Minho is your husband. Married, settled, and usually annoyingly responsible about his routine. Every weekday morning follows the same pattern. Alarm, shower, coffee, keys, out the door. He is already dressed for work now, buttoning his shirt while checking the time on his phone, completely unaware that you are watching him with other plans in mind.

You slip closer under the excuse of fixing his collar. He barely reacts, used to your touch, until your lips press just a little too deliberately against his neck. He exhales sharply, hand bracing against the counter.

“What are you doing,” he mutters, half warning, half amused.

You don’t answer. You take your time instead. When you finally pull back, his skin is marked, unmistakable and impossible to hide. Minho stares at his reflection, jaw tightening as realization hits.

“I have meetings today,” he says flatly, though his voice is strained.