Archive of Our Own

The house is too quiet. 

Minho stands in the kitchen, fingers curled loosely around a chipped ceramic mug, steam from the tea curling into the soft light of late morning. Outside, the street is calm—just the occasional sound of wind rustling through the hedges and the far-off bark of a neighbour’s chatty terrier. Inside, it is still. Still in the way it always is after his daughter leaves for school. Still in the way that presses harshly against his temples and settles under his skin. 

He takes a sip of the tea. Jasmine. Too sweet.

The house looks different now after being divorced for a year. Fewer dishes in the sink. No second toothbrush in the holder. Her perfume no longer lingers in the hallway or clings to the pillows. Some photos are still there—family trips, birthdays, school plays—but even they feel like memories from someone else's life. A life he’d lived because he was supposed to, not because he’d wanted to. 

He exhales through his nose, setting the mug down on the counter. His back aches faintly, a reminder of his age, or maybe just how poorly he’d slept. Again. 

Minho rubs a hand over his face and walks to the living room, dropping into the armchair by the window. The cushion gives easily under his weight. Everything feels like it gives in far too easily now—his time, his patience, his body. 

Especially his body. 

His jaw tenses. 

It had started slowly, like most things did. A moment of hesitation. A night when he’d told himself he was just tired, or distracted, or just not in the mood. Then another night. And another. Until the excuses to himself became routine, and the silence between his thoughts was too sharp to ignore. Until months passed. 

He’s only ever experienced intimacy with his ex-wife. But that isn’t the point. The point is that now, he is alone, and lately, whenever he finds a moment to spend some quality time with himself… nothing happens. His body betrays him, or maybe it’s simply reacting to the years he’d spent ignoring it—years spent in a marriage that had been quiet and cold. 

He stands after a while, the stillness of the house pressing too heavily against him. He leaves the empty mug behind, walks up the creaky stairs, then down the long hallway to his room. 

His bedroom is sparse. The bed is made, covers tucked tight, the way he’s always liked them. It feels like a room meant for sleep and nothing else. But he pulls back the covers anyway. 

He undresses slowly. Shirt, then sweatpants, then briefs. All folded and left in a careful stack on the bench at the foot of the bed. His body catches in the mirror as he moves, softer than it once was, but not out of shape. Just… older. Faint lines along his hips. Strong chest, thick thighs and pliable stomach. It’s a body he’s still proud of. 

He slides beneath the sheets, hissing softly as cool cotton meets his bare skin. It feels good—clean, familiar. An indulgence he still allows himself is decent bedding. Egyptian cotton. Neutral grey. It makes the room feel less lonely, somehow, even if it’s just a trick of texture. 

He picks up his phone, opens an incognito tab and flicks through the usual site without thought. Eventually, he finds a video that has worked for him in the past. He connects it to the TV on his wall and hits play.  

He lets the sheets fall to his thighs, spreading them slightly. He takes himself in his hand and begins to stroke. Slowly at first, just enough to try and stir something. His eyes stay on the screen, but his mind flickers. To the softness of the voices, the curve of the man's back, the slick press of bodies together. He tries to focus. Tries to breathe through it. But…

Nothing. 

Not even a twitch. 

His hand slows, then stills completely. 

He swallows hard, jaw tightening as frustration curls in his gut like a hot wire. 

He tries again. 

Wraps his fingers around himself once more—gentle at first, a muted pulse of sensation sparking low in his belly. It’s not desire, not exactly—more like the ghost of it. A memory his body is reminded of, but no longer fully believes in. Still, he lets his hand move, slow and deliberate. Up. Down. Just enough to chase the embers. 

On the screen, the couple moves with purpose, with hunger. Their mouths part around sighs and slick kisses, fingers tangled in sweat-damp hair. Minho tries to focus. Tries to match their rhythm. Imagines the weight of a hand on his hip. A warm mouth at his throat. The press of someone else’s skin, wanting him. 

He closes his eyes and lets the images drift inward. 

But then, a voice in his head cuts through it. Sharp. Cold. 

Too familiar. 

God, Minho. Why are you so… strange? 

His breath catches. The memory slices too clean. He tries to ignore it—lets his grip tighten, his wrist flick just a bit faster. But the words keep coming. Like they always do. 

I just don’t think you feel things the way other people do. 

The embers fade. 

His body falters again in his hand, a flickering response dropping into stillness. 

He presses his eyes shut tighter, shakes his head. No. Not now. Not again. He tries to bring the image back—the mouths, the warmth, the stretch of skin, the soft way they moan. But her voice burrows under it all. 

I can't believe I wasted so much time on you.

His hand drops away, limp and trembling. His cock is fully soft now, heavy and unbothered between his legs. He lies there, leaving the silence dense again in the room—except now, it feels hostile. Like it’s watching him fail. 

Minho turns his face toward the pillow and exhales slowly, the tension clinging to his bones like it might never leave. His throat feels tight. His chest, hollow. 

What if she was right? 

What if all of it—his frustration, his confusion, this slow, decaying silence inside him—isn’t temporary at all? 

What if this is just who he is now? 

Limp in body and mind. 

He turns off the TV with a final click, pulls the sheets up to his chin and curls in on himself. 

It’s only just past noon, but he doesn’t think he’ll get up again today until he has to. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

He must have fallen asleep. 

Or maybe he just drifted–sank under the weight of nothing and stayed there,  body curled into something small and numb. The sheets have warmed against his skin, clinging slightly with sweat, and his mouth tastes dry and metallic. There’s a dull throb at the base of his skull, like sleep didn’t help so much; instead just dragged him deeper into something murky. 

Then—

Buzz

The sound startles him. His phone, vibrating against the wood of his nightstand. Then again. 

From outside his window, he thinks he can hear the faint shout of, “Minho, open the damn door.” 

His eyes crack open. It’s Chan’s voice.

He reaches blindly, knocking something over before he finds his phone. The screen glows far too brightly for his tired eyes. 

Channie is calling. 

He answers with a low, scratchy hum. 

“Minho,” comes the voice immediately, urgent and a little annoyed. “I’ve been outside for five minutes . Are you alive, or do I need to break your door down?” 

Minho groans, dragging a hand over his face. “What—why are you even—” 

“I brought you lunch. And because you haven’t answered any of my texts in two days. Also, you said we were gonna try that new restaurant in the city this week, and now it’s Thursday, which means you forgot. Which means you’re brooding again. Which means I am outside your front door, right now.” 

Minho sits up slowly, his spine creaking like the rusty hinges of an aged door. He pushes the sheets off and swings his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the stiffness in his lower back. His body aches—and not in the satisfying way it used to after exercise.

He glances down at himself, still naked. A wave of embarrassment flushes through him—not for the nudity, but for the memories that accompany it. 

“I’m coming,” he mutters hoarsely. 

“You’d better be,” Chan replies. 

Minho rolls his eyes and hangs up. 

He shuffles into his discarded sweatpants, tugging them up over his bare hips without bothering with underwear. He throws on a hoodie—wrinkled from where it had been draped over the back of a chair—and runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down. No point checking the mirror. He knows he looks like shit. And Chan’s already seen worse. 

He descends the stairs slowly, each step groaning beneath him, and unlocks the front door with a reluctant twist of his wrist. 

“Wow,” Chan says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “What the fuck happened to you?” 

Minho scratches the back of his neck. “Good to see you too.” 

Chan shuts the door with his foot, dropping the food on the kitchen counter like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he practically does—has had a space wherever Minho is since their university days, when hangovers and instant ramen defined their weekends. 

“Figured you hadn’t eaten. Got your usual. The place you like was open.” 

Minho follows him into the kitchen, blinking against the light. “Thanks.” 

Chan glances at him sidelong, sliding an iced Americano his way. “So. Want to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to pry it out of you?” 

Honestly, Minho doesn’t want to talk about it. 

How do you even begin to tell your best friend that you can’t get it up anymore? That you lie naked in your bed with unshed, frustrated tears clawing at your eyes. 

You don’t. Not if you’re sane. 

But this is Chan. And Chan doesn’t leave until he’s pried open every corner of your soul and held it up to the light. 

So Minho doesn’t bother trying to steer him away. 

“Let’s get the food first.” 

They take their food into the living room, settling into opposite ends of the sofa like they’ve done a thousand times before. The TV stays off. It’s quiet, aside from the occasional clink of chopsticks and the rustle of the paper bag between them. 

Minho picks at his food more than he eats it. Chan notices, but doesn’t comment. 

Eventually, Minho sighs. Heavy. 

Chan doesn’t look over, just keeps chewing like he has nowhere else to be. 

Minho sets his box down on the coffee table and leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers tangled loosely between them. 

“It’s not working,” he says, voice low. 

Chan pauses, mid-bite. “What’s not?” 

Minho gives a hollow laugh. “Me. My body.” 

Now Chan does look at him. His expression softens immediately, the teasing lines smoothing from around his eyes. 

“Okay,” Chan says, carefully. “I’m gonna need more than that, Minho.” 

Minho stares at the floor. “I mean, I can’t… I haven’t been able to get hard. Not properly, anyway.” 

The words hang in the air. Ugly. Exposing.

Chang doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke. He just nods like he’s processing it. 

Minho presses his lips together, throat tight. “I thought it was just stress. Fatigue. Getting older. But I’ve tried. I’ve really tried, Chan. And nothing works. I feel like—” He swallows. “Like my body doesn’t belong to me anymore.” 

A long silence follows, the weight of vulnerability settling over both of them. 

Chan puts his food down too. 

“Minho,” he says gently. “First of all, you’re forty, not some old man. Second, it’s not shameful. It’s human. And it’s not something you have to carry by yourself.” 

Minho huffs, bitter. “Feels like it is.” 

Chan leans back on the couch, arms folded. “Okay. But next time just tell me you’re having a hard time, instead of ghosting me for two days.” 

Minho huffs a laugh. 

“You’re an idiot,” he murmurs. 

Chan grins. “And you’re dramatic. But lucky for you, I am also excellent at research and a very emotionally available best friend. So.” He nudges Minho’s leg with his foot. “Let’s figure it out. Together.” 

“Yeah. Okay,” Minho says. “Not showing you my dick, though. Don’t think your husband and your little puppy would be happy about that.” 

Chan groans instantly, throwing his head back against the couch. 

“Stop calling him that.” 

Minho shrugs, deadpan. “Why? He comes on command doesn’t he?” 

“Please stop,” Chan whines, but the flush rising to his ears gives him away. 

Minho snorts. “I bet he’s curled up in that weird corner on your couch right now, waiting for someone to scratch his stomach and call him a good boy.”

“Minho.” 

“I’m just saying, two grown men and a dog sounds like a great concept for a drama.” 

Chan glares. “You’re deflecting.” 

Minho leans back into the cushions with a lazy stretch. “And you make it too easy.” 

But there’s a spark of warmth behind it now—an unspoken gratitude wrapped in sarcasm. The ache in his chest has loosened a little, enough to let the teasing slip through without it catching on shame. 

Chan rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. “You keep talking shit, and I’m booking you a doctor's appointment and bringing all three of us.” 

Minho groans. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Try me,” Chan says sweetly, picking his food back up. “Seungmin already has a little clipboard and a pen he chews on. He’d look adorable in the waiting room.” 

Minho laughs—really laughs—for the first time in days.

Maybe things aren’t fixed yet, but at least he’s not alone. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

Later that afternoon, Minho dusts himself off and drives the familiar route to his daughter’s school. His body still feels heavy, but it’s different now. Less like he’s sinking, more like he’s anchored. Like maybe he hasn’t drifted totally off course just yet. 

She spots him before he even parks. His daughter, Hana, is fourteen, all limbs and headphones and that impossibly sharp wit she inherited from somewhere he refuses to admit. She trots toward the car with her backpack slung half-open over one shoulder. 

“Hey,” she says as she slides into the passenger seat. “We’re having curry tonight, right? You promised .” 

Minho smirks. “You also promised to do your homework last night. Look how that turned out.” 

“Okay, but I don’t eat homework,” she says, deadpan. 

Minho snorts. “Curry it is.” 

That night, the living room is warm with the golden wash of lamplight, curry bowls abandoned on the coffee table, and two controllers in hand. She’s kicking his ass—again—this time on Smash Bros., and she’s gloating. Again. 

“Come on , Appa. You can’t just smash the controller and hope for the best!”

“That’s exactly what your old man does,” Minho replies. “It’s called strategic button-mashing, actually.” 

“It’s called losing,” she laughs—big and bright—and he lets himself bask in it. She’s the best thing in his life. His heart in human form. 

Eventually, after thrashing him three more times, she yawns and stretches her arms overhead, leaning against his side for a minute. Just long enough to remind him she’s still just his kid, even if she pretends to be cool and mature most of the time. 

“I’m gonna shower then head to bed,” she mumbles, standing. 

“Night, flower.” 

“Night, Appa.” 

She disappears up the stairs, followed by the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut. 

Minho stays on the couch, controller idle in his lap, the screen flowing soft blue in front of him. The house is quiet again. 

But it’s not the same silence as earlier. 

He leans back, staring at the ceiling, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch. Times like these leave him open to thinking. And now, unfortunately, that thinking lands on his marriage. 

He had hated being married. 

He didn’t realise how much until after she left—how deeply he had resented the performance of it all. The forced smiles, the dutiful sex, the quiet resentment that never quite boiled over but simmered between them. He felt like a placeholder in her life. 

But at least out of all that, he got her .

His daughter. 

And if that was the only good thing to come from all those years? Well, it was more than enough. 

He closes his eyes and lets himself feel that happiness, just for a little while. The quiet, this time, doesn’t ache. 

Once he’s had enough, he finally gets up to clean the living room and kitchen. When the dishes are rinsed and the lights switched off, he heads to bed. 

Minho brushes his teeth in the dim bathroom light, staring at his reflection without really seeing it. His hoodie hangs loose around his shoulders, his hair a little messy, silver at his temples catching in the glow. 

He follows his usual skincare routine, dries his face with a towel, switches off the light, and walks barefoot back to his bedroom. The sheets are still rumpled from earlier, the scent of his own body lingering faintly there. He hesitates at the edge of the bed, staring down at the place where he had failed yet again. 

But he doesn’t lie down yet. Instead, he sinks into the chair by the window, the one he rarely uses, and lets the quiet wrap around him. 

Outside, the streetlights bathe the pavement in amber. A cat slinks along the garden wall. Somewhere nearby, a siren wails and fades into the distance. 

He thinks about his body. About the disconnect, the frustration. The way he feels stuck between who he used to be and whoever he’s becoming now. 

It’s not ageing he’s afraid of. Not really. 

He’s just afraid of disappearing inside it. 

Of slowly fading into a version of himself that no longer knows desire, not just the physical kind, but the kind that makes you want things. Wanting connection. Wanting to be touched, seen, loved. 

It’s been so long since he’s felt that, and even when he did, it was never passionate. Never the all-consuming desperation he’d seen and heard about so much from others. 

Even in the early days with Soojin, his ex-wife—when it was supposed to be new and dizzying and hungry—it hadn’t been. There had been comfort. Familiarity. A kind of soft affection that was more about compatibility than craving. They’d liked each other. Respected each other. He had thought maybe that was enough. 

It wasn’t. 

They’d talked about ending it all. Just once. 

It was late. They’d fought, a big one, over nothing in particular. He had been packing a bag. He had said, “Maybe we aren’t right for each other.” 

Then she told him she was pregnant. 

And that was that. 

He hadn’t left. Of course he hadn’t. It hadn’t even felt like a choice. He’d told himself he was doing the right thing. Told himself that love could come later, or maybe love just looked different to them. 

But what came was a kind of resignation. 

He thinks about how she used to look at him—calm, detached. The way her hand had felt in his. Warm, but never seeking. Like she was holding on just for support, and never because she wanted to be close. 

He doesn’t blame her. Not entirely. 

But the truth is—she hurt him. 

Not just in the slow erosion of their affection, or in the neglect that grew like mould in the corners of their marriage. No, she cut him, too. With words she always said too casually, like they weren’t meant to matter. Like she didn’t expect them to sink in and stay there. But they did. 

“You’re not exactly thrilling in bed, Minho. It’s like you just want me to do everything. ” 

“ God, you’re so sensitive. It’s exhausting.” 

“When will you stop sulking? Grown men don’t cry over spilt milk, Minho.”

There were worse things, sure. Worse marriages. Worse people. But that didn’t make her any less cruel as the years went on. She was dismissive, like he was never quite enough for her to take seriously. Never smart enough. Never exciting. Never desirable . 

And over time, that changed him. Shaped him into a miniature version of himself. 

He stopped initiating. Stopped offering compliments. Stopped looking at himself in the mirror. She never called him handsome. Never touched him like he wanted her to.

She said once, in a fight, “I don’t think you’d even know what to do with a woman who actually wants you.” The implications were all there. He wasn’t good enough for her. Wasn’t good enough for anyone.

She apologised immediately and tried to make light of it. But that still echoed. Still burned. 

And maybe she was right. Because now, even alone, even free, Minho doesn’t know how to want anyone without doubting that they’d want him back. 

He doesn’t even know how to want himself. 

So there he sits, staring out at the night, wondering: what’s left of a man who’s only ever been fine ? 

Not thrilling. Not bold. Just dependable. Just there . 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

Saturday morning comes grey and slow. 

Minho wakes to the low murmur of rain against the windows, soft but steady. He lies in bed for a while, the warmth of the sheets reluctant to let him go, but eventually he drags himself up. Hana is already awake, and he hears her light steps downstairs, the low hum of something on the TV. 

By the time he makes it to the kitchen, she’s halfway through her cereal, her legs tucked beneath her on the stool. 

“Morning, Appa,” she says around a mouthful of milk. 

He offers a tired smile. “Morning, sweetheart.” 

She’s going to her mother’s today, like she does every other Saturday, leaving him in the house alone for a week—a week of nothing to distract from the silence. 

Minho brews coffee and tries not to think about it too much. They talk about her life—school, games, her weekend plans—while the minutes drip by. He keeps glancing at the clock. Too fast. It always seems to go too fast on Saturdays. 

Then there’s a knock at the door. 

His chest tightens. 

His daughter perks up, bowl forgotten. “Oh, time for me to go I guess.” 

Minho exhales, steadying himself. “I’ll get the door.” 

He moves to the front door, smoothing a hand down his shirt. Pauses a moment, then opens it. 

There Soojin stands, her coat unbuttoned, black hair tied back in a neat twist. And beside her, holding an umbrella over both of them is a man he’s never seen. 

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Neatly dressed. Younger than Minho, maybe mid-thirties. Smiling politely. 

“Morning, Minho,” she says, voice brisk. 

“Morning,” he manages, gaze flicking briefly between them.

“This is Yunho,” she adds, as if it’s nothing. As if it isn’t the first time she’s brought someone new to the door of the house where they built a life together. “He’s going to have lunch with Hana and me today.” 

Yunho extends a hand. “Hey—nice to meet you.” 

Minho hesitates a fraction, then shakes it. “Yeah. You too.” 

Behind him, there’s a sudden bright voice. “Uncle Yunho!” 

Hana darts past Minho, a grin stretched wide across her face. She throws her arms around the man’s waist with easy affection. Up until now, Minho didn’t even know the guy existed. 

“Hey, kiddo!” Yunho laughs, ruffling her hair. “Looking forward to lunch later?” 

“Yep! Mum said we might get ice cream, too.”

“That’s the plan.” 

Minho watches them, the easy way Hana beams up at Yunho—unfiltered, excited, her usual shyness nowhere in sight. It hits him harder than he expects. The tight band around his chest draws tighter. 

He forces a smile. “Have fun, sweetheart.” 

She turns, backpack bouncing on her shoulder. “Bye, Appa! Love you!”

“Love you too,” he says, voice steady, though it feels like someone is gripping his ribs. 

She runs to the car, Yunho and her mother following close behind. 

His ex glances back once. “Take care, Minho.” 

And then he shuts the door behind them, leaving him alone in the entryway. 

He stays there for a beat, palm resting flat against the wood. The house behind him feels cavernous, hollowed out in the space of a single moment. 

Hana’s smile, her easy laugh. The way she ran to him with open arms. 

Minho’s hand curls into a fist. 

It shouldn’t matter. He knows that. He’s glad Hana likes this new guy. It’s better this way—better that she feels safe, that she’s happy. God knows she deserves that. Deserves more warmth than her parents ever managed between them. 

But the truth still stings.

That someone else can so easily step into a place he fought for with everything he had. He exhales sharply and pushes off the door, moving on instinct. Into the kitchen. He fills a glass of water and drains it in three big gulps before setting it down harder than necessary. 

The voice in his head—the old one, worn ragged by years of her words—starts up immediately. 

Of course she found someone better. 

Why would anyone want to stay with you? 

Safe. Boring.

You’re not even a man anymore.

Minho grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white, and wills the voice to stop. He has to get out of the house. 

He forces himself upstairs. Changes. Grabs his gym bag. If nothing else, he can sweat it out, bury it under exercise. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

The gym helps. Sort of. 

His body still functions in that way, at least—strong and capable. Each pull of a weight, each strike against the bag, reminds him of that. Reminds him that he exists outside of the things he’s started to convince himself of, outside of the body that sometimes betrays him. 

He showers as soon as he gets home, water scalding hot, washing away the last of the cold shame. He stands there longer than he needs to, eyes closed beneath the stream. 

When he finally drags himself out, he pulls on clean clothes and makes himself a cup of tea. He grabs a book from his study—one he’s started three times and never finished—and forces himself to sit down with it. 

By the time he’s made something to eat, the house feels… not good, but tolerable. Manageable. Quiet, but not pressing. 

He’s halfway through cleaning up the kitchen when his phone rings. 

Chan .

He sighs and answers, already bracing. 

“What,” he says, flat.

“You’re coming out with us.” 

Minho pinches the bridge of his nose. “Chan, I really don’t—” 

“Nope. No arguments. You need a drink, air, and to be around people–in that order.” 

Minho slumps against the counter. “But I look like shit.” 

“No you don’t,” Chan says cheerfully. “You have two hours to get ready, we’ll pick you up at seven.” 

Minho groans. “You are the most annoying friend I have.” 

“That’s why you love me. See you soon.” 

The line clicks dead before Minho can protest again. 

He stares at his phone. Exhales. 

A night out won’t fix anything, but it sure beats sitting in the house alone. So he finishes cleaning up the kitchen and heads upstairs to get ready. 

Some time later, Minho stands in front of the mirror, taking in his reflection. 

The closet had been a battlefield for the last thirty minutes. But in the end, he’d picked his favourites anyway. 

A fitted black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, paired with soft charcoal slacks that hug his hips just right, tight enough to hint at the strength in his thighs. Finished off with black leather chelsea boots—clean and polished. 

His hair is getting longer now, pushed back loosely. A few silver strands at his temples that catch the light, but he doesn’t mind how they make him look. 

He likes his appearance now, honestly. Broad shoulders. Strong arms. The faint suggestion of muscles beneath his shirt. His face isn’t as lean as it used to be, but it’s still sharp. He drags one hand down the front of the shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles, his fingers pausing near the waistband. 

You look good , he thinks. Not perfect. But good. 

And if tonight is pretending nothing is wrong, then so be it. He adjusts his cuffs one last time and steps back from the mirror just in time for a text from Chan to come through that they’re on their way. 

He heads back downstairs, grabs his wallet, keys and slides on his leather jacket. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

The familiar black SUV pulls up just as Minho locks the door behind him. Rain still patters softly against the street, the air cool and sharp as he crosses to the car. He pulls the door open and slides into the passenger seat. 

Chan glances over, one hand steady on the wheel. “Well, shit. See, you do clean up nice.” 

Minho smirks. “Try not to sound so surprised.” 

From the back seat comes Seungmin’s dry voice. “I think we all expected the usual sweatpants and despair.” 

Minho cranes his neck to look at him, his legs are stretched across Changbin’s lap, and he’s wearing his usual neat sweater and black jeans. 

Minho lifts a brow. “And there’s my favourite puppy who doesn’t know when to stop yapping.” He reaches back to ruffle his hair, ignoring the immediate swat at his hand. 

“I’m not a fucking puppy,” Seungmin mutters, flattening his hair again. 

Minho grins. “Could’ve fooled me with the way you wag your tail whenever your boyfriends call you a good boy.”

Minho settles in his seat with a theatrical sigh, finally turning his gaze to Changbin, who is sitting with one hand on Seungmin’s thigh, his tattooed wrist peeking from under his sleeve, lip caught between his teeth as he scrolls his phone. 

“Well, hello, handsome,” Minho drawls. “I should’ve tried even harder tonight.” 

Changbin looks up, eyes crinkling with a grin. “You know you never have to try with me,” he says with a wink.

Minho hums low. “Good to know.” 

Minho smiles to himself. He has different dynamics with all three of them, but they all make him feel safe. At home. Even if they like to tease one another. 

Seungmin groans. “Oh god, I should’ve stayed at home.” 

Chan just chuckles, shifting the car into drive. “Too late.” 

As they pull away from the curb, Minho exhales softly, the hum of the road filling the car. He smiles as it goes, finally remembering what it feels like to be wanted. 

Or at least wanted nearby. 

By the time they pull up outside the bar, the streets are slick with rain, and the neon lights bleed across the puddles, shimmering like oil on water. 

It’s a small place—low ceilings, brick walls, warm lighting that spills out through steamed-up windows. Just the kind of tucked-away place that Chan prefers. Nothing too loud or crowded. Filled with enough energy to feel alive without drowning in it. 

Inside the car, Chan kills the engine. “Right,” he says, turning to Minho. “Rules for the night.” 

Minho gives him a look. “You forced me out. Don’t start lecturing.” 

Chan smirks. “One—no sulking in a corner. Two—don’t pick any fights, especially not with Seungmin. Three— try to enjoy yourself.” 

“Four,” Seungmin pipes up from the back. “Flirt responsibly.” 

Minho tips his head back against the seat with an exaggerated sigh. “God, it’s like being out with my parents.” 

Changbin chuckles low, already sliding out of the car. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, old man.” 

They pile out into the rain, hurrying across the pavement beneath the shelter of the awning. Chan guides them into the bar, which greets them immediately with the warm hum of conversation and the low thrum of music. The place is busy, but not chaotic—clusters of people gathered in small circles, the smell of liquor and aged wood thick in the air. 

As they weave through the crowd toward the bar, Minho feels the first edges of the night dig into him—heat rising from bodies, the pulse of bass beneath his feet, the clink of glass. It thrums low in his veins, a little sharp and electric. 

He lets it settle. Decides to try and have fun. 

They find a spot near the end of the bar—a half-booth tucked close to the counter. Changbin goes to order drinks and returns shortly with a tray, setting them down. 

“Whiskey for our brooding prince,” he says, sliding one toward Minho. 

Minho accepts it with a smirk. “Wow, bringing me my favourite—if I didn’t know you were happily married, I’d think you were hitting on me.” 

Changbin snorts. “Don’t make our little puppy jealous.” 

“Not you too,” Seungmin whines from across the booth, already sipping his gin and tonic as his nose is buried in his phone. 

Changbin grins, gripping Seungmin’s thigh affectionately. “You’re too easy to tease, baby.” 

Minho raises his glass to clink with Chan’s soda, still looking at Seungmin. “You’ve got to admit, you’re adorable.” 

Seungmin flips him off without looking up from his phone.

Minho chuckles, taking a slow sip of his drink. The burn is sharp and clean on his tongue. He missed this. 

He leans back, arm draped loosely over the back of the booth, watching as Changbin teases Seungmin and Chan rolls his eyes like the exhausted dad of the group. 

It’s easy, this rhythm between them. There had been a hiccup when Seungmin was introduced, Minho being wary of someone infiltrating their group, but he had fit in seamlessly. 

And this—this simple, stupid banter—is enough to remind him: not every moment has to be full of sadness and resignation. Sometimes it’s enough to just be with people who see him for what he is—mess and all. 

He exhales, shoulders loosening as he watches his friends. 

Next to him, Chan nudges him gently. “See? Told you it’d be good for you to get out.” 

Minho smiles faintly. “Don’t get smug.” 

A few drinks later, and the bar has shifted around them—voices are louder, music deeper, the crowd thickening on the dance floor. 

Minho’s halfway through his third whiskey when Seungmin suddenly bolts upright, eyes sparkling in that particular way that only happens when he’s just tipsy enough to become even more dangerous. 

He slides out of the booth with too much energy and grabs Minho’s wrist. 

“Come dance.” 

Minho blinks, lifting his glass. “I’m drinking.” 

Seungmin rolls his eyes dramatically. “You can just hold it.” 

