Work Text:
They’re sprawled around the dorm living room, limbs tangled with blankets, snacks half-eaten on the coffee table. A rare quiet night with no schedule and no cameras—just them, the eight of them, watching fan edits like they used to back in the trainee days.
Jisung’s nestled between Seungmin and Minho on the couch, his socked feet pressed under Minho’s thigh for warmth. The TV flickers through another clip, dramatic music swelling as a fan-made montage of their debut era plays out in soft filters and glitter text.
"God, we looked like babies," Chan mutters, biting into a rice cracker.
“Speak for yourself,” Hyunjin scoffs. “I’ve always been flawless.”
“Flawlessly noodle-like,” Changbin throws in, ducking a pillow as Hyunjin retaliates.
Jisung laughs, sinking deeper into the cushions. He remembers that era well—thin wrists, oversized hoodies, running on four hours of sleep and instant noodles. It was wild and terrifying and perfect in the way only desperate dreams can be.
The next clip starts—a “Jisung being adorable for 3 minutes straight” kind of edit, stitched with bubble pop sound effects and sparkly transitions. His face fills the screen—floppy hair, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, giggling through interviews and clinging to Minho’s arm.
“Oh my god,” Jeongin wheezes. “You were such a twink, hyung.”
The room erupts. Hyunjin nearly chokes on his drink. Felix laughs so hard he topples off the beanbag.
“Stop!” Jisung protests, grinning, but his ears are already burning.
“No, but for real,” Chan says, half-choking with amusement. “You had such twink energy back then.”
Jisung hides his face behind a throw pillow.
And then Minho, cool and unbothered beside him, shrugs and says casually, “That’s part of why I liked him so fast.”
It’s quiet for a beat. Not heavy—just a beat.
Jisung lowers the pillow, blinking.
Minho is still watching the screen, expression unreadable, but his hand rests easily on Jisung’s ankle, thumb brushing absently over the fabric of his sock. The others keep laughing, someone throws out another joke, and the night rolls on.
But something in Jisung falters.
He doesn’t even know why. It’s not like it was an insult. It was just a word. Just a joke. Just a memory.
And Minho said he liked him.
So why does Jisung suddenly feel like curling in on himself?
The laughter fades into background noise.
The edit plays on, but Jisung isn’t really watching anymore. He’s still half-smiling, face relaxed, body language perfectly casual. He’s gotten good at that—years of practice smoothing over nerves, swallowing awkwardness with a laugh and a well-timed joke.
But something itches at the back of his mind, quiet and persistent.
That’s part of why I liked him so fast.
It shouldn’t mean anything. It was a compliment. A memory. A throwaway line in a room full of laughter.
Still, his thoughts circle it like a loose thread.
The next video loads—more recent. It’s one of their last comeback behind-the-scenes clips, and there’s him again, this time on stage mid-rehearsal, drenched in sweat, arms flexing as he pulls off his hoodie. His face is sharper now, more defined, hair slicked back.
He hears Hyunjin whistle. “Okay, body.”
“Gym’s paying off,” Seungmin adds, and bumps Jisung’s knee with his own.
Jisung huffs a laugh, trying not to shrink under the sudden attention. It’s all good-natured, admiring even—but when he glances at the screen again, he doesn’t see what they do.
All he sees are the broader shoulders. The curve of his biceps, thicker now, filling out the sleeves that used to hang loose. His thighs stretch the fabric of his joggers when he moves. He’s heavier now. More muscle, yeah—but more of everything.
And he liked me when I looked like that, he thinks.
When he was smaller. Softer. Easier to joke about, easier to toss around, easier to drape over Minho’s side like a hoodie on a chair. He thinks about the way Minho used to grip his wrist with two fingers and swing it playfully. How he'd call him light. Call him tiny.
And now?
Minho doesn’t say anything about the recent clip. Just watches with his chin resting on one hand, fingers idly brushing his jaw. His other hand is still on Jisung’s ankle. Still there. Still warm.
