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The house is quiet. Not in a weird way. Just that kind of calm morning silence where everything feels suspended, still holding its breath. The sky outside is overcast, faint grey light pressing at the edges of the curtains. It feels too early to be awake, which is exactly why Jisung isn’t.
Technically.
He groans into the pillow. A dramatic, dying-man sort of groan. The type you make when you’ve woken up five minutes before your alarm and now the rest of the day is ruined.
He blinks at the ceiling for a second, eyes dry, mouth worse. There’s probably something poetic to say about how peaceful it is, but all he can think is: my throat tastes like death.
He peels himself out of bed slowly, like his body is fighting him on every move. Which it is. His blanket is twisted around one leg, his boxers are slightly askew, and his hair looks like he was in a fight with a small, angry bird. He doesn’t check.
The hallway is cold under his feet, and he makes no attempt to walk like a person with bones, just drags himself forward with the determination of a half-dead Roomba. He doesn’t bother knocking. Minho’s door is open anyway.
Minho’s bed is made with the kind of effortless disorder that looks intentional. He’s sitting on top of it, propped against the wall, phone in hand, hair slightly damp from a shower. Of course he’s already showered.
Jisung doesn’t say anything. He just walks in, crosses the room, and drops onto the mattress like a dying star.
Minho doesn’t look up.
“You could at least say good morning before collapsing like roadkill.”
Jisung grunts into the sheets. “Mornin’.”
Minho glances over, eyes flicking down to the mess that is Jisung. He raises an eyebrow.
“You look diseased.”
“Fuck you.”
Minho snorts. “Charming.”
There’s a short silence, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward. The sound of Minho’s phone screen being swiped through. Somewhere in the kitchen, the air fryer kicks on with a low hum.
Jisung shifts onto his side, curling half into himself. His head ends up near Minho’s thigh, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth. He closes his eyes. He’s not trying to fall asleep again, just not trying to do anything else either.
He feels Minho's hand in his hair a moment later. Just a light scruff of fingers, like he’s brushing something off, except he keeps doing it.
Jisung doesn’t react, but something in his chest loosens. Not dramatically, not even enough to name. Just a tiny click of something slotting into place.
“You have practice today?”
“Later.”
“Mm.”
Minho’s hand pauses, then resumes. Jisung lets it happen.
His eyes open slowly, gaze drifting up. He watches Minho from under his lashes. Just for a second. The slope of his neck, the line of his jaw, the still-focus of his expression. He’s not doing anything special. Not smiling, not even talking. Just scrolling through his phone, breathing slow and even.
Jisung looks away before it becomes obvious. He stares at a point on the wall instead. His throat tightens and he swallows.
“You cooking already?”
Minho hums. “Meal prep. I’ll make extra.”
“Don’t act like that’s a favor. You always make extra.”
“Yeah, for me.”
“Liar.”
Minho finally looks at him, deadpan. “You eat half of it straight out of the pan like a raccoon.”
Jisung blinks up at him. “Cute raccoon, though.”
Minho smirks faintly. “Debatable.”
He shifts, stretching one leg out with a quiet exhale. His knee bumps against Jisung’s shoulder and stays there.
Jisung closes his eyes again. His voice is a little softer when he speaks next.
“Your room smells good.”
Minho doesn’t say anything for a beat.
Then, “Laundry.”
“Hmm.”
“Also me.”
Jisung makes a face, but it doesn’t have any weight behind it. He listens to the low whir of the air fryer again, to the shift of Minho’s weight as he adjusts his posture. No rush. No tension. Just the simple presence of another person in a space you know too well.
“You gonna sleep here or brush your teeth first?”
Jisung sighs. “God, you’re obsessed with my mouth.”
Minho snorts. “I’m obsessed with not smelling your morning breath.”
Jisung leans up, opens his mouth exaggeratedly, and huffs.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Minho mutters, pushing him off.
Jisung laughs as he tumbles sideways, rolling onto his back. He stares at the ceiling for a second.
“I'll get up in a minute.”
⨾༊
Jisung sings in the shower. It’s not a conscious thing. He doesn’t stand in front of the mirror, point at his reflection like it’s an audience, and belt out a power ballad. It just sort of happens. The water turns on, the steam rises, and his brain decides: Now is the time for musical expression.
Today, it’s that one R&B track Minho was playing last night in the kitchen. Some smooth, mid-tempo thing with harmonies that fold over each other like warm laundry. Jisung didn’t even realize he remembered it until the melody slips past his lips.
He keeps it soft at first. Just humming as he soaps his arms, leaning into the spray. But by the second verse, he’s in it, full voice. Not loud—he’s not that self-absorbed—but present. The kind of singing that feels like muscle memory, like his body already knows what to do.
He lets his head tilt back into the water, eyes closed, palms pressed to his chest. The shower is warm, the tile fogged, and for a minute he forgets he exists outside this.
Until the door bursts open.
He startles like he’s just been caught committing a felony.
“Jesus fuck!”
Minho doesn’t flinch. He leans casually against the doorway, already halfway into a verse.
Same song, same lyrics. Same smug little twist to his mouth like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
Jisung scowls, heart thumping in his chest. “You fucking psychopath, do you know how to knock?”
“Do you know how to lock a door?”
Fair.
He never locks the bathroom anymore. Not after that time Minho came in while he was showering and they ended up pressed against the tiles, breathless, half-laughing, water pooling at their feet.
It wasn't planned. Wasn’t even a thing they talked about afterward. But it made an impression.
So. No more locked doors.
Minho steps inside like he owns the place (which, technically, he kind of does—his name is on the lease). He doesn't hesitate, doesn't ask, just peels his shirt off with one hand and drops it on the counter.
“Move over.”
Jisung blinks. “You’re serious.”
“The water’s running. Seems wasteful.”
Jisung opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again.
Because yeah, Minho is already tugging his sweats down, eyes annoyingly calm. Jisung can pretend to be scandalized, but really he’s just glad the glass is fogged enough to hide the way he’s definitely staring.
He shuffles over, pressing himself to the far end of the shower.
Minho steps in like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t a small shower stall with one sad shampoo bottle and one person’s worth of space. His skin is already warm from the room, water rolling down his shoulders, catching in the line of his collarbone.
Jisung tries not to look. He fails. But he tries.
“You were flat on the bridge,” Minho says.
Jisung scoffs. “You were off-key the second you came in.”
Minho hums. “I’m never off-key.”
“You were off-key.”
“Still sounded better than you.”
Jisung shoves him, palm to bare shoulder. It’s not aggressive, but it’s contact. Minho doesn’t move, just glances down at him like he’s debating revenge.
“You should be grateful I joined,” he says. “It was getting embarrassing in here.”
Jisung snorts. “Says the man who entered mid-chorus.”
“Timing.”
There’s a beat where neither of them speaks. The sound of the water fills the silence. It hits Minho’s shoulder first, then rolls to his chest. Jisung looks down at the tiles. Tries to remember if he actually washed his hair or just stood there being stupid.
Minho leans back into the spray, sighing like this is a spa day instead of a spontaneous duet-slash-shower invasion. His voice picks up the melody again, just under his breath.
Jisung hates how good it sounds. Effortless. Clean.
So he joins in again. Quieter this time, just the harmony.
It should be ridiculous. Two grown men sharing a shower, singing an R&B track at 9AM like they’re auditioning for a feel-good drama montage. But it doesn’t feel ridiculous. It feels easy, familiar. Like muscle memory.
They don’t make eye contact, which somehow makes it feel more intimate.
By the time the song ends, Jisung's hands are wrinkling and the water's starting to cool. He shuts it off without speaking, stepping out first, grabbing a towel.
Minho stays in the shower for a second longer, head tilted back, water dripping from his lashes. Then he steps out too, grabbing a towel of his own and rubbing at his hair.
“I smell like your body wash,” Jisung mutters.
“Good. Yours sucks.”
“You suck.”
“Eh, you wish.”
⨾༊
Jisung is lying on his bed, minding his own business.
Well. Kind of.
He’s scrolling through his phone, headphones in, pretending he’s going to be productive today. Which is a lie, but it’s the idea of productivity that counts, right? The illusion of being busy. The comfort of knowing that if he wanted to be useful, he could. He just doesn’t.
