[papamin Au 🐅] Waiting Room 🏥

crying

That one Nanami scene but with Miguel

bugs when u pick up a rock

og image and source:

CHAPTER 3

Genre: Slow-burn, Arranged Marriage au!, angst, fluff, Workplace Romance, Dramedy & power dynamic.

Warnings: visa stress, mild panic response, mentions of deportation, workplace tension, mentions of legal pressure, cursing, light crude language, mentions of death and somewhat proofread.

Please note that the visa processes and mentions are not accurate and should be ignored for the purpose of the story.

WC: 6.2K

a/n: I have realized that chapters are not as long as i want them to be, for the pace of the story. So the chapters from now onwards would be somewhat this length. Hope you enjoy!

Feedback, Reblogs and likes are all greatly appreciated!

MASTERLIST

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Synopsis: When a cold, career-driven art gallery director in Sydney faces sudden visa trouble, she proposes a fake two-year marriage to her charming but reluctant assistant, Hwang Hyunjin. What starts as a professional arrangement quickly spirals into chaos, complete with immigration scrutiny, staged couple moments, and Hyunjin’s dramatic, high-society family. Trapped in close quarters and tangled in lies, can they keep up the act… or will real feelings get in the way?

The deal was made on a Wednesday.

By Monday, it felt like it had never happened.

The chaos of the gallery had swallowed the last few days whole—back-to-back meetings, frantic approvals, half-eaten lunches, and more meetings again. Your inbox was a battlefield. Your head was pounding. By the time the office emptied out, the sky outside had long faded into navy, and the halls were quiet—eerily so.

Everyone had gone home. Everyone except you.

“One last email and then sleep,” you muttered under your breath as you walked back from the conference room toward your office, fingers wrapped around a too-hot paper coffee cup. The bitterness was comforting. Grounding. You focused on that instead of the way your legs ached or how your to-do list still glared at you from your phone screen.

Lost in thought, you shook your head and reached out to flick on the lights—

And nearly dropped your coffee.

Hyunjin was already inside.

Not just inside, seated comfortably in your chair, feet tucked under him, spinning in slow, lazy circles like a kid waiting for his ride home. He looked completely at ease, like he owned the place. Or like he’d been here long enough to forget he didn’t.

You froze in the doorway.

“Why are you still here?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral, but it came out more startled than you’d meant.

Without missing a beat, he held up a bright pink Post-it, waving it in the air like a prize on a game show. It was smudged and crinkled, your name scrawled across it in thick capital letters next to a crude stick-figure drawing of you in what might’ve been a wedding dress… tumbling dramatically off a cliff.

“We’re getting married on Saturday,” he announced, grinning like he’d just solved world peace.

Your brain short-circuited. For a full second, you just blinked at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Saturday,” he repeated, rising from the chair and stretching like this was all perfectly routine. “That gives us five days. Marriage license today. Suits tomorrow. Rings Wednesday. Couple photo Thursday. Interview prep Friday. Wedding on Saturday. Boom.”

He clapped his hands once for effect. Like a director calling a cut on a scene he’d just nailed.

And the worst part?

He was completely serious. Deadpan. Calm. Irritatingly collected, like this wasn’t your entire career and life imploding beneath a Post-it and a five-day plan.

You, on the other hand, were unraveling. Quickly.

“I never said Saturday.”

“You didn’t say not Saturday,” he replied with a maddening shrug, as if that loophole sealed the deal. “And time’s ticking, boss. You want to stay in the country, right? Keep the job? Want me to fake-love you in public for two years?”

He pointed to himself, eyebrows raised. “Well, here I am. Let’s move.”

And then, just like that, he walked past you, out the door. Like he ran this operation now. Like you'd somehow become the assistant in your own crisis.

You stood there, stunned. Coffee cooling in your hand. Heart pounding behind your ribs.

This is happening too quickly, you thought, breath catching in your throat.

No... you need it to be quick.

Before you have time to think. Before it starts to feel like something it’s not. Before either of you mess this up worse than it already is.

When the early sunshine came the next day, both of you had already made your way to the marriage license office building.

The marriage license office was a beige wasteland.

The walls were a dull, lifeless color, interrupted only by peeling posters that had probably been there since the 90s, advertising marriage benefits with awkward stock photos of smiling couples. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds, casting a sterile, almost oppressive glow across the cramped, windowless room. A sad, half-dead plant in the corner struggled to stay alive, its brown leaves limp and curling.

Hyunjin sat next to you in the uncomfortable plastic chairs, whistling the Jeopardy theme under his breath, a tune that seemed at odds with the suffocating blandness of the place. He tapped his foot rhythmically, clearly doing his best to maintain some semblance of normalcy in the middle of this absurd situation.

You focused on the forms in front of you, the sound of your pen scratching across paper filling the silence. The clicking of the clock on the wall was the only other noise in the room, ticking away seconds that felt like hours. You could feel the weight of everything pressing on you—the speed of it, the absurdity of it—and yet, you kept filling out the forms. No room for second thoughts now.

The clerk behind the counter, a middle-aged woman with an air of resignation about her, didn’t even look up from her computer when she asked, “So, are you excited?”

You glanced at Hyunjin.

He didn’t hesitate. “We can’t wait,” he said, his voice smooth, warm enough to fool a polygraph. His tone was perfect—too perfect, like he'd rehearsed this exact moment in his head. His eyes were locked on the clerk, his smile a mask, too easy and practiced.

But you noticed the shift—the subtle tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders were a little too straight, the small, almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. The smile was still there, but it didn’t quite reach him, not all the way. You'd seen that look before—at work, when something went wrong, when things started to spiral and he was too proud to let you see how it affected him.

And then, as if on cue, his hand brushed yours under the counter. It was a casual gesture, the kind that could’ve meant nothing, but you knew it wasn’t. It was too quick, too deliberate, too smooth. Reflex. A small part of the performance, the play they were both trapped in now.

Still, it made your fingers twitch. Like the brush of a phantom pain, sharp and unexpected.

You signed the papers with a flourish, the pen moving automatically, your thoughts distracted by the tension that hung between the two of you.

Hyunjin signed next, the quickness of his movement a little too sharp, too efficient. No hesitation. Done.

The deed was done.

Tuesday was suits.

The boutique smelled of cedarwood and old money, the kind of fragrance that clung to the air like a memory of aristocracy. Hyunjin groaned from the fitting room, his voice muffled but still carrying that familiar mix of irritation and drama.

“I look like a funeral,” he grumbled, stepping out in a charcoal three-piece suit that clung to his frame like it had been tailored just for him. Every seam, every stitch, was perfect, but he wore it with an unmistakable air of discomfort.

“It’s a wedding. You’re supposed to look expensive,” you replied dryly, trying to mask the fact that the suit actually looked unfairly good on him.

“I am expensive,” he muttered, tugging at the collar with a scowl that was far too cute to be taken seriously. “You just don’t appreciate the natural splendor of me in hoodies.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Mostly because you had no retort that could be as sharp as the suit’s fit on him. His hair was neatly tied back, a few stray wisps framing his face, and his posture was effortless, almost regal. His cheekbones, sharp enough to cut glass, could have been considered a weapon in their own right. It made your thoughts catch and linger, whether you wanted them to or not.

He caught you staring and raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk.