But Jisung shifts a little. Tucks his feet under himself instead.
He tells himself it’s nothing. It’s just a joke. Everyone’s just playing around.
Still, a voice in the back of his mind mutters:
What if he misses that version of you?
The night winds down in the easy, sleepy way it always does when they’re all together—energy bleeding out like a dying battery.
Felix yawns first, dramatic and unbothered. “I’m claiming the bathroom before any of you animals get in there.”
Hyunjin groans. “Don’t take an hour this time, you glowworm.”
“Skincare is important!”
There’s a chorus of mock protests and rustling blankets as people start stretching, getting up in ones and twos. Someone turns the TV off mid-video. Someone else gathers the snack wrappers and empties soda cans from the table. It’s a familiar, shared rhythm—lazy, affectionate chaos.
Jisung moves on autopilot, folding up the blanket he had over his lap, tucking a stray pillow back onto the couch. He hears Minho mumble something about brushing his teeth and heading to the bedroom, and suddenly Jisung is very aware of the way his heart picks up for no reason at all.
He doesn’t follow immediately.
Instead, he drifts into Changbin’s room, knocking lightly on the doorframe. “Hey,” he says, casual, “can I borrow a hoodie? Didn’t bring anything loose.”
Changbin doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Yeah, bottom drawer. Take whatever.”
Jisung kneels, opens it, and pulls out one of the biggest hoodies he can find—black and oversized with faded lettering on the front. Perfect. Swallows him up in the sleeves, hides everything.
He slips it on in the hallway, dragging the hem down over his thighs as he heads into the bathroom. The light is bright, too bright, but he forces himself to look up as he brushes his teeth.
His reflection meets him head-on.
Not bad. Objectively. He knows that. His arms are thicker, sure, but defined. Shoulders broader. Face still soft around the cheeks but more mature. He looks strong.
And yet—
He lifts the hem of the hoodie a little, just enough to see the curve of his stomach in the mirror.
Not flat. Not like it used to be. Not the wiry kind of skinny that was easy to laugh at in fan edits.
He presses his lips together, lowers the fabric again.
There’s no reason to feel like this. No one said anything cruel. No one even hinted at anything.
But that one sentence, soft and innocent in Minho’s voice—That’s part of why I liked him so fast—loops in his head again like a hook he can’t shake.
Jisung rinses his mouth. Pats his face dry.
Then he lingers at the sink a beat too long.
The hoodie clings a little when damp fingers brush the sleeves. He imagines Minho’s hand on his arm—how it used to wrap easily around his bicep. How now, it doesn’t. Not in the same way.
And even though Minho hasn’t said a single word about any of it, the doubt settles anyway.
What if he noticed?
What if it matters?
He shuts off the light before those thoughts can answer.
The bedroom is dim when Jisung walks in, lit only by the soft glow of Minho’s phone screen. He’s already under the covers, hair damp from his shower, propped up on one elbow as he scrolls through something silently. The familiar scent of clean laundry and Minho’s skin fills the air—comforting, grounding.
Jisung stands there for a moment, hoodie sleeves draping over his hands, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself.
Minho glances up and smiles, soft and small in that way that always makes Jisung’s chest ache a little. “You raided Changbin again?”
“He has the best hoodies,” Jisung mutters, shrugging as he toes off his socks. “It’s practically community property at this point.”
Minho hums, phone forgotten as he shifts onto his side, lifting the blanket a little in invitation. “Come here.”
Usually, Jisung would. Without thinking. Without hesitation.
Tonight, something catches in his chest.
He climbs into bed slowly, tucking himself beneath the covers but staying just out of reach. Not obviously—just enough space to keep Minho’s hand from settling where it usually would. His back is to him. He pulls the blanket up high.
Minho doesn’t comment, just lets the silence stretch a moment. Then:
“You okay?”
