17caratrecs

[17caratrecs]

keeping score ⚽ mingyu x reader.

hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader. ⚽ word count: 20.4k ⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse. ⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo. ⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3 🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.

▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH. 

The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.

You love the Kims. Really, you do. 

His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?

Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.

And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.

You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.

“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”

You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”

He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”

You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”

The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents. 

Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.

“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”

Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”

His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”

“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”

It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”

His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”

“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.” 

You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.

Nose scrunch. Head shake.

Not in this lifetime.

There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.

You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.

Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.

And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.

He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall. 

Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.

You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.

Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.

You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.

“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.

He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”

You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.

The camera clicks.

This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.

“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”

“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”

“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.

Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”

You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother. 

There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.

And you’re perfectly fine with that.

▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE. 

Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.

“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”

Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”

Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.

And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.

You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.

The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.

Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”

“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life. 

Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”

Vernon blinks. “Oh.” 

Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs. 

Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”

Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort. 

You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech. 

For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles. 

Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”

“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”

Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?” 

“So, what?”

The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”

Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”

It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on. 

“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.

“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”

Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.” 

“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he adjusts his cleats. 

“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”

He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”

Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”

Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”

“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu. 

His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.

When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was. 

When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’

And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.

Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.

“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.

Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”

That one’s easy. 

“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu. 

Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off. 

The feeling was most definitely mutual. 

The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.

Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”

Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.

The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.

Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”

Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”

Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”

“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply. 

Vernon blinks. “What bet?”

“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol. 

Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.

How long it’ll take the two of you to get together? 

“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.

Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding. 

“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does. 

He watches as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.

There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.

Huh. 

A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills. 

“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle. 

▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR. 

You don’t know why you always end up here.

Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators. 

Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”

You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”

“You say that every time.”

You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.

The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.

“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”

“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”

He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”

“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”

“Okay, but—”

Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.

And then everything goes black.

For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.

Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.

“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”

You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”

“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.

You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”

But then you actually look at him.

The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s genuinely scared.

A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”

“I just—” Mingyu gulps. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”

And then it clicks.

You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.

He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.

But you knew.

Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.

Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”

Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”

“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.

You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”

He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax. 

“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”

“I will murder you.”

An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”

“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face. 

“You are kind of pathetic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.

With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.

Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”

He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff. 

It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him. 

Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.

He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though. 

“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again. 

“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”

“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.

As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine. 

“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.

Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”

“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.

You make a face. “Be serious.”

He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”

“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic. 

You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”

Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back. 

“You don’t have taste.”

“Excuse you—”

“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”

Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.

You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude. 

“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way. 

You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation. 

What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.

Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.

Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.

▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT. 

Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you. 

He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it. 

He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.

Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight. 

If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself. 

But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him. 

Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights. 

“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt. 

The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.

He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend. 

It takes him all of three minutes to find you. 

Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried. 

It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick. 

He hates it. He hates you. 

He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too. 

Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump. 

Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling. 

Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.

It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most. 

He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news. 

And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you. 

“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”

Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone. 

“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—” 

“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”

Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow. 

“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?” 

He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple. 

Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you. 

You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?” 

Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same. 

“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.” 

The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.

“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this. 

Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself. 

That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth. 

“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”

In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were… kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true. 

In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’. 

The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other. 

“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement. 

Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you— 

You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger. 

The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.

Mingyu, still paces away. 

By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.

“We’re going,” he announces.

The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss. 

“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves. 

“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”

Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car. 

You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further. 

“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.” 

“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”

“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it. 

That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle. 

“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—” 

“I didn’t ask you to—” 

“Your mother asked me to—” 

“Well, she can go and—”

“Please!”

Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together. 

“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.” 

You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up. 

“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night. 

“You are,” he responds exasperatedly. 

“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.

You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—” 

“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat. 

You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”

If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago. 

A beat. And then—

“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips. 

To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground. 

You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car. 

▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER. 

You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber. 

Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.

Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.

The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.

Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab. 

And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.

You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.

Stop drinking. -KMG

You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.

Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is. You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”

“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”

There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later. 

Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.” The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”

You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.

As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.

And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?

You shove it deep down where it belongs.

Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.

His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.

Today, Mingyu is untouchable.

The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”

Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”

It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.

But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.

Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.

And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.

Mingyu’s jaw tightens. 

When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.

Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”

Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.

You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.

And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.

That’s just the cherry on top.

He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible. 

Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing. 

▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME. 

Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section. 

The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time. 

Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.

“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.” 

Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.” 

The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”

As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.

He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job. 

Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.

The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen. 

But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.

His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.

It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.

Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory. 

Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes? 

He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.

And then— what the hell is he doing? 

Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s. 

That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo. 

“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires. 

“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell. 

He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you. 

(In the other side of the mall—) 

▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP. 

You love shopping. 

Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.

Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.

It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.

You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.

“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.

You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.

Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”

The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.

“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”

A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.

The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.

You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.

The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.

A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders. 

Mingyu’s shoulders.

You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.

You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.

Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.

Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it. 

You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.

But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.

It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.

What the hell are you doing?

Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.

You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.

No. Absolutely not.

You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.

Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.

▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.

And yet, here you are.

Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.

He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.

The worst part? It works.

Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.

He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.

Instead, he heads straight for you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.

You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”

You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. 

Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.

But he does.

It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.

Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.

A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.

Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.

The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.

A one-point lead. Game over.

He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in. 

Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.

He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching. 

Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.

There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today. 

Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.

He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage. 

“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.”

“Excuse me?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”

That sets him off.

“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”

You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”

Your jaw clenches. 

“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”

The words hit harder than they should.

The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.

He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”

You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. 

But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”

Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”

“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”

You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.

Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.

This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.

Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.

Just… because.

It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night. 

He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”

Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here. 

Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.

The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.

His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?

Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.

“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”

Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”

He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”

To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.

The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.

Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.

Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.

And, maybe, so is he.

It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.

He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—

But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.

Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.

By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.

▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION. 

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive. 

It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.

You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.

Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered. 

That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.

You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.

Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.

He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.

You blink. Then blink again.

The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—

Oh, God.

With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.

You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.

You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.

“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.

“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

Well, then.

If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.

You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.

A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.

The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor. 

You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.

You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.

It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it. 

You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer. 

You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.

“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.

Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”

You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks. 

You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”

A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in. 

The moment is bizarre. 

His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours. 

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.

The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.

You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.

“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.

“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.

You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.

It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.

The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...

The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”

Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.

Shit. 

You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”

But the thing is— you can’t ignore it. 

Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.

A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.

Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.

“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor. 

“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”

You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”

“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.

You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.

You are warming up to Mingyu.

It hits you like a truck.

Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.

Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.

By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.

You need to stop being too nice to him.

▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH. 

Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching. 

He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.

And then, as expected—

“Kim.”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.

He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.

He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.

“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.

You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”

“No.”

Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.

“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”

“I need a favor.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”

Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”

Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”

You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”

He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”

“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”

Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.

And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.

“I need help moving some furniture.”

Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”

He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.

“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges. 

“Because you owe me?”

He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”

“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team. 

“Not my problem,” he settles on saying. 

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“And yet, here you are.”

The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a headache, Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.

Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough. 

“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”

To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed. 

Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”

“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”

“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”

The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.” 

You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”

You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.

Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.

“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic. 

Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.

But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.

You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon. 

▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON. 

The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.

“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”

Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”

You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.

Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”

Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”

The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.

Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately. 

So you double down.

You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”

Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.

There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head. 

Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you? 

The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.

As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”

You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.

But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air. 

The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.

Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you. 

“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly. 

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs. 

“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”

Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”

You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”

“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”

You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.

Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead— 

“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful. 

You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”

“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful. 

You hate it. 

You hate him. 

Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.

You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players. 

One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too. 

In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option. 

It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that. 

If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse. 

He had pretended not to. 

You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.” 

Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut. 

The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? 

But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out. 

Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant. 

You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit. 

Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away. 

You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word. 

His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause. 

Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”

You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called. 

▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE. 

Mingyu doesn’t get it.

He’s been off his game for days. 

It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.

It pisses him off.

The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.

Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority. 

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest.  “One more round.”

“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”

Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.

As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump. 

Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.

You?

You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing. 

It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.

Instead, he’s a goddamn mess. 

Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.

It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate. 

He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.

You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.

But then—

You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told. 

You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.

Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.

And what’s worse—

Why does he want it?

He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.

He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.

Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.

The realization slams into him all at once.

His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.

Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel. 

Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.

He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have. 

“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s fucked. 

▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING. 

You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.

It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes. 

Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.

It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it. 

Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return. 

“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”

Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”

He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”

“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”

Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.

Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole. 

“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."

“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”

“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”

“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”

Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”

“... Lighting?”

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”

Something twists in your stomach. 

The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating? 

You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”

“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”

“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”

There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.

It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you’re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition. 

The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.

“Table for two?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says.

She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”

For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted. 

He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”

The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.

“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.

As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”

“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”

He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You knew that when you got in the car.”

The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again. 

“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”

His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."

Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead. 

“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song. 

“Absolutely not.”

You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?” 

“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.” 

Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas. 

The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces. 

And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.

But maybe that’s not the whole truth.

The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered. 

Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage. 

Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.

“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”

Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”

“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”

It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women. 

Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?

Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”

“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”

You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.

“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”

The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.

You know someone like that.

Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.

You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged. 

Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”

You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

You don’t dare look at him.

You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like— 

▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE. 

Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is. 

He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.

The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.

Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.

He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.

Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?

He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.

It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.

And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him. 

Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.

You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom. 

Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now. 

Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—

You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when you’d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.

The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter. 

It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.

His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.

The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off. 

Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.

Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?

Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?

Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—

What would you sound like?

In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—

“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself. 

He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—

“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”

Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.

Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.

You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.

A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it. 

You pucker your lips.

A flying kiss.

Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.

▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE. 

Seven minutes.

You could do anything in seven minutes.

Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.

You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.

The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.

“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty. 

This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.

Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated. 

The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people— 

“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.

Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim. 

To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.

You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.

You don’t.

It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.

You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu’s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him— 

“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”

Fuck.

You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter. 

He opens one eye. “You totally did.”

You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.

But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging 

The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.

Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back. 

No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?

“It’s complicated,” you gripe. 

Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.”

He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”

That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound. 

It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.” 

You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.

“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.

You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid. 

The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.  

Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.

And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.

After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.” 

You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you. 

Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”

“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.” 

“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything. 

“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—” 

“Let’s not go there.” 

He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips. 

You take a deep breath, and then you follow. 

It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes. 

You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly? 

That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red. 

You have never wanted Mingyu so badly. 

▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’. 

He doesn't want to be mad.

Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it. 

He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.

You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant. 

Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.

You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?” 

He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.

He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.

But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet. 

He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.

“Can you not?”

“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”

Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.

He does.

“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”

You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended? 

“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—

“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”

There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung. 

It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest. 

He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—” 

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

And there it is. 

The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.

Mingyu’s head spins. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.

Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen. 

Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.

When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you. 

You look as crazy as Mingyu feels. 

“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”

“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”

His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.

Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe. 

You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night. 

His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.

“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer. 

He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.

He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years. 

And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.

Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.

It might be a mistake. He knows that. 

He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.

But then you kiss him back.

You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there. 

Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.

His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life. 

“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.

And for once, you don’t fight him.

▸ S01E17: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE. 

The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly lunch in his beat-up car with one working speaker and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.

You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering. 

If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask. 

Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.

“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.

“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”

He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved. 

Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it. 

Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection. 

It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.

Almost.

Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking. 

At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.

It’s all suspicious.

Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out. 

Under the table, something changes.

You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

His expression is half-agony, half-hope.

And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now. 

You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win. 

No. This is a game you no longer have to play. 

You lace your fingers through his. 

Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.

You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.

But maybe— just maybe— this one will do.

[17caratrecs]

a guide to applying lip balm - lsm

pairing - seokmin x f!reader

genre/warnings - best friends to lovers, fluff, lots of kissing, implied makeout session, cursing, use of petnames

wc - 1.3K

summary - your best friend asks you to teach him how to apply lip balm, but that spirals into something else.

A/N - seokmin applying lipbalm with one hand and then blowing a kiss will never leave me, but i failed to Inspire this fic completely from that. nevertheless, i am happy to finally post 😣🤍

| @maestro-net

“That is not how you apply lip balm, Seokmin.”

You remark with a sigh, watching your best friend move his lips around as if trying to catch the balm, rather than smoothly gliding the stick across his lips. It's a bit awkward and humorous but cute at the same time.

He grins, popping the lid back on and turning to you. “Teach me how to apply it then.”

You can't help but laugh at his request, his eyes sparkling with curiosity as he hands the lip balm to you. You stare at it for a second longer, before mindlessly scooting closer on the couch.

“Okay, let me show you," you say, taking the sleek tube from him without much thought. You twist off the cap, revealing the soft, shiny balm inside.

"First, you want to make sure your lips are clean and dry," you explain, gently wiping Seokmin's lips with your thumb. He sputters a little at the contact, and only after seeing his expression do you realize what's happening.

Your first instinct is to blush furiously, and your hand falters against his jaw. You refuse to look straight into his eyes for more than a second because the look that he's giving you makes your stomach flip.

How could you be so dumb? Why in the world were you teaching him how to apply a stupid lip balm?

“You can use tissue paper,” he says in a low voice. His lips move against your thumb and your whole hand vibrates. It's nearly like an electric shock.