“What?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity.

You quickly looked away, a hint of heat creeping up your neck. “Nothing. You’ll do.”

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening into something more playful. “Careful. That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding. Instead, you turned on your heel and left before he could push any further, feeling the weight of his gaze still lingering on your back as you walked out the door.

Wednesday was rings.

The moment you stepped into the jeweler’s, the air was thick with the scent of polished silver and diamonds, their brilliance almost blinding under the soft, ambient lighting. The sales clerk launched into her rehearsed spiel about clarity, cut, and the importance of the perfect setting, her voice rising in enthusiasm with every word, as if she were presenting the very secrets of the universe.

But Hyunjin wasn’t having it.

He interrupted her after only five minutes, his expression a perfect mix of boredom and amusement. “Do you have anything that says ‘I barely tolerate her, but the IRS is watching’?” he asked, his voice too casual for the ridiculousness of the question, a hint of playful defiance in his tone.

The clerk blinked, visibly thrown off. For a brief second, you thought she might lose her composure, but she recovered quickly, her professionalism returning. You weren’t surprised by Hyunjin’s usual brand of sarcasm. You shot him a look—half exasperated, half resigned—and then turned back to the clerk, ready to end this charade. “Two plain gold bands. Size seven and nine.”

Hyunjin let out a low whistle, eyebrows rising in mock surprise. “Wow, boss. You know my ring size. I’m touched.”

“I Googled,” you said flatly, your voice laced with just enough amusement to mask the flicker of warmth that touched your cheeks.

Hyunjin tilted his head, his expression turning smug as his eyes locked onto yours. “My ring size is on Google? That’s a bad lie, boss,” he teased, the glint in his eyes daring you to keep the story straight.

You glanced away, pretending not to care as you fought the urge to smile. “You left your ring once on your table. That’s how I know.”

A pause, then his lips curled up at the corners, a small, knowing smile. He looked down at the floor, almost like he didn’t want you to catch the pleased glint in his eyes, the one that betrayed how much the moment meant to him. It wasn’t often you saw him like this, vulnerable, even in his smugness. But when you did, it made the world feel easier, the connection between you two oddly natural. It was a moment that could’ve stretched on forever, something too comfortable, too effortless as though you’d done this a thousand times before, even if you hadn’t.

The clerk eventually brought the rings over. Their simplicity stood in stark contrast to the store’s otherwise glittering display, a quiet testament to the unspoken commitment they symbolized. You inspected them briefly, feeling the weight of their promise in your hands, then paid without hesitation. The motion was swift, practicing a routine you’d long since perfected. You handed over your card with the kind of precision only someone who’d done this a thousand times could muster.

And then, without another word, you walked out.

As the door chimed softly behind you, there was a strange silence between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with unspoken thoughts. The weight of the rings, the deal, everything that was yet to come, it all seemed to settle between you like a shared secret. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to

Thursday was Felix.

The gallery was quiet, the kind of silence that settled into your bones when the lights were dimmed and the world outside carried on, oblivious to the small dramas unfolding inside. Felix, the in-house photographer, showed up after hours, a DSLR swinging from his neck like a necklace and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His energy was contagious, but you didn’t need him to know the truth. You didn’t need anyone to. He was too excited, too thrilled to question anything.

“You’re in love,” he squealed, bouncing toward you both, his hands moving toward Hyunjin’s hair as though he were fluffing it for the shot. “Ugh, enemies-to-lovers is real!”

Hyunjin took it all in stride. His expression was blank, but there was something about him, some subtle shift in his posture, that made it seem like he might be getting better at pretending. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, but it was there, a faint curve of his lips, like he could almost fake his way through a wedding photo.

You stayed by the brick hallway, the one corner of the gallery that had a faint trace of romance. The soft warmth of the stone, the low hum of the air conditioning, and the way the light caught the edges of everything, it was the closest thing to a quiet moment you could find in this chaos.

Hyunjin walked toward you and came to stand beside you. Without saying a word, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing against yours.

You hesitated for only a moment.

Then you let him.

“Closer,” Felix called out from behind the camera, his voice too excited for someone who wasn’t the one being photographed.

Hyunjin leaned in. The warmth of his body pressing against yours was subtle, but undeniable. His shoulder brushed yours, and his fingers tightened slightly around yours, the pressure faint but there, like they were slowly learning the shape of a lie.

The flash went off with a soft, almost imperceptible pop.

Your post had no caption, just the image: a moment frozen in time, his head tilted toward yours, a look that felt too natural to fake. His read:

 Guess i’m a husband now 🤷‍♂️ #prayforme

You didn’t laugh.

Instead, you stared at the photo, watched the way his expression held that strange, half-amused warmth, the way your hand fit in his like it belonged there. And as you studied it, something twisted deep inside of you. We don’t look fake.

And that thought terrified you more than anything.

Friday was rehearsal.

The ceremony was set to take place in a small, ivy-draped church in Paddington. A quiet favor, called in from someone who owed you more than one. Simple. Minimal. Legal. No grand gestures. No friends or family. Just the two of you, and a reverend who’d once thanked you for helping his daughter land her first gallery internship.

You spent the entire day at your desk, rehearsing lines like an actor preparing for their last audition. Where did you meet? When did you fall in love? What’s something he does that annoys you? The usual questions. The ones that would help make the story feel real.

You asked the last one out loud, mostly to break the silence. “What’s something he does that annoys you?”

Hyunjin didn’t hesitate. “He leaves paintbrushes in the sink.”

“I do not.”

You looked up from your notebook to find him standing in the doorway, sipping his third iced long black of the week. He raised an eyebrow at you, his gaze playful but steady.

“You do,” you insisted.

“Name three times.”

You didn’t hesitate. “You want them chronologically or alphabetically?”

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he sauntered into the room, sinking into the chair across from you.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, his voice softer now, less teasing, more genuine.

You stared at your notebook, the words on the page blurring into the background. “I don’t know what I am.”

There was a long pause, and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he spoke again. “This isn’t forever.”

You looked up at him, your chest tightening in a way you hadn’t anticipated. The words hit harder than you expected.

“We’re not doomed to this,” he said, his tone softer now, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

“I know,” you said quietly, your heart beating a little faster.

“We’re not... us,” he added, his gaze searching yours for something that wasn’t there.

You nodded, your throat tightening.

“I know.”

But something in the air shifted. There was a sharp, aching sting in the quiet between you, something that made it feel more real than you were ready for. Because maybe, just maybe, part of you wanted it to be real. Wanted it to be something uncalculated, something unearned, something that wasn’t just your job, your duty, your obligation.

And that thought, no matter how much you tried to dismiss it, stayed with you, lingering like an unsolved puzzle.

Later that night, it rained.

You stood outside the gallery, the sky falling sideways. You’d forgotten your umbrella.

Hyunjin appeared beside you, silent, and handed you his.

“You’ll get soaked,” you said.

He shrugged. “Been through worse.”

You didn’t thank him. Just tightened your grip and stared ahead.

He lingered for a beat too long.

Then stepped into the storm.

His silhouette blurred and vanished down the street.

And you stood there, holding the umbrella he’d left behind, watching the sky come undone.

For the first time since this all began, you wondered if you'd made a mistake—not because of the risk. Not even because of the lie.

