Work Text:
The hum of the engines was low and steady, like a lullaby working against the remnants of adrenaline in Minho’s veins. The show in Madrid had ended hours ago, but the crowd’s echo still throbbed faintly in his body. It is basically the next day. But still ears are ringing with crowd screamings. Normally, flights like these were quiet. Everyone collapsed into seats or into each other, heads pressed against windows or shoulders, the exhaustion thick enough to silence even Jisung’s restless tongue. But this time, Minho felt wide awake. Maybe it was the anticipation of London, maybe it was the strange intimacy of flying in the middle of the night with only the members around. Or maybe it was the weight pressed against his thigh.
Chan.
He hadn’t even noticed when Chan slid into the seat beside him. It is a private jet after all. At some point, he had simply been there, a blanket pulled over both their laps like some kind of shared secret. Minho didn’t move, though. He told himself it was easier that way, more comfortable, and not because Chan’s warmth seeped through denim and into his skin like a slow-burning fire.
They did this sometimes–slipped into each other’s space like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes it was innocent,brushing hands backstage, clinging a second too long in an encore hug. And sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes it was bodies pressed against a wall, mouths desperate, hands tugging clothes aside in the shadows of hotel rooms or backstage corridors. Friends with benefits, that’s what Chan had called it the first time, like it was the simplest arrangement in the world.
And Minho had agreed. He hadn’t wanted to, but how could he refuse when Chan looked at him like that? When every part of him had already belonged to Chan long before they’d ever touched? But lately it hasn’t been like that. Dates after dates. That's what Chan likes to call. Minho didn't want to get his hopes up.
So he played along. He kissed back, he undressed, he let Chan crawl into his bed after practice when no one was looking. And then he swallowed the ache that came after, the one that whispered I love you, I love you, I love you into the hollow of his chest. Because that wasn’t part of the deal.
The jet’s cabin lights had been dimmed. Felix and Hyunjin were curled against each other two rows up, Jisung sprawled on his side with his mouth open, Seungmin with his noise-canceling headphones on, scrolling half-distractedly through his phone. Jeongin was the only one who still fidgeted, flipping a pen between his fingers in restless loops as take notes in between watching whatever was playing on the tablet. He is probably going through lectures. For once, Minho was grateful for the distractions. It gave him cover for the way Chan’s hand inched under the blanket and brushed, deliberately, against his own.
“Cold?” Chan’s voice was low, a murmur meant only for him.
Minho turned his head, eyes catching on the slight smile tugging at Chan’s lips. He shrugged. “Not really.”
“Mm.” Chan’s hand didn’t move away. Instead, his fingers hooked lightly around Minho’s, not quite holding, not quite letting go. “Guess I’ll warm you up anyway.”
Minho rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the smallest twitch. “You sound like a bad drama script.”
Chan laughed softly, and the sound curled right in Minho’s chest. “Hey, if I were in a drama, you’d be the lead. I’d be the charming second male lead that everyone roots for. Except, you know, I’d win.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Minho muttered, but his heart tripped over itself at the way Chan said win like it meant something more. Like it meant you.
It didn’t mean that. It never meant that. Chan flirted with everyone. Compliments rolled off his tongue like a second language. It didn’t mean anything.
Still, under the safety of the blanket, Minho let their fingers tangle properly.
The silence stretched, comfortable, filled with the engine’s thrum and the faint rustle of Felix shifting in his seat ahead. Then, Chan leaned closer, shoulder brushing Minho’s, lips grazing the shell of his ear as he whispered, “You know what I’m gonna do tomorrow?”
Minho tilted his head slightly. “Sleep?”
Chan chuckled. “That too. But after that, I’m gonna take you out.”
Minho blinked at him, startled. “Out?”
“Yeah,” Chan said easily, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “London. A date. Just you and me.”
The word ‘date’ cracked like static in Minho’s brain as always. He swallowed hard and forced his face into neutrality. “You said you need to finish up some work to manager hyung?”
“Well. So they won't bother our dinner date.”
Minho’s chest tightened, but he pressed it down. Chan didn’t mean it that way. He never did. Probably just one of those throwaway lines, sweet enough to make Minho’s stomach flip and cruel enough in its casualness. He nodded, pretending it was normal, pretending he didn’t ache at the thought.
“Okay,” he said simply.
Chan smiled, slow and satisfied, as if Minho had agreed to something monumental. His thumb rubbed once over Minho’s knuckle. “Good.”
It should’ve ended there, but Chan was dangerous when the world was quiet. He shifted closer, the blanket rustling softly as he leaned in until their shoulders pressed fully together. His lips hovered a breath away, waiting, asking without words.
Minho shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But the cabin was dark, everyone half-asleep, and Chan was looking at him like he held the only answer that mattered. Minho let himself tip forward, just enough for their mouths to meet.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like kids stealing something they weren’t supposed to touch. Chan’s lips brushed once, then again, lingering longer the second time, and Minho’s chest clenched at the gentleness of it. He hadn’t realized how starved he was for this kind of closeness, the kind that wasn’t about rushed touches or desperate need, but about savoring.
Friends didn’t kiss like this.
But Minho wasn’t brave enough to name what they really were, so he let the line blur. He kissed back anyway, because even if it wasn’t what he wanted it to be, it was still Chan.
