His Favorite Girl/Part Two: Becoming Real to Him
Originally published on AO3.
🔞 Adults 18+. MDNI. Fictional fanwork using names fictitiously for entertainment. Not real, endorsed, affiliated, or a claim of real events. All romantic and sexual content is between consenting adults. Please consume fiction with media literacy intact.
Your thumb hovers above the screen while guilt settles quietly beneath your ribs.
He arranged the car. He made sure the driver knew where to take you. He stood in the suite watching you leave even though something in his face already made it clear he did not want you to go.
And you never told him you made it home.
The realization strips the smile from your mouth. You lean against the kitchen counter and type before pride can interfere. “I did. I’m sorry. I should’ve texted you.”
His response appears so quickly that he must still be holding the phone. “Yeah. You should have.”
You wince because he is right, and because there is no punishment in the message. No attempt to make you feel guilty. Just concern he does not know how to soften yet.
You lower yourself onto one of the stools at the counter and type more carefully this time. “I wasn’t thinking.” The indicator appears beneath the conversation, disappears, then returns before his answer finally arrives. “That’s the problem. I was.”
Your chest tightens.
There is no teasing attached to the words. No provocative smile you can imagine while reading them. He had been thinking about whether the car reached your home, whether you walked through your own door, whether anything happened while he sat in that hotel room with no way to know.
“About whether I got home?” you type.
His answer takes longer this time. “About everything.”
The house seems to grow quieter around you.
You read the message again before placing your elbow against the counter and resting your forehead against your hand. There are easier responses available. Something playful. Something that lets him know you understand without showing him how much those two words affect you.
Instead, you type, “Me too.”
Your phone rings before you can set it down.
His name stretches across the screen, and your heart begins beating harder before you even answer. You slide your thumb across the screen and lift the phone to your ear. “Hi.”
Mingi exhales on the other end like hearing your voice releases something he has been holding since you left.
“You really made it home?” he asks, his voice lower than it was at breakfast, quieter and stripped of the amusement that usually protects him.
“Yes,” you tell him. “I’m home.”
“You’re okay?”
“I’m okay.”
A pause settles between you while movement sounds faintly on his end. Fabric shifts, footsteps cross the floor, and then a door opens and closes before the background noise disappears. He left the room to speak to you privately, and the small act makes the guilt settle deeper.
“I’m sorry,” you say, resting your elbow against the counter again. “I should’ve told you.”
“Yeah,” he answers, but there is no bite in the agreement, which somehow makes it worse.
You close your eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be waiting for me to say something.”
He goes quiet long enough for the confession to form before he finally says, “I didn’t know if I was allowed to worry.”
Your eyes open.
The vulnerability in his voice catches you completely unprepared. You expected confidence from him, maybe flirting or mild irritation, but not this.
“You’re allowed,” you say softly.
His breathing changes. “Okay,” he whispers. “Then I was worried.”
Something inside you gives way.
The careful arguments about schedules, discretion, and how little time you have known each other suddenly feel smaller than the fact that he had been sitting there wondering whether you were safe.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat. “I won’t leave you wondering again.”
The promise slips out before you can inspect what it means.
Mingi hears it. You know he does because the silence deepens afterward, not awkward or uncertain, but full of something neither of you has named yet.
“You won’t?” he asks.
“No.”
He breathes out slowly. “Good.”
You almost smile. “You sound bossy again.”
“No. I’m serious.”
“I know.”
The admission softens him immediately. You hear it in the next breath and in the way his voice loses its tension when he asks, “What are you doing?”
“Sitting in my kitchen.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking to you.”
He laughs softly. “Before that.”
You turn on the stool and look toward the living room. Your bag is still where you left it. One shoe has fallen onto its side near the door. Everything looks ordinary, but nothing feels ordinary anymore. “Trying to get back to my life.”
“How’s that going?”
“Terribly.”
His laughter warms this time, low and brief. “Why?”
“You know why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
There he is.
