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Minho hadn’t thought much of it at first. An old t-shirt—one he only wore when all his other gym clothes were out of commission—wasn’t where it was supposed to be in the drawer. He figured maybe he’d just misplaced it. It wasn’t like he’d worn it recently, anyway. Sure, Minho had a good memory. Could recall conversations from months ago. But let’s not pretend he was out here keeping a detailed log of his spin cycles. Maybe it had just gotten lost somewhere along the way.
Then there were the track pants. The ones he only wore at home because of the big, unfortunate tteokbokki stain on the side. They had disappeared not long after the t-shirt, but honestly, that felt more like fate than theft. Their absence had nudged him into buying a few new pairs—ones he could actually wear outside of his apartment without drawing curious stares.
Last month, his beanie had vanished. He wasn’t entirely sure where it had gone, but the gym seemed the most likely culprit. He’d checked the lost-and-found bin on his next visit, digging through a pile of mismatched socks and forgotten water bottles, but no dice.
Still, none of those things had been important. Annoying, maybe, but not enough to think twice about. But now, standing in the middle of his room after turning every drawer and closet inside out, his favourite hoodie was gone. And this time, he knew exactly where it was supposed to be. He’d been wearing it just yesterday, had taken it off, and draped it over the back of the couch right before making dinner for him and Jisung during their weekly movie night.
His brows furrowed as he replayed the memory. That hoodie wasn’t just missing—it had vanished. And this time, Minho was certain: he hadn’t lost it.
------
Minho sprawled across his couch, arms flung over the backrest, the dim glow of the TV casting flickering shadows on the walls. Some drama he wasn’t watching droned on in the background, characters arguing about something he didn’t care enough to follow. His foot tapped restlessly against the floor as his gaze wandered to the empty spot on the back of the couch.
It should’ve been there. His hoodie. The one he knew—knew—he’d taken off and flung there last night. Minho’s memory was too good to get something like this wrong. He’d draped it over the couch like he always did. So why the hell wasn’t it there now?
The day had already been consumed by fruitless searching. Every drawer, closet, and surface in the apartment had been rifled through, checked, and re-checked until the lines between determination and futility blurred. Now, sitting here with nothing but the faint hum of his thoughts—and the exaggerated sobbing of a heartbroken actress echoing through the room—Minho felt like he was going a little crazy.
Hoodies didn’t just vanish into thin air.
He glanced at his phone on the coffee table, screen lighting up with a notification. Not a text, though—just an automated weather update telling him tomorrow would be unseasonably warm. Great. He could sweat his frustration out. Or not.
Leaning forward with a groan, Minho snatched up his phone and opened his chat with Jisung. Their conversation from last night was still there, filled with a stream of movie suggestions, Jisung’s overuse of emojis, and Minho’s more minimalist replies. He scrolled absentmindedly through it, thumb hesitating over the text field.
Should he ask?
It wasn’t like Jisung would be offended. They texted about the most random things—everything from the injustice of vending machines to existential 3 a.m. memes. But this felt different. Asking Jisung if he’d seen his hoodie would come off weird, wouldn’t it? Like he thought Jisung had taken it. Which he didn’t. Obviously.
Still, his thumb hovered for a moment too long, debating, before his phone vibrated in his hand.
Jisung: Whatcha doing?
Minho: Sitting.
Jisung: Exciting life u lead, hyung.
Jisung: Should I be jealous?
Minho smirked, shaking his head at the screen. It was such a classic Jisung response—effortlessly light, always teasing. It almost distracted him from the hoodie-shaped hole in his life.
Minho: Yeah. Super exclusive club. Couch only has room for one.
Jisung: Wow. Not even room for ur favourite dongsaeng? Harsh.
The mention of “favourite dongsaeng” made Minho pause. His eyes flicked back to the spot where the hoodie should have been. Jisung had been sitting there last night, wrapped up in one of Minho’s blankets, scrolling through streaming apps like it was the Olympics of indecision. He hadn’t moved much, aside from a few dramatic sighs about how none of the movie options felt right.
Minho frowned, locking his phone and tossing it beside him. Jisung wouldn’t have taken it. He wasn’t even sure why the thought had crossed his mind.
With a grunt, Minho stood, dragging a hand through his hair as he wandered back to his room. Just in case, he opened his closet again, even though he already knew the hoodie wasn’t there. He rifled through the neatly folded stacks of shirts, tugged at hangers, and even checked the space behind the basket of laundry he hadn’t gotten around to folding. Nothing.
By the time he flopped onto his bed, it felt like the hoodie had become a metaphor for everything wrong in the world. Dramatic? Maybe. But it was the principle of the thing. His memory was too sharp to have just misplaced it. It was supposed to be on the couch. Now it wasn’t. What was the logical explanation?
He exhaled sharply, pressing his palms against his eyes. Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe it really was just somewhere stupid, and he’d find it tomorrow when he wasn’t actively tearing his apartment apart like it owed him money.
His phone buzzed again.
Jisung: Anyway, u okay? U seemed kinda… idk… distracted today?
Minho: I’m fine.
Jisung: U sure? Ur not usually this boring to text.
Minho let out a quiet huff of laughter. Jisung always knew how to poke, but the concern beneath the teasing was there if you looked close enough.
Minho: Promise. Just tired.
Jisung: K. Rest well, hyung!
As Minho placed his phone on the bedside table, Jisung’s words stuck with him. Distracted. Yeah, maybe he was. By a hoodie. Which, now that he thought about it, was ridiculous.
But still, as he turned off the light and stared at the ceiling, the missing hoodie lingered in his mind. It wasn’t about the hoodie. It was about the principle. Hoodies didn’t just disappear. Not without a reason.
And Minho was determined to figure out what that reason was.
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Minho didn’t know how Jisung managed it—packing so much energy into something as simple as eating cheesecake. The slice wasn’t particularly large, but from the way Jisung attacked it with his fork, cheeks puffed full and crumbs gathering in the corners of his mouth, you’d think it was some kind of national treasure.
It was hard not to stare. Not because it was embarrassing—though Minho wasn’t sure if anyone else in the café was as entertained by the display as he was—but because Jisung looked impossibly happy. His eyes shone, and his smile stretched wider with every bite, a smudge of cream sticking to the edge of his lip that he didn’t seem to notice.
Minho did, though. Of course he did.
It was impossible to ignore, such a small thing demanding his attention, taunting him with its persistence. His fingers twitched against his cup, and for one ridiculous second, he actually considered reaching out—just swiping it away—like he didn’t already have enough regrets waiting to haunt him at 3 a.m.
Because that wouldn’t be weird. Not at all.
He could already imagine Jisung’s wide-eyed blink, the way his mouth would probably fall open in that stupidly cute, startled way—Minho would have to find a way to brush it off, make it seem casual, like it wasn’t some weird intrusive thought born out of watching Jisung devour cheesecake like it held the meaning of life.
Instead, he tapped his fingers against the side of his cup, watching as Jisung took another bite, completely unaware of the crisis he was causing. Minho could say something, maybe tease him about it, but that would mean acknowledging it. And acknowledging it meant opening a door he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to walk through.
So he did the next best thing—ignored it. Not well, judging by the way Jisung looked up at him, blinking curiously.
Minho cleared his throat, shifting slightly like he’d just remembered he was supposed to act normal. “Good?” he asked, a beat too casually, leaning back in his chair and propping his chin on his palm, as if he hadn’t just been caught red-handed. The faintest tease laced his voice, but the way his eyes flicked away a second too late didn’t do him any favours.
Jisung nodded furiously, making a sound that could’ve been a yes but came out muffled by cheesecake. He swallowed quickly, chasing it with a sip of water before beaming. “The best! You’ve gotta try it, hyung.”
Minho waved him off, smirking. “I’ll pass. Watching you enjoy it’s already enough.”
That wasn’t a lie. Jisung like this—bright-eyed and bubbling over with excitement—was something Minho never got tired of. It stirred something inside him every time, the kind of warm, weighty feeling that settled in his chest and refused to leave, no matter how much he tried to push it aside.
And he had tried. Over the years, Minho had become an expert at compartmentalizing. There was a drawer in his mind—one labelled Jisung—and in that drawer, he kept a thousand little moments like this. Moments where Jisung’s smile seemed to light up the entire room, or the way his laugh would tumble out, unrestrained and contagious. It was easier to keep those feelings locked away, out of sight. Easier to pretend that warmth didn’t mean anything more than friendship.
Except sometimes, the drawer wouldn’t stay shut.
It had happened before—on a rainy night when Jisung had shown up at his door soaked to the bone, clutching a bag of takeout and grinning like he hadn’t just braved a monsoon for spicy rice cakes. Or the time Jisung had fallen asleep on his couch, face smushed against a pillow, looking so peaceful that Minho had spent the better part of an hour pretending he wasn’t watching him breathe.
And now, here they were again. Jisung with his cheeks full of cheesecake, looking at Minho like he’d hung the moon.
Minho exhaled through his nose, dragging his gaze away and focusing instead on the steam curling up from his coffee. It was fine. He was fine. Except—
“Hyung?”
Jisung’s voice was soft, hesitant.
Minho glanced up and immediately regretted it. Jisung’s eyes, usually so full of mischief, had gone wide, uncertain. It hit him then, like a slow, creeping realization settling deep in his gut—his scent.
It had slipped.
Minho straightened in his chair, inhaling sharply, trying to pull it back in. He was usually better at this. No—he was better at this. Years of practice, of tucking things away neatly where they wouldn’t come back to bite him, and now all it took was Jisung with his ridiculous enthusiasm and a bit of cream on his lip to unravel it all. Fantastic.
And Jisung—Jisung was still looking at him, brows knitting just slightly, like he could feel the shift in the air but didn’t know what to do with it. Minho could tell he was about to say something, the way his mouth parted, but instead, he blinked and ducked his head, his hand fidgeting with the fork against his plate.
Minho forced himself to breathe, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse. The air felt different now, heavier—not just with his own scent, thick and warm like worn leather and amber, but something else, too. Something sweeter. More inviting.
Something like... raspberries?
Minho frowned, resisting the urge to lean in and confirm it. Since when did Jisung smell like raspberries? He was sure he'd never noticed it before, but now it was there, threaded through the usual soft vanilla and honey, curling at the edges of his senses like a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.
He swallowed, dragging his gaze away. It was fine. Totally fine. If he ignored it, maybe it would go away.
“Sorry,” Jisung muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he poked at his plate. He winced slightly, his shoulders curling inward. “I didn’t mean to…”
Forcing his voice to stay even, Minho leaned forward, nudging Jisung’s plate with a finger. “Didn’t mean to what? Devour that cheesecake like it’s your last meal? Pretty sure you’re allowed to enjoy it.”
Jisung glanced up at him, a hint of relief flashing in his eyes, though the tension didn’t completely fade. “You’re so annoying,” he mumbled, but the faint quirk of his lips betrayed him.
Minho leaned back again, crossing his arms. “You say that like it’s news.”
Jisung huffed, but the tension between them felt quieter now, slipping back into something familiar. Still, as Minho watched him take another bite of cheesecake, he couldn’t ignore the way Jisung’s scent lingered in the air, sweeter than usual but tinged with something deeper—something that made Minho’s heart ache in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
He’d keep the drawer shut. Just for now.
Minho kicked the door shut behind him, his keys clattering onto the counter with a sound that felt louder in the quiet. The apartment was still, save for the faint hum of the fridge—the same kind of stillness that always felt heavier after spending time with Jisung. Minho tossed his jacket onto the back of the couch—a habit, not unlike the one that had doomed his favourite hoodie to wherever lost clothes went—and slumped into his usual spot.
The café played on a loop in his head, uninvited and stubborn, like a song he hadn’t asked to remember. Jisung’s wide-eyed look wouldn’t leave him alone, cropping up every time he blinked—an expression so fleeting it should’ve meant nothing.
It didn’t mean anything. Right?
Minho hadn’t meant to slip. He was usually better at this, keeping everything neatly compartmentalized, tucked away where it couldn’t ruin his life. But then Jisung had looked at him like that, and for a second—just a second—Minho had felt something tug, like a thread pulled too tight.
His scent had shifted, heavier, warmer, lingering in the air longer than it should have. And Jisung... he’d noticed. Of course he had. Minho could still see the way his brows had twitched, his fingers stilling for a fraction too long before he buried himself back into his plate, like if he ignored it hard enough, it would disappear. Minho had done the same, leaning into teasing and the illusion of normalcy because that was easier than... whatever that had been.
But it wasn’t really going away, was it? Not when Minho could still taste the faint trace of something sweeter than usual, something clinging to his skin long after he’d left the café. He wasn’t imagining that, was he?
Minho sighed, raking a hand through his hair, his gaze landing on the back of the couch. The hoodie wasn’t there, because of course it wasn’t. Nothing was where it was supposed to be anymore. And if his thoughts circled back to it one more time, he was going to start believing they meant something.
Which they didn’t. Obviously.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table, drawing him out of his thoughts. Jisung’s name lit up the screen.
Jisung: Thanks again for the cheesecake, hyung. Best dessert in the city. Prove me wrong.
Jisung: Also, I swear I’ll bring my wallet next time.
Minho smirked faintly, picking up the phone. He could picture Jisung typing it, probably flopped on his bed, thumb flying over the keyboard like he had something to prove.
Minho: You say that every time.
Jisung: But this time, I mean it! Pinky promise.
Minho: Yeah, yeah. I’ll believe it when I see it.
Setting the phone down, Minho leaned back, his eyes flicking back to the couch. The memory of the café lingered, that moment of connection they didn’t talk about settling heavily in his chest.
The hoodie’s absence felt heavier than it should, like it carried more than just missing fabric.
The couch creaked faintly as Minho shifted, dragging a hand down his face like it might scrub away the nagging feeling gnawing at the back of his mind. He thought again about asking—just casually, like it hadn’t been haunting him all week—if Jisung had seen it. But how exactly was he supposed to phrase that? Hey, have you, by any chance, stolen my hoodie? Oh, and by the way, why did you smell like raspberries today? Yeah, no. That was ridiculous.
Still, the question sat there, unanswered. Like so many other questions Minho had about Jisung.
His phone buzzed again.
Jisung: Don’t worry, though. You’ve got great hyung energy. Buying cheesecake totally suits you.
Minho: What’s that supposed to mean?
Jisung: It means you’re good at treating me. Take the compliment, grump.
Minho huffed a laugh, shaking his head. Of course Jisung would say something like that—effortlessly turning a half-baked jab into something that felt suspiciously like affection. It was unfair, really, how easily he slipped into Minho’s life, rearranging things without asking, making himself comfortable in places Minho hadn’t even realized were empty.
The couch felt too empty now, the apartment too quiet. Minho leaned forward and grabbed his phone one more time.
Minho: Just make sure you’re not late next time.
Jisung: I’m never late! I’m fashionably on time.
Minho: If that helps you sleep at night.
As he locked his phone and leaned back, the stillness pressed in, thick with the space Jisung had left behind. But it wasn’t just the hoodie nagging at him. No, that would’ve been too easy. Instead, his brain had decided to hyperfixate on something even more ridiculous.
Jisung’s scent. Or, more specifically, the fact that it had changed.
Vanilla and honey—predictable, familiar. But today? Raspberries. Tart, fresh, suspicious.
Minho let out a slow breath, raking a hand through his hair. Yeah, he’d clocked it back at the café, had told himself it wasn’t a big deal, but somehow, the damn scent was still clinging to his thoughts. Not just new—deliberate. And that was the part that got under his skin.
