Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

one: it's not that deep

There are exactly three things Kim Mingyu is sure of in this life:

1. The best kind of fried chicken exists in that perfect liminal space between crispy and heart attack—the kind that requires five napkins per bite.
2. Seungkwan has a vendetta against his eardrums and will scream at the slightest provocation.
3. Jeon Wonwoo is, without contest or competition, the single most boring human being to ever draw breath on this planet.

Not in a mean way. Mingyu’s not an asshole. He just calls it like he sees it. Wonwoo is the human equivalent of unflavored oatmeal. He doesn’t even talk that much. In group hangouts, he’s just there. Like an accessory. A quiet scarf of a human being, wrapped around Jun or Soonyoung, eyes drooping behind black frames and a cup of Americano with an extra shot.

Not unpleasant. Just... beige. Wallpaper.

They’ve been in the same friend group for five years. Ate dinner together. Showed up to the same movie nights. And at least one road trip that got them banned from one gas station north of the city—but Mingyu can count on one hand the number of times he’s been alone with Wonwoo.

Two fingers, actually.

And both interactions were so awkward, he’s pretty sure they set civil communication back by a decade.

The first one happened during his freshman year of Architecture, he had two deadlinnes due, a half-written paragraph about concrete tension stress ratios, and a stomach growling loud enough to alert campus security. But instead of finishing his work like any rational, functioning adult, Mingyu was making fries and when he was about to eat and spiral in peace, disaster struck: no mayo.

He looked at his fries and felt a hollow kind of grief. Because fries without ketchup & mayo are just... sad potatoes.

So in a moment of desperation, he messaged the group chat.

mingyu: anyone have mayo? please im on my knees

He stared at the screen for a minute. Most of the group must be either asleep or cramming. Or both.

jun: we have some in our fridge
jun: but i'm at the library with soonyoung dying over thermo
jun: wonwoo's home tho, probably gaming, so just give him a call when he doesnt answer your knock

Mingyu stared at the message with growing dread. Wonwoo. Of all people.

It wasn’t that he had anything against Jeon Wonwoo. It’s just… they didn’t talk. Not really. It was just mutual orbit. Group chat overlap. Acquaintance-adjacent, at best. Five years of "pass the chips" and "can you move your bag?”

Still, he wasn’t going to eat sad fries like a fool. He was going to march up to that dorm and get his damn mayonnaise.

Ten minutes later, Mingyu stood in front of Jun and Wonwoo’s door. He knocked.

Inside, he heard the squeak of a gaming chair, then the low clink of a headset being removed. A pause. When the door opened, Mingyu was met with exactly what he expected: Jeon Wonwoo, looking slightly annoyed at being interrupted, dark hair slightly disheveled, glasses reflecting the RGB glow of multiple computer monitors behind him.

"Jun said you needed mayo?"

"Uh. Yeah," Mingyu said, “For fries."

Wonwoo blinked. “At midnight?”

"Architecture deadlines," Mingyu offered, as if this explained everything. "The hunger gets weird."

Wonwoo nodded like yeah, okay, that tracks. Then turned and disappeared without another word.

Mingyu stood in the doorway awkwardly, trying not to read too much into the sound of gunfire coming from the paused game.

Wonwoo came back with a squeeze bottle. Held it out. Very businesslike. "Here."

"Thanks," Mingyu said, trying to smile. "I’ll bring it back tomorrow."

"Keep it. Jun hates mayo."

And just like that, the door closed, and Mingyu was left holding a bottle of Hellmann's and the distinct feeling that he'd just participated in the world's most anticlimactic drug deal.

The second time they interacted was equally thrilling.

Mingyu had claimed his favorite study spot in the engineering building's third-floor lounge—not because he had any business in the engineering building, but because the architecture library was always packed and the engineering students were too busy having existential crises to bother him.

He'd spread his materials across an entire table, sketches and reference books creating a fortress of academic desperation, when Wonwoo appeared, looking like he hadn't slept in approximately seventy-three hours straight—hair disheveled, eyes hollow behind smudged glasses. Their eyes met across the room. Recognition flickered. A silent assessment occurred, like two stray cats deciding whether to fight or ignore each other.

"Mind if I sit?" Wonwoo asked, gesturing to the only other table in the small lounge—currently occupied by Mingyu's backpack and snack collection. “Everywhere else is packed and I need to revise a few important notes.”

"Oh. Sure." Mingyu hastily moved his things, watching as Wonwoo set down a stack of textbooks that could double as weightlifting equipment. "Rough midterms?"

"Fluid dynamics," Wonwoo replied as he sat.

"Sounds... wet?" The joke left Mingyu's mouth before his brain could intervene.

The corner of Wonwoo's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment of Mingyu's attempted humor. "That's one way to put it."

They worked in silence after that, occupying the same space without really sharing it. Occasionally, Mingyu would look up when Wonwoo muttered something under his breath suspiciously like a threat to Isaac Newton's lineage or aggressively erased an equation. Once, their eyes met accidentally when they both reached for their water bottles at the same time, and they quickly looked away.

Three hours later, Mingyu packed up his things, stretching his stiff back. "Good luck with your... fluids," he offered as a parting pleasantry.

Wonwoo didn’t look up. Just nodded.

And that was that. Another thrilling chapter in the non-relationship of Mingyu and Wonwoo. Two entire one-on-one conversations in five years.

At least, that’s what Mingyu thinks—until a Tuesday midnight at exactly 1:47 AM, when he’s ¾ into a pity scroll through Instagram, sulking over a cancelled hangout.

And then he sees it.

A photo. Posted twenty-seven minutes ago.

Wonwoo.

A mirror shot. Effortless. Hoodie slouched, bedhead a little too precise to be accidental. He’s just there—low effort, high impact. Caption: should’ve let the bed win

And without thinking, without analyzing—without the safety net of conscious thought—Mingyu taps the heart.

Then stares at it.

Then stares harder.

Then immediately goes, “…shit,”

It’s an accident. That’s what he tells himself. Easy mistake. The like button is right there, and he’s got big thumbs. It’s not that deep.

But, in a moment of horrifying self-awareness, Mingyu realizes something else:

He’s never liked one of Wonwoo’s posts before.

Not once. Not in all the years of their group friendship. Not a single heart. So now this one? This single, lonely like in a sea of digital indifference?

It stands out.

Worse—it’ll show up on Wonwoo’s notifications as “kim_mingyu liked your photo.”

He considers unliking it.

He stared at the little heart, now solidly red, pulsing back at him accusingly. It wasn't that they disliked each other. It was just... they were opposites.

Mingyu—loud in every room, friends with half the campus, once got a deadline extended by sweet-talking the department secretary with a Tupperware of homemade cookies. It worked. It always works.

And then there’s Wonwoo—quietly terrifying in that Engineering way. Probably dreams in equations. The kind of guy Seungcheol refers to as “the final boss,” and who Jun once described as “what would happen if a library and a cat had a baby, and that baby was raised by a motherboard.”

They were the only two in their six-person friend group who had never hung out alone. Not once. Not even accidentally. An unspoken mutual agreement that had never needed discussion.

It's fine,he tells himself, We're in the same friend group. Liking photos is normal. People like photos all the time. That's literally what Instagram is for.

So let's get one thing absolutely straight, crystal clear, carved-in-stone clear: Mingyu does not have a thing for Jeon Wonwoo.

Wonwoo is boring. That's not an opinion; it's a fundamental law of nature, like gravity or the fact that printers can sense fear. He wears a rotation of dark shirts like he was born in grayscale. He plays the same video game for eight hours straight and emerges looking mildly satisfied and vaguely threatening.

Also, he never smiles at Mingyu. Not really. He does that polite, corner-of-the-mouth twitch thing that says “I acknowledge your existence” but not “I enjoy it.” He’s a statue. A wall.

Jun insists he’s funny. Soonyoung swears he’s a menace when he wants to be. But they’re both liars. Jun once tried to fry an egg with a hairdryer and Soonyoung believes Mercury retrograde is responsible for his parking tickets.

Mingyu, bless his heart, is just normal. He cooks. He vibes. He has a 5-step skincare routine and a complicated love-hate relationship with AutoCAD. He’s normal. Unlike Wonwoo. Who is not normal. Who probably alphabetizes his socks and reads quantum physics textbooks as "light bedtime reading.”

So no. There’s no reason for Mingyu to notice him.

And yet…his thumb, having tasted rebellion, was now scrolling through Wonwoo's sparse profile. Each image more intriguing than the last. A stack of engineering textbooks with a simple coffee cup beside them. A sunset from what Mingyu recognized as the roof of the engineering building. A candid shot of Jun and Soonyoung mid-argument, both faces contorted in what could only be described as competitive stupidity.

Then, a photo from two years ago. A rare full-face shot of Wonwoo, clearly taken by someone else, caught mid-laugh in the campus library. His head thrown back, eyes nearly disappearing into crescents, nose scrunched. It was so unlike the Wonwoo that Mingyu knew—the one who mostly observed their group's chaos with that inscrutable, judgmental expression—that he found himself staring.

And then, horror of horrors, his thumb double-tapped again.

The heart flashed red.

"FUCK!" Mingyu yelped, instantly un-liking the photo with the panicked desperation of a man disarming a bomb. His phone hovered midair. Frozen.

That was a photo from TWO YEARS AGO.

And he had just liked it.

In the middle of the night.

During midterms.

But he knew. He knew the notification had already been sent. Somewhere across campus, Wonwoo's phone had just lit up with the words: "kim_mingyu liked your photo… from 2 years ago."

There was no recovery from this. None. He'd just committed the cardinal sin of social media. He'd been caught red-handed, digging through Wonwoo's past at midnight. Mingyu tossed his phone across his bed like it had burned him and stared at the ceiling of his dorm room.

Chapter Text

By the time Mingyu finally passed out, face down in his pillow and emotionally hollow, he’d come up with a plan.

A good one. Foolproof, even.

Step One: pretend the accidental 1AM like never happened.

Step Two: pray Wonwoo never checks his notifications.

Step Three: if asked, fake amnesia and claim Instagram was hacked. Boom. Fixed.

For three whole days, it worked.

No one said anything.

No strange vibes permeated their group interactions.

Seungkwan didn’t notice.

Jeonghan didn't launch himself across the room screaming "YOU'RE OBSESSED WITH WONWOO," which Mingyu had calculated as having a 78% probability of occurrence.

Mingyu even managed to maintain eye contact with Soonyoung for a full ten seconds without twitching.

Even more miraculously, Wonwoo himself gave no indication that he'd noticed Mingyu's digital archaeological expedition into his past. During their group dinner that week, Wonwoo had maintained his usual terrifyingly calm presence. Said about seven words. Sat slightly to the left of the chaos, offering the occasional deadpan comment that made Jun snort water through his nose, and never once looking at Mingyu with anything resembling suspicion or recognition.

Things were fine. Salvation was possible. Life would continue.

Until day four.

Mingyu was sketching at the campus café, headphones in, iced Americano forming a soggy halo on his napkin, when his phone buzzed.

@jeon.wonwoo posted a photo.

His thumb hovered.

This was dangerous territory. The digital equivalent of returning to the scene of the crime while still holding the murder weapon.

But he tapped anyway.

The photo loaded: a perfectly composed overhead desk shot—textbook splayed open to a page dense with equations, a half-empty Americano (extra shot, no doubt) positioned at precisely nine o'clock, iPad propped in the corner playing what appeared to be a Japanese indie artist whose name looked like a WiFi password. Minimalist. Immaculate. So clinically organized it made Mingyu feel personally attacked.

There was no caption. Of course there wasn't.

Mingyu stared at it like it might suddenly transform into something less aesthetically perfect, something less... Wonwoo. The pristine desk setup was so at odds with Mingyu's own creative chaos, coffee rings doubled as coasters, scrap paper formed mountains, and his laptop was forever one granola crumb away from death.

And then—he liked it.

It's fine, he rationalized with the desperation of a man talking himself off a ledge. Totally casual. Friendly, even. This was him strategically resetting the narrative. Now it didn't look like he was lurking through Wonwoo's profile at ungodly hours. Now it just looked like he appreciated meticulously organized study spaces. And academic excellence.

Two days later:
Second post. Wonwoo’s gaming setup, backlit by neon blue LEDs, tournament bracket displayed on the second monitor, a single energy drink tucked discreetly beside what appeared to be a professional-grade headset.
Caption: regional qualifiers

No hashtags. No emojis. Just facts.

Mingyu: Like.

And three days after that:
Third post. Wonwoo standing with his mechanical engineering project team, holding what appeared to be a miniature robot with the casual indifference of someone holding their car keys. Everyone else in the photo was beaming with the manic joy of sleep-deprived achievement. Wonwoo just stood there, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, expression caught somewhere between subtle triumph and not giving a single shit.

Caption: looks like it works

Next came the rooftop sunset.

No people. No filters. Just the skyline—hazy and bleeding into dusky purples and soft orange, as if the entire city had exhaled after a long day. The glass panels along the rooftop railing caught the light like fractured fire, and somewhere in the corner, Mingyu could barely make out the curve of a paper coffee cup left on the ledge. It was at the rooftop garden that Mingyu recognized as the one on engineering building.

Caption: none.

Because of course.

Like.

And then—Sunday night. The fifth post in two weeks. The killshot.

Mingyu was making bulgogi for Seungkwan and himself when his phone buzzed. He ignored it at first, focused on getting the meat's caramelization just right—cooking was the one thing he excelled at besides being obnoxiously handsome, according to Seungkwan—but when his roommate picked up his phone, Seungkwan's eyebrows shot up with interest.

Wonwoo was at what appeared to be an e-sports tournament, holding up a championship trophy, surrounded by smiling teammates. Wonwoo himself was almost smiling—not the full, uninhibited laugh from that two-year-old photo, but something private and contained, as if someone had just said something marginally funny and he was acknowledging it with the barest minimum of facial movement. The caption read: regionals 🏆

Mingyu liked it so fast he was genuinely concerned he might have sprained something in his thumb.

Five posts. Five likes.

All in perfect sequential order.

Totally fine. Normal. Friendly support. Just a homie appreciating another homie's aesthetic. Bros being digitally supportive bros.

Until Seungkwan looked at him. “So,” Seungkwan said, drawing the word out like a blade, “are we going to talk about your new Instagram hobby, or should I start building a PowerPoint presentation?”

Mingyu froze mid-bulgogi. “What hobby.”

"Your very consistent, very dedicated support of Jeon Wonwoo's social media content," Seungkwan said, voice dripping with fake innocence. "Five posts. Five likes. In perfect chronological order. After approximately five years of not even breathing in his direction.”

Mingyu looked down at his phone like it was a witness about to testify against him in court.

"I like a lot of people's posts," he muttered, the lie so transparent it practically squeaked.

"Mm-hmm," Seungkwan hummed, nodding with exaggerated precision.

"And you just happened to discover a sudden interest in Wonwoo's profile right after your 1AM 'accident' that you swore me to secrecy about."

Mingyu grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at Seungkwan's head with architectural precision. Seungkwan, curse his surprisingly good reflexes, caught it midair with one hand while maintaining unwavering eye contact, "I told you it was an accident. And don't go running your mouth like that again," Mingyu hissed, eyes darting to their dorm room door like a conspiracy theorist. "Jeonghan might hear!"

"Jeonghan is three floors away," Seungkwan deadpanned.

"It doesn't matter! It's not that the walls have ears..." Mingyu lowered his voice to a paranoid whisper, "...he IS the walls."

Seungkwan bit back a laugh. “I’m just saying, it’s a little suspicious. You liked a desk shot featuring Japanese lo-fi. You liked an LED-lit gaming bracket. You liked a robotics project that I guarantee you couldn't explain the function of if someone held a gun to your head.”

"It’s not like that," Mingyu says, rolling his eyes so hard he almost dislocates something. "This is the opposite of what you're thinking. It's peak platonic behavior. Digital brotherhood. A homie appreciating another homie’s grid alignment and lighting choices."

Seungkwan grinned. “Big Brother is always watching. And Big Brother has a screenshot folder.”

It should’ve ended there. It didn’t.

Three days later, on a completely average Tuesday, it happened again.

Mingyu was sprawled across his bed, halfheartedly flipping through a textbook on sustainable architecture when his phone buzzed with the now-familiar notification that had been dominating his anxiety for weeks:

@jeon.wonwoo posted a photo.

His thumb hesitated for exactly 0.7 seconds before tapping.

The photo loaded, and Mingyu's entire respiratory system promptly forgot how to function.

There was Wonwoo, sitting on a weight bench in what appeared to be the campus gym's less crowded corner. Red sweatpants hugged his legs, contrasting sharply with a simple black tank that revealed arms that were... significantly more defined than Mingyu had ever allowed himself to imagine. A white cap sat low over his forehead, round wire-frame glasses perched on his nose, giving him that infuriating intellectual-but-could-bench-press-you look that Mingyu hadn't even known was a type until this very moment.

What made it worse was how effortless it all looked—Wonwoo held his phone up with casual indifference, like he couldn't be bothered to take the selfie but was doing it anyway, a slight sheen across his collarbones the only indication he'd been working out at all. No flex. No pose. Just Wonwoo existing, accidentally devastating.

No caption. Of course.

Mingyu’s thumb moved before his brain did—completely rogue, acting on instinct like some kind of traitor limb. He liked the photo before he’d even finished processing it, so fast the notification probably hit Wonwoo’s phone before the man had a chance to put his phone back in his pocket.

"Uhh," Mingyu said out loud to absolutely no one, voice high and broken like a squeaky chair.

He had liked it.

Within seconds.

At 3:17 PM on a Tuesday.

Not 1AM. Not during a mindless midnight scroll. Not even on break between lectures. No. This was broad daylight, middle-of-the-day activity. He might as well have posted his own story that said “Been waiting for this, thanks.”

"Why are you dying this time?" Seungkwan asked without looking up from his laptop, the concern in his voice diluted by how frequently this exact scenario had played out over the past two weeks.

"No reason.”

Seungkwan didn’t even look up. “Let me guess, Wonwoo posted again.”

Mingyu exhaled like someone had punched the air out of him.

“I follow him too, you know,” Seungkwan said, finally glancing over with a smug raise of his brows. “I just don’t click on it the second he uploads. I’m normal.” He leaned back, fully committed to the roast now. “What was it this time? Another perfectly tragic study set-up? A coffee cup angled like it’s auditioning for an indie film?”

“Gym selfie,” Mingyu said.

Seungkwan blinked, “SHOW ME.”

"No!"

"You liked it in under five seconds, didn’t you?”

Mingyu's silence was damning.

"...Three seconds."

"THREE—" Seungkwan wheezed, doubling over with the force of his laughter and collapsing into his own bed. “You need help. No—no, you need exorcism.”

“It’s not that deep,” Mingyu muttered, pulling his hoodie over his head like it might hide him from divine judgment.

Seungkwan slapped the bed dramatically. “Not that deep? You liked it before the sweat dried on his biceps.”

Mingyu said nothing. Just buried his face in his hoodie and let the fabric muffle everything else.

It wasn’t like he meant to like the gym photo. It had been instinct. Biological. A reflex. Like breathing or blinking. Or double-tapping a tricep that looked like it could break him in half.

And besides—Mingyu was a gym guy. Everyone knew that. It was part of his brand. Of course he liked gym photos. It was about discipline. Routine. Physical excellence. The sheer dedication to self-maintenance. It had nothing to do with the way Wonwoo’s tank top was clinging to his collarbones.

Nope. Just fitness appreciation. Between two gym bros.

And now… now his dignity was in shambles and Seungkwan was doing dramatic wheezing-laps around the dorm.

The logical solution, clearly, was to work out.

Not because of Wonwoo. But because Mingyu, as a fully functioning human man with biceps of his own, needed to reassert control over his personal narrative. Yes. That was it.

He had to reclaim gym culture.

Forty minutes later, he was in the mirror at the rec center’s weight room, post-leg-day, drenched in sweat and panic. The lighting was golden hour perfection. His sleeves were rolled. His hair looked aggressively tousled in a way that screamed I lifted heavy things while being emotionally unwell.

He snapped the photo.

He didn’t even want to post it. He really didn’t. But the thing was… if he didn’t post it, it looked like he was avoiding posting. Like he’d been intimidated. And he couldn’t have that.

So he posted.

when the design block hits so you hit back

Short. Vague. Neutral.

Nothing to do with Wonwoo. Nothing at all.

He threw his phone into his gym bag like it was on fire and went to shower.

He emerged from the bathroom freshly clean and spiritually unstable, only to see Seungkwan already seated on his bed with his phone out and an evil glint in his eye.

Mingyu didn’t even speak. He just groaned and dropped face-first into the pillow.

“Wow,” Seungkwan said. “Wowwwww.”

“Shut up.”

“No, you shut up. You—you just posted a gym thirst trap in retaliation,” Seungkwan said, eyes gleaming. “You just happened to go to the gym on the same day Wonwoo dropped his thirst trap?”

“It’s leg day,” Mingyu yelled, too fast. “It’s literally on my schedule. Back and biceps Monday. Legs Tuesday. I’ve been doing this for months. This is not new. I am consistent. I have discipline.”

“You literally captioned it like a breakup song.”

“It’s vague and cool.”

“It’s giving ‘healed girl summer.’”

Mingyu rolled onto his back, glaring at the ceiling. “I go to the gym. I always go to the gym on Tuesdays! This has nothing to do with Wonwoo!”

“You posted your thirst-trap photo ten minutes after liking his. You’re not being subtle. You’re being a slideshow presentation.”

“I just wanted to balance the algorithm,” Mingyu muttered.

Seungkwan cackled. “You liked his post in three seconds. Then you panicked. Then you powerlifted your way into a coping mechanism. Way to balance the algorithm.”

“I am a grown adult.”

“You’re a grown adult who just thirst-posted in response to a mechanical engineering student who doesn’t even caption.”

“Stop talking.”

“I will not stop talking.”

Seungkwan started to open his mouth again when both their phones buzzed at the exact same time.

Mingyu froze.

It was a DM from Jeonghan. And it had a screenshot of Wonwoo’s gym selfie + Mingyu’s gym selfie.

@yoon.jeonghan:
subtle, Mingyu
REAL subtle
it’s giving “two idiots professionally edging each other across the friend group” energy

@kim_mingyu:
I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT
it’s a coincidence
people go to the gym all the time
it’s a free country
it’s a public facility
I go there ALL THE TIME

@yoon.jeonghan:
I just scrolled through your likes
And what do I find
Every single post Wonwoo has made in the past month
Liked by one suspiciously active user @kim_mingyu 😌

@kim_mingyu:
okay so what if I liked some of his posts
that’s what Instagram is FOR
it’s a SOCIAL ENGAGEMENT PLATFORM
I was being SOCIAL

@yoon.jeonghan:
You weren’t being social when you liked his post from 2022 at 1am 🕵️‍♂️

@kim_mingyu:
HOW DO YOU EVEN KNOW ABOUT THAT??

@yoon.jeonghan:
The ears have walls 👀
Also your digital footprint is embarrassing

@kim_mingyu:
oh my god
its the WALLS have EARS
and tbh you’re reading way too much into this
it’s not that deep

@yoon.jeonghan:
But seriously
For someone whose existence you barely acknowledged for five years
What’s going on?

@kim_mingyu:
so you’re saying it’s illegal to like photos of your FRIENDS on a platform designed to LIKE PHOTOS
because that sounds like oppression actually

@yoon.jeonghan:
Big words for someone who used to call him “brooding fridge energy”

@kim_mingyu:
that was TWO YEARS AGO
and we’re FRIENDS
just like you and me are friends

@yoon.jeonghan:
Sure. So if you’re such good friends
Name 3 things about him that aren’t visual.

@kim_mingyu:
3?? Like right now???

@yoon.jeonghan:
Go on. Enlighten me. What does he do?
What's his major?

@kim_mingyu:
something Engineering. I think?

@yoon.jeonghan:
Wow.
It’s Mechanical Engineering with a minor in Computational Mathematics.
You’re welcome.
And I find it very interesting that you didn’t know that,
despite him being in our friend group for literally YEARS.

@yoon.jeonghan:
Like what's your goal here?
You're liking all his posts, stalking his gym selfies
So what's the endgame, architect boy?
Enlighten me.

@kim_mingyu:
there IS no endgame ffs
pls stop projecting whatever fanfic plot you’ve got playing in your little villain brain

@yoon.jeonghan:
Too late
And besides
You two actually look cute together
And you know I don't lie about these things

@yoon.jeonghan:
and before I go make a Pinterest moodbaord for this ship
Wonwoo just viewed your post

Chapter Text

Jeonghan’s subtle art of digging holes with sugar-coated spoons starts small.

He is surgical in his approach—each attack is so gentle, so deliberate, that you only notice you’re bleeding when it's already too late.

The ambush begins on a Tuesday.

Mingyu is hunched over his drafting table in the studio, ruler in one hand, mechanical pencil clenched between his teeth, completely absorbed in the sustainable housing model that's due Friday. His phone is deliberately face-down beside him—a pathetic attempt at self-control after checking it seventeen times in the past hour. Then the studio door swings open.

"Has anyone seen Seungcheol's AirPods?" Jeonghan calls, voice light and airy, like he isn’t actively setting a trap with six different pressure plates.

No one looks up—except Mingyu, whose sixth sense for impending disaster has been honed to perfection after years of Jeonghan-related trauma.

"Why would his AirPods be here?" Mingyu asks, suspicion already tightening his shoulders.

"Who knows where that man leaves things?" Jeonghan shrugs, drifting closer with the casual menace of a shark that's spotted blood in the water, and casually parks himself right on top of one of Mingyu’s essential reference prints. "So," he says, stirring his drink with infuriating grace, "do you and Wonwoo share any classes?"

The pencil in Mingyu's mouth clatters to the floor. "Uh. No," he manages, after retrieving it with fingers that suddenly feel too long for his body. "Why would we? He's... Engineering." He wants to add: And I'm Architecture. Very different. Our buildings collapse for different reasons. But that would imply he's given this any thought at all, which he absolutely hasn't.

"Right, right," Jeonghan nods, taking a slow sip of his matcha. "But you guys live in the same building, right?"

Mingyu's eyes narrow. "Technically. But so do like, ninety other people. It's called a dorm. You even live in one."

"Hmm," Jeonghan hums thoughtfully, examining his nails as if they're suddenly fascinating. "Just wondering. Thought it might be convenient for study sessions or something."

"Study sessions?" Mingyu repeats.

"Sure. You know, since you've developed such an interest in engineering concepts lately."

