Archive of Our Own

Minho dreams about a world ruled by cats wearing colorful clothes and secret agent-style sunglasses, and, sometimes, he also dreams about Han Jisung.

The second part is something he will never, under any circumstances, admit to out loud. Not because the dreams are particularly inappropriate—although, well—or embarrassingly romantic, but because they’re terrifyingly normal. Frequent, too.

There isn’t a morning when Minho wakes without the memory of Jisung’s face fresh on his mind.

He doesn’t even remember seventy percent of what happens in them by the time he comes to, but he remembers this: Jisung’s heart-shaped smile and the blinding spark in his eyes and how softly he speaks to Minho even in the state of reverie.

Still, if anyone asks, he does not have a crush on him.

No way.

Jisung infiltrates his dreams because Minho sees him every day—that has to be it. He makes Minho’s coffee in the mornings and comes to the library twice a week, seeking Minho’s recommendations. He’s cute and kind and he chats Minho up about his cats. Of course Minho holds some fondness for him.

It’s just not a crush.

No matter what his idiotic co-workers have to say about it. He refuses to be bullied—especially by people younger than him.

He should’ve known it was a bad idea to fraternize with them and take them out for post-work barbecue and drinks, but he wanted to be a good hyung, a good sunbae, and now this is how they repay him. By terrorizing him.

The thing is, the dreams seem to be messing with his head during normal hours of the day, too. He’ll be making his way down the street, tempted to walk into a café and grab himself something to drink, and then he’ll think, No, this barista will never make the coffee as good as Jisung makes it, and stroll past. Which is ridiculous, because Minho only drinks iced americanos. Iced americanos. It doesn’t take a genius to make that.

And yet, when Jisung makes it, it tastes . . . better. Like when your friend invites you over for a homemade dinner and it’s the best meal you’ve ever had not because it’s objectively worthy of three Michelin stars but because it was made by them, for you.

And then there are the other instances of his brain messing with him.

A batch of new releases gets delivered to the library and Minho’s first thought is, This and that sounds like something Jisung would enjoy. I should save this one for him. He imagines the way Jisung would tell him, Wow, hyung, thank you for thinking about me, beaming at him like he always does, as if his facial muscles are programmed to always keep a smile on his face whenever Minho is around.

Minho leaves the house earlier just so that he can grab coffee before work, and on days that Jisung works the afternoon shift, he slips out of the library during his break instead. But that’s because he needs his caffeine fix to get through the day. Jisung is just . . . a sweet, additional perk.

He’s just short of finishing restoring a well-loved copy of Greek Lessons by Han Kang that’s beginning to come apart when Jisung walks in. Minho always looks up when the front door opens—that’s what he tells himself—but on Tuesday afternoons, he’s dislocating his cervical vertebrae with recurring consistency.

Jisung always comes in on Tuesday afternoons.

His unruly honey-blond hair is squashed by headphones, his mouth pulled into a pout, as if he has to physically restrain himself from singing along to whatever song he’s listening to.

He doesn’t see Minho, who’s half-hidden behind the shelves in the back. He moves towards the front desk, undeterred by the lack of personnel. A lot of people would immediately hammer the call bell, demanding the staff to abandon everything they’re busy with to attend to them, but Jisung doesn’t. He’s calm and unhurried as he looks through the new biweekly display.

(This week it’s Romance for Yearners-themed, and Minho definitely did not carefully put it together with Jisung in mind, no matter what his co-workers say.

They always have so much to say.)

Jisung idles around, leaving the display and moving onto the big jar of chocolate kisses standing on the desk. He glances around, making sure nobody is looking—god, he doesn’t even know—and dives in for one. Two. He shoves the other one into his bag, for later. Cute.

But Minho isn’t ignoring him. He’s just . . . enjoying the view. And finishing his task. Right. He’s . . . definitely doing that.

He pulls the book out of the press now that the glued spine has set and accidentally catches the look Seungmin is insistently sending him from the other side of the room.

He’s using his eyeballs to freakishly motion in Jisung’s direction and tell Minho to just hurry and go talk to him like he’s dying to.

Funny, no words are exchanged and Minho can almost hear Seungmin’s voice in his head saying exactly that.

He uses Greek Lessons as a shield to hide his hand from the view of the people scattered around the tables and poofs of the reading area, and shows Seungmin his middle finger.

Seungmin gives him an unimpressed look and returns to work. When you think about it, he’s an awful employee. He should be on his way to assist Jisung with whatever he needs, but he would rather neglect his responsibilities and pretend he hasn’t seen someone just walk in, all just to tease Minho.

Not like Minho would let him or anyone else attend to Jisung, but—the point still stands. He’s not even trying to hog him all for himself. Seriously. It’s just that whenever Jisung comes in, his co-workers magically disappear and Minho is the only one who understands his taste and can provide him with adequate recommendations.

He’s just trying to be a good employee who spreads the joy of reading books, that’s all.

Which is why, now that Greek Lessons is ready to be borrowed again, Minho steps out from behind the shelves.

Jisung’s eyes zero in on him immediately, his expression lighting up with a smile.

For fuck’s sake. That smile.

He takes off his headphones and shoves them into his bag without much care, all of his attention now focused on Minho.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m back for another recommendation.”

“Hi.” Minho smiles—a little too brightly—and marches behind the desk, scrunching his nose in embarrassment for just a second the moment his back is facing Jisung. Fuck. To avert the attention from his burning face and neck and ears and chest, he asks, “What were you listening to?”

“Ah,” Jisung says, pulling his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans to check. “Jenga by Heize and Gaeko. Do you know it?”

Minho’s heart flutters against his will. He nods and admits, “I love it.”. And he’s not even lying to get into Jisung’s good graces. “I mean, I love everything Heize puts out. Have you heard You, Clouds, Rain?”

Jisung beams. “I like that one too,” he says. It looks like he wants to say something more on that particular topic, but his eyes slide down to the black vest Minho is wearing and the pins that adorn it and he gets completely distracted. “No way. Those are your cats!”

Excitement seeps into his voice, raising it a little too loud for the environment they’re in, and he looks around sheepishly, making sure he’s not disturbing anyone. 

Minho wouldn’t be able to berate him on a good day, and certainly not when all he can think of is he knows my cats while his heart flutters in his chest uselessly. It’s not that crazy—for Jisung to know. Minho posts them on Instagram religiously, and they follow each other. The fact that they do makes Minho post stupid things sometimes, like pictures from the gym or of the food he cooks, but mostly his cats.

“Ah, it’s so cute that you had them custom-made,” Jisung says. “Honestly, I would wear them myself. They’re super cute.”

Minho grins at him. “Do you want some? I had to buy them in bulk or not at all so I have, like, a hundred of each.”

Jisung laughs, then seems to remember where he is and covers his mouth to keep the noise down.

Fuck. Do they have to be doing this here? Who even made up that stupid rule about remaining quiet in the library at all times, anyway? Whoever it was, they’re ruining Minho’s life.

“Yes, I will take as much as you give me and wear them with pride,” Jisung says. For what it’s worth, he doesn’t seem to be kidding. “Let’s do an exchange, hyung. You get a free coffee tomorrow if you bring me a few SoonDoongDo pins.”

He knows they’re called SoonDoongDo.

Minho’s brain takes a screenshot. Recognizing his cats is one thing. Knowing what they’re called is another. What’s next? Will Jisung be able to properly differentiate between them? Minho might drop to his knees if that happens.

To shed dramatic tears of joy, of course.

“You got it,” he says, trying to make his voice sound leveled instead of . . . well. Out of his friends, only Jeongin and Minju willingly took the cat pins. For the others, he left them in their apartments, hidden in the bathroom or in their underwear drawers, so they had no chance to refuse them. Clever, if he dares to say so. He smiles at Jisung again. “So, how did you like The Midnight Shift?” 

Jisung’s eyes widen briefly, his mouth parting. He looks surprised—maybe that Minho remembered what he’d borrowed the week before among all the people who come and go from the library. He collects himself quickly, though there’s a certain flush to his cheeks that tells Minho he definitely harbors feelings and thoughts on that.

He presses his mouth together to suppress a smile.

“I think this is one of my favorite books now,” Jisung says, pulling the paperback out of his bag and setting it down on the desk so that Minho can start the return process. “I’ve copied so many quotes down, I feel like at this point I just have to get my own copy. There was this part that said that the most deadly weapon was the heart, that everything else was just a tool. I thought it was so romantic.”

Minho holds his breath. He remembers that when he was reading the book himself, he also underlined those exact same words. He thought Jisung would enjoy it because it had everything he usually liked in a book: paranormal elements, mystery, queerness, and romance.

Coincidentally, it’s also everything Minho likes too.

No wonder they get along so well.

“Right. What stood out to me as well was that it was so balanced,” Minho says. “Usually books like that fall flat for me because they lean too much into the romance of it all and completely discard the horror, but here every element stood strong on its own and intersected with the others well, too.”

Jisung stares at him for a moment without saying anything. “Yes,” he says finally. “Exactly.”

A little shy, Minho takes the copy of The Midnight Shift, flips through it for any signs of damage, and then scans the barcode to delete it from Jisung’s account. Then, he sets the book aside to be reshelved later.

“You want to borrow something else, right?” he asks, just to make sure.

Jisung gives him a look. “Don’t ask me stupid questions, hyung.”

Minho laughs quietly. “Okay, so, we’re still in the mystery genre, but this time it’s something entirely different,” he tells him. He sinks behind the desk to grab the book he put on hold for Jisung. Confessions by Kanae Minato. “A teacher is taking revenge on two of her students who killed her daughter and psychologically torturing them. It’s awesome.”

“I trust you,” Jisung tells him, a shy smile curved on his mouth. “It already sounds like a wild ride.”

Minho’s stomach flips pleasantly. He clears his throat and proceeds to distract himself by checking the book out for Jisung.

He likes it so much when Jisung comes by. He walked in one day saying that he hadn’t been reading much but he wanted to get back to it because it helped his creativity. So, like a good librarian that he was, Minho started recommending books to him. All sorts of genres from all sorts of authors.

Jisung is very open about the things he likes and dislikes, and Minho always makes a point of remembering those things so that he can better tailor the next recommendations to him. He’s been especially proud of himself because this month Jisung has returned all the books with a smile on his face.

He’s always so adorable about it too. Most people just return the books, say they want to borrow something else, and venture to the shelves to find something all on their own. Jisung lingers by the front desk to express his opinions. He tells Minho what he disliked or what stood out for him, which makes this job more interesting, other than fueling this insane fondness Minho feels for him.

