Chapter Text
The luxury suite is quiet. Like, too quiet. No Felix giggling from the next room, no Hyunjin dramatically collapsing on someone’s bed, not even a faint bassline bleeding through the walls. Just silence, the low hum of the air conditioner, and Jisung’s brain—still going a hundred miles per hour.
He’s sprawled across the couch like a guy who’s just been emotionally drop-kicked, hoodie half-zipped, one sock already off, doom-scrolling with the grace of a gremlin. His post-concert checklist is complete; updating Stays on FANS, a selfie on Instagram (grainy, decent lighting, peace sign), Bubble (he sent a bear emoji. that counts), and politely declined Changbin’s “come lift with me at 1am” invite.
He’s done being an idol. Now he’s just… a guy. A guy with restless energy and no one to annoy at this hour.
He thinks about texting Minho.
They're technically roommates, after all. Not that it means much lately — their schedules barely overlap, and when they do see each other at home, it’s usually just long enough to exchange snacks and pretend they don’t care. Minho could be asleep right now. Or doing one of his weird nighttime routines. Probably both. If Jisung were to text, he’d probably get left on read for an hour, then receive a “sleep.” in response. With a period.
Still. The thought lingers.
Everyone’s on different floors tonight. Management gave them solo rooms as a treat post-concert — space to unwind. Recharge. Be alone.
Which is great in theory. In practice? It sucks.
He tosses his phone onto the couch. Immediately regrets it. Picks it up again.
He opens X. It’s either that or stare at the ceiling. Maybe he’ll find a funny Stay edit or a cursed meme to laugh at.
Instead, the algorithm offers him something far more dangerous:
“Lee Know - Charmer fancam 🔥🔥🔥”
He hesitates, his thumb hovering over the play button. Bad idea. He clicks.
The video loads fast. HD. Front row. He can see himself dancing at the back, blurry in the corner. But the camera isn’t interested in him — it’s locked on one person only. Minho.
It starts mid-song, right as Minho's body curves into that signature roll — smooth, controlled, completely illegal. The lights flicker red and blue across his sculpted face, sweat catching at his temple, hair clinging to his forehead like something out of a drama.
Jisung stops breathing.
Lee Know is…okay. So he’s always been good. That’s not new. But there’s something about this—this performance, this angle, this night—that hits different. He moves like he knows people are watching. Like he wants to be watched.
Like he knows Jisung is watching.
Jisung leans forward, phone an inch from his face now. He doesn't know why or what draws him to take a closer look, the phone is literally in his hand, for crying out loud.
Then Minho hits the pre-chorus.
You can’t resist it.
Oh.
The hips. The hips. The roll is slow, deliberate, criminal. His eyes flick toward the camera (God knows how he knew the camera was recording him), and Jisung swears — swears — there’s a smirk there. Just a hint. Like he’s having fun. Like he’s casting some ridiculous spell and fully leaning into it.
Even when you struggle.
Jisung lets out an actual sound. A strangled kind of gasp-laugh he immediately regrets. He glances at the door, just to be safe. Locked.
Back to the screen.
You'll dance to my spell .
Minho’s eyes are dark, locked in. His movements are sharp, almost lazy in how confident they are. A smirk. A tilt of his head. His shirt riding up just a bit. The crowd screaming. And in the middle of it all, Jisung — alone in his hotel room, jaw slightly slack, brain completely offline.
He watches it again.
And again.
Each time he notices something new. The way Minho’s hand flutters near his hip. The ripple of his arm. The way the sweat makes his collarbone glint. He pauses before zooming in, his fingers pinching the screen before he quickly catches himself.
Stop. This is weird. This is unhinged.
He throws the phone onto the couch again like it offended him.
He stares at the ceiling. For five seconds. Maybe ten. "Oh, what the hell" he mutters, finding himself ridiculous at this point. Why is this such a big deal? He has seen fancams of his band members, and this is nothing different. Fully convinced of himself, he drags the phone back.
He opens X again, instantly betrayed by the cursed “for you” feed.
Fine. Whatever. One more fancam won’t kill him. Probably.
He scrolls. He finds another angle — lower quality, slightly shaky, but shot from below and close. He hesitates, but he's never good at holding himself back. One thing he's good at is being reckless. Recklessly, he clicks it. Immediate regret.
The video starts at the pre-chorus.
Right on time.
Lee Know’s hips roll, smooth and devastating, and the fabric of his pants — already too snug for Jisung’s peace of mind — stretches just so. The stage lighting hits wrong (or too right), casting shadows and highlights that leave very little to the imagination.
Jisung blinks. Rewinds. Watches it again. Slower this time.
There’s a moment — brief, practically subliminal — where Minho’s posture shifts just slightly, his thighs tightening, core engaged. And… yeah. The pants leave nothing to mystery. There's movement. There's definition. Big.
Jesus Christ.
Jisung’s soul leaves his body.
His hands fly up like he’s been caught, even though he’s alone. His phone falls into his lap. He stares into the middle distance like he’s trying to reset his entire personality.
“Oh my god,” he whispers. Then again, louder.
“Oh my GOD.”
He claps his hand over his mouth. Why did that fancam have to be filmed in 60fps? Why did those pants have to be so tight? And why — why — is Minho dancing like he’s in a fever dream challenge on TikTok?
He scrolls down, daring to peek at the replies.
“HELP he knew EXACTLY what he was doing 😭”
“i’m not surviving this choreo it’s actually VIOLENT”
“you can see it—LIKE FULLY HELLO??”
“minsung nation is suffering tonight”
That last one makes him throw his phone again. He can’t live like this. Not with receipts. Not when other people saw it too. He feels vaguely sick. Mostly because his brain won’t stop replaying it. That exact frame. That exact angle.
He flops back dramatically against the couch, covering his face with both hands, groaning like a man freshly haunted.
This is no longer about dancing.
This is war.
And he’s losing.
It’s not the dance, exactly. Not the song. It’s him. It’s Lee Minho. His best friend. His housemate. The guy who scolds him for leaving socks in the hallway. Who makes fun of his anime playlist. Who once threatened to stop the song mid-karaoke if Jisung didn't let him sing along. Who buys him drinks without asking but never admits it’s on purpose.
And now? Now he’s… this.
Hot. Jisung can’t lie to himself anymore. It’s not just admiration. It’s not even stage awe. It’s something heavier, sharper, warmer. A full-body reaction that makes his fingertips tingle and his throat dry. His stomach’s doing something stupid. Something fluttery. He kind of wants to punch himself.
He remembers a moment from weeks ago — Minho adjusting his stance during practice, hand brushing his shoulder. Harmless. But Jisung had felt it. He hadn’t known what to feel at the time. Just a strange buzz under his skin. Now, it feels obvious.
Too obvious.
He rewatches the fancam one last time, pausing on a still frame where Minho’s looking directly into the lens, sweat-damp, eyes half-lidded, mouth just barely open.
Jisung’s stomach flips. He wants to scream. Or maybe sleep. Or evaporate.
