This Did Pretty Well And I Have Some More Ideas For This Couple. SHOULD I DO IT?

This did pretty well and I have some more ideas for this couple. SHOULD I DO IT?

psych I already am. Didn’t mean for Choi San x Church Girl to become a series but IM KIND OF LOVING IT

take me to church | choi san

We’re back with another San work bc he’s hot and I love him. Genres: fluff, religious differences (but not like in an angst way, it’s really all fluff) Warnings: reader jokes about dying. Heavy discussion of religion, specifically Catholicism. Characters attend mass and confession. Brief sacrilege? Idk they kiss in a cathedral, so if you are Catholic and that’s offensive to you, probably don’t read this. San has unbelievable rizz (needs a warning) and is sometimes a bit suggestive.

“It took you long enough,” you tease, looking up from your book at the handsome young man holding two coffee cups and waiting for you to notice him. “You’ve been staring at me for a good long time.”

He grins at this. “Can I sit down?” he asks you, offering you one of the cups.

You take it and sip gingerly. “How did you know?” you ask him suspiciously.

“‘Apple cider with a shot of cinnamon and caramel syrup, warmed for one and a half minutes instead of two’,” he recites. “How long have we both been coming here?”

“Well, I’ve been coming here a month,” you tell him. “I don’t know how long it’s been for you.”

“It’s been a month for me as well,” he says. “The first time I saw you was my first time here.”

“Really?” you ask with an eyebrow raised. 

“Yeah, after that I just kind of decided it was my favorite,” he says, something wicked dancing in his eyes as he smiles at you. 

You shake your head with a scoff at the audacity of this man. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “They have good coffee too.” He leans back in his seat and takes a sip.

You size him up -- broad shoulders and a well-muscled chest under a white henley shirt and puffy jacket to protect against the wintery cold, square jaw, high cheekbones, those dangerous brown eyes, and black hair styled up and off his forehead in a swooping Clark Kent-esque style -- and the verdict is easy. Gorgeous. But for one thing, you’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing you feel that way. For another, you know his type. He has the air of the frat boys from college who threw ragers and took bets to see if they could get in your pants.

So you sip your drink again. “So, what’s your schtick? Tell me so we can stop wasting each other’s time.”

“Time spent enjoying yourself is never wasted,” he shoots back. “And I don’t have a schtick. I just want to get to know you better.” He seems unruffled by your aloofness, the hint of a smile still playing about his lips.

“There isn’t a lot to know,” you counter. 

“Everyone says that, but it’s never true,” he says. 

“How many other girls have you tried this approach on?” you ask him with narrowed eyes.

“Enough,” he allows with another smile. “Although this is the first time I’ve waited so long to make a move.”

“I’m flattered,” you deadpan. “Lost your nerve in your old age?”

“Maybe I learned the value of patience,” he says, undeterred. 

You weren’t expecting him to keep up with you for this long, so you simply look at him for a moment. “You got a name?” you finally ask, and his smile grows wider.

“Choi San,” he says. “You?”

“No,” you reply lightly.

For the first time, he looks taken aback. “No, like, you don’t have a name?”

“No like I’m not going to give it to you. Yet.” 

“Yet?” he complains. “Damn, you’re one tough cookie.”

“You have no idea,” you say. “Speaking of which, I have somewhere to be.”

“Let me join you,” he says immediately, standing as well. 

“Oh, as much fun as that would be, I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” you tell him with a laugh, putting on your hat and coat and making for the exit of the coffee shop.

“Why not? Are you going to a doctor’s appointment or something?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply as you push open the door, shuddering against the cold air. “I have six months left to live.”

San’s eyes go wide before he realizes you’re messing with him. “You’re awful,” he chides, nearly running to keep up with your quick stride. 

“And you’re persistent,” you say over your shoulder. “Seriously, I’m not going anywhere fun. You should go back inside where it’s warm. You’ll catch a cold.”

“Are you worried about me?” he asks with a teasing smile.

“Extremely. You seem very unhinged.” But you’re laughing at the way he’s dodging the crowd of people on the sidewalk walking the opposite direction so that he can keep sight of you, and this seems to spur him on. Even as San apologizes to an elderly group of women for colliding with them, there’s a determination in his eyes that makes your heart beat quicker than is strictly necessary.

“Oh, I am,” San retorts. “I need someone to take care of me.”

“Call your mother.”

“I would, but she lives in Korea.”

“Call a friend. Do you have any of those?”

“I have plenty, but there’s a very specific cure for my ailment that none of them can provide.”

You stop in your tracks and he nearly runs into you. “What do you want from me?” you ask, half annoyed, half impressed at all the smooth-talking.

“Your name, first,” he says. “And then maybe a phone number. That’s all. I swear.”

You consider him, biting back the thought that he looks even handsomer than normal because of the cool air tinging his cheeks pink and the sunlight in his eyes. “Tell you what,” you say. “You make it through this, and we can talk.”

San’s eyes follow your finger to where you’re pointing -- at a towering cathedral ornately decorated with statues of staring saints. He looks at you with wide eyes. “You’re a church girl?”

“Decidedly so, yes,” you say. “You sit through one mass and I’ll give you my phone number.”

He still doesn’t seem to be worried about any of this. “If I do confession, can I have a date?” he asks hopefully.

“I think if you do make confession, we’ll be in there so long we won’t have time for a date,” you tell him with a roll of your eyes. “Now come on.”

He grins. “You already know me so well. Take me to church,” he says.

The other regulars in the congregation eye you and San with interest as San follows your lead, watching how you dip your fingers into the water at the entrance and then cross yourself. He tries, but ends up crossing himself the wrong way, and you have to stifle a giggle as the little old lady who sits up front gasps loudly. 

San looks at you in alarm. “What did I do wrong?” he asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. “She just has a spiritual gift for seeing when someone is trying way too hard to get someone’s number.”

He shakes his head and follows you into a pew. “How long have you been Catholic?” he asks in a whisper.

“Officially, I’m not,” you say. “But I’ve been coming to mass for about a year, ever since my grandmother died. She used to come twice every week. It’s been…comforting. I feel closer to her this way.”

A light of understanding moves across his features. “I see,” he says. “That’s a good way to honor her.”

You are amazed at the sudden tears that threaten to spill over in your eyes. “And you? Are you religious at all?” you ask as a distraction.

“Not really,” he whispers. “I sang in a church choir once, but that’s about it.”

He notices how your eyes light up. “Do you sing, then?” you ask with interest.

“Yeah, a bit,” he admits. “Why? Is that a dealbreaker?”

You laugh quietly. “No, not at all. I just didn’t expect it.”

He shrugs. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

You roll your eyes again. “So do you believe in God?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

“Do you believe in anything?”

“I believe in plenty,” he replies. “Fate…love at first sight…”

“I’m being serious,” you insist. “I don’t know if I can see myself with someone who doesn’t have some kind of guiding principle that gives them integrity. It doesn’t have to be religion, but you have to have some kind of moral compass.” 

He thinks for a moment. “Well, I guess I believe that we should treat others well,” he starts.

“Why?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away — and you appreciate that he actually does seem to take the genuine questions you’re asking seriously. After a minute he replies, “I guess because I’ve personally found the highest level of satisfaction in my life when I’m in harmony with those around me. And that’s something I can control. I can’t stop others from disliking me or not sharing my opinions, but I can always treat them well regardless of those things, and we can coexist.”

The priest begins the processional just after San finishes talking, and so you don’t get to tell him how impressed you are with that answer. But you find yourself glancing over at him during the service, giggling softly when he repeats back to the priest later than everyone else, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks when he catches you staring and shoots back a subtle wink. 

And then when mass is over, and he leans over to you and you can smell the spicy-sweet scent of his shampoo, you have to catch your breath. “So, what now?” he asks with that same suggestive glint in his eyes.

“Now I need to go to confession,” you say firmly, although you can’t help a grin.

“I’ll come too,” he says, but you tug him down before he can fully stand up. 

“Hold your horses,” you say, and although you’re nervous in a way that makes you feel like your skin is on fire, you fix him with a stare, your expression serious. 

You take a breath. “Seriously, why me? I’m sure there are other pretty girls you’ve seen before, but it’s a little extreme to go to all this trouble.”

His smile softens. “You’re worried about my intentions?” he asks lightly, sliding across the bench to sit as close to you as he can.

“Shouldn’t I be? I mean, you’re a stranger who followed me into church,” you joke quietly. And you’re surprised to realize as you say it that even though he’s been persistent, you never felt unsafe. Indeed, you have the feeling that if you had ever seriously told him to get lost, he probably would’ve listened to you.

San seems to watch all these thoughts passing through your head, and he pulls one of your hands into both of his own. “Give me a shot,” he says softly. “If we’re talking about belief, let me tell you something else I believe in. I believe that sometimes you can get a sense about someone before you really talk to them. And this is going to sound crazy, but if there was such a thing as past lives, I’d be certain I knew you long before I saw you in that coffee shop.”

You draw in a shaky breath, your heart soaring in elation at this confession in spite of yourself. He’s playing with your fingers, his eyes flickering in the dim light of the church. And he looks so adorably nervous at the admission he’s just made that you can’t help but nod after only a second’s consideration. “Okay, Choi San. I’ll give you my phone number. A deal is a deal, after all.”

He hands you his phone. “For the record, mass was pretty interesting too,” he tells you.

You scoff. “Like you were paying attention at all,” you say as you type in your number, which you’ve saved under the name “church girl” with a black heart emoji.

“I might have been a bit distracted,” he allows, “but I do also like learning about things like this.” He takes his phone back from you and laughs at the contact name. “Wow, when do I get to know your name? At our wedding?”

“Maybe after our third kid, I’ll consider it,” you say dryly, standing up and tucking your jacket over one arm. “Now, I have some sins to confess.”

He stands up with you. “I’m coming too,” he says.

“Don’t you have everything you need?” you ask him with a grin, gesturing at the phone still in his hand. 

“Almost,” he says. “But I’ve done a lot of sinning in my life. Maybe I’ll have a religious epiphany if I talk to someone about it.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you in an anthropology class right now? Like, this has gotta be homework or something at this point.”

He laughs. “No, I am genuinely interested to know what confession is like,” he assures you. The both of you make your way to the confessional. “What do I say?” he whispers as you get close. 

“You start with crossing yourself,” you say, and you guide his hand in the correct motions. “Then you say ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he repeats. “Then what?”

“List your sins,” you say. “But don’t say all of them. He doesn’t have all night.”

“Okay,” he says in amusement. “Anything else?”

“At the end say ‘I’m sorry for this and all my sins’.”

“What if I’m not sorry?” he asks.

“Then say it anyway,” you say with a shrug.

“Isn’t that lying, though? Which is also a sin?” 

You have to bite back another laugh at his question. “I think you’re taking this a bit too seriously,” you say. “Maybe only confess the sins you feel sorry for if it offends you to lie to a priest.”

He nods. “Fair enough. Can you confess sins you haven’t done yet?” he asks, feigning innocence, but you know exactly what he means.

You snort, swatting his arm. “Um, that’s called the sale of indulgences, and the church stopped doing that in the 1500s I’m pretty sure.”

He tsks in disappointment. “Oh, well. I guess it was worth a shot. Do you want to go first? I’m sure you’re going to take a lot less time.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “I wouldn’t be so sure. There’s a lot that you don’t know about me, either.”

He shakes his head. “That was sexy,” he whispers after you as you move past him toward the confessional. 

You shush him. “Don’t say stuff like that in church. You’ll get struck by lightning.”

“That’s why I whispered it,” he says defensively.

“God can still hear you,” you say, giving him a little wave as you shut yourself in the booth.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you say, crossing yourself. “It’s been a week since my last confession.”

“Hey,” the priest says casually behind the grille. You recognize the voice of your favorite priest, Father Paul. 

“Hi, Father Paul,” you say.

“Doing missionary work, I see,” he says. 

“Huh?” you say. 

“The young man you brought with you today,” he says, a hint of humor in his voice. 

“Oh, that. Um, I didn’t bring him, he followed me,” you say. 

“He didn’t seem to bother you,” Father Paul observes. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much in church.”

You blush. “Are you gonna let me confess my sins, or what?”

“Fine,” says Father Paul, and you can hear the eye roll in his voice. “But next week you’d better have some more interesting sins for confession.”

“Father Paul!” you exclaim. “Isn't it a sin to encourage others in sinning?”

