#the music and the art and the game play??? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

estellan0vella · 7 hours ago

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The Greatest Fucking Tragedy: L. Mh Lee Minho x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 14.3K

Content Warnings: Marijuana Use, Depictions of Focal Impaired Awareness Seizures (FIAS), moments of dissociation, and post-seizure disorientation, Drowning/Non-Consensual Submersion, Retaliatory Violence, Threats of Harm, Crude Humour, Background Jilix

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The Alpha Phi frat house smells like weed and stale beer. It’s a permanent scent, woven into the fabric of the couch cushions and lingering in the wooden floors no matter how many times Seungmin bitches about cleaning. Right now, though, the weed is winning. Thick smoke curls through the dimly lit living room, the cheap LED lights flickering in rhythm with the low hum of music playing from someone's speaker.

Minho is sprawled across the couch, legs spread, shirt discarded somewhere across the room, his grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He takes a slow drag from the bong before passing it to Chan, his eyes heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted. It’s a good high, the kind that makes his limbs sink into the cushions, makes the world feel warm and slow.

Across from him, Felix is perched in Jisung’s lap, and Jisung, the little shit, has both hands shoved down the front of Felix’s sweatpants. Felix barely reacts, eyes glazed over, exhaling smoke through his nose.

“Dude,” Changbin mutters, head lolling to the side as he looks at them. “At least fucking pretend like we’re not all here.”

Felix grins, a lazy, stoned smile. “Nah.”

Jisung laughs, head tipping back against the couch. “You’re just mad because you’re not getting any.”

Changbin flips him off, but it lacks any real heat.

“You know what’s actually pissing me off right now?” Hyunjin announces, draping himself dramatically across the armchair like some Renaissance painting. His long black hair falls into his face, and he exhales, letting the smoke swirl in front of him before looking at Minho. “Minho doesn’t know how to fucking swim.”

There’s a beat of silence before the entire room erupts into laughter.

Minho groans, throwing his head back against the couch. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Wait, wait,” Jeongin gasps between laughs. “You’re telling me you—Lee Minho, who can probably do a backflip off a fucking moving car—can’t even float?”

“Jesus Christ,” Seungmin chokes out. “That’s embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” Minho mutters, reaching for the bong again. “I just never fucking learned.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Jisung sings, poking at Felix’s stomach while Felix tries and fails to bat his hands away.

Chan, who’s been silent up until now, takes a hit before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His short blue hair is messy, and his eyes are half-lidded, but there’s a sharp glint of amusement. “Bro, what happened? Did your parents just decide, ‘Fuck it, let’s let this one drown?’”

Minho exhales slowly, fingers flexing against his knee. “I grew up in Gimpo, dipshit. Not exactly a fucking beach town.”

“That’s bullshit,” Hyunjin interjects, sitting up suddenly. “I’ve seen kids in the middle of fucking Seoul learn to swim.”

“Okay, well, I didn’t, you fucking pretentious art bitch.”

Hyunjin gasps dramatically. “Excuse you, I’m an art history major. Say it with respect.”

“Art bitch,” Minho repeats, deadpan.

“God, that’s pathetic,” Changbin snickers. “Can’t wait to throw your ass into a pool.”

“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” Minho warns, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, we absolutely would,” Seungmin grins. “Like, imagine the fear in his little rat face.”

“Fucking hilarious,” Jeongin agrees, laughing. “We’ll get some floaties for you, hyung.”

Minho exhales sharply through his nose, looking between them all with narrowed eyes. “Alright, you wanna go there? You wanna play this fucking game?”

Felix hums, head tilting slightly. “Always.”

Minho leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Hyunjin, you pretentious fuck, you spend more time making sad little sketches of broken statues than actually studying for your bullshit major. Jisung, you look like a fucking poodle with that mop on your head, and I hope you choke on Felix’s dick one day and die happy. Felix, your mullet is an actual crime, and I’m gonna shave that shit in your sleep.”

Felix gasps, clutching at his chest. “Rude.”

“Jeongin, your entire wardrobe looks like it came from a thrift store run by blind grandmas, and Seungmin, I hope every client you have in the future fucking sues you into the ground.”

Seungmin just grins. “That’s fair.”

Minho shifts his glare to Changbin. “And you, motherfucker, I hope you trip over your own fucking dumbbells and break both your legs so I never have to hear you talk about leg day again.”

Changbin snorts. “Joke’s on you, I’d just talk about arm day instead.”

Minho exhales sharply, leaning back against the couch. “Fuck all of you.”

Chan chuckles, passing the bong again. “Love you too, dumbass.”

“You know what, though?” Jisung suddenly pipes up, squinting in Hyunjin’s direction. “Hyunjin, you were the dirty bastard that left the used condom in the hallway after banging that Kappa Tau girl.”

A collective groan fills the room, a mix of disgust and exasperation.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Changbin grumbles, shaking his head. “I stepped near that shit, man. You’re fucking nasty.”

Hyunjin, instead of looking remotely ashamed, stretches his arms above his head lazily. “That may be true,” he admits, voice smooth and amused, “however, no one saw me bang that girl.” He smirks at Jisung and Felix. “But we all saw you two going at it on the couch that one time, you dirty exhibitionists.”

Felix, without hesitation, points an accusing finger at Hyunjin and shouts, “Homophobia!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hyunjin scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re just mad because your past sins are being brought to light.”

“It’s not a sin,” Jisung grins, tightening his arms around Felix’s waist. “It’s called being in love, bitch.”

Seungmin, who’s been lazily nursing a beer on the other side of the couch, snorts. “Jisung’s probably fondling Felix’s balls right now.”

Felix smirks. “He is, actually.” He adjusts slightly in Jisung’s lap. “I’ve been at a semi for like twenty minutes.”

Jeongin groans, burying his face in his hands. “Fucking gross.”

“Hey, don’t kink shame,” Felix says with mock offence, raising his brows.

Minho takes a slow drag from the bong before passing it off and exhaling through his nose. “Shame,” he deadpans. “So much shame. We all saw Jisung balls deep in you, Felix.”

Felix just shrugs, completely unbothered. “And? You're all just jealous.”

“We also saw Jisung’s nasty balls,” Hyunjin pipes up with a smirk, “and his surprisingly fat ass.”

Jisung gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Excuse you! My ass is none of your concern.”

Hyunjin leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It became my concern the moment I had to witness it in a position I never wanted to see.”

Jisung glares. “Hyunjin, we all saw your used jizzy condom.”

Hyunjin smirks back. “But we all saw your nasty balls.”

Jisung whines, kicking his feet. “I fucking hate you.”

Felix laughs, patting Jisung’s cheek. “Ji, baby, your balls aren’t nasty or else I wouldn’t put them in my mouth.”

A collective groan of disgust echoes through the room.

“Jesus fucking Christ, man,” Chan mutters, rubbing his face. “I’m too high for this conversation.”

Jisung just grins proudly while Hyunjin mock gags. “You’re the most insufferable couple I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

“You’re the one,” Jisung suddenly snaps back, pointing an accusing finger, “who, instead of using tissues like a normal fucking person, used a sock to clean up after your wank sessions.”

Hyunjin instantly straightens. “Wait, hold the fuck up-”

Jisung steamrolls over him. “And then, like the absolute menace you are, you had the fucking audacity to send me looking for a pair of your socks when you sprained your ankle last semester.”

The room goes dead silent. Then Changbin lets out a wheeze.

“Oh my fucking god,” Seungmin mutters, eyes wide with horror. “No.”

“Yes,” Jisung continues, as if reliving a war story. “Me, being a good fucking friend, went upstairs, searched through your shit, and found your sordid sock of shame.” His voice rises in outrage. “It was hard, Hyunjin. Socks shouldn’t be fucking hard!”

The entire room erupts into chaos. Felix practically falls off Jisung’s lap from laughing so hard, while Jeongin looks seconds away from leaving the house altogether.

“Hyunjin, what the actual fuck?” Chan gasps, leaning away from him.

“You nasty fuck,” Changbin wheezes, shaking his head.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Jeongin mutters.

Minho just smirks, watching the conversation unfold, deeply satisfied that the attention is nowhere near his lack of swimming skills anymore.

Hyunjin groans, running a hand down his face. “Alright, first of all, that was one fucking time-”

Jisung interrupts with a loud, “Bullshit!”

Hyunjin glares. “Second of all, why the fuck were you digging that deep in my stuff?”

“Because I thought I was helping a fucking friend,” Jisung snaps back. “I didn’t think I had to watch out for a biohazard!”

“Fuck you,” Hyunjin mutters.

“I’m gonna get you a box of tissues,” Felix laughs, wiping his eyes. “That was the most disgusting shit I’ve ever heard.”

“You all suck,” Hyunjin huffs, slouching back into the chair.

“Not as much as Felix,” Jisung quips.

Felix beams. “That’s right, baby.”

The argument between Jisung and Hyunjin doesn’t die down. If anything, it escalates, because neither of them knows when to shut the fuck up.

Hyunjin suddenly grins, pointing at Jisung with a newfound spark of mischief in his eyes. “You wanna talk about nasty? You fucking humped one of Felix’s pillows once.”

The entire room explodes with laughter, except for Jisung, who lets out the most inhuman screech imaginable.

Felix, to everyone’s surprise, doesn’t even look offended. Instead, he tilts his head, looking at Jisung fondly. “That’s cute, Ji.”

Jisung glares at Hyunjin, face burning red. “Yeah, well, Hyunjin fucking jerked off while wearing one of Changbin’s hoodies!”

The laughter somehow gets even louder.

Changbin, who had been taking a sip of his drink, immediately chokes. “What the fuck?”

“I fucking knew it!” Seungmin yells.

“I don’t fucking know why you’re all so surprised,” Minho mutters, shaking his head.