The man who needs to pull the truth directly from your mouth, not because he doubts it, but because hearing you admit it makes something inside him settle.
You look down at your hand resting against the counter and answer carefully. “I keep thinking about the hotel.”
“What part?”
“All of it.”
His breathing becomes quieter. You can picture him leaning against a wall somewhere outside the suite, head lowered, phone pressed close to his ear while Seonghwa remains inside pretending not to know exactly what he is doing.
“That’s not an answer,” he says.
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
“You were more direct at the fansign.”
“I was trying to get your attention.”
“You still have it.”
The words land softly but completely.
You trace your fingertip along the edge of the counter and tell him, “You have mine too.”
Another silence follows, almost shy, which should be impossible for a man who had you against a wall less than twenty-four hours ago. Yet speaking plainly in daylight feels more intimate than anything you did in that hotel room.
“I don’t like it here without you,” he admits.
Your throat tightens. “You were there before me.”
“I know.”
“You’ve stayed in hundreds of hotel rooms.”
“I know.”
“You’ll be leaving that one soon anyway.”
“I know,” he says, frustration roughening his voice. “That doesn’t mean I like that you’re not here.”
You press your lips together, fighting the smile trying to rise. “You waited until I left to become honest?”
“I was honest last night.”
“You were inside me when you said it.”
“So?”
“So your judgment may have been compromised.”
His laugh breaks through the phone. “My judgment was compromised before you even walked through the door.”
You shake your head even though he cannot see you. “That sounds like a personal problem.”
“It is.”
The answer comes so easily that your smile finally wins.
Mingi goes quiet for a second before saying, “You’re smiling.”
“You cannot see me.”
“I can hear it.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is with you.”
You slide from the stool and begin moving through the kitchen, restless beneath the attention in his voice. “You think you’ve figured me out already?”
“No,” he answers immediately.
The certainty surprises you enough to stop near the sink.
“I think that’s why I can’t stop thinking about you,” he continues. “Every time I think I know what you’re going to say, you do something else.”
“Like forgetting to text you?”
“That wasn’t cute.”
The humor disappears from his voice so quickly that you stop moving. “I know,” you say. “I really am sorry.”
His response softens. “I know.”
You stand there for a moment with the phone against your ear, listening to each other breathe before he finally says, “I want to see you.”
The ache arrives immediately.
You lean your hip against the counter. “You just saw me.”
“I know.”
“A few hours ago.”
“I know.”
“You have work.”
“Later.”
“You need to rest.”
“I tried.”
“And?”
“You were still gone.”
There is no way to defend yourself against that.
You lower your head and stare at the floor while warmth spreads slowly through your chest. “What are you asking me?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The honesty makes you laugh quietly. “That’s reassuring.”
“I want you here, but I don’t want you traveling back across the city because I’m being selfish.”
“That is surprisingly considerate.”
“I can be considerate.”
“You can?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
You smile again just as a door opens faintly on his end and Seonghwa’s distant voice says something you cannot understand. Mingi answers him quickly, then returns to you and says, “I have to go.”
The disappointment comes too quickly to hide. “Oh.”
He hears it too. “I’ll call you later.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
The words echo his earlier answer, but this time there is something deliberate beneath them. He is not calling because he has to. He wants to.
“Okay,” you say.
“And next time?”
You already know. “I’ll tell you I’m safe.”
“Good.”
The line remains open for another second. Neither of you ends the call.
“Mingi?”
“Yeah?”
You inhale slowly. “I miss you.”
The confession leaves your mouth quietly, without teasing or protection.
He stops breathing long enough for you to almost regret saying it before he answers, “I miss you too.”
Then the call ends.
The rest of the afternoon refuses to cooperate with you.
You answer emails, return calls, review documents, and schedule appointments, doing everything required of the grown woman you reminded yourself you were only a few hours ago. It would work better if your body did not still remember him.
The memory arrives in pieces while you sit at your desk. His hand against your waist during breakfast. His mouth against your neck the night before. The way his eyes stayed fixed on yours when he finally said the words you had challenged him to mean.
