plato’s symposium

by pinkmimiso

Summary:

”Professor, have you ever fallen in love before?”
Mihno doesn’t look up, his hand skims over a passage of Plato’s Symposium, stopping on the word ‘soulmate.’
“It depends, Jisung.” His gaze finally pierced into his, unwavering yet still gentle. “Have you?”

There’s a certain beauty in that, somehow.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Jisung hated Fridays. Most people in his university would be discussing excitedly which frat party they should attend this weekend or the next person they should hook up with in the back of some grimy bathroom that probably hasn’t been cleaned for a couple years. Whatever. It’s not like he was looking to get fucked by someone in a dirty stall but god, university life is so exhausting. Jisung is what most people would call a nerd. He never really saw it as an insult anyways. He would always be the first inside class and the last to leave. It was better that way.

If anything, the quiet of an empty lecture hall after everyone else had shuffled out was the closest thing to peace he ever got. The scratching of his pen on paper was his version of music. While everyone else laughed too loud in the hallways or talked about how “university was the best years of their lives,” he was busy memorising formulas or trying to make sense of the way a professor’s mind worked. That was fun for him, predicting test questions, piecing together information like a puzzle. It felt safer than people.

 

He wasn’t shy, not really. He just didn’t see the point of wasting energy on things that ended up leaving him drained. Talking to people was like trying to walk in shoes two sizes too small, uncomfortable, awkward, and better avoided unless absolutely necessary. Besides, he knew what they thought of him. The quiet kid. The one with ink stains on his fingers, crumpled notes spilling out of his backpack, and dark circles under his eyes from nights where he chose studying over sleep.

 

Still, Fridays pressed on him differently. Maybe it was because they reminded him how out of place he was. While the world around him seemed to wind itself up for a night of chaos, he would trudge back to his apartment, laptop tucked against his chest like a shield. He’d pretend not to hear the laughter outside his building as someone shouted drunkenly at 2 a.m., or the bass rattling from some neighbor’s Bluetooth speaker. Instead, he’d pull up lecture slides, pour himself instant ramen, and try to ignore the nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, he was missing out on something.

 

But he’d never admit that. Not even to himself.

 

Jisung was, as always, the first one inside the lecture hall. He liked it that way . liked the brief silence before the rest of the world spilled in, filling the seats with chatter and perfume and the crinkle of snack wrappers. The empty rows gave him space to breathe, space to set out his notebook neatly in the center of the desk, uncap his pen, and press the heel of his hand against the page like he was preparing himself for battle.

 

But today, someone was already there.

 

A man stood at the podium, flicking through a stack of papers with a kind of purposeful ease. He didn’t belong to the familiar rhythm of the room, and Jisung knew instantly he wasn’t Professor Kim. No, this man was different, early forties, maybe, with a sharp, almost cinematic kind of beauty. His features were all angles: a straight nose, a jawline that looked like it had been carved with a ruler, and a mouth that seemed more accustomed to pressing into thin lines than smiling. His hair was dark but streaked faintly at the temples, the kind of detail that made him look distinguished rather than tired. His suit fit him too well to be accidental, shoulders squared, tie knotted with an exactness that screamed control.

 

Stoic. That was the word for him. He looked like he had never in his life raised his voice, because he didn’t need to.

 

Jisung hovered in the doorway for a second too long before catching himself. Get it together, he hissed internally, tearing his eyes away from the man as though burned. He walked briskly down to the very front row (his row) letting his bag drop gently against the chair beside him.

 

If people thought Jisung looked out of place in a lecture hall, he never really cared. He knew how people saw him: soft for a boy, maybe too soft. His big doe eyes always gave him away when he tried to look serious, and his mouth plump, perpetually caught between a frown and a pout, only made him easier to read. He never left his dorm without dabbing on a layer of light pink gloss, something about the sheen grounding him, giving him the illusion of control even on the days where everything felt like it was slipping. His hair had grown out just enough to brush against his lashes when he blinked, and sometimes, when he was bored or restless, he clipped it back with tiny barrettes.

