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The Lee family house was far too grand for how suffocating it felt. A hanok-style house. Middle of Bukchon. The place where Minho lived for almost 19 years.
Minho stood in the center of the living room, jaw clenched, fists curled at his sides. The air crackled with tension as his father’s voice echoed off the high ceilings, followed by the harsh reprimand of his grandfather.
“You will not embarrass this family like this again, Lee Minho,” his grandfather spat, voice grating like old iron. “You are the only male heir. Your duty is to continue the Lee bloodline. Not to disgrace it out there partying in gay clubs.”
Minho’s eyes flared. “I am continuing the bloodline. I’m the reason our company’s valuation tripled in five years. I’m the reason this family still sits on its precious pedestal. Don’t talk to me about duty. I was invited by foreign buyer for his birthday party after our deal went through and once he got know I am gay”
“You think business absolves you of your responsibility as a man?” his father snapped. “You’re twenty-nine. It’s time you settled down. We’ve already arranged a meeting with—”
“I’ll never marry a woman.” Minho’s voice cut through the room like a blade.
Silence followed. Thick. Disbelieving.
Then came the scoff. “You’re in a phase,” his grandmother muttered. “This rebellion won’t last.”
“It’s not a phase,” Minho ground out. “I like men. I want a man. And even if I didn’t—can I at least choose who the hell I date?”
His grandfather’s cane hit the floor with a sharp thud. “Then get out. If you want to throw your future away, do it away from this house. Away from our name.”
Minho inhaled, fury rushing in hot and bitter. “Then disown me. Take the name. Take the house. But don’t expect me to keep pretending I’m someone I’m not.”
His mother reached out as if to stop him, but Minho was already turning on his heel, suit jacket whipping behind him like a storm cloud.
—
He called Seungmin as soon as he was out of the house. Because Minho needs to find a solution for this.
Minho sat on the couch in his apartment, away from Lee Family house, sleeves rolled up, tie long discarded. He stared blankly at the untouched glass of whiskey on the coffee table.
Seungmin, perched on the armrest like he owned the place, finally broke the silence.
“You said you visited grandfather. So what happened this time? Is it about your visit to downtown?”
Minho scoffed, lips twisting bitterly. “I’m so fucking tired, Seungmin. I had to be there. I was invited. Now my sexual orientation is a big part of family discussion.”
“I figured. Hence the whiskey. So are they still thinking it is just a phase?”
Minho rubbed at his temples. “It’s not just that I don’t want to marry a woman. It’s that I want—God—I want to control my own damn dating life. I’m twenty-nine. I have a whole company under my name. Thousands of employees depend on me. And yet, they treat me like I’m a rebellious teenager sneaking out the window. I just don't want be unhappy rest of my life”
Seungmin hummed, thinking. “What you need is leverage.”
Minho narrowed his eyes. “What kind of leverage?”
“A relationship so untouchable they can’t do a damn thing about it. Someone powerful. Someone even they can’t criticize without looking stupid.”
Minho arched an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me it’s one of your idols.”
Seungmin gave him a flat look. “It is one of my idols.”
Minho groaned. “Which one?”
“Bang Chan.”
Minho blinked. “That Bang Chan? The one who sings railway, also an actor, in every billboard around seoul, household name, every mother’s favorite son?”
“The very one,” Seungmin said, deadpan.
“But I don't want to be in a relationship. I can't give my attention to someone when I barely have time for myself.”
“Well. He is extremely busy too,Minho. You can just pretend to be his boyfriend for a while. Until your family is done bothering you and letting you breathe.”
Minho drank his glass of whiskey in one shot. “What will he gain through this?”
“He has been under my management for almost 4 years. Now He’s going for the Fendi ambassadorship, but they’re launching a women’s line to fund a campaign for victims of domestic violence. They want him to promote it with a ‘taken’ image. Our agency’s pushing him for a softer, more stable vibe. Problem is, he’s got a playboy reputation. More like not dating at all”
“And a fake boyfriend fixes that?”
“He looks committed, grounded, and emotional. It makes him more marketable.” Seungmin tilted his head. “It makes you more untouchable. Plus Chan knows how to handle people. Especially after coming out last year.”
Minho stared at him.
“I can arrange a meeting,” Seungmin continued. “Quiet. No media, no leaks. Just the three of us.”
Minho hesitated, but his mind was already racing. No real feelings. No family interference. Just a clean, mutually beneficial strategy.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Let’s talk to him.”
—
Felix’s café, tucked in a quiet alley in Itaewon, was technically closed for the afternoon. The lighting dimmed to a cozy amber hue, and a faint trace of lavender lingered in the air from Jisung’s obsession with artisan candles. Seungmin rented the whole place for the two of them to meet. Felix and Jisung practically kicked out from their own café to have a date.
Seungmin is standing near the counter with a glass of lemon water, checking his watch with casual precision. “He’ll be here soon,” he said, glancing at Minho.
“How did you convince the husbands to let us use the café?”
“I said, It is for a special meeting between two parties. They want some relaxing place.”
“Truth, Kim Seungmin”
“50k won and your silver Porsche that you left in my apartment parking lot a few weeks ago.” Seungmin sheeply smiled. Minho blinked a few times before sighing loudly.
“I will transfer the money.”
Minho sat at the table in the corner of the café, literally hiding behind the big indoor plant. He dressed in black slacks and a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his veins. Cold. Composed. Leaned back like he owned the space.
“I still think this is insane,” Minho muttered, eyes fixed on the half finished americano in front of him. “Fake dating a man with ten million fans and billboards in every major city.”
“Not just any man,” Seungmin said. “A man your parents can’t control.”
Before Minho could answer, the front door opened.
Bang Chan walked in like the world belonged to him —oversized denim jacket, chain peeking from beneath his white tee, hair artfully tousled like he’d just gotten off a shoot (which, knowing Chan, he probably had). He carried the kind of aura that drew eyes without trying. The easy kind of star power Minho had always admired—and quietly resented.
“Hey,” Chan said with a warm smile, walking straight toward them and reaching out to shake Minho’s hand. “Lee Minho, right?”
Minho stood and took the hand. Firm grip. Heat rushed through his palm.
“Bang Chan.”
“Just Chan’s fine,” he said with a smile.
Minho didn’t blink. “Minho.”
They sat. Seungmin is already near the front door. “I’ll leave you two to talk. I have to meet Jeongin.”
When Seungmin was gone, Chan leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “So,” he said lightly, “Seungmin filled me in on your family situation.”
Minho nodded, shoulders stiff. “It’s a power play. If I date someone famous enough—someone they can’t discredit—I can shut them up. I don’t need a real relationship. I need a shield.”
Chan hummed. “That works out for both of us, then.”
Minho raised a brow.
Chan’s expression softened, but there was bluntness behind the smile. “I don’t do relationships. Not anymore. My schedule’s brutal, my personal life’s a mess, and I’ve hurt enough people trying to balance both. But this? A public relationship with clearly defined boundaries?” He leaned forward. “That, I can do.”
Minho’s mouth quirked. “How far are you willing to take it?”
Chan smirked. “I’ll give you all the PDA your parents can’t ignore. Hand-holding, forehead kisses, airport photos, couple rings, lovestagrams. You name it.”
There was a pause. A flicker of something tense and electric between them.
Minho’s voice was calm, calculated. “Well You are an actor after all. I don’t do feelings anyway.”
Chan tilted his head, amused. “No feelings. Got it.”
“We can do this,” Minho continued. “Public kisses are fine. Private time is strictly for appearances.”
A beat. Then, with a raise of his brow: “Well—sex—we can think about.”
Chan’s smirk didn’t fade. “Well. It’s not like I can go around and sleep with other people once we’re ‘together.’”
Minho’s gaze narrowed, his tone sharp. “Let’s put a pause on that conversation.”
Chan chuckled. “Fair enough.”
Silence fell for a few seconds. Tense, but not uncomfortable. They were both sizing each other up, reading and rewriting expectations on the spot.
“So,” Chan said, drumming his fingers against the table. “How do we announce this to the public? Paparazzi walk? Couple post? Press drop?”
Minho thought for a second. “We start slow. One soft launch on Instagram—maybe a picture of our hands. Then a date or two in popular areas. Let the media do the rest.”
“Perfect,” Chan said, flashing his dimpled grin. “You’re good at this.”
Minho sipped his americano, hiding the way his ears tingled. “I run a company. Managing narratives is part of the job.”
“Good.” Chan stood. “Because ours is about to start.”
He held out his hand again. Minho looked at it, then up at Chan’s waiting face.
“Fake boyfriends?” Chan said, eyes glinting.
Minho took it slowly. “Fake boyfriends.”
Their hands lingered a second too long.
