Han jisung's voice is divine. So divine that it makes the angels cry and the Devil obssessed. So obssessed that becoming a pastor to corrupt the boy soon becomes the only thing keeping the demon burning.
or : The Devil - Minho - wonders a lot about jisung's throat.
The Devil had seen beauty before - in the molten rivers of Hell, in the glint of a soul just before it was claimed - but nothing compared to the boy in the white choir robe. His voice rose like incense, soft and pure, and Minho sat in the shadowed pews, drinking in every note like it was sacrament. He wasn’t supposed to be here, not in this wretched little church smelling of wax and wood, but hunger had a way of making him reckless. And oh, how he hungered for this one - the way some creatures crave blood, he craved the shiver that would run down that innocent spine the moment it broke.
As soon as the boy’s voice fainted in the stone vaults of the small church, Minho fainted back to where he came from. Way down under the soil he thought. Thought of a way to get this boy all to himself, so he could corrupt him in the sweetest way.
Yes. Of course the boy with the voice of an angel was close to God. But after all, wasn’t the Devil himself once close to God? If one had fallen then another could fall too. And thus even though it wasn’t God’s plan.
Minho kept watching his prey from afar. Following him in the shadows, like a predator ready to sink his teeth into some bloody and tender flesh.
Han Jisung - because it was his name - was like an undercover angel. So much that Minho had wondered if it wasn’t an archangel playing a prank on him. But even though his soul was extremely pure, it wasn’t divine yet. Which meant that he could be corrupted. And this was good news for the Devil.
Minho had learned a lot about Jisung by watching him. The boy was in his twenties - early twenties. He seemed like a pretty nervous person but his hands always stopped shaking as soon as he was holding the small gothic cross around his neck or when he entered a church. No matter how stressed he was, the boy would always grin like his life depended on it. He worked in an animal shelter and all of the smallest bit of money he was making - that he wasn’t using for rent or food - would go to the church and different organisations to support world peace, solve world hunger and support children. He was the purest voice of the small church’s choir, so pure that even cherubs would stop to listen from the clouds. The boy was made for Heaven. God’s purest creation.
This should have made Minho sick to the bone. But he had once worshipped God too. And his jealousy of mankind hadn’t left. It was even stronger. After all, corrupting God’s best child, wasn’t it the best way to prove to the Lord that men weren’t above the Great Devil. So Minho was determined to grab this boy’s light soul and turn it into the same dark clouds that will drown the world in shadows at Doomsday.
The Devil’s plan was simple : he just had to act as a pastor, gain Jisung’s trust and turn his worship into a corrupted obsession towards him. The serpent was clever, and he would get what he wanted.
And soon enough, the choir boy in white robe will be his.
Sunday morning sunlight spilled through the stained glass, washing the chapel in gold and crimson when the new pastor arrived. He moved down the aisle with the easy confidence of someone born to command attention, his black clerical shirt fitted a little too well, his collar gleaming white against the sharp line of his jaw. Whispers followed him, curious and admiring, but his eyes found only one face - the boy in the front row, head bowed over his hymnal, unaware of the way he was already being claimed. Minho’s smile was warm enough to pass for holy, but under it coiled something darker, something patient. He quickly got to the altar, put down the black Holy Bible he was holding and opened it carefully.
“Good morning, children of God.” The new pastor’s voice carried easily through the chapel, rich and steady. “Before we begin today’s Mass, I’d like to introduce myself.” He smiled, and the warmth in it sent a ripple of bright, admiring gazes through the small congregation. “My name is Lee Minho - Pastor Lee. As many of you know, Pastor Park has decided to step down, saying he’s grown too old to guide you on your journey to God. He chose me to take his place, and I pray you’ll allow me to lead you along the holy path toward Heaven. And let us all pray for Pastor Park, that his retirement be as peaceful as the day he’s called home to God.”
Everyone sitting on the pews carefully joined their hands and bowed their heads - closing their eyes as Minho started to give his Mass. He softly, with a steady and warm voice read Bible verses about how God’s light would guide all good Christians towards the gates of Heaven - all that sort of stuff that he thought was bullshit. He wanted to roll his eyes so bad, everyone’s eyes were closed - he could - but he decided not to, just in case. His words were clear and heavy with the meaning people in the chapel were giving them. Even the latin phrases that most people there couldn’t understand seemed to go right through them. Was it some sort of reminiscence of his past as an angel? Probably not. But the thought of it made him smirk. The Devil was a good actor, and he loved playing.
His eyes scanned the place. Elderly men and women, kids with their parents. Everyone was dressed in their fanciest clothes as if going to church was the most important thing of their lives. Minho held back a laugh. His eyes then drifted to his goal, his target, his lamb - Jisung. He was there, sitting on the front row, wearing a white button up paired with a pair of light grey formal pants. His hands were joint, wrapped in a beautiful rosary that caught the light perfectly. The boy’s beauty was breathtaking.
After the Mass, Minho walked back down, his eyes meeting with Jisung’s as the young man bowed. The Devil decided it was his chance to start his indoctrination. He walked to him and grinned - trying not to show his sharp teeth.
“Morning, my son. Jisung - I suppose? Pastor Park told me I would immediately recognize the best element of his ecclesiastical choir.” He simply said.
The boy smiled and blushed slightly before looking away. He nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, Pastor Lee, I don’t think I deserve that much praise. I’m just trying to cheer up my neighbor through singing here at church in the name of God.” Damn. In addition to being the sweetest and kindest young man the Earth had ever known, he was humble? Minho’s soft smile turned almost carnivorous.
“Still, I can’t wait to be able to hear you with my own ears. Pastor Park was really your biggest fan.” He laughed before adding. “The way he depicted was just…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he vaguely gestured something similar to an enormous explosion with his arms. Which made Jisung chuckle.
“You seem to hold me in high regard, Pastor Lee.” Jisung smiled and bowed respectfully. He held tight onto his chest a beat up hymn book that seemed to be as old as christianity itself.
Minho raises an eyebrow. “This poor book is falling apart.” He stated the obvious. Jisung - flustered - pulled it down. “Wait up, I’ll give you a new one.” Minho continued before going straight to the small organ. There he grabbed a fresh and clean hymn book. “Come over here, son.”
Jisung came up to him and grabbed the book that was handed to him. He bowed solemnly, showing his eternal gratitude. “Thank you, Pastor Lee, for this priceless gift. I will cherish it.” As Minho let go of the book, his fingers brushed Jisung’s. The Devil - for the first time in his long life - shivered.
His mind went blank for a second. What was happening to him? Was this boy really human after all? He - the Devil - couldn’t be weak to a Man’s touch. He shook his head, wishing to shake away this unusual feeling with it. “The pleasure is all mine.” He simply answered, looking unshaken no matter what he had felt.
The shining boy smiled. “I now have to go back to work. But it will be a pleasure to meet you again this evening for choir practice.”
Minho nodded. “Sure thing. See you, my son.” And with that, the Devil was left all alone in the chapel. It was noon already, and the small place was drowned in sunlight. The light was coming through the tainted glass to hit the white stones used to build the place. Minho found himself looking up and admiring the beauty of the place. Somehow impressed by mankind’s work. Maybe men weren’t doing everything bad after all.
Minho then spent hours reading and analyzing the hymn book. He had to know all the ecclesiastical chants for choir practice, this way he would look even more legit to the church children - to Jisung. He looked down at the words, mostly in Latin but also in Korean, there were even some in English. The lyrics were glorifying God and his work, as well as Jesus’. Minho would roll his eyes. “Glória in excélsis Deo, et in terra pax homínibus bonae voluntátis. Laudámus te, benedícimus te, adorámus te, glorificámus te.” (author’s note : Glory on The noble God, And on earth peace would be given to the men of good virtue. We call upon Your name, we bless You, we adore You, we glorify You.) The Devil let out a chuckle. Why should he even let his golden boy sing such disruptive lyrics? He slammed the hymn book on his wood desk, throwing his head back. He sighed loudly before looking around. The small office of the pastor was clean and basic. The walls were covered in bookshelves - themselves filled with christian books. Above his head, hung on the wall, was a wood cross. Minho sighed and looked down at his watch - 3.53PM. The practice would soon start. He got up and put on his jacket before heading towards the inside of the chapel. But he suddenly froze in front of a mirror. While frowning he fixed his hair. He needed to look perfect - for Jisung.
The Devil then waited for the choir children in front of the small chapel. His veiny hands were holding tight onto the book as if it was anchoring him down to earth. His grin was small but still somehow felt warm if you didn’t look at it for too long.
After a while, the choir children started gathering at the chapel. Minho let them enter, claiming it was warmer inside. Was it really? Not that much. But his fake warm smile fooled everyone. But what was about to warm up the room soon arrived. Jisung, in baggy jeans and a blue and brown striped sweater. He was wearing a dark beanie and some thick frame glasses too. His cheeks were red with the cold - which made them look even rounder. The Devil’s heart - or at least its equivalent - melted at the view. This boy was definitely divine.
Minho shook his head and quickly went back to his senses. Stay in character. He told himself.
The rest of choir practice went well. Most of the kids were average. Jisung was amazing. Minho kept stealing glances. His eyes would wander all over the boy’s body. His soft cheeks, his round eyes, his lips shaped like a heart when he would smile. Minho was obsessed. He needed Jisung carnally - so much his teeth hurted him.
“This throat is extremely talented, my son.” The Devil smiled at the boy in the holy light.
Jisung nodded and bowed in a soft motion full of grace. “Thank you, pastor Lee.”
Minho grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it softly. His grip was tight but not enough to hurt his golden boy. “Don’t be so humble. Your voice carries like a prayer itself, Jisung… it makes me want to listen longer than I should.” Jisung slightly winced but Minho kept going, his voice and words like velvet on the boy’s skin. “When you sing, I forget I’m meant to be leading. It’s dangerous, the way you pull attention without even trying. God must love you dearly to give you such a gift. Sometimes I think He gave it only to test the rest of us. I feel so… solely human when I listen to you.”
Jisung’s cheeks turned auburn. “But pastor Lee, you are the link between the Holy Spirit and I.” He argued, almost trying to comfort the clergyman.
Minho squeezed his shoulder a bit more, shaking his head softly. “I’m not this link, son. Your voice is.” He corrected Jisung with a warm smile. The boy nodded and bowed humbly. And like that he was gone.
Minho sighed loudly, now alone in the cold chapel. It was dark, a bit of yellowish light was coming through the tainted glass from the streetlights outside. The Devil rolled his eyes and went to sit on the altar - his back facing the cross as he crossed his legs. He looked down at his dark and pointy formal shoes. An unknown red light was shining on them. His eyes followed the light. Its source happened to be the emergency exit sign above the wooden door of the chapel.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Fucking ironic, isn’t it?” Minho got up, heading to the door. Midway, he froze and turned around to face the crosstowering over him. “Com’on quit the disapproving gaze.” He spat before leaving.
The evenings at the church had always been quiet, filled with nothing more than the creak of old wood and the faint scent of wax clinging to the air. But since Pastor Lee’s arrival, Jisung found himself lingering there longer than before, often at the pastor’s request. “Stay a while,” Minho would say with that soft smile, his voice so calm it felt like a command dressed in kindness. And Jisung always obeyed, folding his hands nervously on his lap as he sat across from the older man in the flickering candlelight of the office.
Minho spoke in ways no pastor before him had. Not sermons, not doctrine - but questions. Questions that made Jisung shift in his seat, pulse quickening as though he were being undressed without a single touch. “Tell me, Jisung,” Minho said one night, leaning forward so his shadow stretched across the desk. “Do you ever wonder why God gave you such a voice? Why He made you sound the way you do? Surely you know it moves people… it moves me.”
Jisung swallowed, cheeks heating, but shook his head quickly. “It’s just… just a gift. For God’s glory.”
“Of course,” Minho murmured, though his gaze didn’t waver. “And yet… when you sing, it doesn’t sound like worship alone. There’s something else in it. Longing, maybe. A sweetness so deep it borders on dangerous.” His hand brushed across the desk, close enough that Jisung could feel the pull of it without being touched. “You must feel it too, don’t you? That your voice stirs more than prayer.”
The words clung to the golden boy like incense smoke, thick and impossible to shake. He dropped his gaze to the wooden floor, heart hammering in his chest. “Pastor Lee… I don’t-”
“You don’t have to be ashamed,” Minho interrupted softly, almost coaxing. “Even Christ was tempted in the desert. Do you think less of yourself for feeling what’s natural?” The line between guidance and something else blurred more with each meeting. Minho sat closer now, shoulders brushing when they read scripture together, his hand sometimes lingering on Jisung’s shoulder a heartbeat too long. He twisted verses into gentle snares, weaving desire into words meant to be pure.
“‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth,’” Minho quoted one evening from the Song of Solomon, his tone rich and low. “Scripture itself tells us that love - even burning love - is holy.” Jisung’s lips parted in protest, but no words came. The warmth in his chest spread until it ached, until he wasn’t sure if it was faith or sin that made him tremble under Pastor Lee’s gaze.
The weeks slid by in a haze of late-night talks and stolen glances. What began as “guidance” had turned into something quieter, sharper - the kind of thing Jisung never spoke of, not even in prayer. He caught himself looking for Pastor Lee’s eyes during service, felt a nervous flutter in his stomach whenever the man’s hand brushed his shoulder in passing. It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. And yet, he could not deny the way his chest warmed at the thought of Minho’s voice calling his name, soft and certain, in the quiet of the chapel. Minho knew it too. Every hesitation, every flush of Jisung’s cheeks - he noticed, memorized, savored. During confession one evening, he let silence linger too long after Jisung’s timid words, leaning in close enough that the boy could feel his breath ghost across his ear.
“Sin is not always what you think it is,” Minho whispered, the words meant to sound consoling, but laced with something darker. “Sometimes, what feels heavy… is only the weight of desire. And desire is not evil, Jisung. It’s divine. A fire lit in you by God Himself.”
Jisung left that night unable to meet his own reflection in the chapel window. He sang with more fervor the following Sunday, desperate to wash away whatever strange seed had been planted in him. But the more he tried to smother it, the stronger it grew. His voice cracked with emotion, his body tense under the weight of unseen eyes. He didn’t need to look to know Minho was watching. And Minho waited. Patient as the predator he was. Never pressing too hard, never giving Jisung a reason to flee - only brushing the edges of temptation, again and again, until the boy’s defenses frayed thread by thread.
Then came the storm. The rain fell sudden and furious one night after choir practice, drumming against the chapel roof, the wind howling through the cracks in the stained glass. Most of the congregation had left long before the downpour began, but Jisung lingered as he always did, carefully stacking hymnals in the empty pews. By the time he reached the doors, the streets outside were flooded and dark, the rain soaking through the wood as if the heavens themselves meant to drown the earth. He hesitated, clutching his bag to his chest.
“Jisung,” came the familiar voice from behind him. Calm, steady, like it had been waiting. He turned to see Pastor Lee in the doorway of his office, candlelight behind him casting his figure in gold. “You’ll catch your death out there. Come. Stay until the storm passes.” Jisung’s throat went dry. He should have declined - should have bowed politely and braved the rain. But something in Minho’s gaze, that patient warmth wrapped around something he couldn’t name, pulled him forward step by trembling step. The thunder roared outside, and the chapel door closed softly behind him.
Inside, the office was warm. A single candle burned low on the desk, its flame bending every so often under the draft of wind slipping through the cracks of the old windows. The scent of wax and damp wood hung heavy in the air. Minho gestured toward the chair opposite his own.
“Sit.” The boy obeyed, perching on the edge of the chair, still clutching his damp jacket. He looked down at his hands, willing them to stop trembling. “You’ve been working hard,” Minho said after a moment, leaning back in his chair with a soft smile. “I see it in your voice each Sunday. You’re pouring more of yourself into the choir than ever before. Almost as if you’re singing to be heard by someone in particular.”
Jisung’s throat tightened. He shook his head quickly. “I just want to serve God.”
“Mm.” The Devil’s hum was low, amused, but not unkind. “And yet… when you sang tonight, it didn’t sound like worship alone. It sounded like longing. Like someone reaching out, desperate to be answered.” His eyes, sharp in the candlelight, never left Jisung’s face. “Tell me, Son… what do you long for?”
The boy’s chest tightened. Heat flooded his ears. He stammered, “N-Nothing. Only to do His will.”
Minho leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. The flame caught the curve of his smile, half-shadow, half-light. “You think I cannot see?” His voice dropped lower, intimate, coaxing. “Every time you sing, you tremble. Not with fear. With desire. Do you think God is blind to it? Do you think He condemns you for feeling what He gave you in the first place?” Jisung’s breath came unsteady, and he shook his head, but he couldn’t form an answer.
Minho rose slowly from his chair, crossing the space between them with deliberate steps. He stopped just beside Jisung, the warmth of his presence sinking into the boy’s trembling skin. His hand brushed over Jisung’s shoulder - a light touch, almost nothing - yet it sent a jolt through him like lightning splitting the sky outside. “You’ve hidden it well,” Minho murmured, leaning closer, his lips near Jisung’s ear. “But not from me. I see it, Jisung. I hear it in every note of your voice. You’re not only singing for Heaven… you’re singing for someone to catch you before you fall.”
The boy’s lips parted, trembling. “Pastor Lee, please… I…”
“Please what?” Minho’s whisper was velvet, dangerous. He tilted Jisung’s chin up with the barest touch of his fingers, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Do you want me to stop? Or do you want me to give you what you’re too afraid to ask for?”
For one suspended heartbeat, the world outside seemed to disappear. Only the storm in Jisung’s chest remained, colliding with the thunder overhead. His lashes lowered, breath quick and shallow. And Minho, patient no longer, closed the distance. The kiss was soft at first, almost reverent - the kind a shepherd might bestow on the most precious of his flock. But beneath it coiled hunger, dark and possessive, pressing harder until Jisung made a faint, desperate sound in the back of his throat. Minho pulled away just enough to watch him, to drink in the sight of the boy’s wide, trembling eyes.
“That,” Minho said softly, his thumb brushing the corner of Jisung’s mouth, “was not sin. That was truth.”
Jisung’s chest heaved. He wanted to protest, to cry out that it was wrong, but the words tangled in his throat, strangled by the heat curling low in his belly. He shook his head faintly, whispering, “No… this isn’t right…”
Minho’s smile deepened, slow and wicked. “Then why do you look at me like you want more?”
And Jisung froze. Because it was true. He did. His body betrayed him, leaning forward ever so slightly, as though drawn by a thread he couldn’t cut. Minho’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something inhuman flashing there - a glint of fire that didn’t belong to candlelight. For an instant, his shadow stretched unnaturally against the wall, horns arching upward before snapping back into place. Jisung’s breath caught in his throat.
“W-What are you?” he whispered.
The pastor didn’t deny it. He leaned closer, so close Jisung could feel the heat radiating off him, a warmth far too intense for any human. His voice was silk laced with flame. “Exactly what you fear I am. And exactly what you’ve been calling to without even knowing it.”
Jisung’s heart pounded violently in his chest. He should have run. He should have cried out for God, fled into the storm, anywhere but here. But his body wouldn’t move. His body only trembled under the weight of Minho’s gaze, frozen between terror and an aching, shameful desire. “You…” Jisung’s voice broke, barely audible. “You’re… the Devil.”
“And yet,” Minho whispered, brushing a damp strand of hair from Jisung’s forehead, “you let me kiss you. You let me touch you. Tell me, Jisung, is it really damnation you fear… or the fact that you liked it?”
Jisung’s lips parted, no sound escaping, only a rush of air that betrayed his answer far more than words could. His hand gripped the edge of the chair as though it would anchor him against the pull threatening to consume him whole. Minho bent lower, until his breath warmed Jisung’s skin. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to yourself. Heaven has its hymns… but you, my sweet boy, were made for something far more intoxicating.”
The candle flickered violently, guttering against the draft. Jisung’s silver cross, worn loosely around his neck, slipped free of his damp shirt, dangling between them. Minho’s gaze flicked to it, and with a smile that was almost fond, he hooked a finger under the chain, tugging it gently until it slid across Jisung’s collarbone. “Still clinging to this,” he murmured, his voice deep and dangerous. “As if it could save you.” He let the cross fall, watching it land against Jisung’s chest. “But God isn’t here tonight. Only me.”
And when his lips claimed Jisung’s again, harder this time, the boy did not push him away. His hands trembled, caught between clutching at the chair and grasping at Minho’s sleeve, as though torn between resistance and surrender. The thunder roared overhead, but in the silence of the office, the storm between them was louder. The kiss deepened until Jisung thought he might drown in it. Minho’s mouth was fire, his touch searing, and though every beat of Jisung’s heart screamed that this was wrong, his body betrayed him. His lips parted, breath hitching as Minho coaxed him further, slower, deeper.
When Minho finally pulled back, it wasn’t to release him - it was to look at him. To study him like a predator studying prey that had already stepped willingly into its jaws. Candlelight trembled across Jisung’s face, highlighting his flushed cheeks, his parted lips, the dazed look in his eyes.
“Do you feel it now?” Minho’s voice was a low hum, threaded with satisfaction. “The truth you’ve been running from?”
“I…” Jisung tried to speak, but his words faltered, lost in the thunder that rattled the windows. His fingers curled tight around the edge of the desk. “It’s not… I can’t-”
“You can,” The Devil interrupted gently, but his tone carried the weight of command. His hand slid from the boy’s chin down to his throat, not squeezing, merely resting there, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin. “This… all of this… it’s what you were meant for.”
Jisung shivered, torn between the comfort in Minho’s voice and the blasphemy of his words. He wanted to push him away, to cry for forgiveness - but instead, his head tilted back just slightly, exposing his throat under Minho’s palm. The devil’s smile was slow, triumphant. “That’s it. Yield to what’s already inside you.” The storm outside raged, but inside the office the only sound was Jisung’s shallow breathing, the rasp of wet fabric clinging to his skin, and the creak of wood as Minho leaned closer. He pressed his lips to Jisung’s temple, then lower - the shell of his ear, the corner of his jaw. Each kiss was soft, reverent, but carried the burn of possession.
“You prayed to God every night,” Minho whispered against his skin, “but He never touched you like this. Did He?”
Jisung squeezed his eyes shut, shame twisting in his chest. “Stop-” But his protest melted into a gasp when Minho’s lips brushed the sensitive curve of his throat.
“Your body betrays you, little lamb,” Minho murmured, the words half a tease, half a promise. “You beg me to stop, but you lean closer every time.” His hand slid to Jisung’s waist, steadying him as the boy’s knees threatened to give out. Jisung’s cross slipped forward again, glinting in the candlelight as it swung between them. Minho caught it in his fingers, rolling the silver charm against his thumb. For a long moment he only stared at it, then he let it dangle, pulling Jisung closer by the chain until their foreheads nearly touched.
“Do you know why you wear this?” Minho asked softly. “Because you’re afraid. Not of sin. Not of me. Afraid of what you are, deep inside. This-” he tugged the chain, the cross pressing into Jisung’s skin “-is your leash. And I think you’re tired of being chained.” The chain slipped from Minho’s fingers. The cross hit Jisung’s chest, then slid down further, until the fragile clasp gave way and the necklace fell to the floor with a faint metallic clink. Jisung’s eyes snapped open, a soft cry escaping his throat as though something vital had been torn from him. He bent quickly, as if to pick it up, but Minho’s hand caught his wrist, holding him still.
“Leave it,” The Devil said, his voice final. “It cannot save you now.” Tears prickled at the corners of Jisung’s eyes - not from despair, but from the overwhelming weight of what he felt: fear, shame, want, hunger, all crashing together like the storm outside.
“Look at me.” Minho’s command was quiet but absolute. When Jisung lifted his gaze, trembling, Minho’s eyes were no longer merely human. They glowed faintly, like embers buried in ash. “Do you see me now? Do you finally understand what you’ve invited into your heart?”
“You’re… the Devil,” Jisung whispered again, the word fragile, broken.
“Yes.” Minho’s smile curved like the edge of a blade. “And still, you haven’t run. You let me touch you. You want me to touch you again.” His thumb stroked along Jisung’s wrist, slow and deliberate. “Do you think that’s coincidence, little lamb? Or do you finally admit… you were never meant for Heaven?” Jisung’s body shook. His lips parted as though to argue, but nothing came. Nothing except the low, desperate sound that rose from his throat when Minho’s hand cupped his jaw once more, tilting his face upward.
“Say it,” Minho coaxed, his voice silk over steel. “Say you want me.”
“I-” Jisung’s voice cracked. He swallowed hard, tears slipping down his cheeks, shame and desire warring in his chest. “I… can’t…”
“You can,” Minho countered, his lips brushing over Jisung’s trembling mouth. “Because you already do.”
And then Jisung broke. His hands, which had clutched the desk in frantic resistance, rose instead to grasp Minho’s shirt, clutching desperately as though afraid he’d vanish. He pulled him down into a kiss - messy, clumsy, filled with pent-up hunger and fear and surrender all at once. Minho answered with a low growl of satisfaction, deepening the kiss, claiming it fully. His hands gripped Jisung’s waist, lifting him onto the edge of the desk with effortless strength. Papers scattered, the candle guttered, and still the storm of their mouths did not stop. Jisung gasped as Minho’s lips trailed down his throat again, teeth grazing lightly at the pulse hammering there. His legs trembled, wrapping instinctively around the devil’s hips. His head tilted back, surrender written in every line of his body.
“You see?” Minho whispered against his skin. “This is truth. This is freedom. Heaven never wanted you, Jisung. But I-” his mouth brushed lower, scorching every inch of exposed skin “-I will have you. Entirely.”
And Jisung, drowning in the heat, whispered the words that sealed him: “Please.”
The storm outside howled louder, as if the heavens themselves raged against the surrender of one of their own. But inside the office, the boy’s moans mingled with the devil’s low laughter, the sound of worship turned to something darker, something profane. The silver cross lay forgotten on the floor, its chain tangled, its charm catching faintly in the candlelight. It had fallen, just as its wearer had. And for the first time in his life, Jisung did not feel God watching him. Only Minho.
Only the Devil, and the fire he had finally allowed to consume him.
The chapel was bright again the next morning, sunlight breaking through the stained-glass windows, scattering jewel-toned light across the pews. The storm had passed in the night, leaving the world washed clean. Birds sang outside, the air crisp with the scent of rain-soaked earth. Inside, the congregation gathered as always, their voices warm and welcoming, their laughter echoing faintly off the rafters. To them, nothing had changed. To them, it was simply another Sunday.
But to Jisung, nothing was the same.He stood with the choir at the front of the chapel, his hymnal open in his hands. His fingers trembled faintly as he traced the notes, though whether from nerves or memory he could not say. His lips felt swollen, his throat raw, but when the organ swelled, he parted his mouth and began to sing. His voice was different now. It was still pure - still sweet, still golden as sunlight streaming through stained glass - but beneath it ran something deeper, something raw and haunting. A yearning that cut sharper than prayer, threaded with something the congregation couldn’t name but felt all the same. Whispers rose among them - how moved they were, how blessed to hear such devotion.
But Minho knew.
From the pulpit he watched, hands folded neatly before him, his face the picture of pastoral serenity. His collar gleamed white, his smile gentle, his presence radiating authority and warmth. To the faithful eyes turned toward him, he was the perfect shepherd. But his gaze never wavered from Jisung. The boy’s lashes lowered as he sang, his cheeks faintly flushed, his voice trembling with emotion. To others it looked like holy fervor. To Minho, it was memory - the sound of surrender, the echo of last night’s pleas dressed in the disguise of worship.
Jisung felt it too. Every note that left his lips carried the weight of Minho’s touch, the ghost of his breath, the burn of his words. He could not look up, could not meet the eyes he knew were fixed on him. And yet, when he closed his eyes, he saw them still - glowing faintly in the dark, holding him fast even as the storm raged outside.
When the hymn ended, the congregation applauded softly, murmuring their admiration. Jisung bowed his head, hiding the faint, forbidden smile that tugged at his lips. It was small, secret, dangerous - the kind of smile that belonged not to God’s faithful, but to someone who had tasted something far older, far darker.
From the pulpit, Minho’s own smile answered, subtle and knowing. “Let us pray,” he said warmly, his voice ringing clear through the chapel.
And as the congregation bowed their heads, Jisung did the same, though his heart was not lifted upward. His prayer - if it could even be called that - went not to the heavens above, but to the man at the pulpit. No - not a man. Never a man.
The Devil himself.
And as Jisung’s voice whispered softly with the others, there was no fear left in him. Only the quiet, unshakable knowledge that he had already been claimed.
Working late was never part of Jisung’s plan - especially not under Lee Minho, the cold, unreadable CEO who never spares him more than a glance. But between midnight drives, sharp words, and stolen looks, Jisung begins to realize there’s something dangerous simmering under Minho’s polished exterior. And when a glossy magazine shoot throws gasoline on the fire, the lines between professionalism, obsession, and desire blur until neither of them can pretend it’s just work anymore.
-- or : Jisung wants to get fucked really bad by his boss who's twice his age
The office was empty and dark - even though the moon was already high in Seoul’s night sky. Two sounds remained in the dark place : the soft hum of the single lamp lighting up a desk, and the constant sound of someone typing on a mechanical keyboard.
Jisung sighed before looking at the time on his monitor - 8.43PM - he should have left almost four hours ago. But he was still here, working overtime, high on caffeine. Because he was still there too. The tired intern glanced toward the glass-walled corner office. He’s sitting there, jacket off, white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loosened just enough to show his throat. Lee Minho, the company CEO, always working overtime like his life depends on it.
Emails weirdly kept coming, as if Jisung wasn’t the only one stuck in office by his own will to look like the best option for the ‘employee of the month’. He was still an intern, an intern that would never get his face on the wall. He didn’t know why he kept working so hard. It was no use, the boss probably didn’t even know his name.
His coffee ran cold in the cup. His fingers got slower on the keyboard. His eyelids started to feel heavy. But this was until a familiar voice cut through his growing sleepiness.
“Are you waiting for me to walk out again?” The voice wasn’t deep or low, it was cold and sharp. So sharp that Jisung jumped awake, letting out a high yelp that he couldn’t keep in even if he had wanted to.
He turned around and blinked. “I- I don’t… I wanted to finish this-” Jisung vaguely gestured towards his monitor without giving it a glance.
“The screen is black.” Minho simply said. His tone wasn’t holding any warmth, or even any heat. It was just cold and weirdly blank.
Jisung finally dared to look at the monitor - pitch black. He tried to mumble an excuse but nothing clear came out of his heart shaped lips. Minho turned around, slowly. Just staring at a pile of documents, that was laying on another desk of the open space, with that unreadable expression of his, all tired eyes and sharp cheekbones. “You make this harder than it needs to be.” The older man whispered.
After a silence, the young intern looked up. “What do you mean, sir?”
Minho let out a laugh, but it lacked humor. “You don’t belong here,” he says flatly. “You’re too soft. Too eager. You think people are kind.”
“I just wanted to help.”Jisung simply answered back, as if stating the obvious.
Minho turned back to look at him. He was now frowning. His cold gaze seemed to emphasize his sharp cheek bones and the few silver streaks in his hair. “Help me?” He echoed. Jisung swallowed, he felt like taking his words back for a second, but he didn’t. “You think I need saving? Do I look like a helpless kitten?”
The intern looked down, trying to find an answer that wouldn’t get him fired on the spot. He sighed loudly, knowing what he was about to say was extremely risky considering the situation he was in. “No. But maybe you need… someone to wait for you to come home.”
Minho froze, as if someone had slapped him straight in the face. His jaw clenched. Jisung knew - he just knew - that he had terribly messed up. “Pack your things.” Those three words had the small intern shivering. So this was it? After so much work to get this internship? It was all over.
He turned around to his desk, leaning down to grab a box in which he could put his things. “Are you firing me?” He still asked, a wind of hope rising within him.
Minho stayed silent for a second, before sighing loudly and walking towards the door. “No.” He simply answered. But before Jisung even got the time to raise an eyebrow, he added. “I’m driving you home.”
This answer seemed so unreal to Jisung that he didn’t even remember walking out of the building, or even entering the dark sedan. The inside of the car was clean, dark, cold and expensive. Just the way Jisung expected Minho’s car to look. The city shimmered outside the car windows - a blur of neon and rain-soaked pavement. The younger man sat stiffly in the passenger seat, clutching his bag like it was the only thing grounding him. The silence between them crackled with unspoken things.
Minho’s hands gripped the steering wheel, veins flexing under his pale skin. His tie was still loosened, shirt collar slightly rumpled from a long day. He hadn’t spoken since they left the building. Not a word.
Jisung gave him a quick glance. He wanted to say something, but looking at his boss while saying anything seemed way too much for him. He looked at the lights through the car’s window. “You didn’t have to drive me home.” He managed to mumble between his teeth.
“I know.” Minho added. Not giving a single glance to the younger man next to him. A beat of silence. The traffic lights flashed red - the car stopped.
Jisung eventually managed to gather some courage. “Then why did you?” He asks.
Minho exhaled through his nose. He seemed irritated, as if he had been asked the dumbest question he had ever heard. “Because you’re an idiot.” He sighed again, as if stating the obvious.
“Excuse me?” The younger man answered, raising his eyebrows - clearly offended.
Minho didn’t roll his eyes, but it felt like it. He finally looked at Jisung. “It’s nearly 9 PM. You stayed behind working on something no one asked you for. You didn’t eat. You clearly don’t know how to take care of yourself.”
Jisung frowned, now even more upset. “I do.”
A new silence. Then Minho let out an humorless laugh. “That’s the thing : you think you do. But this world eats people like you alive.” There it was again - that cold, patronizing tone. Like Jisung was a delicate thing he regretted finding endearing.
But instead of biting back, the boy just stared out the window. “Maybe I don’t want to be hard like you.”
Minho’s throat turned dry. He stayed silent. The light turned green.
They reached Jisung’s apartment complex a few minutes later. Minho pulled up to the curb but didn’t unlock the doors. His eyes stayed on the road ahead. The intern had his hand on the handle that wouldn’t allow him to open the door. He looked back at Minho, confused.
“Why are you here?” The older boss eventually asked.
Jisung raised an eyebrow. He was even more confused. “You wanted to drive me…and…”He gave a quick glance towards his apartment complex through the window. “This is where I live.” He added, stating the obvious.
Minho sighed. “No.” His tone was sharper. “Why are you in my department? Why are you at my office every damn night, looking at me like I’m supposed to give you something I don’t have?”
The boy’s throat went dry. He didn’t answer. He didn’t even know the answer. Minho finally turned his head, looking straight into Jisung’s eyes. You don’t know what you are asking for, kiddo.”
“Then tell me,” He whispered, not trusting his own voice. “Tell me what I'm asking for.”
Minho didn’t like it. He closed his eyes. Exhaled from his perfect straight nose. He was annoyed. “Leave.”
“Mr. Lee-”
“Now.” His tone was sharp. There was no discussing the order he had just given. The doors clicked open. Jisung was pissed too. He left the car without thanking his boss, or even looking back. But he felt it - in the silence, in the stare, in the way his name lingered like smoke. The great Lee Minho was cracking. And Jisung was the sHan.
On the next day, Jisung showed up fifteen minutes early to work. Was it guilt? or nerves? He himself didn’t fully know. But he was there no matter what.
He’d barely slept. Still, he was in his seat by 8:45, double-checked his drafts, and reheated the coffee he knew Minho liked. No milk. One sugar. It was pathetic, he realized - trying to earn points with a man who hadn’t smiled at him once in three weeks.
At 9 sharp, Minho neutered the open space. Perfect suit. Fresh tie. Not a single trace of the man who’d driven jisung home the night before.
Jisung stood from his desk, holding out the mug. “Good morning, Mr. Lee.”
Minho barely glanced at him. “Don’t make a habit of staying late. It’s inefficient.”
The young intern hesitated. “I thought it would help.”
“Thinking and knowing are different,” Minho said coolly, brushing past him. “Stick to what you know.” The rejection was ice cold. It shouldn’t have stung, but it did. Jisung sat back down again, cheeks burning. He didn’t get it. He was doing everything right. And still- every time Minho looked at him, it felt like being pinned under a microscope. Judged. Dissected. Why did he even care? Why did he feel like he’d disappointed someone important? Yes, Minho was his boss. But still. His approval and recognition shouldn’t mean so much to an intern like Jisung.
It was almost lunchtime when Jisung found himself alone in the small break room, fumbling with the coffee machine. The paper cup slipped from his hand, sending hot liquid splashing across the counter and onto his wrist.
“Shit-” he hissed, yanking his arm back.
“You’re incapable of basic tasks, I see.” Jisung turned. Of course. Mr. Lee stood in the doorway, arms crossed, voice smooth and venomous.
“I didn’t- I wasn’t trying to-” Jisung flushed, reaching for paper towels.
Minho stepped in, grabbed a cloth, and took his wrist without asking. Jisung froze. His fingers were rough. Cool against the burn. “Next time, try not scalding yourself for caffeine,” Minho muttered, dabbing gently at the skin.
Jisung couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was staring again - at the grey in Minho’s temples, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. It didn’t make sense. Minho was cold. Rigid. Probably allergic to feelings. He was twice his age. So why did his heart hammer like this every time he was close?
Minho dropped his hand abruptly. “You’re too careless.”
Jisung’s voice came out smaller than he intended. “Why do you always talk to me like that?”
Minho paused. His eyes locked on Jisung’s - not angry. Not annoyed. Something else. “I’m trying,” he said slowly, “not to talk to you at all.” Then he turned and walked out, leaving Jisung standing there with a burning wrist and a brain full of static.
The young intern looked down as his boss left. All he did was squatting to the ground and sighing loudly. So what was he going to do now? His boss basically hated him. And the worst part was that he had legit reasons for it. Jisung felt completely incompetent. He wanted to disappear. But he knew well that he couldn’t let go of this job - he had to pay rent. All he could do now was to do as told and wait for the “great” Mr. Lee to fire him. So he sighed louder. Got up and went back to his desk without taking a new coffee.
As he turned back on his monitor, a new email was waiting for him. It was an invitation for the company gala. It was one of those events interns weren’t expected to attend. But the last line of the email was clear enough : “Mr. Lee asked that you be present. Business formal.”
So three days later, on Saturday evening, there he was standing in a room full of colleagues he had never even seen. A room filled with a recognizable smell of money - that people kept arguing didn’t exist. Jisung didn’t know what was worse - the too-tight collar of his dress shirt, or the knowledge that he’d have to spend an entire evening standing within five feet of Mr. Lee without combusting. He had thought about calling in sick, or simply not coming. But the thought of Mr. Lee being the one who wanted him made him stay. And now, here he was - in a borrowed blazer, hair gelled back awkwardly, standing by a row of champagne flutes he was too nervous to touch.
