Archive of Our Own

By the time Han Jisung realises his life has arranged itself into neat, repeating patterns, it’s already halfway through sophomore year.

He wakes up at 7:03 every weekday because Felix’s alarm goes off at 7:00 and Felix never turns it off on time. The dorm room smells faintly like instant coffee and fabric softener, Hyunjin’s side of the room is always neatly tidied away, his bed made perfectly and shoes all in a row. Jisung’s desk is a mess of lyric notebooks, cables strewn about and intertwined as well as a MIDI keyboard that barely fits between his textbooks.

It’s not a bad life.
It’s just… paused.

Felix hums while brushing his teeth. Hyunjin scrolls through his phone, already dressed like he’s about to walk a runway. Jisung lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, thinking about a melody that came to him at three in the morning and slipped away before he could write it down.

That happens a lot. The slipping away.

Jisung is a music major which sounds impressive until people ask what he plans to do with it. He usually laughs and says something vague about producing or composing or “figuring it out,” which is technically true, if figuring it out counts as lying awake at night wondering when life is supposed to start.

He spends most of his days with Chan and Changbin, the unofficial trio that formed sometime around Chan’s senior year of high school and never really dissolved.

Chan is his older brother. Responsible in a way that makes Jisung feel both safe and slightly inadequate. Chan has plans. Chan has spreadsheets. Chan talks about internships and post-grad opportunities like they’re already written in stone.

Changbin is a junior, loud and blunt and endlessly loyal. He eats like he’s fueling for battle and argues about lyrics like they’re matters of national importance. He believes in Jisung in a way that feels aggressive sometimes, like if Jisung doesn’t succeed it’ll be a personal offense.

They meet in their college recording studio that smells like dust and old carpet, laptops balanced on their knees, Chan tapping rhythms on the table while Changbin argues that the bass needs to hit harder. Jisung writes quietly, fingers moving faster than his confidence.

Music is the one place he doesn’t feel behind.

Lunches are usually taken outside, sitting on low concrete walls between classes, backpacks at their feet. This is where the group gathers — not because anyone planned it that way, but because it stuck.

Minho shows up first most days.

Lee Minho has been in Jisung’s life for so long that it’s hard to remember a version of it without him. Minho and Chan met in high school — bonded over their love of music and shared exhaustion — and Minho had simply… stayed. He’d been there at family dinners, sprawled on the couch, stealing food off Jisung’s plate like it was his god-given right.

Now he’s a dance major, a senior, and somehow still the calm center of everything. He moves like he knows exactly where his body belongs in the world. He dresses comfortably but always neat, always put-together, like effortlessness is a skill he learned deliberately.

Minho has always been kind to Jisung. Patient. Protective. The kind of guy who walks on the side of the street closest to traffic without thinking about it. The kind who checks if Jisung ate. The kind who introduces him as “Chan’s brother” but says it with pride, like that means something important.

Jisung knows, objectively, that Minho is beautiful. That’s just a fact. Like gravity. Like deadlines.

He doesn’t linger on it.

Felix and Hyunjin arrive together more often than not, both dance majors, both loud in opposite ways. Felix smiles at everyone like the world is fundamentally good. Hyunjin complains about everything but somehow makes it charming. They talk about rehearsals, bruises, auditions — about motion and momentum and bodies in space.

Jisung listens. He always listens.

Across campus, Seungmin and Jeongin live together, freshmen still adjusting to college life, business majors who somehow wandered into this group and never left. Seungmin is sharp-eyed and observant, sarcasm wielded like a scalpel. Jeongin is curious, a little too honest, always asking the weirdest questions that make everyone freeze for half a second.

Together, they make the group feel complete. Balanced. Like something solid.

Like a family.

From the outside, it probably looks like Jisung belongs exactly where he is.

He goes to lectures, scribbles notes in the margins of his notebooks that turn into half-written lyrics. He sits in the back of large halls, hood pulled up, watching professors pace and talk about theory and history and structure. He eats with his friends. Laughs at the right moments. Goes to parties occasionally, though he usually leaves early.

No one knows that he’s never been kissed.

No one knows that when conversations drift toward relationships or hookups, something inside him quietly shuts down, like a light flipped off in a room no one else notices.

It’s not that he hasn’t wanted to try.
It’s that wanting feels… abstract. Like imagining a future in a city you’ve never been to.

He tells himself there’s time. That it’ll happen naturally. That he’s just focused on other things.

Time, he assumes, is patient.

Sometimes, late at night, when Felix is asleep and Hyunjin is out, Jisung sits on his bed with his laptop open, headphones on, creating songs no one has heard yet. He wonders what it would feel like to be chosen. To be wanted in a way that doesn’t feel theoretical.

He wonders when everyone else learned how to move forward.

And he doesn’t realize — not yet — that the life he’s been standing still inside is about to lurch violently into motion.

The party is already too loud when Jisung arrives.

That’s the first thing he notices — not the music itself, but the way it presses in on him, heavy and vibrating, like it’s trying to crawl under his skin. Someone’s turned the bass up just enough that the floor hums beneath his shoes. Red plastic cups litter every flat surface. The air smells like cheap alcohol and citrus body spray fighting a losing battle.

It’s a senior party. Chan’s idea, technically. A celebrate while we still can kind of thing.

Jisung lingers in the doorway longer than necessary, fingers tightening around his cup. He tells himself to relax. This is normal. This is fine. He’s been to parties before.

He just never knows where to put himself in them.

“Jisung!”

Felix’s voice cuts through the noise like sunlight. He’s already flushed, eyes bright, grin too wide. “You made it.”

Jisung smiles automatically. “Yeah. Would’ve been weird if I didn’t.”

Felix laughs, pulls him into a quick hug that smells like vodka and laundry detergent. Somewhere behind him, Hyunjin is arguing dramatically with someone about the DJ’s song choices.

Jisung lets himself drift forward, carried by familiarity. Chan claps him on the shoulder near the kitchen, already mid-conversation with Changbin. Jisung catches fragments as he passes.

“…internship in LA—”
“…networking is everything—”
“…you can’t wait too long—”

The words snag in his chest. He keeps moving.

He tells himself it’s just noise.

At first, he’s okay.

He laughs at Changbin’s joke about seniors aging out of the group. He nods along as Felix talks about an audition. He watches Minho across the room without meaning to — leaning against the counter, calm even here, like chaos bends around him out of respect.

Minho catches his eye and lifts his cup.

Jisung lifts his back.

It feels grounding. Like proof he’s still tethered to something solid.

But as the night stretches on, something starts to slip.

Conversations drift without him. He finds himself standing half a step outside every circle. Laughter lands a beat too late, like he missed the punchline while thinking about something else.

He nurses his drink, the alcohol warming his chest but not touching whatever’s wrong.

Then someone asks.

“So,” a senior he barely knows says, already a little drunk, “what’s your plan after college?”

Jisung laughs, light and practiced. “Uh. I don’t know yet.”

They nod easily. “You’ve got time.”

Do I?

The thought lands heavier than it should.

