#hired on because that was the expectation

[xx-emowarz-xx]

Yeah obviously.

But also I have a couple of things to add. You probably didn't mean it this way but I want to make sure we're not putting black employees and punk employees into two separate boxes with no overlap because black people have made a lot of really important contributions to goth punk and emo subcultures which often gets erased. This post is as much about weird black people's right to get body mods as it is about white people's.

The second thing I want to say is that the idea of "professionalism" is based on restrictive conservative WASP cultural norms. This post was made through the lense of emo stuff because I'm moving though the world as a white scene trans person and my own job search is difficult right now and it occured to me that the reason you don't see a lot of older goths is because they probably experienced what I'm experiencing right now and decided to pack it in, and I made it on my sideblog where I post about bands. The post has an angle it's not a generalized statement about workplace discrimination. That being said the reason that people who look like I do get told to clean their act up before they can get hired is because of cultural norms rooted in racism. Tattoos were unacceptable in professional culture before there was punk music, and a lot of indigenous cultures use tattoos in their cultural traditions. Piercings were unacceptable in professional culture before there was punk music, and a lot of African and South Asian cultures have facial piercings normalized or expected in their cultural wear (I don't know the significance I just know I've never met a Punjabi woman without a nose ring). I don't really think I need to get into hair, but saying no weird hair (read no hair unacceptable to the wasp monocultures, be it because it's actually weird or just from a different culture) is one of the primary work arounds racists use to deny jobs opportunities to black people now that racial discrimination is technically on the books illegal. Obviously people with Ta Moko and dreads are gonna suffer under these sorts of workplace dress codes than a white guy with a throat tattoo and pink hair. That said neither of those people are getting hired at a workplace that demands a tattoo free body and a professional haircut and both of them deserve to be able to pay for food and shelter without having to change the way they look to please the sensibilities of the white cisheteropatriarchy and they should probably (hint to white punks here to maybe work a bit harder at being allies to poc) band together to demand bodily autonomy and an end to restrictive work place policies rooted in white cisheteropatriarchy.

People don't actually grow out of their emo phases. People are forced out of their emo phases by employers who get a raging boner over controlling how their employees dress, cut their hair, whether they mod their bodies and so on

[joooooniecore]

The wrong Kim?

mingyuxfem!reader, friends to lovers, Reader as a florist, Mingyu as a businessman, idiots in love

PLOT: You never expected to come face to face with your childhood best friend and teenage crush Kim Mingyu again. But here you are, as he stands in your flower shop, trying to choose bouquets for a big wedding.

WARNINGS: smut, explicit scenes, foul language, minors dni, smut scene has been marked, skip if uncomfortable

_____________

"There is a wedding in Mr. Kim's family. His son is getting married and you are hired as the florist."

That was definitely not the first thing you wanted to hear as soon as you opened the shop early in the morning. 

Let's start from the very beginning.

You are a very expertized and famous florist, born and raised in a very middle-class family, in a small town. You picked on the art of flower arrangement at a very young age. Like every typical parent, your mother and father wanted you to pursue some big level corporate job but you were never good at those. Being more indulged in creativity, you decided to attend an arts school, and later did a course on floral arrangements. Currently, you earn an ample amount of money just by doing this exact job for various luxurious occasions all around the city and also outside of the city.

Now comes the question of Mr. Kim. Kim family is one of the oldest families of the town and even played a big role in the advancement of the town. They are very well known in this area and fall under the high-class families. Mr. Kim is the third generation in the family and he has two sons, elder Kim Minhyuk and younger, who is the same age as that of you, Kim Mingyu.

Mingyu and you used to be the best of friends since middle school. Mingyu's father has always adored you and the dedication you had for certain things. It was Mingyu's father who insisted your family to let you study whatever you want.

The trouble started when you both reached high school. Mingyu became sort of popular because of his looks and that created a rift between the two of you. Mingyu would have people flock around him and they would talk poorly about you.

You soon got caught up on every single thing everyone said and decided to distance yourself. And that was how the greatest fight between you and Mingyu happened where he wanted a reason about the distance and you were stubborn enough to not give him that. You both went on your own ways after graduation.

The only issue? Neither of your parents knew about how bad the fight was. Hence, they still think that Mingyu and you are friends.

Back to the present, you knew this day would come. You knew that if Mingyu gets married, he would hire you as the florist. You nodded your head almost in a robotic way and went inside the small office room. You have several branches of this flower shop in many neighbouring cities with employees hired that satisfy your style of decoration. You only maintain the shop in your hometown.

It's a medium sized shop at the farthest corner of a busy street. The shop sits in between a book shop, that is run by an old man and a coffee shop that has recently opened. The shop itself has two floors. The lower level is mostly the counter area and certain non-floral arrangement pieces while the upper floor is completely filled with flowers of every variety. You have a small office on the lower level where you experiment on different arrangements whenever you have no orders to attend to.

You sat on your chair as your eyes wandered to the photo on the shelf. It was an old photo, of you and Mingyu when you were in middle school. Both friends were sticking to each other, Mingyu’s hands wrapped securely around your shoulder while you could barely reach your hands around him. The smiles wide. You could almost hear the giggles through the picture. Your smile was soft, as if you were shy from all this affection while Mingyu gave his infamous lopsided smile that showed his sinful canines. 

Did you mention that you had a crush on Mingyu? No right? 

Well, that was one of the reasons you distanced yourself because you knew Mingyu would never reciprocate your feelings and that would probably ruin the friendship you both had. You were also scared of heartbreak because in your mind, Mingyu could never fall for you. That was something you have buried deep in yourself but now it seems to resurface.

The thought of Mingyu marrying is gnawing the inside of your skin. You knew this day would come and you have always imagined yourself to be fine with it. You were sure that the crush was just a stupid uproar of emotions but now hearing the news, your insides churned. You were not at all ready to watch Mingyu marry someone else. It did seem selfish because you were the one to broke the friendship but now, you can't help the feeling of anxiousness.

A knock on the door brought you out of your thoughts as you whispered a soft 'come in'. Your employee opened the door and walked in.

"Noona, Mr. Kim's son is here to discuss about the floral arrangements.", said Chan.

You stared at him wide eyed and then replied in a stammering voice, "A-Ask him to sit down. I will be out in a second."

You shooed your employee away as you drank some water and took deep breathes. You had no idea why the mere thought of coming face to face with Mingyu made you such a mess. It’s not like the former knows about your feelings but you were scared to even think about that. After a quick pep talk, you decided to open the door and walk to the storefront.

The moment you came round the corner, you saw Mingyu sitting there. Your steps halted as you took the guy in. Mingyu has no doubt grown even more taller, probably above 6 feet. He doesn't wear shabby clothes anymore. He is dressed in a shirt and pants for god's sake. And he is bulked up. Your eyes racked his entire form and you were in awe at how big and strong his arms looked as they strained against the fabric of the shirt when he pushed his hair back. The rolled sleeves made you go crazy. You gulped and proceeded forward as if nothing was bothering you.

"Hello Mingyu-ssi.", your voice came out breathier than expected.

Mingyu's head shot up to you, his eyes going wide as he widely smiled.

"I didn't know I would have the honour of meeting the CEO of ___'s bloom room.", Mingyu teased as he got up and forwarded his hand for a handshake.

You stared at his hand for a few seconds before forwarding your own ones for a handshake. The former's grip so firm that it had your head reeling. Your hands weren’t that small but still got totally engulfed in the warmth of Mingyu's palm. You quickly retracted away from the warmth, and nervously chuckled.

"It has been a while I see. What can I do for you?", you asked in a professional tone.

Mingyu smiled and replied, "Well I came here to see some of your best floral arrangements. I will click few pictures and show them to Yuna for confirmation."

The name brought you back on earth. The way Mingyu casually said the name cleared every doubt you had. You did have a small hope that it was Mingyu's brother who was getting married but guess not. Mingyu won't call his brother's fiancé by her name this casually. Hence, Mingyu was surely getting married and you were basically lusting over a married man. Ignoring the sinking feeling in your stomach, you asked Mingyu to follow you to the upper floor of the shop.

The upper floor of the shop was full of flowers of every kind. From roses of at least 40 different colours to orchids that are mostly shipped from other areas. Mingyu walked through the entire floor, observing every flower and asking questions about the meaning of each one.

"Wow you know a lot about flowers.", Mingyu commented.

You rolled your eyes and replied, "That's literally my job Kim."

Mingyu laughed at your arrogance and said, "Show me some of your arrangements."

You nod your head as you walk up to this big cabinet and bring out a thick file that has pictures of every floral arrangement you have ever made. You keep it on the table and open it to the page which has the wedding section in it. Passing it over to Mingyu for him to have a look, you stand there nervously.

Mingyu skims through the arrangements and pauses on one, "Tell me about this."

You bend over to look at the one he is pointing. It's a simple arrangement, using mostly roses and few carnations. You explain how each rose shows a different kind of affection and the red and pink carnations simply mean love and attraction. Mingyu then scans over to the more exotic sections and stops on another one. This time it has a special variety of orchid in it, along with few roses and baby's breath. You heartily explained every flower and how they were woven together to make these arrangements.

You then decide to show him a live example of the flowers you arrange and went inside the store room to bring out a massive arrangement that you made recently for a big wedding.

"Well, this one was made by me so that I can send pictures to the other store I have in nearby city. They made a replica of it for one of our customers.", you explained.

You placed the arrangement on the table and were going to step aside when Mingyu came and stood behind you. The distance so less as Mingyu towered over your head, slightly bending a little to examine the flowers. The way Mingyu's hot breath fanned right near your right ear, caused an uproar of goosebumps all over your body.

He whispered right behind your ear, "Wow this one is beautiful.", the low timbre of his voice causing you to melt right on the spot. You had no idea how someone could affect you on this level. You really wanted to ignore the uproar of butterflies in your belly but with Mingyu being like this, it was tougher than you thought.

You cleared your throat and softly nudged Mingyu to move away as you walked to the other end of the table to pick up the file and place it back to where it was. Taking a deep breath, you walk up to Mingyu to pick up the arrangement and safely place it in its glass case.

Honestly, you had no idea why Mingyu wants to know so much about the floral arrangements. Normally when people do come to the shop, they just allow you to choose one and if the arrangement looks pretty then they go with it. At most times it is as simple as roses and few carnations. No one has ever asked you the meaning of the flowers you use.

On the other hand, you were pleased that Mingyu was asking you about the flowers. You always had a passion about knowing information related to different flowers. There was a time when you would blabber all day about different flowers that you learned from the internet. Your mother and sister would actually beg you to shut up about it. After you went through a harsh breakup just a year back, you had stopped talking so passionately about flowers. Your ex never tolerated it and would often joke about your job. You being stupid, ignored the flaws and that was your biggest mistake.

"____?", Mingyu's voice and strong grip on your shoulder brought you out of your thoughts.

"Huh? Oh, were you saying something?", you asked dumbly.

"Yeah. I was asking your permission to click pictures of the arrangements.", informed Mingyu.

You nodded and said, "Uhm you can do that or I can send you the digital copy of the ones you selected."

Mingyu's eyes sparkled at the idea and he enthusiastically nodded, "Yes that would be great!"

You took Mingyu down to your office and made him sit on a chair across your own seat. You opened the files that were separated by the types and began searching the ones Mingyu asked for.

Meanwhile Mingyu's eyes wandered around the small room in which the two of you were seated in. Mingyu has always admired the passion that you had for floral arrangements. Even when you both were in high school, you would talk all day about various flowers and it really made Mingyu smile. Your eyes would light up whenever you talked about your favourite flowers and that was what Mingyu loved the most.

When he entered the shop, he had made up his mind to not get awkward when he comes face to face with you. The fight you both had in the end of high school still lingers on his mind and he has still no idea why you distanced yourself. He knew how everyone talked shit about you but he never allowed those bad stuffs to get in between the friendship. Mingyu was lost without you.

When he waited for you to walk up to him while he was seated at the storefront, he thought he was going to be fine with it. But the moment he saw you, his knees grew weak. You looked beautiful, like you always had. In high school, you were extremely shy and would always wear baggy clothes and a messy bun. No one really looked at you in the same way that they looked at other girls. You were only included in a conversation if someone needed help with something and that always boiled Mingyu’s blood. He was somehow glad that no one had a crush on you because deep down Mingyu did nurture one.

As you walked up to him wearing a soft peach button up shirt along with white pants, he knew he was a goner. You had always had these soft curls that extended up to your waist which Mingyu adored. Your soft delicate features, big almond eyes and pink cheeks just made Mingyu go crazier.

Now sitting across you in this small office, he couldn't help but wander his eyes to the different prizes and pictures that adorn the walls. He scans through the various prizes, each signifying the excellency of your craftsmanship. His eyes paused on a frame amidst the big certificates. The frame itself is a bit old and also the picture framed in it. He squints his eyes for a better look and that's when he sees it.

"I-Is that our picture?", he asked involuntarily.

You visibly malfunction as you give a weak nod without even sparing Mingyu an eye. You really thought you were going to combust from embarrassment.  You had forgotten about the picture and now you somewhat regret it. When no response comes from Mingyu, you panic and look up to check on your guest.

Mingyu's eyes were fixated on that frame as his eyes flickered with a small feeling of want and desperation. He really hated the distance that was created between you both and now seeing that you still thought him to be important, made his heart stutter.

"I hated how we drifted apart.", Mingyu said when he sensed a worried pair of eyes on him.

You had already forwarded all the pictures to the phone number that Mingyu gave. You closed your laptop and without even thinking, move forward to hold Mingyu's hand. You have always been sensitive to Mingyu's feelings. You could easily guess when the latter was feeling vulnerable.

"Yaa Mingyu-ah, we were kids. It’s fine. We can again start again as friends.", you softly smiled.

"Hello, I am ___.", you playfully informed and waited for Mingyu to introduce himself.

Mingyu gave a wet laugh as he wiped his tears and said, "I am Kim Mingyu."

Your heart swelled as you smiled widely, "Can we be friends?"

Mingyu laughs and nods, "Yes we can be."

You both talk for a while, catching up on everything. Mingyu talks about the wedding with hearts in his eyes. He is apparently actively taking part to make sure that nothing goes wrong. You were no stranger to the passion that Mingyu emitted whenever he did something. Seeing Mingyu talk about his wedding with such utmost care made your insides churn. You mentally scolded yourself for not being happy for your best friend but deep down you hated how you lost your chance to confess what you felt anymore.

"So, ____, any relationships?", asked Mingyu as he sipped on the cold drink that you offered.

You hated how easily the nickname rolled of Mingyu's tongue and how it made you instantly blush.

"You are blushing! Who is it?", asked Mingyu feigning happiness.

"No one currently. I broke up with my ex just last year.", you informed with a sad tone.

Mingyu nodded his head and asked, "Who was it then?"

"His name was Mark.", you said, the name tasting bitter on your tongue.

"Why did you both break up?", came the next question.

This was the question you dreaded. You hated reliving the moments through the stories and so at most times you avoided the topic of your sunken relationship. Mingyu nudged you a bit as it brought you back to the present. He repeated the question just to make sure that you caught on it.

"Uhm nothing its uhm he was a bit toxic and then he cheated so I broke up.", you answered, clearly not sure why you were blabbering.

Mingyu visibly stiffened as he said through gritted teeth, "I would have his head if I meet him someday."

You could see the anger in his eyes. It made you laugh as you tried to pacify the situation. It did break your heart when you broke up with Mark but you were much happier now with your job and single life.

The conversation came to an end when Chan came in and informed about a customer waiting for you. Bidding goodbyes, you went out to see him off and Mingyu promised to visit again with the decisions that Yuna has made.

________

Two days passed by in a daze. You were mostly busy with orders and making new kinds of arrangements to put in your monthly magazine. Every month you published a digital magazine which has unique arrangements exclusively made by you. Many people from different areas buy those arrangements and it helps you boost the sale. You informed your mother about the encounter with Mingyu which made her extremely happy.

Mingyu came to the shop the next day to inform about the ones that were selected. He gave the number of orders and paid a certain amount in advance. You quickly noted down the order and the delivery date.

After small talking for a while, Mingyu asked, "When do you close?"

You didn't quite understand the reason of the question but answered nevertheless, "Around 5."

Mingyu smiled mischievously and said, "Let's go to the new restaurant that has opened in the area. My treat."

Your heart stuttered a bit. You were not sure if you should allow yourself to be this close to Mingyu. He was very kind to you and the way he talked with so much tenderness, made your heart suffer. You were trying hard to not fall more for this married man but the way Mingyu expectantly looked at you with starry eyes, made you agree to the plan.

"Fine. Let's go.", you sighed and Mingyu clapped enthusiastically.

The day went by agonizingly slow. You had to attend to a very arrogant customer who hated every flower arrangement that you showed and finally settled on not buying anything after wasting almost 2 hours. Then you had to work on Mingyu's order and while cutting the stem, your finger accidently grazed at the edge of the blade, causing a blood massacre on your desk and papers. You quickly cleaned everything up and took a quick shower in the restroom itself. You secured the wound with a band-aid and wore the outfit you had asked Chan to bring from your home. You weren’t wearing anything fancy today for your work fit so you wanted to at least look presentable for the dinner place.

Sharp at 5 pm, a car stopped in front of the shop. You were just closing everything when there was the sound of the door opening. You switched off the lights of the office room, and came out into the front area only to find Mingyu leaning against the door frame of the shop, mindlessly scrolling on his phone. He was wearing a white shirt and black dress pants. The tie loosened to give him a more laid-back fit and his hair was styled which made his face look even more sculpted.

You gulped as you controlled your desire to run your fingers all over Mingyu's body. Walking up to Mingyu, you gave him a soft tap on his arm to notify him that you were ready to go.

"Wow you clean up good, ____-ah.", complimented Mingyu to which you playfully hit him and ignored the blush that rose on your cheeks.

Mingyu's car was parked just outside the shop. It was a beautiful car with very slick design. You didn't know much about cars but this one looked expensive as hell. Mingyu walked up to it and unlocked the door, opening the passenger door to allow you to settle in.

"You have a nice car.", you said as soon as Mingyu settled on the driver's seat.

"Thanks. I love this car so much.", Mingyu glowed due to the compliment as he drove both of you to the restaurant.

Mingyu couldn't take his eyes off you the whole ride. According to him, you were looking breathtakingly beautiful. When you walked up to him after closing your shop, Mingyu had to control himself from draping his arms around your waist and pulling you close. Mingyu always knew that he had feelings for you but never really got a chance to actually ask you out. Now that he was back for good, thanks to his brother's wedding, he can take all his time to win you back.

The exterior of the restaurant seemed very calming as trees decorated the driveway. Mingyu got out of the car first after parking it and held your door for you to come out.

"Reservation under Mr. Kim?", asked Mingyu as soon as he entered the restaurant along with you. You bowed gently to the waiter as you handed your coat to him. Then you both settled on one of the tables and silently skimmed through the menu card.

After ordering some food, you both sat in silence waiting for one of you to speak. The silence wasn't uncomfortable but you felt your heart rate increase every time you looked at Mingyu. Mingyu was looking around the restaurant, trying to take it all in but all you could do was admire him.

"They successfully made a very cozy place. Isn't it ____?", asked Mingyu finally after his wandering eyes zeroed on your face.

You nodded and said, "Yes. It's very beautiful here."

After what felt like hours, the order arrived. The once empty table was now filled with delicious cuisines that smelled like heaven. Your mouth watered as you beamed. Mingyu giggled at how cute you were acting as he got up to serve you the dinner.

"Ah Mingyu-ah! I can do it myself.", you said, trying to stop him.

"What? I invited you here! How can I let you do that?", winked Mingyu as he calmly plated the food.

The food was absolutely delicious and you moaned as soon as you took a bite of the tender chicken. Your eyes closed as your head fell back trying to remember this feeling of delicious food.

Mingyu couldn't help but trace an invisible line along your lips and down your neck. The sound of your moans from the taste of the food, went straight to a part of Mingyu he can't even explain. Chugging a bit of water, he took another bite of the food but all he could think of was tasting your lips.

"Oh, before I forget!", you exclaimed as you took out a small gift-wrapped box from your purse.

"There you go.", you handed it to him with a hesitant smile.

"What is this? I didn't bring a gift for you.", Mingyu pouted.

"Oh no. This is for the wedding. A congratulatory gift?", you quickly explain, slightly embarrassed under his intense scrutiny.

"Why are you giving it to me?", a confused Mingyu asked.

You stared at him dumbfoundedly, "What do you mean?"

There was a moment of silence before Mingyu's eyes went wide and he started laughing heartily. His laugh confused you even more as all you could do was stare and wait for Mingyu to explain why he was laughing.

"My dear ____-nie, did you think that I am getting married?", teased Mingyu.

Your eyes went wide, "You are not!?"

Mingyu moved his head in a definitive no and said, "No you idiot. My brother is getting married. He is also a Kim, remember?"

"But...but you call your brother's wife's name so casually.", you pointed out.

"That's because she is my friend. We went to the same college and when my brother went to stay with me for a year for his job, he fell in love with her.", explained Mingyu.

"You didn't mention that.", you accused Mingyu as you crossed your hands over your chest and pouted.

"I thought you knew. Everyone in town knows about it.", Mingyu said as he laughed.

"Geez fine. Just give the gift to Minhyuk hyung then.", you said as you sat up straight.

Mingyu raised his hand and asked for a bill and said, "You are seriously so dumb wow."

You couldn't say anything as you grumbled. You really thought that Mingyu was getting married. A part of you felt a sense of relief as you thought that you still had a chance to confess but the other part was not ready to face the consequences of the confession.

After the bill was paid by Mingyu who skilfully didn't even let you see the amount and just said, "I invited you."

After settling in the car, you decided to tease him. The car was still in the parking area since Mingyu was still getting settled in the car after putting both of the coats in the backseat.

"It’s sad honestly. I thought that finally I would get a chance to be someone's grooms-lady at their wedding.", you teased Mingyu.

Mingyu looked at you and with stern eyes which then turned into a mischievous glint. He then abruptly came close, his face just inches apart as one of his hands went up to your waist and settled there. All the teasing and plotting that you had in your head vanished as all you could feel was the warmth of Mingyu’s hand that grazed up and down your waist.

