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The first thing Choi Jongho did when he woke up on the island was stare at the ceiling and seriously reconsider every academic decision that had led him here.
The ceiling, unfortunately, offered no guidance. It was made of uneven wooden planks that someone had optimistically labeled “recently reinforced” in the rental listing, though reinforced clearly meant hammered back into place with minimal enthusiasm. The boards creaked whenever the wind swept in from the ocean, which was often, and the faint scent of salt lingered permanently in the air. The hut itself sat in the middle of a small clearing near the island’s highest rise, a slightly crooked structure with a slanted roof and a front step that dipped noticeably to one side. It had four walls, a door that could be persuaded into closing if pushed with conviction, and a single square window that let in more wind than intended. Inside, there was a narrow cot, a desk that wobbled if leaned on too heavily, two mismatched chairs, and a small gas stove that required patience and a firm kick to ignite.
What it did not have was internet.
It also did not have phone service.
And, perhaps most distressingly, it did not have any method of leaving for five full weeks.
Jongho rolled onto his side and squinted at the small clock perched on a wooden crate beside his cot. Just after six in the morning. Pale sunlight filtered through the window, painting faint golden streaks across the wall. Beyond the hut, the steady hush of waves breaking against rock rose and fell in an endless rhythm. It had sounded peaceful during the first few days, romantic even, like something out of a writing retreat fantasy. Now it felt like a reminder that he was very far from civilization and very much alone with his research.
He flopped onto his back and covered his face with both hands.
“I chose this,” he muttered into his palms, as though the empty room might absolve him.
And he had chosen it. The island was one of the only documented locations where the rare citrus variant he was studying grew naturally and undisturbed. Flamma Insularis Aurantiaca, informally referred to in scattered academic notes as the insular flame orange, was a subspecies so geographically isolated that it appeared only on remote islands with specific soil composition, temperature range, and salt exposure. Its fruit was reported to contain unusually high vitamin content and an almost floral sweetness that bordered on decadent. From an academic standpoint, it was invaluable.
From a survival standpoint, it was currently his primary source of joy.
He dragged himself out of bed, washed his face in the small basin, and brushed his teeth while staring blankly out the open doorway at the endless stretch of blue ocean. The supply boat had dropped him off with a crate of essentials and a cheerful promise to return in five weeks. Five weeks without internet meant five weeks without database access, without journal archives, without communication with his advisor. His laptop sat on the desk like a very expensive slab of useless metal, its dark screen reflecting his increasingly unimpressed expression back at him whenever he opened it out of habit.
After dressing in worn jeans and a loose shirt, he stepped outside into the morning air, which smelled faintly of salt, damp earth, and warm greenery. The island was not large by any means, he had mapped most of it within the first four days, documenting soil types and cataloguing surrounding flora with meticulous care. Dense shrubs filled the interior, punctuated by flowering plants and low trees that clung stubbornly to rocky ground. Jagged stone ringed the shoreline, making docking anything larger than the supply boat nearly impossible.
And just behind the hut, in a patch of sun that seemed almost deliberately placed, stood the reason he had come.
The orange tree.
It was not particularly tall, but it spread wide, its branches arching outward in a canopy of glossy green leaves that shimmered faintly when the wind passed through. Clusters of bright oranges hung between the foliage like small suns, some still tinged with green, others fully ripe and glowing against the darker leaves. The bark had a subtle bronze undertone, and the soil around its base appeared darker and richer than the surrounding ground.
Jongho approached it with something close to reverence. Over the past week, it had become both his subject of study and his anchor to sanity. He had measured leaf length and width, sketched the branching structure, recorded fruit density, and taken careful soil samples from around the roots. He had crouched for hours with a magnifying lens, noting minute variations in rind texture and coloration between individual fruits.
And at the end of each long day of studying and documenting and trying not to scream at his offline laptop, he rewarded himself.
He reached up and twisted one of the lower oranges gently until it came free in his hand, warm from the morning sun. Returning to the hut’s front step, he sat down and began peeling it slowly, working his thumb beneath the rind and pulling it away in careful strips. The citrus oils released into the air, sharp and bright, and juice slicked over his fingertips as he separated the segments.
This was ritual. This was stability.
The first bite burst sweet and tangy against his tongue, floral and almost honeyed in its aftertaste, with none of the bitterness he associated with grocery store citrus. He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled.
“These are the best damn oranges I have ever had in my entire life,” he said aloud, and the statement echoed faintly across the clearing.
~
For the first several days, everything proceeded smoothly. He picked one orange per evening, occasionally two when frustration with his stalled research threatened to overwhelm him. He recorded each harvest carefully in his notebook, noting weight, ripeness, and flavor variation with the seriousness of someone who absolutely intended to publish.
Then, about a week into his stay, he noticed something peculiar.
He stood beneath the tree one afternoon with his notebook open and frowned up at the branches. Two days prior, he had counted twenty-seven ripe fruits. He distinctly remembered writing the number down in careful block letters.
Now there were fewer.
He counted again, slowly, tracing each cluster with his gaze.
Twenty-one.
He glanced down at his notes to confirm the previous count and then looked back up at the tree as though it might correct itself under scrutiny.
Twenty-one.
His lips pressed into a thin line. Birds, he reasoned. There were small birds on the island, quick little creatures that darted between shrubs and occasionally perched on the roof of the hut. It was entirely plausible that they had discovered the fruit.
He accepted that explanation for precisely twenty-four hours.
The next day, three more were missing.
He had not taken any.
Standing with his hands on his hips, he stared up at the canopy as if personally offended.
“The birds,” he said slowly, testing the theory out loud, “have become very ambitious.”
Later that afternoon, while circling the trunk to inspect lower branches more closely, he found an orange on the ground near the base of the tree. It was intact, mostly, but one side bore a large, clean bite taken out of it. He crouched and picked it up carefully, turning it in his hands. The indentation was unmistakable, a curved row of teeth far too broad to belong to any bird and far too even to belong to the small mammals he had glimpsed darting through underbrush.
He stared at it for a long moment.
“That,” he said flatly, “is not a bird.”
As he rose, his gaze snagged on something else. One of the lower branches bore a faint blackened streak along its bark, subtle but unmistakable. He stepped closer and brushed his fingers lightly over the mark. The wood felt dry and slightly rougher there, as though heat had licked it briefly.
Scorched.
The birds, to his knowledge, did not breathe fire.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and straightened, scanning the clearing with narrowed eyes. The island had seemed manageable until that moment, small and predictable. Now the dense shrubbery beyond the tree looked a touch deeper, the shadows slightly darker.
“I will not let myself be bullied by island wildlife,” he declared firmly.
Returning to the hut, he rummaged through his limited supplies until he found a length of sturdy rope. It was not much, but it would do. He worked methodically, threading the rope between two lower branches and fashioning a simple snare that would tighten if disturbed. He concealed it carefully among leaves, adjusting tension until he was satisfied that anything tugging at the fruit would be caught or at least delayed. To ensure he would hear movement, he attached a few small metal measuring clips along one branch so they would clatter loudly if shaken.
When he stepped back and surveyed his work, he nodded once.
“Let’s see what you are,” he murmured.
That evening, instead of sitting beneath the tree, he remained inside the hut with his notebook open and pencil poised. He had already sketched a few speculative jaw shapes based on the bite mark, annotating them with dry comments about “unknown large mammal” and “potentially overconfident bird with pseudo-teeth(?).”
The sky darkened gradually, sunset washing the clearing in molten orange that felt almost ironic. The air cooled as night settled, and crickets began their steady chorus. The ocean’s rhythm deepened, waves breaking with heavier force against the rocks below.
Minutes passed. An hour.
He shifted in his chair, suppressing a yawn, and briefly wondered if he had overestimated the threat.
Then the metal clips rattled sharply.
His head snapped up.
Leaves rustled violently, and the branches of the orange tree shook as though something heavy had crashed into them. A loud thud reverberated through the clearing, followed by a sound that made every hair on his arms stand upright.
It was not a bird call.
It was not the scurry of a small animal.
It was a roar, deep, startled, and distinctly indignant.
The thin glass of the hut’s window rattled faintly with the vibration.