—
Chan’s penthouse smells like bergamot, freshly brewed coffee, and something subtly woodsy, like sandalwood— the kind of expensive warmth that lingered in the air like a quiet invitation. Minho stood in the entryway, still in his structured navy coat, a bouquet of carefully wrapped white freesia and blue hydrangeas in his hand. He hated flowers — or at least thought he did — but the moment he picked them out at a quiet florist in Seongsu, he hadn’t stopped thinking about Chan’s reaction.
He wasn’t sure what annoyed him more: the fact that he wanted to impress him, or that it showed.
“Someone’s trying to win me over,” Chan teased, barefoot in gray sweats and a plain black tee that stretched nicely across his chest. His hair was still damp from a shower, fluffy and soft-looking, with a few strands stuck to his forehead. He looked—dangerous. Not like a celebrity. Like temptation in human form.
Minho held the bouquet out, deadpan. “Don’t read too much into it. It’s just for the photo.”
Chan grinned, taking the flowers with a mock gasp. “And here I thought you were in love already.”
“You wish.”
But Chan didn’t answer. He just held the bouquet loosely in one hand and grabbed Minho’s coat sleeve. Taking them to the big floor to ceiling glass window. Next to the window, There is a full-length mirror. His house was stunning — clean but lived-in, with books stacked unevenly on a shelf, a lazy golden retriever puppy sprawled on the balcony, and a trail of cozy clutter that said ‘I’m always busy but I still try.’
“Oh! You have a puppy!” Minho wanted to go to the balcony but Chan was still holding his sleeve.
“Hm. I adopted him 7 months ago. Still 8 months. Name is Minnie.” Chan sheeply smiled as Minho’s gears turned in head, “Kim Seung’minnie’” Minho smirks then bursts into laughter.
“So Mirror selfie?” Chan asked.
Minho shrugged, still smiling. “Simple. Clean. Nothing that shows our faces.” Chan lets Minho go as he grabs his phone.
He took his coat off slowly, revealing a crisp black button-down tucked into high-waisted slacks. Understated elegance. The cool CEO look. He adjusted his cufflinks absently as he stepped closer.
When Chan raised his phone for the mirror shot, Minho took it gently from his hand.
“I’ll take it,” Minho said, voice quiet. “You hold the flowers.”
There was something about the way he said it — not a suggestion, but a decision. Chan tilted his head, intrigued.
“Bossy. I like it.”
Minho ignored him. He stepped beside Chan, close enough that their shoulders brushed, and adjusted the frame. He didn’t say anything about how comfortable the warmth beside him felt. How natural it was to let his hand drift down and — with a slight pause — lace their fingers together.
Chan inhaled a little at the contact. Not enough to be obvious. But enough.
Minho met his eyes in the mirror briefly before he focused on the phone. “Don’t move.”
Click. Click. He took three shots, changing the angle slightly each time.
In the reflection, the photo looked casual, soft — two blurred figures, hands gently entwined, the bouquet in Chan’s arm. The fading golden light from the window in front cast a halo around their faces. Nothing scandalous. Nothing explicit. But deeply, undeniably intimate.
“Let me see,” Chan said, voice low.
Minho handed him the phone, resisting the urge to step away. Their hands remained linked for just a second too long before Minho finally let go, pretending to fix his collar.
Chan scrolled through the photos and then stopped at one. “This one.”
Minho glanced. It was the second shot — the most unguarded. In it, Chan’s head was slightly tilted toward him, lips parted in a lazy smile. Minho’s face was mostly obscured by the light flare, but the tension in his body betrayed him. Not cold. Just hesitant.
“It looks like we like each other,” Chan mused.
Minho looked at the phone before nodding. Chan put down the flowers on the table nearby.
“Minho, look!” Chan went so close to him and typed in the caption so Minho could see.
📷🌸: a quiet sunday.
No tags. No geotags. Just the image and the implication.
“Subtle,” Minho said approvingly.
“My mystery man. Fans are about to go crazy.”
“That’s the point,” Minho said, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Hopefully my parents too”
Chan didn’t move away, still close enough that Minho could feel the heat of him. His voice was soft when he spoke again. “You’re a lot gentler than you pretend to be.”
Minho looked up. Their eyes met.
“And you’re a lot smarter than people give you credit for.”
Something flickered between them. Not affection. Not yet. But intrigue. Hunger. The beginnings of something they both refused to name.
“You know,” Chan said after a beat, stepping back with a smirk, “if you’re going to fake date me, you’ll have to get better at hiding how much you stare.”
“I wasn’t staring.”
“Mm,” Chan hummed, already walking toward the kitchen. “You want a drink? I make a mean iced americano. Or are you going to pretend you don’t like caffeine like every other controlling CEO type?”
Minho smirked faintly, still standing by the mirror.
“Make it strong,” he said.
“Just how you like it.”
Minho didn’t respond, but his ears burned quietly as he followed him.
The soft launch had begun. And for the first time in a long, long while, Minho felt something spark in his chest — something warm, something dangerous, something very much not part of the plan.
—
Seungmin called Chan literally 2 minutes after he posted their mirror photo. Telling them it was a good idea to post on instagram. Then Chan handed him the iced americano.
Neither of them said anything as they both stood silently in the kitchen, backs against the marble island, staring at the phone because it kept vibrating with notifications.
Within the last 10 minutes, the post already had over 100,000 likes.
Ten more minutes, and it was chaos.
Chan refreshed his own tag. “Oh, they’re foaming.”
Minho raised an eyebrow. “That good?”
Chan turned the screen toward him with a grin.
@staystargirl94
IS THAT A HAND HOLD? A FLOWER? A MYSTERY MAN??? WHO IS HE?!?!
@bangchanupdates
bang chan soft-launching someone??? i’m not breathing rn 😭😭😭
@ohmyopt
okay but this is the most domestic photo i’ve ever seen in my life. It's giving a boyfriend. it’s giving husband.
@fashionchannie
THE FLOWERS. THE BLURRED FACES. THE HANDS. THE SUBTLE FLEX OF THAT BLACK BUTTON-UP. whoever this is… you’ve WON, sir.
@insomniainseoul
he really wrote ‘I Like It’ and then posted THIS???? pls. I can't handle hot people in love.
@kpopthirstacc
if this man doesn’t turn around and KISS him on live TV i’m gonna sue.
@deluluwifeofchan
i know i’m not his gf but this feels personal and i’m not okay. 😭😭😭
@ceogayenergy
the mystery man’s posture… the jawline… THE VIBE… if this isn’t a chaebol boyfriend straight out of a drama I swear—
Chan chuckled, scrolling endlessly. “You just made my PR team cry happy tears.”
Minho tried not to look amused, sipping his americano. “They’re that easy to please?”
Chan looked up at him, face unreadable for a second.
“No,” he said softly. “It’s just… this feels different.”
Minho met his gaze, something about those words sticking under his skin. But instead of answering, he turned and glanced at the phone again. The number of comments kept climbing.
He read one more.
> @staydetectivesquad
okay we need to find out who this guy is. blurry mirror or not, he’s HOT. time to enhance ✨CSI style✨
He sighed. “Your fans are terrifying.”
Chan only grinned wider. “They’re passionate.”
Minho didn’t say it out loud, but he liked that. The way the fans cared. The way it all felt so big, and yet… not suffocating. He liked that Chan wasn’t hiding him — not completely. Just giving enough to stir the storm.
Chan held out the phone again. “Should we post a second one tomorrow? Or let them suffer for a bit?”
Minho took a slow sip of his drink. “Let them suffer.”
They both smirked.
And Minho couldn't stop looking at Chan’s soft curls and deep dimples.
—
The city is humming with anticipation.
It’s Hyunjin’s big night — the premiere of his newest action film, and his first movie as a married man. As Minho knows, Hyunjin and Jeongin, the idol singer have gotten married in last fall. Their public romance was the talk of town that fall.
Today, alll of Seoul’s elite are expected to attend. But the buzz outside the theater isn't just for Hyunjin. There’s something brewing online, something about Bang Chan's mystery boyfriend finally stepping into the spotlight. He knows the moment he confirmed the attending with Seungmin, the words tend to get out. More like Chan’s PR team themselves.
Inside Minho’s private car, tension curls low in his stomach.
He tugs at the black velvet of his suit jacket again for the tenth time. “Are you sure about this?” he mutters, watching the flashing lights through the tinted windows in bit far.
Beside him, Chan is calm — too calm — scrolling through a few last-minute texts from Seungmin, who’s coordinating outside.
Chan finally looks up, grinning like sin. “Minho. You’ve handled boardroom sharks and predatory shareholders. You can handle a few cameras. Besides—” He reaches over and laces their fingers together, “—I like showing you off.”
