Stars & Butterflies

Stars & Butterflies

Summary: Minghao, an art student, has a secret identity, and you’re the only one who knows.

Content: fluff, friends to lovers, college au

I don’t think there’s any warnings needed for this one!

At the shrill sound of a whistle, the kudo athletes spring into motion. You wince as their helmets collide, imagining the sensation. After a few seconds and another whistle, the team relaxes once more, and gather around their head coach. You can’t hear what he says, but a few moments later the team shouts an unintelligible syllable and breaks apart.

You stand up, gathering your things from your seat on the bleachers. Spotting number 8 making his lone way across the field toward you, you skip down the stairs and wait by the fence. “How do you do that?” you ask Minghao as he pulls his helmet off, shaking his shaggy hair and grinning. Even right after a hard practice, he’s infuriatingly beautiful with his half-up man-bun and his caramel skin that shines with sweat.

“It’s easy,” he says, brushing the back of his hand against his forehead. “You get used to it after years of practice.”

“Well, speaking of practice,” you say, “do I finally get to see your magnum opus today?”

He gives a shy grin. “No,” he admits. “She’s not finished yet.”

You are one of the few people who knows the identity of TikTok famous “MoonMuse”, a talented artist who built an almost Banksy-like cult following through mysterious social media posts of beautifully framed art. He’d been commissioned by celebrities, politicians, millionaires and other personalities for his incredible gift with oil paint, harking back to impressionists like Van Gogh and Monet in his style.

It is, in fact, this tall, muscular young college kudo champion standing before you who is behind these art pieces. You only found out because you, a photography student with a penchant for procrastination, fell asleep in the lab, and when you woke up, you had to exit through the painting studio. He had been there at 2:30 in the morning, working on a piece, and you had instantly recognized his style.

He had gone on to explain to you how only you and one of the art professors knew the face of MoonMuse, and begged you to keep his secret. Something in his eyes — the passion, the desperation maybe — had convinced you to agree. Plus, there was nothing to gain from exposing him. It would just be mean. Then, you had asked him if you could watch.

“I can’t paint to save my life,” you had told him, “so there’s no way I could copy you.”

He gave you a half smile before nodding at the chair next to his. Turning back to the canvas, he began adding strokes to a magnificent flowered garden scene.

You had stayed there almost all night. Watching Minghao work had moved you — it was both soothing to watch and inspiring to witness the care he took with even the smallest details of the painting. Through his eyes, the world looked more colorful, more romantic, more beautiful than it really was. You found yourself wanting to live in the world he saw.

Minghao had insisted on walking you home, because you lived across campus and there was a particularly dark and dangerous street you’d needed to cross to get back to your apartment. The walk back had been full of awestruck questions from you. He seemed flattered by the attention, even remarking that since he never saw his clients in person, he never got to witness their reactions to his work.

“So why do you do it?” You’d asked, thinking about the way artistic work often relies on validation. “If not to make them happy, why paint at all?”

He looked at you, then, and laughed. “I don’t ever paint for anyone else. I paint to keep myself sane.”

This struck you as odd. It lingered with you as you worked on your own art, so much that you found yourself waiting for him every night at the painting studio. Most nights he never showed. Finally, though, he had. And, surprisingly, he seemed genuinely excited that you had met again.

This had been the night you had asked him about why he needed to paint to stay sane. Between strokes of his brush, he told you about how he had a painful tendency to give too much of himself. He rarely got to feel or process his own feelings, especially hard or negative ones. That was where painting came in. “When I paint, I get to make these painful things into something that I can look at. I get to make it beautiful so I can process it.”

He had laughed when he’d caught the expression on your face — in awe was probably the best way to put it. “I’m sorry,” You had stuttered, blushing.

“It’s okay,” he had reassured. “I…actually really enjoy how amazed you get about things like this.”

He bumped you with his shoulder comfortingly. You had looked up at him, and his gentle, open, happy smile had actually reached his eyes for the first time.

He’d walked you back again, and this had become your ritual. At the entrance to your apartment building, he’d stopped you with a gentle hand on your arm before you walked away. He’d asked for your phone number.

He’d texted you right as you’d arrived home — just to say goodnight, but also to tell you he wouldn’t be in the studio again til Friday. You had smiled at the butterfly emoji he’d used to close the text. Appropriate — since there were a flock of them in your stomach.

Today marked your 100th meeting. You’d fallen in love with him somewhere around the 33rd — you had invited him to come with you while you practiced astral photography. He had watched you set up your tripod and camera and asked a couple quiet questions, looking absolutely huggable in his puffy coat and beanie at the top of a rugged mountain. The light finally faded, and Minghao had turned his face toward the sky. “Whoa,” he’d whispered.

The sky was full of tiny pinpricks of light, never visible from the city, but here in this mountainous landscape they were clear. It was why you came here -- and part of why you'd invited him. For a moment, he stared, entirely dumbfounded.

Then he looked at you, and you had been shocked to see his eyes filled with tears.

"I've never seen stars like this before," he said, his voice almost reverent. "I couldn't have even imagined that they existed."

You watched as a tear slid down his cheek and fought back an urge to cup his face in your hands. A telltale burn behind your eyes alerted you that you might join him in crying, and you quickly hid your face behind your camera. But he looked back up at the sky, wearing the most peaceful and contented smile you'd ever seen in your life. It was hard not to stare at him. It was hard not to want to protect him from everything bad in the world. And it turned out that it was absolutely impossible not to be in love with him.

On the way back down the mountain, after the moon had risen and ruined any chance for pictures, he'd asked if he could come watch while you developed the photos. Surprised, you had told him that of course he could. There in the dark room, he told you about his life. He told you about leaving his family in China and coming to school to study art on a kudo scholarship. He told you about the bitter homesickness he felt, about how sometimes he felt so anxious about his choice that he couldn't sleep. He told you how desperately afraid he was to reveal himself to the world -- how much his peace meant to him, and how difficult it would be if he lost it.

At this, you felt your eyebrows raise. He noticed. "What?" he asked, a hint of teasing in his tone. "Am I getting a bit too moody for you?"

"No, it's not that," you reassured him. "I get feeling anxious about something that important." Then, choosing your words carefully, you said, "It's just that I don't get that last part. I don't know if you can lose peace."

Now he was the one looking at you with raised eyebrows. "Why do you say that?"

"Because," you said, looking at your hands, "peace is internal. It doesn't come from anyone but you." You forced yourself to look into his eyes. "Why aren't you at peace with yourself?" you had asked him, quietly.

"I don't know," he'd replied.

You had walked home that night in complete silence together. You had worried he was mad at you -- so worried that you turned to face him before you went inside. "Minghao, I --"

But he had stopped your apology by bringing you into a big hug. He smelled like clean laundry and the pine woods you'd left only a few hours earlier. "Don't you dare," he said with a laugh in his voice. "I'm just thinking about what you said. I'm not upset." He seemed a little quiet the next few days, but then he got better.

Indeed, today he seemed to smile much easier than he had when you'd first met him. Right now, with the fresh springtime air on his skin as you walked to his apartment next to the painting studio, he almost had a spring in his step. "You're chipper," you say to him, laughing as he grins widely at you.

"I am," he replies, opening the apartment door for you. "I'll shower and then I have something to give you."

You nod, pulling out your laptop and working on some homework while he gets cleaned off. He comes out from the bathroom looking a little flushed, his hair still wet, and you can hardly take your eyes off him. He smiles at you, patting the side of his hair with a towel. "It's at the studio," he says.

He grabs your hand, whirling you around and pulling you down the stairs to the studio. Placing both hands over your eyes, he guides you through the studio until you come to a stop. Then he lifts his hands from your eyes, placing them instead on your shoulders.

You stare at a medium-sized canvas on which he's painted the most stunningly beautiful picture you've ever seen. It's a mountaintop at night, the stars enchantingly close and vibrantly colored in shades of orange and yellow, beaming down at two small shadowy figures who seem to be gazing up at them in awe. The painting is full of priceless wonder and joy. "This...is amazing," you say, trying not to choke up.

"It's that night," he says, watching your face eagerly, almost hungrily, to discern how you're feeling. "You remember?"

"Of course," you say, nodding. You let out a big gust of air. "I honestly can't understand how you plan on topping this. This isn't your magnum opus?"

He looks at the ground shyly. "Honestly, this is a kid's crayon drawing compared to that one."

Your jaw drops. "I'm not trying to doubt your skill," you say, "but I can't imagine anything more beautiful than this." You approach the painting, almost wanting to touch it, but thinking better of it.

