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seospicybin · 1 day ago

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Okay but seriously stop it. I can only take so much, Yubin. You keep showering me with all these lovely words and I CAN’T— 🥺🥺🥺

Thank youuuuu so much. Always appreciate each and every one of your feedback. You know I love you MWAH MWAH MWAAAAAH 😘❤️

TASTE.

CHAPTER VI: ZESTY.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (20,8k words)

Author's note: Thank you for patiently waiting a whole week for the new chapter. Hope you enjoy this one too. Don't forget to share what you think about it ♡

Zesty. /ˈzes.ti/ (adj) 1. Full of flavor 2. Full of energy and enthusiasm

In English, they say people wear their hearts on their sleeves. But in Italian, there’s another phrase: avere il cuore in mano—to hold your heart in your hand. It’s a raw, vulnerable act, offering up everything you are for others to see. And that’s exactly what Minho is doing now, standing there in the middle of the kitchen, holding his heart out in his hand for everyone to see.

His eyes don’t leave yours, steady and unwavering, even as tears begin to pool in your own. You stand rooted in place, disbelieving, as his confession echoes in your ears, as if the world has slowed to a crawl.

The silence that follows is deafening. Around you, the team struggles to process what they’ve just heard. Chris is still in the doorway, his expression stricken, as though he’s watching a tragedy unfold in slow motion. Sara bites her lip, trying to keep herself composed, though the heartbreak on her face is clear. Felix looks back and forth between you and Minho, stunned, while Hyunwoo’s hands tighten around the edge of his station.

Then Yura moves. Her heels click sharply against the floor as she strides toward Minho, her fury palpable. Grabbing his chef necktie, she yanks it hard, forcing him to meet her glare.

“What did you say would happen if someone was caught dating in the kitchen?” she demands, her voice laced with venom as she tugs Minho’s chef necktie, “You're fired!”

Minho doesn’t flinch. Calmly, he reaches up, prying her hand from his tie. Straightening his chef coat, Minho turns back to face the kitchen. There’s tension in the set of his shoulders, a heaviness in the air, but his voice remains steady as he speaks.

“I acknowledge that I’ve behaved in a way that could lose your trust in me as a chef,” he says, his words carrying the weight of a man laying himself bare. “But I will not apologize for loving her.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The words seem to echo, sharp and unrelenting, as the silence stretches on.

Minho inhales deeply, his gaze moving over the room, taking in every stunned expression before it lands back on you. “I have no right to continue leading this kitchen,” he continues, softer now, as though the fight has drained from him. “And with that, I will leave this kitchen on my own cognizance.”

Reaching up, Minho unties his chef necktie. The motion is slow, deliberate, and final. He pulls it free and holds it in his hand, his grip firm, as if it carries the weight of everything he’s giving up.

His eyes return to you, locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your chest ache. And then he does it—he smiles. A small, triumphant curve of his lips, like he’s proud, like despite everything, this is the moment he’s chosen to show the world what his heart holds.

You’re trembling now, tears streaming freely down your face. You want to speak, to stop him, to do something—anything—but the weight of what he’s done keeps the words stuck in your throat.

Minho steps back, his movements calm and measured, though his gaze never wavers from yours. He’s still holding his heart in his hand, unashamed, unflinching, even as he turns and walks away.

The door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing through the silent kitchen like the final act of a play. Around you, the others remain frozen, their shock reflected in every wide-eyed stare. Chris exhales heavily, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Sara lets out a quiet sob, muffled by her hand, while Felix looks down at his station, unable to meet your eyes.

And you—your heart feels like it’s breaking into pieces.

But as you stand there, shaking, you realize something: Minho walked out of that kitchen with no regrets. He held his heart in his hand for all to see, daring them to judge him, daring them to understand.

Because for Minho, loving you was worth it all. And that thought makes the ache in your chest cut even deeper.

Minho calmly places another stack of papers into the box on his desk, the sound of rustling filling the otherwise silent room. He’s methodical, efficient—just as he’s always been in everything he does. Yet, with every item he packs, there’s an ache that burrows deeper into his chest, one he refuses to acknowledge.

The door slams open. Minho doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. The hurried, uneven steps give Sara away before she even speaks.

Her eyes dart between him and the box. “Are you seriously leaving?” she asks, her voice breathless and disbelieving.

Minho doesn’t pause. “Just like I said.”

Chris follows close behind her, the usual calmness in his demeanor replaced with a frustration that radiates off him in waves. He steps forward, his voice sharp. “Chef, how can you be so irresponsible? What will happen to our kitchen if you leave us with no backup plans?”

Minho places a few books into the box, then calmly closes it. “I wouldn’t have done this if I were the only chef,” he says, his tone even. His eyes flick to Sara. “You have Chef Sara, so you will be fine even if I leave now.”

Sara’s mouth opens to protest, but Minho cuts her off. “It didn't feel right to have two head chefs in the kitchen anyway,” he adds, his gaze steady on hers. “This is a good thing for you, Sara. You can finally have this room all to yourself. Change things the way you want to in the kitchen. Make it yours.”

Sara lets out a long sigh, the fight in her draining as she lowers her gaze. Minho doesn’t miss the slight tremor in her hands, the way her shoulders sag in reluctant acceptance.

Chris, however, isn’t done. He steps closer, his voice pressing. “And what about her?”

Minho picks up the box, holding it securely in his arms. He glances at Chris and smirks faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m curious about that myself.”

With that, he walks out of the office. The silence behind him feels heavier with every step, but Minho doesn’t let himself stop.

The restaurant is eerily quiet as he makes his way through it. He can feel the weight of the stares from his team, but he keeps his head high, his expression calm.

As he approaches the entrance, his gaze falls on Yura standing in the hallway. She doesn’t say a word, but her narrowed eyes and tightly folded arms speak volumes. Minho lets his lips curl into a faint, nonchalant smirk, one that silently says, This is not enough to bring me down.

Pushing open the door, Minho steps outside. He sees Felix and Taesoo are already waiting, their faces a mix of panic and confusion.

Felix rushes toward him the moment Minho emerges. “Chef! How could you leave like this? This is ridiculous!”

“Don't leave, Chef!” Taesoo begs as he steps forward, his voice tight. “I know you said there's to be no romance in this kitchen but that doesn't mean you have to leave. If you leave, what will happen to her?”

Minho exhales deeply, his grip tightening around the box in his arms. “You should be happy,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “There will no longer be hardship and harsh words in the kitchen.”

Felix’s shoulders stiffen as he hisses in frustration, his desperation clear. “Chef...”

Minho looks at both of them, his gaze softening slightly. “Just because I'm not here that doesn't mean you can quit or give Chef Sara a hard time, understood?”

They don’t respond, their silence heavy with unspoken protests. But Minho doesn’t wait for them to find the words to stop him. He adjusts his hold on the box and starts walking toward the parking lot.

Their voices follow him, calling out, pleading, but Minho doesn’t look back.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing at the base of the steps, your hands clasped in front of you, your eyes red and watery. You look like you’re on the verge of falling apart, but you hold yourself together just enough to face him.

Minho stops in front of you, his heart clenching painfully at the sight. You’re both silent for a long moment, locked in each other’s gaze, until tears spill down your cheeks again.

Gently, he reaches out, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he wipes your tears away. His hand cups your cheek, his touch soft, grounding. Your lip trembles, but you don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Minho offers you a small, bittersweet smile. “For now, finish dinner service, mmh? I’ll see you after work.”

The weight of the moment presses down on both of you as he steps back, letting his hand fall to his side. With one last glance, Minho turns and walks to his car.

He places the box in the backseat before sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine hums to life, but Minho lingers, his hands resting on the wheel as his eyes remain on you through the windshield.

This was the right decision. He tells himself that over and over, forcing himself to believe it. Finally, with a deep breath, Minho shifts the car into gear and drives away, leaving the restaurant—and you—behind.

The kitchen hums with activity, the clang of pans and the hiss of burners filling the space, yet there’s a strange stillness in the air. An absence.

Minho’s absence.

The entrée line seems to be in unusually high spirits. Quiet chuckles pass between them, their movements more relaxed than usual. One of them even dares to hum softly, as if a weight has been lifted. But at the corner of your vision, Felix stands stiffly at his station, his jaw tight. His usually warm and cheerful demeanor has dissolved into something cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the others.

For a moment, he just watches them, his sharp gaze cutting through their newfound ease like a knife.

The kitchen door swings open, and Sara steps in, her presence commanding immediate attention. She moves toward the chef’s table, resting her hands on the edge as she surveys the room. Her voice is steady, calm, but firm.

“Just like Chef Lee said,” she begins, her gaze sweeping over everyone, “the guests don’t know what happens in the kitchen. What matters is that we give it our best, as we always do.”

The line goes quiet, their earlier lightheartedness dimming slightly. No one responds, their silence stretching awkwardly.

Sara straightens, her eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you going to answer me?”

A few scattered voices answer her with a reluctant, “Yes, Chef.”

Felix doesn’t say a word. Instead, he lets out a heavy sigh, loud enough to make the others glance his way.

Despite the strange atmosphere hanging over the kitchen, the service continues. Plates are passed, dishes plated, and the rhythm of the kitchen gradually settles into a mechanical flow.

At your station, you focus on your work, trying to ignore the tension. You hear Seungwan’s voice next to your station, his tone casual but cutting. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? How one person’s absence can make such a big difference.”

You don’t respond, but the words dig into you like a thorn.

Grabbing the plate you’ve just finished, you carry it to the chef’s table for Sara to inspect. She leans over it, her critical eye scanning the presentation. She picks up a cloth to wipe a smudge on the rim of the plate before looking up at you.

“Bring me the celeriac purée,” she says curtly.

You nod quickly and hurry back to retrieve it. As you place it before her, Sara dips a spoon into the purée and tastes it.

“Who made this?” she asks, her tone sharp but not accusatory.

“I did,” you answer.

Her expression doesn’t change. “And who taught you to boil the milk with the celeriac?”

You hesitate before gesturing toward Seungwan.

Sara turns her attention to him, her voice steady but pointed. “There’s a better way to boil the milk with the celeriac. Please show her how to do it right.”

Seungwan, eager to please, nods enthusiastically. “Of course, Chef!” He grins, then adds, “Honestly, if this is how you tell someone off, I’d happily get corrected like this every day. You’re so different compared to... someone.”

His voice trails off, but the implication hangs in the air, heavy and sharp.

Felix, who has been silent until now, suddenly cuts in. His voice is low but firm, carrying an edge of frustration. “That’s nonsense.”

The kitchen stills.

Felix turns to Seungwan, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t need someone to coddle you. You need to be berated to learn. That’s how you get better.”

He shifts his gaze to Sara, his tone growing sharper. “Can’t anyone tell the difference between someone who’s willing to push you to improve and someone who just sucks up to you?”

The words hang in the air like a bomb about to explode. Felix scoffs, muttering under his breath, “How could anyone ever get better like this?”

Seungwan bristles, his face reddening. He picks up a frying pan, holding it in his hand as if to challenge Felix. “You want to say that to my face again?”

Before things can escalate, Sara raises her voice, sharp and commanding. “Enough! Both of you.”

Seungwan hesitates, his grip tightening on the pan before he slowly sets it back down.

The tension simmers, thick and suffocating.

You glance around, your eyes drifting back to the chef’s table. It’s almost instinctual, but your chest tightens when you realize, again, that Minho isn’t there. His absence feels like a void, a missing heartbeat in the pulse of the kitchen.

The dinner service continues, but nothing feels the same.

Minho paces back and forth in the quiet lobby, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. The space feels too sterile, too still, and it does little to ease the restlessness gnawing at him. He glances toward the entrance every few seconds, waiting for you.

The moment he sees you, he stops mid-step. Relief washes over him, but his anticipation falters when he catches the look on your face. You’re not smiling or relieved like he’d hoped. Instead, your expression is sour, your brows furrowed, your mouth set in a hard line.

He tilts his head, his lips curling into a faint smirk despite your mood. “What’s with that face? I’m the one without a job here.”

You don’t even hesitate. “How can you just leave like that?” you snap, your voice sharp and accusing. “Do you only think about yourself?”

Minho blinks, taken aback. “What?”

You press on, your words tumbling out in rapid succession. “How can you run away like that without even thinking about me? You just up and quit, and I’m supposed to—what? Pretend that’s fine?”

He lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Run away? When did I ever run away from you?”

You ignore his question entirely, your voice growing softer, though no less frustrated. “It’s only been one dinner shift, but the kitchen felt so empty without you. Do you know that?”

He stands there, frozen, as you glance away, your eyes distant.

“I want to be with you,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “I like it when you’re standing at the chef’s table. You... you look the best when you’re there.”

There’s a weight in your words that hangs between you, thick and heavy. Then your gaze meets his again, sadness pooling in your eyes. “But you had to leave the kitchen. You had to lose your job. All because of me.”

Minho’s jaw tightens as you continue.

“Did you really think I’d congratulate you?” you ask, your voice trembling. “Did you think I’d tell you that you did a good job?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, his tone almost defensive. “I was hoping you’d pat me on the back and tell me I did the right thing.”

Your expression twists in frustration, and your voice rises again. “Why do you always act as you please? Why can’t you just stop and think for a second? You yell, you get angry, and you cause trouble without ever considering the consequences!”

Minho feels his patience snap. “How long did you expect me to stay there?” he retorts, his voice raised. “Sneaking around like that, pretending nothing’s going on?”

“Do you think I like sneaking around?” you fire back, your tone laced with annoyance.

Before he can respond, you spin on your heel and start walking away, heading toward the elevator.

“Hey!” Minho shouts after you, his voice echoing in the empty lobby. “You better stop right there!”

But you don’t. You keep walking, your back to him, leaving him standing there, frustration boiling in his chest. His hands clench into fists at his sides as he watches you disappear into the elevator. He immediately chases after you and manages to slip inside the elevator before it closes.

The elevator ride up is suffocating. Minho leans back against the cold wall of the elevator, the weight of the day pressing down on his chest. He runs a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling under his skin. As the elevator dings and the doors slide open, you immediately step out, not even sparing him a glance.

He follows after you, his voice sharp and echoing in the empty hallway. “Hey! Stop walking away from me!”

You pause, but your shoulders remain tense. Minho closes the distance between you, his tone low and biting. “What did I do wrong this time? Don’t you know I did this for you?”

You spin on your heel, glaring at him. “For me? How can you say that when you left because everyone knows about us? You think it’s that simple?”

Minho scoffs, crossing his arms. “Then why don’t you just quit too?”

Your eyes widen slightly before narrowing again. “Let's say I quit and then what?”

His patience is wearing thin, and he can feel his irritation rising. “Is Farfalle the only kitchen in the world?” he snaps. “Why do you act like it’s the only place you can work?”

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. “You don’t get it. You have the skills, the experience. You’ll find a new job anywhere. But for me, it’s different. I’m not you.”

Minho sighs, running a hand down his face. “So, what, you’ll stay there until you become their kitchen ghost?” He waves his hand dismissively. “You’ve got the manager wrapped around your finger. Meanwhile, I left on my own terms, and you’re still mad at me. You must be happy. Good for you.”

His words hit a nerve. Your expression tightens, and you take a step back, as if you’re ready to walk away again. Minho quickly grabs your elbow, his grip firm but not harsh.

You whirl back to face him, your voice lower now but no less intense. “Even if I left Farfalle and followed you to some new kitchen, do you really think people would accept us? Anywhere we go, they’ll talk. They’ll judge. How uncomfortable would that be for you? And even if you got another job, you know I wouldn’t be able to follow you there.”

Minho’s grip on your arm slackens slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

“The best kitchen for me,” you continue softly, your voice trembling, “isn’t necessarily Farfalle. It’s wherever I can be with you. But wherever you go, I’ll only be a liability. There’s no other place where we can be together. Not like this.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze drops to the floor. “So what?” he mutters.

You meet his eyes, your voice breaking slightly as you say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this had to happen. I’m sorry for everything that happened today.”

Minho studies you in silence, his jaw tight. He knows you’re still upset, still trying to process his absence in the kitchen. But he doesn’t know how to handle you when you’re like this—when your emotions is all over the place and leave him feeling exposed.

He exhales deeply, his voice resigned. “So, what now?”

“I’ll stay,” you say quietly. “In the Farfalle kitchen.”

His chest tightens, but he forces himself to ask, “Even without me?”

You nod, the answer cutting through him like a knife.

You take his hand, your fingers trembling slightly as they curl around his. “Please come back,” you say softly, your voice almost pleading.

For a moment, Minho just stares at you, unable to process the request. After everything he did, after walking away from that kitchen, you’re asking him to go back?

He shakes his head, his voice firm. “No.”

You flinch at the finality in his tone, but before you can say anything else, Minho turns on his heel and walks away, leaving you standing alone in the hallway. His steps echo down the corridor, the weight of his decision settling heavily in the silence.

The crisp morning air brushing against your skin as you ring the doorbell to Minho’s apartment. Your stomach churns, but you steady yourself, knowing what you have to say.

A few moments later, the door swings open, revealing Minho. His hair is messy, and his hoodie hangs loosely on his frame. He lingers in the doorway, his expression unreadable, a hint of frustration flickering in his tired eyes.

He doesn’t say anything at first, so you break the silence. “I’m going to work.”

Minho exhales sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Why don’t you just quit?”

You shake your head firmly, your voice unwavering. “I’m going to work.”

Minho steps forward, out of the doorway, and stops directly in front of you. His tone hardens. “Do you think I quit for no good reason? Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you now? They’re going to make your life miserable. They’ll give you a harder time than ever before. They’ll harass you, push you to your limit, and you won’t be able to handle it alone so just quit now.”

His words weigh heavily in the air, and for a moment, you almost falter. But then you lift your gaze to meet his and offer him a faint, determined smile. “I’ll see you later,” you say softly, before stepping around him and heading toward the elevator.

“Hey!” Minho’s voice rises, sharp and urgent. “I’m telling you to quit!”

You don’t stop, your steps steady as you push the elevator button. The doors slide open, and you step inside, feeling his gaze boring into your back. As the elevator doors close, his voice echoes faintly, but you don’t look back.

The weight in your chest grows heavier, but you clench your fists and remind yourself—this is your choice. You have to keep going.

The restaurant is eerily quiet when you arrive. The clattering of pans, the rush of footsteps, and the sharp bark of instructions are absent, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning to fill the void. You head straight to the locker room, your steps echoing softly against the tiled floor.

Your eyes instinctively dart toward Minho’s locker. You hesitate, then reach out to open it, only to find it completely empty. The sight of the bare, lifeless space sends a pang through your chest. For a long moment, you simply sit on the bench across from it, staring at the void inside.

Your thoughts begin to drift, the quiet settling heavily around you, when the creak of the door breaks through the silence.

Chris’s head pops in, his wide grin instantly breaking through the heaviness. “You’re early,” he says cheerfully as he steps into the room and makes his way over to you.

He plops down on the bench beside you, his relaxed presence somehow comforting. “I was worried that you and Chef would both leave the restaurant,” he admits.

You manage a soft smile at that. “I have to be here,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. “So Chef can come back.”

The room falls silent for a moment, the air between you filled with unspoken understanding. Then, almost hesitantly, you ask, “Chris... is Chef really fired just because he left?”

Chris furrows his brow in thought before answering, “Not necessarily.”

You gasp softly, a flicker of hope igniting in your chest. “So that means Chef isn’t really fired unless you say so?”

Chris nods firmly. “Yes.”

You nod back, turning to face him. “How do you feel about all of this?”

He meets your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Do you want me to be honest,” he asks, “or should I sugarcoat it?”

“Honest,” you reply immediately.

Chris pouts playfully. “You might be disappointed in me if I’m honest.”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “I’d hate it more if you weren’t honest.”

Chris sighs, leaning back slightly. “Alright, then. You obviously know that I like you already, so... it’s a little disadvantageous for me if Chef works with you in the kitchen.”

You scoff lightly, folding your arms. “And what about it?”

Chris continues, his voice sincere. “It’s also true that I was afraid you’d leave the restaurant to be with him somewhere else. I wasn’t sure which would be better yesterday... but seeing you here now, I know it’s better to have both of you here. Whether I like it or not.” He smiles warmly, dimples sinking into his cheeks. “That’s the truth.”

You can’t help but feel a flicker of admiration for his maturity and honesty. “You’re a much better person than I thought, Chris.”

He chuckles shyly, his cheeks tinged pink as he scratches the back of his neck.

Grinning, you tease, “Why did I reject you again?”

Chris’s grin grows, his confidence returning. “It’s not too late for you to change your mind.”

You laugh softly, the tension in your chest easing just a little. Sitting there with Chris, you feel a small piece of the emptiness inside you start to fill. His candid honesty and lightheartedness are something you didn’t know you needed, and for that, you’re quietly grateful.

Minho is about to grind his coffee beans when the sharp chime of the doorbell interrupts the quiet morning. He sighs, muttering under his breath, and drags himself to the door. As he swings it open, he’s greeted by the sight of Felix and Taesoo grinning at him like a pair of mischievous kids caught red-handed.

“What are you two doing here?” Minho asks, raising an eyebrow.

Felix clears his throat dramatically before stepping forward. “Taesoo and I... left work. Starting today,” he announces, his tone oddly proud.

Minho stares at them, dumbfounded. “What?”

Taesoo nods eagerly, backing up Felix’s claim. “We decided if you’re not working at Farfalle anymore, we’re not either.”

Felix adds with a determined gleam in his eyes, “If you decide to work somewhere else, you’re not going alone. You’re taking us with you, Chef.”

For a moment, Minho is speechless, and a flicker of emotion flashes through him—maybe it’s gratitude or surprise—but whatever it is, it’s quickly buried under exasperation.

“Are you both out of your minds?” he snaps, his voice cutting through their grins like a knife.

Felix and Taesoo exchange nervous glances as Minho takes a threatening step forward. “Who’s going to cook in the kitchen today? There’s a double order at the restaurant, and lunch is going to be a madhouse without you two.”

Taesoo stutters, his confidence crumbling. “Uh... should we... go back now?”

Before he can finish, Felix slaps a hand against Taesoo’s chest, trying to maintain their resolve. But Minho is faster, swatting the back of their heads in one swift motion.

“Go back to work. Now,” Minho orders, his voice low but filled with authority.

Felix and Taesoo flinch, scrambling to respond. “Y-Yes, Chef!” they stammer in unison, clearly regretting their bold decision.

Minho doesn’t waste a second, stepping out into the hallway to start pushing them toward the exit. “Hurry up. The restaurant is going to burn down without you idiots.”

Felix, panicking, reaches for the elevator button, but Minho barks, “Take the stairs!”

They freeze for a split second before sprinting toward the emergency stairwell, their footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway.

Minho stands there, arms crossed, watching them scramble out of sight. A sigh escapes him as he rubs the back of his neck. He can’t tell if he should be touched by their loyalty or worried about their recklessness.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “those little brats,” and heads back inside.

The kitchen feels unnervingly empty, the usual hum of voices replaced by an uneasy quiet. Only half the stations are occupied, with Felix and Taesoo noticeably absent. You take a deep breath, trying to focus, but the atmosphere is heavy with tension.

The silence breaks as Seungwan’s voice cuts through the stillness like a knife. “You really are something,” he sneers, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You glance at him briefly but say nothing.

“How can you just stand there like nothing happened when Chef gave up his job for you?” he presses, the jab clearly meant to provoke you.

You keep your focus on your station, ignoring him, but Seungwan doesn’t stop. “This is why women are scarier than men,” he says with a mocking chuckle. “You can’t tell what’s really going on with them just by looking. They’ll smile at you while stabbing you in the back.”

His eyes drift to the empty stations, and he sneers. “And loyalty is a man’s quality. Look at Felix and Taesoo—quitting out of loyalty. But you?” He shakes his head dramatically, as if to say you’re the opposite.

You clench your jaw, trying to stay calm, but the irritation boils over. “Shut it!” you snap, your voice sharp but controlled.

He smirks, unbothered by your tone. “Ooh, how scary,” he mutters mockingly, as if your reaction proves his point.

Before the tension can escalate further, the door to the kitchen swings open, and Sara strides in. Her sharp gaze takes in the scene—the half-empty kitchen and the tense air, then she lets out a heavy sigh.

Her voice snaps everyone to attention as she scans the room. “We’re short-staffed, but we don’t have time to waste. We’ll make do.”

Two service staff step hesitantly into the kitchen behind her, offering their help. Sara immediately takes charge, pointing at them. “You, assist in the kitchen. And you,” she gestures to the other, “stand at the chef’s table and read every order loud and clear. No mistakes.”

The service staff nod quickly, stepping into their new roles.

Sara starts delegating tasks with brisk efficiency. “I’ll take the tomato sauce and triple-flavored pasta orders,” she announces, already rolling up her sleeves. “Hyunwoo, you’re on cream sauce and risotto.”

Hyunwoo nods, moving toward his station.

Sara’s gaze lands on you. “Back to the pasta line. You’ll handle the rest of the pasta orders.”

“Yes, Chef,” you reply without hesitation, stepping toward the pasta station and tying your apron tighter around your waist.

Sara pivots to the sous chef. “Sous chef, you handle all the main dishes.”

“Understood, Chef,” he responds firmly, already prepping his station.

