Part Vi: Bodyguard!felix X Reader

part vi: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 9500 words)

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Graduation approaches.  There will be a ceremony in the afternoon then a dinner and dance, hosted in a hotel ballroom.  It is nothing so luxurious as your father’s soirees, but it is a milestone that should be filled with meaning and memory. 

You do not go. 

You close this chapter of your life while vowing to never forget a moment of it.  Jisung and Hyunjin both impacted your life for the better. Though you will not put them in danger by association, you hope they will find happiness.  They will both be better in the long run. 

You look at Felix and wish you could grant such a freedom to everyone. 

You let yourself mope for a few days and Felix does not intervene, only checking in now and again to see if you need anything.  You have not talked about what transpired between you, but that was to be expected even without any distractions. 

He extends comfort in a platonic sense at best, more professional than ever with how he hovers in your periphery, ensuring you are safe but never crossing a line.   He will embrace you when you have a nightmare, but he is much more stiff than he used to be.  He does not touch you with his gentle caresses, only holds you with a perfunctory grasp.  You think if this entire ordeal with Jisung had not happened, then he would have stopped altogether by now. 

The night of the graduation, you sleep restlessly and wake in an emotional fit.  You stare at Felix across the bed, your tumultuous emotions flickering between sadness, anger, and longing.   You don’t know what to do, and it isn’t fair, and you want him so badly. 

You dig your fist into the mattress and press your face into the pillow, fighting down a scream.  Your shuffling wakes Felix who whispers your name.  He moves closer then reaches the rest of the way, touching the back of your head. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

“No,” you say, muffled.  You thump your fist against the mattress.  “I hate you,” you say, because you don’t hate him at all.  He’s all you have left yet it does not suffice to say there is only Felix, because even if you had a world of options you would still want him.  He is singular in both charm and peculiarity.  You do not hate him, but the threshold of the opposite looms with a terrifying danger for you both.  What happened with Jisung would be miniscule in comparison to the consequences of this affair. 

You know that, and yet. 

You want to close this space for good.  You want to throw caution to the wind and indulge your most romantic desires.   You want him to want it too. 

“Do you hate me?” you ask, turning your face but not meeting his eye.  

“I—”  He clears his throat.  “I’m just… doing my job.  I can’t have feelings one way or, uhh, another.” 

“That’s not a no,” you say, lifting your gaze to his.  He is propped up on one arm, staring down at you, blonde hair in a dishevelled mess around his face.  His gaze drifts and you feel you are losing him.  “Felix…” you say, imploringly. 

“You have no idea,” he suddenly says, his tone almost vicious.  “No idea… what it does to me when you—when you—when you look… at me… like that.”  He falls onto his back and covers his face with both hands. 

He always looks so skinny in his baggy sleep shirts, all sharp lines jutting out of the fabric.  It completes his lie: the too-happy, naïve boy who is all smiles all the time, with nothing to see beyond the surface.  No one would guess what he is capable of doing.  Even you had not fully realized the breadth of his person until you witnessed it with your own eyes. 

His mind seems to be following a similar path because he says, “You saw me kill someone.”  He rubs his forehead like a migraine is settling there.  “You shouldn’t look at me like you do.  You shouldn’t—I don’t understand—how you’re not ever afraid—of him—of me—”

“I’m always afraid,” you whisper the admittance.  You continue to look at him even while he stares up at the ceiling, his arms crossed protectively over his chest.  “Just not of you,” you say. 

He closes his eyes.  He breathes out through his nose.   

“You’re supposed to be,” he says.  “That’s why I—that’s why I exist, yeah?  I was raised to be this… thing.  People are supposed to be afraid when they see who I am.  Even your father is scared of me.  And if he didn’t—if he didn’t have me on this—this fucking leash—” He sits upright, practically snarling as he speaks.  Only experience in tempering his emotions brings him back down to calm, simply glaring across the room through the dark. 

You wait to see if he will say more, your attention caught by what he let slip.  Even your father is afraid of him, despite having him lashed to a tether of some kind.  You want to know more, but you do not want to take what he does not willingly give, even though you know he will answer any question if you push.  He made that promise a long time ago.   

You are both almost nineteen.  You have spent a quarter of your lives together.  Those years, his present, and his future are all ensnared, and you cannot find it in yourself to forcibly rip his past away too.   

You sit upright as well.  He still does not look at you, gaze faraway.  You twist the blankets in your lap, itching to reach out and smooth back a messy strand of his hair. 

“You’re not just a thing to me,” you say.   

“I know,” he says softly, still looking to the side.  “Sometimes I wish I was just a thing.”  He tips his head, staring into the distance as if he can see a memory playing out in the dark.  “Sometimes I wish… it was that easy.  That I could… put it all somewhere.  Stop feeling.  Stop being.  That’s what I was supposed to be.  If I could—if I did—I wouldn’t be here at all.  But also…” 

He trails off and his mind drifts.  You tug at the blanket again. 

“But also?” you ask. 

His head turns to you, though his gaze is lowered, down to your fidgeting fingers. 

“But…also…” he says.  “I wouldn’t want that.  If I had never… been someone.  If I had never known…someone…” 

He meets your gaze now.  He has not looked at you with such direct intensity in days and it feels like basking in the sun after so much shadow.  Your expression must return a similar ardor because his lips part with a deep exhale, his body instinctively tipping towards yours like it so often does.  He maintains enough mental faculty not to fall all the way, holding himself back, only looking at your face.  He lingers on your mouth. 

“I understand,” you say, tingling with the effect of his gaze, tangible as a kiss. 

“Yeah?” he says, his voice rough. 

You feel a bit fuzzy, distracted with the energy between you.  You only loosely cling to your own train of thought but you manage to say, “Yes.  Making sense of the good in the bad.  Both shaping who you are.  The people you know… changing you for the better.”

“Jisung,” Felix says, ruminating on your words.  Then a flicker of displeasure creases his brow as a thought occurs to him.  “Hyunjin,” he says.  “They were both… part of your good.” 

“Yes,” you say, watching him pull away into his own mind. 

“You liked Hyunjin a lot,” Felix says, clearing his throat.  “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure—”

You roll your eyes even while a smile breaks onto your face.  There is something so charmingly childish about the clear jealously that is suddenly plaguing him.  It isn’t dangerous dramatics or dark pasts – just one boy glaring at the recollection of you dating another boy. 

You push the blankets off your lap and move so you are kneeling at his side.  He looks away but that is fine, because you tuck his hair behind his ear and lean in to whisper, “I didn’t like Hyunjin half as much as I hate you.” 

He clenches his jaw.  His shoulder twitches with a little shiver.  A smile tugs at his lips.   

“Oh,” he says.  “All right.” 

“All right,” you repeat in a mockingly deep voice.   “That’s his reply – all right.  This is why I hate you.”

“Mmm?”  He tips his head, smiling at you.  “Is it?”

You feel flushed.  You sit back again, poking at the covers.  “Among other things,” you say. 

He laughs but tries not to, the result a very low chuckle that he unsuccessfully tries to hide behind his hand.  You shove his shoulder.  He sways dramatically like it was a hard hit.  He is still chuckling when you lay back down, arms stubbornly crossed. 

He lays on his side and props his head in his hand.  There is space between you but you can touch his face with a simple stretch.  You trace your fingertips down his jaw and it smooths out his laughter, expression softer.  Your heart is thundering when you touch his lips, just a light touch.  It should be inconsequential when you consider what you have already done, but it feels substantial as anything else.  You wonder if this sensation will ever lessen.   

He takes your wrist and moves your hand, his breath fluttering over your fingertips.  He swallows hard. 

“I’m a bad person,” he says.  “I’m not supposed to care about being bad.  But I do.” 

“You’re not a bad person,” you say.  “Because of the things they make you do?  How can you say that?”  From the moment he walked into your life, Felix has done everything in his limited power to provide relief.  You did not always appreciate it, but it did not stop his efforts.   

“I am,” he says.  “I’m selfish.  I let myself forget… so many things… when you look at me.”  He lays down on his back, curling one arm under his head.  “You know, I’ve been trained to withstand torture,” he says, casually despite the ripple of horror that moves through you.  “But they didn’t prepare me for, uhh, you doing that… thing with your eyelashes, when you want something.  Or when you, you know, stick out your lip like this—”

He pouts and it makes you laugh despite everything. 

“I don’t do that,” is all you can say.   

“Sure,” he says, with a little smile and eye-roll.  “It’s more effective than a bullet.  That’s all I’m saying.” 

“Duly noted,” you say dryly.  “You know for such a well-trained whatever-you-are, you just made a pretty dumb mistake.”

“Oh?”   

You roll onto your front so the lengths of your bodies are pressing along the side.  You rest your chin in the cup of your hand and smile your most innocent smile. 

“Yes,” you say.  “It isn’t very smart to tell an enemy your weaknesses like that.”

“My enemy,” he says like the word amuses him, corners of his lips ticked up.  He moves quickly, leaning into your space so surely that you can feel his breath fan your lips.  “Is that what you are, then?  My job.  My enemy.”  He laughs the word, then whispers with a teasing smirk, “And my sweetheart.” 

“Sworn enemies,” you somehow manage without even a stutter.  You take his teasing further and say, “You can even tell my daddy.  That’s your job, isn’t it?”   

“That isn’t a joke,” he says, tone serious though his soft expression betrays him. 

“Who’s joking?” you say.  “We’re just two enemies, sharing a bed.  I hate you, and you—”

“Yes?”  He has a cocky look on his face, playful as it is.  “What do I do?” 

You narrow your eyes in a theatrical glare, then you just smile. 

“You...”  Your voice comes softly, your knuckles brushing his jaw.  “You know what it feels like to be inside me.” 

Your heart thumps erratically at his drastic shift in expression, the laughter replaced with shock then obvious vexation, dark eyes slanting in warning.  You just smile like it is of no concern to you at all. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur.  “I’m just saying.  Sweetheart.” 

You roll away, leaving space between you again.  You wriggle your hips more than necessary and your shirt predictably rucks up, your shorts similarly loose and high around your thighs. 

Your heart is still racing even though you got the last word in.  You breathe to centre yourself. 

Then he grabs you by the neck and tugs you back across the bed.  It is a showy demonstration but a gasp bursts past your lips, your hand instinctively clutching his sturdy hand.   It is your turn to be beyond surprised when he presses right up against you from behind. 

“Don’t play games that have no winner,” he speaks into your ear. 

“Who’s playing?” you reply, grinding back against him. 

He exhales, an exasperated sound that has you giggling.  You yelp when he rolls you onto your front, all but planting your face in a pillow before abruptly letting you go.  You lift your head as he swings out of the bed. 

“Where are you going?” you ask. 

“The bathroom,” he says.  “Don’t try to leave or I’ll tell your father, yeah?”  

He is grinning with his victorious retreat.  His alleged training is good enough that he dodges the pillow you chuck at his head. 

Your father returns home the next day.  He never had any intention of attending your graduation, agreeing with his own late father’s assertion that a high school graduation was a juvenile joke celebrating mediocrity. 

Felix already reported that you did not attend so there is nothing more to say on the matter.  The subject of graduation merely broaches the topic of post-secondary education.  He calls you into his office and presents you with a folder detailing the next step of your education.  You will attend his alma mater, a prestigious university that did not require your application as he most certainly just paid for your admittance. 

“And,” he says, “I am generously giving you one more opportunity to prove you are not the unfledged adolescent you have insisted on presenting.” 

