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The orchard behind your parents’ house was a place you’d loved since childhood. Rows of Honeycrisp and Fuji trees, sunlight pouring through the branches like liquid gold. Every autumn, you’d help your parents fill baskets until your arms ached and your cheeks flushed.
This year, though, the orchard came with something new.
Lee Minho.
The neighbor. The one who’d moved into the house next door last spring. Older, quiet, and with a smile that made your chest tighten. You’d run into him often enough. On morning walks, at the mailbox, once when he’d brought your father a toolbox, to know he was polite, dryly funny, and entirely too good-looking in a knit sweater.
He was supposed to be “just the neighbor.”
Except your heart hadn’t gotten the memo.
“Need a hand?” Minho’s voice cut through the sound of rustling leaves.
You turned, half-balancing on your tiptoes, an apple just out of reach. “I’ve got it,” you insisted, stretching further.
“You’re going to fall.”
“Then catch me.”
He snorted. But stepped closer anyway, steadying the ladder with one hand. “You shouldn’t challenge someone like that. I might take you seriously.”
You grinned down at him. “You should.”
When your fingers brushed the apple, the branch snapped, and so did your balance.
Minho caught you exactly as promised, one arm firm around your waist. For a moment, the world went quiet, just your heartbeat against his chest and the scent of crisp apples between you.
“See?” you whispered. “Told you to catch me.”
“Brat,” he murmured, but there was a smile tugging at his lips.
Later, as you sat side by side filling baskets, he broke the silence.
“You know your parents are going to ask questions.”
“About what?”
“Us,” he said simply. “You’ve been spending every weekend here.”
You fidgeted with an apple stem. “They’ll think I’m helping you with your garden again.”
“Right. Because people usually help their neighbors plant lavender at midnight.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Okay, fine. Maybe I should tell them.”
He looked at you. Properly, seriously, and the warmth in his eyes turned hesitant. “You don’t have to rush it.”
But you wanted to. You wanted to stop sneaking glances over fences and pretending your heart didn’t skip when he knocked on the door asking to borrow sugar.
“I’m not ashamed,” you mumbled. “You’re not… you’re not a secret.”
His breath hitched, the faintest blush creeping up his neck.
Your mother’s hands paused mid-dish when you finally said it:
“Mom, Dad… I’m seeing someone.”
They smiled, expectant. “Oh? Who’s the lucky guy?”
You hesitated. “You know Minho? From next door?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Your dad blinked. “The neighbor Minho?”
Your mom’s brows furrowed. “He’s… older than you, isn’t he?”
“By a few years,” you admitted. “But he’s kind, he’s patient, and—”
“And he’s our neighbor.”
You wanted to sink into the floor. “Yes. That part too.”
They exchanged glances, that quiet parental telepathy that made you feel five years old again. But your mother softened first. “Sweetheart, we just want you to be sure. You’ve always had such a big heart.”
“I am sure,” you said, meeting her gaze. “He makes me feel… calm. Like home.”
Your father sighed, not angry, just protective. “Then invite him for dinner. Let’s see this man who makes our daughter feel at home.”
Minho showed up the next evening wearing a crisp white shirt, hair neatly styled, carrying a basket of apples and a shy smile that almost broke your heart.
He was polite. Charming, even. He complimented your mother’s cooking and helped your father fix the wobbly chair leg before dessert.
Later, when you walked him out to the porch, the night air cool and full of cricket song, you whispered, “That went better than I expected.”
He brushed a stray leaf from your hair. “You mean they didn’t chase me out with a broom? I’ll take that as a win.”
You smiled. “They’ll come around. They already see how good you are.”
His hand lingered against your cheek, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth.
“Good enough for you?”
Your answer came in a soft exhale as you leaned closer.
“Yes,” you breathed, leaning into his touch, your lips parting slightly beneath his thumb. “More than.”
The word hung between you, heavy with promise and possibility. In the golden glow of the porch light, with fireflies dancing in the trees beyond, it felt like the start of something new, something real.
Minho’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then lifted again to meet your eyes. He used his other hand to find yours, threading your fingers together until you pressed close, bodies aligned.
“Then I’ll keep trying,” he murmured, voice rough. “For as long as it takes.”
And when he kissed you then, slow and sweet, it tasted like hope and homecoming all at once. Like coming back to where you belonged after far too long away.
Minho pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against yours. His breath mingled with yours in the small space between your mouths.
