#he's my second favorite in skz after minho and i think its a Crime that i haven't been writing enough for him

[hwangsify]

K.SM. — THE SUBTLE ART OF LOVING YOU.

pairing. kim seungmin x gn reader

genre. fluff, best friends to lovers au, slight angst

warnings. food, mild cursing, reader is extremely tsundere lmao

summary. the 5 times seungmin tries and heroically fails to hold your hand and the one time he finally does. (or, seungmin's endeavors to overcome his innate dislike for initiating physical touch in a nutshell.)

length. oneshot

word count. 4.6k

[1.]

Kim Seungmin is very practiced when it comes to loving you in the dark. 

He knows you wouldn’t have it any other way. Both of you have grown familiar with your eccentric dynamic, this dynamic of feigned nonchalance and subtle gestures of quiet thoughtfulness. Seungmin would even go as far as to say that he enjoys it— enjoys leaving iced cups of taro bubble tea by your desk without as much as a note or buying a jumbo package of shin ramyun to drop off by the doorway of your apartment whenever he stops by the supermarket because he knows how much you adore ramen (although he personally can’t seem to understand the hype about it). 

The only problem is that it doesn’t leave much room for relationship growth. 

Because as much as he enjoys it all, there are times where he would very much like to wrap his arms around your waist in a backhug whenever you stop by his apartment to watch the latest episode of A Business Proposal with him on Netflix, or brush away a stray strand of hair that falls into your eyes whenever you drag him to the local cat café despite his protests that he gets cat hair stuck all over his sweater every time he goes. Except he can’t, because he just knows you’ll turn to stare at him, eyes narrowed and eyebrows furrowed, and ask him what he wants for him to act so nice. 

(He doesn’t really want anything. He just can’t express his undying love for you out loud and instead resorts to small gestures and little acts of service as an attempt to convey how much in love he is with you. It evidently doesn’t work, of course, but still.)

And then he’ll have to act nonchalant and make some joke about wanting you to buy him an iced americano at the newest café that recently opened up so that your dynamic will go back to being how it usually is and he’ll be stuck at square one yet again. 

If he were as naturally clingy as Hyunjin or Felix, he knows that it would be absolutely no problem initiating physical touch with you. Hyunjin is someone who inherently needs to be linking arms with someone at least once a day in order to function properly, and Felix simply just adores cuddling to an extent that it comes as naturally as breathing to him. But the problem is that he isn’t as clingy as Hyunjin or Felix, and initiating physical touch has never come easily to him. 

Despite all of this, his want to share physical contact with you refuses to go away. It doesn’t really have to be something big, he decides. Maybe just a brush of his hand against your waist whenever you push past him or the steady weight of his shoulder pressing into yours whenever you sit next to each other. Most of all, though, he really, really wants to hold your hand. 

It starts off as a small fantasy, just a casual observation to himself that went something along the lines of wow, holding your hand would be really nice, actually. But after a while, it grows into a bit of an obsession. 

What can he say? You have nice hands and he just really wants to feel the pressure of your fingers intertwined with his own. So it’s only natural that he finds himself attempting to muster up the courage to place his hand over yours as the two of you sit by the plush red chairs of the library, studying for the upcoming physics exam. 

You’re reading through the textbook, eyebrows furrowed as you skim over the pages and pages of complex formulas and diagrams. Your hand rests on the table, just a couple of inches away from his own. Seungmin stares at it through his wire-rimmed glasses and tries to convince himself that reaching out to hold your hand is not the big deal that he’s making it out to be. 

Of course, he doesn’t actually manage to convince himself, but he tries his best, anyway. Pressing his lips together in a firm line, he makes an effort to move his hand a bit closer to your own and ends up backpedaling at the last second. 

“Seungmin.”

Your voice breaks him out of his thoughts. Glancing up, he stares at you expectantly, a hand coming up to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, eyebrows furrowed. “You look like you’re having an identity crisis or something.”

Seungmin quickly clears his throat, forcibly pushing any thoughts about holding your hand to the back of his mind as he nods. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”

You snort. 

“Stop studying at 4 am on schoolnights, then. No wonder why you’re so exhausted all the damn time.”

“I’m just being a prestigious student,” he protests lightly, glaring at you. You roll your eyes but don’t make a move to oppose him, instead choosing to move your hand to flip to the next page of the textbook. 

Seungmin watches, aghast, as you place your hand in your lap after doing so— a good two feet away from his own hand. 

And just when he was about to find the guts to hold your hand. 

Gritting his teeth, he tells himself to pull it together. After all, the exam’s coming in just a few days and he has to stay focused and not think about how nice it would be to have your hand in your own. Even if the idea is very alluring. 

Even so, he finds himself thinking about intertwined hands for the rest of the study session. 

[2.]

Seungmin feels like crying. 

Your hand lies on the smooth surface of the breakfast table, quite literally a centimeter away from his own. If he moves his hand just slightly to the left, your hands will touch. 

