Work Text:
It's 10:42pm and the college library is nearly empty at this time of night. The only sound the hum of the ancient fluorescent lighting, the occasional flip of a page, and the distant buzz of a printer that's been jammed for four hours.
Jisung walks in with two notebooks, his laptop under one arm, and a half-eaten protein bar in his mouth, his headphone wire tangled up in the drawstrings of his hoodie.
He beelines for his usual seat near the back corner. It's quiet, tucked away and slightly hidden, right next to the power outlet which he considers his own at this point.
Working on autopilot, he drops his notebooks onto the desk without even looking, opens his laptop, and starts tapping through his audio software.
It takes him almost five minutes to realise the desk is already occupied by somebody else's belongings.
A painfully neat stack of books, a phone face-down on the surface, and a lined notebook open to a page covered in densely packed, tidy handwriting. Definitely not his.
"Ah shibal..." Jisung whispers, half-standing to pack up, when he hears footsteps approaching.
And then he sees him.
It's not a face he recognises, and it's certainly not one he would forget.
He stops a few feet away, gaze flicking down to the table that Jisung has inadvertently invaded. He doesn't say anything, just stands there, tall and quiet with a stillness that feels deliberate.
His face is sharp, almost too perfect to be real. Cat-like eyes, half-lidded with what could be boredom, tiredness or maybe disinterest, but they're dark and glinting... Watching. Judging, most likely. His mouth is set in a neutral line, but there's something about the way his lips are parted just slightly, like he's about to say something... But he doesn't.
He's beautiful in a way that makes Jisung forget his own name for half a second. Like he just walked out of a moody art film. All shadows and soft lighting and jawlines that could cut glass.
The stranger raises a single brow, and Jisung realises he's just been staring.
"Oh, uh, sorry," Jisung blurts, scrambling to shut his laptop. "I didn't see... I mean, I didn't know someone was sitting here."
Still, the guy says nothing. Just steps forward and, instead of kicking Jisung out, pulls out the chair across from him and sits. Opens a thick, worn notebook from the stack and starts writing like Jisung isn't even there.
Jisung blinks.
Then blinks again.
"... Okay."
He sits too, heart inexplicably doing the stupid fluttery thing, and tries to act like he's not completely thrown off by the silent, stunning stranger now sitting directly across from him.
Jisung opens his laptop again, stares blankly at his project timeline, and pretends to focus. He adjusts the volume knob on his headphones even though he hasn't plugged them in. Smooth.
But it's no use. His eyes keep drifting upward. The guy is scribbling something in his notebook with mechanical precision, jaw set, posture relaxed but alert. He's all quiet control, like someone who doesn't need to make noise to be noticed.
Who even is this guy?
Jisung's pretty sure he knows every face on campus by now. Music majors, film kids, dancers, art students... You spend two years at a small arts college, and you build a mental yearbook whether you mean to or not. He's seen them all at open mic nights, gallery showcases, orientation mixers he was forced to attend.
But this one?
This one he would've remembered.
The guy's got a presence. The kind that makes you straighten up without realising it. Even his handwriting, now that Jisung sneaks another glance, is unfairly nice. Neat and controlled. No hesitation.
Definitely not a freshman.
Maybe a transfer?
That would explain the mystery, and the fact that he carries himself like he doesn't care whether he's invisible or not. Or maybe he wants to be.
Jisung leans forward slightly, as if that might help his brain remember. The guy doesn't look up.
But there's something about him, the tension in his shoulders, the slight tap of his pen against the page, the way his foot bounces every so often under the table like he's holding something in. Restlessness? Nerves? Energy?
Dancer energy, Jisung thinks suddenly, then immediately shakes the thought away. That's a reach. Probably.
Still... He wonders.
He stares at his laptop screen again, the cursor blinking in time with the beat of his thoughts.
After several more minutes pass in silence, the beautiful stranger suddenly closes his notebook with a soft snap. He moves with quiet efficiency, no wasted gestures, as he gathers his things, slipping his pen into a side pocket, stacking his books into a worn canvas bag. Then he stands, slinging the strap over one shoulder in a single fluid motion.
And just like that, he walks away.
Not a word.
Not a glance in Jisung's direction.
Like he'd never been there at all.
Jisung stares at the empty seat across from him long after it's been vacated.
There's no reason to feel so... Weird about it. People come and go from the library all the time. It's not like they shared a deep conversation or anything. In fact, the guy didn't say a single word.
But still, Jisung's left with this odd weight in his chest. Like the silence meant something. Or maybe like he just missed something that almost happened.
He exhales slowly, leans back in his chair, and drags a hand through his hair.
Who the hell was that?
He packs up himself a few minutes later, suddenly unable to concentrate with the silence of the library feeling louder now. The walk back to his dorm is cold, a sharp reminder that it's still winter, even if the campus lights make everything look deceptively warm.
By the time he kicks his shoes off and enters his room, his brain is still halfway back in that quiet corner of the library.
Inside, Hyunjin is sprawled on his bed in an oversized hoodie and sweats, one leg in the air as he stretches with impressive indifference, scrolling on his phone.
"Yo," Hyunjin calls without looking up. "You were out late. Library?"
Jisung hums in reply, dropping his bag beside the desk.
Hyunjin glances over. "You look weird."
"I feel weird," Jisung mutters, toeing off his socks. "Do we... Have a transfer student this semester?"
Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. "You mean in music?"
"No, just... Like, in general. I saw this new guy tonight, tall, sharp face, looks like he could ruin my life just by blinking at me?"
Hyunjin sits up immediately, eyes narrowing. "... Wait. Did he have black hair, sharp jaw, gives off 'don't talk to me or I'll end your bloodline' energy?"
"Yes, exactly that." Jisung blinks. "Do you know him?"
Hyunjin laughs, this airy, knowing sound that makes Jisung suspicious instantly. "That's Lee Minho. He's in two of my dance classes. Transferred a few weeks ago. Barely says anything, but when he does, it's always something devastating."
"Devastating like... Mean?"
"No," Hyunjin says, grinning. "Devastating like perfectly timed sarcasm that makes the room go silent for three seconds. It's kind of hot."
Jisung makes a strangled noise. "So he is a dance major?"
Hyunjin nods. "Yeah. Or, well, he was. No one's seen him actually dance yet. Not even in class. Just does the warm-ups, never joins choreo drills. I heard a rumour he got injured before he transferred."
Jisung frowns, sinking into the desk chair, his thoughts racing.
"That guy..." he mumbles. "He didn't say a single thing to me. Just sat across from me, wrote in his notebook, then left. Like I wasn't even there."
Hyunjin smirks. "Yeah, sounds like Minho."
Jisung's lips press into a line.
He doesn't know why, but suddenly... He wants to see him again.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
It's stupid.
Jisung knows it's stupid.
He tells himself five different times on the way to the library, muttering under his breath like a deranged man, that he's only going to get work done. That it has nothing to do with the guy from last night. That assuming he'd be there again is irrational. Borderline delusional. Clingy, even.
But here he is.
10:43pm.
Same notebook. Same hoodie. Same laptop. Same exact path through the library, trying not to glance toward the back corner even though his feet are very clearly leading him there.
And then...
He stops.
Minho's already there.
Seated in the exact same chair he'd taken the night before, legs wide underneath the table, notebook open, pen tapping lightly against his lip. He's wearing a dark zip-up hoodie and wired earbuds, and in his other hand is an iced americano, the condensation running slowly down the cup in the low light.
He doesn't look up. Just keeps sipping casually, completely unbothered by the world around him.
But it's the chair across from him that makes Jisung freeze.
It's empty.
The same chair Jisung had taken by accident the night before. This time... It's been left open.
Deliberately?
Coincidence?
Jisung's heart thuds once, annoyingly loud, and he suddenly forgets how to breathe properly. Still, he walks over like it's no big deal. Like his palms aren't sweating. Like this isn't the stupidest thing he's ever done in his life.
He pulls the chair out slowly. Minho doesn't react, doesn't glance up, doesn't acknowledge him at all.
So Jisung sits.
Opens his laptop. Stares at the screen. Tries to look casual. Nonchalant. Totally chill and not losing his mind over a silent guy with good bone structure and a death stare.
After a minute, Minho reaches down to highlight something in his notes. The sleeve of his hoodie slips just enough for Jisung to catch the faintest scar trailing near his wrist.
He looks away before he can get caught staring.
They don't say a word to each other.
But for the second night in a row, they sit in the same quiet corner, breathing in the same silence, and somehow...
It doesn't feel empty at all.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
They fall into a rhythm without ever acknowledging it.
Every night that week, Jisung finds himself back at the library around the same time. He tells himself it's just good habit. That he's being productive. That he just happens to work best in that specific corner seat now.
Minho is always there first.
Always in the same chair.
And the seat across from him, the one Jisung had claimed by accident that first night, is always empty.
Waiting.
They never speak.
Minho never looks up when Jisung arrives, never makes eye contact, never so much as nods. But he doesn't leave, either. He doesn't close his notebook when Jisung sits down. He just... Lets him stay.
Which is somehow worse. And better. And kind of maddening.
Jisung can't stop stealing glances.
Minho writes constantly, filling page after page in a neat, sharp script that Jisung can't read upside down no matter how hard he tries. Some nights he has an iced americano, sometimes halfway gone, sometimes freshly sweating with condensation. Other nights, nothing at all. Just a pen in his hand and silence wrapped around him like armour.
On the third night, Minho wears a pair of round glasses. Jisung nearly forgets how to type for a full minute.
On the fifth night, he's wearing headphones, lips moving just barely, counting, maybe. Or mouthing lyrics. Jisung pretends not to stare.
By the sixth night, Jisung realises he's started timing his evening around this. That he delays dinner just enough to be here by ten-forty. That he charges his laptop and picks out a hoodie that doesn't look too much like he tried, just in case.
He doesn't speak.
Minho doesn't look.
And still, somehow, it feels like something is happening.
Some nights, they stay for hours. On others, Minho gets up after just twenty five minutes, packing his things in silence, slipping away like a shadow. Each time he leaves, Jisung feels something tighten in his chest that he refuses to name.
He doesn't understand it.
He doesn't question it.
But he keeps showing up.
And so does Minho.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The dorm is warm when Jisung walks in, the faint scent of vanilla air freshener and Hyunjin's latest skincare routine lingering in the air. He toes off his shoes, drops his bag with a soft thud, and shrugs off his hoodie in slow, absent movements.
Hyunjin is sat up on his bed in a massive black sweater, long legs tucked under him, scrolling through something on his phone as per usual. He doesn't look up when he speaks.
"You're not fooling anyone, by the way." he says casually, voice lilting with suspicion.
Jisung freezes mid-step. "What?"
Hyunjin finally glances over, arching a perfectly groomed brow. "You don't even like studying at the library. You've complained about the lighting, the chairs, and the smell at least twelve times this semester alone."
Jisung sighs and flops face-first onto his bed. "It's not... I'm not... Okay. I am going to the library. But it's not about studying."
"Obviously," Hyunjin snorts, tossing his phone aside and turning fully to face him. "So? What is it then?"
There's a long pause. Jisung groans into his pillow, muffled and dramatic.
"... There's this guy," he finally mumbles.
Hyunjin's eyes immediately light up. "Minho."
Jisung lifts his head, blinking.
"I knew it." Hyunjin points at him, victorious. "You've been acting weird since the first time you saw him."
Jisung groans again, rolling onto his back. "He doesn't even talk to me, Hyunjin. We sit across from each other every night and he's never said a single word to me."
"That tracks," Hyunjin says, tone softening just a little. "He's like that in class, too. Doesn't talk, doesn't mingle. Shows up, does the work, disappears. No one really knows much about him, except..." He trails off.
"Except what?"
Hyunjin hesitates, eyes thoughtful. "He got hurt. Some kind of bad injury before he transferred. I think it messed up more than just his dancing. Like... His confidence, maybe. His connection to people."
Jisung goes quiet, thoughts spiralling.
Hyunjin watches him for a beat, then adds, gently, "Just... Be careful, okay? You're soft when it comes to people. I don't want you getting caught up in someone who doesn't even see you."
Jisung swallows around the lump that rises unexpectedly in his throat.
"He sees me," he says quietly, like maybe if he says it out loud, it'll be true. "I think."
Hyunjin gives him a long, unreadable look, then pushes himself off the bed and grabs his coat.
"Don't wait up," he says, already halfway to the door. "I'm going to Chan's. Probably not coming back tonight."
Jisung snorts. "Gross."
Hyunjin winks. "Jealous."
The door clicks shut behind him, and the room falls into silence.
Jisung lies there in the dim glow of his desk lamp, staring up at the ceiling, the soft clank of the barely-functional radiator filling the space Hyunjin left behind.
What the hell am I doing?
He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, sighing.
Going to the library every night just to sit across from someone who doesn't even acknowledge his existence. It's ridiculous. Unhealthy, even. Borderline pathetic.
And yet.
When he closes his eyes, all he can see is the sharp angle of Minho's jaw under the soft light, the way his fingers move when he writes, the slow sip of his iced americano like time never touches him.
Jisung lets out a groan that turns into a laugh.
He already knows the answer.
He's going again tomorrow.
Of course he is.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
Jisung's not sure what exactly possessed him.
Maybe it was Hyunjin's warning, still echoing in the back of his mind. Maybe it was the way Minho never looked at him, but always left that seat open like an invitation he couldn't quite admit was there.
Or maybe he just wanted more.
More than silence. More than glances. More than pretending this thing between them wasn't growing roots under every night they shared across that small wooden table.
So tonight, Jisung decides to show up early.
And not just early... Prepared.
He stops at the campus café, still open under flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of stale cinnamon. The barista, used to seeing him only half-conscious before morning classes, blinks when he orders two iced americanos instead of one.
"Study date?" she teases.
Jisung doesn't answer.
By the time he reaches the library, both drinks are sweating in his hands, the paper sleeves already going soft at the edges. His fingers tremble from the cold, or nerves. Probably both.
He gets there just before 10:30pm.
The seat across from him is empty.
More importantly, Minho isn't there.
Jisung's stomach twists. Not with rejection, but a slow, creeping disappointment that settles behind his ribs.
Of course he's not here. Why would he be? Jisung is early tonight.
Still, he sits. Sets up his laptop. Places both cups on the table between them like a peace offering no one asked for. He tells himself he'll stay for twenty minutes. That he'll work anyway. That this wasn't a stupid idea.
By 10:40pm, the condensation has pooled into two perfect rings on the table. Jisung keeps glancing at the door, trying not to check the time again.
He's just about to give up, just reaching to grab the second cup and toss it, when the door opens.
Minho walks in.
And stops.
He does a double take the second he sees Jisung already there. For the first time in seven nights, his eyes meet Jisung's.
Dark. Sharp. Caught completely off guard.
His expression flickers, confused, maybe, but not cold. Not annoyed.
Just... Surprised.
Jisung's heart nearly slams into his throat.
He lifts a hand awkwardly in greeting, like he's never waved before in his life. Then gestures to the drink closest to Minho's usual spot.
"I, uh, thought maybe you'd want one," he says, voice soft and slightly breathless. "I noticed you sometimes have an americano, so..."
A beat of silence.
Minho's eyes drop to the cup.
Then back to Jisung.
He doesn't say anything.
Not yet.
But he walks over anyway.