He could’ve written it off if it had been some random shampoo swap or an unfortunate run-in with an overly enthusiastic candle aisle. But no. This was different. This felt like something Jisung wanted him to notice. Which was exactly the kind of thing Minho didn’t need rattling around in his brain at midnight.
And now, instead of moving on with his night like a normal person, Minho was sitting here dissecting it. Fixating. Because of course Jisung’s scent would decide to change right when Minho was trying very hard to not think about things he shouldn’t be thinking about.
As if he didn’t already have enough trouble keeping himself in check without Jisung going around customizing his personal scent profile like some kind of limited-edition dessert special.
With the hoodie gone and that stupid scent lingering in his head like an annoying pop-up ad, it all felt a little too convenient. Or maybe he was spiralling. That was also an option.
Minho sighed, his gaze drifting back to the empty couch. The hoodie wasn’t the only thing missing tonight. And Minho was starting to think he might be losing more than just his favourite piece of clothing.
-----------
The soft, whimsical notes of Howl’s Moving Castle drifted through the room, the gentle glow of the TV casting faint patterns on the walls. Jisung was curled up on the couch, head nestled against Minho’s shoulder, wrapped in one of Minho’s oversized blankets like a human burrito. His hair tickled Minho’s jaw every time he shifted—not that Minho minded.
Jisung loved this movie—always had—and it didn’t matter how many times they watched it, the joy it brought him was the same. Minho had always indulged it, his own preferences taking a backseat without much thought. He’d do anything to see Jisung like this—relaxed, happy, shining as the film worked its magic.
But tonight, something was different.
Minho felt it in the way Jisung moved, in the faint flush on his cheeks, and—more than anything—in the shift in his scent. It wasn’t obvious. Most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Minho wasn’t most people. He’d learned, over the years, to recognize the smallest changes in Jisung’s scent, the way vanilla and honey always wrapped around him—warm, sweet, familiar.
This, though—this was heavier. The sweetness had deepened, grown richer, curling at the edges with a quiet kind of inevitability. He’d noticed it before, more times than he could count. Just subtle enough that it never quite demanded attention, but always there. Always lingering. Something he’d learned to sit with, to ignore until it faded into the background—until the next time.
Unlike the raspberries.
That had been new, unexpected, lingering long after it should have faded. It had been just the other day, and Minho still hadn’t decided what was worse—the fact that it had been there at all, or the fact that he’d caught himself thinking about it again today.
But this? This was familiar. Predictable. Something Minho knew.
Which was why he almost didn’t second-guess it. Almost.
Jisung didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy shifting closer, his head slipping from Minho’s shoulder and landing squarely in his lap. Not unusual. Jisung had always been touchy during their movie nights—all loose limbs and shameless affection. But this felt different. The way his nose brushed against Minho’s thigh through the fabric of his track pants, the way he seemed to linger—like he was searching for something.
Minho’s gaze dropped to him, the soft light from the screen catching on Jisung’s hair. His eyes were half-closed, lips slightly parted, caught somewhere between relaxation and something heavier.
For a moment, Minho considered saying something. The faint undertone in Jisung’s scent was nothing new—he recognized it immediately. It was always the same in the lead-up to his heat, creeping in slow and steady.
But this wasn’t the lead-up. Not yet.
Jisung’s cycles were regular—clockwork regular. And by Minho’s quiet calculations (not that he kept a calendar pinned to the fridge or anything), it was still too early.
The realization settled uncomfortably in Minho’s chest.
Because if this wasn’t his usual pre-heat shift, then what was it?
Still, Minho didn’t ask. It wasn’t his place. Even with all their comfort and familiarity, that felt like a line he shouldn’t cross. So he let the question sit, heavy and unanswered, as his hand finally moved—his fingers threading gently through Jisung’s hair.
The response was immediate. Jisung’s eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a soft, contented hum, his body melting further into Minho’s lap. The sound did something to him, something Minho didn’t want to unpack right now, so he focused instead on the rhythmic motion of his fingers, scratching lightly at Jisung’s scalp.
“Hyung,” Jisung mumbled, his voice a little thick, almost slurred with contentment. “This is good.”
Minho’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jisung’s fingers curled loosely into the blanket wrapped around him, his eyes fluttering shut. “Your lap is the best. It’s so comfy.”
A quiet laugh escaped Minho before he could stop it. “That’s what every guy wants to hear,” he teased, scratching lightly at Jisung’s scalp.
Jisung huffed—a sound more pleased than annoyed. “You’re comfy. Take the compliment, grump.”
Minho didn’t respond, his focus drifting to the quiet weight of Jisung in his lap. The movie played on, bright and familiar, but it barely registered. His attention snagged on the way Jisung pressed closer, the way his scent settled around them—vanilla and honey, as always, but right now there was something else. Something thicker, heavier. Not overwhelming. Not yet. But it was there, winding its way between them like it had plans Minho wasn’t entirely on board with.
It wasn’t the usual shift—the one Minho recognized earlier, the slow deepening of sweetness that signaled the inevitable. No, this was different. Sharper. Unfamiliar. A little too deliberate, like it was testing the waters, waiting to see if Minho would notice. Spoiler: he did.
Minho had always thought of himself as an expert in all things Jisung. A connoisseur of his scent, if you will. But apparently, the universe had decided to humble him, because two unfamiliar scents in one week? Unacceptable. Downright insulting.
His fingers dragged through Jisung’s hair again, slow and steady, and Jisung melted further into him with a soft hum. He looked so content, so comfortable that Minho couldn’t bring himself to stop—wouldn’t even know how to if he tried.
This wasn’t new. Jisung curled up against him like this all the time, nothing unusual about it. But it felt different. And Minho wasn’t sure if it was the way Jisung’s scent was a little stronger tonight or the fact that he couldn’t quite convince himself to ignore it like he usually did.
It settled low in his chest, insistent in a way that made him want to roll his eyes at himself.
Jisung sighed—a soft, sleepy thing that should’ve been harmless—and Minho’s hand faltered for just a second before resuming its careful rhythm.
Whatever this was—whatever his brain wanted to turn it into—he wasn’t going to let it ruin the glow in Jisung’s eyes earlier or the small smile tugging at his lips now.
He could deal with it later.
Or never. Never worked too.
For now, this was fine. Probably.
The evening wound down quietly, the soft hum of the movie credits rolling over the low murmur of the TV. Jisung stretched lazily, the blanket slipping off his shoulders, and let out a quiet yawn. His head lolled against the couch, eyes half-lidded and sleepy, and Minho felt his mouth twitch in something dangerously close to fondness.
“You good?” Minho asked, keeping his voice soft, careful not to shatter whatever sleepy haze Jisung was floating in.
Jisung nodded, sluggish but content. “Just tired,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes in a way that made him look far too much like a kid fighting bedtime. He pushed himself up with all the grace of a newborn deer, wobbling slightly before muttering, “Gonna use the bathroom before I go.”
“Sure,” Minho said, watching him shuffle off down the hall. Jisung disappeared, but the faint trace of his scent lingered behind—sweeter than usual. Minho noted it absently, filing it away somewhere he didn’t intend to revisit. Instead, he sighed and got to his feet, gathering up the scattered takeout containers and chopsticks, moving through the familiar motions of cleaning up after Jisung’s tornado-like presence.
It was almost automatic by now—the wiping down of the coffee table, the trash tossed away, his thoughts drifting to safer things. Like how Jisung would inevitably forget his wallet again next week, or how they should pick a different movie for once, something Minho might actually stay awake for.
Something not animated, maybe. But who was he kidding?
When Jisung emerged from the bathroom, Minho’s stomach did something unpleasant. Something was... off.
Jisung hovered in the doorway, eyes darting around the room like he was looking for an escape route. His hands fidgeted at the hem of his sweater, twisting the fabric tight, and he wouldn’t meet Minho’s gaze. Whatever easy, sleepy comfort had settled between them earlier had evaporated, leaving something tense and unsettled in its place.
Minho frowned. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, stepping closer. “You look—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Weird.”
“I’m fine,” Jisung said, too fast, too sharp. “Just tired, like I said.”
Minho didn’t buy it for a second. Jisung’s voice was wound tight, his scent a little too sweet, sticking in the air like it wasn’t sure whether it wanted to stay or slip away. And underneath it—something else. Warmer, heavier. Something Minho decided to sideline for now, before it swallowed him whole.
“You’re not fine,” Minho said, crossing his arms. “You’re acting—” He sighed. “Look, just let me drive you home.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jisung insisted, voice inching toward defensive as his fingers clenched tighter around his sweater. “I’ll just call a cab—”
Minho cut him off with a pointed look. “Yeah? And you’ll do what? Stare at the driver in awkward silence the whole way home?” His voice softened a little. “Come on. I’ll take you.”
Jisung’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicking up for the briefest moment before darting away again. He looked jittery, like he was trying to decide whether to run or just give in and let Minho deal with whatever this was. After a beat, he sighed, the tension draining just enough to feel like a win.
“Fine,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Thanks.”
The drive was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space where Jisung’s usual chatter should’ve been. He sat stiffly in the passenger seat, hands clenched in his lap, too still—too unlike himself. Normally, he'd be tapping out some beat on the dashboard or messing with the volume like Minho’s music taste was a personal offense. Instead, he stared out the window, his fingers twisting together like they couldn’t decide what to do with themselves.
Minho kept his eyes on the road, but his thoughts were already drifting, snagging on the faint changes in Jisung’s scent. It had shifted again, heavier than before, curling through the car like it was trying to take up more space than it had any right to. Vanilla, honey—familiar, expected—but now thickened with something else. It wasn’t raspberries, not this time. It was warmer, heavier, something that tugged at the edges of Minho’s chest, stirring an ache he didn’t have the patience to deal with right now.
He flexed his fingers around the steering wheel, loosening his grip before he cracked the leather or his dignity—whichever gave out first. His shoulders were tight, jaw locked, and somewhere beneath it all, something deeper—something instinctive—was pulling at him, urging him to do something. Protect. Claim. The usual edge of possessiveness he felt around Jisung was dialled up to something stronger, something he wasn’t sure he liked.
It didn’t make sense. Jisung wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t doing anything, but Minho could feel it anyway—this quiet, pressing weight in the air between them. Whatever this was, whatever was happening with Jisung, it was clearly above Minho’s pay grade. And not knowing was making it worse.
Jisung’s silence was pointed, curling around the space in the car like it had its own gravity, and Minho wasn’t in the mood to push. Not when he was too busy shoving down instincts that had no business acting up in the first place.
By the time they pulled up to Jisung’s building, Minho shifted the car into park and glanced over. “You want me to walk you up?”
Jisung’s head jerked in a quick shake, his hand already on the door handle like he couldn’t get out fast enough. “No, I’ll be fine. Promise.”
Minho frowned. “You sure? You don’t look fine, Jisung.”
There was a brief flick of wide eyes in his direction, too quick, too bright, before Jisung nodded again, tighter this time. “I’ll be fine,” he repeated, voice stretched thin around the edges. “Thanks for the ride, hyung.”
Minho hesitated. His instincts were screaming at him to argue, to follow him upstairs, to do something—but Jisung was already gone, slipping out of the car with quick, purposeful steps, his head ducked low like he could disappear into his hoodie if he tried hard enough.
Minho sat there a second longer than he should have, fingers tapping restlessly against the wheel, Jisung’s scent still clinging to the air, thick and unsettling. It wrapped around him like an unfinished conversation, an unasked question, a problem he had no idea how to solve.
And knowing Jisung, it wasn’t one Minho was going to get an answer to anytime soon.
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Minho leaned against the kitchen counter, the half-drunk mug of coffee beside him long past the point of saving. The afternoon light filtered through the blinds in soft, uneven stripes, but it didn’t match the restless knot sitting in his chest.
Jisung hadn’t texted him all day—not a single meme, not even a complaint about the weather or whatever existential crisis he’d latched onto this week. The silence felt wrong in ways Minho didn’t want to examine too closely.
His mind circled back to the last few days, uninvited and persistent. The bathroom.
He hadn’t thought much of it at first—just another post-midnight routine, stepping inside to brush his teeth after dropping Jisung off. But the second he’d opened the door, it hit him. Jisung’s scent, thick and stubborn, curling into the air like it had nowhere better to be. Sweet, but not the usual easy kind—this was deeper, riper, like fruit left too long in the sun, syrupy and heady in a way that made Minho’s pulse stutter. It clung to the tiles, to the edges of the counter, soaking into the space like it belonged there.
Minho had stood there longer than he’d care to admit, hand frozen halfway to his toothbrush, chest tight with something he’d rather blame on sleep deprivation. It wasn’t like the usual traces Jisung left behind—this was different. More like it had been there, clinging to the air like it had no intention of leaving. Like Jisung had left a piece of himself behind without meaning to—woven into the stillness, tucked into the corners, settling into places Minho would rather not think about.
He’d shaken it off, sent Jisung a text, something casual. Nothing weird. But the reply hadn’t come until the next day—short, clipped, completely devoid of the usual flair.
Jisung: I’m fine, hyung. Just tired.
Minho: You sure?
Jisung: Yeah. Thanks for the ride.
No emojis. No rambling. Just... that.
Minho had stared at his phone longer than he should’ve, thumb hovering over the keyboard, the familiar urge to push sitting heavy in his chest. But something about the conversation felt final—like a door Jisung had quietly shut between them. Locked it too, probably, knowing him. Minho wasn’t sure if it was meant to keep him out or to stop something from slipping through the cracks. Either way, it worked.
Now, with nothing but the low hum of his fridge and the quiet thrum of unease under his skin, the silence pressed in.
The scent in the bathroom had been different. Stronger. It had settled in too well, like it was trying to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. And then there was Jisung in the car—shifty, avoiding eye contact, curling in on himself like he could somehow shrink small enough to disappear. Minho wasn’t stupid. Something was wrong.
His gaze flickered toward his keys on the counter, the thought creeping in before he could stop it. He could go check on him. Just to be sure. Jisung would probably call him dramatic, tell him to go home and stop hovering, but... Minho wasn’t sure he could sit here any longer, replaying the clipped texts, the way Jisung had looked so small in the passenger seat.
It wasn’t like he’d never shown up unannounced before. Jisung would huff, maybe glare at him for a few seconds before letting him in with a begrudging sigh. Minho could make up some excuse—say Jisung had left something behind, pretend it was casual. But then what? What if Jisung brushed him off, told him he was fine, even if he wasn’t?
Minho exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, his fingers twitching. He knew he should let it go, trust Jisung to tell him if he really needed help. But the thought of Jisung curled up alone in that apartment, pulling away like he always did when things got too heavy... it gnawed at him, persistent and unwelcome.
He sighed, dragging a hand over his face and staring into his coffee like it might suddenly offer him wisdom. It didn’t. It never did.
The sharp trill of his phone cut through the quiet, and Minho’s chest tightened as Jisung’s name lit up the screen. His heart stuttered, then kicked up, the instinct to answer immediate. He swiped to pick up.
“Jisung?”
There was a crackle on the line before a shaky voice slipped through, breathless and uneven. “Hyung…”
Minho straightened, his grip on the phone tightening. The edge in Jisung’s voice swept away any lingering haze of overthinking. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I…” Jisung’s voice faltered, his breathing ragged—like he’d been running, or something worse. “I need you to come over. Please.”