Because suddenly everyone else seems to be moving — messy or not, they’re going somewhere. Chan animated and certain. Changbin arguing about creative control. Felix glowing with anticipation. Hyunjin talking like the future is inevitable.

Minho laughs at something, head tipping back slightly. Relaxed. Confident. Alive in a way Jisung can’t remember ever feeling.

The room feels too small.

Too full.

Too loud.

He doesn’t remember deciding to leave.

One moment he’s there — and the next he’s halfway up the stairs, music dulling with every step. The air is cooler. His head feels fuzzy, alcohol catching up with him.

He sits on the edge of a bed upstairs, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

This is stupid.

But the thought won’t let go.

Nothing in my life has actually started yet.

He’s twenty. He’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing.

So why does it feel like everyone else found something he missed?

No first kiss. No stories. No proof he’s wanted in the way people talk about wanting.

Time suddenly feels very real.

And very fast.

His throat tightens. He presses his palms together, breathing slowly, trying not to spiral. He’s not crying — not yet — but he feels hollowed out.

The door creaks.

“Hey.”

Minho’s voice is softer than the music ever was.

Jisung looks up.

Minho stands in the doorway, concern plain on his face, two cups in his hands. He offers one without question.

“I was looking for you,” Minho says. “You disappeared.”

Something in Jisung cracks.

He takes the cup, fingers brushing Minho’s. The contact steadies him.

Minho closes the door most of the way, then leans against the wall instead of sitting too close. Giving space without leaving.

“You okay?”

Jisung lets out a weak laugh. “Yeah.”

Minho doesn’t push. He waits.

The silence stretches — open, patient.

“I feel like everyone else started living already,” Jisung says quietly. “And I’m still… here.”

Minho listens. Really listens.

“I don’t have a plan. I don’t have experiences. I don’t even—” Jisung exhales sharply. “I don’t know what it feels like to be someone’s first choice.”

Minho steps closer.

He crouches in front of Jisung, forearms on his knees, eyes level. No pity. Just attention.

“You didn’t miss anything,” Minho says gently.

Jisung laughs, broken. “How would you know?”

“Because I see you.”

Jisung swallows. “I don’t feel seen.”

Minho’s hand lifts, brushing Jisung’s wrist. “You are.”

The touch sends a quiet jolt through him.

They’re closer than he realized.

“I’m drunk and oversharing,” Jisung murmurs.

“You’re allowed to,” Minho says softly.

“I don’t want to be invisible anymore.”

Minho’s thumb shifts against his wrist. “You’re not. Not to me.”

The room tilts.

Jisung whispers, “Minho…”

Minho looks at him like he’s committing something to memory.

He leans in slowly, giving Jisung time to pull away.

The kiss is hesitant — warm, questioning.

Jisung freezes for half a second.

Then he kisses back.

It’s not fireworks. It’s closeness. It’s here.

Minho pulls back just enough to search his face. “We should—”

“I know,” Jisung breathes.

They don’t stop.

The kiss deepens, unhurried. Minho’s hands slide down Jisung’s sides; Jisung’s fingers curl into Minho’s hair, grounding himself there. A soft sound slips from his throat before he can stop it.

Minho stills. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Jisung says immediately. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

The rest unfolds slowly — deliberately — like neither of them wants to rush something this fragile. Jisung’s nerves blur into want, into heat, into the dizzy realization that he’s not invisible at all.

An involuntary moan slips from Jisung’s lips and soon he’s on his back, Minho’s mouth travelling down to his neck, sucking and biting there, sure to leave a mark. “M-Minho…” Jisung can barely speak, too lost in the feeling, his dick giving a pathetic twitch.

“Shh… Let me take care of you…” Minho whispers in his ear before biting it gently and lifting up onto his knees to remove his own shirt and Jisung knows he’s staring but can’t find it in himself to look away.

He can tell that Minho is also drunk due to the way he’s swaying and giggling as he begins to unbutton Jisung’s shirt but he’s also too drunk to care.

Minho’s lips soon attach themselves to the younger’s right nipple and he preens, arching his back and whimpering at the sensitivity meanwhile Minho’s hand twirls his fingers around and presses the other nub. “H-Holy shit…” He didn’t know that having his chest played with could feel like that.

He can feel both of them growing harder as the older male grinds his crotch down against his own and soon they’re back to sloppily making out, tongues pressing and hands exploring.

Eventually Jisung finds enough courage, maybe it’s the liquor talking but all he can think about is Minho inside him so that’s what he tells him. “I- I need you inside me, hyung…”

That seems to be enough for Minho because his eyes darken and he licks his lips, nodding before unbuttoning Jisung’s jeans and slipping them down his thighs along with his boxers.

Jisung is now completely bare in front of Minho and he should be embarrassed, which he kind of is, cheeks a bright red tint but the way the older male is looking at him is making his brain go fuzzy so he just watches as Minho begins to pull his own jeans and boxers down antagonisingly slow.

Once they’re both completely bare, Jisung’s eyes travel down and his jaw drops, mouth watering at the sight of the older’s cold, hard and flushed. “Hyung… You’re so big…” he mumbles uselessly and Minho just smirks, leaning in to kiss him again.

After a few more minutes of kissing, the feeling of their cocks rubbing together becomes all too much and Jisung breathlessly pulls away, a string of spit connecting their lips. “Please.. Just fuck me already.”

They stare into each other’s eyes for a few moments before Minho scrambles off the bed, Jisung sitting up on his elbows as he watches the older rummage through drawers in the unknown bedroom.

Eventually Minho makes a victory noise and lifts up a bottle of lube to show Jisung before crawling back on top of him, resuming their making out as if their lips can’t be apart for too long or they’ll combust.

Vaguely he hears the sound of a cap being opened and some squelching as Minho warms the lube up on his fingers “you’re so pretty” he tells him as he circles a finger around his rim before slowly pushing in and Jisung keens, hissing slightly at the sting “Hyung- I’ve never done this before…” he whimpers.

“I’ll be careful…” Minho promises and Jisung trusts him, soon a second finger gets added and he begins to scissor them, pain turns into pleasure and soon Jisung is moaning uncontrollably, head thrown back against the pillow. “I’m ready, please” he begs.

After a few more thrusts of his fingers Minho is lined up, tip flushed against his entrance and Jisung whimpers “it won’t fit, hyung…” he nearly sobs. “Don’t worry sungie, I’ll make it fit” he kisses his cheeks before slowly pushing in.

It takes a few moments but soon Minho’s hips are flush against his and he whimpers, needing something, anything. “Move-“ he barely gets the word out before the older male is almost pulling all the way out before slamming back in and Jisung lets out the loudest, gut wrenching moan, eyes rolling back as Minho’s hand immediately slaps against his mouth.

“Shh… we don’t want anyone to hear your pretty little moans do we, baby?” He whispers and Jisung’s dick twitches uselessly against his stomach at the words, he didn’t know Minho could talk like this but boy was it turning him on even more.

“Fuck- it feels so good-“ Jisung’s words came out muffled against the olders palm but words and moans kept slipping out as Minho angled his hips and began to ram straight into his prostate.