Jisung nods, too fast. “Just—tummy feels weird. I think I ate too much junk.”
Not a total lie. His stomach does feel tight. Uncomfortable. But not from food.
Minho doesn’t press. Just makes a quiet sound of concern and shifts closer—not close enough to crowd, but enough for Jisung to feel the warmth of him, steady and patient. He presses the back of his hand lightly to Jisung’s hoodie-covered arm.
“Need anything?”
Jisung shakes his head. “M’fine.”
Minho stays like that for a few seconds, hand resting gently, thumb brushing once against the fabric. Then he withdraws, settling back with a sigh and turning off his phone.
“Let me know if it gets worse.”
“I will,” Jisung whispers.
Minho’s breathing evens out after a while. He doesn't fall asleep right away—Jisung can tell by the way he still shifts occasionally, the way his hand sometimes moves like he wants to reach out again but doesn’t.
And Jisung lies there, eyes wide open in the dark, wrapped in a hoodie that isn’t his and thoughts that won’t quiet down.
He blinks blearily at the ceiling, the sunlight already slipping through the thin curtains. The space next to him in bed is empty, faintly warm. He can hear voices from the kitchen—Felix humming, Changbin teasing someone, the occasional clink of dishes.
He stretches under the blanket, hoodie riding up slightly over his stomach. His hand moves automatically to tug it back down before he even fully registers the motion.
The discomfort from the night before lingers. Not physical, really. Just a low hum of unease sitting behind his ribs.
By the time he drags himself out of bed and into the kitchen, most of the guys are already halfway through breakfast. Minho is standing by the counter, plating toast with scrambled eggs like it’s second nature.
“There he is,” Seungmin says, mouth full. “Thought you’d sleep all day.”
“Almost did,” Jisung mutters, shuffling in and pulling the hoodie sleeves over his hands.
Minho looks up, eyes crinkling. “Made you food. Sit.”
It’s said casually, but it hits Jisung like something heavy and warm. He pulls out a chair but hesitates before sitting, glancing at the plate. Eggs, toast, a few slices of avocado, and a little fruit on the side—nothing excessive, but full.
He forces a small smile. “Thanks.”
Minho brushes a hand lightly over his shoulder as he passes behind him—something he’s always done. Jisung shifts away from it just slightly, not even enough to be obvious.
But Minho pauses, barely, before continuing to his own seat.
Jisung pokes at his food, tearing a piece of toast into smaller and smaller pieces. He eats the fruit, a few bites of egg. Tries not to feel Minho watching him now and then.
Felix brings up a rehearsal note from the day before, and the conversation turns—Chan jumps in with something about footwork timing, and soon everyone’s focused on the schedule ahead.
Jisung chimes in when he has to, smiling at the right times, nodding along. But all he can think about is how Minho didn’t try to touch him again.
Did he notice? Did he feel the flinch?
Maybe he didn’t.
Maybe he just didn’t want to.
Minho glances across the table, eyes lingering for a second longer than they need to. There’s no judgment there. Just… quiet attentiveness.
But it only makes Jisung feel worse.
He finishes his juice and stands up before the others are done. “Gonna go get ready,” he mumbles.
“You didn’t eat much,” Minho says, gently.
“Wasn’t super hungry.”
That’s all he offers before slipping out of the kitchen.
He doesn’t see the way Minho’s brows pinch together just slightly. Or the way he stares at Jisung’s barely-touched plate for a moment before going back to his own.
The studio is filled with the usual rhythm of sneakers on wood, breathless counting, the faint echo of the track playing on loop through the speakers.
They’re in the middle of running formations for the new choreography—complicated, sharp, high-energy. The kind that leaves sweat dripping down backs and thighs aching halfway through the first hour. Jisung’s hoodie is abandoned on a bench in the corner, replaced by a sleeveless tank already damp with sweat.
He catches himself pulling it down at the waist a few times when no one’s looking.