And sits down.
Minho settles into the seat across from him with the same smooth, efficient movement as always, no wasted effort, no hesitation. He reaches for the cup with a careful glance, fingers brushing the side, then lifts it slightly like he's acknowledging the gesture.
Then, finally, he speaks.
"Thanks."
Just one word.
But it knocks the air right out of Jisung's lungs.
His voice is low, smooth around the edges but a little rough in the centre. Like velvet brushed the wrong way. It's quiet, not shy exactly, but measured. Calm in the way deep water is calm, like there's something underneath it all, waiting.
Jisung blinks.
Holy shit.
It suits him perfectly. That voice. It's cool and a little dry, like he doesn't use it often and doesn't need to. It's the kind of voice you lean closer to hear. The kind you want to hear again.
And Jisung, dumb, sleep-deprived Jisung, suddenly can't remember what language he speaks.
"Y... Yeah," he stammers, blinking back to reality. "Of course. I mean. It's coffee. Nothing fancy. Except maybe the price."
Minho's lips twitch. Barely. Like the ghost of a smile threatens to break free.
Jisung has no idea what he just said.
He's too busy replaying the sound of Minho's voice in his head like a song on loop. Something about the way it curved around that one word, 'thanks', made his spine feel too soft.
Minho takes a sip of the americano and glances down at his notebook, flipping it open as if this isn't a moment that's just rearranged the atmosphere.
Jisung stares at him for a second longer than he should.
Then forces himself to look at his laptop and try to work.
But all he can think is...
I waited a week to hear him speak. And now I don't want him to stop.
Minho takes another sip, his gaze flicking to the table, then briefly to Jisung.
"You're early," he says.
Two words. Two. That's double what he said before and Jisung nearly short-circuits.
"I, uh..." He clears his throat, trying not to visibly malfunction. "Yeah. Just thought I'd get ahead on some editing."
Minho hums softly. A quiet, thoughtful sound that rolls through Jisung's chest just like a low note on a bassline. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just goes back to his notebook, pen tapping slowly against the edge.
The silence begins to settle again. Not uncomfortable, but final. The moment already slipping away.
And Jisung panics a little.
He's not ready for this to go back to silence. Not after this. Not after Minho finally spoke, and looked at him, and kind of, maybe, almost smiled.
So before he can think better of it, he blurts-
"I'm Jisung, by the way. Han Jisung."
Minho's pen stills.
There's a beat, a blink, and then those dark eyes lift to meet his again.
Jisung fights the urge to squirm under the weight of them.
Minho doesn't look surprised, exactly. Just mildly curious, like he's studying him now. Really looking at him. Like Jisung speaking somehow gave him permission.
Then, finally, he says-
"Minho."
No family name. No return greeting. Just Minho.
But it's not cold. Just... Minho.
Short. Direct. Like everything else about him.
Jisung nods slowly, like the word deserves a pause.
"... It suits you," he says before he can stop himself.
Minho's pen halts mid-tap. He glances up again, brows twitching just slightly. Not quite frowning, but registering the unexpected compliment. He doesn't reply right away, just studies Jisung like he's trying to figure out if that was real or a joke.
Jisung panics halfway through the silence. "I mean, not that names have to suit people. Or that I'm, like, qualified to assign names. I'm not a name expert. That's not a job. Probably."
Minho lets out a quiet breath, and Jisung is 90% sure it's a laugh.
A real one.
Or maybe the beginning of one, pressed between his lips like he's not used to letting it out.
"You always talk like that?" Minho asks, voice low and vaguely amused.
Jisung shrinks into his chair. "Like what?"
Minho leans back, arms crossed loosely over his chest. "Like your brain's trying to outrun your mouth and losing."
Jisung stares. Then huffs a laugh. "Yeah. That's... Actually shockingly accurate."
"Mm." Minho looks down again, flipping a page in his notebook, but the edges of his mouth are still curved ever so slightly. "Didn't mean it as an insult."
Jisung glances at him, softer now. "Didn't take it as one."
Another quiet settles between them, but it's different now. Not the static silence of strangers. Something more comfortable. Lighter. Like they've crossed an invisible line and neither of them is quite ready to name it yet.
They both go back to their respective work, but this time, Jisung finds he's not checking the clock.
And when Minho gets up to leave an hour later, he glances at Jisung first and murmurs, "Night."
Just one word.
But Jisung grins into his laptop for a solid two minutes after the door clicks shut.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
Over the next two weeks, Jisung and Minho settle into an unlikely routine.
What started as silence grows into short exchanges, casual, easy. Jisung learns Minho speaks in small doses, but always says exactly what he means. No fluff, no filler. His humour is dry, and it takes Jisung a few days to realise that Minho is joking, just so subtly that it flies under most people's radar.
Minho, in return, seems to tolerate Jisung's chatter. He doesn't encourage it, exactly, but he never shuts it down either. Sometimes, he even responds, not with long stories, but with questions. Quiet curiosity. A slow trust building between them in bits and pieces.
They talk about classes. About weird professors and terrible cafeteria food. About Jisung's song-writing and Minho's vague references to "old dance days," though he never really explains what that means.
And Jisung never asks. Not directly. He figures Minho will talk when he's ready.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
Jisung's running a little behind tonight. Not late, but rushed. He's just finished mixing something for class and lost track of time. His phone is at 12%, and his brain is at 4%.
Still, he grabs two iced americanos, it's become a quiet, unspoken ritual between them, and jogs across campus toward the library, humming under his breath.
He gets there just before 10:30pm, swinging open the door with a gust of cold air.
Minho's already there. Sitting in the same chair, notebook open, earbuds around his neck. He looks up briefly when Jisung walks in, gives a nod, then returns to whatever he's writing.
Jisung drops into his seat across from him with a satisfied sigh, sets both drinks down on the table, and reaches for his bag.
Unzips it.
Pauses.
Frowns.
Then blinks at the contents. One crushed granola bar, his tangled headphones, his notebooks, a pen that definitely doesn't work, and... That's it.
No laptop.
"Ah... Shibal," Jisung says aloud, horrified.
Minho looks up again, brow raised.
"I forgot my laptop," Jisung groans, slumping forward and letting his head fall onto the table with a soft thud.
There's a beat of silence before Minho speaks.
"You going back for it?"
Jisung groans again, his forehead still pressed to the table. "Nah," he mumbles. "By the time I get there and back, you'd probably be ready to leave or already gone."
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he freezes.
His head lifts just a little.
Minho is still watching him, not intensely, not with surprise, just watching.
Jisung feels the heat rise to his face like it's been yanked up by a pulley. He clears his throat, shifting in his chair and forcing a casual shrug. "I mean... Not that I, like, track your schedule or anything. I just meant statistically. You know. Based on observed patterns over time."
Minho doesn't react.
Not with a smirk. Not with a snide comment.
He just looks at him for a second longer.
Then, without a word, he closes his notebook and sets it aside.
Jisung blinks.
"You don't have to stop," he says quickly. "I can just sit here and be a caffeine-addled lump. Quiet as a mouse. I'll hum if you want ambiance."
Minho leans back slightly, arms crossed. "You can be annoying even when you're silent. It's kind of impressive."
Jisung lets out a small laugh, relieved. "Thanks. I work hard at it."
They lapse into a comfortable silence again, the kind that doesn't press, doesn't demand. Minho sips his drink. Jisung watches the condensation slide down the side of his own cup, still feeling vaguely exposed from what he accidentally let slip.
"So..." Jisung says after a moment, fingers tapping lightly on the cup, "what do you write in there all the time?"
Minho doesn't answer right away. He eyes the notebook like it might open itself and betray him.
"Mostly thoughts," he says eventually. "Observations. Bits of things. Notes from lectures sometimes."
Jisung raises an eyebrow. "Cryptic. I like it."
Minho huffs softly through his nose. "It's not that deep. I just... Think better on paper."
"Wish I had that skill," Jisung says. "I talk better than I think. Sometimes I talk before I think. Most of the time, actually."
Minho sips his americano. "Yeah. I noticed."
Jisung grins. "That's fair."
The conversation drifts from there. Small things at first. What they're both studying. What kind of professors they hate. Their shared belief that group projects are a social experiment designed to test patience and willpower.
Minho's surprisingly funny when he lets himself be. Dry humour, clever observations that Jisung would've missed if he wasn't paying attention. And Jisung is definitely paying attention.
Eventually they veer into less school-related topics. Favourite movies for instance. Minho watches old black-and-white ones "for the cinematography," which Jisung finds both obnoxious and fascinating, weird food combinations, the absolute worst sleep schedules they've ever kept.
They're halfway into a conversation about oddly specific childhood fears, Jisung's was escalators, Minho's was moths, when Jisung glances at the time on his phone and blinks.
1:03am.
He lets out a quiet gasp. "Wait... No way."
Minho lifts a brow. "What?"
Jisung turns his phone so Minho can see the screen. "We've been sitting here for almost three hours."
Minho looks at the time, then down at his long empty drink. "Hm. Guess so."
"That's insane. I swear I got here like twenty minutes ago."
Minho shrugs, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Time's weird."
Jisung blinks at him. "That's... Either really deep or really vague."
Minho offers a half-smile. "You decide."
Jisung laughs softly, then shakes his head, eyes lingering on Minho's calm expression for a second too long.
He doesn't say it out loud, but the thought crosses his mind anyway.
Time only goes that fast when it's good.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
They leave the library just after 1:15am, shoulders hunched against the cold, iced americanos long finished and fingers tucked into their sleeves for warmth.
The campus is quiet, empty except for the low buzz of lamplight and the occasional crunch of gravel under their shoes.
They don't say much as they walk, but it's a comfortable silence. The kind that lingers without awkwardness. The kind you only get with someone you trust, even if you're not sure when that trust started forming.
At the main path that forks toward separate dorms, they slow.
Minho pauses, gaze on the ground. "Hey."
Jisung glances over. "Hm?"
"I won't be at the library tomorrow night."
Jisung blinks. It's the first time either of them have acknowledged that they expect each other to be there every night.
"Oh," he says quickly. "Okay. Cool. No worries."
Minho doesn't elaborate. Doesn't offer a reason. Just looks at him for a beat and nods.
And Jisung, sensing the edge of something private, doesn't ask.
"See you when I see you, then," he adds instead, throwing him a lopsided grin.
Minho gives the faintest smile in return. "Yeah."
And then he's gone, walking off down the dim path, earbuds already in his ears.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
Jisung stumbles into his music production class the next morning half-awake, hoodie askew, headphones on, and a protein bar hanging out of his mouth. Nothing new.
He drops into his seat just as Professor Park starts passing out handouts.
"Midterm project guidelines," he announces. "Original song, fully produced and mixed. You've had that part on the syllabus for weeks. But we're adding a visual component this year, a full-length music video to accompany your track."
Jisung almost chokes on his protein bar.
"What‽"
Professor Park continues, unfazed. "You'll be directing it yourselves. Be creative. Tell a story. We want emotional connection. The visual should feel like an extension of the song."
Jisung glances down at the paper in front of him, the weight of the words sinking in.
Music video. Visual storytelling. Emotional connection.
His brain is already buzzing. Overwhelmed, yes, but also... Curious.
A little excited.
Jisung stares at the page in front of him, already thinking in flashes, lyrics, tone, movement, mood. Lighting shifts. Sound bleeding into silence. The shape of emotion when it has no lyrics left to hide behind.
His fingers twitch, wanting to open his notes, to start scribbling something, anything, but the ideas are blurry, half-formed.
By the time class ends, his head is spinning with pressure and possibility. Normally, he'd rant about it to someone. Probably to Hyunjin. Or maybe...
He stops the thought before it finishes.
Minho.
He won't see him tonight.
He'd forgotten for a moment. Or maybe he'd just been hoping that Minho would change his mind. Show up anyway.
He spends the rest of the day distracted. Distant. Even when his friends wave him over in the cafeteria, he just offers a tired smile and a shake of his head, headphones already on. He listens to the same unfinished demo three times in a row and still doesn't know what it feels like. It's just noise now.
Evening comes fast. Jisung returns to the dorm to find it empty. Hyunjin's bed is untouched and perfectly made, meaning he's probably already at Chan's apartment.
Jisung throws his backpack to the floor and collapses into his desk chair, spinning it halfway and back, then again, as if it might help the buzzing in his chest die down.
He pulls up an anime to watch, something he's been halfway through for weeks, and presses play.
But his eyes keep drifting. First to his drink. Then to the blank corner of his desk. Then to the time.
10:03pm.
He fidgets with the drawstring of his hoodie. Checks his phone. Scrolls. Refreshes. Nothing.
10:11pm.
He still misses the library. Still feels that itch in his chest, like something in his day was left unfinished.
Then, his phone buzzes.
Chan.
Weird.
He answers. "Hyung?"
But it's Hyunjin's voice that comes through. Slightly breathless.
"Jisung-ah. Please, please, please tell me you're in the dorm or at least the library."
Jisung blinks. "Yeah? Why?"
"I left my phone in Studio B. I think it fell out of my jacket after practice. It's probably dead or close to. Can you grab it and plug it in at the room for me ready for tomorrow? You're like five minutes away and obviously I'm off-campus at Chan's and I swear I'll clean the bathroom for a week if you do this."
Jisung huffs a laugh. "Dramatic."
"Desperate."
He glances at the time again. 10:20pm. That weird itch in his chest stirs again.
"Fine," he says, already pulling on his hoodie. "But I'm holding you to the bathroom thing."
"Deal," Hyunjin says, relieved. "Love you forever."
"Yeah, yeah. You owe me."
He hangs up, grabs his keys, and heads out.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
It turns out Hyunjin was a bit optimistic, and the walk took ten minutes, not five. The cold winter wind biting at his cheeks, hoodie doing little to keep out the chill that's settled over campus like a blanket of sharp air. He tucks his hands deeper into his sleeves and mutters to himself.
"Two weeks of bathroom cleaning," he says under his breath. "Minimum."
The dance building is quiet when he reaches it, too quiet, the way places get when the world has already slowed down for the day. He steps into the narrow hallway, the click of the door echoing behind him, and starts scanning the nameplates above each studio.
At least one of the rooms was still in use, muffled music spilling under a closed door. He walks past them without pausing, the mission clear. Grab Hyunjin's phone, get back to warmth.
He finds Studio B near the end of the hallway. It's dark, but unlocked.
Inside, he clicks on his phone flashlight and scans the floor.
The phone's there, half under a bench, screen dark, probably clinging to 3% battery at best. He grabs it, shakes his head, and sends a mental curse to himself for being too nice.
He's halfway out the door, already pulling it shut behind him, when he hears it again.
Music.
Not loud. Not even distinct, just the steady, dull thump of bass through thick walls.
Studio A.
He's not trying to snoop. He's just curious. Just naturally nosy. That's all.
But when he passes the door, he glances through the small rectangular window without thinking.
And stops dead.
Because it's Minho.
Alone.
In the centre of the room, barefoot on the floor, dressed in black sweats and a simple shirt that clings to his frame. The studio lights are dimmed to a soft, moody glow, enough to cast long shadows, but not enough to make it feel staged.
Jisung doesn't move.
Doesn't breathe.
Minho is dancing.
Not like he's rehearsing. Not like he's performing.
Like he's letting something out of his system. Like every part of him is spilling into each movement, just trying to hold on and let go at the same time.
