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It was past eleven at night when most of the streetlights went out, and the calm before the storm settled over the neighborhood. On the edge of the sidewalk opposite the small house, thirteen-year-old jisung sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, his chin resting on them. His denim jacket was too loose, and his fingertips were cold, but he refused to go inside. He was waiting for something... or rather, waiting for someone.
He heard steady footsteps approaching. jisung didn't need to look up to see who it was; the rhythm of those footsteps was etched in his memory.
A long shadow fell over the boy's head, blocking the dim light of the streetlamp.
"It's too cold for you to be sitting here alone, Hannie."
minho's voice came in deep, quiet, and tinged with the weariness of a long day at university and work. He was twenty, with a physique that was beginning to take on a distinctly manly quality, and eyes that held a look beyond his years.
jisung didn't answer immediately. He simply watched as Minho's black sneakers pulled up in front of him, before minho bent his knees and crouched down to be at his eye level.
"Did something happen in there again?" the older asked in a low voice, his eyes scanning the little boy's face for any trace of tears or fear.
jisung shook his head, but tightened his arms around his knees. At his age, He was a reserved boy, never talking about family problems or the pressures of home with anyone; the world felt unsafe to him, except for this small space minho occupied.
"I just wanted to... see you before you went to sleep," the little boy whispered, almost as if confessing a sin.
minho smiled a small, warm smile that reached his eyes. He reached out and placed his large, broad hand on the boy's head, gently ruffling his black hair in a gesture he always made to reassure the little boy.
"I'm always here. I'm not going anywhere," the older said with absolute certainty, rising and extending his other hand to help jisung up. "Come on, get up. I'll make you a cup of warm milk to help you sleep, and you can tell me what's bothering you... if you want."
the boy grasped minho's hand. The young man's hand was large, encircling the boy's palm and giving him instant warmth. He held on tightly and walked obediently beside him, feeling that this twenty-year-old was his shield against everything that frightened him in life.
Saturdays were Jisung's favorite part of the week. On this day, Minho finished his university classes early, and the small upstairs apartment he rented became the only sanctuary where the boy felt he belonged.
On the rickety wooden table in the middle of the room, Han's textbooks lay scattered about, along with a few sheets of paper on which he had scribbled randomly. He sat trying to concentrate on a complex math problem, pressing the pen against the page with obvious nervousness, his small eyebrows furrowed, his breath coming in short gasps whenever he failed to find the answer.
From behind him came Minho's calm voice, accompanied by the placement of a mug of hot chocolate next to his hand:
"If you keep pressing the pen like that, you'll drill a hole in the table, jagi"
Han turned quickly, his angry expression instantly replaced by a pleading look as the name hit his heart hardly. The older one pulled up a chair and sat beside him, close enough for the familiar scent of his soap to waft out. Minho didn't take the pen to solve the problem himself. Instead, he placed his hand over Jisung's, who was holding the pen, and slowly guided him:
"Look here... You forgot to transfer this number with a different symbol. Try again, step by step."
Lee's teaching style reflected his personality: patient, consistent, and never complaining about Jisung's slow comprehension. With every move, the boy observed Minho's profile, his clenched jaw, and his eyes focused on the lines, more than the problem itself. For Han, it wasn't about the math, but about the security he felt simply knowing Minho was giving him his time and undivided attention.
After the lesson, the atmosphere became more relaxed. Han lay on the old rug in the middle of the room watching a comic book, while Lino lay on the nearby sofa, a thick book resting on his chest, and they chatted about random things.
"hyung?" Hane called softly, turning the page.
"Hmm?" Minho replied without opening his eyes.
"When I graduate from school... will we work together?"
Minho opened one eye and looked at the boy lying on the floor, his features innocent and his gaze childlike. He gave him his warm smile, the one that always reassured Han, and replied in a serious tone, devoid of any condescension:
— "Of course. I'll have my own office by then, and you'll be my right-hand man. But first, you have to stop hating math."
Jisung laughed, feeling a warmth spread through him. In his young mind, he envisioned an entire future built on this man's presence. His connection with Minho was more than just that of a neighbor or an older friend; he was the only constant in Jisung's ever-changing and turbulent world. He was absolutely certain that this tall shadow would always be there to protect him.
In the corner of the room, a gray cotton jacket belonging to the older boy hung on the chair. Jisung loved borrowing it on cold days, even though it was soaked and covered his hands completely; he didn't wear it to warm his body, but to remain surrounded by the other's scent even in his absence, unaware that this jacket would soon be all he had left of him
There were no warnings, no dramatic goodbyes, no suitcases being packed. For Jisung, the breakup felt like someone had suddenly switched off the lights in a room brimming with life.
That evening, Han ran upstairs, a small notebook clutched in his pocket, a sketchbook of their future office they'd talked about. He was excited, his breath coming in short gasps, but when he reached the familiar wooden door, he found it ajar.
He pushed it open lightly, calling out in his usual tone, "Hyung?"
There was no reply. The silence that greeted him was eerie, a cold silence devoid of the rustling of Minho's books or the clinking of his cup. Stepping inside, his feet froze. The room was bare. The old sofa had been pushed aside, the wooden table that had witnessed his struggles with math was empty, and the books that had filled the shelves were gone, leaving only square patches of dust.
On the only remaining chair in the corner of the room lay Minho's gray cotton jacket.
Hani's heart clenched suddenly. He ran to the window overlooking the street below. Through the glass, he saw a small pickup truck moving slowly. In the front passenger seat, Minho sat with his head resting on the backrest, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, not once glancing back.
"Hyung!"
Hani shouted the name, but his voice echoed back to him from the empty walls of the room. He pushed open the kitchen window and went out onto the small balcony, yelling at the top of his lungs as the truck began to pull away and turn around the corner of the alley:
"Minho hyung! Where are you going?! Minho!"
No one heard him. The truck disappeared completely, and a deathly silence fell over the side street.
The thirteen-year-old boy stood there, his fingers gripping the cold iron railing of the balcony until his knuckles turned white. A sharp prick in his throat and hot tears streamed down his cheeks. He wasn't crying because he was afraid of the dark this time, but because of that cruel, sudden feeling of abandonment.
The man who had once told him with certainty, "I'm always here, I'm not going anywhere," was gone. He had left without explanation, without waving goodbye, without even turning to see the boy he'd left behind to face the world alone.
Han staggered back to the empty room. He approached the chair and, with trembling hands, lifted the gray jacket. He buried his face in its thick fabric; Minho's familiar scent still clung to it, warm and comforting, but now it was the source of his greatest torment.
That night, on the cold floor of that room, something inside Han broke forever. He vowed to himself, roughly wiping away his tears with the loose sleeve of the jacket, that he would never trust anyone again, and he would never allow himself to be weak or dependent on the protection of someone who had the power to turn his back and leave in an instant.
***
The scene takes place on the night of the departure, just two hours before minho leaves, revealing another side of the story that Han hadn't seen
Dry leaves swirled in the cold wind outside the old neighborhood café. Inside, Minho sat across from a man in his fifties, his face etched with the hardness of years, wearing a heavy coat. This man was none other than his uncle, Bang Chan, his legal guardian after the death of his parents.
On the wooden table between them lay an official document bearing a red government seal, and beside it, the key to a new apartment in a city five hours away.
"You have no choice, Minho," Chan said, his voice sharp and devoid of sympathy, tapping his finger against the paper. "The debts your father left behind before his death are now being pursued legally. If you don't move to work at my shipping company there tonight to settle them, your name will be filed in court tomorrow morning. Do you want to ruin your university studies by going to prison?"
Minho clenched his fists under the table until his knuckles turned white. He felt suffocated; all his dreams and the future he had built here were crumbling in an instant because of mistakes he hadn't made.
"I can find another job here. I can reschedule the debts..." he tried to speak in a firm voice despite the lump in his throat.
"What salary?" he interrupted sarcastically. "You're a college student with nothing. The apartment you're renting has already been foreclosed on, and they'll evict you tomorrow. You don't have time to think. The van is waiting for you behind the building right now. Pack your books and leave quietly. The longer you stay here, the greater the risk of your creditors coming after you... and it might even affect those you care about in this neighborhood."
Minho's eyes froze at the last sentence. Han's face flashed before his eyes. Han, the boy he considered his only refuge, the boy he ran to from his troubles at home. If Minho stayed, he would be pursued and threatened, and he might see violent men knocking on Han's door, or worse, he might be harmed because of him.
Minho stood up slowly, his eyes reflecting a deep sense of defeat, but also a resolute determination. He realized that being here had become dangerous for himself and for the boy he had promised to protect. "Protect" now meant one harsh thing: to disappear completely to keep the danger away from Jisung.
An hour later, Minho stood in the middle of his bare room after loading up his books and essential belongings. The walls of the room felt desolate. He turned to a chair and found his warm gray jacket lying there. He reached for it, but hesitated.
He remembered how the boy loved wearing it to keep warm. He slowly withdrew his hand, leaving the jacket where it was. It was the only real thing he owned, and he left it for his little one as a silent message: "I didn't want to go."
He climbed into the truck next to his uncle. As the vehicle slowly moved down the dark street, a familiar voice shattered the silence.
"Minho hyung! Where are you going?! Minho!"
It was Jisung's voice, sharp and broken, filled with panic. Minho's entire body tensed, and instinctively, his hand reached for the doorknob, wanting to open the door, run to the boy, hug him, and tell him everything. But his pride and fear for the child's safety held him back. He clenched his jaw tightly and leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes so he wouldn't see the little boy's reflection in the rearview mirror running after him.
The tears he'd been holding back burned his eyelids as he whispered to himself, "Forgive me, Hannie... Your upbringing and my responsibility to protect you require me to be the villain in your story now."
...
***
Five years later, that old neighborhood was nothing more than a faded memory. The new city Minho had moved to was noisy, gray, and rainy most winter days. He had settled there, becoming an engineer at a major shipping company, an independent, quiet man, but with a coldness in his eyes that mirrored the city's weather; a coldness born of years of hard work to close the book on the past and pay off his family's debts.
One cold November day, fog hung over the platforms of the city's central train station. Wearing a long black coat, he stood on the departure platform, waiting to collect a shipment of company documents. The station was bustling with travelers, everyone hurrying to escape the cold.
Meanwhile, a young man carrying a single backpack stepped off an arriving train.
As Minho checked his watch, the young man bumped lightly on the shoulder in the crowd.
"Excuse me," the young man said, his voice dry, deep, and devoid of emotion.
Minho's blood ran cold. That voice... despite the roughness of its tone, altered by the years, the rhythm and articulation of the words were eerily familiar.
He turned instinctively and called out, without thinking:
"Hannie?"
It wasn't Han, the little boy in the baggy denim jacket; he had grown up, his physique now lean, his features sharp, his eyes holding a wary, hard look—the look of someone who had learned to protect himself, who had moved to this city for university, seeking a fresh start far from the memories of his shattered childhood.
The young man froze. His back stiffened beneath his gray cotton coat—which felt painfully familiar. Han turned very slowly, his eyes meeting Minho's for the first time in five years.
A profound silence fell over the station's bustle. The sounds of trains and the calls of passengers faded away, leaving only two men separated by a few meters of cold asphalt.
Minho's eyes widened in astonishment as he gazed at the boy he had left as a child, now a man almost as tall as himself. A clear longing flickered in his eyes, and he took a step forward, uttering with a weakness he hadn't known himself to possess:
"Hannie... is that really you? How..."
But Jisung's expression showed no surprise; it instantly turned icy cold. He glanced at Minho's outstretched hand, then raised his eyes to meet the gaze of the man who had shattered the security of his childhood. He didn't shout, he didn't reproach, but took a step back, putting his hands in his coat pockets, and said in a completely strange tone—the tone of a stranger addressing a stranger—
"Hello... Mr. Lee Minho. What a strange coincidence."
Mr. Lee Minho
The words caught in the older man's throat. The dry, routine phrase and the coldness that enveloped Jisung's expression, were enough for Minho to realize that the boy who had run after his truck crying was dead, and that the young man standing before him now had built a wall of ice that would not be easily melted
.Minho swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to remain calm, and took another step closer.
"Hannie... there's no need for this formality. I'm your hyung... have you forgotten me?"
At the mention of the nickname, the younger man's features instantly tightened, and a flash of suppressed anger and coldness flashed in his eyes. He slung his backpack firmly over his shoulder and said in a sharp, resentful tone
"I haven't forgotten, Mr.lee minho Memory doesn't die in five years. But people change... and distances widen. Isn't that what you taught me when you left without a word?"
His tone was calm, eerily calm, devoid of the shouting or crying minho had expected. This calmness was what unsettled minho and made him feel the magnitude of the void.
— "Hannie, it wasn't my choice..." he tried to explain, his voice genuinely hoarse, "There were very harsh circumstances... circumstances that forced me..."
— "I don't care," jisung cut him off coldly, raising a hand to stop the flow of words. "My name is Jisung. Stop calling me 'Hannie'... I'm not that thirteen-year-old boy anymore, waiting for your explanations or crying behind your truck. I turned that page a long time ago"
The real name, "Jisung," hit minho like a cold shock. He had always called him "Hannie" so long ago that he had almost forgotten what his real name sounded like. This rejection made minho feel the magnitude of the gap and that the boy who had been running after his truck crying had chosen to execute that title to announce the birth of a completely new person with no connection to the past
Han moved to pass him, but minho's ancient protective instinct kicked in before his mind could. He reached out and gently, but cautiously, grasped Han's arm.
"Wait... just tell me, what brings you to this city? Are you alone? Where will you be living?"
jisung's body stiffened at minho's touch. He glared at the hand gripping his arm, resenting the intrusion, which forced minho to slowly withdraw his hand and take a step back.
jisung took a deep breath and replied, his eyes fixed on the distant lights of the station,
"I'm here for my university studies. I've been accepted to the Institute of Engineering Technology here. And I'll manage on my own, just like I have for the past five years."
minho's eyes sparkled with a mixture of pride and pain; the little boy had grown up and entered the same field that minho loved. He wanted to smile, to tell him how proud he was of him, but Han's hard gaze stifled any emotion.