Instead, he lays back down, phone still in hand, the screen dimming slowly against his chest. The silence wraps around him again, heavier this time. He doesn’t press play again. But the image stays behind his eyelids anyway.
He finally stops replaying the fancam. Or tries to.
Instead, his thumb hovers over the screen for a moment, then—on complete autopilot—he exits the app and opens his camera roll.
Why?
He has no idea. His brain is oatmeal. Maybe he just wants a visual palette cleanser. Something boring. Something normal. Like food pics. Or the accidental shot of Felix mid-sneeze that always makes him laugh.
But his gallery opens to the most recent People album: Irinong.
He stares at it.
He opens it.
The first photo is a blurry pic of Minho laughing during rehearsal. Then one of him sleeping in the corner with a hoodie pulled over his face. Then one from their last fansign where Minho’s posing mid-heart, eyes soft, tongue just barely peeking out from between his teeth.
Jisung scrolls faster. Bad idea.
There’s a video — silent — from their dorm kitchen, just thirty seconds of Minho chopping strawberries, shirt loose, hair wet, humming something low under his breath. Jisung had forgotten he even took it. He doesn’t even remember why.
There are screenshots, too. From Bubble. From V Lives. One where Minho’s making a weird face with a filter. Another where he looks, like… unreasonably good. Eyes sharp, lips glossy, jaw obnoxiously defined.
Jisung zooms in without meaning to.
He locks his phone and sets it face down like it just told him a secret he wasn’t ready to hear.
He lays very still.
His heart is beating in that awful, traitorous way again. He knows exactly what this is. This isn’t some sudden crash or spontaneous awakening. This isn’t the fancam’s fault, or the tight pants, or the zoomed-in smirk.
This has been happening for a while.
And now he’s got a gallery to prove it.
He flips onto his stomach and screams into the pillow again.
Then flips back over and unlocks his phone.
…Just to check one more video.
For research.
He hits play.
*
*
*
*
“Han hyung?”
Jisung flinches, eyelids fluttering as he blinks rapidly at the person in front of him. The distant sounds of voices chattering and cutlery clinking in the hotel’s dining lounge gradually filter back into his ears as he fades back into the present. It’s the second day of the concert stop here in Seattle, and the morning is calm — everyone taking it easy before tonight’s show.
Jisung, however, is very much not.
His brain is still replaying a particular fancam on a loop, like some cursed mental screensaver he can’t shut off.
“Earth to Han Jisung.” Hyunjin calls out louder this time, when Jeongin’s earlier concerned voice goes unanswered. Jisung clears his throat, forcing a noise to prove he’s alive. His hand breaks free from its frozen state and resumes stirring the tuna-rice mix in front of him, now almost completely forgotten.
“Mm, what” Jisung half-assedly responds, pretending that he did not just space out for 34 seconds straight. He pokes at the tuna-rice mix on his plate with his chopsticks, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore. And he was starving before.
“Didn’t sleep last night?” Hyunjin asks out of concern. “You could’ve called me, I was hanging out with Changbin.”
“At the gym? Yeah, no thanks.”
“Beats whatever you were doing in your room last night.”
Jisung’s eyeballs almost pop out of their sockets at Jeongin’s words, the hair on the back of his neck rising as his face turns hot fast. Hyunjin notices the subtle shift in Jisung’s behavior and smirks.
“Hah, what exactly were you doing, Jisungie?”
“Uh,” Jisung begins. “Nothing.” He lies, of course he lies. There is no way in hell he is telling everyone that he spent hours on his phone instead of sleeping.
Specifically, on X.
And Instagram.
And maybe Tiktok too.
Okay he was watching fancams of Lee Know, big deal! Who cares?
Jisung does, oh he fucking does. And it is eating him inside.
Because why didn’t he go to sleep like a normal person? Normal people don’t spend four hours watching their bandmate dance in slow motion from twelve different angles. He should’ve passed out the second his head hit the expensive pillow in his luxury suite. Why, after singing and dancing and jumping around in front of thousands of fans for three straight hours, did he spend the rest of the night glued to his phone?
Speaking of, his phone suddenly pings — and he flinches again, accidentally sending bits of tuna into the air with his chopsticks. A few lands on Jeongin’s arm and cheek and the youngest flails like an exploded balloon. Jisung blurts out a string of hurried apologies, already reaching for a tissue to wipe Jeongin down — only to freeze when he notices the notification on his phone screen.
“Oh, uh—let me just—kay, here.”
He awkwardly tries to wipe the stain off Jeongin’s cheek before giving up entirely, dropping the tissue into the younger’s hand like a man fleeing the scene of a crime. He retreats back to his seat, grabs his phone, and unlocks it.
It’s a text.
From Minho.
Jisung swallows.
His thumb hovers over the notification bubble, hesitation prickling under his skin. Is Minho up already? Wait—of course he is. He’s a morning person. Always has been. They’ve lived together for almost eight years now, and even after moving into separate units and officially becoming roommates a year ago, Jisung knows Minho’s routine by heart. Coffee first. Gym. Then off to vocal lessons or Japanese class. He’s rarely home before sunset, eyebags darkening his face, but the smile he gives Jisung when he walks through the door? Always the same. Soft. Familiar. Some nights they crash in front of the TV and catch up on anime. Other times, they end up singing old ballads in the soundproof room they spent weeks setting up together. It’s comfortable. Easy.
The text. Right. Jisung shakes his head, blinking hard as he realizes he’s spacing out again. He taps on the notification and the screen loads the text from Minho:
where r uuu
“You doing anything this morning, Jeongin?” Hyunjin asks, breaking the silence as he spears a piece of sausage onto his fork.
Jeongin shrugs, still chewing thoughtfully. “Chan hyung said something about walking around the city. Might tag along, y’know, get some air.”
“Ooh,” Hyunjin perks up. “That’s cute. Romantic. You guys are doing well as newlyweds I see.”
“It’s not—” Jeongin frowns, then gives up mid-protest. “He just wants to find a place that sells drip coffee with ‘soul’ or whatever that means.”
Hyunjin cackles. “You’re in for a long walk, man.”
“Yeah, probably. It's nice out.” Jeongin doesn’t sound too upset about it though. “What about you?” Jeongin asks back. “You’ve got that look in your eyes.”
“I’m going to the museum,” Hyunjin says proudly, straightening up in his seat. “The one near the waterfront. Big exhibition on movement and shadow. I saw the teaser last night.”
“Of course you are,” Seungmin says from across the table, not even looking up from his toast.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hyunjin scowls.
Seungmin shrugs. “Just sounds very... you.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“You should,” Seungmin mutters, sipping his coffee. “I’m going to the baseball shop on 1st Avenue. Chan hyung said there’s a limited edition Mariners jersey drop this week.”
“Oh, that’s today?” Changbin perks up from two seats over. “You should get me one.”
“Buy it yourself.”
“I would, but I’m gonna be busy.”
“With what? Bulking up more?” Hyunjin teases.
Changbin flexes, completely unbothered. “Actually, I was gonna do a morning workout, then maybe Tekken with Felix if he’s not being a sore loser.”
“I’m never a sore loser,” Yongbok chirps from the next table over, grinning.