Jongho shot to his feet, heart pounding, notebook clutched in one hand as he hurried toward the door. He shoved it open and ran toward the tree, breath quickening in the cool night air, mind racing through every possible explanation and discarding each one as absurd.
The branches thrashed again.
Another furious, confused roar split the night.
He skidded to a stop at the edge of the clearing, eyes wide, staring up at the shaking canopy.
Something large was tangled in his trap, and it was very much not a bird.
~
Jongho didn't think he had ever run that fast in his life.
He burst out of the hut with his notebook still clutched in one hand and his pencil tucked behind his ear, heart pounding so loudly it almost drowned out the chaos erupting from the direction of the orange tree. The branches were thrashing violently against one another, leaves shaking loose and fluttering down in a panicked rain of green. The metal clips he had tied to the branch clattered wildly, punctuated by the unmistakable sound of rope straining under significant weight.
Another roar split the night air.
It was indignant, deep enough to vibrate faintly through his ribs.
Jongho skidded to a stop a few paces from the tree, breath fogging faintly in the cooling air, and looked up.
He had expected, at worst, a wild boar he had somehow failed to notice during his island survey. Perhaps an unusually large monkey. A feral dog. Something terrestrial and more so, explainable.
What he saw instead made his mind go entirely blank for several seconds.
Tangling itself spectacularly in his carefully constructed snare was what could only be described as a dragon.
Not a massive, storybook dragon with wings that blotted out the sky and teeth like daggers. This one was smaller, about the size of a very plump medium dog, but unmistakably draconic in shape. Its scales shimmered in the moonlight, a gradient of golden-green that shifted subtly when it moved. Two tiny horns curved back from its forehead, polished and pale at the tips. Its wings were stubby and clearly not built for sustained flight, currently flapping in frantic, ineffective bursts as it dangled half-upside-down from the branch.
The rope had caught around one hind leg initially, but the creature had thrashed so violently that it had managed to wrap itself further, coils of rope now looped around its midsection and one wing. Its long tail flicked anxiously back and forth, the tip knocking against leaves with sharp little snaps.
They stared at each other.
The dragon blinked first.
Its eyes were large and startlingly pretty, an amber-gold that reflected the moonlight like molten glass. They were not the eyes of a mindless animal. They were alert and very aware of its situation.
Jongho’s brain, which had just processed the word dragon and then attempted to reject it as impossible, struggled to reboot.
“That,” he said faintly, “is new.”
The dragon let out a sharp hiss, baring small but very sharp-looking teeth. The sound was fierce in intent, if not entirely in execution.
Jongho took one cautious step closer, notebook lifting almost automatically in his hand.
“I have never seen anything like you,” he continued, tone shifting instinctively into the measured cadence he used when lecturing or presenting findings. “Scale patterning suggests adaptation to high-sun environments. Wing-to-body ratio indicates limited aerial capability. Cranial structure—”
The dragon sneezed.
It was sudden and violent, a tiny, involuntary explosion of air and spark that burst from its nostrils in a brief flicker of orange flame. The spark arced downward and fizzled harmlessly against the dirt below.
Jongho froze, eyes widening.
The dragon blinked in surprise, clearly not having intended that.
“You breathe fire,” Jongho said reverently, scribbling furiously in his notebook. “Controlled ignition? Or reflexive expulsion under stress? Fascinating.”
The creature’s tail whipped harder, leaves rustling sharply. It opened its mouth again and attempted what was clearly meant to be a fearsome roar.
The result was…less impressive.
The sound started deep and promising but cracked midway through, breaking into a squeaky rasp that echoed awkwardly through the clearing. The dragon seemed to realize this at the same time Jongho did, because its wings stilled in embarrassment and it snapped its mouth shut with a distinctly affronted expression.
Hanging upside down from a tree branch, one leg caught in rope, the mighty island terror looked, quite frankly, pathetic.
Jongho adjusted his glasses and stepped closer, craning his neck to examine the horn structure more carefully. “Are you endemic to this island?” he asked aloud, pencil scratching across paper. “Have you been undocumented until now? That would be a significant oversight in biological classification.”
The dragon’s eyes narrowed.
It gave another hiss, though this one lacked conviction.
Jongho tilted his head. “I assure you, I am not here to harm you. You are, technically, trespassing on my citrus.”
At the mention of citrus, the dragon’s gaze flicked toward the cluster of oranges just above its head.
“Ah,” Jongho said knowingly. “So it was you.”
The dragon flapped its wings again, attempting to right itself, but only succeeded in twisting the rope tighter around its torso. The branch shook dangerously.
“Please refrain from getting yourself more tangled,” Jongho said quickly. “You are compromising the structural integrity of my sample tree.”
The dragon’s tail smacked the trunk in irritation.
Jongho took another step forward, raising one hand slowly as though approaching a particularly temperamental cat. “I need a closer look,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your dentition alone is worthy of documentation.”
The dragon bared its teeth again, more in reflex than menace.
Then something shifted.
It was subtle at first, a ripple along the creature’s scales as though a gust of wind had passed through them. The golden-green shimmer intensified, light catching along its body in an almost liquid way. Jongho paused mid-step, pencil hovering uselessly above paper.
The dragon’s eyes widened.
There was a sudden flash, not blinding, but bright enough to force Jongho to squint, and a rush of displaced air that made the leaves whip outward.
The weight on the rope shifted dramatically.
When Jongho opened his eyes fully, he found that the dragon was gone.
In its place, tangled spectacularly in his rope snare and hanging by one ankle from the very same branch, was a man.
A very tall man.
A very naked man.
A very naked man with one foot still caught in rope, his body suspended awkwardly at an angle that would have been comical under different circumstances.
Jongho’s mind stopped functioning entirely.
The notebook slipped from his fingers and landed in the dirt with a soft thud.
The man’s skin held a faint golden undertone that glowed softly under the moonlight, and his build was undeniably impressive, broad shoulders, long limbs, and muscle defined in a way that suggested strength without sharpness. His hair fell in dark waves around his face, slightly tousled from the abrupt transformation. The tiny horns weren't completely gone, replaced by the smallest of nubs near his hairline, but something about his expression, wide-eyed and startled, felt unmistakably familiar.
They stared at each other.
The man blinked.
He shifted slightly, testing the rope around his ankle, and winced as it tightened.
Jongho remained frozen, glasses slightly askew, brain attempting to reconcile dragon-lizard with extremely tall human.
The man looked down at himself briefly, then back at Jongho.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hush of waves against rock.
Then, slowly, the man’s lips curved into a small smile.
It was tentative at first, then widened just enough to reveal the sharpness at the edges of his teeth, a sharpness that wasn't subtle in the slightest.
His eyes crinkled faintly at the corners.
“Are you,” he asked, voice deep but carrying an unmistakable note of curiosity, “the new forest creature?”
Jongho’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
The man tilted his head, studying him openly. “I heard there was something new on the island,” he continued thoughtfully, as though conducting his own field research.
Jongho stared up at him incredulously, the absurdity of the situation crashing down all at once.
“I,” he said slowly, each word deliberate and disbelieving, “am not a forest creature.”
The man’s brows lifted slightly, as though that had not been the answer he expected.
~
Jongho stood beneath his orange tree with a tall, naked stranger dangling upside down from one ankle and decided, distantly, that perhaps five weeks without internet would not be the most challenging part of this trip.
The man blinked down at him with open curiosity, head tilted slightly as though Jongho were the one caught in a trap rather than the other way around. Up close, there were subtle details that made it impossible to forget what had just happened. Faint, scale-like patterns shimmered along his collarbones and down the sides of his ribs, barely visible unless the moonlight struck them directly. His skin had a warmth to it, almost golden, and even suspended awkwardly as he was, there was an unmistakable coiled strength in the lines of his body.
“You are very smooth,” the man said thoughtfully, peering at him as he continued his own scientific observation. “And smaller than I expected.”
Jongho blinked rapidly, forcing his brain back into something resembling functionality. “You,” he said carefully, gesturing upward, “were a dragon. A small dragon. With wings.”
The man’s expression brightened immediately, as though pleased that this detail had been acknowledged. “Yes,” he agreed easily. “That is me.”
“And now you are…” Jongho trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the entire situation.
The man followed his hand, looking down at himself with mild interest before returning his attention to Jongho. “This is easier for talking,” he explained, “The rope is uncomfortable though.”