— "Engineering? That's great... jisung, this city is huge and tough for someone on their own, and I've lived here for years and know it well. Let me help you move your things, or settle in..."
— "Thanks, I don't need your help," Han cut him off again, his tone even more hard and sharp. He looked minho straight in the eye and said, his words measured and decisive, "I'm grown up, minho. I can handle my own problems and manage my own life. I don't need your protection, and I don't need you in my life anymore. Goodbye."
Han turned and walked quickly and steadily, disappearing into the crowd of travelers heading towards the exit gate, leaving minho standing alone in the drizzle that began to seep through the station's open roof, feeling a chill he'd never known before... a chill emanating from the heart of the boy he'd once seen as the safest person in the world.
Han left the train station, the cold biting into his limbs. He walked through the unfamiliar city streets, using his phone's map as a guide, dragging his suitcase behind him over the wet pavements, driven by an overwhelming desire to hide behind the walls of a place that belonged to him alone, a place that wouldn't remind him of the past and wouldn't cross paths with the man who had just shattered his peace.
After half an hour of walking in the drizzle, he stopped in front of an old but elegant apartment building, constructed of red brick, its walls adorned with a few withered winter plants. He sighed with silent relief; this was the address where he had rented his small apartment online before his arrival.
He entered the warm lobby, where the elderly building caretaker greeted him with quiet warmth, offering a greeting and handing him the keys to the apartment on the third floor. He stepped into the narrow wooden elevator, a weight on his chest; the image of Minho and the cautious tone of his voice still lingered in his mind, refusing to leave.
He stepped out onto the third floor, where the corridor was quiet and carpeted with dark red. He walked on, searching for his apartment number on the key: 304.
He stopped in front of the door. He put his bag down, inserted the key into the lock, and turned it to unlock the door. He breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the small, cozy room that would be his sanctuary throughout his school years. But before he could take a single step inside, he heard a movement behind him.
The door of the apartment directly opposite, 303, opened.
Jisung turned instinctively, his hand freezing on the doorknob, his keys falling from his fingers to the floor with a sharp, metallic sound.
Minho was standing in the doorway opposite, wearing a comfortable cardigan, holding a garbage bag, seemingly about to leave to take it out. Their eyes met in the narrow hallway, and a sudden, heavy silence fell—a silence that made Han's breath quicken and his hand tighten.
Minho's eyes widened in genuine astonishment he couldn't hide. He looked at Han, then at the suitcase on the floor, then at door number 304. Surprise flashed in his eyes, followed by a strange feeling of relief and wonder at the twist of fate.
"Hannie?" Lino uttered the name in a low, whispered voice, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "You... you live here?"
As for Han, he felt a violent shock that shook him to his core. His astonishment instantly transformed into a surge of anger and frustration. He felt as though the earth itself refused to grant him any escape from this man, and that all the defenses he had built were useless against this neighbor's wall.
Jisung exhaled impatiently, clearly annoyed, and clenched his jaw. He slowly climbed down to pick up his keys from the floor without taking his sharp eyes off the other man's face. He stood up, his grip tightening on the doorknob as he glared at Minho with intense displeasure. He spoke in a sharp, angry, accusing tone:
"I told you at the station a little while ago, my name is Jisung! Stop using that damn nickname, and stop following me around."
Shock at the accusation was etched on minho's face. He took a small step down the hallway, raising his free hand in a gesture of denial:
"I swear I don't know! I've lived in this apartment for two whole years, Jisung... It's just a coincidence... a pure coincidence."
Minho pronounced "Jisung" with a heavy, labored sound, as if the letters were foreign to his lips.
Han glanced at door 303, then back at Minho, and recognized from the sincerity in his face that it truly was a cruel twist of fate. He stepped back into his apartment, quickly and nervously pulling out his suitcase, and said dryly as he slammed the door in Lino's face:
"It doesn't matter. Pretend we don't know each other. You're a stranger to me, and I'm a stranger to you. Don't knock on my door, and don't speak to me."
Before Minho could reply or utter a single word, Han pushed the door open forcefully, leaving Minho standing alone in the corridor, listening to the young man's angry breathing from behind the thick wood, realizing that their story was far from over... its complicated chapters had just begun behind walls separated by only a few centimeters.
He slammed the door shut, and the wooden frame trembled in Minho's hands. He stood in the hallway for a few seconds, the garbage bag still clutched in his right hand, his eyes fixed on the golden number 304. The silence that returned to the hallway wasn't ordinary silence; it was more like the crash of a sudden explosion.
He stepped slowly back into his apartment, closing the door behind him without turning on the lights. He sat on the sofa in the dim light of the living room, leaving his coat on, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. His thoughts churned like raging waves, and his mind refused to process the past ten minutes.
"Jisung..." he repeated the name silently, a profound loneliness tearing at his throat. For five years, whenever guilt overwhelmed him or the image of the little boy flashed through his mind, he would call out the name "Hannie"
Hannie, the boy who shivered from the cold, Hannie, who hated math, Hannie, who saw an entire galaxy in Minho. But the boy standing in the hallway a moment ago had completely erased that nickname, as if wiping away the only thing that connected them.
He remembered the tone of his voice; it wasn't a harsh reproach, nor the cry of a wounded teenager waiting for an apology. It was far worse. It was the tone of a mature, cold man who had long since given up on the idea of waiting for explanations. The coldness he saw in Jisung's eyes wasn't a temporary mask, but a hardened shield forged through years of living with disappointment.
i'm grown up, Minho. i don't need your protection
The words lashed through minho's mind like a whip. He felt a bitter pang; while he had burned with worry for the boy's safety all these years, the boy had forged his own path in life, learned how to be ruthless, how to put his hands in his pockets and pass Minho by like a mere passerby in a crowded train station.
He glanced at the wall of the hallway they shared with apartment 304. Only five centimeters of concrete separated them now. Fate, which had kept them apart for years, had thrown them into the same corridor, the same building, in a strange city where they knew no one.
As he listened to the quiet emanating from the neighboring apartment, he realized that his protective instinct hadn't died; it had flared up even more fiercely. But this time, it wouldn't be for a little boy needing hot milk, but for a young man with razor-sharp eyes who utterly rejected his presence. He took a deep breath in the darkness, preparing himself for a long, cold battle—a battle to melt the ice he himself had frozen.
At 7:30 a.m
thick fog blanketed the corridor windows, casting cold, gray shadows on the dark red carpet.
Jisung emerged from his apartment, number 304. He wore his heavy winter coat, carried his backpack overflowing with engineering books, and wore his headphones without playing any music; another psychological shield to signal to the world that he was unavailable to speak. He turned to lock the door, his hands moving steadily, though his heart had been pounding erratically since he woke up.
At the same instant, the handle of door number 303 turned.
Jisung froze, his shoulders stiff. The door opened, and Minho stepped out, impeccably dressed in his professional attire: a dark blue shirt beneath his black coat, carrying an icy briefcase, and the familiar scent of his soap instantly piercing the chilly corridor.
Their eyes met. There was no escaping it; the corridor was too narrow for two people to walk side by side without touching.
Minho noticed the earbuds in Jisung's ears and immediately understood the unspoken message. But he didn't back down; instead, he stood for a moment, studying Jisung's pale face in the dim morning light. His eyes held a burning desire to say something—to ask if he'd slept well, or if he needed some coffee.
Instead, he maintained a respectful distance, nodded slightly, and spoke in a low, cautious, carefully measured tone:
"Good morning... Jisung."
Jisung clenched his jaw so tightly that his cheek muscles tightened. The name "Jisung" still sounded strange coming from Lee Know, like a new shoe that was too tight and refused to fit. He wished he could ignore it completely, but pride prevented him from showing the weakness of evasion.
Jisung slowly removed one of his earbuds and met Minho's gaze with chilling indifference, replying in a lifeless, formal tone:
"Good morning, Lee Minho."
Jisung strode past him with quick, steady steps toward the elevator. The cold air trailed behind him, carrying a faint trace of his scent to Minho, who turned slowly and followed him with his eyes.
When they reached the elevator, Jisung pressed the button and waited. Minho stood beside him, separated by an inch of space, but the silence between them was heavier than mountains. Minho could hear Jisung's ragged breathing, and Jisung could feel the weight of Minho's sideways gaze following the line of his jaw.
The old wooden elevator door opened. They stepped inside, and the door closed, trapping them in that narrow space for a full minute. Jisung kept his eyes fixed on the countdown numbers as Minho turned slightly toward him and said in a quiet voice, a quietness that masked a silent determination:
"The Technological Institute is at the end of East Pier Street. Bus number 12 will take you there directly without any trouble. It's going to rain heavily in an hour, so make sure you keep your umbrella close."
Jisung didn't turn around, but his grip on his backpack strap tightened until his knuckles turned white. He felt a surge of suppressed anger; Minho was still trying to play the role of "protector" and guide, still noticing every detail.
"I know my way around, Lee Minho," Jisung replied dryly as he stepped out the moment the ground-floor door opened. "And I learned how to walk in the rain without an umbrella a long time ago."
Jisung strode out towards the building's outer gate, pushing open the glass door to face the stormy morning wind, leaving Minho standing in the hallway, watching his retreating back through the fog, feeling that every step Jisung took away from him was a silent stab reminding him of what his hands had done long ago
Three weeks had passed since that cold morning, and their relationship had devolved into a silent war of attrition. Jisung was doing his best to avoid Minho. He knew Minho's comings and goings, leaving half an hour early each morning and returning late at night, waiting until the hallway lights went out to ensure he wouldn't catch a glimpse of the older man.
But his plans crumbled completely on a stormy winter night, at precisely 2:00 AM.
Jisung was sitting in front of his computer, engrossed in finishing a complex and crucial engineering design project due early the next morning as part of his midterms. The room was warm, and the sound of rain lashing against the glass outside was deafening when, suddenly and without warning, it happened.
Bang.
The screen went black, and the entire apartment was plunged into a deathly darkness. The power had gone out.
Jisung sighed impatiently, initially thinking the outage was widespread in the neighborhood due to the storm. He groped his way through the darkness, using the light from his mobile phone, and approached the window to raise the curtain. But he was shocked to see that the streetlights were working normally, and even the lights in the building across the street were on. The problem was only in his apartment.
He rushed to the circuit breaker box behind the door, opened the cover, and tried to turn the main switch, but it immediately snapped back down with a small spark. There was an internal short circuit, and he had no experience with electrical repairs. More importantly, his computer battery was at only 4%, and his project, which he had worked on for weeks, wasn't fully saved yet.
A real panic gripped Jisung's chest. Time was running out, and if the computer died now, all his efforts would be wasted, and he would fail the course. He thought about calling the building's caretaker, but he was an old man and asleep at this hour; an electrician wouldn't arrive until morning.
He glanced down at his apartment's wooden door. He knew for certain that the only person who could solve this problem, the one with a degree in electrical and technological engineering, was sleeping just a couple of steps away... behind door number 303.
Jisung froze. A fierce battle raged between his pride, which prevented him from knocking on that door, and his desperate need to salvage his academic future. He took a step back, then glanced at his computer screen, which was beginning to flicker, signaling its imminent shutdown.
He bit his lower lip in anger and frustration, gripping his phone tightly. He strode toward the door, opened it, and stepped out into the dark, cold corridor.
He stood before door number 303. His hand hovered in the air for what felt like years before he forced his fingers to move and tapped the wood three times in quick succession, light but hurried.
It wasn't long before the door opened.
Minho appeared, seemingly not asleep but reading; he wore his glasses, his hair slightly tousled. Minho froze when he saw Jisung standing before him at this hour, their eyes meeting in the dimness of the corridor. The shock in Minho's eyes instantly turned to genuine concern:
"Jisung? Is something wrong? Are you okay?"
Jisung looked away, his cheeks burning with embarrassment and desperation. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice as steady and formal as possible, but the tension and desperation betrayed him:
"My... my apartment had a short circuit and the power went out. I have a crucial university project due in a few hours and the computer is about to shut down... Could you... could you take a look at the circuit breaker box?"
Jisung fell silent, waiting for Minho to show him gloating or superiority, or perhaps to remind him of his harsh words at the station: "I can handle my own problems."
But Minho didn't. His calm expression remained unchanged; instead, the look of worry vanished, instantly replaced by a protective instinct and a sense of responsibility. He quickly removed his glasses and placed them on the nearby table behind him, saying in a firm yet reassuring tone that lifted a tremendous weight from Jisung's chest:
"Wait here for a second. I'll get my toolbox and be right back."
Jisung stood in the hallway, watching Minho move swiftly and nimbly through his apartment to retrieve his tools. In that moment, despite all his pride and defenses, he felt the icy wall he had built begin to crack at the first real test of need
Minho stepped into apartment 304, carrying his metal toolbox. Behind him, Jisung quietly closed the door, plunging the room back into darkness, save for the faint light emanating from Jisung's dying computer screen in the corner.
The apartment smelled of fresh paper and bitter coffee, and to Minho, it seemed smaller and more confined than his own, as if reflecting its owner's desire to shrink and withdraw from the world.
"The box is right behind the door," Jisung said, his voice hoarse, shining his phone's flashlight onto the wall to illuminate Minho's workspace.
Minho didn't reply. He set his bag down, opened the plastic lid of the box, and took out a voltage tester, expertly and deliberately examining the wires. Minho's intense calm and focus unnerved Jisung; this sudden closeness after years of estrangement made him feel uneasy.
Jisung stood just a step away, holding his phone. He was trying hard to steady the light string, but his hand was trembling slightly without his knowledge. The trembling wasn't from the cold of the apartment, but because Minho was so close—so close that Jisung could hear his steady breathing, see the strands of his hair tossed about with every turn, and even notice the tightness in his sharp jawline under the dim yellow light.
The phone's light slipped off the box for a moment, falling on the side of Minho's face. Minho sighed softly, and without turning around, said in a low, deep voice that pierced the silence of the room,
"Jisung... I need the light here, on the blue wire, please."
