Chapter Text
The desolate, desperate gaze of one tragically impoverished damsel with an over-priced latte addiction (you) looks back through your phone camera as you sadly but sexily apply lipstick. You pucker then sniffle, lowering your phone to the table. Your coffee shop membership app blinks up at you with its own aura of misery, imploring, begging, downright beseeching: Mommyyy, add money to meee! Don’t you want a sugar cookie latte?
I do baby, you think, I do want a sugar cookie latte. Unfortunately, six sugar cookie lattes in four days means a bleak thirty cents is all that remains in the app. And seeing as you don’t get paid for another two days, the evil homewrecker app (the banking app) has an even bleaker negative total.
“Don’t you want a coffee?”
It takes a second to realize that’s a real human voice, not your depressed broke subconscious. You look up as Changbin approaches the table, looking so good it gives your pussy a heartbeat in the middle of this too-expensive coffee shop on this cold January Wednesday. He’s wearing a brown jumpsuit that was designed to torture you, your hot best friend standing there in all his thick-thighed, thicker-armed glory. And he’s wearing those big glasses you told him you hate (you don’t) because Changbin’s single greatest joy in life is driving everyone (especially you) completely fucking crazy.
He struts up to the table with his coffee, dropping into the seat across from you with an unnecessarily heavy thud.
“Aren’t you obsessed with this place?” he asks absently, most of his attention in the same place as yours: his biceps. He tucks the hem of his short sleeve so it’s rolled a little neater over a particularly prominent muscle, accidentally on purpose flexing while he does it. His black hair stays neatly in place when he flicks his head back to recline in his seat. He folds his hands behind his head, putting his muscles out there like a harlot. Ugh. You want to bite him so bad.
“I’m trying to cut back on coffee,” you lie.
“What!”
Changbin is always so loud. You shush him because the table next to yours looks over like someone got shot.
“You?!” Changbin shouts. “Cut out coffee?!” He throws his head back and laughs.
“Be quiet!” You bunch up a napkin and hurl it at him.
He catches it smoothly because of course he does. Changbin is sporty. Changbin is hot. Changbin is a successful entrepreneur sitting atop a personal fitness empire. Changbin is richer than god. Changbin is – ew, okay, not perfect, because he’s kind of insane, but still.
You know Changbin would never actually judge your financial situation, but admitting to your Forbes 30 Under 30 BFF that you can’t afford a six dollar coffee is, well, it’s embarrassing. And if you do tell him, that goofy oaf will get all serious and nice. He will genuinely look out for you and it will get you flustered and then you will orgasm in your pants and there will be a weird energy when the rest of your friend group gets here.
So, no. Better to pout and throw things at him.
Minho and Hyunjin arrive next, Chan and Jisung on their tails. They all buy themselves a treat because, oh yeah, all your friends are ridiculously successful professionals and only you work a crap job. So you watch, a truly despondent tragic heroine, as they each buy an utterly decadent, delicious, scrumptious, mouth-watering hot drink of choice. Cold noses flush with warmth, snowy gloves litter the table, one too many biceps catch your eye, and Hyunjin moans into his mug like he’s getting paid for the sound bite.
“Where’s your coffee?” Chan asks. “Did you finish it already?”
“Oh noo, she’s cutting back,” Changbin says with a cheeky eyebrow wiggle.
Jisung is approaching just behind Chan and overhears. You sit there, stone-faced, as Jisung spurts his drink out of his nose.
“You?” he asks, then makes a show out of setting a timer on his stupid expensive smart watch. “Setting timer for three minutes,” Jisung announces like a game show host. “Will she or will she not give in before the time’s up? Contestants, place your bets now.”
“She will,” everyone says in unison.
“I can’t help but feel like this is a targeted misogynistic attack,” you say.
“I can’t be a misogynist,” Jisung says. “I’ve been pegged.”
“I don’t think that means you can’t be a misogynist,” Chan says apprehensively.
“No.” Minho squints into the distance, looking contemplative. “He has a point.”
