minsung one shots

the ride

ⁿᵒᵗ ʳᵉᵠᵘᵉˢᵗᵉᵈ
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fluff / 1556
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the restaurant was the kind of place that whispered wealth. everything from the polished cutlery to the ambient lighting spoke of curated elegance.

minho sat at the head of a long walnut table, flanked by two senior partners from his firm–jiyoon, who always knew exactly when to laugh; taesoo, who dressed sharp and talked sharper–and, across from them, three high-profile clients from a major international tech conglomerate.

tonight was important - months of groundwork, negotiation, and gentle maneuvering had led to this final dinner. the deal was on the table. it was minho’s job to make sure it was signed by dessert.

he was good at this. no–he was exceptional. years of practice had taught him how to manage a room, how to laugh at the right moment without seeming too eager, how to ask questions that made people feel important, seen.

he dressed the part too: sharp navy suit, tailored within a millimeter of perfection, silver cufflinks, a dark tie with the softest sheen that caught the candlelight when he moved. every detail intentional. nothing ever out of place.

his wine glass was half-full. he hadn’t taken more than a few polite sips. he never drank much on the job. one of the clients—mr. seo - was finishing a story about a retreat in jeju, and everyone around the table was laughing.

minho smiled, timed, polished, the kind that said i’m listening, and i’m charming, and you’re going to sign this contract tonight because you trust me.

underneath the table, his phone buzzed once. he ignored it.

two minutes later, it buzzed again. and again.

finally, when mr. seo turned his attention to one of the senior partners, minho slid his hand discreetly into his pocket and pulled out his phone, tilting the screen low.

[3 new messages from jisung]

“hey”
“don’t leave yet”
“wait outside”

minho blinked.

what?

his fingers moved quickly under the table.

“why?”

he waited.

no response.

typical.

he sighed, slipped the phone away, and returned to the table just as dessert was being served–individual plates with miniature towers of something deconstructed and artfully plated, garnished with edible flowers and streaks of sauce that looked more like paint than food.

the hard part was over. the contracts were agreed on, the terms verbally confirmed, the lawyers happy. now it was just social grace and a pleasant exit. minho could already feel the beginnings of tension draining from his shoulders.

his phone buzzed again, but this time he didn’t check it. not yet.

once the coffee had been poured and the conversation mellowed into talk of golf and family vacations, minho finally glanced at his phone under the table.