He hadn’t spotted Minho yet. And somehow, the anticipation was worse than the man himself. Until he arrived. Jisung felt it before he saw it - the hush that passed through the crowd, the shift in atmosphere. Then Minho emerged from the elevator, black suit sharp as a knife, hair slicked back, not a smile in sight. He looked like power. Like danger. Like he hadn’t slept since Tuesday and somehow made it sexy. And Jisung? He felt pathetic. Like a boy playing dress-up. Like something soft and out of place in a room full of wolves.
Minho made his way through the room slowly, nodding at people, glass of whiskey in hand. He didn’t look at Jisung. Not at first. But when he did - a glance across the room, brief and cutting - Jisung’s entire spine straightened. The look said: “I see you. I know you’re watching me. Stop.” And Jisung couldn’t.
Later, while pretending to read a display of award-winning ad campaigns, he heard the voice behind him.
“You clean up. Barely.”
Jisung turned. Minho stood close. Too close. No tie. First button undone. “I could say the same, Mr. Lee,” Jisung murmured, trying to sound casual, trying not to melt.
Minho’s mouth twitched - not a smile. Something sharper. “Careful. You’re not paid to flirt.”
Jisung flushed. “I wasn’t- I’m not.”
Minho’s gaze dropped to his mouth, then back up. “That’s the problem. You don’t even know when you are.”
The younger man’s breath caught. “Why did you ask me to come tonight?”
Minho’s voice was low. “Because you need to learn how to exist in rooms like this. Quietly. Without drawing attention.”
“You’re the only one paying attention,” Jisung whispered abc, stating the obvious.
Minho stayed silent. But his jaw clenched - once, tightly - and then he turned and walked away without another word. Jisung stood there, heart pounding, entire body humming with confusion and heat. What the hell was happening to him? Why did the coldest man he knew make him feel like this - like he was being seen, not as a joke, not as a child, but as something almost wanted? Almost.
The night ended, and the weekend flew away like a blur. So much that Jisung felt like a blink was the only thing separating him from the gala when he arrived at work on Monday morning.
He had barely settled down when an email came in.
FROM: Lee Minho
SUBJECT: Conference Room 2B
TIME: Now.
He hadn’t even logged in yet. Minho hadn’t said a word to him when he walked in, just passed by his desk like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t looked at his lips like he wanted to shut them up with his mouth. Jisung swallowed hard and walked to the conference room, heart pounding, hands cold.
Minho was already inside, standing by the whiteboard, one hand on his hip, sleeves rolled up. He didn’t look at Jisung when he entered. “Close the door.”
Click. Jisung took a seat.
Minho didn’t waste time. “What exactly were you trying to do on Saturday?”
Jisung blinked. “I- I was just attending. You told me to be there.”
“I didn’t tell you to follow me around the floor like a lost puppy.”
His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t-”
“And I didn’t ask for the looks. Or the comments. Or the suit you clearly didn’t know how to wear.” That one stung. Hard.
The intern stood. “Why did you even want me there if you were just going to humiliate me after?”
Minho turned to face him now - slowly. Controlled. Dangerous. “Because I thought you could handle it.”
He took a shaky breath. “Handle what? You?”
Minho’s gaze sharpened. “Watch your tone.”
“No.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t back down. “You look at me like I’m the problem, like I’m a distraction- but I never did anything to you.” Minho stepped forward. But Jisung didn’t stop. “You didn’t have to.”
They were close again. Always too close. “You walk in here all wide-eyed and eager, asking questions no one else is stupid enough to ask. Smiling like this place doesn’t rot people. Like I’m not already rotten.” Minho spat like venom.
Jisung stared up at him, breath shallow. “You hate me because I’m soft,” he said quietly, more like a statement than a question. Minho’s lips parted. Just slightly. He didn’t answer. “But you keep looking at me like you want to ruin it,” the young man added in a whisper.
Silence.
“Meeting’s over.” Just like that. Jisung flinched. “You can go.”
“Mr. Lee-”
“Go, Jisung.”
Jisung’s breath caught in his throat. Minho’s gaze was cold and sharp. The young man knew he should leave. But he still gave his boss the time to take back his words. When he realized that Minho wouldn’t, he turned around and left the room. Without bowing. The man was upset, clearly. But he held back his tears until getting into the men’s restroom. When he got back home, to his small apartment - with a rent way too high for the low amount of space there was inside - all he did was lay on his bed. Telling himself that his boss was just another boomer who thought feelings were an illness.
But that night, long after the office emptied and Seoul glittered outside his penthouse window, Lee Minho poured another drink, stared at the inbox he didn’t want to open, and wondered how the hell a 22-year-old intern with no self-preservation managed to become the only thing he couldn’t compartmentalize.
It was almost midnight when Jisung got the call.
“Mr. Lee needs someone to send the revised briefs tonight,” the executive assistant muttered, flustered. “He’s… not in great shape. He went out with the exec team. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, so-”
“Why me?” Jisung asked, already pulling on a sweater.
“Because you’re the one he asked for… actually.”
Jisung arrived at the penthouse twenty minutes later, buzzed in without a word. He stepped into the sleek, glass-walled space to find Minho - hair a mess, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned to the third notch - sitting on the couch with a tumbler in one hand and nothing but the soft glow of city lights painting his silhouette. There were two empty glasses on the coffee table. A half-full bottle of something expensive.
“Mr. Lee,” Jisung said, uncertain if he should even be here. “You… alright?”
Minho didn’t move. “You came.”
“Someone had to.”
“Wrong.” His voice was low. Rough. “No one had to.”
The young man stepped closer. “You’re drunk.”
Minho let out a humorless laugh. “Took you this long to figure it out?”
“I’ll get you some water.” He added, ignoring Minho’s remark.
“Why do you care?” His voice snapped, sharp and sudden. “You want to play nurse now? Take care of the sad old man?”
Jisung turned around, eyes flashing. “Maybe I do care. Maybe that’s not such a horrible thing, Mr. Lee.”
Minho stood slowly, swaying slightly, but his eyes were steel. “You’re so damn naive. You think kindness means something. You think it fixes people.”
“I never said that.”
“You look at me like I’m some tragic thing you can understand. Like I’m just another paper to edit. A broken person who needs saving.” The drunken boss resumed.
Jisung’s voice rose, finally cracking. “No! I look at you like someone who’s hurting and too damn proud to admit it!”
Minho stepped closer. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Because you won’t let anyone know you!” Silence. Just heavy breathing. The buzz of electricity in the air. Jisung’s hands were shaking now, but he didn’t back down. “You treat me like I’m stupid, like I’m soft, like I don’t know what I’m doing- but you’re the one who can’t handle being seen.” Minho flinched. Barely. But it was there. Jisung lowered his voice. “Why did you let me in tonight?” Minho didn’t answer. “Why do you keep looking at me like that, if you don’t want anything from me?”
Finally, Minho spoke - voice raw: “Because I do.” Jisung blinked, stunned. Minho stared down at the floor, shoulders tight. “And I can’t afford to.”
Jisung stepped forward. Carefully. Slowly. He took the tumbler from Minho’s hand and set it aside. “Sit,” he said softly. Minho didn’t argue this time. He sank onto the couch, rubbing at his eyes like they stung. The younger man went to the kitchen. Found a glass. Filled it with cold water. Brought it back. Minho took it without a word. For a long time, neither of them spoke.
And then, barely audible: “You should hate me,” Minho muttered.
Jisung sat beside him. Not close, but not far. His voice was quiet, steady. “I don’t.” They didn’t move. Stayed there in silence until Minho had sobered up. And when Jisung got sure that the older man was safe, he simply left without a second look.
Minho didn’t show up to the office that morning. His assistant muttered something about “working remotely” and walked off before Jisung could ask a single question. So Jisung sat at his desk, buzzing with leftover adrenaline, picking apart every word from last night. Because that man - that cold, overworked, impossibly guarded man - had said “Because I do.” And then told him to forget it. Jisung didn’t want to forget it.
Around lunch, he found himself sitting in the break room with Jae, one of the senior copywriters. Late 30s, dry humor, eyes that had seen things. He’d been with the company since forever, and he was the only one who didn’t seem intimidated by Mr. Lee.
Jisung stirred his instant ramen. “Can I ask you something?”
Jae glanced over, with an eyebrow raised. “If it’s about the vending machine coffee, no, it won’t kill you. Probably.”
The young man gave a weak smile, shaking his hand. “It’s about Mr. Lee.”
That got his attention. “Dangerous territory, intern.”
“I just… I’ve been working under him for a while now, and I guess I don’t get him. He’s-” Jisung paused, eyes drifting to his hands. “He’s impossible to talk to. But sometimes he looks at me like he wants to say something and just… doesn’t.”
Jae leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
“Was he always like this?”
Jae was quiet for a moment. Then: “Minho used to be different.”
Jisung blinked. “Wait, what?” He almost dropped his chopsticks.
“I mean, not friendly. He’s never been friendly. But there was… warmth. In his own weird, awkward way.” Jisung was frozen now, ramen forgotten. “Then the Seoul account collapsed,” Jae continued, voice low. “About five years ago. Half the team was cut. Some of them were close to him. His mentor? Gone. And Minho got promoted instead.” A silence, then he continued, his heart obviously heavy. “He shut down after that. Stopped talking unless it was about work. Started working twelve-hour days like he owed someone penance.”
The intern hesitated. “Why are you telling me this?”
Jae smirked. “Because I see the way he looks at you.”
Jisung flushed. “I- I don’t think-”
“Kid.” Jae’s voice was firm now. “I’m not saying he wants to feel anything. I’m saying he does. And that scares the hell out of him.” He paused. Then added. “You’re not like the rest of us. You still have hope. Light. That makes you dangerous to someone like him.”
Jisung swallowed thickly. “What do I do?”
Jae shrugged, standing. “That’s your call. But if you’re waiting for him to admit it first? You’ll be waiting a long time.” He left Jisung alone with his cold noodles and a hundred new questions.
In the quiet of the office, Jisung opened a blank document. He didn’t write a report. He wrote a letter. He’d never send it. But maybe… he just needed to say the things Minho couldn’t.
By Tuesday morning, the hum of the office felt wrong – tense, like everyone was waiting for a storm. Lee Minho walked in at exactly 9:00. Perfect suit, perfect hair, perfect mask. He didn’t so much as glance at Jisung’s desk. Not a single trace of the man who’d sat slouched on his couch with a glass of whiskey and let Jisung take it from his hand. Jisung kept his eyes on his screen, jaw tight. Fine. If he wanted to pretend nothing happened, so could I.
It was nearly noon when it happened. Minho stopped by Jisung’s desk - not to talk, but to drop a file. No words. Just the quiet thud of the folder landing beside his keyboard. Jisung reached for it at the same moment Minho did. Their fingers brushed. It wasn’t much - not even a full second. But Minho’s hand stilled against his. Jisung’s breath caught. And Minho looked at him. Not the quick, dismissive glance he usually gave. This was heavier. Darker. Like he was remembering exactly what it felt like to have Jisung’s voice in his ear telling him to drink water, to sit down, to let someone take care of him.
Then - it was gone. Minho withdrew his hand, straightening. “You’ll have this finished by end of day.” Cold. Professional. But his voice wasn’t as sharp as it usually was.
Later, Jisung carried the finished file to Minho’s office. He could’ve left it with his assistant, but instead, he knocked.
“Come in,” Minho said without looking up.
Jisung set the file on his desk. “It’s done.”
“Good.”
Jisung hesitated. “Mr. Lee…” That made him look up. The younger man held his gaze. “Are you going to keep pretending?”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “Pretending what?”
“That you don’t-” He stopped himself, pulse hammering. “That nothing happened.”
Minho leaned back in his chair, eyes unreadable. “Nothing did happen.”
“Yes, it did.” Silence. The air between them was thick enough to choke on.
Finally, Minho stood, coming around the desk. His steps were slow, deliberate. He stopped just in front of Jisung. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Jisung said, heart racing. “I do.”
Minho’s eyes flicked to his mouth, then back up. His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Then you’re not nearly as smart as I thought.” And just like that, he stepped past Jisung, leaving the office entirely. The young intern just looked down. Minho kept pulling him away, but still he wasn’t going to give up - not so easily. He exhaled through his nose - a habit he had picked up from his boss - and left the room.
It was Friday night, and Jisung was sprawled across Chan’s couch with a blanket over his legs and a bubble tea in hand, trying not to think about the way Mr. Lee’s eyes had lingered on him that morning. Trying, and failing.
Chan was in the kitchen, digging through takeout menus. “So,” he called over his shoulder, “are we talking about why you’ve been weird for the last two weeks, or are we just going to let you keep staring at walls like a tragic indie film protagonist?”
Jisung groaned. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s a lie.” Chan padded into the living room, dropping a menu on the coffee table. “Spill.”
Jisung hesitated, fiddling with his straw. “…It’s about my boss.”
Chan’s eyes lit up instantly. “The scary one?”
“He’s not-” The younger man stopped. “…Yeah. Him.”
“Lee Minho, right? The one with the murder-eyes and the suits that look like they could pay my rent?”
Jisung’s ears went hot. “I don’t- It’s not like that.”
Chan grinned like a cat with cream. “Oh my god, you like him.”
“No! I just-” Jisung sat up, flustered. “I don’t know what it is, okay? He’s… old.”
Chan’s eyebrows shot up. “Define old.”
“…Thirty-nine.”
Chan let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s not old, that’s prime DILF territory.”
Jisung nearly choked on his drink. “Don’t call him that!”
“What, Daddy I’d Like to-”
“Channie!”
Chan laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes. “Jisung, I’ve known you for almost ten years, and I knew you had a thing for older guys, but a cold, terrifying CEO? That’s a whole new level.”
“It’s not-” Jisung pulled the blanket over his head. “…I just can’t stop thinking about him. And it’s stupid. He’s my boss. He doesn’t even like me.”
Chan smirked. “Oh, he likes you. Trust me, I’ve seen enough workplace K-dramas to know that ‘emotionally unavailable with a side of smolder’ means he’s down bad and trying to hide it.”
Jisung peeked out from under the blanket. “You think?”
“I think,” Chan said, leaning back with a smug grin, “you’ve officially unlocked your daddy issues DLC.” Jisung groaned again, but this time he didn’t deny it. That night, jisung stayed over at Chan’s place - who kept teasing him. And what was supposed to be a sweet evening to change his mind, turned into an overthinking-about-his-boss party.
And soon enough, it was Monday again. The afternoon was dragging. Jisung had been triple-checking a spreadsheet Minho had asked for, only to find that one of the numbers in the quarterly report didn’t match. He could fix it - but it meant telling Minho the original figure he’d given Jisung was wrong. Which, as far as survival instincts went, was on par with poking a sleeping tiger.
He knocked once on the glass office door. “Come in,” Minho said without looking up, his pen scratching across paper.
Jisung stepped inside, clutching the file. “Mr. Lee… there’s an issue with the report.”
Minho glanced up, brows knitting. “What issue?”
“It’s… um, this section.” Jisung stepped closer, pointing at the page. “The revenue number here doesn’t match the one in the database.”
Minho’s pen stilled. “Because this one is correct. I cross-checked it myself.”
Jisung hesitated. “…I know, but I checked the system twice, and-”
“And you think I made a mistake?” His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
“I just- I’m not saying you-”
“Then what are you saying?” Minho’s tone sharpened. He leaned back in his chair, studying Jisung like he was something under a microscope. “Because right now it sounds like you’re implying I don’t know my own numbers.”
Jisung’s chest tightened. “I’m trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for help,” Minho said flatly. “I asked for accuracy.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Jisung felt his heat rise in his chest - the frustration of working under someone who seemed determined to misunderstand him. “With respect, Mr. Lee, if there’s an inconsistency, isn’t it my job to point it out before this goes to the board?”
Minho’s gaze locked onto his. For a moment, Jisung thought he saw something flicker there - irritation, yes, but also something darker. “You’re here to learn,” Minho said slowly, “not to second-guess me.”
“I’m not-” Jisung’s voice cracked, and he forced it steady. “Maybe if you didn’t treat every question like an attack, you’d get fewer arguments.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Minho set his pen down with deliberate precision. “Close the door on your way out.” Jisung left, his pulse thundering in his ears - and yet, under the sting of humiliation, there was that same maddening pull toward him. He didn’t know if he wanted to shove Minho or kiss him. Maybe both.
The next morning, Jisung made a point of avoiding Minho’s office. He stayed glued to his desk, eyes locked on his monitor, answering emails with robotic efficiency. He told himself it wasn’t pouting. It was… maintaining professionalism. But every time Minho’s door opened, Jisung’s head snapped up before he could stop it. The man didn’t so much as glance at him.
By noon, Jisung gave in to caffeine cravings and slipped into the break room. He was halfway through making instant coffee when the door opened. Minho.
Jisung tensed, staring at the cup in his hands like it was a life preserver. “Mr. Lee,” he said stiffly.
Minho didn’t answer right away. He walked past Jisung, set his own mug on the counter, and reached for the coffee pot. “You’re early,” he said finally.
“For what?”
“The report meeting. You’re usually rushing in last minute.”
Jisung’s brows knit. “Maybe I’m trying to be more prepared.”
“Or maybe you’re avoiding me,” Minho replied without looking at him. His tone was calm, but the weight behind it was obvious.
The young man ‘s ulse skipped. “Maybe you make that easy sometimes.”
That got Minho’s attention. He turned, leaning against the counter, mug in hand. “You have something to say, intern?”
Jisung’s mouth went dry. “If I did, you’d probably call it second-guessing you.”
For a moment, Minho just stared at him, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting off a smirk. “Careful, Jisung. You’re not as untouchable as you think.” Jisung swallowed, stepping around him to leave - only for Minho to speak again, low enough that it almost didn’t reach his ears. “…But I don’t mind a little pushback. Keeps me awake.” Jisung didn’t turn around. He just kept walking, heart pounding, wondering if he was imagining the heat in Minho’s voice.
A few months later, the weather had gotten colder, autumn was all over the streets of Seoul. The rain was pouring everyday, no matter what happened on that day. As for JIsung and Minho? Nothing had changed between them. Minho was still cold, maybe even colder than the weather. Meanwhile Jisung was clearly sulking - like the mature grown man he was.
At lunch, one day in October, he was absentmindedly scrolling on his phone. When the WKOREA headline stopped him cold. “Lee Minho: The Reluctant Face of Corporate Triumph.” The thumbnail alone was enough to knock the breath out of him. Minho, in a charcoal suit, white shirt open just enough at the collar, eyes sharp and unreadable under studio lights. The kind of photo that didn’t just look expensive - it smelled like money and intimidation. Jisung tapped it. The full spread loaded. Page after page of Minho - leaning against a black leather chair, wrist resting on his knee, hair swept back with deliberate carelessness. No fake smile, just that cool, weighty stare Jisung knew all too well from across the office. Jisung’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t fair that a man who spent his days barking at staff and chain-drinking black coffee could also look like that.
But of course, this magazine headline wasn’t the only thing here to celebrate the incredible numbers the company had done this year. They - obviously - had to throw a gala. And all the company’s employees were invited : including Jisung. The gala was the kind of event Jisung had only ever seen in dramas - crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, and everyone dressed like their net worth was a legal weapon. He hadn’t even been sure he’d make the guest list until his supervisor insisted all interns attend “for the networking opportunity.”
Minho wasn’t hard to spot. He stood near the stage, surrounded by board members and journalists, in a black three-piece suit that fit like sin. Even here, in a room full of power players, he commanded attention without raising his voice. Jisung kept his distance, nursing a glass of champagne and telling himself he wasn’t staring. He failed. At one point, Minho turned his head - and their eyes met across the crowd. Just for a second. The faintest flicker of recognition passed over his face before he returned to his conversation, as if Jisung had been nothing more than a passing shadow.
Later, as Jisung wandered near the side hall, he overheard two older employees talking quietly. “Did you see the WKOREA shoot? He hated doing it. Said it was a waste of time.”
“Well, it worked. We’re everywhere now.”
“Still… he’s different tonight. More guarded.”
Jisung didn’t need them to explain. He could see it - the stiffness under the polished veneer, the way Minho’s gaze skimmed over people without ever fully landing. And yet, when Minho eventually stepped into the hall to take a break, loosening his tie just slightly, Jisung’s breath caught all over again.
“Enjoying yourself?” Minho asked, voice low but steady.
Jisung tried to be casual. “It’s… fancy. You clean up well, Mr. Lee.”
For the first time all night, Minho’s mouth curved - not quite a smile, but something close.
“Careful. You’ll ruin your reputation as the one person in the office who isn’t impressed by me.”
Jisung’s pulse jumped. “Who said I wasn’t impressed?”
Minho didn’t answer. He just looked at him for a moment too long before a PR rep appeared to whisk him away for more photos. Jisung watched him go, trying to ignore the strange, restless ache blooming in his chest.
The convenience store was quiet, just the hum of refrigerators and the faint jingle of the clerk’s phone in the background. Jisung hadn’t meant to wander in after leaving the gala. He’d told himself he was just heading home, that the champagne fuzz in his head would fade if he walked it off. But then he’d spotted it on the magazine rack by the counter - the WKOREA issue.
Minho’s issue. The cover was even more arresting in person. Not just because the glossy paper caught the light, but because the photo wasn’t just posed power - there was something else in his eyes, something darker and quieter, the same look Jisung had caught in passing at the gala. Before he could overthink it, Jisung bought a copy. The clerk slid it into a paper bag without comment, but Jisung still felt vaguely ridiculous - like a high schooler hiding a crush poster.
Outside, the night air was crisp, streets slick with the kind of summer rain that hadn’t quite committed to falling. Jisung stepped under the dim glow of a streetlamp, paper bag clutched against his chest.
That’s when he saw him. Minho, a few meters away, leaning against a black car with his jacket draped over one arm. His tie was gone, shirt collar undone, and his hair - perfectly styled hours ago - now fell loose over his forehead. He looked… different. Softer, somehow. Not the CEO from the stage or the glossy pages. Just a man who’d worked too hard for too many years.
“Intern,” Minho said when their eyes met, voice low and tired.
Jisung’s throat went dry. “Mr. Lee. You- uh. Leaving now?”
“Mm.” Minho’s gaze flicked to the paper bag in Jisung’s hands. “What’s that?”
Jisung tightened his grip instinctively. “Just… something I picked up.”
One corner of Minho’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were hiding something.”
Jisung’s heart hammered. He wasn’t sure if it was the champagne or the way Minho’s voice softened at the edges when they weren’t in the office. “Maybe I am.”
For a long second, neither moved. The distant hum of the city filled the space between them. Then Minho’s driver stepped out from the car, breaking the spell. “Mr. Lee, we should go.”
Minho’s eyes lingered on Jisung a moment longer before he nodded and slid into the backseat. No goodbye - just that unreadable look that somehow felt more intimate than words. Jisung stood there long after the car pulled away, rain starting to speckle the brown paper in his hands. He didn’t open the magazine. Not yet.
Jisung shut the door to his apartment with his foot, the WKOREA issue clutched like contraband under his arm.
The gala still buzzed faintly in his head - the chandeliers, the champagne, the surreal sight of Minho laughing politely for the cameras. But here, under his own dim desk lamp, that night’s grandeur felt far away. It was just him. And the magazine.
He sat on his bed, tore the plastic wrap too fast, and flipped it open. There he was. Page after page - Minho in perfectly cut suits, Minho in charcoal and shadow, Minho’s eyes catching the camera in a way that made Jisung’s breath hitch. It was like the photographer had managed to strip away the boardroom armor, leaving the man underneath exposed but somehow more dangerous.
Jisung traced one image without meaning to - Minho leaning against a desk, tie loosened, gaze lowered just enough to feel… intimate. Too intimate. The room felt warmer. He told himself it was just curiosity. Just a strange fascination with seeing “Mr. Lee” outside of the company’s glass walls. But his hands lingered too long on the glossy paper, his gaze catching on the curve of Minho’s mouth, the sharp line of his jaw.
One particular photo stopped him cold - an unpublished-feeling shot, almost candid, tucked at the end of the spread. Minho, half-smiling at something off-camera, hair slightly mussed, his hand in his pocket like he didn’t know he was being watched.
Jisung’s pulse roared in his ears. And then… well, the night stretched on. The magazine lay open on his bed, his fingertips smudging the ink ever so slightly. Every time he thought he could close it, he’d find himself flipping back to that page. Again. And again. So much that after a while, his poor sweatpants started feeling tight. He tried to ignore it at first. But as he kept flipping page after page. Minho’s eyes, the expensive watch on his wrist, his lips, the tie hanging low around his neck, his veiny hands, his shiny dark shoes, the silver streaks in his hair. The way he looked was just completely hypnotizing for Jisung. He couldn’t take his eyes off his boss’s pictures.
In one of the pictures, Minho was there, staring deep into the lens, his lips parted. His gaze was so intense. Jisung’s bottom lip twitched. He tried looking away from Minho’s eyes. His gaze drifted off towards the white roots of his hair. Then to the veins on his hands. He followed them on his arm, thanking the skies that his sleeves were rolled up. When his eyes reached the sleeve he let out a breath - almost a moan - he didn’t know he was holding. Fuck. He threw his head back for a second, looking up at the ceiling. With his eyes away from the magazine he could feel his own body better.
And that was when he realized - Jisung was damn hard for his boss. So he looked down at his own crotch. Frowned at the obvious bulge. His right hand slowly reached but he stopped mid-way. “I can’t jerk off to my boss damn.” He gave a quick glance to the magazine - his hand still mid-air. His eyes met Minho’s on the glossy paper. His shaft twitched. A moan.
He couldn’t do this. But he really wanted to. His hand rested on his bulge, over his pants. He thought about it. Really thought about it. He sighed loudly and whispered : “Mr. Lee will never find out anyway.” As he pulled down pants and boxers.
He looked at his member like it was the guilty one in this story. He quickly spitted on his hands and picked back up the magazine in the other. He slowly reached for his hard shaft, letting out a soft whimper at the touch. He stared back into Minho’s eyes as he grabbed it and slowly started to move his hand up and down. At first his whines and whimpers were soft and quiet, shy - almost ashamed. But as the minutes went by, and as his moves got faster, he started getting louder. His cheeks and ears were red as he kept staring at Minho in the pictures. His hand was soon covered in pre-cum. So much that he started moaning even louder. Whining random words. “Fuck…” He kept flipping the pages, quickly coming back to the picture that got him definitely hard. He stared at Minho’s eyes as he felt himself getting closer to the edge. His hand was now moving in a blur. The more he looked at the minho, the more he could hear his voice in the back of his head. His disapproving words, his cold tone, every - almost mean - things he had said to Jisung were going through the young man’s head. The meaner the words, the louder he moaned. He looked at the picture, one last time. And it came so fast he wasn’t even able to hold it back or edge himself in any way. “Mr. Lee-” He moaned as he squirted all over his hand. He was out of breath as the hot liquid rolled down his fingers to reach his thighs, and then his clean sheets.
He let go off his softening shaft and grabbed a tissue on the bedside table to wipe his hand. He felt bad - guilty. But damn it felt good. He even considered going for another round but quickly shook it away. In one smooth motion, he closed the dangerous magazine, shoved it under his bed and went to take a shower. What was fucking wrong with him now?
On the next morning, at work, Jisung had never been so aware of his own face. Every blink felt suspicious. Every breath sounded guilty. The WKOREA magazine was buried under his bed with piles of clothes he was too lazy to clean away, but its images were burned into his brain like the afterimage of staring at the sun.
He kept his head down as he walked into the office, clinging to his coffee cup like it was a shield. If he didn’t look at Minho, if he just focused on the emails, maybe his brain would stop replaying every shameful detail of last night.
“Morning,” came that low, cold voice from somewhere behind him.
Jisung froze. He hadn’t even heard the office door open. Slowly, he turned. There he was. Lee Minho. In a navy suit so sharp it could draw blood, his hair neatly styled, his gaze direct. “Good morning, Mr. Lee,” Jisung mumbled, eyes darting back to his desk before they could betray him.
But Minho didn’t leave. He leaned one hand on the edge of Jisung’s desk, just close enough that the scent of his cologne curled into the air between them. “You look tired.”
Jisung’s pulse jumped. “Didn’t… sleep well,” he said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.
“Mm,” The older man hummed, as if weighing the answer. “Working too late again?”
Jisung almost choked on his coffee. “No, sir. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
Minho’s eyes stayed on him a second longer than necessary - sharp, searching, as though he could peel back Jisung’s thoughts layer by layer if he wanted. Then he straightened. “Don’t let it affect your work,” he said, voice cool, and walked away.
Jisung sat there for a full minute, willing the heat in his cheeks to fade. No one knew. No one could know. But when he risked a glance toward Minho’s office, he found the man already at his desk… and smirking, ever so slightly, at his computer screen.
At lunch, the cafeteria was quieter than usual, most of the office still buzzing about the gala. Jisung sat with his tray, carefully picking at his food, trying not to let his mind drift to glossy pages and unholy thoughts.
He’d almost made it through lunch in peace - until a shadow fell across his table. “Mind if I sit?”
Jisung looked up. Minho, perfectly composed, his tray in one hand. It wasn’t really a question. “N-no, sir,” Jisung said quickly, shoving his phone aside to make space.
Minho sat across from him, stirring his coffee lazily before taking a sip. His gaze, though, stayed on Jisung like a weight. “So,” Minho began, his tone light in the way that wasn’t light at all, “I hear WKOREA’s latest issue is… popular.”
Jisung’s fork froze halfway to his mouth as he held back a cough. “O-oh? Yeah, I guess so…”
Minho tilted his head. “You guess so?”
Jisung swallowed hard. “I mean, I haven’t- I didn’t really-” He caught himself, realizing he was about to trip over his own words. “I mean, I saw some pictures online. Looked… nice.”
A slow, knowing smile tugged at Minho’s mouth. “Nice.” He repeated it like he was tasting the word. “That’s one way to put it.” Jisung dropped his gaze to his tray, wishing the floor would swallow him whole. His ears burned. “You should pick up a copy,” Minho said after a beat, casual but sharp enough to cut. “Good for… company morale.”
The worst part was the way Minho said it without breaking eye contact, like he was looking straight into whatever filthy little corner of Jisung’s mind had been occupied all night. “Y-yes, sir,” Jisung muttered.
By the time Minho stood and left, Jisung could barely breathe. He didn’t know if Minho was suspicious, or if he was just playing with him. Either way, Jisung was doomed.
His secret soon felt too heavy to handle on his own. Plus he deeply needed good advice. Because he had looked up on Google “I think i have a crush on my twice-my-age boss, what should I do?” and the answers didn’t please him : “fuck him”, “quit”, “get a bf”, “defo fuck him”, “well if i was you, i would let him hit”. He snapped his laptop shut. Took his phone and texted Chan : “I need help, let’s meet. The usual bar, 9PM.”
The bar was warm, dim, and loud enough that Jisung thought it was safe. He nursed his drink while Jisung, sprawled across the booth opposite him, grinned like a cat who already knew all the answers.
“So…” Chan leaned forward, chin propped in his palm. “Tell me again why you look like you’ve been caught committing a felony?”
Jisung groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “Because I have, Channie. Mentally. Spiritually.”
“That’s vague. Be specific.”
He peeked over his fingers. “You know that WKOREA shoot? The one with… him?”
Chan’s grin widened. “Mr. Lee? Your terrifyingly hot boss?”
Jisung’s shoulders hunched. “Don’t call him that.”
“Why? Because it’s true?” Chan teased. “What’d you do, frame the pictures on your wall?”
Jisung hissed, “Worse.” He looked around, then raised his hand and swung it up and down.
Chan blinked, then realization lit his face. “No. No way. You did not-”
“Shut up!” Jisung smacked his arm across the table. His elbows rested on the ard wood as he buried his burning face in his hands, whining in shame. “I didn’t mean to, it just- happened! I was flipping through it before bed, and he looked-” He cut himself off, glancing around before lowering his voice. “…really, really good.”
Chan laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “Oh my god, you have a dilf problem. This is worse than I thought.”
Jisung groaned again, sinking lower in his seat. “It’s not a problem, it’s- ugh, I don’t even like him like that. He’s cold, and bossy, and-”
“Hot,” Chan interrupted. “You forgot hot.”
Jisung’s face was on fire. “Shut up.”
Chan was still chuckling when he suddenly glanced over Jisung’s shoulder and stopped. His eyes widened. “Uh… speaking of…” Jisung turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach.
At the bar, not twenty feet away, the Lee Minho stood with a glass of whiskey in hand, speaking to someone from another department - but his head was tilted just enough in their direction. His eyes met Jisung’s for the briefest moment, unreadable in the low light, before he turned back to his conversation. Jisung’s pulse roared in his ears.
“Think he heard?” Chan whispered, practically giddy. Jisung couldn’t answer. He just downed the rest of his drink, already knowing the answer.
The young intern shook on his way to work the next morning. His legs were weak, and this time it wasn't because of the fun time he had. But because he was nervous, scared - anxious. If Mr. Lee ever finds out, it’s the end. On his way, in the subway, he even started scrolling on LinkedIn - hoping to find another job easily and fast if Minho ever fired him.
The office was quiet when Jisung arrived - too quiet. Usually, he could hear the distant click of Minho’s keyboard, the faint sound of someone on a call, the soft hum of printers. But this morning, the air felt heavier. He set his bag down, trying to act casual. Maybe he didn’t hear anything. Maybe I’m overthinking it.
“Mr. Han,” Minho’s voice came from his office, deep and steady.
Jisung startled, immediately shoving the magazine he’d been reading on the train into his drawer. “Y-Yes, Mr. Lee?”
“Come in.”
The door was half-open, so Jisung stepped inside, clutching his notebook like a shield. Minho was standing by the window, sleeves rolled up, sunlight catching the lines of his face. He looked annoyingly good for someone who’d been out drinking the night before.
“I need you to review the Q3 report before lunch,” Minho said without looking at him. “And make sure the numbers are precise. I don’t want any… unnecessary mistakes.”
Jisung nodded, scribbling it down. “Yes, sir.”
“And,” Minho finally turned, leaning one hand on his desk, “when you’re done, I’d appreciate it if you could stop by the design department. They’re working on the print layouts for the gala coverage. I’m told the photographs are… quite striking.”
The words landed like a dart. Jisung’s pen froze mid-note. There was no reason - no reason at all - for Minho to say that to him specifically. Not unless- Jisung forced a tight smile. “Of course. I’ll, um… make sure to check them.” Minho’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long before he turned back to his paperwork, effectively dismissing him. By the time Jisung shut the office door, his heart was hammering. He definitely knew. But the young man tried to shake it off and quickly bowed. He almost ran back to his desk, doing as told before heading to his second mission.
The design department smelled faintly of ink and fresh paper. Jisung stepped inside, notebook in hand, pretending he wasn’t aware of the folder waiting for him on the center table.
“Mr. Han!” One of the designers beamed. “Perfect timing. We’re finalizing the gala spread - Mr. Lee wanted you to approve the text formatting before it goes to print.”
Jisung managed a polite smile and sat down. The folder was heavier than it needed to be. The first page was harmless - a shot of the ballroom, tables glittering with glassware. The second was a wide frame of the company team, lined up in crisp suits. And then - him. Minho, black velvet tuxedo tailored within an inch of perfection, hair swept back just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. One hand in his pocket, one on the railing behind him, his gaze angled away from the camera as though even the lens wasn’t worth his full attention.
Jisung’s fingers itched to turn the page faster - to get it over with - but they moved slower instead, betraying him. Each photo was worse. A candid laugh, a low-light close-up, the faintest smirk like he knew exactly how dangerous he looked. He swallowed. Just approve the fonts. Just approve the fonts.
“Do you think the captions work here?” the designer asked, leaning over.
Jisung cleared his throat. “Yes - um - spacing looks fine. Very… clean.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement through the glass wall. Minho. He was standing outside, talking to someone from accounting, but his eyes - his eyes were on him. Calm, unreadable… except for the slight lift of one brow.
Jisung quickly closed the folder. “Looks perfect. I’ll send the confirmation to Mr. Lee.”
As he left the department, folder clutched to his chest, he didn’t dare look back at the glass wall. But he could feel Minho’s gaze following him down the hall.
Jisung had almost made it out for lunch when the voice stopped him. “Mr. Han. My office. Now.” The tone wasn’t loud - it didn’t have to be. Minho was leaning against his doorway, arms crossed, tie loosened just enough to look impatient instead of casual.
Jisung stepped inside, trying to keep his voice even. “Was there something urgent, Mr. Lee?”
Minho closed the door. “I reviewed the design department’s notes. They said you approved the gala spread.”
“Right. Fonts, captions, everything’s fine.”
A pause. Minho’s gaze stayed on him - steady, assessing, just long enough for Jisung to start fidgeting. “Funny,” Minho said finally, walking around to stand behind his desk, “because when I passed by, it didn’t look like you were evaluating the text. It looked like you were… distracted.”
Jisung blinked. “I- I wasn’t-”
“That photo shoot,” Minho went on, ignoring the interruption, “was for publicity, not for staff entertainment.”
Heat rushed to Jisung’s face. “I wasn’t- I didn’t-”
“Didn’t what?” Minho’s voice sharpened just slightly. “Didn’t spend five minutes staring at a page you’d already approved? Didn’t nearly drop the folder when you saw me watching you?”
The young intern’s jaw clenched. “You’re overthinking it, Mr. Lee.”
Minho leaned forward on his desk, palms braced. “Am I?” The silence stretched, heavy and electric. Jisung hated that his pulse was so loud in his ears. “If you want to look at my pictures,” Minho said at last, each word deliberate, “do it on your own time. Not on company hours.”
Jisung’s mouth went dry. “Fine. Noted.” He turned to leave, but Minho’s voice stopped him again.
“And, Mr. Han…” Jisung froze. Minho’s gaze flicked over him – slow, almost bored. “Next time, try not to be so obvious. You’re terrible at hiding it.” A silence. Minho walked back to his desk. Jisung thought it was over but Minho was still not dismissing him.
Minho finally looked up from the papers on his desk. “Tell me,” he said, “is it a habit of yours to discuss… private activities in public bars?”
Jisung’s heart stopped. “What?”
Minho leaned back in his chair, watching him like a cat watches a cornered mouse. “Don’t play dumb. I was there. I heard every word you said to your friend about that magazine spread.”
Heat slammed into Jisung’s face. “You- you were-”
“Yes.” Minho’s tone was deceptively calm. “So. You bought the issue, took it home, and… entertained yourself. Over photographs of your boss.”
“That’s- That’s not-” Jisung stammered, but his voice cracked, and it made him sound guiltier.
“It’s exactly what you said,” Minho interrupted, his voice finally hardening. “In detail.”
Jisung’s shame curdled into irritation. “Why were you eavesdropping in the first place?!”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t. You were loud. Reckless. And apparently, you can’t keep certain impulses to yourself.”