"Ah... sorry," Jisung mumbled quickly, immediately redirecting the light, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He took a step back to create some distance, but his eyes kept following Minho's long fingers as they moved cautiously among the precarious wires.
Silence returned, broken only by the clatter of metal tools and the heavy rain lashing against the windowpane outside. Jisung watched Minho's broad back, suddenly recalling old scenes from his childhood; how that back had been his shield, the place he hid behind whenever the noise in his old house grew too much. A bitter lump rose in his throat; the man hadn't changed, still saving him from trouble, still possessing that aura of security that Jisung hated to admit existed.
"The problem was with the kitchen circuit breaker," Minho said suddenly, gently tightening one of the small screws. "The high humidity combined with two appliances running at once caused a short circuit. It's simple, I'll finish now."
Minho turned his head slightly toward Jisung. The distance between their faces was so close in the dim light that their eyes met. Minho's gaze held a powerful, suppressed emotion, a deep sadness and a longing that Jisung refused to read. Jisung felt his breath catch, so he quickly glanced at the box, pretending to focus on the wires.
"Okay... lift the main switch now," Minho said, taking a step back.
jisung reached out and lifted the larger switch.
Tick.
A sudden surge of power hit the apartment, and the lights burst into a bright white light, forcing both of them to close their eyes for a moment in surprise. The darkness receded, and the screen came back on full power, bringing back the harsh, formal reality.
Minho turned completely to face Jisung and calmly began gathering his tools into his bag. Jisung felt his defenses return the moment the light spread; the danger was gone, and there was no longer any reason for this man to remain in his private space
Minho closed his metal toolbox, making a low click that broke the quiet of the newly lit apartment. He straightened up, took off his wool jacket, which still held a few specks of dust, and turned completely toward Jisung.
Jisung was standing at the corner of the table, his arms crossed in a familiar defensive posture, his eyes fixed on the computer screen that had come back on. He could feel the warmth spreading through his limbs again, and a deep sense of gratitude filled his heart; Minho had not only saved the lights in his apartment, but also weeks of sleepless nights and tireless work on his engineering project. He desperately wanted to say a simple thank you, a single word worthy of a man who had gotten up at two in the morning to help him without hesitation.
But the word stuck in his throat, his sharp pride preventing him from uttering it. To offer thanks would be to admit weakness, to acknowledge that he still needed Minho, and that was something Jisung had vowed never to do.
"The electricity will work fine now," Minho said quietly, picking up his bag and heading for the door. "But avoid running the heater and microwave at the same time until the guard checks the wiring in the morning."
Jisung followed him slowly to open the door. Minho paused on the threshold, turning to give Jisung one last look, a warm one that held a hint of expectation; he was waiting, perhaps, for a kind word or a slight softening of his icy demeanor.
Jisung gripped the doorknob with a trembling hand, averting his gaze from Minho's face to the hallway floor. His tone was dry, formal, and entirely contrived.
"Okay. I will. You can go back to your apartment now... It's getting late."
The warm look in Minho's eyes faded, replaced by a dull shadow of disappointment, but he wasn't surprised. He nodded slightly, moved to step outside, and muttered under his breath, "Goodnight, Jisung."
"Goodnight, Mr. Lee Minho," Jisung replied, deliberately using the formal title again to rebuild the wall that had just crumbled.
Before Minho could fully turn around, Jisung pushed open the door and closed it quietly, listening for the click of the lock.
Once the door was closed, Jisung leaned back against the thick wood, closed his eyes, and let out a long, hot breath he had been holding in. His feigned composure crumbled, and his shoulders slumped, revealing his utter exhaustion. He placed a hand over his pounding heart, a sharp pang of guilt and remorse piercing his soul.
"Why am I being so lenient with him?" he asked himself silently, as he listened to Minho's footsteps receding down the hallway and into his apartment across the street.
He knew he'd been rude, that Minho didn't deserve this coldness after what he'd done, but his inner fear was stronger than his gratitude. The fear that he might soften, the fear that he'd open the door to Minho again, only to wake up one day and find him gone, leaving the room bare once more. Jisung moved slowly toward his computer to finish his project, knowing he'd rather live with the torment of his guilt and pride than risk breaking his heart a second time
***
A full week had passed since the night the power went out. Not much had changed in the corridor between apartments 303 and 304. In fact, Jisung had become even colder and more distant from his neighbor, Minho. He felt exposed for having to knock on his door in the middle of the night, and he needed to rebuild his defenses and prove that it had all been a minor incident.
On Thursday morning, at 7:15, Jisung quietly opened the door to his apartment (304). He carried his briefcase and in his other hand held a small brown paper bag that smelled of the warm cinnamon buns he had just bought. Next to it was a small note that read: "For maintenance."
Jisung walked silently down the corridor and bent down to carefully place the bag on the doorstep of Minho's apartment (303). This was Jisung's dry, proud way of settling the "debt"—an indirect, material thank you so he wouldn't have to say "thank you" face-to-face or give Minho a chance to get closer.
As soon as he put down the bag, he turned and walked quickly to the end of the corridor, pressing the elevator button in a hurry to escape before anyone noticed him.
At that exact moment, the click of door 303 clicked shut.
Jisung froze in place by the elevator and glanced around. The door opened, and Minho stepped out, impeccably dressed and ready for work. Minho didn't notice Jisung at first; his eyes automatically drifted down to find the paper bag and note at his feet.
Minho bent down and picked up the bag, unfolding the folded note to read the brief message in Jisung's sharp handwriting. At that moment, Minho looked up, his gaze sweeping across the narrow corridor until it met Jisung's eyes, who was standing by the elevator.
Minho didn't smile, nor did he show any exaggerated joy; he understood Jisung's current state perfectly. Jisung was buying his distance with food, trying to redraw the boundaries between them.
Minho stirred the warm bag in his hand and said in a quiet, measured voice that echoed clearly through the silent corridor,
"The pancakes are still warm, Jisung. Thank you."
Jisung turned toward the elevator door, which had finally opened, and replied in a dry, formal tone, devoid of any flexibility,
"It's just settling a debt, Mr. Minho. No need to thank me."
Jisung stepped into the elevator and closed the iron door immediately, leaving Minho standing alone in the corridor, clutching the warm bag of pancakes, knowing that Jisung's walls were still very thick, and that every step to close the distance between them would require immense patience
Jisung stepped out of the institute's gate at four in the afternoon, only to be surprised by the sudden burst of clouds that had cleared, revealing a downpour of winter rain and a fierce wind that battered faces.
Standing beneath the wide concrete awning of the entrance, Jisung pulled his coat tighter around him, trying to shield himself from the spray. He sighed impatiently as he checked his bag; he'd forgotten his umbrella at the apartment, and the bus app indicated that bus number 12 was delayed by a full half hour due to the bad weather and flooded streets.
His jaw tightened as he watched the students rushing to their cars or opening their colorful umbrellas. The cold seeped into Han Jisung's bones, but the thought of going back inside and waiting for the rain to dry felt like an unbearable surrender.
Just then, a familiar black car slowly approached the institute's sidewalk and stopped right in front of the steps where Jisung was standing.
The passenger-side window rolled down, revealing Minho's face behind the wheel. He wore his glasses, his calm gaze scanning Jisung's shivering body.
"Get in, Jisung. I'll give you a ride," Minho said, his voice clear and piercing the heavy rain.
Jisung froze. Their eyes met through the open car window, and Jisung felt his old defensive instincts awaken instantly. Riding in a car with Minho meant spending twenty minutes in an enclosed space, in stifling silence, in familiar breaths he didn't want to face. And, most importantly, it meant accepting help.
"Thank you, Mr. Minho, but I'm waiting for the bus," Jisung replied, his tone dry and formal, adjusting his bag more firmly on his shoulder and pretending to look at her phone screen.
Minho sighed softly and turned the engine off completely to show Jisung he wasn't going anywhere. He opened the car door and stepped out, carrying a huge black umbrella. He walked steadily through the rain until he was a step away from Jisung under the concrete canopy.
"Bus number 12 canceled its next trip because the main road is blocked, and the weather is getting worse," Minho said in a calm, measured tone, holding the umbrella out to Jisung. "If you refuse to ride with me... at least take the umbrella and walk with it. You can't stay here."
Jisung glanced at the black umbrella stretched out before him, then at Minho's watchful eyes. A pang of anger shot through him; Minho always played the savior, always had the solutions, and it reminded him of how helpless and powerless he had been in the past.
Jisung took a step back, pushing his hands into his coat pockets, and replied coldly, "I told you before, Mr. Minho... I learned how to walk in the rain without an umbrella a long time ago. I don't need your protection, and I don't need anything from you."
Jisung didn't wait for Minho's reaction, nor did he care about the silent disappointment etched on his older neighbor's face. He adjusted his bag and, with stubborn determination, stepped out of the concrete awning, walking directly into the torrential rain that soaked his hair and coat in seconds.
He strode quickly toward the distant bus stop, his head held high with sharp pride, even though his body was trembling violently from the shock of the cold water. He left Minho standing alone under the awning, watching his retreating back into the rain, feeling the bitter sting of the stubbornness he himself had long ago instilled in Jisung's heart
By seven in the evening, darkness had completely enveloped the city, and the storm had intensified into a raging torrent that battered the streets with an angry roar.
At the building's outer glass gate, the gloom of the street lifted, revealing Han Jisung's vision as he walked slowly and wearily. He looked pitiful; his heavy winter coat was so soaked it doubled in weight, clinging to his body like a cold shackle. His hair fell over his eyes in wet strands that dripped onto his pale face, and his leather backpack was completely submerged. He was shivering involuntarily, and the trembling of his shoulders betrayed the biting cold that had seeped into his bones after a long walk without an umbrella.
With what little strength he had left, he pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped into the warm lobby. A small puddle of water dripped from the hem of his clothes onto the marble floor. He stood there for a few seconds, his eyes closed wearily, his breath coming out in warm, strained steam.
At that moment, the sound of confident, quiet footsteps echoed from the direction of the mailbox in the hallway.
Jisung opened his eyes heavily to see Minho walking towards him. Minho had returned in his car some time ago, changed into a comfortable wool sweater, and looked warm and settled, which made Jisung feel small and frustrated.
Minho stopped a couple of steps away. His eyes fell on Jisung's completely soaked and drenched body, and his expression immediately tightened with pity and suppressed anger. He looked at Jisung's lips, which had turned blue from the cold, and at his hand gripping the bag strap, trembling violently.
"Is this the stubbornness you were talking about?" Minho said in a low voice, filled with genuine reproach that he couldn't hide this time. "You walked all this way in the storm just to prove to me that you don't need me?"
Jisung tried to raise his head proudly, to summon his usual sharp gaze, but his eyes were dull and red from exhaustion and cold. He attempted to take a step toward the elevator, passing Minho, and said in a hoarse, trembling voice that betrayed his frail body,
"This... is none of your business, Mr. Minho. It's my life... and I'm free to do what I want with it."
But as soon as he took the first step, his foot caught on his heavy, wet coat, and he lost his balance, nearly falling to the ground. Minho's instinct was faster than any wall; his strong hands reached out and firmly grasped Jisung's forearms, supporting his thin body and preventing him from hitting the cold marble floor.
Through the fabric of Jisung's coat, Minho felt an unnatural heat emanating from his body, mixed with a violent shiver. Jisung was feverish.
Jisung weakly tried to push Minho's hands away, muttering, "Get away... I told you not to touch me..."
This time, Minho didn't back down, ignoring his formal command. He tightened his grip gently but firmly, pushing Jisung against the nearby wall to relieve some of his weight. Looking into Jisung's tired eyes from very close range, he said, "You can barely stand and you're burning up, Jisung. Stop acting like a child looking for his own death. The elevator has been out of order for half an hour, and your legs won't let you climb three flights of stairs on your own now."
Jisung stiffened at the news of the elevator malfunction, a genuine sense of despair attacking his weary mind; climbing the stairs with his exhausted body was impossible. He looked at Minho's close face and saw in his eyes that same old, unyielding determination, a determination Jisung knew would never fade, no matter how much he feigned indifference.
Under the dim yellow light of the building's lobby, the silence between them was heavier than the roar of the storm outside. Jisung gazed at the marble staircase stretching upwards with profound despair; his trembling body already seemed to surrender, and the fever was blurring his vision.
Minho gave him no time to think or argue. He moved decisively, taking Jisung's wet, heavy backpack in his left hand while slipping his right arm behind Jisung's back to encircle his shoulder and support him firmly.
"Move," Minho said, his voice low and commanding. "Put your weight on me and climb."
Jisung stiffened, unconsciously trying to push Minho's chest away.
"I can... I can climb by myself... Leave me alone."
"Jisung," Minho interrupted, turning his head to meet his weary eyes at close range, his own a sharp mixture of patience and concern. "You can barely stand. Either you climb up leaning on me, or I'll carry you all these flights of stairs against your will. Choose what suits your pride now."
Jisung bit his lower lip, a mixture of anger and disappointment in his voice. The threat in Minho's voice was real, and his body wasn't in a position to compromise. He slumped helplessly, letting his weary frame lean slightly toward Minho, resting against his broad, warm shoulder line.
They began climbing the first floor. Every step was torture for Jisung; his wet coat dragged him down, his breath coming in rapid, hot gasps. Minho, on the other hand, moved with agonizing slowness, keeping pace with Jisung's faltering steps, tightening his grip on Jisung's shoulder whenever he felt his body sink or lose his balance.
The warmth emanating from Minho's wool sweater pierced the chill of Jisung's coat, and the familiar scent of his soap mingled with the stifling smell of rain. Jisung felt a sharp pain in his chest; this situation, despite all the coldness he'd tried to project, was terrifyingly safe. He hated the fact that Minho still knew how to support him without making him feel humiliated.
At the beginning of the second floor, Jisung sighed heavily, his legs completely still, leaning his burning head against the cold concrete wall of the hallway.
"Are you okay?" Minho asked immediately, turning to face him, dropping the wet bag to the floor and placing his other hand on Jisung's forehead to check his temperature.