Hyunjin throws his hands up defensively. “Okay, first of all, that hoodie was comfy as fuck. Second of all, it’s none of your goddamn business.”

“Oh, it became my business,” Jisung snaps. “Because you’re a fucking weirdo.”

Felix, wiping tears from his eyes, claps his hands together. “Alright, enough talking. Time for physical violence.”

And just like that, all hell breaks loose.

Jisung and Felix immediately launch themselves at Minho, and Jisung shouts, “POWER OF THE GAY BOYFRIENDS!”

Felix follows it up with a very enthusiastic, “YEAH! Like Power Rangers!”

Minho doesn’t have time to roll his eyes before Jisung tries to tackle him, but Minho is faster. Years of football training make it easy for him to dodge, and he grabs Jisung by the waist, flipping him effortlessly over his shoulder and slamming him down onto the couch. Before Jisung can wriggle away, Minho shifts, trapping him between his thighs in a tight grip.

Felix tries to grab Minho from behind, but Chan, who had been minding his own business, too high to care, suddenly gets dragged into the mess when Minho pulls him forward, locking an arm around his neck in a headlock.

“Fucking traitor!” Chan gasps, squirming.

Minho just grins, tightening his hold on both of them. “You little shits thought you could take me?”

Felix, still determined, throws himself forward, trying to grab Minho’s arm. But Minho is faster, he catches Felix mid-motion, wrapping an arm around his neck and securing him in another headlock.

“I got two of you now,” Minho announces, grinning wildly.

Felix flails. “Let me go, you fucking rat bastard!”

Jisung is still trapped between Minho’s thighs, thrashing wildly. “Felix! Betrayal! He got me!”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Jeongin and Seungmin are wrestling like rabid dogs.

“Your fashion sense fucking sucks!” Jeongin yells, trying to shove Seungmin off him.

“Oh yeah?!” Seungmin barks back, gripping Jeongin’s shirt and yanking him down. “At least I don’t look like a thrift store threw up on me!”

“I fucking told you, vintage is in, asshole!”

Changbin and Hyunjin have also somehow ended up grappling with each other. At first, it was just playful shoving, but now Changbin has Hyunjin pinned down, and Hyunjin, breathless, suddenly blurts out, “I’m weirdly into this. Is it because I’m bisexual or submissive?”

Without missing a beat, Minho, who still has both Chan and Felix in a headlock, calls out, “Both.”

Jisung takes advantage of the distraction and bites down on Minho’s thigh. “OW, YOU FUCKING GREMLIN!” Minho yells, immediately releasing his hold on Chan and Felix to shove Jisung off.

Jisung cackles maniacally, rolling off the couch. “FUCKING WORTH IT!”

Chan, now free, immediately lunges at Minho, tackling him. “Payback, bitch!”

Felix joins in, piling on top of them. “GET HIM!”

On the other side of the room, Seungmin has Jeongin in a headlock, Jeongin is still screaming about fashion, Changbin has Hyunjin pinned, and overall, the frat house is complete fucking chaos.

Just another normal night in Alpha Phi.

Minho stands in the frat house kitchen, flipping thinly sliced beef in a pan, the rich scent of soy sauce, garlic, and sesame oil filling the air. His black hair is damp from a quick shower after the royal rumble in the living room, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. A cluster of Hello Kitty bandaids is haphazardly slapped onto his thigh, covering the spot where Jisung fucking bit him like a rabid animal. He still doesn’t know where the hell Felix got Hello Kitty bandaids from, but at this point, he’s given up questioning anything in this house.

Just as he’s about to taste a piece of bulgogi straight from the pan, Chan strolls in, looking far too smug for someone who got his ass handed to him in the wrestling match earlier. He props himself up against the counter, arms crossed, watching Minho cook.

“Hey,” Chan starts, casual. Too casual.

Minho narrows his eyes immediately. “What.”

“I have a friend who can teach you how to swim.”

Minho blinks, staring at him. Then, slowly, he reaches over and turns down the heat on the stove before resting his hands on the counter. “You have friends outside of the frat?”

Chan scoffs, shoving at his shoulder. “Obviously, dumbass.”

“I don’t believe you.” Minho smirks, popping a piece of bulgogi into his mouth. “You leave this house for, like, two things. Football and music. That’s it.”

Chan rolls his eyes. “She’s an architecture major. Business minor. She’s the year below us, and she’s on the swim team.”

Minho chews, waiting for him to continue. “And?”

Chan exhales. “She’s kind of anxious. Kind of like Jisung, but where Jisung’s awkward and loud, she’s just quiet, doesn't really speak unless she has something to say.”

Minho hums, tossing the beef in the pan. “Okay.”

Chan leans against the counter. “Go to the college pool tomorrow night. That’s when she’s there. Just explain that you’re like a baby that got tossed into water, and she’ll take pity on you.”

Minho snorts. “Wow. That’s a real confidence boost.”

“She’s nice,” Chan says, ignoring him. “She’ll help.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “She hot?”

Without hesitation, Chan slaps the back of Minho’s head as hard as he can.

“Fuck!” Minho hisses, rubbing his skull. “What the fuck was that for?”

Chan glares. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

Minho smirks, rolling his shoulders. “Well? Is she?”

Chan slaps him again, this time across the arm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Minho mutters, taking a step back. “I’ll just keep asking.”

Chan exhales through his nose, looking like he’s fighting the urge to hit him again. “Objectively, as a straight man? Yes. She’s attractive. But I don’t look at her that way.”

Minho takes another bite of beef, chewing thoughtfully. “Fine. I’ll go and see what she’s about.”

Chan nods, pleased. “Good.”

There’s a beat of silence, just the quiet sound of the stovetop sizzling. Then Chan adds, “Oh, also, she has epilepsy. FIAS.”

Minho’s chewing slows slightly, then he swallows. “Focal impaired awareness seizures, right?” He glances at Chan. “They covered it in my first aid certification course.”

Chan raises his brows, looking impressed. “Yeah.”

Minho shrugs, flipping the last of the beef onto a plate. “Alright.”

Chan watches him carefully. “That’s it?”

Minho scoffs. “What, did you expect me to freak out? ‘Oh no, the girl who’s gonna teach me how to swim has a medical condition, I guess I’ll just drown instead’?”

Chan snorts, shaking his head. “No, but I figured you’d at least have some dumbass question.”

Minho grabs chopsticks and digs into his plate, shrugging again. “Nah. I got it.”

Chan watches him for another second, then claps a hand on his shoulder. “Good. Just don’t be a dick.”

Minho grins, mouth full. “No promises.”

The air inside the college swimming centre is thick with the scent of chlorine, the sound of water lapping against tiled edges echoing through the vast space. Minho walks in, hands in his pockets, boots heavy against the slick flooring. His black top, with open-knit sleeves exposing glimpses of his arms, contrasts against the bright, sterile lights overhead. His black pants, speckled with splatter-paint details, shift slightly as he moves, and the layered silver chains around his neck glint under the fluorescents. The star-shaped pendant catches the light with each step.

His eyes scan the pool, and then he sees you.

You're in the water, moving with eerie precision, muscles cutting through the water like you were born for it. Your blue hair, tied back into a ponytail, gleams under the lights, the two silver strands at the front catching his attention. You’re wearing black yoga shorts and a white T-shirt, slightly translucent from the water, revealing the black swimsuit underneath.

Minho watches as you push off from the shallow end, slipping entirely under the surface. You don’t come up. Not once. He watches, eyebrows raising, as you glide through the water, streamlined, controlled. Your body moves with an effortless fluidity, and he finds himself unable to look away.

By the time you reach the deep end, a full fifty metres later, you finally surface. Not even gasping. Not even fucking struggling. You just exhale sharply, hands sweeping through the water to keep yourself afloat.

What the fuck.

Minho smirks, stepping closer to the edge of the pool. "Hi."

Your head turns towards him as you tread water, eyes sharp and calculating as they land on him. Your expression is calm, blank, like you're not entirely sure what to do with his presence.

He tilts his head slightly. “I’m Minho,” he says, tone easy, casual. “I, uh-” He gestures vaguely. “Need to learn how to swim. Because I’m sick of my asshole friends picking on me for it.” He grins. “It’s my only flaw, really.”

You blink at him.

Undeterred, he continues. “I’m free Wednesdays and Fridays. Whichever works for you. Chan referred me to you, so here I am.”

There’s a beat of silence, the water shifting gently around you. Then, finally, you speak.

"You need some swimming trunks."

Your voice is soft, quiet, but not hesitant. Minho watches the way your lips barely move when you speak, like you're used to making yourself small. He leans forward slightly, smirk deepening. "I can get those."

"Friday nights. Late."

"See you then, mermaid girl," Minho says, stepping back slightly. Then he pauses. "Wait, Chan mentioned FIAS. What happens if that happens in the water?"

You meet his gaze evenly, voice completely flat. "I pray."

Minho snorts. The bluntness catches him off guard, and for the first time, he sees your lips twitch, just barely. It's small, barely a movement, but he sees it.

Interesting.

"See you Friday, then," he says, turning on his heel, already looking forward to whatever the fuck this is going to be.

Minho arrives at the swimming centre late Friday night, the place eerily quiet except for the distant sound of water lapping against the edges of the pool. The fluorescent lights cast a cold, sterile glow over the tiled floors as he steps inside, heading straight for the men’s locker room. He’s dressed in sneakers, sweatpants, and a hoodie, his usual go-to for lazy days, but now, faced with the inevitable, he exhales sharply.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, stripping out of his clothes.

He pulls on the black swimming trunks he bought earlier that day, minimalist, simple, no unnecessary designs, because he refuses to wear some ridiculous board shorts with neon patterns like an overexcited tourist. He rolls his shoulders, shakes out his arms, and then, satisfied, steps out of the locker room and into the main pool area.

