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.

"I have a crush on you," she says bluntly. No preamble, no build-up. 

"I know," you reply back.

"It's stupid."

"It's not stupid." You lean back, try to find some comfortable distance. "It's just—"

“Inconvenient?"

"Something like that."

"I'm not asking for anything," she reassures. "I know you have Winter. I know you're—you're you, and I'm just some girl you fucked, and I know that's all it was supposed to be. I know that."

"But?"

She bites her lip. Hesitates. Then:

"But I can't stop thinking about you."

She’s in deep, huh.

"Minju." You say her name gently. "What do you want?"

She flinches. "That's a loaded question."

"Answer it anyway."

She’s quiet for a good, long moment. You watch her wrestle with something, watch her almost speak and then think better of it, watch her finally settle on whatever version of the truth she can afford to give.

"I want one night," she says. "Just one."

Perfect, you think.

“One night, is doable—”

“Of being my boyfriend.”

That one, not so much.

“Minju—

"I know, I know," She shakes her head, frustrated with herself. "I know you're not mine. I know I'm not yours. I just want to pretend. For a few hours. I want to go on a date, a real date, with someone who makes me feel—" her voice cracks, "—the way you do."

What am I going to do with this girl?

You should say no. You should be responsible, adult about this, draw the boundary she clearly needs you to draw. She's already too attached; indulging this will only make it worse. 

But Minju's looking at you like you're the only thing in the room, and you remember the way she'd trembled underneath you, the way she'd said your name like a prayer, the way she'd looked at you and only you even when Winter was doing things that should have commanded anyone's full attention.

"Okay," you hear yourself say. "One night."

Her eyes go wide. "Really?"

“Yes, really.”

She fails at hiding her smile, at just how happy she is for a tentative yes.

“O–okay,” she stammers. “How does this go then?”

You rack your brain for a quick idea. 

"Dinner," you say. "Dessert. A walk somewhere pretty. Then some sex, maybe."

"That sounds," Minju begins, wobbly in a way that has nothing to do with arousal, "perfect."

You pretend not to notice as she wipes her eye with the back of hand. You let her have this small dignity, this moment of composure, because you suspect she'll need it for when all’s said and done.

"So," you say, standing and offering your hand. "Where does my girlfriend want to eat?"

She visibly squirms at it: being called your girlfriend, and freezes, staring at your outstretched hand like it's a miracle. She takes it—after a while—hand cold, fingers trembling, trying her absolute hardest to keep her composure and looking completely adorable as she does.

"There's this Italian place—" she breaks from her trance, “—around the corner. I've been wanting to go forever, but—" she shrugs, "—I didn't have anyone to go with."

"Well," you say, tugging her gently to her feet, "you do now."

It’s laughably like a romcom, how she stumbles into you. How you catch her by her waist, get a whiff of her berried perfume—how she looks up at you and makes you forget—just for a moment—that this is all pretend.

"Thanks," she whispers, blushing.

God, it’s so cliché.

"Don't thank me yet." You let her go, but her hand stays in yours. "I'm a terrible boyfriend. Just ask Winter."

"I'll take my chances,” she smiles. And you think once again that this is a mistake, that you shouldn’t butter her up like this—that you should fuck her, and her let her move on in the post-nut-clarity or whatever her equivalent to it is.

But you’re in a little too deep to let her down easy now.

*

To be clear, Winter is okay with this. 

Minjeongie🤍Omg that’s so cute

And infinitely better than a pump and dump

It’ll still hurt

But probably a bit less than some animalistic sex into fuck off combo

Yeah, that's fair. 

What isn’t is how Minju very obviously lied about never coming here. She greets the waitress by name, winks at her when she gestures to the man on her arm (you), and makes small talk as you’re led to your seats. You excuse her, though, you’ve only ever really seen her undone and desperate; seeing her homey like this is comforting, in a way.

“So,” she says as the waitress leaves the two of you. “Get to know me.”

“I know you.”

She reads your mind. “Knowing how I look while I cum is completely different.” She says it matter-of-factly, no blush or embarrassment. She’s at complete ease.

"Okay." You lean back, study her gorgeous features. "Favorite movie?" 