“You literally threw your controller last week.”
“Because it glitched!”
“Sure,” Jisung mutters under his breath, lips twitching at the memory. His fingers are still clutching his phone, Minho’s message taunting him silently.
Yongbok looks over. “What about you, Han? Got plans?”
Jisung’s brain completely blanks. He was supposed to chill. Maybe sleep a little more, eat, stretch, do something vaguely responsible. But now all he can think about is the text.
where r uuu
His mouth opens before he thinks.
“I… might hang with Minho hyung?”
That earns him a few raised eyebrows.
“Oh?” Hyunjin smirks, drawing out the vowel like he knows exactly what Jisung didn’t mean to say.
Jisung clears his throat. “He just texted. Asked where I was. Maybe he wants to get coffee or something.”
“Mmhm,” Seungmin says, not looking convinced.
Yongbok leans closer. “You guys haven’t hung out alone in a while, huh?”
“Yeah,” Jisung says quickly. Too quickly. “So. Might as well.”
There’s a brief pause. The sound of a fork scraping a plate.
“Well,” Jeongin says slowly, “have fun, hyung.”
Jisung nods. Smiles. Pretends he’s not internally combusting.
Just coffee, he tells himself.
Just hanging out. Like always.
He glances at his phone again.
where r uuu
*
*
*
*
Jisung excuses himself from the table, saying goodbye to his mates before walking out of the hotel dining lounge. The weather is really nice today, he thinks as he glances outside while he waits for the elevator. He notices that it is less hot than yesterday — going out doesn’t seem like a bad idea. After figuring out Minho’s hotel room number from the group chat, he makes his way up.
“Ah the text—”
He quickly fishes his phone back out from his pocket, opening the text from Minho earlier. He types a reply.
?breakfast. didnt see u
It doesn’t take long for him to get a reply from the elder.
room service. wnna hang?
Jisung swallows as he reads the reply. He doesn’t know why but he feels a bit different. He also doesn’t doubt that he will be seeing Minho differently now — and that’s what scares him. He doesn’t want this to change anything between them — God forbid he starts feeling weird around Minho. Not when he is Jisung’s safe place. Jisung’s favorite person.
Hell, he hasn’t even figured out what the fuck last night was about.
The elevator dings, announcing his arrival on Minho’s room level. Welp, too late for that. He sighs before stepping out of the elevator, eyes looking around for room 305. The hallway stretches out in both directions, dimly lit and lined with identical hotel room doors. His eyes land on the plaque that reads 305 and his heart gives a traitorous little thump. Now standing before the door, he hesitates. One hand stuffed in his hoodie pocket, the other hovering awkwardly near the doorknob, fingers curling in on themselves. For a fleeting second, he contemplates turning around and disappearing back down the hallway. Maybe even bolting to the stairwell like a man pursued.
He could claim he overslept. That he forgot. That his phone died, or he did. Dramatic, but not impossible.
But then—before he can knock or bail or even breathe properly—the door swings open.
And there’s Minho.
He is backlit by the warm glow of the suite, wearing an oversized black tee and gray hotel slippers. His dark hair is tousled, still faintly damp from a shower. He blinks at Jisung, expression unreadable for half a beat. Then:
“Wow,” Minho says, deadpan. “You planning to knock today or just lurk in the hallway like a creep?”
“I was... psyching myself up,” Jisung mutters.
Minho arches a brow but steps aside without comment. “Get in.”
Jisung obeys, shuffling inside like a kid sent to the principal’s office. The door clicks shut behind him, the hush of the hallway giving way to the low murmur of Minho’s iPad and the faint scuff of footsteps against the suite’s carpeted floor.
The room is clean, unsurprisingly. Neat stacks of Minho’s things occupy one corner — a black duffel bag, folded hoodie, phone charger perfectly coiled on the nightstand. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in a faint wash of Seattle morning light that casts a muted glow over everything.
“You missed a thrilling breakfast buffet,” Jisung says, settling on the edge of the bed.
“I ordered room service,” Minho replies, plucking the coffee from his tray and sinking into the floor beside the low table. “Why would I willingly subject myself to morning people?”
Jisung hums, nodding like that makes total sense. (It does.)
Minho gestures to the untouched croissant. “If you haven’t eaten.”
“I had tuna rice,” Jisung says. “Sort of.”
Minho makes a face. “Why are you like this?”
It’s said without venom. Almost fond. Jisung shrugs. He accepts the croissant anyway as he slides down the bed onto the floor as well.
They sit in companionable silence for a while, broken only by the faint dialogue of the anime playing in the background. Neither of them is paying much attention to it. He finds himself glancing over at Minho — not staring, exactly, but noting the rhythm of his fingers tapping against the cup, the quiet sigh after each sip, the way his bangs keep falling into his eyes like they always do.
It’s all so normal. So familiar.
And yet, Jisung feels like his skin is too tight, like he’s been wearing the wrong version of himself all morning and it’s starting to show.
“So,” Minho says eventually, tilting his head to the side but not looking away from the iPad screen. “Are you gonna tell me why you looked like you saw a ghost at breakfast?”
Jisung jolts. “What? I didn’t— No, I was just tired.”
Minho doesn’t respond, just raises one brow in quiet judgment and takes another sip of coffee.
Jisung looks away, suddenly fixated on a random speck on the carpet. “Didn’t sleep well.”
“Mm,” Minho hums, like he doesn’t believe him but isn’t going to push. “What kept you up?”
A fancam of you, dancing like sin incarnate, ruining my life in 4K.
“Oh, you know. Just scrolling.”
Minho nods slowly. “Dangerous activity.”
“Apparently.”
He means it as a joke, but his voice comes out thinner than intended. Too real.
Minho doesn’t say anything after that. He just leans back on one arm, gaze drifting toward the tablet screen propped up on the coffee table. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward. Not really. It’s the kind of quiet that happens when you’ve known someone too long to need filler words.
Jisung, meanwhile, tries not to think about how close they are. How their knees keep brushing every time he shifts. How Minho’s shirt slides down just enough at the collar to reveal the pale curve of his shoulder. How this feels dangerously easy.
He doesn’t know what he was expecting when he came up here.
But now that he’s here, in the warmth of Minho’s hotel room, with his favorite person sitting an arm’s length away...
...he’s not sure what to do with himself.
The quiet settles deep. Not awkward — just heavy. Weighted. Like the air between them has learned to hold secrets.
On the screen, the anime flickers through scenes Jisung isn’t paying attention to. His croissant sits half-finished in his lap. Somewhere behind him, a housekeeper’s cart squeaks down the hallway, muffled by the door.
And then, Minho speaks.
“You always act different the day after concerts.”
The sentence lands lightly. No edge, no question. Just a soft observation tossed into the room like it doesn’t mean anything at all.
Jisung’s spine straightens almost imperceptibly. His head turns just slightly.
“What?”
Minho doesn’t look at him. He’s still watching the screen, elbow propped up lazily on one bent knee, coffee cradled between his hands like he’s trying to warm them. If there’s anything behind the words, it doesn’t show on his face.