My only favorite girl.
You shift in your chair and force your attention back toward the screen.
It lasts seven minutes.
Your phone lights up beside you with a message asking, “Still miss me?”
You stare at it before answering, “Unfortunately.”
His response comes immediately. “Liar.”
You smile despite yourself and type, “You’re supposed to be working.”
“So are you.”
“I am.”
“You answered fast.”
You set the phone facedown and refuse to give him the satisfaction of another response.
It vibrates twice.
You ignore it.
A third vibration follows, and you last maybe twenty seconds before turning the phone over.
“I keep thinking about your mouth.”
Your thighs press together automatically.
Another message arrives before you can decide how to respond. “And the way you looked at me after.”
You glance toward the office door even though you are alone before telling him, “You need to focus.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
The typing indicator appears.
“Come back and help me.”
Heat climbs your neck.
You lock the screen and place the phone out of reach, but the message remains branded behind your eyes. He wants you back at the hotel. You want to go. The answer should be simple.
It is not.
Going back changes something. Last night could be explained away as impulse, attraction, two adults making a reckless decision after meeting in a charged environment. Returning in daylight because neither of you can tolerate the distance is different.
That is attachment.
Your phone begins ringing.
You look at his name for three full rings before answering and telling him, “You are incredibly distracting.”
“You stopped answering.”
“I’m working.”
“I know.”
“You just said you were trying to focus.”
“I failed.”
You lean back in the chair. “And what would you like me to do about that?”
“Open your front door.”
Your body stills. “What?”
The knock comes through the phone and the house at the same time.
You rise so quickly the chair rolls backward across the floor. “Mingi.”
“Open the door.”
He does not sound commanding.
He sounds nervous.
That is what pulls you down the hallway faster than anything else could have.
When you reach the front door and pause with your hand against the lock, you ask, “How did you get my address?”
“The driver.”
“That is unsettling.”
“I know.” His voice lowers while another soft knock lands against the door. “Can we discuss boundaries after you let me in before somebody sees me standing here?”
You open the door.
Mingi stands on the porch wearing a dark jacket, loose pants, and a cap pulled low enough to shadow his face. A mask covers the lower half of it, but you recognize his eyes instantly.
They move over you once, checking.
Not undressing.
Making sure you are really there.
“You’re safe,” he says.
The relief in his voice nearly breaks your heart. “I told you I was.”
“I needed to see it.”
You step aside and let him enter.
He crosses the threshold cautiously, glancing back toward the street before you close and lock the door behind him. For a second, he stands in the entryway taking in the evidence of your life. Your shoes beside the wall. Photographs arranged along the hallway. Mail waiting to be sorted. A jacket thrown over the back of a chair because nobody was expecting company.
“This is your home,” he says quietly.
You lean against the door. “Were you expecting something else?”
“No.” His eyes return to you. “I just wanted to see it.”
“You came across the city to inspect my house?”
“I came because I couldn’t sit there anymore.”
The confession removes every clever response from your mouth.
He pulls the mask down and removes the cap. His hair is flattened in places, and he looks less composed than he did at breakfast. Less like someone who planned this and more like someone who made the decision while already moving toward the door.
“You should not have come alone,” you say.
“I didn’t. The driver is nearby.”
“What happens if management finds out?”
“They know I left.”
“To come here?”
“No.”
You exhale slowly. “Mingi.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I already thought about everything you’re about to say.”
“And you came anyway.”
His eyes stay on yours. “Yeah.”
The simplicity of it moves through you more deeply than it should.
You close the distance between you before you can reconsider and settle your hands against his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks while you look at him properly. “You worried me too.”
His brows draw together slightly. “How?”
“By showing up here without warning.”
“I called.”
“You told me to open the door. That is not warning.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did.”
“Bad surprise?”
You study his face for another second. “No.”
Something in him releases.
His hands settle at your waist carefully, almost uncertainly, as though he does not know whether the rules from the hotel still apply inside your home. You answer the question by leaning closer until his forehead touches yours.
