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1.
Chan’s lungs burned as he hit the mat, the hollow thud echoing through the training hall. The crowd of recruits let out a ripple of noise—half surprise, half expectation. He barely had time to register what direction his body had gone before a sharp knee pressed into his ribs, knocking the breath from him.
Minho moved like Chan had expected—precise, efficient, and merciless.
Of course he did. He was CLE’s golden boy. The one everyone whispered about in the dorms, the perfect prodigy who had passed the entrance tests at seventeen and walked straight into the nation’s most elite intelligence unit. The one who had trained in the field for years while Chan was still going about his civilian job until he had to quit it for the money to help his family.
Chan had made it to the finals of compatibility testing through strategy—reading opponents, using leverage, thinking three steps ahead. But Minho didn’t need steps ahead. He simply overwhelmed.
Chan rolled, trying to twist away, but Minho was faster. His thigh came down across Chan’s stomach, pinning him. A hand gripped his wrist and slammed it onto the mat above his head, then the other. And then—a strong forearm pressed across his throat, pushing his head back just enough to keep him immobilized but not enough to truly choke.
The world narrowed to heat, breath, and pressure.
Minho’s face hovered inches above his, sharp jaw tight with focus, eyes burning like gunpowder.
“Give up,” Minho hissed, breathing warm against Chan’s cheek.
He should have been trying to escape. Should have been using the muscle strength he knew could flip their positions. He’d done it before with heavier opponents. He could have at least tried.
But all Chan could think was—God, he’s beautiful.
Minho’s thighs bracketed his hips, strong and steady, and Chan found himself staring at the way the fabric of Minho’s training pants stretched over solid muscle. His heartbeat spiked for reasons that had nothing to do with combat.
He should resist. He should fight. He should not be lying here, staring like an idiot while Minho practically radiated fury above him.
But that expression—that sharp, irritated scowl like Chan’s very existence was an insult—was pretty. Too pretty. And Chan, for one stupid moment, let himself admire it.
He swallowed, the pressure on his throat shifting slightly, and Minho’s eyes narrowed even more.
“Stop daydreaming,” Minho growled. “Or this is going to get embarrassing.”
Too late. Chan could already feel heat climbing his neck.
From the sidelines, the director called, “Final hold: time.”
The buzzer sounded. Minho didn’t immediately move.
He stayed there, pinning Chan down, breathing hard, sweat dripping from his temple onto Chan’s cheek. The whole room seemed to hold its breath.
Only when the director repeated, sharper—“Lee Minho. Release.”—did Minho finally push off him and stand smoothly, offering nothing more than a curt glare before turning away.
Chan lay there for a second longer, staring up at the lights, trying to remember how to inhale.
He’d lost. Badly.
But somehow he could barely find the will to care about his loss. In fact, even as other recruits surrounded him asking him if he was okay or telling him that Minho was out of the line for humiliating like that, Chan just… nodded along.
Because he knew what his old friends had also mentioned, he gravitated to people like Minho. He found it rather… lovely how people like Minho hid behind tough exteriors and facades while playing it cool.
2.
The announcement hit the training hall like a grenade.
“Final roster for Special Mission Unit Alcor,” the commander read, voice booming enough to rattle in Chan’s bones. “Lee Minho. Bang Chan. You’ll be partnered for tactical drills and firearms proficiency.”
A wave of murmurs spread through the recruits like wind through dry grass, crackling with excitement and disbelief. Chan felt his stomach drop—not from dread, but from something far more humiliating; anticipation he couldn’t pretend not to feel. He knew what the pairing meant. Long hours together, side by side, under close observation. Nowhere to hide from Minho’s scrutiny, or from the sharp edge of his own foolish admiration.
Minho didn’t even try to hide the way his jaw clenched when he turned, eyes slicing into Chan like thrown blades. His expression was sharp enough to draw blood.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Minho muttered, low enough that only Chan caught it, but the words still hit with the force of a punch. “I’m not babysitting dead weight.”
Chan’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to hold Minho’s gaze, even if only for a moment. Minho’s glare was always so precise—so intentional—like he’d practiced it to be weaponized. It burned more than any bruise Chan had taken in sparring. He swallowed the sting and tugged his shoulders tighter, trying to make himself small enough that the disappointment wouldn’t show.
“Understood,” Chan murmured, though it wasn’t really an answer to anything. It was more like a shield he hoped Minho wouldn’t look closely enough to break. He would take whatever Minho threw at him if it meant getting to watch the precision of his movements up close, the effortless control behind every strike, the way sweat clung to his jawline and soaked into the collar of his training gear. Pathetic, he knew, but he couldn’t help the traitorous spark that flared anytime Minho was close enough to feel real.
And yet.
The first problem came fast—before they had even really begun.
Chan braced himself, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The gun jolted in his hands, the recoil biting into his palms, and the bullet veered wildly off the mark—not even grazing the outer ring of the target.
The silence that followed lasted a beat too long.
“For God’s sake, Chan, were you even looking at the target?” Minho barked, voice sharp enough to slice through steel. He strode forward with that commanding, unshakeable confidence that made other recruits instinctively straighten their backs and avoid eye contact.
Chan didn’t look up. Shame prickled hot beneath his skin, and he kept his eyes on the floor, weapon hanging loosely from his fingers. Minho’s voice wasn’t controlled anymore; it wasn’t low or quiet or professional. It cracked through the air, loud enough that several trainees stole glances their way, pretending they weren’t eavesdropping.
“I don’t know how you got placed on this mission,” Minho continued, anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Strategy or not, you’re useless if you can’t put a bullet where it’s supposed to go. Are you trying to make us look incompetent?”
Chan felt the words like physical blows. Something reckless twisted in his chest—humiliation, frustration, and something warmer and far more dangerous tangled together. He should have apologized, should have nodded and swallowed it and moved on. That was the smart thing to do.
But his mouth betrayed him again.
“Then why don’t you show me how to fire it, instead?”
Everything froze—sound, movement, breath.
Minho stopped mid-step, spine straightening slowly, like he was processing whether Chan had just directly challenged him or simply lost his mind. His eyes locked onto Chan’s, dark and narrow and disbelieving, and the silence stretched long enough to make the air taste heavy.
Chan swallowed, heat crawling up the back of his neck. Too late to take it back. Every recruit within earshot pretended to focus on their own work, but Chan could feel the tension coil around them like wire.
Minho’s voice, when it came, was quiet in a way that felt more dangerous than shouting. “Fine,” he said, stepping closer, boots loud against the concrete floor. “But don’t blame me if you regret asking.”
Chan barely had time to brace before Minho moved behind him, close enough that Chan could feel the heat radiating off his body. Minho’s hands came down hard on his shoulders, fingers digging in to shove them back into alignment.
“Straighten up,” Minho ordered, tone clipped. “You’re slouching like you’re carrying a sack of bricks instead of a gun.”
Then Minho nudged his boot between Chan’s feet, pushing his stance wider with firm, impatient movements.
“Wider,” he snapped. “If someone tackles you like that, you’ll be on the ground crying.”
Chan exhaled shakily, struggling to focus as Minho adjusted his hold. Minho’s hands slid down the length of his arms, guiding the angle of his grip, strong and unyielding. His chest brushed Chan’s back once, briefly, and Chan’s pulse spiked so sharply it was almost painful.