It dawns on you rather late that he's implying he wants you to go on and also that his lips are messily moisturised because he applied lip balm some minutes ago.

You don't want to go on. You don't think you have that kind of self control—being in such close proximity to your best friend who you've loved for years and not kissing him.

You swallow, backing away a little to find some tissues but he's already holding one for you to take. Though you can't tell when he grabbed it, you take it and carefully begin dabbing it on his beautiful lips.

Once the balm is somewhat removed, you hold the stick up to his lips. "Next, you want to apply a small amount of balm to your lips," you continue, demonstrating the correct technique. "Just glide the stick across your lips, making sure to cover them evenly."

You hope he fails to catch the way your hand is shaking, but you successfully see how his cheeks have turned pink. It gives you a little boost of confidence. Is he affected too?

"Now it's your turn," you say, handing the lip balm back to him. Seokmin takes it, his fingers brushing against yours, and you guide his hand to help him apply it smoothly.

However, he stops. You raise your brows questioningly.

His words are all over the place when he speaks, his finger pointing to his mouth. “I— uh I already have lip balm on, so…”

Your eyes widen slightly, realizing that you indeed just applied it for him.

“I'll wipe it off.” He reaches for the tissue box on the coffee table, and you don't know what, but something stirs inside you. Something so intense that you grab his wrist to stop him.

“I have another way to wipe it off.”

Stupid stupid stupid. Why would you say that?!

Seokmin genuinely looks confused, his eyes turning bigger as he stares at you. He looks adorable, and much more kissable now. You want to dump every common sense in your body and do what your intrusive thoughts are telling you.

Stupidly, you do exactly that.

You lean closer to him, fingers tightening around his wrist as your lips press against his glossy ones. You can't believe the sigh that leaves your mouth at the touch—you feel like you have starved for his lips.

Seokmin seems a little frozen at first, his eyes widening even more if it's possible. Then he shuts them tightly, his heart pounding uncontrollably in his chest. He can't seem to move, because as much as he has wanted it for years, he can't take any risks. Not with you.

He waits till you pull away without kissing him at all. It was just a firm press of your lips together, and both your ears are hot.

The look on his face makes you assume that you have fucked up. Your heart drops and you sputter out apologies that he can't hear. Seokmin is too busy staring at your lips, and reminiscing how they felt against his own.

Your train of apologies is interrupted by his sudden voice. “I think my lips aren't completely wiped yet.”

You pause. Everything in Seokmin's living room feels dead still. The whole world falls silent. Until he speaks again, his voice so low you fear you would've missed it. “You could–you could try again.”

Your lips find him in the next second. This time, you can't tell if it's his sigh or yours, because you're too engrossed in the feeling of his soft, glossy lips gliding against yours.

It's a gentle kiss, soft yet urgent in a way that tells you he's waited as long as you. Your hands wrap around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he pulls you closer by the waist, almost in his lap.

By the time you pull away, you're both breathless. His forehead rests against yours as you both try coming down from the high.

Now it hits. You've crossed this line that you both had carefully drawn over the course of your friendship.

You pull your head back a little, staring at him. His lips are slightly puffy, and his hair are messy on his forehead. He looks more kissable—it almost feels insane. But you do not let your intrusive thoughts win this time.

“Seokmin.” You call out gently. He hums, big eyes meeting yours in a way that makes him look incredibly small. You have so much to say, yet what comes out is entirely stupid and baseless.

“Do you want to continue learning?”

“Learning what?”

“How to apply lip balm.”

Seokmin giggles. The sound makes your head cloudy. You don't know what has caused him to laugh like that, but you know you would do anything to continue making him laugh.

His large hand cradles your face, suddenly making you feel smaller. “Will you wipe it off like this again?”

You fail to control the smile that takes up your features. It's a little shy, a little goofy and mostly surprised. “Does this mean you like me?”

He raises his eyebrows, his warm face lighting up more. Slowly, he nods, making you gasp.

“Fucking hell, dude.”

He bites his lip, and tries to contain his beautiful smile. “Don't dude me. I prefer baby now.”

You stare at him in complete shock, unable to believe how things have spiraled in a matter of few minutes.

It's stupid of you to look like a deer caught in headlights after kissing your best friend and hearing his confession, because now he's starting to look unsure.

“I mean—you don't have to call me baby. I was just saying it as a joke. I don't—do you even like me?”

It's your turn to giggle. You all but throw yourself on him, holding his face in your hands and pecking his lips. “I have liked you for years, baby.”

Seokmin thinks he can faint. If somebody were to tell him that the world is ending right now, he wouldn't bat an eye. He will die gladly in your arms with the memory of you calling him baby.

When his lips find yours again, you know that once this high is over, you both will likely have a lot to talk about. But for now, you let the lip balm in his hand poke your back as you kiss him. You'll deal with the practicality as it comes.

[17caratrecs]

⭑.ᐟ Midnight Hero - Jeon Wonwoo x reader

genre: blurb, superhero!au word count: 621 warnings: mentions of fighting (reader was attacked before start of blurb but ended up being saved) rating: PG / SFW

Disclaimer: My works are fictional and do not reflect real-life situations, cultures, or individuals. All characters are purely fictional, regardless of names or descriptions.

Your knees hits the concrete with a less than kind thud, as you finally let yourself breathe again. "Holy fuck!"

The feeling of being on the ground again - even if it was on top of a ten-story building - is freeing, almost euphoric. The rooftop is cold under your hands, but you don't mind. You take a few seconds to let your heartbeat calm down, before you shift to sit down so as to not bruise your knees even more. The man beside you looks at you... at least you think he's looking at you, it's hard to tell with the mask on.

"You just fucking saved my life," you tell him.

"... don't mention it."

He seems more awkward than before - to think that a guy could be more confident fighting off some sort of mutant monster than talking to you would be funny, but you're too shocked to laugh.

"Did you kill... that thing?" you ask.

"I think so-... listen, I have to get back out there. Will you be okay, Y/N?" He kneels down beside you to inspect your head for any signs of trauma.

You take his hands in yours. "You know my name?"

"What?"

"You just said my name."

"No, I didn't." The superhero scoffs.

"You did! How do you know my name? Do I know you?" You furrow your brows, as if you could look through his face-covering mask to uncover who he is.

He gets up, his face now covered in shadows. "You know... superhero things. No big deal."

"So, what? Are you saying you're like Santa Claus or something?"

He chuckles, and you swear that you recognize it for a second. Maybe you're still just reeling from the trip here. "I won't tell anyone if you know me."

"... I know." He sounds like he wants to explain himself, but he doesn't. "Let me take you home. I don't want you to wander into another fight."

He helps you up, his hands landing on your waist as you stumble. You thank him and, before you know it, you're swept off your feet - literally - and taken to the rooftop of your apartment.

The next morning, you're early to work for once. With the eventful night you had, you weren't able to sleep much - so you might as well head out early. As you approach your office building, you start to feel the tiredness settle in your bones. You stumble in through the door, only to be caught by a strong pair of arms. His hands are holding your waist oh so familiarly, you immediately look up to the man in front of you. It's Wonwoo from IT.

"Thank you." You breathe out and give him an awkward smile. "You saved me from making a fool of myself this early in the morning."

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine! Just tired." You stand up on your own and brush off your clothes. "I got... held up on my way home last night."

He nods, and for a moment you swear that you see him smile. Maybe it's a trick of the light. He pushes up his glasses and looks away from you. His mannerisms seem so similar to you now that you think about it.

"Well, I hope you get better sleep tonight," he says. "And if you need someone to fall on today, just let me know."

The two of you chuckle, and you thank him. As you walk toward the elevator, you can't help but shake the feeling that you remember him from somewhere outside of work. You shake off the feeling as your tired brain making things up, it has to be the case.

⭑.ᐟ

a/n: this is sort of a demo to what I could make into a real fic. if this is something that people are interested in, I'll write a full fic about it - so please lmk if you'd want to see a full fic of this!

[17caratrecs]

if you look closely, jihoon's hair is still damp. he no longer smells like sweat, his post shower lotion soothing your senses as you hold him in the middle of a random hotel room.

jihoon doesn't hold you back with the strength he usually does, but it's okay - two whole days performing can drain anyone's energy, to be honest. so you don't say a thing; instead, you let jihoon rest his head against your shoulder, sighing when he feels your fingers snaking up the bare skin of his back, resting on the nape of his neck and caressing the hair there.

there's not a single noise in the room, you can clearly hear jihoon breathing, body pressed against yours in the most intimate way he could possibly allow - because seeing him like that, raw like that, is way more intimate than sex itself.

"you wanna go to bed?", you ask in a whisper.

jihoon doesn't answer, but he takes his phone from his pocket though, slightly moving his face so he's now resting his cheek on your shoulder. he taps a few times, and suddenly a slow beat melody starts to play from his phone.

maybe he didn't hear you. maybe he decided to ignore you.

but as the song enters it's chorus, jihoon slides his fingers down your arm, grabbing your hand. he presses a kiss to your collarbone, pulling you to the bed. he climbs it first, still holding his phone, but quickly working on getting under the white covers, head resting against the pillows.

jihoon rests his phone beside his shoulder and looks at you as if you know what to do; and you do, actually. so you get in the bed as well, pulling the covers protectively up to your shoulders. you both turn to your side, facing each other.

under the covers, jihoon grabs your hand, holding it as he closes his eyes and drifts to dreamland, where he's probably gonna meet you too.

[17caratrecs]

love potion no. 17˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

(dokyeom x reader)

"this is definitely not a real love potion," you say, holding up the tiny glass bottle filled with suspiciously pink liquid.

"of course it is," seokmin insists, tilting it toward the light like it’s some ancient relic. "i got it from a very reliable source."

"you mean soonyoung?"

he coughs. "what? No. Who said that?"

you cross your arms. "you’re not actually going to drink that, right?"

seokmin swirls the bottle between his fingers, grinning like a mad scientist about to conduct the most ridiculous experiment. "why not? it’s just for fun!"

you snatch the bottle from his hand and squint at the label. “love potion no. 17 – guaranteed to make hearts flutter!” the fine print underneath reads: “results may vary.”

"seok… i don’t think this is a good idea. maybe you should put it—"

but before you can finish, seokmin has already tipped the bottle back and swallowed the entire thing in one go.

"seokmin!" you nearly choke. *"why are you like this?"

he smacks his lips. "huh. tastes kinda like strawberry."

a beat of silence passes.

he looks at you. you look at him.

"soonyoung is a fraud," you declare.

and then—

"wait." seokmin suddenly gasps, clutching his chest. his eyes widen dramatically as he stares at you like he’s seeing you for the very first time. "oh no. i think it’s working."

you narrow your eyes. "seokmin, no."

"your smile—"he breathes, stepping closer, hand over his heart. "it's so dazzling—"

"oh my god—"

"my heart! it’s beating so fast!" he staggers back like he’s about to faint, gripping the edge of the table for support.

"i’m leaving."

"wait, wait, wait—" he stumbles forward, reaching for your hand with the most lovesick expression you’ve ever seen. "come back! i think i’m falling in love all over again!"*

you groan, turning away—but he catches your wrist before you can escape.

"look at me," he pleads, lower lip jutting out in the most unfairly adorable pout. "if you leave now, who’s going to take responsibility for this?"

"for what?" you deadpan, ignoring the way your heartbeat suddenly stutters.

"for making me fall for you all over again!" he whines, swaying on his feet like he’s dizzy with love.

"seokmin, you were already in love with me before drinking this stupid potion," you point out, rolling your eyes.

he beams. "exactly! and now it’s even worse!"

you want to be annoyed, you should be annoyed—but the way he's looking at you, all bright-eyed and smitten, makes your stomach flip. and when he suddenly leans in, voice dropping to a softer, more genuine tone—

"you know, even without the potion, my heart still races whenever I look at you."

[17caratrecs]

A Vibe

Word Count:662 Summary: Vernon, ever the voice of unbothered neutrality, shrugged. "I think he’s rather nice." "He looks like an idiot," Seungkwan shot back, his nose scrunching in disapproval. Pairing: Minghao X Fem reader

Navigation

The dim glow of the bar cast long shadows over the polished wooden tables, the hum of chatter and clinking glasses blending into the kind of Friday night ambiance that should have been relaxing. Instead, you sat sandwiched between Seungkwan and Vernon, both of whom were conducting a not-so-covert analysis of your date.

Minghao had only stepped away for a moment to take a call, and in that short span, Seungkwan had already launched into a dramatic evaluation.

"Seriously? This guy?" He leaned in closer, brows furrowed as he studied the empty seat Minghao had left behind, as if it alone could reveal his deepest flaws.

Vernon, ever the voice of unbothered neutrality, shrugged. "I think he’s rather nice."

"He looks like an idiot," Seungkwan shot back, his nose scrunching in disapproval.

The universe, with its impeccable sense of timing, decided that would be the exact moment Minghao returned.

"..You do know I can hear you two, right?"

Silence.

Seungkwan stiffened like he’d been caught in a crime scene. Vernon, still mid-sip of his drink, merely blinked at Minghao, offering zero attempt at damage control. And you? You let your head fall into your hands.