“Thank you,” Jisung says. Then, “Two and a half minutes. Mmmm… coffee…”
You are then forced to endure an impromptu espresso-related erotica as they all start moaning into their cups like they’re drinking heavenly ambrosia. The people at the next table finally just leave the café, shooting your friends some very judgemental and very deserved glares.
It is to this pornographic and unseemly display that Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin appear. To say they approach the table with trepidation would be an understatement. Even bundled in layers of hats, scarves, and winter coats, their eyes betray their fear.
“The coffee can’t be that good?” Felix says. He sniffs the closest mug and crinkles his nose with distaste.
“No, no, it really is,” Jisung says. “And someone is missing out on just how hot and sweet and delicious it is because they’ve decided to cut back on coffee.”
All fingers point in your direction and Felix, sweet Felix, tries really hard not to laugh. He catches his snort in his gloves.
Seungmin just rolls eyes. He walks over to the counter, muttering, “I can’t believe any of you have degrees.”
Jeongin is the only one who looks at you with concern, his face all scrunched up like someone told him you have a terminal disease. He takes the seat beside you. His sweet brown eyes, usually so playful, are morose.
“Are you sick?” he asks. His gaze darts around the table, ensuring everyone else is engaged in conversation when he whispers, just loud enough for you to hear, “Are you pregnant?”
Changbin immediately shouts, “Hey! Hey! Hey!”
Jeongin throws his hands up in defensive surrender. “I’m just checking!” he says.
“Why can’t she drink coffee if she’s pregnant?” Hyunjin asks. “It’s not alcoholic.”
“I think it’s not good for the baby, though, yeah?” Chan says.
“What?” Hyunjin asks, scandalized. “My mom drank coffee all the time with me?”
“That explains so much,” Jisung laughs.
“There’s no baby!” Changbin snaps. Then he looks at you, an eyebrow lifting above the rim of his glasses. Your pussy heartbeat resumes its lust-driven cardiac arrest, Changbin giving you a once-over in the same breath a creampie has been implied. “Is there?”
“Nooo!” Now your wailing is sincere. You bury your face in your hands, burning up. “Oh my god,” you squeak into the protective cradle of your own fingers. “You guys are the worst. I need girl friends.”
“You know we’d help you out, right?” Chan says.
“Wait, who’s the father?” Felix asks.
“There’s no father!” Changbin snaps.
“There’s no fucking father?!” Minho shouts. He snatches a butter knife out of the cutlery rack and slams it onto the table. “I’ll kill him for abandoning you. What’s his address?”
“Thirty seconds remaining,” Jisung says. “Aren’t you at least tempted to go up there to get away from us?”
“I’m tempted to go to the seventh circle of hell to get away from here,” you say.
At that moment, Saint Seungmin descends in a ray of heavenly light. He puts a steaming mug of sugar cookie latte in front of you.
“She doesn’t get paid till Friday, you idiots.”
A chorus of ohhhh and ooooh go around the table, everyone now a little chagrined. You are torn between utter embarrassment at Seungmin outing your predicament and wanting to worship him as your new god because he bought you a coffee.
“Heh, thanks,” you say instead, wrapping both hands around the mug. It warms you to the depths of your destitute soul so you feel a little less embarrassed as you take a sip.
The timer goes off and Jisung silences it, cringing. A couple others shoot him a glare.
There’s a moment of awkward silence as you sip your coffee, aware everyone is thinking about their glorious, rich, professional lives and how much of a flower-shop working bum you are in comparison. That or they feel embarrassed too.
Hyunjin breaks the silence with a laugh. He slaps a hand over his mouth too late to stop it.
“Something to share with the class?” Minho asks.
“It’s just funny,” Hyunjin says. “Why did we think she was pregnant instead?”
“You thought she was pregnant?” Seungmin says. He shakes his head solemnly, as if he isn’t about to ruin your life with a single well-timed roast. “So immaculate conception was more plausible to you guys. Wow.”
You throw your hands up in dramatic surrender as Seungmin delivers a killing blow and everyone erupts with laughter.