This opportunity is online summer classes to pre-emptively advance your position in the program.  As if it matters where you rank in the scheme of things; your life set in stone. 

“Fine,” is all you say.   The wounds from the incident with Jisung are still fresh so you do not have an argument inside you.  It would just be for the sake of itself anyway, as it is not like you have anything better to do with your summer. 

You still complain to Felix.   You find him in the gym, working up a sweat.  A captive audience for your lengthy complaint session. 

He runs a self-made obstacle course while you inexpertly pummel a punching bag to let out your frustrations.  Eventually he takes a water break and wanders over to you.  You crinkle your nose and pretend to be disgusted with his appearance, but in actuality a hot, sweaty Felix reminds you of that cramped car and all the heat between you. 

He tips his head back and drinks his water and your eyes follow a drop of sweat as it licks down his neck.   You look away when he stops drinking, when he swipes a hand across his forehead. 

“Careful,” he says.  “You should tape your hands first, yeah?  You’ll hurt yourself.” 

You slap the punching bag and smirk when he frowns at you. 

“Not funny,” he says, and takes your hand to inspect it.   He is smiling despite his words.  When he catches your eye, he tries to quell it, but his gaze is tender as his touch when he massages your hand.  “Just remembering,” he mumbles.  “First night here.  You and that… what was it?  Eggplant?”  He shakes his head.  “I was, uhhh, not prepared.”  He laughs.  “I clearly didn’t know what I was getting into.”

“Yes, I’m sure I came across as a very intimidating adversary,” you say dryly. 

“Yes.”  He laughs, a sharp breath.  His eyes flick up to you.  “Like no one I’d ever met before.”  

You feel bashful under his gaze.  You look down at where he is rubbing your hand, so very careful with the amount pressure he applies.  It is still hard to reconcile this soft-touched boy with the violence that has evidently puppetted him for all his life.  It seems impossible that he could be a cog in that machine, not with hands like this, not with a touch so delicate in its gentle offer of solace. 

He mentioned being trained to withstand torture, a training he must have received very young because you met him at fourteen as a fully formed soldier ready to follow orders.  To this day, you remember his unblinking neutrality as he pressed the tip of that blade into the back of his hand.   Yet now he holds your hand with such loving attention, so much humanity in his affection for someone else, even where people apparently tried to scrub it out of him.   

It is too much to think about right now.  You pull your hand away and don a faux-haughty air, flicking your wrist at him, fingers wiggling.    

“Kiss it better,” you say with a supercilious tone.  “Or I’ll tell my dad you let me get injured.”

He blinks at you, maybe perplexed with the sudden shift in tone, but then he just laughs and rolls his eyes. 

“Mmm. Right,” he says.  But he checks the door is empty then takes your hand.  You realize this is a stupid ploy because it backfires the moment his lips brush your knuckles.  He looks up at you, his soft bottom lip resting on your skin.  Then he straightens, pats your hand, and smiles an annoyingly perfect, professional smile.  “There,” he says.  “Job well done?” 

“As always,” you say, unsteady.    

He breaks the tension by stepping away to fetch a towel.  He dries his sweaty neck while asking more about your meeting with your father.  You start complaining all over again, giving the punching bag another good slap.  You rant about his usual tyrannical nonsense, but also complain about the graduation affair. 

“They’re usually a big deal, yeah?”  Felix asks.  He is doing some cool-down exercises and you try to not to stare at him.  “Why didn’t he want to go again?” 

“Some stupid bullshit he parroted from his father, because he’s never had an original thought in his life,” you say.  “It is a celebration of mediocrity. I will only attend your graduation from a valuable institution with an education that has been obtained through true work.  As if he’s not paying to get me into university, and as if I won’t be walking out of there with a degree even if I sleep through every exam.” 

Felix laughs in a humourless, distracted way.  You look over and watch as he swings his water bottle up and catches it again.

“His father, huh?” he says.  He shakes the water, absent-minded in his distraction.  He walks backwards then takes a seat against the wall where he looks at you again. “This, uhhh, this everything in the family goes back far, huh?”

“Old money,” you say with an eye roll.  You cross the room to join him on the floor.  “Far enough.” 

“Did you know him?” 

“Who?  My grandfather?”  You slide down the wall and sit beside Felix, your shoulders touching.  “Yeah, I mean, he died when I was about ten or eleven.  You know him too.”  

Felix looks at you in bewilderment and you laugh.

“He was the same as my father is now,” you explain.  “If you know one, then you know the other.” 

“That must have been…” Felix searches for the word but there is very little to sufficiently summarize that household. 

“Yeah,” you say with a snort.  “It was.”  Your grandfather was a tyrant as sure as your father is now.  You cannot say if he was worse,  being so young when he ruled this household, but you remember he occupied the same untouchable sphere of power.  Your grandfather looms in your memory as a grim figure as dark and intimidating as Mister Miroh.  He was on the offense at all times, ambitious and striking out at whim.   Your father, perhaps in response to his own father’s iron fist, has always acted on the defense, holed up in his castle and building his walls high to seal in everything of value.  He attacks in retaliation or proactive defense. 

Neither ever permitted being contradicted or disobeyed. 

“I see,” Felix says.  He looks like he wants to say more, brow still furrowed in contemplation, but then he just sighs and rests his head against the wall.  “Are you sad about your graduation?” 

“I just hope Hyunjin looked out for Jisung.  He’s all I’m sad about.”  Picturing your best friend in a corner of a ballroom with no one paying him any attention is too devastating to think about for long, especially knowing about his home life and how alone he felt before you. 

You take a steadying breath. 

“He just deserved better,” you say. 

“So do you,” Felix says, only just above a whisper.  He pats your knee and you react predictably, all your nerves alight beneath his hand. 

But he does not linger long enough for that warmth to spread.  You are not alone, after all.  There are footfalls overhead and your father is tucked away in his office. 

That night you have a bad dream.  It is nothing so terrifying as a nightmare, featuring no guns or tyrant patriarchs.  It is just a miserable dream. 

You are at your graduation, wearing one of your many evening gowns.  There is nothing so special about dressing up given your forced lifestyle, but the party is not about the gown or a date or anything else.  You are looking for your friend.  That is all you want, but you can’t find Jisung anywhere.  You turn many corners, passing through the lengthy shadows of hotel hallways and school corridors, but there is an eerie emptiness to all of it.  Finally you find a door, beaten and weathered.  You step through knowing there is nothing fancy waiting on the other side of it.  

You find yourself on the roof of a ramshackle house.  Jisung is perched on the edge, dressed up in a blazer and tie but with his signature backwards cap.  He is gazing up at the stars.  You sit beside him, filled with so many things you want to say and yet nothing comes out.  Time feels warped in your dream and you feel like you sit there for days, months, years, the sky dark, the world quiet. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally say.   

It feels unreasonable to ask for forgiveness, even if you did not willingly abandon him.  You still feel the ache of guilt for having roped him into your life in the first place, but you feel especially guilty for not regretting those years.  You do not want to live in a world where you never met him.  To have never been someone, to have never known someone.  

You know he feels the same way.  He said as much during your goodbye.  

In the quiet, he hugs you, wrapped up comfortably like that last night at his house. 

Somehow that is the moment you become aware it is just a dream, that this is your own mind consoling you, but it is meaningful that your subconscious summons your best friend for that much-needed hug of reassurance. 

It seems ridiculous that you, of all people, should think they have the best understanding of love, but perhaps it is the long absence of it that allows you to recognize when you have it.  You have witnessed every elaborate gift and gesture in the world, but you are quite certain there is no grander demonstration of love than someone holding you for an hour with no other motive than to simply be there, seeing and being seen. 

When you wake, it is with such an ache that you find yourself clutching your chest.  Your uneven breathing wakes Felix.  The moment he touches your shoulder, you roll into his arms and let yourself cry.   He doesn’t ask what it is about, drawing any number of conclusions, but he holds you until your tears turn to sniffles then stop altogether. 

You get drowsy in his arms.  When he thinks you are asleep, he tries to lay you down on your side of the bed, but you are conscious enough to stir and cling to him.  He laughs under his breath. 

“Full house,” he whispers.  “You need to sleep over there.” 

You look at him morosely, blinking back tears.  He sighs, letting his head droop, then he gives you a pointed look.  You are surprised when he flicks his thumb over your bottom lip, drawing attention to the fact you are pouting. 

“Told you,” he whispers. 

“Hmmph.”    

He rolls away but you follow, wrapping around him like a clingy koala bear.  He chuckles and shakes his head, but lays on his back and allows you to rest your head on his chest.  You nuzzle under his chin, hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm.  He rests a hand over yours.  When he breathes, you watch the rise and fall of those hands. 

It is a comforting embrace.  This bed has often felt like a world away from reality.  You stare at those hands, his kind touch.  You cuddle closer, secure with the weight of his arm around you.   

It sets your brain in motion, compiling these feelings with everything he has told you and everything he has done. 

Before you can stop yourself, before the insanity of such a statement dawns, you say, “Do you think we could make it if we ran away together?”

He goes very still, even his breath slowing.  His heart beats a steady staccato under your hand. 

“Felix,” you whisper. 

“No,” he says, sharply, like the instinctive hiss of pain when unexpectedly struck.  He shakes his head, coming back to himself.  “No,” he says again, softer.  His voice breaks as he lowers it to a whisper.  “No, I’m sorry—I’m—I told you—you know it’s not that simple—”

You know he’s right.   Felix is obviously very competent but he is still just one man, and your father would not let you slip through his fingers so easily.  This is disregarding all the technical logistics of running away, like money and food and a place to sleep. 

But a little cabin flashes across your mind and your argumentative side rears itself even though you know better. 

“Maybe it is that simple,” you say.   “He’s just one man—”

“He’s not just one man,” Felix says, sitting up.  You slip through his arms, laying back and watching as he pushes a hand through his hair.  “He is his business, and his… his world… and all the men like him…” 

“And our lives?” you say.  You sit up and put your hand on his back.  “You said I deserved better but so do you.  You aren’t selfish just because—  Stop shaking your head—”

He does but he still looks away, exhaling sharply through his nose. 

“It’s not—”  He chokes on the word, swallows, then speaks again softly, “It’s not just my life.”  He stares across the room, as if once more ensorcelled by some memory playing in the shadows.   “Life,” he says, “in pieces and only for a little bit.  I always remembered that, you know.  That’s how you described it.   That’s what I have.   Being here.   It’s more than—more than what I deserve.   And what I—what I get—is a life worth more than mine—”

“Stop saying things like that,” you say miserably.  You reach for his face but he turns away.  “Do you have any idea,” you say with as much as emotion as you can fit in a whisper, “any idea how much my life has changed because of you, because of the way you are…  Felix, you’re part of the good too.” 

“You can’t—you can’t say things like that to me—”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start to believe you.” 

You touch his face and he lets you this time, eyes lifting to yours as you guide his face up.  Your thumb brushes that dark constellation of freckles, your eyes searching the face you have woken to every morning for years now – the brown eyes, the dark brows, the wisps of blonde that dash across his forehead.  Your thumb brushes the groove to his upper lip, then the bow of his lower lip. 

You cup his jaw and tip your head, hoping your gaze reveals the words you cannot conjure.  The walls close in around you again.  All those nonsensical ideas make their escape, leaving you in the dark with him.

He holds your gaze, his consternation fading to a different sort of ache.  Longing carves itself in his features, the disconsolate but nonetheless ardent hunger of someone starving at a table they cannot eat from.  He lays his hand over yours, holding it against his face.  Eventually he lowers it.    