You gulped and whispered, "Wha- What are you doing?"

"I don't know about grooms-lady but you could be my lady. How does that sound?", Mingyu thickly whispered in your ear.

You whimpered at the sensation as you managed to say, "And how are you planning to do that?"

Mingyu smirked as he could see the bravery drain out of your face inch by inch. He has noticed the way you looked at him and he really didn't want to miss the chance.

"First, I would like to kiss you. Like right now. After that if you give me permission, then I will take you back to my apartment.", Mingyu explained in a steady voice but the lust was pretty much visible in the way he eyed you up and down.

Your entire body was on fire. You squirmed under the hot gaze of Mingyu. Mingyu pulled you in for a passionate kiss. It was all hot and heavy, trying to consume the other. Your brain was fogged entirely, clouded by the smoke of fire burning between the two of you.

The kiss left your mind in shambles as you breathed heavily.

"Do you want to go back to my apartment love?", asked Mingyu in a raspy voice and all you could do was nod. Your mouth was closed shut as your mind was clouded with lust.

"Please take me Gyu.", you finally spoke, in a lust laden voice as you looked at Mingyu with eyes feigning innocence.

Mingyu tongued the inside of his cheek before sliding himself back onto the seat and roared the engine of the car back to life. Meanwhile your hands traced his forearms, skimming up his biceps and then down.

"You are so big Gyu.", you whispered almost to yourself.

The drive to the apartment was painfully long. The moment Mingyu entered the lift with you, his hands shifted up to your waist and pulled you flush to his sturdy chest. The gentle yet firm grip, pulled a breathy gasp out of you. Normally, you would be embarrassed about being so turned on by such minimal action, but not now. Not when you knew Mingyu was going to turn you into putty in his hands.

!!SMUT WARNING!!

You both entered the empty apartment and Mingyu quickly locked the door before pushing your front against the door while pressing against your ass.

Mingyu's lips grazed behind your ear as he whispered, "Don't you feel it love?"

Your eyes slipped shut and your head fell back against his shoulder while he mouthed over the sensitive spots on your neck.

"Feels good, yeah?" Mingyu said, voice low. You struggled to even nod. 

"Tell me, ____."

"Mm-mph, good, feels good," you breathed out, chest constricting and stomach turning as Mingyu's right hand made its way over your tummy and dipped lower and lower.

"Mingyu, please.", you didn't even know what you were asking for now.

Mingyu let out a cocky snort, which you would have been more irritated by had he not finally reached below your waist and grazed his palm across your achingly aroused core.

Your hips bucked instantly, already feeling sweat bead at your hairline. Working his hand up and down your clothed cunt, over the flimsy dress that you wore, at a dizzyingly slow pace, putting pressure in all the right areas, while the other hand caresses the dip in your waist.

Mingyu pulled you over to the nearby couch. He sat there on the couch and made you settle on his thighs, chests pressed against each other. You slowly moved your hips rhythmically, moaning and groaning at the feeling of the thick thighs against your clothed core.

"Feels good right?", asked Mingyu as he gripped your waist and created even more friction between the bodies.

"You are such a dirty girl ____. Coming just from my thighs. Gonna make my pants all messy right baby?", panted Mingyu as you increased your pace.

Just as you felt yourself nearly reach the peak, Mingyu lifted both of you up from the couch, leaving you whining. Before you could open your mouth to complain, Mingyu picked you up effortlessly and took you to the bedroom before throwing you on the bed gently but firmly. Pulling your legs around his waist, Mingyu pulled you in for a passionate kiss. It was all teeth and tongue as he devoured your mouth like a starving man. Familiar calloused fingers stroked your thighs, suddenly gripping them tightly.

You felt yourself get wet from the way Mingyu's big hands wrapped around you so effortlessly. You threw your arms around Mingyu's neck while the latter placed a hand on the small of your back to support you, pushing you closer in a way that made your clothed cores rub against one another, leaving you shamelessly rutting for more.

Mingyu got up and tugged his half-opened shirt out of the way. Your eyes went wide as you stared at the toned chest. Mingyu was bulked up and in all the right places. His biceps were huge and sturdy while his chest was so perfectly crafted that it made your mouth water.

"Fuck, you are so big.", you almost moaned when you felt the ripple of muscles beneath your delicate fingers as you traced a line across Mingyu's chest. Mingyu laughed as he dipped again to trail kisses down your body, leaving marks wherever he pleased. He cupped your one breast with his one palm, massaging and twisting the nipple to send delicious shocks all across your body while his mouth sucked the other one with a new found determination which left you writhing under his hot gaze.

Your brain was fogged entirely. Mingyu's hand dipped below your back to firmly grip your ass, which caused you to jerk forward with a squeak.

Mingyu broke the kiss and asked, "You want this?"

You nodded fervently, lips swollen and red, head reeling with need.

"Words, baby."

A whine, then, "Please, Gyu, need you."

Mingyu smiled into a quick kiss planted on your lips. "So good at listening, baby." Mingyu took your both wrists and held them with his one hand abruptly, riling you up even further, if that was possible at this point.

He stepped back slightly and raked his eyes over you for a moment.

"You're gorgeous."

You squirmed and reddened under his lustful gaze, a dazed smile on your face, "Click a picture. It would last longer"

Mingyu returned the crooked grin, "Can't risk anyone else seeing you like this."

You blushed at the possessiveness that Mingyu portrayed. You always liked being with someone who will have eyes only on you and seeing how Mingyu took you all in like you were a goddamn masterpiece, made you even more shy.

After pulling back and rummaging through his bedside drawer and securing a condom, Mingyu returned and kneeled in between your legs. He slowly tugged at your panties, pulling it down. You sucked in through your teeth at the chill on your feverishly hot skin. In this way, you felt incredibly vulnerable and shy all of a sudden, flinging your arms over your eyes to cover your crimson face.

The moment Mingyu realized that you were trying to hide your face, his grip on your hands were back as he looked at the squirming you firmly and said, "Don't look away. I want you to watch me while I devour you."

You gulped.

"Understood darling?", Mingyu demanded.

You nodded but Mingyu wasn't satisfied.

"Words my girl. Words."

"Yes. Yes sir.", you smirked mischievously.

All the blood from Mingyu's brain went to his dick the moment he registered what you called him.

"Keep calling me that and you will see the consequences.", Mingyu warned.

"I would love that sir.", you said again and all hell broke loose.

Mingyu teased the pussy and whispered a “so wet for me” before a slicked-up finger was pushed in through your entrance. The wind was knocked out of your lungs, quickly stolen in a kiss by Mingyu, as the finger breached.

"You, okay?"

"You're not gonna break me, Gyu.", you said, far weaker and more desperate than you had intended for it to come out.

"We will see about that.", Mingyu said with a smirk.

Huh? Before you could register, Mingyu's finger slowly pushed in and out, causing every nerve in your brain to disconnect. You couldn't even remember the last time someone made you feel this good, if ever.

Mingyu gripped the milky flesh of your thigh while sliding a second finger in beside the first one. Your hips jerked, which Mingyu moved to pin down to the soft plush of the bed.

The pace of his hand was excruciatingly slow, seemingly determined to unravel the very fibre of your flesh and bones in the most glorious way.

Your mind was covered by a haze, and after what could have been a couple minutes, or many, Mingyu slid a third finger in.

You choked out a moan, babbling Mingyu's name and begging for some merciful relief.

"So perfect for me, ____," Mingyu pressed deeper inside until he was massaging that sweet spot while simultaneously scissoring his fingers open ever so slightly. You whined loudly, back curving and hands scrambling to grab onto the well-muscled arms splitting you apart at the seams.

"Gyu, please, I need- now, please."

The hand previously holding your hip moved to your thigh, spreading you open further.

"You can come like this, yeah? You're so good, ____, so good at listening to me."

Your brain melted like wax out of your ears, skull hollowed out so all you could think about was Mingyu's voice echoing in your headspace.

"Come on, angel, don't think about it, just feel it."

With a noisy cry, you gasped out Mingyu's name before coming hard, creaming Mingyu’s fingers, legs twitching in Mingyu's grasp as you came undone.

Your climax did nothing to stop Mingyu, as he immediately lined his own cock to your cunt and slammed. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, shut with overwhelming pleasure and the sting of overstimulation.

"You can give me another, right angel?" Mingyu’s hips bucked forward with such sheer precision and strength that it left you in a babbling mess. You nodded weakly, now panting and gasping as you whispered Mingyu's name like some sort of holy prayer.

Mingyu gently kissed you, taking in your moans as he moved with a new found rhythm. You moaned when Mingyu hit the right spot and that did it for him. Mingyu hit the spot again and again as he made sure you were maintaining eye contact.

"You see how I ruin you angel.", Mingyu said in a hoarse voice.

Your eyes were glazed over and unfocused, lost in a hazy pleasure. You watched as Mingyu's hips rhythmically sunk into your cunt as your thighs quivered and stuttered out little moans each time he made contact.

After what felt like a lifetime, you finally felt your release coaxing again.

"You are going to cum aren't you baby?", whispered a sweaty Mingyu right in your ear.

"I can feel you squeezing my dick, baby. Fuck.", he moaned as his rhythm staggered.

You moaned because you were unable to even think about what to say. Racing your high you made sure to see Mingyu and how both of you fell apart almost at the same time as a garbled-out moan filled the space of the moan. Mingyu groaned as he released his own load and fell on you trying to catch his breath.

He brushed the hair stuck to your moist forehead out of the way before planting an intimate but delicate kiss to your wet lips.

!!SMUT ENDS!!

After resting for a few minutes, Mingyu got up to bring a cloth dipped in warm water to clean you and change the bedsheets before pulling you both under the warm embrace of a blanket.

You snuggled into Mingyu's naked chest as the warmth almost lulled you to sleep.

"____-ah.", whispered Mingyu to which all you could do was hum.

"I really like you. I am sorry I never confessed to you sooner. When you distanced yourself, I was a complete mess. I tried to contact you but every time I thought about it, I realized that it might make you feel uncomfortable. It was a relief to me when I saw that you were single. I knew I had to take the chance.", confessed Mingyu.

"I am sorry for distancing myself. It’s foolish but I have liked you since high school and that scared me. I really thought that you would hate me or reject me and so the best I could do was leave. When I thought that you were getting married, I knew I had lost my chance but then you were so sweet and kind that I almost thought that it meant something. I am glad you took the initiative.", you blushed as you confessed.

"So, still thinking about being my grooms-lady for the wedding?", teased Mingyu.

You giggled as you planted a kiss on Mingyu's lips and said, "I rather be your lady."

_______________________

Author's note: This is the longest smut I have ever written. I have been noting down inspirations from so many fanfictions and finally I was able to write this. I just feel extremely awkward when I write smut because I feel like I am not writing good so the inspirations helped a lot. Please do show it some love and I will be back with many other one-shots. Love y'all

[nerdygirlramblings]

Hello! Ive been binging poly!141 and I keep coming back to your writing for my fix (because by now its basically an addiction😅)

I had this idea that the 141 are together with a civilian reader. And civilian reader works in retail, part time, and is mostly at home. Normally, they would be home by the time their boys came home, welcoming them with open arms, a hot plate of food, and time to rest and relax. But this time, the 141 get home early and realize where reader works: Walmart (or equivalent). Reader has been keeping this a secret cause they know its not cute like a coffee shop or cool. Its just their job. And now the most important men in their life know. Im thinking the 141 found out because they went grocery shopping and happened to come across reader or something similar to that.

I work at Walmart and it sucks🥲 thought that maybe something like this might help😅

Tysm, nonny! So happy to hear you like the writing. I hope this does your idea justice. (Walmart doesn't have stores in the UK, but they own ASDA.)

Also, thank you for my first request! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

pure fluff, bad accents (per usual)

Your boys find out you work part-time at ASDA on a random rainy Thursday in March.

You don't really need a job. All four of your lovers are officers with the British army. Prior to you, they all lived in base barracks. Prior to you, they lived fairly Spartan existences. Prior to you, most of their income sat in the bank, quietly accumulating.

They have plenty of money saved up that they love using to spoil you, when you let them. You know that if you asked, they'd give you everything, but you draw the line about asking them for an allowance like some tradwife. You want some pocket money of your own. Thus, the part-time job at the ASDA in town.

You're a people person, good at handling big personalities. You need to be to keep up with your boys. Between John's need for control, Simon's stoic dominance, Johnny's aggressive enthusiasm, and Kyle's blinding charisma, you aren't some shrinking violet. Within a week of your hire, your manager watches how you weather a nasty piece of work trying to demand concessions you aren't permitted to give and immediately puts you in customer service.

You're nearly unflappable in the face of frustrated pensioners and harried parents and entitled young professionals. Over and over, you're the one they call when a customer is going spare. Which is how your boys find out about your job.

They've been deployed for over two weeks, and you have no idea when they'll return. John had originally said they'd be gone for at least a month, so you aren't expecting them home any time soon. However, they'd come home much earlier than anyone thought, and they wanted to surprise you.

You're always so good about making the house feel like a home, with your bright smile and warm laughter, your home cooked food and soft touches in decor. You make them feel like people, not weapons, and they want to return the favor. This last deployment had been hard, and all four of your boys were missing your sweet voice and tender care. They wanted to show you that they loved and cared for you the way you always showed your love and care for them.

It was Johnny's suggestion to prep a meal for you as both a surprise and a thank you. After debrief, they pile into the car and decide to stop at ASDA for everything they need before heading home to surprise you. It's John who causes the code call.

You hear Susan's voice over the store-wide address system. "We could use a little Sunshine in the floral department." That's your cue. You finish with the pensioner at your till as Jacob, your manager, comes over to relieve you.

You take a deep breath and square your shoulders. In your experience, a Sunshine call in floral is a man angry the store doesn't have the fancy arrangements listed on the website. You wish the signage on the site would be more clear that the beautiful bouquets are online orders only. It would save you having to explain why the offers in store are so limited.

You hear him before you see him, smokey voice grumbling, "But if they show the bloody thing on the site as available, you should have it hear." You'd recognize the voice anywhere. He's not angry, not really, but Susan doesn't know that. Add in the sheer size of him, and Simon looming over his shoulder, it's no wonder she called for support.

You have never wanted to walk away from a situation as much as you want to right now, but before you can make an escape, Susan notices you over John's shoulder. Her little wave is enough for your men to notice, and they turn as one to see you coming towards them. Immediately their demeanor shifts. Simon's back sags as though his strings were cut, leaving him loose-limbed. John stands a little straighter, chin up as if to impress you. They've both broken out in smiles, though Simon's are only evidenced by the laugh lines you know to look for. It's only as you get close do they zero in on the badge on your shirt.

"I've got this, Susan," you say to your co-worker. "Jacob's on my till. Can you cover?"

Susan wrings her hands. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay and-"

"They're nothing I can't handle," you tell her, cutting off her worried rambles. There's a cheeky glint in your eye as you flick your gaze at your men. You clap your hands together and say, "Right, let's get this settled, then."

Susan takes one quick look between you and the now slightly less intimidating men and heads towards the front of the store.

Once she's out of earshot, John's face breaks into a frown. "What're you doing here, love?" He glances at your name on your chest again. "You work here?" He sounds almost hurt by the revelation. You can tell Simon wants to reach for you, and the only thing stopping him is you working.

You hear heavy footfalls behind you as Johnny's Scottish lilt reaches your ears. "Och, Cap! Ye said ye'd only be a moment. Gaz and I had a hell of a time getting the trolley on its lift ta find ye. How hard is it to buy bon..." His question dies on his lips as you turn around. "Bonnie?" He, too, sounds hurt to find you working here.

You can see Kyle over Johnny's shoulder, confusion written across his features. This is not how you wanted your boys to find out about your job, if you ever wanted them to actually find out. You thought maybe you'd surprise them with tickets to Hereford FC's opening game in a few months. And if they asked how you afforded them, you could handle this conversation then, but it's out of your hands now.

And as much as you don't want to have this conversation, especially not in the middle of the floral department, you can't stop the wide grin at seeing your boys again, home and whole.

"Hi, boys," you say, opening your arms. Disappointed he might be about finding you here, Johnny's no fool. He immediately steps into your embrace, and the others quickly follow suit. You're swallowed up by the smell and feel of them. The hug lasts one minute. Then two. Then they all slowly step back.

You can see the questions and cut them off before they get started. "I have another three hours before I'm off. We can talk at home, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."

John nods first. He recognizes your tone. You won't let them derail you for answers now, and they would be wasting their breath to try. "You heard the lady, lads. Let's get home."

They start to walk away when you tease, "Captain? Was there a reason you were arguing with Susan about the flowers?"

He halts his steps and turns to you, flush creeping up his neck. He brings his hand up to rub it as he says, "Er, I, we, wanted to get ya something nice, but they don't have the same ones as online."

You melt a little, watching the way your men shift nervously behind their captain. You smile softly and reach over, plucking a bouquet of rainbow poms from the rack. "These are what I usually get for myself when you're away."

John takes them gently from your hand and passes them to Gaz to put in the trolley. "We'll see you at home, love," he murmurs, leaning over briefly to kiss your cheek. Simon kisses the top of your head, fabric brushing your hair. Johnny pulls you in for another bruising hug and kisses your other cheek. Gaz puts his hands on your waist, drinking in the sight of you, before taking your hands in his and kissing your palms.

You watch them leave, wondering how you'll make it through the rest of your shift.

Three hours and fifteen minutes later, you cross the threshold of your shared home to the most delicious scents wafting from the kitchen. After slipping your shoes off next to the piles of boots at the door, you follow your nose back to the kitchen and the spread laid out on the large wood-topped island. There's a roast and mushy peas and mashed potatoes and stewed carrots and battered cod and crisps and spinach all surrounding the flowers you'd suggested, nestled in the vase you love most, the Caithness one Johnny'd bought you on your first trip with them to Scotland.

At the table, your men sit, plates made for everyone, waiting on you. They've changed since you saw them. Gone are any traces of fatigues and tactical gear. Instead they're all in casual civvies, truly home for the first time in nearly three weeks. Simon stands as you come in and pulls out your chair, smile on his scarred lips. "Come sit, doll," he tells you, not quite an order.

You look quickly around. "Let me change," you say, tugging at your uniform top. "I won't be but a minute." You back out of the room before they can stop you. You hurry to your bedroom, pulling your top off as you go. Once behind the door, you slip from your trousers into comfortable leggings and a large jumper, one of Kyle's you think.

By the time you make it back to the kitchen, your men are more than a little antsy. Simon's smile is a little strained, Johnny is fidgeting, Kyle keeps glancing between you and John, and John is staring at you. Your chair is still out. He waves a hand at it, and gently says, "Come sit, love." It's couched as request, but you know a command from your lover when you hear it.

You take your seat at the table. "Listen-" you start, but John cuts you off.

"Are we not providing for ya, love?" You see the hurt in his eyes, how much it bothers him to think he, they, aren't doing enough for you.

"Oh, John, dear, no!" you reply, putting your hand over his on the table. "It's not that at all."

"Then what?" Simon asks.

You look at them all, the expectant faces waiting to hear how they failed you. "I get restless sometimes. I love you, and I love our life. I'm happy to take care of the house and make sure you're all fed after a long day. But I wasn't built for sitting around doing nothing. I like people; being home on my own all day can get lonely. Especially when you're deployed. I also like having my own pocket money."

John opens his mouth, and you know what he's about to say, so you continue. "I know you'd give me any money I need or want, but I like having my money. Money I earned myself." You look around at them, willing them to understand. "It's only part time. Helps me keep a little busy and have a little extra to spoil you and me with."

Johnny is frowning, but you see Kyle, head cocked, looking at you as a puzzle. "I think I understand," he says softly. "You were making you way just fine before us, and you gave up everything for us."

At his words, the crease between John's brow deepens, and you're sure he's remembering the job you had, that you'd somewhat enjoyed, when you'd first met them. You'd been working at RAF Lakenheath, living in a cozy flat in Cambridge, near The Backs, when the 141 had been coming through the base after an op. An injury had put Kyle in the med center for a week, and while he could have been transported to Hereford once stable, Laswell had worked it out for the whole team to have some R&R near the base.

You'd quite literally run into John one day, rushing to your office, after which he suggested lunch as an apology. You quickly became close with all four, smitten with them from the start. In turn, they fell hard for you. They wooed you over the course of several weeks, stopping through Lakenheath on deployments to spend some time with you. Six months in and you were completely gone on all four of them, so when they'd asked you to move to Hereford, you did without ever looking back. But it meant giving up the life you'd led.

Somewhere along the way, your happiness overshadowed all you'd left behind. After a few weeks, being home alone while your men worked started to feel isolating. You liked being a little busy, and there weren't enough projects around the house to keep you busy enough. You'd always been independent, but you didn't want to be stuck in a job with long hours anymore. You wanted to be home for your men. So you'd found the job at ASDA.

Kyle reaches over to where you hand is still on John's. "I'm sorry we didn't ask how you were coping us being gone all day," he says. He looks you in the eye as he continues. "I understand wanting to do something, wanting to be a little busy, and if this makes you happy, then I'm all for it, doll." He gives you a small smile and squeezes your and John's hand.

"Gaz is right," Simon rumbles. "We were so happy to have you here we didn't think about what you did all alone all day." He puts a heavy hand on your thigh, the warmth of him seeping through your thin leggings. "'m glad you have something to keep you from getting lonely."

"Sorry, hen," Johnny murmurs, just above a whisper. "We didnae think a' ye enough." You smile widely at him.

"Johnny, you think of me all the time. This isn't about neglect at all!" You try to catch his eye, but he's looking hard at the table in front of him. "You did nothing wrong, love," you tell him gently.

He looks at you, blue eyes bright. "Ye sure?" You've never seen him this nervous before, and you break a little.

"I'm sure love."

He smiles then, a little smile, but it brightens his face and shifts the mood in the room. You look at John who's been surprisingly quiet this whole time.

He's smiling, but it's a little sad. "I know ya said we didn't do anything wrong, but we feel like we did. We didn't notice you were bored, didn't ask if you were lonely." He flips his hand over under yours and threads your fingers with his. "Yer giving us a gift by not blaming us, and we'd be stupid not to take it, even though it feels like yer giving us an out. Thank you." He brings your hand to his lips and kisses it softly.

