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Jisung had fallen in love with Minho’s voice first.
Before anything else, before he had even seen him, it was the voice that caught his attention. It was steady in a way that nothing else around him was. The practice rooms were always loud - counting, footsteps, music, exhaustion, but Minho’s voice cut through all of it.
Jisung had spent most of his life running a little too fast, tripping over his own ambition, but that voice made him slow down without meaning to. It made everything else blur for a second. And then he saw him, the face that matched the sound, and it all fit too perfectly. Of course, he looked like that. Of course, he carried himself like that. Even before Jisung learned his name, he knew he was done for.
Jisung never would’ve guessed, back then, that he’d end up debuting with Minho. That the same voice that once anchored him from across a crowded practice room would one day be singing right beside him on stage.
What started as distant admiration slowly moved closer, until Minho was part of his everyday - his mornings, his rehearsals, his late-night takeout runs. Somewhere along the way, the dream stopped being something Jisung chased alone. He’d found family in his members, laughter in the exhaustion, warmth where there used to be just pressure.
And sometimes, when he looked at Minho, this beautiful boy with a beautiful voice, the one who’d unknowingly slowed his world down, he couldn’t quite believe that they’d made it here together.
What Jisung definitely hadn’t imagined was that he’d end up dating Minho. That the person he’d once admired from a distance would become his partner in every sense of the word. Best friend. Roommate. Lover. And yet, somehow, even after all this time, it still didn’t feel like he had enough of him.
Jisung had always felt a little out of place in the world, like an alien trying too hard to belong, just drifting through without anything to hold him down. But then he found Minho. Or maybe Minho found him. The one who made him feel human, who pulled him back to earth every time his thoughts went too far. The one whose voice had pulled him out of the dark and into something warm, something real.
Minho pulled him from the shadows into the light.
Lately, Jisung had been spending his nights with his guitar, trying to teach his fingers how to sound less clumsy. It was something he’d picked up again recently, wanting to perfect the skill. He’d sit cross-legged on their bed, the faint hum of the city sneaking through the window, and strum until the chords started to sound like something coherent.
Every time, without fail, Minho would hum along from somewhere in the house.
It didn’t matter where he was, somewhere down the hall, in the kitchen, maybe half asleep on the couch, but the moment Jisung started playing, that voice joined in. Sometimes it was just a faint echo, sometimes clear enough that Jisung would pause and smile to himself. He pretended not to wait for it, but he always did. It was a quiet routine now, an unspoken call and response that filled the walls of their home.
Tonight was no different. Jisung strummed a few notes from a song he was listening to recently, and a familiar hum drifted back to him like muscle memory. His chest warmed immediately, that same feeling he’d had all those years ago, the way Minho’s voice could slow down his entire world.
He didn’t call out for him, didn’t say anything. He just kept playing, letting the sound fill their home. He didn’t think Minho realised how naturally he fell into place beside him. How, without even trying, he filled the spaces Jisung left behind. Where Jisung was chaos and noise, Minho was rhythm and calm. Where Jisung rushed ahead, Minho steadied him, like his voice had always done from the very beginning.
They balanced each other in ways neither of them had ever planned. When it was just the two of them, everything just fit. Minho would hum when Jisung played, cook when Jisung forgot to eat, and take care of Jisung in little ways that would otherwise go unnoticed. But Jisung always noticed, his world too enraptured by Minho to not notice every single thing he did.
Sometimes, Jisung thought about how strange it was to spend your whole life thinking you were incomplete, only to find that maybe you weren’t missing something, just waiting for someone to meet you halfway. Minho had become that for him without ever being asked to.
Minho’s humming faded mid-chorus. “Han-ah,” he called out, his voice carrying easily through their apartment.
Jisung let the last note ring out before setting the guitar aside, fingers still tingling from the strings. He stretched, a little dazed, and wandered out of their room. The smell hit him first, spicy, rich and warm. Minho stood at the stove, stirring a pot of kimchi jjigae with his cute apron on, the one with little cats on them.
Jisung’s stomach grumbled before he could stop it. He blinked at the clock and realised it was already way past dinner time. Without a word, he padded over to the coffee table - since they still hadn’t gotten around to buying an actual dining table - and started setting it up. Two bowls, two pairs of chopsticks, two spoons, the rhythm of it so practised it didn’t need to be discussed. He popped two bowls of instant rice into the microwave, the soft hum filling the kitchen, and then wandered over to Minho.