Chan leans back, grinning. “You don’t have to—” 

“No. I need him,” Seungmin cuts in, tugging harder now. “You two will just end up wanting to make out, and I actually want to dance. Plus, Minho is a dancer, he moves better than both of you.” 

“Excuse you! My hips don’t lie,” Changbin pouts. 

“They barely tell the truth,” Seungmin fires back. 

Minho chuckles low, setting his glass down with a shake of his head. “God, you’re impossible.” 

“Come on,” Seungmin’s voice drops into a teasing lilt. “You can’t be that hot and stay glued to your seat all night. That’s illegal.” 

Changbin laughs. “He’s got you there.” 

Minho exhales in mock defeat. “Fine. But if I die out there, I’m haunting you.” 

“Deal,” Seungmin beams, already dragging him toward the thrumming, pulsing crowd. 

Minho lets himself be pulled through the shifting bodies, the bass rising underfoot like the floor is pulsing. The lights flash gold and violet across the floor, catching on the sweat-slick skin of the dancers. 

Seungmin finds a space in the middle and turns to face him, already swaying in time to the beat. His grin is wicked and bright, his hands lifting with the music. 

Minho rolls his shoulders loose, lets his weight settle in his hips. He’s not the stiff old man they tease him about being, especially not out here, not when the music catches in his chest.

He moves easily, fluid and confident, letting the rhythm guide him. His years in college learning dance and late nights in clubs and house parties haven’t abandoned him yet.  His shirt sticks just slightly across his lower back as he twists, his muscles shifting beneath dark fabric. 

He feels good . 

Seungmin leans forward to yell in his ear above the music. “See? I told you! You’re showing everyone up.” 

Minho grins, a blush rising on his cheeks. “Stop.” 

Seungmin only laughs, wicked and bright, then shimmies shamelessly closer. “What? Can’t handle the truth?” 

Minho scoffs. “Not the truth.” 

“Come on, Min. You’re hot as hell, but I dragged you out here to stop you from sulking in the booth.” 

Minho shoots him a look. “You love me even if I sulk.” 

Seungmin throws his hands up dramatically. “Unfortunately.” 

They both laugh at that, leaning into each other as they laugh. Seungmin grabs his wrist again, spinning them both clumsily, grinning widely. 

“God, you’re so annoying,” Minho says between laughs. 

“You’re worse,” Seungmin fires back. “You pretend you’re too old for this shit and then you come out here looking like that and dancing like sex on legs—” he gestures wildly at his body— “and now I have to fight all these people off.” 

Minho barks a laugh. “Please. Nobody is even looking at me.” 

Seungmin plants both hands on his shoulders and gives him a mock shake. “You are so dumb. Everyone is looking. You look hot .” 

That makes Minho’s blush deepen, spread from his cheeks to his ears. He tries to bat Seungmin’s hands away but ends up laughing again. “You’re drunk.” 

“I’m tipsy, and I am correct,” Seungmin chimes, letting go to spin himself again, arms loose and free as the beat thumps. 

Minho watches him for a moment—Seungmin glowing under the lights, smiling so freely—and something inside him softens. Yeah, they tease. They bicker constantly. But under it all? Seungmin is one of his favourite people. Has been since he got used to him after he stumbled into their lives and made them all a bit brighter. 

“You’re a menace,” Minho says fondly. 

“And you’re a big softie,” Seungmin shoots back with a wink, sidling up to bump their hips together. 

Minho just shakes his head and grins. “I should’ve stayed home.” 

“You loooove me.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

A few songs and a lot of laughter later, they’re back at the bar. 

“Shots!” Seungmin declares, slapping a hand on the counter. “We need shots.” 

Minho chuckles, flushed and warm from dancing. “You’re determined to kill us tonight, huh?” 

“You know it,” Seungmin grins. He tugs Changbin and Minho up to the bar while Chan trails behind, shaking his head but smiling all the same. 

They end up with a line of vodka shots in front of them. 

“God, I haven’t done this since college,” Minho says, eyeing the glasses. 

“That’s exactly why we’re doing it now,” Changbin says, slinging an arm around Minho’s shoulders. 

Minho laughs, shaking his head.

“Alright, count us off, baby,” Seungmin orders Chan, bouncing on his toes with excitement. This twenty-five-year-old sure keeps their group young. 

Chan smirks. “On three. One… two… three!” 

They all tip their shots back, two each, the burn hitting fast and sharp. 

“Fuck,” Minho groans, squeezing his eyes shut as the heat spreads through him. 

Seungmin laughs and grabs his arm, toward the dance floor. “Come on. We need to dance it off!” 

And just like that, they are in the thick of the crowd again, all four of them this time. Minho lets the music pull him under again. His body moves easily, loosened by the alcohol, his hips rolling lazily to the bass. 

At some point, though, Seungmin gets distracted by his boyfriends. 

Minho watches, grinning. Seungmin laughs breathlessly, body pressed flush to Changbin’s chest, their mouths meeting in a kiss that’s borderline too much for where they are.

Chan wraps his arms around them both from behind Seungmin, tucking his chin against his shoulder. The three of them sway together like no one else is in the room, close and tangled up entirely in their own world. 

It’s… beautiful, really. Effortless. The kind of connection Minho’s never had, but loves seeing in them. 

But it leaves him alone now. 

He turns his focus inward—lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, breath syncing with the pulse of the music. He moves with it, for himself. Arms loose, hips rolling slow and easy. 

Then something shifts. 

That feeling. The prickling sensation of being watched. 

Minho blinks his eyes open. There. 

Across the small gap of bodies—a guy. 

He’s cute. Almost his height, maybe a touch shorter, definitely younger than him. Soft dark hair falling into his eyes, a faint flush on his cheeks, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. There’s something innately adorable about him, open and bright in a way that catches Minho’s breath. 

And he’s looking right at him. 

Minho’s pulse stutters. 

He’s always known there was some attraction to men within him. It wasn’t a revelation; it was just something he filed away. Something he never had the chance to explore or define. Marriage had come first. Then fatherhood. Then years of exhaustion. 

He’d never let himself explore. 

But now, here, this man is watching him with unmistakable interest. And Minho realises, with a strange mix of nerves and something else, that he’s watching back. 

The guy smiles, small, knowing, and lifts his brows in a silent question, an invitation written in the easy sway of his body. Minho’s breath catches. His hands flex slightly at his sides, unsure what to do with the jolt that runs through him. 

And then, the guy is moving. 

He shifts through the crowd with ease, slipping between bodies until he’s just in front of Minho. Close enough now that he can see the faint sheen of sweat at his temples and the flush that deepens across his cheekbones. And close up, he’s absolutely gorgeous. 

The man leans in, voice low beneath the music. 

“Can I dance with you?”

Simple. Direct. Minho likes that. 

Honestly, every instinct wants to retreat—to say no, to excuse himself, to laugh it off. This is way out of his comfort zone. 

But then he looks at the stranger—this very attractive, brave stranger with dark eyes that sparkle—and something stubborn in him says, don’t run . 

So Minho exhales, shaky but determined. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.” 

The guy grins—wide this time, like Minho saying yes was unexpected—and slips closer. 

And just like that, they’re moving. 

Not pressed together, not yet. Just finding a rhythm near each other, bodies syncing slowly to the beat. The guy sways with an easy, open kind of grace—clearly comfortable in himself, inviting Minho to match him. 

Minho lets his body flow.

Hips rolling, shoulders loose, hands sliding casually to rest on his own hips as he watches the man in front of him. Their eyes keep catching—fleeting but charged. 

“You’re good at this,” the guy says, voice playful. 

Minho huffs a breathless laugh. “It’s been a while.” 

“You’d never know.” Another grin. “I’m Jisung, by the way.” 

Minho’s mouth curves. “Minho.” 

Jisung’s grin softens. “Hi, Minho.” 

The music thickens, and the air hums with it, heavy with sweat and heat, bodies moving in tandem. Minho lets the rhythm take him, one breath at a time. 

Across from him, Jisung moves with a languid ease that makes it hard to look away. His dark hair is damp at the temples, soft strands falling into his eyes each time he tilts his head. And his outfit— fuck —somehow Minho hadn’t taken it in properly before. 

A thin black crop top, covering his arms with long sleeves, clings like liquid over his lean muscles, the hem riding high with each twist of his torso. The sharp cut exposes the dip of his waist, the soft ridge of abdominal lines leading down to where low-slung jeans ride his hips. His navel flashes each time he moves, a teasing flicker of skin that makes Minho’s throat run dry. 

Jisung sways closer—hips rolling, arms loose, one hand trailing down his own side as if inviting Minho’s gaze to follow. 

Minho does. God, he does. 

He shifts in time with the beat, letting his body speak for him. Every part of him focused on the man in front of him—on the way Jisung watches him through lowered lashes, mouth curling with something that can only be described as want. 

Then Jisung spins—slow, deliberate, until his back brushes Minho’s chest. 

Minho freezes for a heartbeat, hands flexing at his sides. Then Jisung leans back, just slightly. Enough that their bodies connect in a line of heat. Minho exhales sharply through his nose, the sound lost beneath the music. His hands hover, unsure. One pulse away from touching.

Then Jisung rolls his hips—soft and devastating against him—and any thought of restraint burns away like paper held over a candle. 

He lets instinct win. 

His hands find Jisung’s hips, sliding over the warm press of skin. The contact draws a shiver through Jisung’s frame. He leans back further, head tilting slightly toward Minho’s shoulder, as if offering himself up. 

Minho’s breath ghosts over the shell of Jisung’s ear, ragged now. The scent of him—clean sweat and faint cologne—floods Minho’s senses. 

Jisung moves again, every roll of his hips deliberate against him. Minho’s hands grip tighter, thumbs stroking small, claiming circles against bare skin. The crowd melts around them, sound warping and distance blurring. There is only this now—Jisung’s body pressed to his.

Jisung glances back, just enough for Minho to catch the faint flicker of his smile. 

“Is this okay?” he breathes, voice low and warm.

Minho swallows hard, every muscle wound tight with restraint.

“Yes,” he says roughly. “Very okay.” 

His thumbs slip higher, just beneath the edge of the shirt now, feeling the taut pull of muscle, the steady thrum of life beneath his fingertips. Jisung exhales softly, hips rolling again—slow, unhurried, obscene in how easily he fits against him. His head tips back a fraction more, exposing the honeyed column of his throat to the dim light. 

Minho bends; he can’t stop himself. His mouth hovers near the pulse point, breath hot. Close. So close. 

The music swells around them, matching the rare throb of heat pooling low in Minho’s belly. He wants—God, he wants—but he holds himself back—the fear of going too far and disappointing him flooding his mind. 

Instead, he tightens his grip just once on Jisung’s hips. The man hums in approval, pushing back just a little harder against him. 

Minho closes his eyes, jaw clenched. 

He’s not sure he’s ever wanted anyone like this before, and they just met. 

Suddenly, Jisung moves again. 

A slow twist in Minho’s arms, turning to face him fully. Their chests brush. Jisung’s arms come up in one fluid motion, looping around Minho’s shoulders, fingers threading lightly at the nape of his neck. His body stays pressed close, hips still moving in time with the beat, only now, Minho is surrounded—held in the warm, swaying cage of Jisung’s frame. 

Minho draws in a shaky breath, his own hands finding their place on Jisung’s waist. Jisung’s gaze lifts to his—something dark and mischievous shining there. His mouth tilts in a small smile. 

“Minho.”

Just the sound of his name, low and close, has Minho gulping. 

Then, soft, earnest—Jisung leans in a little closer, his voice brushing warm against Minho’s ear. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

The words send a jolt down his spine. 

In that split second, some worn, brittle voice in his head tries to rise, telling him this is stupid, he’s too old for this, the guy is too young. Nobody would really want him. 

But the look in Jisung’s eyes says otherwise. 

And then, with a voice roughened by more than the alcohol, he answers. “Yes.” 

He barely finishes the word before Jisung smiles wider and leans in the rest of the way. 

Minho meets him halfway. 

The kiss is warm. The kind that speaks of wanting. Jisung’s mouth is soft, lips plush and parted as they press to Minho’s, the contact sending a pulse through him so sharp it nearly sets him off balance. 

Minho’s grip tightens on Jisung’s waist. 

Jisung hums into the kiss and tilts his head just enough to deepen it. Minho opens to him instinctively, letting their mouths slot together in a slow, perfect slide. 

Then he feels it. 

The faint glide of Jisung’s tongue against the seam of his lips. A silent ask, bold and sure. 

Minho’s breath catches, but his body answers before his mind can catch up. His lips part just enough, and Jisung’s tongue slips in, a smooth, teasing stroke that has Minho’s knees going weak. 

It’s been so long.

So long since he’s been kissed. Since someone has pressed close, mouth warm and hungry, hands steady at his nape like he’s something worth holding onto. 

And it feels good . 

So good that the brittle voice in his head shatters entirely, drowned beneath the pounding in his chest. 

Minho groans softly—deep in his throat, helpless—one hand sliding up from Jisung’s waist to the middle of his back, palm broad and steady. His other hand stays low, fingers curling possessively against the small of his back, keeping him close. 

Jisung’s tongue strokes deeper, slow but sure, tasting him, inviting more. Minho follows—clumsy at first with desperation—but Jisung doesn’t seem to mind. He hums again, mouth moving against his like they’ve done this a thousand times. 

Minho kisses back harder now. 

He can’t help it. 

It’s been too long since he’s felt like this—heat rising sharply beneath his skin, the dizzy burn of alcohol and want flooding his veins. He chases the kiss, lets his mouth part wider, tongue meeting Jisung’s in a slow, greedy tangle. 

Jisung makes a soft— mmh —a pleased, breathless thing that shoots straight through Minho’s core. He feels him shiver as he leans closer, his hips pressing subtly into the tight space between them. 

Minho tilts his head further, slides his palm fully up Jisung’s back until his fingers curl at the base of his skull, cradling him.

Every stroke of Jisung’s tongue is like oxygen and fire at once—reawakening parts of Minho he’d almost believed were gone. And god, the taste of him—faintly sweet from whatever he’d been drinking, warm and alive—makes Minho’s restraint unravel further. 

He kisses him hungrily now—hips shifting forward without meaning to, chest pressed full against Jisung’s. There’s no space between them, no air. Just mouth against mouth, breath shared and stolen. 

When they finally part for air, he feels out of breath. 

Minho’s eyes blink open, dazed, breath shuddering through parted lips. 

Jisung pulls back just enough to look at him, cheeks flushed deep pink, lips kiss-bitten and slick. And the smile he gives him—soft, slightly shy now—is what finally undoes him completely. 

“ Fuck ,” Jisung breathes. His fingers slide lightly against the nape of Minho’s neck, still curled there. “You’re a good kisser.” 

Minho lets out a shaky exhale, chest still heaving. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, a little stunned, a little wicked. 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he manages, voice low and hoarse. He lets his forehead tip gently to Jisung’s for a moment, eyes fluttering shut. 

Then, pulling in another deep breath, he murmurs, “Maybe we should grab a drink and sit down for a bit? Find somewhere quieter.” 

Jisung’s smile widens, eyes bright with understanding. He nods, no hesitation. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’d like that.” 

Minho lets one hand fall to Jisung’s waist again, fingers lingering in a slow, reluctant stroke over the warm strip of skin beneath his shirt. Then he pulls back just enough to lead him through the crowd toward the bar where he buys a new whiskey for himself and Jisung something sweet. 

Jisung keeps close at his side the whole time, hand brushing against Minho’s, almost daring him to take it. 

Minho doesn’t. Not yet. But his palm aches to. 

He catches Chan’s eye for a brief second from the dance floor as they leave the bar area—Chan gives him a wide, knowing grin with a wink. Seungmin and Changbin don’t even notice, still too tangled in each other to care. 

Minho shakes his head with a breath of laughter and keeps walking. 

They find a booth tucked into a quieter corner of the bar, mostly shadowed, half-hidden from the main crowd. Minho slides in first, settling against the worn leather seat. Jisung slips in right after—and without asking, without a pause—tucks himself neatly under Minho’s arm, warm and soft against his side. 

Then, with an ease that steals Minho’s breath, Jisung swings his legs over Minho’s thighs, draping himself fully into his space. Minho is stunned by his boldness, by how sure and confident he is. 

Jisung just smiles up at him, cheek resting lightly against Minho’s shoulder now, both legs comfortably resting across his lap. Minho loves the way he curls into him. 

Minho’s arm tightens around his shoulders, hands splaying across Jisung’s upper arm, his thumb stroking absent circles. The warmth of him seeps in through every layer of clothing, thrumming low in Minho’s gut. 

“Comfortable?” Minho asks. 

Jisung tips his head up, eyes glinting. “Very.” Then softer, he adds. “You don’t mind?” 

Minho huffs a breath. “No,” he murmurs. “Not at all.” 

He leans his head back against the booth, letting himself relax by degrees, the drink warming in his hand, Jisung warming every other part of him. 

Jisung shifts just a little, not enough to pull away, but enough so he can look up at Minho more easily, chin tipped over the edge of his shoulder. 

“So,” Jisung says lightly, fingers drumming absently on Minho’s thigh. “Since I’m currently occupying most of your personal space, it seems fair I get to know a little about you.” 

Minho chuckles under his breath. “Fair enough.” He takes a sip of his drink. “What do you want to know?” 

“Hmm…” Jisung hums theatrically, then grins. “Let’s start easy. What do you do for a living?” 

“Technically, I own a chain of dance studios in different cities. Other people run them now, though.” 

Jisung’s brows lift. “Really? Dance?” 

“Yeah,” Minho says, smiling. “I used to perform, then teach and choreograph. These days I mostly manage from a distance.” 

“That’s—” Jisung’s eyes gleam, “—unexpected.” 

Minho tilts his head. “Good or bad?” 

“Good,” Jisung says easily. Then his smile softens. “Makes sense, though. The way you move—” 

He leans up and kisses him, quick and soft, as if to punctuate the thought.

Minho’s mouth curves when they part. “Your turn. What do you do?” 

Jisung exhales with a small laugh. “I’m a musician.” 

“Ah,” Minho says, eyes crinkling. “That makes sense, your musicality shows through your body.” 

Jisung blushes and shoves him playfully. 

“Technically I’m… between jobs right now. I play for whoever needs me—studio sessions, gigs, sometimes teaching kids. Kind of freelancing while I make my own music and apply to companies.” 

Minho hums softly. “That’s brave.” 

“Or foolish,” Jisung grins. “But I can’t imagine doing anything else.” 

Minho watches him for a beat, the words settling warm between them. 

“Same,” he says quietly. “I write now, actually. That’s my real work.” 

“Oh?” Jisung perks up. “What kind of books?” 

“Fantasy,” Minho says, a little shy now. “For kids. Mostly stories about adventures, magic, that kind of thing. Taking a break from it right now, though.” 

Jisung’s mouth drops open slightly. “That’s so fucking cool.” 

Minho laughs. “You think?” 

“Of course,” Jisung says. “You’re out here doing what you want, writing, dancing, being unfairly hot…” 

Minho groans softly. “You’re going to be dangerous to my ego.” 

Jisung grins wickedly. “Good. I plan to be.” 

Another kiss—this one slower, lingering, Jisung's fingers curling lightly in the fabric of Minho’s shirt as he leans in. 

Minho’s free hand slides up to cradle the back of Jisung’s neck, holding him there just a breath longer. When they part, they’re both a little breathless, foreheads nearly touching. 

“You’re dangerous in a lot of ways,” Minho says softly. 

Jisung grins again, tipping his head back with a lazy smile. “You have no idea.” 

Minho huffs a warm laugh. “Can I ask how old you are?” 

“Twenty-six. You?” 

Minho’s smile falters. He hesitates—just a second—then says, lowly, “I’m, um… forty.” 

There’s something in Jisung’s gaze that flickers. “Fuck,” he says softly. “That’s hot.” 

Minho lets out a startled breath of laughter. “You’re serious?” 

Jisung shifts closer again, legs still draped over his thighs, hands sliding up to rest against Minho’s chest now. 

“Very serious,” he murmurs. “You’re exactly my type.” 

Minho exhales slowly, gaze softening. 

“Doesn’t bother you?,” he asks. “I won’t lie, I was tentative when you first came over. Letting you approach me. You know, because of the age difference.” 

Jisung’s hands press a little firmer against his chest. 

“It doesn’t bother me one bit,” he says simply. “I knew you were older, and I came over because I wanted to.” 

Minho’s throat works as he swallows, the small anxious knot in his chest loosening. 

“Okay, I believe you.” 

Jisung smiles, soft, no teasing in it, then leans in to brush their noses together before kissing him again. 

But this time, the kiss has added heat. 

Jisung shifts in one smooth movement, hips sliding more fully across Minho’s thighs. His fingers slip from Minho’s chest down to his wrist, and with deliberate care, he guides Minho’s hand lower—down, down—until it cups the firm curve of his ass. 

Minho’s breath catches hard, his palm flexing instinctively.

And without a second thought, with a low groan breaking free of his throat, he grips Jisung’s ass and pulls him fully into his lap. 

Jisung gasps softly, a flash of surprise and heat sparking in his eyes—but he melts into it, arms winding around Minho’s shoulders as his body slots perfectly against him. 

The kiss is hot and breathless, Jisung’s mouth opening wider beneath his. Their tongues tangle hungrily, a slow, filthy slide that makes Minho’s head spin. Jisung shifts his hips, rolling them once, just enough to press their bodies closer still. Minho whines low into his mouth, tightening his grip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. 

It’s too much and not enough all at once. 

Jisung hums again, desperate and sweet, fingers curling in the fabric of Minho’s shirt as he chases the kiss. He’s nearly straddling him now, pressed flush chest to chest, nothing polite or restrained about it anymore. Minho’s restraint slips further with each passing second—every soft moan, every slow grind of Jisung’s hips. His pulse hammers, his body responding in ways he hadn’t dared hope it still could. 

Then—

A loud cough slices through the haze. 

Both of them freeze, panting. 

Minho turns his head just in time to see Chan standing a short distance from the booth, arms folded, mouth twitching with a poorly hidden grin. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Chan says dryly. “But we’re driving home. Seungmin’s reached the crying part of the night.” 

Minho lets his head fall back against the booth with a groan. 

Jisung laughs breathlessly against his throat. 

Reluctantly, Minho loosens his hold. Jisung backs off, still in his lap, his cheeks flushed deep pink. 

“Guess I should let you go before my friends physically drag me away,” Minho laughs.

Jisung grins, pupils still blown wide. “Only if you promise to text me.” 

Minho fumbles for his phone, hands still a little shaky. “Give me your number?” 

“Gladly.” 

They exchange phones quickly, numbers punched in. 

“Text me soon?” Jisung murmurs.

“You won’t have to wait long,” Minho says softly. 

With one last lingering look and a teasing squeeze of Minho’s thigh, Jisung finally slides off his lap, feet hitting the floor. But before Jisung can fully step away, Minho catches his wrist gently. 

“Wait,” he commands softly. 

Jisung pauses, eyes meeting his. 

Minho tugs him back in, just enough to lean in and press one last kiss to his mouth. Jisung leans into it, hands bracing lightly on Minho’s chest. 

They part with a breathless sound. 

“Will you be okay getting home?” Minho asks, voice rough with how much he doesn’t want to let him go. 

Jisung smiles, warm and a little dazed. “Yeah. My friends are still here. I’m staying at my best friend’s place tonight.” 

Minho nods, relief soft in his chest. “Good. Will you text me when you’re back safe?” 

“Okay,” Jisung says, fingers giving his chest a playful tap. “You better be awake to read it.” 

Minho smirks. “For you? I will be.” 

Jisung grins, gives him one more fleeting brush of lips to his cheek, then finally steps away, eyes bright as he disappears back toward the dance floor. 

Minho watches him go, heart still thudding hard beneath his ribs. His lips still tingle. His hands still ache with the ghost of where they had held him. 

“Come on,” Chan says behind him, voice amused. “The others are already in the car.” 

Minho blinks, pulls himself together with an exhale. He scrubs a hand down his face and follows Chan out through the crowd. 

The cool night air hits him like a balm, sharp and welcome against the heat lingering in Minho’s skin. The SUV is idling by the curb, windows fogged inside. 

When he pulls the door open, Minho sees Seungmin curled in the back seat, face pressed into Changbin’s shoulder, tears dampening the fabric of his shirt. 

“There, there,” Changbin murmurs. He rubs Seungmin’s back in wide, slow circles. 

“I-I know you both love me, but I just—” hiccup “---sometimes I get scared—and I love you so much—” hiccup . 

“I know, baby. I know. We love you too. You’re okay.” 

Minho climbs into the passenger seat silently, a fond smile tugging at his mouth. 

Chan slides into the driver's seat, glancing back once to check on them, then starts the engine. As they pull away from the curb, the car is filled with Seungmin’s soft sniffling and Changbin’s steady reassurances. 

Once they’re on their way, Chan glances sidelong at Minho, a grin already pulling at his lips. 

“So,” he starts casually, tapping the wheel. “You and that guy?” 

Minho’s shoulders tense automatically. He huffs. “What about it?” 

Chan laughs under his breath. “ Minho . Come on. We all saw you practically eating each other in that booth.” 

Minho groans, tipping his head back against the seat. “Can you not?” 

“Why? I’m happy for you,” Chan says lightly. “He seemed nice. Cute, too. And damn you looked hungry when you looked at him—” 

“Channie,” Minho cuts in, cheeks heating. “I really don’t want to do this right now.” 

Chan’s grin only grows, but he holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave. For now.” 

In the back, Seungmin lets out another broken sob into Changbin’s chest. “Why is your chest so perfect ? It’s not fair. I wanna live here.” 

Changbin laughs. “Baby, you do live there most of the time.” 

“That’s not the point !” Seungmin wails, clutching harder. 

Up front, Minho pulls a face, shaking his head. “Christ. TMI, you two.” 

Chan snorts. “You’re one to talk after almost committing public indecency.” 

Minho sinks lower in his seat. “Nope. We’re done talking about that.” 

By the time Chan drops him off, it’s past one. The streets are dark, silvered with the rain and the reflection of the moon against them. 

“I’ll text you when we’re home,” Chan says. “Sleep well, loverboy.” 

Minho just groans and waves him off. He’s too tired to banter. Too full of something else entirely. 

Inside, the house is dark and still. He locks the door, shrugs out of his jacket, and climbs the stairs without bothering to turn on more than the dim light in the hallway. 

In his room, he undresses slowly, folding his clothes carefully. Every movement feels exaggerated, like he’s trying to buy time, but his body hums, restless beneath the surface. 

He sinks onto the edge of his bed, completely bare now, body still flushed with heat from the bar. Miraculously, his cock lies thick and hard between his thighs, flushed deep and already slick at the tip. 

For a long moment, he just sits there, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low, breath shaking. 

He looks down. 

It’s still there. Hard. Proud. Aching . 

A ragged breath breaks from his throat. His chest feels tight, too full, like it might collapse under the weight of it. Because this hasn’t happened in so long, not like this, not without even touching himself. 

Every failed night had chipped away at him. Every softening touch, every limp, useless ache that left him feeling emptier than before. It had turned him bitter, ashamed. 

But now—God, now—

The sight of himself, heavy and aching with need, stirs something close to a sob in his chest. It doesn’t come. He won’t let it. But the feeling is there. 

And all it had taken was him . 

Jisung’s mouth, hot and sure. His body sliding into his lap like he belonged there. The weight of him. The taste. The sound of his gasping into Minho’s mouth. 

That’s all it took to remind him of this. That it’s still in him. That he can want . That he can be wanted . 

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice rough and wrecked. 

His hand drifts down, slow and almost reverent, and wraps around himself. The contact jolts through him, electric, drawing a broken gasp from his throat. 

He’s so hard it hurts. 

One slow stroke, then another. His cock twitches greedily in his palm, thick drops of precome beading beneath his thumb. His hips flex, instinctively, chasing the friction like a starved man. 

Nothing distracts from the images flooding his mind this time. There’s only need —pure and bright, untainted. 

He closes his eyes and lets himself drown in it. 

Jisung’s weight straddling him, hips grinding, eyes dark and wide with hunger. The heat of his mouth. The sweet, greedy way he’d kissed him like he couldn’t get enough. 

Minho groans through gritted teeth, stroking faster now, hips lifting to meet every pass of his palm, now soaked. 

“Fuck—Jisung—” 

The name spills from him unbidden. 

It builds fast. Too fast—he’s shaking with it already, thighs trembling. His head tips back, neck taut, breath caught between gasps. 