“You’re just... quieter,” Minho says after a beat. “Kind of floaty. Like you’re somewhere else.”
Jisung’s throat goes dry. He looks away again, blinking at nothing.
It’s not a judgment. Minho doesn’t say it like it’s wrong. It’s the tone that gets him — like it’s something Minho’s just... noticed. Filed away. Held onto.
Jisung swallows. “I didn’t realize.”
Minho shrugs. “Most people probably wouldn’t.”
He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Like he’s always paying attention.
Jisung’s hands twitch where they rest on his lap, knuckles going white around the pastry wrapper. He feels transparent. Exposed in a way that’s got nothing to do with being seen, and everything to do with being known.
They lapse back into silence.
But it’s different now. Heavier.
And Jisung can’t stop thinking about it.
You always act different the day after concerts.
You’re quieter. Floaty.
Most people probably wouldn’t notice.
But he did.
Minho noticed.
And Jisung has no idea what to do with that.
Then, softly:
“How’d you find yesterday?”
The question pulls Jisung from his thoughts. He turns his head, blinking like he’s been underwater. “Huh?”
Minho doesn’t glance over. Just sips from his coffee, thumb idly brushing the rim of the paper cup. “The concert,” he clarifies. “What was your favorite part?”
It’s a simple question. Neutral, even. But Jisung’s brain scrambles for an answer like he’s being interrogated under stage lights.
He shrugs, trying to keep his voice level. “I mean… all of it? It was kind of a blur.”
Minho hums. “You always say that.”
“Well, it’s true,” Jisung mutters, eyes dropping to the half-eaten croissant in his lap. “Three hours of performing is like being possessed. I don’t remember half the stuff I did up there.”
Minho chuckles under his breath. “You remember slipping during your verse, though.”
Jisung groans. “God. Of course you noticed.”
“You almost went full split.”
“It was one time,” he protests weakly. “And it was the fog machine’s fault.”
“Sure it was,” Minho says, and Jisung doesn’t even have to look at him to know there’s a smirk curling at his lips.
“Seungmin was worse,” Jisung tries to argue, grasping at dignity. “His in-ear fell out mid-bridge.”
Minho smirks. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Jisung shoots him a half-hearted glare. “You’re lucky no one saw that.”
“Oh, they saw other things,” Minho says easily, raising his coffee to his lips again. “Like when it got so hot everyone started peeling off their jackets.”
Jisung winces. “Don’t remind me.”
“You were the first to give up,” Minho adds. “Had your jacket off before the third song.”
“I was overheating!”
“You also nearly flashed the entire crowd your tattoo.”
Jisung covers his face with one hand. “It’s not like I planned to strip.”
Minho laughs. It’s a soft, easy sound, but it does something weird to Jisung’s chest.
“You looked good, though.”
Jisung’s hand slips.
Minho keeps his eyes on the screen, voice maddeningly casual. “Especially during Charmer.”
And just like that, Jisung short-circuits.
“Oh,” he says, like that’s enough to respond with.
Minho doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. The damage is done. Jisung opens his mouth to reply, to joke, to say anything, but nothing comes out. His brain has gone suspiciously blank — like his internal processor just crashed and rebooted with no warning.
And just when he thinks the moment is over — that Minho has moved on, maybe didn’t mean anything by it at all — he speaks again.
“You always dance like that?”
Jisung blinks. “What?”
Minho finally glances his way, head tilted slightly.
“You know. Like you mean it.”
He says it so simply, so effortlessly — no inflection, no teasing smile. Just an honest observation. Or maybe a loaded one. Jisung can’t tell. His skin is too hot, and his thoughts are moving too fast.
“I…” Jisung starts, but the rest doesn’t arrive.
Minho takes the last sip of his coffee and sets the cup aside. Then, without another word, he shifts to stand — smooth and quiet.
His shirt lifts with the movement.
Just a little.
But enough.
And Jisung sees it — a sliver of pale skin, the curve of Minho’s hipbone, the waistband of his sweats dipping just slightly too low.
It’s nothing. It’s casual. It’s murderous.
Jisung looks away so fast he gives himself whiplash.
His heart is pounding. The words like you mean it loop in his head like a curse.
Minho pads over to the bedside table, completely unbothered, retrieving his phone and lazily stretching his arms overhead. His spine curves with the motion, shirt lifting again — higher this time, just barely exposing the shadow of his back.
Jisung does not look.
Jisung cannot look.
If he does, he might combust on the spot.
When Minho returns to the floor and drops back into place beside him like nothing happened, Jisung is still staring straight ahead, posture unnaturally stiff, hands clenched in the blanket like it’s anchoring him to the earth.
“Relax,” Minho says softly, almost amused. “I was just making conversation.”
Jisung exhales through his nose. He’s not sure which part of him is more on fire — his face, his chest, or the place in his brain currently short-circuiting on repeat. But he forces himself to breathe. To settle. And slowly — carefully — he leans back against the bedframe, arms still tucked close, like a bird trying not to startle.
The room goes quiet again.
Not awkward. Just… full.
The kind of silence that stretches between two people who’ve lived a lot of life next to each other — who know what it’s like to exist in the same space without needing to fill every second with sound.
Minho scrolls absently on his phone but doesn’t look particularly invested. His body is relaxed, legs stretched out on the carpet, one knee gently bumping Jisung’s. He doesn’t move it.
Jisung glances at him sideways, just once.
And it slips out — soft, almost hesitant.
“I missed this.”
Minho’s thumb pauses mid-scroll. Jisung swallows. He wasn’t planning to say that. But now it’s out there, hanging in the warm stillness between them.
“Us,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Just… hanging out. Without choreography in our heads. Or a schedule. Or cameras.”
Minho doesn’t answer right away. But then, he sets his phone down and leans his head back against the side of the bed, gaze turning toward the ceiling.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”
And that’s it. That’s all he says.
But it lands heavy. Comforting. The knot in Jisung’s chest loosens a little.
Minho continues, voice low:
“We’ve been so busy I don’t even remember the last time we watched anime without passing out halfway.”
Jisung chuckles, lips twitching. “Two months ago. Bleach. You snored.”
“That was you.”
“Liar.”
Minho smiles, eyes still on the ceiling. “Okay, maybe me. But you were drooling.”
“I was not—”
Minho laughs, and it’s full-bodied now, something real that shakes his shoulders and makes Jisung grin in spite of himself.
Just like that, the air softens again. Their knees are still touching, and neither of them moves. Minho’s laughter fades, but the curve of it lingers on his lips — a small, quiet smile he doesn’t bother hiding. They sit like that for a while. Shoulder to knee. The croissant is gone (they both shared it) and replaced by a blanket, pooling in Jisung’s lap. Something old and familiar settling between them, like a rhythm they haven’t played in too long.
Then Minho speaks again, this time softer.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?”
Jisung turns to look at him, curious. “What is?”
Minho shrugs. “Living together. But not really seeing each other.”
The words are casual, but they hit something tender in Jisung’s chest. He swallows around the knot that forms too quickly. “I mean, we still talk,” he says, trying not to sound defensive. “We leave each other snacks. Watch stuff when we’re both home.”