He hears the front door open, faintly. Then the shuffle of sneakers against hardwood. Then the sound of a bag dropping. All familiar, rhythmic noises by now.
Minho’s home.
And approximately fifteen seconds later, Minho’s bedroom door doesn't open. Jisung’s does.
Jisung barely has time to pull one earbud out before Minho is there. Still damp from the gym, flushed, his hair messy, wearing sweatpants that are just barely clinging to his hips. Tank top clinging to his chest, water bottle in one hand, phone in the other. Energy dialed up to eleven.
“Hey,” he says casually, as if they’re not both fully aware of what's about to happen.
Jisung opens his mouth to greet him but doesn’t get the chance. Minho drops both the water bottle and his phone somewhere near the nightstand, and the next thing Jisung knows, there’s a solid thump of muscle and weight on top of him.
“Fuck, hyung,” Jisung wheezes, wind punched out of him. “Do you mind?”
“Not really,” Minho says, already pressing his mouth to the corner of Jisung’s jaw.
And okay, yeah, Jisung minds a little less now.
This happens a lot.
It’s like some kind of post-gym ritual at this point. Minho comes home with a full tank of adrenaline and zero chill, too keyed up to sit still. Jisung’s room—bed, specifically—has apparently become the designated outlet for whatever energy Minho can’t burn off doing squats and deadlifts.
Jisung has made peace with this. Or at least, with the part where it usually ends with Minho panting into his neck and both of them coming so hard they forget their names for ten minutes.
It’s the sudden impact part that always gets him.
“You showered at the gym?” Jisung asks.
Minho hums, kissing down his throat. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Minho doesn’t answer. He’s too busy dragging his mouth over Jisung’s neck like he’s trying to leave a mark there just for fun. Jisung groans, tips his head back, lets it happen. He can already feel the weight of Minho’s body settling over his, knee pushing between his thighs, hand sliding under the hem of his t-shirt.
“You’re like a fucking animal when you get back from the gym,” Jisung mutters, trying to sound annoyed but mostly sounding turned on.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Minho murmurs into his skin, biting lightly at his collarbone.
It’s not. Not even close.
Jisung lifts his arms as Minho tugs his shirt off, barely registering when it lands somewhere across the room. His fingers are already working at the drawstring on Minho’s sweats, tugging it loose, tugging him closer.
There’s no rush, not really, but it always feels urgent when Minho’s like this, high off endorphins, voice a little lower, hands a little rougher. Jisung can tell the difference. There’s a kind of neediness to him, a buzz under his skin like he’s still chasing that burn, and Jisung just happens to be the next best thing.
And yeah. He’s into it.
Minho kisses him then, finally, fully. Deep and slow and wet, all tongue and breath, like he’s trying to crawl inside his mouth. Jisung moans into it, hips rolling up without permission, already halfway hard from the kiss alone, fuck his life.
Their bodies press together, Minho slotting perfectly between his legs like he belongs there. Like this is where he ends up every time, and honestly, it is. This is routine now. This is their version of “honey, I’m home.”
Minho breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth along Jisung’s cheek, over his jaw, down to his neck again. Jisung lets his head fall to the side, gives him access, hands sliding up Minho’s back.
“You should really get your own bed,” Jisung mumbles, breathless.
Minho grins against his skin. “Why? Yours is right here.”
“Convenient,” Jisung mutters, then gasps when Minho bites just a little harder.
“You love it,” Minho says, confident. Bastard.
But yeah. Yeah, he does.
The heat builds fast. Hands everywhere, kisses getting sloppier. Jisung arches into every touch, every grind, already a mess and they haven’t even taken their pants off yet.
This is what it’s like.
Minho comes home from the gym, and Jisung gets fucked like he’s the reward at the end of a hard workout.
He wouldn’t trade it for anything.
⨾༊
The elevator ride is never that long. Ten floors. Barely a minute, if that. But tonight it stretches in that weird, hazy way time does when it’s late and your bones are tired and you’re standing under harsh fluorescent lights that make your pores look like craters.
Jisung slouches against the back wall, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp from the quick rinse he took after practice. His face is still warm. Everything kind of aches in that good way, the way that says yeah, you worked today.
Minho is standing beside him, phone in hand, scrolling through something with the kind of neutral expression that could mean anything from "I'm checking our schedule" to "I'm looking at an edit of a raccoon doing backflips."
They haven't said much since leaving the car. Not because something's wrong. They're just used to the quiet. It's the kind that fits around them like an old sweatshirt. Soft.
The elevator mirrors, though, are unforgiving. Unfiltered. Jisung glances at his reflection and winces.
“I look like someone tried to draw me from memory,” he mutters.
Minho snorts without looking up. “A drunk person. In the dark.”
“With their feet.”
Minho finally lifts his eyes to the mirror, tilting his head.
“You look fine.”
Jisung raises a brow. “Like, actually fine, or like... passable-for-a-gremlin fine?”
Minho shrugs. “Would still kiss.”
Jisung grins. He turns toward the mirror again, squints, then starts contorting his face. Lips puckered, eyebrows exaggeratedly arched. A caricature of himself.
“What about now? Still hot?”
Minho doesn’t answer. He just matches him. Tilts his chin up and stretches his mouth into something horrifyingly fishlike.
It escalates quickly. As it always does.
They start layering expressions. Double chins, sucked-in cheeks, Minho crossing his eyes while Jisung mimes sobbing dramatically against the wall.
Minho opens his phone camera and flips it to selfie mode.
“Absolutely not,” Jisung says, already laughing.
“Come on. For the archives.”
“You mean blackmail.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
They squeeze into frame, Jisung half-crouching to fit under Minho’s chin, both of them wearing matching expressions of pure menace. The kind that would get them escorted out of any normal event.
Click. Another. Then a burst.
Minho scrolls through the shots, unimpressed. “We look like trolls.”
“We are trolls.”
The elevator slows suddenly. The display blinks: 1.
Jisung straightens instinctively. Minho lowers the phone. They step slightly apart, still smiling, but softer now.
The doors open. Some guy walks in, maybe early thirties, earbuds in, dress shirt slightly rumpled like he just got off a long shift.
He nods at them politely. They nod back.
And just like that, the room resets. Silent. Neutral.
Minho keeps his phone down. Jisung folds his hands into his sleeves. The floor numbers tick upward slowly.
The man gets off on 6. Offers a nod on the way out. The doors close.
And immediately, like a switch, Jisung wiggles his eyebrows. Minho bursts into a quiet laugh.
“You were holding that in.”
“My soul was leaving my body.”
Jisung leans back against the mirror, grinning. Minho shifts in front of him, still too close from the selfie attempt. His body radiates heat in the cramped space.
“One more?” he asks, raising the phone again.
Jisung leans in, lips parted just slightly in mock-sultry pose. Minho rolls his eyes.
But he doesn’t move away.
They pause there, barely an inch apart.
Jisung can see the faint smudge of eyeliner still clinging to the corner of Minho’s eye, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes in. The way his lashes catch the light. There’s something in his chest that clicks again, that same little rhythm he doesn’t always understand but always feels.
Minho doesn’t say anything. He just tips forward.
The kiss is nothing new. It’s not rushed or dramatic. Just an easy slide into something that fits. Like they’ve done it a thousand times.
Because they have.
Minho tastes like mint and whatever convenience store drink he downed in the car. His lips are soft but assured, hands coming up to brace against the wall on either side of Jisung’s shoulders.
Jisung hums into it, hands curling into Minho’s hoodie.
The elevator hums around them. Floor 7.
The kiss deepens. Slightly, naturally.
Minho tilts his head, presses in closer. Jisung parts his lips, lets out a soft sigh that disappears into Minho’s mouth.
Floor 8.
Minho pulls back just enough to glance at the mirror, their reflections still faintly distorted.
Jisung grins, breathless. “We look ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Minho says. And kisses him again.
Floor 9.
Minho's hand slides down to Jisung’s waist. Not possessive, just grounding.
They don’t speak. They don’t need to.
Floor 10.
The ding cuts through the quiet. The doors slide open.
They separate, barely. Just enough to walk out.
No one says anything as they step into the hallway. But Jisung can still feel Minho’s fingers brushing his.