“I didn’t count them,” he says. 

“What?”  You blink to attention, confused by the seeming subject change.   “Count what?” 

“The, uhh…” His laugh is dry.  He clenches his jaw and looks down at where he is holding your hand.   “The people.  The people I killed.”   He keeps his gaze low, watching as he strokes his thumb across your knuckles.  “Others counted them but I—I dunno… I didn’t need to.  It comes back to me sometimes, yeah.  Hair colours.  Clothes.  Last words.  I didn’t need to… to write it down, to keep track.   I just remembered.  I still remember.” 

Even before you saw him in action, you knew killing was in his past.  It still feels different to have those suspicions confirmed, that there was that much violence in his youth, but you are not upset for the reasons he must think.  You are only more sympathetic, curling your fingers around his and squeezing. 

He won’t look at you.

“Felix,” you say.  “You were a kid, and I don’t know where you were, I don’t know what they did to you, but that’s not your fault—”

“I was good at it,” he says.  “I was the best.  I thought I knew what I was, why I existed.  Then things changed.  Now I’m not that.   I’m not anything else either.  I have no right to be, yeah?  Do you understand?  I can’t walk away.  It’s all in me and there’s nowhere to put it down.  All I can do is this—this one thing.  And honestly, I don’t even know if it is the right thing.  I just know that if I go with you, that feels selfish.  If I stay here, if I—I keep you trapped here because of me—that’s selfish too—”

“I’m not trapped because of you,” you say.  “I would be here either way.  If it wasn’t you here with me, it would just be someone else.”  So I’m glad it’s you, you want to say, with no obfuscation and no exaggeration.

He interrupts, “I killed your grandfather.” 

It is so unexpected that you freeze.  You cannot help the way you lock up when truly startled, even if the fright is only momentary.  Your body shuts down to protect itself. 

Felix withdraws his hand immediately, sensing your coldness.  You come back to yourself and look at him, though he still avoids your gaze. 

“What?” you eventually manage.  “You—”

“He was the target,” Felix says.  “They tried to kill him before.  Tried, and failed.  There were casualties.   Like your… like your mother.” 

You look away too, chronicling everything he is describing.  Your mother died when you were still in infancy and you were never told much more than that.  You always thought it might have contributed to your father’s obsessive protection efforts, at least in part, but you could never be sure.  

“He was…” Felix says.  “He was like a monster, to me, growing up, like a… like a ghost story or something.  They told us stories about him and men like him.  About how some were so… so powerful… and couldn’t be killed by a regular person… Everything I did—all the killing—was—was justified to me, yeah?  And he was the worst of all.  And if we could get rid of him, then… then all the other bad would go away too.” 

“But it didn’t,” you say, remembering the infallible creature of a man that was your grandfather, the same but different to your father.  Things changed when he died, in a way.  Your father’s defensive operations are contrary to the offensive strategy of your grandfather, but no less intense in application.   You can see how an enemy might have looked at your father, a frightened man always on the defensive, standing in your grandfather’s shadows.  You can see how they might have thought the empire might crumble without the iron fist ruling it. 

“But it didn’t,” Felix says. 

You have questions, so many questions.  Was it all Miroh?  What happened next?  How did Felix end up here?  Why does he stay?  A million questions fly through your mind.   The only one you manage to vocalize is, “Does my father know?”

Felix shakes his head. 

The rest of your questions evaporate into nothing.  Only a breath passes your lips.  Felix is bent over, elbows on knees, shoulders hunched.  He is staring at the ground. 

“Felix,” you say, reaching for him.  “Felix, I don’t blame you for anything.” 

Grandfather, father, it’s all the same poison sloshing from the same spoiled glass.  You would be here either way, only without Felix, his voice and his hands, his heartbeat under your palm.   You cannot imagine the bleakness of that loneliness. 

You lay a hand on Felix’s shoulder, wanting to say all this and more but at a complete loss for words. 

There is a moment of quiet, then he says, “All this time.”  It is barely more than a murmur, face still downturned.  “You were right here.  And they didn’t care, so I didn’t see you.  I didn’t even look.” 

You cup his face once more, guiding him upright.  He comes without a fight but takes his time, like it is agony to meet your gaze.  When those dark eyes locked with yours, a shaking breath leaves his lips, that aching expression returned to his face.   You do not know what your own face is doing, all your masks fallen away, leaving something open and raw, wounded but wanting.  You swipe your thumb over his cheek, the high point where his freckles cluster darkly, sweeping down to where they dim. 

“You’re looking now,” you say. 

You slide your hand around his head, into his hair, fingertips fluttering over his nape.  He shivers and tips his head, naturally leaning into your touch.  You remember seeing the scars that litter his chest, remember feeling the cuts on his back from your own father’s beatings.  You remember all the nights he has held you.  You remember every little tidbit of your life he has tried to rescue and give back to you despite his precarious position. 

You are both in a terrible situation without the tools to truly navigate your way out.  There are no rules for a situation like this, every choice a dangerous one. The only thing you know for certain is you are not alone. 

“I’m afraid,” you say, “but I’m not afraid of you.” 

He gazes at you for a long, thoughtful moment, then reaches to touch your face.  Just his thumb, tracing from temple to chin.  The tremble of his touch reveals more fear than his faint smile, all of it bound tightly in the tension that holds him together, the carefully restrained yearning for something bigger than this moment. 

“Yeah, but I’m afraid of you,” he says on a breath of a laugh. 

“Right,” you say, infused with all the light-hearted sarcasm as you can muster.  “That’s me,” you say.  “Scariest of them all.” 

“You have no idea,” he says, still so sincerely.  It is your turn to shiver, leaning into his touch as his thumb circles your chin.  He smiles again, not his exaggerated toothy grins but a sweet, fond smile.  “My job.  My enemy.”  His thumb presses on your mouth, gently parting your lips.  A breath escapes with the race of your heart.  “My sweetheart.” 

“You’re just being mean now,” you say.  “I hate you so much.”  You hold the back of his neck and tug him close to you.  Your noses brush, his breath colliding with yours.  A simmering warmth is tingling under every inch of your skin, gathering hotly in intimate places.  You scratch up the nape of his neck and he swallows hard. 

“A kiss,” he says, a rough whisper.  “Just one kiss.  It’s too—we can’t—” 

“One kiss,” you say, brushing noses again.  “For now.”

His soft laugh warms you even before your lips touch.  And a touch is all it is, lacking all the rushed dramatics of your first collision.  Even though you’re not truly alone, even though danger encircles this room like a poisonous fog, this little world away from everything feels momentarily invulnerable. 

You let your eyes close, surrendering to the gentle give-and-take of it all.  You wonder what makes a kiss so addicting, and you wonder how you went this long abstaining, and you wonder how you could ever hope to go without it again. 

You run your hands into his hair and pull his face close.  He sinks into the kiss, sharing a gasp before kissing you again.

You feel dizzy with breathlessness but you don’t stop.  You shiver when he cups your neck to control the movement of your head.  Your excitement has you bobbing forward, but he holds you and gently tips your head, then he kisses you with a long, hot pull.  When his tongue brushes your lips, you make a little noise and he very softly squeezes your neck, the only place he is touching, in warning.  This only tempts another sound but you restrain yourself, if only just barely.  

The kiss ends with a gasping breath.  You rest your forehead against his for a long moment.  Then you open your eyes only to close them when he descends, kissing your nose, your eyelids, your cheeks.  His sigh feathers against your lips. 

“More effective than a bullet,” he murmurs. 

Surely, it is meant to be joking, sweet, flirtatious.  But he looks at you with that deep-set longing.  He draws his thumb from your temple to chin again.  He tilts your head to kiss your cheek, closing his eyes like that innocent press is the greatest pleasure of his life.  Your cheek still tingles when he pulls away. 

He smiles then nods towards the top of the bed.  Your heart skips a beat, but then he says, “Sleep now.  No more bad dreams tonight, yeah?” 

You feel tipsy, breathless still, so you don’t argue.  You also do not look away from him.  Your eyes are locked as you slide to your side of the bed and pull back the covers.  He sits on the end, watching you.  Eventually he lays down and looks at the ceiling, scrubbing a hand over his forehead.  His mind is so clearly going a mile a minute. 

“Don’t worry,” you say with a wave of your hand.  “I still hate you.” 

He shoves his tongue into his cheek to hold back the laugh, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.  You just smile, then shrug, then turn your back to him for the night. 

-

The summer passes in euphoric bursts and tiny agonies.  There are days you and Felix are alone in the house, days when a calm settles between you even if all you do is sleep entangled, and there are days your father looms with all his threat and power, when Felix sensibly withdraws and you ache with the need for an intimacy that keeps you sane and human.

Felix is clearly torn between his own desires and the duty he has assigned himself.  It is also apparent that he is still struggling to consider himself worthy of honest affection.  You can see it in the way he stands, the way he looks at you, the way his shoulders tense when you so much as brush his shoulder.  You have laid in his arms more than once, your faces so close that you are almost kissing.  You run your fingers through his hair until the tension leaves his body and he lets himself slant towards you.

Please come to me, stay with me, you think. 

This is another one of those things that cannot coast on accidents, on fleeting moments of lustful tension that would ultimately fizzle if not for the emotional strength propelling them.  It is in that emotional undercurrent you must plant yourself deliberately if you want to feel anything, if you want to heal, and if you truly, completely want him.

Maybe you cannot leave, maybe that kind of rescue is impossible, but you form a haven of sorts between yourselves.  You try to find the words to tell him he’s a person, that you want to be a person for him, a body under his hands and a heartbeat in the dark, but you can never find the right thing to say to fully liberate you from the cage closed around that room.  The words touch your tongue and burn and suddenly you see every nightmare in front of you, every reminder of why this is dangerous.  So you turn your back and say you hate him, even while a kiss on the shoulder is enough to fully unravel you.

The summer is busy, a popular season for parties and events, some your father hosts and some you are invited to attend.  He drags you from place to place, with the rest of your spare time filled with advanced course work.  It is a distraction if nothing else.

At the end of summer, your father calls you into his home office.  It could be for a lecture, a demand, an argument he is itching to start.  You do not know but you appear when summoned.  

Felix is already there, sitting straight-backed in a small chair across from your father’s desk.  There is an empty seat beside him. 

He turns his head and looks at you, reminding you of the first moment you ever saw him.  Some things are the same, but most things are different.  You realize how much older he looks.  He is still slender, still clean-shaven, still very pretty, but he is not a child anymore.  He does not look ridiculous in his black blazer and tie, a holster under his jacket, a competent professional with a job to do.  Uniforms used to make him look even younger, his face too wide and sweet for such a grown-up ensemble.  He looked like a little boy playing dress-up.

He is not a little boy anymore.  You look into his face as you approach, your eyes locked.  His hair is long enough to tie into a little stub of a ponytail.  You ran your fingers through that hair this morning, fluffing the soft ends, making him smile.  You have kissed that pink bow of mouth, both roughly and softly.  You know what he sounds like when overcome with pleasure. 

You met years ago, two peculiar children with so much humanity beaten out of you.  You realize just how much has grown back thanks to the slow but tender cultivation of your relationship. 

It seemed like an impossible thought at the time.  Now it seems like it was inevitable. 

You take the empty seat beside him.  You both look at your father.  His hands are steepled on his desk, his attention rapt as it often is when meting out punishment.  His smile is not encouraging to the contrary, as he will sometimes smile when administering his reprimands. 

But then he says, “Congratulations, I am pleased.” 