You’re already there, standing by the edge of the shallow end, your blue hair tied back into a ponytail, the two silver strands in the front catching the light as they sway slightly. You’re wearing the same white T-shirt and blue yoga shorts as before, the fabric damp from where the water has already lapped at the edges.

Minho watches as you drop into the pool effortlessly, slipping beneath the water before resurfacing in the shallow end. The movement is smooth, controlled, as if the water is an extension of you rather than something separate.

Minho, however, is not fucking graceful.

He carefully climbs in, feeling the cold water instantly hit his skin. The chill makes him jolt, and before he can stop himself, his hands fly up to his chest, covering his nipples.

“Oh my!” he exclaims, voice high-pitched in mock horror.

Then he pauses, blinking.

“Fuck,” he snorts, shaking his head. “I sounded like Dorothy Gale.”

Your expression remains neutral, but the slight quirk of your lips does not go unnoticed.

Minho grins. “You’re holding back a laugh.”

“I’m not,” you say, though your voice is softer than before, almost amused.

“Liar,” he hums, letting his hands drop back to the water. “Alright, teach. What’s first?”

Without a word, you grab two inflatable armbands and a bright orange life jacket, stepping forward to hand them to him.

Minho stares at them, unimpressed. “Really?”

“No risk of drowning if you wear those.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head, but pulls them on anyway, the plastic squeaking slightly against his arms. The life jacket is a little snug, but he fastens it without complaint, standing in the water looking every bit like a grown-ass man being forced into safety gear like a toddler at the beach.

“This is humiliating,” he mutters.

You don’t comment, simply nodding towards the water. “Lie on your front and kick your legs.”

Minho eyes you suspiciously before doing as instructed. He stretches out, floating on his stomach, and starts kicking. The water splashes aggressively around him, but he doesn’t fucking move.

He pauses. Kicks harder. Still nothing.

You tilt your head slightly, watching the sad display. “Okay. New plan.”

Minho flips onto his back, groaning. “Thank fuck.”

You step closer, extending your hands toward him. “Hold my hands, and then kick your legs. I’ll pull you.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he reaches forward, grasping your hands in his own. Your grip is surprisingly strong despite your smaller frame, steady and sure, like you know exactly how to keep control.

Minho lets you guide him, kicking his legs as you gently pull him through the shallow end. It’s not exactly the most dignified moment of his life, but he supposes he has to start somewhere.

“We’ll stick to the shallow end for now,” you say, voice calm and even. “You need to get comfortable in the water.”

Minho watches you as you focus, your movements precise, controlled. Your face is unreadable, but he can tell you’re completely in your element here, unbothered by the water surrounding you.

“You know,” he muses, kicking lightly, “for someone so quiet, you sure take your job as a teacher seriously.”

Your grip on his hands remains steady. “You’d rather I let you drown?”

“Nah,” he grins. “I like the attention.”

"Keep kicking,"

Minho groans as he keeps kicking, his legs starting to ache. “This is fucking tiring,” he complains, gripping your hands tighter as you continue pulling him through the shallow end. The life jacket and armbands are doing most of the work, but still, kicking non-stop is a workout.

You don’t respond, just keep moving, your expression unreadable as always. The water ripples around you both, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the surface. Minho watches the way you move, barely making a sound, like you’ve done this a million times before.

Then, suddenly, you stop.

Minho doesn’t.

“Oof! Fuck,” he grunts as his face smacks directly into your stomach. His fingers clutch yours tighter on instinct, and for a second, he just stays there, processing the fact that he’s literally face-planted into you. He blinks before pulling back slightly.

Your fingers twitch in his grasp. Minho straightens up immediately, expecting some sort of reaction, maybe a shove, a deadpan glare, a snarky comment, but instead, you’re just standing there. Your body is still, eyes unfocused as you stare off into the distance, expression blank.

His brow furrows. “Uh, hello?”

You don’t react. Minho tilts his head. Then, cautiously, he waves one of his hands in front of your face, letting you hold the other. Your fingers twitch again, slight, barely noticeable, but he feels it.

Then it clicks.

“Oh,” he mutters, realization settling in. “It’s happening, huh?”

You remain frozen, still staring at nothing. Minho watches closely, observing the subtle shifts in your body. Your fingers keep twitching against his palm, and there’s the faintest movement in your lips, like you’re about to say something but never quite get there. He’s seen shit like this before, at least in training videos, but seeing it in person is different.

“Damn,” he murmurs, leaning in slightly. “That’s actually kind of cool.”

He inches closer, curious, watching the way your expression remains eerily blank. He wonders what it feels like, if you’re aware of what’s happening or if it’s just an empty space in your head. He’s about to say something else when you suddenly blink rapidly, your head jerking slightly.

Your eyes focus again and then you yelp when you see a pair of brown eyes inches from your own. Minho barely has time to react before you start toppling back into the water. His hands shoot out, grabbing you by the waist before you go under, keeping you steady. His grip is firm but careful, keeping you upright as you breathe sharply, eyes wide.

“Whoa, easy there, mermaid girl,” he says, smirking slightly. “You good?”

You blink up at him, hands gripping his arms instinctively, body still slightly tense from the abrupt shift. Your lips press together briefly before you nod, adjusting yourself so you're standing properly again.

Minho doesn’t let go immediately, watching you closely, making sure you’re not about to keel over again. Your fingers tighten slightly on his arms before you let go, taking a small step back. “Sorry.”

He snorts. “What the fuck are you apologizing for?”

You just shake your head, as if brushing it off, and Minho narrows his eyes slightly. “Does that happen often?” he asks.

You hesitate, then nod. “Sometimes.”

Minho watches you for a second longer, then finally releases his hold on you, stepping back as well. “Huh.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Huh?”

Minho shrugs. “I dunno. Just thought it’d be more dramatic. Like glowing eyes, speaking in tongues-”

You stare at him.

He grins. “What? I think that’d be cool as fuck.”

Your lips twitch again. Not quite a smile, but something close. Minho notices and he finds himself already looking forward to seeing more of it.

Minho wakes up feeling like absolute fucking death. The moment he tries to move, his muscles scream in protest. His legs? Useless. His arms? Betrayers. His back? Feels like he got hit by a fucking truck. He groans, flopping onto his side, and staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him. He knew swimming was a workout, but this? This feels like he spent all night fighting for his life against a bear and lost.

After several moments of regretting every decision that led to this moment, he decides he needs to get to the kitchen. Food. Coffee. Maybe painkillers. Preferably all three.

Except there’s one problem, his legs don’t work.

With a grunt, he rolls onto his stomach and starts crawling out of his room. The frat house hallway is silent except for the occasional creak of floorboards beneath his weight as he drags himself forward. His limbs feel like jelly, completely useless beneath him.

He pauses, exhales sharply, then keeps going, determined. If he dies, at least let it be in the kitchen where someone will find him before his corpse starts to stink.

Reaching the staircase, Minho stares down at the steps like they personally wronged him. No way he’s walking down those. Not happening. Not when his legs feel like they’re made of fucking pudding. So he sits his ass down on the top step, grips the railing, and starts bum-shuffling his way down like a fucking toddler. Every bounce sends a fresh wave of agony through his body.

Fucking fuck. Fucking swimming. Fucking Chan. Fucking mermaid girl.

By the time he reaches the bottom, he’s out of breath. This is the worst workout of his life, and it’s just existing at this point. He flops onto his back for a second, groaning, before realizing he still has to make it to the kitchen.

So he rolls back onto his stomach and starts crawling again.

This time, he doesn’t even pretend to make it look dignified. He’s just dragging himself forward with his arms, barely using his legs. Like some pathetic fucking soldier crawling through the trenches.

When he finally reaches the kitchen doorway, he gives up. Completely. With a dramatic groan, he sprawls out on the cool tile floor, pressing his face against it, arms and legs splayed out like a crime scene chalk outline. "I'll nap here," he mutters, voice muffled against the floor.

And he means it. If this is how he dies, so be it.

An hour later, the frat house is still mostly silent, everyone either still asleep or too hungover to move. The only sound is the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors.

Then, Jisung stumbles into the kitchen.

Still half-asleep, he drags his socked feet across the tile, rubbing his face, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, and he looks like he just crawled out of hell.

Which is exactly why he doesn’t see Minho sprawled out like a fucking corpse in the doorway. With absolutely no warning, Jisung’s foot slams down onto Minho’s ribs.

"FUCK!" Minho yells, jolting awake as if he’s just been electrocuted.

Jisung screams too, flailing backwards. "WHO THE FUCK- WHY THE FUCK- WHAT THE FUCK."

Minho groans dramatically, rolling onto his back. “Ji, you fucking dickhead.”

“Me?” Jisung yells, gripping the kitchen counter to keep himself steady. “Why the fuck are you sleeping on the goddamn floor like some fucking Victorian orphan?!”

Minho sighs, cheek still pressed against the cool tile. "Legs don’t work. I’m dead."

Jisung blinks, looking down at him, expression shifting from pure horror to vague amusement. “Wait, for real?”

Minho just groans in response.

Jisung smirks, stretching his arms above his head. “Damn. Sounds like a you problem.”

Minho lets out a long, suffering sigh. “Ji, drag me to the kitchen table.”

Jisung stares at him. “You want me to drag you?”

“Yes. By my ankles. Do it.”

Jisung shrugs. “Alright, bet.”

Without another word, Jisung crouches down, grabs Minho’s ankles, and yanks. Minho grunts as his body scrapes across the tile, arms flopping uselessly at his sides like a fucking ragdoll. The kitchen floor is cold and definitely not clean, but at this point, he has no fucking dignity left.

Jisung keeps dragging him across the room, humming casually, like this is a completely normal morning routine. By the time they reach the table, Minho is done. His pride? Gone. His will to live? Questionable.