Father Paul gives a derisive laugh. “My child, I sit here in this booth for four hours twice a week and listen to people confess their problems with a spouse or disagreements with a neighbor. And now you come in here with a man who looks like that? Is it a greater sin to give in to the natural man, or to refuse to acknowledge a blessing when it comes?”

“This is a conversation I absolutely did not expect to have...ever, in any place, but definitely not here,” you say, your whole face redder than a tomato.

“Well, let me give you some revelation from beyond, then. If I were your grandmother, God rest her soul, I would tell you that seeing you alone for so long has been difficult for people who care about you. It may be time to let someone in.” He clears his throat. “Now, you may make your confession.”

Shaken, you do this quickly. Father Paul absolves you, and you clear out the booth. 

San is waiting right outside. “So, you’re forgiven,” he says, in the tone of someone observing the weather.

“Spic-and-span,” you say. “Your turn. You remember what to do?”

“I’ll figure it out,” he says, heading into the booth.

You head from the confessional into a tiny room where votive candles and a small statue of Mary Magdalene are kept, keeping the door open so that San will be able to see you after he leaves confession. You sit at the small bench, breathing deeply, trying to calm yourself. 

You aren’t used to being affected so much, but the man making what is certainly one of Father Paul’s more interesting confessions has upended everything normal in your life. You know what your grandmother would say -- “God likes to keep us on our toes.” “Well said, Granny,” you murmur to yourself, watching one of the flames flicker mesmerizingly in the otherwise dark room.

“Hey, Church Girl,” says a voice behind you. 

You jump and turn around. It’s San, standing there in the doorway watching you carefully. You stand, suddenly flustered. “Uh, hey. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he says, looking at you strangely. He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you reply breathily. “Um, just thinking about my grandma.”

“Got it,” he says, empathy at the corners of his tone. He comes to stand beside you. “I’m sorry to have interrupted.”

You give him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, really. So, you didn’t take very long in confession.”

“Nah, I don’t regret very many of my sins,” he says easily. “Father Paul seems cool, though.”

“He introduced himself?” you ask, surprised.

“Yep,” he says. “He talked about you.”

“Oh, did he?” you ask nervously. “What did he say?”

“He told me to take care of you,” he says simply.

“And what did you tell him?” you ask suspiciously.

He hesitates. “My sins,” he says finally. “Which turn out to be my failings as a romantic partner. I just told him all the ways I was worried I’d disappoint you.” He gives a soft laugh, and you look him up and down, fixating on his hands. 

They’re shaking.

Before you can think, before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab him by the front of his coat and pin him against the wall closest to the door. And then you tell him your name before pressing your lips to his.

He catches your face in his hands as you do, the pads of his fingers slightly rough but warm against your cheek and jaw and the back of your neck. His lips on yours are hungry but gentle, and his hands pull you back whenever you try to come up for air. You have to clutch at him to stay upright as the room starts spinning, and he moves his arms to your waist to support you as he kisses you again and again and again, until your lips feel bruised and you can hardly remember anything but the feel of his skin under your fingertips.

Finally, you break apart, gasping for breath. San’s chest heaves against your own, and he leans his forehead to yours. “What was that for?” he asks breathlessly.

“That was the trade-off,” you say with a laugh. “Phone number for mass, kiss for confession.”

“For real? What do I get if I go every week?” he asks eagerly.

“I guess we’ll see,” you say, brushing a stray strand of hair off his forehead.

“I like the sound of that,” he says, his arms tightening around your waist.

You lean against him, letting your head rest on his chest. “Me too.”

I do feel like I should mention that almost everything sensitive that I write about is stuff I have personally experienced. I say almost only because it’s not always the exact scenario I was in, just one with a very similar dynamic. My fics often include heavier themes because I use writing to process the trauma I’ve experienced (as well as therapy and other creative outlets). So when you read my work please remember that you’re most of the time reading the stuff that’s coming from my very real lived experience, and I hope it reminds you to be kind. I’m sorry if I write something that triggers you or isn’t similar to the way you’d have responded in the character’s shoes. I try to include trigger warnings at the beginning of each work, and I can’t write things from a perspective I don’t have. I can’t make my writing be any less like me!! So be nice. I’m always open to criticism if it’s constructive and helps me improve as a person, but blatant unkindness with 0 attempt to see me as a human being with my own background and perspectives will not be tolerated at all. I try my best, I really do.

oooooh big on this one.

PSA: If you’re planning on posting smut for Niki the day of his birthday go ahead and block me, unmoot me, etc. I do not and refuse to accept y’all thinking that’s a normal thing to do.

EXCUSE ME THAT WAS SO NICE OF YOU!!!! I’m so glad you liked it, it was a labor of love fs ❤️

The Hope in the Fault Lines | Part 4

The final part....THIS HAS BEEN SO FUN. It's been a labor of love for sure, so I hope you read it and love it and reblog it and all the good things. I don’t have enough requests to have a tag list or anything so I’m relying on faith and prayers to get this in front of the ppl who liked the previous parts, so PLEASE REBLOG THIS 🥺 I’ll love you forever fr. Here are links to part 1, part 2, and part 3 if you haven't read them already! Warnings: references to child abuse (mentions of a father giving a daughter a black eye and references to a belt being used), reference to a past child custody battle, sexism, forced contact by abusive parents, drinking, grief, ptsd, some angst but just for a little, vanilla sex, oral (f receiving), I tried to leave a lot to the imagination because this was my first time writing any kind of smut, but still minors don't read or interact with it, police investigation. lmk if there's anything else! Word count: 13k (I AM SORRY I GOT CARRIED AWAY.)

Eleven months later 

Time was funny.

Together, you, Sara, and Mingyu had watched the summer fade into a hazy autumn, where the leaves faded into gold and red and orange and then fell, leaving bare branches clawing at the sky with skinny fingers. The winter had been a long one — Christmas was nearly unbearable without Jeri and Jisung to keep you company. But spring prevailed, as it always did, and now you watched as the latest of the April blossoms popped through the surface of the earth. 

It’s been almost a whole year since the accident. At the outset, your grief had been like a massive wall. It was hard to see around it, and pushing against it was useless. Now, the grief was still there, but had transformed into something more akin to a stray dog that followed you around. It was always present, but you could still move with it, and it wasn’t always unwelcome. The pain of loss had been tempered by the stretch of time, the therapy sessions faithfully attended every Tuesday morning, and the love that had grown between you and Sara. 

At a year and a half, she toddled around clumsily still, but could run and jump and talk. She was extremely independent and energetic, and sometimes when she was displeased the look on her face was so reminiscent of Jeri that it made you pause. However, where before that would’ve made you cry, today it fills you with comfort. You also, surprisingly, saw yourself in her — she was adventurous and tenacious, and didn’t like to be told she couldn’t do something. But she was also sweet, cooing over even the beetles in the grass or the spiders in the corner. The force of your love for her was both surprising and strong, because when she’d first come into your life, you had felt uncertain you’d ever get the hang of being a parent. Now, you could hardly imagine life without her. She made each day full of an infinite meaning — everything you did now was for her.

And then, there was Mingyu. The relationship between you was sweet and easy and didn’t demand anything more from you than you could handle. You had learned early on how kind Mingyu was and how easy it was to talk to him, but you had come to know him even better over the time since your illness, and you had become endeared by his pouty expression when you teased him, the clumsiness you suspected was a result of becoming very big very fast and still not knowing his own strength, and the comforting timbre of his voice, as well as so much more. Mingyu made you feel like you never had to do anything by yourself, with a talent for drawing the vulnerability out of you when you were keeping yourself from being helped. And even though he was positive and upbeat most of the time, he never expected that from you. His grace in handling your down days was enough to convince you that in any other circumstance, this man would have been your perfect match, inside and out.

But the circumstances are what they are, and so you can’t let yourself give in to what you want. It has been a long time since Mingyu has held you — since the nightmare, in fact. Which, you remind yourself forcefully, is a good thing. It was professional of you to keep that physical distance. Because, Heaven help you, you were struggling to keep any emotional distance between you. 

When Mingyu had come back to work after he’d stayed the night at your place that one fateful night, a pattern had begun. When you’d come home, Mingyu asked you about your day. You’d give him the low-down: “Emily dropped the pencil sharpener and thought I’d fire her…am I that scary?”, “we got a story with Brie Larsen,” “one of our writers is getting married in a few weeks and invited me”, and so on. Then you’d ask for his updates: “Sara ate a solid banana today,” “Bora and Morrie came over for a play date”, “I lost Sara for fifteen minutes today and found her in the massive drum of flour”. This usually kicked off an hours-long conversation full of teasing, laughter, and the occasional philosophical discussion that only ended when one of you mentioned Mingyu should go home and get some rest. The past eleven months of this behavior had only made you more and more drawn to Mingyu; it was how you learned he learned to cook from helping his mother in the kitchen, and that he also had a little sister whom he loved dearly, and about the friends from college he still saw frequently, all of whom he seemed to only have positive feelings for. You had started to wonder if there was a person he didn’t like. And all of this added up to you being absolutely smitten with him.

But you also keenly felt the guilt of having a crush on your nanny. After all, it felt like such a midlife-crisis move to pull. You tried to comfort yourself in the truth that Mingyu was usually the instigator whenever the both of you rocketed over those carefully drawn lines in the proverbial sand, but you knew it was also partially your responsibility, because you never talked to him about maintaining a more professional distance. The fact was, you didn’t want any more distance at all between you and Mingyu, but you understood how complicated it might be if someone who essentially made sure he could pay his bills confessed romantic feelings for him. Not that you’d ever take advantage of him, but it also felt unfair to put him in a situation where he had to trust you on that.

So you stayed as you were — for eleven months that had proven to put you through every emotion on the spectrum. You laughed at Mingyu, you competed against Mingyu, you wondered about Mingyu, you worried about Mingyu. 

But most of all, you yearned for Mingyu.

You try not to let it show as you watch Sara play with her dolls in the living room, supplemented by the dollhouse Mingyu spent a whole day building for her. “Tomorrow’s the big day!” he says. “Are you excited?”

“I am,” you hedge, half-listening as Sara clumsily tucks a doll into its bed and says goodnight. “A little nervous, too.”

“Why are you nervous?” he asks. “You’ve practiced a lot. I almost have your speech memorized by now.”

You laugh. “It’s normal to be nervous, even when you’re prepared.”

He watches you carefully, noting how after a few moments of silence your eyes slip out of focus, miles away. After eleven months, Mingyu has learned that when you get like this, you are reliving a vivid memory inside your mind. The more this happens, the worse your dreams are later. So, after catching Sara before she whacks her head on the coffee table, he puts his hand on your knee so your mind connects to your body again. “Where were you this time?” he asks, releasing a squirming Sara to the floor, his gaze between you and her.

“My sister pep talking me before my valedictorian speech,” you say in a tiny voice.

“I didn’t know you were valedictorian!” Mingyu exclaims. “You were a huge nerd, weren’t you?”

“I still am,” you say, pretending to be scandalized. “Why do you think my magazine won an award for publishing? It certainly wasn’t because academic validation isn’t important to me.”

He laughs. “Your magazine won an award for publishing because it’s awesome. But I appreciate that you’re still trying to achieve academically even though you’re almost three years post-MBA.”

“I know when I’m being made fun of,” you sniff. “And I won’t have this from you, Mr. ‘I Flunked Out of Chemistry But They Still Let Me Play Basketball’ Kim Mingyu.”

Mingyu shoots you a reluctant grin. “I never should’ve told you that, first of all,” he says. “Secondly, despite all that, I think you would’ve liked me in high school.”

“I probably would’ve,” you admit. “You, however, would never have even looked at me in high school,” you say. “I had glasses, braces, the whole nine yards.”

He stretches, laughing. “I was into nerds, actually. Still am, in fact.” He smiles to himself, on cue with your heart turning all the way over in your chest.

You’re in dangerous territory, so you steer away. “Have you been practicing your ponytails?” you say seriously.

“Who do you think I am? Of course I have.”

“And you’re still not gonna show me what her hair looks like until the day of?”

“Of course not. It’s bad luck.”

You scoff. “I’m almost positive nobody thinks that.”

“I’m pretty sure I think that,” he counters.

“And I don’t even get to see her dress?” you ask.

“Not unless I get to see yours.”

You grin — this had been a constant “argument” since you’d come home with the dress bag, and you had denied his request to look at it. “What if I hate her dress?”