Wrapping his arms around him from behind, Jisung rested his chin on Minho’s shoulder and pressed a slow, lazy kiss against the side of his neck.
“How did you know I was craving kimchi jjigae?” he murmured, words soft against skin.
Minho didn’t even look up. “Who said this is for you?” he replied, voice laced with that familiar teasing lilt. “I made it for myself.”
Jisung pouted immediately, pulling back just enough to glare at him. “Hyung,” he whined, dragging out the word in that dramatic tone that always made Minho’s mouth twitch. When that didn’t work, he sighed and shuffled to the couch, arms crossed, looking far too sulky for someone who knew he’d get his way.
Minho turned off the stove, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. He carried the pot over, set it on the table, and retrieved the rice from the microwave. Without saying anything, he served the jjigae into the two bowls and slid one across to Jisung.
Jisung’s mood flipped instantly. “You just wanted to see me pout,” he said with a grin, accepting the bowl immediately.
Minho smiled, soft and barely-there, and leaned down to press a quick kiss against his cheek. “Eat before it gets cold.”
Jisung took a bite of the kimchi jjigae and immediately let out a soft, unthinking moan. The flavours hit just right, the spice, the warmth, the homey comfort and he kept eating, lost in it.
When he finally looked up at Minho, his eyes caught the flush across his cheeks, the faint pink that didn’t match the warm lighting. A grin spread across Jisung’s face, mischievous and teasing.
“Why are you so red, hyung? Too spicy?”
Minho chuckled, the sound low. “Baby, I could have added more spice, but someone here has a low tolerance.”
Jisung rolled his eyes, still smiling. “You love me too much.”
“I do,” Minho said simply, shrugging, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “It’s natural. It’s just… a fact of life.”
Something surged inside Jisung then, sudden and urgent. He set his bowl down, stood, and before Minho could fully react, took his bowl from his hands and placed it on the table. Without a word, he straddled Minho’s lap, settling into him like he belonged there.
“What are you doing, bug?” Minho asked, a mix of amusement and curiosity in his tone.
“I need to kiss you,” Jisung said bluntly, leaning in.
Minho didn’t respond with words. He just nodded, because he always wanted Jisung just as much as Jisung wanted him. And it was never enough.
Their lips moved together with a hunger that had been building quietly, for hours, maybe days. Their schedules were always hectic; it felt like they were apart for too long at times and Jisung wanted to take every opportunity he could get to just exist with Minho. He pressed closer, hands threading into Minho’s hair, pulling on it just enough to deepen the kiss. Minho’s own arms wrapped around Jisung’s waist, steadying him, holding him flush against him as if letting go wasn’t an option.
Jisung nipped at Minho’s lower lip, earning a low groan that vibrated through his chest. It made him grin against Minho’s mouth before kissing him again. Minho tilted his head, letting Jisung explore, his hands firm but gentle, moving over the curve of Jisung’s back, every inch of him already mapped out and memorised.
Jisung’s fingers dug in lightly at Minho’s shoulders, tugging him closer, until there was no space between them. “Han-ah…” Minho’s voice was rough, low, and urgent, a shiver running through him even as he kept kissing. “Don’t stop.”
Jisung grinned against him, voice muffled, “I’m not planning to.”
Hands roamed, lips pressed and parted, breaths mingling as the kiss deepened into something messy, hungry, and entirely theirs. Jisung rocked slightly against him, eliciting soft curses and groans from Minho that made his chest tighten with desire.
It wasn’t just about needing to touch; it was the culmination of years of what ifs, the risks, the judgment and the fear of whether they would make it. They still had to hold back a lot, be careful about how much and what to reveal. Had to calculate every move. But it was worth it during moments like this, both of them existing in a space where no one else could see them.
They moved together with perfect, chaotic sync. It was playful, demanding, and utterly consuming. Every kiss, every sigh, every shared breath reminded them that this was theirs alone and no one else’s.
Minho’s lips were warm, desperate, tasting faintly of jjigae and something sweeter, something that was entirely him. The kiss deepened quickly, all teeth and breath and want, the kind that made everything else blur out. His fingers tangled in Minho’s hair, tugging just enough to draw out a low sound from his chest.
“Hyung,” Jisung breathed against his mouth, voice all wrecked and pleading. “Please-”
Minho only smiled, that maddening, calm smile that made Jisung want to both melt and scream. He caught Jisung’s jaw with one hand, thumb brushing along the edge of his lower lip. “Be patient, baby,” he murmured, tone so soft it almost hurt. “Listen to hyung.”
