Archive of Our Own

The backstage area was still buzzing with leftover energy — roadies breaking down equipment, the low hum of amplifiers being unplugged, and the distant roar of the crowd still echoing from the arena. But in the small private dressing room reserved for Mingi, it was quieter.

Yeosang had been waiting patiently for almost forty minutes.

He was sitting neatly on the worn leather couch in a soft, baby-pink babydoll dress — the kind with delicate lace trim along the hem and neckline, short enough to show off his thighs when he shifted. His hair was styled in gentle waves, a white satin ribbon tied at the back. He looked sweet, almost too delicate for the chaotic rock ‘n’ roll environment around him.

When the door finally opened, Mingi stepped in — still sweaty from the stage, black silk shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging to his chest, hair damp and messy. The second his eyes landed on Yeosang, his whole face lit up with that hungry, boyish grin.

“Well goddamn,” he drawled, thick Southern accent curling around every word. “Look at my pretty little wife waitin’ for me like a good girl.”

He kicked the door shut behind him and crossed the room in three long strides. Before Yeosang could even stand up, Mingi was on him — big hands grabbing his waist and pulling him up into a rough, eager kiss.

“Mingi—!” Yeosang squeaked against his mouth, squirming as Mingi’s hands immediately slid down to grope his ass through the thin dress.

Mingi laughed low, deep in his throat, and walked Yeosang backward until his back hit the wall. One hand stayed on his ass while the other slid up under the hem of the dress, palming his thigh.

“Missed you so fuckin’ much, baby,” Mingi murmured hotly against his neck, already kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin there. “Lookin’ all sweet and dolled up for me backstage… you tryin’ to kill me?”

Yeosang squirmed, cheeks burning as Mingi’s hand moved higher.

“Mingi, stop— not here,” he whispered, voice breathy and embarrassed. “Someone might come in…”

But Mingi didn’t stop. He pressed his body closer, grinding against him, lips trailing wet kisses down Yeosang’s throat.

“C’mon, angel,” he growled softly. “Just a little. Been thinkin’ about this tight little body the whole damn show—”

The door suddenly swung open.

“Yo, Mings, you still in here—? Oh shit.”

Two of Mingi’s band members stood in the doorway, staring. One had a cigarette hanging from his lips, the other was holding a bottle of beer. Both of them froze at the sight of Mingi practically pinning Yeosang to the wall, hand still halfway up the pink dress.

Mingi didn’t pull away immediately. He just turned his head slightly, still caging Yeosang in, and gave them a lazy, annoyed look.

“Y’all got shit timing,” he grumbled, Southern drawl thick with frustration.

One of the guys snorted. “We were just comin’ to see if you wanted to head to the afterparty. But uh… looks like you’re busy.”

Yeosang made a tiny, mortified sound and tried to hide his burning face in Mingi’s chest. His hands pushed weakly at Mingi’s shoulders.

Mingi finally sighed and stepped back half a step, but kept one possessive arm around Yeosang’s waist.

“Tell ‘em I’ll be there later,” he said, not even looking at them. His eyes were still locked on Yeosang’s flushed face. “Right now I got more important things to do.”

The band members laughed as they backed out, one of them calling over his shoulder, “Don’t break the kid, Mings.”

The door clicked shut again.

Mingi’s grin returned, dark and hungry, as he looked down at his embarrassed wife.

“Now… where were we, baby girl?”

His hands slid back under the hem of the pink babydoll dress, palms warm and greedy against Yeosang’s thighs. He pressed closer, mouth latching onto the side of Yeosang’s neck, sucking lightly as his fingers traced higher.

“Missed this,” Mingi murmured against his skin, voice low and rough with that thick Southern drawl. “Missed havin’ my sweet girl all to myself after a show.”

Yeosang squirmed, letting out a soft, overwhelmed sound as Mingi’s hand cupped his ass, squeezing. “Mingi… slow down…”

But Mingi didn’t slow down. He kissed down Yeosang’s throat, then back up to his ear, breath hot.

“Been thinkin’ about it again,” he said, voice dropping. “About havin’ a kid. A real one. You carryin’ for me.”

Yeosang stiffened in his arms.

He gently pushed at Mingi’s chest, just enough to create some space between them.

“No,” he said quietly, voice shaky but firm. “Mingi, no. It would be too hard. I’m still young… and we already have so much going on. I don’t think I can handle that right now.”

Mingi went still.

For a few seconds the only sound was their breathing. Yeosang could feel the shift in Mingi’s body — the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched against Yeosang’s temple.

Mingi pulled back slowly. His eyes were dark, irritation flashing across his face, but he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t snap.

Instead, he let out a long, heavy breath through his nose and stepped back, running a hand through his damp hair.

“Alright,” he said, tone flat. “You don’t want to talk about it right now. Fine.”

He turned away slightly, adjusting his shirt, clearly trying to rein in his frustration. The silence that followed felt heavier than any shouting would have been.

Yeosang stood there, dress slightly rumpled, cheeks still flushed from earlier, watching Mingi’s back with nervous eyes.

Mingi glanced at him once more, mouth pressed into a tight line, then muttered under his breath, “We’ll talk about this later.”

He reached out and fixed the strap of Yeosang’s dress that had slipped off his shoulder — the motion almost gentle, but his fingers lingered a second too long, tense.

Yeosang swallowed hard, unsure what to say.

Mingi exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. The frustration was still there, simmering under the surface, but he pushed it down for now.

“We’re going to the afterparty,” he said, voice still a little rough. “The guys are heading over soon. But we should stop by the house first and get you changed.”

Yeosang blinked, tugging lightly at the hem of his short pink dress.

Mingi’s eyes flicked down to the lace trim and the way the fabric sat high on Yeosang’s thighs. His jaw tightened.

“I don’t want you walking around like that in front of everybody,” he added, more firmly this time. “Too much skin. You’re my wife, not some groupie. Go put on something longer before we head out.”

Yeosang’s cheeks warmed. He nodded quickly, smoothing the dress down with both hands even though it didn’t help much.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll change.”

Mingi stepped closer again, sliding a hand around Yeosang’s waist — not as greedy as before, but still clearly reluctant to stop touching him completely.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to Yeosang’s forehead. “We won’t stay too long. Just enough to show face.”

He gave Yeosang’s waist a light squeeze before letting go and grabbing his jacket from the couch.

“C’mon. Car’s waiting out back.”

Yeosang followed him quietly, still flushed and a little unsteady on his feet after everything that had just happened. The short dress felt even shorter now under Mingi’s earlier comment. He kept tugging at the hem the whole walk to the car, heart fluttering nervously between lingering embarrassment and the familiar pull of wanting to make Mingi happy.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The afterparty was in full swing by the time they arrived — a sprawling house in the hills filled with music, smoke, and too many people. Lights were low, laughter was loud, and the air smelled like cigarettes, whiskey, and expensive perfume.

Yeosang had changed before they left the house. He was now wearing a soft lavender dress with thin straps and a flared skirt that still ended high on his thighs. It was prettier than the pink one, but just as short. A delicate silver necklace rested against his collarbones, and he’d tied a matching lavender ribbon in his hair. He looked sweet, delicate, and completely out of place.

He clung tightly to Mingi’s arm the second they stepped inside, fingers curled into the sleeve of Mingi’s black silk shirt. His heart was beating fast. He had never liked parties — too loud, too many eyes, too much chaos. He always felt small and exposed in them.

Mingi, on the other hand, lit up the moment they walked in.

People immediately swarmed them.

“Mingi! Great show tonight, man!”

“Song! Over here!”

Women in short dresses and men in flashy shirts came up to greet him, clapping him on the back, laughing too loudly, offering drinks. Mingi grinned wide, shaking hands and pulling people into quick hugs, his voice loud and confident as he accepted compliments.

Yeosang stayed glued to his side, cheek pressed lightly against Mingi’s arm, trying to make himself smaller. Every time someone looked at him too long, his grip tightened.

A tall woman with dark red lipstick leaned in close to Mingi, laughing at something he said. Her eyes flicked over to Yeosang for a second, scanning his short dress and the way he was clinging.

“You brought your wife,” she teased, smiling. “How sweet.”

Mingi chuckled and wrapped an arm around Yeosang’s waist, pulling him closer.

“Yeah, couldn’t leave her at home. She gets lonely.”

Yeosang’s cheeks burned. He kept his eyes down, focusing on the pattern of the rug beneath his heels. The music felt too loud. The lights too bright. He could feel people staring, whispering, judging how young he looked, how short his dress was, how tightly he was holding onto Mingi like a lifeline.

Mingi barely noticed. He was in his element — laughing, drinking from the glass someone handed him, talking animatedly with a group of musicians and industry people.

Yeosang leaned his head against Mingi’s shoulder, whispering so only he could hear:

“Can we sit down somewhere… please?”

Mingi glanced down at him, squeezing his waist once.

“In a minute, angel. Gotta say hi to a few more people.”

Yeosang nodded quietly, even though his stomach twisted with nerves. He stayed pressed against Mingi’s side, trying to disappear into him while the party swirled around them — loud, overwhelming, and relentless.

Mingi was in the middle of laughing at something when a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Mingi! There you are, you bastard.”

Mingi’s face lit up with a big grin. “San! Finally showed up, huh?”

Yeosang felt Mingi’s arm tighten slightly around his waist as he turned them both toward the newcomer. Out of habit, Yeosang lifted his head to look.

And the world tilted a little.

San was… big. Tall and broad-shouldered, sunkissed skin and easy confidence that filled the space around him. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and when he smiled at Mingi, it was bright and warm and so charming that Yeosang’s breath caught in his throat. He had kind eyes and a strong jaw, and something about the way he carried himself made Yeosang feel warm all over — a fluttery, giddy feeling blooming deep in his chest like butterflies waking up.

He had never seen anyone that handsome before.

Yeosang’s fingers tightened on Mingi’s sleeve. His cheeks grew hot. He suddenly felt very aware of how short his lavender dress was, how close he was standing to Mingi, how small he probably looked next to both of them.

San laughed at something Mingi said, the sound rich and relaxed, and clapped Mingi on the shoulder. He was talking directly to Mingi, voice friendly and familiar, clearly old friends catching up.

“—heard the new set was insane tonight. Sorry I missed it, man. Traffic was hell.”

Yeosang couldn’t stop staring.

Every time San smiled, that warm, giddy feeling twisted tighter in his stomach. His heart was beating too fast. He felt shy — painfully, embarrassingly shy. He wanted to hide behind Mingi’s arm, but at the same time he couldn’t look away.

San hadn’t even glanced at him yet. He was just talking to Mingi, casual and effortless, radiating that natural charm that made Yeosang feel like a nervous teenager all over again.

Mingi chuckled. “Yeah, it was a good crowd. This is my wife, by the way. Yeosang.”

Only then did San’s eyes shift over.

He looked at Yeosang properly — and smiled, soft and polite.

“Hey,” San said gently. “Nice to meet you.”

Yeosang’s throat went dry. He managed a tiny nod, cheeks burning hotter than they had all night.

“H-Hi…” he whispered, voice barely audible over the music. He pressed closer to Mingi’s side, fingers clutching his sleeve like it was a lifeline.

San’s smile stayed kind, but he didn’t push. He simply turned back to Mingi and continued their conversation.

Yeosang stayed quiet, heart racing, feeling warm and fluttery and so shy he thought he might melt into the floor.

He couldn’t stop stealing little glances at San.

And every single time, that giddy, butterflies-in-his-stomach feeling got stronger.

Mingi clapped San on the shoulder again, still grinning.

“C’mon, let’s go sit down somewhere. Been a minute since we caught up properly.”

San nodded with an easy smile. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

Mingi kept his arm looped around Yeosang’s waist as they moved through the crowded room. They found a quieter corner with a large curved velvet couch tucked against the wall. Mingi dropped down first, then gently pulled Yeosang down beside him.

Somehow, Yeosang ended up right in the middle.

San settled on his other side.

The couch wasn’t small, but San was big,so when he turned to speak to Mingi, he had to lean slightly over Yeosang. His arm brushed against Yeosang’s shoulder. His knee was only a few inches away from Yeosang’s thigh. Yeosang could feel the warmth coming off him.

Yeosang’s heart immediately kicked into overdrive.

He sat ramrod straight, hands clasped tightly in his lap, trying to make himself as small as possible. Every time San shifted or laughed at something Mingi said, Yeosang felt a fresh wave of nervous heat rush through his body. His cheeks were burning. His stomach was doing excited little somersaults. He couldn’t stop being hyper-aware of how close San was — close enough to smell his cologne, close enough to feel the faint brush of his sleeve against his bare arm.

San noticed.

He glanced down at Yeosang for a brief moment, catching the way he was sitting so stiffly, the pink flush high on his cheeks, the way his fingers kept twisting together nervously. San’s expression softened with quiet amusement, but he didn’t comment. He simply shifted back just a tiny bit, giving Yeosang a little more breathing room, and continued talking to Mingi like nothing was wrong.

Yeosang let out a tiny, shaky breath.

He still felt warm all over. Still felt that giddy, fluttery feeling every time San’s voice rumbled close to him or his arm accidentally brushed his shoulder again. He kept his eyes mostly on his own lap, stealing only the smallest, shyest glances at San’s side profile whenever he thought it was safe.

Mingi, completely oblivious, laughed loudly at something San said and casually rested his hand on Yeosang’s thigh.

“You good, angel?” he asked without looking over.

Yeosang nodded quickly, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Mhm…”

Mingi and San kept talking for what felt like forever.

They were deep in conversation — old stories from past tours, new song ideas, inside jokes that made them both laugh. Mingi’s arm stayed draped around Yeosang’s shoulders the whole time, casual and possessive, while San sat relaxed on his other side.

Yeosang tried so hard to stay awake.

He nodded along, smiled when they looked at him, but the exhaustion from the long day (playing tennis, changing outfits, the overwhelming noise of the party) was catching up fast. His eyelids grew heavier. His head started to droop.

Then, slowly, without realizing it, Yeosang leaned sideways… and rested his cheek against San’s shoulder.

San stiffened for half a second.

Yeosang let out a tiny, sleepy sigh and nuzzled closer, completely unconscious, seeking warmth. His body relaxed fully against San’s side, one hand loosely resting on San’s arm, the lavender ribbon in his hair brushing San’s sleeve.

San didn’t move.

He glanced down at the smaller boy now peacefully sleeping on him — flushed cheeks, soft lashes, lips slightly parted. A gentle, almost fond look crossed his face for a brief moment before he schooled it.

Mingi noticed a few seconds later. He paused mid-sentence, eyes flicking over to see his wife curled up against his friend.

San gave a small, careful shrug, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t wake Yeosang.

“Poor kid’s wiped out,” he murmured.

Mingi stared for a beat longer, something unreadable in his expression, but he didn’t pull Yeosang away. He just let out a short breath and continued talking, though his hand tightened slightly on Yeosang’s shoulder.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The car hummed quietly down the winding road toward the hills, the city lights flickering past the windows in soft blurs. In the backseat, Yeosang was fast asleep, completely curled into Mingi’s side. His head rested heavily on Mingi’s chest, one arm draped loosely over his waist, the lavender dress rumpled from the long night. His breathing was slow and even, lips slightly parted, the ribbon in his hair now crooked and half-falling out.

Mingi had one arm wrapped around him, holding him close, fingers idly stroking up and down Yeosang’s back. On the surface, he looked calm — the picture of a tired husband taking care of his sleeping wife.

But inside, he was still pissed.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again: Yeosang’s cheek pressed against San’s shoulder, soft and trusting, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way San had looked down at him with that quiet, amused little smile.

Mingi’s jaw tightened.

He pulled Yeosang a little closer, almost subconsciously, shifting him more firmly into his lap. Yeosang made a small, sleepy sound and nuzzled closer, completely unaware.

Mingi stared out the window, mouth pressed into a thin line.

He wasn’t blind. He’d seen the way Yeosang got all shy and fluttery around San tonight. The blushing. The nervous little giggles. The way he kept stealing glances when he thought no one was looking.

It irritated the hell out of him.

Not because he thought San would actually try anything — San knew better. But the fact that Yeosang had leaned on him so easily, so comfortably… that stung more than he wanted to admit.

Mingi looked down at the sleeping boy in his arms. So small. So pretty. Still wearing that short dress even after he’d told him to change into something longer.

He brushed a strand of hair off Yeosang’s forehead, a little rougher than necessary.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he muttered under his breath, voice low. “Always findin’ new ways to drive me crazy.”