⨾༊
Jisung gets home after a long, mind-numbing studio session with Chan and Changbin. The kind where your brain feels like mashed rice and your ears start ringing from looping the same chorus seventy times. His backpack’s hanging off one shoulder, hoodie half unzipped, hair a mess, headphones still around his neck playing whatever playlist he didn’t bother pausing.
He toes off his shoes by the door, doesn’t even bother announcing he’s home. He doesn’t have to.
Because the second he’s through the threshold, he hears Minho call out from the living room.
“Han-ah. Come here.”
Just like that. No explanation, no question. Just that slightly amused tone.
And Jisung goes.
Of course he goes.
He always goes.
Because Jisung listens. He listens really well. Especially when it’s Minho talking. It’s not a power dynamic thing, not really. Not some strict dom/sub script or anything dramatic like that. They’re equal. Partners. But Jisung is… well, obedient.
Minho says, and Jisung does. Happily.
If Minho tells him to grab something, he grabs it. If Minho calls him over for no reason, he comes running, just to get a dumb little “hi” and a shit-eating grin. If Minho tells him to get on all fours and twerk, he does, even if he groans about it first. If Minho says, “Bring your butt over here,” Jisung presents it like a gift, knowing full well Minho’s gonna smack it just for the sound it makes.
Apparently, Minho really likes the sound it makes.
So Jisung drops his bag in the hallway and pads into the living room where Minho’s lounging on the couch, phone in hand, legs splayed like he’s the king of this apartment. Which, again, he kind of is.
Jisung doesn’t say a word. He just turns around, sticks his butt out with a dramatic little arch, and waits.
And—yep. There it is. Smack.
Palm meeting ass, solid and unapologetic.
“Good boy,” Minho says absently, not even looking up from his phone.
Jisung snorts. “You're so fucking annoying.”
“You love it.”
He does.
He thinks, just for a second, about not doing it. About acting up a little. Maybe stomping past Minho with a bratty little glare and refusing to play along. But the last time he tried that, Minho threw him over his shoulder, marched him into his bedroom, and gave him the kind of ass-spanking that left Jisung whining into a pillow and leaking onto the sheets.
So.
No.
He behaves.
He lets another smack land, hums softly at the sting, then climbs into Minho’s lap like he belongs there. Which he does. His arms loop around Minho’s neck. His nose buries itself in the space where Minho’s collarbone meets his shoulder, breathing in sweat and skin and a bit of fabric softener.
Minho puts his phone down finally, one hand coming up to rub slow circles over Jisung’s back. The other stays where it is, palming his ass like he owns it. Which, again, he does.
He squeezes. Not hard, just enough to remind Jisung who he came to.
“Long day?” he murmurs.
Jisung just nods into his neck.
Minho hums, dragging his nails lightly over the curve of Jisung’s thigh, the way he knows makes him melt.
“Poor baby,” he mutters, mock-sympathetic.
Jisung makes a sound that’s half annoyed, half pleased. He’s too tired to banter, too tired to be clever. All he wants is this. This warmth, this weight, these hands.
And Minho seems to know that, because he doesn’t push. He just holds him there, warm and smug and maddening.
They sit like that for a while. Minho gently kneading his ass like a stress ball. Jisung half-asleep in his lap, face hidden, breath evening out. His limbs go loose, his body heavy with exhaustion.
He mumbles something about Chan and his sixteenth edit of the same chorus. Minho grunts, like he’s heard it all before. Jisung grumbles about Changbin blasting the demo mix like it was a club night. Minho just presses a kiss to his temple and keeps rubbing.
It’s stupid.
And it’s perfect.
It’s theirs.
Until it isn’t.
Well, it still kind of is. Technically. Nothing explodes. No grand falling out, no screaming match in the hallway or dramatic storming off mid-practice.
They still do all of it. The good mornings, the shower duets, the chicken theft, the sex, the dumbass elevator moments. The routine doesn’t go anywhere.
But something shifts.
And the worst part?
It shifts so quietly, Jisung almost doesn’t notice.
Almost.
It happens on a Tuesday. Maybe a Wednesday. One of those in-between days where time feels like soup and your body doesn’t know if it’s exhausted or just over it.
They’re in the car, parked outside the studio, waiting to be called in. The sun is creeping in low through the windows, and the air smells faintly like Minho’s cologne and coffee. Music playing low, something ambient, nondescript.
The car is still, quiet.
Minho says, in that low, amused tone of his: “You’re so cute.”
Simple. Familiar. Said with that same mellow-eyed look Minho always gets when he's relaxed and not trying to hide that he means it.
It should be nice. It is nice. Jisung is used to it. He’s been hearing that same tone for years now. That specific voice Minho uses when he's not teasing, when it's real.
And maybe that's why it takes a second too long for Jisung to smile.
He notices it himself.
The delay. The pause.
Not because he doesn’t like hearing it. Not because it doesn’t land. But because something inside him—tiny and flickering—falters.
It's not even a full emotion. Not fear, not doubt. Just... a question.
He tries to cover it, smiles anyway, laughs it off, says something flirty and dumb like “Takes one to know one” and softly bumps Minho’s shoulder.
Jisung blames it on the elevator.
That moment a few weeks ago. When they were surrounded by staff and members, all squished into the elevator after getting their makeup done.
The one where they were heading to KBS studio after getting their makeup done, the entire group crammed into the small space with staff and stylists. Where Minho, standing in front of him, turned around, leaned close and mouthed cute just for him, while everyone else stared at the numbers ticking up.
Jisung had barely kept his shit together. Had turned his face into the corner like he was suppressing a cough, just to hide how much it hit him. How warm it made him feel. How obvious it felt to him.
That moment rattled him. The intimacy of it, the secrecy. The fucking audacity of being looked at like that in a full elevator of people. He hadn’t known where to look after.
So maybe that’s why now, when Minho says it out loud in the car, it doesn’t hit as hard. Maybe it’s just been said too many times. Maybe he’s used to it.
And maybe…
…maybe that’s the problem?
That thought nestles in his chest like a stone, cold and heavy.
He starts watching the moments more closely after that.
The soft ones, the ones that used to be electric.
Minho grabs his wrist to pull him into frame during a selfie. Jisung goes easily, instinctive. But halfway through the pose, he thinks: Do I want to? Or do I just always do this?
Minho hums from the other room while Jisung sings in the kitchen. Their voices blend, effortlessly. Like they always have. But Jisung hears his own voice waver for half a second, hesitate. Why did he join in? Did he want to? Or did he feel like he should?
They fuck after the gym, like they do most days. Quick, efficient, familiar. It still feels good. Still gets him panting, pressed against Minho’s chest, nails digging in, skin flushed.
But after, lying there, catching his breath, Jisung stares at the ceiling and wonders: Was that intimacy? Or just muscle memory?
Every touch starts echoing. Every word. Every look.
Minho says, “Come here,” like he always does, reaching out with a palm on Jisung’s waist.
Jisung moves before he thinks. Obeys before he feels.
And then he notices.
That he moved. That he didn’t even question it.
And suddenly everything starts unraveling, just a little.
He starts thinking in loops.
Do I even get butterflies anymore?
Do I give him butterflies? Or am I just background now? Familiar noise?
They have routines. Patterns. They’re so fucking good at them. The morning greetings, the quick jokes, the way Jisung always steals a bite of Minho’s food and Minho always sighs but lets him. The way Minho always says “idiot” but with a hand brushing his neck, soft.
It should be comforting. It is comforting.
But lately, it feels like acting. Like repeating a scene they’ve both memorized, word for word.
And that scares him.
Because what if Minho doesn’t mean it anymore?
Worse—what if he’s the one who doesn’t?
What if they’re just walking a well-worn path because it’s easier than admitting they’re not sure where it’s going anymore?
He tries not to dwell on it.
But it keeps showing up. In quiet ways. Sharp little edges on otherwise soft days.
Minho says something stupid in the elevator and Jisung laughs automatically, then thinks, Did I even hear the joke?
Minho hums against his neck and Jisung thinks, Did we kiss today because we wanted to, or because that’s what happens on Tuesdays after practice?
He still smiles. Still kisses back. Still slips into Minho’s bed at night when the world feels heavy.
But some nights, after Minho falls asleep, Jisung lies there in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
And wonders.
If he stopped showing up, would Minho notice?