“I meant what I said.” His voice was soft but intense, dark eyes boring into yours. “I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.”
One hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. The other kept your joined hands trapped between your bodies, holding you close.
“You’re worth fighting for. Worth waiting for. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right between us.”
He pressed a tender kiss to your temple, then your cheekbone, trailing down to the sensitive skin just below your ear. When he spoke again, his lips brushed your earlobe.
“Tell me you feel it too. This connection, this... rightness.”
“I feel it,” you whispered, turning your head to nuzzle into his palm. “Like nothing else matters but this moment, here with you.”
Your free hand came up to rest over his heart, feeling the steady thrum beneath your fingertips. Proof that he was solid, here in your arms.
“All those years alone...” You shook your head, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. “It made me realize how much I need you. How empty my life was without you in it.”
Drawing back just enough to meet his gaze, you brought your linked hands up to press a kiss to his knuckles. “I don’t want to waste another minute. Another second.”
Slowly, deliberately, you turned your wrist, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of his forearm. Tasting the salt of his skin, the heat of his pulse.
A shudder ran through Minho at the feel of your lips on his sensitive inner arm. His grip tightened reflexively, pulling you impossibly closer until every curve of your body was flush against the hard planes of his.
He groaned your name, the sound low and pained even as his eyes fluttered shut in bliss. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to hold back.”
In one smooth motion, he spun you both around, pinning you gently but firmly against the porch railing. One thigh slid between your legs, the heat of him searing even through the layers of fabric separating you.
“I’ve waited so long for this. For you.” His hands roamed your sides, your back, mapping the dips and curves he’d memorized in dreams. “I don’t know if I have the strength to be gentle anymore.”
“Then don’t,” you gasped, arching into him, craving more of his touch, his taste. “I don’t want gentle. I want you, all of you.”
Reaching up, you fisted your hands in his shirt, tugging him down until your faces were mere inches apart. Your breaths mingled, harsh and heated, desire sparking between you like a live wire.
“Take what you need,” you purred, rolling your hips against his in blatant invitation. “Claim me, mark me, make me yours in every way possible.”
Your teeth caught his bottom lip, biting down just hard enough to sting before soothing the hurt with a swipe of your tongue. “I’m done holding back. Done pretending I don’t need you like air.”
With a feral growl, Minho surged forward, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. It was all teeth and tongue and desperation, pouring years of pent-up longing into the slide of mouths and clash of lips.
His hands found your thighs, gripping tight enough to leave finger-shaped bruises as he hitched your legs around his waist. The new position allowed him to grind against you, the thick ridge of his arousal nestling perfectly against your core.
“I’ll ruin you for anyone else,” he promised darkly, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, down the column of your throat. “By the time I’m done, you won’t remember your own name. All you’ll know is mine.”
Sharp teeth latched onto your pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a vivid mark.
“Yes,” you keened, head falling back to bare more of your throat to his hungry mouth.
Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines of passion in their wake. “I’m yours, Minho. Only yours. Forever.”
Reaching between your bodies, you palmed him through his slacks, relishing the way he throbbed against your hand. “Let me show you how much I need you.”
With deft fingers, you undid his belt, popping the button and lowering the zipper torturously slow. “I want to worship every inch of you. Taste you, pleasure you, until you forget everything.”
A guttural moan tore from Minho’s throat as your hand wrapped around his aching length. His hips bucked at your touch, seeking more friction, more pressure.
“That’s it, baby. Touch me just like that,” he panted, eyes blown black with lust as he watched you work him over. “Fuck, I’ve dreamed of your hands on me for so long.”
In a flash, he had your shirt unbuttoned and shoved off your shoulders, baring the swells of your breasts to his hungry gaze. Leaning down, he laved one pebbled nipple with his tongue before drawing it into the wet heat of his mouth.
“Gonna make you feel so good,” he mumbled against your skin, switching to lavish attention to its twin. “Worship this gorgeous body until you’re shaking and begging for my cock.”
Weeks later, you and Minho returned to the orchard. The air was cooler now, the trees nearly bare.
He reached up to pluck one last apple, offering it to you. “Last one of the season.”
You bit into it, sweet juice running down your wrist. “Worth it.”
He leaned in, voice low. “You always are.”
And just like that, autumn didn’t feel like an ending at all; it felt like the start of something warm, crisp, and golden.