“Train to Busan.”

“Wow.”

"I know, I know—everyone expects some sappy romance, but there's something about a good zombie apocalypse that just hits right."

"You cry at the end?"

"Every single time,” she declares. "The dad scene? When he's falling and thinking about his daughter? Devastating. I'm a mess. Full sobbing, snot everywhere, the whole thing."

You file that image away: Park Minju, mascara-streaked and wrecked not by your cock but by a zombie movie. It's unexpectedly charming.

"I'll have to watch it with you sometime."

The second it leaves your mouth, you realize what you've said. Sometime. As if there will be a later. As if this is anything more than tonight.

But Minju doesn't catch it—or if she does, she doesn't let on. She just lights up, all that impossible brightness focused entirely on you.

“Favourite colour? Pets? Pineapple on pizza?” you ask, swiftly moving on.

"Green," she says. “A dog back home. And it absolutely does not."

"Green?"

"My favorite color. It's calming."

"You're a liar. Your favorite color's pink."

"How do you—" She stops. Lightbulb. "Oh.” Smirks. “That and I thought you’d like it.”

“I did.” Did very much like it when she dropped her skirt that night to reveal pretty pink lace.

“Good,” she smiles. “Very good.”

Before you’re able to pull on that thread the waitress appears again, takes your orders—pasta for her, something with seafood for you, a bottle of red you pretend to know something about and you fall into easy conversation after that. Favourite books, tv shows, music, hobbies. It’s nice.

"You're staring," she accuses halfway through her second glass, but she's smiling into it.

"You're worth staring at."

She groans, setting the wine down with exaggerated exasperation. "You can't just say things like that. I'll get used to it, and then what am I supposed to do when you go back to being—" She stops herself, waves a hand. "Never mind. Not thinking about that. Tonight, you're mine."

"Yours," you agree, because it costs nothing and means everything to her.

The food arrives, and Minju spends a solid five minutes taking photos of it from every angle. Not for social media, she explains, but for her. "I want to remember this," she says, far softer and far more vulnerable than she probably intended.

*

Dinner turns to dessert—a shared tiramisu that she insists on feeding to you in addition to all the photo’s she takes. It’s barely arrived on your table when you find a fork hovering expectantly in front of your closed mouth.

“I’m not gonna be fed, Minju,” you dismiss neutrally. 

“Oh really?” She draws it out. “Not being a very good boyfriend, now are you?”

“You’re going to play that game?” you ask, amused. 

“Yup. Thought I was dating a gentleman.”

“If you insist,” you concede, opening your mouth. 

She’s delighted by your compliance, giggling when you return the favour—making a real show of licking the fork clean. 

This freaking girl.

“So,” she starts, feeding herself the dessert now, “where to after this?”

“Dunno,” you shrug. “Tonight’s your night.”

“And if I want you to choose?”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“You’re a big boy,” she laughs. “I believe in you.”

“Theres a market open nearby,” you suggest. It’s safe, easy.

“Sounds lovely,” she breathily remarks. You could have said anything and she would have reacted the same.

“Then, shall we?” you ask, noticing the empty tub of tiramisu. 

Minju goes red with embarrassment. You smile to reassure her. 

“Uh, one last thing first.” She reaches into her purse, pulls out her phone and turns away from you. “Can I?” she asks softly.

You don’t really have a choice.

“Of course.”

And with that she brightens again, angling her phone to get the perfect shot.

“Say cheese!”

“Cheese!” you say in unison as her phone shutter clicks.

She stares at the result like it’s the most precious thing in the world. 

“Thanks,” says softly, eyes never moving from the picture. 

“W—would you like me to send you it?” She breaks from her trance.

You smile. Reminding yourself of the situation “Probably best not to.”

“Right,” she says simply. But she’s obviously a little hurt.“Probably best not to.”

She goes to put her phone back into her purse, lingering there for a moment, no doubt wanting to sneak a glance at the photo one more time.

"Come on," you say, standing and offering your hand. "Market's waiting."

She grabs it with one hand, but the other still lingers on her phone, and you can’t help but think:

Maybe this wasn’t the best way to let her down easy.