Neither of you kisses the other.
Not yet.
“You really missed me?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
You smile faintly. “You came all the way here. You tell me first.”
His fingers tighten slightly at your waist. “Enough that Seonghwa told me to leave before I made both of us miserable.”
A laugh escapes you. “He sent you here?”
“He told me to figure out what was wrong with me.”
“And you decided it was me?”
“No.” His gaze drops to your mouth. “I decided it was you being gone.”
The kiss begins softly.
His lips brush yours once, then again, almost cautious despite everything you already know about each other’s bodies. The tenderness makes your chest ache more than hunger would have.
You slide your fingers into his hair and kiss him deeper.
The reaction moves through him immediately. His arms close around your waist, pulling you against him while his mouth opens beneath yours. The kiss grows warmer, then heavier, but never loses the relief beneath it. He kisses you like he needed confirmation that the connection survived outside the hotel.
You feel the answer in every breath.
He walks you backward slowly until your shoulders touch the door, one hand rising to cradle the side of your neck. His thumb moves against your skin while his mouth leaves yours and presses a kiss beneath your jaw.
“You smell like your house,” he says.
You laugh softly. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I like it.”
His mouth moves lower while your head tips back against the door. Each kiss lingers longer than the last, and his hands remain at your waist, holding you close without forcing you anywhere.
“You came here just to smell me?” you ask.
“I came here to see you.”
“And now?”
His mouth pauses against your skin. “Now I’m trying not to fuck you against your front door.”
Heat moves through you instantly.
You turn your face toward his and ask, “Why are you trying not to?”
His eyes lift. Hunger flashes through them, but his grip remains careful. “Because I didn’t come here for that.”
“You came because you missed me.”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t think I missed this?”
Your hand slides down his chest and settles at the front of his pants.
The breath leaves him sharply. His forehead drops against yours while his fingers tighten at your waist. “You’re going to make it difficult for me to behave.”
“You told me you liked that I wasn’t boring.”
“That was before I knew how dangerous you are.”
You stroke him through the fabric and feel his body tense against yours. “I’m dangerous now?”
“You’re standing here touching me like you didn’t forget to tell me you were safe and ruin my entire morning.”
Guilt softens your movement.
Your hand stills.
He notices immediately. “No,” he says, lifting his head. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pull away because I said something stupid.”
“You were worried.”
“I was.”
“And now you’re here.”
“I’m here because I wanted to be.”
His hand slides gently along your jaw. “I’m not punishing you. I just need you to understand that I care whether you make it home.”
The tenderness in his voice opens something inside you.
You kiss him before the feeling can become too large to hold.
His mouth meets yours with the same urgency, but the kiss changes halfway through. It becomes less about hunger and more about being understood. He pulls you closer, one palm flattening against the center of your back while your hands move beneath his jacket.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers.
“So are you.”
He laughs once against your mouth. “I know.”
You guide the jacket from his shoulders and let it fall near the door. His hands slide beneath your shirt, palms warm against your waist, but he pauses before moving higher.
“Bedroom?” he asks.
The question sends another pulse of heat through you.
You nod and let him follow while his fingers remain woven with yours.
The intimacy of holding his hand down the hallway feels almost obscene after everything you did together the night before.
When you enter the bedroom, he stops near the doorway. His eyes travel through the space slowly, taking in the unmade corner of the bed, the book on the nightstand, and the clothes folded across the chair. These are private details of a woman who existed before he noticed her.
“You sleep here,” he says.
You look back at him. “Yes.”
He steps closer. “You woke up here this morning and thought about me?”
“Yes.”
“In this bed?”
“Yes.”
His eyes darken. “What were you thinking about?”
You reach for the hem of his shirt and pull it slowly upward. “Do you really need me to tell you?”
He lifts his arms and lets you remove it. “I want you to.”
You drop the shirt onto the chair and place your palms against his bare chest. His heart beats hard beneath your hand, faster than his expression suggests.