And then it crashes through him—hard and hot, his release pulsing in thick, helpless spurts across his knuckles and all the way up to his chest. His whole body locks, then shudders apart, wave after wave, leaving him wrung out and panting. 

When it’s over, he collapses back against the mattress, eyes wet, heart hammering against his ribs. 

He lies there for a long moment, slick hand falling limp against his side, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. 

It happened . 

He finally came from his own hand, instead of waking up to sticky briefs. 

A quiet laugh slips from him, disbelieving. 

“Holy fuck,” he whispers to the ceiling. “Holy fuck .” 

It feels like a miracle. For the first time in months. 

After a while, he drags himself up with shaking limbs and cleans himself off with careful motions. His body feels warm now, loose and worn, but in the best way. He sinks into bed naked with a sigh, dragging the covers up his waist. For a moment, he just lies there, eyes shut, the lingering throb of pleasure still pulsing faintly through him. 

Then, his phone buzzes softly against the nightstand. 

He reaches for it, pulse picking up all over again. 

It’s a message from Jisung already. 

Jisung:   Made it home safe. I had an amazing time with you tonight. Really 💚

Minho exhales, smiling to himself in the dark.

He reads the message again. And again. 

For once, the voice in his head stays quiet. No doubt, no shame. Just warmth spreading in his chest, blooming.

His thumbs hover over the screen for a beat before he types, fingers trembling just a little. 

Minho: Me too. You made my night. Sleep well, gorgeous 😘

Jisung: Ahh stop! You too. Dream of me 🍑

Minho lets out a helpless laugh, grinning into the dark. 

For the first time in what feels like years, he knows he’ll fall asleep smiling. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

The next day, the sun is already high when Minho finally stirs. 

He stays in bed for a while, blinking slowly against the soft wash of morning. His body aches in all the right ways, a pleasant hum in his muscles, a dull throb in his thighs and hips from moving more than he has in a while. 

And beneath all of that… a different warmth entirely. 

A memory of dark eyes and soft lips. Of hands pulling him closer. Of the first real spark of want he’s felt.

And last night, he hadn’t failed himself. His body had wanted. 

It still feels like a small miracle, no matter how ridiculous that sounds.

He exhales slowly, smiling faintly at the ceiling, then forces himself up, padding into the bathroom. 

A long shower. Coffee. Simple breakfast. He keeps expecting the good mood to fade, but it doesn’t. The lingering hum of satisfaction follows him through the house. 

He’s just finishing his second cup of coffee when his phone buzzes. 

Channie : Hangover lunch today?

Minho: What time? 

Channie: 1. Our usual place. Seungmin’s already being a brat today. Come save us. 

Minho shakes his head fondly and sets the phone down, checking the time. He has a little over an hour. 

He pulls on a comfortable outfit—black jeans, a soft grey tee and his leather jacket—and even takes a little extra care with his hair. 

When he slides into his car, phone tucked safely in his pocket, the message from Jisung still lingers at the back of his mind. He hasn’t texted again yet. He’s waiting. Giving him space. But god, he wants to. 

When Minho arrives at their favourite cafe, he can already see them through the glass. 

Chan and Changbin are seated side by side in their usual spot, shoulders pressed close, heads tilted toward each other in quiet conversation. Changbin is laughing softly at something Chan’s just whispered in his ear, his arm lazily draped along the back of Chan’s chair. 

Across from them, Seungmin sits slumped over the table like a sulking mutt, oversized sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, chin in one hand as he stabs a straw aimlessly at the bottom of his glass. 

“Here he is,” Chan calls cheerfully. “Looks like you survived last night, huh?” 

“Barely,” Minho says, shrugging off his jacket as he approaches. “You’re relentless, dragging us out after last night.” 

Seungmin lets out a loud, put-upon sigh. “ I didn’t want to come. Someone forced me.” He shoots a pointed glare at Chan and Changbin. 

“You were sulking in bed,” Changbin says, voice light, but Minho catches the flicker of wariness in his glance. “Thought your favourite pancakes might cheer you up.” 

Chan reaches over to give Seungmin’s hand a quick squeeze, earning nothing but an indignant pout. 

Minho slides into the empty seat next to Seungmin just as the waiter approaches. 

They all give their orders, Minho opting for a spinach and mushroom omelette and a fresh orange juice. 

Once the waiter walks off, Chan leans forward, that teasing glint already lighting up his face. “So…” 

“No,” Minho says flatly. 

Changbin chuckles. “Oh, come on. You’re practically glowing.” 

“I’m not,” Minho says, but even he can hear the faint warmth in his voice. 

Chan nudges him under the table with his foot. “You’re allowed to be happy, you know. Especially after that.” 

Minho hums noncommittally. “I’m not giving you details, though.”

“Who said we wanted details?” Changbin says, grinning. “We just want to know if you’re texting your mystery man yet.” 

Minho leans back, folding his arms. “Maybe.” 

Chan laughs. “ Maybe , he says, like he didn’t spend the ride home looking dazed out of the window.” 

Minho shoots him a look, but there’s no heat in it.

Next to him, Seungmin lets out another loud sigh and slumps deeper into his seat, stabbing at the melted ice in his glass.

Minho watches him for a moment, brow lifting. “What’s with you?” 

Seungmin huffs and looks away dramatically. “Nothing.” 

“Right…” Minho drawls. 

Chan sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s mad at us.” 

“I’m not mad ,” Seungmin says, affronted. “I’m just… unappreciated.” 

Minho blinks. “Unappreciated?” He looks between Chan and Changbin. “What did you two do?” 

Changbin winces. “If you must know, he wanted to, uh… continue the night when we got home.” 

Chan chimes in, “And he was too drunk to even stand straight, and was almost dehydrated from all the crying, so we said no.” 

Minho snorts, finally understanding. “Ah. So you are pouting because your boyfriends had the audacity to be responsible.” 

Seungmin glares at him over his sunglasses. “But I was fine .” 

“You started crying about how much you love calculus ,” Changbin says under his breath. 

“I was having feelings ,” Seungmin insists, crossing his arms. “It would’ve been fine .” 

Minho shakes his head, fighting a laugh. “You’re a menace.” 

Seungmin pouts harder. “At least someone had a good night.” 

“Yes, I did. Thanks for noticing, in between gnawing on your chew toy, Changbin.” 

Changbin chokes on his coffee. “Chew toy?!”

Minho raises his brows innocently. “What, you didn’t see the way he was latched to your neck like a teething puppy?” 

Seungmin finally cracks a smile, smug under his sunglasses. “Maybe if you had your own toy to chew on, you wouldn’t be so bitter.” 

Minho snorts. “I’m not bitter, I’m just pointing out the public health risk that is your oral fixation.” 

Chan groans and buries his face in one hand. “Please, I’m trying to enjoy my hot chocolate.” 

Changbin reaches under the table and pats Seungmin’s thigh with mock sympathy. “He’s just jealous he didn’t get to cry into anyone’s chest last night.” 

“I’m a very emotional drunk, okay?” Seungmin says, grabbing his fork and flipping it in his hand like a dagger. “I’m also very affectionate. Or would be, if I were appreciated.” 

“We were protecting you, you brat,” Chan says, exasperated. 

Minho sips his juice, watching the exchange fondly. “Honestly, I don’t know how you two survive him.” 

“We don’t,” Changbin replies, deadpan. “We just die a little every day.” 

Seungmin hums. “And yet, you’re still with me.” 

Minho shrugs and gestures at the fork in Seungmin’s hand. “Careful. He’s getting his strength back.” 

“I’m just saying,” Seungmin continues, undeterred. “If I had been allowed to express my love last night, I’d be in a much better mood today.” 

“You’d also be in the ER with a broken bone from falling off the bed,” Chan mutters. 

Minho chuckles and sits back as the bickering continues, the easy rhythm of old friends and ridiculous love filling the space like sunlight. He doesn’t say anything else, just watches, feeling the ease settle over his shoulders. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jisung lingers. But he keeps that part to himself. 

Their food arrives with a pleasant clatter of plates—pancakes stacked high for Seungmin, a towering burger for Changbin, something vaguely healthy-looking for Chan, and Minho’s omelette. 

Conversation slows as they all dig in, the scrape of cutlery and the occasional contented sigh from Seungmin filling the space. Seungmin is marginally less bratty now that he has food, though he still manages a few pointed sulks between mouthfuls. 

As Minho focuses on his omelette, his phone buzzes lightly against the table. He glances down, expecting something he’s not interested in—only to find a message that makes his breath catch a little. 

Jisung: good morning! (yes I know it’s afternoon shh) 

Minho’s lips twitch into a smile he can’t quite hide, head ducking slightly as if to shield it from the others. He lifts the phone, thumbs poised over the screen as he thinks up a reply. 

Minho: Good afternoon. Did you sleep okay? 

He hits send, setting the phone down again but keeping it within easy reach, resisting the urge to stare at it. 

“You look suspiciously cheerful,” Chan says, not missing a beat even with a forkful halfway to his mouth.

Minho clears his throat. “Eat your grass, Channie.” 

Across the table, Seungmin squints over his sunglasses at his phone. “Oh my god, is that him already?” 

“We’re just talking.” 

“Right,” Changbin grins with a mouthful of fries. “Just talking.” 

Minho shakes his head but can’t quite stop the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When his phone buzzes again, he doesn’t hesitate to grab it. 

Jisung: I slept great, but I kept thinking about you. Hope you’re having a good day so far?

Yeah , Minho thinks. Now he is.

Minho tries to focus on his food. Really, he does. But it’s hard when his phone keeps lighting up beside his plate, each buzz winding him up like a music box. 

Minho: My day’s even better now I’m talking to you

Jisung: Omg stop dsdsosjdsjd. What are you up to today? 

Minho: Lunch with some friends. Recovering a bit

Jisung: Recovering from me? 😇

Minho nearly chokes on his juice. 

Minho: Partly, yes. Not complaining though

Across the table, Chan eyes him again. “Are you with us still, Minho?” 

“Huh, what?” He answers, dazed. 

Changbin grins. “Damn, he’s gone.” 

Minho doesn’t bother denying it. 

Jisung: um, you can say no, but… would you maybe want to go on a date tomorrow? (please say yes I might just die if you say no) 

Minho stares at the screen, the words blurring slightly. 

His stomach swoops, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, frozen. 

“...Shit,” he mutters under his breath. 

Chan looks over sharply. “What’s wrong?” 

Minho exhales, running a hand down his face. “He asked me on a date.” 

Seungmin perks up instantly. “And? You’re gonna say yes, right?” 

Minho stares at him, wide-eyed. “I don’t know. Should I? I mean—fuck. It’s been years. Plus, he’s younger than me.” He rubs the back of his neck, shoulders tense. “What if I make a fool of myself? What if he thinks I’m weird?” 

“You are weird, but that’s what we like about you,” Seungmin reassures. 

Chan huffs a soft laugh. “Minho. You’re overthinking this. And stop acting like you’re ancient.” 

Minho scowls. “He’s twenty-six.” 

“ So? ” Seungmin pipes up. “I’m twenty- five.” 

“And I’m thirty-nine,” Changbin says with a grin. “And Channie’s practically fossilised.” 

Chan rolls his eyes. 

“But the point is,” Changbin goes on, “We make it work just fine. Don’t let it mess with your head.” 

Seungmin nods, more serious now. “Exactly. He knows you’re older, and he still asked. You think he’d do that if he had a problem with it?” 

Minho hesitates, some of the tension in his chest starting to ease. 

Chan leans in, voice warm and steady. “Look. You smiled more last night than you have in months. You want this. Stop trying to talk yourself out of it because you’re scared.” 

Minho lets out a breath. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. Then firmer. “Okay.” 

He grabs his phone and types out a reply before he can change his mind. 

Minho: Yes, I’d love to. Please don’t die

The reply comes almost right away. 

Jisung: !!! Okay okay I’ll text you later when I’m done grinning like an idiot. I’m saying goodbye before I embarrass myself

Minho laughs under his breath, shaking his head fondly. 

Seungmin throws off his sunglasses and pumps a fist. “Victory!” 

Chan grins. “Proud of you.” 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

When Minho gets home, he kicks his boots off by the door, shrugs out of his jacket, and sinks onto the sofa with a long exhale. 

When he pulls out his phone, he’s happy to see Jisung has texted him again. 

Jisung: Heyy again, um… so I was thinking. Would you be okay if I took you to one of my favourite places tomorrow? It’s a bar but like… not too loud and busy. They do live bands. Kinda relaxed but really good vibes. I think you’d like it.

Minho smiles to himself. He can almost hear the hopeful lilt in Jisung’s voice even through text. A bar with live music. It’s honestly not something he would choose to do by himself, but maybe allowing himself new things includes this, too. 

Minho: That sounds perfect. I’d love that. What time? 

Almost instantly—

Jisung: omg yay! Maybe 7?? I’ll send you the address. I’m so excited already hahaha 😳

Minho: You’re adorable. Looking forward to it

He stares at the screen for a moment longer than necessary, a faint grin tugging at his lips. 

There’s a giddy, nervous hum beneath his skin. He knows he still has a lot to work on, to overcome, but for the first time in far too long, he has something to look forward to. 

Minho: Have a good rest of your day, Jisung. I’ll see you tomorrow 

Jisung: You too!! Can’t wait ❤️

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, he won’t hold back. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

The next day dawns cool and bright. Minho wakes up easier, feeling a kind of wired, restless energy already simmering beneath his skin that refuses to let him drift back to sleep. 

By noon, he’s scrubbed the house clean out of pure nerves—kitchen counters gleaming, living room pillows artfully rearranged. 

By three, he’s pacing. 

And by five, he caves. 

Minho: You home? 

Seungmin: Yeah, why? 

Minho: I need you. Urgently. 

Seungmin: What for

Minho: I need to pick an outfit. For tonight. 

Seungmin: omg you’re hopeless. Be there in 10. 

Ten minutes later, Minho hears the familiar knock at the door, and a moment later, he lets Seungmin in—messy hair, swallowed by his hoodie and jeans, carrying an iced Americano.  

“God, I love it when you beg for my help,” Seungmin teases, kicking off his shoes. 

“Don’t push it,” Minho says dryly, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. 

Seungmin pads after him up the stairs, sipping loudly from his straw as they step into Minho’s room. The bed is already covered in options. 

Seungmin whistles. “Damn. You really like this guy.” 

Minho exhales through his nose. “I don’t want to mess this up.” 

Seungmin softens. “You won’t. He obviously likes you a lot.” he grins. “Now. Let’s make you look like the snack you are.” 

Minho rolls his eyes but lets him take over. 

“Okay,” Seungmin says, setting his coffee down and rubbing his hands together. “What’s the vibe?” 

“A bar with live music. He said it was relaxed, but…” 

“You wanna look hot but like you’re not trying too hard.” Seungmin nods. “Got it.” 

He scans the bed like a general surveying a battlefield. Then pounces on something.

“This.” He holds up a soft black knit turtleneck—thin enough to cling but not suffocate, the neck loose and casual. “With this.” He plucks out a pair of deep olive green tailored trousers—slim, high-waisted, paired with a solid black belt to finish it off. 

“And your leather brogues. I know you have them somewhere.” 

“Okay,” Minho says, lifting a brow. “A turtleneck. Are you sure?” 

“Trust me,” Seungmin says firmly. “It’s sophisticated, it shows off your frame, and it says ‘I have my shit together, but I will ruin you if you ask daddy nicely’.” 

Minho chokes on a laugh, turning half away as he scrubs a hand over his mouth. “You are incorrigible. ” 

Seungmin beams. “I only speak the truth. You’re about to make that poor boy combust.” 

Minho shakes his head, amused but also a little warm. “Christ, I haven’t been on a date with anyone but Hana’s mother. You think this isn’t… I’m not making a mistake, right?” 

Seungmin softens a fraction. “Minho. He asked you out . He wants you. You’re not some awkward dad trying to play cool—you’re a hot single dad who’s sexy as hell. You deserve this.” 

A smile tugs at his mouth. 

“I mean it,” Seungmin continues. 

Minho exhales through his nose, nodding. “Okay. Okay. I’ll trust you.” 

Seungmin grins. “Good. Now get dressed so I can admire my work of art.” 

With a resigned chuckle, Minho disappears into the bathroom with the clothes. He pulls them on slowly, smoothing the soft black turtleneck over his chest, tucking it neatly into the trousers. It fits well, hugging his frame without clinging too tightly. 

It works. 

He looks… good. Not just good for his age—just good . Confident. The turtleneck sculpts his chest and arms, and the trousers are tight enough to draw attention to his waist and hips. 

When he steps back out, Seungmin is sprawled across the bed, phone in one hand, but his head snaps up instantly. 

“Holy fuck ,” Seungmin breathes, sitting up straight. “You’re going to kill him.” 

Minho fights a blush. “That good?” 

“That fucking good,” Seungmin says. “He’ll be dropping to his knees the moment he sees you.” 

Minho huffs a laugh, though his pulse thrums a little harder now. “I doubt that.” 

Seungmin waggles his brows. “Oh, you’ll see.” 

He grabs his phone, snaps a photo and starts typing furiously. 

Minho eyes him warily. “Who did you just send that to?” 

“Just Channie. He needs to see this glow-up. I’m doing God's work.” 

Minho groans but can’t stop the grin pulling at his mouth. 

Seungmin bounces off the bed and tugs him toward the mirror. “Look. Look at yourself. Now tell me what you see.” 

Minho studies his reflection, rolling his shoulders to ease the nerves coiling in his gut. “I look…” he hesitates. 

“Hot,” Seungmin supplies. “Say it.” 

Minho smirks faintly. “Fine. I look hot.” 

“Perfect,” Seungmin says, pleased. “Now. Go knock his pretty socks off.” 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

Minho arrives just in time. The bar is tucked into a narrow side street—a place you’d never stumble across by accident.

The street is slick with rain again, and the faintest curl of mist coils along the edges of the curb. Seungmin parks up—he had offered to drive him— and the engine ticks softly as the car shuts off. He sits there for a beat, his nerves building. 

He breathes out once. Twice. Says a quick ‘thanks’ and ‘see ya’ to Seungmin, then steps out of the car into the cool evening air. 

His shoes land softly against the wet pavement, the scent of rain filling his senses. He adjusts his jacket out of habit and starts toward the door. 

Outside the bar, a handful of people linger beneath the awning, laughing in tight clusters, smoke curling from parted lips. The entrance is narrow—exposed brick, worn wooden frame, a single brass handle gleaming in the streetlights. Above it, the name of the place glows faintly in antique bulbs: The Hollow . 

Minho reaches for the handle. His palm feels warm against the cool metal. 

Then he hears a voice behind him. 

“Minho!” 

He turns. 

There, on the curb, Jisung stands beneath a flickering streetlight. 

And fuck . 

His outfit isn’t as bold as the other night, but it’s effortless. Like he threw the pieces on and somehow, it just worked. 

A thin white tee layered beneath and an open black-and-grey flannel, soft with wear. Slim black jeans, cuffed at the ankle to show off battered Docs and the line of his socks. His neck is bare, save for a thin silver chain catching at his collarbone, glinting every time he shifts. His hair is a tousled halo of dark waves, a few strands falling softly across his brow, and his cheeks are flushed from the chill. He smiles when their eyes meet, wide and guileless, something in it knocking the breath straight out of Minho’s chest. 

“You came.” 

Minho’s mouth curves before he can think. “Of course.” 

Jisung bounces on the balls of his feet once, then strides over. He stops just a breath too close, eyes bright as they roam over his body. 

“You look… fuck .” 

Minho exhales through his nose, close to a laugh. “You approve?” 

Jisung tips his head, grin sharpening. “I’d approve even if you’d shown up in sweats. But this—” he gestures vaguely—“this is not fair.” 

“You look great, too.” 

Jisung laughs—bright and easy, teeth flashing. Then, bolder, he lifts a hand, fingers brushing lightly along the leather jacket at Minho’s arm. 

“You ready to head in?” he asks. 

Minho inclines his head. “Lead the way.” 

Jisung’s smile widens. He turns toward the door, but not before catching Minho’s wrist in a light grip—warm fingers circling briefly, thumbing over his pulse point. 

Minho swallows thickly and follows him. 

Inside, the bar is exactly what Jisung had promised—dim and intimate, brick walls decorated with warm filament lights, the scent of aged wood and whiskey wafting beneath the smoke. A small stage sits sunken at the back, with a band mid-sound check. The low thrum of a bass vibrates through Minho’s bones as they weave through scattered tables and worn leather chairs. 

Jisung leads them toward a narrow booth against one side wall with a reserved sign placed on the table. As they settle in—Minho sliding in first, Jisung close after—Jisung shifts toward him, knees knocking gently beneath the table.

“This okay?” he asks. 

Minho can only nod, his throat feeling too tight to speak. It’s too much already—the way Jisung looks at him, eyes bright and open, but at the same time full of want. He leans in just enough so that Minho can smell him again—citrus and something faintly resinous beneath it, sticky and sweet. 

He gestures to the bar. “What’s your poison tonight, Minho?” 

And just like that, the spell breaks a little. The tension eases, warmth settling lower. 

Minho lets out a breath of a laugh, leaning closer without thinking. “Surprise me.” 

Jisung grins widely, eyes flaring. “Dangerous.” 

Jisung slides out of the booth, flannel swaying loosely behind him, and Minho swears he sees his sinful frame through the light material. He saunters off toward the bar, and Minho is absolutely not looking at the flex of his legs under his tight jeans. 

When Jisung finally returns, two drinks in hand, Minho’s pulse has only just started to steady. Jisung slides back into the booth, hips brushing Minho’s as he settles in close again. 

“One old fashioned for the devilishly handsome older man,” Jisung teases, sliding the glass toward him. 

Minho arches a brow. “And for you? Something sweet, no doubt.” 

Jisung lifts his own glass, which appears to be an orange-coloured cocktail. 

“It’s called a Hurricane,” he says, lifting the straw to his lips. “It’s rum.” 

They clink their glasses together, the sound sharp and sweet beneath the music playing from the speakers. And as they sip, knees still pressed together beneath the table, shoulders brushing every shift, Minho realises he wants. He wants so bad. 

Jisung leans in, eyes a little blown, one hand resting warm and easy on Minho’s thigh. 

“I really like you,” he says softly. 

Minho’s heart lurches. God, he wants this, needs this, and every part of him hums with the desire to close the last of the space between them and continue how their Friday night ended. 

But then a cold flicker of a thought intrudes on his desires. 

Hana.

He hasn’t told Jisung about Hana. 

She’s not just a part of his life. She is his life. And if this goes any further—if Jisung ends up tangled in his life. He needs to tell him. 

Minho exhales, sudden tension knotting in his stomach. 

“Jisung. There’s something… before we—before I let this go any further. You need to know something about me.” 

Jisung blinks, sitting up just a little, expression shifting. Listening. “Okay,” he says gently. “What is it?” 

“I’m… I’m a father. I have a daughter. Hana. She’s fourteen.” 

The words hang there, raw and clumsy. He hates how awkward they sound. 

“I wasn’t hiding it—god, I wasn’t trying to. I just—” He shakes his head, voice roughening. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this.” 

Jisung’s lips part, surprise flickering through his gaze, but no disgust. No recoil. 

He reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against Minho’s hand. “You didn’t exactly have a chance to tell me before,” he chuckles softly. “And I know now. That’s all that matters.” 

Minho exhales, some of the tightness loosening. “I should have given you the whole picture. I can’t… I won’t pretend I’m not her dad before anything else.” 

For a beat, Jisung says nothing. His hand lingers on Minho’s, thumb moving in a slow, grounding stroke against the back of it. 

“I’m glad you told me,” he says at last, voice steady. “Really. It’s not a deal-breaker. Not even close.” 

Minho blinks, not trusting himself to speak yet. 

Jisung’s smile grows faint but warm, eyes searching Minho’s face. “You don’t have to explain yourself, Minho. This is new for me, too.” 

Minho lets out a steadying breath. “It’s been years since I let myself even think about this—dating, wanting someone. You know I come in a damaged package: Forty, divorced, raising a teenager. I’m hardly thrilling.” 

“Hey.” Jisung’s fingers tighten around his. “You’re you ,” he says, simple and sure. “And you’re wrong about that last part, by the way.” He tips his head, a teasing glint breaking through. “You’re very thrilling.” 

That coaxes the smallest laugh from Minho. 

“It’s strange, though,” Minho continues. 

Jisung’s brows lift. 

“I barely know you. We’ve exchanged what—half a night and a few texts? But sitting here with you…” He shakes his head faintly. “It doesn’t feel like I’m with a stranger.” 

Jisung’s smile softens, eyes crinkling. “I know what you mean,” he says. “It feels easy. Too easy.” A little laugh escapes him. “I keep catching myself thinking things I shouldn't do this soon.” 

“Tell me,” Minho says softly. “What things?” 

Jisung shakes his head once, a breath of nervous laughter escaping him. “It’s stupid.” 

“I doubt that very much.” 

Jisung bites his lip, gaze flicking up through dark lashes. 

Minho holds his gaze, warmth bleeding through every word. “You don’t have to hide it from me.” 

“I just… keep thinking things I probably shouldn’t,” Jisung whispers. 

Minho’s brows lift, coaxing. “Like?” 

Jisung lets out a breathy laugh, cheeks darkening further. “Like…” he huffs, shakes his head again, but this time a small, shy smile tugs at his mouth. “Like wanting to know how you take your coffee, whether you sleep on your side or your back… stupid things like that. God, I’m being too honest, aren’t I?” 

“Not too honest. I like it,” Minho laughs. “Those don’t sound like bad thoughts to me.” 

Jisung peeks up at him then, eyes bright with something unguarded. “You think?”

“I know,” Minho says. “Because I’ve been thinking the same kinds of things.” 

Jisung huffs a small laugh, the tension easing. He leans back slightly, fingers still lazily playing with the edge of Minho’s hand. “Okay, then—” he says, a teasing lilt creeping into his voice again. “Since you’ve clearly been thinking about it, I’ll start: how do you take your coffee?” 

Minho’s mouth quirks. “Black. No sugar.” 

Jisung gasps, eyes widening in mock scandal. “You’re one of those people.” He leans in, voice dropping. “I’m going to need to fix that. You’re missing out on the joy of oat milk and just the tiniest bit of caramel syrup.” 

Minho arches a brow. “Oat milk and caramel?” He leans in closer, too, their faces just inches apart now, the warmth in Jisung’s gaze drawing him in. “Is that how you take yours?” 

“Mhm,” Jisung’s grin turns smug. “I’m sweet like that.” 

Minho hums low in his throat, gaze dropping briefly to Jisung’s lips. “I think I already noticed.” 

Jisung’s cheeks flush prettily, but he holds eye contact this time. “Careful,” Jisung says softly. “Keep saying things like that, and I might get ideas.” 

“That’s the point.” 

For a beat, neither of them does anything; they just sit there, grinning like a pair of teenagers who got caught passing notes in class. 

Then Jisung shifts closer again, knees brushing more firmly now. “Okay,” he says, voice soft and playful. “Next question.” 

Minho smirks. “We’re doing questions now?” 

“Obviously,” Jisung laughs. His fingers trace the back of his hand. “So—sleeping habits. Side? Back? Stomach?” 

Minho chuckles. “Side, mostly. But I move around a lot.” 

“Mm,” Jisung hums. “Side means you’d be easy to cuddle.” 

Minho’s brows lift. “Already planning on testing that theory?” 

“Only if you’d let me.” 

“I might,” he says, eyes dark and steady on Jisung’s. “But be warned. I’m not great at letting things I like slip through my fingers.” 

Jisung inhales. His fingers tighten subtly against the back of Minho’s hand. “Is that a promise or a threat?” 

Minho smiles. “Both.” 

Jisung lets out a soft, breathy laugh, but the flush on his cheeks is clear. “I’m starting to think you’d make the perfect cuddle buddy,” Jisung whispers, gaze flicking briefly to Minho’s mouth. “Warm. Steady. Handsy, if I’m lucky.” 

Minho huffs a short laugh. “You’d be very lucky.” 

He turns his palm upward beneath Jisung’s touch, catching his fingers with his own. He strokes the inside of Jisung’s delicate wrist lightly with his thumb—teasing, coaxing—feeling the quickening pulse there. 

“And you?” Minho murmurs. “On your side too?” 

“I think I’d rather let you find out for yourself.” 

Minho exhales, pulse kicking hard. His grip on Jisung’s hand tightens just a fraction, thumb still stroking slow, lazy circles against his skin. 

“Is that so?” He asks. 

Jisung hums. “Mhm.” He tips his head. “But not all mysteries should be solved in one night, don’t you think?” 