“That,” Jongho muttered, “is because it was not designed for dragon-people.”
The man seemed to consider that, then nodded as though it made perfect sense.
There was a pause in which the night sounds resumed their cautious rhythm around them. Jongho pushed his glasses up his nose and attempted to salvage some degree of structure.
“You were eating my oranges,” he said.
The man frowned faintly, as though confused by the possessive phrasing, “The oranges,” he corrected gently. “They grow on my island.”
“Your island?” Jongho repeated.
“Yes.” The man smiled again, and it was disarmingly soft. “I guard it.”
Jongho stared up at him. “From what?”
The man blinked. “From things.”
“What things?”
The man hesitated. “Things that would need me to guard stuff.”
There was a distinct lack of evidence that anything on this island required protection from a small, chubby dragon-lizard, but Jongho decided not to pursue that line of questioning just yet.
“I am living here temporarily,” Jongho said instead, gesturing back toward the hut. “I rented the hut for five weeks so I could study the tree and the oranges.”
The man’s brows knit together. “What is renting?”
“It means I am allowed to stay here for a period of time because I paid someone.”
“You paid someone,” the man echoed, as though testing the concept, even if he didn't really know what it meant either.
“Yes.”
“For the island?”
“For the hut.”
“But the hut is on the island,” the man pointed out helpfully.
Jongho opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“I did not rent the entire island,” he said slowly, enunciating each word as though speaking to a particularly enthusiastic child. “I rented the hut. The small wooden structure. That one.” He pointed again.
The man twisted slightly to glance toward the hut, which made the rope creak ominously. “You are renting part of the island,” he concluded with visible satisfaction.
“That's…close enough,” Jongho conceded, because correcting the finer points of property law for a dragon felt ambitious.
The man beamed at him. “I have not seen a human before,” he announced cheerfully. “You are new.”
Jongho’s brain snagged on that. “You know what a human is?”
“Yes.” The man nodded enthusiastically. “I've heard of them from the birds. Small, and smooth. No scales.” He leaned down as far as the rope would allow, examining Jongho’s face with open fascination, “Very smooth.”
Before Jongho could retreat, the man reached out and poked his hair.
Jongho startled backward. “Please do not do that.”
The man’s gaze shifted downward. He reached again, this time nudging gently at the rim of Jongho’s glasses. “What is this?”
“Glasses.”
“Why?”
“So I can see.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly in alarm. “You cannot see?”
“I can see,” Jongho said quickly, adjusting them. “Just better with these.”
The man hummed thoughtfully, then tugged lightly at the fabric of Jongho’s sleeve. “And this?”
“Clothing,” Jongho said, exasperation creeping into his voice despite his best efforts.
The man glanced down at himself, then back up. “Do I need that?”
Jongho’s face warmed immediately. “That is not the point right now.”
The man tilted his head. “You are very interesting, I like you already,” he said warmly.
Jongho took a steadying breath. “You cannot continue taking the oranges whenever you want,” he said firmly, forcing himself back to the original issue. “I am studying them. If too many go missing, my research becomes inaccurate. I need to track growth patterns, ripeness cycles, yield ratios. If you eat them all, I cannot complete my work.”
The man listened with rapt attention, though it was unclear how much he understood. “What is studying?” he asked.
“It is…” Jongho hesitated, searching for language that did not rely on academic jargon. “It is observing something carefully so that you can understand it better.”
The man’s eyes brightened. “I was observing the oranges carefully,” he offered helpfully.
“You were eating them,” Jongho corrected.
“Yes,” the man agreed without shame. “They are very good.”
Jongho exhaled slowly through his nose. “If you want oranges,” he said at last, “we can make an arrangement.”
The man perked up immediately. “Arrangement?”
“Yes. I will untie you. You will stop stealing. If you want fruit, you help me with my daily tasks.”
The man’s smile widened. “I can hunt!” he declared proudly. “I can catch things. Fish, small animals, things like that. I'm very fast.”
“I don't need hunted animals unfortunately,” Jongho said quickly. “I need assistance carrying water. Moving supplies. Gathering firewood without dropping it all on the way back.”
The man considered this seriously. “I am strong,” he said after a moment. “I can carry many things.”
“That,” Jongho said, nodding, “would be useful.”
The man beamed. “Then we have arrangement.”
“We have an arrangement,” Jongho corrected automatically.
“Yes,” the man agreed happily. “Arrangement.”
“Your name,” Jongho added cautiously. “What is it?”
The man’s expression softened, “Mingi.”
“Mingi,” Jongho repeated, committing it to memory.
Mingi shifted slightly, testing the rope again. “If I am smaller, it will be easier,” he said.
“Smaller?” Jongho echoed.
There was a faint shimmer along Mingi’s skin, a subtle ripple of golden-green light, and in the space of a heartbeat the tall man vanished, replaced once more by the small, chubby dragon-lizard tangled in the branches. The transformation was smoother this time, less explosive, and Mingi’s little wings fluttered sheepishly as he blinked up at Jongho with wide amber eyes.
From this angle, upside down and compact, he looked even more absurdly cute than before.
Jongho stared.
Mingi’s tail flicked anxiously, and he growled out something that sounded as close as possible to a nervous "Untie?".
Jongho swallowed, stepped forward, and reached carefully for the rope.
He had come to this island to study a rare orange tree.
He had, instead, negotiated fruit-sharing rights with a dragon that had no concept of personal space, and how renting worked.
As he began working the knots loose around Mingi’s tiny leg, he had the distinct and disorienting sensation that his research had just become significantly more complicated.
~
The first morning after Mingi had agreed, very solemnly and with his entire large hand placed over his heart, that he would no longer “steal” the oranges, began with Jongho waking to the distinct sensation of being watched.
He opened his eyes slowly, the thin island sunlight already spilling through the small window of his hut in warm, golden bands, and found Mingi crouched at the foot of his narrow bed, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting in his palms, smiling at him with bright, curious eyes and entirely too many sharp teeth on display for someone who had announced himself as friendly.
Jongho startled so hard he nearly rolled off the mattress.
“Why are you in here?” he demanded, voice thick with sleep as he rushed to get his glasses onto his face and pushed up the bridge of his nose and tried to gather what little dignity he possessed before a six-foot-four dragon man.
Mingi tilted his head, dark hair sliding over his shoulder in a way that made Jongho’s stomach do something deeply unhelpful, and answered with perfect sincerity that he had been guarding the hut all night, because that was what island guardians did when they found something new and interesting that might need protection.
The explanation would have been more reassuring if Mingi had not been entirely naked again.
It took Jongho approximately three seconds of staring, long enough to fully comprehend the broad span of Mingi’s shoulders and the long, lean line of his torso, before he scrambled upright and shoved a folded length of cloth into Mingi’s hands with a mortified noise that might have once been a word.
“We briefly discussed this,” Jongho said, attempting to look anywhere but directly at him. “You should cover yourself. Just—wrap it around your waist. Like this.”
He demonstrated with another piece of fabric, tying it carefully around his own hips over his sleep shorts, explaining the concept of modesty in as calm and academic a tone as he could manage while Mingi watched with rapt fascination, as though the act of knotting cloth was the most revolutionary discovery in island history.
Mingi tried to replicate the motion and failed immediately, the cloth slipping through his fingers and pooling at his feet. He frowned at it with intense concentration, then at Jongho, then back at the cloth, before attempting again with the kind of determination usually reserved for complex thinking. After several awkward attempts, Jongho stepped forward to help, fingers brushing against warm, slightly textured skin as he adjusted the fabric into place and tied a secure knot at Mingi’s hip.
Up close, he again noticed the faint scatter of golden-green scales along Mingi’s collarbone and down the curve of his ribs, subtle but unmistakable, and he forced himself to breathe evenly as he stepped back.
“There,” Jongho said briskly, pretending his ears were not burning, “That is decent.”
Mingi beamed as though he had just won a prize, glancing down at himself with obvious pride. He declared that humans were very complicated creatures if they required special wrapping rituals simply to exist in the air, but that he liked this new custom because it made Jongho look less like he was about to pass out.
From there, the days began to blur together in a series of small lessons and even smaller disasters.