Mingyu shakes his head. “It’s impossible. She’s the cutest little girl in the world. So even if the dress sucks, she’s gonna look darling in it.”

“You make a good point,” you admit. “The dress doesn’t suck though, right?”

“You have so little faith in my taste,” Mingyu says, frowning. Then he lights up again and abruptly changes the subject. “Also, get this — Wonwoo says he’s gonna come and he’ll bring a girl.”

“Oh?” you say, lifting Sara off the ground as she reaches for one of the spark plugs in the wall. “Is it the same girl he brought home a couple weeks ago?” You’d become friends with Mingyu’s bespectacled, tech-savvy roommate due to occasional contact over the past almost-year, and the thought of him with a girl is sweet.

“Yeah,” Mingyu says. “But here’s the thing. He insisted — emphatically — that nothing was going on between them. They were just friends.”

“How long ago?”

“Like two weeks.”

“Maybe for one of them that’s true,” you suggest. “I mean, maybe he doesn’t like her like that.”

“No, he definitely does.”

“Okay, well, maybe she doesn’t like him like that.”

“Have you seen him?”

You laugh. “Have you seen yourself? I mean, if she hangs out at your place pretty often there’s really no reason she couldn’t like you too.”

Mingyu blushes, an uncharacteristically bashful move on his part, and you realize how much you’ve just given away. So you, blushing too, move over to Sara, beginning to play with her hands and let her grab at your necklace. “I should probably go,” Mingyu says. “Gotta be here early tomorrow to make sure you don’t sleep through your alarm again.”

“I only did that one time,” you protest. “And I don’t think I’ll sleep at all tonight.”

He makes a sympathetic noise. “Well, at least try, will you? It’s a big day for you, and you should be able to enjoy it.”

You smile up at him. “You’re right. Thank you, Mingyu. Say bye bye to Mingyu, Sara.”

“Bye, Googoo!!” Sara squeals — her endearing nickname for Mingyu. 

She bounds over to him, and he sweeps her into his arms for a swift hug before setting her down gently. “Bye, Sara!”

***

“Wow,” Mingyu says, his eyes wide and mouth open.

You tug at the tight, silvery-blue fabric of the floor-length gown you wear, blushing. “Thanks.”

“You’re always pretty,” Mingyu begins, finally recovering from the shock of seeing you like this enough to speak.

“Oh, stop it,” you protest, hiding your face in your hands.

“But this is … wow,” he finishes.

Your face could not be warmer. “Please desist before I’m so embarrassed that I have to change.” You peek from behind your fingers at Mingyu, who is looking positively devastating in a suit and is holding Sara in her fluffy pink dress. He was right about her looking cute in anything, but the dress suits your sweet, sassy, rambunctious little girl. And, true to his word, he has tugged her hair into two adorable pigtails fitted with feathery pink bows to match the dress. “You did an amazing job with Sara.”

Mingyu finally tears his eyes away from you to look proudly at Sara’s outfit. “Never doubt me again,” he jokes.

“I never will,” you vow. 

“Well, I think we need to leave,” Mingyu says. “I wonder what everyone will think about me arriving with the two prettiest girls at the party.”

You roll your eyes as you grab your things. “You’ll fit right in,” you tell him. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks,” he says, wrestling a grumpy Sara into her car seat. “Shall we?”

The party is a fancy affair. Big names in publishing mill around with your employees, some turning to greet you and offer words of congratulations when you walk in. Mingyu is impressed with how gracious and genuine you are with everyone, even the people you’re just being introduced to, his heart swelling with pride whenever you include him and Sara as a part of your introduction. 

Sara is amazed at the surroundings, looking around the beautifully furnished hotel meeting room with its twinkling lights in an overstimulated stupor. Plenty of the female employees are talking and whispering at the sight of her in Mingyu’s arms, a few even venturing to approach him and play with Sara’s hands or feet. “So, are you her boyfriend?” A blonde in a stunning red dress asks, leaning in with hooded eyes.

“No, I’m just her nanny,” Mingyu says with a laugh. “Um, excuse me.” 

You have to bite back a smile as Mingyu meets eyes with you nervously. “Meredith from accounting is zeroed in on you, I see,” you tease him. 

“She’s very friendly,” Mingyu agrees. “I think I saw Wonwoo come in, though.”

You look toward the door. There he is — tall, slender, with his signature glasses and a shy but very happy smile, hand-in-hand with a pretty girl in a pink dress. “They look cozy,” you observe. “Say hi to him for me, will you? I need to get ready to speak to everyone.”

Mingyu gives you a prolonged look that makes you more nervous than even the impending speech before he answers, “sure thing, boss. Break a leg. You’ll be great.”

It feels surreal — all of these people are mostly people who you see every day, mingling with publishing giants and friends, and everything is different. After what feels like no time at all, you take the low stage to begin your speech.

You take a deep breath, looking in the crowd for two specific people, and it isn’t until you’ve met eyes with Mingyu, who is softly smiling at you, and aimed a wave at Sara, that you begin. “This award is something I’ve been working toward since we started the magazine. I naively thought that receiving this award would finally help me to feel like I belonged in this industry, or that all the time I’d spend slaving for this business was actually worth it.

“The past year, however, has been the absolute hardest of my life. As many of you know, my sister -- the person who encouraged me to start this business, and the person without whom many of you, including me, would probably not have jobs -- was killed in a hit-and-run accident a year ago Thursday. And when you go through something like that, well...your perspective on life definitely changes. I have always been a believer in the power of story, but because of the life-altering experiences I’ve had over the course of this brutal year, I gained new insight into the stories that we should be telling with the voices we have in the time that we have them. I’m convinced that the team’s vision aligning so well with this change in priorities is why I’m on this stage accepting this award. So I have some people to thank for this.”

You’re practiced enough that your voice only shakes a little as you begin this part. “Firstly, my editor, Cory, who not only held us together while I was completely incapacitated, but also understood perfectly how to make this thing into the kind of thing that wins awards like this. If this was a ship, Cory would be at the helm, and I’m so glad that we have someone who is a perfect navigator. Cory knows the metaphorical sea and stars like an albatross, and he deserves to be the one speaking to you today, but we drew lots and I got the short stick.” The crowd laughs, and in the audience, Cory raises his glass to you, his arm snaked around the waist of his new girlfriend Lele.

You smile at his gesture and continue. “Secondly, to my assistant, Emily. She was hired only one single month before the accident, and she has become indispensable to me. One thing you should know about her is that her desire to do everything she can for anyone who needs it is not just one of her biggest professional strengths, it is also one of her best personal ones. Her competence and kindness will take her far -- here or wherever she goes.” When you spot Emily, her eyes are streaming with tears, and she gives you a little apologetic shrug as she wipes her eyes.

“Thirdly, I cannot thank the writing team, the creative team, the social media team, and the editing staff enough for supporting me through my bereavement and continuing to do such excellent work. I am grateful to have hired the right people, so that I can be confident that this important work we do will not be stopped if I am stopped.”

Now, the final message -- the part you hadn’t shown Mingyu yet. Partially because you wanted to surprise him, and partially because you were terrified of what he would know about you because of it, and you wanted to prolong the moment. You steady yourself and press on. “Finally, there have been a number of people in my personal life without whom I couldn’t be here today. Friends who pulled me out of the mud, almost literally, neighbors who looked out for my lawn, the kindest friend who watches my beautiful niece while I come to work --” and at this point, you intentionally avoid Mingyu’s gaze, “and Sara herself, who gives me a reason to wake up in the morning and who carries Jeri with her in her eyes. You have all been my hope in the fault lines, and without you, I would be so lost. Thank you for being my solid ground when everything around me was shaking.

“And of course, to my dear sister, my best friend, Jeri. From wherever you are, know that this award means infinitely more because of what I learned from you. I wish I could’ve learned it with you beside me, but I’m hoping every single day that when it’s my time, I’m even half of the person you are. Thank you.”

The audience applauds, and someone hands you a small glass statue as the physical evidence of your award, and pictures are snapped, and then it’s all over. You’re back in the crowd, and you’re drained and a bit embarrassed and empty, and the only person you want to talk to is Mingyu. You want to run to him and throw yourself into his arms and let him carry you away from the stage and the people who are flocking to you to hug you and offer condolences and shake your hand and congratulate you. But you can’t, so you let them approach until Emily (bless her) extracts you from the crowd.

“Your parents came,” she whispers to you, and you feel your jaw clench. 

“Where are they?” you ask through your gritted teeth. 

“By the food. I’ve tried to hold them off, but they want to meet Sara.”

“Where is she?”

“Mingyu’s changing her diaper.”

You grab Cory’s arm as he passes. “My parents are here. Please go in the bathroom and tell Mingyu not to leave until you come back to get him.” With an alarmed look, he obeys, and you stalk toward the two elderly people staring haughtily around at the crowd at the food table.

Your mother sees you first. As she meets your eyes you remember her wearing that same look while your father had “disciplined” you — with a belt. It’s a shrewd look, a calculating one. The last night you’d lived with them, before you’d taken Jeri and gotten out of that place, she had told him she didn’t think the message was sinking in enough. She suggested more stripes might remind you of “a woman’s place.”

As hard as she is to look at, he is infinitely worse. Your father has grown hunched in the ten years since you’ve seen him, his face becoming even more gaunt and severe, almost cartoonish in its caricatured lines. You stand up straighter and realize that you’re not afraid of him anymore. “What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice quiet so as not to attract attention and cause a scene. 

“Is it a crime to want to see my daughter and granddaughter?” your father croaks.

“I don’t remember inviting you,” you say shortly. “I want to know how you found out about this.”

“I read about it in the paper,” he says.

“Well, thank you for coming,” you say. “But I think I made it clear that I don’t want contact with you after the trial.”

“The judge only ruled that Sara would live with you. They didn’t mention that we could never see her,” your mother claims.

“No, they didn’t say that. But I did,” you remind her, your voice surprisingly gentle despite your anger.

There is a sudden warmth from a hand at your shoulder. “Are you okay?” Mingyu asks quietly.

You turn to face him, giving him a tight smile. “Yeah,” you say, a bit shaken but still determined. “Where’s Sara?”

“Wonwoo is watching her,” he replies. “Do you need help with them?”

You had told him about your parents and the vaguest details of their abuse around month four. He knew you’d left home at seventeen with Jeri in tow, determined to let her be safer than you had been. He knew that there had been a nasty custody battle necessitating your admission of everything they’d done to you so that Sara would never be subjected to the childhood you had. He didn’t know that you’d had to teach yourself how to do makeup in seventh grade to hide the black eye your father had given you, because your mother believed makeup to be deceitful and of the devil. He didn’t know all the times you’d stepped in front of Jeri to prevent your father from hurting her. He didn’t know the fear you’d felt when they took you to court to try and take your niece away from you — all on the basis that a child without her father, raised by only a woman, could never be complete.

He didn’t know everything, but still he was there at your side. Big and strong and never angry except for right now, his dark eyes flashing and his mouth set in a straight line. You’d wondered how your soft, silly, sweet Mingyu had managed to survive for years as a federal agent, but now you knew. Mingyu could be intimidating if he wanted to be – he simply chose not to be most of the time.

You sigh, relieved. “I think I would like help with them, actually.”

This is all Mingyu needs to spring into action. He moves for your father, taking him by the arm in what you’re sure is a vice grip, as you link an arm around your mother’s arm. “I need the both of you to go,” you tell her. “And if I see you again, I’ll file a restraining order. Don’t think I won’t. I’d prefer not to do it, so just leave us alone. We’re happy.” You release her in the hotel lobby, and she and your father scurry away. 

As you walk back to the party with Mingyu, you ask, “did he say anything to you?”

Mingyu shrugs. “Nothing worth repeating.” The two of you hunt down Sara, and you give her a big hug before letting her finally wander around on her own two feet, which she’s been begging Wonwoo to do. It does your heart good to watch her be herself without any fear of retribution.

You’re surprised at how normal you feel after returning to the group. Your hands still shake, and you do keep a closer eye on Sara than normal, but you don’t dwell on it. It didn’t burn you like you expected to see them again. Perhaps, you reason, although the pain of seeing your parents again is very different from your grief, and there is nearly ten years of distance between that pain and your current life, you have actually become stronger. The thought makes you warm from the inside out. The rest of the event goes by in a blur -- all the way up until you overhear Mingyu talking to Wonwoo. “Come out with us tonight,” Wonwoo plies.

“I don’t know,” Mingyu says, sounding reluctant.