Yeosang didn’t stir. He just slept on, peaceful and unaware, trusting Mingi to hold him the whole way home.

Mingi kept his arm tight around him for the rest of the drive, staring out into the dark with a quiet, simmering frustration he couldn’t quite shake.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The bedroom was dark and quiet when they finally got home. Mingi carried Yeosang upstairs without turning on the main lights, only the soft glow from the bedside lamp illuminating the room.

Yeosang was still fast asleep, clinging to him like a little baby. His arms were wrapped around Mingi’s neck, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder, legs loosely hooked around Mingi’s waist. The lavender dress had ridden up high on his thighs from being carried. He looked so small and sweet like this — completely trusting even in sleep.

Mingi laid him down on the bed gently, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he climbed on top of him, settling between Yeosang’s legs. His hands immediately started roaming — sliding up under the short dress, palms stroking over bare skin, lips pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along Yeosang’s neck and collarbone.

Yeosang stirred after a few moments, letting out a soft, groggy whimper. His eyes fluttered open halfway, still heavy with sleep, lashes blinking slowly in confusion.

“Mingi…?” he mumbled, voice thick and sleepy.

Mingi didn’t stop. He kissed down Yeosang’s throat, one hand slipping higher under the dress to squeeze his thigh.

“You were so cute tonight,” Mingi murmured against his skin. “But you made me real sad today, angel.”

Yeosang blinked slowly, still half-asleep, trying to make sense of the words.

“Hm…?”

“I keep thinking about it,” Mingi continued, voice low as he pressed another kiss just below Yeosang’s ear. 

“How you said no to having a kid with me. That really hurt. You know how bad I want that. How much I want to see you carrying my baby.”

Yeosang made a small, confused sound, still not fully awake. His hands weakly pushed at Mingi’s shoulders.

Mingi kept going, hips slowly grinding against him.

“And then I saw you leaning on San like that,” he said, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “Head on his shoulder, all comfortable. You never lean on me that easy anymore. Made me feel like shit.”

Yeosang frowned sleepily, eyes barely open.

“…San?” he mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion. “What… what are you talking about…?”

Mingi pulled back slightly, staring down at him. His expression darkened with irritation.

“You don’t even remember?” he said, voice sharper now. “You fell asleep on him right in front of me. And now you’re acting like you have no idea what I’m saying?”

Yeosang blinked again, still groggy and lost. “I… I was sleepy… I don’t…”

Mingi’s jaw clenched. He let out a frustrated breath, clearly getting mad.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “I’m telling you how I feel and you can’t even stay awake long enough to listen. Just go back to sleep then.”

He rolled off Yeosang, turning his back to him on the bed. The sudden loss of warmth made Yeosang whimper softly, still confused and half-asleep, reaching out weakly toward Mingi’s back.

But Mingi didn’t turn around.

Yeosang blinked slowly, still fighting through the heavy fog of sleep. He shifted closer to Mingi’s back, one hand weakly grabbing the back of his shirt.

“I didn’t mean to…” he mumbled, voice small and hoarse. “I was just really tired… I didn’t even realize I leaned on him. And about the baby… I’m sorry, I just… it scares me. I don’t know if I can—”

Mingi let out a sharp, irritated breath and rolled over to face him. His expression was tight, eyes narrowed.

“You’re defending yourself now?” he said, voice low and edged. “I’m telling you I felt like shit tonight and your first response is to make excuses?”

Yeosang’s eyes widened a little, confusion and guilt mixing on his sleepy face.

“I’m not— I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” Mingi cut him off, propping himself up on one elbow. “You always do this. I open up to you and you start explaining why you did the thing that hurt me. Like that makes it better.”

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair off Yeosang’s forehead, but the touch felt heavier than usual.

“I’m not actually sad, angel,” Mingi continued, voice dropping softer, more calculated. “I’m disappointed. Because I thought you’d choose me. Choose us. Instead you fell asleep on someone else and told me you don’t want to give me a child.”

Yeosang’s bottom lip trembled. Even half-asleep, the guilt hit him hard. He scooted closer, pressing his face into Mingi’s chest like he was trying to hide.

“I do choose you,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

Mingi hummed, wrapping his arms around Yeosang and pulling him in tighter. His hand rubbed slow circles on Yeosang’s back, but there was a satisfied glint in his eyes that Yeosang couldn’t see.

“That’s better,” he murmured. “Just stay close to me, okay? Don’t go looking for comfort somewhere else. I’m right here.”

Yeosang nodded weakly against his chest, clinging tighter, still groggy and overwhelmed with guilt. Mingi pressed a kiss to the top of his head, hiding the small, pleased curve of his mouth.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The next morning, Yeosang woke up to loud music thumping from downstairs — heavy bass and electric guitar filling the house. He groaned softly, rubbing his eyes. The clock on the nightstand read just past 10 a.m.

He sat up slowly, still a little sleepy, and slipped out of bed. Since he thought it was only Mingi home (he usually was the one blasting music like this), he didn’t bother putting on much. He pulled on a tight, sheer black lace top that clung to his chest and barely reached his ribs, paired with tiny matching black panties. The lace was delicate and revealing, showing more skin than it covered. He didn’t even add a robe — he was too used to walking around like this when he thought they were alone.

Yeosang padded downstairs barefoot, rubbing his eyes again as the music grew louder.

“Mingi,” he called out softly, voice still hoarse from sleep. “It’s still morning… can you please turn it down a little?”

He went into the living room and froze.

Mingi was sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, nodding his head to the music. But he wasn’t alone.

San was sitting on the other end of the couch, a guitar across his lap, clearly the one playing along with the record. He looked relaxed, wearing a simple black tank top that showed off his arms and shoulders.

Both of them turned their heads when Yeosang walked in.

For a second, everything went silent except for the music still playing.

Yeosang’s eyes widened. His hands flew down to tug uselessly at the hem of the tiny lace top, trying to cover himself, but it was far too short. His cheeks burned bright red as he realized how much skin he was showing — the sheer lace leaving almost nothing to the imagination, the panties sitting high on his hips.

“Oh—” His voice came out as a mortified squeak. He took a small, embarrassed step back, arms wrapping around his middle.

Mingi raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk forming on his lips.

“Well damn, angel,” he said, voice low and amused. “Didn’t know you were gonna come down dressed like that.”

San, for his part, tried to be polite. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat, but not before Yeosang caught the brief flash of surprise (and something warmer) in his eyes.

“I— I thought it was only you home,” Yeosang whispered, voice tiny and humiliated. He couldn’t even look at San. His heart was racing, cheeks burning hotter than they ever had. “I’m sorry… I’ll go change—”

He turned to flee back upstairs, but Mingi’s voice stopped him.

“Nah, c’mere,” Mingi said, patting the space between him and San on the couch. “You’re already down here. Sit with us for a bit.”

Yeosang hesitated, mortified, arms still wrapped tightly around himself. He could feel San’s gaze on him again — not staring, but definitely aware.

He had never felt more shy in his entire life.

Yeosang hesitated for a long second, cheeks still burning, but eventually padded over and sat down carefully on the couch between them — as close to Mingi as possible without climbing into his lap. He tugged at the hem of the tiny lace top again, trying (and failing) to cover more of his thighs, then folded his hands tightly in his lap and kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.

He refused to look at San.

Mingi, seemingly having forgotten all about last night’s tension, leaned back comfortably and grinned at his friend.

“Man, you still play that old Gibson like it owes you money,” Mingi said with a lazy laugh. “Remember that time in Nashville when you dropped it mid-solo and kept playing anyway? Funniest shit I ever saw.”

San chuckled, warm and easy, leaning forward slightly to rest his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, and you were the one who tripped over the cord right after. We both looked like idiots that night.”

Mingi barked out a laugh and nudged Yeosang’s shoulder playfully. “You should’ve seen it, angel. These two clowns trying to act cool while the whole crowd was laughing at us.”

Yeosang gave a tiny, shy smile and nodded, but kept his gaze down on his own hands. His heart was beating too fast. Even without looking, he could feel San’s presence right beside him — the warmth of his arm, the faint scent of his cologne.

San glanced over at him again.

It wasn’t obvious. Just a quick, soft look — checking if Yeosang was okay, noticing how tense and shy he was sitting there in almost nothing. San’s eyes lingered for half a second on the delicate lace top and the way Yeosang’s thighs pressed together nervously, before he looked away again, polite as ever.

But Yeosang felt it.

His cheeks grew even hotter. He shifted slightly closer to Mingi, trying to hide behind his bigger frame, fingers twisting together in his lap.

Mingi, completely oblivious now, kept joking with San.

“Next time we’re in the studio, you gotta show me that riff you were messing with last month. The one that sounds like it’s from hell. I think we could do something nasty with it.”

San smiled, nodding. “Yeah, I’ve been playing around with it. Might fit that slower track we were talking about.”

Another quick glance from San toward Yeosang — gentle, almost concerned this time, like he could tell how nervous the younger boy was. San didn’t say anything about it. He just kept the conversation going with Mingi, relaxed and friendly.

Yeosang stayed quiet the whole time, heart fluttering wildly in his chest every time he felt San’s eyes on him, even for a second. He kept his head down, biting the inside of his cheek, trying desperately not to look over.

He was failing.

Every tiny glance he accidentally caught of San’s warm smile or strong arms made that giddy, teenage-crush feeling bloom stronger.

Mingi laughed at something San said, then stretched his arms overhead with a groan.

“Shit, I gotta take a piss. Be right back,” he said, standing up. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Yeosang’s forehead. “Stay right here, angel. Don’t move.”

Then he walked off down the hallway toward the bathroom, leaving the two of them alone on the couch.

The second Mingi disappeared, the air shifted.

Yeosang’s heart started hammering. He was suddenly hyper-aware of how close San was — the warmth of his body, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his arm rested along the back of the couch. He kept his eyes glued to his lap, hands squeezing his own thighs tightly, feet tapping nervously against the floor in quick, anxious little movements.

San noticed.

He turned his head slightly, watching Yeosang with quiet amusement. The way the younger boy was shrinking in on himself, the rapid tapping of his bare feet, the death grip he had on his own thighs — it was all so obvious.

San let out a soft, warm laugh.

“You’re really cute when you get like this,” he said gently, voice low so only Yeosang could hear.

Yeosang’s head snapped up. His eyes went wide — big, round, and sparkling with pure nervousness as he finally looked straight at San for the first time since they sat down.

“I—I’m not—” he stammered, voice tiny and breathless. His cheeks flushed an even deeper pink. He quickly looked away again, squeezing his thighs harder, feet tapping even faster.

San smiled, soft and fond, clearly charmed.

“You are,” he murmured. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be so nervous around me.”

Yeosang made a small, mortified sound and ducked his head lower, wishing the couch would swallow him whole.

He was alone with San.

San reached over to the coffee table and picked up his pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out, placed it between his lips, and lit it with a smooth flick of his lighter. The flame illuminated his face for a second — sharp jawline, easy smile — before he exhaled a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

He turned his head slightly toward Yeosang again, voice low and casual.

“So… you play tennis a lot?” San asked, genuinely trying to make conversation.

Yeosang’s heart stuttered. He squeezed his thighs tighter, feet tapping even faster against the floor. His voice came out barely above a whisper.

“I… I just go sometimes,” he mumbled, cheeks burning. “Mingi likes it when I… wear the outfits.”

San smiled softly around the cigarette, about to say something else when heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Mingi came back into the living room, stretching his arms with a satisfied groan.

“Fuck, that piss was refreshing,” he announced loudly, completely shameless. “Felt like I was holding it since last night.”

Yeosang looked up at him quickly. For a split second, clear annoyance flashed across his face — his brows furrowed just slightly, lips pressing together. He had been nervous, yes… but he had also wanted just a little more time alone with San. Just a few more minutes of that warm, fluttery feeling.

But the moment passed quickly. Yeosang forced his expression back to something softer and looked down again, embarrassed by his own feelings.

Mingi dropped back onto the couch on Yeosang’s other side, slinging a heavy arm around his shoulders and pulling him close.

“You two getting along?” he asked, glancing between them with a lazy grin.

San took another slow drag from his cigarette, eyes flicking to Yeosang for a brief second before he answered with a small smile.

“Yeah. Your wife’s real quiet, but he’s good company.”

Yeosang’s face burned hotter. He stayed pressed against Mingi’s side, heart still racing, wishing he could disappear into the couch cushions.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Over the next few weeks, San became a regular fixture in their home.

Sometimes he came with a couple of the other band members — loud, chaotic evenings filled with music, drinks, and laughter. Other times it was just San and Mingi, working on songs in the living room or lounging by the pool. San was easy to have around. He never overstayed, never caused drama, and always treated Yeosang with the same warm, gentle respect.

Yeosang slowly got used to it.

He was still shy — painfully so — but the intense, paralyzing awkwardness from that first morning had softened into something warmer and more manageable. He no longer froze completely when San spoke to him. He could hold a short conversation now, even if his voice stayed soft and his cheeks stayed pink.

One lazy afternoon, San and Mingi were in the living room going over lyrics. Mingi was sprawled on the couch with his guitar, while San sat on the floor leaning against the coffee table.

Yeosang padded in from the kitchen carrying a tray with cold drinks — lemonade for himself, beer for the guys. He was wearing a soft cream-colored sundress with tiny blue flowers, the skirt swishing around his thighs as he walked.

He set the tray down carefully.

“Here,” he said quietly, handing San his beer first.

San looked up and smiled — that bright, charming smile that still made Yeosang’s stomach flutter.

“Thanks, pretty,” San said, taking the bottle. His fingers brushed lightly against Yeosang’s as he did. “You didn’t have to bring these.”

Yeosang’s cheeks warmed instantly. He gave a small, shy shrug and sat down on the couch beside Mingi, tucking his legs under him.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, glancing at San for just a second before looking away again.

Mingi, completely focused on adjusting his guitar strings, didn’t notice the quick exchange. He just reached over absentmindedly and rested a hand on Yeosang’s thigh.

San took a sip of his beer, then looked back at Yeosang again — softer this time.

“You’ve been practicing that song I showed you last week?” he asked gently.

Yeosang nodded, a tiny smile tugging at his lips despite his shyness.

“A little,” he admitted. “When Mingi’s not home.”

San’s smile widened, warm and encouraging.

“That’s good. You’ve got a nice voice. You should sing it for us sometime.”

Yeosang’s face went bright pink. He quickly looked down at his hands, biting his lip to hide his smile. His feet tapped lightly against the couch cushion — that nervous little habit he still couldn’t shake whenever San gave him attention.

Mingi finally looked up from his guitar.

“What are you two whispering about over there?” he asked with a lazy grin.

“Nothing,” Yeosang said quickly, voice soft.

San just chuckled and took another sip of his beer, eyes lingering on Yeosang for a second longer — fond, amused, and quietly charmed by how easily the younger boy still got flustered.

Yeosang stayed tucked against Mingi’s side for the rest of the afternoon, stealing small glances at San whenever he thought no one was looking.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The backyard pool glittered under the bright afternoon sun. Mingi had passed out on one of the wide lounge stools near the edge, head tipped back, snoring loudly with his mouth slightly open. One arm dangled off the side, fingers still loosely wrapped around a half-empty beer bottle.

San was in the water, doing slow, lazy laps. Yeosang sat on the tiled edge of the pool in a cute baby-blue bikini — the top tied with delicate strings, the bottoms sitting high on his hips, showing off the soft curve of his waist and thighs. His feet dangled in the water, splashing gently back and forth, making small ripples.

San swam over and rested his forearms on the edge right in front of Yeosang, water dripping from his hair and shoulders. He smiled up at him.

“You’re really cute like this,” San said softly, voice warm and sincere. “Just sitting here kicking your feet in the water. You look happy.”

Yeosang’s cheeks flushed instantly. He looked down at his lap, biting his lip to stop the shy smile that wanted to break free. His feet stopped moving for a second.

Before he could reply, San’s hand shot out, gently but firmly grabbing Yeosang’s ankle.

“San—!” Yeosang squealed as he was suddenly yanked forward.

He slid off the edge with a big splash, arms flailing, landing in the water right in front of San. He came up gasping and laughing, water streaming down his face and hair, the bikini top slightly askew.

“San!” he whined, half-laughing, half-embarrassed as he quickly fixed the strings of his top with both hands. “That’s not fair!”

San was grinning brightly, clearly pleased with himself. He stayed close, one hand lightly steadying Yeosang’s waist so he wouldn’t drift away in the water.