“I know,” Minho replies. “It’s not bad. Just… different.”
He glances over, and this time he does look — eyes dark and open, the kind of look that makes Jisung feel like he's being read.
“There was a time we couldn’t go two hours without screaming across the dorms at each other.”
Jisung huffs a soft laugh. “You mean you screaming at me for eating your kimchi.”
“You did eat my kimchi.”
“I was starving.”
Minho shakes his head, but the smile on his face doesn’t fade. “I’m serious, though. We used to trip over each other just trying to brush our teeth. Now we’re home and it’s like—ships passing in the night.”
Jisung doesn’t say anything right away.
Because he feels it too. That ache. That tiny, constant distance that’s crept in with their schedules — even when they share a roof, even when they leave each other sticky notes and leftovers and blanket forts on the couch.
It’s not bad.
It’s not painful.
But it’s lonely.
“I miss it,” he admits after a beat. His voice is quiet. “Being loud. Having time. You yelling at me in your morning voice.”
Minho smiles, and this one is softer. More private. Like something folded between the pages of a well-worn book.
“I miss you,” Jisung says. And it slips out too fast, too raw, before he can filter it.
Minho doesn’t flinch, doesn't say anything right away either.
Jisung misses the way the tip of Minho's ears turns red.
“Yeah,” Minho says, eyes flicking back to the ceiling. “I miss you too.”
The words linger in the air, weightless but impossible to ignore. Not dramatic. Not confessional. Just… there. Honest and undressed. The kind of truth that doesn’t need to be chased or explained.
A breath passes.
Then another.
Jisung shifts, the blanket rustling quietly in his lap. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t make a joke. Just leans sideways — barely — and bumps his shoulder into Minho’s.
It’s gentle. Not playful. Not sharp.
Just enough to say I’m here.
Just enough to say I meant what I said.
Minho lets it happen. Doesn’t tense, doesn’t shift away.
After a second, he leans back. A quiet nudge in return. Steady. Familiar.
He doesn’t look at Jisung when he does it.
Neither of them speaks.
The anime hums in the background, forgotten. Outside, a plane passes overhead. Somewhere in the suite, the air conditioner kicks on with a soft mechanical sigh.
Jisung’s shoulder still touches Minho’s.
He thinks about how strange it is — how something so small can feel so big. A shoulder against another. The press of two people who’ve spent so much of their lives in each other’s orbit but somehow ended up missing each other anyway.
He thinks about the way Minho smiles when he walks in the door after a long day.
The way he always brings Jisung an extra drink, unprompted.
The way he doesn’t flinch when Jisung spirals.
The way he says “I miss you too” like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.
Jisung lets out a breath. Closes his eyes for a second.
This moment won’t last forever. The schedule will catch them again. Rehearsals. Shows. Interviews. Flights. But right now — just for now — they have this. This quiet. This warmth. This steady, solid presence at his side. And for the first time in a long time, he feels full.
Minho shifts beside him, subtle — just enough to reach for his phone on the coffee table. He unlocks it without thinking, thumb swiping through the usual rhythm. Notifications, a few unread messages, the group chat banner blinking somewhere in the corner.
Then he opens Bubble.
Jisung doesn’t notice. He’s too content, too floaty, head dipping slightly like he might fall asleep upright.
Minho scrolls for a bit. Sees that Chan is online — red check glowing, as usual. Of course he is. He’s always lurking. Probably still responding to late-night posts like it’s 2019.
Then he sees it.
A message thread. A post by a STAY that reads:
What kind of ship has two mates but no captain?
And Chan’s reply beneath it, bold and unhinged:
Han and Lee Know? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Minho blinks, and stares at it for a second. “Oh my god,” he mutters, not even realizing he’s said it aloud.
Jisung stirs beside him, barely lifting his head. “Hm?”
Minho doesn’t answer right away. He scrolls down, sees the follow-up:
Pretty smart ey? Hahaha
He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth.
“What?” Jisung says, finally glancing over. “What happened?”
Minho tilts the screen toward him wordlessly. Jisung squints at first. Then reads it. Then reads it again. And his soul visibly exits his body.
“NO.”
Minho doesn’t say anything.
Jisung covers his entire face with both hands, the tips of his ears instantly going red. “Oh my GOD—”
Minho just sits there. Calm. Too calm. Smiling faintly, eyes on the ceiling like he’s processing the timeline they’ve now entered.
“This is it,” Jisung says dramatically. “This is how I die.”
“You die because Chan made a pun?” Minho replies, far too amused.
“It wasn’t just a pun!” Jisung flails. “He name-dropped us! In a ship context! Publicly! With emojis!”
“No emojis,” Minho corrects, glancing back at the screen. “Just excessive laughter.”
“Worse!” Jisung nearly groans. “That means he meant it!”
Minho hums. “Pretty smart, though.”
Jisung glares at him over his hands. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying.”
Jisung shoves his face into the blanket, muffling a long, despairing sound. Minho just chuckles, slow and soft, like someone watching a perfectly brewed cup of chaos steep right in front of them.
“I hate it here,” Jisung mutters into the fabric. “I want to unsubscribe from being perceived.”
“You could block Chan,” Minho offers.
“Don’t tempt me.”
Minho smiles again, not looking away. “It’s just a joke.”
“Yeah. A joke. That one point five million people are now also in on.”
Their eyes meet — briefly, awkwardly — before Jisung looks away, heart suddenly pounding again for a completely different reason.
Minho continues to scroll absently through Bubble while Jisung is still half-melted into the blanket beside him, eyes fixed on the anime screen. The characters are bickering about something, but Jisung’s laughter is occasional now — quieter, spaced out, like he’s sinking into it more than following it.
Minho isn’t really paying attention to the show.
He taps through posts, little bursts of love from Stays still riding high off last night’s concert. There are heart emojis, grainy zoom-ins of their ending fairy faces, blurry videos of their chaotic ments and stage banter. The fans are already buzzing about night two.
He smiles faintly at a picture someone posted — Jisung mid-jump, mouth wide open in joy, blurry from motion but unmistakably radiant. He saves it without thinking.
Eventually, he switches over to Instagram. The "Explore" tab immediately betrays him — filled to the brim with concert clips, slideshows, edits. Some are captioned with crying emojis. Some have no captions at all, just shaky camera work and frenzied zooms.
He taps on one out of curiosity.
It’s a clip from their ment — Jisung teasing Seungmin about messing up a lyric, Minho leaning in with his mic off to add fuel to the fire. They’re laughing, crowded together, shoulders pressed side by side.
There’s one from the ballad segment, where Jisung had lingered beside him just a little too long between verses. Another from the ending, when they’d waved to the crowd — Minho flicking sweat off his bangs while Jisung made a face behind him.
Their usual chaos.
And then he sees it. A string of thumbnails, all stacked in a row. Same outfit. Same lighting. Same caption.
Charmer (Lee Know Focus) 🔥
He taps on one. The video loads. HD. Cropped close.