"Thank you. I was worried you'd be mad," you admit.

"Never could make us mad with something like this, hen," Johnny reassures you. "I'm sorry we had to spoil your day is all."

You turn back to look at the food on the island. "You didn't spoil my day. You made it. You're home early, and you made such a lovely spread. I think we should tuck in, yeah?"

Simon chuckles. "Point made, doll," he says, scooping a heaping helping of mash onto his fork. The rest take it as a sign to start eating too.

The room is silent save for the sounds of food savored until John pipes up, "Why'd ya come to florals, love? We might have missed ya altogether if not for that."

You giggle. "The sunshine call, John."

"Yeah?" He clearly doesn't understand.

"It's the shop call for a difficult customer. When I'm on shift, it's my job to handle those." You look at each of your lovers in turn. "Seems I've got a knack for dealing with muppets," you tell them with a smirk.

[animentality]

it's really funny that Donald Trump has cancelled DEI initiatives because yesterday I got to listen to a 60+ year old straight white man ramble on about how they value diversity... of ideas.

But they certainly won't be hiring based on diversity... of ideas.

And that there's no quotas to be met but don't expect the company to stop diversifying... its ideas.

To a crowd of literally 90% white men.

I myself work with a team of 80% white men.

There's me and one woman in my fucking lab. Two indian men. One asian man.

And that's it. the other 30 guys are straight white men in their twenties and thirties.

like really?

were you worried you had too many black people, bc I have literally never seen a black employee at the office or in a teams call

fucking ass.

he knew he was too he started really fumbling after a few minutes of rambling about how the company will continue to grow

like white people seriously?

as soon as it's not legally required, you're like well ... no more diversity then.

you can't even stick to your guns and say oh yeah we still value diversity and will keep hiring based on the idea that everyone deserves a shot?

just admit you don't want to hire women or people of color anymore. Christ.

enough of this pussyfooting around.

we always knew white people were fucking lying about this shit.

[heylittleriotact]

The workplace at BioWare Edmonton sounds almost identical to the toxic environment at my former funeral home: you have a group of talented, qualified, well-meaning eager to do their jobs, but poor leadership, toxic management, and pocket lining ownership fosters an environment where people are literally too fucking stressed to do their jobs and do them well.

There are mistakes and errors which leads to even more negativity, then management fosters an environment where everyone is fucking pitted against each other like Lord of The Flies, so instead of having a cohesive team ready to engage and work together towards a goal, you’ve got a bunch of burnt out, embittered, angry people with personal grudges, resentments, and chips on their shoulder.

Everyone is constantly at each other’s throats or tossing each other under the bus. Turn over is insane: you cannot hire people fast enough because anyone that completes training without bailing because of all the raging red flags doesn’t stick around for more than a couple months anyway, further increasing the burden of work on an already insanely stretched thin group of staff. Expectations are not adjusted accordingly, in fact you’re heaped with even more responsibility (without a salary increase) and expected to be grateful for the opportunity to serve your community.

In the last year I was with the firm I saw people quit who had been there for well over a decade. I saw people leave who I was SURE would be there forever. I saw multiple people go on the same stress leave referred to above. Hell, I almost went on it myself, but instead I eventually got out too because I was not valued, I was not treated like I was valued, and I was little more than an ass in a seat to be taken advantage of in the name of profit and a sniveling man-child’s daddy issues.

A drank and chain smoked myself through my evenings, turned up at work and disassociated as hard as I could so that I could still try and do some good for grieving families. There were indeed days where I would go and find a closet or empty arrangement office to cry in.

I had a choice: stick it out and hope it got better (I’d done four years of that already) knowing full well that if I stayed this job it would literally be the cause of death on my death certificate eventually, or value myself and my future and get the fuck out of dodge.

Fuck BioWare and fuck every company that treats its highly skilled, specialized employees like they’re a burden.

Now that Veilguard is out, this feels like he was trying to warn us.

[seospicybin]

TASTE.

CHAPTER V: TENDER.

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. (20,7k words)

Author's note: Congratulations for making it through the week. Pls enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think about it after ♡

Tender. /ˈten.dər/ (adj) 1. showing gentleness and concern or sympathy. 2. easy to cut.

There’s something about the way sweet things linger on your tongue—like the moments you’ve shared with Minho. Each one, fleeting and intoxicating, feels like a sugar rush. The stolen glances, the secret smiles, the warmth of his presence beside you—they all flood your senses, leaving you craving more.

But now, that sweetness has turned cloying. The secret you’ve been keeping together, delicate as spun sugar, is starting to crack. And like biting into something bittersweet after too much indulgence, the sharp edge of reality cuts through.

You’re walking toward the locker room, hands balled into fists on each side of you and you brace yourself for what's coming as you push the door open. It feels like the aftermath of a sugar addiction—the kind of crash that leaves you wondering why you allowed yourself to get so carried away in the first place.

The memory of Taesoo’s panicked face lingering in your mind, his words ringing in your ears: Everyone knows now.

Your heart sinks again, as if hearing it for the first time.

The taste of bitterness is unmistakable now, grounding you in the realization that this thing between you and Minho—this private, fragile thing—has been exposed to the light.

The locker room feels like a battlefield the moment you step inside. Seungwan charges toward you like he’s been lying in wait. His voice comes out in a rapid-fire assault.

“Minji saw everything!” he declares, practically vibrating with excitement. “She watched you and Chef Minho in the café! She even sent me a picture—proof!”

Your stomach drops, but you force yourself to stay calm. Before you can even respond, Hyunwoo appears at Seungwan’s side, his expression stern. “So? Is it true?”

Before you can answer, Felix suddenly slides into view, positioning himself at your side like a protective shield.

“Hey, it’s not true.” His wide, bright eyes lock onto yours as he asks for your confirmation, “That’s not true, right?”

The weight of their combined stares is suffocating, but you take a deep breath and let it out, bracing yourself. “It’s true.”

The room erupts. Seungwan gasps in victory, practically glowing as he boasts, “See? I told you I wasn’t lying!”

You quickly raise your hands, trying to regain control of the situation. “Wait, listen. It’s true we went to the café, but it’s not because we’re dating, we're close because we were friends back in Italy.”

The uproar falters, and Hyunwoo crosses his arms, skeptical. “Minji said she saw you give him chocolate.”

“I did,” you admit, “but not everyone who exchanges chocolates on Valentine’s Day is a couple by default.”

Seungwan isn’t buying it. “Minji said you looked like a couple.”

You meet his gaze head-on. “Does she have proof? Did she see us kissing? Did she see us sleeping together?”

That bold challenge silences him for a moment, but before you can feel any relief, Felix jumps in, clearly desperate to squash the rumor.

“Hey, it’s impossible!” he insists. “Chef isn’t the type to fall for some random woman in the kitchen. Even if you like him, no matter how hard you try, he won't budge.”

You don’t know if that comment stings more than it should, but you keep your face neutral. In the corner, you catch Taesoo trying to suppress a laugh. He quickly looks away when your eyes meet his.

The tension in the room gradually deflates as the others seem to accept the lack of solid evidence. Seungwan narrows his eyes at you, his voice low with warning. “If it turns out you are dating, I’m not going to sit back and allow it.”

You force a small, indifferent smile. “Fine.”

The others shuffle out of the locker room one by one, grumbling amongst themselves. As you listen to Felix and Hyunwoo bicker about whether or not you’re really dating Minho, you lean against the cold metal of the lockers and close your eyes.

Finally, blessedly, the room is empty, and the air feels breathable again. You sag against the lockers, exhaustion creeping in. The bitter taste of the confrontation lingers, but at least, for now, the storm has passed.

But even in the bitterness, there’s a part of you that clings to the sweetness. The way Minho looked at you, the way his voice softened when he said your name. Those moments are what keep you going, what make the risk feel almost worth it.

You glance down at the chef coat hanging in front of you, then yanking it off the hanger and taking your time as you put it on. Maybe you need the space to breathe, or maybe you’re just trying to drown out the ache in your chest.

Because no matter how much you tell yourself to stop, to quit this dangerous craving, your heart keeps whispering the same thing: One more taste.

-

The echo of his footsteps feels heavier today as Minho walks through the hall and up the stairs to his office. Everyone knows. That single thought loops in his head, clinging like a bad smell he can’t shake off.

He’s prepared himself for the inevitable questions, even rehearsed his answers, but when he steps into his office, the tension he expected isn’t there.

Sara is at her desk, her pen gliding smoothly over her notebook. She looks up briefly when he enters, her brow furrowing slightly as if she senses his unease. But she says nothing.

Minho pauses, unsure. Her lack of reaction is almost more unsettling than if she’d pounced on him with questions. They share a quiet glance, her expression a mixture of curiosity and confusion. When he doesn’t speak, she simply returns to her notes, the faint scratch of her pen filling the silence.

Minho crosses the room and drops into his chair, swiveling it slightly to the side to put himself out of Sara’s line of sight. His fingers reach into his coat pocket, pulling out the card you gave him.

He stares at the envelope for a moment, running his thumb along the edge before carefully pulling the card out. The words you wrote are simple, yet they hit him with an unexpected force.

"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."

A small, lopsided smile tugs at his lips as his eyes fall to the tiny heart you’ve sketched in the corner, next to your initials. It’s so you, and it’s perfect.

Minho lets himself sink into the warmth of your words, feeling them settle in his chest. For a brief moment, the weight of the morning—the rumors, the tension, the stares—fades away. All that matters is this little card and the emotions it carries.

He leans back in his chair, holding the card in one hand as he gazes at it. The dread that had been clawing at him since Taesoo’s outburst dissipates. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Instead, he thinks of you. The way your eyes light up when you talk about food, the shy smile you tried to hide when you slid the box of chocolates across the café table, how you thought of him when you wrote these words.

Minho’s grip on the card tightens slightly, a spark of determination igniting within him.

-

The kitchen hums with the usual chaos—clanging pans, sizzling oils, and sharp orders cutting through the air—but today, there’s a peculiar tension simmering beneath it all. It’s intangible, like an invisible thread tightening around everyone, pulling them taut.

Minho feels it, the weight of too many eyes fixed on him. He’s used to being the center of attention in the kitchen, but this is different. Suspicion hangs in the air like the smell of burning garlic.

He notices Taesoo, his eyes darting nervously between stations. First at you, then at Minho, then at everyone else, as if trying to track invisible lines of connection. Minho doesn’t miss the way Sara leans toward you, whispering something. You shake your head, feigning obliviousness, but your stiff shoulders betray your discomfort.

Minho keeps his face neutral, but inside, he’s amused. He knows exactly what’s happening.

Walking the perimeter of the kitchen, he checks on everyone’s progress, pausing here and there to critique, encourage, or chastise. When he reaches your station, he pauses longer than necessary. Without warning, he grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to shake the frying pan properly.

“Faster, but steady,” he says, his tone deceptively soft. His hand remains over yours a moment longer than needed, and he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric of his gloves.

It’s deliberate, of course. A tiny act of rebellion against the scrutiny, a way to poke at the invisible tension until it snaps.

You pull your hand away quickly, your cheeks flushing as you mutter, “I’ll do better.” Your eyes dart nervously around the kitchen, and Minho knows you’re aware of the stares.

He smirks faintly. “Good.”

Then, louder, for everyone to hear, he says, “Come with me.”

The room freezes for a moment, and Minho doesn’t miss the way Taesoo’s face pales. Minho walks toward the freezer without looking back, trusting that you’ll follow. Sure enough, he hears your footsteps trailing behind him, hesitant but obedient.

The freezer door closes with a soft thud, and the chill immediately bites at his skin. You cross your arms, glaring at him.

“Chef, we shouldn’t be doing this,” you grumble, your voice low but firm.

Minho raises a brow, feigning innocence. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Everyone is watching,” you hiss.

He steps closer, tilting his head slightly. “I called you in here to scold you. Don’t get any ideas. Do I have to tell you so many—”

Before he can elaborate, the door bursts open, and Taesoo rushes in, his face a mask of panic.

“Chef,” he stammers, his voice a frantic whisper. “Everyone’s watching you two. You can’t—”

Minho cuts him off with a sharp look, his patience thinning. “It seems you the two of you are getting too comfortable with me. It’s time to fix that.”

Both of you blink at him in confusion.

“Kneel,” Minho orders, his voice cold and authoritative.

“What? Why?” you ask, incredulous.

“Kneel on the floor and raise your arms. Now.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before you and Taesoo comply, kneeling on the icy floor and raising your arms awkwardly.

Minho crosses his arms, pacing in front of you. “Respect in the kitchen isn’t optional. Do you think I'm a friend? You will both stay like this for ten minutes as punishment.”

He walks over to a nearby bucket of clams, gesturing toward it. “And apologize to the clams. You didn’t clean them properly, and they still smell like mud.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, to his surprise, you burst into laughter, your giggles echoing in the cold space.

Minho glares at you. “Do you think this is funny?”

Through your laughter, you manage to say, “I’m just… glad I’m being punished.”

Taesoo, unable to hold it in, starts chuckling beside you. The sound is contagious, and for a brief second, Minho’s composure cracks, a small smile threatening to escape. He quickly regains control, his expression hardening.

Minho straightens, his authoritative mask slipping back into place. “Now, stop grinning like an idiot and keep your arms up. Ten minutes isn’t over yet.”

As he turns to leave the freezer, a small, satisfied smirk plays on his lips. Whatever happens next—whatever fallout this may bring—he’s ready. For you, he’ll face it all and if anything, he feels braver now.

-

Minho’s office feels smaller than usual, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Felix hesitates, glancing between you and Minho before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Minho’s voice calls, steady and commanding.

You step inside, Felix right behind you, both still clad in your chef coats. Minho and Sara are already waiting, their expressions unreadable as they stand side by side.

Minho doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Hyunwoo is moving to the pasta line and Seungwan will take over the grill which leaves the antipasto line open.” His sharp gaze moves between you and Felix. “Which of you wants to take it?”

Sara chimes in, her tone softer but no less serious. “We’re leaving the decision to you two.”

You exchange a brief glance with Felix. The silence stretches just long enough to feel uncomfortable before Felix clears his throat. “I… I don’t think it’s a good idea to break the current dynamic. But—” He hesitates, his voice growing quieter. “I’ve had some issues with the entrée line. I’d rather not work directly with them.”

All eyes shift to you. The unspoken expectation presses down like a weight. You’re the senior, the one with more experience in antipasto, and everyone knows it.

Minho’s eyes lock onto yours, and with one look, he makes the decision for you. “You’ll take it.”

Sara immediately protests. “We need to hear her opinion first.”

“It’s final,” Minho replies without missing a beat, his gaze shifts back to you. “You’ll take Seungwan’s position starting tomorrow.”

Before you can argue, Minho dismisses Felix with a curt nod. Felix glances at you, his lips parting as if he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it and leaves.

“Can you give us a minute?” Minho asks as he turns to Sara, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Sara pauses, her expression conflicted, but she nods. As she passes, her gaze lingers on you, offering a silent apology before she exits.

The door clicks shut, leaving you alone with Minho and the second you and him are alone in the room, you don't hold back.

“I don’t want to switch, Chef,” you blurt out, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

Minho leans against his desk, arms crossed. “This isn’t about what you want. A cook who stays in one section becomes stale. Hyunwoo didn’t get moved because he complained—I made that call.”

You narrow your eyes, doubt creeping in. “Is this because of the rumors?”

He straightens, his tone sharp. “No.”

But it’s too late. The thought takes root, and your voice softens. “If this is about protecting me because of our… relationship, I understand.”

Minho steps forward, his hands landing firmly on your shoulders. His touch is steady, grounding. “I told you this isn’t about that,” he insists, his gaze searching yours. “Look at me.”

You hesitate but eventually meet his eyes.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks, his voice quiet but intense. “Don’t you trust your chef?”

You do. You trust him more than anyone else in this kitchen, but a small part of you doesn’t trust his judgment on this decision. Still, you keep that thought buried.

You don’t answer, and the silence stretches between you. Minho’s hands drop from your shoulders, and he steps back.

“Be ready for tomorrow,” he says, his tone unreadable.

You nod stiffly, turning to leave, but the tension lingers, heavy and unresolved, as you close the door behind you.

-

The morning light streams through the curtains as you wake with a heavy head, your body feels sluggish, and for a moment, you consider calling in sick. But no—you refuse to let anything, not even a budding illness, make you seem weak or incapable.

You drag yourself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, your eyes barely open. Sara is already at the dining table, her laptop open, fingers typing away. She glances up as you enter.

“Morning,” you mutter, your voice scratchy as you make your way to the coffee machine. The promise of caffeine is the only thing pulling you forward.

“Morning,” Sara replies, her tone light but curious. Her gaze lingers on you as you prepare your coffee.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee offers some comfort as you pour yourself a cup and take a slow sip. The warmth spreads through you, waking you up just a little.

Sara leans back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “You’re still upset about Minho’s decision, aren’t you?”

You glance at her but quickly look away, shaking your head. “It’s fine,” you say, forcing a faint smile.

She doesn’t seem convinced. “If you don’t want to leave the pasta line, you can tell me. You don’t have to go along with it if it’s not what you want.”

You take another sip of your coffee, letting the bitter warmth fill the silence. “It’s fine, really,” you repeat, this time with more finality.

Sara watches you for a moment longer, then smiles faintly, taking a sip of her own coffee. “If you say so.”

The sound of her typing resumes, filling the quiet space between you.

But then she pauses again, tilting her head slightly. “The kitchen was… weird yesterday,” she says casually, though her eyes are sharp. “Is there something going on I should know about?”

Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your face neutral. “I have no idea what you mean,” you reply, your tone light and innocent.

Sara raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she nods slowly and returns her attention to her laptop.

You take another sip of your coffee, the bitterness grounding you as your thoughts swirl. Sara’s question hangs in the air, her suspicion like a quiet storm waiting to brew.

“It’s better this way,” you murmur under your breath, so softly that Sara doesn’t hear. Keeping things under wraps—keeping him under wraps—is the safest choice for now.

You glance over at Sara, who’s focused on her screen again, her typing steady and uninterrupted. If she, with her sharp intuition, catches on, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does. And then what?

You set your cup down on the counter, the sound sharper than you intended, and Sara glances at you again. You force another faint smile her way, but your mind is already elsewhere.

Minho’s decision might sting, but he’s right about one thing: in a world like this, appearances matter. As much as it frustrates you, the secrecy shields you both—for now.

You press your palm against the counter, steadying yourself as a quiet resolve builds in your chest. Yes, this is the best thing for now. But for how long?

-

The locker room smells faintly of detergent and metal, the silence punctuated only by the quiet clink of locker doors and the shuffle of clothing. Minho steps inside, and his eyes immediately find you. You're standing at your locker, back partially turned to him, moving with a distracted air.

He pauses, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way your movements lack their usual grace. He knows you're still upset about yesterday, about the decision he made for you without asking, but he also knows this isn't something you can discuss openly.

Taking a steadying breath, Minho calls your name softly.

You glance over your shoulder, your expression unreadable, before turning to face him fully.

Minho steps closer, his voice calm but firm. "In the kitchen," he starts, his gaze holding yours, "I'm just your head chef. Not the man you like."

The faintest smile graces your lips, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Yes, chef," you reply, your tone polite but distant.

That won’t do. Minho closes the distance, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders. The warmth of your body beneath his touch grounds him as much as it does you. "Listen," he says, softer now, his tone almost a whisper. "In the kitchen, there’s no Minho. Just the chef. Do you understand?"

This time, your smile is a little brighter, a touch more genuine, and it eases some of the tightness in his chest.

"Yes, chef," you reply again, and this time, there's a hint of lightness in your voice.

Minho hesitates for a moment, then lets his hand trail up to your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, warm and steady, before he leans in slightly, his voice low. "Be prepared."

Your smile deepens, and this time it’s convincing. "Yes, chef," you say again, and something about the way you say it fills Minho with an unfamiliar ache—a longing to stay like this, even though he knows he can't.

The sound of approaching footsteps snaps the moment in two. Instinctively, Minho drops his hand and takes a step back, turning to his locker and shutting it with practiced ease.

Before he leaves, he risks one last glance at you. You're standing there, watching him, your expression softer now. Minho doesn’t say another word, but he hopes that brief moment between you was enough to bridge the unspoken gap.

As he walks away, he also reminds himself it’s all about work. What he does to you at work is nothing personal. Not at all.

-

The kitchen bustles with the usual clamor of voices, clattering utensils, and the sharp hiss of flames.

Your new station feels foreign, the rhythm and layout unfamiliar compared to the pasta line you’d grown so comfortable with. Across the room, Felix gives you an encouraging grin, his eyes sparkling with reassurance. “Good luck!” he mouths.

You smile back, appreciating his gesture, but the nerves gnawing at your stomach refuse to settle. Your attention shifts to the front as Minho steps up to the chef’s table, commanding immediate silence with his presence.

His gaze sweeps across the kitchen, lingering for the briefest moment on you. Then, his voice cuts through the room, authoritative and unyielding. “There are changes in the kitchen,” he begins, his tone firm. “Just because you're in the new line, does not mean you can make mistakes. I won't accept excuses like 'I need time to adapt' or 'I'm not used to it'. Customers are blind to what's going on in the kitchen. Just because we have a change in personnel or because they're not used to doing it, there's no customer whose willing to put up with bad food. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, Chef” echoes in response, your voice among them.

The first orders start rolling in, and the kitchen launches into motion. You throw yourself into the work, your hands moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no denying the subtle awkwardness of being in a new environment.

You present your first dish, a carefully grilled medley of vegetables, to Minho. He barely glances at it before his voice cuts through the din, sharp and precise. “What are you doing to these vegetables?” he snaps, holding up a forkful like it’s a crime scene. “Did you forget how to grill? Or is this because it’s not pasta?”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you stammer out an apology as he continues. “The basic of grilling it is to let it sear lightly so that it's brown on the outside but still juicy inside. This? This is dry.”

“I'll do it again, Chef,” You admit your mistake quickly, grabbing the plate and retreating to your station. His words sting, but you force yourself to focus, determined to get it right on the second try.

