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seospicybin · 5 days ago

Text

TASTE.

CHAPTER III: AFTERTASTE.

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. (21,1k words)

Author's note: Your reservation at Farfalle is ready. Hope you enjoy it! Don't forget to leave a 5-star review ★

Aftertaste. /ˈɑːf.tə.teɪst/ (n) a taste, typically an unpleasant one, remaining in the mouth after eating or drinking something.

Do you know that you food can taste different when it has become cold? When the food is sweet or salty in particular, its taste would change depending if they're hot or cold. That, Minho learned the hard way, eight years ago in culinary school.

The kitchen was alive with the sounds of chopping, sizzling, and the occasional bursts of laughter from students, each consumed by their own culinary experiments. Minho stood at his station, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously kneaded pasta dough. The faint scent of flour and olive oil hung in the air, mingling with the aromas of freshly baked bread and simmering sauces.

Across the counter, Sara leaned on her elbows, watching Minho with an amused smile. Her hair was tied back into a loose bun, a streak of flour smudged across her cheek.

“You’re so serious when you cook,” she teased, breaking the silence.

Minho glanced up, his lips twitching into a small smile. “And you’re so distracting,” he shot back, though there was no malice in his tone.

Sara grinned, straightening up and walking over to his side. “Come on, show me what you’re working on.”

Minho hesitated but eventually relented, stepping aside to reveal a small bowl of ginseng root. “I’m making a ginseng pasta,” he said, his voice brimming with excitement. “It’s going to be my entry for the summer competition.”

Sara raised an eyebrow, picking up a piece of the root. “Ginseng? That’s bold. How are you planning to deal with the bitterness?”

Minho smirked, the confidence in his expression unmistakable. “That’s the genius part. I’m using Barolo wine to balance it out. The earthy notes in the wine will complement the ginseng perfectly.”

Sara nodded thoughtfully, placing the root back into the bowl. “Well, good luck with it,” she said, her tone warm and genuine. “You’re going to need it against me.”

Minho chuckled, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that.”

Minho and Sara were not only young and bright, both of them were passionate about cooking, they were also very much in love with each other. Their rivalry was as much a part of their relationship as their love for cooking. They pushed each other, critiqued each other’s dishes, and celebrated each other’s successes. It was why they were the top two students in their class with Minho reigned on the first place and Sara stayed closely on the second.

On the day of the competition, the grand hall buzzed with anticipation, the scent of spices and freshly cooked food wafting through the air. Minho stood confidently by his station, his ginseng pasta plated and ready to be presented. He glanced at Sara, who gave him a small, encouraging smile from her own station.

When it was his turn, Minho carried his dish to the judges with steady hands. They took their first bites, their faces revealing nothing. But as they continued, a subtle crease formed in one judge’s brow, followed by a quiet murmur among them.

Minho’s confidence faltered. He hurried back to his station, his mind racing. What had gone wrong? He quickly checked his ingredients, his heart sinking when he tasted the wine. It was oxidized, the rich flavors replaced by an unpleasant sourness.

His hands clenched into fists as realization dawned on him. He had only shared his recipe with one person.

He looked across the room at Sara, who stood before the judges, presenting her dish with radiant confidence. When they announced her as the winner, her smile was triumphant, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment.

Minho’s stomach churned as he saw the satisfaction in her gaze. She had sabotaged him.

Sara approached him afterward, her tone light and breezy. “I’m sorry, Minho. But I need to go to Rome,” she said, her smile sweet but unmistakably victorious.

Minho said nothing, his jaw tight and his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his station. You see, even once the food is served, sometimes you don't eat it right away so the food becomes cold while you are talking or taking pictures of it but the last thing you'd remember is how it tastes before you leave the table.

And that day, his love for Sara was replaced by something colder, sharper—a lingering aftertaste that rivaled the bitterness of his ruined ginseng.

Today, that lingering aftertaste not only tainted his tongue, it starts pooling in the pit of his stomach, making him sick from the inside.

Minho exhales sharply, his patience thinning to a dangerous edge. His knuckles ache from clenching his fists. He stares at Chris, his gaze demanding an answer he already suspects but needs to hear aloud.

“Don’t tell me that she's already here?” he asks, his voice a low, controlled growl.

Chris nods, and Minho’s stomach twists. “She's here.”

The words barely register before the sound of her footsteps announces her presence. Minho’s body tenses as Sara steps into the kitchen. She’s every bit as he remembers—confident, calculated, and exuding a saccharine charm that feels like a slap to the face.

“Nice to meet everyone,” Sara says, her voice sweet and cutting all at once. Her gaze lands on Minho, and the playful malice in her tone is unmistakable. “I hope no one plans to chase me out of the kitchen just because someone here has… issues tolerating women in the kitchen.”

Minho’s jaw tightens further but he stays silent, watching, waiting, his anger simmering dangerously close to the surface.

Sara turns back to him, feigning sweetness. “I’ll follow your instructions, Chef. Tell me where to stand and from which stove I should work.”

Her words feel like needles, each one designed to provoke. Minho’s grip on the table tightens, his knuckles whitening.

Sara tilts her head, mock innocence dripping from her tone. “Should I pick the station myself, then?”

Then she does the unthinkable. Her hands slide onto the chef’s table—his table—as if claiming it for herself.

The last thread of Minho’s restraint snaps. He spins around, his movements sharp and deliberate, his eyes locking onto hers with unfiltered fury. For a moment, the air between them crackles, thick with unspoken conflict.

Sara doesn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with calm defiance, and that only stokes his rage further.

Without a word, Minho storms past her, his shoulder colliding with hers hard enough to send her staggering. The door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing like a final note in a symphony of chaos.

Minho storms out of the kitchen and into his office, slamming the door with enough force to make the frame rattle. The echo reverberates through the small space as he rips his apron loose, the knot giving way under his angry hands. He hurls it onto the floor, the fabric crumpling into a heap. His chest rises and falls with sharp breaths, and he begins pacing, his shoes clicking against the polished floor in a rhythm that matches the racing of his thoughts.

She’s in my kitchen. That backstabber. That audacious, smug—

His fists clench, the tendons in his forearms straining as he tries to shake off the fury boiling inside him. But it’s futile. The image of Sara standing there, smug and triumphant, invades his mind again and again.

A knock on the door interrupts his spiraling thoughts. He ignores it, his back turned to the door as he continues pacing.

A second knock comes, firmer this time. Before Minho can bark out a refusal, the door creaks open, and Chris steps inside, calm and composed as always.

Minho stops, planting his hands firmly on his hips as he turns to face him. His glare is scorching, his voice sharp and biting. “What is it that you want? Are you trying to make me leave?”

Chris closes the door behind him, leaning against it with an ease that contrasts starkly with Minho’s barely-contained rage. His calm demeanor is infuriating.

“I’m trying to revive Farfalle,” Chris says, his tone measured. “That’s all this is about. Don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be. It’s just a new menu item.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, unfazed as he continues. “You chose her dish to be the new menu and you agreed the winner gets to cook here. You signed off on that.”

Minho’s jaw tightens, and he boldly steps forward, closing the distance between them. “Do you really think this is just a trivial matter to you, huh?”

Chris doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady. “It’s still your kitchen, Chef. You’re the head chef. Nothing has changed. Ninety-seven percent of the kitchen is yours, and no one’s taking your authority away.”

Minho lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the tension. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as a sinister smirk spreads across his lips. “My kitchen? In my kitchen, there would never be two chefs. Ever.”

Chris straightens, his calm demeanor cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of challenge. He steps closer, their faces now inches apart. “You’ve made countless changes to this kitchen. You’ve built it into something incredible. Are you really going to throw it all away because of this?”

Minho’s breath is steady, but the fire in his eyes burns hotter than ever. He leans in slightly, matching Chris’s intensity. “If you’re making the changes, then why don’t you just take it, Chris? Take the ninety-seven percent. Hell, take it all. Make it one hundred.”

For a long moment, they stand there, locked in a silent battle of wills. The air between them feels heavy, suffocating, as if the entire restaurant is holding its breath.

Neither of them blinks. Neither of them backs down.

The kitchen feels like it's on the verge of collapse. The clanging of pots and pans is louder than usual, overlapping with shouts of orders being repeated and corrected. Seojun, normally composed, is frantically trying to keep everyone in line, his voice hoarse from barking instructions. Felix has just served the wrong table, and the mistake sends a ripple of frustration through the staff. Taesoo, rushing to clean up a spill, nearly crashes into Seungwan, who looks like he might collapse at any moment.

The tension is suffocating, lingering in the air like the aftermath of a thunderstorm. And you know exactly why. Minho is gone. He left. Completely abandoning his post and the team.

You feel anger simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over as you throw down your knife and step away from your station. If no one else is going to fix this, you will.

Without a word to anyone, you slip into the freezer, the sudden chill biting at your skin. Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you scroll through your contacts and hit Minho’s name. The ringing feels endless, each tone tightening the knot in your stomach.

Finally, he picks up, but instead of his voice, you’re met with the thumping bass of loud music. The sound is almost deafening, making it hard to tell if he’s even aware you’re on the other end.

“Hello?” you say, your voice sharp, laced with urgency. “Chef, can you hear me?”

A moment of static, then his voice comes through, lazy and sarcastic. “Wow, you sound so happy right now that I'm not there.”

You grit your teeth, biting back a sharp retort. “Where are you? The kitchen is falling apart, Chef. Are you coming back or not?”

His laugh grates on your nerves, light and dismissive. “Why don’t you come here instead?” he says, his voice almost drowned out by the music. “Don’t bring anyone, though. Just you. Come have some fun.”

Your grip tightens on the phone, your frustration bubbling over. “Are you kidding me right now?” you snap, but he doesn’t respond, his laugh echoing faintly before the line goes dead.

With a growl of frustration, you shove your phone back into your pocket and push your way out of the freezer, the warmth of the kitchen hitting you like a wave. But before you can even get back to your station, your phone buzzes again.

You hesitate for a moment, debating whether to ignore it, but curiosity wins out. Pulling it out, you glance at the screen.

It’s a text from Minho. An address.

You stare at it, your stomach twisting. A club, no doubt the one where he’s currently drowning his responsibilities in music and alcohol.

Your grip on the phone tightens as you slide it back into your pocket, your jaw clenched. The chaos around you feels even louder now, the weight of Minho’s absence pressing down on your shoulders.

You know you can’t leave, not with the kitchen on the verge of disaster. But the thought of him out there, laughing, carefree, while everyone else struggles to keep things afloat, makes your blood boil.

The thumping bass of the club vibrates through your body as you push your way through the sweaty crowd, your frustration mounting with each passing second. Neon lights flicker overhead, casting garish colors over the sea of dancing bodies. The smell of alcohol and perfume is overwhelming, but none of it distracts you from your mission: finding Minho.

After what feels like an eternity, you spot him on the second floor, lounging in one of the booths like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His head is tilted back, a bottle of beer dangling lazily from his fingers, and his foot taps idly to the beat of the music.

He left the kitchen in chaos for this?

Without thinking, you grab your purse and fling it at him. It hits him square in the chest, making him jerk forward in surprise. His eyes widen momentarily before recognition sets in, and a slow, infuriating smile spreads across his face.

“Well, look who decided to join me,” he drawls, leaning forward and reaching for a fresh bottle of beer. He holds it out to you. “Here. Have a drink.”

“Are you kidding me?” you snap, refusing the bottle and plopping down on the ottoman across from him. “What the hell? How could you do this—not just to me, but to everyone in the kitchen?”

He sighs dramatically, tipping his head back as though he’s the one being inconvenienced. “I’m off the clock,” he mutters, taking another sip of his beer.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re the head chef! There’s no such thing as ‘off the clock’ when the kitchen is falling apart!”

Minho groans, placing the bottle down and covering his ears with his hands like a petulant child. “I don’t want to hear any of it,” he says, his voice laced with mock annoyance.

You’re livid now. “Don’t you dare act like this isn’t a big deal! Tell me what the actual problem is, huh? Is it because Chef Sara’s a woman? Or a chef? Or is it because—”

Before you can finish, Minho shoots up from his seat and grabs your hand, dragging you down to the dance floor without a word. You protest, trying to yank your hand free, but his grip is firm.

“Let me go!” you shout over the pounding music.

He ignores you, spinning you around and pulling you close, his arms wrapping around your waist. “Relax,” he says, his breath warm against your ear. “Do you know how to relax?”

You glare at him, refusing to be distracted. “I want you to answer me.”

But Minho is relentless. He moves to the rhythm of the music, swaying with a casual confidence that only makes you more frustrated. “How could you constantly think about nothing but work?” he asks, his lips dangerously close to your temple. “Just dance with me.”

You’re about to demand an answer again when he suddenly cups your face with both hands and presses his lips to yours. The kiss is unexpected, firm yet tender, and for a moment, you freeze.

When he pulls back, his eyes lock onto yours, their usual sharpness softened by something you can’t quite place. “You’re the only girl in my kitchen,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “And that’s more than enough for me.”

Your heart skips a beat, his words throwing you off balance. But as quickly as the moment sweeps you up, you snap yourself out of it.

“Don’t think you can sweet-talk your way out of this,” you say, stepping back and crossing your arms. “You’re still at fault, and I’m not forgiving you just because you—”

“Just leave,” Minho interrupts, exasperated. His playful demeanor vanishes, replaced by irritation. “If you’re just going to keep nagging, then leave.”

His words hit harder than they should, but you refuse to let it show. Straightening your shoulders, you glare at him one last time before spinning on your heel and storming off, leaving him standing alone in the crowd.

The ache in your chest surprises you, but you shove it aside. Minho asked you to leave, and you’ll do exactly that.

The kitchen is eerily quiet, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound as you step through the back entrance. Despite your anger at Minho, you can’t bring yourself to ignore his instructions about prepping for tomorrow. Frustration bubbles up in your chest as you head straight to the kitchen, only to find Taesoo squatting on the floor, painstakingly peeling shrimp from a massive bucket. His head bobs slightly, a yawn escaping as he struggles to stay awake.

A pang of guilt settles in your stomach. You remember those long nights when you were just a kitchen assistant, exhausted but determined to prove yourself. Setting your purse and jacket on the chef’s table, you quietly approach Taesoo and tap his shoulder. He jolts awake, his eyes widening before softening when he recognizes you.

“Sorry for leaving earlier,” you say, your voice gentle. “Where’s Felix? Wasn’t he supposed to stay after dinner service too?”

Taesoo shrugs, looking just as clueless as you feel. “No idea. Either he forgot or decided not to show up.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Alright, go take a nap. I’ll finish this for you.”

His face lights up with gratitude, and he doesn’t need to be told twice. With a quick “thank you,” he scurries off, leaving you alone with the bucket of shrimp. You slide on a pair of gloves and get to work, the repetitive task giving your hands something to do while your mind drifts back to earlier at the club.

Minho’s smug grin. His infuriating refusal to take responsibility. And that kiss—your cheeks heat at the memory, quickly replaced by anger when you remember how he dismissed you.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. You glance up, surprised to see Chris entering the kitchen. He’s still in his suit, hands casually tucked into his pockets, looking a little out of place in the quiet, industrial space.

“Chris? What are you still here?” you ask, pulling off your gloves.

He smirks faintly but doesn’t answer your question directly. “It’s my first day as the manager,” he says. “Aren't you worried about me?”

You catch the slight sulk in his tone and can’t help but smile warmly. “You weren’t that bad for your first day,” you tease.

He chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something subdued about him tonight. Deciding to lift his spirits, you stand and gesture toward the door. “Come on. Let me buy you dinner.”

Chris raises an eyebrow, his trademark dimpled grin returning. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I realized I haven't eaten anything,” you say, pulling out your phone. “What do you feel like eating?”

He watches you scroll through the food delivery options, his gaze softening. “You’re a chef. Shouldn’t you be cooking instead of ordering takeout?”

You roll your eyes, a small laugh escaping. “I’ve been cooking all day, Chris. The last thing I want to do is cook more.”

He lets out a mock gasp, dramatically clutching his chest. “I don’t trust you with your food choices,” he says with narrowed eyes. Snatching the phone from your hand, he starts scrolling through the menu himself.

Every now and then, he lets out an excited gasp or hums in approval at a dish he likes, grinning as he scrolls. You find yourself smiling despite the fatigue weighing on your shoulders.

The dining hall is eerily quiet, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound as you and Chris sit at one of the tables, takeout containers spread out in front of you. The dim lighting gives the room a serene, almost intimate atmosphere, a stark contrast to the chaos earlier.

You take a sip of your canned beer, letting out a satisfied sigh. The exhaustion of the day seems to melt away, replaced by the quiet reward of good food and company. Chris leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as he absentmindedly taps his can against the table.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Chris suddenly grumbles, his voice breaking the silence. “There’s a chance he might not return to the kitchen, you know.”

You set your can down, frowning slightly. “No way. Chef wouldn’t just let go of his kitchen like that. He’s too... territorial.”

Even as you say it, you hate how easily you’ve defended him after everything he’s done tonight. Chris gives you a curious look, his eyebrow quirking. “You seem to know a lot about him.”

You wave a hand dismissively, trying to downplay it. “It’s nothing. We went to the same school, that’s all.”

Chris doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he leans forward slightly, his tone turning more thoughtful. “Did you know about him and Sara?”

The question catches you off guard. You pause, picking at the edge of your takeout container. “Yeah, I know they dated back in culinary school. But I don’t know much about it beyond that.”

Chris hums in response, swirling his beer in the can. His gaze is distant for a moment before you decide to flip the question back on him.

“You seem close to Sara too,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “What’s the story there?”

A faint smile tugs at Chris’s lips, and he shrugs. “We tried dating once. Didn’t work out.”

That piques your curiosity even more. “Why not? You’re both attractive, popular... I’d imagine you’d make a power couple.”

Chris looks at you then, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Doesn't matter. I like someone else,” he says casually, like it’s not a bombshell of a revelation.

You lean forward on the table, your curiosity now fully ignited. “Who?”

Chris chuckles but shakes his head. “Not telling.”

You narrow your eyes at him, determined to pry the truth out. “Oh, come on! Who is it? Someone I know? Is it someone in the restaurant?”

Before you can press him further, a loud snore cuts through the air, startling both of you. You glance around, trying to locate the source of the sound, and eventually spot Taesoo sprawled out in one of the booths, fast asleep.

The sight is so unexpected and absurd that you can’t help but laugh. Chris’s laughter soon joins yours, the sound echoing through the empty dining hall. For a brief moment, it feels like you’re both exactly where you need to be, uplifting each other after a long, hard day.

Minho leans against the hood of his car, parked across the street from the restaurant. The glow of the streetlights illuminates the familiar sign above the door, casting long shadows on the pavement. His eyes linger on the name of the restaurant, the place he’s poured everything into. The memories of your question from earlier in the club replay in his mind like a haunting echo.

What’s your actual problem with Sara?

The question nags at him, forcing him to confront the truths he’s been avoiding. He exhales slowly, gripping the edge of the car.

Was it because Sara is a woman? No. That had never truly been the issue.

Was it because she’s also a chef? Maybe, but not entirely.

Or was it because Sara is his ex-girlfriend? The thought stirs an uncomfortable weight in his chest, but it’s not the root cause either.

The truth settles in the pit of his stomach, sharp and undeniable. It wasn’t Sara herself—it was the possibility of losing to her again. His ego couldn’t handle it. Back then, she had left him behind, proving she could succeed without him. The thought of her doing it again, this time in his kitchen, had twisted his pride into knots.

But standing there, staring at the restaurant, Minho realizes the futility of clinging to the past. This isn’t culinary school anymore. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about what’s best for the restaurant. Sara deserves the chance to prove herself, just like anyone else.

He pushes off the car and climbs back inside, the engine roaring to life as he heads home.

The next morning, Minho steps out of his apartment and while adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder, he walks toward your apartment. He rings the doorbell, he knows he's here to talk to Sara but he's also expecting to see you open the door.

When Sara answers instead, her bright smile is a stark contrast to his composed demeanor.

“Minho,” she greets warmly, but he skips the pleasantries.

“About your menu... you can make it in the kitchen,” he says bluntly, getting straight to the point.

Sara’s eyes widen in surprise, her smile growing as she processes his words. “Really? Does that mean I’ll start working in the kitchen tomorrow?”

Minho nods, his tone even and detached. “Let me be clear. I need your skill and your recipe, nothing more. Don’t misunderstand—this changes nothing.”

Sara’s smile softens as she nods in agreement. “Understood.”

There’s a brief silence before Minho clears his throat, his voice lowering. “Where’s your roommate?”

Sara tilts her head slightly, confused. “I don’t think she came home last night.”

Minho’s jaw tightens, but he nods once and turns to leave. As he walks toward the elevator, his mind races with questions. Where could you have been all night? And why does it bother him so much to think about it?

It’s barely morning, and the kitchen of Farfalle is already buzzing with activity. You’re elbow-deep in prep work, chopping, blanching, and arranging ingredients for the evening’s service. The reservations for today are over 100, and the pressure is palpable. Still, you keep your focus sharp, refusing to let exhaustion creep in.

As lunchtime approaches, you finally step out of the kitchen for a breather. In the dining hall, a press conference is underway. Sara stands confidently in front of a sea of reporters, eloquently describing the inspiration behind her new menu. Her charisma commands the room, and as you watch, you’re reminded of the days back in culinary school.

She’s always been talented, but her success didn’t come from talent alone. It’s her unwavering drive and passion that elevated her career. You admire that about her, even if you’ve never said it aloud. Watching her now, you feel a flicker of determination to push yourself even harder—to be as good as Sara, if not better.

Dinner service is chaos in the best way possible. Orders for the new menu fly in nonstop, and the kitchen hums like a well-oiled machine. For hours, it’s all hands on deck, assembling full-course meals for over a hundred guests. By the end of the night, your feet ache, your hands are sore, and exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. But despite it all, there’s a deep sense of satisfaction.

The reopening of Farfalle has been a success.