He moves like a wave folding in on itself, sharp, then soft, then sharp again. Controlled chaos.
It's messy in the way grief is messy. Or healing. Or both.
And he's beautiful.
Not in the way Jisung has thought before, not just sharp cheekbones or dry humour or good taste in coffee.
Beautiful in motion. In focus. In how completely unaware he is of the world outside the glass.
Minho's eyes are closed. His breathing is heavy. He turns sharply with a sudden snap of his shoulders, and for a second, the music swells, like it's pouring through him, not just into the room.
Jisung just stands there.
Watching.
And for the first time since they met, he realises something.
This is the version of Minho that he's never let anyone see.
And somehow...
He's the one seeing it.
Minho turns, just a half-spin, eyes still slightly unfocused from the momentum, and for a split second, he faces the door.
And Jisung panics.
He jerks back from the window like it burned him, heart kicking hard against his ribs.
Shit.
He didn't mean to stay that long. He didn't mean to watch like that. He hadn't even realised Minho was there in the first place. He was just... Curious.
But now he feels like he's seen something he wasn't meant to. Like he accidentally opened a door to someone's heart and stood there staring.
Because that wasn't performance. That wasn't routine.
That was private.
And if Minho saw him, if he knew...
Jisung doesn't think he'd say anything.
But he also doesn't think he'd come back to the library again.
So he runs. Not full-speed, but fast enough. Head down, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, Hyunjin's phone gripped tight.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
By the time he makes it back to the dorm, his lungs are tight and his mind is racing in a hundred different directions. The room is dark and quiet, still empty. Hyunjin's bed untouched.
Jisung kicks the door shut behind him, flicks on the desk lamp, and plugs Hyunjin's phone in with hands that are still trembling slightly.
He fires off a quick message to Chan to let him know he found it, then he collapses backward onto his bed, landing on top of the covers, fully dressed, shoes still on.
The room is warm, but his chest feels cold.
He can't stop replaying it.
The way Minho moved.
How completely lost in it he was.
How it felt watching someone open themselves up without even knowing it.
It felt intimate. Honest. Raw in a way words could never be.
He tries to distract himself. Scrolls through his phone. Turns on music. Even opens his anime again.
But it's no use.
Every time he blinks, he sees Minho turning in low light. Sees the curve of his hands through the air. The way his shoulders folded into the beat like he was trying to disappear inside it.
And then, without even meaning to, without deciding...
Jisung sits up, grabs his notebook from the bedside shelf, and lets it all pour out.
Lyrics spill onto the page like water bursting from a cracked pipe. He doesn't edit, doesn't stop. Doesn't think.
Line after line after line.
Not about Minho. Not exactly.
But about the feeling.
Of watching someone be more honest in silence than they ever are in speech.
Of seeing something that leaves your chest aching in a way you don't understand yet.
The pen doesn't stop for almost an hour.
When he finally exhales, hand cramping and pages filled, he stares down at what’s in front of him.
It's one of the best things he's ever written.
And it scares the hell out of him.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The next morning, Jisung wakes up in the exact position he fell asleep. Still fully dressed, curled sideways over the top of his covers, notebook half-open on his chest and pen resting against his collarbone.
His first conscious thought?
Minho.
Dancing.
Breathing hard under dim lights.
Completely unaware that someone had seen him in one of his most unguarded moments.
Jisung sits up slowly, notebook sliding into his lap. His legs are stiff, his back aches, and his brain is fogged with sleep, but the weight in his chest hasn't lifted.
He flips through the pages he wrote the night before, almost not believing the words are his. They came so fast, so clear, they didn't feel written so much as discovered. Like they were already there, waiting for him to witness the right thing to unlock them.
And now... He has a problem.
Because the song?
It's good. Like, dangerously good. He already has the ghost of a melody in his head that would accompany it.
And he also knows exactly what kind of visual it needs.
He closes the notebook slowly, spine creaking in his hands.
Minho.
In motion.
That same raw, quiet honesty brought to light.
But how could he ask for something like that?
How could he bring it up without admitting what he saw?
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
Jisung spends the day in a haze.
In class, he zones out mid-lecture and forgets to take notes. At lunch, he pokes at his food, headphones on but no music playing. He types ‘music video concept’ into the search bar in his phone twice before deleting it both times.
He tells himself it was a private moment. That asking Minho to be in the video would cross a line. That it would be selfish, maybe even invasive.
But the truth is...
He wants to ask.
Because no one else moves like that. No one else makes Jisung feel something just by existing in motion.
And the song he wrote?
It came from that moment.
By the time the evening rolls around, Jisung still hasn't decided what he's going to do.
He considers skipping the library entirely, just once. Just to clear his head.
But at 10:20pm, his hands are already stuffed into his hoodie pockets and his feet are carrying him there before he's really made a decision.
When he opens the library door, he half-expects the seat across from him to be empty.
But Minho's there. Right on time.
He's got a clean notebook open in front of him, pen in hand. He glances up when Jisung walks in and offers the usual small nod, casual and unreadable.
And just like that, everything feels exactly the same.
Jisung slides into the seat across from him, placing his laptop on the table. He drops his bag beside the chair and pulls out his notebook, heart thudding, eyes flicking up toward Minho for just a second.
He says nothing.
Doesn't mention the studio. Doesn't say what he saw.
Minho doesn't bring it up either.
If he noticed Jisung at the window, he's not saying.
So they fall back into the rhythm they've built over the last few weeks, quiet stretches of focus punctuated by casual chatter, low-voiced sarcasm, and the occasional shared glance that means nothing on the surface but feels heavier underneath.
"Do you ever actually write essays in that thing," Jisung asks after half an hour, nodding toward Minho's notebook, "or is it just full of mysterious cryptic riddles and passive-aggressive poetry?"
Minho doesn't even look up. "Mostly grocery lists."
Jisung smirks. "You're kidding."
"Well. Only half-joking."
"What, like: 'eggs, milk, existential dread'?"
"Don't forget canned tuna."
Jisung laughs under his breath and turns back to his screen.
He opens the file for his track and hits play, letting the base melody loop quietly through his headphones as he adjusts levels. The hook is starting to come together, but he still doesn't have a concept for the full structure.
At least, that's what he tells himself.
But the truth is, the concept is already there. Sitting across from him. Quiet. Focused. Unbothered.
The melody he wrote, born from watching Minho move through the shadows, weaves in and out of his ears as he layers subtle instrumentals beneath it. He considers a slow build, and experiments with gentle chiming piano notes for the intro.
He wonders if Minho would recognise the emotion in it.
Probably not.
Hopefully not.
He glances up once, just for a second, and finds Minho already looking at him, not intensely, just one of those soft, curious glances.
"You've looped the same eight bars for like... Ten minutes," Minho says, voice quiet.
Jisung blinks. "I'm thinking."
"Uh-huh."
"It's a creative process."
Minho nods, barely holding back a smile. "Loud overthinking is a process now?"
"Clearly," Jisung mutters, cheeks pink as he turns back to his screen.
They fall quiet again.
But the melody keeps playing.
And in Jisung's head, he still sees the shape of Minho's body cutting through the shadows, the way the music hadn't come from him, but through him.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The week passes in a blur.
Jisung builds his track layer by layer, every night in the library with Minho across from him. Their conversations stay light, familiar. Easy. Minho's still quiet, but less guarded now, and Jisung's starting to learn the rhythm of his silences, when to fill them, when to leave them be.
And through it all, the song grows. The melody that started from a single moment becomes something full and complex. Dynamic. Textured. Honest.
He doesn't tell Minho it's about him.
He doesn't ask him to listen.
He doesn't bring up that night in the studio.
But the image hasn't left his mind since. Minho's body catching the music like light in a mirror. His hands slicing through air as if he was trying to carve something out of it.
By the end of the week, the song is finished.
The only thing left is his voice.
Friday night, Minho packs up his things at the end of their library session and says, in his usual neutral tone-
"Won't be here tomorrow night."
Just like before.
No reason given.
No room for questions.
Jisung just nods, trying to hide the way his heart picks up.
"Cool," he says, voice even. "Have a good one."
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
He lasts until 10:27pm.
Then, with his heart in his throat and his feet already moving, he throws on his hoodie and bolts out the door.
It takes less than five minutes this time, his legs remembering every step of the way, his body already knowng where it wanted to be.
He slips into the dance building, footsteps muffled against the old flooring, the hallway hushed and dim.
Studio A.
The soft thump of music filters through the door, not loud, but intense. It pulses like a heartbeat, layered and aching.
Without a single thought of hesitation, Jisung looks through the narrow glass pane again.
And there he is.
Minho.
Alone.
The lighting is the same, low, moody. He's drenched in sweat, shirt clinging to his spine, loose strands of hair sticking to his forehead. And he's dancing again, harder this time. Sharper. Every movement hits the beat perfectly.
It's graceful.
And it's angry.
Jisung watches, unable to look away. The music is slow but heavy, like it's dragging something behind it. And Minho... Minho is trying to keep up. Or outrun it.
Then it happens.
Minho drops to the floor, left hand bracing against the ground, and it buckles beneath him.
He catches himself, barely, before his shoulder hits the floor.
But Jisung sees the pain flash across his face.
And then, Minho slams his other fist into the floor, the sound making Jisung flinch even from behind the glass.
Minho stays crouched there for a second, breathing hard, shoulders heaving.
Then he stands, quick and tense, and strides over to the speaker to cut the music off.
The room plunges into silence.
Jisung backs away from the door before Minho can turn.
His chest aches.
But he doesn't know what to say.
So he leaves.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The door to his room clicks shut behind him, the quiet feeling too loud. Hyunjin still isn't home. Good.
Jisung walks straight to his desk, notebook in hand, and plugs in his mic.
No hesitation this time.
No stalling.
Just raw, open feeling, remembering the way Minho moved, the sound of his anger, the pain in his body, all of it is still in Jisung's chest.
He hits record.
Closes his eyes.
And sings.
"When you move, I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be.
When you move, I could never define all that you are to me."
"So move me, baby.
Shake like the bough of a willow tree.
You do it naturally,
Move me, baby."
His voice cracks on the last line, but he keeps going.
Because it's real.
Because it's his.
And because, finally, he's not afraid of what the song might say.
He knows exactly who it's about.
Even if Minho never hears it.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The next week settles into a rhythm that neither of them questions.
By now, they don't even pretend they're meeting at the library to get work done. Not really. The laptops stay closed, notebook untouched. The coffees Jisung used to bring as a peace offering have turned into habit, and they've started taking it in turns to bring them.
They just... Talk.
Sometimes about nothing. Sometimes about everything.
Jisung learns that Minho hates the taste of artificial banana, that he once fostered a stray cat for two months before his aunt took it in permanently, and that he stress bakes when deadlines pile up.
Minho learns that Jisung often writes lyrics in his Notes app at 3am, that he secretly loves horror movies, but never watches them alone, and that he's never watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy because, quote, ‘I have a fear of long movies and elves.’
One night, when the library door is inexplicably locked, Jisung glances over and says, casual but hopeful,
"Wanna just come to mine instead?"
Minho shrugs like it's no big deal. "Sure."
And just like that, a new chapter starts.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
For the next two weeks they spend nearly every night in Jisung's dorm. Hyunjin is rarely around, always with Chan, and when he is, he just throws them a knowing smirk and puts his headphones on.
Jisung pulls out extra blankets, they eat too many snacks, Minho brings over a USB drive with movies he claims ‘don't suck,’ and Jisung argues about every single one before watching them anyway.
There are nights they lie on the floor just talking, shoulder to shoulder, feet propped against the wall, conversations wandering like they're following a map no one's reading.
It's comfortable.
Natural.
And somehow, the best part of Jisung's day.
And on the two nights where Minho doesn’t come to Jisung’s room after class, Jisung inexplicably finds himself at the door of the dance studio, drawn by some kind of gravity or instinct, watching breathlessly as Minho moves through the room with the music.
Then one night, they're lying on his small single bed, Minho on his side, Jisung on his back, absentmindedly tossing a stress ball in the air.
"Hey," Minho says softly, "How are classes going?"
Jisung pauses. The stress ball hits his hand and bounces to the floor.
He exhales through his nose. "They're... Okay."
Minho hums. "Just okay?"
Jisung shrugs. "I mean... Most of it's fine. Just... My production class."
Minho turns his head. "The music one?"
"Yeah."
A beat.
"You finish the song you were working on?"
Jisung nods. "About three weeks ago."
Minho raises an eyebrow. "Then what's the problem?"
Jisung hesitates. His mouth opens. Closes.
Then opens again.
"... Because I can't..." He stops. Swallows. "I can't ask..."
Minho frowns, confused. "Ask what?"
"I can't..." Jisung repeats, quieter this time. "Because it's not..." He trails off, eyes on the floor, voice too tight to finish.
The silence that follows is thick. Not uncomfortable, but heavy with the weight of secrets.
Minho watches him for a moment longer.
Doesn't push.
Doesn't ask again.
But Jisung can feel it, the question still hanging there between them, suspended like a breath neither of them can let go.
"I... I wanted to ask you," Jisung says, the words catching as they leave his throat.
"If you'd be in the music video."
A breath.
"If you'd... Dance."
The silence stretches between them like a wire pulled tight.
Minho sits up, still watching him, confused.
"Why would you ask me?" he says finally, brow furrowed. "I'm not... Why me?"
Jisung hesitates.
His fingers twist the edge of his blanket, heart pounding louder than it has any right to.
He could lie. Shrug it off. Say something vague and avoid the truth.
But he's tired of swallowing the things that matter.
So he says it.
"Because I saw you. Last month"
Minho's face stills.
Jisung sits up as well and rushes to fill the space before the silence can set like concrete.
"I didn't mean to. I swear. Hyunjin called me... He left his phone in the dance studio, and I went to get it, and on the way out I just... I heard music. I looked through the window."
Minho's eyes are locked on him now, but unreadable. Still. Too still.
"I didn't know it was you at first," Jisung continues, voice softer now. "I wasn't trying to snoop. But when I saw you... I couldn't move. You were just... In it, you know? Not performing. Just... Feeling."
Jisung can’t quite bring himself to tell Minho the full truth. That since that night, he’s taken every opportunity he can to see him dance again. To feel what he feels when he sees him move.
A long pause.
Minho doesn't say anything.
His gaze drops. His body pulls in ever so slightly, like he's curling into himself. Not quite shutting down... But not not shutting down, either.
And then, quietly-
"Nobody was meant to see that."
His voice is rough, not angry, just distant. Small.
Jisung's chest twists. "I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I haven't told anyone, I wouldn't... I didn't even know how to bring it up to you. But I wrote the song after that night. That moment, it... It gave me something. And I can't imagine anyone else being in the video. It's you. It's always been you."
Minho still doesn't look at him.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, jaw clenched. Then, barely above a whisper-
"I wish I could help you."
Jisung's breath catches.
Minho swallows, gaze fixed on the floor.
"But I can't."
A pause.
Minho doesn't move.
His shoulders are tight, hands curled into the sleeves of his hoodie, eyes still fixed on the floor like if he looks anywhere else, he might fall apart.
"I'm not... That, anymore."
The words hang there between them, heavy and bitter and sharp around the edges.
Jisung watches him for a second, heart lodged somewhere in his throat.