Jongho showed Mingi how the hut door worked, explaining hinges and latches and the importance of closing it to keep wind and stray animals out, only to watch in horror as Mingi attempted to test its durability by pushing it open with entirely too much enthusiasm and nearly knocking it off its frame. After that, Mingi practiced opening and closing it with exaggerated care, forked tongue poking out between his teeth in concentration.
He learned to drink from a cup instead of scooping water into his hands like a wild creature, though the first few attempts resulted in water spilling down his chin and onto his chest as he forgot to tilt the cup gently rather than all at once. Jongho demonstrated again, slow and patient, and Mingi mirrored him with visible effort, eyes flicking between the cup and Jongho’s mouth as though committing the motion to memory.
The lesson about fire indoors came about after Mingi, eager to be helpful on a particularly windy evening, inhaled deeply and released a small, cheerful burst of flame in the center of the hut, announcing that he would warm their space because the air felt chilly against Jongho’s soft skin.
Jongho shrieked, genuinely shrieked, and scrambled to beat at the flickering flame before it could catch on the woven matting. He explained, at length and with several dramatic gestures, that fire inside the hut would burn the entire structure down, that roofs and walls did not appreciate being set ablaze, and that while Mingi’s ability to breathe fire was undeniably impressive, it must remain strictly an outdoor activity unless specifically requested.
Mingi listened with wide eyes and then nodded solemnly, as though Jongho had revealed an ancient law of the universe.
After that, whenever Mingi warmed Jongho’s tea with a careful puff of heat, he did so just outside the doorway, leaning in with great caution and glancing around as though the hut itself might scold him if he broke the rule.
Mingi developed a habit of curling up on the floor at night in a nest he constructed from a pile of Jongho’s discarded shirts and pants, claiming that the fabric smelled like him and felt softer than the moss and leaves he had previously used. In his smaller dragon-lizard form, he tucked his stubby wings close and wrapped his tail around himself, golden-green scales catching the light from the lantern in a way that made him look almost jewel-like.
The first time Jongho found him like that, snoring softly with a faint wisp of smoke curling from his nostrils, he stood there longer than necessary, heart doing an odd, gentle flip in his chest.
~
Mingi followed Jongho everywhere, which meant that research time became a continuous string of questions.
He asked where Jongho had come from and whether there were many more humans beyond the sea, whether all humans had such smooth skin and fragile hands, whether the stacks of paper were meant for nesting or if they served some greater purpose, and what the glowing square of Jongho’s laptop was supposed to do when it refused to light up without something called “internet.”
Jongho answered as best as he could, explaining cities and universities and the concept of renting an island hut for research, though Mingi still seemed baffled by the idea that a piece of land could belong to anyone.
“Island is…island,” Mingi insisted one afternoon, lounging in the grass while Jongho took measurements of the orange tree’s newest blossoms. “Island belongs to sky and sea. And to me, because I still guard it.”
“You never really answered my question about that, what is it that you guard it from?” Jongho asked dryly, adjusting his glasses as he scribbled notes.
Mingi paused, then smiled sheepishly. “From…very dangerous crabs, maybe?”
Despite himself, Jongho laughed, the sound bright and unexpected in the warm air.
There were moments when Mingi’s strength became undeniably useful, such as when Jongho struggled to haul two heavy buckets of water from the freshwater stream a short distance from the hut. Mingi took one look at him straining and gently plucked both buckets from his hands as though they weighed nothing at all, carrying them back with effortless grace and a grin that demanded praise.
“You are very strong,” Jongho admitted, a little breathless.
Mingi puffed up with visible pride, shoulders squaring, eyes shining as though that single sentence meant more than all the oranges in the world.
At night, he positioned himself just outside the hut, sometimes in human form and sometimes curled in his smaller dragon shape, insisting that a guardian must remain alert while his human studied. Jongho tried not to dwell on the possessive way Mingi said it, tried not to think about the warmth that settled low in his stomach each time he caught sight of him silhouetted against the moonlight.
And through it all, the orange tree began to flourish in ways Jongho could not entirely explain.
New blossoms appeared in clusters more abundant than any he had documented before, petals unfurling in soft white bursts that filled the air with a faint, sweet fragrance. The fruit that followed seemed brighter, their skins a richer, almost glowing shade of orange, as though the sunlight lingered on them longer than it should have.
Jongho noticed, of course he noticed, because noticing was his entire purpose for being on this island.
He stood beneath the tree one evening, notebook in hand, and compared his earlier sketches to the present state of the branches, frowning thoughtfully. The growth rate had increased, the leaves looked healthier, and even the scorch mark he had first spotted had faded into nothing, replaced by vibrant new bark.
Mingi lingered nearby, perched comfortably on a low branch, legs swaying lazily as he watched Jongho work.
“The tree likes you,” Mingi said simply.
Jongho glanced up at him, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Mingi shrugged in a very dragon-like manner, you could almost see the way his tiny wings fluttering. “The tree feels happy. I can tell. It likes when you touch it, and when I stay close.”
Jongho huffed softly, though he could not quite suppress the small smile that tugged at his lips.
“Trees don't have feelings,” he began automatically, then paused as a breeze rustled through the leaves and a blossom drifted down to land at his feet.
Mingi only smiled, eyes warm and certain, as though he knew something Jongho did not.
~
The cold arrived without warning about a week after they got into the swing of things, as though the island itself had decided to test Jongho’s resilience just when he had begun to feel comfortable.
The wind howled in from the sea with a sharp, biting edge that rattled the thin shutters of the hut and forced itself through every narrow crack in the wooden walls, slipping across the floor in icy drafts that stole warmth from the air and from Jongho’s skin in equal measure. The temperature dropped so suddenly that by nightfall his breath fogged faintly in front of him, and a thin dusting of snow, actual snow, collected along the shoreline and clung stubbornly to the grass in pale, crystalline patches.
Snow on this island was rare to the point of absurdity, something Jongho had read about only in passing notes during his research preparation, and yet it had chosen this exact week to descend upon him when he possessed nothing more insulating than a stack of worn blankets and a hut that creaked ominously each time the wind slammed against it.
Mingi remained in his smaller dragon form by the door, as he did most nights, golden-green body curled into a tight coil with his tail wrapped over his nose and his stubby wings folded close to conserve heat. Every so often he lifted his head, nostrils flaring as he scented the air beyond the hut, ever vigilant in his self-appointed role as guardian.
Inside, however, Jongho shivered violently beneath his blankets.
He had layered every piece of clothing he owned over his thin sleepwear, had wrapped himself in fabric until he resembled a bundled parcel, and still the cold seeped in relentlessly, creeping under his collar and down his spine, biting at his fingers and toes until they ached. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, and no amount of curling into himself seemed to preserve the warmth he so desperately tried to hold onto.
Sleep came in shallow, restless fragments, and even in his half-dreaming state he trembled.
Mingi sensed it before he fully understood it.
There was a shift in the air, a subtle change in scent that tugged at something instinctual deep in his chest, and he lifted his head sharply, golden eyes narrowing as he turned toward the bed. He could smell distress, the faint tang of discomfort, and beneath it the thin, brittle edge of cold that clung to Jongho’s skin.
He uncurled at once.
With a soft huff of smoke, he shifted into his human form, the transformation unfolding in a quiet shimmer of movement and light, until he knelt on the wooden floor with long limbs and warm skin exposed to the chilled air. He reached automatically for the cloth he now kept neatly folded beside the door, wrapping it around his waist with practiced efficiency before rising to his full height.
The hut felt colder in this form, but Mingi did not mind, heat pulsed steadily beneath his skin, a constant internal furnace that had never failed him.
He crossed the small space in two careful strides and crouched beside the mattress, peering down at Jongho with concern etched openly across his features. Even in the dim light, he could see the tremor in Jongho’s shoulders and the way his breath hitched in uneven, shallow pulls.
Mingi reached out tentatively and brushed his fingers along Jongho’s arm.
The skin was cool to the touch.
“Jongho,” he said softly, voice low and careful, as though afraid to startle him. “You are cold.”
Jongho stirred with a faint, incoherent murmur, eyelids fluttering open just enough to reveal unfocused eyes behind his glasses that he'd neglected to take off. It took him a moment to register Mingi’s presence, to process the broad silhouette looming gently beside him, and then he blinked with sluggish confusion.