Minghao, to his credit, didn’t look offended. Amused, yes—his lips twitched like he was suppressing a smirk—but not offended. He slid into his seat with effortless grace, one elbow resting on the table as he leveled Seungkwan with a calm but knowing gaze.

Seungkwan cleared his throat. "Well… that’s awkward."

Minghao tilted his head slightly, his sharp eyes gleaming with curiosity. "So, I look like an idiot?"

Your mouth opened—No, absolutely not, I don’t think that—but before you could even form words, Seungkwan doubled down. "It’s just a vibe I get."

"A vibe?" Minghao repeated, his tone edged with something unreadable.

Vernon, still eerily unfazed, finally looked at him. "To be fair, you do give off that mysterious guy who secretly knows five ways to kill someone with a chopstick energy."

Minghao actually laughed at that—low and rich, like he wasn’t even surprised by the description. "That’s oddly specific."

Seungkwan crossed his arms, unimpressed. "She deserves someone warm, someone who isn’t just sitting here looking like he’s two seconds away from reading our auras or whatever it is you do."

At that, Minghao’s expression shifted, his gaze flickering to you for a brief second before he looked back at Seungkwan. This time, the amusement in his eyes softened, replaced by something more sincere.

"You think I’m not warm?" he asked, and for the first time that night, his voice lacked playfulness. It was a quiet, almost vulnerable question—one Seungkwan wasn’t expecting.

Seungkwan hesitated. He wasn’t heartless; he was just protective. But Minghao wasn’t like the others you had dated before—the ones who smiled too wide, said all the right things, and left wreckage in their wake. Minghao was composed, almost unreadable at times, but he showed up. He was here, meeting your friends, enduring Seungkwan’s sharp tongue without complaint.

And then there was the way he looked at you. Not like you were a conquest, not like you were just another girl in a string of meaningless dates. But like he saw you.

Seungkwan exhaled sharply through his nose. "I don’t know yet," he admitted. "But I’ll figure it out."

Minghao didn’t argue. He simply nodded once, as if he understood.

Vernon leaned back in his chair. "I like him," he stated plainly.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling Minghao’s fingers brush against yours under the table—a silent question, a quiet reassurance. You turned your hand over, letting your fingers lace together, and he squeezed gently.

Seungkwan huffed. "Fine. But if you do turn out to be an idiot, just know I’ll be here to say ‘I told you so.’"

Minghao finally smirked. "I’d expect nothing less."

And for the first time that night, Seungkwan let the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Just barely.

Minghao had won the first round.

[17caratrecs]

im here to harrow you.

thinking about f1 minghao crashing out on radio…. idk why… its burned in my mind…

crash and burn 📟 minghao x reader.

★ mercedes driver!minghao x reader ┆ word count: 1.8k ┆ includes: profanity, slight Trivia 承: Love reference. ┆ footnotes: oh, you are CRUEL for preying on my hyperfixation like this. how i ended up writing this much is anybody's guess.

For a moment, the entirety of Mercedes falls quiet.

You could hear a pin drop. The pit wall, the operations room, the garage. Deathly silent. 

Xu Minghao never swore on the radio. 

He could have. He’s certainly had his fair share of instances where a cuss or two would have been acceptable. The time he crashed into Williams’ Vernon on the final lap of the Australian Grand Prix, for example. Or the Singapore race where he ended up in the barriers after battling his teammate, Wonwoo, for podium position. 

Minghao hadn’t cussed then. Everybody liked to joke that his face often did the talking for him— his expressions post-race landing him on the front page of every sports media outlet. 

The Chinese racer was calm, cool, and collected under pressure. Critical without being cruel. Demanding without being demeaning. 

And yet, today, in Monaco— 

“Why do I have the penalty?” Minghao screeches, his voice crackling over the radio. “Hello?”

“Track limits, turn nine,” his race engineer says, voice carefully measured.

“You’re kidding!” Minghao downshifts aggressively as he rounds the next corner. The tires wail, the car jolts, and the telemetry lights up with data that makes the pit wall wince. “I stayed within the white line! You saw it, everyone saw it!” 

The pit wall scrambles. Engineers replay the footage frame by frame, dissecting every pixel of the contentious corner. The commentators speculate wildly, cameras cutting to Minghao’s onboard view. Sky Sports plays the radio message on repeat, the words for fuck’s sake! echoing through living rooms worldwide.

But Minghao doesn't care about the broadcast. Doesn't care about the headlines already being written. His pulse hammers, hands locked around the steering wheel like a vice.

“Box this lap, Hao. Serve the penalty,” the team calls. “Then push. We can still fight for points.”

Minghao murmurs something incoherent, though it doesn’t take a genius to guess that it’s probably another curse. He lifts off the throttle, coasts through the last sector, and dives into the pit lane. The Mercedes crew swarms the car, stoic and efficient, every second ticking down with excruciating slowness. 

The lollipop stays down.

Ten seconds feel like an eternity.

Minghao slams the throttle as soon as he’s released, launching back onto the track with a cloud of tire smoke.

“Gap to P10?” he demands, his tone unusually biting. 

“7.3 seconds to Boo. But DRS is enabled—” 

“I can catch him,” Minghao decides on his engineer’s behalf. 

Nobody doubts it, really. 

Minghao takes the next lap like a man possessed. Nailing apexes, brushing curbs, deploying battery in the perfect spots. Purple sector times flash on the screen; the crowd roars as he slices through the field like a scalpel.

Clean. Precise. Ruthless. 

Minghao pushes right past Alpine’s Seungkwan, who screeches into his own radio about this reckless man, trying to kill him with the way he faked to the outside. It doesn’t matter to Minghao. Not when he’s through. 

“P10, Hao,” his engineer says, relief bleeding into his voice. “Keep it up.” 

“Don’t—” Minghao cuts himself off. Everybody can more or less guess what he was about to say. Don’t tell me what to do, he had planned to snap, and it only drives the team into a deeper state of confusion. 

It’s even worse in the press room. 

Minghao sits in the middle, flanked by Aston Martin’s Seokmin and Red Bull’s Jihoon. Minghao’s Mercedes suit is still speckled with sweat, and his jaw is tight, hands clasped in front of him on the table.

The moderator introduces them. “We’ll start with questions for the drivers. First, to Mercedes’ Xu Minghao. P9 after serving a 10-second penalty. Can you walk us through your race?” 

A muscle in Minghao’s jaw ticks. Not a good sign.

Minghao leans into the microphone and very simply states, “It was bullshit.” 

Again, that stunned silence. Seokmin balks like he had been physically struck. Jihoon fights back a grin. 

The moderator blinks. “Uh,” she stammers. “Could you elaborate on that?” 

“The penalty,” Minghao says plainly. “It was bullshit. I’ve seen the footage. I stayed within track limits. And even if I hadn’t, we both know there were other drivers exceeding limits all race who didn’t get penalized.” 

A reporter from BBC Radio pipes up. “You’ve been known for keeping a cool head in difficult situations, but we heard your radio messages. Do you regret your reaction?” 

The question draws a humorless laugh from Minghao. Today, his wit is razor-like in its sharpness. The claws are out, so to speak, as Minghao answers the query. 

“Regret? No. I regret not pushing harder after the penalty. I lost ten seconds and still clawed my way back to points.” He pauses, letting the fact sink in. “What does that tell you?”

Somebody from Fox Sports pushes the envelope. “Are you implying bias in the stewarding?” the journalist calls out. 

Minghao’s eyes flash, making even the most fearless of the media personnel shrink back a bit. 

“I’m saying there needs to be consistency,” he hisses. “That’s all.” 

Mercedes’ PR manager shifts uncomfortably in the background; one can assume they’re already drafting damage control statements in their head. The list of people to apologize to only grows when a ballsy ESPN journo dares to ask, “Do you think this will affect your relationship with the FIA?” 

There’s no reason for the FIA— the Formula One’s governing body— to be dragged into this. Or maybe there is, with the way Minghao is crashing out in public. 

The racer smiles coldly. “Maybe,” he answers, “but I’m not here to make friends.” 

“Okay,” the moderator interjects. “I think it’s time for us to move on—” 

Minghao concedes, leaning back into his chair and pushing the microphone over to Jihoon. There’s the slightest of miscalculations, though, when Minghao grumbles something to the Red Bull driver.

The microphone catches Minghao’s snide side comment, supposedly meant solely for Jihoon’s ears. “You should ask the FIA why they’re so scared of drivers who fight back,” the Chinese driver huffs. 

The room explodes. Minghao doesn’t flinch. 

Mercedes’ PR manager accepts that it’s going to be a long, long night. 

Even Wonwoo doesn’t have an answer for his co-driver’s uncharacteristic behavior. The driver frowns when the team principal brings it up. 

Wonwoo runs a hand through his dark, sweat-slicked hair, as if reviewing what he witnessed pre- and post-race. “Hao was already a bit… off when he came in this morning,” Wonwoo admits. “Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something.” 

“Drivers like Minghao don’t just wake up one morning and decide they’re going to be the devil reincarnated,” the team principal says tentatively. 

Wonwoo takes a moment to contemplate. “Trouble in paradise, maybe?” 

“Drivers like Minghao—” 

“Don’t let their personal lives affect their racing,” Wonwoo finishes before waving his hand dismissively. “Well, I don’t know, then.” 

Except— for once— Wonwoo is right. 

The team doesn't press Minghao to celebrate, not when he’s a walking PR disaster in a foul mood. He heads straight back to his apartment, shedding all his rage on the way home. 

It’s the only reason he manages to gently open the front door. He toes off his shoes at the doorway and shrugs off his hoodie, each action deliberate in its intent and slowness.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You’re seated at one of the bar stools, forearms leaning against the island. Minghao doesn’t come close. Not at first. He lingers a couple of steps away, stock still as the two of you lock gazes. 

You open your mouth. Minghao beats you to the punch line. 

“I know,” he says, his voice the most gentle it’s been the entire day. “Trust me, I know.” 

“I wasn’t going to tell you off.” 

Minghao lets out a derisive snort of laughter, though he’s quick to look chastised when he catches the shift in your expression. “Alright,” he says tiredly. “What were you going to say, then?” 

You hop off the stool. Minghao holds his breath. 

He still feels like he isn’t breathing by the time you’re standing right in front of him. Where others might hesitate, you don’t. 

Your hand reaches up to cup Minghao’s face. Your palm is warm against his cheek, but your words are much warmer. 

“I was going to apologize,” you say slowly, enunciating each word, “for breaking rule number three.” 

Rule number three. To have it brought up now is comedic. Minghao thinks of the restaurant tissue framed in the living room, the one bearing the silly list the two of you had jotted down when you first started dating. 

The very rule you’re referring to right now had been in Minghao’s loopy handwriting, underlined twice to emphasize its importance. 

#3: No fights on race weekends. 

It had come with an asterisk, a couple of caveats. Still, it was one of those ‘rules’ the two of you tried to see through the most. For not only Minghao’s sanity, but Mercedes’ as well. 

Minghao sighs, the tension in his shoulders easing with the heavy exhale. He can’t help it; his cheek nuzzles into your palm, seeking the familiarity of your touch after being without it last night. 

(That was his choice, admittedly, after he opted to sleep in the guest room instead of your shared bedroom. He left in the morning without all of his usual routines— his 30-minute guided meditation, his good luck kiss from you.) 

The fight— God, what was the fight even about? Minghao is embarrassed to admit he can barely remember. 

By the way you’re looking at him, though, it looks like you’re also ready to put it past the two of you. 

“Did you watch?” he asks. 

The corners of your lips twitch upward. “What’s the right answer?” you shoot back, half-teasing as Minghao’s arms gingerly wrap around your waist. 

“I think I’d prefer that you say ‘no’,” he says wryly. “I was a monster out there. I’ve got so many people to apologize to.” 

You give a low hum of approval. Minghao tugs you into his space until he can bury his face in the top of your head.

For a moment, the two of you bask in the aftermath. The bittersweet race, the shaky reconciliation. Minghao breaks the silence. 

“I said fuck,” he mumbles, horrified, “on the radio.” 

“You did,” you confirm. “Twice, actually.” 

Minghao groans. “And at the press conference—” 

“You told the FIA they could take it up their a—” 

“I did not,” your boyfriend says shrilly, “say that!” 

You break out into giggles. Minghao can’t help it; his arms tighten around you, and he holds you like he’s trying to erase the past 24 hours through touch alone. 

Tomorrow, Minghao will be back to his usual self. He’ll play the PR game— waxing poetics about mental pressure, apologizing to the FIA for his conduct. He’ll pay the fines and promise to do better, be better. 

Tonight, Minghao softens all his edges and loves you. 

[17caratrecs]

rewind the track ᯓ 𝚕𝚓𝚑

ʚɞ pairing: lee jihoon x fem!reader || ʚɞ word count: 0.2k || ʚɞ genre: fluff, slight angst || ʚɞ tags: friends to lovers au, downbad!woozi, lets say kid is better at music than expressing his feelings || ʚɞ synopsis: "One date, that’s all I’m asking for. One night to let me show you how good we could be together.” + “I’m not good at this. I never have been.” requested by anon!