Finally, Sara steps back, her sharp eyes scanning the room as she raises her voice to address everyone. “Listen up! We’re running with half the usual staff but double the orders. No one has time to slack off today. Stay on your toes, work fast, and don’t forget what’s at stake. For the sake of the restaurant, we push through. Clear?”

The team collectively straightens, determination flashing in everyone’s eyes as they shout back in unison, “Yes, Chef!”

The tension in the room shifts, transforming into a focused energy. You grip the edge of your station, steeling yourself for the chaos to come. It’s going to be a grueling day, but as you glance around at the team, you know one thing for sure—no matter what, you’ll endure this. For the restaurant. For Minho. For the chance to see him come back.

The kitchen is quiet now, the chaos of the day finally giving way to the rhythmic sound of mops swiping across the floor. You and the others are scattered across the space, each of you focused on the last task of the night—cleaning up. Sara is busy wiping down the chef's table with meticulous care, her usual sharpness softened after a long day.

The silence is interrupted when one of the service staff walks in, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Does anyone know how to make a ginseng pasta?”

The question catches everyone off guard. Hyunwoo pauses mid-swipe, frowning. “Ginseng pasta? That’s not even on the menu.”

The service staff shrugs. “I know, but some old guy came in and ordered it.”

At the mention of the dish, Sara’s head snaps up. Her eyes widen slightly, and before anyone can react, she bolts out of the kitchen.

Hyunwoo snorts and mutters, “What’s with her? It’s not like we’re about to whip up some off-menu dish now.” He shakes his head and resumes mopping, clearly not interested in whatever just happened.

You stay silent, but your thoughts begin to stir. Ginseng pasta... Something about it feels familiar, like a whisper from the back of your mind.

A few minutes later, Sara returns, her expression unreadable but her steps hurried. “Did the old man leave already?” she asks the service staff.

“Yeah, he left after placing the order,” the staff replies, slightly confused by her urgency.

Sara presses on. “Did he say anything else?”

The service staff nods slowly. “He made a reservation and that he’d be coming back in two days.”

Sara’s reaction is subtle, but you catch it—a flicker of recognition in her eyes, a twitch of her lips like she knows exactly who this man is.

But while Sara’s behavior is curious, your attention is elsewhere. Ginseng pasta. The name keeps tugging at you, teasing the edge of your memory. It’s not just familiar—it’s significant.

Once the cleaning is done, you waste no time. The moment you’re free, you dash to the locker room, your heart pounding with anticipation. You make a beeline for your locker, flipping open the recipe book he gave to you. Your fingers skim through the pages until you find it.

Ginseng Pasta.

There it is, written in Minho’s precise handwriting, the recipe detailed with care. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, as if the missing puzzle piece has just fallen into place.

You stare at the recipe, your mind racing. Who is this old man, and why does he know about this dish? And more importantly, why does this feel like a thread that could lead you back to Minho?

You don’t have the answers yet, but one thing is clear—you have to try this recipe.

As you're enjoying your cup of morning coffee, you sit at your kitchen counter with Minho's recipe book sprawled open in front of you, its pages filled with his neat handwriting and meticulous notes. You've spent hours studying the ginseng pasta recipe, committing every detail to memory, but his words from before linger in your mind: "All the recipes in that notebook are failures."

You chew on the inside of your cheek, staring at the list of ingredients. Was he telling the truth, or was that just Minho being his usual, enigmatic self? The doubt gnaws at you until you can’t resist anymore.

Grabbing your phone, you scroll to his number and hit call. The line rings once. Twice.

“What do you want?” Minho’s annoyed voice greets you as soon as he picks up, skipping any pleasantries.

Straight to the point, you ask, “Are you good at making ginseng pasta? And if I follow the recipe in your notebook, will I really fail?”

There’s a pause, followed by an exasperated sigh. “If you don’t believe me, just try it out and see for yourself,” he snaps.

You can’t help but smirk a little. “You have so much free time now. Can’t you just tell me instead?”

Silence follows, but you hear faint background noise—the hum of traffic. Your brows furrow, and you ask, “Are you driving? Where are you going?”

Minho doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he takes a jab at you. “You’re awfully curious for someone still working at the place where your boyfriend quit his job for you.”

You roll your eyes, choosing to ignore his sharp words. “So... are there any successful recipes in the notebook or not?”

His tone sharpens. “Why should I tell you that?”

“Chef—” you start, but before you can finish, he cuts you off.

“I’m hanging up now,” he says curtly, and the line goes dead before you can argue.

You stare at your phone, frustrated, before looking back at the recipe in the book. The question remains: Is this really a failure?

And if it is, you wonder to yourself, Can I make it a success?

Minho steps into the luxurious suite, unsurprised to find Sara already sitting on the couch, her posture unnervingly calm as always. However, his attention shifts to the older man standing by the window, sipping espresso from a delicate porcelain cup. Chef Rossi—the man Minho once idolized during culinary school—is a name that carries weight in the culinary world. His presence here, however, is a mystery.

Minho shrugs off his coat, folding it in a quick, habitual motion before tossing it onto the armrest of the sofa. He takes a seat across from Rossi and, without preamble, asks, "So, what brings you here? Finally missed your students?"

Rossi snorts, setting his cup down with an audible clink. "Missed you? Hardly. I was asked to be the head judge for the New Chef Culinary Challenge."

Minho smirks. "Judging new chefs? Shouldn’t they have called someone young and fresh, not an old fart like you? This competition is doomed from the start."

Rossi’s expression hardens, his sharp glare cutting through Minho’s teasing. “And yet, it’s not you sitting in that chair as a judge, is it? Because you're not competent, someone else have already taken your spot.”

Minho opens his mouth to retort, but Rossi turns sharply toward Sara, who has been uncharacteristically quiet. “I saw your name on the list of judges,” he says. His voice carries an edge that immediately shifts the atmosphere in the room. “Let me ask you one thing. Do you think you have the right to judge others?”

Sara meets his gaze with wide, innocent eyes. Her voice is soft but steady. “I know the mistake I made was a huge one, Chef Rossi. It’s the biggest mistake a chef could ever make. I’ve spent the last few years living with regret and trying to atone—for you and for Minho.”

Rossi sneers. “And you expect me to believe that? That you’ve changed?”

Sara doesn’t flinch. “I don’t expect you to believe it. But I’ll continue proving it until you do.”

Rossi’s attention flickers back to Minho, his tone cutting as he says, “I heard you two were working together again. I thought that meant you’d patched things up. But I come here only to find out she’s kicked you out of your own kitchen.”

Minho bristles, leaning forward defensively. “That’s not what happened! I dug my own grave this time.”

Rossi shakes his head, his disappointment palpable. “I don’t understand what the two of you are doing, but at least show me you’re capable of cooking better than before.” His voice sharpens. “Two days from now, I expect to try your ginseng pasta. Both of you.”

Minho groans, leaning back into the couch. “You came all the way here just to check on my pasta? Forget it. I’m not making it.”

Rossi raises an eyebrow. “And why not?”

Minho shrugs, his tone laced with defiance. “It’s not like you’re still my teacher. And it’s not like you’d give me a good grade even if I did.”

Rossi hisses in frustration, his disbelief evident in his narrowed eyes.

Before the tension can escalate, Sara stands, smoothing her skirt with careful precision. “It would be an honor to cook for you, Chef Rossi,” she says politely. “But I need to get back to the restaurant.” She glances briefly at Minho before adding, “Excuse me.”

Minho watches her leave, the door clicking shut behind her. Rossi turns back to him, crossing his arms. “And what about you? Anything else to do?”

Minho chuckles darkly. “Not really. I’m out of a job, remember?”

Rossi glares at him but says nothing.

After a beat of silence, Minho leans forward, smirking. “Did you at least bring some good wine with you?”

Rossi scoffs, his annoyance spilling over. “What wine? There's nothing for you.”

Minho shrugs, feigning indifference, but the weight of Rossi’s presence lingers, heavier than ever.

The bottle of red wine sits between them, its deep crimson liquid catching the soft afternoon light. Chef Rossi fills Minho’s glass with the precision of a man who’s done this countless times before, his face betraying no emotion. Beside the wine, a freshly delivered charcuterie board waits on the table, its array of cured meats, cheeses, and olives a casual yet decadent offering.

Rossi snorts, pouring himself a glass. “Now, tell me the truth—Sara didn’t kick you out?”

Minho shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “She didn’t kick me out.”

Rossi narrows his eyes, skeptical. “Then what? Is it because your temper? You only pick up my bad habits.”

Minho’s smirk falters, and he takes a long sip of his wine to buy himself time. The truth sits heavy in his chest, a confession he’s not eager to make. But Rossi’s piercing gaze leaves no room for escape.

With a sigh, Minho sets his glass down and straightens in his seat. “It wasn’t my temper.” He hesitates, his fingers drumming against the table. “It’s because... I told everyone in the kitchen—no romance. Fired someone for it, too. Then I went and broke my own rule. I fell in love.”

Rossi clicks his tongue, the sound sharp and disapproving. “Come here!” He gestures for Minho to lean closer.

Minho groans, sinking back in his chair. “Come on. I’m older now. Do you really have to—”

Rossi cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Closer.”

With a resigned sigh, Minho leans forward, his head tilted slightly. Rossi wastes no time grabbing a handful of his hair, tugging hard.

“How could you be so foolish?” Rossi scolds, his voice low and biting. “You sure are a person of principle. How can you fall in love again after all you went through?”

“Alright, alright!” Minho winces, his hands darting up to shield his head as Rossi lands a firm slap on the back of it.

Rossi isn’t done. “You were burned so badly before that you’ve clearly lost all sense of judgment. Falling in love again? In the kitchen, no less?” Another slap follows, and Minho jerks back with a glare.

“Will you stop hitting me?” Minho protests, rubbing the sore spot. “And for your information, this time it’s different. She’s... she’s a good one.”

Rossi scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “You say that now. Let’s see how long it lasts.”

The tension eases as Rossi picks up his glass again, taking a measured sip. After a moment of silence, he speaks. “Paolo called me when he heard I was coming here.”

Minho perks up, his brows knitting together in curiosity. “Paolo?”

Rossi nods. “He wants you in his restaurant. Said he’d take you in a heartbeat.”

Minho blinks, the words taking a moment to sink in. “Wait... me? Paolo actually wants me?”

Rossi rolls his eyes. “Don’t act so surprised. People know what happened between you and Sara, but they also know you’re one of the best. Paolo included.”

Minho leans back, a slow smile spreading across his face. The idea of working in Paolo’s restaurant—the dream he’d chased for so long—fills him with a surge of excitement. But just as quickly, doubt creeps in.

“Should I go, though?” Minho murmurs, his voice quieter now. “I mean, I really want to work there, but...”

Rossi sets his glass down, his expression turning serious. “This is why I came here. To bring you back. If all you’re doing here is fooling around, wasting your time, then come home. You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone anymore.”

Minho rubs the sore spot on his head, muttering under his breath. “Still hurts, you know. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“And you haven’t grown any wiser,” Rossi retorts, though his tone is lighter now.

Minho chuckles, but his thoughts are far from carefree. The offer is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s worked for. Yet, as much as he wants to say yes, there’s something—or someone—keeping him from making the decision.

The plate of ginseng pasta feels heavier in your hands as you stand outside Minho’s door. The soft glow of the hallway lights casts a gentle sheen on the sauce, the deep red of the Barolo wine clinging to the strands of pasta. You shift your weight, anticipation curling in your chest as you ring the doorbell.

A moment later, the door swings open. Minho stands there, his sharp eyes scanning you before flickering down to the plate in your hands. His expression is unreadable.

“Can you taste this for me, Chef?” you ask, offering him a small, hopeful smile.

He exhales through his nose—half sigh, half amusement—before stepping aside and opening the door wider. Without a word, he lets you in.

You set the plate down on his dining table and take the seat next to him, watching as he picks up a fork. He glances at you before digging in, as if gauging your reaction. You nod encouragingly, the corners of your lips lifting in anticipation.

Minho lets out a low sigh and twirls the pasta around his fork, taking a bite. You study his face intently, searching for any sign of approval. Instead, his hand reaches for your head. He gives it a gentle pat, just for a second—before flicking you on the forehead.

“Ow!” You wince, rubbing the sore spot.

“It’s bitter,” he states flatly, setting his fork down. His sharp gaze lands on you, unimpressed. “I told you already—every recipe in that book was a failure, yet you still went ahead and made it the same way.”

You pout, still massaging your forehead. “You said one or two of them might’ve been good. I thought this could be the one.”

Minho scoffs. “Not a single recipe in that book was a success.”

You purse your lips, feigning innocence. “Then… can you tell me how to fix the bitterness, Chef?”

Minho doesn’t answer. Instead, he gestures for you to come closer. You hesitate, wary, but obey—only for him to flick your forehead again.

“Ow!” you yelp, jerking back.

“Figure it out yourself,” he scolds, turning his chair toward you. His gaze sharpens as he leans in slightly. “And while we’re at it—you made me jobless. The least you could do is spend time with me, but all you ever do is work.”

You blink at him. “How long are you planning to stay out of work?”

Minho scoffs. “It’s only been a day. One single day. You can't even stand to see me play for one day?”

Before you can respond, he takes your hands and pulls you onto his lap, making you straddle him. Your breath catches as he cups your jaw, bringing your face close. His lips brush yours—just barely—before he presses in, slow but firm, sending a shiver down your spine. The weight of the day melts away, replaced by the warmth of his kiss.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, matching his eagerness, letting the kiss linger longer than intended. You don’t want to pull away—you’ve missed him too much—but a thought flickers through your mind, forcing you to break the kiss.

You pull back slightly, looking down at him. “Where did you go today?”

Minho hums, trying to close the distance again. “Met a friend.”

You place a hand against his chest, stopping him. “What friend?” There’s a slight edge of jealousy in your tone.

Minho shrugs. “Just an old friend.”

He leans in again, but this time, he doesn’t let you stop him. His lips crash onto yours, deeper, harder, stealing your breath. His teeth graze your lower lip before his hands start to wander—one slipping beneath your shirt, fingertips skimming the skin of your back, the other gently squeezing your thigh. The sensation sends a rush through you, a heat blooming beneath your skin.

Just as you think you might get lost in him, he finally pulls away, leaving you gasping for air. But he’s not done—his lips trail down your jaw, then your neck, pressing hot, lingering kisses against your skin. A giggle escapes you, breathy and unintentional.

Minho smirks against your skin before moving to your ear. He nips at the shell lightly, making you yelp in surprise. You push at his chest, but he leans back in his chair, smug satisfaction written all over his face.

Tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, he softens just slightly. “How was your day?”

Your smile falters. The weight of the kitchen, the tension in the air, the way everyone whispered behind your back—it all rushes back in.

Minho notices immediately. His brows pull together. “Why aren’t you answering me?”

You exhale, finally admitting, “It felt like walking on glass.” You tell him about Felix and Taesoo leaving, how the remaining staff scrambled to keep the kitchen afloat.

Minho scoffs. “They deserved it.”

You grumble, “And on top of everything, the staff won’t stop gossiping about me.”

Minho’s expression darkens. “And you still want to stay there?”

You shoot him a look. “Why don’t you come back?”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You need to quit.”

Your eyes widen. “If I leave, will you come back?”

Minho’s gaze is steady as he cups your face. “It’s either both of us, or nothing. I don’t want us to be separated.”

You groan, dropping your forehead against his shoulder. His hand comes up to gently cradle the nape of your neck, his thumb stroking your skin.

Then, he murmurs, “I’ll teach you how to make all my recipes the right way… if you leave the restaurant.”

Your head snaps up. You pout. “What kind of teacher makes their student quit?”

Minho glares. “It’s an order. Leave the restaurant.”

You stare at him, stunned. You thought—maybe—just maybe, he’d understand. That he’d come back. But no. Instead of giving you what you wanted, he’s making you walk away from everything you’ve worked for.

Frustration bubbles up inside you. Without another word, you slide off his lap and take a step back.

Minho watches you, expression unreadable. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You keep glaring at him in silence, turning toward the door.

“Hey.” His voice sharpens. “Where are you going?”

You don’t answer.

“Why aren’t you listening to me?” he snaps.

But you keep walking. Out the door. Away from him.

To avoid the eyes and the whisperings from everyone in the restaurant, you spend most of your time in the locker room. You sit on the small couch, your phone balanced on your knee as you scroll through Minho’s notebook, your other hand flipping between tabs on your screen.

The bitterness of ginseng. The right technique to mellow it out. Your head is buried deep in research, cross-referencing techniques from chefs who have tackled the same problem, when something catches your eye—an article about Sara.

Your finger hovers over the link, but before you can tap it, the door swings open, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.

The entrée line.

You stay quiet, instinctively keeping your head low as Hyunwoo’s voice cuts through the air. “Have you heard? About the New Chef Culinary Challenge?”

Seungwan lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Of course! And guess what? Sara’s going to be one of the judges. Can you believe how lucky we are?”

You glance up from your phone, eyes narrowing slightly. New Chef Culinary Challenge? You quickly type the name into the search bar, skimming the details as they continue talking.

A competition for rising chefs. The winning team gets a sponsorship to study at a culinary school in Italy.

The door swings open again. This time, it’s Seojun, the sous-chef. His face looks strained, his usual confidence missing. Hyunwoo notices immediately. “What’s going on sous-chef? You look like you've just heard bad news.”

Seojun exhales heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know if it’s true, but there’s a rumor going around about Chef Sara.”

That gets everyone’s attention. Even you, though you keep your expression neutral as you listen.

“She cheated.” Seojun leans against the lockers, lowering his voice slightly. “Apparently, back when she was competing in a contest, she tricked her rival so she could win the grand prize in Italy.”

Hyunwoo and Seungwan gasp dramatically. “What? That can't be!”

Seojun presses his lips into a thin line before adding, “And the rival was Lee Minho.”

Silence.

For a second, no one speaks. The weight of his words hangs thick in the air. Even Hyunwoo and Seungwan, always quick with a reaction, seem stunned.

Seungwan groans. “You’re kidding me. That means we have no one to be our managing chef for the challenge.”

From your corner, you barely breathe.

So, this is how it finally comes to light.

The whispers, the rumors, the betrayal Minho never talks about—all of it, spilling out right here in this locker room. You wonder if it stings for him, knowing that the truth is only coming out now, years too late. If it would even matter to him.

But for you, it does.

The café is warm, the scent of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries lingering in the air, but Minho barely registers it. His gaze sweeps across the room, and it doesn't take long to spot Chris. Even in a place filled with businessmen and professionals, Chris stands out—his sharp suit pristine, his posture straight, his pale skin contrasting starkly against the dim lighting.

Minho clicks his tongue. If it weren’t for work, I wouldn’t be here, looking at his annoying face.

Still, he strides over, pulling out the chair opposite Chris before dropping into it with a lazy slouch. Chris doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“What happened with you and Sara in Italy?”

Minho stills for a split second. So, everyone knows now. It was only a matter of time before the past caught up with him.

He leans back, playing it coy. “And here I thought you were just here to persuade your runaway chef to come back.”

Chris doesn’t rise to the bait. His expression remains unreadable as he calmly asks, “Then why don’t you come back, Chef?”

Minho quirks a brow, tilting his head. “What if I do?”

Chris’s lips press into a firm line, unimpressed. “Come back to work, Chef.”

A scoff leaves Minho’s lips. He crosses his arms, legs stretching out under the table. “And if I do, does that mean I can date all I want in the kitchen?”

Chris’s jaw tightens ever so slightly, and Minho smirks. Got him.

But Chris recovers quickly, exhaling through his nose before speaking in a calm, steady tone. “Whether you start a war or a fight in the kitchen, that’s up to you. But come back.” His voice is unwavering now. “Help Sara.”

Minho’s smirk fades and for the first time, he sees it—Chris isn't demanding, isn't ordering. He’s genuinely asking.

“I’m not a chef,” Chris continues, his voice quieter but firm. “I can only do so much in the kitchen and I can’t stand by and watch the quality of food drop every day.”

Minho doesn’t respond. He watches as Chris straightens his shoulders, his expression turning serious.

“You know if you quit like this, you’re breaking our contract.”

Silence stretches between them.

Their eyes lock, neither willing to back down. The air between them is thick with unspoken words, an unyielding battle of wills.

Minho exhales slowly, fingers tapping against the table, debating if this is really the time to not be selfish.

The kitchen is empty, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system and the soft bubbling of milk in your pots. Everyone else has gone home, but you're still here, determined to perfect the celeriac purée Sara requested.

Not that you had much choice—Seungwan conveniently "forgot" his promise to teach you, leaving you to figure it out on your own.

You're stirring two pots at once, carefully keeping the milk from burning, when footsteps echo through the quiet space. You glance up to see Chris entering the kitchen, his sharp eyes scanning the room before landing on you.

“Do you need help?” he asks.

You let out a breath of relief, nodding. “Yeah, can you stir this one for me.”

Chris shrugs off his suit jacket, folding it neatly before placing it on the chef’s table and then he rolls the sleeves of his dark shirt to his elbows, exposing the evident veins on his arms.

The sight makes you raise an eyebrow. “Is it really okay to make the manager work?” you ask.

Chris waves off your concern, taking the spatula from your hand and beginning to stir. “If it means you won’t burn down the kitchen, then yes.”

You roll your eyes but focus on your task. The rhythm of stirring is almost calming, but then—

“The milk’s all gone,” Chris announces, peering into his pot. “Should I turn off the stove now?”

Your head snaps up. “No—wait—” You rush to grab the spatula from him, stirring both pots in a frantic attempt to salvage them. “Get more milk from the fridge, now!”

Chris blinks at the urgency but moves quickly, returning with a carton of cold milk. You nod at his efficiency. “Pour it in, slowly.”

As he does, the pot hisses upon contact, steam curling into the air. Chris watches as he continues stirring, then asks, “Why not just add more milk from the start?”

You shoot him a look while your hand stirring the pot non-stop. “You trying to make soup?”

Chris huffs but follows your instructions. The two of you stir in silence for a while until you sigh, voicing your frustration. “I don’t get it. Seungwan’s celeriac purée tasted sweeter, but mine always comes out bitter. And he won’t tell me why.”

Chris stops stirring to look at you, his expression incredulous. “He won’t share, even though you work together?”

You nod and pout as he mutters, “That’s mean.”

His deadpan comment makes you smile, the tension in your shoulders easing. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

You hand him a wooden spatula. “Mash the celeriac up,” you instruct.

Chris follows without protest, pressing down with ease until the softened celeriac turns into a smooth paste, blending with the milk. You do the same, then take a taste.

Your shoulders slump. Still bitter.

Chris tastes his and frowns. “Mine’s sweet.”

You scoff. “Yeah, sure. Like I trust your taste buds.”

Chris gestures to his pot, offering his spatula. “I swear, it's good. Try it.”

Skeptical, you dip your pinky finger into his purée and bring it to your tongue. Your eyes widen. It really is sweet.

You gasp, looking between both pots, baffled. “How—?”

Chris frowns, echoing your thoughts. “We used the same ingredients and method. How come one’s sweeter than the other?”

Your mind races, retracing every step. And then—it clicks.

“The milk,” you blurt out.

Chris tilts his head. “What about it?”

Excitement surges through you like you've discovered a divinie revelation. “Mine used room-temperature milk. Yours was cold from the fridge.”

Understanding dawns in his expression, but before he can say anything, you jump on your feet, triumphant. “I finally found the secret formula!”

Chris laughs, watching your excitement with amusement. “I’d like to remind you that I played a big role in this discovery.”

Still grinning, you turn to him and, in a rush of happiness, throw your arms around him in a quick hug. Chris stiffens for a second before relaxing.

Pulling back, you look him in the eyes and say, “Thank you.”

And you have so many things you're thankful for—Chris’s presence, his unwavering support and how he genuinely cares for you despite knowing that you only can reciprocate his feelings with a sincere gratitude, so you say it again, “Thank you, Chris.”

For once, Chris doesn’t have a witty comeback. He just nods, a small smile tugging at his lips.

The moment the doorbell rings, Minho knows it’s you.

There’s something about the way you knock or ring, like you’re trying to suppress excitement but failing miserably. With a sigh and a faint smirk, he opens the door. And there you are—standing with another plate of ginseng pasta, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Can you taste it for me, chef?” you ask sweetly, holding the plate out like an offering.

Minho studies you for a second before stepping aside. “Come in.”

You set the plate on the table in the living room, settling onto the sofa. Minho joins you, stretching out comfortably before casting you a sideways glance. “Just so you know, I’m going to be busy starting tomorrow,” he says. “No more time to play with you.”

You blink at him, surprised. “Did you get a new job, Chef? Where?”

Minho leans back, feigning nonchalance. “That’s a secret.” He picks up the fork, twirling it between his fingers before adding, “I might go back to Italy.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he looks at you and asks, “Do you want to come with me?”

Without missing a beat, you reply, “I can’t.”

Minho’s hand stills. He hadn’t even taken a bite yet, but suddenly, he’s lost his appetite. He glares at you. “Why not?”

You pout and meekly answer, “I have my job... my dad.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “But you have me,” he counters, his tone sharp. “You really don’t want to come?”

You hesitate, then quietly say, “I’d rather learn from you in the kitchen.”

Minho scoffs and persists. “I'm going and you can go ahead and bury your bones in Farfalle.”

You huff in frustration, crossing your arms. Silence stretches between you both, heavy and unyielding. After a moment, you break it with a question.

“…Does that mean we’re breaking up?”