“Sorry,” San said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “You just looked too cute. Had to do it.”

The water sparkled under the bright sun as they played. San splashed Yeosang, sending a wave of cool water over his chest. Yeosang squealed, laughing, and splashed back with both hands — though most of it missed. He wasn’t a strong swimmer, so every time he tried to move away or chase San, his legs kicked awkwardly and he started to sink a little.

Each time, he instinctively reached out and grabbed onto San.

San didn’t mind at all. He laughed softly every time Yeosang clutched at his shoulders or wrapped an arm around his neck for balance, keeping one steady hand on Yeosang’s waist to hold him up.

“You really can’t swim, huh?” San teased gently, voice warm.

Yeosang shook his head, cheeks flushed as he clung tighter, legs lightly kicking in the water. His body pressed close against San’s — chest to chest, wet skin sliding together. He felt shy and giddy at the same time, heart racing from how strong and warm San felt.

“I never learned properly…” he mumbled, hiding his face against San’s shoulder for a second when another small wave made him wobble.

San just smiled and adjusted his grip, keeping Yeosang safely afloat. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Hold on as much as you want.”

They kept playing like that for a while — gentle splashing, Yeosang giggling every time San pretended to dunk him, only to pull him back up immediately. 

Yeosang stayed glued to him the entire time, arms wrapped around San’s neck or shoulders, legs occasionally brushing against his as he tried to stay balanced.

They stayed in the water for a few more minutes, splashing gently and laughing. But Yeosang kept getting more and more aware of how close they were.

San’s chest was right there — broad, firm, water droplets sliding down his skin every time he moved. 

Yeosang’s arms were still wrapped around San’s neck, their bodies pressed together, legs tangled under the water. Every small shift made their wet skin slide against each other.

Yeosang’s face suddenly burned.

He became hyper-aware of everything — how tightly he was holding on, how his thighs were wrapped around San’s waist, how warm and solid San felt against him. His heart started racing for a completely different reason.

He pulled back a little, suddenly very shy.

“Um… San?” he whispered, voice small and embarrassed. “I… I think I want to get up now.”

San paused, then let out a soft, fond laugh — warm and gentle, not teasing.

“Yeah?” He tilted his head, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Getting shy again?”

Yeosang nodded quickly, hiding his burning face against San’s shoulder for a second before quickly pulling away. His cheeks were bright pink.

San smiled and nodded. “Alright, come on.”

He carefully helped Yeosang back to the edge, keeping one steady hand on his waist. Once they reached the tiles, San lifted him easily so Yeosang could sit on the edge again. Water dripped down his body as he swung his legs out of the pool, quickly tugging at the strings of his bikini to make sure everything was still in place.

Yeosang kept his head down, too shy to look at San directly.

“Thank you…” he mumbled, barely audible.

Mingi stirred awake on the lounge chair with a loud, groggy groan. He rubbed his face with one hand, squinting against the sunlight.

“Yeosang?” he called out, voice still thick with sleep. “Baby, where are you?”

Yeosang’s head turned immediately at the sound of his name. Without hesitation, he pushed himself up from the edge of the pool and started walking toward Mingi.

The wet tiles were slippery under his bare feet, and his damp bikini clung to his body, so he had to walk carefully — small, quick steps, arms held slightly out for balance so he wouldn’t slip. The short strings of the bikini bottom swayed with every movement, and water still dripped down his thighs.

San stayed in the pool, quietly watching him go.

Yeosang reached Mingi in seconds. He climbed onto the wide lounge chair and immediately curled into his husband’s side like a little kitten seeking warmth. His arms wrapped around Mingi’s waist, cheek pressing against his bare chest, legs tangling with Mingi’s.

Mingi hummed in satisfaction and wrapped one strong arm around him, pulling him closer.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice low and content as he pressed a lazy kiss to the top of Yeosang’s damp hair. “Missed you, angel. Come here.”

Yeosang nuzzled closer, clinging tighter, heart still fluttering from everything that had just happened with San. He didn’t say anything — just stayed pressed against Mingi, breathing in his familiar scent.

Mingi rubbed a big hand up and down his back, completely relaxed again.

Mingi stirred awake a little more, blinking slowly as he registered the cool dampness against his side. 

Yeosang was still curled up tightly against him, skin wet from the pool.

“You’re all wet, angel,” Mingi murmured, voice low and a little raspy from sleep. His hand slid down Yeosang’s back, feeling the damp bikini strings. “Did you fall in or something?”

Yeosang lifted his head slightly, cheeks already pink.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice small. “I didn’t mean to get you wet…”

Mingi just hummed, rubbing slow circles on his back, not seeming too bothered.

A moment later, San pulled himself out of the pool. Water streamed down his toned body as he grabbed a towel and walked over to join them. He sat on the edge of the lounge chair across from Mingi and Yeosang, still dripping slightly.

Mingi’s eyes flicked over, taking in the sight of both of them wet — Yeosang’s bikini clinging to his body, San’s swim trunks dark with water. He noticed how close they must have been in the pool. His jaw flexed for half a second, but he didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he pulled Yeosang a little closer against his chest and kept his tone casual.

“You two have a good time?” he asked, glancing between them.

San smiled easily, drying his hair with the towel. “Yeah, it was fun. Yeosang’s not the strongest swimmer, so I helped keep him up.”

Yeosang made a tiny embarrassed sound and hid his face against Mingi’s chest again, fingers clutching at his shirt.

Mingi’s hand continued stroking Yeosang’s back, but his grip on his waist tightened just a fraction.

“That’s good,” he said, voice even. “Glad someone was looking out for him.”

Mingi’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, sliding up the back of Yeosang’s damp bikini top, fingers tracing his spine. His other hand stayed firmly on Yeosang’s ass, squeezing through the thin fabric as he pulled him closer on his lap.

Yeosang squirmed immediately, trying to shift away.

“Mingi…” he whispered, voice small and embarrassed. “Stop… San is right here.”

Mingi didn’t stop. He leaned in and kissed the side of Yeosang’s neck again, then dragged his lips lower, sucking lightly at his collarbone.

“So?” Mingi murmured against his skin, completely unbothered. “He can look if he wants. I can touch my wife whenever I feel like it.”

Yeosang’s face burned hotter. He tried to wiggle off Mingi’s lap again, pushing weakly at his chest, but Mingi’s arm around his waist only tightened.

“Please,” Yeosang whispered, squirming harder. “Not now…”

Mingi ignored him. His hand slipped under the lace top, palm flat against Yeosang’s bare stomach, thumb stroking just below his navel. He kissed Yeosang’s shoulder again, then nipped at it lightly, clearly enjoying how flustered he was getting.

San stayed quiet on the other side of the lounge chair, eyes politely averted, but his jaw was tight. He focused on folding his towel, pretending not to notice what was happening right next to him.

Yeosang let out a tiny, embarrassed whimper and hid his face against Mingi’s neck, body tense and squirming in his lap. He felt mortified — caught between the warmth of Mingi’s touch and the crushing awareness that San was sitting just a few feet away.

Mingi didn’t stop.

His hand slid lower, slipping under the front of Yeosang’s bikini bottoms. His fingers found him easily, stroking slowly, deliberately. Yeosang gasped, body jerking in Mingi’s lap.

“M-Mingi—” he whimpered, voice breaking into a soft, involuntary moan as Mingi’s fingers pressed more firmly, circling, teasing.

San, who had been quietly sitting nearby, cleared his throat loudly — a deliberate, awkward cough.

“I’m… gonna go take a smoke,” San said, voice carefully neutral as he stood up. He didn’t look directly at them. “Be back in a bit.”

Mingi let out a low, amused laugh, not even bothering to stop touching Yeosang.

“Yeah, you do that,” he said, smirking as San walked away toward the far side of the pool area.

The second San turned his back, Mingi used both hands to manhandle Yeosang — grabbing his hips and lifting him easily so he was straddling Mingi’s lap properly, facing him. The bikini bottoms were pushed aside in one quick motion.

“Ride me,” Mingi murmured, voice low and rough. He guided Yeosang’s hips down, making him grind against the growing bulge in his swim trunks. “C’mon, baby. Move for me.”

Yeosang let out a mortified, broken moan, hands clutching at Mingi’s shoulders. His face was burning with embarrassment — he could still see San’s back in the distance, standing near the edge of the pool, lighting a cigarette.

“Mingi… he’s right there—” Yeosang whimpered, trying to stop his hips from moving, but Mingi’s hands were firm, guiding him into a slow, steady rhythm.

“Let him hear,” Mingi said, unbothered, voice thick with arousal. He squeezed Yeosang’s ass, encouraging him to grind harder. “ I don’t care who’s watching.”

Mingi’s hands stayed firm on Yeosang’s hips, guiding him up and down with increasing speed. The rhythm was relentless, too fast for Yeosang to keep up with. Every bounce made him whimper, overwhelmed and oversensitive.

“Slow… slow down—” Yeosang gasped, voice shaky. “Mingi, please— it’s too much—”

But Mingi didn’t slow down. He kept moving Yeosang on his lap, thrusting up to meet him, breathing hot against his neck.

“You can take it,” Mingi muttered, fingers digging into his waist. “C’mon, baby. Ride me properly.”

Yeosang’s eyes filled with tears. He was shaking, completely overwhelmed. His hands grabbed desperately at Mingi’s arms, trying to push them away.

“Stop— Mingi, stop!” he begged, voice cracking. 

“Please, I can’t— it hurts— stop—”

Tears spilled down his cheeks as he stopped moving entirely, body tense and trembling. He pushed harder at Mingi’s arms, sobbing openly now.

“I want to go inside,” he cried, voice small and broken. “Please… I want to leave. Mingi, please—”

Mingi’s jaw clenched hard. For a second, pure irritation flashed across his face. He was clearly pissed — the kind of anger that came when he didn’t get what he wanted.

But he stopped.

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he grabbed Yeosang around the waist and lifted him off his lap in one smooth motion. Yeosang whimpered at the sudden emptiness, legs shaky as Mingi stood up, still holding him.

“San!” Mingi called out, voice sharp and annoyed. “We’re heading in.”

San, who had been standing a respectful distance away smoking, turned around quickly. He took one look at Yeosang’s tear-streaked face and the way Mingi was carrying him and nodded without a word.

Mingi didn’t say anything else. He just carried Yeosang toward the house, one arm under his thighs, the other around his back. Yeosang hid his wet face in Mingi’s neck, still crying quietly, body trembling.

The walk back to the house was silent except for Yeosang’s soft sniffles.

Mingi carried Yeosang upstairs without another word, leaving San standing awkwardly in the living room. His grip was tight, almost too tight, as he pushed open the bedroom door and dropped Yeosang onto the bed.

“Sleep,” Mingi said flatly, already turning away.

Yeosang immediately started crying again, soft and broken. He reached out desperately, fingers grabbing at Mingi’s wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, voice shaking. “I’m really sorry, Mingi… please don’t be mad at me—”

Mingi yanked his arm free and spun around, eyes flashing with anger.

“You’re sorry?” he snapped, voice rising. “That’s all you ever say. ‘I’m sorry.’ You think that fixes everything? Every single time I want something, you shut me down. You push me away. You act like I’m asking for the fucking world when all I want is my wife to act like she actually wants me.”

Yeosang flinched, tears pouring down his face as he tried to sit up.

“I do want you—”

“No, you don’t,” Mingi cut him off, voice getting louder. “You’re selfish. A spoiled, ungrateful little brat who only thinks about how you feel. I give you everything — this house, clothes, attention, a life most people would kill for — and you still act like it’s not enough. Like I’m the problem.”

He took a step closer, towering over the bed.

“You’re nothing without me, Yeosang. You know that, right? You were nothing before I found you, and you’d be nothing if I let you go. Just some lost little boy playing dress-up. And yet you have the nerve to tell me no? To push me away when I need you?”

Yeosang’s sobs grew louder. He reached out again, fingers trembling as he tried to grab Mingi’s hand, his shirt, anything.

“Please… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Mingi jerked back, refusing to let him touch him.

“Save it,” he said coldly. “I’m done listening to you cry tonight. Just shut up and go to sleep.”

He turned sharply and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Yeosang was left alone on the bed, curled up in his damp bikini, crying into the pillow as the sound of Mingi’s footsteps faded down the hallway.

Mingi came downstairs with heavy, frustrated steps. His jaw was tight, shoulders tense, and his expression was dark.

San was still in the living room, standing near the couch. He took one look at Mingi and frowned slightly.

“Everything alright?” San asked carefully, keeping his voice neutral.

Mingi waved a hand dismissively, not even slowing down.

“We’re fine,” he muttered. “Just some bullshit. You should head home for today. I’ll see you later.”

San hesitated for a second, clearly sensing the tension, but he didn’t push. He nodded once.

“Alright. Take it easy, man.”

He grabbed his jacket and left quietly through the front door.

The house fell silent.

Mingi stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, breathing hard through his nose. Then he turned sharply and headed into the kitchen. He started opening cabinets aggressively, pulling out bottles — whiskey, bourbon, vodka, whatever he could find. He set them on the counter with loud clinks.

Not enough.

He went to the small locked cabinet in the back of the pantry — his old secret stash. He hadn’t touched it in months, but tonight he didn’t care. He grabbed a small bag of pills and a vial of something stronger, stuffing them into his pocket.

He carried everything back to the living room, dropped the bottles on the coffee table, and walked over to the vinyl player. He picked a record at random — something loud and angry — and dropped the needle.

The music blasted through the speakers.

Mingi dropped onto the couch, twisted open the first bottle, and took a long, burning swig straight from it. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling as the music thumped around him.

A couple of hours passed.

Downstairs, the music was still playing — loud, distorted, the needle scratching on the vinyl. Mingi had gone through most of the bottles on the table. Empty glasses and spilled liquor stained the wood. He had also taken several pills from his old stash, then a couple more when the first ones didn’t hit hard enough.

Now he was completely fucked up.

Slumped deep into the couch, eyes glassy and half-lidded, head lolling to the side. His movements were slow and uncoordinated. He laughed at nothing, muttering to himself between long drags from a fresh bottle.

Upstairs, Yeosang had been lying in bed, wide awake. He couldn’t stop worrying. The loud music, the occasional crashes and muttered curses drifting up the stairs — it all made his stomach twist. He hated when Mingi drank this much. But what he hated even more was knowing Mingi was probably doing drugs again.

Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Yeosang got up, quickly changed into a simple white nightgown (still short, but less revealing than the bikini), and quietly walked downstairs. His bare feet were silent on the steps.

When he reached the living room, the sight hit him hard.

Mingi was a mess — eyes unfocused, pupils blown wide, shirt half-unbuttoned and wrinkled. There were empty bottles everywhere. A small mirror with white residue sat on the coffee table next to crushed pills.

Yeosang’s heart sank.

“You’re doing drugs again?” he said, voice shaking with anger and worry. “Mingi, you promised you stopped. Why would you do this? You know how much I hate it when you’re like this!”

Mingi slowly lifted his head, blinking sluggishly. A lazy, drugged-out smirk tugged at his lips.

“Relax, baby…” he slurred, words thick and messy. “Just having a little fun. Come sit down.”

Yeosang stepped closer, tears already welling up in his eyes.

“No! You always say that, and then you get mean. Or you disappear. Or you—” His voice broke. “You’re going to hurt yourself. Please stop. I’m scared when you’re like this.”

Mingi laughed — a low, sloppy sound that wasn’t really amused.

“You’re always scared,” he muttered, taking another swig from the bottle. “Always crying, always complaining… Just shut up and come here.”

Yeosang stood there, fists clenched at his sides, tears starting to fall.

“I hate this,” he cried, voice cracking. “I hate when you do this to yourself. Why can’t you just stop?”

Mingi waved a hand lazily in his direction, eyes barely focusing.

“Always so dramatic… Go back to bed if you’re gonna whine.”

Yeosang’s shoulders shook as more tears spilled down his cheeks. He stood there helplessly, watching the man he loved completely out of his mind, knowing nothing he said would get through right now.

Yeosang couldn’t stand seeing him like this any longer.

He moved closer, kneeling on the carpet right in front of Mingi, so close his knees brushed against Mingi’s legs. Tears kept falling down his cheeks as he looked up with wide, desperate eyes.

“Mingi… please,” he begged, voice trembling and soft. “Just come upstairs with me. Let’s go to bed. You need to rest. Please… I don’t want you to stay down here like this.”

Mingi stared down at him with heavy, unfocused eyes. A lazy, irritated smirk pulled at his lips.