“Impulses?!” Jisung’s voice shot up. “It was a one-time-”
“Not the point.” Minho’s voice dropped lower, cutting through the air like a blade. “You work here. You answer to me. And now, thanks to your little confession, I have the mental image of an intern jerking off to my face every time I sign off on a report.”
Jisung’s ears burned. “Then maybe stop doing photo shoots like you’re auditioning for a drama about hot CEOs!”
That made Minho blink - not much, but enough. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” The young man crossed his arms, trying to mask the fact that he was shaking. “It’s not my fault you looked… you looked-”
“Careful,” Minho warned, his voice deepening. Jisung bit his tongue. The room was too quiet now, every second stretching taut. Minho leaned forward slowly, his elbows on the desk. “I’ll give you one piece of advice, Mr. Han. Learn to control yourself. Because if you can’t, you won’t last long here.”
Jisung shot up from his chair, muttering, “Maybe I don’t want to last long here.”
“Good,” Minho said coolly. “That would save us both a headache.” Jisung stormed out, heart pounding so hard it hurt - not sure if he wanted to punch the man or kiss him, which was a conflicting feeling that had been here for way too long already.
The moment Jisung got back to his apartment that night, he fell face-first onto his bed. His chest felt tight, his stomach knotted. He kept replaying the argument in his head - Minho’s voice, cold and low; the way he said “jerking off to my face” like it was the most disgusting thing he’d ever heard; the way he’d told Jisung he “wouldn’t last long here.”
By morning, Jisung’s alarm went off at 6:30, and for the first time since he’d started at the company, he didn’t get up. He called in sick. One day became two. Two became three.
On the fourth day, Chan showed up at his door with takeout and a scowl. “You look like shit,” he said.
“Thanks,” Jisung mumbled, curled up in a hoodie that wasn’t even clean.
Chan sat down beside him. “You can’t hide forever. What’s the worst that’s gonna happen? He fires you? Big deal, you’ll find something else.”
Jisung’s throat tightened. “You don’t get it. I worked so hard just to get this internship. I can’t… I can’t screw this up. If he fires me, it’s over. No recommendations, no future, and the rent-” His voice cracked, and before he could stop it, his eyes stung.
Chan softened. “Hey, hey… Little one, breathe.”
But Jisung couldn’t. All week, the shame had been a heavy weight pressing on his chest, and now it spilled over. He buried his face in his hands, the sobs coming too fast to stop. “I was so stupid,” he choked out. “Why did I say anything? Why did I-”
“Because you’re human,” Chan cut in, rubbing his back. “And honestly? He’s a 39-year-old man who looks like that. You think you’re the only one? Half the company’s probably done the same thing.”
That almost made Jisung laugh, but it died before it reached his throat. “He hates me now. I could tell. Every word… it was like he wanted me gone.”
Chan frowned. “Or maybe he’s just being Mr. Ice Cube Boss as usual.”
Still, Jisung stayed in that apartment for another three days, the blinds shut, barely eating. He avoided even checking his work email, too afraid to see a termination notice. By the seventh day, he was a hollow shell of himself - pale, quiet, and still dreading the moment he’d have to face Minho again.
The lobby felt colder than usual when Jisung finally stepped in. Maybe it was just him - seven days away had made the place feel foreign. His chest tightened the moment he scanned his badge and heard the soft beep. He’d dressed carefully that morning, trying to look professional enough to hide the fact that he’d been in a week-long slump - pressed shirt, neat hair, dark slacks. But his eyes still felt heavy, and his skin was pale enough to make him look sick.
He made it to his desk without bumping into Minho. His colleagues gave polite nods, a couple of curious glances. He caught snippets of whispers - “Was he sick?” - but kept his head down. At 9:17, his monitor pinged.
From: Lee, Minho
Subject: My office. Now.
Jisung swallowed hard. He considered pretending he hadn’t seen it - but his legs were already carrying him to that glass door at the far end of the floor. Minho didn’t look up when Jisung entered. He was standing near the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, scrolling through something on his phone. The light caught the faint silver at his temples.
“Close the door,” Minho said.
Jisung obeyed, fingers trembling as he turned the handle. “Mr. Lee, I-”
“Sit.” The leather chair felt colder than it should have. Jisung kept his gaze fixed on a small crack in the desk, too afraid to meet Minho’s eyes. “You disappeared for a week,” Minho said, voice low but not sharp. “No warning, no email, no updates. Do you think that’s how this works?”
“I’m sorry,” Jisung murmured.
“Sorry doesn’t tell me whether you still want this job.”
Jisung’s throat burned. “I do.”
Minho finally looked at him - not with the outright disgust Jisung had feared, but something harder to read. His gaze lingered, slow, deliberate. “You don’t look like someone who’s ready to work.”
“I… I can work.”
Minho’s jaw tightened. He slipped his hands into his pockets and stepped closer, enough that Jisung could smell faint cologne under the crisp scent of his shirt. “Good. Because I’m not firing you.”
Jisung blinked, his mouth opening slightly. “You’re… not?”
“No. But you’re not going to vanish on me again. Understood?”
Jisung nodded quickly. “Yes, Mr. Lee.”
For a second, Minho’s eyes softened - almost imperceptibly - before he turned away, grabbing a folder from his desk. “Then get back to work.” Jisung stood, legs shaky, his heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t fully name.
By three o’clock, Jisung had almost convinced himself that the morning meeting with Minho was just… business. Not forgiveness. Not a sign of anything. Just a warning from a boss who didn’t have time for weakness.
But when he went to drop off a stack of reports in the executive wing, he stopped dead. Minho’s office door was ajar, and voices drifted out.
“…he’s too young for the pressure,” came a voice Jisung recognized - Mr. Park from Finance, one of the senior execs who always looked at Jisung like he was an unpaid intern instead of a contracted hire. “We can’t afford another mess-up in Q4. If you’re keeping him, it’s your risk.”
“I’m aware,” Minho replied, calm but edged.
“Then maybe you should think about replacing him before he costs you more than-”
“Stop.” Minho’s voice dropped lower, colder. “Jisung’s not going anywhere. Whatever happened last week isn’t your concern, and it won’t affect his work going forward.”
There was a pause. Mr. Park let out a dry laugh. “Defensive today, aren’t you?”
“I don’t like repeating myself,” Minho said. “And I don’t like people assuming they can dictate my team.”
Chairs shifted. Footsteps moved toward the door. Jisung jolted, slipping back around the corner before he could be seen. His pulse was hammering in his ears. Minho… defended him. Not politely, not reluctantly - but firmly, like he had no intention of letting anyone else touch the matter. Jisung’s face felt hot, and it wasn’t from embarrassment this time. Something heavier, stranger, curled in his chest. This man had heard the worst possible thing about him and still… The sound of Minho’s low voice echoed in his head: Jisung’s not going anywhere. He hurried back to his desk before anyone could see his expression.
Then everything came back to usual for a few weeks. Until this specific night when something finally moved. The office was almost silent at nine p.m. Only the faint hum of the vending machine and the low whirr of the air conditioner filled the air. Most of the building had gone home hours ago, but Jisung was still at his desk, struggling to finish an urgent client proposal.
When he finally hit send, he realized he wasn’t alone. Through the glass wall of Minho’s office, a faint light still glowed. Jisung hesitated - he could just pack up and leave. But his feet carried him anyway, soft steps over the carpet. He knocked gently.
“Come in,” Minho’s voice called, deep and unhurried. Minho was sitting behind his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. His tie was loose, top button undone. His hair had fallen slightly out of place, like he’d been running a hand through it all evening. A tumbler of whiskey sat by his elbow.
“You’re still here?” Jisung asked quietly.
Minho’s eyes flicked up. “And you?”
“I… just finished.” Jisung hovered in the doorway, not sure if he was welcome.
Minho gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”
Jisung obeyed, feeling the tension in the air thicken. Minho poured a second glass of whiskey and slid it toward him. “I don’t usually drink,” Jisung said, fingers curling around the cool glass.
“It’s not an order,” Minho replied, taking a slow sip of his own. “Just… company.” The amber liquid in Jisung’s glass trembled slightly as he lifted it. They sat in silence for a while, the sound of ice shifting against glass the only thing between them. “You’ve been working hard,” Minho finally said, his gaze steady. “I notice these things.”
Jisung’s chest tightened. “You… do?”
Minho leaned back in his chair, studying him. “You think I don’t?” Jisung swallowed. He wanted to say something sharp, or to joke, but the sincerity in Minho’s tone made his throat dry. “You’ve grown since you started here,” Minho continued. “And not just in your work. You’re… different.”
Jisung’s heart pounded. He didn’t know if that was a compliment or a warning. “Different how?”
Minho’s mouth twitched, almost a smile - almost. “You’ll figure it out.” The words hung between them, heavy with meaning neither dared unpack. Jisung finished his drink in a nervous swallow. Minho’s gaze never left his face.
By the time they left the building, the city had settled into the quiet hum of late night. The streetlamps painted everything in gold, and the air had that sharp bite that made breath visible. Minho locked the office door behind them, his hand brushing the small of Jisung’s back for just a fraction of a second as they stepped into the hallway. It wasn’t intentional - or maybe it was. Jisung couldn’t tell.
Outside, Minho shrugged on his coat, but his movements were slower than usual. The whiskey had left a faint flush across his cheekbones, a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there in daylight. Jisung noticed the way his boss was fumbling with the second sleeve. “Here,” he said quietly, stepping closer. He took the fabric and guided Minho’s arm through.
Minho looked down at him, his gaze unreadable in the dim light. “You always take it upon yourself to… look after me, don’t you?”
Jisung’s heart jumped. “I- I was just-”
Minho’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Relax. I didn’t say I minded.”
The coat was on now, but Jisung’s hands lingered for a beat too long on the lapels, smoothing out imaginary creases. Minho didn’t move away. His cologne - deep, warm, and expensive - filled Jisung’s head. They stood there, close enough for Jisung to feel the heat radiating from him, the world around them fading into a blur of cool air and warm breath.
Finally, Minho broke the moment. “Go home, Jisung. It’s late.”
Jisung nodded, stepping back, but his pulse was still racing. As Minho turned toward his car, Jisung couldn’t shake the thought that maybe - just maybe - this older man was starting to see him differently too.
It was past midnight when Jisung finally shut his laptop. His apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the faint sound of rain against the window. He’d been trying to forget that conversation - the way Minho’s voice had dipped, the heat in his eyes - but every time he blinked, it replayed.
He was halfway to the bedroom when the knock came. Three slow, deliberate taps. His heart jumped into his throat. No one knocked at this hour. Jisung hesitated, then opened the door just enough to see - and nearly stopped breathing. “Mr. Lee?”
Minho stood there, rain still glistening in his hair, his suit jacket open and tie loose. The kind of disheveled Jisung had never seen at the office, like the world outside had stripped him down to something rawer. “I know it’s late,” Minho said, voice low. “But there’s something we need to finish.”
Jisung’s mind scrambled for an explanation, but before he could ask, Minho stepped inside. He didn’t look around - didn’t comment on the small, cozy apartment, the scattered movie posters, the faint smell of instant ramen - just closed the door behind him.
“You left me standing, Jisung,” Minho continued, his eyes fixed on him. “You keep running every time I get close to the truth. I’m tired of it.”
“I’m not-” Jisung started, but the words died when Minho stepped closer.
The air between them was heavy. Close enough now that Jisung could see the faint shadow of stubble along Minho’s jaw, the way his shirt clung faintly to his shoulders from the rain. “Tell me you didn’t mean it,” Minho said. “Tell me you didn’t spend nights thinking about those pictures.”
Jisung’s throat went dry. “I-”
“You can’t.” Minho’s voice was soft now, dangerous in its certainty. Jisung hated how his knees felt weak, how much heat rushed through him. He hated that his boss - a man twice his age, cold, infuriating - could strip him bare without ever touching him.
Minho took one more step forward, close enough that the scent of rain and his cologne made Jisung dizzy. “Stop pretending,” he murmured.
Jisung’s breath hitched. “What are you going to do if I don’t?”
The ghost of a smile touched Minho’s lips. “You’ll find out.”
Jisung blinked himself back into motion. “You’re soaked-” he muttered, stepping forward before he could think better of it trying to change the topic.
Minho didn’t stop him when Jisung’s fingers brushed his shoulders, sliding the heavy, rain-damp coat off his frame. The fabric was cold and smelled faintly of wet wool and expensive cologne. Jisung swallowed, hanging it over the back of his lone dining chair. “Sit,” he said, half on instinct, half because he didn’t know what else to do with the sight of Minho dripping water onto his tiny entryway rug.
Minho arched a brow but obeyed, sitting on the edge of Jisung’s bed - the only real piece of furniture in the living space. It made him look too big, too out of place, but somehow also… too natural there. Jisung disappeared for a moment, rummaging in his bathroom before returning with a clean towel. “Here,” he said softly, holding it out.
Instead of taking it, Minho just tilted his head slightly. “You do it.”
Jisung froze. “…What?”
“Dry my hair,” Minho said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Jisung’s pulse thudded hard in his ears, but he stepped closer, lifting the towel to Minho’s head. He worked gently, careful not to muss his hair too much, but Minho just sat there, still as stone, watching Jisung from under half-lidded eyes whenever the towel shifted enough to reveal his face. The air between them was too quiet. The rain outside was the only sound.
When Jisung finally pulled the towel away, Minho didn’t move. His gaze dipped - just briefly - to Jisung’s mouth before returning to his eyes. “You take care of people too easily,” he said, voice low.
Jisung looked away quickly, sitting beside him on the bed because it felt wrong to stand while Minho sat there like some immovable force. “Maybe you just… need taking care of.”
Minho gave a quiet, humorless chuckle. “You wouldn’t survive a week if you knew the truth.”
That pulled Jisung’s gaze back to him. “Then tell me.”
Minho’s expression shifted, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Not yet.” The silence stretched, heavy, as if there were a dozen things unsaid hanging in the air between them. The rain was still coming down outside, but inside the small apartment, the quiet felt heavier than the storm. Minho sat there like he belonged - hair now dry, broad shoulders taking up too much space on Jisung’s bed, fingers loosely clasped in his lap. He looked… softer like this, without the sharpness of his suit and office lighting. And yet, that same unreadable wall was still in place.
Jisung stared at him for a long moment before the words tumbled out, his voice sharper than he intended. “Why are you here, Minho?”
Minho’s eyes lifted slowly, as if Jisung’s question had been expected but unwanted. “I told you. I was passing by.”
Jisung shook his head, moving to stand in front of him. “That’s not good enough. You don’t ‘pass by’ my place. You don’t even live in this part of the city.”
A flicker of something - annoyance? amusement? - crossed Minho’s face. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”
“That’s not funny,” Jisung snapped, heat rising to his cheeks. “You’ve been… confusing for months. One moment you’re-” He stopped himself, swallowing, because he didn’t want to list all the little moments Minho had given him just enough warmth to make him crave more. “You can’t just show up and act like this means nothing.”
Minho’s gaze hardened. “And if I told you it was better for you not to know my reasons?”
Jisung took a step closer, pulse loud in his ears. “Then I’d call you a coward.”
That landed - Jisung could see it in the way Minho’s jaw clenched, his knuckles tightening briefly. For a second, Minho looked like he might get up and leave. Instead, he leaned back on his hands, looking up at Jisung with a mix of frustration and something else - something warmer, more dangerous. “You think you want answers,” Minho said quietly. “But you’d rather keep the fantasy than deal with the truth.”
Jisung’s stomach twisted. “Try me.”
They held each other’s gaze for what felt like forever, until Minho finally looked away, exhaling through his nose. “Not tonight.” The words were a wall slamming back into place - but this time, Jisung could feel the heat of something behind it. Jisung didn’t move when Minho said, Not tonight. Something in him rebelled at the dismissal - the same way it did every time Minho pushed him back into the role of “intern” instead of “person he clearly gave a damn about.”
“That’s all you ever do,” Jisung said, his voice trembling with anger he hadn’t planned on showing. “You… dangle something in front of me, and then you take it away. Every single time.”
Minho’s head lifted sharply. “I don’t-”
“Yes, you do,” Jisung cut in, stepping closer. “You hover around me, you… look at me like-” He broke off, cheeks burning, unable to finish. “And then you act like I’m imagining it.”
Minho’s jaw flexed. “Maybe you are imagining it.”
Jisung laughed - short, bitter. “Right. That’s why you’re sitting on my bed right now. In my apartment. After you showed up in the rain with no warning.”
Silence. Just the rain and the sound of Jisung’s heartbeat in his ears. “You want me to be honest?” Minho finally said, his voice low, dangerous. “If I tell you the truth, you won’t look at me the same way again.”
Jisung’s throat tightened. “Maybe I don’t want to keep looking at you like this - like you’re some… unsolvable puzzle I’m too stupid to figure out.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t say anything,” Minho shot back. “Because you’re not stupid, Jisung. You’re… young. You still think certain things are exciting until you find out how messy they really are.”
Jisung flinched at young - the way Minho said it, like it was a flaw, like it disqualified him from wanting anything real. “I’m not a kid,” Jisung said, quieter now but sharper. “And I’m not afraid of messy.”
Minho stood - and suddenly he was too close, looking down at Jisung with that same unreadable expression that somehow felt like a challenge. “You think you know what you’re asking for. You don’t.”
Jisung’s chest was tight, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Then teach me.”
For a long moment, Minho didn’t move. His eyes searched Jisung’s face - as if weighing every possible outcome - before he let out a quiet, frustrated sigh and stepped back.“This conversation’s over,” he said. And just like that, he was retreating toward the door.
Jisung stood frozen, pulse racing, his body buzzing with frustration and something far more dangerous - the feeling that he was so close to getting through.
The slam of the door was like a gunshot in Jisung’s chest. For half a second, he stood there frozen - and then his body moved before his brain caught up. He shoved his feet into sneakers, didn’t even bother with a jacket, and bolted after him. By the time he reached the street, the rain was cold needles on his skin, plastering his hair to his forehead. Minho’s tall figure was already halfway down the block, coat collar up, head down.
“Mr. Lee!” No answer. Just the sound of rain hitting pavement. Jisung’s shoes splashed through puddles as he chased him. “Minho, wait-”
Minho stopped but didn’t turn around. The streetlight ahead caught on the edge of his jaw, the rain beading and sliding down. Jisung came to a breathless stop a few feet away, chest heaving. “You don’t get to just walk away after dropping something like that.”
“I told you,” Minho said without looking at him, “you don’t want the truth.”
“I’ll decide what I want!” The words came out louder than Jisung intended, his voice cracking. “I’ve spent months - months - trying to understand you, and I’m tired of playing your game.”
That made Minho turn. His hair was damp, his eyes dark and steady even through the curtain of rain. “Game?”
“Yes!” Jisung stepped forward, rain soaking through his shirt. “You pull me close, you push me away, you stare at me like-” His voice faltered. “Like you… like you want something you won’t admit.” Minho’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. “Why?” Jisung asked, quieter now. “Why won’t you admit it?”
A muscle ticked in Minho’s cheek. “Because if I do, there’s no going back.”
Jisung swallowed hard. “Maybe I don’t want to go back.”
They stood there, just the sound of the rain between them. Minho’s gaze flicked over Jisung’s face - his wet hair, flushed cheeks, the stubborn set of his mouth - and for a second, something raw flickered in his expression.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone. “Go home, Jisung,” he said softly. “Before you regret this.” He turned again, walking into the darkness, leaving Jisung standing under the streetlight, rain dripping from his lashes, heart in his throat.
The rain had stopped days ago, but Jisung still felt damp inside. It had been weeks since the streetlight, and Minho had gone colder than winter steel. No more lingering looks in meetings. No brushing of hands when passing documents. No late-night emails that bled into personal conversation. Just Mr. Lee, the CEO. Jisung tried to keep his head down, but his chest clenched every time Minho’s voice cut across the room, clipped and impersonal.
At lunch one day, Chan slid into the seat across from him with a tray of fried rice. “You’re sulking again,” he said through a mouthful.
“I’m not sulking.”
“You’ve been staring at your soup for ten minutes like it owes you money.”
Jisung pushed the spoon around. “…He hasn’t spoken to me outside of work stuff since that night.”
“Night?” Chan’s brows shot up. “What night?”
Jisung hesitated. “The one where I- never mind.”
Chan leaned in, lowering his voice. “Jisung. Did you, or did you not, finally confess your DILF obsession to him?”
Jisung glared. “…You’re not helping.”
Chan smirked. “Okay, fine, I’ll be serious. If he’s ignoring you, maybe he’s scared. Or maybe…” He tilted his head. “…he’s waiting for you to make the next move.”
Jisung let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Sure. Because me chasing him into the rain wasn’t forward enough.” But even as he said it, he felt the itch under his skin. The kind that only grew when Minho’s voice called his name in that low, unreadable tone during a meeting later that afternoon.
A few weeks later, snow was falling in lazy swirls outside the tall glass windows of the company’s rented chalet. The board had decided this year’s holiday break would start with a day of “team bonding” - a phrase that made Jisung’s stomach turn, but one that everyone else seemed giddy about. A long table overflowed with gingerbread kits, mugs of steaming cocoa, and bowls of marshmallows. Off to the side, a corner crackled with a fireplace, and faint Christmas music played over the speakers.
Jisung had been roped into a team decorating contest. He kept his hands busy piping white icing onto the roof of his gingerbread house, but his eyes — without his permission — drifted toward the far end of the room. Mr. Lee was there. Black turtleneck under a charcoal wool coat, sleeves pushed just enough to show the watch on his wrist. He was speaking with two senior managers, head slightly bent, the firelight catching on the sharp line of his jaw.
Jisung quickly looked away when Minho’s gaze flicked in his direction. It was brief, but not brief enough - that lingering second made Jisung’s fingers squeeze the icing bag too hard, a thick blob oozing over the roof.
“Dude, you’re murdering the architecture,” one of his colleagues laughed.
“I- yeah. Oops.” Jisung tried to scrape the mess off. His palms were sweating. Why was he even here? It was supposed to be fun. A chance to relax. But Minho being only a few feet away felt like standing in front of an open flame.
Later, when the gingerbread judging ended, Jisung slipped away to the quieter hallway near the back exit. He needed air. Snow drifted down onto the wooden deck outside.
“Running away from team spirit?” The voice came from behind him — low, unmistakable.
Jisung turned. Minho was standing there, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a glass of wine. “I wasn’t- I just needed some air,” Jisung said quickly. His heart was already pounding.
Minho stepped closer, stopping just a few feet away. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes… they held something sharp, something watching. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Jisung swallowed. “I thought that was your thing lately.”
For a moment, Minho said nothing. Then, with that maddening calm, he replied, “You don’t make it easy, Jisung.”
The words hung between them, carried by the faint scent of his cologne and the cold winter air seeping in from the open door. Before Jisung could push for more, Minho’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then nodded toward the main hall. “They’re starting the next activity. You should join before people notice you’re missing.”
And just like that, he walked away, leaving Jisung in the doorway, chest tight and breathless, wondering if the man was playing some kind of game… or if this was just who he was.
Then, without a word, came the winter holidays. A span of time that Jisung had decided to use as a spiritual retreat. The holidays passed in a blur, and it was already Christmas morning.
The city was still half-asleep. Christmas morning had draped it in a hush, the streets lined with untouched snow, shop windows dark except for the warm glow of a few cafés. Jisung hadn’t expected to hear from him. Not today. Yet, at 8:14 a.m., his phone lit up with a short, maddeningly casual message: Coffee. My office. Thirty minutes. No explanation. No holiday greeting. Just an order. He’d almost ignored it. Almost.
But an hour later, Jisung was stepping out of the elevator, scarf still damp from melted snow, holding a paper bag of pastries he wasn’t sure Minho would even eat. The office was silent - most lights off, the whole floor smelling faintly of pine from the oversized Christmas tree in reception. He found Minho’s office door cracked open, faint piano music drifting out. Minho was behind his desk, not in his usual suit, but in a dark cashmere sweater and slacks. No tie. Hair slightly mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it while working.
“You came,” Minho said, glancing up from a folder.
“You asked,” Jisung replied, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. His voice was soft, but his pulse was loud in his ears.
Minho gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Jisung placed the paper bag on the desk between them. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured.
One corner of Minho’s mouth curved - not quite a smile, more like a private acknowledgment. “You didn’t have to.”
“You didn’t have to call me in on Christmas morning,” Jisung countered, leaning back in the chair.
Minho’s gaze held his for a beat too long. “I wanted to see you.”
It was almost enough to make Jisung forget how to breathe. “Why?”
A pause. Then, that infuriating shrug. “Maybe I like knowing you’ll come when I ask.”
The words burned hotter than the coffee warming his palms. Jisung wanted to demand more - clarity, answers, anything - but Minho’s phone rang. He answered it without breaking eye contact, speaking low in Korean Jisung couldn’t fully catch. When the call ended, Minho closed the folder and leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Stay a while. I don’t have anywhere else to be.”
And so, they sat there, sipping coffee as snow fell outside - the office unnervingly quiet except for the soft hum of the heater. Jisung knew this wasn’t a date. It wasn’t even a conversation with clear meaning. But it was something. And that was dangerous enough.
The snow had picked up by the time they left the building. Jisung half-expected Minho to simply nod and vanish toward wherever powerful, cold men like him spent their Christmas afternoons. But Minho fell into step beside him instead, gloved hands in his coat pockets. The street was quiet, the snowfall soft enough to feel unreal.
“You live this way, right?” Minho asked without looking at him.
“…Yeah.”
They walked for several minutes in silence, their footsteps muffled by snow. Jisung’s heart beat too fast for the pace they were going. Then, halfway down a block lined with small boutiques, Minho stopped in front of a café with fogged-up windows and golden lights strung across the ceiling inside.
“You eaten?” Jisung shook his head. “Come on,” Minho said, already pushing the door open.
The café was warm, smelling of gingerbread, cinnamon, and something buttery fresh from the oven. There were only a few customers - an elderly couple in the corner, a woman with a book, and now… them. Minho took a table by the window, unwrapping his scarf but leaving his coat on. Jisung sat across from him, still unwinding his own. A small wreath hung on the wall behind Minho’s head, framing him in a halo of green and red that made Jisung’s throat tighten. They ordered coffee and a slice of gingerbread cake to share. Minho paid without asking.
For a while, they sat quietly, watching snow blur the street outside. Jisung kept catching himself staring - at the way Minho’s hands wrapped around his coffee cup, the faint steam fogging the lenses of his glasses, the shadow of tiredness under his eyes. When their cake arrived, Jisung couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Why do you do this?”
Minho glanced up. “Do what?”
“This,” Jisung said, motioning between them. “You… call me in on Christmas. You walk with me. You sit here with me. And then you never explain anything.” His voice cracked, soft but sharp. “I’m not… just someone you can pull around when you feel like it. So - what is this to you? What am I to you?”
For a moment, Minho didn’t move. He simply looked at Jisung, gaze unreadable, coffee halfway to his lips. Then he set it down. “Do you really want that answer?”
Jisung’s breath caught. “Yes.”
The corner of Minho’s mouth twitched, as if fighting back a smirk - or maybe something more vulnerable. “Then stop asking in public.” Jisung’s stomach flipped. The snow outside fell heavier. And suddenly, the gingerbread between them felt completely untouched.
The walk back was quiet. Not the comfortable kind, not exactly tense either - more like something heavy was dangling between them, swaying with every step. Snow kept gathering on Minho’s shoulders despite the collar of his coat being turned up. His hair was damp at the edges, dark against his pale skin. Jisung couldn’t stop glancing at him from the corner of his eye, replaying that single line from the café: stop asking in public.
When they reached his building, Jisung expected Minho to just say goodbye and head off. Instead, Minho paused, looking up at the narrow staircase.
“You going to be alright?” he asked simply.
Jisung swallowed. “Yeah. But…” His hands tightened in his scarf. “If you meant what you said… about not asking in public…” Minho’s gaze sharpened slightly, like he knew exactly where this was going. “…then come inside,” Jisung said, voice almost a whisper. “So I can ask you now.”
For a moment, Minho didn’t move. Snowflakes clung to his lashes. Then, wordlessly, he stepped past Jisung into the narrow hallway, bringing the smell of cold air and something faintly expensive with him. Jisung shut the door, suddenly aware of the tiny size of his apartment - the single room with a bed in the corner, a low table, and the faint glow of the streetlight through the curtain.
Minho stood near the door, unbuttoning his coat slowly. Jisung moved forward, helping him shrug it off, their fingers brushing briefly. He hung it on the hook, then offered Minho a towel. “Here. Your hair’s wet.”
Minho took it, rubbing at the strands absently while his eyes stayed fixed on Jisung. “Well?” Minho said finally, voice low. “Ask.”
Jisung’s heartbeat was so loud it was almost distracting. “Why do you treat me like this? Like you can’t decide if I’m important or… just some kid who works for you.” His voice faltered, but he kept going. “Why do you make me feel like I matter to you, and then pull away the second I start to believe it?”
Minho didn’t answer right away. He simply set the towel aside and stepped closer - close enough that Jisung could see the faint crease between his brows, the way his breath fogged the space between them. “That’s not why I pull away,” Minho said quietly.
“Then why?”
Minho’s jaw tightened. “Because the way I think about you… isn’t how a boss should think about his intern.” The words seemed to thud in Jisung’s chest like a slow, heavy drumbeat.
Jisung’s throat went dry. “What… what does that mean?”
Minho’s eyes didn’t flinch away. “It means I think about you when I shouldn’t.” His voice was low, each word deliberate. “At work. At home. When I should be focusing on a meeting and instead I’m wondering what you’re thinking about.”
Jisung’s breath caught. “Then why do you act like I’m… nothing to you?”
“Because if I didn’t, Jisung…” Minho’s gaze dropped briefly to the space between them, then back up. “…you’d see right through me. And I can’t have that.”
Jisung’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Too late,” he said, voice trembling. “I already do.”
The silence between them stretched. The streetlight outside flickered through the thin curtain, painting faint gold shapes on the floor. Minho’s fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to reach out - then stopped. “You don’t know how close I am to doing something I can’t take back.”
Jisung stepped forward, just enough that their coats brushed where they hung on the hook. “Then do it,” he whispered.
Minho’s breath hitched, and for a fraction of a second, it looked like he might. But then his hand clenched, his jaw tightened, and he stepped back instead. “You don’t want me the way I am,” Minho said. “Not really.”
Jisung’s heart dropped. “Then why-”
“Because wanting you doesn’t mean I should have you.” Minho turned away, pulling his coat from the hook.
“Don’t walk away from me again!” Jisung’s voice cracked, raw with something almost desperate.
Minho froze, his back still to him. Snow kept falling outside, faint and steady, like the whole world was listening in. Without turning, Minho said, “If I stay, I won’t be able to stop.” And then he left, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Jisung didn’t think. He just grabbed his coat, slipped into his shoes, and ran. The cold hit him instantly, biting through his sweater. Minho was already halfway down the block, his dark coat blending with the shadows.
“Minho!” The older man didn’t turn. Jisung’s boots crunched against the snow as he chased after him, breath coming out in ragged white clouds. “Minho, stop!” He caught up just under the flickering streetlight, the kind that made the snow look like slow-falling gold dust. His chest heaved, the cold stinging his lungs. “You can’t just-” Jisung grabbed his sleeve, fingers trembling. “You can’t keep saying things like that and then walking away. You can’t just… leave me with nothing!”
Minho finally turned, and in the dim glow, his face looked almost tormented. “You think I don’t want to give you an answer? You think this is easy for me?”
“Then tell me!” Jisung’s voice cracked. “Tell me why you look at me like you - like you want me, but then you freeze me out. Tell me why I can’t stop thinking about you. Tell me why you left tonight like I’m - like I’m not even - ” He broke off, shoving his shaking hands into his coat pockets, eyes burning. “Do you know what it’s like? Wondering if I’m imagining all of this? If you’re just toying with me? I hate it, Minho. I hate it.”
Minho’s breath clouded between them. He didn’t move for a long time. Then, slow as the snow falling around them, he reached out and gripped Jisung’s wrist. Not hard - just enough to make him stay. “You’re not imagining it.”
Jisung’s chest tightened painfully. “…Then what are we doing?”
Minho’s thumb brushed against the inside of Jisung’s wrist before he let go. “We’re surviving. That’s all I can let us do right now.” And again, he turned away, the streetlight casting his shadow long across the snow. Jisung stood there long after Minho disappeared, the imprint of his touch burning like a brand.
It was late - too late for anyone sane to be out in the freezing air. But Jisung’s chest felt like it would split open if he stayed home one more minute, surrounded by the echo of Minho’s words from that night under the streetlight. You’re not imagining it. He had replayed them over and over, trying to find a reason, an excuse, a way to make sense of Minho pulling him close one second and shoving him away the next.
And now he was here. Standing outside Minho’s apartment building with numb fingers and a pounding heart. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t texted. He just climbed the steps, knocked on the door, and prayed he wouldn’t regret it. The door opened slowly. Minho was barefoot, in dark sweatpants and a loose black T-shirt, his hair slightly mussed like he’d just woken up.
“Jisung?” His voice was low, confused. “What-”
“I couldn’t…” Jisung’s throat felt tight. “I couldn’t sit there and wonder anymore. You-” He swallowed hard, looking at the floor before lifting his gaze. “You touch me like you want me. You look at me like you want me. And then you walk away. I can’t… I can’t keep doing this unless you tell me what it is you want.”
Minho’s eyes darkened, his hand tightening on the edge of the door. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Then tell me to leave,” Jisung whispered. Minho didn’t. Instead, after a long pause, he stepped back and let him in. The warmth of the apartment hit Jisung like a wave, but it wasn’t enough to stop the shiver running through him. Minho closed the door, leaning against it as though he wasn’t sure what came next.
Jisung’s coat dripped melting snow onto the hardwood, but he didn’t move to take it off. “I just… I want to be close to you. I want what your actions keep promising. And if you don’t want that, you have to say it, Minho.”
The older man’s jaw tightened, his gaze unreadable. “That’s the problem,” Minho said quietly. “I do.”
Minho’s words seemed to linger in the air, heavy and electric. I do. Jisung’s heartbeat thudded in his ears. He took a hesitant step forward, testing the distance, watching Minho’s expression for any sign that he should stop. There was none. “What does that mean?” Jisung asked softly.
Minho’s eyes swept over him, slow and deliberate. “It means…” He exhaled, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “…we don’t have to put a name on it today. No promises, no definitions. Just-”
“Just what happens,” Jisung finished for him, almost a whisper.
The corner of Minho’s mouth lifted, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Exactly.”
Jisung’s coat hit the floor first, followed by Minho’s steady hands on his shoulders, guiding him closer. The air between them was hot and trembling with all the things they’d kept unsaid. It wasn’t a kiss at first - it was Minho’s knuckles brushing Jisung’s jaw, his thumb tracing the corner of his mouth, Jisung’s breath catching at the contact. Then Minho tilted his head, closing the last inch, and their mouths met in a slow, unhurried press that deepened with each second.
Jisung felt his knees weaken, his hands instinctively curling into the fabric of Minho’s shirt. The older man’s palm slid to the small of his back, pulling him flush against him, the heat of his body making Jisung dizzy.
They didn’t rush. Every touch felt deliberate - Minho’s lips against the hollow of his throat, Jisung’s fingers slipping beneath the hem of Minho’s T-shirt, the quiet sigh that escaped when skin met skin.
By the time they reached the bedroom, they were half-drunk on each other - not desperate, but fully lost in the slow, almost torturous unraveling. Shirts came off, their breaths mixing in the dim light, their movements somewhere between tenderness and hunger. Minho’s hand cupped the back of Jisung’s neck, holding him in place as their foreheads pressed together. “No labels,” he murmured, voice rough.
“No labels,” Jisung echoed, but his eyes were already glassy, as if some part of him wanted to call it something anyway. But he wanted it so much that he wasn’t able to argue it now. All that was their bodies pressed against each other and their skin touching.
Minho’s touch on jisung’s body was trembling at first. In a motion that had the intention to be soft but wasn't really. The older man’s hands were slightly calloused, his touch rough against Jisung’s soft honey skin. The contrasting feeling got Jisung whimpering softly. Minho giggled at the sound. “Sensitive, much sweetheart?” He asked with a teasing smirk that got Jisung over the moon. It was the first time Minho had told him teasing without being cold or mean, and the young intern loved it.
“Again…” He whispered between heavy breaths as Minho kept kissing his skin all over.
Minho let out a small laugh. “What again? Use your words, bunny.”
Jisung let out a moan. “I… please- keep praising me, Mr. Lee.”
The older man’s hands reached Jisung’s jeans as he was still kissing and nibbling on his neck. “Depends if you deserve it or not. You need to act good to be praised for your work, intern.” He liked playing with Jisung this way. And the young man wouldn’t complain because it was what ewanted too. He pulls up his hips to help Minho undress him. “Eager are we?” The man teased again.
Jisung whined and wiggled his hips. “Mr. Lee com’on… I’m hard already.” Minho chuckled and nodded, undressing both of them. He reached towards the night stand to get a pack of condoms and pulled out one of them. Jisung looked at Minho’s veiny hands holding the small paper wrap. He then started taking off his watch but Jisung grabbed his wrist. “No. Don’t.” Minho raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He then got back over the younger man, holding himself with his elbows - while also caging jisung with them.
“You sure that’s what you want?” He asked before going any further even though they were both rock hard and panting. Jisung wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck, lifting his hips as he nodded. “You asked for it.” Minho answered back as he bit the wrap open, before rolling the latex down on his shaft. Jisung finally dared to look down at it. His ears immediately started to burn. Minho seemed big in his perfectly tailored suit pants. But now Jisung was sure of it - Minho didn’t just seem big, he was big. The older man noticed Jisung’s eyes widening and asked : “Want we to be gentle?”
But Jisung frantically shook his head. “Hell no. Please no- no gentle, sir.” He managed to mumble which made the man laugh.
“Then ass up, intern. Won’t be gentle, just the way you wanted.” Jisung obeyed. Minho grabbed the young man’s thighs and pulled them up, accessing Jisung’s hole. “What a pretty shade of pink.” He teased, in an almost humiliating tone that made the boy moan. Minho traced the small hole with the tip of his fingers. Caressing the sensitive skin softly. Jisung’s breath was heavy, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it down there.
“You said you wouldn’t be gentle.” He stated, almost asking.
Minho nodded and looked up, smirking. “But rough is for good boys.” He stated - Jisung let out a whimper - he then added. “Plus this hole is mine, I do as I wish with it.”
The boy whined louder, wiggling his hips again. “But I’m a good boy-” Minho grabbed his hips, stopping him from moving them - with a single hand. “I’m your boss, I get to choose.” He suddenly shoved a finger in, making Jisung whimper loudly.