Minho strides into the kitchen just as the last of the orders go out, carrying two pristine plates in his hands. He places them carefully on the chef’s table, the gleam in his eyes unreadable.

“Gather around,” he says, his voice cutting through the lingering chatter.

Everyone stops what they’re doing, curiosity sparking as they crowd around the table. Minho gestures to the plates, introducing his new menu item. He insists that everyone taste it and provide brutally honest feedback.

“No sugarcoating,” he warns, his gaze scanning the group. “I want the truth.”

Silence hangs in the air. No one moves. The tension is almost comical as everyone exchanges hesitant glances, none brave enough to be the first to critique the head chef’s work.

“What? You don't feel comfortable being honest with me here? Is that it?” Minho exhales, clearly exasperated. “Fine, then go home and criticize to your heart's content. Taste it and you are to turn in your review anonymously by tomorrow morning, understand?”

Relieved laughter ripples through the team, and forks are finally lifted. One by one, your colleagues sample the dish, their faces lighting up with appreciation. You linger at the back, arms crossed, observing their reactions.

Minho’s eyes find yours, and for a brief moment, his gaze lingers. You glance away dismissively, the sting of yesterday’s events still fresh.

Minutes later, Sara walks in, carrying her own dish—a plate of triple-flavored pasta that looks as stunning as it smells. She sets it on the table next to Minho’s dish. “Please, have a taste of mine too.”

Sara smiles then her eyes lands at Minho, silently asking if she can taste his dish. Minho subtly nods. “Have a taste.”

She picks up a fork and take a piece of the foie gras, processing the taste as she's chewing it.

“It's very good,” Sara praises, her smile genuine. “It's not too rich but refreshing and yet it retains the nutty flavor of the liver.”

Minho gives a curt nod, though his shoulders relax slightly at the compliment. He steps back, addressing the room.

“You’ve all done a great job today. Clean up and head home.”

“Yes, chef!”

After a while, Sara also excusing herself to leave. “Thank you for your hard work today, everyone!”

The team begins to disperse, buzzing with pride from the night’s success. Sara also thanks everyone for their hard work before heading out.

As you start to remove your apron, Taesoo nudges you with a grin. “You haven’t tried the dishes yet. Go on!”

Reluctantly, you grab a fork and approach the table. First, you sample Minho’s creation. The flavors explode on your palate—balanced, bold, and unmistakably his style. Next, you try Sara’s pasta. It’s equally impressive, with layers of taste that linger long after the bite.

You can’t help but smile to yourself, begrudgingly acknowledging that despite everything, they’re both culinary geniuses.

The flavors still linger on your tongue as you exchange notes with Taesoo and a few others about the dishes. The general consensus is clear—both Minho and Sara’s creations are exceptional. The team buzzes with excitement, debating which dish edges out the other, but you stay quiet, appreciating both for their unique strengths.

As you laugh at Taesoo’s dramatic reenactment of his “first bite,” a gentle tap on your shoulder pulls you out of the moment. You turn around to see Felix standing there, looking sheepish yet hopeful, his signature soft smile lighting up his face.

“Hey,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say sorry for bailing last night. I know I should’ve been here to help you and Taesoo.”

You raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything, crossing your arms as you wait for him to continue.

“To make it up to you,” Felix adds, “I’m buying you two drinks tonight. My treat.”

You glance over at Taesoo, who’s already grinning like he’s won the lottery. Putting your arm around his shoulders, you lean into him conspiratorially. “Drinks, huh? What do you think, Taesoo? Is that enough for all the work we did without him?”

Taesoo shakes his head, playing along. “Not even close.”

You look back at Felix, raising your eyebrows in mock expectation. “Sorry, Lix. Drinks won’t cut it. You’re buying us meals too.”

Felix groans, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “Meals and drinks? You guys are gonna bleed me dry.”

“Yup,” Taesoo chimes, grinning wickedly. “Better start saving up, Felix.”

“Alright, alright,” Felix relents, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Meals and drinks. But only if you promise not to order the most expensive thing on the menu.”

“No promises,” you tease, smirking as you turn back to the others.

Felix lets out a resigned chuckle, shaking his head as he mutters, “You two are impossible.”

Despite his faux annoyance, you catch a glint of amusement in his eyes. Moments like these—lighthearted and filled with camaraderie—make the long hours and exhausting shifts worth it.

The smell of sizzling meat fills the air as Taesoo flips slices of pork belly on the grill with precision. Felix leans back in his chair, watching the meat char while you mix soju and beer into an improvised cocktail for the three of you.

Taesoo serves the freshly grilled meat onto your plates, and you all lift your glasses. “To surviving another day in Farfalle,” Felix says with a grin, and you all clink your glasses together.

The first sip burns warmly in your throat, and the exhaustion of the day begins to fade. Taesoo’s dramatic gasp after his first sip makes you laugh, and soon you’re all eating and chatting between bites.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m still starving,” Taesoo announces, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That’s no surprise,” you reply. “There’s a study that says professional cooks have the worst eating habits. We cook during mealtimes and then get too tired to cook for ourselves after work.”

Felix nods enthusiastically. “I thought it was just me. Sometimes even looking at a pan makes me feel sick.”

“Same with laundry,” you add, eliciting groans of agreement from both Taesoo and Felix.

Just as Taesoo starts another round of grilling, Felix’s phone buzzes on the table. He picks it up, speaking animatedly while looking out the window. His expression changes, and he waves at someone outside.

You follow his gaze, and your stomach drops when you see Minho walking through the door, phone pressed to his ear.

Of course Felix invited him, you think, sighing as you sip your drink. Minho approaches the table, his sharp gaze scanning the three of you.

He gestures for Taesoo to move, squeezing into the seat next to you. He nudges you lightly. “Mix a drink for me too,” he says casually.

You down the rest of your glass, setting it down firmly on the table. “I’m done for the night,” you announce, standing up. “Thanks for the food and drinks, Felix.” You grab your things and head for the exit, not sparing Minho another glance.

Just as you think you’ve escaped his grasp, you hear footsteps following closely behind. Turning around, you see Minho jogging to match your pace, his expression a mix of frustration and something unreadable.

“Where were you last night?” Minho’s voice cuts through the night air as he jogs to match your pace.

You glare at him. “Unlike someone, I don’t run away from my responsibilities.”

Minho flinches but presses on. “Why are you still upset about last night?”

You stop abruptly and whirl around to face him. “Why can’t I be upset when you’re playing with my feelings?”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “You better shut your mouth,” he snaps, but you press on, determined to get answers.

“You don’t allow women in your kitchen, but you keep me. And now there are two women in the kitchen. What’s your game? Why do you keep confusing me?”

Minho’s jaw tightens. “I swear if one more word comes out of your mouth...”

But you’re relentless. “What am I to you? A piece of meat on your cutting board? Is that it? You’re not afraid because you’re the one holding the knife?”

His eyes darken as he leans closer. “Even if you were a piece of meat, you’re not fresh. You’ve been in the freezer too long, you’re tough, hard to handle, and take too much work to prep. After all that effort, there’s not much left worth eating. You’re not an appealing ingredient, and I would never put you on my cutting board.”

Your chest tightens, but you refuse to back down. “So you want me off the cutting board?”

“Yes,” he says firmly.

“There’s only the trash can left for me then,” you say bitterly as you wistfully look at him.

Minho doesn’t answer, but he grabs your wrist, pulling you toward his car. “Let's go home.”

You yank your hand away, turning on your heel to walk the other way. “I’m going home myself.”

“Fine! Go home by yourself then!” He shouts as you walk away.

Despite of what he said, he doesn’t let you go that easily. He follows you with relentless determination, matching your pace until you reach the bus stop. He sits down beside you, the weight of the day pressing down on both of you in the cramped space.

For a moment, neither of you speak, the only sound the distant hum of traffic and the faint music playing from nearby. Finally, Minho exhales deeply, his voice barely above a whisper. “I have so many reasons why I shouldn’t like you. If you weren’t working in my kitchen, I wouldn’t even think about it.”

You remain quiet, completely ignoring him and pretend that he's not there at all as you wait for the bus to come.

Minho’s shoulders slump slightly, the fight in his eyes dimming just enough. “Think about it yourself,” he says quietly. “Why can’t I just do what I want?”

Before you can respond, the bus arrives with a screech of brakes. You stand up, your patience worn thin. “You think about it yourself,” you say firmly, not giving him the chance to argue.

As the bus doors open, you turn to board, feeling a mix of relief and lingering frustration. Without looking back, you step inside, the doors closing firmly behind you, leaving Minho standing alone at the bus stop—his silhouette framed by the fading light.

The ride home is quiet, your mind racing with thoughts and emotions. You can’t shake the confrontation, the weight of his words lingering like a shadow. But as the city lights blur past the window, you remind yourself that you deserve better, that you won’t let his turmoil dictate your own path.

The familiar scent of freshly baked bread fills the cozy bakery, a comforting reminder of your childhood. The sun filters through the large front window, casting a warm glow over the wooden countertops and the assortment of pastries neatly arranged in the display cases. You stand at one of the workstations, hands deep in a bowl of dough, kneading with more frustration than precision.

Your dad walks in, a pan of golden-brown bread in his hands. He sets it on the counter, the metal tray clinking softly, and gives you a critical look. "What are you doing to that dough?" he scolds, his voice a mix of irritation and exasperation. "You're stressing it out instead of softening it!"

Before you can respond, he snatches the bowl from you, examining your work with the practiced eye of a seasoned baker. His sigh is heavy with disapproval. "Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you leave for work?"

You wipe your hands on your apron, avoiding his gaze. "I don’t want to go to work today," you mumble, hoping the conversation will end there.

He raises an eyebrow, his expression sharp. "What did you do? Did you cause any problems?"

You frown, crossing your arms. "Why do you always think it’s my fault? I didn’t cause any problems!"

He sets the bowl down with a thud, his arms crossing in a mirror of your stance. "Then why don’t you want to go? What’s going on?"

You hesitate for a moment, then blurt out, "Do you not like having a woman in your kitchen, dad?"

Your dad’s expression shifts, a mixture of confusion and concern. "What kind of question is that? Is someone looking down on you at work because you’re a girl?"

You look away, your hands fidgeting with the edge of your apron. "Not exactly," you say vaguely, hoping he won’t press further.

But of course, he does. "Listen," he says firmly, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience. "You chose this job yourself. Did you think it would be easy to survive in a kitchen? It’s tough, and you knew that going in."

His tone softens slightly as he adds, "But as your dad, I don’t like the idea of anyone belittling you when you’re doing your job right so tell me who is it?"

You’re spared from answering by the buzz of your phone. Glancing at the screen, your stomach tightens as Minho’s name flashes across it. You shove the phone into your purse, ignoring the call, and quickly grab your things.

"I have to go," you say hastily, avoiding your dad’s probing gaze.

He frowns but doesn’t stop you. "Don’t let anyone push you around, okay?"

You nod, forcing a small smile. "Bye, Dad."

As you step out of the bakery and into the crisp morning air, your thoughts are already racing ahead, dreading the day that awaits you at Farfalle.

The dining hall is humming with quiet murmurs as everyone lines up for the morning briefing. You find a spot behind Felix, adjusting your apron as you focus on the busy day ahead. The sound of approaching footsteps silences the chatter, and you glance up to see Minho stride into the room, his presence commanding as always. His eyes land on yours almost instantly, a fleeting moment of intensity that feels like a challenge. You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to back down, your expression calm but unyielding.

Minho’s lips press into a thin line, and he looks away just as Sara and Chris join him at the front.

Chris claps his hands once, his usual easygoing smile brightening the room. "Good morning, everyone! I’ve got an exciting announcement today. As many of you know, we have a new addition to the Farfalle family."

He gestures to Sara, who steps forward with a confident smile. "This is Chef Choi Sara. She’ll be joining us as the head of the pasta line and will oversee the execution of the new menu, including her signature triple-flavored pasta."

Sara’s posture is straight and authoritative, her voice calm yet firm as she adds, "I look forward to working with all of you. Let’s make sure this transition is smooth and that we maintain Farfalle’s reputation for excellence."

Her words carry weight, and you notice how everyone straightens up a little more. Even Seungwan, who often tries to mask his nerves with humor, looks unusually attentive.

After a moment of silence, Seungwan speaks up, voicing the question that’s likely on everyone’s mind. "So... does this mean there’ll be two head chefs in the kitchen now?"

Chris and Sara exchange a brief glance before answering simultaneously. "Yes."

Chris continues, "Chef Minho and Chef Sara will work together to ensure everything runs smoothly. This is a collaborative effort, and I trust both of them to lead the team."

Sara nods in agreement, her smile still professional but not overly warm. "We’re here to elevate Farfalle’s standards even further. Let’s focus on that."

Minho remains silent, his arms crossed as he leans slightly against the counter. There’s a tension in his jaw, his expression unreadable but clearly restrained. You can’t help but notice the slight twitch in his fingers, as if he’s holding himself back from saying something.

You shift your attention back to Sara as she continues outlining the day’s plans, though you can’t shake the nagging feeling that the tension in the room is only going to grow.

Minho stands at the base of the steps leading to his office when Sara steps in front of him, her gaze steady.

"Minho," she begins, her tone measured. "Don’t think of me as a woman. Don’t think of me as your ex. Just think of me as a chef."

Minho narrows his eyes slightly, watching her.

She continues, her voice unwavering. "I won’t play dirty this time. I won’t compromise my integrity, either."

There’s a pause before Minho nods slightly, his face unreadable. "Let’s try it, then," he says simply. He gives her one last look, then sidesteps her and heads up the stairs.

When he reaches his office, the kitchen staff is already gathered outside, shifting uneasily under his sharp gaze. "Get in," he orders, pushing the door open and gesturing for them to line up.

Inside, he picks up a stack of papers—the reviews they’d written about his dish. His lips curl into a sardonic smile as he flips through them.

"You all really wrote whatever you wanted, didn’t you?" he remarks, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Let’s see."

He pulls out the first sheet and scans it quickly. A dry chuckle escapes him. "This one doesn’t even critique the dish. It’s just a love letter." He reads aloud: ‘Chef Lee, you’re my idol. Chef Lee, you’re the best chef in the world.’

His eyes snap to Taesoo, who grins sheepishly.

"How did I know it was you?" Minho mutters, shaking his head.

Taesoo laughs, unabashed. "Because it’s true, Chef!"

Ignoring him, Minho pulls out the next paper. His brow furrows, then he looks up at Felix, holding the page between two fingers, showing the review says nothing but a drawing of three stars on it. "What’s this? Are you a food critic?"

Felix flashes a cheeky grin. "Your foie gras was perfect. Didn’t think you needed a critique."

Minho’s jaw tightens. "I said to critique the menu, not to flatter me. I asked for the good and the bad points on my dish. How can I improve if all you do is stroke my ego, huh?"

Felix shrugs, his grin unrelenting. "I genuinely had nothing bad to say."

Minho scowls, twisting both of their ears until they're wincing in pain. "Both of you. Out."

Taesoo and Felix exchange glances but quickly obey, leaving with amused expressions.

Minho reads a few more reviews, his scowl deepening with each. "Ah, here’s an actual critique," he says, raising an eyebrow. He glances between Seungwan and Hyunwoo. "‘Too expensive for fish liver.’ Let me guess—you two."

Hyunwoo groans. "You told us to write anonymously!"

"And yet, here we are," Minho deadpans, waving the paper. "Out. Both of you."

The room empties, leaving only Souschef Seojun and you behind. Minho leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"You two didn’t even bother with anonymity," he remarks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Seojun steps forward. "It would’ve felt cowardly not to own up to it."

Minho nods. "I appreciate that. Go on, then. Tell me your critique."

Seojun doesn’t hesitate. "The ingredient isn’t easy to source. It’s seasonal and from warm waters. How will we maintain a consistent supply? How can it be a regular menu item?"

Minho considers this for a moment, then responds with practiced ease. "Flash freezing, salt preservation, smoking—there are methods. But next time, discuss it with me directly instead of on paper."

Seojun nods, satisfied. "Understood."

"Good. You're dismissed, souschef," Minho dismisses him with a wave, and Seojun exits, leaving you alone with Minho.

Minho’s eyes lock onto yours, intense and probing. He crosses his arms, his posture exuding authority. "Your turn."

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Your dish tastes cowardly."

Minho arches an eyebrow. "Cowardly? Let me guess—because the chef is a coward, so the food reflects that?"

You nod, unfazed.

He leans forward slightly. "And what does a cowardly dish taste like?"

You don’t flinch. "It tastes good at first but leaves a bad aftertaste. It tastes good but the first bite is different from the last."

Minho’s expression darkens, but you press on. "It tastes good, but it gives you indigestion."

For a moment, there’s only silence as Minho processes your words. Then his voice drops, low and challenging. "Are you talking about the dish or about me?"

You meet his gaze without hesitation and the tension in the room is palpable, the air heavy with unspoken words. Minho looks like he wants to say something but hesitates.

Not wanting to give him the answer, you excuse yourself, turning on your heel and leaving his office without looking back. Let him figure it out himself.

One thing that Minho knows for sure is that you're still upset with him.

The kitchen is charged with pre-service energy as you meticulously arrange your station, ensuring every utensil and ingredient is in its place. You’re focused, your hands moving with practiced precision, when Sara enters the room.

Her presence draws subtle glances from the staff, but her stride remains confident and poised. When your eyes meet, she offers you a smile—a genuine, warm gesture that catches you slightly off guard. You return the smile, tentative but sincere.

Sara makes a slow circuit around the kitchen, her gaze sharp as she observes the setup. Eventually, she stops beside your station, leaning casually against the counter.

"I have to say," she begins, her tone light but genuine, "I’m surprised to see you’re still a line cook."

You blink, her words catching you off guard. There’s no condescension in her voice, only honest surprise.

Before you can respond, she reaches over and gently fixes the lapel of your chef’s coat, her movements precise and almost maternal. "It may feel far away now," she continues, her voice soft but firm, "but the journey to the chef’s table—it can take a moment or a lifetime. The difference is entirely up to you."

Her words settle over you like a soothing balm, and for the first time, you feel seen. A small smile tugs at your lips as she flashes you one of her own, radiating warmth.

"Let’s work hard together, mmh?" she says simply.

You nod, your chest tightening with gratitude. "Thank you, chef," you manage, your voice quiet but heartfelt. For the first time, it feels like someone in the kitchen might actually be on your side.

As Sara straightens up, her expression shifts slightly, her eyes sparkling with determination. "That being said," she adds with a teasing edge, "don’t be surprised if I push people hard today. I have to set the tone—it’s my first day, after all."

You chuckle, a genuine laugh bubbling up. "It’s about time they got a taste of a woman’s wrath."

Sara laughs at that, the sound bright and infectious, and for a moment, the tension of the kitchen feels lighter.

The moment doesn’t last long, though. The sharp call of the Chef signals that the lunch service is about to begin. You straighten your posture, slipping back into the focused mindset the kitchen demands, but Sara’s words linger in your mind, a quiet source of encouragement as the chaos of the day begins.

The kitchen hums with its usual chaotic energy, but today, there’s an added tension—something almost tangible in the air. It’s not the knives, the flames, or the hot oil; it’s the heat radiating from the silent war between Minho and Sara.

They stand at the front of the kitchen, their gazes locked, the unspoken weight of their history filling the space. No one dares to say anything until the familiar sound of the first order prints through the machine, breaking the silence.

"Table number five, four Triple-flavored pasta!" Minho shouts, his voice sharp and commanding.

Everyone springs into action. Sara moves to the stove next to yours, her movements precise as she begins preparing her new dish. You try to focus on your own station, but the tension is impossible to ignore.

Minho prowls the kitchen like a hawk, watching everyone’s work, shouting reminders, and ordering the pace to quicken. As the chaos grows, Sara moves to Felix’s station.

“You should add balsamic vinegar right before the sauce is done,” Sara says, her tone calm yet firm. “If you heat it, the sourness fades and leaves just the sweetness—it’ll balance the tomatoes perfectly.”

Felix hesitates, looking unsure, when Minho suddenly appears.

“No,” Minho says sharply, crossing his arms. “The sourness is what makes the dish fresher. If you kill that, you kill the tomatoes’ intrinsic flavor.”

Minho shifts his glare at Felix. “Don’t add it!”

Felix’s eyes dart between the two chefs before he sheepishly nods at Minho. “Yes, Chef.”

Sara sighs but says nothing, retreating to her own station. Everyone think that’s the end of it, but the disagreements continue.

Sara suggests adding egg yolks to Taesoo’s pasta dough. Minho counters with water and milk. Sara advises salting the pasta water more generously. Minho claims it will overpower the sauce.

The tension mounts with every disagreement, and you feel yourself sinking further into the inferno when their eyes land on you.

You’re midway through cooking vongole when Sara steps beside you.

“Use sliced garlic,” she says, gesturing to the minced garlic in your dish. “It’s subtler and more aromatic.”

Minho snorts. “Sliced takes too long to cook. Minced is faster and better for the clams.”

You glance between them, feeling the weight of their stares. Without a word, you compromise by adding half minced and half sliced garlic, hoping it’ll satisfy both.

As you add the clams and a splash of wine, Sara speaks again. “Lid it immediately. It’ll trap the aroma and infuse the clams.”

“Flambé it first,” Minho interrupts. “Burn off the alcohol before lidding it. Otherwise, the wine will overpower everything.”

The two begin arguing over the right way to cook vongole, their voices rising over the chaos of the kitchen. You focus on finishing the dish the way you’ve always done it, ignoring their conflicting advice as best as you can.

By the time you plate the vongole, your nerves are frayed. The heat between Sara and Minho feels suffocating and it's getting too dangerous that you feel like the kitchen is on the verge of exploding.

You step back from your station, taking a steadying breath, and glance at the two chefs still locked in their verbal sparring. It’s going to be a long day and it's just the lunch service.