Jisung finally stops and hoists Minho up into one of the chairs, grunting as he shoves him into a semi-sitting position. “Jesus, you’re fucking heavy,” Jisung mutters, rubbing his arms.

Minho flops against the table dramatically. “Coffee?”

Jisung leans against the counter, eyeing him. “You want it black or with a side of my dick in it?”

Minho barely lifts his head. “Both.”

Jisung snorts, shaking his head. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

Minho sighs, pressing his cheek against the cool surface of the table. “I love you.”

Jisung rolls his eyes, grabbing the coffee pot. “Yeah, yeah. You’re buying me breakfast, asshole.”

The swimming centre is eerily quiet this late at night, just the low hum of overhead lights and the distant echo of water lapping against the pool’s edges. Minho steps inside, adjusting the collar of his black leather jacket, his boots clicking softly against the tiled floor. Underneath, he’s wearing a simple black top, paired with heavily distressed light-wash jeans that hang loose around his frame. His silver chains clink softly with each movement.

He scans the pool area, expecting to see you standing by the water like last time. Instead, his eyes travel upward and his stomach fucking drops. You’re on the highest diving board.

Minho freezes, every muscle in his body locking up as his palms instantly start to sweat. The fuck are you doing up there? The fuck are you doing up there? His own fear of heights kicks in violently, making his heartbeat hammer in his chest.

Then, before he can even breathe, you leap off.

“Oh, what the fuck-” Minho slaps his hands over his eyes, peeking through his fingers like a horrified child watching a horror movie.

You free-tumble through the air, flipping effortlessly, the movements fluid and controlled like you’re meant to do this, like gravity is just a suggestion. Right before you hit the water, you take perfect form, slicing through the surface with barely a splash.

Minho drops his hands, exhaling sharply, watching as you pop up to the surface like it’s nothing, slicking your hair back casually.

You’re insane.

“I’m gonna go change,” Minho announces, his voice slightly higher than usual.

You just nod. He watches you for a second, still processing the absolute insanity he just witnessed. Then, a thought strikes him. “Is that safe for epilepsy?”

You shrug and Minho stares. “Cool, cool, cool. No doubt, no doubt, no doubt.”

Then he turns on his heel and beelines for the locker room, already questioning every fucking choice that led him to this moment.

Minho steps out of the locker room, now clad only in his black swimming trunks, his skin still chilled from the air-conditioning inside. The moment he emerges, he spots you standing by the pool, waiting, with those fucking armbands and life jacket again.

He stops in his tracks. "You’ve got to be shitting me."

You don’t even blink, just extend them towards him like it’s non-negotiable.

With a long, suffering sigh, Minho stomps over, yanking the armbands onto his arms before grudgingly pulling on the life jacket. It squeaks slightly as he fastens the buckles. He steps into the pool and immediately tenses at the coldness. “Fucking shit, fuck-”

You wait, completely still, just watching as he hisses through his teeth before finally sinking deeper, water lapping at his shoulders.

“This is actual torture. I’m filing a fucking lawsuit.”

You ignore his dramatics. “Okay,” you say evenly, voice calm, “so today, we’re going to get you comfortable with not being able to touch the floor.”

Before Minho can protest, you grab the back of his life vest and start towing him toward the middle of the pool. “Let me go!” he yelps, kicking his legs as if that’s going to help.

You nod. “Okay.”

And then you fucking do.

Minho immediately freezes, his breath catching in his throat as he realizes. He’s just floating. Not touching the ground. No solid surface beneath him. Just water. His muscles tense, but instead of immediately drowning like his instincts scream he’s about to, he just bobs.

Minho blinks.

You’re treading water beside him, effortlessly balanced. “See? You’re fine.”

He exhales, body still stiff, but, yeah. He’s fine. He lets himself bob around for a bit, staring at the ceiling, processing the fact that he hasn’t died yet.

After a few moments, you speak again. "Want to know next week’s lesson?"

Minho glances over warily. “What?”

You meet his gaze, voice neutral. “Getting comfortable being underwater. Fully submerged.”

Minho immediately straightens. “The fuck I am!”

Panic shoots through him as he starts paddling away, pathetically, in what can only be described as the saddest attempt at a doggy paddle ever witnessed. He doesn’t get far. Because you just grab his ankle and tow him back.

“NO!” he yells, flailing. “FUCKING LET ME GO!”

You don’t even struggle, just calmly drag him back toward the centre of the pool like he’s some misbehaving pet. Minho groans in defeat, throwing his head back.

This is actual fucking hell.

Minho storms into the frat house living room and immediately regrets it because Jisung and Felix are making out on the fucking couch. “For fuck’s sake,” Minho groans, marching over. “Do you two ever fucking stop?”

Jisung barely acknowledges him, just waves a lazy hand in Minho’s direction while still attached to Felix’s mouth. Minho scowls. Fuck this. He grabs the back of Jisung’s hoodie and yanks.

“HEY!” Jisung yelps as he gets ripped away from Felix, arms flailing. “WHAT THE FUCK?”

Felix blinks at the sudden loss of contact, lips slightly swollen. “Uh why?”

Minho ignores the way Felix looks two seconds away from pouting. “I need him,” he says simply, already dragging Jisung toward the stairs.

Jisung stumbles after him, grumbling. “Can I at least finish-?”

“No.”

“Jesus, you’re strong for a dude who doesn’t even fucking swim.”

Minho hauls him up the stairs, yanks open his bedroom door, and shoves him inside before slamming it shut.

Jisung huffs, straightening his hoodie. “Alright, asshole, what the fuck is this? Why am I here? And why-” He pauses, eyes locking onto the bathtub, which is completely full of ice water. “-the fuck is your bath full of ice?”

Minho sighs. “I need your help.”

Jisung squints at him. “With what? Are you planning a fucking polar bear plunge?”

Minho runs a hand through his hair. “I’m taking swimming lessons.”

Jisung stares at him for a long moment. Then, he just nods. “Finally. The bullying worked.”

Minho glares. “Fuck you.”

Jisung grins, clearly too pleased with himself. “So, what? You’re trying to get used to freezing to death?”

Minho exhales sharply. “My teacher wants me to get comfortable underwater, and I don’t want to look like a bitch in front of her. So, you’re helping me practice until next Friday so I can show her I can do this shit.”

Jisung snorts, crossing his arms. “And you think dunking yourself in a fucking ice bath is the way to go?”

Minho gestures toward the tub. “Water’s water.”

Jisung shrugs. “Fair enough.” He gestures toward the bath. “Get in, then.”

Minho grimaces, looking at the water like it personally offended him. “You’re gonna have to force me in.”

Jisung blinks. “Are you serious?”

Minho nods. “Dead fucking serious. My body is screaming ‘fuck that’ right now.”

Jisung grins. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Before Minho can protest, Jisung grabs him by the arms and lifts him straight off the floor.

“WAIT- FUCK-”

Jisung drops him into the ice water. Minho screams. Not just any scream. A full-body, guttural, horror-movie victim scream. “FUCKING SHIT! JISUNG, YOU FUCKING DEMON SPAWN!”

Jisung, completely unbothered, leans over the tub. “Deep breath.”

Minho whips his head around, shivering violently. “What? Why?”

Jisung shoves his head under the water. The cold hits like a fucking truck. Minho flails, the shock rattling every nerve in his body, but Jisung holds him down.

Ten seconds. Ten seconds of pure, fucking misery.

Then Jisung yanks him back up. Minho gasps, sputtering water, eyes wild. “WHAT THE FUCK-”

Jisung claps him on the shoulder. “Only five more days of this. Deep breath.”

Minho’s eyes widen. “Wait-”

“Three, two, one.”

And back under.

Underwater, Minho screams, but all that comes out are bubbles. He starts shouting curses at Jisung from beneath the water, muffled but angry as fuck. Jisung just grins, keeping him down.

This is absolutely the best part of his fucking week.

The water is cool against Minho’s skin as he drops into the shallow end of the pool, his silver chains glinting under the fluorescent lights. The weight of them against his collarbones is familiar, grounding. The past week of Jisung’s torture training has prepared him for this moment, and for once, he doesn’t hesitate before stepping into the water.

You swim over to him, moving effortlessly, your sage green yoga shorts clinging to your hips, your white T-shirt damp and slightly translucent from the water. Minho catches the slight contrast of your sage green bikini top beneath it, but he doesn’t let his gaze linger.

"You ready for submersion?" you ask, voice quiet but steady.

Minho grins, rolling his shoulders. "Yep," he says confidently. "I fucking trained for this."

And without waiting for a response, he drops under the water.

Everything muffles. The sounds of the pool, the hum of the building, even his own heartbeat, it all dulls to a distant echo as he sinks just enough for his head to fully submerge. He hovers there, his body bobbing slightly, legs kicking just enough to keep him steady. His lungs burn slightly, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s almost peaceful.

Then his mind starts wandering. Why the fuck is he so desperate to impress you? It’s not like he gives a shit about what people think of him. He’s always been confident, always had people watching him, but this feels different.

And then, before he can stop himself, his thoughts shift. To you. To how fucking beautiful you are. And then, seamlessly, to all the filthy fucking things he wants to do to you.

Minho smirks to himself, keeping his face submerged as his brain dives headfirst into every inappropriate thought he probably shouldn’t be having in a fucking swimming pool. But fuck it.

He thinks about you in his bed, tangled in his sheets, your body pressed against his as he drags his teeth over your skin, making you moan for him and him only. He thinks about your legs wrapped around his head, your hands clutching at his hair as he eats you out, taking his time, drowning in you in the best fucking way. He thinks about you with your legs around his waist, his hands gripping your thighs as he fucks you, your breath hitching, voice breaking as you say his name the way he wants to hear it.

His lungs start burning a little more now, but he stays under, letting the thoughts roll through him like waves. Then, finally, he pushes himself up.