Jisung squirmed, trying to get more friction as Minho added a second finger. He started moving in and out slowly - more teasing than gentle. “Mr. Lee please-”
Minho stopped moving. “Please what? Wasn’t I clear enough? I choose.” Jisung moaned one again, letting Minho choose the pace. The boy didn’t know he needed that kind of handling before getting it, and this was his best Christmas gift. So he did what felt like the best idea he ever had - he spread his legs and enjoyed the moment.
Minho chuckled and after a few thrusts that helped him find Jisung’s sweet spot - as well as how high the boy could go with his voice. He pulled his fingers out and positioned himself at Jisung’s entrance. “You sure you can take this big?” He asked - Jisung nodded. “Wouldn’t that make a little slut out of you?” He teased, raising an eyebrow sharply.
Jisung shook his head. “I don’t mind. I’m a- a little slut.” He mumbled, grabbing Minho’s shoulder - digging his fingers in the skin and flesh as if he was scared to drift away.
“Not quite what I wanted to hear.” Minho frowns. “Say the right thing and I’ll give it to you.”
Jisung looked up at him, slightly confused. A silence. Then, a sudden realization - Jisung got dark red. He parted his lips. Then closed them again. He looked away and mumbled : “I’m your little slut.”
“What was that? I didn’t quite catch that, sweetie.”
Jisung swallowed loudly. “I’m your little slut.” He repeated, with more conviction.
“Good boy.” He whispered as he finally pulled in.
Minho’s thrusts were all Jisung wanted. Fast, rough and deep. He kept moaning each time Minho would hit the back. The younger man soon dug his nails in Minho’s back, scratching it like his life depended on it.
“How are you so tight..?” Minho whispered in Jisung's ear. “Thought you’d be looser.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I love it.” Minho simply answered, thrusting harder.
After a while, Jisung could feel his orgasm building up. His cheeks burning hot, his doe eyes wet with overstimulation. “Mr. Lee… I think I’m close-”
“Shh. Not yet. When I tell you to, okay?”
Jisung nodded, clinging closer to Minho’s chest. The man started getting deeper, slightly slower - so he could always hit the post that made both of them moan and whimper. “Mr. Lee, please-” He whined.
Minho cut him off by grabbing his shaft and jerking it in time with his own thrusts. “Shh. Soon, soon. Hold it in, my slut.” Jisung cried and whined in pleasure - loud enough that the whole Seoul could hear.
“Minho I can’t-”
Minho finally comes undone, filling the condom. He gave Jisung’s shaft a few strokes which allowed him to shoot ropes of the warm liquid all over his flat stomach and slender waist. “Good, good…. Here it goes. You’ve been so good.” Minho whispers as he starts to wipe Jisung’s tears away from his cheeks with his thumbs.
The older man slowly pulled out, he took off the condom and tied it before throwing it across the room in the bin in one smooth motion of his wrist. He then rolled away and laid next to the smaller boy. The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing - slow, uneven, trying to settle. The sheets were tangled around their legs, the air still warm from the heat they’d built together. Jisung lay on his side, facing Minho, the older man’s arm heavy across his waist. His hair was messy, his cheeks flushed, and there was a lingering taste of Minho’s kiss on his lips.
Neither of them spoke for a long while. Minho’s thumb traced lazy, almost absentminded circles against Jisung’s bare hip, and Jisung couldn’t decide if the touch was grounding or dangerous.
“You’re quiet,” Minho finally murmured, voice low and tired. “Was it that bad?” he softly joked.
Jisung swallowed. “I’m… thinking.”
“About?”
Jisung’s eyes darted away, toward the ceiling. “How wrong this is. How right it feels.”
Minho’s mouth twitched, something unreadable passing over his face. “It’s only wrong if you think it is.”
Jisung wanted to ask what it meant for work, for them - but the weight of the moment pressed against his chest, making the questions feel too fragile to release. Instead, he just inched closer, pressing his forehead to Minho’s collarbone, breathing in the faint scent of his sweat and skin. Minho’s hand slid up to cup the back of his head, holding him there.
“Sleep, Jisung,” Minho said quietly. And for once, Jisung didn’t argue.
The first thing Jisung registered was warmth - not just the kind under the blankets, but the kind his body instinctively leaned toward. Sometime during the night, he’d curled against Minho like he was a lifeline, one arm draped over his waist, nose tucked against the man’s shoulder. It wasn’t until the light streaming in through the curtains shifted across his face that he stirred, reaching out for that same warmth… and finding only cold sheets.
His eyes opened to an empty bed. Panic fluttered in his chest before he heard it: the faint scrape of a chair outside, the almost imperceptible exhale of smoke. He slid out of bed, the air cool against his bare skin. The first shirt he saw was draped over the back of a chair - crisp, expensive, smelling unmistakably like Minho. Jisung pulled it on. It hung off him like a blanket, sleeves covering his hands, hem brushing his thighs.
When he stepped onto the balcony, Minho was there, leaning on the railing with a cigarette between his fingers and a mug of coffee resting on the ledge. His gaze flicked over Jisung slowly - from the oversized shirt to his bare legs - but he said nothing.
Jisung stood there for a beat before speaking. “You left me alone.”
Minho took a drag, not turning his head. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Jisung said, crossing his arms inside the too-big sleeves. “I meant… what now? We can’t just-”
“Go back to how it was?” Minho finished, finally meeting his eyes. “No. We can’t.”
The words made Jisung’s stomach twist. “So… what are we doing?”
Minho’s jaw tightened. He tapped the ash from his cigarette, the smoke curling into the cold morning air. “We figure it out. Slowly. No rushing.”
“That’s not an answer,” Jisung pressed. “You keep pulling me closer and then acting like nothing happened. I can’t-”
Minho stepped closer, close enough that Jisung had to tilt his head back to keep looking at him. “It happened, Jisung. Last night happened. And it’s not nothing.”
The heaviness in Minho’s tone made Jisung’s pulse quicken. But the uncertainty still clung to him like the morning chill. Minho reached for his coffee, offering the mug wordlessly. Jisung took it, the warmth seeping into his hands. They stood there in silence, the city waking around them, neither ready to say the next thing out loud.
It wasn’t a workday. No deadlines, no meetings, no formal excuses to hover near Minho - and yet Jisung found himself gravitating toward him like gravity had a personal vendetta. They’d agreed on “no labels” last night, but that didn’t mean Jisung had to act like Minho was just… Minho. Not when the memory of his hands, his mouth, his warmth still lingered on his skin. At first, Minho seemed content to let him hover. Jisung made coffee in Minho’s kitchen without asking, curled up on the couch next to him instead of in the armchair, and even leaned his head on Minho’s shoulder while they absentmindedly watched some old black-and-white film on TV.
“You’re clingy today,” Minho commented eventually, eyes still on the screen.
Jisung tilted his head up, feigning innocence. “Maybe I just like you.”
A glance - sharp, fleeting, unreadable - but Minho didn’t move away. If anything, his arm settled more comfortably along the back of the couch, fingers brushing Jisung’s hair when he shifted.
The whole day unfolded like that: Jisung close, Minho letting him be close, both pretending this was normal. They had lunch together, Minho cooking while Jisung chopped vegetables like they’d done it a hundred times. They walked to the corner store for snacks, their steps somehow always in sync.
By evening, Jisung was almost daring Minho to admit it out loud - that they could be like this, every day, without the world ending. When Minho caught him watching with a quiet smile that wasn’t quite a smile, Jisung’s heart tripped.
“You’re trying to prove something,” Minho said finally.
Jisung didn’t deny it. “And? Am I succeeding?” Minho didn’t answer, but the way his gaze lingered felt dangerously close to yes.
By nightfall, Jisung’s chest felt tight - the kind of heaviness that came with knowing something perfect had to end. They both had work tomorrow. There were unspoken rules. He was already stretching the limits of whatever “no labels” meant. So he stood by the door, coat in hand, trying to convince himself it was better to leave while he could still call today just a day.
“I should go,” he said, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ve got an early morning. And, you know… I’m already pushing my luck being here all day.”
Minho didn’t look up from the mug he was rinsing in the sink. “No.”
Jisung blinked. “…No?”
Minho finally turned, drying his hands on a towel, eyes sharp in the low light. “You’re not leaving.”
Jisung’s heart stumbled. “Minho, I-”
“I’ve been trying not to do this,” Minho cut in, walking toward him slowly, voice low but steady. “Not to… say too much. Not to want too much. I thought keeping you at arm’s length would make it easier. That if I acted like nothing mattered, it would protect both of us.”
Jisung’s grip on his coat tightened. “And?”
“And I’m tired of pretending,” Minho said. He stopped just in front of him, so close that Jisung could smell the faint trace of his cologne, the warmth of his breath. “I like you, Jisung. More than I should. More than I can ignore. And I don’t want you walking out that door tonight.”
The words hit Jisung like something physical - a mix of relief, fear, and a dizzying rush of heat. “You mean that?”
Minho’s gaze didn’t waver. “I mean it.” For a moment, neither moved. Then Minho reached for the coat in Jisung’s hands, set it gently on the table, and murmured, “Stay.”
Heyaaa my exams are over so i'm back with a small one shot!! As a fan of spiderman, i've been thinking about this trope for a while and i finally decided to do it I hope you will enjoy it!!!
In a city where secrets hide in the shadows, two unlikely neighbors find their lives unexpectedly entwined. One saves people with webs in a red-and-blue suit, the other studies human minds - but neither expected their worlds to collide. Quiet glances, stolen moments, and unspoken truths slowly unravel a story about courage, connection, and the messy, beautiful chaos of falling for someone who feels just out of reach.
One Shot : The (spider)boy upstairs
New Entry - November 14.
Today, Jisung left the building in a rush at 7.56PM.
At 8.02PM, I started to hear the sirens.
An hour later, the national news mentioned ‘Spiderman’ saving 65 people from a fire in the subway. 9.16PM, Jisung comes back to the building.
Minho highlighted the timestamps in sage green, and Jisung’s name in soft baby pink. He sighed as he closed his notebook which was covered in stickers related to Dick Wolf’s shows. He got up and went to the opened window, lighting up a cigarette before taking the filter between both of his lips.
Jisung was Minho’s upstairs neighbor. They both lived in the same off-campus apartment complex, even if they went to different universities. Minho was a psychology major at Korea University and Jisung was a physics major at Yonsei University. They both had known each other casually for a year - shared elevator rides, late-night convenience store runs, polite nods in the hallway. Jisung was a shy nerd - glasses, mismatched socks, plaid shirts, headphones - but Minho’s senses were sharp. He had noticed patterns. He had seen Jisung disappear right before the siren would go off. He had noticed the bruises on his cheekbones, the cuts on his lips. And mostly, he had never heard or seen Jisung being home while this ‘Spiderman’ was reported to be saving Seoul.
Of course, Minho hadn’t much proof, plus he didn’t know Jisung well, it could have been a coincidence. But a few months earlier, Minho had seen Jisung heading to the laundromat on a quiet Sunday morning. In his basket full of clothes that looked like they were coming from The Bigbang Theory, Minho’s sharp eyes seemed to notice a red and blue suit. It caught his attention so completely that he couldn’t sleep that night. He didn’t know why he cared so much, but to him it felt like he had to know what was going on with the boy upstairs. He told himself it was just curiosity - the same impulse that made him pick apart case studies and human behavior patterns in class. But this wasn’t like a paper. This was Jisung. Soft-voiced, overly polite, constantly hunched over like he was apologizing for existing. And yet, if Minho’s gut was right, that same boy was out there ripping open train doors and catching falling civilians. The contradiction burned at his brain. He needed to see it for himself.
Jisung on the other hand… well, what was there to say? He was screwed. Doomed. Beyond repair. Because he’d let himself fall for the cool boy downstairs - the one with perfect posture, deadpan sarcasm, and wrists so elegant they made holding a pen look seductive.
Lee Minho: psych major, cigarette break god, and part-time star of Jisung’s daydreams.
Hopeless. Utterly hopeless. Jisung knew his place. He was the clumsy physics nerd with fogged-up glasses and socks that never matched because he didn’t believe in “pairing” as a concept. He mumbled in elevators and dropped his phone constantly. Meanwhile, Minho spoke like every word had been focus-tested for maximum impact.
They weren’t friends. They shared awkward nods and maybe three sentences a week - enough to keep Jisung barely breathing but not enough to be considered anything. And now that Jisung was juggling both a physics degree and, well, saving Seoul in spandex, he had even less time to think about how unattainable Minho was. But of course, he still did. He remembered exactly when his life got flipped into superhero chaos.
It had been a Friday, spring semester, sometime between crying over a midterm and microwaving leftover rice. He was in the campus lab, working on his independent project - something about particle cohesion in synthetic webs, inspired by a comic he’d never admit to loving. That was when the spider bit him. No radioactive lab breach, no dramatic music. Just one quick sting. And the next morning, he woke up able to stick to the ceiling and disassemble a vacuum cleaner with his bare hands in under thirty seconds. At first, he thought it was a hallucination. A physics student psychotic break. But then the fire happened at the apartment across the street, and he didn’t think - he just moved. Climbed the wall. Swung on makeshift webbing. Caught a kid from falling four stories.
That night, Seoul named him “Spider-Man.”
He’d never wanted to be seen. He liked the background. The shadows. But now he was all over the news, even if no one knew his face. And every time he came back from a “mission” with bruises and scorched sleeves, he caught Minho glancing at him a little too long in the elevator mirror. Not with suspicion, not exactly - just with those unreadable eyes. But it didn’t matter. Minho would never like someone like him. Not when he could probably date a barista, or an actor, or one of those Communication majors who smelled like Chanel and didn’t drop ramen on their socks. So Jisung stayed quiet. Saved the city. And tried not to fall any harder for the boy who looked at him like a puzzle.
But even as he swung through Seoul’s streets in that ridiculous red-and-blue suit, his mind was never far from the apartment below. From the quiet boy with the haunted eyes - the one who always seemed to see right through him. He wondered if Minho ever noticed the bruises, or the exhaustion that made Jisung’s hands tremble sometimes. Probably not. Minho had his own puzzles to solve - and Jisung was probably just one more mystery he didn’t care about enough to crack. Or at least, that was what Jisung thought.
One evening in December, Minho decided to take things into his own hands. It was the late afternoon but the sun was down already. The sky hung low and grey, threatening snow, and the cold air smelled sharp and metallic - the way Seoul always did before a storm. Minho was wearing a thick dark hoodie, with a turtleneck underneath, as well as some heavy sweatpants to protect himself from the cold. His main goal wasn’t to be stylish that day, what he wanted was to be discreet. Tonight, he had decided to follow Jisung when he was going out. It was so weird for such a nerdy and clumsy physics student to go out late every night. Minho already had his suspicions, and after months of investigation he told himself that he had to finally move.
He didn’t have a plan - not exactly. He just knew Jisung’s patterns by now: the quick glance at the hallway mirror before slipping on his coat, the way he adjusted his backpack straps twice before stepping out, the moment of hesitation at the door like he was bracing himself to be someone else. Minho waited in the stairwell, listening. When he heard the soft click of Jisung’s apartment door, he slipped down the stairs and out into the Seoul night, keeping his distance. His hood was up as he walked a few meters behind the boy upstairs - the one he’d been academically stalking for months.
He followed Jisung until a small building without a fire escape. Minho raised an eyebrow, confusion flickering across his face. But suddenly, Jisung looked around, took off his jacket and started climbing the wall with inhuman ease, going straight to the top. Minho was completely shocked, his jaw dropped and it seemed like he couldn’t close his mouth anymore. He ran to the closest building with a fire escape to be able to reach the top by himself. But before he could even reach the rooftop, Jisung was already swinging away - effortless, like he belonged in the sky. Minho could only watch, stunned. He seemed amazed by the view. How could someone so discreet and simple be actually so athletic and do so much for his people? Minho decided to stay on the rooftop of the nearby building, he wanted to actually see Jisung in his suit, to be sure that it was him. His method was almost scientific. He waited there for a few hours, scrolling on his phone, checking the news and flinching at the sirens. After a while, Jisung swung back to the rooftop he left earlier. His suit was torn, he was bruised all over. Minho’s eyes snapped open as he crawled to the edge of his hiding spot. He heard Jisung groan and take off his mask violently. His hair was messy and there was blood on his round cheeks as well as a deep cut on his cheekbone. Minho frowned in empathy but before he could move more Jsiung swung away to their apartment building’s rooftop. The meticulous psych major had finally his answer : the boy upstairs was Spiderman.
Minho didn’t follow him this time. He just sat there, breath visible in the cold night air, heart pounding harder than it should’ve. He’d gotten what he wanted - the truth. But it didn’t bring clarity. If anything, it raised a thousand new questions. What kind of pain did Jisung come home with every night? Who helped him bandage those wounds? And why did Minho’s chest ache at the thought of that lonely figure disappearing into the dark, hurt and unseen? He waited a bit before climbing down the fire escape and coming back home. The initial pride of being right soon faded, replaced by something stronger and colder: fear. Minho was deeply scared for Jisung. This small boy was always so lonely - Minho had never seen him bringing anyone home. This meant that he was taking care of all of this by himself. And this thought made the boy downstairs’ heart sink. As he finally arrived at his apartment everything felt colder, as if he had left the window opened. He looked around, all of his notebooks, maps and pictures, filled with notes and diagrams about Jisung and his schedule. He sank down onto the floor, lost and confused. His cat - Soonie - came to rub himself against Minho’s thigh, as if to comfort him. At this gentle touch the boy came out of his thoughts and petted the fur ball. He reached for his notebook and usual pen, flipping to a fresh, blank page.
New Entry - December 22.
Jisung is Spiderman.
He simply wrote, scared, lost and mostly worried. But his eyes lingered Minho’s fingers hovered over the page, the pen trembling slightly. What could he possibly say? How do you confess that you’ve been watching someone - not out of suspicion, but out of something else entirely? Something softer, more desperate? He swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the window where faint lights flickered across the rooftop. Maybe tomorrow, he thought. Maybe tomorrow he’d find a way to tell Jisung that he saw him. That he cared.
But such a tomorrow never came. Over the next few days he kept watching Jisung swing from afar - in a way, he was checking on the spider-boy. Minho watched the days go by, scared for Jisung but never acting on it. He felt weak, and like a coward for not helping him. But after all, what if Jsiung didn’t want help? What if Jisung didn’t want his help? The man kept spiraling, which he shouldn’t have let himself do as his midterms were slowly getting closer.
On a particularly cold morning, Minho looked at his calendar : 25th of December. No family lunch, no friends - nothing planned. He looked at Soonie, today would be a day like any other, study and cigarettes at the window. SInce he had found out about Jisung’s secret the world seemed less colorful, as if this investigation was giving colors to his bleak student life. Minho’s fingers trembled as he pulled out a small, folded piece of paper - a note he’d never quite finished. Simple words scrawled in hesitant handwriting: “I see you. If you ever want to talk, I’m here.” He debated leaving it slipped under Jisung’s door, but fear held him back. Instead, he stuffed it into his pocket and stared out the window, wondering if courage would ever catch up to him.
In the evening he closed his laptop, rubbing his eyes as he looked out of the window. It was already dark outside but the city lights reflected on the snowflakes gently falling from the sky. Minho decided that it was the right time to take a break. He put on a thick and fluffy white scarf. He then grabbed his pack of cigarettes and a cup of hot black coffee before heading outside his apartment, keys in hand. As he reached the rooftop, the view was breathtaking. All of Seoul was covered in shiny lights and a beautiful white coat. He raised his cup of steamy coffee in the air, as if cheering. “Merry Christmas.” He told himself. But even as the warmth of the coffee seeped into his hands, Minho’s thoughts drifted back to Jisung - bruised, exhausted, alone. The fragile note burned in his pocket like a secret promise. He wasn’t sure when - or if - he’d ever find the courage to give it to him. But tonight, beneath Seoul’s winter sky, he made a quiet vow: he would try.
The sudden thwip of webbing echoed across the rooftop, breaking the stillness of the winter night. Minho’s heart jumped before he even saw who it was. Then Jisung appeared, swinging clumsily, slower than usual. When he landed, it was almost a stumble, a sharp contrast to the nimble, practiced grace Minho had glimpsed before.
Jisung’s suit was shredded beyond any previous battle damage Minho had seen - jagged tears exposing raw, bruised skin. Dark streaks of blood traced down his arms and stained the front of his suit. His breathing was uneven, shallow and quick, as if each inhale was a fight. His hands trembled, fingers twitching involuntarily, and Minho noticed how his usually bright eyes were shadowed with exhaustion and pain. For a moment, Minho felt frozen, heart pounding in his ears. The boy upstairs - his quiet, awkward neighbor - looked utterly broken.
Then the words spilled out before he could stop them, rougher than he intended: “You look like shit.”
Jisung stiffened instantly, his gaze flickering away, voice small and defensive: “…Have you been following me?”
Minho’s chest tightened, frustration and fear twisting together. “Have you been getting yourself killed?”
Jisung’s jaw clenched, trying to hold himself together, but Minho could see through it all. The way Jisung’s fingers twitched, the slight tremor in his voice, the shallow breaths between words - he was running on empty, holding on by sheer force. Minho’s mind raced: all the late nights Jisung vanished, the sirens, the bruises he’d noticed but never dared ask about directly. The photos he’d taken - proof of this secret double life- yet still no confession.
Minutes passed in heavy silence. Jisung’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him. His voice came out soft, almost defeated: “…So what now?”
Without hesitation, Minho stepped forward and gripped Jisung’s arm firmly but gently. “Now, you sit your ass down before you pass out, and I call a cab to the ER.”
Jisung barely resisted, the weight of exhaustion making him almost collapse into Minho’s support. Minho half-carried him, careful with each movement despite the tension in Jisung’s body. On the way back to Minho’s apartment, Jisung’s breaths were uneven, his head resting briefly against Minho’s shoulder.
Once inside, Minho wasted no time. He grabbed a first aid kit, then sat Jisung down on the couch, pulling off the torn sections of the suit as gently as possible. He winced at the raw skin underneath - bruises blooming in dark purples and reds, cuts oozing thin streams of blood. Minho’s fingers worked with surprising tenderness, cleaning and dressing the wounds. The sharp edges of his worry softened as he saw the way Jisung winced but didn’t complain, how his body slowly relaxed under the care. For once, Jisung didn’t hide behind his usual awkwardness or nervous smiles. Instead, there was a fragile honesty in the way he leaned into Minho’s presence, like a silent thank you. Minho’s usual sarcasm faded into quiet resolve. He didn’t have all the answers, but in this moment, he knew one thing for certain: Jisung wasn’t alone anymore.
Jisung didn’t take off his mask. Minho paused, his hand hovering hesitantly in the air, fingers twitching with uncertainty. The torn suit revealed the worst of Jisung’s wounds - bruises darkening like storm clouds, cuts that needed cleaning - but the mask still clung stubbornly to Jisung’s face.
“Let me…” Minho started, voice softer now, more careful.
Jisung stiffened, shrinking back just enough to make it clear he wasn’t ready to reveal that last barrier.
Minho sighed, a mix of frustration and something gentler washing over him. He sat back slightly, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, cheeks warming. “Okay, okay, I get it. It’s... weird. And you’ll probably think I’m some psycho for stalking you like that.”
Jisung’s eyes flicked toward him, wide and alert under the mask. Minho took a deep breath and decided to just lay it all out there, his words tumbling out in a rush, shy and fumbling but honest. “I’m a psychology major, right? So I’m used to noticing patterns, figuring people out. I saw the bruises, the cuts... and then the news about Spiderman saving people around the city. I kind of put two and two together. And yeah, I followed you a little. Not to get you in trouble, I swear. I just - I wanted to understand.”
Jisung blinked slowly, then looked away, cheeks dusted with a soft, unfamiliar pink. Minho glanced at him, heart skipping. “I’m not a creep,” he added quickly, voice cracking just a little. “I just... care. About you.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Jisung’s fingers hesitated on the edge of the mask, and with a slow, shy breath, he pulled it off. His face was flushed, not just from the cold but from something more vulnerable - like a secret finally set free. Minho’s breath hitched. Bruised cheeks and cut lips were all too visible now, but beneath it all was the boy he’d been watching, the one who had quietly stolen his thoughts and softened the edges of his lonely days. Minho reached out gently, his fingers warm as they brushed against Jisung’s skin while tending to the wounds. The room felt suddenly smaller, charged with an unspoken tenderness. Jisung’s eyes flickered up, meeting Minho’s gaze for a brief, fleeting moment - shy, unsure, but somehow full of something like hope.
Minho’s fingers traced the last of the cuts on Jisung’s arm with slow, careful motions, dabbing at the wound with antiseptic and gently pressing gauze in place. The silence between them was thick but not uncomfortable - more like the kind of quiet that settles when two people are doing something important together, wordlessly. When he finally set the supplies aside, Minho looked up, eyes searching Jisung’s face. His voice was low, a little rough around the edges - like he was forcing himself to say what mattered.
“I’m… worried about you. Not just because you get hurt, but because you keep doing this- throwing yourself into danger like it’s nothing.”
Jisung swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t know how to be careful,” he muttered with a warm chuckle. “I can’t stop. I have powers and responsibilities, Minho-ssi.”
Minho hesitated. Talking about feelings wasn’t easy - especially when every word seemed like a minefield he wasn’t sure how to cross. But he pushed through the discomfort, because this genuinely mattered. The words came out awkward and stilted, but sincere. His cheeks flushed a faint pink, a telltale “I care. About you. More than I probably should. And that is why I think you shouldn’t die for your responsibilities.” sign Minho was out of his comfort zone but trying hard.
Jisung looked up, eyes wide and a little stunned. His lips parted, as if trying to find the right words, but none came immediately. Then, finally, he breathed out, soft and sincere, “I… like you. Like, more than just a neighbor or a friendly spider-boy.”
Minho blinked, stunned, his mind scrambling to catch up. “You mean… you like like me?”
Jisung nodded, cheeks burning hotter now, and before he could second-guess himself, he leaned in, pressing a shy, awkward kiss to Minho’s lips. It was quick, unsure - like testing the waters - but full of everything he’d been holding back. When they pulled apart, Minho’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. His voice was teasing but tender, “You’re such an idiot for being this reckless.”
Jisung grinned despite himself, eyes sparkling with mischief and hope. “Would you still kiss a reckless idiot?”
Without hesitation, Minho cupped Jisung’s cheek, voice softer now, nearly a whisper, “Yeah. Especially an idiot like you.”
The moment stretched out between them, warm and fragile - two quiet souls finding a connection that was equal parts messy and perfect. Minho’s heart thudded wildly, but he stayed steady, grounding himself in the simple truth: he wanted to protect this boy, to care for him, even if the words didn’t always come out right. And Jisung, with all his goofy, dumb crush feelings, finally felt seen - not just as the mysterious Spider-Man or the awkward physics nerd, but as someone truly cared for.
They sat there for a long moment, the city lights casting a soft glow in the apartement’s living room through the windows, the cold night forgotten between them. Finally, Minho spoke, voice steady but quiet. “So… what now? Do we pretend this didn’t happen? Or… do we try this - whatever ‘this’ is - together?”
Jisung’s shy smile was small but certain. “Together sounds good.”
And just like that, they decided. Not with grand declarations or fireworks - just two imperfect boys stepping toward something real.
The days that followed were a mix of gentle awkwardness and quiet joy. Minho took on the role of caretaker with surprising tenderness - showing up with steaming cups of coffee on late study nights, helping patch up bruises with steady hands, and always, always checking if Jisung had eaten or slept enough. Jisung, for his part, was still the same goofy, fumbling mess he’d always been - only now he was stumbling through this new world of dating, offering Minho little nerdy gifts: a rare book he’d found in the library, a carefully folded origami spider, or sometimes, flowers torn and battered from his reckless swinging around Seoul.
“Sorry I’m late,” he’d say sheepishly, holding out the wilted bouquet. “Got caught saving the city again.”
Minho would just shake his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re impossible.”
But beneath the teasing was an unspoken truth: they were exactly what each other needed. Their conversations were filled with jokes, quiet confessions, and the occasional clumsy silence that neither minded. They learned each other’s rhythms - when to speak, when to hold space, and how to say ‘I love you’ without words.
And in all the chaos and tenderness, Jisung’s heart felt lighter, warmer - buoyed by the knowledge that no matter how many bruises or awkward moments came their way, Minho was there.
Because love, they both realized, wasn’t about being perfect. It was about being there - fully, imperfectly, together.
Heyaa !! i'm in the middle of my exam period and i had to take a break to change my mind. So here is a one shot i really wanted to write, hope you like it !!
Jisung is an anthropomorphic alien assigned to Earth for a sociocultural study on human emotion and behavior. He’s intelligent, observant, and logical - but completely unfamiliar with human nuance, especially things like affection, care, and love. He meets Minho, a quiet and seemingly blunt human who lives alone with his cats and avoids eye contact. Minho is autistic and immediately senses that Jisung is “not like others,” but doesn’t mind — in fact, he relates. Minho decides to help Jisung blend in, offering him a place to stay. Over time, their connection deepens in ways Jisung doesn’t understand… until he does.
Jisung arrived on Earth at 3:42 a.m., cloaked in fog and silence, with nothing but a data recorder and an incomplete understanding of what “human” meant. His appearance had been calibrated to match local expectations - two eyes, ten fingers, a slightly upturned nose - but something about him was still off. He walked barefoot down the edge of a sleepy town, mimicking the stillness of the trees, until he saw a boy sitting alone near the water, hoodie pulled over his ears, throwing rocks in the still water as if the sea belonged only to him. That was the first time Jisung felt it: the quiet tug of something unknown, and the way his chest tightened when the boy looked up.
Jisung didn’t even think to hide. He was mesmerized by this strange creature he was seeing for the very first time. The eyes of the boy on the shore sparkled in the night as he noticed Jisung. The boy seemed to flinch but he didn’t move any more. Was it fear? Or something else? Jisung couldn’t tell; the behavior was unfamiliar, unrecorded. After all, he had been sent here to study them. He swallowed and stepped forward, his new legs trembling beneath him.
The boy didn’t speak. He simply watched Jisung approach, head tilted slightly, like he was trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. Jisung stopped a few feet away, unsure what the expected distance was in this kind of encounter. Silence stretched between them, heavy but not hostile. Then, finally, the boy said, “You’re not from here, are you?” His voice was quiet, not accusing - just stating a fact, as if it didn’t bother him at all. The young alien slightly flinched. He didn’t know how to answer, not even how to act. For a bit he stayed silent. The boy eyed him - not judging - just trying to understand. “Are you lost? Why are you naked?” He asked, now deeply curious as he blinked a few times. “Did something happen to you?”
Jisung was overwhelmed by the sudden burst of inquiry. But still he didn’t answer. And thus because his brain was boiling with an amount of questions that was multiplied by one hundred - at least. “What is ‘naked’?” He mumbled, simply asking. The boy didn’t look startled, only more intrigued. Jisung figured it was logical to ask directly. If he was meant to understand humans, why not begin with the one who hadn’t run away?
The boy’s lips twitched, almost smiling. “It means you don’t have clothes on.” He reached down, pulled off his oversized hoodie, and held it out without moving closer. “Here. You’re gonna freeze like that.” Jisung stared at the fabric, unsure if it was a gift, a test, or a form of weaponry. The boy didn’t rush him. “It’s okay. You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.” His voice was soft, like the sea behind them - steady, rhythmic, patient. Jisung hesitated for a bit. Eventually, stumbling slightly on his feet, he reached towards the boy and grabbed the hoodie. He turned it over and over, trying to figure out how to put it on. A laugh broke his deep reflection. Hands grabbed back the hoodie and suddenly, a soft warmth enveloped him. “Come on, put your arms in the sleeves.” The boy simply said, as if it was the easiest thing in the universe. Jisung studied it closely. The long holes seemed made for his limbs, so he slid them in one by one. When the boy let go, Jisung felt a flicker of triumph. He looked up, proud of his success - but the moment their eyes met, the boy quickly looked away, expression flickering into something unreadable. Embarrassment? Discomfort? Jisung tilted his head. Had he done something wrong?
“Sorry,” the boy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not good at eye contact.”
Jisung blinked. “What is… eye contact?”
The boy chuckled under his breath and sat back down on the rocks, patting the space beside him. “You really aren’t from here, huh?” His tone wasn’t mocking - just thoughtful. “It’s when you look someone in the eyes. Some people like it. Some don’t. I don’t.” He looked out at the sea again, his voice barely louder than the waves. “But I think I’ll get used to yours.”
Jisung nodded softly, understanding the idea of eye contact. “So you’ll be upset if I look you in the eyes?” He asked, trying to grasp the idea fully, taking mental notes.
“Makes me uncomfortable.” The boy answered. “Avoid it.” He quickly added, fidgeting the hem of his tank top. A silence settled between them. It wasn’t quite awkward, just cautious, like neither of them wanted to make the wrong move. “What is your name, stranger?” The human finally asked, breaking the silence.
The alien looked up at him, taken aback. Was that a common question among humans? “Jisung.” He simply said. He looked up at the boy, who stared as if he was waiting for something. But Jisung couldn’t tell what, so he stayed silent.
“Minho. My name is Minho.” The human added. Jisung’s eyes widened, finally understanding what he was waiting for. He took another mental note : Humans expect questions to be asked back to them.
They sat in silence for a while, the waves lapping quietly at the shore. Jisung found the rhythm calming, like the boy’s voice. “Minho,” he repeated softly, tasting the name in his mouth. It felt round and warm. Minho didn’t reply, but he didn’t move away either. Jisung turned his head slightly. “Why were you alone by the sea?” he asked, testing his new understanding - ask questions back. Minho shrugged, pulling his knees to his chest.
“Too loud in my head,” he said. “But here, it’s quiet.”
Jisung didn’t really know what to say. But he was confused. And since his note about questions had proven useful, he decided to keep going. “What do you mean by ‘too loud in your head’?”
Minho sighed loudly. A silence. Jisung felt like he had severely messed up. But it turned out the boy was just looking for a way to phrase his thoughts. Mental note : Humans, sometimes, need time to figure out what to say. “I think too much,” Minho said at last. “And when I do, it’s like a bunch of people are talking at the same time in my mind.” He paused, watching the waves crash softly in the dark. “Sometimes it gets too loud. So I come here. Looking at the sea makes them stop talking.”
Jisung followed Minho’s gaze, studying the waves as if they held a secret frequency that could quiet thoughts. He didn’t fully understand, but something in Minho’s voice tugged at his chest again - that same unfamiliar pull he’d felt earlier. Was this emotion? Empathy? Curiosity? He pressed a hand against his chest, unsure if it was malfunction or discovery. “I don’t think much,” he said after a moment. “I just observe. But... right now, I feel something I can’t record.”
Minho glanced sideways at Jisung, brows furrowing slightly. “Can’t record?” he echoed. “What do you mean?”
Jisung looked down at his hands, curling his fingers as if they might reveal something. “I was sent with a recorder,” he explained softly. “It stores sounds, images, language, behavior… things I can label. But this,” he paused, pressing his palm to the center of his chest again, “doesn’t fit anywhere. It doesn’t have a name. I don’t know how to save it.”
Minho didn’t respond right away. The boy’s words were strange - but not in a bad way. Just… unfamiliar. Like poetry he hadn’t read before. He pulled on the hem of his tank top a bit more, as if it could give him the courage and the strength to speak up again. “I don’t think it needs to be recorded,” he said eventually, his voice quiet, careful. “Maybe it’s just something you feel. And that’s enough.”
They sat like that for a while longer, saying nothing - but not needing to. The sea began to shimmer as the sky shifted from black to deep blue, and then to soft pink. The first light of morning touched the water like a secret being revealed only to them.
Minho stretched his legs, then stood slowly, brushing sand off his pants. He looked down at Jisung, who hadn’t moved. “You don’t have a place to go, right?” he asked. Jisung shook his head. Minho hesitated only a moment. “Then… come with me,” he said, offering a hand. “You can stay at my place. For now. Until you figure things out.”
Jisung stared at the hand like it was a new species, uncertain. But there was no fear this time - only that strange warmth again. Slowly, he reached out and took it.
Minho’s apartment was small - one bedroom, a sagging couch, and a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t seen much use. But it smelled like cinnamon and laundry detergent, which Jisung immediately decided must be the scent of safety. He stood in the doorway barefoot, eyes darting to every object: the light switch, the drying rack, the cat calendar on the fridge. Everything was data. Everything was strange. But Minho just kicked off his shoes and said, “I’ll find you some clothes. You can’t stay half-naked like this.” Jisung nodded as he kept looking around. He slowly and carefully sat on the edge of the couch, guessing it was the purpose of the furniture. Minho returned a minute later, holding another hoodie, boxers, and a pair of sweatpants. Jisung stood up immediately, suddenly unsure if he’d overstepped. As he handed him the clothes, Minho chuckled : “You can sit, no worries. Make yourself at home.”
Jisung looked at the clothes, then back at the couch, then at Minho. Make yourself at home. The phrase sounded simple but felt impossibly complex. Was he supposed to mimic Minho’s actions? Was there a ritual? Slowly, awkwardly, he lowered himself back onto the couch, setting the clothes in his lap like sacred objects. “What does ‘home’ mean?” he asked, eyes fixed on the hoodie.
“Home… what does it mean?” Minho echoed, whispering to himself. The question was harder than it seemed. What was ‘home’? How to give a universal answer that would ring a bell to Jisung? “It’s a place… No, wait. It also can be someone.” He started, mumbling the beginning of a definition. Jisung seemed to be hanging at his lips, as if this answer was the point of life. “So a place, or someone that makes you feel good - at ease. Basically that is where - or with who - you want to be when everything is loud and tiring.” He finished, unsure he managed to answer perfectly.
Jisung nodded, his fingers tightening around the clothes on his lap. “So… the shore is your home? Do humans all have a different home?” He asked, still confused.
Minho tilted his head, caught off guard by the question. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I guess we do. Some people find it in houses, some in people. For me… the sea feels quiet. Like it understands.” He looked over at Jisung. “But it’s not a real home. Not like one with walls. That’s harder to find.” His voice trailed off at the end, like he was admitting something without meaning to.
The young alien frowned, even more confused. “But here…” He gestured vaguely to the whole apartment, pointing at the walls and Minho’s stuff. “Isn’t this your home?”
Minho looked around, as if seeing his apartment through Jisung’s eyes for the first time. The peeling corners of posters, the single mug in the sink, the unopened mail by the door. “I live here,” he said slowly. “But… I don’t always feel here. It’s like my body’s in the space, but my brain’s somewhere else.” He shrugged. “So it’s a house. Not a home. At least not yet.”