“I was thinking about the way you looked at me,” you say.
“When?”
“When you said I was your only favorite girl.”
His breathing shifts.
You move your hands lower, following the lines of his body until your fingers rest against his waistband. “And I thought about how you felt inside me.”
Mingi closes his eyes. “Fuck.”
The word leaves him quietly.
You kiss the center of his chest, then lower, feeling his muscles tighten beneath your mouth. His fingers enter your hair carefully, not directing you, just holding on while you sink to your knees in front of him.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
You look up. “I know.”
You open his pants slowly.
The sight of him makes your mouth water before you touch him. Your hand closes around his length, and his breathing breaks immediately.
“You thought about this?” you ask.
“All afternoon.”
You stroke him once, watching tension move through his body. “At the hotel?”
“Yeah.”
“With Seonghwa there?”
“He noticed.”
You laugh softly. “Of course he did.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
His answer disappears when your mouth closes around him.
His head falls back. One hand braces against the edge of the dresser while the other remains tangled in your hair. You take him deeper slowly, letting your tongue move along him while his breathing turns uneven above you.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “I missed your mouth.”
You pull back just enough to look up at him. “You’ve known my mouth for less than a day.”
“I missed it anyway.”
The confession sends heat between your thighs.
You take him again, deeper this time, and feel the restraint leave his body in pieces. His hips shift forward once before he catches himself, fingers tightening in your hair.
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
You hum around him, and the vibration pulls a broken sound from his throat.
He looks down at you.
The expression on his face is not arrogant now. It is almost overwhelmed, like the intimacy of finding you on your knees in your own bedroom has exposed something he does not know how to hide.
You stroke him with your hand while your mouth moves, keeping your eyes on his until his control begins to slip.
Then he pulls you up.
You barely reach your feet before his mouth finds yours. The kiss is messy now, hungry and grateful at the same time. He backs you toward the bed while his hands move beneath your shirt, lifting it slowly enough for you to help him remove it.
His eyes travel over your body.
Not quickly.
Not casually.
He looks at you as though this version matters more because it belongs to your real life.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
The simplicity of it catches you off guard. You touch his face and tell him, “Come here.”
He lowers you onto the bed and follows, settling between your thighs while his mouth returns to your neck. His hand moves along your side, across your stomach, then lower until his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts.
“Can I?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He removes them slowly, kissing your stomach as the fabric slides down your legs. When he returns between your thighs, he looks at you for permission again.
You open them wider.
The first stroke of his tongue pulls a sharp breath from your body.
Mingi groans softly against you, his hands settling beneath your thighs as he tastes you slowly. There is nothing rushed in it. He moves like he has been thinking about this since you left, like every reaction is something he wants to remember the next time distance separates you.
Your fingers sink into his hair.
He circles your clit with his tongue, then draws it into his mouth gently enough to make your hips rise from the mattress. His hand presses against your lower stomach, keeping you close while he continues.
“Mingi.”
He answers with another slow stroke.
Your body tightens beneath his mouth. You feel pleasure building in steady waves while he learns you more carefully than he had time to at the hotel. Each time your breathing changes, he adjusts. Each time your thighs tense around him, he repeats what caused it.
“You pay too much attention,” you breathe.
He lifts his mouth just long enough to answer, “You noticed that first,” before two fingers slide inside you.
Your head falls back against the pillow.
He curls them slowly, watching your face while his tongue returns to your clit. The combination drags a broken sound from your mouth, and his grip tightens beneath your thigh.
“That,” he says softly. “I kept thinking about that sound.”
You try to answer, but his fingers move again and steal the words.
The orgasm builds quickly after that. Your body begins moving against him without thought, hips following the rhythm of his hand while his mouth holds you exactly at the edge. He does not rush you over it. He keeps the pressure steady until every muscle in your body tightens at once.
“Look at me,” he says.
You force your eyes open.
He watches you come apart beneath his mouth.