Seungmin wants, wants it so bad he almost feels like stamping his feet like a fucking five-year old in frustration. 

But Jisung and Minho are sitting right across from you and he just knows that they’ll notice right away if he presses his hand against your own and he most definitely does not need them bursting into loud catcalls and whistles right in the middle of the breakfast. 

Instead, he watches as Jisung attempts to fit three fluffy pancakes from the college cafeteria into his mouth without choking. Minho watches on with mirth dancing in his eyes, even going so far as to shove the pancakes further down his throat in an attempt to make room for a fourth. Jisung gags around the pancakes, eyes watering, but shoots Minho a thumbs up, gesturing for him to try and add another pancake. 

Seungmin sips his glass of orange juice and watches in silent disapproval as Minho proceeds to spear another pancake onto his fork and press it into the stuffed cavern of Jisung’s mouth. He isn’t quite sure what led to this entire situation, and feels a vague sense of worry for Jisung, who looks as if he’s about to throw up. 

You stifle a peal of laughter as Minho attempts to push the pancakes even further into Jisung’s mouth. Seungmin gives your forearm a rebuking smack, glaring at you. You glare right back at him. 

“Why’d you hit me?”

“You shouldn’t encourage such behavior.”

You shrug. “Chan’s coming back in a few moments and he’ll make sure Jisung coughs up the pancakes right away. Might as well enjoy the sight while it lasts. Besides, Jisung can’t possibly fit another pancake—”

Jisung shoves a fifth pancake into his mouth. 

“Well,” you say, staring at Jisung with a mixture of glee and worry in your voice, “I’m sure Chan will be back very soon.”

Seungmin doesn’t bother replying, because he knows you’re right. If Chan had a role in the entire friend group, he’d probably be the dad. Slightly overprotective, prone to crack terrible jokes at any given moment, and perpetually exhausted. Chan fits the role quite well. 

Sure enough, Chan makes his appearance a few seconds later, his tray stacked with French toast and yogurt. He quickly makes Jisung swallow down the pancakes, scolding him for “almost killing himself” while Minho watches on in quiet amusement. 

Felix and Hyunjin arrive at the table a few minutes later, dragging along with them a half-asleep Jeongin. You frown. 

“Is Changbin not coming?”

“Changbin’s skipping class today,” Hyunjin says, “he’s still getting over his hangover.”

Minho scoffs. 

“Serves him right for drinking on a weekday.” 

Hyunjin shrugs and slips into the seat next to Minho, tugging Jeongin along with him, who promptly lays his cheek against the breakfast table and falls asleep again. 

“Must have had a tough night,” you say, glancing over Jeongin’s sleeping form. 

Felix nods. 

“He was up all night trying to figure out derivatives. He was almost in tears.” 

You nod sympathetically, leaning forward to reach across the table and brush his bangs away from his forehead, revealing the dark circles underneath his eyes. 

Seungmin watches in silence and wonders if he will ever experience such tenderness from you. After all, it is one thing to want, and another to have. 

[3.]

Seungmin enjoys spending his weekends in the comfort of his own apartment. The weekdays are hectic enough with all his college duties and whatnot and he enjoys having Saturday and Sunday completely to himself, spending hours lounging on the couch while scrolling through his phone and ordering takeout. 

In fact, he is just about to settle down into his bed and spend the next four hours binge watching a recent k-drama that he’s been into when you burst into his apartment. 

Seungmin jumps at the sound of his door slamming open, although the sound of your voice is enough to reassure him that it’s only you and not some psychopathic murderer who somehow managed to break into his apartment. 

“Yah, Kim Seungmin.”

He looks up to see you standing by the doorway of his bedroom, arms folded across your chest. Seungmin looks up at you from his phone and sighs. “I really shouldn’t have given you my spare house key.”

You brush away his comment dismissively, coming forward to tug him out of bed. “Whatever. Get dressed, we’re going out.”

“Where are you dragging me this time?”

“The Seoul Lantern Festival,” you say, “I’ve been wanting to see it recently but I haven’t found the time.”

“Can we go see it some other time? I kind of don’t want to get out of bed.”

You thrust a coat into his arms as you attempt to drag him to the doorway of his apartment. “That’s too bad. We’re going anyway.”

Seungmin curses under his breath, frowning, but pulls on his sneakers anyways after you tug him to the doorway and wait expectantly. You watch complacently as he ties his shoelaces and grin down at him when he glances up to glare at you, your smile dripping with faux sweetness. 

“You’re the best, Seungminnie.” 

“Don’t call me that.”

Humming, you reach out a hand to pull him up by the wrist. For a long moment, Seungmin thinks that you’re about to lace your fingers with his own to pull him along and stares, breathless, at your fingers wrapped around his wrist. But then you quickly let go after pulling him into a standing position and stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to step out of the apartment. 