"I—what? No I haven't."

"No?" Jeonghan tilts his head, eyes widening with exaggerated surprise. "My mistake. I could have sworn I saw you liking Wonwoo's post about his robotics project.”

Mingyu's mouth opens and closes like a fish experiencing existential dread. "That was just—I was being supportive. We talked about this.”

"Of course," Jeonghan says, standing and patting Mingyu's shoulder with devastating gentleness. "Very community-minded of you."

He drifts away, mission accomplished, not having looked for Seungcheol's AirPods at all. At the door, he pauses, turning back with a smile that's all teeth. Absolute war criminal.

“Oh, by the way—Wonwoo usually studies on the engineering building rooftop. Around sunset. Beautiful lighting. Guess you already knew, seeing as you liked that one sunset post from the exact spot.”

And then he’s gone.

His next move was war crimes via WiFi—blasting straight into the group chat, where Wonwoo could read everything. Mingyu probably flatlined the second he saw that notification.

jeonghan:
guys what's your opinion on emotionally unavailable people?

mingyu:
what
why

jeonghan:
just curious :)

seungkwan:
LMAOOOOO
also mingyu what do you think of those quiet types
like… the ones who say maybe 3 words per day but somehow still intimidate professors

mingyu:
...that’s so specific

soonyoung:
what kind of question is that 😭​

jeonghan:
a scientific one

jun:
i feel like this is a trap
i'm staying OUT of this

mingyu:
you all are so weird
what are these questions

seungcheol:
they asked me if i believed in soulmates earlier
i said yes
they said “wrong answer” and left

soonyoung:
why does this feel weirdly targeted

mingyu:
is this about me

jeonghan:
you didn’t answer tho

mingyu:
i think they’re probably boring??
and always look like they’re judging you

jeonghan:
interesting
very detailed answer for someone who doesn’t think about them

seungkwan:
so anyway
hypothetically
how would you know if someone had a crush on a guy who reads too much and never smiles

mingyu:
this is so random
this is so weird and random and meaningless and has no bearing on my life

seungkwan:
no bc like
do you think people with intimidating auras know they’re hot?
like do they wake up and choose violence or is it just natural

jun:
WHO????

mingyu:
can we PLEASE talk about something normal

seungkwan:
what’s not normal about this???
we’re talking about how some ppl game in total silence while looking like a calvin klein model
that’s a normal conversation

mingyu:
okay but what does any of this have to do with me

jeonghan:
no one said it’s got anything to do with you
but now that you mention it…

seungkwan:
🧐
is that what we call defensive your honor

mingyu:
i’m not being defensive
i’m just saying it’s WEIRD to talk like this in a group chat
in PUBLIC

jun:
GUYS
I’M LOST
WHO IS GAMING IN TOTAL SILENCE???
IS THIS A METAPHOR???

soonyoung:
I THOUGHT THIS CHAT WAS FOR ACADEMIC PLANNING
WHAT IS HAPPENING

mingyu:
type ONE more thing yoon jeonghan
i dare you

jeonghan:
LMFAOOOOOOOOOOOO
this is the most fun I've had ngl
im shutting up now
peace

Mingyu had thrown his phone across his bed with so much force it bounced twice before landing on his pillow. He buried his face in his hands, mortified beyond belief that Wonwoo—who was definitely in the chat, even if he rarely contributed—had witnessed whatever that was.

And then Friday night. Mingyu is in the common room, attempting to focus on a documentary about sustainable urban planning that's actually required viewing for class. He's made it exactly seven minutes in when Jeonghan materializes beside him with a plate of convenience store snacks.

"Jun says you cooked for them last night," Jeonghan says, offering some chips with suspicious generosity. "What'd you make?"

Mingyu, already on edge from the mere presence of Jeonghan, shifts away slightly. "Tteokbokki."

"Mmm," Jeonghan hums, eyes widening with delight. "Wonwoo likes that, doesn't he?"

Mingyu chokes on the sip of water he'd just taken, coughing violently as his body attempts to expel both the liquid and the implication. "Why would you say that?" he finally manages, voice raspy. "He didn't even eat that much. Like two pieces. That's not a favorite, that's... ambient consumption."

Jeonghan's smile is slow and deeply concerning. "Oh. I didn't know you were paying that much attention."

There's a beat of silence, heavy with the weight of things Mingyu isn't ready to acknowledge.

"I wasn't," he protests. "I just. You know. I always cook for people. I notice what gets eaten."

"Of course," Jeonghan nods, pulling out his phone and casually scrolling. "It's just interesting that you know exactly how many pieces Wonwoo ate. I'm sure you also know precisely how many bites Soonyoung took of his tteokbokki too, right? Being such an attentive chef and all."

Mingyu opens his mouth. Closes it. Whatever defense he was about to mouth withers and dies.

And then—because Jeonghan is incapable of stopping at normal levels of teasing—he unzips his jacket and reveals a white t-shirt underneath that says in bold block letters:

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID AT 1:47 AM

Mingyu stares at him, face frozen in horror.

“No,” he whispers.

“Yes,” Jeonghan replies, already pulling out his phone and opening a screenshot with the speed of someone who absolutely has receipts organized in labeled folders. “Lookie here. kim_mingyu liked your photo — posted 2 years ago. Timestamp? 1:47AM.”

“I’m going to set fire to your pillow,” Mingyu says, "How did you even get that?"

“I stole Wonwoo's phone,” Jeonghan muses, flipping the screen so Mingyu can see the cursed notification, “But to be fair, it’s a nice photo. Wonwoo looked happy. Candid. Natural lighting. Very... unscrollable, I guess.”

“Jeonghan.”

“It’s just interesting,” Jeonghan says brightly, ignoring the warning in Mingyu’s tone. “How you, local influencer for brunch pics and sleepy dog photos, were suddenly struck with the uncontrollable urge to like a random post from two years ago.”

Mingyu launches a pillow at him.

Jeonghan dodges with infuriating grace and adds, “It’s okay. We all get curious at 1AM. Some people online shop. Some of us read fanfiction. And then some people scroll so far back they fall into the abyss of their acquaintance’s Instagram and smash the like button like the rent is due.”

“I mis-tapped!”

“You scrolled six columns deep.”

“I was bored.”

“Right,” Jeonghan says, unbothered. “Just say you are down bad.”

“I am not—”

Jeonghan leans in, eyes wide with innocence. “Do you want a matching shirt? We’re doing limited editions. Seungkwan’s shirt says ‘YOU CAN’T UNSCROLL THE PAST.’”

Mingyu is already halfway off the couch, arms raised because if no one stops him, he’s about to body-slam Jeonghan. But he should’ve known better. Mingyu thought the printed shirts were the finale. Turns out, if you are friends with Jeonghan, that was just the opening act.

The real ambush came later—on a perfectly normal day, when his guard was down. They’re all sitting together at one of the long campus lunch tables. Someone—probably Soonyoung—insisted on a full group meal in between classes, and now trays are scattered, the table's loud, and everyone’s halfway into their food comas.

Wonwoo is seated across from Mingyu. Composed. Quiet. Not looking at anyone in particular, but Mingyu feels watched anyway.

He’s not even sure why he’s acting this twitchy. It’s just lunch. Normal lunch. Among friends. Nothing to hide. Absolutely nothing.

Across the table, Jeonghan tears open a packet of seaweed and goes, “So, Wonwoo—how’s that robot thing going?”

Wonwoo blinks. “You mean our capstone project?”

“Yes, that one,” Seungkwan supplies with a beaming grin. “The one from your recent post. I heard it's really... firm in its purpose.”

Mingyu, who had been comfortably zoning out mid-kimbap bite, suddenly feels a chill crawl up his spine.

Wonwoo shrugs, ever-serene. “It’s just a basic sorting mechanism. It separates based on material density. Still working on the accuracy.”

Jeonghan continues, “Wait, Mingyu, don’t you know how to design things? Architecture and engineering, they’re kinda cousins, right? Maybe you can help with Wonwoo’s capstone?”

Mingyu makes a sound. It's somewhere between a scoff and a squeak. “I—what? No. I mean. Kind of, but not really,” he says too quickly. “I build models, not robots. And Wonwoo’s like, way beyond my lane.”

“Well,” Jeonghan muses, “You seemed really interested with that project. Didn’t you like that post the minute it went up?”

Mingyu freezes, kimbap halfway to his mouth. He blinks at Jeonghan. Once. Twice.

“I was scrolling,” he says flatly.

“Mm,” Jeonghan nods solemnly. “And just happened to pause on a robot photo for—what was it?—twelve full seconds?”

Mingyu glares at him with the fury of a thousand imploded models. “I was only looking at it…structurally.”

Wonwoo looks mildly surprised. “You’re interested in robotics?”

“Absolutely not,” Mingyu says. “I mean—yes. I mean. It’s good to know stuff.”

Wonwoo tilts his head slightly, turning to Mingyu. “You wanna see the revised schematic?”

Mingyu stares at him, eyes wide, brain buffering.

“No,” he blurts. Then backpedals. “I mean—yes. Sure. Later. Or never. It’s chill. Very chill.”

Jeonghan hums as he sets his drink down, eyes flicking between the two of them like he’s narrating a nature documentary. “Wow,” he says casually, “The foundation of a strong friendship—academic intimacy. So beautiful.”

Seungkwan doesn’t miss a beat. “You should totally see the revised schematic,” he nudges Mingyu, "It's a great team-building exercise."

Mingyu glares at his roommate.

Jeonghan taps his chin, pretending to ponder. "And when you guys brainstorm, maybe you can post it on Instagram, too," he says thoughtfully. "You know. Keep the tradition alive."

Mingyu nearly stabs himself in the cheek with his chopsticks. “I swear to god.”

Jeonghan and Seungkwan exchange a look. That terrifying, synchronized telepathy only best friends—or demons—possess. Then they laugh.

Mingyu shoots them both a warning glare, then side-eyes Wonwoo. Just to check. Just to see if he’s picked up on whatever the hell this is.

But Wonwoo just goes back to his food. Calm. Composed. Eating like he’s reviewing the terms and conditions of his rice. Unbothered. Possibly amused. Impossible to tell. Because he’s Wonwoo. And Mingyu hasn’t unlocked that level of gameplay yet.

Chapter Text

Mingyu’s dorm looks like it’s been declared a disaster zone by the UN. Drafting tools litter every surface. Floor plans are stacked in uneven towers that defy the laws of physics. His sketchbooks are fanned out like a desperate tarot reading. Somewhere in the corner lies the crumbling skeleton of what used to be his will to live.

He's a mess. Hoodie falling off one shoulder, socks mismatched, and hands permanently stained with graphite and eraser dust. For the past four hours, he’s alternated between redrawing the same stupid wall section and whisper-screaming into a throw pillow.

And he's starving.

The only thing tethering him to this earthly realm is the cursed, microwave-abused, campus-famous apple pie. That sweet, soggy miracle of artificial cinnamon and cafeteria resignation. It is, during plate season, his holy grail.

So he caves. Opens his phone. Messages one (1) reliable demon.

mingyu:
seungkwan please 🙏🙏 if you’re still on campus
can u get me that apple pie thing from the cafe?
i will literally trade you my soul or my kidney

seungkwan:
depends
how much is your soul worth on today's market?

mingyu:
idk like three bucks and a moral crisis
come onnn im DYING here
the plates are due tomorrow and i haven't eaten since lunch

It was supposedly a private conversation for approximately six seconds. Then Seungkwan, as is his God-given right, makes it everyone's problem and messages the group chat.

seungkwan:
@wonwoo hyung can u grab apple pie from the cafe
for @mingyu 😇
he's wilting away in architectural purgatory

Mingyu's heart stops, then immediately begins racing at Olympic-qualifier speed. He fumbles with his phone like it's suddenly transformed into molten lava.

mingyu:
WHAT NO
NOPE
no need. solved the hunger thing. I'm fasting now. for spiritual clarity.
thank u. do not engage.

wonwoo:
i’m already here
i’ll grab it
how many?

Mingyu lets out a sound that’s equal parts printer jam, dying bird, and espresso machine malfunction.

mingyu:
STOP
I REJECT THE PIE
I RENOUNCE CARBS
I DESERVE TO STARVE

jeonghan:
mmm
self-deprecating deflection… textbook stage one of something called l***

mingyu:
sHUT UP
I'M NOT IN STAGE ANYTHING

jeonghan:
its ok
that's textbook denial phase
but also a river in Egypt 😌

Wonwoo doesn't say anything else in the chat. But fifteen minutes later, there's a soft knock on Mingyu's door. Mingyu opens it, ready to combust on the spot. His hair is somehow even messier now, there's a graphite smudge on his cheek, and he's pretty sure he's been wearing the same shirt for two days.

Wonwoo stands there, holding not one but two brown bags. Calm. Casual. A slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I warmed them up," he says, "Got them right before they closed." Wonwoo holds the bags out. “I also got two. Didn’t know how hungry you were.”

“Oh. Uh. Thanks.” Mingyu accepts them like he’s being handed live grenade. “You didn’t have to. That chat was just—”

"It's fine," Wonwoo says, steady as ever. “Good luck with your plates.” He turns to go. But after a few steps, he pauses and glances over his shoulder.

“Oh, if you want anything next time, just tell me directly.” Wonwoo says, voice still calm. “I don’t mind.”

And then he’s gone.

Mingyu stares at the space he left behind like it personally offended him. Or rewired his entire nervous system. Possibly both. Then his phone buzzes.

[1 new message from @junhui]
junhui: uhhhhhhh
junhui: did i just see wonwoo hand-deliver TWO pies outside ur dorm at 11pm
junhui: are u guys secretly dating or is this some kind of public soft launch because WOW

[replying to junhui]
mingyu: DO NOT START
mingyu: IT WAS JUST A PIE
mingyu: from the cafe

But even as he sends the messages, he can't help but notice the pies are still perfectly warm, as if Wonwoo had timed his walk precisely. 

[junhui is typing...]
junhui: ok. okay. chill.
junhui: but like… he walked it to u??
junhui: AND he brought two 😃
junhui: that's not pie, that's a DECLARATION.

[Group Chat]

junhui:
not me catching feelings and it’s not even my pie 😭

seungkwan:
OHHHH HE’S JOINED THE DARK SIDE

jeonghan:
welcome to the war room, jun
love is the goal. sabotage is the method 😌

junhui:
it's giving "will-they-won't-they but the answer is yes, they just don't know it yet"
10/10 storytelling, no notes

mingyu:
I AM GOING TO EAT MY PILLOW

junhui:
do u think wonwoo accepts payment in kisses or will you be invoiced

soonyoung:
wait are we talking about pie or kissing or… is this still about the architecture project

jeonghan:
yes.

mingyu: 
I AM REPORTING THIS CHAT TO CAMPUS SECURITY
AND THE POPE

junhui: 
you think security can stop love? or baked goods?

wonwoo:
he’s got plates to finish. maybe stop spamming

jeonghan: 
@everyone OH MY GOD
HE SPEAKS. 
HE SPEAKS. 
SOMEONE CALL THE PRESS

seungkwan:
NO BECAUSE THE WAY THAT FELT LIKE A THREAT AND A LOVE LETTER???

junhui:
"maybe stop spamming" is the sexiest way to tell someone to shut up
goodnight. i can’t top that.

mingyu:  
OH MY GOD
I AM GOING TO PASS AWAY
IM ACTUALLY GOING TO ASCEND

seungcheol:
i blinked and y’all turned this group chat into a fanfiction
everyone log tf off

soonyoung:
okay but like… who’s actually buying the next pie
is there a rotation

Mingyu slumps forward, forehead thunking against the table. His hair sticks to his drafting paper. His stylus rolls off the edge and clatters to the floor.

This has officially gone off the rails.

He stares at the second pie—half-eaten, sinister in its flaky innocence.

His phone pings again. And again. And again.

Another meme. Another pie joke. Jeonghan’s probably building a conspiracy wall with red string connecting their profile pictures. Jun's already declared the entire incident a hard launch and is taking RSVPs for their wedding. Seungkwan’s rewriting his will to include a pie clause.

And Wonwoo?

Wonwoo just says he’s got plates to finish. Calm. Neutral. Devastating.

Mingyu closes his eyes. As if that’ll help. As if that line isn’t now permanently carved into the inside of his skull. Delivered like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t going to singlehandedly ruin his GPA and emotional stability.

He shovels the last bite of pie into his mouth like it might smother the existential screaming clawing at his ribcage. He chews with the silent, panicked determination of a man trying very hard to pretend this means absolutely nothing.

It’s just pie. Just pie. Just pie.

He repeats it like a prayer. Like a spell.

Like if he says it enough times, it might finally become true.

Chapter Text

The architecture studio is nearly empty, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of stress-induced cardboard cutting. Mingyu is crouched at his drafting station, staring mournfully at a broken piece of his model like it just personally betrayed him. The bastard snapped clean off. Right at the joint.

With nothing else within reach, he grabs the nearest roll of tape and begins wrapping it around the fracture like a first-aid kit for architectural despair.

It is not going well.

He’s mid-wrap, lips pressed into a line of concentrated shame, when the door creaks open behind him.

“I told you it was in here—” Jun’s voice cuts through the silence.

He strides in, flanked by Wonwoo and Soonyoung. Jun beelines straight for the back desk, while Soonyoung is trailing behind with a half-finished bubble tea and a crumpled bag of chips.

“You said you left it by the printer,” Wonwoo says.

“I did!” Jun insists. “Unless it sprouted legs and walked off in protest.”

“Can’t believe we paused Valorant for this,” Soonyoung mutters around a mouthful of chips.

“I said five minutes!” Jun huffs. “You’ll live.”

“Barely. I was about to ace that last round—”

“You were crouched behind a wall the whole time.”

“That’s called tactical patience,” Soonyoung says proudly. “Some of us play like thinkers.”

Wonwoo makes a quiet, amused sound. “Didn’t know camping behind walls for the duration of the game was a recognized war strategy.”

“I stand by it,” Soonyoung says with a shrug. “My K/D ratio, however, does not.”

Jun lets out a victorious “Ha!” as he finally spots his USB poking out from under a pile of foam scraps. He grabs it with a flourish—then freezes mid-step.

“Oh my god,” Jun says, loudly. “Mingyu, you’re here! And wait, are you fixing that with tape?”

Mingyu freezes. “Just temporarily,” he lies. “I’m... prototyping adhesive solutions.”

Jun makes a strangled noise. “You're using masking tape on foam board.”

Before Mingyu can formulate a better excuse, Wonwoo crouches beside the model. He tilts his head, examining the damage with that unreadable engineer look that makes Mingyu want to simultaneously implode and flee the country.

“Did the tape volunteer,” Wonwoo says dryly, “or was it just... conveniently there?”

Mingyu forces a shrug, trying to play it cool. “I’m innovating.”

“...Bold choice.” Wonwoo glances at the crooked edge. “But I think I can help. Is that okay?”

Mingyu blinks. Once, twice. He can’t remember what comes after air because Wonwoo is right there—kneeling, hands steady, offering to fix things like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like it’s not the hottest thing Mingyu’s seen all week.

“Uh. Yeah,” Mingyu stammers, “Sure. Knock yourself out. I mean—don’t. But, like. Yeah.”

Wonwoo doesn’t reply. He straightens up, glances at Jun. “You keep epoxy in your drawer, right?”

“Second one,” Jun answers, far too delighted.

Wonwoo retrieves it with zero fanfare, crouches again, and gets to work. He moves like he’s done this a hundred times—precise, unbothered, totally unaware of the way Mingyu’s thoughts are thrashing over quiet competence and disgusting forearm vein symmetry. Not that he’s staring. He’s very focused on the model. On the foam board. On gravity.

Thirty seconds pass. Maybe a lifetime. Then Wonwoo stands and offers a final glance at the fixed edge. “Don’t use tape next time,” he says, voice low and flat. “Looks confident, but it doesn’t hold.”

Jun, who’s been spectating like he’s got popcorn in one hand and the group chat in the other, lets out a low whistle. “Ohhh my god,” he says. “First pies, now glue? Wonwoo, you’re supporting him in all the major food groups.”

Soonyoung, who’s been chewing the same piece of bubble tea straw this entire time, finally explodes. “WAIT. THAT’S WHAT THE PIE THING WAS ABOUT???”

“WELCOME,” Jun says, arms wide. “TO THE SLOW-BURN.”

“I thought you were joking!” Soonyoung clutches his chest. “I thought the pies were just pies! BUT NOW—he’s actually applying adhesive?! That’s...” he pauses for dramatic effect, “…devotion.”

Mingyu groans and drops his face into his hands. “Why are you like this.”

Jun is already pulling out his phone. “Group chat’s gonna love this. Seungkwan’s gonna combust.”

“Do not text anyone,” Mingyu says, muffled.

Wonwoo, completely unfazed, tosses the epoxy back onto Jun’s desk and starts toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Jun grabs his USB. “Yup. And I’m bringing this to the group chat.”

Soonyoung follows them out, still reeling. “So when he said ‘maybe stop spamming’ …he meant that?”

Jun just cackles. “That was a warning shot. This?” He gestures wildly behind them. “This was a tactical strike.”

Mingyu slumps in his seat like a man whose entire reputation just crumbled alongside his foamboard. He can still taste the pie. And now?

Now he kind of wants to eat the epoxy.

It’s a Friday night, and the setup at Soonyoung’s place looks like a Pinterest-inspired fort made in a hurry: mismatched pillows scattered across the floor, fairy lights strung haphazardly along the curtain rod, and someone (probably Jun) has balanced the projector precariously on two textbooks and a shoebox of Uno cards. Jeonghan has fully draped his legs across Jun and Seungkwan like they're his personal furniture. Mingyu's sprawled on the floor with a throw pillow he's very deliberately not hugging, while Wonwoo sits on the couch behind him—close, quiet, and unnervingly composed.

"Movie's starting in five," Soonyoung announces. "I don't know what it is. I just clicked the thumbnail."

"I hope it's horror," Seungcheol mutters. "So at least my death will be quick."

The lights are dim. The vibes are untrustworthy.

Jeonghan doesn't even look up from his phone when he says, with calculated casualness, "You know what's wild?"

Mingyu instantly freezes. He knows that tone all too well.

"Some people have really been hitting the gym lately," Jeonghan remarks, reaching for more popcorn with practiced nonchalance.

Mingyu's eye twitches.

Seungkwan, sipping his bubble tea like it's fine wine at a tasting, adds, "Oh? Are we discussing the gym selfie phenomenon in this group?"

Jun hums thoughtfully. "If we were, I'd say... some recent posts have been suspiciously informative."

Soonyoung chokes mid-popcorn.

"I'm just saying," Jeonghan says, scrolling through his phone with criminal intent, "some of us have mastered gym lighting. Angles. Biceps. Silent flexing."

Mingyu shifts uncomfortably. "Don't."

Jun nods sagely. "Now that you mention it, I saw a post recently. Really good angles. No caption."

"No way, I saw one too! Like, ten minutes after that first one," Seungkwan gasps, nearly spilling his drink. "Wait—do you think it's a thirst trap call-and-response??"

Soonyoung chuckles. "More like secret mating ritual."

Jun snorts. "Secret? Please. That was public transportation. That was thirst trapping in real time. That was organized crime."

Jeonghan, looking far too pleased with himself, hums innocently. "It's fascinating, really. How one gym post was immediately followed by another... almost like the gym is particularly packed on Tuesdays. Crazy coincidence."

Seungkwan fans himself with a napkin. "So tragic when your totally unrelated gym selfie accidentally syncs up with someone else's. Could happen to anyone."

Mingyu, red in the face, nearly flips the table. "I SWEAR TO GOD—"

Wonwoo, cool and collected as ever, says from the couch, "You guys talk about biceps a lot for people who don't gym."

It's clearly aimed at Jeonghan and Seungkwan. Dry. Effortless. Completely unbothered.

Jeonghan immediately gasps like he's been personally victimized. "EXCUSE ME? Is that targeted slander?"

Seungkwan clutches his bubble tea like it's a stress ball. "Wow. Attacked in my own popcorn circle."

Jun, eyes glinting, adds with a grin, "Interesting that Wonwoo's suddenly paying attention to biceps."

Mingyu stiffens so fast it’s like he got hit with a factory reset.

Jeonghan narrows in like a hawk. "Selective surveillance. Very science fair of you."

"Body recomp analysis in real time. We see you, coach." Soonyoung grins and the four of them collapse into laughter so violently it’s not classified as laughter anymore—it’s the sound of demons celebrating a blood pact.

Mingyu prays for a sinkhole to open beneath his feet.

And then—

The movie plays. Everyone's focus immediately shifts to the screen—like the conversation that just liquefied Mingyu’s spine never even happened. There's dramatic music, someone screaming on-screen, maybe a monster in a trench coat—Mingyu couldn't say. His brain is still back there, trying to recover from verbal whiplash and spiritual combustion. Everyone falls into movie plot discussion and banter.

He keeps his eyes forward. Doesn't turn around. Definitely does not check if Wonwoo is still sipping from his drink like he didn't just send the entire room spiraling with a single sentence.

Mingyu exhales. They're finally back to letting him eat popcorn in peace. He realizes though that the popcorn bowl is nowhere near him. Typical. Seungkwan hoards it like it's currency. He leans over, reaches blindly to the side where the spare bowl sits on the coffee table—

—at the same time Wonwoo does.

Their hands collide.

Skin on skin. Fingers brushing.

Warm. Startlingly warm. The kind of warmth that ripples through your chest like you've swallowed a tiny sun. 

Mingyu jolts like someone just tased him. A tremor he felt from his fingertips to the ends of his hair.

Wonwoo doesn't flinch. He just... pauses. Like he's thinking about it. Just long enough for Mingyu's brain to commit it to permanent memory.

"You act like I bite," he just says, voice even, casual.

That's it. No smile. No smirk. Just... a question.

But the implication. The implication sinks into Mingyu like a heartbeat out of rhythm.

His breath catches. He forgets what a movie is.

No one else catches it. They're too busy arguing about plot holes.

Mingyu turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

Wonwoo meets his eyes. He’s still seated on the couch—technically above Mingyu. The way he looks down at him is piercing. Controlled.

There’s something about the angle—like he’s assessing Mingyu from a higher plane, like he could end him with a single word and still have time to finish his drink.

It shouldn’t be hot.

But it is. God, it is.

Mingyu swallows. "Do you?" he whispers before he can stop himself.

Wonwoo doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smirk. Just says, quiet and even, "Would it matter?"

Mingyu makes a noise. It might be a laugh. It might be a prayer. It might be the exact moment he loses his goddamn mind.