He breaks the surface, shaking the water from his hair, and immediately locks eyes with you.

"Forty-six seconds," you say, nodding slightly. "Impressive."

Minho grins, still thinking about the absolute filth that just went through his mind. "Told you I trained."

You just hum, watching him, but something in your gaze makes him wonder if you can somehow tell what he was just thinking about.

Then, after a pause, you say, "Hey, what's the best way to shut a guy down?"

Minho raises an eyebrow. "Depends. Are we talking politely or effectively?"

You tilt your head slightly. "Just straightforward."

Minho shrugs. "Just say, ‘Hey, not interested.’ That’s it. No explanation needed."

You nod, processing that. "Okay."

Minho narrows his eyes. "Wait, who the fuck are you rejecting?"

"Just some guy who asked me out that I’m not interested in."

Minho immediately wants to ask who, but shakes it off. Instead, he smirks. "There is another option. Do this." He lifts both middle fingers.

You pause, watching him, and for the first time since he met you, you smile. Not a twitch of the lips. Not just a small reaction. A real, actual fucking smile. And Minho feels it hit him straight in the chest like a fucking wrecking ball.

Oh, he’s in trouble.

The pool water is cooler than usual tonight, but Minho barely registers it as he steps in, his silver chains clinking softly against his collarbones. You’re already there, standing waist-deep, your blue yoga shorts clinging to your hips, your white T-shirt damp against your frame with the blue bikini top just barely visible underneath. Your hair is tied back as always, those silver strands framing your face.

"Okay," you say, voice smooth, measured. "You're learning breaststroke today. It’s the easiest for beginners. You keep your head up."

Minho nods, already bracing himself for whatever bullshit he’s about to endure.

You hand him the life vest. Without hesitation, he pulls it on, tightening the straps. At this point, he barely even complains about it anymore, just accepts his fate.

"Lie on your front," you instruct.

Minho exhales through his nose and flips onto his stomach, legs floating behind him.

"Hold the wall," you say.

Minho grips it, brows slightly furrowed.

"Legs are important in breaststroke," you continue, treading water next to him. "You kick your legs in a circular motion to propel yourself through the water. The legs are the primary source of propulsion, so it's important to get the technique right."

Minho hums, tilting his head slightly. "So what do I need to do?"

You watch him for a moment, then explain, your voice steady, clear. "Start with your legs in a streamlined position, feet pointed. Then," You pause. "Bring your heels towards your ass, with your knees slightly over hip-width apart."

Minho listens, brows furrowing slightly as he tries to visualize it.

"As your heels come up, turn your feet and knees out," you continue. "Then push your feet back in a circular motion. Finish with your legs together, stretched out, and in a streamlined position."

Minho blinks at the ceiling for a second. "That’s a lot of fucking steps."

"It’ll feel more natural once you start," you say simply. "Go ahead. Try it."

Still gripping the wall, Minho starts practising the motions, his legs moving through the water, awkward at first, but getting smoother as he repeats the cycle.

And then, your hand presses against his stomach. Minho freezes, muscles tensing beneath your touch. "Focus on keeping your core strong while you work your legs," you say, completely unaware of the absolute fucking war raging in Minho’s head right now.

Minho nods stiffly, resuming the leg motions, but all he can think about is how soft your hand feels against his bare skin, how close you are, how he’d kill to touch you in return. But he pushes the thoughts aside.

Because fuck that, he needs to get this right. He focuses hard, making sure his legs move in the correct circular pattern, making sure his core stays tight, making sure he doesn’t look like a complete fucking dumbass. Because if he’s going to impress you, he’s going to fucking earn it.

“And now stand up.”

Minho obeys, his feet finding the pool floor as he straightens. The water drips from his hair, sliding down his skin, but he barely registers it. His focus is entirely on you, watching as you move with that same effortless control, completely at home in the water.

“Okay, now the arm movements,” you say, treading water next to him. “You extend your arms, keeping your elbows tucked in, then push them forward to create a streamlined position.” You demonstrate, your arms cutting through the water with precision, your movements controlled and fluid.

Minho watches carefully, then mimics your motion, extending his arms in front of him. His elbows are a little too stiff at first, but he adjusts, rolling his shoulders, making the motion smoother.

“Then,” you continue, nodding at his form, “dip your head between your arms.”

He does, the coolness of the water surrounding him in a way that should be unnerving but isn’t. Not as much as before.

“And when you're using your legs and arms at the same time,” you say, your voice calm, even, “glide forward as your kick finishes behind you. Then sweep your hands out to the sides until they form a Y shape with your body.”

Minho mimics the arm motion, feeling out the movement. It’s strange, a little awkward at first, but it makes sense. He grins, looking at you with sharp confidence. “I’m ready to try and combine both.”

You nod. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Minho takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and then tries. It is an absolute fucking disaster.

The moment he attempts to coordinate his arms and legs, it’s like his entire body forgets how to function. His kick is mistimed, his arms flail in some horrific attempt at a Y shape, and instead of gliding smoothly through the water, he just sinks slightly, floundering like a dying fish.

For the first time ever, you giggle. It’s quiet, soft, but it immediately catches Minho’s attention.

His head pops up above the water, hair dripping into his face, and he grins instantly. “Made you laugh!”

You keep giggling, and it’s genuine, your shoulders shaking slightly as you try to compose yourself. “You looked so ridiculous,” you admit, voice breathless with amusement.

Minho’s grin only widens. “I didn’t look that bad.”

You nod, still giggling. “You did.”

You lift your hand and point at him, as if emphasizing how fucking ridiculous he looked, and you’re still laughing, the sound soft but real. Minho watches you, something warm spreading through his chest, and for once, he doesn’t say anything. He just lets you laugh.

The next day, Minho aches. Every single part of his body feels like it’s been set on fire, the result of spending hours practising breaststroke, pushing himself relentlessly just so he can show you his progress next Friday. His arms hurt, his legs feel like fucking concrete, and his core, don’t even fucking get him started on his core.

But it doesn’t matter. Because he’s going back.

It’s midday when Minho arrives at the swimming centre, determined. The pool is mostly empty at this hour, which is perfect, it means he can practice without distractions.

He strides into the locker room, pulling his hoodie over his head, tossing it onto the bench before stepping out of his sweatpants. His movements are slower than usual, stiff from soreness, but he powers through, grabbing his black swimming trunks and pulling them on. The moment he steps out, rolling his shoulders, he hears it.

Splashing. But not the normal kind. Panicked splashing.

Minho he snaps his head toward the pool. There, crouched at the edge of the deep end, is some Sigma Chi fucker. He’s leaning over the side, one hand pressed down into the water, holding someone under. Whoever it is, they’re clawing at his arm, fighting desperately.

Minho’s stomach drops. Then, he realizes.

It’s you.

“OI!”

His voice booms through the swimming centre, and the Sigma Chi guy jolts, head snapping up in alarm. The guy’s face drains of color, hands immediately raising in surrender the moment he sees who the fuck he’s dealing with.

Because everyone knows about Minho.

Minho doesn’t stop until he’s standing right there, towering over him and then, the guy removes his hand from your head. The second his grip is gone, you break through the surface, gasping for air, your hands immediately gripping the pool wall as your body wracks with coughs. Water drips from your hair, your shoulders shaking as you struggle to breathe, to steady yourself.

Minho’s rage spikes so violently he sees fucking red. Without hesitation, he shoves the Sigma Chi guy straight into the pool. There’s a loud splash, followed by a string of panicked curses, but Minho ignores him. His focus is on you.

He crouches immediately, reaching down and with zero effort, he pulls you out of the pool. The moment you’re standing, you cling to him, your body still trembling, coughs shaking through you. Minho wraps an arm around your back, pulling you closer, his other hand smoothing your soaked hair down in slow, calming motions.

"Want me to call Chan?" His voice is low, controlled, but his fury is boiling beneath the surface.

You shake your head, still gripping onto him, your fingers curled tightly into his skin. You don’t say anything, don’t let go, just keep holding onto him like he’s the only stable thing in the fucking world right now.

Minho doesn’t move. Just keeps rubbing your back, keeps smoothing your hair down, keeps holding you until your breathing steadies.

Behind him, the Sigma Chi guy sputters in the water before shouting, "What the fuck, Minho?!"

Minho doesn’t look at him. "What the fuck you?" His voice is sharp, cutting, layered with undiluted venom. "What the fuck are you doing trying to drown her?"

The guy scoffs, pushing his wet hair out of his face. “She deserved it!”

Minho’s jaw tightens. His fingers flex against your back as he holds you tighter, keeping you as far away from this fucker as possible. “Oh yeah? How?” His voice is calm, too fucking calm, and dangerous.

The guy’s eyes flare with resentment, his face twisting in rage. "She fucking humiliated me! She rejected me! Like anyone else would even be interested in her!"

Minho feels your fingers tighten around him, your whole body tensing against his.

That’s it. That’s all it takes.

Minho shifts, turning to face you, his voice gentle now, quiet. "Go get dry and dressed," he murmurs, his hand still soothingly rubbing your back. "We'll get coffee, yeah?"

You nod, hesitating only slightly before finally slipping away, heading toward the women's locker room. Minho watches you disappear through the doors before he finally turns back.

Minho crouches at the edge of the pool, his lips curling into a grin, but there’s nothing friendly about it. It’s the kind of grin that makes people sweat, the kind that carries the weight of a promise. One soaked in violence and bad fucking decisions. The Sigma Chi guy treads water below him, still coughing, still glaring, but there’s a flicker of something else behind his eyes now. Unease.

Minho tilts his head, fingers drumming against his knee like he has all the time in the world. “You wanna drown someone smaller than you?” he muses, voice light, almost conversational. “Someone who’s too shy, too fucking kind, too scared to fight back?” His head tips forward slightly, his grin widening. “Well, now, you’ve pissed me off.”