Minho’s stomach twisted. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
“No, I just—” Jisung’s voice cracked, words tumbling out in a mess, thick with something Minho couldn’t quite place. “Please, hyung. I need you to come over. I—” Another sharp breath, shaky and uneven. “I just… need you.”
The plea hit Minho square in the chest, knocking the air right out of him.
“Okay,” he said, already reaching for his keys. “I’m coming. Just… stay put, Sungie. I’ll be there soon.”
There was a shaky exhale on the other end, the faintest murmur of “Thank you” before the line went dead.
Minho stood frozen for a beat, the weight of it pressing down on him, his instincts screaming at him to move.
The coffee was forgotten. Everything else was forgotten. His jacket was an afterthought, yanked on as his keys rattled in his hand, feet already carrying him to the door.
Whatever this was—whatever had Jisung sounding so small, so not like himself—it wasn’t something Minho was about to ignore.
Minho slid the key into the lock, the faint click echoing too loudly in the stillness. He hesitated for half a second before pushing the door open, and then—fuck.
The scent hit him hard, thick and lingering, curling into his lungs before he could stop it. It was everywhere, clinging to the air like syrup, rich and decadent in a way that made his stomach twist. There was the usual sweetness—warm, golden—but deeper now, heavier, laced with something darker, like ripe fruit on the verge of bursting. And beneath it, threading through in a way that made his pulse stutter—his own scent. Familiar, inescapable. As if it had been pulled in, wrapped up, and woven into the very air like it had every right to be there.
Minho swallowed, his throat suddenly too tight. He hadn’t been here in months—not since Jisung had started making excuses, insisting on coming over to his place instead. Maybe a trace of him had lingered back then, a faint whisper caught in blankets or clothes. But this? This wasn’t a whisper. This was now. Fresh, undeniable.
His shoes came off one at a time, each movement unnecessarily precise, as if keeping things neat would somehow keep his thoughts from spiralling. His eyes scanned the quiet apartment, the air sitting heavy around him, thick enough to make his skin prickle.
“Jisung?” His voice came out quieter than he meant, firm but careful, not wanting to startle him—not wanting to startle himself.
Silence stretched for a beat too long, and then—
A groan. Soft, pained.
“Hyung…”
Minho’s stomach flipped, his chest going tight as the sound pulled at something deep and instinctive inside him. His feet moved before his brain could catch up, quiet but quick, following the sound down the hall. With every step, Jisung’s scent grew stronger, curling tighter around him, pulling, tugging, demanding.
He reached the bedroom door, his fingers brushing against it before he pushed it open slowly, the hinges creaking under his touch.
And then it hit him again, harder, like it had soaked into the walls, the sheets, the very foundation of the place. Sweet, thick, but edged with something sharper, something that buzzed under Minho’s skin, a call he wasn’t sure he was ready to answer. His instincts flared hot and insistent, his jaw locking as he fought the sudden need to move, to do something.
Minho exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing it down, pushing it back, shoving it deep into the parts of himself he kept locked up tight.
Then he saw him.
Jisung was curled up in the centre of his bed, buried in a nest so intricately put together it made Minho’s chest go tight. Layers of blankets and pillows arranged with careful intent, but what really stopped him cold was the unmistakable core of it all—his clothes. Hoodies, shirts, even that pair of old shorts Minho had written off weeks ago. And right at the centre, held in a death grip, was his favourite hoodie—the one that had gone missing last week. The one Jisung was clutching like his life depended on it.
Minho swallowed hard, his eyes trailing over the nest, his breath coming a little too slow, a little too careful. The air was thick, saturated with Jisung’s scent—sweet but dense, like overripe fruit, the kind that left sticky traces on your fingers. There was an edge to it too, something warmer, richer, threading itself through the space in a way that made Minho’s instincts hum at the edges, insistent and unwelcome.
His own scent was tangled in there, unmistakable. Twisted into the fabric, clinging to every fold and crease like it belonged.
Minho had half a mind to back out of the room entirely, but then Jisung stirred, curling tighter around the hoodie, his face pressing into it, and any chance of retreat disappeared.
A soft, broken sound slipped past Jisung’s lips, and then—
“Hyung…”
Minho’s chest squeezed, and he barely had time to brace himself before Jisung’s eyes found his. Wide, glassy, desperate. “Please… it hurts so bad.”
Minho didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
He wasn’t an idiot—he knew exactly what was happening. The heat in the air wasn’t just a figure of speech. It seeped into him, latching onto instincts he had no business entertaining, coiling tight and insistent in his ribs.
He forced himself to exhale, flexing his fingers at his sides before stepping closer, deliberate and slow. “Sungie…” His voice came out softer than he’d like, too careful, too affected.
Jisung whimpered, his grip on the hoodie tightening like Minho’s presence was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. And maybe it was.
Minho felt something inside him react, clawing its way forward, but he shoved it back down, shoved everything back down. He crouched beside the bed, knees protesting the movement, but his eyes stayed locked on Jisung’s, the weight between them growing heavier with every shaky breath.
“I’m here,” Minho murmured, steady despite the roar in his chest. “I’ve got you.”
“Hyung, please…”
Jisung’s voice cracked, and Minho barely had time to brace himself before Jisung was clutching his wrist, breath stuttering out in uneven, shaky bursts. His nose pressed against Minho’s skin, warm and damp, his breath ghosting over the pulse point like he could take something from him if he just got close enough. His fingers dug in, tight, and Minho didn’t know if it was desperation or instinct—or both—that had him pressing closer.
Minho knelt beside the bed, muscles wound too tight, jaw clenched against the tug in his chest that was getting harder to ignore. The scent in the room was suffocating—thick and syrupy, no longer just Jisung’s usual soft sweetness but something fuller, something richer, deeper. It coated everything, weaving through the fabric of the room, settling into his skin like it belonged there. It curled around him, sticky and insistent, teasing at the edges of his control like it knew he was struggling.
He swallowed hard, flexing his fingers against his knee, forcing his focus to stay where it needed to be. “Sungie,” he murmured, reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair from Jisung’s flushed face. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, and his whole body trembled with the effort of keeping it together. Minho ignored the way his stomach twisted at the sight. “Talk to me. Tell me what you need.”
“I need you,” Jisung gasped, voice shaking apart like it couldn’t hold itself together. “Need you, hyung… please, I need you.” He buried his face in Minho’s wrist, inhaling deep, lips parting against his skin like he was trying to drink him in, to devour him from the inside out.
Minho’s breath hitched, his pulse skipping beneath Jisung’s touch, sending something sharp and unwelcome racing through him. It wasn’t intentional—Minho knew that. Knew it was instinct, need, heat—but it didn’t stop the way it felt.
Jisung let out a soft, choked sob, his whole body shuddering as he curled tighter around Minho’s arm. “I need my alpha—please,” he whimpered, the words breaking open something that Minho had kept locked down for too long. “Hyung, it hurts so bad.”
Minho stilled.
My alpha.
The words punched through him, knocking every rational thought straight out of his head. His throat went dry, his instincts howling in response, clawing up the back of his ribs and telling him to do something, fix something, be something—and Minho hated how much of him wanted to.
Jisung’s heat was scrambling everything, pulling words out of him that probably wouldn’t mean a damn thing once it passed. Probably.
But as Minho’s gaze swept over the nest—his nest—those thoughts rang hollow.
Minho’s hoodies, his shirts, even those awful track pants with the tteokbokki stain that should’ve been thrown out months ago—all of it piled together, carefully arranged like Jisung had been building something from pieces of him, weaving Minho into every inch of it. And right at the centre of it all, Jisung clung to his favourite hoodie, the one Minho had torn his apartment apart looking for.
Minho swallowed thickly.
This wasn’t just a nest. It was a map of Jisung’s quiet desperation, a confession made of stolen fabric and fraying edges. And Minho? He was right in the middle of it, whether he was ready or not.
Minho swallowed, forcing himself to focus, to breathe, as Jisung let out another broken sob. "Sungie," he murmured, voice too level for the way his fingers curled at his sides, for the way every inhale dragged in proof of what had been here, what had been built in his absence. He shifted closer, his hand finding Jisung’s back, rubbing slow, careful circles between his trembling shoulders. “Hey. Look at me.”
Jisung lifted his head, painfully slow, his eyes impossibly wide and glassy, tears clinging to his lashes, threatening to spill over. His lips parted like he was going to say something, but all that came out was a soft, wrecked whimper that curled tight inside Minho’s ribs and stayed there.
“I’m here,” Minho murmured, his other hand threading through Jisung’s damp hair, sticky and clinging to his flushed skin. “I’m right here, Sungie. I’ve got you.”
Jisung shook his head weakly, his fingers tightening around Minho’s wrist, his whole body trembling like a fault line on the verge of cracking. “Please, hyung,” he gasped, his voice raw and desperate. “I want you. I need you. Please…”
Minho bit down on the instinct to move, to fix, to give Jisung everything he was asking for and more. The words carved into him, scraped against every carefully built wall he’d put up around himself, but he held firm, steady, even when he felt anything but.
“Sungie,” Minho said softly, his thumb tracing over Jisung’s cheek, wiping away the tear that had slipped free. “I’m not going to take advantage of you.” His throat tightened, but he pushed through it, his touch firm, reassuring. “No matter how much you want this right now, no matter how much you think you need it—you deserve better.”
Jisung’s breath hitched, his lips trembling, and he shook his head again, more frantic this time. “But I want you,” he choked out, his voice breaking apart at the edges. “I want you so bad, hyung. Please. I can’t— I just—”
Minho let out a slow exhale, his fingers brushing damp hair from Jisung’s forehead. He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what Jisung meant, what he was asking for, and god help him, Minho wanted it too. Too much. But not like this.
“I know,” he murmured, voice thick with something he couldn’t quite swallow down. “I know, Sungie.” He paused, his thumb tracing idle patterns against Jisung’s temple, his own words looping back at him like a warning. “But not like this.”
Jisung’s sob came sharp and sudden, something closer to a plea than Minho was ready to handle. He yanked Minho closer, grip feverish, like he was starved for something only Minho could give him, like scent alone wasn’t enough anymore—like he needed to feel him, to have him. “Then help me,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Please, hyung. Just—please. It hurts so much.”
Minho hesitated for just a second, then let himself be tugged in, shifting onto the bed with slow, deliberate movements. The nest enveloped him immediately—warm and messy, blankets and pillows tangled in a way that spoke of restless hands and desperate need. His clothes, the ones Jisung had taken, were twisted beneath him, worn soft and saturated with a scent that curled around Minho like it had been waiting for him.
Jisung didn’t waste a second, pulling him in tight, tucking himself into Minho’s chest with a quiet, shaky breath that hit hot against his collarbone. Minho let him, arms winding around Jisung’s trembling frame, feeling the way he burrowed deeper, like he was trying to disappear into him completely. The scent of him was everywhere—thick and cloying, sweet in a way that made Minho’s pulse trip over itself, his fingers flexing, as if Jisung’s scent had wrapped around more than just his lungs.
Minho clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes for a beat too long before he finally set his hand against Jisung’s back, the other threading through his hair in slow, deliberate strokes. He kept his touch steady—careful, like he wasn’t dangerously close to coming undone himself.
"You’re okay," he murmured, keeping his voice even, like he wasn’t knee-deep in the mess of this. "I’ve got you. Just breathe, Sungie."
Minho let his scent slip—slow, deliberate, something meant to seep in rather than crash over. It moved through the space between them, threading through Jisung’s breath, settling over his skin like warmth in the quiet. Soft but unshakable, something meant to pull him back without force, to let him sink into it.
Jisung shuddered, a short, sharp thing, before his body gave in, the trembling in his limbs easing bit by bit. His grip on Minho’s shirt loosened, though his fingers still curled in the fabric, clinging like some part of him wasn’t ready to let go. Minho exhaled slowly, his own grip firming just enough, fingers tracing idle patterns down Jisung’s spine—measured, mindless, something he could feel more than think about. Not asking, not pushing, just letting Jisung take whatever he needed.
He wasn’t thinking too hard about the way Jisung pressed closer, about the way their scents tangled, or how natural it felt to offer himself like this. Nope. Not thinking about that at all.
Minho just focused on the weight in his arms, the warmth seeping into his skin, and let his touch say everything he wasn’t quite ready to.
The ache in his chest gnawed deeper with every soft sound Jisung made, every shaky inhale, every lingering second of too-warm skin pressed against his own. But he didn’t let it show. He just held him, letting the moments blur and stretch, his touch careful, his words quieter now, softer, as if they could drown out everything else.
“I’m here,” Minho whispered, steady, certain, like the promise meant something. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And he wasn’t.
Even if staying felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done.
The room was too quiet now, the kind of quiet that made every breath feel too loud, too felt. Jisung hadn’t moved, still curled against Minho, but there was a shift—small, almost imperceptible, except Minho noticed it immediately. The way Jisung’s grip on the hoodie tightened, his shoulders hunching inward like he wanted to disappear into the fabric but couldn’t quite let go of Minho either.
Minho’s hand stilled where it had been stroking through Jisung’s hair, his fingers lingering before he let them slip away. “Sungie?” he murmured, keeping his voice low. “What’s wrong?”
Jisung’s breath hitched. “I’m sorry.” The words were barely above a whisper, cracked at the edges, as he pressed his face further into the hoodie, his fingers twisting into the worn fabric.
Minho blinked. "For what?" he asked, tilting his head, voice light, like maybe if he played this off, Jisung would too. "For making a mess of my closet? Please. I already knew you were a menace. This just confirms it."
Jisung let out a weak, half-hearted huff, but it didn’t stick. His free hand gestured vaguely at the nest surrounding them, and his voice wavered. “This. All of this. The clothes. I didn’t—I wasn’t supposed to—” He swallowed, his grip tightening. “I didn’t mean for you to see it.”
Minho sighed, rubbing slow circles against Jisung’s back. “Sungie, it’s fine. You don’t have to—”
“It’s not fine,” Jisung interrupted, his voice sharp with frustration before breaking off, quieter, smaller. “I took your stuff, hyung. I didn’t even notice at first, but then I did, and I couldn’t stop.” His teeth caught his bottom lip, and his gaze darted away. “It’s weird.”
Minho glanced down at the hoodie still clutched in Jisung’s arms, then at the nest, his shirts and sweaters layered with careful, desperate precision. He couldn’t help the small tug of a smile, shaking his head. “Even this?” He reached out, tugging lightly at the hoodie’s hem. “My favourite hoodie? This is your prized possession?”
Jisung’s face burned red, his head ducking low. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, voice cracking with embarrassment. “I just—it smelled like you, and I needed it, and—” He groaned, his hands fisting the fabric tighter like it might somehow save him from further humiliation. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Minho’s chest tightened at the raw honesty in Jisung’s voice, but he forced himself to keep it light, to keep his touch gentle as he brushed his fingers through Jisung’s hair again. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said softly. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”
Jisung stiffened, his head snapping up, his eyes wide and incredulous. “I couldn’t just ask!” he sputtered, his voice pitching higher, like the very thought was ridiculous. “That would’ve been weird, right? Why would I—” He stopped, his lips pressing into a tight, trembling line, and his gaze dropped again, his voice suddenly quieter. “Why would I need your scent all the time? We’re just...” A shaky breath. “We’re just friends.”
Minho felt something sharp lodge itself beneath his ribs, something that wasn’t entirely unfamiliar but still managed to throw him off balance. He swallowed around it, forcing himself to nod, to keep his expression easy.