Then someone throws a gummy worm at the screen and the conversation shifts again.

Mingyu doesn’t move for the duration of the movie.

Because whatever this is?

It’s not harmless anymore.

Chapter Text

They should've known better.

Anytime Jeonghan starts a sentence with "For my elective—", it ends in emotional carnage and someone crying into a bag of chips. But it's a lazy Sunday, the friend group's lounging in the dorm lounge, and Jeonghan's tone is deceptively innocent when he announces:

"I need help with a psych assignment. Just a short survey. Very chill. Super normal."

Jun squints at him. "Is this like last time when you made us play 'Trust Fall But With Secrets'?"

"Nope. This is different." Jeonghan beams. "It's just a partner activity. Answer three questions with your assigned buddy."

Mingyu doesn't think much of the ‘survey’ until Jeonghan reads off the pairings.

"Cheol with Jun. Seungkwan and Soonyoung. And..." Jeonghan's eyes glinted with mischief, "Mingyu and Wonwoo."

Mingyu's soul exits his body as Jeonghan hands out folded paper slips labeled “Jeonghan’s Totally Legit Psychology Survey™” and leans back like he’s observing a sociological experiment. Which, to be fair, he is.

Across from him, Wonwoo scrolls idly on his phone, looking perfectly unbothered. The dim light glints off the rim of his glasses, and Mingyu—already sweating—makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. He looks away immediately. Abort mission. This was never safe. I'm already emotionally concussed and the survey hasn’t started.

Question 1: What kind of person makes you nervous?

The silence in the room feels charged as all eyes turn to Mingyu and Wonwoo's corner. Mingyu unfolds their paper with trembling fingers, reads the first question, and chokes. His brain throws up static. He stalls, then blurts:

"Uh. People who are... tall. And quiet. And smart. And have really sharp eyes."

Wonwoo blinks. "…that's specific."

Jun lets out a strangled cough in the background that quickly morphs into hysterical laughter.

Soonyoung cups his hands around his mouth. "Is this a confession or a police sketch?"

"Imagine putting that in a dating profile—‘looking for someone with emotionally damaging eye contact’,” Seungkwan pauses dramatically. "But it’s fine. He already found a pair.”

Then Wonwoo speaks, completely unbothered. “Loud ones. They don’t make me nervous but they’re fun to watch when they’re trying not to be.”

Mingyu jerks his head up.

Seungkwan: “So like... Mingyu?”

Mingyu: “HEY.”

Soonyoung: “THAT WAS A TARGETED HIT.”

Wonwoo doesn’t look at him. He’s already moved to the next question.

Question 2: If you had to be stuck in an elevator with someone here, who would it be?

Mingyu reads the question and immediately regrets every life decision that led him to this moment. His eyes flicker around the room, considering each friend before inevitably landing on Wonwoo.

"Uh..." he begins.

"Oh, this is gonna be good," Seungkwan whispers loudly to Soonyoung, who's already silently cackling.

Mingyu says, "Wonwoo." Then immediately follows it with, "Wait—no. I meant like... from a survival standpoint." Immediate regret. "I mean—logistics! He's smart and he'd stay calm. I panic. It's tactical."

The room erupts in snickers. Jun actually falls off his chair.

Wonwoo calmly says, "I wouldn't mind Mingyu."

The room goes dead silent. Someone—probably Seungkwan—gasps dramatically.

“HELLO???” Soonyoung shouts. “HELLO??? Did everyone hear that or am I having a stroke???”

Mingyu ascends into the drywall, metaphorically speaking. His mouth opens and closes, but no sound emerges.

Jeonghan scribbles in his "notes” which annoyed Mingyu because he just realized Jeonghan’s not even taking a psych class.

Seungcheol mutters, "This feels illegal," but he's leaning forward, clearly invested.

"Can we revisit Wonwoo's answer?" Seungkwan asks, eyes wide. "Because that sounded suspiciously like reciprocation to me."

Wonwoo adjusts his glasses. “He’s tall. If we needed to escape through the ceiling hatch, he’d be useful.”

“Okay but the way you said ‘I wouldn’t mind’ felt illegal,” Seungcheol mutters.

Question 3: What's your love language?

Mingyu stares at the question like it personally offended him. He shoots Jeonghan a betrayed look. Jeonghan simply smiles back, the picture of innocence.

"I believe in you, buddy," Soonyoung calls out encouragingly. "Don't think too hard, just say the first thing that comes to mind!"

Mingyu finally manages, "Acts of service," then panics. "I mean—hypothetically. If I had one. Which I don't. I'm very emotionally unavailable, ask anyone."

"Emotionally unavailable?" Seungkwan repeats skeptically. "Bro literally cried for twenty minutes when we watched that dog food commercial."

"He makes breakfast for everyone before 7 AM lectures," Soonyoung adds.

"And remembers how everyone likes their coffee," Seungcheol chimes in.

Wonwoo: "Quality time."

He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it takes a moment for everyone to process. There's no qualification, no backtracking, no embarrassed explanation.

Jun, gleeful, shouts from across the room: "THEY'RE COMPATIBLE, YOUR HONOR!"

Jeonghan's smile grows wider and pretends to take notes again.

Question 4: If you had to give one compliment to your partner right now, what would it be?

"Wait, I thought there were only three questions," Mingyu protests weakly.

"I added some bonus ones," Jeonghan says cheerfully. "For academia."

Mingyu dies completely as he reads the fourth question. The silence is so intense it could power the engineering building. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He opens it again. Still nothing.

"Take your time," Wonwoo says quietly, and somehow that makes it worse.

"Here, I'll go first," Seungkwan offers from his station with Soonyoung. "Soonyoung, you have the energy of three toddlers, but somehow it's endearing rather than exhausting."

"Aw, thanks!" Soonyoung beams. "Seungkwan, your voice is like the audio equivalent of expensive chocolate."

"See? Easy!" Seungkwan gestures to Mingyu. "Your turn. Say something nice about your friend of five years."

Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, messing it up completely. "He's... he's..." He looks at Wonwoo, meets his eyes, and whatever he was about to say evaporates. "Smart," he finishes lamely.

“Wow. Revolutionary,” Seungkwan deadpans.

"Smart," Jun echoes, unimpressed. "That's the best you can do? Not 'his eyes contain universes' or 'his voice makes me question my existence'?"

"Shut up," Mingyu hisses.

Wonwoo, in the most casual tone imaginable, says: "He's a good cook."

"That's it?" Soonyoung looks disappointed.

“He makes the best ramen,” Wonwoo adds. “I don’t eat ramen unless it’s made by him.”

Jun collapses backward onto the couch. “YOU CAN’T JUST DROP THAT AND BE NORMAL,” he yells.

“Why is this the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said in this group?” Seungcheol whispers.

Bonus Question 5: If you had to swap majors with your partner, how would you survive?

By now, Mingyu has given up on maintaining any dignity. "I'd drop out immediately," he says without hesitation. “I’d die. I look at numbers and get vertigo.”

“You literally calculate angles for a living,” Jun points out.

“Aesthetic angles,” Mingyu huffs. “Vibes-based math.”

Wonwoo considers the question seriously. "He'd be fine. He'd figure it out."

No one speaks. For once, even Jeonghan is silent.

Then Soonyoung whispers, “I need to go lie down.”

Bonus Question 6: If you could date someone in the friend group, who would it be?

Mingyu stares at the paper like it just slapped him. “Nope,” he says instantly. “Absolutely not answering that.”

“Oh yes, you are,” Jeonghan says, delighted. “This is the final round. The grand finale. You have to answer.”

“Nope,” Mingyu says immediately. “I’m out. That’s a trap. That’s an actual, government-issued trap.”

“You answered all the other ones,” Jeonghan says innocently. “This is just natural progression.”

“I’ll go first,” Soonyoung volunteers brightly, completely unfazed. “Jun. He’s the type to remember your food orders and would never let you post cringe alone.”

“As for me, I’d pick Wonwoo,” Seungkwan says immediately. “Mysterious. Beautiful. Doesn’t talk much but when he does it ruins your life in a good way. Honestly, he can ruin my life.”

Seungcheol nods, “Wonwoo’s a solid pick. No small talk. Just stares at you like you’re a puzzle he enjoys.”

Mingyu nearly chokes on air. “I don’t even know why you’re all entertaining this—”

“And Jun?” Jeonghan says.

“Seungcheol,” Jun responds, “He gives ‘would know how to use a sword’ vibes.”

Mingyu tries to make himself invisible. It doesn’t work.

Everyone turns to him.

“No,” he says again.

“You have to answer,” Jeonghan sing-songs.

“It’s dumb.”

“Mingyu,” Jeonghan says, voice dipped in fake innocence. “Your turn.”

Jun raises an eyebrow. “Come on. It’s just a scientific survey.”

Seungkwan: “You’ve survived worse. Say a name.”

Mingyu opens his mouth.

Closes it again.

And then—without thinking, without blinking—his eyes flicker to Wonwoo.

He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t need to. And the chaos pounces.

“OH MY GOD,” Seungkwan breathes.

“YOU’RE LOOKING AT HIM,” Jun screeches, pointing wildly.

Jeonghan sits up straight. “Is that your answer, Mingyu?”

Mingyu freezes. “WHAT? NO. I WAS JUST—I WAS—FINE.”

“Wonwoo.”

The room explodes.

Soonyoung lets out a dramatic gasp.

Seungkwan howls. “THE WAY YOU PICKED WONWOO WITH YOUR EYES, DAMN.”

Jeonghan stands on a chair and visibly vibrates, “AND THE CROWD GOES MILDLY DERANGED! I KNEW IT! I’M PSYCHIC. I’M VISIONARY. I’M UNBEARABLE.”

Jun flings himself over the back of the couch with such force it looks like he’s been shot. “OH MY GOD. I NEED A MOMENT.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Mingyu blurts, already sweating. “It’s just—”

He’s scrambling. Words flying out like loose paper in a hurricane.

“—I mean, he’s a gamer, so he probably has good WiFi!”

Everyone stares.

“...Which is important in a partner,” he adds weakly. “Good connection. You know.”

They do not know.

“You’re unbelievable,” Seungkwan says, actually wheezing.

Jun adds, “Good WiFi is wild as a romantic reason.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Mingyu says, voice pitching up. “You asked, I answered. Now let me rest. In peace.”

“And Wonwoo?” Jeonghan turns gleefully. “Your rebuttal?”

“Mingyu,” Wonwoo said. “He’d hate not getting picked.”

Jun wheezes.

Soonyoung claps like he’s watching stand-up, “Wait this is so intense.”

“OH MY GOD. I NEED TO SIT DOWN—WAIT, I AM SITTING DOWN—" Seungkwan says.

Jeonghan looks ecstatic.

Mingyu just sits there, stunned, blinking.

From across the room, Seungcheol watches with growing horror. He slowly takes out his phone.

seungcheol:
i know this survey is fake
i just didn’t know it would be this effective
jeonghan you’re terrifying

jeonghan:
😌 welcome to the fanclub
we’ve been expecting you

The lights are off. The room is quiet, save for the gentle hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of traffic filtering through the thin dorm windows. And then Mingyu sits up in bed like he's just been personally targeted by a sniper, sheets rustling loudly in the midnight stillness. His heart hammers against his ribcage, the realization hitting him. "Did you hear what he said?" he hisses into the dark, voice cutting through the silence.

Across the room, Seungkwan groans, the sound muffled by his pillow. The soft creak of his mattress betrays his irritation as he shifts position. "No. And I'm begging you not to start this right now."

Mingyu ignores him, his mind racing, replaying the scene over and over like a broken record. "He said, 'he'd hate not getting picked.'"

Seungkwan sighs deeply, the exhale seeming to deflate his entire body. "Yes. And?"

Mingyu whips his blanket off dramatically, the material making a soft whooshing sound as it flies through the air. "AND? What does that mean?! Is that an insult? Is he saying I'm insecure? That I need constant validation?!"

There's a beat of silence. Then, very gently, Seungkwan says, "Well, you do need constant validation.”

"I—THAT'S NOT THE POINT." Mingyu's voice cracks, bouncing off the walls of their small shared room.

Seungkwan flips on the lamp, the sudden warm light flooding the space, revealing the chaos of their dorm room—clothes strewn over chairs, textbooks piled on desks, empty ramen cups balancing precariously on the windowsill. He squints at Mingyu, eyes adjusting to the light, hair sticking up at odd angles. "Then what is the point, your honor?"

Mingyu flails, arms gesturing wildly, casting dramatic shadows on the wall behind him. His face is flushed, eyes wide with the particular brand of late-night existential panic. "It's—he said it so casually! Like he didn't just psychoanalyze me in front of everyone! Like he's got me figured out!"

"...because he does," Seungkwan mutters, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "You moron."

"What?" Mingyu freezes, arms still mid-flail.

Seungkwan sits up in bed, wide awake now, the sleepiness evaporating from his features, replaced by an intense focus. His eyes sparkle with judgment. The sheets pool around his waist as he leans forward, his posture shifting into what his friends call his "reality check" stance.

"Listen to me," he says, voice clear and deliberate in the still night air. "You know why I picked Wonwoo? Because he sees people. Not just stares at them with his sharp eyes. He sees them." He taps his temple significantly. "And God, I hate how smart he is. You know, he had two good reasons why he picked you."

Mingyu blinks, "What are you saying?" His voice is smaller now.

Seungkwan rolls his eyes so dramatically it's almost audible. "One, because he knows you. That comment wasn’t a dig. That wasn’t a joke. That was him saying, I know you’d pout if no one picked you, so I’m picking you first. Without a pause. Without fanfare. Just. Fact."

"And two," Seungkwan continues, undeterred, "Because that was him saying it out loud. Like a statement. Like a move on the chessboard."

He leans forward, eyes gleaming with the fervor of someone who's been waiting to deliver this speech. He's fully in monologue mode now: "Picking you was perfect. Subtle. Public. Unbothered. He didn't have to make it a thing. He just said your name like it was logical. Like you were the obvious choice."

The words hang in the air between them, weighty and significant. Outside, a car passes by, its headlights briefly illuminating the room through the blinds, adding a dramatic sweep of light across the walls.

"It was smart. Calculated. Like he sat there, thought, 'how do I say this without saying this?' and then did. It was a masterclass. I'd teach it in seminars." Seungkwan's voice drops to an almost reverent whisper. "I've never hated a man so respectfully in my life."

Mingyu is silent, his expression frozen somewhere between panic and subtle confusion.

Seungkwan places a hand over his heart, the gesture theatrically sincere in the warm lamplight. "Honestly? The quiet romance of that? I'm gonna throw up."

"And don’t even get me started on the way you looked at him before you answered," Seungkwan adds, scoffing, the sound cutting through the thick atmosphere. "God. You answered with your eyeballs. You soft-launched a relationship with your pupils."

"Stop," Mingyu croaks, voice barely above a whisper, as if the weight of this revelation is physically crushing him.

"It's disgusting," Seungkwan says, flinging a pillow at him with surprising accuracy. The soft projectile hits Mingyu square in the chest before dropping into his lap. "I love it. I hate it. I want to document it in a thesis. I want to scrub it from my memory. You're doomed. Wonwoo's too powerful."

Mingyu clutches the pillow, fingers digging into the soft fabric. "You think he actually meant it?"

Seungkwan gives him a withering look, one eyebrow raised so high it nearly disappears into his hairline. The lamp casts dramatic shadows across his face, emphasizing his expression of utter disbelief. "You think Wonwoo does anything he doesn't mean?"

Chapter Text

University Week doesn't feel organized so much as it feels unleashed. There are no classes. No labs. In their place: overcooked hot dogs, war crimes disguised as competitive sports, and interdepartmental beef so bitter they could start a small civil war.

By 9 a.m., the student center has sprouted a wrestling ring, three competing smoothie stands, and people in banana costumes selling churros. Hand-painted banners whip between buildings. Music blasts from a speaker someone duct-taped to a tree.

Mingyu walks through it all, iced Americano in hand, mind elsewhere.

Architecture just lost the volleyball championship match. And while he technically wasn’t on the team this year—chose to step down as Captain to focus on final projects and thesis deadline—the sting still hits. Call it his Architecture pride. A bruised one.

As he passes the chaos, he takes in the festival layout. It’s half-baked at best, with booths sprouting up in new locations like mushrooms after rain. To his left: the Pet-a-Professor Booth, which is definitely just a cardboard cutout of the Dean wearing a feather boa, guarded by a very nervous Events volunteer and a sign that reads: “Please be respectful. He has tenure." Someone is trying to feed it kettle corn.

Across the path: Free Therapy...ish. A weary Sociology major offers emotional insight in exchange for yogurt drinks. Their current client is lying dramatically on the grass saying, “No, but like… what if my attachment issues are just capitalism?”

And near the corn dog cart, tucked almost out of sight, sits what looks like a half-constructed cell made of PVC pipe and zip ties, with a laminated sign taped to one side: Jail Booth. You do the crime, you do the time. No one seems to know who authorized it, but it’s already drawing a crowd.

Nestled between a suspiciously aggressive popcorn stand and a face-painting station: the Dedication Booth. A flimsy white tent crowned with bubblegum-pink balloons, bobbing in the breeze. The concept is simple:

• Write an anonymous message.
• Sign it however you want.
• An exhausted Events Committee member reads it aloud over the PA system for everyone on campus to hear.

It was supposed to be wholesome—declarations of friendship, appreciation for professors, maybe an occasional innocent crush confession. Naturally, it becomes weaponized by Mingyu’s friends by Day 2.

And right on cue—because of course the universe runs on Jeonghan Standard Time™—the campus speakers burst alive, static slicing through the ambient chatter of passing students.

"This next dedication goes to Jeon Wonwoo of Mechanical Engineering…"

Mingyu freezes mid-step, coffee suspended halfway to his lips, suddenly aware of how public the walkway feels.

"Wonwoo, you said your love language was quality time. Just saying—mine's panic. Let's meet in the middle.” —From: not the guy who cried during the fake psych survey

"What."

The word escapes his lips as a strangled whisper. His phone vibrates against his thigh with an urgency that matches his quickening pulse. With dread pooling in his stomach, he fishes it out to find the group chat already detonating with notifications.

soonyoung:
AAAAAAAAAA THEY READ IT
THEY'RE READING THEM OUT LOUD
WONWOO GOT ONE

seungkwan:
NOT THE FAKE PSYCH SURVEY AHAHAHAHA

mingyu:
WONWOO I DIDN'T WRITE THAT
I MEAN I WAS THERE
BUT IT WASN'T ME

jun:
"mine's panic" is so mingyu-coded
wdym it aint u lol

The speakers emit another harsh crackle that makes nearby freshmen wince. Mingyu's fingers tighten around his phone.

“To Wonwoo. You said, ‘I can fix your model,’ and somehow I heard, ‘I’m yours.’ Please stop knowing where the glue is.” —From: someone definitely not using masking tape anymore

mingyu:
THAT WAS JUN OR SOONYOUNG
I would never say that
I mean I COULD but I DIDN'T

“To Wonwoo: The pie was still warm. You looked me in the eyes when you handed them over. If that wasn’t foreplay, what was it?” —From: man who said ‘thanks bro’ but actually meant ‘I’ll take your last name if you ask nicely’

seungkwan:
MINGYU.
MINGYU BE HONEST
FOREPLAY?????

mingyu:
WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY
I DID NOT WRITE IT

jeonghan:
you're the only one who knows the pie was still warm??
BITCH CAUGHT IN 4K

jun:
do we bring pie to the wedding or are we past symbolism now

mingyu:
THAT WAS NOT ME
JUN WAS THERE TOO
THAT WAS DEFINITELY JUN
BECAUSE I WOULD NEVER SAY THAT OUT LOUD

seungkwan:
out loud?
so ONLY IN YOUR HEAD THEN

The walkway buzzes with laughter—students slowing down mid-step, pausing mid-conversation, heads turning toward the speaker as the announcements roll on. After each one, a wave of amused laughter and commentary.

Mingyu contemplates hurling himself behind the nearest recycling bin, but his body’s gone into full betrayal—locked knees, frozen feet, jaw tensed like he’s bracing for impact.

No one’s looking at him funny. Yet.

The only people who could know what those dedications are about?

His so-called friends—who probably meet twice a week in a candlelit basement to script whatever fanfiction trope they’ve decided his life is in.

“Wonwoo. Your most liked post is now from two years ago. I tripped and fell into your archives. That’s not on me. That’s on your face.” —From: late night liker

soonyoung:
LATE NIGHT LIKER IS AN INSANE ALIAS
WHOEVER WROTE THAT IS GOING TO HELL
AND I'LL BE DRIVING THE BUS

mingyu:
IT WAS AN ACCIDENTAL LIKE
THE POST WAS TWO YEARS OLD
WHY IS THAT STILL A THING

seungkwan:
you're sweating through your shirt aren't you

jun:
i can feel the flinch in every sentence

A passing student glances at him with something like pity—has his mortification become visible despite the codenames? He attempts to arrange his face into neutrality but feels his ears burning traitorously red.

"To: Wonwoo. If anyone asks again what your love language is, they can choke. Your love language is the ramen I make." —From: definitely not mingyu

Mingyu's fingers tremble as he types, knuckles whitening.

jun:
OH MY GOD
OH MY GOD
OH MY GODDDDDD

soonyoung:
NOT THE R A M E N????

mingyu:
WHO DID THAT
WHO SIGNED IT LIKE THAT
WHO GAVE ME UP FOR DEAD

seungkwan:
i have no regrets
BAHAHAHAHA

"To: Wonwoo. Your back looked great today. Unrelated. Just thought the campus PA should know." —From: kim mingyu kim mingyu kim mingyu kim mingyu (do NOT read aloud)

seungkwan:
NO BECAUSE—
DID YOU JUST COMPLIMENT HIS BACK ON THE CAMPUS SPEAKER SYSTEM???

mingyu:
THAT
WASN'T
ME
WONWOO PLEASE

mingyu:
I'm literally being targeted
this is character assassination

seungkwan:
the way he used "please"

soonyoung:
r u crying

Mingyu lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding—and that’s exactly when the speakers buzz back to life. Because of course they do. God has jokes.

“This is Jaehyun from the Events Committee. I’m legally obligated to read these dedications without side commentary—but I just read ‘Your back looked great today’ and I need everyone to know…”

A pause. A deep, audible inhale like Jaehyun is going through it.

“…This is why we can’t have free speech.”

seungkwan:
HAHAHAHA NOT JAEEEEHYUNNNNNNN DRAGGING HIM LIVEEEE

soonyoung:
PA JAEHYUN I OWE YOU MY LIFE

jun:
what if i print this on a shirt "your back looked great today"

jeonghan:
THAT SIDE COMMENT HAD ME IN TEARS
THAT WAS A PUBLIC EXECUTION

The world narrows—just the screen in his hand, Jaehyun’s voice crackling through a nearby speaker, and static roaring somewhere behind his eyes.

And out there, across campus—under string lights and department banners and the chaos University Week is trying to pass off as charm—Wonwoo exists.

Probably standing still. Probably listening.

Mingyu’s mouth goes dry. His spine forgets how to hold him upright.

Because what if Wonwoo heard those words. Then they’re going to be in his ears now. In his brain. Mingyu is going to die. Actually die. And then die again from the echo of the stupid speaker system.

jeonghan:
GUYS SHUT UP SHUT UPPPPP
WONWOO JUST
SMILED
I FEAR I’M GONNA PASS OUT
SEUNGCHEOL GET ME SALTS
I’VE NEVER SEEN HIM USE THAT MUSCLE GROUP
EVER
AND I WAS THERE WHEN HE WAS BORN

jun:
I THOUGHT THAT EMOTION WAS JUST A THEORY
LIKE PLUTO

seungkwan:
OH MY GOD
THAT'S WONWOO LANGUAGE FOR "CONFIRMED, THANK YOU, NEXT QUESTION"

soonyoung:
wait wait wait
i need confirmation
are we talking full smile???
or like. wonwoo smile™?
you know. the 0.2 second twitch of his upper lip

jeonghan:
NO
IT WAS TEETH
I SAW INCISORS

jeonghan:
GOOD GOD
HE REALLY FUCKING SMILED
I FELT IT IN MY TEETH

seungkwan:
YOU THINK THIS IS A JOKE
BUT I AM PRINTING STICKERS

seungcheol:
why do i open this chat and immediately regret it

mingyu: 
I AM RIGHT HERE
AND I DID NOTHING
PLEASE STOP

jeonghan:
you did everything
you wrote poetry
you fed him ramen
you publicly thirsted after his back
and now he's smiling at the ghost of your crimes

soonyoung:
do we think wonwoo is secretly submitting these dedications
like a plot twist?

jun:
no way. too soft. he'd rather explode.

mingyu:
CAN WE FOCUS ON THE DEFAMATION PLEASE
I AM BEING FRAMED

wonwoo:
so you're saying
if I asked who thinks my back looked good… no one in this chat would speak up?

soonyoung:
OH MY GODDDDDDD

jun:
IS THAT A FLIRT
IS THAT A FLIRT

jeonghan:
OH THAT'S A FLIRT BABY

soonyoung:
MINGYU BLINK TWICE IF YOU'RE STILL ALIVE
WONWOO JUST WENT FULL ALPHA

seungkwan:
NO ONE TOUCH ME
I'M HAVING A RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE

seungcheol:
i hate it here but i also want more

jeonghan: 
i'm shaking 
wonwoo really said "so who wants to confess" with his entire chest

mingyu: 
I'M FILING LEGAL ACTION AGAINST THIS GROUP CHAT 
AGAINST THE PA SYSTEM 
AND THE PERSON WHOSE BACK SHALL NO LONGER BE REFERENCED IN PUBLIC NO ONE IS SAFE

seungkwan:
MINGYU JUST SAY THANK YOU AND PASS OUT GRACEFULLY

Mingyu doesn’t know how long he’s been standing here.

Seconds? Minutes? A full presidential term?

Time has lost all meaning.

He should move. Walk. Run. Dig a hole in the turf and legally change his name to "Not Mingyu." But his feet aren’t cooperating. His lungs are on strike.

Because what do you mean Wonwoo smiled?

During that?

During those messages??

Mingyu feels his soul leave his body for the fourth time today. There’s nothing left. He is a very tall corpse with excellent bone structure and a deeply violated sense of personal privacy. His fingers are trembling. His ears are ringing. His brain is screaming in six languages and three dialects.

Does Wonwoo know that he’s not in on the joke? That the joke was on them both?

Mingyu doesn’t know. He never knows with Wonwoo.

