Chapter Text
Mingyu || Wonwoo
Warm.
That was the first thing I registered as I blinked awake, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. The second thing was that someone was in my arms—someone whose bare skin was pressed against mine, whose back rose and fell steadily with each breath under the cradle of my chest. My arm was wrapped around his waist, and I could feel the slow motion of his thumb tracing patterns over my knuckles. He was awake.
My face was still nuzzled into the curve of his neck and shoulder, but now that I was becoming more conscious, I could hear the soft sound of a phone screen being tapped—tiny clicks in the silence of the room. The glow from the screen lit up the sheets faintly. He was scrolling. Probably checking texts, or socials, or maybe avoiding the awkwardness that might come with waking up beside a stranger.
I groaned lightly, stretching my legs out under the covers, my toes bumping against cold sheets and my muscles aching slightly in that sore-but-satisfied way. My head felt heavy, not pounding—so I knew I wasn’t that drunk last night. I rubbed my forehead with one hand and blinked around the room through sleep-crusted eyes. It was unfamiliar, but nothing alarming. Modern. Neat. The smell of cologne on the pillows—not mine—confirmed what I already suspected.
“Probably his place,” I muttered to myself, my voice hoarse. I didn’t freak out. I remembered flashes from the night before—the bar, the way we talked, touched, kissed like we knew each other longer than an hour. And then his place. His bed. Him.
And now, I was spooning him like we did this every morning.
I leaned in just a little closer, squeezing his waist gently before whispering into the shell of his ear, “Your phone woke me up…”
He turned his head slightly to glance over his shoulder, those messy strands of dark hair falling lazily into his face. His eyes caught mine, a half-smile forming before he replied, “Really? That’s my bad.”
God. He was beautiful in the morning. That unfair kind of beautiful that didn’t need to try. The sunlight streaming through the blinds caught his features perfectly—his high cheekbones, the smooth curve of his nose, the sleepy weight of his eyes. The sort of man that made you want to kiss him just to see if it still felt the same as last night.
So I did.
I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I just leaned forward, brushing my lips against his shoulder first, then tilting his jaw gently until I could kiss him properly. It wasn’t urgent, or needy. It was just soft. Familiar. Like a greeting.
He didn’t pull away. In fact, he kissed me back—his body relaxing against mine as he reached for my hand still wrapped around his waist. His palm covered mine, and we stayed like that for a few moments longer than we probably should have. We both knew this was temporary. A one-time thing. But something about that kiss felt too easy. Too natural.
When we finally pulled back, I saw the amusement tug at the corners of his mouth. He turned slightly so he could see me better, his eyebrow quirking as he said, “You realize you’re naked? In my bed?”
I grinned, unbothered, and let my arm rest on his hip. “Well, that’s a given. I mean… I was in you yesterday.”
He laughed through his nose, nodding with a dry, “Fair enough,” before sitting up and rubbing his hands through his hair. He reached for a pair of boxers off the floor and pulled them on, stretching his arms above his head in a lazy arc. The sunlight caught the dip of his back, the outline of his ribs, and I couldn't help but admire the view.
“Go ahead and shower first,” he said casually, already walking toward the door. “Then you can leave.”
I sat up slowly, dragging the blanket with me just enough to cover myself—not that I really cared. The room wasn’t cold, and modesty wasn’t something I usually bothered with after a night like that. Still, I watched him walk away—broad shoulders, narrow waist, unbothered demeanor—and something in me refused to let it end just like that.
“So” I called after him. “Can I at least have your number before I get kicked out?”
He paused near the doorway, hand on the frame, and turned back with a raised brow. “I think we both agreed that this doesn’t mean we like each other.”
I smirked and ran a hand through my hair, still messy from last night. “Yeah, I never said I wanted to date you. I’m asking for your number so I can call you when I feel like having sex again. I hardly remember anything form last night but I do remember that you felt good around my dick last night.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in offense—more like he was trying to figure out if I was joking. I wasn’t. Not really, anyway. I meant it. The sex had been good, the company better than expected, and the morning? Surprisingly not awkward.