It starts mid-hook. Minho, on stage, his face half-lit by the pulse of red and blue. His body rolls into the chorus with practiced precision — slow, sultry, just enough edge to make the crowd scream.
He watches himself dance. Watches the way the sweat glints on his jaw. The way his shirt sticks slightly to his skin. The way he glances into the crowd like he knows.
Minho’s lips press into a line.
He scrolls to the comments.
“HE KNEW EXACTLY WHAT HE WAS DOING.”
“Charmer era Lee Know owns me.”
“THE HIP ROLL. THE SMIRK. I AM UNWELL.”
“I swear he looked into the camera on purpose???”
Minho rubs his thumb against the edge of his phone. He wasn’t even thinking when he danced it. Just muscle memory and adrenaline, and the sheer rush of being back in front of that many fans again. But now, watching it back through the lens of someone else’s screen, it’s… something else.
Intimate. Charged.
Almost too much.
Beside him, Jisung lets out a quiet laugh at whatever scene is playing. Completely unaware.Minho glances over.
He hesitates — just for a second — then taps open another clip. This one is tagged: “Lee Know x Jisung — Charmer moment (I died)”
His brows furrow.
The clip opens on the two of them mid-routine. It’s short — maybe fifteen seconds — but it zooms in just as they pass each other.
Minho’s dancing. Focused. Controlled.
Jisung brushes behind him, glances his way.
Their eyes meet — only for a heartbeat — and someone’s phone zooms in so dramatically it might as well be a drama close-up. The moment freezes there.
Sweat. Breathlessness. Contact.
And a fan caption that reads:
“TELL ME I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO SAW THAT???”
Minho exhales, nose twitching faintly.
He looks over again. Jisung is still watching the anime. Still unaware. Still warm against his side. Still his.
Minho blinks. He doesn’t remember that moment. But he doesn’t not remember it, either. It’s a flash — something about the way Jisung looked at him. Or maybe the way he looked back. It’s too fast to hold onto, like trying to recall the feeling of a dream the second you wake up.
The anime plays on, Jisung now more engaged, lips twitching at some over-the-top line delivery, eyes glued to the screen. Every now and then, he shifts the blanket higher on his lap, socked toes curling absently against the floor.
He scrolls past it before he can think too much. He moves past the Charmer fancams. Past the ments. Past the zoomed-in edits of their ending fairy photos.
And then he sees it.
TRUMAN – HAN & FELIX – Night 1 🔥
The thumbnail is Jisung mid-verse, mic held loose at his side, bangs stuck to his temple. The stage lights catch the silver chains around his neck and the flash of movement in his skirt as he moves.
Minho taps on it.
The video loads, and the camera jolts slightly before catching a steady close-up.
It’s the start of the chorus. Felix is at the front, grinning wide as he crashes into the beat, abs on full display beneath his cropped jacket. He looks incredible. Powerful. Magnetic.
But Minho’s not really watching Felix.
His eyes are pulled toward Jisung — toward Han — standing tall behind him in that all-black ensemble. His cropped jacket rides high as he raises his arms, flashing just the edge of his shirt-wrapped waist. The layered textures — chains, straps, that skirt swaying over jeans — it’s a lot. Stylish. Polished.
Too much.
But also not enough.
Jisung's hair is messy, slightly damp from the previous songs. His mouth moves rapid-fire as he raps through his lines, spit flying, hands sharp, eyes locked on the crowd with an intensity Minho rarely sees off-stage. He's electric.
Minho watches the way the skirt flares with every movement — flicking outward as he spins, swaying around his hips. It’s dramatic. Sleek. Beautiful.
He finds himself thinking, absently:
He looks like a rockstar.
And then, unbidden, another thought rises:
What if he wasn’t wearing the jeans underneath?
The mental image hits him with zero warning.
Just skin.
Bare thighs.
Jisung in that same sharp, stormy outfit — but less protected.
The way the fabric would move differently. Fall differently.
How much more distracting it would be.
Minho swallows. Shifts slightly where he’s sitting.
The fancam continues. Jisung storms through the final chorus, face scrunched, giving it his all. The skirt sways again, bouncing against his thighs with every jump. Every sway.
Minho doesn’t realize he’s biting the inside of his cheek until the video ends.
Minho locks his phone. Slowly.
Jisung is still beside him, half-wrapped in a blanket, legs curled up, attention fully absorbed in the anime on screen. He lets out a quiet laugh at something — nose crinkling, mouth tugging up at the corner — and Minho has never been more aware of the insane disconnect between their realities.
Because Minho?
Minho is suffering.
His mind, traitorous and newly corrupted, keeps looping back to that skirt.
That damn skirt.
The way it swayed when Jisung moved. The way it caught the light. The way it was so close to being—
God.
He presses his fingers to his temple.
It wasn’t even revealing. Not really. The jeans were there. A shirt wrapped around his torso. Jisung was fully covered. But Minho’s imagination was not.
He shouldn’t be picturing it.
Jisung on stage. Same outfit. No jeans.
Just long, bare legs beneath black fabric. Skin catching under the strobes. That same feral energy in his movements — sharp, fast, all-consuming — but with less in the way.
He imagines how the skirt would ride up if Jisung turned too fast.
How the crowd might scream louder.
How Minho might forget his choreo from the sheer audacity of it.
He imagines the hem lifting — just slightly — mid-step.
The curve of a thigh.
A flash of skin.
Maybe even—
“Whatcha thinking about?”
Minho nearly ascends.
Jisung’s voice is casual, light, like he hasn’t just sent Minho to hell by existing in his direct vicinity.
Minho swallows. Too fast. Too obvious.
“Nothing,” he says, voice pitched lower than it should be. He clears his throat, hoping it sounds neutral.
Jisung glances at him briefly, blinking. Then shrugs and returns to the anime.
Minho stares straight ahead.
He cannot believe himself.
This is unhinged.
This is sick behavior.
He is two seconds from getting on his knees in front of the hotel minibar and praying for forgiveness.
And still.
Still.
The skirt.
The way Jisung looked in it.
The idea of him walking around backstage with just that and skin beneath it—
Minho bites down on his bottom lip until it hurts.
He doesn’t even like skirts.
He never thought he liked skirts.
But maybe he just didn’t know.
Maybe he hadn’t seen Jisung in one yet.
Meanwhile, the anime keeps going, plot winding into another mini arc, voices climbing into melodramatic chaos. Jisung’s watching — kind of — but his attention has started to drift. His feet tap against the floor rhythmically, restless. He stretches under the blanket with a groan, arms thrown overhead, hoodie riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of skin. Minho does not look. (He absolutely looks.) A minute passes. Then:
“I’m bored,” Jisung announces it like a fact, not an opinion. Like something needs to be done about it.
Minho raises a brow, eyes still on the screen. “You were just laughing.”
“Yeah, but now I’m over it.”
Minho hums. Doesn’t comment.
Jisung turns toward him, eyes narrowed.
“Hyung.”
Minho sighs, lips twitching. “What.”
“Let’s do something.”
“We are doing something.”