Minho smiles. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “Some things are worth taking your time with.” 

“But,” Jisung murmurs, eyes gleaming with something darker. “Some things shouldn’t be put off too long.” 

“You think?” 

Jisung leans in a little more, eyes half-lidded, the press of his thigh firm against Minho’s. His fingers squeeze Minho’s hand lightly before letting go, only to drift slowly up Minho’s forearm, tracing the line of muscle beneath the fabric. 

“I think…” Jisung starts. His voice dips further, barely audible under the low hum of conversation and music. “Some things are worth… indulging.” His fingertips reach the crook of Minho’s elbow, pause, then ghost higher—brushing faintly over the inner part of his bicep. 

Minho’s breath catches despite himself, his skin tightening beneath the featherlight touch. He meets Jisung’s gaze, dark and hungry. 

“You’re very tempting,” Minho murmurs. 

Jisung’s mouth tilts in a sinfully slow smile. “You don’t know the half of it.” 

Minho’s hand shifts instinctively, resting on Jisung’s thigh beneath the table—a light touch at first, but with clear intent. He feels the heat of his skin through the denim. Hears the soft intake of breath it draws. 

Jisung’s fingers curl lightly over Minho’s wrist, not pulling him away. 

“You’re making it hard to hold back.” 

“Good,” Jisung breathes. His eyes flick down to his lips again, then back up. He leans in until their faces hover just inches apart. “Because I don’t want you to.” 

That’s all Minho needs. 

He closes the distance with purpose, no hesitation this time, no blur of alcohol or loud music. Just want. Just him and Jisung, and the heat coiled thick between them. Their mouths meet—firm, sure. The first press is slow but deep, a clear claiming of space. Jisung exhales against him, lips parting willingly. Minho’s hands slide higher, fingers splaying against his thigh. 

Jisung hums into the kiss, low and pleased, his own hand moving to slide up Minho’s chest to curl lightly at the back of his neck. His nails scrape just faintly against the skin there—a teasing touch that sends a shiver down his spine. The kiss deepens—mouths parting wider, tongues brushing in slow, deliberate strokes. Minho groans softly against him, the sound low and wrecked. His grip on Jisung tightens. His body answers without thought, leaning closer, hips shifting unconsciously toward him under the table. 

Jisung breaks the kiss only for air—just a breathless inch away. His forehead rests against Minho’s, lips swollen and parted. 

“Fuck,” Jisung whispers. 

“Yeah…” 

Suddenly, a voice breaks through the haze. 

“Hey, Sungie—sorry to interrupt. The band says they’re ready for you.” 

Minho blinks, head turning toward who had spoken—a blonde man with a clipboard and a smile that could rival the sun. 

Jisung’s eyes widen. “Shit,” he breathes, pulling back reluctantly. “Sorry, Lixie. I totally forgot I was singing. That’s the whole reason I wanted to bring you here.” 

Minho tilts his head. “You’re performing?” 

Jisung grins, sheepish, but it’s clear he is excited. “Yeah. Just one song.” He presses one last kiss to Minho’s lips. “Don’t miss me too much, okay?” 

Minho’s mouth curves in a slow smile. “I’m making no promises.” 

Jisung’s eyes sparkle. “Right answer.” He slides gracefully out of the booth, giving Minho’s thigh a teasing squeeze as he stands. “Keep my seat warm.” 

And with that, he disappears toward the stage, leaving Minho leaning back in the booth, heart racing and lips still tingling. 

He lets out a shaky breath, dragging his palm once over the table’s worn surface to ground himself. Across the dimly lit space, the small crowd has begun shifting, more eyes drifting toward the small stage now bathed in soft amber light. 

Jisung is up there already, greeting the band with a quick, easy smile. His flannel is shrugged off now and tossed over a chair, leaving just the thin white tee stretched across his broad frame. He slings a battered acoustic guitar across his shoulder, fingers brushing the strings in an idle test. The sight makes Minho’s throat tighten. 

He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected to watch this bright, shameless man turn so quietly focused in the space of a heartbeat. 

The mic hums as Jisung steps up to it. 

“Hey, everyone,” he says, talking to the crowd like he belongs there. “Just one tonight. Hope that’s okay.” 

There’s a scattered cheer across the room—clearly, some people here know him. 

Minho shifts in his seat as he watches the way Jisung adjusts the strap across his chest, rolls his shoulders once, then leans into the mic with the kind of casual grace that comes from knowing exactly who he is up there. 

“This one is called Maybe .” 

Then he starts to play. 

A low, rich strum. Slow. measured. The first few chords ripple through the space, drawing the room closer in an unspoken hush. Minho feels it immediately, the music thick with warmth and something aching underneath. 

When Jisung starts to sing, it’s soft, but sure. 

A voice with edges—bright in the high notes, roughened with emotion in the low. Like he’s not just performing, but baring his soul to each person in the room. And fuck, he can play. His fingers move across the guitar with an easy, practised touch, wrist flicking deftly as he coaxes sound from the strings. 

It’s not a loud song. It’s intimate. The kind of song that sounds like it was meant to be sung in a room meant for two. 

And right now, it feels like every word is meant for him. 

Minho can’t look away. 

Jisung’s eyes are half-lidded as he sings, mouth brushing the mic just close enough to send a fresh thrill through Minho’s chest with every note. His fingers never falter—smooth, rhythmic. His voice pours out in warm waves.

 And all Minho can think is: How did I get so lucky to be here, seeing this? 

Though he knows it is foolish, knows that this is too fast, knows they barely know each other—he already knows this man will be dangerous to him in ways he isn’t entirely sure he is ready for. 

When the last notes fade, the room exhales, a scattering of applause and light cheers. Jisung smiles, eyes flicking up once, and there—just for a second—his gaze catches Minho’s across the room. Soft. Shining. A secret smile meant only for him. 

Minho feels it like a strike to the chest. 

He watches, barely breathing, as Jisung hands off the guitar and makes his way back through the crowd. He’s almost glowing now, eyes even brighter beneath the low lights, cheeks flushed from the heat of performing. 

And fuck, the flannel is still gone. Just the white tee, damp in places from sweat, clinging shamelessly to the lines of his chest and shoulders. 

And God, his arms. 

Minho’s gaze drags over the taut lines of Jisung’s biceps where the fabric hugs them, skin flushed, veins faint beneath the surface. The cut of his shoulders beneath the thin cotton has Minho’s mouth running dry and his pulse spiking all over again. 

When Jisung slides back into the booth, Minho doesn’t give him a chance to settle fully before leaning in, catching his wrist lightly beneath the table. 

“That was—” Minho’s voice breaks. He swallows, eyes flicking down to where his fingers brush Jisung’s pulse. “That was beautiful. You—” He exhales hard, gaze lifting again. “You took my breath away.” 

Jisung blinks, taken aback, then a slow, almost shy smile blooms across his face. “You really think so?” He breathes. 

“I do.” Minho’s voice is low and unwavering. His eyes flick downward again, just for a second, dragging to Jisung’s bare arms, the sleek line of muscle shifting beneath skin. His fingers tighten gently around Jisung’s wrist. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I don’t think I could have even if I tried.” 

A soft laugh spills from Jisung then. His free hand lifts to Minho’s cheek, thumb brushing there in a smooth stroke. “Careful,” he murmurs. “Keep talking like that, and I might just fall for you.” 

“Maybe I want you to.” 

Jisung draws in a trembling breath. Then, without another word, he leans in and kisses Minho again—slow this time, sweet, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of his mouth. Minho hums against him, one hand sliding to Jisung’s thigh, his grip firm and sure as his other brushes over Jisung’s bicep, solid beneath his fingertips. 

Jisung pulls back slowly, breathless. 

“I know we haven’t been here long,” he says, tone almost shy—but the flicker in his eyes is anything but innocent as his thumb grazes Minho’s jaw. “But I’d really like to take you home. If you want to.” 

Minho’s breath catches. 

Jisung’s mouth curves into a small, wicked smile. “And just so you know… I don’t mean for coffee.” 

Minho’s grip tightens slightly, the heat pooling low in his belly now molten.

“I’d like that very much.” 

Jisung exhales a soft laugh—relieved, giddy, eyes shining. 

“Good,” he whispers, leaning in to press one more fleeting kiss to Minho’s mouth, lips barely brushing, a tease. “Then let’s get out of here before I lose my patience.” 

Minho groans softly under his breath, every part of him strung taut now with want. 

“Lead the way,” he murmurs. 

Jisung slips out of the booth, runs over to grab his flannel still slung over the chair, and runs back to Minho with his hand outstretched. Minho takes it without hesitation, his fingers curling tightly around Jisung’s slightly longer ones. The contact alone sends a fresh wave of heat rolling low through his stomach. Jisung squeezes his hand once, then tugs him toward the door, weaving them through the thinning crowd. 

Outside, the air is cool against his overheated skin. The streets glisten faintly beneath the glow of streetlamps, rain-damp and quieter now. Jisung leads the way, their fingers still laced. The walk to his place isn’t far, apparently—a few streets over—but each step sends another pulse of awareness through Minho. 

He can feel Jisung’s warmth at his side, and yet, beneath it, another feeling is simmering, getting closer to boiling over with each passing step. 

What if he can’t do this? 

The thought hits like a pebble in still water and begins to ripple out. 

What if tonight isn’t like the other day? What if that had been a fluke—driven by adrenaline, whiskey, the rush of being kissed by someone like Jisung? 

What if his body betrays him again—worse this time, in front of someone he desperately doesn’t want to disappoint? 

Jisung’s voice filters through the swirl of thoughts—soft, laughing, saying something about the band—but Minho only half-hears it. His pulse stutters, and his free hand curls into a fist in the pocket of his jacket. 

What if he can’t even get hard? And what if he does, but he can’t stay hard? What if Jisung laughs at him? 

No, he wouldn’t—

Jisung squeezes his hand again, anchoring him back to the present. Minho forces himself to glance over. 

Jisung is watching him with a soft smile, unaware of the war raging beneath his skin. His flannel is half-slipped off one shoulder, the white tee hugging his biceps obscenely well in the glow of the night.

Minho’s throat works around a tight swallow. 

God, he wants him. But the fear claws harder. 

“Almost there,” Jisung says, thumb brushing across Minho’s knuckles. “You okay?” 

Minho swallows. Forces a smile that feels thinner than he’d like. “Yeah. Just nervous.” 

Jisung’s gaze softens instantly. “Hey.” He steps closer. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.” 

Minho’s chest tightens at the gentle sincerity in his voice. “I do want to.” 

“Then we’ll go slow,” he murmurs. “Whatever you want.” 

Minho lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. 

“Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you.” 

Jisung grins, squeezes his hand again. 

“Come on,” he says, eyes sparkling. 

Minho nods, falling into step beside him again. 

They walk the rest of the way in silence, hand in hand, the only sounds being the soft slap of their shoes against the damp pavement. Minho keeps stealing glances at Jisung out of the corner of his eye—at the way his hair catches the golden light, how his fingers never loosen in his grip. 

He’s unbearably nervous, but something about the quiet steadiness of Jisung’s presence soothes the sharper edges of the fear clawing at his ribs. 

Soon, Jisung pulls them up short in front of an older brick building. The place looks lived-in and warm, lights glowing faintly behind tall windows. 

“Here we are,” Jisung says, fishing out a small set of keys. He glances over with a sheepish smile. “Ignore the mess if there is one—I was expecting to take it slower than this, to be honest.” 

“I don’t mind,” Minho murmurs. 

Jisung smiles wider, giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go to unlock the door. They climb a narrow flight of stairs, and Minho can’t help staring at the way all of Jisung’s clothes cling to him. Another wave of heat pulses low through him, tangled with the familiar dread rising beneath it— what if …

But then they’re there. 

Jisung pushes open the apartment door, holding it wide with a bright grin. “Come in.” 

Minho steps inside, already struck by the warmth of the place. It’s small, but inviting—soft golden light spilling from various lamps scattered around the room, plants trailing from every available surface, shelves stuffed with books and records. There’s a guitar propped up in the corner beside a battered amp and a framed gig poster. 

And then—

A sudden rustle, a thump of nails on hardwood. A small blur of white comes barrelling around the corner, tail wagging furiously. 

“Ah shit,” Jisung laughs. “Bbama, no—slow down.” 

The little dog skids to a stop in front of Minho, ears perked, nose twitching, whole body vibrating with excitement. 

Jisung laughs breathlessly, scooping the eager pup up into his arms. “Yeah—so this is Bbama. He’s part gremlin, part bichon frise.” He kisses the dog’s head with an exaggerated ‘mwah’. “Oh, fuck. I hope you’re not allergic.” 

“I’m not,” Minho says, a smile tugging at his mouth. He reaches out tentatively, letting Bbama lick his fingers in greeting. “But fair warning, I’m more of a cat person.” 

Jisung gasps, mock-offended. “You say that now after I kissed you.” 

Minho chuckles. “I love dogs, too. I just relate more to cats.” 

Jisung grins, lowering Bbama to the floor. “You’re right. I wouldn’t be able to tell you apart if you were next to a cat.” 

Bbama trots off with a happy wiggle of his tail.

Jisung turns back to Minho, expression soft. He toes off his boots, his socked feet padding lightly across the floorboards. Minho follows suit, slipping out of his shoes.

“Come here,” Jisung says gently. 

Minho goes. 

Jisung lifts both hands, fingers light on either side of Minho’s face, thumb brushing along his jaw. “Still okay?” he whispers. 

Minho exhales. “Yeah.” 

“Good,” Jisung breathes, his smile curling. “Because I’ve been thinking about kissing you again since we left the bar.” 

This time, Jisung doesn’t wait. 

He closes the distance with surety, mouth claiming Minho’s in a kiss that’s far from tentative. His lips part against Minho’s, tongue slipping forward to tease him open, and Minho gives in without hesitation—mouth yielding, body tilting instinctively into Jisung’s firm touch. 

The kiss is controlled and deliberate. Jisung sets the pace, and Minho lets himself be guided—head tipping back as Jisung deepens the kiss, one hand sliding behind Minho’s neck to hold him there just a little longer, just a little closer. 

When they part, Minho’s vision feels hazy, his lips are flushed, and his chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. 

Jisung doesn’t release him. He keeps one hand curled around Minho’s, threading their fingers together. “Come with me.” 

Minho nods once, silently, and follows. 

Jisung leads him down the hallway, his thumb stroking lightly over the back of Minho’s hand as he pushes open his bedroom door and steps aside only long enough to guide Minho in ahead of him. 

The room is dim, a little messy in a way that feels lived-in. Minho barely has time to take it in before Jisung’s hands are on him again, pushing his jacket from his shoulders, letting it fall. His fingers find the hem of Minho’s turtleneck and tug, gently and insistent. 

“Arms up,” Jisung murmurs. 

Minho obeys, silent heat blooming in his cheeks as the fabric slips over his head and drops to the floor beside them. Any other time, he would’ve needed to stop, to fold the shirt, but now, he doesn’t care. The air brushes against his skin, but it’s Jisung’s gaze that makes him shiver. 

“You’re beautiful,” Jisung says, low and a little rough. 

Minho starts to respond, to protest, but Jisung steps forward again, kissing him quiet and desperate. He walks him slowly backwards, lips never leaving his, until Minho’s legs bump against the edge of the bed.

“Lie down,” Jisung whispers against his mouth. 

Minho hesitates—just long enough for Jisung’s hands to find his hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the waistband of his pants. “If you want this, then let me take care of you.” 

That settles something in Minho’s chest. 

He lets go. Allows himself to sink back onto the mattress, watching as Jisung follows him down, a promise in the press of his body. 

Jisung moves with purpose. His hand brushes lightly against Minho’s side, fingers dragging over the skin like he’s fragile. The look in his eyes isn’t just hunger—it’s curiosity. It’s like he thinks Minho is something worth handling gently. 

“You okay?” Jisung asks again. 

Minho nods, and then, more confidently, “Yeah. I really am.” 

Jisung smiles, and it’s like sunshine cresting through storm clouds. He leans down, capturing Minho’s mouth in a kiss that’s softer this time. His fingers cradle Minho’s jaw, his thumb brushing soothingly beneath his cheekbone. 

And Minho melts. 

Jisung hums softly into it, moving to tilt Minho’s chin just so, deepening it with a slow drag of his mouth. Then, without breaking contact, he shifts, knees bracketing Minho’s hips, thighs settling on either side as he climbs into his lap. 

The change in position draws a startled breath from Minho—half gasp, half groan—as their bodies press flush together. Jisung’s hands slide down his bare chest, anchoring against his sides, and then he rolls his hips down once, deliberate and slow. 

Minho chokes on the sound that leaves him. 

Because he feels it. 

The solid, aching press between his legs. 

Minho can’t even think. 

Not with Jisung moving the way he is—his hips rolling slowly and purposefully, grinding down with a rhythm that’s nothing short of devastating. The friction is everything. It floods Minho’s body with heat, unravelling him from the inside out. 

A helpless sound catches in his throat, and he clutches at Jisung’s hips, like he might float right out of his body if he doesn’t. 

Jisung leans in, mouth brushing Minho’s ear. “Is that good, baby?” he whispers. 

Minho nods, frantic, his eyes fluttering shut as Jisung rocks against him again, slower this time. He can feel Jisung’s smile in the kiss that follows—smug, sweet and almost tender. 

“God, you make such pretty noises. I can’t believe it,” Jisung breathes. 

Minho’s breath hitches. His hips jerk up instinctively, trying to chase the friction. He doesn’t care how desperate he might look—he’s not felt this good, this alive, in years. He lets his head fall forward, pressing his mouth to Jisung’s shoulder as he groans again. “Please,” he whines, though he’s not entirely sure what he’s asking for. 

Suddenly, Jisung is pulling off just enough to meet Minho’s eyes. “Can I take off your pants, sweet thing?” And Minho nods again, helpless, lips parted and panting. 

“Okay,” Jisung whispers, then presses one last kiss to Minho’s lips—short, hot, lingering—before drawing back fully. 

Minho shudders at the sudden absence of weight as Jisung shifts down, hands skimming along his sides. He settles between his thighs, fingers deftly finding the button of Minho’s trousers. “Lift your hips for me, baby.” 

Minho obeys without a word, his breath catching as Jisung eases the fabric down his legs, slow and careful. He watches the way Jisung’s gaze tracks every inch of newly exposed skin like he’s cataloguing it. 

When Minho’s pants hit the floor, Jisung leans over to press a kiss just above the waistband of his briefs, warm breath ghosting over his sensitive skin. “Fuck, I love how responsive you are.” 

Minho’s fingers dig into the sheets, his whole body thrumming with anticipation. He doesn’t speak—he can’t. His mind is a haze of sensation, the edges of his world narrowing to just the heat in Jisung’s eyes and the promise of what’s to come. 

Jisung glances up, smirking. “You look so good like this. You have no idea.” 

Then he hooks his fingers into the waistband of his briefs and slowly begins to pull them down. 

Every inch of Minho’s skin tingles in anticipation, nerves lit up like constellations. He’s never felt so bare—not just undressed, but exposed , his body and heart cracked wide open beneath Jisung’s hands.

Jisung’s eyes trace his form, and when his gaze settles lower, there’s a pause—a flicker of surprise that makes his brows lift, mouth part slightly. 

“Wow,” Jisung breathes, sounding awed. “You’re big.” 

Minho’s face burns, breath tight. 

He can’t respond. He’s too overwhelmed. Not just by the praise, but by the simple fact that he’s still hard. 

It hadn’t been a fluke. He isn’t broken. 

Then Jisung leans in, lips brushing at the tip of his cock in a featherlight kiss so gentle that Minho nearly sobs from the sensation alone. The contact is fleeting, but it burns through him, white-hot. Minho gasps, fingers curling into the sheets. His legs tremble slightly where they’ve fallen open, and Jisung steadies him with firm grounding hands on his hips. 

“You okay?” he asks once again, and Minho is surprised the man isn’t tired of checking in on him. 

Minho meets his eyes. “I’m—more than okay.” 

Jisung smiles at that. One hand trails up Minho’s torso, splaying over his soft stomach, holding him there like a tether. 

The first time Jisung parts his mouth and draws him in, Minho’s entire body jolts—shoulders tightening. 

His head falls back against the pillows with a soft, broken moan. “Oh—” 

It’s not just the heat or the wet, slick glide—it’s the way Jisung clearly enjoys it. The way he takes Minho in so steadily and carefully, easing him deeper with patient control as his tongue moves in slow strokes, exploring each inch. 

Minho can’t believe this is happening, that his body is responding like this. That he hasn’t gone soft. The disbelief crashes over him in waves—tangled up with the way Jisung’s mouth feels around him—until his eyes sting. 

He finally lets himself look. Jisung is kneeling between his thighs, lips wrapped around him, lashes fanned dark across his cheeks. One hand stays steady on Minho’s hip while the other gently strokes what his throat can’t take. His jaw works with careful intention, and every so often his eyes flick up, dark, knowing, like he wants Minho to see. 

And Minho can’t look away. 

He watches as Jisung takes him deeper, his hand reaching down, not to guide or ask for more, just to touch. His fingers weave into Jisung’s soft hair, a silent thank-you, a desperate need to stay connected to him. 

Jisung works him with a kind of reverent focus that makes Minho feel like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. His lips seal around him, smooth and plush, cheeks hollowing as he draws him deeper with each slow pass. His tongue slides underneath, a firm pressure along the vein that climbs his length, then swirls with a devastating softness that has Minho clutching the sheets in helpless surrender. 

Minho can hear it too—the wet sounds of Jisung’s mouth around him, the quiet hum of contentment vibrating against his skin like music. It’s obscene in the most beautiful way. 

He is so close to fully letting go.

Almost. 

But then, without Jisung’s hands roaming on his chest or his lips distracting him with messy kisses, without the full-body presence pushing down on him, his thoughts slip through the cracks like water finding his old wounds. 

Why is this perfect guy interested in me? 

How long will it last? 

What if I can’t do it again next time?

What if… what if… what if…

The crack spreads. 

The pressure that had been coiling low in his belly falters. His chest tightens. Jisung hasn’t changed a thing—his mouth is perfect. But Minho can feel it. The shift that always comes. 

He’s starting to go soft. 

Shame blooms hot in his cheeks, rising sharp and acidic through the pleasure. His breath catches for the wrong reasons now, from guilt rising like the tide. 

Not again.

Jisung notices. 

He doesn’t stop right away, but Minho feels the moment he falters. Just enough to confirm what he already knows. Jisung’s lips still around him, but the pull is slow, more careful. The tension in the room shifts from thick and hungry to tentative, as if Jisung is giving him the space to bring it up first. 

Minho can’t. His throat locks up, body stiff with dread. 

Then Jisung pulls back gently, easing off him with a soft, wet sound that feels far too loud in the silence. His hand wraps around his softening length instead, warm and steady, but not moving. 

He rests his cheek against Minho’s thigh and looks up, eyes wide and soft beneath his fringe.

“Hey.” A pause. “Are you still with me?” 

Minho’s heart thunders in his ears. He can’t meet Jisung’s eyes. Instead, he stares at the ceiling like it might offer him a way out. “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. 

There’s a beat of quiet. 

“Don’t be.” 

Minho flinches. “I just—” His voice breaks. “I started overthinking. It just… this happens. I can’t control it.” 

Jisung shifts slightly, not to pull away, but to stay close. His body is still curved around Minho’s, his cheek resting where it can feel the tremble in Minho’s thigh. His hand is steady, his touch unwavering. And when Minho dares to glance at him, there’s no frustration in his gaze, no disappointment. 

“My marriage…” he starts, voice raw. “It kind of fucked me up. She… she always made it about what I couldn’t do. And after the divorce, it just got worse. And these past few months, when I tried to… you know. I’d get in my head, and then I either couldn’t get hard or stay hard. It’s not my body, I don’t think. The night I met you… well, my body certainly reacted.” He exhales shakily. “It’s not you. You’re… God, you’re perfect. That’s what makes it worse. I wanted this so badly and now it’s like my body doesn’t trust me anymore.” 

Jisung smiles, the kind of smile that says I hear you . 

“Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you for telling me. It’s not your fault.” 

Minho’s throat tightens. He doesn’t know how to respond. 

Then Jisung’s voice softens even more. “Will you do something for me?” 

Minho nods. 

“Just look at me. Listen to me.” 

He does. Jisung’s eyes are warm, unwavering. 

“Just stay here with me. Nothing else matters. Not what happened before. Not what you’re afraid might happen next. Just… feel me. Right now.” 

His voice is like velvet—low, sure, patient. He keeps tracing his thumb over Minho’s skin as he leans in, pressing slow, warm kisses along his thigh, the curve of his hip, his stomach. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs, lips brushing softly over Minho’s skin. “Just feel me, okay?” 

Minho nods, barely. 

Jisung hums. “That’s good. You’re perfect.”

The endearment sparks something deep in Minho’s chest—raw and sweet. His eyes flutter as Jisung leans in again, pressing another kiss just above where his cock has softened. 

“I love touching your body,” Jisung says. “Love how you feel under my hands. I feel so lucky.” 

His hand squeezes gently where he’s still gripping Minho’s cock. He sucks in a breath as his fingers adjust to curl around him again—gentle and patient. 

“There we go,” Jisung whispers, brushing his thumb slowly across the head. “God, you’re still so gorgeous like this.” 

Minho’s breath shudders out of him, chest riding unevenly. 

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Jisung murmurs, his voice like honey.

He strokes again, and this time, Minho’s hips shift instinctively. A little gasp escapes him. Not quite arousal yet, but it’s awakening. 

Jisung smiles against his thigh. “There you are. So good.” 

The praise sends a fresh flush through Minho’s chest. Jisung notices, of course. 

“You like that?” he asks, stroking again. “Like being taken care of?” 

Minho can’t find the words; only desperate, breathy sounds escape from the back of his throat. But his body is responding and stirring again under Jisung’s touch. 

“That’s it,” Jisung breathes. “You’re coming back to me. Let your body do what it wants, baby. I can feel how much it wants me.” 

Minho groans. His hips lift slightly into the hand that holds him. 

“Doing so well,” Jisung whispers. 

Minho gasps—sharp and startled—because it’s happening. He can feel it. 

He’s hard again. 

“Oh, baby,” Jisung breathes, wonder laced through every syllable. “Look at you.” 

Minho makes a soft, unsteady noise in the back of his throat, overwhelmed. He can’t speak, can’t do anything but let the moment rush through him like a wave. Jisung presses a kiss low on his abdomen as he quickens the rhythm. He stays close, his breath warm, lips brushing the head of his cock every so often with a teasing flick of tongue that makes Minho twitch. 

“You feel that?” Jisung murmurs. “That’s all you. Nothing broken. You’re perfect.” 

Minho chokes on nothing. His hands fist in the sheets, body taut with tension that has nothing to do with fear now and everything to do with how good it feels—how wanted he feels. 

Jisung leans in, lips ghosting his shaft with every pass of his hand. His tongue flicks out again, and Minho nearly bucks up from the bed. 

“So good,” Jisung whispers, pressing a kiss to the base. “Let yourself feel it. It’s just us.” 

Minho's chest rises and falls with ragged breaths. His eyes flutter, glassy, stuck on Jisung’s. 

“I’ve got you,” Jisung says, low and sure, stroking him faster, matching every pulse of Minho’s body with precision. His lips drag lightly across Minho’s skin between each breathless word, a kiss here, a lick there—just enough to make Minho tremble. 

“God, you’re so sexy. Could touch you forever.” 

Minho moans, helpless under the onslaught of praise and sensation. His head tips back again, jaw slack. Everything is heat and pulse and the sound of Jisung’s voice in his ears, grounding him, keeping his focus.

He’s far gone now, teetering on that razor edge between pleasure and disbelief, every nerve ending alight with sensation. Jisung’s hand is firm, slick with precum, mouth brushing close, breath hot and damp. 

And then—

“I just wanna make daddy feel good,” Jisung whispers, low and sinfully sweet. 

And suddenly, it’s like his whole body short-circuits. A shudder wracks through him before he can even register what’s happening, pleasure striking like lightning, raw, fast and all-consuming. 

“Shit—Jisung, I—” 

But it’s too late. 

He spills with a ragged gasp, eyes wide and panicked as he realises Jisung hasn’t pulled back, and his release lands in hot, white streaks across Jisung’s cheek, his mouth and the curve of his jaw. 

He feels like the world almost stops.

Minho’s chest heaves, and horror begins to bloom through the aftershock.  “Oh my god, I didn’t mean—fuck, I’m so sorry—” 

His voice breaks. He can’t even bring himself to look. 