The pleasure breaks through you hard enough to lift your body from the mattress. His name leaves you in a cry while your thighs tighten around his shoulders, and he holds you through every trembling second of it.
When you finally collapse against the bed, he kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher, across your stomach, between your breasts, and along your throat until his mouth finally reaches yours and your breathing is still uneven.
“You missed me that much?” you ask.
He kisses you once. “More.”
You wrap your legs around his waist and feel his length press against you. His forehead lowers to yours.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“I want you.”
His eyes close briefly.
The words seem to affect him more now than they did at the hotel, perhaps because there is no performance left between you. No challenge. No proving anything. Just desire offered honestly.
He reaches toward his pants, retrieves protection, and returns to you. Once he is ready, he guides himself between your thighs, rubbing the head slowly through the wetness he pulled from you.
Your body responds immediately.
He notices. “Still sensitive?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to wait?”
“No.”
The answer comes too quickly, and his mouth curves faintly. You tighten your legs around him and warn, “Do not start.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you’re impatient.”
“You crossed a city because you missed me for three hours.”
“Fair.”
You laugh, and he kisses you while pushing inside.
The laughter dissolves into a gasp.
He moves slowly, giving your body time to stretch around him. His hand slides beneath your back, holding you close while each careful thrust takes him deeper.
Your fingers clutch his shoulders.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Still?”
“Yes.”
He settles fully inside you and stops.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
His eyes remain fixed on yours, and the intimacy becomes almost unbearable. You can feel his heart beating against your chest, his breath touching your mouth, every small tremor moving through the muscles holding him above you.
“This feels different,” he says.
You know what he means.
The hotel belonged to neither of you. This room holds your history, your mornings, your loneliness, and the life he wants to enter before either of you understands what that entry will cost.
“You’re in my bed,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“You’re in my home.”
“I know.”
“And you still have to leave.”
Pain flickers across his face. His hand moves against your cheek. “Not yet.”
Then he begins to move.
The first thrust is slow. The second goes deeper. By the third, your body is already lifting to meet him.
His mouth finds yours between each movement, kisses breaking apart whenever pleasure interrupts your breathing. He keeps one arm beneath you, refusing to let distance form even as the rhythm grows stronger.
You hold him just as tightly.
“I thought about this,” he says against your mouth.
“You told me.”
“No.” His hips drive forward harder, pulling a gasp from you. “I thought about being here. Somewhere that belongs to you.”
Your fingers tighten against his back.
“You didn’t know what my home looked like.”
“I kept imagining it.”
Another thrust presses deeper.
“And you in it.”
The confession spreads through you like fire.
His pace remains steady, but the emotion beneath it changes everything. Each stroke feels less like sex and more like an attempt to close every inch of distance that existed after you left the hotel.
“You really got it bad,” you whisper.
He laughs breathlessly against your throat. “Seonghwa said the same thing.”
“He’s smart.”
“Don’t compliment him while I’m inside you.”
The jealousy in his voice is so mild and ridiculous that you laugh.
Mingi lifts his head and looks offended. “You think that’s funny?”
“A little.”
His hand slides down your body and settles between you, thumb finding your clit while he continues moving.
The laughter breaks into a moan.
“That’s what I thought,” he says softly.
“You’re irritating.”
“You like me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“You let me into your house.”
His thumb circles slowly.
“You let me into your bed.”
Another thrust steals your breath.
“You told me you missed me.”
Your body tightens around him.
His expression changes instantly. “There,” he whispers. “Say it again.”
You look up at him.
The request is not about control. You hear the need beneath it, the lingering uncertainty of someone who cannot quite believe this matters equally to both of you.
“I missed you,” you say.
His movement falters.
You touch his face and repeat it more clearly. “I missed you the second I left.”
Emotion moves across his expression too quickly for him to hide it.
He kisses you hard.
His pace deepens, restraint finally giving way beneath the confession. The bed shifts softly against the wall while his hand remains between your thighs, keeping pressure against the place that makes pleasure tighten through you again.