But patience had never been Jisung’s strong suit. His hips moved on their own, grinding down against Minho, chasing friction like he could find air in it. The sound that left his throat was half a sigh, half a quiet curse, and Minho’s grip on his waist tightened, steady, grounding. For a moment, they just breathed each other in, chests heaving. Jisung could feel his dick filling out in his sweats. The ache of not being touched was simmering low in his belly; he needed Minho to touch him, and he needed it soon.
Then Minho shifted, hands sliding under Jisung’s thighs and picking him up effortlessly. Jisung couldn’t help but marvel at his strength, how he could hold Jisung without breaking a sweat and mould him in any way he wanted. Jisung let out a startled laugh. He was finally getting what he wanted, and he couldn’t wait. His heart raced with the thought until Minho turned and set him down firmly on the couch instead. The move was so smooth it left Jisung blinking, lips parted, still dazed from the kiss.
Minho leaned close, voice low and velvety against his ear. “Finish your dinner.”
A soft smack on his ass followed, more teasing than anything else, and Jisung whined, turning to glare with wide, flushed cheeks. “Hyung-”
But Minho had already gone back to his bowl, calm as if nothing had happened. He picked up his spoon, took another bite, and looked up with that infuriatingly composed expression.
Jisung pouted, groaned dramatically, but eventually reached for his own bowl again, still glaring even as he dug in. Because of course he’d listen. He always did.
And Minho knew it.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Jisung got his revenge a week later.
Comeback season was always brutal, the kind of schedule that blurred days together. Rehearsals bled into performances, performances into interviews, and interviews into more rehearsals. Normally, Jisung thrived in that kind of rhythm. It was exhausting, sure, but it was also everything he’d worked for.
What wasn’t normal, though, was Minho.
Minho, who was usually cool and measured during busy seasons, had been… different lately. Clingier. Softer. Touchier in ways that made Jisung’s brain short-circuit on stage. A hand lingering too long on his waist, a palm smacking his ass during performances, a smirk that said I dare you to react when the cameras weren’t looking. It wasn’t new; Minho had always been teasing, but this time, there was something else simmering beneath the surface. Something Jisung couldn’t stop noticing.
So, naturally, he decided to use it against him.
They were filming one of those promotional games, the kind that always went viral for showing off their “chemistry”. In one of the games, they had to keep a tissue suspended in the air with their breath. Harmless. Silly. Except that Jisung and Minho were partners. Jisung decided maybe it was his turn to play a little dirty.
The moment the staff said “ready,” Jisung could feel Minho’s attention on him, like gravity, quiet but impossible to ignore. So when it was their turn, he decided to push it just a little.
He crouched down, knees hitting the floor, back arching instinctively as he lined himself up in front of Minho. The tissue fluttered between them, light as air, and Jisung leaned forward to blow softly, eyes flicking up just once to see Minho’s reaction.
Bingo.
Minho’s face was unreadable at first, then his throat bobbed, eyes darting away a second too late. He blinked hard, and the corner of his mouth twitched, the faintest sign of a flustered laugh.
Jisung barely held back his grin. Gotcha.
He kept going, pretending to be hyper-focused on the game while very intentionally tilting his head, a picture of innocent concentration. The tissue floated between them like it was in on the joke. When it finally fell, the room burst into laughter, except for Minho, who was smiling in that quiet, dangerous way that meant payback was coming later.
Jisung, of course, looked way too pleased with himself.
As they stood and bowed to the staff to take their leave, Minho leaned in just enough for his words to brush against Jisung’s ear. “Having fun, Han-ah?”
Jisung tilted his head innocently, smile too sweet to be genuine. “Always, hyung.”
“Mm,” Minho hummed, that dangerous little sound that always made Jisung’s knees weak. “You should be careful, baby. You’re playing with fire.”
Jisung only grinned.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the quiet that followed felt almost heavy after a day full of cameras and filming. Minho’s arm was still looped around Jisung’s waist, firm and possessive, like he hadn’t quite decided to let him go yet. His touch burned through the thin fabric of Jisung’s shirt, unrelenting.
“Let me change real quick,” Jisung murmured, tugging at Minho’s hold with a small laugh. “I just wanna crash. It’s been an extremely long day.”
Minho hummed, voice low against his ear. “You made it longer.”
Jisung blinked innocently, turning his head just enough to catch Minho’s reflection in the hallway mirror. “Huh? I was just doing my job.”