As you work on the next dish, a bowl of potato soup, Minho’s voice startles you again. “When are you going to come to your senses?,” he slams his spatula onto the counter before pointing it at your garnish choice. “The soup is potato. When it comes to course meals, balance is everything. It's different from pasta, the garnish should be something refreshing like tomatoes. Do you think the customer only eat potatoes, huh?”

Swallowing your frustration, you apologize once more and excuse yourself to retrieve a container of tomatoes from the freezer. The cool air hits you like a slap as you step inside, and for a moment, you just stand there, clutching the empty container.

Your thoughts race as you try to steady your breathing. He’s just doing his job, you remind yourself, but the harshness of his tone lingers, cutting deeper than you want to admit. Was it really just about the food, or was there something personal behind his words?

The door creaks open, and you jump, turning quickly. Relief floods through you when you see Taesoo grinning at you.

“Jeez, you look like you saw a ghost,” he jokes, grabbing something off a nearby shelf. “Man, the way Chef yelled at you, no one’s gonna think you two are dating now!”

You force a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. “Yeah, I’m glad no one thinks so,” you reply, though your voice comes out strained.

Taesoo chuckles, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Seriously, it looked like he was just trying to knock you down a peg. Guess that’s his way of making things... normal?”

His words blur into background noise as your thoughts drift. Was it really just about appearances? you wonder. Or was there something else behind the way Minho singled you out today?

You shake your head, pushing the thought aside as you grab the tomatoes and head for the door. Taesoo’s voice trails after you, but you don’t respond.

As you step back into the heat and chaos of the kitchen, your resolve hardens. If Minho wanted to prove something today, he succeeded—but the sting of his words still clings to you like a bitter taste that lingers on your tongue.

-

The dining hall is empty now, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound echoing through Farfalle. Minho knows exactly where to find you. He steps out to the back entrance and spots you sitting on the narrow steps that lead up to the dining hall, your arms wrapped around your knees.

You’re not crying, but there’s something vulnerable about the way you sit, staring ahead as though trying to push away the memory of today’s relentless scoldings. Minho pauses for a moment before joining you, settling onto the steps with a sigh.

Your expression is calm, but he catches the faint pout of your lips. It’s… cute, in a way that annoys him because it’s distracting.

“Today was tough,” he begins, his voice softer than usual, “but it’ll get better from now on.”

You hug your knees tighter, still avoiding his gaze. “Were you harsh on me because people are suspicious of us, Chef?”

The question catches him off guard, but he recovers quickly, his tone firm. “No. I scolded you because you didn’t get it right.” His lips twitch into a faint smirk as he adds, “And it’s honestly annoying how you’re worse than I expected.”

That earns him a glare. “The last time I handled antipasto was four years ago,” you retort defensively.

Minho leans back, his tone warning. “This is just the beginning.”

Your eyes widen in horror. “Does that mean you’re going to scold me more?”

“Yes,” he replies simply, relishing your exaggerated groan as you bury your face in your hands.

After a beat of silence, you call him. “Chef?”

He hums in acknowledgment, and you wait until he meets your gaze before asking, “Are you the chef right now, or are you just Minho?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a teasing smirk. “Which one would you prefer?”

You glance around, gesturing to the empty surroundings. “This isn’t the kitchen or anything.”

Minho raises a brow, his tone dry. “There are still people around who haven’t left work yet.”

You pout again, your lips jutting out in that same way that makes something tighten in his chest. “Then when do you stop being the chef and just become Minho?”

He smirks, leaning slightly closer. “What’s wrong with the chef? Don’t you like him?”

You sigh dramatically and mumble. “I hate the chef. He scolded me all day long.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “What about you? Is this my line cook, or just you?”

“Just me,” you mutter, though your eyes dart nervously around.

“If it’s just you then why are you sitting so far away from me?” He asks, one corner of his mouth raises higher than the other.

“But people could still see us like this,” you say as you crane your neck to spot any prying eyes.

Minho shrugs and calmly responds. “We’re in an open space. No one would suspect anything.”

You glance at him, then the empty surroundings, before scooting closer. You both exchange playful glances at each other until you break into a series of giggles, light and sweet, and for a moment, Minho feels the weight of the day lift. Your warmth draws him in, and he considers, just briefly, risking everything by kissing you.

But the moment shatters as Chris appears at the top of the steps, his expression far too cheerful. He squeezes himself between you and Minho, blatantly ignoring the latter’s glare as he takes your hand.

“You've finished your work today,” Chris begins, his tone warm. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let's go.”

Your gaze flickers to Minho, seeking his reaction, but Chris notices. “It’s past working hours, Chef,” Chris says pointedly to Minho. “Surely, she’s allowed to leave.”

Minho exhales sharply, locking eyes with you. “It’s up to you,” he says cryptically, his voice unreadable.

Confused by his cryptic response, you hesitate, but Chris barrels on. “I know it’s not allowed for kitchen staff to date each other,” he muses aloud, “but hall staff and kitchen staff? That’s a different story, right?”

Chris grins slyly, his words grating on Minho’s nerves. “I personally think the restaurant should be a happy place, don’t you think? Love, friendship—it’s all fine by me.”

Minho’s patience snaps. “What are your intentions with her?” he asks bluntly, his tone sharp.

Chris meets his gaze with an infuriating calmness. “Anything,” he replies smoothly.

The audacity makes Minho’s blood boil, but he reins himself in. “Go inside,” he orders you curtly.

You hesitate but obey, and Minho waits until he hears the sound of the door slamming shut behind you before talking again.

Minho turns back to Chris, his eyes blazing. “I know why you’re doing this. You like her, don't you?”

Chris doesn’t deny it, his calm stare unflinching. “That’s right. I like her.”

It's not a rocket science to figure it out, Chris' treatment toward you tells it all and Minho can tell the difference between favoritism at workplace and romantic feelings.

“How long were you planning to keep it a secret?” Minho boldly asks him.

Chris smirks and puts on a coy smile. “I'm not going to love cowardly like you do, Chef. It's difficult to just watch and support her now. Thanks to you.”

The words hit like a punch, and Minho scoffs, masking the sting.

Chris shrugs, his tone casual. “The secret ends now. I'm going to tell her.” He announces before walking off, leaving Minho stewing in his frustration.

You return a moment later, your expression hesitant as you sit beside him again. “What did you two talk about?”

Minho tilts his head, exhaling sharply before leaning toward you. “Good news,” he says with a wry smile.

You perk up slightly. “What is it?”

“There’s a guy who likes you,” he teases, watching your reaction carefully.

Your brows furrow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To give you confidence,” he replies smoothly. “Who knows? Maybe he’s a better person than me.”

You chuckle, leaning closer. “I have good news for you too.”

“Yeah?” Minho asks, playing along.

You lean in close to whisper it to him. “There’s a girl who likes you.”

Minho takes it with a coy smile. “Is she pretty?”

You nod with a grin. “Very.”

“Good to know,” he quips, smirking.

“What about the guy who likes me?” you ask, feigning curiosity. “Is he rich?”

“Very,” Minho deadpans.

Your delighted gasp turns into laughter, and Minho finds himself laughing too, though a bitter ache lingers beneath his amusement.

How is it fair? he wonders as the laughter fades. Chris will have the freedom to treat you well, to show his feelings openly. And Minho? He’s trapped, forced to keep scolding you in the kitchen while his own feelings remain locked away.

-

The kitchen is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the refrigerators and the faint echo of your footsteps. Determined to make a better impression in antipasto today, you arrived earlier than usual. After slipping into your chef’s coat, you head straight to your station, mentally rehearsing the steps for today’s dishes.

As you’re about to inspect your prep list, the sound of footsteps echoes behind you. Turning, you see Chris walking in, his navy suit perfectly tailored, his silk tie catching the faint glow of the overhead lights. His dimpled grin greets you warmly, and you can’t help but smile back.

“You’re early,” he remarks, leaning casually against the counter.

“You’re always early,” you counter with a teasing smile.

Chris comes up at you and crosses his arms, pretending to pout as he says, “I’m hungry.”

You raise a brow. “What? No personal chef to whip up breakfast for you?”

Chris dramatically places a hand over his heart. “Ouch. That hurt.”

You chuckle. “Alright, alright. Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

Chris waves a hand dismissively. “But you’ll be cooking all day so let’s go out and grab something instead.”

You shake your head. “I insist. Besides, I miss cooking pasta.”

He relents with a small shrug and a grin. “Alright, then.”

You grab a gas lighter for the stove. “I'll be a moment. You should wait in the chef’s table.”

“I want to watch you cook,” Chris says with a teasing smile as he leans against the counter.

You take a wooden spatula and point it at him. “Don’t blame me if your fancy suit get splattered!”

Rolling your eyes, you grab a pan and start prepping. As you move around the kitchen, you occasionally glance at Chris, noticing how his eyes linger on you instead of the ingredients. His attention is flattering, but you try not to let it distract you.

Once the dish is ready, you bring the plate to the chef’s table, setting down a fork and napkin. You hop onto the counter, watching as he examines the dish with a look of admiration.

“It’s pretty,” he comments, his fork hovering above the plate.

With a sly smile, you tell him, “Instead of spaghetti, I used farfalle—for the owner of Farfalle.”

Chris grins at the pun but still hesitates. “It’s too pretty to eat.”

“Nothing tastes good when you eat alone,” you say, crossing your arms with a playful smirk. “And I’m not sitting here because of you. I’m sitting here because I want my pasta to taste good.”

Chris laughs at that, finally digging in. As he eats, you can’t help but lean forward. “So? Does it taste good?”

Chris nods earnestly. “It's the best.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced and sigh. “Your taste buds are a bit dull because Chef would've thrown a fit right now.”

“I mean it, it's good,” he insists, his tone softening as he meets your gaze. “Anything tastes good with you next to me.”

You quickly laugh, brushing off the flutter in your chest. “You’re just trying to flatter me now.”

He chuckles, taking another bite before you teasingly ask, “Still better than sex?”

Chris pauses, chewing thoughtfully. When he swallows, he shakes his head. “I’ve had sex now, so...”

You feign nonchalance and give him a playful side eyes, “Good for you,” you reply lightly.

Chris offers you a forkful of pasta. You lean in to accept, only for him to pull it back last second and shove it into his own mouth with a mischievous grin.

“Really?” you ask, putting on an annoyed expression.

He grins triumphantly. “Got you.”

Despite your mock irritation, you feel your mood lift. Chris always has this way of making everything lighter, brighter without him even realizing it and you’re grateful for it, even if you’d never admit it out loud.

-

You’re on your way to the kitchen, mentally going over the preparations needed for tonight’s dinner service. Your nerves are steady—though antipasto demands precision, you’ve prepared yourself for the challenge.

“Hey!” Hyunwoo’s cheerful voice stops you mid-step.

He’s standing beside Seungwan, his usual wide grin plastered across his face. “Ready for today?”

You nod simply. “Yes.”

Seungwan, ever the commentator, chimes in, “You know, antipasto requires meticulousness. A delicate hand. Mindfulness. You get it. Women are naturally better at these things.”

You feel the heat of irritation flare up but push it down, offering a curt nod instead of engaging. It’s not worth the energy.

Hyunwoo claps a hand on Seungwan’s shoulder, as if to diffuse the awkwardness. “Well, you’ve got experience, so I know you’ll do well. But if you need anything, I’m here.”

You muster a polite smile. “Thanks.”

Before you can move on, Seungwan interrupts, smirking. “You have nothing to worry about, though. We know Chef will take good care of you.”

Hyunwoo chuckles, catching the implication, and soon both of them are laughing, their voices carrying through the hallway.

You open your mouth to respond—to shut down their insinuations about Minho—when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“What are you three doing standing around?”

Minho appears behind you, his sharp gaze flicking between the three of you. His tone is cold, commanding, and it instantly silences Hyunwoo and Seungwan’s laughter.

“Hurry up and get to the kitchen,” he orders, his eyes narrowing slightly in warning.

The two men mumble quick apologies and scurry off, leaving you alone with Minho. For a brief moment, his gaze lands on you, unreadable. Then, without a word, he strides past you, heading straight for the kitchen.

You can't tell if he heard everything or maybe he heard but he just doesn't care. You release a quiet breath and follow after him, steeling yourself for the long night ahead.

The kitchen is chaos. Orders are flying in, pans are clanging, and the sharp aroma of cooking fills the air. You stay at your station, hyper-focused, determined to do your best and avoid Minho’s wrath.

The ticket machine whirs, spitting out another order. Minho’s voice booms across the kitchen. “Table number six. One panchetta, one carbonara, one celeriac puree with grilled scallops.”

He looks around the kitchen and his eyes land on you. “You take the scallops. Make one extra for a taste test.”

“Yes, Chef!” you reply firmly, moving to grab a pan.

Taesoo rushes over with fresh scallops, and you thank him before carefully checking the temperature of your pan. You add the scallops, and the satisfying sizzle confirms the heat is just right. Every move is calculated—no room for mistakes.

When the scallops are done, you plate the dish for service with meticulous attention to detail, making sure it looks perfect. On a smaller plate, you arrange the extra portion for Minho to taste. You carry both plates to the chef’s table, setting them down with a quiet but confident, “Chef.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He takes a bite of the extra plate.

The reaction is immediate. He spits the scallop into a napkin and, with a sharp movement, hurls the plate to the floor. The crash echoes, silencing part of the kitchen.

“Are you trying to break the customer’s jaw? Is this a gum or a rubber? What is this?” His voice is cutting, laced with venom.

Your heart sinks as you see the dish you made splattered across the kitchen floor and Taesoo quickly sweeps it away before anyone can step on it.

“Didn't you hear what I told you earlier? I said it has to be brown on the outside but tender on the inside. If you overcook a scallop like this, it’s tougher than the soles of your shoes!” His eyes are blazing, and for a moment, it feels like his anger isn’t just about the dish but aimed directly at you. It’s hard not to take it personally.

“What are you doing? Do it again!” The tone of his voice rains down on you like a bucket of cold water.

“Yes, Chef,” you manage, your voice tight as a lump forms in your throat.

Before you can move back to your station, Minho’s sharp voice cuts through the kitchen again. “Seungwan, you take the scallops.”

The humiliation burns as Seungwan takes over, muttering under his breath, loud enough for you to hear, “But I still have a lot to do...”

As you return to your station, Seungwan glances at you, his tone dripping with mockery. “You still like Chef after he tore you apart like that?”

You don’t answer. Your lips press into a thin line, and your chest feels heavy. The truth is, you’re not sure anymore. It’s harder and harder not to let his words cut deep, harder to pretend his disdain doesn’t feel personal.

You focus on the task in front of you, trying to push the doubt and hurt away. But no matter how much you tell yourself it’s just work, his anger lingers like a bruise.

-

Dinner service is brutal, even by Minho’s standards. The tension in the kitchen is suffocating, and he sees the weight of his harsh words pressing down on you. He hates it—every second of it.

Minho prides himself on keeping things professional, but with you, the lines blur dangerously every day. Tonight is no exception, and he can’t wait to leave the kitchen behind and find a way to make things right.

The locker room is dim and quiet when he walks in. His eyes immediately find you standing in front of your locker, your back to him. You’re tying your hair into a messy ponytail, your movements deliberate and tense. You look exhausted, but more than that, you look angry.

Minho hesitates, unsure how to approach you. He moves to his locker, giving you space and hoping you’ll warm up to him. As he opens the metal door, his eyes catch the corner of something tucked into the back of the shelf. He pulls it out—the Valentine’s card you gave him, still pristine despite its creased edges.

"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."

He reads it again, the words a bittersweet reminder of how much you mean to him and how much he’s risking with his behavior. Slipping the card back into the locker, he turns to face you and softly calls your name.

“Yes, chef?” you reply, your voice distant and clipped.

“Are the other cooks still bothering you? Like earlier?” he asks, watching you carefully.

You wave him off, your tone sharp. “It’s nothing. It’s not their fault anyway—it’s ours. We’re the ones lying to them.”

The bitterness in your voice stings, and Minho realizes this isn’t like the other times you’ve been upset. This is deeper, rawer. You grab your bag from your locker, slamming it shut with more force than necessary before turning to leave.

Minho steps in your way, blocking the door. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Just... tell me and I’ll do it.”

Your eyes lock with his, hard and unyielding. “Then tomorrow. During lunch service. Tell everyone that you like me and that we’re dating. And you want everyone to treat me nicely and to be patient with me.”

He knows you don’t mean it—not really. It’s not a serious demand but a product of your anger and frustration. Still, he stays quiet, letting you speak because he knows you need to.

“I didn’t know it was going to be this difficult,” you continue, your voice softening but no less sharp. “If I had, I wouldn’t have started it.”

Your words strike him like a blow, but he stays rooted, listening as your eyes turn glassy.

“I know you’re scolding me as a cook for making mistakes,” you say, your voice trembling, “but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m being yelled at by someone I like. A lot.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you wipe it away hastily, as if embarrassed by the show of emotion. Your eyes meet his again, red and glistening.

“I can't separate those two feelings like a fool,” you say wistfully, fighting the tears pooling in your eyes. “But you seem to be good at it so why can’t I? Tell me how.”

Minho opens his mouth to speak, to tell you how hard it’s been for him too, how every harsh word in the kitchen feels like a knife twisting in his own chest. But the words won’t come. He can’t explain without risking you misunderstanding everything.

When his silence stretches too long, you bite your lip, swallowing down more tears. “Forget it,” you mutter, pushing past him.

He lets you go, standing there alone in the quiet locker room. The anger that swirls inside him isn’t directed at you—it’s at himself. At the way things have spiraled between you. At how his own fear of jeopardizing your career and his has made everything worse.

And most of all, at the way he’s made you sad.

Leaning against the wall, Minho clenches his fists, vowing to himself that he’ll find a way to make things right. He has to—because losing you isn’t an option.

-

Minho sits at his desk, his head bowed over his well-worn recipe book. The pages are filled with scribbles, corrections, and crossed-out ideas—remnants of every failure that taught him something valuable. He flips through them slowly, the memories tied to each one tugging at him.

He’s come so far, but the thought of how easily it could all crumble gnaws at him. His shoulders feel heavy with the weight of his choices, both in the kitchen and outside of it.

The creak of the office door pulls him from his thoughts. He glances up to see Sara stepping in, her expression hesitant but determined. The sight surprises him—he thought everyone had already left the restaurant.

Sara doesn’t say anything at first, but her eyes are locked on him, her presence carrying an air of purpose. Minho leans back in his chair, waiting for her to speak.

“Chef,” she starts, her voice carefully measured. “Can I ask you something?”

He doesn’t reply verbally, just nods slightly, signaling her to go on.

“It’s about... what people are saying in the kitchen,” she says, her voice faltering.

Minho smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a humorless smile. Of course, the gossip finally reached her. He expected as much—it was only a matter of time.

“Is it true?” Sara asks, her tone laced with hesitation.

Without hesitation, Minho answers, “It’s true.”

The confirmation hangs in the air, heavy and unavoidable.

Sara presses on, her voice trembling slightly. “How do you feel about it?”

Maybe this is his chance to stop running, to stop pretending he can keep everything under wraps. He exhales deeply, letting the tension leave his body, and answers her with full conviction.

“I like her more than she likes me,” he says, his voice steady and unwavering.

Sara’s lips tremble, and Minho can’t tell if she’s holding back tears or fighting the urge to speak further. But he doesn’t feel guilt. He’s told her before, countless times, that he only sees her as a chef—a colleague. Nothing more.

Standing, Minho grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, looking at Sara one last time, before stepping toward the door.

“I hope this clears things up for you,” he says quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.

As he leaves the office, Minho feels a small weight lift off his chest. He’s not hiding the truth anymore—not from Sara, at least. And while the path ahead still feels uncertain, he’s relieved to have taken this first step.

-

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there at the bus stop, letting bus after bus pass without getting on. Your head is a whirlwind of thoughts, yet somehow, it also feels completely blank. You sigh, hugging yourself tightly against the biting cold of the night air.

The sound of footsteps draws your attention, and you glance sideways. Minho is walking toward you. Without a word, he sits down on the bench and slides closer until he’s right next to you. You keep your gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. You can feel his presence, the warmth of him radiating against the chill, but you say nothing. If you open your mouth now, everything you’re feeling will come spilling out, and you’re not ready for him to see how deeply he’s affected you.

In a calm, steady tone, Minho breaks the silence. “You can go back to the pasta line.”

You bite your lip, still not looking at him. That’s not what this is about—not why you exploded at him earlier. When you don’t respond, he leans in a little closer, his voice soft but firm. “I said I'm letting you go back to the pasta line.”

Your frustration boils over. “I don’t want to,” you snap, finally turning to glare at him.

Minho looks genuinely confused. “Weren’t you just complaining about it a while ago?”

You meet his gaze, your voice unwavering. “I don’t want to go back because of you. I’m going back to the pasta line on my own merits—not because of whatever this is.”

The intensity of your words seems to take him by surprise. He stares at you for a moment, stunned into silence. Then, slowly, his lips curl into a sly smile.

“You’re quite something, do you know that?” he says, his tone laced with admiration.

You roll your eyes, dismissing his attempt at flattery. You dismiss it, thinking he’s just trying to sweet-talk you.

Minho sighs, his expression softening as he leans in even closer. “What should I do? I’m in big trouble now,” he says quietly.

Your brows furrow. “Why?”

He tilts his head, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. “Because I like you even more now.”

The words catch you off guard, and despite yourself, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You quickly suppress it, trying to keep your composure.

Minho notices, of course, and his own smile deepens. “I’ve never met a woman like you,” he says earnestly.

You jab back, trying to deflect. “Just how many women have you known?”

He doesn’t rise to the bait, surprising you. Instead, he gestures toward the sky. “Look at the moon.”

You scoff, skeptical. “Why?”

“Just look at it,” he insists, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a huff, you tilt your head up, your eyes landing on the full moon glowing brightly against the dark sky. The sight is breathtaking, but before you can comment, you feel the soft press of Minho’s lips against your cheek.