“Fuck off,” he slurred, trying to wave Yeosang away with a clumsy hand. “I’m fine right here. Go away, you little shit. Always nagging… always telling me what the fuck to do.”

Yeosang’s lip quivered. He reached out and grabbed Mingi’s arm with both hands, holding on tight.

“Please,” he cried, voice cracking. “I’m scared for you. Come upstairs. I’ll stay right next to you. Just… stop this tonight. Please, Mingi. I love you. Don’t do this to yourself.”

Mingi groaned loudly, head falling back against the couch cushion.

“Jesus fucking Christ… you never shut up, do you?” he muttered, words messy and thick. “Always crying and begging like a damn baby. Get the hell off me.”

Yeosang didn’t let go. He clung tighter, tears streaming faster as he kept pleading.

“Please… come to bed with me. I’ll take care of you. Just stop drinking and… and the pills. Please.”

Mingi tried to shrug him off again, but his movements were slow and weak. He let out another frustrated groan, clearly annoyed but too out of it to do much more.

Yeosang kept begging, voice soft and trembling as fresh tears slipped down his cheeks.

“Please, Mingi… just come upstairs with me. I’ll stay right next to you. I promise. Don’t stay down here like this…”

Mingi grumbled and cursed under his breath for another minute, but eventually he let out a long, defeated groan and pushed himself up from the couch, swaying heavily.

“Fine… fuck, fine. Stop your damn crying already.”

Yeosang quickly stood up and hurried over to the vinyl player. He lifted the needle, cutting off the loud, grating music that had been echoing through the house for hours. The sudden silence felt almost too loud.

He walked back to Mingi and gently took his arm, guiding him toward the stairs.

“Careful…” Yeosang whispered, supporting as much of Mingi’s weight as he could.

Mingi was swaying badly, steps clumsy and uneven, nearly tripping twice on the way up. Yeosang had to wrap both arms around his waist to keep him from falling. By the time they reached the bedroom, both of them were breathing hard.

The moment they stepped inside, Mingi pulled away and threw himself face-first onto the bed with a heavy grunt. He didn’t bother taking off his shoes or shirt — just collapsed like a dead weight.

Yeosang stood beside the bed for a moment, looking down at him with worried eyes.

“Mingi… you should at least wash your face or change,” he said softly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You’ll feel better if you clean up a little.”

Mingi groaned into the pillow and swatted his hand away weakly.

“Leave me the fuck alone… just sleep.”

Yeosang hesitated, then sighed. He climbed onto the bed anyway and gently tugged at Mingi until he could pull him into a better position. Mingi grumbled but didn’t really fight.

Yeosang lay down beside him and wrapped his arms around Mingi’s larger body, pulling him close. He rested his chin gently on top of Mingi’s head, one hand slowly and carefully patting his back in slow, soothing circles.

It felt strange — unusual. Usually it was Mingi holding him, comforting him after a breakdown. Now the roles were flipped, and Yeosang was the one trying to take care of Mingi.

Mingi made a low, tired sound and pressed his face deeper into Yeosang’s chest, one heavy arm draping loosely over his waist.

Yeosang kept gently patting his back, eyes still wet, whispering softly into his hair.

“It’s okay… just sleep now.”

Mingi didn’t reply. He was already drifting off, breathing heavy and uneven against Yeosang’s nightgown.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Morning light filtered softly through the curtains. Yeosang woke up first, still curled against Mingi’s chest, arms loosely wrapped around him. His white nightgown was wrinkled from sleeping in it, and his eyes felt swollen from crying the night before.

Mingi was still asleep, breathing heavy and slow. His face looked rough — dark circles under his eyes, skin pale, hair a mess. The smell of alcohol and stale smoke still clung to him.

Yeosang stayed very still, gently tracing small circles on Mingi’s back with his fingertips, the same way he had done last night. He was scared to move. Scared to wake him up and face whatever mood he’d be in this morning.

A few minutes later, Mingi stirred with a low groan. He shifted, then winced hard as the hangover hit him full force. His hand came up to press against his forehead.

“Fuck…” he rasped, voice hoarse and rough. “My head is killing me.”

Yeosang lifted his head slightly, looking up at him with worried eyes.

“Do you want some water?” he asked softly. “Or aspirin? I can get it for you.”

Mingi didn’t answer right away. He lay there for a moment, eyes closed, breathing through the pounding in his skull. Then he let out a tired sigh and finally looked down at Yeosang.

“You stayed here all night?” he muttered.

Yeosang nodded, still gently rubbing his back.

“I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Mingi stared at him for a long second, expression unreadable. Then he closed his eyes again and pulled Yeosang closer, burying his face in the younger boy’s hair.

“You’re too good to me,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “Even when I’m a piece of shit.”

Yeosang didn’t know what to say to that. He just kept holding him, chin resting on Mingi’s head, hand still gently patting his back.

The room was quiet except for the faint sound of birds outside. Mingi’s body was heavy and warm against his, but the tension from last night still lingered in the air — unspoken, but not forgotten.

Mingi eventually spoke again, voice low and tired.

“I was rough on you last night.”

Yeosang stayed silent for a moment, then whispered:

“It’s okay.”

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The backstage area was hazy with cigarette smoke and the low hum of laughter. Mingi had dropped Yeosang off at the tennis club earlier, promising he’d pick him up later. Now he was leaning against a worn couch, one of the groupies — a pretty brunette in a tight red dress — pressed up against him.

He had her chin tilted up, kissing her deep and lazy, one hand gripping her waist while the other slid down to squeeze her ass. She moaned softly into his mouth, fingers tangled in his shirt.

San was sitting on a nearby armchair, nursing a beer, watching the whole thing with a calm, unreadable expression. His eyes flicked over Mingi and the girl, but he didn’t look away.

Mingi noticed.

He broke the kiss with a wet sound, lips shiny, and smirked lazily at San.

“You lookin’ a little too hard there, San,” he drawled, voice thick with amusement. “You want in? She’s real sweet. I don’t mind sharing tonight.”

San let out a low laugh, shaking his head as he took another sip of his beer.

“Nah, I’m good,” he said, smiling easily. “Not really my thing.”

One of the other band members — a tall guitarist with a cigarette hanging from his lips — snorted loudly from the other side of the room.

“Man, what would your wife think if she saw you right now?” he teased, grinning. “Little Yeosang waiting for you at the tennis club in one of his cute little dresses, and here you are sucking face with some groupie backstage.”

The other guys laughed. The girl in Mingi’s arms just giggled, clearly unbothered.

Mingi chuckled, low and unbothered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“He doesn’t need to know everything,” he said with a lazy shrug. “My pretty wife stays happy as long as I come home to her. That’s all that matters.”

He pulled the brunette back in for another deep kiss, one hand sliding up her thigh, completely shameless.

San watched quietly for a moment longer, then looked away, taking another slow sip of his beer. His expression stayed neutral, but his fingers tapped rhythmically against the bottle.

Mingi finally pulled back from the brunette, lips shiny and breathing a little heavier. She giggled and nuzzled into his neck, but he was already half-distracted, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough. “Haven’t had a proper fuck in weeks. Yeosang’s been acting all strange and distant lately. Every time I try to touch him, he gets all twitchy and shy like he’s scared I’m gonna bite him or something.”

The band members burst out laughing. One of them, the tall guitarist, leaned forward with a shit-eating grin.

“Maybe your pretty little wife is getting it somewhere else,” he teased. “You sure he isn’t seeing somebody behind your back? Kid’s young and cute. Wouldn’t blame him.”

Another guy snickered. “Yeah, maybe that’s why he’s been so distracted. Some secret boyfriend got him all worn out.”

Mingi let out a low, dangerous chuckle, but his eyes darkened. He pushed the groupie off his lap gently and leaned back against the couch, spreading his legs.

“If that boy ever tried some shit like that,” he said, voice dropping into a cold, serious tone, “I’d give him a punishment he wouldn’t forget for the rest of his life. Lock his ass in the house, take away every pretty dress he owns, and remind him exactly who the fuck he belongs to.”

He took a slow sip from his drink, eyes sharp despite the alcohol.

“He knows better. He’s been mine since he was a kid. Ain’t nobody else touching what’s mine.”

The groupies laughed nervously. The band members exchanged glances, some grinning, some looking a little uneasy at the intensity behind Mingi’s words.

San stayed quiet in the corner, slowly turning his beer bottle in his hands. His expression didn’t change, but his jaw tightened just slightly as he stared at the floor.

Mingi leaned back again, pulling the brunette back onto his lap like nothing had happened.

“Anyway,” he said with a lazy smirk, “he’ll come around. Always does.”

Mingi glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Fuck… it’s already that late?” he muttered. He was comfortable, drunk, and in no mood to move. The groupie was still half in his lap, and the music was still thumping.

He looked over at San, who was still sitting quietly with his beer.

“San,” Mingi said, voice casual but firm. “Do me a solid and go pick up Yeosang for me. Bring the boy home.”

San paused, bottle halfway to his lips. He looked at Mingi for a second, then nodded.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, standing up. “I’ll take care of it.”

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the tennis club’s drive-through pickup area. Yeosang stood near the curb in his cute white tennis outfit — the short pleated skirt swaying gently around his thighs every time he shifted his weight. He was fidgeting nervously, fingers twisting together in front of him, swaying lightly on his feet as he waited.

He kept glancing down the road, expecting Mingi’s familiar black Lincoln.

Instead, a sleek white Mustang convertible rolled up smoothly, the chrome gleaming in the sunlight. The top was down, and the driver was unmistakable.

San.

He looked incredibly handsome behind the wheel — dark hair slightly tousled by the wind, a cream-colored cowboy hat tilted low on his head, white shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The car itself was stunning — clean lines, bold white paint, red interior. It looked fast and cool in that effortless 60s way.

Yeosang’s eyes lit up.

A bright, giddy smile broke across his face before he could stop it. His heart did a happy little flip in his chest. After last night — the fighting, the crying, the way Mingi had been so cold and mean — seeing San felt like a warm ray of sunlight cutting through the clouds.

San spotted him immediately and slowed the Mustang to a stop right in front of him. He leaned over the passenger door, pushing his sunglasses up onto the brim of his cowboy hat, and gave Yeosang that warm, charming smile.

“Hey, pretty,” San called, voice easy and friendly. “Mingi got caught up with something at the studio. Asked me to come get you instead. Hop in.”

Yeosang’s cheeks flushed pink with excitement. He walked over quickly, skirt swishing, and carefully climbed into the passenger seat. The leather was warm from the sun. He buckled his seatbelt, still smiling shyly, hands fidgeting in his lap.

“Thank you for coming…” he said softly, glancing up at San through his lashes. “I didn’t know it would be you.”

San chuckled, putting the car back in gear.

“Surprise,” he said with a grin, glancing over at Yeosang. “You look cute today. That outfit suits you.”

Yeosang’s smile widened, even as he ducked his head in embarrassment. The butterflies in his stomach were back in full force.

The white Mustang pulled away from the club, wind gently ruffling Yeosang’s hair as they drove off.

The white Mustang cruised smoothly down the winding road, warm wind rushing through the open windows. Yeosang leaned his head against the passenger door frame, cheek resting on his folded arms as he watched the palm trees and hills blur past. The late afternoon sun felt nice on his skin, and for the first time in a while, he felt… peaceful.

San was right there beside him, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. The cowboy hat was still tilted on his head, and every now and then the wind would tug at it. Yeosang couldn’t help stealing small glances at him.

San noticed the quiet and smiled softly.

“You look like you’re thinking about something nice,” he said gently, voice warm over the sound of the wind and engine. “Or are you just enjoying the ride?”

Yeosang blinked, then gave a tiny, shy nod. He stayed leaning against the window, but turned his head just enough to look at San.

“It’s peaceful,” he murmured. “The wind feels good… and you’re here.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. His cheeks flushed pink immediately and he looked back out the window, embarrassed.

San let out a soft, fond chuckle.

“Yeah?” he said, glancing over with that charming smile. “I’m glad. You seemed a little tired earlier. Everything okay at home?”

Yeosang hesitated, then gave a small shrug, still resting his cheek on his arms.

“It’s… been a long day,” he said quietly. “But this is nice. Thank you for picking me up.”

San nodded, eyes back on the road, but his voice stayed gentle.

“Anytime. You know that, right? If you ever need a ride or just… someone to talk to, I’m around.”

Yeosang’s heart fluttered again. He didn’t say anything, just smiled shyly to himself as the wind played with his hair and the white Mustang carried them home.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The white Mustang pulled up smoothly in the driveway. San killed the engine and turned to Yeosang with that easy, warm smile.

“Here we are,” he said gently.

Yeosang unbuckled slowly, then looked up at San with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Um… San?” he asked softly, almost shy. “Can you… come inside with me? Please?”

San paused for half a second. He saw the way Yeosang was looking at him — nervous, hopeful, a little desperate for company — and felt something soft tug in his chest. He couldn’t say no.

“Yeah,” San replied, smiling. “Of course.”

Yeosang’s entire face lit up with pure happiness. A bright, genuine smile broke across his lips as he quickly climbed out of the car. He waited for San on the walkway, then reached out and gently took his hand, tugging him toward the front door like he was scared San might change his mind.

“Come on,” he said excitedly, almost bouncing on his feet.

San let himself be pulled along, chuckling quietly at how eager Yeosang suddenly was.

They stepped inside the house. Yeosang’s eyes flicked nervously around the living room at first — but everything from last night was gone. The empty bottles, spilled liquor, the mess on the coffee table… all cleaned up. The housekeeper must have come while they were out. The room looked normal again — neat, expensive and quiet.

Yeosang let out a small, relieved breath and smiled up at San, still holding his hand.

“It’s clean…” he whispered happily. “Do you want something to drink? Or… we can sit down?”

San looked around the beautiful house for a moment, then back at Yeosang’s bright, hopeful face. He gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Sure,” San said softly. “I’d love something to drink.”

Yeosang led San into the bright, modern kitchen, still a little shy but clearly happy he had come inside. He gestured to one of the tall stools at the marble counter.

“You can sit here,” he said softly.

San smiled and took a seat, leaning forward and resting his head comfortably on his folded forearms. He watched Yeosang with calm, warm eyes as the younger boy moved around the kitchen.

Yeosang opened the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of fresh lemonade. While pouring two glasses, he started talking — quietly at first, but then more steadily, like the words had been waiting to come out.

“I made this lemonade yesterday morning,” he said, voice soft. “I added strawberries and a little mint from the garden. Mingi says it’s too sweet but I like it that way. Do you like sweet things? I can add more sugar if you want…”

He set one glass in front of San, then kept moving — taking out a plate, arranging some cookies he’d baked a few days ago.

“Sometimes when it’s quiet I like baking,” he continued, voice gaining a little more confidence. “Not big complicated things… just simple cookies or small cakes. Last week I tried making shortbread but I burned the first batch. The second one turned out better though. I can make some for you next time if you want…”

Yeosang kept talking as he worked — about the flowers in the garden, about a book he was reading, about how he liked watching the band rehearse from the side sometimes. His hands were a little fidgety, but his voice stayed gentle and earnest.

San listened quietly, chin resting on his arms, a small, fond smile on his face the entire time. He didn’t interrupt. He just watched Yeosang with soft, attentive eyes, occasionally nodding or humming in agreement.

Yeosang finally set the plate of cookies down and stood on the other side of the counter, cheeks pink as he realized how much he had been talking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking down. “I didn’t mean to talk so much…”

San chuckled warmly, lifting his head a little.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said gently. “I like listening to you talk. Keep going if you want.”

Yeosang’s eyes widened slightly, a shy but happy little smile appearing on his face. He stayed standing there, hands clasped in front of him, heart fluttering as he continued talking softly.

Yeosang was still talking softly about the garden when his eyes caught on something small and white stuck to the brim of San’s cowboy hat.

“Oh… you have a little feather or something on your hat,” he murmured.

Without thinking, he stepped closer and reached up on his tiptoes, gently brushing his fingers along the brim to remove it. He got very close — close enough that San could feel the warmth of his body and smell the faint sweet scent of his shampoo.

San looked up at him.

Their eyes met.

Yeosang froze. His breath hitched. He suddenly realized how intimate the moment was — standing between San’s legs, fingers still hovering near his hat, faces only inches apart. His cheeks flushed deep pink and he started to pull back quickly, embarrassed.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

But San’s hands moved. He caught Yeosang gently by the waist, pulling him back in. He held him there, close, and slowly leaned his head forward until his forehead rested against Yeosang’s chest, right over his racing heart.