“No, you’re doing something. I’m sitting here thinking about how time is an illusion and how my brain is melting from passively watching animated people yell about soup.”
Minho side-eyes him. “So profound.”
“Come on,” Jisung whines, dragging the last syllable out like he’s twelve. “We have two hours until rehearsal. You’re the only one not working out or doing vocal warmups or whatever. Play with me.”
Minho blinks. “Play with you?”
“Not like that,” Jisung mutters, face already heating.
Minho’s smirk is immediate. “Okay.”
“No—ugh—you’re the worst.” Jisung shoves his shoulder, and Minho rocks with it, unbothered.
“What do you want to do then, restless gremlin?”
Jisung thinks for a second, eyes darting toward the coffee table.
“Let’s do something,” Jisung says again, more insistent this time, blanket now halfway abandoned on the carpet.
Minho exhales like he’s being burdened by the weight of an ancient curse. “What do you want to do, cook ramen in the microwave and poison us both?”
Jisung perks up immediately. “Wait. That’s actually a good idea.”
“That was sarcasm.”
“That was inspiration.”
Minho gives him a look. Jisung returns it with the brightest, most irritatingly persuasive smile he can muster. It’s almost disgusting how fast Minho caves.
“I swear to God, if you microwave an egg again—”
“I won’t,” Jisung lies, already moving toward the kitchenette like he’s on a mission. The hotel’s “kitchenette” is generous at best — a tiny counter, a single microwave, and a sad excuse for a sink. A luxurious hotel suite, my ass. They should have a whole pantry in here! But Jisung digs around the cabinets and emerges victorious with two instant noodle cups, chopsticks, and a wild gleam in his eyes.
Minho joins him anyway, standing close — too close — because there’s nowhere else to stand.
“Let me do the water,” he says, reaching for the electric kettle. “You’re gonna scald your hand again.”
“That was one time,” Jisung grumbles in a similar fashion every time Minho brings something up about him, but he hands it over.
They move in a clumsy rhythm. Jisung opens the packets and dumps seasoning in with dramatic flair. Minho measures the water like he’s defusing a bomb. At one point, their hands brush over the same chopstick sleeve and neither of them acknowledges it.
The kettle clicks. Steam curls upward.
Jisung leans forward to pour, Minho leans sideways to stop him — again, too close. Their arms bump. Shoulders press. Jisung doesn’t move. “Hey,” he says, voice lower now, playful. “Remember when we made that late-night spicy ramen and you cried?”
“I didn’t cry.” Minho deadpans, there's no way he cried. He eats spicy food like it's his second nature.
“You sniffled.”
“It was wasabi level five.”
“And you wept like a Victorian widow.”
Minho smacks his shoulder with the back of his hand. Jisung laughs and drops a raw egg into the cup without warning.
“Yah, Han Jisung!”
“What? You were distracted.”
Minho groans like his soul is physically leaving his body. “You’re going to give yourself salmonella.”
“Builds immunity.”
“That’s not how anything works.”
Jisung just grins. “You worry too much.”
Minho grumbles under his breath but doesn’t stop him.
They hover near the counter as the noodles soak. Steam clouds the microwave window. The room smells like spice and salt and something warm. Jisung leans on his elbows, swaying slightly. Minho crosses his arms, trying not to let his eyes drop to where Jisung’s hoodie rides up at the back.
“Hey,” Jisung says suddenly, voice softer.
Minho glances over.
“Thanks for hanging out with me.”
Minho pauses. His arms uncross. He looks away, then back.
“Don’t make it weird,” he says, voice just as quiet.
“I’m not,” Jisung murmurs. “It’s nice. That’s all.”
Minho hums. The kettle clicks again. One of the noodle cups jiggles slightly on the counter. They don’t move. Their arms are almost touching again.
Outside, the city hums softly behind the hotel windows. Inside, it’s just the two of them, the smell of cheap ramen, and a silence that feels full, not empty.
Jisung bumps his hip against Minho’s. Light. Brief.
“Still boring?”
Minho looks at him sideways. Eyes narrowed.
“Less,” he says.
Jisung grins again, smug and sweet, and goes back to poking at his noodles like he hasn’t just cracked something wide open.
The noodles are, predictably, a disaster.
Jisung insists they’re perfectly edible. Minho insists Jisung is going to die before rehearsal.
“This egg isn’t even cooked,” Minho says, grimacing as he stabs at the floating blob of protein with his chopsticks. “It’s literally just warm slime.”
“Protein is protein,” Jisung replies, already slurping his first mouthful. “Besides, it adds character.”
“It adds bacteria.”
“And charm.”
Minho makes a noise like he’s considering murder. “You’re going to spend the entire concert tonight curled around your stomach like an angry shrimp.”
Jisung points his chopsticks at him. “Better than crying on stage from wasabi overdose.”
“That was three years ago!”
“Some scars never heal.”
Minho’s glare is withering. Jisung grins, pleased with himself. The microwave beeps again, for no reason at all, as if weighing in on the argument. Steam curls around them like fog, wrapping the kitchenette in cozy humidity and noodle-scented warmth.
By the time they finish eating — and only after Minho has fished out the offensive egg and flung it dramatically into the sink — they’ve both settled into that rare state of easy comfort. No stage lights. No cameras. Just quiet laughter, shoulder bumps, and the kind of banter that feels like home.
And then…
It’s bed time. Not sleeping bed time. But sprawling, scrolling, bothering each other bed time.
Minho throws himself onto the queen-sized bed face-first. Jisung climbs up from the other side like a jungle gym escapee, flopping down perpendicular to him until their bodies form a clumsy T-shape. Minho’s head near Jisung’s hip, Jisung’s head near Minho’s thigh. It’s ridiculous. It’s chaotic. It’s them.
Jisung rolls onto his back, phone above his face. “Ugh. I’m so full. I’m gonna explode.”
“Good,” Minho mumbles from the pillow. “You’ll take the salmonella down with you.”
“I can’t believe you threw away my egg.”
“I can’t believe you made that egg.”
They lapse into silence, the soft glow of their screens illuminating their faces in the dim room. The anime still plays in the background, long forgotten. Jisung scrolls through X, finding edits from last night’s show. Minho flicks through Bubble replies, half-smiling at the fans freaking out over a five-second clip of him tying his shoelaces on stage.
Jisung lets out a breathy laugh. “Hey. Remember when Jeongin slipped on confetti and tried to play it off like he meant to?”
Minho huffs. “He looked like a malfunctioning Roomba.”
“He still insists it was part of his blocking.”
“Liar.”
They both laugh again, the bed shaking slightly under them. Jisung’s head tilts back far enough to nudge Minho’s arm. He doesn’t pull away.
Jisung, feeling warm and aimless, glances over. Minho’s laying on his side now, arm tucked under his head, legs stretched out like a cat in the sun. His phone screen glows against his cheek.
“You looked good last night,” Jisung blurts, then immediately wants to die.
Minho doesn’t react for a beat. Then he hums. “You already said that.”
“I did?”
“Kind of.” He flicks Jisung’s knee with two fingers. “You were thinking it loudly enough.”