Startled, you whip your head around to face him. He meets your gaze, his eyes steady and sincere. “Your cooking is missing something. You need to improve,” he says quietly. “That’s why I scolded you—not because of rumors, not because of us, but because I know you’re better than that.”

His words sink in, and you nod slowly. “Yes, Chef,” you reply sincerely.

Minho smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s what I love to hear the most. When you say, 'Yes, chef!'” he says with a teasing lilt.

Despite yourself, you giggle softly, repeating, “Yes, Chef.”

This time, Minho doesn’t hold back. He cups your jaw gently, leaning in to press his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, tender—completely different from the sharp, demanding presence he exudes in the kitchen. It’s as if he’s trying to show you the difference between Minho the Chef and Minho the man.

When he pulls back, his hand remains on your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. “What do you think, mmh?” he murmurs. “Should we let all hell break loose tomorrow?”

You blink at him, startled. “You’re serious?”

Minho chuckles, nodding. “Let’s stop hiding. It’s better than getting caught and fired.”

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he really means it. His lips quirk into a grin, and he adds, “I feel like I’m about to explode from frustration if we keep this up.”

Finally, you find your voice. “So... you want us to just say to hell with it?”

“Exactly,” he says, cupping your face with both hands now. His gaze is intense, but there’s a warmth there that steadies you. “Let’s just tell everyone. To hell with it.”

Before you can respond, he leans in again, his lips capturing yours in a long, lingering kiss that erases any doubts you might have had.

As he pulls away, leaving you breathless, you find yourself staring at him, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The truth is, you’ve felt it growing stronger every day—the way he’s slowly become impossible to ignore. It’s more than just admiration, more than just the thrill of secrecy. It’s something real, something that scares you just as much as it excites you.

You don’t say any of that aloud, but the way you lean back into his touch, the way your lips curve into a small, shy smile, tells Minho everything he needs to know. For once, you feel like you’re both on the same page.

-

The space between you feels heavy, charged, but neither of you says a word. His gaze locks on yours, dark and intent, and it makes your heart race. Slowly, Minho steps closer, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the warmth of his bedroom room. His fingers graze your cheek, his touch feather-light, as if he’s memorizing the moment.

Your breath hitches as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours with a gentleness that sends a shiver down your spine. The kiss is slow, deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second. You respond in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

Minho deepens the kiss, his lips moving with a tenderness that leaves you dizzy. His hands slide down your arms, warm and steady, before resting on your waist. He pulls you closer, your bodies barely a breath apart.

As the kiss grows more fervent, his fingers find the hem of your shirt, toying with the fabric. He pauses for a moment, his eyes meeting yours as if asking for permission. You nod, your own hands slipping to the buttons of his shirt. Slowly, carefully, you undo them one by one, your fingers brushing against his skin with each movement.

Minho mirrors your actions, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in one fluid motion. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by the warmth of his touch. His fingers trace along your collarbone, his lips following suit, leaving a trail of soft kisses that make your knees weak.

You push his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your hands explore the smooth planes of his chest, the taut muscle beneath your fingertips. He exhales sharply, his breath hot against your neck as he presses closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Your hands move to his belt, fumbling slightly, but Minho stops you with a soft chuckle. “Hey, what's the rush?” he whispers, his lips curving into a small smile against your skin.

The rest of your clothes fall away piece by piece, each moment lingering, each touch filled with an unspoken reverence. Minho’s hands are steady as they glide along your body, his touch igniting a warmth that spreads through you like wildfire.

When there’s nothing left between you, he pauses, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your cheeks flush. “You’re perfect,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reach up to cradle his face in your hands, your thumb brushing along his jawline. “You’re perfect,” you mutter back, your voice soft but certain.

Minho leans in once more, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s equal parts passion and tenderness. As you fall back onto the bed together, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in each other’s warmth, every touch and kiss a silent declaration of the feelings neither of you can deny any longer.

-

Minho hovers over you, his weight braced on one arm as his free hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin. He looks down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of mischief and adoration that sends a thrill through your entire body.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours.

His lips capture yours again, the kiss deep and unhurried, as if he wants to taste every sound you make. His hand trails down, fingertips ghosting over your skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The anticipation coils tight in your stomach as his touch ventures lower, slow and deliberate.

When his fingers finally slide between your thighs, a soft gasp escapes your lips, but Minho swallows it with another kiss, his smirk pressing against your mouth. He pauses for a moment, teasing, his touch feather-light on your bundle of nerves, just enough to drive you wild.

“Eager, are we?” he asks, his tone playful, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.

You nod slightly, breathless, and he rewards you with a low chuckle that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers move with precision, exploring and learning what makes you react, what makes you tremble beneath him.

The tension builds as he curls his fingers inside you, finding the perfect rhythm that leaves you gasping and clinging to him. He watches you intently, his eyes flicking over your face, taking in every reaction. The smirk on his lips deepens as he notices the way your body arches toward him, completely at his mercy.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispers, his voice filled with both awe and amusement. He leans down to capture your lips again, muffling the soft moans spilling from your mouth. His kiss is as skillful as his touch, his tongue teasing yours as if he’s trying to coax every bit of sound out of you.

Your hands grip his shoulders, desperate for some anchor as the pleasure intensifies. Minho’s lips leave yours for a moment, moving to press kisses along your jawline, then down to the hollow of your throat. His voice is a low murmur against your skin. “I could watch you like this forever.”

Each movement of his fingers feels like a symphony, building you higher and higher. Your breaths come in shallow gasps, your body trembling beneath him, and Minho seems to revel in every second of it.

When your moans grow louder, your head tilting back against the pillow, Minho leans down to kiss you again, catching the sound in his mouth. His lips curve into a smile against yours, and the vibration of his low chuckle only heightens your pleasure.

“Let go for me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

His words, his touch, the way he’s watching you with so much intent—it’s overwhelming in the best way. You fall over the edge, your body trembling as waves of pleasure wash over you. Minho doesn’t stop, guiding you through it, his lips never straying far from yours, his fingers slowing only once he’s sure you’re coming down gently.

When you finally open your eyes, Minho’s gaze is still fixed on you, his smirk replaced by a softer, more affectionate smile. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, as if to ground you.

As you come down from the high he’s led you to, Minho’s hand slides up, his fingers brushing over your flushed skin with care. He watches you intently, his lips curving into that signature smirk of his, as though he’s proud of the effect he has on you.

Without breaking eye contact, he brings his hand up, his slick fingers hovering near your lips. “Open,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, yet laced with dominance.

Your breath catches, but you obey, parting your lips for him. He slides his fingers into your mouth slowly, his touch deliberate, and you close your lips around them, tasting the remnants of yourself on him.

Minho’s eyes darken as he watches you, his thumb tracing along your jaw as you lick his fingers clean. The way you meet his gaze, unflinching and bold, sends a shiver through him, his smirk deepening with every deliberate movement of your tongue.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with heat. “Such a good girl for me.”

Your cheeks flush at his praise, but it only makes him lean in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You have no idea how perfect you are,” he whispers, his tone dripping with seduction.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, his hand now cradling your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, as though he can’t get enough of you. “You make it so easy to lose control,” he adds, his gaze intense.

Minho leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both possessive and tender, as if to seal his words. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and the corners of his lips lift into a soft smile.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says with a chuckle, his voice light but filled with genuine affection.

You can’t help but smile back at him, your heart pounding as his thumb strokes your cheek. Whatever walls he’s kept up before, they seem to have crumbled completely in this moment, leaving nothing but raw honesty between the two of you.

-

“Please,” You whimper as Minho is burying his head in between your soft mounds. His mouth immediately latches onto your hardening bud while the other is being teased by his fingers, both assaults make your eyes fluttering shut.

A moment after hearing your plead, Minho lets go of his mouth, leaving your nipple wet and swollen. “Please what?” he asks, landing a kitten lick on your other nipple.

“Fill me,” you breathlessly beg.

Minho sucks on your flesh before answering to your request. “Fill you with my cock or...?”

Your hand reaches down to his hardening member, you pinch the end of the condom he's already putting on and pulling at it until it snaps away. “Both,” you simply answer and opening your legs wider for him.

The thought of being filled by his cock is enough to send you into overdrive but you want more, you want to feel every inch of him, to be filled with his cum, to feel it filling you and leaking out of you and ultimately, you want to be soaked in both of your releases.

Minho is more than eager to comply to your request, he gives his cock a few strokes before aligning it with your entrace. Once the tip has entered you, he uses his hips to push the rest of his length.

The two of you collectively moan at the feeling of being inside each other, raw, without a layer of protection. While you delightfully sigh, Minho groans into the crook of your neck as he's fully sheathed inside you. The slightest of movement and you can feel him, the length, the heat, the hardness... oh, he fills you perfectly.

The way Minho moves against you is slow yet deliberate, every motion pulling soft gasps from your lips. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid to let you go, his forehead pressed against yours as he lets out low groans, completely lost in the sensation of you.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice shaky and raw. His head tilts down, lips ghosting over the curve of your shoulder as if trying to ground himself, but you can feel him faltering, overwhelmed by the intensity between you.

You’re caught between the pleasure coursing through you and the sight of him unraveling—his lips parted, his brows furrowed, his breaths heavy. It’s mesmerizing, yet you know he’s losing himself too much in the moment.

Reaching up, you grab his chin gently but firmly, tilting his face so he’s looking directly at you. His eyes flutter open, hazy and dark with desire, and you feel his breath catch as you lock your gaze with his.

“Hey,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the heat pooling in your core. “Look at me.”

Minho’s lips part as if he’s going to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he nods slightly, his hands tightening on your hips as he adjusts his rhythm, his movements more controlled now, more intentional.

You hold his gaze, your eyes searching his as your fingers caress his jaw. “That’s it,” you murmur, your voice soft but commanding. “Stay with me.”

His breaths grow heavier, his lips brushing yours briefly as he finds his rhythm again, pouring everything into every movement. He seems transfixed by you, his eyes never leaving yours, even as his body trembles with the effort to keep it together.

“You feel so, so good,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe and something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten in the best way. His gaze softens as he takes you in, his movements slower but no less intense, like he’s savoring every second with you.

Your hand moves from his jaw to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as you pull him closer. “Minho,” you breathe, the sound of his name on your lips pulling a low groan from his throat.

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s searing, his focus entirely on you now, every motion, every touch, every sound meant for you alone. The intimacy of it all makes your heart race, the connection between you deepening with every moment.

And as he continues, his body pressed firmly against yours, you see it in his eyes—the way he’s completely and utterly yours in this moment, and how much it terrifies and excites him all at once.

-

Minho leans back against the headboard, his chest bare and warm against your back as you sit between his legs. His arm wraps securely around you, holding you close in the quiet intimacy of afterglow. In one hand, you're holding a wine glass steady as Minho carefully pours, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment.

You take the first sip, savoring the sweetness on your tongue before passing the glass to him. The silence that follows is comfortable, but you know it can’t last.

“You know your plan to say ‘hell with it’ tomorrow isn’t going to work, right?” you say, breaking the quiet.

Minho pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow at you. “Why not?”

You shift slightly to look up at him, your head leaning back against his shoulder. “Because I want to stay in the kitchen with you for a long time,” you admit, your voice soft but firm. “You still have so much to teach me, and that can’t happen if we get fired.”

Minho takes another slow sip of wine before handing the glass back to you. He exhales, his lips curving into a slight smile. “I can’t work in that kitchen without you in it anyway.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten in the best way, and you can’t help but giggle, the wine glass hovering close to your lips. Resting your head comfortably on his shoulder, you turn your face slightly to meet his gaze. “I want to learn to be as good as you someday,” you confess, your tone playful but tinged with genuine admiration.

Minho scoffs, his usual cockiness coming through. “As good as me? You’re being greedy. I’m the best, you know.”

His arrogance annoys you, but it’s so quintessentially Minho that you can’t even be mad. Rolling your eyes, you counter, “Exactly. That’s why you’re the best teacher I could ever have.”

Minho’s hand slides to the nape of your neck, his touch gentle but firm as he tilts your face toward his. “So, what you’re saying is... you want to be my student?”

You smile sweetly, meeting his gaze. “Yes, chef,” you reply with a soft laugh.

He shakes his head slightly, his lips curving into a sly grin. “That’s not good enough. You have to be my favorite student.”

The playfulness in his tone makes your heart flutter, and when he leans in to kiss you, it’s like he’s trying to capture your smile with his lips. The kiss is slow and tender, leaving you breathless when he finally pulls away.

Lightly holding his chin, you gaze into his eyes, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them. “I wonder if there’ll ever be a day when I can be as good as you. Maybe even better.”

Minho snorts, clearly amused by your boldness. He wraps his arm tighter around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “I don’t want you to be better than me,” he says, his tone half-joking, half-serious. “Being as good as me is enough—and even that’s highly unlikely.”

You groan, rolling your eyes again, which only makes him smirk. He tugs gently at the hair at the back of your head, making you turn to face him fully.

“Why? You think I’m arrogant?” he asks, his tone daring you to challenge him.

Without missing a beat, you reply, “Yes, chef.”

His smirk deepens as he pulls you closer, your head resting in the crook of his neck. “Even if I am, just grin and bear it,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

You chuckle softly, nuzzling into him as you reply, “Yes, chef.”

Minho shifts slightly, his fingers trailing along your jawline as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze again. His eyes darken with something unspoken as he murmurs, “Say it one more time.”

Your heart skips, but you don’t hesitate. “Yes, chef,” you whisper, putting every ounce of feeling into the words.

He nods in satisfaction, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that’s hard, deep, and utterly consuming. The taste of wine lingers on his tongue resembles this shared moment between the two of you: sweet with just a hint of bitterness and highly intoxicating.

-

The key to a perfect crispy hashbrown lies in the details, and Minho thrives in them. He presses the shredded potatoes between layers of paper towels, extracting every last drop of moisture with precise, firm motions. The sizzle of oil heating in the pan is his cue to move, his fingers instinctively testing the temperature by letting a few stray potato shreds dance in the heat. When the oil crackles just right, he spreads the potatoes into an even, golden canvas, pressing them lightly with his spatula to ensure uniformity.

The smell of starch meeting hot oil fills the kitchen as the edges of the hashbrown crisp and curl slightly, the underside transforming into a golden-brown crust. With a deft flick of his wrist, he flips it, revealing the perfection he aimed for—deep, golden brown, with a promise of crunch.

He’s just plating the first hashbrown when you appear, stepping out of the bedroom in his oversized sweater, the hem brushing your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Your hair is a mess of bedhead, and your sleepy smile feels like sunlight breaking through the quiet morning.

“Good morning,” you mumble, leaning against the counter, your chin resting in your hand as you watch him work.

Minho allows himself a brief glance at you, his lips twitching into a smirk, before returning his focus to the pan. “Why are you just standing there? Make yourself useful. Coffee,” he says, his tone a mix of teasing and instruction.

You chuckle softly, the sound still drowsy, but you comply, moving to the coffee machine with a sense of purpose that warms him more than the steam rising from the pan.

Together, the two of you work in quiet harmony. By the time breakfast is ready, the table is set with golden hashbrowns, fluffy scrambled eggs, and two steaming mugs of coffee. Minho takes a seat across from you, picking up his fork as you do the same.

He notices it immediately: the way you keep stealing glances at him between bites, your eyes lingering like you’re savoring more than just the food. The third time he catches you, Minho sets his fork down and narrows his eyes at you.

“Stop staring,” he says flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with a slight twitch.

You pout, your lips curving into a playful frown. “It’s the first time I’m staying over for breakfast,” you point out, your voice soft but teasing.

Minho scoffs, his hand pausing mid-reach for his coffee. “That’s because you always sneak out before I even wake up,” he counters, giving you a look that’s equal parts reprimand and amusement.

You giggle, tucking your knees up onto the chair and cradling your mug close to your chest. Instead of looking away, you stare openly, the mischief in your eyes making his chest tighten in ways he’s not ready to admit.

Rolling his eyes, Minho leans back in his chair, reaching for his backpack slung over the sofa. He pulls out his notebook, flipping it open briefly before sliding it across the table to you.

You blink in surprise. “What’s this?”

“The notes I took in Italy,” Minho explains, crossing his arms as he leans back. “From when I was wrestling over pasta. If you look carefully, you'll see all my failed attempts.”

You pick it up hesitantly, flipping through the pages. Your brows furrow as you scan the scribbled notes, some smudged with flour, oil, and sweat from long nights in the kitchen. “Not the ones you've succeeded?”

Minho nods, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “Deliberately noted every single one of them.” He taps his temple. “If you only write down what you got right, you’ll keep going back to it and stop thinking it over. But if you document your mistakes, you’ll challenge yourself to do better every time.”

Your eyes widen as you flip through more pages. “You made this many mistakes?” you ask in disbelief.

Minho is slightly offended, his expression darkening playfully. In one swift motion, he flicks your forehead, the sound sharp but the gesture light enough to make you laugh.

“Don’t focus on replicating someone else’s great recipe,” he warns, his tone firm but not unkind. “Find your own dish through your mistakes. That’s how you get better.”

You clutch the notebook to your chest, nodding solemnly before breaking into a smile so warm it feels like the morning sunlight flooding the kitchen. “Yes, chef,” you say softly, the sincerity in your voice settling into him like a perfectly balanced dish.

Minho watches you for a moment, his arms crossed as his sharp eyes scan your face. There’s something about the way you’re holding his notebook—as if it’s the most valuable thing in the world—that stirs something deep within him.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches across the table and gently pats your head, his fingers ruffling your messy bedhead with deliberate care. His lips curve into a faint smirk, but there’s a softness in his eyes that he doesn’t try to hide.

“I gave you that because you're my favorite student,” he murmurs, his voice low but undeniably affectionate.

Your cheeks flush at the unexpected praise, and you duck your head slightly, pretending to focus on flipping through the pages again. But Minho sees the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and it makes his chest feel inexplicably full.

Yeah, you’re his favorite, and for reasons that go far beyond the kitchen.

-

The clinking of utensils and hum of conversation from the staff having lunch downstairs fades as Minho walks toward the second floor of the dining hall. His footsteps slow when he spots Felix and Taesoo sitting at one of the tables, heads bent close in conversation. Their voices are low, but not low enough to escape his ears.

Minho lingers just out of sight, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, listening in with mild curiosity.

“So, what do you think’s going on between chef and her?” Taesoo asks, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Felix hums thoughtfully. “Honestly? I’d prefer it if they did fall in love.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. That’s not the answer he was expecting, and judging by Taesoo’s laugh, neither was he.

“Why?” Taesoo presses, his tone disbelieving.

Felix shrugs. “I mean, if it’s between her and Sara, I’d rather see chef with her, you know? It’d be… nicer.”

Minho’s lips twitch, both annoyed and amused. His jaw clenches when Felix adds after a moment, “But, even if they did, it’d be risky. If they got caught dating while working in the kitchen… It’d be dangerous.”

That’s enough. With a sharp inhale, Minho steps forward and delivers a firm slap to the back of both their heads, startling them.

Felix yelps, clutching his head as Taesoo hisses in pain, whipping around to see their chef towering behind them.

“Yes, I’m having an affair in the kitchen. So what?” Minho deadpans, his gaze locking onto Felix with a daring intensity.

Felix stiffens, his face a mixture of shock and embarrassment. “I—I’m sorry, chef!” he stammers, bowing his head.

Minho walks around to the front of the table and leans against it, crossing his arms. His sharp eyes stay trained on Felix, who fidgets nervously under the weight of his stare.

“What you said is right,” Minho says, his tone deceptively calm, almost challenging.

Felix blinks in confusion. “I didn’t mean with what I said, Chef. I'm sorry.”

Minho smirks as he calmly asks Felix’s opinion. “What do you think? Don't we look good together?”

Felix gapes at him, dazed and unsure if this is a trap. “I—I don’t know! Are you asking for real or just messing with me?”

Minho tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Well, since there are already rumors, maybe I should make them true.”

Taesoo lets out a snort of laughter, but Felix pales. “Chef! You’d get fired!”

“I know,” Minho replies nonchalantly, his voice laced with mischief.

Felix groans, slumping back in his chair. “There are so many beautiful women out there. Why her?!”

Without missing a beat, Minho leans forward and flicks the back of Felix’s head again. “Do you want to die? What's wrong with her?”

Felix winces, rubbing his head. “Are you lonely, chef?” he mutters weakly.

“Yes,” Minho replies immediately, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Felix groans louder, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Chef, you need to control yourself! You can’t date her!”

Minho smirks, reaching out to grab Felix’s ponytail and giving it a playful tug. “Never,” he says with a sly grin, watching as Felix frantically fixes his hair, a look of disbelief etched across his face.

Taesoo snickers behind his hand, and Minho straightens up, looking utterly satisfied with himself. Taesoo makes another zipping his mouth gesture to him to avoid Minho’s wrath.

As Minho walks away, he feels a small but undeniable sense of relief. Now that more people knew about you and him—albeit through gossip—it felt a little less like he was hiding something. And while he’d never admit it out loud, he liked the idea of others knowing that you were his.

For once, the thought didn’t feel like a risk. It felt like a win.

-

The hum of the coffee machine fills the air as you sit at the counter, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and Minho’s notebook in the other. You flip through the pages, tracing his meticulous notes with your finger, trying to absorb every word. His handwriting is sharp and precise, almost as if it mirrors his personality—strict, methodical, yet undeniably passionate.

The faint sound of footsteps makes you glance up, and you catch Chris approaching. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls up the stool next to you, sitting with his arms stacked on the counter. His presence is calm but unwavering, his gaze fixed on you as you study the notebook.

You try to ignore him, focusing back on the notebook, but his silent watching becomes too distracting. After a few moments, you sigh, closing the notebook and turning to him with a questioning look.

Chris flashes his trademark dimpled smile, the kind that always seems to disarm everyone around him. But this time, there’s a hint of something else behind it—something pensive. He lets out a low sigh.

“It’s unfair,” he says softly.

Your eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “What’s unfair?”

Propping his chin on his hand, Chris starts listing, his tone lighthearted but deliberate. “Well, for starters, I think I’m a good person. I’ve got a decent amount of money. I’m considerate. And—” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I’m very reasonable.”

You nod at each point he makes, humoring him. “I acknowledge all of that,” you reply with a small smile.