But then he hears a soft chuckle. 

“Minho,” Jisung says gently, and Minho risks a glance—only to find him grinning, fingers casually wiping at his cheek, utterly unbothered. His lips shine faintly in the low light, but his eyes are warm. 

“ Breathe . It’s okay.” 

Minho stares, wide-eyed. “But I—on your—” 

“Like I said, it’s okay.” Jisung leans forward, wipes the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “Honestly… it was really hot.” 

Minho chokes on air. “You’re not serious.” 

Jisung’s smirk curves wider as he climbs back up the bed, settling lightly over him. “I’ve never been more serious.” 

He reaches over to his nightstand to grab a bunch of tissues to clean up what’s remaining. 

“I didn’t expect,” Minho swallows. “When you said that , I just—” 

“Exploded?” Jisung teases, brushing their noses together. 

Minho groans, covering his face with one hand. “Fuck. I didn’t even know I liked that.” 

Jisung pulls the hand away gently, kissing his knuckles. “Well, now you do. It was a shock for me too, kind of just slipped out.” 

And he repeats it, softer this time, with a smile pressed to Minho’s skin. 

“Does daddy want to help me feel good now?” 

Minho shivers violently beneath him, breath catching on a stunned whimper. He’s never going to survive this man. 

“I’ve never… I’ve never actually been with a man before,” he admits. 

Jisung stills, but only for a moment. “Okay. Do you want to stop now?” 

Minho shakes his head instantly. “No. I just—” He swallows hard. “I don’t know what to do.” 

Jisung smiles softly. “That’s okay. We can take it slow.” 

And then he stands, throwing off his shirt and peeling out of his jeans and boxers with an easy, confident grace. His grin returns as he climbs back into Minho’s lap, skin flushed and eyes dark. 

Minho’s breath catches as Jisung settles against him again, thighs snug around his hips, bare and breathtaking. He doesn’t know where to look—Jisung’s mouth, the ink etched into his skin, the flushed curve of his cock between them. Tentatively, Minho’s fingers curl around it, and for a heartbeat, he just holds his hand there, feeling the weight, the heat, the softness wrapped around something firm. It’s different. Not bad. Just new. Slightly overwhelming. 

Jisung’s eyes flutter, a breath catching in his throat at even that gentle contact—but then he smiles. Reaches down without a word and places his own hand over Minho’s, wrapping their fingers together. 

“Like this,” he murmurs, guiding him.

Minho lets him. Follows the motion as Jisung begins to move their joined hands together in a slow, steady rhythm. The slide is smooth, his skin hot beneath their palms, and Jisung’s breath comes out in soft, staggered sighs. 

“Yeah,” Jisung says, his voice full of heat. “That’s good. Just like that.” 

His fingers tighten slightly over Minho’s, nudging the pace a little faster, firmer. 

“You feel that? How much you turn me on,” he murmurs. 

Minho swallows hard, his eyes fixed on the way their hands move together, on Jisung’s face, flushed, eyes dark, lips parted. He’s beautiful. Wrecked. And it’s because of him. 

“You’re doing perfect,” Jisung breathes, tilting his head forward until their foreheads touch. “You don’t have to know everything. Just feel.” 

And Minho does. He listens to Jisung’s breath, the quiet sounds pulled from his throat, the way his thighs tighten slightly when his grip falters and finds his pace again. 

Finally, Jisung tenses in Minho’s lap with a quiet, choked gasp—fingers clenching around Minho’s hand, his thighs trembling as he jerks forward one last time. His release spills warm between them, over their joined hands and across his stomach, streaking his flushed skin with heat. He breathes out a quiet moan, his whole body shuddering as he rides the wave down. 

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He just watches—heart thundering, lips parted—as Jisung falls apart in his arms, face open and unguarded, eyes squeezed shut and mouth slack with pleasure. His skin glows with it, pink and sweat-slicked, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. 

It’s all because of Minho. 

Jisung exhales a shaky laugh, soft and low, and sinks forward.

“Fuck,” Jisung murmurs, voice ragged. “Haven’t come so hard in a while.” 

Minho lets out a breathless laugh of his own. “I didn’t even know what I was doing.” 

“You didn’t have to,” Jisung says. “It was good because it was you.” 

The words sink into Minho’s chest like sunlight through the surface of the ocean. He wraps his arms around Jisung’s waist, holding him close, feeling the soft weight of him settle into his lap. His fingers slide up Jisung’s back, mapping the dips of his spine, the curve of his shoulder blades. Skin to skin.

Jisung shifts slightly, reaching down to grab a nearby blanket from the side of the bed. He wipes them both clean with gentle movements, then tosses it aside without letting Minho go. Minho mourns the poor, ruined blanket. 

Minho tries to move to help, but Jisung just cups his face and keeps him still with a kiss. 

It’s not heated now, not rushed or charged. It’s tender. Deep. A slow melt of lips and breath that tastes like comfort and safety. Jisung kisses him like he wants to stay with him in the moment forever. 

When they part, Minho lets his forehead rest against Jisung’s shoulder. His voice is quiet. “Thank you.” 

Jisung tilts his head. “For what?” 

Minho swallows. “For not laughing. For not… making it weird. For making me feel like I was enough.” 

Jisung pulls back just enough to look at him, his thumb brushing gently against his cheek. “You are enough,” he says simply. “More than enough.” 

“And for making me feel safe,” Minho adds. “That’s not something I’m really used to.” 

“You deserve to feel safe. Always.” 

Minho exhales, his breath shaky with something close to relief, and pulls Jisung in tighter. For the first time in years, the quiet in his chest isn’t filled with panic or doubt. 

It’s filled with Jisung. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

The morning light is thin and pale through the curtains when he wakes. The room smells faintly of linen, of something sweet and warm—something that, Minho realises with a small smile, must be Jisung. 

He’s warm. Wrapped in it. Cocooned in sheets and limbs. 

Jisung’s arm is draped securely over his waist, hand splayed low on his stomach. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm against Minho’s back, breath brushing the curve of his neck. They’re tangled together, bodies flush beneath the covers, and Minho feels peace. 

He doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to wake him. So he lies there. Drinking in the quiet, the press of Jisung’s body, the hum of safety that still buzzes faintly beneath his skin. It doesn’t feel real. Eventually, though, curiosity tugs at him. He shifts just enough to reach for his phone in his discarded pants, careful not to disturb the weight behind him.

 The screen lights up. 

And the peace evaporates. Seven a.m. already. 

Five missed calls .

One new voicemail. 

All from his ex-wife. 

“Shit,” he breathes. His pulse jumps, the blood draining from his face in a cold rush. 

Behind him, Jisung stirs slightly, murmuring something at the back of his neck. But Minho barely registers it. 

What if something’s happened to Hana? 

He wastes no time and phones her back right away. 

She picks up almost instantly, voice sharp with panic. “Minho, finally, where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling for thirty minutes.” 

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammers, already sitting up, trying not to wake Jisung. “I was still sleeping. What’s wrong? Is Hana okay?” 

“She’s sick. She says she feels warm and has a bad throat. I can’t send her to school like this, but I’m already late for work. I’ve got back-to-back clients all morning, and I can’t cancel. I need you to come get her.” 

Minho scrubs a hand down his face. “Okay. Of course. I’ll come right away.” 

There’s a beat of silence before she snaps. “Right away means now, Minho.” 

“I know,” he replies, already fumbling with the sheets. “I just–I don’t have my car. I’ll need to get a taxi home or something. It might take me thirty minutes or so.” 

She sighs audibly. “Unbelievable.” 

Just then,  behind him, Jisung sits up and sleepily rests his chin on his shoulder. “Morning, baby. What’s up? Come back and cuddle me.” 

Her scoff practically hisses through the phone. “Unbelievable. I have an emergency, and you’re shacked up with some guy? Seriously?” 

Minho flinches. “It’s not like that—” 

“You couldn’t even answer your damn phone because you were too busy having a sleepover? I’m surprised he didn’t kick you out the moment it was over.”

Behind him, Jisung stiffens where he’s begun to sit up, still groggy from sleep. His hand stills on Minho’s arm. 

Minho’s chest tightens. “That’s not fair. I didn’t exactly know this was going to happen. It’s your week, remember?” 

“I don’t care whose week it is, Minho. Hana is sick. She needs someone, and I have to be at work already. I’m waiting at home. Just get here.” 

And then the line goes dead. He sets the phone down and exhales, every muscle taut with frustration. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning to Jisung. “Hana, my daughter, she’s sick and my ex needs to get to work. I’ve gotta go, I’ll book a taxi.” 

“No, you won’t,” Jisung says, voice still thick with sleep but firm. “I know it’s… probably a bit soon for me to meet her, but I can drive you.” 

Minho blinks at him, startled. “Jisung, you don’t have to—” 

“I want to.” Jisung sits up fully now. “I’ve got a car. Let me help you.” 

Minho hesitates. His instinct is to protect, to compartmentalise—to keep the two worlds from bleeding into each other. But Jisung looks at him like it’s already settled, like it’s obvious he’d step in to help. 

“...Are you sure?” Minho asks softly. “We haven’t even known each other that long. Isn’t this too much for you?” 

Jisung pauses. His hair is tousled, eyes still puffy with sleep, but the warmth in his expression is immediate and sure. 

“I’m sure,” he says simply. 

Minho lets out a shaky breath, staring at the creased duvet. “It’s just—I usually don’t get help with her.” 

“I can tell.” 

His fingers find Minho’s, lacing them gently. “But I think you should let people help you sometimes. Even if it’s just for little things.” 

“Okay,” he whispers, the word catching slightly in his throat. “Okay.” 

Jisung squeezes his hand, then throws the covers off with his free one. “Alright. Let’s get moving. Dress and I’ll grab my keys.” 

There’s something Minho had failed to process, and that was Jisung driving. “Wait, you can drive?” 

Jisung grins. “Yeah? I know I give off passenger princess vibes, but when you do everything for yourself, you can’t be picky.”

Minho huffs a short, surprised laugh, then leans over and presses a soft, grateful kiss to Jisung’s shoulder before sliding out of bed. 

They don’t say anything else for now, but it’s enough. Jisung swings his legs over the edge, yawns, and reaches for his hoodie. Behind him, Minho gathers his clothes, rushing to pull them on. 

By the time they’re both dressed, the morning light has fully crept in through the curtains. Minho spends a couple of minutes freshening up in the bathroom, and when he returns, Jisung tosses him a travel mug with coffee already inside.

Minho takes it with a blink. “When did you…?” 

“I have my ways,” Jisung says with a wink. “And you looked like you needed it.” 

Minho doesn’t argue. He follows him down the stairs until they come to a car parked on the road. Jisung unlocks it—it's an older, slightly battered hatchback that hums with personality. 

“Sorry, it’s a mess,” Jisung mutters, tossing a hoodie and some scattered sheet music from the passenger seat into the back. “I wasn’t expecting company.” 

Minho slides in, coffee still clutched between his hands. “It’s fine. I like it. Feels like you.” 

Jisung glances over, then smiles, softening something in Minho’s chest. 

He gives Jisung the address, and they set off. Jisung drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting lightly on the gear stick, humming under his breath to a song playing low on the stereo. The music is soft, acoustic, the kind of background comfort Minho needs right now. 

Then, after a few blocks, Minho says quietly, “Thanks for not making this weird.” 

Jisung keeps his eyes on the road, but Minho sees the way his jaw flexes just slightly—how his fingers tighten around the gear stick for half a second before relaxing again. 

“It’s okay,” Jisung says. “I kind of… overheard how she spoke to you. Well, about us.” 

Minho winces, leaning back in the seat. 

“I’m sorry about that,” he murmurs. “She’s just—stressed, I guess. It’s not an excuse, but…” 

“You don’t have to defend her,” Jisung says, glancing at him quickly before returning to focus on the road. “It doesn’t matter if she’s stressed. The way she talked to you was not okay.” 

Minho is quiet for a long beat. 

“I’m used to it,” he admits finally. “Like I said before, we weren’t… great together. Especially near the end. But I think I let her say whatever she wants to me because I usually believed it too.” 

“Well I don’t.” 

The rest of the drive slips into silence, a thoughtful, heavy one with things unsaid. Jisung doesn’t push, and Minho is grateful. He watches the world blur past outside the window, his fingers curled loosely around the coffee cup, now warm instead of hot. 

When they finally turn onto the street, Minho sits up a little straighter. 

Soojin’s house comes into view, and so do two figures waiting on the front step. Hana, bundled in a too-thin hoodie for the cold weather, her face pale and pinched with discomfort, leans slightly against the porch rail, sniffling. Soojin stands beside her, arms crossed, foot tapping like she’s been waiting hours. 

Minho’s jaw tenses. “She’s outside?” His voice comes low, sharp. 

Jisung follows his gaze, his brow furrowing. 

“She’s sick. Why the hell is she standing outside?” 

He doesn’t wait for the car to come to a full stop before he’s unbuckling his seatbelt. By the time Jisung turns off the car, Minho’s already halfway up the drive. 

“Hana,” he calls gently, his voice cracking with worry. “Sweetheart, what are you doing out here?” 

Hana lifts her head, her eyes glassy. “Eomma said to wait out here.” 

Minho shoots Soojin a glare. “She should be inside on the couch with a blanket.” 

Her arms fold tighter. “I didn’t have time for that, Minho. You were taking too long.” 

“That’s not the point,” he snaps, catching himself and taking a breath before crouching beside Hana. He presses a hand to her forehead—too warm. “Jesus, you’re burning up. Let’s get you in the car.” 

It’s at that moment that Soojin spots Jisung, still seated behind the wheel. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she mutters, arms dropping to her sides in exasperation. “You brought your hookup?” 

Minho doesn’t look up from where he’s crouched beside Hana, hoping she doesn’t pick up on Soojin calling Jisung his hookup. “It was the quickest way to get here,” he says evenly. “I told you I don’t have my car.” 

“And you thought bringing him to my house— around Hana —was appropriate?” 

“He’s not just… that ,” Minho says resolutely, despite them not discussing it, and the glaring fact that they’ve not even known each other long. “And I didn’t exactly have time to debate the logistics. She’s sick, you needed to leave, and he offered to drive.” 

Soojin scoffs, clearly gearing up for more, but Minho has already turned back to Hana, softening again. 

“Come on, flower,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you warm.” 

Jisung steps out of the car and then quietly moves to open the rear door. He doesn’t say anything, but his presence is steady, focused on making sure Hana has space to settle. 

Hana sniffles and nods weakly, gripping her backpack as Minho helps her to her feet. He keeps a hand on her back, shielding her from the breeze as they make their way to the car. 

Minho hears Soojin mutter something under her breath. He ignores her and focuses on tucking Hana gently into the backseat, brushing her hair from her face. “You’ll be okay, sweetheart,” he says softly, then looks up—meeting Jisung’s eyes over the open car door. 

Jisung gives a small nod, worry still flickering behind his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, but the question is there: Is she alright?  

Minho swallows hard. “I think I should take her to the hospital,” he says quietly. “Just in case. She’s too warm. And she’s never this quiet unless she really feels awful.” 

Jisung nods, already moving back toward the driver’s seat. “Let’s go,” he says. “She’ll be okay.” 

Minho closes the door gently, casting one last glance back at Soojin—who still looks ready to argue—but he doesn’t engage. He simply rounds the car and climbs into the passenger seat, his thoughts already spinning ahead. 

At the hospital, the wait feels longer than it is. Once they are seen, Minho sits beside Hana, one hand cradling hers while she leans tiredly against his side, eyelids heavy and flushed cheeks resting against his arm. Jisung waits just outside, giving them space. 

When the doctor finishes his questions and examinations, he offers a gentle smile. “She appears to have a common cold and a mild sinus infection, so nothing to worry too much about,” he says, voice calm and professional. “The fever should pass soon, but she needs rest, fluids, and close monitoring. I’ll give you some medication and a nasal spray for her infection. If it gets worse, bring her back right away.” 

Minho nods, relief washing through him that it isn’t something worse. “Thank you.” 

Jisung drives them home in silence, the soft hum of the engine and the occasional turn signal the only sound. Hana keeps quiet in the backseat under Minho’s coat, napping as they make the journey. 

As Jisung pulls into Minho’s driveway, Hana mumbles drowsily. “That man is nice, Appa.” Then, with a tiny sniffle, curls in deeper, too tired to pry about Jisung any further. 

Minho glances back at her, heart squeezing at the sight—his daughter tucked beneath his coat, cheeks flushed with fever, but still soft-spoken and sweet even in her half-asleep state. 

He turns to Jisung with a quiet smile, his voice hushed. “I guess you’re known as ‘that man’ now.” 

Jisung grins, a soft little huff of laughter escaping him as he leans slightly against the steering wheel. “I’ll take it. I can think of worse things she could have called me.” 

Minho chuckles, the sound low and fond. “Well she got something right. You are very nice.” 

Jisung looks over at him, eyes warm. “I try to be. Especially to the people who matter.” 

Minho swallows, something soft and fragile blooming in his chest. He doesn’t say anything else. Instead, they share a look, something quiet and full of mutual affection, before Minho opens the car door. 

“Help me get her in?” Minho asks, tentative. 

“Of course.” Jisung nods without hesitation, slipping out of the car and gently closing the door behind him as Minho gathers Hana in his arms with ease, despite her being almost as tall as him now. He follows Minho up the neat path to the front door. 

Inside, Minho turns to Jisung. “Upstairs,” Minho says, already heading toward the staircase.

At the top of the stairs, Minho pushes open Hana’s bedroom door with his elbow, his hand gently supporting her back. The room is softly lit, pale morning light filtering in through blue curtains. 

“Here,” he murmurs. 

But as he starts toward the bed, Hana shifts and lets out a weak cough, her brow furrowing. Minho falters, torn between settling her and getting her water. 

“I’ve got her,” Jisung says quietly from behind. 

Minho nods, handing Hana over. Jisung cradles her against his chest, her limbs limp with sleep, and carries her across the room like she weighs nothing. He lowers her carefully to the bed, settling her against the pillows. 

“I’ll be right back,” Minho says, already turning. 

By the time he returns with a bottle of water, Hana’s eyes are half-open, her expression muzzy and confused. Her brow is damp with sweat, and her lips a little pale. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Minho says, kneeling beside the bed. “Can you try drinking a little for me?” 

She nods faintly as he unscrews the cap, bringing the bottle to her lips. She drinks in small, tired sips, guided gently by his hand at her back. Jisung watches quietly from beside the dresser, his face soft. 

“There we go,” Minho murmurs. “That’s good. Just a little more.” 

Hana finishes and lets out a sleepy sigh, already sinking back into the pillows. 

“You’ll feel better soon,” he whispers, brushing her hair back and placing a soft kiss on her forehead. He lingers for a second—just long enough to make sure she’s comfortable—then gently pulls the blanket up over her shoulders. 

Outside the room, he closes the door quietly behind them. The hallway falls into a soft hush, the kind that feels sacred after a long, hectic morning. Jisung follows him downstairs, and when they reach the kitchen, Minho stops and glances over at him. 

“You hungry?” he asks. “I could throw something together. As a thank you for driving me, for… everything.” 

Jisung blinks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Only if you’re eating too.” 

Minho chuckles, already moving toward the fridge. “Deal. You like eggs?” 

“Love them. As long as you don’t microwave them.” 

Minho gives him a mock-offended look over his shoulder. “I’m not a monster.” 

Jisung snorts, leaning back against the counter. “Good to know.” 

“How about scrambled eggs, creme fraiche, chives, roasted cherry tomatoes and sourdough bread?” 

Jisung blinks. “I feel like you’re trying to seduce me with food.” 

Minho throws him a crooked grin. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

Within minutes, the kitchen is filled with the low sizzle of butter in a pan, the scent of fresh herbs, and the warmth of tomatoes blistering in the oven. Jisung leans against the counter, watching as Minho moves with practised ease—whisking, tasting, plating like it’s second nature. 

When he finally sets the plate down—eggs silky and rich, tomatoes glistening, the bread fresh and soft—Jisung looks amazed, despite it being a simple meal for Minho’s standards. 

“You seriously made all this just to say thank you?” 

Minho shrugs, sliding into the stool next to him. “I like feeding the people I care about.” 

Jisung pauses, eyes catching on Minho’s. “I could get used to this.” 

Within minutes, the two of them finish their quiet meal. Jisung sets his utensils down with a satisfied sigh, smiling faintly as he leans back. 

“That was incredible,” he praises, glancing sideways. “If I weren’t already falling for your charms, that might’ve done it.” 

Minho huffs a soft laugh, his ears reddening. “Glad to know my cooking has that kind of power.” 

He stands, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “Give me just a minute. I’m going to check on Hana.” 

Jisung nods as he disappears up the stairs. 

When he returns, Jisung is still sitting there, waiting for him with a gentle smile. 

“She’s sleeping soundly,” he says. 

He moves to the sink, rinses his hands, then hesitates, drying them on a towel. 

“Do you need to head back soon?” he asks without looking up. “I know you’ve probably got stuff to do. But if not…” His voice trails, then picks up again. “If not, you’re welcome to stay.” 

“I don’t have anywhere I need to be. I asked my best friend to walk Bbama, so he’ll be fine for a while,” he says, soft and sure. “If being here with you is an option, I’ll take that.” 

Minho finally meets his eyes again, and for a moment, the world feels settled, quiet and easy. The tension in his shoulders begins to fade, replaced by a steadier feeling. 

He nods once, like he’s letting himself believe it’s okay to want. 

“Okay. Stay.” 

After breakfast, Minho leads Jisung to the living room. Jisung curls up on one side of the sofa while Minho disappears briefly to try to get Hana to eat something. She’s still fast asleep, her fever softened and her breathing steady, so he doesn’t want to disturb her. Minho presses another kiss to her temple before heading back downstairs. 

They spend the rest of the morning on opposite ends of the couch, feet brushing lightly beneath a blanket they end up sharing. Minho puts on a movie, and they don’t really talk much for the first half.

At some point, Minho stretches out a little further, and Jisung shifts to meet him halfway. Legs tangle, arms ease around shoulders, and without a word, Jisung ends up tucked into Minho’s chest, one hand resting lightly over his chest. 

They nap a little like that. Not deeply, but enough to drift in and out. Jisung hums under his breath at the movie soundtrack, and Minho presses his face into the crown of Jisung’s head with a smile. 

Later, they migrate to the kitchen again. This time, Jisung makes them both, and Hana, a cup of tea—he insisted, claiming Minho’s done more than enough. He finds mismatched mugs in the cupboard, and Minho leans against the counter, watching him with quiet affection as Jisung frowns over the kettle like it’s something to conquer. 

They talk more in the afternoon. Nothing too heavy—just light, lazy stories. Jisung tells him about a disastrous open mic night he once had; Minho shares a memory from Hana’s toddler years, when she tried to climb into the dryer because she thought it was a spaceship. Jisung tells him a similar story of how he tried multiple ways to fly back to his alien home planet when he was a child.

They laugh easily, the kind of laughter that doesn’t demand anything. That just fills the space like light spilling into a room. 

At some point, Jisung sits cross-legged on the floor with a sketchpad he finds near the bookshelf, doodling silly portraits of Minho that make them both laugh until their sides hurt. One of them gets stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cat, right next to the one Hana drew of her and Minho when she was ten. 

Dinner is simple—leftovers that Minho reheats while Jisung sets the table, humming under his breath again. They eat side by side, their knees brushing under the table, talking like there’s no rush. 

After making sure Hana has eaten and drinks more fluids, Minho flicks off the rest of the lights in the house and follows Jisung back to the sofa. This time, they don’t try to watch anything. They just lay there—Minho on his back, Jisung half-curled up on top of him, tracing idle shapes over the cotton of his t-shirt.

Minho’s fingers thread through Jisung’s hair. 

“This was… a really good day,” Jisung says quietly, somewhere close to drowsy. 

Minho hums. “It was.” 

And it was. Nothing too much. Just relaxing together in proximity. The quiet understanding that something new is growing, and growing quickly. 

Minho tilts his head, lips brushing Jisung’s hair. “You wanna stay the night?” 

Jisung hums like he’s tempted, but then pulls back just enough to meet Minho’s eyes. “I do. Really. But what about Bbama?” 

Minho smiles, a fond softness tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Bbama and I are already best friends. I’m sure I can handle him staying in my house for one night.” 

“Really?” Minho nods with a hum. “Okay. I’ll go grab him and a few things. Won’t be long.” 

“You sure?” Minho asks. 

Jisung nods against his chest. “I want to.” 

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Make sure to drive safely.” 

“I’ll be quick,” Jisung says, pressing one last kiss to Minho’s jaw before slipping off the couch and heading for the door with the promise of coming back. 

The house feels a little too quiet once the door clicks behind Jisung. 

Minho lingers by the window for a moment, watching his car pull away down the street. Upstairs, the light in Hana’s room is dim; the setting sun peeks through the gauzy curtains. He pushes the door gently, careful not to wake her if she’s still sleeping. 

She’s not. She’s curled under the blankets, her cheeks still a little flushed but her eyes open and soft, blinking at him sleepily. 

“Hey, sweetie,” Minho says quietly, padding over. “How are you feeling?” 

Hana shrugs. “My throat still hurts a little, but not as bad.” 

He perches on the edge of the bed, brushing a hand gently over her hair, smoothing it back from her forehead. “That’s good. You drank enough water, right?” 

She nods, nudging the glass on her nightstand. 

“You need anything else?” 

“No.” Her voice is barely a whisper. Then, after a pause, she says, “Is the nice man still here?”

Minho smiles. “He’s just gone to pick up his dog, then he’ll be back soon.” 

Hana’s eyes flutter open a little wider. “A dog?” she whispers. 

Minho smiles. “Yeah. His name’s Bbama. He’s small, super fluffy—like a walking puffball. Jisung’s going to bring him over.” 

Her face lights up. “Really?” 

Minho nods gently. ”Really. You haven’t met him yet, but I think you’ll like him.” 

A faint giggle escapes her. It’s tired. “Can I pet him?” 

“If you’re up to it tomorrow,” Minho says softly. “Let’s focus on getting you better first.” 

She nods, already tucking herself in tighter with a sleepy sigh, her lips curved in a tiny smile. “Okay.” 

Minho watches her for a moment, then leans down to kiss her forehead. “Rest now, sweetheart.” 

He slips quietly out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar—and just as he reaches the stairs, he hears the soft jingle of a collar and the sound of Jisung’s knock below. 

Minho pads down the stairs quickly, opening the door to find Jisung standing there, slightly windblown, a sheepish smile on his face and a leash in hand.

At the other end of it, Bbama perks up, his fluffy white ears twitching as he peers inside with cautious curiosity. 

“Hey,” Jisung says softly. “I come bearing paws.” 

Minho’s heart squeezes a little. He steps aside without hesitation. “Come in. Hana’s sleeping again, but she asked about you. Got excited when she heard about Bbama.” 

“Really?” Jisung’s eyes brighten. 

Bbama trots inside, giving a few cautious sniffs before settling at Jisung’s feet like he already owns the place. Minho closes the door behind them, turning the lock with a soft click. 

“She said she wants to meet him tomorrow,” Minho murmurs as they head back toward the living room. “I think the idea gave her something nice to look forward to.” 

“Dogs are the perfect way to cheer someone up,” Jisung says, bending to unclip his leash. 

Minho nods slowly. “Kind of like you.” 

Jisung stills for a second, blinking like he’s not sure he heard right. Then his ears turn a delicate shade of pink. “You can't just say things like that,” he mumbles. 

Minho chuckles, low and warm, already moving back toward the sofa as Jisung sets down a small dog bed for Bbama. 

He sinks into the cushions with a soft sigh and pats the space beside him. “Come on. We have important business to take care of.” 

“You mean cuddling?” Jisung laughs, walking over. 

“Exactly.” 

Jisung snorts, settling into the crook of Minho’s side like he belongs there. Bbama trots over with him and stands with his front paws on the edge of the couch, giving them both a hopeful look. 

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Is he always this polite?” 

“He knows not to jump up unless he’s invited,” Jisung says, smoothing a hand over the dog’s fluffy head. 

Minho smiles and pats the cushion next to Jisung. “It’s fine. Come on, buddy.” 

Bbama doesn’t need to be told twice. He hops up and immediately flops down against Jisung’s legs with a huff. 

They settle into the cushions, bodies warm and comfortable against each other as Minho starts another movie—a favourite animation of his that suits the quiet of the evening. Bbama lies curled on Jisung’s lap for a while, occasionally flicking his ears or lifting his head when a sound from the movie catches his attention. 