"I can," he says quietly behind you. You look over your shoulder to see him beaming at you. "You can touch it," he adds. "It's yours."

"Mine?" you gasp. "Minghao, I can't. I mean, this should be in an art museum."

"Crazy how it's gonna hang in your house, huh?" he says stubbornly. "Seriously, it's yours."

"What if someone asks where I got it from?"

"Tell the truth," he says. "MoonMuse."

"Then they'll know I know who you are."

He shrugs. "That's okay with me."

You grow desperate. "This is seriously too much. I wish I had somewhere beautiful to put this up, but I don't! It deserves to be seen."

"It will be seen by the eyes that matter," he insists. You blush, but then a noise at the door makes you jump.

"Hey," says a girl at the door. "What is that?"

"A painting," Minghao says tersely. "Who are you?"

But she ignores him. "Whoa," she says, pushing past you to stand right in front of the painting. You wince as she touches it with a greasy finger. "I heard MoonMuse goes to school here, but I never thought..."

"How did you hear that?" you ask, your voice sharp.

She pulls out her phone and shows you a video. It's a sneakily filmed video of Minghao painting. You are sitting in the corner watching in the video, and he says something that makes you laugh. You suddenly feel dizzy as the video cuts to a headline about MoonMuse's identity being revealed. The video says that the person filming realized it was Minghao after he saw what he was painting in his room.

The room painting flashes onto the screen, and you cover your mouth with your hands.

It's a poor-quality image of what looks like a masterpiece. The painting looks familiar. The hair, the eyes, even the nose...

It's you.

Given Minghao's impressionistic style, it's more colorful and more beautiful than you, but it's unmistakeable. He perfectly captured you caught in a laugh, with your hair blowing off your shoulder. You look at him, and he's staring at you with his mouth open in horror.

Unable to bear it, you run out of the studio, into the golden sunset, as tears sting your eyes. You haven't made it four steps before you hear him calling your name.

You whirl around to see Minghao following you. "Why did you run away?" he asks you.

"They found out," you say, panicked, as a tear splashes onto your cheek. "I'm so sorry -- I think it's my fault, Minghao."

He actually takes a step forward to brush the tear off your face. "I mean, it was kind of inevitable. I had to come forward at some point, right?" He keeps his hand on your face. "But I need to ask you something."

"What?" you ask, looking up at him.

He puts his other hand on your other cheek, cradling your face in his hands. "What did you think of the painting?" he says, looking into your eyes with an intensity that makes your stomach turn over.

You suddenly remember. "Oh," you say, and blush.

He swallows hard before continuing. "I painted my whole heart into that painting. That picture really didn't do it justice, and it really isn't finished, and I'm not thrilled that you saw it before I really figured out what to say to you."

"It was beautiful," you tell him honestly. "More beautiful than I deserve, honestly."

He tsks in disapproval. "It's you," he insists. “It’s exactly what I see when I see you.”

You are speechless. He laughs a little at your expression before continuing. “That day on the mountain, and after in the dark room, I saw that you had been healing something you didn’t hurt. I don’t remember ever feeling this cared for, and that means a lot to me.” He pulls you in so your noses are almost touching. “Please stay with me.”

You feel yourself trembling at the closeness of him - surprised that although you’ve spent a stupid amount of time daydreaming about having him hold you like this, it still feels so new and crazy and wonderful. You nod. “Okay.”

He smiles - brilliant, blinding. You can no longer resist reaching for him — feeling the warmth of his cheek against your fingers, brushing his soft hair from his temple, just like you’d imagined but better, and Minghao spins you around in giddy joy.

He sets you down, your faces still close together. You both look at each other with huge smiles, and he uses a finger to tilt your chin up. His eyes drop to your lips and then back to your eyes — a question.

You answer without speaking, just smiling into his eyes. He moves in, slowly, giving a brief but impossibly sweet kiss. His arms tighten around your waist as the kiss deepens. You feel a knot of tension in your chest dissolve, and you melt into him, kissing him back with gusto. Throwing your arms around his neck, you let him kiss you into oblivion.

It seems like several days before you finally stop, standing with foreheads together, breathing each other in. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you back,” you whisper in return.

I AM MAD I DIDNT ALREADY KNOW THIS

Who in svt do you think has the prettiest hands?

boo seungkwan hands down (aha)

POV u gave your s/o a naughty photo book

Seventeen edition

Literally nobody asked for this but the concept has been living in my head rent free so im posting it so you can all suffer with me.

Warnings: suggestive themes throughout, and some mention of orgasms and other sexual topics, this is literally about giving someone a published book of your nudes so minors pls don’t interact. There are no sex acts described.

Seungcheol

It's Seungcheol's birthday, and all of his friends have left. With shaking hands, you had approached him to offer him "the last gift of the evening."

"I'm interested," he said, with one eyebrow raised. He got *that look* in his eyes -- the one where you knew the thoughts in his head were taking a nosedive into sin. You had given him a soft half-smile, the kind you knew made him crazy, before pulling the book out of your purse and handing it to him.

He looks...confused? Upset? It's hard to read his expression as he thumbs through the pages of the *book* you just handed him, his brow furrowed, a broad hand covering his mouth.

After awhile you just can't handle the suspense. "Do you...like it?" you ask him, trying to sound amused, but hearing how worried your voice comes out.

He looks up at you. "I've never seen this set before," he says quietly, gesturing at one of the pages.

You're a nervous wreck at this point — you think he might actually be angry with you — but you also have an inkling that Cheol is just trying to tease you, turn you on…and you have to admit it’s working. He’s got you blushing and stuttering and trying to keep him from being too angry. "It's new," you explain. "I got it for the shoot."

"Hmmm."

Cheol calmly shuts the book, standing up and walking over to you until he's standing directly in front of you. "You're gonna need to come with me," he says, and suddenly he's slinging you over your shoulder like you're Saint Nicholas's sack of toys.

He explains as he walks back to the bedroom with you. "Saying I liked the book is not quite the right word. Not strong enough. It's more like after seeing that book there was only one possible way the rest of this night was gonna go. It's that kind of book." He pauses. "And I'm appalled that this is the first time I'm seeing you in that set. How much time do you have tonight?" he asks.

"I've got all night," you giggle.

"You'd better have the set with you right now," he says as he tosses you onto the bed like a ragdoll. "We're gonna recreate every single pose in that book in person."

Jeonghan

“What is this?” Jeonghan asks you curiously, coming out of the bedroom with a package wrapped in black paper tied with a red bow. His eyebrows shoot upward as your eyes widen.

“That’s one of your birthday presents,” you say, trying to be smooth and failing.

“Huh,” he says, still watching you carefully — one might even say suspiciously. “Can I open it?”

“Is it your birthday?” you reply.

“In a month,” he says, casually slipping the ribbon off the package. “Why’d you get it so early? And why are you acting weird?” He fidgets with the tape in a vaguely threatening manner.

You deflate. “Well…maybe you should just open it now,” you allow, blushing red. “I’m leaving the room, though.”

“Why?” he calls after you. “Are you embarrassed?”

“Yeah,” you admit, flinging yourself onto the bed in the spare room.

"Huh," he says, suspicious. There are soft ripping sounds, and then...

"Holy *shit*," he curses from the other room, softly enough that you can tell he isn't angry, but loud enough for you to hear.

You hear a page being flipped. "Holy shit," he repeats. "Are they all like this?"

"That's the point of the book," you say, dying of embarrassment and shoving your face into a pillow.

"Honey, I'm gonna need you to come here," Jeonghan finally says.

You don't respond. You can hear him coming after you, and you lay still, hoping he'll think you somehow fell asleep in the last 3 seconds.

He doesn't buy it. "Come here, my love," he nearly purrs, his voice soft and tantalizing. "Don't make me beg."

Hesitantly, you turn your body to meet his eyes. He's leaning against the doorframe, and in his gaze is a kind of cat-like, predatory hunger you're not used to seeing on his graceful features.

He beckons you to him with two fingers, and you sit up to join him. In a swift move, he pins you to the doorframe by the neck -- gently enough that you can still breathe, but your knees go weak as you stare him down.

He grins at you wickedly. "This was payback for Cheol's birthday party, wasn't it?" he asks, waving the book in your face. "Well, I've got a couple of ideas for how to even the score once again."

Joshua

"This is a special gift," you say to him, "to commemorate our first Christmas together."

