugly and all-encompassing, weaving through the roots of your heart and infecting each organ with its insidious touch. It renders you immobile, incapable of performing the simplest tasks, burdened by a weight unseen by the world. But you try your best, your very best to contain it.

You smile at the cashier as she hands back your money only to wonder if her soft, well-manicured hands would too crush a soul without remorse. You go to all your classes without fail but your mind is elsewhere, contemplating why the sun filtering through the windows no longer warms your skin. Can nerve endings perish when subjected to too much pain? What's left of life when you can no longer feel the caress of the sun?

You watch a movie at Seungmin's dorm but your mind is elsewhere, fleeting to this morning and how you refused to stay in the shower for more than three minutes because your thoughts might become haunting ghosts tempting you to follow them. You brush your hair and spray your perfume, only because you have to, because you live with Hyunjin and you wouldn’t want your sadness to taint him too. You wonder how long you’ll have to bear it. You wonder if it’ll ever leave you or if the veins in your heart have molded themselves after the pain and they wouldn’t know how to accept happiness anymore.

You greet Hyunjin as he walks past you, shaking your head when he asks you if you want to eat dinner with him, quickly retracting back into your room. You have ten unread messages and a pile of growing laundry you need to do, but all you can muster is to gaze at the empty walls, mirroring the void within you. Your mom told you to call her again and you don’t know how you’ll speak to her without bursting into a sob, how you’ll tell her that all it took was one person to break you. Or maybe it was two people, your hands and his tearing apart your flesh and bones. Maybe that’s the worst part about it. So you don’t call her.

And you only ever emerge from your room when you need to, just like now because your water bottle is finished and you need to refill it. You go to open the kitchen door when you hear Hyunjin’s muted shatter, Felix’s distinctive deep voice coming out of the phone speaker.

“Next you add the melted butter and stir it,” Felix instructs, the sounds of pots and utensils clinking in the background. You fidget slightly, mustering the strength to paint a fake smile on your lips.

“What next?”

“Sift the dry ingredients then add them to your wet mixture,” Felix explains, met with a few seconds of silence. You can almost visualize Hyunjin's perplexed expression, blinking rapidly in confusion.

“Explain it to me like I’m five years old,” he requests, prompting a small smile to etch itself onto your face.

“How are you surviving without me?”

“I’m not please come home,” Hyunjin sounds horrified as Felix’s rich chuckles fill the air. “Why do you suddenly want to make brownies anyway?” he then asks.

You go to open the door when Hyunjin’s response catches you off guard.

“They’re for Yn.”

Hyunjin's words resonate in the air, causing a hitch in your throat and Felix’s teasing whistles simultaneously, but Hyunjin is quick to stop him. “No, no, no, it’s not like that. They’re just a bit down and I remember them loving your brownies. So…”

It takes you a fleeting moment to dig the memory out of your mind, a year ago, right before your ex came to pick you up from Seungmin’s dorm. You had a bite of Felix’s brownies, a surprised gasp escaping your lips at its delicious taste, back when food had taste and happiness came easily to you. It was an insignificant memory, you did not imagine Hyunjin, out of everyone, would remember it.

But he did, and he’s now pacing before your closed door, contemplating how he’ll convince you to finally eat something with him. He throws a thumbs-up in the air for no one but himself, inhaling deeply before knocking on your door.

“Hey,” he greets with a hopeful smile, his gaze meeting your tired form. He hesitates for a second, clearing his throat. “Brownies?” You remain unmoving and he falters, “Hm? Please?”

“Sure,” you nod and a wave of relief floods through Hyunjin as you step out of your room. His joy is short-lived when he takes the brownies out of the oven, only to find them thoroughly burnt.

His mouth hangs agape, and he walks back shamefully to the oven, lowering its door only to scream inside of it.

“This will be more therapeutic,” you say, pointing nonchalantly to the fridge and he agrees, opening its doors and yelling once again in the much larger space.

Your melodic laughter fills the kitchen, Hyunjin’s embarrassment is suddenly a forgotten memory.

“I’m craving kimbap. Should we get it instead?” you propose, a touch shyly and he quickly agrees, afraid you’d change your mind and walk back to your room where he can no longer ensure you are okay.

Hyunjin absentmindedly dances along to the music blasting through the convenience store when a girl sidles up to his side, a saccharine grin on her lips as she looks up at him, “hi,” she greets and his tentative smile mirrors hers. “Hey.”

“Are you single?” she asks, her gaze briefly fleeting to the window. “I think you are really cute.”

“I’m…” he glances at you but you're suddenly engrossed in the ingredients of the tuna kimbap you are holding, pretending not to listen. “I am but I’m not interested, thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” she places a hand on his arm and he physically recoils. “Give me your insta and we could talk.”

“No,” he repeats, grabbing her hand to remove it when a loud voice startles him. “Baby, what’s taking you so— What are you doing?” Hyunjin watches in horror as the girl’s eyes grow wide, before she scrambles to the man’s side, feigning fear.

“He kept hitting on me when I said I had a boyfriend, baby.”

“What?” both you and Hyunjin gasped in comical unison. He would find it amusing if not for the escalating anger radiating from the man, who looks like he spends all his days in the gym. Hyunjin suddenly regrets not working out with Changbin.

The man strides towards Hyunjin. “Do you want to die?”

“No? there’s a misunderstanding,” he replies, swiftly standing before you and shielding you with his arm. “Your… baby,” he wiggles his finger in front of the man's face, “she was the one hitting on me!”

The man scoffs loudly, his face growing redder from the anger seething in him. “So you hit on my girlfriend and then accuse her of cheating?” His fist rises threateningly, prompting Hyunjin to step back, accidentally bumping into your chest.

“Wait, wait, wait! Let’s go talk outside, man to man,” Hyunjin pauses, his voice taking on a taunting edge, “unless you're too scared?” he smirks as he feels you pull at his shirt, whispering an incredulous- “What are you doing?” He shakes his head, grabbing your hand and leading you outside, throwing a sly wink at the man behind you now.

“Are you seriously going to fight him?” you ask, your gaze shifting towards the deranged couple who are about to step out of the grocery store. “No, of course not. I'm a lover, not a fighter.”

“You said you'd fight my ex,” you point out and his eyes soften surprisingly.

“You are an exception.” He looks back at the man, who's now walking towards you both. “But anyways, do you know how to run?” he asks and you frown, “who doesn’t know how to—” you pause as realization dawns on you. “No," you whisper furiously.

“Yes.”

“No,” you shake your head, horrified and he nods, eyes apologetic.

“Yes.” His fingers entwine with yours, he squeezes your hand once before he takes off running.

“Hwang fucking Hyunjin!” you shout and he looks back at you, a mischievous smile on his face. “I’m sorry Yn my face is too pretty to be beaten up.”

“He’s following us!” you yell, looking back horrified as the, even angrier, man runs after you.

“Well, run faster!”

“I’m wearing fucking slippers!” you curse and he giggles, tipping his head back, the wind slamming into you both, his hand never letting go of your own.

“Oh my god why is he still running!” you groan and Hyunjin picks up speed, moving you even closer to his sprinting figure

“I know, is it ever that serious?” he yells above his shoulder and you dig your nails into his palm.

“Shut up, this wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so gorgeous.”

“So, you think I’m pretty too?” Hyunjin grins proudly and an incredulous laugh escapes your lips.

“Really? Is this what you’re getting out of this situation?”

“Silver linings, Yn, silver linings,” he shouts as you round a small alley, finally stopping to catch your breath. You both fall to the ground, heavy breaths escaping your chests.

“Holy shit, I’m not athletic at all,” he heaves, his eyes meeting yours. He expects to find anger lingering in your gaze but all he can grasp is your amused smile before you collapse into a fit of laughter, clapping loudly and clutching your stomach with your hand.

“Oh my god, I’m crying,” you laugh harder, wiping away at the tears falling from your eyes. Hyunjin’s weariness disappears in the blink of an eye— he did not realize how much he missed your smile until he glimpsed it again. And it is beautiful. Happiness looks beautiful on you.

“Idiot,” you hit his shoulder playfully, and his response is delayed for a few seconds, the warmth from your smile rendering him immobile.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, pulling you up. “Here, I’ll carry you home,” he squats slightly before you. “How impolite of me. How dare I make your majesty run.”

You shake your head, amused, before climbing atop his back, his warm palms holding your thighs securely. “Only because the slippers hurt my feet.”

You walk in silence for a while, your arms wound up around Hyunjin’s neck, the ghost of a smile still lingering on both your faces.

“They said it will snow tomorrow,” Hyunjin speaks suddenly and you stay silent for so long he starts to wonder if you even heard him.

“Mm? That’s nice,” your tone is melancholic, and he pauses at the peculiar sadness in it— as though you were trying to act nonchalant about something that has once meant the world to you.

“Don’t you like the snow?” he asks and your hold on his neck falters.

“I loved it. Loved ice skating and building snowmen.” Your voice is light and airy, like Hyunjin’s favorite mint chocolate ice cream. “But now it reminds me of bad times, bad memories.”

“I understand.”

Hyunjin knows what it feels like to relinquish parts of yourself you never wished to part from. For someone to grab your happiest places and to cast a gloomy filter atop them. Sometimes it is the loss of a season that hurts more than the departure of a person.

And Hyunjin loves winter.

He’ll do everything so that you’ll come to love it again too.

❁ ❁ ❁

Is it a nightmare if the person in it is one you once loved, looked forward to beholding with your gaze, hoping they’d never slip out of your reach? You don’t know, but you are growing tired of having the same dreams every night. Of waking up with an exhaustion that goes beyond your restless sleep but pleads from your soul to rest after almost a year of torment.

You sigh wearily, rubbing a hand through your face before walking to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. You find Hyunjin there, eating a cupcake while standing shirtless, scrolling through his phone. You blink at the sight.

“Hey,” you clear your throat and he startles, dropping the cupcake on the ground. He goes to pick it up only to bang his head on the table, a loud yelp escaping his lips. You barely contain your giggles as you walk to his side, rubbing your palm soothingly on his head. “I'm sorry I didn't mean to scare you.”

“At least pretend you are sorry,” he mumbles, pointing to your amused smile and you chuckle, taking his hand and helping him to his feet.

“What are you doing up now?” he asks as he grabs some napkins to clean up the pink frosting smeared across the floor.

You hesitate for a few seconds before whispering, “Just nightmares. And you?” you quickly add, not keen on pushing the subject any further.

“I'm working on a song,” he explains, as his gaze lingers on your sunken eyes, weighed down by dark circles from too many sleepless nights.

“And the cupcake?”

“Some people need caffeine to function. I need flour.”

“I literally see you drink three americanos per day.”

“Okay well maybe I need both,” he admits sheepishly and you grin, drumming your fingers along the countertop.

“Can I sit with you while you work?” you ask quickly, before the words linger enough in your mouth that you no longer wish to spit them out.

The smile that Hyunjin sends you is kind, pushing the shadows of your nightmares just slightly out of reach.

“Of course, yeah you can. Don’t even need to ask.”

Hyunjin walks first into his bedroom, quickly slipping on a hoodie while you take in the interior. It is a quite simple room— a large bed with gray covers, and a desk filled with what you assume to be his producing equipment sits adjacent. But what catches your attention is the dried rose hung delicately on the wall, and the array of paintings surrounding it. You edge closer to it, drawn to the well-crafted paintings— a sun-drenched beach, a couple lost in an embrace so intimate their forms can no longer be separated, and an elderly pair riding a motorcycle, their love radiating vibrantly as if enclosed in eternal youth.

“You paint?” you ask, turning around to find Hyunjin watching you. He steps closer, enveloping you once more in the fragrance of his rose perfume.

“In my free time.”

“You are amazing, Hyunjin,” you compliment sincerely, your gaze fixed on that imagery of the old couple, one that most likely grew together. It tugs at your heartstrings, stirs a painful longing within you, a memory of a time when you too believed you’d find such boundless love.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, before brushing his fingertips gently against your forearm, for a fleeting second. “Are you okay?” he asks, a tenderness you’ve been aching for latched into his question. Your eyes refuse to peel away from the paintings and the love spilling from each paint brush stroke, a love that refuses to rest on your being as if you were harboring an armor that repels it.

“No,” you reply sincerely, turning to face him. “It’s really hard,” you say with a smile, hoping that the mechanical display of happiness would keep your tears at bay, tricking your brain into believing you're not as sad as you feel.

It fails to do so, and the tears well in your eyes like a gathering storm. Frustration twists your features as you shut your eyes, tilting your head upward in a desperate attempt to contain the flood. It pauses as Hyunjin cradles the back of your head, drawing you close to the warmth of his neck. His palm glides soothingly along your spine, before patting your back ever so gently.

Your back stiffens, hands curling into tight fists, breath catching in your throat. You've grown accustomed to pushing away comfort, putting up tall barriers to shield yourself. But tonight, Hyunjin seems to break through your defenses.

Tonight, you soften, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, head nestling deeper against his tender skin.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers and another sob wracks through you, but he only holds you tighter. “It’ll get better soon.”

“I loved him,” you hiccup, your voice breaks, “a lot.”

“I know, that’s why it hurts.” His voice is gentle, and yet his hold on you feels secure as if you could stumble and fall, and he would be there to catch you

“I want it to stop hurting.”

“It will, with time.”

Your next words are tinged with a childlike vulnerability, reminiscent of blow one, then two. But you do not care for it, in that instant, you crave the reassurance, you need someone to plant a seed of hope in your soul because your hands are too frail to dig for it.

“Do you promise me?”

His response doesn’t come hastily, carelessly thrown into the air like idle chatters. He takes his time, considering it with the gravity of an oath.

“I promise you.” He finally says, each syllable infused with sincerity. A brief pause hangs in the air before he adds. “And if it doesn’t then you can hit me.”

“On your pretty face?” you ask, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“On my pretty face,” he confirms with a chuckle.

“What an honor,” you roll your eyes playfully as you lean back and he grins, tenderly wiping away your tears with the back of his fingers.

“I can't believe it took three minutes for you to cry in my room. This isn’t good for my reputation.”

“Good thing this will never leave this bedroom, right?” you point a finger at him threateningly, and he pretends to zip his lips, tossing away the imaginary key. “You got it.”

“So what are you working on?” you ask as you settle on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest.

“It’s a pretty sad song, wanna hear?” he offers, sitting across from you on his chair.

“Yeah, I'd love to,” you smile, and Hyunjin deftly adjusts a few buttons, before his melancholic whistles weave through the air, coupled with the somber melody of a piano. Your breath catches in your throat, the music reaching into the very depths of your soul. It's as if the notes are calling out for a loved one, for a time that has long passed, for a past that will never come back no matter how much we long for it.

The instrumental continues, each piano note and each violin string echo like a bittersweet lament, springing tears to your eyes. But the melody remains beautiful, akin to the beauty always found in the sadness— in the tears that cascade down your cheeks like glistening crystals, in the tremble of your hands akin to branches swaying in the wind, in the rise and fall of your chest with each breath, mirroring the ebb and flow of the waves.

Hyunjin watches you intently as the music envelops you both, his gaze softening with each passing moment. You bring a hand to your chest, almost unconsciously, too engrossed in the melody to even blink. He feels a blush sprout on his cheeks as your teary eyes hold his with the last fading guitar strings.

“You keep on making me cry,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion, and he grins, tilting his head shyly against his shoulder.

“You like it?” he asks, a tad eager and you nod, not bothering to wipe the lone tears that are falling down your cheeks.

“I think this is what my loneliness sounds like,” you confess softly.

“As do mine.”

A silent beat runs between you both, it isn’t uncomfortable, but safe. Because you understand him, just as he understands you.

“Sometimes I long for things that have passed," he admits, “although I know I can't get them anymore.”

“The most terrible thing you can long for is yourself.”

“Because no one’s to blame for that loss but you?” he muses and you nod, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, exactly.”

You bite your lip, casting a glance back at the paintings adorning the wall. “I don't love him anymore,” you begin quietly. “I stopped a long time ago because there was no room for love anymore to grow amid weeds and thorns.”

He remains silent, sensing that this is a weight you need to unburden yourself from.

“But in the midst of it I think I stopped loving myself too,” you whisper, a confession too terrible to be uttered out loud. “That's what I long for. The things I used to love that I'm indifferent to now.”

“Like you’re a stranger before everything once familiar to you.”

“Yeah, you express it prettily,” you remark with a small smile.

“It's my job,” he grins lightly.

“I think when your heart is pure,” he begins after a while, pausing to carefully choose the words that will soothe your burn, help sleep come more easily to you. “You give love to others more readily than you do to yourself. And it takes time, patience, to redirect that love back to your own heart once again. But it's not a mistake to love, you shouldn’t hate yourself for it. Nor should you blame your past self for loving the wrong person because they did not know what you now do.”

“Think of it as a caterpillar in their cocoon,” he continues gently, “when they finally emerge from their chrysalis, they might long for who they were, where they once were because it is the only place they've ever known. But they do not realize that they've transformed into a beautiful butterfly, that they can now fly, and witness much more than their chrysalis. So maybe, your new self will love the same things as before, or maybe you’ll find new, better things to love that you would have not known before. But in either way, your heart is beautiful. That is what matters, no?”

A small pout draws on your lips, your eyebrows scrunched as you gaze at him.

“You have a very tender soul, Hyunjin.”

Your words linger in Hyunjin's mind long after the sunrise, as you lay peacefully asleep on his bed. The melody of the instrumental he produced continues to play faintly in the background, serving as a gentle lullaby that eases you into slumber, entwined in his sheets, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself, one hand cradling your shoulders and the other resting gently on your stomach. The image sears into his eyes as he sketches the outlines of a figure holding itself absentmindedly, long into the night.

Hyunjin has had his fair share of compliments, mostly pertaining to his face, and others to his craft. but it is you who seems to have sensed that a part of his soul resided in his art, that he left pieces of his heart hidden in the notes he composes and the lyrics he writes, hoping they’ll find soft hands that will take care of them, just like your own.

Five days later.

hyunjin [11:34 p.m.]: are you home?

yn [11:34 p.m.]: yeahh, do you need anything?

hyunjin [11:35 p.m.]: come downstairs, im waiting for youu

if you say no i’ll freeze to death..

hurry i can’t feel my fingers anymore (please please) ㅠㅠㅠ

“This better be a life and death situation Hwang Hyunjin,” you say threateningly as soon as you appear before Hyunjin, causing him to straighten up from the wall he was leaning against.

“It is a very dangerous life-altering situation that requires your immediate assistance, indeed,” he responds solemnly, ushering you gently to his car and opening the door for you.

“Which is?” you ask as soon as he settles inside the car and he simply grins at you, his left dimple coming forth like the very sun on a gloomy day.

“You’ll see.”

Hyunjin’s eyes fleet to your figure every now and then, but you do not seem to notice, your gaze lost into the blurring lights ahead. He can tell you're still not entirely yourself, so he was prepared to forcibly drag you along with him. He’s almost surprised you accepted to come down so easily.

“Is that… Seungmin?” you speak suddenly, pointing to a man waving in the distance, as Hyunjin parks his car near an empty field.

“And Changbin? And Minho?” you continue, squinting your eyes, “and a bonfire?” you giggle with a hint of excitement.

“You love s’mores during the winter, right?”

Hyunjin smiles, your soul softens.

“I do,” you say quietly, “I really do.”

You quickly exit the car, running into Seungmin's arms with a grin of disbelief plastered on your face. “This is insane,” you almost shout, squeezing him tight in a hug.

“It was so hard to find the perfect middle of nowhere for this,” Minho grumbles as you move to greet him, but the warmth of his embrace assures you he's only teasing.

“Thank you,” you say with a smile as you hug Changbin, who affectionately ruffles your hair. “It was Hyunjin’s idea,” he reveals, and you glance back at Hyunjin, who stands with his hands buried deep within his sweatpants behind you. You mouth a silent “thank you” to him, but he shakes his head modestly as if it is nothing to bring happiness to a bruised heart.

The night unfolds in endless laughter, with Minho and Hyunjin taking turns roasting marshmallows over the crackling bonfire, and Seungmin serving you hot coffee to keep your hands warm. Your stomach aches from the uncontrollable fits of giggles that overtook your being as Minho recounts the time he danced so vigorously on stage for his dance club that he ripped his pants, feeling a breeze where there shouldn't be one; and Changbin tells you the story of the time his voice cracked in the middle of a rap battle, and how none of the boys stopped teasing him about it for months to come.

And as the four of them take turns making you laugh, a quiet, tender realization dawns on you—you are loved. It is something he tried to convince you was impossible, that no one around truly cared for you but him. And even then, you weren’t deserving of his love whole, only scrapes of it, as if you were a beggar tugging at the outskirts of his heart.

But Hyunjin reminded you otherwise. And if your friends found something worthy of love within you then perhaps so will you again, one day.

“Did you have fun?” Hyunjin asks as he opens the door to his, your, apartment hours later. What he doesn't expect is for you to respond by wrapping your arms around his slender torso, squeezing tight in gratitude.

“Thank you,” you whisper and he nods, though you cannot see him, returning the embrace by wrapping his arms around your shoulder blades.

Hyunjin doesn't let go first, sensing that perhaps you need this hug more than he does. He smiles as your eyes meet his again, but his grin falters when he notices your gaze flickering towards your bedroom, a hint of unease clouding your expression. It's as if behind that door lie monsters only you can grasp, wearing the faces of people you once knew, once loved.

“Wanna stay with me while I work on the song?”

“Last time I ended up sleeping on your bed,” you say a bit shamefully, recalling the morning you woke up to find yourself covered with a thick blanket that wasn’t there before, alone in Hyunjin's room.

“It's okay,” he shrugs, “I missed sleeping on the couch.”

You stare pointedly at him and he chuckles, “Fine, I did not miss it. But you needed the sleep, so it’s okay with me.”

“Fine,” you concede, though you did not need much convincing for it. “But only if you promise you’ll wake me up if I end up falling asleep again.”

Hyunjin tilts his head, thinking to himself for a few seconds before shaking his head stubbornly, a small pout drawn on his face, his eyes semi-closed. “No.”

“Hyunjin!”

“Nu-uh,” he insists, shaking his head once more as he walks back towards his room. “I'm waiting for you!”

“I'm not coming!”

But you do eventually join him, after changing your clothes and washing your face. You find Hyunjin clad in beige and white checkered pajamas, his glasses pushing back his silky hair as he hunches over his journal, scribbling away before erasing what he wrote.

“Struggling with lyrics?” you ask, leaning against the wall and he startles. “Do you float on the ground? Why can I never hear you come in?”

“Or maybe you just love being dramatic,” you sing-song, laying atop his bed, much more at ease than the previous night.

Hyunjin sticks his tongue out childishly in response, and you playfully mimic the gesture before both of you dissolve into happy giggles.

“Kind of,” he explains once you both settle down, “I have this specific feeling in mind that I need to convey.”

“You'll do well,” you reassure softly, “your lyrics are always so beautiful. Remember Cover me?” you smile and he scratches the back of his ear, a shy grin spreading across his face.

“You still listen to it?” he asks and you nod eagerly, attempting to belt into Seungmin’s ending high note. You fail horribly and Hyunjin throws a crumpled piece of paper on your face to get you to stop singing.

“My poor ears,” he laughs loudly, and you retaliate by throwing back a pillow on his head.

“You just don’t get my artistic abilities.”

“I’d get them more if you stayed silent.”

You gasp, faking offense as you stand up to tickle Hyunjin on his chair, he starts squirming immediately, his loud giggles spilling all over the room, coating it in vibrant hues of happiness, and you’re suddenly captivated by the sight of him— his head thrown back, a golden lock framing his laughter-filled eyes, his top lowering slightly to reveal glimpses of his collarbones and the delicate veins that trace enticing paths on his neck.

You pause, your hand hovering over the side of his stomach, as a long-forgotten warmth spreads through your heart, like the first rays of dawn greeting the earth after a long winter night. It doesn’t diffuse quickly through your being, but rather drapes like sticky honey on your veins, making you well aware of your growing blush, of how beautiful Hyunjin is in his joy.

“Never singing to you again,” you clear your throat, laying atop his bed once again, and quickly reaching for your phone, anything to avoid his eyes which rival the crescent moon outside his window.

Hours pass before a warm hand gently settles on your shoulder, rousing you from your slumber. Blinking away the fog of sleep, you find Hyunjin leaning over you, his grin wide and infectious. “Wake up,” he whispers, but you only groan, burying your face deeper into his pillow.

He doesn’t yield, taking hold of your wrist and guiding your drowsy figure upright, before wrapping the blanket snugly around your shoulders. Without a word, he leads you out onto his balcony, carefully putting his neon green beanie on your head to shield you from the cold.

“It’s snowing!” he smiles, and his excited tone manages to dissipate the fog in your mind. You blink repeatedly and soon enough, you too behold the fallen snowflakes, each one resembling a tiny speck of light bidding farewell to the sky to greet the earth.

“You missed the first snow so I didn’t want you to miss this one too,” he explains, and his thoughtfulness blankets you with a warmth that seeps into every crevice in your body, drips down your fingertips and makes the cold of 4 a.m. seem less harsh, less biting to the touch.

You don’t know how to say thank you, because those two words don’t encapsulate the depths of gratitude that you feel for Hyunjin. Because he is speaking to the person within you who still loves snow, the part buried underneath layers of dust from a ground heartbreak. But you still manage to hear him, and you squeeze his hand tightly, and he doesn’t let go until you finally do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Remembering has become easier for you these past two months— both the good and the bad. And each day, the scale tips towards one side or the other. Sometimes you recall the suffocation you felt with him, the feeling that no matter what you did you could never please him, that your hands were crafted to break rather than mend. And on those days your wound grows, it throbs and bleeds different emotions.

Sometimes it's anger— at him for treating your heart so carelessly as if you were a being devoid of feeling. And then at you— for staying, for giving him excuses and desperately searching for goodness within him, for the one redeeming quality that would convince you he was worth the pain.

And other days bring an excruciating sadness along, a weight that presses down upon you until you're paralyzed. Because you feel bad for yourself and for everything you went through. Because you’re unsure how to rise when unseen hands push you deeper into the abyss.

And on these days, Seungmin becomes your anchor. He buys your favorite food, skips classes with you, and takes you to your favorite gardens. He talks and he talks and you try your best to laugh because you do not wish to worry him more. It is enough to be your own burden, you do not wish to burden him too.

But when he drops you home, your facade slips away, the smile fading from your face as if it were never truly yours to wear. You are too tired to pretend so you don’t, and Hyunjin doesn’t let you, either. He brews you tea and orders takeout because he knows you lack the energy for cooking. He goes with you on walks and drapes you in pieces of his clothing— scarves and beanies and gloves because he knows you couldn’t care less about a cold when there is a frost coating your bones. He lets you sit in his room while he works on his songs, and while he paints. Sometimes you talk and often you don't need to. But he’s there. He's there with you.

But you also remember the good. You remember your movie night with the boys, Hyunjin building an entire fort for you, adorned with twinkling lights and the softest blankets. How you watched movies until 5 a.m. your bodies so closely huddled together that there was no room left for sadness.

You recall Hyunjin begging you to build a snowman with him at the crack of dawn, the two of you collapsing in fits of laughter as you threw snowballs at one another, your footsteps marking the fresh fallen snow.

You remember being so exhausted after one of your showers that you simply laid atop the couch, gaze fixed on the void, too drained to even untangle the knots in your hair. Yet, it is not the tiredness that you exactly recall, nor the salty tears you shed underneath the scorching water jet. But it is Hyunjin's tender hands as he brushed through your hair, his fingers tracing the nape of your neck, his knuckles ghosting over the slate of your shoulder. You remember whispering that it was a particularly hard day and Hyunjin understanding. You remember him watching many YouTube tutorials to prepare your favorite seaweed soup, only for it to end up being too salty. But you still ate it all, because he made it for you, to lift your wounded spirits. And that alone was enough for it to taste good.

You remember your heart hardening then softening again, breaking then stitching itself back together, closing off then blooming like flowers on the first day of spring. You remember smiling only to cry then smile again. And you remember liking snow, a bit more than you thought you would. Because Hyunjin was there, holding your trembling hand, steadying it enough for you to rewrite your memories with winter.

So, you want to say thank you.

You do not wish to spell it out, because there are too many things to thank Hyunjin for and too few words to do so. Instead, you drag him to the farmer’s market near your home, and you tell him to help you pick flowers.

“I could be in bed watching my favorite show and yet here I am bestowing you with my enchanting presence,” he sighs, not too modestly, as you both eye the array of colorful blooms.

“Okay, Shakespeare, are you done?” you roll your eyes, attempting your best to hide your grin.

“Done annoying you? Never. These are very pretty,” he adds, pointing to the white roses in full bloom, their delicate petals emitting a sweet fragrance into the air.

“I agree, what else should we add?” you ponder, picking out four roses.

“Mm, Hibiscus? The red in the center is so vibrant,” he suggests, taking out his phone to capture the flower.

“Cute. Baby breath’s would look good too,” you say as you gather the flowers, heading to the cashier with Hyunjin trailing behind, still admiring the delicate blooms.

“Can I write a note?” you ask the middle-aged man as he wraps the bouquet in a powder blue paper.

“Sure,” he replies with a smile, and you return the gesture, quickly jotting down your words.

“Are you done?” Hyunjin grins when you return to his side and you nod, exiting the flower shop.

“What do you think?” you ask, angling the bouquet towards him.

“It's beautiful.”

“It’s yours,” you smile, growing shier at the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you, then the flowers, then on you again. “Take it,” you hand it to him, your cheeks flushing like the hibiscus’s crimson core.

“Actually?” he says softly, his fingers trembling slightly as he accepts the flowers and you nod in response. You bite your lip as you watch him take out the note, his eyes softening once he reads the words inscribed in it— thank you for making my winter less cold.

“Should we go?” you say a tad too cheerfully, turning away, but Hyunjin grabs your wrist, spinning you around once more. His fingers trail up your arm, coming to rest gently on your cheek as he leans down to plant a tender kiss there.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment longer than necessary. You think that if his soft lips grace your skin a few times more, your nerve endings might forget the harshness they were subjected to. If his gentle hands remain on your cheeks, then maybe, your heart would heal quicker, better. Maybe your past self that you long for would emerge again, maybe Hyunjin would be able to unearth it.

Your hopeful thoughts disappear as quickly as they arrive, overshadowed by a sense of helplessness that crashes over you, all of the sudden. You sense him before you hear him, the familiar anxiety that is only synonymous with your ex’s presence.

“Yn?” the sound of your name feels harsher in his mouth, the syllables spat out rather than spoken tenderly, as they are when Hyunjin pronounces it. Your veins run cold as his voice pierces the air, your heart skipping three beats at once before plummeting to your knees. You wrap your hand around Hyunjin’s forearm instinctively, and he looks down at you, his expression morphing into one of concern.

You’re unsure of what he sees in you— whether it is your pale face, the quiver of your lower lip, or the fear that has coated all your features— but his eyes harden, his brows furrowing as he gazes at the man behind you.

You refuse to turn around, bracing yourself for his next words. “Yn,” he repeats his tone laced with anger, his fingertips grazing your arm as if intending to force you to face him. But before he can touch you, Hyunjin intervenes, swiftly stepping in between you and your ex, shielding you with his own body protectively.

“Leave,” Hyunjin's voice is cold, dripping with a venomous edge you've never heard from him before, his jaw clenching with barely contained fury.

“Is this your new shiny toy, Yn?” your ex taunts and his voice cuts through your being against your will, triggering a flood of memories you've tried so desperately to suppress. Memories of his cruelty, his manipulation, and the pain he inflicted upon you—using your love as a weapon to bolster his own ego.

“What's in it for you?” you find your voice again, though it trembles when you speak. He is the very embodiment of your pain and everything you loathe about yourself. You wish for the ground to swallow you whole, for a bolt of lightning to strike the earth, anything to spare you from facing him.

“It's only been three months, I didn't know you were a whore.”

Hyunjin's fist connects with his cheek before you can register his words. It all unfolds so rapidly that you barely have time to comprehend it. Your ex staggers back, blood trickling from the cut on his lip, while Hyunjin stands before you, his chest heaving with restrained anger, his right hand clenched into a fist, the bouquet still held tightly in the other.

“Fine, I deserved it,” your ex chuckles, his voice laced with mockery as he wipes the blood from his lip. His gaze meets yours briefly behind Hyunjin's back.

“You might not be a whore but you are unlovable, keep that in mind.” He spits out before walking away, crude words that tear at every scab covering your wounds, reopening them with a brutal force. Hyunjin moves to follow him, but you grab his shirt, pulling him back.

“He’s not worth it,” you murmur.

Your words seem to snap Hyunjin out of his haze as he turns to look at you, worry cast across his figure. He moves to cradle your cheeks but you step back, refusing to meet his eyes. He swallows thickly, clutching the bouquet in his hands. “Are you okay?”

You let out a heavy sigh, your shoulders slumping as you shake your head slightly. “Let's just go home,” you whisper, eyes fleeting to his for a split second. All the lights in your gaze are muted.

You’re crumbling before him once again and he cannot stop it, no matter how much he yearns to.

It's long past midnight when you find yourself seated on the floor of your living room, a bottle of red wine placed between you and Hyunjin. You exchange it wordlessly, taking turns sipping from it, the alcohol warming your insides but doing little to ease the ache in your heart. You don’t exactly recall when Hyunjin sat next to you, but you don’t mind. You were too lost in your own thoughts to even register his presence.

“Yn,” he calls out softly and you hum absentmindedly, memories of when your ex spoke your name haunting you, each time he yelled your name, uttered it in disdain as if it was the starting point of everything wrong with you.

“Talk to me, please?” he pleads, angling his body towards your own. But you refuse to meet his eyes and Hyunjin’s heart twists in his chest. He is afraid of all the ugly thoughts that must roam your mind. He wishes he could enter it, open the windows wide, and usher the light in.

“I'm sorry you were dragged into this,” you say, your gaze fixated on the bouquet placed atop the table. The crimson painted on the hibiscus’ petals reminds you of the blood that spilled from your ex’s mouth, and your gaze fleets to Hyunjin's hand, slightly bruised from the punch.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispers, “there is nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s as though you don’t hear him, your fingers trailing gently across his scraped knuckles, tears pooling in your eyes the more you stare at his hand.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice thick with emotion, and Hyunjin’s quick to shake his head. “No, don’t worry about it. He deserved it.”

“You didn’t deserve to be hurt.”

“Neither did you.”

Your disbelieving scoff that follows scares him. What if you’re slipping away into a dark place yet again, one void and barricaded, in which the only sound that echoes is your ex’s hurtful words? What if he can’t reach you again?

“If the only person I’ve ever loved says I’m unlovable then maybe I am.”

You’re drunk, you wouldn’t have said such an ugly thing otherwise, wouldn’t have allowed this sentiment to materialize into the air, to take a tangible form apart from your abstract thoughts.

“No,” Hyunjin says in a panic as though he’s trying to quickly pull the brakes on your free-railing thoughts. He cups your face between his palms, your tears falling freely atop his hands but he does not move away.

“No,” he repeats, more calmly this time. “How he treated you is a reflection of who he is. And how you see him is a reflection of who you are. And you wanted him to be loving because you’re full of love. You wanted him to be good because you are a good person. And he can’t stomach that, can’t stomach that you are happy without him so he’s trying to ruin you again.”

“Hyunjin…” you shake your head but he only inches closer to you, his thumbs gently caressing your cheekbones. “No, listen to me. Seungmin loves you so much he couldn’t eat properly for the first few days you stayed here, texted me all the time asking me how you were and if you were feeling better. He isn't good with words so instead he tries to make you laugh. He wishes he could give up parts of his happiness for you.”

A sob swells within you but Hyunjin presses on. “And Minho, he tried to memorize all your favorite recipes so he could cook them for you. It isn’t a coincidence that every time we go over to their dorm it is your favorite food that we eat. He takes more pictures of his cats these days so he could send them to you because he knows it cheers you up.”

“You told me Changbin doesn’t know you well enough to fight for you but when we saw your ex across the campus one day he wanted to get up and beat him. He always asks me if you are well and if there is something he can do for you, anything.”

He inhales deeply, tears welling up in his eyes as well. “And me…” a tender smile graces his lips as he gazes at you, “you make this house a home. I feel like my true self when you are around and loneliness doesn’t come to me as often as it did. Because you are here. You are like a beam of sunlight that lightens up every life you touch, mine first,” he’s baring his soul to you, vulnerable yet resolute. “So tell me, Yn, what’s not to love in you when you yourself are so full of love?”

“Hyune,” you speak the nickname for the first time, and Hyunjin’s heart thrashes achingly around his ribcage. “If you keep talking like this I might end up loving you,” you smile sadly at him as if it is a terrible thing to be loved by you.

“But I don’t want to love you, because I won’t know how to, not anymore. So I'll end up leaving. And I'll long for you, and I don't think I can stomach longing for you from afar.”

“So please,” you place one hand atop his own, wipe away the lone tear rolling down his cheek. “Don’t make me love you, hm? You deserve more than to be loved by someone like me.”

You leave Hyunjin in the living room, alone before the white flowers you gifted him. He doesn’t want to put them away in a vase, for as soon as he grabbed them from your hold, everything around you both crumbled. So he leaves them there for the night, the creamy white petals aglow underneath the moonlight. He spends the night painting the bouquet from memory, but the petals end up too tinged with red, perhaps mirroring the blood his heart refuses to stop spilling still.

He did not realize it before, maybe he blinded himself so he wouldn’t see what was before him all along. But it is all the clearer to him now— that in his attempts to make you love winter again, Hyunjin only ended up loving you.

A week later.

hyune [1:25 a.m.]: i miss you

You and Hyunjin spent the last seven days avoiding one another, well you more than him. He just understood your silent plea when you took a step back the one time he tried to talk to you in the kitchen, swallowing thickly before inching away, allowing you to move past him.

You did not know how to face him after what he said, partly because you were embarrassed by your own response, mostly because even in your drunken daze, his words etched themselves permanently into your memory.

It is his reassuring words that echoed in your brain for the past week, not those of your ex.

hyune [1: 26 a.m.]: and i miss sleeping on the couch

You giggle, shaking your head before replying.

yn [1:26 a.m.]: no you don’t

hyune [1:26 a.m.]: no i don’t ㅠㅠ

but i finished the song

wanna hear?

Walking to Hyunjin’s room feels as familiar as going into your own. And when your gaze finally meets his you can’t help but break into a relieved smile. It was foolish of you to punish yourself, enough people have done that for you already.

“Hey,” he greets tentatively, and you respond with an awkward wave, a moment pregnant with anticipation passes before both of you dissolve into laughter.

“What is this? Are we in middle school,” he teases and you giggle, settling comfortably on his bed once more.

“I know. We are so lame.”

“You are,” he corrects with a grin and you gasp, pretending to leave but he quickly catches your hand, stopping you. “No, please stay. I meant it when I said that I missed you,” he repeats quietly, as if afraid that his confession would make you run away once again.

Your heart aches, the knots in your stomach tightening and unraveling all at once. “I missed you too,” you admit softly, and he smiles, his thumb tracing a gentle path above your pulse before releasing your hand.

“So it's done then?” you ask and he nods, running a hand through his hair with a hint of anxiety. “How do you feel about it?”

“Good. I hope you’ll like it, mostly.”

“I'm sure I will,” you reassure him with a soft smile, and he nods once more, pressing a few buttons before his melodious whistles fill the air once again.

Nothing could have braced you for the sound of Hyunjin's voice that followed, its timbre soft as silk yet imbued with profound sorrow. It's as though he recorded the song on one of his loneliest nights, his honeyed vocals dipped in an excruciating nostalgia that seeps into every corner of the room, every corner of your heart.

In the faded photo, I come across a smile spread across a youthful face, overlapped with the seasons.

Your gaze flickers to Hyunjin as a shadow of recollection dawns on you. You remember telling him that you couldn’t stomach looking at pics of your past, ones in which you smiled so freely because you were blissfully unaware of what was to come.

The night’s so cold that it’s almost unreal.

Because you weren’t aware of the winter that will follow and the biting cold that it would bear, for everything that will go astray in your relationship, for your ex's facade to crack like a glacier succumbing to the pressure of lies and pretense.

I wake up in another silence, and I close my eyes.

You remember Hyunjin confessing that silence haunted him more than words ever could, and you had agreed, sharing how sometimes you shut your eyes, pretending that the reality you woke up to wasn't the one you were living.

The white flower we planted together has bloomed. I do not dare pick it. Now it withers away.

You gaze at the white flowers you brought him, now wilted in the vase placed on his desk, yet Hyunjin refuses to throw them still. You see the card you wrote for him hung on the wall, right next to the dried red rose. He kept it. Though it withered, he kept it all.

So I long for you. And I long for you. And I'll long for you.

You remember the longing you both spoke of, how he understood a feeling you felt so incredibly alone in. How he tried to reassure you when he too was caught in the webs of the past. How you longed for him in the past week. How you wished he longed for you just the same.

So I can keep loving you. So I could be loving you. And morе.

The violin swells and so does the emotion in your chest. You remember him asking you ‘What’s not to love in you’ and how you've spun those words in your thoughts ever since. You remember thinking that if he gave you a few more weeks, just a bit more time, you might have found it in you to believe them.

You see Hyunjin’s glimmering eyes holding yours, you see his heart atop a platter handed to you, and you see the resignation in his being. Don’t make me love you, you told him. You didn’t dare to tell him not to love you in return, deemed it too foolish of thought to entertain.

For he was Hwang Hyunjin, the quiet producer who paints in his free time and who wears his heart on his sleeve. Who remains hopeful, loving, and tender, despite the thorns pricking at his side. Who is beautiful, so much so that he allowed you to see beauty in the universe once again, through his eyes.

How could he love you?

How could you not love him?

“The song,” you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips as you stand, trembling, on your feet. Hyunjin rises too, meeting you in the center of his room.

“It is about you. For you,” he says simply as if his words don’t cause your world to burst at the seams only to mend itself once again, too eager to fix itself and exist in the same timeline as Hyunjin.

“I don't… I don’t know what to say,” you say earnestly, feeling your heart pound in your chest, its beats resounding loudly in your ears.

It is wrong of you to assume he wishes you to say something. He is Hyunjin, the one who finds words in your silences too, after all.

“I don’t need you to say anything,” he shakes his head, taking another step closer to you. “I don't want an answer, I don't wish to pressure you. I just wanted to tell you that my love is here, it is yours to take or to leave, to cherish or to discard. But it is yours, because this is who I am. I am someone who loves you.”

“So do not tell me to forget you because I don't know how to. And don’t tell me that you’ll leave because I will love you still, because you’d still be you, near or far, you are you. And you are someone I long for.” He pauses, his voice softening. “And I long for you, Yn, more than anything I've ever longed for. And I've spent all my life longing.”

His lips meet your forehead tenderly, and you feel your entire being grow limp at the chaste kiss, as if your limbs wish to liquefy and form a puddle on the floor. His touch is soft, and you miss it the moment he parts from you.

“There must be something in this room that keeps on making you cry,” he smiles and you bring your hands to your damp cheeks, surprised to find there tears you didn’t realize had fallen.

“It’s you,” you pinch his arm playfully and he squirms away from your hold, stabbing his toe on the desk in the process. A loud fuck echoes around the room, and your laughter dissipates the tension clinging into the air.

“Can you play it again?” you request softly and Hyunjin’s theatrics fade as a shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Is it good?”

“It's everything to me.”

“It's called ‘long for you’, by the way.”

“Long for you,” you repeat quietly. There has never been a prettier combination of words.

The title all but makes sense as you lay on the bed, your gaze fixed on the paintings hung on the wall, Hyunjin sketching quietly on his desk, the song resonating softly in the background. You've longed for many things in your life—the person you once were and the tender love you once craved—but amidst it all, nothing has weighed heavier on your heart than the longing for the man sitting just two meters away, almost in your loving grasp. Almost.

❁ ❁ ❁

It is an excruciating five days that Hyunjin spends apart from you, the both of you too caught up in your assignments to find a moment to properly speak. But you do not shy away from him when he greets you, and your grin is kind as it drapes across his being, and Hyunjin swears he has never seen a prettier sight than you smiling.

On the sixth night, Hyunjin completes the cover for the song— a figure wrapped around itself protectively, mirroring the way you hug yourself in your sleep. He hangs it on the wall, right next to your thank you card and the white bouquet he drew once again, wishing to properly immortalize its beautiful flowers, to purify that memory from the tumult that followed it.

On the sixth night, the house is quiet, the full moon high up in the sky, snowflakes falling softly to the ground. Hyunjin wonders if you too mimicked the snow’s descent— both of you falling apart with it.

But then, there’s a knock on his door.

His heart catches in his throat, his body freezing as if it forgot how to move. You are here.

“Come in,” he manages to say, his voice barely above a whisper. You push the door open, and Hyunjin's words wilt on his tongue as he sees what you're carrying—another bouquet, filled with white flowers, yet again.

“Hey,” you smile, standing by the door.

He remains silent, unsure of what to say, or how to speak. He longs for you when you are away, even more so when you’re before him.

“We shouldn't let these white flowers wither away too, right?” you smile slightly, placing the bouquet on the desk before walking to Hyunjin’s bedside. His voice falters, vocal cords refusing to move and overshadow your voice.

You sit beside him, gently pulling his hand so that you’d both lie on the pillows. Your hand doesn’t leave his own, instead, it moves to rest on his cheek, reminiscent of the many times he had cradled your face before. Inch by inch, you close the gap between you, nuzzle the tip of your nose against his own. “Hi, Hyune”, you say softly, and he swallows thickly, his voice coming out just as quietly.

“Hi, my Yn.”

“If we take care of the white flowers together do you think they’ll survive a bit longer?” you ask, your gaze never wavering from his, countless stars twinkling in the depths of your irises.

“I believe so,” he says tentatively, too aware of the warmth of your palm against his skin, of the sweet ache unfurling within his being.

“Mm, and even if they wilt we can always buy new ones. We can learn how to care for them better, with time,” you say, and he nods in agreement, laying his hand atop your own, tilting his head to bestow a chaste kiss on your palm.

“With time,” he echoes softly and you smile, vulnerable yet secure in his gray sheets, in his hold.

“Will you give me time too?” you ask, and Hyunjin reads in your eyes what you mean, understands in the shake of your voice the question you are too afraid to voice. Will he give you time to heal in order to love?

“As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures, pressing his forehead gently atop yours, and you both close your eyes, as a running warmth encloses you both, blooms a blush on both your cheeks.

His arms wrap around your back, drawing you close until your chests are pressed together, your head resting naturally in the curve of his neck. And it is long forgotten in your mind, all the nights you slept in this very bed alone. You feel safe, safe enough to long for love knowing that it patiently awaits you behind the door, once you find enough courage to turn the doorknob. You feel serene, as Hyunjin’s warm palms glide soothingly up and down your spine, as every muscle, every nerve, every atom in your being relaxes in his hold.

You are healing, slowly, with each fleeting second that passes in which Hyunjin’s heartbeat resounds within your chest, as its melody runs through your veins, melds with your own as if it was destined to be there all along. As you rest in Hyunjin, as you find a safe home within his soul to discard your worries at the doorstep and breathe.

“It did get better,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Hm?” He leans back to look at you, and he’s so beautiful, so tender as he gazes at you, you can’t help but trace the contours of his face with your fingers, hoping to commemorate him with your eyes, with your touch.

“You promised me it’ll get better, and it did,” you smile, as your legs further intertwine with his, and his rose perfume becomes an indelible mark on your skin. “Too bad I can't hit your pretty face now,” you joke and he giggles, tipping his head back.

He's so beautiful, body and soul, and he longs for you, you alone.

“But I can still do this,” you murmur before finally pressing your lips against his like a boat finally reaching the shore after months of sailing. You both exhale, in yearning, in relief, as your mouths move together in a slow, languid dance, his hand finding the pulse on your neck, yours settling atop his jaw.

He would kiss you again, this intimately, in the coming months, when your heart expands enough to contain the love Hyunjin deserves. He would kiss you again, when your past comes to haunt you, and healing sounds like an elusive myth you’d never encounter in your life.

And he would kiss you again, over the kitchen table and under the fridge’s light, in between paintings and in supermarket aisles, while picking flowers and watching the first snow.

He would kiss you, this tenderly, in the next winter, and the ones after it, as if his longing for you never wanes. Till blow three disappears from your memory, till all you remember is the love, the true one, the kind one, the soft one Hyunjin alone could have brought you.

[babybreadddd]

the world is ending (but i'm happy you're here with me)

pairing: lee minho x f!reader genre: established relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort warnings: one (1) swear, mc is mentioned to have longer hair at one point, slightly unedited, lowercase intended word count: 1.07k note: i had a lot of fun writing this, so i hope you enjoy it too ♡

there comes a time in every girl’s life where the overwhelming urge to change her physical appearance eclipses all sensible and rational thought. as it turns out, you’re no exception. 

“you’re going to laugh.”

“no i’m not.” 

“you already are,” you deadpan, frowning at minho’s pitiful attempts to repress the growing smile quirking at his lips. your boyfriend has the audacity to chuckle at your words, pushing himself off the couch and gliding towards your stiff figure standing at the entrance of the living room. 

“you can’t blame me, you look so cute and adorable right now,” he defends. an arm snakes around your shoulders and you relax slightly at his touch, wrapping your arms around his middle. “besides, it can’t be that bad—at least, not enough for you to have to hide from me.” 

minho pulls you further into the warmth of his chest, the tender embrace sending a small shiver down your spine. his lips meet the side of your hooded head in a firm kiss, the extra pressure ensuring you would feel the loving gesture. the usual trail of kisses towards your forehead and cheeks is blocked, currently concealed by your (his) hoodie’s drawstrings working overtime to reveal only a small oval of skin. 

the hood’s bunched fabric frames the top of your eyes and lips. you can barely see in front of you until one of minho’s fingers slips into the opening to try and take a peek at what’s covered inside. 

minho is being nice; you look ridiculous.

and it’s your fault really. you should have known you couldn't escape your misfortunes that easily. 

work for the past month has been hell: the road-closure of the usual route you’d take, tacking on an additional fifteen minutes to your commute. the early mornings you have to endure to clock-in on time. the “important” group project your boss delegated around the office. the unpaid overtime for said project. the same petty, passive-aggressive coworkers breathing down your neck and critiquing your every move because you made a mistake once—all casting insurmountable pressure on your already exhausted state. 

you finally snapped when someone callously stole the lunch minho had prepared for you from the breakroom’s fridge. 

you suppose now it was your brain’s attempt to regain some sort of control over the strenuous situation, but the impulse to cut your hair, try a new style, start fresh with your appearance bombarded every thought on the journey home. call it an impulsive thought, an intrusive thought, whatever—you needed to do something.

too bad the hair stylist couldn’t follow directions for shit. 

“minho, i’m serious,” you whine, burying your face further into his chest. suffocating in the arms of the man you love doesn’t sound like such a bad idea right now. “she ruined my hair. how am i supposed to go out in public like this?”

“i can’t tell you if you haven’t even shown me yet. i’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” he muses, chuckling at the vibrations tickling his torso from the muffled groan you release. 

minho starts to sway the two of you back and forth at your silence. the rhythmic movement cradles you in a comforting hold, temporarily soothing your spiraling thoughts. he’s right; you’re going to have to show him at some point. might as well just get it over with now. 

a defeated sigh escapes you. well, here goes nothing.

you step out of minho’s arms and pry the hood off to reveal your botched hair in all its glory. 

uneven bangs, a completely different color than from when you left for work this morning, fall into your face and cover the top of your eyes. you can’t see yourself but judging from minho’s small hiss and surprised, contorted face, it’s not pretty. 

and it’s not like you asked for anything outlandish: a standard cut and a new style of bangs was your definition of revamping your appearance. so when the stylist cut off a majority of your hair, it took everything within you to not immediately burst into tears as the salon’s floor and your lap splayed the once lengthy remains. 

you don’t even know where she got the idea of bleaching your hair. now your wallet and soul are emptier than ever and there is nothing you can do except hope minho doesn’t ask you to turn around because the layers are downright atrocious. 

“so? what do you think?” a wobbly smile makes its way onto your face. “not what you were expecting, right?”

you can’t help the tears welling into your eyes at his silence. he’s just…staring. certainly this can’t be the dealbreaker, right?

 …right?

you’re saved from your inner turmoil when minho moves forward to carefully bring you back into his arms. the tears finally spill down your cheeks and onto his shirt, the comforting scent of minho flooding your senses once again. if you could hide here forever, you would. 

“it’ll grow back.” 

“i know.”

“you still look sexy.” he pinches your side, coaxing a watery laugh from you. his smile is infectious, and you can’t help but tearfully look up at him with one of your own. 

you playfully guide one of his hands towards the back of your damaged hair, leaving it there. “so you’re not breaking up with me over this?” you tease, resting your head back against his chest. you don’t notice the subtle shift in your boyfriend’s gaze until he softly calls your name.   

“i would love you even if you were bald,” he confesses quietly, squeezing you tighter to him.

you can’t help but snort into his chest. “yeah?” 

“yeah. i will love you now until it’s long again. i will love you with any hair cut, color, style, anything. even if you hate it or one day regret it, my love for you won’t change,” minho assures, his sincerity echoing in his words.

“so if i dyed my hair pink tomorrow, you’d be okay with it?”

“do what you want, whenever you want.” 

because it doesn’t matter to him what you do with your hair. you’re still you, his beautiful and resilient (and sexy) girlfriend. even as his hands run through the chopped, disproportionate strands on the back of your head, he finds you more and more enchanting with each passing day.

“i will be here for you. always.” 

✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺

(“i still have to go to work.” 

“just wear a hat.”)

────────────────────────────────────────────

liked this work? want to let me know how i did? please like, comment, and/or reblog; they are greatly appreciated my asks are always open ♡

[babybreadddd]

안녕sorry for being so ia, life's really shit right now..

anyways!!!! i have a hyunjin brainrot in progress HEHEH if all goes well i might post tmr!!! inspired by his new skz record long for you lyrics + PAINTING

eek also i get so much deep emotions from the painting and i can relate to what he's trying to convey AHSHSHS

okay guys please hope tmr i have brainpower to complete the hyun drabble and post it HAHA

#ella...rambles #i love hyunjin so much. like so much #esp after the trucks today #i think it's a good idea AHH #idk if it'll turn out well... #been a while since I've written

[babybreadddd]

y'all should check this out !!!!!!!!!!!! the plot development is really good and touching (it srs made me cry)

the style of writing is mind-blowing too!!! check it out on ao3 (i stayed until 3am+ to read this without falling asleep so it's legit damn good)

ALSO i love the fluff and angst (sfw) it was really beautifully written!!! ❤️❤️

CHAPTER XVI [masterlist]

pairing: bang chan x ofc

genre/notes: general audience; regency period drama; family fluff; domesticity; ocassional angst; slowburn; governess!oc; nobility!BC; age differences; age changes

wordcount: 3.5k

summary: mari resettled her calibre and hyunjin celebrated his 10th birthday.

also available in ao3, if you prefer that format

© Do not repost, copy, or republish into another site or under another name.

⚠️ All characters that shares the name of real life person in this story are represented in a fictional manner for entertainment purpose, and not to be alluded with real life.

TAGLIST: @spookykryptoniteperson @nixtape-foryou @do-you-know-what-else-is-big

Mari departed after Sunday lunch. Mother Ahn gave some of her biscuits and Junhee the flowers, while Inha tied the ribbons of her hat and hugged her warmly. The carriage—summoned in a rather sudden manner that Sunday—rattled away, and Mari thought that never before had she ached to be in another place within another company in her life when she was ever content to be confined in the school and the village of O–.

It was dark when she arrived at Barlnshore, but Mr Kang received her just as warmly as he did months ago. She meant to quietly go upstairs to clean herself a bit before surprising the boys by their bedroom. Yet Mari had but started to climb the flight of stairs when she felt and heard the thrum of footsteps, rushing down the hall and then descending the steps in a flurry. She laughed as Changbin’s voice rose higher in his excitement, “You’re home, you’re home, you’re home! Miss Son’s home!”

“I am home!” Mari laughed, as she caught him in arms on the landing. She sat down at the hurl of his weight, and the lad merely leaned further into her hold as he crouched down with her. Mari pulls him away to take a better look at his grinning face. 

“Did you grow taller? Our Changbinnie?”

“He grows wider,” came a biting grumble from above them.

“Minho, be kind—what did I say about your teasing?” Mari laughed, reaching a hand to the approaching figure. Changbin turned to swat the elder but moved to let him hug Mari.

“That I am not to be insulting— especially  to my brothers. I am to run my remarks through my head before I speak to them,” Minho recited flatly, by way of greeting. His punishment for the evening was a tightened hug that made him yelp, and then Mari nuzzled and ruffled his hair before letting him go for the next boy waiting for her.

“Hyunjin, sweetness—come kiss me.”

The boy gave her cheek a soft peck, melting into her arms. “You mustn’t leave, ever again!”

Mari might laugh at the statement to ease the boy otherwise. Yet as she looked into his wide eyes and found it grave, she realized that the settled arrangements would never allow it, and his eyes reflected her fears. It won’t do them both any good to ruin the joy with the truth now, so she settled by kissing him warmly upon his brow.

She let Jisung pepper her with as many kisses as he pleased and pulled Yongbok tighter as he giggled and nuzzled under her jaw. Behind their huddling figures was Commodore Bang, minding them all to let her breathe after a long journey, only for Seungmin to slip through him and crash into her arms. Mari smiled, and he relented to the nature of his overexcited pups.

“One would think you have returned from the other side of the ocean.” Commodore Bang shifted Jeongin in his hold and pulled one hand free to shake hers. “Good to have you back, my—... Miss Son.” 

Mari’s heart jumped to her throat, but she returned his smile, and they both ignored the slip. His grasp was a comforting reassurance. Mari was happy to note a warm, natural welcome in her heart. She knew she was in good company, and extended her thanks to him as far as his kind patronship over her all this while. Commodore Bang teased her for her sudden pretty words; the boys laughed; and Jeongin was stirred from his doze by the commotion. Mari cooed over his bleary eyes and tilted her head to be in his vision.

“Yen-ah,” Commodore Bang whispered, tapping the boy’s nose. “Look who’s back.”

The youngest took her in, quite in doubt with himself over the haziness. Mari chuckled. In that dreamy state, he extended his arm and reached out for her, thus eliciting raucous giggles from his older brothers.

“He’s so adorable!” came a squeal.

“Hyung, his eyes are barely open…” 

“He just knows Miss Son is here. Don’t you, Yen?”

“No, Yennie, she just came home from a long trip,” Commodore Bang said. Though barely awake, Jeongin made a most insistent effort. Mari let him come gladly, cherishing his warmth and weight.

“I don’t mind, Commodore,” she said. “Might as well take them all to bed.”

“You must rest yourself,” Commodore Bang replied, as Jeongin settled in her arm. “I’ll send for tea. We have rice cakes today with red beans - if you are hungry?”

Mari nodded, she could not refuse. “That will be lovely, Commodore, thank you.” 

It all felt too homey.

“A letter for Mr Bambam.”

The man had been lounging in the garden’s chair as if melting under the warm weather. But at the announcement he started, turned, and received the letter with glee that is almost childlike. “My angel remembers me!”

Sitting by him, Mari amusedly went on with her embroideries. They were enjoying the start of spring and the warm sun. The boys were talking with Bernard or playing, while the Commodore and Lady Jang took a turn around the garden. Mr Bambam opened the letter but closed it soon after a short perusal. 

“I must save it for later—before a warm fire, and a glass of good wine. Otherwise, she will distract me from my surroundings.”

As he folded the sheet, Mari noticed his gold ring, glinting sharply in the light. She paused and stared, wondering how she could have missed the article, being in his company all these months.

“You are married, Mr Bambam?” she found herself asking, more baffled than accusing. But quickly she felt it an impertinent remark, and continued, “Forgive me—it was rude of me to assume…”

Mr Bambam merely laughed. “I am. You are surprised, Miss Son? One would have thought you would be more observant. But then you already have seven heads to mind.”

“Bachelors are not uncommon,” Mari argued. “Or…—”

She nearly bit her lip at her slip, looking up rather fearfully at her companion. Mr Bambam’s eyes only glinted more playfully at her slip.

“Ah-ah-ah, come now—what ideas are evoked there, Miss Son?”

“Oh, forgive me. The thought of a lover did spring to mind,” Mari replied frankly. “My brains are quite scattered these days.”

“What if it is a lover?” Mr Bambam returned. “Will you think ill and lowly of me, Miss Son?”

“Perhaps,” Mari admitted quietly, for the lack of security and—in a way—general respect would not settle well with her. “I’m dreadfully proper and all… But I would not be unkind unless I genuinely dislike you, and I do not. I might argue a little, but otherwise… I would leave you to your stance of things.”

“Then spare your mind from such worries,” Mr Bambam said. “My wife and I were bound rightfully before the church and the law.”

They fell quiet for a moment; Mari wondered that the carefree uncle retained a bond with a woman like any other man. But with the state of things at present, it could hardly be measured as similar. Mari asked again. “Then why doesn’t she come with you?”

“You see how other couples are inseparable, we are quite the opposite. We don’t mind being as far apart as to be separated in countries, that is true, but not on bad terms.” The new look he gave Mari was more sincere but did not reduce his previous good humour. “Our marriage was arranged in our youth, and we married younger than you are now. We respect each other to not break the arrangement, but our desire for independence and exploration is yet satisfied. So we agreed to give each other leave to travel in our separate ways, delight in separate companies, and take responsibility for each endeavour’s outcome. People don’t understand how we can bear being separated for so long from one another, but then we are not united under normal circumstances. Others assume we loathe each other and were surprised at how warmly we’d greet one another if we crossed at an assembly, not knowing how long we haven’t seen one another.”

“I can imagine.”

“At least we do have a townhouse, a little place to retire to after the summer visits, balls, and excursions end. And well, there are the letters, which she has forgotten for some while, bless her soul. Considering the thickness of it, she must have missed me just as much to pay for so much news. My dear lady—even her writing delivers different comfort than those offered by friends.” 

His gaze was upon said friends, who were laughing with his boys. Mari felt sorrow and warmth from his description, and declared, “Despite the peculiar arrangement, I am glad. I wish you both great happiness.”

Mr Bambam turned to Mari, his humour returned with a chuckle, “Miss Son, you and your kind soul!”

“Please always be kind to one another. Should I not be able to find it on my own, I would like to see others having it.”

“I hope that will not be the case, Miss Son,” Mr Bambam said, taking her hand warmly and setting his expression into a hen-like aunt that made Mari giggle. 

“If you cannot find happiness with the prince of your dreams, then I hope you shall be comforted with one whose presence you can tolerate. And respect—that is important. But I wish you every good happiness under the sun—beyond mere toleration and contentment to a situation. You deserve greater than it, you deserve one who shares your regard and mind and admiration—for you are young and good, better than the rest of us common folks..”

“Mr Bambam, you know goodness doesn’t make happiness more deserved to few than others...”

Yet he dismisses her by shaking his head and grasping her hand with more insistence, “Take my wishes and fight for your happiness.”

Mari lowered her head, and Mr Bambam took it as a nod and returned to his tea. She picked up her needle again; after some quiet contemplation and boldness stemming from the sweet sponge sandwiches, found herself inquiring, "Do you think...one day you will live with her? Again, as couples commonly do?"

Mr Bambam paused from sipping his tea, a small smile rising on his face. "I should like to."

There was a reduction in the number of tables, therefore placing Mari at the end of the table. The boys were well aware of it.

“Where is her Ladyship?” Seungmin asked.