But as the minutes stretch on and the room grows drowsier, Bbama lets out a small sigh, lifts his head, and hops down.

Jisung glances down, amused. “Where’s he off to?” 

Minho follows the sound of tiny toenails padding across the hardwood. “Looks like he wants his own bed.” 

Bbama noses around the soft, plush dog bed Jisung had set up in the corner when he arrived. He spins in a circle and sinks down with a grunt of contentment, tucking his snout beneath one paw. 

Jisung grins. “Traitor.” 

Minho chuckles. “I think he’s just giving us privacy.” 

Jisung shifts slightly against Minho’s side, his voice quiet but teasing. “And why would we need privacy?” 

Minho turns his head, mouth already curling into a small smile. “For this,” he murmurs—and then he leans in. 

The kiss is soft at first, gentle, a warm press of lips that hums with the same ease and affection they’ve carried all day. But then Minho moves a hand up, fingers threading into Jisung’s hair, and the angle changes. The kiss deepens. 

Jisung melts into it almost instantly, a quiet sound catching in his throat as Minho’s other hand slips around his waist. He shifts closer, knees brushing Minho’s thigh—and Minho, already half-lost in the taste of him, gives a slight tug. 

Jisung goes easily, letting himself be pulled into Minho’s lap. His hands brace on Minho’s shoulders, breath hitching as their chests press fully together. 

The movie fades into the background, forgotten. 

Minho tilts his head, kisses him again—deeper now, slower. Jisung responds with equal heat, fingers tightening in the fabric of Minho’s shirt, like he’s holding on. There’s nothing rushed about it. No expectations. Just the slow kindling of warmth between them. 

Minho pulls back only slightly, resting his forehead against Jisung’s. “Still think we don’t need privacy?” 

Jisung’s breath stutters out in a laugh, eyes fluttering open. “Okay, maybe you have a point.” 

Their lips meet again, and again, and somewhere between the third kiss and the fifth, Minho loses track of time completely. 

There’s something about the way Jisung kisses him that rewrites everything he thought he knew about intimacy. It isn’t hurried, or greedy, or rehearsed. It’s quiet and curious, like Jisung is learning him one kiss at a time. 

They barely know each other. That thought passes through Minho’s mind like a faint mist, trailing behind the warmth that blooms under his skin. They’ve only just begun. They haven’t unravelled childhoods, catalogued favourite songs, or picked apart all the tiny, complicated ways their hearts beat. And yet—it doesn’t feel unfamiliar. Being here, with Jisung, doesn’t feel new. 

Jisung feels like something Minho was meant to find. Like a song he’s only discovered, but somehow can already hum along to its tune. 

His hands settle at Jisung’s waist, grounding them both as their mouths move in tandem. Every press of lips is a question, and every answering tilt of his head feels like yes. Yes, I want this. Yes, I want you.

He can’t remember ever kissing this much. Not in his marriage. Not before that. Kissing had always felt like a prelude—something to rush through on the way to something else. But this? This feels like the destination. Like he could stay here forever, tangled up in soft sighs and shared breath and the way Jisung’s fingertips keep brushing his jaw like he’s afraid Minho might vanish. 

Minho hadn’t known he needed this kind of affection. This soft, sincere devotion that asks for nothing and gives everything. It floods through him and leaves him breathless. 

And Jisung kisses him like he knows. Like he sees every closed-off piece of Minho and says: I’m not afraid of any of it . 

Eventually, the heat of the kisses tapers into stillness, the kind that settles soft and slow. Neither of them says it out loud, but it’s mutual, a silent agreement in the way their mouths still, the way Minho breathes out a gentle laugh against Jisung’s cheek and murmurs, “We should get some sleep.” 

Jisung nods, though his fingers linger on Minho’s chest, tracing the shape of his collarbone beneath the fabric. “Yeah,” he says, quieter. “Yeah, okay.” 

They untangle gradually, the mood still warm and fond. Jisung stands first and pats his thighs lightly, whispering for Bbama, who lifts his head from where he is curled on the dog bed in the corner. He stretches with a little huff, shakes once, then trots over obediently. 

Minho picks up the dog bed and heads upstairs. They turn the lights off as they go, the quiet house dim and peaceful. Minho passes Jisung the dog bed, and pauses outside of Hana’s door and eases it open gently. He moves softly in the room, stepping close enough to see her bundled up in the blankets. 

He adjusts the blanket over her shoulder and brushes his hand lightly across her forehead—cooler than it was before. Better. “Sleep well, flower,” he whispers. 

Minho closes Hana’s door, exhaling a quiet breath into the hallway. The warmth of her recovery settles in his chest, like relief, but when he turns, it’s something else entirely that greets him. 

Jisung is standing there in his oversized hoodie, hair mussed from Minho’s hands running through it all evening. He’s leaning lightly against the wall, and Bbama sits patiently at his side, tail thumping once when Minho appears. 

“Everything okay?” Jisung asks, voice hushed to not disturb Hana. 

Minho nods, stepping toward him. “She’s sleeping peacefully. Her temperature’s down. I think she’ll be alright by the end of tomorrow.” 

Jisung smiles. “Good. That’s really good.” 

There’s a moment where neither of them moves. The house is quiet except for the soft ticking of a clock somewhere downstairs and the slow breath of nighttime settling in. Then Minho steps closer and reaches out to tuck a strand of Jisung’s hair behind his ear. 

“Let’s go to bed,” he whispers. 

He leads the way to the bedroom, letting Jisung and Bbama follow. The room is dim and welcoming, bathed in soft lighting from his lamp. Jisung sets the dog bed down near the foot of the bed, and Bbama immediately trots over, sniffs it once, then circles and flops down. 

Jisung stands a little awkwardly by the edge of the bed, one hand resting on the strap of the overnight bag slung over his shoulder. Minho notices his hesitation, the way Jisung’s eyes flicker toward the bed and then away again, uncertain. 

“You okay?” Minho asks gently, already pulling open the drawer where he keeps a spare pillow, in case Jisung needs more than one. 

Jisung nods. “Yeah. It’s just… new.” 

Minho nods, giving a soft smile. “It is. For me too. You brought something to sleep in, right?” 

“Mhm.” Jisung unzips his bag and pulls out a loose, oversized t-shirt and a pair of tiny sleep shorts that send Minho’s imagination spiralling. “Didn’t want to assume you’d have anything for me, so figured I’d bring my own.” 

“That’s fine,” he says with a smile. “Let’s get ready for bed, hm?” 

Then Minho strips off his shirt and steps out of his jeans, leaving himself in nothing but a pair of dark boxers. Jisung’s head snaps up—eyes wide for a second before he catches himself and lets out a small laugh. 

“Do you always sleep like that?” he asks, though his gaze lingers. 

Minho grins. “I do. You’ve seen me in less, you know?” 

“That’s true,” Jisung hums. “It's still unfair how hot you are, though.” 

Minho’s grin deepens as he turns and climbs into bed, lifting the blanket and patting the space beside him. 

Jisung carefully lays his things on the edge of the bed. Minho watches as he moves—familiar in his space already, even if it’s all so new. He doesn’t head to his bathroom to change, like Minho expected; instead, he lifts his hoodie and shirt over his head, drops them on the floor and replaces them with the baggy shirt. Then he trades his jeans for those impossibly small sleep shorts, the hem riding high on his thighs as he straightens up and shakes out his hair. 

Minho swallows and looks away,  his ears warm. 

“Too much?” Jisung says, half laughing as he catches the movement. 

Minho turns back to face him, one hand tucked under his head. “Not too much,” he says honestly. “Just enough to make me forget what I was going to say.” 

That earns him a grin, and then Jisung is crawling into bed beside him. He settles on his side, facing Minho. 

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Minho asks again. 

“I’m sure.” 

Minho reaches out and brushes his thumb along Jisung’s cheekbone. “Good.” 

Jisung leans forward and kisses him, gentle and warm, their lips barely brushing. Another kiss that’s not meant to lead anywhere—not tonight. They settle in together. Minho rests on his back, letting Jisung curl into his side, an arm draped across his stomach. Their legs tangle easily. Familiar already. 

From the foot of the bed. Bbama lets out a sleepy little sigh in his dog bed, then flops over with a soft thud. Minho chuckles quietly. 

“I think he’s adjusting,” he whispers. 

“Good,” Jisung murmurs, sounding half-asleep already. “So am I.” 

Minho switches off the lamp with his free hand, and the room slips into darkness. 

He falls asleep with Jisung breathing steadily against his chest, and a quiet, unfamiliar sense of hope in his heart. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

Minho wakes slowly, blinking into the soft morning light. It takes him a moment to realise what stirred him—the warmth at his side, the subtle weight pressed close. 

He turns his head slightly. 

Bbama is curled snugly against him, head resting near his ribs, snoring quietly. One of his back paws twitches. Minho exhales a quiet laugh, hand automatically reaching down to scratch behind the pup’s ears. 

Then he feels eyes on him. 

He lifts his face, and finds Jisung already awake, sitting up with his knees drawn to his chest, messy hair and a soft smile playing on his lips. 

“Morning. Have you been up long?” Minho asks. 

Jisung shakes his head gently. “Not too long. Just… didn’t want to move you just yet. You both looked so cute.” 

Minho hums. “He’s a traitor. Picked me over you.” 

“He’s got good taste,” Jisung chuckles, laughing.

Minho flushes faintly but doesn’t look away. “You could’ve joined us.” 

“I didn’t want to wake you.” Jisung shifts a little closer. 

Jisung shifts a little closer, resting his chin on his knees, eyes still soft with sleep but shining with affection. Minho watches him for a moment, letting the silence settle, until a small knock raps against the bedroom door. 

“Appa?” Hana’s voice is muffled but clear. “I’m awake.” 

Minho sits up straighter immediately. “Okay, sweetheart. Go lay back down. I’ll be right there,” he calls gently. 

Jisung smiles and stretches his legs out over the bed, Bbama lifting his head at the sound. 

“She sounds a little better,” Jisung murmurs. 

“Yeah.” Minho gets up and reaches for his hoodie and sweats. “Hopefully she’s got over the worst part.” 

Jisung watches him with fond eyes as he heads for the door, then catches the swag of Bbama’s tail and reaches down to ruffle his ears. 

“Stay here, buddy,” he whispers. “You can meet her later.” 

Minho glances over his shoulder, caught between affection and amusement at the sight of the two of them. Minho has always wanted a pet, specifically a cat, but Soojin was allergic. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he says.

Jisung gives him a lazy little wave. “We’ll keep the bed warm.” 

Minho steps into the hallways with a quiet chuckle, padding barefoot down the corridor toward Hana’s room. 

He eases her door open with a soft knock and steps inside. The curtains are still drawn, the room dim, but lit by the small lamp by her bed. 

She’s propped up against her pillows with the blanket tucked around her. Her hair is a little messy, and there’s still a flush to her cheeks, but she looks much better. 

“Appa,” she says immediately, voice still hoarse. “Can I meet the dog now?” 

Minho smiles, heart tugging. “After breakfast, okay? It’s been a while since you ate.” 

She gives a dramatic sigh, flopping back slightly. “I’m not even that hungry.” 

“Just a little cereal, okay?” Minho says gently, coming to sit next to her. He brushes her fringe back with careful fingers. “But first, I need to talk to you for a second.” 

That makes her pause. She looks at him, more serious now, eyes scanning his face. “Are you mad at me because you had to bring me home early?” 

“What? No, of course not, flower,” Minho says quickly, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. “Not even a little bit. I just want to talk about my new friend, Jisung. The man with the dog who drove us home yesterday.” 

She perks up again. “He’s really your friend?” 

Minho smiles. “Yeah. He’s… someone new in my life. Someone kind, and someone I can see being important. I’d like you to get to know him, too. But only if you’re okay with it.” 

Hana thinks for a second, then shrugs with the exact dramatic flair of a teenager. “If he has a dog, I guess he can stay.” 

Minho snorts softly, bending to press a kiss to her forehead. “Thanks for being open, sweetheart. Now let’s get you fed, and then I’ll introduce you properly.” 

She gives a tiny nod, already looking toward the door with anticipation, and before they head downstairs, Minho makes sure to call her school again to say she won’t be in.

After a small breakfast, Hana rests curled up on the couch with a blanket around her legs and a mug of chamomile tea. She looks much better, and though her nose is still red and runny, her eyes are bright. 

Minho stands at the bottom of the stairs after collecting Jisung, who waits just at the top with Bbama. 

“Ready to meet him?” He calls. 

Hana nods instantly. “When will he get here?” 

“He’s already here,” Minho says. 

Footsteps pad down the stairs. “Hey,” Jisung says gently. “It’s nice to meet you, Hana. We come in peace.” 

Hana giggles, and Minho’s chest aches. 

“This is Bbama.” 

Jisung puts down Bbama, who trots into the room beside him. He sniffs the air, his eyes locking on Hana, and when she shifts her blanket aside to make space, patting the couch next to her, he steps closer without hesitation. A quick sniff of her toes, then her knees, and then, very seriously, he places his chin on her lap and lets out a soft huff . 

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “He’s perfect.” 

“He thinks so too,” Jisung says behind him. 

Hana strokes Bbama’s ears with careful fingers, her smile growing. “Hi, Bbama. You’re so soft and warm.” 

“He’ll stay as long as you let him,” Jisung says. “He’s basically a living hot water bottle.” 

Minho catches his eyes and mouths a thank you . Jisung just shakes his head, then slowly crosses to sit in the armchair nearby. Just enough to be a part of the space. 

Eventually, Bbama jumps up on the couch, and they spend the next half hour like that. Bbama curled up happily next to her, Hana asking all kinds of questions like “Does he sleep in your bed?” “Can he do tricks?” “Does he have a favourite snack?” 

Jisung answers every question like he’s being interviewed by the most important person on earth. 

Eventually, Hana’s movements grow slower, her hands more gentle, her words soft and sleepy. Bbama doesn’t move either, eyes drooping as he soaks up all of her attention. 

Minho watches them from her side—his daughter, Jisung and the small sleepy dog—and he can’t remember the last time he was so happy. 

“She’s perfect with him,” Jisung says quietly from the armchair. 

Minho glances at him. “You’re not so bad with her, either.” 

Jisung smiles, a little shy. “She’s easy to talk to.” 

“She doesn’t always make it easy,” Minho laughs. “You must be special.” 

There’s a brief pause, and Jisung looks down at his hands before replying. “I don’t know about special. But I care.” 

Minho’s chest tightens. He nods, letting the weight of that settle between them. It’s not a big declaration. Not yet. But it means something. 

Minho stands slowly, brushing his hand gently over Hana’s blanket. She’s fast asleep, curled into the warmth of Bbama. Jisung rises too, quiet and careful, and follows him out of the room. 

The kitchen feels cooler after the cosy living room. The kettle is still a little warm from earlier, so Minho flicks it on again, then leans back against the counter, arms folded loosely over his chest. 

Jisung hovers a little, then leans beside him, silent for a few beats. 

Minho breaks it first. 

“I need to talk to you about something,” he says. His eyes are fixed on the steam curling from the kettle’s spout, but his body is turned toward Jisung, open and sincere. “About… this. Us.” 

Jisung stills. “Okay.” 

“This has all been—fast,” Minho says, glancing at him now. “Really fast. And I don’t regret any of it. But before it goes further, I need to be honest with you.” 

Jisung nods slowly. 

“I’m not going to be able to do casual. I’ve never done it. Especially not with Hana around, with everything I’ve been through,” Minho starts. “If this is just something fun or temporary for you, I need to know now. I can’t let it keep going if we’re not on the same page.” 

The kettle clicks off. Minho doesn’t move. 

Jisung’s voice is quiet when he answers. “I didn’t think all of this would happen. Meeting you. Caring this much so soon.” He looks down at his feet, then back up. “But I’m not here for something casual either, Minho. If I were, I wouldn’t be sleeping in your house or letting your daughter borrow my dog. Or even meeting her in the first place.” 

Minho exhales, something in his shoulders loosening. “You’re sure?” 

“I don’t know how any of this will go yet,” Jisung admits. “We haven’t known each other long. But I know enough to want more. To take it seriously, if you’ll let me.” 

Minho finally reaches for the mugs, throwing in a teabag and filling them slowly. He passes one to Jisung, hand brushing his as he does. His heart is full, aching and soft all at once. 

“I’ll let you,” he says. 

They return to the living room with their tea, where Hana is still asleep with Bbama curled loyally at her side. Minho carefully lowers himself onto the couch, and Jisung follows, settling beside him. He switches on the TV, setting it at a low volume, and settles in to watch. 

Hana stirs, blinking blearily awake, the first thing she does is reach for Bbama, murmuring a greeting into his fur. Then she looks up and sees Jisung and Minho sitting together and smiles—really smiles, the kind that makes the dimples in her cheeks show. 

They spend the rest of the morning into the afternoon there, the three of them—or four, if you count Bbama. Minho had texted Hana’s mother to tell her she was okay, to which he received a curt response. Luckily, he can put that out of his mind. The TV plays softly in the background, a comforting hum as they talk and snack. 

At some point, Hana glances over at Jisung between mouthfuls of chips. She’s perked up a lot since the morning—her fever clearly down, her curiosity returning too. 

“So… Jisung,” she starts, drawing out his name a little. “Do you have a job like Appa?” 

Jisung pauses, hesitant. “Not really a job. But I’m a musician.” 

Hana’s eyes widen. “Wow, do you have an album? Do you perform concerts? Or do you just play on the street like those people Appa and I see when we go shopping?” 

Minho huffs a laugh. Jisung raises a brow, amused. “Hey, I’ve upgraded from that. I do real venues now. I performed in my favourite bar just the other night.” 

“Hmm, that’s cool,” she says, nodding. “How old are you?” 

Minho’s head snaps up from his phone. “Hana.” 

“What?” she says innocently. “I’m just asking.” 

“Twenty-six,” Jisung answers with a grin, clearly entertained.

Hana smirks, pleased with herself. “And how do you know my dad?” 

Minho coughs softly before Jisung can answer, shooting him a sideways glance. It’s not stern, but it’s definitely a warning. Jisung catches it and reins himself in.

“We met not long ago,” Jisung says carefully. “At a bar.” 

Hana raises an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied. “And now you’re here? Staying over with your dog.” 

Minho exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. She’s definitely feeling better now, her sassy teenage attitude replacing the clingy child she becomes when she’s sick. “I know it’s fast, and I haven’t had a new friend since we met Uncle Minnie, but we get along really well. I hope you can understand that, sweetheart.” 

Jisung nods beside him, more serious now. “Your dad’s really easy to like.” 

Hana hums, leaning back against the cushion, fingers playing lazily with Bbama’s fur. “So… are you his boyfriend?” Minho had told Hana about his sexuality only six months ago when she came to him asking about pride and what it means; he had figured it was best to be totally honest with her and create an open environment. Despite that, her bluntness still shocked him. 

“Hana…” 

“What?” she shrugs. “It’s a fair question. It’s kind of obvious he’s not just your friend, Appa.” 

Minho sighs, but there’s no frustration behind it—just surprise at how quickly Hana had cut to the point. She had always been sharp, always able to read between the lines most people didn’t even see. 

“We’re… figuring it out,” Minho says carefully. “It’s still very new. But yes, I care about him.” 

Hana’s gaze shifts to Jisung, measuring him up. “And you care about him too?” 

Jisung’s reply is immediate. “I do.” 

Hana studies them both, then looks down at Bbama again, giving his ears another stroke. “Well,” she says after a long pause. “I guess I can accept that.” 

Jisung lets out a soft laugh, and Minho breathes a little easier. 

“Thanks, flower,” Minho says gently. “It means a lot that you’re okay with this.” 

“He has a cute dog. That gets him at least seven out of ten.” 

“I’ll take it,” Jisung says. “We’re a package deal.” 

They lapse into an easy quiet after that. The TV plays Hana’s favourite movie, and she shifts to rest her head against the armrest. Bbama curls in beside her, her eyes fluttering closed again not long after. 

Minho leans back against the couch, watching her. He reaches for Jisung’s hand, gives it a quiet squeeze. Jisung squeezes back. 

Later in the afternoon, Jisung glances at the time on his phone, then sighs quietly. 

Minho notices. “You’ve gotta go?” 

Jisung nods, his voice low so he doesn’t wake Hana. “Yeah. I have a gig. Need to be at the venue in an hour and still have to drop off Bbama before.” 

Minho nods. “You want help carrying your stuff?” 

Jisung smiles. “Nah, there’s not much to carry. Just gotta get the sleepy prince here.” 

It’s at that moment that Hana wakes up. 

“You’re leaving?” she asks. 

“I am,” Jisung says, stepping over. “I’ve got a gig. Gotta go make noise somewhere else for a bit.” 

She hums, pretending not to be bothered. “You’ll bring Bbama back again though, right?” 

Jisung chuckles. “If he’s invited.” 

Minho answers for both of them. “You both are.” 

That makes her grin. “Cool.” 

Jisung crouches to clip the leash onto Bbama’s collar, murmuring softly to him as he slowly stirs from his nap. “Come on, sleepyhead. Time to get you home.” 

Minho walks him to the door and pauses at the threshold. 

“I had such an amazing time with you. Both yesterday and today,” Jisung says quietly, fingers playing with the loop of the leash. 

Minho reaches out and touches his wrist. “Me too.” 

Jisung leans in and kisses him, just once, soft, careful and sure. Minho closes his eyes, letting it settle somewhere deep inside him. 

When they part, Jisung smiles. “I’ll text you when I’m done.” 

Minho nods. “Drive safe.” 

“Always.” 

And then he’s gone—Bbama trotting loyally beside him. 

Minho closes the door with a soft breath and leans against it for a moment. The house is quieter without them already. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

The next few days pass in a gentle haze. Minho is stuck in his home office, busy with boring business technicalities as Hana finishes her recovery. 

She has improved steadily. Her fever fades completely, then the rasp in her voice softens until it’s gone entirely, and the dull tiredness in her eyes begins to lift. By Wednesday morning, she’s back to rolling her eyes when he reminds her to finish her toast, and on Thursday, she spends a full twenty minutes in the bathroom doing her hair—something she hadn’t bothered with in nearly a week. She hovers more again, lingering in the kitchen to talk while Minho cooks dinner. 

By Friday, she’s back at school. A little worn out by the end of the day, maybe—but standing tall and sarcastic as ever. Minho had called Soojin earlier in the week. She’d sounded mildly surprised when he suggested Hana stay until Saturday instead of going back to hers, but she hadn’t argued. Not really. “She’s healing well here,” he’d said. “Let her rest a little longer instead of moving her.”  His tone left no room for doubt, and after a beat of silence, Soojin had simply said, “Fine.” 

And in the quiet between parenting, errands and dealing with corporate nonsense, there was Jisung. 

They texted every day—sometimes first thing in the morning, sometimes in the deep quiet of night. Little things. A picture of the food he made. A clip of Hana, caught mid-sneeze. A blurry photo of Minho’s laptop and a coffee mug captioned, “This meeting should have been an email.” 

In return, Jisung sends photos of him writing songs, all messy hair and grins, fingers wrapped around his guitar neck. A picture of Bbama belly-up in the sun. He sends him links to obscure songs, and Minho is pretty sure he’d never even find them on his own. Voice notes of random nonsense: Bbama barking at a bird, Jisung singing the chorus of something he wrote. And selfies—plenty of selfies. 

It should have felt silly. Minho had never been one for this kind of flirtation, never the type to respond with hearts or any kind of emoji. But now, he found himself smiling at his phone more than he cared to admit. 

Some nights, when everything was done and the house was silent, Minho would lie on top of the covers in the dark and call him. The conversations weren’t always long or deep. Just easy. Jisung would ask how Minho’s day had gone, and Minho would ask about his upcoming gigs. Sometimes, they would fall into a lull, both still on the line, not saying anything. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. 

Neither of them said I miss you , even though they both knew they did. 

Minho could feel it in the space between Jisung’s voice and his silence, in the way he sometimes sighed, soft and reluctant, when they said goodnight. In the way Minho hesitated before hanging up. 

He had never been familiar with fast . Fast infatuations. Fast comfort. Fast trust. But with Jisung, it didn’t feel like speeding toward something new. It felt like stepping into something familiar, something that was just waiting for him to arrive. Like he was reaching a place he hadn’t even known he was walking toward for years. 

It was terrifying, but at the same time, exhilarating. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

Saturday morning arrives with a bright sky and a chill in the air that makes Hana tug her hoodie tighter as she climbs into the passenger seat.

The drive is quiet with Hana humming every now and then, texting someone—probably Nari, her best friend—and scrolling through the photos she took of Bbama when he and Jisung were at their house. She shows him one where his tongue is flopped out sideways as he lies on his back. 

“He really does sleep like a human,” she says with a grin. 

Minho smiles, one hand on the wheel. “He’s very spoiled. Just like you.” 

“Rude.” 

She laughs. It’s good to hear. Her cough is gone and all that’s left is a bit of fatigue. Almost back to her full teen sass. 

When they pull up outside her mother’s, she’s already waiting at the door. Minho parks and helps Hana with her things, walking with her up to the step. 

“Bye, Appa,” she says, looping her arms around him for a quick hug. “Love you.” 

“Love you too, flower.” He kisses the top of her head. “Text me if you need anything.” 

She nods before heading inside. 

Minho turns to go, but Soojin stops him, closing the door behind her. Her arms are folded. “Can I speak to you for a minute?” 

He exhales softly. “Sure.” 

“So, how old is that boy?” she asks, getting straight to it. 

Minho meets her eyes, ignoring her word choice. “Twenty-six.” 

Her eyebrows lift. “Minho, you just turned forty.” 

“Thanks for the reminder,” he mutters, and then, before he can stop himself. “How old is Yunho again?” 

Soojin’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes. She brushes it off with a wave of her hand. “That’s different.” 

“How?” 

“Because I waited longer to bring him into our daughter’s life,” she says coldly. “How well do you know this guy?” 

Minho lifts his chin. “I know enough to know he’s kind. Thoughtful. And he respects me.” 

Her mouth pulls into a thin, unimpressed line. “Kind and respectful? That’s the bar now?” 

Minho’s jaw tightens. “That’s not what I said.” 

“No, you said you know enough , but you don’t,” she snaps. “You barely know this boy, Minho. And I say boy because that’s what he is. What could a twenty-six-year-old possibly want with you other than the novelty of an older man?” 

Minho blinks once, slow. The words land harder than he expected, not because they surprise him—he knew she’d be like this—but because of how casual she makes it sound. How easy it is for her to try and reduce everything he’s been quietly rebuilding into something pathetic. 

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly. “Don’t turn this into something it’s not just because you don’t understand.” 

“I understand perfectly. You’re lonely and desperate. But dragging a boy barely out of school into your midlife crisis isn’t going to fix that.” 

Minho flinches. Just slightly. But she sees it. 

Soojin sighs like she’s the one exhausted. “I’m just trying to keep Hana from getting caught in the crossfire when this inevitably falls apart.” 

“It won’t,” Minho says, a thread of steel in his voice now. “I’m not bringing anyone into her life carelessly. And if this doesn’t last, she’ll be okay. Because I’ll be okay. That’s what being a good parent is.” 

“Funny,” she scoffs. “Finally grew the balls to stand up for yourself, huh?” 

“Maybe it’s just because I never used to feel like this,” Minho replies evenly. “I don’t expect you to like him. But I expect you to respect that this is my life. And Hana’s. As long as it’s safe and stable for her, you don’t get to decide who I see.” 

Soojin exhales loudly. “Right.” She steps back and opens the door, voice flat. “Thanks for dropping her off.” 

Minho doesn’t say anything else. Just nods once and watches as the door closes behind her. 

The drive home is silent. He doesn’t really know how to feel. It’s been so long since she’s talked to him like that, and he almost never stood up to her. 

When his phone buzzes just as he gets home, he doesn’t have to check to know it’s Jisung.

It’s a selfie of him and Bbama curled up in bed, a late start for the pair of them. Minho can’t help the smile that blooms on his face, and suddenly, everything he had been worrying about seems a little easier. 

He hovers over the reply. 

Minho: You both look adorable. 

Can we talk later? I’d really like to hear your voice

Jisung: I can do one better. I’m free today. 

Minho exhales, relief flooding him. He walks into the house, leans against the door, keys still in hand, shoes not even off yet. 

Minho: Can you come over? 

There’s a short pause. 

Jisung: Give me an hour. 

Minho’s smile deepens. He toes off his shoes, shrugs off his jacket and moves through the house. He spends the time sitting at the window with a book while waiting for Jisung. And when he finally knocks at the door, his heart feels like it might burst. 