It is Christmas Eve, and you have just returned home from your parents' house, where you've been celebrating all day. You had told him about your family's tradition of opening one present on Christmas Eve, and he had agreed to participate. You'd picked your gift first -- it was a locket with his photo in it -- and then asked if you could pick his for him, to which he had agreed with a smile.

He makes a show of shaking the package, his eyes wide in anticipation. "It feels like a kid's picture book," he predicts. He rips the paper off the glossy, pure white cover and looks at you. "What is this?" he asks.

You smirk. "Open it," you say.

He does, and his jaw drops. "Baby," he says softly. "This is...wow." He continues to flip through the pages, looking up at you in open-mouthed awe as he does. "This one? Are you *kidding* me? You look so *good* in these photos!"

Your heart is thumping in your chest, a flush rising in your cheeks from his incessant praise of your lewd photos. "Oh, this one is art," he says, flipping the book around to show you. "Wait, let me show you which one was my favorite." He turns back a couple pages to let you look.

You beam at him. "You like it?"

"I *love* it, baby. Thank you." He pats his thighs, an invitation for you to come to him. And you can't help but listen, because his eyes are shining in those Christmas tree lights and making fireworks erupt in your stomach. You straddle his lap, facing him, as he gently places the book down and winds his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck. "You're so beautiful. That was such a thoughtful gift, and I'm so glad we get to spend Christmas together."

He looks up at you, pushing your hair out of the way so he can see your face better. "Do you *want* one more gift from me?" he asks you carefully.

You laugh. "I want everything you've got, Joshua Hong."

Jun

“I was waiting for a special occasion to do this,” you say. “And I figured getting engaged to you probably qualifies.”

The room is lit up by a million fairy lights strung overhead. Jun is reclined on a huge bean bag, grinning up at you, the glint of his new engagement band in the dim light making you almost dizzy with joy.

A big projector screen is behind you, hooked up to a PowerPoint presentation you’ve displayed on your laptop. The title: 46 Reasons Why I Deserve Multiple Orgasms Tonight.

“Whew,” Jun laughs, looking up at you. “Do I need to hear all 46 to get your point? That’s a lot of reasons.”

“Are you saying you’ll do it?” you ask him.

“Now, hold on,” he says. “I want to see the PowerPoint.” He takes a sip of his champagne. “But you can expect that we probably won’t make it past the 20th reason.”

You shrug. “Fair enough.” You flip to slide one. There’s a QR code there for him to scan, which he promptly does, waiting patiently for it to load.

And when it does, he opens his mouth in awe. It’s a link to your boudoir gallery, and just the first image of you is enough for him to stand up and grab you by the face and start kissing you like he hasn’t seen you for months and he might never see you again, with enough passion that you’re dizzy.

“46 reasons,” he says in your ear as he lifts you up off the ground. “That first picture deserves 46 orgasms all to itself.”

You laugh. “Did you see any of the other 45 pictures?” you ask as he plants kisses all down your neck to your chest.

“Nope, but i think we’ll just have to settle for me being in debt to you for as long as we live,” he says, and fumbles with the buttons of your shirt.

Soonyoung

You’re doing the dishes in your sweats and a sports bra when Soonyoung comes hurtling around the corner in absolutely nothing but boxers and a bathrobe. “Honey?” you say, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“What is this?!” he asks you, his voice an octave higher than it normally is.

Your eyes widen to the size of dinner plates when you see what he’s holding in his hands.

“Oh,” you say. “Um… it was supposed to be a surprise for your birthday, but then I lost it,” you admit, embarrassed in more than one way, since his birthday was six months ago. “Where did you find it?”

“Never mind that,” he says, waving you off. “We need to talk about how these pictures have made me feel.”

“Do we?” you ask nervously.

He puts the book down on the counter and scoops you into his arms, his hands finding your bare waist. “Weirdly enough, my first thought when I saw those photos is that I don’t want anyone else to ever get to see you like that but me,” he says. He leans down and pecks you on the lips.

You stand on your tiptoes to kiss his nose. “You couldn’t lose me if you tried,” you tell him, tracing a hand down his chest and over his abs before you slide your arms all the way around his waist.

“I think we should get married,” he says, and you freeze.

“Really?” you finally say after a long while. “If that’s all it took, I would have done a boudoir shoot ages ago.”

Wonwoo

You’re standing in the doorway, hesitating. Wonwoo hasn’t spotted you yet - he’s busy playing a computer game, his mouse clicking at furious speeds. You can tell he’s engrossed, and decide to come back later, but just as you’re leaving, he calls your name. “Don’t go,” he says. “I’ll be done in a second.”

True to his word, half a minute later he removes his headset to turn and look at you with a smile. Your new relationship is still a little foreign to both of you, and the sudden fear of rejection is strong as you consider what you’re about to do.

“Hey, honey,” he says, reaching for you and pulling you into his lap, where you wordlessly bring your hands from behind you to in front of you, revealing the book. “What’s this?”

You take a deep breath. “Are you gonna laugh at me?” you ask him seriously.

“Only if you’re funny,” he replies.

You open to the first page. “I got them done a little bit ago and just got them back,” you say quietly. “I…wanted to show you.”

He looks up at you, his gaze curious. “Did you do these for me?” he asks, thumbing through the pages.

“Actually,” you say honestly, “I did them for me. We weren’t together yet. And I hadn’t been feeling very good about myself, so I did these. And it actually gave me the courage to talk to you.”

He’s silent for a minute, drinking in the sight of you on every page. Then — “they’re beautiful. *You’re* beautiful.” He gently presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Thank you.”

He throws the book onto the bed behind you and pulls you in so you’re fully facing him, straddling his lap. He reaches for you, kissing you like you’re air and he’s drowning, trying to tell you without words just what he meant when he said you were beautiful.

Jihoon

You’re relaxing on the couch after a long day, and Jihoon has just come over to you, wordlessly positioning himself on top of you and resting a head on your chest. You run your fingers through his fluffy hair and press a quick kiss to his forehead, using your other hand to scratch small shapes into his back.

You love that he’ll do this with you — you know he’s a bit shy about touch because of how it was when you’d first started dating, but you admire the progress five years, a marriage, and a whole child between you can make.

“Is she asleep?” you ask him now, and he nods against your chest.

“Just needed a brief daddy visit,” he says, yawning. “Oooh, I’m tired.”

“Can I wake you up?” you ask him softly.

He pushes himself up onto his forearms so he can look at you. “I’m listening,” he says casually, but his eyes are eager.

You laugh at how cute he is, and he grins. “Well,” you start, “I know we’ve both been busy lately…you know, with work and keeping a tiny human alive, and I wanted to do something special to reconnect.”

He sits up then, facing you on the couch. “Go on,” he invites.

You reach down and grab the book from under the couch. Jihoon watches you curiously, still looking at you as you hand it to him. “What is this?” he asks you.

“Open it,” you say with a mischievous look in your eyes.

He does, and he gasps. “Oh,” he says, and a blush heats his cheeks as he takes in the sight of you on the glossy pages — in the black velvet lingerie set he got you for Christmas last year.

He keeps looking from you to the book. “What are you thinking about?” you ask him, your soft voice making him shiver.

“I’m thinking about how I’ve seen you like this several times,” he says quietly as he flips through the pages, “and I’m still not sick of it.”

“That lingerie set was an investment,” you agree, and he smiles at you broadly.

He places the book down. “What are the odds you’re wearing it right now under your clothes?”

You laugh. “Why don’t you come find out?”

Minghao

“Remember those photos I took that one time?” you ask him while the both of you are sitting opposite each other on the couch, a mess of limbs tangled together.

“I think I’m gonna need you to be just a little more specific,” he says.

“The ones you encouraged me to take when I wasn’t feeling very good about my body.”

“Oh, those photos,” he says. “I remember them *and* what we did after.”

You blush. “I’m sure you do,” you say. “Well, I just got them back. Wanna see them?”

“Of course I do,” he says, reaching across the couch for your phone.

You hand it to him and watch as he scrolls through the gallery, his expression growing gradually more proud and impressed.

“Baby, these are amazing. Killer editing, and a perfect model.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to minimize your feelings, but it’s pretty incredible that someone who looks like you can think you aren’t beautiful.”

“Really?” you ask him with a smile.

“Really,” he says. “Come here, sit by me.”