But because somewhere along the way, the rules were already starting to blur.

And Saturday was almost here.

_______________________________

The chapel was small, quiet, with ivy trailing down its stone walls like the delicate strokes of old poetry. The air was thick with the scent of eucalyptus and something warm, something sunlit, like wood drying after a storm.

“Look happier, you’re getting married,” Felix said, snapping him out of his thoughts. His voice was light, teasing, but with that ever-present note of concern.

“I’m happy,” he replied, offering a small smile. It was enough to satisfy Felix, who turned back to snapping photos of the chapel with a soft hum of approval.

This was it. He repeated the words in his head, though they felt heavy…too heavy. He was getting married. No, he was getting into a fake marriage with his boss. For two years. The more he thought about it, the more it made his legs feel like they were losing feeling, as though the ground had turned to liquid beneath him.

His eyes scanned the room. Where was she? She was late.

She was never late.

Maybe the nerves had gotten to her too, he thought, trying to ease the discomfort creeping in. No. She was the infamous, cold-hearted director of the gallery, Ms. Y/N. If anyone had control over their nerves, it was her. Or so he’d thought. The thought of her waiting outside made him feel more unsettled.

With a sigh, he pulled out his phone, beginning to scroll through his contacts, but just as he was about to tap a name, a sudden flash of white caught his eye. He turned quickly, watching her run in through the church door. She was barefoot, her heels in one hand, her dress, a mid-sized, satin white gown, flowing behind her in the way only a dress meant for a wedding could. She was breathless, her cheeks flushed with a mix of exhaustion and embarrassment.

She doubled over, trying to catch her breath, and he couldn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on her.

This woman. His boss. The woman who, in every moment of their professional life together, had always held an air of unshakable control. But now? Now she was human. Beautiful. The kind of beautiful he hadn’t expected to see, not like this. Sure, he had seen her in elegant gowns at gallery openings and charity events, but this? This was different. This was their wedding. Her wedding, to him.

And for some reason, it made his heart ache, a familiar ache that had been building over the last week, each passing day making it harder to ignore.

He snapped out of his thoughts, shaking his head for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

She straightened up, looking at him with a sheepish smile. “Sorry I’m late. My car broke down, I had to take the subway as I couldn't find a taxi on time” she rambled. 

“It’s alright” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “The official is here, and Felix is here. We’re just waiting for the ceremony to begin.”

She nodded and moved to sit next to him, quickly slipping her heels back on with an effort that seemed to take her mind off her racing heart.

A beat passed.

“You ready?” she asked, her voice a little softer now, more genuine.

He wasn’t. Not even close. But he couldn’t tell her that.

“Sure” he lied.

She studied him quietly, her eyes dropping to his hands.

“You’re trembling.”

He quickly pulled his hands behind his back, trying to mask it. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re spiraling,” she said, stepping closer. Her gaze didn’t waver, and he could see that she wasn’t concerned in the way a friend might be. This was her usual, calm, detached way of handling things, but there was something steady about it now. Something grounding.

“Don’t pass out. That’s a lot of paperwork,” she added with a small smile, her words light but full of the practical concern that only she could offer.

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, and met her eyes again. Something in her expression softened. She wasn’t as unreadable as usual. Calm, yes. But not distant. Like if he fell, she’d be there to catch him. Sure, she’d probably roll her eyes while doing it, but she'd catch him.

She was close now, and the warmth between them felt almost like a secret, like something neither of them was ready to acknowledge.

“It’s not too late,” she said, her voice quieter now. “We can run. Stage a mugging. Pretend we were abducted by aliens.”

He blinked, caught off guard by her words. “You think aliens would take us both?”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “You, definitely. Me? Maybe if they’re into tortured artists.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t tortured.”

She paused for a second, eyes narrowing slightly. “I said I wasn’t dramatic. Different thing.”

His lips twitched at the familiar banter. She always knew how to make him laugh, even when the circumstances didn’t call for it.

She offered him her arm.

Without thinking, he took it.

She didn’t walk down the aisle in the way most brides did. It wasn’t necessary. There were only flashes of people and cameras, this wasn’t a traditional wedding, after all. The reverend gave them both a small, understanding smile, as if he knew this wasn’t a romantic union, but he was still part of the charade.

The vows were brief. Legal. No passion. She recited her words like she was reading from a script, and he did the same.

His hand shook when he took hers, and he saw that hers trembled too.

The kiss wasn’t planned. It wasn’t part of the contract, but neither was the sudden wedding to his twenty-five-year-old assistant, a woman who once called a $400,000 sculpture “the rock with depression.” No, the kiss was just another checkbox. A formality, like the rings, the signatures, or this entire absurd arrangement.

He leaned in, watching her.

She didn’t pull away.

Neither of them did.

It was supposed to be brief. A quick peck to seal the deal.

But it wasn’t.

The moment stretched, lingering longer than either of them had expected. His hand settled lightly at her waist, not possessive, but steady. Anchoring. He could feel her tremble too, just like he had.

They didn’t pull away immediately. Something shifted between them in that brief, unspoken space.

And for just a second, everything else blurred.

The click of the camera. The reverend’s final words. All of it faded.

Because for a moment, neither of them was pretending.

And in that moment, he couldn’t decide if it terrified him more than it thrilled him.

_______________________________

After the ceremony ended, after the legalities, the signature, and that kiss they hadn’t rehearsed, they both stood outside the chapel, saying goodbye to an overly emotional Felix. He’d hugged them both a little too tight, dabbed at his eyes like this was the ending of a romance drama, and promised to send over the photos “once they were filtered and flawless.”

Then he was gone, the sound of his cheerful humming disappearing down the block. And just like that, the two of them were alone again. No crowd. No champagne. No reception or rice thrown in the air. Just silence, a cool Sydney evening, and the faint sound of distant traffic.

They walked side by side down the quiet street, their footsteps echoing slightly off the old stone sidewalk. It wasn’t what newlyweds usually did after a wedding. There was no shared car, no honeymoon suite. No whispered plans or shy laughter. Just two people headed toward separate cabs and separate homes like colleagues ending a long workday.

But they weren’t just colleagues anymore. Not legally.

“Good job today,” they both said at the exact same time, the words overlapping.

He let out a breath of a laugh, shaking his head. “This is it.”

“This is the start,” she replied, but her voice was softer, almost unsure.

He glanced sideways. There it was, that furrow between her brows, the tightness around her mouth. She was worried. Probably about the immigration interview tomorrow. She’d been calm at the chapel, composed in front of the reverend, but now that it was just the two of them, that armor had slipped. Slightly.

He should say something. Be the steady one for once.

“The interview will go well tomorrow,” he said after a beat, his voice low and certain. “If you’re worried.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared ahead at the empty road, lips pressing into a thin line. Then, finally, a nod. “Let’s hope so” she said, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Another silence stretched between them, comfortable and heavy at the same time.

Her cab arrived first. A silver sedan pulling up with a soft rumble of the engine. She turned to him, her expression unreadable again, something caught between fatigue and something else he couldn’t quite place.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, voice quiet.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow, wifey,” he replied, trying for levity. It came out a little more tender than teasing.

“Thanks, hubby,” she said, too tired to roll her eyes but playing along anyway. Her smile lingered for a second longer this time.