 

Jisung straightened the edge of his notebook until it aligned perfectly with the lip of the desk. Pen in hand, posture carefully composed, he told himself firmly that whatever thought had briefly crossed his mind when he saw that man it was gone. Buried. Irrelevant.

 

This was just another Friday lecture. Nothing more.

 

The silence didn’t last long.

 

Jisung had only managed to draw a crooked line across the top of his notebook before the familiar creak of the lecture hall doors split open behind him. Voices trickled in, low at first, then swelling louder as groups of students filtered inside. The room filled with the usual chaos: the slap of sneakers against tile, the crackle of chip bags being torn open, half-whispered gossip that carried easily in the amphitheater’s echo.

 

But today the gossip wasn’t about assignments or which frat had trashed their living room last night. Today it was him.

 

“Who’s that?” someone muttered behind Jisung’s shoulder.

“Definitely not Kim. He looks,” a pause, followed by a giggle, “kind of hot for a history lecturer, don’t you think?”

“I heard he’s some kind of substitute. Look at that suit. He doesn’t even look like he belongs here.”

“Bet he’s strict.”

 

The murmurs swirled around him like static, but Jisung kept his eyes locked firmly on the empty page in front of him, pen pressed so hard against the paper it left a dent. He could feel his ears heating, traitorously, because the last thing he needed was to hear people echoing the exact thought he’d been shoving down since he walked in.

 

Hot. God. He hated himself for agreeing.

 

His gaze betrayed him for a moment, flicking up to the man at the podium. The lecturer hadn’t moved much, still sorting through his papers with that calm, deliberate focus but something about him radiated control, the kind that seeped into the air and made people instinctively quiet. His hands were large, long-fingered, veins just visible beneath skin as he adjusted his notes. His mouth moved slightly, like he was practicing lines to himself, lips forming silent words. Jisung wondered if he’d wrap one hand around his throat or mayb—.

 

Nope. Absolutely not.

 

The thought flared up so suddenly, so vividly, that Jisung’s entire body stiffened in protest. His mind had tripped somewhere it had no business wandering, and the image of those hands, those lips, tangled with his own in some shameful flash of fantasy made him choke on his own breath. He snapped his head down, hair falling over his eyes like a curtain, and clenched his jaw hard enough to ache.

 

Get a grip, Han Jisung.

 

This was a university classroom, not some trashy daydream. He was sitting in the front row, for god’s sake, with a professor, no, a substitute lecturer less than ten feet away. Not someone he was supposed to think about. Not someone he could think about.

 

He dragged in a deep breath, steadying his hand as he forced himself to write his name in neat block letters at the top corner of the page. The ritual helped: the ink sinking into the paper, the straight line of each letter keeping him grounded.

 

Composed. That was the word. He was composed. Or at least, he would be until the man at the podium finally looked up and locked eyes with him.

 

Because Jisung was the only one sitting in the front row. The only one who’d been here from the start. The only one the lecturer could see clearly.

 

And when his gaze finally lifted, Jisung felt the breath catch in his throat.

 

The chatter died down almost unnaturally fast when the man at the podium finally cleared his throat. The sound alone carried enough weight to ripple through the room and silence it. Dozens of heads turned forward, expectant, and Jisung forced himself to lift his pen as if writing would shield him from being so aware of every second.

 

The lecturer looked up from his notes at last. His gaze swept the hall once, steady and unreadable, before it landed briefly on Jisung. The contact was fleeting, barely a second, but it was enough to make Jisung’s stomach lurch and his fingers clench around his pen.

 

“Good morning,” the man began, voice low and perfectly even, the kind of voice that filled the room without ever needing to be raised. “My name is Professor Lee. I will be taking over this course from now on. Professor Kim has had to step away due to a family emergency. I understand this is not what you were expecting at in the middle of the term, but I will be your lecturer until the end of the academic year.”

 

A ripple of murmurs broke out again, softer this time. Students leaned toward each other, whispering, but Jisung could hardly hear them over the pounding in his own ears.