He wants to say something. That Minho is still that. That what he saw wasn't gone, it was alive, just hurting, and beautiful in a way that still echoes through every note of the song he wrote.
But the moment is too fragile.
Too raw.
And Jisung knows better than to press against a healing wound.
So instead, he exhales slowly. Nods.
"Okay."
A beat. Then...
"I understand."
Minho still doesn't look at him, but his shoulders drop, just slightly. The tension shifts.
Jisung lets the silence sit for another beat, then clears his throat.
"Cool, cool, cool," he mutters, leaning back against the bed. "Guess that means I'm back to plan B."
Minho doesn't respond.
"Which is..." Jisung continues, straight-faced, "filming a dramatic video of Hyunjin slow-motion running through campus in a crop top and flower crown."
That earns the faintest sound from Minho, a barely-there exhale, almost a laugh. But he shakes his head and covers his face with his hand.
Jisung doesn't push.
He just lets the moment move past them like a wave, gentle and slow, and starts talking about something else. Something stupid. A meme he saw. A terrible cover of a Taylor Swift song he found online.
Minho lets him.
And they sit like that, not quite the same, but still together.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The days that follow are frustrating in a way Jisung can't quite put into words.
He tries to work on a new concept for the music video, really, he does. He sits at his desk, opens blank project files, writes out shot lists. Mood boards. Location ideas.
He scribbles down potential images:
A statue in silhouette.
A city at night.
Hands reaching for something just out of frame.
But it all feels... Empty.
Because every time he closes his eyes, all he sees is Minho. Breathing hard under low lights, back curved, limbs gliding through the air like the music's inside him. That image is branded into him now. It is the song. And nothing else fits.
Worse still are the dreams.
They're not dramatic, no sweeping moments or grand gestures. Just flashes. Fragments.
Minho, barefoot in the studio.
Minho, moving to the song Jisung hasn't let anyone else hear.
Minho, dancing, bleeding honesty into every beat.
Jisung wakes from those dreams breathless. Frustrated. Lost.
When Professor Park asks him after class one day if he has his final plan ready, he can only offer a tight smile and a vague, "I'm working on it."
Which is technically true.
Even if what he's working on is not thinking about someone who already said no.
The only thing that seems untouched by all of it is... Minho.
Their friendship doesn't crack under the weight of his refusal of Jisung's request.
If Minho feels awkward about it, he never shows it.
They still spend every night together in Jisung's room. The routine is unspoken, effortless. Minho shows up. Jisung lets him in.
Hyunjin's bed stays made. His laundry's been in the same basket for a week. He's basically living at Chan's, and neither of them even bothers pretending anymore.
It's just them now.
Jisung and Minho. A blanket shared between them. Dim lamplight. B-movies that are so bad they've started rating them on a 10-point scale of ‘unintentional brilliance.’
And somehow, somewhere along the way, they started leaning into each other.
Literally.
Sometimes Minho's shoulder ends up against Jisung's. Sometimes Jisung leans his head against Minho's. It's never planned, never spoken about. Just a slow, sleepy kind of closeness that creeps in when the world outside feels quieter than usual.
Jisung doesn't know what it means.
He doesn't ask.
But he feels it in his chest every time.
A little ache.
A little pull.
Something like longing, but softer. Something like home.
And still...
The music video stays untouched.
Because no matter how hard he tries, how far he reaches...
It still isn't anyone else.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
It's late one night, past midnight, though neither of them has checked the time in hours.
Jisung is sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, laptop warm on his thighs. His headphones rest around his neck, and he's absentmindedly tapping keys, adjusting layers of sound that are still unfinished.
He's not working on ideas for the music video anymore. Hasn't touched that file in days.
Instead, he's trying to build something new.
Anything to distract him from the truth. That he's hit a wall he can't climb over.
Behind him, Minho lies on the bed, stretched out on his back, one arm folded under his head, the other lazily draped across his chest. He's been listening for the past hour without comment, just letting Jisung work, the glow from the laptop casting soft light across the room.
It's comfortable. Familiar.
Then Minho speaks.
"Is this the song you're using for the music video?"
Jisung's fingers still on the trackpad.
A pause.
Then he sighs, tilting his head back slightly.
"... It will be now."
Minho shifts slightly on the bed, enough for Jisung to catch the movement from the corner of his eye.
"Why?"
Jisung hesitates.
He knows he should make something up. Something light. Something that doesn't press weight onto Minho's chest, because the last thing he wants is to make him feel like this is his fault.
But he's tired.
And maybe it's time to stop lying about how much this has been weighing on him.
So he closes his laptop just slightly. Looks down at his hands.
"Because I can't think of anything else," he admits, quietly. "Every time I try, it's just... Blank. Because the song..."
He stops. Swallows.
"It's you."
Minho doesn't move.
Jisung keeps his gaze low.
"That night... Watching you dance. I couldn't look away. That is the song. That's where it came from. And now I can't see anything else. I've tried. Believe me, I've tried."
A breath.
"But whatever the video was supposed to be... It's already tied to you."
Silence stretches, fragile but not uncomfortable.
Then Minho says, softly:
"Play it for me."
Jisung looks up, surprised. "What?"
Minho shifts again, now propped up slightly on one elbow. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is clear.
"Play it."
Jisung hesitates. No one else has heard it. Not even Hyunjin. It feels... Too personal. Too close.
But Minho's gaze doesn't waver.
"Please."
And somehow, that one word makes all the fear in Jisung's chest crack a little.
He opens the laptop again. Finds the file.
Hands trembling just slightly, he hits play.
The room fills with sound.
Soft at first. Subtle. Layers of music and breath and rhythm stitched together like heartbeat and memory.
The vocals come in, Jisung's voice, a little raw, a little hoarse in that way it gets when something matters too much.
I still watch you when you're groovin'
As if through water from the bottom of a pool
You're movin' without movin'
And when you move, I'm moved
You are a call to motion
There, all of you a verb in perfect view
Like Jonah on the ocean
When you move, I'm moved.
He doesn't look at Minho.
But he feels the shift in the air.
The music pulses around them. Slow. Intimate. Truth wearing melody like armour.
And then, just barely, Jisung sees it.
Minho's hand twitches.
A muscle in his arm flexes.
His toes curl against the blanket, like some part of him is responding on instinct, like his body hears the song and knows exactly what to do with it.
So move me, baby,
Shake like the bough of a willow tree...
You do it naturally...
Move me, baby.
He doesn't speak.
Doesn't interrupt.
Just listens.
And Jisung watches him, barely breathing.
The song ends.
The final note trails off, fading into the stillness of the room. The silence that follows is so thick it hums, pressing around them like fog.
Jisung doesn't move.
He doesn't dare look directly at Minho, not yet.
He stares at the screen instead, heart hammering, chest so tight it aches.
He's not sure he's ever been more afraid of silence.
He wants to ask... What did you think?
But he's terrified of the answer.
Even more terrified of the absence of one. He finally turns to look at Minho, who is led against the bed again, looking at the ceiling in silence.
And then...
Minho closes his eyes.
Not tightly. Not like he's shutting the world out.
But like he's feeling something. Like it's too much to look at.
A moment passes.
Then another.
And finally, his voice, soft. Barely above a whisper.
"Play it again."
Jisung blinks.
Minho still isn't looking at him. His eyes remain closed, chest rising and falling slow and deep, like he's steadying himself.
Jisung swallows, nods even though Minho can't see it, and moves the cursor back.
His fingers are trembling again.
But he presses play.
And the room fills with the sound of Minho's own reflection.
This time, Jisung watches Minho fully.
Not just stolen glances, not from the corner of his eye.
He watches.
And Minho moves.
Not like before, when the response was subtle, a twitch, a shift, a curl of toes.
Now, it's more.
A slow tightening in his jaw.
The rise and fall of his chest syncing to the rhythm.
His brows drawing together, like something inside him is being unravelled thread by thread.
And then, his arm lifts.
One slow, fluid motion, as if he's underwater and chasing something he can't quite hold. His wrist turns in the air, fingers following the arc of a phantom phrase, like the music is pulling it from him piece by piece.
Jisung forgets to breathe.
He's not dancing. Not really.
He's feeling.
And it's visible in everything, the lines of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the way his lips part just barely like he's breathing in the song.
You are the rite of movement
Its reasonin' made lucid and cool
I know it's no improvement
When you move, I move
You're less Polunin leapin'
Or Fred Astaire in sequins
Honey, you, you're Atlas in his sleepin'
And when you move, I'm moved
Minho shifts upright now, no longer lying down. His knees bend, arms loose across them, but his spine stays straight, every muscle humming with tension he doesn't seem to realise is there.
As the chorus builds, his hand moves again, a flick, a sweep, a ghost of something bigger.
His expression cracks wide open.
Vulnerability.
Resignation.
Grief.
And underneath it all, something Jisung almost doesn't dare name.
Longing.
Minho's eyes stay closed, but his entire body is listening now. Breathing with it. Letting the sound inside without defence.
So move me, baby...
Shake like the bough of a willow tree...
You do it naturally...
The music dips into its final stretch.
Minho's chest rises once more, sharp this time. Like a breath caught at the edge of something that hurts.
Then stillness.
The last note echoes, lingers... And fades.
Jisung doesn't speak.
He can't.
His hands have gone still on his laptop. His entire body is pulsing with something wordless.
Minho doesn't open his eyes right away.
When he does, they don't go to Jisung.
They go to the floor.
They're glassy, but dry, the kind of look someone gets when they've held back an entire tide and still feel the weight of it pressing against their ribs.
He doesn't look at Jisung.
Not yet.
His gaze stays fixed somewhere on the floor, unfocused. Like he's still not fully in the room. Like a part of him is still inside the music, still unravelling in the space it left behind.
His lips part.
And for a long moment, he doesn't say anything.
Then, just above a whisper...
"That's what it feels like."
Jisung's breath catches. He blinks, not sure he heard right.
Minho exhales slowly through his nose, eyes still on the floor.
"When I dance."
A pause.
"That's what it feels like."
The words settle in Jisung's chest like something sacred. Like permission.
He doesn't reply. Doesn't dare fill the quiet with anything less honest.
Minho finally looks up.
His expression is open in a way Jisung has never seen from him before. No armour. No distance. Just raw, quiet truth.
And then, gently-
"If I do it... Your video... I'm not performing."
A beat.
"I'm not acting. I won't fake it."
Jisung nods, heart pounding.
"Good," he says softly. "I don't want fake."
Minho holds his gaze.
Then-
"Okay. I’ll do it"
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The next week is different.
Now there's a purpose to their late nights. A spark in the room, lit from the second Minho said okay.
They spend hours on the floor of Jisung's room, surrounded by scribbled notes, open laptops, empty snack bags, and two half-dead highlighters. The energy is chaotic, focused, creative. a collision of minds that somehow fit perfectly.
They brainstorm location ideas. A rooftop at sunrise. An empty auditorium. The studio where it all started.
Minho surprises Jisung by having opinions, strong ones, even, about lighting and movement. He explains how certain shadows hit differently depending on the time of day, how it can add a kind of softness to motion that nothing else can replicate.
They make lists of outfits. Nothing flashy, just clothes that feel real. A plain and worn white tank top, Denim and a loose hoodie, plain coloured pants and bare skin.
"Okay, I think that's enough planning," Jisung says one night around 2 in the morning, rubbing at his eyes and yawning so hard it makes his spine pop. "We've officially hit the phase where every single idea sounds good and also like total garbage."
Minho sprawls backwards on the floor with a groan, arm flung over his face. "We forgot dinner again."
Jisung blinks, checks the clock, winces. "Oh my god. We're useless."
"I'm dying," Minho mutters.
Jisung grabs his wallet. "Come on. Ramyeon run. Convenience store on the corner will still be open."
Minho groans louder but rolls to his feet anyway, tugging on his hoodie. "If I collapse halfway, carry me."
Jisung grins. "You're taller than me."
Minho shrugs. "Then die trying."
It's raining.
Not hard, just that steady, whispery kind of rain that coats everything in a silver blur and makes the whole world feel soft around the edges.
Minho clicks open an umbrella as they step out into the quiet street, and immediately grumbles under his breath.
"Why did it have to be raining?"
"Because the weather likes giving us main character energy," Jisung replies, tugging his hoodie tighter.
Minho doesn't answer, just angles the umbrella subtly, naturally, toward Jisung.
It's so casual, so instinctive, Jisung doesn't notice at first.
Until he realises that his entire right side is dry... And Minho's left shoulder is getting soaked.
He slows slightly, glancing over.
"Hey, your shoulder's-"
"I have two," Minho says flatly.
Jisung snorts. "That's not how that works."
Minho doesn't move the umbrella. Doesn't look at him.
Just keeps walking beside him in that same quiet way he always does, like the rain doesn't matter if Jisung stays dry.
And for some reason, that is the moment Jisung feels his chest ache.
Not from longing.
But from something softer.
Something that feels too dangerous to examine.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
Back in Jisung's room, they sit cross-legged on the floor, bowls of steaming ramyeon warming their fingers, triangle kimbap wrappers scattered across the floor.
The rain still taps softly at the window.
"God, I didn't even realise how hungry I was," Jisung says through a mouthful of noodles. "I could cry."
Minho hums, sipping from the broth like it's medicine. "I think I've ascended."
Jisung's about to respond when Minho suddenly pauses, blinking at his phone screen.
He sighs. "Ah, shibal. Jeongin messaged me like..." He checks the time. "Six hours ago. The power's out in our block. No heating, no lights, and apparently the maintenance office 'can't do anything until morning.'"
He says it in a monotone but the grimace on his face gives him away.
"Damn," Jisung says. "That sucks."
Minho tosses his phone onto the blanket and leans his head back against the bed frame. "It's already freezing. It's gonna be like a fridge in there."
There's a beat of silence.
Then, carefully, quietly, Jisung says-
"You can stay here... If you want. I have a spare toothbrush in the Bathroom cupboard."
Minho blinks at him.
Jisung keeps his eyes on his nearly-empty bowl. "I mean, Hyunjin's obviously not coming back. You can take his bed. If that's not weird."
Minho doesn't say anything right away.
Then, without ceremony-
"Okay."
Jisung looks up.
Minho shrugs. "I don't feel like freezing to death tonight."
Jisung tries not to smile, or show how relieved he feels. "Cool. Yeah. Makes sense."
They finish eating slowly, letting the warmth soak into their fingers, the soft buzz of comfort stretching between them like a thread. When the bowls are stacked and the wrappers tossed, Jisung opens his laptop again, sitting cross-legged on the bed to review some notes on the video.
Minho eventually stretches out beside him, head resting on Jisung's pillow, scrolling aimlessly on his phone for a bit before the screen goes dark in his hand.
Jisung doesn't notice right away.
He's mid-sentence, turning to ask, "What do you think about this transition from wide shot to close-up when-"
But Minho doesn't answer.
Because he's already asleep.
Flat on his back, arms tucked against his chest, face relaxed in a way Jisung has never seen before, softened by sleep, lashes brushing his cheekbone, the furrow between his brows finally smooth.
Jisung falls silent.
And just... Looks.
For a long moment, he just watches Minho breathe.
It's quiet.
Safe.
And in the glow of the laptop screen, Minho looks unreal.
Not in the performative way.
Not in the spotlight kind of beautiful.
But the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you in moments like this, peaceful, unguarded, and completely unaware of how much space he's come to take up in someone else's world.