“God- d-dont stop-“ he sobbed, tears streaming down his face, finally his mind was peaceful and all he could think about was Minho and how he was making him feel.

The olders hands were practically mapping out the youngers skin, cupping his chest, waist, ass, anything he could grab while he drove into him and praises spilled from his lips. “Fuck, you’re so tight, it’s like you were meant to take my cock” he practically growled and Jisung’s dick leaked pathetically.

“I-I’m close” Jisung whimpered as Minho kissed the tears from his cheeks, slowing his thrusts but deepening them to hit his prostate even more perfectly than before and the younger saw stars, back arching as he came all over himself untouched.

Minho’s eyes rolled back at the sight and he soon followed after, cumming deep inside Jisung who laid there breathlessly but whimpered at the feeling.

After a few seconds Minho pulled his softening cock out and collapsed beside the younger, they both turned to stare at each other before turning to stare up at the ceiling, reality sinking in.

“Hey,” Minho murmurs.

Jisung hums softly, exhausted but warm.

“You okay?” Minho asks again, quieter.

Jisung nods, throat tight for an entirely different reason now. “Yeah,” he says. And this time, it’s true.

The knock is sharp.

Not loud — not pounding — just firm enough to snap the moment clean in half.

Jisung jolts.

His heart slams so hard he’s sure Minho can feel it. The room feels suddenly too bright, too real — his body still humming, nerves sparking under his skin.

Another knock.

“Shit,” Jisung breathes, already scrambling. His jeans catch at his ankle, fingers clumsy, hands shaking as he drags them up. His lips feel swollen. His chest is warm and marked.

Minho stills for half a second — just long enough to register — then he’s moving.

“Okay,” he murmurs, low and steady. “Okay.”

He presses a hoodie into Jisung’s hands without thinking. “Here.”

Jisung doesn’t question it. He pulls it over his head, nearly trips getting his shoes on, hops once on bare feet before shoving them on without socks. The fabric smells like Minho — clean, familiar — and that almost makes him lose his balance all over again.

Minho steps in front of him instinctively, blocking the view, hands quick as he straightens the hoodie, smooths Jisung’s hair, thumbs brushing his jaw like it’s muscle memory.

“Breathe,” he says quietly.

The knock comes again.

“I’m coming,” Minho calls, voice calm.

Jisung stares at him, wide-eyed, heart in his throat. For a second, Minho looks back like he wants to say something — like he’s choosing not to.

Then he opens the door.

Felix stands in the hallway, eyebrows lifting slightly as his gaze flicks past Minho.

To Jisung.

Then back again.

“Oh,” Felix says. “There you are.”

Jisung laughs too fast. “Yeah.”

Felix tilts his head, eyes scanning him — the hoodie, the flushed cheeks, the way he’s standing just a little too close to Minho.

“You vanished,” Felix says. “Chan was asking where you went.”

“I just needed air,” Jisung says. It’s not a lie. Just not the whole thing.

“Mm,” Felix hums. His eyes flick briefly to Minho. “Figures.”

Minho leans casually against the doorframe, like he hasn’t been pressed flush against Jisung five minutes ago. “It was loud downstairs.”

Felix nods. He doesn’t push. But something settles behind his eyes — quiet, observant.

“Well,” he says lightly, shifting his weight, “I’m heading back down. You coming?”

Jisung nods. “Yeah.”

Felix glances at Minho again. “Thanks for keeping him company.”

Minho meets his gaze, expression unreadable. “Anytime.”

The word lingers.

Felix turns, already starting down the hall. “C’mon, Sung.”

Jisung hesitates.

Just for a second.

He looks at Minho.

Minho looks back.

Something unspoken hums between them — fragile, unfinished, electric.

“I’ll see you,” Minho says quietly.

Not later.
Not we should talk.

Just — I’ll see you.

Jisung swallows, then nods. “Yeah.”

He steps into the hallway.

Felix waits until they’re a few steps away before leaning in slightly. “You okay?” he asks, soft.

Jisung exhales. “Yeah.”

Felix hums, unconvinced — but lets it go.

Behind them, Minho steps out of the room, pulling the door closed as he goes, then heads in the opposite direction down the hall.

No chance to think and no chance to process what the hell just happened.

Jisung wakes up to the sound of Felix’s alarm.

It’s the same stupid synth loop it’s always been — bright, cheerful, aggressively alive — and for half a second, his body relaxes into habit.

Then reality drops on his chest like a weight.

Minho.

The word flashes through him, sharp and immediate, dragging everything else with it.

His eyes fly open.

The dorm room looks exactly the same as it did yesterday morning. Pale light filters through the thin curtains. Felix’s bed is a mess of tangled sheets and discarded clothes, one arm hanging off the side like he passed out mid-collapse. Hyunjin’s side is empty — bed made, shoes gone — probably already at rehearsal, because of course he is.

Nothing is different.

Except Jisung.

His body still feels… aware. Not sore — not really — but hypersensitive in a way that makes him painfully conscious of himself. The sheets brush his skin and his brain helpfully supplies memories he did not ask for: hands, weight, warmth, Minho’s voice low in his ear.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

Nope.

He rolls onto his side, then onto his back again, then sits up abruptly like that might shake the thoughts loose. It doesn’t. His chest feels tight, not with panic exactly, but with something restless and electric — like his nerves haven’t realized yet that the night is over.

He drags a hand down his face.

Okay. Okay. Breathe.

Last night happened.

That’s… a sentence. A terrifying, real sentence.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and immediately freezes.

The hoodie.

Minho’s hoodie is folded over the back of his chair, dark fabric unmistakable even in the morning light. His stomach flips violently.

He stares at it like it might start talking.

God.

He vaguely remembers Felix steering him back to the dorm, the walk a blur of cool air and laughter that didn’t quite reach him. He remembers collapsing onto his bed immediately, too tired — too full — to think.

But now he’s awake.

And thinking is unavoidable.

He presses his feet to the floor, grounding himself in the cold linoleum. The room smells like detergent, stale alcohol, and something faintly citrusy from Felix’s cologne. Normal smells. Safe smells.

You didn’t imagine it, his brain helpfully supplies.

Minho’s hands had been real. His voice had been real. The way he’d looked at Jisung — like he wasn’t invisible at all — had been devastatingly real.

Jisung groans quietly and folds forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

What the hell does this mean?

Because it wasn’t just sex. He knows that instinctively. Even through the alcohol haze and the reckless, desperate want, there had been something careful there. Something intentional.

Minho had asked if he was okay.
Minho had stayed.

That’s the part that keeps replaying.

He glances at his phone on the desk.

No notifications.

No texts.

His heart sinks a little, then immediately scolds itself.

It’s been like eight hours. It’s morning. People sleep. You don’t need—

But the silence feels loud anyway.

Felix shifts in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible before rolling over. Jisung tenses instinctively, then relaxes when Felix doesn’t wake.

Good. He’s not ready for Felix yet.

He stands, grabs clean clothes, and heads for the bathroom with the hoodie clutched awkwardly in his hands. He doesn’t put it on. He just… holds it.

The bathroom mirror is cruel.