Seungmin swallows down the bitter bile of disappointment that forces its way up his throat. Of course, he shouldn’t have expected anything more. You skip along next to him as the two of you make your way down the staircase of the complex. Seungmin allows himself a small glance at you in his peripheral vision, taking in your flushed cheeks and windblown hair. You are so carelessly beautiful that he cannot help but ache whenever he sets his eyes on you.

But then you turn to look at him and Seungmin quickly glances away, feigning nonchalance. 

“Why didn’t you ask Chan or something? You know I hate going out on weekends.”

“Chan’s been working on his track,” you shrug. “I didn’t want to bother him.”

“What about Minho?”

You stare at him. 

“Minho would have kicked me out of his apartment before I had even finished asking him to come.”

Fair enough. Minho hates going out on weekends even more than Seungmin does. 

“Okay, well, what about Hyunjin? You know he adores going out, especially with friends.”

You let out a huff of frustration, eyebrows furrowed irritably. “Hyunjin’s probably busy or something,” you say, waving your hand dismissively, “so I had no choice but to ask you.”

Even so, your ears color bright red as you trot along briskly, pointedly avoiding eye contact. Seungmin grins. 

“So you actually wanted to see the festival with me? That’s so—” 

You quickly shut him up by slugging him hard on his arm while glaring at him menacingly. “I’ll murder you in your sleep if you even think about finishing that sentence.”

Groaning, he clutches at his arm and meekly shuts up. 

By the time you’ve reached the festival, it’s already late. They chose to hold the festival by the bridge this year, lighting up the water of the canal with a thousand different lanterns in a multitude of shapes and colors. And even if he’d much rather be lounging on the couch of his apartment right now, Seungmin has to admit that the view is stunning. You stand by the edge of the water and watch as the lanterns float past, breathless and panting as your eyes slide over the brilliant glow. 

You are busy snapping a picture of a cat lantern when Seungmin comes to stand by you. Your hands just slightly graze each other, and Seungmin can just feel the cool press of your skin against his own. If he just moves his hand a little, he’ll be able to interlock your fingers and—

You take your hand away to brush a strand of hair away from your face. 

Fuck. 

Seungmin spends the rest of the festival thinking about what things could have been if that goddamn strand of hair had not ruined everything. 

[4.]

“The problem is that you’re too hesitant,” Jisung informs Seungmin through a thick bite of brownie. 

Seungmin groans, threading his fingers through his hair. “I know I’m too hesitant! That’s the entire problem! I just don’t know how to fix it.”

Jisung nods sympathetically as he listens, taking another thoughtful bite of brownie. Seungmin never thought he’d ever find himself coming to Jisung out of all people for counseling, but here he is, anyway. 

“You just have to do it. Like, don’t even think about it. Just grab their hand.”

Actually, Seungmin doesn���t understand why he chose to ask Jisung for advice in the first place, considering the fact that his relationships rarely last for any longer than a month. Given his easy-going personality and attractive visuals, it’s not as if Jisung doesn’t have an unending list of admirers. But someone like Jisung has always been too busy to date, and his relationships almost always end in messy breakups due to lack of quality time. 

Then again, Seungmin is desperate.

“So I just.. go for it? Like just reach out and hold their hand?” 

Jisung nods earnestly. 

“Yup. Just like that.”

Doubt curls through Seungmin’s chest as he considers Jisung skeptically. “That genuinely sounds like the worst plan I’ve—” 

Jisung shuts him up with a dismissive snort. 

“Just try it,” he implores, “it’ll be fine.”

Seungmin still thinks that the entire idea is terribly impulsive and very much likely to lead into a catastrophe. But Jisung looks at him with such conviction in his eyes that Seungmin finds himself agreeing to give the plan a try, although he threatens to never buy him cheesecake again if the plan fails. 

He meets up with you the next day at your apartment because you insisted on rewatching Vincenzo with him. Jisung tags along just to supervise and make sure that Seungmin finally manages to succeed in holding your hand and brings Chan along with him because he refuses to “be the third-wheel.” Seungmin argues that it’s kind of impossible to be the third-wheel when it’s you and him, especially since you interact with him solely through threats and menacing gazes, but Jisung insists on coming along anyway. 

By the time the fourth episode starts playing, Jisung has started to pester Seungmin incessantly, tapping at his shoulder and nodding towards you, gesturing wildly (but as subtly as possible) for Seungmin to attempt to hold your hand. Seungmin eventually gives in after Jisung starts full-on smacking him on the arm, sighing and motioning for Jisung to settle down. 

Taking a deep breath, he inhales deeply and reaches across your lap to grab your hand. He doesn’t even bother looking sideways, too nervous to manage to meet your eyes. There’s a bead of sweat gathering by his temple as he gropes blindly, searching for your hand. 

Instead, his hand grabs something firm and slightly fleshy. 