“She cannot leave the capital for so long—therefore she returned,” Commodore Bang replied. Mari felt it was somewhat too curt and sudden news. She barely expected it at all when they all adjourned for their soiree last night, in the drawing room. She recalled Lady Jang requesting Mari to play for her a particular tune, and her being quite reconciled to the state of beings to indulge the baroness—it was a rather quiet night for the adults, the children filling in the noise aside their playing. Commodore Bang and Lady Jang hardly shared glances.

“When did she leave?” so Mari asked.

Commodore Bang started as he looked up to her, seemingly surprised at her presence or perhaps placement right across him on the table. A cleared throat, then he answered, “At dawn; she wished to arrive by noon.”

Breakfast passed on with enough chatter, Changbin’s whines at Jisung’s teasings, and Jeongin’s giggles. The Commodore made another announcement nearing the end of the meal. 

“I shall look into schools starting tomorrow,” he said. “I have received my recommendations, and there is a particular institution I wish to look into. Who knows which might suit our Minho and Changbin better.”

“I suppose,” the eldest mused. The news didn’t bother him much, or he was in such good humour with a satisfied appetite, and thus Minho proceeded to tease the next eldest with winks. “Changbin’s school will have to be a particular one.”

"And some education would do good to smoothen that nonsense of yours, brother?” Changbin responded blandly. 

“Oh, but aren’t I taking you with me, Binnie? To occupy ourselves.”

“Minho…” Mari was concerned Changbin might strain his eyes squinting and frowning to the eldest. “Why don’t you finish your milk?”

“Yes, Mother.”

There was a strong thump in her ear, and Mari swore she cracked her neck looking up at the boy. Minho had returned to his plate, unaffected by his… slip? Was it intentional? A joke?

While she was frozen in place, Commodore Bang was as flustered by the words—his cup clattering upon the saucer as his ears bloomed red. He stared at the boy, who pointedly gulped his honeyed milk as the table fell silent. Changbin and Hyunjin gaped; the twins started; Jeongin persistently licked his jam, and Seungmin turned to look at the others. In the end, Mr Bambam’s loud entrance broke the tension and diverted their focus. 

The days pass with relative amiability. Mari kept her word that she would return a more energised figure, and their lessons went as well as she might have hoped. The following post-nap walks to the warming hills and fields under the blue sky allowed the spring’s warmth to envelop her soul. The eight of them went to the rivers and creeks they’ve traversed through the summer, delighting in the fresh green of the trees and flowers, pointing out the fishes in the now flowing river. Mari was revived in her pleasure of enjoying the boy’s company—everything was well in her world. Even as her final days as a governess were countable, and somehow busier than ever, she is determined to enjoy everything that passed in between.

One morning—not long after the Commodore’s departure to inspect a few schools—she was retrieving a better shirt for Jeongin and came upon Minho and Changbin sitting in the latter’s bed. Their vests were still unbuttoned and shoes untied, dressing forgotten as their heads leaned together in conversation, quite unaware of the flurry in the next room that is Hyunjin and Jisung bickering and the rest preparing themselves. Minho had glee lighting up his eyes; Changbin’s features more severe with his frown as he attended to the elder’s whispers, which were quite distinct for Mari to hear,

“…it should not be improper!”

Changbin groaned. “It’s too early in the morning to make any sense—should we not think of it further—?”

“Thinking would never achieve anything—we have to act!” In a harried manner, Minho pressed on, “Binnie, we’re running out of time—and who else would suit?”

“Does she even like him!?”

“Of course, she does!”

The floors creaked as she crossed to the wardrobe. There was a rustle of sheets. When she gazed back towards them, Changbin’s wide eyes flitted to her as he fixed his collar, while Minho began to tie his shoes. Mari tilted her head at them, more concerned at the lateness of the day.

“Breakfast is ready, come on and hurry down,” she said.

She didn’t see them again until they descended for the dining room, now fully dressed yet still absorbed in their low discussion; sharp whispers which certain bits came to her hearing.

“I could not care half the world if she’s not a lady, she’s better than the rest.”

“Was there ever any other?” came Changbin’s tired return.

“There you are kid, you’ve got the point! But then I meant it in the future probability…”

Mari wondered if their mischief had alighted, and thus sighed deeply at the possibility of injured and offended parties of people—especially if it involved matchmaking. Is it for the servants? She settled to keep a close eye on both without straining her nerves, just to delay the damage and urge them to take responsibility for any consequences.

Commodore Bang returned to the house just a day before Hyunjin’s birthday. The young man would say he was fine if they were to miss his big day, but Mari knew that everything fell into perfection for the boy the moment the carriage wheels rolled into the front of the house at the end of breakfast. The Commodore was in good humour, considering his laughter and the length of time it took him to relinquish Seungmin from his arms. 

At times Mari was concerned at the chances of Commodore Bang suffocating his boys with all his love—there’s no other word for it. It barely started and Changbin would send her this fatigued look (like he didn’t jab at his father every other hour) and Mari would ask the Commodore to release them from the coddlings. He’d sigh in surrender but gave them one last kiss with fondness lingering in his brown eyes. She wondered how he survived refusing all that love for three years. 

Studying was cut short for Hyunjin’s birthday celebration. There was nothing much for the party but Mr Bambam, Mari, Commodore Bang, Mr Kang, Minatozaki-san, and the boys. There was little acquaintanceship with the neighbourhood boys their age, but soon Hyunjin would grow older, and invite his friends home or assemble his parties in some apartment in the capital. A far too raucous image for Mari to think of the young black-haired angel before her at present. For now, she joined his delight over the books and toys from his brothers and Mr Bambam, receiving his beaming smile over the new handkerchiefs Mari stitched for him. 

“I feel like a true gentleman,” he declared as he hugged Mari, to the giggles of the room. 

There were his favourite foods and treats, but Mari was certain, nothing pleased and awed him more than the watercolour paints in the mahogany box his father presented to him. It’s a beautiful, polished wooden box; on the inner side of the lid, a picture of the brand, and the box itself is separated into several compartments: for eighteen watercolour cakes, the brushes, the sponge and napkin, a deep box for the water glass and the most interesting contraption of the drawer at the bottom. It was filled with thick papers, and the Commodore offered another rim of it wrapped in brown paper.

Unable to contain his excitement at being indulged so, Hyunjin leaped away to his feet, was all smiles and laughter upon his father as he skipped in the middle of the room. “Appa, Appa! There’s so many!”

He’s a sight of sheer childish joy; his older brothers laughed at him good-naturedly, and the Commodore smiled, satisfied and revelling in his son’s pleasure. “Do you like them?”

Hyunjin finally settled down his jitters, only to run and leap into his father’s open arms, clutching the man with his four limbs tightly.

“You're welcome,” Commodore Bang laughed, arms holding Hyunjin close to him and brushing over his back. “You know,” he continued. “There is a painter in town willing to give you some lessons. If you’d like to, I'll take you there every Tuesday and Friday for an hour of lessons.”

Hyunjin pulled away to look at his father with a gasp one might have thought exaggerated. Mari couldn’t blame him—she met the Commodore’s twinkling eyes and sighed, “Oh, Hyunjin, how wonderful!”

“I just thought it would be nice if you—”

“Yes, yes,  yes, yes! ”

“—know how to use these paints to create the finest art.” Commodore Bang chuckled halfway at Hyunjin’s eager nods, despite the loud reply that might have rang his ears. “All right, then?”

“I’ll work very hard for that! Oh, I’ll do very well—I promise you won’t regret it, Father.”

“I know, Hyunnie, I know.” They hugged warmly for another moment until Hyunjin slipped down to observe the paints more closely with his brothers.

“Anyone else joining the artistic endeavour?” Mr Bambam inquired from his seat and his glass of ginger soda.

“I’ll settle with my slate and chickens,” Minho said blandly. “At least Bbokie likes my chickens, right?”

The younger twin giggles, “Scrawny legs!”

Come Sunday, Minho paused in their walk returning from church, waiting for Mari who trailed in the back as the rest urged their Father to hurry for breakfast. He paced by her side, and by and by asked,

“Do you like Father? Honestly?”

Mari turned to the eldest. “All of a sudden?”

“You’ve known him for nine months. I would like to know your opinion of him.”

“And what purpose will that achieve?” Mari laughed but soon returned to a degree of seriousness, and said in a quiet breath against the fullness in her bosom, “Do you want my assessment? Well, I do like him. How could I not?”

“Truly?”

“He’s a good and admirable man, and I regard him with high respect,” so Mari satisfied the boy with some elaboration.

“As an… employer?” 

Mari nodded, and Minho fell quiet again, until he asked, “Do you—think of him as a friend?”

“I could not claim it. I think such a degree of relationship is something we both must agree upon.”

“It’s just friendship,” Minho mumbled. But then he gave himself a nod and they turned to speak of other matters instead. It did not quite leave Mari’s mind for some days, especially when she could take in the Commodore’s presence and consider him. It was easier to laugh at her meltdown earlier that month when she went home to Mrs Ahn’s—and the lack of Lady Jang’s presence did some good to relieve her from the miserable dread that she was doomed to eternal loneliness and estranged forever on from the house; the most depressing outcomes in her occupation as a teacher.

i edited this with my short free time, but I hope you like the reunion scene. minbin are picking up a scent, are they?

minho's the mom of the group but I do wonder what chaos may happen of the other six look up to him as an actual brother.

#ella's.recs #best best best fics ever #I LOVE IT SO MUCH EKELEKEJD #stray kids fanfiction

[babybreadddd]

CHAPTER XVI [masterlist]

pairing: bang chan x ofc

genre/notes: general audience; regency period drama; family fluff; domesticity; ocassional angst; slowburn; governess!oc; nobility!BC; age differences; age changes

wordcount: 3.5k

summary: mari resettled her calibre and hyunjin celebrated his 10th birthday.

also available in ao3, if you prefer that format

© Do not repost, copy, or republish into another site or under another name.

⚠️ All characters that shares the name of real life person in this story are represented in a fictional manner for entertainment purpose, and not to be alluded with real life.

TAGLIST: @spookykryptoniteperson @nixtape-foryou @do-you-know-what-else-is-big

Mari departed after Sunday lunch. Mother Ahn gave some of her biscuits and Junhee the flowers, while Inha tied the ribbons of her hat and hugged her warmly. The carriage—summoned in a rather sudden manner that Sunday—rattled away, and Mari thought that never before had she ached to be in another place within another company in her life when she was ever content to be confined in the school and the village of O–.

It was dark when she arrived at Barlnshore, but Mr Kang received her just as warmly as he did months ago. She meant to quietly go upstairs to clean herself a bit before surprising the boys by their bedroom. Yet Mari had but started to climb the flight of stairs when she felt and heard the thrum of footsteps, rushing down the hall and then descending the steps in a flurry. She laughed as Changbin’s voice rose higher in his excitement, “You’re home, you’re home, you’re home! Miss Son’s home!”

“I am home!” Mari laughed, as she caught him in arms on the landing. She sat down at the hurl of his weight, and the lad merely leaned further into her hold as he crouched down with her. Mari pulls him away to take a better look at his grinning face. 

“Did you grow taller? Our Changbinnie?”

“He grows wider,” came a biting grumble from above them.

“Minho, be kind—what did I say about your teasing?” Mari laughed, reaching a hand to the approaching figure. Changbin turned to swat the elder but moved to let him hug Mari.

“That I am not to be insulting— especially  to my brothers. I am to run my remarks through my head before I speak to them,” Minho recited flatly, by way of greeting. His punishment for the evening was a tightened hug that made him yelp, and then Mari nuzzled and ruffled his hair before letting him go for the next boy waiting for her.

“Hyunjin, sweetness—come kiss me.”

The boy gave her cheek a soft peck, melting into her arms. “You mustn’t leave, ever again!”

Mari might laugh at the statement to ease the boy otherwise. Yet as she looked into his wide eyes and found it grave, she realized that the settled arrangements would never allow it, and his eyes reflected her fears. It won’t do them both any good to ruin the joy with the truth now, so she settled by kissing him warmly upon his brow.

She let Jisung pepper her with as many kisses as he pleased and pulled Yongbok tighter as he giggled and nuzzled under her jaw. Behind their huddling figures was Commodore Bang, minding them all to let her breathe after a long journey, only for Seungmin to slip through him and crash into her arms. Mari smiled, and he relented to the nature of his overexcited pups.

“One would think you have returned from the other side of the ocean.” Commodore Bang shifted Jeongin in his hold and pulled one hand free to shake hers. “Good to have you back, my—... Miss Son.” 

Mari’s heart jumped to her throat, but she returned his smile, and they both ignored the slip. His grasp was a comforting reassurance. Mari was happy to note a warm, natural welcome in her heart. She knew she was in good company, and extended her thanks to him as far as his kind patronship over her all this while. Commodore Bang teased her for her sudden pretty words; the boys laughed; and Jeongin was stirred from his doze by the commotion. Mari cooed over his bleary eyes and tilted her head to be in his vision.

“Yen-ah,” Commodore Bang whispered, tapping the boy’s nose. “Look who’s back.”

The youngest took her in, quite in doubt with himself over the haziness. Mari chuckled. In that dreamy state, he extended his arm and reached out for her, thus eliciting raucous giggles from his older brothers.

“He’s so adorable!” came a squeal.

“Hyung, his eyes are barely open…” 

“He just knows Miss Son is here. Don’t you, Yen?”

“No, Yennie, she just came home from a long trip,” Commodore Bang said. Though barely awake, Jeongin made a most insistent effort. Mari let him come gladly, cherishing his warmth and weight.

“I don’t mind, Commodore,” she said. “Might as well take them all to bed.”

“You must rest yourself,” Commodore Bang replied, as Jeongin settled in her arm. “I’ll send for tea. We have rice cakes today with red beans - if you are hungry?”

Mari nodded, she could not refuse. “That will be lovely, Commodore, thank you.” 

It all felt too homey.

“A letter for Mr Bambam.”

The man had been lounging in the garden’s chair as if melting under the warm weather. But at the announcement he started, turned, and received the letter with glee that is almost childlike. “My angel remembers me!”

Sitting by him, Mari amusedly went on with her embroideries. They were enjoying the start of spring and the warm sun. The boys were talking with Bernard or playing, while the Commodore and Lady Jang took a turn around the garden. Mr Bambam opened the letter but closed it soon after a short perusal. 

“I must save it for later—before a warm fire, and a glass of good wine. Otherwise, she will distract me from my surroundings.”

As he folded the sheet, Mari noticed his gold ring, glinting sharply in the light. She paused and stared, wondering how she could have missed the article, being in his company all these months.

“You are married, Mr Bambam?” she found herself asking, more baffled than accusing. But quickly she felt it an impertinent remark, and continued, “Forgive me—it was rude of me to assume…”

Mr Bambam merely laughed. “I am. You are surprised, Miss Son? One would have thought you would be more observant. But then you already have seven heads to mind.”

“Bachelors are not uncommon,” Mari argued. “Or…—”

She nearly bit her lip at her slip, looking up rather fearfully at her companion. Mr Bambam’s eyes only glinted more playfully at her slip.

“Ah-ah-ah, come now—what ideas are evoked there, Miss Son?”

“Oh, forgive me. The thought of a lover did spring to mind,” Mari replied frankly. “My brains are quite scattered these days.”

“What if it is a lover?” Mr Bambam returned. “Will you think ill and lowly of me, Miss Son?”

“Perhaps,” Mari admitted quietly, for the lack of security and—in a way—general respect would not settle well with her. “I’m dreadfully proper and all… But I would not be unkind unless I genuinely dislike you, and I do not. I might argue a little, but otherwise… I would leave you to your stance of things.”

“Then spare your mind from such worries,” Mr Bambam said. “My wife and I were bound rightfully before the church and the law.”

They fell quiet for a moment; Mari wondered that the carefree uncle retained a bond with a woman like any other man. But with the state of things at present, it could hardly be measured as similar. Mari asked again. “Then why doesn’t she come with you?”

“You see how other couples are inseparable, we are quite the opposite. We don’t mind being as far apart as to be separated in countries, that is true, but not on bad terms.” The new look he gave Mari was more sincere but did not reduce his previous good humour. “Our marriage was arranged in our youth, and we married younger than you are now. We respect each other to not break the arrangement, but our desire for independence and exploration is yet satisfied. So we agreed to give each other leave to travel in our separate ways, delight in separate companies, and take responsibility for each endeavour’s outcome. People don’t understand how we can bear being separated for so long from one another, but then we are not united under normal circumstances. Others assume we loathe each other and were surprised at how warmly we’d greet one another if we crossed at an assembly, not knowing how long we haven’t seen one another.”

“I can imagine.”

“At least we do have a townhouse, a little place to retire to after the summer visits, balls, and excursions end. And well, there are the letters, which she has forgotten for some while, bless her soul. Considering the thickness of it, she must have missed me just as much to pay for so much news. My dear lady—even her writing delivers different comfort than those offered by friends.” 

His gaze was upon said friends, who were laughing with his boys. Mari felt sorrow and warmth from his description, and declared, “Despite the peculiar arrangement, I am glad. I wish you both great happiness.”

Mr Bambam turned to Mari, his humour returned with a chuckle, “Miss Son, you and your kind soul!”

“Please always be kind to one another. Should I not be able to find it on my own, I would like to see others having it.”

“I hope that will not be the case, Miss Son,” Mr Bambam said, taking her hand warmly and setting his expression into a hen-like aunt that made Mari giggle. 

“If you cannot find happiness with the prince of your dreams, then I hope you shall be comforted with one whose presence you can tolerate. And respect—that is important. But I wish you every good happiness under the sun—beyond mere toleration and contentment to a situation. You deserve greater than it, you deserve one who shares your regard and mind and admiration—for you are young and good, better than the rest of us common folks..”

“Mr Bambam, you know goodness doesn’t make happiness more deserved to few than others...”

Yet he dismisses her by shaking his head and grasping her hand with more insistence, “Take my wishes and fight for your happiness.”

Mari lowered her head, and Mr Bambam took it as a nod and returned to his tea. She picked up her needle again; after some quiet contemplation and boldness stemming from the sweet sponge sandwiches, found herself inquiring, "Do you think...one day you will live with her? Again, as couples commonly do?"

Mr Bambam paused from sipping his tea, a small smile rising on his face. "I should like to."

There was a reduction in the number of tables, therefore placing Mari at the end of the table. The boys were well aware of it.

“Where is her Ladyship?” Seungmin asked.

“She cannot leave the capital for so long—therefore she returned,” Commodore Bang replied. Mari felt it was somewhat too curt and sudden news. She barely expected it at all when they all adjourned for their soiree last night, in the drawing room. She recalled Lady Jang requesting Mari to play for her a particular tune, and her being quite reconciled to the state of beings to indulge the baroness—it was a rather quiet night for the adults, the children filling in the noise aside their playing. Commodore Bang and Lady Jang hardly shared glances.

“When did she leave?” so Mari asked.

Commodore Bang started as he looked up to her, seemingly surprised at her presence or perhaps placement right across him on the table. A cleared throat, then he answered, “At dawn; she wished to arrive by noon.”

Breakfast passed on with enough chatter, Changbin’s whines at Jisung’s teasings, and Jeongin’s giggles. The Commodore made another announcement nearing the end of the meal. 

“I shall look into schools starting tomorrow,” he said. “I have received my recommendations, and there is a particular institution I wish to look into. Who knows which might suit our Minho and Changbin better.”

“I suppose,” the eldest mused. The news didn’t bother him much, or he was in such good humour with a satisfied appetite, and thus Minho proceeded to tease the next eldest with winks. “Changbin’s school will have to be a particular one.”

"And some education would do good to smoothen that nonsense of yours, brother?” Changbin responded blandly. 

“Oh, but aren’t I taking you with me, Binnie? To occupy ourselves.”

“Minho…” Mari was concerned Changbin might strain his eyes squinting and frowning to the eldest. “Why don’t you finish your milk?”

“Yes, Mother.”

There was a strong thump in her ear, and Mari swore she cracked her neck looking up at the boy. Minho had returned to his plate, unaffected by his… slip? Was it intentional? A joke?

While she was frozen in place, Commodore Bang was as flustered by the words—his cup clattering upon the saucer as his ears bloomed red. He stared at the boy, who pointedly gulped his honeyed milk as the table fell silent. Changbin and Hyunjin gaped; the twins started; Jeongin persistently licked his jam, and Seungmin turned to look at the others. In the end, Mr Bambam’s loud entrance broke the tension and diverted their focus. 

The days pass with relative amiability. Mari kept her word that she would return a more energised figure, and their lessons went as well as she might have hoped. The following post-nap walks to the warming hills and fields under the blue sky allowed the spring’s warmth to envelop her soul. The eight of them went to the rivers and creeks they’ve traversed through the summer, delighting in the fresh green of the trees and flowers, pointing out the fishes in the now flowing river. Mari was revived in her pleasure of enjoying the boy’s company—everything was well in her world. Even as her final days as a governess were countable, and somehow busier than ever, she is determined to enjoy everything that passed in between.

One morning—not long after the Commodore’s departure to inspect a few schools—she was retrieving a better shirt for Jeongin and came upon Minho and Changbin sitting in the latter’s bed. Their vests were still unbuttoned and shoes untied, dressing forgotten as their heads leaned together in conversation, quite unaware of the flurry in the next room that is Hyunjin and Jisung bickering and the rest preparing themselves. Minho had glee lighting up his eyes; Changbin’s features more severe with his frown as he attended to the elder’s whispers, which were quite distinct for Mari to hear,

“…it should not be improper!”

Changbin groaned. “It’s too early in the morning to make any sense—should we not think of it further—?”

“Thinking would never achieve anything—we have to act!” In a harried manner, Minho pressed on, “Binnie, we’re running out of time—and who else would suit?”

“Does she even like him!?”

“Of course, she does!”

The floors creaked as she crossed to the wardrobe. There was a rustle of sheets. When she gazed back towards them, Changbin’s wide eyes flitted to her as he fixed his collar, while Minho began to tie his shoes. Mari tilted her head at them, more concerned at the lateness of the day.

“Breakfast is ready, come on and hurry down,” she said.

She didn’t see them again until they descended for the dining room, now fully dressed yet still absorbed in their low discussion; sharp whispers which certain bits came to her hearing.

“I could not care half the world if she’s not a lady, she’s better than the rest.”

“Was there ever any other?” came Changbin’s tired return.

“There you are kid, you’ve got the point! But then I meant it in the future probability…”

Mari wondered if their mischief had alighted, and thus sighed deeply at the possibility of injured and offended parties of people—especially if it involved matchmaking. Is it for the servants? She settled to keep a close eye on both without straining her nerves, just to delay the damage and urge them to take responsibility for any consequences.

Commodore Bang returned to the house just a day before Hyunjin’s birthday. The young man would say he was fine if they were to miss his big day, but Mari knew that everything fell into perfection for the boy the moment the carriage wheels rolled into the front of the house at the end of breakfast. The Commodore was in good humour, considering his laughter and the length of time it took him to relinquish Seungmin from his arms. 

At times Mari was concerned at the chances of Commodore Bang suffocating his boys with all his love—there’s no other word for it. It barely started and Changbin would send her this fatigued look (like he didn’t jab at his father every other hour) and Mari would ask the Commodore to release them from the coddlings. He’d sigh in surrender but gave them one last kiss with fondness lingering in his brown eyes. She wondered how he survived refusing all that love for three years. 

Studying was cut short for Hyunjin’s birthday celebration. There was nothing much for the party but Mr Bambam, Mari, Commodore Bang, Mr Kang, Minatozaki-san, and the boys. There was little acquaintanceship with the neighbourhood boys their age, but soon Hyunjin would grow older, and invite his friends home or assemble his parties in some apartment in the capital. A far too raucous image for Mari to think of the young black-haired angel before her at present. For now, she joined his delight over the books and toys from his brothers and Mr Bambam, receiving his beaming smile over the new handkerchiefs Mari stitched for him. 

“I feel like a true gentleman,” he declared as he hugged Mari, to the giggles of the room. 

There were his favourite foods and treats, but Mari was certain, nothing pleased and awed him more than the watercolour paints in the mahogany box his father presented to him. It’s a beautiful, polished wooden box; on the inner side of the lid, a picture of the brand, and the box itself is separated into several compartments: for eighteen watercolour cakes, the brushes, the sponge and napkin, a deep box for the water glass and the most interesting contraption of the drawer at the bottom. It was filled with thick papers, and the Commodore offered another rim of it wrapped in brown paper.

Unable to contain his excitement at being indulged so, Hyunjin leaped away to his feet, was all smiles and laughter upon his father as he skipped in the middle of the room. “Appa, Appa! There’s so many!”

He’s a sight of sheer childish joy; his older brothers laughed at him good-naturedly, and the Commodore smiled, satisfied and revelling in his son’s pleasure. “Do you like them?”

Hyunjin finally settled down his jitters, only to run and leap into his father’s open arms, clutching the man with his four limbs tightly.

“You're welcome,” Commodore Bang laughed, arms holding Hyunjin close to him and brushing over his back. “You know,” he continued. “There is a painter in town willing to give you some lessons. If you’d like to, I'll take you there every Tuesday and Friday for an hour of lessons.”

Hyunjin pulled away to look at his father with a gasp one might have thought exaggerated. Mari couldn’t blame him—she met the Commodore’s twinkling eyes and sighed, “Oh, Hyunjin, how wonderful!”

“I just thought it would be nice if you—”

“Yes, yes,  yes, yes! ”

“—know how to use these paints to create the finest art.” Commodore Bang chuckled halfway at Hyunjin’s eager nods, despite the loud reply that might have rang his ears. “All right, then?”

“I’ll work very hard for that! Oh, I’ll do very well—I promise you won’t regret it, Father.”

“I know, Hyunnie, I know.” They hugged warmly for another moment until Hyunjin slipped down to observe the paints more closely with his brothers.

“Anyone else joining the artistic endeavour?” Mr Bambam inquired from his seat and his glass of ginger soda.

“I’ll settle with my slate and chickens,” Minho said blandly. “At least Bbokie likes my chickens, right?”

The younger twin giggles, “Scrawny legs!”

Come Sunday, Minho paused in their walk returning from church, waiting for Mari who trailed in the back as the rest urged their Father to hurry for breakfast. He paced by her side, and by and by asked,

“Do you like Father? Honestly?”

Mari turned to the eldest. “All of a sudden?”

“You’ve known him for nine months. I would like to know your opinion of him.”

“And what purpose will that achieve?” Mari laughed but soon returned to a degree of seriousness, and said in a quiet breath against the fullness in her bosom, “Do you want my assessment? Well, I do like him. How could I not?”

“Truly?”

“He’s a good and admirable man, and I regard him with high respect,” so Mari satisfied the boy with some elaboration.

“As an… employer?” 

Mari nodded, and Minho fell quiet again, until he asked, “Do you—think of him as a friend?”

“I could not claim it. I think such a degree of relationship is something we both must agree upon.”

“It’s just friendship,” Minho mumbled. But then he gave himself a nod and they turned to speak of other matters instead. It did not quite leave Mari’s mind for some days, especially when she could take in the Commodore’s presence and consider him. It was easier to laugh at her meltdown earlier that month when she went home to Mrs Ahn’s—and the lack of Lady Jang’s presence did some good to relieve her from the miserable dread that she was doomed to eternal loneliness and estranged forever on from the house; the most depressing outcomes in her occupation as a teacher.

i edited this with my short free time, but I hope you like the reunion scene. minbin are picking up a scent, are they?

minho's the mom of the group but I do wonder what chaos may happen of the other six look up to him as an actual brother.

[babybreadddd]

— KEEP IT BUSINESS. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. best friends to lovers, coworkers! au, first kiss? au (hehe), domestic/soft minho, fluff

WARNINGS. cursing, making-out, inexperienced kissing, annoying coworkers

WORD COUNT. 6.9k words

AUG'S NOTES. so glad to have finally completed this!! it’s been rotting in my drafts for weeks and i just had to write a happy ending for these two grandparents 🫶🏼

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Life can be a mess, and with you and Minho as the only two singles in your office building, an impertinent Valentine’s day leaves no choice but to make a pact.

or alternatively :

If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.

Four years.

It’s been four years since you first met Lee Minho, working with him at the same company, becoming the best of friends. And yet, the same dread lay specially reserved for the same season.

The season of love, or, to most people, Valentine’s day.

.

.

.

Alarm set for 6:30AM. Work from 8:30AM to 4PM. Every day of the week, every year.

Initially, the experience was relatively enjoyable. It paid well, wasn’t too harsh on hours, and other coworkers minded their own business (at least in your case) without being a pain.

Then the loneliness set in.

It was subtle at first, a tiny pang in your heart when you returned home to a dark, cold apartment while others would be greeted by a pet, a loved one.

So when Lee Minho, a new member of the company assigned as your apprentice came along, you tend to think meeting him was, in a weird, spontaneous manner, meant to be.

And four years later, when he had grown from that apprentice-ship and became established as an employee, you still hold onto that “meant to be” philosophy.

Busied chatter fills the downstairs cafe, familiar faces alike brimming with conversation, breath coffee-stained.

Peering across the various assortment of tables, you spot him, two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual.

At this point, Minho has memorized your order by heart, arriving early after his daily stop by the nearby animal shelter (whose manager knew by heart). Most morning’s you’d await a picture of the newest addition to the feline section, a photo he proudly shows off like his own trophy.

You’re genuinely surprised his residence isn’t a constantly growing cat-kingdom.

“Looking forward to it?”

Brows furrowing, you sidle to his right and dish the warm beverage into your grasp.

“Looking forward to wha— wait wait don’t say it. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist.” Hurriedly waving your hands, Minho cracks a grin.

The cursed word in question being: Valentine’s day.

You can’t say you hate it. It never did anything to you, nor did it leave you heartbroken. To put it simply, the office over the first few weeks of February was a close-resembling spinoff to Singles Inferno except, much spicier and way too inappropriate in broad daylight.

Meaning, for the past five years (four joined by Minho), merely mentioning said season of love urges impending dread and deep frowns.

“All I’m gonna say is I would not want to be a doctor over Valentines,” You wince, sipping the warm drink with a squeamish face.

Minho sighs vehemently, propping an elbow against the computer cart behind him.

“I bet you could witness more vibrators in that hospital than in an Adam and Eve,” He grumbles, watchful eyes surveying the daily crowd occupying tables and chairs in the building’s downstairs café.

Slamming a fist to your chest to correct your breathing, your eyes practically bulge from your skull, evidently caught of guard.

Leave it to Minho to make you suffocate before your shift even begins.

8am is prime time for socialization—otherwise before Mrs. Song decides to unleash her wrath on newbies. She has good intentions, sure, but let’s just say most anyone was petrified upon first meeting her.

Luckily, your department with Hyeongmi, Minho, and Felix was secluded on the far side of the building, leaving you out of the woman’s hair, free to work as you please.

Yet, Mrs. Song wasn’t the problem, not when it came down to the month of February.

Your phone’s alarm signaling to start moving momentarily wards off the thought, and either of you begin toward the elevator, flat expressions describing the sinking feeling better than words.

Back at it, again.

Because by your lunch break, you can’t fathom entering the cafeteria, not if it costs you your life.

Everywhere you look someone is making out, confessing their love, or, worst you’ve seen it all day, genuinely fucking in the bathrooms.

Perhaps you’d send Minho a text you’re making an escape by eating in the office, invite him up for some solace.

Except, it seems he had the same idea.

Scrambling through the door, you enter at the same time, heaving sighs of exasperation upon securing much needed privacy.

Making prolonged eye contact, your thoughts come spilling out.

“If I witness another make-out in the stairwell I’m ending it all.”

“Boxes of chocolates are officially ruined for me now.”

Four years and it never gets old. Same old painful memories, same old excitement for the day to come and go. And it’s not like you hate the holiday itself, you two just.. heavily dislike the immense bucketloads of PDA and office hookups that come along with it.

Not-so-gracefully flopping down onto your chairs, you practically shovel food down, gladly accepting the few rolls of gimbap Minho places onto your plate.

Customary sharing. You give him some of your food, he gives you some of his.

In those brief minutes of silence do you get the opportunity to fully comprehend your own thoughts, prior to Minho clearing his throat.

“Drinks at my place?”

Your grown loudly in agreement.

Minho : Okay, I’m leaving, follow me in thirty minutes

Glancing up, you watch your counterpart lift his brows your way and call out his departure, sifting through the doorway, cross body bag thumping against jeans.

Hyeongmi was downstairs, which, as awful as it sounded, was great not having to endure her nosiness.

This was how you stayed unbothered. He’d leave, and thirty minutes later you would too in order to (for now) avoid Mrs. Song (and Hyeongmi’s) pestering.

It couldn’t have taken the clock longer to reach 4:30PM. So by the time the beloved minute hand struck 4:29 you practically lurched from your seat, almost tasting sweet freedom before a face showed up right before you slipped through the exit.

Hyeongmi’s face.

What she’s talking about you can’t seem to understand, mind trained on escaping and escaping alone.

“C’mon now, you two are the only two in this building without a date. It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!” Hyeongmi emphasizes, dizzying your head the longer she shakes your shoulders.

“You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right? I’m telling you, it’s a sign—“

“Sorry Hyeongmi, I really have to go-“

Fastening your bag tigher across your body, you make a mad-dash as far away as possible, pretending to ignore the “use protection!” she shouted before the crisp evening breeze nipped your nose.

Use protection my butt, you grovel, ushering the scarf further above your chin as if to secure as much warmth possible.

She doesn’t know anything, not about how you took him under your wing as your apprentice the first year he joined, not about how much Minho loves cats, or how the keychain on that crossbody bag of his is a keychain you bought for him.

Simply placing it, she’s a person lead by the assumptions of others and adopting them as her own.

It irritates you.

Veering to your right, you thank his decision to house nearby, arriving at the foot of his porch after a mere ten-minute walk.

Delivering a few knocks on the townhome’s doorway, you note the paint chipping, colorful exterior worn from the sun’s rays.

Everything from the few cracks in the sidewalk to the relatively invisible stain of coffee on his doorknob lay memorized by frequency—his property second nature to you.

“Never have I hated being single this much,” You whine, slumping onto his couch after hurling your bag atop a hook in the foyer.

And despite the lack of response, you can tell Minho heard you. The faint, breathy chuckle enough evidence of his presence.

Perched on a chair he’d likely dragged from the kitchen, a feline companion occupies his lap, both comfortably relaxing on the patio, wine glass in hand.

Accordingly arranged on the countertop is another glass (you presume as yours), that you pour the vinegar-tinged substance into.

“I mean.” Slightly struggling to haul a neighboring chair to his side and simultaneously avoid splashing wine everywhere, you eventually find an equilibrium.

“It’s not like I asked to be single, I’m just too busy to consider a relationship, y’know?”

Minho absentmindedly hums, urging you to take a much-needed sip of the orchid-colored liquid.

Finally, you sigh out the last of your evening’s thoughts.

“..Hyeongmi caught me on the way out.”

Nor does this occasion need a reply either, the man’s suppressed giggle suitable enough.

“Mm.. I’ve got an idea.”

Carefully allowing the elongated glass to clink atop a translucent table, you cross and uncross your legs, welcoming the rustle of life around you into your eardrums, easing the cluttered space of your brain.

“Shoot.”

He clicks his tongue, gaze flitting to the emerging moon overhead.

“If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.“

Making a surprised sound to yourself, you break into unadulterated laughter, about to call him hilarious before taking into account this is Minho you’re referring to, and the likelihood he’s joking on any matter is unlikely.

Sure it sounds cliché, but it’s Minho, why not?

…And perhaps that decision was made with a few glasses of wine in play.

“I’m in.” You grin, returning his outstretched hand by bumping your glasses before downing the remaining gulp, cheeks aglow, alcohol ridding your breath a distasteful stench.

Tipsy. Minho is charming normally, but especially when he’s tipsy.

He’s got this way of speaking that could get any unsuspecting girl reaching to unzip his pants in a second, sultry, half-lidded eyes drinking the person in front of him, talking like he has sugar lining his lips.

When Minho is tipsy, he’s tempting. You didn’t need four years to teach you that.

That, and the spare pajama set folded in his top drawer reserved solely for you on nights like this—too gone to go home.

Although, as you rise to your feet and head to the bathroom, pulling said silk pajama shirt over your head, Hyeongmi’s words reverberate again.

You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right?

Hm. Minho was always a recluse though. And with your history, obviously he’d have some liking for you.

It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!

Turning to stare at yourself in the mirror, you sulk, head hanging low.

What if you did something tonight? Something risky, something testing the limits this friendship borderlines. You’re both drunk, likely willing.

Then again, does Minho want this too? Did he ever intend to “let loose”?

Anxiety plagues you, hurriedly scurrying your pants over your legs and exiting to find Minho still seated in the same spot, appearing all the more tempting without having to do a thing.

You blame the alcohol.

Stamping forward as if you prepared a speech, you stop just behind his chair, mustering any ounce of liquid courage manageable.

“Minho.”

He grunts.

“You’re really pretty.”

Let loose. This is letting loose when it comes to Minho.

What, you thought you were gonna fuck? Yeah, that’s a funny one.

Winding himself around to see you, his lips wind into a sweet smile, urging you closer with a mere look before he reaches forward and taps your nose, dark eyes roaming your face.

“I’ve always thought you were pretty too.”

And perhaps, caught in a trance from his glittering stare, something did happen those four years you’ve been together after all.

You blame the alcohol.

The impulsive part about this “date at twenty-five” pact you had forgotten to consider was the fact both of you were twenty-four, meaning in less than a year whatever plan Lee Minho had stirred up after plenty glasses of wine would oil it’s gears into motion.

Thankfully Valentines comes and goes, and Summer creeps dangerously close, the longer hours of daylight and lingering sunshine enough to make every work-day feel extra laborious.

First day of summer, Minho texts you, asking if you want to join him on a walk.

Mind you, it’s 10AM in the morning, an hour you couldn’t fathom waking up at on the first day of summer.

You groan and flop back down, shutting off your phone and slamming the pillow over your head in a pitiful attempt at falling back asleep.

Only for your doorbell to ring twenty minutes later.

Over.

And over.

And over.

The urge to screech compels your barely-awake form, legs wobbling out of bed to feebly reach the doorway in a sleep-ridden haze.

Of course, lo and behold, Minho lies responsible, clad in running shoes, a pair of shorts, and a black nike zip-up.

He’s evidently pleased—whether from how disheveled you appear—or that he actually got you out of bed in the first place by the lingering smile tugging at his lips.

You hate to say it, but he’s annoyingly attractive, there’s no denying.

“Caught you at a bad time, hm?” He tips his head down to make eye-contact, peering through wild hair and lidded eyes at your half-alive self.

All you can manage out is a minuscule grunt, about to close the door before Minho jars his hand in, inviting himself inside much to your dismay.

Like instinct, he heads straight to your closet, surveying the chaos his insistent door-bell ringing caused before fetching a sweatshirt to pull over your head and a pair of socks from your drawer.

Though, as you wake up a tad bit more, you hurriedly keep him from putting your socks on for you as he bends down, shying away with an irritated whine.

“If this is what dating you is like I’m calling off the pact,” You mumble, stomping toward the door with Minho pushing you forwards without chance of escape.

He giggles, seeming to contain utmost glee witnessing your temper tantrum.

“Oh trust me sweetheart, the fun never ends.”

He’s hopeless too, apparently.

Lucky for you, your friend’s visits occurred sporadically, meaning the 10AM wake up calls weren’t a daily routine of headaches.

In contrast, summer passed by in a flash, and you were shoved head-first into a packed schedule for a second time as the autumn leaves shriveled into crisp browns and oranges.

Autumn was always welcomed. It meant the chilling cold was approaching, yes, but it also signified apple cider being added to the downstairs café menu and—on those especially chilly mornings—bundling your neck in the scarf Minho bought you last christmas.

As for him, he frequents pointed shoes and straight-legged pants, his fudge-colored hair perfectly complimented by pumpkin scented fragrances and dusky red backdrops.

Brisk mornings call for thinking. And as you walk, you come to the indefinite conclusion apple cider fits Minho. Sweet, but not saccharine. Warm to the touch, reminiscent with a charming aftertaste. A silhouette that comes and goes as it pleases, leaving soon enough for you to crave it back again.

Regarding summer, he was sort of like a beach day. A vacation in the midst of roaring deadlines, the comfortable lull of waves buzzing your mind into a hazy, salty escapade.

Although as December plucks each oak of its splendor, a call on Sunday morning truly marks the season of winter.

“..Y/n?” Minho murmurs, his voice groggy, hoarse. You make a sound of acknowledgment in response.

“I think I’m sick, can you drop off some meds at the door?”

Pressing your phone close to your ear, you debate on your desire to scold him, remind him each time he gets a winter cold he should dress warmer.

Of course, your lips stay shut (just like they always have for the past few years), and you reply with a “Be there soon, hang tight” before ending the call and gathering your belongings.

At the supermarket you check out seaweed soup, multivitamins, and allergy relief—things of which you hope will alleviate some of his symptoms.

Eternally grateful for the spare key you’d been given a while back, you enter the home, calling his name until an exasperated sign of life was heard (more like coughed) from the bedroom.

Inside lay Minho, a distressing array of tissues scattered in all directions, clustered beyond belief. His nose is soured pink from incessant stuffiness, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles sag beneath tired eyes, worn disposition evidence of his condition.

Quick on your feet, you scour the bathroom for a thermometer, the device’s loud beep signifying a blaring fever as you hover by his bedside.

Watching the bowl of instant soup spin aimless circles in the microwave, Minho’s call knocks you out of your daydream, worriedly padding to where he lays.

“Come here.”

You oblige, arriving to his right, about to ask the matter until his fingers link with your own, bringing the back of your hand to his jaw, resting there.

If you had been warm before, an entirely new definition to sweating has been reached at this point.

“You’re warm,” He whispers, rubbing his face against your hand like a needy cat wanting attention.

How unfair a human can be this round.

Practically bounding from the inside, you use the excuse of the microwave beeping to race off, hurriedly disappearing into the kitchen while remaining ignorant to the way Minho’s gaze follows you.

Returning with a soup platter meticulously carried between your tight grip, you sigh with relief upon sitting the steaming concoction down. Oh so slowly, a frown grows at your face upon noticing the expectant stare boring into your head.

“Yes?”

He juts out his bottom lip like a kicked puppy from your nonplussed tone, nudging the covers over himself till only those calculating eyes peek out.

“I’m not feeding you.”

Minho all but whimpers, and you suppress the urge to smother him with a pillow right then and there, hating how easily he sends goosebumps prickling the back of your neck, heat scalding your ears.

“No.”

“Y/n.”

You quite literally feel like the cruelest person in existence because why is he looking at you with that face, saying your name like that.

Grumbling beneath your breath, you begrudgingly collect a spoonful, bringing the utensil to his already pursed lips.

Spoonful by spoonful do you feed him as if he’s a dependent toddler, his satisfied hums earning a stern glare in return.

Only when he finishes eating do you get up, reprimanding him on taking his meds without much bite to your words.

“And don’t take too many of these, alright? If it gets really bad, call me again. Otherwise, try getting sleep.”

“Yes ma’am.”

And of course he has to be endearing.

Such a pain.

You’ll stop by tomorrow.

If Minho was the apple cider in autumn and beach days in the summer, he’s the prettiest of snowflakes in the midst of winter.

Memorable, fleeting. Melting in your touch.

The annual Christmas party the company hosts steadily approaches, your coworkers ringing your phone insistently with noticeable anticipation.

Though just like autumns chill, December soars past idly, reigning in a new year and a new digit added to twenty when asked your age.

Your winter premise only heightened the anxiety compiling in your gut, a feeling you hadn’t recognized until the following day—the first day back to work in January—dawned.

January 1st’s introduction means you’re both officially twenty-five, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact Minho hasn’t texted you yet or the valentines pact in itself setting you on edge.

What would it be like to date Minho? Would he kiss you, the same way male leads in K-dramas did? Hold you as you sleep, wish you goodbye with a kiss to your cheek?

The mere thought sends rivets of electricity blazing your fingertips, feeling like an utter fool for imagining such scenarios.

Now you’ve haunted yourself for worse, leaving only dread in tow.

Arriving at the office the first day back, you attempt at making yourself look as collected as possible, definitely not bothered.

Worse, the root of your troubles walks in unbothered as you’ve been trying to do for the past few hours, the room working in deplorable silence before a note wedges itself behind your keyboard, Minho slipping past in its wake.

It takes all your will-power to ignore the crumpled piece of paper as best as possible, your index itching to unravel whatever lay inside.

Noon is when you finally give in, lungs failing to produce air upon reading the contents, practically choking on nothing.

Come over to my place after work.

What is this, his way of declaring your pact officially in action? What if he calls it off, saying it was only a joke glasses of wine granted?

As Hyeongmi said before, everyone has the hots for him, so why don’t you? Why does the thought of him calling it off put you on edge?

Or maybe you do. Maybe you do have feelings for—

Woah. Stop there.

Luckily, your internal chess match went unnoticed, leaving only the buzzing of your ears and the ticking of the clock loud.

A certain fondness sat between either of you from the start, since becoming acquainted you’ve instantly clicked—sly remarks and playful teasing merely one more thing keeping you alive (minus coffee).

So when something crossing the border between friends and lovers arose, a sort of nervousness bubbled in your gut.

Minho was a shoulder to cry on for you, but was it like that?

You could rely and depend on each other whenever, but could those feelings ever turn into love?

Of course they could, and they likely would’ve if it weren’t for either of you being so work-oriented—making you even more worried.

Although, you can’t simply flee. You’re an adult.

..And Minho will find you in a heartbeat if you decide to run.

Never had you been hesitant to leave office until now, and trodding one foot in front of the other causes your legs to turn into jelly.

Minho probably isn’t this nervous. He’s probably in a great mood, treating the occasion like it’s just another casual day.

Never before was it difficult, whether difficult is referred to as placing a key in a doorway or walking inside, everything seems so.. eminent.

Like when you walk through this door, an entirely new side of Minho will show face. A romantic side of Minho.

Yet, there’s no rose petals lining the hallway, nor scented candles scattered here and there.

What is there to expect with dating in your twenties anyway?

Plus, Minho’s well, Minho. If he wanted to, he likely would’ve flat-out asked already.

Something you’re surprised about, however, is the triangular string decor swooping from the ceiling, the party hats by the sink, a single birthday candle placed in the center of a cupcake. Simple, perfect.

Although, the perfect factor came with the man responsible, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bracing himself on the countertop with a particular glow in his irises—whether it be from the lit candle you aren’t sure—that sets your stomach into a garden of butterflies.

A surprise party. He threw you a surprise birthday party.

And it’s then as enter the kitchen, brain barely recognizing each advance forward, you realize it.

You really, really want to date him.

And you really, really don’t want to screw this up.

Staring at each other, you rise up on your toes to place a careful, feather-light peck on the smooth, flushed skin of his cheek.

Slowly, he turns his head, a conniving smirk revealing the outline of his teeth whilst investigating your breathlessness.

“Someone’s daring,” He mumured, cocking a brow amusedly.

You poke his side, groaning that he shouldn’t look too far into it before he nudges you, your frown returned with a subtle nod—directed at the forgotten cupcake.

“Well you already gave me a kiss, so wish for something else.”

“Choke,” You respond, but there’s still no bite to it. Some things never change.

Minho gently holds your hair back for you, allowing you to lean over and blow out the candle. No bite.

Your wish?

Let Minho and I go well. I like us.

Every bit of it was the truth.

Hopefully this wish of yours can come true.

Maybe.

Seated on the living room floor do you finally relax, your shoulders slumping down after hours of monstrous tension. Seems you’d forgotten he was your best friend before anything else.

“So.. how does this work?”

‘Work’ as in, the dating deadline’s here, what’s next?

He purses his lips—a habit of his—blinking rapidly.

“Like friends? Except we get the kissing and sex pass in between, right?”

You smack his shoulder. He smiles, childishly extending his pinky out to you.

Linking yours, you press the pad of your thumb against his. An unspoken gesture.

“Together?”

Through thick and thin. Your way, as it always was, always had been.

He has stars in his tawny-globes for eyes.

“Together.”

Minho’s hands are warm in the midst of frigid temperatures.

Spring isn’t too far off, but the bitter winds remain ceaseless and unrelenting, whipping your hair every which way, scattering a plethora of goosebumps along your skin.

Never had you held hands like this with someone before, nonetheless Minho, and yet, a connection lies inside the initial awkwardness. The silent assurance, whether it’s his thumb smoothing your palm or occasional squeezes, telling you he understands, that you’re not alone, or how he patiently waited by the door the entire time you were getting ready, claiming he didn’t want to dirty your place with his shoes.

It’s sort of revitalizing. Curious and inquisitive in his lingering touches, additional notes—reminders on your coffee cup, questions asking whether you want to stay over afterward, if he can give you a kiss on the cheek.

One in particular you recall:

I miss you. Scribbled in bleeding ink.

Your introduction as lovers had been a field day of trials and questions for the two of you, though when it came down to the public’s knowledge, you began debating on the “curiosity killed the cat” theory.

This morning, catching a glimpse of the company’s logo in the distance, you assign yourself as the cat. Too interested, now suffering the consequences.

Granted, you wouldn’t take back moving to relationship status, but it was a lot easier to brush off comments if you were Minho.

Hyeongmi being the main one responsible for said comments.

Morning passed by seamlessly, prioritizing work above all else, too busy typing away to for any interruptions.

..Until a midday conference.

Seated right next to each other, his fingers slowly thread with yours beneath the table, sending the man a perplexed (and slightly nervous) expression in response.

More so, the comforting casualness caused you to barely recognize Mrs. Song reaching below to fetch her fallen pen, a gasp of surprise stilling the conversation at her realization.

“Are you- Are you two holding—?”

Panicked, you smack his hand away, stomach plummeting.

Not expecting him to stubbornly grab your hand again, a miniature frown draws across his perfectly rose lips.

Pouting.

Lee Minho is pouting because you’re not letting him hold your hand.

Unbelievable.

If the situation could escalate further, the she-devil herself (Hyeongmi) throws her head down to spare a glimpse, allowing you to fully accept your demise. A demise that, one way or another, needed to happen.

This was simply an early death.

“You’re kidding! No way you guys are a thing?” The eccentric girl mouths the last words, eyebrows drawn to her hairline.

And just like that, your relationship with Minho ventured out of your pocket and into a brand new wilderness.

“So…what’s it like living everybody’s dream?”

Headed to the bathroom, Hyeongmi stops you, leaned over the mirror, carefully inspecting her plum-colored lipstick.

“What?” You pique, confusedly glancing between her and the empty stall you’re trying to nonchalantly slip into.

“I mean, the entire company’s talking about it. Tell me, are you guys actually official? Or is this all just for the attention? No offense, but-“

“I...”

Want to punch you in the face.

You keep it to yourself.

“I’m gonna go.”

Synonymously, both your bladder and your appetite completely disappeared.

Although, she doesn’t leave you alone.

You’re frantically searching for excuse after excuse, speed-walking and taking the stairs any chance available.

Unfortunately for you, she’s everywhere. At some point you’re certain a tracking device is hidden somewhere on your clothes.

Almost there. From silently pleading help with your eyes to legitimately hiding in your workplace, today couldn’t have been more of a joke.

Or so you thought.

“Y/n?”

“Yes, Hyeongmi?”

“With Minho,” She nervously fiddles with her earrings. “You don’t have to tell me but.. how’s the bedroom?”

Apparently, it can go lower.

Before you can respond to her shamelessness, a grip fastens on your shoulders, cologne distinct enough you can tell exactly who it is.

Your beach day.

“Hyeongmi, you do realize that’s rude, yeah? Let’s not cross boundaries we shouldn’t cross, got it?”

All the while Minho smiles, this cloying, “I dare you” sort of attitude no one can argue with.

Averting her attention, she speedily raises up, humorlessly laughing off the tension while excusing herself from the room.

“You okay?” He whispers, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, pressing a chaste kiss there.

Yeah, there’s no getting used to this.

“Yep,” You say, though there isn’t much sincerity it.

He knows.

“Wait for me here, let’s walk home together.”

Ah. You want to kiss him.

“Minho.”

He turns on his heel.

Kiss me.

You’re holding his collar now, the option on the tip of your tongue, his lips a hairbreadth from yours.

Close, closer.

No. Not yet.

Either way, what do you know about kissing? What if you screw up?

Not yet.

“..Okay.”

Your gaze flits down to his lips if only for a second. A small, cheeky grin adorning his face as he follows your movements.

It’s hard to focus when he leaves, because all you can think about is the possibilities. What if you had kissed him? Would he have kissed you back?

By the way looked at you, the logical response would be: yes. Most people don’t stare at someone like that without the intent to kiss them, right?

Though somehow, you can’t help but feel unprepared, a complete novice in this battlefield of love.

Where Minho took you afterward was a mystery, merely happy to be away from the confines of your desk—letting his eager hand guide you wherever he pleased.

Shielded beneath the shade of two trees, your destination, Yeouido Park, is a spectacle during the transition period of winter to spring. You’d oftentimes spend hours here, basking in the relief a break grants. A spectacle where you two first truly met.

“Alright, be honest with me.”

He spins you around till you’re face to face, carefully analyzing your facial expression.

“Are you really okay? After Hyeongmi said that, I couldn’t stop thinking..”

Oh. That careful crease in his eyebrows, sympathetic.

He’s breaking your heart.

You realize now why everyone falls in love with him.

“Of me?”

The words come out involuntarily, a step forward in the newness, paving light through the darkened abyss.

“Yeah..” He says, a little winded while doing so.

Minho cares, he always had, yet, it’s your first time hearing it aloud.

“Y/n.”

Blinking yourself back into reality, your face grows warm, not intending to deliberately space out right in front of him.

He leans forward, causing you to shrink back into your skin as a kiss is planted right atop your nose, the man wearing a satisfied grin.

“Hey- You can’t- It’s not Valentines yet—“

“And why would I wait until Valentine’s day?”

Another deeper red burns your cheeks, and you scorn the way he gets under your skin—a way that makes every insult dissolve like powder on your tongue.

He notices, but decides not to prod further, lightly bumping your hip with his own as a signal to follow.

“Tomorrow is the day, y’know,” You mumble, kicking rocks with the tip of your shoe.

“Are we gonna turn into those couples?” He asks, pretentiously puckering his lips, eyes squinted shut.

You burst out laughing.

“I would break up with you first, sorry Minho.” Said puckered lips transform into a playful scowl.

“What? No treat for valentines?”

Blinking babydoll eyes up at you, you wrinkle your nose, coming to recognize what “treat” he was implying.

Earlier you would’ve kissed instantly, but an inkling of stubbornness kept you from giving into him this time.

Sneaking behind you, he ducks down, voice low enough for only your ears to hear.

“Didn’t seem you were too against it earlier.”

And with that, he races off, entirely too happy with himself and not likely to live down your reaction. Because you can’t disagree.

Since when were Lee Minho’s lips so kissable?

Knock.

Knock.

Your attention strays from the mirror at the sound, wondering if it was simply a figment of your imagination only for the sound to ensue.

Knock. Knock.

Who would be at your door at this hour in the middle of the week?

There’s a name on your tongue, but you don’t contemplate any longer, tiptoeing to the doorway to peer through the peephole.

And the sight before you makes every ounce of suspicion worthwhile.

Minho, holding a bouquet of roses and things unknown behind his back, is reciting.

He’s staring at his shoes, bouncing back and forth on his heels nervously.

Lee Minho is nervous.

Wanting just to stand there and watch him rehearse, you finally give in after a third knock scares you out of your wits—hesitantly opening the door and trying to placate the most surprised expression possible.

His eyes round as saucers, you literally watch the gears in his head turn in real time, extending the flowers out to you.

“Happy valentines. These are uh, for you.”

And his ears are red.

You’re going to implode from how cute this is.

Attempting to stave down the alarming amount of happiness you’re experiencing, you hold the flowers in one hand, awaiting whatever lie behind his back.

Although, as the outline of a box of chocolates appears, so does… a shampoo bottle.

What.

Bathing in a long silence, you can’t help but wonder you’re genuinely hallucinating. Glancing from his face to the literal shampoo in hand, he mirrors you, confused for a reason you’re trying to figure out as well.

“Is that… a shampoo bottle?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you were running low the last time I came here.”

…

You’ve never received a valentine before, but this automatically took the cake.

Is it possible to fall in love after you’re given a shampoo bottle as a gift on valentines? Apparently so.

Nonetheless, work flashed past, barely able to register a thing between the many congratulations you received and the absence of Hyeongmi (assumed to be due to the brown-haired charmer beside you).

For now, you savor the freedom of the day, finally able to escape the pains of before and wallow in a new kind of excitement. Love.

Love delivered by Minho himself in the form of mini scraps he’s folded into hearts, slipping heart after heart onto your desk at any opportunity to the point you bump his leg beneath the table in warning.

He cheekily smirks in return, stupidly innocent face scheming with malice.

He’s getting an absolute kick out of this, and you hate to admit you enjoy it just as much.

As usual, you wait behind for him to catch up on your daily commute home—an activity you did long before any romantic feelings became involved.

That’s it. Minho’s pinpoint of romance.

Shampoo bottle, walks home, extra coffee, notes.

Minho doesn’t openly express his love, not unless he feels either adventurous or obligated. Instead, he studies. Your habits, the things you enjoy, your actions, preferences. That particular coffee order you liked, how you had ran out of shampoo.

Oh how you love him.

Though, rounding the sidewalk to your place, Minho grabs ahold of your wrist. In response, as soon as you turn your head, you’re mere centimeters from his face, simply standing there, proximity willing either of you not to move.

Initial words dying out, he slightly edges to the side, cocked in a way that has your mind racing.

Nose, cheek, but never lips.

No.

Your hands act before any other part of you, blocking his lips from yours.

“We-“

The look he’s giving you, shock.

You feel a hundred degrees hotter.

“We need to go inside,” You excuse yourself fast, the man tailing behind, grip still loosely attached to your wrist.

Quickly shutting the door behind you, it’s an immediate embarrassment flooding your frame that allows you to speak, words bursting outward in an uncontrollable cacophony.

“Minho I’m so sorry I have no idea what I was doing, I shouldn’t have done that, it was a stupid idea. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything-“

“Hey, slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”

His tone serves as the much needed breeze fanning your face, cooling you down enough to articulate sentences properly.

“I’m sorry, we’ve just never kissed on the lips and I feel like I’m gonna be horrible and kill the mood. This is stupid, I know, just.. bear with me please?”

His eyebrows furrow, forming together the equation piece by piece.

“You’ve.. You’ve never had your first kis—?”

You hush him furiously, slumping onto the couch dejectedly.

Yet, Minho doesn’t laugh nor pick fun regardless of how hilariously idiotic the occasion is. He’s quiet, concerned almost.

You add that to your long list of things you love about him.

Inhaling gradually, your focus flits to the window, collecting yourself, easing the frantic rush-hour traffic rampaging in your skull.

If you were one of those paper hearts he made, he’s pulling apart each careful fold in this very moment. Unraveling the layers till your bare self is exposed in all its anxiousness.

“I hate it. It feels like a part of that teenage youth everyone talks about is something I’ll never get to experience. I was too busy caring about school, and now I feel like I’ve missed out.”

Soaking in a quietness, you jump when he places a hand over yours, softly tracing the skin of your knuckles, glossy as he watches, carving each perfect aspect of you into memory.

“Well you may not be seventeen, but you’re never too old to learn to kiss.”

One hand cupping your jaw to garner your attention, you’re met with a glass-like visage.

Gentle.

“And I can teach you how.”

It’s always been business, you’ve always been business. Which is why, now confronting what feels to be the highest peak in your love life, you’re left a completely blank canvas. No rules, no instructions.

It’s terrifying.

“Min- Minho, I really haven’t done this before.”

You hastily pique, scooting backward in the cushions.

Curse the shakiness of your voice.

“If you don’t want to do this, tell me. We won’t.”

You quickly shake your head.

No, you want this, you’ve wanted this too badly to back out now.

“Then let’s take it slow, okay?”

It’s horrifically awkward at first, a tiny peck, then a bit longer till your arms creep over his shoulders, his fingers once holding your jaw steady now resting on your neck.

Best word to describe it? Messy.

“Breathe through your nose.”

“Minho— I’m suffocating here—“

You sputter back, quite literally heaving for breath.

Yes, it was otherworldly kissing him, and he was an insanely good kisser, but did this really require your lungs to practically burst?

“Are you teaching me how to give a blowjob or kiss?”

His smile transforms mischievously, a sneering laugh slipping past. You already know he’ll make a sly comment.

Minho winks. “We’ll get to that later.”

“I lost my urge to date you. Bye.”

“Noooo Y/n~” He whines profusely, warm hold on your waist beckoning another kiss filled with hushed giggles and incessant jeers from either party—ensuing a halfway unbuttoned shirt and quite possibly the most greedy ten minutes known to man.

Out of breath, he pulls back from your stomach, the ticklish feather-light kisses planted there earning a stifled giggle from you while he blinks upward, seeming to be focused on something.

“Minho?” You question, ignorant to how unbelievably obsessed with you he is, more than ever in this moment.

From your damp, sweaty skin to the few hairs stuck to your forehead. Your swollen lips, the way you laugh, your stomach dipping with the action. He doubts he’ll ever get tired of this.

Reaching forward as if caught in a trance, he tenderly tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, voice barely audible upon pressing his forehead against yours.

And in the seclusion of your living room, tangled up together on the sofa, it’s just the two of you existing in this world.

“I hope you know I really meant it when I said I thought you were pretty too.”

Ah. He remembers. All that time ago.

Of course he does.

Kissing you for a time you can’t remember, you begin to wonder if that birthday wish of yours had came true after all.

Your feelings for Minho had always existed somewhere inside of you. Your head, your heart. A tiny inkling into something more, a could be. Two individuals wishing, waiting to make a move.

It seems the Valentines Pact sealed the deal.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @gimmeurtmi @jisuperboard @porang-poranglinos @palindrome969 @stayceebs97 @inniescandy-01 @idklin0

[babybreadddd]

Reckless Convictions

Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.

Pairing: Han Jisung x fem reader

W/c: 31.5K

Warnings: masturbation, perversion, use of pet names, breast/nipple play, clitoral stimulation, unprotected sex, dry humping, trespassing, sex in a semi-public place (no one is around), mention of cheating

Synopsis: Your senior year of college takes a strange turn when you develop a relationship with your professor.

18+. Mdni!

•

The first time you come across a coda in a piece of music, you are to ignore it. You may only jump to it once you’ve begun from the da segno symbol, and played through until reaching the written indication to return to the coda.

If we've passed the coda once, let this be our sign.

Come back to me.

•

Upon entering your senior year of college, the news is broken that the old lecture hall on the east side of campus is officially on its last leg as a functioning location for classes. You’re made aware of this through an email from the school’s president, detailing the intricate plans to demolish it entirely and build a new gymnasium in its place. And for the most part, the students are happy about this fact, whispering excitedly amongst themselves as they traverse the grand cherry wood flooring and picture all of the new sporting equipment this facility will soon house. They speak of the bright painted walls that will represent the school’s colors like every other new modern replacement for the old-fashioned buildings- cobalt blue and white, resembling that of a dentist’s office on most days. And they make sure to voice their very robust distaste for the spiral staircase that leads to the second floor of the lecture hall, the stairs always announcing the late arrival of students with the deafening creak of wood and a tarnished banister.

Yet as you hoist your bag further up your shoulder and follow a trail of students into the lecture hall for your first day back at classes, you can’t help but feel sorry for the old place, always having loved the courses you took here. A philosophy course one semester, where the ancient feel of the building only made stories of Greek myths more vivid as they graced your imagination. A writing course the semester after that, where your professor could hardly be bothered to properly read your essays, despite the attention to detail you gave to them. And now this course- the only remaining course with afternoon availability, something about the history of classical music.