Jisung groans and drapes an arm over his face. “You’re the worst.”
“Your skirt was cute,” Minho says.
That shuts Jisung up fast. His arm slides down slowly, just enough to peek at Minho. “Wait. You liked it?”
“Mm,” Minho murmurs, turning onto his back, phone resting on his chest. “You looked like a feral backup dancer at a punk fashion week.”
“That’s… the best compliment I’ve ever received.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
Minho’s laugh is low and rare, the kind that makes Jisung’s heart do gymnastics. It’s unfair. Criminal, even.
They fall quiet again, the room humming softly around them. The AC kicks on, the curtains flutter, and somewhere down the hall, someone slams a door.
Jisung rolls onto his stomach, switching his position to lie side by side with Minho, Jisung's chin resting near Minho’s shoulder, phone forgotten for the moment.
“We should do this more,” he says, his voice quieter now.
Minho doesn’t answer right away. Then:
“We’re doing it now.”
“Yeah, but like… more often. When we’re not halfway across the world or buried in dance practice or sleeping at opposite ends of the house.”
Minho shifts just slightly, turning his head enough that their eyes nearly meet.
“Yeah,” he says. “We should.”
Jisung smiles. His eyes drop to Minho’s mouth for half a second too long before he catches himself and redirects his attention back to his phone. Not the time to implode. Not yet.
“Still not doing a TikTok with you though,” Minho mutters.
Jisung snorts. “You’ll cave.”
“I won’t.”
“You always do.”
Minho just hums again, unreadable, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly.
Jisung doesn’t say it, but in that moment — phones in hand, bodies tangled like a lazy puzzle across expensive hotel sheets — it feels a little bit like the closest thing to home.
Minho’s scrolling again, eyes flicking lazily across his phone screen, thumb gliding with practiced ease. He doesn’t look particularly focused, just there — stretched out like a damn magazine spread, his body long and relaxed on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone.
Jisung tries not to look.
He fails immediately.
Because how can he not look?
Minho’s hair is still a little messy from his shower earlier, strands falling soft and half-damp over his forehead. His face is bare — no makeup, no filters — just clean, clear skin that somehow manages to look even more flawless up close. It’s stupid. Unfair. Jisung can see the faint shadow of stubble beginning to creep in along his jawline and he wants to scream into the mattress.
His gaze drops — slowly, stupidly — and lands on Minho’s collarbone, half exposed beneath the loose neckline of his oversized t-shirt. The way the fabric slips just enough to hint at skin is actually illegal. There’s this delicate dip just above his chest, a subtle peek of the curve that disappears under cotton, and Jisung can’t stop thinking about it.
And then there are his thighs.
Jesus Christ, the thighs.
Minho’s wearing those soft grey sweatpants again, the ones that fit just a little too well, hugging muscle and curve like they were tailored for war. Jisung’s never really noticed before—okay, maybe he has, maybe he always has—but lying here, with Minho’s knee practically touching his, it’s hard not to be hyperaware of the sheer power of those legs. Solid. Strong. Built like sin itself.
And it’s not just that. It’s everything.
Minho’s full, plush upper lip — the kind of mouth that looks soft but bites if you get too close. Jisung’s always thought it was funny, how his own lips are fuller on the bottom, and Minho’s on top. Together, they’d fit. Not just emotionally. Literally. Like a puzzle.
Wait. Huh?
He swallows and shifts slightly on the bed, trying to appear normal, like he isn’t one breath away from combusting. His elbow brushes Minho’s midriff and he almost flinches.
How is it this casual for him? How is he fine?
How is Jisung supposed to lie here, surrounded by Minho-ness — his scent, his warmth, his thighs — and not think about things?
Like how Minho’s chest rises and falls gently with each breath. How he scratches his stomach absentmindedly when he’s deep in thought. How the veins on his hands pop a little when he holds his phone just right. How the corner of his mouth twitches when he’s amused but trying not to show it.
Jisung’s phone is useless in his hand. His screen’s gone dark. Probably for the best. He wouldn't be able to read anything anyway with how loud his thoughts are.
He exhales, long and low.
“You okay?” Minho asks without looking, voice soft.
Jisung jumps. “Huh? Yeah. Totally. Normal. Functioning.”
Minho finally glances over, raising one eyebrow in that knowing, almost smug way. “You sure?”
Jisung considers melting into the bed.
“Yup,” he squeaks.
Minho doesn’t press, just hums and goes back to scrolling, blissfully unaware—or pretending to be unaware—of the war happening just inches away.
Jisung clenches the bed sheet in a death grip and silently recites the alphabet backwards.
After a while, Minho stretches with a soft grunt, locking his phone before setting it aside on the nightstand. “What time is it?”
Jisung checks his phone, blinking at the screen like it personally betrayed him. “Uh… ten minutes ‘til call time.”
Minho groans, dramatic and long-suffering. “I hate being conscious.”
“You’ve been conscious for hours,” Jisung retorts, already swinging his legs off the bed. “Meanwhile, I haven’t even brushed my teeth.”
“You haven’t—” Minho turns to give him a full-body look of betrayal. “Get out of my room, you sewer rat.”
“I’m leaving!” Jisung barks through a laugh as he grabs his hoodie off the floor. “I’m going, I’m going.”
Minho mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “gross little mouth” as he follows behind him, slipping on his socks.
They part briefly — just enough time for Jisung to bolt into his own room, splash cold water on his face, brush his teeth with one leg in his pants, and throw on a fresh rehearsal fit: loose joggers, a black flannel, and his trusty headband that doubles as both fashion and forehead sweat control.
By the time he meets Minho by the elevator, the other’s already there — fresh in a black tee tucked into fitted cargo pants, hair unstyled but parted enough for him to see, sipping from a protein shake like he wasn’t just lounging on a hotel bed looking like boyfriend bait.
“You clean now?” Minho asks, unimpressed.
“Clean enough to be seen in public,” Jisung says, punching the elevator button.
“Debatable.”
They take the ride down in relative silence, shoulders occasionally brushing as the elevator descends. Jisung’s still a little too aware of every inch of Minho. But the switch is flipping — slowly, inevitably — back into work mode. Idol mode.
The elevator doors glide open to reveal the van already idling out front, the rest of the members piled in one by one, freshly returned from their own morning escapades. Jeongin is animatedly recounting something to Chan — probably about the vintage bookstore they stumbled into downtown. Yongbok and Changbin are seated in the back, still squabbling over who actually won their Tekken match. Hyunjin, fresh from his solo art museum pilgrimage, is curled by the window, hood pulled over his head like a sleepy prince in exile. Seungmin’s scrolling through his phone, a new baseball cap perched proudly on his head.
“Morning, lovebirds,” Changbin calls out from the front row and Jisung flips him off.
"It's afternoon, stupid."
"Nice baseball cap, nerd."
"You have a good morning, Han?" Chan asks as Jisung and Minho step into the van — Minho claiming the seat next to Hyunjin, leaving Jisung to sit beside him.
Jisung nods, keeping it vague. Nothing worth mentioning. Just half-cooked ramen and a full-on hormonal meltdown.