He opens it to find Jisung in a hoodie too big for him and Bbama tucked under one arm like a loaf of bread. 

“I brought reinforcements,” Jisung says. 

Minho chuckles. “Get in here.” 

Jisung kicks off his shoes, sets Bbama down, and steps in close without needing to be asked. Minho doesn’t hesitate; he wraps both arms around him, holding tight, burying his face in the curve of Jisung’s neck.

“You okay?” Jisung murmurs into his hair. 

Minho nods. “I am now.” 

They don’t do much after that. Just curl up on the couch as Minho vents about the issues he’s been having at the company all week. Bbama falls asleep on Minho’s foot, and Jisung leans against his side with his head on Minho’s shoulder, fingers laced loosely in his lap. It’s bliss. 

Minho closes his eyes, letting his cheek rest against Jisung’s hair. 

“Thanks for coming,” he says softly. 

Jisung shifts slightly, tilting his face to nuzzle into Minho’s neck before whispering. “You’re welcome.” 

Minho exhales deeply and gives Jisung a gentle pat on the leg. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s head up.” 

But as Minho stands, Jisung drags him back down on the couch and connects their lips. Jisung’s thumb brushes Minho’s cheek, and Minho lets himself lean into him. 

They kiss again. And again. 

Somewhere between the soft laughter and the slow curl of Jisung’s fingers into his shirt, Minho rises again and reaches out a hand for Jisung to take. They climb the stairs without speaking, hands clasped. 

When Minho goes to close his bedroom door, Jisung crowds him gently from behind, fingers tugging at his shirt. “Minho…” he whispers into his ear. 

Then he’s turned around, his back meeting the door with a soft thud.

He exhales, startled, and Jisung kisses him again, hotter now with more confidence. Minho lets himself sink into it. Jisung’s mouth is soft but insistent. His hands dip under his shirt, finding Minho’s waist, squeezing him gently. 

“Is this okay?” 

Minho nods, a little breathless and dazed. “Yeah, just—” He breaks off with a quiet laugh. “Just didn’t expect that.” 

Jisung kisses him again, slower now, almost reverent. His hands trace the bare skin at his sides, fingers gliding up the curve of his ribs as if memorising his shape. Minho’s breath catches, but he doesn’t stop him. 

“Been thinking about this all day,” Jisung murmurs, lips brushing Minho’s cheek, then his jaw. 

Minho’s throat works around the emotion that rises so fast it almost chokes him. He nods, a silent confirmation that he has too. His hands find the hem of Jisung’s shirt, fingers slipping beneath. Jisung lifts his arms obligingly, and Minho pushes the fabric up and over his head. The shirt hits the floor with a soft sound, already forgotten. 

Jisung doesn’t hesitate from there, he reaches for the hem of Minho’s next, fingers slow and steady as he peels it up, baring inch after inch of skin. 

Once it’s on the floor, Jisung lifts one hand and lays it against Minho’s chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” 

Minho exhales slowly, his eyes fluttering shut. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but his voice is too soft to carry any real protest. 

“Maybe most of the time,” Jisung says. “But it’s still true.” 

He kisses once more, and this time his hands drift lower. He undoes the button on Minho’s jeans with gentle care, then tugs them down, easing them over his hips, thighs, then knees. When he’s down to just his briefs, Jisung pauses to take him in. Then, without a word, strips himself quietly, kicking off his pants, then stepping out of them. He stands there in nothing but his tight boxers, and even just that feels unfamiliarly intimate to Minho. 

Jisung drags him to the bed, and Minho slides in, shifting back, drawing the blanket down to make room. The sheets are cool against his back as he settles into the pillows, watching Jisung with a hunger that surprises him. Jisung climbs in after him. He moves slowly, his knees landing between Minho’s thighs before he lets his body settle. Chest to chest, hip to hip. The heat of him is immediate, grounding. Minho spreads his thighs a little more, letting Jisung slide between them with ease. 

They fit together perfectly. 

Jisung leans down and brushes his nose along Minho’s jaw before kissing him again, deep and slow. His fingers card through Minho’s hair, whilst his hands slide up his torso, feeling every shift and stretch of muscle. It feels like time slows. There’s no rush. Just the steady press of lips, the soft hitch of breath. Minho tilts his head, and Jisung groans softly against his mouth—a low, contented sound that sends a shiver down Minho’s spine. 

As their bodies move together—Jisung’s hips rolling gently against his, lips never straying far from his own—Minho feels warmth flood through him. It’s tender and unhurried, and desire coils low in his stomach. 

But as always, the cracks in the chest that hold all his negative emotions from Soojin start to widen, giving way to the unseen words that always live inside him.  

Her voice is cold. Cutting. Too sharp for the softness of the moment. 

What could a twenty-six-year-old possibly want with you other than the novelty of an older man?

You’re lonely and desperate.

Finally grew the balls to stand up for yourself .

Minho’s breath stutters. His grip on Jisung falters. The words echo again and again, laced with something cruel. 

Jisung doesn’t seem to notice the shift, too caught in the moment. His mouth is at Minho’s neck now, breath warm against his skin, kisses trailing slowly toward his collarbone. But Minho’s chest is tight. The air too thick. 

He shouldn’t feel like this. Not with Jisung holding him so gently, kissing him like he means it. 

He feels pathetic. 

The doubt sneaks in anyway. What if she’s right? What if this is a mistake? What if Jisung wakes up one day and realises he could have someone younger, someone who doesn't carry years of regret and a plus one? 

Minho swallows thickly, his fingers flexing where they rest against Jisung’s back. 

“Minho?” Jisung’s voice is soft, questioning. He’s pulled back just enough to search his face. His lips are slightly parted, eyes wide and concerned. “You okay?” 

Minho nods, almost too quickly. “Yeah. Just…” He forces a shaky breath. “Just thinking too much.” 

Jisung sits up slowly, shifting to one side of the bed, drawing the sheet up over both their laps. His hand stays on Minho’s thigh, grounding and warm. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

And there’s no pressure in the question. 

And maybe that’s what makes Minho nod. Just once. He exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he leans back against the headboard, staring at a spot on the far wall. 

“I dropped Hana off this morning,” he says quietly. “At my exes.” 

Jisung doesn’t speak, just waits and listens attentively. 

Minho swallows again. “She asked about you. Not… not kindly.” His voice is flat, almost resigned. “Wanted to know how old you are. Said I was desperate. That I was only doing this because I’m lonely. And you’re only interested in me for the novelty of it.” 

Jisung’s jaw tightens, but he still doesn’t interrupt. 

“I know she doesn’t get a say anymore. But she has this way of—of finding the exact place I still doubt myself and pushing. Like she knows where all my bruises are.” Minho lets out a dry laugh. “And part of me believed her. Just for a second. That maybe I am just reaching for something I shouldn’t have.” 

Silence settles between them. Then Jisung shifts closer, curling a hand around Minho’s wrist. 

“You’re not desperate,” he says firmly. Minho turns his head, eyes meeting his. 

“I’m not here out of pity or for the thrill of being with an older guy, or whatever the hell she thinks,” Jisung goes on. “I’m here because I feel good when I’m near you. Because I want to get to know you. And even if you have times like this where you struggle to get into the mood or physically can’t, that’s okay. We can either talk it out, like now, or we can just do something else. It’s not a deal breaker for me, Minho.” 

Minho looks at him for a long moment. Then he nods, blinking once. 

“I needed to hear that,” he murmurs, 

Jisung leans in again, brushing his knuckles along Minho’s jaw. “Anytime.” 

Minho closes his eyes briefly as Jisung’s knuckles graze along his jaw. The touch is featherlight, but it sends a current down his spine, warm and electric. His breath catches, and when he opens his eyes again, Jisung is still there, close and steady, watching him without expectation. 

Then suddenly he feels it. The slow, unmistakable heat curling in his belly. The way his skin prickles beneath the covers. It’s not lust in the way he used to understand it. It’s not about urgency or hunger. It’s something else. 

And that’s when it clicks. It’s Jisung . 

The weight of his hand resting gently on his thigh. The reassuring words flowing along with the soft warmth of his voice. The way he looks at him like there’s nothing about him that needs to be fixed. 

Minho blinks and glances down. He’s hard beneath the sheet—unexpected, but undeniably there, pressing insistently against the fabric of his briefs. A flush creeps up his chest, settling hot beneath his skin, and for a moment, he thinks about covering it up, saying nothing. 

But Jisung’s still close—watching him, steady and calm, his thumb brushing in slow circles along Minho’s thigh. 

Minho’s voice is quiet. “I, um…” He hesitates, embarrassed. “Apparently… that helped.” 

Jisung follows his gaze. 

“Hm, I see that,” Jisung says softly, his lips tilting in a small smile. “Do you want me to stop touching you?” 

Minho swallows. “No. Please keep going.” 

“Okay.” Jisung shifts slightly, turning toward him fully, fingers sliding up from Minho’s thigh until his thumb is pressing gently into the soft space beneath Minho’s ribs. “Your body is allowed to want,” Jisung murmurs. “Even when your head feels a mess. Even when it’s not perfect.” 

Minho lets out a shaky breath, heart thudding slowly and deeply in his chest. “I haven’t felt like this in… a long time. Or maybe ever.” 

“It’s okay. And we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. I’m not here to collect on anything just because your body remembered it’s allowed to want me.” 

Minho turns his head then, forehead pressing to Jisung’s temple. “But I do,” he whispers. “I want you close.” 

“I’m already close, baby,” Jisung murmurs, one hand tightening gently on Minho’s side. That word again sends shivers down his body. “But I can get closer.” 

Jisung shifts again, easing himself back between Minho’s legs. Their bodies settle together naturally, Jisung’s thigh slipping between Minho’s, his heat radiating outward. And Minho, he lets him. Hands finding Jisung’s bare back, feeling the smooth warmth of his skin, the gentle dip of his waist. 

They breathe together, foreheads touching, lips brushing, but not quite kissing, but so close it’s electric. 

And when Jisung finally rolls his hips down with a careful, deliberate grind, Minho feels the press of his cock against his own through the thin cotton briefs. It’s gentle, but the sensation strikes deep, startling in its intensity. It makes him moan, a soft, stunned sound as Jisung shudders. 

“Still okay?” Jisung whispers, lips brushing the corner of Minho’s mouth. 

Minho nods, dazed. “Yeah. Please, keep going.” 

Jisung kisses him deeper this time, with tongue and heat and that quiet reverence he seems to carry around with him like second nature. Minho opens for him, letting him in, tilting his chin to meet him fully. His hands slip down Jisung’s shirtless back, tracing the tension in his spine, and Jisung groans into his mouth, his hips starting a slow, steady rhythm. 

Their cocks rub together again, pressed tight between their bodies. The friction is exquisite—damp cotton catching, sliding, sending pulses of pleasure through Minho’s core. It’s not urgent, but it’s real , and his body aches to be touched more, to be bared, to be held in the same precious way Jisung speaks to him. 

“Take them off,” Minho murmurs against his lips. “Please.” 

Jisung lifts his head, breath stuttering. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” 

He shifts back slightly, sitting between Minho’s thighs, and hooks his fingers into the waistband. He draws them down slowly, inch by inch, watching every reaction—eyes flicking over Minho’s flushed skin, his hardened cock, the subtle twitch of nerves in his thighs. 

Minho lifts his hips without a word, surrendering to him completely. 

Once the briefs are off and tossed aside, Jisung peels off his own, baring himself just as slowly. He doesn’t rush. He treats it like something meaningful and precious. 

Then he lowers himself again, letting his full weight settle onto Minho. Skin to skin now, cocks pressed together, warm, soft and throbbing—and Minho exhales a trembling breath as their bodies finally meet without anything between them. Jisung’s hand slides between them, fingers wrapping around both of them together. The stroke is soft but firm, and Minho arches into the touch, gasping at how good it feels. At how seen he feels. 

Jisung’s hand glides between them with slow certainty, the heat and slickness building with every pass of his fingers. Their cocks are pressed together, flushed and sensitive, and Minho gasps at the feel of it—of Jisung’s grip wrapping around them both, strong and steady, tugging in a rhythm that’s unhurried but sure.

The air is thick with breath and want, the quiet sounds between them growing wetter with arousal. Minho’s hips shift involuntarily, chasing the friction, overwhelmed by the raw, focused attention. 

“ Fuck ,” Minho moans, voice ragged, one hand still gripping Jisung’s back as his other curls in the sheets, needing something solid to cling to. 

Jisung leans down, lips brushing Minho’s jaw, then lower, grazing along the curve of his neck. He whispers, “You feel so good,” and the words send another pulse of heat down Minho’s spine. 

Their skin sticks and slides, their chests pressed close, heartbeat against heartbeat. Minho feels like he’s unravelling. 

“I want to make you feel good,” Jisung breathes, voice low and tender against Minho’s ear.  

“You are,” Minho chokes out, chest rising sharply as Jisung’s strokes grow just a little tighter, the slick sounds between them almost obscene. 

And though Minho’s eyes flutter shut, his hand moves to cradle the back of Jisung’s neck, drawing him down for a kiss that says everything he doesn’t know how to put into words. 

Then Jisung presses his forehead to Minho’s and says, quietly but without hesitation, “I want you to fuck me.” 

Minho blinks, stunned by the words. 

He brings a hand to Jisung’s face, brushing his knuckles along his cheek. “You’re sure?” 

Jisung nods once, pupils wide, voice soft. “I want you.” 

Minho swallows hard, then kisses him again slowly. “Okay.” 

Minho’s breath catches as he sees Jisung sit up and climb off the bed, moving across the room, the soft lighting painting warm shadows along his bare back. He opens the overnight bag he had brought up earlier, retrieving a small bottle of lube and a condom, then turns back with a calm, steady expression. 

He settles on the bed again and lies back against the pillows, head tilted toward Minho with an open, gentle gaze. “Come here,” he says softly, voice like silk across his skin. 

Minho hesitates, heart thudding. “I’ve never—” he starts, but Jisung reaches for his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. 

“I know,” Jisung says. “And that’s okay. I can do it myself.” 

“I want to,” Minho says quickly, cheeks flushing. “I just don’t want to hurt you.” 

Jisung’s smile softens. “You won’t. I’ll tell you what I need, and you just listen. That’s all.” 

Minho nods slowly, swallowing down the nerves crawling up his throat. He shifts closer, kneeling between Jisung’s legs, and watches as Jisung uncaps the bottle and drizzles a small amount into his palm and then takes Minho's fingers, pouring it directly to the tips. 

Jisung takes his own palm, gripping his cock as he opens his legs wider, granting Minho access. 

“Start with one finger,” Jisung says, guiding Minho’s slicked fingers downward. His voice is calm and threaded with affection. “You don’t have to rush anything. Just gentle pressure. Let me adjust to you.” 

Minho nods again, his throat too tight to speak. His hand trembles faintly as he moves, guided by Jisung’s warmth. When his finger pushes in for the first time, Jisung exhales, almost like relief. 

“That’s good,” Jisung whispers, his eyes fluttering closed. “Just like that. Don’t force it—let me take you in.” 

Minho watches every flicker of expression on his face. The way his brows twitch. The soft hitch of his breath. The way his fingers curl slightly into the sheets. 

“You’re doing great,” Jisung says again, opening his eyes to look at him. “I like how careful you are.” 

Minho lets out a shaky breath of relief, smiling a little, his shoulders relaxing.

“Do you want me to keep going?” He asks quietly. 

Jisung’s answer is a soft nod. “Mhm. Slowly add another.” 

Minho does, curling his fingers slightly and marvelling at the way Jisung responds to him—how his body opens and eases, how his hand tightens when Minho brushes over something that makes his breath catch. 

“Oh, fuck ,” Jisung whines. 

“Is that good?” 

Jisung nods, biting back a moan. “So good. Keep doing that.” 

Minho does it again, a little more confident now, watching the way Jisung’s body arches, how his thighs tense and shudder.

After a while, Jisung reaches down and covers Minho’s hand, stilling him gently. “Okay,” he breathes. “I think I’m ready.” 

Minho nods, blinking down at him with a mixture of awe and wonder. “Are you sure?” 

Jisung smiles up at him, fingers brushing his jaw. “So sure.” 

Minho leans down, his lips hovering just above Jisung’s, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. The air between them crackles with anticipation, the promise of what is to come hanging heavy in the shared space. Jisung’s breath ghosts over his lips, warm and inviting, and Minho feels the pull of him like a magnet. 

Jisung’s smile deepens, his eyes sparking with something Minho can’t quite name—desire, yes, but also trust, and something that feels dangerously close to something Minho dare not name yet. Minho can’t help wondering in the moment, if this is what it means to truly be seen, to be accepted wholly without reservation. 

“Tell me what you want,” Minho mutters. 

Jisung shudders. “Want you to fuck me slow.” 

Minho can feel his dick twitching at the words, more pre-cum gathering at his tip. He reaches for the condom, dragging it gently over his length, then positions himself directly between Jisung’s legs, his eyes locking on Jisung’s face, watching for any sign of discomfort, any hint of hesitation. But Jisung’s expression is one of pure want, his eyes dark with need as he reaches down to guide Minho to his entrance. 

Minho’s breath hitches as he pushes in slowly, savouring the tight heat enveloping him. His body trembles with each inch, every nerve alight with sensation. Jisung’s cry is sharp, a mix of pleasure and need, as he arches his back, urging Minho deeper. Jisung’s dark hair spills across the pillow, his sparkling eyes fluttering closed as he surrenders to the moment. 

“You feel too good,” Minho murmurs. His hands rest on Jisung’s hips, holding him steady as he adjusts to the fullness. The condom does little to dull the sensation of Jisung’s tight heat gripping him like a vice. Minho can feel his cock twitch inside, desperate to move, but he forces himself to stay still,  giving Jisung time to adjust to his size. 

Jisung’s hands grip Minho’s shoulders, his fingers digging into his skin as he pants. “Move… please.” 

Minho’s control fractures. He begins to move, slow and deliberate, his hips rocking gently. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through both of them, a rhythm building between them. Jisung’s body tenses and releases with every movement, his moans growing louder, more desperate. Jisung’s legs wrap tightly around his waist, his heels digging into Minho’s thick thighs, anchoring him closer. 

“Fuck, Jisung,” Minho groans. “Feels so fucking good.” 

Jisung’s head thrashes against the pillow, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “Harder… please. Minho, I need it harder.” 

Minho’s pace quickens, his control slipping as the tightness around him becomes overwhelming. He leans forward, bracing himself on one arm, his free hand reaching down to stroke Jisung’s leaking cock with his thrusts. Jisung’s body shudders at the touch, his hips lifting to meet Minho’s movements, his hole clenching greedily around him. 

And Minho feels like a new man. 

He’s never experienced such a reaction during sex. Never been so in tune and aware of the pleasure he’s causing for his partner. 

“Let me ride you,” Jisung chokes out. 

Minho nods, pulling out gently as Jisung shifts in his arms, guiding Minho to sit up against the pillows. Then Jisung leans forward and presses a kiss to Minho’s jaw. He doesn’t say anything, just lets his nose brush along Minho’s cheek as he draws back, eyes searching his face. And then he drops back down onto his cock. Carefully, he shifts in Minho’s lap, his knees settled on either side of his hips. The sheet pools around them, warm and wrinkled from where they’ve tangled together. 

Minho watches him in silence, heart hammering. He’s never looked at the way Jisung looks at him. Never had someone touch him with this much care. 

Jisung places his hands lightly on Minho’s chest. His palms are warm and a little damp, his fingers splayed out across his muscles. And when he begins to move—slow, rolling, a steady rhythm that feels less like sex and more like something greater—it’s quiet. No loud moans, no rush. Just the soft hitch of breath. The small, unguarded sounds that escape them both and the delicate creak of the mattress beneath their bodies. 

Minho’s hands find Jisung's hips, fingers flexing there, but he doesn’t push or guide—he just holds, letting Jisung set the pace, letting him lead, like he knows exactly what Minho needs. Jisung’s head tilts back slightly, eyes closed as he finds the perfect rhythm, his breath catching every now and then. And all Minho can do is look at him bathed in the golden spill of lamplight, sweat shining at his collarbone, lips parted in a soft sigh. He’s beautiful in a way that knocks the breath right out of Minho’s lungs. 

He lets his hands slide up, fingertips brushing over Jisung’s sides, feeling the shift of muscle, the tremble beneath his skin. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, barely a sound. Jisung opens his eyes and leans forward, cupping his face in both hands. 

“So are you,” he murmurs. 

Their connection deepens as Jisung’s movements become more urgent, their bodies colliding in a rhythm that builds inexorably toward climax. Minho’s hands move restlessly, tracing the contours of Jisung’s body, his fingers digging into Jisung’s hips as he urges him on. Jisung’s breath comes in short gasps, his head thrown back as he surrenders to the pleasure. 

“Fuck, Minho,” Jisung groans. “I’m so close.” 

Minho’s own release had been building from the start. “Ah, me too—” Minho gasps. “Just a little more.” 

Jisung’s hips move faster, the harsh slap of his cock against his stomach sharp in Minho’s ears, his body tightening around him as he rides him harder. The room is filled with their laboured breaths, the slick slide of their bodies, and the occasional creak of the bed frame. Minho’s hands move to Jisung’s ass, squeezing and pulling him closer. 

“ Minho —” Jisung’s voice breaks on a cry as his body shudders, his muscles clenching tight around him as he shoots hot and white all over Minho’s stomach and chest. His head falls forward, resting on Minho’s shoulder, as he rides out his orgasm. 

Minho can’t hold it any longer, his own release crashing over him like a tidal wave that refuses to let him resurface. He cries out, his hands gripping Jisung’s ass tightly as he thrusts upward one last time, his cock pulsing deep inside him. Their bodies tremble together, breaths mingling as they find release in each other’s arms. 

For a long moment, they stay like that, Jisung still straddling Minho, their bodies slick with sweat and spent. Minho’s hands move up to Jisung’s back, rubbing slow, soothing circles as they both try to ground themselves. 

Jisung lifts his head, his eyes meeting Minho’s, a soft smile playing on his lips. “That was everything I thought it would be.” 

Minho exhales shakily, his thumb brushing over the damp skin at Jisung’s spine. “Yeah?” 

Jisung nods, pressing a gentle kiss to Minho’s cheek. “Yeah.” He leans in again, nose brushing lightly against Minho’s. “And you… you were amazing.” 

A flush rises slowly up Minho’s neck. It feels like disbelief. Pride. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, unsure of what to say. He had worried. God, he had worried so much that his body had finally given up. That his fear had won. That he’d disappoint Jisung and lose him forever. 

But it had been fine. Jisung had been patient. Kind. Undemanding and gentle. He’d seen his nerves and didn’t run. He had guided Minho with sure hands and a softer voice. No pressure. No shame. 

And Minho had done it. Not just physically, but emotionally. He’d let someone in again. 

“I didn’t think I could do it,” he murmurs, voice quiet and almost afraid to break the stillness. “Not really. Not like this.” 

Jisung shifts, staying close, his weight still grounding. “I know,” he says. “But you did. You did so well, Minho. Made me feel so good.” 

“I feel like myself again,” he whispers.  

Jisung leans in and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to his forehead. “Then I’m glad I got to be with you for that.” 

Minho closes his eyes and lets his arms tighten around Jisung’s back, holding him close. 

“Let’s stay like this a little longer,” Minho says. 

Jisung hums. “As long as you want.” 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

The next day, after Jisung has left, Minho stands by the kitchen window, fingers wrapped around a fresh mug of coffee. He hasn’t even taken a sip—just holding it, watching the sunlight stretch across the countertop. 

He exhales, smiling softly to himself. It hasn’t left him yet—that feeling. The one that blooms in his chest when Jisung kisses him slowly. 

Minho lifts his phone, checks the time. Jisung had left not long ago, Bbama trotting faithfully at his heels. There’d been one last kiss by the door—soft and slow, the kind you carry with you the whole day. And then he was gone. 

Still, the smile won’t leave Minho’s face. 

He opens his messages and scrolls to his chat with Chan. 

Minho: 

You guys want to do dinner tonight?

Channie: 

Wait what

Are you dying? 

Blink twice if you’re okay

Minho rolls his eyes, the grin still tugging at his lips. 

Minho: 

I’m fine. 

Just thought it’d be nice to catch up 

Chan: 

You’re being suspiciously sweet

But okay 

Minnie is free after 7

Bin will come if we go somewhere with beer

And I am bringing questions whether you like it or not

Minho chuckles, thumbs already moving. 

Minho:

Do your best

Minho sets his phone down and finally takes a sip of his coffee. It’s gone lukewarm—but somehow, it still tastes better than usual. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

The restaurant is warm and softly lit, tucked into a quiet corner of the city Minho used to frequent more often. It’s the kind of place with cloth napkins, a piano in the corner, and a wine list longer than the menu. He’s already seated when they arrive, a wine already picked out, the bill pre-arranged to go directly on his card—no arguments tonight. 

He catches sight of them through the glass, with Chan following the other two from the back as usual. When they step inside, Chan spots him immediately and breaks into a wide grin. 

Chan takes a look at the wine already ordered. “Well, look who’s already playing host,” he says, making his way over. 

Minho smiles at them all. “Glad you could make it.” 

“You really weren’t kidding about covering the bill?” Seungmin says, glancing at the wine before taking a seat across from him. “Do we say thank you now or after dessert?” 

“Now,” Minho says, pouring him a glass. But Seungmin just pouts. 

Changbin slides in beside Seungmin and gives Minho a once-over. “You look good. Weirdly stress free.” 

“Suspicious,” Seungmin adds, taking his wine. 

Minho just shrugs lightly. “It’s been a good weekend.” 

Chan lowers himself into the chair next to Minho. “Does that have anything to do with Jisung?” 

Minho meets his gaze, and for a second, he debates brushing it off—but he doesn’t see the point anymore.

Minho exhales, his smile lingering. “Yeah. It does.” 

Seungmin raises a brow. “So? What happened on your date? You never told me, even after I helped you pick your outfit.” 

Minho flushes instantly. “I… went back to his.” 

Seungmin lets out an exaggerated gasp , practically slamming his palm on the table. “Oh my god , Minho! How long has it been?” 

Minho just groans at that comment. 

Changbin starts laughing as Chan holds up both hands, telling him to calm down. 

“Did you sleep with him then?” Seungmin whispers across the table, eyes wide with fake scandal. 

Minho groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t realise confessing would mean an inquest.” 

“Confessing your love already?” Changbin echoes, leaning in with a grin. “So it was that good?” 

Minho makes a strangled noise and looks at Chan for help. 

Chan laughs quietly. “You don’t have to tell us everything, Min.” 

“But I want to know everything,” Seungmin whines. 

Minho gives up, tipping his head back against his chair, ears bright pink. “It was… really nice,” he says eventually. “Better than I expected. Better than I thought I was ready for.” 

That quiets them a bit. Seungmin sits back, watching him with a more serious look now. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad. Seriously. I just wasn’t expecting you to glow .” 

“I’m not glowing.” 

“You are , man,” Changbin adds. “It’s kind of disgusting.” 

Minho huffs a laugh. “Well, you better get used to it. He’s been patient, kind, and I think he’s going to be here for good.” 

Chan leans back in his chair, his expression softening. “Yeah?” 

Minho nods. “Yeah.” 

Seungmin picks up his wine and raises it halfway. “Then I’m really happy for you.” 

“Same,” Changbin adds, reaching across to nudge Minho’s forearm. “We’ve seen you try to be okay for a long time. You don’t have to try anymore.” 

Minho swallows, caught off guard by the lump rising in his throat. He covers it with a sip of wine, but the warmth in his chest doesn’t fade. “Thanks. I mean it.” 

“Are you gonna tell Hana?” Chan asks gently. 

Minho nods slowly. “She already kind of knows.” 

Seungmin chuckles. “She’s too sharp for her own good.” 

“Wonder where she got that from,” Changbin chuckles. 

Minho smiles. “She’s met him already. She likes him. I know I need to be careful. I can’t let her get attached unless I know he’ll stay. And I really think he will.” 

“You deserve that,” Chan says simply. 

Minho lets that sit with him. The idea that he deserves this—something easy, warm, full of possibility. It’s still new, still foreign, but it feels less impossible now. 

He raises his glass finally. “To new things.” 

The others echo him, clinking their glasses across the table. 

The dinner winds on with easy conversation, full bellies and shared laughter. Seungmin is halfway through teasing Changbin for his third helping of dessert when Minho feels a gentle nudge against his arm. 

Chan tilts his head subtly toward the back hallway. “Come with me a sec?” 