 

Professor Lee.

 

The name rolled through his mind in a way he hated, far too heavy, far too deliberate. He tried to focus on the words instead of the man, on the practical explanation, but his brain betrayed him. The image of that deep voice murmuring something against his ear flickered up uninvited, unwanted, and he felt the rush of heat crawl up his neck to his cheeks.

 

Absolutely not.

 

He straightened in his chair, forced his expression into the mask of perfect attention, and scribbled the name neatly onto the corner of his notebook as though anchoring it in ink could strip away whatever his thoughts were trying to twist it into.

 

Professor Lee set his papers down with a decisive tap and clasped his hands loosely on the podium. “I expect all of you to adjust quickly,” he continued, scanning the room again. His eyes were sharp but calm, the kind of gaze that could pin someone in place without effort. “I do not intend to lower the standards of this course. If anything, I will be raising them.”

 

There was a collective groan from the back rows, but Jisung barely registered it. His throat felt dry, his pulse annoyingly quick. He tried to tell himself that it was only because this man radiated authority, because of the way he carried himself with that effortless composure, because anyone would feel nervous under that kind of scrutiny.

 

It wasn’t attraction. It couldn’t be.

 

He turned the page in his notebook, pressing the corner flat with trembling fingers, and forced himself to breathe.

 

The first half of the lecture passed in a blur. Jisung’s notes filled neatly, his pen moving almost automatically while his brain tried desperately to stay anchored in the material instead of drifting back to the sound of Professor Lee’s voice or the way the man’s expression hardly wavered, carved in stone.

 

When Professor Lee finally set the chalk down and clasped his hands again, the hall instinctively quieted.

 

“I want to introduce a project,” he said, tone unbothered by the faint groans that immediately rippled through the room. “It will run until the end of the year, and it will account for fifty percent of your final grade. This will not be a short-term assignment. I expect thorough research, structured argument, and collaborative effort.”

 

Collaborative. The word hit Jisung like a warning bell.

 

“Pair work,” Professor Lee clarified, as though he had anticipated the confusion. “You will choose your partner today, and you will remain with them until submission. There will be no changes once your names are submitted. If one of you slacks off, both of you suffer. If one of you excels, both of you benefit. Consider your choice carefully.”

 

The room exploded with chatter.

 

Pairs were already forming before the sentence had finished. friends leaned across aisles, as names were called out like it was recess on a playground. The groans of annoyance turned to easy laughter, the sound of relief washing over the hall as students clung to the comfort of familiarity.

 

Jisung sat very still in the front row, his pen hovering above the page. His stomach tightened with a kind of practiced dread. This was not new. He had lived through this exact scene before, in different classrooms with different professors, and every time it ended the same.

 

He looked around anyway, a hopeful reflex he could never quite smother.

 

Maybe someone. Maybe just once.

 

His eyes flicked to the rows behind him. Already, people were laughing, pairing up in twos without hesitation. A girl in a striped sweater leaned across to tug her friend’s sleeve, grinning. A boy near the aisle high-fived his roommate before pulling out his phone to jot their names down. The sound was all easy comfort, people slotting into place with the assurance that no one would be left behind.

 

No one except him.

 

Jisung swallowed, forcing his gaze down to the lines of his notebook again. The page swam faintly as his vision blurred at the edges, but he didn’t blink. He just pressed the tip of his pen harder into the margin, leaving an ink blot that spread like a bruise.

 

It wasn’t that people hated him, exactly. He knew that. It was just that he had never made himself easy to approach. He looked too neat, maybe, with his pastel gloss and the way his hair brushed into his lashes like he had stepped out of the wrong kind of magazine. People called him pretty sometimes, but the word always sounded like a warning rather than a compliment. Pretty, but strange. Pretty, but unapproachable.

 

And when people did ask to work with him, it was never really about wanting him. It was about wanting his grades. They knew he would do the work, stay up until three in the morning obsessing over footnotes and bibliographies, and they would coast. He had been used like that before, enough times that he could still remember the way his stomach hollowed when his so-called partner had laughed and admitted, “I knew you’d have it covered.”