Wonwoo stared at me a second longer, clearly debating. Then he sighed like he was doing something he knew he’d regret, turned back toward the bed, and tossed his phone at me. “Password is 1317. Put your number in. Go shower. Then leave.”
“Demanding,” I muttered under my breath as I caught the phone mid-air, but he was already walking away down the hall.
I sat there for a moment longer, the phone in my hand, the sheets low on my hips, the scent of him still lingering on my skin.
No strings, sure. But something about him—his voice, his eyes, the way he didn’t pretend—made me think…
If he ever does call me first, I’d definitely answer.
I unlocked the phone.
Typed in my number.
Saved it under “Gyu, Mr. Big Dick you surely liked. 🍷.”
And then I stood up to shower.
~
This was around a month ago.
And as of today, I didn’t think about him all the time. That would be too dramatic, too indulgent for something that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. I didn’t spend my days pining or checking my phone every five minutes. Life went on. Classes, friends, parties, the usual shit that fills the days of a university student on the edge of his final year. And yet, somehow, without meaning to, he kept creeping back into my head—always at night.
It was never when I was busy or distracted. It was in the quiet moments—when I was walking home alone under flickering streetlights, or when I lay in bed with one arm under my pillow, staring at my ceiling fan rotating lazily in the dark. Those were the nights I hated the most. Not because I missed him—I didn’t. At least, that’s what I told myself. No, it was because no matter how many people I flirted with, no matter how many drinks I downed in low-lit clubs, no one ever came close to making me feel the way he did.
And fuck, I tried.
I went out. I danced. I let strangers press close, let hands trail where they had no business going, let lips find mine in a haze of alcohol and neon lights. But it always fell flat. The buzz never stayed. I’d kiss someone and immediately think, he didn’t taste like him. I’d drag someone back to my place and feel nothing, because their skin didn’t hum under my fingers like his had. It was insane, how casually his memory haunted me—not even emotionally, but physically. Like my body knew what it was missing before my brain could catch up.
That first night faded into something hazy and golden in my mind—like a good dream. But the second time? That one… stuck.
Ten days after our first time, I caved. I told myself it was just curiosity, just one more round. I texted him late, short and simple:
“You free?”
He replied five minutes later.
“Room 304. Grand Love Motel.”
And just like that, I was in too deep again.
I don’t even remember the ride there. I just remember the way he looked when I walked in—shirt already unbuttoned, eyes lazy and half-lidded, like he’d been expecting me. And then? We tore each other apart.
I’d like to say it was slow and sensual, but that would be a lie. It was messy. Raw. We didn’t waste time. I barely got the door closed before I had him against it, my hands already sliding under his shirt, lips crashing into his like I was starving. He bit back, just as hungry. There were no words that night—just grunts, moans, whispered curses against sweaty skin. The bedframe knocked against the wall like a damn drumbeat and we didn’t care who heard. My hands knew exactly where to hold, where to pull. His fingers? They raked down my back so hard I still had faint marks a week later.
And the sounds he made…
God, if I close my eyes long enough, I can still hear them. Those breathy gasps, the way he moaned my name like it burned his tongue, the curses he let spill when I went too slow—like I was torturing him on purpose. It made my blood rush. Made me want to ruin him just to hear it again.
We didn’t cuddle after. Didn’t talk much. Just collapsed next to each other, barely touching, catching our breath. At some point he lit a cigarette and offered it to me. I took it just to have something to do with my mouth that wasn’t kissing him again.
That night wasn’t love. It wasn’t romance. But it was real. So fucking real it scared me.
Since then? Nothing. He never called. Never texted.
And me?
I stared at his contact more nights than I want to admit. I saved him under “Wonwoo ❌” because even then, I knew—he wasn’t someone I could casually fall into. Not without consequences. Not without wanting more.
But I never messaged first again. My ego wouldn’t let me.