Chan deepened the kiss, still careful, still patient, until Minho’s breath hitched and he gave in, parting his lips just enough to let Chan taste him. Their blanket shifted, fabric rustling as Chan’s hand slid to rest against Minho’s thigh, warm and grounding.
Minho’s mind raced. This wasn’t just a kiss, not the way Chan did it. It felt deliberate, meaningful, threaded with promises he couldn’t quite believe. He wanted it to mean love. He wanted it to mean mine.
But he knew better.
When they finally broke apart, Minho pressed his forehead to Chan’s shoulder, eyes closed against the sharp sting of longing. Chan’s hand rubbed slow circles on his thigh, like he knew, like he understood what Minho couldn’t say.
“Tomorrow,” Chan whispered, lips brushing Minho’s hairline, “I’ll pick a place with good food. You said you want some Korean food, right?”
Minho huffed a quiet laugh against his shirt. “How do you even remember that?”
“It’s something you said,” Chan said simply. And somehow, that was worse.
Before Minho could reply, a quiet voice interrupted from the row ahead. “Hyungs,” Felix mumbled, his tone thick with sleep. He turned around, eyes heavy-lidded but insistent. “Cuddles.”
Minho froze.
Chan’s hand left his thigh to tug the blanket higher, as if they hadn’t just been kissing like teenagers sneaking around. “Come here, Lixie,” he said warmly.
Felix shuffled back, climbing into their seat with practiced ease, pressing himself between them until his head landed on Minho’s shoulder and Chan hands around Felix’s waist. The blanket shifted to cover all three of them.
Minho forced himself to relax, one hand coming up to rest lightly on Felix’s back. His heart, though, refused to calm. It raced with the remnants of Chan’s lips and Chan’s promises, and the way his chest had clenched at the word date.
Felix yawned, already half-asleep again, murmuring something about “best hyungs.” Minho stared at the ceiling of the jet, the hum of the engine filling the space where his words should’ve been.
Beside him, Chan’s hand found his hand again under the blanket, squeezing once, firm and reassuring. Minho squeezed back before he could think better of it.
He told himself it was just comfort. Just a habit. Just Chan being Chan.
But the echo of the kiss lingered like a bruise, tender and undeniable. And somewhere deep down, in a place he never let surface, Minho admitted the truth: he was already in love with him.
—
The afterparty was still buzzing faintly in Minho’s skin long after they’d left the local restaurant. Rome at night had wrapped around them like a living postcard–golden streetlamps casting warm shadows on cobblestones, the faint scent of espresso and cigarette smoke trailing from cafés, laughter spilling out of doorways. Their whole crew had crowded into a local spot, one of those late-night restaurants where the chairs wobbled on uneven tiles and the waiters smiled like they’d seen thousands of celebrations just like theirs.
It had been small, loud, full of clinking glasses and endless toasts. Felix had climbed onto a chair to cheer, Jisung had given a speech of appropriation into a fork like it was a microphone, and Chan had sat beside Minho for nearly the entire night, thigh pressed warm against his, checking in every so often like Minho might slip away if he wasn’t tethered.
By the time they stumbled back to the hotel, it was past two in the morning. Minho’s body ached with the exhaustion of weeks of performing, but his chest was heavier with something else–the dinner in London a few nights ago.
Chan had kept his word. He had chosen a quiet Korean place tucked into a side street, laughter on every table, soft music humming in the background. Just the two of them. Not the group, not managers, not staff. Only them. Chan had smiled the entire night, leaning forward when Minho spoke, ordering dishes he knew Minho liked, brushing his hand across Minho’s wrist as if it was the most natural thing.
Minho had laughed, he had let himself enjoy it, but beneath every smile there had been fear. Because it had felt too real. Too close to what he wanted but could never name. Just like every ‘date’ they have been.
He was still thinking about that dinner when he pushed open his hotel room door. The suite was dark and sterile, smelling faintly of soap. He stripped, stood under the shower until the water scalded his skin, until he thought maybe the pounding could wash out the longing tucked between his ribs. It didn’t. He didn't even feel like working out.
And when he stepped out, towel slung around his neck, his phone buzzed with Chan’s messages.
Channie Hyung:
Come over.
Please, baby.
I don’t wanna sleep alone tonight.
Begging. Always begging in the sweetest way. And Minho, fool that he was, never said no.
He dressed simply–sweats, a loose t-shirt–and walked down the carpeted hall to Chan’s room. He knocked softly before keying himself in.
What he expected was the usual, Chan sprawled on the bed, hair damp, maybe grinning in that boyish way that made Minho weak. What he found instead froze him in the doorway.
The room glowed warmly under the dim lamps. On the bed, a bouquet of flowers lay carefully arranged, tied with ribbon, a note tucked into the stems ‘To, LMH’.
At the foot of the bed sat a bucket of savory snacks–chips, crackers, a few of the exact flavored packs Minho always gravitated toward at convenience stores. A small bottle of whiskey perched beside it, the one brand Minho always reached for when he wanted something strong but comforting.
The TV was on, Netflix paused at the menu screen. And everything–every detail–was screaming at him.
Minho’s breath caught in his throat.