You obey, relaxing your head onto his chest. He kisses your forehead before continuing. “You know I have an eye for beautiful things. I love art, and I love to look at things that have the power to move your emotions. I mean, I’ve seen statues of the goddess Aphrodite in person. And yet the best thing I’ve ever seen is still your naked body. So it’s pretty crazy that you’re better than every piece of art I’ve ever seen and you sometimes still can’t see that.”

You prop yourself up on your elbow to look at him, and he kisses your nose, sending your heart into flips. “Well, I’m not saying that repeating the post-photoshoot activities would help me feel validated, but…” you say, trailing off.

Minghao gets the hint instantly, climbing on top of you and pressing his lips to yours. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he says between kisses.

Mingyu

“Uhhh…Gyu?” you say, poking his arm. “You haven’t moved a muscle in like…fifteen minutes. Are you okay?”

He doesn’t respond, so you come around to his side of the bed. His eyes are fixated on the book in his hand. You know what’s happening now, and you kneel down in front of him, prying the book from his fingers. “Gyu, baby, look at me,” you say gently.

He meets your eyes with awe. “How?” is the only thing he says.

“How what, honey?” you ask him.

He clears his throat, shaking himself. He cups your face in his hands. “How did you take those photos without me noticing?” he asks in a strangled voice.

“It was literally so hard,” you admit. “Thank goodness for remotes so I could do them myself. It was a couple weeks ago while you were gone.”

“They’re edited in my style, too,” he says breathlessly. “The things you do to me.” He leans back, letting his eyes roam over your body, in a tight black dress you had planned on wearing out to your anniversary dinner. You stand up and lean toward him.

“Would you like dinner or dessert first?” you murmur to him.

He grins, a slow grin that lets you know he’s debating. “Hmm…let’s still go to dinner. It’ll give you time for me to let you imagine what I’m going to do to you when we get back.”

Seokmin

You are both already undressed down to your underwear and kissing ferociously when the doorbell rings. The two of you look at each other in a panic before standing up and throwing on bathrobes, giggling. Your heartbeat is in your throat as you look out the peephole and see a package on the porch.

“It was just the delivery guy,” you whisper back to Seokmin, who’s in the hallway looking dazed in his silky robe.

“Then come back here,” he begs you. “You’re driving me insane.”

But something is telling you to grab the package first. You slip your hand out the door and slide it inside, inspecting the address on the front.

Your eyes light up with recognition and you run to hand the package to Seokmin. He gives you a questioning glance. “Why?” He simply asks.

“Trust me, you’re gonna want to see that before we go any further.”

His eyebrows shoot up as he rips the package open. They widen as he opens the first page of the book. And with every photo he sees, you can feel the tension in the room boiling hotter. He’s grinning. “Oh, *honey*,” he says.

“Just for you,” you say, lightly dragging your nails over his shoulder blades.

His eyes roll back, and he shudders, smiling blissfully. “Cancel your meetings for today. You won’t be coming to work.”

You laugh. “Why not?”

“You won’t be able to walk after I’m done with you,” he says, pulling you into his arms and picking right back up where you left off.

Seungkwan

“Gosh, seriously…” he mutters under his breath, over the phone with you. You’re just a city away while he’s filming, but it is your birthday, and he feels terrible for missing it.

“It’s okay, love,” you reassure him. “We can celebrate tomorrow.”

“But you got *me* a gift?” He asks you incredulously. “For your birthday? Who does that?”

“I do!” You reply with a giggle, and he nearly curses at his phone again.

“I miss you too much,” he says.

“You won’t have to for much longer,” you say, and just then someone hands him the package you sent him on set.

“Do *not* open it around anyone,” you warn him.

“Okay,” he agrees, shutting himself in the bathroom. You can hear the sounds of him unwrapping the book.

And then he moans.

And then you hear what sounds like…clapping?

And then his voice is in your ear again. “Baby,” he groans.

“Umm…hello?” you ask, one part amused, one part worried.

“I’m here,” he says in a choked voice. “But I’m about to come home.”

“No, wait, you have to stay!!” you say, panicking.

“Like hell I do,” he retorts. You hear him leave the bathroom, hear him shout to the room, “I’ve just come down with a terrible bout of IBS, and I’m leaving!”

“You still there?” he says, and it sounds like he’s running.

“Yes?” you ask, torn between laughing and scolding him.

“I’ll be there before you know it, and you’d better be prepared for a long talk.”

The way he says “talk” makes it clear that very little will need to be said.

Vernon

He’s so mild-mannered that you’re hoping the photo book will do it for him. You’re hoping he won’t just say, “that’s nice, love,” as he peers with a clinical gaze at your lewd photos.

And you aren’t disappointed. Because while Vernon isn’t loud, his facial expressions certainly are. His jaw drops comically when he opens the book to a full page, practically nude photo of you. And he just keeps on getting more and more flustered, blushing harder and harder, and saying “damn, baby! These are *gorgeous*.”

He takes his time working his way through the book - stopping to trace the outline of your body on the page, in a way that makes you blush as though he’s doing it for real. “I love this color on you,” he exclaims, holding up a photo of you in an electric purple bra.

“Thank you,” you say, holding your hands up to your red cheeks.

He laughs. “Are you embarrassed?”

You giggle a bit. “Yeah, a little,” you admit. “The shoot, the book… it was all kind of a bold move.”

He nods, looking proudly down at the photo book. “Yeah, it was, baby. Don’t be embarrassed. I love it.”

He stands up and pulls you into a huge hug, resting his head on top of yours. When he pulls away, he grabs your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “While we’re making bold moves,” he says softly, bringing your mouth up to his for a kiss. And then, completely uncharacteristically of him, he lifts you off your feet into his arms to continue kissing.

Chan

You come home to see Chan pawing through a book laying stomach down on the couch. Every turn of the page, he erupts into quiet laughter and kicks his feet.

“What on earth are you reading?” you ask him, putting your keys in the dish and moving toward him to get a peek.

And then you gasp. “What are you doing with that?” you ask him, your face a mask of horror as you try to snatch it from him.

“This is for me, right?” he says, fending you off easily with one arm. “What’s the occasion?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” you grumble, giving up on the snatching as Chan pins you to his side. “No occasion, I just…thought you’d like it.”

“You thought right,” he says. “This is great.” He kisses you on your cheek. “I have a question, though.”

“Ask away,” you say.

“Did you feel like you had to do this, or did you want to?” He sounds genuinely concerned. This is one of the things you love so much about him — he asks you all of your thoughts and doesn’t seem to mind any of the answers you give, so you know you can always tell him exactly what’s on your mind.

“I wanted to,” you assure him. “It’s just, you’re gone so often, and I wanted you to feel like you didn’t have to miss seeing me…well. Seeing me like this, I guess.”

He slowly leans backward until he’s holding you on top of him. “I am gone a lot,” he agrees thoughtfully.

“You are.”

“But I’m here now,” he finishes.

Your gaze drops to his lips and then back up to his eyes. “You are here now,” you repeat.

“So,” he says, a question trailing at the end of his thought, one he won’t ask out loud.

You kiss him before he knows what’s coming.

The Hope in the Fault Lines, Part 2

I was expecting this part to take much longer to write.............but here it is!! part 2 of 5 in the series. Go read Part 1 if you haven't already!! Warnings: implied sexual behavior, sick child, one scene takes place in a hospital, implied PTSD (it's never said but she has it), death of sibling, this part is a bit of a rooooooooooough time but bear with me Word count: 5.6 k for part 2

par t 1 | part 3 | part 4

Before

You bit your lip as you looked at Jeri in the mirror. “You look beautiful,” you had told her, your voice hesitant.

“You sound so convincing,” she said sarcastically, adjusting her veil and smoothing her hands over the sleek bodice of her minimalist-chic wedding dress. “What’s your deal?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” you had asked her. “Get married? I mean, that means you’re stuck with him.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Not everyone is a workaholic and commitmentphobe,” she reminded you. “I’m in love with Jisung, sweetheart. We’ve been together for two years.”

“Is that long enough?” you had wondered out loud. “I mean, what if there’s something bad you don’t know about him? What if he committed a crime or something?”

Jeri gave you her best “you’re being ridiculous” look. “You remember who we’re talking about, right?” she asked you. “Jisung gets stressed out if he accidentally forgets to signal when he changes lanes. There’s no way he could commit a whole crime.”

You had to admit that was fair. She took your hands in hers. “I know what this is really about,” she said. “And I’m not making the mistake that mom made. I know what I’m doing.”