Minho leaned in closer, breath ghosting against Chan’s ear. “On three,” he said, voice low enough that no one else would hear. “And if you miss again, I swear—”
Chan fired.
Bullseye.
Minho went still.
Chan fired again. Another perfect shot. And again. Five clean hits in a row, the sharp crack of each round echoing like victory. The room seemed to fall away.
Minho’s hands fell from him slowly, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary, as if he didn’t fully trust the distance between them yet. Chan dared a glance over his shoulder, unable to stop the smile tugging at his lips.
Minho scoffed sharply when he saw it. “Don’t look so proud,” he muttered, crossing his arms defensively. “That was basic. A toddler could do that with the right stance.”
But there was something different in his voice—the slightest tremble at the edges, something softer than anger and too subtle to pin down. He reached out with a sharp shove to Chan’s shoulder, more bark than bite.
“Try not to embarrass me next time,” Minho grumbled as he stepped away, tone rough and tight like he wasn’t sure how loud he wanted his words to land. He didn’t look back, but his ears were colored this shade of red as he strode off.
Chan watched him go, heart hammering against his ribs so hard it felt bruised, a stupid grin stretching across his face before he could stop it. Even the ache in his palms felt lighter, like something had shifted and he wasn’t sure if it was victory or disaster.
If Minho’s shove had been meant to push him away, it didn’t work.
All it did was make Chan want to follow.
3.
The first time Chan heard the whispers, he wasn’t meant to. He had stayed behind after tactical strategy review, collecting scattered printouts and diagrams the others had left behind, and by the time he left the meeting hall the lights in the corridor had already been dimmed for curfew.
Voices drifted from around the corner—hushed, biting, the kind of tone people used when they wanted to be cruel without consequences. Chan paused when he heard Minho’s name spoken with something like disdain, heart tightening without permission.
“He acts like he’s above everyone else.”
“Just because he got in young? Please. He thinks he’s some prodigy.”
“Bet he cracks the second things get real. Kids like that always do.”
Chan’s blood heated painfully, frustration prickling beneath his skin. It felt wrong, hearing Minho talked about like that when Chan had seen the truth—Minho trained harder than anyone, pushed himself until he was breathless and shaking long after lights-out, carried pressure Chan couldn’t even begin to imagine. If anything, Minho didn’t think he was better than everyone else—he acted like he needed to prove himself every single second or the ground beneath him would disappear.
Chan clenched his jaw, swallowing down the instinct to step in and defend him, but he knew Minho would never allow it. Defending him publicly would feel like pity, and if Minho hated anything above all else, it was the idea of needing help.
He’d seen it before, after the academy had quieted into stillness, Chan had passed through the training wing on his way to their assigned quarters after one of his strategy tests. Every light was off except one—the glow from the treadmill display pulsing in the dark like a heartbeat.
Minho was still running, shirt damp with sweat, muscles straining with every push forward as though being chased by something only he could see. Chan stopped in the doorway, watching silently. It wasn’t the running itself—it was how angry it looked, each motion driven by something that wasn’t just discipline. Something frantic. Something desperate.
Their eyes met through the mirror, briefly—a flash of raw vulnerability before Minho looked away sharply, like the contact burned. He turned his focus back to the machine, jaw tight, stride not faltering once. Chan stood there for a moment longer, unsure whether to speak or step forward or leave entirely. He settled on silence, because Minho always seemed to prefer it. He slipped away quietly.
But the image stayed with him—Minho running like stopping meant falling apart.
Being assigned to share living quarters had felt ridiculous at first. Two single beds, only a few steps apart. A cramped kitchen barely big enough for two people to stand in. A bathroom with a door that stuck. And a small balcony looking out over the training field, often fogged in the mornings. It felt closer to confinement than practicality, and tension filled the air from the moment they stepped inside together.
Chan didn’t complain. He was too busy fighting insomnia. His prescription had run out earlier that morning and the agency pharmacy said it would take at least two days to refill—a lifetime when sleep was already a rare luxury. So instead of lying down and staring at the ceiling waiting to fall apart, he sat on the floor with his laptop and headphones, building sound. Mixing layers of melody and percussion in an attempt to quiet the storm in his head. Music had been his anchor long before strategy, long before the academy, long before Minho.
He looked over occasionally—Minho asleep on the narrow bed, chest rising and falling steadily, face finally relaxed without the rigid control he wore during the day. He looked young like that. Soft. Human.
It lasted all of ten minutes.
It began as barely-there sounds. A small, soft whimper, fragile enough that Chan thought he imagined it. Then another, louder this time, and Minho shifted sharply under the blanket, body tense, breath caught in his throat. Within seconds the soft sounds turned into frantic ones—short gasps, limbs thrashing, hands clawing at his own forearms like he was trying to scrape something off his skin. His foot tangled in the blanket and he kicked wildly, panic rising so fast that it filled the room like smoke.
Chan ripped his headphones off and dropped his laptop with a thud that didn’t even register through Minho’s struggle. He crossed the room in two steps, his heart hammering. “Minho— Minho, hey, it’s okay, you’re dreaming—”
He reached out, catching Minho’s wrists gently but firmly, stopping him before his nails drew blood. Minho thrashed harder, breath breaking in short, terrified bursts, until his eyes flew open wide.
He jerked upward so violently that he slammed his back into the bedpost. The sound was sharp, sickening, and Minho winced hard, curling inward instinctively like someone who had been hit. Chan froze immediately, hands dropping away, giving space. He waited—silent and still—letting Minho orient himself, letting him breathe without pressure.
Only when Minho’s breath evened out enough to resemble control did Chan speak, voice soft, careful. “What’s wrong?”
Minho blinked at him, eyes huge and glassy, every line of him pulled tight like he might shatter if touched wrong. For the first time since Chan had known him, he looked small. Like a wounded animal trying to decide whether to bite or collapse. His gaze flicked up to Chan’s face, then down, then—strangely—settled on Chan’s lap for a long, silent beat.
And then he moved.
Slowly, cautiously, like testing the ground, Minho lowered himself until his head rested against Chan’s thigh. The moment contact was made, his whole body sagged—tension melting like a string finally snapping. His eyes closed instantly, sleep claiming him in seconds. Chan sat there frozen, hardly daring to breathe as Minho’s arms shifted, sliding around Chan’s waist in a loose but instinctive hold, fingers curling against his shirt like he needed something real to anchor himself.
Chan let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Carefully, he reached one foot out and hooked his bed closer, dragging it quietly across the floor until he could reach his laptop again. He set it beside him and resumed working, fingers moving gently over the keys while Minho slept on his lap, head rising and falling with his breathing. Chan’s free hand hovered uncertainly near Minho’s hair for a moment before he pulled it back, forcing himself to behave.
He stayed like that for hours, unmoving, steady.
The music flowed around them. Minho’s hold tightened slightly in sleep.
The morning after felt unreal.
Chan woke stiff and sore from sleeping upright against the frame of Minho’s bed, neck aching and legs half numb. Minho was already awake—standing near the counter in a clean uniform, hair damp from a shower, face carefully neutral. There was no sign of panic, or trembling hands, or the small broken sounds he’d made in his sleep. Just silence.
For a moment, Chan wondered if Minho would pretend the night hadn’t happened at all. But then Minho placed a plate on the table—eggs, rice, neatly arranged—and without looking up, quietly slid half of it onto Chan’s side. He didn’t speak, didn’t meet Chan’s eyes. When Chan opened his mouth to say thank you, Minho cut him off with a sharp glance that might have been embarrassment more than irritation. His ears turning the faintest shade of pink.