Minho’s breath stutters, and he tries not to let it show.
“Well. It’s too late to think. We will be pulling to red carpet in 5 seconds” Changbin, Chan’s PA also Seungmin’s boyfriend said from the driver seat.
Changbin parked the car in front of red carpet. Then gets out and opens the car door for them. “You’re on,” he says, voice tight. “Photographers are hungry.”
Chan steps out first, then offers his hand to Minho. “You ready?”
Minho takes it without thinking. “Let’s burn the world.”
But the moment Bang Chan steps out of the car, everything pauses.
Because he’s not alone.
Minho steps out beside him. His hand is laced with Chan’s. His expression is cool, but his pulse is racing beneath his skin.
Reporters freeze. Then erupt.
“Is that Lee Minho?”
“Wait—isn’t he the LYN Group CEO?”
“Oh my god, it’s him. That’s Lee Minho!”
“They’re holding hands—he’s Bang Chan’s… are they together??”
“Is that mystery boyfriend?”
The press isn’t just stunned by the pairing — they’re stunned by who Minho is. Everyone knows the sharp, private, intimidating executive. But here he is, walking the carpet beside Korea’s most beloved idol-turned-actor.
Chan pauses for the photos, turns toward the press, and wraps his arm around Minho’s waist.
“Yes. Yes. This is my boyfriend, Lee Minho” He says with a proud smile, voice calm and firm.
Minho’s ears go red. He doesn’t flinch or deny it. He just lets it happen. Lets Chan claim him so openly, so proudly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He places his hand lightly on Chan’s hand that is around his waist — subtle, intimate — and leans just a fraction closer.
Inside the event, Chan introduces Minho to Hyunjin, who is bright as sunshine, just hugs them both and whispers something like “Finally Chan is getting some action” with a teasing wink.
Minho plays it cool. On the outside, at least.
On the inside? He’s chaos.
—
After the film, Minho is quiet. His jaw is tight. His phone buzzes again and again in the pocket of his coat, but he waits until they’re in his car to check it.
Their red carpet appearance has gone viral in social media. They are in the parking lot of the movie theater. Chan is sitting in the passenger seat and refreshing his twitter feed.
@ohmyotp
OMG! It’s Lee Fucking Minho. And is it #MinChan #BangLee #ChriKnow #Miris????? Personally #MinChan !!!
@DispatchDaily
Bang Chan’s mystery boyfriend is none other than CEO Lee Minho. The power this couple holds is unreal.
#MinChan #BangChan #LeeMinho
@KDramaSecrets
They held hands. He called him his boyfriend. MINHO BLUSHED. BANGCHAN MADE MINHO BLUSH. THE WORLD IS HEALING.
#MinChan #RedCarpetKings
@STAYedUpAllNight
Is anyone else emotionally unstable over how soft Chan looked at Minho on the carpet??? I need a moment. Or ten.
#MinChanIsReal
@BangchanUpdate
#MinChan climbs to #1 on Twitter worldwide within the hour. #BangChan and #LeeMinho are trending at #2 and #3. Following #MinChanIsReal at #4.
@daebakdispatch
BANG CHAN CONFIRMS HIS BOYFRIEND IS NONE OTHER THAN TECH CEO LEE MINHO. Power couple of the year??
@staynationdaily
Bang Chan and Lee Minho are not just dating. They’re DOMINATING. The red carpet. My heart. My entire life.
@popnseoul
The way Chan held his hand? The whisper? The smirk? The POSSESSIVE HAND ON THE BACK??? I need this drama greenlit now.
@KoreanChart
#MinChan trends worldwide within twenty minutes.
#LeeMinho, #BangChan, #MinChanIsReal and #HyunjinPremiere are not far behind.
Chan was smiling as he was showing Minho the tweets but Minho’s phone rings again.
The screen reads: “Father.”
Chan watches him stiffen. Minho takes the call.
“Father—”
“Are you proud of yourself?” His father's voice is sharp. “Is this what you want your grandfather to see before he dies? Are you dragging the Lee name through the mud on national television?”
Minho’s jaw clenches. “I told you before. I’m not marrying a woman. I’m not hiding who I am anymore.”
“You're humiliating our bloodline. I'll disown you if you don’t fix this immediately.”
Before Minho can respond, the phone is snatched from his hand.
“Hello, Mr. Lee,” Chan says, voice deceptively polite. “This is Bang Chan. You might’ve seen me on every billboard in your overpriced district.”
A pause. Minho looks stunned.
“I just wanted to say,” Chan continues, tone cool and steady, “I love your son. And whether or not you approve, I’m going to protect him. He’s done enough for your family. Maybe it’s time someone else does something for him.”
Another beat. Minho can’t hear what his father says next — but Chan’s expression hardens.
“Oh, disown him? Please do. I have enough money to help him build a company from scratch. Hell, I can buy out three of your subsidiaries by next week and give them to him just for fun. He’ll still live in a penthouse. He’ll still wear custom suits. He’ll still be Lee Minho, except without needing your damn approval.”
He ends the call without another word and tosses the phone into the center console.
Minho stares at him, breath caught somewhere in his throat.
Chan exhales slowly. “Sorry. Was that too much?”
Minho reaches across the seat, grabs Chan by the collar, and kisses him.
It’s not a fake kiss.
It’s not for the cameras.
It’s desperate, all fire and gratitude and want. Their mouths fit together like puzzle pieces, and Chan sighs into it, hands going to Minho’s thigh like it’s instinct.
When they break, Minho is breathless.
He leans close, lips brushing Chan’s again.
“Can I take you to my house?” he whispers.
Chan’s grin is dangerous.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
—
They didn’t talk about the kiss on set —last wednesday— the one Minho pressed to Chan’s lips in full view of the film crew, right after he surprised him with a food truck on the last day of his MV shoot.
They didn’t talk about Chan randomly dropping by last friday at his office or the way Chan looked at him then, dazed and a little wild, like he would’ve dropped to his knees on the asphalt if Minho had asked.
They didn’t talk about two weeks ago, either. After Hyunjin’s movie premiere, in Minho’s bed cuddling after getting down from highs, Or the kisses shared over breakfast.
Or last night — tangled in sweat-slick sheets, Chan’s legs wrapped around Minho’s waist, kisses gone desperate and mouths full of gasps and quiet, ruined moans. Chan’s voice had cracked on Minho’s name. Minho had wanted to leave more marks, to make Chan forget anyone else had ever touched him before, but he’d stopped. Just barely.
They weren’t supposed to go that far.
They were still fake. Still pretending. Still lying to everyone. Right?
But then there was this morning.
Minho wakes to soft snoring and golden light spilling through the gauzy curtains.
Chan is shirtless, in Minho’s boxers, half-tangled in a sheet, the fabric low around his hips. His chest rises and falls with each breath.
Faint love bites pepper from neck to trail down his fine abs.
Minho’s eyes catch on the one just under Chan’s ear — fresh, reddish-purple, blooming like a bruise from Minho’s mouth.
He wants to bite it again. Mark him deeper. Permanently. He won’t. He doesn’t.
Instead, Minho kisses Chan’s shoulder before slides out of bed and pads to the kitchen, pulling on a soft hoodie and sweatpants. He doesn’t want to think. He wants to cook.
It was Seungmin’s idea, the brunch post. Something cute. “You’re supposed to look like you’re in love, remember?” he’d texted with a smug emoji. “Feed him a smoothie. Or straddle him. Both work.”
Minho rolled his eyes but took the bait.
So here he is, flipping eggs and slicing strawberries, hoping Chan sleeps through it.
But of course he doesn’t.
“I smell toast,” Chan mumbles as he wanders in, still shirtless, but wearing shorts. Hair is a wild mess of curls, one side smashed flat from the pillow.
“You smell like sex and sleep.”
Chan grins, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “That’s because we had sex. And I slept.”
“Brilliant deduction,” Minho deadpans, plating eggs.
Chan leans against the counter, sipping his water slowly. The short top he pulled on does nothing to hide the marks on his thighs or the stretch of skin at his hips.
Minho looks away. “You didn’t wear a shirt today.”
Chan shrugs. “You said not to.”
Minho glances up, startled. “I was joking!!!” Ears are getting red.
“Well. I always listen to good suggestions from my boyfriend!”
Minho’s chest aches in a way he’s not ready to examine. He cuts up toast too fast to hide the blush crawling up his neck.
They argue about the eggs. Again.
“You overcooked the yolk.”
“It’s your fault for distracting me.”
“Me? I was just drinking my coffee.”
“Shirtless.”
“You like it.”
Minho doesn’t answer. He just shoves two sets of plates,forks and knives into Chan’s hand. “Set the table on the balcony.”