“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his voice lighter than it should’ve been. “Just friends.”
The words sat in his chest like an unwelcome guest, making themselves comfortable in all the places he’d rather they didn’t. Just friends. It should’ve been enough. It was enough—until now. Until Jisung curled into him like he belonged there, shaking apart in his arms, smelling like he’d been dipped in something too sweet and left to simmer.
And then there was that.
My alpha.
Minho closed his eyes for a fraction too long, letting the words bounce around his head like a bad song he couldn’t shake. It was probably the heat talking. Probably desperation. Probably a whole list of things Minho could pretend to believe if he tried hard enough. But the ache settling in his chest wasn’t buying it.
Jisung shifted against him with a soft, broken noise, his fingers curling tighter in the fabric of Minho’s hoodie like letting go wasn’t an option. Minho sighed, his fingers combing absently through Jisung’s hair, pretending he wasn’t cataloguing every little tremble. He couldn’t stay like this—not when every second felt like he was standing at the edge of something steep and stupid. Jisung needed him to keep his head screwed on straight. Needed him to be the sensible one, the one who wasn’t currently having a minor crisis over a couple of words and the way Jisung felt pressed against him.
“Sungie,” Minho said, clearing his throat, his hand stilling in Jisung’s hair like he needed a second to remember how to function. “I need to get you some things, okay? Food, painkillers… probably a fan.”
Jisung didn’t even hesitate. “No.” The word came out shaky and immediate, like Minho had suggested something completely unreasonable, like stepping out of the room would be some kind of crime. His grip tightened, his head shaking weakly against Minho’s chest. “Don’t go. Please, hyung. Don’t leave.”
Minho exhaled through his nose, the plea sinking into him like it had been waiting for the right moment to ruin his life. His instincts clawed at him, telling him to stay, to sink deeper, to do something, but he forced himself to focus on the present—on Jisung, who was a mess of heat and longing, and not the part of Minho that wanted to give him everything he asked for.
“I’m not going anywhere, Sungie,” he said, trying for firm but landing somewhere closer to fond. “I’ll just be in the kitchen. You need to eat something, and you need something for the pain.” His fingers brushed lightly over Jisung’s temple, coaxing him gently. “I’ll be right back.”
Jisung hesitated, his grip loosening fractionally as his eyes lifted to meet Minho’s. Still, he didn’t let go, his voice small and uncertain. “Just… hurry.”
Minho swallowed around the tightness in his throat, brushing Jisung’s hair back gently. “I will,” he promised, because he always did.
He eased Jisung back into the pile of blankets and—god help him—his stolen clothes, straightening slowly like peeling himself away took effort he didn’t want to admit to. He stood there for a second too long, watching the way Jisung curled into the hoodie, face half-buried in the fabric like it could replace him.
Minho sighed, running a hand down his face as he stepped out, his footsteps softer than they should’ve been. Even as he left the room, Jisung’s scent clung to him— stubborn and sticky, like it had found a home in him and wasn’t planning to leave.
The apartment was too quiet—the kind of quiet that made Minho feel like he was being left alone with his own thoughts as some sort of cosmic punishment. The faint bubbling of water on the stove filled the space, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the mental chaos looping in his head like a bad remix.
Jisung’s words were stuck on repeat—Why would I need your scent all the time? We’re just friends. Right on cue, his brain countered with the way Jisung had clung to him, breathless and trembling, voice cracking on my alpha.
Minho let out a sharp breath, rubbing a hand over his face. Yeah. Those two things really added up well. Real consistent messaging. The part of his brain that liked to overanalyse things was having a field day, but he couldn’t let himself go down that particular rabbit hole right now. Not when Jisung was in the other room, practically melting into a pile of Minho’s clothes, like without them he’d shatter into something Minho wouldn’t know how to put back together.
His chest ached in a way he wasn’t ready to deal with, instincts pulling in one direction, logic in the other. Jisung needed him to be calm, composed. Not... whatever this was. What he didn’t need was Minho standing here, staring into a pot of boiling water like it held the answers to life’s greatest mysteries.
The water boiled over with an angry hiss, snapping Minho out of his spiral, and he swore under his breath as he turned down the heat, stirring the noodles with far more aggression than necessary. Right. Focus. Food. He could do that. He could be the responsible one. The guy who makes ramen and doesn’t get thrown off by a single word muttered in desperation.
And later—when the heat wasn’t messing with Jisung’s head and Minho wasn’t feeling like a walking crisis—he could deal with the uncomfortable fact that the phrase my alpha had latched onto him like a particularly stubborn piece of gum.
When the ramen was done, he set the bowl on the tray, adding a glass of water and the painkillers he’d grabbed earlier. He glanced toward the hallway and—yep. Jisung’s scent was still there, thick and sweet, curling through the air like it was mocking him. Minho rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly, before picking up the tray.
He could get through tonight without losing his mind. Probably.
The light in Jisung’s room was dim, the bedside lamp casting soft, flickering shadows over the mess of blankets and clothes piled high around him. He was still curled in the centre, half-buried like he’d made a nest out of Minho’s entire laundry cycle. His head lifted slightly when Minho stepped inside, eyes heavy-lidded but watchful, and Minho felt that familiar pull in his chest—the one he kept pretending wasn’t there.
“I brought you ramen,” Minho said, setting the tray down on the nightstand with careful precision, like it was something fragile. “And painkillers. Thought you might need them.”
Jisung hesitated, his hands gripping the hoodie with a kind of quiet desperation, fabric bunching beneath his touch. “Thanks,” he murmured, voice soft, almost like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak.
Minho crouched beside the bed, resting a hand lightly against the edge of the nest, feeling the warmth radiating from it—from Jisung. “You want me to help you eat?” He tried to keep it casual, tried not to let on that the thought of Jisung too worn down to hold a fork made something in him ache.
Jisung shook his head quickly, his cheeks colouring, eyes flickering away like Minho had suggested something scandalous. “No, I… I can do it. Just…” His fingers tightened around the hoodie, knuckles pale against the fabric. “Just don’t go, okay?”
Minho’s chest tightened, but the words left him easily. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, the promise slipping out before he could think better of it. “Not unless you want me to.”
Jisung’s eyes met his again, lingering just long enough to make Minho’s skin feel too tight, before he ducked his head, refocusing on the hoodie in his lap like it held all the answers he was too afraid to say out loud. He didn’t respond, but his grip on the fabric said enough.
Minho sighed quietly, leaning back—but not too much, not enough to make Jisung tense, not enough to make him think Minho was leaving again. The tray of ramen sat untouched beside him, and Minho watched Jisung in the quiet, feeling like the walls were closing in with everything left unsaid.
Just friends.
The words rattled around in his head, flimsy and worn, but the weight of my alpha pressed heavier, sticking to him like something he couldn’t shake off no matter how hard he tried.
He glanced at the ramen again, watching the steam curl lazily into the air. He should tell Jisung to eat, to take the painkillers, to do literally anything but sit there clutching his hoodie like it could fix whatever was going on inside his head. But instead, he stayed silent, his thoughts looping in circles he wasn’t ready to break.
Maybe the truth—whatever it was—was somewhere in between.
Or maybe Minho was just an idiot for sitting here, hoping the answer would magically reveal itself between mouthfuls of ramen and the weight of Jisung’s scent thick in the air.
The room had settled into a fragile kind of quiet, the kind that felt like it was waiting for something to break. Minho sat on the floor beside the bed, back against the frame, arms draped over his knees in what could almost pass for casual if his brain wasn’t running itself in circles. Jisung had finished the ramen not long ago—the empty bowl sitting lopsided on the nightstand like it had been abandoned mid-thought—but he was still curled up in the middle of the nest, fingers tangled in Minho’s hoodie like it was stitched to his skin, like he didn’t trust himself to let go. Like he knew, deep down, that if he did, everything might fall apart.
Minho sighed, letting his breath stretch long and slow, fighting the urge to reach out and untangle Jisung’s grip, to smooth down the fabric stretched tight between restless fingers. Instead, he stayed where he was, watching the way Jisung burrowed further into the mess of blankets and Minho’s stolen clothes, his face pressed so close like he was trying to soak Minho in by sheer proximity.
It would’ve been funny, if it wasn’t hitting Minho right in the chest.
He looked so soft, so impossibly small, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks, his breathing finally evening out after the earlier mess of sobs and gasps.
Minho wanted to move closer. God, he wanted to. Wanted to climb back onto the bed, let Jisung press in against him again, tuck him in tight, feel the warmth of him seep into his bones. His hands twitched against his knees with the weight of it, the want. But the air was still too thick, cloying and sweet in a way that was anything but comforting. Beneath the surface sweetness, there was more. Heat, need—something sharp and needy that wrapped around Minho’s ribs and squeezed.
It was driving him insane.
He curled his hands into fists, squeezing until his knuckles ached, staring hard at the floor like maybe it held some kind of answers. He’d been fine—fine—until Jisung had whispered it earlier, voice trembling and wrecked.
My alpha.
His breath hitched, and he shut his eyes briefly, dragging a hand down his face.
Heat did weird things to people. Messed with their heads. It wasn’t real. Probably. But then again, reality was staring him right in the face—Jisung, curled up in his bed, clutching Minho’s hoodie in tight fists, the fabric pulled close like it could offer something Minho couldn’t. And the way Jisung’s eyes had clung to him, wide and desperate, made it hard to pretend this didn’t mean something.
“Hyung?”
Minho’s head snapped up, and—shit.
Jisung was watching him, wide-eyed and glassy, the hoodie bunched up to his face like a shield. He looked so small, so uncertain, and Minho felt the crack in his chest widen.
“Yeah?” Minho’s voice came out rougher than he intended, and he cleared his throat, trying to sound normal, unaffected. Like he wasn’t actively unravelling by the second.
Jisung hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the hoodie. “Are you… okay?” His voice was barely there, gentle, almost cautious. “You’ve been quiet.”
Minho let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, leaning his head back against the bedframe with a low, humourless laugh. “I’m fine, Sungie,” he murmured, even though they both knew he was full of shit. “Just... thinking.”
“Oh.” Jisung nodded slowly, dragging his lip between his teeth, looking like he wanted to say more but couldn’t quite figure out how. After a beat, he curled in a little tighter. “You can tell me if you want.”
Minho’s chest ached at the sincerity in Jisung’s voice, at how easy it was for him to say things like that, to just offer himself up without a second thought.
Minho huffed out another soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not sure you’d wanna hear it.”
“I would.” Jisung said it too quickly, eyes flicking up, cheeks pink as he glanced away again. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t tell me things. Even if it’s about... this.”
Minho’s breath caught. He stared at Jisung, watching the way his hands twisted in the fabric, knuckles turning white. About this. As if Minho didn’t already think about it too much, as if it wasn’t already taking up more space in his head than he’d ever admit.
Minho sighed, his fingers flexing restlessly against his knees. “I told you I’d stay,” he said finally, his voice softer now, the weight of it settling between them. “But I don’t know if I should.”
Jisung stiffened instantly, his scent spiking sharp and anxious, and Minho cursed himself for saying anything. It hit him then—faint but unmistakable—the usual soft sweetness of vanilla now laced with something off, something singed at the edges. Like sugar cookies left in the oven too long, a sweetness turned bitter, curling in the back of his throat. It sat uneasily in the air between them, and Minho hated it.
“What?” Jisung whispered, his voice thin and trembling. “Why?”
Minho exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers tugging a little too hard at the strands. “Because I don’t trust myself, Sungie,” he admitted, the words landing with the kind of weight he couldn’t dodge. “I don’t want to leave you alone. I don’t want you to go through this alone. But staying here, with your scent everywhere, with... all of this—” He gestured vaguely, his jaw tightening like it might hold everything else in. “I don’t know if I can keep myself in check.”
Jisung’s breath stuttered, his fingers twisting tighter around the hoodie. His eyes locked onto Minho’s, wide and imploring, and it made something in Minho’s chest squeeze too tight. “Please don’t go,” he whispered, and Minho felt it—sharp, precise, cutting through his resolve like a knife through butter.
“Hyung, I don’t— I don’t want you to leave.” The words cracked apart at the edges, and Minho hated how easily they slipped under his skin, how they settled in all the places he’d been trying to ignore.
Jisung’s lips parted, like he had more to say, but all that came out was a shaky exhale and the faint tremor that ran through his whole body, pressing him further into the nest of Minho’s clothes like it could somehow hold him together.
Minho sat there, fingers flexing against his knees, every instinct screaming at him to do something—anything. Fix it. Fix Jisung. Fix himself. But he stayed put, biting down hard on the urge to dive headfirst into a mess he wasn’t sure he could clean up.
Jisung exhaled shakily, the sound breaking apart as he pressed his forehead deeper into the hoodie, like he could disappear into it if he just tried hard enough. “I didn’t mean it,” he mumbled, his voice muffled but hitting Minho like a freight train anyway.
Minho blinked, his brows pulling together. “Didn’t mean what?”
Jisung chewed at his lower lip, his teeth worrying the skin until it turned red, his hand hovering uselessly near his mouth, like he wanted to swallow the words back down. “When I said we’re just friends.” He whispered the words, like he’d been holding onto them for too long and wasn’t sure if it was too late. “I didn’t mean it. I... I don’t think I ever meant it.”
Minho’s chest constricted, something sharp catching in his throat. He swallowed against it, his mouth opening, but Jisung barrelled on, words tumbling out in a nervous rush.
“I know it’s stupid,” Jisung said quickly, his fingers fidgeting relentlessly with the hem of the hoodie. “I know that’s all we are, and if that’s all you want, that’s okay. It’s fine. It won’t change anything, I promise. But I—” He broke off, shaking his head, his tears soaking into the fabric he refused to let go of. “You’ve always been my alpha. Even if you don’t feel the same way, even if you never do, that’s okay. I just... I didn’t want you to leave thinking I didn’t mean it. That I didn’t mean anything I said.”
Minho stared, and for once, his usually fast-thinking brain offered him absolutely nothing. Just a slow, painful looping of Jisung’s words, over and over, and the suffocating realization that he was in no way prepared for this conversation.
Jisung, of course, wasn’t done.
"If you want to leave, I get it," he rambled, his hands trembling as they twisted the hoodie in his lap, like he could knead the uncertainty from his own body. “I’ll give all your stuff back when this is over, and I won’t—I won’t take anything again.” His voice cracked, his eyes darting everywhere but at Minho. “I’m sorry for taking it in the first place. I just... I needed it. I needed you. And I know that’s not fair, but I’ll stop, I promise. I’ll—”
“Stop.” Minho’s voice cut through the spiral, softer than he expected, but still enough to make Jisung freeze, his breath hitching sharply. “Sungie, stop.”
Jisung looked up at him then, eyes wide, rimmed red, and Minho felt the last thread of his composure fray dangerously. There was no avoiding it anymore. No brushing it aside. Jisung wasn’t saying things because of the heat, or the exhaustion, or the mess of emotions swirling inside him. No, this was real, stripped down and bare, and Minho felt completely out of his depth.
Minho licked his lips, his voice quieter now, raw and cautious. “Do you mean it? Everything you just said. Do you really mean it?”
Jisung’s breath shuddered, his tears spilling over again as he nodded, frantic and desperate. “Yes,” he whispered, voice trembling but sure. “I mean it, hyung. I swear. I mean all of it.”