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ WANT A DRABBLE DIARY ENTRY? REQUEST ONE.ᐟ

Jihoon is sitting in front of the mixing booth when you walk in, and he's stunned you walked all the way from your apartment to his work building with the bouquet he delivered to you this morning.

"Are you gonna explain what these are for?" You ask, confused and a bit stunned. He's one of your oldest friends, the oldest one you've probably made and kept since moving to this city. You know he doesn't just do anything without some sort of motive or intention, his actions expression more than his words ever do.

This may be one of the only times you're unsure just what those motives or intentions are.

"I just—" Jihoon inhales and restarts. "I'm not good at this. I never have been."

"Good at what, Hoon? Sending gifts?"

"Admitting my feelings," Jihoon confesses, getting up from his studio chair to look at you head on. His eyes are steadfast but his palms quiver at his sides, the tension in his muscles thick and uncontrollable. The uncertainty is riddled through his whole body, and you know whatever he says next may just free him of his worries.

"I like you, and it may be unexpected, but I know if we went on one date—one night to let me show you how good we could be together—I think you would feel the same way too."

You roll your eyes and throw the bouquet across the mixing table next to you before crashing your lips into Jihoon's, his bangs ruffling against your skin as your mouths slowly begin to move in sync.

When you part for breath, both of your smiles are so wide it hurts. "What took you so long, dumbass?"

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @okiedokrie-main

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

@kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @moadiarynet @sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @violetanet @svthub @whipped-kpop-creators

[17caratrecs]

universe factory

you're live, but all your fans can talk about is 'universe factory'. what in the world is that??

[yourusername is going live right now.]

"hii~ hi you guys, I've missed you!"

"'i see the headphones; will you be gaming today?' yes yes, very keen observation. there's this new game that's launched recently, called 'good coffee, great coffee'. I'll be playing that today."

"for those who don't know, its a game where you basically just have to make coffees for the customers, but they can really be a pain in the butt so you also have to make sure you're doing everything correctly and such. it's really fun though, because it's got an interesting storyline with it where you get to meet other characters too. it's reaaally fun, you should try it out."

you take a moment to read a few of the comments, where fans ask about the game, upcoming works and your life in general.

"okay guys, going to finish a round. i'll read your comments after that."

the next 5 minutes is spent finishing the game, brows furrowed in concentration as you navigate through the level, curses occasionally coming out your lips when the customers give a bad rating, but you're quick to shut them out. after the round ends, you turn to your phone.

"hello again, i've finished day 75 in the game, and i'm fairly pissed at some of the customers who ordered a vanilla latte and then complained when i gave them a... vanilla latte."

you skim through a few more comments before deciding on one.

"'omg is this universe factory?' ...what is a universe factory? i've been seeing a few dozen comments about it, but i really don't know guys."

"'it looks so similar to universe factory aah i can't believe it' guys i genuinely don't know what you're talking about. what is a universe factory? why is everyone talking about it?"

as you watch more comments flood in, you notice most of them are now related to this thing, or whatever, that they're calling 'universe factory', and a look of confusion glazes your face. a while later, clarifications start coming in.

"'it's seventeen woozi's studio. the lights seem very similar to that' ohh well, clearly there's no reason for me to be there heh. these lights were actually a recent upgrade that i did to my room. for the vibes and all... but thank you for the classification! i assure you, this is just my room, not the factory you're mentioning."

"although," you add after taking a few sips of your cola, "i'd love to work with them someday. it's like a bucket list thing, kind of. deep down on the list, though, because it seems pretty unachievable. but they're really talented and amazing, so i'd love to keep hoping."

"anyways, i'm getting back to my game. see you after another round," you conclude and begin the game. the live goes on for about an hour, before you decide that any more could actually become detrimental to your idol image and health.

"well, i guess i should end the live soon before i lose my sanity. thank you so much for watching, guys. thank you for just watching me make coffees for people in a game. i love you, take care, i'll see you next week! bye bye."

once you're sure the live's over, you can only stretch your arms and take in a huge breath before sighing. just as you reach for your cup of cola, two hands pop out of nowhere and pull your cheeks. you turn your head to see jihoon standing beside you, a huge smile plastered to his face.

a rare sight truly.

"hi, my love," he says before pressing a smooch to the top of your head and sitting on the sofa beside your table.

"i'll never understand how you did a live for 6 freaking hours," you speak through sips and he chuckles. "i could barely finish one hour and that's cause i was playing games."

"well, it was just me talking about anime, so i guess i didnt realise time pass by."

"still impressive. oh! and also, the fans almost caught onto us, you know?"

"yeah, i was watching. but you handled it so well."

"aww you softie... but seriously, i thought they might have figured it out. weren't you worried we might get exposed?"

he just waves his hand, shaking his head. "nah. i knew you'd handle it well," he says and takes your hand in his.

"also, even if we do get exposed, i'm not worried. i'd only be glad that the world finally knows we're together," he brings your hand to his lips to press a kiss.

you can't help but smile.

"aah lee jihoon. who knew you'd say such romantic things out of nowhere?"

"it's just what you do to me. by the way, you were saying you wanted to work with me sometime...? you do realise i've got a few tracks of us, right? working hot and heavy with each other?"

a/n: this was waaay better in my head than whatever this turned out to be. this is also a way for me to speak about the game I've been playing recently. anyone here who plays 'good coffee great coffee', hmu i wanna exchange souls w u (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠❤

[17caratrecs]

◈ over the hills and far away // boo seungkwan

seungkwan x gn!reader, 2.1k+ words

tags: requested by anon and @raevyng, established relationship, fluff, picnics, ducks, spring, cw for food mentions

notes: is that nursery rhyme reference in the title? why yes. yes it is. also this is pure 100% rambly fluff lol enjoy

summary: you and seungkwan go on a picnic date out to the park. that's it, thats the fic.

“did you know,” you say conversationally, swinging a basket by your side, “that ducks are partially nocturnal?”

seungkwan, walking side by side with you down the pavement, smiles and shakes his head. “no way. have you seen a duck before? they're the most non-nocturnal birds you'll ever see.”

you laugh, tugging seungkwan into your side by your intertwined hands. “well, they're not fully nocturnal. they're just often active at night also, ‘cause… hm, actually i don't know why. but i do know they like hunting and stuff at night because they have great night vision.”

a look of horror dawns over your boyfriend's face. “so i can still get chased by ducks even in the middle of the night?”

“just stay indoors at night, babe.”

“what?! so now the ducks are locking me inside my house?”

seungkwan wrinkles his nose in distaste, dramatically horrified by this revelation, before you laugh again and his face melts into a smile. he doesn't actually have anything against ducks, but he likes making you laugh. 

today, the two of you are out on a date. nothing special, but the weather is finally, finally warming up after what felt like the longest winter ever, and so you've decided to have a picnic date with your boyfriend in the park, under the blue sky and among the green grass. 

seungkwan's quite excited about this date, to be honest. he hates the cold months, so march is always like a godsend to him. and to top it all off, he's spending time with you, the literal love of his life. nothing can be better than that. 

“hey, don't swing the basket like that! be careful, you're going to ruin the apple pie i made,” seungkwan complains, just as the two of you arrive at the park. 

you look down at the basket, peering inside it worriedly. “it's fine,” you reassure. “also, what do you mean? we made this pie together.”

“you mean you bought the pastry and then sat there twiddling your thumbs whilst i did the actual baking?”

you beam brightly. “but i looked so pretty while you baked, didn't i?”

seungkwan rolls his eyes, fond. “i suppose.” he looks out at the park, surveying the green area. “where do you wanna sit, by the way?”

“oh!” your eyes light up, and you tug on your intertwined hands towards the willow trees framing the pond on the other side of the park. “come on. let's go over there.”

you make your way across the park, and once a spot has been found that you deem acceptable, seungkwan spreads out the picnic blanket he was carrying and then takes the basket from your hands, taking out all the food as you remove your shoes and kneel on the blanket. 

“be careful,” you echo his words from earlier, when seungkwan lifts the apple pie out of the weave basket. “you’re going to ruin the apple pie you made.”

seungkwan raises an eyebrow at you, unimpressed, and you giggle. 

“c'mon, kwan,” you say, shuffling forward, crossing your legs, “quick, get out the food. there's bread inside, and i wanna feed it to the ducks.”

at that moment, seungkwan fishes out the bag of bread, and your face lights up. you make a move to grab it from him, but he instantly draws back, holding up a hand to stop you.

“hey, hey, not yet,” he says, when you pout at him. “let’s eat first, hm? then you can feed the ducks as much as you want.” he gestures to the food he’s already taken out of the basket. “i worked so hard to prepare all of this, i don’t want it to just sit here sadly whilst you do something else.”

he looks genuinely very sad as he says this, corners of his mouth turned downwards at an adorable angle as his eyes melt with disappointment. you smile, endeared, happily settling down next to him again with a placating kiss on his cheek.

“okay, babe. let’s eat the food we made.”

“uh, actually, i made most of it.”

“nonsense. i had the very important role of sitting there and looking pretty.”

───────────── ‘🌿, 

if anyone asked you, you'd say that this outing, this activity right now—the sitting out in the park, eating sandwiches with your boyfriend underthe big willow tree—is actually part 2 of your date which started, like, a week ago. 

you've been patiently waiting (or, impatiently waiting, in seungkwan's opinion) for the weather to clear up so you can finally go out on that picnic date that you've been dying to have for ages. having a picnic with your boyfriend (a.k.a the most wonderful person on the planet) on a lovely pleasant day sounds like heaven, and you know that seungkwan feels the same way. 

(that's kind of why the two of you work so well together. you're kind of telepathically linked.) 

and so, when you'd checked the forecast a week ago and seen that today would be a delightfully sunny day, you'd jumped at the chance to finally begin preparing for the perfect park picnic date. in your opinion, there are very few things that are better than getting to sit and talk and eat with seungkwan as the spring breeze rustles the leaves on the trees and the sun shines merrily down on you. so for the past week, you've been very busily preparing for this date. 

for example, the spread of cheese and crackers you're currently feeding seungkwan? you cut them into flower shapes with him five whole days ago. 

“is it good?” you ask, as seungkwan chews thoughtfully through his mouthful, half of the cracker still in your hands.  

“not bad,” he says, slightly muffled, wiping the crumbs from his lips. “i liked the cranberry cheese more, though.”

your eyes light up, and you feed seungkwan the rest of the cracker. “right? i thought so too! let's buy more of the cranberry cheddar later.”

the two of you have been working on all this food for a week, together, and in your honest opinion, that time spent together counts as part 1 of your date. it's just… all quality time spent with seungkwan counts as a date, you think. you just love doing anything with him. 

currently, most of the food you've prepared is pretty much gone. both of you are pretty big eaters, and the pleasant weather has only increased your appetite. there's only the apple pie left. 

“alright,” seungkwan says, once the two of you have had time to fully prepare yourselves for the main event. he really did work hard on this pie, and he'll be damned if you don't get to appreciate it to its fullest. “i hope you're ready for the best thing you've ever had in your entire life.”

you laugh, adjusting yourself on the picnic blanket as seungkwan brandishes a serrated knife at the apple pie. it really is such a pretty creation, and you praise him for it now as he cuts you a slice. 

“you really worked so hard, i'm so proud of you,” you coo, smiling when his ears instantly turn red at the compliments. “this looks gorgeous, my love. i can't believe you did this.”

“well you better believe it, ‘cause i did,” seungkwan says, face red but his eyes shining. he places a slice onto your plate at the same time as he places a kiss onto the top of your hair. “and i hope it tastes as good as it looks, else i'm throwing myself into the pond.”

you laugh, picking up your place and inspecting the slice carefully. “have more faith in yourself, kwan. i'm sure this tastes amazing.”

with that, you lift your fork and take a bite of the pie, chewing very slowly as seungkwan watches you, expression pensive and anxious. 

your face freezes mid-bite, turning wide eyes to seungkwan and he freezes too, scared. you slowly resume chewing, and then after what feels like an eternity, you swallow and clear your throat. 

“oh my god. kwan, that's amazing.”

his face melts in relief so prominent that it's almost tangible, and you laugh. 

“you made me so worried there!” he complains, finally relaxed enough to finish cutting himself a slice. “i thought i did really badly or something.”

“of course not,” you say, still laughing as you continue eating your slice. “it's delicious. i love it so much.”

he smiles at you, your cheeks full of his pastry, your eyes crinkled with joy that he instilled in you. “and i love you so much.”

your face contorts at that, somewhere between cringing and cooing at his words. “baby, that's so cheesy!”

“i can't help it,” he says, smiling. “you bring out the sap in me.” and then seungkwan takes a bite of his own pie, and he does a double take in amazement. “oh my—wow. this really is amazing.”

he's looking at you in disbelief, and you can't help but beam back. 

“i told you. i love it so much.”

seungkwan's eyes crinkle, overjoyed. 

───────────── ‘🌿, 

“okay, so can i go feed the ducks now?”

after polishing off your second slice of apple pie, you're now more than ready to finally give the lovely ducks some of your attention now too. seungkwan looks up at your question from where he's tidying away the cutlery, and nods with a dramatic sigh. 