Minho’s grip on the fork tightens. “You said you don’t want to come,” he snaps, exhaling sharply. He shakes his head. “You’re not willing to give up anything for me.”

You bristle at that. “How can you leave in the middle of a relationship?”

Something in Minho cracks. He lets out a humorless laugh. “Do you even have a right to say that?”

You flinch. Minho’s voice drops lower, rough with frustration. “You don’t want to quit with me. You don’t want to come with me. Then what do you want to do with me?”

Your silence only fuels his irritation. He lets out another sigh, running a hand through his hair. Maybe he’s approaching this wrong. He scoots closer, voice softer now.

“Convince me not to go then,” he says, watching you carefully.

Still, nothing.

Minho isn’t good at being gentle. He doesn’t have the patience for quiet battles. With a small sigh, he reaches out, patting your head endearingly. “I’m scared to go anywhere because of you,” he mutters, then nudges your knee playfully. “Come on, say it. Don’t go, chef.”

But you don’t say anything.

Instead, you stand. Minho watches as you move toward the door, something unreadable in your expression. His stomach twists.

“Why are you leaving?” he calls after you, scoffing when you don’t answer. You just keep walking, the door clicking shut behind you.

Minho leans back, exhaling sharply. He just doesn’t get you sometimes. It’s like everything he does is wrong to you.

Frustrated, he stabs his fork into the pasta, twirling it aggressively before shoving a bite into his mouth.

And then—he stops.

The bitterness is gone. The ginseng pasta actually tastes good.

Minho blinks, chewing slowly. He takes another bite, testing it. A huff of laughter escapes him. You did it. You figured it out.

Without realizing it, he’s smiling. Pride flickers in his chest as he takes another forkful. Maybe he still doesn’t understand you. But at least one thing is clear—you’re a damn good chef.

The kitchen hums with energy, the usual pre-dinner service rush thick in the air. Pots clang, knives chop, and the scent of simmering sauces lingers in the air. But tonight, something feels different.

Two hours before service, Chef Sara is at her station, preparing a special pasta dish. You’ve noticed the extra care she’s putting into it—more than usual. The curiosity gnaws at you, especially when you hear whispers from the service staff about the customer who requested it. He asked for Chef Sara, and only Chef Sara.

You slip out of the kitchen, making your way up the stairs to the second-floor balcony, where you can get a good look at the dining room below. Peering over the railing, your breath catches in your throat.

Chef Rossi.

The shock almost makes you gasp. What is he doing here?

Even from a distance, you recognize him immediately—the sharp, assessing eyes, the air of authority he carries like a second skin. He was one of the most respected instructors at your culinary school, a man whose approval was both feared and revered. More than that, he was Minho and Sara’s mentor, taking them under his wing like prized protégés. Seeing him now, it’s impossible not to notice just how much Minho has taken after him.

Your back straightens as Sara herself enters the dining room, carrying a plate of pasta. The service staff stand nearby, watching just as intently as you are. Even Chris is among them, his usual casual demeanor replaced with quiet observation.

Sara sets the plate in front of Chef Rossi. He looks at the dish. Then at her. Silence stretches between them.

And then—his voice explodes through the restaurant. “I ordered two plates of pasta, not one.”

The words lash through the room, sharp and unforgiving.

“Are you incapable of delivering an order placed not one, but two days ago? Is this the best you can do?”

Chef Rossi lifts the plate. For a second, you think—no, he wouldn’t—But he does.

He drops it. The ceramic shatters against the floor, the carefully plated pasta scattering in a mess of sauce and noodles. A sharp breath hisses through the room.

“I will only taste it when you bring me two plates,” Chef Rossi declares.

Sara stands still, her face unreadable. Then, she nods—just slightly—before turning and walking away. The moment she’s out of sight, she breaks into a run and heads towards the chef’s office.

You don’t wait to see what happens next. If you linger any longer, Chef Rossi might spot you, and the last thing you need is a scolding from him. You hurry back to the kitchen, gripping your knife and focusing on your station.

But then—

Sara bursts in, slightly out of breath. “Can you please make Chef Lee’s ginseng pasta?”

The kitchen falls silent. Every pair of eyes turns toward you while you freeze in place.

You blink at her, as if making sure you heard correctly. “You… want me to make Chef Lee’s ginseng pasta?”

Sara nods and your first thought is Minho. It has to be him. He must have told her to prepare it in his place.

You exhale. Well, if this is the only way to deal with Chef Rossi, so be it. Also, you'd feel bad for Sara if you refused. You reach for a pan, your fingers tightening around the handle. Beside you, Sara moves back to her station, already preparing the second dish.

Still— You can’t help but wonder. Why did Minho ask for me to cook it instead of him?

Chef Sara strides ahead, her presence composed as ever, while you follow closely behind, carefully balancing your plate of ginseng pasta in both hands. The nerves settle low in your stomach, a quiet anxiety growing with each step. It’s not just about presenting the dish—it’s about who is sitting at the table.

Chef Rossi.

Even back in culinary school, his name carried weight. He was a man whose approval was both terrifying and rewarding, and now, here you are, about to serve him your dish. You’ve seen how he treats failures. You remember how Minho looked up to him. And now you’re about to face him, carrying a plate of Minho’s recipe—except, it isn’t quite Minho’s anymore.

Sara reaches the table first, setting down her dish with practiced ease. You follow suit, carefully placing your plate beside hers before taking a hurried step back, as if distance might shield you from whatever sharp words Chef Rossi has in store.

It doesn’t work. His eyes flick to you, narrowing slightly. “Do I know you?”

You freeze. Slowly, you lift your head, forcing a polite, practiced smile onto your face. “It’s nice to meet you again, Chef Rossi.”

His gaze sharpens. Then— He hisses.

“You,” he says, unimpressed. “Are you still slacking off like you did back in culinary school?”

Your smile stiffens. Right. You expected this. Before you can answer, Chef Rossi hisses again, his eyes narrowing even further. “And you—are you the one dating Minho?”

You swallow hard. There’s no good way to answer that, so you just nod meekly.

Thankfully, he moves on. Chef Rossi picks up his fork and digs into Sara’s pasta first. The moment the bite touches his tongue, you see his expression shift, just slightly—a small nod of acknowledgment.

“I see you’ve done more tests,” he comments.

Sara lifts her chin. “Back in Italy, I used to blanch the ginseng in water to remove the bitterness,” she eloquently explains the process. “But I found that baking it in the oven with a potato keeps the nutrients while reducing the bitter taste.”

Chef Rossi nods, clearly pleased. “That’s just what I expected from you.” He places the fork down, voice firm. “Your pasta is the best as usual.”

Sara remains composed, accepting the praise with grace. Then, Chef Rossi turns to your plate.

You suck in a breath as he picks up his fork again. Watches as he twirls the pasta. As he takes a bite.

There’s a pause. Then—surprise flashes across his face.

“Whose recipe is this?” he asks.

Your fingers twitch. “It’s Chef Lee’s recipe.”

Chef Rossi’s eyes narrow. “All of it?”

You hesitate—then quickly shake your head. “I changed something.”

Chef Rossi leans forward slightly. “What is it?”

Your voice feels small under his scrutiny, but you force yourself to answer. “When I followed Chef Lee’s recipe, the bitter taste of the ginseng threw off the balance. So I tried blanching the ginseng in milk instead.” You glance at Sara. “It softened the bitterness and turned it into sweetness.”

Sara’s brows shoot up. “You used the good wine and the bitterness was still there?”

You nod. “I thought the Barolo wine would do the trick, but it didn’t fully remove the bitterness.”

Sara’s face drops. A muttered, quiet realization: “So it wasn’t the wine…”

You hesitate and clasp your hands together in front of you. “Chef Lee told me it was a failed recipe, so I changed it a little.”

For the first time, Sara’s expression cracks. She turns to Chef Rossi, her eyes wide. “You always knew, didn’t you?”

Chef Rossi doesn’t look surprised by the question. He meets her gaze evenly. “You didn’t need to ruin Minho’s wine to win,” he states, matter-of-fact. “Because his recipe was never complete to begin with.”

The weight of his words settles over the table. Chef Rossi continues, voice firm. “Even if Minho had used the best wine, his method back then was incomplete.” He pauses. Then, the final blow: “You didn’t ruin Minho. You ruined yourself.”

Sara visibly stiffens. Her fingers curl into her apron, gripping so tightly her knuckles turn white. A long silence follows. Then—softly, almost brokenly—she mutters, “I’m so sorry, Chef.”

She turns and walks away. Chris makes a move to stop her, but she doesn’t look back. She keeps walking—out of the dining hall, out of sight.

You exhale, the tension in your shoulders lingering. This should feel like a victory, but the weight of the truth—the way it broke Sara—leaves a strange bitterness in your chest.

Before you can dwell on it, Chef Rossi’s voice pulls you back. He calls your name. Almost the same way Minho does. Then, he lifts a hand and points a finger straight at you.

“How dare you change your chef’s recipe?”

“I—I’m sorry, Chef,” you mutter, looking down.

Chef Rossi clicks his tongue. “If you want to be great, keep changing recipes.” His eyes glint, voice sharp. “And keep changing them again. And again.”

Your head snaps up and for a second, you almost—almost—laugh. But you manage to hold it back, straightening instead.

“Yes, Chef.”

Chef Rossi huffs. “And stop slacking off.”

You snap a quick, “Yes, Chef.”

As he leans back in his chair, you finally allow yourself a small breath. This feels like a triumph. But remembering what the truth did to Sara— You can’t help but feel bittersweet.

Minho has been waiting for this.

He’s been expecting the sound of the doorbell, anticipating it for a while now. And when it finally rings, a slow smile tugs at his lips.

There you are.

He takes his time walking toward the door, savoring the moment, letting the anticipation settle just a little longer before he finally opens it.

And there you stand, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hi, Chef,” you greet, eyes shining, excitement practically radiating off of you.

Minho’s heart does a little leap—annoyingly so—but he keeps his expression coy, lingering in the doorway. “I’m guessing you met the old man today,” he says, tilting his head.

Your enthusiasm is instant—you nod eagerly. “You denied it, but you were exactly like Chef Rossi.”

Minho scoffs, face contorting in denial. “How am I like him?” He crosses his arms, lips twitching. “I’m way better than Chef Rossi. At least by a bit.”

Your grin grows wider at that, amused. You take a step closer. “Chef Rossi was waiting for you to come. But why did you make me cook your ginseng pasta instead?” you ask, tilting your head at him.

This time, Minho moves aside, letting the door close behind him. He stands in front of you, his gaze steady, before he simply states—

“The ginseng pasta doesn’t belong to Chef Lee Minho anymore. It belongs to you.”

He watches as realization dawns on your face. Before you can speak, he continues, voice even, certain.

“My recipe was a failure. Yours came out a success.” He leans in just slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. “So now, it’s yours.”

For a moment, you just stare at him, as if processing his words. Then— Your smile grows impossibly wide, beaming with pure joy. And Minho’s heart tightens in the best way.

He exhales, playing it off with a smirk. “You’re a little bit better than me at making ginseng pasta.”

You raise a brow. “Just a little?”

Minho grins, shrugging. “Yeah. Just a little.”

You laugh, the sound bursting out of you—bright, unfiltered, happiness etched across your face. It’s contagious, and Minho finds himself laughing along with you, warmth settling deep in his chest.

Then, he asks, “Are you happy?”

You nod eagerly. Then, without warning, you surge forward, throwing your arms around him and kissing him.

Minho barely has time to register the softness of your lips before you pull away again, giggling against him. But he’s not done with you yet.

His hands find your waist, pulling you back in, and this time, he leans in—slowly, deliberately—capturing your lips in a kiss that lingers, deep and unspoken, conveying everything he feels for you.

Pride. Happiness. You.

Stepping into Minho’s apartment, the door barely clicks shut before his hands are on you, pulling you in for a kiss. It starts slow—teasing, exploring—but quickly deepens, growing hot and desperate as his fingers tighten on your waist. You press into him, hands tangling in his hair, and he groans softly against your lips, his body already thrumming with heat.

Without breaking the kiss, Minho’s hands slide down to your thighs, gripping firmly before hoisting you up against him. Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the strength in his hold as he carries you toward the bedroom. His lips never leave yours, only pausing for a second to murmur, “I’ve got you,” before reclaiming your mouth with a hunger that sends a shiver through you.

The world blurs until your back meets the bed, and Minho looms over you, his dark eyes searching yours as his hands begin their slow, deliberate exploration of your body. His mouth follows, tracing heated kisses down your neck, along your collarbone, leaving you breathless beneath him.

Your warmth envelopes him as he holds you close, planting kisses on every inch of skin he can land his lips on. He drags his mouth lower, going to the warmest part of you and you lowly gasp the second he makes contact with your heating core. Using his thumb, he teases your clit, rubbing it in circular motions, he’s doing it gently but it's enough to make you squirm under him.

As if that isn't enough, he replaces his thumb with his tongue next, slick and hot against your sensitive spot, making you arching your back, asking for more. He gives it to you by taking all of you in his mouth, sucking, licking, drinking in your essence that slowly intoxicating him.

Minho lets go and with his hands on your hips, he's maneuvering you to turn over on the bed, lying on your stomach. You slightly jutting your rear up in the air, allowing him to reach between your legs and touches you there, making you drenched.

One cheek pressed against the pillow while your hands gripping the sheet as you moan, enjoying the way his fingers pumping in and out of you, searching for that spot that makes you—

“Oh!” You loudly moan and it's echoing in the dark room.

As you stay laying on the bed on your stomach, you hear Minho shifting on the bed and soon, you feel the heat his body radiates as he hovers above you. His hand grips the nape of your neck before gliding it down your spine and then shifts to the side, gripping you by the waist as he positioning himself.

His cock, stiff and hot, poking the back of your thigh before he aligns it towards your entrance. As he enters you, you arch your back and jutting your ass higher in the air for him. You're moaning into the pillow as you're taking more and more of him until he's fully buried inside you.

Minho drops his head into the crook of your neck, spilling out a raw groan and he stays like that, giving each other a moment to adjust. He presses his mouth close to your ear and murmurs, “How are you always this good, mmh?”

You look over your shoulder at him and smile, but he captures your lips in a haste kiss that takes all of your breath away. You gasp for air when he lets go but it's not enough, it will never be enough.

You pull him by the neck and bring his head close, this time you kiss him, letting all of your feelings pouring out of you and into the kiss, as if committing this moment to memory.

When Minho finally starts thrusting you from behind, his hands mapping every curve of your body, he brushes your hair aside, exposing the bare skin of your shoulder. His lips find the spot just below your ear, pressing soft, lingering kisses before trailing lower. One of his hands slides upward, wrapping gently around your throat—not to restrain, but to guide. He tilts your head back, angling it just enough so he can claim your lips again, this time deep and consuming.

When he finally pulls away, his dark eyes meet yours, clouded with heat. His thumb brushes over your pulse point as he murmurs, “Harder?” His voice is low, full of restrained intensity.

You swallow, breath uneven, before shaking your head slightly. Instead, you place your hand over his, squeezing gently. Your gaze meets his, steady and sure. “This is good,” you whisper, voice laced with warmth. “This is perfect.”

Minho’s lips curl into a small, knowing smirk before he leans in again, pressing another lingering kiss to your skin as he maintains the slow, steady pace. He takes your hand and lacing it together against the mattress and you're right, this is perfect.

Minho pauses just as you’re on the brink of climax, he slowly pulls away and you sigh at the sudden emptiness. He shifts, his hands firm yet careful as he turns you onto your back. His touch lingers, warm and steady, as he settles between your legs and enters you once again. His eyes focusing on the way his cock slipping in and out of you for a while before locking onto yours

There’s something different in his eyes now—softer, deeper—like he’s seeing all of you, not just your body, but everything that makes you you.

He leans down, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips before moving lower, his touch reverent, as if memorizing every inch of your skin. His pace remains unhurried, every movement deliberate, drawing out every sensation until you feel like you’re unraveling beneath him. He murmurs soft words against your skin, praises mixed with quiet sighs, his hands never stopping their slow, loving exploration.

By the time you both reach your highs, your body is trembling, overwhelmed not just by pleasure, but by the sheer intimacy of it all. Minho watches you carefully, his breathing still heavy, and it’s only when he leans in to press another kiss to your lips that he notices the tears trailing down your cheek.

His expression softens, and he brings his knuckles up, gently wiping the tear away. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?” There’s no teasing in his tone—only warmth, only care.

You blink up at him, your heart swelling at the tenderness in his eyes. Before you can answer, he leans in, capturing your lips in a long, lingering kiss, one that holds everything words can’t express.

When he pulls away, the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his eyes dart toward the mess he made on your thigh, the pearly white of his seed glistening under the dim of light.

“So,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your cheek one last time. “Still perfect?”

You let out a breathy laugh, your chest still rising and falling with the remnants of your release. Meeting his gaze, you smile and nod.

“Perfect,” you whisper, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.

Minho exhales, a satisfied hum escaping him as he shifts to pull you into his arms, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

Minho lies beside you, the warmth of your bare skin pressed against his, his fingers idly combing through your hair as he gazes into your eyes. The world outside feels distant, insignificant—because in this moment, with you lying so close, nothing else matters.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb grazing over your cheek as he murmurs, “I’m glad you’re doing well in the kitchen without me.”

Your eyes widen slightly, filled with something soft and unguarded. “I don’t want to be doing well all by myself,” you say, voice quiet but firm. “I want to do a good job when you’re there with me.”

Minho’s brows pull together slightly. “Why not?”

You take his wrist, cradling his hand against your cheek, your lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “Do you know how many times I thought of you today?”

His smirk appears without hesitation, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “How many?”

“Twelve times,” you answer without missing a beat.

Minho scoffs. “That’s it?” he teases, tilting his head slightly. “I expected more.”

You hold his gaze, and for a moment, the air shifts between you. “Twelve times,” you repeat, voice quieter this time, “that I thought… it should have been me, not you, that left the restaurant.”

His teasing smirk fades, his expression unreadable as he listens.

“I never imagined you would give up your job for me,” you continue, not in disbelief, but with something closer to awe, like the reality of it is finally settling in. Your voice takes on a wistful tone, laced with a quiet regret. “I never realized how special it was—just being together—until now. We wasted so much time worrying about getting caught, about what everyone else thought.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around his wrist, your eyes flickering with something raw and vulnerable as you plead, “If you come back, I’ll be really good to you.” Your voice drops lower, almost desperate. “So please… come back.”

Minho watches you carefully, heart tightening in his chest. He doesn’t react immediately, doesn’t let you see the way your words settle deep inside him. Instead, he exhales softly and tilts his head.

“You done talking?” he asks, his tone light, teasing, masking the weight of his thoughts.

You nod, and he shifts, opening his arm to you. Without hesitation, you move into his embrace, nuzzling into his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, then your lips, slow and deep, something that aches in the best way.

“Let’s just sleep,” he mutters, pulling the duvet higher over both of you.

Minho holds you close, his fingers resting at the small of your back, and as your breathing evens out, he stares at the ceiling, lost in thought. You make it sound so simple, as if all he has to do is walk back through the restaurant doors and everything will fall into place.

He wants to give you everything. But as he lies there, feeling your warmth against him, he wonders—can he?

Minho is wiping down the counter when his phone buzzes with a new message. A smirk tugs at his lips, knowing it’s from you. You were just here, eating breakfast together in the kitchen, lingering longer than necessary in his arms.

But his smirk fades as he reads your text. Sara didn’t come home until now, and I’m worried about her.

Minho’s first instinct is to let someone else handle it—Chris, perhaps, or Felix—but the knot tightening in his chest convinces him otherwise. After what happened yesterday, he knows he should check on her himself.

Just as he’s about to call, another message pops up. This time, it’s from Sara.

Come meet me here. She’s attached the address to a small café.

It takes him fifteen minutes to get there, the ride filled with thoughts of what he should say or not say. When he arrives, he spots Sara instantly, tucked away in a corner, her chin resting in her hand as she stares vacantly out the window.

He doesn’t announce his arrival, just slides into the seat across from her. When she notices him, a faint, melancholic smile graces her lips. She cradles her cup of coffee, but makes no move to drink from it.

Silence lingers between them, heavy and suffocating.

“Minho, I don’t think I can ever cook again,” Sara begins, her voice thin and worn. “I’m too ashamed to even face you.”

Minho remains quiet, his eyes fixed on her, giving her the space to unravel her thoughts.

“I'm so disappointed in myself,” she admits, the words tumbling out like a confession. “First, I'm disappointed for not believing in myself. I could have taken first place on my own merit.”

Her grip tightens on the cup, knuckles paling as she presses on. “And then…I'm disappointed for hurting you, betraying you, just to get ahead. If only I had believed in myself from the start…”

The quiver in her voice gives Minho pause, and he takes this opportunity to respond. “Chef Rossi always favored you,” he says softly, choosing his words with care. “He had higher expectations for you than for anyone else. That’s why he was so disappointed.”

He leans back, folding his arms as he continues, “Don’t worry about it too much. I wasn’t all that gracious either.”

Sara offers a fragile smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wanted to show you how good I was,” she confesses, the honesty of it striking something deep within him. “I was the one who recommended you to Farfalle, you know. I wanted to work with you again.”

Minho’s expression remains unreadable, absorbing the weight of her words. Another stretch of silence settles between them, only broken by the muted clinks of cups and chatter from other tables.

Finally, Sara looks at him directly, her eyes glassy but determined. “Minho,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

He meets her gaze, giving her his full attention.

“For the sake of Farfalle’s kitchen…for my sake,” she pleads, her vulnerability laid bare. “Can you come back and be the chef again?”

Minho’s breath catches, and he watches her as she forces a trembling smile. “It’s the last request I’ll make of you.”

Minho’s gaze softens, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. He’s torn between the bitterness of the past and the hope for something different—a chance to rebuild, not just for the kitchen, but for the people in it.

A decision hangs in the balance, the echoes of past betrayals and lingering affections coloring the silence between them.

The kitchen is eerily quiet, and it shouldn’t be—not when lunch service is only ten minutes away. Instead of the usual buzz of last-minute preparations, there’s a heavy sense of unease. Everyone looks more discouraged than nervous. At least yesterday, the kitchen still had its head chef. But today…

Hyunwoo shifts uncomfortably before breaking the silence. “Sous-chef, do you think we can handle the service on our own?”

Seojun exhales slowly. His usual confident demeanor is absent, and his shoulders slump slightly. He doesn’t even need to answer—the doubt is clear in his expression. Three cooks against a full lunch service? It’s impossible.

Unless—

The kitchen door swings open.

Minho strides in, tying his apron around his waist, the weight of his presence settling over the kitchen like a breath of fresh air. Behind him, Felix and Taesoo follow, both dressed and ready for service. Felix catches your eye and flirtatiously winks.

You immediately pinch your forearm, just in case you’re dreaming. It hurts. So that means—

Minho takes his place at the chef’s table and surveys the room. “Chef Sara will not be returning to the kitchen for a while,” he announces. His voice is steady, authoritative. “And as head chef, I owe you all an apology for putting you through all this confusion. It wasn’t my intention, but our personal circumstances got in the way.”

A beat of silence passes before he continues, his tone softer but firm. “I felt awful being away, and I know Chef Sara feels the same. But I also strongly believe she will come back soon.”

Minho’s gaze moves across the room, lingering on you for just a second longer than the others. You can’t help the way your lips tug into a bright smile, and you hope he knows how hard you’re resisting the urge to run up and hug him.

Minho smirks—his signature smirk, the one that sends warmth pooling in your chest. “I’m glad to be back in the kitchen with all of you.”

From the corner of your eye, you spot Chris quietly stepping into the kitchen, observing. But before anyone can react, Seojun raises his hand. “I have something to say.”

Minho nods, giving him permission to speak.

Seojun straightens. “I’ve never seen a kitchen run smoothly when the head chef is romantically involved with a cook,” he says evenly. “So tell me, how can you prove that this will be any different?”

Silence falls over the kitchen like a thick cloud. All eyes flick between you and Minho.

Seojun folds his arms, his voice calm but pointed. “This isn’t personal. But a kitchen operates on a strict hierarchy. If the head chef is involved with someone lower in rank, it will cause problems. The kitchen needs a leader who can make fair decisions without personal bias.”

His gaze sharpens as he looks at Minho directly. “Can you promise that your relationship won’t interfere with how you run this kitchen?”

You swallow, suddenly feeling exposed. You hadn’t considered how difficult this would be—not just for you and Minho, but for the entire team.

Seojun presses on, his voice unwavering. “If you can’t, then I want your word that if you ever lose your impartiality as a chef, you will fire her yourself.”

Your stomach twists.

Minho is quiet for a moment. His expression remains unreadable, but there’s no hesitation in his voice when he finally speaks.

“You have my word,” Minho says, his tone firm. “The minute I lose my impartiality, I will fire her myself.”

The words sting, but you nod in understanding. This is what it means to be in Minho’s kitchen. His integrity as a chef comes first, and if you’re going to stand beside him, you have to accept that too.

The tension lingers for a few seconds before Minho claps his hands. “Alright, let’s get to work. Lunch service is about to start.”

Just like that, the kitchen comes alive again. The energy shifts as Felix and Taesoo return to their stations, and Minho’s familiar yells fill the space, pulling everyone back into their rhythm.

Amidst the chaos, you slip into the walk-in freezer, pulling out your phone. Your fingers hover over the screen before typing out a text.

