Chapter Text
"Lee Minho hates me. He actually hates me," I groan, dragging a hand down my face like I can physically wipe this day away.
"You've been working there for three hours," Felix says flatly, not even looking up from his drink. "How do you manage that?"
I shove his drink across the counter a little harder than necessary—sickeningly sweet, buried under whipped cream like always.
Felix, my best friend, showed up to support me on my first day.
Which is great.
Except now he gets to witness my professional downfall in real time.
"I'm apparently too loud," I start, counting on my fingers.
"Correct," Felix says immediately.
"I dropped an entire bag of coffee beans."
"Classic Ji."
"I tried to organize the back room and completely destroyed whatever system he had going on. Felix, it made no sense. Things were just—everywhere."
Felix snorts. "Okay, yeah, that one's on you. Maybe don't reorganize anything else. Just... exist quietly. Do your job. Survive."
I grumble under my breath but nod, turning to the next customer as Felix wanders off to a booth, fully prepared to watch this unfold like it's live entertainment.
I'm halfway through making an iced americano, chatting lightly with the customer—because silence is uncomfortable and I refuse to just stand here like a robot—when a voice cuts in behind me.
Cold. Sharp.
"I don't remember paying you to host a talk show."
I jerk so hard I don't even register what I've done until it's too late.
The cup slips.
Ice. Coffee.
Everywhere.
Directly onto Lee Minho.
Time stops.
I stop.
Breathing becomes optional.
I am dead.
I am fired.
I am going to be fired and then immediately pass away.
"I—oh my god—I am so sorry, Mr. Lee, I didn't mean to—" I grab a towel and step forward, hands shaking as I try to dab at his shirt, which is now completely soaked.
"Han. Stop."
His voice isn't loud.
That's worse.
I freeze.
"I'll handle it," he says, stepping back, putting space between us like I'm the problem. Like I am the problem.
My face burns so hot I swear I could steam milk without a machine.
"I'm so sorry, sir."
"Clean this up," he says, already turning away. "Remake the drink. And try not to waste any more product."
Each word lands like a slap.
Then he's gone, disappearing into his office, the door shutting behind him with a quiet, final click.
I blink hard, vision stinging.
Great.
Fantastic.
Love this for me.
"Hey, hey—" Jeongin appears at my side like a lifeline. "I've got this. You've got some on you too, go clean up. It's okay."
It's not okay.
But Jeongin is—objectively—the kindest person alive, so I nod anyway.
"Thanks, Innie."
I escape to the back before anyone can see how close I am to losing it.
It doesn't take long to clean myself up. A few splashes, a paper towel, a deep breath I don't really feel.
But I can't just... leave it like that.
I have to apologize. Properly.
I can't lose this job on day one.
I knock once before pushing the office door open—
—and stop.
Completely.
Lee Minho stands in front of his desk, shirt off, a clean one draped over his shoulders, unbuttoned.
And—
Okay.
Yeah.
He's attractive.
That's been established.
Sharp features, unfairly pretty eyes, that soft-cat expression that doesn't match his personality at all—
—but his body—
He's built. Defined. Lean muscle, like he actually does something with his life other than ruin mine.
And then—
I see it.
A scar.
Across his stomach. Slightly to the left. A few inches long, not perfectly straight—just enough of a curve to make it distinct.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
My brain stutters.
No.
No, that's—
My eyes snap back up to his face.
Those eyes—
"What are you doing in here, Han?"
His tone is clipped. Controlled. Already annoyed.
"Get back to work."
"I—I just—" Heat floods my face, humiliation crashing back in full force. "I'm really sorry. For earlier. I can pay for the cleaning or you can take it out of my check or—whatever you need. I just—I didn't mean to—"
He doesn't respond right away.
Just buttons his shirt. One button at a time.
Measured.
Unbothered.
"You'll be more careful next time," he says finally.
Not a question.
A warning.
"Yes, sir."