Being the cutest guy in this world is threaded through every single molecule of Jisung’s DNA. Sometimes, when Minho sees him, he wants to grab him, fold him like a piece of paper, and shove him into his pocket to carry around forever.

Like right now, when Jisung takes the book from him and scans the blurb on the back with those huge, sparkling eyes of his. Minho wants to reach out across the desk and—

Nothing. He wants to do nothing.

Jisung takes his headphones out of his bag, hooking them over his forearm, and puts the book inside. Then, he glances at the clock on the wall, leaving Minho to swallow down the disappointment of his imminent departure.

But of course he has to go. His shift at the café starts in just a dozen minutes, and there isn’t anything left for them to talk about. They might be friendly, but in the grand scheme of things, they are not even friends.

Still, Minho smiles and says, “I hope you like Confessions.”

“I’m sure I will,” Jisung tells him. It’s cute just how much trust he has in Minho’s recommendations now. “And, by the way, you should stop by the café on your way home. I’ll save you something sweet.”

Minho swallows harshly and just nods. He watches Jisung retreat until he disappears behind the front door. Once he’s gone, the rest of the world rushes back in.

The dreamlike perception of reality is gone.

■

A few days later, as he’s pushing open the door of the café, he sees something new glued to the glass front—a poster promoting an open-mic night. He raises an eyebrow. It’s the first time he’s hearing of anything like that happening here, but he’s intrigued.

He steps in.

The inside smells like burnt coffee and sugar. It’s pleasantly warm for a Spring morning, the sunlight spilling in through the giant windows overlooking the street. Jisung is busy making someone’s order, his broad back turned towards the entrance, and in this light, his hair looks like an angel’s aureola.

Ew. Minho is embarrassed by himself. He considers saving his dignity and walking right back out just in case somebody here can read minds, but Jisung’s eyes find him and his feet stay firmly planted on the ground.

There are more of the same posters lying around the café, a stack of them on the counter. As Jisung is making his coffee, Minho asks, “What’s this about? This open-mic night?”

Jisung scratches the back of his neck. “It’s Chan hyung’s idea to promote the café, but even though it sounds fun, I feel a bit skeptical about it,” he says. “I mean, it’s just going to be distracting me from work. And what if someone sings awfully? It might backfire and turn into an anti-advertisement.”

Minho chuckles. “You’re catastrophizing.”

“Maybe,” Jisung acquiesces with a shrug. “But then again, nobody has signed up yet, so it might actually be a huge, embarrassing disaster.”

“People might just come in and sign up on the spot,” Minho tells him. “Worst case scenario, you’ll have to jump on the stage yourself and encourage people to perform. Although they might feel discouraged to perform after a professional.”

While Minho laughs, Jisung scrunches his nose in embarrassment.

“Will you?” he asks. “Come, I mean?”

Minho glances down at the poster to make sure he’s free that night, even though he already knows the answer to Jisung’s question. He’d cancel any plans. Alright, most of his plans. There are just some things that he’s not willing to give up, even for Jisung.

He should be able to make it, though.

“I will,” he says. “But I’m not singing, so don’t even try to persuade me.”

Finally, all that evident worry eases off Jisung’s expression and he gives a real, bright laugh. “What a pity. Your voice is melodious. Like you’re a good singer.”

“I become good when you pour a whole bottle of soju in me, sure.” Minho shrugs, offering Jisung an easy grin even though his heart is on fire from the compliment.

Jisung says, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Then, he seems to realize what he’s implying—going out with Minho, drinking with Minho, singing with Minho—and he ducks his head bashfully. They’re yet to meet each other in circumstances that don’t involve books or coffee. Not that Minho minds, but he’s realizing that they’re long overdue.

“Do you want me to take a few posters and put them up in the library?” Minho asks. “Maybe that will help.”

Jisung’s mouth parts in surprise. “You’d do that?” 

“Hm. Sure. I mean, libraries are all about building a community and this café is part of ours,” Minho tells him with conviction. It’s a miracle he manages to make it sound grand when the underlying reason is so gauche. He wants to impress Jisung and he wants to make him think Minho is cool and easy-going like that.

He wishes he was capable of doing something more about it, though.

■

The crowd at the open-mic night, despite being decently sized, is clearly not willing to participate in the singing part of the event. Minho assumes they came to poke fun at other people for performing—except there’s nobody to laugh at, because nobody dares to be the first person to go up there.

“Maybe they need encouragement,” Jeongin says, sipping iced-tea from a tall glass through a rainbow-colored straw. Cultural appropriation.

Minho gives him and Seungmin a look. “You guys should perform.”

He brought them both here to make Jisung feel better if the whole thing ended up being, as he dubbed it, a huge, embarrassing disaster. Three people in the audience were better than one. And, anyway, he could always bribe them to sing, too. He wasn’t at that stage of humiliating himself yet, though. That was his last-resort plan.

“You only want us to do that so that you can impress Jisung by association,” Seungmin says, not even looking at him. “You should perform yourself, hyung.”

Minho scoffs. Just like he told Jisung—he would need tons of alcohol and possibly monetary compensation to even dream of stepping on that stage.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says. He does not specify which part he finds most ridiculous, though.

Thankfully, they’re saved from the elevator-style waiting music and the buzzing, although awkward anticipation before Seungmin can poke any more fun at Minho and his alleged crush.

Chan, the owner, ends up performing first. As a warm-up, he says with a bashful laugh. His voice is a tad raspy but euphonious, though Minho struggles to pay attention because Jisung is there, leaning against the counter, looking gorgeous, even if a little bummed.

Minho stares shamelessly, glad that everyone else is busy enjoying the first song of the evening. He comes back to his senses when the performance ends and Chan tells the gathered crowd, “Please, don’t be shy to come up and sing! Please!”

The words elicit a few laughs, but no volunteers come forth.

Minho’s heart sinks.

He begins feeling bad. The idea is cool, it’s the most interesting thing that has happened in this neighborhood ever since Choi Minho from SHINee ran through this street on a random Thursday, but clearly, people here are either too shy or too introverted.

It’s not like Minho can judge, really. He’s only here to watch, too.

He’s about to lean in and ask his friends to seriously consider singing something when a movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention.

Jisung.

He’s tossing his apron at Chan’s disheartened—and slightly embarrassed—face, saying something that sounds a lot like you owe me, and marching across the room. To the makeshift stage.

Minho’s astonishment is a physical sensation, his stomach breaking into a wild somersault.

Is he really going to sing?

Jisung grabs the guitar propped up in the corner and taps the microphone. “Hi. My name’s Jisung, but if you’re not new here, you probably already know that,” he says, grinning cheekily. “To encourage everyone to try their chances, I’ve decided to bare my soul and perform my self-written song. If you’re worried about making a fool out of yourself, you can rest assured it won’t be as embarrassing as this. Let’s go.”

Jisung? Embarrassing? There is no way. It should be illegal and punishable by death to even mention the two in the same sentence.

Minho stares at him like he’s been enchanted, eyes wide and enamoured. He doesn’t expect Jisung to catch his gaze, but it seems he knows exactly where to look to find him.

Jisung sends him one of those bright, heart-shaped smiles that make Minho’s blood feel like lava and then bashfully ducks his head, focusing on his guitar.

Jeongin nudges his side with his elbow, so Minho can’t be imagining it.

“You might wanna close your mouth,” Seungmin says. “He hasn’t even started singing yet.”

“You might wanna close your mouth,” Minho echoes snarkily, not bothering to take his eyes off Jisung. He doesn’t want to miss a second of him, not even when he’s making sure the guitar is tuned. “Someone might toss their drink in your face if you keep talking nonsense.”

Jeongin snorts, but despite all the love Minho holds for him, he’s on thin ice, too.

The only reason why he doesn’t even dignify him with a murderous look is that Jisung begins strumming the song and that’s more important than refuting any dig these two might throw at him.

The song starts quietly, Jisung’s voice barely over a whisper. Will you tell me about yourself? he sings, immediately making goosebumps rise on Minho’s skin.

He already knew that Jisung could sing. He posts scarce covers on his Instagram, just him and his guitar in the comfort of his own bedroom, his voice sweeter than molten caramel. But it’s an entirely different thing to listen to him here—even though it’s a provisional stage meant to be taken apart by tomorrow morning, it’s exactly where he belongs. And with an original song on top of that.

Minho didn’t think it was possible to like him any more. And yet.

He listens, entranced, his fingers curled tightly around the ice-cold glass before him as he attempts to ground himself in the moment.

By the time Jisung is getting to the chorus, everyone in the café is swaying back and forth to the song. He’s sporting a smile so giant Minho isn’t sure how he manages to sing with it, but he’s doing such a good job. He sounds incredible.

Minho can practically feel his own pupils turning into hearts. He’s glad Jisung isn’t looking at him right now, that he can’t see just how fond of him Minho really is.

Just as he thinks it, though, their eyes lock again. Jisung sings, I’ll get to know you slowly and steadily, no matter how long it takes, I want us to get closer bit by bit, and his gaze doesn’t leave Minho for even a second.

Minho’s heart skitters to a stop. An electric charge surges between them, crackling and wild, holding out until the end of the song when it seems to explode. His hands are trembling by the time Jisung is dragging his guitar pick over the strings for the last time, and he claps so hard his gardening scrapes and cuts feel like they’re opening again.

Maybe he does have a tiny little crush on him after all.

“My boss might actually cry if it’s just us performing tonight, guys,” Jisung says, letting a breathless laugh out into the microphone. “Please. If you perform, on top of a free drink of choice, you get a 15% discount on the next one. Right, Channie hyung?”

Finally able to rip his eyes away from the stage, Minho glances at Chan, who’s shaking his head like he can’t believe Jisung has the guts to even do something like that. In the end, though, he relents and agrees.

When he does, someone from the audience stands up. “To hell with it!” they shout. “I’m singing.”

Jisung grins, dramatically throwing his arms open to welcome them on the stage. “A round of applause for our brave volunteer, thank you.”

Minho watches him return behind the counter. Just like that. Like he hasn’t just tilted Minho’s entire world on its axis. 

Chan pokes his ribs playfully, shoving his apron back at him, and they laugh. It would be a cute sight if there was no panic sizzling beneath Minho’s skin.

He hasn’t had a crush on someone since . . . well, since university days, probably. He’s been dating on-and-off for a while during his early twenties, but none of those relationships ever felt like this. That’s probably why he didn’t recognize the feeling. Or he refused to acknowledge it precisely because it was so unfamiliarly and terrifyingly different.