You had smiled at the confidence in her tone. In that moment, she seemed so mature and self-assured that you forgot she was your younger sister. Somewhere in this beautiful house, you knew Jisung was coming apart at the seams, and the thought of how the man must be panicking over every single detail of the day while your sister waited calmly to walk down the aisle was suddenly very funny to you. Downstairs, the music started, and you squeezed Jeri’s hands before tucking one of them into the crook of your elbow. 

“Ready?” you asked, feeling a whirlwind of emotions -- pride, worry, joy -- but giving your sister a smile.

“Ready,” she confirmed, and together you had headed down the stairs, where everyone in the wide chapel room had stood and turned their heads to gaze open-mouthed as you, Jeri’s only sibling, walked her down the aisle.

***

“Thanks for texting,” you say as you arrive home and Mingyu hands Sara into your outstretched arms. “The updates are really great. And thanks for grabbing the books! I’ll read to her tonight.”

The first two weeks of Mingyu’s employment have seen a drastic improvement in your mental state. For one thing, Mingyu keeps the house clean, so there isn’t the added weight of messiness and clutter. For another, you are able to work without the mental load of being away from Sara because you receive regular updates throughout the day. And finally, though it’s a bit embarrassing to admit, Mingyu is just a soothing presence. You only see him for a few minutes before work and after work every day, but it’s always so easy and pleasant to talk to him that you genuinely look forward to it. 

Your weekend time with Sara seems to be improving, too -- perhaps she can sense you’re breathing easier, which makes her less fussy, or maybe she’s just gotten used to you. Either way, she’s becoming more like she was before the accident, which does your heart a lot of good. And you love holding her, talking to her, and hearing her little babbles and shrieks. Obviously the circumstances of your parenthood are shit, but the actual parenthood part is turning out to be better than you thought.

“Just a heads-up -- I think she might be a little under the weather. She’s been fussy and low-energy today.” Mingyu looks between you and Sara, a little worry tinging his voice.

You look down at Sara’s flushed pink cheeks in worry. “Oh no,” you say. “Um, thanks for letting me know.”

“I got baby cough medicine,” he tells you. “So if she does come down with something, it’s in the cupboard where you keep your vitamins.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you breathe. “Thank you.” You stroke Sara’s head, which she’s buried in the crook of your neck in exhaustion. “Don’t wanna say bye to Mingyu?” you ask her softly.

He brushes a broad hand over her black curls. “Bye, Sara. See you tomorrow.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” you say suddenly. “I have to leave Thursday night for a short day trip for the magazine. It’s nothing major -- I’m only staying overnight because the city is a couple hours away and I don’t love driving at night. Would you be alright staying with her?”

He nods. “As long as you’re paying me, I’ll be here,” he jokes.

“You’re a star,” you say, and he chuckles. “I’ll pay you time and a half for overnight stuff.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’ll let you get her to bed, then.”

He gives you a smile that would make anyone weak in the knees, and you can’t help but smile back as he leaves. Turning your attention to Sara, you inspect her face. “Hmm,” you say, your brow creasing in worry at her dull eyes and ruddy cheeks. She does look ill, and this thought seems to hover uncomfortably in the back of your mind as you sit her in the bathtub. She fusses and cries during her bath, which is uncommon -- she loves splashing around, and usually bathtime is full of giggles and smiles. You bite the inside of your cheek and wash her off, toweling her dry a bit more thoroughly than usual to make sure she doesn’t go to bed with any part of her still wet.

You bring her to bed with you instead of putting her in her crib. You used to do this because you were so exhausted during nighttime feedings, and falling asleep in the rocking chair meant an aching neck in the morning. You still remember how terrified you were that you would roll over Sara and suffocate her. But gradually you learned that you woke with any small noise of Sara’s, and your fear had subsided. Now, she slept in your bedroom more nights than she slept in her crib -- and tonight, it felt extra necessary to keep a close eye on her.

Sure enough, around four in the morning you wake to sniffles punctuated by soft coughs. Sleepily, you lift Sara into your arms. She nuzzles into you, and you relax a bit -- clearly she is well enough to at least be aware of you. Allowing yourself to doze off, you wake up just before 5:30 and decide to actually get ready before Mingyu arrived.

You lay Sara back on the bed with a small kiss on her cheek, noting that it isn’t much warmer than it usually is (which means no fever), and take an open-door, open-curtain shower -- one where you could still see Sara’s little figure swaddled in the bed. You don’t get your hair wet, and you curl it once you get out. Finally, you actually put on makeup for the first time since your sister died. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you realize that you barely recognize this creature staring back at you. Her hollow cheeks and dark under-eyes have been concealed by an artful hand, but the colors in her gaze betray her. Perhaps it was just because you knew everything you’d gone through, but it is obvious to you that the eyes tell all -- the crushing nothingness of grief, the bitter rage, the dimness of despair. You remind yourself to avoid looking at the mirror too closely from now on.

Sara is still fast asleep when you finish around 6:45. You decide it’s best if she stays asleep for the sake of her health, so you carefully move her to her crib just as Mingyu’s knock sounds at the door. You tip-toe down the stairs to get it. “Hi,” you whisper to him as you open the door.

He seems taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly. “Hey,” he says at a normal volume as he strides over the threshold and removes his shoes. “You look really nice, boss.”

“Oh!” you say, still whispering, remembering the makeup and the woman you couldn’t say was you in the mirror. “Um, thanks. Uh, Sara’s still asleep.”

He nods, looking a bit sheepish at how loud he’d been, and that little pinch of worry reappeared between his eyebrows. “Did she sleep okay?” he whispers back.

“She slept through the night, actually,” you tell him. “I’m thinking we should just let her sleep as long as she wants -- her body needs rest.”

Mingyu nodded. “That sounds like a good idea. How did you sleep?” he asks you, eyeing you carefully.

“Not too bad,” you say, feeling a little anxious under the weight of his gaze. “I woke up a little earlier than normal, but I got enough.” You give him a small smile. “How did you sleep, now that we’re at it?”

He grins. “I slept great. Thanks for asking.”

“Good to hear,” you say. 

You just stand there in the kitchen, smiling awkwardly at each other, before Mingyu says, “so...have you eaten yet?”

“Oh! Um, no,” you say, wondering why you’re always surprised whenever he chooses to speak to you even though you’re literally the only one in the room.

“Let me make you something,” he says. “We’ve got a lot of time until you need to leave, and I’ve never seen you eat breakfast.”

“I’m surprised you noticed that,” you say quietly. 

He winks at you. “I notice everything,” he says. “So, do you like eggs?”

He goes to the fridge and starts removing things. “Yes, I do,” you say, sincerely hoping he was just teasing and he doesn’t notice how you’re blushing. 

You only realize you’re staring him down when he looks at you with one eyebrow raised. “You in there?”

“Oh,” you say, yet again. You’re flustered today -- for some reason, it feels like your thoughts are taking a longer time than is average to come out of your mouth in any way that makes sense. You fixate on his broad hands chopping some garlic, and suddenly you’re speaking. “Yeah, sorry. It’s just...it’s a little stupid, but Jeri -- my sister, you know -- she was the one who always made me breakfast when we lived together in college. Even...even years later, she’d still text me occasionally to make sure I’d eaten.”

Where had that come from? Sure, it was all true -- the hard lump in your throat that made it difficult to say was evidence of that -- but why had you suddenly confessed such a thing to your nanny? You sigh. “Sorry, I don’t -- don’t really know why I just...told you that. Out of nowhere.” You look down at your hands, embarrassed.

He nods slowly, and his smile is tinged with sadness. “It’s okay,” he tells you. “I don’t mind.” He begins cracking eggs into the pan, stirring them with a pair of chopsticks to scramble them up. “What was your sister like?”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “What?” he says. “I’m curious. You don’t have to tell me, but I do genuinely want to know.”

Your mouth twists into a half-smile. “Well, she and I were like two sides of the same coin,” you say, going to sit at the island in the middle of the wide kitchen so he can hear you over the sizzling vegetables and eggs in the pan. “Inseparable since childhood, you know. She’s two years younger than I am, but it always felt like we were twins, somehow. She was...” 

You trail off, thinking. Mingyu is glancing between you and the eggs on the stove, but you can tell he’s listening. Maybe it’s the quiet of the morning, and maybe it’s just him, but the dam breaks, and words spill out. “She was just as stubborn as me, but she didn’t have the ambition I have, or maybe the better word is ‘hubris’. I wanted to build something that would outlast me, but she just wanted to live somewhere quiet with her husband and a houseful of kids. But neither of us ever...ever tried to talk each other out of what we wanted. We both knew, I guess. She knew I couldn’t stand being mediocre, and I knew she hated the spotlight. And God, I loved that about her. She never resented me for my success or my money, because there was no competition.”