One glance around the room tells you all you have to know about this course- it's full of students who couldn’t care less about courses pertaining to music, especially not general education ones for mindless credits. You reckon all of the students here would rather have landed art analysis, or even some form of a writing course, yet instead they’ll be stuck learning about Bach and Mozart for the next few months. Of course you’re not bothered by it, being a music major yourself, but it’s painfully evident in the way that they keep their faces glued to their cell phones and blow bubbles of gum as you wait for the arrival of the professor. The rows of chairs are fuller than you’d anticipated, groups of friends chatting amongst themselves, while those sitting alone are busy on their laptops or with headphones blasting muffled music.

You settle on a spot in the middle, away from most of the students already acquainted with each other, and cross your legs as you wait in silence. While the others groan about their courses and inquire about their remaining credits, you take in the sight of the lecture hall- it’s just as massive as you remember it from last semester, the ceiling housing patterned medallions and hanging pendant lamps that give a dim glow to the room. The seats are just as uncomfortable as you remember them, too, folding suede brown chairs that jerk violently if you move a little too much, and at the very bottom is a crescent-shaped desk and a tall podium reserved for the professor. It’s a little old, sure. And it smells like mothballs on most days- but it’s a shame to tear down someplace so historical like this.

Your course is set to start at three, and at almost five minutes past the mark, the students are visibly confused by the absence of a professor. You can hear them murmuring and speculating about canceled courses or retired professors, and it’s then that you realize you’re not even sure who the professor is. So you reach into your bag, pulling out your schedule for the one class you have today, and printed in bold black text to the right of the course name is the professor’s name.

Mr. Han, it reads, and you scan the name over a few times before shoving the paper back into your bag. You conclude he sounds like an older man, probably a little irritable toward students who couldn’t care less about music history. And he’s probably late to most of his classes like he is today, not bothering to be punctual for a group of students who will grow to despise him mere weeks into the semester.

A little past the ten minute mark, some students have begun to pack their belongings, ready to depart from the confines of the lecture hall and go inquire about why there’s no professor assigned to this course, maybe even beg for a switch of classes. And then, as though he can sense they’re making attempts at an escape, a man you can only assume to be the professor shoves past the double doors, a leather laptop case slung over his shoulder, making his way to the desk in rushed motions.

“Sorry, sorry,” he calls out, hoisting his bag over the desk and motioning for students to take their seats again.

“I apologize,” he reiterates, sighing deeply, hands tucked in his pockets as he glances around the room. It’s then that you notice he’s drenched, stringy black strands of his hair falling into his face, droplets of water speckled on the thin wireframe glasses that sit on his sharp nose.

And your second observation- he’s not old. In fact, he’s nothing close to the likes of the average professor- he’s attractive. Not just attractive- he’s alluring, captivating, like a model cut out from the thin pages of an editorial magazine. He’s tall, with a slim frame that contrasts his broad shoulders and sculpted biceps that protrude through the sleeves of his collared button up shirt. The white fabric clings around his broad chest so erotically, patches of dark gray rainwater conveniently providing you a better view, and his shirt is tucked into a tight pair of khaki slacks, hugging his toned thighs and leaving little to the imagination. He’s not even dressed provocatively, you mentally remark to yourself. He just looks like that.

All of this so perfectly complementing his flawlessly sculpted face, an angular jawline that clenches as he speaks, and plump pink lips that pull back to expose a pearly white and perfectly straight set of teeth. His pronounced nose bridge is made more attractive with his geeky pair of glasses, and those eyes- big and brown, framed by thick black eyelashes that flutter as he pulls off his glasses and wipes the lenses with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Lots of traffic when it rains,” he says sheepishly, pinching the frame of his glasses with two fingers and setting them so delicately back on his face. “It won’t happen again.”

And then he pulls his hands out of his pockets, leaning against the podium at the front of the room and taking a good look at the array of students.

“Welcome,” he announces, giving a small nod before continuing to speak. “My name is Professor Han. I’ll be your instructor for the duration of this course.”

He pulls back from the podium, shuffling through the leather bag on his desk and pulling out a stack of papers. The first student to the left is handed the stack, instructed to pass them to the back of the crowd as he explains it’s your course syllabus.

“Pretty much everything you need to know is listed here,” he says a little louder, as the room teems with echoing chatter. “I accept late work up to a week after it’s due, with a point subtracted every day it’s late. If you’re going to be later than 15 minutes, please don’t show at all. The stairs are too loud. Food and drinks are permitted, just don’t make a mess. And do whatever you want with phones and laptops, just shut off the sound.”

He paces back and forth as he speaks, his wet shoes squeaking along the tiled flooring as he does. He wears canvas sneakers with his fancy teaching attire, and he pulls them off remarkably well.

“A little bit about me,” he then says, and you perk up at his words, intrigued by just everything about his presence. “Been teaching here for about five years now, since I finished grad school. I love music, and I love music theory, so you’ll hear me talk about it a lot in between historical lectures. I teach three classes in total, all pertaining to music history, and in my free time, you can usually find me doing something related to music. Any questions?”

The class falls silent as his gaze scans the room, his curious eyes falling over the rows of seated figures who in reality, desperately want to ask him questions, but they’re also painfully shy in his presence. He gives a little nod as he takes note of their blank stares- and then his gaze falls momentarily over yours- staring directly into your paralyzed figure, almost as though he’s challenging you to ask him something, anything. But you don’t- you just remain seated, staring back at him, hoping the glowing blush on the tips of your ears doesn’t pick up under the dim lighting of the room.

“Okay,” says Professor Han, clasping his hands together and gesturing to the board behind him now. “Let’s see if I can figure out how to use this projector this time around.”

*

Lucky for you this semester, your schedule is sparse throughout the week, just a total of three classes on varying days. Which means you have ample free time to laze around your dorm when you’re not attending courses. Students make the most of their senior year, scoping out parties and sneaking out late at night to catch a movie or a quick bite- and you would join them, if you had people to join.

It’s not that you failed to make friends in the duration of your college career- in fact, you made solid efforts to befriend most of the people you came across, sometimes even allowing yourself to be dragged to a party and entertain mindless frat boys. But none of them stuck around, and you quickly realized they were much further from the simplicities you actually enjoy about college. Like the coffee shop on the second story of the student union, where the barista always adds a little too much caramel to your lattes. Or the windowed seat at the very back of the 8th story in the library, where when it rains, you can watch lines of people rush to their classes with hands over their heads and desperately clutching their umbrellas. Even your dorm room is a preferred spot for you, where you often find joy in curling up under your covers and getting lost in a good book. And although you’ve grown to love being alone, it’s a little jarring some nights, like the following Friday in your first week when almost everybody is out at a party, and the return to your dorm room is pitch quiet as you walk down the carpeted hallways. As you swing your door open, you gasp at the sight of your roommate, who’s not usually occupying her side of the room- not unless she needs something.

“Oh,” says Mina, as she places a stack of folded clothing into a large duffle bag and zips it up. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”

You chuckle softly at her remark- of course you’d be here today. And the day after that, and the day after that… you’re always here. It’s Mina who seldom graces you with her presence, usually too busy at her boyfriend’s dorm or out with a group of friends.

“I’m here,” you say sheepishly, assuming your spot on the edge of your bed. Mina says nothing, raising her eyebrows a little and nodding, and you can tell she’s thinking about what a pathetic life you must lead.

You and Mina have never quite gotten along- not for reasons much more complicated than disagreements regarding her cleaning style or her boyfriend coming over unannounced. You’re simply from two separate worlds, and it’ll remain that way for the next few months until you graduate.

“I’m going to my boyfriend’s,” Mina announces unsurprisingly, hoisting the duffel bag over her shoulder. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Okay,” you say to her finally. “Have fun with Lucas. I’ll see you on Monday.”

She seems to roll her eyes as she makes her way out the door, not so much as a goodbye from her. And when the dorm is all to yourself again, you reach for the book on your shelf, one you’ve gotten halfway through since yesterday’s time spent alone, and curl up under the covers, the sound of gentle rain tapping on the window behind you.

By the time Monday rolls around, you’ve almost forgotten entirely who your course professors are.

It’s always taken you a few months to get situated with their lecture styles, and on occasion, even their names- but this semester in particular feels so unimportant. It’s your final one, after all, and while students talk excitedly about plans for the future and their graduation parties, the only thing you’re looking forward to is the physical degree you’ll get to leave here with.

Mondays are for your intermedia course, led by a professor who dismisses the class early almost every chance he gets. Wednesdays, you have another writing course, and you have to stop yourself from dozing off while students review their essays dissecting music theory during critique sessions. And Thursdays are spent in the old little lecture hall on the east side of campus with Professor Han. You’ve forgotten about him by the time your first official class with him rolls around, and you mentally scold yourself for dressing so casual in his presence when you remember how attractive he is.

When he saunters in, much earlier this time around, the students cease their chatter, and all eyes are on his handsome figure as he makes his way to the podium. He wears fitted slacks again, a knit sweater tucked into the belt that hugs his thin waist, and a collared white button down is visible at the neckline. His jet black hair is styled neatly out of his face to reveal his chiseled features, and his wireframe glasses are absent this time around, emphasizing the big brown eyes that peer back at his students.

“Good afternoon,” he says to the class, and they utter mumbled replies back at him.

“I hope you all had a good weekend,” he then remarks, pulling his laptop out of his bag plugging in a series of wires to set up the projector. The class remains quiet at this, not a single word from any of the students as they sip coffees and navigate their own laptops in hushed motions. Professor Han looks up at the class as his fingers hover over the mouse of his keyboard, his lips pulling into a grin, eyes forming little crescents as he lets out a soft chuckle.

“Come on guys,” he says dramatically. “Why are you so silent? You’re killing me.”

It’s the first time the classroom fills with laughter, and Professor Han seems to relax a little as he takes in the sight of smiling faces. He’s not quite sure he’ll ever get used to the silence that falls over college lectures, especially in the awkward first few weeks, when students are too scared to even look him straight in the eyes. And what Professor Han never quite grasps is that the students aren’t afraid of him- they’re intrigued by him, just the way that you are.

The girls wear full faces of makeup to a single 3pm lecture in hopes that he’ll take special notice of them, and the boys almost seem to mirror his dapper choices of clothing, trying their hand at knit crewnecks and slacks with canvas sneakers. Anybody who knows him concludes he’s just about one of the coolest professors around, yet he’s too consumed by his passion for music and theories of composers to take notice of anybody’s fascination for him.

And aside from that fact, he’s a professional at his job, only here for the purpose of lecturing and distributing course materials. He doesn’t make friends with other professors on campus, he doesn’t traverse these buildings when he doesn’t have to be here. And he certainly doesn’t care to know any of his students beyond the space of these four walls.

The projector starts up with a low hum, and a slideshow is promptly shone onto the wall across from you, a painting of some historical figure accompanying the title slide.

“I want to preface this lecture by saying that this particular composer is often deemed one of the greatest of his time, which is true for the Baroque period, and untrue in comparison to some of the other greats.”

There are stifled laughs from around the room as he makes his way to the screen at the top of the wall. As he transitions to a speech about the Baroque period, he reaches up to pull on the little string that dangles from the center, and your eyes can’t help but observe his lean figure as he does. The hem of his sweater is untucked from his slacks momentarily, revealing the small waist he flaunts beneath such a broad chest, and one hand reaches down promptly to cover himself again. It feels so wrong losing your focus from the lecture like this, your mind wandering places you know it shouldn’t be. Yet as he speaks, you can’t help but imagine what the rest of his chest must look like underneath the oversized knit that swallows his sculpted figure. Your eyes graze briefly over his navy slacks, ones that hug him so generously, and down to the stylish canvas sneakers he wears, the same ones he wore last time. They squeak along the tiled floor as he paces, hands gesturing passionately as he recounts the history of Johann Sebastian Bach, who you’ve only just realized this lecture is about.

“Not only was he a composer, but he was an organist, a harpsichordist and a violinist,” he explains, clicking the little remote in his hand and proceeding to the next slide. “He was a prolific part of the Baroque period, and he’s well-known today for some of his most famous instrumental and choral pieces.”

He paces the room confidently as he speaks, head down most of the time as he details accounts of Bach’s life, seemingly having memorized most of it.

“Does anybody happen to know any of his orchestral music? There’s one in particular he’s very famous for.”

The class falls silent again as Professor Han scans the room, pausing from clicking through slides as he awaits an answer. Nobody says anything, and all that fills the air are the sounds of keyboard clicking as they do their best to mindlessly copy his words. Without a second to properly think it over, and before you can even begin to doubt yourself, your hand is shot straight into the air, heart racing as his eyes fall to your seated figure, and then he gestures toward you, a small smile on his face.

“Yes!” he says enthusiastically. “Go ahead.”

“Brandenburg Concertos?” You voice quietly, a slight tremble in your voice as you speak. You’re not sure you’ve ever done adequate research on Bach- let alone any classical composer. But you are familiar with German history, and the Baroque period and the grand titles of symphonic pieces are still ingrained into your memory from years of piano lessons.

“That’s correct,” he replies, an amused breath escaping his lips as he speaks. His gaze lingers on yours for a second- just a brief second, not enough for the students to imply anything.

And Professor Han is admittedly fascinated by you himself, the question always marking the course as his first official question of the semester. One he’s never gotten the right answer to until now. In fact- one he’s never even had a student take a stab at answering until now. He’s well aware that no normal college student is going to have the Brandenburg Concertos in the back of their mind like the rest of the frivolous knowledge that dwells there, but perhaps he’s finally been assigned a student who gives the slightest shit about this course and its materials.

“Sorry- what was your name?” Professor Han then asks, the corner of his lip pulling into a half-smile before he proceeds with his lecture.

Students in front of you crane their necks to get a good look at you, and the peers on either side of you glance at the single sheet of notebook paper on your desk, scribbled with sparse notes in dark blue pen.

“Y/n,” you finally respond, your voice coming out more timid than you’d hoped it to. You feel microscopic with all eyes on you like this, quietly praying he’ll proceed with the lecture so that you can go back to admiring him from afar and in the comfortable silence of your thoughts.

“Y/n,” he repeats, giving a small nod, and then he finally transitions to the next slide.

Professor Han might not care to be on campus when he doesn’t have to- but that certainly doesn’t mean he’s generous about early dismissal when it comes to his courses. The analog clock above the doorway counts down the seconds before he finally dismisses his students- and even then, he’s not averse to keeping students a few minutes past to wrap up his lectures, either. While it’s a trait most students despise during their classes, not a single student utters a word of dismay when he requests just five minutes more of their time, their eyes still fixated on his pacing figure as he rushes through the remainder of his slides. He has a way of encapsulating a whole room when he speaks of ancient composers, like he’s meant to be up on a podium recounting Bach’s concertos. And the students soak up every last second they get to be in his presence, a sort of melancholia present in the room when they finally file out the door for the afternoon and back to their dorms.

When you find yourself lingering in the classroom a bit longer than the other students, completing the futile task of shifting around papers in your bag, Professor Han seems to take notice, glancing at you over the screen of his laptop and observing the way you shuffle about in the now silent room.

“Brandenburg Concertos, huh?” He calls out to you, and your gaze falls to him, where he’s seated at his desk, the familiar wireframe glasses now sitting upon the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah,” you respond, a little unsure of how to entertain the conversation without coming off as painfully awkward as you truly are.

Professor Han chuckles a little, and then he glances back to his laptop, typing something as he continues speaking.

“Nobody’s ever gotten that one right. In my five whole years of teaching.”

“Really?” You reply, thoroughly surprised nobody’s heard of the most famous orchestral pieces by one of the most significant composers.

“Nope,” he says plainly, shaking his head to affirm his answer. “Are you secretly a composer or something?”

It’s your turn to chuckle lightly, approaching his desk with your bag slung over your shoulder as you shake your head.

“Just years of piano,” you say to him.

“Piano? Very tricky instrument, it’s good to pick up when you’re still young.”

“I’ve been playing competitively for ten years,” you explain to him, heartbeat quickening a little as he lowers the screen of his laptop to make eye contact again.

“Wow,” he breathes out, thoroughly impressed by the fact. “I might have you teach a lecture or two, then.”

You chuckle in unison with him, shrugging as he pushes his glasses a little further up on his face.

“Convince them to put a piano in here and I’ll think about it,” you say to him. “I need a few course materials.”

“Deal,” he replies, narrowing his eyes a little as his lips pull into a smile, flashing you his perfect set of teeth. He glances around the room momentarily, and just as you think the conversation’s over, he sighs deeply, pushing back his laptop screen once more and continuing to type.

“Pity they’re tearing it down, though. A piano would have been a nice addition.”

It’s your turn to glance around the room, craning your neck up toward the tall medallion ceilings and elegantly crested walls. The room looks even more beautiful at this hour, rows upon rows of vacant brown chairs folded neatly back into their place, beams of afternoon sunlight streaming through the long glass windows on either side of the room.

“It is a shame,” you echo, grazing your fingertips along the smooth wooden finish of his desk. He seems to be lost in thought as he stares at his computer screen for a brief second, eyes glazed over as he remains silent. There’s not a sound in the room as he pauses his typing- no students remain in the hallways, no one taking notes in the stillness of the lecture hall. Just you and your professor, in silent thought about the unfortunate fate of the grand lecture hall.

“Maybe next year I’ll be teaching in a gymnasium,” he says finally, shooting you a sad smile and shrugging.

And then he winks at you- nothing romantic behind the gesture, just a brief blink of his left eye as he lets his gaze fall to yours.

And for the second time in the confines of this grand lecture hall, you pray the dim lighting doesn’t reveal the growing blush across your cheeks.

*

As the weeks pass, Professor Han’s lectures are stuck in your head like the piano melodies you’re so acquainted with. Beethoven Fidelio. Le nozze di Figaro. Adagio Cantabile.

The titles of famous composer pieces circle your mind like they’re suggestions by him, to you. And you like to think they are, when he’s slipping comments into his lectures about which pieces are his favorites, which are the most evocative and which ones he’s listened to the most.

The other students sit absentmindedly as he lectures, hearing the words he utters and writing notes like they’re translating his musical language to one they can comprehend. But they’re not listening to him- you’re certain they’ll never understand it the way that you do.

“Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake was my first piano recital piece,” you’d told him once after class. And the way his face lit up when you did, indulging you in a long list of reasons why he deems Tchaikovsky his favorite composer of the Romantic period.

“Only a genius could have produced 1812 Overture,” he said to you excitedly, throwing his head back in disbelief and slouching back in his swivel desk chair as he collected his thoughts.

“That’s the one he used real artillery as background noise in, right?” You had responded, a bright smile on your face as you spoke the common language only the two of you seemed to understand.

“And church bells!” He had responded excitedly, clasping his hands together as he recalled the booming melody.

And then he had played it for you- despite the two of you already knowing the piece very well. His slender fingers hovering over the keyboard of his laptop, searching for the overture he’s listened to almost daily in the duration of his career as a professor.

As a quiet stillness fell over the lecture hall following the departure of the last few students, the speakers echoed with the booming instrumentals of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture- the entire four minutes of the song. You watched in fascination as Professor Han gestured at his all favorite parts, waving his hand in the air to mirror the harsh eighth and sixteenth notes that span the intricate melody. Excited chuckles escaping his lips as the familiar sound of cannons could be heard in the background, followed by the lull of harmonious church bells.

It was then that he turned the music down a few notches, explaining how he helped teach this piece back when he still worked as a musical director. You recall the fleeting sadness that seemed to overtake him, his smile faltering a little as he seemed to think back to his time there. And when asked why he didn’t teach anymore, he had simply shrugged, failing to give you any sort of explanation for it. He just kept his gaze on his desk for a moment, snapping out of it seconds later, turning the volume up again and waving his hands in composing gestures as the song reached its end.

It was also the first time you recall feeling a little sorry for him, carefully observing the way these talks of music and composers seem to bring out a sort of sadness from within him. The dichotomy of him against the overtures he’s so drawn to- their booming crescendo notes and tempos noted allegro con brio, and yet when the lecture hall is empty and he’s all alone, he carries himself like a somber melody, beaming only with the mention of music and then shrinking like a diminuendo set of notes, dying down until a silence falls over the two of you again.

Some several weeks in, you’re certain the fascination is no longer rooted in lust, but simply a desire to speak this mutual language of music with him, the only time either of you ever really feel heard.

*

If someone were to tell you that you’d ever find interest between the pages of a course-assigned college textbook, you would have taken them for a complete liar. And yet you can’t help but find yourself engrossed in the textbook for this course, the thick red book taking complete precedence over the stack of unfinished books on your nightstand.

Weekends are spent flipping through the pages of quotes by famous composers, stories detailing their fast-paced lives and detailing all of their greatest accolades. You carefully study the music sheets, too, reading between the staff lines the same way you scan the plain text of the chapters. It comes to you easily, translating quarter notes to melodies you hum to yourself, reading key signatures like novel dedications.

And the book ignites a sort of spark in you again, reminding you of the days you still spend in front of the monochrome keys for hours, memorizing pieces and adding in your own annotations along the treble and bass.

So when Mina comes home one afternoon, desperate to borrow your textbook, you’re admittedly vexed by the request, reluctantly reaching into your bag to retrieve it for her.

“I didn’t know you had this course,” you say to her, wiping fingerprints off the matte cover and carefully handing it to her.

“Yeah, it’s the worst,” she says, making no effort to avoid transferring new fingerprints onto the cover as she stuffs it into her bag. “But the professor’s hot.”

And her mention of him is somehow vexing to you- of course she only sees the young, attractive professor he is, and not the sheer brilliance behind his lectures. Of course she doesn’t care to understand his background, his favorite historical pieces or take notice of the way he lightens up at the mention of his old days as a musical director. She’s just like the other students in your class- hearing him, but not really listening.

“Professor Han?” You inquire, knowing very well he’s the only professor who teaches that particular course.

“Yeah,” she says, reaching into her duffle bag and shuffling around for something. “Pretty sure he’s the only reason people still show up to that stupid class. I wonder if he goes for younger girls.”

She chuckles as she pulls out a tube of lipstick, uncapping it and reapplying the dark red tint to her pouty lips.

“I’m going to my boyfriend’s,” she then says to you, tucking the tube of lipstick back into her bag and pivoting to face you. “I can have your book back by Monday.”

“Could you have it back by early morning?” You say to her, voice almost cracking as you plead so desperately. “I really need it back before my quiz.”

You’ve already practically memorized the chapter you’re being quizzed on, but you’re always well-prepared for quizzes and tests in Professor Han’s course, reviewing the textbook a thousand times to earn the highest grade possible. You’d be ashamed to score any less than remarkable on his tests, feeling a need to prove to him that his course is something you take just as seriously as he does.

“I guess,” she says furrowing her brows a little at your desperation. “I’ll try to have my boyfriend drop it off before my class or something.”

“Tell Lucas it’s important,” you relay to her, as she keeps her gaze on yours. “I really need to pass this quiz.”

“I said I’ll try,” she emphasizes, making her way to the dorm with the same pink duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

And then she’s gone again, not so much as a wave goodbye as you’re left alone for the weekend.

*

By the time Monday rolls around, Mina is nowhere to be seen. She does this sometimes, spending entire weeks at her boyfriend’s apartment and ditching a long list of her classes.

Except along with the absence of your roommate, comes the absence of your textbook.

Lucas never shows on Monday to return your textbook, and Mina is completely MIA when you try to call or text. So by Thursday, you have no choice but to attempt your quiz without having read the textbook chapter a millionth time.

“Welcome, welcome,” Professor Han calls out as students take their seats. “Put your phones away and get out a pen or a pencil. We’ll start the quiz in a few minutes.”

You occupy the seat at the very front, where you always do now, and wait patiently as he digs around his bag for the stack of quizzes.

“This quiz covers all of chapter 7,” he says, passing along the stack of papers and instructing students to distribute them across the room. “You have 30 minutes from now. If you have questions, please raise your hand and I’ll come to you. Other than that, good luck.”

And the room falls silent as he makes his way back to his desk, the etching sound of pencils scribbling on paper as students begin their quizzes. You swallow nervously, scrawling your name across the top of the paper, and then let your gaze fall to the first question.

Name one the symphonic pieces Ludwig van Beethoven was famous for.

Your lips pull into a knowing smile as you pencil in a response with ease- Symphony No. 5, the same one you discoursed with Professor Han about just last week.

What time period defined Classical antiquity?

Between the 8th century BC and the 5th century AD, you write down quickly, moving on to the next question.

From his desk across from you, Professor Han glances over the screen of his laptop at your slouched figure, observing how you pencil in responses quicker than any of the other students, without even taking a moment to think over the answers. He smiles to himself a little, amused at the clear indication of the only music major in here, a clear liking for this subject the way he has, unlike the students rushing through his course for credits. His eyes fall back onto his laptop screen where he begins to work on an email, and yet before he can continue, you’re sauntering over to his desk with your quiz in hand.

“You’re finished already?” He inquires, lowering the top of his laptop to meet your gaze.

“Yes,” you say simply, sliding him the sheet of paper and giving him a little nod.

He grasps your quiz between his calloused fingers, and just like you assured him, every line is complete with a clear response in pencil.

“I can grade it right now since you’re the only one finished,” he asks, a challenging expression on his face as you stand confidently across him.

“Sure,” you say, gesturing to the paper as he retrieves a red pen from his bag.

You watch with bated breath as he scans the first question with the tip of his uncapped pen, giving a small nod as he then moves on to the next. The second question is the same, Professor Han looking it over and moving on to review the third now. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as he reviews your answers, despite being confident you’ve gotten at least the majority of them correct. Your gaze averts his seated figure as strands of his hair fall into his face, head hanging over your little sheet of paper as he checks and then double checks your responses.

“Yeah,” Professor Han finally says, sitting up straight once more and fidgeting with the red pen he neglected to even make use of. “It’s all right.”

He looks up at you with a curious expression, a kind of twinkle in the big eyes that are magnified by his geeky looking glasses. And his lips quiver with the intention to say something to you, but he can’t quite find the words. He’s simply taken aback by your skill, never having seen somebody share this similar level of knowledge regarding music history as he does. He wishes you would stay and discourse all your favorite pieces with him the way you normally do after his lectures, but the rest of the class remains quietly scribbling down their own answers, probably most of them incorrect like they usually are, and he can’t possibly request your presence for much longer in an unassuming fashion.

“You can leave early,” he whispers so as not to disturb the other test-takers, giving you a small nod as he slides the quiz into his bag.

“Really?”

“Yeah. That’s all I had planned for today. Just read chapters 8 and 9 for next class.”

You begin to pivot on your heel, excited to depart from class a little bit earlier today and hopefully catch up on other course work, despite this being your favorite class. But his words make you stop in your place, turning to face him once again and shrugging sheepishly.

“Professor, I…don’t have my textbook,” you say awkwardly, fiddling with the sleeve of your sweater as you speak. “My roommate borrowed it last Friday and I haven’t been able to get a hold of her. If there’s a PDF you know of, or maybe a library rental-”

He doesn’t let you finish before he’s reaching into his bag again, pulling out his own textbook and sliding it across the desk to you.

“Take mine with you,” he says confidently, giving you a thin-lipped smile. “Just remember to bring it back next week.”

“Are you sure?” You question, taking the thick book from his grasp and flipping it over to examine the cover. It looks a little different than yours, a varying colored font on the cover and much yellower, older pages, but it’s the exact same book as the one you’ve familiarized yourself with so well already.

“Positive. I think you’ll enjoy the next two chapters, too. Lots of piano stuff.”

He grins as he finishes, flashing you his signature toothy smile, and you feel your heart flutter at the fact that he’s even remembered you play the piano.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” you reply, tucking the book under your arm and smiling back at him. You hope that nobody behind you suspects why you’ve been standing at his desk for just a little too long, but you’re entranced by his presence in the silence of the room, wishing so badly you could stay and ask him about all of his favorite pieces like you normally do after class is dismissed. But you can’t be sure if they’ve taken notice, and you make your departure, anyway, giving Professor Han a small wave as you finally make your way out of the class and to the hallway.

Inside the lecture hall, Professor Han observes the remainder of the students working on their quizzes, not missing the way they visibly struggle to comprehend some of the questions or make guesses to material they should definitely know by now. And it’s a familiar sight to him, seeing his students disregard the course entirely and drag their feet just enough to pass the course.

You seem to be the only exception, though, thoroughly understanding and even enjoying the course material. And try as he might to brush off the thought of you, he can’t seem to, fascinated by the way you not only hear him, but listen to him, making his role on campus feel a little less futile- something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

His brows are furrowed as he works on his laptop, the room teeming with the scribbling noises of doubtful penciled-in answers by students on their quizzes and the subsequent erasing because they simply don’t know. But you know- you always know. Like the passing moments after class in which you indulge him in a fact about your journey as a music major, and he’ll often gift you with tales from his days as a prestigious symphonic director.

And you always send him off with a benevolent wave, tucking your hair behind your ear and sauntering out so gracefully, your short skirt flowing with your purposeful strides back to your dorm room.

Not that he’s taken notice of you, of course. Not that he sometimes prays you’ll be the last one out the room so that he can try to impress you with a fact about his musical knowledge or earn little anecdotes about your life he pieces together. That would be entirely inappropriate considering he’s a professor and you’re his student- and no fleeting amount of finally feeling listened to could change that fact.

Conversely, is he wrong to admit to himself that he’s fascinated by your musical knowledge? That the silence of the room is more unnerving when you’ve already gone home for the day?

Furthermore, that he doesn’t feel like such a loser when you beam at his stories and press him for more details about his musical career? Of course he can’t admit it to himself, because that would be entirely inappropriate- he’s a professor, and you’re just a student. But as he remains in front of his laptop, his eyes scanning the room at the students who are lost in thought- or lack of, rather, there’s only one empty seat in the front row. A seat typically occupied by your graceful presence, where you do your best to avoid making heavy eye contact, too, tucking strands of hair behind your ear and smiling at all his jokes. And inappropriate as it may be to admit it, he misses you when you’re not around- musical conversations, the sight of your delicate figure seated and paying attention to him and only him. Learning, listening.

*

The library is empty that same weekend, the gentle tap of rain on the window closest to you making for a peaceful ambiance as you settle on the velvet cushions of the vacant sofa. In your possession, a warm cup of coffee, as well as Professor Han’s textbook, held tightly in your grasp as you navigate to the inside cover.

Mr. Han, the inside hard cover reads, written neatly along the bolded black line. You smile to yourself, grazing the tips of your fingers along the black sharpie, imagining how he’d looked when he first penned it in. Probably the same way he does now, his big eyes blinking as he cocked his head in concentration and grasped the pen between his slender fingers.

You wonder briefly how old his book is- it appears much older than yours, the pages thin and worn like it’s something he’s utilized for a good while. Your fingers skim the smooth stack of pages before thumbing to the inside, landing on chapter 8 as he requested for this week’s reading assignment. And you smile as you do, taking careful note of the state of his book pages.

Surrounding the small black text, in disarray and almost indistinguishable in loopy blue penmanship, are his annotations, carefully analyzing the sentences as though he’s studied them a million times.

“Written at just five years old!” One sentence reads, underlining a sentence describing Mozart’s Minuet in G major. You can’t help but chuckle softly to yourself, fascinated at the fact that he annotates with the exact same level of enthusiasm he speaks of these pieces.

Another annotation specifies how Mozart’s music was tuned to 432 hertz, a frequency commonly associated with instilling a sense of peace and calmness within one’s body. And as you continue reading the bolded text of the chapter, his annotations provide a clearer image into the history of the composers, detailing minuscule facts about their lives and their music. They aren’t facts mentioned in the book, but rather ones he seemed to know based off memory alone, and you’re impressed he’s able to retain such a vast collection of information pertaining to the subjects. Some excerpts are simply marked with a “wow!” Or a series of exclamation points, and you find yourself endeared to how much of a clear liking he’s taken to the work of a textbook chapter.

As you skim a paragraph explaining the intricate work of Piano Sonata no. 12, his familiar blue annotation catches your eye again, except this time, it feels as though it transcends the page and speaks to you.

“Listen to this one,” it reads, underlined twice in blue pen. And for a moment, the thought overtakes you that he may be telling you to listen to it.

The sentence looks so intentional, almost begging for you to give into the simple request. The implication of underlining it not once, but twice, knowing he’s the only one reading this book. Except maybe he had intended to lend it to you, so that you might take the suggestion and listen to it like he had when he annotated it.

So without another second wasted on analyzing his intentions, you pull out your phone, popping in your earbuds and selecting Mozart’s Piano Sonata no.12 from a list of classical pieces. The piece is almost 20 minutes long, a fact which you find comfort in, knowing you get to think about Professor Han for the entirety of the 20 minutes you’re listening to his suggestion.

The notes begin short and vibrant, melting into one another with such fluidity and color. You shut your eyes to the flowing melody, letting yourself melt with the harmony and become one with Professor Han’s recommendation. And 30 seconds in, there’s a shift, from the joyful tune to a more rushed one, notes transitioning to staccato touches along the keyboard and picking up in pace. Like a gentle stride to a fast-paced sprint, similar to many of the tunes you lose yourself in completely while performing.

Then back to a gentler tune again, the pace slowing down once more and moving again in gentle strides. And just as you think it’s died down, the tune assumes both tempos- fast and then slow again, from a relaxed stroll to a purposeful sprint, in the direction of resolution and with every intention of taking your emotions for a wild ride in the process.

You scan the text again as you listen, indulging yourself in the complex history of Mozart’s experience writing the soulful piece, one he was presumed to have written in either Munich or whilst visiting Vienna. And you read Professor Han’s annotations in the process, heartbeat quickening as you allow yourself to imagine they’re all for you.

“This part is the best,” he annotates, referring to the melancholy movement that begins at nearly seven minutes in. It’s much slower, assuming a minor key and with little resolution at the end of every measure. Dragged-out half notes make up the majority of the piece which bewitches you, your mind racing with thoughts of Professor Han and his little inscriptions jotted down just for you.

The piece sounds a little like him- robust and enchanting, but with something more behind it all. Perhaps a story that’s dying to get out, a history he keeps tucked away in the back of his mind or even a secret he harbors. You think back to the way he gets when he speaks of his favorite pieces and his favorite composers- undoubtedly full of life and glowing with passion. And yet when questioned about his time directing, he’s quick to pull back again, shifting back into the professional composure he wears everyday, simply there to lecture from his memories alone and assign textbook pages as homework.

You’re not sure you’ve ever met somebody who mirrors your passion for music so well- like the two of you speak a language nobody else seems to comprehend. Even his annotations must look like gibberish to the masses, who probably wouldn’t bother to tune into Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 for the sole purpose of understanding him through it. Your alphabet transcends the English language- perhaps the two of you speak only in treble and bass, utilizing the eight notes available to you on a pin-straight staff and yet producing hundreds of thoughts in the process.

Ones that yearn to know him beyond the confines of a classroom, to understand who he was before all of this, before he was stuck in the old hall to the east of campus and made to preach to students who couldn’t give less of a shit about it all.

But you do- you always do.

And as the third movement begins at the 12-minute mark, the sounds of distressing melodies and ill-paced harmonies flooding your ears, you grasp a red pen in hand, leaning over his textbook and inscribing similar annotations to his.

“I love this one,” you scribble alongside his words, smiling to yourself as you converse on the thin pages of his old textbook. It doesn’t cross your mind once that your annotations will exist on the pages for eternity- in fact, you hope they do. You hope his message is received on the pages as much as they are by every inch of your yearning soul, that the bright red pen you wield contrasts so clearly against his blue marks and provides reciprocation to all of this passion.

“The third movement is my favorite,” you then note, scribbling something about the melody in juxtaposition to the evocative choice of tempo. And your annotations continue, and continue, all through the page, as though the book is yours and not something entirely borrowed.

The final paragraph is concluded by him with a simple sentence- one that critiques the lack of resolution.

“Discoordinate, fading notes,” it reads. “Feels like it’s missing something.”

And a bold decision it is, to make a record of Mozart having possibly forgotten something. But music is only reflective of your own emotions- perhaps it’s not Mozart forgetting something, but rather Professor Han feeling as though something’s missing. To you, the piece ends here- discoordinate fading notes that serve as the resolution. To Professor Han, there’s still something beyond those final few eighth notes, like the song isn’t reaching its full potential.

Beside his comment, one last penned-in annotation, one that you observe for a good while, reading it once, twice, and three times over as he practically offers a suggestion to Mozart himself.

“Coda?” It reads simply.

A coda- somewhat of an epilogue in music. It’s ignored the first time around- not really regarded by the musician until the da segno- to which a musician then plays until the indication to jump to the coda. And the coda serves as a resolution to the entire piece, typically a sonata, concluding with triumphant notes and the complete opposite of fading discoordination like Professor Han is so averse to.

You bring your red pen down to his comment, hovering the ballpoint tip over the paper for a moment, before making your final annotation along his pages.

A circle, with a cross in the center- a coda, a musical epilogue, an offer for resolution.

*

“Here’s your textbook,” Mina says casually when she finally returns that week, tossing it beside you on the bed and averting your gaze.

“Thanks,” you reply, entirely failing to confront her about having returned it a week later than you’d originally requested.

“I shouldn’t have even borrowed it,” she says with a frustrated huff. “I failed his stupid quiz.”

“Chapter 7?” You question, unsurprised by the admission to you.

“Yeah,” she replies, hoisting herself over her duvet and spreading her arms out behind her. “I don’t know a single person who’s passing that useless class.”

She keeps her gaze on the wall for a moment, and then she glances at you briefly, her expression unreadable as she speaks.

“Can’t believe I also have to waste my time at the stupid extra credit thing this week,” she announces, huffing as she concludes her speech.

You continue working on your laptop, not yet meeting her gaze as she rants, her legs dangling carelessly over the edge of the bed.

“What extra credit thing?”

Mina turns to look at you again, furrowing her brows together, almost in disbelief at your words.

“The extra credit thing Professor Han emailed about? There’s an exhibit at the art museum nearby for famous dead composers or something. If you turn in a ticket for proof you attended, you get like, 10 whole points or something.”

You stop typing on your laptop momentarily, glancing over the top of your screen to meet her gaze at last, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“This week?”

“Yeah,” she says, frowning slightly as you turn back to the computer. “You didn’t get the email about it?”

“I guess I didn’t,” you say to her, beginning to look up the event online. “I’ve been so busy.”

In reality, Professor Han’s email missed your inbox because you weren’t invited, consistently boasting an A in his class all semester. The extra credit is only intended for students like Mina, who are well on the route to failing his course without some form of extra credit. But to you, the event won’t serve as extra credit- it’s just an excuse to catch a glimpse of Professor Han again, maybe gain more insight into his favorite pieces and converse with him beyond the four walls of the lecture hall.

The rain is still coming down in sheets by the time your next lecture with Professor Han rolls around, the class much emptier than usual, most students opting to remain in the comfort of their dorm rooms. Professor Han produces a thought-provoking lecture on Mozart this time, conveying many of the works you read about in his textbook. And when his lecture concludes, he leans back against the podium, thanking all students who did attend today, an unspoken race against the clock unfolding as the two of you stall and wait for the rest of the students to clear out.

When the class is finally empty, he beckons for you with two fingers, remaining slouched against the podium and crossing his muscular arms out in front of him.

“I have your book,” you say to him, reaching into the bag slung around your shoulder.

He accepts it from your grasp, glancing at it briefly, before setting it down on his desk and folding his arms again. You want him to open it, to read your annotations and feel heard like the purpose your little scribbles are intended for. But he doesn’t- he just leaves it there, keeping his gaze on yours and remaining silent for a minute.

“What did you think of chapters 8 and 9?” He asks finally.

“Good stuff,” you say, giving him a shy nod. “I was familiar with a lot of it, but definitely still some new pieces I hadn’t heard of. I’ll try to get around to them when I can.”

Professor Han nods, and then you watch as he sprawls his hands out behind him, leaning back against the podium still and crossing his legs at the ankles.

“There’s an exhibit at the museum across the street later tonight,” he says, voice trembling a little as he speaks.

He’s not sure why he’s even bringing it up- maybe because he’s trying to keep the conversation course-related. It’s definitely not because he wants you to be there- a reckless way of thinking indeed.

“I know,” you say to him with a knowing smile. “I was wondering where my invite was for the extra credit.”

A breathy chuckle escapes his toothy grin as he holds his gaze on yours.

“You have a perfect score,” he replies in a low voice. “The extra credit is for people who are failing my class.”

“It can’t also be for art enthusiasts?” You retort, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe I want to tour the dead composers gallery, too.”

Professor Han wants to entertain this- so, so badly. He wants to drop the professional act and flirt with you like you’re so clearly doing to him- but he can’t. You’re just a student, and it would be wrong to toy with the imbalance of power he holds over you. Still, there’s no reason you can’t also show to the exhibition, as a student who simply wants to partake in a walkthrough of the subject at hand. He can’t prohibit you from going, after all.

“I can’t give you any more credit,” Professor Han says with another breathy chuckle, cocking his head to look at you a little better. Your eyes sparkle as they stare back at him, a giddy smile plastered on your face and your hair tucked behind your ears between laughter as you meet his gaze again.

“But I can’t stop you from going, either.”

At this, he pivots on his heels, turning around to reach into the leather bag by his laptop. You watch curiously as he pulls out a small piece of paper, handing it to you and saying absolutely nothing.

But one glance at it tells you exactly what it is- a ticket to the exhibition, one that’s already been paid for. You remember Mina telling you she had purchased her ticket already, meaning this one was purchased for you- by Professor Han.

“Really?” You question with wide eyes, examining the ticket and then looking back at him with an excited smile.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Professor Han reiterates. “You asked for extra credit. And you bought that ticket yourself.”

At this, he cocks his head a little, and then he shoots you a wink the same way he did once before. Only this time, your heartbeat quickens at his actions, ones that seem to desperately seek out attention from you and even make attempts at getting closer to you.

“I wanted extra credit,” you repeat to him finally, shooting him a wink, too. “And I bought this ticket myself.”

*

The so-called “dead composer’s gallery” has been an extra credit assignment of Professor Han’s for all five years he’s been teaching. It’s hosted in the art museum right by campus, the same few paintings of composers he lectures about making the rotation every fall to tell stories of their lives and flaunt the work they produced. Students don’t typically care for it, showing up to walk the duration of the gallery in a rush, flashing their ticket to Professor Han and collecting an easy ten points so as not to repeat his class.

He’s aware of the fact that they don’t read a single one of the bronze plaques that detail the names of the composers, or that they audibly insult the paintings, despite Professor Han being within earshot of them in the quiet space that houses the art. But for him, it’s simply a way to avoid teaching the same set of students a second time. One semester of watching them drag their feet is enough, he’s always thought to himself.

Professor Han has walked the exhibit a plethora of times, thus he usually shows in a simple sweater and some jeans, and the students marvel at the sight of him dressed so casually unlike at his lectures. And despite the exhibit being no different than the last few years, he feels compelled to dress up for this visit, admiring his efforts in the mirror as he adjusts the collar of his white button-down and centers his tie.

Of course, deep down, he’ll never admit he’s dressed up for you tonight, his mind racing with the unprofessional thoughts that you might show up just for him. He’s usually a mere spectator at these exhibits, silently assuming a spot in the corner of the room as the students make their rounds and eye him nervously. He emphasizes the notion that asking questions is encouraged, or that the students are free to chat with him about their favorite paintings and apply them to his lectures. Yet they never do- they just pace the marble floors at an expeditious pace and send him off with the wave of their ticket, not a single painting having resonated with them in the process. Some of them even groan, or verbally complain about the task, as though Professor Han’s forced them here tonight, and not the near-failing grade so many of them are stuck with. As though he’s not doing them a favor by offering extra credit for such an easy task, and an enjoyable one at that- or at least to him.

Wet sneakers squeak along the marbled floors as the students make their rushed rounds, many of them accompanying groups of friends as they stifle laughter at the art and then make their departure with the flash of a ticket in Professor Han’s direction. He remains in the corner of the large gallery room, one hand shoved in the pocket of his black slacks, the other grasping a folded pamphlet as he skims the artist names and waits for students to approach, should they require his attention. Yet it’s a futile task, having been at the event for nearly two hours now as the students come and go.

Admittedly, and with all the profound guilt weighing deep in his chest, Professor Han can’t think about anything except for you, desperately scanning the halls and glancing at the doorway for the familiar sight of you sauntering in, a beaming smile on your face and purpose in every stride. The exhibit is near closing by this point, just a handful of students remaining as he glances around the room and watches them rush to finish touring the display.

And embarrassingly enough, he counts down the seconds on the silver wrist watch he wears, hoping maybe you’re just running late by chance.

As the little hands on his watch tick in seconds, and you’re still nowhere to be seen, the thought suddenly overtakes him that this is all so stupid. What is he thinking, waiting around for a student like this- one he teaches, and one he’s tried his best to avoid having non-platonic thoughts about? It's silly. Not to mention- wildly inappropriate.

As Professor Han gathers his canvas bag hoisted over a nearby bench, and sends the last handful of students off with a polite bow, a quick turn of the corner confirms his first theory.

“Hi,” you say to Professor Han, bowing to him and tucking a wet strand of hair out of your face. “Sorry, I was running a bit late. Lots of rain outside.”

Professor Han can’t help but hold your gaze momentarily, enchanted by the sight of you, despite coming to the conclusion that this is wrong. If it’s wrong, he’ll have to sort out the logistics some other time- because you standing in front of him like this, dressed much more elegantly than he’s ever seen you, a smile on your face and already glancing around at the gallery at the works of art- everything about this feels right.

“Hi,” he says back, a nervous exhale escaping his lips as he does. He silently prays you can’t tell that he’s been waiting around for this all evening, longing to see you just once tonight and maybe talk about musical composers the way he’s been dreaming of.

“Vivaldi?” You question, brushing your way past him to the giant painting across from you, depicting the famous composer in a red robe clutching his signature violin. “I’m assuming, by the violin.”

“Yeah,” Professor Han says, turning to face the painting, too. “Kind of a scary dude, isn’t he?”

Professor Han realizes you’re the first student to make a single comment about one of the paintings here- a fact he’s well endeared by, and simultaneously completely unsurprised by.

“Debatable,” you respond. “For his portfolio alone, sure. But if we’re talking looks, I think Brahms might win this one.”

Your eyes shift to the left of Vivaldi’s at the cold stare of Johannes Brahms, a long white beard and a sharp mustache framing his glaring eyes. Professor Han laughs lightly, and then he takes note of the way you cock your head at the bronze plaque, reading a detailed little account of Brahms and scanning the art as you do.

“Brahms wasn’t scary,” he finally says with a shrug of his shoulders. “He was actually really lonely.”

“Yeah?” You question back, observing the way he stares up at the painting.

“Yeah,” he affirms. “There was a long-standing rumor that he had a crush on pianist Clara Schumann- of course she was already married. Some think Clara may have cheated and secretly reciprocated feelings for Brahms, too- but regardless, he died alone.”

The space is quiet between you both, a sort of melancholia falling over you two as you piece together the story in your mind. You can’t help but imagine how lonely it must have been for Brahms, keeping his love for Clara a complete secret in the presence of her spouse. A love so strong and so unmoving that he chose to die alone rather than find a woman that served as replacement for the love he felt for Clara.

Your mind paints images of Brahms and Clara together, his gaze fixed on hers and so helplessly in love while she was wed to another man all along.

“That’s tragic,” you say finally, feeling a pit form in your chest. “What a lonely life it must’ve been.”

Professor Han seems to take note of your change in tone, perking up a little as he chimes in again.

“He still had his music,” he says to you. “And a very successful career.”

And your head cocks again at Brahms’ face across from you, a stoic expression in his eyes and his thin-lipped pout- almost as though he was hiding part of himself from the masses all along.

“But he didn’t have the one thing he wanted,” you finish telling him.

Professor Han says nothing, giving a small bow to the painting with his arms tucked behind his back. He searches for the words to say, ones that might comfort you in this pity you take on him. But he can’t, feeling as though you may be right.

Brahms had music, a successful career composing everything from Wiegenlied to Symphonies 1 and 3, a long list of credits and enough fortune to travel the world when he wasn’t producing excellency. But he never had Clara Schumann- a tragic unrequited love he took with him to the grave. Could the tender touches and kindred soul of a lover ever be replaced by half and eighth notes on a staff? By the wave of a baton in a sea of brass and wooden reeds? Was he happy, simultaneously getting everything he wanted and nothing he dreamed of?

Johannes Brahms never had Clara Schumann. And conversely, perhaps Professor Han will never get close to what he wants, either.

The dead composer’s gallery quickly proves to be a lot more tragic than you’d anticipated. The paintings are beautiful- grand golden crested frames that house detailed depictions of famous composers, wearing powdered wigs and fancy dress robes. And every stride to the next work of art is accompanied by Professor Han’s tragic, detailed account of their love lives.

“Tchaikovsky was gay during a time when it was highly illegal,” Professor Han explains. “He had a long list of gay lovers with whom he’d write romantic letters to, and he came under heavy scrutiny when it was made public- especially since he was already of a low social class.”

“Must’ve been terrifying,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes at the intense stare of his painted portrait. “What did he do?”

Professor Han is quiet for a moment, glancing over at you and parting his lips as though he’s going to say something. But he simply remains silent, staring back up at the painting and swallowing nervously.

It’s only when you glance over at him, raising your eyebrows a little in the direction of his looming figure and almost gesturing for him to continue, that he reluctantly provides an answer to your question.

“He married a student,” Professor Han says quietly.

And he understands very well what the implications are here, producing stories of instructors being romantically involved with their students, when he’s here with a student himself.

Here with you, the very same student he’s been waiting on all evening. The student he’s enjoying telling stories of composers and their romantic involvements to, and the same student he’ll find any excuse to spend more time with once the dead composers gallery is already closed for the night.

“They didn’t last, of course,” Professor Han then continues. “It was impulsive, and they were severely incompatible. Not to mention his heart already belonged to another.”

It’s your turn to get quiet, simply nodding at his words and piecing together tidbits of Tchaikovsky’s tragic romance.

“Professor,” you say to him suddenly, turning to face him with a small smile on your face. “How do you know so much about the romantic histories of famous composers, anyway? Is this part of your lecture style?”

Professor Han chuckles lightly in response, his eyes forming little crescents as his lips pull back into a big grin. He looks much happier here like this, compared to the way he carries himself during his teaching- more laid back, comfortable, even.

“I think you have to understand where they fell short in romance,” he says, maintaining the same warm smile on his face. “It’s where most of the passion, and pain alike, stemmed from in their pieces. The sheer intensity of some of the orchestral or symphonic pieces, they’re…” his voice trails off momentarily, observing a painting of Mozart on the wall in front of the two of you, whose story he hasn’t even indulged you in yet as the museum staff prepare to close for the evening. He tilts his head to one side, pondering his words briefly and giving a little nod before continuing.

“They’re all crafted from yearning in one way or another.”

*

The evening rainfall is torrential outside, the sidewalks almost empty as people seek shelter in the safety of their cars and apartments. Once you’ve both exited the museum, Professor Han remains under the concrete roof that spans the entrance, looking out at the glistening pavement roads that reflect with red and green traffic lighting.

“Are you parked on the street?” He asks hesitantly, his hands shoved in the pocket of his slacks as he awaits your reply.

“I walked here,” you say to him, a light chuckle escaping your lips. “My dorm’s just a few blocks away.”

His eyes widen at the admission, thinking back to where his car is parked, just around the corner in the museum’s designated parking garage. He debates offering you a ride, but he knows it’d be in his best interest to avoid being alone in a car with the one woman he so dangerously can’t stop thinking about.

“Do you need a ride?” He then asks, the words leaving his lips before he can even stop himself. It’s like he’s overtaken by another version of himself- one who can’t cease this little chase you’re indulging him in, too.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you respond, a sheepish smile on your face as you try to veil the fact that you’re elated he’s even offered.

One more chance to make things right- and yet there’s no discernible boundary between what feels right, and what is right.

“It’s not a burden,” he affirms. “It’s not safe to walk home in this rain.”

Your gaze meets his, a sort of triumphant smile pulling on your lips as he cocks his head in the direction of the parking garage. There’s no distinctive plan either of you have in mind, but you’re also drawn to each other, admittedly wanting nothing more than to find little excuses to put off your departure for the evening.

He begins in the direction of the garage without even waiting for verbal confirmation, and yet he doesn’t have to, because you’re already trailing alongside him like it’s been your plan all this time. You maintain a giddy smile on your face as you both brave the rain together beyond the concrete ceiling of the museum entrance, tucking your necks into your shoulders and laughing as the rain drenches your clothes completely, strands of hair falling into your face and dribbling rainwater down your glowing cheeks.

“It’s just past here!” he calls out over the deafening sounds of rainfall, squinting his eyes amidst the drops of water that weigh on his eyelashes and making out the faint outline of his car in the dimly lit parking garage.

You trail behind him as he gestures for you to follow, also catching a glimpse of his parked car in the garage, seemingly the only remaining one at this hour.

Professor Han opens the passenger door for you, stringy pieces of hair falling into his face as he gestures for you to get in. And you do without hesitation, smoothing down your skirt and occupying the sleek black leather seat. When the door is shut, there’s a brief silence that falls over you as he makes his way around to the driver’s side, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the rearview mirror. Your makeup is a little smeared from the rain, wet hair slicked down and your clothes clinging to your figure with dampened spots. But for the first time in a long while, you look happy, finally making use of your time beyond the walls of your dorm room.

Professor Han slides into his seat at last, the door shutting promptly beside him, and he runs his slender fingers through the slick black strands of hair that fall into his face. You watch him curiously, heart racing at the sight of him so close to you, your bodies almost touching if not for the center console that so conveniently separates your yearning bodies. Drops of rainwater find purchase on his bent knees, further dampening his slacks as he wrings out his jet black hair over them. And he chuckles as he does, a little embarrassed he looks so disheveled in your presence.

When he hears you reciprocate with a gentle laugh, he turns to look at you, and it’s then that he realizes how dangerously close he is to you.

From this proximity, he can make out the spheres of rainwater that collect on your blushed cheeks, every last speck of mascara that collects under your eyelashes and flutters as you blink curiously at him. He can distinguish the lipstick you’ve strategically worn just for him, one that almost mirrors the natural pink shade of his pouty lips. He can feel the clear tension that bubbles over the center console as you lean in just a little, not enough to graze his mouth over yours, but certainly enough to feel the sharp breath that escapes his lips as he leans in, too.

And just as your eyes begin to shut, with every intention to kiss him right then and there, the sound of distant rainfall lessening as your rapid heartbeat fills your ears, he pulls back again.

“Sorry,” Professor Han remarks quietly, resting his hands on the steering wheel and shaking his head as though he's physically ridding himself of the urge to kiss you.

Your eyes open again, met with his trembling brown pupils that fixate on the dashboard in front of you both. And then he starts the car without another word, not yet backing out as he sits with his thoughts for a moment.

You desperately want to think he was going to kiss you, too, but you feel painfully stupid for being turned away like this in his car. Maybe it’s not how you’ve been reading into- maybe this is strictly a teacher-student relationship the way it’s supposed to be.

“Do you want to go back to your dorm?” He asks amidst the silence, not meeting your gaze. He’s scared he’ll get the urge to kiss you again, or that you might clock how nervous he is to be here with you.

You’re quiet for a moment, a little angry with things as you ponder the question. He’s not quite telling you to go home- but he isn’t asking you to stay, either. He’s just putting the ball in your court- both a safe, and a risky play at hand.

“No,” you voice finally.

He just nods at your response, clicking his tongue once and waiting for you to say something else. But you don’t- instead, you wait for him to say something else, too.

“Do you want to get out of the rain?” He then asks in a quiet voice, not specifying where that may imply. And although he doesn’t, you nod in agreement, meeting his gaze briefly as he reciprocates with an affirmative nod of his own.

*

Professor Han may have physically refuted the notion that kissing you in his car was anywhere near appropriate- and yet at this hour, the only place he can think to seek shelter from the rain with you is his apartment.

His apartment is nothing special at first glance, just your typical run-of-the-mill unit on the third floor of his building, but at a closer inspection, everything is exactly what you’d expect it to be.

Music sheets scattered along tables and couches, scribbled hastily with notes and annotations, much like his textbook was. A studio piano against the wall of his living room, the leather-seated bench that accompanies it stacked high with music theory books and more sheet music. The walls are decorated with rows of photographs, ones that you wish you could derive answers from, much like the dead composers gallery.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says sheepishly, peeling off his coat and draping it over the back of a chair.

Your arms are folded behind your back as you traverse the wooden floors as though this place is a museum, too. You relish in the sight of every decorative item, every sheet of music and every placement of his old-looking furniture, like it might give you more insight into exactly who Professor Han is. It’s just like he is- classic, enchanting, captivating.

“What are all these?” You ask him, pointing to a wall with a neat collage of photos.

At a closer inspection, you realize many of them include him, presumably from several years ago. He’s blonde in one of them, wearing a black pinstriped suit and a stylish pair of silver earrings. Another one shows him with midnight blue hair, the cool-toned hue contrasting rather beautifully against his tanned skin. His hair is still black in many of them, but he looks younger, dressed casually with a big smile plastered on his face.

And the most fascinating quality in all of them- he looks important. Like he’s a notable figure among the other subjects, usually standing in front of a podium or a music stand, sometimes with a baton grasped between his hands and raised in motion.

“Are these from your directing days?” You then ask, knowing the answer already.

It feels a little wrong to be seeing the photographs, almost as though they’re not supposed to be visible to just a student of his. They’re a glimpse into another life he’s lived- one you’re too late to be a part of. And more importantly, one he hasn’t seemed to be interested in talking about. You remember the times he’d brush off the mention of directing, change the subject or even just respond with an absent shrug. And yet standing in front of the proof it happened, you can’t help but probe for answers, feeling as though they might provide insight into who exactly he is underneath this pensive mask he wears.

“Those are from my directing days,” he confirms with a sad smile, making his way over to you and staring up at the wall. He examines one in which he’s in the middle of composing, stick held high in the air and a concentrated expression on his chiseled face.

“You look really cool,” you tell him, and he laughs lightly in response.

“Thank you,” he replies politely. “I always felt cool.”

You begin to tell him that he’s still cool, the way he captivates a whole room with lectures about famous composers and music theory he just knows offhandedly now. But you quickly get quiet again, not wanting to overstep any boundaries.

When you turn to face him again, you’re well aware of how close he is to you, droplets of rain still gliding down the bridge of his nose and onto the damp collar of his dress shirt. You also notice he’s wearing his glasses again, which remain the only dry part of his attire.

He seems to take notice of the heightened proximity for the second time today, too, making his way over to the couch and sitting on the edge of the velvet green cushions. But his gaze still remains fixed on yours, admiring the way you peer at his space.

“Professor, can I ask you something?” You say to him, approaching him cautiously, yet keeping a comfortable distance from him.

“Anything,” Professor Han replies, swallowing nervously and resting the palms of his hands flat on his knees. His long legs are draped over the edge of the couch, bent at the knees and spread so that he’s comfortably resting against the back of the cushion.

“You didn’t tell me about Mozart,” you say to him, twiddling your fingers in front of you. “What was Mozart’s love life like?”

Professor Han thinks it over momentarily, his eyes darting to the ceiling as he recalls Mozart’s romantic involvements. And it doesn’t take long, because it’s another tale he knows very well already.

“Well he lived with a family during his time in Vienna,” he explains. “They had a daughter named Constanze, who he took a particular liking to.”

You nod at his words, approaching him a little more now and observing the way he tenses a little, yet also noticing he makes zero effort to move away.

“His father didn’t approve,” Professor Han continues, eyeing the gentle sway of your skirt as you near him. “And yet when Mozart moved out, they maintained a relationship in secret.”

“A secret relationship?” You echo, and he nods affirmatively. “And then what happened?”

“Well,” he begins, dropping his hands to his sides as you stand right in front of him now. “Mozart wrote Constanze’s disapproving father a very famous letter. And they later married.”

“A letter?” You question. “Do you recall what was in the letter?”

You eye him from above, your thighs practically grazing his kneecaps as he remains seated in front of you.

And then in a painfully slow movement, all the while reminding yourself not to rush it, your hands find his, intertwining your fingers together and allowing you to pull yourself even closer to him, effectively slotting yourself between his knees. Professor Han’s breath hitches in his throat as you do, his heart racing wildly in his chest, pulsing reminders grazing his conscience that this is wrong. Yet juxtaposed against your delicate touches on his skin, and your curious eyes awaiting a resolution to his story, he can’t help himself.

“The letter?” He asks nervously, and you nod at him.

“Yeah. Do you remember it, by chance?”

Of course he remembers it- he could recite it in his sleep if he wanted to, every last word and emotion ingrained so deep within his soul as though its memorization was some requirement to work in a music-related field. But he hesitates to utter the words, knowing that if he does, they serve as permission for this- all of this, to indulge himself in all his reckless convictions right here with you.

“You don’t have to,” you say to him shyly, loosening your grasp on his fingers.

And you refer to both the utterance of Mozart’s letter, as well as the actions you know are bound to unfold if he does.

“No, I…” he interrupts, a sharp breath leaving his lips as he speaks. “I want to.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, tightening your grasp around his fingers once more, and then you wait for him to begin.

Professor Han takes a deep breath, some form of a prayer or maybe a beg for absolute forgiveness to a higher power racing his mind before he speaks again. And then, with all the weighing guilt in his heart, he begins to voice the letter back to you.

“I must make you better acquainted with the character of my dear Constanze,” he begins, finally allowing you to pull yourself onto his lap and steady yourself with two hands on his strong forearms.

“Keep talking,” you say to him, reaching out to tuck a strand of wet hair out of his face.

“Her whole beauty consists of two little black eyes and a pretty figure,” he continues, swallowing nervously at every tender touch you produce against his skin. His hands rest on the curves of your waist, delicately grazing up and down as you watch him curiously. Your legs bend to straddle him, skirt flowing over his black dress slacks and draping over the fabric of his crotch, where he can feel himself growing unbearably hard for you.

“Mhm,” you say, two hands now grazing the fabric of his silk black tie and loosening the knot at the collar.

“She likes to be neatly and cleanly dressed, but not smartly; and most things that a woman needs, she is able to make for herself.”

At this point, Professor Han’s tie is completely undone, your nimble fingers now undoing the buttons of his shirt and grazing fingertips along the exposed strip of his chest to you.

He pauses momentarily, eyes fluttering briskly as he relishes in the sensation of your skin against his. And then in one swift motion, your hands tug the fabric of his tie toward you, grazing your open mouth over his and pressing a short, chaste kiss to his pink lips.

He waits for more, but you don’t indulge him just yet, pulling away to stare into the swirling galaxies he houses in his big eyes.

And before he can finish reading the letter, you’re speaking again, putting out the same words he completely intended to produce.

“I love her, and she loves me with all her heart,” you say to him, finishing Mozart’s signature letter for him. “Tell me whether I could wish for a better wife.”

Professor Han says nothing, his eyes widened with shock for a moment as you toy with the fabric of his tie. He wasn’t expecting you to know the tale, let alone echo the letter back to him- one he’s had memorized for most of his life.

“Mozart’s letter to Constanze’s father,” you voice with a small shrug. “It’s always been one of my favorites.”

And Professor Han can’t take it anymore, finally allowing himself to pull you in by the small of your back, desperately gripping his fingers against the fabric of your shirt and locking his lips with yours once again. His kisses are purposeful, and needy, but he’s still gentle with you, guiding you further down the length of his legs until you’re sat right over his crotch. The two of you say nothing in between kisses for a good while, remaining like that and exchanging gasped breaths into each other’s mouths as his hands explore every inch of your still-clothed body. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into you and arching your back into his touches. And when his hands graze the length of your skirt, tenderly stroking up the skin on your inner thighs, you chuckle lightly into his mouth, well amused by the actions as though you haven’t wanted it all this time, too.