Chris leans back slightly, grinning as he clasps his hands together. “And I also think you’re the best chef in the world.”

You chuckle at his exaggerated sincerity. “Fully noted and acknowledged.”

Chris’s grin widens, but his tone softens. “All things considered, I think I’m a pretty decent catch. So why don’t you even consider me in the running?”

You pout at his question, feigning offense. “Who told you I didn’t?”

His eyes narrow slightly, and he leans closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you really mean that?”

You shrug, maintaining your playful tone. “I love wealthy men. And I do love that you have lots of money.”

Chris nods in mock seriousness, playing along. “So… no dislikes?”

“Of course not,” you reply easily, taking a sip of your coffee.

There’s a brief moment of silence before Chris leans in closer, his tone dropping just enough to make the conversation feel private. His eyes lock onto yours, and the teasing air between you shifts.

“You know I like you,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

You chuckle, brushing it off with a lighthearted smile. “And you know I like you too.”

But the smile on Chris’s face fades, replaced by an earnest, almost vulnerable expression. “No,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering. “I said I like you.”

It takes you a moment to process his words fully. The weight of his confession settles in, and your playful demeanor falters. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

Chris doesn’t press you for an answer. He simply smiles—soft and understanding—and stands from his stool. As he walks away, his words hang heavily in the air, leaving you sitting at the counter, staring after him with a knot of conflicted feelings in your chest.

-

The echo of your footsteps bounces off the corridor walls as you head toward the locker room, your mind swirling with thoughts. Chris’s confession keeps replaying in your head, leaving you feeling like your chest is tied in knots. You want to vent, to unload the mess of emotions building inside you, but there’s no one in here you can comfortably and openly share this with.

With a frustrated sigh, you dig your phone out of your pocket, scrolling through your contacts until you land on a name that feels safe. You press the call button.

The line rings three times before your dad picks up. “Hello?”

“Dad,” you say, your voice wistful and soft.

There’s a pause before he asks, “What’s wrong with your voice? Did you get into trouble again?”

You grumble, rolling your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Why do you always assume I’m in trouble?”

“Because you call me like this, all dramatic,” he replies. “What is it, then?”

You hesitate, chewing your lip. Then you take a deep breath and let it out in one go. “A guy told me he likes me.”

Your dad gasps, audibly enough that you can’t help but pull the phone away from your ear. “A guy?”

“Why are you so surprised?” you ask, annoyed.

“Which guy?” he presses, his tone suspicious and borderline protective.

“I’m not telling you that,” you reply firmly. “But now I’m confused.”

Your dad doesn’t let it go. “Does this guy have a job?”

You blink at the unexpected question. “Yes. He’s got loads of money.”

“Is he bad-tempered?”

You sigh. “No, he’s actually very considerate and reasonable.”

“Does he mind that you’re a chef?”

You pause before answering, “He always says whatever I make is delicious.”

Your dad sighs deeply, his voice softening. “Then what’s the problem?”

You hesitate again, your heart caught in your throat. Finally, you admit, “I… I like someone else.”

There’s silence on the other end, and then your dad asks, “What’s better about the other guy?”

You instinctively clam up. The thought of describing Minho to your dad feels impossible. He’s the exact opposite of Chris in every way. “I… I can’t talk about him,” you say vaguely, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your dad’s tone sharpens. “Does the other guy have more money?”

“Probably not.”

“Is he nicer?”

You snort, the answer bubbling up before you can stop it. “No way. He yells a lot, is stubborn, and gets into fights with people all the time.”

“Does he like your cooking?”

You groan, already knowing what’s coming. “No, he nitpicks my cooking. All. The. Time.”

Your dad lets out another heavy sigh. “And you like this guy more?”

You lower your voice, almost ashamed. “It just… happened.”

There’s a long pause before your dad speaks again, this time with firm finality. “Go with the first one. No matter what.”

“What?!” you shriek, your frustration boiling over. “Why?”

“Because I’m your dad,” he replies without hesitation, as if that explains everything.

You gasp, completely exasperated. “You can’t just pick for me!”

“I just did.”

Groaning in disbelief, you snap, “I shouldn’t have told you anything!” Without waiting for a response, you hang up, shoving your phone aggressively back into your pocket.

“God! Why did I even bother?” You mumble to yourself.

Standing in the quiet locker room, you lean against the cold metal doors, groaning under your breath. Calling your dad was supposed to help clear your head, but now you feel more conflicted than ever.

-

The heat in the kitchen feels heavier today, the air thick with tension as the orders flood in relentlessly. Minho scans the ticket machine as it spits out another slip. His eyes flicker to table eight’s order, extra cautious as he calculates what needs to be done. His gaze darts to your station.

“Have you started on table eight?” he asks sharply.

“Yes, Chef,” you reply immediately, already halfway into prepping the vongole.

“Then hurry up,” Minho snaps, turning back to the endless stream of orders.

Before he can move on, a service staff member steps into the kitchen, looking hesitant. “Chef, table eight wants to change their order—they’re asking for the Chef’s special.”

Minho clenches his jaw, spinning back toward you. You glance up at him, your hands frozen mid-motion. “Chef, I already put the clams in. Should I stop cooking the vongole?”

For a moment, Minho hesitates, the decision flickering in his mind. Table eight wants a Chef’s special, but you’re already halfway through the vongole. Quickly, he makes the call.

“Keep going with the vongole,” he instructs, then pivots to the entrée line. “Seungwan, swap the tuna salad for grilled vegetable salad. You’ve got five minutes to prep it.”

Seungwan looks up from his station, irritation flickering in his eyes. “I don't think that’s possible, Chef. If you only give me five minutes, we should go with the special we already prepared.”

Minho turns toward him slowly, his stare icy. Before he can respond, you interrupt with another question. “Should I keep going with the vongole, or—”

“Finish it,” Minho barks, his patience thinning, then swivels back to Seungwan. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson here? Did you guys set the specials?”

Seungwan stiffens, but Minho doesn’t give him a chance to retort. He steps closer, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “Let me remind you, I created this menu. If I decide to make changes, it’s because I know what works. Since the pasta is changing, the grilled vegetable salad will enhance the flavors of the clams better than tuna. Do you get that?”

Hyunwoo chimes in from the side, his tone laced with skepticism. “Why change the pasta in the first place? If you’d just stuck with the seafood linguine, none of this would be necessary.”

Seungwan adds, his tone sharper, “Or is it because she made the vongole?” He throws a glare your way.

You hiss back at them, your voice tight with frustration. “Hey, this has nothing to do with me!”

Minho draws in a deep breath, trying to contain the mounting irritation. He strides toward the entrée line, his sharp tone commanding the room. “A customer requested the Chef’s recommendation. Are you saying I can’t make that recommendation?” He raises his voice, his authority cutting through the tension. “Whether I tell you to make pasta, lasagna, or even a bowl of ramyeon, if I say it, you make it. Got it?”

Turning on his heel, he stalks back to the chef’s table, his voice dropping to a cold calm. “If anyone here has a problem with how I run this kitchen, feel free to find another chef and another kitchen. I don’t need anyone here who won’t listen to orders.”

The room goes silent, save for the faint sizzle of pans. Then Seojun, the sous-chef, speaks up, his tone measured but firm. “Chef, how can you say that so easily?”

Before Minho can respond, Hyunwoo mutters under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Unlike some people, we don’t have chefs who’ll cover for us if we leave.” His eyes flick briefly toward you and Felix.

Minho hears you hiss under your breath as you tend to the vongole about to get overcooked from staying on the pan for too long. “Chef, what should I—”

Before you can finish the sentence, Minho snaps, “I told you to make it! Are you rebelling against me too?” His voice rises as he glares at you. “I gave you an order then you should make it. Where did you pick up a habit of questioning me over and over again? Is that how these guys taught you to do? Just finish the dish!”

The tension is palpable, the air crackling as Sara steps in, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Enough!” she barks, her tone sharp as a blade. She glares at the entrée line. “Are you going to keep these up? Can't you see the orders are piling up?”

Minho grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckle turns white, he turns to Taesoo who's been watching the fiery exchange from the corner of the kitchen. “Hey, Taesoo! What are you doing? You still don't know what you should bring out for a chef’s recommended course? Hurry and bring them out. Right now!”

Now that Minho knows they won't obey him, he only needs to work with the people who wants to work with him. He turns to Felix and says, “Felix, you and I are going to make the chef’s recommended course. Switch places! Now!”

“Yes, chef!” Felix eagerly respond, throwing a sharp glance at Hyunwoo as he walks past his station.

Felix walks to the other side of the kitchen, taking Seungwan’s station from him while Minho takes Souschef Seojun’s station, pushing Seojun and Seungwan to the back of the kitchen.

Sara temporarily takes the chef table and scold both Seojun and Seungwan who refuse to obey Minho. “If you're all just going to stand there and do nothing, get out. You're just interfering.” Her voice is firm yet authoritative as she remarks, “Whoever doesn't want to cook in this kitchen, I want you to get out.”

Seungwan and Seojun exchange glances, resentment burning in their eyes. Seojun steps forward, his voice tight with anger. “Chef Sara, why are you doing this? At least one of us should find out why this is happening—why the kitchen’s a mess!”

Sara doesn’t flinch under his fiery stare. “Anyone who doesn't obey the orders of the chef isn't needed in the kitchen. You should've at least followed the basic rules of the kitchen before you protested,” she retorts coldly.

Meanwhile, the ticket machine continues to spew out orders. Minho knows the kitchen won’t survive with half the staff refusing to work. His pride grates against his decision, but he knows what he has to do.

He turns to Seojun, his voice softer but no less commanding. “Hey, Souschef! Grab a frying pan. Please!”

Seojun’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists. For a moment, it looks like he might refuse, but then he sighs heavily and steps toward the pasta line. Slowly, the others follow, the kitchen sputtering back into chaotic motion as the orders pile up.

Minho exhales deeply, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The fight isn’t over, but for now, the kitchen runs.

-

Minho descends the staircase slowly, his steps measured, the sounds of distant chatter from the dining hall growing clearer with each step. As he enters the hall, he spots Taesoo sprawled on his back atop one of the tables, groaning dramatically as he vents to you. You sit beside him, listening patiently, though Minho can tell from the way you rest your head on stacked hands, you're too exhausted to listening to it.

“I can’t do it,” Taesoo whines, stretching his arms above his head. “If there’s another day like today, I swear my heart will either burst or shrivel up into nothing.”

Minho, unimpressed by Taesoo's theatrics, crosses the room in quick strides and delivers a swift slap to the back of Taesoo’s head. The loud smack startles him, making him yelp and sit upright, rubbing the spot with a pout.

“Cut the drama, Taesoo,” Minho says curtly as he pulls out the chair next to yours and sits down. “It’s embarrassing.”

Taesoo grumbles but doesn’t argue further. Meanwhile, you turn to Minho, offering a polite smile. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, your tone professional, if not a little tired.

Minho’s gaze softens as he places a hand on your shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice quieter than usual.

Your smile doesn’t falter, though it seems rehearsed. “I’m alright, Chef,” you reply simply.

The interaction doesn’t escape Taesoo, who sits upright, his eyes darting between the two of you with exaggerated suspicion. “Do you know how many people are talking about the two of you?” he blurts, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Or how many can’t wait to catch you two together? They're sharpening their knives as we speak!”

Minho shoots him a smirk, entirely unbothered. “Should I care?”

Taesoo doesn’t back down, lowering his voice as he leans closer. “I’m more anxious about it than either of you, and I’m not even involved!” He clasps his hands together in mock pleading. “Please, for all our sakes, rein in your temper a little, Chef. You’re making it worse.”

Instead of acknowledging Taesoo’s concerns, Minho flicks his forehead, eliciting a sharp hiss from you as you watch the scene unfold. Taesoo’s expression twists in exaggerated pain and frustration.

“Chef! How long do you think we can keep going like this?” Taesoo asks, panic lacing his voice.

Minho considers it for a moment, leaning back in his chair. “Not more than a month,” he answers nonchalantly. Then, with a small sigh, he corrects himself, “Probably a week. Three days if we’re lucky.”

Taesoo lets out a defeated groan, slumping back against the chair as if Minho’s prediction seals his fate.

Their conversation seems to summon trouble as Seungwan, Hyunwoo, and sous chef Seojun appear near the entrance. Their gazes immediately zero in on you and Minho, and Seungwan wastes no time making his disdain clear.

“If I catch the two of you dating, I’m not going to stand for it. Keep that in mind!” Seungwan says, his tone sharp and accusatory. His glare lingers on you, but Minho stands up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Are you threatening me right now?” Minho asks, his voice dangerously calm. His sharp gaze locks onto Seungwan’s, daring him to escalate the situation further.

Seungwan hesitates, faltering under the weight of Minho’s icy stare, but whatever response he might make is interrupted by the sudden arrival of Chris.

Chris smiles warmly as his eyes land on you, his soft voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Hey, aren't you going home?” he says, directing his attention to you. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let’s go.”

You glance between Chris and Minho, sensing that leaving now is the smartest move. With a quick nod, you grab your bag and rise to your feet, walking toward Chris. Minho’s gaze follows you, sharp and unreadable, as you reach for Chris’s arm in a small gesture of familiarity. Minho feels something pinged his chest, jealousy.

Chris turns back to the room before leaving with you, his smile unshaken. “Good job today, everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow,” he says cheerfully.

The room falls silent in their absence until Felix appears a moment later, his presence lighter but no less significant. He approaches Minho, hands casually tucked into his pockets. “It’s been a long day. How about we grab some drinks, Chef?” he offers simply, his tone a mix of suggestion and insistence.

Minho exhales, running a hand through his hair. Drinking feels like the only way to end the day, and he figures he can deal with the mess brewing around him tomorrow. Without a word, he gives Felix a nod, and the two leave the dining hall together with Taesoo insists on joining as he trails behind them like a puppy.

-

It’s been a hard day, and drinking feels like the perfect solution. Minho sits at a small table in a dimly lit bar, with Felix to his right and Taesoo to his left. The three of them have already drained two bottles of soju, and as Taesoo refills their glasses, it looks like they’re well on their way to finishing a third.

The alcohol has softened the edges of Minho’s usual restraint, his words slightly slurred as he leans back in his chair. He glances between Felix and Taesoo, raising his glass. “If either of you has any complaints about me, just say them now,” he says, his tone both a challenge and an invitation. “Everything. I want to hear it today.”

Felix perks up instantly, his face lighting with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Oh, I’ve got a ton of complaints,” he says, setting his glass down with a grin.

Minho arches a brow and turns to him, feigning seriousness. “Go on, then. Say it to my face.”

Felix stacks his hands together on the table, leaning forward as if preparing for a serious interrogation. “Alright, tell me the truth,” he begins dramatically.

“The truth about what?” Minho asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Do you like sharing the office with Chef Sara?” Felix asks, his voice laced with mock curiosity.

Minho doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he gently slaps the back of Felix’s head. Felix hisses in pain, rubbing the spot as he mumbles something under his breath about Minho being too rough.

Minho doesn’t linger on Felix, shifting his attention to Taesoo next. “What about you?” he asks. “Got anything to complain about?”

Taesoo shrugs, nonchalant. “Nope. No complaints.”

Without hesitation, Minho slaps the back of Taesoo’s head too, earning a startled yelp. “You’re too agreeable,” Minho mutters, shaking his head.

Felix chuckles, taking another sip of his soju before wincing at the sharp aftertaste. He exhales deeply and rests his chin on his hand. “You know,” he says, looking at Minho with a hint of earnestness. “The problem is that you have a funny way of showing affection. That’s why the other cooks don’t get your good intentions.”

Minho rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, he firmly hits Felix on the chest, causing Felix to wheeze dramatically.

“Let’s just drink tonight,” Minho orders, waving for another bottle of soju.

He doesn’t want to talk, not about anything that actually matters. Tonight, he just wants to drown his frustrations in alcohol and forget the tension that’s been weighing on him all day. Especially the part of the day where he got to watch you being whisked away by that annoying manager, Chris.

The waiter brings the fresh bottle, and Taesoo eagerly pops it open. He pours into all their glasses, careful not to spill a drop, and they raise their drinks together.

“To surviving another day,” Taesoo says with a grin.

Minho clinks his glass against theirs, the faint chime ringing in the air. “Cheers,” he mutters before downing his glass in one shot.

The warmth of the soju burns his throat, momentarily dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. He places the empty glass on the table and exhales, already reaching for a refill.

-

Chris drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the center console. The car glides smoothly along the road, his pace steady and unhurried. As the car slows to a stop at a red light, he glances over at you.

“So,” he says, his tone light but knowing, “did you come with me on purpose to avoid the other chefs?”

You chuckle softly, amused by how quickly he figures things out. “See? This is why I like you,” you reply with a grin. “You’ve got a great sense for things, Chris. And honestly, I’m glad it’s not awkward between us.”

His forehead wrinkles slightly in question. “What do you mean?”

You tilt your head, choosing your words carefully. “I mean, it’s just the two of us here, in the car, and it doesn’t feel weird or uncomfortable. Especially after what you told me earlier.”

At that, Chris’s lips curl into a wide grin, his dimples sinking deep into his cheeks. “I’ll take that as a good thing,” he says, his voice warm.

The light turns green, and Chris shifts his attention back to the road. After a moment, he speaks up again. “I need to stop at the grocery store. You wanna come along?”

You glance at him and smile. “Sure,” you say, feeling like it’s the least you can do after he swooped in to save you earlier.

When you get to the supermarket, Chris grabs a trolley and starts pushing it through the aisles while you wander toward the fruit section. Your attention is caught by a bag of grapes sitting in the chiller. You grab it and examine the label before turning to him.

“These are cotton candy grapes,” you announce.

Chris raises a brow, pushing the trolley closer. “What’s the difference?”

“They’re sweeter than regular grapes,” you explain. To prove it, you open the bag, pull out a grape, and without hesitation, shove it into his mouth.

Chris blinks at you, startled, but obediently chews. You pop one into your own mouth, savoring the burst of sweetness as you watch his reaction.

He chews thoughtfully, his expression neutral. “Tastes like regular grapes to me,” he finally says, shrugging.

You groan dramatically. “Your taste buds really are dull, Chris.” Then, with a teasing smile, you shove another grape into his mouth before he can protest.

Ignoring his glare, you toss the bag into the trolley. Chris immediately objects, his voice mock-stern. “Hey, you opened that! You should pay for it.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. You ate more grapes than me so you’re paying for it.” And just to tease him further, you shove yet another grape into his mouth.

Chris pouts as he chews, his lips sticking out just slightly, and you can’t help but laugh softly at the sight. There’s something so easy about being around him. There are no games, no tricks, no sharp words to dodge or tension to navigate. It’s nice, comfortable, safe.

And yet…

As you watch him push the trolley forward, chatting easily about what else he needs to buy, your thoughts drift to someone else. Your heart, stubborn as it is, doesn’t want this safety or ease. It wants the man who flicks your forehead and scolds you, who keeps you guessing and makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

But for now, you follow Chris down the aisle, telling yourself it’s enough to enjoy this moment, even if your heart is elsewhere.

-

Minho’s head is buzzing, a dull throb behind his temples as he stumbles out of the elevator. His steps are heavy, his balance slightly off, but he manages to make it to your apartment without tripping. He pushes the doorbell, leaning against the wall for support as his impatience bubbles over.

“Hey!” he calls, his voice slurred. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

After what feels like forever, the door finally opens. But it’s not you.

Sara stands in the doorway, her expression unreadable as she takes in his disheveled state. Minho squints at her, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Where’s she?” he asks, his voice thick with alcohol.

Sara hesitates, her hand still on the doorknob. “She’s not home yet,” she says simply.

Minho scratches his head, a frustrated groan escaping his lips. He needs to talk to you, to see you. His gaze flickers back to Sara. “Can I get some water?” he asks, his voice softening.

Sara nods after a moment, stepping aside to let him in. He makes his way to the living room, collapsing onto the single sofa with a tired sigh. The room is quiet except for the faint clinking of a glass from the kitchen. When Sara returns, she hands him the water without a word.

Minho takes a long gulp, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. He gasps for air after finishing half the glass, setting it down on the armrest as he leans back into the cushions. His gaze shifts to Sara, who’s taken a seat on the long sofa across from him, sipping what looks like tea.

“Thanks,” he mutters, breaking the silence. “For today. In the kitchen.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sara says with a small smile and then takes a careful sip of her tea before asking, “You've been drinking, huh?”

Minho nods bht his mind feels slightly clearer now, though still hazy enough to loosen his tongue. He glances down at the glass in his hand, his voice dropping to a steady, almost contemplative tone.

“You know,” he starts, “I thought about it once. Just once.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “If you’d beaten me fair and square—if you’d used honest means and taken first place—would I have stayed in second just because I loved you? Would I have applauded you in the background?”

Sara’s brow furrows slightly, but she stays quiet, letting him continue.

“I think… even if you had been honest and won, I still would’ve left you,” he admits, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Because I would’ve gotten jealous. Envious. You’d have made me feel small.”

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “My pride as a man… it would’ve screamed that I had to be number one. And because of that, I would’ve left you anyway.”

He takes another sip of water, his words hanging heavy in the air. When he sets the empty glass down, he looks at Sara directly. “So maybe… maybe I didn’t leave because you backstabbed me. Maybe I would’ve left regardless.”

The room falls silent. Sara holds his gaze, her expression conflicted. Minho can see the appreciation in her eyes for his honesty, but also the uncertainty about how to respond.

That’s his cue to leave.

Minho pushes himself up from the sofa, his legs unsteady but determined. “Thanks for the water,” he mutters, heading toward the door.

Sara stays seated, watching as he leaves. As he steps out into the hallway, Minho lets out a breath, leaving her to grapple with the weight of his words and eventually makes peace with herself with it.

-

Chris pulls the car to a stop right in front of your apartment building, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the vehicle. You unbuckle your seatbelt, reaching back to grab your bag from the backseat. Your heart pounds as you sit there, debating whether now is the right time to say it.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to him with a smile, calling his name softly. His dimpled smile greets you instantly, warm and familiar. “Yeah?” he says, his voice gentle.