Mingyu takes the eggs off the stove and plates them in one smooth move, setting them in front of you as you finish speaking. He smiles at you as he hands you a fork. “She sounds great,” he says. 

“She is,” you say. “Was,” you correct. Your eyes suddenly burn, and to distract yourself, you pick up a glob of eggs with the fork and blow on it, eating it. Your eyes go wide. “These are good!” you exclaim.

Mingyu gives a sarcastic little bow. “Thanks,” he says. He’s interrupted by a cry from the baby monitor -- Sara seems to have woken up.

You move to stand up to grab her, but Mingyu stops you. “You eat,” he instructs. “I’ll go get her.”

You watch him go up the stairs with the trace of a smile as you continue eating the eggs. He comes downstairs with Sara a few minutes later, and her little head is resting against his big shoulder. He’s bouncing her gently, and you are struck for a moment at how tiny she looks in his thick arms.

In minutes you’ve finished your eggs, knowing you don’t have long until you need to leave. But you do wash your plate and the pan that Mingyu used to make the eggs, despite his protests. “I may not have given the impression that I know how to do the dishes the first few weeks you worked here, but I promise I do,” you tease. 

He shakes his head, amused. “I know you do, you just don’t seem like someone who should wash dishes.”

“Why?” you ask indignantly.

He shrugs. “Kind of like how a queen shouldn’t make her own bed in the morning. You’ve got me for that.”

You actually laugh at that. “Are you calling me a queen?”

He nods his head emphatically. “Of course you are,” he says with a grin. 

Your smile is big enough that it’s hurting your face. “Well, thank you,” you say. “But you’re not my maid. In fact,” you continue, and grab your now-clean fork, “I think you deserve a promotion.”

In a dramatic march, you make your way over to Mingyu, who watches you with amused eyes as you stop in front of him, reaching up to tap both his shoulders with the fork before tapping the crown of his head. “You’ve been knighted,” you say seriously. And he giggles at you -- a surprisingly high, breathy sound that instantly fills you with warmth.

“I’m gonna ask all my friends to call me Sir Mingyu,” he tells you. 

Solemnly, you nod. “I’m glad to know this went straight to your head.”

He laughs again, and you start to walk away. “Well, Princess Sara and Sir Mingyu, have a lovely day. The queen needs to go to work.”

He’s still grinning at your antics by the time you make it out the door.

On the drive to work, you catch yourself smiling to yourself. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been silly like that -- it had probably been since college, and even then that side of you didn’t come out often. You had grown up far too fast, a necessity in a household like you grew up in, and the only person who really could bring it out of you had been Jeri, whom you had been that way for to try to save her from growing up too fast, too.

When Mingyu had entered your house today, he’d been your employee, but when you’d left the house, you felt that you had kind of become friends. The thought, as odd as it was, was also comforting. Because raising a child with a nanny felt clinical and business-y of you, but raising a kid with a friend was probably the closest this could get to how it should be. You make a mental note to make a raise schedule for Mingyu so that he never ever ever leaves your employment.

***

Before

You look between Jisung and Jeri with a raised eyebrow. Letting out a puff of air, you lean forward. “The things I have seen today,” you say while pinching the bridge of your nose, “are things I never thought I’d see when I asked you to house-sit for me. And things I’m expecting and hoping to never see again. Are we clear?”

Jisung’s face is bright red, and Jeri looks traumatized. They both nod.

“Although I am pretty impressed at your creativity,” you continue, feeling the need to lighten the mood in the room. “The kitchen island, Jisung? I mean, that was acrobatic of you both.”

The two of them look at each other and burst into giggles. “Okay, we’re sorry,” Jeri says, her face just as red as Jisung’s, but she can finally look you in the eye. “But can you blame us? I mean, we’re newlyweds.”

“Newlyweds who got carried away,” you agree. “Jisung, it’s okay. I’m not going to commit any murders today. You can look at me.”

“I am so embarrassed,” your sister’s husband groans. “It was my fault, I just --”

Jeri cuts in. “No, it was me, I just --”

You roll your eyes. “I really don’t care who started it. I just care that every single inch of this kitchen is sprayed with medical-grade chemicals and that you promise to never ever ever let me catch you like that again. Especially in my own house.”

“Deal,” says Jeri. Her eyes are twinkling with humor, and you have to concentrate to keep yourself from grinning at her. Because she knows what you’re about to say as Jisung hurries out of the room for the bleach.

“Damn, girl. Good for you.”

***

“Boss?” Cory’s voice sounds as though it’s coming to you from down a long hallway, and you snap back to earth with a little shake of your head.

“Sorry, Cory,” you say, shifting in your seat and reaching for your glass of water. “What were you saying?”

Cory picks at the potatoes on his plate and looks around the fancy restaurant at anything but you before fixing you with a blue-eyed gaze that is surprisingly intense. “I figured this would be the best time to confess.”

What? You’re sure you misheard him. “Confess?” you repeat.

“Yeah,” he says, and in spite of himself, he’s grinning. “Listen, we’ve worked together for seven years. We met freshman year of college, and you really believed in me more than anyone ever has in my life. I -- I’ve kept this in for a long time, actually. Years.”

“Are you telling me you have feelings for me?” you ask him bluntly.

“Well, yeah,” he says, and he blushes. “Are you telling me you had no idea?”

“I seriously didn’t,” you say, your head spinning. You take a deep breath and pray you’ll find the right words. “Listen...I appreciate you so much, Cory. I couldn’t ask for a better editor, and you’re absolutely right -- I have so much faith in you and your skills. This business, my business, wouldn’t be anywhere without you.”

He gives you a sad half-smile. “But?” he says.

“But,” you say, nodding. “But my sister just died, like, three and a half months ago. And I’m still trying to figure out what my life looks like from here. A lot is changing for me...and even if it weren’t, I still don’t think I’d be sure how I felt about being in a relationship with anyone.”

Cory seems to chew on these words as you speak. “Well, I can’t say that comes as a surprise to me,” he says after awhile. “But it was getting to be too much for me to hold in.”

“I understand,” you say, avoiding his gaze.

“Listen,” he says, and he reaches across the table to put a hand over yours. “I want you to take your time and think about it. Think about me, in that way. Figure out if it makes sense in your head like it makes sense in mine. I won’t give up on you, so take your time.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he says -- but you aren’t apologizing for anything you said. You’re apologizing for the way you want to run out of the restaurant, far away from the yearning look in his eyes.

***

Before

“But what if --”

“Save it,” Jeri says, brushing mascara over your eyelashes. 

“Seriously though. What if I --”

“You’re not going to mess it up,” she tells you. She closes the tube of mascara and then pulls the graduation cap from your bag. “Just do the speech like you practiced. You ran it through with me like a thousand times.” She pins the cap on in record speed.

“But what if I do mess it up?” you finally say.

She puts both her hands on your shoulders and gives you a look that shuts you up right away. “If there’s one thing I know about my sister, it’s that she is always prepared.”

You swallow hard at this. “Oh, God,” you breathe. “I’m not sure...”

“Why are you so nervous? You were fine yesterday,” she asks you.

“Because what if it all fails? Not just the speech,” you clarify at her quizzical glance. “All my plans, the magazine, the business...what if it all just fails?”

She gives you a gentle look. “Then we’ll start over. We always do.”

This is what gives you the strength to walk onto that stage: the knowledge that even if the worst possible thing happens, you and Jeri will always have each other.

***

There is, in your opinion, nothing worse than being exhausted and anxious. It creates the perfect storm: desperately wanting to close your eyes and escape the thoughts swirling around in your brain, but also being entirely unable to relax, which is the state you find yourself in after the dinner with Cory. So you toss and turn in your hotel room, a three hour drive from home, and wonder how Sara is doing.  

Your last text from Mingyu had come in at around 7pm, and he was putting her to bed then. According to his updates, her cough had gotten worse. Cory’s confession truly couldn’t have come at a worse time, when you were already so preoccupied with Sara’s health. At 10:57pm you check your phone one final time before your exhaustion beats back your anxiety with a stick and you reluctantly sink into uneasy dreams.

It seems like minutes of sleep before you wake to your phone ringing. Your eyes fly open, but you suddenly realize your arms and legs aren’t working as you try to reach for it. Your breath speeds up, but you can’t open your mouth to scream. And spiders seem to be crawling out of the shadows on the walls.