He looks exactly the same — same messy hair, same tired eyes — except maybe there’s something different in the way he holds himself. A faint mark blooms purple at the base of his neck, just visible above the collar of his shirt.

“Oh my god,” he whispers.

He scrubs at it uselessly with his thumb, then groans again. He’s going to have to wear something high-necked. In September. Fantastic.

The shower helps a little. The heat loosens the tightness in his muscles, washes away the lingering scent of alcohol and sweat — though it doesn’t touch the memories. His thoughts loop relentlessly.

Was it a mistake?
Did Minho regret it?
Did I misread everything?
What if he’s embarrassed?
What if Chan finds out?

That thought alone makes his stomach drop straight through the floor.

Chan.

Chan, who trusts Minho implicitly. Chan, who has been Jisung’s constant since birth. Chan, who would absolutely lose his mind if he knew what happened in that bedroom.

Jisung rests his forehead against the cool tile and exhales slowly.

One crisis at a time.

By the time he’s dressed, Felix is awake, sitting up in bed with his phone in his hands.

“G’morning,” Felix mumbles, squinting at him. “You look… alive.”

Jisung laughs weakly. “I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

Felix hums sympathetically. “Yeah. Senior parties will do that.”

He watches Jisung a little too closely as Jisung crosses the room, shoving notebooks into his bag he definitely doesn’t need yet.

“You were quiet after we got back,” Felix says, like it’s an afterthought.

Jisung pauses, then keeps packing. “Was I?”

Felix hums. “Yeah. You usually talk my ear off about how bad parties are.”

“Oh.” Jisung shrugs, careful. “Guess I was tired.”

Felix nods once, accepting it on the surface.

The silence stretches.

Felix doesn’t fill it — which is almost worse.

Instead, he says, mild as anything, “Last night was… a lot.”

Jisung’s grip tightens on his bag strap. “Yeah.”

Felix glances at him, then away. “I just wanted to make sure you’re good.”

“I am,” Jisung says quickly. Then, softer, “Really.”

Felix studies him for a second longer — not accusing, not prying. Just checking the way best friends do when they know something shifted but don’t know what shape it took.

“Okay,” Felix says, finally. “That’s all.”

He turns back to his phone like the conversation’s over.

But Jisung catches his reflection in the window — Felix’s smile gone, eyes unfocused, thinking.

The first time Jisung sees Minho the next day, it’s entirely by accident.

He’s cutting across campus with Chan, half-listening to him rant about how Jisung needs to take better care of himself, when someone falls into step beside them.

“Morning,” Minho says.

Jisung’s heart tries to exit his body.

Minho looks… normal. Calm. Put together. Dark hair styled neatly, hoodie zipped up, backpack slung over one shoulder. If Jisung didn’t know better, he’d think nothing happened at all.

Except Minho’s eyes flick to him and linger — just for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Electric.

“Hey,” Jisung manages.

Chan grins and falls back into conversation. “You really do look rough though, Sung.”

“Thanks,” Jisung mutters.

Minho’s mouth twitches. “Late night.”

Jisung can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question.

“Yeah,” he says again, which is quickly becoming his favorite word.

They walk together for a few steps in awkward synchrony. Jisung is acutely aware of every inch of space between them — careful not to brush arms, not to stand too close.

Which is absurd, considering.

“So,” Chan says cheerfully, oblivious. “We’re grabbing food later. You in?”

Minho nods easily. “Sure.”

Jisung nods too, then immediately regrets it.

Lunch. Sitting together. Acting normal. With Chan.

He feels like he’s about to walk into traffic voluntarily.

Lunch is torture.

They sit outside like usual — concrete wall warm beneath them, sun just bright enough to make Jisung squint. The group slowly gathers: Felix plops down beside Jisung, Changbin arguing with Seungmin about something incomprehensible, Jeongin asking questions no one answers.

Minho sits across from Jisung.

Directly across.

Jisung focuses very hard on his food.

Every time Minho laughs, Jisung’s chest tightens. Every time Minho’s gaze drifts to him — brief, unreadable — his skin prickles.

Felix, meanwhile, notices everything.

Jisung feels it in the way Felix’s eyes flick between them. The way he leans closer to Jisung than usual. The way he casually blocks Changbin from sitting in Minho’s spot, like he’s unconsciously preserving something.

At one point, Minho reaches for a napkin at the same time Jisung does.

Their fingers brush.

Jisung flinches like he’s been shocked.

Minho stills too.

Chan looks between them. “You good?”

“Yeah,” they both say.

At the same time.

Felix snorts quietly.

Later — mercifully later — Felix corners Jisung while everyone else is distracted.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You wanna walk with me to rehearsal?”

Jisung nods, grateful for the escape.

They don’t talk at first. The campus hums around them — bikes whirring past, distant music from an open window.

Then Felix says, very gently, “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

Jisung’s throat tightens.

“But,” Felix continues, “you’re doing the thing where you pretend nothing’s wrong when something definitely is.”

Jisung exhales. “I’m fine.”

Felix glances at him. “Okay. Then let me rephrase.”

He smiles — not teasing. Not accusatory. Just open.

“I can tell something happened between you and Minho last night.”

Jisung freezes.

Felix doesn’t elaborate. He just squeezes Jisung’s shoulder and jogs ahead, calling back, “Text me later, yeah?”

Jisung stands there for a second, heart hammering.

Felix knows.

Or at least… suspects.

Later that night Jisung is sitting on his bed with his laptop open, pretending to work, when his phone lights up.

Minho: Are you free?

His fingers hover over the screen.

Jisung: Yeah.

There’s a pause.

Minho: Can I come by?

His chest tightens. He types, deletes, then finally sends:

Jisung: Okay.

Jisung paces back and forth for the next twenty minutes, anxiously biting his nails before he hears a soft knock at the door.

Jisung opens it nearly straight away and they stand there, staring at each other like they’re strangers.

“Hey,” Minho says.

“Hey.”

Silence.

Then Minho exhales. “We should talk.”

Jisung nods. “Yeah.”

They sit on opposite ends of the bed. The space between them feels heavier than the entire dorm.

“I don’t regret it,” Minho says quietly.

Jisung’s breath catches.

“But,” Minho continues, “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t matter.”

Jisung looks down at his hands. “It mattered to me.”

Minho shifts closer. Not touching. Just… there.

“Good,” he says softly. “Because I was worried you’d think it was just because we were—”

“Drunk,” Jisung finishes.

Minho nods. “Yeah.”

“It wasn’t,” Jisung says. He swallows. “At least… not just that.”

Minho smiles faintly — relieved. Warm.

“We need to be careful,” Minho says. “Chan—”

“I know,” Jisung says quickly. “I know.”

They sit there, breathing the same air.

“We don’t have to label anything,” Minho adds. “We don’t have to rush.”

Jisung nods slowly. The words settle between them, not heavy — just real.

“Okay,” Jisung says. His voice is quiet but steady. “I like that.”

Minho’s mouth curves, small and fond, like he’s relieved in a way he hadn’t let himself be yet. He shifts closer on the couch — not touching at first, just closing the distance so their knees brush.

It’s ridiculous how loud that feels.