“You should,” you find yourself saying, grinning as they both jump at your words. “Sorry for eavesdropping. Why wouldn’t you go?”

Mingyu snorts. “I’ll go if you go.”

You grin regretfully at Wonwoo. “Sorry,” you say. “I have the duties of motherhood to attend to.”

Bora is standing nearby and interjects. “Actually, I think it’d be great if you went. I can take Sara tonight.”

You shoot her a look. “I wasn’t even invited. That was a joke.”

“No, you’re definitely invited,” Wonwoo says. “Please come. Seungcheol is going to be there, and he just got rejected, so he needs someone more responsible than me to look after him. Who better than a literal mother?”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t birth her, Wonwoo.”

“You’re still her mom,” says Bora. “I’m taking her home with me. Go out, have fun! It’ll be good for you. The last time you went out, you ended up finding Mingyu. So maybe tonight something great will happen.”

You can hear the suggestive edge in her voice. It has you glaring daggers at her as she reaches for Sara. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says, and scurries away.

***

“I’m not good at drinking,” you confess over the music.

“Then don’t drink too much,” Wonwoo says. 

“Is everything just that simple for you?” you ask him, amused. 

He grins. “Actually, yes.” He looks over to where the girl he brought and Mingyu are chatting happily about some inane thing, and frowns. “Sometimes even I complicate things, though.”

“I think she really likes you.” Wonwoo turns to look at you, eyes wide, and you chuckle. “I think we’re alike,” you explain. “Neither of us are very forward usually, or very good at expressing ourselves.”

Wonwoo nods with a sheepish grin. “That’s accurate.”

“So…do you like her?” you ask him bluntly.

Wonwoo clears his throat and downs a shot before replying. “I’ve been in love with her for a long time.”

“And you still haven’t said anything?” you ask sympathetically.

“Well, I mean, we’ve kissed. And we’ve held hands. And I kind of confessed.”

You eye him skeptically. “And would you say she’s more like you and I, personality-wise, or more like Mingyu?”

“Definitely Mingyu,” he replies. 

“Do you think Mingyu would pick up on a half-confession?”

Wonwoo thinks to himself. “He’d probably understand what you’re saying, but I think he’d be too worried to do anything about it unless you were explicit. He’s too polite and cautious to cross a line like that.”

You try not to think about what he’s saying in the context of you and Mingyu, but it’s hard. “So, do you know what you need to do?” you ask him, trying to focus on the task at hand.

“Own up to my feelings, probably.” Wonwoo laughs at himself.

“You’ve already kissed,” you point out. “And she’s stuck around. If she hated that you kissed her, it might be one thing, but it seems to me like she’s pretty into being with you. You don’t have to be poetic, just tell her how she makes you feel and let her respond how she wants.”

He nods, putting the shot glass back on the bar and standing up. “Thanks,” he says. “You might consider taking your own advice, too.” And with that, he walks across the room to the girl and leans in to whisper something to her. The two of them leave together, and Mingyu turns to look at you, giving you a quizzical look. 

“What did you say to him?” he asks, coming to sit in Wonwoo’s vacated seat.

“I told him to go for it,” you say, your head still buzzing with Wonwoo’s last comment to you. You sip sparingly at your piña colada and sigh. “What are we even doing here?” you ask Mingyu with an uncharacteristic giggle, probably brought on by the alcohol in your system. “I’ve never been a person who goes to bars, and since becoming a parent, I am even less of one.”

Mingyu laughs. “Well, I was having a great time talking with Wonwoo’s girl, until someone decided to be an inspiration. As per usual.”

“Where are Seungcheol and Vernon?” you say, ignoring his compliment but for a small grin.

“I think they’re in an intense game of pool. Vernon’s doing a better job distracting Cheol than I thought he would,” Mingyu says. “Although they’re both super drunk. We should go check on them.”

Mingyu takes your hand and guides you through the crowded bar, to a back room with a pool table, a ping pong table, and a couple of old arcade games. Vernon and Seungcheol have abandoned the pool table and are standing by the ancient-looking jukebox. As you watch, Seungcheol whacks the jukebox with his fist, and then groans in pain. Mingyu wordlessly jogs over to them and grabs Seungcheol’s hand to inspect it.

“Wanted it to play that one song,” Seungcheol slurs at Mingyu as you approach. “The one that reminds me of her.”

Mingyu looks at him in a mixture of amusement and worry. “Which one?”

“She’s Got a Way,” Vernon says, stumbling over. “Billy Joel is the best.”

“I think you should sit down,” Mingyu says to both of them as they lean heavily on him. You grab Vernon by the arm and help him over to the nearest collection of chairs, just as a pretty girl in a black dress strides up to Mingyu helping Seungcheol. 

“Hi, handsome,” she says. 

“Pia?” Mingyu says, shocked. “Oh, wow. Um, hi! It’s been awhile.” He rubs the back of his neck nervously.

“Sure has, soldier.” She doesn’t spare you or either of the other two men a single glance -- her focus is solely on Mingyu. “Where have you been?”

“I was living in Italy for a minute. You know, doing the whole nannying thing still.” He clears his throat. “But I’ve been back awhile.”

“Huh,” Pia says. “Can’t believe you haven’t lost your mind around all those kids yet. Let me buy you a drink. You can tell me all about it.”

Mingyu shoots you a sideways glance. You want to drag him away from her -- with your teeth, if necessary -- but you say nothing, hoping your face isn’t betraying the open hostility in your heart. “I don’t know,” he says, hesitating. “I’m supposed to drive later.”

“Then I’ll buy you a virgin daiquiri. Nothing hokey, I promise,” she says smoothly, taking Mingyu’s arm. “I’ll have you back here before you know it.” And with that, she waltzes him away as he looks at you, wide-eyed, over his shoulder.

You aren’t really mad at him. You could tell that if it were up to him, he’d have stayed with the three of you -- if only because he was worried about Vernon and Seungcheol being too much for you. And yet, it still rankled to see him walking away with another woman.

Another very pretty woman.

Maybe it’s this that leads you to order another drink when the waiter comes around. And another. Two drinks was enough alcohol to get you shit-faced. Three has you singing along to She’s Got a Way with the other two when it finally plays, even though you never sing.

By the time Mingyu arrives back to your group, he is shocked to see you with your arms slung around the other two, your cheeks pink and your eyes bright, belting another song along with them while Seungcheol weeps unabashedly into your shoulder.

“I think it’s time to leave,” he says, amused, propping Seungcheol up. “Stay right there, baby. I’ll be back.”

You blink. It feels like time is moving in slow motion as Mingyu turns to leave the bar. “Did he just call me baby?” you ask Vernon stupidly.

“I think so,” Vernon says, nodding. “It’d be weird if he called me that.” 

You frown. “Why does he do stuff like that?”

Vernon shakes his head. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that the room is spinning, which means I drank too much, so I’m gonna just lay down for a second.”

You watch Vernon put his forehead to the table and give a drunken scoff. Mingyu arrives shortly afterward, lifting you princess-style out of your chair as though you weigh nothing and telling Vernon he’ll be back. He lays you in the passenger seat of your car, grinning down at you. “I see why you don’t drink often,” he teases. “You really are a lightweight.”

Seungcheol groans from the backseat. “Kiss her,” he commands, too loud, causing passerby to look over in shock.

To Mingyu’s surprise, your eyes light up. You still have a hand gripping his soft tee from when the world tilted alarmingly as he hoisted you off the chair, and your eyes are out of focus and you keep blinking at him to try and see him, and you’re uncomfortably aware that your hair is plastered to your forehead with sweat. 

Adorable. He can’t help but think it. The alcohol has done its job admirably — your cheeks are flushed, and your usually-guarded gaze is open and almost dangerous in your blatant desire for him. It takes everything in him to restrain himself from listening to Seungcheol and kissing you in front of all these people. 

But you’re so drunk, and he cares too much about you to do it like this, so he gently removes your fist from his shirt and runs back into the bar to get Vernon, hearing Seungcheol yell “Coward!” at him as he retreats. In no time he packs Vernon into the back of the car and drives off, monitoring you in the passenger side. 

Seungcheol gets out at Vernon’s house, and together they stagger inside. Mingyu watches them in amusement until he hears you sniffling. Alarmed, he looks down to see you crying quietly into your hands.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, befuddled. 

“I’m drunk,” you say in a choked, muffled voice. “People just cry when they’re drunk sometimes.”

He shrugs, then pats your shoulder. “I guess you’re right.” But he continues to watch as your tears continue to fall. Finally he pulls up to your house, and you claw at your seatbelt, trying to pull yourself loose. He chuckles and pops the button easily, and you fling the door open and promptly fall out of the car.

In a panic, Mingyu runs around the side of the car to see you weeping on your own driveway. When he moves to help you, you weakly try to push him away. “What’s going on, honey?” he says, suddenly realizing you may not have told him the truth earlier about the reason for your tears. 

“I’m mad at you,” you admit, wiping your eyes. “And I cry when I’m mad.”

He purses his lips. “Well, can I at least get you inside? Then we can talk about it.”

You hesitate, then nod. Wordlessly he scoops you into his arms, and despite everything you’re feeling, you tuck yourself into the crook of his neck. He’s so warm, and you breathe in his scent, feeling the pain of the fall and your own feelings ease a little. 

“So,” he says after he’s propped you up on your couch. “What’s this about, huh?”

You look up at him with red eyes. “I’m not actually mad at you.” You take a deep breath in. “I’m mad at me.”

The realization had hit you when you’d reached Vernon’s apartment. You had broken your own heart, beyond what you thought was possible after losing your sister, because every version of your future that you had even the slightest desire to live in had Mingyu in it. And not as your nanny — as your partner. The sudden impossibility of any of those futures becoming reality has rushed to you, because Mingyu needs a job, and you need a nanny, and to change anything about your relationship would cost him his livelihood — or cost the both of you the relationship you already have.

The only thing more impossible than explaining this was staying quiet, however.

So when he asks why, you tell him. “I ruined everything, Mingyu. I … I put us both in the worst possible situation.”

“How?” His eyes are zeroed in on your face, alight in the dim room. 

You can almost taste your own heartbeat as you reply. “I…fell in love with you.”

Mingyu’s jaw drops. 

“I know, it’s stupid. And you…you have better options than me, plus…we’re impossible. You and me, it would never work anyway. But I had to say it before I catch fire from the inside out.”

When you finally look at Mingyu, his shock has turned into a pained expression. “Impossible?” he repeats quietly.

You nod sleepily as the tears overtake you again. “Like trying to fit a round peg in a square hole,” you confirm, sniffling.

“Why is it impossible?” he asks. “Explain that.” For the first time since you’ve known Mingyu, he sounds angry with you. 

And this makes you angry, too.

“Because this is not the life you deserve,” you say, your voice too loud for the living room. “Me, my grief, my baggage, a kid — you deserve your own family. One that isn’t so … messy.” Your voice cracks near the end of your rant, but you choke your tears down like you had in front of your parents and their rage all those years ago. 

“What if you’re enough for me?” he challenges, eyes flashing.

“I’m not going to let you throw the whole life you could have with someone else away for someone who can’t give you what you want!” you yell. “I can’t love you like you deserve, Mingyu!”

Mingyu’s face crumples from anger to shattering grief. He stands up, grabs his jacket, and heads for the door. 

You want to yell at him to come back, but feel too guilty and tired and stressed and awful to say a word. Before he opens the door, he half turns over his shoulder, not meeting your eyes. “I know you, and I know how you love. And it’s more than enough. You are what I want.” His tone is so careful and measured that you know he wants to yell back at you. He couldn’t be more serious, or more plain about what he’s saying. He finally looks into your eyes as he opens the door.

“If you ever stop being afraid of that, you know where to find me,” he says quietly.

And without another glance, he steps into the night, letting the door shut with an awful sense of finality.

***

“Get up,” says Bora sternly, ripping the sheets off you. 

You groan and bury your face in your pillows. “No,” you say.

“Sara has been asking for you,” she insists. 

You glare at her, but push yourself up and follow her downstairs. Sara is playing happily on the floor with Morrie. When she catches sight of you, she yells her toddler version of your name. Your heart partially pieces itself back together, and you respond to her reaching arms by pulling her close. “Hey, baby. Did you have a fun sleepover?”

“Yeah!” Sara yells excitedly. “We had soooooooooo much fun!!”

“We played with my princess toys,” Morrie informs you. 

“Oh did you?” you say, trying to mimic their excitement. 