“i guess. i guess you can leave your boyfriend to go throw bread at some ducks, if that's what you really—”

“awesome! you're the best!”

you grab the bag of bread before seungkwan can even finish, shuffling over to the side of the picnic blanket to get your shoes. he rolls his eyes in faux exasperation at your excitement, before moving over to you also. 

“wait, y/n.”

you look up as he nears you, before he leans down, closer to your face, and the pad of his thumb swipes over the skin on the side of your mouth. he pulls away, looking terribly pleased with himself. 

“you had some apple sauce on your face,” he says, all sweet, as if your face isn't burning from that one simple gesture. 

“woah,” you say softly, dumbfounded. “that was so smooth.”

seungkwan laughs, incredibly delighted with your reaction. he leans in a presses a swift kiss to your cheek. “off you go,” he says brightly. “you can go feed your ducks now.”

you blink rapidly at him, looking like you're in a daze, before a slow smile spreads across your face and you reach over to peck him on the mouth. 

“if you're going to kiss me, do it right,” you say, smiling, before jumping up and running off to the pond. 

seungkwan watches you go, a smile on his face and his heart in your hands, so devastatingly fond that it makes his chest hurt. and then he turns back to continue packing away the picnic, pulse singing in his ears. 

you're the sweetest, loveliest person he's ever had the pleasure of meeting, and he's so lucky to love you. everything you do is just so—kind, so sweet, so full of affection and it has him melting. 

like this date, for example. you've been so excited to go out with him now the weather's finally turned, and he's had so much fun prepping for it with you. for any other couple, going to the park and having a picnic wouldn't be such a big deal, but it is for you: partially because it's something you love, but also because you know seungkwan will love it too. 

he loves how you pay attention to those kinds of details, how you light up his day by being so passionate and so kind. 

he feels so lucky to love you, because truly, he loves you so much. 

“ah!”

your panicked scream makes him look up, and he sees you whirling around to face him, an incredulous look on your face. 

“seungkwan! the duck just stole the bread right from my hands!”

you look so wronged, like the duck has committed an unspeakable crime, and seungkwan can only laugh, endeared. 

“clearly they don't appreciate you,” he calls. “unlike me. come back to me and don't pay attention to the ducks anymore.”

in an instant, your face brightens into a brilliant beam. 

“okay!’ you say, and come skipping back to the picnic blanket, situating yourself at seungkwan's side, resting your cheek against his shoulder, asking him about what else there is in the basket. 

and there, under the sun with your laughter warm in his ears, seungkwan feels perfectly content. 

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @kellesvt @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @raevyng @isabellah29 @hrts4hanniehae @mcu-incorrect @dokyeomkyeom @suraandsugar @tulsa24 @melodicrabbit @dokyeomkyeom @hopeless-foolery @aaa-sia

[17caratrecs]

SIGN ME UP! ; kwon soonyoung

summary after posting boyfriend applications as a joke，you somehow choose the only man who didn’t apply。 starring bsf! soonyoung x f! reader genre fluff，comedy，best friends to lovers，i stole this from an old wip of mine contains studying…☠️ word count 0.4k

from rhin，dedicated to @juyeoz ! alya pls don’t cry i made sure this releases today for u😕🙏

you were kidding. everyone knew you weren’t serious when you posted boyfriend applications on your socials. it started all because your friend suggested boyfriend applications after you were complaining about all your friends having significant others and you were the only one who was still single.

what was serious, though, was the number of messages random boys sent you about the applications. you never bothered to answer because you thought they were all joking at first. however, they kept asking your friends if it was real, convincing you that not everyone knows you’re joking.

“you do know that my applications are fake, right?” you’re confirming with soonyoung, one of your friends, in the library in the middle of a group study session with your other friends.

“okay, wait, so if it’s fake, why did you post it anyway?” he queries, puzzled as to why you did it—to which even you aren’t too sure why.

“it was a joke! everyone knew that—well, not everyone. so many of your friends kept spamming my phone about it, you say as you show him the unread replies from his friends.

he looks at you with a disgusted expression. “(name), you do realize that if men who can’t get a girlfriend see that a single, pretty girl like you jokingly posts boyfriend applications, they’re going to seriously apply.”

“are you guys talking about (name)’s boyfriend applications?” jun asks as he sits next to soonyoung, who nods in response.

a few of your other friends chime in on the conversation. “hey, i heard so many guys were trying to apply,” mingyu brings up. “did you pick any of them?”

you stay silent, pretending to think of an answer, but in reality, you’re looking around your surroundings. all your friends that are studying with you happen to be the friends that have romantic partners. the only ones left are you and soonyoung.

you look at soonyoung, then look down at his hand. grabbing onto it and holding it up, you announced, “soonyoung! he applied,” you lied. your friends began to tease the both of you, calling you two a perfect pair.

“didn’t know i was your boyfriend now?” he whispers, teasing you as well.

“gosh, just play along with it,” you huff, lightly pushing him.

he shrugs. “okay, but instead of playing along with it. what if i actually become your boyfriend? i’ll sign up for that boyfriend application of yours.” he switches from his silly tone to a low voice. “so please, pick me.”

svt masterlist .ᐟ

[17caratrecs]

lee seokmin + watching disney movies together

seokmin loves you in any state. he loves you when you pout and grumble, asking for his help when something goes wrong in the kitchen when you're cooking. he loves you when you sing out loud to the radio, when he picks you up from work. he loves you when you baby him, acting like the cutest mother hen in the history of mother hens. he thinks he loves you the most though in moments like this one, when you snuggle up to him so close that it's impossible to see where you end and he starts.

'do you want more tea?' seokmin asks quietly, gently caressing your back. 'i think yours is not hot anymore.'

you can only take your tea hot and despise it when it gets lukewarm. his hand reaches out for the cup, but then you whine, shaking your head. 'no-no, i don't care, stay,' you hurriedly let out, locking your arms around his torso to prove your point.

he smiles fondly, ruffling your hair. 'it will be super quick, baby.'

'no, i don't want tea, i hate tea,' you grumble, eyes not leaving the screen. 'stay.'

you love tea. you can't stand watching movies without constantly sipping on the hot tea with a one lemon slice. seokmin glances at the screen and sighs. the very moment of mufasa trying to save simba is playing out and everyone knows what's going to happen, the tragedy that will reveal itself on the screens - seokmin knows you watched this at least ten times, because he was there watching it with you ten times, but you still hold your breath, tightening your grip on him. it's incredibly endearing how you watch this every time like it's your first, like you have no idea what a heartwrenching moment awaits. seokmin hears a slight hitch in your breath and he instantly pulls you even closer, your face now fully smashed in his chest with chin digging uncomfortably but seokmin doesn't say a thing. he never says a thing - he can easily bear any kind of discomfort if it means you'll stay in his arms.

'oh no,' you whimper, pushing your knees into his thighs. 'oh, no, poor baby.'

simba is crying on the screen. mufasa is not responding and even though seokmin watched this scene unfold ten times, he also feels a pang in his chest. he looks down and plants a kiss on top of your head, moving his hand in smooth circles on your back, soothing you. 'it's alright, baby. we know how it ends, don't we?'

'he is so sad,' you mumble, your words muffled by his hoodie. 'oh.'

seokmin gingerly reaches out and grasps your chin, making you look up. there are tears in the corners of your eyes and seokmin coos, smiling affectionately. you blink up at him with your bambi eyes and he leans in, kissing tear streaks. he looks at you with unhidden adoration, taking your face in his hands. 'my baby,' he whispers, pecking your nose.

'don't laugh,' you pout.

seokmin huffs. how can he not when you're being so adorable? and how he can do anything but kiss you when you're pouting like that? you kiss back eagerly but then instantly snap your head to the screen, giggling when timon and pumba appear. 'my faves!'

seokmin smiles. he slowly extracts himself from your arms, taking your cup and going to the kitchen. you don't even notice, completely enamored by your favorite characters, whispering their lines along with them. he quickly makes you another cup and carefully sits down next to you. 'baby, tea. careful, my love,' he chides, when you rise up with grabby hands. 'it's hot. careful.'

you don't listen, not really. you grab the cup and hiss when you spill a little, but then your attention focuses back on the screen. seokmin chuckles and takes back his place, letting you fall comfortably on him. 'thank you for the tea,' you say, not turning back but giving his knee a squeeze.

seokmin smiles and kisses top of your head again. 'always welcome, my love. always.'

a/n: capturing cute moments is so nice :') hopefully you liked it, let me know! - nini

my other seventeen work is here

[17caratrecs]

— anything

paring. seungkwan x reader genre. fluff, bf!seungkwan. wc. 0.4k warning. reader wears make up

synopsis. seungkwan gets you ready for bed after a long day

original ask.

you groan as you make your way to your shared bedroom, feet heavy, dragging along the floor. seungkwan follows behind you, watching you faceplant onto the bed, causing him to chuckle.

“are you that tired baby?” he asks, sitting next to you, his hand reaching out to begin caressing your hair. you let out an incoherent mumble into the sheets below you.

it’s been an incredibly long day, from going on errands around the city to attempting to keep your social battery up as someone else spots seungkwan and you just as you’re about to leave the party.

silence fills the room with seungkwan continuing to caress your hair until you hear a little shuffle, indicating that he’s gotten off the bed. too tired to ask where he went, you stay face flat on the bed until you feel him turn you over, making you face the ceiling.

“babe, this is so cliche…” you mumble as you feel him wipe a cotton pad of micellar water over your face, “this isn’t some movie, or even worse, some sort of fan fic.”

he chuckles and continues to wipe, “stop talking or micellar water might drip into your mouth.” you let out a small giggle in response and let him continue.

after wiping your face clean, he finally drags you off the bed and into the bathroom, and you two begin your night routine, the faint sound of the tap running and giggles echoing throughout the apartment. your boyfriend spreads your moisturiser all over your face, squishing your cheeks once he’s finished.

eventually you two exit bathroom with clean teeth, fresh faces, and comfy matching pjs, the perfect recipe for a good night’s sleep.

you once again jump face first on to the bed, with him following suit. he then helps you under the sheets as you groan about how today was the most exhausting day ever.

he knows you're exaggerating, but he doesn’t mind. he’s exactly the same.

“aren’t you glad i made you clean your face?” he asks as you settle on his chest.

“mhm.. thank you kwannie.. always thankful for you…” you mumble sleepily, eyes already closed.

he caresses your hair, which slowly pulls you into a slumber.

“anything for you, baby,” he whispers into your hair before sleep claims him as well, “anything.”

thank you for reading until the end!! comments and reblogs are appreciated!

a/n. TO THE ANON WHO REQUESTED THIS A YEAR AGO - i am so sorry i took this long… hope you’re still active to read it :'(

want to read more? » m.list

want to be tagged? » taglist

tags:

@aaniag @kokoiinuts @nishloves @joshuashna @sofix-hc7 @mekuiikore @onlyyjeonghan @dokyeomkyeom

[17caratrecs]

춤 ksy

fluff wc 403

YOUR heart pounded as you walked into the dance studio, excitement buzzing in your veins. Today was the day you’d finally see the choreography for your solo album’s title track. It was a moment you had dreamed of—your very first album as a soloist, a chance to showcase yourself in a new light.

Your company had been secretive about who the choreographer was, telling you it was a special surprise. You had thrown out a few guesses, but nothing prepared you for the sight that greeted you when you stepped inside.

There, standing in the center of the studio with a playful grin on his face, was Soonyoung.

“Surprise!” he exclaimed, his eyes shining with excitement.

You blinked, momentarily frozen. “Wait… you’re my choreographer?”

He nodded eagerly. “Not just for this track, but for your whole album. I’ve been working on it for months.”

Your jaw nearly dropped. The realization hit you like a tidal wave—every time Soonyoung had mysteriously disappeared, every time he’d been busy with “a project,” it had been this. He had been creating something just for you.

“You—” Emotion swelled in your chest, making it hard to speak. “You did all this for me?”

He stepped closer, reaching out to take your hands in his. “Of course. You’re my love, my muse. I wanted to give you something that’s made just for you, something that lets you shine in the way only you can.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away, not wanting to get emotional before you even saw the dance. Instead, you squeezed his hands and smiled. “Then show me, Mr. Choreographer.”

Soonyoung grinned and led you to the center of the room. “Okay, but be warned—you’re about to fall in love with me all over again.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, but as soon as the music started, you realized he wasn’t kidding. The choreography was perfect. Every move felt like it belonged to you, designed to highlight your strengths while pushing you in new, exciting ways. It was powerful, emotional, and undeniably you.

When the music faded, you turned to Soonyoung, breathless. He watched you with a hopeful glint in his eyes, waiting for your reaction.

You didn’t hesitate. You threw your arms around him, holding him tight. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Soonyoung chuckled, wrapping his arms around you. “Well, I did have the best inspiration.”

And in that moment, standing in the middle of the dance studio, you knew—this album was special, but he was the best part of it all.

[17caratrecs]

whatever you want, my angel | xu minghao

SYNOPSIS. in which your boyfriend calls you a term of endearment from his native tongue. PAIRING. xu minghao x gn!reader GENRE. fluff, a little bit of humour, established relationship WARNINGS. a singular kiss WORD COUNT. 845

requested by anon: Hey congratulations 🎉 on 2k! Hope you grow more (Ik you will!)! Fighting! 💓I wanted to request Minghao + #32 from List 1 (Fluff Dialogue Prompts)💖💖💖 - #32: "Did you just call me (pet name)?”

notes: hao looks so angelic in those photos i found omg going crazy. anyway, thank u sm lovely i hope u enjoy this 🥹🫶 short but cute hehe. this was the first thing ive written in 2 weeks sorry 😭😭

join the 2k celebration!