Chan does pout — exaggeratedly. He whines too. Loudly.
“You’re insufferable,” Minho says, cheeks burning. “Stop whining. Go set the table”
Chan leans in, lips are still pouting. “But you’re in love with me.”
Minho stabs a piece of fruit and mutters, “You wish.”
They eat on the balcony. Spring is stretching into its last breath, the air warm but not too hot, sunlight soft against their skin. Their plates sit in front of them on the tiny wooden table. Chan’s legs are folded across on the chair, bare foot poking into Minho’s left thigh.
Minho raises his phone to the left side, pretending to check the lighting, but really, he just wants to remember this moment.
Chan, curls loose, in one of Minho’s old tank tops which is slipping off one shoulder, smoothie in hand, laughing at something dumb on his phone.
Click.
Another shot — their hands brushing on the table, toast crumbs scattered, the skyline peeking out behind them.
Click.
Minho keeps the last photo for himself, but posts the first one, tags him in his story. No caption. Just @gnabnahc and a little white heart.
Chan’s phone pings. So does Minho’s.
“You’re getting bold,” Chan teases.
“Shut up.”
“You know what that story says to the public?”
“That I made you breakfast.”
“That you’re mine.”
Minho rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
Chan drops his legs and leans to Minho’s side and steals a bite from Minho’s fork before he can protest. Chews slowly. Smirks. “Delicious.”
Minho pokes his leg under the table. “Stop doing that.”
Chan grins, trapping Minho’s calf between his ankles. “Why? You blushing?”
Minho couldn't help.
He really couldn't help but lean in. He presses a kiss — not to Chan’s lips, but to the mark under his ear. The one still faintly bruised from last night. The one that belongs to Minho.
Chan goes still.
Minho rests his forehead there, warm against Chan’s Cheek, breathing in sweat and citrus and sleep.
Chan doesn't move. He just lets him be.
Lets Minho press in close, quiet and hesitant, like this is a dream he’s still deciding to believe.
Chan reaches and cups Minho’s thigh, fingers gently tracing slow circles. Not demanding. Not pulling. Just grounding.
Minho closes his eyes.
It’s not fake. Not anymore.
He doesn’t say it.
But Chan doesn’t need to know.
—
Minho hadn’t meant to bring Chan. He’d mentioned the annual Seollal gathering in passing — the one where all the Lee family branches convened at his grandparents’ home, stiff with tradition and formality. He didn’t expect Chan to actually want to come.
“You should rest,” Minho had said the night before. They were in Chan’s bedroom. Minho was on bed, just in a towel. “You looked half-dead during the dance shoot.”
“I’ll rest after I meet your mom,” Chan replied, pulling out two sets of pajamas for them.
Minho didn’t argue. He should have. But he didn’t.
What Chan really didn’t expect was how seriously he’d take it.
By the time they pulled up to the quiet, upscale neighborhood of Hanok village in Minho’s sleek black car, Chan had acquired:
Three gift-wrapped educational toys and matching hanboks for the nieces and nephew.
A massive bouquet of white lilies and pink carnations for Minho’s grandmother and mother.
A fendi tie for his father. It's probably unreleased.
A bottle of aged wine older than Minho for his grandfather.
And some basic gifts like perfumes, scarves and accessories for his two cousin sisters and two aunties.
Minho hadn’t said anything. Just blinked at him in disbelief and whispered, “You’re insane.”
Chan only smiled, leaned in just for peck on Minho’s lips, tucking the bouquet under one arm and looping his free hand through Minho’s.
“Let’s go charm your entire bloodline.”
It doesn’t go smoothly.
From the moment they step inside — shoes politely lined at the entrance, bags unpacked into the guest room —Minho’s childhood bed is too small– the atmosphere tightens.
Minho’s mom took flowers with a smile. His dad wasn’t much happier. Especially after the phone call they had.
His uncles stare too long. His aunts give curt nods. His two of three cousin sisters smile thinly. One of them makes a passive-aggressive joke about “modern relationship choices.”
Even the nieces seem unsure, hiding behind their mothers’ skirts.
Chan smiles anyway. Bowing politely. Saying “Happy New Year” in perfect formal Korean. Hand never once strayed far from Minho’s lower back. His palm fits there like it’s always belonged.
Minho watches him set the dinner table beside his grandmother like he’s done it a hundred times. He can tell his grandmother likes Chan. Or how Chan compliments the floral pattern on the plates, how he peels fruit for the kids, how he praises Minho’s mom’s cooking in that soft-spoken tone that makes everyone instinctively want to like him — and still, it’s not enough.
Still, the air feels thick with judgment.
Minho’s stomach is in knots.
It’s Chaeyeon — the cousin he actually likes — who finds him sulking near the hallway, where he was watching Chan and drags him away from the noise. Chaeyeon, the cool cousin sister he always wanted to have as his own sister. Unmarried, lives abroad. Freely loving the foreign woman she found while working.
They duck into the narrow back hallway by the laundry room, the scent of spices and warm rice floating after them.
“So you made millions of fangirls cry” Her smirk is fully on display.
“Well. We happened to have a mutual friend.”
“Does he treat you well, my baby brother?” Chaeyeon starts to pat Minho’s head. Just the way she used to do when he was shorter than her. Now she is on her tiptoes.
“Noona, He does! He does treat me more than good”
“My little baby brother” she starts, arm is down but eyes are still soft, “I’ve never seen you this happy.”
Minho snorts, bitter. “Seriously?”
“Not even the day you got your company. Not when you were accepted to Yonsei. Not even when you finally moved out.”
“They weren’t my dreams, noona.”
She tilts her head. “And this?”
Minho looks down at his socks. Back of his eyes are stinging. He remembers the way Chan helped his niece into her hanbok earlier. How he kissed the back of Minho’s hand when he thought no one was looking.
“Do I really look happy?”
She smiles gently. “He makes you happy. Since I know you too well, You should tell him that.”
“Noona,”
“Somethings are even more better when other party knows”
—
Later that night, with the last rice cakes cleared, the older relatives watching historical dramas in the living room and kids are about to sleep, Minho pulls Chan upstairs to his childhood bedroom.
It’s embarrassingly untouched — navy blue bedsheets, shelves lined with old fantasy novels, anime figurines still neatly arranged.
Chan touches the dusty Gundam models and grins. “You were a nerd.”
“Still am.”
They laugh over the collection of Harry Potter books, over Minho’s secret stash of handwritten poems from middle school, over a photo of baby Minho with a bowl cut and angry eyebrows.
Then,
They kiss — not hungry, not rushed. Just slow. Familiar.
And there’s a knock.
Minho jumps back like they’ve been caught doing something illegal — which, technically, is impossible since they’re adults — but still. Minho opens the door. His mother walks in holding a tray with tea and sliced fruit.
“Don’t mind me,” she says softly, setting it down. “Just thought you two might be thirsty.”
“Thank you Mom.”
She settles herself on the bed like it’s the most normal thing in the world as Minho and Chan sit down on the floor in front of the bed — her son and his (fake) boyfriend sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor, hair mussed, cheeks pink from kissing.
Chan bows slightly. “Thank you, Mrs.Lee. You don’t need to tire yourself. You already cooked for all of us”
“‘Mom,’ please,” she says, smiling. Then she looks between them and sighs. “Chan, take care of my baby. No matter what my husband or in-laws say. Keep him happy. That’s all I care about.”
“Mom—” Minho’s voice cracks, caught somewhere between embarrassment and shock.
“I see the old Minho in you again. The one who used to dance in front of the mirror, who wanted to be a chef before his father forced him into suits.”
Chan’s eyes soften. “I will. I swear. I’ll protect him.”
She chuckles. “Love him a lot. He’s just a softie inside. I still remember when he cried because his pet fish died—”
“Mom!” Minho groans, grabbing a pillow and burying his face in it.
Chan’s laughter fills the room, rich and free. Minho peeks out from behind the pillow and sees Chan wiping tears from his eyes, grinning like it’s the happiest he’s been all day as his mom spills about how he found out his pet fish died due to overfeeding and crying session at mcdonald in middle night because he failed German test.
And maybe, just maybe, Minho feels like this — here, in this tiny room filled with childhood dreams and adult fears — is the first real moment in weeks.
Not fake. Not performative.
Just them. Real. Quiet. Safe.
—
Milan, the city of fashion.
The flight to Milan had been quiet — not cold, just thoughtful. The Fendi had gotten them a direct flight. Minho read a book he didn’t absorb a single word of, and Chan leaned his head on Minho’s shoulder halfway through, earbuds in, eyes fluttering shut. Minho hadn’t moved, hadn’t dared to.