Minho exhaled slowly, shakily, his heart pounding loud enough that it felt impossible Jisung couldn’t hear it too. Without thinking, he reached out, cupping Jisung’s cheek, his thumb swiping gently over damp skin, wiping away the tears that just wouldn’t stop. For a long moment, he just looked, his thoughts a tangled mess, but his touch steady.
“Sungie,” Minho murmured, his voice low and careful. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize…”
Jisung swallowed hard, his gaze searching Minho’s face like he was looking for a way out, some kind of escape route. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” he whispered, and Minho hated the way his voice wavered, the way he was already bracing for the worst. “I just... I needed you to know.”
Minho shook his head, something between a laugh and a sigh slipping past his lips, and his thumb traced over Jisung’s cheek again, softer this time. “I do,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, raw and terrifying and way too real. “I feel the same, Sungie.”
Jisung blinked up at him, frozen like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. Minho felt the moment hanging between them, delicate and terrifying, teetering on the edge of something they couldn’t take back. And instead of doing the sensible thing—holding it in, keeping his carefully constructed walls intact—he let go.
His scent slipped into the air, slow and deliberate, curling around them in soft, steady waves. It wasn’t just his usual clean musk anymore—it carried something warmer now, richer—like fresh cedarwood and something just a little indulgent, a little too sweet, like caramelized sugar catching on the edge of a pan. A confession wrapped up in scent, filling the space between them in a way words never could. Minho saw the way Jisung’s lips parted on a shaky exhale, his lashes fluttering like he was trying not to give in to it, but failing spectacularly.
Yeah. No going back now.
“You’re my omega,” Minho murmured, his voice lower than he meant, a little rough around the edges. His fingers traced along Jisung’s jaw, the pulse beneath his skin a rapid, unsteady drum. Minho’s scent deepened, settling into something heavier, something safe—spiced warmth that clung to the air like it had always belonged there. “I think I’ve known for a long time.” He swallowed hard, thumb brushing against Jisung’s cheek. “But I didn’t want to push you. Didn’t want to risk... this.”
Jisung’s breath hitched, and Minho could see the hesitation warring with hope in his eyes, the quiet vulnerability still lurking beneath the surface.
“But now?” Minho exhaled shakily, the edges of a smile pulling at his lips. “Now I don’t think I can hold it back anymore. You’re mine, Sungie. You’ve always been mine.”
Jisung’s lips parted, but no words came, just a shaky exhale as Minho’s scent settled over him, warm and certain, leaving no room for doubt.
“Really?” Jisung’s voice was barely audible, but the way he looked at Minho—hopeful, wide-eyed, and entirely too fragile—made Minho’s chest squeeze tight.
Minho let out a quiet laugh, his hand cradling Jisung’s face like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Yeah,” he said, voice steady now. “Really.”
Jisung’s face crumpled with something softer, something real, and Minho caught him before he could fall apart again, pulling him in, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of his head.
“I’ll be your alpha, Sungie,” he whispered, his arms tightening around him. “Always.”
Jisung’s breathing was a mess—shaky, uneven, every inhale catching in his throat like it couldn’t quite make it all the way through. Minho felt it in the way Jisung shifted, the first soft whimper pressing into the space between them like an apology. He trembled, his fingers curling into tight fists, gripping the sheets like they might steady him, his legs drawing up, coiling inward, as if trying to find a space small enough where none of this could touch him.
“Hyung…”
Minho’s stomach dropped, that single word slicing through whatever resolve he had left, tugging at the place inside him that had been holding on by a thread for far too long. Jisung’s voice was wrecked, and the way his scent spiked—fuck. Minho gritted his teeth, trying to keep his focus, to stay still, to not let the way Jisung was falling apart pull him down with him.
He was losing. He had been losing from the moment Jisung had said my alpha.
“Please.” Jisung gasped, his head falling back against the pillow, his body trembling, scent wrapping around Minho, thick and sticky and so much.
Minho curled his fingers into the mattress like it might keep him steady—except it wouldn’t, because nothing was working anymore. Jisung’s scent was everywhere, sliding under his skin, winding through his ribs, threading into every breath he took. It was all-consuming, honey-sweet with an edge that made Minho’s head swim, made his instincts curl tighter and tighter.
“Sungie…” Minho’s voice came out rough, strained, like it had to claw its way out of his throat. He shook his head, trying to remember how to breathe properly, how to form words that weren’t the ones Jisung clearly wanted to hear. “If I get any closer, I won’t be able to stop.”
Jisung’s eyes fluttered open, wide and glassy, and Minho regretted looking because there was no way to come back from it now. “I don’t want you to stop,” Jisung whispered, soft but unwavering, fingers fisting the fabric tighter. “I don’t want you to.”
Minho cursed under his breath, something low and raw scraping against his ribs, and before he could think better of it, he growled. The sound vibrated through him, slipping out too easily, too naturally. Jisung—Jisung—gasped, his scent hitting like a sucker punch, rich and sticky-sweet, the usual soft vanilla and honey now laced with something sharper. Raspberries. Tart and cloying, curling around Minho like it had been waiting for him to break.
Minho barely had time to process it before his restraint gave up entirely, splintering under the weight of it all. His body moved on instinct, crawling into the nest, closing the space between them in one fluid motion, like this had been inevitable from the start. The raspberries lingered, sinking into his lungs, clinging to his skin, and Minho had the fleeting thought that he might never get the scent out of his head. Not that he wanted to.
Jisung blinked up at him, lips parted, cheeks flushed, and Minho felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, one gust away from tipping over. He should move, should say something that didn’t make him sound like he was seconds away from losing it completely. But then Jisung’s voice broke through the thick haze between them, fragile and pleading.
“Please, Minho,” he murmured, voice breaking like he couldn’t hold it together anymore. “Please, hyung... it hurts.”
Minho swallowed hard, his grip tightening involuntarily where his hands were braced on either side of Jisung. Yeah. Yeah, he was fucked.
Minho exhaled, the sound a little too sharp, like it was scraping against the walls of his chest. His whole body burned with the effort of staying still, of keeping his hands from doing what they wanted, of not letting himself drown. “Sungie…” he rasped, shaking his head even as he dipped lower, his nose brushing against the crook of Jisung’s neck.
And then it hit him. Full force.
The scent—too sweet, too strong, too much—rushed into his lungs like it had been waiting for him, curling thick and sticky and devastatingly right. It made his mouth go dry, his heart hammer painfully hard, his instincts sinking their teeth in and holding.
He inhaled again, deeper this time, and it felt like his whole body reacted at once. Jisung trembled beneath him, pressing closer, his breath hitching as Minho nosed against his scent gland, chasing that intoxicating sweetness.
Jisung whimpered, a soft, pleading sound that Minho felt all the way down to his bones. “Hyung... please, closer.”
Minho’s restraint was paper-thin, fraying with every breath, and this time when the growl rumbled low in his chest, he didn’t stop it. Jisung arched up at the sound, like it was exactly what he needed, his head tilting further, baring the delicate curve of his neck in a way that made Minho’s mouth water.
Minho’s lips parted, hovering just above Jisung’s scent gland, his breath hot and shaky against the flushed skin. And then—before he could think too hard, before he could remind himself of all the reasons he shouldn’t—his tongue flicked out, dragging slow and deliberate over the sensitive spot.
Jisung’s reaction was instant. His back arched, his hands flying up to grab at Minho’s shirt, a desperate, shattered cry breaking from his lips. His scent spiked, rich and heavy, wrapping around Minho’s senses like it had no intention of letting him go.
Minho groaned against Jisung’s skin, pressing in closer, his lips brushing over the spot again and again, tasting the sweetness that had been driving him out of his mind. He could taste it—rich and warm, like the first bite of raspberry vanilla cake, the kind that melts on your tongue and lingers long after it’s gone. It was intoxicating, cloying in a way that made Minho's head spin, like he’d never be able to get enough.
Jisung trembled under him, breathless and wrecked, his hands twisting in Minho’s shirt, dragging him closer, closer—like he was trying to sink Minho even deeper into that heady sweetness, like he wanted him to drown in it. And fuck, Minho wasn’t putting up much of a fight.
“Sungie,” Minho murmured, voice hoarse, raw with restraint hanging on by a thread. “You taste—” He cut himself off, shaking his head slightly, but not pulling away. Not this time. Instead, he inhaled deeply, letting the scent consume him, his lips lingering just a little longer against Jisung’s skin. “I don’t know how to stop.”
Jisung let out a breathy sob, his fingers clutching tighter, his voice nothing but a whisper now. “Don’t stop.”
Minho’s resolve crumbled, and for the first time, he didn’t try to put the pieces back together. He let himself sink into the warmth, into the need, into Jisung.
And he didn’t stop.
Minho couldn’t hold back anymore. His control had been slipping for a while now—eroding under Jisung’s touch, his scent, the way he trembled so easily. But it finally snapped somewhere between Jisung’s broken moan and the way his body arched up into him, pliant and trusting, like he already knew Minho would catch him.
His hands moved before his thoughts could keep up, sliding under Jisung’s shirt, palms meeting feverish skin. Jisung gasped, his stomach twitching beneath Minho’s touch, heat radiating off him in waves that made Minho’s head feel stuffed with cotton. His thumbs swept up, over soft skin, tracing along his ribs before brushing higher, finding the delicate peaks of Jisung’s nipples.
The reaction was instant. A sharp, breathless cry punched from Jisung’s lips, his back arching again, his chest pressing into Minho’s touch like he couldn’t help himself. Like he didn’t want to help himself.
Minho’s breath hitched, his grip tightening, and he let out a low, involuntary groan that felt like it had been sitting at the base of his throat for years.
Jisung whimpered, fingers clutching weakly at Minho’s shoulders, his body tilting into every touch with the kind of blind trust that made Minho’s stomach twist. He should’ve pulled back. Should’ve taken a second to think. But Jisung was right here, trembling and warm, and Minho was too far gone to pretend he didn’t want this anymore.
“Sungie,” he rasped, dipping his head, his lips brushing against Jisung’s scent gland again, inhaling deeply. The scent hit him hard—too sweet, too thick, too much of everything. His hands smoothed back down, tracing the shape of Jisung’s waist before gliding up again, his thumbs circling lazily over the sensitive peaks of Jisung’s chest.
Jisung moaned, soft and wrecked, his head tipping back against the pillows, fingers moving to clutch at Minho’s hair, threading through the strands like it was instinct—like it was the only thing that made sense.
The shirt had to go.
Minho didn’t even think—just curled his fingers under the hem and tugged it up, baring Jisung’s flushed skin to the dim light. And fuck, Minho wasn’t prepared for how gorgeous he looked, chest heaving with every ragged breath, honeyed skin glistening, eyes blown wide and desperate.
“You’re perfect,” Minho muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them, but it didn’t matter because Jisung’s breath caught like it meant something.
His hands spread wide over Jisung’s chest, fingers skimming over his nipples again, teasing lightly just to hear that breathy little sound Jisung made, the one that went straight to Minho’s gut.
“Hyung…” Jisung gasped, his voice trembling on the edge of a moan as Minho dipped lower, his lips pressing against the hollow of Jisung’s throat. He moved slowly, deliberately, mouthing over Jisung’s collarbone, down the centre of his chest, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. He tasted like salt and sweetness, his skin so warm it felt like it might burn.
Minho’s mouth found one of Jisung’s nipples, closing over it without hesitation, his tongue flicking against it in a slow, teasing sweep.
Jisung shattered, a sharp cry escaping him, his back bowing, hands fisting hard in Minho’s hair. The sound sent something dangerous crawling under Minho’s skin, and he groaned against Jisung’s chest, sucking lightly, then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud.
“You like that?” Minho murmured against his skin, moving to the other side, giving it the same attention. He licked, slow and deliberate, feeling every shiver and arch, every sharp inhale like it was fuel to the fire already burning inside him.
“Y-yes,” Jisung stammered, his voice thin and desperate. “Yes, hyung—please…”
Minho’s lips curled against his skin, satisfaction coiling low in his stomach. He trailed lower, over Jisung’s ribs, his teeth scraping lightly as he went. Every whimper, every shudder made his grip tighten, made it harder to remember all the reasons he should stop.
By the time he reached Jisung’s stomach, Minho felt like he was losing his mind. He traced his tongue along the faint lines of muscle, tasting the sweat slicking his skin, breathing in the scent of him thick in the air. Jisung was falling apart, his breathing fast and erratic, his thighs trembling beneath Minho’s hands.
Minho pressed a kiss just above the waistband of Jisung’s track pants, his nose grazing the fabric, and fuck, the scent of him was so much stronger here.
Jisung whimpered, his hips shifting restlessly, the outline of his cock straining against the fabric. Minho swallowed hard, his throat tight as he glanced up—Jisung’s face was flushed deep, his lips parted, his eyes pleading.
“Minho,” Jisung gasped, and it was too much. Minho couldn’t not respond to it.
He dipped lower, dragging his nose along the hard length of Jisung’s cock through the fabric, breathing him in, and the way Jisung’s body jolted at the contact made Minho’s chest rumble with a low growl.
Jisung sobbed out a plea, his hands pulling at Minho, his body arching up like he was offering himself up completely.
Minho slid his hands up Jisung’s thighs, his fingers pressing gently, steadying him. “Sungie,” he murmured, his voice rough and almost unfamiliar to his own ears. “You smell so fucking good.”
Jisung whimpered again, the sound cracking apart, and Minho’s thumbs brushed over the waistband, teasing, deliberate, testing his own control even though they both knew it was already gone.
“Hyung… please…”
Minho exhaled, his breath hot against Jisung’s clothed cock, his lips ghosting over the fabric. His thoughts were long gone, drowned under the scent, the heat, the sheer need radiating off Jisung like a beacon.
Minho let himself have it. No more holding back, no more pretending.
He was lost in him. And he wasn’t going to fight it anymore.
Minho’s breaths came short and shallow, his head spinning as his fingers curled under the waistband of Jisung’s track pants. He shouldn’t have been shaking, but he was. He tugged them down in one fluid motion, boxers dragged along with them.
Minho froze.
The sight that met him knocked the air from his lungs. Jisung—bare and flushed, sprawled out like something straight out of Minho’s dreams, the kind he never let himself linger on for too long. The kind that left him wrecked and aching, chasing a feeling he had no business wanting. His cock was flushed dark, leaking precum against his stomach, and lower—Minho swallowed hard, his tongue darting out instinctively. Slick glistened at his rim, leaking steadily, the small flutter of muscle a desperate invitation Minho wasn’t sure he was strong enough to turn down anymore.
A growl rumbled low in his chest, more instinct than thought, and Minho barely registered the way Jisung shivered at the sound. His hands smoothed up Jisung’s thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he spread him open.
Jisung shivered, a soft whimper slipping past his lips, his legs falling open without hesitation as if he wanted—needed—Minho to take everything he had to offer. Minho hiked his legs higher, folding him slightly so his feet planted on the bed, and Jisung gasped—his hands flying to clutch at the sheets, already anticipating what was coming.
He dipped his head, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Jisung’s thigh, dragging his lips over heated skin. Minho’s tongue flicked out, tasting him, and the salt-sweet tang of Jisung’s sweat against his skin had him groaning, pressing another kiss, then another, lips and teeth leaving faint marks in their wake.
Jisung squirmed under him, a soft, breathless “Hyung…” spilling from his lips, his thighs trembling beneath Minho’s touch.