Then:
If he did, would he care?
And finally:
If he didn’t care, would Jisung?
The answer should be obvious.
It’s not.
⨾༊
It starts showing up in the small things. Like the singing.
It used to be natural. Jisung would hear Minho humming from the living room and instinctively harmonize from the kitchen, voices weaving together without thinking. No eye contact, no planning. A shared language, a thing they did.
Now, Jisung pauses.
The melody floats through the air, familiar and soft, and he hears it, hears the space waiting for him to join in. And he almost does.
But his throat catches. His feet hesitate.
And he doesn’t.
Sometimes Minho doesn’t notice. Sometimes he turns around with a raised brow, confused but not asking. Other times he just keeps going, voice solo, like maybe it was always meant to be a monologue.
It makes Jisung feel like a ghost in his own apartment.
The sex is still good. Technically. Their bodies know each other like second nature now, all the soft parts, the pressure points, the pace that gets them both gasping. Jisung still comes undone under Minho, still makes the right noises, still says the right things.
But when it’s over, and the sweat cools and the room settles into quiet, he lies there blinking up at the ceiling and thinks:
I felt that in my body. Not my chest.
It doesn’t scare him, exactly. It’s not some dramatic we've-lost-the-spark moment. But it leaves him numb in a way that lingers.
Like chewing gum too long. All motion, no flavor.
And the rest of it, the tiny gestures that used to make him feel seen?
Now they just confuse him.
Minho smacks his ass walking past him in the hallway. Says, “Move, dumbass,” with that playful edge, that fondness that used to make Jisung blush. He smiles. He says something back.
But internally he thinks:
Do we want this? Or is this just what we do?
The rituals are all still there. The comfortable rhythm they’ve built over time. The late-night shoulder bumps while brushing their teeth. The way Minho steals his hoodie and wears it inside out just to piss him off. The soft tug on his sleeve when he zones out in public.
None of it has stopped.
But he has. Stopped feeling the same about it.
Or worse, started feeling nothing at all.
It hits hardest when Minho says things sincerely.
Like when they’re curled up on the couch, one of those rare nights where their schedules aren’t trying to kill them, and Minho looks at him all soft-eyed and says,
“You know I really fucking like you, right?”
And Jisung’s first reaction is to laugh. Not because it’s funny. Not because he doesn’t believe it.
But because he doesn’t know what to do with it.
He plays it off, teases back, calls him a loser.
But when he’s alone later—teeth brushed, lights off, lying flat in bed staring at nothing—the words echo. Not the content. The delivery.
The tone.
Do you mean that? Or is it just your turn to say it?
And then:
Do I even want you to mean it? Or do I just want to know you still think about it?
It’s messy.
He keeps trying to untangle the wires in his brain, but they’re knotted up so tight he can’t tell what’s fear and what’s fatigue and what’s just... boredom, maybe?
He doesn’t want to say that out loud. Not even to himself. Boredom sounds like betrayal. Like failure. Like the opposite of love.
But some nights, when Minho is already asleep beside him and the room is too quiet, Jisung thinks about the beginning. The chaotic, giddy beginning. The “fuck, are we really doing this?” stage. The breathless kisses and accidental brushes of skin that meant too much. The shy glances, the surprise of it all.
Back then, everything felt like fire.
Now it feels like tea that’s been reheated too many times.
Still warm, still there. Just missing the spark.
He’s terrified to admit it. Because Minho hasn't changed. Not really.
He still does all the things.
Still calls him cute in passing. Still holds his hand under the table when no one’s looking. Still hums his stupid made-up songs while brushing his teeth. Still laughs at Jisung’s weird little dances when he’s bored.
Still chooses him.
Every day.
But Jisung’s chest doesn’t bloom like it used to.
And maybe it’s temporary. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe the weight of work and pressure and always having to be something for someone is dulling everything else.
But the maybe doesn’t make it easier.
Because he can’t stop wondering:
What if we’re not in love anymore?
What if we’re just really good at pretending we still are?
He still does the things.
Still kisses Minho goodnight.
Still texts him dumb memes throughout the day.
Still lets himself be pulled into his arms after practice, pressed face-first into Minho's shirt while he pretends he doesn't care.
But something is missing.
A flutter.
A skip in his chest.
A spark.
And it’s terrifying.
Because the routine hasn’t changed.
But he has.
And he doesn’t know how to fix something that technically isn’t even broken.
He just knows he misses feeling lit up from the inside.
He misses wanting to sing along.
⨾༊
Jisung doesn’t know how to talk about it.
Which is fucking rich, considering he talks all the time. He’s the guy who never shuts up during car rides, who monologues about anime over takeout, who once spent two hours telling Minho how much he loved him and his voice.
And because if there’s one person on earth he should be able to talk to, it’s Minho.
Minho, who has this terrifying ability to make everything heavy feel light. Who never rushes him. Who doesn’t try to fix things unless Jisung asks him to. Minho, who takes him out to get soup and overpriced pastries when he’s spiraling, without calling it a breakdown. Minho, who never uses that pity-voice people use when they don’t know what the fuck to say.
Minho, who treats him the same whether Jisung’s flying or flailing.
That’s what makes it harder.
Because this isn’t a break. This isn’t something he can hand over and say, “Hey, I’m feeling weird, help me name it.”
This is rot, quiet and slow.
This is waking up one day and realizing the thing you love still looks the same, but it doesn’t feel the same, and you don’t know if the problem is the thing or you.
So Jisung doesn’t say anything.
He shrinks his feelings down until they feel manageable, tucks them into his hoodie like lint he forgot to shake out.
He starts small. The kind of small he hopes won’t register.
He stops wandering into Minho’s room in the morning.
No more half-asleep flops onto the bed, mumbling good morning into Minho’s shoulder, smelling his shampoo.
Instead, he sends a wave emoji in the group chat and eats his cereal in his own room, with the door half-shut.
He starts taking his food with him after dinner. Plate in hand, quick “gonna finish lyrics,” already backing down the hall.
Minho doesn’t question it, not out loud. But Jisung knows he notices.
Because Minho stops leaving out an extra pair of chopsticks.
He starts humming quieter, just under his breath, barely audible. If Minho's in the kitchen singing, Jisung takes the long way around. If they're both in the living room and a song comes on that they usually riff off of, Jisung lets Minho take the lead, doesn't follow.
He stops following Minho into the kitchen just to be near him.
Stops hovering. Stops stealing food off his plate.
He twerks less, which is hilarious in a sad kind of way. Because that used to be his default defense mechanism.
Not because he doesn’t want to. But because Minho used to laugh, used to call him annoying, used to reach out and pull him close, shaking his head with that dumb fond smile.
Now Jisung’s not sure he wants to see if the smile still happens.
So. He just doesn’t.
He smiles, but faster, fainter. He laughs but always looks away right after, like he’s afraid of being seen.
And the whole time, Minho doesn’t push.
He gives him space. Too much space.
Which—fine. That’s what Jisung wanted, right?
Right?
He thinks maybe the distance will help. That if they stop orbiting each other so closely, he might miss Minho again, might get the flutter back, might stop feeling like he’s just playing a version of himself from a time that meant more.
He believes it.
It takes Minho a week to ask.
Jisung's almost surprised it takes that long.
They're in the hallway, late evening, both reaching for the same charger. Minho doesn’t say anything at first, just pulls his hand back and lets Jisung take it.
“Are you mad at me?”
Jisung blinks. “What?”
Minho leans against the wall, arms crossed, casual, but not. “You’ve been weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“No, you’ve been off.”
Jisung wants to lie. Or joke. Or do anything that’ll push this conversation into safer territory.
But Minho’s looking at him too closely.
And panic makes his mouth move before his brain does. “Maybe we should… hang out less. For a bit. Just so we don’t get tired of each other.”
He hates how rehearsed it sounds, how flat.
The silence that follows is instant and awful.
Minho doesn’t react at first, just watches him. Like he’s waiting for the punchline.
But Jisung doesn’t laugh.
Minho’s face doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes shuts. Not angry, just quiet. He nods once.
“Okay,” he says, voice even. “If that’s what you need.”
That should make Jisung feel relieved.
It doesn’t. It makes him feel like a sinkhole opened under his ribs.