Finally you can twitch your fingers, then move your arms, then sit up and grab your phone. Still shaking, still hyperventilating, still sick with worry, you check the caller ID and your stomach drops -- it’s Mingyu. 

You quickly answer. “Hi,” you say breathlessly.

His voice is slightly muffled. “I’m taking Sara to the hospital,” he says, his tone urgent. “I don’t think she’s breathing very well.”

The air has left your lungs. You hear yourself answer him -- something about thanking him and you’ll see them soon -- and then you drop the phone. For a split second you’re frozen in panic. Then, you leap into action. You grab your keys from the nightstand, leaving everything behind but your phone and its charger, and race down the hallway to the elevator in your pajamas.

What follows is the most tense three hour drive of your life, riddled with flashbacks to phone calls from police officers on the highway. “You’re sister’s been involved in an accident,” you hear over and over in your head. “Come to the hospital.” You’re gripping the wheel so tightly that your knuckles ache, and you alternate between struggling to breathe and silently weeping. There are whole minutes, maybe more, from the drive that you don’t remember. You don’t know if you’re speeding. You don’t know what time it is. The only thing you can think is Please God, don’t let another member of my family die in that goddamn hospital. 

You had hoped you’d never have to walk into this lobby again -- never have to smell the chemicals or see the doctors or talk to the front desk people and tell them who you’re there for. You never wanted to be in this same elevator, going up to this same floor, possibly to the same hallway you’d visited nearly four months earlier. And yet, here you are. It’s like your brain can’t believe it -- nothing feels real. If things got any weirder, you’d be tempted to reach your hand out to the nearest wall, half-expecting it to dissolve into smoke in your hands. 

You round a corner, arriving in another one of those identical hallways, your heart in your throat, and you see him. Mingyu is standing about halfway down the hallway, talking to a doctor, his shoulders set in anxious tension, and before you can stop yourself you’re calling for him. You don’t even register his shocked expression as he turns to see you, and you don’t even realize that you’re running to him before he opens his arms to you and your collide with him.

He wraps you up tight in his grasp. “Hey,” he grunts in your ear, probably from the speed at which your body crashed into his, but his voice is calm. “She’s okay, they’ve got her on an oxygen machine. They’re giving her great care. She’s gonna be fine.”

The doctor clears her throat. “Who is this, Mingyu?” she asks. 

Mingyu doesn’t let go. “She’s the child’s legal guardian,” he explains over your head. 

The doctor makes an understanding noise. “I’ll let you have a minute,” she says.

Mingyu turns his attention back to you. “Breathe for me,” he says. “Big deep breaths.”

You try to obey, and the only thing you can think about is how shaky the breath sounds as it enters your lungs. “Can I see her?” you say, and your voice comes out in a raspy whisper.

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s just in here.”

He ushers you into the hospital room, where Sara lies in a little crib, her nose hooked up to a cannula pumping oxygen into her lungs. You approach her sleeping form, only vaguely aware of Mingyu’s arm across your shoulders, and bend down to brush a trembling hand over her forehead.

“She’s really going to be fine,” Mingyu murmurs to you. You look up at him, and for some reason, the way he is looking at you is what tips you over the edge. The emotions spill over, and you find yourself burying your face in his chest as you sob.

He doesn’t say anything. He just wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer into him and letting you cry. You don’t even have it in you to be ashamed of how desperately you’re clinging to him, fingers bunching into the fabric at the back of his shirt, crying the first tears you’ve shed in front of another person besides Sara since the funeral. His grip on you tightens the harder you sob, and you dazedly consider the idea that Mingyu might be trying to squeeze the sadness out of you. It’s an oddly comforting thought, and soon enough you’ve released all your emotions, the evidence of them two unflattering tearstains on Mingyu’s tee.

You take a calming breath in, pulling back to look at his face. His eyes are red, and his face is set in stony lines. It is then that you realize he’s not okay. 

Several pieces of the puzzle that is the man in front of you seem to collide together in your brain at once: the way he talks about kids and the ease with which he interacts with Sara; the way the doctor seemed to know him on a first name basis; the way he’d held you almost as though he was also trying to hold himself together too. Mingyu is familiar with this particular part of this particular hospital. Mingyu has had personal experience with sick kids.

But you don’t say anything about it yet -- you know it would be too much to ask him to explain what is most probably a complicated and painful history. So you just give him a watery smile and say, “thank you for being here. And for taking such good care of her.” You pause and draw in a hitching breath before adding, “Sir Mingyu.”

He gives the tiniest smile. “I’m glad I was able to get her here in time to get her help.”

“Well, you’ve got a job until Sara moves out,” you promise him.

The smile gets bigger. “That’s a long time,” he says in a falsely skeptical tone. “You sure you won’t get sick of me?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh yeah, I forgot that you’re incredibly unpleasant to be around,” you say scathingly. “But seriously. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to take care of Sara. You need a raise or something.”

He shakes his head. “Just pay Chan a finder’s fee instead,” he jokes. “I’m sure he’d love that.”

“He probably would. And I probably owe him one,” you say, wiping the sticky tear residue from your eyes.

To your surprise, you once again find yourself wrapped up in a tight squeeze from Mingyu. “Thank you for getting here so fast,” he says quietly.

“Of course,” you say. You hesitate before winding your arms around him and squeezing him back -- perhaps hearing the unspoken truth that Mingyu needed you there as much as you needed him.

***

Before

“I’m never going hiking again,” Jeri complains, and Jisung laughs.

“You’re going to see the view, and you’re going to change your mind,” he predicts. 

You grin at their banter -- this is only the second time Jeri has invited her new boyfriend along on one of the hikes, but you can tell he really likes her. And according to that last comment, he also knows her pretty well.

Cory is nearly sprinting up the trail ahead of you. “Come on, guys!” he calls. “We’re almost there.”

You’re feeling a little irritated with him because he tried to guide you in the complete wrong direction, but you try to keep that off your face as you trudge up the mountain. Sure enough, around two more bends is the summit. You are looking into a deep valley with a crystalline lake at the bottom, and the sight pricks your eyes with emotion. You refuse to cry in front of Cory, though, so you instead turn your attention to Jisung and Jeri, the former of whom is carrying your sister the remaining fifteen feet to the summit.

But when your sister sees the valley and the lake, she hops off her boyfriend’s back and scurries nearly to the edge. You have to grab the back of her backpack to stop her from overextending herself and hurtling over the edge of the cliff. “Easy there,” you say to her, but she’s not listening, her eyes shining with the sight. 

“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?” Jeri asks. 

You look back at Jisung, and you can see it in his eyes -- he’s absolutely whipped for her. You’re almost surprised that he doesn’t kiss her in front of all of you. Exasperatedly, you chuckle, thinking privately that you should probably start adding to Jeri’s wedding fund. 

You stay up there for almost an hour before disaster strikes, but surprisingly, it’s you who twists an ankle tripping over some rocks. You wince as the group is making its painfully slow way down the mountain, your ankle throbbing with every step. “I need a breather,” you tell them. “Go on without me.”

But as Jisung and Cory start to move away, Jeri plants herself beside you. “Go on without you?” she repeats. “But we’ll be so entirely lost without you. Don’t worry. I’ll stay with you.”

***

The hospital keeps Sara in for one more night before she’s improved enough to be off the breathing machine. You can’t help but tear up as they place her into your arms, and she reaches up to your face to pat your chin clumsily. “Hey, baby girl,” you coo. “You did so good.”

Alone, you soak in the feeling of her comforting weight on your chest for a few more minutes before gently laying her in her carrier. She fusses a little, and you speak in soothing tones: “Shhh, it’s okay, my love. We’re going home. You won’t have to be in there for too long.”

And then finally, finally, finally, you get home. Walking in the front door with Sara to the empty house feels both soothing and incomplete, and you realize as you hoist her carrier to her bedroom so you can sit in her rocking chair that your mind is on that tall, dark-haired man who laughs at your ridiculousness and held you when you fell to pieces. You had bullied Mingyu into going home to rest, knowing that if he had stayed with you like he planned, he’d be in caretaker mode. You don’t regret your choice to send him home, but you also realize that you feel that he should be here, with the both of you. The fact that he isn’t leaves a small empty space in your heart.

Still, it’s heaven enough to hold Sara and rock her and clean her stuffy nose off every few minutes. Settling back into the chair and letting Sara’s weight onto your chest, you think that there’s almost nothing that could make this moment more perfect. 