And then he moves. With zero hesitation, Minho’s hand shoots forward, grabbing the fucker by the collar and shoving him straight down into the water.

There’s a choked gasp, followed by a violent splash, but Minho doesn’t let go. He watches as the guy’s arms flail, his hands grabbing at nothing, his legs kicking uselessly beneath him. It’s not panic yet, not fully, but Minho can see it brewing, feel it building, and he revels in it.

It’s not even close to what the bastard did to you, but Minho doesn’t need long. Just a few seconds. Just enough to make a point. Beneath the surface, bubbles rise as the guy thrashes, his fists hitting at Minho’s wrist, but Minho doesn’t budge.

And then, just when he starts to struggle harder, just when the panic fully sets in, Minho yanks him up by his hair.

The guy breaks the surface with a ragged gasp, sputtering, coughing, trying to push his wet hair out of his eyes. His breathing is shaky, his expression furious, but it’s fury laced with fear now.

Minho leans in closer, voice low, steady, sharp as a fucking blade. “I see your face around her ever again,” he murmurs, tightening his grip in the guy’s hair, forcing their eyes to lock, “and you won’t resurface next time.”

The guy stills. His whole body goes rigid, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, and Minho watches as his brain finally fucking catches up. Minho lets go, standing up smoothly, towering over the water-drenched mess below him. He doesn’t need to say anything else. The warning is clear enough. And if the bastard is smart, he’ll take it.

------------------------------------------

Minho steps out of the pool area, rolling his shoulders as his gaze immediately finds you sitting outside the women's locker room. You’re curled up on one of the plastic benches, elbows resting on your knees, fingers playing with the hem of your white cropped hoodie. Your black sweatpants are slightly too long, pooling around the tops of your scuffed white Converse, and your damp blue hair is still tied back, the silver strands at the front framing your face.

You look small like this, curled in on yourself, your usual quiet presence even quieter than usual.

Minho exhales, schooling his expression into something lighter, something easier. He won’t make this worse for you by hovering too much, by pressing for details you probably don’t want to give.

Instead, he stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly. "I'm gonna go throw some clothes on, and we'll go, okay?"

You blink up at him, nodding once, your fingers still idly tugging at your hoodie sleeve.

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He turns and strides into the men’s locker room, making quick work of peeling off his swimming trunks. His body is still aching from hours of practice yesterday, and now with the added exertion of holding someone underwater, his muscles protest every movement.

Still, he moves fast, pulling on a pair of black sweatpants and a fitted hoodie, leaving his damp hair to dry on its own. Within minutes, he’s stepping back outside, rejoining you where you’re still sitting in the exact same position.

He doesn’t give you a chance to hesitate.

"Come on," he murmurs, gently pulling you up to stand, his arm automatically wrapping around your shoulders, tugging you into his side. He keeps his grip loose, non-restrictive, letting you lean in as much or as little as you want. "We’ll get you some tea or coffee, yeah? It'll help."

You nod again, your body moulding slightly into his warmth, and Minho exhales softly, steering you toward the exit.

The air outside is cool, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows across the pavement as Minho leads you toward the frat house.

“We can go back to the house,” he says, keeping his tone casual, like this is just another normal day. "Everyone has lectures or shit to do, so it'll be quiet."

You nod again, your gaze fixed ahead, silent but steady.

Minho watches you for a second before tightening his arm around you slightly, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your shoulder. He doesn’t say anything else. He just keeps walking, keeps leading you forward, until the swimming centre is nothing but a fading memory behind you.

The frat house is exactly as chaotic and disgusting as Minho expects when he pushes the door open, stepping inside with you tucked at his side. You glance around, eyes scanning the absolute mess that litters the floors, the couch, the countertops, crushed beer cans, abandoned hoodies, a pair of sneakers that definitely aren’t the same size, and an inflated condom bobs around the hallway.

Minho kicks it out of the hallway like it personally offended him, muttering under his breath before leading you toward the kitchen.

You follow silently, your steps slow, as if still processing everything from earlier. Minho keeps one eye on you, making sure you’re not checking out mentally before focusing back on the kitchen doorway.

And then, you trip. Minho's arm shoots out immediately, catching you before you even come close to hitting the ground, steadying you with ease. But instead of focusing on you, your eyes drop to the floor, to the thing that nearly sent you flying or rather, the someone.

There, sprawled across the cold fucking tile, is a guy with fluffy brown hair, dead asleep. His cheek is smushed against the floor, arms sprawled out, one leg bent awkwardly over the other, like he just died mid-walk and collapsed.

You blink.

Minho exhales through his nose. "That’s Jisung," he says, bored, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "He’ll literally sleep anywhere. The fact that he’s still here means Felix isn’t, or else his clingy little boyfriend ass would’ve coaxed him into sleeping somewhere socially acceptable."

You nod, still staring at the grown-ass man sleeping peacefully on the filthy frat house floor.

Minho steps over him without hesitation before glancing back at you. "Just step on him."

You frown. "That’s cruel."

Minho smirks. "It’s Jisung, it’s fine."

You shake your head and carefully step around him instead. But Minho steps directly on Jisung’s back. There’s a grunted noise from below, a sleepy, confused “fuck off”, but Jisung doesn’t even move, just shifts slightly before settling back into deep unconsciousness.

Minho moves on, making a beeline for the kettle, rolling his shoulders as he opens a cabinet stuffed full of tea bags, instant coffee packets, and a variety of shit he barely remembers buying.

"Any preference for tea?" he asks, glancing at you over his shoulder. "I have every kind you can think of."

You hesitate for a second before murmuring, "Green tea."

Minho nods, pulling a box from the cabinet with one hand while reaching for the kettle with the other. "Honey?"

"Yes, please."

He hums, setting the kettle on before turning to face you, leaning against the counter. His gaze lingers on you for a second before he says, voice still casual but laced with something sharper, "So. What happened with that Sigma Chi dick?"

You don’t answer immediately, fingers curling slightly against the hem of your hoodie. Then, finally, you sigh, voice quiet but steady.

"He and his friends cornered me. He asked me on a date, I said no, and then, well, you saw how he took that." Your lips press together briefly before you add, "He was waiting for me when I arrived at the pool."

The sharp, earthy scent of tea fills the kitchen as the kettle steams, and from the floor, Jisung sniffs like a fucking bloodhound. His eyes crack open groggily, still half-asleep, but immediately locked onto the source of the smell.

"Tea," he mutters, voice rough from sleep. "Me want."

Minho doesn’t even glance down, just rolls his eyes as he pulls two mugs from the cabinet.

Jisung starts to push himself up but pauses mid-motion, blinking slowly as his gaze shifts to you, still seated at the table. His head tilts, squinting slightly, like he’s trying to confirm whether or not you’re real.

"There’s a Smurfette in the kitchen,"

Minho snorts, shaking his head. "Jisung, this is Y/N," he says, setting a mug down in front of you before handing you a spoon. "She’s my swimming teacher, my friend, and Chan’s friend."

Jisung blinks again, brain still not fully operational. "Chan has friends?" he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes before his head snaps up properly, realization finally fucking hitting. "Wait, wait, wait, you’re Minho’s mystery teacher?"

Minho sighs. "Give him a minute," he mutters to you. "His two brain cells need time to fucking jumpstart."

Jisung doesn’t even register the insult. Instead, he points at you, eyes wide, and then immediately swivels back to Minho. "What the fuck did you do to the poor girl?!" His tone is accusatory, like Minho’s some villain who just kicked a puppy. "She’s soaked and sad!"

Jisung scrambles up onto his feet, rubbing his eyes before dramatically throwing himself between you and Minho, arms outstretched like some tragic hero. "It’s okay, honey, I’m here to protect you from the big meanie."

You blink at him, processing the absolute whirlwind of energy that just came flying at you, before calmly saying, "Minho helped me."

Jisung freezes and his arms drop slightly, his brows furrowing as his lips purse in deep confusion. He turns to you slowly, like he’s trying to process words that don’t make sense. Then, with absolute seriousness, he asks, "Minho? Lee Minho? Helped someone?!"

Minho just rolls his eyes, stirring the tea, but Jisung isn’t done. His brain pivots instantly, fixating on you instead. He squints at you, tapping his chin. "You look like you have anxiety. I have anxiety. That makes us anxiety buddies."

You blink as Minho groans, setting his mug down with a small thud. "Jisung, she doesn’t need your crackhead anxiety energy right now. She needs calm."

You shrug, voice still soft. "I don’t mind."

Jisung immediately flips Minho off before he slides into the chair beside you. With zero hesitation, he digs into the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out a small fidget toy, a soft, squishy ball that glows slightly when squeezed, and places it in your hand.

"Here, these help," he says. His voice is genuine, no longer teasing, just light and warm and real.

You look down at the toy for a second before wrapping your fingers around it, testing the texture, feeling the slight give as you squeeze. It’s simple, but oddly grounding, and when you look up again, Jisung is grinning at you.

"It’s okay," he says, nodding sagely. "Minho might seem like a dick, but he’s nice."

You don’t hesitate. "I know."

At that, Minho pauses, his spoon still stirring, but his lips twitch slightly, a hidden smile that he quickly hides behind his mug as he takes a slow sip of tea before he turns back to the counter, grabbing the jar of honey and twisting off the lid. He dips a spoon in, watching the thick golden liquid drizzle into the mug, swirling into the warm tea as he stirs. His movements are unhurried, the soft clink of the spoon against ceramic filling the kitchen.

Behind him, Jisung shifts in his chair before he speaks again, voice more curious than concerned. "Uh, Minho, what’s wrong with her?"

Minho glances over his shoulder and immediately spots it. You’re completely still, your eyes locked straight ahead, your fingers still fidgeting with the squishy toy Jisung gave you, but your expression is vacant like someone hit a pause button on you.