They were here for Fendi’s high-profile fundraising gala. One of those black-tie, glimmering, museum-hall events, dripping with donors and fame and people who wore money like perfume. The kind that expected power couples and long gowns and eye contact that meant favors.
And the moment Bang Chan stepped into the venue — fitted in a jet-black velvet tuxedo with a golden pocket square and no tie, collar teasing open — the air shifted. He smiled for the cameras like he owned the room. Like Minho was the only person who mattered.
Minho walked beside him, a sleek navy suit sculpted to his frame, his dark hair swept back and eyes bold under the crystal lighting. They looked unfair together, like a painting that made people whisper. Minho caught bits of it between champagne flutes and camera flashes. Minho just pretended he didn't hear.
They were interviewed by different magazines. Taking pictures with Korean celebrities to western and east asian celebrities.
Chan kept his hand at Minho’s lower back the entire night, a gentle but grounding weight that told the room exactly who he was. Chan’s. Off-limits. Adored.
Minho smiled through it, but his fingers curled just slightly when Chan leaned in to whisper things only meant for him.
At one point during dinner, Chan rested his chin on Minho’s shoulder with a lazy hum and said, “You’re doing so well, baby. One more hour and I’ll take you back and make you forget this whole night happened.”
Minho had laughed quietly, then excused himself to the restroom for a moment too long, splashing cold water on his cheeks. Because he can't hide his boner in these pants.
By the time the gala ended, both of them had sore feet and flushed skin from just enough wine. Outside, the milan night air was cool and still fragrant with late spring lilacs. Their driver was waiting. Chan opened the door for him, as always.
The hotel they were staying at was nothing short of decadent. Gold trim, fresh white lilies in the lobby, soft piano music in the background. Their suite was at one of the top floors, with a balcony view that stretched across rooftops lit in soft amber light.
But the moment the door shut behind them, the exhaustion hit.
They didn’t speak as they toed off polished shoes. Chan popped the first two buttons of his shirt. Minho discarded his blazer over the armchair. No tension yet — just the quiet hum of trust built over too many shared glances and unspoken things.
Minho peeled away layers — shirt, pants — until he was left nothing. Chan followed suit. Minho was the first one to hop in the shower. Just to get rid of the dirt, hairspray and makeup. Chan was brushing his teeth when Minho finished. He just silently handed over the toothbrush and toothpaste before going inside the shower. Once they both were done with drying hair, just putting on some boxers, They got into bed.
They slid under the covers at the same time. The sheets were soft, silky against skin. Milan was warm outside, but Chan’s body heat was warmer. Somehow, in the dark, their limbs found each other without trying.
Chan exhaled. “That was so much pretending.”
Minho’s voice came low. “Yeah.”
Then silence.
Then Chan shifted, curling slightly closer. One of his legs slid over Minho’s. His head nuzzled at Minho’s collarbone, curls brushing his neck.
Minho laid on his back, staring at the ceiling like he was afraid of what this might mean.
But then Chan made a small, content sound — something like a sigh — and Minho gave in. He reached up and brushed his fingers through those soft brown curls. Again. And again. Slow. Gentle.
Then leaned in.
He kissed the corner of Chan’s mouth. Soft and warm. Like a thank you. Like a secret.
“Goodnight,” Minho whispered, so quietly it was almost nothing. And next thing Minho knows, is waking up in the morning.
Minho woke slowly — not to an alarm, or noise, but to the gentle press of breath against his neck. He blinked once, twice, adjusting to the afternoon light seeping through gauzy curtains.
Chan was still beside him, tangled in the sheets, his leg hooked loosely around Minho’s, head pillowed against his shoulder.
Minho didn’t move for a long time. Just breathed.
Then, with the lightest touch, Chan reached over and brushed the hair out of Minho’s eyes.
“You’re not as cold as you pretend to be, you know,” Chan murmured, voice scratchy with sleep and fondness.
“Hm?” Minho's voice was rough, eyes barely open.
“Did you sleep well, baby?” Chan asked, still playing with a piece of Minho’s hair between his fingers.
Minho blinked again. His heart fluttered. “Yes,” he said. “You?”
“Me too,” Chan replied with a soft smile.
Then, without even hesitating, Chan leaned in and kissed him.
Slow. Deep. Sleep-warm lips and morning breath, but neither of them cared.
Minho kissed him back without thinking, hand sliding up to cradle Chan’s jaw.
No games. No pretending. Just the weightless comfort of waking up beside someone who made everything feel like it might just be okay.
They didn’t get out of bed for another hour.
—
Minho wasn’t good at meeting people. Not like Chan, who could charm a stone into smiling. Minho preferred his quiet corners, his blank expressions, his measured words.
But tonight, he was nervous. Not for himself.
For Chan.
Because tonight wasn’t just a fake boyfriend test.
Tonight was personal.
Chan noticed. Of course he did. From the way Minho fidgeted with the sleeves of his black button-down to how he kept checking his phone like someone would text him an excuse to leave—Chan knew.
“You’re nervous,” Chan murmured, voice low and a little smug as they walked toward the glowing bar entrance, passing couples and buzzing laughter under the soft city lights.
“No, I’m annoyed,” Minho muttered. “With myself. For doing this.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
Minho stopped walking and shot him a glare. Chan’s lips twitched.
“You’re impossible,” Minho said, but it lacked venom.
“You invited me.”
“That was before I remembered what a nightmare Jisung and Felix are in public.”
“Isn’t that part of their charm?” Chan smiled, then gently—too gently—brushed Minho’s arm with his hand. “Hey. I’ll behave. I promise.”
Minho didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away either.
Inside, the pub was low-lit and cozy, humming with the sound of soccer commentary overhead and the chaotic warmth of Friday night regulars. Wooden tables lined the walls, covered in beer rings and half-played board games. The scent of fried food and cheap cologne lingered in the air.
Seungmin was the first to spot them.
He lifted his glass lazily from the corner of the room and raised a brow. “They’re here.”
Felix immediately bounced to his feet, face bright as usual. “Minho! And Chan! Oh my god, you’re even cuter in real life. Seungmin, you should’ve brought him to our cafè.”
Chan let out a surprised laugh. “Thanks, I think I’ve been there a few times.”
“OMG! Really?” Chan nodded with a soft smile.
Jisung followed right after, grin mischievous. “Minho really went all out this time.”
“I didn’t go anywhere—”
“—just fell hard for a hot producer,” Jisung finished.
“Shut up,” Minho hissed under his breath, but there was no bite to it. Not when Chan’s hand slipped behind him, resting low on his back. Just enough to ground him. Just enough to say, ‘I’ve got you.’
The introductions came fast—Felix’s warmth, Jisung’s chaos. Seungmin’s sharp-eyes amused the couple when they sat too close. Then Chan’s people began trickling in.
Changbin was already somehow louder than the TV. “Hello!” he bellowed, pulling Chan into a shoulder hug. Then fist bump to Minho before sitting closer to his boyfriend, Seungmin. “Bangchan, You didn’t tell us you were dating Minho until we found it through Seungmin in a PR meeting.”
“Well–”
“And Lee Minho, I thought we had something in common between us! I am his PA”
“A puppy named Kim Seungmin” Jisung bursted into laughter and Seungmin kicked Minho's shin under the table.
Chan smirked. “Honestly I didn’t want to brag and we were still new to this at that time.”
Minho felt his cheeks heat.
Hyunjin and jeongin came last, Hyunjin in all glossy black boots and cheekbones, offering a languid smile. “He’s cute,” he said to Minho, eyes cat-like. “I approve.”
Minho blinked. “That’s… comforting.”
Jeongin sat next to Hyunjin, Hair tousled, beanie crooked. “Sorry We’re late!” he huffed. “We finally get to meet the almighty Lee Minho.”
Chan introduced them proudly. “Jeongin, Of course. The man of my dreams. this is him.”
Jeongin gave Minho a once-over. “Wow. You’re hotter in person.”
Felix gasped dramatically. “Don’t steal him!”
“Fortunately I’m taken by the hottest man alive,” Jeongin said cheekily while showing his wedding ring.
The laughter came easy after that. Drinks passed around. The soccer game played on, half-watched. Minho found himself sitting close to Chan—closer than necessary, their thighs brushing under the table.
Minho had never really done this. Shared this. He’d never had someone to bring to his friends. Never had someone who leaned into his side when he rolled his eyes. Someone who refilled his beer for him without asking. Someone who made Seungmin tilt his head thoughtfully, like he was reassessing everything he thought he knew.
Later, Out on the Street, They spilled out of the pub near midnight, the cool air sobering. They had dinner and drinks. Also they can feel the upcoming hangover.