He shows you the transcript for your summer courses.  Your grades are more than halfway decent despite your tumultuous year.

“You’ve worked hard to win back my favour,” he says.  It is the kind of comment that would usually trigger your frustration, prompting a quick rebuttal that would quickly escalate.  But you temper yourself, curling your fists in your lap.  You force yourself to ignore his bating, to listen with as stoic a face as you can muster.  Your father smiles, though it is strained.  “In my persistent generosity, I have decided to reward this behaviour in the hopes of encouraging it will continue.” 

He slides a folder across the desk, every encounter a business meeting when it isn’t a brawl.  You take the folder and read through it, the frustration leaving your body as it is replaced with confusion then the vaguest flicker of hope. 

“We are substantially removed from the university campus,” your father says.  “I have decided that for the sake of convenience and your continued academic success that it would be more prudent to move you closer to the university until your degree is completed in a timely manner.” 

“Move,” you say, trying to keep your voice level despite the fact it feels like your heart is trying to leap into your throat.  “All of us?  What about the house?”

“Just you,” he says.  “And Felix, of course, to supervise you.  The penthouse is secured with a high security system, not to mention armed doormen and a plethora of staff throughout the building.  Between that and your bodyguard, you should be secure and thus able to complete your studies without any obstruction.”  He thumps a hand on his desk, making you jump.  “And I expect your grades to reflect that.” 

You nod vigorously, staring down at the real estate listing of the penthouse apartment.  You have only just begun to picture the possibilities of an uninterrupted life, however brief the interim, when your father speaks again.   

“Felix,” he says.  “You know what I expect of you.” 

“Yes, sir,” Felix says with a curt nod. 

“I will have it on record now,” your father says to you, “that I give Felix complete and full control of this arrangement.  You will do what he says when he says it. I also grant him permission to use his own discretion to determine when and how to discipline you if you step out of line.”

“Oh,” you say, too stunned to add more.    

“If he reports that you are making things difficult in any capacity—”

“I won’t,” you say.  “I’ve been good all summer!”

Other than last night when you snuggled up to Felix and started kissing his neck.  It was chaste, a momentary touch, but then a sweet, low sound rumbled in his throat.  Naturally, you did it again, then once more, your lips a little wetter and more open each time.  He eventually had to pry you off him with a warning look, but he could not fully stamp down his smile when you giggled at him. 

“Felix,” your father says, disregarding your retort.  “You have my permission to do what you must to keep her in line.”

“Yes, sir,” Felix says, dropping his head in a respectful bow. 

-

“So what do I have to do get disciplined around here?”

“Stop,” Felix says, even while obviously amused, a smile tugging at his lips.  “They’re still here.”

You giggle and look over his shoulder where your father’s men are moving the last few things into the apartment.  One of them collects Felix to show him the workings of the security system, which Felix quickly learns with his all technological skills.  

You play the part of demure daughter, quietly moving from room to room as your father’s men assemble your life according to his directions.  You did not get to organize much of anything, but you don’t care.  A wall is a wall, a bed a bed.  But these walls offer privacy.  That bed is a new haven. 

It is just you and Felix. 

Eventually the men leave, one by one.  The move began in the morning, but it is late evening by the time Felix closes the door on the last departure.  You wait while he does his security check, in the sitting area, standing at the floor-to-ceiling window that boasts a beautiful city skyline view.  The outside of the window is a mirror, concealing your privacy, but you get to enjoy the twinkling city lights, the bustling world below that offers so much possibility.  It is very different than your view back home, of a perfectly manicured and perfectly stagnant garden, the mansion isolated on a hill with no other souls for miles. 

You remember your first night alone with Felix, how empty that house felt.  Now when Felix joins you, the apartment feels full.  It is brimming with life.

You look at him as he turns on a lamp, brightening the dim room with a cozy golden glow.  The whole room feels warm.  It is not eerie and empty like that house.  You were living in a mausoleum of wealth, rotting away with distractions and half-living in what little remained.  You feel golden and alive, now, here, with him. 

He clears his throat.  He was staring back at you, his regard as intense as yours.  He turns aside now, peeling off his uniform blazer.  He starts talking about dinner, suggestions for this and that, something about school, about going to campus tomorrow and finding your way around.  A hundred topics, more distractions. 

You say nothing so he continues to fill the silence with empty chatter.  He uses his friendliest voice, though your thoughts are not merely friendly when you watch him unholster his gun, when he fiddles with the harness around his chest and pulls it free.  He puts everything on the coffee table and sits on the couch, pretending to be very occupied with organizing it.  He checks his gun as if something could be wrong with it, nimble fingers flicking through its mechanisms as he checks its assembly.

You sit beside him on the couch, watching him fiddle with it. 

He says something about something.  Asks a question, maybe.  He is not really looking for an answer.  You think his heart might be beating just as fast as yours, even though his hands are steady and his gaze is resolute. 

“It doesn’t really matter what I want,” you say in a voice, sighing dramatically.  “My dad says you’re in charge of me anyway, right?” 

He clips the gun shut and puts it on the table.  He looks at it for a minute, then exhales. 

“Are we doing that now?” he asks dryly. 

“I dunno, are we?” you ask, shuffling a little closer to him.  He looks at you sideways then shakes his head.  He puts his hands on his knees and strums his fingers.  “Are you saying I can do what I want?” you ask. 

“Uhh, that depends,” he says.  Another strum.  “What do you want?” 

“A kiss.” 

He looks at you, those dark eyes narrowed, his expression one of warning. 

“Just one,” you say, batting the eyelashes that are apparently more persuasive than torture.  He swallows and you smile.  “Just one is fine, right?”

“You said just one a few times ago now,” he says dryly.  

“No, you said that,” you say with an innocent smile.  “I said just one for now.  But now I’m saying just one, because I’m going to be a good girl.”

“Oh.”  He looks amused now, nodding.  “Are you?  Really?  Wow.” 

“No sarcasm required, thank you,” you say.  “I’m trying to avoid being disciplined, after all.”

His mouth draws into a thin line.  He looks away and cracks his knuckles distractedly. 

“Just one,” he finally says.

“Yes.”  You nod and smile sweetly.  “Just one.” 

That one kiss lasts forty minutes.  First you are side by side on the couch, the blue evening night outside the window colliding with the golden glow within.  That blue light fades to black before long, but that golden warmth stays glowing.  Heat similarly rises between you, soft pecks against soft lips turning to open-mouthed kisses that beg and satisfy with each deep touch. 

He holds your face in both his hands when you tremble, keeping you steady, letting you melt into him.   He moves when you tug at his shoulders, mutely imploring as you lay back on the couch, though he holds himself well above you, maintaining distance. 

When his arms get tired, he lays back.  He lets you crawl on top of him, and sighs, giving in, holding the back of your neck as you wrap your arms around him.  You kiss again, wet and hot and hungry, losing time and sense. 

You kiss until it shows, when his whole mouth is pink and his skin is flushed and he can barely keep his eyes open with the dreamy intoxication of it all.  You are straddling his waist, hands on his chest, his holding your waist.  A breath breaks the kiss when you settle right above where he is hard, the ridge of him in his denim fitting between your open thighs.  You are wearing jeans too but the thick material does nothing for true modesty. 

You settle there against him, fitting like perfectly slotted halves of a whole.  His brow creases, a truly tortured expression that pours into bliss when he yields to desire.  He holds your hips, keeping you there against him, and goes back to kissing you with long, slow presses, eyes closed and the occasional breath gentle. 

Your fingers are in his hair, stroking at his nape.  Lovely low sounds slip into his sighs.  You can feel how desperately turned on and wanting you are, clenching around nothing if he so much as shifts.  You imagine laying here like this with him inside you, not moving much, lazily kissing and joined together like you have all the time in the world.  The very thought has you clenching again, whimpering into his mouth.  It sounds a little pained so he strokes your back, under your shirt, making you shiver very noticeably.

“Are you okay?” he asks, with a completely shot voice, rough and low. 

“Mhm,” you say.  Words take a long time to come back to you.  “Just… thinking…” 

“About?” 

“If we were kissing…” 

“We are kissing,” he says with a chuckle, tracing circles on your spine

“And,” you say, pointedly, and press your knees into his hips.  “If you were inside me while we did it.” 

That makes his hand pause.  Then he thunks his head back hard and fast, missing the cushion and hitting the arm of the couch.  His eyes close and his face scrunches, newfound pain adding to his present torture, all of it making you giggle. 

“You keep doing that,” you say, remembering him hitting his head in the car too. 

“That’s because you…”  He can’t even finish, he just makes a pained noise and shakes his head.  It makes you laugh a little more, biting your own bruised lip as you look down at him.  He cracks one eye open, his cheeks dimpling with the tug of a smile.  He slides his hand far up your back, thumb finding the band of your bra and skirting it, then diving back down to your spine to settle just above your ass.  “If I was inside you,” he says softly, “we would not just be kissing.” 

It is your turn for a pained noise, hiding your face in his neck while he laughs. 

“You can’t say things like that,” you whine.  “That’s just mean.”

“Mhm.”  He gives your ass a pat, making you wriggle on top of him.  “Okay,” he says breathlessly.  “That was one kiss.  Or something.  I think we’re done.” 

“You’re the wooorst,” you say as he sits up.  “I hate you so much.  You’re so evil.  You’re so sick and twisted—”

He just laughs, patting your sides and shaking his head.  You only stop complaining when he kisses your nose, a sweet little peck.  His smile is tender.  He touches your cheek. 

“Say it again,” he says.     

“What?  I hate you?  Fine.  There.  I hate you.” 

“One more time?” he teases, cupping your jaw, kissing your neck when you try and speak again.  Your words get garbled and he laughs, shaking his head.  “That’s what I thought,” he says.  “Now up.  I’m in charge.  It’s time for dinner.”

“I can give you something to eat—”

“Up.”  His tone is stern but he is still smiling.  “Don’t be trouble.”

“Me?” you say.  “When have I ever been trouble?  I’m perfect.”

“Of course you are,” he says dryly.  “I don’t know why I worried.” 

“Exactly,” you say, running your fingers through his hair.  Your eyes are locked, your smiles soft.  You kiss his nose.  “And I’m just getting started.” 

FAVOURITE TRACKS FROM 5STAR??? mine are item, s class and fnf!!

My favourite till now are Hall of Fame, dlc and collision. I haven't heard fnf and youtiful 'cause I'm not ready to cry yet.

FIND ME (INSIDE EVERY HEARTBEAT)

LEGEND 🖤Pairing · 📜Word Count · 🪐AU/Genre/Trope · 🚨 Warnings

🖤DILF!Lee Know x (afab) Reader 📜9.8k | Approx. 41-min read 🪐Exes to lovers, Angst with fluff frosting, Mutual Pining, Smut with a disgusting amount of feelings 🚨Reader discretion advised: A painful breakup, mentions of previous toxic behavior, body worshipping, breeding kink (Minho legitimately wishes to knock mc up and the feeling's mutual), praise kink (m), vaginal fingering, oral sex (m, f), unprotected sex, creampie. 💌Shoutout to @straywrds for throwing this idea at me and running away like everything's fine. 💭Reblogs & comments are always appreciated and please keep in mind they are the ultimate motivation fuel.

SYNOPSIS He loved you deliriously, but it wasn't enough to keep him from letting you go. Years later, you run into each other again.

He's a dad now.

This one-shot is a spinoff from the universe of 「THE ZONE」 — Events take place much later than Minho's arc (unreleased as of July '23).