Welcome back from your wandering, my favorite chef in the world, and then hit send.

Through the circular window of the freezer door, you watch as Minho pulls out his phone. He reads the message, then lifts his head, scanning the room until his eyes find yours through the glass. He suppresses a smile—just barely—before making a throat slicing gesture at you.

You bite back a laugh as he tucks his phone away and continues walking through the kitchen like usual, as if nothing had changed.

But something had. Minho was back.

The knock on the door comes just as Minho expected.

“Come in.”

Felix and Hyunwoo step inside, standing side by side in front of him as he leans against Sara’s vacant desk. Felix is the first to speak.

“You called for us, Chef?”

Minho nods but turns his attention to Hyunwoo first. “Thank you for your hardwork for filling in for everyone on the pasta line.”

Hyunwoo scoffs, crossing his arms. “This is not the first time he ran off.” He throws a pointed look at Felix before muttering under his breath, “Not like he cares what happens to the rest of us anyway.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Am I overhearing you, or are you talking to me?”

Hyunwoo shifts his weight, not meeting Minho’s gaze. “That’s up to the listener’s interpretation.”

Minho exhales sharply. “Felix left out of loyalty to me. If you have a complaint, say it to me directly.” His tone sharpens. “Go ahead.”

Hyunwoo hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. But then, with a flash of defiance, he speaks. “Now that you mentioned it. Aren’t you ashamed of going back on your word, Chef?”

Minho’s expression doesn’t change, he crosses his arms together and asks, “Do you hold a grudge against me, Hyunwoo?”

Hyunwoo tenses. “I’m just saying it because you told me to.”

Minho scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah. You hold a grudge.” He lets the words linger for a second before shifting his attention to Felix. “Did you apologize to the sous-chef and the other cooks?”

Felix glances at Hyunwoo before quickly straightening. “No, Chef.”

Minho exhales. “Then fix it. Do it sincerely. Be nice to each other.”

“Yes, Chef.” Felix doesn’t hesitate, his usual loyalty evident.

Minho moves on. “Spring’s here. That means we need a new menu—something original and different from our existing pasta dishes.”

Before he can continue, another knock sounds at the door. The moment his eyes meet yours through the opening, he gives a small nod. You step inside and take a spot next to Hyunwoo.

Minho looks back at the group. “Starting tomorrow, we’ll introduce ginseng pasta as the new recommended dish.”

Felix blinks. “But only you and Chef Sara know how to make it.”

Hyunwoo immediately corrects him. “No, she made it yesterday.” He tilts his head toward you.

Felix’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really? You really know how to make it?”

Hyunwoo’s expression darkens again. “Just because you approved her recipe, does that mean she’s getting special treatment? You’re not pushing me out of the pasta line, are you, Chef?”

Minho scoffs, barely holding back his irritation. “You’re staying on pasta, and she’s staying in antipasto.” His gaze flickers to you. “Hand your recipe to the pasta line.”

Your answer comes out weak. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho studies your face for a second before turning to Felix. “Since ginseng pasta isn’t easy to make, you’ll make it. Take the recipe and start preparing.”

Felix, ever obedient, nods. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho straightens. “That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

Felix gestures between himself and Hyunwoo. “Just us?”

Minho glares. “Get out.”

Felix and Hyunwoo leave, Felix throwing a quick glance back as he shuts the door behind them.

Now that it’s just the two of you, Minho lets out a slow breath, relaxing slightly. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “Sorry for taking your recipe.”

You shake your head. “I understand, Chef. A big restaurant like this—you can’t keep everything to yourself.”

Minho watches you for a moment before taking a slow step forward. “Do you think I’m a thief?”

You chuckle. “Yes, Chef.” Then, quickly, “It wasn’t entirely my recipe anyway. It was ninety percent yours. I just added garnish.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “It wasn’t just garnish.” His voice lowers, more thoughtful now. “Garnish is for decoration. It doesn’t add to the taste. Your ideas are more than that.” He pauses. “Your ideas are like salt.”

He can see that you soften around him as you smile at that. He tilts his head as he asks, “Do you know how important salt is in a kitchen?”

You nod. “Yes, Chef.”

He steps closer, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. His touch is firm, but there’s something reassuring about it. “Then be the salt in our kitchen.”

Your chuckle is soft, a little shy. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho can’t help but laugh, just a little. And in this moment, amidst all the stress and the weight of responsibility, everything feels a little lighter.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before stepping out of Minho’s office. If you walk out looking too pleased, it’ll only spark unnecessary suspicions, and the last thing you need is people whispering about you. Composed, you turn toward the kitchen, but before you can take more than a few steps, Felix suddenly appears in front of you, blocking your path.

His expression is serious, tone firm as he demands, “How did you know how to make ginseng pasta?”

For a split second, you think he’s about to accuse you of something terrible, but then you realize how ridiculous that is. You chuckle, shaking your head. “How else could I made such dish? From the recipe book Chef gave me.”

Felix’s eyes widen. “Really? Minho gave you his recipe book?”

You nod innocently.

Felix’s mouth drops open. He stares at you, stunned into silence, and for a moment, you wonder if you broke him. When he finally manages to speak, it’s barely more than a whisper. “No one has ever seen that book.”

Before you can respond, he suddenly steps closer, hand outstretched. “Hand it over.”

You blink. “What?”

“The book,” Felix insists, still holding his hand out. “Hand it over.”

You stare at him, baffled. He’s acting like you’re carrying some sort of holy relic.

Just as you open your mouth to protest, you catch movement behind him. Minho. Your eyes dart toward him, trying to warn Felix, but he’s too focused on demanding the recipe book to notice. Minho closes in behind him, raising his hand— Smack.

Felix yelps in pain as Minho’s palm collides with the back of his head. Before Felix can recover, Minho lands a sharp finger flick on his forehead.

“Ah—! Chef!” Felix grumbles, rubbing his forehead.

Minho steps around him, moving to your side like a silent shield. “Are you a thug now?” he asks dryly. “Why are you extorting a recipe book from her?”

Felix is too busy nursing his wounds to respond immediately.

Minho turns his attention to you. “I told you to give him your ginseng pasta recipe, not my book.” He emphasizes the distinction.

You nod. “Yes, chef.”

Felix finally regains his composure, shooting Minho an incredulous look. “Wait—why would you give her your recipe book and not me?” His voice drops into a mutter. “You can’t do this to me over a girl.”

Minho doesn’t even hesitate. “It’s my book. I can do whatever I want with it.”

Felix pouts, clearly displeased. “I’m honestly disappointed, Chef.”

Minho raises a brow. “And what’s so wrong about me giving my book to who I want?”

Felix doesn’t have an answer for that, but his pout deepens in silent protest.

Instead of softening, Minho levels him with a warning. “If you try to take it from her again, you’re dead meat.”

Felix groans in defeat. “Yes, chef.”

Satisfied, Minho grabs your hand. “Come with me.”

You barely have time to register the warmth of his grip before he starts leading you away. As you walk, he says, “Don’t worry about Felix. He’s just jealous.” A beat later, he corrects himself. “Loyal, but jealous.”

You glance at Minho. “I mean… I get it. He’s been by your side longer than I have. It makes sense that he’d feel disappointed.”

Minho doesn’t respond, but you can tell he hears you.

After a moment, you add, “I can share the recipes with him if that’ll make it better.”

Minho rejects the idea without hesitation. “No.”

You frown. “Why not?”

Minho stops in his tracks, and you halt beside him. His voice lowers as he mutters, “Felix thinks those recipes are all successful. Don’t share them.”

That makes you pause. Something clicks in your mind, and your stomach sinks slightly. “Wait… are you saying you gave me the book because all the recipes in it were failures?” You meet his gaze. “If they were successful, you would’ve given it to Felix instead.”

Minho glares at you. “Stand against the wall.”

You blink. “What—?”

“Against the wall.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

Not entirely sure why, you step back, pressing your shoulders against the wall. Minho eyes your head for a moment, then lifts his hand— Flick. His finger snaps against your temple, and you yelp, wincing at the sharp sting.

Minho grumbles, “First, it was Hyunwoo, then Felix and now, you. Why did everyone decide to talk back and rebel against me today?”

You rub your temple. “I’m not rebelling.”

He scoffs. “Then what is it? I’m trying to be considerate.”

You let out a short laugh. “Considerate?”

Minho crosses his arms and daringly stares into your eyes. “Yes.”

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. “Yeah, sure.” Without waiting for a response, you turn and walk away.

Behind you, you hear Minho call your name, his voice edging into a scolding tone, but you quicken your pace, slipping into the kitchen before he can stop you.

Minho leans against the counter at the coffee station, enjoying a brief moment of peace in his chaotic day. He doesn’t even have to ask for a cup—Taesoo slides one across the table with a smug grin.

“Specially made for you, chef.”

Minho smirks as he pulls the cup closer. “You’ve got more charm than my girlfriend, you know that?” He takes a lazy sip before adding, “She never makes coffee for me. All she does is work all day.”

Taesoo chuckles, pouring himself a cup and setting the pot back down. “Must be hard, being a chef’s girlfriend.”

The words hit Minho hard enough that he stills, cup hovering just before his lips. His gaze flicks to Taesoo. “What did you just say?”

Taesoo doesn’t waver. “I mean… don’t you see it? She’s always walking on thin ice, trying so hard to make sure you don’t look bad because of her.”

Minho clenches his jaw. He doesn’t like how easily Taesoo sees through it—but the truth is, he sees it too. You’ve always been cautious around him, but lately, it’s different. More controlled. More careful. And yet, you never complain. Not once.

Letting out a slow exhale, Minho leans back slightly. “You think she’s anxious?”

Taesoo tilts his head. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Minho snorts. “Then I’ve got news for you—I’m anxious too.”

That catches Taesoo off guard. “You?”

Minho nods. “And you’d better be anxious too.”

Taesoo hesitates, looking thrown off. “Uh—yes, chef?”

The moment lingers, uncomfortably quiet—until Minho’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out, relieved at the distraction. A new message from Felix.

We're all done. Can you do a taste test, Chef?

Minho finally takes a sip of his coffee before pushing off the counter. “Let’s go.”

As he heads for the kitchen, Taesoo scrambles to clean up the coffee cups before trailing behind him.

You and Felix set the two pans down on the chef’s table. You grab a few forks for Minho and glance at Felix, lowering your voice. “You think he’ll notice?”

Felix waves you off with a smirk. “We’ll see.”

A moment later, Minho walks into the kitchen, Taesoo trailing behind him like a shadow. He stops at his usual spot, eyes flicking between you and Felix. “Are you sure you taught him properly?”

You straighten up and nod. “Yes, chef.”

Felix hands Minho a fork, and without hesitation, Minho digs in. First, he tries the pasta in front of you, chewing thoughtfully. Then he moves to the other pan, tasting Felix’s version. As he chews, his gaze shifts between the two of you. A second later, you and Felix exchange a knowing look.

After a moment, Minho sets the fork down and nods. “Not bad. You learned the recipe well.”

Felix’s face lights up as Minho gives him the approval. “Get ready to cook this,” Minho announces. “I’m going to put it up as today's recommended dish.”

Felix beams. “Yes, chef!”

Minho turns on his heel, about to leave, when Felix suddenly blurts out, “Wait, Chef!”

Minho stops mid-step, his glare sharp. “What?”

Felix, knowing he’s pushing his luck, hurriedly asks, “Which one do you think is hers?”

Minho scoffs, tilting his head. “Come here,” he orders, his fingers making the gesture.

Felix, clueless, leans in—only to get a sharp flick to the forehead. He yelps, rubbing the spot. “Ow!”

“Who do you think you’re testing, huh?” Minho deadpans but his gaze is intense.

Then, with full confidence, he says, “She didn’t make either of these.”

Your mouth falls open in surprise and blurt out, “No way.”

Minho crosses his arms. “You’ve got over seven years of experience. He has half of that. The technique is different.” He gestures at the pans. “The wrist motion alone tells me it wasn’t yours. Someone at your level wouldn’t make pasta like this.”

You smile, impressed. “So you’re saying mine tasted better?”

“That’s correct!” Minho replies without missing a beat.

While still rubbing his forehead, Felix pouts and mumbles, “You didn’t have to say it that fast…”

Minho ignores him. Instead, he looks directly at you. “Hey, the ginseng pasta isn’t yours anymore. It belongs to the kitchen now.”

You nod. “Yes, chef.”

Satisfied, Minho orders, “Clean this up and get ready for dinner service. Got it?” Then he walks out of the kitchen.

Taesoo, curious, picks up a fork and tastes both pastas. He hums in thought before nodding. “Chef’s tongue is accurate. No way to fool him.”

Then, he turns to you and Felix. “That means Chef won’t lose his fair judgment over this.”

Felix turns to you, raising a brow. “Weren’t you worried about that comment sous-chef made earlier, right?”

Now that everyone knows about your relationship with Minho, it feels like you’re under a microscope, always under their scrutiny. You would be lying if it doesn’t make you the slightest bit nervous so you nod at Felix’s question.

Felix grins, puffing out his chest. He folds his arms and deepens his voice in a poor imitation of Minho. “You should be thankful to me that you found out how accurate Chef’s tongue is!”

You chuckle at his awful impression, shaking your head. But deep down, you really hope this proves that Minho’s judgment in the kitchen will always be fair.

Dinner service is in full swing, the kitchen buzzing with the clatter of pans, the sizzle of meats, and Minho’s sharp commands cutting through the noise. He’s been calling out orders non-stop, his voice steady and authoritative as he directs the team. His gaze flicks toward you.

“You make two grilled scallops. Make one extra for a taste test.”

“Yes, chef,” you respond immediately, grabbing what you need and moving with precision. You work fast, using two pans to finish the order on time. The scallops sear beautifully, their golden crust forming just as you’d intended. Once they’re plated, you bring them to the chef’s table, along with the extra one for Minho to taste.

You stand there, waiting, hands clasped behind your back. Minho doesn’t rush—he never does. He takes his time tasting, chewing carefully, analyzing every detail before nodding in approval.

“Okay, pass,” he says simply. Then he adds, “You don’t need to make testers from now on.”

A rush of relief floods through you, and for a brief second, a bright smile tugs at your lips. But you suppress it before anyone can see. “Yes, chef,” you reply, turning on your heel to head back to your station.

“We’re almost done for the night,” Minho announces. “So hurry, let's finish it up.”

“Yes, chef!” the kitchen responds in unison.

But just as the night is winding down, things take a sharp turn.

A dish gets sent back. The service staff informs Minho of the complaint—a customer says the scallops have an odor.

A heavy silence falls over the kitchen. Minho says nothing, but Felix steps in, grabbing a fork and tasting the dish himself. He frowns. “This kind of odor from the pan is common in all Italian restaurants.”

Felix turns to Sous-chef Seojun. “Please try this out, Sous-chef.”

Seojun sniffs the dish first, then takes a bite. He chews slowly before exhaling. “They’re not wrong about the smell.”

Before you can say anything, Hyunwoo interjects. “Seungwan never had complaints like this.” He folds his arms. “He always used the same pan but knew how to control the temperature.”

Minho finally moves. He takes the plate and tries it himself. A second later, his expression darkens.

He marches up to you. “What is this?” His voice is sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Why is this different from the one you gave me to test?”

Your stomach twists in confusion. “I made them the same way, Chef,” you answer honestly with your voice slightly trembling.

You quickly run through what could have gone wrong. Then, it clicks. Your heart sinks.

“I... I used two different pans,” you say, voice small but steady.

Minho’s glare sharpens. “You cooked the one for me in a new frying pan and the one for the customers in an old one?”

You nod, already feeling the mistake weigh on you. “I’m sorry, chef.”

But your apology only fuels his anger. “Is that an excuse?” he demands. “You think that makes it okay?”

“No, I—” You swallow thickly. “I didn’t mean it like that, Chef.”

From the side, Seungwan mutters just loud enough to be heard, “Ooh, I guess she needs her own exclusive frying pan so customers won’t complain.”

Minho hears it, but he doesn’t acknowledge him. His attention is solely on you.

“A true chef,” he says coldly, “should be able to serve a perfect scallop dish even with a hundred-year-old frying pan.”

A lump forms in your throat, but you force yourself to swallow it down. You feel like crying. The entire kitchen is watching as Minho—the chef, but also your boyfriend—publicly tears you down.

You lower your gaze. “I’m sorry, chef.”

But Minho doesn’t let up. “Do it again,” he orders, his tone unwavering.

You clench your fists, push back the emotions threatening to overwhelm you, and nod. “Yes, chef.” Then you turn back to your station, forcing yourself to focus.

As you start over, you remind yourself that Minho is right. His judgment is fair. This is your fault. Not his.

Minho knows you must be at least a little upset about the way he scolded you earlier. He saw the way you clenched your fists, the way you swallowed down whatever you wanted to say. He saw the way your shoulders tensed as the entire kitchen watched.

But he also knows you understand why he did it. So he waits.

The locker room is quiet when he steps in, and as expected, you're there, putting on your jacket. At the sound of his footsteps, you turn swiftly to face him.

Minho watches you for a moment, then exhales. "You should know," he says, voice even, "that your one mistake is equivalent to another cook’s ten mistakes."

You nod, your expression neutral, but Minho knows you're listening carefully.

He folds his arms. "Let's not create a situation where everyone has their eyes on us. Again."

Again, you nod. "I understand. I’m sorry, chef."

The words make something twist uncomfortably in Minho’s chest. He should feel satisfied, should let it go now that you've acknowledged your mistake. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, he grabs your wrist and pulls you with him.

Minho takes you back to the kitchen. It’s empty now, quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerators. He lets go of your wrist. "Get some scallops."

You quickly retrieve a container of scallops marinated in olive oil and set them on the counter.

Minho looks at you, then gestures to the stove. "Watch closely."

He turns the burner on, lets the flames rise high before grabbing a frying pan. Pouring a small amount of olive oil in, he waits until it shimmers.

"Fire isn’t the only thing that cooks food," he says, then lowers the flame slightly. "There’s also heated oil."

Carefully, he places a scallop into the pan. The instant sizzle fills the room. "Use the heated oil to lightly cook the surface of the scallop."

You're watching him with full focus now, your eyes darting between his hands and the scallop. After a moment, you ask, "Will the temperature of the oil eventually go down?"

Minho smirks slightly, impressed by your attention to detail. "You have to keep the temperature of the oil the same while reducing the flame."

He finishes cooking and takes the scallop from the pan. You hand him a plate before he even asks. He places it down, then, instead of plating it properly, he picks it up and hands it directly to you. "Here. Try it."

You cut a small piece with a fork, bringing it to your lips. The moment you taste it, your eyes widen slightly in delight. "I can only taste the olive oil," you say. "No odor at all."

Minho smirks. "Enough with the compliments. Now, it’s your turn."

You grab a fresh pan, mimicking his actions. He watches from your side, his gaze sharp, taking in every detail.

"Stop battling with the frying pans," he murmurs. "Focus on controlling the fire."

You nod but then pause, turning to look at him. "Are you upset and frustrated because of me, Chef? Are you perhaps... anxious?"

Minho meets your gaze. He can’t lie to you—not when you’re the only other person who knows what it feels like. The weight of expectations. The pressure of perfection. On top of all that, his relationship with you is affecting everything. After a second of hesitation, he finally admits, "Yeah."

You don’t look surprised, but you don’t look offended either. You just hold his gaze, waiting for more.

Minho exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. "I don’t know why I’m being so hard on you," he finally says, his voice quieter now.

But he does know. And he’s sure you do too.

Dinner service is chaos. The heat, the noise, the endless string of orders—it’s all a blur, but you do your best to keep up. More than anything, you keep one thing in mind: no mistakes. Not today.

You move quickly but carefully, ensuring every movement is precise. Next to you, Seungwan shifts nervously, glancing at you as he works.

“How much longer on your scallop?” he asks, his voice tight.

You wipe your hands on a cloth before answering, “Two minutes.”

Seungwan groans. He can't start plating his dish until you’re done. “You’re taking too long,” he mutters.

You ignore him. You don't need the extra pressure. You just need to get this right.

A moment later, you're placing the garnish on your plate when Seungwan sighs again. “Done now?”

Without answering, you lift the plate and carefully walk it over to the chef’s table. Minho stands there, arms crossed. He doesn’t taste it. He simply picks up the plate, examines it with that unreadable gaze of his, and then—

“Do it again!”

Your shoulders sag. You did exactly what he taught you. You made sure everything was right. But maybe it’s your fault for expecting anything different. “…Yes, chef.”

Seungwan lets out an exasperated groan as you take the plate back. “Chef, seriously?” he protests.

Minho barely glances at him. “Then you do it again too.”

Before Seungwan can argue, Minho’s voice rings out across the kitchen. “Everyone, stop the course and wait six minutes until she’s done.”

Felix protests from the other side of the kitchen. “Chef, my pasta’s gonna bloat!”

“Then make it again.” Minho’s tone leaves no room for argument.

Seungwan grabs the rejected plate and takes a bite, his eyes widening in surprise. “Chef, this should be pass. It’s pretty good.” He turns to Sous-chef Seojun. “Try it, Sous-chef.”

Seojun takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully before looking at Minho. “She cooked it properly. All the dishes are being delayed because of this. Aren’t you being too strict, Chef?”

The air in the kitchen shifts. Minho’s eyes flick to Seojun, sharp and dangerous. “Too strict? Do I look like the kind of chef who picks and chooses which dish to be strict on?” Minho challenges. His voice is calm, but there’s an underlying edge.

He then exhales sharply. “Hors d’oeuvre is the first thing the customer tastes. We’re not serving whatever just because we’re in a rush.”

Seojun still looks unconvinced. “Then put her at the end of the line. Not the front.”

Seungwan nods. “Yeah, just have her do desserts. Doesn’t have to be on time.”

The conversation turns into background noise as you force yourself to focus. It doesn’t matter what they say. You just need to finish this dish while Minho’s words echoing in the back of your mind: Let's not create a situation where everyone has their eyes on us. Again.

You push through, ignoring the pressure, ignoring the way your hands shake slightly as you plate the dish.

“Hurry up!” Minho barks from across the kitchen.

When you bring it back to the chef’s table, Minho picks it up—only to let out a small sigh as he sets it back down. “Stop making scallops. Start making desserts.”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second. Then, meekly, you nod. “Yes, chef.”

You move to the dessert station, tucked in the corner of the kitchen. At least here, no one can see how upset you are

Felix, instinctively, takes the rejected dish and tastes it. A moment later, his voice cuts through the tension. “I don’t think the orders are backed up because of her,” Felix says, looking straight at Minho. “I don’t think it’s her fault at all. I think it’s... you.”

Silence.

Minho moves before anyone can react. He grabs Felix by the sleeve of his chef’s coat and pulls him toward the chef’s table. “Then why don’t you stand here and be the head chef then?” he challenges.

Felix looks down, guilt flashing across his face. “…I’m sorry, chef.” He then walks back to his station in defeat.

You keep your head down and focus on desserts, but doubt creeps in. You remember what Felix once said about Minho’s judgment always being fair. But now, you’re not so sure.

The restaurant is empty. Everyone has gone home, but you’re still here, still in your chef’s coat. Instead of heading to the locker room, you drag yourself to the coffee station and slump onto one of the stools.

You stack your hands together and rest your head on them, exhaling a long sigh, as if you could release all the weight of the day in one breath.

Minutes pass. You don’t bother looking at the clock. Then, the stool beside you creaks. You turn your head and find Chris sitting next to you, his warm smile greeting you before his voice does.

“So… how many scallop dishes got rejected today?”

His calm demeanor only makes you curious so you meekly ask, “As the owner, aren’t you upset about all the wasted ingredients?”

“Yeah,” Chris tilts his head slightly and adds, “But it’s not you I don’t like. It’s the chef.”

His words are meant to be comforting, but they don’t make you feel any better. Another sigh escapes your lips as you rub your temples. Chris places a hand on your shoulder, patting it gently. “You worked hard today.”

Before you can respond, a loud, exaggerated ahem sounds from behind. The suddenness of it makes you jolt upright, nearly falling off the stool.

You spin around. Minho. Immediately, you straighten your posture. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, keeping your tone formal.

Minho doesn’t acknowledge it. He simply takes the stool on your other side, leaving you sandwiched between him and Chris.

Chris, without even looking at Minho, asks, “So, when do you think she’ll finally get her scallops approved?”

Minho barely pauses before replying dryly, “Why don't you increase the budget for ingredients? I think she might deplete the entire country’s scallop supply.”

You groan, burying your head in your hands. Silence settles for a brief moment. Then—

“Is that you?”

You freeze. The voice is too familiar. Your head snaps up so fast your neck almost cramps.

“Dad?!” You gasp, scrambling to stand. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call me and tell me you were coming?”

Your dad doesn’t hesitate. “I came because you told me you were having a hard time choosing between two guys.”

Oh my god. Your dad says it so loud that you know Minho and Chris definitely heard it. Heat rushes to your face. “D-Dad, that’s not—”

Desperate to change the subject, you turn to Chris in a panic. “This is Chris! He’s the manager.”

Chris, ever polite, nods in acknowledgment. But your dad isn’t interested in introductions. He looks at you, then at Minho and Chris, before calmly saying, “Sit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

Your dad gestures at the stools. “Sit down.”

Chris and Minho immediately obey. You, however, rush to your dad’s side, hoping to end this nightmare before it gets worse. “The restaurant’s closed, Dad. Let’s just go somewhere else, yeah?”