"Just a few more minutes, tiánxīn."

You never thought you could spin your head around as fast as now, eyes locking on your boyfriend casually stirring a spoon in a pot on the stove, low hums escaping his lips as if he was minding his own business.

Though as you get yourself to squint your eyes, you notice the extremely subtle curve that he has to his lips while the steam swirls around his head.

"Repeat that."

"Hm?" Minghao perks his head back up, eyelashes batting together innocently. "Did I say something?"

You place a hand at your hip, cocking your head to the side as you point a finger accusingly at him. "That. That nickname. Did you... did you just call me tyenshan?"

Minghao nearly bursts into a chuckle at your mushy pronunciation, and you feel your face growing red from the slight embarrassment. He bites his bottom lip, trying to stifle his amusement, and reaches over for the lid to cover over the pot before turning to face you with a small smirk.

"Tiánxīn."

You blink at him, still a bit puzzled. "Tyanshin? Tyen..."

Minghao just quietly watches as you struggle to grapple with the unfamiliar term. There's a hint of teasing in his eyes, but also a warmth that makes your heart skip a beat. He wipes his hands on a towel before stepping up to you, letting an arm sneakily wrap around your waist to pull you towards him.

The sudden closeness steals your breath for a moment. Minghao's arm feels warm and secure around your waist, and you can smell the faint scent of spices clinging to him from his cooking. Yet his gaze at you is filled with nothing but affection, even under the dim lighting of the kitchen light, and you can't help but melt into his touch.

"Sweetheart," he mutters casually. "That's what it means."

Your eyes grow wide momentarily, as if taking in the weight of the singular term of endearment. It's such a simple word, yet the way he says it𑁋with such tenderness and a hint of playfulness𑁋sends a warmth radiating through you.

You feel your fingers knead lightly at the fabric of his shirt at his side, and a curl passes through your lips as you get yourself to lock gazes with him.

"Can you say it again?" You ask again, a teasing tone to your voice.

MInghao just chuckles. "Tiánxīn𑁋"

He's cut off when he feels your lips softly press against his. The contact is all too brief, and nearly has him chasing after your mouth when you part away from him. There's a mischievous look blanketed to your features, but he finds himself still caught in a daze at whatever boldness you just unleashed.

"I like the sound of it," You say wistfully. "Tell me another one."

Minghao lifts a brow. He has no idea what you're trying to plot (if anything), but he complies nonetheless.

"Wǒ de tiānshǐ," he murmurs, voice soft yet confident as he gazes into your eyes. "My angel."

Your heart seems to do a tumble and a flip simultaneously in your chest, and grasping onto the urge to teasingly rebuttal seems to dissipate away right under his eyes and his cute ass smile. You can feel your feet practically melt into the floor below, and you resist the need bury your face into his shoulder out of pure, giddy shyness.

"Oh," You mumble bashfully, heat crawling up your neck and to the tips of your ears. "Hao..."

"Ah, and another one," he jests, and you perk up once more. "Bèndàn."

"Bèndàn?" You repeat right after him, before letting out a feigned gasp. "Wait, dàn? Aren't you literally calling me an egg?"

"Mhm," Minghao answers charmingly. "My beautiful, silly little egg."

An airy scoff escapes your lips, the tension dissipating into hearty laughter bouncing off the walls as you swat playfully at his chest with a hand, making Minghao bring his arms up to shield away from your playful attacks.

"Alright, alright," he utters out between breaths as he steps his way back to the stove. "I'm sorry, you know I don't mean it."

All you do is roll your eyes before placing yourself directly behind him and letting your arms wrap around his waist. You nuzzle your cheek against his back, closing your eyes for a few moments to relish the comfort of his warmth coursing through you, a few contented sighs leaving your mouth. You could probably stay in this position for hours and not get tired of it; his presence enough seems to soften away whatever worries you had throughout the day.

"Call me that more often."

Minghao just grins. "What? Bèndàn?"

"I𑁋No!" You lightly flick him with your finger. "Just... more of those other ones, please?"

Minghao lets out a soft chuckle, the rumble travelling through his chest and sending shivers down your spine. He swiftly turns off the heat to the stove, then reaches down to gently squeeze your hand where it rests on his stomach.

"Of course, tiánxīn," he replies softly, affectionately. "Whatever you want, wǒ de tiānshǐ."

taglist (open) ʚɞ @haowrld @icyminghao @slytherinshua @jeonride @eternalgyu

@lockburn-castle @vrnism @weird-bookworm @ryuwonieebae @wonwooz1

@mark-geolli @caramyisabitchforsvtandbts @aaniag @wootify @carlesscat-thinklogic23

@phenomenalgirl9 @mirxzii @bookyeom @parkjennykim @melodicrabbit

@bewoyewo @honglynights @bananabubble @treehouse-mouse @starshuas

@totomoshi @armycarat2612 @etherealyoungk

[17caratrecs]

kiwi | vernon chwe

🪄 pairing, vernon chwe x reader

🪄 warnings, short, lowercase intended, kind of stupid/incoherent, fluff, kissing, vernon calls reader 'babe', reader calls vernon 'dude' as a pet name, reader teases vernon, lyr's just trying to cope w the debut of buzzcut vernon okay don't judge.

🪄 summary, in which your boyfriend returns home with a buzzcut that looks eerily similar to a kiwi.

🪄 author, i'm still reeling over buzzcut vernon okay...i'm going through the five stages of grief & hoping that it grows on me 🙏 to help w my coping i'm gonna write this short little fic that i hope expresses my feelings about this new haircut in a somewhat coherent way. anyways, enjoy!

🪄 now playing, back on 74, jungle

🪄 word count, 704 | for @kstrucknet

"dude, you actually did it."

those are the first words to leave your mouth as you see your scarily quiet boyfriend enter your shared apartment. his hat is removed quickly, revealing his new hairstyle (or better yet, the lack of hair to style), and you swear you hear a gasp leave your mouth before you say the sentence.

vernon turns around blankly, taking his wireless earbuds from his ear as he stuffs them in his jeans pocket. his pretty brown eyes are widened, a telltale sign he didn't hear what you said before, as he replies with a very dry "huh?"

"your hair. it's....wait─can i even say 'your hair'?" you ask aloud, and vernon's lithe lips curve into a small smile, a chuckle leaving his lips as he shrugs.

"it's up to you, i guess." vernon's voice is deep as usual, but softer with you as he walks up to you. you touch his face first, fingertips sliding across his cheek as you stare at him. he looks the exact same, you know, but he's different now. the buzzcut really did change his face shape; his jawline was more pronounced now, and you could even see the curve of his ears.

"it's gonna be weird, seeing you without bangs to hide behind when you're listening to music," you whisper, and vernon laughs, shaking his head.

"it'll grow back fast, don't worry. i just wanted something new for a change, babe." vernon placates you, and you nod. "i know you did, vern. you don't have to explain to me why you did it." you concede, smiling softly as you wrap your arms around vernon's waist.

he's quiet as he lets you do your thing, and you sigh, breathing in the scent of his deodorant as you pull away. staring up at him again, you clear your throat, blushing.

"can i....touch it?" you ask, and vernon raises his thick eyebrows, confused as to what you mean as he pauses for a second. "touch what?" he asks bluntly, and you cough, gesturing to his hairstyle (you should really stop saying hairstyle).

"can i touch your head?" you ask again, and vernon laughs full out this time, nodding nevertheless as he tilts his head down a little, enabling you to reach it.

running your hands over his buzzed head, the small pricks of his lack of hair tickle your palm. it's weird, seeing it all cut down and shaved to this small prickly-like size. you move your fingers down to his temples, tracing his sideburns before your fingers tug at the tips of his ears.

"you remind me of a kiwi," you say as you pull your hand away, and vernon stands back up to his full height, tilting his head. "a kiwi?"

"yeah. you have kiwi fuzz for hair now." you smile, and vernon chuckles again, voice low as he nods. "kiwi fuzz. i like it."

"i mean, i do too. i'll love you no matter what, even if you are bald." you say teasingly, and vernon raises a sculpted eyebrow, lips parting as you can see the ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.

"i'm not bald, though." vernon says, and you shake your head, gesturing to his head as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"you don't have hair." you say, and vernon looks to the side, obviously confused as his eyebrows furrow. "but i do have hair. it's just...really short." he combats, and you sigh, shaking your head.

"vernon, you're literally bald. you can feel the breeze on your scalp. that's what baldness feels like." you shrug, fingertips tracing vernon's jaw as you smile. "it's okay though. like i said, i still love you, dude."

vernon doesn't combat your reservation, falling silent as he lets you do what you do. the smile on his face is visible now, and you can taste the original chapstick on his lips when you kiss him again. he hums into you (something he rarely ever does) when you nip at his lips, voice low and rumbling as he grins when you pull away.

"i'm just teasing, vernon." you say after a few seconds of comfortable quietness, and vernon shrugs, smiling even wider. "i know."

[17caratrecs]

what is love? | chs

Pairing: Chwe Vernon x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: It’s been 2 days since you confessed to your best friend that you love him, and it’s been 2 days since you’ve talked to him. Now you're hiding in the bridal suite of your friend's wedding, avoiding him.

Content: Angst, Fluff, Comfort | Friends to Lovers

Tags: bridesmaid!reader, groomsman!vernon, insecure reader, jihyo appears, dino's getting married in this one lolz, intense pining, lots of internal spiraling, vernon's facial expressions get flamed, 2 kdrama fall moments, a little konglish w/ translations, a kiss, no "y/n"

Word Count: 6.4K

Masterlist

What is love? If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that it’s what you feel for Chwe Vernon. Unfortunately for you, though, you really didn’t know any better, and now you’re facing the consequences of your actions. 

It’s been two days since you confessed to your best friend that you love him, and it’s been two days since you’ve talked to the man. Honestly, you have no one to blame but yourself, but you’ve convinced yourself that it’s everyone else’s fault for encouraging you. Maybe, if they hadn’t kept pushing you to confess to him—insisting that he definitely was into you—then you wouldn’t be in this position. 

Said position involves taking turns hiding in the bridal suite and bathroom of this wedding venue. In fact, you’re so committed to your act that you’ve practically become one with the shadows.

If anything, Vernon should be grateful that you’re going out of your way to avoid him. That way, he wouldn’t get bombarded with the secondhand embarrassment from remembering that horrible day. 

The only reason you’re here right now is because both Chan and his bride are close friends of yours, and you wouldn’t want to miss their wedding for the world. Plus, you’re also a bridesmaid. 

It was on you for blurting a disastrous confession to Vernon a few hours after the wedding rehearsal. 

But the bride and groom don’t even know that things have changed between the two of you. Given the chaos of wedding preparations, you withheld the fact that you and Vernon are going through a rough patch right now—if not the end of the friendship entirely. You didn’t want to add to their stress, but now you feel like you’re on fire. 

After all, Vernon is one of the groomsmen. What’s worse is, the wedding plans involve bridesmaids and groomsmen walking down the aisle in pairs, and you’d been placed with Vernon without a second thought. 

In other words, you’re completely screwed. 

“T-minus 20,” your friend and fellow bridesmaid Jihyo says, nudging your side. “We should go now.”

You feel a faint pulsing at the forefront of your head, a headache creeping up on you. God, what if when he sees you, he shakes his head and makes an X or something with his hands, insisting that he won’t walk down with you? What if he finds you physically embarrassing to be around, and just walks away? You’ve been running away from him all day, so it might not be a stretch to consider that he might have been trying to get away from you, too. 

You groan, scrunching the root of your hair, somewhat messing up your carefully curled hair. No, he wouldn’t just leave, that would ruin the wedding. He has too much love for Chan to do that to him. If he protests, he’d either do it subtly right before or confront you after it’s all over. 

You shut your eyes and take a deep breath. No one knows about your falling out except for you. And, well, Vernon, of course, but that’s not who you have to keep this secret from. You have to do your best to act normal and not at all like your heart is on the verge of bursting. 

“Has anyone ever died of embarrassment?” you suddenly ask, fingers dancing to find something to channel your nervous energy into. You fist a bit of the dress you’re wearing, then release it when you realize you can’t wrinkle the pretty material. “Shit.” You smooth over the fabric with shaky, sweaty hands.

“What is going on with you?” Jihyo’s eyes narrow as she looks you over. 

“I’ll tell you later,” you manage, bouncing your leg up and down. 

“Later, as in when?” 

“After the wedding,” you grit. You want to bury your face in your hands, but the expensive makeup gives you pause. You settle for lowering your head, staring listlessly at the white tiles on the ground. 

“Is this about what happened with Vernon?” 

You whip your head up. “You know?”

Jihyo slowly blinks, then deadpans, “Uh, yeah? A, both of you have been weird. The last time I saw you two not together was like, five years ago. And B, you’re literally the least subtle person I’ve ever met.”