 

But today there wasn’t even that. Today, no one even looked in his direction.

 

Within minutes, the room was split into neat pairs, chatter bubbling happily as people compared ideas, already drafting imaginary outlines for a project they wouldn’t touch again until panic set in a week before the deadline.

 

Jisung sat alone.

 

He glanced around once more, almost frantically this time, scanning the corners of the lecture hall for anyone else who might have been left floating. The pit of his stomach dropped as he realized there weren’t any. Not one.

 

Fuck the odd numbers in this class.

 

Heat prickled at his neck as he slid further down in his seat, pulling his notebook closer as if it could shield him from the humiliating truth. He let his hair fall forward into his eyes, lips pressing into a thin line while his pen scrawled aimlessly across the paper. He could already hear the laughter behind him, the careless joy of belonging, of being chosen.

 

Fine. He would do it himself. He always did.

 

The thought tasted bitter, but he forced it down, curling his hand tighter around the pen. He didn’t need anyone else. He would research, write, polish, and carry the entire project alone, and when the grades came back, his would be flawless as always.

 

So why did it still sting? Why did the emptiness beside him feel so loud, so impossible to ignore, when he told himself he should be used to it by now?

 

He straightened in his chair again, pretending he was invisible, praying that Professor Lee would not notice him at all.

 

But the lecture hall had fallen quiet once more, and Jisung was suddenly aware that the professor’s eyes were sweeping across the room, counting pairs.

 

And he was sitting alone in the very front row.

 

It wasn’t hurried or careless. He seemed to count with precision, gaze landing on each pair like he was taking stock of them, measuring something unseen. The weight of it rolled over the students row by row until it finally landed in the front.

 

On Jisung.

 

The moment stretched too long. Just a second, maybe two, but it was enough to send Jisung’s heart skittering in his chest. His pen hovered uselessly above his notebook, frozen midair, while the heat crawled up his throat and flushed the tips of his ears. He could feel it, sharp and undeniable—the way Professor Lee’s eyes lingered, assessing, seeing far too much.

 

Jisung’s breath caught. This was it. He was going to be called out, humiliated in front of the entire hall, forced to admit he had no partner because no one had wanted him. The image flashed across his mind so vividly he thought he might sink straight through the floor if it happened.

 

But then, just as quickly as it came, the gaze slipped away.

 

Professor Lee’s expression didn’t flicker. He simply inclined his head the faintest bit, a subtle nod, as though acknowledging something privately before returning his focus to the stack of papers in front of him. His voice, when it filled the lecture hall again, was steady, uninterrupted, as if nothing had happened at all.

 

“For this project, you will be expected to choose a specific event, movement, or figure within the course of modern history. Your work should demonstrate not only a clear understanding of the event itself but also the wider consequences that followed. You will be graded on the strength of your research, the clarity of your argument, and the originality of your interpretation.”

 

The room had already turned back to listening, pens scratching faintly as students began jotting notes.

 

Jisung let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Relief washed over him in a dizzying wave, loosening the tight coil in his chest. He hadn’t been called out. He hadn’t been exposed. Professor Lee had simply looked, noticed, and then moved on without drawing the class’s attention to the fact that he sat alone.

 

Thank god.

 

His shoulders sagged fractionally as he ducked his head, pen snapping back into motion against the page. He wrote furiously, every word Professor Lee said translated into neat bullet points, underlined and organized with a precision born from years of knowing he couldn’t afford to miss a detail.

 

If he was doing this alone, and of course he was, he would need everything. Every word, every instruction, every nuance of what this man considered important. Fifty percent of his grade rested on this, and no matter how bitter the loneliness sat in his chest, he refused to let himself falter.

 

Professor Lee continued, voice measured and deliberate. “This project will not be something you can complete in a single week. It is not a summary, and it is not a recitation of facts. You will be expected to analyze. To ask questions others have not asked. To think critically about the ways history has shaped the present.”