Jisung quickly tilted his head away from his touch, his voice hoarse and broken.
"Don't touch me... like this... just... give me a minute."
Minho glanced at his empty hand in the air, then his gaze fell on Jisung's pale face and trembling lips. He sighed bitterly, his voice low and tinged with hidden pain:
"How long will you keep punishing me and yourself, Jisung? I'm only here to take you to your apartment. I won't hurt you."
Jisung didn't reply. Instead, he pushed himself away from the wall and moved upstairs with renewed stubbornness, as if Minho's words had stirred the last vestiges of his strength. Minho followed him step by step, clutching his bag, ready to catch him at any misstep.
When they finally reached the third floor, Jisung was panting as if he'd run miles. He staggered toward his door and reached for his keys with a trembling hand, but his fingers shook violently, preventing him from inserting them into the lock.
Minho's hand reached calmly from behind him and took the keys from his cold fingers. The key slid smoothly into the lock, and door number 304 opened, letting the warmth of the apartment inside.
Minho stepped back, returned the keys to Jisung's hand, and placed the damp bag on the threshold. He gave him a long, calm, and unassuming look and said,
"Go in, change immediately, and have something hot to drink. I won't bother you any longer."
Minho turned and headed toward his apartment across the street, leaving Jisung standing on his open doorstep, clutching his keys, watching him in silent astonishment. He had expected Minho to seize the opportunity to enter and assert his interest, but his sudden and respectful withdrawal left a strange emptiness in Jisung's mind, and a fresh pang of guilt he didn't know how to deal with
At 2:00 AM, the silence of apartment 304 transformed into a stifling hell.
Jisung lay on his sofa in the living room, shivering under three heavy blankets that offered no protection from the biting cold that had seeped into his bones. His body temperature had risen dangerously high, and his vision blurred in the darkness; the room spun, and the sound of the rain outside became an unsettling ringing in his ears, like an echo of old memories.
He tried to sit up to take a sip of water, but as soon as he raised his head, a violent dizziness struck, sending him slumped back onto the pillow. His breath came in hot, ragged gasps, and his mouth was completely dry. He felt a genuine panic, realizing he was alone, utterly helpless, and that his body was failing him despite all his attempts to stay strong.
He didn't have Minho's number in his phone; he'd deleted it years ago in a fit of anger, determined to forget him. And he didn't know any emergency numbers that would respond at this hour of the night in this storm.
He glanced towards the wooden door of the apartment. The distance between him and apartment 303 was no more than a few steps, but at that moment it felt like miles. He crawled his weary body across the carpet, leaning against the walls and furniture until he reached the apartment door.
He unlocked it with difficulty and stepped out into the dark, cold corridor. He took two heavy steps until he almost collapsed in front of door 303. He raised his heavy hand and began to tap on the bottom of the door with a weak, trembling fist, making faint, intermittent sounds amidst the roar of the rain outside.
"Minho..." he murmured, his voice hoarse and barely audible from his dry throat, his burning forehead resting against the cold wood of the door. "Minho... please..."
Only a few seconds passed—Minho was awake, reading in his living room, and his sensitive ear picked up on those strange, weak taps.
The door burst open, and Minho took a step back in shock as he saw Jisung swaying before him, his eyes completely dull and tears streaming down his face from a high fever. Before Jisung could collapse, Minho rushed forward and caught him firmly in his arms, supporting his trembling body.
Minho immediately felt the intense heat radiating from Jisung's body and the violent shaking of his shoulders from the cold. His face contorted with genuine alarm, and he pulled him tightly to his chest, his voice filled with longing:
"Jisung! Jisung, look at me... I'm here."
Jisung let his head slump wearily against Minho's broad shoulder and weakly clutched the fabric of his warm wool sweater, whispering in a faint, childlike voice, weakened by fever and exhaustion:
"Why... why were you late?" Minho froze at the question, understanding that Jisung, in his moment of delirium, wasn't just talking about this night, but the past five years in their entirety. Tears welled in Minho's eyes, but he quickly composed himself; gently scooping him up and carrying him inside the apartment to protect him from the cold hallway
"I'm here, my little one."
Minho carried Jisung's trembling body across the threshold of apartment 303. Minho's apartment was quietly tidy, filled with a soft warmth and a soothing woody scent, where you could see three fluffy balls of fur—Minho's cats. He gently laid Jisung on the long sofa in the living room and quickly fetched a comfortable pillow and a dry wool blanket to replace the wet coat he'd discarded at the door.
Jisung was moaning softly, his eyes closed, his cheeks flushed a deep, feverish red.
Minho wasted no time. He fetched a bowl of lukewarm water and some small cotton towels. Kneeling beside the sofa, he dampened the first towel and gently placed it against Jisung's burning forehead. The cool water against his skin caused Jisung to flinch and make a choking noise, his hand weakly pushing Minho's palm away.
"Calm down... calm down, it's just a compress, hannie" Minho whispered in a warm, low voice, carefully taking Jisung's trembling hand and placing it back on the blanket. The old nickname slipped from his lips involuntarily amidst this silent panic, and Jisung, in his delirium, didn't have the energy to object.
For the next three hours, Minho became a vigilant guardian, never closing his eyes. He changed the towels regularly as they absorbed the heat of Jisung's weakening body. He sat on the floor, leaning against the edge of the sofa, watching Jisung's ragged breathing, and occasionally touching his neck and palms with utmost care, as if afraid of waking the walls again.
At four in the morning, Jisung's breathing gradually calmed, and a healthy moisture replaced the burning dryness on his skin, a sign that the violent fever was finally breaking. Minho sighed with deep relief, leaning his head back and closing his tired eyes for a few seconds as he listened to the sound of the rain outside, which began to fade into the stillness of dawn.
As the first rays of dawn began to filter through the gray curtains at six in the morning, Jisung stirred slowly and opened his eyes heavily. The dizziness was gone, and his mind was completely clear.
He turned to find himself in an unfamiliar place, his gaze falling on Minho sitting on the floor beside him, his head tilted back in sleep, his hand still near the edge of the sofa, next to the bowl of water and the towels.
Jisung froze, a wave of embarrassment and confusion washing over him. He remembered everything: his collapse, his feeble knocking on the door, the childish words he'd uttered in his delirious state. He looked at Minho's face, pale from lack of sleep, and felt the wall of his pride slowly crack, leaving behind a complicated feeling he hadn't experienced in five years: a feeling of security mixed with fear of the consequences.
Jisung tried to move slowly back to his apartment, taking advantage of Minho's deep sleep, but the fabric of the blankets made a soft rustle, just enough to wake the older neighbor, who was sleeping soundly on his bed of worries.
Minho opened his eyes groggily, looking confused for a second before his gaze settled on the waking Jisung. Minho sat up immediately, his hand instinctively reaching for Jisung's forehead to check his temperature, but Jisung jerked his head back, avoiding the touch.
Minho's hand froze in the air, then he slowly lowered it, clearing his throat to clear the sleepiness from his voice:
"How are you feeling now? The fever seems to have gone down completely."
Jisung looked away, glancing at the bowl of water and towels beside the sofa, a bitter lump of embarrassment rising in his throat. He turned and placed his feet on the floor, ready to stand. His voice, though slightly trembling, betrayed a hint of dryness and formality in his tone:
"I'm fine. Thank you, Mr. Minho. And I'm sorry I... disturbed you last night."
Minho stiffened at the word "disturbed" and glanced down at Jisung's hand, which gripped the blanket tightly, as if he were eager to escape.
"It wasn't a disturbance, Jisung," Minho replied calmly, straightening his posture to regain his professional bearing. "you were practically unconscious. Anyone else would have been the same."
"I was just exhausted from lack of sleep," Jisung interrupted quickly, trying to justify his breakdown and dispel any emotional lingering effects of the previous night. He stood up, and despite feeling a bit numb, he moved steadily toward the door. "I'm going back to my apartment now."
Minho stood his ground, making no attempt to stop him or catch up, but said in a low voice that reached Jisung's receding back, "Your coat and bag are still damp. I'll leave them by your door later, once they're dry."
Jisung paused on the doorstep for a second, without turning around.
"It's okay, just leave them. Thanks again," he said curtly, then opened the door and hurried out into the hallway, leaving behind the tranquility of Minho's apartment and returning to the safety of his cold concrete walls, trying to mend the broken pieces of his defenses from the night.
In the institute's main lecture hall, the professor's monotonous voice echoed as he explained "Thermal Expansion Coefficients in Metal Structures." The hall was packed with students, the clatter of keyboards and pens filling the air, but for Han Jisung, all this noise was happening behind a wall of thick fog.
Jisung sat in his usual back seat, the one that ensured he remained out of sight and could observe everyone without being noticed. He rested his chin on his left hand, while his right hand held a pen atop his small-squared sketchbook.
He hadn't drawn a single straight line in a full hour.
His body still felt sluggish after a fever, and his limbs felt heavy, as if invisible weights were pulling him back to the seat. But the real discomfort wasn't physical; it was purely mental. Every time he looked at the complex math problem written in white on the blackboard, the numbers blurred and shifted, reminding him of the bowl of lukewarm water, the cotton towels, and the familiar scent of soap that permeated Minho's quiet apartment.
Jisung sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead vigorously with his fingers, trying to banish those damned images from his mind. He felt a sharp sting of inner rage; he hated the fact that just one night of physical vulnerability had managed to breach the formidable defenses he had carefully built over five years of silent absence. He hated that he had uttered those childish, vulnerable words like, "Why were you late?" and he hated even more that Minho had seen his fragile side, the side Jisung had once sworn to bury forever before his mirror, never to show it to a soul.
His gaze shifted back to the notebook, and he began pressing the pen tip against the paper until it was nearly punctured. He asked himself bitterly: How had that mere five centimeters of concrete and steel separating apartments 303 and 304 become such a vast expanse that it swallowed his thoughts whole, rendering him incapable of focusing on his future?
"Han Jisung, can you give us the value of the coefficient for the third structure based on the previous equations?"
The professor's sharp voice snapped the taut string of his thoughts. Jisung flinched and straightened up quickly, drawing all eyes in the hall to him. A feverish heat returned to his cheeks, but this time it was the heat of embarrassment and confusion. He stared blankly at the large screen in front of him, his throat so dry he couldn't even swallow. He had no idea where the lecture was taking place or which page everyone was watching.
"I... I'm sorry, Professor, I wasn't paying attention," he replied in a low, embarrassed voice, lowering his eyes to the table to avoid the curious stares of his classmates.
The professor nodded with obvious displeasure and let out a soft sigh before resuming his explanation and addressing the rest of the room. Jisung slumped back in his seat, a suffocating feeling of disappointment gnawing at him from within. He clenched his hands around the engineering notebook and closed it with a slight bang that was heard by the person next to him.
The stubbornness that had driven him to avoid Minho all along, to assert his excessive independence in front of him, was now threatening the only thing he had control over, the only thing that constituted his lifeline in this life: his studies and his university future. At that moment, Jisung realized with terrifying certainty that Minho's presence behind Wall 303 was not just a passing annoyance that he could ignore, but a silent, continuous earthquake that kept shaking the foundations of his small world, demolishing its fortified walls piece by piece every time he tried to settle down and rise again
When Jisung stepped off the bus at seven in the evening, the rain had turned to a light drizzle, leaving the city streets with a damp sheen. The long lecture had left him doubly exhausted, a weight behind his eyes reminding him that the fever, though broken, hadn't completely left his body. He walked slowly down the alley leading to the building, gathering his scattered thoughts and trying to convince himself that what had happened the night before was merely a passing lapse imposed by circumstances, and that life should return to its dry, formal course.
He pushed open the glass door to the lobby and instinctively headed towards the stairs, checking them cautiously. Luckily, the small green light above the elevator door was back on, signaling the resumption of service. He sighed with relief and took the elevator up to the third floor, grateful that this machine would spare him the ordeal of climbing the stairs he had endured the night before, leaning on Minho's shoulder.
The elevator door creaked open, and Jisung stepped into the narrow corridor. His eyes instinctively and cautiously turned toward apartment 303. The door was closed, and a profound silence enveloped the place, causing him to relax his tense shoulders slightly. But as he approached the door of his own apartment, 304, his steps froze completely.
On his doorstep lay his leather backpack and heavy winter coat, neatly arranged.
Jisung bent down and picked up the coat first. It was not only dry but also remarkably warm, and it emitted a faint, familiar, and refreshing scent of Minho's cologne, mingled with the aroma of laundry soap. He inspected the backpack and discovered that Minho hadn't just dried the outside; he had also carefully removed the books and notebooks, drying each one individually to avoid damaging the papers, before rearranging them inside the bag in the same order as before.
In the small front pocket of the backpack, deliberately left open to catch his eye, lay a small box of fever-reducing and immune-boosting medication, along with a neatly folded piece of paper.
Jisung picked up the paper with slightly trembling fingers and unfolded it to read Minho's steady, clear handwriting:
"One dose after dinner so the fever doesn't return at night. The notebooks are completely dry and the equations are unaffected. Take care, Jisung."
Jisung stood in the dimly lit corridor, clutching the paper and the warm coat in his hands, a lump forming in his throat. This meticulous attention, these small details Minho had taken care of—from drying the papers to providing the medicine without imposing himself or knocking on the door to embarrass Jisung—all pierced the wall of indifference he was so desperately trying to build.
Jisung felt a surge of anger rising in his chest, but this time it wasn't anger at Minho; it was anger at his own helplessness. He hated how Minho knew exactly how to touch the vulnerable spots in his soul, and he hated that this warmth tempted him to surrender and lay down his arms, just when his mind reminded him that accepting this warmth again might mean facing the coldness of abandonment once more.
He quickly opened his apartment door, entered, dragging his clothes and bag, then closed the door firmly and leaned his back against it in the darkness, closing his eyes as he inhaled the scent of the warm coat, realizing that the walls of his heart had begun to crumble before this silent siege
Jisung couldn't sleep that night; the bed felt cold despite the warmth of the coat Minho had placed on the doorstep, and the quiet of the apartment had transformed into a silent clamor that ground his thoughts. At seven in the morning, he stood before the small bathroom mirror, gazing at his pale reflection and the dark circles under his eyes, a clear testament to his lack of sleep.