They sit like that for a second, breathing the same air, the world narrowed down to the hum of the heater and the soft glow of the lamp in the corner. Jisung can feel Minho’s warmth through denim, through proximity alone.

Minho glances at him. “Can I—?”

Jisung doesn’t let him finish.

He leans in, slow and deliberate, giving Minho every chance to pull back.

He doesn’t.

The kiss is gentle — barely there at first, like they’re both testing the shape of it. Minho’s lips are warm, familiar in a way that makes Jisung’s chest ache. It’s not desperate. It’s not rushed.

It’s choosing.

Minho’s hand comes up to Jisung’s jaw, thumb resting just beneath his ear, grounding him there. Jisung exhales into the kiss, melting into it without thinking, fingers curling into Minho’s hoodie like it’s an anchor.

They pull back only when they have to breathe.

Minho rests his forehead against Jisung’s, careful, like he’s handling something fragile even though he knows Jisung is anything but.

“I really like you, Sung.”

It isn’t said lightly. Minho’s voice is low, steady, but there’s a softness there he doesn’t give to many people.

Jisung’s breath stutters for half a second before he smiles. It’s small. A little shy. Like he’s letting himself be seen on purpose.

“I really like you too.”

Minho exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for weeks.

They don’t rush into anything after that. They don’t need to. The words settle between them, warm and solid, like something they can lean on.

They end up on the couch without really deciding to. Minho sits first; Jisung drops beside him and immediately shifts closer, knee knocking against Minho’s thigh out of habit. Minho’s arm comes up automatically, settling around Jisung’s shoulders like it’s always lived there.

Jisung tucks himself in without thinking, head fitting against Minho’s collarbone in a way that makes Minho’s hand flex once, like his body noticed before his brain did. It’s familiar — not new, not awkward. Just right. Like muscle memory catching up to the truth.

Some awful movie plays on low volume. Explosions. Bad dialogue. Neither of them could tell you the plot if their lives depended on it.

Minho’s thumb traces slow, absent circles against Jisung’s upper arm. Every so often, he dips his head and presses a kiss into Jisung’s hair — soft, unshowy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything back. Just there. Just him.

Jisung feels quiet.

Not empty. Not numb.

Quiet in the way a storm finally moves offshore and leaves the air clean behind it. The static in his head — the overthinking, the what-ifs, the constant motion — has somewhere else to be for once. He lets himself sink into it, into Minho’s warmth, into the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Minho notices. He always does.

He tightens his arm just a little, like he’s anchoring Jisung there.

Eventually, too much time passes. The kind that only announces itself when the world starts to feel thin and late and fragile. Minho sighs and presses one last kiss to Jisung’s temple before shifting.

“I should probably go,” he says reluctantly. “Before Felix and Hyunjin come back and start asking questions.”

Jisung groans, face pressed into Minho’s chest. “Rude of them to exist.”

Minho laughs, quiet and fond, his chest vibrating under Jisung’s cheek. “I know.”

He still leaves. Barely.

Over the next few days, it becomes… a thing.

Not official. Not named. Just something that exists in the small spaces between people and schedules.

Lingering hands that fall away the second footsteps echo down the hall. Fingers brushing under tables during lunch — pinkies catching, thumbs tracing quick messages against knuckles before letting go.

Minho leaning in like he’s about to say something important, close enough that Jisung can feel his breath — only to steal a quick kiss when no one’s looking and pull back like nothing happened.

Once, Minho tugs Jisung into an empty practice room in the college’s dance building on pure instinct, fingers curling into the back of his hoodie like his body moved before his brain caught up.

The door barely clicks shut before Minho’s mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle. It’s hurried and breathless and a little messy, like they’ve both been holding back all day and finally snapped. Jisung makes a surprised sound into the kiss, hands flying up to Minho’s jacket, gripping like he needs something solid to stay upright.

Minho kisses him like he’s starving — quick at first, then deeper, slower, like he’s remembering all the ways Jisung fits against him. Their noses bump. Teeth click once. Jisung laughs into Minho’s mouth, and Minho smiles against his lips, chasing it.

They’re pressed together now, Jisung’s back against the mirror, Minho’s hands warm and firm at his waist, thumbs brushing just under the hem of his hoodie like he’s mapping familiar ground.

Then — voices.

Right outside the door.

They break apart instantly, breathing hard, foreheads still touching because neither of them has the sense to step back.

Jisung clamps a hand over his own mouth to stop himself from laughing, shoulders shaking. Minho does the same, biting down on his lip, eyes bright and wild and way too fond.

Minho presses his forehead to Jisung’s, chest still rising too fast, adrenaline buzzing through both of them like they’ve just committed an actual crime.

Jisung’s eyes flick down to Minho’s mouth — swollen, pink — then back up.

This is ridiculous, he mouths.

Minho grins, unapologetic, one hand still fisted in Jisung’s hoodie like he forgot to let go.

Worth it, he mouths back.

Felix notices, of course.

Not immediately. But then there’s the way Jisung keeps smiling at his phone for no reason. The way Minho somehow always knows where Jisung is without asking. The way they never quite stand too far apart, even in a crowded room — like there’s an invisible thread pulling them back together.

A few days later Hyunjin is already knocked out laying across his bedsheets, headphones still on like he fell asleep mid-vibe. Felix finds Jisung curled into the corner of the couch with his hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, staring at absolutely nothing.

Felix drops down beside him. Waits. He’s learned that Jisung confesses best when he’s not rushed.

“So,” Felix says casually, kicking off his shoes. “You wanna tell me why Minho-hyung walked you home again?”

Jisung goes very still.

Felix sighs and bumps their shoulders together, gentle. “Sung, you can talk to me.”

Jisung exhales, long and shaky, like he’s been holding this in since the party. Since that night. Since everything tipped sideways.

“I really like him,” he blurts. Then, quieter: “Like. Really.”

Felix’s eyebrows shoot up. “Minho?”

Jisung nods, face already heating. “I know. I know it’s stupid. He’s Chan’s best friend. He’s known me since I was basically a kid. He used to buy me juice boxes when I was sad.”

“That is… deeply on brand for him.”

“And he always treated me like Chan’s little brother,” Jisung keeps going, words tumbling now. “I never thought he’d look at me like— like that. I just thought he was… you know. Objectively hot. As a fact. Like the sun.”

Felix stares at him. “You slept with the sun?”

Jisung makes a strangled noise. “Felix!”

Felix’s mouth drops open. Then he grins so wide it’s honestly rude. “Oh my god. You did.”

Jisung buries his face in his hands. “We were drunk. I was upset. I couldn’t find Chan and everything just felt— I don’t know — too much, and Minho was there and he listened and then—”

Felix holds up a hand. “Pause. Important clarifying question.”

Jisung peeks at him through his fingers.

“…Was he good in bed?”

“FELIX.”

Felix cackles, collapsing back against the couch. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I had to. This is huge.”

Jisung drops his hands, cheeks blazing. “It was my first time.”

That stops Felix cold.