Minho exhales through his nose, setting the honey jar down. "She’s having a seizure."

Jisung frowns, turning toward you, his head tilting as he waves his hand in front of your face. No reaction. You don’t blink, don’t shift, don’t even seem aware of the movement at all.

Jisung leans back slightly, processing, before muttering, "Aren’t seizures more-" He suddenly jerks his arms and shakes his whole body violently, mimicking full-body convulsions.

Minho snorts, shaking his head. "Different type of epilepsy, dumbass. She’s just not here right now."

Jisung drops the act, blinking at you with open fascination. "Dude, this is cool as fuck. I need to learn how to disassociate like this. My brain never fucking shuts up."

Minho just rolls his eyes, turning back to the counter and grabbing your mug. He lifts it carefully, making sure the tea is mixed properly, before moving back toward the table.

Just as he sets the mug down in front of you, your body jerks slightly, and then you blink. Your hands twitch around the fidget toy before your gaze refocuses, flickering around as if you’re reorienting yourself.

Minho watches, giving you a second before speaking. "Tea’s ready, mermaid girl."

Your eyes drop to the mug in front of you, your fingers hesitating for half a second before wrapping around the warm ceramic. You don’t say anything, don’t acknowledge what just happened. And Minho doesn’t press.

He just leans back in his chair, watching as you slowly bring the mug to your lips, your fingers still curled around Jisung’s fidget toy.

Minho arrives at the swimming centre late Friday night, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he approaches the entrance. The air is crisp, the quiet hum of streetlights buzzing faintly in the background. He spots you immediately, standing just outside the doors, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the strap of your bag.

You’re dressed in beige cargo pants, the fabric slightly oversized, hanging comfortably around your frame. A white knit sweater is layered over top, the sleeves slightly too long, the hem brushing just below your waist. A beige cap sits snugly on your head, your hair tucked back neatly, and your white sneakers scuff lightly against the pavement as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

Minho slows his steps, his brows pulling together slightly. "You okay?"

Your fingers still against the strap for half a second before you nod, but your voice is quiet, controlled. "I didn’t want to go in without someone checking he wasn’t waiting again."

Minho nods once, his jaw tightening as a familiar wave of irritation flickers through him. He doesn’t say anything—just wraps an arm around you, pulling you close as he guides you inside with him. His gaze scans the space immediately, sweeping across the pool deck, the empty bleachers, the locker room hallways. His muscles are tense, his grip slightly firmer than usual, but he doesn’t let it show on his face.

After a few moments, he exhales through his nose. "I think you’re good," he murmurs, finally glancing down at you. His arm squeezes briefly, reassuring, before he steps back. "Meet you in the pool?"

You nod once, your voice slightly steadier. "We’re working on breaststroke in the deep end today."

Minho smirks, shaking off the lingering tension. "Great."

He heads toward the men’s locker room, stripping off his hoodie and jeans as he moves. His body is still sore as fuck from practising all week, but he doesn’t care. He’s determined. He tugs on his black swimming trunks, running a hand through his hair before stepping back out toward the pool.

The moment he does, his eyes immediately find you.

You’re standing by the edge, adjusting your navy yoga shorts, your posture casual, your skin still slightly damp from warming up earlier. You’re not wearing your usual T-shirt over your swimsuit this time, just a navy bikini top, the fabric snug against your frame, exposing more skin than usual.

You catch him looking and exhale through your nose, tilting your head slightly. "I forgot my T-shirt." Your voice is as even as always, but there’s a hint of hesitation, like you’re expecting a reaction. "Is that okay?"

Minho grins immediately, his gaze sweeping over you without shame as he hops into the pool, the water sloshing around him as he lands. His smirk is lazy, teasing, eyes glinting.

"More than okay," he says smoothly, shaking the water from his hair.

You don’t react. Just tilt your head slightly, watching him with that same calm, unreadable expression. But Minho notices the way your fingers pause slightly against the waistband of your shorts before you follow him into the water.

Minho paddles out into the deeper part of the pool, his strokes steady, his muscles aching slightly but functioning better than they ever have in the water. You swim beside him, your movements smooth, effortless, like the water bends around you rather than resists. The contrast is almost funny, where you glide, Minho is still learning, still adjusting, but for the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s fighting against the pool itself.

“Remember what I taught you,” you say, your voice lighter than usual, more open. There’s a warmth to it now, something easier, something softer.

Minho grins. “Obviously,” he scoffs, then actually fucking does it—his arms and legs moving in sync, his body pushing forward without immediately sinking. It’s not perfect, but it’s breaststroke, and it’s working.

You watch for a few moments, and then, to his absolute fucking delight, you smile at him.

“What now? I’m like a fucking fish!”

You tilt your head, clearly unimpressed. “At best, you’re at a six-year-old’s swimming competency.”

Minho gasps, hand dramatically slapping his chest. "How fucking dare you-"

His overreaction costs him immediately. The second he loses focus, his rhythm breaks, and his body tilts awkwardly, sinking slightly. His instincts kick in, panic flaring for half a second, but before he can do anything, you move first.

You dive forward, reaching out without hesitation, your hands gripping his arms, steadying him, keeping him above water before he can actually fuck himself over.

Minho exhales sharply, adjusting, getting his balance back, and then grins triumphantly as he resumes swimming, this time more controlled. “You,” he pants, paddling closer to you, his voice smoother, cockier. “You’re a fucking miracle worker.”

You glance away, almost shy, before nodding slightly, the corners of your lips twitching again. Minho watches you for a beat longer before he moves.

Without thinking, without second-guessing, he surges forward, closing the distance between you in an instant. His fingers tangle into your damp hair, and before you can react, his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is hot and demanding, his lips moving over yours with no hesitation, no uncertainty, just pure fucking intention. His other hand grips the pool ledge, holding you right where he wants you, his body pressing against yours, chest-to-chest, nothing between you but water and heat.

Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, your thighs squeezing slightly as you pull him closer, and he fucking groans into your mouth, his fingers tightening in your hair as he kisses you deeper, harder, hungrier. Your hands find his shoulders, gripping lightly, nails digging in as you kiss him back, the slow burn of tension between you finally fucking snapping.

Minho’s hand slides down, dragging over your thighs, your hips, your waist, mapping out your skin like he’s memorizing it, like he’s claiming it, like he’s been waiting for this the entire fucking time. And then, slowly, he pulls back, his breathing slightly uneven, his forehead resting against yours as he smirks. “I’m gonna take you on a date,” he says, voice rough, but amused, like the words just popped into his head and stuck.

You blink at him, slightly dazed, and he grins. “Somewhere where I have the high ground,” he muses, still catching his breath. “Like football.” His fingers trail lazily down your spine, and he smirks even wider. “Yes. I’m going to teach you how to play football.”

You stare at him for a second, and he knows you’re about to call him a dumbass, but before you can, he tilts his head slightly. “Wanna go on a date?”

There’s a pause, a small one, but a pause nonetheless, before you finally nod. "Sure."

The college football field is eerily quiet this late at night, the floodlights casting long shadows over the empty bleachers. The grass is slightly damp from the evening air, but the field itself is pristine, untouched, a perfect stretch of green beneath the stadium lights.

You stand near the centre, arms crossed loosely over your chest, dressed in black leggings, black Converse, and a long-sleeve black T-shirt. The fabric clings to your frame just enough to be flattering, but loose enough to be comfortable, your movements easy, fluid, as you watch Minho with quiet curiosity.

Minho, on the other hand, is grinning like a fucking idiot, clearly thrilled about whatever the fuck he has planned for tonight. In his hands, he holds his black and red #25 jersey, the fabric slightly worn but clearly well taken care of.

"Put it on," he says, handing it over with zero explanation.

You eye him for a second before taking it, fingers brushing against the material as you pull it over your head. The scent of fabric softener, faint cologne, and something distinctly Minho lingers in the material, comforting, familiar in a way you hadn’t expected. Minho watches, clearly pleased, before stepping closer and placing a football helmet on your head.

It immediately slips forward, covering your eyes. There’s a beat of silence. Then Minho sighs, shaking his head. "Okay, maybe we forget the helmet. Time to learn football."

You adjust the jersey, pushing the sleeves up slightly before glancing at him. "You know, I had hoped our date would involve food."

Minho waves a hand dismissively. "Food later. I’ll cook for you. I’m the best cook in the frat." His smirk widens. "But right now, I get to teach you something."

You exhale through your nose, clearly unconvinced, but before you can argue, Minho tosses you a football.

You reach for it and miss completely. The ball thuds against the ground, bouncing off into the distance.

Minho throws his head back, letting out an obnoxiously loud whoop, his hands shooting up toward the sky. "YES!" He claps his hands together. "You suck at something! Thank you, God! Finally!"

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. "Shut up."

Minho grins, clearly delighted. "Okay, can you run?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Yes."

Minho smirks. "Of course you can. At least you’re terrible at catching. You need a flaw, sweetness, and God has finally given you one."

You don’t dignify that with a response, just watch as he tosses another football toward you. You reach for it and miss again. With a deep sigh, you drop your hands. "This isn’t fun."

Minho hums, tapping his chin thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, he snaps his fingers. "Okay, let’s make it fun." He leans in slightly, his voice dropping into something lower, smoother. "Kisses. Lots of kisses. If you can take this ball from my hands, I’ll reward you."

You tilt your head, stepping closer. "Or," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers brushing against his as you lean in. "You could fuck me in your jersey."

Before he can process what the fuck just came out of your mouth, you snatch the ball straight from his hands and sprint. Minho freezes. His brain short-circuits completely, his entire system rebooting like a fucking crashed computer. His hands are still outstretched, fingers still slightly curled, like they haven’t quite registered the loss of the ball yet.