His hand reached for the medicine bottle lying beside the sink, and he stared at the folded piece of paper bearing Minho's measured handwriting. A wave of anger mixed with fear washed over him; fear that he would soften, and fear that Minho's presence and attention would become so commonplace that he would wake up one day to find him gone again, just as had happened before.
"This has to stop," Jisung muttered to himself, clenching his jaw. He grabbed the medicine bottle and the paper and left his apartment (304) with determined steps, driven by a desire to protect what remained of his pride.
He stood before door number 303. This time, he didn't hesitate. He raised his hand and pounded on the wood three times, his voice a mixture of anger and frustration from the past few days.
Seconds later, the door opened. Minho appeared, wearing a white shirt that wasn't fully buttoned up, his hair disheveled from a fitful sleep. But his expression shifted to one of alertness and concern the moment he saw Jisung standing before him, his eyes blazing. Before Minho could say a word, Jisung reached out roughly and shoved the medicine bottle and the note against Minho's chest.
"Take this. I don't need it, and I don't need anything from you," Jisung said, his voice sharp and trembling despite himself with emotion.
Minho slowly took the bottle and the note, looked at them, then raised his calm eyes to meet Jisung's furious gaze. He didn't back down, nor did he get angry. Instead, he sighed, his voice heavy with long-suffering patience:
"It's just a box of fever reducer, Jisung. Why do you turn every simple glance into a battle?"
"Because I don't want your glances!" Jisung yelled, no longer caring whether his voice echoed through the building's quiet corridor. "I don't want a dryer coat, I don't want medicine! I'm not the helpless boy you left behind five years ago to face hell alone! I managed as your replacement, I lived as your replacement, and we're dying as your replacement... so why do you insist on messing with my mind now?"
Minho froze as if Jisung's outburst had been a stab to his chest. The calm look in his eyes vanished, replaced by a deep, dark pain that stretched back years. He gripped the box of medicine so tightly that the outer carton was dented, and took a step forward, crossing his doorstep to find himself in the corridor, very close to Jisung.
"Do you really think I'm messing with your head?" Minho asked, his voice dropping to a low, raspy pitch that betrayed his long-suppressed guilt. "I live in the apartment next door, and every night I hear your labored breathing through this damned wall. I watch you get sick, you pretend, you hurt yourself just to prove to me that you hate me. I can't bear to watch you wither away before my eyes while I stand by helplessly like a stranger."
"You are a stranger, Mr. Minho!" Jisung charged, the word a last-ditch effort, but the tears welling in his eyes betrayed his pride. "The man who protected me died when he closed the door behind him and didn't look back. Don't try to resurrect him now."
Jisung turned quickly toward his door, but Minho wouldn't let him escape this time with his dry tongue. His hand reached out and gripped Jisung's wrist gently but firmly, preventing him from moving.
"Jisung, wait..."
"Let go of me!" Jisung shouted as he tried to pull his hand away violently, so that their eyes would meet again in the narrow corridor space, a space separated by only five centimeters of air charged with the past, where the concrete walls were completely unable to hide the reality of the pain present between them
Their rapid breathing was the only sound, and the tension between them had reached such a peak that the air felt unbearably heavy. Minho was clenching his fist gently but resolutely, his eyes demanding an answer, while Jisung was using up his last bit of strength fighting back tears.
In that tense moment, which threatened to shatter the walls, the sharp sound of the elevator's iron door opening at the end of the corridor echoed, followed by the approaching sound of heavy, familiar footsteps.
"Is there a problem here, guys?"
Jisung froze, pulling his hand away forcefully this time, managing to release it after Minho loosened his grip in surprise. The two turned toward the source of the sound to see Mrs. Choi, the elderly neighbor who lived in apartment 301 at the end of the corridor. She was carrying a shopping bag, looking at them suspiciously and scrutinizingly over her thick glasses, having been alerted by Jisung's shout.
Jisung swallowed hard, taking two steps back toward his door, trying to regain his composure. Minho quickly straightened up and stepped back into his apartment, trying to control his agitated expression and ragged breath.
"No... no problem, Mrs. Choi," Minho said, trying hard to keep his tone calm and formal so as not to arouse the old woman's curiosity further. "We were just discussing something related to building maintenance."
Mrs. Choi glanced at the misshapen medicine box in Minho's hand, then at Jisung's flushed face and teary eyes, not entirely convinced by the excuse. She shook her head helplessly and said as she walked toward her apartment door,
"I thought there was a fight... the voices were very loud, and it's still early. Please continue your discussion quietly."
"We apologize for the disturbance. It won't happen again," Minho replied respectfully, watching her until she entered her apartment and closed the door.
As soon as Mrs. Choi's door closed, Minho turned to go back to Jisung, but there was no sign of him. Jisung had used those few seconds to escape; he entered apartment 304 and slammed the door shut behind him, turning the lock twice as if he were locking himself in an iron box.
Minho stood alone in the silent hallway again, clutching his medicine box, staring at his younger neighbor's tightly closed door. He knew the confrontation wasn't over, only postponed, and that the crack in Jisung's wall that had appeared today wouldn't heal so easily this time
As soon as Mrs. Choi's door closed and Jisung slipped into his apartment, number 304, using those precious few seconds to escape, he slammed the door shut behind him and turned the lock twice violently, as if sealing himself in an iron box to keep the outside world—and Minho in particular—away.
The key box slipped from his trembling hand with a sharp clink on the wooden floor, but he didn't bother to pick it up. He leaned against the roughness of the door and squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as if he'd run miles to escape a hurricane. His knees felt weak, and he slid slowly until he was sitting on the cold floor, drawing his legs up to his chest and burying his face between them.
In the dimness of the hall, that stern mask completely crumbled. The "cold engineer Jisung" was gone; all that old pain had resurfaced at once. His throat tightened with a stifled sob, and his tears flowed like a burning torrent, washing away all the false pride he had feigned in the corridor. He hated this weakness, he hated Minho for being the only one capable of tearing through his defenses with a single word, and he hated himself for a deep, hidden part of his soul yearning for the closeness and security that had been stolen from him long ago.
Across the wall, in apartment 303, Minho was in no better shape. He stood in his living room, staring at the mangled medicine box between his fingers, the sound of Jisung's scream, "The man who protected me is dead... don't try to resurrect him," still echoing in his ears like a thunderbolt.
He threw the box down helplessly and began pacing anxiously. He felt the crushing weight of guilt; the excuses and harsh circumstances that had forced him to leave long ago no longer held any sway over the profound wound inflicted on the soul of the boy he had always loved and protected. He sighed bitterly and sat at his wooden desk, pulling out a blank sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. He realized that face-to-face conversation was impossible in the face of Jisung's rage, and that words might be the only remaining bridge across this chasm.
He began to write, erased, and rewrite repeatedly. His thoughts raced:
Jisung... I know words can't mend what's broken, and I know that my departure in the past seemed to you like a cheap betrayal. I had no choice then; debts and circumstances were crushing me, and I foolishly thought that keeping you away from my hell was protecting you. I didn't know I was planting a dagger in your heart. I'm not asking for your forgiveness now, nor am I asking for things to go back to the way they were. All I ask is that you don't harm your body and health in your battle against me. The medicine I prepared... please take it. I'll step back if that makes you comfortable; I'll give you the space you need, but I won't stop worrying about you from behind this wall
He folded the paper carefully and left late at night to slip it under the door of apartment 304 in complete silence, returning to his apartment to wait behind the wall.
Two days passed since that stormy night. Jisung chose complete isolation, only leaving his apartment very late at night to buy necessities and avoid any encounters in the hallway. He reread the message Minho had passed him repeatedly, and although it hadn't directly wounded his pride, it left him with unspoken questions and a psychological pressure he could no longer contain within the cramped walls of the building. He needed a decisive confrontation, but in an open space, somewhere Minho didn't wield the power of a "protective neighbor."
On Saturday evening, Jisung wrote a short and dry letter, specifying a time and place: "Green Corner Cafe near the public park. 8:00 PM. I want to talk to you one last time." He placed it under Minho's door.
The café was quiet at that time, playing soft jazz music and almost empty of customers, which afforded them a measure of privacy. Jisung sat at a secluded table by the large glass window, watching the street outside, his fists tightly gripping his cold coffee.
At precisely eight o'clock, the bell on the café's wooden door rang, and Minho entered. He wore a long gray coat and looked tired and sleepless, but his eyes sparkled with an odd light the moment he saw Jisung. He walked with measured steps to the table and sat quietly in the seat opposite, placing his hands on the table in front of him without saying a word, waiting for the younger man to speak.
A silence stretched between them for several seconds, a different kind of silence this time; it wasn't enveloped by the coldness of the concrete walls, but rather charged with a mutual—though unspoken—desire to put an end to this distraction that was threatening their lives. Jisung took a deep breath and fixed his gaze directly into Minho's eyes, ready to open the book of the past that had been forcibly closed five years ago
Silence hung between them in the secluded corner of the café, a heavy silence punctuated by the soft strains of jazz and the aroma of hot coffee. Minho's eyes were fixed on Jisung, but his gaze didn't linger on his pale face; instead, it slowly drifted down to the coat the younger man was wearing.
Minho's body stiffened, and his eyes flashed with a shock he tried to conceal.
It wasn't an ordinary coat; it was a long, dark navy wool coat with a small, faded patch on the sleeves. It was Minho's own coat, the last piece he had left behind in Jisung's old apartment the night of his sudden departure five years ago. The coat was a little too big for Jisung's slender frame, but it clung to him like a fortress, or as if he were grasping at the only remaining physical thread of that past.
Jisung noticed Minho's intense, fixed gaze on his clothes and felt a pang of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. He pulled the coat's hem tighter against his chest, trying to mask his embarrassment with a dry, sharp tone.
"Don't look at it like that. It was freezing outside, and I couldn't find another warm coat in my closet."
Minho sighed softly, relaxing his tense shoulders, his expression softening with a touch of melancholy as he looked down at the faded patch on the sleeves. His voice was low and hoarse.
"I kept it all these years... despite all the hatred you claim to have, Hannie?"
"I told you not to call me that!" Jisung cut him off, slamming his cold glass down on the table with a sound that echoed through the room. "And keeping it doesn't mean anything. It was just a piece of cloth you left behind, and I didn't have the money to buy another one for the winter. Stop reading so much into my actions."
Jisung took a deep breath to compose himself, propping his elbows on the table and leaning closer. His eyes met his older neighbor's with a stern look:
"I didn't come here to dredge up old memories or talk about old coats, Mr. Minho. I'm here to put a definitive end to what's happening in this building. I want you to stop spying on me, stop leaving medicine and food on my doorstep, and stop pretending to be my protector. We're just neighbors sharing a corridor, and our relationship begins and ends with a formal greeting. Is that clear?"
Minho listened to his harsh words in complete silence, making no attempt to interrupt or defend himself. He waited until Jisung had finished speaking, then slowly reached over the table, stopping just centimeters from Jisung's trembling hand, without touching it, out of respect for his boundaries.
If this truly brings you peace, and gives you the tranquility you need to focus on your studies and your future... I will, Jisung," Minho said in a calm, measured tone, completely accepting the younger man's wish. "I won't knock on your door, and I won't leave anything on your doorstep again. But I have one condition for you in return."
Jisung frowned suspiciously.
"A condition? What is it?"
"That you don't hurt yourself by being stubborn again," Minho replied, his eyes brimming with a warm sadness as he looked down at the navy coat. "Take your medicine, get enough sleep, and always wear a warm coat on rainy days... even if it's my old one. Promise me this, and you'll only see me passing by."
Jisung stammered, the words catching in his throat. He had expected confrontation, anger, or desperate attempts from Minho to justify his past departure, but this noble and careful surrender left him feeling helpless once more. He looked at Minho's hand close to his own, then into his honest eyes, and felt the wall of coldness he had built to protect himself slowly crumble before the texture of this old coat and the warmth of these silent promises
The meeting at the café ended with an exchange of those unspoken promises that only deepened the chasm between them. Jisung returned to the building first, wrapped in Minho's navy coat like someone carrying a burden he couldn't relinquish. Minho followed shortly after, careful to keep a safe distance so the younger man wouldn't catch a glimpse of him in the hallway.
As soon as Jisung entered apartment 304, he dropped his bag and headed straight for the bedroom. He closed the door behind him and stood in the darkness, drawing a deep breath. His body was still trembling, not from the cold this time, but from the weight of the encounter.
He grasped the hem of the long navy coat and began to peel it off very slowly, as if shedding skin that wasn't his own. He laid it on the bed and gazed at it in the dim streetlight filtering through the window. His trembling fingers examined the faded patch at the cuffs, and he inhaled the scent of Minho's cologne that still lingered in the heavy wool.
A wave of inner turmoil washed over Jisung. He remembered Minho's submissive tone, his promises to stay away and never knock on his door again, and a sudden, terrifying emptiness pounded into his chest. He'd thought forcing Minho to back down would bring him victory and peace, but now, seeing the coat lying coldly on his bed, he realized that Minho's self-imposed absence might be far more painful than his provocative presence. He felt remorse; his harsh words had severed the last thread connecting him to the past, leaving him utterly alone to face his own coldness.
Meanwhile, across the wall, Minho stood in the living room of apartment 303, his eyes fixed on the front door. He took off his gray coat and carelessly tossed it onto the sofa, walking towards the large glass window to watch the raindrops that had resumed their relentless beating against the glass.
His thoughts were caught in a vicious cycle of pain and burning guilt. The image of Jisung, wearing his old coat and clinging to it despite all the hateful and cold words he'd uttered, tore at his heart. Minho knew with absolute certainty that the younger boy hadn't forgotten anything, that his departure long ago had left a deep scar that hadn't healed, but rather had festered with time, transforming into this fierce stubbornness.