“Is this okay?” He says nervously, pulling away momentarily to scan your expression.

“It’s more than okay,” you say to him, toying with his tie again. “I’ve wanted to do this so badly.”

Professor Han chuckles lightly, not wanting to admit he’s been thinking about it, too. Maybe externally you’ve already taken note of the way he stares at you as he speaks during lectures, or the way he eyes your short skirts when you assume your seat in his classroom. But you don’t know the nights he spends alone in his apartment, desperately fucking his fist to the thought of you bent over the podium in his lecture hall and filling the space with your erotic moans. Or the way he’s had to divert your gaze in class sometimes, lest he accidentally flaunts a hard-on for the whole class to see, because he knows his mind will run someplace it shouldn’t be.

He’s completely ridden with guilt, his sleep schedule almost nonexistent as he spends hours after he’s already tucked himself into bed, praying the universe won’t punish him for thinking about a student like this.

But he can’t help it- not when you saunter into his classroom so confidently every week, speaking of composers with the same level of admiration he shares, earning the highest grade possible and taking a genuine interest in his life. He’s almost angry at the reality of it, questioning constantly why you hadn't crossed paths before he became a teacher.

“Where were you during my college days?” Professor Han says out loud, a sort of disappointment evident on his face as he speaks. “I wish I’d known you earlier.”

You chuckle in response, one hand tangling in the back of his hair as you rub in gentle massaging motions.

“What’s wrong with right now?” You retort, trailing one finger over his plump lips.

“What’s wrong is that I’m your professor,” he emphasizes, scoffing lightly. “Everything about it is wrong.”

“I’m an adult,” you respond, pulling him in by his collar to work kisses down the column of his neck. “And I want this.”

“Yeah, but…” he begins, the guilt weighing heavily on him all over again.

“You don’t want this?” You then ask, pushing yourself off him briefly and holding eye contact with him. He looks as nervous as he always does when he’s near you, his eyes wide with fear and his timid movements conveying a clear reluctance to reciprocate the affection.

“I do want this,” he mutters sheepishly, knowing it’s also not in his best interest to lie to the woman he’s been leading on for several months now.

“I can leave,” you say to him finally, acknowledging how scared he sounds at the prospect of being here with you. “I won’t tell a single soul. It’ll be like it never happened.”

And Professor Han’s eyebrows arch up in an almost pleading motion, not verbally conveying anything, and yet telling you all that you need to know in the process.

Without saying anything back to him, you reach down to pinch the bridge of his wireframe glasses between your index finger and thumb. His glasses are fogged up, resting almost crookedly on his face when you pull them off, snapping the frame shut between your teeth and setting them on the couch beside you. You can hear Professor Han’s breath hitch in the back of his throat, nervously awaiting your next move and practically shifting total control over to you, who wastes no time reattaching your lips to his and humming into his mouth. He looks completely helpless under you like this, beads of sweat forming on his temples, indistinguishable against the rain droplets that still grace his attire. When you pull away, you examine his chest again briefly- the very same one you couldn’t seem to look away from on your first day of classes. His broad pectorals jut out against the thin white fabric of his button-down shirt, almost completely see-through all drenched in rainwater. And two buttons reveal his sharp clavicles to you, but you’re still just as eager to see the rest of him.

So in slow movements, you graze your hands down lower, snaking off his tie and discarding it alongside him with his glasses. Your nimble fingers work his buttons now, undoing them one by one, pulling open the hem of his shirt so that his chest is visible to you, and when the very last one is undone, you practically tear open both sides of his shirt, allowing the fabric to drape down over the couch and slouch off of his shoulders.

His waist is a sight to marvel at, delicate yet still muscular, made even more erotic in contrast with his broadened shoulders that span much wider than his hips. And your lips quickly find every curve of his chest, pressing a trail of kisses along his clavicles, up to the crook of his neck, down where his nipples protrude and along his shoulders, which tense up beneath your touch.

“Fuck,” he breathes, shutting his eyes in blissful pleasure as your kisses turn a little harsher, pulling his flesh between your teeth and sucking small bruises onto the raised goosebumps that grace every inch of him. You can feel him shift beneath you, trying his best to keep his now swollen cock at a distance from you, as though the act might be less incriminating if you can’t feel his physical yearning for you. And yet it’s enough for you to take notice, scooting closer to him with a smile on your face as you meet his lips once more.

When he feels you squeeze your thighs around his still-clothed cock just once, enough for the friction to emit a bead of precum from under his slacks, his hands find your waist again, tugging lightly at the fabric to signal you to remove it.

“Can I take this off?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes now hooded with lust, lips parted at the sight of your body practically grinding onto his.

You don’t reply, simply crossing two arms over your torso and pulling your shirt off over your head. It’s discarded along with the pile of other things, and then before he has to ask, your bra joins it beside him, too.

Professor Han feels as though he might finish right here at the sight of your breasts on display for him, your hardened nipples protruding generously with arousal and practically begging for his touch. He feels his mouth water with saliva, desperate to take you in his mouth, but somehow even with you straddling him like this, he’s too scared to make a move.

“Professor,” you say to him quietly.

“Hm?” He responds.

You say nothing back to him, blinking innocently down at him and waiting for him to act upon his urges. You know what it is that he wants so badly- and you want it, too. But you want it to feel as mutual as the yearning has, for some confirmation neither of you are manipulating the other into this. His eyes don’t leave your breasts, examining the way your chest rises and falls with every heavy breath as you wait for him. And then he meets your gaze again, a sharp breath escaping his lips as he does.

“Jisung,” he says, now chuckling lightly. His hands snake up your sides, rising higher, and higher, until they’re resting on the mounds of your breasts, not yet making contact with your hardened nipples.

“What?” You hum in response, a small smile on your lips as he watches you carefully.

“That’s my name,” he now says, leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss again. As he does, his hands move lower, until his slender fingers are sprawled out over your nipples. He doesn’t stop kissing you, moving his hands in gentle kneading motions over your breasts as his kisses turn more eager.

“You don’t have to call me professor,” he says in between kisses, hands now reaching around to pull you in closer, gripping your ass just as tenderly the way he did your breasts and desperately grazing your smooth flesh against his calloused fingers . “Just call me Jisung.”

As you smile into the kiss, he flips up your skirt, looping one finger into the hem of your panties and toying with it as he adjusts himself below you. He tugs at your panties just an inch, now transitioning his movements to find the buckle of his pants, metal clinking between your bodies as he unfastens it and snakes it out beside him.

You pull your own panties off as he unbuttons his slacks, awkwardly parting from you momentarily to rid himself of the still-drenched fabric. And then all that remains are his boxers, his erection pitching a tent against the constricting fabric as he resumes his kisses.

“Jisung,” you breathe into his mouth, earning a toothy grin from him against your parted lips. “I love it. I love your name.”

“You’re welcome to say it whenever you want,” he says back, running his hands along the small of your back.

“Just me?” You ask teasingly, tangling two hands in his ebony hair.

“Just you,” he emphasizes, grazing his fingers along your inner thighs. “Just like you’re the only one who scores a perfect on everything she does,” he continues, the pads of his fingers attaching to your clit.

“Just like you’re the only student I’d bring back here in the first place.”

Jisung’s fingers begin slow, circular motions on your bundle of nerves, earning a gasp from you as he dips once into your entrance to gather your wetness and spread it around again.

His mouth accumulates with a needy wad of drool, cock growing even harder at the sight of your eyebrows arched for him as you grind into the pads of his fingers and push him even harder against your flesh.

“Do you think about me often?” You ask him between labored breaths, tilting his chin up to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide with lust and curiosity alike, peering back at you so innocently, with every intention to pleasure you.

“I do,” he affirms, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“What do you think about?” You now ask him, scooting even closer and allowing your chests to make contact as you wrap your arms around him.

“Those short little skirts you wear just for me,” he replies, smiling as he speaks. “They drive me insane.”

“That’s on purpose, you tell him, grazing your nails along the back of his neck. “What else?”

“Your stories of piano,” he then says, surprising you with his response. “It’s so sexy how talented you are.”

“Really?” You ask him, chuckling lightly as he kisses you once again. He nods affirmatively, dipping two fingers into your entrance with ease, just past your glistening folds, but not yet moving them inside of you.

And then he grows quiet for a moment, meeting your gaze with a serious expression, before he begins to pump his fingers slowly in and out of you as he speaks again.

“I touched myself to your book annotations,” he tells you, this time a smile absent from his chiseled face.

“My book annotations,” you repeat, and he cocks his head to look at you.

“All for me,” he continues, filling the ache between your legs with the gentle thrust of his fingers. “Were you trying to get my attention?”

“Depends,” you reply, clutching his shoulders and moving down the length of his fingers a little further.

“On what?”

“On whether yours were for me,” you say to him finally, clenching down around his digits.

He moves his thumb to stimulate your clit as he fucks you, earning a breathy moan as you struggle to speak now.

“Tell me what it was like,” you say to him breathlessly. “Describe it to me.”

“It was earlier today- just before the gallery,” he explains, cocking his head as your lips part in pleasure. “I never annotate in red. I knew instantly that it was you. Your handwriting- your words,” he continues. “I wasn’t expecting it- I’d hoped maybe you penned in a phone number or something.”

You chuckle lightly as he speaks, taking note of the way his fingers pick up the pace inside of you.

“You would’ve loved that, huh?” You retort. And his fingers now move inside of you in a ‘come hither’ motion as he resumes his actions.

“I would’ve loved that,” he groans. “Too bad all I had was your handwriting, and the thought of you in that skirt you wore today. And ten minutes alone with my right hand, praying you’d actually show up tonight.”

Jisung can’t cease his perverted confessions once they begin escaping his wet lips. In complete contrast to his reluctance earlier, his fingers now thrusting in and out of your sopping pussy with such force, spilling every little detail about how much he’s thought about you these past few months.

“God, I love your body,” he breathes against you, craning his neck to take your breast in his mouth. His mouth latches around your erect nipple, tongue swirling in circular motions as he hums helplessly. And you let out a fervent moan at the sensation, not missing the way his fingers prod into your squelching entrance, your thighs trembling as you near your finish.

“Jisung,” you gasp, tangling a hand in his hair and tugging him gently off of you. A string of drool connects his wet lips to your flesh as he meets your gaze, labored breaths grazing your skin, desperate to taste you again.

“What is it?” He coos back.

“I want to finish with you,” you say helplessly. And your hand reaches down between the two of you onto his still-clothed crotch, taking his girth between your hand and giving a light squeeze. He’s wet, as though he’s already finished once for you, and he whimpers powerlessly at the contact.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, shutting his eyes in pleasure at the sensation. “Fuck, touch it again, will you?”

You chuckle lightly in response, looping a finger into the hem of his boxers and tugging down.

“I can do a lot more than just touch you,” you tell him, allowing his fingers to depart from your entrance as you position yourself over him. He watches too as you tug his boxers over his crotch, his eyebrows arching in preemptive arousal as he feels the cool air graze his exposed flesh. And when his cock is finally free, growing erotically against the concave of his abdomen, you can’t help but gasp, completely in awe at the sight.

He’s much bigger than you’d anticipated, a thick girth lined with pink protruding veins and a generous length, his cock almost red at the tip and leaking with precum.

“Fuck,” Jisung says for a third time, feeling another bead drip down his length at the prospect of you watching.

“Is it okay if-”

Jisung doesn’t let you finish your sentence before he’s nodding eagerly, practically begging you to ride him. And you waste no time indulging him in the request, positioning your entrance over him and steadying yourself with two hands on his broad shoulders. He says nothing as he waits, his nails digging into the small of your back as he shuts his eyes, reveling in the sensation of your body so close to his. And then before he can meet your gaze again, you’re sliding down the slick of his length with complete ease, almost bottoming out fully as he opens his eyes again and whimpers loudly.

He’s already pulsating rhythmically inside of you, the tip of his cock kissing your walls as you move even lower, precum mixing with your wetness and producing a light sloshing sound as you begin to move up and down.

His eyes watch your pussy swallow him for a few motions, doing his best to stave off his orgasm as you pant at the sensation. You can feel him all the way in your stomach, filling you up so fully and deeply, labored breaths leaving your lips as his whimpers fill the room. And then you capture him in a wet kiss again, just barely grazing your lips over his as his voice rises in pitch.

“Shit, I can’t,” he whines, gripping your skin a little tighter. “I’m gonna cum so fast.”

“It’s okay,” you emphasize, clenching around his girth and smiling against him. “We have all night.”

The words make him twitch once inside of you, the thought of fucking you a second time making him dizzy with anticipation. Any fleeting thought that this might be a bad idea is completely dissipated from his mind, replaced with unwavering pleasure and his longing to fill you up the way he’s imagined for the better part of the semester now.

“Can I cum inside of you?” He groans, using two hands to move you down his length a little deeper, your clit grinding softly against his abdomen as he bottoms out inside of you. “Jesus, you feel so good.”

You nod in response to him, burying your head in the crook of his neck as he continues to help you, one finger stimulating your clit again as beads of sweat trickle down his forehead.

For a while, no one says anything, the only sounds present between the two of you being the gentle slosh of your juices around his girth and the helpless panting that bridges the gap between your bodies. Your moans and his whimpers are a lot like the discoordinate piano pieces he analyzes so deeply, fading in and out of pace and searching relentlessly for resolution.

And as you crescendo toward your release, you can’t help but take note of how right it feels to be here with him, consuming each other the way you pour yourself into your music, as he does his work. He had asked you earlier where you’d been all his college life- but you know you’re supposed to be together like this now, regardless of his relationship to you. Had he been ten, twenty years your senior, you wouldn’t care- it’s your souls that keep you intertwined like this, the way he sees you for your passions and your interests, beyond just the traditional sense of a student and a teacher. He’s so much more than that- he’s so much more than just a professor.

As Jisung reaches back to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you feel yourself clench once around his pulsing girth, and then you let go entirely around him, grasping his broad chest as you breathe out his name like a prayer in the duration of your release.

“Jisung,” you moan against him, allowing his first name rather than his professional title to linger between your two listless bodies.

“Y/n,” he groans back, shutting his eyes briefly and arching up his eyebrows. And then as you tremble in exhaustion around him, legs aching from working yourself to your finish, he reaches his finish, too, shooting generous ropes of cum up inside of you and wrapping two arms around you to pull you closer to him.

He remains like that through his finish, his head finding purchase in the valley of your breasts, resting against the chest that rises and falls with deep breaths as his release dribbles down out of you.

And neither of you make any haste movements to get cleaned up just yet, allowing yourselves to remain pressed up against each other, hands tenderly caressing flesh and limbs tangled together.

In the midst of massaging his soft ebony locks, the pads of his fingers clinging tenaciously to your body, you can feel the presence of tears graze your chest, soft sniffles emitting from his flushed face against you. He weeps for you- for his guilt, for yearning, for the confirmation that he’s not better than his filthy conscience after all. And contrastly, because he knows he has all night to do it again, and again, and again.

*

By the morning, your bodies are sore and bruised, sunbeams absent through the giant glass windows of Jisung’s apartment as it continues to rain outside. There’s a chill in the air as thick clouds of fog caress the windows, and not even the layered duvet of Jisung’s bed is enough to warm your still-nude body.

You blink in a state of confusion around you, not realizing where you are momentarily. It’s not until you eye the stacks of music books, loose sheet music and picture frames that you recall last night’s events.

How many times had he fucked you- four, maybe five times? You can’t remember; you do remember he was good at it, switching back and forth between having his way with you, and then submitting to you again, letting you take the reins and ride him until you physically couldn’t anymore. As you sit up in bed, you catch a glimpse of him beside you, his bruised chest visible under the white duvet that drapes lazily over him and covers only his lower half.

He’s still asleep, lips parted innocently and his hair tousled around his chiseled face. He’s also in need of a shave, flaunting a generous patch of stubble on his chin. And you’re not sure he’s ever looked so tantalizing to you before.

When he hears you stirring about, his eyes flutter open, meeting your tired gaze and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He begins to say something, but then he gets quiet again, sighing deeply and shutting his eyes once more. You observe as his lips pull back into a sheepish grin, his straight teeth exposed as he chuckles lightly.

“We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” He says with a groan. And you simply shrug in response, lying back down beside him, resting one hand on your pillow as he turns over to face you.

It’s a little more real at this proximity, the fact that you’re in bed alongside your professor. But the point still stands- it doesn’t feel awkward, nor do you regret any part of what unfolded yesterday. It’s like something that was bound to happen- if not last night, it would’ve been a week from now, maybe two weeks- definitely not three considering how long you’ve been thinking about him.

Jisung swallows from across you, his hand tucked under his pillow, too, and he watches as you reach out to trace the mole he flaunts on his cheek. It’s not one you’ve had the pleasure of noticing until now- it’s really not one that can be noticed from the vast distance between a lecture chair and a podium. But beside him in his bed, you take notice of everything- the mole in his cheek, the flutter of his long lashes, the sheer guilt he still wears on his face.

“Come on,” Jisung says from beside you, cocking his head in the direction of his bedroom door. “I’ll make you coffee.”

“The blue hair was a bold choice,” you say to Jisung, gripping a warm mug of coffee in hand as you sit cross-legged on his wooden flooring.

You’re in nothing but one of his t-shirts, your hair still messy from last night’s events and lipstick staining the edge of the white mug he’s provided you with. He’s a little more put together this morning, despite canceling today’s classes, a white woolen cardigan enveloping his figure and gray sweatpants hung loosely around his toned legs.

“I dyed my hair a lot back then,” he says from his spot on the couch, staring up at the photograph you admire.

And for some reason, the utterance of “back then” makes you laugh, the way he speaks as though he’s twenty years older than he is. He’s really just six years beyond you, a gap that most would overlook had he not been a professor. And sure, he already boasts a master’s degree and years of experience, but it’s not as though you’re not on the same path yourself.

“Why did you stop?” You ask, turning to meet his tired gaze.

He sighs momentarily, bringing the mug up to his lips for a sip, and then he shrugs at you.

“It’s not professional,” he says plainly. “I had to look the part.”

You smile at him, shaking your head before responding.

“Not the hair,” you emphasize. “Directing. Why’d you stop directing?”

It’s the first time you’ve asked the question so boldly, despite pondering it for all the time you’ve known him. And his composure turns uncomfortable again, as though the question implies much more than it lets on.

“You don’t have to answer,” you say to him after a brief silence, feeling guilty for having overstepped. But Jisung shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows before speaking again.

“It was eating me alive,” he explains, his gaze falling to a distant stack of books as he thinks back to his days as a director. “I couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t focus on anything. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep- I wanted to be the best. I just wasn’t a very good person.”

You nod at his words- it’s a phenomenon you know very well already, being a music major yourself. The soul-crushing weight of turning everything into a competition, of bypassing your peers and losing loved ones along the way. You’re pretty sure your lack of friends in college can be largely attributed to the same thing.

“Well I think you’re a good person,” you say finally, but his gaze still doesn’t find yours. You can tell there’s more he wants to say- but he remains there, staring into the distance, pondering a lifetime of regret he’ll continue to take with him if he doesn’t at least try to address the hurt.

“I wasn’t,” is all he can say, earning another head shake from you.

“You can’t blame yourself for wanting to be good, Jisung. I’m sure you feel the same thing working as a professor. Besides, that doesn’t mean you can’t-”

“I was a lousy husband,” Jisung finally blurts out, and your eyes snap to his gaze again, finally making contact with his trembling eyes.

“Husband?” You echo, and he swallows nervously.

“I married so young,” Jisung tells you now, folding his legs on the couch in front of him. “I thought it was the right move, fresh out of college with a girl I’d been dating for four years. I had everything- a job, a wife, a sense of stability.”

You’re taken aback by the admission, never once having taken Jisung to be a formerly-married man. He is young, and aside from the sexual tension that’s risen between the two of you, he shows no interest in pursuing another partner.

“The divorce cost me everything,” Jisung says, his eyes glazing over again as he recounts the story. “I was responsible for somebody walking away from what they believed was a lifetime of stability. And she knew it, too, that I was lousy. She told me- her parents told me. I just wanted to be the best at my work. And it cost me everything. So I quit. And I opted for something that wouldn’t drive me crazy anymore.”

Jisung’s heart races wildly in his chest as he speaks, and then he’s hit with the realization that he’s venting to a student of his- one who shouldn’t be occupying his apartment in the first place. One he slept with several times last night- one who he feels oddly safe confiding in. But a student, nonetheless.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Jisung finally says, furrowing his brows again. “I’m sorry- maybe you should go.”

You remain quiet, still sat on the floor, not even halfway finished with the cup of coffee he’s brewed. And he feels bad again, knowing it’s not fair to be taking his frustration out on you.

“Do you want me to leave?” You ask in a meek voice. Jisung chews the inside of his lip, meeting your gaze with a sorrowful expression. At first he shrugs, like he might indeed want you out of this space he calls home. But then he shakes his head sheepishly, shrinking back into the couch cushions and sighing heavily.

You’re not entirely sure what to say to him, not wanting to overstep any boundaries, but longing to keep him company. He just seems lonely, you can’t help but think to yourself. He’s so ridden with loneliness, and guilt and yearning for more.

“Jisung,” you say to him, setting your mug aside and folding your hands in your lap.

He meets your gaze again, a sort of heavy, exhausted expression on his face.

“Do you really think Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 is missing something?” You then ask him, referring to the annotations from his textbook.

He keeps his gaze set on yours, fascinated you’ve remembered his penned-in opinions on the aforementioned works from class. And then he nods lightly, humming a little in response to you.

“There’s no resolution,” Jisung huffs. “It just fades into nothingness.”

You nod back at him, sitting back on the palms of your hands and cocking your head slightly.

“That's a resolution to some listeners,” you say to him. “Maybe you just desire something beyond those last notes.”

His gaze flickers over your knowing expression, pondering the way you speak of the familiar tune.

“Maybe you ought to seek what a resolution is to you.”

*

“I think Professor Han is fucking somebody,” Mina says to you one day as she gets ready in front of the full-length mirror across from her bed.

“Why do you say that?” You retort with a small chuckle, your interest piqued at her words.

“Haven’t you noticed he cancels class a lot?” She replies, wiping a mascara smudge off from below her left eye. “He runs late all the time now, he just shows up in a t-shirt when he does lecture. And he just seems happier, overall. That’s every indication that he’s getting some action.”

You thumb the pages of your textbook- or rather, Professor Han’s textbook, red pen grasped between your fingers as you finish up an annotation.

An annotation you pen in just for him- responses to his music suggestions, comments about his analyses and flirting between the lines of music notes. The textbook is exchanged back and forth between the two of you, conversing secretly between the thin pages of music theory, producing poetry from a language only the two of you speak- by each other, and for each other.

Sometimes you imagine it the way Mozart and Constanze’s relationship unfolded- secret, but robust, full of passion and yearning for one another.

And when you tell Jisung about it later that week, he practically doubles over in laughter, eyes forming little crescents as the melodious tune of his “ha ha’s” fills the space between the two of you.

“I guess I never realized how presumptuous you students can be,” he says, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

He doesn’t seem worried in the slightest- at least not with this cautious system the two of you have developed to maintain the secrecy. You don’t linger in his classroom when lectures conclude, careful not to make it too obvious that you’re waiting around for him. Instead, you meet him at his apartment, just a few blocks away from campus and void of people who might piece together the reality of the situation, like Mina. It’s convenient that she doesn’t seem to suspect anything regarding why you’re always absent from your shared dorm now, considering she’s always at her boyfriend’s place, anyway. And although Jisung makes a mental promise to himself to stop canceling his evening classes so frequently, he can’t help it.

He’s just as drawn to you as you are to him, finding solace in the way he can finally confide in somebody after so long. Jisung thinks back to the way he handled the divorce so privately, quietly putting in his two weeks notice as a musical director and opting for a career path which didn’t take so much of his time and sanity.

He recalls the majority of his friends and family acknowledging what a lousy husband he’d been, and the feeling of knowing he’d made a colossal mistake agreeing to marry so young when he could hardly grasp what he even wanted further down the line. But to you, he’s just a work in progress- you’re still enchanted by the way his mistakes are rooted in sheer passion for his work. The way he lights up when he speaks of his old days as a director, the alluring poetry he produces for you between the pages of a course-assigned textbook. He’s so much more than his mistakes- he’s so much more than the evident loneliness, and guilt, and yearning he harbors.

And although the physical aspect is but a minuscule factor of the relationship, it’s still undeniably sweeping, as though it’s another language the two of you share in secrecy. Jisung had admitted once that he hadn’t even been with another woman following the divorce- a fact which you now know to be true, the way he fucks with such desperation, as though he’s going to lose you to the same careless mistakes as before. But he also understands that you’re different, and that you don’t apprehend him for any of his former mistakes.

He indulges you in tales of his days directing, one arm slung lazily around your waist as he holds you close and plays old films of the symphonic band in action. And it’s more captivating to watch him get lost in his work, the way his eyes glaze over as he watches himself on screen, the thin black baton waving around in rushed motions as the band plays. He wears elegant suits lined with brass buttons and expensive cufflinks, and the expression on his face when the on-screen symphony turns to him for direction- hundreds of eyes eagerly awaiting his next move, as though he controls them. Pairs of eyes who actually give a shit about the field of work- not just make an appearance for a grade. He grins ear to ear when you pry for more answers, and especially when you conflate the pieces to that of your own, mentally recalling your own piano sheet music. And when you deluge him in compliments, reminding him that he’s remarkable for all that he’s done, and he’s still remarkable- as a professor, and even following his divorce, he can’t help but grow hard at the affection, reveling in the robust support and the love he’s not sure he’s ever felt before you.

He’ll often make love to you right there on the sofa, symphonic pieces still playing faintly on the tv in the background, and he’ll do it again and again to convey the reminder that he’s grateful, and that no one has ever heard him the way that you do.

*

One month into the arrangement, Jisung texts you in a sheer panic, requesting you meet him in the east lecture hall. It’s extremely uncharacteristic of him to make efforts to meet in the one place you could get caught, but still you adhere to his request, throwing on a sweater and rushing out of your vacant dorm to the east side of campus.

The campus buildings are almost haunting at this hour, no more than two, maybe three students in sight under the dim glow of the lamps that line the concrete pathways. The building names are also completely indistinguishable at this hour amidst the sheer darkness, and the only sounds that can be heard are the distant chirp of crickets and the occasional roll of a skateboard. When you arrive at the grand hall, you quickly realize it’s no longer accessible, closed off by rows of fencer wire and shut off entirely from the rest of the school.

“It’s finally done for,” a voice says from beside you, and you know it to be Jisung’s before even turning to face him.

“Already? I thought construction was supposed to begin next semester, though.”

Jisung shakes his head, hands stuffed in his pockets as he exhales deeply.

“I got the email today,” he says in a frustrated tone. “Just some short thing about not delaying the project. They’re moving me to the tiny little hall around the corner.”

You take a moment to think over the hall he speaks of- it might as well be a mobile classroom with how small it is in size, just one narrow hallway that branches off into a line of 3 other rooms. The desks are reminiscent of those from your high school days, and you can’t remember the heating ever having worked during your time passing through, the hall constantly freezing when it rains.

“I didn’t even get a proper send-off,” he reiterates, his gaze not moving from the bright orange temporary fencing. “I would’ve taken a moment to appreciate it one last time.”

You think for a moment, taking a brief moment to glance around you at the eerily empty campus, and then you turn back to Jisung with a small shrug.

“Don’t you still have your keys?”

“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “But…”

Jisung doesn’t finish his sentence, instead pondering the suggestion as he keeps his gaze on the fencing. He knows it would be reckless, practically breaking into the old lecture hall like this to give it one last look, but he’s also overtaken with frustration and a longing for closure.

“I do have my old keys,” he says suddenly, glancing around the vacant buildings nearby, at the faint silhouettes of shadowy trees and dim streetlamps. You watch curiously as he runs a hand along the tip of the neon orange fence, pushing down to locate where it gives in a little. And just at the very end of it, it does, pulling down much further and lowering just enough so that it’s adequate to climb over. Jisung hoists himself over the fencing, his muscular arms steadying himself as he lifts one leg over the fence, followed by the other, and then grounds himself in the muddy grass on the other side. It's the first time you take notice that he’s in a simple pair of blue jeans, brushing mud off his toned thighs and then meeting your gaze again.

“Come on,” he says to you, nearing the fence again and holding a hand out, beckoning you to follow his lead. You don’t think twice before you’re mirroring his actions, hoisting your frame over the plastic fencing and planting two feet in the mud, Jisung helping you regain your balance with his calloused hands finding purchase on your waist and then interlocking his fingers with yours.

“I hope they haven’t changed the locks yet,” he says, leading you to the familiar grand entrance of the lecture hall. His keys are fished out of the pockets of his jeans, jingling softly as he twists his gold key into the lock, and then with an affirmative thud of the door being pushed open, he smiles to himself, beckoning for you to follow him inside.

The lecture hall is even more eerie than the campus is at this hour, not a single light illuminating the dark wooden floors that span the tower. The moonlit glow through the windows flashes with the gentle wave of trees that almost grazes against the glass panes, and you can’t quite distinguish where the gargantuan ceilings even end in this darkness. Jisung makes his way to the spiral staircase to the right of the room, craning his neck up to get a good view of the room, and then he beckons you again with the wave of his hand.

“They haven’t touched the stairs yet,” he says, beginning up the stairs with one hand cascading along the wooden banister. You follow behind him, the only sound echoing around the hall being the familiar loud creak of the stairs as you make your ascent. And for the first time, it’s a sound you realize you’re going to miss very dearly, never having realized it was something you took for granted all this time. The way these stairs obnoxiously announce your arrival when you’re late to class with a coffee in hand, or how the wooden steps boom in volume when students rush down them in hordes toward their next class. Although you’ll have graduated and moved on by then, the knowledge that everything is going to be different remains a jarring fact.

At the top of the stairs, it’s comforting to see that nothing looks different just yet, the podium still intact and rows of chairs folded neatly in their places. Jisung doesn’t make any move to turn on the lights, careful not to reveal that anyone’s broken into the old building, and he makes his way to the podium, staring out at the sea of vacant chairs that sit untouched amidst the darkness.

“I loved this room,” he says after a moment of silence, his voice laced with regret.

You span the perimeter behind the podium, grazing your hands along the old walls, recalling how many times you’d stared at them beyond Jisung’s pacing figure as he spoke of composers and musical theory.

When you make your way to the podium alongside him, mirroring the way he stares out at the empty seats, he glances at you briefly out of his peripheral vision. Jisung wonders if you can tell that the demolition of this room is so painfully metaphorical for him, like one final indication that he deserves no better than the confines of a dingy little room far away from this one. As though every time he feels he’s that much closer to redeeming himself following a nasty divorce, he’s shut out again, misplaced, suddenly right back to where he was five years ago. Misguided, lost, full of regret and a permanent yearning for resolution- one that never seems to come.

In fact, he’s pretty sure you’re the closest he’s ever gotten to one, when you’re assuring him that there is a life beyond the mistakes he made in his early 20s- that the curse of pondering his place here doesn’t have to define him entirely. And that there’s always still time- to love, to better himself, and to revisit the passion which once drove him mad.

It doesn’t mean it’s going to repeat itself, you had told him once. You could do it differently.

“I don’t think Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 needed a coda,” you say to him, breaking the deafening silence between you two in the vast empty space of the room.

Jisung finally turns to look at you, hands still stuffed in the pockets of his jeans as he replies.

“Why’s that?”

“It doesn’t need to repeat the entire first part,” you explain to him. “That part is emphasized enough. I think the listener should appreciate that it just ends where it ends.”

Jisung thinks over your words for a moment, not entirely sure why you’ve brought up the piece way back from chapter 8 of his lectures. And yet he nods in response, his breath hitching in the back of his throat a little when you turn to face him, too.

“I like that it’s a little unclear,” you finally say to him.

And this time he doesn’t respond- not with words at least, opting to pull you in for a gentle kiss, his hands working their way down the small of your back. His lips feel somber against yours, like he seeks to inhibit his sadness with the tender touch of your lips against his, pushing you back against the wooden podium and spinning you around to work kisses down your neck.

There are no words spoken between the two of you, just the vibration of small moans echoing from your lips as he sucks a hickey into your flesh, even though he knows he shouldn’t mark you. And yet he does, a physical reminder that you belong to him, and hopefully one to convey the notion that you’re the closest thing he’s ever gotten to resolution.

Jisung’s hands work your blouse open, his jeans pressing into you from behind, already rock-hard for you as his hands tug off your shirt. And he giggles against your flesh when you gasp at the cold air that grazes your skin.

“Jisung,” you say to him, your hands gripping the wood of the podium. “We probably shouldn’t do this here.”

It’s he who brushes off the lewd act, consoling you with the unzip of his jeans, his bulge pressing into your thigh as he continues to work kisses down your neck.

“We won’t get caught, baby,” he says as his fingers rub circles over your clothed core under the thin fabric of your skirt. “I promise.”

And then it’s you tugging your own panties down, allowing him full access to your wet cunt as the palm of his hand works you in rhythmic back and forth motions. He doesn’t even need to touch you- not when you’re already dripping for him. And yet he remains like that for several minutes, breathing heavily into the shell of your ear as your moans echo around the dark lecture hall, his cock only growing harder against you with every touch.

It’s undoubtedly arousing for him to look out at the classroom he’s lectured in for so many years, one he usually associates with nervous test-takers and monotonous speeches- and to watch the very same space be filled with your gasps of pleasure. His eyes scan over the very seat you occupy every week, recalling the times he’s fantasized about exactly this- touching you the way he knows you deserve to be touched and making you his in the forbidden confines of a classroom. Without so much as a word, his boxers are pulled down too, positioning you in front of him and allowing his fingers to wrap around the base of his leaky cock. He strokes himself just once, eyes shutting at the sensation of his tip brushing against your warm flesh. And then he prods into your entrance, tapping ever so gently as his other hand intertwines with yours.

You take him with complete ease, the way you always do when he’s fucking you this sweetly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as indication to speed up his movements. But he doesn’t- he just maintains a steady pace inside of you, his hips smacking lightly against yours as he resumes wet kisses along your shoulder.

A million thoughts graze his mind as he fucks you- like the fading notes of Mozart’s Sonata no. 12, and how evidently his annotations referencing a coda have resonated with you. Or the tales of Mozart and Constanze’s secret love, of Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann and a lifetime of unrequited romance that never quite got its closure. Jisung thinks about the nights you two spend in his apartment, watching reruns of him directing symphonies, or mornings when he cancels class because all he can do is lie entangled with you and bask in the love you two share in the privacy of his home.

His mind also goes back to the divorce, a constant pain he carries with him, remembering all the ways he let other people down in efforts to focus on his career and his love of music. Nights he stayed out far too long annotating sheets of music, knowing very well that his wife was waiting up for him. Anniversaries he forgot, birthdays he failed to prioritize because music always came first. And consequently, begging his ex-wife to stay, knowing very well she had already made up her mind- that he was a lousy person, far too consumed by his career and incapable of loving the way she had.

Jisung’s movements pick up in pace as he thinks about the future of this old building- soon demolished into a pile of dust, the old walls crumbling despite the years of history pent up inside of it. Tests failed and lectures given, days he spent funneling that same passion into something entirely new, because directing was never the same once he understood what a neglectful husband he’d been. The walls to be painted blinding shades of cobalt blue and white, like a fucking dentist’s office, and not an inch of the building to suggest it had ever housed an appreciation for music, simply replaced by a basketball court and cold metal bleachers.

He also thinks about you, and how you made the semester far more tolerable, your beaming smile and your curiosity about not only music, but him, serving as a beacon of hope that perhaps this wasn’t all in vain. And your comforting words helping him understand that perhaps this isn’t what he wants after all, that this chapter of life may very well crumble along with this old building. Maybe this is the end, like resilient music notes approaching the finale of a symphonic piece- and he can either allow the fading discoordination to mark the finish- or take to the da segno, and start again.

Maybe a coda is sooner than he thinks- maybe resolution is closer than he thinks.

You’re well aware of Jisung’s now rapid movements inside of you, gasping at the sheer size of his swollen cock grazing your walls, your hand tightly gripping his and your mind wandering to where his currently lies.

But you can’t verbalize the curiosity- not when he’s interrupting you to tilt your face to his, planting a wet, open-mouthed kiss on your mouth and breathing desire back into you.

His fingers prod themselves into your mouth as he fucks you, murmuring little pleas to let him watch you taste yourself, his cock inserting in tandem with his fingers as he matches their pace. Your moans are stifled as your tongue swirls his fingers, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you let the pleasure overtake you.

And then he slides his fingers out for a moment, watching strings of saliva drip so erotically down your parted lips as you continue to take his cock obediently.

“I love you,” he says like it’s an epiphany. But it’s not- he reckons he’s known it for a long time now, almost scared at the intensity of his emotions for you. He’s not quite sure he loved his wife like this, and he’s not sure he knew he was even capable of loving again. In fact, Jisung only knows that he truly loved one thing in his lifetime- music. Music, and now you.

“How could I ever ask for a better woman?” He breathes against your skin, goosebumps rising as his words echo Mozart’s letter to Constanze’s father and echo in the vast, empty room.

Your reciprocation is muffled with the re-insertion of his fingers in your mouth as he reaches his finish inside of you, painting your walls with his release, holding you close and stimulating your clit again as he coaxes an orgasm out of you, too. And the finish is nowhere near fading, nor discoordinate, as the echoes of your moans reverberate off the walls and fill the emptiness with your passionate yearning for one another.

Da segno

Returning to the dorms to find Mina in her bed for once is a shock to you- especially considering she’s been speaking of a camping trip with her boyfriend for several weeks now.

At first you check your phone, briefly, thinking maybe you’ve gotten the date wrong. But you haven’t- it’s a Friday evening, the same evening you know she should be on route to her planned trip with Lucas.

She’s propped up in bed, carefully examining something when you make your way past her, eyebrows furrowed and deep in thought.

“Hey Mina,” you say to her cautiously, pulling your sweater up a little higher up on your neck.

She doesn’t reply, eyebrows still furrowed as she keeps her head down. And then she chuckles lightly, still not looking up at you.

“I feel like you’re out more than I am these days,” she says to you, and you can’t quite make out whether she’s being condescending or cordial with you.

“Yeah,” you reply nervously, sitting on the edge of your bed across from her and crossing your arms. “Just been trying to take more walks.”

Mina purses her lips, nodding, and then she exhales sharply before she speaks again.

“Lucas broke up with me,” she explains. But she doesn’t sound sad, or even angry- she simply relays the news with a straight face, not even glancing up to catch your shocked expression.

“He did?” You blurt out, feeling an overwhelming sense of sympathy for her- of course you don’t really care for Mina, but you also know how frequently she’s out with him, how highly she speaks of him and how in love she’s been with him for all the years they’ve been together.

“Yeah,” she reaffirms, sighing as she speaks. “He’d been cheating for several months. I’m over it now- I just thought I might get a head-start on this week's notes.”

You nod at her again, still aware she seems to be repressing something, far too casual for your liking and almost ready to lash out at any given second.

“That’s good,” you tell her, crossing your legs on the bed. “I’m really sorry. Let me know if you need anything-”

“I did find this week’s chapter to be particularly interesting,” she interrupts, slouching further back against the wall by her bed.

It’s your turn to furrow your brows, a little confused by her behavior, especially considering she hardly ever reads assigned textbook chapters.

“Listen to this,” Mina says, and then her lips pull into a wicked grin as she begins down the page, her voice laced with rancor.

“I must make you better acquainted with the character of my dear y/n,” she begins, and your heart all but stops in your chest.

It’s then that you notice the textbook in her grasp, the familiar old font and the yellowing of the pages- Professor Han’s textbook, the same one riddled with erotic poetry between the lines of music theory.

“Mina, please-” you begin, voice cracking, a futile task as she raises her voice and continues speaking.

“Her whole beauty consists of two sparkling eyes and a delicate figure,” she reads. “She likes to watch me direct symphonies, and she knows music theory like the back of her hand.”

Your heart races in your chest, mind swirling with fearful thoughts as she voices the familiar love letter back to you. Professor Han’s most recent addition to the textbook, derived from Mozart’s letter to Constanze’s father, and a written account of Jisung’s affection for you. A letter you’ve read over and over since he produced it, and the same one you so carelessly left lying open on your dorm bed in a rush to go see him at the lecture hall.

“She likes to hear the stories of famous composers and their romances, and she lets me make love to her as though she belongs to me,” Mina reads, her voice growing even louder as you now approach her. Your hands reach desperately for the book, which she holds away from your reach as she now stands up on her bed, her feet digging into the mattress as she steadies herself with one hand on the wall.

“Please, stop,” you beg, to no avail, as she then concludes the letter.

“Most things that a student neglects, she excels in. I love her and she loves me with all her being- tell me whether I could ask for a better woman.”

The room falls painfully quiet as she finishes, thumbing through the pages with a soft rustling sound.

“That’s just one,” she says, maintaining the same wicked expression on her face. “The book is full of them.”

And then she shuts the book, examining the cover, meeting your gaze as she assumes her position back down on the mattress and crosses her legs.

“This is the professor’s textbook, right? That’s why it looks a little different. I had wondered, when I first snatched it from your stuff.”

You stay quiet, your gaze falling to the floor as tears brim your eyes. You want to fight back, but in reality, the book serves as admission itself- there’s no denying it’s a letter from him, to you. It’s incriminating by his loopy cursive handwriting, the book she’s seen him wield so many times in the classroom during lectures and the way he speaks of making love to you.

“You’re fucking Professor Han?” She finally says aloud, and the words sting, although you’ve been expecting them.

“It’s not like that-”

“That’s why you’re doing so well in his class? While the rest of us bust our asses studying for his stupid quizzes? What do you even do, suck him off when nobody’s looking? How big is he?”

“Stop!” You exclaim, the tears now cascading down your flushed cheeks and gathering on your trembling chin.

Mina says nothing as she wears the same stupid smirk on her face, and then she tosses the book to you, which you grasp in your shaky hands. You hold it close to you, wishing so badly you could undo whatever it is she’s seen in the book, but you know that it’s far too late- the book is no longer a sacred little thing between you and Jisung.

“What do you want?” You say to her quietly, sniffling as you tuck the book under your duvet.

“What do I want?” She echoes.

“Yes,” you huff frustratedly. “Anything. Just please don’t tell the dean about this- or anyone, for that matter. I promise to do whatever it is that you ask, especially since-”

Your rambling comes to a sudden halt when Mina begins laughing, her hands clutching her stomach as she does, almost doubling over on the bed and kicking her feet with enthusiasm.

“Do you think I’m gonna blackmail you, or something?” She questions between laughter, meeting your gaze with tears in her eyes as she continues giggling between words.

“I always knew you were weird,” she remarks. “Not like, ‘fuck a professor’ weird. But it is weird that you think I’m gonna blackmail you.”

You don’t say anything to Mina, sitting on your bed again and sprawling one hand out to rest atop the book, which remains hidden under the duvet.

“You mean… you… won’t tell?”

“I’m impressed,” Mina replies, now lying on her side and propping her head up in her hand. “He is the hottest professor on campus. But no, I’m not going to tell anyone. Contrary to your belief, I really don’t care to ruin either of your lives. I have more important things to worry about.”

You sigh a heavy breath, relieved that Mina’s taken the high road and chosen to ignore the situation altogether. But you can’t cease the heavy weight it bears within you, one that fears not for your future, but for Professor Han’s. You know the majority wouldn’t believe it, the tale that this was a mutual thing between the two of you, that he’s just a pained divorcee, and you’re a lonely college student. To the masses, it would look like complete manipulation, Professor Han requiring a sexual relationship from you for an A in his course, and keeping the discrete flirting alive within the pages of his textbook. It’s more irresponsible on his end than it is yours- and although you both know it’s wrong, it still feels different. It still feels as though it’s rooted in yearning.

“I still need a textbook,” Mina says, breaking the silence between you two. “Like, for this week’s chapters.”

“Oh, right,” you say to her quietly, reaching inside your school bag for the correct book. You toss it to her without another word, observing the way she flips to the page she was on, and resumes reading as though nothing happened.

But her voice still replays in your head, reading aloud the sacred letter Professor Han produced for you within his textbook, one that never should have graced anybody else’s eyesight except your own.

And the tears resume as you watch her, a heavy guilt present as the words play in your mind again, and again, and again.

*

Jisung’s apartment doesn’t feel the way it normally does later that week- not when you’re first sauntering in with meek steps, being flooded by a barrage of questions about why you’ve skipped class for two weeks. And especially not when you finally recount the incident to Jisung, tears flooding your eyes and cascading down the deep gray bags that hammock under your lashes. The nights have been sleepless for all fourteen days, tossing and turning on your mattress about whether Mina is actually going to keep her promise about not telling. And she appears to, failing to acknowledge it whenever she’s in your presence, visibly still coping with the aftermath of her breakup. She simply comes and goes in casual strides, sometimes still borrowing your textbook from you and returning it far later than you care for, but it really doesn’t matter by this point. You’ve stopped reading the textbook entirely, coming to terms with the fact that you’ll have to rely on your own knowledge to pass any of the assignments distributed. And Jisung knows something is wrong when he finally does see you after two weeks, dressed loosely in a pair of sweatpants, your face flushed with tears and averting his gaze.

“You’re going to be so mad at me,” you emphasize to him, shielding the tears that fall from your trembling eyes with one hand, as he crouches on the floor in front of you and gives your hand a little squeeze.

And he’s adamant that nothing could make him hate you- that whatever it is you’re facing can be worked through, and that he’s going to stand by you regardless. Yet when you recount the incident to him, explaining the way Mina had read through his written confessions of sleeping with you and expressing his love for you, Jisung falls completely silent- a reaction which is somehow more scary to you than vexed words.

“Are you sure she knows it’s mine?” He asks, pulling away to stand in front of you. He feels much taller when he’s towering over you like this, pacing frantically along the wooden floorboards and chewing on the inside of his lip nervously.

“I’m sure,” you reply quietly. “She must’ve been reading it the entire time I was out. It has your name in it and everything.”

Jisung is quiet again, thinking over your words, and then he places his hands on his hips as he speaks again.

“Did she say anything else?” He inquires.

“She said that she wouldn’t tell anybody. As far as I know, she hasn’t. I just feel-”

“I’m never going to get it now,” he then says, running his hands through his hair nervously and glancing around the room.

“Get what?”

“Jesus,” he says, almost chuckling in disbelief. “I spent all this time interviewing, and if this gets out it could ruin everything.”

“Interviewing?” You echo meekly.

“Just when I thought I had it all again. I was so close to being back. Getting out of this shitty job and making a name for myself again.”

Jisung assumes a spot in one of the chairs across from you, burying his head in his hands and remaining silent. You want to ask him to clarify what he means by interviewing, but you’re also scared of him when he’s like this, knowing he’s reverting back to the version of himself who puts music above everything.

“You couldn’t just make something up?” Jisung then asks, scoffing lightly as he finally meets your gaze.

“What?”

“You couldn’t just fucking lie? Why on earth would you admit to it?”

“Lie?” You repeat to him with a shaky voice. “What did you want me to say?”

“Say I wasn’t interested in you,” Jisung retorts. “Say you were writing the letters to yourself. You’re putting my entire career at risk because you couldn’t be bothered to put my book away?”

You’re taken aback momentarily by Jisung’s words, hardly making sense of them at first. There’s no way he could be blaming you for this- not when he’s just as guilty as you are. In fact, Professor Han may be more guilty, acting upon his urges when he knows the power imbalance he wields over you- you’re just a student of his, nowhere near the status he upholds at this school. But as he continues prodding you for questions about why you hadn’t just lied, or made a bullshit excuse, or something, the message is conveyed loud and clear. He’s blaming you entirely for being found out.

“This is about directing,” you say when the realization hits you, almost laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.

“Of course it’s about directing,” he retorts, throwing his hands in the air and scoffing loudly. “I worked my ass off interviewing for one of the most prestigious roles a few hours out of here, I got an offer just yesterday, and now this is going to ruin everything. When they hear about the little fling I had, and they assume I coerced you into it, when you know damn well you led me on. And it’s going to be my divorce all over again.”

A silence falls over the room as you take in his words. You suddenly feel microscopic in his presence as the betrayal sets in, and for the first time since the arrangement, the discomfort of this being a student-teacher relationship washes over you.

“It’s not going to get out,” you say to him softly. “Mina hasn’t told anybody, and I’ll make sure it stays that way.”

Jisung gives a small nod at your words, and then he slides his hands into the pocket of his jeans.

“I hate that you don’t realize when you’re doing the same thing all over again,” you then say to him, averting his stern gaze.

“What are you talking about?”

“Why are we even doing this?” You continue, scoffing lightly. “Is this some sick way of reenacting the same mistakes you did before, and hoping for a different outcome? Now your directing days are just within reach again, and you’re doing the same thing, making your shortcoming’s everybody else’s fault except your own. I think you’re more afraid of not being able to relive your glory days than of losing anybody you love.”

“That’s not what this is, and you know that,” Jisung retorts. “You know how I feel about you.”

“Just admit that I’m a distraction because you miss your old life,” you continue, a little calmer now. “It’s the first time your career felt like it once did when you were directing, and in love, and I’m just some good fuck who takes genuine interest in your stories.”

“That’s not what I’m-”

“Do you ever imagine I’m her?” You ask him, meeting his concerned gaze. “When you’re fucking me in your bedroom? Do you ever imagine I’m your ex-wife waiting up for you the way she used to? Pretend you’re still a director and that you finally have everything you want?”

“That’s enough,” Jisung voices, and you shake your head at him.

“You might have been infatuated over some fleeting moment, seeing the face of your ex-wife whenever you looked at me. But I really, truly loved you. And she was right- you are a lousy person. You just can’t seem to understand when your interests take precedence over your emotions.”

Jisung is silent as his lip quivers in response, experiencing all over again what he did on the night his ex-wife left him. He’d always feared it would come back to haunt him- but not like this. Not through repeating the same mistakes all over again- just as he thought he finally found closure.

Like a musical piece with triumphant notes approaching an end, suddenly directing him right back to the symbol forcing repetition. It’s dizzying, and it’s painful, and he’s sure that a conclusion is far from his reach now.

Without another word, you pivot on your heel, gathering your bag and making your way toward his front door again.

“Y/n, please wait,” Jisung calls out, but he can’t find the words to clear his name of your accusations. Instead he remains quiet when you turn to face him, his shoulders sagging in a defeated manner as you shrug in his direction.

“I really think you ought to find what resolution means to you,” you say to him finally. “Repetition isn’t always it.”

*

The dingy old hallway within the radius of the old east lecture hall is indeed just as undesirable as you remembered it- it’s freezing cold when it rains outside, the students struggle to traverse the narrow hall as they brush against each other in passing and the classroom is nowhere near as enchanting as the grand room of the old hall. Made much worse are the stripes of cobalt blue and a blinding shade of white, which line every wall in the building, almost distracting as lectures are conveyed from the front of the room. The students maintain their same positioning as the lecture is given, typing on their laptops, the clicking sounds of keyboards much louder now at this close proximity of all the chairs to each other. And you don’t write down a single thing, staring at the stripes of blue and white on the walls, following their trail from one side of the room until they reach the hinges of the door, and then repeating the process over and over again.

Professor Han’s departure comes as a surprise to many, the students murmuring amongst themselves as they theorize what could cause such a sudden leave. He fought with the dean and quit. He has a terminal illness. He’s sleeping with a student.

Of course some of them come close to the truth, but they’ll never know for sure- not unless they’re one of the two people on campus who do know.

Mina makes an attempt to ask you about it at first, fiddling awkwardly with the pages of your textbook as she inquires about the status of your relationship. She proceeds to ask if you’d known he was leaving, but not before tears are streaming down your face, your words coming out between hiccupped sobs. And all that she’s able to coax out of you is the verbal confirmation that yes, you knew he was leaving, and no, nobody else found out about the arrangement.

Professor Han’s replacement is a shameful excuse for a lecturer, an older man who only knows as much as the textbook explains, and nothing beyond the printed text. He goes so far as to actively discourage questions, expressing his distaste for “wasting time”, yet the students are well aware it’s because he simply doesn’t have the answers they seek. Your classmates don’t care of course, their grades cushioned by the generous 20 points, instead of 10, which Professor Han opted to distribute for the dead composer’s gallery walkthrough as one final parting gift. And aside from one last email thanking the class for their participation in the duration of the few months he taught it, Professor Han promptly makes his departure from your life, too. Not so much as a thank you, an apology or even a love letter the way you know he once would have written, had he not been so consumed by a yearning for his old life. Just like his ex-wife, you’re shut out by him, made to feel as though reciprocated affection is somehow a selfish request. And maybe it is when it comes to Professor Han- maybe he’s truly just incapable of loving without the limitations of his work. Like the famous composers you learn of, he’s a genius in so many ways- just not in romance. And certainly not in learning from his mistakes.

On occasion, you write to him again, tearing out pages from old chapters in your textbook and scribbling along the vacant margins.

“The old lecture hall’s finally been torn down- all that remains are gray dust and pieces of the old stair banister. They’ve already built up part of the new gymnasium. If I look out the new classroom window, I can see them sampling paint swatches- all shades of blue and white, of course. The students miss you- the boys still dress like you, and the girls don’t even look up from their laptops when your replacement speaks. There’s nothing to look at, of course- not when you’re absent.

We finally reached Constanze’s short chapter in the textbook- chapter 14. Did you know she remarried after Mozart? There was no animosity between the two until his death- she spoke so highly of him until the end. We credit Constanze for many of his posthumous works. Ones that never would have seen the light of day without the respect she paid to him.

I think highly of you, too- I know you don’t know it, but I think back to your old videos, when you’d wave around that black baton of yours and lead symphonies. I understand the fear you harbored in letting all of that go.

You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. I wish you hadn’t told me that you were falling in love, and I hope you’re doing terrible-”

Your red pen is set down promptly as you allow yourself to catch your breath, ceasing this unproductive flow of consciousness you spill onto the pages of your textbook. Many nights end this way, your thoughts poured out and then repressed once more, no method of delivering them to him, regardless. And although you want to reconnect with him, you have no way of actually doing so, even his apartment now vacant as he assumes his new role as a director a few hours out of town. It’s a jarring fact, coming to terms with the notion that you’re likely never going to see him again. But you know it’s his way of resolution- repeating the same process as before, hoping for a different outcome.

*

“You’re starting the tempo change too slow,” Jisung says with a heavy sigh, setting his baton down on the music stand and waving his hand. “Pick up from measure three, on your own this time. I’ll be back in five.”

The room fills with the discoordinate overlap of instruments practicing, woodwinds rotating their reeds and brass players emptying spit valves. Jisung makes his way past the double doors, shielding his eyes from the almost blinding rays of sunlight that glare down over the music hall at this hour. And then he leans against the same brick wall he always does when he’s this mentally exhausted, shutting his eyes momentarily and exhaling.

He’s directing again, conducting symphonic pieces he’s only ever dreamed of. His hair is two shades lighter than it was when he was teaching, his closet is filled to the brim with elegant blazers and he’s compiled a generous collection of gold and silver cufflinks the way he once used to. But something feels different- and it’s felt that way for months now.

Sometimes Jisung can’t recall if symphonies were always this arduous to lead. He’s almost certain he’s verbally noted the painfully slow tempo change to them about a trillion times, and yet every time the metronome is turned on, guiding them with the obnoxious repetitive click at 80 beats per minute, they’re too slow.

Slow enough for his mind to wander elsewhere- like whether they’ll ever have the chance to rehearse the final few bars of this piece. Or questioning if they actually respect him here, as a director, and not just as a replacement for a metronome when he’s not yelling at them.

And occasionally, as much as he hates to admit it, the thoughts involve you. His pride’s too far gone to admit he ruined things, and his ego would never let him find you and convey some form of an apology- especially not after begging someone to stay once long ago, to no avail. But his mind wanders to the image of you in the audience, observing him keenly with the same beaming smile on your face and a genuine interest in whatever it is he’s doing- whether it be conducting grand symphonies, lecturing facts he’s memorized like the back of his hand or even just recounting old tales alongside you.

In the pocket of his blazer lies the same pathetic scrap of paper he just can’t seem to let go of- and as he glances at the inching second hand on his wristwatch, he pulls it out again, carefully undoing it from its folded state and scanning the contents. Page 256 from his textbook, detailing Mozart’s Sonata no. 12, complete with his scribbled annotations, and yours, so perfectly complementing all of his remarks.

“Coda?” He had written along the margins- a little addition that stuck with you all that time. Every time you were tangled in his embrace, listening to stories of his days as a director, Jisung pressing little kisses to your forehead, you’d inquire about his need for a musical epilogue. One that you didn’t believe was necessary within the piece, feeling as though the repetition equated redundancy in this case. “I think the listener should just appreciate that it ends where it ends,” you’d told him once, a statement he disagreed with at the time, but one he finds himself thinking over a lot these days.

Perhaps you were so certain about the finale of Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 because you could appreciate every other measure of the piece. The triumphant swell of the crescendos that mark the introduction, the changes within tempo and the distinctly separate movements that complement each other with such force. Measures that Jisung seemed to neglect, always searching for something beyond the eight notes that make up the piece in its entirety. But maybe you were right all along, that sometimes a listener should simply appreciate where a piece ends- that there doesn’t need to be any form of repetition, or even the need for a coda. Maybe those fading, discoordinate notes are enough- maybe that’s a coda in itself.

The double doors swing open as Jisung takes careful note of the symbol you also tagged at the bottom of the page, an oval with a cross through the center, a coda- an offer for resolution.

“Jisung?” Somebody asks, and he glances up to catch the gaze of who he remembers to be a third chair woodwind player.

“We practiced measure three again,” he says cautiously. “Could you… have a listen one more time?”

Jisung sighs, tucking the folded piece of paper back into his blazer and glancing beyond the student through the double doors. The music hall is dark inside, despite it being the middle of the day, the navy blue carpeting and the tinted windows completely obscuring the beauty of the world beyond the four walls. And then he looks the other direction, at the clear blue skies and the bustling roads, where the people don’t look back the way he’s done for so long.

“Sir?” The student asks again, twiddling his fingers together in front of his collared shirt.

“Not now. I’m leaving early today,” Jisung says, buttoning his blazer closed and giving the student a small nod. “Practice measure three until it’s perfected for next time.”

And then he begins toward his car, taking purposeful strides with a plan he hasn’t even conjured up yet, only knowing he has to keep looking forward if he wants any sort of resolution to all of this.

“And for god’s sake,” Jisung then calls out suddenly, stopping in his tracks to convey the message clearly.

“Get the tempo right, next time, will you? I’m tired of hearing the same thing over and over again.”

Coda

The evening of some important date in December is marked by the particularly frosty air, your dorm window fogged up with a sheet of ice and the halls much too cold to traverse without generous layers of clothing.

The remaining students here walk up and down the length of the hallways with cardboard boxes balanced in their arms, talking excitedly amongst themselves about plans for graduation parties and post-college life. And you can’t seem to part with the comfortable atmosphere of your dorm bed, neglecting your own stack of boxes as Mina makes her way in and out of the shared dorm room you’ve gotten so accustomed to.

“Are you using that box?” She asks, loudly sealing one with packing tape and setting it on top of another.

“No,” you say plainly. “It’s all yours.”

She takes careful notice of the way you remain draped over the bed, eyes glued to the ceiling as you think back to the last of your college days. A formal graduation in a week, which you’ve already opted out of. A series of parties even Mina tried to drag you to, every invitation promptly declined. And a prestigious internship in the city waiting for you come springtime, where you’ll be right back to appreciating the intricacies of music theory and piano.

Everything should feel as though it’s falling into place- and yet it doesn’t. It feels different- and it’s felt different for months now.

In a perfect world, you reckon you’d be elated to make your departure from these dorms, and anticipate the new life that awaits you after these four years of dedication. But you can’t help but feel as though something is missing from all of this- something well beyond your reach.

You think back to Brahms and Clara Schumann a lot these days, and the passionate, yet unrequited love that he took to the grave with him. He never got close to what he wanted- he had music, and a career so successful he was deemed one of the best composers who ever lived. And yet much of his life’s work was still rooted in unadulterated yearning, because he never had Clara Schumann. You want so badly to place your own musical accomplishments over your yearning, and yet you can’t. Not when the yearning had quickly transitioned to unrequited love the same way it did for Brahms, and it’s been that way since Jisung left.

You also think of Mozart and Constanze, and how he fought for everything to be with her, despite the hardships they faced. And you want to scream at Jisung when you recall Mozart’s letter to her father, one that’s now been tainted by his poetic words to you along the margins of his course textbook.

“Y/n, you’re never going to finish packing today at this rate,” Mina remarks, occupying a spot next to you on the bed. “Do you need help or something?”

“I’m good,” you say to her, meeting her gaze as she looms over you.

She remains quiet for a moment, examining your expression, and then she folds her hands in her lap politely.

“You know,” she begins. “You’re the smartest musician I’ve ever met. It’s a little weird how much you know sometimes.”

“Thanks,” you retort with a small chuckle.

“And I don’t think messing around with anybody got you where you are today. You did that yourself.”

You meet her gaze finally, not speaking as she shrugs softly. You’re a little surprised at the kind tone she assumes, wondering briefly if there’s some sort of catch to her words.

“Just… give yourself what you deserve,” she finishes. “Whether that means going back, or looking forward. But don’t settle for less than you really want. I did, for so long. And I’ll be the first to tell you it’s not worth it.”

You swallow as you nod at her words, knowing who she refers to without the utterance of a name. And then you furrow your brows as you press her for one more thing.

“Mina,” you say to her. “Why didn’t you tell anybody? What did you get out of keeping my dirty secret?”

She chuckles softly, throwing her head back and shrugging before speaking again.

“Those annotations,” she begins. “They’re not just some dirty little secret. That’s… a sort of thing I’ve never seen at that proximity. They way you speak to each other, it’s like some language the rest of us would never understand. At first, I thought I was skimming too far ahead in the textbook or something. Of course, maybe it also had something to do with the 10 extra points he gave us before leaving.”

You laugh lightly at the same time she does, and then her expression grows serious again as she picks at a loose thread on the duvet.

“It just kinda sounded like you two were in love,” she finishes. “I wouldn’t get in the way of that.”

You hold her gaze for a moment as she stands up again, brushing off her jeans and hoisting another box into her arms.

“Anyways,” she continues. “I’m out of here. Good luck in the city, and-”

“Mina,” you interrupt her, sitting up to look at her properly.

She blinks a few times, surprised you’re sitting up in bed for the first time today, and holds your gaze over the sealed top of her cardboard box.

“Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t say it enough.”

Mina smiles, her pink glossed lips pulling into a kind grin, and there’s no remaining tension between the two of you for possibly the first time since you’ve lived together.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, accompanied by a gentle nod. “Oh- and you might want to check out the new part of the gymnasium they finished constructing today. I think they followed your advice and finally put a piano in there.”

And then she’s off again, shooting you a small wink before she saunters out of your dorm, this time for good.

*

The chill of the December air is unforgiving at the early hours of the morning like this, the campus nearly empty as students depart from the place they’ve called home for four years, their college years packed up into cardboard boxes and sealed away at last.

You still have a lot of packing to finish yourself, a new chapter in the city awaiting you while you traverse the concrete village one last time. And although these halls have housed some of your most stressful memories, staying up late studying for exams and rushing to make it to class on time, you’re going to miss every part of it. Like the coffee shop on the second story of the student union, where the barista always adds a little too much caramel to your lattes. Or the windowed seat at the very back of the 8th story in the library, where when it rains, you can watch lines of people rush to their classes with hands over their heads and desperately clutching their umbrellas.