Minho barely heard him. He was too busy chasing the scent—rich, thick, and suffocating in the best possible way. It curled into his lungs, sticky and sweet, making it impossible to think about anything but more. He kissed lower, his nose brushing against the crease of Jisung’s thigh, right where the scent was strongest. His lips hovered over the slick-coated rim, and he felt Jisung shudder beneath him.
Jisung whimpered again, hips shifting restlessly, and Minho knew he should say something—anything—but all that came out was a low, guttural sound before his tongue swept over the tight muscle in a slow, messy stripe.
The taste hit him like a drug, thick and cloying, and Minho groaned, the sound vibrating against Jisung’s skin. He licked again, slower this time, pressing in, tasting him, losing himself in the wet heat.
Jisung cried out, his back arching, his fingers flying to Minho’s hair, gripping like he was scared Minho might pull away. “Oh—oh my god—Minho—”
Minho groaned into him, the taste devastating, slick and heat and something so uniquely Jisung that Minho didn’t think he’d ever recover. He licked again, slower this time, pressing in more insistently, feeling the way Jisung’s body clenched around nothing, desperate to pull him in.
Minho didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He pushed his tongue in deeper, fucking him with slow, deliberate thrusts, feeling the way Jisung clenched around him, slick and hot and perfect. Minho’s grip on his thighs tightened, holding him open, keeping him right where he needed him.
“Hyung,” Jisung gasped, breathless and broken, his thighs shaking in Minho’s hold. “Please—more, please—I can’t—”
Minho dragged his tongue over him again, teasing at the fluttering rim, feeling Jisung’s entire body tense and quake beneath him. He pushed his tongue inside, just barely, and Jisung sobbed, his fingers twisting painfully tight in Minho’s hair, his legs shaking around Minho’s shoulders.
“You’re so desperate, Sungie,” Minho rasped, his voice rough, the words slipping out unfiltered, raw. “You want it that bad?”
“Yes,” Jisung whimpered, breath ragged, his body rocking into Minho’s touch, mindless and wrecked. “Please, hyung, please, I need it—I need you.”
Minho cursed under his breath, sinking his tongue in deeper, more insistent, his lips sealing over him as he devoured everything Jisung had to give. His slick coated Minho’s mouth, warm and intoxicating, dripping down his chin, and Minho needed more.
Jisung was unravelling, panting out little pleas between choked sobs, his body arching into Minho’s mouth, chasing the pressure, the heat. “Alpha—please, Minho, I need—” His voice cracked, his body trembling with each slow, torturous stroke of Minho’s tongue.
Minho groaned, the word alpha slicing through his self-control like a blade, raw and perfect, wrapping around him so tight he thought he might choke on it. He sucked harder, his tongue pushing deeper, and Jisung keened, hips jerking up, his body begging for more.
Minho pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his chin dripping with Jisung’s slick. He dragged his tongue over his lower lip, tasting him again, his chest heaving. The sight in front of him—Jisung flushed, panting, his eyes blown wide and glassy—was almost too much.
And then Jisung whispered it, his voice wrecked but so sure. “Please, Minho—fuck me.”
Minho's head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Jisung’s. His own restraint had been hanging by a thread for what felt like forever, and that thread snapped with a sharp, clean break.
He surged up, covering Jisung’s body with his own, his mouth crashing against Jisung’s in a kiss that was messy, desperate, and full of every thought Minho hadn’t let himself have until now. Jisung moaned into it, his hands flying to Minho’s shoulders, dragging him closer, and Minho let him, let himself fall right into it.
He licked into Jisung’s mouth, tasting the sweetness of his slick still clinging to his tongue, sharing it between them as Jisung whimpered and writhed beneath him, arching into every touch.
Jisung sucked on Minho’s tongue, his nails digging into Minho’s back, the sound of their heavy breathing filling the air. When they finally parted, it was with gasping breaths, their foreheads pressed together and Jisung’s breath was a thin, pleading whisper against Minho’s lips.
“Fuck me, alpha.”
Minho groaned, his grip tightening, his nose dragging along Jisung’s throat, inhaling deeply, letting himself have this. Finally.
A low, feral growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating against Jisung’s flushed skin, making him shudder. “Yeah?” he whispered, the words rough, raw. “You need me that bad, baby?”
His teeth grazed Jisung’s throat, sharp and possessive, the edge of his control fraying with every ragged breath. “I’ll give you everything.”
There was no turning back now.
Minho barely had time to process the urgency in Jisung’s trembling hands before they were tugging at his shirt, weak but insistent. He hovered for half a second, watching Jisung’s wide, glassy eyes staring up at him, lips parted, chest heaving—fucking hell. Whatever restraint he thought he had left didn’t stand a chance. He stripped the shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind him, because honestly, what did it even matter anymore?
Jisung’s gaze dropped immediately, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes locked onto him like he was something to be devoured. The sheer awe in his expression sent a sharp jolt through Minho, one that hit deep, twisting low in his gut. And then Jisung’s hands were reaching for him again, fumbling clumsily at his waistband, his fingers trembling but determined.
Minho huffed a shaky laugh, the sound rough around the edges. “Easy, baby,” he murmured, his voice hoarse as he helped Jisung push the rest of his clothes off, kicking them aside like they were just another obstacle between them.
The second he was bare, Jisung’s breath hitched audibly, his gaze dark and heavy, flickering over Minho’s body with something dangerously close to reverence. It made Minho’s chest tighten, his skin prickling with heat under the intensity of it.
And then—fuck. Jisung tugged him down, pulling him closer until Minho was braced over him, knees caging him in, hands gripping the headboard for support.
Minho barely had time to think, barely had time to breathe, before Jisung’s mouth was on him, dragging a slow, wet stripe from the base of his cock to the tip.
Minho’s head dropped back, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. “Shit, Sungie.” His fingers tightened against the headboard, knuckles whitening as he forced himself to stay still. Stay present. But it was a losing battle with Jisung licking into him like he was starving, taking him inch by inch, warm and wet and so fucking perfect.
Minho’s instincts clawed at him, demanding more, demanding everything, but he forced himself to hold back—barely.
“You’re perfect,” he rasped, voice thick with heat, his hand trembling as it came down to brush through Jisung’s hair. “So fucking good, baby… look at you.”
Jisung moaned around him, the vibrations shooting through Minho’s spine, making his hips jerk forward involuntarily. Jisung took it, took him, his lips stretched tight, eyes watering but so focused, so intent. The sheer determination in his expression made Minho’s gut churn, made him ache deep and low, a need twisting in his chest that he wasn’t sure he could contain much longer.
Minho groaned, his restraint slipping, his hips rolling forward in shallow thrusts. “That’s it,” he breathed, his grip shifting to Jisung’s jaw, thumb stroking over his cheek. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”
Jisung whimpered, the sound muffled around the length of Minho’s cock, his fingers digging into Minho’s hips, trying to pull him in deeper, to get more. And Minho—Minho let him. He let himself take.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his hips shifting in a slow, aching rhythm, dragging himself over the heat of Jisung’s mouth, pulse hammering in his ears.
Jisung’s throat fluttered around him, and Minho’s head dropped forward, watching the way his cock disappeared between Jisung’s swollen lips, slick with spit. Drool dripped from the corners of Jisung’s mouth, his eyes wet, glassy, utterly wrecked.
The slick heat of Jisung’s mouth, the soft suction that grew stronger with every slow bob of his head, had Minho’s legs shaking, his breath ragged. His other hand found Jisung’s chin, thumb tracing the wet stretch of his lips as he pulled back slightly, watching spit slide down his chin, glistening in the dim light.
“Messy, baby,” Minho murmured, his tone a little too fond, a little too gone. He swiped his thumb over Jisung’s swollen lower lip, pressing lightly before Jisung’s tongue darted out, tasting him again, eager and pliant.
Minho’s chest ached. He should stop. He should—fuck that.
He pressed the head of his cock to Jisung’s lips again, dragging it across them, watching the way Jisung’s breath stuttered, the way his mouth opened so easily, so willingly.
Minho didn’t stand a chance.
He surged down, capturing Jisung’s mouth in a kiss that was messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and hunger. Jisung melted into him, his hands flying to Minho’s shoulders, clutching tight, dragging him closer. Minho licked into his mouth, tasting himself on Jisung’s tongue—warm, salty, intoxicating—chasing it deeper, needing to have it, to have him.
Jisung whimpered against him, pressing up, arching, offering, and Minho couldn’t—didn’t—hold back. His hands slid down Jisung’s chest, finding the sensitive peaks of his nipples, rolling them between his fingers, earning a sharp gasp that he swallowed with another kiss.
Minho pulled back just enough to let his lips ghost along Jisung’s jaw, his breath hot, heavy, barely steady. “Lube?” he asked, voice rough, teetering on the edge of something dangerous. “Condoms?”
Jisung shook his head frantically, his eyes blown wide, pleading. “Just me, hyung,” he whispered, his voice trembling but sure. “Please. Wanna feel you. Just us.”
A flicker of reason tried to claw its way through the haze in Minho’s mind, but it barely stood a chance. No condom. No barrier. Nothing between them. His instincts roared at the idea, sinking their claws in deep, and for once, he didn’t try to fight it. He didn’t want to.
Minho’s mouth dragged down Jisung’s neck, already chasing more, already too far gone. His hands moved from Jisung’s chest, trailing down over heated skin before settling on his thighs, spreading them wider without thinking—without hesitation. Heat curled low in his gut, thick and insistent, winding tighter with every needy sound Jisung made.
The words slipped out before he could stop them, rough and low, dripping with something darker, something possessive.
“You want me to breed you, baby?”
Jisung whimpered, his whole body arching into Minho’s touch, trembling beneath him. “Yeah, yeah, I—fuck, I do,” he babbled, his fingers clutching desperately at Minho’s back, nails pressing in like he couldn’t get close enough. “Please, hyung. I need you. I need you so bad.”
Minho groaned, his lips grazing the flushed skin of Jisung’s throat, his instincts snarling under his skin, louder now, harder to ignore. “I’ll give you everything, baby. Everything.” he murmured against Jisung’s skin, voice thick with want.
Minho exhaled shakily, his teeth scraping against Jisung’s scent gland, pressing firm against the flushed skin. He’d hoped it might snap him out of this, make him think straight for once. It didn’t. Of course, it didn’t. If anything, it only poured gasoline on the fire already eating him alive.
“You smell so fucking good,” he murmured, breathing Jisung in like it was the only thing keeping him alive, letting it settle thick and heavy in his lungs. “You’re mine.”
Jisung moaned, his hips jerking up, his whole body trembling, begging. “Yours,” he gasped, voice cracking, nails digging into Minho’s skin, pulling him down, pulling him closer. “Always.”
And Minho—Minho believed him. He believed it in the way Jisung’s body melted under him, in the way his scent wrapped around them both like it belonged there, in the way the thought of filling him up, claiming him, made Minho’s blood run hot.
His instincts had won, and he wasn’t sorry.
Minho leaned back just enough to take in the sight beneath him—Jisung spread out, trembling, his body wound so tight he looked like he might come apart if Minho so much as breathed too hard. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of Jisung’s thigh, keeping him steady, keeping him open, while his other hand wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding it to where they both ached to connect.
The blunt head of his cock brushed against Jisung’s rim, slick and fluttering under the pressure, and Jisung’s breath hitched audibly, his lips parting around a soft, desperate moan. His body was shaking, his thighs trembling in Minho’s grip, but he wasn’t pulling away—he was tilting his hips up, chasing it, wanting it.
Minho swallowed hard, his voice rough when he spoke. “Breathe, Sungie,” he muttered, his thumb smoothing over Jisung’s thigh in what might’ve been comfort if Minho weren’t this close to losing it completely. He pushed forward, slow but sure, the tip catching before finally sliding past the tight resistance.
The heat swallowed him whole, wet and pulsing, and Minho swore under his breath, his eyes squeezing shut for half a second, grip tightening involuntarily. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jisung gasped, high and broken, his hands scrabbling against the sheets, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. Minho groaned, his head dropping for a moment, lips brushing over the curve of Jisung’s knee, because fuck—he felt perfect. Hot and wet and clenching around him like his body had been waiting for this, aching for it, like nothing else had ever been enough.
Jisung whimpered, his thighs trembling in Minho’s hold, his breath catching in stuttering little hiccups as he whispered, “Hyung… so—so much…”
“You feel so good,” Minho murmured, pressing deeper, inch by inch, his cock throbbing with every slow drag. “Better than I ever dreamed.”
Jisung’s reply was a broken whimper, his head tipping back, hair sticking to his damp forehead, his skin shining with sweat under the dim light. Minho watched him, drinking in the way his body stretched around him, the way he fluttered and clenched, like he was desperate to take all of him and still couldn’t get enough.
“You’re so good,” Minho whispered, voice husky, praise slipping out before he could stop it. “Taking me so well, Sungie. So fucking tight.”
Jisung’s hands fisted the sheets, his thighs quaking with every slow, deliberate push, his breath coming in sharp little gasps that sounded dangerously close to sobs. Minho’s cock twitched at the sound, a wave of pure need crashing over him, too sharp, too much. He sank in deeper, hips flush against Jisung’s ass, and let out a shaky exhale.
He shouldn’t have looked down. He knew better. But he did anyway, and the sight of where they were joined—his cock buried deep, disappearing into Jisung’s flushed, swollen rim—made him groan, his fingers tightening on Jisung’s thigh.
Jisung gasped, his body twitching beneath him, his nails finding Minho’s shoulders, gripping tightly. “Move,” he pleaded, his voice breaking against Minho’s lips. “Please, hyung—please move.”
Minho didn’t need to be told twice. He leaned down, bracing himself on his forearms, his chest pressing flush against Jisung’s as he nosed along his jaw, breath hot and unsteady. “Hold on, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing against Jisung’s ear before he rolled his hips forward, slow and deliberate. The drag of his cock against every sensitive inch inside Jisung pulled a ragged, desperate cry from him, his body arching up, seeking more.
“That’s it,” Minho muttered against Jisung’s lips, his voice heavy with something dangerous, something possessive. “Look at you, baby. So fucking perfect for me.”
Jisung whimpered, his head tipping back, his nails raking down Minho’s back, leaving faint, burning trails in his wake. “Faster,” he gasped, his voice trembling, his hips rising to meet each thrust. “Please… hyung, faster.”
Minho chuckled, breathless, teasing, but the restraint in his voice was hanging on by a thread. He pulled back just enough to drink in Jisung’s flushed, desperate face, his wide, pleading eyes. “Think you can handle it?” he asked, his voice dipping lower, teasing, but his cock twitched inside Jisung, already betraying him.
“Yes—yes, please, hyung—need it—” Jisung’s voice cracked on the last word, and that was it.
Minho’s control snapped like a live wire. His hips pulled back before driving forward in a sharp, deep thrust that had Jisung crying out, his back arching completely off the bed, his body clutching at Minho like it never wanted to let go.
“There it is,” Minho murmured, his lips hovering just above Jisung’s ear, his grip tightening where his arms framed Jisung’s head. The way Jisung clenched around him made him shudder, dragging a deep, satisfied growl from his chest. “That’s the spot, huh, baby? That’s what you needed?”
“Hyung!” Jisung sobbed, his hands clawing at Minho’s skin, his thighs trembling around Minho’s waist. “Yes—oh my god—yes, there—please, more—”
Minho didn’t hold back anymore. He thrust harder, sharper, grinding deep with every roll of his hips, watching Jisung’s face contort in sheer pleasure, his mouth falling open on gasps and cries that drove Minho wild.