Minho felt the weight of his promise; his commitment to stay away and not interfere meant he would have to watch Jisung wither or defy him from afar, without the right to extend a helping hand. He walked to the wall separating the two apartments, placed his warm hand on the cold concrete, rested his forehead against it with a low sigh, and whispered into the darkness of his room
"I backed down at your request, Hannie... but I won't move from behind this wall, even if you can't see me"
The lights went out in the two adjacent apartments, and silence descended on the third-floor corridor, leaving behind the walls two hearts drowning in the same cold, separated by a solid cement wall, and five years of regret and stubbornness.
____________________________________
The retreat Minho promised wasn't just empty words to calm the storm at the café; in the following days, it transformed into an invisible wall, meticulously constructed to such an extent that Jisung felt more "absent" than "present."
In the early mornings, Minho completely stopped going out at the same time as Jisung. The echo of his quiet footsteps in the hallway was gone, as was the click of the lock on apartment 303, which used to resonate in sync with the lock on apartment 304. Even the shared mailbox in the lower lobby, where Minho sometimes left engineering magazines or pamphlets that might be useful to Jisung, was now empty and dry.
Minho adhered to his promise with strict precision. If they happened to meet unexpectedly at the building's main entrance, Minho would offer only a small, fleeting, expressionless nod, then continue on his way without turning around or attempting any conversation, as if they were complete strangers living in the same neighborhood.
For his part, Jisung began to notice this change with growing suspicion and unease.
At first, he felt a sense of triumph and relief; the hallway was now entirely his, and he no longer had to strain his nerves or prepare sharp words before leaving. But as the first week passed, this systematic disappearance began to weigh heavily on his mind.
In his room at the institute, Jisung found himself repeatedly checking his door to make sure Minho hadn't sent a message, even though he was the one who had asked to cut off all contact. When he returned in the evening to find his doorstep completely empty—no soup, no medicine, not even a scrap of paper—he felt a cold sting, akin to betrayal.
One night, Jisung sat on his sofa, his gaze fixed on the wall separating the two apartments. The silence from the other side was heavier than usual; although he knew Minho was inside because the light from his small balcony reflected off the windowpane, he hadn't made a sound.
Jisung realized, with much bitterness, that Minho still had the power to control the rules of the game; when he wanted to be close, he gently imposed his presence, and when he asked him to move away, he withdrew with a perfect coldness that left Jisung completely alone with his pride and stubbornness, wondering if this distancing was really what he wanted, or just a silent and painful punishment for the harsh words of the cafe
Jisung sat in the back cafeteria of the technology institute, staring at his warm cup of tea, which he had left to cool untouched. It was past two in the afternoon, and the lines of fatigue were becoming more pronounced than usual under his eyes. The lingering fever from the previous week hadn't completely disappeared; instead, it had transformed into a subtle weakness that lurked within him whenever he strained to study.
Jisung felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over him. He rested his cold forehead on his hand, closing his eyes and trying to steady his blurred vision. A faint ringing began to echo in his ears, accompanied by an overwhelming urge to vomit and a chill that crept back down his fingertips.
The cafeteria was bustling with the noise of students, their laughter, and the constant movement of the chairs, but amidst all this hustle and bustle, Jisung felt a suffocating and desolate isolation.
His hand reached mechanically for his bag, searching for the medicine box Minho had left for him long ago, but his fingers found nothing but notebooks and pens; he'd left the box in the apartment out of stubbornness and pride. He sighed bitterly, realizing in that moment the price of his rigid choices. In the past, when he'd felt a similar illness, Minho would appear like a guardian angel without being asked; placing his warm hand on his forehead, gently scolding him, and insisting he drink warm liquids.
But now, keeping his distance meant Minho wasn't there to save him. Minho was keeping his promise to the letter, leaving him to face the consequences of his excessive independence alone in the cold halls of the institute.
Jisung tried to stand and head towards the institute's clinic, but as soon as he straightened, his knees gave way and he stumbled backward, leaning against the edge of the wooden table to stop himself from falling. He took a few deep breaths, pressing against the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
One of the students passing by looked at him with concern and asked if he needed help, but he only gave a weak nod and a faint refusal. He gathered his scattered thoughts and, with a heavy sway, walked slowly out. He felt a sharp pang of hidden longing and regret; the independence he had fought so hard for now seemed far heavier than he had imagined, and the freedom he had desired was nothing but a bitter cold devoid of Minho's warm hand
The bus ride back to the building was a piece of hell for Jisung. Every jolt of the vehicle felt like a throbbing headache at the back of his head, and his extremities grew so cold he couldn't feel his toes. When he got off at the nearby stop, his steps were heavy and unsteady, his body swaying from side to side like a withered branch battered by the wind.
He reached the building's glass door at five in the afternoon. The yellow lights of the lobby blurred his vision, and he pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, immediately placing his hand on the marble wall to keep from falling. He was panting softly, his face ashen, his lips completely dry.
Just then, the familiar sound of the mailbox opening rang out.
Jisung turned heavily to see Minho standing by the opposite wall, holding a few letters. Minho froze the moment his eyes met Jisung's. His sharp eyes scanned the younger man's swaying body, immediately noticing his ragged breathing, his helpless hand gripping the wall, and the violent trembling coursing through his shoulders.
Minho's foot moved forward with a desperate instinct from the past, almost propelling him to run toward Jisung and catch him before he collapsed. But midway through the step, Minho remembered his stern promise at the café: "I won't knock on your door, I won't interfere, and you'll only ever see me as a passing neighbor."
Minho's entire body stiffened, and he forced a step back. He clutched the letters tightly in his hand until his knuckles turned white, swallowing hard and transforming his troubled features into a mask of utter coldness, despite the burning anxiety raging in his chest.
Jisung noticed this deliberate retreat. He felt a sharp stab in his heart; Minho watched him struggle to stand, saw him wither, yet he chose to respect the "stubbornness" Jisung himself had demanded. Jisung forced himself against the remnants of his pride, pushing himself off the wall with unsteady steps toward the elevator, feigning strength as his vision gradually blurred.
Jisung's steps moved very slowly beside Minho, who stood like a marble statue. Neither of them spoke a word, their eyes never met, but the narrow corridor in the hallway was filled with the sound of Jisung's labored breathing and the stifling silence Minho imposed upon himself as a form of self-punishment, leaving the younger man to cross to the elevator alone, dragging behind him the weight of his disappointment and the consequences of his cold freedom
The elevator door creaked shut, carrying Jisung's swaying body away and leaving a heavy silence in the building's lobby.
At that moment, Minho's mask of coldness shattered completely. His shoulders, once so rigid, slumped wearily, and the letters he was holding fell from his hands, scattering across the marble floor without him even bothering to pick them up. His breath came in rapid, hot gasps, accompanied by a violent heartbeat that felt like it would burst from his ribs with terror and helplessness.
Minho rested his hand on the metal mailbox, pressing his fingers so hard his knuckles turned white. His mind was a vortex of conflicting thoughts tearing him apart:
How could he let himself get to this state? Pale as death, barely able to lift his eyelids, trembling like a branch in the wind... and yet, he'd rather die than utter a single word asking for my help!
A wave of intense anger, tinged with bitterness, washed over him. He was furious at Jisung's suicidal stubbornness, but even more furious at himself and his "damn promise." The image of Jisung, stumbling past him, leaning against the wall, his weary eyes shining with silent disappointment, swirled in Minho's mind like a dagger being driven back into the same old scar.
He saw me back down... He saw how I stepped back and let him walk past, struggling to his feet. Does he think I don't care now? Does he think I pretended to love him before and now I'm abandoning him again under the guise of 'respecting his wishes'? Oh God... I'm burning with worry for him, my fist trembling to grasp his shoulder, but I'm afraid that if I take another step, he'll run further, leave the building altogether, and disappear from my life again
Minho glanced at the elevator's indicator, which was slowly ascending to the third floor: 1... 2... 3.
He leaned his head against the cold wall and closed his eyes with a deep sense of sorrow. The thought that Jisung was now alone behind door 304, without medicine, without food, and perhaps collapsing unconscious on the cold floor without anyone knowing, was more than he could bear.
Keeping his promises and maintaining the cold, geometric distance seemed to him at that moment a foolish luxury, worthless compared to the possibility of the boy, to whom he had long ago dedicated his life, suffering a decline in health. All rational calculations vanished from his mind, replaced by the true instinct of a guardian; an instinct that recognized no walls, no contracts, no wounded pride.
Suddenly, with a decisive impulse, Minho moved. He stepped over the letters scattered on the floor and ran towards the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He no longer cared about "official boundaries," and he no longer cared whether Jisung would yell at him or kick him out again; facing Jisung's anger and rebellion was a thousand times easier for him than facing the guilt of leaving him to fall alone behind the wall
Minho reached the third floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He glanced towards apartment 304, finding the door locked, but the keys still hung in the outer lock on the hallway side, swinging precariously—a sure sign that Jisung hadn't been fully conscious when he entered.
Without hesitation, Minho grabbed the keys, turned them quickly, unlocked the door, and stepped into the apartment's gloom.
"Jisung!"
He called out his name, his voice trembling with fear as he scanned the cramped living room. There was no reply, but his eyes, accustomed to the darkness of the hallways, spotted a figure lying on the wooden floor adjacent to the small kitchen. Jisung was stretched out on his side, his bag still slung over one shoulder, his breathing both heavy and shallow.
Minho knelt beside him, a terror he hadn't felt in years. He gently lifted Jisung's head and placed it on his thigh, his hand finding solace in the touch of his forehead. The fever had returned, raging wildly, and his skin felt dry and burning hot.
"Jisung... Hani, listen to me," Minho whispered, his trembling hand gently patting Jisung's pale cheek.
Jisung's eyelids fluttered open, his blurry eyes widening for a few seconds. When his gaze settled on Minho's close, panicked face, he lacked the strength to push him away or shout. A hoarse, faint sound escaped his parched lips:
"You... you promised... you wouldn't come..."
"fuck promises and fuck everything," Minho cut him off, his voice choked with emotion, He bent down, slipping one arm under Jisung's knees and the other behind his back, then lifted him off the ground in one decisive motion, leading him toward the small bedroom.
He laid him on the bed, and without waiting for permission, he began to remove his shoes and the heavy college jacket that had been burying his shivering body. He wrapped him in woolen blankets up to his chin, then hurried to the kitchen to get the bowl of water and towels again, returning to his old spot; kneeling beside Jisung's bed.
When the cold towel touched his forehead, Jisung let out a weak groan, and his tense features slowly faded, replaced by a weary surrender. Minho gazed at his pale face, and with his free hand, he grasped Jisung's small, warm palm, squeezing it firmly as if to say silently: I won't let you fall alone again, even if you hate me
Jisung's consciousness floated and sank in a sea of hot mist, the confines of the cramped room blurring, the walls of his mind transforming into swirling specters. Despite the flames consuming his body, a faint, heavy consciousness stirred deep within his chest, a consciousness that knew precisely who the hands now encircled him were.
When Minho's hands rose to lift him from the cold wooden floor, Jisung felt a warm shiver run through him, not from fever, but from that ancient, familiar safety he had experienced thousands of times before. His fierce desire to resist vanished; his weakened body no longer had the strength to lie, and his weary soul finally surrendered to the fact that it had been yearning for this contact with Minho's warm chest.
I'm back again... despite all the walls you built, despite all the poisonous words I threw at you... why won't you let me fall? Why do you insist on being the one to pick up the pieces every time I break?
Minho's careful, gentle touch as she wrapped him in blankets and wiped his face with cool towels flowed into Jisung's mind like a sweet guilt. He felt a dull anger toward himself because he felt relieved. He hated the fact that all his stubbornness, all the months of estrangement, all his attempts to build an independent self had vanished in seconds the moment Minho grasped his warm hand.
I hate you for making me weak... and I hate you for being the only one who knows I'm still that scared boy you left behind. But... please, don't let go of my hand now. Just tonight, let me believe you won't leave again
As the first wave of pain subsided and the cold towel settled over his forehead, Jisung succumbed to sleep, leaving his palm completely submissive within Minho's grasp, abandoning all his formidable defenses that crumbled at the first genuine touch.
Jisung opened his eyes heavily, seeing the room bathed in the warm shadows of evening. The fever had broken through his body, leaving behind a profound lethargy, but his consciousness snapped back to life at the sound of soft footsteps coming from the kitchen.
He sat up quickly, a sudden jolt of dizziness washing over him. He remembered his breakdown, and Minho carrying him here. Stubbornness stirred again in his chest, an inevitable defense mechanism; how could he have let him invade his apartment and cross the line after everything that had been said at the café?
Jisung stood up, leaning against the wall, and walked slowly but resolutely into the living room. He found Minho standing in the small kitchen, taking out vegetables and some ingredients to start preparing something. Hearing the footsteps, Minho turned, a look of relief spreading across his face.
"You're awake... The fever's gone down, but you need something warm. I'll make you—"
"Didn't we agree to stay away?" Jisung interrupted, his voice hoarse and dry, as he trudged into the kitchen. He gently but firmly pushed Minho's hand away from the cooking knife and away from the stove. "I'm making the soup. I don't need your pity, and I'm going to prove to you right now that I can manage perfectly well without you."
Minho took two steps back, looking at Jisung's trembling hands and his tired eyes, which stubbornly resisted the obvious exhaustion. Minho sighed slowly, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the opposite cabinet, deciding this time to just watch. Jisung had asked for space and independence, and he would give it to him to see where this stubbornness would lead.
Jisung started cooking the soup, but it quickly turned into a silent disaster. His hands were shaking so much that he couldn't even chop the vegetables straight, and the onion pieces scattered haphazardly. When he tried to pour the oil into the pot, he spilled more than he should because of his unsteady movements. His mind was completely clouded, and his body swayed with every turn.
Minho stood like a statue, silently observing the chaos. He saw Jisung pour the water incorrectly, the kitchen descend into disarray, and the younger man's abilities crumble before his eyes, but he didn't lift a finger, bound by the promise of non-interference that had been forced upon him.