“Let’s take five,” Chan calls out, running a hand through his hair. “Get water, breathe, then we’ll run it again.”
Jisung heads to the side of the room, grabbing his water bottle and leaning against the wall, trying not to think about the way his arms look when they’re not flexed—just hanging there, soft and exposed.
He hears footsteps and doesn’t need to look to know it’s Minho. He always walks like he’s trying not to disturb the floor.
“You good?” Minho asks, tipping his own bottle back before nudging Jisung with his elbow.
Jisung gives him a short nod, smile tight. “Yeah. Just catching my breath.”
Minho watches him for a moment. Then, “You’re dropping your shoulder before the turn in the chorus. Want me to walk it with you real quick?”
Normally, Jisung would say yes without thinking. But this time, his gut twists. The idea of Minho standing behind him, hands on his waist or arms, adjusting his posture like he always does—it feels different now. Too close. Too much.
Still, saying no would be weird.
So he nods again. “Sure.”
They step into place.
Minho moves behind him, humming the count under his breath. Jisung’s muscles tighten automatically as Minho’s hands settle lightly at his hips, guiding them into alignment.
“You’re twisting too early,” Minho murmurs. “Let the beat pull you through it, not ahead of it.”
Jisung nods stiffly. “Got it.”
Minho’s hands drift up slightly, fingers pressing gently against Jisung’s obliques to indicate the angle. And it’s not different than usual—not invasive or too much. Just... expected.
But Jisung flinches.
Barely. A tiny pull of muscle, more of a brace than a recoil. But Minho feels it.
His hands still for a second. “Sorry,” he says, voice soft. “Too hard?”
“No, I—” Jisung swallows. “Just sore. Think I strained it a little during the last run.”
Minho doesn’t look convinced, but he pulls back anyway, giving Jisung space. “Okay. Just go easy. You’re not supposed to tense into the move like that anyway, it’s supposed to roll through.”
Jisung nods again, focusing hard on the floor.
The rest of the break is quiet between them. When practice starts up again, Jisung keeps his distance just enough—not enough to be obvious, but enough that Minho doesn’t reach for him again.
And for the first time in a while, Jisung hates dancing a little.
They make it home earlier than usual, the rare lull in their schedule stretching out before them like a gift.
Jisung toes off his shoes at the door, hoodie back on, sleeves pulled long over his hands. His muscles ache in that satisfying, used way, but his mind is still crowded. The apartment smells like laundry detergent and Minho’s cologne—warm, clean, safe.
“You wanna go to the gym?” Minho asks casually, dropping his bag by the couch.
Jisung is already shaking his head. “Nah. Not tonight.”
Minho raises an eyebrow, not pushing. “You sure? You’ve been pretty on it lately.”
Jisung shrugs. “Just tired. Still feel a little off.”
He says it lightly, like it’s no big deal, and Minho lets it go just as easily. “Okay. Couch it is.”
They settle into their usual rhythm—changing into loungewear, bickering half-heartedly over what to watch, ending up with something low-stakes and comforting playing in the background.
Jisung curls up in the corner of the couch, legs tucked under him, arms wrapped around a pillow. He’s near Minho but not quite leaning into him the way he usually would.
Minho doesn’t comment. He just stretches out, socked feet nudging Jisung’s under the blanket.
They sit like that for a while—quiet, soft. The kind of stillness that only happens with someone who knows all your rhythms.
Then, about halfway through the episode, Minho perks up.
“Oh,” he says, sitting up abruptly. “I almost forgot.”
He disappears into the kitchen and returns a minute later holding two small cups of pudding—the good kind, the expensive ones he only ever buys when he’s feeling indulgent.
He hands one toward Jisung, eyes bright. “Found your favourite too. They had it at that little shop by the studio.”
Jisung looks at the cup. Then up at Minho.
And something stings behind his ribs.
He wants to take it. Wants to say thank you and eat it right there with his knees bumping Minho’s and the world feeling simple for once.