“I’m going to the ladies room,” you say. “The only place I’m safe.”
“If you were safe in the first place, you wouldn’t be pregnant now,” Minho says, earning himself a slap up the head as you pass.
“Don’t get pregnant on the way back!” Jisung shouts behind you.
“Don’t tell me what to do!”
You can hear their banter and laughter from inside the restroom. You take your time, fixing where your lipstick smudged from sipping coffee. You contemplate how quickly you could rub one out then decide you’re not quite desperate enough to degrade yourself in a public restroom.
You step into the corridor only to jump out of your skin, startled because Changbin is waiting right outside the door. He ditched the glasses so you get the full force of his very intense stare, his jaw clenched as he looks at you with obvious disappointment. You try to hold his gaze but your eyes keep dropping to his arms. In your defence, they are flexed because he has them crossed.
He clears his throat for an unnecessary duration of time, drawing your eyes back up to his.
“Yes?” you ask.
“I could have bought you a coffee,” he says. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
“Because…” Because you wanted to avoid this moment exactly. Changbin, standing there, his attention intense and intimate. All the goofiness is gone from his expression, replaced with something that somehow flickers between affection and annoyance. You twiddle your thumbs, peering guiltily at him from under your eyelashes. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I was just embarrassed.”
“Around me?” Changbin looks genuinely offended. “Why? Did I ever say something—”
“No, no, never!” You flap your hands. “It’s not you, it’s—”
“Woman, if you say it’s not you it’s me, I’m putting you over my knee.” He makes a slapping motion and it should be funny, ha ha? But you’re wet. Oops. But he offers no further details on his promise to spank you, too busy tutting and shaking his head. “So why was Seungmin allowed to buy you coffee?”
“I mean, he just did it.”
“He just did it.”
“Yeah, you were sitting right there? It happened like five minutes ago—”
“He just did it.” Changbin clicks his tongue. He puts his hands on his hips and sighs very loudly, ending it with a high-pitched squeak. Then he casually holds out his hand like he didn’t just make the weirdest noise known to man. “Give me your phone. Now.”
“My phone? Why?”
“Phone.” He makes a come-hither motion with two fingers that ruins your underwear. “In my hand. Now.”
You’re still too dazed by the finger wiggle to understand the demand. Impatient with your stunned uselessness, Changbin steps into your personal space. You very nearly swoon, desperate hands latching onto the biceps you’ve been staring at all afternoon. Your eyes must be wide but at least you don’t audibly moan when you feel the shape of his arms in your hands. You do squeeze the muscle, though, a present for miss kitty who has been through so much today.
Your chest presses against his, the lengths of your bodies slotting together as he tugs you against him. You have no idea what’s happening, but your mouth flops open when he slides a hand into your back pocket. He digs out your phone and laughs in your face.
“Aha!” he declares, victorious.
He lets go so abruptly you almost fall on the floor. You retain the barest semblance of dignity and remain upright if not out of breath.
Changbin’s brow is furrowed, his face tight with concentration. He taps furiously at your phone and jerks away when you swipe at it.
“Changbiiiin, what are you doing?” You dance around him to no avail. He just keeps turning and turning, dodging every attempt to grab your phone back. Eventually he just puts one hand on your forehead, holding you while you swing your arms at him.
“You should change your pin,” he says. “That only took two guesses.”
“What are you even doing?”
“Sit down.”
“Changbin!”
“Down. Now.”
You do, sticking out your bottom lip. You sit on the carpet while he takes out his wallet. You watch him retrieve a black credit card, the swift flick-flick-flick of every motion making your mouth water. His eyes are darting between the screen and his credit card and, what do you know, your legs are open.
“Changbin…” you say, a little softer.
Changbin looks at you and his gaze lingers thoughtfully. After a moment, he returns your phone.
You look down, aware he is watching for your reaction and oh... Your coffee shop membership app is jumping for joy. Not only has a hearty chunk of change been added, but a new credit card number is blinking beside the RELOAD button.
Oh baby, you think, daddy took care of you, didn’t he?