Jisung seethed with anger and frustration at his helplessness and at Minho's silent, watchful gaze as he failed. He turned to Minho abruptly, his voice choked with tears and exhaustion:
"Why are you just standing there watching?! Why aren't you helping me when you see me messing everything up? You've always been there for me, always taking things from me and fixing them... So why are you abandoning me now and leaving me like this?!"
Minho's features remained as calm as a rock, and he replied in a low voice, heavy with unmistakable sadness:
"Because you told me you weren't that helpless boy anymore, that you lived and managed without me. I wanted to see your independence, Jisung."
These words drove Jisung mad; he felt deeply insulted and utterly defeated. He turned violently toward the stove again to prove he could finish the job, and in a swift, unsteady, and impulsive movement, his hand instinctively reached for the scorching handle of the pot without using a heat guard, to prevent the mixture from spilling.
"Sizzle—"
A faint smell of burning rose, followed by a sharp, muffled cry of pain that escaped Jisung's lips as he stumbled backward, clutching his wrist, tears streaming down his face as a deep red burn formed on his palm. In the shock and stumble, he slammed into the wooden table, sending the pots crashing to the floor with a deafening slam that filled the apartment.
Minho couldn't bear the sight for another fraction of a second. His feigned composure shattered, and he surged like a whirlwind toward Jisung, forcefully and resolutely pulling his injured hand away, immobilizing him. He dragged him to the sink, turned on the cold water, and placed him directly under it.
Minho looked at Jisung's tearful, defeated face, his voice breaking, betraying his inner turmoil
"Are you satisfied now? Have you proven what you want? fuck your stubbornness; it will be your undoing one day."
The only sound in the kitchen was the rush of cold water over Jisung's hand. Minho placed his large hand behind Jisung's wrist to hold it under the tap, using his other hand to gently direct the water over the burning, swollen, and deep red burn. Minho was so close that Jisung could feel the warmth of his ragged breath and the faint scent of rain and tobacco in the folds of his coat.
After the initial heat of the burn subsided, Minho slowly turned off the tap. He didn't rush to apply gauze or ointment this time; instead, he held Jisung's wrist with utmost tenderness, holding his bare, injured hand and the exposed area in front of his face.
Minho bowed his head in quiet sorrow and, with extreme caution, pressed his lips directly to the bare burn.
It was a tender, warm, long kiss, followed by another that sent shivers down Jisung's weary body. Then another kiss on his fingertips and another on his palm. The kisses weren't just a comfort for the burn; they were a silent, tangible apology, Minho touching Jisung's pain inch by inch, absorbing his anguish and wounded pride with his lips, until the younger's desire to resist vanished completely and he rested his forehead on Minho's shoulder.
Minho's lips slowly parted from Jisung's palm, but he didn't move an inch away. He held his hand as if it were his most precious possession, looked into Jisung's tear-filled eyes, and said in a choked voice, filled with burning regret,
"I'm sorry, Jisung... I'm sorry I left so long ago and left you to face this world alone, and I'm sorry I stood by tonight watching you suffer because of a foolish promise I made to myself. I should never have let go of your hand, not five years ago, not just now."
Jisung listened to the words of apology he had waited years for, and felt a lump rise in his throat, turning into words of reproach that came out hoarse and broken:
"Then why did you do it? How could you close the door behind you and walk away as if we were nothing? You left me wondering for nights on end what I did wrong to abandon me so easily."
Minho's unharmed hand reached out to wipe away a tear that had fallen onto Jisung's cheek, and his voice trembled with genuine pain:
"You didn't do anything wrong. The mistake was entirely mine. I was drowning in debt and harsh circumstances that nearly crushed me, and I foolishly and cowardly thought that keeping you away from my hell was the only way to protect you. I didn't know that my absence would be an even greater hell for you. I never moved forward, Jisung. I was living a lifeless existence, and my mind never left our old room."
Jisung tilted his head, resting his forehead against Minho's chest, clutching the fabric of his heavy coat as if to confirm his presence:
"And I'm sorry... I'm sorry for punishing myself and you with this cold stubbornness these past weeks. My shouting in the kitchen a little while ago wasn't because I hate you, but because I was angry and unable to stop needing you. I hated how a single look from you could shatter all the walls I'd spent years building."
Minho gently lifted Jisung's face to meet his tearful gaze, his eyes overflowing with warmth and utter sincerity:
"I never stopped loving you, Hani. Even when I was far away, even when I stood behind this damned wall listening to your labored breathing. Leaving was the greatest sin of my life, and the truth I've come to realize now is that I have no life or breath outside of you. I love you, now more than ever."
Jisung closed his eyes, surrendering completely to this unconditional outpouring of tenderness. He felt the biting cold that had gripped his limbs for years vanish entirely, and he opened his mouth to confess the truth he had kept locked behind the concrete walls:
"And I too... despite all the pain, despite five years of suffocating separation... I could never love anyone but you, and I never stopped waiting for you."
At that moment, the long page of stubbornness was turned, and the last locks between the two adjacent apartments were broken, so that the old rift would be healed in the darkness of the small kitchen, warm and without insulation
No sooner had Jisung finished his trembling confession than all remaining distance between them vanished. Minho's eyes were fixed on the lips that spoke of waiting and love after so long, and his warm hand reached out to cup Jisung's cheek, lifting his pale face with tenderness and unwavering resolve.
Minho leaned down to close the last gap between them, and they met in a deep kiss, a kiss they had longed for after five long, arduous years.
It wasn't just a fleeting kiss; it was a torrent of all the emotions trapped behind walls of silence and stubbornness. The heat of longing mingled with the bitterness of regret, and lips spoke what words had failed to express for weeks. The kiss was a public mending of all the cracks carved by the separation; a kiss in which Minho apologized for the cold night of his departure, and in which Jisung surrendered to the certainty that he was no longer alone.
Jisung sighed amidst the kiss, a hidden lump escaping his throat, as his uninjured hand moved to wrap around Minho's neck, pulling him closer, as if trying to make up for every second he'd spent apart. His body still trembled faintly from the illness, but Minho's embrace and warm kisses were the complete solace that drew all the chill from his veins.
Minho slowly pulled away, pressing his forehead against Jisung's, their ragged breaths mingling in the quiet dimness of the room. He didn't move away; his hand still stroked the younger man's cheek with his thumb, his eyes fixed on him, brimming with new promises, promises that wouldn't be broken this time.
"I won't go anywhere again, Hannie... I'll never leave you," Minho whispered, his voice husky and warm, pressing another small kiss to the reddened tip of Jisung's nose.
Jisung smiled weakly, but with a genuine relief he hadn't experienced in years, and nodded, leaning his full weight against the older man's chest, realizing that the siege was over, and that the long night of isolation had finally come to an end
Minho lifted Jisung's small body and placed it on the kitchen counter gently; caressing his tongue, which elicited a soft moan of surrender from the boy's throat.
Jisung wrapped his arms around Minho's neck, caressing the nape of his neck and tugging at his hair with a wild, sensual touch, while his penis gradually began to harden as Minho slipped his hand under his shirt and began to caress his slender waist there, sucking on his tongue and biting his lips
"ah~ minho! do something!" Jisung said breathlessly, in a tone of surrender
Minho turned his face far enough away to see the boy's half-closed, round eyes, which were brimming with lust "do something about what hmm?" He said teasing, then looked down to see the bulge on Jisung's pants that could no longer be covered by anything "only a kiss from your hyung made this mess?" he chuckled
Jisung lightly hit his shoulder annoyed "shut up" he said shyly "why don't you use your mouth for something better?" he grinned
"Oh my God, Hannie, where did the teenage boy who got hard as fuck just from just a kiss ? Where did you learn to speak such a dirty language?" He smiled and went back to kissing the frowning boy
Jisung pulled away from the kiss. "Stay away from me if you're just going to keep kissing."
"Okay, okay, my horny baby" Minho laughed and placed his hands under Jisung's butt, lifting him up walking toward the room. Jisung clung to Minho tightly, wrapping his arms and legs around Minho's torso and continuing to kiss him, but what he didn't expect was that Minho spread his asscheeks apart as he pulled hard and caressed his hole through his clothes
"Minho! who's the horny one between us now?" jisung gasped, resting his forehead against the other and looking at him seductively
"It's hard to resist your plump, soft ass, hannie" minho said innocently
"such a pervert" he kissed his neck with mouth open and sucking the skin there
"don't act like you don't like that, pretty boy" He opened the door to the room with his foot, approached the bed, gently threw Jisung onto it, and then showered him with kisses
He kissed his cheeks roughly and quickly, then along his jawline down to his neck. That was a sensitive and ticklish area for Han, so he began to toss and turn, sometimes moaning and sometimes laughing, trying to stop Minho's cuteness aggression toward him
"oh lord! hannie what am i going to do with you!" He said this eagerly as he pulled the boy's shirt off from underneath him To reveal a slender physique that is neither too thin nor too muscular; you can see some subtle abdominal muscles that will begin to show, and his hard pink nipples protruding seductively against his sculpted chest
And then, oh my God
that tattoo that ran along his rib and the other one that was carved along his collarbone with a special word
blessed
"i am the blessed one having you hannie" minho groand licking and kissing that tatto "that what those fucking clothes hiding under it" he started biting him gentely
Jisung was affected by the words and struck him directly on his neglected hard dick
"Stop this, Minho, please!" He started begging and began rubbing and pressing his cock that started hurting against the other's body
"greedy" Those were his last words before Minho ripped off his shirt, revealing a muscular body that would paralyze any gay man with just a glance.
His arms and chest were so buff, his stomach was not perfectly toned, but undeniably sexy.
Jisung couldn't stop his eyes from roaming over his body with lustful stares. eyefucking him
"you'll be the end of me, jisung" This time, he didn't utter his name gently or forced
Minho made a sound like pain, like longing, and then his mouth was on Jisung's throat, his collarbone, his chest. He worshipped Jisung with lips and teeth and tongue, mapping every inch of exposed skin with devastating thoroughness. His hands were everywhere—tracing the line of Jisung's ribs, circling his nipples until they peaked, stroking down his sides with feather-light touches that made Jisung shiver and gasp.
"Minho, Please. I need you."
"Patience," Minho whispered, his voice thick with desire. He pushed Jisung's hands away gently, pinning them above Jisung's head with one hand while the other continued its slow exploration. "Let me touch you. I've waited so long to touch you like this."
He took his time—too much time, Jisung thought deliriously—stripping them both efficiently but then refusing to rush. He kissed every newly exposed inch of skin, his mouth trailing down Jisung's stomach, his hip bones, the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He bypassed Jisung's arousal entirely, instead pressing reverent kisses to his knees, his calves, his ankles, before working his way back up with the same agonizing slowness.
"You're beautiful," Minho murmured against Jisung's hip, his breath hot. "So beautiful. Do you know how many times I've imagined you like this? Naked and open for me?"
"Minho, please," Jisung begged, his hips bucking helplessly, seeking friction, seeking more. "Stop teasing. I can't—I need—"
"I know," Minho soothed, finally—finally—wrapping his hand around Jisung's cock and giving a slow, torturous stroke. "I know what you need. Let me give it to you."
He reached for the lube on the nightstand with his free hand, pouring it onto his fingers without looking away from Jisung's face. He stroked Jisung slowly, maddeningly, while his other hand moved lower, teasing at Jisung's entrance with gentle, circling motions.
"Relax," Minho instructed, his voice soft, his eyes dark with desire. "Breathe for me."
Jisung tried to obey, tried to relax, but he was trembling with anticipation, with need, with the overwhelming reality of finally having Minho touch him this way. When Minho's finger pushed inside, the stretch was strange but not painful, and Minho took his time working him open
"Good?" Minho asked, his free hand still stroking Jisung with maddening patience.
"Yes," Jisung gasped, his head thrown back, his body arching into Minho's touch. "Yes, it's good. It's—Minho, I need more. I need you inside me. Please."
Minho's finger stilled inside him, and Jisung felt him shift, felt the weight of Minho's body covering his more completely, felt the blunt pressure of Minho's arousal against his thigh as Minho positioned himself between Jisung's legs.
"You're ready?" Minho asked, his voice strained, his forehead pressed against Jisung's shoulder. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Ready," Jisung confirmed, his hands gripping Minho's shoulders, his legs wrapping around Minho's waist to pull him closer. "Please, Minho. Now."
Minho pulled his fingers out slowly, making Jisung whimper at the loss, and reached for more lube, slicking himself with shaking hands. He positioned himself at Jisung's hole, the pressure building, the moment stretching taut with anticipation—
And then he stopped.
Jisung felt it immediately—the tension that suddenly flooded Minho's body, the way he went completely still above him, the sharp intake of breath.
"Minho?" Jisung asked, confusion cutting through his arousal. "What—why are you stopping?"
Minho pulled back, his expression shifting to something conflicted, almost pained. "Jisung-ah" he said carefully, his voice rough. "Have you—have you done this before? i mean you are incredibly tight and i just i don't know"
The question hung in the air, and Jisung felt his face flush. He wanted to lie, but he couldn't. "No," he admitted. "I've never—"
Minho stared at him for a long moment, his cock still heavy against his stomach, his body trembling. Then, slowly, he pulled back completely, moving away from Jisung until he was sitting at the edge of the bed.
"We can't," Minho said, his voice strained but gentle. "Not tonight."
Jisung blinked up at him, his hardness flagging as disbelief replaced desire. "What? Why?"
"You're a virgin," Minho said, running a hand through his hair. "I can't—I need to be able to control myself, go slow, make sure I don't hurt you. And right now, I don't trust myself to do that."
"So?" Jisung sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees, annoyance creeping into his voice. "You just stop? Just like that?"
"I have to," Minho said, turning to look at him with apologetic eyes. "I care about you too much to risk hurting you."
Jisung stared at him for a moment, then flopped back against the pillows with an exaggerated groan. "You're kidding me," he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. "You get me all worked up, you make me beg, and then you decide you're too noble to finish?"