“Wow, he’s seriously good,” Seungmin says. The person on stage is still rifling through their personal repertoire in search of something to sing so the café has erupted in chatter.

“Of course he’s good,” Minho tells him, just short of rolling his eyes. What, did Seungmin think anything about Jisung was mediocre? He made the best coffee and he could sing like an angel. He was a dream, and then some.

Seungmin throws his hands up in surrender.

But while he decides it won’t do him any good to bicker with Minho, Jeongin says, “I thought your eyeballs would melt from how lovingly you stared at him. Why aren’t you dating him yet?”

Minho takes a deep breath, but instead of responding to the jab, he says, “Shush. The next performance’s about to start,” and pretends that his mind isn’t still hung up on Jisung’s song instead.

After this person gets off, more people feel encouraged to perform. Minho isn’t really paying attention, but nobody is horrible enough to make him wince, so that’s nice. The open-mic night feels like a success.

At some point, after an appropriate amount of time, Minho gets up from his table and makes a beeline for the counter. There’s nobody there at that moment; Jisung is listening to the current performer, their mellow rap erupting into a sharp falsetto, and he notices Minho approaching right away.

“Hey,” Minho says, fighting the urge to immediately say, you were so amazing I can’t believe you’re real you should be performing in front of thousands of people with that talent why are you here making my coffee. He needs to practice patience. And decorum. “Could you please get me a refill of my iced green tea?”

Jisung smiles. “Coming right up,” he says, ringing Minho’s order up on the register.

Once Minho pays, he retreats to the corner where drinks are prepared, giving Minho, once again, a perfect view of his gorgeous, sculpted back. It should be illegal to have a body like that, all those muscles visible through clothing.

Ugh.

“You were amazing up there,” Minho says once Jisung comes back with his drink a moment later. “I was just one step away from jumping up onto the table and chanting your name. If I was wearing a bra, I’d have tossed it at you.”

The second the words come out of his mouth, he straightens up. Fuck. He shouldn’t have said that. They might tease each other, but they are still not friends and making a joke so forward and unclassy could turn Jisung off of him completely.

But no.

Jisung laughs, ducking his head bashfully. He looks like he wants to hide his face in his hands altogether, but somehow he manages to meet Minho’s eye again. “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he says. “I wasn’t really prepared, so it came out so-so.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “If that’s your so-so then I don’t even wanna know what your best sounds like. You have to trust me. You were incredible.”

“Well. In that case,” Jisung tells him, his big, giant eyes glimmering in the dimmed lights of the café, “I’m really glad you liked it.”

They talk in hushed whispers so as not to disturb the person performing, and Minho uses it as an excuse to lean in closer over the counter. He’d feel embarrassed about it, maybe, if Jisung wasn’t doing the same thing.

“Have you ever performed before an audience?” Minho asks, curious.

He could retreat to his table, join his friends again, but he takes his iced-tea and sips it right here instead, his hip pressed against the counter. He’s not trying to be seductive when he does it, but it comes out like that. His posture is flirtatious and his voice is, too. His emotions, recently unleashed, take over his common sense.

He’s not sure Jisung notices, though, if he pays attention at all.

“Eh, does, like, performing in front of the elderly at a nursing home count?” Jisung asks, giving a soft laugh when Minho’s mouth falls open in surprise. “Other than that . . . Nope. No experience.”

“You looked so confident and professional,” says Minho, marveling at him. He thought Jisung performed at school or in shitty dive bars or wherever he could. He gives off that impression when he’s on stage. Ease. Like that is where he belongs. But he’s apparently hiding that voice from people, willing to only share it through a screen. How rude. “Wow.”

“Well, I’m a good actor,” Jisung says, sticking his tongue out. “I was actually shaking and my heart felt like it was about to burst out of my chest. I missed two notes, started too late, and changed the lyrics mid-way through because I forgot them.”

Minho grins. “And yet nobody noticed. We were all sitting there with our jaws on the floor.”

Jisung scrunches his nose, embarrassed by the praise, and glances away. He looks extremely cute like this. Once again, Minho feels the urge to shove him into his pocket.

He should compliment him more often, he decides, if it gets Jisung like this.

“I really liked the song, too,” he says. “I’m really impressed that you can write like that. I didn’t think you wrote at all, actually, so imagine my surprise. I almost had a heart-attack.”

Jisung laughs. Instead of lingering on the praise—Minho will forgive him, because what if Jisung bursts aflame from how flushed his face is—he focuses on the last part. “What did you think I meant when I said reading helped my creativity?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I think I took it as a general statement,” says Minho with a shrug. Seungmin once told him it was just an excuse Jisung had used to talk to him, but—well. Clearly not.

“Well, either way, I’m really glad you’re here. Seriously, thanks for coming. And for bringing your friends,” Jisung says. He looks to the side, casting a glance their way. Minho assumes the demons are already staring because he quickly averts his gaze and scratches the back of his neck with slight embarrassment. “Chan hyung was really excited to do it and it would’ve crushed him if it didn’t get rolling, but the turn-out is really good even though nobody wanted to sing at the beginning, so I’m relieved.”

“Do you think this means there will be more open-mic nights in the future? I mean, this has to be a good investment, no?”

Jisung cocks his head to the side. “What, are you planning on changing your mind and taking the stage?”

Minho rolls his eyes, grabs his drink, and walks away without giving Jisung an answer. He can hear his bright laughter even over the loud applause for the performer who’s just finishing their song.

■

Minho doesn’t know where his bad mood stems from. All he knows is that when he wakes up in the morning, he doesn’t want to leave his bed. It’s bad enough that he doesn’t go on his every-day morning run. It doesn’t help that Soonie is lying on his chest, weighing him down like he’s trying to say, It’s okay, hyung, you can stay like this. Just rest.

Because Minho can’t.

The world lives on, undisturbed by the grey clouds hanging over his head. He has to get up, make sure his cats’ automatic feeder is full, get dressed, and leave for work. Things he can usually get done in seconds take him excruciating minutes. Every little movement feels like too much effort.

It’s so bad that he doesn’t even want to stop by the café before work. He’s not sure why. Usually, he would enjoy seeing Jisung and talking to him about sweet nothings because it was guaranteed to make him feel better. He knows Jisung would make him crack a smile in spite of everything else within five seconds of seeing each other.

He guesses he just doesn’t want him to see him like this. Irritable and downcast, with a frown sewn into his features. Minho should be charming and sweet and ever-smiling. Not . . . whatever the hell is wrong with him today.

The point is, he goes straight into the library in the morning.

He tries to school his expression into something softer and welcoming—he has to work with people, after all—but he’s so unsuccessful that Jeongin jokingly tells him, “Hyung, maybe you should work at the back today.”

Minho spends the entire morning in the office, going through their budget of the year and what else they can squeeze out of it. Then, he logs their new arrivals into the system and shelves them. He adopts the attitude of a tortoise, taking his sweet time typing every character into the text field. It’s strangely calming.

Sometime around noon, Seungmin sticks his head inside the office and says, “Jeongin’s gonna go grab coffee. Do you want anything, hyung?”

Minho takes a sharp breath. Usually, it would be him who’d go on a mid-day coffee run—and not only to see Jisung. Even though he can’t quite bring himself to do it today, he still needs his caffeine fix. There are still a few hours left in his shift and even though he’s enjoying the peaceful nature of his tasks today, he might actually fall asleep in here.

“Uh. Just an iced-americano is fine,” he says, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “Thanks.”

Seungmin gives him a smile and escapes, closing the door before Minho can pull any faces in reaction to it. He’s glad to have the two of them, though, no matter how annoying and plain disrespectful they can get.

Somehow, Minho manages to get through the remainder of the day by staying in the office and avoiding any unnecessary social interactions. By the time they’re nearing the end of the shift, he feels much better—probably because of the prospect of finally going back home and spending the rest of the day on the couch with his cats, a box of the largest pizza available, and the next episode of A Shop for Killers queued-up on TV.

But before he can go, he needs to finalize the new themed display to set up tomorrow. Technically, it could wait, but he’s been collecting books for his list over the week and he almost has it done. He’s standing at the front desk, saving the file, when the door to the library opens.

Minho gives an internal groan. He’s managed not to interact with anyone over the past half an hour and now that he’s practically out the door, someone decides to come in? Rude. Insufferable.

Still, he’s already forcing his facial muscles to muster the best fake smile when his eyes land on Jisung.

It’s not Tuesday, and it’s not Friday. Minho glances at the date in the corner of the computer screen, but—it’s not. He knows it’s not. 

Jisung gives him a hesitant smile, different from the usual smiles he regards Minho with. The sight of it makes something in Minho’s chest settle. He doesn’t have the strength to pretend and put up false pretenses. Not with Jisung.

He just stares at him in confusion.

“Hey, hyung,” Jisung says softly. Before Minho can even respond, he puts a brown paper bag and a cup with the café’s logo on the desk and distracts him. “I know it’s, like, illegal to eat in the library but I thought you could enjoy this on your way home,” he says, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. And then, to explain himself—“Jeongin said you weren’t feeling well.”

Minho’s mouth falls open in surprise, but no words come out.

Did Jeongin mention him unprompted? Or, worse—did Jisung ask about him? It’s not that strange, if he really thinks about him. If Jisung didn’t show up one day, Minho would be wondering where he was, too.

He swallows harshly, then runs his fingers through his messy hair.

“Yeah. I don’t know,” he says finally, shrugging. “I just woke up feeling like garbage. Didn’t want to spread my bad mood on you.”

“You can always spread your bad mood on me,” says Jisung, cracking a smile, entirely oblivious to the way Minho’s heart skips a beat. He carries on, “But—the food, hyung. Is it okay that I brought it here? That I got this for you in the first place?”

Minho eases, smiling sincerely for the first time today. It’s cute that Jisung worries so much, that he even cares about this grumpy librarian from across the street who likes him a little too much in the first place.

“Yeah. Thank you, Jisungie. I don’t know how to repay you for being so sweet to me.”

“Eh, you don’t have to do anything, hyung,” Jisung says, waving a dismissive hand, like it’s not a big deal for him to even think of Minho in the first place. He nods the bag to encourage Minho to take a look for himself. “I got you peach tea and that vanilla cream pastry you like.”

Minho inhales a sharp breath through his nose. God, this guy will really be the death of him. Minho has only come to terms with his embarrassing feelings for him recently, and since then, it’s only gotten worse.

He wishes Jisung wasn’t so kind. Things would be so much easier if what he feels for him didn’t venture past the superficiality of physical attraction.

“Thank you,” says Minho. “This genuinely made my day.”

The smile Jisung gives him in return is brighter than the sun.