And of course, the grant east lecture hall- one you’ve already missed for the better part of the semester following its demolition. As you round the corner, you can make out the new gymnasium that’s already partially erected in its place. It’s another blinding shade of white, like the rest of the buildings are, closed off to the public and still lined with the same bright orange temporary plastic fencing as before. At where is supposed to become the entrance at some point in time, a rectangular cutout in the concrete slab of a wall, nothing but a thin plastic tarp prohibiting entry. And though you know that you really shouldn’t, you can’t help yourself, hoisting your legs over the orange fencing to the other side, your feet planting into the grass lining with a gentle thud.

There’s nobody around at this hour to watch you sneak into the new gymnasium- and realistically, what form of punishment can they even issue, anyway? Expel you?

The tarp sways with the gentle caress of a December breeze, like an invitation to come wander the new space which once housed years of history, now structured for basketball games and college rallies alike. And with one last look around, only to ensure nobody’s watching you partake in the prohibited act, you sneak your way past the orange fencing, kicking the tarp aside to gain entry, and then taping it back into place behind you.

It looks like a gymnasium- and it smells like a gymnasium. Gone are the overpowering scent of mothballs that once graced the music hall’s staircase, replaced instead by the woody notes of sawdust and fresh paint. The walls are white, true to the rest of the school’s buildings, and along the walls which are finished, the signature cobalt blue stripe. At this proximity, it’s almost humorous to bask in the putrid colors you’re grateful you’ll never have to stare at again.

As you take in your surroundings, you remember Mina’s words from earlier, recalling a new piano they placed here, and you scan the room from left to right- only there’s nothing. No piano- not even a dingy keyboard like the one in the old practice room. Why would a piano be here, anyway? In a gymnasium meant for sports and jock gatherings? Could it be Mina’s way of sending you off with one final bout of animosity?

You’re doubtful- that isn’t Mina. You know her way of comforting you earlier was rooted in the good intentions she’s always had. Which still begs the question- why did she send you here?

As you begin toward the other side of the gymnasium, a gentle rustle from the tarp startles you, the blue masking tape being lifted piece by piece and moved aside for another person to gain entry.

Construction workers, you think to yourself. It’s going to be awkward getting out of this one. And as you approach the cutout in the concrete wall again, ready to conjure up some form of an explanation, another person does make entry, crouching so as not to bump his head, as he stumbles inside and regains his balance.

His hair is two shades lighter than the last time you saw him. He still wears the same dorky wireframe glasses as before. And he looks elegant, in a white button down and black blazer, the same canvas sneakers he used to love double-knotted at the laces and complementing his black slim-fitting slacks.

“What are you doing here?” Is all you can say to him as he approaches, his hands shoved in his pockets and a leather bag slung over his shoulder.

“Mina practically chased me when I was leaving,” he says, gesturing to the empty space around you both. “Said I had to come see some new piano they put in here.”

He glances around the room, eyebrows furrowed in a confused manner, and then he turns to face you.

“Where is it?”

“There is no piano,” you say to him, crossing your arms frustratedly. “She told me the same thing.”

Jisung begins to say something, and then he stops, giving a small nod as he averts your cold stare.

His thumb toys with a loose thread inside the pocket of his slacks, and then he meets your gaze again, strands of brown hair falling into the shy expression he wears on his face.

“Graduated, huh? How’s it feel?”

“Fine,” you reply in a reluctant tone. “I leave today.”

“Where are you headed?” Jisung asks, swallowing nervously.

“Landed an internship in the city,” you tell him. “It’s close by. Just some piano thing.”

Jisung’s lips pull into a grin, chuckling lightly as he nods in response. “I always knew you’d land something good.”

You remain quiet, looking around the gymnasium once again, and then you turn to him with some hesitation.

“What are you doing here?”

Jisung sighs deeply, looking around the gymnasium, too, before speaking.

“I had an interview. Quit my directing gig.”

His words take you aback momentarily, a million questions racing through your mind about why he’s no longer directing and why he’d be interviewing here of all places.

“You interviewed here?”

“Wasn’t so much of an interview as it was a conversation,” he retorts. “They even had my old badge. I really need to get that updated considering my hair’s not technically black anymore-”

“Why would you interview here?” You emphasize to him again. “You hated it here. I thought you wanted some fancy directing thing.”

Jisung is quiet again, digging the heel of his canvas sneaker into the thick layer of sawdust that lines the floor. He knows that his ego is far too big, and he’s still consumed with an overwhelming amount of selfish pride. But he also knows that he’s not going to find any form of resolution without breaking this vicious cycle of repeating his mistakes, especially when a resolution is finally within reach.

“Look, I fucked up, okay?” Jisung finally says, taking you by complete surprise.

“The minute I started there again, I knew that wasn’t my calling anymore. Maybe it was back when I was still young, and all starry-eyed for the stupid baton and the fancy suits.”

He turns to face you at this point, taking a step toward you and almost physically demanding you reciprocate the eye contact.

“But you were right- that chapter of my life is finished now. And yeah, maybe the students don’t pay attention when I stand up there and lecture. And sure, I’m just going to be some lousy assistant college band director out here. But finding you- and the way you’d listen to me, and the way you never judged me for my shortcomings, even though I was a shitty husband once, and a shitty professor and an even shittier boyfriend to you- you made me realize it was finally time to let go.”

Jisung can’t seem to cease his emotional speech once he begins, frantically gesturing as he continues speaking. He feels like a different person entirely in this vulnerable form- like the Jisung you knew when he was first breaking his walls down around you. And the Jisung you know when he isn’t putting his dreams of a past life before the people he loves.

“… and then I couldn’t stop thinking about Brahms and Clara, and how he died without ever having told her how he felt. Or Tchaikovsky who had to hide who he loved- and then Mozart! God, that stupid letter- she remarried, you know that? Did you ever get to that chapter? Of course you did, before I could tell you, at least.”

Jisung paces the floor in rushed motions as he speaks, his wet sneakers squeaking obnoxiously along the gym floor as the words escape his lips. You don’t try to speak for a little while, carefully soaking in what you assume to be an apology. And then he stops in his tracks, eyebrows arching into a pleading expression as he towers over you.

“Music isn’t the same without you,” he finishes. “None of this is.”

You lock your gaze with Jisung’s, his big brown eyes almost trembling as he awaits a reply. And simultaneously, you do your best not to let your guard down too quickly.

“Is this how it unfolded back then, too?” You ask calmly. “When you begged somebody to stay after the first time you made this mistake?”

Jisung’s lips part to say something, but then he’s quiet again, waiting for you to continue, praying for something better than this.

“I think you’re a genius,” you continue. “I think you’re remarkable, and talented, and loving you comes so easily. But you make it hard when you do the same thing to everybody you’ve ever loved.”

“You’re the first woman I’ve ever loved,” Jisung blurts promptly, and a deafening silence falls over the room. He hesitates to continue at this point, fearing as though he’s going to scare you off, but he’s also never verbalized it to you despite thinking about it every waking second of the day, and he’s determined not to form new mistakes he could risk repeating.

“I let it happen back then because music was the only thing I loved,” he explains. “It was a shitty thing, and for so long I struggled to move on because I was still lost in the only thing I ever loved. And then you came along; I don’t need to direct when I have you. I’ll be a teacher- hell, I’ll be a fucking janitor if that’s what you want. You were my sign to move on from repeating the same fucking thing all over again- you are my end.”

Jisung breathes heavily as he finishes, gauging the shocked expression in your trembling eyes. He waits for you to say something, and then without averting your gaze, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to you.

You unfold it slowly, already knowing it by the familiar yellowing color and small printed font- page 256 of his course-assigned textbook, detailing Mozart’s Sonata no. 12, complete with all your annotations alongside his. Only his are no longer visible- they’re crossed out, completely scribbled over in black pen, concealing his call for any form of repetition within the piece. All that remains at the bottom of the page, in the same red pen you first marked in, is a single oval with a cross through it- a coda.

Your gaze meets his after examining the page briefly, surprised he’s kept it after all this time. And then he sags his shoulders a little, gesturing to the page still in your grasp.

“I passed my sign once,” he says sheepishly. “Just please come back to me.”

Jisung doesn’t wait for you to respond this time, instead cupping your cheeks gently with his hands and pulling you in for a passionate kiss, which you don’t hesitate to reciprocate, letting your hands wrap around the back of his neck to pull him even closer to you. His lips work against yours eagerly, but still tenderly, breathing all of his desire back into you and confirming the notion that this is all he’s ever really yearned for.

He smiles into the kiss against you, grazing his thumbs up to wipe stray tears that cascade along your cheeks, and then with one more chaste kiss to your lips, he pulls away once more, chuckling lightly.

“Can we just start over?” He asks you innocently. “No repetition, no secrecy. Just start anew.”

You chuckle lightly at his proposal, nodding in his embrace, and then he pulls away entirely to hold a hand out to you.

“Han Jisung,” he says. “I’m an assistant director for the college band.”

“Y/n,” you respond with a smile, shaking his hand firmly.

“So lovely to meet you- can I interest you in a tour of the gymnasium I work in?”

He throws an arm over your shoulder, beginning down the length of the vast space and gesturing to the walls beside you.

“This is where I yell at students to fix their tempos,” Jisung explains, giving your shoulder a little squeeze as you chuckle in response to him.

“And this is where I tell stories about famous composers and their love lives. Tell me, y/n- do you know the tale of Mozart and Constanze?” He then asks with a smile.

“I can’t say I do,” you play along, earning an exaggerated gasp from him.

“Well then I’d love to tell you all about it. How do you feel about art galleries? There’s one not far from here…”

And Jisung’s hand drops to yours, intertwining your fingers together as he lets himself start anew, alongside who he now knows to have been a sign for him this entire time- a coda, an epilogue, an offer for resolution.

[babybreadddd]

𝐢𝐤𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐢 ; 𝐥𝐦𝐡

🚨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢 𝐟𝐟 𝐢 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐢 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞-𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬. 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬, 𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠… 𝐦𝐞 ;

genre: angst, smut, fluff | 18+, minors dni | ;

wc: around 12,1k ;

cw: non-idol!au ; husband!minho ; explicit sexual content (clit play, unprotected penetration, creampie) ; lots of crying ; infertility ; mentions of an unplanned pregnancy and a pregnancy scare ;

ikigai [ik-ee-guy], 生き甲斐 , japanese : a reason for being, the thing that gets you up in the morning ;

⛅︎

Minho stares at the small, wooden crib in the middle of the room and silently prays to the gods above that he too will get to feel this kind of joy soon. 

He’s happy for his best friend Chan and his wife, he really is, but it’s still hard to watch someone else living his dream and being constantly reminded that it’s not his turn yet, it’s not your turn. He instantly wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer as he fights back the tears that well up in his eyes when Chan picks up the small, whining creature wrapped in a soft yellow blanket from the crib. Chan looks at his baby with a gaze that holds all the love of the world, that much is very clear to Minho, and he keeps wondering what does it feel like, Chan, being a dad? But what he wonders the most, unfortunately, is will I ever get a chance to feel this kind of joy, too, someday? 

That’s a question neither him nor you can give an answer to. 

“Let’s go say hi to uncle Lino and auntie Y/N, shall we?” Chan speaks to the baby in a soft voice, then chuckles when his daughter blinks at him a few times and stirs, snuggled comfortably in her fluffy blanket. “Hi, uncles!” Chan coos at the baby once he’s sure you and Minho are both in her peripheral vision. She’s the cutest. Only a few weeks old, she looks just like her father - she even has his dimple.  

Both you and Minho coo at the baby as well, little Haru, and then Chan speaks again. “Do you want to hold her?” He asks his friend, but when he notices Minho’s panicked expression, he chuckles and looks at you, encouraging you with a nod. 

“Sure,” you smile at him, but Minho senses so much pain behind that smile, and the second little Haneul is in your arms, he already knows what you’re thinking. He notices the way your eyes well up with tears as you hold her and caress her puffy cheek as she stirs and looks at you with her cute, boba eyes. “Hi, Haneul,” you coo at her, “This is your cranky uncle Minho,” you giggle and Haneul’s curious eyes fall on Minho’s face. 

He dramatically gasps, pretending to be offended, “Me? Ah, Haneul, your auntie is a liar, she’s the cranky one,” he boops her little nose, “You don’t want to be around her if she hasn’t had her coffee in the morning.”

“Yah, you little sh-“

“Y/N, please, there’s a baby right here,” Minho scolds you with a playful grin on his face, then his gaze falls back on Haneul, who’s frowning, “See? Cranky, I told you,” he shrugs. Out of the blue, little Haneul bursts into a loud cry that catches Minho off guard. 

“Okay, enough time with the uncles,” Chan chuckles as he takes her in his arms, cooing and rocking her as he hums a soft tune, “Yah, Minho, you made my baby cry, ah.” When he notices Minho’s panicked expression, he just chuckles again and says, “Relax dude, I’m kidding. She’s just hungry.”

Will I be a good dad?,Minho can’t help but think as he watches Haneul relax in her father’s arms, her cute eyes light up when she sees the small bottle of milk. Will I be able to calm my child like that? Understand their needs, be their safe place?

“She’s so cute,” you murmur only for Minho to hear, “I want a baby, Minho…” he doesn’t miss the way your voice cracks, and he’s quick to wrap his arm around your waist to pull you closer. 

“Oh, jagi, I know,” he kisses you on the head, “I do, too.” His voice breaks as well, and it’s your turn to hug him now, caressing his back as you both watch Chan feed his daughter as he says something to the guys, Changbin and Felix, sitting next to him, watching the baby in awe. 

“I think I… I think I’d be a good mom?” Your voice comes out as a question, full of doubts, and he hears you sniffle, but you’re not looking at him - you know you’ll break down if your eyes meet his. 

He kisses you on the top of your head once more and lingers. “You’ll be a great mom. You’ll be the best mom in the world, jagi,” he whispers, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. 

He wants to reassure you, tell you everything’s gonna be okay and that soon you’ll have the family you’ve dreaming of for years, that you’ll finally be a mom and he’ll be a dad, but he can’t. How is he supposed to make a promise he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep? It’s not something he can control, it’s not something either of you can control. He feels so hopeless, like he’s failing you in some way, not being able to give you what you want the most. 

You’ve been trying to get pregnant for a while now - a couple of years already, nearly three. 

The decision was mutual and came natural for the both of you - you moved in together when you were still in college, and it didn’t take long before the two of you started having baby fever, dreaming of the perfect mix of you and Minho running around the house. You decided to wait until after graduation. College came and went, and just like that, you and Minho started trying for a baby. A baby that never came. 

You’ve always wanted to become a mother. Minho, though, never fully realized how much he wanted to be a dad until he met you. Give you a child, a family, raise your little bundle of joy together, family vacations, the holidays together, him dressing up as Santa on Christmas Eve… He wants all of this, and he wants it with you. It wouldn’t make sense with anyone else - you’re the love of his life, his soulmate. 

“I love you so much, Minho,” you whisper, turning to look at him. 

He sees your teary eyes and wishes he could take the pain away, “I love you too, jagi.”

⛅︎

It’s familiar, but never fails to take your breath away, the feeling of Minho’s fingers on your skin - his long fingers brushing your body, making a shiver run down your spine as you arch your back under his touch. His lips are wrapped around one of your nipples, licking and sucking your hardened bud, occasionally scraping it using his teeth - his thrusts inside of you are slow and deep, his pace is steady, his movements fluid. 

His eyes are closed, small huffs coming out of his nostrils and he fists the bedsheets as he rocks his hips back and forth, steadily. His body blankets you, making you feel perfectly safe in his embrace. As he feels close to reaching his orgasm, he lets go of your nipple, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. He shifts his weight on his elbow, placed on the side of your head, then you feel his other hand travel all the way through your body - his calloused fingers brush the side of your breast, then your stomach, then they briefly stroke your thigh, before you feel them on your pussy. Minho brushes your labia, hissing when he feels how beautifully your lips spread to welcome his length - only when his fingers are damp, pads entirely wet with your arousal, he touches your clit. 

“I’m- ‘m close, jagi… ‘m about to cum,” he chokes on his own words, rubbing your bud a bit faster, drawing tight, imaginary circles on it, the way he knows you like it. 

“‘M close too, please don’t stop,” you pant. Your toes begin to curl, and your thighs start to tremble as your breathing becomes more and more labored. “So close, so close,” you chant, whimpering under him, which encourages him to continue - it doesn’t matter if his wrist is starting to feel a bit swollen. 

He releases inside of you with a choked moan, filling you up with his semen - only after making sure you’ve come, too, of course. In fact, the feeling of your tight walls squeezing him, clenching around him, is what pushes him off the edge in the first place. The awareness that he’s the only one who gets you to feel you this way, to see this side of you - he feels so damn lucky. 

“I love you so much, my jagi,” Minho mumbles, his words are muffled against your skin. 

You catch your breath, running your hand through Minho’s dark hair, pulling it back from his forehead and face once he lifts his head to meet your gaze. His brown, boba eyes, are full blown as he stares deep inside your soul - he already knows what you’re thinking. He knows you so well, better than anyone else.

“I love you, Min,” you smile at him, but he can see the pain you’re trying to hide behind that smile, and it kills him. 

He shifts his body so that he gets off of you, careful not to cause you any discomfort nor pain as he  pulls out of you, not without pecking your lips once more, lingering for a bit. He lets his body fall on the mattress, his chest rising and falling quickly as he comes down his high. When he feels you move, he knows what’s about to happen next. You grab a pillow, his, because it’s thicker, and place it under your spine and back. Then, you lift your legs all the way up, resting your heels and calves on the wall. It’s supposed to work, they say -  help the reproductive system and increase your chances to get pregnant or whatever. You’re not really sure it’s true, though - you’ve been doing it for years and haven’t noticed any changes, and you most definitely haven’t gotten pregnant yet. 

Minho’s heart cracks a little when he hears you sigh. He runs his calloused fingers through your hair, smiles when he feels you lean in to his touch. “I’m gonna take a shower, okay?” He asks, and you nod. He leaves the room, disappearing inside the bathroom and hopping in the shower, shivering when the cold water hits his bare skin. 

He immediately notices something’s off with you when he returns to the bedroom - the way you quickly wipe your cheeks and the skin under your eyes gives away that you cried. His breath gets caught in his throat at the sight. As soon as you witness his presence in the room, you quickly sit up on the bed and smile at him - it’s a fake smile, he knows that, he knows you. Then, it’s your turn to hop in the shower while he changes the cum stained sheets and pillowcases. While he’s at it, he pulls out a clean pajamas for you to wear once you’re done. 

You’re quiet when you come back in the bedroom, and also when he blow-dries your hair - fidgeting with your rings or with your nails, lifting off the acrylic until one accidentally breaks and you cuss under your breath. You’re also quiet when you slip under the covers, next to him, throwing one leg over his lap and resting your head on his chest as his cologne fills your nostrils. You’re quiet… too quiet - unusually quiet. Minho hates it, he wishes you’d open up to him, tell you what’s going on inside your head, and then he hears it - a faint sniffle. 

And his heart cracks once again as his own eyes well up with tears. He pulls you closer, kissing you on the top of your head. 

“You know you can tell me anything, right, jagi?” Minho asks you, praying that his tone won’t betray him, praying that you won’t notice he’s on the verge of tears as well. He wants to be strong for you. 

You nod weakly, without uttering a single word, and he hugs you tighter. That causes you to burst into tears. Minho promptly wraps his arms around you, shifting so that your face is pressed against his chest as his hands pat and rub your back to soothe you, in hopes to get you to stop crying. “Shh, it’s okay, jagi, it’s okay. I’m here, hm?”

It takes you a while to finally calm down and stop crying. Minho doesn’t let go of you until you do. He doesn’t stop leaving kisses on your head, he doesn’t stop whispering soft words to you. 

“Min… Minho,” your voice trembles, muffled by his t-shirt. You sniffle, but don’t lift your head, incapable to look at him right now, especially since you’re about to tell him that… 

“Tell me, jagi,” Minho encourages you, speaking with a soft voice, toying with the ends of your hair, “talk to me, love.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, hugging him tighter as you fight back the tears. “Minho, why don’t we…” you take a deep breath, fisting his t-shirt, “why don’t we… take a break?”

Minho freezes. He’s not even sure if he’s breathing anymore at this point. 

“A break? From… from us?” It comes out as a whisper. His heart aches. He feels numb. He can’t lose you. 

“No, no!” You shake your head as a no quickly, and feel him sighing out of relief. And then - “From… from trying…” you clarify, the tears finally escaping from your eyes. 

Minho feels as if his heart just stopped beating in his chest. He blinks a couple of times, furrowing his eyebrows, breathing slowly. He feels a void in his chest he’s never felt before… you want to give up. He knows there’s nothing he can say to make the situation any better - it makes him feel terrible, hopeless, useless, worthless.

“Jagi…” his voice trembles, lips quivering. He holds you closer to his chest, wishing he could take away all your pain even though his own is eating him too. He doesn’t say anything else, respecting your decision. He bites on his lip so hard he can almost taste blood in his mouth, inhaling and exhaling through his nostrils. 

You’d started trying for a baby as soon as you’d graduated, and then Minho’d proposed to you. 

The two of you would fall asleep in each other’s arms, listing all the possible ways you could name your daughter or son. And then you’d go to bed wondering how your child would look - who would they resemble, you or Minho? Would they have his pretty boba eyes? Or maybe his perfect nose?

These thoughts hurt now. They’re not happy thoughts anymore, there’s no joy nor hope left in them, only pain.

“I don’t want to go through this again, Min…” you sniffle, “I just… I feel so hopeful every time I’m late and then… and then the hope just gets crushed whenever I see that single line on the test,” you sigh, swallowing the lump in your throat. A couple of tears slip from Minho’s eyes. “I just don’t want to feel this pain anymore, Min… it breaks my heart.”

And it breaks his heart as well, seeing you like this. He wishes he could ease all the pain, take it all away, put it all on his shoulders and carry it for you. He can do that. 

It’s when you feel something wet on your forehead that it becomes clear to you that Minho, too, is crying - his body is shaking weakly, it’s so subtle you almost don’t notice it at first. He sniffles when you hug him tighter, nuzzling your face in his t-shirt, kissing his chest. He feels terrible, he feels hopeless. He feels like he failed you in every possible way.  

“Jagi, I’m… ‘m sorry,” his words come out through shaky breaths. He pulls you closer, hugs you tighter. He doesn’t want to let go. “I’m so sorry, I… I want to give you the world, my jagi, I want to give you the family we’ve been dreaming of for so long…”

You lift your head to look at him, but he just buries his face deeper in the pillow. It’s a delicate moment for him, for the both of you, and he feels so vulnerable right now. There’s nothing wrong with that, but Minho prefers to deal with his emotions by himself, and you know that. All you can do for now is be by his side and love him unconditionally, like you always did. 

“I love you so much, Min…” you place a soft kiss on his jawline, hiding your face in the crook of his neck as the tears keep streaming down his face and he’s unable to stop them. “You make me the happiest. It’s just… it’s just all too much sometimes, you know? Let’s take a break for a while, maybe we’re just too stressed about this.”

He nods softly, but your words don’t ease the pain he’s feeling. They don’t fill the void in his heart. 

“Anything for you, jagiya.”

⛅︎

Chan’s wife is pregnant. Again. Their baby is not even six months old and yet Chan’s wife is pregnant with their second child. 

Minho hopes it’s a joke, but he feels his knees give in nonetheless when his older friend delivers the news to him. It can’t be possible. He blinks rapidly a few times, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’d misheard his friend. Maybe he was distracted and misunderstood what Chan was trying to say, yeah?

“Yeah, she’s… she’s pregnant,” Chan repeats, and a wide smile spreads on his face. Minho’s heart aches, hit breath hitches. “A couple of months already, actually,” he looks and sounds genuinely over the moon, “can’t believe this cutie right here is gonna be a big sister soon,” he coos at the small baby in his arms before kissing her forehead. 

Minho feels bad. He wants to be happy for his friend, he really does, but… he can’t stop thinking about you. About how crushed you’re going to be when you find out. Because if Chan told him and the guys then his wife must’ve told you and the other girlfriends, right? A part of him hopes she didn’t, but he knows it’s just a wishful thinking, his. You’re going to be devastated - hell, you probably are already. 

And you are. 

Chan’s wife announces her second pregnancy with the brightest smile you’ve ever seen, pulling out the ultrasound from her bag, and you hate yourself for not being able to be happy for her. You are happy, it’s not that. However, it’s a bittersweet feeling, yours. You feel like the worst friend ever, because while the other girls are all happily squeaking and clapping their hands as they scoot closer to try to get a better look at the picture - you stay exactly where you are, your gaze lost, as your heart pounds in your chest.

“Oh! I didn’t know you and Chan were trying again,” Changbin’s wife congratulates her with a hug. She sounds so happy, they all do. You fake a smile, the void in your chest has never hurt so bad. 

“Oh we… we weren’t,” Chan’s wife admits with her cheeks slightly pink. Your heart drops, your hands start to shake. You feel your throat closing, you find it harder to breathe now. “We haven’t been exactly careful, you know? So I just knew there could be a chance and, well… here we are.”

They weren’t even trying. It just… happened. Why couldn’t it just happen to you and Minho? Why did you have to go through the heartbreak of seeing that stupid, single line on that plastic stick every month? All the vitamins, the keeping track of your ovulation cycle, the blood tests and medical checkups… It just happened, to them. They weren’t careful. They weren’t trying, it was just a coincidence. One day they fucked without a condom and then oops, pregnant, again. 

“We weren’t sure if we, uh… If we wanted to keep it at first,” Chan’s wife says, and you nearly drop the cup in your hands as your heartbeat picks up its pace, “but we’ve talked a lot about it and we think we’re ready.”

You need air. You can’t breathe. It hurts too much. You need to leave.

⛅︎

Something’s off with Minho when he comes home. He takes his clothes off and changes into his pajamas without uttering a single word. When he slips under the covers, he’s still quiet. You know him, you’ve known him for years - you sense there’s something on his mind. He’s usually like this whenever he’s had a bad day at work. He still puts his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer, kissing the top of your head, and you can hear him sigh. 

And you feel the exact same way. 

“Min…” you mumble, scooting even closer, resting your head on his chest. 

“My jagi…” he makes himself comfortable, the pads of his calloused fingers gently brushing the skin of your arm. That’s when he hears you sniffle, and his eyebrows furrow. “Hey, hey now, what’s up?” He asks you, placing two fingers under your chin to lift your head and meet your eyes. They’re watery. 

“It’s… it’s nothing, it’s just-“ your voice trembles, and you can’t stop the tears from falling from your eyes as Minho’s stare deep into your soul, “she’s…”

You don’t have to finish the sentence you started, because he already knows what you’re talking about - who. Your face is completely wet, and you keep sobbing and sniffling, and his eyes instantly widen as he sits on the bed with his back against the headboard, taking you with him. You wrap your hands around his wrists as he wipes the tears from your face with his thumbs. Once he’s finished, he kisses the tip of your nose. 

“I know,” Minho whispers, kissing your forehead. “I know, jagi, I know. I’m so sorry,” he says, even though you both know it’s not his fault. 

His arms wrap around your waist and pulls you closer so that your face is hidden in his neck, not caring at all about the fact that you’re soaking his shirt with your tears. He then starts toying with the ends of your hair, knowing it’s something that never fails to relax you. Back in college, he’d play with your hair for hours as you stressed over your exams, holding you tight exactly as he’s doing now. 

“It- it wasn’t even planned, Min,” you cry, and Minho can hear the way your heart breaks. “It’s just… why us, Minho? We’ve been trying for years…” 

Minho can’t answer your question. Technically, it’s no one’s fault, no one is responsible for your fate. 

“They- oh God, they weren’t even sure they wanted to keep it,” you sob into his chest, and Minho flinches because Chan didn’t tell him that. He can’t imagine how you must have felt, how you must feel - well, he can, but at the same time he knows that no matter how similar you feel about this situation, you’re handling it in two entirely different ways. 

As much as it pains him too, he knows he has to be strong for you. “Oh, jagi…” his hand moves up and down your back to soothe you, although it doesn’t really work. “I know how you’re feeling right now, believe me, but… it’s not their fault,” Minho says calmly, “they don’t know about our- I mean, they can’t know about us,” he rephrases what he originally wanted to say, avoiding to mention the word problem or issue. 

“I know. It doesn’t make me feel any better, though,” you mumble in his chest. 

The silence of your bedroom never felt heavier. You and Minho are both lost in your thoughts, still holding each other tightly, because each other is the only thing you’ve got left. You have only Minho, and he has only you - you and, well, the cats. His family. Your family. You wonder if it’s enough for him, if he’s content with his life as it is now or if he’s yearning for more. You wonder if you’re enough for him, if you’ll be enough for him. 

“Minho?” You call his name softly, your voice sounding incredibly small as it breaks the silence. You don’t look at him as you speak, your head stays buried in his chest, your arms around him. You’re scared that looking him in the eye might be too much for you, and that you’ll end up putting off asking him what you want to ask him. “Would you still love me? If I… if I couldn’t have kids, I mean,” your heart thrums in your ears as you speak, “what I’m saying is… would you still think I’m enough?” You toy with your promise ring and wedding band as you ask him the painful question, your worst nightmare, the thought that keeps you awake at night.

Minho’s body freezes under yours, and he blinks a couple of times while staring at an indefinite spot far away while he tries to process your words and their meaning. The more he repeats your questions inside his head, though, the less sense they make to him and the more absurd they sound. 

“Jagiya,” he says, sounding almost as if he’s scolding you or something. “You’re the love of my life,” he states in all seriousness, and he means it. 

His answer, however, is not enough for you. You need to know. 

“Minho, I’m serious.”

Minho was never the type to openly talk about his feelings, but he feels safe with you, and he knows he can tell you anything. It’s how vulnerable it makes him feels, what he dislikes about opening up to other people. It always made him feel kind of stupid, but you managed to change that throughout the years. You showed him you’re by his side no matter what, and you’ll never think any less of him. He loves talking to you. Sometimes, it’s all you do - you’d spend hours curled up on the couch or in bed, talking about your day or literally anything else. Minho wouldn’t change it for the world. The feeling of having you in his arms as he rests his head on your shoulders is everything he needs, the only thing that keeps him sane. 

“I’m being serious, too,” Minho sighs. “You’re the love of my life,” he repeats with a seriousness that makes you shiver. “I told you after five months of dating, I told you the night I proposed and I told you on the altar when we got married. I tell you every day. It’s not just words to me, I mean it,” he unwraps his arms from around your waist to cup your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. 

“Minho…”

“No, listen to me,” his tone is much softer now as his watery boba eyes meet yours. “I love you,” he says with a disarming sincerity - it takes you off guard. “You changed my life completely, y/n. I wouldn’t be half the man I am now if you weren’t by my side. I’m completely and utterly in love with you, so no,” his gaze is fixed on your eyes, “you’re not enough. You’re more than enough, you’re everything I could possibly ask for and so, so much more.”

“Min…”

“You know, there’s a Japanese word: ikigai.”

“What?”

“Ikigai. Now, I could brag about my master in Japanese and explain its etymology, but I won’t,” Minho chuckles. “It’s a word that literally means ‘one’s reason to get out of the bed every day’, it’s your life purpose,” Minho takes your hands in his, brushing your knuckles with his lips. “You’re my life purpose, jagiya. You’re my ikigai.”

Tears are streaming down your face, and you sniffle a couple of times. Minho brings his hands on your shoulders and rubs your skin to soothe you as a warm smile spreads over his delicate features. You raise your hand to cup his cheek, then place a single, soft kiss on his lips. They taste like home - he’s your home. That’s why you’re so scared of losing him. 

“Pf, silly girl, asking if you’re enough,” Minho shakes his head playfully, feigning offence. Wrapping his arm around your waist, he pulls you closer, and you rest your face in the crook of his neck and leave another kiss there.

There’s something different in the way he holds you now, though. His body swiftly becomes rigid, and he gulps, almost as if he’d gotten swamped with a sudden thought. A thought that terrifies him. 

You see, Minho was never one too sure of himself. Insecure is not how you would describe him, though. It’s a strange way to put it, but Minho believes in his capacities and abilities, and most of all in the person that he is. He never really doubted your feelings for him, not even at the beginning of your relationship when you barely knew each other - and, most definitely, not when you were exchanging your vows at the altar. Minho is one hundred percent sure you love him. The question running through his head is, however, for how long. For how long will you love him, before realizing that he’s the one who’s not enough for you? That he’s the one who failed you? That he’s the one who couldn’t give you the family you so desperately wanted? 

Minho needs you more than he needs the air to breathe. He can’t lose you, you’re his home, his everything. 

“Min?” You murmur, voice muffled in his skin - soft and with a musky scent, that reminds you of his body wash. “Are you okay?” Your voice is soft, even though you’re trying to hide the turmoil in your heart. 

What if another man could give you what you want? A baby. A family. A future. What if he just… can’t? Before he knows it, Minho is crying - a broken sob leaving his soft lips. You immediately pull away, lifting your head to look at him. His cheeks are stained with tears, and a few more are running down his face. Minho closes his eyes when you wipe them off with your thumbs, kissing each one of his cheeks afterwards.

“Min, what’s up? What’s wrong?”

“What if… what if it’s me?” He asks with a broken voice after a few seconds spent in silence. 

“What if it’s you what?” You ask him, not fully grasping the meaning behind his question. 

Part of him wants to brush it off and forget about the intrusive thought that has been bugging him for a while now, but deep down he knows he needs to talk this through with you. You’re the only one who can give him the answers he’s so desperately seeking. 

“What if it’s me… the one who… What if you can’t get pregnant because you’re incompatible with me? What if one day you wake up and realize that you could have so much more with somebody else and- and instead you’re just here… wasting your time with me?”

You feel like your heart just shattered into a million pieces, maybe more. Maybe it just broke into countless of tiny, little pieces that are even imperceptible to the naked eye. You can’t believe you’ve made him feel like this, that you let him believe that having a family - no, getting pregnant, is more important than him. He’s your family, has always been. 

“Pf, silly boy, thinking I’m wasting my time with you,” you try to joke the same way he did minutes earlier, but deep down you’re shocked. 

“I’m… I’m serious, jagiya.” You hate how broken he sounds. 

“So am I,” you crack a smile, kissing the tip of his nose. “Remember when you bumped into me during lunch break back in college? And I spilled my coffe all over your white t-shirt?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Minho asks. He remembers everything vividly. If he closes his eyes, he can almost relieve it inside his head. That’s when you met. 

“That’s when we met,” you smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. “It was also the day I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Minho is beyond confused. “Why?” 

“You were so kind to me even though it was one hundred percent my fault. Your t-shirt was so expensive, too,” you chuckle at the memory, running your hand through his hair, gently tugging at its ends as you keep staring into his beautiful, brown boba eyes. “But you didn’t get angry at me, you just smiled and brushed it off with a shrug.”

“And then I asked you out.”

You nod, smiling. “And then you asked me out. On a coffee date, ironically enough.”

Minho giggles. He nuzzles your nose with his. “We had so much fun, too… You were just so cute, I was whipped for you already. I couldn’t wait to see you again,” he tells you, and then he pecks your lips. 

“Me neither,” you smile back. “I spent the whole time glued to my phone waiting for you to text. You made me the happiest. You make me the happiest,” you correct. 

“Still?”

“Minho, you’re all I ever wanted, all I’ll ever need,” you cup his face in your hands. “You and the cats are the most important thing in my life. You’re my… what was that Japanese word you just said?”

He chuckles. “Ikigai.” 

“Ikigai,” you repeat with a nod, “you’re my ikigai, too. Have always been.”

Minho lets out a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding. He pulls you closer, and it’s his turn now to hide his face in your neck as a few more tears fall from his eyes, drenching your pajama shirt. You keep him close to your body with your legs on each side of his hips while your hands toy with the ends of his hair. You’d missed having him this close to you - not only physically, but also emotionally. You needed to have this talk with him, it really was therapeutic and regenerating for the both of you. 

“You’re my Minho,” you mumble in his hair, leaving a kiss there. “And I love you so much.”

Minho shouldn’t be getting hard right now. It’s an emotional night for the both of you, and he truly is fine with things not escalating at all between the two of you, especially since you said you wanted to take a break from trying. There have been physical encounters between the two of you since then, but you never really went all the way - the pressure’s just too much, but you’re both content either way. 

“Oops, sorry,” Minho mumbles on your skin, and then he places his hands on your hips to gently push you off his lap, afraid that it might make you uncomfortable to feel him there. But you stop him, wrapping your fingers around his wrists. He immediately lifts his head to meet your eyes, his eyebrows are furrowed. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, “I… I want you, Minho. I need you.”

When he kisses your lips, it’s gentle and lustful at the same time - as if he’s scared to touch you in fear you’ll break under his touch. His hands grip your hips, toying with the hem of your shirt as you slowly grind on his lap. Eyes fluttering shut, Minho deepens the kiss, letting his tongue lick your lower lip, and then your mouth - he lets his hand wander underneath your shirt, brushing your stomach, then your back and then up, up, up to your shoulders. 

“You’re so soft,” Minho murmurs on your lips, “your lips are so soft. And you’re so warm, I missed feeling you, having you in my arms like this…” 

Kisses on your cheeks, kisses on your jawline and behind your ear, kisses on your neck. Minho knows every spot - he knows exactly where to touch you, where to put his lips, how to make you fold like a piece of paper. His thumbs brush the soft skin underneath your breasts, and then the side - you hiss when he brushes your nipples with a delicacy and a reverence only he has. What Minho doesn’t say with words, he shows you through his actions and physical affection, worshipping your body as if  

“I missed you, too,” you mumble, running your hands up and down his back over the clothes. 

“Off,” Minho mutters under his breath, lips latched on your neck, “can I take this off?” He asks for permission, tugging at your shirt. You nod. 

His calloused fingers grab its end, and he’s rapid to take it off you, letting it slide over your head before letting it fall on the bed. The same things happen to his t-shirt. And then your chests are pressed together, as Minho resumes kissing you. His body shifts on the mattress so that he’s now lying on his back, dragging your body with his - he doesn’t stop kissing you. Your hands are all over him - in his hair, on his shoulders, his hips. You just cannot stop touching him. 

Both your pajama pants come off in a few seconds, getting tangled somewhere under the bedsheets. You’re naked now, your most private and intimate parts pressed together. Minho’s hands grope your asscheeks, and as a reflex you grind yourself on him, making his hard cock throb and leak pre-cum. He smirks against your skin, and bites your lip. 

“I love you,” Minho whispers on your lips as his fingers come to wrap around the base of his length, spreading his own arousal all over his tip. He lets his cockhead slide up and down your folds a couple of times, maybe more, and he’s surprised by how wet you are already. All for him. Ready to take him like he’s ready to have you. 

“I love you, Min,” you whisper, and he pushes inside, breaching your walls deliciously. 

He fills you up slowly, savouring the way your heat engulfs him wholly as his eyes flutter shut as huffs of air fall from his lips. He missed you, he missed you so much - that’s what he keeps thinking as he sinks into you over and over and over again, thrusting from underneath you, meeting the sweet rocking of your hips. Wrapping his arm around your waist, he pulls you even closer. 

“Close… I missed having you so close to me… missed making love to you.”

Helping you move up and down his length slowly, the way it makes both your heads spin, it doesn’t take long before your orgasms start to build up. You sigh and breathe and pant on top of him, trying to keep as quiet as possible to not wake your neighbors up. Minho himself is trying to hold back the moans and whimpers that threaten to leave his lips - his chest rises and falls quickly, though. Minho pulls a strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear, then cups your cheek as he stares into your eyes. You clench around him, hard and harder, until your whole body trembles. 

“Min… Min,” you whimper, trying to focus on his movements solely as the tip of his cock brushes your g-spot with delicacy, “‘m close.”

“Baby… my sweet baby, cum,” Minho encourages you, and it’s enough to make you lose control, “let go for me.”

When you finish, it’s with a cry of his name, as your whole body shakes and trembles with force. Minho holds you tight as he continues to move inside of you, a few thrusts away from reaching his orgasm as well. A couple of precise and rough thrusts send him over the edge, and he’s quick to place his hands under your thighs and lift your hips, slipping out of your wet heat right before he spills his seed, finishing on his stomach instead. For a couple of seconds you’re confused about why he pulled out, but then you remember your conversation from a few weeks ago, and your face drops instantly, but you don’t let him see it. Instead, you quickly get up from the bed and run to the bathroom to grab Minho a warm towel to clean himself. 

⛅︎

Chan had had an idea - babysitting. More specifically, you and Minho babysitting their baby so him and his wife could go out on a night date. 

Bang Haneul is an utterly adorable baby. She’s got her father’s smile and his eyes, but the puffy cheeks are definitely her mother’s. She never really cries or whines, only when she’s hungry - and most of the time, she’d look at you and Minho with curious eyes, tilting her head to the side, probably wondering who you are, and where are her parents. She smiles at Minho when he sings to her, and even claps her little hands. 

“She totally loves me,” Minho smiles at her, holding Haneul in his arms. He boops her little nose, earning a giggle from her. “I’m your favorite uncle, aren’t I?” He coos at her, “don’t tell me it’s uncle Binnie, please. He’s too loud, isn’t he?”

“You’re just as loud,” you chuckle, smiling at the sight before your eyes. 

Minho glares at you playfully. “Pf, please,” he waves his hand at you as if you just said nonsense, “I’m her favorite uncle, I know that already. See the way she looks at me?”

“You fed her yogurt this afternoon, of course she loves you,” you roll your eyes at him. 

“And a peach,” Minho adds, “mashed nice and well for this little princess,” he coos at little Haneul, and she giggles at him, patting Minho’s cheek with her small hand. 

Minho would be an amazing dad - patient, loving, caring, and so thoughtful. You watch him in awe, from the floor where you’re sitting on Haneul’s play mat, surrounded by her colourful toys. Minho notices you’re staring at him, and he smiles back at you, as he carefully sits down next to you, with Haneul in his arms. 

“You wanna go to aunty Y/N? Yeah?” He asks the baby as he watches her stretching her little arms in your direction as soon as you enter her peripheral vision. 

Haneul’s eyes light up when you take her in your arms and smile at her. “Hi,” you coo at her, softly caressing her puffy cheek. Minho scoots closer, resting his head on your shoulder, where he leaves a kiss. 

The precious and soft moment is interrupted by the sound of rattling keys and the front door swinging open. Naturally, it’s Chan and his wife. Haneul in your lap wiggles and squeaks as soon as she spots her parents, stretching her arms out to them. 

“Hi, my baby,” Chan smiles brightly at her daughter, rushing to where the three of you are with open arms, ready to take her into his arms and hold her. “I’ve missed you so much, you know that? You missed me? You missed daddy?” He kisses his daughter’s forehead and nuzzles her cheek with his nose. 

“Did she give you a hard time?” Chan’s girlfriend asks you, smiling at you as she sits on the couch. 

You shake your head as a no, and Minho does the same. “Nope, not at all. She’s a true angel.”

“I wonder if baby number two is going to be so calm and peaceful, too,” Chan thinks out loud, glancing at his girlfriend’s stomach even though she’s barely showing. 

“Sorry if we ruined your plans for the day by asking you to look after Haneul,” Chan’s girlfriend says, looking at you and Minho, “maybe you wanted to be alone tonight… Sorry if we asked you last minute, but my friend bailed on us last minute and we didn’t know who to ask.” 

“Yeah, the rest of the boys was busy tonight,” Chan adds, “well, Jeongin and his girlfriend were technically free, too, but… I mean, they’re still babies,” he chuckles. 

“Ah, it’s no problem, really,” Minho nods at his hyung, “we enjoy spending time with Haneul. She’s the cutest.”

“She really is, my cute baby,” Chan pouts, kissing his daughter’s cheek lovingly. “She looks just like her dad,” he jokes, looking at his wife with a mischievous grin. 

She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I can’t even argue with him, he’s right. It’s not fair, though, I carried her for nine months and she looks like a carbon copy of her father,” she pouts, “I hope baby number two will look like me, at least a bit.”

“You know,” Chan starts, focused on playing with Haneul as she squeezes her father’s hand, “I read somewhere that if the first child is a boy, then he’ll look like his mother, and if she’s a girl she’ll look like her dad,” he says. 

“How do you know it’s not just a casualty?” Minho asks his friend, genuinely curious. 

“I don’t,” Chan shrugs, kissing the top of Haneul’s head. “Hey, why don’t you and y/n have a baby? We can test the theory,” he jokes, but both you and Minho freeze, “I think it’d make a great uncle, wouldn’t I?”

“Chan!” His wife scolds him. “Yah, mind your own business! You’re so nosy, aish…” she giggles.

“Hey, it was just a suggestion! Plus, I think Haneul would love a little cousin to play with, yeah?” He asks his baby, but she just raises her head to look at her dad confused. 

And if either of them notices the way you and Minho are sitting there uncomfortably, with fake smiles plastered on your faces - they don’t comment on it. 

⛅︎

The water feels warm on your skin, the perfect temperature. Yours and Minho’s clothes are scattered on the floor, his black socks are the last thing to reach the pile of fabric by the shower, and the next thing you know he’s opening the glass door, stepping inside right behind you. The water hits his body, rivulets running down his chest, back and legs - his hair is wet and stuck to his face. He wraps his arm around your waist, and you turn to face him. He smiles at you, tucking your wet hair behind your ear with his other hand, and then he leans in to kiss your wet lips. You both had a long day today, and really need to relax and blow some steam off - a hot shower is the perfect solution for that. 

“You’re so cute like this,” Minho chuckles, “your hair looks funny.”

You narrow your eyes at him, smirking. Then you playfully slap his shoulder. “Cute? Funny? Your wife is currently naked in the shower with you. Aren’t I supposed to be, I don’t know, hot?” 

“But you’re always hot.”

You roll your eyes at him, “kiss-ass.” 

Minho chuckles. “I mean it! You’re always hot to me, but you’re also cute and funny. You’re, like, the whole package. I hit the jackpot with you,” he shrugs. 

You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “I stand by what I said: kiss-ass.”

Minho chuckles, then he pulls you in for a kiss. You thought it’d be a quick peck, but you soon feel his tongue on your mouth. And then you feel something poke you, so you lower your head. “Oh.”

When you lift your gaze, Minho is smirking. “I told you I always think you’re hot.”

Sex in the shower is not something that happens too often between you and Minho, and it’s a shame. You wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss as well, and he doesn’t hesitate to push your body against the wall delicately, making sure he doesn’t hurt you by softening the impact with his arms and hands. You whimper in his mouth, but it’s a whimper of pleasure. His length is rock hard between his legs, now pressed on your stomach, already leaking pre-cum because of how aroused he is. 

“Need you,” Minho mumbles on your skin, kissing your neck, then your jawline and lowering his head until his kisses reach your collarbone, “need you now. Need to make you mine.”

“Take me. Minho, take me.”

Minho grunts. Then, he’s turning your body around so that he’s now facing your naked back. The palm of your hands are pressed against the cold tiles, and you hiss under your breath - but when you feel Minho’s hot lips start kissing your shoulders, you can’t bring yourself to care about anything else except him. Him and how much you crave his touch, to feel his hands on yours as he fucks into you slowly. 

One of his hands comes to rest on your hip, where he draws imaginary circles with the pad of his thumb, while the other one slides between your slightly parted legs. Minho hisses and rests his forehead against your nape once he feels how wet you are already - and not because of the water. He plays with your sex - rubbing your clit gently at first, and then running his fingers up and down your folds. Meanwhile, he bites and sucks on the skin of your shoulders, pressing your body further against the tiles. You arch your back as you feel him slide his cockhead up and down your entrance, coating it in your wet arousal. He holds his breath as he penetrates you, excruciatingly slow. He bottoms out inside of you - until his chest is pressed flat against your back, and you feel his hot breath on your skin. He places one hand on your hip, and presses his other palm flat against the bathroom tiles. 

“Feel so full,” you mumble, breathing heavily. 

The warm water, Minho inside of you, his body all over yours - it all feels so intense, your head is spinning already and he’s barely moved inside of you, only giving a couple of thrusts to give you the time to get adjusted. 

It’s primal, the way he presses your body against the wall as he fucks you nice and deep, slowly, allowing you to feel him completely inside of you in the intimacy of your shower, of your home. You sway your hips back and forth, meeting the movements of his hips. He’s not able to reach your g-spot perfectly from this angle, so he moves his hand from your hips to the sensitive spot between your legs - he’ll make you cum this way tonight. While rubbing your clit ever so gently, he nibbles your ear, and you can clearly hear him panting heavily. 

“You’re so hot,” Minho compliments you, while continuing to thrust inside of you. “I want you all the time, it’s surreal. I’m so in love with you,” he rambles, the words falling from his mouth freely, automatically, “make me so hard.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you can feel your impending orgasm about to wash all over you. Minho knows exactly how to touch you, he always manages to make you cum so effortlessly. “Minho, I’m… I’m close.”

It always manages to make his head spin. He doesn’t change its pace, nor the direction of his movements on your most sensitive spot, and in a matter of seconds, your kicking your head back while calling his name desperately, releasing around him. Minho places his hand on top of yours, intertwining your fingers with his as he chases his own orgasm, rutting his hips against yours. And just like the last couple of times you had sex, his intent is to pull out right before finishing - this time, you don’t let him. 

“Don’t,” you beg, moving your arms behind your back to grab Minho’s ass, squeezing the flesh, “don’t pull out this time.”

Minho doesn’t really have a chance to ask you what’s going on, because as soon as he opens his mouth he’s cut off by his orgasm, that catches him completely off guard. Hearing you sound so desperate for him does it for him every time. He cums, filling you up to the brim - there’s so much of it that it begins to leak out of you, dripping down your inner thighs as Minho stays buried deep inside of you. 

“‘M sorry, I… you caught me off guard, I should have-“ he starts rambling, but you interrupt him.

“Minho, stop,” you mumble, “I asked you not to pull out. It’s okay.”

“But you said-“

“I know what I said. But really, it’s okay. I wanted it.”

Minho nods, but part of him feels guilty nonetheless. Gently, he pulls out of you, stepping under the direct stream of water, that cleans him off of his own cum. You turn around to look at him and do the same, letting the water wash away the proof of his orgasm off your body. Minho quietly grabs the bottle of shampoo, squirting a generous amount on his hands. 

“Turn around, jagiya. Let me take care of you.”

⛅︎

Dori’s behavior is weird today. 

He hasn’t left your side since Minho left for work earlier - he’d remained by your side the whole time, mostly cuddled on your lap or sprawled on your stomach as you slept. And then he meowed every time you tried to get up, begging you with his little eyes to pick him up so he could be as close to you as possible. 

And he’s resting in your lap even now, as you sit on the couch with your book in your hands, and has no intentions to get up, not even when he hears the sound of rattling keys - a clear signal that Minho’s home. Minho steps inside your place and Dori simply tilts his little head to the side. 

“Daddy’s home, baby,” you coo at the small pet, patting his head, “go say hi. You missed him lots today.”

“He missed me?” Minho asks, sounding pretty confused. His pet doesn’t get up. 

“Well, I thought so,” you put your book away, lifting your head to peck your husband’s lips. “Thought he could smell your scent on the t-shirt and it reminded him of you.”

Dori has the audacity to growl at Minho when he tries to pet him, narrowing his eyes at him. 

“Seems like he hates me,” Minho giggles. 

“That’s weird,” you think out loud, because when you try to pet him, Dori accepts the cuddles gladly, and purrs satisfied under Minho’s incredulous eyes and ears. 

“Son of a-“

“Minho!” You scold him, covering Dori’s ears with your hands, “don’t be mean to my baby.” 

“Well, your baby is an ungrateful little shit,” Minho chuckles, scratching Dori’s chin with his finger, and the cat glares at him almost as if he’d understood his owner’s words, “I change his litter and feed him and who does he love more? You.”

“It’s because I give him cuddles and treats when he behaves,” you point out, and Dori lets out a faint meow almost as if he’s agreeing with you. 

“He’s just taking advantage of you because you’re too good to him, don’t trust him. Traitor,” Minho jokes, leaning in to kiss Dori’s little head. “‘M gonna take a shower and then we’ll think of something for dinner, hm?” He asks, and you nod. 

He disappears upstairs, and you resume reading your book. Dori doesn’t move from your lap, instead he snuggles into your t-shirt and purrs, occasionally meowing to demand pets and more cuddles. You wonder what’s up with him, if maybe there’s something wrong with him or if he’s not feeling alright - but Dori doesn’t seem to be in pain. 

“He’s been there the whole time?” Minho asks once he returns to the living room, surprised to see Dori still curled up in your lap. “Isn’t that weird?”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s not feeling well… maybe we should take him to the vet.”

“But he doesn’t look in pain or anything?” Minho pouts, kneeling down to look his cat in the eye. “Maybe he’s sad or something… maybe he just needs an extra amount of cuddles.”

“Let’s just wait a couple of days… if his behavior is still weird we’ll go to the vet,” you suggest, and Minho nods. 

“Alright, boss,” he chuckles, pressing his forehead against yours. Then, he pecks your lips. “What do you want me to cook? Do omelettes sound good?”

“Yep, they sound perfect.”

Well, maybe they didn’t, because as soon as you get a whiff of their delicious smell, you feel the urge to throw up. Literally, you have to practically run to the bathroom and kneel before the toilet bowl, leaving behind a confused Minho, still sat at the dinner table. Eventually, he gets up and comes upstairs to check up on you, softly knocking on the bathroom door. 

“Are you alright?” He asks you, preoccupied, as he spots you washing your face with cold water to freshen up, taking deep breaths. “Is there something wrong with my omelettes? Did I put too many onions?”

You shake your head as a no, limbs still trembling as you place your hands on the sink. “No, no, they were fine. I don’t know what’s up with me, I’ve been feeling nauseous the whole day.”

Hadn’t your period ended a week ago, Minho would’ve thought you were pregnant, but he knows that’s impossible. So he just comes closer to you, rubbing your lower back with his calloused hand, leaning in to kiss you on your temple. 

“How are you feeling now? Better? Worse? Do you want me to make you some tea?” He asks you, and you smile warmly at him, moved by his apprehensiveness. 

“A cup of tea is fine.”

⛅︎

You feel like you could pass out on the spot when Jeongin’s girlfriend, who’s younger than you and has only been dating her boyfriend for about four months, confesses she’s late. Late late. Like, her period’s late. Sixteen days, to be precise. She looks at you with her big, doe eyes, glistening with tears, begging for your help. She needs a friend, someone who listens, and you’re very close to her, even though you haven’t seen her much - she is kind of a younger sister to you. 

“What? Are you and Jeongin having unprotected sex?” You blatantly ask her, staring at her with wide eyes, kind of shocked by the revelation. They’re too young to be having condomless sex, especially if she’s not on birth control or literally any other contraceptive. 

The lowers her head in shame, even though you’re not angry at her. “It only happened twice, I swear,” she justifies herself, “we’d run out of condoms and didn’t think about the consequences. He didn’t… finish inside, though. He pulled out,” she tells you with a hint of hope in her voice, but you both know it’s not an effective method, and that therefore she could be pregnant. 

“You have to take a test,” you sigh. “It might just be a pregnancy scare - my period’s late all the time, I was supposed to get it a couple of weeks ago, but you never know. The chances are pretty high.”

“O-Okay, okay,” she takes a deep breath, covering her face with her hands, “but I can’t do this alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“You… you said you’re late too. Take a test, too, unnie. It’ll be less scary to not do this alone.” 

And you can’t believe that less than an hour later, once you and Jeongin’s girlfriend are finally back from the convenience store, you’re in your bathroom - actually peeing on a plastic stick, even though you already know what the result’s gonna be. Negative, as it always is. You already know it, but you take the stupid test anyway to help your friend feel less nervous. She’s already taken hers and places the stick inside the box, not ready to look at the result yet, and you do the same, not even realizing you’re putting your test in the same box as hers. 

You only realize when the alarm goes off and it’s time to learn the results - that’s when you realize there’s absolutely no way you can tell which test is yours. And your jaw nearly drops once you take a closer look, because one test reads negative, but the other one… 

“Positive.”

⛅︎ 

You’ve been lying in your bed all day, mostly scrolling through your social media dashboards - Dori in your lap as per usual, he’s glued to your side, when you hear the front door close downstairs. Minho’s home. You’d get up to say hi to him, but you feel so helplessly tired and literally can’t get out of bed. You hear him saying something to the cats, and when he pushes the bedroom door all the way open, he smiles brightly at you - Soonie in his arms and Doongie by his feet. 

“Hi, jagi, how are you feeling today?” He asks you, sitting on the bed next to you. You haven’t been going to work for the past couple of days - you haven’t been feeling well, and Minho is kind of preoccupied. 

“I’m doing better,” you smile at him, leaning in for a kiss, “feel tired, though.” Soonie gets off Minho’s lap, and he scoots closer to cuddle you in a spooning position, circling your waist with his arm, scratching Dori’s head when his hand accidentally bumps him. “Did you have fun today, with the boys?”

“Yeah, we… we had fun,” Minho nods, but doesn’t say much. You know he’s keeping something from you by the way he’s nervously fidgeting with his rings and picking at his skin. 

“What aren’t you telling me?” You tease him, rolling to lie on your back, poking Minho’s dimple with your finger. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” you scoff, with a dismissive gesture of your hand, “I know you like the back of my hand, I know something’s up with you. What happened? Something happened with the boys?”

“It’s nothing, really. You know the boys, they’re silly, they say things.”

“Which things?” 

Minho sighs. “It’s stupid, really. Let’s just forget about it, hm?”

“Stop being so grumpy and just tell me already,” you insist, and Minho gives up. 

“Fine,” he waves his hand. Then, he runs his fingers through his hair, unsure whether he should really be telling you what he’d learned mere hours ago. He really doesn’t want to bring up the topic, but you’re just so stubborn. “Jeongin told me something today, and it upset me.”

“What did he tell you?”

Another heavy sigh leaves Minho’s lips. “Him and his girlfriend had a pregnancy scare. She went to the doctor and found out she’s not pregnant, but he was pretty overwhelmed by the whole thing. I scolded him for not being responsible and for not having safe sex, and I don’t know… I guess it upset me.”

Oh. Oh. Jeongin’s girlfriend is not pregnant. She’s not pregnant. But the tests… one of them was positive… Wait, if she’s not pregnant, then… Your eyes widen immediately, and you abruptly sit on the mattress. You can’t be pregnant, though, you had your period this month… it could have been implantation spotting, though, if you really were pregnant, but what are the chances?

“I know you’re upset now, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

You shake your head as a no quickly. “It’s not that,” you mumble, getting up from the bed despite Dori’s upset meowing. 

If Jeongin’s girlfriend’s not pregnant, then it means there’s a slight chance you and Minho… But it could also have been a fake positive. They’re pretty common, you read somewhere once. You rush to the bathroom, opening the third drawer quickly - the one where you keep your stash of pads and tampons and tests, to detect both ovulation and pregnancy. You have two of them. You’re gonna take them both, even though you try to remind yourself to not get your hopes up. 

“Jagiya, what’s… what are you doing?” Minho furrows his brows, looking at you confused as he can’t take his eyes off of the two small boxes in your hands. “Are those…”

“I need to take these,” you tell him, voice trembling. “I was with Jeogin’s girlfriend the day she took the test. It’s a long story, and I promise I’ll tell you, but… if she’s not pregnant then there’s a chance…” you trail, looking at him with tears in your eyes. 

“There’s a chance… you might be?” Minho asks, a new feeling of hope washing all over him as his heartbeat picks up its pace. 

“Yeah,” you bite your lip, looking at him with hopeful eyes. 

It’s been the longest three minutes of your entire lives. You and Minho are sitting on the bathroom floor with your backs against the shower glass in silence, too absorbed in your thoughts. Your fingers are intertwined as you wait for your alarm to ring. This could be your chance. This time, things could be different. When Minho’s phone buzzes, you feel as if your heart has stopped beating inside your chest. 

You take a deep breath, shaking your head. “I can’t look. I can’t look, Min. You do it.”

Minho swallows the lump in his throat, feeling nervous - the most he’s ever been. He’s not ready for another negative surprise. Not when flashes of what your lives could be with a little bundle of joy passed before his eyes as he waited patiently for the results to be ready. “How… how about we do it together? I check one and you do the other one, at the same time,” he suggests, and it seems fair. 

You nod, and Minho finally gets up, reaching for the two plastic sticks placed on the sink, turned upside down not to spoil the result. He grasps one, holding it firmly in his hand, and hands you the other one. Then, he sits back on the floor next to you. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” he mumbles, kissing your temple. 

“Three…”

“Two…”

“One…”

You look at the result at the same time. You hold your breath, as tears well up in your eyes quickly. Before you can contain yourself, you burst down in tears - salty drops rolling down your cheeks. When you turn to look at Minho, his face is stained with tears as well, his lip is quivering, and then he shows you the stick he’s holding. It shows the same result as yours. 

Positive. 8+ weeks. 

You’re pregnant, you and Minho are going to have a baby. 

“Come here,” Minho mumbles, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer as he rests his chin on your head, rubbing your arm with his hand. 

You let the realization sink in - you can’t fully process what just happened, your brain can’t comprehend it yet. A baby. Your and Minho’s dream of a family is finally going to come true, you still can’t believe it, it doesn’t feel real. 

“I love you so much, jagi,” he sniffles, kissing the top of your head, “‘m so happy right now…”

Before you could answer, you hear a loud meow coming from beside you, and that’s when you realize Dori’s here. He makes himself comfortable in your lap once more, and that’s when it all becomes clear to you. 

“Dori, baby, did you… did you… have you been glued by my side because you could sense I’m pregnant?” Dori meows once more, then purrs, making himself comfortable on your lap - you take it as a yes. 

“Aish, you little… your vet bill was so expensive for nothing and here you were, trying to tell us something…” Minho shakes his head, patting his cat and scratching his fur, chuckling, and you giggle as well, “thank you for being by her side when I wasn’t here, buddy.”

You stay like this for a while, in silence, with the tests still in your hands and Dori in your lap, hugging and holding each other, feeling blessed because you finally got the happiness you deserved. 

⛅︎

Minho has always been affectionate with you, but ever since you found out you’re going to become parents in a few months, he just won’t leave your side. 

Your OBGYN had confirmed what the tests had shown, announcing with a big smile on her face that yes, you’re pregnant, and that your baby is healthy and about the size of a bell pepper now, since you’re around twenty weeks pregnant. Minho called your baby “little pepper” until you found out the gender - a baby girl. Minho had bursted into tears in the doctor’s office when she delivered the news, and spent the day glued to you, hugging and holding you, his hands never leaving your round belly. 

“How is my little sunshine? Did you miss daddy?” Minho starts talking to your bump as soon as he slips under the covers, kissing your lips first. “I’m sorry I had to leave, little sunshine. Daddy’s gonna quit his job when you’re here, I’m never leaving you,” Minho pouts, kissing your stomach and caressing it with his hand, “I missed you so much today, did you miss me too?”

Minho’s hand freezes on top of your bump, and his head snaps up in your direction at the same time as you lower yours when you feel a small kick - the first. His eyes glisten with tears, and so do yours. Your little sunshine just kicked for the first time after hearing her father’s voice. 

“Jagi did you… did you feel it, too?” Minho asks you, pouting, “she just kicked. Her first kick.”

You nod, placing your hand on your belly as well, close to Minho’s. “I did, Min,” you sniffle. “Our sunshine really missed her daddy today, didn’t she?” 

Another kick, much stronger now. Minho presses his lips on your belly, kissing it all over its surface as he feels his daughter’s delicate kicks, feeling absolutely and utterly in love - a love he didn’t think he’d be able to feel.

“My precious little sunshine, I missed you, too,” Minho kisses your stomach once again. And then he remembers - he gets up quickly and leaves the room only to come back in with his workbag, laying at the end of your shared bed. “I… I bought you something on my way home, sunshine,” Minho talks to your belly. You just look at him curiously, wondering what he could’ve possibly bought your unborn daughter. “You won’t be able to see it for a few more months, though, but I hope you’ll like it.”