Yeosang went completely still, hands trembling in the air before they hesitantly settled on San’s shoulders.

San looked up at him from that position — eyes soft, warm, and sincere.

“You’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen,” he said quietly, voice low and honest. “You know that?”

Yeosang’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard he was sure San could feel it. His face burned hotter than it ever had. He couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe. His fingers curled lightly into San’s shoulders, not pushing him away.

He just stood there, shy and overwhelmed, letting San hold his waist and look up at him like he was something precious and rare.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Somehow, they had ended up in the bedroom.

Yeosang didn’t even remember how they got here — one moment they were talking in the kitchen, the next San was gently guiding him upstairs, and now he was lying on his back on the big bed, heart pounding so hard he felt dizzy.

San was hovering over him, one knee braced on the mattress between Yeosang’s legs, hands planted on either side of his head. He wasn’t putting his full weight on him, but he was close — so close Yeosang could feel the warmth of his body and smell his cologne.

Yeosang’s breathing was shaky. His hands trembled as they rested on San’s shoulders.

“Mingi could come home any second…” he whispered, voice small and nervous. His eyes were wide, cheeks flushed deep pink.

San shook his head slowly, eyes soft but dark with want.

“He won’t,” he said quietly, reassuring. “He told me earlier he’d be at the studio all day. He’s not coming back anytime soon.”

Yeosang bit his lip, still looking anxious. San leaned down a little closer, brushing his nose against Yeosang’s gently.

“Can I take your clothes off?” San asked, voice low and careful. “I want to see you… if that’s okay.”

Yeosang’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened on San’s shoulders. He felt incredibly nervous — heart racing, stomach fluttering, a mix of fear and excitement making his head spin. This was wrong. This was dangerous. But San was looking at him so gently, so patiently, and Yeosang had never felt wanted like this before.

He gave the tiniest, shyest nod, barely visible.

“Okay…” he whispered, voice trembling.

San smiled softly, warm and reassuring.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

His hands moved slowly, carefully, starting to untie the strings of Yeosang’s top.

San carefully helped Yeosang out of the rest of his clothes, piece by piece — the lace top, the skirt, the tiny panties — until Yeosang was completely bare beneath him. He didn’t rush. He didn’t grope or push. He simply looked.

Yeosang lay there, flushed all the way down to his chest, breathing fast and shallow, hands trembling at his sides. He felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

But San wasn’t looking at him like he wanted to devour him.

San’s eyes moved slowly over his body — soft, appreciative, almost reverent. He took in the flush on Yeosang’s cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the delicate curve of his waist, the smooth line of his thighs, the way his fingers curled nervously into the sheets.

“You’re pretty everywhere,” San whispered, voice low and sincere. “Every single part of you… it’s precious. You’re the most perfect boy I’ve ever seen.”

Yeosang’s breath hitched. His eyes shimmered with nervous tears, but he didn’t look away.

San reached out slowly. His hands were warm and gentle as they began to map Yeosang’s body — not grabbing, not squeezing, just touching. He traced the line of Yeosang’s collarbones with his fingertips, brushed down his arms, smoothed over his ribs, caressed the soft skin of his stomach. He ran his palms lightly over Yeosang’s thighs, his knees, even the tops of his feet.

There was no hunger in the touch. Just quiet wonder.

Yeosang shivered under the attention, but not from fear. He liked this. He liked how slow San was being. How careful. How he wasn’t rushing, wasn’t demanding, wasn’t trying to take anything from him. It felt safe. It felt… nice.

“You’re trembling,” San murmured softly, still exploring with feather-light touches. “Are you cold?”

Yeosang shook his head, biting his lip.

“No… just… nervous,” he whispered. “But I like it. You’re being so gentle…”

San smiled, warm and soft, and continued his slow, reverent mapping — fingers brushing over Yeosang’s cheek, down his neck, across his chest, never lingering too long in any one place, never pushing for more.

“You deserve gentle,” San said quietly. “You deserve someone who sees how beautiful you are… all of you.”

Yeosang let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he allowed himself to just feel it — the warmth of San’s hands, the sincerity in his voice, the way he was being touched like he was something worth treasuring.

For the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel like he had to perform or please or shrink himself.

He just felt… seen.

San’s hands continued their slow, reverent exploration — fingertips gliding over Yeosang’s ribs, tracing the delicate dip of his waist, brushing lightly over his hips and the tops of his thighs. There was nothing demanding in the touch. Just quiet admiration, like he was trying to memorize every inch of him.

Yeosang lay there, breathing shakily, eyes half-lidded. He felt exposed, but strangely safe. The gentleness made his chest ache in a way he didn’t fully understand.

After a long moment, San spoke again, voice soft and careful.

“Can I ask you something?” He traced a slow circle on Yeosang’s stomach with his thumb. “Why do you let Mingi be so cruel to you?”

Yeosang’s breath hitched. His eyes opened wider.

San continued gently, not pushing, just asking.

“Why do you let him be so demanding? Why do you let him treat you like your feelings don’t matter as much as his?”

Yeosang’s lips trembled. He turned his head slightly away, staring at the wall instead of San’s face. His hands clenched the sheets.

“I… I don’t…” he whispered, voice small and unsteady. “Mingi isn’t always like that. He can be really sweet too. He buys me pretty things… he calls me his wife… he says he loves me.”

San stayed quiet for a second, still gently stroking Yeosang’s side.

“But he hurts you,” San said softly. “I’ve seen it. The way you flinch sometimes. The way you look so tired.”

Yeosang’s eyes filled with tears. He shook his head quickly, defensive.

“He doesn’t mean to,” he whispered, voice cracking. “He’s just… he has a lot on his mind. The music, the tours, everything. I know he loves me. He’s been with me since I was so young… I can’t just… I can’t say bad things about him.”

A single tear slipped down his cheek.

“I still love him,” Yeosang said, almost desperately. “A lot. Even when it hurts.”

San’s hand paused on Yeosang’s waist. He looked down at him with something soft and sad in his eyes.

“I know you do,” he murmured. “That’s what makes it harder, doesn’t it?”

Yeosang didn’t answer. He just closed his eyes, letting more silent tears fall, while San’s gentle hand continued its slow, comforting path across his skin.

San stayed quiet for a long moment, his hand still gently resting on Yeosang’s waist. Then he slowly leaned down, bringing their faces close together. His voice was low, warm, and sincere.

“I’ll always be here for you,” he whispered. “Whenever you need me. I’ll comfort you. I’ll listen. You don’t have to go through everything alone.”

Yeosang’s breath trembled. Before he could respond, San closed the distance and kissed him.

It was deep. Passionate. Slow and consuming in a way Yeosang had never experienced before. San’s lips moved against his with care, but there was real heat behind it — a quiet longing that made Yeosang’s heart ache. One of San’s hands cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing away a tear as it fell.

Yeosang let out a soft, broken sound against San’s mouth. Tears slipped down his cheeks faster now — not from fear, but from the overwhelming rush of emotions. The kiss felt safe. It felt wanted. It felt like something he had been starving for without realizing it.

When San finally pulled back, he rested his forehead 

against Yeosang’s, breathing softly with him. He wiped away more tears with gentle thumbs, then lay down beside him on the bed, pulling Yeosang into his arms.

“Come here,” San murmured, wrapping him up close. One hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on Yeosang’s back while the other held the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair.

Yeosang buried his face in San’s chest, still crying quietly. His hands clutched at San’s shirt like he was afraid to let go.

San held him tighter, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re safe right now. Just breathe.”

Yeosang stayed curled against him, tears soaking into San’s shirt, heart still racing from the kiss and the overwhelming gentleness he wasn’t used to.

they stayed like that for a while — San holding Yeosang close, gently rubbing his back as the younger boy’s breathing slowly evened out. But Yeosang’s mind was still racing. His heart was still fluttering. The warmth of San’s body, the safety of his arms, the way he had kissed him… it made something inside Yeosang feel brave.

Shyly, hesitantly, Yeosang’s hand slid down San’s chest… then further, until his fingers brushed over the front of San’s pants. He could feel how hard San already was. His breath hitched.

San tensed slightly, then gently caught Yeosang’s wrist, stopping him.

“Yeosang…” he murmured, voice low and careful. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Yeosang looked up at him with wide, nervous but determined eyes. His cheeks were flushed deep pink.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I want to.”

San searched his face for a long moment, then slowly let go of his wrist.

Yeosang moved carefully, shifting until he was straddling San’s hips. His hands trembled as he reached down and unbuckled San’s belt, then unzipped his pants. He pulled both pants and boxers down just enough to free San’s cock.

It was quite large — thick and heavy, already hard and leaking slightly at the tip. Yeosang’s breath caught at the sight. He wrapped both hands around it gently, feeling the warmth and weight of it.

San let out a soft, shaky breath, one hand resting lightly on Yeosang’s thigh.

“Easy, pretty,” he whispered. “You don’t have to rush.”

Yeosang nodded, biting his lip. He started stroking slowly, both hands moving up and down San’s length with shy, careful movements. His eyes stayed fixed on what he was doing, cheeks burning, heart racing wildly in his chest.

San stayed perfectly still beneath him, breathing slow and steady as Yeosang continued stroking him. His cock gradually swelled fully in Yeosang’s hands — thick, heavy, and hot. The tip was already leaking steadily, making the glide smoother. San’s breath hitched quietly, but he didn’t rush him.

Yeosang’s voice came out small and shy.

“Um… can you… get the vaseline from the drawer? Please?”

San nodded without hesitation. He reached over, opened the nightstand drawer, and handed the small jar to Yeosang.

“Here,” he said softly.

Yeosang took it with slightly shaky fingers. He scooped a generous amount onto two fingers, then reached behind himself. He started prepping slowly, carefully pushing one finger inside with a quiet, breathy sound.

“Ah…” he whimpered softly, eyes fluttering.

A second finger followed, and Yeosang let out another small, embarrassed noise — almost a moan, but quieter, more vulnerable. His cheeks were bright red as he worked himself open, biting his lip to try and stay quiet.

San watched him the entire time, eyes dark with want but his expression incredibly soft. A gentle, fond smile curved his lips.

Yeosang hid his burning face against San’s chest for a moment, still fingering himself with quiet, shaky whimpers. He felt exposed and nervous, but San’s gentle tone made it easier to keep going.

Yeosang sat up a little straighter, still flushed and breathing unevenly. He reached down between them with shaky hands, wrapping his fingers around San’s thick, hard cock. He positioned the head against his entrance, biting his lip as he slowly sank down.

His nose scrunched up adorably at the stretch, a tiny whimper slipping out as he took San in inch by inch. It was a lot — San was quite large — but Yeosang kept going, slow and careful, until he was fully seated.

San stayed perfectly still beneath him, hands resting lightly on Yeosang’s thighs, not guiding or controlling him at all. He simply watched with soft, dark eyes.

Then San reached beside him, picked up his cowboy hat, and gently placed it on Yeosang’s head. It was a little too big, tilting cutely on his messy waves.

San smiled, warm and fond.

“There,” he murmured. “Now you look even better.”

Yeosang’s face burned bright red. He let out a shy, breathless giggle, then started moving — slow, experimental rolls of his hips as he rode San. His hands stayed planted on San’s chest for balance, and every now and then a soft, embarrassed little moan escaped him.

San didn’t thrust up. He didn’t grab Yeosang’s hips. He just lay there, letting Yeosang set the pace completely, eyes fixed on him with quiet, reverent admiration. His hands stayed gentle on Yeosang’s thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles.

“You’re doing so good,” San whispered softly. “Take your time, baby. I’ve got you.”

Yeosang grew bolder, his movements becoming faster and more confident. He rolled his hips with more purpose, taking San deeper each time. Soft, cute little “ah-ah-ah” sounds kept spilling from his lips — breathy, high-pitched, and completely involuntary.

San stared up at him, eyes dark and warm, completely transfixed.

Then San let out a low, affectionate laugh, the sound bright and genuine.

Yeosang blinked, cheeks burning even hotter, but he couldn’t help it — he started laughing too. Shy, breathless giggles mixed with his little moans as he kept riding him, the cowboy hat tilting crookedly on his head.

“You’re laughing at me…” Yeosang whined between giggles, hands still squeezing San’s pecs, but his hips didn’t stop moving.

“I’m not laughing at you,” San said, still chuckling softly, his hands resting gently on Yeosang’s thighs. “You’re just… so damn cute like this. The sounds you make, the way you look right now… I can’t help it.”

Yeosang let out another embarrassed giggle, covering his face with both hands for a second before peeking through his fingers, still moving on San’s cock.

“Stop looking at me like that…” he mumbled, voice shy and breathy.

San smiled wider, gently pulling Yeosang’s hands away from his face so he could see him properly.

“Can’t,” he said softly. “You’re too pretty when you’re like this.”

Yeosang’s laughter mixed with another soft “ah—” as he sank down again, face flushed, eyes shiny, still riding San with that mix of shyness and growing confidence.

Yeosang got bolder, his hips moving faster, rolling and bouncing with more confidence. The cowboy hat kept slipping down over his eyes every few thrusts, and he had to keep reaching up with one hand to hold it in place on his head, the other braced on San’s chest.

“Ah— ahh—!” His moans grew louder, breathy and cute, no longer trying to hold them back. His thighs trembled from the effort, but he didn’t stop.

San watched him with dark, adoring eyes, hands resting gently on Yeosang’s hips without controlling the pace. He looked completely enchanted.

Yeosang’s breathing turned ragged. His movements became more desperate, faster, chasing the edge.

“I’m— I’m close—” he whimpered, voice cracking.

San groaned softly, hips twitching up instinctively but still letting Yeosang stay in control.

“Then let go, baby,” San whispered. “I’ve got you.”

With a broken, high-pitched moan, Yeosang came hard — his cock pulsing untouched between them, shooting long, warm streaks across San’s chest and face. One spurt landed right on San’s cheek and lips.

Yeosang’s eyes widened in panic the second he realized.

“Oh no—!” he gasped, mortified. He immediately leaned forward, trying to wipe the mess off San’s face with trembling fingers. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry— I didn’t mean to—!”

San blinked once, then started laughing — a warm, bright, genuine laugh that shook his chest. He caught Yeosang’s wrist gently, stopping his frantic cleaning attempt.

“It’s okay,” San said, still chuckling, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Really. It’s fine.”

He pulled Yeosang down into a soft, lingering kiss, unbothered by the mess between them. Yeosang melted into it, still flushed and embarrassed, but comforted by San’s easy laughter.

San pulled back just enough to smile up at him, thumb brushing Yeosang’s cheek.

“You’re adorable when you panic,” he murmured fondly.

Yeosang hid his burning face in San’s neck, still panting, heart racing from both the orgasm and the sheer embarrassment.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Yeosang lay on his belly across the big bed, propped up on his elbows as he flipped through a fashion magazine. He was wearing a soft orange camisole that clung lightly to his back and pink lace panties that sat high on his hips. His legs were bent at the knees, feet swaying lazily in the air as he read.

The bathroom door opened.

San stepped out, freshly showered, a white towel wrapped low around his hips. Another towel was in his hands as he dried his damp hair. Water droplets still clung to his shoulders and chest. He looked relaxed, strong, and effortlessly handsome.

He paused for a moment, eyes softening as they landed on Yeosang. Then he walked over and lay down beside him on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow so he could watch him properly.

Yeosang felt the shift in the mattress and glanced sideways. His cheeks warmed, but he didn’t hide. He kept his eyes on the magazine, though his fingers fidgeted with the corner of the page.

San stayed quiet for a few seconds, just observing — the way Yeosang’s lashes fluttered when he read something interesting, the gentle curve of his spine under the thin camisole, the soft pink of the panties against his skin.

“You look comfortable,” San said quietly, voice low and warm. “Like you belong right here.”

Yeosang’s breath caught. He turned another page, trying to act normal even though his heart was beating faster.

“I like this magazine,” he murmured. “It has the new summer collections… the colors are really pretty this season.”

San hummed in agreement, still watching him. His free hand moved slowly, resting lightly on Yeosang’s lower back, thumb brushing gentle circles over the fabric of the camisole.

Yeosang’s ears turned pink. He kept reading, but a small, shy smile tugged at his lips.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Yeosang was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs gently swinging as he watched San get dressed.

San had pulled on his black pants and was buttoning up his shirt, the cowboy hat resting on the nightstand beside him. Yeosang looked up at him with big, slightly sad eyes, fingers twisting in the hem of his orange camisole.