“You’re finishing up here, no?” he asks, to which Minho hums in response. “Okay. I’ll walk you home, then.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, no. I can’t ask you to do that,” he says immediately, a flush rising to his cheeks. He’d like this to happen, but the fact that Jisung is extending an invitation because he finds Minho pitiful is embarrassing, to say the least.

“Good thing you’re not asking, hyung.” Jisung grins. “We’re walking in the same direction, I think, so it’s not like you’re burdening me in any way. I live in Yeonnam-dong. Do you know that tattoo studio next to a sashimi restaurant? I live close to that.”

Minho blinks at him. “I live near there too. On that street where it’s just hotels,” he says, laughing—both because of his place of residence and because he can’t believe they live that close to each other.

They never finish work at the same time; Minho either heads home while Jisung is still in the ever-busy café or—if he’s lucky—he catches him making his way down the street through the enormous windows. He has always thought Jisung had to live in the area, but he never assumed it would be in the same neighborhood.

He wonders how come they’ve never run into each other. But then again, the most Minho goes out in that area is to run or do a quick grocery run, so it shouldn’t surprise him.

“I mean,” Jisung starts, wringing his fingers out sheepishly, “I don’t have to come with you. Sorry if I’m being pushy or annoying. I just thought—”

“No. You’re not being annoying. I’m just surprised,” Minho admits, smiling. “We can head home together if you want.”

Minho clocks out, says goodbye to his co-workers, and heads out, his step aligned with Jisung’s without even trying. The warm peach tea is heaven-sent, and the vanilla pastry feels like a well-deserved award after enduring such a day. He offers to split it with Jisung, of course, but Jisung laughs and tells him to just eat up.

He does. He enjoys the sweet treat more than it’s publicly proper. He gets so much powdered sugar on his face that they have to stop walking because Jisung just can’t stop laughing.

He puts a tissue in Minho’s hand and, while Minho acts all embarrassed and grumpy, makes sure to say, “I’m not laughing at you, hyung! I just think you looked so adorable and I don’t see you that way often.”

“What, do you not see me as adorable on a normal day?” Minho pushes, pursing his mouth to suppress a smile. He crumples the tissue and puts it in his bag. He can still taste sugar and vanilla on his lips.

Jisung laughs even more at the teasing. “No, I do. I do,” he reassures, to which Minho just offers a feigned indignant hmph, sure. “It’s just—There’s a kind of cuteness that comes with super cool people getting shy. And that’s you.”

Minho starts blushing and does not stop.

Does Jisung even know what he’s saying? How his words sound? How Minho’s brain is going to pluck each of them and pick them apart in search of meaning when he can’t sleep at night, when he wakes from another dream of him?

He knows Jisung likes him. That much is obvious. But does he like him romantically? That’s hard to say. He’s a naturally flirty and caring person, and unless he says it outwardly, Minho just can’t know.

He chases the thoughts away, frowning to himself. It’s not the time and not the place. There’s already a weight pushing down on his shoulders; he doesn’t need another problem to dwell on.

Now that his mouth isn’t full of pastry, Minho wonders what to say. He doesn’t usually struggle to find a topic to discuss with Jisung, but he can’t think today. His brain seems to just—not be working.

That doesn’t happen to him often. But when it does, it catches him completely off-guard and leaves him uneasy. He’s not used to being so . . . useless.

“We don’t have to talk if you’re not up for it,” Jisung says, making Minho startle. It’s almost as if he can read his thoughts—or, rather, the worried, thoughtful frown etched into his features. The understanding warmth of his eyes makes Minho’s taut muscles relax, even if only a little. “We can listen to music or just walk in silence. It might not look like it, but I’m good at silence.”

Minho bursts into disbelieving laughter. He realizes that it was the whole point of the remark because he catches Jisung looking at him, sporting a satisfied smile.

“Let’s listen to something,” he says. He’s always thinking about what songs Jisung is listening to. He’s always wondering if their tastes in music match, just as they do in practically everything else.

But he already knows they do. He knows there are artists that occupy both of their playlists, songs that they both hum to themselves as they do mundane things. Still, Minho’s greediness knows no bounds. He wants to know everything.

“Alright,” Jisung says with a grin. He shoves his hand into the pocket of his jacket to fish out a tangled pair of wired earphones. After a moment of frantic but skillful pulling, he manages to get them unraveled and hands one of them to Minho. Then, he unlocks his phone and huffs to himself impatiently as the application loads. Finally, he turns back to Minho and tells him, with a never-dropping smile, “This playlist always makes me feel better.”

Minho doesn’t know the song—or many that come later—but from the first notes, he’s already enjoying himself. Their steps align again easily, and with the afternoon sun lighting their way, it doesn’t take them long to reach Yeonnam-dong.

Jisung walks him up to his front door, tempting Minho to just invite him in. He almost does it, really. Especially when Jisung catches sight of Soonie sitting on the living room windowsill, watching them from inside the house and waiting for Minho to come back home. He almost says, Come on, come meet them.

But then Jisung takes a step back and says, “I have to get going. I’ve made plans with a friend. But I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Minho nods. “I’ll come grab coffee in the morning,” he says. He will. Because he knows now, with more conviction than ever, that even if he has the shittiest day imaginable, Jisung will make it feel weigh less.

■

Minho doesn’t even entertain the thought of getting up on the stage to the next open-mic night and singing. Seriously. But as they’re walking down the street to the next one, Jeongin and Minju joke around that he should confess to Jisung through a song—they truly never give up, these gremlins—and share a conspiratorial look behind his back.

He should feel the shift in the tectonic plates of the planet at that moment, but alas.

Once they’re inside and Minho has let his guard down, gotten comfortable, and begun enjoying the live music and his slice of caramel latte cake, they launch an out-of-nowhere attack.

They’re maybe five performances into the night. Chan steps out on stage to remind everyone that they accept walk-in singers with open arms, and Minju—sweet, lovely Minju who was the last person Minho would ever suspect of such betrayal—grabs his arm, yanking it upward, and calls out, “My friend wants to sing!”

Minho goes rigid. He tries to rip his arm out of her hold, but for a person who avoids the gym like the plague, she has an incredibly strong grip.

“What?” he sputters, caught looking between Minju and Chan with panic. “No! I don’t! I definitely don’t.”

“Uhhh . . .” Chan says into the microphone, unsure what to do. He doesn’t usually mind people being forced on stage by their friends, so he must be afraid of Minho murdering him in cold blood if he lets him be the victim of that now.

“Yes, he does!” Jeongin joins in, already grinning from ear to ear. “He’s just shy!”

Minho levels him with a glare. He cannot believe he’s thinking it now and he will never, ever admit to it out loud, even with a gun pointed to his temple, but he wishes Seungmin was here. He’s annoying, but even though he’d tease Minho, he would never betray him this way.

Everyone is staring now, either laughing softly or giving encouraging whoops and claps. What an embarrassment, Minho thinks. He would hide his face in his hands if only Minju wasn’t gripping his arm so tightly, like she’s afraid he’ll get up and take off. (And she’s right. It does cross his mind.)

But the loudest cheer yet comes from behind the counter.

“Go, Minho hyung!” Jisung calls out, his face practically splitting in two with the force of his smile. He might as well be waving a rag in the air to rally around him. “I believe in you!”

And what is Minho supposed to do? Disappoint him?

Begrudgingly, he pushes his chair back and stands up. The café erupts in applause, which only serves to make him cringe more. Who are all these people? He should find out their names and ban them from the library for life.

Once he gets up on the stage, his knees feeling a bit weak, Chan asks him what song he wants to perform. NewJeans’ Hype Boy is the first thing that comes to Minho’s mind. It’s his essential noraebang song, that’s one thing. The other thing is that he likes singing about boys.

“Whenever you’re ready, just give me a sign,” Chan says, then moves over to the laptop in the corner to find the right track.

Now that Minho is up there, he has no space in his body for fear. Embarrassment, sure. But not fear. His friends are already on their feet, ready to drown him out with their loud cheers if he sings out of tune, and—well, Jisung is beaming at him, although Minho is trying really hard not to look his way.

He clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and finally grabs the microphone.

He can do it. Of course he can. He refuses to humiliate himself in front of his crush. And, anyway, he might not be a trained singer, but he’s more than average and he’s always the life of the party when they go to a noraebang. They have to pry the microphone out of his hands by force at the end of the night.

Minho almost doubles over laughing when, just before he begins singing, he hears someone say, “Oh my god, wait, is that the librarian from across the street?”

His reputation is going to plummet after this, but if he’s already here, then he plans to go out with no regrets.

He gives the song his all. If he exaggerates a little, performing with all the flourish, at least nobody will take any slip-ups seriously. So he sings his heart out, doing a bit of the choreography here and there and pointing at people in the audience when the lyrics call for it.

Every time he catches a glimpse of Jisung—and it’s pretty often, considering he cannot stop looking at him throughout the damned song even though he swears he’s trying not to—he sees that stunned expression, something caught between a big, heart-shaped smile and a jaw dropped to the floor.

Minho doesn’t even think before he’s pointing right at him and singing, I’m not looking for just fun, maybe I could be the one. He punctuates the line with an awful wink and misses the next line because he’s too busy laughing into the microphone, but that’s even better.

The café roars with cheers and applause when he’s done, which—he has to admit—fills him with a lot of pride. He’s breathless and flushed from head to toe as he bows, then hurries off the stage, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

He might not step foot in here for at least a week to avoid being recognized and possibly remembered for his spectacle of a performance.

Alright, no. He’s lying. He couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of seeing Jisung’s face every day.

He’s an addict.

He winds between the occupied tables, thankful that everyone’s attention is back on Chan, and collapses on his chair with a sigh of exhaustion. Heart pounding, throat parched, he feels like he  has just run twenty kilometers. Adrenaline wears you out.

Minju and Jeongin immediately smother him with praise and affection, as if their cute little faces will make Minho forgive them for this conniving, smarmy set-up. Their matching eyes-turned-crescents and dimples in their cheeks from smiling so widely kind of soften his heart, though. Just a tiny little bit.

It will be better for the stability of his annoyance if he distances himself from them, so he allows them to shower him with love—he’s greedy, so what—and then tells them he needs something to drink. He’d prefer something alcoholic, but he’ll have to survive until he gets home.

His heart picks up the pace all over again as he starts walking towards the counter.

Jisung has been watching him, that much is obvious. He straightens up when their eyes lock, and even from a few meters away, Minho can tell there’s a dust of pink coloring his cheeks.

When Minho reaches him, he shakes his head in disbelief.