Lunch service ends, and the tension in the kitchen dissipates like steam, leaving you drained. With your lunch tray in hand, you head to the coffee station, hoping for a moment of solitude. You pour yourself a glass of water and settle into a corner table, savoring the quiet.

Not long after, Felix joins you, plopping down across from you with his own tray. The two of you eat in silence for a while, the clinking of cutlery against plates the only sound.

Then, out of nowhere, Felix lets out a heavy sigh, setting his fork down dramatically.

"What is his problem?" Felix grumbles, shaking his head. “Why did Chef even let her work here? Like, what was he thinking?”

You glance at him, your expression calm despite the chaos brewing inside you. "What are you trying to say, Felix?"

Felix leans closer, his brows furrowing in deep thought. “I mean, with his temper, Chef should’ve quit ages ago. So why is he still here? What’s keeping him around?”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

Felix suddenly sits upright, his expression lighting up as though he’s cracked some grand mystery. “Oh no—what if he still has feelings for her? That’s why he’s letting Sara walk all over him!”

You nudge him hard, your eyes darting toward the coffee counter just as Taesoo appears, holding a pot of coffee. Felix quiets immediately, his face turning red as you both watch Taesoo approach.

Taesoo sets the cups of coffee down in front of you and Felix, then leans forward conspiratorially. “I agree with you guys. It’s hell having two chefs in charge.”

You manage a small, polite smile but don’t respond, feeling the weight of too many secrets hanging in the air. You can barely eat your lunch anymore so you decide to escape for real this time. You make your way up to the rooftop, hoping the open sky will offer some clarity.

The city stretches before you, bathed in golden afternoon light. You sit on a bench, taking in the view and letting the distant hum of traffic drown out your thoughts.

The door creaks open behind you, and you sigh, already regretting your choice of hiding place.

Minho steps out, his figure silhouetted against the sunlight. He strides over to the other bench and sits, his gaze immediately locking onto you.

“You know I’m the only chef you have,” he says, his tone steady but commanding. “Listen to me. Only me.”

You don’t respond, keeping your eyes on the horizon.

The silence stretches, and Minho shifts, his impatience palpable. “Are you seriously trying to frustrate me by not saying anything?”

First you're wrong for speaking, and now you’re wrong for staying quiet too? You mumble inside your head. You sigh deeply, pushing yourself to your feet and head for the door,

Minho blocks your path, his eyes boring into yours. “You!” he demands. “Talk to me now!”

You hesitate, but his unrelenting gaze forces the words out. “I envy you two,” you admit finally. “The way you two are so certain, so right—even when you’re disagreeing with each other. You don’t care about the rest of us caught in the crossfire.”

Minho scoffs, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “You envy that? Really?”

“At least you’re communicating,” you say quietly.

“That’s not communicating,” Minho counters, his voice tinged with frustration. “That’s arguing.”

You cross your arms, meeting his gaze steadily. “For you, it’s basically foreplay.”

The corner of Minho’s mouth twitches, and he chuckles softly. His laugh lingers in the air, but you don’t join in. Without another word, you turn and walk past him, leaving the rooftop behind. The weight of envy sinks deeper into your chest, heavy and unshakable.

You emerge from your bedroom, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, ready for another day in the kitchen. The scent of freshly brewed coffee greets you, and you glance toward the living room to see Sara seated on the couch, a steaming mug in her hands.

“Good morning,” she says with a warm smile, setting the mug down. “I was hoping we could leave for work together.”

You blink, caught off guard but nod in agreement. “Sure.”

Together, you exit the apartment and step into the elevator. As the doors begin to slide shut, a hand suddenly presses the button from the outside, causing them to reopen.

Minho steps in.

The atmosphere shifts immediately, the air growing tense. You glance between Minho and Sara, feeling the awkwardness settle like a heavy blanket.

You reach for the button to the lobby, but before you can press it, Sara gently takes your hand.

“Hey,” she says, looking at you with a soft smile, “why don’t you come to work with me in my car from now on? It’ll be easier.”

Before you can respond, Minho reaches out and grabs your other hand, his grip firm but not forceful.

“No,” he says, his tone resolute. “You’re taking my car today.”

Sara’s smile vanishes as she glares at Minho. “Why are you doing this? You’re making her uncomfortable.”

Minho doesn’t back down, meeting her gaze with equal intensity. “I’m making it comfortable. What’s the problem with going together?”

You let out a quiet sigh, feeling their gazes burning into you from both sides. Taking a step forward, you pull your hands free from their grip.

“I’ll take the bus,” you announce, keeping your tone neutral. “I have a few errands to run before work anyway.”

It’s a weak excuse, but it’s enough to break the standoff.

The elevator dings as it reaches the lobby, and the doors slide open. Without waiting for their responses, you step out and make a beeline for the exit, eager to escape the suffocating tension.

As you walk away, you can’t help but shake your head. How did I get caught in this mess?

You arrive earlier than planned at the restaurant, despite your best attempts to stall. Determined to avoid the kitchen, and more importantly, Minho, you head straight to Chris’s office.

Knocking softly on the door, you pop your head inside and greet him sweetly, “Good morning, Mr. Bang.”

Chris looks up from his desk, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You step inside and close the door behind you. “I was wondering if we could have coffee together before work starts?”

He tilts his head to the side and slightly pout. “But I don’t drink coffee.”

You think for a second and sheepishly grin. “Tea?”

Chris leans back in his chair, nodding with a grin. “Okay. Come in.”

You settle onto the sofa as he moves to the coffee maker, pouring you a cup. He places it on the table in front of you and sits down across from you, watching as you take a careful sip.

“Thanks,” you say, the rich aroma of coffee helping to steady your nerves. But you notice Chris is still watching you, his expression thoughtful.

Tilting your head and grin, you say, “You’ve got something on your mind. Go ahead, spill it.”

He chuckles lightly, setting his mug down. “Well, I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor.”

You raise an eyebrow but nod for him to continue.

Chris hesitates for a moment before saying, “I think Sara could use some help in the kitchen. You know, since you’re both women working in the same environment.”

Your smile falters slightly. It’s not an easy favor to grant, especially considering the tension in the kitchen. “I’m not taking sides, Chris,” you reply carefully.

“I’m not asking you to pick sides,” he says, leaning forward. “But she’s fighting an uphill battle in there, and it would mean a lot if you had her back.”

You glance away, unsure how to respond. Chris leans forward further, taking both your hands in his.

“And I’ll have your back too, yeah?” he says earnestly.

You scoff lightly, trying to ease the moment. “You only say that now.”

Chris grins and pouts theatrically. “You always say yes, Chef to a certain someone without question. Don’t forget, I’m the one who signs your paychecks.”

You smirk at that, narrowing your eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

He laughs, squeezing your hands. “Maybe I am.”

You roll your eyes but smile, taking another sip of your coffee.

Chris’s tone softens, and his gaze meets yours again. “Actually, I have another favor to ask.”

You give him a wary look and slightly roll your eyes to the side. “What now?”

His eyes don’t waver. “Show me a little attention too. It costs you nothing.”

You chuckle, shaking your head while lowly chuckling. “If it costs nothing, then why do you need it?”

Chris’s smile deepens. “Because it’s nice to have your attention.”

You don’t respond immediately, instead lifting your cup for another sip, quietly mulling over his words. The warmth of the coffee lingers, along with the weight of his request in your chest.

Minho finishes buttoning up his chef coat, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He slams his locker door shut, the loud clang echoing in the empty room. Something about the way you've been acting these past few days unsettles him—ignoring him, not listening like you used to.

He mutters under his breath as he strides toward the kitchen, his shoes clicking against the tiled floor. Turning a corner, he catches sight of you stepping out of Chris’s office. The sight stirs something in him, a sharp annoyance he can’t quite suppress.

“Hey, you!” he calls out, his voice cutting through the air.

You flinch at the sudden sound, looking startled as you turn to face him.

Minho marches up to you, his brow furrowed. “What were you doing in there?” he demands. “You never come to my office unless I call you, but you walk into the manager’s office like it’s your own house. Is it your break room?”

Your eyes narrow, and you cross your arms. “Because every time I come to your office, all I get is scolded. Why would I want to go there?”

Minho glares at you, his frustration bubbling over. “You get scolded because you deserve it!”

You hold his gaze, unfazed by his anger. “Well, Chris never scolds me—even when I make mistakes.”

The comparison stings more than Minho wants to admit. He lets out a sharp laugh, more disbelief than humor. “You listen to me,” he snaps, his voice rising.

Before he can say more, you turn on your heel and walk toward the locker room. Minho grits his teeth and follows, his irritation fueling each step.

As he steps into the locker room, he sees you leaning against your locker, arms still crossed. “What is it?” you ask, your tone clipped.

Minho takes a step closer, his gaze locked on yours. “What’s with you lately? Are you braver now because there’s another woman in the kitchen? Do you like it?”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “I’m not answering that. I’m just trying to survive.”

Your nonchalance only fuels his frustration. “Survive this then,” he mutters, stepping forward and flicking your forehead with his finger.

“Ow!” You wince, rubbing the spot as you pout. “This is exactly why I don’t go to your office.”

Minho feels a pang of something deeper than anger—guilt, maybe, or worry. But he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he takes a step back, his voice sharp. “Where is everyone?!”

He turns on his heel, pushing the door open with unnecessary force and letting it slam shut behind him.

Walking away, Minho feels the weight of something he hasn’t wanted to acknowledge. For the first time, he wonders if he’s losing his hold on you—if he’s slowly losing you.

Minho’s eyes scan the tickets lined up above the kitchen counter, ensuring everything is running smoothly during the hectic dinner service. His focus is interrupted when a service staff approaches and announces, “Chef, there’s a special order—one truffle tagliatelle.”

Souschef Seojun immediately protest, “That’s not on the menu.”

Chef Sara pauses her ravioli preparation, throwing in, “We’re too busy to make it. Tell the customer we can’t do it.”

The service staff nods and starts to leave, but Minho stops him with a raised hand. “Wait. Tell the customer, we'll do it.”

The room falls silent, every chef momentarily pausing their work to look at him. Minho smirks, sensing their apprehension. “Isn't it exciting to have this kind of order after making the same dishes over and over again like a bookwork?”

Sara steps forward, frowning. “Truffles are expensive. This isn’t just some experiment, and it’s not a dish anyone can make on a whim.”

Minho doesn’t respond directly, turning to the rest of the team instead. “Anyone want to give it a shot?”

Felix’s hand shoots up enthusiastically. “I’ll try, Chef!”

Minho smiles faintly but his eyes land on you. He picks up a dough roller, pointing it at you. “What about you? Want to try making it?”

Sara glares at him. “I'm telling you, we can't.”

Ignoring her, Minho points at you again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Let's do it. You and I, together.”

Sara’s patience snaps. “I’m in charge of the pasta line. This is my responsibility.”

Minho dismisses her protests with a wave of his hand. “Go get the truffles from the freezer,” he orders you.

As you rush off, Minho grabs a pan and begins prepping. Sara, clearly unwilling to back down, steps next to him. “Fine,” she says curtly. “I’ll make it with you.”

You return with the truffles and the aphrodisiac smell wafting around the kitchen, holding them carefully. Sara immediately commands, “Peel the skin.”

“No,” Minho interjects. “Keep the skin. It adds depth.”

The crease between Sara’s eyebrows deepens as she meets with another disagreement. “The skin is too rough so it ruins the texture of the pasta. It's better to add truffle oil at the very end.”

“Keep the skin.” He doesn’t entertain further debate, instructing you instead. “Slice them.”

You nod, grabbing mandolin and delicately slicing the truffles as directed. Minho watches briefly before turning back to his pan. When you’re done, he gestures for you to add the truffle to his pan.

As you do so, Sara lets out an exasperated huff. “This is all wrong. Now, we have to do it all over again,” she says sharply, yanking a pan from the rack.

The motion is too forceful, sending the other pans on the rack crashing into others, causing a loud clatter. One pan falls onto the stove, sending hot oil splashing across the counter.

“Chef!” you call out, your voice filled with alarm.

Before he can react, you lunge forward and push him out of the way. Minho stumbles and falls to the floor. He quickly regains his balance, only to see you clutching your forearm, the skin red and raw from the oil.

Panic floods his system as he scrambles to his feet. “Are you okay?!” he asks, his voice tight with worry.

Sara rushes over with a cloth, also checking if you're okay but Minho snatches it from her, gently covering your burns. “You need to see a doctor,” he says firmly.

“I’m fine,” you reply softly, trying to pull your arm away.

“Fine?” he repeats, his frustration spilling over. “Who asked you to interfere like that and get hurt?”

You look down, avoiding his gaze. “At least let me finish the dinner service.”

Minho’s patience snaps. “Are you deaf, or do you think having two chefs means you can ignore half of what I say?”

“I didn’t mean—”

Before you can finish, Minho grabs your uninjured hand, tugging you out of the kitchen. He leads you to the locker room, his grip firm but not harsh.

Once there, he carefully examines the burns, his jaw clenching at the sight. “You’re going to the hospital. Now.”

You start to protest again, but his glare silences you. “Why did you jump in like that?” he demands, his voice softer now but no less intense.

You don’t answer, your gaze fixed on the floor as you clutch the cloth against your arm.

Minho exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. “Go. Before it gets worse.”

When you don’t immediately move, he softens slightly. “Please,” he adds quietly.

Your hesitation finally melts, and you nod, turning to leave. As the locker room door swings shut behind you, Minho exhales sharply, leaning against the cold metal of the lockers. His heart is still pounding, the image of your reddened arm burned into his mind. He clenches his fists, replaying the events in his head—Sara’s defiance, the clatter of pans, the searing splash of oil.

It wasn’t just bad luck; it was his stubbornness.

Minho presses a hand to his face, his breath uneven. Why had he insisted on making that dish? Was it just to prove a point to Sara? To remind everyone who was in charge? And now, because of his ego, you got hurt.

The thought gnaws at him. For all his years in the kitchen, he prided himself on maintaining control. But today, he let his pride and frustration blind him, and it almost cost someone he cared about.

The realization hits hard. He’s been so focused on asserting his authority, pushing people to their limits, that he hadn’t noticed the cracks forming around him. You were one of the few people who never hesitated to follow his lead, and now even you had started to push back.

And maybe you were right to.

With a heavy sigh, he presses a hand against the locker, his head bowing. He’s always believed that the kitchen was no place for weakness. But now he wonders if his idea of strength—of control—has been wrong all along.

You wince as you struggle to put on your jacket, the pain in your arm making even the simplest movements unbearable. You push open the back door of the restaurant with your shoulder, stepping into the cool night air, when you hear the hurried clatter of footsteps behind you.

Turning, you find Chris descending the steps in a rush, his face lined with concern.

“I heard you got hurt,” he says breathlessly, his eyes locking on your bandaged arm. “Are you okay?”

You offer a small, forced smile. “I’m fine, really.”

But his gaze drops to your forearm, and he winces, hissing through his teeth. “That doesn’t look fine.”

“I can handle it,” you insist, trying to wave him off, but Chris shakes his head firmly.

“Nope, not happening,” he says, snatching your purse from your hand and slinging it over his shoulder. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

You sigh in defeat, trailing after him to his car.

At the hospital, the doctor examines your burns with practiced care, cleaning the wound and carefully wrapping it in fresh bandages. He suggests an IV shot for hydration and recovery, but you shake your head.

“I need to get back to work,” you argue.

The doctor frowns. “I’ve yet to meet a chef who isn’t worn down by their work. You need rest.”

Chris places a gentle hand on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles. “Just listen to the doctor, mmh?”

Reluctantly, you nod, and before you know it, you’re being ushered into a small recovery room. Chris fusses over you like a mother hen, tucking you into bed.

“Stop treating me like a baby,” you tease, grinning despite yourself.

Chris laughs softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. His expression shifts to something more serious, his brows furrowed with worry.

“I’m fine,” you assure him again, your voice softer this time.

He nods, but his eyes don’t quite lose their concern. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “I can’t sleep with you staring at me like that.”

Chris chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. I’ll pick you up in the morning.” He hesitates for a moment, then leans down to give you a quick, warm hug. “Goodnight.”

You watch as he leaves, the door sliding shut behind him. Settling back into the bed, you close your eyes, hoping to find some rest.

The sound of the door sliding open wakes you, and you groggily lift your head. Your first thought it's Chris coming back to make sure you're resting and you're about to scold him when you notice that it isn't who you thought he is.

Instead of Chris, Minho steps inside, his chef’s coat replaced by a simple shirt, pulling an IV pole beside him. His sharp features are shadowed in the dim light, but his usual smirk is nowhere to be seen.

“Why are you here?” you blurt, startled yourself by sounding so worried. “Did you get hurt?”

Minho arches a brow as he settles himself on the bed next to yours. “Do I look hurt?”

You narrow your eyes. “Shouldn’t you still be working?”

He shrugs, settling onto the bed beside yours. “What, you think the kitchen can’t survive without you?”

You let out a scoff, lying on your side and turning your back to him. Silence stretches between you, but it doesn’t last.

“Why are you lying there with your back turned so disrespectfully?” Minho’s voice cuts through the quiet.

You fight the urge to snap at him, instead replying, “Why don’t you do the same then?”

Another stretch of silence, broken only by the soft hum of the IV machine. Minho speaks again, his tone uncharacteristically calm. “Burns need proper treatment. You’ll have to come here every day until it heals. It’s not good for a woman to have scars.”

You stiffen but refuse to respond.

“I’ve seen your scars,” he continues. “From knives, I’m guessing. Are you a cook or a gangster?”

You refuse to take that bait and keep your back to him.

“You should’ve let me get hurt,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Why did you interfere like that? You’re a woman—”

“Don’t start with the ‘woman this, woman that,’” you snap, finally turning to glare at him. “I’m tired of it.”

Minho smirks faintly, but it falters when you continue.

“I’m also tired of being caught in the crossfire between you and Sara. This is the last time I’m getting involved.”

His silence is deafening, and you don’t wait for a response.

You make it final by pulling the curtain between the beds to separate the two of you, also as a gesture that you want to stop interacting with him.

Turning away again, you close your eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easily. Your chest aches—not from the burns, but from the frustration bubbling inside you.

Minho lies awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling. Your words from last night replay in his mind like a broken record.

“I’m tired of getting caught between you and Sara. This is the last time I’m getting involved.”

The weight of them lingers, pressing on his chest. Do you mean it? Are you giving up on him entirely? The thought churns restlessly in his head.

You’re just a bed away, close enough that he can hear your steady breathing. But even with you so near, you feel unbearably far. Sleep evades him, no matter how many times he closes his eyes. When morning finally comes, he feels heavy, his body sluggish from the lack of rest.

Then he hears your voice from the other side of the curtain. It’s soft, measured, and at first, he assumes you’re talking to a nurse. But another voice follows, distinctly male, with that irritating Australian accent that grates on his nerves.

Chris.

Minho sits up abruptly, his fatigue evaporating as irritation spikes. Without hesitation, he yanks the curtain aside in one swift motion.

You freeze mid-conversation, your arm lifted as Chris helps you into your jacket. Both of you turn to look at him, startled by his sudden appearance. Chris recovers first, his brow furrowing in concern.

“Are you feeling unwell too, chef?” Chris asks.

Minho doesn’t bother answering. He scoffs instead, his sharp eyes fixed on Chris’s hand, still adjusting your jacket. Then Chris steps back, smiling at you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and—Minho’s jaw tightens—reaches out to fix a stray strand of your hair.

The audacity of it.

Minho crosses his arms and leans against the bedframe, his tone sharp. “Do you always stay by your employees’ sides when they’re sick, or is this just a special case?”

Chris looks at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Showing favoritism like this,” Minho says, gesturing toward you. “Is this how you treat all your employees?”

Chris pauses for a moment before answering. “Favoritism?” he repeats, as if testing the word. “Yeah, it’s favoritism.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, his irritation growing. “Why?”

“Because she’s a great employee,” Chris says matter-of-factly. “Why can’t I be good to someone who works so hard?”

Minho clicks his tongue in disbelief. It’s a good answer, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

Chris steps closer, meeting Minho’s gaze with quiet intensity. “How about you, chef?” he asks, his tone sharper now, “how much longer does the kitchen have to feel like a battlefield?”

Minho tilts his head, feigning nonchalance. “And you think that’s because of me?”

Chris doesn’t hesitate. “Are you saying it’s Sara’s fault?”

Minho looks away, unwilling to give a direct answer.

Chris presses on. “It’s both of you. I don’t know what happened between you and Sara back in Italy, but you’ll need to find a way to work together for the sake of the restaurant.”

Minho bristles. He doesn’t need a lecture, least of all from Chris.

“And honestly, you and Sara have a lot in common. You look good together,” Chris adds, his tone light but deliberate,

“It’s because you’re so similar,” Chris continues. “You argue because you’re alike. But that also means you could be great partners. Rivals, sure, but partners too.”

The words hit a nerve. Minho’s fists clench at his sides. He can’t stand hearing it—being compared to Sara, of all people. He’s nothing like her.

You, sensing the tension rising, step forward and gently take Chris’s arm. “Let's go home,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the thick atmosphere.

Turning to Minho, you add, “I’ll call the nurse to help you with the needle.”

Minho doesn’t respond, his lips pressed into a tight line as he watches you leave the room with Chris. The door clicks shut behind you, leaving him alone.

His chest tightens, anger and desperation swirling inside him. He can’t do this anymore—watching everything he cares about slipping through his fingers. He’s done standing idly by.

Today, Minho decides, is the day he starts reclaiming what’s his. Starting with you.

Even with the burns on your arm, you're ready to face another day in the kitchen. You step out of your apartment and immediately freeze when you see Minho leaning casually against the wall opposite your door. His head tilts slightly in your direction as he notices you, his expression unreadable. You aren’t sure if he’s been waiting for you or if this is just a coincidence, but the moment he starts walking toward you, the answer becomes obvious.

He stops just a step away, close enough that you can see the faint shadows under his eyes—proof of a restless night. You adjust your bag strap on your shoulder, bracing yourself. With Minho, you’ve learned to expect the unexpected.