Minho doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for clarity, doesn’t do the thing he always does, where he gently pokes until Jisung opens up like a shaken soda.
He just turns and walks back to his room.
And that’s the first time in a long time where there’s no singing in the house.
No hums while brushing teeth. No snippets of chorus drifting from the kitchen. No harmonies through the walls.
Just silence.
Later, in bed, Jisung scrolls through his phone and sees a dumb video he knows Minho would laugh at. His finger hovers over the “share” button.
He doesn’t press it.
He turns his phone off.
Stares at the ceiling.
And wonders how the fuck he ended up missing someone who lives just down the hall.
⨾༊
Jisung misses him so much it feels violent.
Which is dramatic, sure. But also kind of accurate.
Because Minho’s not gone. He’s literally in the next room, probably on his bed, scrolling or working or reorganizing his sock drawer by softness, or whatever weird domestic ritual he’s into this week.
They still live together, still pass each other in the hallway, still say things like “Good morning” and “Did you eat?” and “You left your damn socks in the sink again.”
But it’s not the same.
And Jisung feels it. In his chest, in his fucking bones.
He misses Minho’s humming.
That stupid, unbothered hum that used to trail behind him like a scent, soft and constant. Minho used to hum while cooking, while cleaning, while walking around half-naked with a protein shake. Jisung used to follow it like a thread.
Now the apartment is quiet.
And it’s worse than silence. It’s absence.
He misses the way Minho used to yell, “Get your butt over here,” from across the room, then act offended when Jisung didn’t immediately respond like a loyal dog.
He misses the elevator. The stupid fucking elevator.
The way they’d make dumb faces in the mirror. The way Jisung would stick out his tongue and Minho would do something worse, and they’d both laugh until someone got on at floor 3 and they had to act normal.
He misses the way Minho would lean in just before their floor and kiss him.
Now they don’t ride the elevator together. One of them always lingers, lets the other go first. Or takes the stairs. Or pretends they forgot something in the car.
Jisung misses the kitchen.
Misses standing barefoot on cold tile, stealing pieces of chicken out of Minho’s meal prep. Misses the half-annoyed look Minho would give him, like he wanted to be mad but couldn’t quite manage it. Misses bumping shoulders while washing dishes. Misses Minho’s heat next to him.
He misses the sex.
Misses Minho fucking him senseless after a gym session, all tension and sweat and low, growled “you’re so fucking hot like this.” Misses the way Minho would look at him, like he was something to be devoured, something real.
And he misses after, too.
The weight of Minho half on top of him, the arm across his stomach, the nothing conversations, the quiet.
He misses feeling safe.
Because that’s what Minho was. Is. Safety.
The only person who never made him feel too much or not enough. The only person who could look at him mid-panic spiral and somehow make it funny. The only person who never changed, even when Jisung did.
And now Jisung has no idea how to get back to him.
He wants to.
God, he wants to.
But every time he gets close, the fear kicks in.
Because what if he’s just clinging to comfort? To a routine they both know too well?
What if this isn’t love anymore?
What if it’s just habit?
What if Minho already let go?
He thinks about that more than he wants to.
Because Minho didn’t fight him. When Jisung said they should spend less time together, he didn’t argue, didn’t push back, just said, “Okay. If that’s what you need.”
And Jisung told himself it meant Minho respected him. Respected his space, his process.
But what if it meant he agreed?
What if Minho also needed the space?
What if he doesn’t miss Jisung at all?
And what if Jisung’s just the one who took longer to notice the distance?
That thought guts him.
Because he remembers how it used to feel. Remembers waking up before his alarm just to crawl into Minho’s bed. Remembers how Minho used to say his name when he was soft and sleepy and half-laughing.
So now they orbit each other like strangers in matching shoes, polite, distant.
And Jisung fucking hates it.
⨾༊
Weeks pass.
Which is kind of insane, if Jisung really thinks about it. Because things between him and Minho are... fine. Technically. Fine in that maddening, fucked up way where everything looks normal if you squint hard enough and tilt your head.
But they don't touch. They don't drift toward each other like gravity is involved.
They don't sit shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen table, legs tangled underneath, trading lyrics and dumb half-thoughts until one of them laughs.
They don't kiss in elevators. Or on the couch. Or anywhere, really.
And the thing that makes Jisung lose his mind—the part that actually, genuinely sends him spiraling at 2am in bed with a pillow over his face—is that they don’t even ignore each other.
Ignoring would probably feel better. Ignoring would at least be clear.
But this? This weird polite limbo?
This is torture.
Minho still talks to him, still throws him his water bottle during rehearsal, still nods when Jisung offers an idea in meetings, still asks if he's eaten, still tosses him a hoodie when it's cold.
And Jisung responds.
Because he doesn’t know how not to.
Because they still work. Functionally, efficiently.
But they’re not Minho-and-Jisung. Not the version people write fics about. Not the one fans giggle over during interviews. Not the one that makes the other members roll their eyes and go, “Jesus, just make out and get it over with.”
They're something else now. A rebrand, an echo.
The other members notice.
Of course they do. They're not dumb.
Jisung sees the way Chan looks at him when he thinks he isn't paying attention, all quiet concern and furrowed brow, like he’s building the courage to say something but keeps deciding not to.
He sees Changbin watching him during long nights in the studio, when Jisung is hunched over his laptop, fidgeting with a line that won’t land, headphones askew.
Neither of them say anything.
They probably know better.
Because it’s Jisung and Minho. Minho and Jisung. That’s the rule. That’s the anchor. They always sort shit out.
They don’t fight. They bicker like old men and then fall asleep on top of each other ten minutes later. They don’t go cold. They don’t do silence. They’re not that kind of pair.
They are soulmates.
And the thing that makes Jisung’s throat burn whenever he’s alone for too long is the fact that none of this started because of Minho.
Minho didn’t fuck anything up.
Minho didn’t pull away.
Minho didn’t stop being steady and kind and infuriating and exactly who he’s always been.
No, Jisung did this.
He flinched. He panicked.
He was the one who decided one day that maybe what they had was too easy, too worn in, too habitual, that maybe if something felt good for too long, it stopped being real.
He’s the one who walked backward.
Who looked at the best thing he’d ever had and went, is this real or is it just routine?
And now?
Now the ache is constant.
He misses Minho in the way you miss a song you used to play on repeat, even though you still have it in your library. He misses Minho like a habit he should have never broken.
Sometimes he thinks about that very first comeback.
The one where it had been so fucking obvious they were gone for each other. Where everything they did felt like it buzzed with this terrifying potential. Like one wrong move and the whole thing would combust.
Jisung remembers that ache too. The crush that felt like a bruise from the inside out.
He remembers sitting in hair and makeup, watching Minho laugh at something dumb Seungmin said, and thinking, God, I'm so screwed.
He remembers wanting to touch, but not being allowed to. He remembers feeling every single thing and not knowing where to put it.
He thinks about that now and wants to cry.
Because back then, it had been unspeakable.
And now?
Now they had it. Held it. Shared it. For so long.
And he still broke it.
No explosion. No betrayal. No big dramatic event. Just slow erosion. Just a quiet, stupid voice in his head whispering: What if it’s not special anymore?
What if it never was?
And Minho, being Minho, let him go.
Because Minho always listens when Jisung says he needs space. Always believes him. Always respects his boundaries.
And now Jisung has all the space in the world.
And he fucking hates it.
Some nights, he writes about it.
Thinly veiled lyrics, songs about ghosts that aren’t dead, just missing, lines about people who share rooms but not warmth. He never says Minho’s name, but it’s there, in every minor chord, in every repeated chorus.
He writes and rewrites the same melody and tells himself he’s being productive. That this pain is useful. That turning it into music will make it make sense.
But it doesn’t.
He still wakes up every morning hoping today will be the day he accidentally brushes Minho’s hand and it will feel like them again. Like whatever magic stitched them together is still there, under all the noise.
But so far?
Nothing.
Just silence. Just small talk. Just existing next to someone he used to live inside.
And he doesn’t know how to fix it.
Or if he even deserves to.
⨾༊
Jisung knows, on a very basic, stupidly obvious level, that he could walk up to Minho right now and say something like, “Hey. I’m done having space. Please kiss me again.”