“Oh,” you squeak, then quickly ask, “Wait, what do you think happened with Vernon?”

She stares blankly at you, as if the answer is obvious. “You confessed. He said nothing. You ran away.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, eyes growing comically large. Then, a frown replaces your shock. You don’t need to ask her how she knows. If anything, it just adds to the notion that even your other friends knew that he would’ve rejected you.

Jihyo sighs, coming over to the loveseat to sit next to you. She gives you a warm side hug, rubbing your back. “He’s a massive idiot. It’s gonna be okay. Let’s just get it together for the wedding, hmm?”

You swallow roughly, then nod. 

She continues, “Seriously, though. I’ve known Vernon for almost as long as you have. He’s not great at talking when he’s caught off guard—you know that, too.”

You blink at her words, the tiniest spark of hope igniting in your chest. But you quickly stamp it out, remembering the face he had made when you blurted out that you loved him.

Brows furrowed, open-mouthed, eyes wide, dead silent—he had to have been looking at you with disgust. That was the only way any sane person could decipher that look, really! There was no way that that face was the look of a man who was in love with you, as your friends have claimed.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, wrinkling your mouth into a smile that anyone could tell was faked. “I’ll get through it.”

“Yeah, it’s not that deep. Just walk down the aisle with him. It’ll take 10 seconds, tops.”

You’re very sure she’s exaggerating, but you wave it off. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” she says dryly.

You glare at her. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good, that’s the right mentality,” she says, clasping your shoulders, shaking your upper body. “파이팅! [Fighting!]”

“해야지, [gotta do it,]” you mutter. 

Jihyo’s right. You’ll have to see Vernon anyway, so you might as well do it with as much dignity as you can scrap together. 

Except, the little dignity you have left demands some more time to procrastinate and linger in your regret.

Jihyo stands up from the couch, but you don’t. Your limbs feel impossibly heavy, as if they’ve been held down by a massive boulder.

You groan, “Just go without me, I’ll leave soon. I wanna go as late as possible.” 

Jihyo looks at you with what you can only describe as immense pity. “Okay. I’ll see you in five?” 

You nod numbly, watching her walk away to open the doors of the bridal suite. 

Vaguely, you can hear some absentminded chatter across the room from the hair and makeup artists, mother of the bride, and maid of honor, all crowded over the bride. It’s all but a buzz in the back of your mind, though, since you’re preoccupied with trying to convince yourself that you have it in you to face Vernon. Knowing you only have five minutes before needing to walk down the aisle with him, your mouth feels dry—too dry. 

At that realization, you force your heavy limbs to get up, then walk over the fancy rug to the table where a myriad of miscellaneous objects have been strewn about. You reach for your bag to take out your water bottle, but your hands falter when you look at the little keychain attached to the bag. 

It’s a silver charm bracelet you’ve repurposed as a bag charm. It has a turtle and retriever puppy on it, representing the animals you’ve viewed each other as being. Seeing the charms causes a pang of longing to cut deep into you, reminding you of how much you’ve missed him in the last two days. 

Could you ever forgive yourself for ruining your precious friendship? For getting too greedy, for asking for too much? 

Your hands grip the edge of the table roughly, searching for something to stabilize your body, which is dangerously teetering in the high heels you had convinced yourself you’d be able to walk properly in. You’d bought it because the color of the shoe perfectly matches your dress, but the razor thin heel is proving to be an issue. 

Subconsciously, your hand reaches out from the table corner to your bag, gently rubbing the golden retriever charm Vernon always said looked like you, and you’re hit with a sudden intense wave of sadness—but not for the confession. 

No, instead, you turn your regret to the insecure internal ramblings that have ravaged you lately. 

The earnest, bright eyes of the little puppy charm makes you conscious of the hollow ache spreading throughout your body. How could you have been so mean to your poor, fragile heart? 

Alright, maybe you and Vernon wouldn’t be friends anymore. Maybe you would have to live without seeing him ever again. 

But you’d have to live with yourself, and it wasn’t right to treat yourself like this. 

Technically, Vernon didn’t even say anything to you. He didn’t outright reject you just yet, and he certainly didn’t say you weren’t someone worthy of love. So it was completely unfair for you to jump to those conclusions yourself, putting words in his mouth. 

And most of all, it would be even more unfair to you, represented by this adorable puppy charm, to lose yourself to heartbreak. 

Straightening your back, your other hand reaches into your bag for your water bottle. Upon chugging the remainder of the water, you close your eyes, concentrating on making your pulse slow down. It works, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

You might have to live with the fallout of this confession, but you could also live with the truth. Loving Vernon wasn't a mistake, and it wouldn't feel like one, no matter how he responded. He deserved honesty, and you deserved to stand by it. Even if this was the end, you wanted to leave this part of your story knowing you'd done right by both of you. 

You nod to no one in particular, having made your mind up. After the wedding, you’ll go to him and be upfront about it all, bearing your soul to his response. 

For now, though, you’ll help him enjoy the wedding by continuing to stay out of his sight. If he can’t see you, he can’t get reminded of his need to reject you—which is important, of course, because you don’t want his memories of this wedding to be of you crying after he lets you down. 

With this renewed clarity, you steady yourself. Vernon doesn’t love you, and that’s okay. You’d do enough loving for the both of you.

────୨ৎ────

Vernon steps into the bridal suite, a thrum of nerves coursing through his veins. He’s spent the past half-hour searching for you in every nook and cranny of the venue, dodging curious glances and knowing jokes from the other groomsmen about his obvious distraction. Jihyo’s the one who finally pointed him in the right direction, murmuring something about how it’s been over five minutes, and how he’s the only one who can get you to show up.

When he sees you standing by the table, shoulders tense, your hands gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, his breath catches. There you are, beautiful and strong and fragile all at once, lost in your thoughts. His chest constricts. How did it come to this? How did the best thing in his life become the one thing he feels he’s on the verge of losing?

“Hey,” he says softly, taking a step forward, calling your name softly.

Your head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and the sudden movement sends you teetering in your high heels. Eyes wide, you twist toward him, your balance faltering. “Vernon?”

It happens in a split second. One of your heels trips on the edge of the rug, and you stumble forward. Vernon darts forward instinctively, grabbing you just before you hit the ground. His arms wrap around you tightly, steadying you.

For a moment, everything stops. Leaning against his chest, you can hear his heartbeat, a frantic rhythm that matches your own. God, your near face plant must have scared him a lot?

But just as you start to regain your footing, your heel accidentally digs into his foot, and he lets out a yelp of pain. 

The abrupt shift in weight sends him off balance, and the two of you tumble onto the floor in a tangled heap.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Vernon’s crazy seagull call of a laugh cuts through the tension. 

It’s infectious, and before you know it, you’re both laughing, the sound filling the room. It’s ridiculous, it’s messy, and it’s the most alive you’ve felt in days.

When your body relaxes all of its tension, you realize that you’ve missed him with every fiber of your being. That something in you has been waiting for him, like you’ve been in withdrawal without hearing his laughter in the last two days. 

You’d planned on continuing to avoid him until the end of the wedding, so that he could enjoy his night without you, but that idea is crumbling right before your eyes. You might not be able to bring yourself to stay away from him any longer. 

And then, oh, then—the laughter fades, and you realize how close you are. 

Vernon’s face is inches from yours, his warm breath fanning across your skin. His eyes, dark and soft, hold a depth of emotion that makes your stomach twist. And for a fleeting moment, you think you see something raw and unguarded in his gaze—something you’ve seen before. 

It’s how he looked when you confessed to him.

Your chest tightens, and your thoughts spiral. Is he mad, reminded of your confession? 

You scramble to put distance between you, pushing yourself off him and stepping back hastily. Too hastily, really.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammer, smoothing down the fabric of your dress as if that will somehow restore your composure. “I didn’t mean to, I swear—”

“It’s okay,” Vernon says gently, sitting up. 

He reaches an arm out for you, but you’ve already retreated several steps, an apologetic smile plastered on your face.

“We should get going,” you say, your tone overly formal. “It’s almost time.” Without waiting for his response, you turn on your heel and stride toward the door, your movements stiff and hurried.

Vernon watches you go, his hand dropping to his side. He flexes it, then exhales sharply, frustration bubbling beneath the surface of his calm exterior. 

You’re running again, and he’s running out of time to fix this. 

Pushing himself to his feet, he follows you out of the suite, his long strides easily catching up to you.

The two of you arrive at the line of bridesmaids and groomsmen just as the coordinator starts organizing everyone into pairs. You avoid Vernon’s gaze, your hands clasped tightly in front of you. 

But when it’s your turn to step forward, he’s there, holding out his hand to you. 

It shakes a little, and your breath hitches when you notice a flash of silver on his wrist. It’s a charm bracelet, and it’s unmistakably the same one you’ve kept on your bag for years, the little turtle and retriever puppy charms glinting under the soft light. 

Surely not? 

Surely, he doesn’t?

Tentatively, you place your hand in his, your fingers trembling. His grip is familiar, warm, and steady, grounding you even as your emotions threaten to overwhelm you. 

As you walk toward the aisle together, you don't look at whoever you're supposed to be looking at, whether it's the officiant or the people clapping in the crowd. Instead, your eyes are trained on the jewelry peeking out of his sleeve, and how his hand feels so soft and warm and dependable against yours. 

Then, it suddenly occurs to you that maybe, just maybe, you saw it wrong that day. Maybe he wasn’t looking at you like he was appalled by your audacity to tell him your feelings. He might have actually really been confused, allowing for you to misinterpret his surprise for rejection. 

But as soon as the thought enters your mind, you dismiss it. False hope definitely wouldn’t do anything for your precious feelings. Especially when the hope was that Vernon, of all people, would love you as much as you love him.

Desperately avoiding eye contact with the man in question, you stare straight at the bridesmaid-groomsman pair in front of you. 

If Vernon loved you back, then he’d say it. He’d show it somehow, some day. Today wasn’t that day, and that’s okay. 

You’d be alright without him, eventually. Probably. Hopefully?

With that rationale, you do your best to ignore your trembling legs, burning ears, and constricting chest. The bride and groom deserve a perfect procession, and you would play your role well. 

────୨ৎ────

It was a beautiful ceremony. And, three hours into the reception, you’re proud to say that you’ve survived. Promptly after the procession, you separated from Vernon, finding refuge within the bridesmaid group. Ever since, you’ve flitted around different tables, dancing with random people, all in the name of protecting him from seeing you. 

You’re actually incredible at avoiding people, if you do say so yourself. Every time you’ve seen Vernon within 50 feet of your vicinity, you’ve grabbed someone new to dance with or talk to. And for especially close calls, you’ve dragged Jihyo into the bathroom. 

This time, though, you’re hiding in the bathroom without her. She’d finally refused to go with you for the nth time. The brat had thrown you to the wolves, essentially. No girl code—the nerve of her!

Patting down the roots and length of your hair, which had gotten a bit frizzy, you stare at yourself blankly in the mirror, watching a shiver run down your spine from the cold air-conditioning blasting in the small space. 

Despite your efforts to calm down, a sigh escapes your mouth, your shoulders feeling far too heavy. What are you doing, hiding?

God, you love him so much. So much that you’re willing to dance around him so he doesn’t get reminded of you, so that he doesn’t worry about how to reject you all night, so that he can just enjoy the wedding. 

What even is love? 

You’ve heard that love is sacrifice, and if what you feel is really love, then, well. You’ll have to try not to love anyone but yourself from now on, because unrequited love is somewhat horrible. 

You’ll get over him someday, right? 

Right?

Before you can psych yourself out of leaving the freezing but rather safe haven that is the restroom, you march over to the door with a new mantra. You shake your shoulders and roll your neck, cracking the joints in your fingers. 

“I’ll get over it,” you murmur. “I’m over it. I’m over it! Over, over, over.” 

Pushing the door open, you continue rambling to yourself. “I’ll get over it. Over, over, over, over...”

“Over what?” comes a familiar voice.

Oh, shit.

Wide-eyed, you look up to see Vernon blocking your way past the bathroom and back into the hallway leading to the reception. 

“Oh,” you gasp, limbs frozen. your eyes flit back to the door to the women’s restroom again, contemplating ditching him cheaply (again). 

Vernon steps closer, his gaze softening as he notices your hesitation. His voice is low and gentle—too gentle—when he speaks, almost as if he’s unsure how to break the silence.

"Hey," he says softly, his hand reaching out, fingers brushing against your arm. "You don't have to hide from me, y’know."

You glance up at him, your adrenaline flowing through your veins. You want to back away, to keep putting distance between you, but something about his insistent stare makes your legs freeze.

"I know it's been awkward," Vernon continues, his words more measured now. "But I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I just—I just want to talk." He brings his right hand up to his chest, like he’s swearing that he speaks the truth. 

You shake your head, your voice trembling. "You don’t have to. I don’t want to make things worse."

Vernon furrows his brows, stepping closer, as if he can’t bear to see you pull away from him again. "You think that running away will fix it? You think I want you to hide from me?"

You swallow hard, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know. This is all new to me."