 

Jisung’s pen flew, his hand cramping already as he scribbled everything down. His handwriting was precise, looping neatly across the page, the product of hours spent perfecting the art of legibility. He underlined the word analyze twice, circled originality, boxed in fifty percent.

 

Around him, students groaned again, one boy muttering that this was way too much work for a single project, but Jisung barely heard them. Noise faded into the background when he was like this, head bent over paper, the world shrinking down to ink and margins.

 

Still, every so often, he felt it again. That awareness. The steady presence at the podium.

 

He didn’t dare look up. He didn’t want to risk catching those eyes again, didn’t want to feel that sharp jolt of recognition that made his stomach twist in ways he hated. So instead, he wrote. He wrote like his life depended on it, as though the perfect set of notes might shield him from everything else, the empty seat beside him, the ache of being overlooked, and the unsettling weight of Professor Lee’s gaze that lingered in his mind no matter how hard he tried to shake it.

 

When Professor Lee turned back to the board and began outlining possible themes with clean, efficient strokes of chalk, Jisung breathed in deeply, steadying himself.

 

He could do this. He would do this. Alone, if he had to. Again.

 

The rest of the lecture passed in a blur. Jisung’s hand still moved across the page, but his focus had frayed at the edges, drifting in and out like static. Words blurred together, the chalk on the board turning into meaningless white streaks. Every so often he’d blink and realize his notes had veered into nonsense, half-formed sentences trailing into loops as though his body had continued without his mind.

 

He sat like that, floating just above himself, until the sharp clang of the bell split the air.

 

The sound jolted him upright, pen slipping from between his fingers. Around him, chairs scraped violently as students shot up, chatter erupting instantly. They didn’t even wait for a proper dismissal, practically bolting for the doors as though the room itself was suffocating them. Laughter trailed down the stairs, footsteps heavy against the tiles, and in less than a minute the lecture hall was nearly empty.

 

Probably something good for lunch, Jisung thought absently, watching the exodus with a faint sense of detachment. He stayed where he was, letting the tide rush past him, before finally leaning down to tuck his notebook neatly into his bag. His pen followed, then the gloss he’d reapplied once during lecture, then the small clips he’d toyed with in his pocket but never used. He zipped the bag slowly, almost ceremoniously, before swinging it over his shoulder.

 

He was halfway to the door when the voice stopped him.

 

“Student in the front row. Come back.”

 

The sound was low, deliberate, leaving no space for misinterpretation. Jisung froze mid-step, his stomach plummeting instantly.

 

Oh god.

 

His mind lit up all at once, a thousand frantic possibilities spilling through him like water through cracks. He was going to ask why Jisung hadn’t paired with anyone. He was going to tell him he noticed, that everyone noticed, that it was pathetic sitting there alone while the rest of the class laughed in twos.

 

Jisung turned slowly, his heart hammering so hard he swore the sound must have filled the room. His eyes widened just slightly, the doe-like roundness giving away the flicker of fear he hadn’t managed to swallow down. His brows tilted upward in the faintest crease of worry, but otherwise his face was carefully blank. Composed.

 

Professor Lee stood at the podium still, papers stacked cleanly in his hand, gaze steady as if he had all the time in the world.

 

“Your name,” he said simply.

 

Jisung’s throat felt dry, but he forced the word out. “Han Jisung.”

 

Professor Lee nodded once, the movement sharp and final, as though that was all he had needed. “Han Jisung,” he repeated, testing the name in his mouth before continuing. “You will work with me on this project. It is meant to be done in pairs, and I do not allow exceptions.”

 

The world tilted for a moment. Jisung blinked rapidly, as if that might correct what he had just heard. Work with him? Work with Professor Lee?

 

Before he could even form the beginnings of an objection, the man continued. “Come to my office hours after classes end today. We will decide on a subject and outline the research. I expect you to be prepared.”

 

There was no hesitation, no softness in the words. They were delivered like a decree, carved into stone, leaving no cracks for protest.