“Do you really have to go?” he asked quietly, voice soft and a little pouty. “I’m going to be all lonely here…”

San paused mid-button, then smiled — warm and gentle. He stepped closer and cupped Yeosang’s cheek with one hand, thumb brushing lightly over his skin.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow,” San said softly. “Promise. We’ll find some time.”

Yeosang leaned into the touch, nodding reluctantly, though his eyes stayed a little sad.

San leaned down and kissed him — slow, sweet, and lingering. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against Yeosang’s for a second.

“Sleep well, okay?” he whispered. “I’ll be thinking about you.”

Yeosang nodded again, eyes shiny. He watched as San grabbed his hat, gave him one last soft smile, and quietly left the room.

The door clicked shut.

Yeosang stayed sitting on the edge of the bed for a long moment, fingers tracing his own lips where San had kissed him. The house felt emptier now.

He slowly lay back down, curling up on his side, still wearing the orange camisole and pink panties. His heart felt full and heavy at the same time.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

A couple of days later, Mingi was lounging on the couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine when he casually dropped the news.

“We’re going to Italy in two days,” he said, not even looking up. “The band, a few crew guys, the usual. You’re coming with me.”

Yeosang, who had been arranging flowers in a vase nearby, froze. His eyes widened, and a bright, genuine smile exploded across his face.

“Italy?” he breathed, voice full of excitement. “Really? We’re actually going to Italy?”

He dropped the flowers and rushed over to Mingi, practically vibrating with happiness. Mingi grinned, set the magazine aside, and pulled him into his arms. He spun Yeosang around once, laughing at how delighted he was.

“There’s my happy baby,” Mingi said, voice warm. “Knew you’d like that.”

Yeosang giggled, arms wrapped tightly around Mingi’s neck as he was spun. His heart was racing — Italy sounded like a dream. Beautiful cities, good food, pretty clothes… and San was going to be there too. The thought made him even happier, though he tried not to show it too obviously.

When Mingi set him down, Yeosang was still beaming.

“I’ll pack all the cute clothes!” he said eagerly, already heading toward the bedroom. “The new sundresses, the little cardigans with the bows, the silk scarves… oh, and that yellow one with the flowers!”

Mingi watched him go with a satisfied, almost proud smile.

“Yeah, pack whatever you want, angel,” he called after him. “Just make sure you look pretty for me.”

Yeosang disappeared into the bedroom, already pulling out suitcases and laying dresses across the bed with visible excitement. For the first time in a while, he looked genuinely happy — light and hopeful.

Mingi leaned back on the couch, listening to Yeosang hum softly to himself as he packed.

He was glad his baby was happy.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The private jet landed smoothly at a small airfield just outside Florence. The Italian sun was bright and warm, the air carrying hints of cypress and distant lemon groves. As soon as the cabin door opened, the chaos began.

Paparazzi were already waiting — a swarm of them behind temporary barriers, cameras flashing like strobe lights. Shouts in Italian and English filled the air the moment Mingi and Yeosang appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Song Mingi! Over here!”

“Yeosang! Look this way, sweetheart!”

“Are you two on a romantic getaway?”

Yeosang’s hand tightened around Mingi’s. He was wearing a soft, pale yellow sundress with delicate white lace trim, the skirt fluttering gently in the breeze. A matching ribbon was tied in his hair. He looked delicate and expensive, exactly like the “pretty rockstar wife” the tabloids loved.

Mingi squeezed his hand back and started down the stairs, keeping Yeosang close to his side.

“Smile a little, angel,” Mingi murmured, voice low. “They’re eating this up.”

Yeosang tried. He lifted his head and gave a small, shy smile toward the cameras, but his fingers stayed locked tightly with Mingi’s. The flashes were relentless. He pressed closer to Mingi’s arm, using his broad frame as a shield against the noise and lights.

Mingi, ever the showman, wrapped an arm around Yeosang’s waist and pulled him in, pressing a kiss to the top of his head for the cameras. The paparazzi went wild.

San and the rest of the band followed a few steps behind, also getting photographed but with far less intensity. San’s eyes flicked toward Yeosang for a brief second, but he kept walking.

They finally reached the waiting black cars. Mingi helped Yeosang into the backseat first, then slid in beside him. The door shut, blocking out most of the noise.

Yeosang let out a shaky breath and leaned his head against Mingi’s shoulder.

“That was a lot…” he whispered.

Mingi chuckled and kissed his temple again.

“You did good, baby. They love you. My pretty wife in Italy — they’re gonna go crazy with the pictures.”

Yeosang nodded quietly, still holding Mingi’s hand. Even with all the excitement of being in Italy, a small, secret part of him was happy knowing San was in the car right behind them.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The convoy of cars wound up a private road lined with cypress trees before pulling into the driveway of a stunning hillside villa just outside Florence. The building was classic Italian elegance — terracotta roof, cream stone walls covered in blooming bougainvillea, arched windows, and a wide terrace overlooking rolling vineyards and distant mountains. The late afternoon sun bathed everything in warm gold.

Yeosang stepped out of the car and froze, eyes wide with pure wonder.

“It’s so beautiful…” he breathed, spinning slowly to take it all in. The view was breathtaking — endless green hills, olive groves, and the soft haze of the Tuscan countryside stretching out below. “Mingi… look at this. It’s like a dream.”

He turned to Mingi with sparkling eyes, then threw his arms around his waist and hugged him tightly, pressing a sweet, grateful kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you for bringing me,” Yeosang whispered against his skin, still clinging. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Mingi chuckled, wrapping one arm around him and kissing the top of his head.

“Only the best for my wife,” he said, voice warm with satisfaction. “Come on, let’s get you settled.”

While the band members and crew started unloading luggage and equipment from the cars, laughing and joking with each other, Mingi took Yeosang’s hand and led him inside, bypassing the main group.

The villa’s interior was just as stunning — high ceilings, terracotta floors, antique furniture mixed with modern comfort. Mingi guided him up the wide staircase to the master bedroom on the second floor.

The room was spacious and airy, with large glass doors opening onto a private balcony that overlooked the valley. A king-sized bed with crisp white linens dominated the space, and fresh flowers had been placed on the nightstands.

Mingi closed the door behind them, then pulled Yeosang close again, hands resting on his waist.

“Like it?” he asked, looking down at him.

Yeosang nodded eagerly, still glowing with excitement.

“I love it,” he said, leaning up to kiss Mingi’s cheek again. “It feels like we’re in a movie.”

Mingi smiled, thumb brushing over Yeosang’s bottom lip.

“Good. Because you’re gonna look even prettier in this light for the next few days.”

He leaned down and kissed Yeosang properly — slow n deep — one hand sliding down to rest on his hip.

Mingi’s hands grew bolder, sliding down Yeosang’s waist and then lower, cupping his ass through the thin sundress. He pulled him flush against his body, lips brushing the shell of Yeosang’s ear.

“We haven’t had sex in a while, angel,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Been thinking about bending you over this bed the whole damn flight.”

Yeosang’s breath hitched. He placed both hands on Mingi’s chest and gently pushed him back, creating a small space between them.

“Not right now,” he said softly, almost apologetic. “I’m still tired from the trip… and the others are right downstairs.”

Mingi paused, hands still resting on Yeosang’s hips. A flicker of irritation crossed his face, but he didn’t push harder. He exhaled through his nose and stepped back.

“Yeah,” he said, tone clipped. “Alright.”

He gave Yeosang’s waist one last squeeze before letting go completely. For a second he looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he turned toward the balcony doors.

“I’ll go check on the guys downstairs,” he muttered. “You unpack or rest or whatever.”

Mingi left the room without another word, closing the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.

Yeosang stood there for a long moment, smoothing down his sundress with shaky hands. The beautiful Italian view outside the balcony suddenly felt a little less exciting.

He let out a quiet sigh and walked over to the suitcase, starting to unpack in silence.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The afternoon sun was bright and warm over the villa’s private pool. Mingi stood near the edge, cigarette between his fingers, already dressed in a loose black button-up and sunglasses. The other band members were gathering their things, laughing and talking about heading into Florence for the evening.

“You coming, San?” Mingi asked, exhaling smoke as he looked over at his friend.

San was stretched out on one of the wide sun loungers, shirtless, wearing only swim trunks. He shook his head lazily.

“Nah, I’m too tired today,” he said, waving a hand. “You guys go ahead. I’ll stay here and chill.”

Mingi shrugged, taking another drag.

“Suit yourself.”

A few minutes after the group left, the glass doors to the villa opened.

Yeosang stepped outside wearing a tight sleeveless pink top with a delicate bow tied at the collar, paired with light pink striped micro shorts that barely covered the tops of his thighs. His hair was styled with a small white ribbon, and he looked soft and summery.

He scanned the pool area and his face lit up the moment he saw only San was there.

A bright, happy smile spread across his lips. He skipped over to the sun lounger, the micro shorts riding up slightly with each bouncy step.

“San!” he said, voice full of excitement.

San sat up a little, smiling as he reached out and gently grabbed Yeosang’s hand.

“C’mere,” he said softly, tugging him down onto the lounger.

Yeosang let himself be pulled, giggling as he ended up lying beside San. San immediately wrapped an arm around him and snuggled close, burying his face against Yeosang’s shoulder with a contented sigh.

Yeosang squirmed a little, cheeks flushing.

“It’s hot like this…” he complained softly, though he didn’t pull away. “You’re making me all sweaty.”

San just hummed, nuzzling closer, his breath warm against Yeosang’s neck.

“You’re cute when you’re sweaty though,” he murmured, clearly not planning to move anytime soon.

The sun was scorching, beating down on the pool deck as San’s hands grew bolder. What started as lazy cuddling quickly turned heated. San rolled them over so he was hovering over Yeosang on the wide sun lounger, kissing him deeply, hungrily, tongues sliding together as sweat already began to bead on their skin.

Yeosang moaned softly into the kiss, legs parting instinctively as San settled between them. The heat of the sun made everything feel more intense — their bodies slick, breaths panting, skin burning where they touched.

“We have the whole day,” San murmured against his lips, voice rough with want. “They won’t be back until tomorrow. Tell me you want this.”

Yeosang nodded frantically, eyes glassy. “Yes… please.”

San didn’t waste time. He pulled Yeosang’s tiny micro shorts down just enough, slicked himself up with spit and the sunscreen they had nearby, and pushed inside him right there on the lounger, under the blazing sun.

Yeosang cried out, back arching, fingers digging into San’s shoulders as he was filled. They fucked hard and desperate on the pool deck — sweaty, panting, skin slapping wetly. San’s hips snapped forward with deep, powerful thrusts while Yeosang moaned loudly, legs wrapped tight around his waist.

From the pool deck, they moved inside.

San took him on the living room couch, bending Yeosang over the armrest and fucking him from behind while the boy whimpered and moaned into the cushions. Then against the large glass windows overlooking the vineyard, Yeosang’s cheek and chest pressed to the cool glass as San thrust into him from behind, one hand around his throat, the other stroking him.

They made it to the kitchen — Yeosang sitting on the marble counter, legs spread wide as San fucked him deep and slow, mouths locked together.

By the time they reached the master bedroom, both of them were drenched in sweat, bodies glistening. San laid Yeosang down on the big bed and took him again — slower this time, more intimate, eyes locked as he moved deep inside him.

Yeosang was a mess — flushed, moaning, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping down his cheeks. He came twice before San finally finished deep inside him, groaning his name against his neck.

They collapsed together, panting, bodies sticky and spent under the sun streaming through the windows.

San kissed Yeosang’s forehead, then his lips, holding him close.

“You okay?” he whispered.

Yeosang nodded weakly, curling into San’s chest with a small, exhausted but happy sound.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The rest of the trip in Italy became one of the most memorable times in Yeosang’s life — even if it was complicated.

During the days, the group explored together. They visited Florence, wandered through markets, took boat rides on the Arno River, and ate too much pasta and gelato. Yeosang laughed a lot with the band members. They teased him gently, took silly photos, and made him feel included. He especially loved the group dinners on the villa terrace at night, when everyone was relaxed and the wine flowed.

Sometimes it was just him and Mingi.

Mingi took him on private dates — dinners in hidden restaurants, walks through olive groves at sunset, a private tour of a winery. Paparazzi always found them eventually, flashing cameras and shouting questions, but Mingi seemed to enjoy it. He’d pull Yeosang close for photos, kiss his temple, call him “my pretty wife” loud enough for everyone to hear. Yeosang smiled for the cameras like he was supposed to, even when his stomach felt tight.

Swimming with Mingi was… harder. Mingi loved dragging him into the pool, but he could be mean about it. He knew Yeosang could barely swim, yet he’d still let go of him suddenly, laughing when Yeosang panicked and flailed. “You’re fine, stop being dramatic,” he’d say, but his tone had that sharp edge. Yeosang would force a smile and cling tighter, heart racing every time.

And then there were the days when Mingi left.

Sometimes he went out with the band — late nights in Florence, bars, “business meetings.” Sometimes San went with him. Those nights Yeosang stayed at the villa alone, curled up in bed, trying not to think too hard.

But sometimes… San stayed behind.

Those were the days Yeosang looked forward to the most.

When Mingi and the others left, the villa became their secret world. They swam together (San was patient and gentle, never letting Yeosang struggle), cooked simple meals in the kitchen, watched the sunset from the terrace, and spent long hours in bed. San was never rough. He was slow, attentive, and sweet — kissing every inch of Yeosang like he had all the time in the world. Yeosang felt safe with him. Wanted and seen.

He still loved Mingi — deeply, desperately, in that complicated way he always had.

But with San, he felt something lighter. Something that made his heart flutter like it was fourteen again, but safer.

As the trip went on, Yeosang grew quieter around Mingi and brighter around San. He smiled more when San was near. He laughed easier. He even started looking forward to the moments when Mingi would leave, and San would stay. 

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The bedroom was filled with the faint haze of cigarette smoke. Mingi sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back against the headboard with one leg bent, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He watched quietly as Yeosang got ready for their date.

Yeosang stood in front of the full-length mirror, carefully adjusting his outfit. He had chosen a soft cream-colored sleeveless dress with a fitted bodice 

and a gently flared skirt that fell just above his knees. 

Delicate lace trimmed the neckline and hem. A thin black belt cinched his waist, and he’d added a matching black bow in his hair, tied neatly at the back. He slipped on a pair of elegant white sunglasses with delicate gold frames, then turned slightly to check how the dress moved.

Mingi took a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes following every movement.

“You look good,” he said, voice low. “Real classy.”

Yeosang turned toward him with a small, pleased smile, smoothing the skirt down with both hands.

“Do you like it?” he asked softly, doing a little spin so the skirt flared gently. “I thought it would be nice for tonight.”

Mingi exhaled smoke and gave a lazy nod, his gaze lingering on Yeosang’s waist and legs.

“Yeah. You look like my pretty wife should.” He tapped ash into the tray beside the bed. “Come here for a second.”

Yeosang walked over obediently. Mingi reached out and adjusted the bow in his hair, then let his hand slide down to rest on Yeosang’s hip.

“You’re gonna make everyone stare tonight,” Mingi murmured. “Especially with those legs showing like that.”

Yeosang blushed but smiled shyly, leaning into the touch for a moment.

“I wanted to look nice for you,” he whispered.

Mingi took one last drag before stubbing out the cigarette. He stood up, towering over Yeosang, and pulled him close by the waist.

“You always look nice for me,” he said, pressing a slow kiss to Yeosang’s temple. “Let’s go. I want to show you off.”

Yeosang nodded happily, slipping his hand into Mingi’s as they headed out of the bedroom together.

Mingi and Yeosang walked hand-in-hand through the living room on their way out. The band members were scattered across the couches, relaxing with drinks and cigarettes after a long day.

One of them — the tall guitarist — looked up and let out a low whistle.

“Shit, Yeosang,” he grinned, eyes dragging over him. “You look real good tonight. That dress is doing you favors.”

Another band member laughed and leaned forward. “Yeah, damn. You clean up nice. Going on a fancy date with the boss?”

Yeosang’s cheeks flushed instantly. He pressed closer to Mingi’s side, fingers tightening around his arm, but he managed a small, shy smile.

Mingi chuckled, clearly satisfied, and pulled Yeosang tighter against him.

“Eyes off,” he said lazily, though there was a proud edge in his voice. “He’s mine tonight.”

The guys laughed, teasing lightly.