Jisung nodded. Mental note : A home can be someone or somewhere - it is hard to find, not everyone has the same. He slowly looked up at Minho. His eyes a bit more understanding. “And… What could make house turn into home?” He asked, his grammar awkward, betraying his lack of comprehension of the concept.
Minho let out a breath, slow and uneven. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “I guess… comfort? Safety. Not having to pretend.” He sat down beside Jisung, arms resting on his knees. “I think maybe… it becomes a home when someone else sees it - sees you - and stays anyway.” He blinked, suddenly feeling too exposed. “Sorry. That probably sounds dumb.”
Jisung shook his head. “Not dumb,” he said simply. “Just… human.” There was a quiet pause, then he spoke up again. “So… finding home is like a journey, to find something we need to feel safe?”
Minho didn’t answer right away. His eyes had drifted to a crack in the ceiling paint, like he was trying to read the answer there. “I think… because most of us are scared of being seen. Really seen.” Jisung looked down at the hoodie in his lap again, fingers brushing over the fabric. A journey, he thought. He means an invisible kind. Another note for the recorder that didn’t work.
Minho gave a small huff, almost a laugh. “Yeah. A long one. Some people spend their whole lives looking.”
Jisung tilted his head. “But if it’s so important… why is it so hard to find?”
Minho stood and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright,” he said. “We should probably talk. If you’re going to stay here… there need to be rules. Boundaries.”
Jisung blinked. “Boundaries?”
“Yeah. Like… lines. Not physical ones, really, but… things you don’t cross. Or stuff you ask before doing.”
Jisung looked genuinely distressed. “But how do I know where the line is if I can’t see it?”
Minho sighed, though not unkindly. “Fair point.” He walked to the kitchen counter, grabbed a pen and a sticky note pad, and scribbled something. Then he peeled the note off and stuck it on the wall. “Boundary one: don’t go into my room without knocking.” He looked over. Jisung nodded slowly and murmured the phrase like it was a sacred law. Minho wrote another. “Boundary two: don’t touch my things unless you ask.” Another nod. “Boundary three: no staring when I’m overwhelmed. Just… give me space, okay?”
Jisung tilted his head. “Overwhelmed is when your thoughts are too loud again?”
Minho hesitated. “Kind of. But it can also be lights, sounds, smells, people talking too much…” He trailed off and looked at Jisung, expecting more questions.
Instead, Jisung reached into the hoodie’s pocket and pulled out a small silver disk no bigger than a coin. “This records smells,” he said helpfully. “Do you want me to use it to avoid the bad ones?”
Minho blinked. “I - no, I think we’ll just open a window.” Before they could continue the sticky-note commandments, a sudden thump came from down the hall. Jisung jumped to his feet instantly, alarmed.
“What was that? Is the structure collapsing?”
Minho chuckled. “No. That’s just my cats.”
“Cats?” He barely had time to ask before three furry blurs bounded into the room - one sleek and ginger, another orange, and one tabby and curious. They scattered across the floor like small chaos units. Jisung yelped, leaping behind the couch. “They’re alive!”
“Yes, they are,” Minho said dryly. “And they live here too. You’ll have to make peace with them.”
The tabby one, Dori, immediately leapt onto the couch and sniffed Jisung’s leg. He stiffened like a statue. “It’s scanning me,” he whispered.
“He’s sniffing you,” Minho corrected. “That’s his way of saying hi. Dori’s friendly.”
Doongie, meanwhile, was trying to wedge himself into Jisung’s lap. “Help,” Jisung said, stiff with panic. “It’s absorbing me.”
Minho snorted, turning his face away so Jisung wouldn’t see him laugh. “He’s sitting on you. That’s affection.”
“Affection is… heavy.” Soonie, aloof as ever, perched on the windowsill and judged them all silently. Eventually, Jisung relaxed enough to awkwardly pat Doongie. The cat purred so loudly Jisung jumped again, then stared in awe. “That’s not a warning noise?”
“No. That means you’ve passed the test.” Minho smiled faintly. “Doongie accepts you. That’s more than I can say for most humans.”
Jisung looked down at the cat curled into his lap, amazed. “I have been accepted… by the creature.”
Minho leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I’ll write that on a sticky note, too. Boundary four: Doongie owns the couch now.”
Over the next few weeks, the wall by the kitchen slowly transformed into a patchwork of colorful sticky notes - some neat and precise in Minho’s careful handwriting, others crooked or smudged from Jisung’s enthusiastic attempts to contribute. Boundaries turned into reminders, then into inside jokes. “Don’t microwave metal,” one read. Another: “Doongie gets jealous if you pet Soonie first.” Minho bought clothes for Jisung - soft things, all oversized - and cleared a drawer for him without saying much. Jisung slept on the couch each night, often tangled in blankets with Doongie curled against his side like a living heater. The apartment still smelled like cinnamon and detergent, but now it also carried something else - something new and quiet and growing, like the soft rhythm of waves in the distance. Something that felt, almost, like the beginning of home.
Jisung took to observing Minho with a quiet, reverent focus, like a student trying to decode the most complex language in the galaxy. He began documenting patterns in a notebook Minho had given him, one with little stars on the cover. Entry 37: Minho flinches when touched without warning. Possible cause: defense instinct? Sensory overload? Ask later. He noted how Minho lined his books up by height, genre, and comfort level - soft reads on the left, sharp ones on the right. Entry 41: Objects need to be “just right.” May be linked to stability. He noticed how Minho’s fingers danced when the world was too much - tapping, twisting, flapping like tiny waves keeping him anchored. Entry 45: Repetitive movements = “stimming.” Seems to self-soothe. Don’t interrupt.
Minho caught on quickly. “You don’t have to write everything down,” he said one evening, his voice more amused than annoyed. “You can just ask.”
“But if I ask too much, I might bother you,” Jisung replied, blinking. “You need more quiet than most humans.”
Minho tilted his head thoughtfully. “That’s true. But I also like knowing you want to understand.” He patted the couch beside him. “Come here. I’ll teach you how to be.”
Jisung hesitated. “Be what?”
“Just... be. Not how people think you should. Not pretending.” Minho leaned back. “That’s what I used to do - masking, they call it. Makes you tired. Makes you feel fake.” He looked sideways. “So I won’t teach you to blend in. I’ll just teach you how to exist. Around me. With me. That okay?” Jisung nodded slowly. He didn’t quite know what that meant yet - how to “just be.” But for the first time, it felt like he might learn not from data, but from something deeper. From Minho.
It was a quiet afternoon, the kind Minho liked best - rain pressing softly against the window, Soonie curled into a loaf on the windowsill, Jisung flipping through his notebook with focused eyes. Minho was sprawled on the couch, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, rhythmically tapping his thumbs together.
Jisung finally looked up, tentative but determined. “Can I ask now?”
Minho gave a small nod without hesitation. “Yeah. Ask anything.”
That was all Jisung needed. “Why do you tap your thumbs like that when it rains?”
Minho glanced down at his hands, thoughtful. “It’s stimming. Short for self-stimulation. Helps me stay calm when there’s too much noise or feeling. Rain’s good noise, but it still piles up.”
Jisung scribbled that down. “And when I sat too close yesterday and you flinched… was that because I startled you or because I touched your arm?”
Minho was quiet for a beat. “Both,” he said finally. “Sometimes my body doesn’t like touch, even if I do in my brain. It’s a little confusing, I know.” He offered a small shrug. “It’s not about you. It’s just how I’m wired.”
Jisung tilted his head. “Wired differently. Like… a different kind of processor?”
“Yeah,” Minho said with a little laugh. “Exactly like that. My brain’s got different settings. That’s called autism.”
Jisung’s pen paused. “Autism,” he repeated softly. “Is that why you sometimes talk slower? Or don’t look me in the eyes?”
“Yup,” Minho said, unbothered. “And why I like routines. Why I line up the forks. Why I get exhausted around people. It’s not something wrong - just… different. I’ve had it my whole life.”
Jisung was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward slightly. “I like your processor. It’s gentle.”
Minho huffed a breath of laughter, cheeks coloring faintly. “Thanks, bug.”
“Bug?”
“It’s a nickname,” Minho said, amused. “Because you collect data like one of those little info-gathering drones.”
Jisung beamed, clutching his notebook like it was a treasure. “Bug,” he repeated proudly. “Minho’s bug.”
Minho groaned and threw a pillow at him. “Don’t make it weird.” But he was smiling.
Over the following months, Jisung’s understanding of human behavior deepened - not just in theory, but in texture. Emotions stopped being data points and started becoming sensations: the warm pull in his chest when Minho laughed without holding back, the soft ache when Minho retreated to his room on bad days, the hum of peace when they sat shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing. They built routines together. Jisung folded laundry with Minho while he stimmed by rhythmically tapping socks together. They drank tea on rainy days, curled beneath blankets, while Soonie dozed in Jisung’s lap. They didn’t call it anything. They didn’t need to.
Jisung didn’t know what romance was supposed to feel like. He just knew that Minho’s presence soothed something restless in him. That he liked waking to the sound of Minho singing softly to the cats in the kitchen. That he learned to read the shifting tones of Minho’s silences and adjust his own behavior accordingly - not because he was told to, but because he wanted Minho to feel safe.
One night, after a long day spent organizing Minho’s bookshelves into a new color-coded system, they sat on the floor, backs against the couch, watching the ceiling fan turn lazily. Jisung whispered, “You’re my favorite observation.”
Minho blinked, half-laughing, half-touched. “That’s a weird way of saying you like me.”
“I do,” Jisung replied, not fully grasping the difference. “I like you. I feel... at ease with you. Like... when you said home is where you don’t have to pretend.” Minho’s chest tightened at that. He didn’t say anything for a while, just let the words settle in the room like candlelight. Jisung placed a hand over his own chest, softly pressing into the warmth he felt there. “Minho... you are home.”
And though he didn’t understand the full meaning yet, Minho turned to him, eyes wide, and gave him the gentlest smile he’d ever worn. Not correcting him. Not defining it. Just quietly holding the space open for whatever was growing between them.
It had been a year.
Three hundred and sixty-five days since Jisung had appeared near that beach, soaked in moonlight, asking questions like his life depended on it. In a way, it had. His mission - to observe, document, and return with the data - was complete. More than complete. His recorder was full: notes on human speech patterns, behaviors, emotional expressions, social rituals. He’d done his job. His vessel had re-established contact. His departure was scheduled.
But Jisung hadn’t moved. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the couch in the apartment that smelled like cinnamon and detergent and warmth. His hoodie, once Minho’s, had become his favorite possession. Soonie lay curled up in his lap, Doongie nearby, Dori on the windowsill. The wall was cluttered with sticky notes - definitions, reminders, quiet moments Minho had translated into writing so Jisung could refer back to them when feelings became too big. But none of those notes had prepared him for this one.
He turned his head toward the kitchen. Minho stood by the sink, pouring tea into two mismatched mugs. Jisung stared, his voice low and tight in his chest. “I have to leave.”
Minho paused, not turning. The sound of the kettle clicking off echoed into the silence. “I know.”
Jisung blinked, confused. “You... know?”
Minho turned around, holding the mugs. His face was calm, maybe even sad, but not surprised. “You think I didn’t figure it out?” he said gently, handing Jisung his tea. “Jisung, you asked me what ‘naked’ meant. You flinched at light switches. You called emotions ‘unrecordable anomalies.’” His voice was soft, almost affectionate. “I knew. I just didn’t care.”
Jisung’s hands trembled around the mug. “I was meant to stay one year. Collect, learn, return.”
“And now it’s been a year.” Minho sat beside him. “Are you going back?”
“I should.” A pause. “But… when I think of leaving you, I-” Jisung’s hand went to his chest again, the place where things always hurt. “Why do I feel pain when I think of leaving you?”
Minho set his mug down. He looked at Jisung, really looked, with eyes so full and clear it made Jisung feel like he might dissolve. “It’s love.” The word hung between them. A single sound. A seismic shift.
Jisung frowned. “Love,” he repeated. “I don’t understand.”
Minho nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It’s hard to explain. It’s not logical. It’s not efficient.” He licked his lips. “It’s when someone becomes a part of your world without trying. When just being near them makes everything feel… real. Safe. Important. And leaving them-” he stopped, then tried again. “Leaving them feels like tearing out a piece of yourself.” Jisung stared at him, still lost in the maze of this human word. Minho shifted closer. “Sometimes,” he said gently, “when humans don’t know how to explain love, they show it instead.”
And then, with quiet permission, he leaned in and kissed him. Jisung’s eyes widened. It was nothing like he had expected. It wasn’t just a physical gesture - it was heat and stillness, noise and quiet, confusion and clarity. It was data that made no sense but felt more truthful than anything he’d ever recorded.
When Minho pulled back, his voice was even softer. “That’s a kiss. Humans kiss to show love. Not always. But… sometimes. When words aren’t enough.”
Jisung touched his lips - caressing them with the tip of his fingers - stunned. “So kissing is... for love?”
Minho smiled, patient. “Sometimes. It’s not the only way. But it’s one of the ways we say, ‘You matter to me. I see you. I want you close.’”
“I want to stay close,” Jisung said, his voice almost breaking. “But I wasn’t made for staying.”
Minho nodded slowly, eyes glimmering. “Maybe not. But... maybe love changes that.” And for the first time, Jisung didn’t write the moment down. He just lived in it. Held there, in the fragile, beautiful now - with a boy who smelled like tea and sea air, and a pain in his chest that, finally, had a name.
Jisung stood alone at the edge of the sea, waves tugging gently at his bare feet. The stars blinked above him - familiar, distant, calling him home. Or what had once been home.
In his hand was the recorder. The same device he’d arrived with a year ago. It had collected thousands of hours: of language, customs, human behavior. But lately, it had captured something else - quiet laughter, the rustle of sticky notes, the purring of cats, the sound of tea being poured, of two people breathing in the same rhythm. He pressed the final command sequence. The message began uploading, carried by invisible waves toward the sky. His report was complete. Every field filled, every question answered - except the last one, which he’d written himself. What makes humans stay?
He hadn’t known when he first typed it. But now he did. He turned his back on the sea.
Back to the apartment that still smelled like cinnamon and laundry detergent. The sticky notes still covered the wall. Doongie was curled in his usual spot on the couch, as if he hadn’t noticed Jisung was gone.
Minho was in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. He looked up the moment Jisung stepped inside, something flickering in his expression - worry, hope, love. “You’re back,” Minho said, quietly. “Did you...?”
Jisung nodded. “I sent it.” He hesitated, then added, “I told them everything. About you. About emotions. About your routines. About stimming. I explained how you line up your books when you feel off. And why you don’t like being touched without warning. I explained the silence, the flinching, the honesty. I told them about love.” He looked down, suddenly shy. “I stayed for you. Not for Earth. Just you.” Minho didn’t speak, but his eyes softened, shoulders relaxing with something that looked like relief. “I found a way to stay,” Jisung said. “They’ll think I’m still collecting. I’ll keep sending data, just less often. They won’t come for me.” He took a careful step closer. “And... I want to learn. Not just observe. Not just document. I want to feel what this is.”
Minho crossed the room slowly. “What this is?”
Jisung nodded, placing a hand against his chest again, where the strange warmth always grew around Minho. “That thing you called love. I don’t think I understand it all. But I want to. I want to try.”
Minho smiled, eyes glassy. “You don’t have to understand it all. I don’t either.”
Jisung took a breath, searching for the right words in his learned vocabulary. “Then… I think I love you too. I just don’t know how to say it yet.”
Heyaaa !! I know i already posted yesterday but i wanted to write a one-shot in this vibe : just grunge/emo core that i love so much. So here it is, it is not long but i hope you will enjoy it anyway !!
In a garage soaked with rain and reverb, two boys wrestle with the noise between them. Pride clashes with vulnerability. Silence says more than words. And somewhere between distortion and lyrics, something breaks open - loud, raw, and too honest to ignore.
This isn’t a love story. It’s a song they only know how to play together.
ONE SHOT
The rain hammered against the cracked windowpane, a relentless beat that matched the static humming from the battered amplifier. Minho sat on the edge of the worn-out stage, fingers twitching around the neck of his guitar like they were itching to scream, but the sound never came. Across the dim room, Jisung’s shadow flickered, scribbling lyrics into a notebook stained with smudged ink and regret. Neither of them said a word - the silence between them louder than any chord, heavy with all the things they couldn’t admit.
The rain hammered against the garage windows, each drop slicing through the fragile thread holding Jisung’s sanity together. Nothing was going the way he wanted it to go. The bass wasn’t right, his drummer was sick, Minho was breathing too fucking loud and his pen was running out of ink. He sighed loudly before muttering, “God damn.” They all knew this tone. Jisung was pissed. He threw his notebook on the floor and walked back to the mic.
“Let’s go again. This time try to fucking focus.” He spat. Minho rolled his eyes, the bassist nodded obediently. They started playing. Jisung sang. Pouring all of his feelings into his lyrics as usual. But after just a few minutes, he screamed and completely stopped singing. “God, is no one listening to me?” He shouted again. “I told you guys to focus. I wasn’t fucking kidding.”
Minho’s fingers clenched tighter around his guitar, his knuckles white beneath chipped black nail polish. The air in the room thickened - sticky with tension and unspoken blame. Jisung’s glare burned through the dim light, every word a jagged shard thrown carelessly. Minho wanted to say something - anything - but the words lodged in his throat, heavy and useless. The music stopped, leaving only the buzz of the amp and the relentless rain pounding outside, like a heartbeat they both couldn’t escape. Slowly, Minho stepped forward, his voice low and raw. “Maybe you’re not the only one who’s lost in the noise.” Jisung’s eyes flickered - anger softening to something like pain. The distance between them didn’t shrink, but for a moment, the silence wasn’t so suffocating.
Jisung felt his blood boiling in his veins. “Sorry to be pissed that the song that I produced and that I wrote is being destroyed because no one here actually wants to work.” He spat again, every word dripping with venom aimed squarely at Minho.
“Do I have to remind you what it means to be a group, Ji?” Minho asked in a sharp tone as he slung his guitar behind him. He frowned as his singer stayed silent. “You’re not alone in this. You don’t get to be a dictator here.” He grabbed Jisung’s shirt tightly. It was a worn-out black t-shirt, displaying a drawing of an anarchy logo with written ‘FUCK CAPITALISM’ in capital letters. “I thought you genuinely believed in this shit.”
Jisung’s chest heaved, his breath catching between ragged words. “Believed? Maybe I still do. But belief doesn’t make a difference when it feels like you don’t even try.” His voice cracked, vulnerability bleeding through the cracks of his anger. For a moment, Minho saw past the frustration, past the rebellious facade, and caught the raw ache beneath - the fear that this band, this fragile connection, might shatter completely. The room seemed to shrink around them, their shadows merging in the dim light as the rain’s steady drumming outside marked the slow, painful tick of time slipping away. Jisung pulled away, stepping back with a bitter laugh. “Maybe we’re just noise, Minho. Static that never quite finds the right frequency.” The words hung heavy between them, daring Minho to respond, to admit he felt the same.
Minho’s eyes itched, but he blamed the expired eyeliner. “Maybe you’re just noise. Or maybe your lyrics just can’t transcend anyone.” He answered. He didn’t believe a single word of those two sentences. But he needed to cut through Jisung’s ego somehow.
As the young singer’s eyes widened, Minho knew he had hit the right spot. And deep enough, he felt like an asshole for it. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak up about it and apologize just yet. because he was still pissed at Jisung - and maybe because Jisung needed to be knocked down a peg for once.
“I’m an artist. A real one.” He barked back, pushing Minho away in a sharp motion. “Your bullshit ‘no feelings for art’ attitude? Not my fucking problem. And if you don’t wanna be a part of whatever this still is…” Jisung moved his arms in a vague gesture around the garage. “You might as well just leave. There is no room for losers beside me.”
The words hit like a slap, but Minho didn’t flinch. Instead, he stared, the weight of the silence pressing down harder than any argument. “Losers?” he echoed, voice low and bitter. “You think you’re some kind of savior? Because all I see is someone scared shitless to lose control.” The rain outside had softened to a dull drizzle, but inside the room, the storm was far from over. Minho’s fingers curled into fists, trembling not from anger, but from something more fragile - fear. Fear that no matter how loud they screamed, no matter how sharp their words, the music between them might finally snap. And with it, everything they’d built - fractured and frayed like the edges of a torn album cover - would be gone forever.
Jisung let out a sharp laugh. But it wasn’t humorous, it was sarcastic - almost cruel. “You wouldn’t be here if I hadn't had any control, dumbass.” He let go of his mic and pushed Minho’s shoulder. “I need my time before I break one of you guys’ neck.” He added as he stormed out of the garage. He wanted to walk farther, but the rain was still pouring, so he stayed under the small porch. Jisung took out a cigarette and let it rest between his dry lips. He shoved his hand in the pocket of his low-rise jeans. In his pocket, he found a small lighter and, out of habit, grabbed it and raised it to meet the cigarette. He lit it up. But before shoving back down the lighter, he took a look at it. It wasn’t his. It was pink, with a cartoonish cat drawn on it. Jisung let out a low sigh, exhaling the smoke from his lungs. He coughed softly while muttering, “you fucking piss me off, Lee Minho.”
Jisung stared out into the rain, the smoke curling around him like a fragile shield against the world. The pink lighter felt heavy in his hand, a quiet reminder of something - or someone - he wasn’t ready to face. He hated how much he depended on Minho, how their fights left scars deeper than any music ever could. The rain blurred the edge of the porch, turning the world outside into a smudged watercolor of gray and black, just like the inside of his mind. Somewhere, beneath the anger and the stubborn pride, there was a crack - a place where hope still flickered. But for now, it was buried beneath smoke, rain, and all the noise they couldn’t drown out. And Jisung’s ego was known to be extremely strong. So even after waiting forty-five minutes, he didn’t come back inside. Eventually, Minho left. The bassist followed not long after, both of them fading into the downpour without a word. It was only after two additional cigarettes that Jisung came back inside the garage. He sat down in silence and started scribbling on his notebook again. He grabbed the mic, taking it off the stand. As he sat on the floor, the sound of the rain outside started to lower. His heartbeat calmed down. He quickly started writing. Eventually mumbling melodies and meaningless words in the mic. Minho’s words kept spinning in his mind. Again and again. “Your lyrics just can’t transcend anyone.” Jisung let out a loud exhale. What if Minho was right after all? He pulled out of his pocket the pink lighter once again. His eyes got itchy. Minho’s lighter.
He turned the lighter over in his hand, thumb tracing the edge of the stupid cat sticker until it started to peel. Maybe it was childish. Maybe Minho had left it behind on purpose. Or maybe it had just fallen out of his pocket, meaningless and forgotten, Jisung didn’t even remember picking it up in the first place. But he couldn’t stop staring at it like it held answers he couldn’t write into a verse. He leaned his head back against the cold garage wall and closed his eyes, the mic still loose in his grip. The sound system hummed quietly, an electric pulse in the background of his unraveling thoughts. In his mind, he saw flashes - Minho laughing with a cigarette between his teeth, Minho nodding silently at his lyrics, Minho storming out without looking back. They weren’t just bandmates, not really. Never had been. There was too much mess in between, too many moments that felt like something more. And now it all teetered on the edge of falling apart, like an overplayed tape about to snap. “Fuck,” Jisung muttered, voice cracking against the mic like breaking glass. He flipped to a clean page in the notebook and, for the first time in hours, let himself write something honest.
For a while he wrote. Again and again. He couldn’t stop - not even for air. It felt like if he paused, even for a second, something vital inside him would collapse. So he kept writing. He didn’t look at the time, or even got up to eat or smoke. Eventually, when it got dark outside, he raised his hand to hit the light switch. But after hours - that felt like seconds - he put down the notebook, and closed it. Jisung sighed loudly before rubbing his eyes. That was when the door opened. The door creaked open, and without a word, Minho stepped into the garage and plugged in his guitar, like nothing had happened - like everything had.The tension was thick in the air. Jisung's lips parted but he didn’t say anything. He sat there and watched.
After a bit of moving around, Minho eventually looked up at Jisung. He didn’t speak up, but the singer understood. In an uncontrolled rush, he got up and handed Minho his notebook.
“I wrote a few. Score at the end.” He muttered shyly. When it was just them, in this dark garage, it felt like time could stop.
Minho nodded, thumbing through the pages in one smooth motion, stopping when he found the score. “I don’t care about the lyrics anyway.” Jisung’s eyes dropped to the floor, disappointment flickering across his face before he could hide it. “Not yet.” Minho added under his breath, so soft it may as well have been a ghost of a thought. But somehow, it stayed with Jisung anyway.
They didn’t speak for a while after that. Jisung moved to the mic, instinct guiding him more than thought. He sat cross-legged on the floor again, waiting. Minho adjusted his guitar strap, fingers brushing the strings like he was trying to remember how to breathe through them. Then, like it was muscle memory, he began to play - a soft riff, something new, something raw. Jisung recognized the chords. They were his. The ones he’d written an hour ago, in the dark, bleeding honesty into the page. Minho had read them. He had understood them. Jisung’s throat closed up with emotion, but he forced himself to sing. Not loud. Not perfectly. But it was real. A trembling voice over the broken-sounding chords, fragile like a scraped knee. As the melody grew, so did something else - something sacred and sickening and sweet. It wasn’t just music anymore. It was everything they hadn’t said, threaded between the notes. Jisung’s voice cracked, but Minho didn’t stop. He played through it like it was meant to break. Like all broken things still deserved to be heard.
Minho’s fingers slowed on the strings, not stopping entirely, but shifting into a looser, softer rhythm - like a heartbeat stumbling into vulnerability. Jisung’s voice wavered before catching again, steadying just enough to carry the next verse. The one Minho remembered.
He had read it earlier - half by accident, half by choice. Flipping through Jisung’s scrawl of verses and messy chords, his eyes had landed on a page darker than the rest. Not in tone, but in weight. As if the words had been carved into the page instead of written. Now, Jisung was singing them out loud, voice rough, cracked at the edges, but real:
“You look at me like I’m smoke you can’t breathe in
But I keep burning for you, still
Even when your silence cuts louder
Than the amp when it screams.”
Minho’s fingers faltered for half a second. Just barely. Just enough for Jisung to notice. But the singer kept going.
“I hate that I love when you walk away
'Cause at least I get to watch you
And pretend you’ll turn around.”
The sound that filled the garage wasn’t clean - it wasn’t rehearsed or polished or meant for anyone else. It was jagged, vulnerable, too raw to be a performance. It wasn’t about the band. It wasn’t about fame. It wasn’t even about the music anymore. It was about Minho. And he knew it.
He didn’t look up at first. Didn’t move. Just let the chords die out slowly, like the last breath of something fragile. When he finally did raise his head, Jisung was already watching him - wide-eyed, frozen in place, like he’d just realized what he’d done. Like the words had fallen out without permission. Neither of them spoke. The silence pressed down like a hand to the chest.
Minho’s voice came low, dry. “You wrote that about me.” It wasn’t a question.
Jisung’s jaw tensed. He looked away for a moment, then back. “I didn’t name anyone.”
“You didn’t have to.” Minho’s guitar slipped from his lap with a soft thud onto the rug, and he stood up slowly. He walked over, each step deliberate but careful, like approaching something wild that might bolt at any moment. “I read those lyrics minutes ago,” he said. “And I kept hoping you’d sing anything else. Something easier. Something that didn’t feel like... this.”
Jisung stayed silent, fists clenched at his sides, like he was bracing for impact. Minho stopped in front of him, close but not touching. “Why’d you write it?”
Jisung’s voice was almost a whisper. “Because it was the only way I could say it.” A beat passed. Then another. Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The world was holding its breath again.
Minho let out a slow exhale. “Okay.” His voice cracked slightly. “Then listen to me now, because I don’t do lyrics the way you do.” He swallowed hard, eyes flickering between Jisung’s and the floor. “But I never once looked at you like you were smoke I couldn’t breathe. If anything…” He gave a bitter smile, soft and self-deprecating. “You’re the only thing that keeps me from choking most days.”
Jisung blinked like he’d been slapped. His mouth parted, but no sound came out. Just the hum of the mic still live in his hand, buzzing between them like a secret too big for either of them to hold alone. Suddenly - almost in a rush - he stood up and threw a score at Minho. “Play this.”
Minho didn’t speak. He just unfolded the page Jisung had thrown at him, the corner still bent from impact. The chords were scrawled with aggression, the ink smeared like they’d been written through shaking hands. This wasn’t a song meant to soothe - it was meant to scream. To bleed. To break something open. He picked up his guitar again, plugged in, and turned the gain way up. The sound that tore through the speakers wasn’t gentle - it was distortion and grit, each chord like a wound splitting wider. He didn’t need to ask Jisung if he was ready.
Jisung stepped into the mic like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Then the song hit. The drums thundered in his head - imaginary, but real in the way his heartbeat followed their pace. Minho’s guitar shredded through the quiet like teeth through skin. Jisung’s voice came rough, raw, almost hoarse, but full of heat. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t pretty. It was honest.
“You called me divine in the dark
Then cursed me in daylight like sin’s second spark
I fell from your heaven just to crawl through your hell
And I still wore the crown as I shattered myself.”
Minho didn’t flinch - he just played harder. Every note biting into the air, sharp enough to draw blood. Jisung pushed forward, the mic shaking in his grip, eyes wide like he was exorcising something.
“You said I was holy with ash on my tongue
But I baptized my pain in the songs left unsung
I begged for salvation with your hands on my throat
I was your altar. You were my rope.”
The garage wasn’t a practice room anymore. It was a battleground. Their confessional. Their funeral. Their rebirth. Jisung’s voice cracked once - but this time, he didn’t care. He let it tear through his throat like it belonged.
“You played God with your silence
Let me pray to your back as you walked away
And I’m still kneeling in the noise
Screaming grace through the decay.”
Minho stepped in closer, his guitar surging beneath the verse like a wave crashing just before it pulls you under. Jisung didn’t back away. He went harder.
“So go ahead, write me down in your gospel of ghosts
Call me a heretic for loving you the most
But don’t forget - every angel’s just a sinner with wings
And I burned mine off just to hear you sing.”
The song built - rising, spiraling, until it was too big to contain. And then - The final line tore out of Jisung’s chest like it had been waiting years to be spoken.
“I would’ve let you break me if it meant you’d stay.”
Silence snapped into place like a trap. The amp buzzed with leftover rage. Jisung was panting, sweat on his forehead, fingers clenched around the mic stand like it was the only thing keeping him from falling. Minho stared at him. Jaw tight. Eyes burning. He didn’t ask what the lyrics meant. He didn’t need to. Because they were already the answer.
The silence after the last note was deafening - too thick, too loud, too alive. Jisung stood frozen, chest heaving, his breath fogging up the raw air between them. The walls of the garage felt smaller now, as if they’d shrunk around the weight of what had just been said - not with words, but with sound. No one moved. No one needed to.
Minho’s guitar still hung from his shoulder, the final chord echoing in the strings, bleeding out slowly like a fading wound. His fingers hovered over the frets. Then, he looked up. Straight at Jisung. Eyes unreadable. Jaw still set. And then he said, voice low, rough, not demanding but certain: “Sing it again.”
Jisung didn’t ask which part. He didn’t have to. Minho shifted his grip, adjusted the volume dial, and this time - this time, he didn’t play like he was figuring it out. He played like he knew. Like the chords were etched into his skin. Like the song belonged to him too.
Jisung stepped forward. No hesitation now. Just instinct. He brought the mic to his lips again - and sang. Not exactly the same. More. Stronger, steadier, but still bleeding. His voice cracked in all the right places, not because it was broken, but because it was true. Minho’s guitar rose to meet him, every note a mirror, a hand reached out, a silent scream turned into harmony.
They weren’t speaking. They didn’t have to. Because this - this - was the language only they understood. The beat of old wounds. The pull of near-loss. The unspoken things stitched into verses and distortion. And as Jisung reached the final line again, breath shaky, voice low and blistered -
“I would’ve let you break me if it meant you’d stay.”
Minho’s playing didn’t stop this time. He just kept going. Kept looping the outro, building it into something bigger, something triumphant, like he was refusing to let the song end on pain alone. And Jisung, without realizing, was singing it again. And again. And again. Each time a little different. A little less afraid. They weren’t fixing anything. Not yet. But they were still playing. And maybe that was enough.
The final chord faded out slowly, swallowed by the garage’s empty corners like the last breath of something too sacred to name. Jisung didn’t move right away. He just stood there, mic in hand, chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon barefoot over glass. Minho’s fingers hovered for a moment over the strings, not strumming, just… resting. Quiet. Still. And then he let his hand fall. The guitar went silent. The amp buzzed faintly, the kind of low static that filled in the gaps between words neither of them could say.
Jisung turned slowly to face him. Eyes rimmed red, but not from crying - just from everything. The air between them felt like it could crack open if either one of them breathed too loud. Then he spoke. Just five words. Soft. Steady. “You felt it too, right?” No desperation. No pleading. Just the kind of question that came after the storm - when the world was ruined but standing, and you needed to know someone else had seen the lightning too.
Minho didn’t speak. His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched once near the neck of the guitar, like they wanted to answer for him. And then - barely, almost imperceptibly - he nodded.
Jisung closed his eyes. Just for a second. Like he needed that moment of confirmation to ground himself. Like it was enough. Like he could finally breathe. Minho unplugged his guitar without a word, and Jisung set the mic back in its stand with a kind of reverence. They didn’t look at each other as they packed up.
But when they left the garage - attached to the back of Jisung’s parents’ house, its chipped door still half-open behind them - they walked in sync. And somewhere between the threshold and the stairs up to his room, Jisung’s hand brushed against Minho’s. Neither of them pulled away. Their fingers intertwined like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it had been waiting to happen, buried beneath the static and shouting and tension that had always been more about fear than hate.
They went up quietly, passing through the familiar hallway. Jisung’s room was chaos - CDs stacked like miniature skyscrapers, old amps buzzing faintly in the corners, and posters hanging at wild angles, curling at the edges. The walls were covered in signatures, lyrics, and torn-out zines, like the inside of his head had spilled everywhere. Neither of them cared. They collapsed onto the bed without a word, sprawling side by side. The mattress squeaked beneath them, barely big enough for two, but somehow still too much space.
Jisung reached toward the nightstand, grabbing the old metal ashtray, a couple of crumpled packs of cigarettes, and a pink lighter already warm from his pocket. He offered one to Minho without speaking. Minho took it silently, lighting his with practiced ease. They smoked together in silence. The glow of the tips pulsed faintly in the dim room, twin embers flickering in rhythm with the low hum of whatever song Jisung had playing in the background. The window was cracked open just enough to let the smoke curl out into the cool night air, taking some of the tension with it.
After a while, Jisung leaned over and shoved one of his old mix CDs into the stereo. The label read “LOUD LOVE” in messy black sharpie, half faded from overuse. The room filled with crashing drums, screaming vocals, and gritty guitar riffs. Not sappy love songs. Real ones. Angry ones. The kind that howled and bled and swore with every chorus. Songs that didn’t apologize for how hard they loved. Music that didn’t ask to be understood - it just existed. They didn’t say anything for a long time. Just laid there, heads barely touching, hearts slowly syncing to the pounding beat of some long-forgotten emo anthem vibrating the floorboards beneath them. Jisung’s fingers absentmindedly tapped the rhythm against his chest, and Minho stared up at a poster of My Chemical Romance hanging crookedly above the bed. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was full. Complete.
Then, somewhere between tracks - right after a bridge that sounded like heartbreak and before the next scream - Minho’s voice cut in. Quiet. But sure. “I have a title.”
Jisung blinked, slowly turning his head. Minho didn’t look at him, just kept his eyes on the ceiling. “Hold My Hand.” he said.
Jisung sat up slightly, brows raised. His lips parted in a mix of surprise and something softer, and then - “A title track,” he whispered.
Minho looked over at him, finally meeting his gaze. And Jisung smiled. Not big. Not dramatic. Just the kind of smile that meant everything when you’d been on the edge of falling apart all night. They laid back again, letting the next song drown the silence.
And maybe tomorrow there’d be questions. Maybe tomorrow there’d be fear.
But right now, there was only the music, the curl of smoke between them, and two hands still quietly holding each other beneath the blanket of noise.
Heyaaaa !! here is the final part !! I hope you will like it, At first i wanted a real bitterweet ending but i decided to give a real happy ending for once : so enjoy it !!
Act IV : No Man’s Land
Jisung didn’t sleep that night. He lay on the narrow cot in his safehouse, staring at the cracks in the ceiling like they might split open and offer him a sign. But all he got was silence. The kind that throbbed in his chest and echoed in the spaces Minho used to fill. Around 3 a.m., he sat up, heart pounding with something that felt suspiciously like resolve. Maybe it was stupidity. Maybe it was love. Or maybe it was just the quiet madness of a man who had lost everything except the one thing he wasn’t supposed to want. Either way, he moved. Packed nothing. Took nothing. Just the flash drive and the folder with Minho’s name stamped across the top like a threat. Because if this was going to end, it wasn’t going to end like this - not in silence, not in retreat. Minho had walked away. But Jisung wasn’t ready to let him go. Not yet.
The rain hadn’t stopped. Of course it hadn't. This was Europe after all. As his soles met the wet pavement, the rest of the world fell away. His heart was pounding in his chest. As if it was trying to find a way out. And Jisung knew where his heart wanted to go. For once in his life, he chose to follow the one thing his heart had never stopped wanting: Minho. It was too late - or too early - to find a taxi in Vienna. Jisung exhaled in irritation. Sometimes he forgot that not every city was like New York. So he did the only thing left to do - he walked.
The streets were empty, Vienna wrapped in the kind of pre-dawn hush that made even the street lights seem reluctant to glow. Jisung pulled his coat tighter against the wind, but it wasn’t the cold that gnawed at him - it was doubt. What if Minho had already disappeared? What if he’d already burned the last trace of himself and vanished into some shadowy corner of the world, just another ghost with a dozen names and no home? But Jisung kept walking. Past shuttered bakeries and sleeping trams, past alleyways he’d once chased informants through, past all the rules he’d sworn to live by. Because there was one person left who might still be real. And if he didn’t try - if he didn’t at least try - then he’d never forgive himself.
The ticket bore a name that wasn’t his - hadn’t ever been - but Jisung didn’t flinch as he handed it to the conductor. “René Baek,” it read. Belgian national. Half-forged, half-earned. The papers tucked into his coat pocket could withstand inspection if needed. He knew because he’d spent the past four months building them. Bit by bit, lie by lie. Each one carved out of databases he wasn’t supposed to access, favors he wasn’t supposed to call in. He’d spent so long swimming through the black ink of Minho’s past, the KGB networks and burnt bridges and ghost trails, that he was surprised he still remembered how to come up for air. The train hissed to life beneath him. Dawn hadn’t yet broken. Vienna was still sleeping, wrapped in wet fog and old secrets, as if the city itself were ashamed of what it knew. Jisung took his seat by the window and didn’t look out. Instead, he clutched the flash drive in his pocket - not because it held anything new, but because it was the last thing he had touched before Minho vanished.