“Yeah!! Mommy said you went out to have fun with a cute boy,” Morrie says. “Did you have fun?”

You glance over at Bora before responding. “I may have had a little too much fun.”

Bora hisses, but you shake your head at her, letting her know with your eyes that you’ll talk later. She hangs around for the morning, and when Morrie and Sara go down for their naps, she corners you.

“Tell me why Mingyu didn’t show up this morning,” she demands.

You sigh. “Because I am the dumbest, stupidest idiot known to all mankind.” And you tell her everything.

She listens intently. “And then he texted this morning and told me he needed some time,” you finish, swallowing hard around the lump in your throat.

“So what are you gonna do about it?” she asks you. You note the strain in her tone and realize she’s mad at you too.

“I don’t know,” you snap, her anger and your own pain making you feel trapped and defensive. 

“That man is in love with you,” she says, exasperated. “I mean, it was really obvious that he feels the same way about you that you feel about him. And you’re just going to stubbornly suggest that he’s too good for you?”

“He literally is, though,” you say, desperate to make her understand. “He’s the perfect man. He could be with anyone. I have a kid and a company, and he deserves someone’s full attention and full heart, and that will never be me.”

Bora’s shaking her head. “No, listen to me. You’ve always been like this. You think love is this finite thing and once you give it to one thing you don’t have enough to give to something else. I thought Sara would change that about you. Do you forget about Sara when you’re at work?” 

You think to yourself. No, in fact. You thought about her constantly. You even did your job in the hope that one day she would know she could do whatever she set her mind to. “And did you stop running your business just because you became Sara’s guardian?” Bora asks you, watching you as you think. “Of course you didn’t. Because love isn’t finite, you dummy.”

You stare at her, unconvinced. She sighs. “Sweetheart, I see the way you look at him. I know you know you have feelings for him, but when you think about an entire lifetime without Mingyu, when you think about him moving on with someone else, how does that feel?”

“Unbearable,” you whisper. You’ve already thought about it -- all last night, after you sobered up, you thought about what would happen to you if that was the last time you ever saw Mingyu. You knew you’d keep going, for Sara, like always. But you also knew you’d be a shell of who you were when you were with him, and you didn’t like to think how long it would take for you to fill yourself back up.

Which brings you to a greater worry. “What if I just…got attached? Because he was something for me to hold onto during all this?” you ask her.

“So what if you did? That’s as real a reason to be attached to someone as I can think of.”

“I don’t want to be trauma-bonded, Bora.”

She rolls her eyes. “Have you ever heard him say anything mean? About anyone?”

“No?” Because he hadn’t. Not even your parents. He was unfailingly kind.

“And has he ever made you feel inferior, for any reason?”

“Of course not,” you say. In fact, even when he teased, he was never disrespectful.

“And are the two of you able to talk about things together without antagonizing each other?”

“Yes,” you tell her, realizing all at once that your friendship with Mingyu is one of the healthiest you have.

Bora nods. “You need to go see him.” She grabs your hand and starts tugging you up the stairs.

“But I just got Sara back, and he says he needs time!” you protest, shocked.

“He needs time from the you that didn’t know you didn’t want to live without him,” she says forcefully, throwing one of your duffel bags onto your bed and tossing a random assortment of clothing into it.

“Why are we packing?” you ask her in alarm.

“You aren’t coming home tonight,” she says matter-of-factly.

“I’m not?”

“For the smartest person I know, you’re an absolute idiot,” she says. “Grab pajamas, sweetie.”

You know better than to argue with Bora when she gets into tornado mode. So you pull out your favorite sweatpants and a hoodie. Bora looks at your selections with a critical eye. “Comfort over style?” she asks, moving to your dresser. She opens the top drawer and extracts the pretty pink lingerie an ex boyfriend got you for Christmas three years ago. 

“What is that for?” you ask as she grabs a black bra and panty set and shoves it into the bag as well. You feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the beating of your heart suddenly rattling in your brain.

She doesn’t respond, just takes you out to your car and hands you the keys she grabbed -- still on the counter where Mingyu had left them the night before. “I’m prohibiting you from coming home tonight. I’ll take care of Sara. Don’t worry about anything, just go.”

It’s not until you’re on the road that it hits you fully what you’re about to do. You’ve never done anything like this before -- never cared enough to take the risk that you’re about to take. You try not to imagine him slamming the door in your face and drive faster, wanting to get to the part where you’re standing in front of him saying what you need to say. 

Finally, you arrive. You take a deep breath before dashing from the car to knock on Mingyu’s door. Your knocks are so persistent and loud that he answers right away, looking shocked to see you of all people on his porch with a duffel bag.

The first words out of his mouth aren’t what you expect. “Are you fleeing the country?”

“Huh?” you ask. 

“Your duffel bag. And you look like you just robbed a bank,” he says with an eyebrow raised.

“Oh. Um, no. I...can I come in? I really need to talk to you.” You can hear how thick your voice sounds, and you try to clear your throat, but breathing is hard. Because there he is -- wet hair from a recent shower, white tank top with massive arms fully visible, and eyes that only just barely betray the hurt of the night before. The hurt you caused.

He steps aside to let you in, and you scurry past him and lay your bag down before you turn to face him. “Is Wonwoo here?” you ask first. 

“Nah, he stayed with his girl last night.” Mingyu’s eyes are steady on you, urging you to explain yourself, and you’re more nervous than ever. You rub your slick palms on your sweatpants and will yourself to find the words to continue.

“I’m so scared,” you finally whisper to him. 

His face is stony, unreadable. “Of what?” he asks.

“Everything,” you tell him. “All of this. I’m scared of you most of all.”

He softens a little. “Why?” he asks, taking a step toward you.

You step forward too -- close enough to touch him. And for the first time in your life, you make the move, reaching forward and taking his big hand in yours. “Because you, Kim Mingyu, could ruin me. I love you in a way that’s never supposed to end, and that terrifies me. I don’t ever want to lose you. And I could. I might have already.”

He’s very still, watching your face, looking for any signs of a lie. It’s such a relief to be touching him, and you’re so high on the feeling of his warm hand in yours, that you sigh as you bring his knuckles to your lips, breathing a kiss over each one.

“You mean it,” he says quietly, watching you adore him.

“I do,” you say. “I really, really do. I love you, Kim Mingyu.” 

Those are the words that seem to hit him like a comet breaking through the atmosphere. He tugs you forward and into his arms and buries his face in your neck, squeezing you hard enough that you feel your ribs crack.  

“I love you too,” he says, and you hear the hint of tears in his voice. “I wish I could find a way to tell you how I feel right now,” Mingyu says into your hair. “I meant what I said. You’re everything I ever wanted. Sara, too.”

And you know there’s still things that you’ll need to work out, but when you’re in Mingyu’s arms, it all seems to matter a lot less. The relief is instantaneous, his touch soothing the tightness in your chest, and you finally let yourself open up fully, melting into him and squeezing him back. Mingyu lets go of you only briefly and only partially to pull you over to the sofa, wrapping his arms around your middle from behind and pulling you to his chest. 

“What made you decide to come?” he asks you, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You give a small laugh. “Bora,” you say. “It was actually barely my choice at all. She basically threw me out of my own house.”

You can feel the vibration of his own chuckle where your head rests against his chest. “Thank goodness for Bora.”

“Mmm,” you say in agreement, relaxing into his embrace. Mingyu’s arms tighten around you, and he leans down to kiss your shoulder through your several layers of sweatshirt. “So, how long have you liked me?” you ask him shyly.

He sighs. “It was almost at first sight for me,” he admits, blushing as your jaw drops. “I’m serious! You looked so cute that first morning. So frazzled, too.”

“Imagine my shock,” you explain, “when I hire a nanny and someone who looks like you shows up.” You trace a light hand up and down the arms wrapped around you, watching as they erupt into goosebumps. 

“What do you mean? Did I look irresponsible?” he teases.

“No, you’re just the hottest man alive,” you say, grinning at him over your shoulder. 

He looks both shy and pleased with himself. “I am?” he asks, his smile growing.

You turn back around and sink into him again. “My love, I’m going to need you to invest in a mirror. You clearly don’t know what you look like.”

Mingyu gives a soft laugh. Slowly and deliberately, he kisses down the side of your face from your temple down your cheekbone, bringing a hand up to turn your head to face him. “Would you like a kiss from the hottest man alive?” he asks very seriously, but he can’t help the corners of his mouth from turning upward just a bit.

You nod, privately and internally screaming to yourself. It’s been a very long time -- what if you’re bad at it? 

But Mingyu is so careful. He just barely tilts your chin up and lets your lips meet his, soft and warm and tender. You let your lips part slightly, and lean in just slightly more, adding a bit of pressure. His hand on your face is steady and strong, and you can taste coconut oil on his lips from his chapstick. Kissing Mingyu is heaven, as thrilling as a roller coaster but as safe as a night at home in Sara’s rocking chair. Your mind is full of him — everything else seems to evaporate as though Mingyu is the only real thing in the world, and you cling to him, trembling, as though he might disappear too. You have to remind yourself to take it slow, although your heart clattering against your ribs is begging you for more from his lips, but can’t help a soft hum of pleasure from escaping you as he breaks the kiss and comes back for another, slipping his hand from your cheek to the back of your neck.

He smiles against your lips at the sound. “Enjoying yourself?” he asks, pulling away a bit.

And although you’re trembling with a surplus of emotions, you manage an eye roll. “I don’t have to answer that,” you say, breathing too heavily.

Those darling crow’s feet appear at the corners of his eyes as he notices the heat rising in your face, even brushing a thumb along the pink that has appeared on the apple of your cheek. “I would do things all the time to make that happen,” he admits, dropping a feather light kiss on your cheek. “You looked so cute, and it also made me feel like maybe you might love me back one day.”

“For your information, I liked you almost this entire time, too,” you tell him.

“When did it shift?” he asks. “Between liking me and loving me, I mean.”

You consider. “I think it became clearer to me when Sara started calling you dad — you remember? It was around her first birthday.”

“I remember!” he says. “I was worried you’d be mad.”

You smile. “I wasn’t mad at all. It occurred to me then that I couldn’t see myself finding anyone else to love Sara the same way, or that it would just all feel wrong and weird if it wasn’t you. I thought about it plenty of times beforehand, though. I think the first time I felt something real was when I got sick.”

“Two weeks in?” Mingyu asks, surprised.

“Yeah, about that long,” you confirm, and his eyes go wide.

“We’ve really just been driving each other crazy and not saying anything for the past however many months?” He laughs his high-pitched giggle. “We’re idiots!”

“Well, we figured it out eventually,” you say, spinning around to face him. “Now, I have a question.”

“Ask away,” he says, his eyes soft and adoring as he gazes at you.

“Why did you fall for me? I’m a wreck.”

He laughs again, and you swat at his arm. “I’m being serious. You couldn’t have come into my life in worse circumstances, and you’ve seen me at every extreme. Why do you love me? Why not someone...I don’t know, younger? Less riddled with grief? Someone who isn’t a package deal?”

He thinks for a minute. “Well, you’re not a decrepit old woman, as much as you might think you are. I’m actually six months older than you,” he informs you.

“You are? How do you know?” 

“Your birthday is October 16. Mine is April 6 of the same year.”

“How do you know that?” you repeat, shocked.

“I stalked you on social media,” he replies, blushing himself.

You decide to let this go. “But you still haven’t explained why you love me,” you protest.

He looks at you, grinning at your eagerness with stars in his eyes, brushing your hair out of your face to see you better. “The first thing I loved about you was how much love you had for your niece,” he begins. “You didn’t resent her at all even though she’d sort of wrecked your whole life plan. That said something about you. I could tell you had a good heart.” He pauses. “The second thing I loved about you was your ass.”

You gape at him. He bursts into laughter, and you shove his shoulder. “I’m kidding,” he says. “Although,” he continues, reaching around to lift you onto his lap by said ass, “it is pretty incredible.” 

You have to rest your hands on his chest to keep yourself upright, but you avoid meeting his eyes, even though you’re straddling him. You’re feeling like someone zapped you with a bolt of lightning as a tingle spreads from your inside out. “Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me, baby.”

You force yourself to look into his eyes, which are warm and smiling at you over a fine dusting of freckles across his nose. He shifts his weight a bit so you’re resting more comfortably across his hips, and your breathing grows heavier. “Is this okay?” he asks, a bit amused at how much the simple change in position seems to be affecting you.