But instead, he forces a small smile. “My stomach’s still not great. Think I’ll skip this time.”
Minho pauses, hand still outstretched for a beat too long. His face doesn’t fall—but it softens into something unreadable.
“You sure?” he asks, not pushing but not casual either. “You always say pudding makes your stomach feel better.”
Jisung huffs a quiet laugh and leans back. “Guess I’m evolving.”
Minho studies him for a moment. Then shrugs lightly, opening his own cup and sinking back into the couch.
“More for me, then.”
He says it with a teasing smile, spooning the first bite dramatically. But his eyes flick toward Jisung now and then, like he’s trying to read something beneath the surface.
Jisung keeps his own eyes on the screen.
The pudding sits untouched on the table in front of him.
The shower is too hot. Steam curls around the bathroom mirror, blurring Jisung’s reflection into something soft-edged and ghostlike.
He stands under the spray longer than he needs to, water pelting his shoulders, his chest, trailing down his stomach in slow, heavy rivulets. He runs a hand down his side, fingers brushing muscle that wasn’t there a year ago. Not like this.
It should feel like progress.
It doesn’t.
He presses his palm against his lower belly, flinching slightly at how it pushes out when he slouches, how solid he feels under the skin now. Not soft. Just more. More to notice. More to see.
He shuts the water off when he can’t think anymore.
By the time he slips into bed, towel-dried and hoodie back on, Minho’s already waiting—lying on his side with one hand propped under his head, scrolling aimlessly on his phone.
He looks up as Jisung pulls the blanket over himself.
“Smell like clean laundry now,” he says softly, teasing.
Jisung huffs a little. “Glad I meet your standards.”
Minho puts his phone down and rolls closer. His voice drops into that familiar, drowsy murmur. “You always do.”
And it’s too much, too much, because Jisung has been missing this—has been pretending he doesn’t ache for it.
So when Minho kisses him, Jisung lets it happen.
It starts light—lips brushing, breath shared in the dark—but it deepens slowly. Familiar. Loving. Minho’s hand finds Jisung’s jaw, then the back of his neck, sliding under the hoodie to rest at the nape.
Jisung sighs into it, lips parting just enough to feel it more. His chest tightens—not from discomfort, but from need. From the way it feels to be wanted.
But then Minho’s hands start to wander—fingers tracing the curve of Jisung’s spine, dragging down his back, slipping under the hoodie to rest low on his waist.
“You’ve really filled out,” Minho murmurs against his mouth, voice warm. “Feels good.”
He says it like it’s a compliment. Like he means it.
But it lands like ice in Jisung’s stomach.
He pulls back suddenly.
Minho stills, blinking. “What’s wrong?”
Jisung shakes his head, breath shallow. “Don’t—just. Don’t touch me there.”
Minho’s face tightens in confusion. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Jisung snaps, sharper than he means to. “I just—don’t.”
Minho retreats instantly, hands lifted in surrender. “Okay. Okay, I won’t.”
Jisung sits up, hoodie hanging loose around him. He pulls the blanket up like a barrier and turns away, heart hammering.
Minho is quiet for a beat. “Sungie,” he says gently, “what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing—you’ve been weird today. You barely ate. You flinched when I touched you at practice. Talk to me.”
Jisung’s throat closes. His eyes sting.
“You said—” he starts, but his voice catches. He swallows, tries again. “You said you liked me because I was—small.”
Minho frowns. “What? When?”
Jisung’s voice turns bitter. “That stupid fan edit. You said I was a twink. That it was part of why you liked me.”
Understanding blooms across Minho’s face slowly, then sharpens with something close to horror.
“Jisung,” he breathes. “I didn’t mean—God, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Well, I did,” Jisung says, voice cracking. “I heard it, and now I can’t stop thinking that you look at me and miss what I used to be. That you don’t—” He chokes off, shaking his head. “That you don’t want this. Me. Not like this.”