“You lied to me. You said you were only good when you got drunk enough,” he says, reaching across the counter and pressing an accusing finger against Minho’s sternum. “You’re a filthy liar, hype boy.”

Minho laughs, fighting the urge to lean into the touch, no matter how minimal it is. He’s used up all his reserves of humiliation on the performance, and now he feels no shame. He kind of feels drunk, when he really thinks about it, except it’s this—the singing and the performance and the gorgeous guy he has a fatal crush on obviously flirting with him—that is getting to his head.

“I gave it my all thanks to your unwavering encouragement.”

“I knew you’d be good,” says Jisung, an impressed glint flickering in his eyes. “I just underestimated how good.”

“We should sing a duet next time and maximize our joint fabulousness,” Minho jokes, just to chase away the bashfulness pulling at the center of his chest. He brings a hand up to his ear, tugging at his lobe and feeling its warmth between his fingers. Within a few seconds of talking to Jisung, the temperature of his body has already jumped a few degrees. He feels like he’s running a fever.

Jisung laughs. “We really have to hit that noraebang soon. I need to witness your full potential in person.”

Is this an actual invitation? Or is it one of those polite things you say, like, oh, we should definitely get coffee sometimes! when you really aren’t planning to see that person again?

Regardless, Minho hears someone crooning a corny love song in the background and decides to make use of his temporary lack of shame—and the adrenaline comedown that’s clearly getting to his head.

“How about next Sunday?” he proposes. “Do you have plans?”

Jisung seems taken off-guard for only a moment—not long enough to make Minho backtrack. Then, he breaks into another one of those blinding smiles of his that never seem to dim when Minho is around. God, he’d die if he was ever the reason behind that light going out.

Minho’s knees are weak and so is his heart.

“I’m free,” says Jisung. “We should totally hang out. I’ll send you my number on Instagram when I get home, and we can arrange it, hm?”

“Sounds perfect,” Minho agrees. The words taste like sugar on his tongue.

Is it possible that asking someone out on a date is this easy? Or is he completely misreading the intentions behind this meeting? He’s not sure. He’s always been the one getting asked out, not the other way around. It’s embarrassing to admit, but he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. He’s too grown to be fumbling around like that.

Fuck this. He can figure it out later. When Sunday comes.

Someone moves to queue behind Minho, and he doesn’t want to halt the business or talk Jisung’s ear off against his will, so he rushes to do what he came here to do—finally order something to drink. Minju and Jeongin are probably laughing their asses off at him for flirting with Jisung from the stage and then flirting with Jisung the second he got off of it.

He can’t really blame them, can he? He’s a lost cause.

“Uh, sorry. I don’t wanna hold the queue up,” he says, scrunching his nose. “I’m just gonna get a grapefruit iced-tea.”

When he moves to pay with his phone, Jisung says, “Don’t worry about it. Don’t tell the other performers, but I’m super impressed by your performance, so instead of the 15% off, it’s on the house.”

“Oh, Jisung, no,” Minho protests, immediately feeling bad. “You’ve been too generous with me.”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. This is not coming out of my pocket. Channie hyung will pay.”

Minho hesitates anyway. The only reason why he relents is because Jisung pulls those lethal doe eyes on him. It should be illegal to walk around with a face like that. He should put on one of those paper bags they pack pastries into.

“Okay,” he says. “But I’m paying for drinks on Sunday.”

Jisung smiles, his eyes sparkling—and fuck it if Minho assumes the it’s because of the mention of their date. There’s a certain shyness to Jisung now that he’s been reminded of their plans, and it’s beyond cute.

Ugh. He has no business being this adorable.

“You got it, hyung. I can’t wait.”

■

For some reason, despite the recent revelations, Minho doesn’t feel prepared to stumble upon Jisung in his neighborhood. In their neighborhood. His defences remain lowered—he hadn’t seen him around before he knew he lived there, so the chances of suddenly realizing they share a favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant or buy milk from the same ahjumma-owned store don’t feel life-threatening.

Of course, Minho should know that the universe works in mysterious ways.

He’s coming back from a quick grocery-store run when he sees Jisung strolling down the street. He’s wearing a thin, red cardigan with the sleeves rolled-up to his elbows, wide black denim shorts that would look ridiculous on anyone else, and a pair of stylish sunglasses that obscure a bit of his pretty face. Still, Minho recognizes him with ease. His mouth waters.

It’s odd to see Jisung exist outside of the coffee shop or the library. Despite the minimal prospects of that happening, Minho has been looking out for him every time he’s out of the house. He’s even done the idiotic thing of doing a cool-down walk around the block Jisung said he lived in, but that’s embarrassing to admit even in his own thoughts.

Their date is still two days away, but they’ve been texting non-stop. First, it was to decide whether they wanted to stick to the noraebang in their neighborhood or head somewhere else. Then, Jisung sent Minho an update on the book he’s reading this week (Marigold Mind Laundry, and he borrowed it even though Minho said he’d hate it—and he was right), and they ended up straying from that topic to something else. They’ve managed to exchange so many messages since then that Minho doesn’t even remember what it was.

A part of him wishes they’d planned to go out last week, but the other part is glad they’re waiting. They’ve seen each other over the course of the last few days, that’s one thing, but he can feel his own anticipation grow with every minute that passes. The thought of that delayed gratification is making his head spin.

“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor,” says Jisung as they both come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He pushes his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head. Somehow, he looks even hotter like this. “Are you coming back from shopping?”

“Hello,” Minho sing-songs. He wants to be normal about this interaction and Jisung in general so he makes an attempt at containing his smile, but even before his brain sends the signal, his facial muscles are already doing their thing and betraying him. Fuck. “And, yes. What, can you tell by my embarrassingly full bag?”

He makes a show of to the side to properly flaunt his tote, bulging and practically overflowing. He was only supposed to grab a few things, so he didn’t bother going by car. Of course, he ended up buying too many things and spending too much money. Same old.

Jisung laughs. “I love the bag, by the way.”

The print at the front says, My cat is my god. Minho bought it years ago and despite the frequent use, it still looks awesome. The pins of Soonie, Doongie, and Dori only add to its character.

“And how about you?” he asks, giving Jisung what he hopes is a subtle once-over. He’s dressed nicely, but then again, Minho hardly ever sees him without his uniform. He looks like someone who’d dress nicely all the time, for no reason. For himself. “Where are you heading?”

“I have the luxury of a day off today,” Jisung says, “so I decided to make use of the nice weather for once and go out for a walk. I’m on my way back now, though.”

“Ah. That really sounds nice,” Minho agrees. In his head, he’s already imagining the future where they stroll through the city together. Hopeless, that’s what he is. He rocks on the balls of his feet with a sensation that closely resembles nervousness. “But you’re coming to the café tonight, no?”

The open-mic nights have become an important part of the local community. People can either make a spectacle of themselves for the fun of it or express their talent through music. From a project everyone involved was worried wouldn’t take flight, it has turned into something iconic, fun, and innovative.

Minho is working the afternoon shift today and even then, when he has no time to go home, eat a proper dinner, or even change what he’s wearing, he still plans to come.

“Of course,” Jisung says, laughing at the sheer relief in Minho’s expression and making him blush. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Maybe they could sit together this time around, since Jisung isn’t working. At a table as far away from Minho’s friends as possible to avoid any teasing and embarrassment that would doubtlessly occur if he let them come into contact.

But why should he wait until tonight to spend time with him? He glances at the Apple Watch on his wrist and confirms that he still has a few hours until he has to start getting ready for work. Not to mention Jisung said he was heading back home.

Now that Minho has invited him out once, doing it again doesn’t feel as nerve-wracking anymore. He decides to just . . . take his chance. If you don’t ask, you don’t get, a nagging voice in the back of his head tells him. It sounds suspiciously like Seungmin.

“Are you doing anything right now?” he asks. “I mean, maybe you’d like to come over for coffee?”

Jisung bites town on his lower lip before it can quirk into a smile but his eyes are hopeful and wide. “And meet the kids?”

Minho laughs, the slight nervousness burning beneath his skin dissipating. “And meet the kids,” he confirms.

“Let’s go, then!”

“Stop, I’m gonna start thinking you only like me because of them,” he jokes, giving Jisung’s side a playful shove with his elbow.

Jisung breaks into laughter, but even though it’s just easy banter, he sounds a little shy when he says, “We both know that’s not true.”

Minho’s heart flutters, but for his own mental stability, he decides to leave it without a response. His flushed neck and ears are telling enough.

A conversation about the late-blooming cherry blossoms takes their attention as they stroll down the block. They’re already on Minho’s street, so he’s punching in the code to the front gate before he even knows it.

“Oh, wow. Your backyard is huge,” says Jisung as he takes in the space. “I live in the top-floor unit of my building, so I don’t have access to anything resembling a garden. I’m jealous.”

Play it right and you might get a chance to come over to enjoy it whenever you want, Minho wants to tease, but it feels too forward at first and when he finally decides that Jisung will probably laugh about it and not think too much, the moment has already passed.

Jisung’s attention is skipping across everything. The flowers Minho is meticulously planting every season and the dark green paint on his front door and the stone cat statues scattered around the yard.

He looks around with wonder that makes Minho’s chest feel funny. Fluttery and light, but also desperate. Truth be told, he didn’t realize just how much he wanted Jisung to like it here until this moment. Not caring about people’s negative opinions is one of the things he prides himself in, but he’d be lying if he said this stood true when it comes to Jisung.

Minho is craving for Jisung to like every part of him. His house included. It’s well-loved but modest compared to a lot of other detached houses in the area—it’s everything he needs for himself and his cats, though. That kind of intimate independence was what he dreamed of when he first moved out of his parents’ house and started living on his own, in a cramped officetel that—after a long day of working at a fried-chicken restaurant—felt like a sick joke. He saved most of his adult life for this, and he’s almost done paying off the mortgage, too, which he’s really proud of.

He unlocks the front door and walks in first, just to make sure there isn’t a cat shit lying in the hallway. The kids are well-behaved, so it’s not like he expects there to be any surprises, but when you’re bringing someone you like home for the first time, you’re bound to feel a little on-edge.

Minho sees the house with the eyes of a stranger for the first time. The sunlight streams through the window and gives the place a warm, homelike glow. The air smells like kitten paws and vanilla and now also Jisung’s perfume. The picture on the wall—a family portrait of him and the cats—is crooked. An empty beer bottle he hasn’t gotten around to throwing out stands on the entryway table. 

He quite likes it, despite the little imperfections.