“Oh,” he says softly. Then, immediately gentler, he reaches out and laces their fingers together. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Jisung nods. “Yeah. I mean — yeah. He was really careful. And kind. And he kept asking if I was okay like every five seconds.”

Felix smiles, fond. “Yeah. That’s Minho.”

“That’s the problem,” Jisung whispers. “He’s always been good to me. And now I like him and I don’t know how Chan’s going to react and I don’t want to ruin everything. This friend group is like… my family.”

Felix squeezes his hand. “You’re not a loser for taking your time, Sung. And you’re definitely not wrong for falling for someone who’s treated you with respect for literally years.”

Jisung laughs weakly. “You make it sound so reasonable.”

“That’s because it is.”

Jisung hesitates. “Do you think Chan will hate me?”

Felix considers it. “Chan will freak out,” he says honestly. “Briefly.”

“Great.”

“But he loves you,” Felix continues. “And Minho. And if Minho hurt you, Chan would set something on fire, maybe even Minho. So.”

Jisung snorts despite himself.

Felix grins. “Also — Minho has been down bad for months. I clocked it before you did.”

Jisung stares at him. “You did not.”

“I did. You just took longer because you’re allergic to the idea that someone could want you romantically.”

“…Wow.”

Felix leans back, satisfied. “So. You like Minho. Minho likes you. You’re happy. And terrified. Very you.”

Jisung smiles, small but real this time. “Thank you.”

Felix bumps his shoulder again. “Anytime. Now go text your hot dance-major boyfriend before I do it for you.”

“He’s not my—”

Felix raises an eyebrow.

“…Okay,” Jisung mutters, already reaching for his phone.

Their first not-a-date date happens on a Wednesday.

Which feels important, somehow — like they’re deliberately choosing an ordinary day to do something that feels anything but.

They go to a small restaurant just off campus, the kind with mismatched chairs and handwritten specials on a chalkboard that hasn’t been erased properly in weeks.

Minho insists on paying without making a big deal out of it. Jisung protests once, half-heartedly, and Minho just looks at him over the menu and says, “Let me.”

Jisung’s ears burn.

They sit across from each other at a too-small table, knees brushing every time one of them shifts. Jisung tells himself he’ll get used to that feeling — the awareness, the warmth — but it keeps short-circuiting his brain anyway.

Minho watches him with that quiet, attentive look that makes Jisung feel like he’s the only person in the room.

“So,” Minho says, smiling slightly. “You look nervous.”

“I do not.”

“You’re fidgeting with the paper napkin.”

Jisung looks down. The napkin is absolutely mangled. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Minho’s smile softens. “We can just eat. You don’t have to perform.”

“I’m not performing,” Jisung says automatically, then pauses. “…Am I performing?”

Minho laughs — real, unguarded — and Jisung feels absurdly accomplished.

Dinner is easy. Easier than Jisung expected.

They talk about nothing and everything — bad professors, worse group projects, the weird guy in Minho’s dance class who refuses to count beats out loud. Jisung tells him about a melody he’s stuck on; Minho listens like it matters, asking questions that make Jisung rethink parts of it in a way that’s exciting instead of stressful.

At one point, Minho leans forward and says, “You get this look when you talk about music.”

Jisung blinks. “What look?”

“Like you forget the rest of the world exists.”

Jisung laughs, embarrassed. “You’re exaggerating.”

Minho shakes his head. “I’m not.”

The waiter clears their plates. Jisung realizes his cheeks hurt from smiling.

They walk afterward — no destination, just movement. Campus is quieter at night, pathways lit softly, the air cool enough that Jisung tucks his hands into his sleeves without thinking.

Minho notices. Of course he does.

“Cold?” he asks.

Jisung shrugs. “A little.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He steps closer, drapes his jacket over Jisung’s shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers linger just a second too long at Jisung’s collarbone.

Jisung’s face goes nuclear.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

Minho hums, amused. “Anytime.”

They joke their way across campus, bumping shoulders, laughing too loudly at things that aren’t that funny. Jisung feels loose — light — like something unknotted inside him without him noticing.

But under it all, there’s that question.

Unspoken. Persistent.

What are we doing?

It hums between them every time their hands almost touch. Every time Minho looks at him with those fond eyes.

They stop near the dorms, the moment stretching.

Minho rubs the back of his neck. “So.”

“So,” Jisung echoes, heart starting to race again for no good reason.

Minho hesitates — just a fraction — then says, carefully casual, “Chan and Changbin aren’t home tonight.”

Jisung looks at him.

Minho meets his gaze, eyes warm but searching. “Do you… want to come over?”

There’s a beat. One heartbeat. Two.

Jisung nods immediately.

“Yes.”

Minho’s smile breaks wide and genuine, relief flickering across his face before he reins it in. “Okay,” he says, like he’s grounding himself too. “Yeah. Okay.”

They start walking again, closer this time — shoulders touching, steps unconsciously syncing.

Once they reach Minho’s dorm room, the older shuts the door behind Jisung with a quiet click.

The sound seems to echo.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

They just stand there, too close, breathing the same air — Minho’s jacket still warm around Jisung’s shoulders, Jisung’s cheeks still flushed from laughing too much on the walk over. The room feels smaller than it did before, like it’s holding its breath with them.

Minho’s gaze drops to Jisung’s mouth.

Jisung swallows.

That’s all it takes.

Minho steps forward and kisses him — not slow, not tentative, but desperate in a way that makes Jisung gasp softly into his mouth. The sound slips out before he can stop it, and Minho reacts instantly, hands coming up like he needs to anchor himself — fingers threading into Jisung’s hair, sliding down his sides, pulling him closer until there’s no space left to question anything.

Jisung melts into it, hands fisting in Minho’s shirt, heart racing, everything warm and dizzy and too much in the best way. The kiss turns messy, breathless — like they’ve both been holding back all night and finally gave up pretending they could.

They stumble toward the bed without really deciding to, laughter breaking through between kisses, foreheads bumping, Minho murmuring Jisung’s name like he’s tasting it.

At some point, Jisung ends up on the mattress, sat on top of Minho’s lap. The room is quiet except for their breathing.

Minho looks at him like he’s stunned.

Like he can’t believe this is real.

Jisung notices — of course he does — and immediately ducks his face, mortified. “What?” he mumbles, covering his cheeks with his hands. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

Minho laughs softly, warm and disbelieving, and gently pulls Jisung’s hands away.

“You’re just…” He shakes his head, still smiling. “Perfect. And really pretty.”

Jisung groans, turning even redder. “Hyung, you can’t just say that.”

Minho leans down, pressing a kiss to the corner of Jisung’s mouth, then his cheek. “Why not?”

“You’re trying to kill me,” Jisung mutters — then, quieter, braver, “Stop teasing and fuck me already.”

Minho’s breath catches.

Something shifts in his expression — darker, eyes filling with want, unmistakably focused — and when he kisses Jisung again, it’s slower, deeper, like he’s taking his time now that he knows he has it.

Jisung melts into it immediately.