San was sitting on the far end of the couch, quiet. His eyes flicked over to Yeosang — taking in the cute dress, the bow in his hair, the way the fabric hugged his waist and thighs — before he looked away again. He stayed silent, slowly turning his glass in his hands.

Mingi didn’t seem to notice. He just smirked and guided Yeosang toward the front door.

“C’mon, angel. Let’s get out of here before they try to steal you.”

Yeosang gave one last shy glance back at the living room — his eyes meeting San’s for a brief second — before he followed Mingi outside, heart still fluttering from the attention.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The paparazzi had swarmed them the moment they stepped out of the car in front of the upscale restaurant. Flashes exploded from every direction, voices shouting questions in Italian and English. Mingi had handled it with his usual charm — laughing, waving, cracking a few jokes about “taking his pretty wife out for a proper Italian meal” while keeping a possessive arm around Yeosang’s waist. Yeosang had smiled shyly for the cameras, clinging to Mingi’s side until they were finally ushered inside.

Now they were seated at a private table on the terrace, overlooking the sparkling lights of Florence. The restaurant was elegant and expensive, with candlelight flickering between them and soft music playing in the background.

Mingi was eating with enthusiasm, cutting into his steak and taking generous bites. Yeosang, however, had barely touched his plate. He kept pushing the pasta around with his fork, occasionally lifting a small bite to his lips before lowering it again. His eyes were distant, lost in thought.

Mingi looked up after a few minutes and noticed.

“Eat,” he said, voice firm but not yet angry. “You’ve barely had anything.”

Yeosang blinked, then gave a small shrug.

“I’m not that hungry,” he murmured, poking at a piece of pasta again.

Mingi’s fork paused. He set it down and leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

“I paid quite a lot for this food, angel,” he said, tone sharpening. “You’re going to sit here and waste it? Eat.”

Yeosang flinched a little at the edge in Mingi’s voice. He quickly picked up his fork and took a small bite, chewing slowly under Mingi’s watchful gaze. The food was delicious, but it felt heavy in his stomach.

Mingi watched him for a few more seconds before picking up his own fork again.

“Good boy,” he muttered, going back to eating. “Don’t make me tell you twice next time.”

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The narrow cobblestone streets of Florence glowed under the warm amber streetlights. Mingi kept his arm around Yeosang’s waist as they walked, the soft click of Yeosang’s heels echoing between the old buildings. For a moment it felt peaceful — just the two of them, the distant sound of laughter from a nearby café, the faint scent of olive oil and fresh basil in the air.

But the peace never lasted.

A small cluster of paparazzi appeared at the end of the street, cameras already flashing. More joined quickly, like moths to light. 

“Song Mingi! Over here!”

“Yeosang, one smile please!”

“Are you enjoying your romantic trip?”

Yeosang’s shoulders tensed immediately. He pressed closer to Mingi’s side, trying to hide his face against his arm as the flashes grew brighter and more relentless. His hand clutched the front of Mingi’s shirt tighter.

Mingi, as usual, played into it. He slowed his steps, turning slightly toward the cameras with that confident, lazy grin.

“Easy, boys,” he called out. “We’re just taking a quiet walk. Let my wife breathe a little.”

But the paparazzi kept pushing closer, lenses clicking nonstop. Yeosang’s head stayed down, lips pressed into a thin line. He was getting tired of this — the constant attention, the flashing lights in his face, the feeling of being watched and photographed like he was on display every single time they stepped outside.

“I don’t want them here…” he whispered against Mingi’s side, voice barely audible. “Can we please go somewhere else?”

Mingi glanced down at him, then back at the photographers. He gave them one last wave and a smirk before steering Yeosang down a narrower side alley, trying to lose them.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered. “Let’s lose these vultures.”

Even as they turned the corner, a couple of determined paparazzi followed, cameras still flashing in the distance, calling out questions.

The narrow alley wasn’t enough to shake them.

The paparazzi kept following, cameras flashing, voices growing louder and more insistent. Yeosang kept his head down, clinging tighter to Mingi’s arm as they walked faster.

“Come on, just one good shot of the wife!”

“Yeosang, smile for us!”

One of the photographers — a tall, aggressive man with a heavy camera — pushed forward too close, almost bumping into Yeosang. He shoved the lens right in their faces, shouting:

“Song! Is it true your wife is too young to even drink with you? Does she even know what she’s doing on your arm?”

Mingi stopped walking.

His entire body tensed. The easy charm vanished in an instant. He turned sharply toward the man, eyes dark with anger.

“The fuck did you just say?” Mingi growled, voice low and dangerous, that Southern accent cutting through the night air like a blade.

The photographer didn’t back off. He kept snapping pictures, grinning like he’d struck gold.

Yeosang flinched, pressing his face harder into Mingi’s side, heart racing.

Mingi took a threatening step forward, towering over the man.

“You think you can talk about my wife like that?” he snapped, voice rising. “Get that fucking camera out of our faces before I smash it and shove it down your throat.”

The other paparazzi went quiet for a second, sensing the shift. Mingi’s arm stayed tight around Yeosang,as he glared at the aggressive photographer.

“Back the fuck off,” Mingi warned, voice cold. “All of you. Now.”

The man finally took a step back, but not before getting one last shot. Mingi looked ready to lunge. Yeosang tugged gently at his arm, whispering nervously.

“Mingi… let’s just go. Please.”

Mingi exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenched, but he let Yeosang pull him away. They walked faster down the alley, the paparazzi still trailing at a safer distance, though the flashes continued.

Mingi’s hand stayed firm on Yeosang’s waist the whole time, his body radiating anger.

“Fucking idiots,” he muttered under his breath. “They don’t know when to quit.”

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The next morning, the living room was filled with the rustle of newspapers and low conversation. Mingi sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring down at the front page of the Italian tabloid with a dark scowl.

The headline was bold and impossible to miss. A large photo took up most of the space: Mingi glaring furiously at the aggressive photographer from last night, jaw clenched, eyes sharp with anger. Yeosang was half-hidden beside him, looking small and startled. The caption underneath read something about “Rockstar Mingi Song Loses Temper in Florence Streets.”

One of the band members let out a low whistle as he read over Mingi’s shoulder.

“Damn. They got you good, man. You look ready to kill someone.”

Mingi didn’t laugh. He crumpled the edge of the newspaper in his fist, jaw tight.

“These fucking parasites,” he growled. “Can’t even walk down the street without them twisting everything. Now the whole country gets to see me looking like some raging asshole.”

Another band member chuckled. “To be fair, you did look like you were about to deck the guy.”

Mingi shot him a sharp look. The room went quiet for a second.

He tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table with disgust, leaning back against the couch and running a hand through his hair.

“I’m so fucking tired of this shit,” he muttered. “Every time we go out, it’s the same damn thing. And now my face is plastered everywhere looking pissed off because some idiot stuck a camera in my wife’s face.”

He exhaled heavily, clearly still fuming. The rest of the band exchanged glances but stayed smart enough not to push it further.

Mingi stared at the ceiling for a moment, jaw still clenched.

“Fucking ridiculous.”

Yeosang walked into the living room still half-asleep, rubbing his eyes. He was wearing a soft blue babydoll top with matching micro shorts that barely covered the tops of his thighs. His hair was messy, cheeks still flushed from sleep.

The tension in the room hit him immediately.

Mingi was sitting on the couch, jaw clenched, The other band members were scattered around, unusually quiet. San sat in the corner armchair, silent, eyes flicking up when Yeosang entered.

Yeosang hesitated, then walked closer to Mingi.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, voice still sleepy. “You look really mad…”

Mingi didn’t look up at first. He just exhaled sharply through his nose and crumpled the edge of the newspaper in his fist.

“You don’t have to know,” he said, tone flat and irritated. “Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about.”

Yeosang shifted on his feet, fingers playing with the hem of his babydoll top.

“But I want to know,” he insisted gently. “Is it about last night? The photographers? Please tell me.”

Mingi’s head snapped up. His eyes were sharp with anger now.

“I said stay out of it,” he snapped. “Go back to our room.”

Yeosang didn’t move. He stood there stubbornly, eyes wide and a little hurt, but determined.

“I just want to understand—”

“I said go,” Mingi cut him off, voice rising. He slammed the newspaper down on the table. “Now. Don’t make me say it again.”

Yeosang flinched. His shoulders dropped, but he still lingered for one stubborn second, lips trembling.

Mingi’s patience snapped completely.

“Goddammit, Yeosang,” he growled, standing up. “When I tell you to do something, you fucking do it. Go back to the room. I don’t want to deal with you right now.”

Yeosang’s eyes filled with tears. He stood there for another moment, then turned and walked away without another word, heading back upstairs with his head down.

The living room fell silent again.

Mingi sat back down heavily, rubbing his face with both hands, still visibly pissed.

The whole day was ruined.

Mingi was pissed — properly, seething pissed. He paced around the villa like a caged animal, cigarette after cigarette burning between his fingers. The newspaper with his angry face was still lying on the coffee table, and every time he looked at it his jaw clenched tighter.

The band members were scattered around the living room and terrace, all trying to figure out how to kill the story. Some were making calls on the house phone, others were discussing who they knew at the newspaper office, who owed them favors, who could be bribed or threatened. Voices overlapped in low, urgent conversation.

Mingi took another angry drag, smoke curling around his face.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he muttered. “One goddamn photographer and now the whole country thinks I’m some rage-filled maniac.”

One of the guys nodded. “We should go down there in person. Talk to the editor. Make him pull the story before it spreads more.”

Mingi exhaled sharply, stubbing out his cigarette with more force than necessary.

“Yeah. Let’s do that. Right now.”

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. Most of the band members followed, grabbing their things. San stayed seated on the couch, quiet.

“You coming?” Mingi asked, glancing back.

San shook his head. “I’ll stay here. Not really my scene.”

Mingi didn’t argue. He just nodded once and walked out.

Yeosang wasn’t invited either. He stayed upstairs in the bedroom, curled up on the window seat, watching the cars drive away from behind the glass.

San waited until he thought the cars had fully disappeared down the driveway before heading upstairs. He found Yeosang in the bedroom, sitting on the window seat in his soft blue babydoll top and micro shorts, knees drawn up to his chest.

Yeosang looked up the moment San entered, eyes wide and worried.

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly. “Mingi looked really angry… everyone left so fast.”

San closed the door behind him and walked over. He sat on the edge of the window seat, close enough that their knees touched.

“It’s about last night,” San said gently. “One of the photographers got a picture of Mingi yelling at him. It made the papers this morning. He’s pissed about how it looks.”

Yeosang’s face fell. He looked down at his hands.

“Oh…”

San reached out and gently tilted Yeosang’s chin up so he could see his eyes.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t worry about that right now. They’re all gone for the day. It’s just us.”

Yeosang’s expression softened. A small, shy smile appeared on his lips. Without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed San — sweet at first, then deeper when San kissed him back.

They ended up standing in front of the large window, bodies pressed close. San’s hands roamed slowly over Yeosang’s body — sliding down his waist, cupping his ass through the tiny shorts, then moving back up to caress his back. The kiss grew heated, tongues meeting, soft sounds escaping Yeosang’s throat.

Meanwhile, down in the driveway, Mingi cursed under his breath.

“Fuck, I forgot the keys.”

He told the others to wait and jogged back inside. He grabbed the keys from the living room table and was heading back out when something through the upstairs window caught his eye.

Two people. Kissing.

Yeosang — unmistakable in that blue top — pressed against San, arms around his neck. San’s hands were on Yeosang’s waist, pulling him closer as they made out right in front of the window.

Mingi stopped dead in his tracks.

His blood ran hot with rage. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. For a second, he looked ready to storm back inside and drag them apart.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, fists tight at his sides, staring up at the window as San’s hands moved over his wife’s body. Then, with a sharp, furious breath, he turned around and walked back to the car.

He would deal with this when he got back.

Right now, he had a newspaper office to visit.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The newspaper office was tense and smoky. The editor, a middle-aged man with a nervous sweat on his brow, sat behind his cluttered desk while two of Mingi’s band members leaned over it, voices raised.

“You print that shit and we’ll make sure every outlet in this country knows what kind of trash you run here!” one of them shouted.

The editor tried to defend himself, gesturing wildly at the proofs on his desk, but the band members kept pressing, threatening lawsuits, boycotts, and worse.

Mingi sat silently in the corner chair, legs spread, one elbow on the armrest, chin resting on his fist. He hadn’t said a single word since they arrived. His face was stone-cold, jaw locked tight, eyes dark and distant.

He wasn’t listening to the argument.

All he could see was the image burned into his mind: Yeosang pressed against the window, arms around San’s neck, kissing him like he meant it. San’s hands on his wife’s waist. The way Yeosang had melted into it.

He knew something had been off with Yeosang lately — the shy glances, the way he got flustered around San, the quiet distance. But seeing it with his own eyes… that was confirmation.

His fingers tightened around the armrest until his knuckles went white.

One of the band members glanced back at him.

“Mingi, you wanna say something to this prick?”

Mingi didn’t even look up. His voice came out low, cold, and dangerous when he finally spoke.

“Print another word about me looking like a fool and I’ll burn this fucking building down myself.”

The room went dead silent for a second.

The editor swallowed hard.

Mingi stayed seated, eyes unfocused, replaying the scene in his head over and over again. The kiss. The way Yeosang had clung to San. The way his pretty little wife had looked so happy in someone else’s arms.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The issue with the newspaper had been “handled” — a few threats, some cash slipped under the table, and a promise from the editor to pull the story from future prints. To celebrate, the band ended up at a dimly lit bar on the outskirts of Florence that one of the members knew the owner of. It was the kind of place that didn’t ask questions and kept the back room open for people like them.

The back room was hazy with cigarette smoke and the smell of spilled liquor. Empty bottles and glasses cluttered the table. A couple of the guys were already doing lines off the mirrored tray, laughing too loud. Music played low from an old record player in the corner.

Mingi sat at the end of the table, nursing a glass of whiskey, jaw tight. He hadn’t said much since they arrived. His expression was dark, eyes distant, the anger from earlier still simmering under his skin.

One of the band members leaned over, grinning as he passed him the tray.

“C’mon, Mings. Loosen up. We fixed it, didn’t we? Have a line and stop looking like someone kicked your dog.”

Mingi didn’t smile. He just took a slow sip of his drink and shook his head.

“Not in the mood,” he muttered.

Another guy laughed, already a little gone.

“You’ve been in a shit mood all day. What, your pretty little wife not giving you any before we left? Or did she finally get tired of your face?”

The table erupted in laughter. Someone else chimed in:

“Yeah, maybe she’s the one who needs a break from you. That face you made in the paper — she probably saw it and ran.”

Mingi’s grip tightened on his glass, but he forced a smirk, playing it off.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said, voice low but with a hint of his usual cocky drawl. “She’s fine. Just tired from the trip. You assholes wouldn’t know a good woman if she sat on your face.”

The guys laughed again, teasing him more, but Mingi stayed mostly quiet, staring into his drink. He didn’t tell them what he’d seen through the window.

He downed the rest of his whiskey in one go and reached for the bottle again.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The cars pulled up to the villa late into the night. Mingi was completely wasted — eyes glassy, movements sloppy, a dangerous mix of alcohol and the drugs he’d taken earlier weighing him down. Thankfully, one of the band members had stayed relatively sober and drove most of the way back.

As they stumbled into the house, a couple of the guys headed straight for the living room, already laughing and reaching for more bottles.

“Fuck yeah, let’s keep it going,” one of them said, collapsing onto the couch.

Mingi stopped in the foyer, swaying slightly, voice low and irritated.

“Go to your rooms,” he said. “Party’s over for tonight.”

One of the guys grinned, clearly still buzzed.

“Aww, come on, Mings. You’re really gonna ditch us to go fuck your pretty little wife?”

Mingi’s eyes flashed with anger. He glared at them, jaw tight.

“Shut the hell up,” he snapped, voice sharp and cold. “All of you. Go to your rooms. Now.”

The band members exchanged glances, then burst into laughter, but they didn’t push it further. They grabbed a couple bottles anyway and headed toward the guest rooms, still chuckling.

“Night, boss. Don’t break the kid.”

Mingi didn’t reply. He waited until their footsteps faded upstairs, then turned toward the staircase. His movements were unsteady, but his expression was dark and focused.

He walked up the stairs slowly, one hand gripping the railing, the image of Yeosang and San still burning in his mind. 

Mingi pushed the bedroom door open. The room was dark except for the faint moonlight coming through the windows. Yeosang was fast asleep on the bed, curled up on his side in the soft blue babydoll top and micro shorts, breathing slow and peaceful.