With him, it always feels like he’s the only one who didn’t get the script.

But at least he knows this: he is never trusting campus-wide PA systems again. Ever.

He needs to lie down.

No. First, he needs to punch something.

Then lie down.

Then maybe send Jeonghan a restraining order.

If he lives that long.

Chapter Text

It’s Day 3 of University Week and Mingyu has entered the bargaining stage of grief—that special purgatory between denial and acceptance where logic crawls away to die.

He's spent the last twenty-four hours perfecting the noble art of Disappearing™—creeping around like a B-grade horror movie extra, avoiding the Dedication Booth, avoiding the entire campus population, avoiding the memes, avoiding his own reflection, because his ramen and Wonwoo's back had now become a campus meme.

It should have been easy. The campus is a concrete maze, with students swarming every walkway like ants chasing a sugar spill. Every spare inch of ground has been populated by some event or another. In theory, a man could vanish for days, reinvent himself, sell handcrafted jewelry under a pseudonym, and no one would know.

But not if you had friends like Mingyu’s.

His friends had somehow cornered him by the volleyball courts and now he’s being physically dragged across campus by Seungkwan and Jun, his sneakers leaving trenches in the grass, while Jeonghan struts ahead with an actual megaphone that somehow amplifies both noise and judgment.

Because today is E-Games Championship.

Mechanical Engineering versus Architecture.

Both departments have assembled teams of five. Custom jerseys. Headsets. Streamed live on two thirty-foot LED screens in the middle of the school’s football field, with audio so loud you can hear every cursed voice line from every player's mouth.

"IT’S DAY THREE, MINGYU. WONWOO IS PLAYING TODAY," Jeonghan yells through the megaphone, "DO YOUR CIVIC DUTY.”

"I’m boycotting," Mingyu mutters, digging his heels into the turf. "On moral grounds."

"So dramatic," Jun says, deadpanning. “You're flinching like you're about to get drafted when it's literally just your crush playing Minecraft with guns.”

"Shut up, he's not my crush," Mingyu hisses.

Jeonghan lifts the megaphone again and says, voice distorted and way too loud, "Mingyu says it’s not a crush, it’s a lifestyle."

"Bro’s in his marriage arc and still in denial,” Seungkwan adds brightly.

"You’re all going to hell," Mingyu says, resigned, as he’s frog-marched toward the bleachers like a prisoner of love and poor life choices.

And that’s how Mingyu ends up squashed between them in the front row of the bleachers. Seungcheol and Soonyoung joined them a few minutes later, lugging snacks and water bottles.

"We just passed by Wonwoo’s team," Soonyoung says, plopping down beside Seungkwan and cracking open a soda. "Dude looks like he’s about to wipe the floor with Archi and then politely hold the door open for them afterward."

"He’s not even warming up," Seungcheol adds, tossing a bottle of water into Mingyu’s frozen lap. "Man’s radiating ‘I only need one bullet’ energy."

Then Mingyu’s phone buzzes.

A new DM.

From Wonwoo.

@jeon.wonwoo:
where are you

Mingyu freezes like he’s just been served a subpoena. In five years of mutual friend group nonsense, they had never actually messaged each other. Not once. Not even a “like” emoji.

And suddenly Wonwoo chooses today?

This lifetime?

This exact emotional low point?

Why now???

Why this tone???

Is he mad???

Is he not mad???

Is he trying to locate Mingyu to deliver a cease and desist letter in person???

Mingyu contemplates throwing his phone into the cotton candy machine.

Instead, with the trembling dignity of a man clinging to the last shreds of his sanity, he types back.

@kim_mingyu:
dead in a ditch
ty for asking

@jeon.wonwoo:
that's not an answer

@kim_mingyu:
somewhere you can't find me 😌

@jeon.wonwoo:
pretty sure i could
you’re bad at hiding

@kim_mingyu:
excuse me???
i am EXCELLENT at hiding
i’m a human chameleon

A minute later, Mingyu’s phone buzzes again.

Wonwoo sends a photo. Blurry and crooked. Obviously taken from across the field where the players are stationed. In it, Mingyu is painfully visible—looming a head taller than everyone else on the front-row bleachers.

@jeon.wonwoo:
hiding champion

@kim_mingyu:
DELETE THAT RIGHT NOW
VIOLATION OF PRIVACY
I'M CALLING CAMPUS SECURITY

@jeon.wonwoo:
they can’t help you
i’d find you first

@kim_mingyu:
🧍

@jeon.wonwoo:
you know we're totally on opposite ends of the social spectrum

@kim_mingyu:
??? uh ok random
but like yeah wbk
you’re the human version of a "no talking" sign taped to a vending machine

@kim_mingyu:
and i’m like
idk
the human version of a fire drill

@jeon.wonwoo:
fair enough

@jeon.wonwoo:
but still you like confessing things publicly
over the campus PA system apparently

@jeon.wonwoo:
i’d prefer if you just say it to my face

@kim_mingyu:
STOPPPPP OH MY GOD
THAT WASN’T ME
I HAVE RIGHTS

@jeon.wonwoo:
sure
but the ramen comment was valid though

@jeon.wonwoo:
it is my love language now btw

@kim_mingyu:
SHUT UP STOP TARGETING ME
I MADE RAMEN FOR THE WHOLE HOUSEHOLD
LIKE JESUS WITH THE BREAD

@jeon.wonwoo:
sure
but you always add extra egg to mine

@kim_mingyu:
I ADD EXTRA EGG FOR EVERYONE

@jeon.wonwoo:
really?
you gave seungkwan one egg

@kim_mingyu:
THAT WAS A SUPPLY CHAIN ISSUE
GLOBAL EGG SHORTAGE
LOOK IT UP

@jeon.wonwoo:
hm

@jeon.wonwoo:
so what you're saying is
you rationed your love for everyone else
but not for me

@kim_mingyu:
I SWEAR TO GOD I AM LOGGING OFF

@jeon.wonwoo:
the warm pie one was nice poetry too
would you really take my last name if i asked nicely?

@kim_mingyu:
IT WASN’T ME
WHY CAN’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT
I'M GOING TO SCREAM

@jeon.wonwoo:
fine
i’ll let you keep pretending like you actually wouldn’t say yes

@kim_mingyu:
I WOULDN’T
YOU CAN’T JUST SAY THINGS AND EXPECT ME TO FOLD
THIS IS A DEMOCRACY

@jeon.wonwoo:
are you staying for the championship?

@kim_mingyu:
i have no choice
i’m being held at gunpoint
and architecture needs my support

@kim_mingyu:
i gotta say
THIS IS AN UNFAIR FIGHT
your team is cracked

@jeon.wonwoo:
archi has two guys who used to compete professionally

@kim_mingyu:
oh
you should be scared then :p

@jeon.wonwoo:
nope
i don’t miss

@kim_mingyu:
OK JOHN WICK

@kim_mingyu:
WHY ARE YOU EVEN TEXTING ME
THE GAME IS ABOUT TO START

@jeon.wonwoo:
gtg
don’t disappear again
i was looking for you

Mingyu lowers his phone, heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. His palms are sweating. His brain feels like it's buffering at 2% capacity.

On the field, the players are now being called to the front one-by-one. Jerseys flashing under the lights. Energy buzzing like an electric fence. People are screaming. Mingyu barely registers any of it.

Because—what the actual hell.

Talking to Wonwoo was easy. Too easy.

Like breathing. Like blinking. Like some evolutionary reflex he never learned but always had.

And that’s the problem. It shouldn't have been easy. It should've been weird or awkward or painfully polite like it always was before.

But it wasn’t.

It was fun.

And—God.

Wonwoo was funny. Actually funny. Dry, quiet, and devastating with a side-eye. 

And he’s smart. Ridiculously smart. The kind of smart that makes you feel like you’re always two steps behind in your own life story. Like he's just quietly letting you catch up out of mercy.

He talks like riddles and makes you work for every inch of conversation. It’s infuriating. It’s addictive. It’s—

So his type.

Mingyu swallows hard, vision blurring for a second.

He used to think Wonwoo was beige wallpaper. Background character energy.

But now?

Now he can’t look away. Now he’s not even sure he wants to.

Mingyu tugs the brim of his cap down, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.

He is so. Screwed.

He's halfway through planning his fake death and new identity in Bali when Seungkwan pokes his ribs.

He leans in and hisses, "Get it together, lover boy. He’s literally walking onto the stage. You need to be awake to die of thirst properly."

Before he can even formulate a response, everyone else starts screaming—

"LET’S GO, MECH-E!" Soonyoung bellows, nearly knocking over a passing freshman with the force of it.

Jun cups his hands around his mouth and yells, "BRING HOME THE BLOODSHED, WONWOO!"

Seungcheol claps three times like he’s rallying troops. "NO PRISONERS! SHOOT FIRST, APOLOGIZE NEVER!"

And then—

Like clockwork—

Jeonghan, naturally, whips out the megaphone. "LET'S GOOOO WONWOO!!! SHOW MINGYU WHAT THAT BACK CAN DO!!!" Jeonghan howls through it, voice crackling and shrill enough to startle birds out of nearby trees.

Mingyu nearly launches himself into the sun.

"SHUT UP!" he screeches, trying to snatch the megaphone away, but Jeonghan spins effortlessly out of reach, laughing like a maniac.

Half the bleachers are now staring. Some people even cheer.

Mingyu contemplates melting into the concrete and living as moss.

And then the game starts.

Wonwoo plays like he’s seen the future. Like the map is an old memory. He covers flanks so efficiently it feels personal. He lands three clean eliminations before Mingyu even registers that the round has started—and somehow, he doesn't even move his neck. Not even a twitch.

At one point, Mingyu watches in horror as a Mechanical teammate gets ambushed.

Two enemies against him.

Two.

The crowd collectively gasps—everyone seeing the disaster unfolding—

And then, like it’s nothing, Wonwoo glides into frame.

"AND HERE COMES WONWOO," Seungkwan booms, cupping his hands around his mouth like a stadium announcer. "GLIDING THROUGH MID-FIELD LIKE A MERCIFUL DEATH ANGEL."

"STUNNING CROSSHAIR CONTROL," Jeonghan says solemnly into the megaphone. "TRULY A MAN WHO'S ONLY EVER MISSED TWO THINGS IN HIS LIFE: BIRTHDAYS AND KIM MINGYU’S WARNING SIGNS."

"They're so dramatic," Jun says, but he's already pulling out his phone to record it.

Meanwhile on the field—

Wonwoo deletes both enemies with two headshots, and strolls away without breaking pace.

Like he just swatted flies off his shoulder.

Like he’s busy and mildly inconvenienced.

And without thinking—pure muscle memory—Mingyu claps.

LOUDLY.

Silence falls around him. Seungcheol turns so slowly it feels biblical. "You’re wearing a black and gold ARCHITECTURE shirt," he says, voice flat. "And you just clapped for Mechanical."

"MISTER KIM MINGYU," Jeonghan announces through the megaphone, voice crackling across the entire sports field like divine judgment. "MISTER KIM. PLEASE STATE FOR THE RECORD—"

Mingyu frantically shakes his head.

Jeonghan’s grin sharpens. "—DO YOU OR DO YOU NOT SUPPORT ARCHITECTURE, THE DEPARTMENT WHO RAISED YOU FROM NOTHING?"

Soonyoung is doubled over wheezing, mouthing 'GUILTY' like he's a courtroom spectator.

Mingyu, red to the roots of his hair, yells back without thinking, "I SUPPORT ARCHITECTURE!"

Jeonghan tilts the megaphone. "AND YET, YOU HAVE BEEN CAUGHT—ON CAMERA—APPLAUDING THE MECH-E MVP?"

“It was reflex,” Mingyu sighs and sinks lower into his seat, defeated. Jeonghan passes the megaphone to Seungkwan, who immediately starts humming a funeral march.

He salutes like he just wrapped a press conference.

Halfway through the match, a guy from Archi almost corners Wonwoo.

Almost.

Wonwoo 360s and deletes him off the map like he never existed.

The crowd SCREAMS.

Mingyu makes a noise like he’s been personally wounded. His knees come up to his chest. He’s sweating.

“He didn’t even LOOK stressed,” Soonyoung wheezes. “He just deleted a human being.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Mingyu says, somewhere between awe and devastation.

“He’s so cool it’s so fucking gross,” Seungcheol mutters.

“Are you crying?” Jun asks Mingyu.

“I’M NOT,” Mingyu says. “I’m—devastated. For Archi. For my team.”

By the final round, it's 12–11. Match point. One player on each side. Tension is high.

The crowd is screaming.

"1V1! 1V1! 1V1!"

Feet slam against the bleachers. Empty water bottles go flying. The field feels less like a university event and more like the prelude to an uprising. Somewhere in the chaos, a business major is hoisting a whiteboard that says: "ARCHI CAN'T AIM. EVEN IN AUTOCAD."

Mingyu briefly considers passing away on the spot.

Now, the match is a 1v1.

Wonwoo versus the last guy from Archi.

The two players circle each other on the map, every footstep amplified, every second stretched taut.

The whole field goes silent. Only the high-pitched drone of headset mics, and the collective heartbeat of an entire campus holding its breath.

Wonwoo doesn’t twitch.

Doesn’t flinch.

He’s holding A Site like he owns it—like he dares anyone to prove otherwise.

Steps echo in the virtual hallway. The Archi player peeks around a corner.

And right before Wonwoo clicks—

Right before the moment—

He does something no one expects.

Wonwoo looks up.

Not a big movement. Just slightly.

Just past the edge of his monitor.

Just a small lift of the chin.

And his eyes land directly on Mingyu. Their eyes meet for a second—

A real second. Stretched into infinity.

And then—

Wonwoo smiles.

Just barely. Just one side of his mouth. Quick but unmistakable. Long enough to be personal.

Click.

Headshot.

VICTORY.

The MechE logo flashes on the screen. The crowd goes feral.

Around Mingyu, it’s chaos. But his own friends are even worse.

"Oh my God," Seungkwan gasps, shaking Mingyu by the shoulders, "HE SMILED. HE SMILED. RIGHT AT YOU."

"Did he just—" Jun is blinking at the massive LED screen. "Did he just CLUTCH a 1v1 and dedicate it—to you?"

Jeonghan whips out the megaphone like a man born for chaos, flicks it on, and screams, "AAAAA! MINGYU'S BOYFRIEND JUST CLUTCHED A 1V1! THIS IS A NATIONAL HOLIDAY!!”

"His bullets said DEATH but his eyes said ‘I’d die for you’!" Soonyoung wails into the void.

"I've never seen a public assassination immediately followed by a private proposal," Seungcheol mutters, looking vaguely traumatized.

Mingyu makes a noise. "What? NO," he says, voice cracked. "He was just checking the crowd! For threats! NORMAL e-sports behavior!!"

"No, it’s not. We all saw your soul leave your body," Jun says grimly.

"He smirked and THEN clicked," Jeonghan says. "You're the aim assist."

"I need to go lie down," Mingyu says, "and maybe never get up again.”

Without another word, their whole group sprints toward the sidelines to congratulate Wonwoo. Seungkwan nearly trips over a cooler. Jeonghan abandons his megaphone mid-run. Even Seungcheol, usually the voice of reason, is speed walking like he’s late to a family emergency.

Mingyu instinctively moves to slip away, heart already pounding in high-alert mode, but Soonyoung is faster—grabbing the back of his shirt like he’s wrangling a very large, very guilty golden retriever.

"Nope," Soonyoung says cheerfully. "You’re coming. It’s a team-building exercise."

"For the brotherhood," Jun adds and steers Mingyu forward.

The Mech-E team is clustered together, buzzing from victory. High-fives everywhere. Plastic medals being passed out. And there, sitting on the edge of a bench like he hadn’t just casually committed manslaughter in a video game is Wonwoo. Headset slung around his neck. Calm as a damn ocean.

He stands up the second Mingyu approaches—like he’s been waiting. Like he knew exactly when Mingyu would get there.

"Congrats, man!" Seungcheol says, clapping Wonwoo’s shoulder.

Jun pretends to hold a fake microphone up to Wonwoo. "Sir, how does it feel to personally decimate the dreams of an entire department?”

"Congrats on your confirmed kill count," Soonyoung sniffs, pretending to wipe away a tear. "You’re basically a war criminal now.”

Wonwoo, as usual, takes it all in stride—nodding politely, thanking them, offering the barest curve of a smile. Mingyu, for his part, is trying very hard not to spontaneously combust.

"Cool game," he manages to croak out.

Wonwoo’s gaze flicks to him, steady. Sharp. Unfair. "How’d I do?"

"Uh," Mingyu is rocking back on his heels like he might physically launch into orbit if he doesn’t get a handle on himself. "You know. You... shot stuff. Very efficient. I mean—"

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, calm. Patient. Watching him drown.

"That was... impressive. I think. I’m not a gamer. I don’t know the metrics. But the... movement? The reaction time? The sniper thing? Very elite. Very good."

Wonwoo hums, faintly amused. "Very good?"

Mingyu nods. Too fast. Too eager. Like his instincts moved first and his dignity stayed behind.

Wonwoo’s mouth twitches. Barely. Like he’s almost smiling. "Good," he says, "I was aiming to impress.”

And he says it like it’s no big deal. Like it’s not the verbal equivalent of a tactical nuclear strike.

Mingyu's brain immediately flatlines. A full-body shutdown.

Around them, the entire group goes dead silent. Soonyoung makes a sound like a squeaky toy being crushed. Jun elbows Seungcheol so hard he actually stumbles. Jeonghan and Seungkwan are just gripping each other like they're watching live theater.

He swears he can hear colors. His vision pixelates. His hands—traitorous, trembling idiots—are half a second away from launching him into the stratosphere like a malfunctioning rocket.

He said it so casually.

Like it was normal.

Like it's NORMAL to say things like that and expect Mingyu to survive.

"Well—um—" he says, flailing with the limpness of a drowning animal. "Yeah—I mean I was very impressed!”

"I can tell. You were smiling through a massacre," he says simply.

"You smiled first!" Mingyu blurts. "You looked up at me! Right before you—!" He makes a vague hand gesture resembling a catastrophic explosion.

Wonwoo tilts his head slightly, "In my defense," he says, maddeningly steady, "it’s hard not to look when you’re there."

Jeonghan, Jun, Seungkwan, and Soonyoung are physically restraining each other from screaming.

Seungkwan has both fists stuffed into his mouth.

Soonyoung has dropped to a crouch like he's about to perform an exorcism.

Jeonghan is vibrating so violently he might achieve flight.

Mingyu, meanwhile, is simply accepting his fate.

God gives His toughest battles to His weakest soldiers.

Chapter Text

There’s something deeply grounding about onions and garlic and oil at medium heat—something normal in a week that’s so far given him megaphone-triggered trauma, not to mention the soul-baring dedications—blasted over the campus PA system at volumes usually reserved for fire drills. They were meant to be anonymous. But if Jeonghan helped write it, “anonymous” just means “we won’t sign your name, but we will include your full biography, your exact birth time, and an accidental like at 1:47AM.

So Mingyu’s cooking. Therapeutically. Like a man pretending the sound of a specific voice doesn’t echo through the walls of his brain at 3AM. It’s not just early afternoon dinner. It’s damage control.

And then—

His phone starts vibrating so violently on the counter it almost flings itself into the soy sauce bottle.

16 New Mentions — @yoon.jeonghan just tagged you in a post.

He freezes.

Garlic sizzles. The air thickens. A single piece of onion crisps to oblivion.

He wipes his hands on a dishtowel, taps his screen with the trepidation of a man approaching a crime scene, and opens Instagram.

Then immediately regrets it.

It’s the E-Games post.

Wonwoo. MVP.

A full feature with eight slides. All angles. A highlight reel that might as well be a thirst trap disguised as school spirit.

🏆 MECH-E VICTORY 🏆

Congratulations to the Department of Mechanical Engineering for taking the crown at this year’s University E-Games!

Special shoutout to MVP Jeon Wonwoo (@jeon.wonwoo) for clutching the final 1v1 round with a match-winning backtrack that had the whole campus screaming.

#EGames2025 #UniversityWeek #WonwooSweep

But that’s not the problem.

No.

Mingyu could’ve survived that.

He could’ve double-tapped it out of politeness. He could’ve pretended he didn’t scroll back up to zoom in on slide three where Wonwoo’s sleeves are pushed up and his jaw’s all sharp focus and post-victory flush.

He could’ve handled the slideshow. Maybe even the jawline.

What he can’t handle?

The comments section.

@yoon.jeonghan:
and people say romance is dead??? mans dropped a clutch and a confession in the same breath

@soons_yooung:
do you think he clutched because mingyu was watching?? because i watched and now i need to go sit in a chapel

@junhui___moonhui:
it's giving “i like you but i’m gonna obliterate your entire department about it”

@yoon.jeonghan:
can we get a slowmo of that one frame where wonwoo turns his head and the lights hit his jawline?? @kim_mingyu wants it synced to their vows

@seungkwanniee:
that ONE look before winning that said “this one’s for mingyu” had me calling my ex to apologize for never loving him like this

replying to @seungkwanniee:
@yoon.jeonghan:
RIGHT?! that smirk was “i hope this awakens something inconvenient in you” energy

@junhui___moonhui:
mingyu blinked like 14 times in 3 seconds. man was FOLDED

@soons_yooung:
his blinking was in morse code. it spelled out ‘i’m not surviving this and i don’t want to’

@seungkwanniee:
NO bc when wonwoo wiped the floor with archi, mingyu made the face of someone just realizing he’s into men’s rights and men’s wrongs

@junhui___moonhui:
during the last round mingyu was HANDS ON KNEES LEAN FORWARD. like he was at church
like he was on the verge of speaking in tongues and not for religious reasons

@jeon.wonwoo:
sounds like he wanted me to win

@seungkwanniee:
OH MY GOD

@junhui___moonhui:
sir. this is a campus-wide instagram
there are minors here. there are professors here
there are plants here that just withered from that comment

@soons_yooung:
ARE YOU GUYS FLIRTING HERE NOW???
IS THIS WHAT IT’S COME TO???
MY FATHER FOLLOWS THIS PAGE

@seungkwanniee:
LIKEEE BE SERIOUS FOR ONE SECOND
WHY DID THAT COMMENT FEEL LIKE A HAND ON THE BACK OF THE WAIST
AND POSSIBLY SEVERAL OTHER UNSPEAKABLE PLACES WTF

@yoon.jeonghan:
@kim_mingyu ??????
@kim_mingyu ??????
@kim_mingyu ??????
FIGHT BACK

@kim_mingyu:
CAN YOU ALL GO OUTSIDE?????

@junhui___moonhui:
u first. maybe right into his arms??

@i_want_this_to_be_over:
do they know this is public. like. i can see this

@The_SwimmingFool:
are they dating or just publicly having the most sexually tense friendship on campus

@summer_eye:
this is the same mingyu & wonwoo from the dedications right?!??!
not to be a shipper but. are they like. together now???

@flyaway19:
they have so much chemistry i’m legally obligated to film their first kiss for science

@yiboobs:
not me going through mingyu’s tagged posts rn like a detective
so they are friends…this is that kind of pining

@kloeisdonewithyoshit:
IS THIS CANON???? OR AM I PROJECTING AGAIN. SOMEONE BE HONEST.

@maximCoffeeDuck:
petition to livestream their next interaction. doesn’t even have to be words. i’ll watch them blink

@Juns_nyang:
just found out they’re not even officially dating
i’m throwing myself into the duck pond

@renjunslover:
can i ship this without legal consequences??

@ivylacedheart:
if mingyu doesn’t want to be ruined by wonwoo i’d be honored to take that L

@yoon.jeonghan:
📣 BETTING POOL IS OPEN 📣
drop your guesses:
- when are they finally gonna kiss
- how many group interventions it’ll take
- who’s gonna crack first (my money’s on Mingyu)
current pot: ₩43,000, a hoodie that may or may not belong to Wonwoo, and Jeonghan’s moral compass (lightly used)
reply with “I’M IN” and your timestamp prediction
winner gets bragging rights + VIP seating for the kiss if it happens in public + a trophy shaped like a megaphone that just screams “FINALLY” when you press the button

@seungkwanniee:
I’M IN. i say they kiss behind the gym by thursday. full tension. forehead touch first. i will be there with binoculars

@veemeeen:
dedication booth. full-circle moment. wonwoo kisses mingyu once. pulls back, says “that’s all you’re getting,” and disappears into the crowd

@soons_yooung:
behind the engineering building. friday. heat of an argument. someone says “then do something about it” and the rest is history

@coupofwonu:
they kiss during a group game of spin the bottle but play it off like it meant nothing. it meant everything. mingyu dies. i schedule a counseling appointment for us both

@sllykye0m:
library. 2am. finals week. soft jazz in someone’s headphones. glowing laptop screens. they look at each other like the semester ends right now

@junhui___moonhui:
they kiss in the bathroom hallway at seungcheol’s frat party. flash catches it. background: Jun holding a Solo cup and smiling like he planned it (because he did)

@seungcheol95:
DO NOT do this at my party. i will initiate a group prayer circle mid-makeout

replying to @seungcheol95:
@junhui___moonhui:
don’t worry hyung i’ll make sure they wait until the third round of drinks. i’m not a monster

@yoon.jeonghan:
thank you scholars. this is literally what higher education is for

—

Mingyu had just started breathing normally again. That was his first mistake.

1 New Mention – @jeon.wonwoo mentioned you in a comment

His heart stops. Dies. Is reborn. Dies again.

There’s a ringing in his ears. It might be the blood pressure. It might be God. It might be stroke.

@jeon.wonwoo:
so whose prediction should we fulfill @kim_mingyu?

@kim_mingyu:
what is WRONG with you
this is a PUBLIC post
YOU’RE BEING PERCEIVED BY EVERYONE

@jeon.wonwoo:
define wrong

@kim_mingyu:
delete your comment 
****DELETE IT
this is cyberbullying and i need you to STOP

@jeon.wonwoo:
you keep saying a lot, but none of it is “no”

@kim_mingyu:
I’M GOING TO BLOCK YOU

@jeon.wonwoo:
no you’re not
you want to know what i’d say next

@kim_mingyu:
no i don’t
i literally don’t
i want you to log off

@jeon.wonwoo:
but this is my congratulatory post

@kim_mingyu:
yes yes we get it
you single-handedly won a championship because you're the best player in your team
congrats mvp 🙄

@jeon.wonwoo:
technically you’re right but also

@jeon.wonwoo:
you were watching me like that. i just couldn’t lose

@gyumamelas:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

@seungkwanniee:
DO YOU THINK THEY CAN HEAR MY INTERNAL SCREAMING THROUGH THE WIFI

@soons_yooung:
i just saw this on campus and had to physically sit down in the middle of the quad
someone brought me water. i told them it was too late

@junhui___moonhui:
i feel like we should all leave them alone now
so naturally i’m staying right here

@fillet_minwon:
STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT I AM IN A SEMINAR

@seungcheol95:
do you think he knows he said that out loud? like. on main?