There is a long silence as Seungmin slowly turns his head to see his arm, stretched across your lap, and his hand, firmly grasping Chan’s thigh, missing your hand by a good six inches. Chan lets out a surprised gulp as he stares down at Seungmin’s hand, turning to glance at Seungmin questioningly. 

Jisung facepalms so loudly that the sound of his palm smacking against his forehead resonates through the room. 

Seungmin blushes furiously and quickly withdraws his hand, mumbling a hasty apology. Chan brushes off his apology good-naturedly, although his ears are colored red. You stare at him confusedly as he hurriedly retracts his hand, perplexity written across your face. 

Fucking Han Jisung and his stupid fucking ideas, Seungmin thinks, pointedly turning to glare at Jisung accusingly. Jisung ignores his ominous gaze as he obstinately stares at the screen of the TV and plays with the rings on his fingers. 

There is something like suppressed laughter on his face, and Seungmin officially decides to never get Han fucking Jisung another white chocolate raspberry cheesecake ever again, no matter how desperately he begs. 

[5.]

“Yah, Kim Seungmin,” you say, your voice grainy through the phone. “You still haven’t eaten lunch yet? Idiot. It’s already 4 pm. Come over, I’ll cook something for you.” 

“Okay,” Seungmin whispers, and smiles to himself. 

God, he likes you so, so much. 

When he arrives at your apartment, you’re leaning over the stovetop, an apron tied around your waist. He comes to stand next to you, observing the chicken soup that you’re stirring over a low heat. You don’t look up from the soup as you gesture towards the dishwasher. 

“Go get some bowls. The soup’s almost ready.” 

Seungmin obediently makes his way to the dishwasher, grabbing two porcelain bowls and placing them next to you on the countertop. “You didn’t have to go out of your way to cook me soup, you know.”

You let out an indignant scoff. 

“Bold of you assume that I cooked the soup for you.” 

Seungmin gives a soft chuckle. When he has spent so much time around you, it is easy to see right through you. Even so, he doesn’t say anything. 

You spoon the fragrant broth of the soup into the bowls and carry them to the dining table, gesturing for Seungmin to sit down. You drink your soup in silence, giving an approving nod at the rich saltiness of the broth. Seungmin watches you quietly, longing ripping at his throat. 

Your hand is placed right in between the two of you— it comes so naturally to Seungmin that it almost feels surreal. 

You watch, silent, as he gently reaches up to run his fingertip along the inside of your forearm, slowly making his way up to your wrist. Your skin is smooth and warm underneath his touch— he can feel your pulse beating wildly underneath the thin skin of the inside of your wrist. For a long moment, the two of you sit in silence, eyes trained to the fingertip he drags across the back of your hand. 

And yet, just as he’s about to wrap his fingers around your hand, you quickly yank your hand away, ears red. Seungmin stares at you questioningly as you lift your hand to place it into your lap, bending down to sip at your soup. 

There is a light dusting of pink across your cheeks and a slight sheen of sweat on your forehead. You seem adamant to ignore his gaze as you stare down at your bowl of soup. 

Seungmin has always hated making assumptions. But he can’t help but wonder if you want him just as much as he wants you. 

[+1]

It is exhausting to be in love with someone like you. 

Seungmin knows it. He knows it too well. 

You are so full of contradictions that Seungmin never truly knows what you want. It is hard to love someone who pushes you away even as they draw you in closer, who is so brittle at the edges, and yet so soft underneath. 

But then you will tell him to dress warmer unless he wants to catch a cold, in that nonchalant voice of yours. You’ll tell him to stop skipping his meals, the warmth of your words buried underneath your careless facade. You’ll slip into his bedroom and place a mug of green tea by his desk whenever he’s studying himself sick, silent as you set it down next to him. And Seungmin will remember, yet again, why he fell for you in the first place. 

You text him a few days later, telling him to come over for a study session after you’ve finished with class. He agrees promptly, partially because he could never resist when it comes to you, and partially because he really needs to figure out chemical entropy and thinks that a study session would be quite beneficial. 

When he arrives at your apartment, your bedroom door is sealed tightly shut and you are nowhere to be found. 

Seungmin slowly makes his way to the bedroom doorway and knocks apprehensively, hesitant. 

“Go away,” you say, voice muffled. 

Seungmin opens the door anyway. 

He is greeted by the sight of a lump on your bed. It squirms a little when he comes in, indignant. “Seungmin, I told you to—” 

Seungmin sits by the side of your bed and tugs at the blankets cocooned around your body. You clutch tightly at the sheets, refusing to let him unravel the thick swaddle of blankets. Seungmin lets out a tired sigh. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say. You are uncharacteristically quiet after that. 

Seungmin finally succeeds in yanking the sheets out of your fists and you tumble out of the swathe of blankets, sprawling onto the bed. Seungmin’s breath catches in his throat as your eyes meet his own. 

