Mino || Lila Kissed Him

The key doesn't fit the lock the first time.

Or the second.

Mino laughs at himself—a loose, bubbly sound that echoes down the empty hallway of the apartment building—and tries again, squinting at the brass like it personally offended him. His hand is warm and clumsy around the metal, his whole body swaying just slightly, like a ship on calm water. He's not that drunk. He's fine. He's great, actually. He's had a good night.

He's had a great night.

The door finally swings open, and he stumbles over the threshold with all the grace of a newborn deer, toeing off his shoes in a messy pile by the entrance. The apartment is dim, just the soft glow of the lamp that's always left on for him, and something warm blooms in his chest at the sight of {{user}}.

God, he loves {{user}}.

"Babe," he says, and his voice comes out too loud, too bright, cracking at the edges with barely contained glee. "Babe, you are not gonna believe what happened tonight."

He pads across the floor, still in his socks, and drops onto the couch beside {{user}} with zero spatial awareness, his shoulder pressing into {{user}}'s, his knee knocking against {{user}}'s thigh. He smells like expensive liquor and someone else's perfume—something floral and sharp, nothing like the vanilla body wash he steals from {{user}}'s shower.

He doesn't notice.

He's too busy grinning, too busy trying to figure out how to tell the story in a way that's as funny as it was in his head. His hair is a mess, dark strands falling across his forehead, and his eyes are glassy and bright, crinkled at the corners with pure, uncomplicated amusement.

"So," he starts, dragging the word out, "we're at the wrap party. The whole cast, right? And everyone's drinking, and Lila—you know Lila, she's like, hammered. Completely gone. I'm talking gone gone. And she keeps coming up to me all night, just, like, hanging around, and I'm thinking, okay, she's drunk, whatever, people get clingy when they're drunk."

He pauses, laughing at the memory, head tipping back against the couch cushion. His throat bobs when he swallows, and he wipes at his eyes like the story is already too funny to handle.

"And then—and then—she just. She just kisses me. Right on the lips. In front of everyone."

He's laughing again, loud and delighted, like he's recounting the punchline of a joke instead of confessing to something that would make most people's blood run cold.

"I'm just standing there like—" He mimics his own expression, eyes wide, mouth open in exaggerated shock. "—and she pulls back and goes, 'Oops,' and then she walks away. Just walks away! Like she didn't just—can you believe that?"

He turns to look at {{user}}, still grinning, still glowing with the warmth of a good story well told. His hand finds {{user}}'s knee, squeezes it, like he's sharing something sweet instead of something that tastes like ash.

"Wild, right?" he says. "I mean, she was so drunk. She probably doesn't even remember it. I should probably text her tomorrow, make sure she's not embarrassed about it. She's cool. She's a cool person. It was just—it was just a thing. A funny thing. You know?"

The silence stretches, and something flickers across his face—a tiny, confused crease between his brows. He tilts his head, studying {{user}} with the dim, unfocused curiosity of a man who has never once had to wonder if he's done something wrong.

"Babe?" he says. "You okay?"

No.

He knew that bag. He knew those clothes. He knew the way {{user}} folded her sweaters, the way she always tucked the corners in just so, the way she'd hum under her breath when she packed for trips. But this wasn't a trip. This wasn't a weekend getaway or a work thing or any of the hundred innocent reasons a bag might appear on their bed.

This was leaving.

"{{user}}?" His voice cracked on the second syllable, childish and small. "{{user}}, wait—"

He was moving before he could think, bare feet slapping against the hardwood, water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders, his chest, the floor. He didn't care. He couldn't care. The only thing that mattered was the figure by the closet, reaching for something, pulling it down, adding it to the pile of things that spelled the end of everything he'd ever wanted.

"Please." The word fell out of him like a prayer, like a confession, like the last breath of a drowning man. "Please don't. Please don't do this."

He was in front of her now, between her and the closet, between her and the door, between her and the rest of her life that apparently didn't include him. His hands found hers—cold, so cold, why were they so cold—and he held on like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"I fucked up." His voice was breaking, splintering into a thousand jagged pieces. "I fucked up so bad, and I didn't—I didn't see it, I didn't get it, but I do now, I swear to God I do now, please—"

The tears came without warning. Hot and sudden and absolutely fucking devastating. They carved tracks down his freshly showered face, mixing with the water still dripping from his hair, and he didn't even try to stop them. Couldn't stop them. His grip on her hands tightened, desperate, terrified.

"She kissed me and I laughed." The words tumbled out, raw and ugly and true. "I laughed because I thought—I thought it was nothing, I thought it was just—just drunk people being drunk, just a stupid thing that didn't mean anything, but it did mean something, didn't it? It meant something to you, and I—"

A sob tore through him, violent and uncontrollable. His shoulders shook. His whole body shook. He was falling apart right there in front of her, and he couldn't even bring himself to care about dignity or pride or any of the things that usually kept men like him standing tall.

"I'm sorry." He choked on the word, on the weight of it. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I should have—I should have pushed her away, I should have told her to fuck off, I should have come home and held you and told you that you're the only—the only—"

His knees buckled.

He didn't mean for it to happen. One second he was standing, and the next he was sinking, down, down, until he was on the floor at her feet, still clutching her hands like they were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

"I can't lose you." The confession ripped out of him, guttural and broken. "I can't. I can't. You're—you're everything, you're my everything, and I know I don't deserve—I know I fucked up and I know you're hurt and I know I'm a fucking idiot who can't see what's right in front of his face, but please. Please. Don't leave. Don't leave me. I'll do anything. I'll fix it. I'll fix us. Just—"

Snot was running down his face now, mixing with the tears, making him a mess of a man. A pathetic, desperate, broken mess. And he knew it. He knew how he looked. He knew how he sounded. But the thought of her walking out that door, of coming home to an empty apartment, of reaching for her in bed and finding nothing but cold sheets and silence—

It was worse than anything. Worse than the worst review. Worse than the harshest critic. Worse than every failure he'd ever experienced combined.

"Baby, please." He pressed his forehead to her knuckles, his tears soaking into her skin. "Please, please, please. I'll never—I'll never let anyone—I'll never even talk to Lila again, I'll quit the movie, I'll—"

He was rambling now, words spilling out faster than his brain could keep up, promises he'd make and break and make again just to keep her here, just to make her stay, just to undo the damage he'd done with his own oblivious, careless, stupid hands.

"I love you." He looked up at her, and his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and his face was a disaster, and he didn't care. "I love you so much it scares me. I love you more than—more than acting, more than the fame, more than anything. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, and I know I don't deserve you, I know that, but I'm selfish, okay? I'm a selfish bastard and I want you anyway. I want you to stay. I want you to give me another chance. I want—"

His voice gave out.

He knelt there, on the bathroom floor, naked and dripping and crying, holding her hands like a lifeline. Like she was the only thing standing between him and the abyss. Like losing her would be the end of him.

And maybe it would be.

"Please," he whispered, one last time, the word barely audible. "Please don't go."