Silence falls like a curtain between them.
Jisung curls into himself, eyes burning.
And then, Minho moves—slow and careful, shifting to sit beside him but not touching.
“I’ve never stopped wanting you,” he says, quiet but steady. “Not when you were smaller. Not now. Not ever.”
Minho doesn’t touch Jisung right away. He stays where he is, a careful distance between them, trying to grasp the weight of what Jisung just said. His mind races through every moment they’ve shared—the teasing, the affection, all the touches—but now they feel wrong, incomplete, as if he missed something important.
He breathes in, trying to collect himself. Then, his voice is soft, but earnest.
“Jisung, I didn’t mean for that to hurt you. The comment—it was just... me being an idiot. I never thought for a second that you’d take it like that. I’m sorry.”
Jisung’s gaze stays fixed on the blankets, his body curled away, as if he’s trying to make himself small. He feels exposed, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t before, the shame curling in on itself, the discomfort running deep beneath his skin.
“Do you... do you think I don’t like you anymore?” Minho asks, carefully. “That I only liked you because you were... small?”
The question hangs in the air, fragile and loaded. It’s not just about Minho’s comment anymore—it’s about Jisung’s entire fear of being less than he was, of losing Minho’s affection for reasons he can’t control. His hand trembles slightly, clutching the blanket tighter.
Minho’s heart drops.
"No, Jisungie." Minho leans forward, his voice low, raw. "I could never think that about you. Never. What I said—it was dumb, and I was trying to joke, but I didn’t... see that you were hurt by it." He swallows hard, the weight of his words settling between them. “It’s never been about your size for me. I’ve always liked you. You. Just you.”
Jisung’s chest tightens as the words sink in, but the weight doesn’t fully lift. He still feels... different. Less than. His mind goes back to the way Minho looked at him in the studio today, how he touched him, the praise about his body that felt like something to be proud of, and yet... it wasn’t quite right.
“I know I've changed,” Jisung admits, his voice trembling slightly. “Not always, but sometimes, I don’t feel like I fit into my own skin. And when you said that—I thought maybe you didn’t want me like this. Maybe I wasn’t... attractive anymore. Maybe you were just saying what you said because you were used to me being small. Because that is what you liked. Not who I am now.”
Minho’s chest tightens, and he shifts closer—slowly, carefully, not wanting to overwhelm him. But this time, he doesn’t hesitate before his hand reaches for Jisung’s arm, gently pulling him towards him, coaxing him to face him.
“Jisung,” Minho says, his voice low and full of something raw and honest. “I didn’t know that you felt that way.”
He cups Jisung’s cheek carefully, tilting his face up. "You’re beautiful to me. Always have been. Always will be. No matter how you change. I don’t care about your body changing—because you’re still you. And I love you. Just as you are."
Jisung blinks at him, wide-eyed, his chest tight with the emotion of it all, but the uncertainty doesn’t completely fade. He still feels that lingering weight, the insecurity tied to his body, to how he’s been looking at himself in the mirror, trying to reconcile who he was with who he is now. Minho kisses Jisung’s forehead softly. “I never stopped loving you. Not even for a second.”
Jisung’s eyes flutter closed, his breath shaky but steadying as the tension in his chest loosens. Minho’s warmth, his words—soft, patient, and so genuine—are the anchor Jisung needs.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about yourself,” Minho adds, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. “I never want you to feel like that. You’re everything to me. And I’ll always find you attractive, no matter what. Because you’re mine. And I’m yours.”
Jisung exhales shakily, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but this time it’s not out of hurt—it’s from the overwhelming flood of love, of relief. He presses his forehead harder against Minho’s, a quiet sound escaping his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Jisung whispers, his voice small and fragile, but so filled with longing. “I didn’t want to push you away. I just—I didn’t know how to deal with it all.”
Minho wraps his arms around Jisung, pulling him into a tight embrace.
They stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the world outside quiet and still.