From the bag, he pulls out a small plushie - a white rabbit, with long ears and a mischievous grin. Oddly enough, it kinda looks like Minho. “Where did you manage to find a plushie that looks exactly like you?” You giggle, taking the small toy in your hands. 

Minho just chuckles. “It’s cute, isn’t it?” He comments, looking at the plushie. “I just thought she might like it, you know? Maybe she’ll sleep with it, too, once she’s born,” Minho mumbles, once again placing the palm of his hand on your round belly. 

“It’s cute,” you confirm, “I’m sure she’ll love it. Maybe we should sleep with it, so that it’ll have our scents once she’s born. It’ll make her feel safe.”

Minho smiles - a genuinely happy smile, and his eyes sparkle with joy. He nods, kissing your belly, hoping to feel his daughter kick one more time. She does. “I love you so much, sunshine,” he mumbles against your skin, “I can’t wait to meet you. We’re gonna have so much fun together, we’ll play so many games and go on lots of adventures - me, your mom, the cats and you, my baby.”

After a few more kisses and cuddles Minho gives to your belly, he lies down next to you on the bed, spooning you, wrapping his arm around you to pull you closer as he buries his head in your neck. He kisses your shoulder, breathing in your delicate scent, holding the rabbit plushie close to your body, right on your belly. 

“I’ll never thank you enough for this, you know that, right?” He mumbles, nuzzling your skin. 

“Thank me for what?” You furrow your eyebrows, confused. 

“All of this. For making me the happiest man alive, for carrying our precious and healthy baby girl. It’s pretty amazing if you think about it, isn’t it? There’s a life inside of you - our baby, our sunshine…”

“Minho…”

“I love you both so much, I can’t wait for our new life together to start.”

And all the pain you both went through is long forgotten now that he can finally fall asleep with you in his arms and his hand on your belly, dreaming of a future that, and he can’t put into words how happy he is, is just around the corner. 

⛅︎

-> 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.

-> 𝐦𝐲 ☕️

#ella's.recs #MY HEART DIED #TOO CUTE #the meaning of ikigai AHH #i love it soo much #and also in general the whole development of the story #10/10

[babybreadddd]

𝐢𝐤𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐢 ; 𝐥𝐦𝐡

🚨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢 𝐟𝐟 𝐢 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐢 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞-𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧, 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬. 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬, 𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠… 𝐦𝐞 ;

genre: angst, smut, fluff | 18+, minors dni | ;

wc: around 12,1k ;

cw: non-idol!au ; husband!minho ; explicit sexual content (clit play, unprotected penetration, creampie) ; lots of crying ; infertility ; mentions of an unplanned pregnancy and a pregnancy scare ;

ikigai [ik-ee-guy], 生き甲斐 , japanese : a reason for being, the thing that gets you up in the morning ;

⛅︎

Minho stares at the small, wooden crib in the middle of the room and silently prays to the gods above that he too will get to feel this kind of joy soon. 

He’s happy for his best friend Chan and his wife, he really is, but it’s still hard to watch someone else living his dream and being constantly reminded that it’s not his turn yet, it’s not your turn. He instantly wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer as he fights back the tears that well up in his eyes when Chan picks up the small, whining creature wrapped in a soft yellow blanket from the crib. Chan looks at his baby with a gaze that holds all the love of the world, that much is very clear to Minho, and he keeps wondering what does it feel like, Chan, being a dad? But what he wonders the most, unfortunately, is will I ever get a chance to feel this kind of joy, too, someday? 

That’s a question neither him nor you can give an answer to. 

“Let’s go say hi to uncle Lino and auntie Y/N, shall we?” Chan speaks to the baby in a soft voice, then chuckles when his daughter blinks at him a few times and stirs, snuggled comfortably in her fluffy blanket. “Hi, uncles!” Chan coos at the baby once he’s sure you and Minho are both in her peripheral vision. She’s the cutest. Only a few weeks old, she looks just like her father - she even has his dimple.  

Both you and Minho coo at the baby as well, little Haru, and then Chan speaks again. “Do you want to hold her?” He asks his friend, but when he notices Minho’s panicked expression, he chuckles and looks at you, encouraging you with a nod. 

“Sure,” you smile at him, but Minho senses so much pain behind that smile, and the second little Haneul is in your arms, he already knows what you’re thinking. He notices the way your eyes well up with tears as you hold her and caress her puffy cheek as she stirs and looks at you with her cute, boba eyes. “Hi, Haneul,” you coo at her, “This is your cranky uncle Minho,” you giggle and Haneul’s curious eyes fall on Minho’s face. 

He dramatically gasps, pretending to be offended, “Me? Ah, Haneul, your auntie is a liar, she’s the cranky one,” he boops her little nose, “You don’t want to be around her if she hasn’t had her coffee in the morning.”

“Yah, you little sh-“

“Y/N, please, there’s a baby right here,” Minho scolds you with a playful grin on his face, then his gaze falls back on Haneul, who’s frowning, “See? Cranky, I told you,” he shrugs. Out of the blue, little Haneul bursts into a loud cry that catches Minho off guard. 

“Okay, enough time with the uncles,” Chan chuckles as he takes her in his arms, cooing and rocking her as he hums a soft tune, “Yah, Minho, you made my baby cry, ah.” When he notices Minho’s panicked expression, he just chuckles again and says, “Relax dude, I’m kidding. She’s just hungry.”

Will I be a good dad?,Minho can’t help but think as he watches Haneul relax in her father’s arms, her cute eyes light up when she sees the small bottle of milk. Will I be able to calm my child like that? Understand their needs, be their safe place?

“She’s so cute,” you murmur only for Minho to hear, “I want a baby, Minho…” he doesn’t miss the way your voice cracks, and he’s quick to wrap his arm around your waist to pull you closer. 

“Oh, jagi, I know,” he kisses you on the head, “I do, too.” His voice breaks as well, and it’s your turn to hug him now, caressing his back as you both watch Chan feed his daughter as he says something to the guys, Changbin and Felix, sitting next to him, watching the baby in awe. 

“I think I… I think I’d be a good mom?” Your voice comes out as a question, full of doubts, and he hears you sniffle, but you’re not looking at him - you know you’ll break down if your eyes meet his. 

He kisses you on the top of your head once more and lingers. “You’ll be a great mom. You’ll be the best mom in the world, jagi,” he whispers, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. 

He wants to reassure you, tell you everything’s gonna be okay and that soon you’ll have the family you’ve dreaming of for years, that you’ll finally be a mom and he’ll be a dad, but he can’t. How is he supposed to make a promise he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep? It’s not something he can control, it’s not something either of you can control. He feels so hopeless, like he’s failing you in some way, not being able to give you what you want the most. 

You’ve been trying to get pregnant for a while now - a couple of years already, nearly three. 

The decision was mutual and came natural for the both of you - you moved in together when you were still in college, and it didn’t take long before the two of you started having baby fever, dreaming of the perfect mix of you and Minho running around the house. You decided to wait until after graduation. College came and went, and just like that, you and Minho started trying for a baby. A baby that never came. 

You’ve always wanted to become a mother. Minho, though, never fully realized how much he wanted to be a dad until he met you. Give you a child, a family, raise your little bundle of joy together, family vacations, the holidays together, him dressing up as Santa on Christmas Eve… He wants all of this, and he wants it with you. It wouldn’t make sense with anyone else - you’re the love of his life, his soulmate. 

“I love you so much, Minho,” you whisper, turning to look at him. 

He sees your teary eyes and wishes he could take the pain away, “I love you too, jagi.”

⛅︎

It’s familiar, but never fails to take your breath away, the feeling of Minho’s fingers on your skin - his long fingers brushing your body, making a shiver run down your spine as you arch your back under his touch. His lips are wrapped around one of your nipples, licking and sucking your hardened bud, occasionally scraping it using his teeth - his thrusts inside of you are slow and deep, his pace is steady, his movements fluid. 

His eyes are closed, small huffs coming out of his nostrils and he fists the bedsheets as he rocks his hips back and forth, steadily. His body blankets you, making you feel perfectly safe in his embrace. As he feels close to reaching his orgasm, he lets go of your nipple, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. He shifts his weight on his elbow, placed on the side of your head, then you feel his other hand travel all the way through your body - his calloused fingers brush the side of your breast, then your stomach, then they briefly stroke your thigh, before you feel them on your pussy. Minho brushes your labia, hissing when he feels how beautifully your lips spread to welcome his length - only when his fingers are damp, pads entirely wet with your arousal, he touches your clit. 

“I’m- ‘m close, jagi… ‘m about to cum,” he chokes on his own words, rubbing your bud a bit faster, drawing tight, imaginary circles on it, the way he knows you like it. 

“‘M close too, please don’t stop,” you pant. Your toes begin to curl, and your thighs start to tremble as your breathing becomes more and more labored. “So close, so close,” you chant, whimpering under him, which encourages him to continue - it doesn’t matter if his wrist is starting to feel a bit swollen. 

He releases inside of you with a choked moan, filling you up with his semen - only after making sure you’ve come, too, of course. In fact, the feeling of your tight walls squeezing him, clenching around him, is what pushes him off the edge in the first place. The awareness that he’s the only one who gets you to feel you this way, to see this side of you - he feels so damn lucky. 

“I love you so much, my jagi,” Minho mumbles, his words are muffled against your skin. 

You catch your breath, running your hand through Minho’s dark hair, pulling it back from his forehead and face once he lifts his head to meet your gaze. His brown, boba eyes, are full blown as he stares deep inside your soul - he already knows what you’re thinking. He knows you so well, better than anyone else.

“I love you, Min,” you smile at him, but he can see the pain you’re trying to hide behind that smile, and it kills him. 

He shifts his body so that he gets off of you, careful not to cause you any discomfort nor pain as he  pulls out of you, not without pecking your lips once more, lingering for a bit. He lets his body fall on the mattress, his chest rising and falling quickly as he comes down his high. When he feels you move, he knows what’s about to happen next. You grab a pillow, his, because it’s thicker, and place it under your spine and back. Then, you lift your legs all the way up, resting your heels and calves on the wall. It’s supposed to work, they say -  help the reproductive system and increase your chances to get pregnant or whatever. You’re not really sure it’s true, though - you’ve been doing it for years and haven’t noticed any changes, and you most definitely haven’t gotten pregnant yet. 

Minho’s heart cracks a little when he hears you sigh. He runs his calloused fingers through your hair, smiles when he feels you lean in to his touch. “I’m gonna take a shower, okay?” He asks, and you nod. He leaves the room, disappearing inside the bathroom and hopping in the shower, shivering when the cold water hits his bare skin. 

He immediately notices something’s off with you when he returns to the bedroom - the way you quickly wipe your cheeks and the skin under your eyes gives away that you cried. His breath gets caught in his throat at the sight. As soon as you witness his presence in the room, you quickly sit up on the bed and smile at him - it’s a fake smile, he knows that, he knows you. Then, it’s your turn to hop in the shower while he changes the cum stained sheets and pillowcases. While he’s at it, he pulls out a clean pajamas for you to wear once you’re done. 

You’re quiet when you come back in the bedroom, and also when he blow-dries your hair - fidgeting with your rings or with your nails, lifting off the acrylic until one accidentally breaks and you cuss under your breath. You’re also quiet when you slip under the covers, next to him, throwing one leg over his lap and resting your head on his chest as his cologne fills your nostrils. You’re quiet… too quiet - unusually quiet. Minho hates it, he wishes you’d open up to him, tell you what’s going on inside your head, and then he hears it - a faint sniffle. 

And his heart cracks once again as his own eyes well up with tears. He pulls you closer, kissing you on the top of your head. 

“You know you can tell me anything, right, jagi?” Minho asks you, praying that his tone won’t betray him, praying that you won’t notice he’s on the verge of tears as well. He wants to be strong for you. 

You nod weakly, without uttering a single word, and he hugs you tighter. That causes you to burst into tears. Minho promptly wraps his arms around you, shifting so that your face is pressed against his chest as his hands pat and rub your back to soothe you, in hopes to get you to stop crying. “Shh, it’s okay, jagi, it’s okay. I’m here, hm?”

It takes you a while to finally calm down and stop crying. Minho doesn’t let go of you until you do. He doesn’t stop leaving kisses on your head, he doesn’t stop whispering soft words to you. 

“Min… Minho,” your voice trembles, muffled by his t-shirt. You sniffle, but don’t lift your head, incapable to look at him right now, especially since you’re about to tell him that… 

“Tell me, jagi,” Minho encourages you, speaking with a soft voice, toying with the ends of your hair, “talk to me, love.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, hugging him tighter as you fight back the tears. “Minho, why don’t we…” you take a deep breath, fisting his t-shirt, “why don’t we… take a break?”

Minho freezes. He’s not even sure if he’s breathing anymore at this point. 

“A break? From… from us?” It comes out as a whisper. His heart aches. He feels numb. He can’t lose you. 

“No, no!” You shake your head as a no quickly, and feel him sighing out of relief. And then - “From… from trying…” you clarify, the tears finally escaping from your eyes. 

Minho feels as if his heart just stopped beating in his chest. He blinks a couple of times, furrowing his eyebrows, breathing slowly. He feels a void in his chest he’s never felt before… you want to give up. He knows there’s nothing he can say to make the situation any better - it makes him feel terrible, hopeless, useless, worthless.

“Jagi…” his voice trembles, lips quivering. He holds you closer to his chest, wishing he could take away all your pain even though his own is eating him too. He doesn’t say anything else, respecting your decision. He bites on his lip so hard he can almost taste blood in his mouth, inhaling and exhaling through his nostrils. 

You’d started trying for a baby as soon as you’d graduated, and then Minho’d proposed to you. 

The two of you would fall asleep in each other’s arms, listing all the possible ways you could name your daughter or son. And then you’d go to bed wondering how your child would look - who would they resemble, you or Minho? Would they have his pretty boba eyes? Or maybe his perfect nose?

These thoughts hurt now. They’re not happy thoughts anymore, there’s no joy nor hope left in them, only pain.

“I don’t want to go through this again, Min…” you sniffle, “I just… I feel so hopeful every time I’m late and then… and then the hope just gets crushed whenever I see that single line on the test,” you sigh, swallowing the lump in your throat. A couple of tears slip from Minho’s eyes. “I just don’t want to feel this pain anymore, Min… it breaks my heart.”

And it breaks his heart as well, seeing you like this. He wishes he could ease all the pain, take it all away, put it all on his shoulders and carry it for you. He can do that. 

It’s when you feel something wet on your forehead that it becomes clear to you that Minho, too, is crying - his body is shaking weakly, it’s so subtle you almost don’t notice it at first. He sniffles when you hug him tighter, nuzzling your face in his t-shirt, kissing his chest. He feels terrible, he feels hopeless. He feels like he failed you in every possible way.  

“Jagi, I’m… ‘m sorry,” his words come out through shaky breaths. He pulls you closer, hugs you tighter. He doesn’t want to let go. “I’m so sorry, I… I want to give you the world, my jagi, I want to give you the family we’ve been dreaming of for so long…”

You lift your head to look at him, but he just buries his face deeper in the pillow. It’s a delicate moment for him, for the both of you, and he feels so vulnerable right now. There’s nothing wrong with that, but Minho prefers to deal with his emotions by himself, and you know that. All you can do for now is be by his side and love him unconditionally, like you always did. 

“I love you so much, Min…” you place a soft kiss on his jawline, hiding your face in the crook of his neck as the tears keep streaming down his face and he’s unable to stop them. “You make me the happiest. It’s just… it’s just all too much sometimes, you know? Let’s take a break for a while, maybe we’re just too stressed about this.”

He nods softly, but your words don’t ease the pain he’s feeling. They don’t fill the void in his heart. 

“Anything for you, jagiya.”

⛅︎

Chan’s wife is pregnant. Again. Their baby is not even six months old and yet Chan’s wife is pregnant with their second child. 

Minho hopes it’s a joke, but he feels his knees give in nonetheless when his older friend delivers the news to him. It can’t be possible. He blinks rapidly a few times, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’d misheard his friend. Maybe he was distracted and misunderstood what Chan was trying to say, yeah?

“Yeah, she’s… she’s pregnant,” Chan repeats, and a wide smile spreads on his face. Minho’s heart aches, hit breath hitches. “A couple of months already, actually,” he looks and sounds genuinely over the moon, “can’t believe this cutie right here is gonna be a big sister soon,” he coos at the small baby in his arms before kissing her forehead. 

Minho feels bad. He wants to be happy for his friend, he really does, but… he can’t stop thinking about you. About how crushed you’re going to be when you find out. Because if Chan told him and the guys then his wife must’ve told you and the other girlfriends, right? A part of him hopes she didn’t, but he knows it’s just a wishful thinking, his. You’re going to be devastated - hell, you probably are already. 

And you are. 

Chan’s wife announces her second pregnancy with the brightest smile you’ve ever seen, pulling out the ultrasound from her bag, and you hate yourself for not being able to be happy for her. You are happy, it’s not that. However, it’s a bittersweet feeling, yours. You feel like the worst friend ever, because while the other girls are all happily squeaking and clapping their hands as they scoot closer to try to get a better look at the picture - you stay exactly where you are, your gaze lost, as your heart pounds in your chest.

“Oh! I didn’t know you and Chan were trying again,” Changbin’s wife congratulates her with a hug. She sounds so happy, they all do. You fake a smile, the void in your chest has never hurt so bad. 

“Oh we… we weren’t,” Chan’s wife admits with her cheeks slightly pink. Your heart drops, your hands start to shake. You feel your throat closing, you find it harder to breathe now. “We haven’t been exactly careful, you know? So I just knew there could be a chance and, well… here we are.”

They weren’t even trying. It just… happened. Why couldn’t it just happen to you and Minho? Why did you have to go through the heartbreak of seeing that stupid, single line on that plastic stick every month? All the vitamins, the keeping track of your ovulation cycle, the blood tests and medical checkups… It just happened, to them. They weren’t careful. They weren’t trying, it was just a coincidence. One day they fucked without a condom and then oops, pregnant, again. 

“We weren’t sure if we, uh… If we wanted to keep it at first,” Chan’s wife says, and you nearly drop the cup in your hands as your heartbeat picks up its pace, “but we’ve talked a lot about it and we think we’re ready.”

You need air. You can’t breathe. It hurts too much. You need to leave.

⛅︎

Something’s off with Minho when he comes home. He takes his clothes off and changes into his pajamas without uttering a single word. When he slips under the covers, he’s still quiet. You know him, you’ve known him for years - you sense there’s something on his mind. He’s usually like this whenever he’s had a bad day at work. He still puts his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer, kissing the top of your head, and you can hear him sigh. 

And you feel the exact same way. 

“Min…” you mumble, scooting even closer, resting your head on his chest. 

“My jagi…” he makes himself comfortable, the pads of his calloused fingers gently brushing the skin of your arm. That’s when he hears you sniffle, and his eyebrows furrow. “Hey, hey now, what’s up?” He asks you, placing two fingers under your chin to lift your head and meet your eyes. They’re watery. 

“It’s… it’s nothing, it’s just-“ your voice trembles, and you can’t stop the tears from falling from your eyes as Minho’s stare deep into your soul, “she’s…”

You don’t have to finish the sentence you started, because he already knows what you’re talking about - who. Your face is completely wet, and you keep sobbing and sniffling, and his eyes instantly widen as he sits on the bed with his back against the headboard, taking you with him. You wrap your hands around his wrists as he wipes the tears from your face with his thumbs. Once he’s finished, he kisses the tip of your nose. 

“I know,” Minho whispers, kissing your forehead. “I know, jagi, I know. I’m so sorry,” he says, even though you both know it’s not his fault. 

His arms wrap around your waist and pulls you closer so that your face is hidden in his neck, not caring at all about the fact that you’re soaking his shirt with your tears. He then starts toying with the ends of your hair, knowing it’s something that never fails to relax you. Back in college, he’d play with your hair for hours as you stressed over your exams, holding you tight exactly as he’s doing now. 

“It- it wasn’t even planned, Min,” you cry, and Minho can hear the way your heart breaks. “It’s just… why us, Minho? We’ve been trying for years…” 

Minho can’t answer your question. Technically, it’s no one’s fault, no one is responsible for your fate. 

“They- oh God, they weren’t even sure they wanted to keep it,” you sob into his chest, and Minho flinches because Chan didn’t tell him that. He can’t imagine how you must have felt, how you must feel - well, he can, but at the same time he knows that no matter how similar you feel about this situation, you’re handling it in two entirely different ways. 

As much as it pains him too, he knows he has to be strong for you. “Oh, jagi…” his hand moves up and down your back to soothe you, although it doesn’t really work. “I know how you’re feeling right now, believe me, but… it’s not their fault,” Minho says calmly, “they don’t know about our- I mean, they can’t know about us,” he rephrases what he originally wanted to say, avoiding to mention the word problem or issue. 

“I know. It doesn’t make me feel any better, though,” you mumble in his chest. 

The silence of your bedroom never felt heavier. You and Minho are both lost in your thoughts, still holding each other tightly, because each other is the only thing you’ve got left. You have only Minho, and he has only you - you and, well, the cats. His family. Your family. You wonder if it’s enough for him, if he’s content with his life as it is now or if he’s yearning for more. You wonder if you’re enough for him, if you’ll be enough for him. 

“Minho?” You call his name softly, your voice sounding incredibly small as it breaks the silence. You don’t look at him as you speak, your head stays buried in his chest, your arms around him. You’re scared that looking him in the eye might be too much for you, and that you’ll end up putting off asking him what you want to ask him. “Would you still love me? If I… if I couldn’t have kids, I mean,” your heart thrums in your ears as you speak, “what I’m saying is… would you still think I’m enough?” You toy with your promise ring and wedding band as you ask him the painful question, your worst nightmare, the thought that keeps you awake at night.

Minho’s body freezes under yours, and he blinks a couple of times while staring at an indefinite spot far away while he tries to process your words and their meaning. The more he repeats your questions inside his head, though, the less sense they make to him and the more absurd they sound. 

“Jagiya,” he says, sounding almost as if he’s scolding you or something. “You’re the love of my life,” he states in all seriousness, and he means it. 

His answer, however, is not enough for you. You need to know. 

“Minho, I’m serious.”

Minho was never the type to openly talk about his feelings, but he feels safe with you, and he knows he can tell you anything. It’s how vulnerable it makes him feels, what he dislikes about opening up to other people. It always made him feel kind of stupid, but you managed to change that throughout the years. You showed him you’re by his side no matter what, and you’ll never think any less of him. He loves talking to you. Sometimes, it’s all you do - you’d spend hours curled up on the couch or in bed, talking about your day or literally anything else. Minho wouldn’t change it for the world. The feeling of having you in his arms as he rests his head on your shoulders is everything he needs, the only thing that keeps him sane. 

“I’m being serious, too,” Minho sighs. “You’re the love of my life,” he repeats with a seriousness that makes you shiver. “I told you after five months of dating, I told you the night I proposed and I told you on the altar when we got married. I tell you every day. It’s not just words to me, I mean it,” he unwraps his arms from around your waist to cup your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. 

“Minho…”

“No, listen to me,” his tone is much softer now as his watery boba eyes meet yours. “I love you,” he says with a disarming sincerity - it takes you off guard. “You changed my life completely, y/n. I wouldn’t be half the man I am now if you weren’t by my side. I’m completely and utterly in love with you, so no,” his gaze is fixed on your eyes, “you’re not enough. You’re more than enough, you’re everything I could possibly ask for and so, so much more.”

“Min…”

“You know, there’s a Japanese word: ikigai.”

“What?”

“Ikigai. Now, I could brag about my master in Japanese and explain its etymology, but I won’t,” Minho chuckles. “It’s a word that literally means ‘one’s reason to get out of the bed every day’, it’s your life purpose,” Minho takes your hands in his, brushing your knuckles with his lips. “You’re my life purpose, jagiya. You’re my ikigai.”

Tears are streaming down your face, and you sniffle a couple of times. Minho brings his hands on your shoulders and rubs your skin to soothe you as a warm smile spreads over his delicate features. You raise your hand to cup his cheek, then place a single, soft kiss on his lips. They taste like home - he’s your home. That’s why you’re so scared of losing him. 

“Pf, silly girl, asking if you’re enough,” Minho shakes his head playfully, feigning offence. Wrapping his arm around your waist, he pulls you closer, and you rest your face in the crook of his neck and leave another kiss there.

There’s something different in the way he holds you now, though. His body swiftly becomes rigid, and he gulps, almost as if he’d gotten swamped with a sudden thought. A thought that terrifies him. 

You see, Minho was never one too sure of himself. Insecure is not how you would describe him, though. It’s a strange way to put it, but Minho believes in his capacities and abilities, and most of all in the person that he is. He never really doubted your feelings for him, not even at the beginning of your relationship when you barely knew each other - and, most definitely, not when you were exchanging your vows at the altar. Minho is one hundred percent sure you love him. The question running through his head is, however, for how long. For how long will you love him, before realizing that he’s the one who’s not enough for you? That he’s the one who failed you? That he’s the one who couldn’t give you the family you so desperately wanted? 

Minho needs you more than he needs the air to breathe. He can’t lose you, you’re his home, his everything. 

“Min?” You murmur, voice muffled in his skin - soft and with a musky scent, that reminds you of his body wash. “Are you okay?” Your voice is soft, even though you’re trying to hide the turmoil in your heart. 

What if another man could give you what you want? A baby. A family. A future. What if he just… can’t? Before he knows it, Minho is crying - a broken sob leaving his soft lips. You immediately pull away, lifting your head to look at him. His cheeks are stained with tears, and a few more are running down his face. Minho closes his eyes when you wipe them off with your thumbs, kissing each one of his cheeks afterwards.

“Min, what’s up? What’s wrong?”

“What if… what if it’s me?” He asks with a broken voice after a few seconds spent in silence. 

“What if it’s you what?” You ask him, not fully grasping the meaning behind his question. 

Part of him wants to brush it off and forget about the intrusive thought that has been bugging him for a while now, but deep down he knows he needs to talk this through with you. You’re the only one who can give him the answers he’s so desperately seeking. 

“What if it’s me… the one who… What if you can’t get pregnant because you’re incompatible with me? What if one day you wake up and realize that you could have so much more with somebody else and- and instead you’re just here… wasting your time with me?”

You feel like your heart just shattered into a million pieces, maybe more. Maybe it just broke into countless of tiny, little pieces that are even imperceptible to the naked eye. You can’t believe you’ve made him feel like this, that you let him believe that having a family - no, getting pregnant, is more important than him. He’s your family, has always been. 

“Pf, silly boy, thinking I’m wasting my time with you,” you try to joke the same way he did minutes earlier, but deep down you’re shocked. 

“I’m… I’m serious, jagiya.” You hate how broken he sounds. 

“So am I,” you crack a smile, kissing the tip of his nose. “Remember when you bumped into me during lunch break back in college? And I spilled my coffe all over your white t-shirt?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Minho asks. He remembers everything vividly. If he closes his eyes, he can almost relieve it inside his head. That’s when you met. 

“That’s when we met,” you smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. “It was also the day I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Minho is beyond confused. “Why?” 

“You were so kind to me even though it was one hundred percent my fault. Your t-shirt was so expensive, too,” you chuckle at the memory, running your hand through his hair, gently tugging at its ends as you keep staring into his beautiful, brown boba eyes. “But you didn’t get angry at me, you just smiled and brushed it off with a shrug.”

“And then I asked you out.”

You nod, smiling. “And then you asked me out. On a coffee date, ironically enough.”

Minho giggles. He nuzzles your nose with his. “We had so much fun, too… You were just so cute, I was whipped for you already. I couldn’t wait to see you again,” he tells you, and then he pecks your lips. 

“Me neither,” you smile back. “I spent the whole time glued to my phone waiting for you to text. You made me the happiest. You make me the happiest,” you correct. 

“Still?”

“Minho, you’re all I ever wanted, all I’ll ever need,” you cup his face in your hands. “You and the cats are the most important thing in my life. You’re my… what was that Japanese word you just said?”

He chuckles. “Ikigai.” 

“Ikigai,” you repeat with a nod, “you’re my ikigai, too. Have always been.”

Minho lets out a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding. He pulls you closer, and it’s his turn now to hide his face in your neck as a few more tears fall from his eyes, drenching your pajama shirt. You keep him close to your body with your legs on each side of his hips while your hands toy with the ends of his hair. You’d missed having him this close to you - not only physically, but also emotionally. You needed to have this talk with him, it really was therapeutic and regenerating for the both of you. 

“You’re my Minho,” you mumble in his hair, leaving a kiss there. “And I love you so much.”

Minho shouldn’t be getting hard right now. It’s an emotional night for the both of you, and he truly is fine with things not escalating at all between the two of you, especially since you said you wanted to take a break from trying. There have been physical encounters between the two of you since then, but you never really went all the way - the pressure’s just too much, but you’re both content either way. 

“Oops, sorry,” Minho mumbles on your skin, and then he places his hands on your hips to gently push you off his lap, afraid that it might make you uncomfortable to feel him there. But you stop him, wrapping your fingers around his wrists. He immediately lifts his head to meet your eyes, his eyebrows are furrowed. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, “I… I want you, Minho. I need you.”

When he kisses your lips, it’s gentle and lustful at the same time - as if he’s scared to touch you in fear you’ll break under his touch. His hands grip your hips, toying with the hem of your shirt as you slowly grind on his lap. Eyes fluttering shut, Minho deepens the kiss, letting his tongue lick your lower lip, and then your mouth - he lets his hand wander underneath your shirt, brushing your stomach, then your back and then up, up, up to your shoulders. 

“You’re so soft,” Minho murmurs on your lips, “your lips are so soft. And you’re so warm, I missed feeling you, having you in my arms like this…” 

Kisses on your cheeks, kisses on your jawline and behind your ear, kisses on your neck. Minho knows every spot - he knows exactly where to touch you, where to put his lips, how to make you fold like a piece of paper. His thumbs brush the soft skin underneath your breasts, and then the side - you hiss when he brushes your nipples with a delicacy and a reverence only he has. What Minho doesn’t say with words, he shows you through his actions and physical affection, worshipping your body as if  

“I missed you, too,” you mumble, running your hands up and down his back over the clothes. 

“Off,” Minho mutters under his breath, lips latched on your neck, “can I take this off?” He asks for permission, tugging at your shirt. You nod. 

His calloused fingers grab its end, and he’s rapid to take it off you, letting it slide over your head before letting it fall on the bed. The same things happen to his t-shirt. And then your chests are pressed together, as Minho resumes kissing you. His body shifts on the mattress so that he’s now lying on his back, dragging your body with his - he doesn’t stop kissing you. Your hands are all over him - in his hair, on his shoulders, his hips. You just cannot stop touching him. 

Both your pajama pants come off in a few seconds, getting tangled somewhere under the bedsheets. You’re naked now, your most private and intimate parts pressed together. Minho’s hands grope your asscheeks, and as a reflex you grind yourself on him, making his hard cock throb and leak pre-cum. He smirks against your skin, and bites your lip. 

“I love you,” Minho whispers on your lips as his fingers come to wrap around the base of his length, spreading his own arousal all over his tip. He lets his cockhead slide up and down your folds a couple of times, maybe more, and he’s surprised by how wet you are already. All for him. Ready to take him like he’s ready to have you. 

“I love you, Min,” you whisper, and he pushes inside, breaching your walls deliciously. 

He fills you up slowly, savouring the way your heat engulfs him wholly as his eyes flutter shut as huffs of air fall from his lips. He missed you, he missed you so much - that’s what he keeps thinking as he sinks into you over and over and over again, thrusting from underneath you, meeting the sweet rocking of your hips. Wrapping his arm around your waist, he pulls you even closer. 

“Close… I missed having you so close to me… missed making love to you.”

Helping you move up and down his length slowly, the way it makes both your heads spin, it doesn’t take long before your orgasms start to build up. You sigh and breathe and pant on top of him, trying to keep as quiet as possible to not wake your neighbors up. Minho himself is trying to hold back the moans and whimpers that threaten to leave his lips - his chest rises and falls quickly, though. Minho pulls a strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear, then cups your cheek as he stares into your eyes. You clench around him, hard and harder, until your whole body trembles. 

“Min… Min,” you whimper, trying to focus on his movements solely as the tip of his cock brushes your g-spot with delicacy, “‘m close.”

“Baby… my sweet baby, cum,” Minho encourages you, and it’s enough to make you lose control, “let go for me.”

When you finish, it’s with a cry of his name, as your whole body shakes and trembles with force. Minho holds you tight as he continues to move inside of you, a few thrusts away from reaching his orgasm as well. A couple of precise and rough thrusts send him over the edge, and he’s quick to place his hands under your thighs and lift your hips, slipping out of your wet heat right before he spills his seed, finishing on his stomach instead. For a couple of seconds you’re confused about why he pulled out, but then you remember your conversation from a few weeks ago, and your face drops instantly, but you don’t let him see it. Instead, you quickly get up from the bed and run to the bathroom to grab Minho a warm towel to clean himself. 

⛅︎

Chan had had an idea - babysitting. More specifically, you and Minho babysitting their baby so him and his wife could go out on a night date. 

Bang Haneul is an utterly adorable baby. She’s got her father’s smile and his eyes, but the puffy cheeks are definitely her mother’s. She never really cries or whines, only when she’s hungry - and most of the time, she’d look at you and Minho with curious eyes, tilting her head to the side, probably wondering who you are, and where are her parents. She smiles at Minho when he sings to her, and even claps her little hands. 

“She totally loves me,” Minho smiles at her, holding Haneul in his arms. He boops her little nose, earning a giggle from her. “I’m your favorite uncle, aren’t I?” He coos at her, “don’t tell me it’s uncle Binnie, please. He’s too loud, isn’t he?”

“You’re just as loud,” you chuckle, smiling at the sight before your eyes. 

Minho glares at you playfully. “Pf, please,” he waves his hand at you as if you just said nonsense, “I’m her favorite uncle, I know that already. See the way she looks at me?”

“You fed her yogurt this afternoon, of course she loves you,” you roll your eyes at him. 

“And a peach,” Minho adds, “mashed nice and well for this little princess,” he coos at little Haneul, and she giggles at him, patting Minho’s cheek with her small hand. 

Minho would be an amazing dad - patient, loving, caring, and so thoughtful. You watch him in awe, from the floor where you’re sitting on Haneul’s play mat, surrounded by her colourful toys. Minho notices you’re staring at him, and he smiles back at you, as he carefully sits down next to you, with Haneul in his arms. 

“You wanna go to aunty Y/N? Yeah?” He asks the baby as he watches her stretching her little arms in your direction as soon as you enter her peripheral vision. 

Haneul’s eyes light up when you take her in your arms and smile at her. “Hi,” you coo at her, softly caressing her puffy cheek. Minho scoots closer, resting his head on your shoulder, where he leaves a kiss. 

The precious and soft moment is interrupted by the sound of rattling keys and the front door swinging open. Naturally, it’s Chan and his wife. Haneul in your lap wiggles and squeaks as soon as she spots her parents, stretching her arms out to them. 

“Hi, my baby,” Chan smiles brightly at her daughter, rushing to where the three of you are with open arms, ready to take her into his arms and hold her. “I’ve missed you so much, you know that? You missed me? You missed daddy?” He kisses his daughter’s forehead and nuzzles her cheek with his nose. 

“Did she give you a hard time?” Chan’s girlfriend asks you, smiling at you as she sits on the couch. 

You shake your head as a no, and Minho does the same. “Nope, not at all. She’s a true angel.”

“I wonder if baby number two is going to be so calm and peaceful, too,” Chan thinks out loud, glancing at his girlfriend’s stomach even though she’s barely showing. 

“Sorry if we ruined your plans for the day by asking you to look after Haneul,” Chan’s girlfriend says, looking at you and Minho, “maybe you wanted to be alone tonight… Sorry if we asked you last minute, but my friend bailed on us last minute and we didn’t know who to ask.” 

“Yeah, the rest of the boys was busy tonight,” Chan adds, “well, Jeongin and his girlfriend were technically free, too, but… I mean, they’re still babies,” he chuckles. 

“Ah, it’s no problem, really,” Minho nods at his hyung, “we enjoy spending time with Haneul. She’s the cutest.”

“She really is, my cute baby,” Chan pouts, kissing his daughter’s cheek lovingly. “She looks just like her dad,” he jokes, looking at his wife with a mischievous grin. 

She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I can’t even argue with him, he’s right. It’s not fair, though, I carried her for nine months and she looks like a carbon copy of her father,” she pouts, “I hope baby number two will look like me, at least a bit.”

“You know,” Chan starts, focused on playing with Haneul as she squeezes her father’s hand, “I read somewhere that if the first child is a boy, then he’ll look like his mother, and if she’s a girl she’ll look like her dad,” he says. 

“How do you know it’s not just a casualty?” Minho asks his friend, genuinely curious. 

“I don’t,” Chan shrugs, kissing the top of Haneul’s head. “Hey, why don’t you and y/n have a baby? We can test the theory,” he jokes, but both you and Minho freeze, “I think it’d make a great uncle, wouldn’t I?”

“Chan!” His wife scolds him. “Yah, mind your own business! You’re so nosy, aish…” she giggles.

“Hey, it was just a suggestion! Plus, I think Haneul would love a little cousin to play with, yeah?” He asks his baby, but she just raises her head to look at her dad confused. 

And if either of them notices the way you and Minho are sitting there uncomfortably, with fake smiles plastered on your faces - they don’t comment on it. 

⛅︎

The water feels warm on your skin, the perfect temperature. Yours and Minho’s clothes are scattered on the floor, his black socks are the last thing to reach the pile of fabric by the shower, and the next thing you know he’s opening the glass door, stepping inside right behind you. The water hits his body, rivulets running down his chest, back and legs - his hair is wet and stuck to his face. He wraps his arm around your waist, and you turn to face him. He smiles at you, tucking your wet hair behind your ear with his other hand, and then he leans in to kiss your wet lips. You both had a long day today, and really need to relax and blow some steam off - a hot shower is the perfect solution for that. 

“You’re so cute like this,” Minho chuckles, “your hair looks funny.”

You narrow your eyes at him, smirking. Then you playfully slap his shoulder. “Cute? Funny? Your wife is currently naked in the shower with you. Aren’t I supposed to be, I don’t know, hot?” 

“But you’re always hot.”

You roll your eyes at him, “kiss-ass.” 

Minho chuckles. “I mean it! You’re always hot to me, but you’re also cute and funny. You’re, like, the whole package. I hit the jackpot with you,” he shrugs. 

You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “I stand by what I said: kiss-ass.”

Minho chuckles, then he pulls you in for a kiss. You thought it’d be a quick peck, but you soon feel his tongue on your mouth. And then you feel something poke you, so you lower your head. “Oh.”

When you lift your gaze, Minho is smirking. “I told you I always think you’re hot.”

Sex in the shower is not something that happens too often between you and Minho, and it’s a shame. You wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss as well, and he doesn’t hesitate to push your body against the wall delicately, making sure he doesn’t hurt you by softening the impact with his arms and hands. You whimper in his mouth, but it’s a whimper of pleasure. His length is rock hard between his legs, now pressed on your stomach, already leaking pre-cum because of how aroused he is. 

“Need you,” Minho mumbles on your skin, kissing your neck, then your jawline and lowering his head until his kisses reach your collarbone, “need you now. Need to make you mine.”

“Take me. Minho, take me.”

Minho grunts. Then, he’s turning your body around so that he’s now facing your naked back. The palm of your hands are pressed against the cold tiles, and you hiss under your breath - but when you feel Minho’s hot lips start kissing your shoulders, you can’t bring yourself to care about anything else except him. Him and how much you crave his touch, to feel his hands on yours as he fucks into you slowly. 

One of his hands comes to rest on your hip, where he draws imaginary circles with the pad of his thumb, while the other one slides between your slightly parted legs. Minho hisses and rests his forehead against your nape once he feels how wet you are already - and not because of the water. He plays with your sex - rubbing your clit gently at first, and then running his fingers up and down your folds. Meanwhile, he bites and sucks on the skin of your shoulders, pressing your body further against the tiles. You arch your back as you feel him slide his cockhead up and down your entrance, coating it in your wet arousal. He holds his breath as he penetrates you, excruciatingly slow. He bottoms out inside of you - until his chest is pressed flat against your back, and you feel his hot breath on your skin. He places one hand on your hip, and presses his other palm flat against the bathroom tiles. 

“Feel so full,” you mumble, breathing heavily. 

The warm water, Minho inside of you, his body all over yours - it all feels so intense, your head is spinning already and he’s barely moved inside of you, only giving a couple of thrusts to give you the time to get adjusted. 

It’s primal, the way he presses your body against the wall as he fucks you nice and deep, slowly, allowing you to feel him completely inside of you in the intimacy of your shower, of your home. You sway your hips back and forth, meeting the movements of his hips. He’s not able to reach your g-spot perfectly from this angle, so he moves his hand from your hips to the sensitive spot between your legs - he’ll make you cum this way tonight. While rubbing your clit ever so gently, he nibbles your ear, and you can clearly hear him panting heavily. 

“You’re so hot,” Minho compliments you, while continuing to thrust inside of you. “I want you all the time, it’s surreal. I’m so in love with you,” he rambles, the words falling from his mouth freely, automatically, “make me so hard.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you can feel your impending orgasm about to wash all over you. Minho knows exactly how to touch you, he always manages to make you cum so effortlessly. “Minho, I’m… I’m close.”

It always manages to make his head spin. He doesn’t change its pace, nor the direction of his movements on your most sensitive spot, and in a matter of seconds, your kicking your head back while calling his name desperately, releasing around him. Minho places his hand on top of yours, intertwining your fingers with his as he chases his own orgasm, rutting his hips against yours. And just like the last couple of times you had sex, his intent is to pull out right before finishing - this time, you don’t let him. 

“Don’t,” you beg, moving your arms behind your back to grab Minho’s ass, squeezing the flesh, “don’t pull out this time.”

Minho doesn’t really have a chance to ask you what’s going on, because as soon as he opens his mouth he’s cut off by his orgasm, that catches him completely off guard. Hearing you sound so desperate for him does it for him every time. He cums, filling you up to the brim - there’s so much of it that it begins to leak out of you, dripping down your inner thighs as Minho stays buried deep inside of you. 

“‘M sorry, I… you caught me off guard, I should have-“ he starts rambling, but you interrupt him.

“Minho, stop,” you mumble, “I asked you not to pull out. It’s okay.”

“But you said-“

“I know what I said. But really, it’s okay. I wanted it.”

Minho nods, but part of him feels guilty nonetheless. Gently, he pulls out of you, stepping under the direct stream of water, that cleans him off of his own cum. You turn around to look at him and do the same, letting the water wash away the proof of his orgasm off your body. Minho quietly grabs the bottle of shampoo, squirting a generous amount on his hands. 

“Turn around, jagiya. Let me take care of you.”

⛅︎

Dori’s behavior is weird today. 

He hasn’t left your side since Minho left for work earlier - he’d remained by your side the whole time, mostly cuddled on your lap or sprawled on your stomach as you slept. And then he meowed every time you tried to get up, begging you with his little eyes to pick him up so he could be as close to you as possible. 

And he’s resting in your lap even now, as you sit on the couch with your book in your hands, and has no intentions to get up, not even when he hears the sound of rattling keys - a clear signal that Minho’s home. Minho steps inside your place and Dori simply tilts his little head to the side. 

“Daddy’s home, baby,” you coo at the small pet, patting his head, “go say hi. You missed him lots today.”

“He missed me?” Minho asks, sounding pretty confused. His pet doesn’t get up. 

“Well, I thought so,” you put your book away, lifting your head to peck your husband’s lips. “Thought he could smell your scent on the t-shirt and it reminded him of you.”

Dori has the audacity to growl at Minho when he tries to pet him, narrowing his eyes at him. 

“Seems like he hates me,” Minho giggles. 

“That’s weird,” you think out loud, because when you try to pet him, Dori accepts the cuddles gladly, and purrs satisfied under Minho’s incredulous eyes and ears. 

“Son of a-“

“Minho!” You scold him, covering Dori’s ears with your hands, “don’t be mean to my baby.” 

“Well, your baby is an ungrateful little shit,” Minho chuckles, scratching Dori’s chin with his finger, and the cat glares at him almost as if he’d understood his owner’s words, “I change his litter and feed him and who does he love more? You.”

“It’s because I give him cuddles and treats when he behaves,” you point out, and Dori lets out a faint meow almost as if he’s agreeing with you. 

“He’s just taking advantage of you because you’re too good to him, don’t trust him. Traitor,” Minho jokes, leaning in to kiss Dori’s little head. “‘M gonna take a shower and then we’ll think of something for dinner, hm?” He asks, and you nod. 

He disappears upstairs, and you resume reading your book. Dori doesn’t move from your lap, instead he snuggles into your t-shirt and purrs, occasionally meowing to demand pets and more cuddles. You wonder what’s up with him, if maybe there’s something wrong with him or if he’s not feeling alright - but Dori doesn’t seem to be in pain. 

“He’s been there the whole time?” Minho asks once he returns to the living room, surprised to see Dori still curled up in your lap. “Isn’t that weird?”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s not feeling well… maybe we should take him to the vet.”

“But he doesn’t look in pain or anything?” Minho pouts, kneeling down to look his cat in the eye. “Maybe he’s sad or something… maybe he just needs an extra amount of cuddles.”

“Let’s just wait a couple of days… if his behavior is still weird we’ll go to the vet,” you suggest, and Minho nods. 

“Alright, boss,” he chuckles, pressing his forehead against yours. Then, he pecks your lips. “What do you want me to cook? Do omelettes sound good?”

“Yep, they sound perfect.”

Well, maybe they didn’t, because as soon as you get a whiff of their delicious smell, you feel the urge to throw up. Literally, you have to practically run to the bathroom and kneel before the toilet bowl, leaving behind a confused Minho, still sat at the dinner table. Eventually, he gets up and comes upstairs to check up on you, softly knocking on the bathroom door. 

“Are you alright?” He asks you, preoccupied, as he spots you washing your face with cold water to freshen up, taking deep breaths. “Is there something wrong with my omelettes? Did I put too many onions?”

You shake your head as a no, limbs still trembling as you place your hands on the sink. “No, no, they were fine. I don’t know what’s up with me, I’ve been feeling nauseous the whole day.”

Hadn’t your period ended a week ago, Minho would’ve thought you were pregnant, but he knows that’s impossible. So he just comes closer to you, rubbing your lower back with his calloused hand, leaning in to kiss you on your temple. 

“How are you feeling now? Better? Worse? Do you want me to make you some tea?” He asks you, and you smile warmly at him, moved by his apprehensiveness. 

“A cup of tea is fine.”

⛅︎

You feel like you could pass out on the spot when Jeongin’s girlfriend, who’s younger than you and has only been dating her boyfriend for about four months, confesses she’s late. Late late. Like, her period’s late. Sixteen days, to be precise. She looks at you with her big, doe eyes, glistening with tears, begging for your help. She needs a friend, someone who listens, and you’re very close to her, even though you haven’t seen her much - she is kind of a younger sister to you. 

“What? Are you and Jeongin having unprotected sex?” You blatantly ask her, staring at her with wide eyes, kind of shocked by the revelation. They’re too young to be having condomless sex, especially if she’s not on birth control or literally any other contraceptive. 

The lowers her head in shame, even though you’re not angry at her. “It only happened twice, I swear,” she justifies herself, “we’d run out of condoms and didn’t think about the consequences. He didn’t… finish inside, though. He pulled out,” she tells you with a hint of hope in her voice, but you both know it’s not an effective method, and that therefore she could be pregnant. 

“You have to take a test,” you sigh. “It might just be a pregnancy scare - my period’s late all the time, I was supposed to get it a couple of weeks ago, but you never know. The chances are pretty high.”

“O-Okay, okay,” she takes a deep breath, covering her face with her hands, “but I can’t do this alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“You… you said you’re late too. Take a test, too, unnie. It’ll be less scary to not do this alone.” 

And you can’t believe that less than an hour later, once you and Jeongin’s girlfriend are finally back from the convenience store, you’re in your bathroom - actually peeing on a plastic stick, even though you already know what the result’s gonna be. Negative, as it always is. You already know it, but you take the stupid test anyway to help your friend feel less nervous. She’s already taken hers and places the stick inside the box, not ready to look at the result yet, and you do the same, not even realizing you’re putting your test in the same box as hers. 

You only realize when the alarm goes off and it’s time to learn the results - that’s when you realize there’s absolutely no way you can tell which test is yours. And your jaw nearly drops once you take a closer look, because one test reads negative, but the other one… 

“Positive.”

⛅︎ 

You’ve been lying in your bed all day, mostly scrolling through your social media dashboards - Dori in your lap as per usual, he’s glued to your side, when you hear the front door close downstairs. Minho’s home. You’d get up to say hi to him, but you feel so helplessly tired and literally can’t get out of bed. You hear him saying something to the cats, and when he pushes the bedroom door all the way open, he smiles brightly at you - Soonie in his arms and Doongie by his feet. 

“Hi, jagi, how are you feeling today?” He asks you, sitting on the bed next to you. You haven’t been going to work for the past couple of days - you haven’t been feeling well, and Minho is kind of preoccupied. 

“I’m doing better,” you smile at him, leaning in for a kiss, “feel tired, though.” Soonie gets off Minho’s lap, and he scoots closer to cuddle you in a spooning position, circling your waist with his arm, scratching Dori’s head when his hand accidentally bumps him. “Did you have fun today, with the boys?”

“Yeah, we… we had fun,” Minho nods, but doesn’t say much. You know he’s keeping something from you by the way he’s nervously fidgeting with his rings and picking at his skin. 

“What aren’t you telling me?” You tease him, rolling to lie on your back, poking Minho’s dimple with your finger. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” you scoff, with a dismissive gesture of your hand, “I know you like the back of my hand, I know something’s up with you. What happened? Something happened with the boys?”

“It’s nothing, really. You know the boys, they’re silly, they say things.”

“Which things?” 

Minho sighs. “It’s stupid, really. Let’s just forget about it, hm?”

“Stop being so grumpy and just tell me already,” you insist, and Minho gives up. 

“Fine,” he waves his hand. Then, he runs his fingers through his hair, unsure whether he should really be telling you what he’d learned mere hours ago. He really doesn’t want to bring up the topic, but you’re just so stubborn. “Jeongin told me something today, and it upset me.”

“What did he tell you?”

Another heavy sigh leaves Minho’s lips. “Him and his girlfriend had a pregnancy scare. She went to the doctor and found out she’s not pregnant, but he was pretty overwhelmed by the whole thing. I scolded him for not being responsible and for not having safe sex, and I don’t know… I guess it upset me.”

Oh. Oh. Jeongin’s girlfriend is not pregnant. She’s not pregnant. But the tests… one of them was positive… Wait, if she’s not pregnant, then… Your eyes widen immediately, and you abruptly sit on the mattress. You can’t be pregnant, though, you had your period this month… it could have been implantation spotting, though, if you really were pregnant, but what are the chances?

“I know you’re upset now, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

You shake your head as a no quickly. “It’s not that,” you mumble, getting up from the bed despite Dori’s upset meowing. 

If Jeongin’s girlfriend’s not pregnant, then it means there’s a slight chance you and Minho… But it could also have been a fake positive. They’re pretty common, you read somewhere once. You rush to the bathroom, opening the third drawer quickly - the one where you keep your stash of pads and tampons and tests, to detect both ovulation and pregnancy. You have two of them. You’re gonna take them both, even though you try to remind yourself to not get your hopes up. 

“Jagiya, what’s… what are you doing?” Minho furrows his brows, looking at you confused as he can’t take his eyes off of the two small boxes in your hands. “Are those…”

“I need to take these,” you tell him, voice trembling. “I was with Jeogin’s girlfriend the day she took the test. It’s a long story, and I promise I’ll tell you, but… if she’s not pregnant then there’s a chance…” you trail, looking at him with tears in your eyes. 

“There’s a chance… you might be?” Minho asks, a new feeling of hope washing all over him as his heartbeat picks up its pace. 

“Yeah,” you bite your lip, looking at him with hopeful eyes. 

It’s been the longest three minutes of your entire lives. You and Minho are sitting on the bathroom floor with your backs against the shower glass in silence, too absorbed in your thoughts. Your fingers are intertwined as you wait for your alarm to ring. This could be your chance. This time, things could be different. When Minho’s phone buzzes, you feel as if your heart has stopped beating inside your chest. 

You take a deep breath, shaking your head. “I can’t look. I can’t look, Min. You do it.”

Minho swallows the lump in his throat, feeling nervous - the most he’s ever been. He’s not ready for another negative surprise. Not when flashes of what your lives could be with a little bundle of joy passed before his eyes as he waited patiently for the results to be ready. “How… how about we do it together? I check one and you do the other one, at the same time,” he suggests, and it seems fair. 

You nod, and Minho finally gets up, reaching for the two plastic sticks placed on the sink, turned upside down not to spoil the result. He grasps one, holding it firmly in his hand, and hands you the other one. Then, he sits back on the floor next to you. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” he mumbles, kissing your temple. 

“Three…”

“Two…”

“One…”

You look at the result at the same time. You hold your breath, as tears well up in your eyes quickly. Before you can contain yourself, you burst down in tears - salty drops rolling down your cheeks. When you turn to look at Minho, his face is stained with tears as well, his lip is quivering, and then he shows you the stick he’s holding. It shows the same result as yours. 

Positive. 8+ weeks. 

You’re pregnant, you and Minho are going to have a baby. 

“Come here,” Minho mumbles, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer as he rests his chin on your head, rubbing your arm with his hand. 

You let the realization sink in - you can’t fully process what just happened, your brain can’t comprehend it yet. A baby. Your and Minho’s dream of a family is finally going to come true, you still can’t believe it, it doesn’t feel real. 

“I love you so much, jagi,” he sniffles, kissing the top of your head, “‘m so happy right now…”

Before you could answer, you hear a loud meow coming from beside you, and that’s when you realize Dori’s here. He makes himself comfortable in your lap once more, and that’s when it all becomes clear to you. 

“Dori, baby, did you… did you… have you been glued by my side because you could sense I’m pregnant?” Dori meows once more, then purrs, making himself comfortable on your lap - you take it as a yes. 

“Aish, you little… your vet bill was so expensive for nothing and here you were, trying to tell us something…” Minho shakes his head, patting his cat and scratching his fur, chuckling, and you giggle as well, “thank you for being by her side when I wasn’t here, buddy.”

You stay like this for a while, in silence, with the tests still in your hands and Dori in your lap, hugging and holding each other, feeling blessed because you finally got the happiness you deserved. 

⛅︎

Minho has always been affectionate with you, but ever since you found out you’re going to become parents in a few months, he just won’t leave your side. 

Your OBGYN had confirmed what the tests had shown, announcing with a big smile on her face that yes, you’re pregnant, and that your baby is healthy and about the size of a bell pepper now, since you’re around twenty weeks pregnant. Minho called your baby “little pepper” until you found out the gender - a baby girl. Minho had bursted into tears in the doctor’s office when she delivered the news, and spent the day glued to you, hugging and holding you, his hands never leaving your round belly. 

“How is my little sunshine? Did you miss daddy?” Minho starts talking to your bump as soon as he slips under the covers, kissing your lips first. “I’m sorry I had to leave, little sunshine. Daddy’s gonna quit his job when you’re here, I’m never leaving you,” Minho pouts, kissing your stomach and caressing it with his hand, “I missed you so much today, did you miss me too?”

Minho’s hand freezes on top of your bump, and his head snaps up in your direction at the same time as you lower yours when you feel a small kick - the first. His eyes glisten with tears, and so do yours. Your little sunshine just kicked for the first time after hearing her father’s voice. 

“Jagi did you… did you feel it, too?” Minho asks you, pouting, “she just kicked. Her first kick.”

You nod, placing your hand on your belly as well, close to Minho’s. “I did, Min,” you sniffle. “Our sunshine really missed her daddy today, didn’t she?” 

Another kick, much stronger now. Minho presses his lips on your belly, kissing it all over its surface as he feels his daughter’s delicate kicks, feeling absolutely and utterly in love - a love he didn’t think he’d be able to feel.

“My precious little sunshine, I missed you, too,” Minho kisses your stomach once again. And then he remembers - he gets up quickly and leaves the room only to come back in with his workbag, laying at the end of your shared bed. “I… I bought you something on my way home, sunshine,” Minho talks to your belly. You just look at him curiously, wondering what he could’ve possibly bought your unborn daughter. “You won’t be able to see it for a few more months, though, but I hope you’ll like it.”

From the bag, he pulls out a small plushie - a white rabbit, with long ears and a mischievous grin. Oddly enough, it kinda looks like Minho. “Where did you manage to find a plushie that looks exactly like you?” You giggle, taking the small toy in your hands. 

Minho just chuckles. “It’s cute, isn’t it?” He comments, looking at the plushie. “I just thought she might like it, you know? Maybe she’ll sleep with it, too, once she’s born,” Minho mumbles, once again placing the palm of his hand on your round belly. 

“It’s cute,” you confirm, “I’m sure she’ll love it. Maybe we should sleep with it, so that it’ll have our scents once she’s born. It’ll make her feel safe.”

Minho smiles - a genuinely happy smile, and his eyes sparkle with joy. He nods, kissing your belly, hoping to feel his daughter kick one more time. She does. “I love you so much, sunshine,” he mumbles against your skin, “I can’t wait to meet you. We’re gonna have so much fun together, we’ll play so many games and go on lots of adventures - me, your mom, the cats and you, my baby.”

After a few more kisses and cuddles Minho gives to your belly, he lies down next to you on the bed, spooning you, wrapping his arm around you to pull you closer as he buries his head in your neck. He kisses your shoulder, breathing in your delicate scent, holding the rabbit plushie close to your body, right on your belly. 

“I’ll never thank you enough for this, you know that, right?” He mumbles, nuzzling your skin. 

“Thank me for what?” You furrow your eyebrows, confused. 

“All of this. For making me the happiest man alive, for carrying our precious and healthy baby girl. It’s pretty amazing if you think about it, isn’t it? There’s a life inside of you - our baby, our sunshine…”

“Minho…”

“I love you both so much, I can’t wait for our new life together to start.”

And all the pain you both went through is long forgotten now that he can finally fall asleep with you in his arms and his hand on your belly, dreaming of a future that, and he can’t put into words how happy he is, is just around the corner. 

⛅︎

-> 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.

-> 𝐦𝐲 ☕️

[babybreadddd]

piece by piece ✧ l.m.h.

chan | minho | changbin | hyunjin | jisung | felix | seungmin | jeongin

→ series masterlist

pairing. lee know x fem!reader. word count. 6.2k. genre. friends to lovers, first dates, college!au, mutual pining, fluff, angst, two idiots in love.

warnings: swearing, drinking, minho is so in love that it hurts

summary: minho, on a drunken whim, asks you out on a date.

*if you’d like to join the taglist, please inbox me!

a/n: finally!! the minho part!! i’ve been sooo excited about this one since i first got the idea. i hope you guys enjoy! once again any and all feedback is appreciated, happy reading <3

© please do not steal, translate, or re-upload anywhere else.

“Dude, I think it’s clean.”

Minho looks up from where he’s scrubbing the counter, eyes narrowed. So what if it’s his third time going over every surface in the kitchen?

“Are you going to help me or are you just gonna sit there and make more crumbs?”

Jeongin’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. He holds up his hands in surrender, the bag of chips in his lap crinkling. “I’m just saying. You’re acting like she’s never seen the place before.”

That’s the problem. You’ve seen his place. Minho has to stop the shudder that threatens to overtake his body at the thought.

“So you’re not helping? Great. Get out.”

“I live here!” Jeongin whines. “Why do I have to get out? You can’t banish me like this.”

“I can and I will. Now leave. I have two hours to make sure everything is ready and I am not going to vacuum for a fourth time.”

“Yes mom,” Jeongin rolls his eyes as he unfolds his legs from underneath him.

He stops just short of the kitchen counter, points an accusatory finger at Minho’s disheveled figure still hunched over an imaginary stain.

“For the record, Chan hyung would never do this to me. He loves my crumbs.”

Minho throws the scrub daddy at him.

🏠

The night it happens, all it takes is approximately three shots and a pep talk from Hyunjin for Minho to finally find the nerve to ask you out.

“You’ve got this,” the younger boy says, words slurred, his hands steady on both Minho’s shoulders. The bass thumps loud in the other room, drowned out by the walls of the kitchen until it’s nothing but garbled nonsense going in one of his ears and out the other, vibrations low in his chest.

“I’ve got this.” Minho repeats, the thrum of alcohol already spreading to his fingertips. He feels warm, light on his feet. His limbs are starting to loosen up and his insides are turning to jelly. He might even be floating.

“You look hot.”

“I look hot.”

“She’s gonna say yes.”

“She’s gonna say yes.”

“You’re gonna venmo me twenty dollars.”

“I’m gonna venmo you twenty dollars.” Minho parrots before he can even process what he’s saying. Changbin, who’d been watching the entire thing unfold from where he stands with his back pressed against the sink, snorts.

“Wait, what the f—”

“Go get her!” Hyunjin screams, pushing him through the door of the kitchen with one last pat on the back, “And send me my money!”

Minho stumbles over himself, just barely able to stop in time before he goes crashing into a group of people. The living room is crowded: there’s furniture pushed up against the walls, bodies pressed front to back in the middle of the floor, a makeshift DJ stand in the corner where Chan is controlling the music from his laptop, drink in hand. Minho catches his eye from across the room, the glow of the LEDs reflecting off the toothy grin he shoots his way, dimples on full display.

“Hey!” Minho feels someone grab his arm, and he turns to find you staring up at him. “Where’d you go? You said you were gonna get a drink.”

Minho follows your eyes down to where you’re staring at his empty hands. “I—uh, well. I ran into Hyunjin and we took a few shots.”

The pout you give him does nothing but spur on the fluttering of his chest, his brain still hyper aware of the way your hand was resting on his elbow. “Shots? I want shots!” you whine, and Minho has to avert his gaze from staring at your lips when your pout only worsens.

“How much have you had?” he tries to ask over the music. There’s a shitty pop song playing, high pitched and wonky. If he remembers in the morning, he’ll make sure he berates Chan about his DJ-ing abilities.

“What?” you scream back, tiptoeing to bring your mouth closer to his ear.

Minho is only a man. A man who's been in love with you since the moment you accidentally spilled your coffee all over Hyunjin in the quad during freshman year. He remembers that day well, remembers the way your eyes went wide and your lips parted. He also remembers the way he wished it was him with the large wet stain on his shirt, that way it was him that was offered to have his lunch bought as an apology.

He’d never admit it, but sometimes really late at night, when the moon is high in the sky and he’s feeling oddly sentimental, he counts his lucky stars that Hyunjin had been in a relationship at the time. Minho doesn’t know what he would’ve done had he been forced to watch the two of you hit it off—some form of arson, presumably. Anything to take the edge off. But because of the fact that Hyunjin was not trying to have his head cut off by said girlfriend at the time, he invited Minho along as some sort of collateral damage. That’s when the two of you became friends. Kind of perfect if you ask him.

With the jumbled mess of butterflies in his stomach that he gets whenever you’re near him, and the threat of the alcohol slowly seeping through his skin, his brain short circuits the minute your breath grazes the shell of his ear. When your hand follows not long after, fingers gripping the nape of his neck to hold him in place, he almost passes out.

“Min? What’d you say?”

Minho is rendered completely useless by you. Absolutely ruined. Your existence has thrown his entire plan to woo you off course and now his mouth is opening and closing like a badly programmed robot. Pathetic. Nuts and bolts for brains.

By the grace of God (or some other higher being that Minho’s never bothered to believe in until this very moment) he finds his voice, but not before you’re pulling back with a confused look on your face.