Daddy – uh, Changbin steps up to you, holding out his hand. You look up at him, not sure what to say, both because it’s an incredibly generous gesture and also you are so turned on that it’s making you twitch. Why is this turning you on? He just put his credit card in a coffee app to one-up Seungmin. That’s not hot. It is hot. It’s not hot. It is, though. Thank your daddy.
You shift onto your knees and wrap your arms around his legs. You’re trying to be silly (probably) but it obviously catches him off guard because he freezes.
“Thank you, Changbin,” you say, tipping your head back to look at him.
Changbin has the look of a man who has lost the complete fucking plot. He clearly has no idea where he is, what happened, or how he ended up here, even though he’s the one who caused everything. He clears his throat, scratching his chin as he looks around awkwardly. A prominent flush of pink is creeping up under his collar.
“You’re welcome,” he finally says, then yanks you to your feet. There is a snarky rejoinder on his lips that vanishes once your face is near his, your wide eyes blinking at him with a remarkable degree of innocence for someone mentally chanting fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. He is staring right at your mouth, his own mouth opening and closing without saying anything. It is probably the first time in the whole history of Seo Changbin’s existence that he’s fully at a loss for words.
“Okay,” he says. He tears his gaze away, shaking his head. When he has resumed control of his mental faculties, he points a scolding finger in your face. “You better use that. If I don’t see your dumb coffees on my bank statement—”
“You’re gonna put me over your knee?” you ask.
He lets out a puff of air.
“Yes. Fine.” He gestures ahead of himself, avoiding eye contact. “Go back to the table please.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I have to… go. Toilet. Phone call. Something like that.”
“Okay.” You shuffle ahead, your whole face burning hot and a squeal in the back of your throat.
You hurry to your spot. Changbin reappears a few minutes later, looking much more flushed, his jumpsuit now buttoned incorrectly. You drink your coffee when he sits down across from you, then you drink some more, and some more. Chug, chug, chugging so you don’t have to meet his eye. You reach the bottom of your mug and gasp as you come up for air. You take your time placing the mug on the table. You finally look up.
Changbin is already looking at you. He’s slouched in his seat, turning the glasses over in his fingers. His legs are apart in an obnoxious man-spread as he stares at you.
“Um,” you say. “I’ll be right back. I want some more coffee.”
You scurry away.
You promise yourself that you will not reload using his card. Changbin already added a considerable amount of money so it should last a while. In the meantime, you can save some pocket change for future reloads. You figure he will forget about the whole thing anyway.
What you fail to consider is a deranged materialist spendthrift who is bad at managing money (you) is the person in charge of your finances. Sooner than later, you find yourself three days out from payday with no coffee money.
I shouldn’t, you think, loitering outside the coffee shop like a sad puppy. You should.
You look down at your phone. One tiny little click and you will have money for coffee again. Multiple coffees, in fact.
I’ll pay him back, you swear to yourself, because that worked so well last time. You click the button and watch as money magically appears on your membership card. Head to toe, your body tingles with awareness of what you’ve just done. You wait in line for your coffee, convinced someone is going to call you out for being a thieving thief who thieves, but no one knows you’re using your hot but insane best friend’s credit card to fuel your sugar cookie latte addiction.
You wonder if Changbin will even notice. He has money to burn so surely there’s a chance he will just pay the bill without looking?
You do not take into consideration that he has its activity tracked. Not until you get a text message from him, just two not-so-innocent sips into your latte.
What the fuck, Changbin writes. Did you seriously use up all that money already???
I knoooooooooooow, you reply. I’m sorry!!
Don’t be sorry, he says. You’re just a sick freak and I realized I’m enabling your addiction.
Noooooooooo!! I’m sorry!! I just had a bad day and I don’t get paid till Friday and I really needed a pick me up, don’t be mad!!!!
I’m not mad, he says. Did you really have a bad day?
You slurp some more sugary coffee. You are sitting in the corner of the coffee shop, wrapped up in your scarf, which is a good thing because you’re pretty sure your horniness is written all over your face. It feels indecent to have this conversation in public.