The bathroom door opened then, steam spilling out, and Chan stepped into the room with damp hair clinging to his forehead, a towel slung low around his hips. His smile was shy, almost nervous.
“Hi,” he said, like this was casual. Like Minho hadn’t just walked into a scene crafted with ridiculous care. “Wanted to surprise you.”
Minho stared, throat tight, unable to shape words around the lump forming there. His hands curled at his sides, because if he didn’t hold himself together, he might break apart right here.
“Hyung-ah,” he managed, voice rougher than he wanted.
Chan crossed the space easily, as if he didn’t see how fragile Minho felt, as if none of this was too much. He touched Minho’s cheek briefly, thumb brushing over his jaw. “Did you think I wanted something else, baby?”
The endearment curled hot in Minho’s stomach. He nodded mutely, because wasn’t that what this always was? Their arrangement, their secret? Skin and kisses and bodies pressed together until the feelings got too loud?
Chan tilted his head, smiling in that gentle, devastating way of his. “I wanted you to have a movie night with me.”
Something cracked open in Minho’s chest. It was too much. The flowers, the snacks, the whiskey, the softness in Chan’s eyes. Too much for something that was supposed to be simple. He wanted to say Why? Why are you doing this? Why are you treating me like I’m more than what I am to you? But the words stuck.
Instead, he let Chan pull him further inside and close the door behind him.
They kissed first. Because they always did, because it was easy and safe, the one language Minho knew how to speak with Chan. Chan tasted faintly of mint and soap, lips damp, his hand cupping the back of Minho’s neck like he was something breakable. Minho kissed back with desperation he tried to swallow down, tried not to let it spill into his movements, but Chan always had a way of pulling the truth out of him.
When they broke apart, Chan grinned softly and tugged him toward the bed. Made Minho sit down first before grabbing a pair of shorts and black tank top. Once Chan dressed they sat together, cross-legged at first, pulling snacks from the bucket, opening bags with the careless comfort of two people who knew each other too well. Minho poured whiskey into small glasses, their shoulders brushing every time they moved.
Netflix played in the background, some movie they barely paid attention to. But Minho couldn’t stop watching Chan–the way his hair still dripped slightly against his temples, the way he laughed at lines that weren’t even that funny, the way he reached absentmindedly for Minho’s hand as if it belonged there.
Every brush of fingers, every kiss stolen during the slow parts of the movie, carved Minho open further. Chan treated him so preciously, like he was fragile glass to be handled with reverence, not just someone to fall into bed with. And it terrified him. Because Minho wanted to believe it meant something, wanted to believe he was more than convenience, more than comfort, more than body heat at the end of a long tour day.
They finished half of the snack bucket and quarter of the whiskey bottle. Then they washed hands together before brushing their teeth yet again. Chan always carries extra tooth brushes around.
This time they fully laid on crumbs free bed. Cuddling under sheets.When Chan leaned in again, pressing a lazy kiss against the corner of his mouth, Minho let it linger, let himself lean into the touch. His hand slid into Chan’s hair, damp strands curling between his fingers. He kissed him deeper, slower, until the whiskey burned less in his throat and more in his chest.
“My baby,” Chan murmured when they broke apart, foreheads pressed together, “you’re everything I wanted tonight.”
Minho’s breath stuttered. He wanted to ask, And tomorrow? And the day after? And now the tour’s over? But he didn’t. He couldn’t risk it. Instead, he let Chan’s words settle into him like borrowed warmth, temporary but addictive.
They stayed like that through the movie, stealing kisses until their lips tingled, until their bodies relaxed into one another. Chan held him the way no one else ever did, arm around his waist, lips brushing the top of his head, whispering quiet nonsense that Minho tried not to believe in.
It was almost three in the morning when Minho realized he wasn’t scared of the city outside, or the exhaustion, or even the future. He was scared of this–of how deeply he loved Chan, of how easily Chan could destroy him just by being kind.
And yet, as he drifted in the warmth of Chan’s embrace, he knew he would never walk away.
—
The first thing Minho felt was warmth. Not the kind from sunlight, though the blinds were cracked just enough for pale morning light to spill across the bed. This warmth was softer, more alive, pressed against his side and trailing slow kisses across his skin.
For a moment, he floated between sleep and wakefulness, too heavy-limbed to move, too comfortable to open his eyes. The faint brush of lips against his chest, his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone–it was enough to pull him toward consciousness.
He groaned, eyes still shut, hand fumbling lazily until it landed in long hair. He patted them gently, fingers brushing through as if he were calming a pet rather than a man sprawled half on top of him.
A quiet giggle answered him, warm breath tickling his skin. “You’re awake.”
Minho cracked one eye open and was greeted with the sight of Chan’s grin, wide and boyish, hair sticking in every direction like he’d just rolled out of bed–which he had. Minho wanted to groan again, not from annoyance but from the aching sweetness of it. How was he supposed to survive mornings like this?
They had slept together last night. Properly. Not the hurried, muffled kind of encounters they sometimes stole when schedules were heavy and walls too thin, but with the entire apartment theirs. They came back from Europe a few days ago. Jisung had gone to his parents’ house for two days, leaving them privacy they rarely had.