Something had shifted. It was as delicate as glass and twice as dangerous.
Minho wasn’t gentler, not exactly—just less brittle. Less ready to shatter into sharp edges. Every time Chan nearly mentioned the night, Minho’s jaw tightened and he turned away, pretending the conversation had never tried to form. And Chan let him have the silence, because he owed Minho at least that much.
4.
The exercise was meant to test prioritization under pressure—disarming a bomb strapped onto a hostage, securing a duffel of contraband, covering blind angles, all under simulated sniper threat. The instructors were brutal, watching every movement with cold precision. Felix, their medic, had volunteered to play the hostage—something Minho had openly argued against, but was overruled.
Chan saw the red glint first—the sniper’s test laser catching on Felix’s forehead. The others were focused on the bomb. Minho was mid-disarm, tools already inside the casing, breathing thin with concentration. One wrong move could set off an alarm that would end the simulation in failure. Chan calculated the angles instantly—if the sniper took the shot now, Felix was gone. Their medic. The person whose role was to keep them alive.
Three strategists could substitute one another.
But there was only one Felix.
Chan moved before he could think. He stepped directly into the sniper’s line of fire, blocking Felix completely with his body. The instructors barked something into the mic, alarms sounded, and the simulation shut down harshly as red lights flooded the room.
Point deduction. Big one.
Minho’s head snapped up, face draining of color before flushing with fury. He ripped off his gloves and stormed across the room, grabbing Chan by the front of his vest so violently that Chan’s feet stumbled.
“What the hell was that?” Minho hissed, voice low enough that only the team heard. “You don’t step into the shot. Ever. If that were real, you’d be dead.”
Chan looked up at him, heartbeat steady, strangely calm. His cheek twitched into something that barely resembled a smile—self-mocking and tired. “So what? I’m expendable. There are three of us strategists. They could replace me tomorrow.”
Minho’s hand moved before Chan registered it.
The slap cracked through the room, sharp and vicious, forcing Chan’s head to the side. Heat bloomed across his cheek, skin stinging. Shock rippled through the team—Felix froze, Hyunjin gasped, Jisung stopped mid-sentence. Minho hadn’t even hesitated.
“Are you fucking stupid, hyung?”
Chan blinked. Minho had never called him that. Not once. The word felt like a fracture.
Minho’s bottom lip trembled, barely visible but shattering all the same. He looked furious, but beneath that—terrified. Like something inside him was clawing its way out.
“I don’t know what sick pleasure you get from pretending you’re disposable,” Minho rasped, voice breaking around the edges, “but your death means the team loses someone formidable.”
Chan pressed a hand to his burning cheek, staring. Minho wasn’t angry—he was unraveling.
Chan opened his mouth, voice thin. “They have you.”
Minho let out a soft, humorless huff—almost a laugh, but broken. “Me?” he said, eyes sinking into Chan’s, dark and unguarded. “I’m nothing, Chan. They don’t trust me. They trust you. You earned it. Jisung might trust me, but he’s a demolition specialist—he’s useless in the field. Hyunjin’s terrified of me. Seungmin hates me. I know the rumors.”
His voice dropped into something raw.
“They trust you.”
Chan swallowed, throat tight. Words felt heavy in his mouth. “But I didn’t die.”
Minho raised his hand again, muscle memory or instinct or desperation, but froze an inch from Chan’s face. Chan didn’t flinch—didn’t move at all—and that seemed to shatter something deeper than anything else. Minho’s fingers trembled, then curled into a fist, pressed against his own chest instead.
“Why?” Minho whispered, voice hoarse. “Why have so much blind faith in me?”
Chan exhaled slowly, shoulders softening. “Because you wouldn’t do any of this for no reason, Minho.” His voice was quiet, almost gentle. “And the only time you smile is when I do something stupid.”
Silence. Cold and thick and aching.
Minho stared at him for a long time—like he was searching for something he didn’t believe he’d find. Then he stepped back, breath shaking, attention dropping to the floor like it was the only thing holding him upright.
“The only time you’re dying,” Minho muttered, voice low and unsteady, “is when I kill you. With my bare hands.” He looked up, eyes burning. “Stay alive, you fucking bastard.”
And then he turned away so fast Chan knew if he didn’t, he’d break open right there.
Chan pressed his palm over his stinging cheek, breathing through the sharp ache in his ribs where Minho had slammed him into the wall. But the real pain wasn’t physical. It was the realization settling in his bones like lead.
Minho wasn’t afraid of Chan being reckless.
He was terrified of losing him.
And Chan wasn’t sure he’d survive knowing that.
Chan found Minho long after curfew had swallowed the halls into silence. The training room lights were dimmed low, only the emergency strips along the walls illuminating the space. The punching bag swung violently, chains rattling overhead with each brutal hit. Minho’s knuckles were already raw, streaked with red where the skin had split, and sweat darkened the back of his shirt, clinging to his spine. Every punch shook his entire frame, the sound echoing like gunfire. Chan stood in the doorway watching for a second—helpless and strangely breathless at the sight—because Minho looked like he was fighting ghosts, not leather.
He stepped inside quietly. “If you tear your hands open, you won’t be able to grip a knife tomorrow,” he said lightly, voice almost casual. Minho didn’t turn. He landed another punch hard enough that the bag slammed backward.
“Go away,” Minho said, breath sharp and ragged. “I’m not in the mood.”
Chan tilted his head, offering a smile he hoped masked the worry twisting inside him. “Just saying—weapon specialist and all that, but you forget I’m built stronger. All that strategy work didn’t erase gym membership.”
Minho froze mid-swing, shoulders rising with a bitter laugh that held no humor. “You want to test that theory now?”
Chan met his glare evenly. “Maybe I do.”
Minho lunged first.
They collided in the center of the mats, force meeting force, fists connecting with arms, ribs, shoulders—neither holding back. Chan wasn’t gentle this time; he didn’t fold or yield under Minho’s anger. He matched Minho strike for strike, letting instinct take the lead, letting adrenaline drown hesitation.
Every time Minho’s head came too close to the floor, Chan’s hand shielded the back of it, guiding him down safely before driving forward again. It was brutal and hot and deeply unfair to both of them, but neither stopped. Minho’s fist cracked across Chan’s jaw, splitting his lower lip open, iron taste flooding his mouth. Chan grunted, barely faltering, even as blood slid down his chin.
Chan pushed him back, both of them panting, and Minho swung again—but Chan caught his wrist and twisted, forcing Minho off balance. Minho’s nose struck Chan’s shoulder on the way down, a sharp impact that left blood streaming down his cupid’s bow. With a final surge of strength, Chan flipped Minho onto the mat and pinned him there, thighs locking around Minho’s hips, weight pressing both their chests together. Minho thrashed, muscles straining, but Chan held firm, grip unmovable, breathing harsh and uneven. And then Minho stilled—not because he surrendered, but because their eyes locked.
Time stopped.
The blood from Chan’s split lip dripped, slow and warm, onto Minho’s mouth. Minho didn’t look away. His tongue flicked out, deliberate and slow, tasting it—tasting him—and the breath punched out of Chan’s lungs. Something inside him snapped clean in half. He leaned down and crushed their mouths together.