@jangxumi:
did anyone else black out for 0.3 seconds or was that just me

@sovietgrill:
flirting mid-mvp post is wild and i’m seated. bib tied. fork ready.

@wonungiedeul:
WHY DID THAT SOUND LIKE A FANFIC LINE WHY DID HE SAY IT LIKE THATTTT

@Agha2020:
i need five minutes. and a medical professional

@dearjeon:
i don’t even go to this university but i’ve been emotionally enrolled since thursday

@dina25:
guys i’m crying so hard the ducks are gathering around me. they think i’m their god now

@namjoonspillow:
i took a screenshot of that comment so i can read it again when i want to feel jealousy recreationally

@stardustiew:
i feel like i witnessed something i wasn’t supposed to

@after_sunrise:
you were watching me like that. i just couldn’t lose.
— me to my therapist, probably

@yoon.jeonghan:
me at the wedding telling everyone “they owe it all to me” while the slideshow shows my instagram comments

The last time this group chat saw this much action, Jeonghan got accused of running a pyramid scheme in the psych department GC, Jun got a noise complaint for moaning “plot twist” during karaoke, and Seungkwan cried because a professor called him “energetic” in front of the whole class.

And yet somehow, today had topped it.

jeonghan:
do u think mingyu’s okay

junhui:
no

seungkwan:
ABSOLUTELY NOT
he searched “how to win a situationship” and then immediately closed the tab

soonyoung:
his story was just a black screen with “ok”

jeonghan:
can’t wait to see him tomorrow pretending like he didn’t get publicly ravished in the comments

junhui:
wonwoo said “you were watching me like that. i just couldn’t lose”
i had to go outside and actually TOUCH GRASS

soonyoung:
i’m scared to be around them now
like what if the sexual tension is contagious

jeonghan:
i’ve started printing out wonwoo’s comments and slipping them into mingyu’s backpack
just in case he forgets what we all saw

seungkwan:
mingyu’s lying on the floor of our room right now
staring into the void
blinking “why me” like the air will answer

mingyu:
I AM NOT
blinking 'why me'
i’m blinking “get lives” so yall can stay out of mine

jeonghan:
you typed that with one hand while re-reading his Instagram comment, didn’t you

Mingyu throws his phone across the bed like it was Jeonghan in physical form. Misses the pillow. It hits the floor with the dull, heartbreaking thunk of god turning off the simulation because he has just lost the plot.

He doesn’t move.

Just lies there. Eyes wide. Emotionally concussed.

And for a full thirty seconds, he contemplates peace. Solitude. Maybe deleting Instagram. Maybe becoming a monk.

Then—against every ounce of common sense in his body—he rolls over, grabs the phone, opens Instagram, and DMs @jeon.wonwoo like he didn’t just lose a fight to his own emotions.

@kim_mingyu:
you’re insane
LIKE ACTUALLY INSANE

@jeon.wonwoo:
you’re the one who kept replying

@kim_mingyu:
OH M Y GOD
so its my fault now??

@jeon.wonwoo:
all i’m saying is
we could have cut that conversation shorter if you just answered my question

@kim_mingyu:
WHAT QUESTION??????

@jeon.wonwoo:
whose prediction am i supposed to fulfill :)

@kim_mingyu:
WTFFFF STOP IT
dont “:)” me
you’re weaponizing punctuation

@jeon.wonwoo:
then answer the question

@kim_mingyu:
i will literally block you
i’m not even joking
i’m hovering over the button

@jeon.wonwoo:
i’m kidding

@kim_mingyu:
you are a genuine problem in my life

@jeon.wonwoo:
you say that like it’s a bad thing

@kim_mingyu:
BECAUSE IT IS
i am so close to throwing my phone into the duck pond

@jeon.wonwoo:
at this point i think the duck pond deserves to officiate

@kim_mingyu:
SHUT UP
im going to sleep
good night

@jeon.wonwoo:
its only 3pm?
but sure sweet dreams
i’ll let the duck pond know we’re close to a decision :)

Mingyu throws his phone face-down on his chest.

“i’m kidding.”

That’s what Wonwoo said. Just casually. Like this whole thing—every comment, every look, every word since this started—was it just some elaborate inside joke Mingyu wasn’t in on?

Was he supposed to laugh? Was he the punchline? Did Wonwoo mean it? Did he not mean it? Why would he say that and then tell the duck pond to officiate like they were two declarations away from scheduling the engagement shoot?

He flips over and buries his face into the pillow.

“i’m kidding.”

Who says that and follows it up with a smiley face and emotional destruction? Who does that? Sociopaths. Alphas. People who say less than you and still win the argument. People named Jeon Wonwoo.

And the worst part?

The truly, irreversibly, cosmically stupid part?

Mingyu doesn’t even know if any of it meant something.

Because oh. Oh. Wonwoo might just be playing at all. He might just be joking.

And Mingyu might be the only one taking it seriously.

By some cosmic alignment of schedules—or, more likely, Jeonghan bribing—everyone is miraculously free on Day 4 of University Week. Which means the entire friend group is now squeezed around one tragically rickety outdoor table that is absolutely not built to seat this many disasters.

Mingyu is trapped.

On one side: Soonyoung, jostling his elbow every three seconds like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra fueled entirely by unmedicated energy.

On the other: Wonwoo.

Wonwoo, who radiates a kind of deliberate stillness that is somehow louder than everyone else combined. Wonwoo, who does absolutely nothing—not talking, not teasing, not even glancing his way—but still manages to ruin Mingyu’s day by simply breathing.

And it’s working. Mingyu is suffering profoundly. Biblically.

Mingyu shifts for the sixth time in five minutes, knee bouncing like it’s trying to escape the situation without him, because Wonwoo is sitting exactly 1.4 inches too close. Close enough for Mingyu to catch a whiff of his sandalwood cologne and the unbearable heat radiating from his thigh. The tension is so loud, Mingyu is surprised birds haven’t started dropping from the sky.

And still, not a word.

Not since the mid-MVP-post spectacle. Not since the “im kidding smiley face” incident.

Every time their shoulders brush, Mingyu flinches like he’s being shocked.

Seungkwan squints at him across the table. “You’re sitting like you’re one intrusive thought away from kissing him or combusting. Which is it?”

Mingyu grips his iced americano with the desperation of a man trying to suppress a mental breakdown. “Shut up.”

Jeonghan, of course, jumps on it immediately. “He’s fine,” he repeats, drawing a dramatic picture frame around Mingyu’s face with his fingers. “This is the face of a man whose internal organs just got rearranged by a single Instagram comment.”

Jun leans forward, wicked grin already in place. “Wait—do you think if we push them a little closer, they’ll combust? Like, scientifically?”

Soonyoung is already dragging his chair across the pavement. “You’re saying I should be involved. Say less.”

Mingyu slaps a hand on the table so hard the drinks jump. “DON’T YOU DARE.” His panic echoes like a war cry. Several heads turn. A pigeon flees the scene.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “You only react this dramatically when you’re in love or in denial.”

A beat.

“Actually, those are usually the same thing.”

Seungcheol, trying and failing to be the voice of reason: “Guys. Let them breathe. Just for, like, two minutes—”

Jeonghan (unhelpful): “They’ve been breathing. I want results.”

Mingyu: “CAN WE NOT TALK ABOUT MY LUNGS.”

And then Wonwoo moves.

He sets his energy drink down with a quiet clack, adjusts his glasses with the chilling composure of someone who knows you’ll agree with him by the end of the sentence, and looks up.

The table falls dead silent.

Wonwoo, tone polite but nuclear: “Guys.”

Pin-drop silence. Even Soonyoung freezes mid-fidget like a Sim whose autonomy just got disabled.

Wonwoo's gaze sweeps over them all like judgment day. “If you keep forcing this…” He pauses. Lets it breathe. “…nothing’s going to happen.”

You can hear the sound of Mingyu’s soul screaming.

Wonwoo leans back, casually draping one arm over the back of Mingyu’s seat—and there’s something terrifyingly effortless about the way his fingertips brush the edge of Mingyu’s shoulder like he owns it. “Leave us alone and we’ll make any of your dreams come true.”

Jun nearly falls out of his chair. “WHAT THE FUCK.”

Soonyoung screams into his hands, launching a french fry across the lawn. “IS THIS WHAT A CARDIAC ARREST FEELS LIKE.”

Jeonghan is already opening a new Notes app entry. “Someone tell the betting pool. We just hit a plot twist.”

Mingyu, meanwhile, looks like he just walked into his own intervention—and the slideshow’s already playing. “WONWOO WHAT THE HELL,” he squeaks.

Wonwoo hums, like this is mildly entertaining. “Now you’re invoking hell, but I still didn't hear a ‘no.’”

Jun is openly wheezing. “Did he just armrest flirt? Is that a real tactic???”

Soonyoung clutches his chest. “This is too much for me. I need an inhaler.”

Jeonghan raises a slow hand, the smile of a man about to cause problems. “So just to be clear—if we leave you alone… things will happen?”

Wonwoo turns fully toward Mingyu, smiling.

“Well,” he says, voice smooth, “Mingyu didn’t say no.”

The table explodes.

Someone screams. Someone knocks over a drink. Mingyu's chair scrapes so violently it might trigger a small earthquake.

Jeonghan stands up, points to the sky like a prophet receiving divine instruction and yells, “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.”

And just like that, the table empties in coordinated chaos—friends scattering, drinks abandoned, a plate of curly fries spinning like a crime scene.

Two minutes later, Mingyu and Wonwoo find themselves shoved together—wrists cuffed, dignity annihilated—inside the damn Jail Booth™.

It’s barely a tent, really. A novelty setup some overenthusiastic events committee thought was a good idea: plastic bars zip-tied to collapsible frames, a canvas tarp strung up like a circus crime scene, and a too-small bench bolted against the inside wall like some sad attempt at realism.

They’re sitting on it now. Side by side. Back to the tent’s fabric wall. Knees bumping every few seconds like the universe is trying to rub salt in Mingyu’s open wound. Their joined wrists dangle between them, the fake handcuffs glittering under the LED jail sign taped above their heads.

Mingyu glares. “I hate you so much right now.”

Wonwoo tilts his head, smiling, “That’s not a ‘no’ either.“

And Mingyu thinks back to the twelve things he could’ve done today to avoid this.

He could’ve stayed in bed. He could’ve faked an injury. He could’ve swallowed his pride and begged Jeonghan to call this off. Hell, he could’ve chosen not to talk to Wonwoo ever.

But no. He had to comment. So now?

He’s in jail.

Fake jail. Technically. Plastic bars. Tent walls.

And a handcuff.

Attached to Wonwoo.

“Stop TALKING,” Mingyu responds.

Wonwoo blinks at him, maddeningly calm. “Say please.”

“I will bite you.”

Wonwoo hums. “This tent is not structurally sound enough for what you're implying.” Then he shifts—just slightly, just enough that their knees touch again, and Mingyu flinches so hard the tent rustles like it’s about to collapse.

“You know,” Wonwoo says slowly, gaze flicking down to their joined wrists, “for someone who claims he hates it here…”

He shifts again—just slightly, intentionally—until their knees bump once more.

“…you’re not exactly trying to leave.”

Mingyu’s breath catches, but Wonwoo keeps going, calm as ever.

“These cuffs are literally party props,” he adds, casually. “You could break them if you wanted.”

“I could say the same for you,” Mingyu stares at him. Wonwoo stares back. The tent suddenly feels too small. And for a second, it’s too quiet.

Wonwoo’s voice is calm when it comes:

“I wanted to see what you’d do if you couldn’t run away.”

Mingyu inhales too fast and immediately chokes on air. His soul attempts astral projection. His lungs scream. His brain taps out.

Finally, he exhales. Like he’s finally letting go of all the fake chill and internal screaming.

He looks at Wonwoo.

And says everything.

“I guess… why I act freaked out around you is because we haven’t really talked. About—this.”

He gestures vaguely. The air. The jail booth. The cuffs. The sun or whatever.

“About all the teasing,” he finishes lamely.

Wonwoo doesn’t answer right away. He just watches Mingyu—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he’s already halfway finished.

“I didn’t mean to turn it into a thing,” Mingyu says quickly. “The accidental like. It was late. I was bored. I saw your name and I’d never really seen your posts before and I just—clicked. I didn’t know Jeonghan would go full literary fanfiction on us.”

"So, I’m sorry." Mingyu’s anxiety propels him further, “For the chat. The pie. The dedications. The completely unhinged group behavior. I just wanted to clarify that... like... it's not real. Obviously."

Mingyu presses on, words tumbling out faster than his brain can filter them. "I feel like it got super out of hand. Like. They're just joking, right? And you might think I'm—like, into it. Or into you. But I'm not." He swallows hard. “So all of this... it's just our friends pushing something that's not even there. The point is, I freak out because I don't want you to think I’m delusional about us and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable towards me."

Wonwoo’s been quiet the whole time, watching Mingyu unravel like he’s heard it all before, but it still somehow amuses him. No interruptions. No judgment. Just calm, unreadable interest.

Finally, Wonwoo says:

"You're saying everything got out of hand because of the accidental like."

Mingyu stiffens, feeling suddenly like a butterfly pinned to a display board, unable to escape the piercing scrutiny.

Wonwoo tilts his head, voice low and even. “If it were just a like, no one would’ve noticed.”

He doesn’t blink.

“But you didn’t just like it. You liked every photo after that. First. Every time. And then you posted that gym selfie like a rebuttal. Or a challenge.”

Each word lands slow and exact.

“It wasn’t the like that caught their attention, Mingyu,” he looks at him—really looks, gaze cutting straight through the last shred of Mingyu’s emotional armor, “It was your response.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything. Wonwoo lets the silence hang—unrushed, expectant.

Then, almost casually:

“So tell me,” Wonwoo says, voice calm, “why did you react that way?”

Mingyu's mouth goes dry. His brain fumbles violently for something—anything—because what is he even supposed to say? That he thinks about that ramen comment way more than he should? That he noticed the pies were still warm, and hasn’t stopped thinking about how intentional that felt? That it’s been weeks, and he still can’t look Wonwoo in the eye without forgetting how to breathe?

“I don’t know,” Mingyu mutters.

Wonwoo nods. “Have you ever considered… maybe I don’t mind the attention?”

Mingyu blinks. “What?”

Wonwoo shrugs, unbothered. “The teasing. The comments. The fake survey. Everyone making stories.”

Wonwoo leans back against the tent wall. And when he moves—just slightly—his pinky brushes against Mingyu's. So faint it might be accidental. Except it stays there. And that's somehow infinitely worse.

Mingyu freezes. He doesn’t dare look down. Doesn’t dare breathe.

Wonwoo does. He glances down at where their pinkies are still touching—then looks back up, gaze unreadable, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. “It doesn’t bother me,” he says, gently.

Mingyu’s mind blanks.

The air shifts, warps, tilts on its axis. That one sentence folds him like paper.

He doesn’t mean to say it—doesn’t plan to say it—but the words slip out anyway, quiet and stunned:

“Are you saying you want any of this?” Mingyu whispers.

Wonwoo looks at him. Just looks.

“Are you saying you don’t?” Wonwoo asks.

And the the flap rips open.

“TIME’S UP!!”

Jun shows up. “Break it up, criminals. The crowd’s getting restless.”

Mingyu flings himself away from Wonwoo. “OH MY GOD. KNOCK.”

Jun blinks. “It’s a tent.”

Wonwoo doesn’t move. Just lets the moment dissolve in silence. But he’s still looking at Mingyu like he’s waiting—waiting for an answer, a confession, a decision.

And Mingyu has no idea which one to give.

Chapter Text

Soonyoung had offered up his house the night before with the solemn, world-weary gravitas of a man sacrificing his body to science.

Not just any house—a home, or so he claims. A home with questionable plumbing, uneven floorboards, and that one mysterious ceiling stain in the living room that looked vaguely like Danny DeVito doing jazz hands if you tilted your head and gave up on reality.

“It’s not a house,” he’d declared, voice trembling with the kind of conviction typically reserved for cult leaders, “It’s a legacy. And this legacy was born for one thing,” He wiped an imaginary tear from his cheek. “Barbecue.”

Naturally, they’d all agreed—because what else do you do when your university throws you a semi-official day off (read: the fifth day of University Week that no one’s legally acknowledging) and your friend throws you a backyard?

You say yes.

You show up.

You prepare for grilled meat and a statistically significant risk of property destruction.

Naturally, the group chat starts buzzing by 10:17AM.

soonyoung:
soooo are we all in agreement we’re not doing anything at school today right

seungcheol:
yes absolutely
zero activities

jeonghan:
and on the 5th day god said let there be barbecue
and no academic obligations

seungkwan:
ok but like who’s doing what
so we don’t all show up with 6 packs of hotdogs again

jeonghan:
cheol and i are on drink duty
i’m bringing tequila and also whatever juice i decide is funny

seungcheol:
god help us all

soonyoung:
jun and i will clean up my backyard and set up the grill
like real men

junhui:
like which men though
because i’m not built for manual labor
i’m built for moral support

jeonghan:
he’s right
jun’s built for standing next to people who are doing real work and saying “you got this bro”

seungcheol:
he’s like the loading screen of a mobile game with no actual gameplay

junhui:
okay??? damn???

soonyoung:
stop enabling him
he’s literally just crouched in front of the fridge rn ranking my eggs by vibe potential
go pick up the chairs outside

junhui:
fine
but if a spider makes eye contact with me i’m burning your house down

seungkwan:
i have to finish an assignment but i’ll come after
i’m emotionally here now if that counts 🧍‍♂️

mingyu:
i can get groceries
heading out now
anyone wanna come?

jeonghan:
@wonwoo
@wonwoo
@wonwoo
your moment has arrived

soonyoung:
@wonwoo
fulfill the grocery date prophecy i beg

seungkwan:
@wonwoo
CMON HYUNGG FIGHT BACKKK
this is your real enemies-to-lovers arc
aisle 3. beef section. sexual tension over marinade

jeonghan:
think about it wonwoo
slow push of the grocery cart
accidental hand touch reaching for soy sauce

seungkwan:
i want the visual of you two in the frozen aisle fighting over who gets to pick the meat like it’s the notebook scene but with barbecue

junhui:
i want them fighting over ribs like it’s a custody battle

soonyoung:
do it for the plot
do it for the sexual tension
DO IT OR I'M SETTING MYSELF ON THE GRILL

jeonghan:
every time you ignore this our fanfic gets 2,000 words longer

mingyu:
gUYS SHUT UP
I AM A FUNCTIONAL ADULT
I CAN BUY FOOD WITHOUT BEING SHIPPED IN PUBLIC

soonyoung:
if mingyu comes home with 3 kinds of milk and no meat again
i’m eating a lighter

junhui:
oh wait actually wonwoo’s probably still asleep
he games until 3am and doesn’t start life until noon
man’s in REM cycle stage 5 rn

mingyu:
real
i’m heading out
lmk if u want anything

Despite the group chat’s collective descent into fanfiction, Mingyu makes it to the grocery store unbothered. He’s done this a hundred times. He doesn’t need backup to buy meat. He’s moving through the aisles with practiced ease—plucking the right cuts of meat, grabbing barbecue sauce without hesitation, tossing side dishes into the cart like he’s been doing it all his life. He has, actually. He’s been feeding himself and one barely functional roommate for years.

He doesn’t even need the list he wrote out on his phone. It's muscle memory at this point.

Thirty minutes later, he’s at checkout, loading everything onto the conveyor belt with the precision of someone who alphabetized his pantry for fun that one time during quarantine.

Meat. Veggies. Skewers. Corn. Side dishes. And marshmallows, because Soonyoung is a child.

The cashier scans the items while he scrolls absently through his phone.

And then, right as he’s about to pay—

His phone buzzes.

[3 new messages from wonwoo]
wonwoo: sorry
wonwoo: jwu
wonwoo: where are you?

He scrambles, brain firing off exactly zero useful thoughts. Everything he could say—“at checkout,” “almost done,”—suddenly feels weirdly loaded. Like no version of his reply will come off normal.

He stabs at his phone in panic.

[replying to wonwoo]
mingyu: grocery
mingyu: why
mingyu: u need anything?

There. Perfect. Normal. He barely has time to cringe at himself before Wonwoo replies:

[wonwoo is typing...]
wonwoo: are you done?
wonwoo: i’ll come get you

Mingyu pays in a daze, fully convinced the cashier is judging him. He jams his wallet into his pocket like it’s Wonwoo’s fault he no longer remembers how to be normal in public.

By the time he turns around with his bags, he doesn’t even have to look.

Wonwoo’s already there—standing by the exit doors like he’s been waiting, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, glasses slightly crooked like he shoved them on without looking. That brown jacket falls perfectly over his frame, casual in a way that looks unfairly good on him.

He looks—calm, like he’s got all the time in the world. And his eyes are already on Mingyu. Steady. Amused. Mouth curved like he’s holding back a smile. Like he’s been watching this whole time and decided, for whatever reason, that this whole thing—Mingyu, the grocery bags, the way Mingyu’s ears have gone red—is worth watching.

And Mingyu, he doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to stand under his gaze. His chest does this stupid thing, like it doesn’t know whether to stop or speed up.

Mingyu swallows, stupidly, and walks toward him because of course he does. Because there was never any other option.

“Kind of disappointing we missed our enemies-to-lovers aisle three moment,” Wonwoo says as he takes the bags from Mingyu.

"Yeah, no, like, um—real tension’s not location-based anyway it’s—"

He cuts himself off, instantly regretting being born. Wonwoo just tilts his head slightly, watching him.

"It’s what?" Wonwoo asks, voice low. Too low. Too close.

"N-nothing," he stammers, "Tension’s fake. I mean. Like. Conceptually."

Wonwoo shifts the grocery bags in his hands, steps out of the grocery store, and walks towards the parking lot.

“Conceptually fake?” he repeats. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“What I meant was—like—tension isn’t… it’s not a quantifiable thing, right? You can’t just—there’s no metric. You can’t measure tension. I mean, unless you’re like—using a rope? Like, actual tension, like physics tension? And even then—”

He’s speed-walking to catch up now, trailing behind Wonwoo. But Wonwoo doesn’t say anything. Just glances over with that same unreadable half-smile, like Mingyu’s digging his own grave and he’s politely letting him finish.

They reach the car. Wonwoo pauses, turns fully to face him. “That was a lot of words for someone who’s allegedly not tense.”

Mingyu considers flinging himself into traffic. Or into the trunk. Whichever’s closer.

Wonwoo shifts the bags into one arm and reaches for the passenger door, pulling it open like it’s a completely normal thing to do and not, in fact, making Mingyu experience seventeen emotions all at once.

“Get in,” Wonwoo says, casual.

And Mingyu—unfortunately—does. Wordlessly. Pathetically. Like he didn’t just spend five straight minutes monologuing about rope tension.

Wonwoo closes the door behind him, rounds the back of the car, and opens the trunk to load the groceries. Efficient. Calm. Like nothing about the past seven minutes was emotionally scarring.

The first thing Mingyu notices when he gets in the car: it’s clean. Like suspiciously clean. No crumbs. No weird gym socks. No stray receipts. It smells good, too. Sharp and cool. Not cologne, exactly, but maybe some kind of minimalist air freshener. Crisp and clean and slightly woodsy.

He wonders—completely against his will—if that’s just how Wonwoo smells.

He tells himself not to think about it.

That it’s probably just air freshener.

That normal people don’t memorize how someone smells just because they sat beside them once.

And yet, here he is. Thinking about it.

He sinks into the seat like it might swallow him whole, praying to whatever divine entity handles tense car rides that the leather will just absorb him entirely, molecule by molecule, until all that’s left is the faint outline of someone who’s been handcuffed to Wonwoo and still doesn’t know if it’s real, or just another almost.

There’s a pause before the engine starts.

And for a second—a full second—Mingyu panics.

Because this is the first time they’ve been alone together since the jail booth. And unlike that day, there’s no handcuffs, no friend-group chaos, no forced proximity to blame it on.

This? This was intentional. And now there’s this space between them—familiar but new, charged but quiet. Like the air still remembers everything they didn’t say in that tent. Like it’s waiting.

He doesn’t know what to do with it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.

Wonwoo doesn't look over. Just starts the engine with a lazy flick of his wrist, one hand already draped over the steering wheel like it lives there. Everything about him is smooth. Like he’s done this a hundred times and plans to do it a hundred more—while Mingyu sits beside him feeling like his skeleton is trying to escape his body and his lungs have unionized against basic function.

He stares very intently out the passenger window. Mentally counts lampposts. Pretends that will help him not think about the fact that Wonwoo is sitting two feet away.

“Play something. I won’t judge,” Wonwoo says, eyes on the road. “Out loud.”

There’s a small smile playing around his lips. The kind you almost miss. The kind that lives in the corner of his mouth and ruins lives quietly.

“Can you just pretend I’m cooler than my music taste for, like, two minutes?” Mingyu says, voice slightly strangled.

Wonwoo doesn’t look over. Just shifts his hand on the wheel, calm as ever.

“No promises.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Wait… do you actually want me to play something?”

Wonwoo shrugs, casual. “Only if you want to. It’s your ride.”

And Mingyu fights the urge to say you’re my ride.

Instead, he fumbles with his phone, plugs in the AUX, and presses play without checking the track. A low, dreamy beat filters in—some indie R&B thing he forgot was on his playlist.

Wonwoo listens for a few seconds, then nods once, eyes on the road.

“Good taste,” he says.

Mingyu blinks. “Really?”

Wonwoo gives him a sideways glance. “What, you thought I was really going to judge you?”

“Yes?” Mingyu says. “That feels like the vibe.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Wonwoo says, calm as ever. “You should see Jun’s playlist.”

Mingyu lets out a startled laugh. “Okay, fair. But I have seen it. He had a ‘rain sounds layered over EDM’ phase and no one ever talks about it.”

Wonwoo hums. “We don’t talk about it because it never ended.”

Mingyu laughs. It slips out before he can stop it—sharp, startled, the kind of laugh you don’t plan.

And then he turns to stare at Wonwoo—who stays perfectly stoic, eyes on the road like he didn’t just obliterate Jun.