Jisung’s scent spiked again, rich and intoxicating, filling Minho’s lungs, and it only spurred him on, made him thrust deeper, faster, dragging more sounds from Jisung’s wrecked, trembling form.
“You’re mine,” Minho snarled, his voice rough and possessive, his hands sliding down to grip Jisung’s thighs, spreading him open even wider. “Every inch of you, Sungie. Mine.”
Jisung sobbed at the words, his grip slipping against Minho’s sweat-slick skin, desperate and a little shaky, like he was barely holding on. “Yours, alpha” he gasped, his breath ragged, needy. “Always yours—”
And that was all Minho needed to hear.
His thrusts turned relentless, hips snapping forward, the bed creaking beneath them with every push and pull. The slick sounds of their bodies moving together filled the room, mingling with Jisung’s moans, Minho’s ragged breathing, the occasional broken curse.
Jisung was falling apart beneath him, writhing, pleading, babbling his name like it was the only thing he knew how to say. And Minho—Minho wasn’t far behind, lost in the heat, the scent, the way Jisung’s body pulled him in deeper, tighter, perfect.
He buried his face in the crook of Jisung’s neck, biting down just enough to make him keen, make him shake apart in his arms. “I’ve got you, baby,” he rasped, his voice shaking with the weight of it all. “I’ve got you.”
Minho didn’t know where he ended and Jisung began. The heat between them was stifling, their bodies pressed so close it felt inevitable—like they were always meant to fit this way. Slick, trembling, desperate. Jisung gasped beneath him, his hands clawing at Minho’s shoulders, holding on like Minho was the only solid thing in a world spinning out of control. His voice cracked on every plea, every shaky moan spilling from his swollen lips, and Minho felt each sound like a slow unravelling in his chest.
Minho pushed deeper, steady but unrelenting, forehead resting against Jisung’s as their breaths tangled—hot and heavy, nothing between them but the raw, aching need that had been building for far too long. “You’re doing so good,” he rasped, his lips barely brushing Jisung’s, teasing, coaxing. “So fucking good for me, baby.”
Jisung shuddered, his body strung tight, thighs trembling in Minho’s grip. “Hyung,” he whimpered, voice barely holding together, trembling like the rest of him. “I— I’m close, I can’t—”
Minho felt it too—the way Jisung’s body clenched around him, hot and wet and gripping him like he was afraid to let go. The scent of him spiked, rich and dizzying, sinking its claws into Minho’s lungs and refusing to let up. Jisung’s hips twitched, chasing the friction, reckless and needy, and Minho swore under his breath, barely holding onto the last frayed threads of his control.
He smirked against Jisung’s flushed cheek, his voice wrecked but teasing. “You gonna cum for me, Sungie?” His fingers pressed into Jisung’s thigh, firm, possessive. “Come on, baby, let me feel it.”
Jisung’s answer was a strangled cry, his whole body locking up beneath Minho as he shattered, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts that punched against Minho’s chest. Minho felt everything—the sharp tremors racking through Jisung’s frame, the way his thighs clenched around his hips, the tight, pulsing squeeze of his body drawing him in deeper, dragging him under.
Minho glanced down, breath catching at the sight—Jisung’s release spilling out between them, slick and hot, painting his stomach, smearing between their bodies with every shaky roll of Jisung’s hips. It pooled against Minho’s skin, streaking his abs, clinging in sticky trails that only seemed to pull them closer. Jisung’s cock twitched weakly, flushed and spent, the remnants dripping onto his stomach, mixing with the sweat that slicked their skin.
Minho groaned, the sight making his cock throb inside the tight clutch of Jisung’s body, his grip tightening where he held him open, trembling. Jisung’s lashes fluttered, his lips parted, breathless and dazed, his fingers digging into Minho’s back, like he couldn’t let go—even now.
“Yeah,” Minho murmured, breathless, his lips brushing along the edge of Jisung’s ear, drinking in the way he shivered beneath him. “That’s it. So good for me, Sungie. Always so good for me.”
But Jisung wasn’t done.
Even as his body trembled through the aftershocks, his hands drifted up Minho’s back, fingers slipping into his hair, restless and seeking. His eyes, still glassy, still pleading, found Minho’s, wide and desperate beneath the haze of spent desire. “Don’t stop,” he whispered, voice wrecked but insistent, his hips rolling up into Minho’s. “Please, hyung. I need— I need your knot.”
Minho froze, the words slamming into him like a brick wall, and fuck—there it was. That raw, primal pull that had been lingering beneath the surface, clawing at the edges of his restraint. His jaw tightened, breath ragged, chest heaving with the weight of it all, with the need thrumming through him like it had a mind of its own.
“Sungie…” It came out rough, torn, somewhere between a warning and a plea, but Jisung only nodded frantically, eyes dark and unwavering.
“Please,” he begged again, his voice softer, sweeter, but no less urgent. He arched into Minho, his scent flooding every inch of the space between them, thick and intoxicating. “Want it—want you.”
Minho exhaled shakily, his fingers flexing against Jisung’s skin, his instincts roaring to the surface, drowning out any last shred of logic. Every inhale was filled with Jisung—his heat, his scent, his everything, and Minho felt like he was teetering on the edge of something he’d never come back from.
“Yeah?” Minho muttered, his lips ghosting over Jisung’s jaw, his grip turning bruising. “Want me to fill you up? Want it that bad, baby?”
Jisung’s breath stuttered, his thighs quivering around Minho’s hips. “Yes—please, hyung, I need it.”
Minho didn’t think. He just gave.
The rhythm between them turned desperate, raw, and Minho couldn’t hold himself back anymore—didn’t want to. Jisung was pulling him in, body pliant and greedy, his hands gripping Minho’s hair like he could keep him there forever, gasping and sobbing Minho’s name like a prayer he couldn’t stop repeating.
Minho’s teeth found the curve of Jisung’s neck, his breath ragged and desperate, sucking a mark into the flushed skin as his hips snapped forward, rough and relentless, chasing something inevitable. “You’re mine,” he growled, the words spilling out like a claim, rough and unapologetic. “Every inch of you, Sungie. Mine.”
Jisung keened, his back arching completely off the bed, tears clinging to his lashes, his hands scrambling to hold onto Minho, to pull him deeper, harder, closer. “Hyung—please—don’t stop—”
Minho didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The pressure coiled tight in his gut, his instincts screaming for release, for completion, for Jisung. His lips dragged across Jisung’s sweat-slick skin, breath hot and shaking, his hands gripping Jisung like he might slip away if he let go.
He felt it then—the slow, inevitable thickening at the base of his cock, the way his knot began to swell, catching on the tight clutch of Jisung’s rim with each thrust. The resistance made him groan, his movements faltering for a split second before he pushed through, driving deeper, forcing Jisung to take every inch. Each roll of his hips dragged a sharp gasp from Jisung, his walls fluttering around him, the slight stretch drawing out ragged, broken whimpers that sent heat curling down Minho’s spine.
Jisung trembled beneath him, legs quaking where they wrapped around Minho’s waist, his breath coming in desperate little sobs as he felt it too—the knot, the way it tugged at his rim, stretching him inch by inch, refusing to let go. “Hyung,” he gasped, his voice wrecked, pleading, his fingers curling into Minho’s hair. “It’s—it's so much, I—”
Minho growled softly against Jisung’s neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin, his voice strained but full of something dark, something possessive. “You can take it,” he murmured, rolling his hips again, feeling the thickening catch, then push deeper. “You want to take it, don’t you?”
Jisung’s whimper was answer enough, his body tightening around Minho, his back arching helplessly as he tried to take more, tried to keep him closer, deeper, like he needed it as much as Minho did. Minho swallowed hard, his head spinning, his instincts howling at him to give in, to let go, to claim.
And then Jisung begged, breathless and ruined, “Hyung, please—knot me.”
Minho groaned, the sound tearing out of him like something raw and uncontrollable, his body snapping forward, burying himself as deep as he could go, as if it would somehow be enough. “Fuck, Sungie,” he gritted out, his voice shaking, his vision white-hot and spinning. “I’ve got you—I’ve got you.”
And this time, Minho didn’t just let go. He gave in.
Minho’s thrusts slowed, but they didn’t stop—not yet, not when the heat between them was so thick it felt like it had weight, pressing down on him, filling every inch of the space between their bodies. His knot was swelling steadily, each push inside met with more resistance, catching on Jisung’s rim in a way that sent shudders through both of them. Jisung’s body trembled beneath him, wrung out but still clinging, still chasing more, his voice a breathy, desperate chant against Minho’s skin.
And Minho—Minho was losing himself in it, drowning in the way Jisung clenched around him, in the sweat-slick glide of their bodies. His mouth hovered over Jisung’s scent gland, his breath coming hot and uneven as he dragged his teeth over the sensitive skin there, grazing, pressing just enough to feel Jisung’s pulse racing beneath him. His instincts screamed for it—to sink his teeth in, to claim, to take.
Jisung sobbed beneath him, the sound raw, pleading, his fingers tangling in Minho’s hair, pulling him closer. “Hyung,” he gasped, voice shaking with exhaustion and need all at once. “Please—please, bite me. Want it—want you.”
Minho’s chest tightened, his grip flexing where he held Jisung open, his knot pulsing, growing, catching just a little more with every roll of his hips. He wanted to—god, he wanted to—but somewhere beneath the haze, beneath the overwhelming pressure pushing him toward the edge, there was still that thin thread of reason, frayed but holding on.
He buried his face in the crook of Jisung’s neck, his lips brushing soft against the flushed skin, voice thick and wrecked but still steady. “I will, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss there, tender despite the urgency of his thrusts. “I want to—but not like this.”
Jisung sobbed, his legs tightening around Minho’s waist, his scent spiking with a sharp note of distress that cut straight through Minho’s chest. “Hyung, please,” he whimpered, voice cracking, his body writhing beneath him, chasing something just out of reach. “I—I need it.”
Minho hushed him gently, his lips pressing slow, reverent kisses along Jisung’s throat, his voice a soft murmur between each one. “Shh, baby. You’re doing so good for me,” he whispered, his words a steady stream of quiet praise. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you. Always.”
Jisung’s body shuddered, his sobs tapering into soft, broken whimpers, his hands fisting the sheets beneath him as Minho kept moving—slow, deep, deliberate. The pressure inside him was almost too much now, his knot swelling further, stretching Jisung open until the slick heat around him clenched impossibly tight.
And then—
Minho groaned, his hips snapping forward one final time, his knot catching and locking deep inside Jisung, stretching him wide, holding him there. Jisung gasped, his back arching, his entire body tightening around Minho like he was trying to pull him even closer, as if that were possible. Minho felt himself spill, his release flooding into Jisung in thick, pulsing waves, dragging him under, drowning him in it.
The pleasure was all-consuming, searing through every nerve, spreading like wildfire until all Minho could do was hold Jisung closer, his hands shaking where they gripped him. His mouth found Jisung’s, and the kiss that followed was soft, tender, a stark contrast to the raw intensity still thrumming between them. Their lips slid together, slow and languid, their tongues meeting in a way that felt like a promise, a confession, a plea. Jisung tasted like sweat and heat and something sweeter, something that settled low and heavy, curling tight around Minho’s ribs like it had no intention of leaving.
Jisung whimpered into the kiss, his body still trembling around Minho’s knot, his fingers tracing shaky patterns along Minho’s back like he was trying to memorize him, to keep him here. “Hyung,” he murmured against Minho’s lips, voice small but sated. “Feels so good.”
Minho chuckled softly, breathless, pressing another kiss to Jisung’s jaw. “Yeah?” he murmured, the teasing edge in his voice softened by the way he stroked a hand down Jisung’s side, fingers soothing over sweat-damp skin. “Better than you imagined?”
Jisung huffed a weak laugh, his eyes fluttering shut, his body pliant beneath Minho, melted and content. “Shut up,” he mumbled, but the way he nuzzled closer said otherwise.
Minho smiled against his skin, his heart still racing, his mind still struggling to catch up. He shifted slightly, feeling the tug of his knot, still locked tight inside Jisung, holding them together in a way that felt deeper than just physical.
He exhaled, letting the moment settle over him, heavy and quiet and real. And despite everything—the heat, the overwhelming intensity—there was still that familiar undercurrent of something softer beneath it all. Something that had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to rise to the surface.
Minho brushed a damp strand of hair from Jisung’s forehead, his fingers lingering. “We’ll talk later,” he murmured, his voice low but certain. “But for now... just rest.”
Jisung hummed sleepily in response, his breath evening out, his body relaxing against Minho’s, their bodies still entwined, still bound together. And for the first time in a long time, Minho let himself stop thinking. Just for now.
Just for now, this was enough.
They’d slept, tangled and sweat-slick, Minho’s knot locked inside Jisung the entire time. The nest had been warm, their bodies pressed close, a slow and steady rhythm of breathing filling the space. When they’d stirred awake the first time, hazy and still caught in the remnants of Jisung’s heat, Minho hadn’t even pulled out before he was rolling his hips again, dragging soft whimpers and sharp cries from Jisung’s lips. His knot had gone down just enough to slip free, only to swell again as he fucked Jisung through another wave—pulling two more orgasms from him, each one leaving him more spent, more wrecked, more his.
Now, in the aftermath, after another nap stolen between the tangle of limbs and lingering heat, Minho stirred first. The nest was a mess—blankets tangled, the stolen clothes Jisung had hoarded now ruined with the slick evidence of everything they’d done. But it wasn’t the mess that held Minho’s attention. It was the scent—their scent, thick and permeating, saturating every inch of the space around them.
It should’ve been overwhelming, but instead, it settled deep in Minho’s chest, coiling warm and steady like something he hadn’t known he needed. Intoxicating and calming all at once.
Jisung was still soft beside him, pliant, boneless with exhaustion but content, his body warm and relaxed against Minho’s chest, his breath coming slow and even. His lips were slightly parted, a faint pout lingering even in sleep, and his hair—matted and damp with sweat—clung to his forehead in messy strands. Minho smiled, a quiet, tired thing, before swiping a hand through the sticky strands, smoothing them back gently.
Jisung stirred with a soft sigh, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet Minho’s gaze, drowsy and heavy-lidded. Minho pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead, murmuring something low and unintelligible against his skin, feeling the way Jisung melted further into him, nuzzling against his chest.
The knot that had kept them connected for hours had finally gone down, and Minho shifted slightly, drawing back just enough to begin pulling free. The slow, deliberate motion had Jisung whimpering, a soft, barely-there sound that tugged at something deep in Minho’s gut.
“Hyung…” Jisung’s voice was barely above a whisper, thick with sleep and something softer. His hands gripped Minho’s sides weakly, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “Don’t… don’t leave.”
Minho huffed a quiet laugh, pressing another kiss to Jisung’s temple. “Not going far, baby,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. “Just need to clean us up, yeah? Won’t be long.”
Jisung made a soft sound in response, his fingers flexing against Minho’s skin before he let them fall away, eyes drifting shut again.
Minho extracted himself fully, wincing slightly at the slick mess that followed, feeling the cooling dampness stick to his thighs as he carefully untangled himself from Jisung. He moved with a kind of tenderness that didn’t quite fit the raw, desperate pace they’d kept earlier, but it felt right now—slow and reverent, like he needed to take care of Jisung, to make sure he was okay, to reassure himself that they were still here, still wrapped up in the space they’d created between them.