"Then let me say it.” Vernon’s voice is strangled. "I don’t want to lose you, okay? I didn’t want it to happen like this, I…” His voice trails off as he clenches his fists, shutting his eyes tightly before opening them again. “Please don’t think I shut you down, I just—I needed some time to process everything. I care about you a lot—so much more than I know how to show, sometimes. Or,” he huffs with red-rimmed eyes, “a lot of the time."

A silence settles between you, thick and heavy, but Vernon doesn’t seem to notice. He looks at you with downturned, shining eyes, and you feel your defenses slowly start to crumble. 

You’ve never seen him so devastated. 

"Come here," Vernon says softly, his arm reaching out to tug you closer, now fully clinging to your side. "Please don’t keep running. Please?” He says the last word like it’s a prayer—and, oh, is it a powerful one.

Every part of your body stiffens, caught off guard by how warm he is, then immediately relaxes at how gently he’s holding you, as if you would break if he held on any tighter.

"Please don’t run from me anymore," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. 

You think you could melt into his arms, and it takes everything within you to trust him, to not back away like you have for the past two days. With each passing second, you feel your spine relaxing and leaning into his touch. Then, in the midst of your relaxation, it occurs to you that he’s awaiting your reply.

But before you can answer his pleas, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes through the hallway. Jumping apart like fugitives before the law, you both turn to see Jihyo skidding around the corner, her face flushed with panic.

“There you are!” she exclaims, eyes wide. “The bouquet toss is about to happen! Get over here!” 

Before you can even blink, Jihyo grabs your wrist, pulling you away from the delicate warmth of Vernon’s embrace. 

“Now!” she shouts. 

You twist your back around to send him a helpless look, and all he gives you is an encouraging nod and the cutest, awkward little wave. You see the sincerity in his boyish smile, which makes your chest feel tight, as if all the air had been sucked from the room. It’s bad enough for your delicate heart. 

But then, most wickedly, you catch the adorable, anxious eagerness in his crinkled, watery eyes—and, oh. 

It really is all over for you, isn’t it?

You really won’t be able to love anyone else, will you? 

There is no “getting over” Chwe Vernon.

The last threads of your resolve crumble as you follow Jihyo. You barely register the steps that lead you back into the grand reception hall. She has a vice grip on your wrist, tugging you along with such urgency that your shoes almost trip you on the way inside. The room hums with energy, and you can’t help but feel out of place in the frenzy of people excitedly whispering and glancing toward the front.

Everyone has gathered in a semi-circle, eager faces all pointed at the bride, who is holding the bouquet high above her head. Your pulse is speeding up by the second, but it’s not for the reason the other single women are likely nervous for. All you can think about is how you’ve been dragged here with nothing but the love you have for Vernon—a deep, endless kind that threatens to burst out of you in a wildly embarrassing public display of affection.

"You're gonna be fine," Jihyo says with a grin, though it’s a little too wide, too bright. You’re not sure if she’s referring to the Vernon fiasco or the bouquet toss, but you force a smile back at her anyway.

"Sure I am," you mumble under your breath. 

She doesn’t hear you, or if she does, she doesn’t acknowledge that she heard it. She’s already turned her attention back to the bride, her arm brushing yours as she steps forward, positioning herself with the other women who are trying to catch the bouquet.

You stand awkwardly behind her at the edge of the crowd of single women, feet shuffling, heart still pounding from your conversation with Vernon.

Then, the live orchestral music shifts, and you feel a slight weight in your stomach, despite knowing the chances of the bouquet toss heading your way is slim to none. Still, it’s happening now, and you’re now on the single ladies floor, so there’s no backing out.

When you shift your back to brush away some of the hair obscuring your vision, you make eye contact with the very man who has been occupying your every thought this evening. Vernon had probably followed you and Jihyo as she pulled you away, since he’s now standing near you. And, oh, he’s close—only an arm’s distance or so away from you, standing at the front of the larger crowd. 

The closer the moment of the throw gets, the harder it is to ignore his burning presence. He’s standing with a group of other men who are watching the floor full of gorgeous, single women, but his attention is entirely on you. 

A subtle smile plays at the corners of his mouth, and the air between the two of you suddenly feels too thick. You have so much to say to him, and you don’t know how to get it all out in an eloquent way. 

But your deliberation of what to say to him is cut short by the screams announcing that the bouquet has launched into the air. 

You lift your chin up, squinting as the light of the chandeliers temporarily blinds you. By the time you blink away the flashing spots in your vision, you see the trajectory of the bouquet. 

It arcs high above the crowd of waiting women, catching the light as it spins toward the back—toward you! If you don’t move, the bouquet will crash into your face. 

Your arms instinctively reach for the flowers, reaching beyond what you’d thought was capable for yourself. But the second after your back stretches and feet jump to accommodate the move, your left heel completely gives out, sending your balance completely off-kilter.

Your arms flail uselessly as your ankle sharply twists, and the world tips sideways. The air rushes past your face, cold and sharp, and you brace yourself for impact—ready to collide utterly gracelessly with the hard floor. But before gravity can win, a pair of strong hands clamps around your waist, arresting your fall with a jarring yet steady pull.

The warmth of his touch spreads like wildfire through the thin fabric of your dress, grounding you in an instant. Vernon’s hands are firm, almost possessive, his grip both steady and urgent, like he’s afraid to let go.

Your chest presses against his, the faint thud of his heartbeat syncing with the chaotic rhythm of your own. His scent hits you next—a subtle mix of cedarwood and something distinctly him, crisp and comforting all at once. The tension in your body melts slightly as his arms secure you closer, your trembling legs finding balance in his hold.

“Hey,” he says shyly, his breath fanning across the shell of your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine, his words calming and electrifying in equal measure.

Your fingers instinctively clutch at the lapels of his jacket, the soft fabric brushing against your palms, anchoring you to reality. His thumb brushes lightly against your side, the touch barely noticeable yet searing, and the warmth from his body radiates into yours like a shield against the world.

Slowly, he adjusts his grip, one hand sliding to the small of your back, the other ghosting against your shoulder as he steadies you on your feet. The gentleness of his movements is stark against the adrenaline roaring in your ears.

When you finally look up, your breath catches. His face is so close—closer than you were when you fell in the bridal suite, closer than you’ve ever been before. Close enough to see the individual strands of his long lashes, to see the beautiful shimmer in his brown eyes. His eyes, wide and searching, lock onto yours, the emotions swirling in their dark depths rendering you speechless.

“I’ve got you,” Vernon says, his voice barely more than a whisper, but the words reverberate through you like an earthquake. “다친 데 없어? [You’re not hurt, are you?]”

You shake your head without much thought, the back of your neck and your ears burning up at how tender his touch is. 

His fingers linger at your waist, the subtle pressure of his touch still burning against your skin. Even as he pulls away just enough to give you space, the absence of his warmth feels like a loss you’re not ready to accept. Without thinking, your hand darts out, fingertips brushing against the sleeve covering the charm bracelet you saw during the procession.

And that’s when you notice the bouquet—clutched awkwardly in your other hand, its delicate petals trembling just as much as you are. The flowers are slightly askew from the near disaster, and it all comes crashing down on you. 

You wince at the ridiculous public scene you’ve made, but the smile that spreads across Vernon’s face is enough to make you forget about everything, humiliation be damned.

“Perfect,” he says softly, though you can hear the teasing edge in his voice. “You got it, princess.” 

Princess, the joke he started calling you after Disney movie marathons in which you mocked the main characters always needing men to save them—you were definitely having a princess moment right now.

Vernon reaches to brush a strand of hair out of your face, and you feel your cheeks heat from the decidedly intimate nature of his touch. 

And that’s when the room erupts. 

Cheers fill the space as the guests begin clapping, laughing, and shouting in celebration. You see Chan whistle, while his newlywed wife shouts, “Finally!” The noise surges around you, but you can’t focus on anything except the way Vernon is looking at you.

You don’t know how on earth you could have misinterpreted it before—his wide eyes, slightly furrowed brows, half-open mouth. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, and it’s suddenly clear he’s just as affected as you are. 

He’s looking at you like you’re the only one in the room, like you’re the only one he can see.

He’s looking at you in the same way you look at him.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare past his shoulders to see the waiting eyes of the entire room. It’s as though they’ve known all along, most having been there to see the constant teasing, the not-so-secret glances exchanged, and the tension that’s been building for what feels like ages. Everyone knew before you two did, really.

The realization hits you all at once, and a nervous laugh escapes you. You’re caught in the act—the act of love—and there’s no denying it. 

You exchange an uncertain look with Vernon, and something flickers in his eyes. It’s something deeper, like the three words you told him two days ago, only to be met with silence.

“Looks like it’s fate, huh?” you joke weakly, shaking the bouquet, trying to regain some control over the situation. 

But Vernon doesn’t laugh. His expression just softens, and his voice is so, so deep when he speaks, it’s barely audible over the noise of the guests. “Y’know, you don’t have to joke your way out of this.”

You swallow hard, but before you can respond, he steps closer to you, his gaze unwavering, presence overwhelming. He reaches for your hand, gently pulling it into his, where it fits just so, and the warmth of his touch sends a wave of electricity through you.

“You know I’ve been looking for you, right?” Vernon continues, his voice slightly choked, making your chest tighten. “All day. All day, yesterday and today. I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything that day. It wasn’t because I didn’t care, I do,” he pauses, tightening his grasp on you. “It’s because I care too much, really.”

Your breath hitches. What is he saying? Your brain is practically numb from the excessive overthinking you’ve been doing for the past two days. He needs to just spell it out.

“What?”

Vernon exhales a short laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His hands, buried deep in his coat pockets, tense visibly as his shoulders lift slightly. “I feel like you don’t get it,” he says softly, the words teetering on the edge of vulnerability.

Your heart skips a beat. “Get what?”

He looks at you—really looks at you, staring intensely into your eyes, weighing whether or not to say the next part. His jaw tightens for a brief second, the muscle flexing as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He pulls a hand out of his pocket, raking it through his hair. His fingers linger at the nape of his neck before dropping back to his side, curling loosely as though they’re bracing for impact.

“That I’m here for you,” Vernon says, his voice barely above a whisper. He steps closer, not quite closing the distance but close enough that you can feel the addictive heat radiating off of him. “That I’ve always been here for you. And not…” He clenches and unclenches his fists. “Not just as a friend.”

Your breath hitches, and you feel his gaze flicker to your lips for the briefest moment before darting back to your eyes. His own are wide, filled with uncertainty but also a quiet kind of determination.

He shifts again, this time slipping his other hand out of his pocket and holding it out, palm up, like an offering. His fingers twitch slightly, betraying his nerves, and you notice a faint redness creeping up his neck, the telltale signs of his composure cracking.

“I didn’t say anything sooner because…” His voice trails as he bites the inside of his cheek, eyes dropping to the ground. When he looks up again, his expression is raw and completely unguarded. “Because I didn’t want to mess things up. But I can’t keep telling myself I don’t feel this way. I’m sorry I’m so late.”  

Your chest tightens as his words settle over you, finally registering the weight of them.

“Please don’t get over me,” he says all at once, breathlessly. His eyes are shining, his gaze ever so hopeful.

His hand lingers in the space between you, waiting, hoping.

“Please?”

You stare at his outstretched hand in disbelief, limbs locked by pure shock. Is this real? 

You can feel the effort it’s taking for him to stay still, his thumb twitching every few seconds like he’s fighting the urge to pull away and retreat.

When you don’t immediately respond, Vernon exhales shakily and starts to pull his hand back, his lips parting as if to apologize. 

But before he can, your fingers move instinctively, brushing against his.

The contact is brief, but it’s enough to make him freeze. His eyes snap to yours, widening as if he doesn’t quite believe what just happened. Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers curl around yours, the warmth of his touch steadying you as much as it does him.

“I mean it. I don’t want you to move on, because I love you,” he says shakily. “I’m in love with you, and I don’t know if you still feel that way for me, but… I need you to know how I feel.”

In the depths of his eyes, you see the vulnerability he’s always tried to hide, the intensity of the emotions he’s been holding back for so long.

And it’s as if the whole room vanishes, leaving just the two of you standing there. The bouquet is forgotten, and so are the guests, their cheers having long faded into the background.

Your heart feels as though it’s about to explode from your chest, but the words spill out before you can think. “I love you, too.”

Vernon brightens, eyes lighting up his, his grin stretching from ear to ear, and you fold. He’s handsome and sweet and a little awkward and brilliant—and yours.

Before your next breath, he’s leaning forward, closing the distance between you. 

His lips meet yours in a kiss so soft, so gentle, that you barely feel it at all. Impatient, you eagerly lift your chin up for more of him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss—oh, is it something to live for. You never want to let go. He tastes like chocolate and feels like a dream come true—he’s your very own prince, if you’re the princess. 

It feels like the world has finally clicked into place. You and Vernon are on the same page, and it’s indescribable, really.

When the roaring in your ears subsides, you hear some wolf whistles, and you suddenly realize where you are. You barely bring yourself to pull a few inches away from him, laughing softly, and he smiles, his eyes sparkling with so, so much warmth and love. It’s all for you. And you realize that here, in his arms, you feel full. You feel so warm, so cared for.

This, this is love. 

Masterlist

Author's Note: he's a bit of a loser in this, but i think he made up for it

Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc's!!

Taglist: @syluslittlecrows - @junplusone