And Chan had taken full advantage.
The memory rushed back in vivid fragments, the press of hands against his hips, the way Chan had whispered sweet nothing into his ear until his body burned, the way Minho had buried his face in the pillows when the pleasure grew too much to contain. He could still feel the dull ache in his back, the faint sting of teeth on his neck, lips swollen from how much Chan had kissed him.
He should’ve felt only tired, but instead, he felt undone. Fragile in a way he hated admitting.
Chan leaned forward again, pressing another kiss just under his jaw, then pulling back with another small laugh. “You look so good.”
“Shut up, You already got me in bed.” Minho muttered, voice raspy from sleep. His fingers curled tighter in Chan’s long hair anyway, tugging lightly.
“Ow.” Chan scrunched his nose, but he didn’t move away. He tilted his head so Minho’s hand stayed nestled in his hair. “Mean.”
“You like it,” Minho shot back, lips twitching before he could stop them.
The truth was, he did too. He liked this version of Chan, unguarded and clingy, acting like Minho was the best thing he’d ever woken up to. But he also hated it, because it made something dangerous bloom in his chest–something too close to hope.
Chan leaned up, nudging his nose against Minho’s cheek until he turned his head, and then their mouths met. It was a lazy kiss, soft and slow, tasting of morning and sleep. Minho hummed against it, unable to help himself, and Chan giggled again when he pulled back.
“Good morning,” Chan whispered.
“Morning,” Minho replied, quieter, because if he spoke too loud, the weight in his chest might spill out.
They kissed again. And again. Giggles muffled into each other’s mouths, the kind of ridiculous sweetness Minho would’ve teased Chan about if it weren’t for the way it made him ache.
Finally, Minho broke away with a sigh, resting his head back against the pillow. “I’m hungry.”
“I know,” Chan said smugly. He shifted until he was half sitting, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “Already ordered breakfast. It’ll be here in like twenty minutes.”
Minho blinked at him. “You what?”
“I know you,” Chan said simply, like that explained everything. “You always wake up starving after a night like that.”
Heat crept up Minho’s neck, but he hid it by turning onto his side, tugging the blanket higher. “You’re so–” He cut himself off before the word dangerous could slip out.
Chan tilted his head curiously. “So what?”
“Stupid.”
Chan only smirked, clearly unconvinced.
They kissed again while they waited–because apparently that was all they did anymore, and Minho hated how much he loved it. He lost track of how long they stayed like that, lips brushing, tongues teasing, sometimes laughing so hard into each other’s mouths that they had to break apart to breathe.
It was stupid. It was perfect. It was killing him.
Because it wasn’t just kissing to him. It wasn’t just sex last night. It wasn’t just comfort. It was everything. Every touch, every laugh, every soft look Chan gave him was another reminder that Minho was already in too deep. He couldn’t be casual about this, no matter how much he told himself he could.
When the kisses slowed again, Chan tucked himself back against Minho’s side, head pillowed on his chest. “What are you doing today?”
“Going home this evening,” Minho murmured, hand absently stroking along Chan’s arm.
“To see babies?”
“hmm. I missed them”
“Can I see your cats too?”
The question was so earnest that Minho startled. He glanced down, finding Chan looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
“Wanna come with me?” Minho asked before he could stop himself.
“Yes please!” Chan’s grin broke wide, lighting up the room more than the sun ever could.
“I will tell mom. You’re leaving your laptop at home.”
“Aye aye! Captain!”
Minho’s chest constricted. He hadn’t meant to ask. He hadn’t meant to invite Chan into the one space he guarded most fiercely, the part of his life he didn’t share lightly. His parents and cats were his softest secret, the family he always returned to. The fact that Chan wanted to be part of that–wanted to see them, to step into his world–made Minho’s stomach flip.
It also terrified him.
Because if Chan kept treating him like this–like he mattered, like he was precious, like he wasn’t just a convenient arrangement–Minho didn’t know how much longer he could pretend he wasn’t in love.
He kissed Chan again to hide the trembling thought. Kissed him until breakfast arrived, until they were forced to sit up and untangle. Kissed him because it was the only way he knew to silence the crisis unraveling inside him.
And Chan kissed him back like he’d never want to stop.
—
The rooftop wasn’t exactly peaceful, but it was still freedom compared to the practice room’s suffocating walls. Minho breathed in the air deeply, even if it was tinged with city dust and faint exhaust. His chest rose, fell, rose again, and he let himself relax into the quiet patch of the rooftop garden. Leaves rustled faintly beside him, a barrier from the railing, and he was glad for it. He didn’t like heights. Didn’t like looking down at all those cars weaving through Seoul traffic like restless blood cells in clogged veins. He preferred the safety of keeping his eyes fixed on something level, something manageable–like the greenery here, or the soft ripples of sky between clouds.
He shut his eyes and listened. The city roared beneath them, muted and heavy, but still alive. Somewhere close, he could hear Jisung’s laughter spilling bright and careless, paired with the crackle of a lighter as Jeongin pretended to light up another peppero stick as they were smoking. Their banter rose and fell, familiar and easy. Farther away, the door thudded as it swung open and shut with others coming and going. Minho knew Felix and Seungmin had gone down for snacks, and Changbin and Hyunjin were racing to the washroom. They had all scattered the moment Chan asked the staff for a break after filming a few different interviews for hours. Minho hadn’t hesitated to slip out here alone. He needed the breath. He needed the space.