The kiss was violent from the start—messy, desperate, teeth and heat and half-formed gasps swallowed into each other. Chan’s hand cupped the back of Minho’s neck, thumb brushing damp hair as Minho’s fingers clawed at Chan’s shirt, pulling him closer, demanding more.
Their lips slid together with the copper taste of blood and sweat, tongues clashing, neither giving the other space to breathe or think. Minho bit Chan’s lower lip, reopening the cut, and Chan groaned into his mouth, kissing harder, pushing Minho further into the mat, bodies aligned and shaking.
Minho’s hands roamed up Chan’s back, gripping his shoulders so tight the muscles ached, dragging him down until their chests pressed flush. Chan felt Minho’s heart hammering against his own, matching rhythm for rhythm, fear and fury and something terrifyingly tender tangled in each beat.
Minho angled his head, deepening the kiss, swallowing the sound Chan made as their mouths moved like they were trying to consume each other. Chan slid a hand into Minho’s hair, holding him in place as Minho tugged at his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. Their breaths broke into the space between them, hot and uneven, mouths returning to each other like gravity.
They only stopped when footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor—someone passing by, unaware of the wreckage inside. Chan’s forehead rested against Minho’s as they panted, chests heaving, the world shrinking to the space between them. Chan stayed straddling Minho’s hips, neither of them moving.
“It looks like you have lipstick on,” Chan whispered, voice rough and still trembling.
Minho stared back, eyes dark and shining. “Likewise.”
Chan lifted a hand and poked Minho’s cheek, unable to stop himself even now. “So,” he said with a crooked grin. “How was my brute strength?”
Minho glared up at him, blood drying across his upper lip. “Useless in front of a gun.”
“Oh, come on.” Chan rolled his eyes, still breathless.
“What you did earlier was just stupid,” Minho snapped, the edge returning—but weaker now, crumbling.
Chan’s expression softened as he watched Minho lick his lower lip, tasting remnants of both their blood. “Maybe,” he admitted quietly. “But if the medic is endangered, it’s a loss for everyone.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Minho countered instantly, voice sharp with old wounds. “Self-sacrifice is selfish and—”
“Selfless,” Chan corrected.
Minho grabbed Chan’s hand, pulling it down hard. “No. After you’re dead, everyone else lives with the guilt of losing you when they could have done something differently. You get an exit. Everyone else is trapped.” His voice cracked on the last word, splintering.
Chan reached for his wrist gently, thumb brushing the pulse there. “I’m sorry then.”
Minho puffed out a shaky breath, cheeks hollowing. “Get off me before someone comes in.”
Chan tilted his head. “Why are you so hell-bent on making everyone hate you?”
Minho blinked slowly, eyes exhausted. “It’s easier that way.”
Chan shifted off him, but didn’t step away. He offered his hand. Minho stared at it, wary, like it might bite him—then finally took it. Chan hauled him to his feet, steady and warm and unrelenting.
For once, Minho didn’t pull away.
5.
The mission simulation had been billed as routine—a controlled exercise in a replica combat environment, meant to test teamwork and tactical response under stress. Chan should have known nothing was ever routine in Unit Alcor.
Gunfire simulations boomed through the concrete corridors, smoke hissing from vents to mimic real explosives. Minho’s voice crackled through comms, precise and sharp as he cleared the east wing. “Alcor-1 moving. Corridor clear. Jisung, flank left. Chan, hold position and wait for call.”
Chan exhaled, checking corners like muscle memory. He followed Minho’s voice like a compass—calm, commanding, grounding.
Then a scream split the air.
On the far side of the hall, trainee Yuna collapsed, ankle snapping sideways as she stepped onto a pressure-triggered mine plate. It didn’t explode—designed only for simulation—but she went down hard, metal slicing into her calf. Blood soaked through her pants in seconds.
Chan sprinted toward her before he even registered a movement. “Hold still, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” he said, already cutting the fabric aside, pressing his palm to stop the bleeding.
Minho’s voice exploded in his ear. “Chan—leave it. That’s not your assignment. Move. Now.”
“She’s hurt,” Chan said, forcing calm. “She’ll bleed out if I don’t—”
“We’re on a timed op! That’s not your sector! She can call for a medic!” Minho snapped. “Walk away. That’s an order.”
Chan ignored him. He wrapped bandage gauze from his pack around Yuna’s leg, tied it tight, and handed her his water bottle to steady her trembling hands. “You’re okay. Breathe.”
The comm erupted again—this time Jisung, voice high and terrified. “Minho! Something’s wrong— the wiring’s off— the trigger switch isn’t resetting— it’s gonna—”
Static swallowed his words.
Minho cursed, breath ragged. “Chan, do not go there. Do you hear me? Stay where you are. I’m closest, I’ll handle it.”
Chan was already running.
“Chan!” Minho shouted. “Get back to your post!”
But Jisung’s panic bled through the speakers—and Chan couldn’t stand still knowing someone was about to get hurt. He rounded the corner just as sparks ripped through the wall panel and something overloaded in the wiring rig. Jisung crouched by a dead detonator system, hands shaking violently.
“It’s going to blow!” Jisung cried. “The fail-safe isn’t—”
Chan grabbed him, dragging him back. “Move!”
The explosion hit like a freight train.
Concrete burst outward, shockwave slamming Chan into the far wall. His head cracked against it, lights bursting through his vision, air obliterated from his lungs. Debris rained down—metal, dust, heated fragments—and for a moment everything went silent.
Then Minho’s voice tore through comms, raw and frantic.
“Chan! Respond. Chan—answer me—”
Footsteps thundered. And then Minho was there—shoving rubble aside, hands shaking as he hauled Chan upright, shielding him with his own body as another shower of debris crashed down. His arms locked around Chan’s shoulders, breath harsh and panicked.
“Don’t move,” Minho said, voice low and deadly. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Chan barely managed to nod, head spinning, ribs screaming. Minho ignored the shouting commanders on comms, ripped the earpiece out, threw it across the debris-strewn floor, and physically dragged Chan through the smoke, arm locked tight around his waist, pulling him outside like nothing else mattered. Not protocol. Not observers. Not consequences.
The world blurred in and out, sound muffled like cotton stuffed beneath Chan’s skull. Shapes moved around him—hands pressing against his shoulders, voices echoing far away. Someone snapped fingers in front of his eyes.
“Chan. Hey—look at me,” Felix said, crouched in front of him, face pale with worry. He held up two fingers, waving them gently. “How many?”
Chan squinted. “Two.”
“And your name?”
“Chan,” he rasped.
“What year is it?”
Chan hesitated, brain lagging. “Twenty-twenty… five?”
Felix let out a tight breath he must’ve been holding. “Good. Pupils are responsive. You’ve probably got a minor concussion, but nothing too severe. You’re lucky—could’ve been a lot worse.”
Lucky. Chan almost laughed. He felt anything but lucky.
Before he could respond, Minho’s hand closed around his elbow again—firm, wordless—and everything blurred once more.
Chan blinked and suddenly he was sitting on Minho’s bed—stripped down to boxers, shirt peeled away to free blood-soaked gauze. Minho’s hands were steady but too hard as he cleaned the cuts along Chan’s ribs, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.
Chan tried to smile. “You’re patching me up again. People will think we’re dating.”
Minho’s hands froze.
Then he snapped.