Even now, a month later, I still find myself unlocking my phone when I’m drunk, scrolling to his name and hovering my thumb over the message bar. Sometimes I even type something out—something dumb like “you up?” or “miss me?”—before I shake myself out of it and delete everything. Every. Damn. Time.
Because we agreed, right? This wasn’t anything. We weren’t anything.
So why the hell did it still feel like something?
However soon, my patience paid off.
It was a Wednesday afternoon when it happened—one of those hot, sluggish days where everything felt slow and pointless. I was home, half-draped across my bed with a fan buzzing lazily in the corner, watching the same TikTok for the third time in a row without really processing it. My phone was somewhere near my thigh, forgotten, until it lit up with a new message.
My eyes shifted lazily to the screen.
Wonwoo: “Hi. Want to have sex again? Classes are starting soon for me and I think this will be our last time.”
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then I sat up slowly, as if the change in position would help me process what I just read.
Wonwoo. After all this time. After a month of dead silence, of nothing but his ghost lingering in my thoughts, his name finally flashed across my screen again—and with that text.
I didn’t respond right away. Not because I didn’t want to—fuck, I wanted to—but because my heart was suddenly pounding in my chest, and I needed to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. That this wasn’t one of those moments my mind conjured up when I missed him too much.
I stared at the message. Read it again.
“…our last time.”
There was something so finite about that. Something cold, but not entirely distant. Like he wasn’t trying to be cruel—he was just being honest. I guess I should’ve expected it. We were never going to be a thing. And maybe part of me liked it better that way, because anything more would’ve made me lose control.
Still, it stung.
I didn’t reply by text.
Instead, I hit call.
The phone rang once. Twice. Then he picked up.
No hello. No breathless greeting. Just silence on the other end of the line. I could tell it was him though—the quiet, the faint shuffle of movement, the subtle tension in the air. It was him.
“Finally decided to text me?” I said, voice smoother than I felt.
More silence. Then:
“Our last time being the last just feels wrong,” he said evenly. His tone didn’t give away much, but the words stayed with me—like something unsaid still lingered behind them. “If you’re up for this,” he continued, “send me your location. I’ll be there soon.”
Then he hung up.
Just like that.
I didn’t even get to say anything else. I just stared at my screen as the call ended and his name vanished into the idle black of the lock screen again. My reflection stared back at me faintly in the glass—hair a mess, shirt halfway off, eyes a little too bright.
I smirked.
“Fuck yeah,” I whispered, already tapping into my location settings. I sent him my address without hesitation.
I wasn’t even pretending to play hard to get anymore. Not when he texted first. Not when he called this our “last time” like it was something we both knew we’d remember.
As soon as the message sent, I leaned back onto my mattress, my arms behind my head, staring at the ceiling with a strange flutter in my chest. It wasn’t nerves. I wasn’t nervous. Just… surprised. Relieved, maybe. And then something odd hit me—something about what he said:
“Classes are starting soon for me.”
I rolled that around in my mind a few times.
Classes. For him.
Which meant… he was a student. Just like me.
I don’t know why that made me feel so weirdly reassured. I guess a part of me had started wondering—overthinking, really—who he was. Where he came from. How someone that composed, that attractive, that put-together could’ve just been a random hookup. For all I knew, he could’ve been some intern trying to forget a breakup, or worse… someone’s boyfriend. Hell, my imagination went far. Maybe he was a part-time model. Maybe he was a janitor or—God forbid—a CEO who just liked picking up guys in clubs for the thrill of it.
But no.
He was just a student.
One of us.
Something about that made me breathe easier. Maybe it was the closeness in age, the idea that we were in the same place in life—even if only loosely. The power balance suddenly felt a little less skewed. It made everything feel less like a secret and more like… an experience.
I turned on my side, glancing at the time.
He’d probably be here soon.
And even if he meant for this to be the last time, I wasn’t going to waste it.
I wanted it again.
I wanted him again.
And God help me, I was going to make sure it stuck in his memory too.