 

Jisung opened his mouth, closed it again, and swallowed hard. His bag strap bit into his shoulder where his hand clenched it tight.

 

Professor Lee stepped down from the podium then, movements as deliberate as everything else about him. As he passed Jisung, his hand reached out in what might have been intended as a reassuring gesture, palm brushing his shoulder with a firmness that bordered on too much. It lingered a second too long, fingers pressing slightly as though he wasn’t used to the act itself, before slipping away.

 

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

 

The lecture hall was silent again, empty except for Jisung standing rooted to the spot, stunned. His heart was still beating too fast, his skin prickled where the hand had touched him, and his thoughts spun like an endless loop.

 

He was going to be working with Professor Lee.

 

For the rest of the year.

 

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Jisung slipped back into his dorm with a sigh, nudging the door shut behind him with his heel. The room was quieter than usual, his roommate’s bed already stripped of the clothes that were usually scattered across it. He barely had to glance around to know where he’d gone. Another party, another dorm, another excuse to avoid coursework. Jackson Wang’s dorm, if Jisung remembered correctly. Or Wong? He was never sure which it was, but either way the name carried weight around campus, whispered with the kind of reverence reserved for seniors who could drink anyone under the table and still ace their classes the next morning.

 

Not that Jisung cared. At least that’s what he told himself as he set his bag down, trying to push away the twisting in his stomach.

 

He shouldn’t have been panicking, but he was. He knew exactly why, of course, though he refused to admit it. Not even to himself. Not out loud. He chalked it up to nerves, to the fact that Professor Lee had cornered him in the lecture hall earlier, had chosen him specifically when he could have ignored him like everyone else always did. His brain ran circles around the thought, replaying the firm weight of that hand on his shoulder, the finality in his voice when he told him to come to office hours. It was enough to leave Jisung’s chest buzzing, restless in a way he couldn’t shake.

 

So instead of collapsing on his bed like he wanted to, Jisung found himself moving toward the mirror above his desk. He dabbed a little blush on his cheeks, watching as the faint pink brought a touch of life to his face. He slicked a coat of gloss onto his lips, the shine catching the light as he pressed them together. Subtle, but enough to make him feel a little steadier, like maybe he wasn’t about to choke on his own nerves.

 

His Nana graphic tee clung comfortably to his frame, the faded print worn from too many washes. He tugged it down over his jeans, the vintage pair he’d thrifted months ago without realizing how they hugged him in all the right places. The way they made his ass look was completely unintentional, though if anyone else noticed, that wasn’t his problem. He slipped into his scuffed black Converse, spritzed a mist of vanilla perfume over himself, and gathered his stack of history books into his arms.

 

The walk out of the dorm should have been easy. Routine. Instead, his breaths came shallow, chest tight, his mind spinning faster than he could control. His focus was so frayed he didn’t even see the body until he collided with it.

 

The impact was solid, like hitting a wall. A wall made of pure muscle. His books went flying, tumbling across the hallway floor with a loud slap of paper and covers. Jisung dropped down in an instant, cheeks burning as he scrambled to gather them up, muttering apologies under his breath.

 

That was when another pair of hands appeared in his periphery, steady and deliberate as they helped stack the scattered books. Jisung froze. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

 

And promptly wished he hadn’t.

 

It was Jackson Wang. The Jackson Wang. The very same party host half the campus was probably already pre-gaming for. He was in his final year, older, taller, broader, everything about him screamed confidence, like he owned every room he walked into. Jisung’s throat tightened.

 

Jackson’s smile was easy, unbothered, like running into a panicked freshman in the hallway was the most natural thing in the world. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners as he stood, holding out the small stack of books he’d managed to collect.

 

“Here,” he said, voice warm, smooth in a way that only made Jisung’s stomach flip harder.

 

Jisung scrambled up, nearly tripping over himself in the process. “Ah, thank you, sorry— I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t looking, I—sorry,” the words tumbled out, his hands brushing Jackson’s as he took the books back.