He wasn’t ready for guests when he tossed the invitation out in the spur of the moment, but he makes sure to keep his space clean, so Jisung shouldn’t start thinking he lives in a pigsty. He might side-eye the part of the wall that’s completely ripped to shreds by cat claws, but—well.

Jisung takes his shoes off, setting them in the empty space on the rack, as Minho slips out of his denim jacket and hangs it on the wall.

“The cats are probably in their room,” he says, not thinking much of it, as he gives himself a quick and hopefully subtle once-over in the smudgy hallway mirror.

Jisung’s eyebrows shoot up. “In their room?”

Minho throws him a cheeky grin. “What, did you think they’d be willing to share space with me, a lowly human?” he asks, but he knows it’s unusual and the cats are spoiled rotten. They deserve it, though. “It’s upstairs, with a hole at the bottom of the door. You won’t miss it.”

Jisung hesitates. “I don’t wanna corner them in their safe space,” he says, though he glances at the stairs with longing. “They should come down on their own since you’re back home, no?”

Minho’s heart softens. Of course Jisung cares about things like that. The cats are friendly enough, even if they take a while to really cling to someone, so they probably wouldn’t mind if he went up there, and if they did, they’d make it known and chase Jisung away.

They wouldn’t, Minho is sure of that. They would sense his pure heart and angelic soul and just how much Minho likes him and they would love him instantly.

But it means a lot that he’s careful. Not a lot of people are with cats. They get upset when faced with their cautious, self-reliant nature and firm boundaries, and proceed to call them unaffectionate and disloyal.

The fact that Jisung knows and understands cats—and, Minho thinks it’s safe to assume, other animals—already puts him at an advantage in Minho’s books.

“They definitely will,” Minho says, smiling. “Come on. I’ll just unpack this and get started on the coffee.”

Jisung trails after him to the kitchen, taking in every detail of Minho’s house as he goes. He studies the house just as diligently as Minho studies him, almost as if it’s a museum. The clutter of trinkets and the miscellaneous books lying around everywhere and the part of the hallway wall ripped to shreds by the cats. His mouth quirks into a smile when he sees that, which for some reason makes Minho’s heart skip a bit.

He sets his tote bag on the counter and starts unpacking by pulling out the giant leek that has barely fit inside. 

“Do you want me to help?” Jisung asks, idling around, his fingers skimming across the countertop.

“Ah, no. You can just look around if you want. See if the cats aren’t hiding somewhere here. Snoop around. Feel at home,” Minho says, and then cringes. “Ugh. Sorry. I hate when people say that to me. I always feel awkward when I’m over at someone’s place and they’re not, like, my best friend. Especially for the first time.”

Jisung laughs. “Yeah, me too. I get the sentiment, but if I felt at home, you’d kind of hate to have me,” he says. “But I do feel comfortable here, just so you know.”

A peculiar warmth spreads through Minho’s chest. He doesn’t say anything to that, swallowing the words of I’m really, really happy to hear that, and ducks his head to hide the satisfied smile blooming across his mouth.

Jisung catches sight of it anyway.

“Who made these?” he asks after a moment, pointing at the various drawings held to Minho’s fridge by colorful magnets.

“Ah. Kids from the library,” Minho says, putting the bag of rice noodles in the top cupboard. He shelves a few other products as he explains, “We read them stories three-four times a month, and I don’t mean to brag but I’m obviously their favorite.”

Minho always chooses a book with cats to read for them, so most of the drawings feature cats—or something vaguely resembling them—all sorts of flowers, and stick figures with luscious hair.

Jisung laughs. “I don’t doubt that,” he says, eyes locked on the drawing featuring a big cat with fur in all colors of the rainbow and the wonky letters on top that spell out his name. “The drawings are really cute. Do you guys accept volunteers? Because I’m really good at voice-acting, too.”

“Oh?” Minho grins. “You’re gonna have to go through an extensive interview, though. We can’t let just anyone do such an important job.”

“And who is gonna interview me? You?”

Minho cocks his head to the side. “I’m afraid I’d be too biased and hire you on the spot.”

Jisung huffs out a laugh and playfully swats at his shoulder, making his heartbeat jump into higher gear. Minho’s flirting is awful, bordering on pathetic, and yet it seems to be exactly the brand of flirting Jisung is into.

“I do want to do it for real, though,” he says, moving over to lean back against the counter, his palms braced against the edges. His forearms look diabolical, and Minho has to fight to tear his gaze away. “I’m not sure about my work schedule, but I’m sure I could do it at least once.”

Minho begins storing all the remaining products on their designated shelves in the fridge. “We don’t have a date set for the next session, but once we do I’ll let you know and you’ll tell me if you can make it.”

“Ah, do you think the kids will like me enough to draw me something?” Jisung asks.

Minho meets his cheeky grin with a fond smile of his own. “Definitely,” he says. And if they don’t do it, he will kindly suggest that they should.

Now that his groceries are unpacked, Minho can finally move on to making them both coffee. Last year, Seungmin got him a fancy coffee machine for his birthday. He mostly uses it in the peak of summer to make his own iced americanos, but there are times when he wants to drink something of higher quality than store-bought instant coffee. Today is one of those days.

Jisung deserves to be treated to something fancier, after all.

While Minho picks out their mugs—this time around with pastel-green lizards across the background of pink porcelain—Jisung gives into his curiosity and ventures across the hallway to the living room. 

Minho glances after him, considering the chances of it looking like a mess. He’s never usually that neurotic about having a tidy house, but there aren’t enough things he wants to impress Jisung with. Every detail feels important.

He might sometimes use the stationary bike as a clothing rag and there might be tons of cat fur everywhere, but it shouldn’t be that bad, he tells himself.

“Oh.”

Well, maybe it is that bad. He’s about to ask what’s up, if he has somehow left an empty bowl with chips crumbs on the coffee table or done something equally atrocious for what his mom would certainly berate him, when Jisung’s whisper reaches him.

“Soonie is here. He’s staring at me from the windowsill. I’m scared to move.”

The irrational tension in Minho’s shoulders dissipates. “Likely thing for him to do,” he says, laughing. “You can go ahead and let him smell your hand, but you have to be careful ‘cause out of the three of them, he’s the one who’s fussy.”

Jisung huffs out a soft laugh. “Of course. He’s the eldest! He deserves the right to be fussy.”

Minho assumes the introduction goes well, though, because instead of sulking or, worst-case-scenario, shrieking in pain after having his fingers clawed-off, he hears Jisung say, “Yeah, you’re gorgeous. So regal. Thank you for blessing me with your presence, Your Majesty.” He has to take a few moments for himself, scrunching his entire face in the privacy of the kitchen, before he can come out there and face the sight.

It’s . . . unlike anything else.

Jisung is keeping a respectful distance, but his fingers are buried in the softness of Soonie’s neck fur, scratching the spot on his jaw that Soonie adores so much. It’s a relief that Jisung has got him figured out so easily, and that they’re already getting along. Minho would have to cut him out of his life entirely if the cats didn’t like him; they’re perfect judges of character and he trusts them one-hundred percent. But if Soonie—grumpy, fussy, lovely Soonie—likes him enough to let himself be touched and purr, then the other two rascals will surely love Jisung at first sight.

Admittedly, Minho isn’t very surprised.

After all, he became immediately smitten with him, too. It seems to run in their blood.

He sets their mugs down on the coffee table and plops down on the couch, pulling on leg under himself and resting an arm across the back of the sofa. Thankfully, there are no clothes hanging off the stationary bike in the corner and he can watch Jisung with unabashed contentment rather than clean the space up in a rush.

He’s always happy so see him. That, he guesses, a little out-of-practice, comes along with having a crush. But it’s an entirely different thing to watch him exist here, in his home, fitting like a puzzle piece Minho didn’t even realize he had been missing.

It’s terrifying to suddenly go from zero to hundred, to start thinking about possibilities beyond first dates and noncommittal flirting.

“I’m gonna let you be,” Jisung says to Soonie, giving him one last prolonged scratch under his chin. “Don’t want you to overdose on me.”

He looks so heartbroken to leave him, though, the sight of his pout drags a laugh out of Minho. To ease his tremendous suffering, he pats the couch beside himself and says, “Come on, Jisungie. You can still look at him from afar.”

It works. The words wash the exaggerated torment off Jisung’s face, and he laughs. He takes Minho’s invitation, joining him on the sectional, not at all bothered to put much distance between them. What a relief.

“I really like your house,” he says before taking a careful sip of his coffee. It must have cooled down enough for him because he dives back in. “It’s so . . . like a home, you know? That sounds stupid when I say it. I mean, it feels so lived-in and comfortable. You step inside and you know someone fun and lovely lives here.”

Minho scrunches his nose to push past the embarrassment of being called lovely. He tugs at his reddened earlobe mindlessly and jokes, “What a nice way to say it’s cluttered,” to which Jisung just rolls his eyes. “But thank you.”

Jisung has noticed the collection of horror movies sitting on the shelf under his TV, so they spend a lot of time talking about that, agreeing that they should hang out to see something together. They’re both scaredy-cats, but they enjoy the thrill that comes with the genre; it’s a sentiment none of their friends seem to share.

They talk, talk, and talk. Well, Minho spends most of the time listening to Jisung and drinking in every one of his lively expressions, really, but that’s beside the point. It’s the first time they’re seeing each other in an entirely different context and talking for more than ten minutes; the conversation should, logically, feel at least a bit stilted.

And yet.

There’s only excitement and anticipation of all the possibilities buzzing between Minho’s ribs with every breath he takes. He’s relieved to know they get along well outside of fun, flirty remarks.

At some point, Dori wanders into the living room and gets caught completely off-guard by Jisung’s presence. What is a man doing here? he seems to ask Minho, his eyes accusing and distrustful. But Jisung coaxes him over with his sweet voice and soon enough, Dori, too, is letting himself be pet. He even settles on the couch between them for a moment, desperate and greedy for Minho to rub his belly, too, before ultimately joining Soonie over on the windowsill.

Minho promised Jisung he’d show him the cats’ room, so when they finish their coffee and Jisung tells him he should probably get out of his hair, Minho takes him upstairs. Doongie is there, snacking—of course he is—and he startles when they come in, but the second Minho picks him up and carries him around like a baby, he settles down and stops yelling.

He doesn’t even care that there’s a stranger around. As long as Minho is holding him against his chest, he’s all right.

“Fuck, he’s so cute,” Jisung says, holding Doongie’s front par where it rests against Minho’s arm. The proximity of their skin is dizzying. “They’re all so cute. I want to kidnap them so badly, you have no idea.”