I really did, you say, adding a teary-eyed emoji for good measure.
You almost whimper when he writes back, Poor baby.
I’ll pay you back when I get paid, I promise, promise.
He answers with record-breaking speed, No you’re not. Enjoy your coffee.
Changbiiiiiiiiiin.
I said enjoy your coffee. Now I’m going back to work. Buy a snack or something too.
You suspect the snack request is more of a dismissal than an actual suggestion, but the sexy siren call of red velvet cake is difficult to ignore. Fuck it, you’ve had a bad day. Your boss blamed you for a record-breaking shrink total (because the asshole tries to sell half-rotten bouquets whereas you refuse to bow to the evil capitalist powers of botany related con-artistry) and you spilled three buckets of water on yourself.
You settle down happily with your slice of cake and even take a few pictures to send Changbin. You caption them with a smile and a heart. You are not sure why you feel nervous after sending it. He probably won’t even answer. Who cares about a slice of cake? Not like you care one way or another—
You almost gag yourself on your fork, jumping when your phone buzzes with a reply. You quickly check messages, cold toes curling in your damp boots when you read a heat-inducing message from your impromptu coffee shop sugar daddy.
That’s my girl, Changbin says. Good?
If you moan into your cake, that’s no one’s business.
So good, you say. Then you type out: thank you, daddy. As a joke, ya know? Because he’s paying the dessert bill and you’re just sitting there looking pretty. Looking pretty while your hot, confident, competent best friend pays for your treats for no reason other than to make you happy. Of course you can be normal about that? You’re just calling him daddy as a bro.
You decide against it because it’s difficult to convey tone in text message. And if you call Changbin daddy even as a joke, you will not be able to meet his eye for as long you both live. Changing your identity and moving countries would be a pretty big hassle, especially with your budgeting skills.
You take a selfie instead, smiling with your eyes closed to emphasize your complete and utter sugar-induced bliss. You giggle at the picture, pleased with how cute you look, and innocently send it off.
Then you realize you didn’t delete the text box. Your adorable love-struck selfie is captioned, thank you, daddy!
You squeal so loudly that a barista comes over to see if you need medical attention. You apologize and wave him off, probably scarring the man for life with how frantic you are.
You pick up your pocket-sized torture device and stare at your text.
Hm. Minho is probably the best bet for sneaking you out of the country… He’ll ask the least amount of questions, for sure. You aren’t sure how you’ll pack up your apartment, though. It’s small but the maximalist lifestyle does not suit a life on the road…
Changbin answers. You stare at the notification, bracing yourself for a fatality at best or – actually, that’s it. You just expect to die.
You open the text message, heart stopping, pussy in overdrive.
Ohh. It’s a picture.
Not a selfie. He made someone take a picture of him. Loser. He’s so hot. Who did he ask? Probably Chan or Jisung, co-owners of his fitness business. They’re probably with him right now. The picture looks fairly candid but you know better. Your peacock friends love to sit around taking ‘casual’ and ‘random’ perfectly posed pictures of each other. But you find yourself reluctant to complain when modern art is sent to your inbox.
Changbin is lounging in a board room chair, his head turned like he’s engaged in some oh-so important business. The cut of his suit jacket is a little tight across the shoulders and biceps, undoubtedly because he’s flexing every muscle in his body for the shot. His dress shirt is a little too unbuttoned for a board meeting, and a chunky gold Rolex is prominently displayed on his wrist. It should look stupid. It is. But you want that whole stupid hand inside you. Right up to the wrist, stopped by that dumb watch, getting it all wet because he can always buy another ten-thousand-dollar watch but your pussy is priceless.
The caption just says, Haha, funny. Hope daddy made your day better.
“I hate you,” you say, mouth full of red velvet cake. You save the photo so you can masturbate to it later.
You are so distracted with the Mona Lisa of Changbin photos, never mind the sheer epic poetry of his caption, that you are late to discover the chaos unfolding in the Tartarus-adjacent hellscape of perpetual anarchy (the group chat).