“Mingi?” he whispered, teeth still chattering. “What are you—”
“You are shaking,” Mingi said simply, as though that alone explained everything. “I'm warm, I can help.”
The offer was so earnest, so devoid of any ulterior motive, that it pierced straight through Jongho’s fog of discomfort.
He hesitated nonetheless.
The bed was narrow, barely large enough for him alone, and the idea of allowing Mingi, tall, solid, radiating heat like a living hearth, to climb into it felt dangerously intimate in a way that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the flutter that had been steadily growing in his chest over the past week.
Another gust of wind rattled the hut, and the cold sliced through the blankets once more.
Jongho swallowed, pride dissolving beneath practical necessity.
“Okay,” he managed, voice small. “Just warm me up, please.”
Mingi’s expression brightened instantly, relief softening his features as he carefully eased onto the edge of the mattress. The frame creaked under the added weight, but held. Jongho shifted to make space, heart pounding as the warmth radiating from Mingi’s skin reached him even before they fully touched.
Mingi did not simply lie beside him.
Instead, with a gentleness that contrasted strikingly with his size, he slid one arm beneath Jongho’s shoulders and the other around his waist, drawing him back against his chest in one smooth motion until Jongho’s spine pressed flush against solid, steady heat. Mingi tucked his chin lightly over Jongho’s head and wrapped both arms securely around him, hands resting on Jongho's tummy in a rather comforting way, effectively cocooning him within his embrace.
The warmth was immediate and overwhelming.
It seeped into Jongho’s bones, chased away the biting chill that had settled there, and spread outward in a slow, soothing wave that loosened the tight knots of tension in his muscles. He exhaled shakily, the sound almost a sigh, and instinctively leaned back further into Mingi’s chest.
“You feel like a campfire,” Jongho murmured, half-dazed with relief.
At that, Mingi made a sound low in his throat that Jongho had never heard before, a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated gently against his back.
It took him a moment to realize that Mingi was purring.
The vibration intensified slightly, steady and content, and Mingi’s hold tightened just enough to be reassuring rather than restrictive. His nose brushed lightly against Jongho’s hair as he breathed him in, satisfied that the scent of cold had begun to fade.
“Good,” Mingi said softly. “Campfires keep small humans warm.”
Jongho might have protested the “small” comment under different circumstances, but the steady heat and the rhythmic purr lulled him instead, eyelids growing heavy as the tremors in his body finally subsided.
He fell asleep like that, wrapped securely in living warmth.
The winter storm passed by morning, but the memory of that heat lingered.
The next night, though the temperature had risen slightly, Mingi appeared at the bedside once more with a hopeful look, and Jongho found that he did not have the heart, or perhaps the will, to refuse him. The bed creaked again under their combined weight, and Mingi gathered him close in the same careful manner, purring faintly when Jongho relaxed against him.
Soon it became routine.
Even on nights when the air remained mild, Mingi slipped beneath the blankets with quiet certainty, arms encircling Jongho as though it was the most natural position in the world. Jongho stopped questioning it, stopped analyzing the way his pulse quickened at the feeling of those broad palms splayed protectively across his stomach, and instead allowed himself to melt into the embrace he had begun to crave.
Somewhere along the way, Mingi began bringing him gifts.
At first it was a smooth, sea-polished stone that shimmered faintly in shades of blue and green, which Mingi placed solemnly on Jongho’s desk beside his research notes. The next day it was a small piece of quartz that caught the light in fractured rainbows, followed by a collection of oddly shaped shells and once even a fragment of something metallic that gleamed brightly despite its age.
“For you,” Mingi said each time, offering the treasures with both hands and a hopeful tilt to his head.
Jongho accepted them with fond exasperation, assuming Mingi simply enjoyed shiny things and wanted to share his discoveries, unaware of the deeper instinct guiding those offerings. He arranged the stones carefully along the windowsill, smiling each time he noticed how Mingi watched him with quiet anticipation, his tail, when in dragon form, flicking in satisfaction at the sight.
If Jongho wondered why Mingi seemed especially pleased when he kept the gifts close, he did not dwell on it.
He did not recognize the subtle courting ritual unfolding before him, the ancient dragon instinct that equated treasure with affection, that sought to build a hoard not of gold but of shared warmth and soft laughter.
~
Mingi did not understand when it began.
He only knew that at some point between carrying water buckets and warming tea, between curling around Jongho at night and presenting him with smooth stones that caught the light just right, something inside his chest had started behaving strangely.
It was not painful, not in the way a thorn in the paw was painful, nor alarming in the way a sudden storm rolling in from the sea could be alarming. It was simply...different.
He noticed it most when Jongho worked outside beneath the orange tree.
The afternoon sun often painted his skin in a warm, honeyed glow, and after an hour of measuring leaves and sketching branches, a faint sheen of sweat would gather at the nape of his neck. Tiny freckles dotted that stretch of skin, subtle and delicate, and Mingi found his gaze drifting there more often than he could reasonably justify. The scent of sandalwood soap lingered faintly on him from when he went to the river to bath earlier, mingling with the sharper tang of sea air and the sweet brightness of citrus whenever he peeled an orange.
Mingi had always liked oranges.
Now he found himself watching the way juice clung to Jongho’s lips, the way he would absentmindedly swipe his thumb across the corner of his mouth and then lick the sticky sweetness away. The sight made something tighten low in Mingi’s stomach, made heat flare beneath his skin in a way that had nothing to do with fire-breathing and everything to do with curiosity.
He wondered, with startling intensity, what it would be like to lean forward and lick that drop of juice off Jongho’s mouth himself.
The thought made him jolt, ears warming as if someone had just caught him attempting to steal fruit again.
Dragons did not often feel embarrassed, but Mingi found that he did around Jongho more and more.
He recognized, in the simplest terms available to him, that when Jongho smiled at him, it made his chest feel too tight and his heart beat very fast, as though he had flown too high too quickly. The sensation was not unpleasant. In fact, it was deeply, almost overwhelmingly pleasant.
Therefore, Mingi concluded with complete certainty that he must like Jongho a lot.
Jongho, for his part, was not faring any better.
He had spent his life grounded in logic, in structured research and carefully documented hypotheses, in the tidy predictability of academic work. There was always a cause and effect, always an explanation rooted in observable phenomena.
There was absolutely no explanation, however, for why his heart began to race whenever Mingi leaned too close, or why he found himself staring at the curve of Mingi’s shoulders when he rolled up the cloth at his waist before carrying water, or why the deep rumble of Mingi’s purr at night sent a warm, fluttering sensation spiraling through his abdomen.
He attempted, on more than one occasion, to reason it out while scribbling in his notebook beneath the orange tree.
It was proximity, he told himself. Shared space naturally fostered attachment. It was isolation, human psychology dictated that bonds formed more quickly in remote environments. It was gratitude, Mingi had kept him warm and safe and undeniably less lonely.
These were rational, sensible explanations.
They did not account for the way Jongho’s breath caught when Mingi brushed their fingers together, or how his thoughts derailed entirely when Mingi smiled in that open, unguarded way.
One afternoon, the air hung heavy and warm, the branches of the orange tree swaying gently overhead as sunlight filtered through fresh blossoms. Jongho sat cross-legged in the grass with his notebook resting on his knee, sketching the newest cluster of fruit while Mingi lounged beside him in human form, shoulder pressed lightly against Jongho’s.
The contact was subtle, almost casual.
And yet it sent a steady, distracting warmth through Jongho’s side.
Mingi shifted closer after a moment, as though drawn by instinct rather than conscious decision. His thigh brushed against Jongho’s, and he leaned enough that their arms touched fully from shoulder to wrist. He studied Jongho’s profile openly, gaze trailing from his glasses to the faint flush across his cheeks.
Without quite asking permission, Mingi reached down and took Jongho’s hand in his.
The gesture was simple, almost innocent.
His fingers were warm and slightly rough where faint scales patterned his skin, and they wrapped around Jongho’s hand with surprising gentleness. Mingi turned Jongho’s wrist upward, examining it with focused curiosity, thumb brushing lightly over the thin skin there.
He felt it immediately.
The pulse beneath his thumb fluttered rapidly, quick and uneven.