And Minho would probably just blink at him, blink again, and then reach out like it never even stopped. Like it was easy. Because it would be. For Minho, it always was.
Jisung knows this. God, he knows this.
But he can’t do it.
Because the idea of it makes him feel like an asshole. Like the kind of emotionally constipated idiot who causes a mess, disappears, then comes back expecting everything to be fine because he finally feels like talking again.
It’s not fair.
It’s not fucking fair.
Minho gave him space because he asked for it, quietly, awkwardly, panicking. And Minho respected that, didn’t guilt him, didn’t push. Just nodded, like he always did, and stepped back.
And now? Now Jisung is the one who wants to fold.
But what right does he have to do that?
What kind of person asks someone to back off, and then expects them to just... still be waiting when they change their mind?
Apparently, him.
Because he wants it. So badly it hurts.
And he hates himself for it.
They're in the studio now, dance practice. It’s late. Late enough that the lights in the hallway have gone dim, and the only people still lingering in the building are other exhausted idols and staff too polite to leave before the group is done.
Everyone’s dripping sweat. Shirts clinging, hair plastered to foreheads, movements a little sharper now that fatigue has kicked in and nerves are shot.
Minho’s running half on instinct, half on whatever residual caffeine is still in his bloodstream. He’s not even dancing the whole time anymore, just walking through formations, calling out adjustments, demo-ing parts when someone forgets a count.
He’s in director mode. Efficient, quietly firm. Not mean, just focused.
It’s hot in the room. The mirrors are fogged at the edges. Jisung props his hands on his thighs during the short break, sweat dripping from his jaw, lungs on fire.
He lifts his head. His reflection stares back at him, flushed and wrecked and tired. But his eyes drift. Left.
Minho’s in the corner, stretching out a tight shoulder, hair sticking to the side of his face.
And then their eyes meet through the mirror.
Just for a second. And Jisung freezes.
Because he can’t read him.
He can’t read Minho.
Which—what the fuck? He used to read Minho like it was his first language. Could tell you what Minho was thinking just by the twitch of his eyebrow or the way he shifted his weight. Could decode a whole sentence from a glance.
But now, looking at him?
Nothing.
Not annoyance, not fondness, not anger, not warmth.
Just unreadable. Blank, masked.
And Jisung’s stomach does that awful lurch it does when the plane drops ten feet in turbulence. Because for the first time in years, he genuinely doesn’t know what Minho is thinking when he looks at him.
And he hates it.
A hand lands on his shoulder. Jisung jumps slightly.
Seungmin.
Leaning against him, breath ragged, sweat glistening on his cheek. His hand squeezes once, then rests there, casual.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
Jisung knows what he’s doing. Distraction.
He knows Seungmin saw that moment. The glance, the freeze, the way Jisung's whole body went tight with the kind of emotion that doesn't belong in a dance studio.
Seungmin leans his head on Jisung’s shoulder for a second and lets out a long breath.
“Smells like death in here,” he mutters.
Jisung lets out a weak laugh. “That’s just me.”
Seungmin hums, doesn’t move.
They stay like that for a few seconds. Long enough for Jisung’s heart to slow down.
Minho calls something out about re-running the chorus section. His voice is clear, unbothered, professional.
Jisung straightens. Seungmin pulls away.
“You good?” he asks, low.
Jisung nods.
⨾༊
The thing is, they do what they’re told.
Of course they do.
The script says flirt, so they flirt. The script says couple up, so they couple up. It’s not rocket science. It’s a variety show. A SKZCode episode with a ridiculous dating show concept, full of stupid props and games.
They’re both good at it. Too good, maybe.
Minho leans in, smirks like he’s about to devour Jisung whole, says something shameless into his ear that makes the staff crack up. Jisung rolls his eyes, calls him cheesy, but grins and blushes exactly on cue. It’s muscle memory by now.
And when it’s time for the grand finale, the big pairing-up scene, they’re seated in a car with shitty mood lighting, and yeah. They lean into it.
It’s not even hard.
In fact, it feels kind of nice. Just for a second.
The ride home after is quiet. No music. Just tired bodies in a van with dimmed cabin lights and the hum of traffic outside. Jisung stares out the window, but he can feel Minho next to him, pressed shoulder to shoulder.
It doesn’t feel like much.
But maybe it’s something.
Maybe it did something.
Maybe that was the nudge they needed.
Maybe this is them turning a corner.
And maybe that thought is what carries him through the ride home, and through the long silence that lingers between them as they unlock the apartment door. It’s late, the kind of late that feels like a secret.
Maybe that’s why Jisung follows Minho into his room without thinking.
Maybe that’s why he ends up on Minho’s lap.
Maybe that’s why they kiss.
And it’s good. At first.
Minho’s hands rest on his hips like they belong there. His mouth is warm, familiar, a little slow from how tired they both are. Jisung melts into it without thinking. Because this is what they do. This is what they’ve always done.
Minho shifts, lowers him gently onto the mattress, hovers above him.
They kiss again, deeper this time. Minho’s tongue brushes his, and Jisung lets out a soft moan before he can catch it.
And fuck, he wants this.
He wants Minho to fuck him into the mattress until he forgets how long it’s been since they felt like themselves. He wants the weight of Minho on top of him, the grip of his fingers on his waist, the teeth on his throat. He wants to be claimed, ruined, reminded.
He wants Minho to want him like that.
He arches up, wraps his arms around Minho’s neck, gasps into his mouth.
But something’s off. He knows it. He feels it.
And worst of all, so does Minho.
Because he stops. Not abruptly, not dramatically. He just slows, pulls back, exhales.
Then he rolls off of Jisung, landing beside him with a thud that sounds louder than it is.
There’s no big sigh, no huff, no angry silence.
Just a stillness.
Minho stares at the ceiling. His chest rises and falls evenly.
And Jisung lies there beside him, heart in his throat, trying not to cry like an idiot.
God.
What even happened to them?
He swallows. His voice is small. “I'm sorry.”
Minho hums, low, non-committal. Not cold, just tired.
Jisung bites his lip and rolls onto his side, facing away.
“I thought this would feel different.”
Minho says, almost too quietly: “Me too.”
Jisung squeezes his eyes shut.
Because fuck.
This was supposed to be the fix, the reset, the soft landing. The thing that finally broke whatever tension had been clawing at their lungs for weeks.
But all it did was prove how far they'd drifted.
The kissing was fine. The touching was fine. The idea of it was fine.
But none of it felt right.
It felt like a copy of something that used to be real. And they both knew it.
Jisung wants to say something else. Anything.
But all that comes out is another broken breath, and Minho doesn’t push. He never does.
They lie there in the dark, not touching, not talking, the air between them thick with everything they don’t know how to say.
And Jisung thinks, bitterly:
How fucking dumb are we?
Like they thought they could fix months of slow disconnection with one desperate, half-hearted fuck.
Like they thought pretending would be enough.
Like kissing could fill the space that silence carved out.
⨾༊
They finally get time off.
No packed schedules, no endless dance practices or back-to-back recordings, no early call times that pull them from bed before the sun, or stylists tugging at their hair while someone shoves a mic pack down their shirts. Just an empty stretch of days that Jisung had thought he would kill for a few weeks ago.
And now that it’s here?
It’s fucking miserable.
Minho’s gone, just for a few days. He’d mentioned it offhandedly in the kitchen, like it wasn’t anything important.
“I might go to Japan. With the guys. Just for the long weekend.”
Jisung had nodded, said something like, “Yeah, sounds good.”
He didn’t ask who he was going with exactly, didn’t ask when he’d be back.
He didn’t ask if it meant anything. Because they don’t do that now. They don’t talk about what they mean to each other. They don’t talk about anything that matters.
So Jisung stays behind.
And tells himself maybe the space will do them good. Maybe a few days of actual distance, not just the emotional kind, will smooth things over. Maybe Minho will come back and they’ll look at each other and it’ll just make sense again.
But then he catches himself wondering, would that even be good? To fall back into what they were? Back into that old rhythm that felt so easy it scared him? That same ease he took as proof that something was wrong, that something had gone stale?
And then it hits him. A sudden, breathless thought that punches straight through his chest.
Do I still love him?
The second he thinks it, he flinches.
Because the answer doesn’t come instantly. And that alone is terrifying.