Months had passed. Enough for the world to pretend it had moved on. The Ritter Café had new chairs. His old CIA handler had stopped calling. And Jisung had learned how to disappear - not in the dramatic sense, but in the quiet way: deleting his name from the apartment lease, letting his friends believe he’d been reassigned. Sleeping in rented flats with mold on the ceiling and radios that only played static. It was the kind of silence that taught you what you really couldn’t live without. And he couldn’t live without Minho.
Budapest had come up three times. Once in a border surveillance log. Once in a KGB safehouse ledger from the early 60s - a forgotten connection, but something about it had felt too deliberate. And once, in the background of a photo passed anonymously into a dead drop Jisung hadn’t touched in years: Minho, half-turned, crossing a bridge, hair longer, thinner. But it was him. He knew it. No algorithm could mimic that slouch in his shoulder, that expression of someone who carried more than his body should allow.
So Jisung followed the trail. Not for duty. Not for revenge. But because he had to know. If Minho was alive. If he remembered. If he regretted it all - or if he didn’t.
The train lurched forward, gathering speed, slicing through the fog like a knife through soft bread. Jisung watched the world blur past: frost-laced trees, abandoned factories, the occasional deer startled into motion. And slowly, slowly, his heartbeat began to settle. Not because he was calm. But because there was purpose again. Forward motion. Hope, maybe. Or delusion. The line was thin and he no longer cared about crossing it. He didn’t know what he would find in Budapest. Maybe just an empty apartment. Maybe a bullet. Maybe nothing at all. But maybe - maybe - Minho would be there. And maybe, for once, the world would let them talk before it made them bleed again. Jisung leaned his forehead against the cool glass, eyes fixed on the horizon. Dawn cracked open at last - gold bleeding through the clouds like an old wound. And somewhere in that light, he imagined Minho looking up, too. Waiting. Waiting for him.
After around three hours that felt like an eternity. He finally put a foot down on Budapest pavement. Budapest smelled like old rain and diesel. The station was half-awake, buzzing with a handful of travelers and the tinny voice of a woman announcing arrivals in Hungarian. Jisung didn’t pause to soak in the city. He couldn’t. The longer he stood still, the louder his mind became. He slipped into the crowd, head down, coat collar high. A ghost moving among shadows. The address he’d memorized - a decrepit apartment above a shuttered bookshop in District VIII - was only a twenty-minute walk. Long enough to doubt. Long enough to panic. But Jisung didn’t allow himself either. He moved like a man already mid-confession, already past the point of no return. He crossed the square, stepped over a broken beer bottle, and pulled the hood tighter over his hair. It felt like the beginning of something. Or the end. He wasn’t sure yet which.
The building was gray. Of course it was. Everything in this godforsaken part of Budapest looked like it had been soaked in a hundred years of sorrow and left to dry without light. Jisung stood across the street, staring up at the second-floor window with the torn curtain. It fluttered slightly, like someone was watching him. But maybe that was just paranoia. Or hope. He crossed the road. The stairwell stank of rust and cigarettes. Paint peeled in layers like tired skin, and the door to apartment 2C had no number anymore - just a faint dent where one used to be. Jisung raised his hand and knocked once. Then again. No answer. But he could hear the faint click of movement behind the door. He waited.
Finally, it creaked open. Minho looked... different. His hair was longer, swept back in a way that made him seem older, colder. His frame was thinner. His eyes didn’t widen in surprise - they narrowed. Like he had expected this. Or dreaded it.
“Can I help you?” he asked in Hungarian. Flat. Detached.
Jisung blinked. “Don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Don’t pretend you don’t know me.”
Minho didn’t move. “I think you have the wrong-”
“I memorized the way you tilt your head when you lie,” Jisung cut in. “I know how your voice changes when you switch languages. I know your tells, Minho. I know you.”
A pause. Then Minho let the door open fully. The apartment was bare. One chair. One table. A mattress on the floor. Clothes that didn’t belong to anyone in particular. The life of a man who no longer had one.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Minho said. He wasn’t pretending anymore, but his voice was steel. “They’ll kill you. And then they’ll come for me, too.”
“Let them.” Jisung stepped in, closed the door behind him. “I spent four months looking for you. Dug through half of Eastern Europe’s classified shit and nearly got my cover blown twice. I didn’t come here to leave empty-handed.”
“You think this is some kind of novel?” Minho snapped. “Some escape plan you’ve cooked up in a dream? They don’t let people like us go, Jisung. We don’t get out. We disappear. Into rivers. Into basements. Into unmarked graves.”
“And yet,” Jisung said, “you ran.” That silenced him. Jisung stepped closer. “You ran, Minho. You burned your name, you changed your face, you disappeared from both sides. So don’t stand there and pretend you’re still one of them.”
Minho’s jaw clenched. He looked away. “I’m not asking you to pretend it’ll be easy,” Jisung continued. His voice was calmer now, steadier. “I’m asking you to try. We’ll disappear. Together this time. A place without flags. Without handlers. I don’t care if we end up flipping omelets in Italy or hiding in a Romanian village. As long as I know you’re alive. As long as I can wake up and know you’re still beside me.”
“You don’t get it,” Minho muttered. “They have lists. Contacts. I have red on my file. I’m not just a defector - I’m a traitor. You follow me and you’ll burn with me.”
“Then let it burn,” Jisung said. His voice cracked. “I don’t want the world if you’re not in it.”
For the first time, Minho faltered. He sat down. Hard. Like someone had pulled the floor out from under him. His hands shook. Not from fear. From memory. Jisung didn’t touch him. Not yet. “I know what I’m asking,” he whispered. “But I’d rather die on the run with you than survive in silence.”
And for the first time in months, Minho didn’t argue. He just whispered, almost brokenly: “Where would we go?”
Jisung exhaled. “South. Italy, maybe. Portugal. Somewhere warm. Somewhere they’d never look. I’ve got papers. I’ve got names. And I’ve got you. That’s enough.” Minho’s eyes were wet, but he didn’t wipe them. He just looked at Jisung like he was trying to memorize the shape of hope.
The sun had barely begun to rise over the Alps when the train slipped out of the last French station. The border was behind them - just a faint echo of a checkpoint now, manned by a sleepy guard who barely glanced at their forged passports. Jisung had done most of the talking. Minho had kept his head down, eyes trained on the floor, just another foreigner too tired to smile. The papers had held. The bags were few. No weapons, no wires, no backup plans.
They sat across from each other, a small table between them, just like in Vienna all those months ago. But this time, Jisung’s hand rested openly over Minho’s. No secrets. No lies. Just skin. Outside, Italy unfurled slowly - sun-washed fields, vineyards still heavy with mist, sleepy towns that looked too small for surveillance and too old to care. It was a new world. Not free, maybe, but far enough from the one that had tried to swallow them.
“You’re still watching the door,” Jisung said quietly, not teasing, just noticing.
Minho blinked. Then, slowly, forced himself to look out the window. “Habit,” he muttered. “I keep expecting someone to scream my name and pull a gun.”
Minho nodded but didn’t speak. The silence wasn’t the same as it used to be. It wasn’t filled with secrets or things left unsaid. It was just… silence. Peaceful. Awkward. Real.
Jisung leaned back, letting his head rest against the seat. “Do you think we’ll ever stop running? Like, really stop?”
“We already have,” Minho said. “This… this is it. There’s no plan after this. No mission. Just mornings. And maybe oranges.”
Jisung laughed softly. “Oranges?”
“I heard they’re sweeter here. In the south.” Minho’s voice was soft now, almost shy. “Thought maybe we could find out.”
Jisung squeezed his hand. “We will, mi amore.” He simply answered, a sweet and flirty tone he never dropped around Minho.
There was no ceremony to it. No dramatic goodbye to their old lives, no explosion, no final showdown. Just two men quietly getting off the grid. Jisung had sent the last signal two days ago - an innocuous message tucked in an outdated radio frequency, letting the CIA believe he was dead. A car crash staged near Lake Geneva. No body, but enough burned evidence to satisfy Washington. Minho’s end had been even quieter. A whisper to an old contact in Prague. “Tell them I drowned,” he’d said, tossing his real documents into the Danube. The river had taken them without protest.
And now there was only this. A train cutting across a foreign landscape. A future without orders. A present full of aching uncertainty - and aching possibility. They didn’t need to say it aloud, but they both knew: this was their last escape. Not because they’d run out of options, but because they were done choosing fear over freedom. Done choosing silence over each other.
Somewhere ahead, the train would stop. A town with no ties, no records, no past. And when it did, they would get off.
Here is the 3rd chapter !! took a bit of time to come out because i'm very busy with school and my finals coming in like 2 weeks (wish me luck lmao), but here it still is!!
hope you will enjoy it, kiss kiss <33
Act III : Mutually Assured Destruction
It wasn’t supposed to be in the briefcase. Just a flash drive tucked between old documents, something Minho must’ve thought was safe. But the label caught Jisung’s eye: Langley - 1987. Too obvious. Too clean. Like bait for a rat. Still, he took it. He waited until he was back in the CIA’s shadow office, the one beneath the used bookstore off Mariahilfer Straße. No cameras. No questions. Just a dusty old computer and an agent who had finally stopped pretending he didn’t care. The file opened with a crackle. A name appeared on the screen.
LEE MINHO.
Born: Gimpo, Republic of Korea.
Affiliation: KGB — Directorate S.
Jisung didn’t breathe. Not for a full minute. He just stared, as though looking longer would make the words shift into something else. Something less final. But it was all there - photos, dates, records, forged Austrian citizenship papers. Even transcripts of their conversations. Every whispered laugh. Every look. A lie. His hands shook as he printed the report, folding it once, neat and careful, like he was preparing a wound for burial. Then he left the bookstore and walked straight into the storm.
The rain was raging outside, hitting the pavement in cold, aching sounds. Every raindrop felt like mockery, a reminder of how easily he'd been played. He felt dumb. Unprofessional. But mostly : fooled. And - deep down - what hurted him the most wasn’t that he had been fooled as a spy, in his own work. But it was that he had been fooled by his feelings.
His superiors had told him to “never get attached during a mission”. Because it could get him killed. And he knew it well. But this one felt different. He couldn’t help it. And that was why he felt so dumb and useless in this specific moment. He let the cold rain fall all over him, soaking from his coat’s fabric to his deepest bone. He looked up at the grey sky, sighing loudly. Jisung held the dossier tighter in his hands, as if this single move could make it dissolve, disappear. Turn this fucked up situation into nothing more than a bad dream. But to his greatest distress, nothing happened.
All he could feel was the cold, and the wetness. He sniffed, shivering. The ache in his chest wasn’t just emotional now - he was getting sick.
Jisung found him the same place he always did when the world started crumbling - the Ritter Café, the dim-lit corner table near the fogged-up windows. Minho was already there, hunched over a black coffee, steam rising between his fingers like smoke. For a second, Jisung didn’t move. He just watched. Counted the seconds. Tried to remember what it felt like before he knew the truth. Then he walked in. Not slow. Not careful. Just full of rage. Even though he didn’t know to whom this anger was directed. Himself? Minho? The CIA? The USSR?
“Lee Minho,” he said, loud enough to draw the eye of the old man behind the counter.
Minho looked up, but didn’t flinch. “You’re not supposed to know that name.”
“And yet here we are.” Jisung dropped the folder onto the table like a judge slamming down a verdict. The soft thud echoed louder than it should’ve. Minho’s eyes didn’t move. But something behind them flickered - a crack, a flick of hesitation.
“You lied to me,” Jisung whispered. “Every second. Every goddamn time you touched me.”
And for the first time, Minho looked like he didn’t have an answer. He looked speechless. Or maybe calculating. Jisung didn’t care. Jisung didn’t care about what Minho could have been possibly planning on telling him.Because for the first time in his adult life — or maybe ever — he was on the edge of tears.
“Let’s not do this here…” Minho mumbled, as if he was trying to avoid the conversation. “This isn’t a safe place to talk,” He added, and for once, it sounded sincere.
Jisung shook his head violently, dismissing Minho’s statement. “I don’t care what is safe and what isn’t.” He spat, his voice almost trembling. He slammed both palms on the scarred wooden table. “Drop the accent. You’re not Austrian. You were born in fucking Gimpo - it’s right there.” He stuttered as he pointed out the name of the Korean city on the file.
Minho closed his eyes for a moment. The quiet kind, like someone preparing to be shot. “I didn’t want you to find it this way,” he said eventually, his voice lower now - not cold, but cracked. “Not because I was trying to protect the mission. But because I knew it would end this. Whatever... this was.”
Jisung laughed. Bitter. Empty. “This?” he echoed. “You mean the part where you made me feel safe? Where you held me like I wasn’t just a fucking job?”
Minho looked away. Not because he was guilty. But because he wasn’t sure he wasn’t.
Outside, the rain had turned to sleet. A hard, mean rhythm against the window. Jisung felt like it was drilling through his skull. “You didn’t even have the guts to tell me your real name.”
“You didn’t either,” Minho said softly. And Jisung hated how much that stung. His heart felt like it had been squeezed between his ribs. His eyes started itching.
“Maybe.” Jisung spat the word like venom. “But when I told you I loved you-” his voice broke, “-that was real.” He admitted. His heart ached even more. What the hell was he saying? He couldn’t fall for a target. Couldn’t even admit it. The CIA would bury him for less. “And still, you dared being inside me and-”
Minho dismissed his rambling with a single wave. “Enough.” He pulled out a file, throwing it on the table the same way Jisung had done it just a few minutes ago. “I know about you, Han Jisung. You’ve fucked for missions too, don’t complain when you are the victim of it. Plus, I was your target.” He stated, obviously irritated at Jisung’s behavior and complaints.
Jisung swallowed hard, forcing the tears back. Silence stretched between them, staring blankly at the file written in cyrillic laying in the dark wood table. It felt so heavy. Like the wood could break at any second under the pressure both of those files represented. Jisung stared at Minho for a long moment, like he was trying to memorize his face before it changed again. Before it morphed back into the stranger he had been trained to manipulate. There were a thousand things he wanted to say - to scream - but none of them came out right. Instead, he sat down. Slowly. Like his legs had finally given up pretending they weren’t trembling. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, until the tears retreated to whatever hell they’d crawled out of.
“You know what hurts the most?” he said, voice hollow. “It’s not the fact that you’re KGB. Not even that you used me. I could’ve swallowed that. But the worst part is that I believed it all - every moment, every touch. You looked at me like I was the only thing that made sense in this goddamn world. And I believed you. Like a fucking idiot.”
Minho didn’t flinch. But he didn’t look proud, either. He just sat there, hands folded, jaw tight like he was chewing back regret. “You weren’t an idiot,” he said eventually. “You were just... human.”
“Don’t.” Jisung’s voice cracked like breaking glass. “Don’t humanize this. Don’t you dare turn this into something noble. You knew what you were doing. Every second. You walked into my life like a ghost in someone else’s skin and made me think I wasn’t alone anymore. That I could finally fucking breathe.” He gestured wildly toward the file. “And then I find this, and it’s like I don’t even know my own life anymore. Like none of it was real.”
Minho looked up at him then - really looked - and there was something terrifying in his eyes. Not rage. Not calculation. But grief. A kind of mourning that didn’t belong in a spy’s repertoire. “It was real,” he finally said. “For me. It still is.”
Jisung almost laughed again, but it caught in his throat. His body hurt. His brain hurt. The world outside the café no longer seemed real - just a frozen echo of who they used to be before all of this. He leaned forward, close enough to see the storm in Minho’s eyes. “Then why didn’t you run?” he whispered. “Why didn’t you choose me?”
Minho opened his mouth. Closed it. And that silence - that single, breathless second of hesitation - told Jisung everything.
The younger man’s throat felt tight and dry, but he didn’t stop. “Because I did.”
Those three words detonated in Minho’s mind, hitting every corner of it like shrapnel. His eyes widened as he looked at the man across from him - a man who, in that moment, looked more like a boy holding the weight of two countries on his shoulders.“You…” he breathed. But the words clogged his throat, soft and useless. He swallowed hard, and for the first time, his expression faltered - not with anger, but with something like awe. “You did?” He simply asked, unable to mouth more.
Jisung nodded, but before he could add something Minho leaned forward, just slightly, just enough that the table lamp caught the tired lines beneath his eyes. “You think I didn’t want to choose you?” he asked, voice a strained whisper. “I thought about it every goddamn night. I even dreamed about it - Paris, Sidney, I didn’t care. Just someplace where we didn’t have to lie.” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “But people like us don’t get to just want things, Jisung. Not without blood. Not without consequences.” He tapped the table once, slow and deliberate. “You would’ve died. And if they didn’t get you, they would’ve come for me. And I... I wasn’t strong enough to make that cost mean something.” His voice broke, just for a breath. “So I stayed. I stayed where I was supposed to. And it’s the worst decision I’ve ever made.”
The fake journalist chuckled. The soft laugh sounded bittersweet, and it was. “The worst because it meant using me? Or because it meant getting close without actually getting me?” He asked with a genuine sincerity, rare enough from a spy.
“Both,” simply answered Minho. “But we both know extremely well that we cannot get what we want. The CIA would kill you. The KGB would kill me.”
Jisung nodded. He looked around the café, the dim lights seemed too warm for such a cold and painful moment. It felt like he was still wet from the earlier rain. But he really wasn’t. “Shakespeare would be disappointed in our adaptation.” He joked lightly, his teasing personality trying to get the best of him.
Minho didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the cracks in the woodgrain between their hands, like they held some kind of map out of this mess. “If this were a play,” he finally said, voice barely above a murmur, “we’d have a scene where one of us runs. Where one of us says ‘screw the system’ and burns a file and grabs the other’s hand and disappears.” He looked up, eyes empty of illusion. “But this isn’t a stage. And you’re not a character I get to keep.” His fingers twitched on the tabletop, like they remembered the shape of Jisung’s body without permission. “You were real to me. And that’s why I can’t follow you.”
“They hired me to get intel from you. Not kill you. So maybe we could-” Jisung began, his voice too full of hope for a room so full of endings.
Minho rested his hand over Jisung’s, warm and steady. “You’re torturing yourself,” he said softly. “And I can’t be the reason you break.”
Minho pulled his hand back slowly, as though he were detaching himself from a lifeline he’d already lost. “You walk out,” he said, voice steady but stripped bare. “And you don’t look back. You finish your mission. You live.” Then he stood, movements calm but final, like someone placing the last piece in a coffin. The chair’s soft scrape echoed in the quiet café, a sound too small for how large the moment felt. He adjusted his coat, took a breath, and for the briefest second, Jisung thought he might change his mind. That maybe he’d sit back down. That maybe he’d reach for him again. But instead, Minho just stood there, looking at him with something like sorrow in his eyes - a sorrow too proud to beg. Then he turned and walked away, his silhouette shrinking with each step toward the door. When it opened, the night poured in - sleet, cold wind, the sound of tires on wet asphalt - and swallowed him whole.
Jisung didn’t move. Not at first. He sat in the lingering heat of the space where Minho had been, staring at the empty seat across from him, like it could explain something he still didn’t understand. His hands itched with the ghost of Minho’s touch, and in his throat sat a scream he wouldn’t let out. He should’ve chased him. Should’ve said something. But all he could do was sit there, trying to remember how to breathe. Outside, the world kept turning, blind and uncaring - and Jisung stayed in that little café on the edge of everything, with nothing but the memory of a man who had once almost chosen him.
It started with excuses. Jisung would “bump into” Mikael in the Ministry’s corridors. A glance, a laugh, a low comment murmured too close to the ear. Then came the coffee breaks. The long lunches. The walks by the Danube, hands brushing but never quite holding. Vienna had grown colder, but somehow, Jisung didn’t notice the chill as much.
They met again on a quiet Thursday afternoon, tucked away in the back corner of a little café near Stephansplatz. The waitress didn’t even blink when Mikael ordered for both of them, like this was routine. Like this meant something.
Jisung laughed when Mikael handed him the coffee. “You sure you’re not stalking me, Lischka?”
Mikael leaned back, cigarette between his fingers. “If I were stalking you, John, you wouldn’t see me coming.”
That made Jisung smile - too wide, too easy. “Touché.”
He was getting more information now. About troop movements. About shipments coming through Hungary. Little leaks, dropped between flirtations, masked as casual gossip. The CIA would be thrilled. His reports were growing thick with intel, and his handlers were already talking about extraction strategies for Mikael. Jisung should have been satisfied.
But something itched at the back of his neck. Because Mikael knew too much. He was never surprised when Jisung asked a question. He dodged what he needed to, but offered just enough to keep Jisung hungry. And sometimes - just sometimes - when their eyes met across a room, or when Mikael brushed the back of his knuckles along Jisung’s jawline in passing, it felt less like manipulation and more like something neither of them could name.
Later that night, they were tangled in each other on Jisung’s bed, stripped bare and breathless, sweat cooling against shared skin. The soft glow of the city slipped through the hotel curtains, painting everything in blue and shadow.
“I don’t usually stay after,” Mikael said, voice low.
Jisung blinked at the ceiling. “Then don’t stay.” He rolled on his back, now facing the window as he hid his chest with the thin blanket.
But Mikael did. He didn’t say anything. Just lit a cigarette and passed it to Jisung without looking. And when Jisung took it, brushing their fingers together - he felt it. A hesitation. A shift. Something real that had no place in a mission file. And somewhere, deep in the folds of Vienna’s fog and stone, the game was tilting. They were both agents, both liars. But only one of them was about to fall first. Jisung exhaled the thick smoke from his pinkish lips. Mikael’s hand lingered on Jisung’s hip. Nothing soft, nothing loving. But it wasn’t as cold as he intended it to be.
“You don’t stay usually cause you don’t want strings attached or-” He started asking but Mikael cut him off right away.
The older man sighed loudly before lighting up a cigarette for himself. “I work for the government, but what I do is illegal.” He looked up at the ceiling, lot in thoughts that seemed too real for a spy.
Jisung chuckled and sat up. He took a deep drag of his cigarette before adding proudly. “My State was the first to allow it in the US.” He smiled - this time without performance. “It has been 3 years now. I like that the place where I grew up is so… inclusive.”
Mikael didn’t smile. He just looked at him - really looked - like Jisung had said something important, something dangerous. The silence was long enough to make the moment feel fragile. “That’s nice,” Mikael said eventually, but there was something off in the way he said it. Not mocking. Not cold. Just… distant. As if the warmth Jisung offered was something he couldn’t quite touch, or worse, didn’t want to. The cigarette burned low between Jisung’s fingers, but he didn’t move to stub it out. Outside, a tram rattled past. And somewhere deep inside, Jisung wondered if he was starting to mistake the mission for something it wasn’t - or if Mikael already had.
The messages came coded, but the tone was always the same.
Make him talk.Break him.We think he’s lying.
Jisung folded the paper between his fingers, feeling the soft weight of Vienna press in around him. The hotel the CIA had secured was colder now, quieter. He lit a cigarette and stared out at the city, his reflection a faint shadow against the window. He didn’t need to read between the lines. They were losing patience. And they were starting to suspect Mikael was feeding him just enough truth to keep him close. They weren’t wrong.
Because in the past three weeks, Mikael had given Jisung just enough to seem credible - small troop schedules, new checkpoints, whispers about something coming through the Czech border. But never the heart of anything. Never the real artery. The good stuff was always just out of reach. And yet Jisung hadn’t pushed. Not really. Not the way he was trained to. Because Mikael’s hand lingered too long on his back. Because the way he said “John” had started to sound like a sigh. Because Jisung had kissed him last night, slow and soft, not as a tool - but like he meant it. That scared him more than his orders ever could. Jisung felt weaker than ever. Could this quiet, unreadable Austrian mean more to him than a target? But he was so used to flirting, kissing and sleeping with targets, without any regrets or attachment. But this time was different, and - deep in his ribcage - he could feel it.
On the other side of the city, deep beneath the stone of the Austrian State Archives, Minho - “Mikael” - sat in a narrow, windowless room that smelled of smoke and secrets. A man from Moscow had flown in just to talk to him. He didn’t smile. He didn’t shake hands.
“You’ve been compromised,” the man said. No preamble. No theater.
Minho raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been gathering information.”
“Not enough,” the Russian spat. “Not where it counts. Either he’s a very good journalist, or he’s something else. CIA. DIA. Doesn’t matter. You need to find out.” He slid a small envelope across the table. “You know what to do.”
Minho stared at the file but didn’t touch it.
“He’s not just some American with pretty eyes,” the Russian added. “You know it. And if you don’t confirm it, we will.”
When the door closed behind him, Minho stayed in the room a long time. He didn’t open the envelope. Not yet. He didn’t want to see what was inside - not because he was afraid it would tell him Jisung was a spy, but because he was afraid it wouldn’t. That it would be empty. That he would have to admit this... feeling had been real all along. “Americans can’t have pretty eyes.” He muttered under his breath in his native language - Korean - a discreet way to go against the system. He walked out of the protected rooms of the Archives. Minho squeezed the envelope tightly in his hand as he exhaled loudly.
For a second - just a second - he thought about it. Not opening the envelope. Burn it. Grab John’s arm. And run away with him. He shook his head violently as he rode the tram. This would make a defector out of him. And he couldn’t just lose everything for a boy, a foolish, cocky, infuriatingly-charming boy.
They met again that night. A quiet café by the Prater. A place they’d never been before - neutral ground. Jisung was already there, nursing a black coffee and scribbling into a small notebook. Minho slid into the booth across from him without a word.
“You’re late,” Jisung said.
“You’re early,” Mikael replied, lighting a cigarette.
They didn’t touch. Not this time. The air between them was too sharp. “I heard about the shipment from Dresden,” Jisung said, eyes flicking up. “You were right. It’s already been moved.”
Mikael watched him. “You have good sources.”
“Better than most. I told you I was amazing at my job.” Jisung answered with his usual cocky grin, only he knew the recipe of.
A pause. Then Minho leaned in, voice quieter than before. “Tell me something, John. Why are you here? Really?”
Jisung blinked. “I told you. I’m a-”
“Journalist,” Minho finished for him. “Right. You write articles no one reads, for a paper no one buys. And yet you know about Dresden. You know about the checkpoints. You ask questions like someone who knows what answers will matter.”
Jisung didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But something in his jaw tightened. He felt trapped, but he wasn’t losing. He never lost.
Minho let the silence stretch. Then, softer: “If you are what I think you are… you’re very good at it.”
Jisung smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And if you’re what I think you are, then you’re terrible at pretending you aren’t.” It should’ve ended there. The pretense, the little game they played. One of them should’ve pulled out a gun or a wire or a name. But neither did. Because they weren’t sure anymore if this was the mission or the aftermath of it.
Minho reached for his coat. “Don’t follow me tonight.”
Jisung looked up at him. “Why?” Mikael didn’t answer. He just walked away, the envelope from earlier still unopened in his pocket. And Jisung didn’t follow - not because he was afraid to, but because some part of him was scared of what he might do if he did. Jisung sighed. Maybe now he had an answer on why Mikael was so specific with the information he was giving. Maybe this man was either extremely mysterious, or something deeper was lingering. The most obvious explanation was often the right one. Jisung knew it. But - surprisingly - something inside him didn’t want to trust his instinct. And he was fully in denial, of Mikael’s real role, but also of his own feelings. Maybe it was just the damn European cold messing with his brain. He laid back in the chair of the simple café.
Behind both of them, the game was shifting again. Agencies on both sides were watching. Timing their steps. Counting the cracks. Because something was breaking. And it wasn’t just trust. It was the line between them and us.
Jisung stayed there until closing, watching the servers stack chairs and kill the lights one by one. Outside, the wind had picked up - sharp and metallic, the kind that rattled deep in the bones. He pulled his coat tighter. Somewhere across the city, Mikael was probably staring at the envelope. Or burning it. Or memorizing every line of it. Jisung didn’t know which scenario scared him more.
He lit another cigarette with shaking fingers and told himself - again - that this was just a mission. That he was still in control. That Mikael was just a mark, just another cold body with a warm voice. But as he walked the streets back toward his hotel, he kept seeing the way Mikael had looked at him earlier. Like he wanted to believe in something. And Jisung realized, with a sinking, terrifying clarity, that he did too.
Heyaaa, here is a new historical minsung fanfic!! it will be in four parts, hope you will like it !!!
When Jisung, a young CIA agent posing as a journalist, is sent to seduce and extract intel from an Austrian official, he expects careful lies and cautious trust. What he doesn't expect is Mikael—a man as enigmatic as he is alluring. But behind flirtation and smoky alleyway kisses lies a deeper game: one neither of them can afford to lose. Because unknown to Jisung, Mikael is Lee Minho, a KGB agent playing his own part in the deadly theatre of espionage. In a city of masks, desire is a weapon—and someone’s about to get burned.
Act I : False flags
1965, Vienna.
Jisung sighed as his train entered Vienna’s main train station. Here he was - Europe, far from home. He stood, smoothing his dark vest and jacket before reaching up for his luggage. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few papers: a fake ID card, a forged passport. He was now John, an American journalist here to work as a reporter in Austria.In truth, Jisung was a CIA undercover operative. He was born in 1945, in the US, after his parents immigrated from Korea after the liberation.
He made his way down the narrow aisle, dodging passengers as he chewed his gum. Jisung quickly got down on the platform. He glanced around. The platform was packed. Looking up, he searched for exit signs. Everything was written in German which definitely pissed him off. With another sigh, he weaved through the crowd and finally stepped out into the city. The cold hit him first - sharp, dry, and laced with smoke from nearby chimneys. He zipped up his coat and lit a cigarette, glancing over his shoulder instinctively. No one was following him, but the habit was hard to shake. Vienna felt like a city wrapped in secrets - crisp façades, quiet streets, and too many eyes. He had a meeting in two hours. A contact. A new life. And a man he was supposed to get close to. Mikael Lischka.A low-level Austrian administrative worker with access to Soviet files. A gold mine for the CIA. Jisung’s mission was clear: befriend him - or more, if necessary - and extract as much intel as he could.
But for now, he needed to find his hotel. Of course, as a trained agent, Jisung knew how to speak German. But he had to act like any confused American tourist - a reporter stumbling over the local language. He called a taxi that drove him to his hotel. During the ride, he gazed out the window, feigning awe at the architecture, tossing out clumsy questions in broken German to sell the illusion.
The hotel was modest - a quiet, yellow building tucked between a bakery and a post office. He checked in with practiced politeness, fumbling his German just enough to seem harmless. The receptionist handed him the key with a smile too tight to be real. Upstairs, in the safety of his room, Jisung peeled off his coat and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling. Two hours until the meeting. Plenty of time to rehearse the mask he’d wear - and remind himself that John, the curious American journalist, liked schnitzel, hated jetlag, and definitely wasn’t a trained liar.
Two hours later, Jisung found himself seated in a sterile conference room inside a gray government building near the heart of Vienna. The air reeked faintly of cigarettes and paper. His American “colleague,” Robert Dwyer - the journalist Jisung was officially assigned to - was already exchanging pleasantries with several Austrian officials in stiff suits. Jisung played the role of the young, eager reporter, nodding along and smiling with enough charm to disarm, but not enough to stand out. And then, he saw him. Mikael Lischka.
At least, that was the name in the file. The Austrian administrative worker with access to certain classified documents - Soviet transmissions, troop movements, embassy gossip. But Jisung’s instincts flared the moment their eyes met. This man wasn’t a bureaucrat. His posture was too alert. His expression too calm. Controlled. Dangerously practiced.
Mikael gave a polite smile and extended a hand. “Herr John Park, yes? The journalist from Chicago?”
“That's me,” Jisung replied smoothly, taking his hand. “And you are?”
“Mikael Lischka. I work in internal communications.” His voice was soft but clipped. Austrian-accented English, just strong enough to pass.
Their handshake lingered a second too long.“I hear you’re the one to ask if I want to understand how things really work around here,” Jisung said with a small grin.
Mikael didn’t miss a beat. “Depends what you’re asking. But I know where the good coffee is. That counts for something, no?”
Jisung chuckled, lips curling just enough to be inviting. “Coffee’s good. I prefer drinks, though. Somewhere quiet.”
There was a flicker in Mikael’s eyes - amusement, maybe. Or interest. “Well, I guess we can find that.” Jisung smiled. Strangely, he’d expected Mikael to be colder - maybe even defiant. But maybe his mission wouldn’t be as hard as he thought.
In what felt like a heartbeat, they were sitting together in a quiet bar. The atmosphere was warm, the smoke of cigarettes and the scent of alcohol hanging in the air. The bar was underground, you had to go through a dark alley to get there. Jisung had even thought for a second that Mikael was trapping him on their way. Jisung wrapped his fingers around the whiskey glass, flashing a cocky grin.
“So tell me.” He smiled, “you work for the government right? How is it here?” He asked, with how outgoing the man seemed, Jisung knew this approach would work.
“Trying to get official secrets?” Mikael joked, just enough to make Jisung swallow a bit harder his sip. “I’m joking, no worries. I’m too low in the hierarchy to get any spy after me anyway.” He added simply.
Jisung chuckled loudly, if only this man knew how the CIA was fishing for anything they could get. “I’m just willing to write an article about how life here in Austria is. My goal is to tell our American readers about how good life is here, thanks to our troops!” His grin was huge, carrying the weight of the role.
Mikael smirked. “Your troops and our peace. Quite the article that’ll be.” He tilted his glass toward Jisung, the ice clinking softly. “So, John from Chicago - is that where you learned to read people so well?” There was a twinkle in his eye, playful… but just sharp enough to make Jisung pause. He masked the flicker of surprise with another sip of whiskey. Was it a joke? A test? Or just casual flirting with too much bite?
The young man smiled a casual chuckle slipping from his lips. This whole situation was getting more and more interesting. Maybe this mission wouldn’t be as miserable as he feared after all. “Well, you see…Herr. I am still a journalist.” He looked down at his glass, playing with the golden liquid. He lifted his foot under the table, reaching slowly towards Mikael’s ankle. “We have our ways to see things in people that others don’t see. Even when they’d rather keep those things buried.” He looked straight into the eyes of the slightly older man. “My job is to know about people’s…darkest secrets.” And indeed, Jisung had found out about Mikael’s : this government official was into men.
Mikael let out a low laugh, but the edge of his smile tightened. “Dark secrets? Sounds like your articles belong in spy novels.” He didn’t move his leg away, didn’t flinch - but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes. Not fear. Not attraction either. Calculation. Jisung tilted his head, pretending not to notice. “Careful,” Mikael added, swirling his drink. “Vienna’s full of people who don’t like being seen too clearly.” His gaze dropped briefly to where their legs touched under the table, then back up. “You might find yourself being watched too, John.”
Jisung chuckled. “You seem funnier than you look, Mikael. I like you already.” He took a sip of his whiskey, a wide grin spread across his face - almost from ear to ear. “But now I do wonder.” The other man’s eyes locked into his. “You said some didn’t like being seen too clearly. But what about you? Do you mind that I do know?” He asked, his tone teasing as his foot rid up Mikael’s calf.
The man smiled and put down his coffee cup. “Do I mind this?” He asked, moving his calf softly. He suddenly swung it under the table so the sole of his shoe would lay on Jisung’s crotch. His grin was teasing as he pressed softly.
“Didn’t know Europeans could be bolder than Americans. Especially considering the fact that you haven’t drunk.” He muttered, spreading his legs just slightly, as if to invite more. “Is caffeine that bad?”
“Caffeine works faster on some,” Mikael said, reaching for his cup again. “Besides… I like to stay sharp.”
Jisung leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table. “So… are you always this forward, Mikael? Or is it just because you’re not used to how open minded us Americans are?” There. A drop of provocation. Just to see how he’d react.
But Mikael only smiled again - slower this time, like a fuse catching flame. “You really think it’s because of you?” he said. “You Americans really do have vivid imaginations.”
Jisung raised his glass in silent toast. Behind the playful smirks and innuendo, something more dangerous had begun to simmer. And both of them knew it. “So,” he said, swirling his drink, “your work in the government - how’s life changed around here since the American troops arrived?”
His tone was still casual, but the shift was there. Subtle. Controlled. A journalist asking questions, not an agent digging for cracks. And now that the air between them had warmed, it was time to nudge the door open. Just a little. Mikael leaned back, fingers drumming lazily against his cup. “Depends on who you ask,” he said. “Some say it’s safer. Some say it’s quieter. Others… think the silence is just thicker now.” He took a slow sip. “Why? Planning to write an article praising America’s civilizing touch?”
Jisung chuckled. “If the story’s good, sure. But I prefer honesty. The kind that doesn’t make it to press releases.”
Mikael tilted his head. “That’s dangerous in this city, you know. Asking for honesty.”
“Are you worried about me?” Jisung asked, teasingly. “Because you do seem like you’re trying to scare me away from my job.”
Mikael laughed. Jisung smirked, he knew his little play was working well. “You seem so young and so full of light. It is a rare thing in these dark times we live in. I would be saddened to see you lose your spark.”
Jisung leaned in, the smile never leaving his face. “Maybe you should keep an eye on me then. Make sure I don’t fade out.”
Mikael’s gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe I already am.”
They sat in silence for a beat - not uncomfortable, just thick with unsaid things. In that moment, it wasn’t clear who was following whom, who was the hunter or the hunted. Just two men in a dim bar, cloaked in smoke, and balancing on the edge of something sharp.
Later that night, the cold air bit gently at their skin as they stood just outside the bar, the soft glow of a streetlamp casting long shadows across the damp pavement. Smoke curled lazily from Jisung’s lips as he leaned against the brick wall, the taste of whiskey still lingering on his tongue, mingling with the nicotine. Mikael stood close - closer than politeness required - his face illuminated briefly each time he took a drag from his cigarette. They didn’t speak much; they didn’t need to. The silence between them now held more than tension - it pulsed with promise. A quiet touch exchanged under the shared haze of smoke, a hand brushing against the other’s hip like an afterthought, and then - almost carelessly, yet unmistakably - Mikael’s mouth met Jisung’s in a fleeting kiss that tasted of control disguised as desire. Jisung let it happen, the thrill of it buzzing beneath his skin. He felt it: he was in. Mikael had already begun offering scraps of information, small truths wrapped in metaphor and irony, but truths nonetheless. Their chemistry wasn’t just working - it was winning. Jisung knew the game. Knew how to play people like instruments, and tonight, the notes were perfect. He flicked his cigarette away with a quiet laugh, watching Mikael walk off into the Vienna night. He had him.