He surged to his feet and grabbed Chan by the shoulders, shaking once—not violently, but desperately.
“Stop it,” Minho hissed, voice cracking under the weight of something huge. His fingers dug into Chan’s shoulders, knuckles white. “Stop fucking throwing yourself into things like you want to die.”
Chan blinked, stunned, pain ringing behind his eyes. “I was helping—”
“Helping?” Minho barked out a laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all—broken, jagged. “You call that helping? You were throwing your life away!”
Chan’s jaw clenched. “She was bleeding. I wasn’t going to just leave her on the floor while everyone pretended she didn’t matter.”
“And what about you?” Minho shot back, stepping closer, chest heaving. “What about the fact that you matter?”
Chan scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”
Minho’s face twisted. “Don’t do that. Don’t—mock me like I’m stupid.”
“I’m not mocking you,” Chan muttered. “I’m being realistic.”
“Realistic?” Minho repeated, incredulous. “You think you’re being realistic by acting like you’re disposable?”
Chan felt something cold settle into his bones, sharp and familiar. “It’s not like I matter that much. There are three other strategists. They’d survive without me.”
Minho stared at him like the words physically hit him. “Are you serious right now?”
“I mean—” Chan swallowed, throat tight. “It’s true.”
Minho’s breath stuttered, shoulders trembling. “Why do you talk like that? Like losing you wouldn’t destroy everything?”
“Because it wouldn’t,” Chan whispered.
Minho’s voice strained, anger and grief tangled into one. “How the hell would you know? You don’t get to decide what your life means to other people!”
Chan lifted his chin, eyes tired and flat. “And you don’t get to pretend it means more than it does.”
Minho flinched like struck. “God, you’re infuriating.”
Chan’s laugh came out brittle. “You’re the one yelling at me.”
“Because I’m trying to get through your thick skull!” Minho snapped. “You risked your life for no reason—”
“Jisung would have been seriously hurt!” Chan repeated sharply. “Someone needed help. I wasn’t going to watch someone get hurt because following orders was more comfortable—”
“It’s not comfortable!” Minho roared. “It’s necessary! It’s how we survive! You think I like leaving people behind? You think I don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Chan stepped forward, trembling. “Don’t care?”
“Of course I care!” Minho slammed a hand against the wall, voice cracking. “That’s the entire problem—”
Chan cut in, voice shaking. “Why? Why is it a problem?”
“Because caring gets people killed!” Minho hurled the words like they were on fire. “Because the moment you care, you hesitate—you break—you lose everything—”
Chan stared at him, something caving inward. “Minho, I’m not some fragile bomb you need to tiptoe around.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Minho’s voice broke again. “You think I don’t see how strong you are? But strength has nothing to do with wanting to live or wanting to die—”
Chan stiffened. “That’s not what this is.”
“Yes, it is!” Minho stepped forward until their chests were almost touching. “You go into fire like you’re begging it to swallow you whole. Like you’re daring something to finish what you won’t admit you want.”
Chan’s breath hitched, chest collapsing inward. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Oh, I know enough,” Minho whispered, voice shaking. “I know the way you look when you think nobody sees. I know how you smile like it’s painful. I know you don’t value yourself like you value everyone else.”
Chan hadn’t thought it was apparent. At all.
He had kept his self deprivation and old self harm tendencies in this tightly locked suitcase in the back of his mind. Because the moment he recalled it, he could remember his sister crying when she’d read his suicide note.
He had gotten help, he’d been passed that. He didn’t need Minho to remind him. Sure, he struggled sometimes, and the price was often forcing a smile. But he wasn’t trying to kill himself. If he died, then he died, it was as simple as that. He closed his eyes. “Drop it, Minho.”
“No.” Minho’s voice was low, furious, shaking. “I’m not dropping it. Not when you keep trying to die in front of me like it’s nothing.”
Chan snapped his eyes open, rage and exhaustion and grief coiling in his gut like wire. “It wouldn’t matter if I did.”
Minho stared at him, horrified. “Yes, it fucking would—”
“Would it?” Chan shot back, voice rising. “To who? To the agency? To the team? You think anyone would care beyond a damn briefing report?”
Minho inhaled sharply. “I would.”
Chan froze, breath trapped in his lungs.
Minho continued before he could stop himself, voice raw like open wounds. “Every time you run into danger I feel like—like my chest is collapsing. Like I’m going to throw up. Like I’m watching someone I—”
Chan slammed the wall behind him with his fist, startling them both. His voice ripped out of him, broken and desperate. “Why do you care if I kill myself?”
The words echoed through the small room like a detonation.
Minho’s mouth fell open—no sound, no breath—body going still like he’d been shot.
And everything else went silent.
Minho stared at him for a long, shaking second—eyes wide and unfocused, breath wavering—and then his knees gave out. He dropped onto the edge of the bed like the floor had disappeared beneath him, hands gripping his thighs so tightly his knuckles went white. His head hung forward, hair falling like a curtain, shoulders rising and falling in short, sharp jerks.
At first, Chan only felt anger still burning hot in his chest, breath huffing through his nose. He opened his mouth, ready to snap again—“This is exactly what I mean, you act like—”—but then he stopped.
Minho wasn’t looking at him. Minho wasn’t looking anywhere.
His stare was distant, unfocused, pupils blown huge. His chest heaved but no air seemed to reach his lungs. His hands trembled violently where they gripped his knees, and a soft, broken rasp escaped him, not even a word—just a sound. His breathing was too fast. Too shallow. Borderline choking.
And then Minho’s fingers began to claw at his own arms—frantic and harsh, nails tearing into skin like he needed to rip something out from under it. Thin red lines split open under his nails immediately, blood welling fast.
Chan’s anger evaporated in an instant, replaced by cold fear.
“Minho—” he breathed, moving automatically, dropping to his knees in front of him. Minho didn’t respond, just dragged his nails deeper, breath stuttering into jagged gasps that sounded painful, like his throat was closing.
Chan grabbed his wrists hard, prying his hands away before he tore himself raw. Minho fought instinctively, trying to rip free, gaze wild and unfocused. There was terror in his face—real, suffocating terror—the kind that came from memory, not the present.
“Hey—hey, stop—Minho, look at me,” Chan said, voice low and urgent. “You’re hurting yourself. You’re bleeding.”
Minho’s breathing only got worse, chest heaving like he couldn’t drag air in fast enough. His hands shook violently in Chan’s grip, tendons straining like he might snap them.
Chan shifted closer, guided Minho’s hands to the center of his chest—pressed them flat, right over his heartbeat, pinning them there with his own. “Here,” he murmured, voice steady despite the panic clawing at his ribs. “Feel that. Breathe with me. In… out. Slow.”
Minho shook his head, gasping, throat clicking around each breath. Tears spilled silently, carving shaking lines down his cheeks. He tried to pull away again, nails curling like he needed to anchor himself somewhere painful.
Chan tightened his grip, firmer this time. “No. Stay here. Stay with me.”
He slid closer until their knees touched, then guided Minho forward until his forehead pressed against Chan’s shoulder. Minho resisted for half a second—then crumpled, body sagging like he’d lost all strength. His breath hitched violently against Chan’s collarbone, hot and wet.
Chan wrapped an arm around Minho’s back and used the other to keep Minho’s hands pressed to his heartbeat. The tremors wracked through Minho’s body hard enough to shake them both, his breath still desperately uneven.