He padded into the bathroom, the cool tiles a sharp contrast to the warmth of the nest. He dampened a towel with warm water, wiping himself down quickly before heading back, his gaze drawn immediately to the sight of Jisung curled into the blankets, his body still loose and relaxed, his scent lingering sweet and sated in the air.
Minho crouched beside him, the towel warm in his hands as he started with slow, gentle strokes, wiping down the slick sheen from Jisung’s thighs, his stomach, the mess clinging between his legs. Jisung sighed softly, the touch pulling him halfway from sleep, his lips parting in a quiet hum, his body shifting under Minho’s careful hands.
“You’re so good,” Minho murmured, brushing his thumb over Jisung’s hip as he worked, taking his time. “Did so good for me, baby.”
Jisung smiled faintly, a sleepy, blissed-out thing that made Minho’s chest ache in the best way. “Mmm… yours,” he murmured, eyes still closed, the words slurred but sure.
Minho swallowed thickly, biting down the swell of emotion pressing against his ribs. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jisung’s temple, lingering there a beat longer than he should. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Mine.”
Once Jisung was cleaned up, Minho tossed the towel aside, slipping back into the nest without hesitation. The second his arms wrapped around him, Jisung melted, tucking his head under Minho’s chin with a soft, contented sigh. Minho felt the tension bleed from Jisung’s body, his warmth settling against him like he belonged there—like he’d always belonged there.
Minho stroked a hand down Jisung’s back, tracing lazy patterns against the damp skin, letting the quiet stretch between them, heavy with warmth and something deeper—something neither of them had words for just yet.
Right now, this was all that mattered.
Minho’s fingers traced slow, steady patterns down Jisung’s spine, the rhythm familiar, almost instinctive. The weight of Jisung curled against his chest felt like something he’d been holding onto for years without even realizing it—warm, solid, his cheek pressed over Minho’s heart as though he’d been shaped to fit there all along. Every now and then, a soft, contented hum escaped him, muffled against Minho’s skin, and Minho felt it settle somewhere deep, somewhere he hadn’t dared touch before.
The nest looked like it had barely survived them—blankets half-draped over the edge, pillows crushed beneath the weight of restless bodies, and Minho’s clothes tangled and twisted into the mess, proof of just how desperately Jisung had clung to him. But it wasn’t the disarray that Minho noticed now. It was the quiet hum beneath it all—the way the space felt different, claimed, like something irreversible had settled between them. The room didn’t just smell like them—it felt like them, steeped in something heavier than instinct, something Minho wasn’t sure he could put into words.
Jisung shifted slightly, his fingers curling lazily against Minho’s ribs. His voice, rough and sleep-heavy, broke the quiet. “I... I didn’t think it would happen so soon,” he murmured. “My heat.”
Minho hummed softly, his thumb brushing over the damp strands of hair clinging to Jisung’s temple. “Yeah?” he murmured. “What happened?”
There was a pause, Jisung’s breath hitching slightly before he sighed, like he wasn’t sure if he should say it. “The night of the movie,” he finally admitted. “When I went to the bathroom... I—” He swallowed. “Slick. It wouldn’t stop. I wasn’t ready for it.”
Minho’s fingers paused, just for a moment, before continuing their slow path down Jisung’s back. His mind clicked into place, tracing back to that night—the way Jisung had come back from the bathroom, flushed, fidgeting, too quick to leave. And then later, when Minho had stepped inside, the scent had hit him like a punch, thick and clinging, sticking to his skin. He’d tried to ignore it, shoved it aside with the kind of stubborn denial he was good at.
It had been Jisung. His slick.
“Hyung?” Jisung’s voice was quiet, uncertain.
Minho exhaled, rubbing a slow circle between Jisung’s shoulder blades. “I noticed your scent was different,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. “Figured your heat was coming early, but I didn’t want to say anything and make it weird.” His lips twitched faintly. “Told myself I was imagining things, but it stuck with me all night.”
Jisung groaned, burying his face deeper into Minho’s chest. “I was fine.”
Minho chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to Jisung’s forehead, feeling the warmth still clinging to his skin. “Sure you were,” he murmured, voice soft but sure. “I know your scent, Sungie. Couldn’t have been anything else.”
Jisung peeked up at him, his gaze shy but searching. “You really noticed?”
Minho smiled, brushing a knuckle over his cheek. “I notice everything about you.”
Jisung swallowed, something flickering across his expression, his fingers twitching against Minho’s side. “It’s probably because of you,” he murmured.
Minho’s brows furrowed. “Me?”
Jisung nodded, pressing closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Your scent. I’ve been surrounded by it... for weeks now. Ever since I started making my nest.” His grip on Minho’s side tightened slightly. “I think... it must’ve triggered it. The scent of my alpha all around me.”
Minho went still.
His chest tightened, heat unfurling under his skin, coiling low in his gut. My alpha. The words echoed in his head, looping back in ways he wasn’t prepared for. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
“Oh?” he said, aiming for teasing, though his voice came out rougher than he intended. “Your alpha, huh?”
Jisung groaned, his face going hot against Minho’s chest. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, but his scent betrayed him, going syrupy sweet.
Minho smirked, nosing at Jisung’s temple. “Sungie,” he murmured, low and affectionate, “you absolutely did.”
Jisung let out a breathy, embarrassed laugh, his cheeks burning hotter. “Shut up.”
Minho’s grip tightened slightly, his lips brushing against Jisung’s temple. “I mean it though,” he murmured. “You should’ve just asked instead of stealing half my closet.”
Jisung huffed, his embarrassment turning into something quieter, more uncertain. “I told you,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to. It just... happened.”
Minho’s chest ached, but it wasn’t the frustrating ache he’d been so used to before. It was something softer, something he could live with. He tilted Jisung’s chin up gently, meeting his eyes. “I think it’s sweet,” he admitted, voice sincere.
Jisung blinked at him, wary. “You’re serious?”
Minho huffed a quiet laugh, his fingers tracing lazy circles over Jisung’s hip. “Yeah. I mean, I should’ve known something was up when I walked in and it smelled like I’d been living here 24/7, when I haven’t even been around.”
Jisung groaned, his face scrunching up as he buried himself further into Minho’s chest. “Oh my god, shut up.”
Minho grinned, nudging his nose against Jisung’s temple. “Is that why you kept insisting on coming over to my place instead of me coming to yours?” he teased, voice low and amused. “Didn’t want me to see your little dragon hoard of my clothes?”
Jisung groaned louder, tugging the blanket up over his head in a futile attempt to escape Minho’s teasing. “Hyung, please,” he whined, muffled but still full of exasperation. “It wasn’t— I didn’t—” He huffed, clearly at a loss for words. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Minho’s grin widened, and he slipped a hand under the blanket, smoothing it over Jisung’s side with deliberate slowness. “A little?” he echoed, tilting his head. “Sungie, I practically walked into a crime scene. My hoodies, my shirts, even my gym clothes?” His voice dipped into a faux-serious tone. “I thought I was losing my mind.”
Jisung peeked out just enough to shoot him a glare, cheeks flushed, lips pressed into a pout. “They were comfortable,” he muttered defensively. “And they smelled good.” His voice trailed off, barely above a whisper. “They smelled like you.”
Minho’s teasing softened, the warmth in his chest expanding, filling every corner of him. “Yeah?” he murmured, fingers drifting up to tangle in Jisung’s hair, playing with the damp strands. “You like having me around that much?”
Jisung groaned again, but he didn’t pull away this time. Instead, he sighed into Minho’s neck, his lips brushing over his collarbone in a way that made Minho’s heart stutter. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “It just... felt better. Having your scent with me. Like you were here even when you weren’t.”
Minho’s chest tightened, a fond, aching smile tugging at his lips. He pressed his mouth to the crown of Jisung’s head, letting his breath ruffle through his hair. “You know,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, more thoughtful, “if you’d told me sooner, I would’ve just given you my clothes.”
Jisung groaned dramatically, hiding his face again. “This is why I didn’t tell you,” he grumbled. “You’re the worst.”
Minho laughed, the sound soft and full of something too big to name. “Nah,” he said, brushing his lips over Jisung’s forehead. “You love me.”
Jisung peeked up at him, his expression caught somewhere between fond and frustrated. “Unfortunately.”
Minho smirked, leaning down until their noses brushed. “Fortunately,” he corrected, pressing a soft kiss to Jisung’s lips, lingering just long enough to feel the way Jisung melted into him, all soft and pliant.
Jisung sighed against his mouth, his fingers curling against Minho’s chest. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Fortunately.”
Minho kissed him again, slow and deliberate, before pulling back with a soft hum. “Sungie,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over Jisung’s, “I’m glad you called me.”
Jisung hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip, his fingers curling idly against Minho’s chest. “I know we don’t usually— I mean, we’ve always avoided each other when... when this happens,” he stammered, his brows drawing together. “I shouldn’t have... I should’ve—”
“Don’t,” Minho cut in gently, cupping his cheek, his thumb brushing beneath Jisung’s eye. “I’m glad you did.” His voice dipped lower, steady, unwavering. “If you hadn’t... I would’ve come to you anyway.”
Jisung’s eyes widened slightly, his gaze searching Minho’s face for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. “Really?”
Minho exhaled, his forehead resting against Jisung’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet. “Really. I was worried about you. And also, I think...” He huffed a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I think we’ve both been idiots for a long time.”
Jisung’s lips quirked into something small but real, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against Minho’s chest. “I guess it was bound to happen eventually,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a shy, sleepy laugh. “I mean... with us.”
Minho smiled, pressing another kiss to Jisung’s hair. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We’ve been circling around this for a while.”
Jisung’s hold on him tightened slightly. “I didn’t think you’d want this. Me.”
Minho pulled back, tilting Jisung’s chin up. “Sungie,” he whispered, his lips curving into something softer, “I’ve been halfway gone for you longer than I care to admit.”
Jisung blinked up at him, his eyes glassy but hopeful. “You’ve... felt like this for a while?”
Minho smirked. “You think I’d be here otherwise? I’ve been yours for longer than you probably realize, Sungie.”
Jisung smiled, pressing closer, letting his eyes flutter shut. “Okay. I—I’m glad I called you,” he whispered.
Minho’s arms tightened around him, holding him like he wasn’t planning to let go. “Me too,” he murmured, his fingers weaving through Jisung’s hair. “Me too.”
Jisung’s fingers traced absent patterns against Minho’s ribs, his touch featherlight, hesitant. “Hyung,” he murmured, voice quieter now, thick with something softer, something uncertain. “I... I shouldn’t have asked you to bite me.”
Minho’s hand stilled for a moment before resuming its slow, steady path through Jisung’s hair, his lips brushing against Jisung’s damp forehead. “Sungie,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, laced with something Jisung wouldn’t be able to name just yet. “You don’t have to apologize.”
Jisung huffed a little against him, shaking his head, like he could make himself smaller, make the words disappear. “No, I do,” he insisted, his voice muffled against Minho’s chest. “I— I wasn’t thinking straight, and it’s such a big deal, and—”
Minho pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against the nape of his neck. “I wanted to,” he admitted, voice rougher now, more honest than it had any right to be. “I was so fucking close.” His fingers curled against Jisung’s skin, not to hold him in place, but to keep himself steady. “But I needed to be sure it wasn’t just the heat talking. Needed to be sure it was real. For both of us.”
Jisung lifted his head slightly, wide eyes searching Minho’s face, hesitant but hopeful. His lower lip caught between his teeth, trembling just enough to make Minho’s chest tighten all over again. “It is real,” he whispered, like a confession. “For me... it’s always been real.”
Minho swallowed thickly, his thumb brushing along Jisung’s jaw in a touch that felt reverent, something almost bittersweet curling at the edges of his smile. “You sure?” he asked, quieter now, the vulnerability threading into his voice despite himself. “Because once I do it... that’s it, Sungie. No going back. It’s forever.”
Jisung’s breath hitched, but his gaze didn’t waver, steady in a way that made Minho feel like he was standing on the edge of something vast and inevitable. “I know,” he whispered, leaning into Minho’s touch without hesitation. “And I don’t want to take it back. I’ll always be yours, hyung. I know what I want.”
Minho closed his eyes briefly, pressing their foreheads together, their noses brushing in a way that was far too tender for how wrecked he felt inside. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured, but his lips curved into something fond, something helpless.
Jisung let out a soft, breathy laugh, his hands curling tighter against Minho’s bare skin, fingers pressing in like he never wanted to let go. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”
Minho hummed, tilting his head to press a kiss to the tip of Jisung’s nose, grinning when Jisung wrinkled it in response, all soft and sleepy in his arms. “Let me take you on a date first,” he said, voice low and teasing, but undeniably fond. “A real one. No heat haze, no hormones messing with your head. Just you and me.”
Jisung blinked up at him, his lips parting slightly, his expression equal parts surprised and hopeful. “A date?” he echoed, like he hadn’t even considered the possibility.
Minho smirked, running his fingers through Jisung’s hair with easy familiarity. “Yeah, you know. Dinner, maybe a walk, awkward small talk even though we know everything about each other.”
Jisung scoffed, cheeks tinged pink, the colour blooming under Minho’s amused gaze. “I’d like that,” he admitted softly.
“Good,” Minho murmured, pressing another kiss to his temple, his touch lingering, something warm, something certain. “Then it’s a date.”
Silence settled over them again, Jisung’s breathing soft and even against Minho’s chest, his weight familiar and comforting in ways Minho didn’t think he’d ever be able to put into words. His gaze drifted around the room, taking in the aftermath of everything—the twisted blankets, the crumpled pillows, the scattered wreckage of his clothes, all of it tangible proof of just how deeply they’d fallen into each other.
And there it was—his favourite hoodie, bunched up in the blankets near Jisung’s pillow, looking as innocent as ever despite the chaos around it. Minho couldn’t help the small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. So much searching, so much frustration, and the answer had been right here all along.
It wasn’t just a missing hoodie. It was Jisung—quietly, unknowingly pulling Minho in, weaving him into his world piece by piece. And Minho? He’d been too busy tearing through drawers, too caught up in frustration to consider the obvious. He’d even thought about asking Jisung if he’d seen it, but the idea had seemed ridiculous at the time. Now, it felt like the most obvious answer, like Jisung had been holding onto pieces of him all along, and Minho had been too blind to see it.
He pressed his lips to Jisung’s hair, inhaling deeply, the scent of them mingling in a way that felt permanent, inevitable.
“I’d been looking everywhere for that hoodie, you know,” Minho murmured, his voice low, laced with something fond beneath the teasing edge.
Jisung groaned, his face scrunching up as he burrowed deeper into Minho’s chest. “Hyung, please.”
Minho’s lips quirked, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded strokes through Jisung’s hair. “What? I think it’s cute,” he said, and this time, there was no teasing—just quiet amusement, a little awe.
Jisung sighed against him, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Minho’s collarbone. “You’re never gonna let this go, are you?”
“Nope,” Minho grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of Jisung’s head. He let the quiet stretch out between them, something easy, something that finally fit. “I like having proof you’re as obsessed with me as I am with you.”
Jisung hummed, the sound content, his fingers curling idly against Minho’s ribs. “Yeah,” he mumbled, the word slipping out like an afterthought. “Guess I am.”
Minho held him a little tighter, letting his eyes drift shut.
Maybe he hadn’t been missing anything at all.
Maybe everything he needed was right here.
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