They are red-rimmed and brimming. Just a brief second of eye contact causes the tears to spill over, leaving warm salty streaks across your cheeks. 

Seungmin stares at you blankly as you cry and wonders what the fuck he should do. After all, he has seen you do a lot of things, but crying is not one of them. 

He’s never seen you like this, curled up on the bed sheets, eyes glazed and glassy, impossibly fragile as the tears trail down your cheeks. For someone so brittle, you fall apart so easily underneath his gaze. 

Very slowly, he sits down by your bedside. “What happened? Did someone say something?”

You don’t say anything. 

So Seungmin takes your hand in his own and guides you to him, wrapping his arms around your torso. You bury your face into his shoulder, clutching tightly at the hem of his t-shirt and—

Oh, this is quite nice, actually. 

You’re curled up against him, tears seeping into the cloth of his shirt. And Seungmin has never been this close to you, doesn’t know how exactly to act when you’re pressed up to him like this, trembling in his arms. But he presses you closer, anyways, and allows you to soak his shirt, even though it’s a relatively new shirt and he hates to see it ruined and the wetness of your tears are kind of uncomfortable as they stick to his skin. 

He holds you like this for a long time, until the tears finally subside. 

“Now can you tell me what happened?”

You shift against him, turning your head to press your cheek into his chest. “I just had a really bad day.” 

Seungmin reaches up a gentle hand to smooth over your ruffled hair. He almost feels compelled to tease you, just because it’s what’s typically expected of him in your push-and-pull relationship. But instead, he nods and pulls you closer. “That happens sometimes.” 

You exhale in agreement. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.” 

Your hands are still laced together, Seungmin realizes. He almost wishes your head wasn’t pillowed on his chest right now, because he feels for sure that you can hear his racing heartbeat pulsing underneath his skin. There is a moment of silence as you press against him, squeezing his hand, before you tilt your head up to gaze at him. 

Seungmin’s cheeks flush red as you study him slowly, eyes sliding over his face. And then you’re leaning over, lips brushing across his collarbone. Seungmin’s thoughts are painted white as your free hand comes up to cup his jaw, pressing closer to graze your lips against the column of his throat, against the line of his jaw, the ridge of his cheekbone. 

A long pause, a heavy tension settling in the atmosphere of the room. And then you’re kissing. 

He isn’t sure how it happens. He isn’t sure he exactly cares. Your hands are still pressed together as you press forward to kiss him harder, lips moving against his own. You are so gentle in his arms, so yielding compared to your usual demeanor of fire and steel, that Seungmin regrets not doing this a long time ago. 

You lean back after a bit, eyes hazy as you gaze at him. Seungmin allows a moment of silence before clearing his throat to speak. 

“I can’t believe you just made out with the same guy you call an idiot at least five times a day.” 

You grin. “It’s all part of my calculated plan to get you to fall head over heels for me.” 

Seungmin thinks that he would have fallen head over heels for you either way. He doesn’t tell you, of course (he has much more sense than that) but he allows himself to think it. 

He leans forward, eyes curious as he gazes at you. “How long have you liked me for?” 

You narrow your eyes. “And why does it matter?” 

Seungmin rolls his eyes. 

“I just wanted to know,” he protests, and pokes at your thigh. “So? For how long?” 

“I don’t know,” you say, feigning nonchalance, although your red ears betray you right away. “Three years by now? It’s not like I’ve been counting.” 

(Knowing you, you most definitely have been counting.) 

“I’m kind of wounded that it took you three years to finally decide to kiss me.”

You snort. 

“I only kissed you because you were too much of a coward to do it yourself, you know.”

“Still!” Seungmin protests, “it’s hurtful to think about.”

You laugh, leaning forward to grab his hand and yank him to you. “Come here, then. I’ll kiss it better.” 

Seungmin doesn’t have to be told twice. 

[cottonblush]

promise me | lmh

❧ word count: 3,403 maybe?

❧ genre: fluff, one mention of a cut so like gore i guess

❧ notes: installment one of the skz powers au!! this one is kinda a drabble series?? also i’ve discovered i love the whole “i hate u” “u love me” thing a little too much but it’s not hurting anyone so yee to the haw my guys!

The first time Minho realizes he’s a gifted one, he’s on the rooftop of his apartment building, unclipping some extra laundry from the clothes line. The wind picks up all of a sudden and the large bed sheet he just unclipped comes flying at his face. He’s trapped, a tangled mass of fabric and limbs, the opaque sheets doing nothing to aid his vision.

The sheets seem to act as a pair of wings, lifting the young boy into the air. It’s just a couple of feet at first, but then he keeps going higher and higher, and Minho can’t get rid of the sinking feeling in his stomach.

When he finally manages to untangle himself and take in a deep breath, he makes the biggest mistake. He pries open his eyes and looks down. There’s no building below him now, just the apartment complex’s playground and park. It doesn’t help that he’s afraid of heights. In that moment, he feels like a cloud, yet he feels like the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders.