Jisung swallows. Gently closes the laptop and sets it aside on the nightstand, careful not to disturb the quiet stillness that's settled in the room.
Then he reaches for a folded blanket from the end of the bed and pulls it over Minho's resting form, slow and careful. He hesitates a moment, then leans in and gently brushes a loose strand of hair from Minho's forehead. His fingers are featherlight, and he holds his breath, afraid even air might wake him.
Minho doesn't stir.
Jisung lingers just a second longer, just long enough to memorise the way his face looks like this. Soft, content, warm despite the cold outside.
Then he crosses the room, climbs into Hyunjin's bed, and pulls the covers up to his chin.
It takes him a while to fall asleep.
Not because he's uncomfortable.
But because he's never shared space with someone like this. Never felt like this.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
When Jisung wakes, it's already bright outside. Not painfully so, just the kind of lazy light that says you've slept in and no one can blame you.
He blinks, groggy, hair a mess.
And then hears it.
A soft voice.
"Hey."
He turns his head, and there's Minho, sitting upright on his bed now, fully awake, hair mussed from sleep and the blanket still pooled around his waist.
He's rubbing the back of his neck, sheepish.
"I, uh." A pause. "Sorry for stealing your bed."
Jisung squints. "You didn't steal it. You fell asleep."
"Still," Minho mutters, glancing away. "Next time just... I don't know. Kick me out or something."
Jisung yawns, pushing himself upright in Hyunjin's bed. "Minho, I would never kick you out of my bed."
He hears it as soon as it leaves his mouth.
Minho freezes just slightly. Jisung does too.
Oh no.
His face goes bright red. "I... I mean, not like that, I mean... If you need it, like as a place to sleep, not... Oh my god, I hate myself."
Minho's mouth twitches, but he says nothing.
Just stands, stretches a little too casually, and says, "You want to order food or something?"
Jisung nods way too fast. "Yes. Food. Great. Love that."
They end up curled up on Jisung's bed again after lunch, both in hoodies and sweats, laptop perched across their thighs as they pick a random anime series neither of them has seen before.
It's already well past 3pm.
There's no plan today. No deadlines. No pressure.
They'd agreed, without needing to say much, to take a break from video planning. Just for a little while. Just to breathe.
At some point in the third episode, Minho shifts slightly, his shoulder pressing against Jisung's as he leans back.
Neither of them comments.
Neither of them moves away.
The sound of the anime fills the room, but Jisung barely hears it.
Because Minho's right there.
Warm and close and real.
And somehow, that's more comforting than any plot line ever could be.
They're halfway through episode four, both half-slumped against Jisung's headboard, when Minho's phone buzzes loudly against the bedside table.
Minho groans and reaches over lazily, squinting at the screen.
"... Jeongin."
He answers on speaker without moving from where he's nestled into the blanket against Jisung.
"Yeah?"
Jeongin's voice crackles through immediately, loud and dramatic.
"HYUNG, I'M GOING TO START A FIRE. IN THE MIDDLE OF OUR LIVING ROOM."
Jisung snorts. Minho doesn't even blink.
"What now?"
"Maintenance just called me back," Jeongin continues, clearly pacing from the sound of it. "They're saying they won't be able to fix anything until Monday. That's two more nights, Minho. TWO. I'm sleeping in a hoodie and a hat and I think I saw my own breath this morning."
"Wear more layers," Minho says flatly, flipping a piece of popcorn into his mouth.
Jeongin groans. "I'm losing the will to live. And if I freeze to death, it's on you."
"I'm not even there," Minho deadpans.
"Exactly! Because you vanished into the warm, cosy night like some smug drama protagonist with perfect cheekbones and left me to DIE."
Minho sighs and taps the screen to hang up without replying.
The room falls quiet again except for the anime still playing, and the soft sound of Jisung trying very hard not to laugh out loud.
"Drama queen," Minho mutters, settling back into the pillow.
Jisung glances at him. "So... Are you staying here?"
Minho hesitates for maybe half a second.
Then nods, casual. "Yeah. If that's still okay."
Jisung's chest gives a small, ridiculous squeeze.
"Of course it is."
Minho doesn't respond right away, but Jisung catches the tiniest upward quirk at the corner of his mouth before he turns his attention back to the screen.
And just like that, it's settled.
Minho will be staying until Monday.
The rest of the day slips by with soft laughter and a slow rhythm that neither of them questions.
They spend the afternoon lazing around the room, food containers from their late lunch scattered on Jisung's desk, hoodies swapped out for t-shirts. The anime continues to play, filling the silence between conversations with exaggerated reactions and theme songs that are already starting to stick in Jisung's head.
When the sun finally dips beneath the skyline, the warmth of the room becomes all the more comforting.
This time, when it gets late and the yawns become harder to ignore, Minho doesn't hesitate. He claims Hyunjin's bed before Jisung can even offer it, flopping down with a groan and a mumbled “I'm getting in now before I end up stealing your bed again."
Jisung laughs, shoving a pillow at his face. "You're learning."
But they don't sleep just yet.
They keep talking.
Low and slow and soft, voices just above a whisper.
It's nearly 3am before they stop. Not because they run out of things to say, but because their words keep getting lost between yawns and the heavy pull of sleep.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The pattern repeats the next day, like something practiced.
They sleep late.
They order takeout again, spicy chicken and steamed dumplings this time.
They curl up on Jisung's bed once more, legs tangled under a blanket that's definitely not designed for two people but has become theirs to share by silent agreement.
Anime plays in the background again, and somewhere around episode eleven or twelve, they pause it. Not for any particular reason, just because the conversation picks up, and the show fades into the background.
The laptop gets shifted to the nightstand.
They stay where they are, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, until the talking pulls them downward, sinking them deeper into the mattress.
Eventually, they're both lying on their sides, facing each other, pillows shared between them. The soft hush of the room makes everything feel more real, like honesty has more room to breathe here.
And that's when Minho tells him.
He doesn't make a big deal of it. Just says it in the same calm, neutral voice he uses when he's suggesting a film to watch.
"It was my wrist."
Jisung blinks. "Your...?"
Minho nods slightly. "The injury. Last year."
Jisung stays quiet, letting him go at his own pace.
Minho shifts his hand slightly between them, eyes on the ceiling. "Tore a ligament. Badly. Surgery went okay, but I had to stop dancing for a while. Couldn't even hold a mug properly at first. Or tie my shoelaces. And the scar..." His voice trails off.
Jisung reaches out without thinking.
He takes Minho's hand, gently, and pulls his wrist up into the space between them.
The laptop screen still casts a dim light across the bed, just enough to see by.
There, cutting through the skin at an angle near the joint, is a faint white scar. Thin and clean, but undeniable.
Jisung holds it carefully, thumb brushing just beside it.
"It's healed."
Minho doesn't answer, but he doesn't pull away.
"It's part of you now," Jisung adds softly. "And it's still you."
Minho swallows. His hand doesn't move.
Jisung lets the moment stay quiet.
Then, slowly, he shifts the blanket up over both of them, tugging it to his chin with a lazy sigh. The chill is setting in again, the kind that sneaks under doors and through cracks in windows. But here, under the covers, it's warm.
Their conversation slows with the falling temperature and the weight of the day.
Eventually, Minho sighs, voice muffled slightly by the pillow.
"I should move. Go to the other bed before I pass out."
Jisung, already half-asleep, turns over with a yawn. "Don't worry. There's enough space. I'll face the wall and protect your dignity."
Minho huffs a soft laugh.
But he doesn't move from the bed.
A moment later, Jisung feels the bed shift, just slightly, as Minho mirrors his position, turning so they're back to back.
There's maybe an inch of space between them. Maybe less.
It's comforting, effortless... And just close enough to be terrifying.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
Morning comes slowly.
Jisung wakes to the faint glow of sunlight bleeding in around the edges of the blinds, warm and diffused, soft enough that it's hard to tell what time it is.
He blinks blearily at the ceiling for a moment, brain fogged with sleep.
And then he realises...
Minho's head is on his chest.
Not just near. Not just close.
Resting. Right there.
Minho's hair is a mess of soft strands tickling the underside of Jisung's jaw. One of his arms is tucked awkwardly beneath Jisung's side, the other draped across his waist like it's always belonged there. Their legs are hopelessly tangled under the covers, warm and heavy and together in a way that makes Jisung's breath catch.
He doesn't move.
Not because he's scared Minho will wake, but because he doesn't want this to end.
His heart thuds gently against Minho's temple, steady and loud in the quiet room.
Somehow, sometime during the night, they'd turned toward each other. Closed the space. Fell into something that feels a little like gravity and a little like home.
Jisung stares at the ceiling for a moment longer, trying to decide what to do with his arms, his thoughts, and the fact that he can feel every single place Minho touches him.
Eventually, he lets his gaze drift down.
Minho's face is soft in sleep, no tension in his jaw, no shadows under his eyes. Just peace. His lashes flicker slightly, but he doesn't stir.
Jisung thinks, distantly.
He's even more beautiful like this.
Unconscious, unguarded, and pressed against him like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Jisung swallows hard, feeling a sudden heat bloom beneath his skin that has nothing to do with the blanket.
He doesn't move.
Not yet.
Just closes his eyes again.
Listens to the quiet.
And lets himself have this... For just a little longer.
Minho stirs slowly.
It starts with a quiet exhale, then a subtle shift, his fingers twitch against Jisung's side, legs stretching slightly under the blanket. His brows furrow like he's only just beginning to register the unfamiliar comfort.
Then, suddenly, his entire body goes still.
Jisung feels it the second Minho realises where and how they're lying.
There's a sharp inhale. A beat of stunned silence.
And then Minho lifts his head from Jisung's chest like he's been burned.
"Oh my god!" he blurts, already sitting up, voice still thick with sleep and horror. "Shit, sorry, I didn't... Fuck, I didn't mean to-"
Jisung follows him with his eyes, wide and blinking, still half under the covers. "Minho-"
"I thought... I must've turned over, God, I didn't even realise-" He runs a hand through his hair, already avoiding eye contact, and it's then that Jisung sees it...
The tips of his ears are bright red.
He's mortified.
And it's... Painfully cute.
Jisung sits up a little, the blanket slipping off his shoulder.
"Minho. Hey. It's okay."
Minho finally glances at him, cautious, still braced like he expects judgment.
But Jisung just gives him a lopsided, sleepy smile.
"I don't mind."
A pause. Long enough for it to settle.
Minho blinks, throat working like he's trying to believe it.
"Seriously," Jisung adds, a little softer. "It was warm. And... Kind of nice."
Minho looks away again, rubbing at the back of his neck, flustered but visibly calming down. The redness lingers on his ears.
"Still. Sorry," he mumbles. "Didn't mean to invade your space."
Jisung hides a smile in his pillow.
If only you knew, he thinks.
Then says, out loud, "You can invade my space anytime."
Minho freezes.
Jisung flushes. "I mean... Not like that! I meant... Like, as in... Oh my god, I need to learn when to shut up."
Minho doesn't say anything. Doesn't tease him.
But there's a small, unmistakable curve to his lips as he slides out of bed, stretching his arms above his head.
"I'm gonna brush my teeth," he says casually.
And Jisung, still red in the face, watches him go.
Heart thudding. Stomach flipping.
Because Minho didn't dismiss what he said.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
By the time Minho emerges from the bathroom, the worst of the blush has faded from his cheeks, but the tips of his ears are still stubbornly pink, and Jisung can't stop noticing it.
He pretends to be very busy rummaging through the snack drawer.
"I was gonna make toast," he offers, already pulling out two mugs.
Minho nods. "Yeah. Toast sounds good."
They move around each other like they've done this a hundred times. Minho butters the toast while Jisung grabs plates out the cupboard. Neither of them says much, but the silence is easy, even with the faint awkward edges clinging to the morning.
Still, Jisung catches him.
Once, when he bends to get the plates.
Once, when he looks over his shoulder to hand Minho a butterknife.
And again, when their fingers brush too long.
Minho flushes each time, subtle, brief, as if he's trying to keep it contained.
Jisung smiles into his cup.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
By mid-morning, it's time to get ready for class.
They leave together, hoodies on, bags slung over shoulders, a lazy shuffle down the path to the main building.
It's bright outside, the air crisp with the chill of winter, but it doesn't feel so sharp when they're side by side.
They stop by the campus coffee shop.
Two iced americanos, no hesitation.
The barista greets them with a cheery, "Morning, Jisung. Minho. Didn't know you two knew each other" Her eyes linger on Jisung just a second too long, and her smile definitely carries a little something extra.
Jisung clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the cake display case.
Minho nudges him lightly with his elbow. Jisung doesn't look up.
They step back with their drinks, and the walk slows again as they near the point where they'll have to split off.
"Okay," Jisung says, adjusting the strap of his bag. "So... Meet back at mine after class?"
Minho nods. "Yeah. I'll grab my stuff and come over. We really need to finish choosing the location."
There's a pause.
Jisung fidgets with his straw. "Cool. Yeah. Sounds good."
They stand there a moment longer, neither quite moving.
Then Minho lifts his drink in a small salute and starts backing away. "Later."
Jisung watches him go, lips twitching around the straw of his cup.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
That evening, Jisung's room is a mess of scribbled maps, YouTube location walkthroughs, timestamped reference clips, and half-eaten snacks. The space smells faintly of takeaway and Minho's shampoo, something clean and subtle that's beginning to linger in Jisung's blankets.
They're both seated cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced between them, a still frame of a wide, industrial warehouse frozen on screen.
Dark shadowed areas. Dusty concrete. High windows bleeding pale light.
Room to move. Room to feel.
Minho leans forward, tilting his head. "This one."
Jisung looks at him. "You sure?"
Minho nods slowly. "The echo in a space like that will affect how it feels even without sound. It's got weight. And there's enough width for longer phrases, turns, drops. I won't have to pull back."
He says it so matter-of-factly. But there's something softer in his voice, something that slips through like trust.
Jisung's heart does that quiet, inconvenient flip again.
"Then it's this one," he says, saving the tab and typing the location into their plan. "We'll go check it out tomorrow."
Minho hums in agreement but doesn't move.
Neither of them does.
The clock on Jisung's desk ticks toward midnight. Their food containers have gone cold. The music video plan is mostly done. They just need to call it a night.
But neither of them seems all that eager.
The conversation starts to drift. From shoot times to lighting, from lighting to editing programs, from editing programs to...
"Have you always been this bad at speaking?" Minho teases lightly after Jisung fumbles a sentence for the third time in a row.
"I'm tired," Jisung mutters, covering his face with his hands. "And nervous. And your face is distracting."
There's a pause.
Minho's quiet.
Jisung slowly lowers his hands in horror. "Oh my god. I said that out loud, didn't I?"
Minho blinks at him. Then smiles, small, but unmistakable.
"I've been told worse," he says, sipping the last of his drink like nothing happened.
Jisung groans and falls back against the bed.
But even then... He doesn't tell Minho to go.
And Minho doesn't move to leave.
It's past 1:00am when Minho finally stands up, stretching his arms overhead. "Okay. I should go before Jeongin thinks I've abandoned him forever."
Jisung nods, slowly getting up too, but neither of them rushes.
Instead, they hover near the door.
Not awkwardly.
Just... Hesitantly.
Like neither of them is quite ready for the night to end.