It started with Jisung. He posted the same photo with the caption, Changbin asked me to take this. He said it’s for a WOMAN.
His mom? Seungmin asks.
Not even she would want this, Minho replies.
I told you not to tell anyone, you POS brat, Changbin says.
Jisung replies, I’m not? I’m just telling our friends. They don’t count as people.
Thanks, Hyunjin says.
So, Jisung says. What do we all think? Who’s Changbin’s mystery woman? Gym babe? Cafeteria lady?
Jeongin enters with a string of sobbing emojis and says, There’s a girl here! Don’t call women babes!!!
I’m allowed to say it, Jisung replies. I’ve been pegged. I’m an honorary babe.
You’re really not, Seungmin replies.
No, he has a point, Minho adds.
Guys, we are literally in a meeting right now, Chan says.
Awww! Felix can only be Felix about it. You look nice!
Thank you, Lixie, Changbin replies.
Still in a meeting, Chan says. You can hear his exasperation through the screen. Don’t the rest of you have jobs?
This prompts Seungmin to post a photo of himself at the university where he works. He is posed almost identically to Changbin except instead of a watch, it’s just a piece of paper with ROLEX written on it.
HA HA!!! Jeongin replies.
Don’t you dare, Changbin says.
Jeongin’s own version of the photo appears too, him sitting at his home desk with a piece of licorice wrapped around his wrist. Hyunjin adds one of himself in his dance studio, a sweatband as his makeshift watch. Minho follows swiftly, posing by the bar counter in his restaurant with a spaghetti noodle around his wrist. The killing blow is Felix in his bake shop kitchen, wearing a piece of dough.
Not Yongbok! Changbin says.
Sorry! Felix replies.
Where’s babe number two? Jisung asks. She needs to weigh in on this.
You could join in on the joke… but no, no. It would be so dishonest that lightning would strike and kill you on the spot. You doubt you could even convincingly roast him, too far gone in lust to come across as anything but a dick-hungry maniac. So you play it safe and simply say, It’s not the worst picture of him.
Kick her out of the chat, Jisung says.
Two seconds later, you can see Chan has removed Jisung from the group chat.
Finally, Seungmin says. Chan deletes him too.
Anyone else? Chan asks.
Everyone else is wise enough to remain silent. It is an irrevocable and humbling reminder to all the daddies of the world that there is always a bigger, stricter, daddier daddy out there, and he is always Bang Chan.
You respect the hierarchy even if you rebelliously return to your daddy of choice, smiling at the photo while sipping your latte.
You are avoiding Changbin. Firstly, because you called him daddy. Secondly, because he called himself daddy. Thirdly, you rubbed it out to that photo a record breaking seven times in a row. Lastly, you have reloaded your coffee shop app three times now and it gets your pussy wetter and wetter every single time you do.
There is just one problem: it is very difficult to avoid a friend when you are in his apartment.
Everyone is gathered for game night in Changbin’s penthouse. The friend group is big enough (and the ludicrous apartment is definitely big enough) to avoid one-on-one time for a good couple hours. You do spend the majority of that time staring at him, but you cannot be blamed for your ogling. Because Changbin is wearing jeans. After staring at him in a suit all week, the casual ensemble is killing you. Tight navy t-shirt, washed-out blue jeans, a simple gold chain and small golden hoops, smoky-eyed and evil and bulky…
You hate him.
You eventually sneak off to use the bathroom. This seems to be Changbin’s favourite place to ambush you because he’s waiting in the hallway again.
He wastes no time getting in your personal space. You back yourself against the wall, him following until his hands are planted on either side of your head. He stares into your eyes, an unimpressed eyebrow lifted.
“Why are you avoiding me?” he asks.
“I’m not,” you squeak.
“You are.” He stands straight, taking his hands with him. You watch as he pulls something out of his back pocket. “I’ve been trying to give you this all night. Idiot.”
“You’re the idiot,” you say. You hold out your hands anyway.
He mimics you in a mocking tone but still hands you the present. It’s a little white box. You shake it by your ear and he grabs it back, frowning at you.