He tilts his head from side to side, his gaze sweeping over you as if you’re some intriguing statue in a museum. You stand still, waiting for him to speak first.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “I don’t like it,” he says.

You blink, confused. “Don’t like what?”

“When someone else treats my kitchen staff better than I do,” he answers, his voice firm. “Or gives them a harder time than I do.”

Your lips twitch involuntarily. “No one’s meaner to anyone in that kitchen than you are.”

At that, he steps closer, his movements deliberate, closing the small distance between you. His eyes lock onto yours, and his voice drops to a lower register. “That’s the thing. I’ll be the one who treats you better than anyone else does. And I’ll be the one who’s meaner to you too.”

You let out a laugh, the absurdity of his declaration catching you off guard. “Why would you want to do that?”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense,” you reply, the corners of your mouth still tugged into a smile. “How exactly do you plan to be nicer to me?”

He smirks, though there’s a sharpness behind it. “I said I’d be meaner too, but it seems like you only heard the ‘nicer’ part.”

You shrug lightly, choosing to focus on the less daunting half of his claim. “Well, you being mean isn’t exactly news. I’d rather hear how you plan to be nicer.”

Minho narrows his eyes at you, as if you’ve just challenged him. “Do you have selective hearing, or are you just ignoring the other part?”

You meet his gaze, your smile fading slightly as you study him. You know Minho well enough to understand he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. Still, imagining him being genuinely kind to you feels… out of character.

The thought crosses your mind before you can stop it. “Are you saying you’ll be nicer to me than Chris? I think that will not be easy for you.”

Minho’s expression hardens, his body stiffening at the mention of Chris. He leans in closer, his voice quiet but pointed. “And how would you know that?”

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “Because it doesn’t suit you.”

He leans in even further, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. “You’ve never even seen my nice side. So how would you know?”

For a moment, you’re silent, the intensity of his proximity stealing your words. There’s something both challenging and intriguing in his stare, something that makes you wonder what he’s really thinking. Then, before you can respond, Minho grabs your bag off your shoulder.

“Hey—” you start to protest, but he cuts you off by taking your hand, his fingers lacing with yours effortlessly.

“Let’s go,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. Minho glances back at you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “We're going to work together.”

The lunch service is in full swing, and the kitchen is alive with the clamor of pots, pans, and orders being barked out. You’re in the zone, filling pasta orders as fast as you can and setting them on the chef’s table for Minho to inspect. He wipes the edge of the plate with precision, his expression unreadable as he checks the presentation.

You can’t help but think about what he said earlier about being nicer to you, and the memory makes a small smile tug at your lips.

“You have three more to do,” he reminds you, his voice firm and cutting through the chaos. Then his sharp gaze flicks to you. “What are you waiting for?”

“Yes, Chef,” you reply with a bit more enthusiasm than usual, your smile lingering as you turn and head back to your station.

You’re halfway through preparing three vongole when you realize you’re out of clams. Grabbing a container, you make your way to the freezer to restock. The cold air greets you as you step inside, and you quickly locate a fresh container of short-necked clams.

You hear the freezer door creak open behind you. The sound of footsteps echoes in the cold, and when you glance back, you see Minho entering. His eyes find you immediately, and he gestures for you to follow him to the far corner of the freezer.

Curious, you clutch the container of clams to your chest and follow. He stops near the wall and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“Stand there,” he orders, pointing to the wall.

You blink but comply, leaning against the icy surface as he steps closer, his frame blocking your escape. His tone sharpens. “What was that smile for earlier?”

“Smile?” you ask, feigning innocence, though you already know what he’s referring to.

“Yes, that smile,” he snaps, but there’s a suppressed tug at the corner of his lips. “I’m warning you—if you keep smiling at me like that, I’ll clamp your lips shut.”

You giggle at his threat, clutching the clam container tighter. “I can’t help it,” you admit. “I’ve been waiting to see how you’d be nicer to me. Am I being obvious?”

Minho lets out a small, exasperated sigh, but the faintest smile finally breaks through. “Are you really that happy?”

You don’t answer, but the way your smile widens says it all.

He leans in closer, the sudden proximity making your breath hitch. His voice dips, quieter and more serious. “Close your eyes.”

Your eyes widen at his words, your mind racing as you try to guess his intention. “Chef, are you—”

“Close your eyes,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Swallowing nervously, you obey, your lashes fluttering shut. The cold air nips at your skin, but the warmth of his breath ghosting over your cheek sends a shiver down your spine.

He wouldn’t dare kiss you here… would he? And then—clamp!

Your lips sting in sudden pain as something hard presses against them. You yelp and snap your eyes open to see Minho holding a clam shell against your lips.

“Chef!” you cry out, your voice muffled.

“I warned you,” he says coolly, though his tone holds a teasing edge. “You should’ve known better than to test me.”

You whine in protest, but Minho continues, his eyes narrowing. “Do you know what will happen if people find out about us? I’ve fired people for this before, and you know it. I can’t show my face if this gets out. I’d have to leave Farfalle—and maybe the earth—out of humiliation.”

Finally, he releases the clam, and you immediately touch your lips, wincing at the dull ache.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his tone almost mocking.

You shake your head, trying to save face. “No, chef,” you lie.

Minho smirks, clearly satisfied with your answer. “Good. Now get back to work.”

He turns and leaves the freezer, his coat billowing slightly behind him. The moment he’s gone, you groan, rubbing your sore lips. “Fuck! It hurts so much. When is he ever going to be nicer to me?” you mumble under your breath.

But then, to your dismay, you find yourself giggling softly. You hate how weak you are when it comes to Minho, but you can’t help it. With a resigned shake of your head, you grab the clams and head back to your station, still smiling despite yourself.

When you get back to your station, Chef Sara comes between you and Felix, but she looks at you as she talks. “Pasta line, gather during prep time.”

You and Felix exchange a quick, confused glance at each other before replying to her. “Yes, chef!”

The prep time for dinner service is underway, the kitchen buzzing with activity as everyone rushes to prepare. Felix comes out of the back with a pot of stock, placing it carefully on the counter next to you. He adjusts his bandana before standing still, his expression neutral but his posture tense.

Chef Sara claps her hands to get everyone’s attention and announces, “Starting tonight, the kitchen will use chicken stock instead of vegetable stock. Additionally, we’ll need a lighter stock for pasta and risotto.”

She turns her attention to Felix, adding, “Since you’re in charge of stock, make sure it’s prepared by dinner service.”

You glance at Felix and notice his jaw tighten. His lips press together in a line, and you can sense his irritation building. Before he can respond, you decide to step in with a polite tone.

“Chef, the kitchen’s been using vegetable stock without any issues,” you say carefully. “Changing it so suddenly feels... off. Stock is the base for most dishes, and it could affect consistency.”

Sara’s eyes narrow slightly as she looks at you. “Vegetable stock tastes clean, but it’s not as savory as what our guests prefer. Chicken stock will bring a more rounded flavor.”

Felix folds his arms and speaks up, his tone firm. “Vegetable stock can be just as flavorful as meat-based stock. It’s all about how you make it.”

Sara’s expression doesn’t waver. “The flavors from vegetables are inherently different. Vegetables have a sweet and tangy profile, but chicken adds a savory, mellow depth.”

You can practically feel the heat radiating off Felix as his anger simmers beneath the surface. He opens his mouth to counter, but you quickly glance at the pot and realize something alarming.

“There’s not much stock left,” you point out, cutting into the argument. “If we don’t start a new batch now, we won’t have anything ready for dinner service.”

Sara’s jaw tightens as she feels resistance from Felix. She looks at him, then at the pot, and without warning, grabs it and dumps the remaining stock into the sink.

The sound of the liquid swirling down the drain is deafening in the stunned silence that follows. Felix’s eyes widen in disbelief, his lips parting as he processes what just happened.

Sara crosses her arms. “There. Now you have every reason to start a fresh batch. Ten liters of chicken stock. Do it now.”

Felix’s head snaps toward her, and for a moment, he looks like he might explode. Instead, he roughly yanks his bandana off, sending his bleached hair tumbling messily around his face. His fiery eyes meet Sara’s.

“Well,” he says sharply, “if there’s no stock left, I guess my job is done for the day.” He spins on his heel and storms out of the kitchen, leaving everyone frozen in place.

Your eyes flick between Sara, who’s watching Felix leave without a hint of regret, and the door he just exited through. You can’t survive the dinner rush alone, and Felix’s expertise is irreplaceable.

“I’ll try to bring him back, chef,” you say quickly to Sara before rushing out after him.

Felix is fast—too fast. You have to jog to keep up, weaving through the back corridor and out to the restaurant’s rear entrance. You finally spot him near his car, the door already open.

“Felix!” you call, your breath hitching as you catch up. He’s halfway into the driver’s seat when you reach him, knocking on the window.

“Come on, don’t do this. We need you in the kitchen,” you plead.

Felix rolls down the window, his expression unreadable. “Get in.”

“What?” you blink, taken aback.

He tilts his head, his voice calm but firm. “Get in. I’ll go back to the kitchen if you get in.”

You hesitate, knowing you’re walking into some kind of trap, but the thought of him not returning pushes you forward. “Fine,” you say reluctantly, opening the passenger door and sliding in.

The second you’re seated, Felix starts the engine and pulls out of the lot.

“Felix!” you exclaim, twisting in your seat to look at him. “What are you doing?”

His lips curve into a sly smile as he keeps his eyes on the road. “We’re bailing dinner service, obviously.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, I am,” he says, his tone light but unshakably determined. “If they don’t want to listen to me, why should I stick around?”

You slump back in your seat, realizing there’s no reasoning with him right now. As the restaurant fades into the distance, you can’t help but feel both dread and an inexplicable thrill at what you’ve just done.

You're clutching your phone so tightly that your knuckles ache, your stomach churning with anxiety. Felix sits beside you, his hands loose on the wheel as he aimlessly drives, looking more relaxed than someone who just abandoned their station mid-shift should be.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you mutter, stealing a glance at him. “Do you even have anywhere to go? Can we just... go back? Please?”

Felix shrugs nonchalantly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Going back means giving in to Sara. She dumped the stock on purpose, and if we let her win now, we’ll be following her orders forever. I’d rather make her quit.”

Your head falls back against the headrest as you groan in frustration. “But this isn’t the right way to protest, Felix! Let’s just go back before it’s too late. Do you know how furious Chef is going to be?”

Almost as if on cue, your phone buzzes violently in your hands. The name on the screen makes your heart lurch: Minho.

You jolt upright, clutching the phone like it might explode. A cold shiver runs down your spine as you stare at his name, your mind racing with all the ways he could end your career—and possibly your life.

“Answer it,” Felix says, glancing at you briefly.

“I don’t want to answer it,” you whisper, shaking your head.

“If you don’t, it’ll be worse,” he points out.

He’s right. You take a deep breath, swallow the lump in your throat, and swipe to answer.

“What the hell are you doing?” Minho’s voice snaps through the line, skipping any semblance of pleasantries. “If you and Felix aren’t back in the kitchen by dinnertime, neither of you will ever work with me again.”

Your throat goes dry. “Chef, I—It wasn’t my idea!” you blurt, trying to plead your case.

“I don’t care whose idea it was,” he cuts you off sharply. “You walked out. If you don’t fix this, I’ll take back what I said about being nicer to you.”

That hits you like a punch to the gut. You’d rather be fired than lose that tiny shred of hope he dangled before you.

“Wait! Chef, please—”

The line goes dead. You stare at your phone, horrified, before turning to Felix and grabbing his arm. “Turn the car around! Now!”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “Relax. We’ll go back eventually.”

“Eventually?” you shout. “If we don’t go back, Minho is going to kill us both—probably literally!”

Felix sighs in protest but doesn’t argue, spinning the wheel to make a U-turn. Your phone buzzes again, and your heart skips a beat as you glance down.

It’s not Minho this time—it’s Yura. You answer, your voice shaky. “Hello?”

Yura’s voice is calm but tinged with curiosity. “Hey, we were called to Farfalle to cover. I heard some cooks are walking out. What’s going on?”

Your stomach drops. They’re replacing us. The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through you. “I’ll call you back,” you say hurriedly, hanging up before she can ask more questions.

You turn to Felix, your voice rising. “They called in other people to take our places. Do you get it now? We’re being replaced!”

Felix’s jaw tightens, and he mutters something under his breath as he speeds up. “Seriously? For leaving early one time?”

“One time?” you snap. “We abandoned the kitchen before dinner service! That’s not early—it’s a death sentence!”

Felix doesn’t respond, his grip on the wheel tightening as he pulls into the restaurant parking lot. The moment the car stops, you throw the door open and sprint toward the back entrance.

Your lungs burn as you push yourself to run faster, Felix close behind. You burst through the door, only to stop dead in your tracks when you reach the kitchen.

Yura and Minji are standing at your stations, their hands moving efficiently as they prep for dinner service.

Minho turns around at the commotion of your arrival. His eyes lock on you and Felix, fiery and intense, and you immediately drop your gaze to the floor.

“Get out,” he growls, his voice low but dripping with menace.

Felix takes a shaky step forward, his voice stuttering as he tries to explain. “Chef, we didn’t mean—”

“I said, get out!” Minho roars, cutting him off.

The kitchen falls silent, every pair of eyes watching the scene unfold. You don’t dare look up, your head hanging low as you feel the weight of Minho’s fury pressing down on you.

“Now,” he snaps, his voice cold and final.

With no other choice, you and Felix turn and leave, the sting of failure and humiliation following you out the door.

You sit slumped in the passenger seat of Felix’s car, nerves frazzled and stomach in knots. Felix, on the other hand, hasn’t stopped ranting since the two of you left the kitchen.

“It’s not fair, you know,” he says, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in frustration. “Chef treats us like we’re expendable. And Sara? Don’t even get me started on her.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, unable to muster a response. You’ve used up every ounce of your energy trying to wrap your head around the situation. Instead of responding, you focus on the quiet night outside, watching the back entrance of Farfalle.

Hours crawl by, each one amplifying your dread. Finally, the door swings open, and Minho steps out, a dough roller in his hand.

You jolt in your seat, instinctively shrinking back. “Oh my god, is he serious?”

Felix freezes mid-rant and slumps lower in his seat, muttering, “He wouldn’t actually…”

Minho approaches the car with a calm but terrifyingly deliberate pace. He reaches your window and knocks, his expression unreadable.

“Out,” he orders.

You and Felix exchange panicked glances, neither of you moving.

“Now,” Minho snaps, the dough roller tapping against the car door for emphasis.

Heart pounding, you push the door open and slide out, feeling like a child caught red-handed. Minho points toward the doorway. “Wait over there.”

You nod mutely, scurrying to the steps and sitting down. From your vantage point, you can see Minho climb into the passenger’s seat of Felix’s car. Through the windshield, you watch as he speaks to Felix. You can’t hear what’s being said, but Felix’s head stays bowed the entire time, his usual cockiness completely deflated. The dough roller, thankfully, remains unused, but it’s clear the conversation is one-sided.

After a few tense minutes, Minho gets out of the car and walks toward you. He points the dough roller at you like it’s a weapon, his eyes narrowing. “Sit.”

You blink, confused. “I am sitting.”

“On the steps,” he clarifies.

Scrambling to obey, you shift to the stone steps leading to the dining hall. Minho sits down beside you, the dough roller resting across his knees.

“I’m sorry, Chef,” you start quickly, hoping to preempt any punishment by putting on a pitiful look.

Minho leans back slightly, his gaze fixed on you. “You made a big mess today.”

“I know,” you reply, frowning deeply. “What are you going to do to me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you want me to do? I will do whatever you want.”

You pause, sensing a trap. “That’s scarier than you just telling me,” you admit.

Minho sighs, his voice low and measured. “Because of you and Felix, I got humiliated today. The sisters worked hard to help me, but honestly? I’m scared to face them now.”

Despite the tension, you can’t help but chuckle at the thought of Minho—the infamous Head Chef—being afraid of two line cooks. You stop immediately when his glare shifts to you.

“When I was reading the orders earlier, I kept waiting for one of them to throw a frying pan at me.” He shares with a low sigh.

“You can tell them that you're grateful for their help tonight,” you suggest, trying to suppress another laugh. “But if you’re scared of them, why did you choose them?”

Minho’s gaze softens slightly. “Because you and Felix walked out on your own. Those two? They didn’t get a choice. I pushed them out. It wasn’t easy for them to come back, but they did. That’s more than I deserved from them.”

You nod slowly, realizing the depth of his regret.

Minho taps the dough roller against his palm before pointing it at you again. “You’re helping Taesoo with the mussels for tomorrow’s special. Don’t even think about leaving until it’s done.”

“Yes, Chef,” you mumble, accepting your punishment.

He stands, brushing off his apron. As he turns to leave, you grab the corner of his apron and tug gently. “Chef?”

He looks down at you, one brow arched.

“Are you… still going to be nicer to me?” you ask hesitantly.

For the first time that night, Minho smirks. “We’ll see.”

With that, he walks off, leaving you to sit on the steps, equal parts relieved and terrified.

The kitchen is silent except for the faint trickle of water as you and Taesoo scrub the last bucket of mussels. The clock above ticks closer to three in the morning, each passing second making the ache in your back and arms more noticeable. Taesoo sits beside you, head bobbing slightly as sleep tugs at him.

You nudge his elbow. “Hey, no falling asleep on me now.”

He jolts awake, blinking rapidly. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he mutters, though his slurred words say otherwise.

You stifle a laugh. “Sure, you weren’t.”

Taesoo groans loudly. “I swear, if I see another mussel or shrimp special, I’m quitting. Can’t we just ban seafood altogether?”

You chuckle, rinsing another mussel. “Oh, you’ve got no idea what’s coming. Octopus, blue crabs, clams, lobsters… and that’s just the seafood. Then there’s beef, chicken, lamb…”

He looks at you, horrified. “There’s more? For a whole year?”

“And who knows how many more years after that? But hey, I survived it, so can you.” You encourage with a playful bump to his shoulder.

He groans again, rubbing his face. Feeling a pang of sympathy, you wave him off. “Go nap. I’ll finish the rest.”

Taesoo hesitates, looking torn. “Are you sure?”

“Go. Before you fall face-first into the bucket.”

With a grateful smile, he mumbles his thanks and wanders off to find a quiet corner to sleep.

The silence that follows is almost comforting, and you work steadily, scrubbing each mussel clean. By the time you finish and drag the buckets to the freezer, exhaustion weighs heavily on you. You tidy up the kitchen, then slump into the chef’s table, letting your body relax for the first time in hours.

The empty kitchen feels vast and eerily still. From where you sit, you can see Minho’s usual spot, his apron draped neatly over a hook, his cutting board spotless.

You sigh, leaning back against the table. Your eyes flutter shut as you take in the rare peace, only for the sound of the kitchen door creaking open to jolt you upright.

Before you can fully scramble to your feet, Minho’s voice cuts through the silence. “Stay there.”

Your heart skips a beat as he approaches, his footsteps slow and deliberate. His presence fills the space effortlessly, his expression unreadable but his gaze locked onto you.

“Chef—”

“Quiet,” he says softly, his tone carrying a weight that stops you in your tracks. He steps closer, caging you in with his arms on either side of you.

His scent reaches you first—faint traces of soap and the sharp, warm hint of alcohol. You glance up at him, your heart hammering as his eyes study your face with an intensity that leaves you breathless.

“You sent Felix to have drinks with Sara. You went drinking with the sisters. Why am I the one not having fun?” you grumble, more to fill the charged silence than anything.

He doesn’t respond, his gaze dropping to the bandages on your arms. His brows furrow, and his voice comes out low and sharp. “You skipped your doctor’s appointment.”

Caught, you glance away. “I didn’t have time.”

“You didn’t have time?” he repeats, his tone bordering on scolding. “Do you want it to scar? You should at least listen to the doctor, even if you won’t listen to me.”

You groan, covering your ears. “If you’re about to give another lecture about women in the kitchen, I’m not listening.”

He leans in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against your cheek. “I’m not giving you a lecture.” His voice softens, dropping into something that sends a shiver down your spine. “But you’ll regret it if you don’t listen to what I’m about to say.”

Curiosity wins out. Slowly, you lower your hands.

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking over your face as if committing every detail to memory. “I’m only going to say this once.”

Your breath catches, and you nod, urging him to continue.

“Even though you’re not the most appealing ingredient,” he begins, his lips curving into a teasing smile, “and this might be the alcohol talking… you have one thing that’s very pretty.”

The words make your heart skip, but you manage to ask, “What is it?”

Instead of answering, Minho leans in, his lips brushing softly against the corner of your eye. The touch is fleeting but sends warmth rushing to your cheeks. He pulls back just enough to see your flustered expression, a small, mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“Since it’s uneven…” he murmurs, leaning in again to press a matching kiss to your other eye.

You’re left speechless, your heart pounding as he lingers close.

He smirks, leaning back slightly. “If you get off my cutting board, you’re dead.”

His words draw a soft laugh from you, though you’re too stunned to fully process them. “What… what does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says, his voice dropping, “I like you.”

Your heart skips again, the words hitting you like a bolt of lightning. “We’re in the kitchen,” you blurt out, your voice barely above a whisper. “Does that mean you like me... even in the kitchen?”

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation, his gaze unwavering.

“What if we get caught?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

“They won’t,” he says simply and lower his voice into a whisper. “We’ll keep it a secret.”

Feeling overwhelmed, you look away, only for him to gently cup your chin and guide your face back toward his. His lips capture yours in a kiss that’s soft and slow, yet leaves no doubt about his feelings.

When he pulls back, he lingers close, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, “Let’s go home, mmh? So I can discover more parts of you to like.”

Still dazed, you nod, warmth spreading through your chest as he takes your hand. Together, you leave the kitchen, the weight of exhaustion replaced by a giddy, fluttering feeling you can’t quite shake.