“No,” he replies. “Sit and stay quiet.”

You groan in pure humiliation but obey, sinking back onto your stool.

Your dad studies the two men beside you. Then, with an almost too casual tone, he asks, “These two… are they the ones you’re confused about?”

“Dad!” You shriek then slap a hand over your face. Please stop talking. You continue the sentence inside your head. But, of course, he doesn’t.

He continues, “So which one is the rich, reasonable one? The one with the good personality who tells you everything you cook is nice?”

Silence. Then, without missing a beat, Minho says flatly, “I don’t think that's me, Sir.”

Of course, it isn’t. Your dad’s eyes immediately dart to Chris.

Chris stiffens, suddenly looking much more formal. He straightens his posture, clasps his hands together, and greets your dad politely.

“Nice to meet you, Sir.”

Satisfied, your dad then turns to Minho. “So you must be the other guy.”

Minho, somehow equally as polite, inclines his head slightly. “Yes, that would be me, sir.”

You groan again, this time covering your entire face with your hands. This is already mortifying. You try one more time to escape. “Dad, let’s just go somewhere and have dinner—”

“Sure,” your dad says easily. “Then we can go and eat together.”

You stare at him, horrified. “All of us?”

He scoffs. “No. One at a time.”

And then, without hesitation, he turns to Chris and points at him. Chris sits up straighter, his polite smile unwavering.

To everyone's surprise, your dad says, “You can go home.”

Chris blinks. “Huh?”

Before you can even process what’s happening, your dad points at Minho next and says, “You. Come with me.”

Minho doesn’t even question it. He just follows your dad as if this is a normal thing. You stare at their retreating figures, still frozen in disbelief. Your dad and Minho. Walking side by side.

Chris lets out a low whistle beside you. “Well… that was unexpected.”

You’re too stunned to react. You shift your gaze back to the where they're going, a strange sense of unease settling in your stomach.

Your dad has always been stubborn. He’s firm in his beliefs, never backing down once he’s made up his mind. He’s blunt, unrelenting, and terrifying when he wants to be.

And Minho? Minho is the exact same way.

They’re both headstrong. Both unforgiving. Both demanding perfection. You don’t know what’s worse—the idea of them getting along too well or the thought of them completely clashing.

Either way… You don’t want to be there when it happens.

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#spicy review #lee know / taste #taste series #seospicy smut

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hana-recs · 3 days ago

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this fic is in fact everything. i laughed and cried and also live reacted to it because i don't know how to shut up (sorry jo) but i LOVED it so much. i will be thinking about them forever!!!!!!!!!

As usual, Mingyu has texted you privately, away from the group chat. ^ HA. they’re whispering. it’s a sign. but also — so much is done with that “as usual”. jo ur a genius and i love you.

[7:19pm] Cinnamingyu: just know that you are missing one of my best creations [7:19pm] Cinnamingyu: but dont worry i will save you some ☺️ because i’m the best roommate ever [7:31pm] You: thank youuuuu! I might not have any tonight but you know i’ll eat the leftovers! [7:31pm] Cinnamingyu: hows the date? [7:36pm] You: i am very bad at bowling actually!!! [7:36pm] Cinnamingyu: aim for the pins [7:43pm] You: have i mentioned that i hate you?

^ your honor i love them already. their dynamic is written so WELL like already u can tell how much they know each other, and how it’s different from their other friendships.

He calls you Sunny, but he’s the sun. Has been that way as long as you’ve known him - since undergrad.

^SCREAMS. screams so LOUD. this is so cute but after reading “my feet to follow” im a little. apprehensive. i think about that fic SO MUCH.

Now he looks over at you, smiling beatifically, innocently. “There’s my Sunshine.” (…) “You’re cranky today,” he observes, the arm not trying (sort of) to slap Mingyu’s leg folded behind his head. “Why might that be?”

^this isn’t a jeonghan fic but my god i love him. roommate jeonghan does have my entire heart in his hand and he may do with it what he wills.

“I can stay, then,” Wonwoo says, a bit tightly - you can tell that wasn’t the plan. “So you aren’t alone.”

^ never mind. jeonghan and wonwoo have half of my heart each. (your characters are written so well and even in their small cameos they have so much presence and they don’t just feel like they’re there for no reason AGHH i love.)

…then makes his way over to his side of the bed. The empty side of your bed. Not his.

^ouchie. also a few paragraphs down — the timing of the texts between her and daeyoung!!!! hello!!!!!!!! i love tiny details like this they really just. make the fic.

And no one has thought of you, not like this, in a very long time.

^ so i would like to give her a hug. your main characters are always so likeable and relatable (😂🔫) and . yeah they just feel very human and i love it!!! but also; the significance of him and mingyu getting her flowers but mingyu knows her favourite 🥹 AND THE NOTE? “sunny flowers for sunny baby” okay well i’ll just cry myself to sleep or whatever.

Because he’s perfect, and he’s yours, but somehow you still don’t have him, and in the meantime no one else will ever be enough - just for not being him.

^ user daechwitatamic i have tears in my eyes. this fic is written so beautifully. i could Eat this angst like i truly feel like i foul take a bite out of it. which doesn’t make sense but i’m trying to say that it’s delicious. and also it hurts.

You were wrong when you said Mingyu was the sun. Mingyu is an avalanche. Rushing, rolling, thundering over and through you until there’s nothing left but a glinting field of ice and silence. Nothing else matters - nothings else exists - in his wake.

^ this is just gorgeous fucking writing and i truly don’t know what to do with myself anymore. she’s so in love with him and to my outsider third party eyes it’s so clear to me that they’re idiots!!!!!! please kiss!!!!!!!!!!!!! but then i also think that the complications and the uncertainty are written so cleverly that you completely understand reader’s pov 🥹

oh my god jeonghan’s whole entire talk with her made me so emotional like. i love him so BAD he’s such a good friend.

LOVE the part where she was communicating w daeyoung bc i was slightly terrified (he seems so nice!!) that something would go terribly wrong there. however i have trust issues and so i’m. not fully convinced of anything right now 😭😭

ok so this fic is so engaging and investing. the tension during the games scenes where daeyoung comes over is SO palpable i feel like i’m there and experiencing the discomfort with everyone else. idk there’s a very immersive feel to your writing and i appreciate it SO much .

ope and i had a feeling something was going to happen there with daeyoung. the story is getting painful. i am feeling pained. like yay they made up! but also this is a mingyu fic and so i can just sense that this is a dip before the fall (i think i just made that up i really don’t think that’s a saying)

july section — 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂 nothing funny but i have to laugh or i’ll cry. the dialogue here is something else 🥹 yn finally expressing herself and u can truly feel the emotion pouring out of the words i’m truly in awe of this fic.

the text messages were so soft. yn is stronger than me i would’ve folded but also i’m so glad that she made him grovel. i personally think men should always grovel

SCRWAMS. THEYRE KISSING THEYRE KISSING THEYRE KISSING happy days. i literally let out a sigh of relief. omg the rollercoaster of emotions this fic has taken me on. i’m so glad they got their happy ending 🥹 this whole fic was written so beautifully - the characters were so human and realistic and the words were just so perfect and brought everything to life in the most wonderful way. and the CHARACTERS !!!! all the different dynamics were everything and all the different personalities were so interesting and none of them felt flat or one dimensional at all (which is something i struggle with so i admire this so much.) user daechwitatamic i will be forwarding u my therapy bill but thank you SO much for writing this and i apologise for this insanely lengthy and repetitive essay. i missed reading your writing 💗

Cinnamon || KMG

banner by @sailorrhansol

Written for the Lonely Hearts Cafe Collab!

Cinnamon mingyu x fem!reader (nicknamed Sunny), reader x male oc for a while fluff smut angst best friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, idiots to lovers all apply NSFW - minors DNI

Summary: You finally decide to try and move on after years of waiting for Mingyu to return your feelings. But when you start bringing your new boyfriend around more often, things with Mingyu get... difficult.

WC: 19k

Warnings: language, recreational drinking and overdrinking, a brief mention of throwing up from a hangover, angst and hurt feelings, not miscommunication but definitely refusal to communicate, kissing (some with mg and some with a male oc), arguments, reader and mingyu are both imperfect people who make mistakes and do things wrong... theyre not bad or toxic people but their choices can be hurtful... theyre humans who mess up have to just do their best to do better going forward, quick and prosey smut scene with piv penetration

A/N: thank you to @sailorsoons and @eoieopda for beta-inggggg iluuuuu

December

“Good morning, Sunshine.”

You grumble in response, eyes still mostly closed, as you make your way by muscle memory to your apartment’s barely-functioning coffee machine. Only once you’ve poured a mug, stirred in everything you need to make it palatable, and taken your first sip, do you speak actual words.

“Morning. You’re up early.”

Jeonghan, one of your three roommates, nods solemnly. “I have a nine o’clock meeting today, but I need to get some files together first, so I’m trying to be there by eight,” he tells you. You glance at the clock on the microwave - it’s already 7:20.

“You might want to get moving,” you warn him.

He makes a face that says, I know, but - and cocks his head towards the bathroom the four of you share. The door is closed and the light inside is on, which means it must be occupied. It’s not usually a problem, even with four of you - your schedules are just different enough that it works out.

You frown. “Wonwoo isn’t gone yet?” He’s usually the first one out of the house on weekdays since he’s got the longest commute.

Jeonghan shakes his head, but then the light clicks off and the door opens. A girl you’ve never seen before steps out cautiously, then pauses when she sees the kitchen isn’t empty.

“Oh,” she breathes. “Hi. Good morning. I’ll just -”

She gives you each a polite nod and slips quickly back through the nearest door - Mingyu’s bedroom.

You face Jeonghan again and roll your eyes. He gives you a bit of a grimace and gets up, hurrying into the now-empty bathroom.

You take his seat at the table, sip slowly at your coffee. Having three guys as roommates means this happens with relative regularity, though usually the guys keep their conquests to weekends and holidays. Mingyu must have really liked this girl to bring her home on a weeknight. You glance back at his closed door; you can faintly hear their voices, but not what they’re saying. She was pretty.

You tuck away whatever feelings you might have about this, just like you always do, wipe your heart as clean as a classroom chalkboard at the beginning of a new day. Jeonghan vacates the bathroom, clearly in a hurry, and you take his place, turning the shower on and praying that there’ll be enough hot water left to get you through. (There’s not.)

Later, as you sit on the train amidst a sea of other morning commuters, you check your phone.

Roomies 💕

[8:07am] (jeong)Han Solo: i would like to issue a formal complaint

[8:07 am] wonuuu: i left plenty of coffee bro

[8:07am] (jeong)Han Solo: not that

[8:09am] Cinnamingyu: if this is a noise complaint… i’m sorry but also no i’m not

[8:09am] You: you’re disgusting

[8:09am] Cinnamingyu: you love me

[8:10am] You: 🙄

[8:10am] (jeong)Han Solo: so does the girl whose presence in our one (1) bathroom made me late this morning

[8:10am] (jeong)Han Solo: if i get fired you’re covering my part of the rent

[8:11am] Cinnamingyu: have fun defending that in small claims court

[8:11am] You: i am happy to be a witness on your behalf

[8:11am] Cinnamingyu: et tu brutus?

[8:11am] You: my shower was lukewarm at best

[8:12am] You: you will be hearing from my counsel

[8:12am] You: thanks in advance wonwoo

[8:14am] wonuuu: for the millionth time… I cannot be your counsel. I’m not qualified yet.

[8:14am] You: yet ☝️

[8:17am] Cinnamingyu: let’s not ignore the real problem here… we need another bathroom

[8:21am] (jeong)Han Solo: ok great, tell me when you win the lottery so we can move out

Chuckling, you slide your phone back into your coat pocket as the train pulls into your stop. You hurry through the train station, tucking your chin into your coat collar as you speed through the icy December morning. It’s one of those dry cold days, where the air around you feels frozen, almost hurts to breathe. Everything is grey - sky above you, buildings around you, ground below you. Fast steps take you the three blocks to your office building, where you sigh in relief as the heated air hits your face, chasing away the chill.

You check your phone again as you hang your coat on your chair in your cubicle. As usual, Mingyu has texted you privately, away from the group chat.

[8:31am] Cinnamingyu: sorry about the hot water :(

[8:38am] You: you should be. i shivered through my whole conditioning routine.

[8:38am] Cinnamingyu: poor sunny baby :( :( :( will you ever forgive me?

You roll your eyes, but you’re fighting a smile. You hate that Mingyu can just charm you right out of a mood, and you hate it even more than he knows it and weaponizes it. He’s the one who gave you the nickname Sunny (or Sunshine depending on how cranky you were at the given moment) back when you were a college freshman. Your other roommates picked it up, but Mingyu was the only one who ever turned Sunshine or Sunny into Sunny Baby.

It’s absolutely horrendous, unfathomable, deeply unfair that it works, that it makes you melt into goo when he uses it. Still, you try to hold strong.

[8:38am] You: don’t you Sunny Baby me Kim Mingyu, you have crimes to answer for!!!

[8:39am] Cinnamingyu: ill cook for you tonight as penance. and then maybe a movie?

You frown. You wish you could take him up on the offer. Mingyu’s a great cook. One of the many things you love about him.

[8:39am] You: rain check. i won’t be home for dinner

[8:39am] Cinnamingyu: what’s this? did you manage to bag a man????

[8:39am] You: i hate you so much

[8:39am] You: yes you absolute scrambled egg, i have a date

Mingyu sends you a gif of an old man suggestively wiggling his eyebrows, and you laugh out loud. Then you stash your phone behind your keyboard and get to work. But when you check it again a few hours later, after your first meeting of the day lets out, he’s texted you again.

[8:40am] Cinnamingyu: is it the same guy as last week? date number TWO?? 😮

[10:51am] You: yeeeeees 🤭

[10:51am] Cinnamingyu: wow, big moves for you. a second date! do we need to have The Talk?

[10:51am] You: blocked and reported

This is an ancient song and dance for you and Mingyu. When you’ve been friends as long as you have, some things just become routine. Like you, gracefully ignoring the handful of girls that you never see a second time. Like him, acting like it’s monumental when you actually give someone a chance.

He’s used to you giving no one a chance, ever. He knows it doesn’t happen much.

But you had a good first date with Daeyoung last week. A really good first date. You’d been texting a lot since then, too. He was funny - witty. And cute. So you’d thought to yourself… what the hell. Why not? Why not go out a second time? What else were you going to do tonight?

(Stay home and eat the food Mingyu cooks for you. Watch a movie together on the couch.)

And, sure, you do want to do those things. But going out with Daeyoung tonight won’t change a thing between you and Mingyu. He’ll grill you about it when you get home, maybe tease you a little, and you’ll do food and a movie another night.

Daeyoung takes you bowling. You weren’t sure how you’d feel about it, not having been in a bowling alley since you were a kid, and remembering them as vaguely sticky places. But it ends up being kind of cute, maybe even nostalgic. Daeyoung buys a pitcher of beer and sets it on your - yes - sticky table, and walks with you as you select a pink ball that is definitely meant for children.

“You know that’s only six pounds, right?” he asks you, smiling playfully.

“Bold of you to think I could lift a heavier one,” you deadpan, and he laughs. You like his laugh - it’s easy, light, like he’s wholly uncomplicated. You could use some uncomplicated in your life.

You're terrible at bowling - you score a 42 on your first game, the ball finding the gutter more times than it stays on the lane. Even so, you manage to have fun. Daeyoung doesn’t make you feel weird about it - in fact, he barely pays attention to the actual bowling. Instead he talks to you about your day, asks about your family, doesn't seem like he's freaked out that you live with three guy friends. He doesn’t even ask the very common, “so, has anything ever happened there?” for which you’re grateful.

He’s got three sisters, you learn, and grew up with cats but still wants a dog someday. He graduated two years before you, has never traveled outside the country.

You offer back your own resume of sorts - an older sister and a younger brother, no pets growing up and allergic to most mammals (perhaps humans included, as has been pointed out by Mingyu on many occasions, usually in the same conversation that he’s calling you Sunshine and pinching your cheeks like your attitude is cute). Graduated with Honors and haven’t traveled much either, though you’d love to when you have some money saved up.

Your phone lights up on the table every so often, and you check it while Daeyoung takes his turn on the lane. A few are Jeonghan and one of your co-workers, and one is your little brother asking how to get blood out of laundry which is super alarming - but the rest are from Mingyu.

[7:19pm] Cinnamingyu: just know that you are missing one of my best creations

[7:19pm] Cinnamingyu: but dont worry i will save you some ☺️ because i’m the best roommate ever

[7:31pm] You: thank youuuuu! I might not have any tonight but you know i’ll eat the leftovers!

[7:31pm] Cinnamingyu: hows the date?

[7:36pm] You: i am very bad at bowling actually!!!

[7:36pm] Cinnamingyu: aim for the pins

[7:43pm] You: have i mentioned that i hate you?

[7:43pm] Cinnamingyu: guess i’ll throw these leftovers out then

[8:12pm] Cinnamingyu: what time do you think youll be home?

[8:15pm] Cinnamingyu: sorry i didnt mean that like WHEN WILL YOU BE HOME YOUNG LADY

[8:15pm] Cinnamingyu: i was asking bc i was deciding if i want to start a movie or wait for you i wasnt trying to

[8:15pm] Cinnamingyu: you know

[8:15pm] Cinnamingyu: anyway. aim for the pins. wear protection. etc. see you later lol

[8:38pm] You: young lady 🙄 go away mingyu!!!

[8:38pm] Cinnamingyu: you dont mean that

[8:38pm] You: i don’t 😘

[8:47pm] You: if you wanna save a movie for me… i should be home by 11

Daeyoung drives you home after the date, and you note that his car is clean, but not serial killer clean. A green flag.

When he asks if he can see you again soon, as he's pulling the car up to your building, you tell him yes without hesitating. It’ll be your first third date in maybe ever, and you make a little note in your brain that you should probably talk to him about this, make sure he can be on the same page - that this is fun and you’ll keep going out as long as it’s a good time, but you aren’t really looking for serious.

When he pauses, leaning in a little closer, you feel yourself smile, and you let him. It’s a nice kiss.

He’s a nice guy.

There’s no reason you couldn’t follow through with this. There’s no giant problem with him, no personality quirk or inherent difference that makes him ineligible.

But.

You push the thought away. “Thanks for tonight,” you tell him. “I had a good time.”

“You’d have a better time if you listened to my advice and used a heavier ball,” he says seriously, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes that tells you he’s teasing. “You can’t expect to knock down pins when they weigh more than what you’re throwing at them.”

“Sounds fake,” you joke, and hop out of the car. Before you shut the door, you pause. “See you next weekend?”

His smile unfurls, pleased. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll text you.”

You practically skip back into the apartment. You pause at the closet by the front door, pulling off your boots and hanging up your puffy winter coat. You can hear the tv on in the living room and water running in the kitchen.

You step into the kitchen, heading for the fridge. Mingyu stands at the sink, his back to you, up to his elbow in suds. You bump him with your hips as you pass by, and he kicks at you and misses. You open the fridge and grab a can of seltzer. Mingyu smiles at you from the sink, and just like that, Daeyoung evaporates from your mind.

He calls you Sunny, but he’s the sun. Has been that way as long as you’ve known him - since undergrad.

You’d met in your freshman year - he was puppy-dog cute, back then, not the chiseled sculpture of a man who takes up half your kitchen now. You’d been in the Arts and he’d been in the Sciences - something mathy - but you’d bonded in one of those godawful general requirement classes, and somehow the friendship had taken hold.

Mingyu holding your hand - metaphorically and literally - through your two required math classes and two required science labs was the only reason you’d even managed to graduate. Of course, you’d also written every single formal paper he had through the whole four years, so it evened out.

You complement each other that way, in every area. He’s outgoing and friendly, you’re cranky enough to be given the nickname Sunny in pure irony. Mingyu likes puzzles and problems he can work out, you like to turn the brain off for any and all hobbies. Mingyu is sunshine and big smiles, you are made of salt and sarcasm.

But you love each other - have been best friends since almost the moment you met. There is nothing in your life you’d be willing to lose less than him.

You wander up to him and lean against his arm, mostly to be funny because he continues to wash dishes even as it jostles you around, and it becomes a little game of him trying to shake you off and you refusing to be shaken.

“How was your night?” he asks finally, reaching to turn off the water. You automatically pass him a dish towel to dry his hands. He takes it, drying, and then reaches around you to hang it back up near the oven.

“Not as good as yours,” you snicker, noticing a purple blotch near his collar.

He flushes dark, slapping a hand over the spot. “Yah,” he complains.

You laugh. “She was cute!”

“She’d be cuter if she spent less time in our bathroom!” Jeonghan’s disembodied voice floats from the living room.

“Alright, we get it!” Mingyu calls back hotly. “You’ve only been complaining about that for fifteen hours!”

Cackling, you follow him out into the living room. Jeonghan is sprawled sideways on the two-seater, a show you don’t recognize playing across the tv screen. Down the hallway, Wonwoo’s door is open about a foot, casting the hallway in flickering blue light that tells you he’s gaming and you probably won’t see him for the rest of the night.

“So,” Jeonghan says dryly, without peeling his eyes from the tv, “I noticed your boyfriend’s car idling outside for quite a while before you came in. Were we necking?”

“Necking?” you splutter. Beside you, Mingyu is biting on his lips, trying not to laugh at your expense. “What year is this, 1950? And he’s not my boyfriend. You know that.”

You can’t help the defensive edge that creeps into your voice. From where he’s plopped on the couch, Mingyu reaches up for your hand, tugging. You let him pull you into the space next to him and he rubs a soothing hand across your shoulders before taking his hand away. It’s a silent, quick moment - easy to miss if you aren’t looking. But you are looking, always, and you wonder if he even knows he does this - reads your moods, rushes to fix you.

Unbothered by your ruffled feathers, Jeonghan asks lightly, “So, are you seeing him again, or…?”

The bastard hasn’t even looked away from the television screen.

“You’re such an ass sometimes,” you grumble at him.

Now he looks over at you, smiling beatifically, innocently. “There’s my Sunshine.”

“Fuck off.”

“Well?” Mingyu asks from next to you, eyebrows raised. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying to sound casual. You can tell the jackals are in a mood tonight.

Jeonghan’s face splits into a delighted grin. “A third date? My goodness.”

“We all know what happens on a third date,” Mingyu says sagely, and you punch him in the thigh, extra hard since you can only reach him and not Jeonghan too.

Wonwoo’s voice comes from down the hallway. “Leave Sunny alone, you guys.”

“Yeah,” you grumble. “Leave Sunny alone.”

Mingyu stretches over your lap to reach for the remote. It brings his torso almost flush against yours and you feel your face heat.

“I was watching that,” Jeonghan complains before Mingyu even presses anything.

“Sunny and I are watching a movie,” Mingyu says flatly. “Go watch on your laptop if you care so much.”

Jeonghan reaches towards your couch lazily and slaps at the air like he can’t be assed to work any harder to hit his roommate. “You’re cranky today,” he observes, the arm not trying (sort of) to slap Mingyu’s leg folded behind his head. “Why might that be?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer him, just settles back next to you, his arm against yours, and starts scrolling through movie options.

He still hasn’t picked one when Wonwoo appears in the living room’s doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, his LED headset looped around his neck and his eyes on his phone.

“What are we watching?” he asks absently.

“Nothing, apparently,” Jeonghan quips.

Beside you, Mingyu growls a little.

Unphased - this is so normal for them, it would be more alarming if they weren’t pissing each other off - you look up and Wonwoo and say, “I didn’t think you’d emerge tonight.”

“I’m heading right back in,” he admits. “Hydration break. Anyway - question. What’s everyone’s plans for the holidays?”

Mingyu stops scrolling, pausing to think.

“I’ll be home,” Jeonghan says, meaning his hometown.

“Me, too,” Mingyu adds. “I’m leaving on Sunday. Next Sunday, I mean.”

Wonwoo lets out a little sigh. “Okay. My folks were asking when I was coming. Sunny, you’re going home, too?”

“Uh, no, actually,” you admit. “I was staying here.”

You feel rather than see your friends share a glance.

“I can stay, then,” Wonwoo says, a bit tightly - you can tell that wasn’t the plan. “So you aren’t alone.”

“No,” you protest. “I’m perfectly fine being here by myself, you know that.”

“Sunny Baby is an indoor cat,” Mingyu notes, and you bump him with your elbow.

“It’s fine,” you insist. “Plus, I think Daeyoung will be around, so I won’t be alone the whole time anyway.”

Mingyu’s eyes bore into the side of your face, but you don’t look at him; if it’s pity he’s leveling at you, you don’t want it.

“If you’re sure,” Wonwoo says, and when you assure him you do, he vanishes into the kitchen and then back into his room. Mingyu clicks on a movie and you settle in, eventually getting sleepy and shifting sideways, your head resting comfortably on his unfairly sculpted shoulder. He shifts to let you get more comfortable, and the night passes as simply and pleasantly as hundreds before.

When the movie ends, you pick up the bottles and cans from the coffee table while Mingyu does a quick lap of the apartment, turning off lights and making sure doors are locked. You meet outside the bathroom - occupied by Jeonghan - both waiting your turn to brush your teeth and whatever else before bed.