That he could even hesitate.
That the love he’s built his entire fucking world around might be cracked in some way he doesn’t understand.
It hurts. So bad.
And then, just as fast, the answer does come.
Yes.
He does.
He loves Minho. So much it makes him feel like a fool. So much it’s almost unbearable.
He loves him in that embarrassing, teenage way that feels too big for his body. Loves him enough that missing him feels like a sickness.
He needs him.
And because he’s impulsive and dramatic and a little bit self-destructive, he does the one thing he probably shouldn’t.
He calls.
It’s late. Late-late. Middle-of-the-night-can’t-sleep-late.
Japan is an hour ahead. He doesn’t even know if Minho is awake. He doesn’t think, just taps the name in his contact list and presses the phone to his ear.
It rings. Once. Twice. He almost hangs up.
“Hello?”
Minho’s voice is low, a little hoarse, definitely tired.
Jisung’s throat tightens. He swallows.
“Hyung.”
A pause, a rustle. The sound of sheets moving. Then a quiet hum.
“Hyung, I miss you.”
Silence. Not long, just a few seconds. Then another rustle, a breath.
“I miss you too, Hannie.”
Jisung closes his eyes.
And there it is. That feeling.
A warmth curling low in his chest, a flutter, bright and painful. It makes him want to cry and laugh and scream at himself for being such a dramatic little shit.
He doesn’t cry.
But he feels it. The thing he was scared was gone. It isn’t.
He turns onto his side, facing the wall, pressing the phone tighter to his ear.
“I miss you,” he says again, quieter.
Minho chuckles. It sounds tired, but fond.
“Jisung-ah,” he murmurs. “I’ll be back tomorrow, hm?”
Jisung nods. Pointless. Minho can’t see it. But it’s all he can do. “Okay.”
They stay like that for a few seconds, breathing. No pressure, no fixing, just being.
Then Minho says, voice a little slurred with sleep, “Get some rest. I’ll see you soon.”
Jisung smiles. And this time, it reaches his eyes.
“Okay.”
There’s nothing more to say. Not right now. It’s late. They’re still fragile. But something in him settles anyway. Because Minho picked up. Because Minho said his name. Because Minho still calls him Hannie and means it.
They hang up a minute later. No dramatic goodbye, no whispered promises.
But Jisung stares at the ceiling afterward, heart steady for the first time in weeks.
Tomorrow, Minho will come home.
⨾༊
Jisung feels like his ass is on fire.
Not literally, not in a medical emergency kind of way. But in that completely unhinged, uncomfortably alive way where his skin feels wrong and his clothes feel worse and his brain won’t shut the fuck up for even a second. He keeps pacing. Then sitting. Then standing again two minutes later like the floor is made of bees.
Minho hadn’t said exactly when he’d be back. Just “Tomorrow, hm?” in that soft, sleepy voice. Which, at the time, had sounded like a gift, a promise, something to hold onto.
Now it’s just vague as fuck.
And Jisung has been waiting. All day. Like a dumbass. Every door creak makes his heart jump. Every car engine outside has him peeking through the blinds like some desperate golden retriever waiting for its owner to come home from war.
It’s the stupidest kind of anticipation. The kind you usually get when you’re in high school and your crush finally texts back with, "wanna hang out?"
Which, honestly, is exactly how Jisung feels.
Which is also fucking insane, because this isn’t some first date. This isn’t a maybe-something. This is Minho. The person he lives with. The person he’s loved for years. The person he has absolutely kissed at 2 am while half-asleep and drooling a little.
But still, his stomach’s doing the thing. That fluttery, fizzing, impossible-to-ignore thing.
And the best part?
He doesn’t hate it.
Actually, it’s good.
This is what he wanted, right? That feeling. The giddy. The ache under his skin that meant Minho still had that kind of hold on him, that he still mattered in that dizzy, unbearable way.
He sits on the couch with a blanket over his lap. Then throws the blanket off. Then grabs it again. Checks his phone, scrolls, opens the group chat, closes it, re-opens it, hoping to see some update, a shared meme, anything.
Nothing.
He thinks about texting.
Then doesn’t.
He goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge, closes it, opens it again.
He eats half a granola bar and forgets what he was doing halfway through chewing.
By the time evening rolls around, he’s at the edge of something. Not panic. But not not panic. Just that sharp, uncomfortable stillness that comes right before you do something very brave or very dumb..
He almost misses it.
The door opens.
Just like that. No trumpet sound, no background music. Just the familiar click of the lock, the soft thud of a suitcase against the wall. Jisung doesn’t even register it at first. He’s mid-scroll, staring at some video he’s not even watching, his brain halfway somewhere else.
Then he hears it. Shoes on the floor, the zip of a jacket.
Everything inside him goes still.
Minho’s back.
Jisung stands up too fast. His knee cracks. It’s humiliating.
He rounds the corner of the couch, heart thudding against his ribs like it wants out, and freezes.
There he is.
Minho.
His hair is slightly messy from travel, hoodie slung over one shoulder, face a little puffy, eyes rimmed with the soft kind of tired that comes from long train rides and airport delays.
He looks like home.
Jisung opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
Minho looks up, and then he smiles.
It hits Jisung like a punch to the chest.
“Hey,” Minho says, voice quiet.
Jisung swallows. “Hey.”
Another beat, another breath.
Then Minho drops his bag, steps forward, and pulls Jisung into his arms like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Jisung melts. He presses his face into Minho’s shoulder and breathes him in. That stupid cologne. The airport smell. Something familiar underneath.
It’s overwhelming.
He clutches the back of Minho’s hoodie, fingers fisting in the fabric.
Minho doesn’t say anything, just holds him. Like they’ve never been apart. Like they didn’t spend the last few weeks tangled up in silence and doubt.
Jisung’s eyes sting.
He doesn’t cry. But God, he feels it, all of it. Every second, every ache.
When they finally pull apart, Minho doesn’t go far. He just looks at him. Not expectant, not cautious, just there.
“I was gonna text,” he says. “But I figured you’d hear the door.”
Jisung nods. “I did.”
Minho glances around. “You eat?”
Jisung huffs a laugh. “Half a granola bar.”
Minho rolls his eyes, fond. “You’re so useless when I’m not around.”
⨾༊
They fuck.
Which is—honestly? Surprising.
Not the fact that they do, necessarily, but the fact that it works this time, that it feels right. Because the last time they tried, it was like trying to strike a match underwater. All the motions were there, the familiarity, the desire, but none of the spark. Just awkward silence and a quiet, mutual realization that something was wrong.
But this time, something clicks.
Maybe it’s the distance. Maybe it’s the late-night phone call. Maybe it’s just time finally catching up to where their hearts have been trying to go.
All Jisung knows is that when Minho touches him now, it doesn’t feel like obligation, or habit, or some desperate fix-it attempt. It feels like want.
It’s slow at first. Like they’re relearning each other. Minho kisses him like he’s not in a rush, like he knows exactly where this is going and isn’t afraid of it anymore. His hands are firm on Jisung’s waist, sliding under his shirt, not to grope or grab but to hold. Like an anchor. Like he’s grounding them both.
And Jisung’s brain finally—finally—shuts the fuck up for once.
All he can do is feel.
And it’s good.
So fucking good.
By the time they collapse, tangled together in the aftermath, Jisung is half-dead and fully in love.
He’s sprawled across Minho’s chest, cheek pressed against warm skin, hair damp with sweat. Minho’s arms are wrapped around him tight, like he doesn’t plan to let go anytime soon.
Jisung thinks he could live here forever.
They lie in silence, the soft, satisfied kind. The kind where no one feels like they have to rush to fill the air.
Then, after a while, Minho speaks.
“So tell me.”
Jisung hums, lazy, not really registering.
Minho shifts a little, fingers sliding into his hair, slow, gentle. “What was going on. Tell me.”
Jisung winces internally. He knew this was coming. He just thought he’d get a little more time basking in the post-sex fog before being dragged back into emotional honesty.
But of course Minho would do it now. Now, when Jisung’s soft and pliant and less likely to lie.
He doesn’t answer right away, just exhales. It rattles a little.
“I think I just...” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Spiraled.”
Minho says nothing. He keeps stroking his hair.