Minho holds your hand firmly as the two of you step out into the stillness of the night. The cool air brushes against your flushed cheeks, but it does little to soothe the heat still lingering from his kiss. He walks you to his car, his strides confident, but his silence speaks volumes.

You glance at him nervously, the fluttering in your chest growing more intense. He opens the passenger door for you, his expression unreadable. The gesture is uncharacteristically gentle, and it leaves you feeling both comforted and on edge.

The drive to his apartment is quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine. You keep sneaking glances at him, wondering if he regrets what just happened. But when his hand casually reaches over to rest on your thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze, your doubts dissipate.

Once inside his apartment, Minho guides you in, his hand still holding yours. The space is dimly lit, cozy, and smells faintly of him—a mix of cedarwood and something uniquely Minho.

“Sit,” he instructs, his voice firm but not unkind.

You obey, perching on the edge of his couch, unsure of what to expect. He disappears into the kitchen for a moment and returns with a glass of wine, which he hands to you.

“You worked hard tonight,” he says softly, sitting down beside you. “Now drink.”

You blink, taken aback by his change in demeanor and take a small sip of the wine. “Is this... still part of my punishment?”

His lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s a tenderness in his eyes now. “No. Your punishment is over. Now it’s time for your reward.”

Before you can ask what he means, Minho leans in again, his hand cupping your cheek as he kisses you deeply. This kiss is different—more deliberate, more consuming. It pulls you in, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his voice drops to a whisper. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

Your breath hitches, your heart pounding. “Minho…”

He trails his fingers along your jaw, his gaze locked on yours. “You’re stubborn, reckless, and you never listen. But you’re also everything I can’t seem to get out of my head.”

You feel your cheeks burn, his words settling in your chest like a warm flame. “I didn’t think you…”

“Liked you?” he finishes, his smirk returning. “Maybe I didn’t want to admit it. But tonight… watching you push through, even when I know I was too harsh on you… I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. Instead, you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest as you kiss him again, this time with all the emotions you’ve been holding back.

The kiss deepens, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you closer until you’re practically in his lap. The exhaustion of the night melts away, replaced by the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, and the steady beat of his heart against yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Stay,” he murmurs, his voice low and full of promise.

You hesitate, your mind racing with thoughts of what this might mean for both of you. But when he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, whispering, “Let me take care of you,” all your resistance crumbles.

Nodding, you let him lead you to his bedroom. And as the night unfolds, what started as a punishment turns into something far more tender, intimate, and unforgettable—a reward neither of you could have anticipated.

The clothes are littering the bedroom floor and the air is quiet, save for the subtle rustle of fabric as he shifts beside you on the bed. His intense gaze locks onto yours, and the way he looks at you makes your chest tighten, your breath catching in your throat.

“You have no idea, do you?” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

You blink up at him, the warmth of his presence overwhelming. “What?”

His lips quirk into the faintest smile as he leans over you, his hand sliding up your arm to cradle your face. “How absolutely beautiful you are,” he says, his eyes softening as he speaks.

Before you can respond, Minho dips his head down, his lips brushing against your forehead in a kiss that feels like a vow. “Here,” he whispers, his voice reverent. “This is where you frown too much, always worrying about things that don’t matter.”

His lips trail lower, brushing over the bridge of your nose before he presses a soft kiss to the tip. “And here… so perfect, so adorable, it drives me insane.”

Your cheeks burn, and you reach out to push at his shoulder, embarrassed by his sudden affection. But Minho catches your wrist, pinning it gently to the bed as he smirks down at you. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.”

He shifts lower, his lips finding your cheek, then your jawline, his kisses slow and deliberate. His other hand skims along your side, sending sparks dancing across your skin.

When his lips press against the curve of your neck, just below your ear, you can’t suppress the soft gasp that escapes you. Minho chuckles against your skin, his breath warm and teasing. “Here,” he murmurs, “where I can feel your pulse. Proof that you’re here, with me.”

His hand moves to your collarbone, his thumb brushing over the delicate line before his lips follow, pressing kisses there that are both tender and possessive. “And here,” he continues, his voice growing quieter, “because it reminds me how strong you are. Even when you think you’re not.”

You can’t look away, his devotion leaving you utterly captivated. Minho’s lips move lower, grazing the curve of your shoulder, then down your arm, where he peppers kisses along your wrist and the inside of your palm. “Your hands,” he murmurs, intertwining his fingers with yours for a moment before kissing the back of your hand. “These hands are capable of so much, but they’re also so soft, so perfect.”

Your heart swells, the intensity of his words and actions making you feel like you might burst. “Minho…” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly.

He leans back up, his face hovering inches from yours as his hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “I’m not finished,” he teases, his voice playful but his gaze serious.

His lips move down again, finding the sensitive skin just below your collarbone, then along the curve of your chest, his kisses slower, deeper, as though he’s memorizing every inch of you. “And here,” he says, his voice barely audible now, “because it’s where your heart beats strongest.”

When he finally meets your gaze again, there’s a warmth in his eyes that steals the breath from your lungs. “You don’t need to say anything,” he whispers, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “Just let me show you.”

And as his lips return to yours in a kiss that feels like both a promise and a confession, you can’t help but feel utterly cherished, as though every part of you is loved in a way you’ve never known before.

The warmth of Minho’s lips against your skin sends a cascade of shivers through your body as he tenderly shifts you onto your stomach. His touch is careful, as if you’re something precious he’s afraid to break, and his hands gently trace the curve of your shoulders, coaxing you to relax beneath him.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, his voice husky and low, almost reverent.

You sink further into the bed, his words wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. The softness of the pillow beneath your cheek contrasts with the heat radiating from him as he leans over you, placing a kiss at the nape of your neck. His lips linger there, the sensation drawing a soft sigh from you, your fingers curling into the sheets.

Minho moves slowly, purposefully, his lips trailing down your back. Each kiss feels like a confession, a piece of himself he’s baring to you. He pauses at your shoulder blades, his hands smoothing down your sides as his lips continue their gentle exploration.

When he reaches the small of your back, you feel a soft moan escape your lips, muffled against the pillow. He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Don’t hold back,” he says, his tone teasing but affectionate. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

You bite your lip, trying to stifle another sound, but it’s impossible as his lips travel further down, tracing the curve of your hips with painstaking care. Minho’s hands are warm as they knead your thighs, his lips following, pressing kisses to the back of your knees and down to your calves.

By the time he reaches your ankles, you’re trembling beneath him, the slow, deliberate pace unraveling you in ways you didn’t think possible. He shifts, leaning up to place a kiss on the sole of your foot before trailing back up, this time turning you onto your back with gentle hands.

Minho hovers above you, his gaze intense yet soft, as if he’s searching for something within you. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, the sincerity in his voice making your chest tighten.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that feels like a culmination of every unspoken word between you. It’s slow, tender, but there’s a hunger beneath it, a need to show you what he can’t put into words.

As his body moves against yours, the intimacy of the moment feels like a key unlocking a door you never thought you’d open. Minho’s movements are deliberate, unhurried, as if he wants to savor every second, every sensation. His hands explore your body with a reverence that makes you feel worshipped, loved in a way that’s almost overwhelming.

You find yourself whispering his name, the sound barely audible but enough to make him pause, his lips brushing against your ear. “I’m here,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he moves with you feels like a conversation, each touch, each kiss a response to the unspoken questions in your heart. By the time the night draws to a close, you feel as though you’ve glimpsed a side of Minho that he keeps hidden from the world, a vulnerability that he’s chosen to share only with you.

As you lay tangled together in the aftermath, his arms wrapped securely around you, you can’t help but feel that the cracks in his armor have finally begun to let you in, allowing you to see the man he truly is beneath the surface. And in that moment, as your head rests against his chest and his fingers lazily trace patterns on your back, you know this night has changed everything.

Minho leans against the sink, letting the cool water wash over his hands before glancing up at his reflection. The man staring back at him feels different—softer somehow, less burdened. For a moment, he studies the faint curve of his lips, the way they betray a smile he didn’t even realize he was wearing.

He exhales deeply, brushing a hand through his damp hair, and chuckles under his breath. What are you doing, Minho? he thinks, shaking his head at himself. This feeling—this warmth spreading through his chest like sunlight—feels almost foreign, like a distant memory of who he used to be. He didn’t think he’d ever find his way back to this version of himself, someone unguarded, someone willing to let another person in.

And yet, here he was, standing in the dim light of the bathroom, smiling like a fool because of you.

When he steps out of the bathroom and sees you lying on the bed, your body draped lazily across the sheets, waiting for him, the smile threatens to return. But Minho quickly schools his expression, an idea sparking in his mind. Let’s see how far I can push you.

Without a word, he climbs into bed, settling himself on his side with his back turned to you. He keeps his movements calm and casual, feigning exhaustion as he pulls the blanket over himself.

The quiet stretches between you, and he doesn’t have to look to know you’re frowning.

“Are you just going to sleep?” you ask, your voice laced with disappointment.

He suppresses the urge to smirk and mumbles, “We have work tomorrow.”

He can almost hear you preparing a playful jab or a protest, but instead, the room falls silent. Then, after a moment, he feels you shift on the bed. Your low sigh reaches his ears, followed by a soft, unexpected compliment.

“Gosh,” you murmur, “you even look good from the back of your head.”

Minho bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He doesn’t respond, feigning indifference as he feels your hand lightly brush against his shoulder.

“And your shoulders,” you add, your voice softer this time, “so broad… they look so strong.”

That’s it—he can’t hold back anymore. Without turning to face you, he says with a teasing lilt, “You don’t have to sweet talk me anymore. You already have me.”

Before you can respond, Minho grabs your hand and tugs you closer, pulling you flush against his back. Your giggles spill out, warm and light against his ear as he traps your hand against his chest. He tilts his head slightly, feeling the soft press of your breath against his neck as you settle against him.

“That's right,” you whisper, your voice tender now, your words wrapping around him like a promise. “You are mine.”

Minho closes his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t say anything aloud, but in the quiet of his heart, he whispers back, And you are mine.

Minho sits in his office, staring blankly at the untouched cup of coffee on his desk. The once-steaming liquid has gone cold, but he barely notices. His mind isn’t here; it’s still tethered to last night. The memories replay in his head like a film reel, fresh and vivid.

The taste of wine on your lips, the way your breath hitched when he kissed the corner of your mouth, the sound of his name falling from you in a breathless murmur—it all feels so real, like he could reach out and touch it again. A small smile tugs at his lips, one he doesn’t even realize he’s wearing.

He leans back in his chair, letting the warmth of the memories wash over him. Last night… It wasn’t just good. It was perfect.

The sharp knock at the door breaks his reverie, pulling him back to reality. For a moment, he doesn't react, too lost in the haze of his thoughts. It isn’t until the second knock that he swivels his chair toward the door and calls out, “Come in.”

To his mild surprise, Taesoo steps into the room, his posture rigid and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his apron.

“You should be in the kitchen,” Minho scolds, straightening up. “Dinner prep doesn’t wait for anyone, Taesoo.”

Taesoo hesitates, his head slightly bowed, avoiding Minho’s piercing gaze. “I... I have something to say, Chef.”

Minho’s brow furrows, irritation flickering to life. “It better be important,” he warns, pushing himself up from his chair. He rounds the desk and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Speak up. We don’t have all day.”

Taesoo shuffles awkwardly, his shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. “It’s... I mean... I didn’t expect you to turn back on your word.”

Minho’s eyes narrow, confusion replacing his earlier irritation. “What are you talking about?”

Taesoo looks up for a brief moment, his gaze meeting Minho’s before darting away again. He swallows hard, visibly gathering the courage to continue.

“I saw it,” Taesoo mutters, his voice trembling slightly.

Minho straightens, his arms uncrossing. “Saw what?” he asks, his tone sharp but still laced with confusion.

Taesoo shifts on his feet, the air between them growing heavier with every passing second. “I... I saw you... and her,” he stammers.

Minho’s heartbeat quickens, a slow thrum of unease spreading through his chest. “What exactly did you see?”

Taesoo lifts his head, his expression both anxious and accusatory. “I saw you kiss her in the kitchen last night.”

For a moment, the world around Minho seems to freeze. His pulse pounds in his ears, drowning out the muffled sounds of the restaurant beyond the office door. His usually calm and collected demeanor cracks, his face turning cold—not from anger, but from a deep-seated fear that his secret is about to unravel.

The silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating. Minho’s jaw tightens as he stares at Taesoo, his mind racing for a way to contain the situation. He doesn’t know whether to deny it, deflect it, or confront it head-on.

This can’t get out, he thinks, his chest tightening. If it does…

He exhales slowly, but the weight in his chest doesn’t lift. Minho feels cracks forming in the walls he’s spent so long building and for the first time, he isn’t sure he can stop them from breaking apart.

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luxora · 2 years ago

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The Glory -> {Highschool AU} -> Falling for their victim

Requested: No

Kdrama: The Glory

Genre: Angst. Fluff?

Warnings: Some bullying. No remorse. Swearing.

A/N: I absolutely do not condone anything that was presented in the kdrama. No one should ever bully others. This is all purely fiction.

Park Yeon-jin

Yeonjin loved it when you begged. You simply terrfic when you were on your knees, pleading for her to spare you from any plans that she had in store. The way your bottom lip would tremble and the way your cheeks would shine from the tears that were streaming down them, Yeonjin simply could not get enough of it.

It was not often that Yeonjin would get you on her own, especially since the others loved following her lead when it came to her games, but Yeonjin could not deny the excitement that sparked through her when she would corner you into a room all on your own, nobody else to bear witness to the games that she intended to play with you.

When Yeonjin had overheard that you were in charge of sorting and cleaning the gym sports equipment in the later afternoon after your extra lessons, Yeonjin simply could not pass up the chance to be able to corner you on your own. It has been a small while since it was just the two of you, and she simply missed the peacefulness that came with it. She didn’t have to hear Jaejun’s or Myeong-oh’s crude remarks about your body, she did need to hear Sara’s curses about your face, and she most certainly did not need to hear the shrill laughter of Hyejeong whenever Yeonjin would play with you.

It was special when it was just you and Yeonjin. It was a lot more intimate and Yeonjin preferred it that way. It was just you and her locked up in your own little bubble, completely ignorant of the outside world because the two of you were the only person who was crucial to the other in that very moment. Being the only one on your mind excited Yeonjin, it thrilled her and she is quite certain she has made it obvious to you in private that she adores your presence.

She has told you many times before that she adores your cries.

Yeonjin’s name repeatedly left your lips in pathetic whimpers as you cowered against the gym equipment storeroom wall, becoming completely submissive at her very presence as she took slow steps towards you, her lips curling into a smile as she continued to listen to you. The storeroom was not that big to begin with, so there was hardly any space in the first place for you to try create a distance between you and Yeonjin. Yeonjin had already blocked off the door, giving you no chance to go for a wild dash for freedom because it would only mean you would have to dive headfirst into Yeonjin, and past experiences have reminded you that once Yeonjin gets a hold of you, she will never let go.

Dark glee was bubbling up within Yeonjin as she continued to walk towards you, still not saying a word aside from your name that she had uttered when she first entered the storeroom. You had whipped around so fast, eyes wide in terror, and the excitement within Yeonjin simply bubbled over. She was already anticipating your scared reaction, your complete submission, and as she got closer to you, you finally started to beg, just like she want.

“Please Yeonjin...I-I promise that I w-won’t say anything...please...just please...”

You didn’t even know what you were begging for, but Yeonjin knew that you were begging her to stop but that was the last thing that she was going to do. She had only just arrived and the two of you have barely bonded yet. She had much more plans for the two of you. After all, this gym was such a special place to the two of you, most particularly to Yeonjin in more ways than one.

A chuckle left Yeonjin’s lips as she finally reached you, your body already on slumped on the floor, on your knees, completely powerless to Yeonjin as she stood over you like a queen would over a peasant. Your cheeks were shining beautifully with tears, the little rivulets traveling down your skin until they dripped off your jaw and chin, making the contours of yours face far more obvious than before.

It was beautiful.

Feeling the need to be closer to you, Yeonjin slowly crouched down to her haunches so that she was directly in front of you and at your level. Her close proximity to you immediately made you flinch, but not as violently as you did when she reached out and cupped your cheek, her lips curling wider than before as she brushed her thumb tauntingly against your cheekbone, immediately catching a teardrop.

“Are you scared?” She asked sweetly, her thumb not stopping its brushing movements as she waited for your answer.

You immediately froze at the question. No matter what answer you have Yeonjin, you knew that it would have the same effect and Yeonjin knew that you knew that. Either way, Yeonjin was going to have fun with you, and your answer would determine the degree of Yeonjin’s fun.

Your bottom lip continued to tremble, uncertainty and frustration obvious on your face. Yeonjin couldn’t help but giggle at it, the sound making you tense immediately, your jaw clenching against her hand despite her soft touches. Instead of growing annoyed by your lack of an answer, the silence instead made Yeonjin even more delighted. Feeling the need to be closer, Yeonjin closed the distance between the two of you until her lips were pressed against your cheek, the taste of salt meeting her tongue as she gave your skin a kitten lick after giving you a soft kiss.

The hand on your cheek moved until her fingers were curling around the base of your head, her fingers weaving into your head as she steadily increased her grip on you, eventually pulling you towards her until the two of the you were practically nose to nose. She could smell the perfume that you were wearing. Jasmine, her favorite. Such a sweet, subtle scent, perfect for somebody like you.

“You don’t need to be scared...as long as you always say yes to me.”

Yeonjin closed her eyes briefly to revel in your close proximity, your sweet perfume filling her nose while the sensation of your breath tickling her lips as you breathed shakily in front of her. You were still so tense, Yeonjin could feel it through the grip that she had on your neck and head, but it did not bother her as much as it should. You were close and with her, it was already better than a few minutes ago. Yeonjin opened her eyes again and smirked at the terror-filled eyes that were staring at her as she lovingly scanned your face, becoming mesmerized by its gorgeousness.

“So tell me...are your mine?”

It was obvious to everyone in school. Y/N L/N was Park Yeonjin’s. While it was known fact that you were a ‘member’ of her group, one did not really know the true nature of the relationship between you and Yeonjin. Everyone knew that you were practically her favorite toy to play with. No one dared to stop her because they knew that it would only turn out worse for them. Yeonjin was untouchable at school, just as she was outside of it.

Even her friends knew better than to touch her without her permission. Any games that they did play with you was in the presence of Yeonjin. They did not go as far as they did with all their previous toys before. Yeonjin liked your skin, she did not want to mar it permanently in anyway. Although Yeonjin has grown fond of leaving bruises on you as of late, and not simply the ones caused by a blow to the body.

Your neck was bare from any bruises at all, something Yeonjin intended to rectify, but only after she heard your confirmation. You were still staring at her with your terror-filled eyes, not bothering to give her the answer she wanted. So Yeonjin suddenly tightened her grip on your neck, her fingers tugging at your strands of hair, making a sharp sting of pain shoot to your head. You then finally nodded to her, but it was not enough for Yeonjin. She leaned closer towards you, her other hand moving to your knee to support her waist as she balanced herself in front of you on her knees, finally matching your position.

“Say it, I want to hear it.” She ordered, her words practically whipped against your lips with Yeonjin’s obvious demand for the phrase she wanted to her from your lips. Your lips teasingly trembled as you opened them, hesitating for a few moments before finally moving.

“I’m yours.”

Delight filled Yeonjin, her fingers loosening their grip after the words left your lips, turning more loving as she teasinly dug her fingers in your hair to secure her hand’s place in it. She licked her lips before tugging you closer until your lips were brushing against hers.

“Good.”

And then she pressed them fully against your own, sealing the confirmation with a kiss, the first of many more.

Jeon Jae-jun

Jaejun has never been able to not stare at you, especially when you wore the shortest of shorts with your hair tied up so high that is exposed your delicate neck. From his side of the gym, Jaejun could not take his eyes off you as you ran around the basketball court with the others girls for sports class. He noticed Yeonjin and the others lingering back in the group of girls, not at all bothered to participate properly in the lesson, the opposite of you as you sincerely looked like you were trying your best.

That was the weird thing about you, you always tried your best even though it hardly gave any good results. You weren’t the fastest girl in the years, not even in the school, but in sports class you always trained as hard as one of the talented track athletes would. Academics were more your specialty and he has seen how hard you try with your studies, being one of the top students in the year.

You were not that bad-looking either. While he could only see you in black and white, it did not mean that he was blind to your looks. You were pretty, the type of pretty that you didn’t even realize. Jaejun and the other guys in the year have all commented on your looks more than a dozen times, Jaejun more so since you have caught his eye ever since you transferred to their school. Jaejun couldn’t help but be taken by you at first sight. He still remembered the way you bowed your head in greeting, a nervous smile on your face as you lifted your head to gaze at all of them. You were pretty and everyone could agree with the statement, although it quickly become a double edged sword for you in more ways than one.

Jaejun had turned his head away from you for a few minutes to answer a question that one of his classmates had asked him before suddenly snapping his head back when he heard you let out a pained scream. You were on the floor of the basketball court, clutching your ankle while all the other female students clustered around you, all doing nothing but staring at you as you cried in obvious pain.

Shock and worry immediately shot through Jaejun and he found himself suddenly walking towards the female group, eyes locked on your slouched form as you continued to clutch at your ankle. It was only when he was a few meters away from you did he hear Yeonjin speak, fake concern obvious in her voice.

“Gosh Y/N, are you okay? You took such a nasty fall! Did you trip over yourself?”

The snickered laughs of Sara and Hyejeong after Yeonjin’s words immediately made Jaejun narrow his eyes. Of course it was Yeonjin, he shouldn’t even be surprised.

When Jaejun said that your looks was a double-edged sword in more ways than one, he meant that it was a double-edged sword in terms of Yeonjin’s opinion of you. While he and Yeonjin had some sort of relationship going on, it kind of changed after you transferred to their school. For some kind of reason, Jaejun was not interested in playing around with Yeonjin anymore. She was no fun anymore. He doesn’t know the exact reason, but he just knew when he was with Yeonjin, he pictured you in her place,

And of course Yeonjin did not like it when he had let it slip the one day about how much prettier you were out of all the girls in the year, including Yeonjin.