He watched her gather the hem of her gown, lifting it carefully off the sidewalk to avoid the edges of the street grime. She slid into the cab with a soft thud, her body folding in like she’d been running on adrenaline all day and it had finally worn off. Through the glass, she looked at him again. No words, just a wave. Small. Hesitant.

He waved back, hand raised halfway. She closed the door.

The cab pulled away slowly, tail lights disappearing down the road, and suddenly the street felt much emptier than before.

He stood there for a while longer than he meant to, staring after her even when she was gone. Then he reached into his pocket for his phone, checked the time, and let out a sigh.

Married. He was married.

And tomorrow, they’d have to convince a government officer that this was real. He just hoped it wouldn’t be harder to fake now that something inside him didn’t feel fake at all.

With one last glance down the street, he turned and walked toward his own cab, the eucalyptus-scented air still clinging to his clothes like memory.

_______________________________

The waiting room was beige. Aggressively beige.

You sat side by side on cracked leather chairs while a digital clock ticked far too loud and a fluorescent light flickered overhead like it was interrogating you before the interview even began.

A tall officer with a clipboard appeared at the doorway.

“Y/N L/N and Hyunjin Hwang?”

You both stood.

He led you down a corridor into a small, windowless room.

Inside were two officers: one older woman with sharp eyes and a presence that filled the room, and a younger man who looked a little lost in her shadow. No smiles from either. It was clear who was in charge.

Just clipped greetings and the sound of a tape recorder clicking on.

“This interview is being recorded,” the woman said. “You’ve applied for a Partner Visa Subclass 820, with Hyunjin Hwang as your sponsor.”

You nodded.

A door opened again.

“Mrs. L/N & Mr. Hwang.”

Another officer, different suit, same fog-colored tone, led you down a second hallway into a sterile room with a table, two chairs, and a camera mounted to the ceiling.

No ceremony. No comfort.

Just two pens. Two files. And one giant lie.

_______________________________

The lead officer had the kind of face that gave away nothing.

Not cruelty. Not curiosity. Just… silence.

“We’ll be recording this conversation,” she said. “Answer honestly. Any deliberate omissions or contradictions will impact the results of your application.”

Hyunjin nodded beside you. His leg was still bouncing. You wanted to reach for it. Steady him. Steady yourself. You didn’t.

“Let’s begin.”

She opened a folder. “Where did you meet?”

“At work,” you said.

“Solstice Arts Gallery,” Hyunjin added. “She was my boss.”

“She still is,” you muttered.

“Cute,” the officer deadpanned. “And when did the romantic relationship begin?”

You hesitated. “Around… September?”

“August,” Hyunjin said at the same time.

You flinched.

She made a mark on her form.

You forced a laugh. “He’s better with dates.”

“She’s better with moods,” Hyunjin shot back.

The officer didn’t react.

_______________________________

The questions came faster than expected.

Your first trip together. What side of the bed you sleep on. Who does the dishes. The name of Hyunjin’s shampoo. Your favorite type of flower.

“Lilies,” he said. “She hates roses. Thinks they’re cliché.”

You looked at him. “...That’s actually correct.”

“Of course it is,” he muttered.

“Her middle name?” the officer asked.

“Elise” Hyunjin answered without missing a beat.

You blinked. “You remembered that?”

“I forget things. Not you.”

It sounded too soft. Too close. Like it came from the wrong place in his chest.

You turned back to the officer.

Then her tone changed.

“Miss L/N, your visa renewal request was filed three days before the marriage application.”

You froze.

“Yes,” you said. “My work visa was expiring. I needed a new path to stay.”

“And this marriage,” she said slowly, “appeared, very suddenly…just in time.”

Your mouth went dry.

“It wasn’t planned that way.”

She gave you a long, unreadable look. “You’ve lived in Sydney for nearly five years, yet have no local emergency contacts, no immediate family, and minimal social records outside of your workplace.”

You swallowed.

“My parents passed away a long time ago. I moved here after uni.”

“No roommates? No personal references outside the gallery?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

“And the wedding, organized in five days, without family or friends present. Minimal guest list. No reception.”

“It was… private.”

She clicked her pen. “Convenient.”

They split you up halfway through.

Hyunjin was taken to another room. You stayed behind.

Your chair felt smaller without him beside you.

“How long has he lived with you?” she asked.

You scrambled. “Two weeks. No…ten days.”

“What color are his bedsheets?”

You blinked. “Dark green?”

“Wrong,” she said. “He said navy.”

You swallowed.

“What’s the name of his mother?”

You paused. “He… doesn’t talk about her much.”

She stared at you. “He gave us her name. And number.”

You closed your eyes.

_______________________________

Meanwhile, in the next room, Hyunjin was unraveling.

He looked calm, back straight, voice steady, but his mind kept replaying every time he almost reached for your hand. Every time he almost kissed you like it meant something.

He hated how close the truth felt. Like a lit match near dry paper.

“What does she do when she’s stressed?” the officer asked.

“She makes tea,” he said. “But never drinks it.”

“What’s her worst habit?”

“She stays too late at work. Tries to fix everything herself. Thinks that if she lets go for even a second, the world will fall apart.”

The officer scribbled something.

“How many siblings does she have?”

He looked up.

“She doesn’t.”

_______________________________

They brought you back into the same room after an hour that felt like a week.

You sat. Didn't speak.

The officer closed her folder with a sharp clap.

“Your answers were inconsistent.”

Your spine stiffened.

“You contradicted yourselves on multiple domestic details. Anniversary dates. Sleeping arrangements. Family.”

You felt Hyunjin shift beside you.

“There are red flags in your timeline. The speed of the marriage. The lack of documented history. The proximity to your visa expiration.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“It doesn’t feel natural.”

“It was complicated,” you said quietly. “But it’s real.”

“Is it?”

You couldn’t answer that.

“At this time,” she said, “we are not convinced this is a legitimate relationship.”

The words landed like ice water.

“But,” she added, “this isn’t a final decision.”

You looked up, hopeful. Too hopeful.

“You’ll be placed under a six-month observation period. Home checks. Surprise visits. Digital audits. We’ll also be contacting your employers, coworkers, and known family members.”

Hyunjin went still.

You barely heard her say, “You may go.”

You walked out on autopilot.

_______________________________

The café was too quiet.

Not in a peaceful way, just empty enough for the air to feel tense. Artificial. Like the silence was watching them too. Like it had taken a seat at their table.

Hyunjin sat across from her, elbows resting on the cool laminate, tie loosened, collar tugged open like he couldn’t breathe right. His blazer was somewhere behind him, probably slipping off the back of the chair, but he didn’t bother turning around to check.

He kept folding a sugar packet between his fingers. Crease, flip, crease. Again and again.

The paper had softened from the heat of his hands. It was pointless, a stupid nervous habit. But it gave him something to focus on. Something that wasn’t the hollow look in her eyes or the buzz of dread still crawling under his skin.

She hadn’t said a word since they walked in.

Not about the way the immigration officer’s stare had lingered too long.

Not about the failed answers. Not about the holes in the story.

Not about the final words delivered like a verdict: “You’ll be monitored for six months.”

He didn’t need to look up to know she was still gripping her coffee cup like it might save her.

Like if she let it go, the whole thing would collapse. Her hands were probably burning, but she held it tighter anyway.