His brain screams at him to move, but all he can do is blink rapidly as the words repeat in his head on a fucking loop.

Then, finally, he reacts. "HEY!" His body jerks forward, snapping into motion as he scrambles to chase after you, his feet digging into the turf as he takes off.

But, you’re faster. You fucking sprint, your movements quick and controlled, your legs carrying you with ease as you gain distance. Minho grits his teeth, pushing harder, but you’re already ahead, already laughing breathlessly as you weave across the field.

The cool night air rushes past as you sprint across the field, the football tucked securely under your arm. Your heart pounds, not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer exhilaration of being chased.

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Minho gaining on you, his strides long, powerful, relentless. His expression is pure determination, sharp and focused, but beneath it is a grin, a cocky, teasing thing that says he’s enjoying this just as much as you are.

Before you can push forward, before you can even think about trying to outrun him again, he lunges. His arms wrap around your waist, and for a split second, the world tilts. But instead of hitting the ground hard, he twists mid-fall, flipping the position so you land right on top of him, his back hitting the grass instead of yours. The impact is cushioned, controlled, his body taking the fall for you effortlessly.

You blink down at him, breathless, the warmth of his body radiating up through your clothes.

Minho’s grin is smug, his dark eyes flickering in the dim stadium lights. "Nicely played," he murmurs, his voice low, amused, his hands still resting against your waist, fingers just barely digging into your hips.

You smile, something mischievous flickering behind your usually calm gaze. Slowly, deliberately, you lean down, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing, soft, fleeting before you’re gone again.

You push off of him, sprinting away before he can even think about stopping you, the ball still firmly in your grasp. Minho bursts out laughing, a full-bodied, genuine laugh, as he scrambles back to his feet, his boots digging into the turf as he launches himself after you.

"Come on, sweetness!" he calls after you, his voice dripping with cocky amusement. "You can’t run forever!"

You know he’s right, his endurance is better, his reaction time quicker, and before you can dodge, before you can make another move, he snatches your wrist mid-sprint.

With one fluid motion, he spins you back into his chest, your body colliding with his, and in an instant, his mouth is on yours. The kiss is nothing like the last one.

This one is fierce, unapologetic, possessive, his hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your skin, fingers threading through your hair as he holds you there, as if making sure you’re not slipping away again.

Your breath catches, but you don’t pull away, don’t hesitate, don’t second-guess. Instead, you press closer, your fingers gripping at his clothes, your entire body melting into the kiss like you’ve been waiting for it.

Minho makes a low, satisfied noise, something deep and approving, something that vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss even further, like he can’t help himself.

The football?

Completely forgotten.

The swimming centre is buzzing with faint echoes of water slapping against tile, but the real noise comes from the group of seven loud-mouthed Alpha Phi assholes standing at the edge of the pool, all of them dressed in various pairs of swimming trunks, looking either confused, bored, or outright suspicious.

Minho stands in front of them, hands on his hips, grinning like he owns the fucking place.

"Good afternoon, bitches," he announces, his voice echoing through the space. "Meet Y/N."

You’re standing slightly behind him, relaxed but observant, dressed in your usual yoga shorts and a bikini top, arms loosely crossed as you watch them all process the introduction.

Chan, standing closest, immediately steps forward and wraps you into a warm, familiar side hug, squeezing lightly before pulling back just as quick. You return it, a small smile forming as his presence is steady, grounding, something safe.

Jisung, already grinning, waves happily at you, his expression bright, easy, open—completely different from the crackhead energy he had the first time you met him. You wave back, your movement small but genuine, and Jisung nods approvingly, like he’s decided he fully supports your existence now.

Then Hyunjin, who has been watching Minho with pure suspicion, tilts his head, arms crossed over his chest. "Why are we here, Minho, and why the fuck are you in swimming trunks?"

Minho’s grin widens, clearly thrilled to finally say it. "Because, dear Hyunjin, I can swim." He claps his hands together, turning slightly as he throws his arms out dramatically. "And I'm here to prove it to all you bitches." Then, his voice shifts, going softer, more playful, as he turns to you. "Not you, baby."

Your lips twitch slightly, but you don’t say anything, just watch as Hyunjin’s jaw actually fucking drops.

"What?" Hyunjin sputters, looking wildly at the others. "Are we being punked? Are there cameras? No fucking way."

Chan, still processing, frowns slightly before turning back to you, his eyes narrowing. "Y/N, you and Minho?"

You nod once, your face calm, unreadable.

Chan immediately loses it. "WHAT? NO, NO, NO! NOT MY LITTLE BABY!"

And then, before you can react, he fucking cradles you. Chan, all muscle, all protective instinct, literally wraps his arms around you, holding you like you’re an actual fucking child, his voice dramatic, pained. "This is a disaster. This is the worst thing to ever happen. No. Nope. I refuse. We are undoing this. Y/N, blink twice if you need saving."

Minho, completely unfazed, crosses his arms, rolling his eyes as he waits for Chan’s meltdown to pass.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Minho waves him off, stepping forward, leaning casually against your shoulder, completely ignoring the fact that Chan is still holding you like a toddler. "I corrupted your baby. Wasn't really hard anyway. It's me, Chan. Time to accept it."

Chan groans loudly, shaking his head. "I hate this. I hate everything."

Minho grins wider, fully basking in the moment. "And anyway, none of that matters because the real point is-" He gestures toward the pool with both arms, dramatic as ever. "Y/N taught me how to swim, so my only flaw? Gone. I am now perfect."

Jisung bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach, literally bending over as he wheezes. "Your only flaw? Minho, you are the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever met."

Hyunjin claps sarcastically, still looking personally betrayed. "Wow. Wow. I’m so happy for you. This is truly a moment for all of us."

Seungmin leans against the edge of the pool, arms crossed, his expression completely unimpressed as he watches Minho stand there like he’s about to unveil the greatest athletic achievement of all time.

“Get to swimming then, Tinky Winky,” Seungmin deadpans.

Minho’s head snaps toward him so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t break. “Fuck you,” he shoots back, flipping him off before stepping toward the edge.

And then, without another word, he hops into the pool.

The water splashes around him, cool against his skin, but he barely registers it before he pushes off the wall, kicking off with force, and starts breaststroking up and down the pool. His movements are controlled, precise, smooth, nothing like the floundering disaster he started with weeks ago.

It’s not perfect, but it’s damn good.

The guys watch for a few moments, still processing the fact that Minho, Lee Minho, the man who refused to even put a toe in the deep end, is actually swimming like a normal fucking person.

“Pssst, Y/N,” Hyunjin suddenly whispers, leaning in slightly. "Hi, I’m Hyunjin. How bad was he when he started?"

You tilt your head, your expression calm, innocent, but there’s a hint of amusement flickering in your eyes. "He wore a life vest and arm floaties."

Hyunjin’s hand flies to his mouth, trying to smother his snort, but it’s too late—a wheeze escapes him, and the others immediately zero in on the conversation.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice just enough to make them hang on every word. "The first time he tried combining the arms and legs for breaststroke," you continue, straight-faced, "I thought he was going to die."

The guys erupt into laughter, the sound echoing through the swimming centre, bouncing off the walls as Chan doubles over, clutching his stomach, while Jisung literally collapses onto Felix. Seungmin is wheezing, Changbin is cackling, and Jeongin actually has to sit down on the edge of the pool from laughing so hard.

You smile innocently in Minho’s direction just as he reaches the wall, finishing another length.

He catches the look on your face immediately, and his own grin grows wider. "What are you talking about?"

Hyunjin, still laughing, straightens up instantly, clearing his throat. "Oh, uh, nothing, right Y/N?"

You tilt your head, playing along effortlessly. "Nothing."

Minho narrows his eyes slightly, clearly not buying it, but before he can say anything else, he reaches up, grabs Hyunjin’s wrist, and yanks him straight into the pool.

Hyunjin yells in betrayal as he hits the water, arms flailing dramatically, his voice muffled by the splash as he disappears beneath the surface.

The others cheer loudly, jeering as Hyunjin resurfaces, coughing and spluttering, glaring at Minho like a wet cat.

Felix and Jisung, still grinning, move toward you, offering their hands. Without hesitation, you take them, letting them help you into the water, the cool temperature washing over you instantly. Changbin, Chan, Seungmin, and Jeongin all hop in after, the pool filling with energy and laughter as the guys start splashing each other, the tension from earlier completely gone.

Then, from somewhere behind you, Seungmin calls out.

"CHICKEN!"

Minho turns to you immediately, his smirk returning full force. "Get on my shoulders, baby."

You raise a brow but don’t hesitate, placing your hands lightly on his shoulders as he ducks under slightly, guiding your legs around him before standing up fully, lifting you above the water with ease. For a second, the world tilts, your vision filled with stadium lights reflecting off the rippling pool, the sounds of laughter and splashing fading slightly as your focus shifts solely to Minho.

He’s looking up at you, his hands firm around your thighs, holding you steady. But his expression is different now, his usual cocky smirk softened, his dark eyes taking you in with something quiet, unreadable.

The lights from the pool cast a soft glow around you, catching on the strands of your blue and silver hair, making them shimmer like fucking stardust. And then, before he can even stop himself, Minho murmurs, almost in awe,

"You’re beautiful, you know that?"

You smile at him, a small, genuine thing, one that lights up your eyes. Minho smiles back instantly, warmth spreading through his chest, a deep, easy kind of happiness settling in his bones.

For the first time, he lets himself think about it, really fucking think about it. If the guys hadn’t bullied him into learning how to swim, if he hadn’t let his own stubborn pride push him to prove himself, he would have never met you.

And in Minho’s mind, that would have been the greatest fucking tragedy.

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind

Lee Minho Taglist: @0haerireah0 @linowzzzz

Proofread by the lovely @eastjonowhere

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