And that’s the thing.

Wonwoo made him laugh.

With that dry, precise timing. Like it was easy. Like he knew.

And somehow, that hits harder than it should.

It knocks something loose—some old version of Wonwoo he’d built in his head.

All those times he called him boring. Predictable. Grayscale.

But now, with that calm, unbothered smile ghosting his lips—

Mingyu sees it clearly.

He was never boring.

Mingyu just didn’t know where to look.

The silence that follows doesn’t rush to fill the space. It stretches—low, warm, like the track still humming through the speakers. Like the two of them have always belonged inside it.

Then Wonwoo speaks, his voice cutting through the song.

“What did you want to be?”

Mingyu blinks. “Huh?”

“When you were younger. What did you want to be?”

It takes a second for the question to land. It’s not the kind of thing he expected.

“Oh,” Mingyu says. “Uh… an architect.”

Wonwoo raises a brow. “So, dream achieved?”

“Sort of. I think the dream was more like… designing treehouses. Not basement bathrooms and lecture hall floorplans.”

Wonwoo tilts his head, eyes still on the road. “Treehouses?”

There’s no teasing in his voice. Just curiosity. Interest, real and unfiltered.

So Mingyu, cautiously, lets himself go there.

“Yeah,” he says, a little sheepish. “I was obsessed with them as a kid. Not, like, the flimsy backyard ones—but the cool ones. The big, crazy ones you see in books. Hidden bridges. Secret trap doors. Rope ladders. Like a whole second world up there.”

Wonwoo nods once. Quiet, focused. Like he’s tucking the image into his head to keep for later.

“I used to draw them on everything,” Mingyu adds. “Lined paper, napkins, the backs of receipts. Once I got in trouble for sketching one in the margins of a math test.”

He laughs a little at the memory. “My teacher was like, ‘You’re supposed to find the hypotenuse, not reinvent the rainforest canopy.’”

Wonwoo smiles, just barely. “Did you?”

“Find the hypotenuse?”

“No. Reinvent the canopy.”

Mingyu blinks. And then—smiles. A real one. Small, surprised, a little stunned.

“I tried,” he says.

Wonwoo just nods, quiet for a moment. Then: “Makes sense.”

“What does?”

“You,” Wonwoo says. “You don’t just build things. You imagine the worlds people might want to escape to. And then you try to make them real.”

Mingyu looks at him. Wonwoo’s still watching the road, but his voice is steady, his gaze calm.

And Mingyu—he doesn’t know what to do with that.

With being seen like that.

He sits back slowly in the passenger seat, heart thudding in the soft dark of his chest. The music plays on, quiet and dreamlike in the background. Wonwoo doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to. And for a while, Mingyu lets the silence settle. Lets himself exist in it—bare and seen and oddly okay with it.

It’s not until the next red light glows soft against the windshield that Mingyu speaks again.

“What about you?” he asks. “When you were a kid—what did you want to be?”

“I wanted to be a firefighter,” Wonwoo says, then adds, like it’s no big deal, “Or a ghost. I was five.”

Mingyu lets out a quiet laugh. “A ghost?” he echoes, grinning. “Seriously?”

Wonwoo shrugs, completely unfazed. “Seemed like the path of least resistance.”

“So your dream was just… permanent unpaid labor?”

Wonwoo lets out a low, amused breath—his version of a laugh. Soft. Barely audible. But it’s there.

Mingyu is having a crisis on the molecular level. He looks back at Wonwoo, pretending to smile back. But his heart is doing laps and his brain is screaming Damn he laughed. What the hell.

What in the actual hell.

And worse—

How do I get him to do it again.

He wants to say something. Something funny. Anything to make him laugh again—really laugh. But the words catch somewhere in his throat. So he sits there instead, blinking, burning.

And then, as if that moment isn’t already permanently branded into his brain:

Wonwoo speaks again.

“But I didn’t really dream that way,” he says. “I just liked solving things. Puzzles. Breaking stuff down until it made sense.”

“That tracks,” Mingyu says. “You’ve got that ‘quietly good at everything’ energy.”

Wonwoo side-eyes him. “You say that like it’s annoying.”

“It is annoying,” Mingyu says. “And stupid hot.”

He says it before he can think. He regrets it immediately. Wants to eat the word. Physically reach into the air and shove it back down his throat. Maybe delete himself from the car entirely.

And then, Wonwoo laughs.

Not a huff. Not a breath. An actual laugh.

It’s low, warm, real. And it hits Mingyu so hard in the ribs he almost forgets to breathe. He tries not to crash the car. Which is impressive, considering he’s not even the one driving.

Mingyu thinks: Holy shit, I made him laugh. Like. With sound. At something I said. I need to sit down. I’m already sitting. Help.

And worse—worse—

It’s exactly the expression from that damn Instagram post.

The one he liked at 1:47AM. The one where Wonwoo's eyes were crinkled and soft, head tilted slightly, mouth barely open like he was in mid-laugh, mid-sentence, mid-ruining-Mingyu’s-life. And now it’s here. Alive. Breathing the same air. Mingyu wants to scream.

And it’s so much worse because:

This one’s for him. Because of him.

“You—,” Mingyu says, “You can laugh. You have the ability. This is insane.”

Wonwoo’s mouth twitches. “Why are you so surprised? You liked a photo of me laughing.”

Mingyu jerks his head up. “Shut up.”

Wonwoo doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He looks at him—cool, with small smile playing on his lips—and says, “Was it everything you imagined at 1:47AM?”

Mingyu’s hands stay perfectly still on his lap, like any sudden movement might trigger a secondary explosion. His soul quietly packs its things and exits stage left.

He stares straight ahead and mutters, “I’m never speaking again.”

Wonwoo just hums. Still smiling. Like he’s already won something Mingyu doesn’t know he was playing for.

Then they slow to a red light. Wonwoo’s hand drops lazily to the gear shift, while Mingyu’s arm is on the console.

Too close.

But not close enough.

The gap between their hands is nothing. Maybe a breath. Maybe less.

Mingyu stares at it like if he waits long enough, the gap might close itself.

Their hands are not touching. But Mingyu can feel it. The heat of it. The nearness.

And all at once, it clicks—horribly, gloriously—that Wonwoo doesn’t even need to touch him to ruin him.

He could just sit there. Breathing. Existing.

And still—

Mingyu’s heart would be racing just the same.

He risks a glance—just one. And catches Wonwoo looking right at him.

There’s a smile playing on his lips. The kind of smile that says: Yeah. You ruin me, too.

It doesn’t feel like almost anymore. It feels like choice.

And he realizes this is the first time they’ve been alone together because they chose to be.

No set ups. No duck pond bets. No handcuffs or group-forced “bonding activity”. Just… voluntary proximity.

Wonwoo came for him. Found him.

And Mingyu—let him.

It hadn’t been tense. Or awkward. It was dangerously…comfortable.

Like this moment had been waiting for them and would’ve found them eventually, no matter what. Like this wasn’t the first time. Like it wouldn’t be the last.

That something as simple as a twenty-minute car ride with Wonwoo could leave him one breath away from losing his mind.

He wants this again—because for the first time, it didn’t feel like almost. It felt like beginning.

The second they arrive at Soonyoung’s house, Mingyu realizes: they’re not early. They’re too late. Chaos is not just present. Chaos lives here. Pays rent. Watered the plants.

There’s a grill shooting flames manned by Jun in an apron that says “GRILL DADDY.” Soonyoung stands to the side observing while holding a can of cooking spray. A karaoke projector is blasting lyrics against the side wall, two seconds out of sync with the Bluetooth speaker—currently remixing three different Travis Scott songs layered over rainforest ambiance.

There’s a giant plastic picnic table in the middle of the lawn, covered in a cracked vinyl tablecloth patterned with cartoon chickens doing the Macarena. No one knows where Soonyoung got it. No one asks.

It’s hot. It smells like smoke. Meat. Moral decay.

Mingyu barely has time to exhale before chaos greets them like an unholy welcome mat.

“NO—NO DON’T USE COOKING SPRAY—”

And then:

Flames.

A fireball.

A shriek so high-pitched it triggers a car alarm three houses down.

A tragic burst of propane betrayal explodes from the grill. Soonyoung is flailing like a man who’s just learned the meaning of consequences.

“MY FACE!” he screams, batting at the air with metal tongs. “I CAN’T FEEL MY FACE—”

“It’s your eyebrows, dumbass!” Seungcheol yells, already mid-sprint, tackling him with a wet kitchen towel like a linebacker and a disappointed dad combined.

There’s smoke. There’s screaming.

Seungkwan is standing five feet away, phone raised, filming like a man who’s not stopping the tragedy, just increasing the resolution.

“GET HIS GOOD SIDE,” Jun calls.

“HE DOESN’T HAVE ONE,” Seungkwan yells back.

Somewhere in the yard, a duck honks in either fear or solidarity. It’s unclear.

Mingyu and Wonwoo, still standing at the edge of the chaos, do not move.

They exchange a look. The kind that says:

Should we…?

No.

God, no.

This is not their business.

This is what Soonyoung gets for trying to grill in Crocs.

“Eyebrows,” Soonyoung whispers, staggered and squinting into the flames like a war survivor. He’s crouched now, one hand hovering above his forehead.

“They’re just a little crispy,” Seungcheol says, trying and failing not to laugh. “You’re still… facially operational.”

“ARE THEY SYMMETRICAL?!” Soonyoung howls, grabbing Jun by the collar. “LOOK ME IN THE EYES AND TELL ME IF I’M STILL EXPRESSIVE.”

Jun looks him dead in the face. Stone cold.

“No,” he says.

That’s it. That’s what breaks him.

He drops to the ground. “I’LL NEVER FEEL AGAIN. I’M JUST A VASE NOW. A DECORATIVE VESSEL.”

Jeonghan crouches beside him. “Relax,” he says. “You’re still expressive. Just… not on purpose anymore.”

Soonyoung screams into the grass.

Mingyu and Wonwoo quietly slip toward the table unacknowledged, frankly grateful for the cover of low-grade arson.

No one sees them arrive together.

No one sees Wonwoo tilt his head slightly toward Mingyu, like he’s trying not to smile.

The fire is out. The chaos remains. Soonyoung is now sitting cross-legged with a frozen bag of peas pressed to his face like he’s shielding himself from the grill’s betrayal. Or UV rays. Or the spotlight of God’s judgment.

“Rate my remaining expression out of ten. Be honest. But not too honest,” Soonyoung whispers.

“I’d give you a 2, but that’s only because negative numbers aren’t allowed in standardized rubrics,” Seungkwan mutters, already uploading the video.

Mingyu sighs, grabs the tongs from Soonyoung, “Okay, step away from the trauma pit,” he says, “I bought backup meat.”

Soonyoung, from where he’s sitting on the ground, mutters pitifully, “Did you get the big marshmallows? The ones that scream when you roast them?”

Wonwoo doesn’t even blink. “Thought that was your role.”

Jun wheezes, nearly drops his plate, “No delivery. No blink. Just straight-up annihilation. Five stars.”

Mingyu, at the grill, pretends not to hear them. His hands are full—one turning skewers, the other adjusting the heat. His sleeves keep sliding down again. He tries to elbow them up, but they fall again.

He swears and tries to roll his sleeves again.

“Hold still,” Wonwoo says behind him.

Mingyu freezes.

Then—two fingers. Cool and precise. Wrapping around his wrist, brushing skin. Wonwoo rolls the fabric up slowly, deliberately, like he’s done it before.

Once. Then again.

Mingyu doesn’t breathe.

The touch is brief. Professional, almost. But his skin lights up like it’s being archived. His pulse is right there, under Wonwoo’s hand, and it’s stupid, it’s ridiculous, but he swears he sees Wonwoo’s fingers pause—just for a second. Like he felt it too.

Wonwoo lets go.

But before he steps away, he says—low, deadpan, like it’s just a joke and not a spark tossed into gasoline:

“We both know I called dibs on the ghost gig at five. You don’t get to catch fire while I’m here.”

Mingyu’s grip tightens around the tongs. All he can register is the ghost of Wonwoo’s fingers on his skin, still warm, still there.

Mingyu turns his head towards Wonwoo. Tries to school his face into something neutral. Tries to be cool. Unbothered. Fails.

The smile breaks through anyway—slow, involuntary, helpless.

Like his body gave up pretending before his brain could catch up.

And Wonwoo is looking at him. Eyes steady. Calm. Like he knew that smile was coming before Mingyu did. Then—he smiles back.

Small. Intentional. Just for the both of them. And he lets the smile linger—like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he wants Mingyu to always remember.

Eventually, plates are passed around, drinks are topped up, and they migrate to the table—messy, lopsided, someone definitely sitting on a cooler.

When Mingyu finally sits down, Wonwoo’s already across from him.

Seungkwan’s started rating everyone’s chewing noises out of ten. Jun is talking about dreams where teeth fall out. The sun’s starting to dip, but the heat lingers.

Mingyu stands a few minutes later—something about his hands being sticky. He mutters something vague about soap and disappears inside.

When he comes back out, the group’s still mid-chaos. Jun and Soonyoung are deep into some heated debate about tax evasion. Someone’s lost a slipper. Seungkwan is narrating everything like it’s a live sports broadcast. Seungcheol has ketchup on his shoe.

None of it matters.

Because Wonwoo is looking at him. Eyes locked. Sharp. Certain.

And then—he taps the seat beside him. Firm. Like punctuation. And with no sound, no smile, no hesitation, Wonwoo mouths, “Come here.”

Mingyu freezes for half a second.

Then moves. Instinct. Compulsion. Gravity.

And yeah—he sits. Because what the hell else do you do when someone like that says come here like that.

Wonwoo shifts closer.

Now their shoulders are touching. Their thighs are touching underneath the chicken Macaraena tablecloth.

He turns his head, slow and deliberate, like it’s the most casual thing in the world—and then he’s just looking at Mingyu. Full-on. Eyes steady. No smile.

And then, quietly—calmly—like it’s just casual conversation: “Is this where you want me?”

“...or should I move away?”

It’s a joke.

Probably.

But it lands like a punch to the chest.

Mingyu turns to look at him.

But this time—

Mingyu doesn’t look away.

His breath is shaky. His heart’s a mess.

But he holds Wonwoo’s gaze.

Face to face.

Shoulders pressed.

And the gap between their mouths feels less like space and more like permission waiting to be granted. For once, he doesn’t shrink from it.

He lets the heat rise. Lets the moment sit.

Then—low, steady, a little braver than before—

“No,” he finally says. “Stay.”

Wonwoo doesn’t move.

And neither does Mingyu.

They just look at each other.

Everything stills, like the world is listening in.

It feels like someone should say something.

But no one does.

Instead—under the table—Mingyu shifts.

Slowly. Quietly.

He reaches his hand out.

Turns his palm upward, lands on Wonwoo’s thigh.

Open. Steady.

Offered.

Not grabbing. Not begging.

Just—here.

If Wonwoo wants it.

And after a pause that stretches just long enough to ache—

Wonwoo smiles.

So soft.

So sure.

Like this is what he’s been waiting for.

Then he reaches over—

and takes Mingyu’s hand.

All of it.

Fingers laced. Grip firm.

The world fades to the edges. The buzz of conversation, the clatter of chopsticks—all of it muffled beneath the quiet, electric fact of this.

And now Mingyu can’t feel anything except the heat in his ears and the stupid table vibrating under his elbow from someone’s soda can banging the table and the very real weight of this moment happening under the chaos. Under the chicken Macarena tablecloth.

Mingyu doesn’t pull away. Neither does Wonwoo.

The moment holds. Like breath suspended mid-inhale. Like they’ve pressed pause on the universe—and the universe, for once, is letting them.

And then—

“GUYS,” Jeonghan screeches, launching to his feet like a prophet mid-vision, shattering the 144p poultry-patterned intimacy blooming under the table, “You’re not ready for this. I just finished the beta version of my app.”

Mingyu sighs. Wonwoo lets go of his hand—but not before his thumb drags slow, deliberate, across Mingyu’s knuckles. Like a promise. Like he’ll pick that moment back up later.

Jun freezes mid-bite. “Since when do you develop apps?”

“You’re in med school,” Seungkwan cries. “You shouldn’t even be allowed to open Notepad.”

Jeonghan climbs onto the bench like he’s about to deliver a sermon. “This is what happens when you register at MIT for their medical informatics seminar, I get to finish building a prototype app.”

Jun frowns. “Again, you’re in med school. Why are you building apps?”

“For one of my electives,” Jeonghan replies, like that’s a real thing and not something he made up on the spot. “My thesis advisor works with the MIT Media Lab. I have in my hands cutting-edge telehealth technology.”

He holds up his phone. "It's called HeartSight. It detects changes in heart rate and cardiac morphology through proprietary computer vision algorithms—like an x-ray, but for heartbeats. The hospital's already talking about implementing it for triage.”

Soonyoung stares. “That’s impossible.”

"That's what they said about ultrasound before it was invented," Jeonghan says smugly, tapping the screen. The app opens to what looks like a real-time 3D rendering of a beating heart with metrics scrolling along the sides. He points the camera at himself.

"See? It locks on to your chest cavity and maps your vitals using thermal imaging and AI pattern recognition. Look at this precision. It detected my mild tachycardia from the three Red Bulls I had this morning."

Everyone leans in. The heart on screen pulses steadily. It even thumps slightly through the speaker, with occasional beeps when specific metrics change.

Seungkwan squints. "Wait... that's real? How does it see through clothes?"

"Same technology they use in airport scanners, but refined," Jeonghan says, solemnly putting a hand over his chest. "I'm literally showing you my soul."

Jun: “WAIT WHY DOES IT HAVE A SKIP AD BUTTON.”

Jeonghan yanks the phone back. “It’s still in beta.” He swipes quickly past a terms of service screen. "ANYWAY. I want to test how accurate it is under pressure. Like, say... during fear. Or exercise. Or stealth.”

Wonwoo: “You’re setting up a hide and seek game, aren’t you.”

Jeonghan points at him. "Exactly. If I find you, the app scans you. If your heart rate is normal, you win. If it's elevated—congrats, you're medically weak. I'm collecting data for my university-approved pilot study.”

Seungcheol sighs. “How is this real.”

"It's not real," Wonwoo mutters, already walking toward the house. But he surreptitiously checks his pulse at his wrist.

“GO,” Jeonghan screams. “SPLIT UP. HIDE. THE WEAK SHALL BE EXPOSED.”

Someone screams. Soonyoung runs into a folding chair.

"WAIT I HAVE A HEART MURMUR—" Seungkwan yells, already looking worried as he checks his Apple Watch heart rate. "WILL IT DETECT THAT? WILL YOU PUBLICIZE MY MEDICAL CONDITION?"

"Patient confidentiality is guaranteed under HIPAA!" Jeonghan calls after him, already firing up the app's tracking mode. The yard erupts into chaos.

Mingyu darts across the hallway like he’s dodging sniper fire, heart pounding, lungs trying to dissolve. Someone screams downstairs. A crash follows. Someone else yells, “WHY IS THE GRILL IN THE BATHROOM?!”

He doesn’t look back.

The game’s been live for eight minutes and everyone’s gone full feral. Jun’s under the deck. Soonyoung tried to hide in a bucket and now can’t get out. Mingyu ducks behind the hallway couch. It's hot. It's cramped. He hates it immediately.

He peeks around the corner—and runs into Seungkwan.

“Oh,” Mingyu says. “Are you hiding here?”

Seungkwan blinks, then nods solemnly. “Yeah. Sorry. Jun said this spot’s cursed with leg cramps anyway.”

“Oh. Okay.” Mingyu starts backing away, scanning for a plan B. “I’ll find somewhere else.”

“Try the laundry closet,” Seungkwan says too casually. “It’s behind the kitchen. No one checks there. It’s quiet. Has a shelf.”

The laundry closet in the side hallway. It’s narrow. Obscure. Stupidly cramped.

No one in their right mind would pick it.

Which is exactly why he thinks Seungkwan is a genius so Mingyu dashes straight towards it.

He slides the door open, slips in sideways, crouches—and freezes.

There’s someone already there.

Someone tall. Someone wearing a black hoodie. Someone looking at him like he thought this was his genius idea first.

Wonwoo blinks once.

Mingyu blinks back.

“…Seriously?” Mingyu hisses.

Wonwoo doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just murmurs, “We keep ending up in small spaces.”

“There are like six other hiding places—”

“And they all have Seungkwan in them.”

And that’s when footsteps echo down the hall.

A creak. A sharp inhale. Jeonghan’s voice, way too close: “I swear I heard breathing. WHO’S BREATHING IN THE WALLS?”

Mingyu yelps. Panics. Barrels inside quickly.

The door slides shut. The dark swallows them both.

Somehow, they fit. Barely. They’re not even facing each other—just side by side in the dark, shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed so tight there’s barely space for air.

And they are very much alone. Alone in a way that Mingyu can feel him.

The shape of him. The heat. The weight. The nearness.

And somehow, that’s worse than staring. Because now it’s all imagination. And his brain is filling in the rest. He swallows. Loudly.

Wonwoo exhales.

Mingyu whispers, “You think Jeonghan’s app can scan through doors?”

Wonwoo, calm as death: “You think Jeonghan knows how to code?”

Touché.

Silence. Like the air itself is vibrating at a frequency only they can hear.

Wonwoo’s knee brushes his. Mingyu doesn’t move.

There’s a beat. Then another.

And then—soft, low, right at his ear—Wonwoo murmurs, “Heart rate’s high, don’t even need an app.”

“Not helping,” Mingyu mutters. Voice low. Wrecked. Grateful. He stares straight ahead, burning.

Wonwoo doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything else.

Just lets the moment sit. Tight. Tense.

Outside, someone screams. Something crashes. Soonyoung yells, “I’M IN A VENT.”

Inside the cabinet, Mingyu can barely remember what oxygen is. The tension climbs too fast, and suddenly his hand’s on the door, like muscle memory, like self-defense. Like if he stays too long, he might do something irreversible.

But before he can open it—

Wonwoo grabs his wrist.

Just like that. A single motion. Smooth. Unhurried. Intentional.

Mingyu startles, turning to look at him. “What—”

“You’ll get us caught,” Wonwoo says, calm as ever.

Mingyu blinks. “You’re the one who said Jeonghan can’t code.”

“I said the chances are low. Not zero.”

There’s a beat.

Mingyu doesn’t move. Wonwoo doesn’t either.

“Fine. You can let go now,” Mingyu says, quieter.

Wonwoo glances down at their hands. Doesn’t move.

“Why?” he murmurs. “You didn’t seem to mind earlier.”

“Yeah well—maybe I liked it.”

And the second he says it, Mingyu’s brain immediately goes into emergency. His ears are on fire. His knees feel hot. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. Or his existence.

He can’t see Wonwoo’s face—but he knows. He knows there’s a smile there. Quiet, dangerous, curling at the corners like it knows exactly what it’s doing to him.

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. Thinks: Maybe if I die right now, I’ll come back as a cockroach.

“You’re kind of dangerous when you’re honest,” Wonwoo says, voice light, amused.

“I mean—not like—I mean yes—in that way—ugh.”

Wonwoo meets his eyes. Steady. Unapologetic. Still not letting go. And Mingyu is trying—really trying—to stay upright. To regulate his heartbeat. To not spontaneously ascend through the roof.

Mingyu exhales and changes the subject. “This is so dumb.”

Wonwoo hums. “You’re the one who picked this spot.”

“I didn’t think someone would already be in it.”

“And yet.” Wonwoo’s voice is low. Innocent in the way arson is innocent. “Here we are.”

Wonwoo cocks his head slightly, eyes sharp in the dark, like he’s recalling something.

Then he says it too calmly. Too softly:

“Do you remember your answer during Jeonghan’s survey?”

Because of course Wonwoo would bring that up now. In the dark. In a cabinet. While holding his wrist like he’s about to cross-examine him.

Mingyu stiffens. “I’ve never taken a survey in my life. What’s a survey.”

“Do you remember it?” Wonwoo asks again, relentless.

“I have selective amnesia.”

“That’s fine. I can remind you.”

Mingyu nearly bites the shelf behind him. Wonwoo leans half an inch closer—casual, like he’s just stretching. But it’s not casual. It’s fatal.

“You chose me,” Wonwoo says, “if you could date anyone in the group.”

Mingyu covers his eyes with his free hand. “Please. I’m begging.”

“And when asked why—” Wonwoo continues, eyes glinting—“you said it was because I have strong Wi-Fi.”

“I was panicking.”

“Is that really your standard?”

Mingyu groans, “It was a survival lie. I had to say something.”

Wonwoo doesn’t let go of his wrist.

Doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t miss.

“So if the Wi-Fi thing isn’t real,” he says, voice quiet—too quiet—”Then that was just an excuse to choose me.”

Mingyu makes a sound that could be typed out as "ghlksdfjh???!"

Wonwoo tilts his head. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

His grip is light, but his words are piercing.

“You said it because you wanted to say my name. And couldn’t think of a reason fast enough that wouldn’t sound like the truth."

Mingyu’s back hits the wall with a soft thump. Wonwoo’s still got his wrist.

“Mingyu,” he says, low. Lethal. Daring. “Say it again. Tell me you meant it.”

Mingyu’s throat works around air. His pulse is a crime scene. He whispers, barely audible: “Wonwoo, please—”

“I pictured you saying this line somewhere else, you know,” Wonwoo’s smile curves, slow. Sharp. “Not a closet. But just as breathless.”

The words hit like a match to Mingyu’s chest—hot, fast, and absolutely uncalled for.

He blinks. Once.

And then forces himself to meet Wonwoo’s eyes.

No flinching. No hiding.

Just him. Caught. And choosing to be caught.

Mingyu swallows hard. Then—quiet, steady, just brave enough to meet him in the middle:

“Doesn’t matter if it’s a closet or not,” he says, breath shaky, “With you, the effect’s the same.”

Wonwoo’s smile doesn’t fade. But it changes. Softens at the edges. Sharpens in the middle. Like it’s not amusement anymore—it’s intention.

Wonwoo leans in closer—barely. But enough.

His fingers loosen around Mingyu’s wrist.

Then trail down—light, careful—

until he’s holding his hand instead.

“Don’t say things like that,” he murmurs, voice low. “Unless you’re ready for what I’ll do about it.”

Wonwoo’s words pins Mingyu in place—like a threat and a promise all at once. Like the only thing keeping this from becoming something else entirely is one breath, one blink, one yes.

And then Mingyu realizes—

He wants it.