“Yah! Dummy!” he shouts. “You’re gonna break it!”
“Give it back! It’s mine!”
You tussle a bit. You eventually squirm away with the box, Changbin grabbing you around the waist before you get too far. You open it like that, standing in the middle of the hallway with your back pressed to his front and his arms around your middle. The lid hits the floor and your eyes widen at the beautiful bracelet sitting on a plush velvet cushion.
“What’s this?” you ask, voice light, amazed.
His chin lands on your shoulder. He giggles by your ear.
“You likey?” he asks, smiling, playful.
You nod, too amazed to say much more. It’s a breathtakingly beautiful charm bracelet, gold and studded with crystals. You have only ever bought costume jewelry, cheap things from drug stores that turn your wrist green after too many hours. This, though… This is utterly stunning. You stare at it like its an alien novelty.
“Put it on!” he says. “What are you waiting for? Fine. Here.”
He lets go so he can stand in front of you. You look into his face while he studiously focusses on his task, clasping the bracelet around your wrist. The satisfying little click makes your much abused nethers perk with interest. Especially because his jaw clenches when that bracelet clicks. A shiver tickles the base of your spine when he strokes his thumb across the charms, smiling faintly. He looks up at you and your breath catches.
“Do you like it?” he asks, more serious than before.
You nod, still beyond words. Your body thinks before your brain and suddenly your arms are around his neck.
“It’s so nice. I don’t know what to say,” is what you manage to whisper.
His hands come around your hips, holding you steady. You hide your face in his neck, taking this opportunity to sniff his cologne and squeeze a bicep.
“What’s it for?” you ask.
He’s being uncharacteristically quiet, his hands stroking your waist.
“For?” he asks. “Uh. You. Obviously.”
“That’s it?”
“What, I can’t buy you presents now? Too bad for you. I want to.” He squeezes you tight, making you laugh when he lifts you off the ground with a dramatic groan. You hold on tight, letting him spin you around. When you are back on your feet, he takes your wrist to look at the bracelet again. He bites his lip then smiles big, winking. “Are you gonna wear it again?”
“Do you want me to wear it again?”
His eyes dart side-to-side, like he’s expecting an attack in his blind-spot. Satisfied he is safe, Changbin tugs you even closer. Then he smiles, not one of his goofy smiles, but one of those cocky grins that gets investors to drop their panties at board meetings or whatever happens in an office building.
“Yes,” he says. “So will you?”
You nod, of course. Your charm bracelet jingles when you lift your hand. Both of you look at it, equally entranced. Then you touch his face with that hand, fingers light on his cheek. His eyes flick up to yours.
“Thank you, Changbin,” you say. You cup his cheek and lean in, pressing a soft little kiss on his cheek. It effectively eradicates all that cockiness, his eyes wide. It makes you laugh. He smiles, looking at you sideways, as if the least timid man on earth is suddenly too shy to fully look at you.
Someone clears their throat, so loud you both jump. Minho is standing there, his hat backwards and his glasses on the edge of his nose. He pushes them up his face, scrutinizing the scene in front of him.
“What’s this?” he asks, pointing between you.
“Nothing,” you both answer.
“Fine. I didn’t see anything,” Minho says. “Don’t involve me after this. This is your problem.”
Changbin has barely uttered the first syllable of Minho’s name when Minho holds up a finger and says, “Ahhh! Ah, ah, ah! Not involved. Goodbyyyyyye…” He ducks into the bathroom, still sustaining his departing note even after the door closes.
“He’s so weird,” you say, fondly.
“Yeah.” Changbin frowns. He grabs your chin and makes you look at him. “You think I’m weirder, right?”
“Oh, of course.”
“Good, good.” He clears his throat. “Not that I’d be jealous if you didn’t.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
It isn’t weird to find a bracelet this sexy, is it? But you do, vehemently, jingling it constantly through the day. You smile at it like it’s a sentient thing. It carries the comforting presence of your best friend everywhere you go but, like, in a hot way.