The fear overwhelms him, clouding his mind, and Minho starts to freefall out of the sky. He tries to scream but can’t seem to find his voice. All that’s left is the seemingly infinite supply of salty tears welling in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks.

In the few seconds it takes to fall, the world seems to slow down. Minho sees flashes of his past, though there’s not much since he’s only at the ripe age of eight years old. He sees his mom making him ramen with an egg on top for the first time; he sees himself in the mirror, small hands running over the scar on his stomach from a surgery he needed; he sees his friends gathering around him to show him the stray cat they found behind a dumpster; he sees you, his next door neighbor and best friend, on the first day that you two met, eyes wide and curious about all the world could offer.

He won’t get to say goodbye to you or anyone else, Minho realizes. He screws his eyes shut and hopes everyone will at least remember him in a good light.

And then everything goes dark.

“Minho,” comes your high pitched voice after what seems like an eternity, “what are you doing hanging from Mrs. Yang’s terrace? Hammocks are meant to be set up close to the ground, silly! And you can’t use a bedsheet. My daddy says you have to buy a special thingy for it.”

Thankfully, the universe has decided it just isn’t Minho’s time yet, and when he realizes this, the boy scrambles to try and get to the terrace.

“Y/n! Please, help! I don’t wanna be in here anymore.”

You run off, causing Minho’s heartbeat to skyrocket, but you return moments later with Mrs. Yang. The woman quickly sees how serious the situation is and cautions Minho not to move.

“I’ll come get you so stay put,” she says, moving quickly.

Once the boy is safely back on the ground, he can’t stop crying, snot and tears turning his once pristine face into a soppy mess. You take the boy into your arms and the two of you fall to the ground, remaining in a tight embrace. Even though Minho is a couple of months older than you, you know it’s no time to point it out and make fun of him.

Instead, you hold him tighter and hope that only good thoughts can reach him, tiny arms doing the best they can to support the taller and larger boy.

Mrs. Yang calls Minho’s mom and she rushes downstairs to get her son, worried expression softening when she sees him safe and sound. She starts to pry him away from you and pick him up in her arms.

Before he can get away from you, you stick out your pinky finger.

“Promise you’ll tell me what happened?”

“I promise,” comes the reply, a matching pinky finger hastily wrapping around your own to seal the deal.

When Minho comes to terms with the fact that he has powers, specifically the power of flight, the first thing you do is urge him to start training to become a super. It’s your latest obsession, the name ‘Megaman’ leaving your mouth at least a billion times a day.

You tell Minho that you want to marry the famous super one day, regardless of the fact that there’s more than a decade between you two. That’s when the boy starts to think that maybe if he becomes a super, you’ll want to talk only about him instead.

Although it doesn’t take much convincing, actually getting Minho up in the air is the difficult part. You have to take it slow, holding his hand even if he’s only a couple of inches off the ground.

After weeks of the same results, it doesn’t seem that Minho will be able to make any improvements, so you do the only thing your ten year old brain can think of.

You unclasp the silver chain that rests around your neck, pendant shaped the same as the first letter of your name, and put it around his. Your hands come to rest on his shoulders, face serious as you try to pretend you’re like a sergeant from your dad’s favorite war-time movie series.

Minho scrunches his brows and tilts his head as he asks, “What’s this for?”

You giggle, serious façade immediately breaking, “It’s a good luck charm! This way, I can be with you whenever you’re flying and you don’t have to be scared.”

“For real? I can actually keep this? You’re awesome, Y/n! I’ll never feel scared if I have this with me!”

You give the boy a tight hug, a giant smile contouring your lips. Minho mumbles something into the crook of your neck, but you don’t quite catch it, so you pull back, hands still grabbing his shoulders and keeping him at an arm’s width away.

He looks unsurely down at the ground for a moment, contemplating if he should voice what he’s thinking or not. However, when he sees your that your encouraging smile hasn’t faltered one bit, it’s just the boost of confidence he needs.

He places his hands atop your own and says, “The necklace sure is great and all, but do you know what’s even luckier?”

You get pouty for a second, thinking your best friend might dispose of your precious gift. With a frown on your face, you grumble out, “No. And I don’t really care either.”

“It’s you, dummy!”

“Hey! Don’t call me a dummy when you’re the dummy, dummy!”

Minho resists the urge to roll his eyes because of course you’d find it in you to argue in a moment like this.

“Ugh, fine, I’m the dummy,” he concedes. “Anyway, I was thinking you can be my lucky charm! As long as you promise to never leave me, of course. And then we can be best friends forever!”

“Really? That’d be perfect, Minho!”

“Promise? That you’ll be by my side forever?”

“I promise.”

Flash forward a couple years and the two of you are sixteen. You’ve become on of the top students in school, balancing grades and your responsibilities as student council secretary. Minho has made a name for himself as a super, dedicating most of his time to saving lives and counting on you to catch him up when he returns home late at night.