“I asked how much you’ve had to drink,” he says, straining against the music.

A saccharine sweet grin that has him seeing stars spreads across your face, “Not enough!”

Minho is not an enabler. Never has been, never will be. There was one time, back in that fateful freshman year that also introduced the two of you, that he let Hyunjin get blackout drunk. A terrible decision on his end, if the earful he got from Chan the next morning was anything to go by. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was finding remnants of the resulting hacking session for the following week. So yeah, never again.

But while Minho isn’t an enabler, he is smitten, and the way your hand feels wrapped around his wrist as you drag him into the kitchen has his soul threatening to leave his body. He thinks that maybe he could do anything as long as you asked. He also hopes you can’t feel the way his pulse is rabbiting beneath his skin, right under the press of your thumb.

“There’s, like, nothing here.” you say as you rummage through the cupboard near the window, nose scrunched and a frown on your face.

Minho laughs, rounds the kitchen island to crouch down and open the cabinet under the sink. “That’s because you don’t know where to look,” he smirks, pulling out a fresh bottle of tequila. “Also, Chan hyung is greedy. He knows people like you will go scavenging his supply if he isn’t careful.”

“I resent that.” you frown, taking the bottle from him. “Besides, people like me deserve to have fun too.”

“Mhm, sure.” Minho says, grabbing a solo cup. He holds his hand out for the bottle, pours just the right amount before sliding it over and following it up with a can of coke.

“A man after my heart.” you joke, holding your cup up to him in a mock toast before downing it in one go. Minho watches with so much focus, fighting against the way his head spins. He doesn’t even know if it’s the alcohol anymore, it might just be the effect you have on him. Dizzying—you flip his entire world on its axis in the best way possible.

Minho’s gonna be seeing your exposed neck in his dreams later, he’s sure of it—it’s branded into his memory.

“That…is so fucking bad.” you giggle, holding your cup out. “Another one.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “I don’t know…”

“Pleaseeee Min,” the lilt in your voice sounds oddly familiar. Minho holds his breath just in case you—yup. There it is. There goes that pout again.

It’d be so easy for him to lean down and kiss it right off your lips. He could blame it on the alcohol, maybe, but then that takes away from how he actually means it.

He sighs instead. “It’s gonna cost you.”

“An arm and a leg?”

“What? No—I meant some water.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Three shots and a full bottle of water later, Minho knows you’ve hit your limit. Cheeks flushed pink, a dopey grin on your face, pupils blown wide. Even in this state, Minho is certain that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Anotherrrr,” you slur, waving your cup in his face.

Minho shakes his head. “No can do. You’re cut off.”

“Please,” you whine, placing both hands on his shoulders, “I’ll do anything.”

Minho, completely taken back by the sudden closeness of your body to his, freezes.

“Anything?” he asks before he can stop himself.

This is stupid. You’re drunk. There’s no way you’re going to remember anything in the morning, much less within the next thirty minutes. He’s pretty sure that you’ll lose control of all your senses soon, which is why he’s already texted your roommate Jiwoo to unlock the door so he can carry you inside. Nothing he hasn’t done before.

“Anything,” you repeat, eyes going cross-eyed where they’re fixing on the mole he has at the tip of his nose.

This is stupid. But then again, so is Minho. A big, stupid fool that blames everything on the fact that he’s so in love with you it hurts. This might be the only chance he gets to shoot his shot.

Minho takes a deep breath, says something similar to a little prayer that’s more like Hey, if anyone’s listening, help a guy out, and hopes that the twenty bucks he sent Hyunjin works.

“Go on a date with me.” he says slowly, wincing when your eyes snap up to meet his gaze.

Well, there’s really no going back from that. The only thing that could possibly grant him redemption now is banking on the fact that you don’t remember anything in the morning.

Minho waits with bated breaths, watches as your eyes search his for a long while. He waits for the anger, the disgust, the visible repulsion that he starts to think might happen the longer the silence continues.

He’s about to backtrack, quickly conjuring up an excuse about how Oh, haha, gotcha! when your hands suddenly drop from his shoulders. You grab the cup, your chin tipped upwards, and hold it out for him to fill.

“Okay.”

“O…kay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Pour me another one.”

The next morning, when Minho all but drags himself into the kitchen in search of water and something to soothe the throbbing in his head, he nearly spits a mouthful at Jeongin, the poor guy too busy eating his cereal to realize he’s gotten a front row seat in the splash zone.

Y/N [10:34am]

so

when do you want to do that date?

🏠

Are candles too much?

Minho has options: clean linen, lavender breeze, ocean mist, warm vanilla. He really just needs something to get rid of the smell of cleaning spray.

He thought that having a night in for a first date would be ideal—less pressure, no unwanted attention, a bathroom that he can run into when he starts to hyperventilate if you smile at him for too long. But now that it’s happening, he’s convinced that every surface of his and Jeongin’s shared apartment will scare you away if anything so much as looks off-putting.

Minho is, to put it simply, freaking out. All the other times you’ve been over to his place were on a completely platonic level. Movie nights with all the other guys in tow, dropping off food that you felt generous enough to buy every once in a while, one time because you’d accidentally worn Minho’s jacket home from a party and needed to return it to him.

But this is different. This is a date. Minho’s not dreaming—he already pinched himself a dozen times in the bathroom mirror, tiny red marks on the inside of his forearm to prove it. He’s going to open the door, invite you in, cook for you, and then proceed to resist the urge to tell you how beautiful you are for however long the night continues on after that. He can practically hear Jeongin’s laugh in the back of his head, sneering at how pathetic his inner monologue sounds right now.

He needs to find another stain to scrub.

By the time you’re knocking on his door, Minho has changed his outfit seven times. Sweats were too casual, a button up was too fancy. Should he not have done his hair? No, that’s just lazy, the way his fringe is swept up and out of his forehead adds a nice touch that doesn’t scream Hey! I’m trying to woo you! You’ve never been the type to be impressed by grand gestures and shows of confidence anyways, he knows that well.

One time, when a guy from one of the frat houses hired the campus quartet to sing a song for you in the quad as he stood there with big beady eyes and a bouquet of roses in his hand, you’d all but ran from the scene, Minho following close behind as you called out to him over your shoulder. It’s one of his fondest memories. As soon as the two of you made it around the back of the science building, you’d doubled over in laughter, the both of you in disbelief at what had happened. Minho has had that information tucked into the deepest parts of his brain ever since, saved just in case he needed it.

(Later that night, in the safety of his own bed, he’d laughed maniacally at the situation. Something about watching you reject another guy filled him with a sense of joy he couldn’t explain. He just hoped he was never going to be on the receiving end of it.)

He does a quick once over of the kitchen: double checks that all the ingredients are out, blows a speck of dust off the glass stovetop, spins the tiny floral arrangement he bought so that it’s sitting at just the right angle. When the doorbell rings, the chime bouncing off the walls of the apartment, he visibly pales.

He has to reel it in, to remember that it’s just you. You might not even be here with any intentions other than to fulfill your end of the deal; one date in exchange for the extra three shots he poured you the other night. Minho takes a deep breath, grips the doorknob with conviction, and decides that he’s determined to show you the way you deserve to be treated. The opportunity is there, and he’s gonna take it.

As soon as the door swings open, every nerve that had somehow crept its way into his brain disappears, the sight of you standing on the other side immediately sending the anxiety scrambling and replacing it with fondness instead.

“Hi,” you smile, and Minho sees images of you coming home to his apartment flash across his mind. After class, after work, in the winter when it’s cold and your nose is tinted pink, on rainy days where the ends of your hair are damp and you have a wet umbrella in tow. He could get used to it. He’s so in love that it hurts.

“Hey,” he breathes out, stepping aside to make way for you, “Come in. Are you hungry?”

“Starving, actually. Been saving myself all day since I don’t always get to have your cooking.” You hop on to one of the stools, your attention momentarily stolen by the flower arrangement. One point for Minho.

I’d cook for you every day, he wants to say. But that’s weird, right? So instead, “Well then I guess today is your lucky day.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” You say softly.

Minho can’t see you with the way his back is turned, hands moving to grab out the knife and cutting board, but if he could he’d see the way your eyes are staring softly at his back, the ghost of a smile on your lips.

Conversation flows easily after that, despite Minho’s original worries about it being awkward. You’re not necessarily treating it as a date, and he isn’t really either. It feels more like a glorified hangout, just the two of you spending time together with the added glances and smiles that normally wouldn’t be there.

Minho finds it easy to get lost in you. He finds himself craving to know more about your day, about the things that’ve been on your mind lately and the hobbies you’ve picked up. Most of the conversation is a continuation of stuff that’s fallen through the cracks during the times you see each other, but he doesn’t miss the way you ask about him too, your eyes shining with genuine interest. It makes his heart slam against his ribcage.

“How are your cats doing?”

Minho looks up from the cutting board, follows your gaze to where it’s fixed on the scattered pictures that litter his fridge. “They’re good,” he says, smiling down at a head of garlic, “My mom sends pictures all the time. She says they claw at the door to my room when they miss me.” He smashes the garlic under the knife’s blade by hitting it with the heel of his palm. “It’s cute.”

“You’re cute.”

Minho, in a very flashy demonstration of what it means to be cool, calm, and collected, slices his thumb mid-chop.

“Shit.” he mutters, dropping the knife.

It’s not that bad, just a little nick, the surprise was mostly what scared him. He probably doesn’t even need a bandaid. But despite how small it is, nothing stops you from hurriedly walking up to him and taking his hand in yours, his thumb held closely to your face for inspection.

“Are you okay?” You turn his hand over between your fingers, the soft pads of them against his calloused ones. Minho is dumbfounded, struggling to find the words to say.

“Yeah—um, it’s fine. My fault. I was distracted.” He stammers out, pulling his hand back and holding it up. He wiggles his fingers, making a show of bending and twisting his thumb that, at most, has just a small cut on the side. “See? Perfect.”

Your face relaxes, and then you’re laughing. Why are you laughing? Either Minho looks like a complete idiot or he’s suddenly the funniest person in the world for being clumsy and reckless and almost ruining the night by losing a finger. Whichever one it is, he doesn’t care, as long as he gets to hear that sound again.

“Let me help cook, please? I know you said you would do it all but clearly you’re a threat to the integrity of this meal.” You say, bumping your hip against his to move him away from the cutting board.

Minho scoffs. “I wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t catch me off guard.”

“So what? You admit that I make you flustered?”

Oh.

Minho wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t prepared for the—the flirting that’s clearly happening. You’re flirting with him, right? Why else would you have called him cute or given him that suspicious side eye after you asked that question?

You and Minho have joked around like this before, but it was always empty with no real feelings attached—as far as he could tell. You’re a naturally friendly person, getting along with others comes easy to you. He’s seen the way you talk to the other guys and has always just assumed he was no different in your eyes than they were. Sure, there were moments where maybe your hand lingered on his arm for a little while after he made you laugh, or the two of you would steal glances across the room. Sometimes when Hyunjin said something stupid you’d both catch the other’s eye and make a face, just another funny way of proving that you were both on the same wavelength most of the time. It’s kind of why Minho is so taken with you—he’s never met anyone that gets him the same way.

Reluctantly, Minho puts his pride aside and allows you to help. And as it turns out, you’re actually really good at cooking. Minho doesn’t have to instruct you much, and before he knows it you’re both working like a well-oiled machine, scooting past one another as you switch places between the stove and the sink, reading each other’s minds without even having to ask.

“Taste this.” You say, holding the spoon up to his mouth. Minho leans forward, front teeth poking out, and brings the spoon into his mouth. You cup your hand under his chin to catch any droppings, watching in anticipation as he smacks his lips together.

His eyes light up, big and brown and twinkling under the light of the kitchen. “Perfect.” He smiles.

“Oh you have—uh,” you stop him with a hand on his forearm just as he’s about to turn back to the sink, your other hand hovering next to his face hesitantly, “It’s just, um, your—here.”

Minho’s eyes go wide when your thumb swipes against the corner of his mouth, your touch feather light. It’s so intimate, the only sound being the music playing low from the speaker on the counter. He’s half convinced that you’re able to hear his heartbeat, blood pumping loud in his ears.

“You had some sauce…on your face.” You say shyly, your palm still pressed to his cheek.

“…Oh.”

Minho’s never really looked into your eyes from this close up before. He’s always known they were beautiful, the shape of them soft, full of nothing but the world. He can see himself in them from here, and, selfishly, he hopes you can see yourself in his, too.

He might be imagining it when your gaze flicks down to his lips for just a fraction of a second, but there’s no time to unpack any of that when the sauce starts bubbling over the edge of the pot, spilling on to the burner as loud sizzling and smoke fills the kitchen.

It’s chaos. The bottom of the pot is burnt and there’s only so much of it that’s salvageable. He only bought the exact amount of ingredients too, because this is a self-proclaimed no-food-waste household (as explicitly stated in the napkin contract he has with Jeongin, much to his dismay). So, hooray for conscious consumption of goods!

At the end of it all, there’s no one to blame. You’re both guilty of…whatever that was.

Minho tries to reassure you that it’s okay as he dials the number for the pizza place just down the street, simultaneously shutting down all your attempts to pay as an apology. It doesn’t matter to him, he’d do anything as long as it means he gets to spend time with you. At the end of the day, it’s another memory that he’ll hold close to his heart.

“Listen,” you say, swallowing down a mouthful of pizza, the both of you seated on his couch with a half-eaten box of pizza open on the coffee table, “I know you wanted to cook and all—which, by the way, I’m still sorry—but this is so good. However I’m sure whatever you made would’ve been better.”

Minho chuckles. “Stop lying,” he wipes his hands on a napkin, “I can guarantee you that whatever I cooked wouldn’t be as good as this anyways.”

“Stop selling yourself short, Min. You’re good at everything you do.”

The words fall from your lips so easily, like it’s something you’ve convinced yourself of long ago. Minho’s never been the type to bounce around from one thing to another, always choosing to stick with it until he has it down to a science. Cooking is one of them. Jeongin can attest to all the times Minho has berated him with tasting his latest dishes, chasing him around the apartment with a spoon. The words tighten themselves around his heart.

“I’m not,” he rolls his eyes, “But nine times out of ten, grease and mozzarella cheese are gonna win. I know that for a fact.”

You laugh, and the conversation gradually diverts into a debate about the top ten best greasy foods in existence. You’re heated, half kneeling on the couch with a finger pointed at him as you plead your case for onion rings, when your eyes go past Minho’s head and settle on the shelf of games in the hallway.

“You have games?” you ask, suddenly giddy with excitement as you hurry over to inspect the selection.

Minho watches with fond eyes, collects the plates and napkins to throw away. “Yeah, most of them are Innie’s. We don’t really use them. Sometimes when we’re drunk, other times when we’re bored and decide to wager money for fun.”

You hum, not really paying attention. Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, some decks of cards, Uno—you scan the shelf until your eyes light up at what you find hidden at the bottom.

“Min! Can we play Jenga?”

“Jenga?” Minho asks, re-entering the living room. The coffee table is clear now, and he sits between it and the couch, his back against the cushion. “Isn’t that kind of boring? We have other stuff there.”

“It’s only boring if you play it the way it’s supposed to be played.” You roll your eyes. Minho turns to you when you situate yourself on the floor beside him and only momentarily contemplates running to the bathroom when your knee knocks against his. He’s been holding it together pretty well so far, however The Sauce Incident had him ready to book it if anything had gone further.

“Well how else are we supposed to play it?” He frowns.

“We make up our own rules.”

The pieces scatter across the wood of the coffee table, clacking as you diligently begin putting them together. “This is a date, right?” You ask, stopping for a moment to turn and assess his response.

Minho stills. He genuinely forgot the grounds on which tonight had even happened in the first place. Spending time with you makes him forget everything else. And, despite his fears in the beginning, being on a date with you has felt so natural that it almost seems like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Your eyes meet. For a moment, Minho lets himself wonder what it’d be like if he went for it right then and there. “Yeah,” he says slowly, unblinking, hoping you can see the sincerity on his face, “A date. One of the best ones I’ve ever been on, actually.”

He almost cries out in victory when your face flushes pink. “Now who’s a liar?” You ask quietly, going back to piecing together the game.

Minho has learned something new tonight: he really likes seeing you flustered.

“Why do you ask?” he decides to cut you the slack, “Or what does this being a date have to do with Jenga rules?”

He waits as you finish the stack, your tongue sticking out in concentration. You’re so cute. Minho mentally pockets that image for safe keeping.

“Sorry, okay, it’s done. But basically, if we pull out a block, we get to ask the other person a question.”

“And if the tower falls…?”

“Hmm,” you think for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip, “Oh! I know. If you lose you have to tell me why you asked me on a date.”

Minho’s stomach flips. “Okay. If you lose you have to tell me why you accepted the date.”

Something unreadable passes over your face, but it’s gone in an instant. You hold your hand out for a shake, and Minho wraps his fingers around it gently.

“Deal.”

“Why are you taking all of the middle pieces?” Minho pouts.

The two of you have gone through a couple turns by now, throwing out random questions for the better half of fifteen minutes. Favorite colors, childhood foods you wouldn’t eat, the best memory you have from high school. Minho’s learned a lot, has fallen for you a lot more. But that was always a given. It’s impossible not to when he can feel the warmth from your body where you’re seated next to him, your presence overtaking all of his senses.

“Because I’m trying to win,” you laugh, putting your freshly pulled piece at the top. Just a little crooked, too. To piss him off. “Favorite movie?”

“Ponyo. Easy. My turn.”

“Seriously? Why Ponyo?”

“One question at a time, princess.”

He means it as a joke, really. He doesn’t even realize what he’s said until after the fact, the nickname making your heart skip a beat. Minho notices, the corners of his lips tugging downwards as he suppresses a smile. He manages to flick one of the side pieces until it gives way.

“What’s one thing you regret?”

“Ooh, getting deep I see.” You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. There’s a long pause, and then, “I regret spilling my coffee on Hyunjin that day.”

Minho’s brow furrows. You…regret it? He runs through all the possible reasons in his head. Surely it can’t be because you regret becoming friends with them, friends with him, right?

“Why?” He chances.

“One question at a time, princess.” You echo, laughing at his shocked expression.

You remove the last middle piece. “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate our first date?”

Minho’s brain is going a thousand miles a minute. “A ten. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.” He says it fast, wastes no time in moving forward to remove his own piece. He doesn’t even notice that your cheeks have gone pink again, too busy itching to ask his next question.

“Why do you regret spilling your coffee on Hyunjin?”

Minho watches you, lets his mind wander to the worst possible thing you could say in this situation, and mentally prepares to book it to the bathroom.

You take a deep breath, “I regret it because I wasn’t supposed to spill it on him. I was supposed to spill it on you.”

Wait, what?

Minho blinks. “What are you talking about?”

This is humiliating for you. A terrible thing to have to admit. Up until this moment, you’d thought that this information would follow you to your grave. You press the heel of your palms to your eyes, “This is so embarrassing,” you groan.

Minho pulls one hand away. He’s not really sure what to say, mostly because he’s confused, but, “You can tell me.”

“I had…” you start, looking up at him slowly, “A plan. With Jiwoo.” Minho nods for you to continue. “I’d seen you and Hyunjin walking through the quad a few times, and I thought that you were cute, but I didn't know how to approach you. So I did something stupid and decided that I would literally just crash into you. But I fucked it up.”

I thought that you were cute. The words echo in Minho’s ears like a bell. All this time, all those stolen glances and lingering touches, all the ways you would make hope spike in his chest that maybe you felt the same—they were real.

“So you, wait—” Minho shakes his head, “So you’re telling me that all this time…”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Min, really. All this time.”

Minho’s never been skydiving, but he imagines that this is what it feels like. Free falling—his soul hurtling towards earth at a horrifying speed, slamming back into his body right here in his living room with a force so strong it would knock him off his feet if he wasn’t already sitting on the floor. You were interested in him first.

Wordlessly, you lean forward, pulling out a piece with practiced ease. Minho waits with bated breaths.

“Can I kiss you?”

Minho feels like he might pass out. “Am I dreaming right now?”

“You didn’t pull out a piece.”

He scrambles forward, clumsily nudging a piece on the side that ends up sending the entire tower toppling over. You smile at him, soft and sweet. “Looks like you have to pay up with an answer. You know, since you lost.”

Minho doesn’t care. “Because I like you,” he breathes out, “I asked you on a date because I like you. I like you so much, ever since I saw you that day. And, funnily enough, I’ve always wished you’d spilled that coffee on me instead, too.”

The confession feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He’s spent so long pining after you, laying awake at night thinking about how this would go down if he ever got the chance. He never expected for it to happen like this, much less for you to possibly feel the same.

Panic slowly starts to rise in his chest when you don’t respond. He watches as you reach an arm over, build a small tower out of a few pieces, and then knock it over. You turn to him with a small smile, “Oops, I lost too.”

Minho is so in love with you that it hurts.

“I accepted the date because I like you, Minho. I’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”

He doesn’t think twice before he’s surging forward, cupping your face with one hand and kissing you with a tenderness that has you melting into his touch.

There’s no fireworks behind his eyes, no big bang or grand display of whatever it is that happens in the movies. But there’s a warmth, it starts out small in the center of his chest and spreads throughout his entire body, lights his skin aflame and travels all the way to his fingertips. You’re like that. A gentle presence, someone who worms their way into the very essence of his being and burrows into the deepest parts of him, like it was never his to begin with. Kissing you is slow, and deep, and right. He wouldn’t want it any other way. Minho doesn’t ever want to stop.

He lets his other hand fall to your waist, pulls you closer until you’re practically straddling him with his back against the couch, your knees on either side of his hips. Minho lets out a long, drawn out groan when you tilt his head back farther, his lips parting and allowing you to lick inside of his mouth. It’s so good. So good. He can’t believe he ever lived without knowing what this felt like; lived without ever having you this close before.

After a while, Minho reluctantly pulls back, holding you by the shoulders. When he looks up, your eyes are half-lidded. You look utterly debauched, cheeks pink and lips swollen from how hard they’d been pressed against his own. “We should probably slow down.” He tries hard to convince himself, too. “Talk about it all, you know? I don’t—this isn’t a one time thing for me. I don’t want it to be. I like you. I want you to know that.” He says softly, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

You lean into his hand, smiling when he flattens his palm to let your head rest there. “You’re like, so perfect that I want to kiss you until you forget your own name.”

Minho’s ears go red, his head falling forward until it rests against your collarbone. The feeling of his breath against your skin makes you laugh and run a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck fondly.

“This is gonna be so bad now that you say stuff like that.”

“Bad? No, I think it’s cute. You’re cute.”

“Shut up,” he whines, but there’s no bite to it. Not when he can look up and press a kiss to your lips. A dream come true. The entire world in his hands, exactly where it was always meant to be.

🏠

In the morning, when Jeongin comes back home, one hand covering his eyes just in case, he calls out,

“Everyone better be dressed! Or else I’m ripping up that napkin and making a new one with No fornicating on the furniture added into the fine print.”

When he doesn’t get a response, he rounds the corner, and finds the two of you nestled into the couch. Minho’s back is pressed into the cushions, his arms wrapped tightly around you as you nuzzle your face into his neck.

Jeongin huffs out a laugh, sends a quick text to Hyunjin that reads: Negative. Clothes are still on. But they’re so cute it’s almost sickening.

He snaps a picture to send to the group chat, grabs a piece of cold pizza, and retreats to his room.

Yang Jeongin Fanclub

jeongin: [Attachment: 1 image]

chan: AWWWWWWW

jiwoo: i’m gonna cry

changbin: dude is that the good pizza from down the street?

hyunjin: FINALLY

hyunjin: wait

hyunjin: does this mean i have to send back his $20?

☽ masterlist ☾

.

.

.

[tags: @palindrome969 @summergirlsmj @n1staytiny @strwbrrychannie ]

[babybreadddd]

so relatable...

i just started on a ji fic and i'm writing it night by night, a few words at a time 🤧🤧

slow but hopefully it comes out good...and all my wips are on the back burner for now 🥲🥲

Writers just trying to go about their day ...

Writers staying up late at night ...

Writers dreaming ...

#ella...rambles #writing is hard #I have so much thoughts but omg i can't write it down as well as i would like but #oh well

[babybreadddd]

[babybreadddd]

dear mooootie 🥺🥺 WHY DID I NOT FIND THIS EARLIER THE WHOLE PLOT WAS SO SWEET ❤️❤️❤️

two is better than one

group: stray kids !

pairing: idol!lee felix x f!reader

genre: fluff, angst, slightly suggestive

warnings + additional info: reader is referred to as y/n, established relationships, felix is referred to as lix, and lixie, petnames, pregnancy, mentions of a previous miscarriage, vomiting, childbirth, allusions to sex, suggestive

authors note: yayyy !!! i loved writing this series so much but this will probably be the last part. hope you enjoy the happy ending this time :) this is also not proofread. english is not my first language, so please excuse any grammatical or spelling errors. happy reading :)

wc: 3180

(pt. 1) || (pt. 2)

TW, PROCEED WITH CAUTION: mentions of a previous miscarriage

“i made you some food, you wanna come try?”

you get off the bed, walking over to where felix is standing at your door. you mumble a ‘mhm’ and follow him into the kitchen. life never got easier after what happened to your little sprout. you missed her so much.

you walk by the nursery room, your eyes lingering on the pink curtains for a little bit, then continue to follow felix. you never had the strength to abandon that nursery, sometimes still cleaning it when you’re feeling lonely.

you sit down with felix, an array of brownies on a platter with jjamppong, one of your favorite dishes made by felix. “thank you lixie”, you say with a meek smile. he smiles back, the sparkle in his eyes still dull.

you’ve gotten better, it’s been almost eight months now, but the pain will never be easy to deal with. you both continue to eat, staring at each other every so often. 

his leg brushes against yours, just wanting to feel you there with him. felix hasn’t been doing too well, especially with comeback pressure, but he’s glad he took a break for you.

his hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer to him and resting his head on your shoulder. it was moments like these that you felt safe, only being surrounded by felix. “i love you y/n”

you smile, running your nails along his spine. “mmm, i love you too lix”

you both finish your food, finally grabbing the brownies from the plate. you shove it into your face after craving a sweet treat for so long, felix jerking his head towards you, looking at you with wide eyes. 

he tries to hold in his laugh, but it ends up coming out as a sputter, eyes crinkling in the process. “babe… you got chocolate… literally everywhere”, he chuckles.

you stare back at him, a little dumbfounded. you haven’t seen him laugh all that much in a while, you’re glad it was you who cheered him up a little. “oops… sorry”, you said with a smile.

he kisses you, licking the sweet chocolate off your face and smiling at you again. your foreheads are pressed together, making the moment far more intimate than you thought it’d be. he pulls you in closer again, “i love you lots, i really do”

“i know, i love you too felix”, you say as you place a peck on his nose. you both smile at each other, not breaking eye contact as if you’re afraid the moment will end if you do. 

you both deserve to be happy. this is your chance.

“i’m read- woah…”

felix stares at you like you’ve just hung stars in the sky, his eyes trailing further and further down your body. you’re in a gorgeous black dress that hugs each and every one of your curves beautifully, you’ve never tried it on until today.

“do you… like it?”, you asked him nervously. 

his eyes shoot back up to yours, giving you a bright smile. “you look so beautiful, my love”

you don’t hear that pet name all that often. it’s normally reserved for softer, more intimate moments, but he couldn’t help himself. you walk over to him and wrap your arms around him tightly.

you look up at him, slowly closing the gap between you both as your lips meet in a soft kiss. no kiss had ever felt so heavenly to you since the incident. 

felix cups his small hand over your cheek, stroking it lovingly with his thumb and smiling at you. he turns you around to face the bathroom mirror, eyes widening when he sees the ring of red around his lips.

you both begin to laugh after a little while, a sudden comfort washing over you. you lean over to grab a wipe, clearing the lipstick off his face. you quickly apply your mascara and then head out. 

you want to treat him well today. it is his birthday after all.

you enjoy dinner with him that night, your mind finally cleared for a little while. all you could think about was making felix happy that night, and you did so.

“did you have fun darling?”

felix hummed in satisfaction, kissing your forehead before bringing you into your home. before you could even make it to your room, you kissed him again, on the lips this time, catching him by surprise.

“baby, why do you keep-“, you cut him off with another kiss, this time tugging at his shirt. you needed him again. you wanted to give it another chance.

“felix i think… i think im finally ready…”

his eyes widen. were you really thinking about trying again? 

you knew how much he wanted this.

“you mean… i- you want to try again?”

you look up into his eyes, smiling at him. you proceed to kiss him once again, whispering into his lips, “yes, please…?”

without a second thought, felix picks you up bridal style and brings you to his room, setting you down on your shared bed. 

he kisses all over your face and neck, making sure to put you first. “are you sure?”

you smile at him, intertwining your fingers with his. “i’m sure lixie.”

he smiles wider than he has in a while, carefully removing your clothes. his fingers trail over every single stretch mark, kissing them after. “so beautiful…”, he mumbled.

felix makes the sweetest love to you, chasing mainly after your pleasure. soon after, you’re laying on your back with clean clothes and damp hair, but you don’t know how you got here. 

all of a sudden, you see felix with a large shirt on, baggy sweats to go along with them. you smile at him, tears slowly starting to leave your eyes.

he rushes over to the spot on the bed beside you, “hey hey hey why are you crying baby? are you not ready? we can always get a night after pill?”

you pull him closer to you, hugging his chest and kissing him softly. “no i’m ready, you just…”

“i what? did i do something wrong?”

“no… you’re just so caring for me and- i don’t know… i guess im just really happy. i’m so grateful for you felix”, you reply.

felix is stunned by the sincerity in your voice, but still hugs you back nonetheless. he knows you’re vulnerable right now, but he’s also worried about what is to come. 

what if it happens again…?

“felix!”, you yell out. felix rushes to the bathroom, “what?! what happened?! what’s wro-“

you shove the pregnancy test in his face, a large smile plastered on yours. his eyes widen, quickly filling with tears. he doesn’t say anything, he just hugs you and kisses all over your face.

you giggle, and he smiles, your laugh is music to his ears. he slowly sinks to his knees, pulling your shirt up a little to rub over your tummy. he peppers a couple kisses on it, and stands back up to look at you. 

“baby… i can’t wait”

you smile at his words, finally feeling happy again after so long. “i love you felix”

“i love you more y/nnie”

he hugs you to his chest once again, rubbing circles onto your back. “we’ll be okay. i know it.”

you bite you lip nervously as you wait for the doctor to come in. “hey baby, it’s fine, don’t worry”

it’s your first ultrasound after little sprout, and you’re a little worried about your baby. you’ve been throwing up much more than before, and the symptoms seem to be more intense.

“hey, sorry for the wait, we had to take care of a couple of things. how are you feeling?”

you went through the formalities with the doctor, eager for your ultrasound. once you see the doctor pull out the gel, you immediately relaxed onto the bed and sighed. felix was busy playing with your fingers, trying his best to distract you from your dark thoughts.

your eyes dart to the screen, seeing a little blob of white in the frame. your smile comes back, when the doctors voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “oh? hold on…”

your heart sinks into your stomach, “is everything okay?”

“everything should be fine, but… oh!”

her eyes meet yours again. “congratulations, you’re having twins!”, she says with a smile.

your heart jumps back into place. you turn your head to look at felix who is smiling so incredibly brightly at you. he squeezes your hand, tears brimming in his eyes. you squeeze his hand back.

you continue talking about the regular concerns with the doctor, making sure everything is okay. “this would probably explain why your symptoms are slightly stronger. they shouldn’t be too strong, but if they ever do get too bad please give us a call.”

she leaves the room not too long after, you and felix hugging eachother tightly. “oh my gosh i can’t believe it!”, you breathed out. felix buried his face into your neck again, pulling you close. 

he looks up just to smile at you, before pushing his head back down again. “i’m so proud of you.”

“i’m proud of you too, lix”

“seungmins a wizard. i’m betting on it.”, jisung yells.

all of you break out into laughter, “a wizard?”, you ask incredulously.

“yes y/n. a fucking wizard. because how did he guess the gender right again? he had a higher chance to get it wrong this time, but he’s gotten it right every time!”

felix is smiling as wide as the earth right now, he can’t believe it. one boy and one girl, the best of both worlds. he is so excited to give them all the love he had to give.

you two had fun the entire day, forgetting about your worries and finally letting lose. the boys were attentive as ever, but nothing would compare to felix.

he held you close the entire day, rubbing soothing circles over your tummy and hugging you every so often. you haven’t felt this happy in months, and you owed most of it to him.

“thank you for today, i love you lix”

“i love you too peach”

“how can you even crave this shit. chocolate tteok sounds disgusting”, minho chuckles.

“it is disgusting, but it’s so fulfilling”

“okay, whatever you say, lady”

you’re glad minho always comes over to help with cravings, seeming that felix can’t seem to cook anything other than the basics without a recipe. 

the three of you talk a lot more about plans for the future, already buying new shades of paint for the walls of your nursery. you were beyond excited, you just hoped nothing would happen this time.

felix has been incredibly cautious with you recently, trying to ease your pain in any way possible. he would always make sure to pick out a more supportive bra when dressing you, always treating you like a princess.

he loves to hold your baby bump up from time to time, making sure the weight doesn’t become too much for you. you’re glad he’s home more often. 

you never want this to end.

you’re nearing your eighth month, it’s a lot more difficult than you expected. felix makes sure to help in anyway he possibly can, bringing you everything you need when he’s actually home.

you two have decided that you’d be responsible for your childrens’ shopping. felix would buy pink clothes for your little guppy, and you’d buy blue clothes for your little nugget. 

you’ve been really excited about it all, especially after seeing how happy felix is, but you can’t truly be as happy as you want to. the fear is always there. what if something happens again?

you’re laying in bed now, tired and incredibly worn out. “y/nnieeee”, you hear from outside the door. “hm?”

felix comes in, stopping for a second when he sees you sprawled out on the bed. he quickly darts to sit next to you, holding you in his arms and kissing your cheek half a million times. “i love youuuu”

you couldn’t help but laugh at how adorable he looks right now. “i love you too felix, what was all that for?”

he doesn’t say anything yet, just tucking his face in your neck and holding a hand onto your bump. “so pretty…”, he mumbled. he places open-mouthed kisses all over your neck, you can feel his smile.

you nuzzle your face into him, finally letting sleep wash over you after so long. 

“lix?”

“shhh”

you smile at him a little “you have to wake up, you have work”

after a long night of movies you both fell asleep on the couch, nuzzled into eachother and limbs tangled like a pretzel. 

“please, lix?”

“mmph finee”, he says with a pout. you give him a quick kiss, watching him dart into the bedroom not too long after. you get up to make him some coffee before he leaves, packing up a brownie for breakfast.

he walks back out the room, already seeing you in the kitchen. he quickly walks over to you and wraps you in a hug from behind, holding your bump and kissing your neck repeatedly.

“oh my gosh. i love you so much, you know that?”

you smile, “i love you too baby”. you aren’t quite sure why felix has been so incredibly affectionate to you recently, but you don’t seem to mind it too much. 

not too long after, felix leaves for work, leaving you alone in your home. you quickly finished breakfast, making your way back to your room where you slept for a while. blood still stained the carpet next to the bathroom. you try not to think about it as much. 

you wake up from a much needed nap, slowly getting up to wash up. there’s a feeling of discomfort in between your legs again, and your heart stops. you quickly dial felix’s number.

“felix?”

“what’s wrong baby? are you okay?”, he asks frantically.

“can you come home? i feel… weird”

he mumbled something, you couldn’t hear over the car engine starting. he quickly drove over to your house, finding you already in the bedroom.

“baby what’s wrong?”, he splays a hand over your bump.

you suddenly feel something trickling down your legs, and your eyes dart down. it starts seeping through your clothes, when you feel a little pop. the liquid is now gushing out of you, mouth hung agape.

felix grabs your hospital bag in an instant, bringing you to the car to take you to the hospital. his smile reaches his eyes, he can’t believe this is happening. there is still some internal panic though, you can tell.

you quickly make your way there, going through the entire procedure. you lay on the bed, the only people in the room being felix and a nurse. the contractions feel like a sharp pain shooting through your stomach, but you still try to push regardless.

the nurse calls in a doctor, finally telling you to push. the process goes on for almost an hour, and you’re left weak after the first couple. it feels like you’re pushing a watermelon out of a lemon sized hole. 

felix is holding onto your hand, rubbing circles onto your knuckles and reassuring you every so often. it helped distract you from the pain, but it was suddenly starting to become unbearable. 

sweat was dripping down your face, and suddenly, you feel a large stretch. the pain is unimaginable, and then you realize that you’ve just pushed out their head. you continue to push harder, a newfound determination in you.

your guppy comes first, wailing and a deep red. you continue pushing, “you got this baby”

a million questions run through your mind. ‘what if the baby isn’t okay?’ ‘what if something goes wrong again?’

nonetheless, you continue pushing, and you finally get your little nugget out. once you see him, your entire world stops. you didn’t hear crying. the nurses rush him to another room, and you’re left with felix and another nurse. 

the nurse and felix both reassure you that everything is going to be okay, but felix sounds uneasy. he feels like he could pass out in any moment. 

you finally get to hold your guppy, eunji, you’ve decided to call her. the tears finally spring free, a huge smile on your face after finally getting to hold your baby girl. you turn to look at felix who has a smile on his face, but his mind is still plagued with thoughts about your eunjae.

the longer time passes, felix’s heart sinks more and more. the nurses distract you, but their efforts go unnoticed to felix. all of a sudden, the doors open, and you hear your eunjae for the first time.

felix finally lets go, silent cries shaking his body as he stares at his little boy. “he’s so beautiful…” 

your heart swells at the sight of them, the happiest of tears streaming down your face. felix finally gets to hold the both of them, careful not to be too rough to their delicate skin. you look at felix, who’s staring at eunji, heart beating a thousand times per second. 

the love he’s shown the both of them just today alone makes you excited for the future. you know he’s going to be an amazing dad.

“are you crying?!”, changbin exclaimed.

“having kids is a beautiful thing changbin, shut up.”, seungmin retorted.

the boys are having a blast with eunjae, watching him squirm and giggle in chans arms. hyunjin goes to hold him, but eunjaes eyes widen. suddenly, he cries and flails his legs, mouth wide open. scared, hyunjin lowers him back into chans arms and holds up a toy maraca, shaking it in front of him.

seungmin is sitting on the couch with the both of you, far away from the rest of the boys and little eunji in his arms. “hi sweetpea”, he coos. you’ve never seen seungmin be so soft towards someone, but you decided not to comment on it.

felix is grinning at seungmin, still unable to believe that seungmin is truly acting this way toward his daughter. his eyes are still bloodshot from crying earlier, tears still threatening to spill. “she’s so pretty…” 

you almost cried at the sight of seungmin with your daughter. he looked just like an older brother holding his little sister for the first time. you all continue to have fun, eunji giggling every so often with seungmin.

you watch as he pulls up his calendar in his free hand, quickly handing you eunji and calling his girlfriend. you’re a little confused, sharing the look with felix. 

suddenly she picks up. “seungie?”

“get ready. we’re having a baby.”

your jaw drops, along with felix’s. 

“WHAT?!”, she’s so loud you can hear her through the phone. seungmin continues talking, quickly saying his goodbyes and rushing out the door. you and felix start laughing after the initial shock has worn off. 

so much for a soft moment i guess…

<3

#i love the ending #felix is so supportive #and the guilty pleasure part is so relatable #AHSGSH ITS GOOD #it's so fluff and angst I'm gonna combust #GOODJOB HEHDJSHA #ella's.recs

[babybreadddd]

so cute !!!! 🥺🥺🥺

hyunjin soft thought

(because I'm sad about his mole fading)

so imagine, hyunjin's little mole under his eye being that feature no one likes about him, but his bestfriend absolutely falling in love with it:

you met him through a friend in college, but you and him developed a strong bond and soon he was your bestfriend. you and him shared moments or trouble, pain and bliss alike.

one odd thing about him: he seemed to always have a small amount of makeup on. you didn't care, you thought he wore it really well.

even if he didn't, you probably wouldn't care, this was hyunjin. the guy who laughed a little too loud for public places and made the best art and danced like a god and had a face sculpted by said gods, the guy who couldn't eat a sandwich without closing his eyes, had the most dramatic reactions to thing and had to move half of his face to manage a wink.

this was hyunjin, and you were a little in love with him. maybe not so little.

he didn't like to admit it, but he had a soft spot in his mind just for you, he wouldn't admit how much of his art was about you, how he loved it when you watched him dance, how he would laugh a little too loud at your stupid jokes even if they were unfunny because his laugh made you laugh, how he felt blood rush to his face when he caught you staring at his face in awe, calling him 'the prettiest boy i've ever seen' or how he would worry about his little 'flaws', how you wouldn't find him as pretty if you saw them.

until one day you're at his dorm, he wants you to do his makeup for a party, he wants something other than the coverage he usually goes for, something more expressive, much like your own style.

you tell him to clean and wash off anything already on his face, and he does it without thinking, only realising he's bare faced when he's on his chair, face cupped in your hands as you contemplate what to do with the makeup beside you on his desk.

his face heats up, he can only think of how stupid the mole on his face must look right now. it's not that big of a deal, it's foolish, you're his best friend you're never gonna care about something so insignificant and yet he's contemplating all sorts of stupid things when your voice snaps him out.

"hmm, what style are we going for hyunnie? pretty or sexy?" you ask while turning his face around in your hands, more to mess with him than to survey his features -you already know them well enough.

"i was thinking something like you did when you wore that black outfit for the formal? like the darker eyes with the silver shimmer and-" he is in the middle of his explanation when you see it, the ghost of....?

"hyunnie do you have a mole under your eye?"

"uh.. yes?" he answers hesitant, only for you to fall silent, observing the little beauty mark that has almost faded from what was probably many years of bleaching products and a very consistent makeup and sunscreen regime.

"and you..... never thought of letting it be visible to me? after all we've been through hyunnie?" you started with a grave tone only to end with a laugh.

"so you don't hate it?" he looks at you like a confused ferret.

"no dumbass, i love it! it's so pretty! just like you! oh my cheesecake, the prettiest boy i know........ just became prettier. how?" you poke the little mark on his under eye, fascinated by it like a child by glitter.

"come on, don't joke around" he pouts, face still in your hands, and you physically zoom into him to take a closer look.

"no, prince, you're so pretty i could almost cry." you say, this time with the most sincerity you can manage.

"really?" he looks up at you with so much vulnerability that you almost give in to the strong urge to kiss pout away.

"i don't really like it. my mom hates it, my ex hated it, people have never liked it. i tried getting rid of it but it never completely vanished. so i covered it instead."

"you tried getting rid of something so beautiful because people don't like it?" you ask him, and he releases a tense breath.

"it's stupid, i know. but-"

"what if I love it?"

"what?"

"will you show it if I said I love it?" you ask him, and he looks at you like you've just broken a little spell that was on him.

"i, think i will"

"that's my hyunnie! it will look so good with the type of makeup you want! can I emphasize it? pretty please?"

he can never bring himself to say no when you look like you might cry if he does.

some dabs of eyeshadow later and after the painstaking process of telling him to keep his eyelids still for a little wing, you tell him to open his eyes.

he's a pretty boy, no doubt, but after you bolden his mole with some eyeliner, he looks the most beautiful you've ever seen him look.

"i love you." is what you say when you're dabbing a dark red onto his lips, catching him off guard.

"what?"

"I love you." this time you say it firmly, without hesitation.

"i don't really mind if you don't reciprocate it, but i love you so much, hyunjin, i-" you feel his soft lips on your own before you can continue, the kiss being a non-verbal confession of his own adoration of you.

"you ruined my lipstick..." is what he says with a sad face when you part, before you begin to reapply it and clean the smudged edges.

"i can't believe you-" you laugh, "no omg i love you too' type of thing?"

"shh, do my makeup" he playfully glares at you. you spend the next minute fixing his lipstick while none of you can contain your grins.

accidental confession? more like fated reveal.

you wanted into your pretty bestfriend's dorm and you walked out of your very pretty boyfriend's, with your hands interlinked. your boyfriend with a pretty mole.

#ella's.recs

[babybreadddd]

thankyou!!! i've started to write part 2 :D hopefully it'll be done and if i have enough motivation

sorry no cure

characters: hyunjin x f!reader, established relationship

summary: (for u to find out!)

warnings: angst, cursing, arguing

a/n: its my first short fic, i hope you like it! ending is up to your interpretation, might do a pt2 ?

wc: 1.2k

in reality hyunjin isn't like this!!!! they are all cute, nice and friendly!! this is not the actual character of hyune!!

nothing was going your way. your heartless boss just dumped paperwork on you - on a weekend and demanded it to be done by monday. he took advantage of your willingness, your eager-to-please personality to make you do his dirty work. and at what expense? 

you suffering, toiling on a saturday, one where you should be enjoying your day at home with hyunjin. 

well, there was no point stopping your work. hyunjin wasn't home. he was out, going to a dance class. 

i have to finish this quick, then wash up and clean the house... then i have to go grocery shopping, and maybe pay my sick dad a visit? if i finish my work, maybe i could get a quick treat. like, some acai? 

oh, wait. you can't. money's tight, and well, acai is expensive. right. 

you sighed internally. all you could do as you trudged through your work was to hope that hyunjin would come home in a good mood and comfort you, and what you could do now, was just to keep your mood from spiraling. too many worries spinning around. you couldn't keep this up for much longer. 

hours passed quickly. with each passing hour, bottles upon bottles of caffeine were downed, your mind becoming a hazy mess as you mindlessly do your work. 

you can't take it anymore. you detach yourself from your work and let your body slump on your chair. your eyes hurt, so you close them and leave your mind wandering. 

screw your boss who doesn't respect your boundaries. screw you, who doesn't have enough guts to stand up for yourself and say no. you brought this suffering upon yourself, and now you're facing the consequences of your actions. 

none of this could have happened if you said no. it's not like you would be fired if you said no. just accept reality - you're a people pleaser, and you're so easily manipulated by people. in all honesty, doing someone else's work isn't pleasant, but you feel validated. you live for the commendation, the acknowledgement, the applause. no matter how bad it feels, as long as someone validates you - that you've worked hard, you're someone, someone kind and loveable - that's all you care about. 

and seeking that feeling, that validation has led you to this hell of a mess. it's all my fault right? you need to stop seeking validation, and just do your work well, and not overwork yourself. sounds simple enough? 

the creak of the door opening sends you out of your trance. you see hyunjin, mustering a slight smile at the sight of you. he's definitely tired and exhausted. 

you're still deep in your emotions, but you manage to get out a small "hi baby. how are you?"

"fine. did you get my art supplies?"

shit. his art supplies….you were too absorbed in doing your work that you forgot about it. 

well, he's gonna get mad at you and then there goes your whole day. you can imagine it in your brain - work, arguments, maybe even sleeping in separate rooms? fighting with hyunjin over the smallest things often progressed to long, cold days of isolation where no exchanges would take place, and each would ignore the other, until one of you finally gave in. 

no. i can't let that happen. it was painful for both of us last time, it hurt both of us. 

you swallow your pride and mumble out a "sorry."

"sorry no cure, y/n."

you gasped internally. yes, hyunjin could be a little snarky during arguments, but that- wasn't that crossing a line? you always promised each other that no matter what, sorrys were the way to fix arguments, no matter how many apologies it took. 

the word "sorry" in an argument meant so much. it meant putting your pride down, telling yourself you were wrong and that you'd do something to make amends.

the fact that he'd rejected a "sorry"? it's just paint supplies, it's not even something as important as missing a date! besides, he only does painting in his free time, and he barely spends time with me, what more painting? 

"if sorry isn't a cure, then i'm not sorry for not getting you your painting supplies. get it yourself if it's so important." your emotions exploded. you were tired and irritable, and now you had to argue with the stubborn hyunjin? nevertheless, it hurt you so much to spit those venomous words out at him, but how could you break in front of his snarky comments? never.

an expression appears on his face, but it disappears quickly. you're not sure what it is, but you could pinpoint it to be something of horror and shock. 

i've done some horrible damage this time.. i'm going to pay for it sooner or later. in fights like this, the worse thing you've done is to say some sharp words, give him the cold treatment and wait for a while before someone gives in and you both will be good. but this time, you're not too sure. 

your pride, just put down a few seconds ago, begins to rise. you give him one more jab, scoffing lightly, "go get them now. you'll come back to a nice and quiet house with no one to quarrel with you. you like that? of course you do. i bet you hate me because i've failed you so many times." 

that was the breaking point for hyunjin. he stepped closer to you, your gaze meeting his. your instinct was to flinch and take a step back, but for the sake of your pride, you didn't. instead, you stared right back into his eyes, emotionless. 

before you knew it, you felt your composure cracking as you stared cold and hard into his brown eyes, each willing the other to break. you felt yourself breaking under his glare. exasperated, you sent him a death stare before you took your phone and keys, and muttered a quick "i need space" and left your shared home. you desperately wanted to take back your sharp words that plunged a knife straight to his heart, but how could you? you can't. 

in arguments like this, you can't just turn back. you swallowed your pride to say sorry, and he rejects your apology? real nice of him.  

and that's how you left him. you might've felt a little better if he had begged you to stay, but you knew he didn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing he wouldn't want you to leave, that he still loves you, and he's sorry. that's hyunjin though. 

4 sentences exchanged and that caused a fracture in your relationship with him. all you wanted when he came home was to give you comforting hugs and cuddles to soothe you from the stress of your work. and you'd do the same too, and you both would have a cozy day together. turns out fate had other plans for you. 

you won't be coming back to this apartment for a while. you've plunged the knife in, turned and twisted it and there was probably nothing you could do to patch his broken heart back up. besides, you'd need to wait for him to cave first. 

unknown to you, he was already working out a plan to get you back. you'd hate it, but it'll bring you back to him. 

don't copy my work/post on other platforms! thanku reblogs are appreciated and thanks for reading!

[babybreadddd]

Invisible string ♡ Minho (pt. I)

♡ Pairing: Lee Minho × fem!reader / Hwang Hyunjin × fem!reader

♡ Synopsis: With your terrible history of boyfriends during high school, you swore off love and vowed to get through university without a relationship. Things are great: you’re in your junior year, in an uncomplicated arrangement with a friend with benefits, and living in a nice sharehouse with two amazing roommates. But things begin to change once you meet Lee Minho, a student in your new class who vows to change your perspective on love.

♡ Genre: A ‘lite version’ of a soulmate AU, fluff, eventual smut, light angst, pining, jealousy, strangers to friends to lovers, friends with benefits

♡ CW: Swearing, sexual themes and discussions, mentions of anxiety/panic attacks, alcohol consumption, mentions of smoking

♡ Word count: 16.4k

♡ A/N: This is a three-part story because I can’t shut up. The second part will be posted sometime next week, and I’ll link it here. I’ve been writing all my life and have written for maaaany fandoms, but being on Tumblr as an active reader of SKZ fics made me want to write for them. So, yeah, guess this is what I’m doing now.

part II →

You are woken up by Hyunjin shifting beside you on the bed. He groans, arm reaching to mess with your already closed curtains. You chuckle.

“You know, the curtains won’t close any more than that.”

“I keep telling you your bed is in a terrible position,” He grumbles as you turn to face him with a smile. “Who thought placing a bed right under a window would be a good idea? Mornings are fucking hell here.”

You shrug. “Well, it’s not my house so I didn’t exactly have a say in that matter.”

“I told you a million times I could help you move it.”

“And I told you a million times Mrs. Choi doesn’t like for us to mess with her furniture,” You explain, turning under the sheets so you could face him before bringing your fingers up to pinch his cheek. Hyunjin scrunches his nose. “Speaking of which, you need to leave. You know her rule: no—”

“No boyfriends spending more than two days at the house,” He interrupted you with an eye roll. “I’m not your boyfriend, though, so that rule shouldn’t apply.” He shrugs.

Hyunjin has been one of your best friends since you first met over two years ago. It was Hyunjin’s first college party and one of the many times your housemates had dragged you along on a night out. His friends had dared him to try and chat you up, arguing it would be hilarious to see him get turned down by an older girl. What they hadn’t expected, however, was for Hyunjin’s clumsy attempt at flirting to be so endearing to you; his pink cheeks and bowl-cut hair made him look like a helpless kid despite his height towering over you. Before you knew it, you had spent the entirety of the party talking to him about everything and anything, only stopping once your housemate Eunha emerged from inside the house to drag you home with her as she desperately tried to dodge a rather insistent guy’s advances. After that day, you and Hyunjin became almost inseparable.

You can’t quite pinpoint when you began hooking up. It was meaningless in the best sense of the word. It was simply something that had happened. All you can remember is that Jisung had recently bleached Hyunjin’s hair after yet another dare from his friend. It had started with cuddles, which turned to kisses, which turned to touches, until you eventually slept together for the first time sometime last year after an excruciatingly stressful exam period. It had never once gotten weird between the two of you; the line was always clear: you were just friends who hooked up due to convenience. Everybody had needs and stress and shit complicating their lives, and fucking your best friend was far more practical and safe than going out to look for a random hook-up whenever you needed it.

You find yourself smiling at Hyunjin once again. His now long black hair fell in his eyes as he stretched his arms over his head.

“Yes, you’re not my boyfriend, but how am I supposed to explain what we are to a little old lady?”

“Doesn’t she always say she’s super modern?” Hyunjin raises his eyebrows at you with a chuckle. “Maybe she’d like a situationship of her own and you’re depriving her of that by keeping this knowledge to yourself.”

You roll your eyes at his words, attempting to push him off your bed. “Why did you sleep here, anyway?”

Hyunjin sits up on the bed, a pout on his full lips. “I had a shitty date. I was sad and lonely. Glad to know you were paying attention to my story.”

“Hyune,” You sigh, ‘When you tell me said story while fucking me, can I really be blamed for not remembering anything?”

Hyunjin flicks your forehead lightly. “Yes, you can. At this point, it’s like our thing to vent about bad dates during sex,” He argues before getting up from your bed, finding his shirt, which had somehow been thrown over your study desk.

“You mean it’s your thing,” Correcting him, you get up as well, turning to fix up your sheets. “I don’t even go on dates and you know that. The only thing I vent to you about is how awful academic life is.”

Once you turned to face him again, Hyunjin was busy messily tying his hair. His brows promptly furrowed as he took in your words. “Remind me why you literally never leave the house again?”

“Just don’t want to get distracted. Getting my degree is more important than getting a boyfriend.” You lie with a shrug.

Your history with relationships was something you kept secret from everyone you met after high school. You feel embarrassed, as if it was all somehow your fault. After five failed relationships where you had been the one to be broken up with or cheated on, you began to accept that maybe the problem really was you. Maybe something about you makes men want to yell at and cheat on you. Perhaps you are just bound to be a distraction until they find someone better.

Which is why you don’t date.

Would anyone go through the hassle of reading a long, tedious book if they already knew about the bad ending?

Hyunjin rolls his eyes at your answer, crossing his arms over his chest. “Your degree isn’t going to keep you company when you’re eighty and alone.”

“Well, my degree isn’t going to wake up one day and suddenly decide to leave me either,” you refute, earning an annoyed groan from your friend as you walk past him to leave your room.

“You literally never have fun, though. All you do is go to class, work, and study. You should at least pick up a new hobby,” Hyunjin insists as he follows you, walking into the kitchen-living room area. “Go out more, stop avoiding college parties like the plague before it’s too late to experience the joys of watching your friend throw up on some random person’s couch.”

You make a face at the offers, grabbing your mug from the cupboard. “Why would I want to see that? Besides, I have hobbies.”

“I meant a social hobby. Sitting in your room watching fucking iceberg videos isn’t sociable,” He explains, and you let out an aggrieved gasp. Your iceberg videos were educational and entertaining, thank you very much. Behind you, your housemate’s bedroom door opens, and you turn to watch as she stumbles out of her room, looking half-awake. “Soojung, don’t you think she should get a new hobby?” Hyunjin addresses the blonde girl, who stares daggers at him.

“If I say yes, will you two stop speaking so loud?”

Hyunjin slams one hand on the kitchen counter, his other pointing a finger at you. “See, she said yes. You’re outnumbered, now you have to stop spending all your free time holed up inside your room.”

Soojung groans, stepping into the kitchen and shoving Hyunjin to the side. “He’s annoying, but he is kind of right,” she mumbles.

Truthfully, you did feel bad about having essentially wasted three years at university by actively avoiding parties and invitations any chance you got. The only parties you did attend, however, only served as an irritating reminder as to why you shouldn’t put yourself in those situations. Parties and bars only meant desperate college boys. Desperate for sex, for attention, for a potential relationship. For someone’s heart to break. You had met Hyunjin at a party, for fuck’s sake. Who knows just how south things between you two could’ve gone if he had become interested in you romantically?

But, as much as you hate to admit it, Hyunjin is right. Your life is essentially an endless loop of studying and working. You only socialize when your roommates are home, when your few friends come over, and when you and Hyunjin hook up. But you aren’t ready to step out of your comfortable bubble of avoidance, so you settle for the best thing you can think of.

As Hyunjin rummages through your fridge like he lived there and Soojung stirs her coffee blankly, you loudly set your mug down on the counter. “An elective course,” you announce.

The both of them turn to face you with the same puzzled expression.

“The fuck?” Hyunjin questions, and you roll your eyes.

“I’ll take an elective,” you explain matter-of-factly, “The university offers a lot of great courses in things I’m actually interested in. It’ll be a way for me to get out of the house without having to watch a friend of mine puke on a couch or whatever atrocity it is that you said.”

Hyunjin slams the fridge door closed, earning a scolding scream from Soojung, and walks over to where you’re standing. He pulls you into a tight embrace, and you can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “You’re such a fucking nerd, what the fuck, but I’m so glad your hermit life is coming to an end.”

The elective course you choose is Japanese. It’s a language you’ve always been interested in learning, and while you know the class is merely introductory, you figure it will be fun to learn some phrases and expressions. You might even find yourself wanting to learn more in the future, and you’ll undoubtedly be glad you took this class during university.

Even if that means having to endure Hyunjin calling you a weeb.

You are able to begin attending classes a week after signing up; the lessons lining up with your work schedule to a T. The professor explained that, since you had joined the course late, you would likely need some guidance with phrases and words the class had already been taught. You didn’t mind, actually feeling excited in the morning despite your boring routine classes since you knew you would be doing something new you enjoyed in the afternoon instead of simply killing time around your house until it was time for you to work.

You walk into your first class ten minutes late, mentally cursing Eunha for being so good at telling stories about her weirdly entertaining life that it made it physically difficult for you to drag yourself away from her. You mouth a brief apology to your professor before scanning the room and scurrying over to the only available seat. 

You sit down in haste so as to not disrupt the class any further, swinging your bag over your chair and accidentally knocking over your seatmate’s water bottle all over his side of the desk. Luckily, the bottle lands on the soft surface of his notebook, barely making any noise. Unluckily, said bottle had been filled with coffee, staining his notes a faded brown color. You silently gasp, instinctively reaching out your hands to fruitlessly try and dry the pages that are now sticking to each other.

“I am so sorry, what the fuck,” you mutter under your breath as you continue to inspect his notebook frantically. “I’ll buy you a new notebook and another cup of coffee as soon as class ends, I promise,” You whisper to him, your eyes boring holes into the stained pages as you watch the bitter liquid slowly dissolve some of the black ink. At this point, you’re rambling out of nervousness, but you can’t seem to stop, adding, “Hell, I’m so angry at myself for what I did I’d bind you a new notebook and brew you some fresh coffee myself.”

You mentally berate yourself for your word vomit. It was just your luck that you would make someone hate your guts on the first day you attended a class.

After what feels like minutes of silence from him, you are prepared for the imminent burst of rage bound to come your way, the guy’s wrath more than likely stirring inside him as he sits beside you and watches as you foolishly shake the piece of paper, hoping it will miraculously return to its untainted state.

However, what you aren’t prepared for is the small burst of laughter that leaves your seatmate’s lips; it’s quiet, but you’re close enough to him to be able to hear it.

You furrow your brows, finally mustering the courage to look up at him for the first time.

“Did you…” You trail off. You feel a strange sensation inside your chest as your eyes meet his. It was something you had never felt before, a small burst of a fluttering that briskly washed over you before disappearing just as quickly. Like a pinwheel was placed inside of you and a strong wind had suddenly started blowing. You shake your head, returning to the matter at hand. You are probably just experiencing some anxiety due to what has happened, you argue mentally. “Did you just laugh at me?”

As you finally take him in properly, the guy before you looks as dazed as you felt just now, courtesy of your minor panic attack; his lips agape and his round eyes blinking while his dark pupils are fixed on you. You two remain that way for a few seconds in an impromptu staring contest that causes the peculiar feeling to bloom inside your chest once again.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. “You… offered to bind a notebook for a stranger,” His lips twitch into a grin. “It was a little funny.”

You open your mouth but promptly close it, unable to come up with an answer that wouldn’t make you appear like more of an idiot than you already do. You sigh. “Sorry,” you mumble, your voice low as well. “I say stupid shit when I’m nervous.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s okay. I’m—”

“You two, on the back,” your professor calls out in a louder voice, however still keeping her calm demeanor. You and your seatmate turn to look at her. “I’m going to teach a few new phrases useful for traveling now. How about you two talk after class? This is actually quite perfect. Minho is one of my best students, so he could help you catch up to where we are.” She offers the two of you a small smile, and you feel your cheeks burn.

This class wasn’t mandatory, and you didn’t need it to get your degree. It is still a class, nonetheless. Ever since high school, you’ve always hated people who disrespect their professors by brazenly talking or sleeping during class.

“I’m sorry, professor,” You muttered. Beside you, your seatmate — Minho, as he was just called — scoots closer to you and whispers something you don’t understand under his breath. You look at him, confused. He chuckles, and you feel his breath on your cheek. It makes the odd fluttering return.

“Gomenasai,” He repeats more clearly, his voice louder, “It’s ‘I’m sorry’ in Japanese.” He offers you a smile, and you soak in just how good-looking he is. Ever since you first raised your head to look at him — when the pinwheel inside your chest rapidly spun and unexplainedly made you feel nervous — you knew he was a handsome guy, but his soft smile and calm eyes made him look even more annoyingly pretty.

Before you’re able to do it yourself, your professor speaks again and pulls you out of your trance.

“In this case, Sumimasen would be a bit more appropriate,” she corrects Minho, who clicks his tongue and mutters something under his breath. The woman chuckles at his reaction. “It’s okay. This is also something you can explain to Y/N after class.”

As the class went on, you couldn’t help but notice how Minho didn’t take any notes. Your mind latched onto how you ruined his notebook and how it was your fault that he couldn’t properly study during today’s class, so you couldn’t find the courage to offer him some paper so he could take notes.

After almost an hour of unrelenting guilt swallowing you up slowly, you place your hand on Minho’s shoulder as soon as the professor announces class is over after assigning the students a small written assignment.

“We could talk outside? If you want,” you offer him, feeling the now-familiar nervousness come back, making your mouth speak faster than your brain can even think to rationalize, “There’s a bench I really like outside this building. It’s a good spot. There’s a nice shade, and it’s secluded enough that people don’t bother me when I’m studying. Or googling how to bind a notebook.”

Minho lets out a brief chuckle. “Okay. I would love to talk on your favorite bench.”

You blink at him. “I don’t have a favorite bench.”

“Hm, it sure sounded like it. You listed some good attributes of that bench,” He argues, a grin etched onto his lips.

“I told you I say stupid shit when I’m nervous.”

He raises an eyebrow at your words. “You’re nervous?”

“Of course I am. I never bound a notebook before.”