Seungmin and Changbin have already started to bickering. Minho stood a little apart, jacket slung over one arm, watching the way Chan laughed with Felix and Hyunjin while Jeongin and Jisung were trying to grab taxis. Chan was radiant under the streetlamp, cheeks flushed, curls wild. Like he belonged.
Like he belonged to Minho.
“You okay?” Chan asked, walking over and nudging his elbow gently.
Minho nodded. “Tired. But okay.”
Chan looked at him for a beat too long. “I liked your friends.”
“They liked you.”
Chan smiled. “Even if they try to steal me?”
Minho made a face. “You’re pushing it. No one can steal you now.”
“Still.” Chan hesitated. “Thanks for bringing me.”
Minho shrugged. “Felt right.”
“Did it?”
Minho turned to him, blinking. “Yeah. It did.”
Chan’s gaze dropped to his lips, then back up. “You keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not fake.”
Minho didn’t answer. He just stepped forward, grabbed Chan’s jacket by the lapel, and kissed him.
Outside the pub. Under the moonlight.
And just as their lips met, someone from the friend group must’ve spotted them, because a chorus of—
“Oooooohhhhhh!”
—echoed through the street.
Minho groaned into the kiss, about to pull back, but Chan caught his face with both hands and deepened it. Slow. Sure. Like they had all the time in the world.
When they broke apart, breathless, Felix and Jisung were pressed against each other, fake-swooning. Seungmin looked unimpressed.
“Shameless,” Hyunjin yelled from the backhug Jeongin has embraced him in, laughing.
Chan was grinning, yelled back to Hyunjin “You kiss your husband on national television.”
But Minho, heart pounding, didn’t say anything.
He just leaned in again, softer this time. A quick, reverent kiss like punctuation. Like confession.
“Let them watch,” he muttered against Chan’s lips.
And Chan’s smile melted into something almost stunned. Almost shy.
Because at that moment, it didn’t feel fake at all.
—
The day had dragged on endlessly.
The meeting was long, filled with demanding board directors and artificial lights in conference room. Minho’s whole body aches when he finally gets home. His skin felt like it’d been peeled back and his head was buzzing from directors’ discussing about his relationship status for too long.
He tossed his bag at the corner of desk, padded into the bathroom, and stood under the hot shower until the tension melted from his shoulders. By the time he stepped out, towel wrapped loosely around his hips, hair damp and dripping, he felt like a ghost of himself.
That’s when the doorbell rang.
He blinked at the sound, brow furrowing. No one rang his doorbell without warning. At least not this late into the night.
He grabbed another towel and began rubbing at his hair as he shuffled barefoot to the door. The scent of shampoo still clung to him, the soft hum of the heater buzzing low behind him.
He opened the door mid-swipe of his hair.
And nearly dropped the towel.
Chan stood there, two full bags of groceries in hand, curls tucked under a beanie, hoodie sleeves too long. And grinning. Wide.
“Well, well,” Chan drawled, eyes dragging slowly down Minho’s very bare torso, “I didn’t know you were preparing such a special welcome.”
Minho scowled and stepped aside. “Shut up and get in before the neighbors think I’m selling something illegal.”
Chan laughed and slipped inside, brushing up against Minho on purpose. “Too late. I already feel scandalized.”
Minho rolled his eyes and muttered, “You’re insufferable.”
But he didn’t pull away.
Not when Chan leaned in to press a quick kiss on his damp temple. Not when he smiled and said, “Hi.”
That made Minho freeze.
Two weeks.
Two weeks since they’d been in the same room.
Their last moment together had been in Jeju. Chan had a photoshoot that lasted for four days. Minho had flown in Saturday evening, they spent the whole Sunday walking around then tangled under hotel sheets at night. They had to say goodbye at the airport. Then Minho had to rush to work and Chan to rest. They had these unspoken things caught in their throats. And now Chan was here.
In his apartment.
With groceries.
And a soft look in his eyes like he wanted to be here.
Minho cleared his throat and stepped back. “You’re cooking,” he said, grabbing a shirt and boxer short from the laundry basket on coffee table and pulling it on.
“You’re helping,” Chan replied, dumping the groceries on the kitchen counter. “I brought your favorite mushrooms. And marinated beef you like from that store near your office.”
“Trying to bribe me?”
“Always.”
Minho’s lips twitched.
They started with chopping. Chan stood close, trying to peek at what Minho was doing. “You’re slicing mushrooms too thin,” Chan said.
“It’s easier to cook”
“You’re slicing it like you hate them.”
“I do hate it.”
“I thought you liked it—”
“I like it when I cook it. You are the one who obsessed with mushrooms”
Chan bumped Minho’s hip with his own. “Bossy.”
“Clingy.”
They grinned.
Somewhere between finishing up cooking, Minho turned to grab the soy sauce behind Chan and ended up crowding into his space. Too close. Their chests brushed. Chan looked up.
And Minho moved away first. He turned off the stove. Washed his hands before crowding still unmoved Chan.
His fingers lifted, brushing flour off the tip of Chan’s nose, but he didn’t stop there. His hand slid into Chan’s curls, now slightly damp from the kitchen heat. His gaze dropped to Chan’s lips.
Chan swallowed.
And then Minho kissed him.
Messy. Clumsy. A little desperate.
Chan laughed into the kiss, lips still moving against Minho’s as he muttered, “We’re gonna ruin the meat—”
But Minho didn’t care.
He walked Chan back until his back hit the fridge with a soft thud. The kitchen was warm. The light was golden. The food sizzled faintly in the background, but all Minho could focus on was Chan’s hands on his waist and the soft gasp that escaped when Minho’s fingers slipped under the hem of Chan’s hoodie to touch bare skin.
When they pulled apart, Chan smacked Minho’s shoulder.
“Minho!!”
“What?” Minho said, leaning back in with a smug smile. “You showed up uninvited. I thought this was dinner and dessert.”
Chan narrowed his eyes, chest heaving. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
Minho pressed his lips to Chan’s neck, soft and lingering. “I missed you,” he whispered. “It’s been two weeks. That’s too long.”
Chan melted.
His fingers tangled in Minho’s shirt. “Baby… Minho.”
“Tell me you missed me too,” Minho whispered.
“I—” Chan started, breath catching.
But Minho kissed him again before he could finish. This one was slower. More tender. Less teasing.
Less fake.
The cooking can to wait.
Because right now, they weren’t acting. Not even a little.
And Chan didn’t stop him.
—
The sun was gentle, filtered through scattered clouds as it stretched over the small garden behind the studio. Spring had started bleeding into summer — the air smelled like grass and sun-warmed stone, and the wind was just enough to lift the edge of Hyunjin’s linen shirt as he walked beside Minho, half of a salted bun in hand.
Minho had brought some pastries like some awkward peace offering, enough iced coffees for the whole crew from a place he knew Hyunjin liked. Hyunjin is working with one of the newest products they are about to launch as the model. The younger actor had smirked when he saw it, his usual sharp beauty softening with a genuine smile.
“Bribery suits you,” Hyunjin had teased, but accepted the sweets anyway.
Now, their footsteps were quiet over the stone path, and for a few moments, they let the silence settle between them — not uncomfortable, just thoughtful.
“So,” Hyunjin finally broke the silence, flicking a look sideways, “how’s it going with Chan?”
Minho blinked, mouth full of an airy bite of jam-filled pastry. He took a second to chew, then answered with a casual shrug, “We’re doing good.”
Hyunjin hummed, tone unreadable. “You know Chan doesn’t do relationships, right?”
There was no malice in his voice. Just honesty.
Minho’s fingers tightened slightly around his iced Americano.
“I mean,” Hyunjin went on, “it’s not that he’s incapable. He’s just—he’s been through enough to know how to stay on the surface. That’s why I was surprised when he told me you two started dating.”
Minho looked down at the path, watching his steps carefully. “We met through Seungmin. And I guess I’ve been busy too. So maybe I get it. The… not being able to have his free time for me.”
“Hmm.” Hyunjin’s eyes softened as he watched Minho. “But you don’t want to stay away much. Not with him.”
Minho stopped walking.
The breeze moved through the garden again. The scent of honeysuckle hung in the air.
“You really love him,” Hyunjin said gently. “It’s showing in your face, Minho. In the way you talk about him, even when you try not to say too much.”
“Oh—” Minho tried to scoff, to laugh it off, but the sound caught awkwardly in his throat.
He didn’t say anything after that. Just stared ahead at the narrow row of trees swaying softly. Like even they knew.
He hadn’t even told Chan he liked him. Not once.
Because it was supposed to be fake. That’s how it started. Simple. Clean. Temporary.
But that wasn’t what this was anymore.
Not when he woke up thinking about Chan’s laugh. Not when he looked forward to texts. Not when his entire chest went light and strange every time Chan’s fingers curled around his wrist or when he kissed Minho like it wasn’t part of the deal but something real.