Mingi frowned.
He shifted closer still, bringing his face near Jongho’s wrist as though inspecting it might provide clarity, and pressed two fingers lightly against the racing pulse.
“Jongho,” he said slowly, concern threading through his voice, “your heart is very fast. Are you ill?”
Jongho nearly choked on his own breath.
His face flamed, heat rising so quickly that he was certain even the oranges above them might pale in comparison. He attempted to tug his hand free, but Mingi’s grip tightened reflexively, not painful but firm enough to keep him there.
“I am not ill,” Jongho muttered, unable to meet his eyes.
Mingi’s brow furrowed deeper. “But it's racing. Like when you run from the sea when the tide comes in too fast.”
“That is because—” Jongho stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “It is because of you.”
Mingi blinked.
“Me?” he echoed, genuinely bewildered.
“Yes,” Jongho said, voice dropping to an embarrassed murmur. “You are the reason it is going so fast.”
Mingi tilted his head slightly, processing this with the same earnest intensity he brought to learning about doors and cups. After a moment, his lips curved slowly upward.
“Is that a bad thing?” he asked carefully. “Am I a problem for you?”
The question was so pure, so utterly lacking in guile, that Jongho’s chest tightened painfully.
He risked a glance upward, meeting Mingi’s gaze, and found nothing there but open curiosity and something deeper that made his breath hitch.
“You are,” Jongho began, then faltered as Mingi’s thumb traced another gentle circle over his pulse point, “a very good problem.”
Silence settled between them.
The air felt suddenly thicker, charged with something neither of them fully understood but both instinctively recognized. Mingi’s eyes flicked down to Jongho’s lips, lingering there for just a fraction too long, and Jongho noticed.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, they leaned toward each other.
The movement was gradual, tentative, as though both were testing the air between them. Jongho could feel the warmth radiating from Mingi’s skin, could see the faint scatter of scales along his collarbone catching the light. Mingi’s breath brushed softly against his mouth, warm and faintly sweet with citrus from the orange he had eaten earlier.
They were so close that Jongho could count the tiny flecks of gold in Mingi’s dark eyes.
There was a soft flash of light and a small, startled noise.
In the space of a heartbeat, the tall, broad-shouldered man vanished, replaced by a chubby, golden-green dragon no larger than a housecat.
Mingi landed squarely in Jongho’s lap with an indignant squeak, stubby wings flaring briefly for balance before settling awkwardly against his sides.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Mingi huffed, a tiny puff of smoke curling from his nostrils as his tail flicked in clear embarrassment. He buried his face briefly against Jongho’s stomach as though hoping to disappear entirely.
Jongho stared down at him in stunned silence before laughter bubbled up uncontrollably from his chest.
It spilled out bright and warm, the sound echoing through the clearing beneath the orange tree. He carefully cupped Mingi’s small dragon body in his hands and brought him closer, thumb stroking gently between his tiny horns, exactly where he liked it.
“You transformed because you were flustered,” Jongho said, still laughing softly.
Mingi peeked up at him with wide, mortified eyes and gave a small, grumpy chirp in response.
The sight was so unbearably adorable that Jongho could not resist leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Mingi’s scaled head.
Mingi froze, then emitted a soft, pleased trill despite himself.
Beneath the orange tree heavy with bright fruit and blossoms, with sunlight dancing across golden scales and warm human skin alike, they remained there, Jongho smiling down at his very good problem, and Mingi pretending not to preen under the affectionate strokes of his hand.
~
By the time the end of Jongho’s five-week stay crept into view like a distant storm on the horizon, the space between him and Mingi had become something delicate and charged, a thin, shimmering line neither of them quite knew how to cross.
They existed in the in-between.
They held hands absentmindedly while walking along the shore. They slept tangled together most nights, Mingi’s arms secure around Jongho’s waist, his warmth a constant, steady comfort. They brushed fingers and shared soft laughter and leaned just a little too close whenever they sat beneath the orange tree.
And yet neither of them had named it.
Neither of them had dared to say it.
It was late afternoon when Mingi finally broke.
The sun hovered low, staining the sky in streaks of amber and rose as they settled beneath the tree that had become theirs in every way that mattered. Jongho leaned back against the trunk, notebook closed and forgotten beside him, while Mingi sat cross-legged at his side in human form, knees brushing Jongho’s thigh.
Mingi had been unusually quiet all day, his tail, when he shifted briefly earlier, flicking with restless energy.
Now, as the wind stirred the branches overhead and blossoms drifted lazily to the grass, he cleared his throat.
“Jjongie,” he began, and his voice carried an unfamiliar tension.
Jongho turned toward him immediately, concerned, “What is it?”
Mingi’s cheeks warmed visibly, a soft golden flush spreading beneath his skin and up the tips of his ears, even his little stubby horns seemed to hum a slight glow. He stared stubbornly at the grass between them rather than at Jongho’s face.
“When we first met,” he said quickly, words tumbling out in a rush as though he feared losing courage if he slowed down, “I was not only going for the oranges.”
Jongho blinked.
Mingi continued, speaking faster and faster, hands twisting together in his lap.
“I saw you before that day. You sat here often. You talked to the tree. You made notes. You looked…” He faltered, searching for the word, then forced it out in a soft mumble. “Lonely.”
Jongho’s breath caught faintly.
“I did not know what you were at first,” Mingi went on, still avoiding his gaze. “You smelled new. Different. I thought maybe you were dangerous. But you did not act dangerous. You just…looked sad sometimes. And small. And alone. I wanted to meet you, but I was not sure how. So I waited. And then I thought if I took an orange, you would come find me.” His ears burned deeper. “I did not think I would get stuck.”
For a moment, Jongho could only stare at him, stunned.
“You,” he said slowly, “got yourself caught in my trap on purpose?”
Mingi groaned softly and buried his face in his hands. “Not exactly on purpose. I misjudged the rope.”
Jongho felt laughter bubble up, warm and disbelieving. He reached forward and gently tugged Mingi’s hands away from his face.
“You ridiculous dragon,” he said fondly.
Mingi risked a glance up, eyes wide and anxious.
Jongho did not let him spiral any further. He leaned in and wrapped his arms around Mingi’s broad shoulders, pulling him into a firm hug. Mingi stiffened in surprise for a split second before melting into it, arms sliding instinctively around Jongho’s waist.
“I am very glad you got stuck in that trap,” Jongho murmured into his shoulder, teasing warmth in his tone.
Mingi huffed a small, embarrassed laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest where it pressed against Jongho’s.
They stayed like that for a long moment, the sun dipping lower, the sky deepening into molten gold.
Eventually they settled side by side again, shoulders touching. Jongho reached for an orange from the small pile he had gathered earlier and began to peel it, the scent of citrus blooming into the cooling air as the rind split cleanly beneath his fingers.
He worked carefully, as he always did, separating the fruit into neat slices.
But this time, when he finished, he did not take the first one for himself.
He turned instead, holding it up between them.
“For you,” he said softly.
Mingi’s gaze softened in a way that made Jongho’s pulse jump immediately.
He did not reach for the slice with his hand.
Instead, he leaned in slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving Jongho’s face. The tip of his forked tongue slipped out first, brushing lightly against Jongho’s fingertip as it curled around the orange slice. The contact was warm and unmistakably intentional, the smooth, flexible muscle wrapping just slightly around his finger before drawing the fruit into Mingi’s mouth.
Jongho’s breath hitched sharply.
Mingi bit down on the slice, juice glistening briefly on his lips as he smiled, slow and satisfied, at the flush spreading across Jongho’s cheeks.
“You taste sweet,” Mingi said innocently, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.
“I was not the one you just ate,” Jongho muttered, flustered beyond recovery.
Mingi only hummed softly, finishing the slice before reaching for another in the usual way, as though he had not just set Jongho’s entire nervous system on fire.
They ate the rest together, fingers occasionally brushing, the air between them thick with something unspoken and undeniable.
When the last piece was gone, neither of them moved to stand.
The sun hovered at the edge of the horizon, painting everything in warm amber light. Blossoms loosened by the evening breeze drifted down around them like slow, delicate snow.
Mingi shifted closer first this time.
He leaned in until their knees pressed fully together and their shoulders aligned, then gently rested his forehead against Jongho’s. The contact was soft, almost reverent.