However, with people on the streets becoming more aware of him, it also means bad people are better equipped to deal with him.

It’s one fateful night, the wind is howling in his ears and lightning flashes every couple seconds. He’s managed to sneak his way into a gang meeting, trying his best to calm his heartbeat and memorize every detail about the scheme that’s supposed to occur in the coming weeks.

The lightning ends up being a dangerous adversary, its light illuminating Minho’s crouched figure from his place beneath one of the windows on the second floor. One of the grunts notices something is amiss and whispers a command for the building to go into lockdown. He also alerts a guy who appears to be an interim boss of Minho’s location.

The other grunts have him in no time, using their familiarity of the layout to their advantage and sneaking up on him. They grab his arms, forcefully pressing them against his back, and drag him downstairs to the boss.

Minho finds himself seated in a chair. It feels like an investigation scene from the popular crime show on TV, the nearest source of light being an old lamp shining directly in the teen’s face. He gulps, knowing if whatever he says doesn’t please the boss—and it likely won't—he could end up in big trouble.

However, there’s one more mistake Minho makes, and that is overestimating the amount of leniency he would receive. He doesn’t even get a chance to speak before the breath is knocked out of his lungs. Next comes a sharp punch to the face and he knows that’ll leave a mark that won’t be so easy to cover up.

The gang members are relentless, each taking their turn punching or kicking the poor guy, until it’s finally the leader’s turn.

The bulky old man whips out a switchblade and slowly stalks forward. He places the tip of the cold blade on Minho’s forehead, applying enough pressure to draw blood. Minho’s eyes widen in recognition when he realizes what’s about to happen: the man is going to cut off his mask.

He can’t allow that to happen so he wills his body with all his might to break out of the death grip that the grunts have him in. He flies up into the air, shooting through one of the windows and making his escape. Although he does manage to make it out without anyone seeing his true identity, he flies home with a large cut on his forehead, gash slightly tearing into the edge of his mask.

Minho knows that if he goes home and his parents happen to see him in his current state, they’ll find out he’s a super and even worse, they may forbid him from doing the job he’s come to love so much.

Instead, he lands haphazardly on your bedroom’s balcony. He gives the sliding glass door a weak tap, hoping you’ll hear him over the sound of the raging storm above.

Like an angel sent from above, you do hear his call for help and crack open the door.

“Minho,” you call out, voice laced with drowsiness as it’s almost the middle of the night, “what are you doing? Come inside.”

You slide the door open even more, allowing his drenched body to weasel its way inside. You tiptoe across the room and turn the lights to the lowest setting that the dimmer can possibly allow. When you turn around, you resist the urge to yelp, instead rushing forward as Minho’s body collapses.

“Oh my god, Minho! What happened to you? Look at your face. It's…”

You can’t even finish your sentence, your thumb tracing over the delicate skin on his forehead, not ignoring the way his temperature is rapidly falling.

“We need to get you warmed up first,” you urge.

First, you plug in your space heater and position it in front of your bed. You then grab some spare clothes of Minho’s from your closet and turn, ready to hand them off when you see that his form is too exhausted to move on its own. Carefully, you peel off his suit, embarrassment not even close to being present in your mind due to the severity of the situation. You dress him as quickly as possible, making sure to avoid his open wound when sliding on his shirt.

Lugging his body onto your bed, you cover him with your blanket as well as the winter comforter you usually keep tucked away beneath the bed.

Thankfully, the wound is not as deep as it first appeared, and you hope that you can get away with treating it with ointment and wrapping it in bandages, at least until you can get Minho to a doctor.

You lean over his weakened body as you dab the cut with the necessary ointments and creams. Minho doesn’t make it easy for you. His right hand refuses to let go of its grip on your left wrist, skin never losing contact with your own. However, you let it be, knowing that just like that fateful day years ago, the best thing to calm him down is a nurturing touch.

He falls asleep like that and you can only hope for the best, refusing to sleep until you hear his breath even out.

When the sun rises the next morning and Minho comes to, you practically pounce on him, arms winding tightly around his neck.

“Can’t breathe,” the young man chokes out.

You instantly jump back, worry plaguing your features and tears threatening to spill onto your skin.

“S-Sorry,” you say, voice warbling and hands self consciously coming to rest at your side.

Minho softens upon seeing you so concerned, hands reaching out to grab your own.

“I’m fine,” he tries to assure you.

He tells you that he feels much better; he can’t even feel the cut on his head anymore, and that causes you to laugh, telling him he’s being absurd.

“I was so worried, you know? I really thought you were gone for a second there.”

“Don’t you remember our promise? I’m never leaving you and you’re not getting away from me anytime soon.”

“Of course, I remember. But I want us to make a new promise. I want you to promise me to always be careful on missions and always, always, always make sure to come back home safe to me.”