Minho’s brow arched, sharp and knowing. “Kneeling like that in front of the cameras is part of your job now?”
Jisung’s lips twitched. There it was, what he’d been waiting for. He shrugged, feigning casualness, though the grin pulling at his mouth gave him away. “Yeah, obviously. You know… for the content. Just giving the fans what they want. They love that kind of stuff.”
Minho exhaled a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure they do,” he said, stepping closer until Jisung could feel the heat rolling off him. “But I think, baby, you just wanted to mess with me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jisung replied, eyes bright with that teasing spark that always drove Minho insane.
The look Minho gave him in return made Jisung’s stomach flip, slow, dark, deliberate. The kind of look that promised consequences.
For a second, neither of them moved. The air between them buzzed, alive and dangerous. Then Minho shifted forward, closing the space inch by inch, gaze locked on him like a predator finally cornering his prey.
Jisung could see it, the exact moment Minho cracked and was about to reach for him, that’s when he stepped back, hands up, grin smug and infuriating. “Sorry, hyung,” he said lightly, voice full of mock sweetness. “Need to wash up and go to bed. I’m so tired.”
Minho froze mid-step, jaw tightening.
Jisung bit back a laugh, watching him struggle to keep that last thread of composure. His satisfaction bubbled up, impossible to hide. He brushed past Minho toward the hallway, adding over his shoulder, “Goodnight, hyung.”
Behind him, he heard Minho let out a breathy, disbelieving chuckle, the kind that sounded halfway between fondness and frustration.
Jisung didn’t have to look back to know Minho was standing there, staring after him, probably trying to decide whether to let him go or drag him back.
Either way, Jisung grinned to himself as he disappeared into their bedroom. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted. Minho, completely unravelled and desperate.
Jisung had won this round.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Jisung woke up alone.
For a second, his half-asleep brain panicked; the sheets were cold on one side, the room silent. He blinked blearily, rolling over. The pillow on Minho’s side was still dented, the blanket folded halfway down like he’d gotten up carefully, trying not to wake him.
Minho hadn’t said anything last night, hadn’t retaliated. He’d just slipped into bed after his shower, pulled Jisung close like always, and gone to sleep.
Jisung felt like whining; he had expected at least something.
Dragging himself out of bed, Jisung padded into the living room, hair sticking up in every direction. The apartment was still, with faint sunlight pouring in through the windows. He scanned the space automatically, couch, desk, kitchen counter and frowned when he noticed the gym bag missing from its usual corner.
Ah. So that’s where he was.
Of course, Minho was at the gym at seven in the morning after going to bed at two. The man functioned on pure discipline. Jisung sighed, stretching his arms over his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered fondly.
He figured he could at least make breakfast. Something easy. Something that said I didn’t totally torture you last night, please eat this and then eat me.
He pulled out a box of pancake mix, humming softly as he started whisking the batter. The smell of vanilla and butter soon filled the kitchen, the soft hiss of batter hitting the pan the only sound in the apartment.
The door clicked open.
Jisung turned just as Minho stepped in, and - holy hell.
Tank top clinging to his chest, skin flushed from the workout, gym bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. His hair was damp, strands sticking to his forehead, and sweat glistened along the curve of his neck. Jisung froze mid-flip, spatula hovering uselessly in the air.
Minho noticed, obviously. He always noticed. A slow smirk tugged at his mouth as he dropped the bag by the counter. “Well, look at you,” he drawled. “Taking charge of breakfast today?”
Jisung blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m perfectly capable of cooking, you know.”
“Mm.” Minho dropped his bag by the counter, leaning against it like he had all the time in the world. “Then why am I always the one cooking?”
Jisung turned back to the stove, hiding the smile threatening to spill out. “Because I like being taken care of. By you.”
That made Minho pause. For a second, the teasing edge softened, replaced by something warmer, fonder. He stepped closer, voice dropping and turned Jisung around, placing a hand on his cheek, softly cradling it. “You’re so cute,” he murmured, the words brushing Jisung’s skin. “I don’t know what to do with you sometimes.”
And before Jisung could react or even breathe, Minho leaned in and pressed his lips to his, soft and fleeting. Then he just walked past him to grab a glass of water like nothing had happened.
Jisung stood there, stunned, spatula still in hand, heart racing in his chest. The pancakes were probably burning, but honestly? He couldn’t care less.