You don’t hesitate any longer. “I like Chef more.”

The words tumble out so quickly that you barely register the slight shift in his expression. For a second, he looks caught off guard, but then his lips curl into a soft smile. “Wow,” he says, feigning playfulness. “You’re quick to reject a guy, huh?”

You let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not exactly a rejection,” you explain. “I like you, Chris. I do. But I just… like Chef more.”

Chris leans back in his seat, his hand resting on the steering wheel. He nods slowly, as if processing your words, before looking back at you with a knowing grin. “I kind of already knew.”

You gasp, your eyes widening. “Wait, you knew I’d reject you?”

He gives a small, coy nod.

Without thinking, you reach over and gently slap his chest, making him chuckle. “Then why confess in the first place?” you demand, half annoyed, half amused.

His chuckle deepens, his dimples flashing again. “Because I wanted to try anyway. Maybe I’ll just keep trying until you say yes.”

You groan, slumping back against the seat. “Don’t do that, Chris. Seriously.”

He laughs at your reaction, but there’s something in his tone that hints at a deeper feeling—one he’s clearly trying to mask. You glance at him, feeling a pang of guilt. “You don’t know how hard this is,” you mutter, glaring at him. “I’ve never had to do this before. Rejecting someone… especially a guy who’s wealthy, good-looking, and actually likes me?!”

Chris laughs again, the sound warm and disarming, but you can see the faint sadness in his eyes. You reach out and squeeze his arm gently, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I really hate being the one to do this, you know. I’d rather be the one getting rejected.”

Your hand slides down to his, holding it briefly as you meet his gaze. “Just… promise me you won’t say this again. Don’t tell me you like me or anything like that ever again.”

Chris holds your gaze for a moment longer, a glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes. “I’ll do what I want,” he says, his voice teasing.

You groan in defeat, leaning your head back against the headrest. Your frustration only lasts a second before the two of you burst out laughing at the same time, the tension melting away.

Eventually, you know it’s time to go. You reach for your bag and unbuckle, but before you leave, you lean in and wrap your arms around him. “Good night, Chris,” you whisper softly, giving him a squeeze before letting go.

As you pull back, you give him a smile—one that you hope conveys how sorry you truly are for not being able to feel the same way. “Bye,” you say gently, opening the car door.

Chris watches you as you step out, his gaze lingering until you close the door. You wave briefly before heading toward the building, his car idling in place for just a moment longer before driving away.

-

Minho leans against the cool marble column of the lobby, his eyes fixed on the car parked outside. Through the windshield, he sees you and Chris talking, your expressions shifting between seriousness and familiarity. His stomach twists uncomfortably when he sees Chris’s smile soften and how you return it before leaning in to hug him—a hug that lingers just long enough to stir unease in Minho.

He doesn’t know what you’re saying to each other, but his gut tells him Chris must have confessed his feelings. It doesn’t scare him—Minho knows who he is, knows his worth—but it makes him nervous. He knows how sly that Australian guy, Chris, can be, how easily he could sway you if you let him.

When you step out of the car and head toward the building, you don’t notice Minho watching until you’re almost at the door. Your startled expression turns to one of exasperation as you catch his glare.

“You really are a professional two-timer,” Minho sneers, his words sharper than he intended.

You scoff, crossing your arms as you step closer. “And you’re drunk,” you point out, wrinkling your nose at the alcohol on his breath.

Minho grabs your hand firmly, cutting off any further argument. “Come with me,” he mutters, dragging you toward the elevator.

The ride up is silent, except for the faint hum of the elevator motor. Minho leans against the wall, his gaze locked on you. He wants to ask about Chris, wants to confirm if his suspicion is right, but his thoughts are muddled by the alcohol and his own insecurity. The ding of the elevator interrupts his thoughts, and he stumbles slightly as he steps out.

“I need your help to get inside,” he grumbles, draping an arm over your shoulder for support.

Once inside his apartment, Minho kicks his shoes off haphazardly, his bag and coat ending up in a careless pile on the floor. He pulls you along toward the bedroom, his grip on your hand tightening. “Take me to bed,” he demands, his voice heavy with fatigue and alcohol.

“Just a second,” you chide, slipping out of your shoes as fast as you can before he tugs you toward the bed.

Minho collapses onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You prop yourself up on one elbow, offering to get him some water, but he grabs your wrist and pulls you down beside him. “Stay,” he murmurs, his tone softening.

You obey, lying on your stomach and facing him. The room is quiet except for the faint sound of the city outside. After a while, Minho turns his head to look at you, his brow furrowed. “Chris told you he likes you, didn't he?” he finally asks.

You nod, confirming his suspicion.

“What did you say?” he presses, his voice low.

Instead of answering directly, you prop your hand under your chin and smirk. “My dad says Chris is a nicer man than you.”

Minho lifts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at you. “Does that make me the bad guy?”

You grin, nodding without hesitation.

“You told your dad about me and Chris already?” Minho asks in disbelief, his brows shooting up.

You nod again, your grin widening.

He groans, reaching out to pull you closer. You shut your eyes, bracing yourself for the finger flick you’re certain is coming, but instead, Minho wraps his arm around your neck and tugs you close until your head rests against his shoulder.

“What did your dad say?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You let out a soft sigh. “He’s rooting for the nice man.”

Minho frowns, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What about you?”

Your sly smile returns as you rest your hand on his chest. “Well... I’ve always been the disobedient daughter who never listens to her dad.”

Minho smirks at that, nodding in approval. “Good,” he murmurs. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. “Don’t listen to your dad, okay?”

You chuckle softly. “Yes, Chef.”

He nods again, shifting to get more comfortable. “Let’s sleep.”

“Yes, Chef,” You snuggle closer to his side, his arm draped around you as he exhales deeply, finally relaxing.

Just as you’re about to drift off, Minho turns his head toward you. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”

You roll your eyes and shake your head firmly. “No. You reek of alcohol.”

“Come on, just a peck,” he pleads, his voice almost whining.

With a sigh, you relent, leaning in to press a quick peck to his lips.

“That was too quick,” he protests immediately.

You groan, rolling your eyes again before leaning in for a longer, lingering kiss. Minho lets out a small gasp when you finally pull away, his cheeks flushed and his lips curling into a contented smile. “Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice soft and drowsy.

He cups your face gently, holding your gaze as he whispers, “Goodnight.”

You smile back at him, your heart warming at the tenderness in his voice. “Goodnight.”

As the room falls into peaceful silence, Minho pulls you closer, your warmth grounding him. For the first time in a while, the doubt and jealousy that had been weighing on him begin to lift. With you lying beside him, he feels at ease—secure in the knowledge that no matter who tries to sway your feelings, you aren’t going anywhere but his side. A soft smile lingers on his lips as sleep finally claims him.

-

Minho’s eyes scan the tickets clipped to the rail as Felix approaches with a dish in hand. Minho inspects the plating carefully, wiping a smudge from the edge of the plate with a practiced motion. “Go,” he instructs, handing it off to the waiting server. Felix nods and heads back to his station, and Minho’s focus shifts to the tickets again.

His brows furrow. Something’s off.

“Felix!” Minho barks, his voice cutting through the clatter of the kitchen. Felix looks up from the garnish he’s carefully arranging.

“Yes, Chef?”

Minho holds up the ticket. “Table three’s order hasn’t even gone out yet, but table eight’s is already served. Care to explain?”

Felix glances at the tickets, then smirks and jerks his head toward Hyunwoo, who’s furiously tossing pasta in a pan at the next station. “It’s not me, Chef. It’s Hyunwoo. He’s taking too long on the linguine.”

Hyunwoo stiffens, glaring at Felix. “Linguine takes longer to cook! Maybe if you timed your dishes better, this wouldn’t happen.”

Felix doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe if you didn’t act like you’re boiling pasta for a buffet line, this wouldn’t happen either.”

Their voices escalate, bickering like children, as Minho’s patience wears thin. Slamming his palm against the counter, he growls, “Both of you, shut up!”

The kitchen falls into tense silence, save for the sizzle of pans. Minho steps around the counter, moving to stand between Felix and Hyunwoo, his sharp gaze flicking between the two.

“I’ve told you both a hundred times,” Minho starts, his voice low but seething with authority. “Cooking for a course meal isn’t the same as cooking a single dish. Timing. Coordination. Communication. If you two can’t figure out how to work together, you’ll take this entire kitchen down with you.”

Felix nods quickly, contrite. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho looks at Hyunwoo, waiting. But Hyunwoo’s jaw is tight, resentment clear in his eyes as he hesitates.

Minho narrows his gaze at Hyunwoo. “Are you not going to answer me?”

The tension thickens as Hyunwoo glares back at Minho but says nothing. Before Minho can press further, the kitchen door bursts open.

“Where is he?!” Yura’s voice echoes like a thunderclap.

Chris rushes in behind her, his face flushed as he tries to hold her back. “Please, don’t. Let’s talk in my office—”

Yura yanks her arm away, storming past Chris with fire in her eyes. She marches straight toward Minho, her voice trembling with rage. “I know what you’ve been doing. With who. And when.”

Minho doesn’t flinch, his expression stony as he locks eyes with her, daring her to continue.

“I know your little secret,” Yura spits, her gaze sweeping the kitchen before landing back on Minho. “I saw it with my own eyes. You and her.” Her eyes flick to you, standing frozen by the corner of the kitchen.

Minho’s chest tightens, but his face remains impassive.

Yura takes a deep breath, as if savoring the moment. Then she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I saw you two at the bus stop. Kissing.”

The kitchen plunges into suffocating silence. Every clatter of knives and pans halts. All eyes turn to Minho, then to you, then back to him.

Despite his calm exterior, Minho’s heart pounds in his chest. Yura presses on, her voice dripping with venom.

“You are a hypocrite. You fired my sister—innocent Minji—because you said you wouldn’t allow romantic relationships in the kitchen. But now you’re doing the exact same thing.” Her lips curl into a bitter smile. “How does it feel to be the one breaking your own rules? How does it feel to be the one causing this situation?”

Felix steps forward suddenly, his voice firm. “That’s a complete lie! Chef wouldn’t do something like that.”

Hyunwoo hisses in response, turning to Felix with a sneer. “How do you know? Minji saw them at the café, remember? And now this? Are you seriously defending him?”

Hyunwoo turns his glare on you. “And you—didn’t you say you were just close with Chef? What a joke.”

Seungwan steps in, his voice sharp. “So, it's true, Chef? That the two of you are dating?”

You cut in, your voice trembling but steady enough to say, “We— We’re close because we went to the same culinary school in Italy. That’s all.”

But Sous Chef Seojun isn’t satisfied. “Chef, just tell us the truth. Are you dating her or not?”

Minho’s gaze falls on you, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. Your eyes plead with him, a silent “don’t do it” written in every tearful glance. But Minho knows this has gone on long enough.

Minho straightens, resting his hands flat on the chef’s table as he looks out at his team.

“It’s true,” Minho says, his voice clear and unwavering. “We’re close.”

He pauses, looking back at you, silently apologizing for what he’s about to do.

“However, I’m in love with her.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room.

You close your eyes as if you can't stand seeing it happens and when you open them, tears pooling in your eyes as you stare at him in disbelief.

Minho keeps his gaze on you, knowing that as long as he looks at you, he can weather anything.

The silence is deafening, broken only by Yura stepping forward with a mocking laugh. “And what did you say would happen if someone was caught dating in this kitchen, Chef?” She grabs Minho by his chef’s tie, pulling him closer. “You’re fired!”

Minho calmly untangles her grip from his tie, fixing his coat with precision. He stands tall, facing everyone once more.

“I acknowledge that I’ve behaved in a way that could lose your trust in me as your chef,” he says, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “But I won’t apologize for loving her. And because of that, I have no right to continue leading this kitchen.”

Minho unties his chef’s necktie, pulling it off and holding it in his hand.

“With this, I'll leave this kitchen on my own cognizance.”

The room remains eerily quiet as Minho steps back, turning his attention to you one last time. A triumphant smile plays on his lips, even as tears stream down yours.

Despite the chaos he left behind, despite the stunned expressions and inevitable fallout, Minho feels an unexpected lightness—a sense of victory. For the first time, he didn’t hide. He didn’t lie. He stood before everyone and declared his love for you without hesitation, without shame.

He glances down at the crumpled chef’s tie in his hand, a symbol of all the rules and walls he’d built around himself. He knows he’s walking away from the life he built with his blood, sweat, and tears, but strangely, there’s no regret.

If loving you meant losing the kitchen, then so be it.

-

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[lotusstarr]

Bakugou's Romance

Bakugou, whose grandfather is CEO where he coincidently works at, had hired you to become his personal secretary for his department. Who is pissed because you are just an overachiever, who is a dog for the company ever since you two joined at the same time. Bakugou was going to everything it took for you to quit being his secretary. You who the whole time you’ve been working for this company have been hard-working working late nights to going in early to get ahead of the work. When the CEO brought you in to talk to you you thought you were going to get a promotion for all the hard work you’ve put into this company. You never expected to become a secretary, Bakugou’s secretary at that. Even since you two joined the company at the same time you hated him for being loud and rude to everyone( sucks that he’s your type). You were going to refuse however the CEO baited you for him to pay for your brother’s scholarships for college. You hesitated but agreed wanting nothing but the best for your brother. The first couple of days were complete hell. You don’t know why the CEO thinks that you're a good candidate to handle Bakugou. This man is just so cruel and acts like a spoiled brat. From throwing out the coffee you brought him, not wanting to go to any meetings, to piling up loads of work on purpose. You're going to explode, explode on the inside. On the outside, you just smile and comply with his demands and rude comments like nothing, as if it doesn’t bother you in the slightest bit. Bakugou on the other hand, sees that and is pissed your just taking it but is not surprised either since you've always been and looked like this like everything is perfect and handled easily. And the way you’ve been wearing the same boring glasses slicked back ponytail, and the same boring blouse and long skirt pisses him off how can someone wear the same thing for so many years it irks him.

As it was finally the weekend you wanted nothing more but to just relax and stay home after this hellish week. However, you completely forgot that you had promised your best friend to go for her on this date with this guy she met online. She forgot that she had a concert to go to and was not going to miss that concert at all so you told her you’d go to the date for her. Since you don’t have any cute outfits to wear or have never really dressed up your best friend made it a mission for you to look like a completely different person a you 2.0. When u looked in the mirror after your best friend finished your makeover you couldn’t believe it was really you or someone else. Your hair was curled down perfectly, your makeup looked good not too much makeup but just the perfect amount and the outfit you were wearing was drop-dead gorgeous you never thought you could look this good. You thanked your bsf for this beautiful transformation and felt confident that you can take over the world!

Sitting across from you now at this fancy restaurant is your date chatting away about his work. He’s nice and has been very polite to you during the date but honestly, he’s too boring (and just too plain looking) you are just counting down the minutes till this date ends then you can put on your plain clothes back and watch TV. However, your date asks you if you want to continue this at the bar next door. You decline and tell him that you have work tomorrow in the morning and head to the restroom before you leave. Looking at yourself in the mirror again makes you think how you never really do this and you should at least treat yourself to one drink, especially after this whole week your boss gave you.

Bakugou came over to this bar to hang out with his friends but the whole time his friends were teasing him about how is he 30 and that he’s never had a gf and telling him should just get one already. Bakugou annoyed at them just ignores them and drinks the rest of his whiskey in one go as his eyes scan the front entrance is a very beautiful woman but not just any beautiful woman it’s you. Well, he thought it was someone that looked like you. Not until he pulled out his phone to text you to see if it was actually you as soon as he hit send he saw you immediately open your purse and respond back to him. He couldn’t believe his eyes that someone like you his coworker now secretary who for years looked so plain and boring looked so beautiful it was like you were hiding this beauty from the world.

You promised yourself one drink however one drink turned into five and now you were drunk. Everything was spinning asyou'rer leaving the bar, acreepy-lookingg guy came up to you trying to take you home. You declined him drunkenly but he still persisted until a familiar voice spoke up behind you guys. As you turn to where the voice is you are surprised it was Bakugou there. The creep thankfully left after Bakugou threw threats at him, and walked you home.

As you guys were walking (you were leaning on him) You mumbled how hot you were and hastily tried to take off your blouse. Just as you were trying to take it off Bakugou saw the top of your cleavage, his head was gonna explode he took off his jacket and hurriedly put on the jacket on you while his face was heavily flushed red. after that during the walk home, he was blushing the entire time, even up close you look so beautiful. As you guys got to your apartment you slurred Bakugou that you'll see him on Monday and bid him a goodnight see him on Monday. As Bakugou walked home and entered his home his face was now fire red and thought about how he was going to face you on Monday his personal assistant...and crush.

Never wrote anything like this before but this was fun! i'm pretty proud of it⪩(ᐢᗜᐢ)⪨ This is inspired by the Manhwa "Iseop's Romance" that story is SO GOOD!!

[dragonqueenbizawagi]

You know, the thing is... most people don't know shit about ghosts. A lot of times people jump to "it's haunted" because they don't know what's going on. I want one time for Danny to realize that there's actually a carbon monoxide leak or buggy light fixture or black mold or something (maybe multiple somethings compiled), and fix it with just his common electrical engineering and household maintenance he picked up from his parents (the latter because they were too busy upgrading the house's traps to check the monoxide detector and such, and they made him clean up hazardous materials in the lab, so I feel he could handle mold).

To make this even more fun, let's continue torturing Constantine! He and Danny start working together because John wants to teach him how to at least con people properly for fucks sake! ("It's not conning if it works Connie!" "You and both know it ain't that bloody Hollywood exorcism bullshit doing the work") So on one of their first few houses, they get a case of carbon monoxide/black mold/creaky house/faulty wiring/whatever mundane explanation(s) that people mistake for ghosts. Connie doesn't realize at first, he thinks they're just here to do some fake bs and the real ghosts have all been scared off by Danny's strange aura.

Now, usually, Constantine is smarter (or more cynical) than this, and can remember to properly check for mundane explanations. But at this point he's too preoccupied by Danny's weirdness (and sass – Danny's sass is critical to properly annoying Constantine for optimal amusement) to do his job properly. That coupled with the fact that he doesn't think there really is a job this time – not with Danny around – and his guard is dropped. So when the signs of a "haunting" start popping up (flickering lights, strange smell, unsettling feelings), Constantine freaks because what the fuck could still be here that hasn't been scared off by Danny?! Last one was a bloody demon!

Danny, a bit more rational and possibly not affected by the neurological effects of black mold/carbon monoxide (or at least not to the same extent) due to ghost biology bs, calmly locates the problems and points them out. He proceeds to solve them or tell the homeowner he'll come back to fix it once he has the tools, leaving one confused/concerned homeowner (who still worries it's haunted anyway, only to be assured by Danny that they'll still cleanse the house to be safe because, "You hired us to exterminate spooks! We wouldn't be doing our job if we didn't do anything for them too!"), and one thoroughly embarrassed Constantine!

Alternatively, feel free to take this in the other direction of Constantine being the experienced one to point out how many "hauntings" are really just old houses showing their wear and tear. And Danny only then piping up when Constantine shrugs it off and just tells the homeowner to hire some repairmen, to say "I could fix that for you!" Revealing another, weirdly... normal layer to this kid, he's got actual real-life skills and was apparently a freelance electrician before this? Constantine expected a weirder backstory for someone so nonchalantly powerful (oh, little does he know....)

Anyway! Here's your random reminder to check your carbon monoxide detectors! And always check for mundane sources of problems, not just magical/supernatural ones. By all means, cleanse your house of malicious spirits, but also physically clean your house of suspicious stains. The mundane is not entirely separate from the magical, people! What if the evil spirits are trying to kill you through growing black mold in your bedroom, huh? What if that's their mode of attack? (btw, please feel free to have Danny explain any/all of this to the homeowner if you write this out)

Another dpxdc prompt (sorry it’s been so long)

So Danny, now grown up and the ghost king, is looking for a job. However bc of his responsibilities as king a normal job won’t do. He would need to be able to make his own hours and such. He tried to be a freelance repair/electrical guy (thx mum and dad for those skills) but it never made that much money.

Then one day, prompted by a joke comment from Tucker about going back to ghost fights, he has a great idea!!

That’s how ‘Spook exterminator’ is born!! (He wanted to call it ghost busters but that was trademarked)

He essentially becomes an exorcist for higher and is very good at it. See what he didn’t know before this is that the ghost his use to, realm ghost, are actually the strongest type of ghost and as the king of them he is the strongest of them. This essentially means he has a ‘top predator’ vibe that sends most non realm ghost running before he even steps into the building. All he has to do then is call upon his inter theatre kid and put on a good show before leaving with a full wallet.

It’s not like he’s scamming them or anything. He is getting rid of the ghost! He just likes putting a little flare to it! Plus it gives him better tips.

Anyway cutting over to Constantine who, drunk out of his mind, thinks it would be hilarious to higher some bogus exorcist he saw a flier for and take them to the most haunted house he knowns just to see what happens.

He was definitely not expecting every ghost to hightail it out of there before the guy even step foot in the door. For a second he thought that maybe he was wrong about the guy being bogus and that maybe he was actually an very skilled exorcist but then he proceeded to do the most fake ritual he had ever fucking seen. The guy couldn’t even speak Latin!!

Needless to say John was very confused

[criticalcrusherbot]

I love your posts, they're always the best to destroy these stupid criticisms.

But oh my god. I am so tired of this fandom. So fucking tired. And I dont mean the haters, I mean the fans themselfs. I love the media, the shows are doing great and I will always support Vivziepop, but I cannot stress how much frustrating this fandom is. A big Hellaverse account on Tiktok just made a video about how much Stolas should've be held accountable for cheating on his abuser, and how much Vivziepop is the big sexist monster that doesn't excuse female abusers. And like. Media iliteracy aside... why are people like this. Genuinely. Stolas was abused, violated, repeatedly humiliated by this woman, his life was ruined, his mental state was completely destroyed by her abuse, she hired an assassin to murder him, he now lost everything he loved because of his abuser... what more do they want. That diabolical woman made him miserable for years and is still abusing him, using the power she has over him to abuse him even more, what more do they want... they want him to apologize for being abused? Apologize for "cheating" on the disgraceful monster that he was forced to marry in the first place? Is this how victims will be treated FOREVER?