Minho scoffs, cradling Doongie closer. “No kidnapping. But you can come over to see them if you want. They clearly like you enough for that.”

Jisung laughs, his eyes sparkling with unabashed joy. “I’ll take that. But if I suddenly show up on your doorstep needing some kitty time, you can’t be mad at me. They look like they could cure me.”

Minho ducks down to kiss Doongie’s head, relishing the way the cat nuzzles up against his neck after. “They could. They’re perfect.”

“Hm. They really do deserve to be spoiled rotten,” Jisung says, looking around the room, with its giant windows letting in all the sunlight they need to sprawl in and the toys and the nooks Minho built for them with his own two hands, shitty instructions, and a lot of frustration. The first room he put together when his own bedroom didn’t even have a roll-out futon.

When they’ve babied Doongie enough, Minho deposits him in one of the cushioned beds mounted on the wall and walks Jisung out. Something pathetically sad tugs at the center of his chest at the idea of Jisung leaving already. It feels like he’s been here for less than five minutes.

Logically, though, Minho knows he has to start getting ready for work, too, and if Jisung stays any longer, he might have to leave in a rush.

He accompanies him all the way to the front gate, closing all the doors behind them to make sure the cats have no way of escaping. The fenced property doesn’t leave room for any episodes like that, but he’d rather be paranoid and safe than sorry.

“I’ll see you at the café,” says Jisung. “Should I . . . Do you want me to save you a seat? Or will you be there with your friends? I mean, if you’d rather sit with them, it’s obviously fine!”

Minho gives a playful scoff, but he’s internally amused—and flattered—by Jisung’s apparent nervousness. “They’ll live without me.”

■

That afternoon, work feels endless. Everyone seems to have chosen Friday to return their books, so Minho spends most of his shift chained to the front desk and then pushing the cart around, reshelving them all.

The mechanical nature of his tasks allows him too much space to think, and the only topic his thoughts wrap around like ivy is Jisung. Their noraebang plans and the unspecified movie date and the way he randomly came over today and how they’ll be seeing each other tonight again.

Jisung, Jisung, always Jisung.

Are romantic feelings always this debilitating? He feels like someone took half of his brain and surgically replaced it with a picture of Jisung.

He’s relieved when they’re finally locking up. At least when they’re together in person, his thoughts don’t feel so frantic. At least when they’re together in person, Minho has a reason for constantly thinking about him.

The open-mic has already started by the time Minho is pushing the café door open. Just like every week, the crowd seems to have grown from the last time. There are now people leaning back against walls and awkwardly hanging off their friends’ chairs.

Thankfully, Jisung has saved him a seat, just like he promised. When Minho walks in, he starts looking around, his tired eyes unable to focus in the dim light; Jisung’s hand shoots up in the air to wave him over. His smile puts a shiver through Minho’s spine; it’s dazzling, and then somehow it manages to brighten when Minho plops down on the chair beside him.

Jisung slings his arm around the back of Minho’s chair and leans in to whisper, “Long time no see.” 

He’s only doing this to avoid interrupting the person performing on stage, Minho is sure, but even after the song ends and they can speak comfortably, he doesn’t move away.

Minho is not complaining, though.

“Look at this,” he says in between the performances, nodding at all the people surrounding them. The line to the register is longer than Minho has ever seen it. “You didn’t believe in this open-mic thing at all, and yet. Every time I come in to grab coffee, there’s a new face around. I used to know all the regulars.”

Jisung laughs. “It’s not that I didn’t believe in it. I was just rightfully concerned about the future of my job.”

“Right. I’m surprised you’re even allowed a day off with those crowds.”

“I’ll have you know that I got today off precisely because I’ve been so kind to get the whole thing started with my dazzling performance. And I’m getting a raise,” Jisung says, laughing.

Minho runs his tongue along the underside of his teeth. “You should buy me dinner, then,” he says, letting a bit of a challenge slip into his voice. “For all those flyers I put around, you know.”

“Ah, sure. For the flyers,” Jisung echoes slowly, tipping his head back to stare at him, a smirk spread across his mouth. “We have so many plans ahead, hyung.”

Minho’s smile softens. “Mhm. I quite like it. Don’t you?”

He feels Jisung’s fingers ghost along his shoulder. That, combined with the look in his eyes, is enough of an answer.

Minho’s eyes follow Jisung even when he stands up to grab them something to drink, tracing his every move with a kind of hunger that’s slowly getting hard to suppress. He might lose his mind if he doesn’t kiss him soon, he realizes as his eyes land on Jisung’s mouth, the perfect shape of them as he talks to Chan.

When he comes back, even though there’s no need to, the café is pretty quiet now, he rests his arm on the back of Minho’s chair again. The ease in that single gesture incinerates a fire that’s been lying dormant under Minho’s skin and leaves him wanting.

He grabs the glass of iced tea Jisung brought him and, forgoing the straw entirely, takes a hasty gulp instead.

Jisung sends him a funny look, almost as if he can tell what’s got Minho so parched. But that’s ridiculous; he could never know.

They watch the performances together, trading secret whispers about every person who dares to go up on stage—their repertoire of choice and the probability of this particular performance landing them a future in the music industry and whatnot. Most of the time, Jisung is smacking Minho’s shoulder to quiet him down because they both get carried away with their banter and they look like they’re making fun of people—which they truly aren’t.

Without any of his friends here, Minho can let loose and not worry that someone is going to tease him for looking too smitten with Jisung. Seungmin has gone out on a date with his buff gymbro boyfriend, and Jeongin and Minju told him they had other things to do and he did not want to imagine what that meant. He also didn’t even think to invite anyone else; he took it as a chance to enjoy the night with Jisung on his own.

And, well, tons of other people who have decided to come.

Minho expects one of those people to perform next, but when Chan steps up on the stage, he summons someone else.

“Our next performer is, undoubtedly, known by all of you guys, so I expect the applause to be twice as loud,” Chan says, laughing. “Jisung, come on up!”

Minho blinks. He turns to Jisung with a confused, questioning look, but Jisung only shoots him a grin as he stands up, his hand momentarily resting between Minho’s shoulder blades. Ah, alright. So he’s been completely blindsided on purpose.

He reaches for his iced-tea again, but the long sip he takes only makes him wish he was actually drinking something alcoholic. Something to get him through this night and an impromptu performance from the person he’s already obsessed with enough. At least the drink freezes his brain for a blissful moment, so there’s that.

Jisung moves through the café with confidence, his smile lighting up the room. Unlike the other times, this time around it feels directed at Minho and Minho only. Is that selfish and delusional of Minho to think? Because Jisung might glance over the audience at first, but his gaze feels locked on Minho all the same.

He says something to greet everyone but all Minho hears is blah, blah, blah I’m gorgeous and talented and I love torturing Lee Minho blah, blah, blah. If he could, in that very moment, Minho would dispose of his feelings for Jisung. But he has to keep suffering.

Even through the romance-induced brain fog, he recognizes the song from the first notes. Jenga. Jisung slips into it easily, captivating the audience with his dizzyingly hot lower register. He might be singing about a heartbreaking dissipation of feelings, but he sounds so sexy.

Minho is not a good person.

Jisung doesn’t even get to the chorus before he’s walking to the side of the stage and—grabbing a second microphone from the console table. The alert light in Minho’s mind blares red. When Jisung hops off the stage and starts weaving between the tables, turning people’s fascinated heads towards him, Minho blanches.

No way, he thinks as laughter slowly begins rising above the instrumental. Everyone is enjoying the theatrics except for Minho.

But Jisung grins at him, knowing that his glare holds no real fire to it, offers him the second microphone, and says, “Come on, hyung-ah.”

And just like always, Minho is powerless.

He rolls his eyes just to be contrarian but he doesn’t hesitate to grab the microphone and join Jisung for the next line. Except Jisung isn’t satisfied with just having him sing. He has to take Minho’s hand, drag him out of his chair, and lead him onto the stage so that they can do it the proper way.

Minho is red in the face, but it’s not like he hasn’t performed here before—begrudgingly, but he did—so he decides to fuck his embarrassment and give it his all. For Jisung.

Even as he sings, busy remembering the right lyrics under so much pressure, he can’t help but think about how good their voices sound together. Fuck. They might walk out of that Sunday noraebang with the idea of starting a band. Maybe in another universe, they already are in one and they get to do this all the time.

The applause when the song comes to an end deafens Minho for a solid minute. He’s so entranced with the sight of Jisung—flushed, grinning, his chest rising with every heavy breath he takes—that it’s Jisung who has to drag him off the stage in a fit of laughter.

“I will murder you,” he says the moment they’re back at their table and people’s attention has switched back to Chan.

Jisung wraps an arm around Minho’s, clinging to him like he expects Minho to run away. “No, you won’t,” he says through laughter. He speaks with such conviction despite the incredibly convincing glare Minho sends his way. “You had fun.”

Minho doesn’t even dignify that with a response. He just sinks into his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t last long in his feigned indignation, though, because Jisung easily distracts him with his touch.

They stick around for two more performances before deciding to call it a night. After the shift Minho has had and the general excitement of the day, he wants nothing more than to slip between his covers and sleep.

But—Jisung.

He wants to stay around for him. With him.

However, when Jisung’s head drops onto his shoulder, Minho can tell he’s barely holding on, too.

“Tired?” he asks, lifting a hand to Jisung’s hair to pat the side of his head. Jisung nods against him. “Do you wanna go home?”

“Not if you wanna stay.”

Minho rolls his eyes, but it’s half-hearted and not very convincing if you take into account the smile playing on his lips. “We’re going home, then. Come on.”

It’s not something they planned—for Minho to drive Jisung home that night. They’re headed in the same direction, so it makes sense from a logical point of view. That’s what Minho tells himself, ignoring all the other, less rational reasons, like the fact that he would go wherever Jisung wanted to go, no matter how far from home that would get him.

At this time of night, the streets aren’t yet deserted but they’re considerably emptier. As someone who gets frustrated easily, Minho should be relieved not to drag himself through a traffic jam. Instead, he’s tempted to drive much under the speed limit to avoid parting ways with Jisung too soon.

“Sorry for putting you on the spot like that,” Jisung says at one point, his voice quiet against the mellow song playing on the radio turned down low. “I hope you’re not actually mad at me.”

Minho gives him a brief but pointed look. He wishes he could glare at him properly, but he wants to get them both home in one piece, so he keeps his eyes on the road.

“I was just joking around. I could never be mad about something like that.”

Jisung smiles. “I figured, but I just wanted to make sure before I started overthinking it,” he says, rolling his eyes at himself.