“I’m fucking poisoning you, aren’t I?”

Cavalier. Presumptuous. High-and-mighty. Show-off. A trainwreck. A goddamn fucking know-it-all. 

Lee Minho.

You had found him at his worst all those years ago like a little stray cat drenched in rain, hissing at everybody who dares to come close just to make itself look intimidating. He had lost a friend and he was hurting a lot, making his defenses taller than The Great Wall. Made of iron, impenetrable almost.

You had fallen in love with his full moon smile hidden under layers of midnight brokenness.

“Do not say such things!”

“You and I both know who you really should be with,” he spat, jaw and fists clenched in unison, “We should… we should just break up.”

Another outburst again. Minho was a man comprised of intense emotions. Pleasant delight to manic euphoria, tinge of arousal to fatal lust, mild irritation to unhinged fury at record speed. You loved how passionate he was, but it was indeed true that it was hurting you every once in a while.

But calling that poison?

“Please,” you begged him in tears, “Please don’t do this.”

He loved you deliriously, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from letting you go because he thought you belonged with someone else. Someone who had a decent command over his own emotions, someone who would make you mostly happy rather than half the time. They would at least be able to stay in your good graces when their pros trumped their cons.

Whereas Minho was in a vicious cycle of erasing all the rights he accumulated with a single colossal wrong.

“I know how much I’m hurting you. It’s who I am at this point. I can’t help it,” he averted his eyes from you, squeezing his eyes to push his tears back, “Just… Don’t make this any harder.”

“Minho, please… We can get through this together. We can—”

“It’s not your job to fix me!”

And just like that, he walked away. As if all those years you had spent together were just a dream. As if all the dreams you had did not exist. As if he had never called you his sun. It had caught on so much that you wouldn’t even call each other by your names; he would call you Sunny instead, and you would call him Moony. 

Sun? What sun? 

Light was a social construct, and it could go to fucking hell. Ever since Minho left, it was always new moon for you, and darkness was all you knew. Everything lost its color and turned into bleak monochrome shades.

And it was getting dimmer with each passing day.

You were going crazy. You talked to your friends about the same things over and over again. Nothing was consoling you. Nothing was able to splash a bit of cold water on the hellfire that broke out in your heart. The lilies you loved so much had died. It kept raining torrents. You cried and cried and cried over him until you ran out of tears to cry. You had never felt this helpless in your life. 

Minho used to sing quiet lullabies for you in his arms. 

You lost sleep. 

Minho used to make grilled cheese sandwiches for you on Saturday mornings. 

You lost your appetite. 

Minho used to draw silly doodles on post-its and stick them all over the house so that you would laugh when you saw them. 

You lost joy. 

You bundled yourself in your cocoon of blankets for days on end, hoping it would pass. Sooner than later. Sooner than later. Sooner. Sooner. Please, I’m dying over here.

“It’s time, sweetheart. Come on, get up.”

You were so consumed in grief that you had lost all sense of reality. To this day, you were thankful to Hyejin for dragging you to a therapy appointment that day.

It still took a long-ass time, but you at least managed to reach a state of neutrality instead of violently breaking down when you heard the name Minho. The hellfire was put out, but the gentle sizzle of the everburning amber was still there. You had no choice but to come to terms with carrying that around for the rest of your life.

When it was time to reintegrate with the rest of the world again, you even entertained the thought of having someone in your life. You went on several dates. There were people you genuinely liked among them, too, but it always ended up the same.

“You’re still in love with your ex, aren’t you?”

Maybe. You were deluding yourself into thinking otherwise, but maybe… Even after all this time… 

You couldn’t help it. Minho was your first true love, so naturally, the cut he left behind was the deepest of them all. He still popped into your mind every now and then, making you wonder how he was doing. Whether he was happy or not. Whether he was thinking about you.

Whether he was regretting his decision at all.

When you woke up that Saturday, you had a really bad craving for grilled cheese, but you realized were out of ingredients. If you left right away, maybe everything would be different, but you decided to leave after taking a shower that lasted twenty three minutes. When you left your apartment, you briefly returned because you forgot to take out the trash. The cab you took ran one red light on the way, and you debated whether you should go to the bookstore now or after you finished your shopping, eventually opting for later.

…all of which cumulatively contributed to the exact moment you thought you finally went insane in front of the dairy aisle.

“Sunny?”

A bolt of lightning struck in the exact spot you were standing when you heard that name rendered in that voice. You heard something erupt in the distance, and the tremors of a violent mushroom cloud destroyed everything into a pile of goddamn debris.

When you slowly turned your head to your right, you indeed saw the one thing you were dreading to see for so long holding bread slices and a block of cheddar in his hands.

“Minho.”

His equally shocked expression was slowly replaced by a smile, and once you saw those cheekbones raised again, you felt your heart thumping in your ears. 

“I can’t believe it’s actually you. You look fantastic!” he threw the groceries into his shopping cart and approached you, “How have you been?”

Your heart ached. He looked as good as you remembered him. Even better actually with those waves in his hair. The dark circles under his eyes were long gone, and while happy was up for debate, he at least looked healthy.

“I’m doing better,” a vague smile appeared on your lips, “How have you been?”

“More or less the same neighborhood.”

Both of you were looking at each other, and there was something akin to an awe-filled silence between you. It wasn’t tense, but it was extremely intense. You were replaying every single memory of Minho in your head at x100 speed and wondering if he was doing the same. One wrong word could pop the oddly cozy bubble that immediately enveloped this moment, and you weren’t ready for it to end yet. You wanted to beg him like he used to when you tried to drag him out of bed.

Please, Sunny, just five more minutes!

“Are you in a hurry? Can we grab a cup of coffee right outside?”

You had managed to take one step forward after fighting all those demons. What if this was ten steps back? What if this small encounter was going to leave another unfillable void in your soul, and what if—?

“Of course,” you heard yourself say despite everything that was yelling at you inside your head. He smiled at you again.

It made you wanna throw yourself into the freezing cold ocean every time he smiled.

After completing your purchases, you made your way to the coffee shop in front of the bookstore, and Minho headed to the counter without even asking you what you would like. He returned with two large cups of dark roast americano, and you could smell the drop of caramel syrup in it. He still remembered how you took your coffee. 

Your heart sizzled.

“Thank you,” you dragged the coffee towards yourself on the table for two, “You grew out your hair. It really suits you.”

“And you dyed yours. I really like the color.”

There were so many things you wanted to say, so many questions you wanted to ask, but you didn’t even know where to start. Then something caught your attention as you kept playing with the lid of your cup.

“You got a tattoo, huh?”

“It’s Polaris,” Minho touched his left wrist, “It’s for my daughter. She’s my little star guiding me.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach so fast that you felt queasy. Did you… hear that correctly just now?

“You… you have a daughter,” you flashed him a terrorized smile.

It wasn’t a question, but it was. It wasn’t an interrogation, but it was. So he did find someone after you. Not only did he find them, but also… Also…

Did you do to her the same things you used to do to me? Did you also tell her you loved her endlessly? Was she able to touch you like I would? Did you miss me when you realized I beat her at that one good? 

“Yeah!” he brought out his wallet and showed you a picture in it with a smile, “Her name is Nari.” 

“N-Nari?”

It would have hurt less if he started torturing you right then and there. Lilies… He named his daughter after goddamn lilies. Mr. I’m-Poisoning-You had indeed gone ahead and found a toxin-immune terrain to breed.

Was this a fucking joke?!

“Oh wow, she’s the spitting image of you!”

“She’s great,” Minho looked at the picture fondly, “Being a father really changes you, you know. It puts things into perspective.”

Of course you knew. You had always known he would be a terrific father. A quirky one, for sure, but filled to the brim with love for his children. 

“How about you? You got any kids?”

You couldn’t believe you were asked this question by Minho as if you didn’t plan to have two kids once upon a time. One boy and one girl, the best of both worlds. Preferably twins. He was going to annoy the shit out of you with your son, and you were going to retaliate with your daughter because that was, quote, ‘How she will learn to be a boss lady later in life’.

“No,” you flashed a broken smile at him.

The mood was getting considerably solemn. What were you expecting anyway? For him to not be over you? He was the one who wanted to walk away, so why the surprise? What kind of hope were you holding onto all this time?

Were you unknowingly holding onto some hope all this time?

“Uh… So what do you do?” you attempted to change the topic, “Did you make it as a dancer like you wanted?”

“I’m actually a chef now,” Minho leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms on his now broader chest, “If you’ve ever been to Four Seasons downtown, I’ve probably served you.”

“Whoa, isn’t that a Michelin restaurant?”

“Which I’m responsible for obtaining.”

“That’s fucking impressive!”

Neither of you touched that radioactive waste zone again until you reached the bottom of your coffees. Instead, you talked about stuff you would do at a college reunion. What happened after you graduated? Were you able to land a good job? Of course you were; your professors never shut up about how promising you were. Your boss, though? He could go fuck himself. The chef thing? While he was wondering Minho found himself in the cookbook aisle at this very bookstore one day, and it was all downhill from there. He had never thought about turning his hobbies into a career before and he should have done that sooner.

Both of you spent an entire hour like this. Pretending. Acting like you weren’t extremely shaken by the other’s presence, and in complete disbelief that this was the reality you were leading now.

“It was great to see you,” Minho spoke as you were leaving the place.

It was a disaster to see you, you wanted to yell at his face. I’ve been doing so fucking well up till now, and now I’m back to goddamn square one. Why did you have to fucking show up again?

“You too,” you smiled at him instead.

When you least expected it, he reached for a hug and all of a sudden… 

That familiar scent.

Sandalwood. Ocean. Salt. Sunscreen. Forest breeze. Pine trees. Passion. Love. Lust. All in the same whiff.

Minho. 

The one that got away. Willingly.

Even after all this time, I still love you.

“I really hope this won’t be our only encounter,” he sheepishly smiled and took his phone out, “Do you mind if we—?”

“I don’t think so, Minho.”

His expression immediately fell. He was sulking. You hated it when he pouted. You just wanted to give him the entire universe so that he would smile again.

But this past hour had taken the life out of you.

“I’m sorry, I– I didn’t mean to assume,” he put his phone back and turned his eyes to the ground, “Of course. When you agreed to have coffee with me, I just thought…”

“It’s not that.”

You creased your brows trying to pick your words carefully. A part of you was still mad at him for what he put you through, but it wasn’t like you wanted to get back at him for it. You were trying to move on, and exchanging numbers and having him around was certainly not the way to do that.

You could never be friends with him again. Not when you knew what he tasted like because you knew for a fact that he tasted like your soulmate. 

And you were forever doomed to be the fully functional half of a perfect whole without Minho.

“I almost died trying to get over you,” you finally met his gaze, “It was nice to catch up, yes, but you seem to have much more important priorities now.”

You reached out for his hand, and he watched you stroke his tattoo with your thumb.

“My daughter.”

“I’m very proud of you, you know,” you smiled genuinely for the first time, “I know it’s not unheard of for people to change, but I’m very glad to see you changed for the better.”

Minho opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he smiled at you again, albeit in a thousand pieces.

It made you wanna burn yourself alive every time he smiled like that. You instinctively pecked his cheek and hailed an approaching cab.

“Say hi to the missus for me,” you smiled at him as you got in and took out your earphones from your pockets, “Houston Drive, please.”

Only after the cab took off was Minho able to register what you just said.

“Wait!” he dropped his bags, “Sunny, please wait!!!”