What he didn’t expect was the sudden chill pressing against his cheek.
Minho startled, eyes flying open. Chan was crouched in front of him, grinning like he’d caught Minho red-handed doing something scandalous. “Ice americano,” Chan announced proudly, holding out the condensation-damp cup. “Bought coffee for all the kids.” He took a sip from his own milk shake.
Minho’s heart jumped, but he only accepted the drink, muttering a soft, “Thanks.” He took a long gulp, letting the bitter chill flood down his throat and settle in his chest. Relief. Refreshment. But not enough to quiet the way his pulse hammered just because Chan had smirked at him like that, because Chan’s presence always made it harder to breathe in any kind of air, rooftop or not.
Chan lowered himself beside him, their shoulders almost brushing but not quite. For a while, silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but weighted, humming. Minho could feel the warmth radiating from him, hear the faint way Chan’s breath hitched when sipping his drink. That nearness tugged at something deep inside Minho, something restless and dangerous.
He told himself not to. Not here, not now. But the truth burned too hot in his chest. He’d been holding it back for too long–this overwhelming ache that curled in his ribs whenever Chan was near.
So Minho turned, almost on instinct, then grabbed Chan’s jaw and kissed him.
It was sudden, desperate, a press of lips that trembled with too much feeling. Chan froze for a second before melting into it, as if he’d been waiting, as if he’d wanted this just as badly. Their mouths moved together slowly at first, tentative, then greedier. Minho’s hand slid up to Chan’s nape, tangling in his curls that stylist worked harder, pulling him closer, closer. The taste of chocolate milkshake and something sweet lingered on Chan’s lips, dizzying Minho more than any rooftop view ever could.
He kissed Chan because he loved him. Because the feeling had been growing and gnawing at him, and in that moment it burst out of him, unstoppable. He didn’t think about the others scattered around, didn’t think about where they were. He only thought about Chan–his warmth, his laugh, his smile, his everything–and how much Minho wanted to drown in it.
The kiss deepened. Chan’s hand pressed to Minho’s waist, tugging him closer, and Minho let out a soft sound against his lips. For a brief, fragile moment, it felt like the world had narrowed into just them, wrapped in something secret and precious.
And then–
A throat cleared loudly.
Minho jerked back, chest heaving, lips swollen. He turned, already knowing.
Jeongin stood there, arms folded, gaze sharp but not unkind. Behind him, Jisung lingered with wide, guilty eyes, looking like he’d rather disappear into the rooftop tiles.
“I get that whatever you two do is whatever you want,” Jeongin began, voice clipped, steady. “But not here. Even if outsiders aren’t allowed up here, most of the staff still come.” His eyes flicked between them, not judgmental exactly, but firm. Like an older brother calling out mischief he didn’t want to deal with later.
Minho’s stomach twisted. Embarrassment prickled hot across his skin, but worse than that was the sudden plunge of sadness. His heart sank. The spell was broken. What had felt like a confession carved out in silence now felt reckless. Careless.
Behind Jeongin, Jisung blurted out, voice nervous and rushed, “We kinda blocked manager-hyung, so we need to go back. I’ll give you five minutes to–uh, get it together.” His eyes darted to Chan, then to Minho, then away again like he’d seen too much.
“Listen, I know both of you want each other so much. We can see it. But please hyung!” Jeongin gave one final glance towards to them.
The two of them disappeared quickly after that, leaving Minho staring at the rooftop garden, unable to meet Chan’s eyes.
Sadness pooled heavily in his chest. He’d kissed Chan because he couldn’t help it, because the love was too much to contain anymore. But the interruption had snapped him back into reality, reminded him of where they were, of how dangerous this was. What if someone else had seen it? What if it spread? What if this ruined everything—not just for them, but for the group, for all of them?
His lips still tingled, and his chest still ached. He wanted to lean into Chan again, wanted to kiss him until all the sadness dissolved, but he couldn’t. Not here. Not now.
Minho swallowed hard and finally glanced sideways. Chan was looking at him, something soft and steady in his gaze, like he hadn’t heard Jeongin at all. Like he didn’t care. But Minho cared. Minho always cared too much. He wanted Chan openly, wanted him without secrets, but instead all he had was this rooftop kiss cut short, this half-swallowed love.
And it hurts. God, it hurts.
He forced a small smile, lifted his cup of coffee, and took another sip, though the taste had gone flat. The city hummed below them, louder now. Somewhere inside, he wanted to cry–not because of embarrassment, but because for a fleeting moment he had felt so much love that it had burst out of him, only to be pushed back into silence.
Beside him, Chan shifted, brushing their shoulders together lightly, reassuring. Minho didn’t dare lean back.
He couldn’t. Not yet.
Then a soft hand on the back of his neck that guided him into another kiss. A short Kiss. Just lips. Another one on Minho’s forehead.
“Let’s go inside. Let’s talk later.”
“Okay, Hyung”
But his heart whispered traitorously: I love you, I love you, I love you.