"Then we're done here."
Dismissed.
Just like that.
I practically trip over myself getting out of the office.
Work passes in a blur after that.
I don't talk.
I don't joke.
I barely breathe.
By the time my break hits, I'm halfway to losing my mind.
I shove into the back room, pull out my phone, and open an app I know very well.
Muscle memory.
Habit.
Comfort.
My favorite creator loads instantly.
@lino.afterdark
And there it is.
A new post.
My stomach drops.
In the photo, he's shirtless. Jeans riding low on his hips, teasing just enough. The lighting is soft, shadows catching on every line of muscle—
—and there it is.
The scar.
Clear as day.
My boss.
My asshole boss—
—is him.
I've watched him.
More times than I can count.
I've seen him naked.
Seen him work himself apart on camera, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he's doing to people watching.
Fuck.
Fuck.
"How am I supposed to look him in the eye now?" I whisper to myself, horrified.
My thumb hovers as I read the caption.
"if you made the mess, you'd clean it up for me... wouldn't you?"
Oh, I'm not surviving this.
—
But I do.
Somehow.
At least, I survive the day.
By the time I get home, I'm running on autopilot. Shoes kicked off somewhere near the door, bag dropped without care—I end up standing in front of my fridge, staring inside like it might suddenly offer me guidance.
It doesn't.
Of course it doesn't.
My phone buzzes in my hand, pulling me out of it.
I open it without thinking.
lino.afterdark: livestream tonight at 10PM, don't miss it ;)
I let out a long, slow groan, dropping my forehead lightly against the fridge door.
Fuck.
Normally, I'd be excited. I'd already be planning around it, maybe even a little too eager.
But now—
Now I know.
And I don't know what to do with that.
Weirded out?
Excited?
A little overwhelmed?
All of the above?
"Should I tell him?" I mutter to myself, already shaking my head. "Absolutely not."
Hey, just so you know, I've been subscribed to your cam account for two years and— yeah. No. Not happening.
I push off the fridge and start making ramen, more for something to do than because I'm actually hungry, dialing Felix as I go.
He answers immediately.
"Spill any more coffee today?"
I close my eyes.
"I hate you."
"Answer the question."
"No. Just the one," I sigh. "But..."
I can practically hear him perk up.
"But what?"
I hesitate for half a second before giving in.
"You know lino.afterdark?"
"The cam guy you're obsessed with?" Felix says instantly. "The one I introduced you to after your breakup?"
I nod. "Yeah. Him. Well... he's—"
I take a breath.
"—he's Lee Minho."
Silence.
Then—
"YOUR BOSS LEE MINHO?"
"Yes!"
"How do you even know that?!"
I rush through it—the spill, the soaked shirt, him changing, the scar, the post, the same office, the same jeans—
Felix lets out a disbelieving laugh.
"No fucking way."
"Yes way," I groan. "What do I do?"
"You said he's streaming tonight, right?"
"Yeah..."
"Watch it," Felix says. "See how you feel. If it's too weird, unsubscribe. If not... don't. Or quit. Or tell him. Or mess with him."
I stare at the stove, watching the water start to bubble.
"You just listed every possible option."
"Exactly. I'm thorough," he says. "Alright, I gotta go. Good luck."
The line clicks dead.
And just like that—
I'm alone with it.
—
Time drags.
I eat. Barely register it.
I try watching something—don't absorb a single second.
I open the app. Close it. Open it again. Close it faster.
Every thought loops back to the same thing.
Minho.
Lino.
Minho.
Lino.
By the time I check the clock again, it's 9:58.
My stomach flips.
This is ridiculous.
I'm just watching.
That's it.
The second it hits 10:00, the stream goes live.
And there he is.
Lino.
Lee Minho.
Owner of a cat café.
Cam model.
The mask is on—sleek, black, covering everything but his eyes and lips. It makes him look even more composed. More in control.
"I hope everyone had a better day than I did," he says, voice smooth—almost playful.