“I started thinking,” Jisung continues slowly, voice barely above a whisper, “that maybe we didn’t feel the same about each other anymore. That everything we did, all the stuff that used to make me feel... special? Started feeling like it was just... habit.”
He closes his eyes.
“Like we weren’t choosing each other anymore. Just doing what we’d always done. Because it was easy. Because it was familiar.”
He shifts slightly, tucks his face further into Minho’s neck.
“And I hated that. Because I didn’t want to be someone you kept around out of routine. Like… some cozy sweatshirt you forgot to throw out.”
Minho lets out a quiet breath. Not a sigh, just something that says he’s listening.
“So I pushed you away. Because I thought maybe space would help. Maybe I’d miss you, and that would be the answer. And I did. I missed you so fucking bad I thought I was going insane. But even then I kept telling myself, what if you didn’t miss me? What if you liked the space?”
His voice cracks a little.
“And I just... I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. I didn’t trust myself. And I’m so sorry, hyung. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Minho sighs. A soft one. He presses his palm to the back of Jisung’s neck.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says simply. “And I get it.”
Jisung blinks. “You do?”
Minho nods. “It happens. It’s scary, getting so used to someone. You start wondering if the spark is still there, or if it’s just muscle memory. You wonder if they’re still choosing you. Or if they’re just... staying.”
His voice is soft, even.
“You’re not someone I got used to. You’re someone I choose, every day. Over and over. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”
Jisung lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob.
Minho continues, thumb brushing behind his ear now.
“It’s okay if you felt that way. It happens. We live in each other’s pockets. Shit gets blurry. It doesn’t mean the love disappears.”
He pauses, shifts slightly beneath Jisung, but doesn’t let him go.
“I’m not gonna say we can fix this. I don’t think it’s broken. I think we just… we forgot how to look at it. How to see what we have without overthinking it.”
Jisung sniffles, still not crying, but close.
Minho presses a kiss to his temple.
“We can learn to love this,” he murmurs. “Even the boring parts. The routine. The everyday. We can find ways to keep it soft. Keep it new. We can get better at this. Together.”
Jisung bites his lip.
Minho keeps going.
“I’m never bored of you. Not when you come into my room half-asleep with your hair all fucked up. Not when you steal my food and lie about it like a six-year-old. Not when you compliment my vocals while drunk and don’t stop for two hours.”
Jisung laughs, wet and uneven.
“I mean it,” Minho says, a little more firmly now. “You’re not habit. You’re not background. You’re the best part. And I love you so fucking much it’s embarrassing.”
That’s it. That’s what does it. Jisung starts crying.
Tears slip down his cheeks, and he doesn’t try to stop them. He just buries his face in Minho’s neck, trembling with the weight of everything he’s been holding in.
Minho holds him tighter. He doesn’t tell him not to cry, doesn’t tell him to be strong, just lets him fall apart.
Then Minho nudges his face up, thumb under his chin.
Jisung blinks at him, eyes glossy.
Minho leans in and kisses him.
⨾༊
Just as Minho said, they don’t “fix” anything. There was nothing broken.
Nothing cracked down the middle that needed super glue and promises. No giant blow-up fight or betrayal or some cinematic breakup-makeup arc. Just a slow drift, a quiet misalignment. The kind of distance you don’t notice until you’re suddenly standing on opposite ends of the room, wondering when it got so quiet.
And now?
Now it’s just them again, rediscovering.
They cook together.
Not in a performative, cutesy “let’s bake cookies and wear matching aprons” kind of way. More like Jisung stands beside Minho at the stove with a knife that’s slightly too dull, chopping green onions while Minho mutters about timing and Jisung keeps stealing bites of whatever’s simmering.
Only now, instead of Minho swatting his hand away with an annoyed “yah,” he just nudges Jisung with his hip and says, “Steal one more piece and you’re doing the dishes.”
Jisung steals two.
Later, they sit at the table and eat straight out of the pan, bare feet tangled under the table, laughing about some terrible variety show idea their manager pitched.
It’s stupid. It’s mundane. It feels like home.
They sing again too.
That old routine, both of them humming the same song from different rooms, the harmonies lining up like muscle memory. But now it feels louder, not in volume, but in presence. Like the sound takes up space again. Jisung doesn’t hesitate before joining in, doesn’t question if he’s doing it out of habit. He just wants to.
One afternoon, he hears Minho start a melody in the kitchen, something new and smooth, and Jisung walks over still chewing cereal and starts layering harmonies on top. They don’t talk about it, don’t try to make it a Thing. But later, Minho puts his hand on the back of Jisung’s neck in passing, just a soft squeeze. Jisung pretends not to smile. Fails.
They start taking late-night walks again.
Hoodies up, masks on. Quiet streets, the occasional stray cat, and conversation. Real ones.
Not about schedules or songs or the comeback timeline. About dumb shit, deep shit, stuff they haven’t talked about in years. Like how Jisung thought about quitting trainee life once. Like how Minho wonders sometimes what his life would look like if he hadn’t debuted. Like how they both think the world is a little too loud and a little too fast, and sometimes the only still place is right here, next to each other.
Jisung talks more on these walks. Minho listens. Minho talks more too. Jisung listens harder.
And the flirting?
Holy shit the flirting.
It sneaks back in gradually. Minho throws out one line, offhand, low-voiced, like he’s not even trying, and Jisung short-circuits like a goddamn middle schooler. He thought he was immune. But apparently not. Apparently his boyfriend still has the power to reduce him to a stuttering wreck just by existing.
“You always look good in my hoodie,” Minho murmurs one morning, completely casual, as if he didn’t just reboot Jisung’s entire nervous system.
“Shut up,” Jisung says, voice ten shades too high.
It keeps happening, over and over. And Jisung keeps falling for it. It’s ridiculous, unfair. And also really fucking effective.
Because he forgot.
Forgot how good Minho is at this, how easy he makes it look. That cool, dry charm that sneaks up and wrecks Jisung when he least expects it. It reminds him of the early days, before they ever admitted anything, before kisses and sleepovers and quiet domesticity. Back when Minho would just say one thing and Jisung would go home to stare at the ceiling for hours replaying it like a loser.
He’s that loser again now.
They have sex again, too. A lot.
Which—sure, maybe not the most emotionally mature highlight to focus on, but it matters.
Because the intimacy feels different now. Not like a performance or a peace offering or a band-aid. It’s exploratory, curious, new.
It starts slow. A comment here, a joke there. Then one night Jisung says, “What if we… you know,” and Minho just says, “Sure.” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. No judgment, no hesitation, just willingness.
And yeah, they were freaky before. That was never a problem. But now? Now it's different.
It's not about novelty anymore. It’s about trust. About knowing each other inside out, about feeling safe enough to say, “What if we tried this?” without flinching. About making eye contact in the mirror and not looking away. About whispering yes, yes, yes, when Minho says something filthy in his ear, and letting himself want without shame.
Jisung learns he likes being praised. Really fucking likes it. That hearing “good boy” in a certain tone from Minho makes his spine shiver in the best way. That restraint—literal or not—isn't just about being held down, but about being held together.
Minho learns Jisung can beg. And does. Pretty, breathy, desperate. Learns that being slow can ruin him more than being rough. That edging him until he’s trembling and pleading can break him in the hottest way imaginable.
Jisung discovers what it means to give everything over and still feel more powerful than ever. That being opened up and taken apart doesn’t make him weak, it makes him loved. And known.
They push each other, try toys they’d only talked about in theory, roleplay that starts with teasing and ends in ruined sheets. They fuck in places they haven’t before: the kitchen counter, the shower floor, once (very memorably) against the wall of Jisung’s closet.
They laugh through it, too. When the lube bottle slips out of Minho’s hand and hits Jisung in the face, when a new position turns out to be more awkward than sexy, they laugh. Because they can.
“Holy shit,” Jisung says into Minho’s pillow one night, voice wrecked.
Minho just laughs, dragging his hand lazily down Jisung’s back. “Good holy shit or bad holy shit?”
“Oh my god.”
And after, they just lie there, quiet, content.
One night, Jisung watches Minho sleep. He doesn’t mean to. He just rolls over and sees him there, face soft, mouth slightly open.
And his chest floods with something quiet and soft.
Not a scream of emotion.
Just a whisper:
Oh. There you are.