“It was fun. I had fun,” Minho reiterates. He might’ve been taken off-guard but, just like when his friends did it to him, the spontaneity of the challenge made him do it with no regrets. With the viewfinder focused only on enjoying himself in the moment.

Jisung hums. Another moment passes before he speaks, though. “It’s that . . . I just wanted to do something that felt like straight out of a movie,” he says. “Do you know that American one for, like, kids, High School Musical?”

Minho thinks about it as he slows down at a red light, but although the title rings some kind of bell, he shakes his head.

Undeterred, Jisung carries on. “Well, the point is, the main couple gets pushed by their friends to sing at a karaoke together and they fall in love.”

The words stun Minho silent, his heart skidding to a stop. Despite the surprising nature of the quasi-confession, the prevalent emotion Minho finds himself facing in that moment is relief.

The corner of his mouth quivers into a grin as he turns to look at Jisung slowly.

“What, do you want us to fall in love?” he asks.

Jisung purses his mouth. Instead of saying anything, he offers Minho a mysterious but doubtlessly coquettish smile.

Minho dusts off his brief astonishment, passes through a green light, and then lets out a laugh. He thought that, even though Jisung obviously liked him in some way, it would take at least a proper date for them to acknowledge as little as a possibility of something romantic happening between them.

And yet, here Jisung is, offering his heart on a silver platter.

“That was the worst song you could’ve chosen for that, though,” Minho says. “It’s not romantic at all. I mean, it’s explicitly about falling out of love. You’re sending mixed signals here, Jisungie.”

Jisung laughs, tossing his head back against the headrest. “The lyrics weren’t the point,” he explains. “The point was the two of us singing together and being sure that you knew the song and you liked it.”

Minho softens. “Mhm. I get it now.”

“No mixed signals, then?”

He shoots Jisung a grin. “No mixed signals.”

He can slow down the car when they get to the residential area of Yeonnam-dong, with its many turns and rises and narrow roads, but they’re getting close to Jisung’s building all the same. Minho is even more clueless about what happens when the night does come to an end; how do they proceed after a confession like that?

He’d expect the air to be loaded with tension, but nothing seems to have changed since the moment they got in the car. There is no awkwardness or hurry hanging over them; there’s just a quiet making of sense.

They both want to pursue this, wherever this goes. That’s the most important revelation of the night, Minho supposes.

Still, there’s a sensation of wrongness or, rather, incompleteness, when Jisung directs him to the right building and he finds himself once again wanting more.

He kills the engine, but even after Jisung unbuckles his seatbelt, neither of them really moves. They don’t say anything, either, even though it’s obvious by the way Jisung fiddles with the rings adorning his fingers that he’s thinking of something.

Minho is, too, but he’s trying to contain his own greed.

Finally, Jisung twists around in his seat to face Minho and asks, “Can I tell you a secret?”

Minho nods before he even realizes what he’s agreeing to.

A moment later, Jisung is leaning across the center console to whisper in his ear. The bitter scent of tobacco and orange in his perfume, the sheer proximity of him, makes it hard to think. Minho’s brain struggles to catch up with the words.

“The song I sang at that first open-mic, Close . . . It was about you.”

Minho feels his heart drift up to his throat. His eyes flit across Jisung’s face as he pulls away to observe Minho’s reaction, searching for something, anything, a trace of a lie, maybe. But there’s nothing of that sort.

Jisung’s expression is sincere and vulnerable.

“About me?” Minho asks, like a fool. Because—it can’t be.

“I thought you knew,” Jisung tells him with a lopsided smile. Minho’s wonder and surprise seems to amuse him, at least. “When you came up to me after and told me you liked it, I was sure you knew. But you didn’t say anything later, so.”

He shrugs.

Minho’s heart almost parts in two. “I had no idea,” he admits. “I don’t know if it’s because I’m direct and I need to be told everything clearly or just too much of an idiot and I got so in over my head that the thought just . . . didn’t even cross my mind.”

“Aish, hyung,” Jisung huffs. “You seem like such a confident person. You’re so smart, too. And somehow you don’t catch any of my hints.”

His exasperation is feigned, though, and it falls flat when he’s obviously trying to hold back a smile. Minho’s eyes can’t seem to stop flitting down to his mouth, so he can tell.

“I’m sorry,” he says, scrunching his nose with embarrassment. He’s never been very good at interpreting social situations and people’s intentions towards him, which is why his circle is tight-knit and has barely expanded since high-school days.

Jisung breathes out a laugh. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” he says, his voice sounding so fond that it strips Minho off all his remaining bashfulness. “If today didn’t happen—you know, the whole coffee at your house and meeting your cats and basically being on a date in the café, I would’ve just shown up at your door with a cake that has I am romantically interested in you written on top.”

Minho snorts, leaning back in his seat to look at Jisung properly. He’s glad that Jisung has remained undeterred even against Minho’s repression and obliviousness.

“You should still do that.”

“I will.” Jisung grins. “We should make that our first official date.”

“Nope,” Minho says, shaking his head with conviction. “Our first date’s on Sunday, aren’t you forgetting?”

“Ah, is that so? You didn’t tell me it was a date,” Jisung accuses, even though the smirk he’s wearing tells Minho all he needs to know. They both knew it was a date, even if neither of them dared to name it as such. “I was planning on wearing worn-out sweatpants and not even washing my hair.”

Minho barks out a laugh. “I don’t believe you at all. You were probably gonna get all dressed-up and gorgeous.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Jisung argues, drawing his mouth into a pout to stop himself from smiling.

“Sure,” Minho says, regarding him with a fond, amused gaze.

He’s poking fun at Jisung, but he was always going to doll up for Sunday, too. Of course, his first principle is to always dress comfortably, but looking hot and pretty is right up there with it. He has picked out a low-cut T-shirt with a pair of bootcut jeans that make his legs seem longer—and his ass rounder. Nothing too crazy, just in case it was a regular hang-out between friends.

If he was meeting with his actual friends, he’d slip into a pair of Crocs, grab a pair of sweatpants, the first T-shirt he laid his hands on, and call it a day.

But Jisung?

Jisung deserves effort. 

At least until the moment they wake up next to each other and he’s forced to witness Minho in all his crust-in-the-eyes, pillow-marks-on-the-face, puffy glory. But—he’s getting ahead of himself. As always.

“For the record, though,” he says, “I wouldn’t mind if you wore worn-out sweatpants and didn’t wash your hair. I’d still think you looked cute.”

Jisung laughs, but he rubs the tip of his nose with his knuckle as if shy. “I’m gonna wear something pretty, though.”

You always look pretty, Minho almost says. It’s right there on the tip of his tongue. But he looks at him again and the mere sight of Jisung distracts him. The delicate blush across his cheeks. His eyes, reflecting the streetlights like two stars in the dim-lit interior of the car. His mouth stretched into that heart-shaped smile.

Minho takes a sharp inhale through his nose and, before he can talk himself out of it, before he can really think of it, he leans across the center console and kisses him.

His heart thunders, a rainbow of fireworks exploding in his chest the moment their lips touch. Jisung’s mouth is soft and for some reason, it tastes like caramel.

And when Jisung kisses him back, his hand coming up to rest against Minho’s jaw—god, when he kisses him back, Minho feels his soul leave his body. He can’t hear anything past the sound of blood rushing to his ears, can’t feel anything other than the warmth of Jisung against his skin, the sensation of him taking over each of Minho’s senses.

He tilts his head to the side, deepening the kiss, slowly licking across the seam of Jisung’s mouth to taste him properly. A dream is what he really tastes like.

“Sorry,” he whispers when they pull apart, their faces still so close that he can feel Jisung’s warm breath on his cheek, can almost taste him on his tongue. His nose squishes against Jisung’s soft skin until he can barely breathe. He lets out a huff. “Sorry. You just looked so . . .”

Jisung lets out a breathless laugh. “I liked it,” he reassures. And instead of saying anything else, he just drags his nose across Minho’s, rubbing them together, tilts his head to the side, and captures his mouth in another kiss.

Starved, with an underlying fervency, but how soft.

Minho’s hand moves to rest against Jisung’s hip. He wishes he could pull him closer, that they were anywhere other than in his car. He wishes he could take him home and just—never stop kissing him.

It’s unreal how well their lips fit together, like two perfect puzzle pieces.

When his lungs begin to burn, Minho drags Jisung’s lower lip between his teeth, pulling at it as he slowly moves back. He can’t quite stay away from him, though. He leans back in to press a kiss against the corner of Jisung’s mouth, then his cheek when Jisung nuzzles against him with a huff of laughter.

“I don’t wanna go home,” he whines, angling Minho’s mouth towards his own for another kiss.

Minho laughs into it. “Should I drive back to my house, then?”

Jisung groans, bracing his hand against Minho’s shoulder and pushing Minho away. His back hits the car seat and he sinks into it, breathing heavily. Unable to stop smiling.

“I have to go before you actually manage to tempt me,” Jisung says, wiping his slick mouth with the back of his hand. He looks even hotter like this, with his lips red and flushed, marked with need.

Minho breaks into a smarmy little grin, staring at him through his eyelashes. “Ah, Jisungie, what kind of impure thoughts are going through your head right now?”

Jisung only throws him a look in response to the accusation. “I’m going.”

And just like that, Minho deflates entirely. He knows it’s stupid and incredibly juvenile. He can handle not seeing Jisung for a few hours. They’re both working in the morning, so it will be their usual Saturday: Minho dropping by to grab coffee before his shift and flirting with him, just a bit.

He musters a smile so that Jisung doesn’t think he’s a crazy, clingy loser. They haven’t even gone out on a proper date yet. He’ll have time to reveal his true nature to him.

Jisung mirrors his smile and then, like a magic spell, he presses that same smile against Minho’s mouth, pulling him into a kiss, and the disappointment at the center of his chest disappears.

“Bye, hyung,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Minho hums. “Bye, Jisungie.”

With one last smile, Jisung opens the car door and gets out, leaving Minho alone. Minho watches him climb up the stairs to the top-floor unit of the building. It does, admittedly, take a moment—there are quite a lot of steps to conquer. If Minho lived there, he wouldn’t want to leave the house; every return would feel like doing cardio.

He smiles to himself.

When Jisung gets to the front door of his apartment, he turns around to see if Minho’s car is still there. He can’t really see the inside, not from that high up, so when he waves goodbye, Minho rolls down the window to do the same.

He hears Jisung’s laughter all the way down on the road.

Once he disappears inside safely—and once Minho takes a few deep breaths to calm down his battering heart—Minho finally starts the car and sets off on his journey home.

His dreams are full of Jisung that night, too.