Trying to look unbothered, you nod. “Please go on,” you say. 

“What was I saying?” he asks, his hand dancing down your spine and making you shiver, still grinning up at you.

“Something about my ass,” you tell him, and he laughs. 

“Right,” he says. “But seeing how you treated Sara was the first thing. Then I appreciated how hard you worked. And then I loved your humor and how you teased me. And then I admired how you opened up to me. And then —“

“Alright, enough,” you interrupt, embarrassed.

“The point is,” he continues with a broad smile, “it all came down to how much love you had inside you. You loved everything and everyone so much, in a way that was so unique to anyone I’d ever met. It was just you.” 

You laugh at this – the very reason he fell for you was the thing you were worried about not being able to give him. 

He sighs contentedly at the sound. “After a while the possibility of being with anyone else just felt … gross. You can ask Wonwoo — we had a few particularly miserable nights of drinking about it.”

You ruffle his hair. “You talked about me to your friends?”

“Almost constantly for almost as long as I’ve known you,” he confirms. “They’re so sick of me.”

You tsk softly, wrapping your arms around him and resting your head on his shoulder. “They deserve for us to take them to dinner,” you say, lightly scratching up and down his back. You can’t help but sigh in relief — Mingyu’s touch feels like stepping inside from the cold. You can feel yourself relaxing against him, your heartbeat slowing.

After several minutes of holding each other like this, Mingyu extricates himself. “One second, baby,” he says, pecking you on the forehead. 

“Where are you going?” you ask, wincing at the whine in your voice. 

“I just need to text my housemate,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into one of the bedrooms. “I’m gonna tell him not to come home.”

You suddenly become painfully aware of the pink lingerie buried in your duffel bag. 

If it’s been awhile since you’ve kissed anyone, it’s been an age since you’ve had sex. And on top of that, all the sex you’ve had has been at worst embarrassing and at best okay. To say you’re nervous is an understatement — more nervous than you were the first time you ever undressed in front of a man, and you’re still fully clothed.

So you just wait for him to come back, smiling at him as he re-enters the room, flops onto the couch, and lays his head in your lap. You almost automatically run your fingers through the slightly longer hair on top of his head, letting your fingernails lightly brush against his scalp. He nestles into you and sighs. “So, what do you want to do tonight?”

You can’t help the choked laugh that escapes you. “Well…” you begin, as you blush and Mingyu looks up at you in alarm. 

“Oh,” he realizes, sitting up. “That was such a leading question. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You put a gentle hand to his cheek. “I know you didn’t,” you say. “But…”

At your hesitation, he shakes his head. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. I just told Wonwoo to stay out because I want us to have uninterrupted time together before we need to go take care of Sara.”

The anxiety leaves you almost instantly. “Thanks,” you say in relief. “Um…are you hungry? You’ve cooked for me so often. It might be fun to do a little role reversal tonight.”

“I’m starving,” he admits, “but what if I take you out to a restaurant?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Looking like this?” you ask, gesturing to yourself.

“We could change?” he suggests. 

“How’s this for compromise,” you say, feeling like he just doesn’t want you to do anything for him tonight. “We order takeout. I know this great pizza place.”

His face lights up. “Pizza sounds amazing.”

45 minutes later, you’re both tucked into Mingyu’s comforter on the sofa, eating pizza with your legs tangled together. “Let’s pick a movie,” Mingyu says with his mouth partially full.

You nod, handing him the remote. The two of you scroll through options before settling on Legally Blonde. When you bring up that you think Mingyu is only watching the movie for you, he side-eyes you comically. “This is one of my favorite movies!” he insists, and you let him have it.

But there’s starting to be an issue. The adrenaline of the impulsive decision to come to him and confess has worn off, and in its place is a new, unfamiliar, and powerful feeling. An unbearable ache you barely recognize, coming from body parts that haven’t been touched in years. And you definitely aren’t surprised that you’re attracted to Mingyu, but you are surprised at how turned on you are by him in his tank top, eating pizza straight out of the box. You’re practically salivating as you watch him watch the movie.

It doesn’t take long for him to notice. “Um, baby,” he says. “Everything okay?”

He’s got a little piece of cheese at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes are big and slightly concerned. Before you realize what you’re saying, you blurt out, “I wanna do it!”

“Do what?” he asks, bewildered.

“Do you,” you clarify. You grin sheepishly at him.

He chuckles a little, watching you carefully. “Are you sure?” he says once he can see you’re serious.

“Well, unless you don’t want to,” you backtrack, realizing that in your painful need for him you’d forgotten his feelings.

He raises an eyebrow. “No, I most definitely want to,” he says, scooting closer to you. He lightly brushes his fingers over your cheekbones, his touch sending a jolt of desire through your body. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to. We can take it slow.”

“Mingyu,” you say, closing the distance between the two of you and taking his face in your hands. “We’ve been taking it slow for four months. I’m officially finished going slow with you.” You puff out a breath, uttering a quiet but desperate “please” that fades into the air like smoke, and before it has, Mingyu has pulled you into his arms and stood up off the couch. He kisses you deeply, catching your bottom lip between his teeth in a gentle bite that has you gasping for air. He stumbles blindly to the bathroom with your legs locked around his waist, sitting you down on the counter to continue kissing you, only pulling back to pull your sweatshirt up and over your head to reveal the bare skin and bra underneath.

And then, at a dizzying pace, he’s kissing down your cheek, down your neck, across your shoulder, feathering kisses over every freckle there until he’s brushing your bra strap to the side while one hand at your back slides up to unhook it. 

You find yourself wishing you had a camera present for the way Mingyu’s face looks when he sees your bare chest for the first time. You half-expect him to bury his face in your breasts, so you tug him closer by the waistband of his sweats and press yourself closer to him, his fingers drawing lines of fire up and down the bare skin of your back as you hook your legs around him once more.

You’re tugging on his tank top, now, discarding the useless material so you can finally let his warmth completely envelope you skin-to-skin. He lifts you up off the counter and sets you down gently, taking a step back and gesturing to your shorts. “Need those off, baby,” he says, running a hand through his hair before smoothly untying the lace at the front of his own sweats and slipping them off.

But now it’s your turn to stare. You’d never really been given the chance to appreciate a naked body in such a present way, but you weren’t about to waste the opportunity when that body was Mingyu’s. You let your eyes roam over every perfect inch of him, only allowing yourself to look back at his eyes when he says your name. “You okay, love?” he says softly, taking a hesitant step closer. 

You laugh softly. “That is not nearly a strong enough word.” You finally reach down and remove your own shorts, and Mingyu sucks in a breath from between his teeth. “Damn,” he exclaims, looking you up and down briefly before grabbing your hand and pulling you into the bedroom you can see through the other bathroom door. 

He climbs into bed, under the covers, and pats the space next to him. You crawl in beside him as he pulls on a condom and then puts his hand to your cheek. “You ready?” he asks.

You’re breathless, you’re sweating, and you need him biblically. So you whisper “yes,” and Mingyu’s pulling you in for a deep, slow, spine-tingling kiss, his eyes fluttering shut, shifting his weight so that he’s hovering over you.

But then he does something you don’t expect, trailing kisses from your chin down your neck and chest. When he stops to drag his tongue over your nipples, you squirm a little, getting more and more heated by the minute. After a few minutes spent worshiping your breasts, he continues kissing down your body, pausing when he reaches your waist. “This okay?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say, about two octaves higher than your normal voice, and he grins before his next question.

“Can I go lower, sweetie?”

This is new. No one has ever offered to eat you out before, and you’re suddenly insecure.

Mingyu can see it on your face. “It’s just so that you can feel good,” he reassures. “If you don’t want it, I won’t do it.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say quickly. “It’s just new. But I trust you.”

“New?” he questions with raised eyebrows.

“My first time,” you confirm.

He scoffs. “Then I guess I have to make up for lost time,” he says, pulling your legs over his shoulders and going to work.

And you can’t help the sharp intake of air, nor the moans that escape you, because this feeling is one of the best you’ve ever felt in your life. Mingyu eats like his life depends on it, and your back arches in pleasure as he responds to your sounds, learning what makes you feel best. Your hand finds the back of his head, and you find yourself wishing he had more hair that you could grab as you tremble with his efforts.

It doesn’t take long before the pleasure overtakes you, washing over you in a warm wave and making you feel all floaty and euphoric, your whole body seizing and twitching feverishly as Mingyu works you down from your high. When he finally pulls back, his mouth wet and grinning, you have to remind yourself how to breathe. “How was it?” he asks. 

You can only shake your head and stare at him, dumbfounded. He laughs, then kneels in front of you on the bed so you can see how hard he’s gotten. “Can I?” he asks you, and in response you sit up and kiss him before pulling him down by his neck on top of you, guiding him inside of you.

You whimper a bit at the stretch, but Mingyu’s left you wet enough that it slides right in, and it feels amazing. “You okay, baby?” he checks again, and you chuckle.

“Yeah, just kiss me, Gyu,” you say, almost drunkenly, and the nickname on your dazed lips is almost enough to bring him to his own climax. But Mingyu is a good listener, so while he thrusts into you, he kisses you, over and over and over again, pausing every now and then to kiss your neck so that he can hear you moan into his ear.

“Good girl,” he says after a particularly loud one. “Talk to me. I wanna hear it.”

“How does it feel for you?” you ask him breathlessly.

“Like heaven, baby,” he grunts. “You’re so good. So, so good.”

You come another two times with him inside you, the last bringing on his orgasm. He collapses on top of you with a moan right in your ear that nearly undoes you yet again – so you can know how good you really are – and the weight of him is once again what brings you back down to earth. Your brain is hopelessly mushy, and your legs are shaking, and you have never been so satisfied.

After a minute, Mingyu pulls out and rolls off of you, chuckling. “Wow,” he says simply.

“Wow,” you agree, blinking rapidly to try and clear your head. 

He props himself up on his side and looks at you, his eyes devouring your body like a man starved. With a shaking hand, he traces the outline of your figure, from the curve of your shoulders to your waist to the widest point of your hips. “Can’t believe how lucky I am,” he says, moony-eyed and smitten. “God, you’re amazing.”

“Was it really that good for you?” you ask him, a little shy.

“Easily the best I’ve ever had,” he says. He sits up, pulling his condom off, and heads into the bathroom, returning in minutes with a towel and some wipes. And then he cleans you, kissing your thighs as he gently wipes you off, and your heart skips a beat as you watch him. Once again, nobody has ever done this sort of thing for you, leaving you feeling odd after every sexual encounter – almost used. 

“Me too,” you say softly, knowing how you must be looking at him. “Do you want to shower?” you ask him when he catches you staring yet again. 

“Yeah,” he says with a smile.

The rest of the evening is spent in comfortable, peaceful companionship. You tease Mingyu over his 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner, and he responds by making out with you in the shower, which leads to both of you almost falling on the slick wet tiles. “Can’t help it,” he says with a laugh when you scold him, gripping the top edge of the shower and holding you around the waist to keep you upright. “I’m addicted to you.”

After the shower Mingyu hands you one of his softest big white t-shirts to wear, snapping several photos of you on his phone when you come out wearing it. “I miss you sometimes,” he explains, and you chuckle. “And I wanna remember tonight. I’m not exaggerating – it’s been the best one of my life.”

Finally, the two of you decide to actually finish Legally Blonde. You fall asleep before it’s over, but he stays up watching the way your eyelashes flutter in sleep, feeling that the sight of you curled up against his chest is the only sight he needs for the rest of his life.

And that’s how you end up spending the entire first night over at Mingyu’s sleeping on the couch in his arms.

***

“It’s Saturday,” you mumble into Mingyu’s neck.

“Mmm,” he agrees sleepily.

“So we can sleep in,” you sigh.

His arms constrict around your waist. “Sara,” he murmurs.

The word makes you open your eyes. The first thing you register is how warm it is – Mingyu’s big body is radiating heat like a furnace, intensified by how snugly he’s holding you against him. So you gently ease off his side and sit up, brushing a kiss over his cheekbone before heading to the bathroom. 

You’re a wreck, your hair a knotty mess, in nothing but Mingyu’s tee. But your eyes — there’s something vibrant in them you haven’t seen in a while. There’s still a sizable amount of grief, a weight you doubt will ever fully be lifted, but you look happier.

You pull out one of the sweaters and a pair of jeans that Bora had packed for you and change, rolling your eyes at the lingerie still sitting in your bag. You’re just finishing up braiding your hair when Mingyu sits up. “Hey, sexy,” he calls across the room into the bathroom, his morning voice low and raspy.