Mingi stood there for a moment, staring at him. The anger from earlier had only festered during the night out. He walked over to the nightstand, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The flame briefly illuminated his face — hard, cold, and still pissed.

He took a long drag, then unbuckled his belt and pulled it off with a sharp snap of leather.

“Yeosang,” he called loudly, voice rough and commanding. “Wake up.”

Yeosang stirred, letting out a small, confused sound. He blinked slowly, groggy and disoriented, rubbing his eyes as he sat up a little.

“Mingi…?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it…? Why did you wake me up so late?”

Mingi took another drag from his cigarette, staring down at him with dark eyes. The belt hung loosely from his hand.

Yeosang blinked slowly, still half-asleep, trying to make sense of the situation. Mingi looked… off. His eyes were dark and unfocused, his posture tense, shoulders rigid. The cigarette smoke curled around him like a warning.

Then Yeosang’s gaze dropped.

Mingi was holding his belt — the thick leather one he’d been wearing earlier — doubled over in his fist.

Confusion clouded Yeosang’s face. He sat up further, rubbing his eyes.

“Mingi…?” he whispered, voice small and uncertain. “What’s wrong? Why do you have—”

He started to get up, swinging his legs off the bed, wanting to go closer, to understand, to fix whatever had made Mingi look like that.

That was when Mingi moved.

The belt cut through the air with a sharp crack — lashing across Yeosang’s thigh and hip in one vicious swing.

Yeosang cried out in shock and pain, a high, startled sound as he flinched back, hands flying up instinctively to protect himself. The sting was immediate and burning.

“Mingi—!” he gasped, eyes wide with fear and confusion. “Why—?”

Mingi didn’t say a word.

He stepped forward, grabbed Yeosang by the shoulder, and shoved him down onto the bed hard. Yeosang landed on his front with a startled cry, legs dangling off the edge of the mattress, the short babydoll top riding up his back.

Before he could push himself up, the belt came down.

CRACK.

The leather struck across the back of his thighs, sharp and burning. Yeosang screamed, body jerking violently.

“Mingi—!” he sobbed, trying to crawl forward, hands scrambling at the sheets. “Stop— please stop—!”

CRACK. Another hit, higher this time, across his ass. 

Yeosang cried out again, legs kicking helplessly as he tried to get away, tears pouring down his face.

“Please— I’m sorry— I don’t know what I did—!” he begged, voice breaking as he reached back with one hand, trying to shield himself. “Mingi, please—!”

Mingi didn’t stop. He brought the belt down again and again, the sound of leather meeting skin echoing through the room, mixed with Yeosang’s broken sobs and cries. Each strike left angry red welts across the back of his thighs and ass.

Yeosang kept trying to crawl away, fingers clawing at the sheets, but Mingi’s free hand pressed down on his lower back, pinning him in place.

“You think you can fuck around behind my back?”

 Mingi growled, voice low and furious as the belt came down again. “You think I wouldn’t find out?”

Yeosang could only sob, body shaking with every hit, tears soaking the pillow beneath his face.

Mingi brought the belt down again with a sharp crack across Yeosang’s ass, making him cry out and sob harder.

Yeosang’s voice broke through his tears, desperate and confused.

“Mingi— what are you talking about?!” he cried, legs kicking weakly as he tried to crawl away. “I didn’t— I don’t know what you mean— please stop—!”

Mingi paused, breathing hard, the belt still raised. His voice was low, cold, and filled with barely-contained rage.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he snarled. “I saw you. Through the window. You and San. Kissing him like a little whore. Letting him touch you. You’ve been fucking my friend behind my back, haven’t you?”

Yeosang froze, eyes wide with shock and terror.

“I— I didn’t—” he stammered, voice shaking. “Mingi, please— it wasn’t like that— I swear—”

Another vicious lash of the belt cut him off, making him scream into the pillow.

Mingi’s voice was venomous.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me. I saw everything.”

He brought the belt down again, harder.

Mingi brought the belt down again, harder this time, the leather cracking loudly across the back of Yeosang’s thighs. Yeosang screamed into the pillow, body jerking violently with each strike.

“This is why you’ve been refusing me, isn’t it?” Mingi snarled, whipping him again. “This is why you’ve been so cold and distant every time I try to fuck you. You’ve been giving it to San behind my back. I fucking knew it. I knew you were cheating on me, you little slut.”

Yeosang was ugly crying now — heaving, gasping sobs that shook his whole body. Snot ran down his nose, mixing with tears as he choked on his own cries, fingers clawing desperately at the sheets.

Mingi leaned over him, grabbing Yeosang’s face with one large hand, fingers digging painfully into his cheeks as he forced his head up.

“Stop fucking crying,” Mingi hissed, voice low and venomous. “Crying won’t fix shit. You did this to 

yourself.”

Yeosang’s face was red and wet, eyes swollen. 

Through his sobs, he managed to choke out:

“You… you cheat too… all the time… with those women…”

Mingi’s expression twisted with rage.

He suddenly flipped Yeosang over roughly onto his back. Before Yeosang could react, Mingi’s hand came down hard across his face in a sharp slap. Yeosang’s head snapped to the side with a cry.

Mingi grabbed his face again, fingers squeezing his jaw painfully as he leaned in close, eyes burning with fury.

“Don’t you dare throw that in my face,” he growled. “I’m not the one spreading my legs for my best friend.”

Mingi raised his hand again, palm open, ready to slap Yeosang across the face once more.

But then he actually looked.

Yeosang was breathing fast and shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly like he couldn’t get enough air. His eyes were wide open, filled with raw terror, shining with fresh tears. His whole body was shaking, fragile and small, lips trembling as he stared up at Mingi like he was looking at something monstrous.

“Mingi… please…” Yeosang begged, voice cracking and barely above a whisper. “You’re scaring me… I’m scared… please stop… I’m so scared of you right now…”

Mingi froze.

The rage in his eyes flickered, then dimmed. He stared at Yeosang for a long second — really seeing the fear, the way he looked so delicate and broken, like he might shatter if Mingi touched him again.

He slowly lowered his hand.

Without a word, Mingi lay down on the bed beside him and gathered Yeosang up into his arms. He pulled the trembling boy against his chest, wrapping both strong arms around him tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head.

Yeosang immediately curled into him, still shaking violently, face buried in Mingi’s shirt as fresh sobs broke out.

“I’m sorry…” he cried, voice muffled and broken. “I’m so sorry… I’m scared… please don’t hurt me anymore… I’m scared…”

Mingi held him closer, one hand slowly rubbing up and down his back. He didn’t say anything for a long time — just held him while Yeosang cried and trembled in his arms.

Mingi kept rocking him gently, back and forth, like he was soothing a frightened baby. One arm was wrapped securely around Yeosang’s trembling body, the other hand slowly stroking his back in long, calming motions.

“It’s okay,” Mingi murmured, voice low and steady against the top of Yeosang’s head. “You don’t have to be scared anymore. It’s all over now. I’ve got you.”

Yeosang stayed curled against his chest, wet face pressed into Mingi’s shirt, tears and snot soaking through the fabric. His small sobs gradually quieted into shaky, exhausted breaths, but he didn’t move away. He just clung tighter, fingers twisted weakly in the front of Mingi’s shirt.

Mingi continued rocking him slowly, pressing occasional soft kisses to his messy hair.

After a long silence, Mingi spoke again, voice calm but firm.

“You won’t be seeing San anymore,” he said quietly. “It’s better that way. Just you and me from now on.”

Yeosang didn’t react.

He didn’t protest, he didn’t argue, he didn’t even lift his head.

He was too exhausted, drained from the crying, the pain, the fear. His body stayed limp and heavy in Mingi’s arms, eyes half-closed, breathing still shaky but slowing. The only response was a tiny, broken sniffle against Mingi’s chest.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The next morning, sunlight filtered softly through the curtains. Yeosang woke up slowly, wrapped tightly in Mingi’s arms. Mingi was fast asleep, holding him close against his chest, one heavy arm draped over Yeosang’s waist like he was afraid he might disappear. His breathing was deep and even, face relaxed in sleep.

Yeosang lay there for a moment, feeling the warmth of Mingi’s body, the steady heartbeat under his cheek. Last night still lingered — the pain, the fear, the tears. But Mingi was holding him now, like he used to when things were softer.

Still, his mind kept drifting to San.

Quietly, carefully, Yeosang slipped out of Mingi’s arms. He tiptoed to the closet, pulled on a simple white sundress with thin straps, and padded downstairs barefoot.

The living room was messy — empty bottles, ashtrays full of cigarette butts, a few of the band members sprawled on the couches, still sleeping off the night before. One of them was awake, nursing a coffee and flipping through a magazine.

Yeosang stood in the doorway, fidgeting with the hem of his dress.

“Um… excuse me,” he asked quietly. “Do you know where San is?”

The band member looked up, then gave a casual shrug.

“San? He left early this morning. Packed his stuff and took the first flight back to America. Said something about family stuff or whatever. He’s gone, kid.”

Yeosang stood there, frozen.

Gone.

The word hit him harder than he expected. His chest tightened. He felt a sudden, sharp ache behind his eyes.

“Oh…” he whispered, voice barely audible. “He… he left?”

The guy nodded, already going back to his magazine.

“Yeah. Didn’t say much. Just said he was done here.”

Yeosang stayed standing in the doorway for a long moment, fingers twisting in the fabric of his dress. The house suddenly felt much emptier.

Yeosang left the living room quietly, the news about San weighing heavy on his chest. He walked back upstairs slowly, bare feet silent on the steps, the white sundress swaying gently around his thighs.

When he reached the bedroom, Mingi was awake.

He was lying on his back in the middle of the bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The moment he heard Yeosang enter, he turned his head and looked at him. Without a word, Mingi opened his arms.

Yeosang didn’t hesitate. He climbed onto the bed and crawled straight into Mingi’s embrace, curling up against his chest like he belonged there. Mingi’s strong arms wrapped around him immediately, holding him tight, one hand gently stroking up and down his back.

They didn’t say anything.

Mingi pressed a slow, lingering kiss to Yeosang’s forehead, then rested his cheek against the top of his head. Yeosang snuggled deeper into his chest, face hidden in the crook of Mingi’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent.

The room was quiet except for their soft breathing.

Mingi held him closer, arms secure and warm.

Yeosang closed his eyes, letting himself be held.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

They returned to America the very next day.

The private jet landed in Los Angeles under a clear blue sky, and life slipped back into its familiar rhythm almost immediately.

Yeosang never saw San again.

He cried about it — quietly, when Mingi was away performing or out with the band. He’d curl up in the big bed or in the garden, tears falling silently as he remembered San’s gentle hands, his warm smile, the way he made him feel safe and wanted. Those moments hurt the most, but he never spoke San’s name out loud again. And neither did Mingi.

The rest of the world moved on too. San’s sudden departure was brushed off as “personal reasons.” No one in the inner circle mentioned him. It was like he had never been there at all.

Everything returned to normal.

Mingi threw himself back into work — long rehearsals, late-night studio sessions, sold-out shows where the crowd screamed his name. He still took Yeosang out for public appearances when it suited him: red carpets, glamorous dinners, strolls where paparazzi swarmed them. Mingi would pull Yeosang close, kiss his temple for the cameras, and call him “my pretty wife” with that lazy  smile. Yeosang played the role perfectly — smiling softly, clinging to Mingi’s arm, looking delicate and devoted in his pretty dresses and ribbons.

At home, they were… fine.

Mingi was still Mingi — rough around the edges, demanding, sometimes cruel when he was drunk or frustrated. But there were also softer nights: him pulling Yeosang into his lap while watching old movies, buying him new dresses just because, holding him close after shows.

One night, a few weeks after they returned, Mingi came home from a show wired and desperate.

He found Yeosang in the bedroom, fresh from a bath, wearing a soft pink silk slip. Mingi didn’t say much. He just pulled him close, kissing him hard and needy, hands roaming like he was afraid Yeosang might disappear.

They finally had sex that night.

Mingi was desperate — almost frantic — thrusting deep and fast, whispering rough praises against Yeosang’s neck, hands gripping him like he needed to remind himself that Yeosang was still his. Yeosang clung to him, moaning softly, letting Mingi take what he wanted.

When it was over, Mingi held him tight, breathing hard against his hair, refusing to let go for a long time.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

One year later.

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the Hollywood Hills mansion. Mingi stood by the front door, dressed in his usual black silk shirt and leather pants, guitar case slung over his shoulder. He was running late for rehearsal, but he took his time anyway.

Yeosang stood in front of him in a soft cream-colored sundress with delicate straps, the hem brushing just above his knees. A small white bow was tied neatly in his hair. He looked up at Mingi with a gentle, practiced smile — the same one he always wore when sending him off.

Mingi cupped Yeosang’s face with both hands and leaned down, giving him a deep, lingering kiss. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against Yeosang’s for a moment.

“Be good for me today, angel,” he murmured, thumb brushing Yeosang’s bottom lip. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up if you’re tired.”

Yeosang nodded, still smiling softly.

“I will. Have a good rehearsal.”

Mingi gave him one last kiss on the forehead, then turned and walked out the door. Yeosang watched until the car disappeared down the driveway, then closed the door with a quiet click.

The house felt big and empty again.

He wandered into the kitchen, still a little sleepy, and opened the fridge to find something light to eat. As he reached for a bowl of cut fruit, the telephone in the living room started ringing.

Yeosang paused, fingers hovering over the bowl. It was probably one of Mingi’s associates or managers — they usually called during the day. He considered ignoring it, but the ringing continued, persistent. He sighed softly and walked over to the living room, picking up the receiver.

“Hello?” he said quietly.

There was a short pause on the other end.

Then a familiar voice — slightly distorted by the old telephone line, but unmistakable.

“Mingi? It’s been a while. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Yeosang’s heart stopped for a second.

He stood frozen, fingers tightening around the receiver. That voice… he had heard it in his dreams for months.

“San…?” he whispered, barely audible.

There was a brief silence.

Then San’s voice came through again, warm but casual — the tone of someone catching up with an old acquaintance, not someone who had once held him like he was the only thing that mattered.

“Yeosang? Hey… it’s been a long time. How’ve you been?”

Yeosang’s throat felt tight. He leaned against the wall, free hand gripping the edge of the side table.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “What about you? I miss you—”

San cut him off gently, still sounding friendly but distant.

“I’m doing great, actually. I wanted to let Mingi know first, but since you picked up… I’m getting married. Her name’s Elena. We met last year in New York. She’s amazing, smart, funny, really grounded. We’re planning the wedding for next spring.”

Yeosang’s breath caught. The words hit him like a punch to the chest. His eyes stung.

He opened his mouth to speak — to say that he had missed him, that he still thought about him, that some nights he still—

But San continued, light and easy, like they were just old friends catching up:

“Anyway, I figured I should tell Mingi myself. Can you let him know I called? Tell him to give me a ring when he has time. It’d be good to catch up.”

Yeosang stood there, completely still, the receiver pressed tightly to his ear. His vision blurred with unshed tears.

He managed a small, broken sound.

“…Congratulations,” he whispered.

“Thanks,” San said, still sounding perfectly polite. “Take care of yourself, Yeosang.”

The line went dead.

Yeosang stayed frozen for a long moment, staring at the receiver in his hand. Then he slowly placed it back on the cradle.

He sank slowly to the floor, back sliding down the wall until he was curled up on the cool marble, knees drawn tightly to his chest. The white sundress pooled around him like spilled cream.

The tears came fast and hard.

He pressed his face into his knees, shoulders shaking with silent sobs at first — then louder, raw, heaving cries that echoed through the empty house. His whole body trembled. Everything hurt. The kind of deep, aching hurt that lived in his chest and made it hard to breathe.

San was getting married.

San had moved on.

San had spoken to him like they were barely acquaintances — polite, distant, kind in the way you are to someone you used to know a long time ago. Not like someone who had once kissed him like he mattered. Not like someone who had held him gently when he was falling apart.

It hurt so much.

Yeosang cried harder, fingers digging into his own arms as he rocked slightly on the floor. The pretty bow in his hair had come loose. His shoulders heaved with every sob. The pain felt fresh, like the wound had never really healed — it had just been waiting under the surface for this exact moment.

He missed San.

He missed the way San looked at him like he was precious.

He missed feeling safe.

Yeosang stayed on the floor for a long time, crying until his throat hurt and his eyes burned, the bright sunlight streaming through the windows and illuminating the quiet, expensive house that suddenly felt too big and too empty.