The comments flood instantly.
what happened
who do i need to fight
i'll make it better for you
He huffs out a quiet laugh, head tilting.
"Mm, I don't know if you can fix it," he teases, eyes scanning the chat. "But I'm open to being convinced."
My stomach drops.
"Had a new employee spill coffee all over me today," he continues, tone light—but there's something under it. Amusement. Interest. "Like... completely soaked."
My entire body goes rigid.
"And then—" he pauses, lips twitching like he's holding something back, "—he tried to clean me up."
His gaze sharpens just slightly.
"I had to stop him," he adds, softer now. "Couldn't exactly let that continue."
A beat.
Then—
"Would've gotten... distracting."
He smirks.
I choke.
Heat floods my face instantly.
"Oh?" he hums, reading the chat. "You think I should've let him?"
His tongue presses briefly against his lip, considering.
"He was cute," he says casually.
I stop breathing.
Completely.
"Mmm," he continues, shifting slightly in his seat. "I want to feel better."
His hand drifts down, slow and deliberate, palming himself through his boxers.
"And I've been very good all day," he adds, voice dipping lower. "Didn't get what I wanted."
The way he says it—
It's not frustration.
It's restraint.
Like he's used to holding himself back.
Like he expects to.
"So," he murmurs, tilting his head, eyes half-lidded. "Tell me, how would you make me feel better?"
The chat explodes.
But I'm not looking at them anymore.
Because something clicks.
Hard.
Lino doesn't lead.
Not really.
He teases like he does—but he always follows. Always gives in. Lets himself be guided, told what to do, pushed where to go.
And Minho?
Minho controls everything.
At work. In his tone. In the way he moves.
He doesn't let go.
Ever.
Oh.
Oh.
My pulse spikes.
He doesn't need someone to ask what he wants.
He needs someone who won't.
Before I can overthink it, I'm typing.
For the first time in two years.
saywhenji: you don't want suggestions. you want someone who'll take control of you.
My breath catches as I hit send.
What the fuck—
I look up just in time to see it.
The moment he reads it.
He stills.
Just for a second.
But it's there.
His ears tint pink.
His lips part slightly.
"Mmm," he hums, slower now. Softer.
His hand presses more firmly against himself.
"I think..." he says, eyes lingering—focused—"you might be right."
A small inhale.
"I'd like that," he admits, voice dropping. "Someone who doesn't ask. Just... knows."
My stomach flips.
And just like that—
I'm not nervous anymore.
saywhenji: you've been in control all day. give it up.
There's a brief pause while Minho reads it.
Then—
A smirk slowly takes over his lips.
"Mmm," he hums, voice lighter now, edged with something playful. "Someone's bossy."
My pulse spikes.
Before I can second guess it—
saywhenji: and you like it. now be a good boy and touch yourself.
Minho bites his lip.
And then—
He listens.
His hand slips into his boxers this time, wrapping around himself properly, stroking slow and deliberate.
"Mmm... fuck," he exhales softly. "That feels good. I needed this."
Precum already stains the fabric, dark and obvious.
My mouth goes dry.
He was waiting.
—
saywhenji: yeah, just like that. take them off.
Minho had been half-reading other comments, responding here and there—
—but the moment mine goes through, his attention snaps back.
Locked.
On me.
He lifts his hips and pushes his boxers down, kicking them off completely. His hand wraps back around himself immediately, stroking again, slower this time, like he's letting himself feel it.
The chat explodes.
People telling him what to do. Begging. Demanding.
But I can see it.
He's not really listening to them.
He's waiting.
—
I lean back slightly, a slow smirk pulling at my lips.
God.
I have him.
—
saywhenji: you're a needy thing, aren't you?
saywhenji: so eager to please.
saywhenji: bet you'd look so pretty bouncing on my lap.
The last one hits.
Hard.
Minho's hand falters for just a second.