And then, you cough.

I am actively hoping someone will ask me to write something so I can avoid my thoughts

Sleepless

“Hold the door!” A familiar voice shouts from the platform as you board the metro.

Smiling, you stick your arm in front of the door and watch as Seokmin runs to you. He gives you a sunny smile as he hops into the train car, and you take the empty window seat across from each other.

“Cutting it close again,” you chide. It’s impossible not to smile back at him — today is a gloomy, drizzly day, and you have quite the train ride before arriving at your destination, but he makes you feel warm.

“Well,” he says, rummaging in his bag before pulling out a paper-wrapped object and handing it to you, “it is not without just cause.”

You unfold the paper to reveal a powder-dusted croissant studded with almonds. “Almond crème?” You exclaim, looking at him with shining eyes.

“It’s the only choice, really,” he says, echoing your own words from your first breakfast hangout months earlier, zipping up his bag.

You hold the croissant up to his nose. “You get the first bite,” you say.

“But it’s your favorite!” He protests.

“I don’t see a croissant for you,” you say sternly. “Now bite it. I’m hungry.”

He shrugs resignedly and bites into the croissant, giving a thumbs up. “Delicious,” he says.

You eat some of the croissant yourself. It’s perfect. You close your eyes in delight and Seokmin laughs. “I love watching you eat,” he says. “You never hold back.”

You blush. “I didn’t realize I was being so ostentatious.”

He is quick to reassure. “It’s wonderful, truly,” he says. “It’s actually quite cute.”

You blush harder. His eyes are wide and earnest behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and it’s a performance day — so his hair is combed back like a prince’s, perfectly complementing the aquiline shape of his nose and his regal, high cheekbones.

“Are you okay?” He asks you, bringing you back to earth. You realize that you were staring, and shake yourself a little.

“Yeah,” you say, in an attempt to be breezy that comes out breathy and forced, “I think I’m just nervous for the solo today.”

His eyes soften. “You’ve worked so hard,” he reminds you gently. “You’re going to be incredible.”

You feel a lump in your throat at this praise. “Thanks,” you say, clearing your throat. “Are you nervous?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but I’ve practiced a lot. I think I’ll be okay.”

You nod, watching him carefully — knowing he is prone not to talk about his feelings for fear of being burdensome. But he does seem fairly calm, not fidgeting or avoiding eye contact like he does when he’s nervous. You relax a bit.

The metro gets more and more crowded the further you travel. When a pregnant woman with a small child boards your car, Seokmin immediately stands up and gestures her into his seat, and you stand and help the little boy into yours. The two of you grab the overhead rail, bracing yourself for when the train moves.

A couple stops later, an inebriated man stumbles into the train. His eyes immediately latch on you, and he takes a lumbering step forward, pointing at you with a dirty fingernail. He says something in French, so slurred that you can't understand him.

And then the train lurches forward. In a swift move, Seokmin pulls you into him, almost like you're dancing, and turns smoothly to put himself between you and the man as he stumbles yet again, colliding with Seokmin's broad shoulders.

You feel the impact against Seokmin's chest, but he is holding you at the waist so tightly and his feet are planted so well that you both keep your balance. Seokmin looks over his shoulder -- peering around his arm, you see that the drunk man has fallen over. An older man, probably in his 40s, helps him into a seat and speaks some stern words to him in French. He nods at Seokmin, who gives him an uncertain nod back, smiling hesitantly, and then turns to look down at you.

With one arm, Seokmin is holding you against him. With the other, he is reaching above your head and holding the overhead railing. As you look at each other, Seokmin's cheeks go pink, and he releases you. "Sorry," he says.

"No," you blurt, "I mean, thank you. If you hadn't have done that, I might have gotten hurt."

He looks down at his shoes in a rare shy moment. "I'm glad you're not hurt."

The rest of the train ride passes in silence. That moment of closeness has brought up feelings for Seokmin that you're convinced anyone who spent any amount of time with him couldn't help having. Because honestly, you think to yourself, how could you not fall in love with him? Not only was he physically beautiful, with a smile that could probably convince flowers to grow in the winter, but he was funny and silly without ever being mean, easy-going and temperate, and incredibly kind to everyone. He listened attentively, responded to things he didn't understand about you with curiosity and empathy, and showed genuine care for you in every situation. You have to constantly stop yourself from brushing his cheek with the back of your hand, from leaning your head on his shoulder, from holding him too tightly whenever he gave you one of his soul-healing hugs. Thinking about how he had protected you, even from something so minor, makes your heart ache with a desperate longing for him.

He interrupts your daydreams once again. "That's our stop," he says, and you nod. You get off the train with your violin case, headed to the square where your concert is to take place. Seokmin says goodbye at the barricades -- he has to go meet up with his fellow singers, but before you turn to leave, he grabs your hand. "Good luck," he says, grinning at you, and sneaking a quick kiss on the back of your hand before releasing it and running off.

You try not to think about that as you warm up and rehearse with the other orchestra members. Then, with only an hour left, you find a quiet corner to rehearse your solo. Your fingers remember the notes perfectly -- all the practice has paid off. You enter the concert feeling confident.

Many people have gathered on the outside steps of the Opera Garnier, around the barricades, to hear your group play. The chorus students begin their song, and you accompany on your violin as planned. Then, Seokmin steps forward for his solo, and you pull out your music.

His voice is just as powerful and sweet as ever as he begins the opening phrases of Nessun Dorma. You try not to cry when the chorus chimes in, and Seokmin steals the show with his beautiful high notes. Then, it's your turn. You feel eyes on you as you play a solo arrangement of the refrain of Nessun Dorma, one that you wrote yourself. As you finish, the crowd claps loudly, and you find yourself looking for him -- for Seokmin, knowing he'd be watching, hoping he'll be proud of you.

When you finally see him, he is looking at you already. You think you see, across the performing space, a tear sliding down one cheek, and he is beaming at you, his eyes full of some extremely deep emotion. You have to fight off the sudden urge to run to him and kiss him on the mouth in front of all these people.

After the whole show is over, he finds you. He takes you in his arms, and you feel him rest his chin on the top of your head, cradling your neck in his hand. "You were amazing. I couldn't help but cry," he says, his voice soft.

You pull back and look at him. Even now, his eyes are looking a bit brighter than usual. "I'm so glad you liked it," you say, and before you can stop yourself, you brush a falling tear from his eyes.

He gazes at you, searching your face, seemingly lost for words, before finally saying, simply, "walk with me."

And you do. You walk with him through the darkening streets of Paris with one hand in his, the other gripping your violin case. Just his hand in yours has started shivers down your spine, and you try to be normal as he interlocks his fingers with yours after awhile, making it clear he isn't letting go. You don't speak until you've passed into view of the Seine, across the river from where the Eiffel tower stands, glittering in the darkness.

He turns to you and takes a deep breath. Somehow, the streets are empty, so there is no one around and nowhere to look but you. He looks at you for a few more seconds before he says it. "I love you," he says.

You feel your eyes go wide. Seokmin gives a nervous chuckle, running his hand through his hair feverishly, before going on. "I love you, and I don't know if there's any way I can avoid talking about it anymore. These past few months have been the best months of my life, but they've also been torture. I'm in an impossible position. It's either tell you all of this and risk losing you forever or never say anything and absolutely burn up inside." He leans against the railing of the bridge you're on, seemingly agitated.

He turns back to you. "The only reason I'm saying anything," he says, leaving the railing and stepping closer to you, "is because you might feel the same way." He takes your hand, looking into your eyes. "Do you?"

You feel a smile creeping onto your face as euphoria sweeps over you. "You love me?" you ask him.

His eyes have turned tender and soft. He gives you a soft, gentle smile as he answers, "more than my own life."

You can't help but throw your arms around him. He catches you instinctively, but then his arms wrap around your waist and he buries his face in your neck. He holds you for what feels like forever, and then he pulls back. Tilting your chin up toward him with his forefinger’s knuckle, he leans in just before your lips meet. He hesitates, then smiles, then brushes your lips with his - a test, one that leaves you breathless.

And then he kisses you for real. With his hand at the back of your neck, his lips meet yours again, gentle but insistent. He kisses you over and over again, his hands sliding from your neck to your waist. When you’re finished, you’re both breathless. Seokmin holds you close to him, brushing a hand over your hair and kissing the top of your head. Then he laughs. “We really went for it, didn’t we?”

You laugh and nuzzle into his chest. “Finally,” you agree.