“Sunny Baby,” Mingyu says softly, something tentative in his voice, and you look up at him, heart suddenly thumping. He’s looking at you earnestly in the dim light from the bedrooms down the hall, something you’re not sure you can name on his face. It’s almost pleading, but that doesn’t make sense. “Are you sure you don’t want to come home with me for the holidays? My family would love to have you - they’re obsessed with you, you know that.”

Your heart calms. “It’s really okay,” you promise. “But thanks for checking.”

The bathroom door opens and Jeonghan slips by, leaving a wave of toothpaste-mint in his wake.

“You go ahead,” Mingyu says.

“You were in line first,” you argue.

He rolls his eyes but knows how stubborn you are, so he disappears into the bathroom. You lean your butt against the kitchen table and check your phone for the first time in a while.

Daeyoung had texted shortly after he drove away - probably as soon as he got home.

[11:24pm] Daeyoung: I had a really good time tonight. Looking forward to next week :]

[12:51am] You: me too ☺️

The bathroom door opens and you turn off your phone screen with a click, bidding Mingyu goodnight as you slide into the bathroom’s light.

–

January

New Year’s Eve

Roomies 💕

[11:13pm] (jeong)Han Solo: sunny where’d you end up tonight?

[11:13pm] You: i’m with the girliesss!!! where are you guys

[11:13pm] Cinnamingyu: sunnnyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy baby baby baby

[11:13pm] You: yyyeeesssss??

[11:14pm] (jeong)Han Solo: we’re downtown. mingyu cant come to the phone right now but i think he wants you to come hang out with us

[11:14pm] You: lmao nooooo he didnt even make it to midnight??? thats sad, kim mingyu

[11:16pm] Wonuuu: u ever think about that phrase “can’t come to the phone”… from an era in which you had to walk to the family’s landline phone in the kitchen or whatever… none of us were even alive for that

[11:16pm] You: wow apparently you guys are having a much better time than me

[11:16pm] (jeong)Han Solo: only wonwoo lol ok be safe and have fun!! see you at home

–

[11:14pm] Cinnamingyu: come out!!

[11:14pm] You: i am out! Lol

[11:15am] Cinnamingyu: you know what i mean

[11:16am] You: im sorry :( but we’re across town and by the time we got there we’d miss the countdown

[11:16am] Cinnamingyu: ok 🙁

[11:16am] You: don’t pout!!! i’ll see you at home tomorrow and we can hang out all day

[11:16am] Cinnamingyu: not the same!

[11:17am] You: ok lets take a shot together!!

[11:17am] Cinnamingyu: ???

[11:17am] You: go order one and tell me when you’re ready!!

[11:18am] Cinnamingyu: lmao on it 🫡

[11:28am] Cinnamingyu: ok im ready

[11:28am] You: ok when you get this count to three and take your shot!

[11:29am] You: geonbae or cheers or salute or whatever

[11:29am] Cinnamingyu: or whatever 🙄

[11:29am] You: 😘

New Year’s Day

Roomies 💕

[12:00am] You: HAPPY NEW YEAR LOVES OF MY LIFE LET THIS BE THE BESTEWT YEAR FOR US EVER EVER EVR!!!!!

[12:00am] Wonuuu: happy new year sunny 🙂

[12:00am] (jeong)Han Solo: happy new yearrr 😽

[4:09am] You: home safe ♥️

[10:33am] Wonuuu: i’ll be home tomorrow sunny

[12:42pm] (jeong)Han Solo: i’ll be back tonight but probably not until after dinner

[12:42pm] You: ok! i’ll be here

[3:17pm] (jeong)Han Solo: is mingyu alive???

[3:17pm] You: lol yeah he’s home. he’s just… not in the best shape asfjkasfhaio

[12:00am] Cinnamingyu: happy new year sunny baby 🩷

[12:01am] You: happy new year best friend!!!!!!! ily ily ily!!!!

[12:32am] Cinnamingyu: you kno you could still meet us out nw

[11:23am] Cinnamingyu: can u open the front door… my head hurts too bad to make the keys work

You stagger to the apartment’s front door, eyes squinting against the harsh daylight streaming into the living room and kitchen area. When you unlock and pull open the door, Mingyu almost collapses on top of you.

“Get up,” you groan, shuffling backwards. “You’re too heavy, I can’t hold you!”

“Shhhh,” he whispers, but rights himself to standing.

You stand there for a minute, both of you just grappling with the horrible reality of being awake and upright and, god, very hungover.

“I need to lay down,” Mingyu says finally, very clearly, like he’s had a sudden burst of self-preservation.

“Come on,” you wave at him vaguely and make your way back to bed. You collapse right into the spot you’d vacated when he texted, pulling the blankets up to your ears and closing your eyes, waiting for the bed to dip beside you.

It doesn’t.

You open your eyes again. “Mingyu?”

He appears wordlessly in your doorway, then makes his way over to his side of the bed. The empty side of your bed. Not his. You have to stop thinking that way.

You’re puzzled, but then he leans over and presses a cold water bottle into your hand. Despite his whining, he was still trying to take care of you.

“Did you take any pain killer?” you mumble.

“Probably more than was actually advisable,” he admits, twisting his own water open and drinking noisily. You don’t see a problem with this - Mingyu is gigantic, and you can imagine his dosing needs would reflect it.

“Okay,” you say with a little sigh. “We’ll sleep for a while and then maybe we can try to eat.”

“God, don’t talk about food,” he moans, taking one of your extra pillows and covering his face.

You chuckle lightly, and then roll to hide your face somewhere near his bicep, breathing in his familiar cinnamon scent and matching your breaths to his until you slip back under. The millionth time you’ve fallen asleep next to your best friend, and you’re already eagerly looking ahead to a million and one.

You’re awakened by the sound of someone retching in the bathroom, clear on the other side of the apartment. You scrabble for and glance at your phone - hours have passed. The light in your bedroom has slipped closer to golden as mid-afternoon begins to wane. You sit up tentatively; this time there’s no wave of dizziness as a punishment for being vertical, though your head still pounds.

You drink some of the water Mingyu brought you, answer a text from Jeonghan, then decide to go make sure Mingyu’s alive.

“You need anything?” you call through the door. You can hear the sink run, and the door opens.

“A lobotomy,” he deadpans. He looks miserable, frown pronounced and eyes puffy.

“Get back in bed,” you tell him gently, and he ambles off towards your room. You detour into the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. It might not save him, but you could use some caffeine.

While it brews, you poke your head into your bedroom. Mingyu is back in your bed, curled up pitifully, that pouting frown still prevalent on his face.

“What time did you take something?” you ask him.

“Like ten thirty,” he mumbles into your pillow.

You glance at the clock. “You can have more,” you tell him, and head back across the apartment to pilfer through the medicine cabinet.

With the pill bottle in hand, you stop in the kitchen long enough to pour yourself a cup of coffee. Carefully balancing so as not to spill, you bring it into the bedroom, placing it carefully on your nightstand and then nudging Mingyu’s shoulder.

He whines a response.

“I have drugs for you,” you tell him, and he holds up an open palm without lifting his face.

You drop the medicine into his hand and get comfy back in your spot, even though you think you’re done sleeping for now. Beside you, Mingyu takes the pills and settles back into sleep. He’s snoring before you can even choose a show to watch on your phone.

You look over at him fondly, disaster that he is. Then you settle in deeper, content to let his warmth radiate over to you, content to be by his side.

–

[12:02am] Daeyoung: happy new year! wishing you luck and happiness ☺️

[4:23pm] You: thank you!!! to you as well!!

–

February

Valentine’s Day is an emotional minefield. You don’t know if you want to lean into the bitter and single thing, or if you want to go all Gal-entines and pamper your friends, or if you want to just keep your head down and treat the day like any other fuck-ass Tuesday in winter.

The universe surprises you with a secret fourth option. Or, rather, Daeyoung does.

You’ve lost track counting your dates with him at this point - you are simply dating. Neither of you has pushed for a what is this conversation, and you’re relieved. You like Daeyoung, you like the time you spend together, and you’d be sad if things ended. But at the same time, you don’t feel things getting deeper, and if he pushed you to make this serious, to put parameters on it, you’re not sure how you’d feel.

Something inside you keeps it light - enough so that you don’t even think of doing anything for him to celebrate the holiday.

Apparently, you’re an asshole.

Sometime after ten, your office’s secretary calls you, asking you to come up to reception for a minute. You’re suspicious, but you don’t do the mental math about what day it is until you turn the corner and see the small vase of roses - three of them, arranged with some baby’s breath and a few other fillers you can’t name - sitting on the reception counter.

“These got delivered for you,” she tells you, and it’s clear on her face that she’s dying for you to spill. “Are they from that guy? The tall one who looks like a movie star?”

This would annoy you if you weren’t so used to it. Everyone asks you if you’re with Mingyu - they never understand why you’re not when you two are attached at the hip.

It had happened once - just a kiss at a frat party, in the middle of the dance floor. You’d both been drinking, of course, and pressed close together to dance, his chest against your back and his hands on your hips and then you’d turned and tipped your chin up and his sparkling eyes had gone molten before he’d kissed you and your whole world had been swept away -

And you’d been interrupted, had been literally pulled away to deal with some drama happening in the kitchen, and somehow… you’d never talked about it. It never happened again.

Sometimes, you wonder if you only dreamed it. It wouldn’t surprise you.

But, no. Your imagination is good, but it’s not good enough to come up with the minute details of how his pecs had felt under your hands, how his fingers had felt pressed into the small of your back, how he had almost sighed into your mouth when it opened for him, how he had tasted a bit like cinnamon, courtesy of the fireball shots the frat was giving out like candy.

Anyway. Life goes on, right?

“No,” you tell the secretary quickly, because you know the roses aren’t from Mingyu. Even if he’d done something today, as your friend, he knows you aren’t much of a roses girl. “We’re just friends.” You will the words to leave your mouth without leaving ashes in their wake.

You reach for the small card tied around the thinnest part of the vase to see who did send them.

Thought you deserved something pretty today. Don’t freak out. :] - Daeyoung

The secretary is still watching you, harmlessly curious.

“It’s just a guy I’ve been seeing,” you say. “It’s not serious.”

“Wow,” she says, eyeing the simple arrangement. “Looks like he thinks it’s a little serious - or that it could be.”

“That’s probably true,” you muse out loud, taking the arrangement back to your own cubicle and setting it on your desk. You snap a photo and text it to Daeyoung with a thank you and a row of sobbing emojis. Then you stand behind your chair, eyes on the red petals, your hand pressed to your mouth, processing.

You didn’t expect to feel like this. A fluttering, a rush of excitement. Even though you aren’t into roses, specifically, the thought is very nice. And no one has thought of you, not like this, in a very long time.

When you get home, the apartment is dark and empty. You wonder if any of the guys have dates tonight, or if they’re working late, or with family. You set the roses on the kitchen table, hang up your coat, and then shoot the grouptext a quick “where is everyone?”. Then you head into your room, eager to take a quick shower and change into something comfy.

You freeze when you flick on your bedroom light.

The clutter on your small desk has been pushed to the side, and a clear vase holds a thick bouquet of sunflowers - your favorite.

You hear yourself gasp, the sound echoing through your head on a loop as you stare at the bright, yellow blooms. You step forward on shaky legs, reaching for the tiny card that’s slipped under the vase.

Sunny flowers for Sunny Baby. Love you. - M

The tears come with such unexpected force that you almost laugh through the third sob. You can barely see through the sudden stream of tears, can hear yourself struggling to inhale. You hurry to shut your bedroom door, locking it for good measure, and then those shaking legs of yours give up, and you sink to your knees and weep into your hands, trying to muffle the sounds, just in case anyone comes home.

You cry so hard it makes your abs hurt, makes the muscles in your face feel stretched, nearly makes you gag. You haven’t cried like this since undergrad.

Because he loves you, but he doesn’t love you, and even though you’ve been pretending for so long it’s as unconscious as breathing, it doesn’t shatter you any less.

Because he’s perfect, and he’s yours, but somehow you still don’t have him, and in the meantime no one else will ever be enough - just for not being him.

Because being thought of earlier by Daeyoung was nice, but it is so much better to be known, like this. Mingyu knows you don’t like roses. Mingyu knows your favorites. Mingyu knows you.

And it’s a waste. It’s all for fucking nothing.

When the tears start to settle and you can breathe a little better, you push yourself back to your feet. You listen at your bedroom door and don’t hear anyone, so you hurry across the apartment and into the bathroom, where you blow your nose and splash your face with cold water.

When you come out again, Jeonghan is in the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says, his back to you. When he turns, he freezes, his face dropping. You must be puffy and red, still.

“Hey,” you reply meekly.

“Oh, Sunny,” he says mournfully, stepping closer. “I told him he shouldn’t, but he asked why not, he’s your friend, and I couldn’t say -”

You let out a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah,” you mutter. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

He watches you carefully, probably trying to gauge if you’re lying. Then he spots the roses and lights up.

“Well, well,” he says, a sly smile showing up on his face. “Those are nice.”

“Yeah,” you say again, the only word in your arsenal. “They are. I, um, I think I’m gonna shower. Do you need the bathroom first?”

Under the spray of hot water, you cry a little more, like an aftershock hit you. It’s quiet this time, and you try to shoulder through it as you condition your hair, ready to put this whole episode behind you once you step out into the chilly bathroom air again.

When you emerge, Jeonghan is on the couch. By the sounds coming from down the hallway, Wonwoo has just gotten home and is dumping the contents of his life onto his bedroom floor. Jeonghan opens his mouth to say something, but you lift a fluffy-bathrobe-clad arm and silently shush him.

“It’s fine,” you say again, firmly.

Jeonghan had been your friend first, back in undergrad. You’d brought him into the friend group the same way Mingyu had brought Wonwoo. The four of you had worked cohesively as a friend-and-roommate unit for a long time, but sometimes those old alliances seemed to matter more than others. Jeonghan would never cross the line without your permission, would never tell your secrets if you weren’t willing to tell them yourself. Wonwoo, on the other hand, was much more likely to open his mouth - especially if he thought he was helping.

The front door bursts open, and Mingyu enters the apartment in a cacophony of noise and dropped items, oranges spilling from the bag in his arms and rolling across the floor. You move to pick a few up as he puts the bag of groceries down and pulls his boots off.

“Sunny!” he says, all excitement, eyes shining. “Did you like my gift?”

You can’t even look at Jeonghan, turning your back to him completely as you hold out the oranges you’d collected. Mingyu takes them, but watches you eagerly, waiting for your answer.

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “I loved it.”

His smile triples.

“You better watch out, Mingyu,” Jeonghan says from the couch, and your blood runs as cold as that field of ice, because you know he’s about to start some shit. “Sunny got flowers from her lover today. That guy’s coming for your woman.”

You’re opening your mouth to reprimand him - tell him to shut up, or something - but Mingyu beats you to it.

“Sunny’s not mine,” he says simply.

All that ice evaporates in an instant like it was never there.

“My lover,” you echo with a frown, when you can speak again. “Don’t say it like that, you weirdo.”

“Well, isn’t he?” Jeonghan asks innocently.

You head for your bedroom with a roll of your eyes. “Goodnight, Jeonghan.”

“That means yes,” he sing-songs, and you slam your door shut.

Wonwoo’s voice floats through the door. “Who pissed off Sunshine?”

Mingyu’s grumble responds, “Who do you think?”

–

You and Mingyu lay side by side in the grass, a late spring night unspooling with cricket song and a smattering of flickering stars above you. His arm touches yours and you can feel his chest shift as he breathes deeply.

You feel content - you feel infinite - you feel like one of those blinking stars. You feel like you could lay here next to him in silence and be happy until your light goes out, just like theirs.

“Mingyu,” you say, turning to look at him. The grass tickles your cheek.

He turns to look at you, too. It’s dark, here behind the university’s main hub, most of the lights on the far side of the building. Still, there’s enough light to see his eyes, steady on you, his gaze serious.

“Sunny Baby,” he responds, voice low, like he’s telling you a secret. “I love you.”

You startle awake, heart pounding, and you’re immediately furious.

“Fuck,” you hiss, punching your mattress once.

The pathetic truth is you dream about that night in undergrad all the time - you and Mingyu on one of the last nights before summer break, leaving a party together and laying in the grass behind the advising department building watching the constellations rotate above you.

The pathetic truth is the dream never follows the script, always turning the scene sideways, making it something different than what it was.

The pathetic truth is that Mingyu had been blacked out, more fucked up than you’d ever seen him, and you’d laid in the grass because you physically couldn’t keep him upright any further than that and you’d had to text Wonwoo to come help you.

You hadn’t said anything to Mingyu - at least not something meaningful. You might have said please don’t puke on me, or god, you weigh a ton, or how many jaeger bombs did you do?

He had said he loved you - had slurred it, eyes closed.

You had laughed, even though it had sent a dagger through your chest. “Okay, Romeo,” you’d teased, and checked your phone to see if Wonwoo was on his way to help.

“I do,” he’d insisted, one hand patting the grass next to him like he was trying to find you. “Sunny, I love you.”

You didn’t know how he meant it - still don’t know, to this day, because you don’t think he even remembered saying it and you’d been too afraid to bring it up.

What were you supposed to say? Hey, when you were blacked out last night, you said you love me… do you mean like… platonically… or…?

God. The idea of it is just as humiliating now, years later, as it had been in the weeks that followed that night. And though he’s said it regularly since then - like on this fucking card with the sunflowers - he never said it like that, and you never pushed it.

Now, awake and furious and sad at three in the morning, you grab your phone and climb out of bed.

You know you shouldn’t. You know it’s only making this worse for you. But you make your way on light steps through the dark and silent apartment to Mingyu’s door and push it open.

Is it mithridatism, this thing you do? Microdosing on the poison so that a full dose won’t kill you? No, that isn’t right. A full dose of Mingyu wouldn’t kill you. It’s an absence of Mingyu that you need protected from.

You climb into his bed and poke at his calves with your toes until he grunts as he wakes. Then, as he gathers his senses, he rolls to look at you over his shoulder.

“Bad dream?” he asks, voice kind of breathy with sleep.

“Mhm.”

He rolls the rest of the way, lifts his arm so you can scoot a little closer. You breathe easier immediately. It makes no sense that the thing that hurts you is also the only thing that makes you feel better.

“Won’t your lover object to you getting in bed with me?” he asks, and you can hear the edge in his voice as clear as day.

You let out a single, wry ha. He’s got a point, but Daeyoung isn’t your boyfriend, you aren’t exclusive, and what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

“Nah,” you say easily. “I’m not his.”

March

March can’t make up its mind if it’s winter or spring. Warm days lull you into a false sense of security, and then a blistering cold rushes in just to call you a fool.

You’re the last one to get to the bar on Friday night after work, and you have to stand awkwardly next to the booth the guys have staked out and unwrap yourself - hat, scarf, gloves, puffer coat, big heavy sweater - before you can actually slide into the empty spot next to Mingyu.

“Hi bestie,” he says, immediately draping his arm behind your shoulders, resting on the back of the wooden bench. “How was your day?”

“Fuck Marcus in Accounting,” you answer.

“Fuck Marcus in Accounting,” your roommates all answer solemnly, because this is a common gripe.

“Fireball and ginger ale it is, then,” Mingyu says, and climbs over you to head to the bar, his own empty beer glass in hand. When he slides the cocktail glass in front of you and scoots back to his original spot, you fill the guys in on Marcus’s Bullshit of the Day.

“And then,” you finish the story, “I was like yeah, I know you did, Marcus, because she blind-copied me on her reply and you should have seen the color his face turned so I think it’s fair to say I won this round.”

“I’m surprised they aren’t all scared of you,” Wonwoo remarks.

“Marcus is,” you say, glowering at your now-empty cocktail glass. “That’s why he’s such a dick. He hates that he’s intimidated.”

Mingyu’s arm has slid down from the back of the bench and rests lightly across your shoulder by this point, and he gives you a playful squeeze into his side as he laughs.

He starts telling a story next, and you listen as you slip your phone out and check your texts. Daeyoung had texted you a while ago, and you shoot him a quick answer that you’re out with your roommates for Friday drinks, and then dial back into the conversation.

When Mingyu’s glass is empty again, you rise, taking the empties up to the bar and signalling for another of each. While you wait, elbows on the bar, you check your phone again. Daeyoung had texted back, asking where you guys were drinking.

You hesitate. The idea of incorporating Daeyoung into the group makes you nervous. Behind you, you can hear Mingyu yapping a thousand miles a minute, and Jeonghan’s distinctive heh heh heh in answer. It’s not that you don’t think the guys will be nice… it just feels like a big move.

It might be nice to have him there, though - someone on your side when Jeonghan and Mingyu gang up on you and Wonwoo is too in his own world to be effective back-up, someone to hold your hand and get your drinks, someone to be in your own private little bubble with when the conversation ebbs and flows away from topics you can engage with.

You send him back “just a little place by the apartment!” which is technically true, and then grab the refreshed drinks for you and Mingyu.

The guys are getting up, making noise about a just-vacated darts board, so you swivel and turn to follow them, a cold drink in each hand.

“Sunny Baby,” Mingyu tells you, half an hour later, bending down low so he can talk close to your ear over the loud music, “you have to put more muscle into it. You have to throw it like you want to pierce it.”

“I don’t think it’s that serious, actually!” you tell him cheerfully, and down the rest of your drink, pushing the empty glass into his giant hand. His turn.

He shoots you a grin so sharp and devilish that it makes your whole body fight a shudder, and then he disappears off to the bar.

You heckle Jeonghan through his turn (unsuccessfully - he’s way better at this than you) and then glance at the bar to see if the bartenders have gotten to Mingyu yet in the crowd. He’s facing you, his arms crossed, that same devilish smile on his face. He leans sideways on the bar, where your drink and his own beer sit sweating, forgotten.

The girl he’s smiling at has her back to you, which is a miracle, because if she’d been able to see your face fall, she probably would have back-pedaled out of the conversation immediately - it would be impossible for her not to see that she was walking into a flashing neon sign screaming this situation is a mess!!!!

When she laughs, throwing her head back, and reaches a hand out to touch his forearm, you feel the whole bar swoop sideways around you. You’re fumbling for your phone, even as you hear Mingyu’s answering laugh cut through all the loud music and conversations filling the space, even as you watch through your periphery as he gives her a return nudge to the shoulder, playful, that smile only growing.

You’re going to be sick.

You shoot Daeyoung a text - sorry, I should have told you which bar. I’m leaving now though. Do you want to come get me? We could chill for a little? - and then you push your way through the bar, not even bothering to tell Jeonghan and Wonwoo goodbye. You make an extra effort to skirt the opposite wall as the bar, hoping you get out without Mingyu spotting you.

There’s no way you could fake it right now. Zero chance. If he came after you, it would all be out in the open.

Daeyoung answers you almost immediately - no worries! sure, send me your location. you want to hang at my place?

Outside, the cold air assaults you. You immediately hesitate, wishing you’d grabbed your coat. You’ll get pneumonia waiting for Daeyoung without it.

You’re saved the trouble of going back in - the door opens and someone comes out after you. But it isn’t Mingyu - it’s Jeonghan, giving you the heaviest side-eye you’ve ever seen from him, your coat in his hands.

“Thank you,” you breathe when he’s close enough, taking the coat and sliding it over your arms. “It’s freezing.”

“Sunny,” he says, and something in his voice makes you pause. “I think we should talk.”

You cover your face with one hand, embarrassed and spent and tired. “About what?” you ask flatly, just to buy yourself a second. You know the answer. Of course you do.

He levels you with a look. “This can’t continue,” he says firmly. “For you, or for him, or for me and Wonwoo.”

You scoff. “What do you two have to do with it?”

You’ve never seen him this serious, and it scares you a little. “Do you think it’s easy for me to watch you get hurt?”

You lower your gaze to the ground and don’t answer this; it feels rhetorical.

“But you’re right - it’s not about us. It’s about you. Something has to give,” he says gently. “Either face it and get your answer, or let it go.”

“It’s not that simple,” you argue.

“Yes, it is that simple,” he retorts. “It’s just scary. But that’s not the same thing.”

“I can’t tell him,” you say, because it’s true. You can’t. You can’t. “What if it messed up everything for all of us?”

What if you lost him completely? What if he moved out? What if he stopped talking to you?

Jeonghan doesn’t reply to this at first, he just watches you carefully, then tucks a long strand of dark hair behind his ear.

“You can,” he says finally, still gentle. “But… if you won’t… then you have to let him go.”

Your stomach drops at the words, even though this is a truth you’ve been aware of for ages, have been doing your best to avoid.

“I don’t know how to do that,” you whisper. And it’s true - loving Mingyu feels as instinctual as your heartbeat, intrinsically part of who you are. How can you separate it out, shut it down?

“Stop sharing a bed with him,” Jeonghan suggests, and it’s so simple and straight-forward and correct that you can’t think of a single argument. “Quit texting him but ignoring everyone else. Stop cuddling with him on the couch after work. Quit-”

“Alright, I get it,” you snap, the defensiveness rising up again like muddy waters.

“I’m not sure you do,” he says, and the gentleness is gone from his tone; you’ve moved into the Tough Love section of the lecture, apparently. “You can’t keep playing house with him, pretending you’re together, and then falling apart every time he makes it clear that it isn’t real. You’ll never feel better like this. It will never change, Sunny. You’ll be like this, forever. Is that what you want?”

Your throat is tight and sharp, and you blink quickly, eyes on the ground again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he says it like he aches. Maybe he means it. “You could talk to him, you could at least see what he says -”

“No,” you interrupt. “No. I can’t do that.”

