Stray Kids one shots || honeyndwild

Minho | Monday morning

Monday is a hard day, and Minho sighs exhaustedly, stretching in his seat.

The computer screen blinds his eyes. The water in the cooler seems too cold and the chair, too hard and uncomfortable. And overall, all he wants to do is to return to Sunday, when the morning was warm and slow. When the sun was up, and he was still in your bed, tangled between bedsheets, someone really warm and important breathing heavily into his collarbones.

But money doesn't grow on the trees, and as the weekend goes by, Minho returns to the office. Fortunately, you are only two tables away from him.

The emails keep arriving, the coffee in his paper cup keeps cooling down, and Minho tries to concentrate. But his thoughts drift to places.

To the said Sunday morning, for example. The night, spent in the club. Muscles, sore after hours of dancing. Head, spinning after all those cocktails. Lips, swollen and sticky, because of all those long kisses, and your freaking red lipstick that you were shamelessly applying the whole evening all over again. Minho loved weekends like this, they were your small treasure, your small, tiring tradition that always had one predictable ending.

A new email pops on his screen, but Minho just thoughtlessly stares at it, crossing his arms on his chest. The memories of the Sunday morning hypnotizes him, not letting him go.

The first thing he saw that morning was the top of your head. That night you fall asleep on his chest, allowing yourself something you never did before. Your cheek was pleasantly warm against his skin, your hair, all over his face, trying to get into his mouth. But it was nothing compared to the big something that was rising in his chest when his sleepy mind was slowly processing things.

Minho swears he can feel the warmth of your back under his palms as if he's touching it right now. The monitor in front of his eyes becomes blurry, his cheeks become warmer, but he doesn't pay any attention.

The clocks above his head turn to 1 pm, announcing lunchtime. Minho's still daydreaming when the chairs around him start moving, people getting up, stretching, running to the doors, excitedly chatting about the food. He wakes up only when someone brushes their hand over his shoulder, throwing something about being late for the cafeteria.

His eyes dash away to you, a lonely crouched figure in the middle of the empty office. The words get stuck in his throat, but he still pushes them out, not too loud, just enough for you to hear them, "I'll stay here for the lunch. Want to join?"

He waits for your answer, stares at your figure, the blood in his veins boiling with impatience. And when you finally glance at him, smiling with the corners of your lips, he feels like on the clouds.

"I want pasta," you whisper, turning your chair to face him. "And you?"

"Same."

"Same?"

"Yeah, pasta and you," he can't help a soft chuckle from leaving his lips when he catches your fiery glance. "What?"

"Nothing, Lee Minho," you roll your eyes, quickly grabbing your phone that doesn't go unnoticed by Minho. "I'll place an order then. I know a good place."

"I'll pay you with a make-out session. Deal?"

It takes him all the willpower he has to not laugh at your red ears, your angry stares that are now burning holes in his chest. But he still chokes on his coffee when he notices you mouthing "fuck you" and licking your oh-so-kissable lips. And he hopes, the delivery man will be late. Because now he finally has a chance to make his Monday a little bit more acceptable.