“Listen to my heart,” Chan whispered against his hair. “You’re safe. You’re here. You’re okay. Just breathe. In… and out.”
Minho gasped again, a choked broken sound that could’ve been a sob, could’ve been a plea. He gripped Chan’s shirt like he was drowning and Chan was the only thing keeping him above water, fingers twisting into the fabric so hard it hurt.
Chan shifted them both, manhandling Minho until they were on the bed, Chan kneeling behind him, one arm around his chest and the other guiding his head until Minho’s ear was pressed directly over Chan’s heartbeat. Minho’s legs folded awkwardly under him, body trembling uncontrollably.
“Right here,” Chan murmured. “Don’t look anywhere else. Just listen.”
It took minutes—long, shaking minutes—before Minho’s breathing began to slow even slightly, hitching less violently, exhale lengthening. He clung to Chan like he’d fall apart if he let go, face buried in Chan’s shoulder, breaths hot and wet against his skin.
Chan didn’t loosen his hold, not even a little. Not when the trembling worsened, not when Minho’s breath stuttered into another near-sob, not when his hands shook against Chan’s chest so hard they vibrated.
Chan swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. “You’re not alone,” he whispered. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Minho finally spoke—voice wrecked beyond recognition, hoarse and small and breaking.
“I didn’t want to care,” he choked out, words shaking apart. “I didn’t want to feel anything again. I can’t— I can’t lose someone again. I can’t— I can’t watch it happen. Not again.”
Chan tightened his arms around him, holding him together as if pieces were falling away.
“You don’t have to,” Chan murmured. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”
Minho’s body sagged fully into him, surrendering.
When Minho finally spoke, his voice was wrecked.
“I lost someone,” he whispered. “Jeongin.”
Chan froze.
“He wasn’t trying to be a hero,” Minho said, tears streaking down his face unchecked. “He didn’t want to live anymore. And I didn’t see it. We were stopping a terror cell—gas chamber lockdown. He stayed inside to hold the door. I told him to escape. I begged him— I screamed— I told him about the emergency vault and he just…”
Minho choked, voice splintering.
“The whole scenario was supposed to be straightforward. I was on comms duty, he was on field. We had to lock the terrorists in the chamber and kill them. But we realized they had weapons with them, they could break out. And before the other members knew it, Jeongin had locked himself inside with them.” Minho bit his lower lip hard. “The last thing he said was ‘Thank you, hyung.’ And then—” Minho’s whole body shook. “I watched him die on the CCTV. He looked right at me while it killed him.”
Chan felt his own heart break, slow and brutal.
“I could have done better,” Minho whispered. “I should have been there. It should’ve been me. And that’s why I don’t get close to anyone. I can’t— I can’t lose another person because they decide they’re not worth saving.”
“Minho…” Chan breathed.
Minho’s eyes lifted, wet and desperate and furious.
“I don’t need pity. And I didn’t need you crawling under my skin until I cared without meaning to.”
Chan’s hands moved before thought could intervene—wrapping around Minho and pulling him tightly into his chest. Minho didn’t fight. Not this time. He collapsed into the hold, fists gripping Chan’s back like he was trying to anchor himself to something real.
Chan held him just as tightly, whispering into his hair.
“I’m not leaving. I’m not dying. Not like that. Not ever.”
Minho trembled in his arms, and for the first time, he didn’t hide it.
+1
The bunker smelled like rust, sewage, and fear. This was the first part of Mission Alcor, the mission which had been an international scale extraction. It was to stop the child trafficking pathways, and the current base was supposed to be the lead of the other ones in Korea.
Night pressed heavy against the steel-reinforced exterior as the team split at the entrance. The moon was nothing but a thin silver blade over their heads, barely enough light to outline the structure surrounded by dead grass and barbed wire.
Chan and Felix set up surveillance on the north slope, screens glowing faint against the dark. Inside, Minho, Jisung, and Seungmin moved quiet and precise through narrow concrete corridors, weapons raised, steps silent against the damp stone floor.
There were children hidden here—dozens of them. Trafficking disguised beneath a weapons front. The brief they’d been given barely scratched the horror of what they were seeing. It made every breath burn.
“Left wing secured,” Minho reported, voice low. “I see at least eleven minors in containment. Moving to extraction.”
Chan exhaled slowly, checking thermal maps. “Two hostiles thirty meters ahead. Jisung, angle forty-five degrees to Minho’s two o’clock. Seungmin, cover rear flank. No mistakes.”
They moved perfectly. Efficient. Trusting.
The first extraction went perfectly. Chan watched as the eleven thermal signals were led to a common point and grew fainter as they went underground. Then came Hyunjin’s affirmation about finding them.
Then everything went wrong.
A metallic screech split the air, followed by a hollow clunk—the unmistakable click of an explosive trigger releasing.
“Trap—!” Minho yelled from where he’d gotten separated.
The world detonated. Concrete screamed. Support beams ripped free. Dust and debris erased visibility and the floor shook violently as an entire corridor collapsed. Chan lost visual feed; the screens burst into corrosion and static.
“Minho!” Chan shouted, ripping his headset closer. “Minho, respond!”
A low, broken sound filtered through the line—Minho’s ragged breathing, uneven, struggling.
Chan felt his heart punch painfully against his ribs. “Talk to me. Tell me where you are.”
No response. Only static and the scrape of something heavy being dragged—Minho moving, injured.
Behind Chan, Felix flinched. “The explosion scrambled comm frequencies. We’re losing signal integrity.”
Somewhere distantly, voices filtered through, warped and cracking with static.
“…frequency’s blown out every comm system…”
“…good. We finish him here.”
Chan froze. His blood froze.
Another voice—unfamiliar, oily with triumph. “You ruined enough, Lee Minho. You die here tonight. With us.”
Chan’s vision tunneled. His pulse thundered. Something hot and lethal ignited in his chest.
Jisung’s voice cut in, frantic. “Seungmin’s injured—multiple tears and internal bleeding. If we move debris we risk rupturing an artery!”
Chan’s head snapped up. He inhaled once, sharply—and suddenly everything inside him went cold and clear. Laser precise.
“Pull back,” Changbin ordered, voice shaking. “Chan, that’s an order from second command—”
“No.” Chan’s voice was terrifyingly calm. “I’m going in.”
“Chan—”
“I said I’m going in.” His tone snapped like a whip. “Felix, prep stabilizers for structural lift. Jisung, reroute load tension through the corroded beam to your left. Four point five degrees clockwise. Now.”
They obeyed before they could think. His voice didn’t ask—it commanded.
Chan checked his tracker. The faint signal from Minho’s vest pulsed weakly under layers of fallen concrete, buried deep. Behind that, faint movement signatures—three small forms. Children.
He slipped inside through a narrow breach ripped open by the blast. The heat was suffocating, dust choking his lungs and burning his eyes. The ceiling groaned overhead like it might collapse again at any second.
Far ahead, he heard Minho’s voice—faint, static-cracked.
“If anyone hears this… there are suicide bombers inside… stay back. I repeat— stay—”
The line cut again.
“As if I’d leave you,” Chan whispered.
He rounded a corner and saw them—the scene carved in dim flickering emergency light. Two men stood with rifles leveled at Minho, red countdown timers strapped to their bodies ticking down from 6:00. Minho was on his knees before them, blood slicking his face and soaking his left leg in a spreading pool. His tactical vest was gone—stripped off. The bombers must’ve ripped it away.