Minho started running after the yellow vehicle gliding down the road like a yellow serpent but to no avail. He eventually slowed down to a halt, panting hard as he held his knees in complete fatigue. With his last remaining strength, he yelled after you as if you would be able to magically hear him.

“THERE IS NO MISSUS, SUNNY, PLEASE!”

“You’re fucking kidding me!”

“Nope. I’d rather gargle cyanide than bring him up in a conversation,” you talked into the speakerphone as you were tearing the lettuce in the kitchen, “Minho is a daddy now.”

“And who’s the bitch?”

“Jin…”

“I SAID WHO’S THE BITCH I JUST WANNA ACCIDENTALLY RUN INTO HIS WIFE SOMEWHERE WITH MY CAR!”

While Hyejin’s murderous intentions to avenge you were appreciated, you didn’t possess the knowledge that would satisfy her.

“I didn’t ask.”

“What do you mean you didn’t ask? Aren’t you at least a little bit curious?”

“I’m not about to spiral myself into a comparison olympics, sweetie.”

“Urgh, fucking Lee. Pops out of nowhere like a goddamn jack in a box after all this time,” Hyejin scoffed into her receiver, “If I ever see him, I will crack his ring finger!”

You initially laughed at her violent comments, but then… something hit you.

“Actually, he wasn’t wearing one.”

“A married man and is not wearing his wedding ring?”

“I mean… I assumed he was married.”

“Let me ask you something, Sunny,” she sarcastically emphasized, “Did you or did you not hear it from his mouth that he was married?”

You drew a total blank at her words. No, you hadn’t asked him that because why the fuck would you? Who would have wanted to know what would be their untimely demise?

“But he has a daughter.”

“That literally doesn’t answer my question,” Hyejin insisted, “Did he tell you he was married?”

“He– he didn’t.”

“WOMAN!!!”

You didn’t know what to make of her reaction. When you were still together with Minho, Hyejin was the number one fan of your relationship, but obviously, people had to choose sides after a breakup. She was always there for you through your darkest times, but now…

Was she insinuating what you thought she was insinuating?

“Here’s what we’re doing,” she continued, unbothered, “Next week, you’re getting into your classiest slut attire and we’re having dinner at Four Seasons for operation ‘This is what you missed out on motherfucker’. I’m making a reservation right now.”

“Hyejin, please!”

“I SAID WHAT I SAID. DON’T MAKE ME RUN YOU OVER, TOO!”

Then she hung up on your face.

Minho didn’t say it, yeah, but it didn’t necessarily mean that he was single, either.

But what if he was?

What if he was?

What if…?

“So what if he is?!” you threw your phone on the couch in exasperation.

On the D-Day, you took the longest shower of your life drowned in your thoughts, and started to get ready for your dinner plans as if you were going on a fucking date.

The possibility of seeing Minho again stirred something in you, no matter how much it was in a work context. If anything, you were nervous to be in his fascinating Michelin chef presence, quite possibly fucking shit up in the hottest way possible. Because that was what he was. Intense. No matter what he did. You didn’t even know how you would be able to see him considering… He had to be in the kitchen, no? It wasn’t like the man was serving people himself. Would you make up an excuse? Would you try to sneak into the back? Would you purposefully send your food back, or ask for the chef to come over so that you could pay him compliments in person?

Why did you agree to Hyejin’s plans again?

“Good evening. Did you have a reservation?”

You were there to have dinner, no? Basic human needs and whatnot. Then why did it feel like this man was questioning your entire life trying to decide whether you were worth being there or not?

“Yes. I believe it’s under Ahn Hyejin?”

He went through the gargantuan notebook he had in front of him, and once he confirmed the name, he made his way inside.

“This way, please.”

You thought he was going to lead you to a table in the middle of the people crowding that large hall, so naturally, you were befuddled as hell when he passed the restaurant area and guided you towards a more secluded place.

“I’m sorry, I think there’s a mistake. I’m supposed to be having dinner with my friend?”

“Yes, ma’am. Ms. Ahn has booked this VIP room for you.”

“For me?” you creased your brows in confusion, “As in she’s not coming?”

He finally slid a door open and gestured you to go in. There was a table for two inside in front of a window looking over a fantastic city view along with a lot of kitchen utensils. You walked towards one of the chairs and sat down.

“Enjoy your experience,” the maître d’ left you by yourself in that extravagantly luxurious room.

Confused out of your mind, you attacked your phone to call Hyejin to ask where the hell she was, but she wasn’t picking up. The one time you needed her the most…

“Dammit, Jin!”

She was the one who came up with this plan without telling you what the plan fucking entailed, so what in the fresh fuck was up with that indeed?

“Good evening.”

You heard the door slide open again. A person clad in jet black kitchen attire let themselves in and greeted you without looking at you. You could literally hear the fireworks or a nuclear bomb go off in the distance when you turned towards the source of that honey voice. The person’s expression, on the other hand, was in between being on the brink of crying and flashing the most genuine smile of their life.

Your heart melted into a puddle when you saw him.

“My name is Lee Minho. I’ll be your personal chef tonight.”

“You’ll— my— personal what?”

He had a very entertained smile on his face seeing how flustered you were.

“Well, isn’t that why you came here tonight? To dine?”

Was it??? The last time you checked, you were under the impression that you were going to have dinner with your best friend to throw shade at your ex. Not be in such an unnecessarily close proximity to him that you would question all your life choices that led to that moment.

“I– I don’t… Hyejin booked…”

“Ah, of course. The boss lady herself,” Minho slightly bowed at the name as a sign of respect and then licked his lips with absolute mischief shooting from his eyes, “So you did tell her about me, huh?”

“Why– why– why would I do that?”

“I find it a little hard to believe that she of all people would coincidentally request me. I know she put a bounty on my head back in the day,” he casually handed you a menu, “Would you like my recommendations or would you like to create your own menu for tonight?”

He was standing tall with an upright posture right next to you with his arms clasped behind his back, waiting on you like your personal bodyguard. You had noticed how he must been working out a couple of days back, but those bulging veins that traveled from his elbow down to his hands confirmed it for you.

Minho used to despise moving.

“I’d like to have so very much wine, please,” you handed the menu back to him while gulping. He chuckled in delight.

“As for the food?”

“Surprise me.”

His chuckle turned into gentle laughter for some reason.

“With pleasure,” he took the thick cardboard away from you.

Minho opened a very decent bottle of cabernet sauvignon first to accompany your appetizers, and then promptly got to work. You watched him create magic right before your eyes. The way he was executing his craft with such passion and enthusiasm felt like you were supposed to be paying to watch him cook. It was that satisfying, and he made it look so easy. Smooth wrist movements, a tight grip and flawless command over his knives, brows furrowed and lips slightly pouting due to concentration. You didn’t even realize how much time had passed when he finished your first course.

“Please enjoy,” he placed an incredibly fancy-looking black porcelain plate in front of you.

And when you took your first bite of the food…

“God—DAMN, Min, you used to struggle even with pasta. How the heck did this happen?!”

You knew you fucked it up royally when you met Minho’s gaze. As nervous as you were, the familiarity of having him around had tricked you, and the word just slipped from your lips. Min. The way he looked at you so longingly when he heard that name from you again… After all those years…

You wished the ground would swallow you whole.

“Thank you. I appreciate it very much,” Minho broke into a very comforting and content smile sensing your internal struggle, “I’ll get started with your entrée.”

He proceeded to prepare your main course, and as he was busying himself with it, you suddenly blurted out with the courage you got from your wine.

“Why don’t you make it for two?”

“Are you expecting company?” he asked not looking away from his cutting board.

“I’d like you to join me.”

He finally met your gaze, and you saw the whirlwind of emotions stirring in them. Surprised, definitely. Undertones of happy. A tinge of excitement maybe. And then he smiled.

It made you wanna lock him in the tightest embrace every time he smiled.

“I can’t do that while I’m working,” he returned to his cooking, somewhat bashful.

“You can if a paying customer is asking you to,” you insisted, “Please.”

Please? Did you just say please?

Did you know how many years did he wait for you to say that in any context? Did you know how unequipped he was to say no to that request?

Without saying anything, he threw another marinated steak on the grill in front of him and added another portion of baby potatoes right next to it. Shortly after, he pulled two plates from the cabinet below him and decorated them exactly the same. 

Minus the little demiglace sun he drew on your plate and a crescent moon on his.

After he placed the plates on the table, he grabbed a fishbowl wine glass for himself and poured a generous amount of burgundy courage into it as if he wanted to drown himself.

“To you,” he raised his glass. 

You reciprocated. Your glasses kissed each other way more fearlessly than you two could coexist in the same room. If Minho cooked dinner for you in the privacy of his own kitchen, it would only be slightly more intimate than this.

You both ate in silence for some time. You savored every bite, every flavor he managed to squeeze into that plate. It might have been completely delusional of you to think this way, but for some reason, everything everything in front of you tasted so sweet just because Minho made it for you. Nothing in this world could be this concerningly delicious to make you think whether you were having your last meal or not.

“Minho, I’m going to ask you a question.”

To hell with it. The itch at the back of your brain was about to drive you crazy, so you just had to scratch it before you snapped and went on a fucking rampage.

“Yes?” he asked you with his brows raised.

“To be brutally honest, I’m kind of scared to hear the answer,” you put your fork down and stared at it, “Are you…?”

How to ask this? How to not pry but pry at the same time? How to make him think you didn’t have the ulterior motives that you absolutely had? What if he gave the wrong answer? Because there was a wrong answer here.

“You’re– you’re married, right? To Nari’s mother, I mean.”

“No.”

A total lack of pause. He answered your question so nonchalantly as if to say What the hell is wrong with you?

“Really?! I mean…” you immediately cleared your throat, “I mean, are you– are you divorced, or…?”

“We never got married.”

What the hell was that feeling of relief spreading throughout your chest at a concerning speed?

“Why not?”

“Because we were never together to begin with,” Minho took a sip from his wine, “Nari wasn’t exactly born out of love.”

The clouds passing by his beautiful face… They were a distinct type of nimbus. Quite dark. Charged with lethal bolts of lightning. If they rained, they would sure as fuck create disastrous floods after them.

“Her mother and I… Let’s just say our relationship lasted for less than an hour under a lot of haze,” he started drawing circles on the rim of his glass, “There was a time in my life when I turned to less-than-ideal means to…”

Then he pierced a hole in your soul with his eyes.

“To try and forget you.”

Once upon a time, you knew a man. He wasn’t aware he had pirated his entire personality from someone else, and he would do anything to get his way. Anything. Even say things that would mean so much to an average person with zero restlessness on his conscience because he didn’t have one. He just didn’t give a fuck who he was hurting as long as he got what he wanted.

Years later, that very same man was sitting right in front of you, holding his heart between his hands openly and giving you a free pass to crush it into mere dust if you wished. The amount of vulnerability in his voice… He knew he deserved it. He knew he deserved the worst of it.

“I’m not proud of it, but I’m taking responsibility. She was the one who wanted to keep the baby, but she is nowhere to be found most of the time. So I filed for full custody.”

“You’re– you’re raising her on your own?”

“Yes,” he smiled and then switched to his playfully cocky mode you were a bit too familiar with, “I mean Rose helps us a lot of course, but I’m not about the give her all the credit. I’m indeed a superdad to my baby.”

You involuntarily chuckled. Why of course, even in the form of a joke he just had to compliment himself because that was Lee Minho for you.

“How old is she now?”

“She’s four.”

If someone had told you that years later you would be listening to this beautiful disaster with Everest-level cockiness talk about his baby girl fondly, you would die laughing.