After breakfast was done, they sat on the couch, both of them engrossed in their own thoughts. It was the kind of lazy morning that didn’t demand anything from either of them. Sunlight spilt across the floor, warm and golden, catching on the steam from their coffee mugs. Jisung sat cross-legged on the floor, nibbling absently on a piece of pancake while Minho scrolled through his phone on the couch. It was peaceful and perfect.
Jisung glanced up, resting his chin in his palm. “So,” he started casually, trying to sound like he wasn’t testing the waters, “what are you up to today?”
Minho didn’t look up right away. He hummed, thumb swiping across the screen before setting his phone down. “Was thinking of heading out for a bit,” he said easily. “Maybe go fishing. Haven’t done that in a while.”
“Oh.”
It was small, quiet, but Jisung heard it in his own voice, the faint dip he hadn’t meant to let slip. He recovered quickly, smiling before Minho could notice. “That sounds nice.”
Fishing for Minho meant solitude. It was his version of hitting reset, sitting by the water for hours with nothing but the sound of the wind and his thoughts. It was his thing, the one place he didn’t have to be “Lee Know from Stray Kids” or anyone’s friend or boyfriend. And Jisung respected that. He loved that about him, actually, the quiet, grounded way he took care of himself.
But today…
Today, Jisung kind of wished Minho didn’t need space.
He’d remembered the date this morning, and it tugged quietly at the back of his mind. Eight years since their first meeting. Eight years since that voice had slowed his whole world down. They didn’t celebrate anniversaries like that, not officially, at least, but it still meant something to him. It was the day his life had, quite literally, changed.
He wanted to ask. He wanted to say stay home, let’s just spend the day together, watch movies, order takeout, exist. But that felt selfish. Minho never asked for much, and Jisung didn’t want to be the reason he couldn’t have his few hours of peace.
So he swallowed it down, past the lump in his throat, and forced his smile to reach his eyes. “Have fun, hyung,” he said, light and easy, like he hadn’t just watched his plans for the day dissolve quietly.
Minho smiled back, soft and unaware. “You too, baby.”
And just like that, the moment passed.
Jisung nodded, pushing his plate away, pretending his chest didn’t ache just a little. He told himself he was being mature, giving space, respecting boundaries. That was what love was, right?
Even if all he wanted was for Minho to choose him instead.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The day stretched on slowly, Jisung spent the rest of the morning wandering around the apartment.
He cleaned up after breakfast even though Minho had already done most of it. Folded the throw blanket on the couch, then unfolded it again. Checked the group chat.
No new messages.
He frowned, typing out, what’s everyone up to today?
The message sat there like a stray sock in the middle of the floor - seen, ignored.
A few minutes later, he started calling people out of sheer boredom.
Chan answered first, his voice slightly breathless. “Hey, Sungie! What’s up?”
Jisung could hear metal clanking, Changbin shouting something in the background.
“Oh, you’re working out,” Jisung muttered, already knowing.
“Yeah, chest day,” Chan said cheerfully. “You wanna join?”
“No,” Jisung said immediately. “I wanna be lazy today.”
“Suit yourself,” Chan laughed. “Catch you later, man.”
He tried Felix next.
“Hey, Lix—”
“Can’t talk, Sung, I’m mid-round— DON’T SHOOT ME, YOU IDIOT!” Felix yelled, voice peaking through the mic before abruptly hanging up.
Seungmin and Jeongin were next, both annoyingly cheerful. “We’re shopping!” Jeongin said, holding his phone too close to the camera. “Look at these shoes!
“Nice,” Jisung deadpanned. “You’re both terrible for going out without inviting me.”
Seungmin just smirked. “You hate shopping with us.”
“Yeah, but it’s the principle, Mong-mong.”
“Bye, hyung.” Click.
He didn’t even bother calling Hyunjin; his snap already showed a half-finished canvas and a caption that said “art heals the soul.” Jisung rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.
So that was that. Everyone had plans. Everyone had somewhere to be, something to do.
Except him.
He told himself it was fine. He told himself he didn’t need plans, that a quiet day was good sometimes. That solitude wasn’t the same as loneliness.
Jisung let out a long sigh and plopped down onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. After a few minutes of feeling dramatically sorry for himself, he reached for his guitar. Maybe he could learn that one song Minho liked, the one he always hummed absentmindedly while cooking.
He strummed once. Then again. The sound came out fine, but his fingers felt heavy, clumsy. The melody slipped through his hands.
He tried again, slower this time and still, his heart wasn’t in it.
Eventually, he gave up, setting the guitar aside and running both hands through his hair. Normally, music centred him; it gave him something to focus on, something to pour himself into. But today, it only made him more aware of the space beside him. The one Minho usually filled.