And for the first time in days, Jisung allows himself to feel safe again. To feel seen—not for how he looks, but for who he is. Not for the way he’s changed, but for the person Minho has always loved.
They lay in the quiet that followed their conversation, the tension slowly ebbing from Jisung’s limbs, replaced by something softer. Still unsure, still a little raw—but held. Loved.
Minho stays close but gives him space to breathe. His hand rests on Jisung’s waist, grounding, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against the fabric of his hoodie.
“I meant what I said, you know,” Minho murmurs eventually, voice quiet in the dim room. “You really are beautiful.”
Jisung swallows hard, eyes fluttering shut. “You don’t have to say that just because I freaked out.”
Minho’s hand stills.
“I’m not saying it because you freaked out,” he says, serious now, threading his fingers more firmly around Jisung’s hip and tugging him gently closer. “I’m saying it because it’s true. And because I’ve been wanting to say it, but you’ve been avoiding me like I’ve got the plague.”
That earns a tiny breath of a laugh from Jisung. Minho softens at the sound and shifts, sitting up enough to pull Jisung onto his side, facing him.
“Can I show you?” Minho asks, voice low, words careful. “How I see you?”
Jisung hesitates, eyes searching his. Then, slowly, he nods.
Minho’s fingers trace from his shoulder down the length of his arm, pressing lightly into the muscle. “You worked so hard for this. I see it every day in practice. In how you move. You’re strong, Jisungie.”
His hand slides under the hoodie now, finding bare skin. “And this—” his palm flattens against Jisung’s back “—your back is insane. I didn’t think it was possible to love your body more than I already did, but here we are.”
Jisung breathes out, shaky, biting his lip to stop the smile threatening to surface. Minho leans in and kisses just beneath his ear.
“You’ve always been gorgeous. But watching you grow into this? Watching you own your body, even when you don’t see it? It’s... kind of the hottest thing in the world, not gonna lie.”
Jisung’s cheeks burn. “Hyung—”
“No, let me finish,” Minho insists, grinning now. His hand roams lower, thumb brushing over Jisung’s side, then further down, to the curve of his hip and thigh. “Your thighs? They’re unreal. Like, you have to know this. Right? You could crush me and I’d thank you.”
Jisung lets out an embarrassed laugh, trying to bury his face in Minho’s shoulder, but Minho won’t let him.
“No hiding. You need to hear this. You’re—” Minho’s voice drops again, reverent this time, the teasing gone. “You’re so unbelievably attractive to me. Every part of you. You walk into a room and I have to stop myself from staring like a teenage fanboy.”
Jisung finally looks up, eyes shiny, lips trembling with the effort not to cry again.
“I’ve felt so... off. I thought you wouldn’t want to touch me anymore.”
Minho’s expression breaks, and he cups Jisung’s face again, thumbs brushing his cheeks.
“God, baby,” he murmurs. “I can’t stop wanting to touch you. I’ve missed you so much—missed holding you, seeing you relax when I have my hands on you. You don’t have to hide from me. Not ever.”
Jisung’s lip wobbles, but then he lets himself lean in, pressing his face to Minho’s neck, arms finally wrapping around his waist.
And Minho holds him tight, pressing kisses to his shoulder, his temple, his hair.
“You’re mine,” he whispers. “And I’m so lucky. Every day.”
Jisung nods into his chest, clinging just a little tighter.
Minho’s lips brush Jisung’s again, slower now, softer—less about urgency, more about reverence. Jisung melts into it, drawn in by the warmth of Minho’s mouth and the way his hands start to move with purpose, anchoring him, mapping him. He can feel the tension that had held him so tightly for days begin to loosen.
“You feel so good,” Minho murmurs against his lips, one hand gliding under the oversized hoodie again, his palm finding the curve of Jisung’s waist, sliding along warm skin. “I’ve missed this… missed you.”