You are halfway through a shift at work, humming to yourself as you water some monsteras, when a horrible realization hits you.
Are you… a bad person? A fiend of a friend? A horny horror?
Changbin has given you two extremely generous gifts for no reason beyond extending his affection. And what have you done in return? Have you sufficiently shown gratitude? You don’t think he’s expecting anything in return. In fact, he’d probably get pouty and hissy if you tried. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t the right thing to do. But what can you do? You aren’t a Forbes 30 Under 30 fitness business owner. You’re watering monsteras!
That is the first thing you stop doing, scurrying past your boss who is being an evil villain florist again: taking apart bouquets with rotten parts and combining the remaining pieces to re-sell as deceptively pretty but two-days-out-from-dying zombie bouquets.
“I’m taking a break!” you say. You disappear into the back room before he can even lift his head from the wrapping station.
The back room is a cluttered mess, stacked high with delivery boxes, equipment, vases, and general chaos. There is one beloved stool amidst the mess where you prop yourself and text the only person who makes sense.
Minhooooooooooo, you write. Are you busy??
It’s lunch and I own a bistro, Minho replies. What do you think?
That you always have time for a friend in need? You punctuate this statement with a smiley face, little hands reaching for your stoic softie of a bitchy friend.
One thing about Minho is that he will always help a friend but he will always complain about it. When he calls two seconds later, he greets you with a string of cusses in lieu of hello.
“Hello to you too,” you say to the video call.
He must be very busy to call instead of text. He’s the restaurant owner but he often hops in the kitchen during a rush. He has propped his phone on a shelf, the top half of his face visible as he cooks.
“Are you okay?” he asks, glancing up at the camera before he resumes his work.
“I need advice,” you say.
“Will you actually listen to it?” he asks, dryly. He shouts an order to someone out of frame then grabs a knife and starts chopping.
“I will. You just have to promise not to tell anyone.”
He stops, standing straight so his full face is in the frame. He looks at you warily. “You’re not actually pregnant?” he asks.
“Oh my god, no! You know I get laid like once every hundred years, why do you all keep thinking—”
“Ahh, hey! Once is all it takes!” He waves the knife at the camera then goes back to chopping.
“Look,” you say. “It’s about Changbin, I just—”
He slams the knife on the counter. “No,” he says. His glare is rife with murderous intensity. “You’re not involving me.”
“I need to! You’re the only one who knows!”
“I don’t know anything!”
“Yes, you do! You know that Changbin put his credit card in my phone so I could buy coffees and you also know he bought me a beautiful charm bracelet that I’ve been wearing everywhere even though it costs more than my rent!”
“I didn’t know any of that.”
“Well, now you do! So you need to help me!’”
“I don’t like being involved!”
“Minhoooo…” You pout. “I need your help.”
He looks disgusted, probably with himself because he knows he is about to give in. He stabs the knife into something on his work station and sighs loudly.
“Fine. What?” he says.
“I don’t know what to do now!”
“Do? What would you need to do?”
“Something! He keeps spending all this money on me and spoiling me and treating me like I’m his princess—”
“Stop.”
“What?”
“You were way too into whatever you were saying before my ears filled with static.”
“I’m not into anything.”
“Sure. You want my advice?” He asks this a little too sweetly, his starry eyes gazing into the camera.
You nod, even if you’re pretty sure his advice is going to vaporize you. Your boss won’t even care if you spontaneously combust. He’ll just sweep your ashes into a duster and sell you in a jar as fertilizer.
“My advice,” Minho says, “is to be up front. It’s the same thing I told the dumb gym pig who texted me this morning asking ‘hypothetically’ how he can show a friend he wants to be more than friends without having to say it out loud.”
“Hypothetically?” you ask. “For, like, in future if that ever happened?”
Minho stares into the camera with the grim resignation of a gallows victim. Then he reaches up and ends the call.
“Rude,” you say.
You sit back and bite your nail while you contemplate the many intricate, mysterious layers of everything going on in your life. Tragically, you are not any closer to a resolution than before.