He shrugs, big and exaggerated. “Then move on. There are other people in the world who’d be happy to love you the right way. You can’t give any of them a proper chance if you’re holding it against them that they aren’t Mingyu.”

Like the one you ignored all night, who is still on his way to pick your ass up right now…

You push your hands against your eyes like you can block out the truth of what he’s saying, but you don’t say anything.

Jeonghan reaches out and rubs your shoulder. “I’m gonna go back in,” he says, gentle again. “It’s freezing out here. Just… think about it.”

“I’m thinking,” you say dryly.

He nods, then disappears back into the bar, the wave of sound crashing and fading as the door opens and closes.

You stay outside and wait for Daeyoung’s car, your hands going numb from the cold. You run the whole thing over and over in your head, replay Jeonghan’s words, daydream a hundred conversations with Mingyu each with different endings.

You think maybe you should take Jeonghan’s advice - put some physical distance between you and Mingyu, just as a starting point.

You hate the idea of it. But you know he’s right.

When Daeyoung pulls up, you slide into the passenger seat and tell him thank you, leaning over to kiss his cheek. He smiles at you, all sweet, and then whisks you away. Halfway to his place, he glances over at you.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he observes. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie, and then instantly feel bad for it. “Just… argued with my roommate. I’m kind of cranky.”

He reaches out and squeezes your knee once, reassuringly. “Well, you’re welcome to stay with me,” he says, and when you whip around to look at him, he laughs. “I wasn’t being presumptuous. I just meant if you needed some space from them, you’re welcome. That’s all.”

“Yeah, okay,” you repeat, settling back against the seat. “We’ll see.”

You keep your eyes on the window for the rest of the drive.

You wonder if Mingyu brought that girl home, and then you shove that thought away, because you’re letting him go, starting tonight, and those thoughts aren’t going to serve you anymore.

And then you wonder the same thing again five minutes later.

–

April

Winter softens, the temperature sturdies itself, and the season forms solidly into rain-logged spring.

“Sunny Baby,” Mingyu sings. Even on the greyest, soggiest days you turn to him like a plant turns to sun. “I’m bored.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” you quip.

He drapes himself over you in retaliation, long arms and legs hanging heavy towards the floor as his torso smothers your face, drowning in you in his cinnamon-tinged scent.

You protest wordlessly and shove at him, and he laughs, his abs working near your chest with the motion.

“Entertain me,” he whines.

Things have been different - weird different, sometimes even bad different - for a few weeks now, all because of Jeonghan. You choose to blame him, anyway.

What he said to you plays in your head on loop all day every day, and suddenly you don’t know how to act right with Mingyu, causing you to overcorrect and swerve wildly. Sometimes you’re spending the entire day with him, touching and talking and leaning into it - then you think about it too hard and you spend the next two days icing him out.

It’s confusing for both of you. You can tell he notices, can tell he’s baffled by the change. More than once you’ve caught him looking at you like you’re a problem to solve - that face he makes when something isn’t working, or he’s got an equation of some sort to work out. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make you feel bad about it, doesn’t confront you, just takes what you’ll give him with a smile.

You haven’t gone to his room in the middle of the night since your talk with Jeonghan, either. It feels like quitting something. The withdrawal eats at your nerves, the cravings taking over until you can’t focus on anything else. More than one night since then you’ve laid awake, staring at your ceiling, heart pounding as you argue with yourself - just go, you’ll sleep and you’ll feel better waging war against Jeonghan’s you can’t keep pretending you’re together and then falling apart when he makes it clear that it isn’t real.

Each time, you’d ended up staying in your own bed. Jeonghan is right. You knew it when he said it, and you know it now. You have to let go if you’re ever going to be happy. You can’t keep living in the shadows of Mingyu’s life, waiting for him to come give you just a slice of himself and pretending to be sated by it.

“I can’t entertain you, you pain in my ass,” you say, as he allows you to roll his heavy body off of yours and onto the other side of your bed. “I have a date with Daeyoung in like an hour. I need to go shampoo.”

“Booooo,” he complains. Then he props himself up on one elbow and gives you that familiar look again - the math problem look. Not calculating, exactly, but definitely evaluating. “You’ve been seeing him for a while,” he remarks, and you can hear the effort to keep his tone casual, which makes you wonder what he’s hiding.

“Like four months,” you say, not sure if this is agreeing with him or not.

He nods, then rolls to face your ceiling, arms behind his head. It does disgusting things to his biceps, and you look away, sitting up and reaching for your phone to check the time.

“How’s that going?” he asks, still all casual.

“Good,” you say airily, still not looking at him.

“Sunny,” he says, a bit more seriously, and it’s enough to make you glance his way. He’s facing you, arms still behind his head, but watching. “Why won’t you talk to me about it?”

Ice flows through your veins so quickly that you have the urge to blow on your fingers to warm them. Talk to me about it. You take a calming breath, remind yourself that he’s asking about Daeyoung, not about your feelings in general.

“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug. “Just feels weird.”

“It didn’t used to,” he says, and you know exactly what he means. You’d always talked to him about anything - including boys and crushes.

He doesn’t ask so what’s different now, but you know the answer anyway. You’re afraid you’ll say anything, and Mingyu - who knows you better than anyone else - will hear everything you aren’t trying to say. How you feel about him, how you’ve been trying to create distance and boundaries, how it’s been unsuccessful because you have no sense of consistency, how you can’t seem to accept that you don’t get to have him, how Daeyoung is so nice and fun and cute but still can’t silence the urge behind your ribs that screams for Mingyu.

“Yeah,” you sigh, acknowledging that he’s right - that you used to tell him everything. “I don’t know, Mingyu. It’s good. I like him. Like… I don’t necessarily think he’s The One or anything, but I’d be upset if we broke up?”

Mingyu nods, something complicated on his face. “Well,” he says finally, “That’s good. I’m glad it’s going well. You deserve it.”

There’s something flat in his voice, and you stand because you can’t just sit there next to him right now.

“Thanks,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say. “Well… I’m gonna go shower so I’m not late.” You grab the few things you need from your room and pause in your doorway. He’s pulled out his phone, his thumb swiping slowly and his eyes on the screen, and you carry on across the hallway, leaving him behind.

The way you need to. The way you’re trying to.

Daeyoung takes you to dinner, making you laugh so hard you have to wipe under your eyes, and listening intently when you bitch about work (and, yes, Marcus in Accounting).

After, as you walk along the river, looking out at the lights, Daeyoung reaches for your hand, and you link fingers.

This is what you need - to lean into it with someone, to really try with someone. Maybe that will ease this process of shifting Mingyu to the background. Maybe you just need to try.

Like he can read your mind, Daeyoung slows, turning to look at you. He says your name hesitantly, and you match his slowed pace, waiting.

“We’ve been doing this for a while,” he says, kind of hesitantly, “and I kind of wanted to see if we’re on the same page.”

When you just look at him, he forges ahead, the words rushing out of him now. “I really like you, and I really like this… and I was wondering how you’d feel about… maybe being more official?”

You feel yourself flush, a smile tugging at your lips. “Are you… asking me to be your girlfriend?”

He smiles back, relief washing over his face. “Yeah,” he says, much more confident now. “Yes, I am.”

You lick your lips, suddenly unsure. “Daeyoung,” you say, and you watch his face fall. You hurry to amend - “No, I’m not saying no! It’s just… I don’t know… I feel like we’ve kept things pretty… light. And I just worry that if we get more serious and you see more of me… you might…”

You trail off. He watches you intently, and then finishes for you, “Change my mind?”

You nod meekly. What if you can’t do it - what if you can’t push Mingyu out of your head and heart, what if you can’t start fresh with someone? Daeyoung has been wonderful to you. He doesn’t deserve to get hurt. He doesn’t deserve to be second choice, doesn’t deserve to be a consolation prize.

You can’t say yes if that’s what this will be. You need to be sure you’re all in, you need to be sure you want him and not just the fresh start he represents.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say instead, quietly.

He considers this, watching you carefully. “Why do you think you will?”

It’s a fair question. “I’m… trying to get over someone,” you force yourself to say. He deserves to know what he’s walking into.

You watch his face for any change in expression. His expression does ripple a little, and then he licks his lips and asks, “And how’s that going?”

You scuff the toe of one shoe absently along the pavement. “Goes better when you’re around,” you admit. “But I don’t want to be… like… using you, I guess? It feels… unfair.”

He nods. “I appreciate that,” he says, looking away from you, at the river. He’s quiet for a while and then asks, “Are you into this? With me?”

“Yes,” you say emphatically, because despite the Mingyu of it all, it’s true. “I just don’t want you to end up with regrets.”

He smiles kind of ruefully. “Thanks for being honest,” he says, brushing the back of your hand with his thumb.

“What are you thinking?” you ask in a whisper. You really hope you aren’t breaking up right now, but you wouldn’t blame him if he called it off.

He lets out a long breath, very slowly, measured. “I’m thinking that no one can make promises at the beginning of a relationship.”

Your stomach jolts, terrified, at the word. He continues, oblivious.

“But,” he says, “you just take it a day at a time. That’s all I’m asking for - just a day. And then maybe another. We can go from there.”

You consider this, that tiny smile returning. He waits for your answer.

“Okay,” you say finally. “Yeah. If you’re sure you want that, then… yes.”

“Yes?” he repeats, like he needs to be sure. He’s already grinning, despite the turn the conversation had taken on the way here.

You laugh, feeling suddenly shy. “Yeah. Yes.”

He kisses you next to the singing river, and later you take a selfie together beside a food cart. You post it to social media with a blue heart emoji for the caption.

You swallow hard and swipe roughly to remove the notification when Mingyu likes the picture minutes later.

–

May

“Kim Mingyu!” you bellow, scooping up an armload of shirts and socks from the living room floor. “Get your gross, sweaty clothes off of our shared couch! The hamper is like three feet away!”

“Yah,” he complains, coming to take the offending pile from you. “You never cared before!”

“Well now her boyfriend is coming over,” Jeonghan says, somehow making the word sound sleezy. “She wants it to be pretty in here.”

“I hate you both,” you say. “I only like Wonwoo. He’s my only friend. Wonwoo, you’re my only friend.”

Wonwoo gives you a very deadpan finger heart from his spot on the couch.

Unfortunately, Jeonghan is kind of right.

You’ve mostly spent time out with Daeyoung or at his place - mostly because he lives alone and you live with a cast of clowns. But he has come over a handful of times. Sometimes he’s only there long enough to stand awkwardly by the front door while you finish putting on jewelry and shoes before whisking you away; other times he’s stayed to eat take-away and watch a movie as the aforementioned clowns filter in and out, leaving snappy comments like use protection in their wake.

Tonight’s the first time that the plan is for everyone to hang out. To say you’re nervous is an understatement, as evidenced by the uncharacteristic way you pace the house, adjusting items Daeyoung has already seen out of place as if it makes any difference.

“Sunny Baby,” Mingyu finally says, coming up and putting his hands on your shoulders, trying to still you. You pull back from his touch as gently as you can, trying to make that space with some subtly. “Why are you freaking out? He’s been here before.”

“Yeah, you’re right, why would I be nervous?” you ask sarcastically. “Why would I be nervous to have my boyfriend come over for games and movies with three notoriously very nice people who never make trouble?”

“Rude,” Wonwoo remarks from the couch.

“Not you, Wonwoo, you’re my only friend,” you tell him without even turning your head. You hear Jeonghan snort.

“You said three,” Mingyu points out seriously, stepping back from you like he silently got the memo about space. “That includes Wonwoo.”

“Fine, I retract my statement. Two people who make trouble, and then one person who knows how to be normal sometimes.”

A knock on the door interrupts you before anyone can push your buttons any further.

“Be nice,” you tell them sternly as you head to open the door. “Be normal. For the love of god, at least try.”

“She has no faith in us,” Jeonghan says sadly behind you.

“We probably shouldn’t try Monopoly tonight,” Mingyu remarks, and you hate that he’s right.

You all almost broke up over Monopoly, once. You never played again.

“Yeah, put that one away,” you agree, as you pull the door open.

Daeyoung greets you with a smile and a small bouquet of flowers - nothing too fancy, just a little something. You pay for them with a smile and a kiss, lifting onto your tiptoes to reach his lips.

“Awwww, so cute,” Jeonghan coos from across the apartment.

“Jeonghan,” you say sharply. “What did we talk about?”

Daeyoung feigns a pout. “You don’t think we’re cute?”

You slap at his arm playfully and step back to let him in. You head to the kitchen to find a vase for the flowers, listening as the men all exchange heys and how’ve you beens.

You all settle for a variation of Rummy, sitting around the kitchen table with a smattering of snacks and drinks, chatting easily as you play.

At the end of the second hand, you ask, “Wait, what does that put me at?”

“Sixty-two,” Daeyoung says, just as Mingyu says, “Sixty-three.”

You look at them both blankly. You and numbers don’t vibe.

Jeonghan looks at the little note on his phone where he was tallying scores. “Sixty-three,” he confirms.

“Whoops,” Daeyoung says apologetically. “I wasn’t trying to short you on points, sweetheart.”

All three of your roommates stiffen, and you feel your face heat. “No worries,” you say quickly, reaching to cut the deck for the next hand. “Whose turn is it?”

Be normal, be normal, be normal, you mentally beg the clowns.

“I think it’s mine, sweetie-pie,” Jeonghan deadpans. You kick him ferociously under the table, not even trying to be subtle, and he swears.

“Knock it off,” you growl.

“You’re upsetting pookie, hyung,” Mingyu says somberly.

“I hate all of you,” you whine. And then, on instinct, “Not you, Wonwoo.”

Daeyoung looks around the table, amused. “Is this always how it is around here?”

“Basically,” Wonwoo admits. “Just usually with a lot more -” He stops short, coughing, and reaches for his drink. You all wait, your heart thrumming nervously. You’re sure he’d been about to drop a crack about you and Mingyu’s physical affection. “A lot more yelling,” he finishes. “This is everyone on their best behavior, because Sunny threatened us.”

Daeyoung laughs, and you pray that the moment went unnoticed. You can tell Mingyu is a bit still on your other side, and if it was a month ago you would have reached over to him already, soothed a hand down his arm or pressed your cheek to his shoulder until he untensed. You rest your hands in your lap, instead, eyes on your cards.

After Rummy, which Jeonghan wins by a landslide, you all head to the couches for a movie. Your roommates and you have always had unspoken “spots”, but Daeyoung’s presence throws the balance off entirely. Normally you’d be next to Mingyu but he takes Jeonghan’s spot, leaving the other guys to buffer as they try to figure out a new arrangement.

“Here,” Daeyoung says, tugging on your wrist until you settle on his lap, legs hanging just off the side of his own, “we can make room.”

Jeonghan tosses you a small blanket and a wink and settles in on the far side of your couch, giving the two of you lots of room. Wonwoo flicks off the overhead lights and settles next to Mingyu, the two of them awkwardly squished on the two-seater. But, blessedly, no one complains as the opening score emanates from the sound bar.

As the movie begins, you relax, leaning sideways against Daeyoung’s chest, his arms looped around you. You stomp down on the intrusive thought that wants to compare how comfortable this is to how comfortable you’d been with Mingyu for past movie nights, internally hissing at your own brain for the unwelcome thought.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice low, only for you, one hand rubbing the small of your back lightly.

“Mhm,” you assure him, reaching up to kiss the edge of his jaw, the only bit of him that you can reach comfortably. He smiles down at you, endeared, and then turns his attention to the television again. You can feel someone’s eyes on you, but you refuse to look, refuse to give attention to whoever is trying to heckle you right now. They can’t just let you live, huh?

Halfway through the movie, Mingyu stands, moving out of the way of the screen quickly and heading to the kitchen. You don’t lift your head from Daeyoung’s check, just watching him go through the corners of your eyes.

“Anyone need a drink?” he calls from the kitchen. “Hyung? Sunny Baby?”

Daeyoung physically recoils, his head snapping back so he can look at you, wide-eyed. You look back at him the same way, feeling like you’ve been caught at something.

“It’s just habit,” you say, quietly, and Jeonghan turns away, shifting awkwardly next to you two. “Old nickname from a million years ago.”

Daeyoung nods, but his face is still a bit stricken.

“Hello?” Mingyu calls from the kitchen. “Beer? Anyone?”

“No, thanks!” you call back, trying to force your voice to come out cheerful.

When he returns, flopping unceremoniously into his spot next to Wonwoo, Daeyoung’s arms tighten around you.

You close your eyes, frustrated. You hope you can salvage this. You’d been afraid from the jump that the Mingyu factor - even with the changes you’ve been purposely making, all that space - would damage what you have with Daeyoung, as effective as a drop of ink in a bucket of water.

When the movie ends, Wonwoo gives a polite goodbye and vanishes into his lair and you lead Daeyoung back towards the front door. Behind you, you can hear the tell-tale clicks of bottles as Jeonghan and Mingyu start picking up the food and drinks.

“I’m sorry,” you say, as soon as you have some semblance of privacy in the entryway. “I knew hanging out here was going to be a mess.”

Daeyoung manages a smile. “It wasn’t a mess,” he says. “I just didn’t realize how close you all were.”

He’s being too nice. You feel terrible.

“I think we might get less close very soon if they can’t get their shit together,” you grumble, which makes him laugh, some of the tension alleviating.

“Well,” Daeyoung says, suddenly turning conspiratory, “while your place was very fun… what would you say to some fun at my place now?”

You giggle. “I wouldn’t hate that plan,” you say coyly, smiling up at him. “Quieter, there. Fewer clowns.”

He laughs again, even as he reaches to tilt your jaw up, shuffling you backwards against the entryway wall as his lips find yours.

As the kiss warms you, your hands finding the front of his shirt and bunching it into your fists, heat beginning to trickle out of hiding in your belly, you hear footsteps and an abrupt, “Oh - shit - sorry - my bad -”

“Your place,” you say against Daeyoung’s lips as Mingyu retreats back to the kitchen. You can practically feel through the wall how red his ears are.

Daeyoung lets you out of his embrace and you hurry to your room to toss a few things together - toothbrush, phone charger, clothes - and come to get your jacket.

“Bye, idiots!” you call through the apartment. Then, “Not you, Wonwoo!” and you close the door behind you with a giggle, following Daeyoung down the stairs.

On the other side of the wall, safely hidden in the kitchen, Mingyu stands staring blankly at the pantry, one hand over his mouth, still as a statue. What is this feeling churning in his gut? He feels sick, and he can’t put a name to it but he hates how it crawls through his system.

Jeonghan appears next to him, placing two more dirty cups in the sink. He lets out a single, wry laugh when he sees Mingyu standing there.

“Yeah, dude,” he says easily as he leaves again. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

–

June

You and Mingyu lay side by side in the grass, a late spring night unfurling with distant thunder and a smattering of fireflies lazily drifting through the trees beyond the garden. His arm brushes yours and you can hear his breathing as he exhales slowly.

You feel happy - you feel infinite - you feel like one of those distant cracks of ferocious thunder. You feel like you could lay here next to him in silence and be happy until your joy has to burst from you, just like the clouds on the horizon.

“Mingyu,” you say, turning to look at him. The grass tickles your cheek.

“Sunny Baby,” he responds, voice low, like he’s telling you a secret. “I love you.”

You wake up with faint tear-tracks on your cheeks, and you growl out a frustrated breath.

“I need a lobotomy,” you grumble, wiping at your cheeks and trying to get comfortable again, hoping to go back to sleep - with less ridiculous dreams.

It doesn’t happen. You flop from side to side over the course of half an hour, and then give up. You reach for your nightstand to see if you have any water, but there’s nothing but your phone and the lamp. With a sigh, you push yourself out from under the blankets and pad into the kitchen.

You’re letting a glass fill with tap water when you hear one of the other doors down the hallway open. You turn, peering through the moonlit living room, to see who else is up. The clock above the stove says it’s four in the morning.

“Sunny Baby,” Mingyu says, his voice rough with sleep. His hair is sticking up in the back. Your stomach lurches with the sick desire to smooth it down. “Why are you up?”

“Had a bad dream,” you lie. It was a good dream. Nothing bad about it until you wake up and feel guilty because of Daeyoung, and angry because your brain and heart are holding you fucking hostage. “Couldn’t get back to sleep.” That part’s true.

“Poor Sunny Baby,” he croons, coming closer, the darkness making his form seem even bigger. “Come on - we’ll get comfy.” Just like we used to, he doesn’t say.

Your heart slams against your chest. “Oh,” you say softly. Because, yeah, a few months ago you wouldn’t have even needed him to invite you - you would have been there already, snuggling into the space next to his ribs, breathing him in until sleep returns to you. “Mingyu, I can’t.”

The blanket of darkness makes him bold. He scoffs, not even trying to hide it. “Why not? Because of that guy?” Like he doesn’t know Daeyoung’s name, like the last five months never happened. That guy.

“Because I want to respect my relationship?” you correct gently. “Yes, that’s why. It wouldn’t be right, and you know it.”

You stand in silence for a moment, barely able to see each other across the darkened space, at an impasse. Then, he scoffs again, lighter this time.

“Fine,” he says, moving past you towards the bathroom - probably the reason he was up in the first place. “Suit yourself.”

When he passes back through the living room on his way back to bed, you’re curled up on the couch under one of the blankets, the tv on with the sound turned low. He doesn’t even look at you as he turns down the hall and shuts his bedroom door behind him. You hear the lock click. You press your hands to your face and will yourself to breathe deep. Crying over him while asleep is one thing. Doing it while awake feels like a betrayal.

Just one more you can add to your list.

–

“Hey!” you yell across the noisy room. Mingyu turns from where he’s standing near your bedroom door, talking to a few guys who you’ve seen around here but whose names you forget. Seok… something. The other one might be a Chan, you’re not sure. Mingyu lifts an eyebrow, waiting for whatever request you’re going to shout at him.

“Can you get the door for me?” you call, trying to be louder than the music and chatter. Your apartment is bursting with people as Mingyu’s annual summer bash is well underway. You’re at the pong table - your kitchen table, shoved halfway into the living room - a slightly sticky plastic ball in hand. “Daeyoung is here, I can feel my phone going off.”

Mingyu gives you a wordless salute and shuffles off towards the front door, and you close one eye, lean forward as far as the others will let you without calling a foul, and line up your shot.

You sink it just seconds before you feel someone’s hands on your hips. You straighten up and turn to greet Daeyoung with a kiss, firm and confident courtesy of many drinks. The party’s been going for a few hours already, and you and the guys pregamed before the guests started showing up.

“Hi!” you chirp when you part. “Glad you made it!”

“This is a lot of people,” he says back, looking around your living room and kitchen a bit incredulously. “You said you guys do this every year?”

You nod seriously. “We bribe our neighbors. I mean, they’re all invited of course, but we also try to do something nice to make up for the one night of noise. Last year I baked cookies. This year we just went straight to cash.”

He laughs, and you lead him through the throng of people into the kitchen for a drink.

“I’m glad you came,” you say again, as he stands before the open fridge, scanning beer bottle labels for something palatable. He sends you a smile over his shoulder, then picks a bottle and turns. You place the opener into his waiting hand.

“You look good tonight,” he tells you, all glinty, looking at you sideways. You pretend to preen.

“Sunny always looks good,” Jeonghan asserts, breezing in behind you holding a bowl full of chips.

“Are you sharing those?” you demand. “You can’t gatekeep the good ones, Jeonghan. We’ve talked about this.”

“Gatekeep, girlboss, whatever the third one is!” he replies, zipping back out of the kitchen as quickly as he’d come.

Out in the living room, you hear the familiar sound of the karaoke machine booting up. There’s a telltale scraping - the pong table being shoved against the far wall to make more room for jumping around while aiming for that perfect score.

When you and Daeyoung make it into the living room again, Mingyu and one of the friends whose names you forgot are singing together. Mingyu’s all irony, eyes closed in mock passion as he clutches his mic with both hands, but his friend is actually good, voice sailing over the higher notes without error.

“Wow,” you say. “That guy can actually sing.”

One of your friends, a girl you lovingly call Ethel because of the style of grandma glasses she favors, stops in front of you, pushing little plastic shot glasses into your hands.

“Are you the boyfriend?” she asks Daeyoung, somewhat breathlessly. “I’ve been dying to actually meet you. She’s been keeping you a secret.”

“I have not!” you reply hotly, as Daeyoung laughs, introducing himself.

“It’s nice to meet her other friends,” he says, and she rolls her eyes.

“I know, it’s hard to separate her from these guys,” she says. “They deserve a sitcom.”

“I’m standing right here,” you protest.

Jeonghan appears behind you, too close. “We have a little problem in the kitchen,” he whispers.

You excuse yourself, leaving Daeyoung with Ethel - who will hopefully say nothing too incriminating about you and Mingyu’s blurry-lined friendship.

In the kitchen, Wonwoo is kneeling on the floor, his upper body hidden in the cupboard under the sink. When he shuffles back out, the front of his shirt is wet. You can see a bit of water starting to pool on the boards below the cleaning supplies.

“Uh oh,” you say.

Mingyu appears to your left, solid and warm against your arm. Then he crouches, peering under the sink.

“Can I have someone’s phone?” he asks, and you pass him yours. He turns on the flashlight and shines it at the pipes. You watch his face do that thing - that calculating look, the problem-solving look.

“It’s this one,” he says, pointing to something you can’t see under there. “Where’s our toolbox?”