Jisung lets out a soft, unsteady breath as Minho rolls them gently, positioning himself above, not hovering like Jisung might break—but holding him, grounding him. His hands trail lower, pulling the hoodie up inch by inch, revealing the toned lines of Jisung’s stomach, the slight curve at his waist, the softness layered over muscle.
When Minho finally pulls it over Jisung’s head and tosses it aside, he pauses to look. Really look.
Jisung tenses, instinctively starting to turn away—but Minho catches his jaw, gently, firmly.
“Don’t hide,” he whispers. “God, Jisung, look at you.”
His eyes roam slowly down his chest, his stomach, his thighs. There’s no teasing in his gaze now—only awe and hunger. He leans down and presses a kiss to Jisung’s collarbone, then lower, to the centre of his chest, trailing kisses across the warm skin, his hands smoothing down his sides.
“I love this,” he breathes, nuzzling his face into the curve of Jisung’s side. “I love this. You’re stronger than ever and somehow even softer where I want you to be.”
Jisung’s breath catches as Minho’s mouth continues downward, kissing just above his waistband, then circling back up—taking his time, worshipping every inch like he’s been starved for it. And maybe he has.
By the time their clothes are gone, Jisung is flushed and breathless, legs parted under Minho, his body already aching, but his chest—his heart—is full in a way it hasn’t been in weeks. The way Minho touches him feels like a promise.
When Minho finally grinds down against him, skin to skin, Jisung lets out a soft, broken moan.
“Fuck—Minho-Hyung…”
Minho captures the sound with a kiss, hips rolling gently, their cocks brushing, pressure building slowly. He holds Jisung’s face between both hands and groans into his mouth, like he can’t believe he gets to have him like this. Like it’s overwhelming.
“Tell me what you need,” Minho whispers, eyes dark and focused. “Anything. I want to make you feel everything you forgot you deserved.”
Jisung’s voice is small, wrecked and honest. “Just… want to feel close to you. Please.”
Minho nods, kisses his cheek, his jaw, his neck, murmuring softly as he reaches for the lube in the drawer.
“I’ve got you, baby. Just relax. Let me show you.”
Jisung gasps at the first press of Minho’s fingers—slow and careful. Every movement is patient, paced with care, but as Jisung starts to rock into it, as his thighs fall open wider and his breath hitches more freely, Minho’s restraint frays.
“Look at you,” Minho groans, fingers slick and steady. “So fucking perfect like this. I want you so bad.”
When Minho finally pushes into him, slow and deep, Jisung clutches at his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut as his body adjusts. The stretch is so full, so grounding. It makes him feel wanted. Owned in the safest, most loving way.
Minho’s hand slides under his back, supporting him, and then he begins to move—rhythmic and deep, every roll of his hips perfectly matched to the gasp it pulls from Jisung’s lips.
“You feel so good,” Minho pants, forehead resting against Jisung’s. “You drive me crazy, Sungie—fuck—you’re so tight, so strong under me.”
His praise pours over Jisung like warmth, every thrust knocking the air out of his lungs in the best way.
And when Minho leans down, pressing their bodies flush, whispering “I love you” right into his ear as he drives deeper, Jisung breaks—shaking with a moan, head falling back, eyes wet and dazed.
He doesn’t last long—not with the way Minho’s hand wraps around him, stroking in perfect rhythm, not with the way he kisses his neck and tells him how good he’s doing, how beautiful he is, how proud he is of him.
Jisung comes with a gasp and Minho follows soon after, hips stuttering, arms trembling as he buries his face in Jisung’s neck.
They collapse together, tangled, sweaty, and breathless.
Minho doesn’t pull away. He just holds Jisung close, hand stroking his back, whispering soft things that Jisung can’t even fully hear through the buzz in his body—but he feels them.
And when Jisung finally catches his breath, when the heat settles and the ache is sweet and real, he realizes—
For the first time in a long while, he feels like himself again. Wanted. Loved. Enough.
And it’s because of Minho.