Minho wriggled in his seat and cleared his throat, then spoke without looking at you.

“Well… Are– are you…?”

“Am I what?” you reached for your glass.

“You know,” he dragged his finger down the stem of his glass as if that was the most important task at hand, “Have someone. In your life.”

He seemed almost scared to look at you, but eventually mustered his strength to face his fate. You dragged on the silence for as long as you could handle and shook your head no. Not only was there massive relief on his face, but Minho also let out a very deep breath that accompanied his blooming smile.

“Sunny.”

The tone of his voice changed all of a sudden. Serious. Determined. He reached for your hand over the table and fearlessly looked deep into your eyes as he talked this time.

“I’ve never stopped having feelings for you. Never.”

His skin on yours once again. Hesitant but oh so soothing. Asking to come home.

All your senses were extremely heightened somehow.

“I thought I was doing what I believed was the best for you, but I hit rock bottom. I lived my life as a walking corpse after I let you go, but you know why I’m glad Nari exists?”

Every time he talked about his baby girl, all his razor-sharp features softened, and the amount of compassion he had for her was simply bursting out of him.

“She turned me into a man that I always wanted to become for you. She is teaching me about patience. She is teaching me about unconditional love,” Minho swallowed a sob to push it way down, “And she reminds me so much of you.”

This right there was how cruel life was. You both had to be dragged through hell and back in your own ways to become the people you were at that very moment. Nothing had gone according to the plan, but then it made you think. 

So what if it hadn’t? 

Would that necessarily be the better option? What if you and Minho stayed together to the point of resenting each other so badly that you couldn’t stand the idea of sharing a life anymore? So what if it wasn’t you two that were supposed to change each other for the better? At the end of the day, Minho was a household chef and a devoted father who seemed much more level-headed, and you were a successful editor-slash-writer who refused to put anyone else right at the center of your life anymore.

All things considered, did that really turn out so bad?

All things considered, could you give him another chance?

All things considered, would you be able to find it in your heart to forgive him?

“You’ve always been my Moony, Min,” you smiled at him through the tears threatening to fall, “And always will be.”

His smile, on the other hand, grew so devastatingly big that you were almost blinded.

“I was thinking, after I’m done here would you like to—?”

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

“DO YOU MIND, GENE?”

The poor maître d’ was just doing his job, but Minho got so annoyed to be interrupted at the best part that he couldn’t help the volume of his voice and startled both of you.

“I sincerely apologize,” he judged the crap out of Minho solely with his eyes and put a little envelope in front of you, “Ms. Ahn extends her regards.”

When you opened it, you saw that it contained two keycards in it for room 1116.

“Well, Gene, Ms. Ahn is indeed here, isn’t she?” you closed the envelope and shot him a knowing look, “I promise I’m not going to do anything. I just want to know.”

The tall man in his crisp brand-name suit got flustered out of his mind but felt obliged to provide you with an answer anyway.

“We’ve been strictly instructed to monitor your mood and let her know if you were in distress, ma’am.”

“Thank you very much. While I don’t appreciate the CCTV treatment, please tell her I’m really enjoying myself.”

As the man apologetically bowed and made himself scarce, you removed one of the keycards from the envelope and slid it towards Minho.

“Here’s your tip, Chef Lee,” you spoke with the softest but infinitely seductive tone, “Why don’t you pick up a bottle of your most expensive champagne and meet me upstairs?”

Without giving him a chance to speak, you got up to your feet. Minho’s eyes followed your every move and his jaw dropped when you came that close to him and leaned in.

“You remember how we used to not let each other sleep, right Min?” you placed a little kiss on the mole on his nose and left him there to marinate in his feelings for a while.

You thought he would take a while to arrive, but shortly after you entered the room, you heard a knock on your door.

“Can I come in?”

“Why didn’t you just let yourself in?” you looked at him in surprise.

“I uh– I wanted to make sure you actually want this,” he scratched his neck, “Maybe you’re having second thoughts, or maybe y—”

You shut him up by kissing him, and his eyes immediately closed. His lips in yours again… So soft. Occupied the space in your mouth just right. Burned you with the amount of desire they were coated in.

Some things had changed, yes, but some things were never going to change.

He still tasted the same.

“Does that answer your question?”

When you looked at him like that and dragged your fingers down his cheek, Minho lost his remaining sanity and devoured your lips. You pulled him in from the collar of his uniform as he shut the door behind him with his foot. Your hands were all over each other wanting to touch everything at the same time. You guided his hand between your legs to show him how wet you were already, eliciting a deliciously loud groan from him.

“You fucking know how weak I am for you, so you’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?” he spoke into your mouth, “Keep this up and someone’s getting knocked up tonight.”

“Then fucking put your money where your mouth is. I dare you to breed me.”

“I hope your birth control fails.”

“I hope your condom breaks.”

“Joke’s on you. I don’t have one on me.”

You pulled him in for another fiery kiss, but when you attempted to take off his top, he stopped you.

“No, no, no, baby, I need to shower first.”

You shuddered when you suddenly heard the address he used to have for you. Minho also realized what he just called you and examined your face intently to determine the level of his fuck up. 

“I’m– I’m so sorry. Force of habit.”

“It’s fine,” you smiled at him contrary to his expectations, “More than fine actually.”

“I promise I’ll be back in five minutes. Time me.” 

You giggled as he grabbed a towel and bolted to the shower. When he reemerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and his wet locks sticking to his face, he still had forty-three seconds to spare, and you almost lost your whole entire shit when you saw him half-naked after all this time.

Minho had always been gorgeous, but now in addition to that, the man had become totally ripped.

“Now where were we?” he sat right next to you and attempted to kiss you again.

“Nuh-uh,” you stopped him in panic as if you weren’t on the brink of jumping him yourself, “You did kill the mood. You gotta work me up again.”

“Again,” he echoed you, “So I did work you up before.”

Even when he knew what he was doing to you, Minho would always try to coax you into saying it out loud. Give him attention, tell him how pretty he was, praise his oral skills, moan his name when you were cumming… He lived for that shit.

But once his lips touched your skin again, there were no remains of the playfully brazen guy anymore. It was like he was trying to tell you something without actually saying it.

“Did you miss me, too, Sunny?” he kissed the corner of your lips and started moving downwards, “Did you miss me as much as I missed you?”

His hands were all over you, albeit moving very unhurriedly. He was inhaling you a lot as if he had been to war and was down bad with homesickness.

“Say yes,” he spoke into your neck while pulling the straps of your dress down, “Even if you didn’t, please say yes.”

“But yes,” you affirmed and kept repeating it like a mantra to him, “Yes, I missed you to death. Yes. Yes.”

No amount of shampoo or shower gel could hide his sandalwood scent from you. You were getting lost in him just like you always did as if you didn’t spend any time apart. Minho stopped for a moment and looked at your face while stroking your cheeks, eyes beaming with adoration.

“You have another tattoo?” you touched his right shoulder, “Don’t tell me that’s for your daughter, too, because this looks depressing.”

It was a completely blackened sun as if it was in an eclipse. His expression turned serious all of a sudden.

“It’s for you actually.”

Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach.

“You were my sun. You still are. I already felt like I had completely eclipsed you, but when we broke up, my entire world darkened,” he caressed your hair, “It’s a little brighter now thanks to my little girl, but it’s… It’s not the same.”

You were suddenly overcome with so many emotions that you found yourself on the brink of crying. Minho’s eyes. Minho’s lips. Minho’s love. Minho. Minho. Minho.

“Love me,” your voice quivered, “You owe me years’ worth of touches. Just love me.”

“Shh, it’s okay now,” he kissed your hands and laid you down, “I’m right here.”

You let him pacify you with his touches as he stripped you fully. He caressed every inch of your body softly and marked every piece of skin he uncharted with a little kiss. As if he was discovering you afresh. 

“Hate me all you want. I deserve it,” he pulled himself up to your eye level again, “Just let me kiss it all better. However long it takes.”

Then he proceeded to place his wet ‘days of the week’ kisses that you had missed so so so much. 

“Monday.”

Your lips.

“Tuesday.”

Your neck.

“Wednesday and Thursday.”

Your breasts.

“Friday.”

Your tummy.

“Saturday.”

Your thighs.

“And Sunday.”

Your clit.

“You remember how we used to party on the weekends, right Sunny?”

You inadvertently let out a giggle seeing him smirk at you that mischievously.

“Let’s see if I remember it correctly,” Minho got comfortable between your legs, “This spot is for sucking.”

He wrapped his plush lips around your clit and sucked on it with a barely there pressure just to tease you. He knew it would never be enough even if he kept this up for hours.

“This spot is for kissing.”

He moved right under your clit and kept placing feathery kisses on the area. He was slowly pushing you towards the very edge of impatience and he loved the way you kept flinching under him. 

“And this spot is for licking.”

Then he slithered down to your oozing entrance and started to lick into you with intermittent kisses. Just like on the nights you made up after a huge fight.

“Ah, Min…”

“Call me your baby again,” he spoke quietly into your pussy but you could feel his words inside you, “Call me baby like you used to.”

His way of passionately apologizing to you over and over again. He was drawing little suns and crescent moons on your pussy with his tongue, hoping you would recognize them. Hoping you would accept them as tokens of how sorry he was.

“Fucking god, your taste,” he contorted his face in absolute delight, “You taste better than the rarest delicacies, Sunny.” 

He put your hands on his head for you to guide him, wrapped his hands around your thighs, and started a heavy makeout session with your cunt. The feeling was so intense that your eyes rolled back.

“I’ve kicked several addictions so far, but this? I’m never getting sober,” he wiped his chin smeared with your arousal and sucked on his finger, “I’m addicted to you. Down bad. Always have been.”

He gently slipped two fingers inside and started massaging that spot right behind your clit. Your moans were slowly transforming from quiet little staccatos to dragged-out sounds of pleasure as if you were belting a note.

“Better, right?”

“Much better,” you tugged on his moist locks, “God, you’re fucking amazing with those fingers, baby. You’re… You’re so… Oh, fuck!”

Minho was never able to control how he reacted to you whenever you praised him in bed for any reason. He was in dire withdrawal as it was as it had been such a long time since you showered him with compliments. You might have said one word, but it still automatically awakened Minho’s beast mode because if there was one thing he loved more than anything, it was competing with himself. In any capacity. His fingering got a little faster, and he alternated between sucking and licking long drags on your pussy until you came all over his fingers. He licked them clean and crawled on top of you to kiss you with his cum-stained lips.

Once you gathered your wits again, you laid Minho down and hovered over him. You kissed him with the very same days of the week. His scars. His tattoos. Like you were accepting his apologies. Like you were accepting him for who he was. He kept wincing under you in pleasure and tried to catch a glimpse of your face as you made your way down.

“You remember how we used to fuck for hours on Sunday mornings, right Min?”

You worshipped his abdomen just the way he liked it, touching and placing wet kisses all over. His large hands were caressing your hair as he watched you with his head tilted, dying of anticipation of the moment your lips would finally meet where he needed you the most. Minho loved the prelude, always had, and his breathing was much faster already. 

“Should I go further down?” you teased him by kissing his crotch, “Should I?”

“Don’t make me beg!”

You would, but maybe some other time. You took his flushed cock in your mouth and started blowing him as slowly as possible. Deep. To taste his essence rather than pleasure him. All of a sudden, it felt like he was never gone, and this was just another night in your bed you were spending together until the faint blue lights of daybreak told you to stop fucking and go to sleep.