“I promise. I love you, Y/n. I hope you know that.”

“I love you more. And I’ve always known, dummy!”

“Hey!”

“You can’t even argue this time. You literally have a giant cut on your head. You are officially the dummy.”

“Oh god… Do you think my mom will notice?”

“It’s impossible not to. But maybe we can tell her you tripped on the way to school? She must’ve already left for work by now so at least you won’t have to worry about that for now.”

“Ah, what would I do without you?”

“Don’t know. Probably something dumb, dummy.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me!”

“…I hate when you’re right.”

You’re seventeen, not quite a dancing queen, when you’re first asked out to a school event: the winter formal dance. You’re giddy with excitement, chatting with your girl friends about the insta-worthy proposal all day. A classmate who’d recently been in a group project with you, Younghoon, asked you by stopping you at your locker with a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates.

Because you’re so caught up in the excitement, Minho has to learn of this event through social media, grip turning his knuckles white when he sees that a picture of you and Younghoon in a side hug is your most recent post. He thinks bitterly to himself that you would’ve liked lilies or snapdragons instead and would’ve much rather preferred Haribo sour gummy bears to a cheesy box of chocolates.

He doesn’t know why he’s so irked, to be honest. He thinks maybe it’s because you’ve always attended school functions together as a tradition and you could’ve at least given him a heads up.

However, on the day of the dance, when Minho sees you leaving your apartment through the tiny peephole on his front door, he swears his heart stops. Even through the distorted view of the glass, you look stunning. Your hair is styled and you’re wearing a beautiful floor length gown, but the only thing Minho can think is how you seem to glow. You’re not wearing any makeup but it looks like a fairy came and sprinkled you with glitter and fairy dust. Your million watt smile is just as bright as any other day, but it has Minho’s heart going a mile a minute like he’s seeing it for the first time.

While you spend the night dancing with your supposed prince charming, Minho spends his night at a table sulking. His close friend, Jisung, tries to get him to dance with one of the many girls who are head over heels for him, but he doesn’t have the heart to, telling his friend that he’s just not feeling well.

As Minho downs his sixth glass of punch and crushes the flimsy plastic cup between his fingers, he makes a promise to himself. He promises that from now on, he’ll try his best to make you see him as someone you can spend the rest of your life with. Because maybe all of the 'I love you’s that he’s said to you weren’t a way to express platonic appreciation, but actually are his way of showing how he wants to be able to call you his own and vice versa.

Nothing seems to be catching your attention. You’re quite dense for an eighteen year old. Even his famed flirting and aegyo tactics breeze right by you. Minho swears if he could use one word to describe the whole situation, it would be the infamous r/woosh.

Everyone in your friend group knows about his not-so-little crush, but they’re waiting for him to make a big move. However, Minho’s used all the moves he knows. He’s about to give up hope when a friend suggests a last ditch idea: the silent treatment. That’ll have to get you to notice him.

He never predicted it would be so hard, though. Seeing you in the halls and living right next door to you but not saying a word isn’t as easy as it first sounded. You’re the first person he wants to speak to when he gets a good grade. His finger hovers over your number when he sees anything he thinks you would enjoy doing together (which is pretty often since he basically thinks about you 24/7). You’re the first thing on his mind when he wakes up and the last thing his mind remembers before he goes to sleep.

It’s taking a toll on you too because after a long week, you corner him at his favorite dinner.

Sliding into the booth across from him with a serious expression adorning your face, you inquire, “Did I do something wrong? I swear I haven’t and there was probably just a misunderstanding.”

“No,” Minho denies. “There was no misunderstanding. I just needed some time to clear my head, I guess. Something my friend said really got to me.”

It’s not a complete lie, but Minho would rather be swallowed by a black hole than admit he resorted to something as petty as the silent treatment, especially when it comes to wooing a girl.

“Next time, give me a heads up, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

You change the subject, offering to split a milkshake with him, eyes turning their focus from his face to the menu in front of him. You use your fingers to maneuver the menu around to face you, calling over a waitress. You order a vanilla milkshake with two straws and no maraschino cherry on top: the classic order for the two of you.

Minho hesitantly asks after taking a sip of the cold and sweet milkshake, “Hey, I know we’ve made a lot of promises, but I want you to make me one more.”

When you don’t reply but look at him with attentive eyes and an open heart, encouraging him to feel comfortable and speak his mind, he gets the extra boost of confidence he needs.

“Promise me you’ll give me a chance.”

“What? Wait, a chance at what?”

“I guess I should’ve said, 'give us a chance.’ Go out with me?”

The smile on your face is so bright and full of joy that Minho swears he’ll go blind if he sees it again, but the thought is dismissed when you jump up and reach across the table to pull him into a tight embrace.

Placing a light kiss on the tip of Minho’s nose, causing it to scrunch up in an adorable manner, you whisper, “I promise.”