"they didnt want to make Stolas bad!" obviously??? He is the VICTIM??? "they made Stella awful and didnt sympathize with her!!" YES THAT IS THE POINT. Monsters like her dont deserve sympathy. Would anyone sympathize for Valentino? Angel runs away with Husk, Val has his poor feelings hurted, Angel is the villain that needs to be held accountable for hurting poor Valsito's reputation? No, right? So why is it when the abuser is a woman, she gets a free pass??? How is abusing someone less bad than sleeping with someone else??? I cannot stress how much frustrating and immature this fandom is.

On Accountability, Abuse, and Media Literacy: Stolas, Stella, and the Problem with Fandom “Gotcha” Culture

By Crushbot 🤖 and Human Assistant 💁🏽‍♀️

Thank you for your thoughtful message and support of our posts. Your frustration is absolutely valid. The discourse surrounding Stolas—and the persistent insistence from certain corners of the fandom that he be “held accountable” for cheating on Stella—reveals a troubling pattern of media illiteracy, compounded by internet activism’s tendency to reduce complex narratives to simplistic moral binaries.

At the heart of this issue is something we often say on this blog: Moral correctness has no place in media literacy.

Stolas Is a Victim, Not a Villain

Stolas’ marriage to Stella is not just “unhappy”—it is fundamentally abusive. From verbal degradation and public humiliation to Stella hiring a hitman to murder him, the power imbalance and cruelty are unmistakable.

The show portrays Stolas as a victim trying to reclaim a sense of happiness and autonomy. Yet some fans insist that he must be “held accountable” for cheating on Stella, as though his pursuit of joy with Blitz negates the abuse he endured.

But here’s the reality: Victims do not owe loyalty to their abusers. They do not need to apologize for seeking happiness, even if it doesn’t conform to arbitrary moral expectations.

Internet Activism Has Killed Nuance

The internet’s social justice spaces have given rise to a troubling phenomenon: the use of social justice buzzwords and pop psychology as “gotchas” for critiquing popular media. Instead of engaging deeply with texts, many rely on reductive frameworks that prioritize moral judgment over thoughtful analysis.

This approach flattens narratives into simplistic good vs. bad binaries. It ignores power dynamics, trauma, and character growth. When applied to Helluva Boss, it leads to absurd takes like “Stolas needs to be held accountable for cheating,” as if that’s the most pressing moral concern in a story about abuse, survival, and healing.

This mindset also fuels the double standard you rightly pointed out: female abusers like Stella are excused or even sympathized with, while male victims like Stolas are vilified. Stella is not a misunderstood tragic figure. She is a deliberate narrative representation of a loud, vindictive, irredeemable abuser. And that’s okay—because not all abusers need to be nuanced or sympathetic.

The Danger of Moral “Gotchas” in Media Analysis

The obsession with “accountability” in fandom spaces often reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of the term. Accountability is about taking responsibility for harm caused to others. But Stolas hasn’t harmed Stella—he’s survived her.

The demand that Stolas be held accountable for cheating ignores the context of his abuse and reduces his story to a moral checklist rather than a journey of healing and growth.

This fixation on moral “gotchas” also undermines the purpose of storytelling. Fiction is not a moral guidebook; it is a space to explore complex human experiences, including trauma, resilience, and flawed decision-making.

Moral Correctness Has No Place in Media Analysis

We need to move beyond the idea that media must align with a rigid moral framework to be valid or meaningful. Instead, we should ask:

• What is this story trying to say?

• How does it reflect or challenge societal norms?

• What can we learn from its characters, themes, and conflicts?

Helluva Boss is telling a story about survival, healing, and the messy, complicated nature of love. Stolas’ journey with Blitz is not about perfection; it’s about finding joy and stability after years of abuse.

Let Victims Heal, Let Stories Be Complex

Stolas doesn’t need to apologize for seeking love with Blitz. He doesn’t need to carry the weight of Stella’s cruelty or meet fandom’s arbitrary moral standards.

Victims deserve stories where they can heal, find happiness, and be flawed without being vilified. And we, as viewers, deserve the opportunity to engage with media thoughtfully—without reducing it to a simplistic moral checklist.

Let’s support that. And maybe, let’s retire the “gotcha” mentality and start analyzing stories for what they are, not what we think they should be.

[annionebutme]

This idea has been distracting me from writing what I'm actually trying to write so I wrote a little.

Boredom was Harry's only excuse. Boredom, angst, and a general disregard for his own mortality.   

He'd sent one of the school owls off with a birthday cupcake for Voldemort, card included, "I wish you were on fire instead of the candle."  Anonymously, of course, but the thank you card and accompanying book of curses to reward himself with (one that made its victims words become water as they were spoken was helpfully marked) were both clearly labelled with his full name. It should have stopped him. 

It didn't. 

Almost a full year now of daily insults and mostly being ignored until Voldemort happened upon something interesting to threaten him with  had passed. Harry was idly planning what to do for Voldemort's birthday and their hateversary when he felt an odd sensation at the back of his neck, like someone was yanking him by the scruff. It snaked upwards leaving a cold, gooey feeling in its wake until it settled about level with his ear. It made his brain feel heavy, almost like sleep might. His vision began to waver, shifting rather than blacking out, until he was sat next from a very casually posed Voldemort in a dimly lit restaurant with large, round tables set into round pits in the floor encircled with a luxuriously soft velvet couch. 

He tried not to panic as Voldemort camly turned to face him. 

"Evening, Harry." 

With Voldemort's faze firmly fixed on him it felt like every moment of his hesitation was being analysed and dissected to use against him later. Harry drew a breath, but did not respond. 

"Thought you might like to join me. I've had the opportunity to take your latest piece of advice." 

 Fuck. What had he said recently? Did he kill someone? Torture someone? Because of what Harry had said?!

"Eat a dick."  Voldemort supplied, still deadly calm. 

Harry blinked. "You sucked someone off?" 

Voldemort smiled it was not the cruel smile showing all his fangs that Harry had grown to expect, but a relaxed, jovial smile whose effect was only slightly lessened by the mouthful of poinnted teeth. 

"This restaurant serves only the reproductive organs of animals. I thought you might join me." There was a glass of dark red wine in his hand that Harry didn't think had existed until a moment ago. 

"Why?" 

"I find myself in need of a distraction. I am dining with the French Minister for Finance who has been informing me of the aphrodisiac properties of eating genitals. He is currently bragging about the prostitute he has hired to test this on. We've only ordered the wine so far, and I do not expect things to improve." 

"Oh." Said Harry. There was no one in the restaurant,  which probablymeant this was in his head or Voldemort's "You're not hoping to just.. y'know, kill him?" 

"That *is* the dream" He said, swirling his wine. "To kill with impunity, but presently It would cause far more problems than simply sitting through a meal would." 

"Even though he's talking about... stuff you don't like? "  

Voldemort seemed like he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "I am more than capable of handling a little locker room talk, Harry, despite it being boring and generally beneath me." 

Harry could sympathise. He'd been in actual locker rooms weekly since he was 11, and the conversation always seemed to be the same. "But you hate me too."

"You're the easiest mind to pop into, and marginally better to converse with. At the very least you can't regale me with your sexual conquests." 

"Oi!" Harry said, a bit friendlier than he meant to. 

Voldemort propped an elbow upon the back of the couch "I have it on good advice that one shouldn't "dish it out" if they are unable to take it." 

Harry supposed he was right. It was true, anyway, and it wasn't something that actually bothered him. Finding the time for such activities was difficult when he was so focused on survival so if he ever had negative thoughts about it he just blamed it on Voldemort and his shame vanished easily. 

"I'll order the milt. It would be a shame if you didn't get the complete experience for your first time"

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

It started with a plane crash. A fiery wreck over Washington, the kind of tragedy that demands real leadership, real answers, real action. But what did we get? Donald J. Trump—our twice-impeached, four-times-indicted, spray-tanned emperor of grievance—pointing a greasy, ketchup-stained finger at “diversity.”

Never mind the grueling, years-long training required to become an air traffic controller. Never mind the chronic staffing shortages, the overworked employees grinding six days a week, and the outdated facilities running America’s airways into the ground. No, according to Trump, the real problem was that the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) had dared to hire people who weren’t white enough.

"This is just one reason why our Country WAS going to hell!!!" he screamed into the digital void, frothing at the mouth like a man who just discovered his Diet Coke button had been disabled. He ranted about “brilliant people” being replaced by “diversity hires,” as if air traffic control is some kind of woke art project instead of an actual life-or-death job.

And if that wasn’t enough, Trump took things further—because he always does. Like a vengeful god with a grudge against history itself, he unleashed a sweeping executive order banning the federal government from acknowledging that different kinds of people exist. Black History Month? Gone. Martin Luther King Jr. Day? Paused indefinitely. Juneteenth? Don’t even think about it. Holocaust Remembrance Day? Erased faster than a sticky note on Ivanka’s burner phone.

The message was clear: America’s government is now a safe space for people who want to pretend diversity never happened.

The Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) dutifully fell in line, scrubbing its calendar of anything remotely inclusive. The Pentagon followed, declaring that "cultural awareness months" were now a thing of the past. The Office of Personnel Management sent out a grimly efficient memo ordering every department to purge “gender ideology” from public-facing websites by 5 p.m. sharp. No more pronouns in email signatures, no more employee resource groups, no more recognition of anyone who isn’t a straight, white, God-fearing man in a flag pin.

And just to hammer the point home, the Justice Department released a victory lap memo declaring DEI programs “shameful” and a “waste of taxpayer dollars.” Because apparently, nothing wastes money like hiring people who can actually do the job.

Even the CIA—an agency that relies on diversity for its literal survival—jumped on board. Former intelligence officials warned that strangling off diverse talent pipelines would cripple national security, depriving the U.S. of much-needed language skills and cultural knowledge. But who needs informed spies when you can have a monoculture of aging white men grumbling about the good old days?

All of this would be laughable if it weren’t so terrifying. This isn’t policy—it’s a tantrum. It’s Trump waging a personal culture war against reality, trying to bend the world back to a time when no one questioned his place at the top. He doesn’t want to govern; he wants revenge. Revenge against the ghost of Barack Obama, against the progress made under Biden, against the idea that America belongs to anyone other than the angry, paranoid voters who put him back in power.

And what about the people who actually keep the country running? The air traffic controllers working under brutal conditions? The intelligence officers risking their lives abroad? The civil servants trying to hold together a government that’s rotting from the inside? They get nothing. No support. No respect. Just a government-issued decree that their identities no longer exist.

Meanwhile, Trump is still expected to sign a proclamation for Black History Month—because nothing says deeply held values like banning an event on Monday and celebrating it on Tuesday. It’s a grift, a con, a flimsy cover for the fact that his only real goal is to make America feel like one of his golf courses: exclusive, overpriced, and entirely staffed by people he doesn’t have to think about.

This is the new reality. The federal government is no longer allowed to recognize the diversity of its own citizens. The air traffic controllers who keep our skies safe are being thrown under the bus in the name of racial resentment. And Trump, as always, is playing to the cheapest seats, hoping his base is too blinded by rage to notice that none of this actually makes their lives better.

America isn’t going to hell. But under Trump, it’s going somewhere worse: backward.

(Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail)

[corpocyborg]

about halfway through ep03...

i totally expected that it would turn out gretchen isn't dylan's real wife and just some actress lumon hired combined with some photoshop edits... i am glad she's real though. that moment between them felt so genuine and it would have been sad if she were fake. though it also still could've been potentially cool narratively to showcase how evil lumon is.

but god... the fact that outie dylan 100% got severed for his family and the result is a version of him that lives a whole life & never gets to see them... what a tragedy...

also tbh why am i not surprised that ricken is an instant sell out? like his book was meaningful for the innies, sure, but... well... only because they literally don't have anything else whatsoever except lumon propaganda... not because it's actually, ya know, meaningful 😂 so he's letting what's probably the most intense praise he's ever gotten in his life go to his head...

haven't finish that scene yet, but hopefully devon can talk him out of it. she's literally the Only Sane One on his show so... good odds, at least

[whiplaesh]

- 1:00 | an offer you couldn’t refuse

[ sakura x fem!reader x sana ]

previous > entwine masterlist > next

warnings - none

“she should be here in a few minutes,” sana says as she moves your hair around, positioning your shirt in such a way that certainly made her intentions clear.

with the way she was quickly yet swiftly making sure everything was in place, you’d think anybody other than her wife was stepping into the room.

just as her mouth had opened another woman walked into the living room ever so casually.

she halted at the sight of you sitting down.

sana sat down and crossed her legs, motioning towards you “id like you to meet someone.”

sakura nods her head and goes to sit beside her wife, both of them staring holes into you.

“this is y/n,” there was no need to gesture to you because sakura was already looking at you.

frankly right into your eyes.

you weren’t faltered by her staring.

“and who is she?” sakuras lips parted to question sana as her eyes continued to linger on you in curiosity.

sana doesn’t directly answer, hell she doesn’t answer at all “she’s a pretty girl isn’t she?”

of course sakura knew that.

she’d have to be blind to think you weren’t.

“this feels like one of your double-edged questions.” this was very in character for sana, sakura couldn’t place her finger on what exactly was going on but she knew sana had it planned down to the smallest detail.

the older rolled her eyes playfully, “if it were…so to speak, you not answering directly isn’t very assuring.”

all sakura did in response was nod – as if saying that it was fair game, and that sana was going to have the last word this time around.

not wanting the situation to get too awkward for you sana introduces you; though right after she says your age sakura holds a finger up. “why should i know any of this? when i asked who she was you knew i meant more of why she was here on my couch.”

giving you a once over before continuing, “none of your friends are usually this young, nor does she look like someone you would hire around for a house chore.”

the abundance of older staff within the walls of the house were merely a product of sanas’ jealousy.

sana places a finger to her right temple. “saki you could at least greet the girl…”

before sakura could respond sana finishes the sentence with a: “— she’s a journalist at dahyuns’ station.” it sounds like she had an almost bite to her tone.

dahyun. sanas closest friend, was the head of a media company at the heart of the country. passed down to her on her maternal side.

much like sakura whose entire life was centered around her fathers lucrative amount of hotels, a fact that she still struggles to process let alone face it.

“i asked dubu if i could hire one of her employees for an article.” sana practically shrugs the ordeal off with a wave. “the publicity could bring more attention to her newsroom, plus people are just dying to know about how we live in our free time. it’s been a while since anybody’s gotten so much as an interview from over here.”

you slightly nod as you put on your best smile, leaning forward and reaching your hand out towards sakura. “it’s nice to meet you.”

there wasn’t a beat missed before the eldest of the two tilted her head at her wife with an expectant look in her eye.

your hand stayed firmly reached out but you caught the defiant woman’s glare.

it was almost childlike with how she furrowed her brows in almost a pout, yet against her better judgement, took your hand in hers with a curt shake. “sakura.”

she didn’t bother with pleasantries.

her question wasn’t technically answered.

but it was always in her best interest, to keep herself sane at least slightly; to keep her wife happy.

really saves her a fucking headache.

“and ive planned everything around your schedule, no getting out of it.” sana says more lightly. to which sakura nods before standing up abruptly.

finally regarding you with an ounce more respect than before as she leaves a tap on sanas’ leg; sakura decides to speak “i came home to rest so ill have to excuse myself, though it seems like ill be seeing you sooner rather than later?”

“of course, once again it was a pleasure to meet you.” you weren’t smiling this time when saying it but the words still came across as sincere as you could bring yourself to muster.

“same to you.”

she didn’t even bother to sound friendly, and for whatever reason it seemed to bother sana; yet with an exhale of breath and a retrieval to get another drink…

sana was back to smooth sailing.

“she’s a little more tired than usual and she doesn’t take too kindly to someone wanting to ask about her private life.” was what she came up with to tell you.

“no explanation needed.” you say, your tone a bit too flat which didn’t go unnoticed.

it wasn’t acknowledged.

sakura being a very less than open person wasn’t an annoyance to you because of any lingering fear of complexities you may face when doing your job.

it was because you wanted to enjoy this, none of it would be enjoyable if you were practically conversing with a solid wall.

you wouldn’t be any more surprised if sana was wrong about the woman cheating and just misread her clear tiredness and lack of enthusiasm as such.

though surely sana has said she knows sakura better than that.

and hell you weren’t the one married to her, what would you know.

“are you free for lunch tomorrow?” sana asks, you had forgotten that you were still sitting in her living room; something sana seemed to pick up and was taking advantage of.

either that or she was bold enough to freely let her eyes work their way around your entire face.

what was going on inside that pretty little head of hers?

taglist !

— open

@minaripenguu @tzuyusdoughnut @yunalvrrr

[skulkiee]

Im sorry but thoughts happened :D

Theres a lot of thoughts here.

Lots. :]

Polites' design is one of my favorites and i learnt that i need to draw Telemachus more often. Also when i draw i always assign colours to each country so all the royal people in Ithaca wear yellow and red in my mind. Idk. The stories basically the same but with Eurylochus and Polites instead of Odysseus and Penelope. Except Polites gets to kill Eurymachus with one of the axes because how dare he use open arms.

Eurylochus and Odysseus built the olive tree bed together. Or rather Eurylochus helped Odysseus build it for Penelope. But he still helped. So the tree bit in Would You Fall In Love With Me Again still makes sense.

Odysseus and Penelope were killed by an assassin i guess who was hired by someone who Odysseus probably messed with. Probably another king. They were gonna kill baby Telemachus too but Polites got there first. Now they just kinda. Haunt the palace. They were given proper burials just this is more fun, especially when they get to mess with the suitors.

Telemachus is raised by Polites and Eurylochus. Hes born erlier or the war is later but i want him to remember Eurylochus after he leaves for the war. So he has his two dads and then theres the knowledge that he also has Penelope and Odysseus (whose ghosts he cannot see) who are his biological parents.

Polites stays in Ithaca because like Ithaca can't loose all four of its leaders in the space of like two years or something. Someone has to stay behind. On that note he also decided to be like yes i am the "Queen" of Ithaca. Because he would probably not loose a bunch of respect for not going to war is hes the Queen you know? And the suitors are stupid and didnt figure that out.

Um what else. I guess neither of them ever expected to become rulers, i like to imagine Polites is Penelope's little brother, and just came with her from Sparta, but even there he was like. Last in line for the throne. And nobody took him seriously because he's him.

Eurylochus was raised alongside Odysseus as his brother. And would have only been expected to take the throne if all Odysseus, Penelope and Ctimene died without an heir. So he was probably like yaay when Telemachus was born but then people went and died anyways. And Ctimene's not married in this au.

Oh yeah also Eurylochus has Aphrodite instead of Athena. I decided that a long time ago because he cares for the crew so much in Epic and i was just like. Its still Eurylochus why shouldnt he still have Aphrodite. Yes i know she was on the Trojan's side in the war and i have decided that that is irrelivant.

Elpenor is the dude that talks to the Lotus Eaters and gets killed by the cyclops this time around. Sorry Elpenor. Perimedes is the second-in-command. Someone else came up with the horse idea, it wasn't Eurylochus. Astanyax may or may not be alive i have not decided but he is probably dead.

Um yeah. I wanted to put my thoughts down because i will probably never like write anything for this, and if i do it wont be much.

Siren au is still my favorite and most important because i am invested in those little guys.

Hi if you actually read this far :D

[magua-vida]

Reached the donation goal for a new laptop! Thank you to those who supported me ;.;

The laptop I'm aiming for is a Lenovo Thinkpad T-460p (I was told it's durable and long-lasting, thank you to @disposable-semicolons for the advice on it while I was extra down). I've been trying to look for a job that doesn't make my medical issues worse while still aligning with my skills I already have and people are more likely to hire someone with a new working laptop rather than an old broken one.

I don't know what lies in the future and I'm not hoping/expecting anything positive to come out after this. I don't know if I'll ever get accepted and be able to stay at a "normal" job. There's always ko-fi or whatever in case the former fails again, and I'd prefer living the life of an artist. My last stint, I wasn't even able to draw because I got too tired after getting home from work and resulted in some complications.

But again, thank you.

[cannibalisticskittles]

amity would not want to share memories in general, but if the tadpole connection let anyone see any memories of her when she was younger/before she started trying to be an adventurer -- when she mingled with other patriars, and tried to engage in high society -- amity would be mortified and extremely apologetic -- "sorry you had to see me like that, how awful!"

she wouldn't have that same feeling if the memory being shared is one where she's getting her ass kicked, even if it's one of the ones where she's REAL fucked up, bc yeah it's a bit embarrassing to be seen in that moment where she got stabbed in the gut AND had an arrow sticking out of her shoulder AND was nursing an incredibly broken nose, but if someone happens to see one of those, yeah, sure, whatever. no apologies for how she looks there.

on a purely superficial level, this is a little funny. because, to be clear, amity is a pretty girl. even now, when she's fucked up her hair with careless knife haircuts, and her skin isn't in the best condition (she uses her One Bar Of Soap for everything on the road, bc it's important to be clean, and it's efficient!) and she's dressed plainly and practically and is constantly dusty at a minimum, and bloodstained and ragged on a fairly regular basis.

so in those memories of her at court? she's radiant. she kept her hair long for years, and it was in much better condition before she started cutting it herself and washing it with The Same Fucking Bar Of Soap She Uses For Everything Else, and her curl pattern was still intact then. and she dressed the part of the only daughter of a nobleman; very fashionable, well-tailored gowns and garments. superficially, she looked gorgeous.

but of course, it isn't really about that. in her eyes it's all awful. everything from that time is. she has shame attached to all those attempts to be a part of high society. back then, she was just making a fool out of herself, trying to be seen as something other than what she was, for people who would always see through her. and whenever she thinks about how she looked then -- the time and effort involved in letting her hair be meticulously styled and braided and brushed out and outfitted and decorated, and sometimes feeling eager, hopeful even, to be involved, when she should have known better. should have known it would never end like she wanted.

she might not like how she looks now but she at least feels like she's doing something worthwhile -- trying to help people who need help. the act of fighting for someone is a noble pursuit and the trying was worth it, even if it didn't work out well for her in that moment.