DOWN EASY - PART ONE

So, minor problem:

Park Minju has a crush on you.

“It’s kinda cute,” Winter remarks, nuzzling up to you in bed. She’s warm in that post-coital way, tracing patterns into your bare chest—hearts, maybe. Stars. “You take her virginity, fuck her silly, make her cum one or twice—”

“Three times,” you clarify. Minju had been very vocal about it, and the way Winter playfully rolls her eyes is always worth the correction.

“Three times,” she corrects, all drawn out, “And she's already head over heels.”

“It’s a problem.”

“It’s also cute.”

“It’s also a problem.”

Winter shifts onto her elbow, letting the blanket slip to expose a modest handful to the morning light. “I don’t see what’s wrong with it,” she shrugs. “She’s pretty, sex-crazed—the perfect little thing to add to the regular rotation.”

“She doesn’t care much for you,” you explain.

And she doesn’t. That’s the crux of it, really. Barely laid so much as a finger on Winter in three whole hours. Both of those big, doe eyes were fixed on you like you were the light of her life—like Winter’s merely an accessory to you. She may as well have been part of the furniture—a very pretty, very patient part of said furniture, but furniture nonetheless. It’s crazy: you’ve seen your girlfriend work miracles—make actresses weep, made idols break—so seeing her treated like an afterthought just doesn’t sit right with you.

You don’t really want to tell her how to feel, but truly,“it sucks not seeing you appreciated.”

“Well, I'm glad you still hold me in such high regard considering all the pretty women we’ve fucked.” She jokes, of course, but there’s sincerity in the way she traces a thumb down your face like she has many times before. 

“Anyhow,” she continues, sliding that same hand down your chest, your stomach, even lower, “I’m totally okay with it if you want a—” her hands reach their target: your recently used morning wood, “—one-on-one session with her.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” you say as she starts slowly stroking. “But only to tell her she needs to back down and move on.”

“And to fuck her,” she punctuates with a prompt pump. “I know you’d like to,” she adds on in a purr.

“Fine,” you concede—of course you want to fuck her. It’s a given—Minju’s gorgeous—preposterously so. But it’s complicated—always is when feelings get involved. “Fuck her, then tell her to fuck off.”

“Not that harsh, I hope?”

“I’m gonna fuck her,” you laugh, “I think that qualifies as letting her down easy.”

Winter hums, satisfied. “Then you have my blessing to let her down easy. And fuck her brains out—” she presses a kiss to your cheek, “—on the condition you fuck mine out first.”

You send her a smirk.

“I can work with that.”

*

The cafe is somewhat pretentious. 

You’d suggested something neutral—a park bench, a parking lot, fuck an alleyway if it meant keeping this brief—but Minju insisted on this miserably chic establishment in all it’s voguish glory.

She’s already there, tucked into a velvet armchair, nursing some matcha, wavy hair cascading down a shoulder. Then, her dress, arguably a bit too short for Tuesday coffe—or just short enough, depending on your perspective. 

You try not to look—not to stare—but at the end of it all she’s Park Minju, and you’re a massive fucking pervert.

She perks up when you approach—it’s in sharp contrast to how you’re looking at her—gorgeous luminous eyes growing ever wider as completely lights up for you.

God, this is going to be hard.

"You came," she says, and it's stupid—of course you came—but the way she says it makes it sound like a miracle.

“I said I would.” 

"I know, but—" She shrugs, sighs, stares into the void. "Sometimes people don't."

You don’t know what to say to that. 

And you guess she notices because you’re barely halfway through sitting down when—

"I ordered you a cappuccino," she blurts. "I hope that's okay. You seemed like a cappuccino person? Which sounds insane because what does that even mean, being a cappuccino person, but I just—I wanted to get you something, and I didn't know if you'd even show up, and I couldn't just sit here doing nothing, so—"

"Minju," you try and cut in.

"—I asked the barista what he recommended and he gave me this whole spiel about bean origins and roast profiles and I honestly stopped listening after the first ten seconds because I was too nervous, but then I thought cappuccino seems safe, right? Everyone likes a cappuccino, it's got the foam and the—"

"Minju,” you try again, clasping your hands around hers. “Calm down.”

She swallows. Shakes her head. Takes a sip of her drink. And, with her free hand, tucks her hair behind her ears.

It's such a small gesture, and yet so at odds with the woman who'd been screaming your name three nights ago, legs wrapped around your waist, nails digging into your back. It’s a remarkable contrast.

Because here she is, shy as can be.

“Sorry,” she says meekly.

“You look nice,” you provide, an attempt to calm her down.

And apparently that’s all she needs.

"Just nice?” She fires back immediately.

"Devastating," you amend, because it's true and because lying seems cruel at this point. "You look devastating."

She ducks her head, but the smile doesn't hide. "You're such a flirt."

No, you think. Not with you, I shouldn’t be.

But you order her another drink and talk with her anyway—about her week, about the comeback she’s working on, about a friend who said something thoughtless and another friend who said something kind. 

You try to wait for a lull in the conversation before you stop her.

She beats you to it.