"So," Minho says, adjusting the strap of his bag, "we'll head to the warehouse after class?"
"Yeah," Jisung replies, a little too softly. "We'll bring the camera and test a few shots."
"Cool."
Another pause.
Minho's hand lingers on the door handle. "Thanks for letting me crash here the last few days."
Jisung shrugs, but there's warmth in it. "It's fine. You kind of just... Fit here."
The words slip out before he can think too hard.
Minho's eyes flick up to his, unreadable for a second.
Then a nod. Gentle. Almost shy.
"Night, Sungie."
Jisung feels the nickname settle over him like a blanket, soft, unexpected, and impossibly warm, blooming in his chest so fast it steals the breath from his lungs.
"Night, Minho."
He waits until the door clicks shut behind Minho before he lets out the breath he didn't realise he was holding.
The room feels a little less warm without him in it.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The warehouse is colder than Jisung expected.
They arrive mid-afternoon, light filtering in at a soft angle through cracked windows and high, dust-smudged panes. The space echoes. Every footstep, every shift of breath bouncing back with ghost-like gentleness. The cold wraps around them like a second skin.
Jisung sets up the tripod and checks the battery on his camera while Minho stretches off to the side, silent and focused. He doesn't speak much while warming up, just rolls his wrists, bends through his spine, traces invisible paths across the floor with his feet.
It's different from watching him sleep.
Different from sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the half-dark.
This Minho is... Precise. Present.
And then he begins to move.
Even without music, his body finds rhythm. The breath in his chest becomes the beat. His weight shifts and slides like water on glass, every line of his form cutting clean through the stillness. The concrete seems to hold its breath with him.
Jisung forgets to hit record at first.
Just watches.
Minho steps into a turn, exhales hard, and a small puff of condensation blooms from his lips, delicate and fleeting in the cold air. Jisung watches it vanish, then another forms with the next breath, soft like smoke, fading just as fast.
It's stupid, he thinks.
How even the way Minho breathes looks like choreography.
He finally remembers the camera, hitting record as Minho settles into a slow phrase, one long, fluid motion that dips low before twisting upward like he's pulling himself from the earth.
A pause.
Minho stops, panting lightly, the fog of his breath rising in the air again.
He turns to Jisung, sweat just starting to glisten near his hairline.
"Is it looking okay?"
Jisung opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.
Because Minho's flushed from movement, strands of hair stuck to his forehead, chest rising and falling in the cold. His eyes are sharp, but his expression is soft. Vulnerable in that open, post-performance kind of way.
"You're beautiful," Jisung breathes before he can stop himself.
Then immediately panics.
"I, uh, the dancing. I meant the dancing. It's beautiful."
Minho doesn't say anything at first.
Just looks at him.
Not teasing. Not smug.
Just... Looking.
Then, quietly,
"Thanks."
And goes back to stretching out his shoulders, like he didn't just knock the wind out of Jisung entirely.
Jisung exhales, cheeks burning, and returns his attention to the playback on his screen.
It's not just beautiful.
It's everything.
And he's terrified of what that means.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
They film across two days.
A week after the test run, the warehouse becomes their second home, echoing, expansive, and filled with the quiet tension of creating something that matters. The kind of space that holds emotion in its bones. The kind of light that feels borrowed from a dream.
They arrive early on day one, the sky still tinted lavender-grey, clouds low and moody.
Jisung sets up the camera first, checking angles, adjusting the gimbal. Minho stretches in silence nearby, a bundle of nerves tucked under his hoodie.
Their plan is loose by design, a storyboard in theory, but flexible. Feeling-led.
They film at different times of day to experiment. Chasing the way the light shifts as the sun crawls its arc through the broken windows above. Early morning brings long shadows and gold-tinted edges. Midday light is harsh, high contrast. Late afternoon softens everything.
Jisung directs gently, rarely speaking unless Minho asks.
Most of the time, he just watches.
Minho dances in three different outfits, all simple. The first has him in denim pants, a white tank top, thin khaki hoodie and black sleeveless jacket with boots. The second, a pair of form-fitting dark pants with black shoes. The third, a looser pair of white pants with matching white shoes. He keeps the wardrobe muted, skin and breath and movement doing all the storytelling.
They try different approaches, wide shots with slow zooms, handheld close-ups, even scenes for the final shot on top of the roof, leaving them both feeling a bit dizzy from the height.
Jisung tries to stay professional, he really does, but the moment Minho shrugs off his shirt for the next set of filming, something in his brain short-circuits. It's not just the way the light catches the curve of his shoulders or the ripple of muscle as he moves. It's the quiet confidence in his body, the vulnerability in baring it. Jisung's breath stutters, camera momentarily forgotten, because how is he supposed to film beauty like that and not feel something?
Every so often, Minho stops between takes, breathing hard, palms on his knees, and Jisung catches the sight he keeps waiting for. That puff of condensation again. It makes him want to write a hundred more songs.
Day two arrives colder.
They shoot more structured scenes, transitions between outfits, experimenting with cuts that blur time, as if Minho is dancing not across not just space but through memory.
The air bites at their fingers when they stop to review footage. Jisung's laptop sits propped against a gear bag, half a thermos of lukewarm coffee beside it.
Minho watches himself on screen, arms folded, face unreadable.
"This part," Jisung says, pointing at a segment where the light hits Minho's shoulder just as he drops into a slow roll. "We should build around this. It's the moment."
Minho glances sideways at him. "You really think it's that good?"
"I think," Jisung replies, without missing a beat, "I'm going to be chasing this feeling for the rest of my life."
It hangs between them.
Minho looks away first. Not uncomfortable, just thoughtful.
Then he nods. "Okay. Let's keep going."
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
Jisung doesn't call "cut." as Minho finishes the last part they film. He just lets the moment end naturally.
When Minho finally stops moving, chest rising and falling with soft, tired breaths, the only sound in the warehouse is the quiet click of the camera's final stop.
They stand there a moment longer, surrounded by stillness and light and the weight of what they've just created.
Then Jisung says, voice quiet-
"We got it."
Minho turns toward him, brow furrowed slightly. "You sure?"
"Positive."
Another silence.
But this one's full. Full of everything, the hours poured into this project, the way Minho let himself be seen, and the way Jisung captured every moment.
Minho gives him a tired smile.
Not a big one.
But real.
"Okay," he says again. And this time, it feels like something else entirely.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The week that follows the shoot is quieter. But somehow heavier.
Not in a bad way, not overwhelming, just... Full.
Full of hours hunched over Jisung's laptop, adjusting colour grading and frame timing. Full of replayed clips and sound-sync tweaks and Minho asking, ‘One more time?’ even though Jisung already watched the same shot twenty-seven times.
They sit side by side, knees pressed together, eyes flicking between the screen and each other.
The edit comes together slowly, deliberately. Jisung's attention to detail sharpens with every click. And Minho trusts him. Sits there with him night after night, eyes focused, chin tucked into his hoodie, offering notes that are always thoughtful, always quiet.
On the third night, they're deep in the final sequence when Jisung rubs his eyes and squints at the corner of the screen.
2:17 AM.
He yawns, stretches, then turns toward Minho.
"You want to just... Stay again?"
He says it casually, like it's no big deal.
But his heart kicks up when Minho glances over.
There's a pause. Then Minho nods, voice low.
"Yeah. I'd like that."
No teasing. No sarcasm. Just truth.
And when they brush their teeth side by side and crawl into bed, the same bed, this time, no questions asked, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
They lie back to back again at first, just like before.
But they fall asleep talking.
And somewhere between midnight and morning, the space between them disappears.
On the fourth and fifth night, it happens again.
Neither of them brings it up. Neither of them needs to.
They go to class like normal. Jisung takes notes on album layering and scribbles video timestamps in the margins. Minho sends him texts during breaks, small thoughts, random memes, a picture of a stray cat he saw.
Then after class, they go home. And it feels like that, like home.
They eat convenience store ramen on the floor, review the new render, argue gently over transitions. Sometimes they barely edit. Sometimes they talk for hours about everything and nothing, songs that shaped them, teachers they hated, the weird dreams they've had lately.
And every night, Minho stays.
Every night, they fall asleep side by side.
Sometimes back to back.
Sometimes facing each other.
And every morning, they wake up a little closer.
A knee touching a shin. A hand tucked just barely against a wrist.
The morning after the sixth night, the morning light is gentle, a soft haze of gold filtering through the thin curtains, catching in the folds of the blanket and the curve of Minho's cheek.
Jisung wakes to stillness.
Warmth.
Breath that isn't his.
He blinks slowly, eyes adjusting, and then...
Minho.
Right there.
Their noses are inches apart, close enough that Jisung can count his eyelashes, trace the slope of them with his gaze. Minho's lips are slightly parted, his breath slow and steady against Jisung's skin. One of his hands is curled loosely in the space between them, like he fell asleep reaching.
Jisung doesn't move.
Can't.
Because something in his chest has cracked open, and the weight of the moment is pressing down on every part of him, in the softest, most unbearable way.
Minho is breathtaking.
Not in the way people usually mean it. Not in some textbook, glossy kind of way.
But in the kind of way that steals something from you.
The kind that makes your chest tight and your stomach hollow and your hands ache to touch just a little longer.
He's so beautiful it hurts.
And the worst part?
He doesn't even seem to know.
Jisung's eyes trace the little things, the way Minho's hair falls slightly over his temple, the curve of his mouth, the tiny shadow cast by his lashes.
He reaches up before he can second-guess it, and with the gentlest touch, brushes the stray strands away from Minho's forehead.
It's barely anything. A whisper of contact.
But Minho stirs.
His eyes blink open slowly, soft, unfocused, still caught in sleep.
Jisung freezes.
His hand hovers, heart lurching.
He expects Minho to startle. To pull away. To tense up or tease or ask what the hell he's doing.
But he doesn't.
Minho just smiles.
Soft. Sleep-warm.
A little crooked from being half-buried in the pillow.
His voice is barely a murmur.
"Hey."
Jisung forgets how to breathe.
"Hey," he manages back, so quiet it's almost nothing.
Minho's eyes stay on him a second longer, open and honest in a way that makes Jisung feel seen, really seen, like he couldn't hide if he tried.
Then Minho's eyes slip shut again, and he lets out a soft breath before shifting just slightly, closer.
Their foreheads brush.
Nothing more.
But everything, too.
Jisung stays awake long after Minho drifts back to sleep, staring at him with a heart that won't stop racing.
And the only thought in his head is-
I'm in trouble.
Minho breathes softly beside him, slow and even. The kind of sleep that only comes when you feel safe.
Jisung lies on his back, eyes on the ceiling, the weight of the blanket light across his chest, but the weight in his heart heavier than ever.
He's in love.
He knows it now.
He doesn't know when it happened. Maybe the night Minho first stayed over. Maybe the first time they touched without thinking. Maybe that first night in the warehouse, when Minho exhaled and a puff of cold breath hung in the air like poetry.
Maybe it was earlier than that.
Maybe it was always inevitable.
But now that it's hit him, really hit him, it's all he can do not to panic.
Because it's real. And he doesn't know what to do with it.
They've only known each other a short time. It should feel too fast. Too intense.
But it doesn't. It feels like falling into the only thing that's ever made sense.
Minho shifts in his sleep, his hand brushing against Jisung's wrist. And Jisung just... Stares at him.
So much of him wants to reach out.
So much more wants to never mess this up.
Because what they have right now is fragile and beautiful and safe, and he doesn't want to risk breaking it.
Even if part of him is already breaking just keeping it in.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
Later that morning they sit side by side at the desk, knees touching, the air still thick with the residue of sleep and unspoken thoughts.
Jisung's laptop hums quietly as he opens the final project file.
No filters left to adjust. No transitions to tweak. Just one last playthrough before he submits it.
Minho leans in, chin on his hand. "You ready?"
Jisung hesitates. Then nods. "Yeah."
He hits play.
The music starts.
And Jisung forgets how to breathe.
It's all there.
The opening shot, Minho walking into the warehouse, light bleeding in from the windows, dust swirling in the air as a second Minho follows him in a more worn version of the same outfit. The slow beginning, just breath and tension. The shift when the first chorus hits, the drop into full movement. The aching way Minho's body responds to the music, not dancing it, but becoming it.
The cuts are seamless. The lighting, perfect. The pacing, felt.
It's everything Jisung saw in his head.
But more.
Because it's Minho.
Minho, open and raw and powerful in a way that's almost unbearable to watch.
Minho, at war with the different versions of himself, who he used to be, who he wanted to be, running from himself, dancing with himself, all within the different areas of the derelict warehouse, culminating in the final shot on the rooftop.
Jisung bites the inside of his cheek as the final frame fades to black.
Silence.
He blinks hard, throat tight.
"Wow," Minho says, voice low. "It's... Wow."
Jisung swallows, still staring at the screen.
He doesn't say anything for a second. Just breathes.
Then, quietly...
"It's everything I wanted it to be."
Minho turns to look at him.
Jisung forces a smile, blinking quickly, eyes glassy.
"I almost cried," he admits, laughing softly through it. "Like, actual tears. That's embarrassing."
Minho doesn't tease. Doesn't laugh.
He just watches him for a long, quiet moment. Then says-
"It means something. That's not embarrassing."
Jisung meets his gaze.
And everything in him wants to say So do you.
But he doesn't.
Not yet.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
The rest of the day passes in a strange kind of blur.
The final video is rendered, saved, and backed up three times. Jisung submits it just before the deadline, hands trembling a little despite knowing it's the best thing he's ever made.
It should be a relief.
A triumph.
Something worth celebrating.
But instead... There's a hollow kind of ache.
Because now that it's done, there's no reason for Minho to stay.
No excuse to fall asleep beside him again, to wake up warm and tangled and pretend it doesn't mean anything. No more edits to stretch the nights longer. No more late conversations that slowly unravel into something quieter, something more.
Minho could leave tonight. He probably should.
And Jisung doesn't want him to.
But he doesn't say that.
Instead, he distracts himself with takeout, half-watching YouTube videos, pretending to scroll through messages he's not actually reading. Minho's still here, still sitting on his bed, but he's quieter than usual too. Like the silence between them suddenly feels louder now that they've reached the end of the thing that brought them closer.
It's nearly 9pm when Minho finally speaks again.
He looks up from where he's lying, arm tucked behind his head.
"Wanna watch something?"
Jisung looks over, surprised. "Now?"
Minho shrugs. "We've got time. You pick."
Jisung's heart gives the faintest little leap.
There's no reason for him to stay.
But he's choosing to.
"... Howl's Moving Castle?" Jisung offers, careful, watching for any flicker of disinterest.
Minho nods once. "Haven't seen it in years."
They crawl into bed, laptop balanced between them, blankets pulled up lazily. The room glows with the soft light of the screen, the occasional distant hum of voices from the corridor beyond the only sign of life outside their little bubble.
Twenty minutes in, Minho shifts.
And then leans his head lightly on Jisung's shoulder.
No big movement. No tension. Just quiet weight. Familiar. Easy.
Jisung forgets how to breathe.
His heart hammers in his chest, wild and nervous and aching with everything he's not saying.
He hesitates, just for a second.
Then tilts his head down, slow and careful, until it rests gently against Minho's.
Minho hums.
Actually hums.
A soft, satisfied sound, barely more than a breath.