Minho lets out a hearty laugh this time, his head thrown back and his eyes turning into crescent moons before he shakes his head. He picks his notebook off the table, showing you the crinkly light brown-tinted pages. “It’s dry now. I actually kind of like it, gave the pages a sort of vintage vibe. You don’t have to bind me a new notebook,” He reassures you, placing the small book into his bag. “As much as I would love to see how that would turn out.”

And just like that, your nervousness fades away. You smile at Minho, asking that he follow you over to your favorite bench.

The two of you talked for almost two hours. During that time, Minho helped you catch up with the vocabulary and phrases you had missed in class. When you asked him how he was able to know so much off the top of his head, his lips curled into a crooked grin as he sheepishly told you that he had been taking Japanese lessons since he was in high school. He explained that because he procrastinated signing up for an elective course, the advanced class was full by the time he got to it, so he decided to go for the introductory one instead. You chuckled and questioned why he would choose to spend his time on a course when he already knew everything being taught. He shrugged and explained that it was nice to have at least one class in which he didn’t have to try and that the fact that it made him feel smart also helped.

Not even your shift at work was able to make your conversation stop flowing, as Minho offered to walk with you to the coffee shop upon realizing it was near his apartment.

That was one of the many coincidences and things in common you found to have with each other that day.

It started with ordinary things like the fact that Minho had three cats back home just like you and how he had been collecting plushies since he was a child, while you had started your own collection as soon as you had access to money of your own. Or how your favorite authors were Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë — Minho swore you would die if you saw the special edition books he had back at home.

Then, it became a bit more amusing as you found out that Minho had worked at a convenience store chain when he first finished high school, and it was the same one you worked at for your first job after starting university. And you both had worked there for exactly a year and two months before quitting. You then told him about how you ended up attending this university after your top three choices turned you down, and his choices were the same as yours. And just like you, he also got rejected by his top three options, which led him to attend the same university as you.

You two couldn’t hide your bewilderment, eyes widening and lips bursting into laughter as these linked facts kept spilling out during your conversation. It was strange, you thought, but in a comforting way. It was almost as if you two had been living weirdly similar lives, all while having no clue about the other’s existence.

The two of you approach the small coffee shop while talking about your degrees. You try your best not to bore Minho with your ‘existential crisis-inducing psychology talks,’ as Hyunjin always put it, and you mostly listen to him as he talks about programming. He tells you that his dream is to develop cozy games that people can jump into without much thought, simply to relax. He says he knows how stressful life is and that people sometimes need something they can mindlessly do to get their minds off of shit. You resonate with it more than you care to admit, as cozy idle games are one of your favorite things to do while locked inside your room.

“So I do these freelancing gigs to make money but I’m actually set to start my first quote-unquote real job in two weeks,” he beams as you two stop in front of the coffee shop. Minho’s eyes lit up the moment he started speaking about his degree, and although you didn’t understand most of the terms he used, it is always endearing to watch someone talk about something they’re so passionate about. “There’s this guy who’s graduating soon who recruited me and a friend for a project he’s working on, so it’s not technically a job and we’ll work in his living room. I’ll still get some money and the chance to actually develop something, though, so it’s better than nothing.”

You smile at him. “If you like programming as much as your words led me to believe, I’m sure it won’t even feel like a job.”

Minho’s ears turned a faint shade of pink, and he scratched his head. “Sorry, I talked your ear off about shit you don’t even understand.”

“I think everybody likes to hear people talk about things they like,” you assure him, “It was a good talk. I still can’t believe we have so many things in common. It was kind of funny how they kept coming up.”

Minho chuckles, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “Guess the universe is giving us signs that we should be friends.”

“It seems like it.”

That day, you work with a persistent smile engraved on your lips. You can’t remember the last time you felt so good about meeting someone new. Despite your awkward first encounter, you found that talking to Minho was as easy as talking to an old childhood friend. It felt refreshing. The last friend you made was Hyunjin — whom you were so grateful to now for pushing you out of your comfort zone — and after that, you had unknowingly closed yourself off.

Minho had managed to open up your mind to the idea of letting someone in almost comically fast. And you loved that.

It’s been a month since you’ve been attending Japanese classes, and your studying sessions with Minho — which always turned into long conversations on what now had really become your favorite bench — were a weekly appointment, much like having him walk with you to work twice a week.

Today, however, Minho stopped you with a hand on your shoulder as you made your way toward your usual spot. When he asked you if you would like to study at his favorite bakery today instead, his eyes rapidly blinking as he looked at you through his bangs which had grown to slightly cover his eyes since you met him, you just couldn’t say no. He stammered as he promised that the place was even closer than the one where you worked, so you wouldn’t be late for your shift.

You smiled at his apparent nervousness, finding it endearing. You knew all too well how stressed you felt when offering something new or initiating plans with a new friend, and Minho seemed to be the same.

“Good thing you made this offer today, on my day off,” you bumped shoulders with him. “It’s almost like you knew.”

You begin walking, and Minho gently pushes you to the side so that he’s the one walking on the edge of the side of the sidewalk. You shoot him a questioning look, and he blinks at you again.

“Sorry, force of habit,” he chuckles, “My mom taught me a guy shouldn’t let a girl walk on the street side. I know it’s old-fashioned and probably made me seem like an ancient guy who wouldn’t let his wife work or something. Sorry.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s kind of sweet. I never had anyone do that with me.”

You feel the pinwheel twirl inside your chest again.

The two of you approach a familiar building together. You furrow your eyebrows as you take in the floral curtains on the windows and the pretty font adorning the store sign of your favorite bakery. You think about how it would be nice if you two came here on another day. Maybe you could use that opportunity to finally introduce Minho to your other friends.

You only realize Minho has stopped walking when he calls out your name. When you turn around, he’s standing in front of the bakery with a smile.

“This is the place.” He points toward the white door with a nod as you return to where he’s standing.

No fucking way.

“This is your favorite bakery?” You ask, although it is a stupid question. Minho nods. You play with the strap of your bag. “Okay, this is starting to sound ridiculous, but I swear I’m not lying. This is my favorite bakery, too.”

Minho’s eyes widen at your words, and his lips curl into a smile again. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I will not,” You chuckle.

Minho opens the door and the two of you walk inside, the familiar smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods bringing back great memories you made in this place. You often come here with your two roommates; it’s close enough to both your house and university that you can skip out on taking the bus, the atmosphere is always relaxing and comforting, not to mention the delicious cakes they sell. You smile to yourself as you remember Eunha scuffing down far too many slices of their chocolate cake after a nasty breakup a couple of months ago, tears streaming down her face so violently that the poor little old man who owns the shop appeared to check up on her.

“Their lemon cake is my favorite.”

“The lemon cake is what made me—”

You and Minho speak concurrently, with you unable to even finish your sentence before you both freeze for a couple of seconds in front of the only small table available at the crowded shop.

He’s the first one to move, pulling out his chair a bit awkwardly. “We should…” He trails off before clearing his throat as you sit down before him. “Should really make a written list of things we weirdly have in common.”

“At this point, I think it’d be easier if we made one of what we don’t have in common.”

You two settle for the obvious choice of two pieces of lemon cake with a cup of coffee for him and a glass of cola for you. Minho almost looked offended when you informed him that you hate coffee, wondering out loud why you even worked at a coffee shop before ensuring he could change your mind with just the five amazing facts about coffee he thought about off the top of his head. You shrugged him off with a grin. You couldn’t deny the irony of being a barista and having to make endless cups of a drink you despised daily, but you were sure Minho could never change your mind about coffee.

You two talked about your improvement in Japanese in the last month until the waiter returned with your order. Minho insists you’re a natural and could be on his level in a couple of years if you tried, but you roll your eyes at his compliments. You’ve never been naturally good at anything. That wasn’t about to change now.

“You know,” Minho begins once the waiter steps away from your table, looking around the coffee shop. People slowly started to leave as it got later in the day; the place was now much quieter, and the atmosphere even more cozy. “I used to think I would meet somebody in a place like this.”

“Like, in a romantic sense?”

Minho hums, still looking out to his side. You notice his side profile is really pretty, and you have to hide your smile by sipping your drink.

When he returns his gaze to you, he’s the one smiling. “Yes, in a romantic sense. Like being destined to meet someone.”

“Look at you, a hopeless romantic,” You roll your eyes with a chuckle. You never thought of Minho as someone like that. He seemed rather methodical, always following a routine and too engrossed in his codes to be preoccupied with something like love.

Minho furrowed his brows. “Why the eye roll?”

“I just don’t believe in that stuff,” you shrug with a small smile, “Stuff like destiny, soulmates, love…” You trail off, taking your spoon and poking the slice of cake in front of you. “Love has the awful tendency of being bad.”

Of course, you once believed all those things. Doesn’t everybody? But love has shown you time and time again that those are things reserved only for some people. And, clearly, you are not one of them. So why believe in it?

“It’s the most amazing thing in life,” Minho’s voice almost startled you as you were so deeply entranced in your thoughts.

You don’t lift your head to answer him, instead drawing mindless shapes on the icing on top of your cake.

“What is?”

“Love,” He replies in a soft voice. When you finally look at him, you’re surprised to find Minho’s deep eyes already looking at you, a small smile adorning his lips. “Love is the most amazing thing in life.”

You freeze.

You tear your eyes away from him, gaze focusing on the plate in front of you again.

You were careful with your rules. No parties, no bars, no talking to your male co-workers unless absolutely necessary, and no male friends unless they were in a relationship or proved beyond a reasonable doubt to only be interested in you platonically — which was what Minho was. So, why did him bringing up love make you feel so nervous?

Under the table, you unwittingly bounce your leg. This was stupid. Minho has been your friend for a month now; you see each other twice a week, and you talk for hours, always so comfortable around each other in a way that is still so new to you. He has never flirted with you or treated you in any way that led you to believe that he wanted anything more than to be your friend. You will not let your foolish trauma ruin what was proving to be an amazing friendship. He was simply sharing his thoughts on a topic. That’s all love was: a conversation topic.

You force out a chuckle as you snap yourself out of your senseless panic and look up at Minho once more. “We can just agree to disagree?”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, something you can’t quite pinpoint swimming in his deep eyes as he looks at you. Instead of breaking the silence, he scoops up a piece of cake with his spoon and raises it like a glass. You shake your head with a giggle as you realize what he’s doing, toasting your spoons together at the center of the table before you both eat your spoonfuls of cake.

“You know,” He speaks as soon as he’s done eating, his eyes having never left yours. “Love can never be bad. I don’t think so, at least. It never makes anything worse. It can only ever make things better.”

You hum and shift in your seat, lowering your gaze toward the table. The truth is, you hate talking about love. That — coupled with your shame regarding your past relationships — is the reason why you never indulge in this type of conversation, even with your own mother. But years of swallowing down your thoughts and opinions whenever the subject was brought up only caused a buildup of emotions in your throat. So much so that you only realized you were talking once you were midway through a sentence.

“Love can make so many things worse,” you affirmed, your eyes following the polka-dot pattern on the tablecloth, “Losing someone is bad enough, but put love into that equation, and it just worsens tenfold.”

Minho nods. “By that logic, you can say that having someone by your side is always good, but if it’s someone you love, it makes it better tenfold, right?”

You let out a chuckle as you realize you two could go back and forth about that subject for ages.

But it felt good to finally speak out your feelings on the matter, so you continue, “Love can’t be that great if people can so easily fall out of it and for so many different but equally stupid reasons. You’re suddenly not attractive to them anymore, or you have different opinions, or they love picking fights but hate it when it’s the other way around…” You trail off, swallowing down a lump in your throat as you speak out of experience. But Minho didn’t need to know that. You lift your eyes. “Not to mention falling in love with a new person all while supposedly already being in love with someone.”

“That’s not genuine love,” Minho shakes his head with furrowed eyebrows, as if it was his first time hearing of such things happening. “Real love is unconditional and understanding. Real love makes the person you love beautiful simply because they’re them. Real love doesn’t allow you to hurt the person you love because it feels like you’re hurting yourself as well.” His expression softens, and his eyes lock onto yours. “And real love makes it so that you can only see the one you love. You can’t possibly fall in love with someone else if you’re truly already in love.”

You gnaw on your bottom lip, nodding slowly. You hate the fact that part of you is desperate to believe that what Minho said was true. And you hate it even more that an even bigger part has already dismissed every single word that left his lips.

Desperate to shift the subject from Reasons Why My Exes Left Me — which only leaves you feeling sad and pathetic — back to Love Is Amazing, you decide to try and lighten the mood.

“Okay, but then explain to me how love is so great when you can just have sex with anyone, and it feels the same either way?” You question him with a teasing grin on your face. Minho shakes his head with a smile and eats another bite of his cake. You continue, “Be it a stranger at a party you met ten minutes ago or the love of your life, sex will always be sex. Therefore, you’re wrong, mister Love-Makes-Everything-Better.”

Minho chuckles around his mug, eyes closing as he almost spits out his coffee. His eyes are like crescent moons when he looks at you again, clearly amused by your words. “Well, yeah, of course, sex will always feel good no matter who you’re doing it with. It’s sex, and sex feels good,” He shrugs dismissively. “But sex with love is different. You aren’t just fucking, just fulfilling your own desires selfishly. Love makes sex better because you feel good simply by making the person who’s so important to you feel good. It makes you want to melt into the other person and become one with them because close isn’t close enough when you’re in love.

“Touching them feels like a gift, like heaven. Tasting them feels like heaven. Hearing their voice in their most blissful state feels like heaven. The trust and connection you feel in that moment is heaven, and that’s only possible through love. You can have sex with anyone, but you can only make love to someone you love, and those are two different things. That’s how love makes sex better. Therefore, I’m not wrong.”

As you take in Minho’s words, spoken so casually, like it was common knowledge, they leave you speechless. You watch him as he smiles triumphantly when he realizes you aren’t going to refute him — because you can’t refute him.

You berate yourself mentally as you notice the familiar feeling of arousal wash over you as you repeat his words inside your head. Not because it was Minho who said those things, but simply because that kind of sex sounded so good. Good in a way you had never once experienced before. Like heaven, as he had put it.

Your experience with sex has always been simply about fulfilling desires. You thought that was all there was to it.

Until now.

And even so, with your ex-boyfriends, it was always unbalanced. Ninety percent about their pleasure and only ten percent about yours. The first time you had a guy go down on you was the first time you had sex with Hyunjin, and by that point, you had already had five boyfriends. It felt weird when it happened, and you remember Hyunjin whining about how you didn’t have to ask him every five minutes if he was really okay with doing that. It had always been different with him, the good kind of different. He had never been selfish during sex; if anything, Hyunjin was too much of a giver, sometimes forgetting about his own pleasure in order to focus on yours. You thought that was the best sex you could ever have.

Until now.

Because, even with Hyunjin, there was never a genuine connection. It never felt like a gift to touch him and have him touch you. It was never anything more than sex, more than something you both did because it felt good and it was easy. He slept in your bed, and he cuddled you until morning came, but it had never once felt anything close to what Minho described.

You can’t help but wonder if Minho has ever experienced that. You desperately want to ask him, but you two aren’t close enough for that yet.

You also can’t help but wonder why you spend the rest of the evening raging a war against yourself as your mind is consumed with thoughts of what it would be like to experience that kind of sex with him.

It’s late in the night on the following Saturday, and your phone incessantly vibrating under your pillow rudely demands your attention just as you’re about to fall asleep. You squint your eyes as you type in your password. You sigh as you see Hyunjin’s name on your screen because of course it’s him.

> I’m outside open the door > please open the door? quick? > mrs. choi is gonna kill me if I use the intercom pls I don’t wanna die > I’m in my pajamas do you know how humiliating this is > and I’m highkey pissed off > I WILL sleep on the bench outside your house if you don’t let me in and then I’ll die and who’s gonna live with the guilt? > you > OPENM TEH DOOR

You roll your eyes at his dramatic texts, stepping out of the comfort of your bed and padding across the floor as quietly as possible so as not to wake up your roommates. You open your front door and speed past the hallway and Mrs. Choi’s home, reaching the outside door in record time. It’s something you’ve done more times than you care to admit in order to let Hyunjin into your house. Your tenant was a sweet woman, insistent that she was modern and understanding of ‘young people’, but she despised people coming into your home any later than midnight.

You step outside, finding Hyunjin pacing back and forth like a creep in front of your house. True to his words, he stood in his checkered pajama pants and a black t-shirt. His hair was in a ponytail, the strands messily sticking out everywhere like he had tossed and turned in bed before coming here.

“You look like shit,” you speak up, causing him to jump and let out a gasp. You chuckle as he scowls at you, climbing the few steps to reach the door.

“I had a fight with Mingyu,” he grumbles as you two walk toward your front door. “He told me I spilled paint on his favorite shirt, which is fucking impossible since I don’t even paint anywhere near his shit.” 

“I mean, you are a messy painter.”

Hyunjin shoots you a look as you close your front door behind you. You take off your shoes and walk toward your bedroom in silence. This was routine. Hyunjin knew the rules: no knocking on the outside door, no buzzing the intercom, no shouting from outside, keep your voice down in the hallway, no talking until you reach your bedroom. It was all automatic at this point.

His voice is louder when he speaks again inside your locked bedroom. “First of all, I am not a messy painter. The paint is messy, not me. Second of all, if Mingyu wasn’t a fucking idiot, maybe he wouldn’t leave his favorite shirt on the floor of the living room right by my art corner,” Hyunjin huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, “If that’s how he treats his favorite shirt, I feel bad for his girlfriend.”

You let out a chuckle, which is cut short by him pulling you into his arms. “Hyunjin, that analogy makes no sense.”

“Yes, it does. You treat your favorite shirt like shit, you treat your girlfriend like shit,” he states matter-of-factly before pulling you into a kiss.

This was routine. It was all automatic at this point.

Hyunjin kisses you like he’s angry. Because he is, and that’s one of the reasons why you two do this. You let out your frustrations during sex. You complain, and you let off steam until you both feel okay again. It’s been this way for a year and some months now, and you never once thought anything of it. It was beneficial for you both, so why change or question it?

But that was before your talk with Minho. Before you were awoken to the truth that you’d been having meaningless sex your whole life.

When you’re pulled away from your thoughts, you’re already laid in your bed with Hyunjin hovering over you. His lips and hands wander through your body as he mumbles things you can’t quite understand; you can only make out your name and Mingyu’s mixed with curses. You try to bring yourself back to the moment, bringing your legs to wrap around Hyunjin’s waist and bring him closer to you.

He stops kissing your neck and yanks his shirt over his head, his hair untying in the process and falling on his face like a curtain. You giggle and try to fix it with your fingers. Hyunjin pouts.

“Don’t you think I’m right?”

You frown and hope he can’t see your confused expression in the dim lighting. You truly weren’t paying any attention to what he had been saying, too engrossed in your thoughts and too busy feeling sorry for yourself. Hyunjin’s tendency to tell you about his frustrations during sex always left you a bit puzzled, but it was also oddly sweet. It was like he trusted you so deeply as a friend that he believed he could share anything with you, no matter the time.

So you nod, lightly pulling at his hair. “Of course you’re right.”

He hums and buries his head on your chest, grinding his hips into your clothed core. “Of course I’m right,” he mumbles under his breath.

Everything is a blur after that, your mind insistent on repeating Minho’s words like an annoying echo. When Hyunjin’s tongue fucked you hastily, and he murmured something about you tasting so good, all you could hear was Minho’s voice telling you how tasting the person you love feels like heaven. When Hyunjin pushed his cock into you, his hands gripping your thighs and head buried in your neck, all you could think about was how this sex paled in comparison to what you could’ve been having — what you could have already had — if only you weren’t so damn unlovable. 

You knew that Minho didn’t intend to make you feel bad with his words. They weren’t targeted at you. But that didn’t stop your mind from sabotaging and putting yourself down. It was one of your biggest talents, after all.

Your body was present and responsive the entire time; you moaned because it felt good, and you kissed Hyunjin because you wanted to. But you were mentally somewhere else.

And the worst thing is, you’re a hundred percent sure Hyunjin doesn’t even notice it.

Because this wasn’t love. This was only sex.

And this was all you had ever known.

Time flies by faster than your brain can comprehend; before you know it, another month goes by. You only managed to go to your favorite bakery with Minho one more time before your work hours were changed, your shift now starting a mere thirty minutes after your Japanese class ends. He still walked you to work twice a week, but you would be lying if you said it didn’t upset you to have to let go of your weekly talks.

Minho also became busier due to his own job. With so little time to see each other face to face outside of class, most of your talks took place over text. He talked about his job with so much adoration it made you a little jealous; his partners were now simply friends he worked with, and his joy over finally being able to create a cozy game made it so that he pushed himself over his limit, often sleeping on his friend’s couch after working until four a.m. and getting through the next day on excessive amounts of coffee.

That was how you two came up with the idea of Minho dropping by the café where you work to pick up coffee for him and his friends. He would drop by at least twice every day, his friend’s house — which also served as their office — only one bus stop away.

The first time Minho came by, he had his wallet and phone in one hand, a sharpie and a block of sticky notes in the other. You eyed him curiously as he scribbled on the piece of paper while your co-worker prepared his coffee. When he was done, he stuck the note to the monitor in front of you on the counter. You furrowed your brows as your eyes shifted from the Japanese words on the bright yellow note back to Minho’s smug face. You were certainly grateful he at least had the courtesy of including the romanization of whatever he had written down. Not that it helped you in any way.

“Since our studying sessions after class were rudely taken from us, this is your extra homework. It’s all words we already learned. You just gotta think a little bit, and you’ll figure it out. You’re smart, I know you can do it,” He assured you.

Expect you weren’t that smart and ended up giving up by the time you got home that night. The piece of paper was no longer sticky on the border due to you carrying it around all day, boring holes into it as if that would magically give you the answer. You snapped a picture of it as you got ready for bed and sent it to Minho, begging him to put you out of your misery and simply give you the answer. ‘I want to drink coffee,’ he replied. You slapped your hand over your forehead with so much force you were sure the entire house had heard you. He was right; you did learn that in class. Curse the Japanese language for being so difficult.

After that, it became a routine. You waited expectantly for Minho’s visits daily, but you are extra excited today. It’s a Friday, and your birthday is tomorrow. After much pestering from Eunha, you agreed to have a small gathering at your house. It only made sense to invite Minho; he’s become one of your closest friends in the two months you’ve known him, after all.

As he walks into the coffee shop, sticky notes and sharpie in hand, you chuckle to yourself. You two chat about the development of his game, with Minho kindly using layman’s terms when explaining it to you. He also tells you about how one of his friends got so frustrated with a code that he threw his phone at a wall before immediately regretting it and crying on the floor next to Minho’s desk. Before you can get worried, he assures you that it’s just an ordinary day at the office, and the three of them end up laughing everything off at the end of the day.

After taking his order, you watch as he begins writing down your homework for the day on the small piece of paper in his hand. As you look around the coffee shop, most tables are empty, and the sun is starting to set outside the glass doors.

“You wanna come over this Saturday?” You ask Minho, who looks up at you before adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. That was one thing you learned about Minho since he began coming over: he wears glasses. Not every day, but enough times for you to notice how good he looks with them. But friends find each other attractive all the time, you justify it. “You never came over to my house, and my roommates really want to meet you. Plus, it’s my birthday tomorrow.”

Minho’s eyes widen. “Your birthday? And you save that information to the end?”

“It’s not a big deal. I usually never even celebrate.” You shrug lightly. You’ve never been big on birthdays, as you just don’t see the reason why it’s supposed to feel different from any other day of the year. “But my roommate pestered me to do something this year, so I agreed to have a party.”

Minho shifts on his feet. “I… really hate parties…” He trails off.

“It’s not a party party. I promise!” You hold up your pinky finger. “It’s more of a get-together, just my roommates and my only two other friends. And, you…” You trail off, “If you come.”

Minho blinks his eyes a couple of times before tearing the piece of paper he was writing on from the pad and crumpling it in his hand. He quickly jots down something new and sticks it to your forehead.

“Minho!” You scold him, to which he laughs, his nose scrunching and eyes crinkling. You advert your gaze from him as your persistent thoughts regarding how unfairly pretty Minho is begin to flood your brain once again. You take the note and analyze it:

はい (Hai)

You smile as you understand the word, looking up at him.

“I’d love to come to your birthday party,” He beams. “Thank you for inviting me.”

To say Minho is nervous would be an understatement.

He gets out of his car twice, ready to march back inside his friend’s apartment like a coward and pretend that nothing happened both times. Only when he thinks back to how you smiled at him when he agreed to your invitation does he find the courage to start the car and drive to your house. He’d noticed for a while now how much he likes you. But it was when he agreed with the idea of going to the café you worked at to pick up coffee that it truly dawned on him that he really liked you. Minho hated taking the bus, he hated doing anything other than zoning out on the couch during his breaks, he hated bustling shops, and he hated how his co-workers both managed to have such intricate coffee orders.

Yet he agreed to that idea, even suggesting he drop by two times a day.

He noticed he’d felt a familiar small whirlpool inside his chest whenever he was with you, when he heard you talk about something you liked or saw you smile. He’s also noticed that this tiny whirlpool has been growing bigger and bigger the more he’s been around you.

But that doesn’t scare him. Minho loves love. He loves to be in love, to love someone, and to make that person feel loved. It’s his favorite thing about life. If he was honest, he missed it so much he didn’t know how he was able to live without it.

Just down the block from your house, he parks his car and gathers his phone and his present for you — clearly clumsily wrapped, even with his co-workers’ help. He feels another wave of nervousness wash over him as he approaches the house; he’s an hour late and needs to mentally prepare to socialize with people he’s never met before. Minho chuckles as he realizes a silly party makes him more nervous than the prospect of possibly falling in love.

You open the door almost as soon as he rings the intercom, and he walks down the hallway into your house door; the crooked box he’s been holding makes his hands sweat. The first thing he notices as you open the door is your styled hair with a big white bow on the back, looking much prettier than the ugly bow he and his friends managed to stick on top of his present. He smiles at the sight and scratches his ear in a futile attempt to stop them from turning red.

God, he really liked you, didn’t he?

“Thank you for coming,” you tell him with a smile. Minho notices the quiet music playing inside the house, the simple decorations, and the cake on top of the kitchen counter. He mentally sighs in relief. This truly wasn’t anything like a big party. “You’re wearing your glasses again,” you point out as Minho walks inside and removes his shoes. He subconsciously reaches his left hand to touch his wire-rimmed glasses that sit on his nose bridge. He grimaces and curses at his friend for making him stay later than he was supposed to today.

“I had no time to go home and change,” He apologizes, fingers now toying with the stupid bow on top of the box. “I usually wear contacts, but they make my eyes dry if I stare at the computer for too long, so I just… wear my glasses at work…” Minho trails off, suddenly feeling stupid, his eyes looking anywhere but toward you.

You chuckle, lightly touching his glasses for a second before moving away again. “You always come to the coffee shop wearing them, and I think you look really good,” you assured him. His eyes quickly met yours, only for you to advert your gaze this time. “You should wear them more often.”

Minho only hums, lightly nodding his head. He feels stupid all over again as the image of himself throwing his contact lenses down the drain crosses his mind.

Clearing his throat, he finally hands you your gift. You giggle at the mismatched wrapping paper and poor excuse of a bow, which makes Minho let out a chuckle and murmur an apology. You open the box, and your eyes light up when you spot the stuffed bunny you have been raving about since you two met. It was the only animal missing from your collection, but you couldn’t find the right time to save up money to buy it. Minho didn’t need to ask if you liked it as he watched your smile grow bigger as you looked at the brown bunny.

“Come, I gotta put him in my bed now,” you beamed and took Minho’s hand in yours, leading him to the living room. There, five people sat on the couch and on the floor. Minho furrows his brows as he takes in a head of light brown hair covered by a familiar beanie. “These are my friends. Eunha’s the girl with short hair on the floor, and Soojung’s the one with blonde hair next to her. They’re also my roommates,” You point at them as you speak. “That’s Jisung sitting next to Soojung; he’s also her boyfriend. And then Hyunjin, with the long hair, sitting next to Chan on the couch. Everyone, this is Minho from my Japanese class.”

With that, you pad off to your room with your bunny in tow. As Chan finally turns to look at Minho, his shocked expression mirrors his. They stare at each other for a while before Chan finally breaks the silence.

“What the fuck, that’s my co-worker.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “So this is why you had to leave an hour earlier today?”

As you come out of your room, you chuckle. “Chan is your co-worker?” You ask Minho, “I can’t believe this. He’s been our friend for longer than I’ve known you. He came like a package deal when Jisung began dating Soojung.”

“Damn, dude, you hate me so much you never talked about me to your friend?” Chan gasped, a hand over his heart. “I’m hurt.”

Minho rolls his eyes but is unable to stop a small grin from forming on his lips as the entire living room erupts in laughter. “Of course I talked about you. I talked about you and Seungmin all the time. It’s just I…” Minho shifts on his feet, shrugging. “I never said your names.”

More laughter seeps out of the group of people, including Chan, and Minho finds himself laughing along this time, shaking his head at his own stupidity. 

He sits beside Chan on the couch while Hyunjin heads to the kitchen with you. He quickly asks him how he came to be friends with you in the first place. Chan explains that he’s been in a class with Jisung for almost two years, and the boy had always pestered him about ‘old people’ needing to hang out with people their age. That’s how he ended up meeting Soojung as soon as she became Jisung’s girlfriend. You and Eunha were an inevitable addition, seeing as you were not only roommates but also great friends.

You offer Minho a beer, which he declines. As much as he wanted to, no beer was worth having to take the bus back home. He silently sips his cola as he watches your group of friends chat. You end up sitting beside him on the couch, your friend Hyunjin to your right.

Minho finds that he missed getting together with people like this and didn’t even realize it. His only friends were left behind back at home, and although they were less than an hour away by bus, their busy lives prevented them from meeting in person. Minho’s favorite memories from his teenage years were having his friends over and just doing nothing for hours, talking about stupid shit until their stomachs hurt from laughing. Eating takeout on the couch with Chan and Seungmin after work came close, but they were always too tired and too stressed to entertain the idea of making jokes. Those were times when Minho realized he had really become an adult.

Jisung’s loud voice suddenly booms through the living room and startles an already drunk-looking Eunha, who murmurs something about the younger boy giving her a heart attack one day. 

“I’m bored,” he grumbles, draping his body over Soojung. “Let’s play spin the bottle.”

Soojung rolls her eyes at him, flicking his forehead. “Are you a teenager?”

Jisung pouts, sitting up straight once more. “We’re in university. University students play this fucking game all the time,” he states matter-of-factly. “Don’t make me regret falling for an older woman.”

“Jisung, I’m only three years older than you, I’m not—”

“Don’t make me call you noona.”

Soojung inhales deeply before turning to face the people sitting on the couch, placing one of the empty beer bottles scattered around her feet on top of the coffee table. “Let’s play spin the bottle. But let’s do dares instead of kissing, that’s too boring.”

Jisung beams, cuddling close to her like a needy child. Minho chuckles at the sight.

Eunha scoots closer to the couple so the group is seated in a circle around the coffee table, half of them on the couch and half on the floor. Minho never had the chance to play spin the bottle, which seemed to be such a staple game of one’s teenage years. By the time his friends were off sneaking into clubs and drinking behind their parents’ backs, he was already in a committed relationship and well aware of the fact that he didn’t enjoy parties.

It seems silly, but he’s glad he won’t live past his youth without experiencing such a trivial thing.

Soojung spins the bottle, and the neck stops facing Chan while the bottom faces Jisung.

“Take your shirt off,” Jisung waves a finger at Chan, who looks somewhat disoriented. Minho chuckles under his breath just as you do the same. You two face each other and let out a hearty laugh, your arm coming to rest on his bicep before retrieving back to your lap faster than Minho hoped it would.

Soojung squishes Jisung’s cheeks and places a small kiss on his lips. “You’re such a fucking chaotic bisexual,” she giggles, “Y’know, Chan, Jisung has had the biggest crush on you since you two first met.”

Chan shakes his head with a stifled laugh and proceeds to remove his shirt, neatly placing it on his lap.

Jisung is next to spin the bottle, this time landing on Soojung, who you dare to show her most embarrassing text. After showing the group a string of texts showing raunchy screenshots of a manhwa she’d been reading at that time, all sent to one of her class group chats which included some professors, she lets out a heavy sigh and orders Eunha to spin the bottle before any questions can be asked.

This time, the neck faces you while the bottom faces Eunha herself. With a smile, the short-haired girl dares you to kiss Minho.

He feels his smile drop at the very second the words leave her lips. This was not what he had in mind for tonight.

“What?” You sputter, “Why?”

Eunha shrugs, adjusting herself so she’s seated upright and staring right at you. “Well, he’s the only one here who would be actually fun to see you kiss. Jisung and Soojung are okay with each other hooking up with other people, so that’s no fun,” she explains, using her fingers to list her reasons, “I’m not into girls, so that’s no fun for me. Hyunjin is too obvious. We all already know Chan, so it would also be boring. Minho is like fresh meat. That is fun.”

Minho’s brain begins finding a suitable excuse for why you two can’t kiss, because he’s certain you have no interest in doing it. Not only are you friends, but your reaction didn’t exactly exude excitement at the prospect of kissing him. Just as he’s ready to lie through his teeth, you turn to him and place your hand on his shoulder, a touch so soft he’s barely able to feel it through the fabric of his shirt.

“Is this okay with you?” You ask him, the tone of your voice so sweet Minho feels like it melts his every thought until his brain is nothing but a sugary pool filled with only you. So he nods because god, yes, this is okay with him.

You gingerly place your right hand on his cheek, bringing your faces closer until your lips press together. The whirlpool inside his chest spins fast, like a vortex dragging every sense of his body toward you and only you.

You remain still for a few seconds, Minho’s eyes opening slightly to search for any sign of regret on your face. Before he can even properly look at you, your lips begin to move against his — gently and carefully, like you’re not sure if this is what he wants. Minho deepens the kiss and hesitates three times before committing to placing his left hand on your waist. The giggles around the two of you nothing but a muffled murmur to him. He presses another kiss to your lips, his body shifting until he is all but caging you against the back of the couch. But just as he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip, you push him back with a smile, Minho chasing after your lips.

He blinks a couple of times, eyes zoning into your smudged red lipstick. He subconsciously bites his own bottom lip, wondering if any of the color transferred to him. The surrounding murmurs bring Minho back to the moment this time, awkwardly clearing his throat before lifting himself off of you and sitting upright on the couch. He tunes out every comment regarding the kiss to the best of his abilities, focusing his energy on slowing down his heart rate. When he catches you giggling while looking at him, your arm touching his bicep yet again, he nods, grabbing his cola bottle from the floor and taking a sip.

Minho can’t remember the last time kissing someone got him so worked up. He entered a long-term relationship at such a young age that he’s only now realizing how unaccustomed he is to kissing someone new, to the rush that comes with having your lips pressing against the ones of someone you like. It was exhilarating and a bit terrifying all at the same time. He was awkward, unsure where to put his hands, uncertain if you were enjoying yourself. He was also greedy, wanting the moment to last for much longer than it had.

This had cemented the fact that he does, in fact, really like you.

After kissing you, the whirlpool living in his heart had now fully transformed into a tiny hurricane — with great chances of growing even bigger.

Minho only notices the game has continued upon hearing your voice complaining beside him. He watches as Soojung shrugs.

“It’s the only thing I could think of, sorry.”

“But why?” Hyunjin asks, placing his cup on the coffee table. “It’s a stupid dare.”

The blonde girl scoffs. “No, it’s not. I’ve had to basically live with you two for the past year, and it’s common knowledge how easily you get a boner for her.”

“Not true,” Hyunjin retorts, although it sounds more like a question than an affirmation.

Eunha blurts out, “You once got a boner watching her stir a cake mix.”

Hyunjin opens and closes his mouth before groaning, pulling you into his lap by the waist. You apologize to him quietly, to which Hyunjin shakes his head with a small smile.

Minho feels as if he’s intruding on something private.

You sit on Hyunjin’s knees, almost falling off his lap as you clearly try to keep some distance between the two of you. Hyunjin clicks his tongue and pulls you closer to him until your back is pressed up against his chest. He whispers something in your ear, to which you lightly slap his arm as his lips upturn into a grin.

Minho is definitely intruding on something private.

At some point, you turn so you’re sitting across Hyunjin’s lap, your body now facing Minho. He can’t help but watch with dark eyes as the younger boy’s hands wander through your body; playing with the buttons on your blouse, squeezing your thighs, and caressing your skin a little too close to the hem of your skirt. He furrows his brows as he tries to understand your relationship with Hyunjin, seeing as you’re obviously not put off by his hands on your body.

Minho is so transfixed by the sight and his racing thoughts that he only realizes the game has ended when someone taps his shoulder from behind the couch.  When he looks back, Chan is holding a cigarette and motioning towards the stairs that lead to the house’s terrace.

In the chilly open space above the house, they sit on a bench behind a tall vertical planter. Minho wonders who tends to the garden as he observes the various flowers, as well as some vegetables and herbs scattered around him. The terrace is small; the garden taking up all the space, an old wooden railing that overlooks the quiet street the only other thing in his sight.

He and Chan chat about school and work, as they often do nowadays. After Chan recently broke up with his girlfriend, Minho found that his friend had become much more closed off, so the list of subjects they would talk about became minimal. Chan bites his thumb before taking a long drag of his cigarette. He chuckles when he mentions being scared of graduating next year. Minho bumps his shoulder with him, arguing that being in his situation is worse. He admits that he regrets starting university late and that being in his first year when he should already be in his third is discouraging. Chan dismisses his worries, reminding him of how Minho is often the one to fix broken codes and come up with ideas for their game whenever Seungmin gets stuck.

“A degree is just a piece of paper,” Chan says, throwing his cigarette butt at a nearby trashcan. “You’re already a fantastic programmer, Minho.”

“You’re just saying that because I saved your ass today.”

Chan shrugs. “You’ve saved my ass basically every day since we started working together.” After a beat of silence, he asks, “Why did you start uni so late, anyway? You never told me.”

Minho hums, digging his brain for a way to sum up the entire story. “It’s complicated—”

He’s interrupted by footsteps on the stairs leading to the terrace. A loud giggle echoes through the open space before you and Hyunjin step into their field of vision. The long-haired boy holds you from behind, and you two stagger toward the railing.

“Wish everyone would go home already so I could just fuck you,” Hyunjin whines as he turns your body around so you’re facing him. Minho almost chokes on nothing at those words, and Chan stifles a laugh with his hand. He curses the small space as they’re able to so clearly hear everything you’re saying.

You playfully kick Hyunjin’s shin. “Don’t say it like that, Hyune, what the fuck.”

“It’s true, though,” Hyunjin continues, pressing you against the railing. He towers over you, so the only thing Minho can see from where he’s seated is your white skirt floating in the wind behind the tall boy. “I had a stressful, terrible, awful, dreadful week. All I kept thinking about was coming over and relaxing with you.”

“See, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound so awful.”

Hyunjin clicks his tongue. “There’s nothing awful about fucking. I know how much you like it, don’t act so coy.”

Minho watches as your hands clench around Hyunjin’s gray shirt, pulling him closer and kissing him softly, much like you had done to him a few moments before.

Minho presses his lips into a thin line. He connects every dot available to him inside his head and suddenly feels pathetic.

Hyunjin being too obvious of a choice for you to kiss, his hands all over your body, his words about fucking you, the way you kissed him like it was a habit.

If you had a boyfriend, why did you agree to kiss him?

The words swarm Minho’s brain. He vaguely recalls you and Hyunjin eventually walking out of the terrace. Chan starts a one-sided conversation about one of his classes, with Minho humming after every couple of sentences to appear like he’d been listening when his head is too busy wondering how to feel about everything.

Minho recalls Eunha walking up the stairs and shouting for the two of them to come downstairs to sing you happy birthday. He recalls Hyunjin’s hands wandering through your body throughout the song, his lips pressing small kisses on your face and lips as you smiled. He recalls feeling confused, stressed, jealous, and pathetic.

Minho is only truly back to the present moment once Chan’s voice bids him a loud goodbye, and the door slamming behind him makes his senses finally return to him. As he looks around, he notices that the only people left in the living room are Jisung, Hyunjin, and you. Beside him on the couch, Hyunjin stretches with a loud groan.

“I’m gonna take a shower. D’you have any of my clothes in your room?”

You sigh from where you’re sitting on the floor, resting against the television stand. “Of course, I do. You’re always living shit behind, you’re like our third roommate at this point.”

Hyunjin chuckles, walking over to give you a small peck on the lips before disappearing into your room. Minho gnaws on his bottom lip with a bitter smile as he realizes Hyunjin will sleep over at your house. The ugly feelings return as he remembers his thoughts about you these past few weeks when he unknowingly cultivated too big of a crush on you. Even on his way here tonight, when he had chuckled to himself at his lack of nervousness in the face of potential love.

Love.

Minho can’t help but wonder why your view of love is so negative when you’re in a relationship. And, at the same time, he doesn’t dare to think about it for too long, fully aware that his foolish affection-filled brain will come up with a myriad of reasons — all where your boyfriend is the sole culprit for your distaste — and Minho knows better than to let those thoughts linger for too long inside his mind. He knows himself all too well, knows only awful shit would come out of assuming things about your relationship; the urge to beat Hyunjin senseless for being a shitty boyfriend and making you think that way about love being the worst of them.

“I’m too drunk to go back to my dorm,” Jisung suddenly speaks, his eyes glazed over as he stares ahead. “Gonna crash here tonight, too.”

Minho takes that as his cue to leave.

You walk him outside, a small smile on your face the entire time. He feels guilty not being able to reciprocate the gesture. As you tell him goodbye, thanking him for coming, you pull him into a hug. You hadn’t hugged much since you met, and Minho foolishly wants to draw you closer to him, to feel your body pressed against his just as it was pressed against Hyunjin most of the night. But he can’t do that.

“Are you okay to walk back by yourself?” You ask him as you pull away.

Minho nods, forcing out a small smile. “My car is parked just down the block.”

“That’s why you didn’t drink!” You exclaim with a giggle, “I forget that most people our age already drive. My anxiety didn’t allow me the chance to even try and get a license, so I just accepted my fate of taking the bus.”

“I could drive you…” Minho trails off. There he goes again, being pathetic. “If I have the time… You can give me a call and I’d be happy to drive you anywhere.”

You smile at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into another embrace. Minho smiles genuinely as he buries his head in your hair.

The drive back home has Minho feeling stupid all over again as he thinks about how you’re probably in bed with Hyunjin by now. The whirlpool is back inside his chest, but it isn’t good or welcome this time. It’s agonizing and painful.

Love had never been painful. Love had never been bad.

But he had never experienced love toward someone who already loved somebody else. Although you brazenly state that you don’t believe in it, you must feel some type of love toward Hyunjin if you’re willing to be his girlfriend.

As he silently drives home, Minho finds himself agreeing with you.

Maybe love can be bad, after all.

Minho feels stupid.

This has become a constant in his life.

He had always thought of himself as a logical person. Programming had taught him that everything is predictable and fixable if you work on it hard enough. A broken code? It may take him six hours of staring at the computer to figure out it was nothing but a missing semicolon, but he will get there in the end. It was annoying and frustrating, but it was always something easily fixed.

He thought love was like that. It had always been like that with him.

Until he fell for you.

Minho was coming to terms with the fact that maybe love and programming were nothing alike. Love isn’t predictable. Loving someone who is already in love with someone else isn’t easily fixed. He can’t backspace and delete your boyfriend from the equation.

It’s been a little over six months since you two first met. Minho has consistently gone to the café you work at every day, and you two still had endless talks over text messages. You talk about everything and anything, from silly things like sharing pictures of both your growing plushie collections or your love of that particular coffee shop’s lemon cake to more serious topics like how Minho learned how to cook when he was twelve so his mom wouldn’t have to do it by herself, and now his roommates take advantage of that, or how sad you are that next year you will have to leave the house you’ve grown to love so much.

But, whether it is in person or through text, you still avoid the topic of love. You don’t ever bring up Hyunjin unless he’s part of a story you were already telling, and Minho feels his heart heavy as he slowly allows himself to imagine what it could be that led you to hate love so much.

He desperately wants to ask you, know your reasons, and make sure you’re happy with your boyfriend. But he doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries and doesn’t know how to go about it without scaring you. So he never does anything, like a coward.

Minho finds himself coming over to your sharehouse on most weekends since summer break ended. Your countless get-togethers at that house have become a hard-to-break habit. Hyunjin, Jisung, and your roommates are always assured to be there, with Chan joining whenever he isn’t overwhelmed with work or school, which was rare.

Minho had always been a hopeless romantic, always doing things for love that people repeatedly warned would result in regret. This time, it was forgoing visiting his parents and friends back home just to spend most of his summer with you. Despite not being able to pursue you in the way he truly wanted to, Minho still wanted to be your friend. You were still a fantastic person he loved to have around; that didn’t change simply because you had a boyfriend. Although he could feel a bit of his heart cracking every time he had to see you, all while knowing he couldn’t do anything about his feelings for you.

He couldn’t change your perspective of love if he weren’t allowed to love you.

In all the time he spent at your house during summer break, he ended up becoming good friends with Jisung, as you tended to stick next to Hyunjin most of the time. Minho didn’t mind it; he is your boyfriend, after all. At least, that’s what he repeats to himself every night he comes over like a mantra as he almost masochistically forces himself to watch how Hyunjin kisses your lips and caresses your skin or how you play with his hair and snuggle with him on the couch. He also endures the countless nights he’s left your house knowing all too well that Hyunjin would be spending the night with you in a way that Minho can only ever dream about.

Tonight, in particular, Hyunjin seemed to be all over you like bees on honey, buzzing around you everywhere you went, his hands never leaving your body as he pulled you closer to him every time you even slightly pulled away. Because god forbid your bodies not be touching in some way for even a split second. Before he knows it, Minho is downing his third bottle of beer of the night.

From where he’s sitting on the couch, Minho rolls his eyes as discreetly as he can while he watches Hyunjin pull you to sit on his lap on the floor as you all get ready to play a game of cards. He gnaws on his lower lip because he knows he’s being petty and borderline childish. You’re Hyunjin’s girlfriend. Of course he’s all over you, of course he wants to be close to you, of course he wants you on his lap. Minho concludes with a bitter chuckle that he is, indeed, pathetic when it comes to you.

He gulps down more of the awful-tasting cheap beer.

The night comes to a close after far too many rounds of Cards Against Humanity, with Jisung winning more than half of them. His ethics and morals fly out the window the moment the cards are handed to him, as he manages to create the most absurdly offensive phrases known to men every single time. Minho found himself groaning and yelling at the younger boy as the alcohol took over his system. He doesn’t know how much of it was simply his annoyance at Hyunjin clinging to you like a koala throughout the entire game disguised as competitiveness.

He doesn’t think he’d like to know either.

Like every night he comes over, Minho is the last person to go home. He has to call an Uber, far too buzzed to want to sit at a bus stop all alone at this time of night. He hadn’t even noticed how he kept downing his drinks until he felt the familiar buzz of inebriation wash over his body a while before the game ended. Although slamming his fist into the coffee table with a whine about how he had only been given lame cards should’ve been a sign.

As he waits outside your house by the fence, he suddenly hears the door shut behind him and your voice calling out to him. He smiles at the faint slur of your speech and the way you drag out the last syllable of his name like you always did when you were a bit drunk.

“I told you to wait for me!” You reprimand, opening the gate to stand next to him. “Look how lonely you look here all by yourself.”

Minho just shrugs with a smile, shaking his head. He did wait. He waited almost half an hour after announcing he should leave as you disappeared into your room with Hyunjin. He was still waiting, in fact, only mindlessly scrolling on his phone for the past ten minutes instead of finding a ride as he hoped you would come outside when you saw he wasn’t in the living room anymore.

You poke his shoulder, bringing his attention away from his phone to your smiling face.

“Tonight was fun, wasn’t it? Especially that last round when Hyunjin won after being tied with Jisung for the whole game,” you grinned, “Seeing Jisung make a whole damn case about how much better his card was really made my night. Think that’s the first time I’ve seen him act like a law student since I met him.”

Minho chuckles, bringing his attention back to his phone. Seeing your smile and how your eyes light up while you talk about something you like brought back the whirlpool inside his chest, which wasn’t a pleasant feeling any longer. It made him glum to think how a once beautiful feeling had turned into nothing but discomfort simply because he was lovelorn.

He hums. “You must be proud to have your boyfriend put an end to Jisung’s annoying winning streak.”

“What do you mean?”

Minho looks up from his phone, eyes wandering through your puzzled face. He furrows his brows for a second. Maybe you’re both drunker than he’d thought.

“I mean, it must’ve been nice to see Hyunjin win after Jisung basically made us all want to quit the game,” he explains, watching as your expression turns from confusion into shock before you let out a loud laugh.

Minho’s eyes widen, worried your laughter might wake up your neighbors. He gently shushes you, his arm grabbing your shoulder, but your smiling face only makes his lips stretch out into a grin. He suppresses a giggle as you catch your breath, shaking your head.

Minho smiles at you so fondly he’s certain he looks like an idiot. “What’s so funny?”

“Hyunjin isn’t my boyfriend,” you explain like it’s obvious. “We’re just friends. I thought you knew that.”

Minho only then realizes he had never once heard you refer to Hyunjin as a boyfriend, nor had any of the people around you. But his assumptions weren’t so ill-judged, either. You two acted like a couple. It wasn’t so absurd to assume that you were one.

He finds himself staring at your amused face for a few seconds before forcing himself to turn his attention back to his phone.

You acted like a couple, but you were just friends. Minho groaned mentally.

“So, you’re like friends with benefits?”

“Yeah… I don’t particularly believe in love anymore, Minho. I thought you knew that from our talk a while ago,” You chuckle, shifting on your feet. “Hyunjin is one of my best friends. We just hook up ‘cause it’s convenient.”

Minho hums, his fingers ghosting over his phone screen. “Sounds like you’re running away from love.”

He blinks a couple of times as he takes in his own words. He would have never said such a thing if it hadn’t been for the liquid courage flowing through his veins.

You shrug, moving to sit on the white bench just outside the house. “Well, yeah, that is what I’m doing. Love hasn’t been kind to me at all. I have no interest in going after it, only to be hurt again. It’s a movie I’ve watched before and I hated the ending every time.”

Minho bites the inside of his cheek, finally clicking the button to find a ride, his thumb pressing on his phone screen more forcefully than he intended. He felt angry. You didn’t deserve to settle for a friend with benefits due to convenience. Had you wanted to be in that situation, it was your every right to do so, but you were in it out of fear of being hurt.

He felt sad. He wished you didn’t equate your past experiences with love to everything it could be. Bad experiences in love were possible for everyone — even for him, who used to believe unwaveringly that love could never be hurtful — but that didn’t mean it was all there was to it. Minho desperately wanted to show you that. The good side of love, the side that made him put it above everything else in his life on so many occasions, the side that made him crave it even now when it hurt more than it felt good.

And, strangely, Minho felt relieved. It was a small percentage of the chart of current emotions he was experiencing, but prevalent nonetheless. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he felt happy Hyunjin wasn’t your boyfriend and, most importantly, that you weren’t stuck in an unhappy or toxic relationship, as he had so often feared.

His ride arrives, and he’s overcome with a wave of courage. Minho would much rather live with regret than with a constant ‘what if’.

Shoving his phone inside his pocket, he offers his hand to you, who looks up at him curiously from where you’re sitting on the bench before taking his hand. Minho pulls you to your feet and hugs you. With his hand on your waist, he pulls your body closer to him, finally holding you tightly the way he’s always wanted to do. He presses a kiss to your head, bringing his lips to your ear and whispering, “I’m gonna change your mind.”

He feels your body shake with a chuckle, but he only tightens his hold on you.

“What?”

“About love, I’m gonna change your mind,” He answers matter-of-factly, “You deserve to feel love without being afraid.”

Minho pulls back from the embrace just enough to see your face, and he’s surprised to find you smiling up at him. He smiles back.

“I will change your mind.”

Minho had just dropped you off at your house, ready to drive around aimlessly until he absolutely had to go back to his dorm, when Seungmin texted him.

> hey my sister’s engagement dinner is tonight > and i might have fucked up something in the code i was working on so now there’s a chance that you fish 100 rare fish at once 🤪 > pls pls do me a solid and fix it before chan sees it and kills me? > love you hyung 💚

Minho initially groaned at the messages, thinking of the many ways in which he could murder Seungmin and get away with it. But, ultimately, he didn’t want to go back to his dorm anyway, so he gladly turned his car around. If he was lucky, this would take hours and he would have a valid excuse to crash in Chan’s cramped living room.

He punches the code to the front door and his friend greets him with a puzzled expression.

“I forgot to do the, uh, troubleshooting for this week,” Minho blurts out. It’s the first lie he can come up with, and he hopes it’s convincing enough. Chan nods slowly. Seungmin might have saved him from having to endure his roommates on a Saturday night, but he still owes him.

“It’s all good,” Chan says with a sigh, “I’m most likely gonna pull an all-nighter designing these new characters. Anyway, how did you waste your time today?”

Minho has been taking you on what he likes to call Subtle Dates for a month now.

Chan affectionately calls them Waste of Time Dates.

Minho rolls his eyes, sitting down on his own desk. “We went to Han River and walked around till sundown, then watched the Banpo Bridge water show.”

Days like today were rare, so Minho was happy. Most weekends, it seemed as if the whole world was conspiring against anything he planned with you.

“Oh, how romantic of you,” Chan gasps, feigning amazement. “Did you at least kiss her this time?”

“You know I can’t just kiss her like that. I know she’d freak out if I tried to do anything romantic with her,” Minho taps his fingers on his desk, knowing he sounds ridiculous. But he has a plan. He just hopes this plan actually works out soon. “I don’t mind being patient.”

He hears Chan scoff. “So, you took her on another one-sided date and then drove her home so Hyunjin can fuck her?”

Minho’s fingers stop tapping on his desk, his hand coming down to slam on it before he can stop himself. He lets out a heavy sigh, and Chan mumbles an apology. But, the truth is, he knows his friend is right. Just last weekend, Minho dropped you off straight into Hyunjin’s arms, the younger boy waiting for you to come back in front of your house.

And Hyunjin wasn’t the only inconvenience that rendered it almost impossible for the two of you to spend time together. Minho had to cut most of your dates short due to Chan calling him about something urgent that only he could fix at work, or you canceled altogether because your roommate was upset and you didn’t have the heart to leave her alone like that. There were also times when Minho was too tired to even go out at all, like on the day of his birthday, which resulted in you coming over to Chan’s apartment and eating cheap takeout food with him and his two friends.

Minho found himself dealing with countless bumps in the road when it came to finding a way into your heart.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” Chan says hesitantly, “You clearly like her a lot.”

Minho repeatedly opens and closes the code he’s supposed to fix. He sighs. “I like her more than a lot, and I don’t even know when that happened.”

“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” His friend explains, his face disappearing behind his own computer screen. “I just can’t see what will change if you go on dates with her when she doesn’t even know they’re dates and if she’s just gonna go home and have sex with someone else. I don’t get it. What difference does it make?”

He can hear Chan scoffing, although he tries to disguise it by clearing his throat. Minho shakes his head.

“It makes all the difference because that’s not love. I wanna show her what love is, and that it isn’t always bad. I promised her that I would.”

Chan sighs, sliding his chair toward the mini-fridge by the couch. “Agree to disagree?” He asks, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing it in Minho’s direction. He grabs it mid-air, just before it hits him in the face, and clicks his tongue.

“Agree to disagree.”

Minho plugs his headphones into the computer, drowning out the noise of Chan’s pen sliding across his iPad with his brown noise playlist. But he can’t drown out the obstinate thought ringing inside his head, screaming at him that Chan is right.

Taking you out on dates — which you don’t even know are dates — doesn’t really make a difference if you’re just going to go back to your convenience with Hyunjin at the end of the day. If you think you’re just friends going out together, and you go back home at night to the comfort of sex without the love you’ve been running away from for so long, what Minho is doing truly is useless. 

It’s just like when he argues with Seungmin through their codes, screaming at the younger boy in all caps about something that’s broken, even though he knows he’s going to be the one who will end up having to fix it.

Minho’s fingers come to a halt on the keyboard.

Closing his work, he opens up Google and finds the first flight he can to Japan. Almost as if he’s on autopilot, and his brain is completely shut off. He books the flight and the cheapest hotel he can find, using almost all the money he’s saved up to move out of his hell of a dorm. It might be the most idiotic thing he has ever done in his life, but he’s so in love it hurts him. And he loves love, and love with you — the thought of that alone has his heart beating at his throat. He doesn’t want to keep on with these futile attempts at trying to make you see that love is good and that, maybe, love can be good with him.

The truth is, he feels scared. Maybe even more scared than you do. He is terrified of knowing the answer, of finding out that maybe he could change your mind about love but that it would simply lead you to someone else’s arms and he would have to endure the pain of unrequited love until it inevitably faded away with time.

Minho would gladly live with that pain if it meant you were happy.

But he needed to know.

He adjusted his glasses — a childhood nervous habit that returned after he started wearing them more often since you complimented him months ago — and retrieved his phone from his backpack.

He typed and deleted more times than he’d like to admit.

< Hey, it’s late sorry  < Just wanted to know if you’d be up for a trip to Japan? < In two weeks < For study purposes < We’d finally have the chance to use what we learned in class lol < Chan was supposed to go with me but he has a family thing so he can’t anymore < Everything’s already paid for and he said he doesn’t mind if you go in his place < Lmk what you think

Minho’s fingers typed as his brain came up with excuses and lies, sending more messages than he needed to. He couldn’t tell you he booked a whole damn trip with you just to see if maybe, possibly, you have feelings for him too.

He all but throws his phone across his table after turning on Do Not Disturb. He’ll need to muster up the courage before reading your answer, and having his phone buzz for anything that wasn’t your reply would just be torturous. He felt stupid, would feel even more so if you turned down his invitation. He almost doesn’t want you to answer, wants to pretend he never even sent anything.

Because it was stupid.

But love is stupid, and he is in love.

Worst-case scenario, he’s stuck with Chan in Japan for a weekend while he laughs at him.

Best-case scenario, he spends a weekend with you in Japan. No letting you go back to another man at the end of the day, no more hiding that he is taking you out on dates, no more distractions, no more inconveniences of your daily lives.

Minho opens the code he was working on again, quickly typing out:

// NOTE: Minho will fix this.

[babybreadddd]

omg!! the whole series is so good i'm looking forward to more :))

track four - 'greedy' ft. lee know

‘pairing’ - 이민호 (lee minho) x fem!makeup artist

‘genre’ - fluff, angst, frenemies to lovers??

‘tw’ - angst, 14+, swearing?, seungmin being evil, toxic girls, idk

‘word count’ - 1.0 k

‘to get tagged’ - pls reply to the taglist post, this post or just ask me

‘lee’s notes’ - lowercase intended, not proofread, yn is korean (its easier for me to write)

pls note, reblog, anything &lt;3

~

‘previous track’ > ‘next track’

‘masterlist’

~

you never knew rumors could fly so quickly. the first thing stray kids tells you as you enter is, “have you seen what comes up when you search up lee know?”

“what are you talking about?” you ask flustered, tucking a loose strand of you dark hair behind your ear. 

“so, you know how yesterday we went out,” hyunjin begins. you nod, lashes flickering.

“lee know didn’t come back right away,” he says, raising a brow inquisitively. you stare at him blankly, fighting down fiery emotions flaring up in your chest.

“what are you talking about,” you echo again flatly. seungmin snorts. “stop playing dumb yn, everyone knows minho has it soft for you.”

“the hell?” it escapes your lips quickly. seungmin made the conversation turn quickly. everyone stares at you and that’s when you realize lee know isn’t there.

“he was with me,” you mumble, your cheeks turning a vibrant shade of red. “i knew it!” seungmin crows, flashing you an evil smirk.

you flick your fingers at seungmin’s eyes and he ducks. “so what do his lips taste like?” seungmin asks. your mouth falls open and your eyes flash.

“WHAT IN THE ACTUAL–KIM SEUNGMIN!” you shout, whirling around to face him. you cross your arms over your chest, ready to yell at him some more when–

“what’s happening here?” a cool voice asks calmly. you freeze right away.

“nothing,” seungmin and you sing in chorus as you glare at seungmin in the corner of your eyes. he beams at you proudly.

minho gives both you and seungmin the best side-eye ever. “okay,” he says, not convinced. “so have you seen–”

“have i seen all the stuff people are saying about us,” you cut him. felix gives you a shocked expression.

“so you did know!” he accuses you. you shrug, and look at lee know.

“yeah. they think we’re dating,” lee know says casually, running a hand through his hair and you feel like you’re drowning just standing there. a small smirk plays on his lips as he runs his eyes over you. 

“alright i think we’ve had enough of minyn minyning,” seungmin interrupts. “minyn?” jisung questions.

“minho plus yn, so minyn,” chan says tiredly, frowning at seungmin. “it’s there, i don’t know, official ship name now?”

“what’s a ship?” jeongin asks.

“it’s when you combine two–” felix begins.

“it’s a boat,” lee know says, his eyes sparkling. “huh?” now everyone turns to stare at him. “what?” he protests.

the next day flies away so quickly you didn’t even have time to blink. you have the day off and soyeon is out, so you decide to swing by your favorite boba shop to start off the day.

“oh my goshhhhh,” a snarky voice remarks behind you. you turn around to face a group of a few girls.

“is that lee know’s girlfriend?” another girl whispers loudly as if you weren’t right there, whipping out her phone to compare you to whatever picture was circling social media.

“he could do sooo much better,” the first girl sneers, tossing her hair, flashing her freshly manicured nails.

“like you’re any better?” you retort, tilting your head back with an air of superiority, hoping the girls would go away. the girls giggle noisily and the first girl steps forward, closer to your seat in the corner. you can smell her strong perfume and fight the urge to sneeze.

“i’m kim hyeon, and all my girls agree that i’d be so much better for lee know,” hyeon says smugly. “and he even said i was cute at a fanmeet,” she adds, a small smile on her face.

when? and i thought he said he only ever liked me… god, i’m so naive. it’s not like i care, right?

“do i look like i came here to hear how much you’re in love with minho?” you sigh, rolling your eyes, turning back to your phone. hyeon mock-gasps. 

“actually, i came here to tell you that he’s mine,” hyeon snaps threateningly while all her friends start nodding like puppets.

you widen your eyes. “oh, i didn’t know minho went to you and told you he was yours,” you counter casually as you run a hand through your hair. 

hyeon bristles angrily, her lips pursing. “ugh, i don’t get how he even likes you,” she says. “you aren’t even pretty. maybe just decent. like, ugh.” her words cut through your skin like knives and bury themselves into your brain. WHY AM I LETTING HER GET UNDER MY SKIN, you yell at yourself internally. I’M SUPPOSED TO BE STRONGER THAN THIS.

hyeon gives you one last glare as she turns on her heel and flounces off. literally. a few of her friends mouth “ugly” to you before following her.

you roll you eyes, trying to shake off the feeling of how she was kind of right. why did lee know choose you? you weren’t special. you were just a normal person that happened to be stray kids’ makeup artist. 

the chances.

“i’m fine,” you say aloud to yourself, tugging at the strings of your sweatshirt, but hyeon’s words rang in your ears. 

you’re not even pretty. not even pretty. not. even. pretty. maybe just decent. decent. you’re decent. why does he even like you?

you shake your head. “shut up,” you hiss to yourself, clenching your fists. i’m so weak, you think to yourself as tears start to sting your eyes. you try to blink them away but they persist.

stupid useless overacting emotions why do you exist, you yell at your heart. how could minho love somehow that breaks at the mildest comment?

a quiet sob escapes your lips and you cover your mouth right away. you fumble and bring your phone up to your ear. you hate the way your voice cracks as you speak but you can’t help it. you really aren’t feeling it right now.

“minho? can you come? please?”

~

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