Whatever Wonwoo is offering, he wants all of it.

He wants to say yes, bite it down, throw it out—but all he can do is look at Wonwoo. And Wonwoo’s already looking back—calm, steady, like he heard the yes a long time ago, and he’s just waiting to see if Mingyu finally says it out loud.

And then Jeonghan’s voice cuts through the tension. Sharp, smug, way too loud: “I’m telling you, it’s literally just a YouTube video of a heartbeat. I screen-recorded it and added a filter.”

A pause. Mingyu blinks.

Did he hear that correctly?

Seungcheol’s voice follows—flat. Horrified. “…You made us run around the house for THIS?!”

Jeonghan, unbothered, laughing. “It’s for a research module on predictive chaos models. In layman’s terms: I made you run for my amusement.”

Seungcheol again, louder now, “I THREW OUT MY BACK HIDING IN A LAUNDRY BIN. I’M 27 AND NOW I HAVE A SLIP DISC ALL BECAUSE YOU WANTED TO TEST A FAKE APP?!”

Inside the closet, neither of them moves.

The spell doesn’t just break—it cracks. Mingyu blinks, breath shaky. Wonwoo’s hand is still in his.

They don’t speak.

Not right away.

Then—quietly, like the kind of truth that only survives if you don’t breathe too hard near it:

Wonwoo murmurs, “Next time, okay?”

And then he smiles—barely, carefully—

“I want you to want it, too.”

And just like that—he squeezes Mingyu’s hand and lets go. Opens the door. Walks out into the chaos like he didn’t just leave Mingyu’s soul stapled to the back wall.

Because what the fuck, Jeon Wonwoo.

For once, Wonwoo read it wrong. That was the one time he wasn’t supposed to stop.

Because Mingyu had already wanted it—long before he even asked.

Chapter Text

Mingyu’s dorm looks like it just lost a fight with his closet.

There are shirts everywhere—on the bed, the chair, the floor. One is draped dramatically over a lamp like it gave up halfway. The closet door hangs open. The mirror’s fogged from panic breathing. He’s changed four times. Maybe five. No one needs to know. Except God. And Soonyoung, if he ever finds out.

He’s halfway into his fifth outfit—shirt half-buttoned, hair still damp—when there’s a knock at the door.

“Seungkwan, I swear to god—” he groans, storming over without looking.

But it's not Seungkwan.

It’s Wonwoo.

Wearing a dark jacket with white trim. Nothing loud. Just sharp lines and a steadiness that’s impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stands there—one hand in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side.

Mingyu freezes. His voice fails. Every shirt he owns is visible from the hallway.

Wonwoo’s eyes scan the room behind Mingyu, then drop—slowly—to the half-buttoned shirt. To Mingyu’s exposed neck. And stay there for half a second too long.

It’s not even a look. It’s a landing. A pause that makes Mingyu’s chest tighten like it just realized it’s visible.

He forgets how to hold the door. Or his mouth. Or the stupid breath he’s been trying to regulate since outfit number three.

“You should go with the dark shirt,” Wonwoo says, voice low. “You look good in it.”

It’s not flirtatious. Not even teasing.

It’s casual. Like an observation he’s made a hundred times and only now decided to say out loud.

Mingyu swallows hard. Nods. Says something unintelligible like “okayyeahsure.”

Wonwoo huffs, amused. “You ready?”

Mingyu blinks. “What?”

“I wanted to walk with you to the party.”

Mingyu grips the doorframe harder. Tries to look normal. Tries to breathe. Tries not to think about how close Wonwoo is standing or how he smells like sandalwood and control.

“You could’ve texted,” he murmurs. “Or called.”

Wonwoo tilts his head. “I’m old-fashioned. I prefer showing up.”

A glance. A half-smile.

“That way you know I mean it.”

A reply fumbles at the edge of Mingyu’s tongue.

It doesn’t survive the look Wonwoo gives him.

“If you need more time,” Wonwoo says, softer now, “I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to, you can just go ahead,” Mingyu stammers. “It’s only three blocks anyway.”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at Mingyu—really looks. Head tilted, eyes unreadable, gaze steady like he’s memorizing this exact version of Mingyu: flushed, flustered, half-buttoned and still trying to recover.

“I know,” Wonwoo finally says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to walk them with you.”

Mingyu forgets how to hold his mouth right. His jaw tics. Words form and unform behind his teeth, but none of them make it out alive.

“Just give me like… thirty seconds. I need to breathe. And grab my keys. And maybe also scream into my closet.”

Wonwoo laughs.

“I’ll be right here.”

They start walking slowly, sidewalk lit by the hush of streetlamps and a moon that seems way too sentimental for a Saturday night.

It’s quiet. Still early enough that campus hasn’t fully buzzed to weekend night life, late enough that the air is hushed, like the whole world decided to dim itself down to make room for this.

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks like he’s done it a hundred times—with one hand in his pocket and the other swinging loose, brushing every now and then a little too close to Mingyu’s.

Mingyu keeps staring straight ahead. Which is difficult, because Wonwoo is also right there. And walking beside him. Like it’s normal.

“Did I already say you looked good in that shirt?” Wonwoo says after a while.

Mingyu doesn’t look at Wonwoo. Can’t. He’s already flushed down to his collarbone, fists clenched to keep from fidgeting.

“…you did,” Mingyu mutters, ears burning.

“Still true,” Wonwoo says, glancing sideways, smiling just a little. “And now I have to walk next to you like I’m not thinking about it.”

Mingyu doesn’t respond right away—just breathes, steadying himself, trying not to grin like an idiot. He runs a hand through his hair, buying time to compose himself.

“Okay. Cool. Normal. I can handle compliments. That was a compliment, right? No, don’t clarify. I’m good.”

Wonwoo stops.

Just—stops walking mid-step, like he’s suddenly decided Mingyu needs to really hear this. Mingyu though, still reeling, takes two more strides before realizing and turns to Wonwoo, confused.

“Too bad,” Wonwoo smiles calmly, like the pause was scripted. “I had three more compliments lined up.”

Wonwoo’s gaze doesn’t waver. Not even for a second. If anything, his smirk deepens—just enough to make Mingyu’s pulse trip in his throat.

“And one of them would’ve made you stop walking.”

Wonwoo doesn’t wait for a response. He just smiles at Mingyu—like he’s already said enough—and then turns, continuing down the path with unhurried ease.

Mingyu keeps walking. Okay. Cool. Fine. His legs are still moving. It’s unclear if this is intentional or the result of muscle memory. His pulse is loud. His thoughts are loud. His face is probably loud too.

They pass the student union building and eventually slow down in front of the old Humanities Hall—low and ivy-draped under the warm glow of streetlights.

Wonwoo glances at it. “I remember you like this building a lot.”

Mingyu nods, surprised. “Yeah. Uh. How did you know?”

“You always slow down when we pass it. Even when all our friends are already walking far ahead.”

Mingyu’s heart trips. Mingyu didn’t even know he did that.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at Wonwoo. Then looks back at the building.

“My first year, I used to sit out here and draw it,” Mingyu says, voice quieter now. “I was homesick. And I’d just… sit here. It didn’t look like home, but it felt like it. Like it didn’t need me to do anything. Just let me stay.”

Wonwoo exhales, slow. Then he shifts—just slightly—closer. His shoulder nearly brushes Mingyu’s. His voice, when it comes, is low and deliberate, like he means every syllable.

“I understand. There’s a rooftop on the Engineering building that’s always empty. I go there a lot when I don’t feel like being found.”

Wonwoo’s gaze stays forward, but his fingers flex once—like he’s thinking about reaching out and almost does. “If you ever feel like that again,” he says quietly, “let me be somewhere you go.”

Mingyu’s breath catches.

There’s no witty reply. No awkward laugh. Just the sudden ache of something warm and terrifying blooming behind his ribs, like his body suddenly remembered what it means to be chosen—gently, certainly.

He turns to look at Wonwoo again—really look—and there’s something in his expression that’s almost reverent, and for a second, the world softens. The streetlights go quiet. The path feels slower. And Wonwoo is there beside him, calm and steady, saying things that feel like coming home—quiet, unexpected, and exactly where Mingyu realizes he’s always wanted to be.

His fingers twitch at his side before he lets his hand hang just a little closer to Wonwoo’s. His voice comes out quieter than before.

“…It feels like you’re already there.”

Mingyu doesn’t know what he expects after saying that. Maybe a laugh. Maybe nothing.

Then Wonwoo says, “If I knew you’d say that, I would’ve made up excuses to walk with you sooner.”

Mingyu huffs a breath of disbelief, trying not to smile too hard. “That’s starting to sound like something Jeonghan would say.”

Wonwoo glances at him—just once, brief and knowing. “Is it working, though?”

“It is,” Mingyu responds, voice quiet. “You always work on me.”

Wonwoo steps a little closer. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that Mingyu has to hold his breath to keep steady.

“You should not have said that,” Wonwoo murmurs, gaze flicking to his mouth for half a second. “I might start abusing it.”

Mingyu’s pulse skitters. He doesn’t back away.

Instead—Mingyu leans just slightly, like he’s testing the space between them. Like he wants to see if Wonwoo will take the rest.

“Go ahead. Try me.”

They’re standing too close now. It’s not a conversation anymore—

And then—

R-R-RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM—

A tiny electric scooter screams into the driveway. Both of them snap their heads toward the sound—just in time to see Jun, crouched like a demon over the handlebars of a child-sized scooter, tearing across the yard at full speed.

“BEEP BEEP~!” he howls. “I’M LATE AND IF I’M NOT IN THE FINALE I SWEAR TO GOD!”

He blurs past—sunglasses on, cape flapping behind him like he’s in a high-speed chase. A small child in the distance is shrieking, “PEPPA PIG WOULD NEVER DO THIS!!!”

“Did Jun just Grand Theft Auto a child?” Mingyu asks, still blinking.

Wonwoo adjusts his glasses as he watches the cape—an actual cape—flap heroically behind Jun as he disappears down the path “With that momentum, he’ll be airborne by the fountain.”

Seungkwan bursts out the front door, followed by Jeonghan, already waving a red solo cup like a referee flag.

“There you are,” Jeonghan says, eyes laser-focused. “You’re late.”

He doesn’t wait for an excuse—just scans the space between them, from Mingyu’s flushed ears to Wonwoo’s very deliberate calm.

“Wait. You came together?”

“Oh my god,” Seungkwan gasps, scandalized. “Are you telling me you walked here unsupervised? Under the moonlight???? Did you at least walk five feet apart?? No??? Then we’re shipping it.”

Mingyu starts to protest, “We just—”

Seungkwan practically levitates. He throws his arms out, “You took longer than Google Maps predicted. It said 7 minutes. You took 11. That’s a 4-minute gap. That’s a kiss-length gap. If you weren’t making out, I’m offended.”

Jeonghan narrows his eyes. “If they took 11 minutes and weren’t kissing, then someone was definitely thinking about it.”

Mingyu makes a strangled noise. “We weren’t— I mean—no one was—THINKING about—” He gestures wildly, like he can physically swat the tension out of the air. “We just walked! Like normal! With feet! On the ground!”

Jeonghan wheezes. “Wow. That’s exactly what someone thinking about kissing would say.”

Jun appears out of nowhere, sipping from a drink that is suspiciously purple. Then he tilts his head, blinking slowly. “I had a dream last night you two made out by the econ building. Weird that it’s happening now.”

Mingyu practically explodes. “THAT NEVER HAPPENED—WE’VE NEVER EVEN—Why would we even be in the humanities building?? That place doesn’t—” He looks physically pained. Like the words “made out” are personally attacking his nervous system.

Jeonghan raises his eyebrows. “Interesting pivot. We said econ. You said humanities.”

Seungkwan leans in slowly, eyes wide with mock innocence. “Oh my god. So you have thought about where.”

Jun squints at Mingyu, “You didn’t even deny the kiss. You just gave us a floor plan.”

Jeonghan turns to Wonwoo. “And you. You’re smiling. In public. Are you aware of how upsetting that is?”

“You can get upset all you want,” Wonwoo’s eyes flick briefly toward Mingyu then back to Jeonghan, calm as ever. “It wasn’t for you anyway.”

Jeonghan physically reels back and drops his drink, “I didn’t bring my rosary or my insurance card. Why would you say something like that to a civilian?”

Seungkwan shrieks so loudly a passing car honks in alarm. “Oh my god, I’m not built for this level of romantic aggression.” Then he grabs Jun’s purple drink, gulps it in one breath, and points an accusatory finger at Wonwoo: “Do you hear yourself??? You just soft launched a wife.”

Jun stares, mouth open. “Can you at least warn us next time before you say things like that? I almost swallowed my own tongue.”

Mingyu is standing very still, processing emotions he hasn’t unlocked the vocabulary for. He exhales sharply, as if that’ll clear the heat from his face. “Can we just please go inside?”

They start toward the house, but Mingyu doesn’t get far. Because Jeonghan, with all the gentleness of an angel who thinks free will is a prank, casually places a hand on Mingyu’s back—and nudges.

Just a soft, perfectly timed shove. Barely a breeze.

But it’s enough to send Mingyu bumping shoulder-first into Wonwoo.

Wonwoo catches him. Effortless. Like gravity’s just doing its thing and Wonwoo’s the center of it, one hand steady on Mingyu’s elbow, the other casually finding the small of his back like the space had been waiting for him.

Jun bursts into laughter from behind them.

Mingyu sputters.

“Sorry, force of habit.” Jeonghan says, far too innocent to be trusted. “Shipper instinct.”

“Jeonghan, you freak,” Seungkwan says, laughing before he even finishes the sentence. “Using violence for the plot?? I’m so scared of you. Do it again.”

Jeonghan shrugs. “Someone’s gotta keep the slow burn from burning too slow.”

A flicker of amusement crosses Wonwoo’s face. “Don’t push him. He’s just tall. Not as balanced.”

Jun chokes, then howls with laughter. “He’s not as balanced??? That’s not a sentence, that’s a fanfic tag.”

Then Soonyoung throws open the door like it’s the opening scene of a musical. “Thank God y’all are here. I was running out of small talk topics!”

Mingyu stumbles forward, half-pushed, half-guided by the momentum of group chaos. Wonwoo’s hand grazes the middle of his back—steady, barely there—and then it's gone.

Wonwoo is pulled instantly into a crowd of Mech-E teammates near the kitchen—loud, half-drunk, already shoving drinks into his hands like he hasn’t missed three events in a row. Someone slings an arm around him. Someone else yells, “JEON, YOU MADE IT??”

And Mingyu is dragged the opposite way.

“Okay, okay, answer honestly,” says Jaehyun from Events, grabbing his sleeve, “Were the PA announcements just a prank? Or a courtship ritual?”

“You owe us answers. Admin flagged your Instagram flirting as student conduct violation,” Chan says, sliding in. “I had to sit through a compliance seminar.”

Four more people crowd in, half-empty red cups in hand, every single one of them wearing the same gossip-hungry face, all eyes locked on Mingyu like he’s tonight’s entertainment. (He is.)

Nayeon squints at him like she’s appraising a painting. “Because what are you waiting for? Do you even see him?” she demands. “He’s tall, unreadable, and hot in a way that implies character development. If you’re not locking that down, I will.”

Mingyu stares at her. “No. No you will not. You will absolutely not. Get in line. Actually—don’t. There is no line. This isn’t a bakery. He’s not for public consumption.”

He immediately regrets speaking. The group explodes. He's getting slaughtered. He should leave. He should run. He tries to fix it. “I just meant—he’s not—I didn’t say—”

Seungkwan’s voice cuts through first: “‘Not for public consumption’?? YOU MAKE IT SOUND LIKE HE’S A BIOHAZARD.”

Jun wheezes. “‘Not for public consumption’ is INSANE. Is he a man or a limited edition PRINGLES FLAVOR???” He cackles so hard he has to brace himself on the snack table.

Mingyu throws his hands up, flustered and glowing red. “I didn’t mean it like that! He’s just—he’s not for anyone! I mean—God. Why are we even TALKING about this like he’s up for adoption???”

“Hold on. So you’re saying you two aren’t a thing?” Nayeon practically screeches. “You’re telling me this whole time Wonwoo’s been tall, hot, and available?”

From behind the snack table, Carlos Sainz slams down his punch. “Give him to me then!” he yells. “I’ll honor him properly!”

Mingyu turns so fast he almost spills his drink. “Hey—I was already—I mean, you can’t have him! He’s a person! With free will! And he’s not available. Not like that. I think. Maybe. Shut up!”

Seungkwan wheezes like he’s been punched in the diaphragm. “‘He’s not available—not like that—I think—maybe—shut up’??? Oh my god. This is pathetic. I’ve seen less panic in horror movies.”

Jihyo raises her glitter cup like it’s a mic. “‘I was already—’ ALREADY WHAT, KIM MINGYU?” she shouts. “Go ahead. Finish the sentence.”

Mingyu means to respond, to deny everything—he’s mid-sentence, half-smiling, almost recovered from the slaughter—

But when his eyes drift across the room, they unwittingly land on Wonwoo… who’s already looking at him.

In the middle of the noise and hands tugging at Wonwoo’s jacket and someone trying to cheers him, Wonwoo isn’t paying attention to any of it.

He’s just… looking at Mingyu.

And when their eyes meet, Wonwoo smiles at him. Like nothing else is worth noticing. Like Mingyu’s the only reason he showed up at all, and the only place he wants to be is wherever Mingyu is standing.

Mingyu totally forgets what he was denying.

The lights cut out.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough to make people pause mid-conversation, mid-dance, mid-drunken debate about whether ducks have knees. Someone in the corner yelps. The music falters—then dies.

The pause gives Jeonghan exactly what he needs.

He steps up onto the slightly elevated platform next to the living room speaker setup—the one they used last Halloween for karaoke—and clinks a spoon against a bottle like he’s calling a kingdom to order.

Then his voice crackles to life.

“Welcome,” Jeonghan drawls, “to Donate to Humiliate.”

A spotlight flickers on. No one knows who set up a spotlight. But there he is, standing on a makeshift stage, drink in one hand and his iconic megaphone in the other.

Behind him, a long folding table has appeared. On it: a line of mason jars, each with a name scrawled in bold marker on a neon label.

SEUNGKWAN. MINGYU. WONWOO. JUN. SOONYOUNG.

The crowd whoops. Someone yells in pure awe, “HE BROUGHT THE MEGAPHONE. WE’RE SO BACK!”

Jeonghan, with the poise of a man born for televised scandal, raises the megaphone again.

“Here’s how this game works,” he says, gesturing at the jars. “Each round, we draw a dare from this bowl. They’re crazy. They’re plot devices. They’re how I get my serotonin.”

“Then you all get ten minutes to vote by donating to the jar of the person you want to suffer—sorry, participate in the dare. So, all you have to do is throw money into a jar and see a miracle happen which, let’s be honest, is cheaper than therapy.”

Jeonghan raises his cup, then adds, “And yes—before Seungcheol chases me down with righteous fury—all proceeds go to his frat’s community renovation project.”

Jeonghan stands center stage, arms wide, bathed in the glow of questionable LED lights and moral ambiguity.

“Now, before you ask—‘Jeonghan, why are only your friends being humiliated tonight?’”

He gestures grandly to the couch, where Mingyu, Wonwoo, Seungkwan, Soonyoung, and Jun are all lined up like guests on a talk show they didn’t agree to appear on.

“That’s because Seungcheol said I couldn’t exploit strangers for money.”

The spotlight swings to Seungcheol at the edge of the room, arms raised like a senator denying corruption charges.

Jeonghan continues, “So here we are. And don’t worry, my friends are not being exploited. They’re volunteers. Against their will. But still.”

Mingyu, somewhere on the couch straightens in alarm, “Jeonghan, what the hell.”

Jeonghan doesn’t even blink. “Don’t swear,” he says serenely. “This is a charity event.”

“Come on guys, this is going to be fun,” Seungkwan rises with the seriousness of a midnight preacher, “We’re saving children’s lives and enabling Jeonghan. Balance.”

Wonwoo lifts his drink with deadpan resignation. “Not exactly noble. But hard to argue.”

“LET’S FUCKING GOOOO,” Soonyoung howls, already bouncing on his heels. “Do I need to sign a waiver or can I just cause problems immediately???”

“YES! YES!” Jun practically launches off the couch. “Finally. A game with high stakes and no safe word! This one’s for UNICEF!”

Seungkwan jumps in without hesitation, voice soaring like he’s leading a revolution. “FOR LITTLE TIMMY WHO STILL NEEDS A SWING SET!”

They high five—wild, committed, morally unsupervised—and the room erupts.

Chairs scrape back as the crowd surges with energy. Drinks are hoisted like sacred offerings. Chan slaps the ceiling hard enough to rattle the light fixture. Someone starts chanting “LITTLE TIMMY! LITTLE TIMMY!” like it’s a cult and not a tipsy frat house.

Seungcheol pinches the bridge of his nose as he watches cups fly and chants rise, “This is not what I meant by community engagement.”

Mingyu shoots to his feet, panicked. “Guys. Guys, no. What if we just… didn’t.”

Jeonghan claps once, completely ignoring Mingyu’s protest. “Alright. Let’s begin!”

Jun beats an imaginary drumroll on the back of the couch. Soonyoung yells “EXCALIBURRRR” for no reason.

Jeonghan raises a single hand. “And now,” he intones, “we draw our very first dare. Seungcheol, the bowl.”

Seungcheol sighs and lifts the fishbowl towards Jeonghan. He digs through the paper slips with excessive flair. “Hmm. Ah. Yes. A classic,” he announces.

“Dare #1: You have to wear someone else’s socks on your hands for the next ten minutes.”

Seungkwan shrieks, “WE’RE STARTING WITH BIOWEAPONS???”

Jeonghan grins. “You know the drill! Ten minutes to vote. Drop your cash into their jar, ruin their night, and help Little Timmy get a swing set. GO.”

What follows is absolute chaos.

Everyone lunges for the jars. There’s a guy trying to pay via Apple Pay to Jun’s mason jar. Someone else is swapping coins with bribes. Seungkwan keeps yelling “FOOT-TO-HAND TRANSFERENCE IS NOT A JOKE.”

With the flair of a game show host, Jeonghan raises the megaphone. “And the results are in! Our winner: Soonyoung! Runner-up: Jun. Which means Soonyoung now inherits… Jun’s socks.”

“LET’S GO!” Jun yells, already yanking his socks off. “FEEL MY ESSENCE!” he bellows as he flings them directly at Soonyoung’s face.

Soonyoung recoils, catches them mid-air, and then sniffs them. “They’re damp,” he whispers. “Why are they damp.”

Jun beams. “Because they’re alive.”

Without hesitation, Soonyoung slips them on like gloves. The crowd loses it. DK shrieks, “FUNGAL EXPOSURE!” Vernon dry heaves. Joshua immediately yells, “Don’t inhale!! It’s airborne!”

Seungkwan, bent over in laughter, wheezes, “This is exactly what Little Timmy would’ve wanted.”

Mingyu’s just frozen in place, clutching his own socks protectively. “Why are we doing this. Why are we funding this.”

Jeonghan plucks another dare from Seungcheol’s bowl. He unfolds the paper then reads it out with unholy glee:

“Dare #2: Let the person to your left change your Instagram bio.”

He spins dramatically on one heel. “It must stay up for 24 hours. No explanations. That means public humiliation, permanent digital footprint, and maximum screenshot potential.”

Jeonghan bares his teeth. “Jars open! “Let’s gooooooooo!”

The voting is instant chaos.

“VOTE MINGYU,” Jun shrieks. “HE HAS INSTAGRAM AESTHETIC STANDARDS. WE CAN DESTROY HIM.”

And somehow—somehow—Mingyu does win.

Jeonghan doubles over.

Mingyu stiffens, betrayed. “No. No. I already did a dare by showing up tonight.”

But his jar is full. The crowd has spoken.

To his left: Seungkwan, already cracking his knuckles. “Hand it over, loverboy.”

Mingyu groans. “I’d like to speak to my lawyer.”

Seungkwan snatches the phone. He types. Cackles. Types some more. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he taps save.

Jeonghan reads user @kim_mingyu’s new bio aloud for the room, megaphone-style:

‘not dating jeon wonwoo but if you squint and pray really hard it kinda looks like it’

The crowd goes wild.

Soonyoung falls off the couch and starts convulsing. Jun physically faceplants onto Seungcheol’s shoulder, sobbing with laughter. Vernon throws a pillow across the room and yells, “STRAIGHT TO JAIL.”

Someone else shrieks, “They’ve done that. They’ve DONE THAT.”

Mingyu flails. “TAKE IT DOWN.”

“Nope,” Seungkwan beams. “The bio’s live, screenshots are flying, and UNESCO just declared it a cultural reset.”

The noise rises. Chaos. Clapping. Someone is playing the Titanic flute remix from a JBL speaker.

From the other end of the couch, just beside Mingyu, Wonwoo pipes up.

“Well…” Wonwoo murmurs, just loud enough for Mingyu to hear. “…if you squint…”

A pause. A smirk that never quite shows.

“Should I just make it come true?”

There’s a flicker of the usual panic in Mingyu, but it fizzles out halfway. Maybe it’s the drinks. Maybe it’s the way Wonwoo’s voice dips when he’s asking loaded questions. Or maybe it’s the fact that for once, Mingyu wants to meet him there.

He huffs a laugh—low, a little shaky, but warm. “You could try,” Mingyus says, almost smiling. “See what happens.”

For a split second, Mingyu’s words lands too well. Wonwoo’s eyes flicker—something unreadable, something thrown off. He shifts his gaze like he wasn’t expecting that answer. Like he’s suddenly aware of the space between them.

Before Wonwoo could answer, Soonyoung suddenly screams, already on his feet, fists to the sky, “PRAY HARDER! PRAY HARDER!”

Everyone joins in immediately. Jun scream-laughs. Joshua falls off the beanbag. Seungkwan is banging on a pot he found from somewhere.

Someone’s crying. Someone’s recording.

“I said build community, not start a new religion,” Seungcheol mutters, watching his friend group ruin half the student population.

Jeonghan reaches into the bowl for another dare. His hand hovers, swirls, then pauses—fingertips brushing the slips.

He plucks one out.

“DARE #4,” he announces, voice suddenly solemn. “Draw a heart on someone else’s body… using only your finger.”

There’s a pause. Jeonghan smiles like he planned this. (He did. He put ten copies of this dare in the bowl.)

The room howls. People are on their feet.