“I couldn’t think,” he says into your mouth. “Couldn’t sit still. Everything still smelled like you.”
Your nails drag down his back.
“I kept looking at the door like you might come back.”
“I’m here now.”
“I know.”
His forehead presses against yours.
“Tell me you’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“Tell me you’re safe.”
“I’m safe.”
The words undo him.
His control breaks completely, hips driving forward with a desperation that makes your body arch beneath him. His hand grips your thigh, lifting it higher around his waist while he reaches deeper with every thrust.
You cling to him, pleasure gathering fast and sharp.
He feels it. “Come for me,” he whispers.
Your body tightens.
His name breaks from your mouth as the orgasm tears through you, harder than the first. You pull him close while every pulse moves around him, and the sound he makes against your neck is rough enough to send another wave through you.
His rhythm turns uneven.
You hold his face and make him look at you. “Come here,” you whisper.
His eyes stay on yours when he loses control.
The release moves through him with a broken groan, his body pressing deeply against yours before he collapses carefully into your arms. You hold him there, one hand moving through his hair while his breathing warms your neck.
Neither of you speaks for a while.
The silence is not empty anymore.
Mingi eventually lifts himself just enough to look at you. His hair falls into his eyes, and there is something almost uncertain in his expression now that the hunger has passed.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His hand moves along your side. “You’ll tell me?”
“I’ll tell you.”
He nods once.
The seriousness of it settles between you again.
He takes care of the protection before returning to bed, then pulls you against his chest beneath the blanket. His body is warm behind yours, one arm heavy around your waist while his mouth presses a quiet kiss against your shoulder.
“You’re going to be late,” you say.
“I know.”
“You should leave.”
“I know.”
Neither of you moves.
You turn in his arms and find him already looking at you. “This is not sustainable.”
“What isn’t?”
“You appearing at my door every time we miss each other.”
His fingers trace slowly along your back. “Why not?”
“Because you have a career. Schedules. Cameras. People watching where you go.”
“And you have a life I don’t know anything about yet.”
“Exactly.”
He studies you quietly before saying, “I want to.”
Your breath stills. “What?”
“I want to know about it.”
There is no seduction in his voice now. No teasing. He means it.
“I want to know what you do after you leave me. Who calls you. What makes you tired. What makes you laugh when I’m not there.” His hand moves against your waist, almost absentmindedly. “I want to know how you take your coffee so Seonghwa doesn’t get to learn it before me.”
You laugh softly. “That’s what this is really about?”
“No.”
His expression remains open. “This is about me wanting something I don’t know how to have normally.”
The honesty hurts more than it should.
You touch his cheek. “We’ll figure it out.”
“We?”
The single word exposes how uncertain he still is.
You nod. “We.”
His eyes close briefly as he leans into your hand, then he kisses your palm before admitting, “I really do have to go.”
“I know.”
He still does not move.
Five minutes pass before either of you attempts to leave the bed. Another ten disappear while he dresses, mostly because every item of clothing leads to another kiss.
At the front door, he pulls his cap low and replaces the mask, becoming less visible with every adjustment.
The change makes your chest ache.
He looks like somebody leaving your life before he even steps outside.
Mingi notices the shift in your expression and asks, “What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrow. “We said honesty.”
You hate that he remembers your own rules. “I don’t like watching you turn back into somebody I’m not allowed to touch.”
He goes still.
Then he steps closer and places your hand against his chest, beneath the open edge of his jacket where nobody outside can see.
“You can touch me,” he says quietly. “Just not where they can take it from us.”
The words settle somewhere deep.
You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt and pull him into one final kiss.
When he leaves, you stand behind the closed door listening until his footsteps disappear.
Your phone vibrates before you reach the living room.
“Tell me when you lock the door.”
You look back at the lock already turned beneath your hand and answer, “Door locked. I’m safe.”
His reply arrives immediately.
“Good.”
A second message follows.
“My favorite girl.”
Then another.
“My only favorite girl.”
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