Even after all this time, I still love you.

Minho didn’t rush you. He was so scared you would come to your senses and leave him all alone for good that he couldn’t even move. 

He wasn’t about to mess it all up again.

“I’m right here”, you held his hands to reassure him, “I’m right here, Min. I’m not going anywhere.”

Once you said that, all the muscles he was unknowingly clenching loosened and he relaxed into the pillow, completely letting go and just relishing the feeling of you around him. He was getting dangerously close to his release, but that wasn’t a part of his plan.

“Don’t!” he stopped you when you started choking on him, “Don’t make me cum. Not yet.”

When you let go of his cock with a loud pop, Minho immediately sat up and pulled you in for a deep kiss. His tongue still tasted like you in your mouth.

“Beg, baby,” you scratched right under his chin, “Beg to fuck me. Beg for me.”

“Let me make it up to you,” he brushed your hair away from your face, “Let me show you why I’m your other half. Why we belong together. Please.”

“What if I say no?”

“Please, baby,” Minho pleaded with his lips on your neck again, “Let me fuck you. Let me fuck you deep. Let me fly us both. Let me drive both of us crazy right here right now. You know I can.”

If Minho’s weakness were your praises, then yours was his relentless begging. You were ready to spread your legs for him four sentences ago, but what fun would it be if he didn’t turn into an utterly desperate lover so eager to please? You placed your hands around his neck and harshly pulled him down with you, signaling him you were ready.

“Oh fuck, you still feel like heaven inside,” Minho took deep breaths as he carefully settled inside you, “You still fit around me so snugly.”

How full he made you feel inside every single time was insane. No matter how much he stretched you, no matter how wet you were for him, it didn’t matter. The second he started moving inside you, that feeling was so intense that your eyes rolled back with a loud moan.

“You still react the same to me, Sunny,” he chewed on his lips and picked up his pace just a measure, “Does it still feel as good, baby? Do you like the pressure?”

You slammed your hands on his hips and groped him for how overwhelmed you were with pleasure.

“God, it feels much better than I remember!”

“Wrap your legs around me. Let me go deeper.”

When you did as he said, Minho was able to angle himself properly to reach a critical spot inside you.

“Fuck, that’s deep!”

“I know how my girl likes it. I know all your hotspots,” he maniacally smiled, “I know how exactly you like to cum like the back of my hand.”

“Getting cocky there a bit?”

“Tell me if this rings a bell,” he continued to fuck you deep but now with slower thrusts, “Folds teased until you’re rabid. Pussy fingered and clit sucked until it’s numb in my mouth. Breasts fondled. Thighs kissed. Legs massaged with my cum as your aromatherapy oils.”

You involuntarily groaned at how fucking brazen he was being with you. Minho grabbed both of your hands and pinned them right above your head.

“Then it’s my turn, and I fucking drill you into this mattress like my personal pornstar, and you take it like the good girl you are. Sound familiar?” he started moving with sharper, more precise thrusts, “Do you deny any of this? Do you deny that I know how to fuck you just right?” 

“Min, please!”

“I’m made for you, baby. Don’t you ever forget it,” he unleashed himself on your lips like a starving predator.

All that filled that dark room for a while was both your muffled moans melting into each other as well as the obscene sounds of skin against skin and lewd squelches coming from sopping wet cunt.

“Listen to you. Fucking dripping,” Minho sharply hissed, “Go ahead baby, you can soak me more. Don’t be shy.”

“Fucking– Just– Fuck, you’re– How d– oh my GOD!”

“Aww, I know baby, I know,” he placed an unnecessarily chaste kiss on your forehead, “Getting fucked by your man so good you can’t even talk properly. Am I doing that good of a job pleasuring you?” 

“You’re doing perfect, baby.”

“Am I still your good boy, Sunny?”

“Keep talking like that and I’m gonna fucking sink my teeth into you!”

“I dare you to bite me.”

You could try to wriggle away all you wanted but Minho’s grip on you was like a deadbolt. You weren’t able to move an inch. He slowed way down and watched the way he disappeared into you while biting his lips so hard they were about to bleed.

“See? See how it slides right in? I turn you on so bad you can’t help getting wetter,” he shoved a couple of fingers inside your mouth to suck on, “Night after night, I dreamed of this. You. Getting so fucking wet around me that I have no choice but to cum.”

You weren’t able to talk anymore, but what you really wanted to do didn’t require any words anyway. You swirled your tongue around his fingers and looked at him so desperately that there was no way he wasn’t going to react to this.

“Don’t look at me like that with those begging eyes, or I swear to god I’ll breed the shit out of you,” he landed a light smack on your thigh and took his fingers out, “And you best believe it’s going to hold. Your walls are so swollen already.”

“All talk no play. You’d fucking better finish inside,” you rattled him, “My pussy’s too pretty not to be eaten or creampied, and that’s a fact.”

“Yes, it is. It fucking is. It deserves to be creampied first and then eaten,” he threw his head back in absolute ecstasy, “And you already know I swallow.”

Minho channeled all his focus on that particular spot inside you that you liked so much. The curvature of his cock was aligned just right to end you.

“Now let me hit that exactly the way you like it.”

He buried himself into you to the hilt. Once he bottomed out, he pushed a little more forward and started hitting that spot hard in a staccato rhythm like a pulse, never once pulling back.

“Oh, FUCK YOU!”

“Right there, isn’t it? You love getting this spot fucked,” he was more than satisfied watching what he was able to do to you, “God, you’re literally ascending.”

It was only at that moment did Minho realize one of the closet doors to the left side of him was plated with a mirror. Once he caught a glimpse of the two of you in the frame, he throbbed hard inside you.

“Oh, jesus fucking christ!” he turned your attention to the same destination, “Nobody can ever do it like us, baby. Look how fucking hot we are.”

Minho being his otherworldly sexy self, fucking the life out of you like there was no tomorrow was already enough to blow your mind, but when you actually saw yourself getting fucked…

You could literally feel yourself excessively oozing.

“Soaking the sheets, huh?” he contently chuckled at the trail you were leaving under you, “Time for my girl to give it to me good, then.”

He swiped his thumb on his tongue and started going to work on your clit. While you thought the level of eroticism was going to end you, it suddenly became…

Something else.

“I belong right here, Sunny. Don’t ever leave me without you,” he started going harder, “I’m begging you. Please.”

You held him by his waist and pulled him for a kiss with your arms around his neck. You were both clearly so overwhelmed by your emotions. It was never just lust with Minho. Every time you fucked, it felt like a reaffirmation, a renewal of promises between you. You had badly broken and bruised each other once upon a time but at the end of the day…

“It’s you,” he spoke into his mouth breathlessly, “It’s always been you. You own my heart, Min.”

If you kept talking, he was for sure going to be moved to tears. Minho suddenly stopped and rested his back against the headboard, promptly making you straddle him to pick up where he left off.

“I’ve always loved you, Sunny. I always will,” he rolled his hips into you, “Tell me you love me, baby.”

“Even after all this time,” you moved away the locks of his hair covering his eyes, “I still love you, Min. I love you to the moon and back.”

To the moon and back.

To the moon.

Your Moony.

Minho finally lost all control and started fucking into you so fervently that it was impossible for you to endure that pressure.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again, baby.”

“I love you, Min.”

“Oh, fuck, I’m about to cum!”

He gently pushed your chest back to make room for his thumb and started rubbing you frantically. The second you contracted hard around him with that high-pitched moan, Minho let go and came really fucking hard as if he was having a spasm. He came so much and it was so wet between your legs that you didn’t know which of those drops belonged to you and which ones belonged to him.

“Don’t pull out,” you grabbed him by his nape and pulled him closer, “Deeper. Fuck your cum deeper into me.”

“You’re driving me clinically insane,” Minho bit into your lips, and then promptly kissed them along with your cheeks and your forehead, “Just like we always wanted, huh? The best of both worlds.”

You rode out your high in that utter state of bliss and collapsed on top of him, but even in his fucked out state, Minho clung to you like a koala bear. He kissed your shoulders and your neck, wrapped his arms around your waist, and pulled you into his embrace.

“I did miss you so much,” you started playing with his hair once you both calmed down, “But there are some realities we need to talk about.”

“You mean Nari.”

“Yes,” you averted your eyes avert from him, “I can’t just appear in her life just to disappear again, Min.”

“But who says you need to—?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” you interrupted him, “I don’t even know if she would like me.”

“Well, considering she’s growing up with the fairytales I tell her about Sunny the Princess, I think she wouldn’t mind seeing her in the flesh, but I digress.”

“You what?!”

He let out a loud cackle at your reaction and kissed your lips.

“I know the situation is not what we thought it would be, but Nari could be our child, baby. We can give her a baby brother, too,” he pressed your hands on his chest, “I’m ready for this. If you’re also willing, just say the word, and we can have our happily ever after.”

A happily ever after. With Minho. Maybe the means of getting there didn’t really matter after all as long as you got to have it. Nevertheless, it wasn’t a decision about two people’s lives anymore.

“This seems too big of a decision to make overnight.”

“Then tell you what, how about we ease into it?” Minho propped up on his left elbow, “I take you out on a few dates, we fuck on the third date, and if you see a promise by then, you meet her by the tenth date. How does that sound?”

“Damn, tenth?!” you widened your eyes in shock as if Minho just insulted your entire ancestry, “I have to wait that long?”

“She’s hard to get. You can’t just appear in her life just to disappear again.”

You landed a light smack on his arm for mimicking you, but the picture he painted for you was more than fair.

“That sounds lovely.”

You kissed him to your heart’s content to avenge all that time you spent apart. With his eyes closed, Minho’s hands never left your skin as if to make sure that you were indeed real and right next to him, and this wasn’t one of those dreams again.

“I love you, Sunny,” he glided his fingers down your cheek, “You complete me.”

“Even after all this time?”

He flashed a smile so endearing you almost melted into a puddle right then and there.

“Always.”

He wanted to punctuate that moment with a kiss at the expense of getting your lips painfully swollen, but the deeper he kissed you, the more something was awakening in him again. Before you knew it, his hands were slithering down your back and groping your hips.

“Already?” you looked at him all surprised.

“You have no idea about the drought I was in for years, so yes, already,” Minho pulled you under him and trapped you under his frame, “If you fall asleep, I’m fucking you awake tonight.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Happy belated anniversary to The Zone.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to share your thoughts with me in reblogs, tags, or in my inbox. As long as you're kind, that is.

-R. (CB97%)

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bliss ✧ 18+ ✦ scorpio ✧ INTP ✦ asian

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·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚.Things I like ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐬:

Stray kids

Txt

Seventeen

Enhypen

Le Sserafim

Nmixx

XG

(G)I-DLE

(Although I only really keep up with skz, I occasionally listen to the other groups' music.)

𝐀𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬:

Jujutsu Kaisen

My Hero Academia

Demon Slayer

Sk8 the Infinity

The disastrous life of Saiki K

Spy X Family

Gakuen babysitters

Lookism

Haikyuu

Assassination classroom

𝐌𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐬:

A silent Voice

Turning Red

Perks of being a wallflower

Everything everywhere all at once

To all the boys I've loved before

Red, white and Royal Blue

+many more

𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐬:

Stranger things

Umbrella Academy

Euphoria

Sex Education

𝐊-𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐬:

Business Proposal

Goblin: The great and Lonely God

It's okay to not be okay

Strong Woman Do Bong Soon

The package

Extraordinary You

Weightlifting Fairy Kim Bok-joo

Soundtrack #1