“Great question,” Wonwoo says, mouth twisting as he tries to remember. “Laundry room?”

“I think so,” you say. “I think it’s on the shelf in there.”

Mingyu scoots out from under the sink and disappears into the little nook you all graciously call a laundry room, since it does have a functional door, then reappears with two tools in hand. You don’t know what they are - you’ve never needed to.

You and Jeonghan and Wonwoo stand around him, worried, like you’re waiting for a doctor to emerge through hospital doors to report on the status of a loved one. When Mingyu backs out of the cabinet again, it’s with an air of smugness.

“All set,” he says, one side of his mouth quirking proudly.

“Our hero,” Jeonghan deadpans.

“This is why we keep you around,” you tell him.

“Get the man a shot,” Jeonghan says, swiveling to the collection of bottles on the counter.

Daeyoung finds you on the kitchen floor, using a rag to wipe up any bits of water. Wonwoo and Mingyu both disappeared to change into dry shirts, you think.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you tell him, wiping one last spot and leaning up on your knees to look around for any areas you might have missed. The last thing you need is for someone to slip in here. “The sink broke. It’s okay now, Mingyu fixed it.”

“Well, thank god for Mingyu,” he says, and you look up at him, not sure if you’re imagining the edge in his voice. Are you? Did you project that?

“Well,” you say, “kind of! Because four of us live here, and only one person could solve the problem.”

He laughs reluctantly. “I can fix a sink,” he says, a bit of a pout in his voice.

You stand, returning the rag to the counter. “I’ll make sure to ask you first next time,” you say, leaning up to brush your lips teasingly across his. “I just thought the rent-payer should handle the problem before the guests.”

“I guess that’s fair,” he allows, smiling bigger.

A while later, you find yourself in Wonwoo’s room, leaning against the wall watching somewhat absently as he and one of his friends play a POV shooter game, their brows furrowed in concentration and fingers flying on the controls.

Daeyoung had been with you only moments ago, reporting into your ear on the game’s happening like a sports commentator to make you laugh, but he’d gone to get you each a new drink. Mingyu appears in his absence, and you can tell immediately that he’s sloppy.

“Sunny Baby,” he sings, draping an arm over your shoulders.

You can’t help but smile, even as you try to shift out from under his arm. “Yes?” you sing back teasingly. “Can I help you?”

“Mhm,” he hums. “You can stay just like this.” He wraps his other arm around you, and you laugh, pushing very gently at his chest.

“Mingyu,” you protest, laughing. “Get off me.”

“I will in one second,” he says, smiling cheekily. “You haven’t let me hug you in a hundred years, I have to take advantage now that your defenses are weakened by cheap vodka.”

“Mingyu!” you laugh again.

And then you see Daeyoung in the doorway behind him, face unreadable.

“Mingyu,” you say again, deadly serious now. “Let go.”

Daeyoung slowly reaches to put the two beers on Wonwoo’s dresser and turns, wordlessly retreating down the hallway.

“Damn it, Mingyu,” you hiss, extracting yourself and hurrying to follow him. Daeyoung makes it clear outside and down the front steps before you catch him.

“Daeyoung, wait!” you call, and he finally slows, turning to face you. You jog to catch up, a bit breathless. You’ve had way too much to drink for this kind of confrontation, but you try to get your shit together enough to defend yourself. Or apologize. Or both.

He doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrows and waits.

“Don’t -” you start, and then switch tracks quickly. “That was nothing. He’s like that when he’s had too much to drink. He’s just being silly.”

Daeyoung laughs once, sharp and sarcastic. “Don’t lie to me,” he says flatly.

“I’m not!” you protest. “It’s true.”

He shakes his head, swipes his thumb across his phone screen and taps around.

“Don’t leave,” you beg. “I’m sorry. I was trying to tell him to let go.”

He twists his mouth, refusing to look at you. At the far end of the street, you can see approaching headlights. He’s ordered a ride home.

“When you said you were trying to get over someone I didn't pry,” he says flatly, “but I guess I should have. You could’ve had the decency to tell me that you live with him.”

The slam of the car door feels final, the sound passing over you like shrapnel.

The blink of red taillights has just vanished around the corner when strong arms wrap around you. Mingyu must have followed, must have been watching from the door, must have seen it happen.

You’ve been trying to make space, you’ve been trying to stay away, but you’re buzzed and you’re sad and you’re weak. So, you turn in his arms, burying your face in his shirt and letting yourself cry.

He holds you through it, doesn’t say anything to you, just holds on tight until you can breathe again.

“I don’t want you to see this,” you sniffle finally, and he lets his arms drop, stepping back so he can look at you. “This shouldn’t be you.”

“That’s fair,” he murmurs, sounding much more sober than he had inside. “But I’m the one who’s here. Tell me you want me to go, and I will.”

Your heart cracks.

“I don’t want you to go,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he says, wrapping you up again, leaning his chin on the top of your head and swaying you a little bit. “Then I won’t.”

Eventually, you both lay in the grass. You don’t want to go inside, and Mingyu says he doesn’t want to leave you alone in the front yard. Instead, you lay side by side, far enough away that you’d have to stretch to touch. It feels like that night in undergrad, but also completely opposite. In your memories of that night, you felt warm and good like your place in the universe was guaranteed, your cog in the great machine fitting perfectly and spinning without difficulty. Tonight, you feel off, cold and angry, like your piece has been displaced and can’t fit anywhere anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu says, breaking the silence. “I didn’t mean to make problems for you guys.”

“I know you didn’t,” you allow.

“It was just us being us,” he says, a bit defensively.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “I think that was the problem.”

He has nothing to say to that.

Daeyoung calls you, much later, when you’re back inside and tucked in your bed.

“Were you sleeping?” he asks.

“Of course not,” you say. “I’m lying awake agonizing over you storming out on me.”

He laughs quietly, and you feel hope bloom behind your ribs. Is this salvageable?

“I might have overreacted,” he admits. “It’s easy to be intimidated by that guy.”

That guy again. What is it with these two?

“You shouldn’t be,” you tell him. “He’s an idiot.”

Daeyoung laughs again. “So am I,” he says.

“You don’t need to worry about him,” you say. “I’ve been really trying to adjust the boundaries of our friendship, and it’s a big change from how we used to be. Usually we do better… Like I said earlier, he was drunk. He just forgot himself, went back to how things used to be.”

Daeyoung is quiet for a second. “I should have let you explain yourself before I left,” he says evenly.

“I’m sorry I put you in that position in the first place,” you counter. “I didn’t mean to. I’m in this with you, Daeyoung. I promise.”

“I know,” he admits. “I know you are.”

You smile into the phone. “Our first fight.”

He laughs again. “Hopefully not one of many.”

“Eh,” you say. “It’s normal. Anyway, I’m glad you called. I would have been a mess waiting to hear from you. Might have embarrassed myself blowing your phone up.”

“Maybe I should have let you embarrass yourself,” he teases.

“It’s like that, huh?” you joke.

“Yes,” he sniffs. “Until I feel better.”

When you finally hang up, you creep through the apartment to pee before trying to sleep. You notice Mingyu’s light is on, though his door is shut. You pause, looking at that sliver of light, and then continue on back to your own bed.

–

July

“Move over!” you giggle, using your hips to scoot Daeyoung out of your way, a wooden spoon in your hand. The simmering stew on the stovetop smells delectable, and you give it a stir, make sure nothing is stuck to the bottom of the pot.

“Ask nicely!” he retorts, but he’s smiling.

Mingyu watches the scene covertly from the couch, trying to keep his face neutral, trying to keep his face tilted towards the tv so he doesn’t get caught watching. Or worse, caught sulking.

You and Daeyoung eat and wash up most of what you used to cook, offer the leftovers to anyone around to hear you (so, just Mingyu), and then leave, giggles and flirting dissipating and leaving Mingyu in a quiet that he absolutely can’t stand.

When you return the next day, trying to look nonchalant with your overnight bag clutched in your hands, Mingyu is at the kitchen table, eating some of the leftovers and watching videos on his phone.

“Hey,” he greets you, pausing the video.

You give your overnight bag a light toss; it lands with a thump over near the couch. “Hey yourself,” you say, heading into the kitchen for a drink. “The food’s good, right?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “Your man can cook, huh?”

“Hey!” you object. “I did most of the work!”

“Hmm,” he says, rising and coming into the kitchen to rinse his plate.

You cross your arms, eyes narrowing. “Hmmm what?”

He shrugs teasingly. “We’ve lived together a long time, Sunny. I have a hard time believing you’re the chef in that relationship. You never helped me cook anything.”

Your eyes narrow even more. “You never asked me to,” you retort, suddenly defensive. “There’s a lot of things I do with Daeyoung because you never asked me to.”

Silence falls on the kitchen like a rockslide.

Mingyu takes one very careful step backwards. “Because I never asked you to?” he echoes, his voice shaking just slightly.

Your pulse races, and you fight a wave of nausea. A Freudian slip if there ever was one.

“That you never asked me to,” you amend firmly.

Mingyu hesitates. Then, “I don’t think that’s what you meant.”

That defensiveness moves inside you like a thing alive, your temper flaring in an effort to protect you.

“Don’t tell me how I feel,” you snap, suddenly pissed.

Mingyu doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t match your temper at all. Calm and steady, he says, “So then you tell me. How do you feel, Sunny?”

That rockslide hits you. You can’t breathe, too bruised by the onslaught. All the years of secrets and feelings and broken rules and truths that you knew but pretended not to spill around you, impossible to escape.

“You don’t get to ask me that,” you hiss at him. “Not now. That’s not fair.”

His calm cracks, just slightly, his tone going hard. “What are you talking about?”

“Why now, Mingyu?” you demand. “Why now, when I have someone? Why not any of the years before now, when I was only yours?”

You’re breathing hard, having spat the words like they’re venom, and you wait him out. He blusters, splutters, has nothing to say to this.

Your temper pulls you like a wave, a momentum you can’t fight.

“You don’t know the answer?” you ask sarcastically. “That’s fine - I can tell you: because you had me. You had me, and you didn’t need to share me, and you could still do whatever - or whoever! - you wanted and I’d still fucking be here afterward.”

You know exactly the moment you start crying through the words, because Mingyu’s body jolts, like he instinctively moved to touch you but remembered to stay back.

“And now?” you continue, because you’re on a roll, everything you’ve held in for years finally bursting from you with the fury of a cracked dam. “Now that’s changed. So, what is it? You want your toy back now that someone else is playing with it?”

“Of course not-”

“Fuck you, Mingyu! You sat me on the shelf for too long. I don’t deserve that.”

“Sunny, no,” he tries again. “It isn’t like that. I lo-”

“Yes, it is!” you shout. You’ve never shouted at him in your life, and it actually shuts him up. Tears are still streaming down your face, but you ignore them. “It is, and until you see that, I can’t expect you to change it or fix it.”

You start to storm past him, but you whirl on him, a finger pointed in his direction. “And don’t you dare try to tell me you love me!” you add furiously. “No you don’t. Not the right way, not like this.”

And then you slam out of the apartment, barely remembering to grab your keys off the hook as you go.

–

[5:22pm] You: if i send you a list of what i need, can you please put a bag together for me and leave it in the hall

[5:22pm] (jeong)Han Solo: :( sunny

[5:22pm] You: hannie please??? i can’t go inside. i really can’t.

[5:23pm] (jeong)Han Solo: he’s a fucking wreck

[5:23pm] You: i don’t care

[5:24pm] You: i mean of course i fucking care that’s the whole problem

[5:24pm] You: please? my things?

–

August

August 3

[10:02am] Mingyu: sunny please talk to me

[12:17pm] Mingyu: please let me apologize to you

[12:17pm] Mingyu: i dont want to do it over text but you wont answer my calls and no one seems to know where you are

[12:22pm] Mingyu: you were right. about all of it.

[12:22pm] Mingyu: and you were right that you dont deserve it

[12:22pm] Mingyu: please call me back or come home so i can say this to your face

[5:38pm] Mingyu: there’s one part you were wrong about

[5:38pm] Mingyu: i do love you. the right way. maybe it took losing you to someone to get my ass moving but i loved you way before he was in the picture

[5:38pm] Mingyu: dont ever question that again

[11:04pm] Mingyu: god, sunny, answer your phone!

August 4

[7:43am] Mingyu: you’re killing me

[7:43am] Mingyu: are you happy sunshine???? KILLING ME!!!

[1:36pm] Mingyu: come home

[1:36pm] Mingyu: please

[8:02pm] Mingyu: we HAVE to talk about this, sunny

[11:51pm] Mingyu: i’m not going to give up

[10:23am] (jeong)Han Solo: are you staying with daeyoung for a while?

[10:23am] You: no. my mom’s.

[10:23am] (jeong)Han Solo: ok. im glad you’re with someone who can care for you.

[10:23am] (jeong)Han Solo: we miss you :(

August 5

[8:00am] Mingyu: fine, i’ll say everything over text like an asshole

[8:00am] Mingyu: just know you made me do this!

[8:04am] Mingyu: i fell in love with you in undergrad when you had to take that statistics class that you almost failed. when you saw your midterm score was passing you told me i love you for the first time and i swear to god i almost proposed to you right there. And it never went away. It was never less.

[8:08am] Mingyu: i love you because you wield your attitude like both sword and shield. I love you because you can barely count but you make me feel so stupid sometimes with how clever you are. I love you because you’re beautiful and funny and empathetic and you make me want to be better than i am. I want to be more competent for you, to be able to take care of you and provide for you when you need it. I love you because when i’m sick you take care of me and you let me take care of you when you’re down too. I love you because when i’m with you i feel like someone’s GOT me, someone understands me and has my back.

[8:09am] Mingyu: i cant believe youre making me say this all in TEXT i hate this!

[8:10am] Mingyu: i have more. I have a hundred more reasons.

[8:10am] Mingyu: come home so i can tell you

[11:58pm] Mingyu: goodnight sunny baby. Please come home soon.

You show up to Daeyoung’s unannounced. His face is grim when he opens the door; you haven’t answered his calls or texts in a few days, either. He probably knows what this is.

“Hi,” he says, stepping backwards to make room for you in his doorway. “This is a surprise.”

“I’m sorry I vanished,” you tell him. “Something happened. I’ve been at my mom’s.”

He eyes you warily, like he’s not sure if this is a I got in a car accident kind of something, or a I cheated on you kind of something, and he doesn’t want to react for the wrong one. “Okay…” he says slowly.

“Daeyoung,” you say, after taking a breath to steel yourself, “I care about you, and I like you, and I have real feelings for you.”

“I sense a but,” he says dryly.

You smile sadly. “But I dont think this is fair to you. I shouldn’t be with someone - anyone - until I’m over him or he’s out of my life… and I can’t seem to make either of those things happen.” You don’t need to say which him. You both know. “I wanted to. I wanted to do it right and I thought I was… but I was wrong.”

He shrugs, face blank. “Okay.”

“Daeyoung.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, frustration seeping into his tone. “I can't argue with any of that. I can’t change it for you. I can’t be better than him, I can't become him. You’re right, you shouldn’t be with someone else if what you really want is that guy.”

That guy. Again.

“You’re right,” you whisper, looking at your feet.

He lets out a breath. “So, it’s done then?”

You nod miserably. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Daeyoung. I hope someday you can believe that this isn’t how I wanted it to go. You deserve better.”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t let you go out with any optimism. You and your misery trudge back to your mother’s, fall asleep in your childhood bed.

August 6

[8:00am] Mingyu: good morning ☀️

[8:00am] Mingyu: i have more things to say today

[8:00am] Mingyu: i will give you two 2️⃣ minutes to respond or you get it all thru text AGAIN

[8:00am] Mingyu: and you know how i feel about that.

[8:03am] Mingyu: fine.

[8:03am] Mingyu: you’ve always been so fucking stubborn sunny. just let me apologize to you!

[8:05am] Mingyu: i’m sorry i kept you on hold

[8:05am] Mingyu: you’re right. that’s what was happening. but i didn’t MEAN it like that.

[8:05am] Mingyu: idk if you believe me bc i can’t see your face 🙄

[8:06am] Mingyu: but its true. I just… liked how things were. Youre right… i counted on you always being there waiting for me.

[8:06am] Mingyu: i thought it was okay though… i thought if you wanted it to change you had the power to change it

[8:07am] Mingyu: like, you could have said something to me.

[8:07am] Mingyu: and i dont mean that like its your fault or anything, it was just how i rationalized it to myself. Like if you werent complaining then it must be fine?

[8:09am] Mingyu: i’m an idiot

[8:14am] Mingyu: but i’m an idiot who loves you, and misses you, and wants to do better

[11:59pm] Mingyu: please come home

[12:32pm] You: i broke up with him.

[12:32pm] (jeong)Han Solo: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[12:32pm] (jeong)Han Solo: are you okay???

[12:32pm] (jeong)Han Solo: come home so we can take care of you!!

[12:58pm] You: i cant face him. not yet. im not ready

August 7

[8:00am] Mingyu: good morning sunny ☀️

[8:00am] Mingyu: i’m sorry i took you for granted. even if we walk out of this only trying to repair the friendship, i swear i’ll never let it happen again.

[11:58pm] Mingyu: goodnight sunshine. I love you.

August 8

[8:00am] Mingyu: good morning sunny ☀️

[8:00am] Mingyu: dont work too hard today

[8:00am] Mingyu: dont take any shit from marcus in accounting

[12:12pm] Mingyu: having lunch. call me if you want? it doesnt have to be heavy. Just hello.

[12:39pm] Mingyu: i need you back sunny. in whatever capacity youll let me have.

[11:57pm] Mingyu: hope you had a good day. Goodnight, i love you.

August 9

[8:00am] Mingyu: good morning sunny

[11:58pm] Mingyu: please. Please come home.

–

When you return home, a week after you left, it’s nearly dawn, the light from outside the living room just turning blue enough that you can see the outlines of the couches as you close the door as quietly as you can.

You step lightly, avoiding the spots you know will creak and groan when you step over them. You peer down the hallway to see that the guys’ doors are all shut, no lights on - not even the blues of Wonwoo’s computer monitor.

You open your door and look around; your room looks exactly how you left it, down to the glass of water on the nightstand, now nearly empty. Except… the blankets on the bed are wrong. You set your bag down gently next to your dresser and creep closer, squinting through the dimly lit room.

A dark head of hair peeks out from under your comforter.

You can’t help it - you smile to yourself. For all the things Mingyu is - intelligent, funny, athletic, competent - he’s also a big baby. And he’s sleeping in your bed, because he misses you, and it comforts him.

It makes you want to forgive him for every wrong, press your lips to his sleepy forehead, listen to him lisp out Sunny Baby.

He hurt you, it’s true. But you believe it that he was lying to himself, pretending things were fine. Weren’t you doing the exact same thing? You can’t hope Daeyoung will forgive you for your mistakes if you aren’t willing to do the same, too.

You close your bedroom door and approach your bed. Mingyu stirs, making cricket legs under the blanket and stretching one arm towards the empty side. Towards you, though he doesn’t know it yet.

Then he freezes. His voice comes out paper thin. “Sunny?” he asks, pushing himself to sitting.

“This is not your bed,” you tell him, and he launches himself across the mattress, scrambling to reach you.

You allow him to wrap his gangly arms around your middle, pulling you to him as apologies pour over his lips so fast that he’s nearly babbling.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, pushing at his shoulders. You back away and he follows like he’s tethered to you, clambering from the bed and standing before you.

For a moment, you just stare at each other through the thick blue of encroaching dawn.

And then he says your name.

Not Sunny. Not Sunny Baby. Your real name.

“I am so sorry - for everything,” he says, the ache in his voice clear and open. Then he drops his voice to a pained whisper. “Please. Tell me I can fix it.”

You press your lips together, looking at him. He looks awful - like he hasn’t slept much, or been eating well. You feel a little bad that you stayed away for so long, but you’d needed the time by yourself. You’d needed the clarity of being alone to figure out what you want.

“I think we can,” you whisper back, since the rest of the apartment is still sleeping. We, because this was on both of you.

He crushes you in a hug, surrounding you in the smell of cinnamon, his cheek pressed to your head. “I’m sorry,” he breathes into your hair. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please let me try and do better.”

“I broke up with Daeyoung,” you respond, and he snaps his mouth shut, stepping backwards to stare at you.

“Why?” he asks finally, hoarse, like he can barely get the word out.

You look up at him. “Because it wasn’t right to be with him. It wasn’t right to be with him when I’ve been in love with someone else the whole time.”

He closes his eyes, his whole body seeming to sag.

“I forgive you,” you say quietly, “and I do believe that things will be better now. If we talk about it - if we’re working together to make it better.”

“Yes,” he says quickly, desperately. “I will - I’ll do whatever I need to -”

“Both of us,” you say again, emphatically. “You were right, this wasn’t just your fault. I let this go on for… years. I counted marks against you but I never once spoke up.”

“No,” he protests, shaking his head. “It was my fault, Sunny, I took it for granted and I should have been loving you, spoiling you -”

You laugh. “I mean, maybe,” you say. “But if I’d talked to you… maybe you would have been.”

“I want to now,” he says. “Can I? Will you let me?”

You smile up at him, and he grins back, taking your smile as an answer.

You reach up and touch his eye-tooth gently with a fingertip. “Your stupid fang is so fucking cute,” you whisper. “It is truly unfair how cute it is.”

He pretends to scowl at you. “We’re having a serious moment, here, Sunshine.”

You smile again, gentler this time. “I love you,” you tell him. “If you want to prove you can do this right… then I’m all in.”

He whispers your name again, then looks at you.

His eyes are molten again, the way they were the night you’d had your only kiss. It’s almost hypnotizing, the strength of his gaze on you, pulling you in wordlessly until your body is flush with his. You look up at him, breathless.

“I’ll start proving it now,” he murmurs, so low you barely catch it, and then his mouth snags on yours, forceful, his hands cupping your jaw gently, a juxtaposition.

He touches you so tenderly, his fingers feather-light against the skin they uncover as you undress each other in hushed silence. It feels holy, somehow.

He licks spices and heat into your mouth, trails calloused fingers down your bare arms, pulls your hips into his as his teeth trace down your jaw, makes sure you feel his want for you.

You slide your hands from his waist up his stomach and over his pecs, revelling in how he hisses and leans into the touch.

“Wanted to do this for years,” he grumbles, like he’s complaining, before lowering his lips to your chest, sucking on supple skin to see how you like it, then doing it harder when you dig your fingers into his shoulders, gasping at the sensation.

“Should’ve,” you scold, even as your eyes close and your head tilts back. “Could’ve been.”

But you aren’t thinking about your wasted time when he kneads both hands in the meat of your ass, or when you slide a flat palm up the length of him, delighting in the weight and heat you find straining against his Calvins. You’re thinking about how his hands are searing, about how you want to taste him but maybe not yet, not this first time. You’re thinking about his fingers sliding between your legs and the belly-deep rumble he makes when he feels how ready you are for him.

And when you finally come together, his mouth pressed to yours as he lays you back on the bed you’ve shared countless times, you’re only thinking about him and his beautiful smile and molten eyes and infectious laugh and empathetic heart. When he’s pushed as far into you as your bodies will allow, his hips tight against you and a whine slipping between his lips, you’re overcome with emotion. As you adjust to him, his eyes trace your face, and he reads what’s there with perfect clarity.

“Love you, Sunny Baby,” he whispers into the crook of your neck.

You swallow against the thick rise of feelings and run your fingers through his hair. “Move for me,” you beg. And when he does, it’s just as perfect as the rest of him.

You press your forehead to his when you come, his thumb rough on your clit and his mouth gasping broken breaths against your lips, pulsing around him in waves so dizzying you think they trigger even more. His hair sticks to his forehead as he presses deep inside you, and he shelters you between mountainous arms as he finally lets go.

Mingyu is sunrise, leaking orange and pink and yellow and white and chasing away a world of purples and blues. He’s so bright you have to squint, a promise of a fresh start, an end to the darkness of night.

He’s perfect. He’s perfect, and you love him, and finally you can have him.

You lay in his arms, heartbeat slowing bit by bit, and feel wholly at peace - like everything finally settled into place, everything landed exactly as it was meant to. Your cog in the universe, spinning correctly at last, grooves fitted perfectly to Kim Mingyu’s.

The peace lasts…. until you check your phone.

[8:26am] (jeong)Han Solo: when you two are DONE…. we went out for breakfast if you want to join 🙄

—

November

“Baby,” Mingyu says, but it’s stern. “Quit fixing the pillows.”

“It has to be perfect in here!” you whine.

Mingyu wraps his arms around you like a cage, squeezing until you’re laughing too hard and drop the throw pillow from your hand.

“They lived with us for years,” he says, entirely too rationally. “You can’t fool them.”

He releases his hold on you so you can turn and pout at him. You’re about to protest - argue that it’s Jeonghan and Wonwoo’s first time visiting you and Mingyu’s new place, that this is momentous, a special occasion - but you’re cut off by an obnoxiously outlandish knock on the front door.

“I’ve got it,” Mingyu tells you. “You just try to relax.”

You will, in just a second. But first, you lean over to the candle you have burning on the coffee table and adjust it just slightly to center the label, which reads Fall Harvest and Cinnamon.

thank you so much for reading!!!!

#omg i really can't shut up #svt; fluff #svt; angst #svt; smut #g; svt #svt; mingyu #a; daechwitatamic #svt; all-time favs

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