They breathed together.
Jongho could feel the steady warmth radiating from Mingi’s skin, could see his lashes lowered just slightly as his gaze flicked uncertainly to Jongho’s mouth.
“Is this,” Mingi began quietly, “another good problem?”
Jongho smiled, heart pounding.
“Yes,” he whispered.
And then he closed the remaining distance.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative and curious, their lips brushing gently as though both feared startling the other. It tasted faintly of fresh citrus and sea air, warm and bright and new.
Mingi made a small, surprised sound against Jongho’s mouth, hands hovering awkwardly in midair before settling uncertainly at Jongho’s waist. His fingers flexed there, unsure where to rest, and Jongho reached up to guide one of them to his hip, the other to the small of his back.
“Like that,” Jongho murmured softly between breaths.
Mingi nodded slightly, then leaned in again, braver this time.
The kiss deepened gradually, mouths parting just enough to allow a warmer exchange. Mingi’s forked tongue slipped forward hesitantly, brushing against Jongho’s lower lip before retreating as though startled by its own boldness.
Jongho smiled against him and tilted his head, guiding him gently. When Mingi’s tongue ventured out again, it traced along Jongho’s, the unfamiliar shape curious and exploratory rather than demanding.
Jongho did his best not to lose himself entirely in the sensation.
Mingi hummed softly against his mouth, a low vibration that sent warmth spiraling through Jongho’s chest and down his spine. His hands tightened slightly at Jongho’s waist, pulling him closer without even realizing he had done so.
Around them, the orange tree swayed gently, blossoms drifting down to settle in their hair and along their shoulders.
When they finally parted, foreheads resting together once more, both of them were breathless and flushed, eyes bright with wonder.
Mingi smiled first.
“I like this problem very much,” he said earnestly.
Jongho laughed softly, brushing his thumb along Mingi’s cheek.
“So do I,” he replied.
~
That night, the air inside their little shelter felt different.
The kiss under the orange tree lingered between them like a spark that refused to dim, and when they lay down together, the space beneath the woven blankets seemed warmer than usual, charged with something unspoken and electric.
They curled together naturally, as they always did, Jongho tucked against Mingi’s chest, Mingi’s arm draped securely around his waist. The steady rise and fall of Mingi’s breathing usually lulled Jongho into immediate calm, but tonight his mind wandered, replaying the softness of lips, the citrus taste, the low hum Mingi had made against his mouth.
Jongho shifted slightly, tilting his chin up so their faces were only inches apart in the dim glow of moonlight that slipped through the window.
Mingi blinked sleepily at first, then his eyes sharpened as he noticed the look in Jongho’s.
“What?” Mingi asked softly, voice still rough from the day.
Jongho hesitated only a second before leaning in to kiss him again.
It was slower than before, deeper from the start, hands no longer shy about where they settled. Mingi responded immediately, one palm sliding to cradle the back of Jongho’s head while the other tightened at his hip.
The kiss lingered, and when they parted, neither moved far.
“I was thinking,” Jongho murmured, brushing his nose lightly against Mingi’s, “maybe we could…explore a little more, since we're not pretending to be shy anymore.”
Mingi’s brows furrowed faintly, not in rejection but in concern. His large hand flexed against Jongho’s side.
“I am bigger than you,” he said quietly, almost pouting. “Much bigger. I do not want to hurt you. You are…softer.”
Jongho huffed a small laugh and pressed a gentle kiss to Mingi’s cheek.
“I am not made of paper,” he said. “I promise I will not break that easily.”
Mingi studied him seriously, golden eyes searching his face for hesitation or doubt. Finding none, he exhaled slowly.
“We'll go slowly,” he insisted.
“We'll go slowly, I promise,” Jongho agreed.
The next moment surprised Mingi entirely.
Jongho shifted smoothly, rolling over and straddling Mingi’s hips before the dragon had time to process it. His hands came up to cradle Mingi’s face, thumbs brushing along the strong line of his jaw before he leaned down and kissed him again, deeper this time, intent and warm.
Mingi made a startled sound that melted quickly into a low rumble of approval.
Hands began to roam, tentative at first, then bolder.
Mingi’s palms traced along Jongho’s back, over the curve of his waist, fingers spreading as though committing every inch to memory. His nails, slightly sharper than a human’s, dug in unconsciously when Jongho shifted his hips in a slow, testing roll.
The faint pressure left delicate crescent marks along Jongho’s skin.
Jongho gasped softly, not in pain, but in surprise at the sensation, and the sound made Mingi’s breath hitch.
“You are so sensitive,” Mingi murmured, almost fascinated, as his fingers traced one of the little marks. “Your skin shows everything.”
Jongho smiled breathlessly and reached up to brush his fingers along one of Mingi’s horns, stroking near the base where he had learned the skin was especially tender.
Mingi’s reaction was immediate.
A sharp inhale escaped him, followed by the prettiest, quietest whine as his nails pressed a little harder into Jongho’s hips. The sound that left Jongho in response was soft and embarrassingly needy, and Mingi’s eyes widened at how easily he drew those reactions from him.
Between kisses, Mingi’s voice dropped lower.
“Take off your shirt, please?” he asked.
Jongho stilled slightly.
“I—” He swallowed. “I am not exactly built like you.”
Mingi frowned faintly at that, as though the idea offended him.
“I do not want you built like me,” he said simply. “I want you.”
The sincerity in his tone stripped away the rest of Jongho’s hesitation.
Slowly, he reached down and pulled his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside. The moonlight brushed across his chest, highlighting the soft curve of muscle, the plushness of his pecs, the faint dip of his stomach that rose and fell with quickened breaths.
Mingi stared openly.
His hands came up immediately, reverent and curious, palms warm as they smoothed over Jongho’s chest. His thumbs brushed over dark nipples with careful fascination, watching how they perked beneath his touch. He squeezed gently at Jongho’s pecs, then slid his hands lower, spreading over his soft tummy and pressing lightly just to see how it yielded beneath his palms.
“You are perfect,” Mingi said quietly.
Before Jongho could respond, Mingi shifted, rolling them so he hovered above him instead.
The change in position stole the breath from Jongho’s lungs.
Mingi bent his head and pressed slow kisses along Jongho’s chest, trailing down over the soft curve of his stomach. He nibbled lightly, testing, then sucked a small mark just below Jongho’s ribs.
Jongho squirmed immediately, a startled laugh breaking into a needy sound as Mingi repeated the action lower.
“Mingi—”
The dragon only rumbled softly in response, clearly pleased.
He nuzzled and nipped and licked, dragging his tongue slowly upward along Jongho’s torso as though mapping him, memorizing him. His nose brushed along skin, inhaling deeply, and another low, satisfied rumble vibrated against Jongho’s stomach.
The bulge beneath Mingi’s loose covering cloth was unmistakable, straining visibly now, and Jongho felt heat rush to his face as he realized his own body mirrored that reaction.
They continued exploring, hands slipping beneath waistbands, fingers brushing and tracing with growing confidence. Clothing gradually fell away piece by piece until there was nothing left between them.
For a long moment, they simply looked.
Mingi truly was massive, broad shoulders and thick arms framing a body built of strength and power, with a dick to match that same level of power, yet his expression as he gazed down at Jongho was soft, almost shy. Jongho could not stop staring, awed and flushed all at once.
Mingi reached out and brushed a knuckle along Jongho’s cheek.
“You are beautiful,” he said again, as though it bore repeating.
They shifted into a more comfortable position, bodies pressed together fully now, skin to skin.
Jongho guided Mingi’s large hands between them, showing him how to hold both of them at once in his hand. Mingi’s breath stuttered at the contact, hips jerking faintly before he steadied himself, and Jongho was busy trying to not cum on the spot from seeing the size difference between the two of them, its not like he wasn't of at least average length, but Mingi had at least 4 inches more than him and that was enough for him to be seeing stars.
Mingi grew unexpectedly vocal as pleasure built, small whines and broken little gasps slipping past his lips, his expression turning almost unbearably pretty as his composure unraveled. Jongho could not help smiling between kisses at the discovery.
“You sound lovely,” he teased softly.
Mingi only whined again in response, burying his face against Jongho’s shoulder before lifting it to capture his mouth in another kiss.