—
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Minho paused at the door, hand frozen on the handle, taking in the faint scent of Chan’s place–the subtle vanilla from the candle on the shelf, the lingering aroma of coffee, the crispness of freshly laundered sheets. It should’ve felt ordinary, like any other visit, but Minho’s chest was tight, his pulse already hammering in anticipation.
Two weeks. Two weeks had passed since the rooftop. Since the stolen kiss that had burned through him and left him aching. He hadn’t kissed Chan after that. Not really. He’d avoided him, sidestepped his presence whenever he could, convinced himself it was better. But every day, every rehearsal, every quiet moment in the practice room, had only made the thirst grow more insistent.
It was like living with a fire in his chest that no amount of practice or vocal drills or lessons could quench. And now, with Jeongin in vocal lessons and the apartment unoccupied except for Chan, Minho felt like he might combust if he didn’t act. Jeongin had simply texted that he was out of the house.
He stepped inside softly, shoes left at the door. Then Chan’s room smelled faintly of Chan’s cologne, clean and woody, and the sight of him–hunched over the desk, typing, headphones slung around his neck–sent a spike of longing straight through Minho’s ribs. Chan hadn’t noticed him yet.
Minho swallowed the lump in his throat. Heart hammering, palms damp. He moved forward, breath catching as he stepped close enough to brush against Chan’s chair. Without thinking, he tugged at the chair and slid onto Chan’s lap, legs folding against him. The sudden weight, the warmth, the closeness–it stole the air from his lungs.
“Jesus chris–Minho?”
“Hyung” Minho’s voice was barely audible, soft and trembling. He didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned forward and kissed him, slow and desperate, like he was trying to draw out every second of the longing that had built up inside him. Chan froze for a heartbeat, hands gripping Minho’s hips, before responding, tilting his head and deepening the kiss.
It didn’t take long before the quiet urgency took over. Chan’s hands moved with the same intensity Minho felt pressing through him–gripping, tugging, desperate, as if they were racing against some invisible clock. Minho’s lips found every inch of Chan’s jaw, his neck, nipping lightly, soft groans spilling into the space between them.
Minutes later, they were on the bed. Clothes were discarded quickly, not tenderly, but urgently. Every movement was heated, rough with the pent-up need that neither of them had been able to admit in words. Minho’s chest heaved as he pressed into Chan, feeling the friction, the sweat, the heat, and for the first time in weeks, he didn’t hold back.
Chan moved over him, over and over, rough, quick, like they were trying to compress hours of longing into moments. The bed squeaked, sheets twisted beneath them, and Minho clung to Chan as if letting go even slightly would shatter him. He buried his face into Chan’s shoulder, biting down on skin to stifle sounds, though his cries and gasps were unavoidable.
When it was over, Minho didn’t move. He didn’t reach for clothes. The world felt raw and hollow around him. Every nerve ending burned, every part of him ached not just from their bodies entwined but from the emptiness that followed the release. He knew himself well enough to understand that if he stayed longer, the tears would come. And he didn’t have control over them.
He started quietly gathering clothes, hands trembling, head bowed.
Chan, however, was having none of it. He pressed Minho back onto the bed, making him sit on bed, hands gently now, soft but insistent. “No,” he said firmly, voice low. “Sit down. Drink this.”
He handed Minho a water bottle, and Minho’s fingers shook as he took it, gulping desperately, as if trying to drink away the ache in his chest. Chan moved silently, efficiently, grabbing wet tissues and cleaning them both, moving with care and tenderness. Every swipe of the tissue, every brush of fingers against his skin, made Minho’s control unravel further. Chan then sat down next to Minho and took a few sips from the same water bottle before placing it on the nightstand.
And then the dam broke.
Minho’s tears fell freely, silent sobs at first, then loud and ragged, shaking his body. The sound echoed softly against the walls of the bedroom, and Chan didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned close, wrapping arms around him, whispering nonsense, murmurs, shushing words that Minho could barely hear. He cried into Chan’s shoulder, his tears soaking into the sheets, into Chan’s bare skin, into every part of him that felt fragile and raw.
Chan cried too. Quietly at first, then with the same desperate vulnerability as Minho. He got up at some point, grabbed two boxers from the closet, fumbling as he dressed, but never looking away from Minho. Then helped Minho to get into other one. Every so often, he pressed a kiss to Minho’s temple, to his cheek, murmured, “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here.”
Minho shook, body wracked with sobs, head buried into the crook of Chan’s neck. He hated himself a little for his helplessness, for needing someone like this, for letting his emotions spill out so recklessly. But he couldn’t stop. And he didn’t want to stop. Not yet.
Chan guided him slowly, carefully, helping him lay on bed, still cradling him, still murmuring comforting words. Minho let himself lean against him, tears falling freely, relief and sorrow tangled together in every wet drop. He didn’t apologize, didn’t explain. There was no need. Chan understood. Chan had always understood.
Even after everything, Minho felt the same ache that had brought him here: longing, desperation, a raw need that words couldn’t touch. But tonight, at least, he wasn’t alone in it. Tonight, he could cry, and be held, and feel the fierce, wordless intimacy of someone who saw him–all of him–and didn’t turn away.