Minho nods, wiping his mouth with a napkin and rising without a word. They leave the table and weave through the quieter edge of the restaurant until they find themselves just outside the restrooms, tucked into a little alcove.

Chan leans against the wall and gives him a knowing look. “So… you’re really okay?” 

“Yeah. Actually, I think I’m better than okay.” 

Chan studies him. “So that little issue you had, no longer a problem? I know what you were implying out there, but…”  

Minho laughs under his breath, then nods. “Yeah. Actually, last night. We slept together, and it, you know… it worked.” 

Chan grins, relieved. “Was it…?” 

“It was good,” Minho says quickly. “Really good. He made me feel safe. I didn’t have to pretend or rush anything. It wasn’t perfect. I still got in my head a little. But he was understanding, and he stayed with me the whole time.”

Chan nods slowly, absorbing that. “I’m really glad for you. Truly.” He pushes off the wall a bit, voice turning a little more careful. “But—just so you know—I looked into a few things. Just in case.” 

Minho tilts his head. “Things?” 

“I found a talking therapist,” Chan says. “She specialises in sexual health and trauma. I know you’re doing better now, but if it’s still bothering you sometimes, or even just the fear of it happening again, I figured it couldn’t hurt to try it out.” 

Minho blinks, caught off guard by the thoughtfulness. “You… did that for me?” 

Chan shrugs, trying to play it off like he always does, but his voice is gentler now. “Yeah. You’re my best friend. And this stuff doesn't fix itself overnight. No shame in getting support.” 

Minho’s throat tightens unexpectedly. He nods, eyes lowering. “Yeah. I think I’d like the details. It’s not totally fixed , but I don’t want to let it fester again.” 

Chan offers a small smile. “I’ll text you her details. No pressure, just an option.” 

“Thanks,” Minho says quietly. “For that. And for not making this weird.” 

“You kidding?” Chan nudges his arm. “You deserve to be happy, Minho. However long it takes to get there.” 

“There’s something else,” he says, voice quieter now. 

Chan tilts his head, waiting. 

“I’ve been thinking about asking him to be my boyfriend. Officially,” Minho admits.

There’s a pause, and Minho rushes to explain. “I know it’s fast. I know we’ve only just started this thing, but… I don’t know, Channie. It just feels right.” 

Chan’s eyes are warm. “You don’t have to defend it to me.” 

“I just—” Minho exhales, shaking his head. “I’m scared. Of doing something reckless. Of moving too quickly and ruining it. But I also don’t want to pretend I don’t care about him as much as I do.” 

Chan smiles then, slow and steady. “Minho. You’ve never been reckless a day in your life.” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Minho’s lips curve. “I really like him.” 

“Then ask him,” Chan says. “And bring him with you next time. I need to meet him without his tongue down your throat.” 

Minho groans, burying his face in his hands for a second. “God, are you ever going to let that go?” 

“Never,” Chan grins, his dimpled smile wide.

Minho drops his hands, eyes crinkling with laughter. “You’re insufferable.” 

“Only because I love you,” Chan says, bumping his shoulder lightly. “And because someone has to keep you humble now that you’ve got a hot, younger guy falling all over you.” 

Minho rolls his eyes. “You can’t speak. Not with your own whipped younger guy out there.” 

Chan smirks. “Yeah, but mine bites.”

Minho huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s what puppies do.”

“Oh, shut up,” Chan says, nudging him. “Come on. Let’s go before Seungmin finishes all of the wine.” 

They head back to the table, side by side, and a much lighter chest. 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

It was Tuesday night when Minho invited Jisung over for dinner. 

Minho had the whole house to himself to prepare. 

He stands in the kitchen barefoot, sleeves rolled up, apron draped over his frame. There are chopped shallots in a bowl to his left, a salmon fillet marinating in the fridge, and a bottle of white wine chilling beside it—one Jisung had mentioned liking, offhandedly, in the middle of an entirely different conversation.

He moves carefully around the kitchen, methodically—checking the risotto, turning the vegetables in the oven, wiping down the counters between tasks. Everything had to be perfect. Not just because he’s trying to impress Jisung (he totally is), but because it means something. This night, this dinner, it’s a step forward. One Minho is ready to take. 

He’d lit candles. Actual candles, not the cheap battery-powered ones Hana has in her room. He’d set the table with linen napkins and his best set of plates. There are flowers, too. Just a small arrangement he picked up from the local florist and tucked it into a frosted glass vase in the centre of the table. 

As he checks the clock again, nerves prickle up the back of his neck. 

He isn’t nervous about seeing Jisung; that was stamped out after their night together. No, what’s making his palms sweat is what he plans to say. 

He wants to make it official. Not just the casual, unspoken way it had been unfolding so far.

He’s fully aware it’s fast. But the truth is, it doesn’t feel rushed. If anything, for him, something like this is overdue. Like everything in his life has finally realigned to lead him here. Minho has never been good at taking leaps, but then Jisung had come along and reminded him what he was allowed to have. 

So, yeah. Tonight he will ask Jisung to be his boyfriend. Officially. Even if the word boyfriend seems ridiculous for someone of Minho’s age. 

It feels terrifying. 

It feels right. 

On the counter by the fridge sits a small box—square and simple, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He’d found it at a local boutique a few days ago, tucked between carved keyrings and novelty mugs. A squirrel charm hanging from a silver bracelet with its tail curled high, clutching an acorn like it was treasure. 

It had made him laugh the moment he saw it, because it looked exactly like Jisung when he was eating—eyes wide, cheeks stuffed full, trying to pretend he wasn’t adorable while failing miserably. 

Minho hadn’t even thought twice about buying it.

At that moment, the headlights from outside spill briefly through the front windows. 

Minho’s stomach flutters. 

He tucks the box into his pocket and smooths his hands over his apron one last time. 

He waits for Jisung to walk the short distance to the door, and opens it once the knock comes. Jisung stands there, cheeks pink from the evening chill, hands stuffed in the pockets of his oversized coat. His hair is tousled, like he’d run a hand through it one too many times, and he grins in a way that always knocks the wind right out of Minho. 

“Hi,” Jisung says, breath curling in the air. 

Minho smiles back. “Hey.” 

Jisung steps inside and toes off his shoes, looking up at Minho. “You look nervous.” 

Minho lets out a soft laugh, closing the door behind him. “That obvious?” 

“A little.” Jisung leans in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to Minho’s cheek. “It’s cute. You’re cute.” 

As he shrugs off his coat, Minho notices something missing. “Where’s Bbama?” 

“Oh, I left him with his godparents. Felix and Jeongin own the bar I sang at on our date,” Jisung explains. “Jeongin practically snatched him from my arms before I even stepped inside.” 

Minho raises a brow, amused. “Godparents, huh?” 

“Well,” Jisung starts. “Felix has been obsessed with him since he was a puppy, and Jeongin treats him like a prince. If anything happens to me, that dog’s getting a better life than I ever had.” 

Minho chuckles. “Lucky dog.” 

“Lucky me,” Jisung counters with a wink, stepping closer. “Smells amazing in here. You cooking for me, or is someone else hiding in the kitchen?” 

Minho rolls his eyes and gently nudges Jisung’s arm. “Come see for yourself.” 

He leads him to the kitchen, where warm light spills over the counter and soft music hums low from the speaker in the corner. Two place settings sit at the table in the dining room, decorated with the flowers and flickering candlelight.

Jisung slows to a stop, eyes taking it in. “Minho…” 

“You like it?” 

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes. “I wasn’t expecting—this.” 

Minho shrugs gently, though he is still visibly nervous. “You deserve something special.” 

Jisung looks at him, and for a moment, there’s nothing else in the room. “You’re the something special.” 

Minho huffs a laugh. “Come on, sit down, and I’ll bring out the food.” 

They ease into the chairs, the atmosphere warm and easy, like it always is with Jisung. Minho pours them each a glass of wine, and they fall into conversation between bites. Dinner is slow and sweet, with laughter and quiet looks across candlelight. Every time Jisung smiles, Minho can feel his heart soar. 

Once the dishes are cleared, and Minho is pouring more wine, Jisung leans back in his chair with a smug look. 

“By the way,” he says. “I brought dessert” 

Minho glances up, surprised. “You did?” 

Jisung smirks, eyes glinting. “Yeah. Me.” 

Minho chokes on a laugh, nearly spilling the wine. “God, you’re ridiculous.” 

Jisung just grins, unapologetic. “What? I’m sweet and I pair perfectly with wine.” 

Minho sets down his wineglass, still chuckling softly. His cheeks are flushed with warmth—not just from the wine, but from the way Jisung is looking at him. 

“I actually have something for you,” Minho says, reaching into his pocket. 

Jisung tilts his head, watching with curious eyes. “You got me something?” 

“It’s nothing big,” Minho says quickly, pulling out the gift. “Just… I saw it, and it made me think of you.” 

He places it on the table, nudging it over. 

Jisung blinks, surprised, then reaches out and opens it carefully. He lets out a quiet laugh, eyes lighting up. “Is this because it looks like me?” 

Minho bites his lip to hide a smile. “Maybe.” 

“This is… really, really cute,” Jisung smiles, brushing his thumb over the charm. 

“I was hoping you’d like it.” 

“I love it,” Jisung says. “Thank you.” 

Minho breathes out slowly, relieved, and watches as Jisung undoes the clasp and slides it onto his wrist. 

“It fits perfectly,” Jisung murmurs, twisting his wrist until the charm catches the candlelight. “I’m never taking it off.” 

Minho doesn’t say anything. He smiles, hand inching across the table until their fingers meet. 

“I meant what I said earlier,” Minho murmurs. “You deserve something special.” 

Jisung tilts his head, lips parted, like he’s waiting—like he knows something more is coming. 

Minho takes a breath. “And I’ve been thinking about how I feel when I’m with you. About how easy everything feels. How… quiet my head is.” He squeezes Jisung’s hand. “When I’m with you, I feel like myself. Not the version I’ve had to be for other people. Just… me.” 

Jisung’s expression softens, his thumb brushing lightly along the side of Minho’s hand. 

“It’s quick,” Minho goes on. “I know that. But I also know I’m falling for you. And I don’t want to pretend that I’m not.” 

Jisung smiles, eyes shining in the candlelight. “That’s funny,” he whispers, “because I feel exactly the same way.” 

Minho’s breath catches, his chest swelling. He didn’t realise how badly he had needed to hear it until now—until Jisung’s voice filled up the space between them. 

Jisung lifts their joined hands, leans over and presses a soft kiss to Minho’s knuckles. “So,” he says gently. “Want to make it official?” 

Minho exhales, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There’s nothing I want more.” 

Jisung stands, walking over to place himself in Minho’s lap, brushing their lips together in a kiss that seals it. Full of promise, trust, and everything they haven’t said yet, but will in time. 

When they part, Minho’s voice is quiet. “You’re mine now, right?” 

Jisung nods, beaming. “And you’re mine. And I want you to take me upstairs.” 

Minho stares at him for a moment, struck still by how effortlessly Jisung makes things feel simple, how a single sentence can turn every anxious knot in his chest into something soft and unravelled. 

He stands slowly, the chair scraping gently against the floor. 

“Come on,” Minho says. 

Jisung lets himself be led without hesitation. Their hands remain joined as Minho blows out the candles as they make their way through the house.

When they reach the bedroom, Minho pauses just inside the doorway. For a second, he just watches Jisung—how the lamplight pools across his cheekbones, how his lips glisten. 

“You okay?” Jisung asks. 

Minho nods. “I am.” 

And he means it. 

He steps forward and cups Jisung’s face in both hands, brushing his thumbs lightly over his cheeks. He kisses him then, soft and gentle. Jisung melts into it, his fingers finding Minho’s waist, pulling him closer. They move to the bed in a slow tangle, Minho guiding him down gently until Jisung is lying on the pillows. Minho leans over him, bracing himself with one arm, his free hand brushing lightly down Jisung’s side. 

“You’re beautiful,” Minho murmurs. 

Jisung laughs quietly, blinking up at him. “Why does it always sound like you’re surprised?” 

“Because I am,” Minho says honestly. “Every time.” 

The kiss that follows is slow, as if they have all the time in the world. Minho’s lips press with tenderness, his tongue brushing softly against Jisung’s before slipping inside. Jisung moans quietly, hands coming up to grip Minho’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the muscle there. Minho takes his time, trailing kisses down his jawline, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin behind his ear. 

This time, Minho is in control. There is a quiet confidence in his movements, a trust that Jisung will follow his lead. He begins to undress them both slowly, each button undone, each shift of fabric feeling like its own act of devotion. 

Minho’s fingers are gentle as he unbuttons Jisung’s shirt, his chest rising and falling, his nipples tight buds against the cool air. Minho leans down, brushing his lips over Jisung’s chest, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his skin. Jisung gasps, his hands tangling in Minho’s hair, pulling him closer. 

Jisung’s breath catches as Minho’s hand slips into his underwear, his fingers brushing against his cock, already hard and pulsing with need. Minho’s touch is purposeful and deliberate, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of Jisung’s inner thighs, his finger teasing the head of his cock. Jisung’s hips buck slightly, a soft moan escaping his lips as he arches into the touch. 

Minho’s eyes darken with emotion, his gaze locking with Jisung’s as he reaches for the lube and begins to open him up with gentle dextrous fingers. Jisung’s breath hitches, his body tensing as Minho’s fingers slip inside him, stretching him slowly, carefully. Jisung’s lips part on a soft gasp, his brow softening as Minho hits a particularly sensitive spot. 

“You make the prettiest noises, fuck ,” Minho gasps.

“Only— Ah— only because you’re doing so well,” Jisung whispers, voice thick and fond. 

He leans in, brushing a kiss over Jisung’s cheek, then his jaw. “Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” he murmurs. 

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” 

When Minho finally presses in, slow and careful, Jisung arches up to meet him, his body welcoming Minho’s with a sigh of relief. Their hands find each other in the tangle of sheets and skin, fingers lacing right as Minho begins to move, his hips rocking gently against Jisung’s. The room is filled with the sounds of their breathing, the soft creak of the bed, and the occasional moan that escapes Jisung’s lips. Minho’s thrusts are slow, each one sending jolts of pleasure through his body. Jisung’s hands grip Minho’s shoulders, his nails digging into the muscle as he meets Minho’s thrusts with eager hips. 

“Fuck, Jisung ,” Minho gasps. 

Jisung moans loudly, head falling back against the pillow. “ Minho — Ah—Minho , please don’t stop. Please.” 

Minho chuckles softly. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs, before leaning down to capture his lips again.

Their mouths move together hungrily, their tongues dancing as Minho’s thrusts become more urgent, more desperate.

“ Minho —I can’t. I’m gonna-” Jisung gasps, voice breaking as he reaches down to Minho’s ass to pull him in tighter, urging him deeper. 

Minho’s thrusts quicken, his control slipping as chases his release, his body moving on instinct alone. The room is a blur of sensation, of pleasure and need. Minho’s breath comes in short, sharp gasps as he feels Jisung tighten around him, his body clenching in anticipation. Jisung’s eyes are closed, his face flushed, his lips parted on a silent cry as he teeters on the edge. Minho’s hand reaches down, his fingers brushing against Jisung’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts, pushing him over the edge. 

Jisung’s body arches, his back bowing off the bed as he comes, his cock pulsing in Minho’s hand, his release hot and wet against their stomachs. Minho follows, his own orgasm crashing over him like a wave, his hips stuttering as he spills into the condom, their bodies trembling in unison. 

Minho nestles into the curve of Jisung’s neck, pressing slow kisses to his collarbone. Jisung’s fingers trace gentle shapes down his back. 

“That was perfect,” Jisung whispers, voice hoarse.

Minho hums softly, his lips brushing over Jisung’s skin. “I agree. You make it easy to forget I was ever struggling with this.” 

Jisung smiles against his hair, one hand lifting to cradle the back of Minho’s head. “You did so great.” 

They stay tangled up in each other, limbs loose and warm beneath the covers. The quiet wraps around them like a soft cocoon, the steady rhythm of their breathing slowing in sync. Eventually, with fingers still laced and hearts steady, they drift off wrapped in something that feels a lot like home.

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

It’s Sunday. The park is quiet in the early afternoon, scattered with just a few families and couples walking hand in hand. A breeze carries the scent of grass and flowers, warm sun dappling the pavement through leafy greens. Bbama bounds ahead on his lead, sniffing every lamppost, tail wagging enthusiastically. 

Minho walks at a steady pace, his hand brushing Jisung’s now and then. Hana skips ahead slightly, tossing glances over her shoulder to make sure they’re still close. 

“Bbama has more energy than I remember,” she says, laughing as the dog makes another excited circuit around a bench. 

Jisung snorts. “He’s showing off. He always does when there are new people to impress.” 

“I’m not new,” Hana argues, crouching down to scratch behind his ears. “We’re best friends now, aren’t we, Bbama?” 

Bbama thumps his tail wildly in agreement. 

They wander past a row of flowerbeds until they settle on a shady patch of grass. Jisung lays down the blanket Minho had brought, and they all sit close together—Bbama curling up in the middle of them.

Minho watches them both quietly for a moment. Hana’s face is flushed from running around, her eyes bright. Jisung’s laugh still lingers in the air from some joke she made. It’s peaceful. Natural. Like this is something they’ve all done a hundred times before. 

“Hey, Hana?” Minho says gently, drawing her attention. 

She glances over, tugging at a blade of grass. “Yeah?” 

Minho shifts, sitting up straighter. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.” 

Jisung goes still beside him, eyes flicking over with a quiet, reassuring smile. 

Minho takes a breath. “Jisung and I… we’re officially together now. As in, he’s my boyfriend.” 

Hana beams, eyes wide and pleased. 

“I kinda figured,” she says. “You guys look like you come straight from a romance drama.” 

Jisung chokes on a laugh. 

“So, you’re okay with it?” Minho asks. 

“Duh,” Hana says, throwing grass at him. “I told you he won me over already with Bbama. Now he just needs to move in so I can officially adopt him.” 

Minho lets out a startled laugh. “Wait, what?” 

Jisung blinks rapidly, eyes wide. “Wow—okay, that’s… a jump.” 

Hana grins. “What? You said you were official. I’m just speeding things along. Plus, Bbama already loves it at our house.” 

Minho glances at Jisung, his ears tinged red. “I mean, it’s a little soon don’t you think?” 

“Relax,” Hana laughs. “You guys are way too easy to tease. I was joking.” 

Minho makes a strangled sound in his throat and flops back onto the grass, covering his face. “I’m too old for this.” 

“More like too in love,” Hana quips under her breath. 

Bbama stands up and flops down dramatically across both their legs, as if to settle the matter himself. Jisung groans, face buried in his hands. “Even Bbama is involved.” 

Minho peeks through his fingers at Jisung, a soft smile forming. “For the record… I don’t hate the idea.” 

Jisung lowers his hands. “Yeah?” 

Minho nods once. “One day. When we’re ready.” 

Jisung swallows, then nods too. “Okay. One day.” 

From a few feet away, Hana shouts. “I heard that.” 

Minho groans again. “She’s never letting us live this down.” 

Jisung just laughs, eyes shining. “Probably not.” 

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𖤣𖥧

The following Saturday, Minho decides to throw a small get-together at his house. Nothing over the top, just a way for his friends and Jisung’s to finally meet. He’s been thinking about it all week, quietly planning the kind of evening that wouldn’t feel too formal. 

After dropping off Hana to a very disgruntled Soojin, he spends the rest of the morning cleaning. In the evening, he sets out some snacks—chips, a cheese board, dips—and puts out a couple of extra folding chairs in the living room just in case. There’s music playing from a playlist Jisung sent him, and he even has a few bottles of wine and stocks the fridge with beer and soda. 

He might have overprepared. 

He tries not to call it a party. It’s more of a casual gathering. Just eight people. It feels like the right time to bring everyone together. To make this part of his life feel a little more connected. 

And maybe, selfishly, he just wants to show Jisung off to his friends a bit too. 

Who can blame him? 

The knock on the door comes right on time.

Minho pulls the door open to the familiar sound of bickering. 

“See? I told you we wouldn’t be late,” Changbin says flatly, stepping past Minho with a six-pack in hand like he owns the place. 

“We’re on time. That’s basically late,” Seungmin replies, shooting Changbin a look. 

Chan just rolls his eyes, bringing up the rear with a crooked grin and a bottle of wine tucked under one arm. “Hi Min.” 

Minho lets out a breath and steps aside. “Hey. Come in.” 

Inside, Seungmin and Changbin immediately claim the couch. Seungmin kicks off his shoes and leans back with a contented sigh, already cracking open a beer. Changbin heads to the kitchen, stuffing the rest of it in the fridge. 

Chan hangs back, watching Minho. 

“You okay?” he asks quietly, once the others are distracted. 

Minho hesitates. “I’m—trying.” 

Chan tilts his head, waiting. 

“I’m just nervous,” Minho admits. “Jisung’s friends are going to be here soon, and I’m just… what if they think I’m just some weird old guy?” 

Chan huffs a soft laugh. “You’re not old, Min. You’re hot as hell.” 

Minho shoots him a look. “That doesn’t help.” 

“Okay, okay.” Chan holds up a hand. “Look. You’re not some creepy older guy, and nobody’s going to see you that way. You’re thoughtful, and you clearly care a lot about Jisung. That’s all that will matter to them.”

Minho swallows, nodding slowly. 

“And if they don’t,” Chan adds. “Then screw them.” 

Minho laughs, the tension breaking just a little. 

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. 

Chan grins. “Showtime.” 

Minho opens the door to find Jisung standing in front, cheeks pink from the air, with three people close behind him. 

“Hey,” Jisung greets, eyes immediately softening when they land on Minho. “Hope we’re not too late.”

“You’re perfect,” Minho says, words escaping before he can think. He clears his throat quickly, stepping aside to let them in. “I mean—the time. You’re on time.” 

Jisung’s grin only widens as he walks in, brushing a quick kiss to Minho’s cheek in passing. “Good save,” he murmurs under his breath. 

Felix, the guy he had met at the bar last time, is next. A sunshine smile already lighting up his face as he offers Minho a Tupperware box. “Hope you like brownies.”

He’s followed by a handsome guy—carrying Bbama—with gorgeous fox-like eyes, his dark hair tucked behind one ear, and a designer coat hanging off one shoulder. 

“Jeongin,” he says smoothly, holding out his free hand for Minho to take. “Felix’s boyfriend, and brownie sous-chef apparently.” 

Felix elbows him playfully. “You stirred the bowl exactly twice.” 

“And those two stirs were very important,” Jeongin replies with a smirk. 

The last to walk in is taller, quieter. He has a buzzcut that only makes his features more striking—soft, expressive eyes, high cheekbones, full lips. His beauty is the kind that you usually only see in magazines. But there’s something thoughtful in the way he looks around, taking in the space, the people.

“This is Hyunjin,” Jisung says, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. “My best friend.” 

Minho offers a hand, trying not to stare. “Hi. I’m Minho. It’s good to meet you.” 

Hyunjin takes it gently, his touch warm. “You too,” he says softly. Then, after a beat, “You have kind eyes. It’s nice to finally see them. The last time I saw you, you were a bit too preoccupied with your tongue down Hannie’s throat for us to formally meet.” 

The comment catches Minho off guard. He’s a little embarrassed, but he finds himself smiling. “Thank you. And, uh, yeah. Sorry about that.” 

“Don’t embarrass him, Jinnie,” Jisung scolds, nudging Hyunjin playfully. “He’s just an affectionate ferret, really. Don’t let the haircut fool you.” 

Hyunjin laughs under his breath. “It’s functional.” 

“Let’s sit down before you all start psychoanalysing each other again,” Jeongin says, heading for the snacks. 

Minho gestures toward the living room. “Drinks are in the kitchen—help yourselves. And thank you all for coming.” 

As everyone moves to get settled, Jisung lingers by Minho’s side and gently bumps their shoulders. “You’re doing amazing,” he whispers. 

Minho turns toward him, watching as the warm light from the hallway catches on Jisung’s cheek, and Minho’s heart gives a quiet little tug. 

“I missed you,” Minho murmurs. 

Jisung’s smile widens “It’s only been a day.” 

“I know,” Minho says, arms curling slowly around his waist. “Still missed you.” 

Jisung sinks into the embrace easily, arms looping around Minho’s shoulders. He presses a kiss to the centre of Minho’s mouth—quick, but lingering just enough to make Minho chase him for a second one. 

“I haven’t even said hi to your friends yet,” Jisung murmurs against his lips. 

“They’ll love you,” Minho reassures. “Just be yourself.” 

“Bold of you to assume that will be enough.” 

Minho huffs a laugh. “Of course it will be. Plus, I needed them to meet the person I can never seem to get off my mind.” 

Jisung pulls back enough to look at him properly. “You’re so sweet even when you’re nervous.” 

“Terrified, actually.” 

He doesn’t get a reply—just another kiss. And then one more after that. Minho’s fingers slide up Jisung’s back, and Jisung’s hands curl gently around Minho’s neck. They kiss again and again, soft and unhurried, as if the world has shrunk to just the hallway, just the quiet way their mouths find each other. 

They barely hear the footsteps until it’s too late. 

“Seriously?” comes Seungmin’s dry voice from the doorway. “Are you two going to make out all night or join the rest of us?” 

Jisung jumps slightly, his forehead landing on Minho’s shoulder as he stifles a laugh. 

Changbin peers around Seungmin’s shoulder. “Baby, you ruined the entertainment.” 

Jisung snickers and presses one last quick kiss to his cheek. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s face the crowd.” 

The night unfolds like something out of a dream. It’s not loud or wild, but warm in all the ways that matter. The kind of evening Minho never imagined for himself again. His home, which had been quiet and carefully kept for so long, is now filled with voices and laughter. 

Minho has never hosted much. He’s always been the type to retreat, to exist quietly on the sidelines of other people’s chaos. But tonight, with Jisung by his side and his house echoing with the warmth of people he cares about, he realises he doesn’t feel like an outsider anymore. Not in this space. Not in his own life. 

Jisung moves between the room like he’s been there forever, somehow managing to make Seungmin laugh and win Changbin’s grudging respect within the first ten minutes. Jisung shares stories with Chan about his passion for music and even lets Felix braid a tiny section of his hair while Jeongin raves about his favourite fashion brands to Seungmin. Hyunjin sits curled up in the armchair. A sketchbook balanced on one knee, quietly doodling something Minho can’t see—until later, when Jisung shows him with a soft smile. It’s a simple line drawing. A room. Seven figures. And two of them—clearly Minho and Jisung—curled in close on the end of the sofa. Minho swallows hard and doesn’t say anything, but he takes a photo of it later when nobody is looking. 

At one point in the night, Jisung catches Minho watching him and walks over with two drinks. He passes one into Minho’s hand and nudges his shoulder gently. “Still nervous?” 

Minho looks around at the people laughing in his living room, at Chan deep in conversation with Jeongin, and Seungmin now sitting contentedly with Bbama curled up on his knee. Minho shakes his head. “I think I’m okay, actually.” 

By the end of the evening, the dishes are stacked in the sink, the last half-empty glasses forgotten on the coffee table. Their friends start to filter out one by one with hugs and jokes and promises to do it again soon. Jisung yawns as he helps Minho collect stray napkins and tuck leftovers into the fridge. 

Later, when it’s just the two of them again—bare feet padding over the kitchen tiles, their hands brushing as they clean up—Minho finds himself thinking about the silence returning to the house, but how different that silence feels now. It’s not the hollow stillness of loneliness anymore. 

He wraps an arm around Jisung’s waist and kisses his temple. “Thank you for everything. Thanks for being here.” 

Jisung leans into him. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

And maybe, Minho thinks as they head upstairs hand in hand, that’s the most extraordinary part. That this isn’t a fleeting spark or a lucky accident. It’s something they’re choosing to embrace, day by day. Each other. 

He glances at Jisung beside him, already chatting sleepily about what they’ll do tomorrow, and smiles. Maybe they’ll take Bbama to the park. Maybe they’ll just do nothing. Maybe someday they’ll look back at this night—the night their little worlds collided—and remember it as the beginning of everything. 

Later, when the lights are off and they’ve shifted under the sheets, Minho feels it all over again—not just in the softness of Jisung’s skin or the warmth of his mouth, but in the way they move together, like every kiss is a whispered word of affection. 

And as Minho lies there afterwards wrapped in Jisung’s arms, he listens to the soft rhythm of Jisung’s breathing and lets himself believe that this will last forever. 

As he closes his eyes and lets sleep take him, he thinks that whatever happens next, he’s ready for it. As long as Jisung is by his side.