Seungkwan shoots out of his seat. Arms flying. Voice booming. “VOTE FOR MINGYU!” He jumps in place, rallying the crowd like he’s leading a very specific cult. “This man has great surface area. We deserve to utilize it as a group.”

Wonwoo’s jar fills up in seconds. A guy sprints across the room to drop $50 in. Someone FaceTimes Jaehyun just to throw a vote on their behalf.

The rest don’t even stand a chance.

Jeonghan chirps. “And the people have spoken.”

He lifts the Wonwoo jar overhead like it’s the FIFA World Cup. “Jeon Wonwoo. You have been chosen—by the people. And capitalism.”

He turns to the crowd, eyes glinting.

“Now then,” he calls innocently into the megaphone. “Where shall Wonwoo’s finger go?”

A single breath passes.

“...Okay not like that. Be serious. This is for little Timmy.”

From the other side of the room, Jihyo raises her margarita in the air and screams: “MINGYU! MINGYU! MINGYU!”

“Mingyu! Let’s make the fanfic real!” Seungkwan shrieks from the top of the couch.

DK waves a $100 bill like it’s a glowstick. “If I donate a hundred can he draw it twice??”

Someone near the back, possibly Chan, cups his hands around his mouth, and yells, “DRAW IT ON HIS ABS. WE DESERVE THE TRUTH!”

The crowd is fully unhinged. Jun is wheezing. Soonyoung is clapping like a seal. Jeonghan bows to the floor in fake reverence.

Mingyu looks like he might dissolve into particles. Wonwoo just tilts his head, amused.

Jeonghan, delighted, waves the megaphone like a conductor. “Okay, okay, we hear you. The people want Kim Mingyu. Democracy prevails.”

There’s a collective cheer so loud it shakes the string lights overhead.

Jun and Seungkwan physically escort Mingyu toward the makeshift stage—well, drag is the more accurate term. Mingyu resists. “I can’t—I mean, like, do other people not have—bodies? Or—”

Someone from the crowd yells, “YOU’RE THE BODY, KING.”

Now Mingyu and Wonwoo are both on stage.

Wonwoo raises his brows at Mingyu. “Take your pick.”

Mingyu blinks. “Pick what?”

Wonwoo takes a single step closer, and somehow the air gets thinner. Wonwoo's voice comes out low, lazy, when he says: “Where you want it.” 

Mingyu swallows. Loudly. “I—uh—”

He gestures vaguely to his entire upper half. “I don’t know, like. Arm? Arm’s safe. Arms are classic. You can’t go wrong with arms—”

Wonwoo cocks his head. “You sure?”

The tone is gentle. The look is not.

Then he steps in closer—just enough to make Mingyu forget what decade it is—and lifts his hand slowly, deliberately. The crowd quiets like they’ve all just realized they’re in church.

Wonwoo’s finger hovers over Mingyu’s chest.

Lower.

Lingers.

Then—softly, carefully—he starts to draw.

And it’s not even a full heart yet, just the top curve, but Mingyu’s brain is already out of office. His eyes flutter shut. Somewhere in the crowd, someone lets out an audible gasp. Seungkwan’s halfway to the floor, muttering, “I told you. I TOLD you he wasn’t built for this.” Jun is whispering “he’s gonna die” with his whole chest.

Wonwoo finishes the shape with a flourish. Pulls back just an inch. Enough to make Mingyu look at him.

The scream Seungkwan lets out sounds legally actionable.

“OH MY GOD WHY IS THIS SO HOT?” someone screams.

Nayeon screams into her red cup like it’s a mic. “What the fuck is up with that chemistry??? My ancestors felt that. And they’re dead.”

DK straight-up covers his mouth and whisper-sobs, “I have no stakes in this but I’m invested. I’M INVESTED.”

“GET THEM A ROOM!” Chan wails.

“GET ME A ROOM, I CAN’T BREATHE,” someone else gasps, clutching the nearest wall.

Seungkwan is howling. Soonyoung clutches Seungkwan’s sleeve like he’s witnessing a live birth. “Is this what it feels like to believe in love again?”

Jeonghan is just cackling, hands on hips, basking in the chaos like an evil guy who says “just trust me” and then sets off fireworks indoors.

Seungcheol, barely holding onto his beer, mutters, “Okay. Yeah. That was porn.”

In the far corner, someone starts to chant,

“LET! THEM! KISS!”

“LET! THEM! KISS!”

Seungcheol whips around. “NO! No kissing. This is a charity event.”

“SO WAS THE MET GALA,” Vernon yells back. “BUT IT DIDN’T STOP KIM KARDASHIAN!”

Jeonghan leans over to grab another dare from Seungcheol’s cursed little bowl. He lifts it like a scroll, eyes glittering. “Alright,” he announces, voice syrup-sweet and full of threat. “Let’s continue building Timmy’s playground.”

He unfolds the slip.

“DARE #5: Scream the name of your crush.”

A ripple of silence spreads through the group like a pre-storm hush.

Everyone turns. Eyes lock on a single target.

Mingyu.

He freezes. Like a deer in the headlights. Except the headlight is their group chat come to life.

“Oh come on,” he mutters, already reaching for the nearest cushion to hide behind.

The campaigning begins instantly.

“Vote Mingyu,” Seungkwan demands, already up on the armrest like he’s rallying a nation. “We’ve been waiting three months for this update. It’s LOOONG overdue.” Then he presses a hand to his heart, voice dropping an octave. “Think of little Timmy,” he says solemnly. “Think of his swing set. Think of Mingyu yelling ‘Wonwoo’… and the world healing just a little.”

“Mingyu’s in his confession arc,” Jun chimes in, smug. “Let the man yell.”

Mingyu groans. “You’re actually all sick in the head.”

The jars go around. Coins. Bills. Someone throws in a friendship bracelet. It’s getting out of hand.

Jeonghan stands dramatically, hand in the bowl like he's drawing lottery numbers.

“And the winner is—”

He blinks. Squints.

“...Soonyoung?!”

Everyone stares.

Seungkwan jolts upright. “No. No. That’s wrong. I saw the numbers. Mingyu had—wait—”

Jun slaps a hand to his forehead. “Oh my god.”

All heads turn as Jun, visibly distressed, flicks on his phone flashlight and squints into Soonyoung’s donation jar. “That was a hundred dollars? I funded him to yell?”

Meanwhile, Soonyoung—completely oblivious—is already clambering onto the table, beaming.

“Crushes?” he says cheerfully. “Oh yeah. I got one.”

Then he cups his hands around his mouth and shrieks with his whole chest:

“Lime Green Power Ranger, I’d die for youuuuuu!”

A horrified gasp ripples through the crowd.

“We can’t let him win anything ever again,” Jihoon mutters.

From the back, DK yells, “He’s not even a real Ranger color!”

Soonyoung, still standing triumphantly on the table and fires back, “Yes he is! It’s in Mystic Force—do your research!”

A chant starts for no reason:

“Lime green! Lime green! Lime green!”

Seungkwan groans into his hands. “I can’t believe Mingyu lost his confession arc to the Power Rangers.”

Jun responds, deadly serious, “Well, to be fair, Lime Green Power Ranger once somersaulted into a volcano for friendship. What has Mingyu done?”

Jeonghan pulls the next dare. “Dare #6,” he reads, “Scroll your DMs. Read the first message you ever sent to whoever it lands on.”

He hasn’t even declared the jars open yet, but there’s already a full-blown stampede forming around the table. Bills hit the bowl like confetti. Someone throws a shoe. Phones come out—people are swiping into their e-transfers like their lives depend on it.

After what seems to be a minor economic collapse, Jeonghan finally makes a show of lifting the jars one by one, weighing them with both hands, pulling dramatic faces.

He pauses.

Grins.

And declares, “The winner—by a devastating margin… Jeon Wonwoo.”

The party erupts. Seungkwan falls to his knees. Soonyoung shrieks. Jun high-fives a lamp. Someone in the back starts sobbing.

There’s a scream so shrill it registers even outside the house, “He’s gonna expose his hoes!”

Wonwoo, as usual, says nothing. He takes his phone out of his back pocket. Scrolls once. Taps.

Jeonghan leans in like a game show host. “Alright, Wonwoo. Let’s hear your first DM with someone.”

Wonwoo turns the screen around.

It’s already at the top.

There’s only one thread. One name. One conversation.

“It’s just Mingyu.”

The crowd goes silent.

Jeonghan starts laughing until he pauses mid-wheeze, squinting at the screen. “Wait… you have no other messages???”

Jeonghan lunges and snatches the phone out of Wonwoo’s hand.

“Wait, wait, wait.”

He stares at the screen, mouth open.

“You mean to tell me you’ve been walking around campus with an empty inbox EXCEPT FOR MINGYU?!?”

Seungkwan grabs the phone next. “No, because he has me muted! AND I’M FUNNY!”

Mingyu, across the room, is fully dissociating. There is no god. There is only heat and embarrassment and a phone that just exposed his entire life trajectory.

He’s the only one in Wonwoo’s inbox. Not a group project partner. Not Seungcheol. Not Jeonghan, who messages everyone. Not Jun, who’s in five group chats at minimum. Not even Soonyoung, who sends unsolicited photos of clouds that look like tempura.

Jeonghan leans into the megaphone, voice practically gleaming. “Wonwoo, the people wants to know: why is Mingyu the only one in your DMs? Do you clear your inbox or something?”

The megaphone screeches with feedback as he shoves it toward Wonwoo’s face. The crowd is already howling. Wonwoo takes the megaphone like it’s a group project he’s reluctantly agreed to lead.

“No,” he says, tone casual. “I don’t clear my inbox. There’s just no reason to talk to anyone else.” His voice stays even. But the line lands like a dropkick. “What would other people give me that Mingyu doesn’t?”

Oh my god," Chaeun stands up and yells, “He’s not just a green flag, he’s a whole reforestation initiative!"

Wonwoo continues to scroll. He reads the first message aloud.

“The first message is just, ‘where are you,’” he says simply. “That was when I was looking for him. I thought he was going to miss the E-Games Championship.”

He doesn’t smile. He just looks at Mingyu like that should explain everything.

“I wasn’t gonna let him miss it,” he continues. “I didn’t want to win if he wasn’t there to see it.”

And the room. Loses. Its MIND.

Roweon lets out a sound that’s half-scream, half-sob. “Get married. GET MARRIED NOW!”

“What the fuck,” Yerin throws herself onto the carpet face-first. “That’s a fanfiction opening line.”

DK bangs a spoon on a metal bowl like a war cry. “Someone sedate me. I can’t take any more of this lore.”

Minghao just yells, “Jeonghan, arrest them again! I didn’t consent to witnessing that!”

Jun, meanwhile, peels off his jacket in slow motion and throws it at Mingyu’s head. “You’re gonna need this to bury yourself in.” Then cackles like he’s officiating a funeral.

Mingyu hasn’t breathed in thirty-seven seconds.

Soonyung clutches at his own face, “I am feeling things and they’re not even about me.”

Seungkwan bursts out laughing while lifting his phone to film Mingyu, “He’s not breathing. Do we intervene or just document it???”

Jeonghan, still reeling from the last reveal, takes a long sip of something. “Well,” he coughs into the megaphone, “I guess love is real. And I hate it here.”

He reaches into the dare bowl. Drags out the next folded paper. Unfolds it.

Glances up. Then starts laughing. Like he’s just read the plot twist ahead of the rest of the book and knows it’s insane. “Oh, this one’s good.”

“For our final dare,” he declares. “Kiss the last person you texted. Or drink half this tequila bottle.”

A collective gasp swells and bursts across the room. Someone screams. Someone else starts live-streaming.

The comments come fast and feral:

“THE WAY I JUST DROPPED MY PHONE.”

“pls i have work tomorrow don’t do this to me”

“what’s happening did we just invent emotional gambling”

“I’m WATCHING this at a red light"

“if MINGYU doesn’t kiss wonwoo i’m eating drywall”

“THIS IS BETTER THAN THE JAIL BOOTH ARC”

“if mingyu loses i’m live-streaming my breakdown from the duck pond”

“jeonghan WHAT is wrong with you and how do I subscribe???”

“i’m at my grandma’s funeral but this is more important rn sorry meemaw”

“if i don’t see mouth-to-mouth contact in the next 30 seconds i’m making direct eye contact with God and BEGGING”

“no bc if i had chemistry like theirs i’d kiss out of SPITE”

Somebody pans the camera to Mingyu, whose soul is visibly buffering.

“his ears are red. get the man an ice pack or a therapist lmaoooo”

“the way he just saw all eleven chapters flash before his eyes”

“i would pay GOOD MONEY to know what slideshow of thoughts is playing behind those eyes rn”

“his trauma unlocked a NEW trauma”

All at once, the party moves like a hive mind. A possessed, single-target, chaos-fueled hive mind.

Everyone flocks to Mingyu’s jar like it's the last update on an abandoned fic. Elbows are thrown. Wallets are opened. Cash rains like ash. Money is exchanged for the promise of lip-to-lip contact.

Someone leaps over a couch like it’s an Olympic hurdle and slams a crumpled fifty into the jar. The tip jar from the drinks bar is dumped directly into Mingyu’s jar. Someone rips the laces off their sneakers and tosses them in. Another tears a gold chain off their own neck and cries, “TAKE IT. JUST KISS.”

Even Jeonghan can’t keep a straight face. He watches the swirling mass of people throwing bills. “Wow,” he grins, delighted. “And they said propaganda doesn’t work.”

Jun climbs onto a chair, fist raised like he’s leading a revolution. “WE RIDE AT DAWN!”

Seungkwan bows in front of Mingyu’s jar. “It’s been an honor serving this fandom.”

And on the livestream, the comment section is having a complete nuclear meltdown:

“no one voted for the others i’m cryingggggggg”

“this is what democracy looks like”

“HIS JAR IS STEAMING. IS THAT LEGALLY BINDING???”

“i sold half a lung for this moment DO NOT FAIL ME KIM MINGYU”

“i feel like i’m watching a crossover episode between ao3 and squid game”

“MINGYU I BEG YOU I HAVE $37 ON THIS”

“don’t you DARE cut to commercial”

Jeonghan tallies the votes. There’s no real math involved—he just glances at the jars, snorts, and pretends to count.

“Oh, it’s not even close,” Jeonghan grins, slapping a hand dramatically over his heart. “By a landslide, by a national majority, by divine intervention itself, Mingyu wins!”

The camera pans to Mingyu—and it’s not good. His eyes go wide. His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. He takes one look at the overflowing jar—then at Jeonghan’s megawatt grin—and immediately starts shaking his head like it’ll reverse time.

“No,” he says, voice cracking like a haunted pipe organ. “No, no. This was supposed to be light teasing. Not—whatever this is.” He gestures helplessly at the jar. “I’ll donate extra. I’ll fund a duck pond. I’ll name it after Timmy. Please.”

Jun just slaps him on the back. Seungkwan is screaming. Soonyoung starts counting down from ten just to cause more chaos.

Mingyu looks like he might bolt. He’s halfway to launching himself out a window when Wonwoo stands. He takes the megaphone from Jeonghan.

“Alright, guys, we’ve had our fun,” he says, smiling like this is all very amusing to him.

He holds up the dare slip between two fingers, gives it a casual flick—just enough to make it flutter in the air. “But I already told you—this doesn’t work if it’s forced. You don’t manufacture a moment like this. You just let it happen.”

His eyes skim the crowd, then pause—briefly—on Mingyu.

“And a dare makes it a joke. I’m not joking.”

Then Wonwoo chugs the entire bottle of tequila.

The comments are brutal:

“NO CAUSE WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘I’M NOT JOKING’ HELLO????”

"WHERE’S MY INHALER. I DON’T EVEN HAVE ASTHMA"

"I WANNA BE MINGYU SO BAD IT’S SICK”

"i’m not joking” ??? SIR DO YOU WANT ME TO STOP BREATHING???”

"wonwoo i fear you’ve just ended me personally”

”HOW DO I APPLY TO BE KISSED AND DENIED BY JEON WONWOO”

"I NEED THEM TO REENACT THIS AT THEIR WEDDING OMGGHGG”

"THIS IS THE BEST SCENE IN CINEMA HISTORY AND IT’S HAPPENING ON INSTAGRAM LIVE WARNER BROS CAN RETIRE” 

"wonwoo if ur free later i just wanna talk (marry me)”

”...was that our cue to leave???”

"IF THIS WAS A DRAMA I’D BE THROWING MY LAPTOP OUT THE WINDOW
ACTUALLY I’M THROWING IT ANYWAY BRB”

“i am genuinely not equipped for this kind of cinematic excellence i gasped so hard my SIM card popped out”

"someone please check on mingyu is he still vertical???”

Seungkwan has sprinted three laps around the room. He’s sobbing. Screaming. “The way he said ‘i’m not joking’’ what the fuck. I’m gonna have to lick a car battery to recover.”

Jun, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper, “I’m so sorry but that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. What was that?? How do I learn that power???”

Jeonghan steals the megaphone back. He looks personally offended but also deeply impressed. “You know what? Fair. That was sexy as hell. And that last round alone raised enough funds for Little Timmy’s college tuition.”

He clears his throat. Steps back into ringmaster mode.

“Alright! That concludes tonight’s Donate to Humiliate. You’ve been a terrible audience. In the best way.”

He bows. The megaphone squeals. The crowd howls.

“Thanks to your generosity, we’ve surpassed our donation goal. We also surpassed my tolerance for unresolved sexual tension. Good night. Good luck. Don’t text your exes.”

The music fades as Mingyu walks. The door to the basement is open—maybe left ajar earlier when someone went looking for more drinks or storage chairs.

He hesitates at the top of the stairs. Just for a second.

Then he slips through.

The basement is colder. Not freezing, but cold enough that Mingyu notices. Cold enough that his skin goosebumps, that he pulls his sleeves down even though he’s already sweating from the walk down. Cold enough to remind him he’s still here. Still spinning.

The music above is distant now. Just bass and laughter through the floorboards—muffled chaos, like the party is happening in another world.

The last dare ended with a gulp and a sentence that won’t leave his head.

Wonwoo said it so calmly. Like it was obvious. Like it didn’t split Mingyu’s brain open in seven different directions.

He can’t stop replaying it.

The tone. The look. The timing.

Was that flirtation? Was that refusal?

He sits. Sort of. Slumps on the basement stair landing with one leg bouncing and his hands knotted together. He can’t believe this is where he ended up.

Ten minutes ago, he was half-drunk on the living room floor, warm and flustered, hiding behind a bottle and bracing for impact. He was ready to laugh it off. Ready to be teased.

Then Wonwoo—fucking Wonwoo—looked him in the eye and said something like the kiss is going to happen if you let it.

Yeah? And what if Mingyu did let it?

What if he grabbed Wonwoo by the wrist and pulled him in, right there in front of everyone? Would Wonwoo have kissed him back—or would he have stepped away? Would he have laughed? Would he have looked at Mingyu with that same quiet smile and said, “Not like this,” and made Mingyu feel small for even trying?

He doesn't know.

That’s what’s killing him.

That he doesn’t know if it was a promise or a limit.

A green light, or a line in the sand.

He likes me. I think. I hope. But then… why didn’t he kiss me?

Does he not want it in front of everyone?

Or does he not want it at all?

He’s not unraveling because he doesn’t know how he feels. It’s not his own feelings tying him in knots. He already knows.

It’s not knowing what Wonwoo wants.

Because Mingyu wanted to kiss him.

He almost did. He was so close.

And Wonwoo stopped it.

The thought lingers like smoke in his chest—still burning, even when he tells himself to let it go. And—

“Mingyu.”

Mingyu looks up, and there he is.

Wonwoo. Three steps above. Half in shadow.

Looking down at him.

It’s always the angle, somehow. Like the lighting bends for Wonwoo. Like gravity rearranges itself just to make Mingyu feel exposed under the weight of Wonwoo’s gaze. Like Wonwoo sees him too clearly—and Mingyu hates how much he wants him to keep looking.

Mingyu doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t know how to move.

Wonwoo tilts his head, just slightly. Enough to sharpen the line of his jaw. Enough to make Mingyu feel like he’s living out a scene someone else already wrote—one where he's breathing borrowed air and hoping it doesn’t run out.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk,” Wonwoo says, voice low. “But I’m here anyway.”

His tone is steady, but there’s a pause—

Not awkward. Just open. Like he’s leaving space for Mingyu to fill, if he wants to.

Mingyu still can’t speak.

So Wonwoo steps down—just one step, slow and deliberate.

“Are you okay?” he asks, quieter now. “Or was it too much?”

He takes another step.

“What I said?”

Mingyu swallows. His fingers twitch in his lap. He stands to meet him. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says. “The dare. I was fine.”

Wonwoo’s voice is quiet. Unshaken. “You didn’t look fine.”

Mingyu huffs out a laugh. It’s not funny. “I didn’t mean to make it weird. I know you were just—whatever that was. I get it.”

Wonwoo doesn’t move, just says slowly, “What did you think it was?”

Mingyu looks at Wonwoo. Eyes wide, raw, like he doesn't know how to hold that question. He doesn’t answer. He can't. His throat closes up around it.

“You looked scared,” Wonwoo says. “And I meant what I said. I didn’t want it to be a paid joke. I didn’t want to do it for them.”

Mingyu exhales. Shaky.

Wonwoo steps in—just enough that Mingyu can feel the warmth off his skin. Wonwoo’s voice drops, “Are you still scared?”

Mingyu shakes his head. He almost chokes on his next breath. The silence snaps like overstretched elastic, slamming them into a stare-down thick enough to drown in. “I’m not scared anymore.”

Then Mingyu exhales, jaw tight, every muscle in his body ready to bolt or crash forward. The next part breaks out of him before he can stop it.

“If you’re gonna kiss me, now would be a really good time.”

Wonwoo’s eyebrows twitch—the closest he’s ever looked to being surprised. He says it quietly, voice low and even, “You’re not gonna run?”

The eye contact is unbearable.

Mingyu shakes his head. “You’d catch me.”

A beat passes. Wonwoo’s eyes dip to his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I would.”

And then he kisses him.

And it’s—holy shit.

The kiss starts desperate on Mingyu's end—all the anxiety and want he's been carrying crashes into the press of Wonwoo's lips. Wonwoo’s hands come up—steady, sure—and cup Mingyu’s face. His thumbs brush just under Mingyu’s cheekbones, like he’s grounding him, like he needs to feel every shiver he draws out from beneath Mingyu’s skin.

The kiss tastes like restraint and slow-burning fire and finally, finally, finally. It's in the way Wonwoo tilts his head just so, the way his lips part Mingyu's with gentle insistence. The way he doesn't rush, doesn't push, just guides until Mingyu melts into him with a sound that's half-relief, half-surrender.

Every time Wonwoo drags his tongue across Mingyu’s lips, Mingyu groans—low, wrecked—his hands sliding up Wonwoo’s back, gripping tight like he needs to anchor himself to this moment. He tilts his head, chasing more, and his brain blanks out completely. There’s only Wonwoo’s mouth, Wonwoo’s breath, and the way Wonwoo’s teeth catch on Mingyu’s lower lip and the slow drag of his tongue across his mouth.

Wonwoo’s hands steady at Mingyu’s waist, guiding him back until the backs of his thighs hit the stair railing. Mingyu sits on the railing, the metal biting cool against his thighs, low enough that they’re now eye‑to‑eye—no more craning, no awkward angle, just their bodies falling perfectly against each other. The railing holds his weight easily, and Wonwoo stands between his knees, solid and close, keeping him balanced.

“That’s better,” Wonwoo murmurs against his lips, his voice low and certain. Then he’s kissing him again—deeper this time, more demanding.

Mingyu’s world tilts. His fists clutch at Wonwoo’s shirt as Wonwoo’s tongue sweeps into his mouth, claiming and thorough. The kiss turns filthy, all pretense of gentleness abandoned. Wonwoo bites at his bottom lip, sucks on his tongue, and Mingyu can’t do anything but take it, can’t do anything but whimper and hold on.

He hooks his legs tighter around Wonwoo’s waist, pulling him closer on the railing. The friction makes him gasp into Wonwoo’s mouth, his head tipping back until it hits the concrete wall with a dull thud. Wonwoo follows the motion, mouth hot against his open throat, teeth scraping over his pulse before sucking a bruise just below his ear.

“Wonwoo—” Mingyu gasps, breath shattering on the name. “I thought you said you don’t bite.” His grip on Wonwoo’s shirt tightens as he arches into the touch, the railing firm beneath him, Wonwoo between his legs—so close it feels like giving in is the only choice.

Wonwoo’s laugh is a low, dangerous rumble against his skin. “That was before I found out you like it.” His teeth sink in again, sharp and claiming, and Mingyu breaks apart in his arms.

Wonwoo lowers his mouth to Mingyu’s collarbones, each slow drag deliberate and unrelenting. When he bites down at the base of Mingyu’s throat, Mingyu’s hands fist in his hair, a wrecked cry falling from his lips. Wonwoo looks up through his lashes, satisfied, like he wants to know what every breath sounds like when it’s stolen from Mingyu’s mouth.

The basement light flickers overhead, casting frantic shadows across them—and footsteps creak on the stairs above.

“What the fuck?”

Seungcheol, eyes wide, takes one look at Mingyu’s flushed face, disheveled collar, and the way Wonwoo’s hand is still on his waist.

Mingyu yelps—scrambles off the railing like it burned him, nearly trips over Wonwoo’s foot in the process. His shirt is definitely not buttoned. His life is also definitely over.

Wonwoo reaches back, a casual brush of his hand keeping Mingyu close, before stepping forward just enough to stand between Mingyu and Seungcheol. Shoulders square, expression unreadable, mouth still wet.

He faces Seungcheol. “Technically,” he says, perfectly deadpan, “we did get a room.”

Seungcheol stares at them. Just. Stares. At Mingyu’s neck. At Wonwoo’s mouth. At the unholy positioning of every visible body part.

A long beat passes.

“You’re going to hell,” Seungcheol says flatly. Then adds, “And I’m not bailing either of you out.”

He turns. But halfway up the stairs, he pauses. Doesn’t look back, just says, “Wonwoo. We need to talk.”

Then he disappears—leaving behind a silence like the air’s still trying to hold its breath.

Mingyu, still frozen in place, says, “I’m thinking I’ve had, like… maybe five drinks and 3 shots,” he says. “And yet I still can’t blame this on the alcohol.”

Wonwoo steps closer again, fingers brushing Mingyu’s wrist. “You’re allowed to want it.”

Mingyu exhales shakily. “That’s not the part I’m worried about.”

He finally looks at Wonwoo.

“I’m worried because I don’t want to stop.”