Minho’s hands settle at his waist, warm and steady, thumbs pressing in just enough to make Jisung inhale sharply. The kiss drags, unhurried, lips brushing, parting, lingering — every second stretched thin with intention. Jisung’s fingers curl into Minho’s shirt, not pulling, just holding, like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

By the time their clothes are hurriedly gone, they’re tangled together, feet catching, soft laughter breaking between kisses until Minho’s calves hit the edge of the bed. The older’s palms sliding over familiar curves like he’s memorizing them all over again.

Jisung’s heart is loud in his ears.

Soon Minho is fully inside of the younger and he presses his forehead to Jisung’s, breathing him in, thumb brushing along his jaw in a way that makes Jisung’s chest ache. There’s no rush — just warmth, closeness, the quiet permission of being wanted.

Then he starts to move, fabric shifts. Skin brushes skin. Minho’s mouth trails, leaving heat in its wake, and Jisung tilts into every touch without thinking, soft sounds slipping from him before he can stop them.

Minho hums at the reaction, pleased, grounding him with slow, steady movements that make the world narrow down to this bed, this moment, this feeling.

Time blurs.

There’s the creak of the mattress, the muffled sounds of campus life outside the window, Minho’s quiet voice near his ear — reassuring, low, saying Jisung’s name like it means something sacred.

The room smells warm.

Not sweat exactly — something softer. Detergent. Skin. Minho. The air is heavy with it, like it hasn’t realized yet that everything is about to go wrong.

Jisung is half-draped over Minho’s chest, bare skin against bare skin, listening to the steady thump of Minho’s heart beneath his ear. His cheek sticks slightly when he shifts. There’s a faint hum from the radiator. Somewhere outside, someone laughs in the hallway.

Minho’s arm is around him, loose and protective, thumb tracing absent circles into Jisung’s shoulder like it belongs there. Jisung feels boneless, warm all the way through — that quiet-after feeling where the world feels far away and harmless.

He thinks, vaguely, I’m going to remember this forever.

The door opens.

It’s sudden. Loud. The hinge creaks just enough to register before—

“—what the fuck?”

Jisung freezes.

The sound hits him before the words do: Chan’s voice, sharp and cracked at the edges, disbelief punching through every syllable.

Cold rushes in all at once.

Minho jerks under him. The bed shifts. Sheets tangle. Jisung’s stomach drops so hard he feels it in his throat.

Chan is standing in the doorway.

His face goes slack for half a second — shock, pure and unfiltered — before his eyes register skin. Too much skin. No clothes. No room for misunderstanding.

He spins around immediately, back to them, one hand coming up like he can physically block the image out.

“Oh my— Jesus Christ,” Chan snaps. “Put something on. Now.”

The room explodes into movement.

Jisung scrambles, hands shaking so badly he fumbles the sheet, fingers catching on fabric that suddenly feels too thin, too loud. His ears are ringing. He can hear his own heartbeat, can taste something metallic at the back of his mouth.

Minho moves fast — jeans yanked on, button missed the first time. Jisung grabs the first thing he can find: Minho’s hoodie from the floor, soft and familiar and suddenly devastating. He pulls it over his head, the fabric swallowing him, the scent of Minho clinging to it like a cruel joke. Boxers. Bare feet on cold floor.

Chan doesn’t turn back around until he hears the bed creak again.

When he does, his face is red — not flushed, but furious. Hurt sits underneath it, heavy and unmistakable.

“Are you kidding me?” he says.

His eyes flick between them once.

Then he steps forward and shoves Minho hard in the chest.

Minho stumbles back a step, hands instinctively up. “Chan—”

“You’re fucking my little brother behind my back?” Chan shouts. His voice cracks on brother. “You’re supposed to be my best friend. I trusted you.”

The words feel like physical blows.

Jisung’s chest tightens painfully. His fingers curl into the sleeves of the hoodie, knuckles white. He can’t make himself move. The room feels too small. Too loud. He smells Minho everywhere and suddenly wants to disappear.

Chan turns to him.

And that’s worse.

There’s no yelling. No shouting. Just that look — disappointment sharp enough to cut.

Jisung’s throat closes.

“Please—” he says, barely audible, the word tearing out of him before he can stop it. His voice sounds small. Embarrassingly so.

Chan doesn’t let him finish.

“What were you thinking?” Chan snaps, turning away like he can’t even look at him properly. “Do you have any idea—?”

“I was thinking,” Jisung blurts, panic pushing the words out of him before he can stop them, “that I’m not a kid anymore.”

Chan whirls back around. “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t you dare pull that right now.”

Minho steps closer instinctively, but Chan’s already on a roll, voice rising, hands sharp with frustration. “This is about trust, Jisung. This is about him—” he jabs a finger toward Minho without looking, “—knowing better.”

Jisung flinches at the motion. His skin feels tight, like it doesn’t fit right anymore.

“I didn’t force him,” Minho says, controlled but strained. “Chan, stop talking like that.”

Chan laughs — short, disbelieving. “You don’t get to tell me how to talk about my brother.”

“I get to tell you not to yell at him,” Minho shoots back.

Jisung’s chest feels hollow. The hoodie’s sleeves hang past his hands; he curls into them like he can hide there. Chan’s voice keeps hitting him from every direction.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Chan demands, finally looking straight at him. “Sleeping with my best friend? In his room? Like this is some secret little game?”

“It’s not—” Jisung’s voice cracks. He swallows hard. “It’s not a game.”

“Then what is it?” Chan snaps. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you didn’t think about the fallout at all.”

“That’s not fair,” Minho says.

Chan ignores him. “You didn’t think about me. About how this would affect the group. About how fucked up it is to put me in this position.”

Jisung’s eyes burn. He presses his lips together, tastes salt anyway.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispers.

Chan scoffs. “But you did.”

The words land hard. Permanent-sounding.

Minho steps fully between them then, body angled protectively without even thinking about it. “That’s enough.”

Chan’s eyes flash. “Move.”

“No,” Minho says. Calm. Final. “You don’t get to unload all of this on him.”

“He’s my brother,” Chan spits. “I’ve been looking out for him his entire life.”

“And I care about him,” Minho says, voice roughening despite himself. “That doesn’t make him fragile. And it doesn’t make this his fault.”

Chan opens his mouth to argue again.

Minho doesn’t let him.

“I love him.”

The room goes silent.

No shouting. No movement. Even the radiator seems to stop rattling.

Jisung’s breath catches painfully. His brain blanks, like someone cut the power mid-thought. He stares at Minho’s back, at the way his shoulders are set, steady and sure — like he didn’t just change everything.

Chan blinks. Once. Twice.

“What?” he says, quietly now.

Minho doesn’t look away. “I said I love him.”

Jisung’s ears ring. His heart slams against his ribs, too fast, too loud. Love. The word feels unreal — enormous — like it doesn’t belong in this room, tangled with anger and half-dressed shame and broken expectations.

Chan’s face shifts — anger giving way to something stunned. Confused. Hurt in a different way.

Jisung can’t move.

The words still echo in his head, loud and impossible, like they bounced off every wall and came back doubled.

I love him.

His hands are shaking. He doesn’t realize it until Minho shifts slightly and the movement pulls him back into his body.