Hyunjin broke first. His voice was low, almost apologetic. “It could’ve gone a lot worse.”

She let out a sound—somewhere between a breath and a laugh. Bitter. Detached. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“Yeah. Well. I tanked it anyway.”

He looked up at her then.

Her head was tilted slightly downward, lashes casting soft shadows beneath her eyes. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. Her fingers were trembling.

He hated that. Hated that she was the one shaking, that she was the one shouldering all the blame. Like she hadn’t saved his job. Like he hadn’t looked her in the eye and agreed to this mess.

He was the one who’d said yes. He could’ve walked away. He should’ve.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She blinked like she wasn’t expecting it. “For what?”

“For dragging you into this.”

Her eyes finally found his. Still tired. Still defensive. But softer, for just a second.

“Hyunjin,” she said, voice thin. “I dragged you into this.”

He gave a small shrug, voice quieter this time. “Yeah. But I let you.”

The words hung there, suspended between them like the rest of the conversation they weren’t having.

She turned her head, gaze drifting to the window beside them. Outside, a woman in a blazer was laughing into her phone. A couple crossed the street, fingers intertwined, sipping iced drinks like they had all the time in the world.

She looked tired. Not physically, though the dark smudges under her eyes said otherwise. No, this was something deeper. That bone-deep weariness people carry when they’ve been surviving too long.

“We’re gonna have to live together now,” she murmured.

He nodded slowly, still watching the empty chair next to her instead of her face. “That’s one side of it.”

The other sides whispered at the edge of his thoughts—the rules, the check-ins, the pretending. Smiling in front of strangers. Memorizing a script. Lying to his family. Acting like he was in love with her, when sometimes—quietly, secretly—he wondered if maybe it wasn’t all an act anymore.

She shifted again, one foot curling under the chair like she wanted to disappear into it.

He hated that she looked like she wanted to vanish.

And even more, he hated that he didn’t know how to make this easier for her.

The silence came back, pulled a chair up to their table again.

Outside, the world kept spinning. People walked by with their coffees, their to-do lists, their simple lives.

But for them, something had shifted. No reset. No do-over.

They were in it now.

Too deep.

Six months.

And it already felt like forever.

──────────────

Continue Reading....

@tsunderelino @linofthelace @necrozica @vixensss @ @girlblogger-04 @my-neurodivergent-world @t1eekn0wsaurus @casperlynn23 @edevotion

I.N BURNIN' TIRES, 2025

Mc rn:

Do you guys like farming? pt.2 (Coral island edition)

playing these games that has romance as an aromantic is really fun ngl (I REALLY WANTED TO MARRY FRANK BUT THEN HE TURNS OUT TO BE MARRIED TO SOMEONE ELSE AND THEN MARK APPEARS OUT OF NOWHERE LIKE A BRAZILLIAN SOAP OPERA SCENE)

Okay so i listened to suggestions about Jayce being unhappy with the inflicting pain bit but being unable to say no!

10 children a day lose their limbs in Gaza. All hospitals in Gaza are basically barely functioning and the amputations are done in unsanitary conditions and without anesthesia

Intern (Pt 5)- Lee Know

summary: as the final month of your internship begins, keeping your emotions separate from your professional role becomes harder than ever, with the collaborative concert drawing near, tensions rise—not only on stage but between you and minho, who’s desperate to salvage what's slipping away

pairing: lee know x fem!reader

genre: angst, fluff, humor

word count: 5295 words

a/n: thank you so much for loving this series! I think this might be my most popular one and it honestly means the world, I really hope the wait was worth it! Love you always, my puddings ♡

Intern Series - Part Four

~°~

Your shoes echoed softly against the polished wood floor as you slipped into the staff room. Thankfully, it was empty. The moment the door shut behind you, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours. You stood there in the middle of the room, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, as if you were trying to physically hold all your emotions in. You didn’t even know how your legs even carried you there. Your heart was still hammering in your chest, your pulse deafening in your ears. 

What just happened?

Your chest burned. Not with sadness but with fury. You were angry. No, scratch that, you were livid.

How dare he say those words—so easily, so suddenly—like he hadn’t spent weeks pushing you away. Like he hadn’t left you in that gray zone, hovering between hope and heartbreak, constantly questioning if you were the problem. You’d convinced yourself to move on. To detach. To protect your own heart. And now, after all of it, he wanted to say I love you? Just like that?

After everything. After making you feel like you were the fool for reading too much into the way his eyes lingered, the way he looked at you like you were everything—and then turned cold the moment you stepped a little too close, dismissed you like you were the problem, the one who “flirted too much.” You’d swallowed that hurt. You moved on. You forced yourself to. And now, suddenly, he loves you?

You let out a bitter laugh, pacing the room.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. Slowly, with trembling hands, you grabbed your bag from the shelf where you’d left it earlier that morning. You needed to leave. Now.

*******************

Minho didn’t even realize how long he’d been standing there, his fingers tangled in his hair, his heart hammering in his chest like it wanted to escape his ribs. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and every moment since you’d walked away played on repeat in his head, like a broken record.

I lost her.

The thought echoed in his mind, louder with each passing second.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first. It wasn’t until Hyunjin’s voice cut through the thick silence that Minho finally snapped back to reality.

“Hyung?”

Minho didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his body hunched in on itself, trying to hold himself together when everything inside him was falling apart.

“Hyung, what’s going on?” Hyunjin asked again, softer this time, stepping closer. He bent down beside Minho, concern furrowing his brow.

Minho shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I lost her, Hyunjin... I don’t know what to do.”

Hyunjin’s heart twisted at the sight of his hyung like this, a shell of the confident, playful Minho he’d always known. The way his hyung’s hands gripped his hair tighter as he let out a pained groan, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. It was raw—painful.

“You didn’t lose her yet,” Hyunjin said, his voice firm but gentle as he put a hand on Minho’s shoulder. “I know it feels like you did. But you can still fix this.”

Minho’s face twisted in anguish, his lips trembling as he let out a breathless laugh, but it was hollow, empty. “I don’t know if I can. I... I hurt her, Jinnie. I pushed her away when all I had to do was be honest. And now... now she’s gone. She walked away from me.”

Hyunjin stayed quiet for a moment, taking in Minho’s words. He could see it now—the weight of regret, the desperation in his eyes.

“I don’t think she’s gone,” Hyunjin said carefully. “You’re both stubborn, hyung. You’ve been dancing around each other for so long. You didn’t want to admit it, and neither did she. But I don’t think it’s over. Not yet.”

Minho looked up at Hyunjin then, his eyes searching, hoping, desperate for any kind of reassurance. “But what if it is? What if I ruined it beyond repair? What if she doesn’t want me anymore?”

Hyunjin paused for a moment, then spoke quietly, “You’re not the only one who’s scared, hyung. She’s scared, too. But you’re the one who has to be brave now. Not only for her— but for yourself too. Because if you don’t try, you’ll regret it forever. You know that.”

Minho let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. Hyunjin’s words hit harder than he expected. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still a chance, but only if he had the courage to act.

Hyunjin stood up, offering his hand to Minho. “You’re going to fix this, hyung. But you have to start with telling her the truth. About everything. And you’ve got to be ready for whatever comes after. Don’t let her slip away without fighting for her.”