It wasn’t even like he blamed Minho. He got it, the need for space, for quiet. Jisung needed that too, and he respected that. He did. But there was this small, stupid part of him that just wanted attention. It wasn’t even about being alone. It was that today meant something, not officially, not something they’d ever marked with candles or dinner or words. But it meant something to him.
He wanted to spend the day with him, even if it was just sitting side by side doing nothing. But he hadn’t said it. Because Minho deserved space. Because love wasn’t supposed to be clingy or selfish.
Except right now, he felt both.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The evening crept in slowly. Jisung had long since given up on trying to be productive; he was sprawled on the couch, one leg thrown over the armrest, scrolling absently through his phone. His brain was halfway between zoning out and doomscrolling when he heard the click of the front door.
He blinked, sitting up. Minho never came back this early from fishing.
The man usually spent hours by the lake, perfectly content to sit in silence until the stars came out. But now, there he was, stepping inside, hair a little wind-tousled, eyes soft but unreadable.
“What are you doing back so early?” Jisung asked, startled.
Minho didn’t answer that. Instead, he tilted his head, gaze flicking to Jisung. “What are you doing?”
Jisung frowned. “Nothing, really. Why-?”
“Come with me,” Minho said simply.
He followed, confused, trailing after Minho through the quiet building. When they stepped onto the terrace, Jisung opened his mouth to ask again, but the words died on his tongue.
“Oh,” he breathed.
The space looked completely transformed.
A projector screen glowed faintly against the dusky sky, the city lights flickering far below. Pillows and blankets were piled together in a cosy nest on the floor, fairy lights strung around them, glowing warmly. On a small table sat a bottle of wine, two glasses, cheesecake and pudding; both their favourites.
Jisung turned, eyes wide, heart stuttering in his chest. “What… what is all this?”
Minho stepped closer, hands tucked in his pockets, that tiny smile tugging at his mouth.
“Today’s the day we met,” he said softly.
For a second, Jisung couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to blur at the edges, all the frustration and heaviness of the day dissolving in an instant.
Minho continued. “You changed my life that day.”
Something in Jisung cracked open at that. His throat went tight, and he laughed a little just to keep from tearing up. “I thought you went fishing.”
“I did,” Minho said, almost sheepishly. “But only for a bit. Came back early. Wanted to set this up.”
Jisung blinked fast, the corners of his eyes stinging. All the loneliness, the quiet ache he’d carried around all day, just… evaporated.
“Minho…” he whispered, voice catching somewhere between awe and affection.
Minho smiled then, soft and knowing. “Happy eight years, baby.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the faint hum of the projector and the city breathing below.
Jisung didn’t even think. One second, he was staring at Minho under the soft glow of the fairy lights, his heart caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder and the next, he was moving.
His fingers curled into Minho’s shirt, tugging him down without a word. The kiss wasn’t dramatic or cinematic; it was warm and real and a little clumsy, the kind of kiss that tasted like laughter and relief. It was warmth and relief and eight years’ worth of love folded into one breath. Minho’s hands came up instantly, one cupping the back of Jisung’s neck, the other settling against his waist like it belonged there, like it always had.
When they finally pulled apart, Jisung’s chest ached in the best way. He laughed softly, forehead still resting against Minho’s. “You’re ridiculous,” he whispered.
Minho smiled, that quiet curve of his lips that always managed to undo him. “And yet, you love me.”
“Yeah,” Jisung murmured. “Yeah, I really do.”
They sat down together in the little cocoon of blankets and fairy lights. The projector flickered to life, painting soft light over their faces. Jisung glanced at the screen, curious. “So… what are we watching?”
“Howl’s Moving Castle,” Minho said simply.
Jisung froze for a second, blinking at him. “You’re kidding.”
Minho shook his head, smiling. The film began to play, the familiar opening filling the air. They settled closer, shoulders pressed together, Minho’s arm draped loosely around Jisung’s back. The city stretched out beneath them, the stars hazy above, the world holding its breath just for them.
Jisung let his head rest on Minho’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut for a second as he whispered, almost to himself, “This is perfect.”
Minho turned slightly, pressing a kiss into his hair. “It is,” he murmured. “You are.”
Jisung’s gaze flicked to Minho, silhouetted in the projector’s light, and his chest ached in the best way.
Eight years ago, Minho’s voice had slowed his whole world down. And now, eight years later, it still did, only this time, it sounded like home.