“Hey,” you reply, smiling with the ease only he brings out of you. “How’d you sleep?”

“Really well,” he says, standing up and stretching. Then he comes into the bathroom with you, wrapping his thick arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to the base of the back of your neck. “I love you.”

You lean into his touch and let the joy sweep over you. “Good,” you say firmly. “I love you too, Mingyu.”

“I like the braids,” he says, looking at you both in the mirror, slouching to rest his head on your shoulder. “They’re really cute.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe I can learn to do them on Sara,” Mingyu says, letting go of you and stepping into his own room and grabbing new clothes. 

You shamelessly watch him as he strips out of his pajamas. “Maybe,” you murmur as he turns, shirtless, and catches you staring.

He grins. “You’re watching me change? Creep,” he teases.

So you make your slow way up to him, stopping just in front of him and sliding a hand from his abs up his chest. “Can’t help it,” you say lightly, watching in satisfaction as his cinnamon skin becomes a mess of goosebumps under your fingers. “You’re irresistible.”

He gives a grumpy sigh. “You better stop, or Sara’s gonna have to wait a couple more days before she sees either of us,” he says, and you are endeared to see that he’s blushing. Mingyu knew the effect you had on him, but that doesn’t make it any easier for him to rebuff you when you’re standing there with the morning light streaming in, lighting up your eyes, dragging your warm fingertips across his chest slowly and deliberately like you just want to savor him. 

His words make you frown, but he gives a light chuckle and kisses your forehead. “Don’t worry,” he reassures you. “We’ll have plenty of time for just us. I’ll make sure of it.” He pulls on his shirt and his sweatpants, then grabs your hand. “Now let’s go see our little girl.”

Your face hurts from smiling so wide, and at this statement, your heart explodes.

***

Aside from all the I-told-you-so’s, the transition from a working relationship to a dating relationship with Mingyu was simple, easy, and absolutely painless. 

He still came over every day. But now Sara watched as you kissed him goodbye in the morning on your way to work. She didn’t seem confused at all by the change, nor did she notice that more and more often Mingyu stayed the night at your house. In her mind, Uncle Googoo was always welcome. It was as natural as breathing.

Maybe it was because you were still doing all of the same things you always did – you’d just added a few. Mingyu had always fit so seamlessly into your life. The two of you were happy, Sara was content, your friends were thrilled – Bora and Wonwoo especially, although Chan also took partial credit – and everything seemed perfect.

And then something shifted, just a tad. It was about a month after you became official. Mingyu spent a bit of time every night searching things up on his laptop. Occasionally, he spent a few minutes outside on the phone, never giving a direct answer when you asked who he’d been talking to.

He never acted off – he was still as affectionate (and insatiable for your body) as ever, so you weren’t nervous he was seeing someone else. Your first concern was that he was shopping for wedding rings. As smitten as you were with him, you worried that was a bit soon for two people who’d only been dating a month (although, admittedly, you’d already filled up a Pinterest board with ideas for the eventual wedding you hoped for). But then, after about two weeks, one of the phone calls comes while Mingyu is making dinner and you’re upstairs in Sara’s room trying to locate her hairbrush, and he can’t suppress a whoop of excitement.

“I need you,” he calls, and you respond by jogging down the stairs with concerned eyes.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“Nothing, I just have some news.” He carefully removes the pan from the stove and comes over to you, pulling you into his arms.

“What is it?” you ask, your hand coming up to touch his cheek.

“They caught him,” he says simply.

“Who, baby?” you ask, confused.

“The guy who hit your sister’s car,” he explains.

Your jaw drops. “What?”

“I’ve been working on it,” he admits. “I have some friends on the force, and a couple of informants leftover from my days as an agent. Someone knew someone who knew the car, and they knew the person who used to drive the car, and it turns out that the parking lot where it was abandoned had security cameras. He’s right there on camera, literally fifteen minutes after the accident. They arrested him two hours ago.”

You are speechless. Mingyu lifts you into his arms, and you bury your face in his neck. “Oh, thank you,” you say through tears when you can finally speak. “So that’s what you’ve been up to.”

“What did you think I was doing?” he asks.

“I literally thought you were looking at wedding rings.”

He laughs. “No,” he says. “Not yet.”

You hear the promise in his voice and know that the future is going to be better than you ever imagined – just like the present is.

Hi bestie ummmmmmmmmmmm I LOVE YOU???? 💍💍💍 thanks SO much for loving this as much as I do!!!

little wonders | wonwoo

genre: childhood bsf!wonwoo x reader, game developer!wonwoo, all fluff, a day in the park in autumn, comfort <3 warnings: reader is not in a great place mentally, but no explicit mental illness is named. skinniness is brought up, disordered eating is mentioned, childhood bike crash & stitches mentioned, gendered terms used (woman), dresses and makeup mentioned, jeonghan makes an appearance, reader mentions church once, lmk if i'm missing anything

You plunk out a single, despondent note on the piano, and look glumly around the empty room in your brand new apartment - empty but for the terribly out-of-tune piano the last owner left behind for you after hearing you were musically inclined. The off-key note hangs in the air like the melancholy loneliness that was your seemingly constant companion these past few days. You can’t even muster up the energy to sigh.

This is not what you had expected when you had decided to follow your dreams. You were finally here -- in New York City, the place where you had always wanted to live, working in your dream career. And yet, although this was a change you had desperately wanted to make for yourself, you felt drained, alone, and empty. Plus, there was the crushing worry that always accompanied guilt. After all, you couldn’t help but remember all the friends and family members, some of whom relied on you, whom you had left behind. All for this -- to sit in your sad, empty apartment, alone on weekends. From where you sit on this raggedy piano bench, it looks embarrassingly foolish. 

Your phone buzzes. It’s your mother. You stare at her name on the screen, debating silently. If you don’t answer, she’ll be worried. If you do, she’ll also be worried. There really isn’t any way to win. You choose the third option, texting her as your phone continues to ring: “Sorry, I’m busy right now and can’t talk! I’ll call you later.”

She texts back after the call goes to voicemail. “Ok, just wanted to make sure you’re alright!”

“I’m alright,” you reply, “Just getting settled in. I love you!”

That ought to hold her off for a couple hours, you say, stretching. Tired, you lay your arms on the piano keys and then let your head fall, your eyelids fluttering closed. 

You are abruptly awakened at the sound of a knock at your door. Thinking of all the horror stories that start this way, you creep forward and look through the peephole. Standing at your door is a tall, good-looking man wearing glasses and a black baseball cap. It’s Wonwoo, your childhood best friend and now new neighbor, who made the move to the city a few years before you had and lived two floors above you. 

You curse under your breath. You’re in a raggedy tank top and pajama bottoms, and quite aside from Wonwoo being the most attractive person you know, he knows you well enough to know that if you’re dressed like this, it probably means that you’re not doing well. 

He knocks again, and calls out to you, just as you debate leaving him to rot on your doorstep. “I know you’re in there,” he says, and there’s a laugh in his voice. 

Frustrated, you crack the door open just a tad, so that all he can see is your face. “Hi,” he says, and the way he beams when he sees you is almost enough to dispel the melancholy. “It’s been awhile.”

It really has. Wonwoo had been out of town on a business trip when you’d moved in a month ago, and had only yesterday returned from some distant town. You hadn’t seen him in person since he’d moved to the city two years ago, although you had spoken frequently and had partially made the move because of him. “Hi,” you say back, trying to sound normal, but sounding dumb even to yourself. 

He shoots you a quizzical look. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you hedge. “You look good.”

“Thanks,” he says, still looking at you suspiciously. “Can I come in, or are you naked in there?”

You glower at him, and then step from behind the door so he can see your outfit. “Not naked. I don’t really have anything for you to sit in, though.”

“Well, that’s okay,” he says, stepping across the threshold. “I don’t need to sit.” He walks into your empty living room, turning around, a sad half-smile on your face. “Your mom called me,” he tells you.

“She what?” you ask him.

“She’s worried about you,” he says, moving over to the empty mantle. It’s covered in dust, and you blush with embarrassment. “Honestly, I’m a little worried too.” 

Your eyes fill with tears. You had anticipated a large, loud, warm housewarming party with new friends from work and church and other social events, but no one had ever even been inside your apartment but you. All at once, you feel empty and lonely and nearly invisible, and the feeling overwhelms you. You wait till Wonwoo’s back is turned before breaking down completely.

He notices right away anyway. “Hey,” he says, his tone gentle, and he crosses the room in two strides to pull you into his arms.

It’s been a long time since anyone hugged you, and the last hug you’d given Wonwoo was awkward, observed by both of your parents, who had long wanted something to happen between you two. You were surprised at how much he’d seemed to grow in the two years he’d been absent from your life -- you remembered hugging him had felt bony and uncomfortable because of how skinny he'd been as a teen, but now, cradled in his arms, you felt the muscle beneath his shirt and jacket. It was comforting and warm here, like a piece of home you desperately need, and you let the tears flow freely, watching as they hit the red pattern on his jacket. 

Your shock continues when, as you sob into Wonwoo’s chest, you feel his hand on the back of your head, offering gentle strokes of your hair. The Wonwoo who’d left you for New York had been the kind of person who was awkward with physical touch. He had rarely hugged you -- not even when you’d graduated high school together, not at your last performance that he’d come to see. This new affection from him is both confusing and vital for you. You breathe him in, needing this closeness more than you need air, letting him hold you until the tears stop. 

When they finally do, he pulls back to look at you. “What’s going on?” he asks, brushing the wet stickiness of your tears off your face with the back of his jacket. 

“I think I bit off more than I can chew,” you tell him, still sniffling. “Was it hard for you, when you first moved away?”

He thinks for a minute. “I don’t think I ever cried this much,” he admits, still stroking the back of your head. “But I also don’t think I’m naturally that social. I think you’ve been alone here for far too long.”

You nod in agreement. He tucks you into his chest again, swaying back and forth soothingly. “Why haven’t you had anyone over?” he asks. “It’s hard for me to imagine you haven’t made any new friends here.”

“I really haven’t,” you admit, and the guilt washes over you again. Tears choke your voice. “All I do is go to work, and then I come home to this. I can’t invite people over to a place where there’s no furniture, and I don’t even have anyone to help me move it in.”

“You have me,” he reminds you. 

“Now,” you tell him. “You were gone.”

He sighs. “Well, I’m not going anywhere far for a good long while,” he tells you, giving you a little squeeze. 

There is a brief pause in the conversation before he continues. “I think you haven’t bought new furniture because you’re thinking of leaving. Am I right?”

You are once again shocked. “How did you know?”

He chuckles. “I didn’t have furniture for a week after I moved here.”

“Really?” you ask, pulling away to look at him. “I thought it wasn’t as hard for you.”

“No, I just didn’t cry as much,” he says, still grinning. “I struggled plenty for a week or so.”

“It’s been a month,” you remind him, starting to feel panicky again. “I’ve been here a month, and things haven’t gotten better.”

His eyes are kind. “Everyone moves at their own pace,” he says gently.

You shake your head. “I wanted to move here so bad,” you say bitterly. “I thought I was finally going to live the life I always dreamed about. And I’m just miserable.” You hate how your voice shakes, and how the tears begin to well up in your eyes again. “I think there’s something wrong with me,” you whisper to him, the worry in your voice evident.

He smiles at you. “What you’re feeling right now is very normal. Whenever anyone makes a big change like this, it takes time to adjust.” 

His eyes suddenly light up. “Go change. Wear something warm,” he says. “It’s a bit chilly. We’re going out.”

“But --” you start to protest, but he lightly shoves you toward your bedroom door. 

“Go,” he says, exasperated but laughing. “I promise you it’ll be good for you.”

You reluctantly change into a sweater and jeans, throwing a puff-top beanie on top of your mess of hair. Tumbling out of your room and putting on your favorite pair of boots, you face him. “Okay, I’ll play along,” you say, a little breathless. “Where are we going?”

“I’m going to show you,” he says, grabbing your hand and running out the door so fast you barely have time to lock it.

It’s no time before you’re in the brisk fall air, the sun spotty between clouds, the chill nipping your nose. You struggle to keep up with Wonwoo, whose energetic pace is not like him. Normally quiet and reserved, you had normally been the one dragging him out on adventures. He must be very excited, you reason to yourself, and you can’t help but smile. The thought makes you feel warm.