Minho’s hand trembled as he took Hyunjin’s, pulling himself up to his feet. His heart still ached, but the words hit something deep inside of him. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

*******************

You barely remembered how you got home. The keys slipped from your fingers twice before you finally managed to unlock the door. The moment you stepped inside, your knees gave out and you slid down against the wall, feeling the weight of everything crash over you.

Your phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Hyunjin kept calling again and again. You pressed your forehead against your knees, willing yourself not to break down, willing yourself not to hope. And when your phone buzzed for the tenth time, you simply reached over, turned it off, and tossed it into a corner.

You couldn't do this. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

The next morning, your body moved on autopilot. You typed a message to your supervisor with trembling fingers, lying easily.

“I have a bad migraine. Won’t be able to work on fittings today. I’ll continue working on the designs remotely.”

A polite response came back almost immediately—“Take care. Focus on feeling better.”

You needed space—space from him, from the suffocating weight of everything. It was already the final month of your internship. Just a few more weeks, and you wouldn’t have to see him again.

You told yourself that over and over like a mantra as you buried yourself in sketches, swatches, sewing patterns. The living room became your sanctuary. You stayed hunched over your work for hours, sketching until your fingers cramped, trying to come up with excuses to tell your supervisor so that you do not have to step anywhere near their dressing rooms. Anywhere near him for the remaining internship period.

One step at a time—you just had to get through this.

The major stage collaboration was coming up, the biggest project of your internship, the one that could launch your career if you gave it your all.

Let the countdown begin.

*******************

48 Hours Before the Concert

You returned to work with your heart armored in ice. 

The company was in chaos. The stylists were rushing, the managers were running, the boys from both groups were rehearsing endlessly. No one had time to notice that you’d disappeared from their orbit—well except for Minho and Hyunjin.

You avoided their practice room like it was a battlefield. Instead, you locked yourself away in the design room, sketching out costumes, adjusting stitching details—anything to keep your hands busy, anything to keep your mind from wandering.

Minho tried to talk to you. At first, you heard his footsteps. You caught glimpses of him hovering by the door. Once, when you dared to glance up, you saw him standing just outside the window, his face tense, uncertain. But you dropped your head back down before he could gather the courage to step inside. You didn’t give him a chance.

Hyunjin also tried texting, looking for you after rehearsals, even poking his head into the design room but couldn’t find you since every time, you made yourself smaller, quieter, easier to miss.

You weren’t ready to face Minho. You weren’t sure if you ever would be. 

At some point, even Hyunjin gave up trying, swept away into the madness of final rehearsals, concept checks, and the insane pressure of the collaboration stage they were preparing.

You thought you were safe. You thought you could make it to the end.

24 Hours Before the Concert

Minho was unraveling. He didn’t even bother pretending anymore. He was searching for you like a man possessed. Between rehearsals, between fittings, between breaks—his eyes flicked around desperately, always hoping to catch a glimpse.

He sent messages—one after another.

Minho: "Can we please talk?" Minho: "Just for a minute. You don’t even have to say anything. Please." Minho: "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N."

You stared at the notifications, feeling your chest clench painfully.

You left them unanswered.

Because you were afraid. Because you didn’t know if you could survive hearing more empty words. Because some wounds weren’t meant to be picked open again.

That night, Minho sat in the darkened practice room, back against the mirror. The others had gone home. He stayed. The blue glow of his phone lit up his face, your unread messages staring back at him like ghosts.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

His thumb hovered over the send button for a long time before he finally pressed it.

Minho: "I miss you."

Short. Honest. Bare. You never replied.

12 Hours Before the Concert

The final rehearsal was a whirlwind of noise and energy.

Seventeen and Stray Kids crisscrossed the stage, voices overlapping, last-minute notes flying as everyone tried to perfect every second. Everyone was running around doing their assigned tasks– sound engineers hovered by the sides of the stage, tweaking mic volumes and running emergency checks, stage managers paced with clipboards, calling out timing cues and adjusting placements, stylists were doing last-minute fittings.

You stayed hidden behind the racks of costumes, keeping yourself busy threading last-minute repairs on stage outfits, sketching alterations for the collaboration stages. Minho saw you once—just a glimpse—and started towards you immediately.

You ducked behind a different aisle and disappeared before he could even call your name.

He slumped against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair. His heart ached. He was trying. God, he was trying. But you wouldn’t even look at him. And he knew he deserved it.

That night, he sat alone again. Hyunjin found him there, in the same spot, legs pulled up, forehead resting on his arms.

"Hyung…" Hyunjin said softly.

Minho didn't look up.

"I don’t think she hates you," Hyunjin added after a while, voice low. "She’s hurt. But she doesn’t hate you."

"I hate myself enough for the both of us," Minho murmured.

*******************

Day of the Concert 

You were up before sunrise and rushed to the company, it was going to be a long day. You began helping the senior stylists prepare everything. You kept your head down, blending into the background.

Minho tried to find you again, between makeup, between fittings.

Once, you walked right past him. You felt his eyes—burning, aching—trailing you, but you didn’t turn around.

He watched your retreating figure with a helpless kind of yearning, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed dry.

He typed one last message.

Minho: "If you don’t want to forgive me... I understand. But I love you. I love you, Y/N."

He didn’t expect a reply. He just wanted you to know.

You read his message, but your fingers stayed frozen above the screen. You couldn't trust yourself to reply. Not yet.

Soon after, it was time to leave for the concert venue.

Everyone from your company piled into multiple vans, buzzing with pre-show nerves and excitement. Seventeen would meet you all there, coming straight from their own company.

You slipped into one of the vans early, picking a seat at the very back. You tucked your bag close, phone clutched tightly in your hands. Minho hurried behind you, heart hammering in his chest.

There was a small opening beside you. He didn't even think—he moved to sit there.

He was about to slide into the seat beside you but at the very last second, you shifted, scooting away from the aisle, pressing yourself impossibly closer to the window. Pretending like you needed more space.

Minho froze mid-motion.

He stood there, awkward, shattered, the empty space where you had been just a second ago feeling colder than anything he'd ever known.

His hand tightened around the back of the seat for a second, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Without a word, he dropped into a seat several rows in front instead, boxed in between Jisung and Seungmin.

The van door slammed shut, the engine rumbled to life—but Minho barely noticed. He barely heard the others laughing, hyping each other up. He barely felt the road vibrating under the tires. All he could feel was you—silent, turned away from him, just a few feet out of reach.

When they finally pulled up behind the venue, staff started piling out. You were the first one to slip off the van, blending into the chaos of bodies and equipment and flashing lights.

Minho lingered for a second in the seat, swallowing thickly as he watched you disappear into the crowd.

He had the urge to call out your name. He almost did. But he bit it back, lowering his head, heart cracking silently in his chest.

*******************

The air backstage crackled with adrenaline—stylists rushing, cords tangling, outfits getting last-minute steamed.

You were helping your supervisor adjust Felix’s jacket, smoothing the sleeves, checking the fit one last time. Your hands worked automatically, your mind floating somewhere far away.

Across the crowded room, Minho kept staring at you longingly. For a second—just a second—he thought maybe you’d let him. Maybe you’d glance at him. But when you shifted away, without even looking at him, it felt like a punch to the gut. Like watching a door slowly, painfully close in his face.