"Fuck—" he breathes, voice catching. "I haven't... I haven't bottomed in a while."
His eyes flick to the camera.
"But for you?" he adds, softer. "I'd do anything."
My stomach tightens.
Badly.
"Bet you'd like that, huh?" he continues, voice dropping, teasing again. "See me stretched out—ass up, taking whatever I'm given?"
That does it.
I hiss, kicking off my pants and boxers, hand wrapping around myself, already half-hard and aching.
—
saywhenji: then do it. stretch yourself out for me.
Minho's lips part.
He glances at the chat—but only briefly.
"I don't know..." he teases, blinking slowly. "Should I?"
The chat floods with yeses.
Donations start rolling in.
—
saywhenji: sent $50
USER1: sent $150
USER2: sent $20
USER3: sent $75
I wince slightly.
I shouldn't have sent that.
I definitely shouldn't have sent that.
But—
Fuck.
It's him.
—
Minho reaches off-screen, grabbing the lube.
When he shifts back into frame, he's turned—knees on the bed, back arched, ass up for the camera.
My breath catches.
And then—
He listens.
He presses a lubed finger back, pushing in slowly, a low moan slipping from his lips.
"F-fuck..." he stutters. "Haven't done this in—fuck—so long..."
His head drops slightly, body reacting to the stretch.
"Forgot how good it feels..."
My grip tightens.
He looks up again.
Right at the camera.
Right at me.
"C-can I add another?"
The chat answers immediately.
Yes. Do it. Please.
But I see it.
He's waiting.
—
saywhenji: good boy. add another. slow.
Minho exhales shakily—and obeys.
A second finger slides in beside the first, stretching himself open. He lets out a soft, broken sound, hips rocking slightly as he adjusts.
His fingers start to move.
Slow at first.
Then deeper.
—
saywhenji: that's it. now another. I want to see you work for it.
He whines.
Actually whines.
But he still does it.
A third finger pushes in, and this time his pace breaks—faster, rougher, chasing something.
The moment he hits it—
"Ah—fuck—!" he cries out, head dropping forward, body trembling.
That sound goes straight through me.
I finally push my hand down fully, stroking myself properly now, breath uneven as I watch him fall apart.
Sweat builds along his skin.
His free hand grips the sheets hard, knuckles going white.
He's not reading chat anymore.
Not really.
He's just—
Doing what I told him to.
And it's so fucking hot.
—
Minho looks up again, eyes glassy now, lips parted, spit catching at the corner.
"C-can I come?" he asks, voice wrecked. "Please—"
The chat explodes again.
Yes. No. Wait. More.
He doesn't look at them.
He looks at the camera.
At me.
—
saywhenji: come for me. jerk yourself off while you do it.
That's all it takes.
His hand moves fast—three, maybe four strokes—
And then he's coming.
Hard.
Spilling across his stomach and sheets, groaning low as his body finally gives out.
He pulls his fingers out with a wet sound that sends me over immediately after him.
I come with a broken gasp, hand tightening as I ride it out, vision going hazy.
—
saywhenji: good boy.
—
Minho breathes heavily for a moment, then slowly gathers himself.
"T-thank you for tonight," he says, voice still a little wrecked—but lighter again, slipping back into that performer ease.
He wipes his hands off, then crawls closer to the camera.
"It's my birthday in two weeks," he adds with a small smile. "So I'll be posting something every day leading up to it."
His eyes glint.
"Make sure you're subscribed to VIP if you want to see everything. Otherwise..." he shrugs lightly, teasing, "you'll miss the best parts."
He leans in slightly.
"And I'll be putting up a poll for a new toy," he adds. "So vote. I expect good choices."
A soft laugh.
"See you next time."
He blows a kiss.
Then the stream cuts.
—
My heart is pounding.
This is my boss.
My boss.
I just—
I just watched him.
Directed him.
Came with him.
And somehow—
There is no way in hell I'm unsubscribing.