When the sobs subsided, Minho lay there, still trembling, curled against Chan, head resting on his chest. Chan stroked his hair, fingers threading through damp strands, whispering fragments of reassurance that didn’t try to define their relationship. They didn’t confess their love tonight. They didn’t label the aching, desperate, beautiful mess of need and closeness.
Minho closed his eyes, feeling his heartbeat slow, feeling the weight of Chan’s body against his, feeling something like safety. The ache hadn’t gone away–it never would completely–but at least tonight, for a few precious hours, he was allowed to feel it without shame.
And that, for now, was enough.
—
Minho almost collapsed onto his bed, body sinking into the mattress with exhaustion. His muscles screamed from hours of dance practice and his eyelids felt like they were lined with lead. He wanted nothing more than sleep–deep, empty sleep that would silence his brain for a few hours.
But the knock on his door shattered that fragile hope.
At first, he froze, heart jerking in his chest like a trapped animal. The timing–it had to be him. Chan. Of course it would be Chan. Who else would come looking for him this late? Minho squeezed his eyes shut and prayed, desperately, childishly, please not him, not tonight.
When he opened the door, it wasn’t Chan.
It was Seungmin, holding a water bottle in one hand, his sharp eyes scanning Minho’s face with something like concern. “Can I come in?”
“Oh? Did you come to drop off Jisung?”
Minho blinked, disoriented, before nodding wordlessly. Seungmin slipped inside, shutting the door softly behind him.
“Yes. I wanted to see you too.”
“Oh?”
The silence stretched. Seungmin leaned against the desk, arms crossed, gaze pinned to him like he was trying to peel back layers Minho didn’t want exposed.
Then he asked quietly, “Hyung, what happened with Chan hyung?”
Minho’s throat closed up. His brain stuttered. What happened with Chan? The words pressed at all the places he had been trying so hard not to touch. He managed a confused, hollow laugh. “What do you mean? What happened with him?”
Seungmin’s frown deepened. “He’s been in a really bad mood. Today, while we were recording some demo, he snapped at Jisung. Like, he lost his patience. Then he apologized right after, but–” Seungmin shook his head. “He wasn’t himself. It’s like he’s carrying something heavy, and it’s eating him alive.”
A cold wave slid down Minho’s spine. His chest tightened painfully. “And why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s about you.”
Minho’s breath hitched. “What?”
Seungmin looked at him, unflinching. “Because you’re his boyfriend. And if he’s falling apart and being like that, it’s probably because of whatever’s going on between you two. Of course I noticed how you avoid him.”
The words didn’t register at first. They floated in the air, incomprehensible, like a foreign language. Minho stared, shaking his head slowly. “His what? Boyfriend?” He let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “What are you talking about? We’re not–no. We’re not that.”
Seungmin tilted his head, unimpressed. “Hyung. You’ve been with him for months. Chan hyung literally calls you his boyfriend to his friends. He talks about you like you’re–”
Minho felt the floor tilt under him. “No,” he whispered. “No, we’re not. Seungmin, we’re just–We just fuck, okay? Because it’s easier that way. No strings. No, whatever this is.” His voice cracked on the last word, brittle and sharp, like glass about to shatter.
The younger groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Are you serious? Are you actually that dumb?” His voice was sharper now, frustration bleeding through. “Hyung. I’ve walked in on you two enough times back when we lived together. The way he looks at you, the way you look at him–you think that’s just sex? Omg. You two are so dumb.”
But Minho wasn’t even listening anymore. His ears rang, his chest aching with a hollow kind of grief. The truth slammed into him all at once, unbearable. ‘He calls me his boyfriend.’
Chan had called him that. To other people. Like it was a fact. Like it was real. Like what they had wasn’t this twisted, desperate arrangement Minho had convinced himself it was.
And Minho hadn’t noticed.
“Minho hyung, I think Chan hyung didn't even realize that you don't know that you two are dating!”
“Seungmin–We are not!”
He had been so busy building walls around his own feelings, so terrified of what it would mean to admit how badly he wanted Chan, how much he already loved him, that he had missed it entirely. The whole time, Chan had been, what? Hoping? Believing? Waiting for him to catch up?
Minho felt sick. His hands trembled where they curled into the sheets. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity, to cry until his lungs collapsed, to run straight into Chan’s arms and beg for forgiveness–all at once.
Instead, he sat frozen, throat burning. His voice came out raw, unsteady. “…I didn’t know we were dating. Oh my god!”
Seungmin’s expression softened, just slightly. “Maybe you should start paying attention, hyung.”
And then he left, quiet footsteps fading down the hall.
Minho stayed in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, heart tearing itself apart in his chest. Boyfriend. The word echoed, merciless, every repetition a knife twisting deeper. He wanted it–God, he wanted it so badly it hurt–but he hadn’t let himself see it. And now, now that he finally realized. it might already be too late.
He pressed his fist to his mouth, biting down to stifle the sob that threatened to break free.
Because if Chan had been calling him his boyfriend all this time then Minho had been breaking his heart without even realizing it.
—
The hotel room was too quiet. Minho sat on the edge of the bed, elbows pressed against his knees, phone face down on the nightstand because he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. He’d sent the text almost an hour ago, “Silla Hotel, Room 801. Come if you want.” Nothing else. No explanation, no apology, no begging. Just that. And now he was torturing himself by replaying it in his head, wondering if Chan would even bother.
Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Minho had already pushed him too far.
The knock came when Minho’s chest had just started to cave under that thought. Firm, familiar, dragging every ounce of air out of his lungs. His legs nearly gave out when he stood, palms sweaty as he pulled the door open.
Chan was there, cap pulled low, hoodie loose over his shoulders, but nothing could hide the storm in his eyes. Not anger, exactly–but something brittle, sharp-edged, the kind of expression Chan wore only when he was holding back too much.
“You texted,” Chan said, his voice clipped.
Minho stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them into the muted gold light of the hotel lamps, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down between them.
Chan didn’t sit. He crossed his arms and stayed by the door. “So what’s this? Another round of avoiding me for three days, then calling me like nothing happened?” His voice cracked at the edges, rougher than Minho had heard in months. “Do you enjoy doing this to me, Minho? Because if you do, just say it.”
Minho flinched, heart lurching painfully. “No. God, no. That’s not–” His throat closed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, tugging hard, as if the sting in his scalp could force the words out. “I just– I didn’t know how to face you. After that night, after crying all over you like–like some broken idiot–”
“You’re not an idiot,” Chan cut in, though his tone was still guarded.
Minho shook his head. “I thought, we were just friends with benefits, Chan. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? That’s what I thought. That’s how we started. But then Seungmin came to me saying you called me your boyfriend, that you’ve been telling your friends we were dating, and I–” His voice cracked, and suddenly all the emotions he’d been burying since the rooftop, since Chan’s bed, since every stolen kiss–they all poured out at once. “I didn’t even realize. I didn’t realize you saw me like that. I didn’t realize I already had what I’ve been wanting this whole time.”
Chan’s arms dropped to his sides, hands flexing helplessly. His face softened, but his jaw stayed tense, like he was fighting something. “You think I’d just sleep with you like it meant nothing?” His voice was quiet, but the weight of it hit Minho harder than if he had shouted. “You think I could kiss you like that, hold you like that, and not mean it?”
Minho’s lips trembled. “But you never said anything. You never told me we were–” He faltered. “I’m not good at this, Chan. I don’t assume. And I didn’t want to hope for something that wasn’t real. So I told myself it was just sex. That it couldn’t be more. Even though every time I looked at you I wanted more.”
The room went unbearably silent. Chan’s eyes glistened, the fury giving way to rawness Minho rarely got to see, the kind that stripped every wall between them.
“You’re right,” Chan said finally, his voice breaking low. “I never said it. I never looked you in the eye and told you what I feel, because I was so afraid of scaring you away. I thought… if I just kept it unspoken, you’d stay. That if I called you mine in the dark, in front of others, maybe it’d be enough until you felt the same.”
Minho’s chest ached so violently it hurt to breathe. “I already felt the same. I’ve been in love with you, Chan. This whole time. And I thought you couldn’t possibly feel that way about me. So I swallowed it down, let it tear me apart, because at least being your secret, at least being able to hold you was better than not having you at all.”
A shudder tore through Chan, and in the next second he crossed the room. His hands cupped Minho’s face, trembling, thumbs brushing away the tears already gathering. “You’re so stupid,” he whispered, though his own tears betrayed him. “So stupid. Because I’ve been in love with you too. From the beginning. And I didn’t know how to tell you without losing everything.”
Minho’s breath hitched. His fingers curled into Chan’s hoodie, desperate, as though he might vanish if he didn’t hold on. “Then tell me now,” he begged. “Don’t let me keep guessing. Don’t let me keep doubting if I even belong to you.”
Chan’s forehead pressed against his, their noses brushing, breaths mingling. “You belong to me, Minho. Always. I love you. I love you more than I know how to explain. More than I’ve ever loved anything.”
The words shattered something inside Minho, but in the best way, like a dam breaking. He choked on a sob, pressing his mouth against Chan’s, pouring every bit of yearning, every sleepless night, every ache he’d been carrying into the kiss. Chan kissed him back with the same desperation, like they were both trying to make up for every moment wasted, every word left unsaid.
They stumbled back toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, Minho clinging to Chan as though letting go might undo everything. When Chan finally eased them down onto the sheets, it wasn’t the frantic, rushed hunger of before. It was slow, reverent, Chan’s hands shaking as they smoothed down Minho’s back, Minho’s lips parting on a whisper of Chan’s name.
Between kisses, between the brush of lips and the clutch of fingers, Minho whispered again and again, “I love you. I love you, I love you,” as if saying it enough times would make up for all the days he’d held it back.
Chan answered with his mouth, with his tears against Minho’s cheeks, with every tender touch that said more than words could.
Later, when they lay tangled together, the city lights bleeding through the hotel curtains, Minho buried his face against Chan’s chest. His tears had dried, but his voice was raw when he spoke. “Don’t ever let me run from you again. Even if I’m scared. Even if I’m stupid. Just–pull me back.”
Chan pressed a kiss into his hair, arms tightening around him like a vow. “I will. I promise. You’re mine now. No more pretending.”
And for the first time in months–maybe years–Minho let himself believe it.
Maybe this is his happily ever after too.
—