Guess Jaejun was kinda to blame for your fall from social grace to one of the new toys for their group. Jaejun was not into it at first, especially since it was not the way he wanted to interact with you, but he simply relented because Yeonjin would only make things worse for you if he went against her. She was a selfish bitch who did not deal with jealousy well, even though she denied it every time. He didn’t get what the fuck her problem was, but it was always with you, and instances like now were things that really pissed him off. Yeonjin was a part of you falling, he just knew it.

The gym coach was already by your side by the time Jaejun arrived by the group, checking out your ankle while you were still whimpering in pain. His heart pinched slightly at the sound of it but he did not show much emotion as he pushed past the girls standing around you, trying to get closer. You still didn’t notice him.

“-twisted or badly sprained. We need to get you to the nurse.” Jaejun heard the gym coach say, experimentally squeezing your ankle only to make you squeak in pain before grabbing at your ankle again.

There was no way that you would be able to walk on it. Even from his side he could see that it was swelling up. No chance would you be able to make it there in one piece.

“...I’ll take her.” Jaejun suddenly said, pushing past the final line of girls to finally step foot into your inner circle. Your head immediately whipped around to face him, your eyes widening in shock with a hint of fear as you locked eyes with him.

He could not blame you for the reaction. Jaejun was equally as responsible for the suffering you have had at their school as Yeonjin was. While he did not participate much in Yeonjin’s games with you, he did not stop them. He simply watched and waited for Yeonjin to stop working out her jealousy on you before tossing you out like the trash the group believed you to be. But it was all an act. He did not really mean it.

If he wanted to be honest, he was probably the nicest out of all of them. He has at least stopped Yeonjin from using her hair curler on you. That was probably the only first time he publicly opposed her in front of the others. He remembered how pissed she got, she almost decided to take out on you with the damn thing, but then he stopped her from grabbing it and tossing it against the floor until it broke. He liked your skin and he didn’t want her to make it ugly. He liked his girl’s skin perfect after all.

“N-No it’s okay. I can walk.” You protested, attempting to stand up on your own only to crumble back down when your ankle could not support your weight. Jaejun scoffed.

“Yeah right.” He said before suddenly grabbing you from under your arms and hoisting you up to your feet, turning you around once you were standing before suddenly scooping you up in his arms like a princess bride. The girls around them immediately squealed excitedly at his action.

“Hold on Jaejun, it would be best for one of us to take her. You know, since we will be all girls.” Yeonjin suddenly said, stepping forward past the others girls to stand in front of Jaejun and you with arms crossed, an almost concerned look on her face which fooled others but did not fool Jaejun. He knew that Yeonjin was raging on the inside at his actions, but in this moment, he did not care.

“I’m just carrying her. No big deal.” Jaejun said, shrugging his shoulders before taking a step forwards with you in his arms, your hands digging into his shirt subconsciously, either out of fear or for safety, he had no idea. He hoped it was the latter.

“Don’t be all macho Jaejun. Give her to Sara and Hyejeong, we’ll take her to the nurse.” Yeonjin said, stepping in front Jaejun again and this time reaching out to grab you by the arm. But Jaejun stepped back and shot her a glare.

“I said it’s no big deal.” He snapped before turning to the gym coach. “I’ll be taking her now.”

Jaejun didn’t even bother to listen to the gym coach’s response as he started walking away from the group and towards the gym doors, purposefully ignoring the teasing catcalls that came from the boy students, Myeong-oh being the loudest out of all of them.

Asshole.

You didn’t say a word as Jaejun started carrying you to the nurse’s office, your hands still grabbing fistfuls of his shirt despite being away from imminent danger in the form of Park Yeonjin. Jaejun wasn’t sure if he liked the silence or not, especially not when his hands were conveniently placed near your chest and on your legs. Suddenly filled with the urge, Jaejun gave a squeeze to your leg that he was holding, making you gasp in surprise.

“You know usually a girl would thank her prince charming for saving her from the evil bitch.” He said, cocking his head at you with a slight grin as you turned to look at him with wide eyed. He gave your leg a squeeze again, making you gasp for the second time before you went to grab at his hand, unable to make him let go.

“I...I...”

“You know, I will take a kiss in the form of thanks.” He said, stopping in his footsteps to give you his full attention, anticipating building up within his body as he imagined what the feeling of your lips would feel against yours.

“I...n-no.” You protested, making Jaejun let out a disappointed groan, the anticipation falling in his stomach like a rock in a pond.

“Aw come on, it is the least that you can do for me.”

“I-I didn’t need your-”

“Bullshit.” Jaejun suddenly said, the grip on your leg tightening as he continued to stare at you. “You are lucky I am the one that decided to take you. Yeonjin would have done a little detour.”

Jaejun knew how Yeonjin operated, hence why he did not allow any room for argument for him to be the one to take you to the nurse. Yeonjin would have done something to make things worse for you, along with Sara and Hyejeong. Since he would not have been there with them, he can only imagine the permanent damage that Yeonjin would have done to you. No chance was he gonna give Yeonjin that opportunity.

And it seemed to dawn on you on the possibility he had saved you from. You clenched and unclenched your fists on his shirt, making him grin as he leaned into your space, making you snap your head back when you noticed his sudden approach. He smirked at you.

“Maybe not now, but you owe me a kiss. I will claim it from you soon.”

Jaejun had very intention to claim that kiss, but first he is going to make sure that you can walk again. So he pulled his face away from yours and continued his way to the nurse’s office, a grin fixed on his face the entire time much to your shock and terror.

Lee Sa-ra

Sara could feel how terrified you were, your terror smoking off your body as you remained in her arms, Sara’s lips lightly pressed against the base of your neck while the terrified whimpers and cries from Dongeun filled the gym room, Myeong-oh and Jaejun shoving her about on the floor while Yeonjin watched liked the princess she was on the stage, a wicked smile on her face while the cackles and cheers of Hyejeong made constant echos in the large room.

Nobody was at school at this hour, hence why the five of them hung out together here with you and Dongeun, both of you serving as their entertainment as they wore off the whole school day, the stress getting to them everyday. Although the sharing between you and Dongeun were not really equal among all of them. Dongeun was someone that Yeonjin had chosen for herself and the others to play with, the girl never giving a precise reason why she had chosen Dongeun as their new toy but none of them objected to it. None of them were stupid enough to try, but Sara did find a small loophole when it came to you.

You were very much a part of their group like Dongeun was; however, you were solely Sara’s instead of everyone else. She had pulled you into the group a bit later than Dongeun had joined the five of them, Sara choosing you for only her. She refused to let anyone else touch you, not even Yeonjin, much to the girl’s frustration and annoyance but also to her resignation. Sara pointed out that she already had Dongeun, practically put her marks all over her with her curling iron, so it was only fair for Sara to have her own precious toy to play with, although Sara would say that the relationship between you and her were more than what Yeonjin and Dongeun had together.

“Why are you so tense? Aren’t you happy to be here with me?” Sara cooed, tightening her arms around your waist as she held you against her, you sitting on her lap as she had instructed when the seven of you arrived in the gym together. She pressed a light kiss to the back of your neck before removing one hand from your waist to instead touch the back of your neck, giving it an experimental squeeze. “You want me to give you one of my massages again?”

“N-No...” You started, probably tensing up even more when you felt her hand on your neck, immediately making Sara frown.

You still hadn’t bothered to look back at her since Yeonjin and the others started playing around with Dongeun , almost as if you were begging her to stop her friends from their game, but who was she to tell them to stop? It was not like they were laying a hand on you. They had promised not to touch you so she simply reveled in your company with the sweet sounds of Dongeun’s cries and screams. It was almost romantic in some kind of way because it was just the two of you in one separate bubble from the rest. You were a part of their group, in a way better position Dongeun could ever be in.

Sara opened her mouth to say something but was cut off with a scream and the sound of sizzling, along with the laughter of Yeonjin, Hyejeong, Jaejun and Myeong-oh as they surrounded Dongeun near the base of the stage, the curling iron in Hyejeong’s hand as she pressed it to the forearm of the screaming girl, burning over the still healing burn marks they had given the girl not too long ago. The burn marks were ugly enough, but it looked even worse with its double burn, the skin turning an ugly red from the wake of the curling iron. Despite its grotesque appearance, Sara couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it.

Red was a good colour, especially for painting, and since Dongeun had such pale skin, it was almost she was a blank canvas being painted on. Although Yeonjin was not much of a painter, she did enough leaving different colours on Dongeun, red being her favorite. Sara could almost say the same in regards to you. Red was an excellent colour on you, although a dark red was the best, especially in the form of the hickeys she enjoys leaving on your body.

Sara turned her face away from Dongeun and the others to instead look back at you, catching the sight of you side profile as you had your head fixed in the direction of Dongeun, your jaw slack and eyes wide in horror as you stared at the sight of the girl getting burnt by Yeonjin and the others. You started to tremble, Sara feeling the small movements immediately, their existence making her frown.

“Are you cold?” She asked, wrapping her arms around your waist again and tugging your close to her body, your back pressed to her chest. “Let me warm you up.”

“N-N-No...”

“I don’t like it when you say that to me.” Sara suddenly said, her lips moving to the back of your ear, brushing against the edge of your ear before she moved to press a kiss to the spot behind your ears. “I’m being so nice to you, why are you being so cold?”

“I...I...”

“Do you rather want to be in her place?” Sara whispered, her fingers suddenly digging onto your soft belly as she held you, the idea of you being in the place of Dongeun bringing some sort of fire to her blood. “If it weren’t for me, you would be there with her. It’s because of me that you aren’t. Aren’t you grateful?”

You should be grateful over the fact that Sara decided to make you more special in the group. You could have very well have been in the place as Dongeun. The two of you could be two losers together. The two of you would have been in the same league. But you weren’t. You were better than that low-class bitch. You were far more refined. Far more perfect. Far more like them than Dongeun could ever be.

Sara removed one hand from your waist again to trail it up to your face, gripping your jaw from behind and forcing you to look over your shoulder to her. She locked you in an intense gaze, her tongue sneaking out to lick her lips before she spoke to your again.

“Are you grateful for me?” She asked, leaning in closer so that her words brushed against your cheek, her tongue poking out to give you a small lick before she glided her lips along your skin until she was at the corner of your lips. “I take care of you, don’t I?”

“I...I...”

“Hey, give that to me.” Sara said said, holding her hand out to Yeonjin and the others with her palm up, flexing her fingers as an indication for the highschoolers to pass her the curling iron. Yeonjin glared at her.

“We’re busy with it.”

“And I want to curl Y/N’s hair. Give it to me. You’ve warmed it up long enough.”

Sara and Yeojnin stared off with one another for a few moments before she huffed before nodding her head at Hyejeong to hand Sara the curling iron. Sara snatched it from Hyejeong and then gently grabbed some of your hair, expertly twirling it around the iron and holding it. You were frozen completely in her lap, the only body part moving being your hands as they trembled on your knees, Sara holding your hair delicately in her hand as she began to curl it.

“I’m so good to you Y/N, right?” She said, continuing with her task. You didn’t say anything, you were too afraid to say anything, especially since all the attention in the room was on you now, Dongeun sobbing in the background. Your silence was irritating Sara, so she tugged harshly at the hair near the side of your head, bringing the curling iron close to your neck, not touching your skin but close enough to feel the heat emitting from the metal rod. “...Right?”

“Y-Yes Sara.” You finally stuttered out, staying in place in fear of the curling iron to be pressed to your neck. Sara smiled.

“Look at me.” She ordered, pulling the curling iron away from your neck and hair to give you to space to turn your head, your eyes peaking over your shoulder to look at her. Sara grinned wildly at you.

“Do I take care of you?” She repeated. You gulped.

“Yes Sara.”

“Good girl.”

She teasingly winked at you before nodding at you to turn back, allowing her to continuing curling your hair until she was satisfied, handing it back to the others without a second glance before she wrapped you up in a hug again, Dongeun’s screams soon following afterwards. Sara smiled as she nuzzled her nose into your neck, inhaling your perfume scent.

Nothing could get more perfect than this.

Choi Hye-jeong

Hyejeong didn’t know when the feelings she felt for you had started to form, but she didn’t think they were easily going to go away, especially since she knew how fucked up the situation the two of you were in. There was hardly anything that she could do to help you or herself. In this circumstance, both you and her were victims, only you were truly the only one who was suffering.

You wouldn’t have become their new toy to play with if that bitch Dongeun hadn’t dropped out of school. If she had stayed and simply took what they gave her, then you would not be in this situation, taking the place of that pathetic bitch. Instead of Dongeun crawling along the gym floor with her legs tied up with the door chains that they had unlocked, it was you. The tears that were streaming on your face were obvious from the distance that Hyejeong sat on stage beside Yeonjin, the head bitch in charge smiling sadistically at you as you continued to crawl. Myeong-oh and Jaejun was walking beside you, chuckling and tossing quips at you every few minutes.

You looked so miserably, so broken...it simply made Hyejeong heart sting.

“Ne...where is my curling iron? I want to curl my hair today.” Yeonjin suddenly said, her finger twirling absentmindedly with a strand of her hair, the dark smile on her face only widening as she locked eyes with your tear filled ones. She then turned to Sara as she recorded the whole thing. “Did you bring it?”

“No, Hyejeong had it last. You got it?” Sara said, looking away from her phone screen to look at Hyejeong expectantly, soon joined by Yeonjin.

Hyejeong swallowed thickly at the attention that was suddenly on her by the two girls, her eyes darting between them before she turned to glance at you, your own eyes staring at her desperately and begging. Out of all five of them, Hyejeong was the least worst. Yeah, she watched everything that was done to you but she never really actively took part in it. She did in the beginning, but ever since her own heart began to twist painfully at the sight of you in pain, knocked down to the floor and under the heel of Park Yeonjin, she no longer felt the desire to lay hands on you.

Hyejeong was hardly in a place to save you from these circumstances...but she could elevate your suffering just a little bit.

“I forgot it.” She confessed, turning to look at Yeonjin with a slightly apologetic expression even though she felt no remorse for it. “Sorry.”

“What do you mean you forgot it?” Yeonjin demanded, her eyes narrowing dangerously and her lips twisting into an ugly snarl. “I told you to bring it!”

“Liar, you told Sara to but she just said she didn’t have it.” Heyjeong quipped, turning to look at the other girl with slight annoyance. Sara scoffed.

“Don’t blame me, I told you to bring it for next time!”

“Well I didn’t know today was going to be the next time!”

“You’re a fucking idiot!”

“Don’t call me an idiot you crazy bitch!”

“What the fuck did you say?!”

“Fuck, enough already! The two of you are giving me a headache!” Yeonjin snapped, huffing in frustration as she pinched the bridge of her nose before looking at you in disdain. “If I can’t test the curling iron temperature on her, then there is no fucking point then. This is boring.”

Yeonjin hopped off the stage and walked towards you, staring you down for a few moments before cursing.

“Fuck, lets just get out of here. She so damn slow.”

Without a second thought, Yeonjin walked past you and headed towards the exit, leaving everyone is slightly stunned silence, all of them glancing at you and then back to Yeonjin.

“What must we do with-” Jaejun started only to be interrupted with Yeonjin as she cursed again and whipped around to glare at them

“Fuck, leave the bitch here! I don’t care!”

Yeonjin whirled around and stormed off out the doors, leaving the gym silent for a few moments before they decided to head out after her. They all spared you one more look before heading out one by one, Myeong-oh and Jaejun pushing one another by the shoulders before heading out, Sara huffing to herself before she starting head out, although she did pause when she came across you.

“Pathetic bitch.” She said before shoving you by the shoulder with her foot, making you cry out in pain before she headed towards the door, turning her head around to look at Hyejeong irritably. “Come on already you crazy bitch.”

Hyejeong flipped Sara the bird at the insult but she got off the stage and started following after the artistic high school student, although she took her time so that when Sara had left the gym, it was only the two of you left. Hyejeong crouched down when she eventually reached you, her eyes on the door to make sure that the others weren’t coming back before she turned back to you.

“You are lucky I forgot the curler. You better be grateful to me. I saved you a whole lot of hell.”

You stared up at her tearfully, a bruise already forming on your cheek from where you had been shoved against the floor, your face taking most of the impact as you had not expected the shove from Yeonjin when you first arrived at the gym. Seeing the forming bruise brought pain to Hyejeong’s heart, the very sight of it making her breath shaky as she continued to gaze at you. She glanced back at the door and then back at you before sighing.

“You better not say a fucking word about this, otherwise both you and I are going to hell.” She said, digging into her pocket to grab a key and dropping it to the floor in front of you. “You better chain up the gym and give me back the key tomorrow, otherwise I will make sure I remember the curler.”

Since they used the gym often in their free time, they all made sure to get some copies of the gym keys so that they could access it whenever they wanted, something no one knew about except each other. And now you.

You stared at the key in slight shock, you hand crawling out slowly to cover it before your raised your eyes to look at Hyejeong. She couldn’t stand looking at your face, not when it brought so much pain to her. She already had spent too long in this damn gym, the others might come look for her and she could not be caught in the act of helping you, especially since it was against Yeonjin’s orders.

“Later loser.” Hyejeong hissed before she stood up and stormed towards the door, leaving you in behind in stunned silence without a second glance.

She couldn’t look at your face, not when she was partly responsible for it. There was nothing that she could do about your situation. Yeonjin’s word was everything and if Hyejeong went against her...she did not even want to think about what Yeonjin will do to her. She will much rather be a part of their group than one of their toys, and even though it brought her pain to see you in pain...she could not take your place. She did not have the money to save herself like Yeonjin and the others had to make a new life. She needed to keep herself as pristine as she is now in order to make it in life.

She hated the fact that you were hurting...but rather it be you than her.

795 notes · View notes

withleeknow · 1 year ago

Note

hiya! I noticed you have your requests open and if you don't mind, could I please suggest: "for once... I was right" with "don't you dare walk away from me" for Lee Know - maybe angsty but I don't mind you just going with the flow.

thank you!

blue hour.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: exes au, exes to ...? 🫢, angst; minho's pov mostly, open ending kinda, some light cursing, unedited don't look at me word count: 2.2k (i got carried away a little bit) listen to 🎧: breathe again - sara bareilles

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation › masterlist › ko-fi

“this should be the last of your things.”

“thanks,” you say, rummaging through the box that minho hands over to you. everything that you left at his place throughout the entire time you were together; every sweatshirt of yours in his closet, every piece of jewelry on his nightstand, every bottle of nail polish that you kept in his bathroom reserved for nights where you two would pamper each other. they're all here, except for... “did you see my red scarf though? i can’t find it anywhere.”

“no, i checked,” he says. “this is everything.”

“hmm, okay.”

you hold the box between your arms, and minho can’t help but feel something twist painfully in his chest. it’s like you're holding your relationship, or what’s left of it anyway, ready to make your swift exit from his life. two years of love, all dumped into one stupid cardboard box.

you both stand there in silence for what feels like forever, just staring at each other, then at your surroundings, neither of you saying anything. minho knows why he hasn’t bid you a farewell goodnight yet; it’s because he doesn’t want this to end. even though it’s a sad occasion, the finale to your story, he still wants to the seconds to stretch on, for the minutes to last longer. after all, isn’t this the last time he'll ever see you?

why you haven’t left him to his devices and gone upstairs, he isn’t sure.

another moment passes. life goes on but it seems like you two are in your own bubble where nothing moves forward. everything stays rooted to the spot.

“do you want to go for a walk?” you ask after a while. the question surprises minho enough that he lets it show, and it makes you quickly tack on an excuse. “the weather is nice and i... i don’t want to be on my own.”

yes, he does want to go for a walk with you. anything to be with you even if it’s only for a moment longer.

“sure,” he says. “let’s go for a walk.”

“okay. i’ll leave this upstairs and get my jacket.”

he watches as you disappear inside your building, only to reemerge momentarily afterward, a wool jacket draped over your frame. he wishes you’d worn something lighter, just so he could have an excuse to wrap his arm around your shoulders if it gets colder.

you walk side by side around your neighborhood, a distance between your bodies that never used to be there before. it’s strange, of course it is. but minho supposes this is yours and his new reality now.

“how are the cats?” you ask.

“they’re okay. dori had a cold a couple weeks ago, but everything’s fine now,” he tells you. “they... they miss you.”

i miss you too - that's a thought that he doesn’t say out loud, only keeps it to himself because it feels too humiliating to utter those words to you.

“they’re cats. how can you tell?”

“i can always tell.” he shrugs. “they wait by the door when i’m already home. they sleep on your-... they sleep on the other side of the bed.”

if you notice his slip up, you don’t say anything. you purse your lips and nod somberly, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “they’ll forget about me soon enough,” you say.

minho glances at you. he wants to rebuke that statement, to argue with you over something as silly as whether or not his freaking cats will retain their memories of you in the future. but he just bites his tongue and swallows down the lump in his throat, humming to let you know that he’s heard what you said. not a hum of agreement, just one of acknowledgement.

“how’s work?” he asks. god, it’s just so fucking weird to be asking you these things. you know each other inside and out and yet, you’re here making small talk.

torn apart when all you two should be is together.

“it’s alright. still the same, kinda boring. you know there’s not a lot that can happen in that place in one month.”

yes, because it’s been a little over a month since you parted ways, since you moved back into your old apartment and left his home perpetually cold and empty. he can’t blame you for leaving when he was the one who agreed to break up. he can’t blame you for his heartache when he was the one who broke your heart first.

he didn’t mean to, but isn’t that what they all say?

“do you still want to leave?”

“sure,” you reply. “if i can find something better, i’d leave that place in a heartbeat. but for now, it’ll have to do. it used to be a bit more bearable though.”

“i hope you find something that makes you happier.”