Minho swallowed hard.
Hyunjin watched him with an oddly kind expression. “Tell him,” he said softly. “Talk to him, Minho. I feel like you haven’t even said ‘I like you’ yet.”
Minho’s lips parted to argue. But there was nothing he could say.
Hyunjin smiled. “He deserves to know. Especially from you.”
And Minho — still holding a half-empty cup of iced coffee that suddenly felt too cold in his hand — realized something terrifying.
He wasn’t faking anymore.
Not even a little bit.
And maybe… he never had been.
—
Minho had been ignoring what Hyunjin said ever since that walk in the garden.
Feelings? What feelings? Better to keep them quiet, folded neatly under the weight of practicality. This was fine. Everything between him and Chan was working. It was safe this way—uncomplicated. He didn’t need to mess it up with confessions or emotions that didn’t have names.
So today, he buried them beneath cologne and a crisp navy shirt as he walked into one of Gangnam’s most exclusive restaurants, the one Chan had once casually mentioned his mother dreamed of visiting. There hadn’t been any open bookings. But Minho only needed to make one call—to his cousin’s husband—and the private room was theirs for the night.
Chan kissed him three times after that call. Once on the lips. Twice on his both cheeks. Like he couldn’t help himself.
Now, the evening glowed golden through the room’s windows. Chan’s mom sat near the window, beaming in soft makeup and a pearl necklace, laughing with Hannah, her daughter. Minho had brought flowers—elegant but warm—for both of them, and presented a spa day voucher for Mrs. Bang like it wasn’t a big deal, even though Chan had looked at him like he’d hung the damn moon.
It’s Mrs.Bang’s birthday. They cut the cake. The candles had flickered out with quiet applause. They toasted with wine and started dinner with easy small talk about food, old stories, and the weather.
It was when the mains were arriving, dishes being placed in the center of the table, that Mr. Bang spoke.
“So,” he said, voice calm but direct, “do you really like my son?”
Minho nearly dropped his fork.
Chan choked on a sip of water. “Dad—!”
“What is your intention?” Mr. Bang went on, eyes still trained calmly on Minho. “You want to marry him one day? Or just leave when he gets busier and harder to keep up with?”
Minho froze for a second, panic creeping into his chest. But Chan was looking at him, that familiar face now suddenly unreadable, expectant and quiet and so, so soft.
Minho inhaled slowly. Then set down the utensils.
“Oh—yeah, Mr. Bang.” His voice cracked, embarrassingly so. He cleared it. “I mean—yes. I really like him. Actually—no. I love him.”
Chan blinked beside him.
“My intention,” Minho said, steadier now, “is to marry him one day. Not now, obviously. We both need more time. We’re still learning about each other. But I’ve thought about it. One day,I want it. To have small family of my own” His fingers brushed against Chan’s under the table. “And I know he’s busy. So am I. But we already work around that. We make it work. I hope we can make it in future too.”
Silence.
Then—
Minho felt Chan press close to him and bury his face in Minho’s shoulder.
“Hey—what—” Minho leaned in instinctively, curling an arm around Chan’s back.
And then he felt it.
The damp warmth soaking through the fabric of his shirt.
Tears.
Chan wasn’t making a sound, but he was crying. Minho doesn't know they are happy or sad tears.
Mrs. Bang wiped her eyes delicately and smiled, warm and full of something deep and motherly. “You make him happy, son,” she said softly. “Take care of him, okay?”
Mr. Bang nodded slowly. “Minho, I trust you to take care of him.”
“Omg stop,” a voice groaned. Chan’s younger brother, Lucas leaned over the table, making a face. “Look at them. They’re clinging.”
“Shut up, brat,” Chan mumbled from Minho’s shoulder.
“Respect your elders,” Minho added, smirking, one hand brushing through Chan’s curls. He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his temple.
Chan lifted his head slightly to meet Minho’s eyes. And right there, in front of his entire family, he leaned in and kissed Minho again—short but firm. Like an anchor.
“Thank you,” he whispered, just for Minho to hear. “For everything.”
Minho smiled, quietly breathless.
Maybe ignoring his feelings wasn’t going to work for much longer after all.
—
Minho sat on the armrest of Seungmin’s office couch, cradling a half-empty coffee cup, legs crossed. The walls of the studio buzzed faintly with the bass coming from down the hallway—Chan’s rehearsal room. The whole building felt like it pulsed with Chan's heartbeat.
“He’s really pushing himself,” Minho muttered, glancing toward the soundproof glass wall.
Seungmin followed his gaze. “He always does. It’s Chan.”
“I know. It’s just…” Minho trailed off, then let out a dry laugh. “Sometimes I think I only see him in passing now. Like we orbit each other instead of... being with each other.”
Seungmin didn’t say anything for a beat, then looked at Minho pointedly. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Minho gave a strained smile. “That obvious?”
“You’re a mess. You wait for him like you’re on borrowed time.”
Minho let his head drop back against the wall. “It was never fake for me, Seungmin. Never. Not from the first night. I think I started falling for him the second he walked into my house for first and smiled at me with the softest look he can give.”
Neither of them noticed the door crack open.
Chan stood just inside the threshold, eyes wide. He hadn’t meant to overhear.
Minho looked up a second too late. Chan was already walking in.
“Chan?” Seungmin’s voice was cautious.
“Could you give us a minute, Seungmin?” Chan’s voice was hoarse but calm, eyes never leaving Minho.
Seungmin glanced between them and nodded quietly, slipping out and closing the door behind him.
The silence that followed felt like a cliff’s edge.
Chan’s shoulders were tense, damp curls sticking to his temples from sweat. “So,” he began quietly, “it was never fake for you.”
Minho stood slowly, setting his coffee down. “Chan, I—”
“You were supposed to be in this with me,” Chan cut in, voice sharp and trembling. “We agreed. We were pretending. A front. For the media. For your family. For my family. That was the deal.”
Minho’s jaw clenched. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Then why would you say that to Seungmin? Like—like I’m some fool who’s been stringing you along?”
“You’re not,” Minho snapped. “But you’re also not blind. How can you not see it? How could you not feel it?”
Chan scoffed, turning away for a moment. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?!”
“Don’t make this about what I didn’t do. You lied to me, Minho.”
“I never lied,” Minho bit out. “I love you silently. That’s not a lie. I just didn't tell you it.”
Chan turned slowly, eyes shimmering. “So now it’s my fault?”
“No. But I’m not going to sit here and pretend this hasn’t become real for me. For months, Chan. Five months of dinners, birthdays, Milan to Jeju, late nights, and fake goodbyes. You don’t get to be shocked now.”
Chan blinked fast. “We’re both tired. This is getting twisted.”
Minho laughed bitterly. “Twisted? This is the most honest I’ve ever been. Don’t you get it? I’m in love with you. I have been for months. Since the beginning. Probably damn day one, Chan.”
Chan’s breath caught.
Minho stepped forward, chest rising and falling hard. “You told me once that you don’t do relationships. Fine. But this—us—it’s been real since the moment you showed up randomly in midnight, kissed me in my hallway and told me you couldn’t sleep without me. Don't rewrite this now just because you're scared."
Chan looked down, lips parted, but no words came out. Just silence. And then, quietly—
“We need to pause this conversation.”
Minho froze.
“Is this where it’s finish?”
Chan looked up, eyes red-rimmed. “Please. I need space. I need to think. You should go home.”
Minho opened his mouth, ready to protest. But then he saw the tears Chan was holding back.
So instead, Minho stepped closer. Reached up. Brushed back a damp curl from Chan’s temple. And kissed his forehead. He just stayed there for bit more longer.
Then the corner of his lips.
And then, just a whisper of a kiss to his mouth—nothing deep, nothing demanding. Just a goodbye wrapped in longing.
Minho turned and walked to the door.
“I will go now. Hope I will get to see you again”
Behind him, Chan’s breath cracked—quiet sobs trying to stay silent. The sound pierced Minho like a blade.
He closed the door softly behind him.
And left Chan standing in the middle of the room, crying into the echo of a love he hadn’t been ready to face.
—
Minho hadn’t moved from the couch in almost ten hours. The blinds were drawn. The dishes were still in the sink. His phone had gone dead sometime the night before, but he didn’t care enough to plug it in. The blanket tangled at his feet was half on the floor. His sweatshirt smells like ramyeon.
It had been two days since Chan told him to go home.
And Minho did. He came home and never left.
The doorbell rang once.
Minho barely flinched. His eyes stayed on the ceiling. His chest felt empty—hollowed out by words that had never been returned.
He closed his eyes.
The bell rang again. Then silence.
Then the sound of the passcode being entered.