And behind Minho, pressed against the corner wall, three terrified children cowered—eyes huge and silent.
One of the bombers leaned forward. “Nice try, love. You’re down to six minutes.”
Chan didn’t think.
He raised his rifle, fired twice. Two perfect shots. Both men dropped, dead before they hit the ground.
Minho jerked at the sound, head snapping up. His eyes found Chan through the haze—and something cracked open in them, relief and horror colliding.
Chan fired a plasma blaster into the damaged wall, widening an exit path. He slid to the children first, voice soft but firm.
“Run to the tunnel. Follow the light. You’ll see soldiers—they’ll get you out. Go.”
They ran instantly—trusting him without question.
Then Chan turned to the men on the floor, alive but bleeding steadily. He raised his rifle at them.
Once.
Twice.
Then again, again, again—bullets tearing into flesh already dead. Blood sprayed the cracked floor. The walls shook with the force. The only sound was the violent rhythm of gunfire and Chan’s ragged breaths tearing out of him, something unhinged and shaking loose inside him.
He wanted them erased.
He wanted every trace of the threat gone.
He wanted no universe where they might still take Minho from him.
“Chan—” Minho choked, voice raw and thin. “Chan, stop.”
The word cut through him like a blade.
Chan froze mid-trigger pull, chest heaving, fingers trembling so hard the gun rattled in his grip. He stared at the mangled bodies, vision swimming, breath breaking open in his throat. Then slowly—like waking from a nightmare—he lowered the rifle. It slipped from his hands and crashed to the ground.
He turned to Minho, stumbling forward, hands already reaching. Minho looked up at him—pale, shaking, eyes glazed with pain and fear and something softer, something that shattered Chan completely.
Chan dropped to his knees in front of him, hands skimming over Minho’s shoulders, his jaw, his neck, searching for wounds, for breath, for pulse.
“Talk to me,” Chan whispered, voice breaking. “Where— Minho, look at me. Please look at me.”
Minho blinked slowly, fighting consciousness. “Channie,” he breathed, trying for a smile that wobbled and failed. “It’s… too late to deactivate them.”
Chan stared at the blinking timers—2:02… 2:01… 2:00—and then back at the blood pooling beneath Minho.
“I don’t care,” he said, voice shaking with iron certainty. “I’m getting you out.”
Minho’s expression pinched in pain. “You need to run. Get out. You can still—”
“No.” Chan’s hands slid behind Minho’s shoulders, bracing. “We leave together. Or we don’t leave at all.”
“I can’t walk,” Minho hissed between clenched teeth. “My leg— it’s done. I won’t make—”
Chan didn’t let him finish. He hauled Minho over his shoulder in a fireman carry—ignoring the scream of torn muscle and the stab of broken ribs.
“Watch me.”
He ran.
The whole bunker erupted behind them after a moment of silence—one explosive after another, a chain reaction. Fire roared outward like a beast unleashed, shockwaves blasting through the corridors. The floor buckled. Debris rained. Chan held Minho to him, bent over like a shield, arms locked tight around him as the detonations tore through everything.
The explosion slammed into them like a hurricane, heat rolling in a blinding wave. Chan felt himself lifted off the ground, body thrown brutally into a concrete pillar. He twisted mid-air, curling around Minho so his own ribs cracked under impact rather than Minho’s. Debris rained down like metal hail. The air rang with silence too loud to be silent.
Then nothing.
For a moment everything was darkness.
When Chan forced his eyes open again, dust clung to his lashes and his ears roared with static. Minho was limp in his arms, head against Chan’s shoulder, blood dripping from his temple. Chan couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He pressed trembling fingers to Minho’s throat.
There. A pulse. Weak, but there.
Chan staggered up, dragging Minho with him. He stumbled toward the exit until the doors burst open and Felix was sprinting in, Changbin and Hyunjin right behind him.
“Chan! Holy shit— he’s alive—” Felix gasped, rushing to support Minho’s weight. “Get him to the stretcher!”
Chan didn’t let go until Minho was secured, hands fisting in the fabric of Minho’s shirt like he’d be ripped away if he loosened his grip. Minho jerked awake for a second, eyes wild, fighting against the hands holding him down.
“Don’t— touch me— let go— where’s— Chan—” Minho slurred, trying to rip off the oxygen mask.
Chan leaned over him immediately, cupping Minho’s jaw. “Minho. Hey. I’m here. I’m right here.”
Minho stilled instantly, muscles loosening like strings cut. He blinked up at Chan, vision glassy. “Hyung?” he breathed—voice small, broken.
Chan felt something inside him shatter. He bent down and pressed a kiss to Minho’s forehead, tender and shaking. The medic slipped the tranquilizer into Minho’s IV line, and Minho’s breathing eased as the drugs swept him under.
Everything around them was silent.
Chan brushed the blood away from Minho’s hairline with shaking fingers, still holding his hand tightly even after Minho went limp. He could feel his own ribs hurt, let the medics tear his shirt away for them to examine him. But he didn’t dare let go of Minho’s hand.
He looked up and found the entire team staring—wide-eyed, stunned, unmoving.
“…What?” Chan demanded, breathless and raw.
Jisung let out a disbelieving laugh. “I didn’t know he could let himself be loved.”
Silence cracked into shocked exhalations and exchanged glances.
Hyunjin blinked. “Did— did Minho hyung just call you hyung?”
Felix’s jaw dropped. “And— he listened to you? He fought the medics for you? Bro, what are you, his emotional kryptonite?”
Chan rubbed his aching ribs and muttered, “Shut up.”
The sterile white lights stung Chan’s eyes, but he didn’t dare blink too long. He sat on the edge of Minho’s hospital bed, one hand wrapped around Minho’s limp fingers, thumb brushing slow circles over the bruised knuckles. He was wrapped up in his own mess of bandages and supports and on heavy painkillers.
Machines hummed around them. The air smelled like antiseptic and blood and metal—but Minho was breathing, chest rising and falling, warm beneath Chan’s touch.
That was all that mattered.
Minho stirred, lashes fluttering weakly. A pained sound escaped him, soft but sharp enough to twist something deep in Chan’s chest. Chan leaned closer instantly.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low. “Minho. I’m here.”
Minho blinked himself into awareness, vision unfocused at first—until it found Chan. His breath hitched, and his hand tightened weakly around Chan’s.
“Hyung…?” His voice was thin, raw, uncertain.
Chan’s heart stuttered so violently he thought it might break. No one on the team ever called him that except out of duty. But the way Minho whispered it now—small and trembling and needing—undid every defense he had left.
“Yeah,” Chan breathed, leaning closer, forehead brushing Minho’s gently. “I’m here.”
Minho tried to shift, tried to sit up, and the sudden pain made him gasp, body curling tight before he could stop it. Chan caught him quickly, holding his shoulders.
“Ow—fuck—” Minho grit out, jaw shaking. His injured leg spasmed, as though the muscle was tearing all over again, and he choked on the sound.
“Easy, easy,” Chan whispered, guiding him back down. “Don’t move. Your ankle’s broken and your muscle’s gone to hell.”
Minho exhaled shakily, breath trembling. Chan couldn’t stop himself—he leaned in and pressed a soft, desperate kiss to Minho’s lips. It was slow, gentle, but full of everything he hadn’t gotten to say. Minho kissed back instantly, hungry for the contact, but winced halfway through.