He sat down numbly at the makeup table, the bustling room fading into the background and all he could think was:

"I don’t blame you... but please, just once—look back at me."

Meanwhile, Hyunjin, sitting a few chairs away, was locked in the makeup artist’s grip, a brush sweeping across his cheekbones. But he still tried. He still tried to catch your eyes, frantic and desperate, needing you to see him. You lifted your head, sensing the weight of his stare and all you could offer him was a small, polite smile. Nothing more.

You could tell Hyunjin wanted to call out to you, to jump out of his chair, to explain everything he hadn’t been able to. But the makeup artist was sternly holding his chin still, murmuring warnings about smudging his foundation. He couldn’t move.

And so he watched you quietly, heartbreak pooling in his chest, as you finished adjusting Felix’s jacket...and turned away without another glance.

*******************

1 Hour Before the Concert

You had just grabbed a coffee from the catering area backstage, trying to escape the buzz of frantic preparations. The area was buzzing with energy, crew members darting from one spot to another, but you found a small moment of calm amidst it all. The food table was lined with snacks, coffee, and drinks, where you’d managed to find a brief respite. You were leaning against the counter, sipping your drink slowly, when the door to the room burst open with a loud bang.

Hyunjin stormed inside, his eyes wild and intense, looking like he had been running through the entire venue. His hair was slightly tousled, chest heaving with quick breaths as if he was on a mission.

Before you could even react, he reached for your wrist, gripping it firmly and pulling you out of the room.

“Come with me,” he commanded, urgency lacing his voice.

"Hyunjin—!" you gasped, stumbling after him. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"You’re done hiding!" he snapped, not even slowing down.

He pulled you into an empty band room backstage, and shoved the door shut behind you, trapping you inside. You barely caught your balance, turning to glare at him—but the look on Hyunjin’s face made your heart falter.

He looked furious. And desperate.

"You need to stop running, Y/N," he said, voice sharp, shaking slightly with emotion. "You think you’re protecting yourself? You’re just hurting both of you."

You crossed your arms, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying. "It’s not that simple, Hyunjin—"

"YES, it is!" he cut you off, voice cracking, "You’re mad. You’re hurt. I get it. But Minho hyung—"

His voice broke again and he punched the wall lightly with the side of his fist, breathing hard.

"He’s dying," Hyunjin said, lower now, almost broken. "He’s breaking in front of us. He can't sleep. He can't eat. Every time he sees you, it's like someone rips another piece out of him."

You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting the tears threatening to spill.

"You think you’re the only one hurting?" Hyunjin asked, stepping closer, so close you could feel the sadness vibrating off him. "He’s been tearing himself apart for days, trying to find a way to fix this, and you won’t even LOOK at him."

You shook your head helplessly, voice cracking, "He’s the one who—"

"He knows," Hyunjin cut you off desperately, "He knows he fucked up. He hates himself for it. You think it’s easy for him to stand there and watch you pretend like he doesn’t exist?"

You stared at him, heart pounding, breath shaking.

Hyunjin whispered, “He loves you, Y/N.”

“No, he doesn’t.” you shot back. “He saw Mingyu and got territorial. That’s not the same thing as love.”

Hyunjin’s voice softened a little, but the intensity stayed, "Listen to me. Minho hyung…he’s dying inside. He’s been trying to talk to you for days. He's not playing games. He’s not saying those things because he's jealous of Mingyu or whatever else you think."

You bit your lip, hard. "Then why, Hyunjin? Why now? After everything?"

"Because he’s an idiot who thought he didn’t deserve you," Hyunjin said, voice raw. "He pushed you away because he was scared he’d ruin you. Because he thought you’d be better off without him."

Your heart stuttered painfully.

"And seeing you laugh with Mingyu made him realize exactly what he was about to lose," Hyunjin continued. "Not because of jealousy. Because he saw you happy and he wasn’t the one making you happy anymore."

The lump in your throat grew unbearable.

"He really loves you, Y/N," Hyunjin said simply. "He’s loved you this whole time. He just didn’t know how to believe he was worthy of it."

Your vision blurred.

Then, Hyunjin went on to explain everything — how Minho had been in love with you all along, how he had been miserable every time you avoided him backstage, how he stayed up at night overthinking every glance you refused to give him. How he regretted what he said at that freaking party every single day, hated himself for it, how the weight of it had been crushing him more and more every time you turned away.

Hearing it laid out like that shattered something inside you. It wasn’t just regret in Minho’s lingering stares. It was love — raw, desperate, aching love. And it had always been there, even when you were too hurt to see it.

You felt suffocated. 

"Don’t do this," Hyunjin whispered, almost pleading now, "don’t walk away without hearing him out. If you ever loved him…even a little, give him the chance to explain."

You felt your walls crumbling under the weight of it all. Without another word, you tore past Hyunjin, sprinting down the hall.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Not until you found him. You tore down the hall, nearly tripping over your own feet, chest heaving, heart racing so hard it hurt.

You didn’t know where you were going—you just knew you had to find him.

*******************

The greenroom was quiet—eerily so. Everyone else was getting hair and makeup in other room, doing last checks, hyping each other up. Minho sat there alone, away from everyone, for a moment. 

Meanwhile, you kept running— the backstage corridors blurred as you rushed past, heart hammering, breath coming in short gasps. Somewhere, you could hear the muffled sounds of last-minute chaos—stylists calling for touch-ups, managers barking out directions, the low hum of excitement—but it all felt far away, like you were underwater.

Finally, after checking room after room, your footsteps faltered in front of a greenroom tucked away from the rest. The door was slightly ajar, and you prayed he was inside. You pushed it open with trembling fingers, and your breath caught painfully in your throat.

There he was. Minho.

Sitting alone on the bench, fully dressed in his final concert outfit, the dark, sleek fabric molding perfectly to his figure. His mic was already clipped to his collar, earpieces in place, as if he were ready to go onstage any second. But he wasn’t moving.

He was hunched forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees, staring blankly at the floor like the world had already ended and he was the only one left to mourn it.

Sitting on the bench, fully dressed in his final concert outfit, mic already clipped, earpieces in. He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the floor like the world had ended.

The second he heard the door creak wider, his head snapped up.

He whispered your name, "Y/N..."

So soft. So broken. Like he didn’t believe you were real. It shattered you.

Before you even knew what you were doing, you rushed across the room, and before he could even speak, your hands were cupping his jaw and your lips crashed into his.

Minho stiffened for half a second, completely shocked and then his arms were around you, pulling you flush against him, kissing you back with everything he had. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your lips trembling against his with everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t dared to feel until now. 

When you finally pulled back, panting, you pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “I hate you.”

He laughed, hoarse and teary-eyed. “I know.”

“I hate how long it took you.”

“I hate me too.”

“But I love you.”

Minho stilled.

And then his arms wrapped around you tighter than they ever had. “I love you more,” he murmured. “And I swear I’ll prove it every day from now on.”

You smiled, your eyes full of tears and joy and relief. “You better.”

Minho’s voice was rough, barely a whisper as he spoke. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You blinked, your chest tightening with all the emotions that had built up. "I know, Minho. Just... show me. Show me you're not going to run away again."

His hand gently cupped your face again, his thumb brushing over your lips softly. “I won’t run. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, he leaned in again, this time more carefully, his lips brushing against yours with a softer, more deliberate motion, like he was savoring the moment, as if this was the first time.