Or so he thought. Because what Jisung didn’t know - what he couldn’t have known - was that Mikael wasn’t real. Not entirely. The man he’d just kissed wasn’t some disillusioned European official softened by a bit of charm. He was Lee Minho, codename Voron, KGB infiltration specialist. And everything Jisung thought he’d orchestrated had been composed for him long before the curtain ever rose.
We're both in love with each other, but we can't be together. Both too broken to date, too in love to walk away from the other. So i wrote a poem about it.
Kintsugi.
Maybe this wasn’t the place,
Wasn’t the time, wasn’t the universe,
Maybe that in another space,
You and I could be us.
In a time and space,
Without a them,
Without a before,
Soft glow, you and I, just more.
Just us, between sheets,
Between arms, and heartbeats,
Air thick with love and longing.
No more ‘us against the world’
Just us and no world.
Just us drowned in each other’s souls.
You trapped in the feathers of my wings,
Me drowned in the petrol of your sins,
Maybe love would be nothing more - nothing worse,
than a dove soaked in oil.
Or maybe you’ll be drowned in my past,
And i’ll be trapped in your care,
Just you and I, bandage our wounds,
In a warm glow against unfairness.
Let’s not see the golden sun like a threat,
Our wings weren’t made of wax,
Ours are real, and just relax
Our cuts could be kintsugi.
Their Heaven’s never kind,
But ours will be.
Heyaaa chat !! here is a short (really short) one shot cause i felt like it !! The story takes place in the 30's in Paris (France) but it's nothing much historic. Hope you'll enjoy it, kiss kiss <33
In the quiet shadows of Paris, where the city lights bleed into the dark waters of the Seine, Minho—a man silenced by fear, by the weight of society’s expectations, and the haunting threat of homophobia—and Jisung, the one person willing to stand beside him in the dark. It’s a tale of longing, of walls built out of survival, and of a love so patient and unwavering that it dares to bloom even in the most guarded heart in the late night December.
One Shot : Shadows on the Seine
Paris, 1932.
The city’s heartbeat was slow, deliberate, like the puff of smoke from a cigarette lit in the shadows of a dimly lit café. The air was thick with the smell of stale tobacco and espresso, and in the quiet murmur of the late-night crowd, it was easy to lose oneself among the haze of chatter and jazz. But amidst the dissonant hum of the world, Minho remained an island unto himself.
He sat at the corner of a shadowed booth in the farthest corner of the café, his back to the wall, his eyes fixed on something invisible in the distance. A cigarette dangled loosely from his lips, the ash dangerously long but never falling. He wasn’t interested in the conversations swirling around him, nor the clinking of glass or the laughter of the couples who passed through the door. His world was quieter—more internal. The steady rhythm of jazz, the murmuring, the clinking of dishes were only background noise to the storm raging in his mind.
Minho had become a fixture in places like this, a man who fit the dim light and heavy air. He’d spent years building this fortress around him—a fortress of solitude where he could breathe without anyone prying into what lay beneath. His sharp eyes, always scanning, calculating, never settling on one thing for too long, reflected a mind that had seen too much of the world’s cruelties. The men who came in and out of his life never seemed to notice the wall he’d built, or if they did, they didn’t care enough to climb over it. And that was the way Minho preferred it.
The weight of societal expectations rested on his shoulders like an iron cloak. In Paris, in the early 1930s, men like him were rare, and the world was not kind to men like him. The jazz-filled nights, the elegance of the city streets—they all seemed like a beautiful facade to a world that demanded perfection, conformity, and silence. Minho had never cared much for appearances. He was not part of the society that his wealth and upbringing had molded him to be. And yet, here he was, moving among them, ever the outsider.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching as it danced into the air and disappeared, much like his own presence in this city. Every step he took, every conversation he had, was a delicate balancing act. He was a man trapped between two worlds, too refined for the gutter but not quite free enough to live in the open light. No one knew the truth about Minho, not really. He’d made sure of that.
Minho had learned long ago that to survive in Paris, one had to remain invisible, a shadow among shadows. In a world where secrets were currency, he had hoarded his own with precision, careful not to let even a sliver of his true self slip out. His true desires, his fears, the things that kept him awake at night—they had no place in the outside world. The world was not ready to see men like him for who they were.
His gaze flickered toward the entrance of the café, eyes narrowing as he noticed the door swing open. A figure stepped inside, a silhouette framed by the harsh, blinding lights from the street. The newcomer paused for a moment, looking around the room, scanning the faces as though searching for something. Or perhaps someone. Minho’s heart skipped just slightly, but he quickly dismissed the sensation. He didn’t recognize the man. He didn’t need to. Whoever it was, they wouldn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the smoke curling from his cigarette and the quiet rhythm of his own thoughts.
But then the man did something unexpected. He moved toward Minho’s table, and there was no hesitation in his step. His eyes locked on Minho with a strange intensity, as though he had already decided where he was going.
"Excuse me," the man said in a voice far younger than Minho had anticipated, his French tinged with something unfamiliar. "Is this seat taken?"
Minho didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took another drag of his cigarette, slowly releasing the smoke as his gaze shifted from the man’s face to the seat in front of him. The newcomer didn’t look particularly remarkable—handsome in a carefree way, maybe, with a slight smile on his lips. His eyes, though, those eyes were different. There was something open about him, something that made Minho uncomfortable, and yet intrigued.
"It is now," Minho replied, his voice smooth, but with an edge of detachment. The man nodded and sat down without another word, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Minho regarded him carefully. His jaw was sharp, his features aristocratic but untamed, like a man who had just walked in from the streets, perhaps. There was something bold in the way he sat there, unafraid, unashamed. Minho hated that.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, and the room seemed to settle into a strange, silent tension. Minho’s fingers danced over the edge of his glass, the crystal cold beneath his touch, but his mind was elsewhere. The man’s presence seemed to fill the space between them, pushing at the walls Minho had spent so long constructing.
"You look like you’ve seen the world," the stranger said suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the curiosity in his tone. "You don’t smile much, do you?"
Minho’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. It was a warning.
"I smile when I need to." His voice was colder now, a little more guarded, but his fingers tightened around his glass. He could already feel the uncomfortable weight of this conversation. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to share, to open up. He never had to before.
The man didn’t take the hint. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his eyes unblinking, like a challenge. "You should smile more. You look like you need it."
Minho’s breath caught in his throat. The comment hit closer to home than he’d expected, stirring something deep within him, something buried and carefully concealed. He quickly extinguished the growing frustration inside, suppressing it with the cold, sharp exterior he wore so well.
"And what makes you think I need to smile?" Minho asked, his voice low and almost menacing, the calm before the storm.
But the stranger didn’t flinch. Instead, he only smiled softly, as if he knew something Minho didn’t. Something Minho hadn’t yet realized.
"Maybe because the world is a little easier when you do," the stranger replied.
Minho’s heart skipped again, but this time, he didn’t dare look away. For the first time in a long time, the shadows around him felt a little less suffocating. He looked up with difficulty, as if this carfree stranger’s soul was too bright to look at. He sighed loudly as if the world was on his shoulders, he pulled out a cigarette in deep silence.
“You’re Minho, right? I’ve heard stories about you.”
Minho coughed out a laugh as he took a deep drag on his cigarette. “You seem old enough to know you should not believe in stories.” The soft - almost too soft - laughter of the younger man came hitting his ears. He smiled, an easy grin that made Minho feel like an outsider in his own world. He wasn’t used to this warmth, to someone looking at him without fear or expectation. And yet, it felt like a threat.
“I just want to know the real you. No games, no masks. The real you.” The stranger smiled once again, taking a sip of his whiskey as he unbuttoned his vest. The fabric seemed rough and old, but it didn’t look cheap on him - maybe he was just wearing it in a way that seemed respectable enough. He wasn’t wearing a pocket watch, which made Minho laugh. “I’m Jisung, if you even care.”
The man didn’t answer. But the name kept spinning around his mind. So this soft, warm young man was named ‘Jisung’. Minho liked that idea. But he didn’t let anything show. Minho’s heart fluttered, but he quickly stamped down the feeling, retreating further into his solitude. He tried to brush Jisung off, convincing himself that this boy was just another fleeting moment. But each night, Jisung returned, with his carefree spirit and unspoken challenge. He was completely determined to enter into Minho’s rainy world and make it sunny.
The rain had stopped, but Paris remained veiled in a misty gray, the air thick with the scent of wet stone and distant chimney smoke. Minho sat at his usual table by the window, cigarette in hand, watching the world move outside with detached disinterest.
Or at least, he pretended to.
The truth was, he had been glancing at the door more often than he cared to admit. It had been weeks since Jisung had first barged into his life, uninvited and unshaken by Minho’s sharp words. And yet, despite every dismissal, every cold remark, the boy kept coming back. He came back every evening, always finding Minho there, cigarette in hand, a coffee on the table for work days, a whiskey for free ones. And no matter what Minho wanted the younger man to believe, every single time, their conversation seemed longer, warmer, and more comfortable.
The bell above the café door chimed, and Minho’s fingers stilled around his cigarette. He didn’t look up—not immediately. But he knew.
“You’re late,” Minho muttered, as if he had been keeping track.
Jisung slid into the seat across from him, grinning. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, his hair slightly windswept. “Were you waiting for me? Me who dared to think you hated me.”
Minho scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But the lie tasted bitter on his tongue. As if the taste of the coffee today was strange, or was it his cigarette?
Jisung leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I brought you something.”
Minho arched a brow, feigning indifference even as his curiosity prickled.
From his coat pocket, Jisung produced a small, slightly crumpled paper bag. He pushed it toward Minho with a smile. “Try it.”
Minho hesitated before reaching inside. His fingers brushed against something warm and flaky. A pastry.
“It’s pain au chocolat,” Jisung said, watching him expectantly. “From that bakery near the square. You mentioned once that you liked them.”
Minho’s chest tightened. He had mentioned it—offhandedly, weeks ago, in a moment of rare, unguarded conversation. He hadn’t expected Jisung to remember. He took a slow bite, the chocolate rich and bittersweet on his tongue.
“Good?” Jisung asked. He was smiling but his eyes were glistening with something more - something else - nervosity, or maybe anxiety.
Minho swallowed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile. “It’s fine.”
Jisung laughed, bright and unbothered. “You’re impossible.” He shook his head and laid his ripped red scarf on the empty chair next to him. While Minho was eating, he took the time to get up and order a black coffee.
Minho’s eyes lingered, for a moment too long, on the boy. His shoulders were large and his waist snatched, even more marked by the dark vest he was wearing. The man swallowed, feeling his throat tightening around the piece of pastry he was munching on. His eyes quickly flickered down, lingering - once again - way too long on the boy’s lower body. But when Minho saw Jisung coming back, he coughed and looked down, trying his best to hide his - what he thought was - inappropriate thoughts.
Jisung stayed longer than usually this night. Probably because Minho took way longer to yell at him to leave. And even when he did, a part of him wanted the heart-shaped boy to stay by his side. Maybe just a little longer.
Over the following weeks, Minho didn’t yell at Jisung to leave, not even once. And he caught himself laughing, truly. Or at least exhaling with his nose sincerely, which hadn’t happened in what felt like an eternity. It was as if Jisung was bringing to him a light that he had lost. Or maybe even creating a whole new one, warmer, softer. A new light that was so different from what the grumpy man was used to.
One night. A cold night of December. Jisung went as usual to the café, however this night, it was closed. The young man was confused, and upset to see his habit of seeing and talking with Minho falling apart. He wished the café would soon open back as he wandered in the dark streets of Paris. Snow was starting to fall from the sky, covering of a white coat the paved streets. The light of the warm street lights was illuminating the snow just enough to lay a soft glow on the boy’s round cheeks. As Jisung kept walking, he found Minho alone on the banks of the Seine, a place where the city’s lights blur into the dark water. The moonlight cast long shadows on the cobblestone streets, and the hum of life beyond the river felt distant, like the world was holding its breath.
Minho sat with his back to the stone wall, knees drawn close, his gaze lost in the rhythmic current. Jisung hesitated before approaching, the cold mist rising off the water brushing against his cheeks. He knew this Minho—this silent, unreachable version of him. He had seen it before. But something about this night felt heavier, quieter. Jisung stayed still, standing there. He looked down at Minho, his cap was starting to get white with snow. The boy held back a laugh and looked back at the dark water, the soft flow of water lightened up by the street lights.
“Why do you hide, Minho?” Jisung finally asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Why do you push everyone away?”
Minho didn’t answer at first. His jaw tightened, and when he finally turned to look up at Jisung, there was something unreadable in his eyes—a storm he had spent years keeping at bay. The walls went up before Jisung could blink, and Minho’s expression hardened like armor snapping into place.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Minho muttered. His voice is rough, low, like it had been scraped raw by every unsaid word. His tone felt like a revolver that he would have been holding right in front of Jisung’s heart. “The world isn’t kind to men like me. I’m not a part of their world. I’ll never be.”
Jisung didn’t flinch even though he felt his heart squeezing in his chest. He stepped closer, drawn to the cracks beneath the cold exterior. “I don’t care about the world,” he said, steady. “I care about you. And I’ll be here, even if you’re scared. Even if you’re afraid.”
Minho exhaled shakily, a sound caught between a breath and a sob. “You think it’s just fear?” he said bitterly. “It’s not just fear, Jisung. It’s history. It’s every headline I’ve ever read, every slur I’ve ever heard tossed around like it meant nothing. It’s being told since I was a kid to sit straighter, act tougher, stop looking at boys the way I did.”
His voice cracked, just once. Jisung’s eyelid twitched but he didn’t say anything. Minho was finally speaking his heart out, and he wouldn’t dare to cut this flow off.
“It’s my father sneering when two men held each other’s hands under their long sleeves. It’s teachers pretending not to hear when the others called me names in the locker room. It’s the way people look at you differently when they even suspect you’re not like them. Like you’re some kind of threat.”
Jisung’s chest ached. He took a cautious step closer as if scared the man would take a step forward right in the Seine, but Minho’s eyes dropped to the ground.
“I built walls to protect myself,” Minho continued. “Because if you don’t give them anything, they can’t use it against you. They can’t twist it into something dirty. They can’t ruin you with it.”
When Jisung’s voice came out, it was soft, and gentle. “But those walls... they keep everyone out. Even me.”
“I know,” Minho admitted, as if the words burned. “And I hate it. But I’m scared, Jisung. I’m scared of giving someone all of me, only to watch them walk away. Not because I did anything wrong, but because I’m me. Because I’m—” He swallowed the word, as if it still hurted to say it aloud. “Because I love differently.”
There’s a long pause. The city around them keeps moving, but here, time stands still.
“Do you know what it’s like,” Minho added quietly with an unwanted roughness, “to lie in bed at night and wonder if you’ll ever get to love someone openly? If you’ll ever be able to hold their hand on a street like this, without checking who’s watching? I’ve spent my whole life pretending that I didn’t want more, because wanting more felt dangerous.”
Jisung’s hand moved, hesitating, then gently took Minho’s. Their fingers trembled as they intertwined, a fragile bridge between two broken hearts.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Jisung murmurs. “You don’t have to hide anymore.”
Something shattered in Minho’s expression. The dam he had built for so long began to crack, piece by piece. And with a sudden, almost painful impulse, he grabbed Jisung’s wrist, pulling him close. Their lips crashed together in a kiss that was raw and unrestrained—a desperate act of defiance against the silence he had been forced to live in. It wasn’t perfect, nor polished. It was messy and trembling and real.
Minho kissed Jisung like he was afraid the world would rip him away the moment they parted. But in that kiss, he also let go. Of the shame. Of the fear. Of the long-held belief that he wasn’t allowed this kind of softness.
When they broke apart, breathless, Minho stared at him. Not with fear, but with something tentative and new.
“You were right,” he mumbled, voice barely audible. “I was hiding.”
“I know,” Jisung whispered. “But I’m here. You’re not alone.”
Minho nodded slowly, and for the first time, the weight on his shoulders seemed to lift, just a little. The fear was still there—it may always be—but now, so was Jisung.
They raised, and Jisung squeezed his hand. Together, they walked along the river, the moonlight casting them in silver and the snow covering them in a coat that felt surprisingly warm. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. There was a quiet understanding in their steps, in the way they clingged to each other.
And in that silent stretch of night, Paris watched them disappear into the shadows—two souls, no longer afraid to be seen. Yes, they still wouldn’t be able to hold hands or kiss openly in the daylight until decades later, but without fear, they could do anything.
Heyaaa after a huge while - which i'm sorry about - i'm back with a pretty long one shot !!! My exams preparation takes me so much time but i thought you guys needed to be fed with some minsung enemies-to-lovers ;)
Enjooooy
Jisung is just a mechanic, Minho is just a dumbass with a broken bike and a habit of breaking Jisung's heart without even noticing. When Minho finds someone new, Jisung tries to convince himself he doesn’t care — until the silence between them hurts more than he ever expected. Pride, jealousy, and old wounds collide as both boys are forced to face the feelings they’ve been running from all along. In a messy garage full of unspoken words and broken pride, maybe they’ll finally find a way to fix more than just a bike.
One Shot : Fix Me Up
This was a day like any other. Jisung was walking around the hallways of his high school which - thanks to god - weren’t crowded for once. He fixed his glasses as he grabbed a few books from his locker. As he struggled to make everything fit, one of the books dropped to the ground. Jisung let out a pissed off groan when suddenly a voice raised behind him.
“Need some help, four-eyes?” The boy turned around, though he didn’t need to - he already knew whose voice it was. He rolled his eyes as he saw him : Lee Minho. He was well known at school. He didn’t have many friends, but he was still popular - known around school as the 'mysterious guy.' As a biker he was extremely popular with girls, and thus, even though he was openly gay. “Why such a mean gaze-”
Before he could finish his sentence, Jisung cut him off. “I don’t need anything from you dickhead.” He spat. Minho chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Careful with that mouth of yours, Jisung-a. I might shut it for you.” He winks suggestively.
Jisung chuckled and rolled his eyes as he pushed Minho away. “I’m not one of your Grindr sluts, don’t you dare touch me.” The taller boy feinted being offended, but before he could add anything, Jisung added. “If you get close to me again : I beat you up with a monkey wrench.”
Minho threw his head back laughing, genuinely amused by Jisung’s threat. He stepped closer, invading the other boy’s personal space. “Ooh, scary. You and your little wrench.” He reached to grab Jisung’s chin but his hand got slapped away which made him giggle. Even if Minho was only slightly taller than Jisung, he was a lot stronger - they both knew that Jisung could never take him down.
“Well I’ll just destroy your precious bike.” Minho’s eyes lightened up with amusement and something else he couldn’t quite place yet. He slowly took a step back, knowing this wasn’t an empty threat. Jisung was a skilled mechanic, maybe the most skilled one in town. He was able to damage his bike so much that it could never be repaired, and Minho wouldn’t risk it.
He chuckled and raised his hands up. “Woah, slow down here dear. I was just teasing.”
Jisung shook his head, slamming his locker shut with a loud clang. "You better be," he muttered under his breath, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. He stalked off down the hallway without sparing Minho another glance, but the biker just grinned and shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, trailing a few steps behind. He wasn’t done yet - not even close. After a bit, he paced softly, following Jisung out.
“Tell me four-eyes, my bike has been making a weird noise lately and-”
“I don’t give a fuck.” Jisung spat before Minho could even ask. He hated the taller boy’s behavior and he didn’t want to help him. In addition to that, he knew Minho always had a thing for him and he couldn’t let him win his heart, nor anything below the belt.
“Com’on Jisung-a! You can’t let my baby die.” Minho finally reached Jisung’s level. The youngest rolled his eyes and sighed loudly.
“I told you I didn't care.” He repeated before adding : “And don’t fucking call your bike your ‘baby’ it’s so damn weird.” He said with an almost disgusted face.
“But it’s a CB 250.” Jisung froze. It was his favorite bike. How did he never notice that Minho had one? He looked up at him, the man had a huge cocky grin which was covering his face. “Did I manage to catch your attention?” He asked teasingly.
“Let me see it.” Jisung simply answered, trying not to look too eager. Minho knew well that Jisung was probably the only one able to actually find the issue with his bike. He tried to play it cool, crossing his arms over his toned chest.
“Fine, since you’re begging so nicely.” He said, knowing it would make the other boy completely crazy.
Indeed, Jisung rolled his eyes and sighed. “I’m not begging you, asshole.”
Minho chuckled, shaking his head as he turned to walk towards the school parking lot where his bike was parked. He glanced over his shoulder, catching Jisung quietly trailing after him. “Com’on then, smartass. Let’s see if you can actually find what’s wrong with my baby.”
Jisung sighed again. “Are you gonna marry your bike or something?” He asked in a sarcastic tone as he walked closer to the motorcycle, looking closely at the engine.
“She’s the only girl who understands me.”
“Weird statement for a gay dude.” He joked softly, caressing the cold metal. “Does her tail pipe take your dick well too?” He added to his joke, trying - unconsciously - to meet Minho’s freakyness. He squatted to the floor and took out of his bag a few tools to check and fix the bike under the other boy’s attentive gaze. Minho choked out a surprised laugh, caught off guard by Jisung’s vulgar joke. He leaned against the bike, watching the younger boy work, with an amused smirk.
“Funny, real funny. At least I know my bike can handle taking something big, unlike some shorties.” This teasing comeback got Jisung laughing softly. “You laugh like a girl.” He didn’t answer and kept working.
Minho chuckled at the lack of response. He slowly came to realize that this boy was the only one who could touch his bike without having him lose his mind. He smirked as he watched closely Jisung’s skilled fingers tightening a bolt. At this view, he shifted in place, standing back up, trying to act in control. “You know what else needs tightening?” He teased, using his dirty jokes as a way to cope. Jisung only hummed as an answer without even raising an eyebrow, too focused on his work. A bit upset that he didn’t get any comeback, Minho tried again, more suggestively this time : “You know what needs tightening but never gets any?” He smirked, hoping this one would work to get a reaction out of the smaller boy.
“Your dick?” Jisung asked simply. The sass was obvious in the words but not in the tone, he was too focused. Minho bursted out laughing, nearly doubled over. He had to admit, Jisung was pretty damn fast with the dirty jokes.
Wiping a tear from his eye, Minho shook his head. “Man, you really don’t hold back, do you?”
Still absorbed in his work, Jisung simply answered : “Never.” Minho’s laugh died as he started looking more closely at the boy working on his dear bike. His eyes flicked down to Jisung’s waist, where his baggy low rise jeans were sitting. He could see a hint of the boy’s hip bone, and the way the fabric hugged his thighs when he crouched down to check the bike’s tires. The view was completely mesmerizing to Minho. He couldn’t take his eyes off Jisung’s body. The way his muscles were flexing as he worked or even the way his clothes fitted perfectly on his honey skin, all of those felt like perfection to the taller boy’s eyes.
“Are you done staring?” Jisung asked with a faint smirk.
“Hell no.” Minho muttered, still feasting his gaze on every fold of Jisung’s clothes. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “You seriously gotta stop dressing like that.” He watched the way the boy’s crop top was hugging his waist. “It’s distracting.”
Jisung chuckled, he enjoyed how much he could unsettle such a ‘strong’ guy. “Britney Spears is my inspo.” He added.
“And it shows.” Minho could already imagine Jisung dancing instead of the singer in those 90’s music videos, in those short and tempting outfits. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his cool. “Seriously though, you look like a freaking pop star.” No matter what he seemed to think, Minho couldn’t help but love Jisung’s style.
“Do I look gay?” He asked bluntly.
Minho bursted into laughter, nearly losing his balance against the bike. “Bro, you’re asking if you look gay? Fuck yes, you look gay as hell.” He eyed Jisung up and down suggestively, smirking. “And it’s hot as fuck, to be honest.”
Jisung nodded, agreeing with a soft chuckle. Minho kept staring, a softer smile covering his face. He suddenly reached down to adjust the boy’s glasses, pushing them back up on his nose. His fingers brushed against Jisung’s skin, and he felt a spark. “You’re fucking adorable, you know that?”
“Whatever.”
The taller boy chuckled at the cold answer, finding it weirdly endearing. “You know, for someone who looks so gay and dresses like a pop star, you sure are tough to compliment.” he leaned back against his bike, crossing his arms over his chest.
Jisung laughed calmly, shaking his head. “Who said I just looked gay?” He teased with a grin.
“Oh yeah? So you’re actually…” Minho trailed off, curious. He leaned forward slightly, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Gay as fuck?” He laughed loudly. “Obviously, duh.” He paused, grinning. “Do you top or bottom?”
Jisung looked up at him, raising an eyebrow - almost surprised by Minho's straightforwardness. “Why would that matter to you anyway?”
Minho leaned in closer, smirking cockily as usual. “Just curious. Thought maybe your pretty little ass would be interested in sitting on something a lot bigger than bike seats.” He maintained eye contact, testing Jisung. “You got a boyfriend or something?” He added casually.
“I fixed it.” Jisung slapped softly the seat of the bike, clapping his hands, definitely proud of his work. He pulled out of his bag a small piece of paper and a pen, scribbling a few numbers, completely ignoring Minho’s previous questions and propositions. “Keep that, it’s my phone number. I’ll keep taking care of that beautiful baby.”
Minho glanced at the bike seat on which was resting the small paper. A slow smirk spread across his face as he processed Jisung’s words - a clear dismissal mixed with flirtation. “Oh, so you’re just using my bike as an excuse to hit on me, huh?”
“You wish,” he said simply adding “plus i’d rather fuck the bike.” He quickly turned around and left, his honey skin peaking out as he walked away.
Minho watched him leave, his eyes lingering on the exposed skin between the boy’s jeans and top. He couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head in amusement and just a hint of intrigue. “Asshole,” he muttered affectionately under his breath, already looking forward to their next encounter. Minho stayed leaning against his bike for a moment longer, staring at the empty parking lot where Jisung had disappeared. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. That little shit had no idea what he'd started. Or maybe - Minho thought, as he glanced down at the crumpled phone number in his hand - maybe he knew exactly.
A few weeks later
It was already summer. Over the last few weeks Jisung hadn’t gotten any news from Minho at all. They had seen each other around the high school’s hallways before the holidays, but Jisung always avoided and ignored Minho’s flirty and dirty comments.
This night, the youngest boy was laying in his bed, already fast asleep. He was staring at the ceiling, the heat was making him unable to sleep, and even the opened window wasn’t helping. His phone buzzed suddenly, the screen’s glow slicing through the dark room. He grabs the phone and checks it. The message was from an unknown number, he opened it anyway - it wasn’t flagged as spam.
“Yo, kept your number as it was on my bike seat. Come fix it again.” Jisung rolled his eyes and sighed loudly as he sat up in bed. Before he could answer anything, he received two new notifications from the same number that he had now saved under ‘Mean-Hoe’. The first text was now accompanied with a blurry selfie of him lounging on his bed, wearing only a pair of large sweatpants, letting the waistband of his boxers show on his hips. He quickly added a caption to the selfie : “2AM bike emergency.”
Jisung stared at the screen for a moment, debating whether to leave the asshole on read or fire back something snarky. His thumb hovered over the keyboard before he finally typed: “You could have warned me earlier if the bike has a problem bro.”
He didn’t have to wait for an answer, Minho was quick. “Nah, just happened. Need your magic touch RN.” He added another selfie, this time zoomed in on his crotch area, where a noticeable bulge was evident. The caption was even more suggestive : “Urgent attention required.” Jisung sighed even louder than before, he was starting to think the bike wasn’t even broken - Minho was just horny. At the lack of an answer, Minho texts again : “You comin’ or what?”
Jisung didn’t dare to let him wait any longer and bluntly answered : “I fix bikes, not dicks.”
Once again, the reply was quick to come : “Damn, you’re killing me here. But seriously, the bike needs fixing. And maybe I do too~” He added a wink emoji for measure. And - of course - didn’t let Jisung answer before adding another text. “Com’on, it’s late and I'm horny asf.”
The younger boy was almost more upset than pissed off, how could Minho only text him when his dick was hard? Could he not see that Jisung was his mechanic to his slut? Based on his current mood, he sharply answered : “IDGAF about your horny ass.” Jisung groaned, tossing his phone onto the bed like it was contagious. He laid back, covering his eyes with his forearm. His phone kept buzzing, he could see the light of the screen lighting up the room but he didn’t bother reading the texts. Minho was probably mad at him but he didn’t care, he wasn’t his slut.
He was starting to fall asleep as - 20 minutes later - he heard a motor roaring from outside of the window. At first he didn’t pay attention to it but then he recognized it : the engine of Minho’s CB250 revving obnoxiously. Jisung got up and put on his glasses as he walked towards the window. Leaning over the frame, he spotted him. Minho was there, leaning against his bike, shirtless in this summer heat, his muscles full on display.
When he noticed Jisung at the window, he grinned. “Open up, four-eyes.”
Jisung sighed and bent over the window’s frame a bit more. “Go back to your house, asshole. It’s fucking 3AM and i don’t want your dick.”
Minho swallowed hard as he saw Jisung’s bent over the window, his low rise sweatpants dangerously low and giving a hint of his hips. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. “Check your phone before annoying me.” He shouted to Jisung.
The younger boy rolled his eyes and turned around. He got his phone and opened the few messages Minho had sent him : “You’re the worst”, “Look, I swear it needs fixing. And so does my dick but yk.” A picture was accompanying the texts. It was showing parts of the bike’s motor. And it was deeply damaged. Suddenly, Jisung’s heart raced. Minho had driven all the way there with such a damaged bike. He ran out of his room, pacing in the stairs to quickly go out in the dark street to meet the older boy.
“Are you fucking crazy? You could have died-” He shouts at Minho.
Minho barely flinched at Jisung’s yelling, looking almost proud of himself for getting the younger boy to rush outside in his stupid sweatpants and messy hair. “Relax, I made it here, didn’t I?” he smirked, pushing off the bike lazily. His skin gleamed under the streetlights, tan and tempting, like he didn’t even realize he was half naked. “Plus, it’s just a bike…” He started to say, but trailed off as he caught Jisung’s worried expression. “It wasn’t that-”
Jisung stomped closer, slapping the older guy’s bare bicep. “You’re a fucking idiot," he hissed. "You could’ve eaten shit and died on the highway, dumbass.”
Minho winced slightly at the slap, his smirk flatering for a moment. He saw Jisung’s anger and worry, and something softened inside him. He crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious about his bare torso. “You gonna take care of my ‘problems’?” He asked as he raised an eyebrow.
“The bike only.” Jisung answers bluntly. He grabbed the handles as they both walked into the garage of the house. Minho chuckled, watching the other boy bending over the bike to inspect the damage. His eyes involuntarily dropped to Jisung’s ass, barely contained in those low-rise pants. He swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how late it was and how alone they were in this garage.
Jisung took off the hoodie he had put to cover himself from Minho’s gaze, revealing a tight black tank top. He quickly started working on the bike. After a bit, as he was deeply focused and as his hands were greasy he softly whispers : “Minho, you could have died driving such a damaged motorcycle…”
Minho leaned against the garage’s wall, his arms crossed as he watched Jisung work. He knew that the boy was right, but hearing the genuine concern in his voice made something stir inside him. “I know, I know.” He answered almost dismissively, his usual cocky demeanor slowly fading away.
Jisung didn’t look up, his fingers deftly working through the tangled mess of wires and broken parts. “You’re so reckless it’s not even funny,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Minho stayed silent, watching the way Jisung’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration, the sweat beading at his temple, the soft curve of his mouth set in a tight line. For once, Minho didn’t have a comeback. Instead, he pushed off the wall, stepping closer - close enough to catch the faint smell of soap and motor oil clinging to Jisung’s skin. “...I didn’t know you’d be this worried,” he said, voice dropping a little. Honest, almost raw.
Jisung finally lifted his head, meeting Minho’s gaze under the harsh garage light. His expression was unreadable, but his hands - still dirty with grease - tightened just slightly around the wrench he was holding. “Well, now you know,” he said quietly.
After a long silence, Minho decided to try to cool down the atmosphere. “You know what they say about fixing bikes at night, right?” Jisung knew that no such saying existed, but he was almost curious to know what Minho would come up with this time. So he just hummed as an answer. “It’s a good opportunity to get up close and personal.” He added to it a playful wink, his dark eyes staring at Jisung. Testing the waters, seeing how far he could push before the boy snapped back or punched him.
Jisung sighed loudly, still deeply worried as he worked. “I told you Minho : I fix bikes, not hearts, nor dicks.” He repeated what he had said earlier in text.
The taller guy threw his head back and laughed loudly, his shoulders shaking with amusement. Jisung’s blunt attitude was one of the things he found the most attractive about him. “Damn, you really know how to kill a man’s ego.” He laughed.
The small mechanic chuckled too, shaking his head. “God, just shut the fuck up and hand me the chain that is in the drawer.”
Minho wiped a tear of laughter from his eye and stood up straight, walking over to the drawer to grab the chain. As he bent over to search through it, he purposefully arched his back to give Jisung a perfect view of his ass. But the smaller boy didn’t even glance up from the bike, his hands still slick with grease. “There you go.” Minho simply said as he handed the chain over to Jisung, almost disappointed at the lack of reaction he got.
As Jisung installed the chain with deft movements, a small smear of grease trailed across his cheekbone. Minho stared. He knew he should keep his mouth shut - for once in his life - but his lips moved anyway.“You’re kinda cute when you’re all serious and dirty like that,” he said lazily, watching the way Jisung’s hands paused for a second before moving again, maybe a tiny bit faster than before. Jisung didn’t answer, but the tips of his ears turned pink. Minho’s smirk returned, slow and smug.
Proud of himself, Minho leaned back against the wall, watching Jisung work. The quiet night, the late hour, Jisung’s sweaty arm muscles flexing at each move - all of those were doing things to him that he couldn’t explain. He cleared his throat, trying to make it seem natural as he spoke up. “You really care about this bike more than my whole existence right now, don’t you?” He asked, fishing for attention quite obviously.
“Yes.” Jisung bluntly answered. Was it just the truth, and the whole truth? Probably not, but he couldn’t let his guard down with Minho.
The older guy’s grin widened at Jisung’s blunt answer. He loved how straightforward he was. “So if I was lying on the ground bleeding, you’d fix the bike before helping me?” He asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear the other boy’s voice again.
Jisung sighed and muttered under his breath : “Stupid question.” Clearly not wanting to admit that he would obviously care more about the dumbass biker.
The guy laughed softly, watching Jisung’s dark hair stick to his sweaty forehead as he worked. He realized that the boy dodging his question meant his thoughts were right. “Serious question though.” Jisung hummed as a quiet answer, allowing Minho to keep talking. “If I was lying on the ground, bleeding and unconscious, but the bike was on fire - would you put out the fire or save me?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious about Jisung’s priorities.
The young mechanic swallowed hard, his pupils looking all over the bike in pure nervosity. “Shut up Minho you’re distracting me-”
“Answer the question.” The guy cut him off. He laughed softly, not realizing that the question might actually be hard for Jisung to answer. He thought that the boy would make a smart remark, or slap him again. “Bike or me?” He pushed, not getting that Jisung might actually take this seriously.
“You…” Jisung mumbled under his breath. “I’d save you first.” He added, finishing his answer honestly.
Minho froze, staring at the boy for a moment. He finally realized that Jisung might actually care more about him than he let on. Minho smiled softly, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. “I was just messing around.” He said, his voice softer now.
“Let me work then. Instead of asking dumb shit.” Jisung spat, wiping sweat off his forehead.
The taller guy chuckled and nodded, watching Jisung intently as he continued to work on the bike. “Yeah, yeah, focus on the bike first. Then maybe focus on telling me to fuck off.” He joked lightly, a playful smirk on his lips. He folded his arms, leaning comfortably against the wall.
For a while, the only sounds were the faint clinking of metal and the distant buzz of cicadas outside. Minho stayed quiet, just watching. Something about the sight of Jisung - sweaty, stubborn, quietly pissed off - made his chest feel tight in a way that wasn’t just about wanting to get laid. Jisung, on the other hand, stayed focused on his work almost as if it helped him to get his mind off how worried and how scared he got because of Minho. He finished working only an hour later, it was now 5.30AM, and the sun was picking out outside, giving a soft glow to the street.
Minho pushed off the wall, stretching his arms above his head. “Damn, it’s almost morning.” He said casually, looking out at the faint light of dawn slithering through the garage door’s small windows. He turned back to Jisung, who was wiping his hands on a rag. “You done man?” The boy nodded softly, obviously too exhausted to mouth a full answer. Minho walked over to his bike, inspecting his mechanic’s work. He ran his hands over the engine, checking for any signs that Jisung might have missed something. He was impressed by the meticulous repair job, but he pretended to be critical. Jisung looked up at him as he sat on the dirty floor, completely wiped out. Minho noticed his exhausted state and instantly dropped the act. He crouched down in front of him, his usual confident demeanor softening. “Hey…you’re dead on your feet. But you know, you did an amazing job dude.” He said gently, reaching out to touch Jisung’s shoulder.
Suddenly, Jisung grabbed Minho’s collar, shaking him in a last rush of energy. “Don’t you ever dare to drive your bike with such damage!” He snaps, his eyes already glistening of exhaustion.
“And here comes the real Jisung.” Minho chuckled softly at the fierce expression, putting his hands up in surrender. “Jesus, you’re cute when you’re pissed.” He teased, but when he felt the boy’s grip tightening around his collar he asked : “Yes?”
“God, I’m saying this for your safety asshole!”
Minho couldn’t help but laugh at Jisung’s sudden outburst. He knew the cute mechanic was only angry because he cared. It was kind of adorable to him. “Alright, alright, I hear you.” He said, still chuckling. “I won’t drive like that ever again.”
Jisung tightened his grip once again. “Promise it to me.”
The older guy met Jisung’s intense gaze, cracking a small smile. He raised his right hand in a mock oath. “I promise on my baby right here.” He gestured to his bike, “that I won’t ride until you’ve checked it over. Happy now, you crazy mechanic?” The boy nodded and released Minho’s collar as they both softly got up. But as Jisung finally straightened up, he almost collapsed in Minho’s arms out of tiredness and adrenaline going down. He hugged him tightly, burying his face in the strong guy’s bare chest.
Minho’s arms automatically wrapped around Jisung, holding him close. He could feel his exhaustion and the faint tremor in his hands from the late-night repair job. A soft smile played on his lips as he rested his chin on top of Jisung’s head. “Hey…”
The boy sniffed loudly, “you’re such a dumbass… You could have died.” He said once again.
Minho’s heart skipped a beat at the genuine concern in the smaller boy’s voice. He squeezed him tighter, his own voice dropping to a soothing rumble. “I’m fine, Jisung-a. I’m right here, okay?”
“Don’t do that ever again.” Jisung kept repeating.
“Or what?” Minho teased softly, his fingers carding through Jisung’s dark hair. “You’ll ground me and take away my bike keys?” He joked, trying to lighten up the mood.