“thanks.” you give him a smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. “how about you? how’s life?”

minho almost says the first thing that comes into mind. life is terrible without you. i think about you every single minute of every day but you're not here and it’s my own damn fault.

he could lie and come up with something much more palatable, because he doesn’t reckon his truth is something you’d like to hear right now.

but he doesn’t want to lie to you. in the time that you were together, minho never lied to you, not even once, not even over something stupid and insignificant. beside, he’s got a feeling that you would see through his bullshit anyway.

his answer ends up being a sad shrug, then, “it’s life. i’m hanging in there.”

your footsteps slow until you stop completely. this makes him stop too, turning around to look at you with his head tilted to one side, confused.

“it’s not like you to sound so defeated,” you comment.

“what?” he asks with a sigh. “it’s the truth.”

“it’s not the whole truth.”

“what do you want me to say?”

“i want you to be honest with me,” you tell him, your shoulders slumping just slightly. “i still care about you. i want to know you’re okay.”

minho takes a step closer until he’s right in front of you, the closest that you two have been all night. his body feels the warmth radiating from yours but he has to ball his hands into fists to keep from reaching out and touching you.

“if you really want to know, i haven’t been myself since you left.”

guilt flashes in your eyes. it wasn’t his intention at all.

you bite your bottom lip, inhale a shaky breath, before you speak, “i’m sorry for leaving.”

“don’t apologize. i’m sorry for driving you away.”

then he watches the tears well up as you look at him. he’s been wondering this the whole night, how you seem so cavalier about it all, how you’re able to speak to him so casually as if you’re just old friends with some shared history, and not as though the wound is still fresh. he’s still bleeding and you’re acting like you’ve already healed.

but he sees it now. you’re just as sad as he is, just as miserable. the only difference is you’re better at hiding it, or maybe you’ve just had more time to get used to the way it hurts.

is this how you felt in the weeks, the months, leading up to your departure? every time he neglected you, prioritized something else over you, missed every date and overlooked every text message? every single instance where he was too busy for you?

he never wanted to break your heart, but alas, here you are.

he didn’t want you to go, and yet, when you felt like you couldn’t handle the loneliness anymore, he hadn’t stopped you from walking out the door. he gave up, and he gave up so easily.

nothing along the lines of ‘don’t you dare walk away from me’, no tearful argument, no explosive and definitive end to your relationship. minho just let your love slip away.

how must that have made you feel on top of everything that he did - or didn’t do - to you?

minho has been called every variation of ‘cold’ before. to everyone else, he’s callous, rough, intimidating and unapproachable. but to you, he’s kind, soft, gentle and loving. it never mattered what anyone thought of him, as long as you always knew that he loved you, that you saw him for who he was.

but toward the end, what if you saw him how the others did? what if you had deemed him cold too?

the mere thought makes him sick to his stomach.

you sniffle, wiping at your eyes. “you don’t have to say that. it’s in the past now.”

fracture upon fracture upon fracture. minho doesn’t know how much more of this his heart can take.

his fingers twitch, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching for your hands. to his surprise, you let him.

your hands, so delicate in his, so warm.

“i should’ve fought harder for you,” he says, his voice so small that you barely catch the words at all.

but his eyes… he hopes you can see it in his eyes - the regret, the longing, the pain of losing you dimming the light of the stars he holds there.

giving his hands a light squeeze, you say, “and maybe i should’ve held on tighter instead of letting go.”

“i made you feel like you weren’t enough. it’s the worst thing i ever did to you. i understand why you left.”

you try to calm your breathing, because you really don’t feel like breaking down in front of him right now. you don’t say anything in response; what are you even supposed to say? you told him everything that you wanted to the night that you two broke up. everything that you tried to bottle up for months was laid on the table that night. you watched as he listened to you, watched as his heart broke alongside yours. that was it.

“i… i’m sorry,” minho stutters, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks scared. “i’m sorry. can’t we try again? i swear i won’t let you down again. i swear to you.”

“min…” the nickname slips out of habit and for a second there, minho thinks you would say yes. but then… “i know you’re sorry. i know we didn’t break things off because we fell out of love. but i don’t think you’re at a point in your life where i can be the most important thing right now. you may not mean to, but there’ll be things that you prioritize over me… and i’m not at a place in my life where i can settle for being on someone’s back burner either. the timing’s just off. it’s not your fault, life just got in the way.”

minho stares at you, the stars dying out one by one. the hurt is beyond what any word can describe but in a way, he understands. it fucking sucks, but he gets it. he has to accept it now.

he nods solemnly, tracing odd patterns on your palms. then he asks, quietly, “can i hold you? just for a while.”

please indulge me, he thinks. this is the last thing i’ll ever ask from you.

you don’t reply with words. instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into you. you two stay there in each other’s embrace for god knows how long. it could’ve been minutes or it could’ve been hours. you always lose track of time when you’re wrapped up together.

you hold him like he - tough and intimidating minho - is made of glass, and he holds you like he doesn’t ever want to let you go.

but he has to eventually.

you untangle yourself from him to find that he’s been crying. the tears on his cheeks catch the light from the street lamps, reflecting like crystals in the night. when you wipe them away, you tell him, “for once, i was right.”

“about what?” he sniffles.

“you really are a hopeless romantic,” you smile, trying to lighten the mood. as much as you can anyway. “i knew you’d prove me right one day.”

minho wants to scoff but his eyes are burning from the tears and his throat feels like it's closing up, so he lets you have this one. the last one, right?

maybe he is a romantic, and maybe it’s only for you. maybe it makes him a little hopeless.

the walk back to yours ends too quickly. but truth be told, even if you had walked together until the sun came up, it still wouldn’t have been long enough for him.

you both stand there, two heavy hearts looking at each other, looking for one another.

there’s no goodbye, only goodnight.

and you’re the one who says it first.

minho returns your sentiment with a choked up voice, a brush of his fingers against yours, and when you finally turn to walk up the steps, his gaze lingers on your retreating figure.

then he calls your name softly. “hey, uhm... i’ll let you know if the scarf turns up, okay?”

you turn back with a knowing smile. it’s still sad, but there’s some faith hidden there.

“i hope it will.”

permanent taglist: @onlyycb97wife @starsandrqindrops @borahae-reads @abbiestearsricochet @cutiespaghetti @anthropologykpopmultistan @moonlinos @mjnhoz @caitlyn98s @piercidh34rts @stayceebs97 @linocz @yaorzu-blog @biribarabiribbaem @kayleefriedchicken

#stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #lee know angst #lee know scenarios #lee know x reader #lee know imagines #lee know x you #lee minho x reader #lee minho x you #stray kids #lee know #lee minho

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luvieluviedovie · 2 years ago

Note

nsfw alphabet for lee sa-ra? <33

SARA NSFW ALPHABET.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

she doesn't really like aftercare, at all. you're the one who needs to take care of her after all, but she doesn't really mind if you don't. but what you'll do is convince her to take a shower with you and she'll probably sleep in the bathtub a little bit until you wake her up, after cleaning her, you take her to bed and just let her sleep, admiring her beauty.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

her favorite body part: her stomach. mostly because it's a very sensitive part of hers. she loves when you kiss her stomach.

her favorite body part in you: your hands. loves to lick your fingers full of her cum and loves how you give her so much pleasure.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

loves your cum, but is not he type to play with it or something, if you get what i mean.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

likes pet play. absolutely LOVES being called a puppy and crawling on all fours to you.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

likes to say that she's experienced but is actually a pillow princess. all the experience she has, goes away when she's having sex.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

69, she loves that you both can have pleasure at the same time. being licked by you and hearing your moans at the same time? omg, she loves it

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

kinda goofy tbh, will giggle while in between your legs and will laugh when you two are kissing. not because she actually finds it funny, but because she's too high to think properly.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

very well groomed, but will shave if you ask her too. not much to put in here.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

not very romantic, she may mutter an "i love you" during it but isn't that romantic. it comes out of her lips accidentally and she'll take a while to say it again.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

masturbates often. when you're not around, she needs to relieve herself somehow. probably video calls you to show what she's doing with herself.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

noncon, roleplay and pet play are her favorites for sure.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

anywhere. she doesn't care if it's in a public bathroom with the door unlocked or if it's in your guys bed.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

anything you do, to be honest. she looks like a puppy in heat sometimes... but when you use a harsh voice or show your dominant side (it doesn't has to be sexual) it turns her on A LOT.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

i feel like threesome maybe? since she's very possessive of you and wouldn't want to share you with anyone else.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

both, but prefers receiving. but even tho she's a pillow princess, if you command her, she'll eat you out all the time.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

fast and rough. since she gets VERY turned on, she doesn't have the patience to be slow or to take things slowly.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

LOVES QUICKIES, even tho she would prefer going on for hours and hours she won't deny a quickie with you. loves doing it in public spaces too.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

very risk if she's high. loves experimenting new things but if she doesn't like it she'll go on for hours about how bad it was.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

doesn't have much stamina, 2 rounds max, but would love if it was more.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

owns toys but prefers if you use them on her. doesn't uses them alone cuz she doesn't know exactly how to manage them and needs guidance

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

loves teasing but hates if you tease her back. i can see her in public teasing you with her feet under the table pushing up against your cunt while licking her lips, but she doesn't expect you to do the same for her... gets shocked and stops caressing you at the same instant, begging you after some minutes to fuck her.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

loud, and when i say loud it's like... A LOT. this girl won't mind if you two are fucking in public, she'll be as loud as she can and doesn't care.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

loves wearing puppy ears 🤭🥺

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

skinny asf (mostly because of coke) but well built.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

very high, you can accidentally brush your hand on her back and she'll be horny at the same moment.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

faster than you. you normally have to clean her up and convince her to take a shower with you before falling asleep.

#lee sara #lee sara the glory #lee sara x reader #lee sara x fem reader #kdrama #kdrama x reader #kdrama x fem reader #the glory #the glory x fem reader #the glory x reader

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cosmal · 2 years ago

Note

you said hurt/comfort? maybe reader always gave to much of themselves in relationships (like they buy a lot of gifts, they’re the first one asking to hang out, stuff like that) and never had as much effort in return (w their ex partner for example idk) and when james (who’s love languages i hc are all) gives as much effort as reader does, and like buys them gift without reason, reader is just crying bc omg someone cares about me

this was really about me lmao i need comfort and very long sorry

pasta

summary no one has ever cooked you dinner before. james fixes that for you.

content james potter x fem!reader

note this req is literally from nov but i wrote it like two months agar and never posted im so sorry. also combined with this! request.

James bursts through your door with a mouthful of apologies already on his tongue.

"Sorry, I tried to knock but my hands were full!" he says breathlessly, holding a ridiculous amount of bags in his hands, mumbling sorry's for scaring you.

You stand at the bottom of your hallway with a hand held to your chest. "You okay? Do you need a hand?"

"Don't move a muscle," he says firmly when he reaches the kitchen bench, heaving his groceries up onto the marble with a groan. You move your hand to your lips to stifle a laugh.

"I don't want to be rude," you move to stand next to him at your kitchen island, "but what are you doing here?" You say it with a softness. He usually calls or messages you before he shows up at your flat.

"We made plans, remember," he says smiling. He kisses you on the side of your head before composing himself, starting to unpack the bags.

"I went to Morrison's and bought a bunch of stuff. Thought I'd cook you dinner." You did make plans, they were your idea. You didn’t expect him to do anything for you, you expected to maybe take him to the park for lunch or something.

"Oh," you say lightly.

You watch as he unpacks. Cloves of garlic, parsley, thickened cream, fettuccine, eggs, and pancetta. It looks like all the helpings for a carbonara. There's a Sara Lee chocolate bavarian sat to the side with frosted ice all over the cardboard that you assume is dessert. You've only been together for a few months and you're yet to have a homecooked meal together.

You're sure you've never had anyone cook you dinner before. Not without a reason or a special occasion. You worry suddenly that you've forgotten an important date.

You hum and smile along as James buzzes around the kitchen with enough energy to power a small country. You fret that you're tamping down his good mood but you're trying to remember your anniversary. And the first time you kissed. The first time you met. For a second you think you've forgotten your birthday.

He says something to you and you crack an uneven smile.

"Sweetheart?" he says again. He stops where he's got the side of his knife pressed into a head of garlic.

You blink. "Sorry, what did you say?'' You try to hide your emotion. Your voice is scratched with dread and you bite down into your lip to stay calm.

"I asked you how your day was," he repeats, setting the knife on his chopping board. He's grated half a block of cheese while you've been stuck in your head. You hope you haven't embarrassed yourself.

"Have I missed something?" you ask, voice drenched in worry. You hide your hands under the kitchen bench where you pick at your nails.

"Hmm?" he hums, eyebrows pinched together.

"You're cooking me dinner," you say, James's confusion worsens, "Is there a special reason?"

"Not really," he shrugs all blasé. This makes it worse. You don't understand.

"Then why..."

"Did you already have plans?" James worries, smile faltering. His confusion warps into something like embarrassment. "Sorry, honey, I didn't even ask."

"No, Jamie, it's not that!" you backtrack, feeling more awful than before. You just feel out of your own depth. "I've just never..."

He moves around the bench to stop where you're sitting on one of your bar stools. Your knees press into his thighs he's so close. "What's the matter?"

You grab his hands before you pick your nails raw. You think about hiding your embarrassment in his chest but decide against it. If you get too close to him you might forget bout the entire reason you're upset. You'd rather it that way but you're sure he wouldn't.

"I've never had someone cook for me," you admit quietly. You warm with a prickling heat and squirm in your rickety bar stool.

"Oh," he says, all sullen. "Well, that won't do."

You look up at him and worry you look pathetic. He cracks a smile and you're sure it's on your behalf. "What?"

"No one ever has cooked for you?" he asks. He's not rubbing in, he sounds shocked

"No," you say. You sound stupid, you're sure you look it too. You want to crawl up into a ball.

"Y/N, I know you've had boyfriends before." He knows about your past relationships and how they weren't the best. But surely they'd at least made you dinner. James overestimates them sorely.

"They never did any of this stuff for me," you sniffle. The first tear is a shock and then James is looking at you all upset and confused and the next one isn't as startling.

He wraps his arms around your back and holds you close to his chest quicker than you can reach to wipe your face. He presses slow and hot kisses into the top of your head and your tears worsen. They're sticky and thick, his cotton shirt catches the brunt of your embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," you mumble with the side of your face smooshed into his firm chest. It's too grounding and your tears don't slow like you wish they would.

"Hey, don't be," he says, smoothing a hand down your trembling back, "You deserve things."

You don't say anything, rubbing your cheek against his shirt. He tuts. "You deserve a relationship with effort, Y/N."

You hiccup. "I've never had someone care about me like you do."

James holds you so close you worry you're hurting him. He turns his head until his cheek is pressed into your hair and takes a breath. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," you say and try not to disturb where he's resting on top of you. You like it more than you should. "It's okay."

"It's not."

"It is," you sniffle and pull yourself from his hold. He lets you go though with a hesitance. "It is because now I've got you."

James finally cracks a smile. "Right," he sniffles to compose himself, "right and I'm about to make you the best carbonara of you life."

"I'm excited." You wipe the remnants of your upset from your cheeks and smile wetly.

"Good."

James sets to work. Buzzing around the kitchen after he'd plugged his phone into your sound system. Shuffling the playlist he made a week into your relationship. He sings his heart out, stirring whatever it is he's got going on in the pan.

You sit at the edge of the bench with the biggest smile on your face when he starts to serenade you. Wooden spoon held to his mouth, he sings an awful rendition of Lay All Your Love On Me by ABBA. You laugh so hard you think you might be too sick to eat the pasta.

Later on that night when you're too full to move, James slides a box across the table and says, "I also got you this." With the prettiest grin you've ever seen.

You're overwhelmed with love for you to be upset. Your boyfriend is lovely and you think you might be the luckiest girlfriend on the planet.

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x female!reader #james potter x female reader #james potter drabble #james potter one shot #james potter headcanon #james potter drabbles #james potter imagine #james potter fanfiction #james potter fan fic #marauder x reader #the marauders #the marauders fanfic #the marauders fanfiction

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hisunshiine · 1 year ago

Text

—i must be favored to know ya [5/7]

Part 5 of 7 of the Seven Days Series ↣ series masterlist

🗓️ pairing: nurse!jungkook x teacher!reader 🗓️ au/genre: non-idol au, brother’s friend au, fwb, age-gap(reader is older), f2l, fluff, angst, smut, 🗓️ rating: M 🗓️ wc: 5,665 🗓️ warnings: emotionally constipated pairing, again Kim Seokjin MEDDLING, drunk feelings in a good way, nudes, misinterpretation of messages, drunk feelings in a bad way, arguing, saying hurtful things explicit sexual content: making out in the club, potential exhibitionism/voyeurism, shower sex 🗓️ an: Sorry if this one is angsty y’all! We’ve been slowly building to it, and it had to come to a head at some point, right? Plus, we only have the weekend left! Hospital Vocab: 🏥 A MICU is a medical intensive care unit that deals with less critical conditions such as pneumonia, infections or other problems that require intensive monitoring but don't necessarily require emergency. 🏥 The NICU is a nursery in a hospital that provides around-the-clock care to sick or preterm babies. 🏥 Gastric refers to the unit of Gastroenterology, which cares for issues with the esophagus, stomach, small intestine, colon and rectum, pancreas, gallbladder, bile ducts and liver. 🗓️ summary: “I must be favored to know ya.” Having Jungkook in your life is so much sweeter than you ever thought. It would be great if you could just tell him, but showing him is as good as it gets for now…until you slip up and let the cat out of the bag. But it turns out, you aren’t the only one who has feelings for him, and you definitely aren’t the only one who wants to ride him. When your biggest fears come to light, knowing Jungkook the way that you do might become a thing of the past.

Taglist: @sizzlingfestpeach @mochminnie @jungkooksmytype @kookslastbutton @taebangtanbabe @bbtsficrecs @jk97bam it's not letting me tag you (if joining the taglist, please think about reblogging with tags/leaving feedback!)

“Doctor Cho to room 324, Doctor Cho to room 324.” A nurse's tired voice plays over the loudspeaker as Jungkook follows Jimin into the staff locker room at the end of their shift.

“Bro, why was today so tiring?” Jimin drops effortlessly into the chair across from his locker, as if all of his bones and joints have given out.

Jungkook reaches behind his neck to fist at his scrub top, pulling the polyester material over his head. “It was tiring because we had to change Mr. Lee’s sheets four times today. Why are we working in the MICU again?”

“Because we wanted to take time off next week after the wedding, so we picked up this shift instead of enjoying our usual Friday off,” Jimin reminds as he toes off his sneakers.

“Next time, tell me to check who I’m covering for. I forgot Sara works the gastric rounds, and while I don’t mind a little incontinence, Mr. Lee is not a small man and four times is more than a little, you know?”

Jimin nods as he finally begins to remove his own scrubs before heading to the showers in the back of the locker room with his small shower pouch in tow. Jungkook follows his lead, towel thrown over his shoulder, his own pouch in hand.

“You know what?” Jimin asks as he steps into one of the small shower stalls. “I think we should go out tonight. Octagon or CakeShop—you know they have the best music and drinks.”

“Mmm, I don’t know…I’m still covering Sara’s shift tomorrow, and if Mr. Lee is still having bowel issues,” Jungkook steps into the privacy of his own stall to step out of his boxer briefs and into the water, enjoying the heat as it envelops his body, “I might not be at my best if I go out tonight.”

“C’mon, man! We should go out because of Mr. Lee! We can invite the teachers, it’s summer break for them anyways, and the four of us always turn up on Fridays. We can invite the whole crew.”

Jungkook makes sure to scrub his hands extra before washing the rest of his body with his green Italy Towel to exfoliate his skin. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask for, man.”

The two continue their shower routine, meeting again in the locker room to change into clothes to go home in.

Jimin grabs his phone as soon as he’s dressed. Jungkook follows Jimin’s movements as he paces back and forth with the phone on speaker, dialtone echoing through the room.

“Hey, Jimin,” Taehyung answers the phone, sounding as if he just took a bite of food.

“You’re on speaker. Tae, we’re going out tonight. Octagon or CakeShop?”

There’s a pause before he answers; Jungkook assumes Taehyung is swallowing his food. “Let’s do CakeShop, it’s a bit more cozy. You’re on speaker too, Hoseok and I are grabbing a late lunch.”

“Hey, Jimin!” Hoseok’s voice filters through the mobile.

“Sounds good. Ready at 11?”

“Yeah. I’ll text Woo Shik, see if he can reserve a table. See you later, I’m eating right now.”

Taehyung’s annoyance at his meal being disturbed rings loud and clear as the phone clicks, and Jimin throws the phone into his open backpack. “Can you call your girl? Let her know we’re going at 11?”

Jungkook’s movements stutter as he rolls deodorant on, raised arm freezing in the air. “My girl?” He eyes Jimin from his peripherals, trying to read his face.

“Yeah, she’s like, your best friend. Joined at the hip all the time, sometimes I wonder whether you or Yoongi is her actual brother.”

“Oh, haha, yeah, I’ll—yeah, I’ll call her once we get out of here.”

“Cool, so let’s go, see if we can catch the hyungs before they leave.” Jimin closes his backpack, lifting it over his shoulder. Jungkook follows suit, carrying his bag by the small handle at the top instead as they leave the room.

“Hyung!” Jimin spots Seokjin as he leaves one of the rooms across from the nurses’ station. The jovial man smiles as he passes a clipboard off to the Resident shadowing him.

“Hey, you guys off for the day?” Seokjin asks as he checks his watch.

“Yeah, we’re headed out to CakeShop tonight at 11 if you and Joon want to come with?”

“I don’t think I can swing it. Joon’s covering the NICU the rest of the week, so I doubt he’ll be down to go.”

“No worries, just wanted to extend the offer.”

“I appreciate it. We’ll have fun Sunday, right? Open bar at the reception and all.”

“Definitely.” Jimin wraps an arm around Jungkook’s neck and begins to tug him down the hallway. “See ya!”