The door slammed open.

"AHHHHHH! MY EYES!" Jisung screamed, dramatically throwing himself against the door frame like he was shielding himself from radiation.

You jolted apart, both of you wide-eyed and breathless.

Felix appeared behind Jisung, peeking into the room with wide, curious eyes.

"Hyung," Felix said, "We need to be on stage in like twenty five minutes." Then he glanced between you two and grinned brightly. "Also, um, HOW did this happen?"

Jisung gasped, "Like LIKE… you were literally at war yesterday! HOW are you kissing now? I need DETAILS!"

"Was it a secret make-up plan?? Did someone blackmail someone? TELL ME EVERYTHING—"

"Channie hyung’s gonna kill us if we’re late!" Felix laughed, tugging on Jisung’s sleeve, but he was also bouncing on his toes, eager for gossip.

"And Y/N, you have to explain later, okay? Like every single detail. Every single one."

Somewhere down the hall, you heard Chan’s voice yelling, "WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYONE?"

Minho groaned under his breath, leaning down to quickly kiss your forehead—just one soft second—and then he grabbed his mic pack and jogged toward the door.

But as he passed you, he whispered under his breath, only for you to hear, "Don’t go anywhere. I’m not letting you slip away again."

You stood there, heart pounding, lips still tingling, while Jisung whined the whole way down the hallway, “Yah! I’m serious! I'm coming for answers after the show!”

And you just laughed, happier than you had been in days.

*******************

The final performance was just moments away. Ten minutes give or take. You stood backstage, heart racing—not from nerves, but from everything that had happened.

Minho adjusted his mic, glancing at you with a silent question in his eyes. You stepped closer, pulling him aside for a moment, fingers gently brushing against his as you whispered, “Earlier, when Mingyu and I were talking… he wasn’t flirting.”

Minho blinked, caught off guard.

“He said he could see something going on between you and me. That he’d back off. And… that maybe I hadn’t noticed it myself yet.”

Minho let out a breathy laugh, hand raking through his hair. “God. I really need to control my damn jealousy.”

You smiled softly, Minho flushed slightly before saying, “He wasn’t wrong, though. About the heart eyes.”

You blushed then gently nudged his arm. “Come on, make peace with him. You two are too handsome to be fighting in the middle of rehearsals.”

Minho rolled his eyes but smiled, nodding. He walked over to Mingyu, who was talking with Joshua by the corner while adjusting his blazer, and you watched from afar as Minho gave a sincere apology. Mingyu accepted it with a grin and a clap on Minho’s shoulder, flashing you a wink behind him. Everything just… settled.

And then, the concert. The adrenaline. The stage lights. The roars of the crowd.

Both the collaboration stages and the groups' individual performances were breathtaking— hours of relentless energy, passion, and magic spilling out onto that stage. The entire venue was electric, a sea of waving lightsticks and screaming fans, every second more exhilarating than the last.

You danced and moved like nothing else mattered. But every time your eyes found Minho’s on stage, there was a knowing smile—one only meant for you.

After the final bow, the cheers still ringing in your ears, you were barely backstage for a minute when Minho grabbed your wrist gently and whispered, “Come with me.”

"Minho," you giggled breathlessly, "where are we even going?!"

"Somewhere no one will find us," he muttered determinedly, glancing around until he spotted a half-open door.

Without warning, he pulled you inside.

“I’ve been waiting all night,” he said, breathless.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t careful.

It was urgent, desperate, his hands cupping your face as if he’d been starving for your lips. Your back hit the wall lightly as you gasped against his mouth, hands sliding under his jacket and gripping his shirt.

His lips moved feverishly over yours, like he was trying to pour every emotion he’d buried into this moment. When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, he whispered against your lips, “You have no idea how crazy I’ve been going… not being able to do this.”

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him back in. “Then don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

That kiss was everything—the apology, the promise, the confession, and the beginning. All in one.

*******************

The concert had ended, the cheers still echoing faintly in the corridors as everyone bustled around, packing up, high-fiving, celebrating.

Mingyu leaned against the wall near the dressing room door, sipping water and scrolling through his phone when a voice interrupted him.

"You were amazing up there," she said, her tone warm and teasing.

He looked up to see one of the stage crew members—someone he’d briefly chatted with before—smiling at him, her hands tucked behind her back, eyes bright.

Mingyu blinked, a little surprised. “Oh thank you. You too, the transitions were super smooth today.”

She giggled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I did my best. But I was watching you the whole time.”

Mingyu raised a brow, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Oh yeah?”

She stepped a little closer, playfully nudging his arm. “You always smile so much when you perform. It’s contagious.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that’s a good thing.”

She tilted her head. “You doing anything after this?”

For a second, Mingyu glanced toward the dressing room, where laughter echoed—where his bandmates were chattering.

Then he looked back at her, his smile softening. “Not yet,” he said. “But I could be.”

Her grin widened.

And just like that, maybe Mingyu’s heart started to heal too.

*******************

Minho’s lips trailed kisses along your jaw, his hands framing your face as if he still couldn’t believe this was real. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, breath mingling as you leaned into him, every inch of space between you practically non-existent.

The air was hot, your heart pounding louder than any concert speaker. His forehead rested against yours, breathless as he whispered, “I’m not letting go of you again. Ever.”

You smiled, pulling him back into another kiss — slower this time, but no less intense. The kind that made your knees weak and your brain fuzzy, the kind that left no question about how badly he wanted you — and how badly you wanted him.

Your hands tangled in his hair, his arms locked tightly around your waist, pressing you against the wall. It was messy and breathless, both of you still slightly shaking from the adrenaline of the concert.

"Missed you," he murmured against your mouth between kisses, voice hoarse.

You were just about to mumble "me too" when a loud knock rattled the door.

Minho froze mid-kiss, groaning against your lips. You stifled a laugh.

“Hyung?” Han’s voice called, too amused for your liking. “Minho hyung, will this continue all night or should we leave snacks outside the door?”

You buried your face in Minho’s chest as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Minho hyung is seriously down bad,” Hyunjin chimed in, voice loud and dramatic.

“Excuse you,” Han called out, raising an eyebrow. “Your bestie Y/N is equally down bad.”

You playfully smacked his chest, laughing into his shirt. “Did your wife just out me like that?”

Minho groaned, forehead dropping against your shoulder in defeat, "Kill me," he muttered. "Right now. Just kill me."

You both heard Han and Hyunjin start bickering again — something about who was more down bad between you and Minho — and you couldn't help but giggle quietly against Minho, your heart feeling so full you thought it might burst.

“YAH!” Minho finally shouted, voice filled with exasperated affection. “You want to die? Leave us alone!”

A pause.

Then shuffling footsteps and exaggerated gagging noises as they walked off. You and Minho looked at each other and were shaking with laughter, tangled in each other and unwilling to part.

You sighed happily, still held close. “We really are that bad, huh?”

Minho leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Maybe. But I’m not sorry.”

Minho tightened his arms around you, swaying you both lazily, “I love you, you know,” he murmured, so gently it melted into your skin.

A big smile broke across your face.

“I love you too, Minho,” you whispered back, like it was the easiest thing in the world — because with him finally, it was.

--------------

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