Chan broke away and rested his forehead to Minho’s, breathing against his mouth with a sad, crooked smile. “You idiot,” he whispered affectionately. “Even now.”
The door opened. A nurse stepped in with a tray and a syringe. “We need to administer pain medication.”
“No.” Minho snapped it immediately, voice shaking. “I’m fine.”
Chan looked down at him—saw the tremor in his hands, the way he was biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
The doctor came up beside the nurse, tone firm. “The injuries are severe. Oral meds won’t hold. We need an intramuscular injection.”
Chan nodded, voice low. “Let me talk to him.”
When they stepped back slightly, Chan leaned close again, brushing curls off Minho’s forehead.
“Minho,” he murmured softly, “you’re shaking.”
Minho tried to glare, but his eyes were glassy and exhausted. “I don’t want— I’m fine. I don’t—”
“I know,” Chan whispered, thumb smoothing over his cheek. “But you don’t have to be fine right now. Let us help you. Let me help you.”
Minho’s breathing stuttered. He looked away, jaw trembling, the tiniest nod falling from him.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Chan signaled the nurse. He kept his forehead pressed to Minho’s as she lifted the blanket and injected the needle deep into the torn muscle of his thigh. Minho gasped, grabbing onto Chan’s shirt, shaking so hard the bed rattled. It would have amazed Chan had it been any other occasion, Minho, who’d taken bullets being afraid of needles.
“Hey, hey—look at me,” Chan whispered soothingly, cupping Minho’s face. “Breathe. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
Minho’s grip loosened as the medication hit his bloodstream, muscles relaxing, eyes hazy and unfocused. He blinked slowly, fighting consciousness like waves pulling him under. They just stared at each other, not even realizing the nurse had left.
“We’re both off missions, aren’t we?” Minho mumbled, words slurring.
“Definitely,” Chan said softly, stroking his hair back. “We took out their main unit. Your body cam caught coordinates for their secondary site. The team can handle the rest.”
Minho’s eyes lifted lazily. He blinked up at Chan like he was trying to memorize his face.
“Channie…?”
Chan’s breath caught. “Yeah, Minho-ya?”
Minho smiled—soft, crooked, so unbearably tender it physically hurt to look at. “You’re so pretty.”
Chan nearly laughed—or cried—he wasn’t sure which. It was definitely the drugs talking, but he lowered his head until their noses brushed.
“Yeah?”
Minho nodded with heavy, slow certainty. “I want you forever.”
Something warm flooded Chan’s chest, stealing his breath. He traced Minho’s cheek gently with his thumb, avoiding the bruises and abrasions.
“So do I, aein,” he whispered. “Rest now. I’m right here.”
Minho, stubborn even half-conscious, wrapped an arm around Chan’s and tugged with surprising strength, grumbling, “Hmph,” like a petulant child refusing to sleep without comfort.
Chan chuckled softly under his breath and shifted until Minho’s face was tucked into his chest. Minho wriggled once, finding a comfortable spot, breath warm against Chan’s ribs—then went still, drifting into heavy sleep.
Chan held him, fingers slow and steady in his hair, heartbeat calm and certain beneath Minho’s ear.
“You’re safe,” he whispered into the quiet room. “You’re mine to protect now.”
And for the first time since the bunker exploded, Chan let his eyes close.
They must have slept for hours. When Chan woke again, the sunlight had shifted—a warm late-afternoon glow stretching across the room. Minho was still tucked against him, breathing deep and even, one arm draped loosely around Chan’s waist. Chan’s ribs ached, his neck felt stiff from the angle, but he didn’t dare move.
He didn’t want to.
It was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of stillness they never got in their world.
Then the door burst open.
“Alright, we’re here to check on—holy shit.”
Jisung’s yell ricocheted off the walls like a grenade. Chan jerked upright, wincing, instinctively tightening his arm around Minho. Minho startled awake with a panicked gasp, blinking wildly, tensing as if ready to fight.
Seungmin, Hyunjin,Changbin, and Felix piled in behind Jisung—and froze.
Minho was curled against Chan’s chest, a blanket tangled around them, Chan’s hand still buried protectively in Minho’s hair. Their lips were visibly bruised. Chan looked like he’d been caught committing a felony. Minho looked like he wanted to sink into the floor and cease existence.
The silence was deafening.
Then Hyunjin brought his fists to his chest. “Oh my god, they’re actually a thing?”
Felix beamed like Christmas had come early. “I knew it! I freaking knew it!”
Seungmin blinked once, deadpan—he was in crutches too. “Well, that explains why Chan almost executed two corpses earlier.”
Changbin pointed back and forth between them as if his brain was short-circuiting. “When did this happen? How did this happen? Does this mean I won the betting pool?? Hyunjin, pay up—”
“Shut up,” Minho croaked, voice rough and sleep-heavy. His face flushed scarlet, and he tried to sit up straighter—only to flinch as pain shot through his injured leg. Chan steadied him instantly, a hand on his back.
The room went pin-drop silent again.
Because instead of letting go, Minho leaned into Chan’s touch. Instinctive.
Hyunjin’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god, he likes the affection. Like willingly.”
Jisung staggered backwards dramatically, clutching his chest. “I’m gonna pass out.”
Minho glared murderously at all of them. “If any of you say a word about this outside this room, I will personally break your kneecaps.”
Felix raised both hands. “Hyung, you’re literally cuddling him right now.”
Seungmin nodded. “And you’re holding his hand.”
Minho blinked down—and realized his fingers were laced tightly with Chan’s. He yanked his hand back so fast he nearly fell off the bed. Chan caught him again, steadying him by the waist.
The group collectively gasped like synchronized swimmers.
Chan sighed, rubbing Minho’s back once, gentle despite the theatrics around them. “Okay, everyone take a breath. We’re not… whatever you think we are. We’re just—”
Minho interrupted, still flushed and furious. “He’s mine. That’s all.”
A solid three seconds of stunned silence.
Then Felix squealed. Actually squealed. “Oh my god, Minho hyung said it first—”
Jisung hit the floor. “Seugmin-ah, get my inhaler—”
Changbin hauled Jisung up. “You don’t have asthma.”
Seungmin shook his head slowly, arms crossed. “No one is ever going to believe this.”
Minho groaned and dragged a pillow over his face. “Get out. All of you. Now.”
“After we tell Seonghwa—” Hyunjin sing-songed as he was forcibly shoved toward the door by Minho’s death glare.
They filed out one by one, still yelling down the hallway.
Chan waited until the door clicked shut. Then he looked down at Minho, who was still hiding behind the pillow.
“…You said I was yours,” Chan said softly.
The pillow slid a few centimeters. One eye glared at him. “If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll strangle you with your own dog tags.”
Chan smiled—slow, warm, unstoppable. He gently removed the pillow and brushed his fingers across Minho’s jaw.
“I’m yours,” he murmured. “Whether you say it out loud or not.”
Minho stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable and fierce in his eyes—then he closed them and rested his forehead against Chan’s shoulder again.
“Shut up and hold me,” he muttered.
Chan wrapped his arms around him, careful but firm, chest rumbling with a soft laugh.
“Yes, aein.”
Outside the room, the team’s excited shrieking echoed down the hallway like fireworks.
Inside, Chan held Minho quietly—the world narrowed to just the two of them, where nothing else mattered.