They moved together slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, the rhythm natural and instinctive. Their sounds mingled in the quiet room, soft gasps, low rumbles, breathy laughter when one of them lost balance briefly and had to adjust.
When they finally came undone together, it was messy and sweet and accompanied by breathless laughter and lingering kisses pressed to flushed skin.
Afterward, they lay tangled for a moment, catching their breath.
Eventually, they cleaned up as best they could with a spare cloth and a little water.
Mingi examined his fingers thoughtfully, then smirked and licked his hand with exaggerated slowness.
“You taste very good,” he declared with clear satisfaction.
Jongho covered his face, groaning. “You are impossible.”
Mingi only laughed softly and pulled him close again, wrapping his arms securely around him.
They settled back beneath the blankets, bodies still warm and pleasantly tired, foreheads touching as sleep crept in.
Mingi pressed one last soft kiss to Jongho’s lips.
“Promise I didn't break you?” he murmured sleepily.
Jongho smiled against him.
“Not even close.”
And with that, they drifted off, tangled together, warm and content beneath the quiet watch of the moon.
~
The final morning arrived too gently.
The sea lay calm and glassy beneath a pale blue sky, and the orange tree’s branches bent low with fruit so bright they almost glowed in the sunlight. The island seemed determined to show off, as though it understood that this was a farewell day and wanted to leave its best impression.
Jongho sat beneath the familiar tree with his notebook open across his lap, pen moving in steady strokes while Mingi rested comfortably against his shoulder. Over the weeks, Mingi had grown astonishingly good at cuddling. He no longer perched stiffly or worried about crushing Jongho, instead, he leaned just enough of his weight to feel solid and grounding, one arm draped around Jongho’s waist while his cheek pressed to the side of his human’s head.
Mingi’s tail, currently hidden away since he was in his human form, would have been swaying lazily if it could.
The scent of citrus hung thick in the air. Ever since Mingi had started intentionally “bringing good vibes,” as he proudly called it, the oranges had flourished in ridiculous abundance. The branches sagged with them, glossy and fragrant.
“You are writing about me again,” Mingi said suddenly, peeking sideways at the page with open curiosity.
Jongho smiled but angled the notebook just out of sight.
“I am writing about the island,” he corrected lightly.
Mingi squinted at him, unconvinced.
Over the past weeks, Jongho’s notes had grown…warmer. He had kept his language professional enough for any research board that might one day read it, carefully referring to the location as a geological and ecological anomaly, avoiding specifics that would raise immediate alarm. He described unusual growth patterns, unexplained fruiting cycles, strange atmospheric fluctuations.
He did not explicitly write "resident dragon with golden eyes and a pout that I'd gladly let dismantle my entire life."
But he came close.
He wrote of “a sentient guardian presence,” of “intelligent cooperation with environmental shifts,” and occasionally, when Mingi was dozing against him like he was now, he jotted down smaller observations.
Displays affection physically. Responsive to praise. Enjoys when horns are stroked.
He paused, glancing down at Mingi, whose eyes had fluttered closed again.
Mingi truly had become the sweetest loverboy. He had practiced flirting with endearing determination, sometimes whispering dramatic compliments in Jongho’s ear with exaggerated bravado, sometimes growing shy halfway through and dissolving into giggles. He had grown bolder with kisses, more confident in his touch, yet he remained impossibly gentle, as though Jongho were still something precious he feared might shatter.
Mingi shifted, lifting his head slightly so he could look up at Jongho’s face.
“Do you really have to leave today?” he asked.
The question carried a soft, pretty pout that tugged at Jongho’s heart immediately.
Jongho’s pen stilled.
He looked down, meeting Mingi’s gaze, and there it was, the same sadness reflected back at him that he felt in his own chest.
“I do,” he said quietly.
Mingi’s brows drew together. “Why not just stay?”
It was such a simple question, delivered with genuine hope, that it made Jongho’s throat tighten.
He closed his notebook and set it aside, giving Mingi his full attention.
“If it were only about what I wanted,” he admitted, brushing a thumb gently across Mingi’s cheek, “I might consider it.”
Mingi perked up slightly at that, hopeful.
“But I have responsibilities back home,” Jongho continued. “People expecting reports. Research that matters. I cannot disappear without consequence.”
Mingi’s expression dimmed, but he listened carefully.
“I love being here,” Jongho added softly. “And I would stay if I could. You…are something worth staying for.”
That made Mingi freeze.
Then, slowly, he puffed up, shoulders squaring proudly, golden eyes gleaming.
“I am?” he asked, clearly trying not to grin too widely.
“You are,” Jongho confirmed.
Mingi broke into a bright laugh and leaned up to plant a firm, cheerful kiss on Jongho’s lips, sealing the declaration like a promise.
“Then you can visit,” Mingi declared confidently. “As much as you want. I will still be here. Very worth it.”
Jongho laughed softly, pulling him into a hug.
“I promise I will come back,” he said into Mingi’s hair.
And he meant it.
They packed together later that morning, Mingi insisting on helping with intense seriousness. He folded clothing with careful precision, occasionally pausing to sniff a shirt before placing it into the bag, as though committing the scent to memory. He double-checked supplies, counted notebooks twice, and made Jongho confirm that he had enough water for the trip.
Before they left for the shore, Mingi plucked one last orange from the tree.
“You cannot go without finishing one more,” he insisted.
They sat side by side, sharing it slowly. This time, Mingi peeled it and offered the first slice with exaggerated politeness. Jongho took it normally, though he did not miss the playful glint in Mingi’s eye.
When the last segment was gone, silence settled between them, heavy but not unbearable.
At the water’s edge, the small boat waited.
They stood facing each other for a long moment, waves lapping softly against the shore.
“This is only for now,” Mingi said firmly, though his voice wavered just slightly.
“Only for now,” Jongho agreed.
Their farewell kiss was long and unhurried, hands gripping tightly as though memorizing the shape of one another. When they finally pulled apart, Mingi pressed his forehead to Jongho’s.
“Come back soon,” he whispered.
“I will,” Jongho promised.
He climbed into the boat with reluctance pulling at every step. As the vessel drifted away from shore, he stood at the back, watching Mingi grow smaller against the bright line of sand.
Mingi waved both arms dramatically until distance swallowed detail, and allowing for Jongho to casually miss the way the water started to ripple following the boat.
An hour into the journey, the island had faded into a hazy shape behind him. Jongho finally sat down, heart heavy, and reached into one of his bags to retrieve his journal.
His fingers brushed against something warm.
He frowned.
Carefully, he parted the fabric inside.
Curled snugly among his folded clothes lay a very familiar little dragon-lizard, tail wrapped around himself, golden eyes peeking up with unmistakable smugness of a dragon that had swam its way back into Jongho's life.
Mingi tilted his tiny head and attempted what was clearly meant to be a charming smirk.
Jongho stared.
“You absolute menace,” he breathed.
Mingi chirped softly.
Glancing around to ensure no one was watching too closely, Jongho hurried toward a more secluded corner of the boat, shielding the small dragon with his body. Once certain they were unobserved, he whispered urgently, “Transform. Slowly.”
The little dragon shimmered, stretching and unfolding until Mingi stood before him in human form once more, slightly cramped but grinning triumphantly.
“I could not just stay behind,” Mingi said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “The island can defend itself from the mean crabs. It will be fine.”
Jongho could only laugh, relief flooding him so quickly it left him dizzy.
“You snuck into my bag.”
“Yes.”
“You planned this.”
“Yes.”
“You are unbelievable.”
Mingi stepped forward and wrapped him in a tight hug.
“I belong with you,” he said simply.
Jongho hugged him back just as fiercely.
The sea stretched wide around them, the future uncertain and vast, but suddenly it did not feel frightening.
“We will figure it out,” Jongho said softly. “All of it.”
Mingi smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.
“Yes,” he agreed brightly. “We will live together. Somewhere with many oranges.”
Jongho laughed against his mouth.
“Deal.”
And as the boat carried them forward toward a new chapter neither had planned but both welcomed eagerly, they stood wrapped in each other’s arms, already dreaming of the life they would build, full of research notes, bright fruit, warm cuddles, and a dragon who refused to be left behind.
~