Minho moved back up the bed, settling beside him. "I'm not leaving you like this," he said softly, his hand finding Jisung's stomach. "I just can't take you tonight. But I can make you feel good. Let me take care of you."
Jisung turned his head to look at Minho, considering. He was annoyed—genuinely annoyed—at being denied, at being treated like something fragile. But he also recognized that Minho wasn't going to budge on this.
"Fine," Jisung sighed, though he made sure to sound deeply put-upon. "But I'm not happy about it."
"I know," Minho said, his lips quirking. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jisung's forehead.
Minho moved down his body with renewed purpose, his hands and mouth working together to bring Jisung back to arousal. When he wrapped his hand around Jisung's dick and began to stroke with firm, sure movements, Jisung let his head fall back with a groan, his earlier annoyance momentarily forgotten under the onslaught of pleasure.
When Jisung came, it was with a shuddering breath, his release spilling over Minho's hand. Minho stroked him through it, then cleaned them both with a tissue from the nightstand.
But when Jisung reached for Minho afterward—wanting to return the favor—Minho caught his hand and shook his head.
"No," Minho said softly.
Jisung stared at him. "What? Why?"
"If you touch me, I won't be able to stop," Minho explained, adjusting himself with a grimace. "I'll need to be inside you."
"That's the point," Jisung pointed out, exasperated.
"Not tonight," Minho said firmly.
Jisung flopped back against the pillows with another groan, turning onto his side and pulling the covers up to his chin. "You're impossible," he muttered.
Minho laughed softly and climbed under the covers beside him, pulling Jisung against his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered against Jisung's hair.
"You're not sorry," Jisung grumbled, though he didn't pull away. "You're smug."
"I'm not smug," Minho protested, though there was amusement in his voice. "I'm careful."
"Same thing," Jisung muttered. He wiggled slightly, getting comfortable, making sure Minho knew he was still there, still hard, still suffering. "This is unfair."
"I know," Minho agreed, his arms tightening around Jisung. "But you'll thank me later."
"Unlikely," Jisung said, though he was already yawning, his body heavy with post-orgasmic exhaustion. "I'm going to sleep mad at you."
"Okay," Minho said, pressing a kiss to Jisung's shoulder.
"And I'm going to stay mad," Jisung added, his eyes already closing.
"Okay," Minho repeated, smiling against Jisung's skin and kissing his cheeks
"All night," Jisung mumbled, his voice fading.
"Sleep, brat," Minho whispered.
Jisung huffed one last time, but he didn't argue further. He let himself drift off to sleep, wrapped in Minho's arms, warm and safe and deeply, thoroughly annoyed.
Outside, the rain started to fall again . Inside, Minho held Jisung close and smiled at the ceiling, already planning how to make it up to him.
***
week later
The front door slammed with enough force to shake the frame, and Minho knew—knew—that Jisung had arrived in one of his moods.
"You're late," Minho called from the kitchen, keeping his voice even despite the way his heart had started hammering against his ribs the moment he'd heard the key in the lock.
"Fuck you," Jisung spat, storming into view with his cheeks flushed and his eyes glittering with that particular brand of fury Minho had become intimately familiar with over the past seven days. "I can come home whenever I want. It's not like you're waiting for me."
Home. They'd started calling it that, Minho's apartment becoming theirs in the week since they'd finally—finally—confessed everything they'd kept hidden
just because minho didn't want to ruin him or act wildly cause he had no experiences with virgines, That had been the beginning of the longest week of Minho's life.
"Where were you?" Minho asked now, watching Jisung kick off his shoes with aggressive precision.
"Out."
"With who?"
"Friends." Jisung's tone made it clear he had no intention of elaborating. He moved past Minho toward the bedroom, shoulders stiff, radiating hostility.
Minho followed, frustration mounting. "You've been 'out' every night this week. You come home at 3 AM smelling like smoke and cheap beer. You won't look at me. You won't talk to me. What the hell is going on, Jisung?"
Jisung whirled around in the bedroom doorway, eyes blazing. "What's going on? You're asking me what's going on?"
"Yes! Because I don't understand—one week ago you told me you loved me. One week ago you were in my bed, in my arms, and now you act like I'm a stranger. Like you hate me."
"I don't hate you," Jisung said, but his voice cracked on the words, betraying the lie. "I just... I thought this would be different. I thought finally being together meant we'd actually be together. But you're not interested in that, are you?"
Minho blinked, genuinely confused. "What are you talking about? Of course I'm interested—"
"You're not interested in me," Jisung accused, stepping forward with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Not the real me. You want some perfect version. Someone experienced. Someone who knows what they're doing in bed. Not some clumsy virgin who doesn't know how to—"
"Stop." Minho's voice came out sharper than intended, and Jisung flinched. "Is that what you think? That I stopped because you don't have experience?"
"What else am I supposed to think?" Jisung's eyes were shining with tears he was clearly fighting to hold back. "You touched me that night, you made me come, and then you wouldn't even let me touch you. You haven't kissed me properly since. You've been avoiding me. And I know—I know—you've been with other people. I know you have experience. So the only reason you wouldn't want me is because I'm not good enough. Because I'm—"
"Jisung." Minho stepped forward, gripping Jisung's shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Is that what you believe? That I've been avoiding you because I don't want you?"
"You won't fuck me," Jisung said bluntly, the crude word sounding strange in his mouth, making him look even younger than his eighteen years. "You found out I was a virgin and you stopped. You haven't tried since. You just... you go to work, you come home, you treat me like I'm fragile. And I know you're getting it somewhere else. I know you have—"
"Are you insane?" Minho's grip tightened, his composure cracking. "You think I've been fucking other people? This week? While you've been sleeping in my bed, while I've been going out of my mind wanting you?"
"You don't want me," Jisung insisted, but his voice was smaller now, uncertain. "If you wanted me, you would have—"
"I've been researching," Minho interrupted, the admission torn from him. "I've been reading articles, watching tutorials, talking to people I trust about how to do this right. How to make it good for you. How not to hurt you. I've been driving myself crazy learning everything I can about preparing a virgin because I want your first time to be perfect, Jisung. Because you deserve perfect. Not some clumsy fumbling because I can't control myself."
Jisung stared at him, mouth slightly open, tears finally spilling over. "You... you've been learning?"
"Every night," Minho admitted, his thumbs brushing the tears from Jisung's cheeks. "While you've been out punishing me for caring about you. I've been studying how to stretch you properly, how to find the right angle, how to make sure you enjoy it instead of just enduring it. Because the thought of hurting you—of making your first time anything less than amazing—makes me physically sick."
"Minho..."
"I haven't touched anyone else. I haven't wanted to. I've barely been able to function because all I can think about is you, naked and open under me, and how much I want to be inside you." Minho's voice dropped to a rough whisper. "Do you have any idea what it cost me to stop that night? To pull back when you were right there, willing, ready? I jerked you off because I couldn't stand to leave you aching, but I couldn't let you touch me because I knew—knew—that if I felt your hands on me, I wouldn't be able to stop. And you deserved better than that. You deserve someone who takes care with you."
Jisung was crying openly now, his earlier anger dissolving into something vulnerable and raw. "I thought... I thought you were disappointed. That you realized I wasn't what you wanted. That you were going to break up with me."
"Never." Minho pulled him close, wrapping his arms around Jisung's trembling body. "Never, my love. I've wanted you for years. Finding out you were a virgin didn't change that. It just made me more determined to do this right."
"I don't need perfect," Jisung mumbled against Minho's chest, his hands fisting in the fabric of Minho's shirt. "I just need you."
"You have me." Minho pressed a kiss to the top of Jisung's head. "You've always had me."
They stood like that for a long moment, the misunderstanding finally dissolving between them, the tension of the week beginning to unravel. But then Jisung shifted, tilting his head up to look at Minho, and there was something new in his eyes—something challenging, something deliberately provocative.
"So," Jisung said, his voice still thick with tears but taking on that familiar bratty tone Minho knew too well. "You've been studying, huh? Learning all sorts of things about how to fuck a virgin?"
Minho's breath caught at the crude language, at the way Jisung was looking at him now, all innocence and temptation. "Jisung..."
"Show me," Jisung challenged, stepping back just enough to pull his own shirt over his head, revealing honey skin and lean muscle. "Show me what you learned."
"You're upset. We should talk more, make sure—"
"I'm done talking," Jisung interrupted, reaching for his belt. "I've spent a week thinking you didn't want me. I need you to prove I was wrong."
He pushed his pants down, stepping out of them, and then he was naked in front of Minho, aroused and flushed and defiant. "Unless you still think I'm too fragile? Too inexperienced?"
Minho's gaze raked over him, his mouth going dry, his restraint—the careful control he'd maintained for seven agonizing days—beginning to crumble. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Yes I do." Jisung reached out, grabbing Minho's hand and pulling it to his own arousal, groaning as Minho's fingers wrapped around him instinctively. "I'm asking you to stop treating me like I'm breakable. I'm asking you to fuck me. Now. Tonight. Please, Minho."
"Fuck." The word escaped Minho's lips like a prayer, like a curse. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Probably," Jisung agreed, a wicked smile tugging at his lips despite the tear tracks on his cheeks. "But what a way to go."
Minho's control snapped.
He surged forward, capturing Jisung's mouth in a brutal kiss, all the pent-up desire of the past week pouring into the contact. Jisung whimpered, his hands flying to Minho's shirt and tearing at the buttons, desperate to get to skin. They stumbled toward the bed, shedding clothes between desperate kisses, until they collapsed onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs, Minho pressing Jisung into the sheets with his full weight.
"Tell me to stop," Minho panted against Jisung's throat, sucking dark marks into the pale skin. "Tell me if it's too much."
"Don't stop," Jisung gasped, arching up into Minho's touch. "Don't you dare stop."
Minho reached for the lube on the nightstand—the same bottle he'd placed there days ago, hoping, planning—and poured a generous amount onto his fingers. "Turn over," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "On your hands and knees. I want to see you open for me."
Jisung obeyed, scrambling to position himself, his body trembling with anticipation and nerves. Minho knelt behind him, one hand stroking soothingly down Jisung's spine while the other teased at his entrance with slick fingers.
"Breathe," Minho instructed, pressing a kiss to the small of Jisung's back. "Push out against me. I'll go slow, but I need you to relax."
"I've been relaxed all week," Jisung complained, looking back over his shoulder with a pout. "Just do it already. I'm not—"
He broke off with a gasp as Minho's finger pushed inside, the stretch burning slightly but not painfully. Minho took his time, working Jisung open with careful, deliberate movements, curling his finger to find the spot that made Jisung see stars, adding a second finger and then a third, until Jisung was a trembling, sobbing mess beneath him, begging for more.
"Please," Jisung chanted, his head hanging down between his shoulders, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up. "Minho, please, I need you. I need to feel you. I'm ready, I'm—"
"Look at me," Minho commanded, withdrawing his fingers and slicking his own cock with more lube "Look back at me while I take you. I want to see your face."
Jisung turned his head, his eyes glazed with tears and want, his lips swollen from Minho's kisses. "I'm yours," he whispered. "I've always been yours."
Minho groaned, positioning himself at Jisung's hole, and then he was pushing forward, sinking into tight, wet heat in one smooth, relentless thrust that buried him to the hilt. Jisung cried out, his back arching, his body tensing around Minho in a grip that was almost too much, almost overwhelming.
"Okay?" Minho managed, his voice strained, his hands gripping Jisung's hips hard enough to leave bruises.
"Don't stop," Jisung sobbed. "Please, don't stop."
Minho pulled back and thrust forward, setting a rhythm that was steady but firm, each stroke driving a cry from Jisung's lips. He angled his thrusts, searching for the spot that would make Jisung scream, and when he found it, Jisung's arms gave out, his chest collapsing to the mattress as he wailed Minho's name.
"There," Minho growled, gripping Jisung's shoulders for leverage, pounding into him with increasing force. "Right there, baby? Is that what you needed?"
"Yes, yes, yes—" Jisung could barely form words, overwhelmed by the sensation of being filled, of being claimed, of finally—finally—having Minho inside him the way he'd dreamed about
Minho reached around, wrapping his hand around Jisung's neglected cock and stroking in time with his thrusts. "Come for me," he ordered, his own control fraying at the edges. "I want to feel you come apart on my cock. Show me how much you wanted this."
Jisung's orgasm hit him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, his body clamping down on Minho as he spilled over Minho's hand with a scream that was Minho's name. The tightness, the pulsing heat, the knowledge that he'd done this, that he'd made Jisung feel this way—it was too much. Minho thrust deep one final time and came with a groan that sounded like surrender, filling Jisung with his release, marking him from the inside out.
They collapsed together, Minho carefully pulling out and gathering Jisung into his arms, arranging them on their sides with Jisung tucked against his chest. For long moments, neither spoke, both struggling to catch their breath, the room filled with the scent of sweat and sex and love.
"Okay?" Minho asked eventually, pressing kisses to Jisung's temple, his jaw, anywhere he could reach.
"Perfect," Jisung mumbled, his voice hoarse. "You were perfect."
"I hurt you."
"A little," Jisung admitted, shifting slightly and wincing. "But I liked it. I liked knowing you were inside me. That you finally... that you wanted me enough."
"I've always wanted you," Minho said fiercely, turning Jisung's face toward his and kissing him softly, deeply. "I will always want you. Experience or no experience. Virgin or not. You're mine, Jisung. You have been since the day we met."
"Yours," Jisung agreed, smiling against Minho's lips. "And you're mine."
"Always."
They lay in silence, tangled together, the misunderstandings of the past week finally laid to rest. Outside, the city hummed with life, but in this room, in this bed, there was only the two of them, two years of closness—five years apart, one week of official love, and a lifetime still stretching out before them.
"Round two?" Jisung asked eventually, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Minho laughed, the sound warm and full of promise. "Give me twenty minutes. And a shower. Then I'll show you everything else I learned this week."
"I can live with that," Jisung whispered, and let himself be pulled closer, already anticipating everything that lay ahead.
They had forever to explore it.