Seokjin just shakes his head, watching as the two men head out.

“What’s got Jungkook so happy?” SoHee appears at Seokjin’s elbow, holding a binder to her chest.

“Oh, he’s probably off to go see his—uh, probably hanging with one of our friends.”

“One of your friends? He must be a pretty cool guy if Jungkook is that excited to go hang out.” SoHee says, a smile on her face as she watches both men bounce happily around the corner, her eyes focused mostly on the tattooed, floppy haired one until they’re finally out of sight.

“Yeah…she’s pretty cool. They’re like best friends—spend every waking moment together when not working.” Seokjin glances at SoHee, searching for a reaction. He’s not doing it to be mean—in his mind, it’s more mean to string someone along when your heart belongs to someone else.

“Oh. I didn’t realize the person was a ‘she’. Do you, uh, think that they like each other? As more than friends?”

Seokjin makes eye contact with SoHee, trying to express more with his eyes than his response gives. “If you hope to date JK, you have some pretty fierce competition, and she isn’t afraid of using her feminine wiles.”

—————

The lights in CakePop glow a harsh red as the fluorescent, buzzing tubes shine across Jungkook’s face. You admire the slope of his nose, the angles of his jaw and the way his hair frames his face as he orders a round of drinks from the bar. He chose to wear jeans you’ve never seen him in before: baggy as hell with large cuts horizontally going up the back of them. With a white sleeveless tank and white, tiger-print long sleeve covering his tattoos, his look is complete with a new chain earring he’s showing off.

Jimin, Taehyung, and Hoseok dressed up as well, each one showcasing their different style but just as handsome. They sit at the table reserved for your group, chatting as their heads bob to the music. He’s busy paying for the tab when you feel a tap on your shoulder.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

You look over your shoulder at the man who’s sidled up close to you while your attention is elsewhere.

“No, but thank you,” you reply as loud as you can over the music without drawing too much attention to the rejection. You watch as the man’s eyes bounce from you to Jungkook as you take a step closer to him.

“Oh, this you?” he asks, understanding morphing through his pupils. You don’t know how to respond, since it’s very much so complicated, but Jungkook saves you the trouble.

“Yeah, she’s with me.” Jungkook’s arm wraps itself heavily around your waist, fingers on the meat of your hip as he tucks you into his side. He eyes the man, who is slightly taller than him, but seems to deem him as not a threat. “C’mon, babe,” he says into your ear, “our drinks are ready.”

You smile up at him, moving to grab your drink as he takes the small platter that holds the other four drinks over to the table. His hand never leaves your skin, transferring from holding your hip to holding your hand as he navigates through the dancing bodies and back to your group of friends.

“Finally! Let’s down these and get on the dance floor!” Hoseok says. As the P.E. Teacher at the school you work at, he’s really fit. You know he also works at a dance studio in the evenings and during the summer, so as far as this scene goes, Hoseok was ready to show off his moves. The others agree, so you throw your drink back before excusing yourself to the bathroom. Best to pee now, instead of breaking the seal later.

“We aren’t waiting for you!” Taehyung teases as he adjusts his thin, silky red shirt, the opening around his neck unbuttoned and angled to show off delicate collarbones and a thin gold chain, but you know that it would be easy enough to find the four of them in the crowd; eyes often gravitate to watch them when they’re together as a group. Especially with Jimin in his all-black outfit, baggy jeans and combat boots put together with a leather jacket, and Hoseok in ripped jeans, jean jacket, black tee and sunglasses? There was no way you could miss them. Jungkook might be the one you’re fucking night after night, but the rest of the guys are also great to look at. Being the only girl out with them tonight will be fun.

In the bathroom, you see a few texts from your brother, on your lock screen, but you ignore him, because it doesn’t matter. Jungkook is going home with you tonight, so there’s no need to make it weird. You know he’s only looking out for you, in the way that Yoongi does, but tonight you just want to shut your brain off for a while.

Washing your hands, you check yourself out in the mirror, loving how your jeans fit your ass and your shirt shows just the right amount of cleavage. If you’re already getting hit on so boldly at the bar, you can only imagine how the rest of the night is going to go, and your self-confidence excites you. It’s twisted, but you feel good knowing other guys are showing their interest in you, in front of Jungkook. It’s like…showing Jungkook that you’re a good catch, if others also want you. Plus, having Jungkook step in and turn them away, saying you’re with him is a huge turn-on and confidence boost for you. In a way, you feel like Yoongi’s concerns shouldn’t matter too much because Jungkook already claimed you once tonight to someone else. Do you really need to do more? Your thoughts go quiet as more women filter into the bathroom, talking loudly.

“But did you see the one in all black? He’s so hot.”

“Okay, but the one with dance moves? In ripped jeans? Even hotter.”

You laugh to yourself as you fix your hair before heading to the door.

“I’m set on the one in white. I’m taking him home if it’s the last thing I do.”

If they had been paying attention to you, they would have seen the stutter in your step and the way you almost miss the handle to the door, but as luck would have it, no one notices the almost stumble as you head back into the dark of the club.

As you expect, finding the group is easy, but pushing through the onlookers is slightly difficult, as some of the women do not want to move to let you through, thinking you’re simply another fan of the men dancing to the grooving house music. Once you find a break between bodies however, Jungkook spots you and reaches his hands out to you, pulling you through in time to the rhythm. He’s face to face with you, hips moving with each beat that thumps through the speakers as you settle into the space created by the disappointment of the gravitating spectators.

He drops one of his hands, allowing him to spin you around with the one still holding onto you after a few moments and then stepping into your space so you’re able to meld your body into his and face the other guys in the group. You wind your hips back into his pelvis and Jungkook catches every beat, hands resting on your hips as you work him. You want to see his face, see if he’s watching you or not, but when you feel his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly in response to a rather suggestive body roll, you guess you know he’s paying attention to you more than anything else.

Typically, when the songs change, you also change partners, liking to spread the wealth that is your dancing among the others, but tonight, Jungkook doesn’t let go, and you don’t try to leave him. The others don’t seem to mind, spending their time choosing random people from the crowd to dance with or weaving back and forth to get drinks from the bar. Eventually, the group of girls from the bathroom comes near, you turn to face Jungkook, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I’m staying with you tonight, right?” you ask on tippy toes, mouth ghosting the shell of his ear tipsily to ask something you already know the answer to, but wanting to lay your claim. Your teeth nip lightly at the earlobe without the new chain earring, and you leave a soft kiss where the lobe meets his neck just so the other girl can see.

He responds in kind after a shiver races down his spine, pulling you closer as the heat from his mouth spreads lower through your body. “You better be—I’ll kidnap you if I have to.” He bites your neck playfully, causing you to squirm in his hold but he doesn’t loosen his grip on you, just apologizes for the bite with a tongue-wetted kiss that promises so much more to come when you get home. Turning back around in his hold, you watch as Taehyung looks between you and his friend, and can only smile knowingly to yourself when it dawns on him what must be going on. Now that Yoongi knows, you don’t really care if the others find out or not.

Jimin returns to the group with drinks for you and Jungkook fisted in his hands, and you thank him before drinking half of it in one gulp. “Slow down, baby, we have plans for tonight, so we shouldn’t drink too much more, okay?” Jungkook’s eyes are wide and pleading when you look over your shoulder at him, and it’s almost heart-stopping how good he looks, tongue swiping his bottom lip and messing with his lip piercings. It should be illegal for him to ask for anything from you while giving you that look.

“Yeah, this is my last one,” you promise, and he smiles as he finishes the beer Jimin gave him.

“I’ll get you some water, okay? Can’t have my baby with a hangover tomorrow.”

Your mixed drinks are more potent than his beers, and it’s cute that he’s thinking of taking care of you. You feel warmth in your chest at his consideration and actions, not to mention his use of the claiming endearment leaving you all hot and bothered as he heads off the dancefloor towards the bar.

“What time are we staying ‘til?” you ask Hoseok, who eyes his watch.

“Probably not much longer, it’s almost one. Thirty minutes sound good?”

“Yeah, I think I can do another thirty to forty-five minutes.”

Hoseok nods, but his smile then turns mischievous. “You and Jungkook sharing a taxi tonight?” He takes both of your hands, swinging them as if going to draw you in to dance with him, and a part of you wants to pull away; as if you can’t dance with Hoseok because you have a boyfr—or because you have plans to fuck someone in an hour or so and it would be disrespectful. Right?

“We always share a taxi, Hobi,” you answer coyly, evading his question and not stepping closer to him, politely declining to dance.

Hoseok just grins wider, hips swaying to the beat as he steps away from you, dropping your hands. “She’s all yours,” he says over your head, and a moment later you feel the heat of Jungkook as he envelops you back into his body.

“Here, make sure to drink all of it,” Jungkook places the bottle of water into your hand as he turns you to face him, the lid already twisted off for you. His voice drops, in volume and in tone, as he adds, “Only good girls get what they want tonight.”

You have to hold yourself back from responding with a “Yes, Daddy,”—the alcohol making you much more submissive to the younger man—so you bring the bottle to your lips instead, making sure you hold his eye contact as you wrap your pout around the rim and swallow the first gulp. The water is so quenching, you close your eyes as you take subsequent swallows, a little bit leaking from the corners of your mouth to run down your cheeks, neck, and disappear between your breasts.

“Woah, careful baby, I want you wet, but this water is for drinking,” he says as he pulls the water bottle back slightly from your mouth to slow the flow down, and you’re grateful, but also now horny as your eyes take in the way he’s looking at you. “Fuck it,” he intones mostly to himself, before dipping his face down into your chest. His tongue traces the path of the water back up to your neck where he keeps his mouth to suckle at your sensitive skin.

Neither of you cares that you’re in a packed club, that people are watching, that your friends—who didn’t know until tonight that there was anything more between the two of you—are watching and are also close enough to hear the sound you let out, the cross between a whimper and a moan as you cling to Jungkook’s shirt, hands fisted near his waist wanting him closer.

“Maybe we should get those taxis now?” Hoseok says aloud, mostly to Jimin and Taehyung in an attempt to pull their eyes away from the sight in front of them. The two just nod, and Hoseok pulls out his phone and opens his app. He can’t help but look up every few seconds though, not when you’re pressing your chest into Jungkook’s as he kisses you openly, his tattooed hand grabbing at your ass as he grinds into you in time to the music.

The sounds Hoseok can hear from you between the music pounding out of the speakers have his dick jumping—as if straight out of his favorite porn flicks—but you’re Yoongi’s older sister, and apparently have been fucking the youngest in the group and Hoseok is now putting three and four together to realize the friend with benefits who he’s been fucking seven nights a week (per his text messages) is you.

The crowd surrounding their group is beginning to stare now too, and Hoseok feels mildly uncomfortable—not because you have your tongue in Jungkook’s mouth (no, the sight is quite hot)—because the women who were circling like vultures all night are staring daggers at your head. Despite you two dry-humping on beat, Hoseok can see the annoyed looks on some of the other dancers' faces, so he’s more than happy to unceremoniously pull your mobile device from your back pocket (the one without Jungkook’s hand all over it) so he can order your taxi to keep you and Jungkook from getting arrested for indecent exposure.

He hates being the person to interrupt the two of you when the taxis are about to arrive, but the shine in your eyes is full of gratitude as he leads your group outside. He suspects it’s because you were probably in need of oxygen, and a small part of him assumes it’s because you were just caught acting like a couple of young teenagers. Hoseok hands you your cell phone back as you all stand at the curb, and you smile sheepishly at Hoseok, Jimin, and Taehyung, as if to say ‘Surprise! It’s me!’.

Jungkook still has his arms wrapped around you, lips kissing your neck and exposed shoulder—any place his mouth can reach from his spot behind you—and when the first taxi pulls up, Jimin has to pull Taehyung along to go with him and Hoseok.

“But, can I go with them? I wanna watch some more,” Taehyung doesn’t sound like he’s joking at all, and only decides to climb into his taxi when Jungkook shoots him a glare that you can’t see.

“Be safe, text me when you all get home!” you say as they settle in the backseat. They all give you skeptical looks, knowing you’ll probably be too busy to even see the messages, but they’ll do it anyway. Your phone alerts you that your taxi is also there, so you wave as you lead a seemingly lovesick, doe-eyed, muscle bunny to another car pulling up behind the first.

Climbing into the vehicle, you’re practically sitting on Jungkook’s lap the entire ride home, where he’s quietly feeling you up the whole way to his apartment. His hand is between your thighs, pressing into you in a way that makes the seam of your jeans press against your clit. He feels the way you roll your hips as he leaves wet pecks on your neck and whispers dirty things into your ear.

“Wanna fill you up when we get home,” he murmurs, “can’t wait to feel you wrap around me.”

Your breathing is shaky, and the taxi driver asks if you’re okay as he speeds down the road.

Your back is against the cold shower wall, Jungkook’s strong arms hold your legs at the knees as he thrusts inside of you. His body pins you in place, your hands clawing at his back as you try to find purchase against his slick skin. You bounce on his hardened cock as he drills it deeper inside of you, hips rutting for friction against his pelvis, your swollen clit aching for more.

“Fuck, baby, you’re perfect.” Jungkook’s mouth moves against your collarbones as he speaks, switching between biting and kissing from the pleasure your walls give him. The pain as he marks you only makes you wetter, makes you crave him more.

“Jungkook, feels so good,” you whine out, tangling your fingers into the wet hair curling at the nape of his neck. “Love it,” you chant out, repeating the phrase several times. “Fuck me, baby, don’t stop, love how you feel.”

Jungkook’s brain can barely handle the way you’re sending all of his senses into overdrive. The feel of you sliding up and down, so slick and warm on his cock as you tug at his hair, your words flowing through his mind, that you love it, love it, love it, so close to saying you love more than just the way he fucks you, maybe you could even love…him?

“Fuck, baby, keep saying it, don’t stop, you ride me so good, fucking love your pussy.”

“Love your cock, fuck Jungkook, love how you fuck me, need more, need you deeper.”

Jungkook lets your legs down one by one so he can turn you to face the glass of the shower, allowing both of you to feel the hot water streaming onto your bodies as he enters you from behind. Your hands lay flat on the glass as he begins to pound into you, the clapping of his thighs into your ass echoing off the walls of the bathroom, mixing with your breathy moans as he reaches that spot inside of you.

“Tell me you love it, tell me how good my cock feels, splitting your pussy open like this,” Jungkook’s voice is whiny as he begs for your praise, secretly seeking more than he asks for. When he wraps his tattooed hand around your waist, fingers dipping between your legs in search of your clit, you give everything he’s hoping to hear and more as you climax.

“Oh, fuck, right there, Jungkook, fuck, fuck, I love you, don’t stop, please don’t stop, you feel so good, Jungkook, fucking love you, you make me feel so good.”

His head—the one currently buried deep inside you—loses all senses as his other head processes your words, and he’s losing himself as he empties inside of you. Your legs shake, wanting to give out if not for his strong arms holding you up.

“You’re so perfect, baby,” Jungkook whispers as he kisses the back of your head. “My perfect baby.”

Drying off, you shiver slightly as Jungkook walks out of the bathroom to grab some clothes for you both and leaves the door ajar. Your phone sits on the sink counter, a little foggy from the steam, but you can still see messages waiting for you. You click through them each one by one, not bothering to respond since it’s much later than the time they were sent, and all of the senders are probably deep in an alcohol-induced sleep. You glance at the time, noting it's now almost 2:30 AM.

You’re glad the three men made it safely, but kind of hate the way Hoseok refers to you and Jungkook as teenagers. Were your actions at the club tonight…immature? What did he mean by that? Did he think you weren’t smart enough to make sure to use protection? Jungkook’s young, but he’s not that young! Plenty of people under twenty-six have children. Would it be so bad if you and Jungkook were to become pregnant, based solely on your ages?

Then there’s Taehyung, pointing out yet again how ‘young’ Jungkook is—and why is he sending you thirst traps? You know it’s harmless, he’s just drunk and wants your attention, but it still makes you upset that he feels that your choice was wrong because of age.

Are you some old crone or hag that can’t fuck with someone younger than you? What makes this age gap so bad? You just want someone to make sense of what they’re saying to you, because the way you’re interpreting it, they think you and Jungkook are too different in age to be together. Your biggest fears come to light in the messages across your screen, from your own friends no less, just when you’re coming to terms with the one fact that should be the only one that matters: You want to be with Jungkook. You want to date him—want him to be yours, for real.

Jungkook returns with a large black shirt for you, his own lower body covered with a clean pair of red Calvin Klein boxer briefs. You pull the shirt over your head, and in the dark, you hear his phone chime with a text message.

“Who’s even up at this time?” he mutters, and you have to agree, It’s late, but you assume it’s a message from one of the guys; he probably texted them each back and one wasn’t asleep just yet. Your head and arms are pushed hurriedly through the holes, and you see Jungkook barely get a chance to glance at his phone before he’s setting it down next to yours and instead grabbing your towel to finish drying your hair.

The action is sweet, warming your heart and you know that this is the moment. It’s time to tell Jungkook exactly how you feel, regardless of the post-sex high and in spite of being still tipsy on alcohol—you’re sure what you want to say will come out how you intend. How hard can it be to tell someone you like them? But his phone chimes again and you can’t help but to glance down at it. The sight makes your blood run cold. SoHee, clearly shirtless, sending a booty call text at 2:33 AM.

To YOUR Jungkook. To the same Jungkook who you just professed your love to while taking raw backshots in his shower; the same Jungkook who just finished emptying his cum inside of you.

Your thoughts run wild; did he send nudes to her too? Did he take one when he left the bathroom to get clothes for you both? You want to scroll through the thread, see for yourself that he isn’t sending nudes to someone else, when he’s been fucking you every night, calling you his baby, his princess…No. Your eyes prick with tears at the thought, the alcohol still running through your veins making your ability to think logically about this situation a bit cloudy.

“Seriously, Jungkook? Fucking me and texting other bitches back to back? While I’m still here?” you scoff, shaking your head as you step away from him.

“What?” he glances down at his phone, seeing the screen lit up with the message from SoHee. His eyes take in the picture and the message, growing wide in fear. “No, baby, it’s not what you think—” He picks up the phone, wants to show you the truth but you don’t let him speak.

“Jungkook, do I look stupid to you? I can literally see the messages and can still feel the ache between my thighs from you. This might work on girls your age, but please, do not insult my intelligence.”

“Girls my age? What are you talking about?”

“You! I’m talking about you pulling a stunt like this!”

“Baby, c’mon. You’re just drunk, I promise you, this is nothing.”

His words only add to your ire. He’s downplaying what happened, but you know what you saw. It was right there in front of your eyes, but he’s trying to placate you and you can’t stand to feel like this. Like you can easily fall for some bullshit just because a hot, younger guy is showing interest in you. It’s exactly what people expect, right? That older women put up with shit because they’re afraid no one will want them, that they’re past their expiration date for romance.

“Don’t ‘you’re just drunk’ me! I literally just told you how I feel about you, to then see that picture and message! I honestly should’ve expected something like this from you, I chose to fuck the youngest in the group, what did I expect?” You say this last part more to yourself than to Jungkook, but he hears you just the same.

“Hold on. What are you even fucking saying right now? You chose to fuck the youngest in the group? What, would you have decided to fuck someone else, like Jin or Namjoon? Because they’re older than me?”

“They probably wouldn’t be sending nudes to other bitches at 2 AM after fucking me in their shower and inviting me to stay the night. Maybe my coworker was right about you.”

“That’s not what the fuck even happened! God, you know, you’re so stupid sometimes, I swear. I’ve always wanted you, but you’re the one acting immature, like you’re so great because you’re older than me? Age doesn’t fucking matter, our age gap isn’t even that big! But you’re acting like you know more because you’re older than me?”

“Jungkook,” you sigh out, bringing your finger to your temples, “you don’t fucking get it, you’re too young to—”

“Don’t you even finish that fucking sentence.”

“Seriously, Jungkook. You can’t possibly feel—”

“Are you actually trying to tell me how I feel!? You’re certifiably insane.” Jungkook laughs, but there is no humor in his tone. He paces out of the bathroom, fingers raking through his hair as he tries to make sense of what’s happening. “You know what? You’re the only one who has ever worried about our age difference. Because of what other people say, right? Because I’ve never said anything about it. Not negatively, at least. I’ve…” Jungkook’s voice cracks as he tries to express how he feels to you, but he’s so disappointed that he can’t look at you. “You know I’ve literally been here for you, for anything you fucking needed. My age never mattered when it benefitted you. Your coworker doesn’t know shit about me and you. But apparently her opinion matters more than hearing me out.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Actually, I can’t deal with this right now,” he says, adding your name to the end of his sentence like a finality. He turns towards your discarded jeans and shoes. You can see him opening his phone, KakaoTaxi open on the screen. “I have to get up early for my shift, and I really think I should sleep alone tonight.”

“Jungkook, wait,” you start to speak, to try and take back what you’ve said, but for Jungkook, it’s literally and figuratively too late. He walks you back into the bathroom, passing you your jeans from where he’s picked them up off of the floor.

“Your taxi will be here in less than five minutes. Text me when you get home safely.”

Jungkook drops the phone back on the counter and disappears out of the bathroom, and you don’t bother trying to follow him. His phone lies abandoned next to yours, and you can’t help yourself. You swipe sideways to his messages and scroll up through the thread with SoHee quickly, but there’s nothing in it from Jungkook showing he’s sent nudes, barely any messages sent from him at all.

You blink away the tears that are forming, step into your jeans and grab your phone. His phone chimes from the Taxi notification, and you don’t bother to say goodbye, since you don’t see him on your way through his apartment to his front door. You linger, closing the door slowly but he never appears, and you’re hit with a sobering moment of reality of what your future could look like without him in it. The way home is quiet and lonely at this hour, the roads a sea of black, white, and grey, and you aren’t sure if Jungkook will ever color your doorstep—or your life—again.

stay tuned for “i kiss your waist and ease your mind” coming 8-?-2023!

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