He groaned. “Kim Seungmin, get the fuck out. I don’t need your pity too.”
A familiar voice called back, not from the door—but halfway down the hallway.
“What did Jisung or Felix ever do to you?”
Minho’s eyes snapped open. His breath hitched.
“Channie?”
Chan walked into the living room slowly, his black hoodie soaked from the drizzle outside, curls damp and sticking to his forehead. His eyes were red—but his mouth wore a nervous smile.
Minho sat up, blanket falling from his lap. “What… What are you doing here?”
Chan shrugged, toes nudging the edge of the couch. “Checking on my boyfriend. Who’s been ignoring everyone for two days.”
“Not everyone,” Minho muttered. “I let Seungmin bring me food. Jisung and Felix dropped off cookies.”
Chan raised an eyebrow. “Do they know?”
Minho looked down at his hands. “They think we fought.”
Chan nodded slowly. “Right.”
Silence settled. Thick. Awkward.
Chan took a few slow steps forward until he stood in front of Minho. “Can I sit?” he asked quietly.
Minho didn’t answer. So Chan just straddled him—gently sinking down onto his lap like he belonged there.
Minho’s body stiffened, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp. “What… What are you doing?”
Chan's arms looped around his neck, fingers curling into the hood of Minho’s sweatshirt.
“Hi, Minho.”
Minho’s hands hovered—then settled instinctively on Chan’s waist. “Hi, Channie.”
Chan kissed him.
Not gently. Not hungrily either. It was soft—devastatingly soft. A kiss meant to say, ‘I’m sorry I made you feel alone in this.’
Then another. And another. Minho clung to the sleeves of Chan’s hoodie like he was terrified this was a dream.
“This is your punishment,” Chan whispered against his lips, “for not kissing me goodbye properly that day.”
Minho’s eyes stung. He closed them, jaw trembling. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
Chan cupped his face, thumb brushing beneath one swollen eye. “I know. I’m sorry. I… I handled it like a coward.”
“You broke my heart.”
“I broke my own too, Min.” Chan leaned his forehead against Minho’s. “I’ve always run away from love. Always. It’s never made sense to me… until you.”
Minho didn’t move. His hands trembled where they rested on Chan’s waist.
“You made me want something I didn’t think I deserved,” Chan whispered, voice raw. “You loved me first. You loved me so quietly, so deeply, I didn’t even notice when I started loving you back. It just happened. Like I was made for it.”
Minho’s breath hitched, shoulders curling forward. Chan kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and then once more on the lips—slow, grounding.
“If this is real for you,” Chan said, almost in a whisper, “then let me be real too.”
Minho let out a strangled sound and buried his face in Chan’s neck. “We both hurt each other.”
“I know.”
“I didn't know what to do without you in my life”
“I’m here now.”
Minho pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Don’t ask me to leave you alone again. If I could, I would turn around and go back into that room and never let you cry alone.”
“I know, Baby. I know.” Chan said, voice breaking. “I won’t ask you to leave again. I’m not leaving too, unless you ask me to. But I hope you never do.”
Minho kissed him again. Desperate. Teary. Quiet sobs muffled between their mouths. His hands tangled in Chan’s hoodie, his body trembling under the weight of finally being seen.
“I love you,” Minho whispered.
“I love you too.” Chan replied.
They didn’t move for a long time.
They just stayed there—tangled on a couch in Minho’s living room, surrounded by love, dishes, and the soft hum of rain on the windows. But it felt like the safest place in the world.
—
Minho’s hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. The drive to his parents home was quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything had already been said in glances, in morning kisses, in the way Chan had reached for his hand the moment they got into the car.
Now, Chan was watching the trees pass, humming softly to whatever old ballad was on the radio. It was warm. Familiar. Surreal.
"Are you okay?" Chan asked, turning toward him.
Minho nodded, then gave a small, crooked smile. "Yeah. Just nervous. You’ve met them before, but this… it’s different now. Official. No performance."
"No fake dating,” Chan teased gently, reaching across to rest a hand over Minho’s.
"Nope," Minho murmured. "Just real nerves, real boyfriend, real future."
Chan squeezed his hand.
The Lee house’s garden smelled like grass and grilled meat, and the family dog barked excitedly from the backyard.
“Minho,” his mother greeted, arms already open. “You’re late!”
“Traffic,” Minho lied, embracing her tightly before stepping aside to let Chan bow politely.
His father joined them on the porch with a nod. His smile was less warm, but not unkind. “Bang Chan. Welcome back!”
“Thank you for having me again, sir.”
Inside, the house smelled like stew and dried herbs. The table was already set when Minho’s grandparents came into the room.
Chan bowed deeply. “Grandfather. Grandmother. It’s nice to see you again.”
His grandfather eyed him carefully. “You're still with my grandson. That’s impressed with his personality.”
Minho rolled his eyes before make sure Grandmother sit comfortably.
Chan laughed politely. “Yes, sir. I guess personality passed down by generations” making Grandmother and Minho’s mom burst into laughters.
Minho sat beside Chan at the table, trying not to show how much his knee was bouncing. He caught his mother glancing between them and smiling softly. He caught his father…not smiling.
Dinner was quiet at first. Then, somewhere between second helpings and dessert, the real conversation began.
“So,” Minho’s grandmother said, gently, “this is serious now, isn’t it?”
Chan looked up, startled. “Yes, ma’am. Very.”
Minho nodded slowly. “It’s not a phase.”
“I didn’t say it was,” she replied kindly. “But people will.”
“I’m used to people,” Chan said calmly, then looked at Minho. “But I’m not used to this.”
“This?” Minho asked, voice quieter.
“This kind of love. The love you give me without any boundaries.”
There was a pause.
Then his father cleared his throat. “You’ve thought about the future?”
“Yes,” Minho said, more firmly than he expected. “We both have.”
His grandfather leaned forward, folding his hands. “You plan to get married?”
“One day,” Minho answered. “Not too soon but definitely not too long. Since both of us have finished military. Maybe before us get into middle of thirties”
“There are… complications with that path,” his father said carefully. “Children. Legacy. Bloodline.”
Minho inhaled slowly. “We’ve talked about surrogacy. Adoption, too.”
Chan added, “There’s more than one way to build a family. We won’t rush. But it’s something we’d want together.”
“Especially surrogacy.” Father nodded at Chan.
His mother reached over, placing her hands over both Chan’s and Minho’s. “Do what makes your hearts full, not what the world tells you is right.”
Then, softly, almost like a prayer: “Love isn’t always convenient. It’s just real.”
There was a long pause, only the clink of chopsticks and soft sounds of TV.
“Being gay was really hard back then, and still hard,” his grandfather murmured. “But so was loving your grandmother at 17 when her parents didn’t approve. Love is always a risk. So if you choose each other, choose completely.”
“I do,” Minho said without hesitation.
“I do, too,” Chan echoed, voice shaking slightly.
“I was from a poor family who used to work for Lee family. Lee family sent me to same school as Minho’s grandfather. That’s how I fell in love with him. I had to work hard to prove myself that I was worth for their son. You two did too. Never backdowned by anything. that's what love is for. Having each others back. Like you said Chan, Loving without boundries.” Grandmother looked at Grandfather softly before smiling at younger couple.
His father finally sighed, then looked at Chan. “You’re a superstar. Your schedule is chaos. You travel. You belong to the public. Can you… really make space for this life too?”
Chan looked at Minho, the corner of his lip lifting in a soft, crooked smile. “I don’t make space. I already have it. He’s in every song, every morning I wake up alone, every night I come back to his texts. I don’t want a life without him.”
Minho swallowed hard. His eyes burned.
His father looked at him. Long. Quiet.
Then finally nodded. “Take care of each other.”
Minho’s mother smiled, wiping the corner of her eye. His grandfather clinked a teacup down approvingly. His grandmother passed them both slices of cake.
Later, when the sun dipped below the mountain line and the two of them sat down on backyard bench sipping barley tea, Minho leaned into Chan’s shoulder.
“You did good,” Minho whispered. “You made them see me.”
“You’ve always been seen by them, baby. It’s just how parents are protecting their kids. As I understood today, they all were trying to protect from the public.” Chan whispered back. “And I just got lucky enough to stand beside you.”
Minho kissed him.
No performance. No secrets. Just the new beginning they both deserved.
“I love you. In few years, We will be sitting here and watching our babies running around. Are you ready for that baby?”
Chan smiles soo prettily that Minho had to take deep breathe, “I think court house is 2.5km away from here and it will close in 30mins”
Minho laughed into the kiss, “Let me at least propose you under eiffel tower like Felix suggested”
“Are you promising?”
“Yes of course”
And this time, it wasn’t fake.
It was forever.
—