“I don’t care about the bike when your life's on the line.” Jisung sighed and took a step back, wiping tears from his eyes. “I won’t care if the bike is fixed or not if you make me have to attend your funeral.” He added, sniffing louder.
Minho’s heart clenched at the raw emotion in Jisung’s words. He reached out, gently wiping a tear that escaped the mechanic’s eye. His expression softens, turning serious. “Alright, I get it. I’ll be more careful, okay?”
“Leave me alone now, dumbass.” Jisung mumbled as he left through the door connecting the garage to his parent’s house. He directly went upstairs to take a shower and go to bed as the sun was going up, without turning back to Minho. He definitely did not want to cry in front of him again. Minho, on the other hand, was standing here, watching Jisung walking away. He didn’t miss how the boy’s whole demeanor changed when he got emotional - fierce mechanic once second, vulnerable the next. He picked up his helmet and bike keys before giving a glance at the rag Jisung had used to clean his greasy hands. Minho smiled and shook his head before straddling his bike and driving away under the rising sun.
A bit later in the afternoon, Jisung was scrolling absentmindedly on his phone when he saw a picture of Minho and his fellow biker friends. The older boy was smiling proudly in front of his freshly fixed bike. The caption made Jisung smile : “Back in action, thanks to the best mechanic ever!”. The boy slowly double-tapped on the screen, leaving a heart under the post.
A small, involuntary smile tugged at Jisung’s lips as he stared at the post for a second longer than necessary. His thumb hovered over the screen before he finally locked his phone and tossed it onto his bed. He stretched his arms above his head, letting out a groan as the muscles in his back cracked. Despite himself, despite how much Minho got on his nerves, a small part of him felt a stupid warmth bloom in his chest at being acknowledged like that - even if it was just through an Instagram caption. He rolled onto his side, burying his face into his pillow to smother the dumb grin spreading across his face.
“Idiot…” he mumbled to himself, thinking about Minho’s cocky grin, the way his arms had felt wrapped around him just a few hours ago. Jisung kicked his legs under the blanket, frustrated at how easily Minho got under his skin. His phone buzzed again.
He hesitated for a second before reaching for it. A private message from Minho lit up the screen: “Thanks again, little mechanic. I owe you one. Big time.”
Jisung huffed out a breath, rolling his eyes at the nickname. But before he could talk himself out of it, his fingers were already typing back: “You owe me your life, dumbass. Don’t forget it.”
Minho's reply came instantly, like he’d been waiting for it. “Trust me, I won’t.” “Also… you looked cute all greasy and pissed off.” “Just saying.” Jisung dropped his phone onto the bed again, face burning red this time. He pulled the blanket over his head, groaning into the fabric. God, he was so doomed.
Early August, 2.42AM
Over the last month, something between them shifted - just slightly, like the slow turning of a gear you didn’t notice until it clicked. Minho started texting Jisung more often, and Jisung, despite his better judgment, always answered. Sometimes it was about his bike, a part he needed, a weird noise he couldn’t figure out. Other times, late at night, Minho’s messages turned shameless, heavy with flirtation that made Jisung's stomach twist in ways he didn’t want to think too hard about. It wasn’t real, Jisung reminded himself every time he stared at his screen too long. Minho only reached out when he needed something - when he was frustrated, bored, or horny - and Jisung, stupidly, kept letting him.
Jisung was working on some new mechanics books as his phone’s screen lit up. A first time - a message from Minho - “Yo, can ya order me new tires?”. A second time, “You awake?”. A short pause, before a third time : “Nevermind, I'm hard as hell, you?”.
The boy sighed at each text, almost pissed at how predictably it was always the same: the bike, the sex, nothing else. He grabbed his phone and typed a quick but heart felt answer, “Go to fucking sleep.” He didn’t wait for a reply this time. He just tossed his phone onto the other side of the bed and buried himself back into his book, pretending he didn’t care.
Minho answered almost instantly : “Nah, I’m too horny. Wanna video call?” Jisung couldn’t see him but he didn’t need it to know that the guy was probably already palming his dick while texting him. Another text came : “Com’on Jisung-a.”
His fingers ran fast over the digital keyboard. “I’m not video calling you while you jerk off.” He rolled his eyes, scrubbing his face roughly with both hands.
But Minho didn’t give up just yet, he decided to try to make the mechanic jealous. “Damn, you’re no fun. I might as well call someone else.” He added a pouting emoji, trying his best to get a reaction for Jisung. Just the thought of making the boy jealous made him harder.
But at the sight of the text, Jisung got surprisingly mad. More than he thought he would because of something like this. He typed back sharply : “I’m not your bf anyway, I don’t give a single damn if your dick is hard or not.” Out of bitterness he added, “I’m your fucking mechanics.”
Minho was upset, and almost mad at Jisung’s bite. He stilled his hand, a smirk curling onto his lips. He typed back with one hand, the other still lazily palming his erection. “Fine then, I'll get a guy who wants to take it and he’ll be my boyfriend.” He knew Jisung well and wasn’t expecting an answer. And he was right, Jisung didn’t answer, he left him on ‘read’. Minho’s smirk widened as he saw the ‘seen’ label. He scrolled through his contacts, pausing on Deoksu. He bit his lip, considering. He then sighed and hit the call button.
Deoksu picked up on the third ring, his voice groggy with sleep. "Minho-hyung? What's up?"
Minho leaned back against his pillows, shifting slightly as he tried to ignore the hollow feeling gnawing at his chest. "Nothing much," he said casually, voice dropping lower, almost teasing. "You busy?"
There was a pause. Deoksu chuckled, low and a little confused. "Not really. Why?"
Minho stared at the ceiling for a second before letting his eyes drift shut, voice slipping into something dangerously soft. "Come keep me company." Deoksu showed up less than an hour later, smelling faintly of cigarettes and cheap deodorant. He didn’t even bother knocking properly - just a soft tap before Minho pulled the door open and let him in. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t have to. Deoksu grinned, Minho smirked, and within minutes, they were tangled up in Minho’s sheets, hands and mouths moving fast and messy like they were trying to erase something instead of create it. It wasn’t mind-blowing. It wasn’t tender. But it was easy. It was warm. And when Minho woke up with Deoksu's arm slung lazily across his waist, he didn’t kick him out. Instead, he let him stay.
A few days later, it was official, at least according to Minho’s Instagram story: a blurry mirror selfie of him and Deoksu, shirtless, sweaty, laughing against each other’s shoulders. A black heart emoji captioned it, simple and sharp.
Jisung stared at the screen, heart thudding painfully in his chest. He was lying in bed, knees pulled up close, his favorite plush crushed tightly against his chest. His room was dark except for the soft blue glow of his phone. His thumb hovered over the story, then tapped through it quickly, like it burned. He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself he didn’t give a single damn about who Minho decided to fuck, to date, to love. He told himself a lot of things. But still, something inside him cracked. He rolled onto his side, pressing his face into his pillow, the air thick and hot against his skin. His fingers clenched tighter around his plush. He could feel his throat tightening, tears stinging the corners of his eyes before he could stop them.
"Stupid..." he whispered hoarsely, voice breaking. "I don't even care... I don't..." The plush soaked up the first tears that slipped out, silent and angry. Jisung bit his lip hard enough to hurt, trying to swallow the sob building inside him. But it didn’t work. His chest heaved, small and desperate, and the crying came anyway - ugly, muffled, confused. He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand. Because if he did, he might have to admit that somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, he had started hoping for something he was never meant to have.
By the time the sun started bleeding through the curtains, Jisung had cried himself dry. His eyes burned, swollen and sore, his throat scratched raw from holding back sobs. The plush was still clutched against his chest, damp and crumpled, but he finally loosened his grip and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He lay there for a long while, just breathing. Feeling empty. Feeling stupid. At some point, without even thinking, he unlocked his phone. His fingers hovered over Minho’s name. His chest hurt at the mere sight of it, but he told himself it was fine. He wasn’t reaching out because he cared. He was just being professional. Helpful. That's all.
He typed quickly before he could overthink it: "Does your bike need something? I'm going to the mechanic’s store today." He hit send and immediately tossed the phone back onto the bed, turning away from it like it might burn him. He pulled the blanket up over his head again, heart hammering even though he kept telling himself it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t. Minutes crawled by. And then the phone buzzed.
Jisung yanked it back under the blanket, unlocking it with trembling fingers. Minho’s reply was already there: "All good. Thanks tho."
That was it. Cold. Polite. Distant. No teasing nickname. No stupid emoji. No jokes about owing him. No warmth. Just a short text, like Jisung was no different than any other casual contact. Like they hadn’t spent the past month texting late into the night, trading insults and half-flirtations and something that had felt dangerously close to a bond.
Jisung stared at the message until it blurred. He dropped the phone onto the mattress, letting it slip from his fingers like it didn’t matter, even though it did. Even though it felt like something small inside him was snapping in half. He curled back into himself, the blanket heavy over his body, and squeezed his eyes shut.
A few days later
Jisung tried to stay busy. He tuned engines, tightened bolts, organized the cluttered tool shelves. He even cleaned out the old cabinet in the corner of the garage that had been gathering dust for months. Anything not to think about it. Anything not to think about him. But despite all his efforts, Jisung still found himself glancing at his phone every few minutes. Checking for a message that wouldn’t come. It was late afternoon when his phone finally buzzed. A familiar name on the screen made his heart jump before he could stop it. Mean hoe.
"Hey, actually, can you check my bike's oil level? I forgot." Jisung stared at the screen, chewing the inside of his cheek. He should’ve ignored it. Should’ve thrown the phone across the room.
Instead, his fingers moved before his brain could catch up. "I can come over and do it if you want."
The reply came so fast it almost hurt. "Nah. I'll come by later. No rush." No rush, like Jisung wasn’t sitting there waiting like a goddamn idiot. He dropped his phone onto the couch beside him with a dull thud and wiped his greasy hands on a rag. He told himself not to think about it. Not to care. But he kept the garage light on. Just in case.
Minutes bled into hours. The sun slipped beneath the horizon. The air turned cooler, heavy with the thick scent of gasoline and late summer dust. Jisung paced around the garage, reorganized the same set of wrenches three times, went out to the curb twice to peer down the road, pretending he wasn’t looking for the roar of a familiar engine. Nothing. His stomach churned with something sour. Something that felt way too much like heartbreak.
It wasn’t until past midnight - when Jisung had finally, finally decided to go inside - that his phone buzzed again. "Sorry, got caught up. I'll come tomorrow morning instead!" A stupid little smiling emoji at the end, like it would somehow fix everything. Jisung didn’t reply. He just locked his phone and went to bed, laying stiffly under his blanket, feeling a hollow kind of ache bloom in his chest.
The next morning, his phone buzzed again. "Yo, coming in a bit."
Five minutes later. "Leaving now."
Ten minutes after that. "You there?"
Each message made Jisung’s gut twist a little tighter. He sat on the edge of his bed, phone buzzing beside him, just staring at it. He could answer. He could pretend like nothing happened. He could go right back to being the good little mechanic Minho only needed when it was convenient. His thumb hovered over the screen. He almost typed something - something petty, something desperate, he wasn’t even sure which.
Then he stopped. Instead, he opened Minho’s contact. He hesitated just a second longer. And then, with one firm tap, he hit “Block Contact.” The screen went quiet. Jisung let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He dropped his phone onto the nightstand, face down, like he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore.
The room felt too big around him. Too empty. He pulled his knees up to his chest and pressed his forehead against them, squeezing his eyes shut. It was stupid. Minho had never promised him anything. He wasn’t supposed to be this hurt. But the ache in his chest didn’t care about logic.
Jisung curled tighter around himself, feeling small and breakable. At least now, he thought, squeezing his plushie to his chest so tightly it hurt - At least now, he wouldn’t have to wait anymore.
Jisung stayed in bed, the weight of his emotions crushing him down. He felt numb, but the sobs kept coming, wracking through his body in sharp bursts that left him gasping for breath. His head was buried in the pillow, muffling the sound, but it didn’t stop the tears from coming - a steady stream that soaked the fabric beneath him. Every thought led him back to Minho. To the way his voice sounded so casual when they talked, to how he'd been so insistent on keeping their relationship strictly about the bike and his needs - and how, in the end, Jisung wasn’t even important enough for him to follow through on a simple promise. But then there was Deoksu. Minho had a new boyfriend. A boyfriend who wasn’t afraid to show affection, who was probably holding him right now, kissing him, touching him. A boyfriend who wasn’t the idiot mechanic who let his heart get tangled up with someone who didn’t even care. The mental image twisted his stomach. His whole chest hurt. It felt like someone was squeezing the life out of him, like he couldn’t breathe. His hands tightened around the plush toy he’d grabbed earlier, but it didn’t bring any comfort. It was all a lie, wasn’t it? That smile Minho had when he’d acted all cocky around him, the teasing nicknames, the fake affection. It was just playing around. Jisung was nothing. He felt like he was drowning in the realization, tears soaking his pillow even more. He pulled the blanket over his head and cried into it, unable to stop.
Minho slammed his phone down onto the couch, his heart pounding in his chest. His fingers were still trembling as he glanced at his screen, the block notification glaring at him. He had been blocked. By Jisung. It didn’t make sense. The past few days had felt... odd, but Minho hadn’t expected Jisung to just cut him off. He knew he’d been messing around, pushing his buttons, sending him those messages late at night. But wasn’t that just how things were? Why was Jisung acting like this? Minho ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. His body felt tense, like he couldn’t sit still. He was angry, sure, but it was more than that. It was… confusion. He couldn’t wrap his head around it.
“Damn it,” Minho muttered under his breath, clenching his fists. He looked at Deoksu, who was lounging on the bed, scrolling through his own phone. “Do you have any idea why he blocked me?” Minho asked, pacing back and forth across the room. His voice was low, but there was a fire in it. “He’s acting like I did something to him.”
Deoksu, looking half-amused and half-sympathetic, put his phone down. He studied Minho carefully, tilting his head. “Well, I mean, you did kind of mess with him, right?” Deoksu raised an eyebrow. “I know you two have this... thing where you joke around a lot, but maybe it crossed the line?”
Minho huffed, annoyed. “Jisung’s been pushing me away for months. I’ve hardly been doing anything! He’s always so distant and cold. I just mess with him a little. It’s not like I’m asking for anything serious.”
Deoksu watched him carefully, then leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. “I don’t know, man. Maybe he’s jealous of you and me.”
Minho froze. Jealous? He felt a strange pang in his chest, but he dismissed it almost immediately. “Jisung’s not the jealous type. He never acts like it.” He clenched his jaw, turning away from Deoksu, trying to brush the thought aside. “He’s always been like that. He never lets anything show. He just... pushes me away whenever I try anything. Nothing’s changed.”
Deoksu gave him a knowing look but didn’t push any further. “Alright, whatever you say, man.”
Minho felt the irritation bubbling inside him again, but this time, it wasn’t just frustration about being blocked. There was something else there. Something deeper. He didn’t know if it was jealousy or something else entirely, but he hated the idea that Jisung was shutting him out so completely. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much.
A month passed, and the silence between Minho and Jisung was unbearable. The ghost of their last conversation, the way Jisung had blocked him, still lingered in the air. It wasn’t even the anger anymore - it was frustration. Minho felt like he couldn’t get a hold on the situation, like he was tangled in a mess of emotions he wasn’t allowed to untangle. The anger grew over time, like a slow burn, and he didn’t know how to stop it.
One evening, after another week of pointless texting to which Jisung never replied, Minho’s patience snapped. “Hey asshole,” he typed quickly on a social media app, his fingers pounding the screen in frustration. “Pick up the phone, I need my bike oil changed. Oh, and fuck you.”
He stared at the screen, the words burning in his mind, but he couldn’t help it. Jisung had driven him to this point. He’d ignored him. Blocked him. It was ridiculous. After waiting for a few minutes and getting no reply, Minho sent another message, tapping the screen with more force than necessary. “Come on, don’t be a dick. I’m serious about the oil change.” His finger hovered over the screen, staring at the text, waiting for a response. Nothing.
Deoksu, lounging nearby on the couch, glanced over at Minho. He could see his boyfriend’s growing agitation, the way his jaw clenched as he stared at his phone. “You really going to let this guy keep you in this mood?” Deoksu asked, teasing, but there was a hint of concern in his voice.
Minho shot Deoksu an exasperated look. “I’m not in the mood for your jokes, okay?” He scrolled through the messages again, re-reading Jisung’s radio silence. “I just don’t get why he’s doing this. It’s like I’m nothing to him.”
Deoksu raised an eyebrow, amused. “Maybe you are nothing to him now, Minho. You ever think of that?” He smirked. “Could be a little too much for him. You know how you can be.”
Minho’s eyes narrowed. “You really want to do this now?”
Deoksu shrugged, a sly grin spreading across his face. “I’m just saying… looks like the tables are turning. You’re not exactly the one with all the control here.”
Minho was fuming, his frustration building as Deoksu’s words hit him more than he’d like to admit. He turned his gaze back to his phone, his hands trembling with irritation. Without thinking, Minho typed one more message: “I’m done with this shit. I’m coming over. I’m not waiting for you to text me back anymore.”
Deoksu’s playful expression dropped as he read over his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Minho, wait - are you serious?”
Minho didn’t reply. Instead, he stood up abruptly, throwing his phone onto the couch as he grabbed his jacket and keys. His emotions were boiling over, and all he could think about was getting on the bike and driving to Jisung’s place. He needed to see him. He couldn’t wait anymore. Deoksu stood up too, walking over to Minho and stopping him in his tracks. “You’re really going to show up at his house?”
Minho’s expression hardened. “Yeah. I’m done playing games.”
Deoksu sighed, but he didn’t argue. He’d learned long ago that once Minho made up his mind, nothing would stop him. He just watched as Minho stormed out of the room, shaking his head.
Jisung - on the other hand - stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary, biting his lip. He was tired. Tired of all of it. Of the teasing. Of the back-and-forth that always left him feeling worse. He couldn’t let it get to him anymore. He wasn’t going to reply. He tossed the phone onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. His mind was spiraling. The thing was, he wanted Minho to come. He didn’t want to admit it, but he couldn’t help it. A small part of him was still waiting. Waiting for Minho to show up, for the confrontation they hadn’t had yet. Maybe then, just maybe, things would finally make sense. Jisung turned onto his side, facing the window. He told himself that he didn’t care. That he didn’t need this. That Minho’s games weren’t worth his time. But his heart kept betraying him. It kept hoping.
Half an hour later, he heard the sound of a familiar bike pulling into the driveway. His pulse quickened. There was no denying it now. Minho was here. He froze for a second, not sure if he’d imagined it. But then, another tap came, slightly harder this time, followed by a muffled voice from outside.
“Jisung!” Minho called, his voice too familiar for comfort.
Jisung sat up, tension flooding his chest. His hands gripped the edge of the bed as he stood, walking over to the window. He pulled the blinds just enough to see Minho standing below, his hands in his pockets, a cocky grin plastered on his face. Jisung didn’t even hesitate. He pulled the window open, keeping a steady gaze on Minho, the annoyance bubbling up from deep inside him. “What the hell are you doing here?” Jisung snapped, his voice a mix of frustration and confusion.
Minho raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “You don’t answer my texts, so I figured I’d come talk to you in person.” He took a few steps closer, looking up at Jisung’s face. “I still need the oil change for my bike.”
Jisung exhaled sharply, irritated by the blatant disregard for his boundaries. “You could’ve called, or - wait, no, you could’ve just texted. Again,” he added, eyes narrowing as his grip on the window sill tightened.
Minho’s smirk faded into something more serious, though his tone stayed cocky. “I didn’t feel like playing games anymore. So, I came.” He paused, waiting for Jisung’s response, his eyes sharp. “Unless you’re still too mad to help me.”
Jisung stared at him for a long moment, the bitterness in his chest slowly eating away at him. He was angry, hurt, confused. Everything was tangled up, and now Minho was standing here, making it all feel even messier. “I’m not your fucking mechanic anymore,” Jisung muttered, turning away to look at the floor. “I’m not the one you get to boss around when you’re bored or frustrated.”
Minho’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t let the words hit him like they were supposed to. Instead, he sighed dramatically. “I’m not asking for much. Just the damn oil change. You’re still good at it, right?”
Jisung bit back a retort, his fists clenched. “Fine,” he spat. “I’ll help you with your damn bike.”
Without waiting for Minho’s reply, Jisung slammed the window shut, and moments later, he was already making his way downstairs. When Jisung reached the front door and stepped outside, Minho was waiting by his bike, hands still stuffed in his jacket pockets. The bike was propped against the sidewalk, and the streetlights gave it an eerie glow in the dimming evening.
Without saying another word, Jisung walked past him, heading toward the garage. Minho followed, a few steps behind, the silence hanging heavily between them. Once inside the garage, Jisung flipped on the lights, the familiar smell of metal, grease, and engine oil filling the space. He grabbed the oil container and placed it on the workbench, not sparing a glance at Minho. His movements were sharp, mechanical. He wasn’t going to give Minho the satisfaction of acknowledging the tension.
Minho, on the other hand, leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. He watched Jisung work for a moment, irritation flashing across his face as the silence grew. “I didn’t come here just to get my bike fixed,” Minho finally broke the silence, his voice low but clear.
Jisung didn’t look up from his work, his hands moving expertly over the bike. “Yeah, well, you didn’t come here to apologize either,” he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Minho to hear.
Minho’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jisung gritted his teeth but continued working, fighting back the urge to snap. “You didn’t care enough to text me properly. You just came to see if I’d drop everything to help you like I always do.”
Minho pushed himself off the wall, his voice sharper now. “That’s not it, Jisung-a. You know that’s not it.”
Jisung turned to face him, the frustration now clear in his eyes. “What is it then, huh? Why do you keep messing with me? Why come here now after a month of nothing but silence?”
Minho opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. He didn’t have an answer. And the more he tried to find one, the more he realized how badly he’d screwed things up. But his pride wouldn’t let him admit it, not yet. Instead, he just let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know, okay? Maybe I was just... trying to fix things with you, but I don’t know how to do that without being an idiot about it.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated at his own inability to communicate properly.
Jisung didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to respond. His heart was conflicted, torn between the part of him that wanted to yell at Minho for being so reckless with his feelings, and the part of him that wanted to just forget about all of it and move on. But instead, he just kept working, the tension in the garage palpable. They stood in silence again, the only sound the steady rhythm of Jisung’s hands working on the bike. Both of them angry, both of them stubborn, but neither of them willing to walk away.
The air in the garage was thick with unresolved tension, and neither of them was willing to break the silence first. Jisung’s hands worked mechanically, tightening bolts and adjusting the oil filter on Minho’s bike, but his mind was elsewhere. Every action felt robotic, almost detached from the reality around him. He didn’t know what he expected from Minho showing up tonight - maybe an apology, or a real conversation about everything that had happened. Instead, it was just this cold, suffocating silence, a chasm that only seemed to grow wider the longer they were together.
Finally, Jisung couldn't take it anymore. His hands paused on the bike, and he let out a sharp exhale before speaking, his voice cutting through the quiet like a knife. “So, how’s it going with your boyfriend?” he asked, his words sharp and taunting. There was no hiding the edge in his voice. “Deoksu, right? Everything good?”
Minho looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes for a split second before his expression hardened again. His lips curled into a small, self-assured smirk. “Yeah, it’s good. Really good, actually,” he said nonchalantly. Then, his eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something challenging there. “You jealous, Jisung?”
The words stung more than Jisung was willing to admit. He tried to laugh it off, but it came out bitter, almost sarcastic. “No,” he said, voice low but sharp. “I’m happy you finally got someone to take care of your dick, Minho.”
Minho’s smirk faltered, and something dark flashed across his face. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like he was about to bite back. He stepped closer to Jisung, his tone now laced with venom. “Yeah, well,” Minho spat, voice dripping with contempt, “at least I’m not pathetic enough to cry over some guy who barely tolerates me anymore.”
The words hit Jisung like a punch to the gut. He froze. His grip on the wrench tightened, knuckles turning white as his heart skipped a beat. The insult stung, but it was something deeper, something that cut straight to the core. Was that how Minho saw him now? Pathetic? Weak?
Before Jisung could even respond, Minho continued, his words coming out faster, like he couldn’t hold them back anymore, each one more biting than the last. “You know, Deoksu actually respects me,” Minho said, voice growing harsher with each word. “He’s not stuck in his head all the time. He doesn’t act like he’s too good for me, or that I’m just some... distraction. He knows how to actually handle his shit. He’s better than you in every way, Jisung. Better than you at handling his emotions, at being real with me, and - hell - he doesn’t just run away every time things get tough.” Minho’s eyes flashed with frustration as he took a step back, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “So, yeah. Maybe I made a mistake not giving him the attention he deserved sooner, instead of running after you.”
The words hung in the air between them, charged with the bitter sting of resentment. Jisung’s stomach twisted painfully, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Instead, his eyes burned with the weight of unshed tears, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the bike. Minho seemed to notice the shift in Jisung’s demeanor, but he didn’t care. He was too consumed with anger, with the need to lash out, to see the pain he was causing. But there was something else there, something unspoken, even if Minho wasn’t ready to acknowledge it yet.
And after a tough silence, Jisung couldn’t hold it back anymore, he let himself break. His sobs were loud, ragged, and broken, the pain in them raw and all-consuming. He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care that he’d probably be ignored again. All he cared about in that moment was the aching emptiness that had been gnawing at him for so long.
“Minho…” he gasped between sobs, clutching his chest, trying to breathe through the weight of the realization that Minho didn’t love him anymore. Not the way he had before. Not the way Jisung had hoped he would.
His arms were crossed over his chest, and his expression was unreadable, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of confusion. “What the hell, Jisung?” Minho asked, his voice low and sharp.
Jisung’s breath hitched as he looked up at him. “I… I’m sorry, okay?” he choked out, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry for pushing you away all this time. I just… I didn’t know how to handle it. I was so scared, Minho. But I’m not anymore. I’m not scared of how I feel. I just… I just want you to love me.” His voice wavered with emotion. “But I can see that you don’t. Not anymore.”
Minho’s face softened for the briefest second, but it was quickly replaced with that same cold, indifferent expression that had been plaguing Jisung for weeks. The shift in Minho’s demeanor wasn’t lost on him, and it made the sting of rejection even sharper. Minho didn’t say anything right away. He just stood there, his lips pressed into a tight line, eyes lingering on Jisung’s tear-streaked face. Then, without warning, he spoke, his words slicing through the silence like a knife. “Look, Jisung, you never gave me what I wanted,” Minho began, his voice harsh, almost dismissive. “You pushed me away every time I needed you. You were never there when I needed you, and now… now you expect me to love you like that?” Minho’s lips curled into a smirk, his voice dripping with bitterness. “Deoksu, at least, actually knows how to appreciate me. He doesn’t make excuses. He gets me, Jisung. He knows how to take care of me - better than you ever did.”
Jisung’s heart sank at the mention of Deoksu, his entire body trembling with frustration. He had been holding it all in for so long, but now, as Minho’s words cut deeper with every passing second, Jisung couldn’t stay silent anymore.
Minho wasn’t done. He leaned in slightly, his voice dripping with scorn. “Deoksu knows how to handle me in bed, too. Something you never seemed to understand. All those times you shut me down - hell, he didn’t even hesitate. He knows what I need. And that’s why I’m with him now, Jisung. Because he’s everything you weren’t.”
Each word Minho spoke felt like a dagger being driven deeper into Jisung’s chest. He could barely hold back the sobs, but he was done holding back his anger. Something snapped inside him, the pain turning into a wild, desperate need to take control, to force Minho to see how much this was killing him. “No,” Jisung growled, suddenly standing up and wiping his face with a shaking hand. His voice was hoarse but determined. “I’m done with this shit. I’m done letting you talk to me like that. You don’t get to come in here, disrespect me, and then walk out like you’ve won, Minho.” He took a step toward Minho, his eyes flashing with fury. “You want your bike oil changed? Fine, but get the hell out of my garage.” Jisung’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “Take your damn bike and leave. I’m done being your fucking backup. I’m done being your mechanic and your emotional punching bag.”
Minho’s eyes widened in disbelief, and for the first time that night, he seemed taken aback. He opened his mouth to retort, but Jisung was having none of it.
Minho hesitated, caught off guard by the intensity of Jisung’s sudden shift. But Jisung didn’t give him the chance to think. He grabbed Minho’s bike keys off the workbench and thrust them into his hand, forcing him to move.
“You want your oil? Then take it somewhere else,” Jisung spat, voice trembling with the weight of his anger and hurt. “I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”
Minho stood there for a long moment, seething with frustration, his jaw clenched tight. He glanced at the bike, then back at Jisung, clearly weighing whether or not to argue further. But finally, with a sharp exhale, Minho grabbed the keys and walked toward the door, his footsteps heavy. Jisung didn’t move, watching him leave with a mixture of relief and bitter regret. He didn’t care what Minho thought, didn’t care if he was angry. He was done being the one who always bent over backwards for someone who didn’t even care.
When the door slammed shut behind him, Jisung collapsed back onto the floor, breathing heavily. The tears had stopped, but the rage and sadness still gnawed at his insides. He had finally forced Minho to leave, but in doing so, he was left with the empty ache of knowing it wasn’t enough to make Minho see the truth.
A few days later
Over the next few days, Minho couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at the back of his mind. It wasn’t something obvious at first, just a vague sense that something had shifted. Deoksu, who had once been so attentive and affectionate, was now distant. His smiles were rare, his responses curt, and his touch almost mechanical when they were together. Minho, ever perceptive, began to notice the subtle changes in his boyfriend’s behavior - late-night absences, distracted phone calls, and the way Deoksu seemed to grow increasingly indifferent toward him.
Minho tried to brush it off at first. Relationships had their ups and downs, right? But there was something about this that felt wrong. His instincts, usually so sharp, were screaming at him to pay attention.
It wasn’t until one evening, when Deoksu had stepped out for an errand, that Minho decided to confront the growing suspicion. He had been lying on the couch, scrolling through his phone absently, when the thought crossed his mind that maybe, just maybe, Deoksu wasn’t being entirely faithful.
The idea felt ludicrous at first - Deoksu had always been so openly affectionate, so seemingly in love with him. But Minho’s curiosity got the best of him, and he decided to take a closer look at Deoksu’s phone. It wasn’t something he usually did, but he needed answers. What he found made his stomach twist into a tight knot. Texts, photos, and messages - each one more incriminating than the last. Deoksu had been sleeping around with nearly every guy in their neighborhood, flirting shamelessly with others, his promises of loyalty just empty words.
Minho stood there, the phone in his hand, eyes glued to the screen. He should be furious, right? He should be angry - livid, even. But as he scanned the messages, he felt none of that. There was disappointment, sure, a gnawing ache in his chest, but it wasn’t the explosive rage he had imagined he’d feel in this moment. It was almost as if the anger had drained from him, leaving nothing but numbness in its place.
Deoksu came back later that night, and when Minho confronted him, the confession came with ease. Deoksu didn’t even try to defend himself, almost as if he was waiting for Minho to find out. The words “It’s not a big deal, Minho,” echoed in the silence of their living room, as Deoksu shrugged nonchalantly, not the least bit remorseful.
Minho was stunned. He had expected at least some sort of reaction - maybe an apology, a plea for forgiveness, but instead, there was nothing. Just an empty stare and the realization that Deoksu had never truly cared about him. He had been nothing more than a placeholder, a distraction.
But despite everything, Minho couldn’t bring himself to scream at him or push him out. There was no righteous fury, no burning desire for revenge. Instead, Minho found himself... indifferent. Disappointed, yes, but the overwhelming sense of anger he thought he would feel was absent, almost nonexistent. He didn’t understand why. Shouldn’t he be madder? Shouldn’t he feel betrayed? But the only thing that lingered in his chest was a quiet emptiness. The kind of emptiness he’d felt before, the kind of emptiness that had always been there when he thought about Jisung.
And that’s when it hit him.
Minho’s heart clenched painfully. He wasn’t mad at Deoksu because, deep down, he wasn’t surprised. He had known it would happen sooner or later. No, the reason he felt nothing was because, for all the time he had spent with Deoksu, he had never truly been in love with him. The realization washed over him in a flood of clarity: he had been in love with Jisung this whole time.
The pieces fell into place in an instant, a rush of memories, feelings, and emotions he had long buried surfacing all at once. The way Jisung had made him laugh, the warmth in his eyes when they had shared those quiet moments together. The way he had felt when Jisung’s hands had brushed against his, the way he had missed his touch even when he didn’t want to. Jisung, with his sharp words and quiet strength, had gotten under his skin in a way that Deoksu never had. He had always dismissed his feelings for Jisung, pushing them aside as fleeting infatuation or something to be ignored. But now, in the wake of Deoksu’s betrayal, it was painfully clear.
Minho had been lying to himself this whole time. He had been holding onto the wrong person, focusing all his attention on someone who had never truly cared about him. He wanted to go to Jisung. He wanted to see him, to talk to him, to tell him everything he had realized. But he knew it wasn’t that simple. He had pushed Jisung away too many times, treated him like a convenience instead of someone he cared about. The thought of trying to fix things with Jisung, of finding a way back to him, filled Minho with a mixture of dread and hope. He didn’t know if Jisung would even want to listen to him anymore, let alone forgive him. But he had to try.
Minho took a deep breath as he reached the familiar garage, his heart pounding against his ribs with a force that made him feel almost sick. The evening sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement, and the place looked more abandoned than he remembered. As he stepped closer, he noticed the dim light flickering inside the garage, and then - he saw him.
Jisung was sprawled lazily on the floor, his back resting against the wall, legs stretched out carelessly. A few empty beer bottles clinked around him as he shifted slightly, and the smell of alcohol hung faintly in the air. His usually bright skin looked a little paler, his eyes red and puffy. Minho’s chest tightened painfully at the sight. Jisung had been drinking. A lot, apparently. And somehow, the boy still looked so heartbreakingly beautiful it made Minho's throat close up.
Jisung’s gaze lifted slowly, unfocused at first, but the moment he recognized Minho standing there, his features twisted into a furious scowl. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Jisung snapped, voice rough from drinking and crying. He pushed himself up clumsily to a sitting position, empty bottles rolling away with a hollow clink. “Get the fuck out.”
Minho stayed still, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He didn’t want to fight. Not this time. But Jisung’s hostility burned through the room like fire. “I’m not leaving,” Minho said firmly. “Not this time.”
“Go back to your fucking boyfriend,” Jisung barked, struggling to get to his feet. His body swayed slightly, betraying how much he had been drinking. “Or go fuck the whole neighborhood too while you’re at it.”
Minho winced at the bitterness lacing his words but stepped closer anyway. "I’m not with Deoksu anymore," he said. His voice came out softer than he intended, almost raw. “He cheated on me.”
Jisung scoffed and turned his face away, hiding behind a curtain of messy hair. "Congratulations. Guess you’re both assholes."
“Jisung, listen -” Minho’s voice cracked with urgency. “I’m serious. He fucked half the goddamn neighborhood. And you know what? I didn’t even care. I wasn’t even that mad. I thought I would be, but... I wasn’t.”
Jisung snorted harshly, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Good for you. Now get the hell out.”
“No!” Minho took a step closer until he was just a few feet away. "Don't you get it? The reason I wasn’t mad… it’s because I realized I was never in love with him. I was just trying to forget about you."
The words hung between them like thick smoke, heavy and choking. For a long moment, Jisung said nothing. The garage filled with the faint hum of the streetlights buzzing outside and the distant sound of a dog barking. Then, with a small, trembling sigh, Jisung slid back down onto the ground, resting his head against the wall, his legs curling toward his chest. He looked so small like that. So tired.
"I’m such a fucking idiot," Jisung muttered, rubbing his hands over his face roughly. His voice cracked when he spoke again, more fragile than Minho had ever heard it. "The whole fucking month... when I blocked you, when I ignored you... I wasn’t trying to move on. I wasn’t doing anything brave. I was crying. Every fucking night. Like a stupid kid."
Minho’s heart twisted in his chest painfully. He crouched down slowly in front of Jisung, trying to catch his eyes.
“I missed you so much,” Jisung whispered brokenly. “I hated you and missed you at the same time. I kept telling myself you didn’t love me. That you never would.”
Minho felt the words like physical blows to his chest.
Jisung gave a choked, bitter laugh. “But I was so fucking wrong, wasn’t I? I loved you the whole time. And I was just too much of a coward to admit it. To tell you." Tears were streaking silently down his cheeks now, and Minho couldn’t take it anymore. His hand reached out, almost on its own, brushing Jisung’s cheek with the gentlest touch. Jisung flinched at first, but then he leaned into it, his small frame shaking from silent sobs.
Minho’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. "You weren’t a coward. You were scared. And I was a fucking idiot who didn’t see it."
Jisung gave a small, broken laugh, leaning his forehead against Minho's chest. The way he clung to him, desperate and trembling, made Minho’s heart ache in ways he hadn’t thought possible. He wrapped his arms around the smaller boy tightly, feeling every shudder of his sobs, every hitch in his breath. For a long moment, they just stayed there, two broken pieces finally slotting into place against each other.
When Jisung’s breathing finally started to calm, Minho pulled back just enough to see his face. His thumb wiped away a tear lingering on Jisung’s cheek. Their eyes locked, and the world around them seemed to still, to shrink down to just the two of them.
"I love you," Minho said, voice low but steady. "Not Deoksu. Not anyone else. You, Han Jisung."
Jisung’s lips parted slightly in shock, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned closer, his breathing shaky. "Minho..." he whispered, as if saying his name was the only thing grounding him.
Minho leaned in, slower than he ever had before, giving Jisung every chance to pull away. But Jisung didn’t. He tilted his chin up slightly, his eyes fluttering closed. Their lips met in a soft, tentative kiss at first - more a brush of lips than anything solid. But then Jisung moved, pressing closer, clinging to Minho’s jacket with desperate fingers, and Minho deepened the kiss with a low, broken sound he hadn’t meant to let out. It was messy and salty with tears, and Minho could taste the bitterness of the alcohol lingering on Jisung’s lips, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was that he was finally kissing him - kissing the boy he had wanted for so long but had been too blind to see properly.
Jisung whimpered softly against his mouth, the noise sending shivers down Minho’s spine. His hands fisted tighter into Minho’s clothes, holding him like he was afraid he’d disappear. When they finally broke apart, breathing heavily, Minho rested his forehead against Jisung’s, eyes closed.
"I'm sorry I’ve been such a player and didn’t realize sooner," Minho whispered.
"I'm sorry I pushed you away," Jisung answered just as quietly.
They stayed like that, wrapped around each other on the cold garage floor, surrounded by empty bottles and the heavy scent of oil and metal. It wasn’t perfect. It was messy, and painful, and raw.
But it was real.
And for the first time in a long time, Minho felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