The first place you stop is at a meatball sandwich restaurant. “This is the best meatball sandwich in the world,” Wonwoo says, accepting the foil-wrapped meal with a thank you to the tubby gentleman who hands it to him. “Try it.”

You do — and an explosion of flavors hit your mouth. You look at Wonwoo with wide eyes, and he grins at you. “You were right,” you say, taking another bite and handing him the other half of the sandwich. The depression of the past month had guaranteed that you did not eat much, because making food was so overwhelming and hard. But this reminder of how food could taste brought you some hope that your energy would return. You try not to cry as you look down at the sandwich, and Wonwoo takes you by the hand to guide you to the next place.

“This city is home to some of the best food in the world,” Wonwoo reminds you as you walk hand in hand. “It’s pretty crazy that we live two blocks from that sandwich.” He then looks at you, and you can see the awkward teenager he used to be shining out from his eyes. “If you ever…well, if you ever don’t feel like eating again, you can let me know. I’ll take any excuse to go back to one of my favorite places. I can even grab it to go and bring it to you if you can’t go out.”

You don’t know how to respond to this thoughtfulness, so you just take another bite. You have suddenly become very aware of his hand in yours, his fingers intertwined with your own like you used to do as kids, and you’re glad that it’s chilly so that he can’t differentiate from the sting of the cool air and the blush that has stolen up your cheeks.

You stop at Central Park. It’s beautiful on this gloomy day — the fall colors are popping against the cloudy sky, and the occasional bursts of sun seem to set the world on fire around you. Wonwoo points at bluebirds that flit around the branches of the trees, making you laugh as he tries to imitate the sound they make in the morning. “Do you remember Mr. Scarecrow?” you ask him suddenly, remembering in elementary school when Wonwoo used to walk in a whacky, limp stride at your request. 

He smiles. “Of course,” he says, letting go of your hand to lurch around on the empty path. 

You giggle. “We were weird kids,” you admit. “What was that about?”

He looks at you, his smile softening with nostalgia. “It’s not that strange,” he says. “I just loved hearing you laugh.” This revelation hits you right in the heart, and it thumps hard. You have to take a deep breath to calm yourself. After the numbness of the last month, any feeling is foreign, but it is especially odd to be feeling this with - and about - Wonwoo. Wonwoo, who you’ve known since before you could read. Wonwoo, who was at every performance and event, whose parents set you up on play dates, who dated girls in high school and watched you date boys, who knows you better than almost anyone, and with whom it now feels like absolutely no time has passed, even though it’s been years. You are amazed, thinking of how quickly you’d adjusted to having him in your life, and how comfortably he fit there. It feels like a line is being crossed, and you can’t tell what exactly waits on the other side of it.

When he comes back to stand next to you, he doesn’t take your hand again, and you are strangely hollow at the thought that maybe he really was just showing you around — maybe the frantic beating of your heart against your chest was nothing close to how his own heart felt with you. You try not to be crushed at this idea. To occupy your hands, you shove them in your pockets, striding alongside Wonwoo as he tells animated stories about his life in New York and his job as a game developer, and even despite yourself, you find yourself grinning.

Suddenly, Wonwoo gets a call. He checks his phone and his eyes get wide. “Hey, Jeonghan,” he says in answer, giving you a significant look. “You know that girl I was telling you about? I’m with her right now.”

You shoot him a quizzical look. He grins, half-listening to his friend on the other end. “Oh?” He says, nodding. “Yeah, I think we could stop by for a few minutes tonight.”

You point at yourself in disbelief. As Wonwoo hangs up, you ask, “what was that about?”

“My boss wants to meet you. He’s really cool. I told him we’d come by his party tonight if you were okay with it.”

Your stomach turns over. “I don’t know,” you say. 

“I thought you might say that,” he says, and throws his arm around your shoulder. “But we have awhile until then. We could go home and get ready right now, and still have some time to chill beforehand.”

The way he says it — like he plans on being there with you the whole time — comforts you. “You’ll never make friends here if you don’t find courage to try to meet people,” Wonwoo says, rubbing your shoulders gently. “I know it’s hard sometimes, but these people have heard about you. And they’re really good people.” 

You feel warm inside. “What did you tell them about me?” you ask him. 

“Just that you’re my best friend and I was really excited for you to move here,” he says, not meeting your eyes. 

You can tell there are things he’s not telling you, but you decide not to pressure him. “Okay,” you agree. “Let’s go then.” 

🥰🥰🥰

Three hours later, you’re standing in your living room, your hair done and wearing an acceptable amount of makeup, in a little black dress Wonwoo picked out for you. “Are you sure this is okay?” you ask him as he emerges from your bathroom, wearing a white button-down and black pants. 

You find yourselves staring at each other. “Wow,” you say in unison. He looks stunning, and he simultaneously looks stunned. “I forgot how well you clean up,” you say first. 

“You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes wide as he examines you. 

You blush. “Thanks.” He doesn’t move, just looks at you, still taking you in. You grin. “If we don’t go now, we’ll probably be late.”

He seems to shake himself into reality. “Right,” he says, grabbing your hand, and you lock your apartment door on your way out.

He holds your hand all the way down the stairs, helps you into the cab, and looks at you with a small smile as it pulls away. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” you say honestly. It feels good to be going somewhere dressed up, and you find that your anxiety is greatly calmed by how peaceful Wonwoo seems. You examine him in the lights from passing cars and billboards as the taxi crawls through New York traffic. “You seem happier,” you tell him. 

He nods, looking out the window. “I am,” he says simply.

“I’m glad,” you say.

He takes your hand again. “Me too,” he says, interlocking your fingers. 

The cab lets you out near a huge skyscraper. Wonwoo opens the door for you, helping you out of the car and keeping hold of your hand as you approach the doorman. “Hi, John,” Wonwoo says. “We’re just here for Jeonghan’s thing.”

The doorman smiles widely. “I’m glad you brought that girl you always talk about!” he exclaims, holding out a pudgy hand. “Good to finally meet you!”

“Thank you?” You say, a bit of a question in your voice, and you look at Wonwoo. He’s blushing deeply, but he looks happy to have introduced you to this guy. 

John lets you in, and you head to the elevator. Wonwoo hits the 15 button, and you turn to him as the doors close. “How much do you talk about me?” 

He smiles widely. “Enough,” he says. “Didn’t you talk about me while I was away?”

“Everyone I know already knows you,” you tell him, both flattered and embarrassed. “What have you been telling them about me?”

The elevator dings. Wonwoo smiles mysteriously, before grabbing your hand to lead you into the penthouse. 

It’s luxurious and decorated with tasteful, minimalist art. As you turn the corner, a group of people call greetings to you and Wonwoo, and he raises the hand you aren’t holding to wave. “Hi,” he says to his friends, a few of whom jog over to shake your hand. One of them, clearly the host of the party, looks you up and down before twirling you. 

“You’re even prettier than he said,” he says, winking at Wonwoo. “I’m Jeonghan.”

“Thanks,” you say, looking at Wonwoo hesitantly.

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” he says kindly, leading you over to the rest of the group. “We have so many questions for you.”

A tall, dark-haired boy in the corner calls out to you. “What was Wonwoo like as a child?”

“Shorter,” you say automatically, and the group laughs, including Wonwoo, who nods his agreement.

“I didn’t like to share my toys or other things,” he admits. “I’m still that way.”

“Is that why it took you so long to bring her to meet us?” someone asks, and everyone laughs.

He gives a small smile. “If I hadn’t been gone, that might have been part of it.” He grins at you. “The things I like the most are the hardest to share.”

You feel yourself flush red. “He wasn’t all that bad,” you say. “He was also very loyal and honest, even as a baby. Once an older kid shoved me down, and he didn’t know what to do, so he sat down next to me and cried with me. He’s still that way, too.”

“He did say you have a gift for seeing the good in people,” says Jeonghan, the teasing tone of voice clear. “Even if it’s hard.”

“It’s not that hard,” you say quickly, and Wonwoo beams.

You continue speaking with Wonwoo’s friends. They are kind, interested in you, and full of life and laughter. You feel at home — even though this is one of the nicest apartments you’ve ever been in, and these people began the evening as complete strangers to you. A piece of your heart seems to heal. 

Still, you are grateful when Wonwoo offers to show you the view from the balcony. After being isolated for a month, the company feels nice, but overwhelming. You sigh as the cool air hits your skin, and you drink in the sight of the city lights twinkling at you from below. 

“They’re not so bad,” you finally admit to Wonwoo, gesturing back at the group. 

“They like you, too,” he tells you, leaning against the railing of the balcony.

“Will you ever tell me what you told them about me?” you ask him softly.

His eyes are starry in the darkness. He pushes slowly off the railing of the balcony and takes a step toward you. “Sure,” he says, his voice casual, but his gaze is intense. “What I didn’t tell them is more interesting, though.”

“What didn’t you tell them?” you breathe, close enough that when you speak your breath moves his hair.

He grabs both your hands. “I didn’t tell them a lot. I didn’t tell them about the time we were learning to ride bikes together, and we crashed into each other so badly that you needed stitches, but you wouldn’t let your mom drive away without giving me bandaids and pain medicine. I think that was the first time I realized what kind of person you were. 

“I didn’t tell them how I spent all our lives trying to stay close to you without really understanding my reasons for it. How I got angry every time you dated a boy that wasn’t me, and they mistreated you. How I looked for you in the eyes of every short-lived relationship I had with anyone else. And how whenever I was less than compassionate to myself, it was you that helped me be gentler. I left out the part where you were the one who taught me what it meant to be loved.”

He steps closer again, and you are so close that your noses are almost touching. He brings a hand up to your chin, tilting it up. “And I also left off the part where you knew me better than anyone, and vice versa. I didn’t tell them that being around you is the happiest I ever am, even on your worst days, even when you worry about not being able to be fun or happy or excited for everyone else. That you left home to follow your dreams, but you feel guilty about those you love that you left behind. That you can become emotionally attached to anything, even the cracks on the sidewalk. How every little thing with you — even just a sandwich or a walk in the park — feels like something special to me, because you make it that way. That everywhere you go, you bring some kind of small magic with you.” He is gazing into your eyes now, begging you to see what he’s trying to tell you. “I didn’t tell them a lot.”

“What did you tell them, then?” you whisper.

He smiles at you, his eyes gentle and full of joy. “I told them they would finally get to meet the woman I love.”

You feel yourself beaming at him. His thumb caresses your cheek before he whispers to you, “I also don’t think I’ll tell them about what happens next.”

And with that, he leans down and presses his lips to yours. You throw your arms around his neck, smiling against his lips, and laugh when he starts to kiss your cheek and temples and nose and jawline. “You love me?” you ask him as he lifts your feet from the floor, still showering you in kisses.

“Of course I do,” he says. “I have for almost my whole life.”

“I love you too,” you say, cupping his cheek in your hand and kissing him back. 

[00:37]

“You’re falling asleep on me, aren’t you?”

You grin sleepily. You can tell Namjoon is trying to scold you for falling asleep during your nighttime ritual, where he reads a book of his choosing to you, but his voice is so light and gentle that it’s completely ineffective. So you just nod from where your head rests on his chest, eliciting a low chuckle you can feel against your ear.

Namjoon eases out from under you, settling your head down on your pillows as he looks at you. You let your eyelids flutter shut as he traces your jawline with warm fingertips, feeling the tiredness start to overtake you in earnest.

You feel Namjoon draw nearer to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. His stubble tickles your skin, and you shudder a bit, but it doesn’t stop him. He trails errant kisses all over your face — first your temple, then the tip of your nose, then your other cheek, then the opposite jawline, then your forehead, and so on — slowly, deliberately, and almost reverently. This genre of kisses is rare in your relationship with Namjoon, whose mind is usually running too fast to pace himself like this, which makes it all the more special. When he starts on your neck and makes his way across your collarbone, you hum contentedly, drawing out another of his deep chuckles.

Namjoon pulls away, and you open your eyes to see him staring, starry-eyed in the dim light from the bedside lamp on your nightstand. His smile is soft and warm and tender. Are you imagining it, or are those tears filling up on his bottom eyelids?

“Are you okay?” you ask him, bringing a hand up to cup his dimpled cheek.

“I’m perfect,” he responds, catching your wrist in his hands and kissing the cluster of veins near the base of your palm. “I love you, that’s all.”

You sigh, letting yourself relax, letting your eyes close. You pull him close to you and say, “I love you too,” before you succumb to your sleepiness.