“You… you love me?” Jisung asks, voice thin and unsteady. He turns toward Minho slowly, like he’s afraid the answer might vanish if he moves too fast.

Minho looks at him — really looks — and something in his expression softens completely, like the fight drained out of him all at once. He smiles, small and sincere, forgetting everything else in the room.

Forgetting Chan.

“Yeah,” Minho says quietly. He lifts his hands, gentle, like he’s asking permission without words, and cups Jisung’s cheeks. His thumbs brush away tears Jisung didn’t realize were spilling. Fingers slide into his hair, familiar and grounding. “I really do. I have for a while.”

Jisung’s chest caves in on itself.

The room blurs. His eyes burn harder, tears streaking down his face, his breath coming in short, uneven pulls. All the fear, the guilt, the shock — it crashes together into something unbearably full.

Before he can overthink it, before his brain can talk him out of it, Jisung leans forward and kisses Minho.

It’s deep and desperate and clumsy, his hands fisting in Minho’s hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Minho kisses him back immediately, arms coming around him, holding him close — protective, solid.

“I love you too,” Jisung breathes against his mouth, the words tumbling out wet and unfiltered. “I— I love you.”

Minho exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months and pulls Jisung into a tight hug, one hand pressing firmly between his shoulder blades.

Behind them, someone clears their throat.

Jisung startles, reality slamming back in all at once. He pulls back slightly, face flaming, suddenly very aware of the hoodie, the boxers, the fact that this is happening in front of his older brother.

Chan stands there, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it personally betrayed him.

“I didn’t know this was… serious,” Chan mutters finally. His voice is quieter now. Awkward. Almost embarrassed.

He glances at them, then away again. “I thought you two were just—” He grimaces. “Fucking. I didn’t realise there were… feelings involved.”

Jisung’s stomach twists. He steps forward before Minho can say anything, heart pounding painfully in his throat.

“I’m sorry, Channie hyung,” he says, voice shaking but honest. “It all happened really fast, and I didn’t plan it and I didn’t mean to lie to you but… I really do love Minho hyung.” He swallows. “I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

Chan’s jaw tightens. He rubs a hand over his face, exhaling hard.

Minho straightens beside Jisung, protective again. “And I don’t want your permission,” he says firmly. “Because I’m going to date Jisung no matter how you feel about it.”

Jisung’s eyes widen slightly at that — not scared, just stunned all over again.

Chan looks at Minho for a long moment. The anger isn’t there anymore. What’s left is something heavy and resigned and very, very brotherly.

Finally, he nods.

“Don’t hurt each other,” Chan says. His voice drops, serious now. “Because if you do, I’ll be forced to take Jisung’s side.”

He pauses, then adds more quietly, “And I love you like a brother too, Minho. So I’m trusting you.”

The weight of that lands hard.

Jisung lets out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding. Minho nods once, solemn. “I won’t hurt him.”

Chan sighs, tired. “God. This is… a lot.”

Jisung gives a weak, teary laugh despite himself. “You walked in at the worst possible time.”

Chan snorts despite everything. “Yeah. I really did.”

The tension doesn’t disappear — but it shifts. Loosens. Becomes something survivable.

Minho’s hand finds Jisung’s again, fingers lacing together, warm and steady.

And for the first time since the door opened, Jisung feels like he can breathe.

It doesn’t all settle at once.

But it does settle.

Jisung isn’t trying to be cute — which is exactly why he is.

They’re cutting across campus when Minho stops short to retie his shoelace, crouching down with a quiet sigh. Jisung hesitates for half a second, then shifts his backpack higher and steps aside to block the path automatically, like he’s done it a hundred times before without ever thinking about it.

A group of students passes. Someone nearly bumps into Minho. Jisung’s hand lifts instinctively, palm out, a soft, “Careful,” slipping from his mouth as he shields Minho without even looking back.

Minho freezes.

He looks up at Jisung — at the way he’s standing there, protective, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, eyes flicking between Minho and the crowd like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Something in Minho’s chest gives.

“My boyfriend is so cute,” Minho says casually, like he’s testing the word on his tongue, already halfway through pulling Jisung toward the practice building.

Jisung stumbles a step. “Your—”

Minho glances back, smiling. “You.”

The word lands heavy.

Jisung’s brain goes completely blank. His ears burn. He laughs, soft and helpless, tightening his grip on Minho’s sleeve like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“You can’t just say that like it’s normal,” he mutters.

“It is normal,” Minho says easily. “You’re my boyfriend.”

Jisung’s face heats instantly, warmth spreading up his neck and into his ears. He ducks his head, laughing under his breath. “Hyung…”

They’re still standing too close, still wrapped up in each other, when—

“Wait.”

They both freeze.

Changbin is a few steps behind them in the hallway, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“Did you just say boyfriend?”

Jisung makes a noise somewhere between a squeak and a groan.

Minho, completely unbothered, nods. “Yeah.”

Changbin looks between them once. Twice. Then he snorts. “Finally. Took you idiots long enough.”

Jisung’s face stays red for the rest of the afternoon.

Minho thinks it’s adorable.

They get used to it slowly — the hand-holding in public, the way Minho’s arm settles around Jisung’s shoulders without hesitation, the way Jisung starts introducing Minho without that split-second pause of what are we allowed to be?

College keeps moving around them.

Classes. Rehearsals. Late nights in the recording studio with Chan and Changbin, Minho waiting outside with a coffee he definitely didn’t need to buy but did anyway. Jisung composing with Minho’s knee pressed against his under the table, grounding him when his thoughts get too loud.

Sometimes Minho shows up to practice with a faint smile already on his face because Jisung texted him good luck, hyung unprompted.

Sometimes Jisung falls asleep on Minho’s chest while he’s stretching on the dorm floor, and Minho just… lets him.

Chan adjusts, in his own way.

At first, he’s stiff — watchful. Always hovering a little too close when Minho’s around. But then he sees the small things: Minho making sure Jisung eats. Minho walking him home when it’s late. Minho listening — really listening — when Jisung talks about music like it’s sacred.

Hyunjin finds out when he walks into the living room and finds Jisung curled up on the couch, head in Minho’s lap, fast asleep — Minho carefully scrolling on his phone with one hand and brushing Jisung’s hair back with the other.

Hyunjin blinks.

Slowly backs out.

Texts the group chat: I KNEW IT.

Seungmin figures it out when Minho absentmindedly reaches for Jisung’s hand in the cafeteria like it’s muscle memory — and Jisung lets him, no flinch, no hesitation.

Jeongin finds out because he walks in on them arguing over which hoodie belongs to who now.

They become… normal.

Annoyingly sweet. Disgustingly domestic. The kind of couple that steals fries off each other’s plates and argues about playlists and falls asleep in piles during movie nights.

Sometimes Jisung still can’t believe it — that Minho chose him. That Minho keeps choosing him.

Sometimes Minho looks at Jisung like he’s something precious and fragile and infinite all at once.

And sometimes, when they’re all together — sprawled across couches and dorm floors, laughing too loud, music humming in the background — Jisung thinks:

This is it.

Not perfect. Not simple.

But real.

And loved.

And that’s all Jisung’s ever wanted.