And Jisung thinks, I could live here. In this moment. Forever.
They stay like that until the credits roll.
The room is silent again, save for the hum of the laptop fan and the soft rhythm of Minho's breathing where he's still leaning lightly against Jisung's shoulder.
Neither of them moves.
Then Minho shifts just slightly, pulls back enough to glance up, eyes soft, unsure.
"... Can I stay?" he asks, voice low. Almost hesitant.
"Just..." A pause. He swallows.
"It feels easier. Here."
Jisung doesn't ask what it is.
His chest tightens, but in the good way.
He nods, warm and certain.
"Yeah. Of course."
Then, quieter-
"Stay as long as you want."
Minho shifts, pulling the blanket up as he shuffles down into the mattress, shoulders relaxing as his body sinks into the familiar shape of the bed.
He exhales softly, cheek half-buried in the pillow, voice muffled as he mutters,
"You should be careful."
Jisung glances over.
Minho's eyes are half-lidded, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I might actually take you up on that."
A beat.
"You make a much better roommate than Jeongin."
Jisung lets out a breath of laughter, startled but genuine, before settling down into the bed himself, facing Minho.
Jisung watches the way Minho's lashes flutter shut. The way his breathing evens out slowly, like the safety of the space around them is something he's only just letting himself believe in.
Jisung whispers, "Goodnight, Min."
He doesn't expect a reply.
But Minho says it anyway, soft, and slurred with sleep.
"Night, Sungie."
Then, without hesitation, he shifts closer and wraps an arm around Jisung's waist, tucking himself into the curve of his body like he's meant to be there.
And something in Jisung's chest completely breaks and mends itself at once.
He lies awake for a little while longer, staring at the line of Minho's shoulder in the dark.
And thinks-
Stay as long as you want wasn't nearly enough.
What he really meant was…
Please don't go.
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋🎧ྀི♬⋆.˚♪
Jisung wakes to warmth.
Not the blanket, though it's still half-draped over him, but something heavier, more grounding.
Someone.
It takes him a second to remember where he is. To orientate himself. To register the slow, steady rise and fall of breath against his chest, the gentle weight of a leg tangled with his own, and the warm press of a hand resting on his chest.
His eyes blink open, lashes sticking slightly from sleep.
Minho.
Minho is still here.
More than here, he's wrapped around him in every way possible.
Cheek pressed softly to Jisung's chest, breath brushing against his ribs. One arm tucked tight against his waist, the other curled near his chest, fingers idly fidgeting with the fabric of Jisung's t-shirt, not absentminded, exactly, but gentle. Deliberate in the way that says he's awake, but hasn't spoken yet. Like he doesn't want to break the moment by being the first one to move.
Jisung doesn't move either.
His heart is pounding, but his body is still, afraid that if he shifts even slightly, he'll wake up and realise he imagined all of it.
Minho chose this.
Minho's still choosing it.
The room is quiet, painted in pale winter morning light. The kind of quiet that feels like a held breath. Like the universe is watching to see what either of them does next.
Jisung finally risks glancing down.
Minho's eyes are open.
Soft and sleepy, but awake, blinking occasionally and watching the fabric between his fingers like it holds some kind of answer.
Jisung watches him for a moment longer, heart thudding against his ribs where Minho is pressed so close.
Then, slowly, tentatively, he lifts the arm that's half-pinned beneath Minho's head, curling it gently around his shoulders. Pulling him in.
Not tightly, not possessive, just enough to be interpreted as acceptance.
Minho's fingers pause.
His head lifts sharply, eyes flicking up to meet Jisung's.
And there it is, that faint, unmistakable flush dusting the tips of his ears.
Jisung freezes, the smallest bit of panic flaring in his chest.
But Minho doesn't pull away.
Doesn't shift.
Just blinks at him, cheeks warming, voice low and surprised.
"Oh. You're awake."
Jisung tries to keep his voice light, his grip loose.
"I am now."
Minho shifts, slowly pushing himself up off Jisung's chest, arm braced against the mattress.
Jisung feels the loss of his warmth instantly, like something missing, something pulled from him too fast. But he doesn't move. Just watches.
Minho leans in slightly, eyes searching, his face now level with Jisung's, close enough that Jisung can see every soft line, every eyelash, every second of hesitation flickering behind his eyes.
A few loose strands of hair fall across Minho's forehead, shadowing his gaze.
"Sorry if I woke you," Minho murmurs, voice still thick with sleep, but laced with something quieter underneath, something unsure.
Jisung shakes his head, barely a breath.
"You didn't."
And then, without thinking, without pausing, his hand moves on its own.
He reaches up, fingers brushing gently through Minho's hair, tucking it out of his eyes.
It's the softest touch.
Minho's eyes flutter shut the second Jisung's fingers graze his temple, as if the contact tugs something loose in him, like his whole body exhales at once.
He doesn't lean away.
Doesn't speak.
Just stays there, still and open and impossibly close, like he's caught in something he's not sure how to escape, and isn't sure he wants to.
Jisung lets his fingers linger against Minho's cheek, barely there.
The silence stretches, fragile and golden.
A beat.
Two.
And Jisung thinks, If I say something now, everything changes.
But still...
He doesn't pull his hand away.
Minho doesn't open his eyes. His lashes are still resting lightly against his cheeks, and Jisung can feel the faintest tremble in his breath beneath his hand.
"I need to tell you something, Sungie," Minho murmurs, barely above a whisper.
Jisung's thumb pauses its slow trace along his cheek.
"What is it?"
Minho swallows. His voice wavers like he's fighting with himself, deciding whether to say it at all.
"You remember when you said... The song was me?"
Jisung freezes.
His heart stumbles, crashing behind his ribs like a wave breaking too hard, too fast.
He doesn't speak.
He doesn't trust himself to.
Minho continues anyway, voice slow and careful, each word spoken like it's being placed into Jisung's hands with great care.
"I understood what you meant at the time. Or I thought I did."
A shaky inhale.
"But when I actually danced to it... I truly understood."
His eyes flutter open then, gaze lifting, and Jisung feels it like a shock to the system.
Because what he sees there is something bare.
No walls. No sarcasm. No distance.
Just Minho, stripped back and wide open.
"Because the dance..." he breathes, voice trembling now,
"The dance was you."
The words sit there, suspended in the silence between them.
Raw. Unpolished. Honest.
Jisung's throat tightens, his hand still gently cradling Minho's cheek like it's the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
He doesn't speak.
He can't.
His chest is too full, too wrecked and lit up all at once.
Minho's gaze doesn't leave his. He holds it, bare and brave, even as his voice trembles again.
"I wasn't just dancing to what I heard in the song," he says softly.
A pause. Then quieter-
"I was dancing to what I felt... About you."
Jisung forgets how to breathe.
Minho presses on, each word fragile, like if he doesn't say them now, he never will.
"Every movement, every breath, it was all you. The way you make me feel. How you showed up in my life like it was nothing, and changed everything like it was easy."
He pauses, blinking hard, lashes brushing his cheeks.
"I didn't know how else to say it. But when I danced, my body just... Knew."
The air between them tightens, electric with feeling.
Jisung still hasn't said anything.
His hand slides from Minho's cheek to the nape of his neck, thumb brushing the skin there with aching gentleness.
Minho's eyes search his, flickering with something fragile, something close to fear.
"I'm not saying this because I expect anything," he says quickly, the words tumbling out like he's afraid Jisung might misunderstand.
"You don't have to say anything back. I just... I needed you to know. That's all. I needed to say it out loud at least once, and then-"
"Minho."
Jisung's voice cuts through the spiral, not harsh, not sharp. Just soft. Steady.
Minho's mouth goes still. His eyes widen slightly.
Jisung's hand is still at the back of his neck, grounding them both.
And then Jisung breathes, barely a whisper-
“I’ve been falling for you piece by piece for a while now.”
Minho doesn't move. Not right away. He just looks at him as if the bed beneath them might fall away if he shifts the wrong way.
Jisung smiles, nervous and a little lopsided.
"I didn't know it at first. I just wanted to be around you all the time. And then I saw you dance and wrote the best song I've ever written. And dreamed about you dancing to it. And suddenly everything I made sounded like you."
Minho's breath stutters.
Jisung leans in a fraction closer, voice even softer now.
"So... You danced what you feel for me."
He brushes his nose lightly against Minho's.
"And I sang what I feel for you."
There's a beat of stillness.
And then Minho exhales something that sounds like relief, shaky and full.
He leans in, one hand sliding up to cradle the side of Jisung's face.
Minho's hand trembles slightly where it cups Jisung's cheek, thumb brushing the skin just below his eye. His gaze flickers between Jisung's lips and his eyes, like he's memorising both, like he doesn't know which one to fall into first.
And then he moves.
Slowly.
Jisung meets him halfway.
Their lips touch, lightly, uncertainly, and then again, firmer this time. Surer. A breath shared between them, warm and shaky, before Minho tilts his head just slightly and deepens the kiss.
It's not perfect.
Their noses bump a little, and Minho's fingers twitch against Jisung's cheek, like he's not sure where to hold on.
Minho pulls back just a fraction, breathing against Jisung's lips.
"Is this okay?"
Jisung doesn't bother with words. Doesn't need them.
He answers by tilting his head and chasing Minho's mouth with his own, kissing him back, deeper, firmer, something inside him finally snapping loose.
Minho gasps, soft and startled, into the kiss, caught off guard by the sudden intensity, but he doesn't pull away.
He melts into it.
His hand slides from Jisung's cheek to the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing along his skin with a kind of aching reverence, as if he can't believe this is real. Jisung shifts upwards, closing the space between their bodies until there's nothing left but heat, breath, and the quiet thud of two hearts trying to find the same rhythm.
Minho's fingers find the edge of Jisung's shirt, fisting the fabric like he needs something to hold onto. He kisses him again, slower now, more deliberate, and Jisung swears the world tilts.
It's not just lips.
It's the gentle bump of noses, the way Minho sighs against his mouth, the tentative slide of fingers over ribs like he's mapping his body out.
Jisung's hand finds the small of Minho's back, not pulling him closer, just resting there, warm and steady, like an answer. His thumb moves in slow circles, like he's trying to memorise the curve of Minho's spine by feel alone.
And he's dizzy.
Not from nerves. Not from fear.
But from how right this feels.
Minho shifts again, chest pressing fully to Jisung's, their legs brushing, tangling without thought. He's so warm. Solid. Real. And when Minho kisses him, mouth soft and parted, lips brushing then deepening, Jisung feels it everywhere. Not just in the press of their mouths, but in the way his whole body seems to ache toward him, as if gravity's changed its centre.
He's never felt this before.
This kind of closeness, this kind of want.
It's not lust, not exactly. It's deeper than that. Slower. He's not chasing anything. He's not trying to rush. He just wants this, wants him, the weight of Minho in his arms, the tremble in his breath, the way his fingers curl in Jisung's shirt like he's afraid to let go.
Minho tilts his head, lips brushing along the edge of Jisung's jaw now, soft and exploratory, a silent question written in skin and breath. And Jisung lets his eyes fall shut, heart fluttering helplessly in his chest like wings beating against the inside of a cage, desperate and soft.
Minho's hand has flattened against his chest, fingers splayed out like he's trying to feel Jisung's heartbeat through the fabric.
He doesn't have to try hard.
It's thundering. Loud and unhidden.
Minho's hand slides down and comes to rest at the hem of Jisung's shirt, the hesitant movement questioning, as if asking permission for something he can't say out loud.
Jisung's chest rises with an inhale, nerves and want all tangled together in equal measure.
"You can take it off if you want." Jisung whispers, voice soft but sure.
Minho lifts his eyes to reach his, searching for any sign of hesitation or reluctance. When he doesn't find any, he slowly lifts Jisung's t shirt, waiting for him to raise himself up from the bed slightly so that he can remove it completely.
The feel of Minho's touch is electric across Jisung's bare skin. His eyes roam over Jisung's chest, with a mixture of hunger and awe.
Minho's hand slides up again, palm flat over Jisung's heart, which is beating an almost painful staccato rhythm underneath his ribs.
Minho's hand stays there a while, resting over his heart like he's trying to slow it down with his touch.
But it doesn't work.
If anything, Jisung's pulse stutters harder beneath his skin, as if his body can't contain what he's feeling. Like every inch of him is alive and waiting.
When Jisung's hand slides to Minho's hoodie, Minho nods almost imperceptibly. After a moment of fumbling between them, it's removed and dropped to the floor unceremoniously.
Jisung sucks in a breath at the sight of Minho's bare chest. Of course he's seen it before, whilst they shot the video. But it's not just the sight of him. It's the way the soft light through the window grazes over the sharp lines of his collarbones, the gentle slope of his shoulders, the soft but defined contours of his abs.
Minho looks down, almost self conscious, arms hovering like he might cross them... But he doesn't.
"You really are beautiful" Jisung whispers, the words catching in his throat, thick with something raw and unguarded.
His voice is barely there, like if he says it too loud, it might break the moment apart.
But Minho hears it. Feels it.
His breath stutters, lashes fluttering as if he doesn't know what to do with the weight of being seen like that, not simply admired, not lusted after, but cherished.
Jisung's hand moves slowly, fingers brushing the plane of Minho's chest with a barely-there touch, tracing over skin like it's the first time he's ever touched someone and understood what it means to want gently.
Minho's eyes fall shut, his body leaning into the contact instinctively. Like Jisung's touch is the first thing that's made sense in a long time.
Jisung doesn't rush.
His hands glide down Minho's sides, gentle and steady, anchoring them in the space between breath and want. He leans in, their lips brushing once more, slow and aching, then pulls back just far enough to whisper:
"Can I move you?"
Minho blinks down at him, flushed and open and a little dazed, but he nods.
Jisung shifts with care, guiding Minho gently down to the mattress. One hand cups the back of his head until it meets the pillow, the other resting lightly at his waist. Minho's breath hitches when Jisung settles between his legs, their bodies fitting like they've done this a hundred times before.
And Minho's heart, Jisung can feel it, racing like it's trying to match his own.
He starts slow. A kiss to Minho's shoulder, soft and warm, a breath more than a press. His lips linger just a moment before moving to the curve where neck meets collarbone. Then lower, across Minho's chest, trailing kisses like punctuation on a page.
Minho's hand finds the back of Jisung's neck, not guiding, just holding. His other arm lies across the pillow, open and relaxed in a way that tells Jisung he trusts him, completely.
Jisung presses a kiss there too, to the bend of Minho's elbow, to the inside of his wrist.
And then, gently, he takes Minho's left hand in both of his.
Minho tenses, just slightly, as Jisung brings it closer, until the faint pale scar on the inside of his wrist catches the muted light. The mark is soft and long-healed, not angry or raw, but it still carries weight. History.
Jisung traces a finger lightly along the edge of it, then leans down and presses a kiss to it, soft, gentle, like he's telling it I see you. And I love you anyway.
Minho's breath shudders.
His free hand curls into the sheets.
Jisung leans in, eyes locked to Minho's for just a breath, long enough to ask a silent question he already knows the answer to.
Then he dips forward, lips brushing Minho's before claiming them again, this time deeper, more certain, the kind of kiss that says I'm not holding back anymore.
Minho responds instantly, like he's been waiting for this, his mouth parting under Jisung's with a quiet, involuntary sound as their kiss turns hotter, wetter.
Jisung's tongue slides forward, slow and deliberate, meeting Minho's in a slow push of heat and want. It's not frantic, it's intimate. A quiet, unhurried exploration. Minho tastes like breathless laughter and iced americano and something uniquely his.
Minho's hands slide up Jisung's back, curling at his shoulder blades as he arches up into the kiss, into the weight of Jisung's body above his, like he doesn't want even a sliver of space between them.
Their tongues move in slow, sensual rhythm, not a battle, but a conversation. Every movement is careful, hungry, wanting. Like they're trying to learn each other one breath at a time.
Jisung breaks the kiss just long enough to press a line of kisses down Minho's throat, murmuring against his skin.
"You're incredible..."
Minho's breath catches, his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut.
"So are you," he whispers. "God, Sungie-"
Their mouths meet again before the sentence finishes, and this time it's messier, more desperate, but still tender. Jisung's hands slide down, finding the dip of Minho's waist, fingertips digging in just enough to draw a gasp from his lips.
Their bodies shift, legs tangling again, and Minho wraps his thighs loosely around Jisung's hips, pulling him in, not in urgency, but in need. The need to be close. To be held. To be known.
Jisung can feel the twin pressure between them, constrained only by the remaining clothing they have on.
"Do you want-"
Jisung doesn't even finish the question.
Because Minho's already there, voice low and breathless:
"I want everything, Sungie."
A pause. A heartbeat.
"Everything with you."
Jisung can't help the smile that slowly spreads across his face, soft and awestruck, the kind that comes from relief, from hope, from something long-held finally given space to bloom.
And when he sees Minho smiling too, just as tender, just as real, it feels like looking in a mirror held up to his own heart.
"I, uh... I have stuff. In the drawer," Jisung mumbles, voice a little rough with nerves.
He keeps his eyes trained somewhere near Minho's collarbone, hoping the low light hides the blush he can feel blooming across his cheeks.
Minho doesn't laugh. He doesn't smirk or tease. Instead, his expression softens, something warm flickering in his eyes as he reaches up to stroke Jisung's cheek.
"Good," He says softly, "Because I don't want to stop here."
Jisung's breath catches, not from nerves, but from the weight of being wanted like that, openly, without fear.
He shifts slightly, sitting back on his knees between Minho's legs, then leans over toward the nightstand. The drawer glides open with a quiet creak, and he pulls out a bottle of lube and a condom, long untouched but still safely within date.
He glances back at Minho, who's watching him with that same open gaze, not impatient, not demanding. Just there. Steady. Waiting.
And Jisung swears he's never felt more ready in his life.
"Did you want to.." Jisung nods towards Minho's pants. Minho nods, shifting his hips up from the bed to remove them whilst Jisung does the same with his own.
Both of them now left in their boxers, Jisung leans back down quickly, heart hammering as he presses a series of kisses along Minho's jaw in an effort to try and calm himself down a bit.
This is going well until he accidentally leans a bit too far, and his cock brushes against Minho's. Suddenly both of them are breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, the air between them thick with heat and closeness.
Minho swallows, his voice wrecked and trembling when he finally speaks, a raw whisper against Jisung's lips.
"God, Sungie... Can you-"
A pause. A breath.
"Will you touch me? Please?"
Jisung nods against him, finally sitting back on his heels. He catches Minho's gaze, eyes dark and lips parted. Minho nods.
Jisung reaches for him gently, fingers curling at the waistband of Minho's boxers. He eases them down with deliberate care, finally freeing his rigid shaft.
Minho exhales, a sharp, unguarded sound, his hand fisting the sheets beside him, chest rising with something that feels like surrender and relief all at once.
Jisung flips the cap off the lube, and pours a probably over-generous amount into his hand in his haste. Setting it to one side, he finally lets his hand move to palm Minho's length.
From the first second he touches him, Minho lets out a quiet mewling sound, the noise sending a jolt throbbing straight to Jisung's dick.
"Oh, holy shit Sungie..." Minho lets out, a groan falling from his lips as Jisung slowly slides his hand up and down his shaft with a semi-firm grip.
"That feels so fucking good."
Jisung doesn't respond, unsure he can even put how he feels into words right now anyway. Instead he continues to pull languid strokes up and down Minho's length, watching as Minho's body reacts, jerking slightly at the contact, small whining noises continuing to fall unbidden from his lips.
Once Jisung finds a rhythm, one that draws continual soft, breathless sounds from Minho's lips, he lets himself lean into it, pace shifting from gentle exploration to something more deliberate, more sure.
His hand no longer drifts gently.
It chases, each movement purposeful, each touch sending Minho closer to the edge.
Minho's breath catches, his back arching just slightly as sensation begins to overtake thought.
"Sungie..." he gasps, voice wrecked and shaking.
His eyes flicker open, wide and shining, almost pleading.
"I want... I need more."
There's no shame in the way he says it. No hesitation.
Just raw, open desire, threaded with trust and the kind of yearning that only builds when the person in front of you means everything.
Something shifts in Jisung, sudden, clear, and deep.
A need not just to touch, but to give. To meet Minho in this place of raw, open trust.
He withdraws his hand with care, and Minho whimpers softly at the loss, hips twitching instinctively, chasing the feeling.
Jisung presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh in silent apology before reaching for the lube again, this time coating the fingers on his other hand with slow, measured purpose.
When he returns to Minho, it's with gentleness, one hand back to stroking his shaft gently, the other pauses at Minho's entrance, fingers hovering, asking without words.
Minho bites his lip, eyes meeting Jisung's, wide, dark, unflinching, and nods once, quickly. Breathlessly.
Yes.
The nod is all he needs. He gently presses one finger forward into Minho's heat, watching his face carefully for any sign of discomfort. It's not that he hasn't done this before, but it's the first time with somebody who matters this much to him.
Minho chokes out a gasp, his head tipping back against the pillow slightly.
Jisung crooks his finger slowly, pulling strokes against Minho, searching carefully for the spot that will send him into free-fall.
He finally finds it, and is rewarded with the sound of a sob seemingly torn unwillingly from Minho's throat. He looks up to his face, finding Minho with his eyes squeezed shut, a furrow in his brow as he's overwhelmed with sensation.
"Can you take more?" Jisung asks gently, not wanting to assume.
Minho nods rapidly, his eyes still shut.
Jisung adds a second finger, moving both with more purpose now, timed perfectly with his other hand as he strokes along Minho's cock with a firmer grip.
Minho lets out a strangled gasp again, his hips bucking wildly from the bed.
"Sungie!" He chokes out, unable to manage any more than his name.
When Jisung adds a third finger and increases the speed of his other hand again, Minho can't control himself any longer. Minho shudders, a helpless cry spilling from his lips as his back arches sharply off the bed, body tightening around Jisung's fingers. His release comes in a wave, raw and overwhelming, painting across his stomach as his whole frame trembles with it, breath hitching, hands grasping for anything solid.
Jisung doesn't let go. Doesn't rush. He slows his touch steadily as Minho's body stutters and whimpers through the aftershocks.
When it's finally over, Minho collapses back against the mattress, utterly spent, his limbs loose, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. A fine sheen of sweat glows along his skin, catching the soft morning light, and his chest rises and falls like he's still chasing air, like the moment hasn't quite let him go yet.
Jisung leans down gently over him, pressing delicate kisses across his shoulder then his jaw, the slight salty tang of sweat transferring to his lips.
He can feel Minho's heartbeat beneath his skin, still fluttering, fast and uneven, like it hasn't quite come down yet.
Then, suddenly, Jisung stills as Minho's hand finds him, gentle, deliberate, graceful fingers curling around his cock with a tenderness that sends heat rushing through his chest.
Minho leans in, breath warm against Jisung's ear, voice low and slightly unsteady.
"Your turn?"
Jisung leans back just enough to meet Minho's eyes, his voice quiet, hesitant.
"You don't have to. I'm not expecting-"
But Minho cuts him off, gaze steady now, unwavering.
"Your. Turn."
The words land with a quiet certainty, not a demand, but a promise.
A refusal to let this be one-sided. A way of saying I want to give this to you too.
And Jisung forgets how to breathe for a second, stunned by the way those two words make him feel seen. Wanted. Chosen.
Minho holds his hand out, and Jisung wordlessly passes him the lube. Within moments, Minho's hand is gliding smoothly up and down Jisung's cock, and it's his turn to lose his breath.
The sensation is so overwhelming, he's half-scared his arms will buckle, so he lowers his upper body downwards slightly, resting his weight across his forearms as he kisses Minho again, pouring every last fragment of his desire into his mouth.
His breath stutters against Minho's mouth, each exhale more ragged than the last, heat curling low in his belly as Minho's hand moves with growing confidence, faster, steady, devastating. The pressure builds sharp and sweet in Jisung's core, and he fights the instinct to thrust into Minho's grip, choosing instead to surrender to the rhythm Minho sets.
Just as he opens his mouth to murmur a shaky warning, to tell him it's too much, too fast, Minho speaks first, his voice barely a breath.
"Sungie... I want... Can you..."
Jisung stills, pulling back just enough to see him clearly.
Minho's eyes are wide, glassy with need, but it's the softness there that steals the air from Jisung's lungs, a vulnerability in asking for more.
"Shall I get the-?" Jisung doesn't get to finish the sentence before Minho nods at him. Sitting back on his heels, Jisung picks up the condom he set aside earlier, opening the packet carefully before rolling it onto his length.
He settles himself back down between Minho's legs, holding his weight up with one hand, whilst the other guides himself to Minho's already slick entrance, the movement slow and deliberate.
Jisung's eyes flick quickly to Minho's face, wanting to be sure that he definitely wants this.
Minho's voice comes soft, almost fragile, but steady all the same.
"Please, Sungie"
Jisung shifts position, opting to hold onto Minho's hips with both hands as he finally presses himself forward into him slowly. Minho lets out a sharp involuntary hiss as he first enters, and Jisung immediately stills.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, yes, don't stop. Please don't stop," Minho's words tumble out in a gasp, raw and pleading. His voice seeming to unravel at the edges.
So Jisung moves again, even slower this time, rolling his hips with an almost painful precision.
Minho stretches slowly around him, and Jisung ignores the urge to just slam home in one go. He pulls back again slightly, eliciting a whimper from Minho, before slowly rolling his hips forwards again, pushing deeper. Within a few moments, he's fully seated within him, his hips flush against Minho's thighs.
He doesn't move for a moment, adjusting to the feel of Minho wrapped around him.
He leans down to meet Minho, kissing him slowly whilst he wills his heart rate to slow down. Minho's hands wind into his hair, and he luxuriates in the feel of his fingertips across his scalp.
He finally moves, withdrawing slightly, before moving back to bring their hips together again. Minho pants a breath into his mouth, which Jisung swallows down greedily. As he sets a slow pace, Minho's thighs rise up slightly, resting alongside Jisung's ribs.
He rolls his hips again, and Minho's fingers suddenly tighten in his hair, his breath catching.
Jisung repeats the action, realising that the change in angle clearly has the head of his cock brushing against Minho's sweet spot. Minho lets out a quiet sob, and Jisung swallows that too.
Jisung shifts instinctively, one hand cradling Minho's head, the other his shoulder as he starts to snap his hips forward with more purpose now. Minho arches into him, a broken sound slipping from his lips, back lifting from the mattress as if searching for more.
Their foreheads brush, hot breaths mingling between them, the rhythm found between them like a pulse of its own.
Minho's hands trail up Jisung's back, slow and searching, until his fingertips settle just beneath his shoulder blades. He presses in gently, not to pull or push, but to hold, like anchoring himself there, like Jisung is the only solid thing in a world that's spinning too fast.
"Fuck" Minho breathes out, his thighs tightening against Jisung's sides, nails digging into Jisung's skin slightly.
The heat that had been simmering low in Jisung's core now climbs higher, spreading through him in waves, molten and breathless, curling up his spine and blooming beneath his skin like fire meeting oxygen. Every nerve feels alight, every inch of contact between them igniting sparks that race through his body in wild, dizzying circuits. His chest tightens, not with pain, but with overwhelming pressure, like his body is holding something too vast to contain.
Anticipation thrums beneath his skin, sharp and electric, as though his very bones know the edge is near, and are bracing for the fall. Pinpricks dance across his shoulders, down his arms, down to his fingertips where they rest against Minho's waist, desperate to hold on to something real as the world begins to blur around the edges.
Just as the tension in Jisung's body crests, breath hitching, muscles taut, he feels Minho shatter beneath him.
It's not just the sound Minho makes, though that alone undoes something deep in Jisung's chest, a raw, aching cry that sounds like it's been pulled from the deepest part of him. It's the way his body arches, then trembles, the way his hands clutch at Jisung's back like they're the only thing tethering him to the earth as his body tightens around Jisung's cock. His release comes in a wave, wild and beautiful, and Jisung watches it all unfold from millimetres away, breathless, stunned, utterly captivated.
And then he's gone too.
The heat that had been coiling in his core surges forward, unstoppable. White-hot and blinding, it rips through him in a rush that leaves no room for thought, only feeling, raw, consuming, everything. He spills into Minho with a low, shuddering moan, burying his face into the curve of Minho's neck as the world drops out from under him.
The room is quiet now, save for the sound of their ragged breaths, gradually slowing, grounding them in the soft hush that follows something too big to name.
Jisung doesn't move at first. His body feels spent, heavy in the most satisfying way, like every last piece of tension has been unravelled and set free. But it's not just the physical exhaustion. It's emotional, too. Full-body, full-heart kind of weightlessness. Like everything he'd been holding inside has finally found a place to land.
Eventually, with a soft groan, he shifts to the side, arm brushing over the edge of the bed as he blindly reaches for his discarded t-shirt. He tugs it up, using it gently to clean Minho with a quiet kind of care, no words exchanged, but none needed.
Minho watches him through heavy eyes, flushed and still catching his breath. And the second Jisung drops the shirt and lies back again, Minho moves without hesitation, curling in close, head tucked beneath Jisung's chin, an arm slipping over his waist, pulling him in tight like he belongs there. Like he always has.
Jisung lets his fingers drift lazily up and down Minho's spine, heart still not quite steady. But he doesn't care. Because in this moment, with Minho pressed against him and the warmth of him stitched into the quiet, Jisung feels complete in a way he never has before.
They're still lying there, skin cooling, hearts slowing, the quiet weight of what they've shared settling into the space between their bodies like something sacred when Minho shifts just enough to look up at him, cheek still pressed to Jisung's chest. His voice is low, a little hoarse, but steady.
"I'm really glad you stole my seat that night."
Jisung breathes out a laugh, quiet, disbelieving.
His hand drifts down to thread through Minho's, anchoring them together.
"Me too."
A beat.
Then softer-
"Best mistake I ever made."
Minho hums, his eyes already slipping shut, content in a way Jisung's never seen before.
And Jisung stays like that, holding him close, letting the stillness stretch.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, melodies are already forming.
Not just one. Not just for this.
But dozens.
Songs he hasn't written yet.
Rhythms he hasn't found.
All of them for Minho.
All of them waiting.
For his hands.
For his body.
For the way he moves like the music already knows him.
And Jisung thinks, with a certainty that roots itself deep in his chest.
Let me spend the rest of my life writing songs for you to dance to.
And in that moment, tangled in warm limbs and the fading hush of joy, he knows he’s already started.