 

Jackson didn’t seem fazed. If anything, his grin widened. “It’s alright. Happens.” He gave Jisung one last look before stepping past him, tossing a casual wave over his shoulder. “See you around, pretty.”

 

The word landed like a punch. Pretty. He’d said pretty. To him.

 

Jisung stood rooted to the spot, clutching his books to his chest like a lifeline. His knees felt weak, his heartbeat a frantic mess in his ears. It was only when the sound of Jackson’s footsteps faded down the hall that he exhaled, stumbling slightly as he forced himself toward the door.

 

He nearly collapsed right there in the hallway.

 

Jisung practically jogged down the hallway, clutching his books a little too tightly against his chest, his face still burning from earlier. His breath came fast, not because he had been running, but because he couldn’t quite get Jackson Wang’s voice out of his head. Pretty. People had called him that before, sure. Sometimes in passing, sometimes teasingly, sometimes even cruelly. But Jackson? A senior, practically a legend on campus, someone everyone knew, someone untouchable, him calling Jisung pretty was a different kind of dangerous. A word that sank under his skin like it belonged there. He hated that his knees had nearly buckled when he heard it. He hated even more that he didn’t actually hate it.

 

By the time he found himself in front of Professor Lee’s office, his palms were slick with sweat. He stood outside the door for a moment, trying to calm his breathing, smoothing down his hair with one hand while the other fiddled nervously with the strap of his bag. His heart pounded way too fast for someone who was just here to talk about a history project. He bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to inhale slowly before he raised his fist and knocked twice on the oak door.

 

“Come in,” came the low, even voice from inside.

 

Jisung swallowed hard, pushing the door open with more hesitation than he wanted to show. Professor Lee sat behind his desk, neat and composed as always, his posture straight, expression unreadable. For the briefest moment, his dark eyes flicked up from the paper in his hand and landed on Jisung. The gaze held just a beat too long, something subtle and searching, before Minho inclined his head slightly, silently granting him permission to step inside.

 

Jisung, distracted by the fact that the office smelled faintly like cedar and something sharper, aftershave, maybe, missed the way Minho’s eyes darted quickly, almost imperceptibly, down the line of his body. Down to the way his vintage jeans fit a little too well, before Minho cleared his throat quietly and shifted in his chair as though the thought hadn’t even existed.

 

Jisung crossed the room awkwardly, nearly fumbling with his stack of books, and slid into the chair opposite the desk. He set the books down carefully, one by one, trying to act like the weight of the professor’s gaze wasn’t making the back of his neck prickle. Except, wait. His heart dropped. His modern history book. It wasn’t there. Panic flickered across his face for just a moment as his eyes darted between the titles. It must have fallen when he collided with Jackson. Shit. He looked back up a Professor Lee , almost instantly wishing he didn’t.

 

Professor Lee carried himself with the kind of composure that felt rehearsed yet effortless, like every movement had been practiced until it looked natural. His dark hair framed his face in a way that made him seem both sharp and untouchable, his features carved in clean, unforgiving lines. His eyes were the kind that lingered a moment too long, heavy-lidded but observant, like he could read people faster than they wanted to be read. Even when he sat behind his desk, there was an authority to him that made the air feel a little heavier, a little harder to breathe in. His voice was steady, low, and deceptively calm, but beneath it there was something unreadable, something that left Jisung guessing at whether it was disinterest or something else entirely.

 

Whatever. He forced himself to breathe evenly, pushing the thought aside as Professor Lee finally spoke. His voice was calm but steady, the kind of voice that demanded attention without needing to raise it.

 

“You had a suggestion for the project?”

 

Jisung blinked, realising too late that he’d been staring a little too hard at the desk, avoiding eye contact because every time he glanced up, something about Minho’s eyes made him feel like he was under a microscope. His lips parted and then closed again before he managed, in a quieter voice than he intended, “Plato’s Symposium.”

 

The silence stretched for a moment. Jisung’s throat tightened, wondering if he’d just said something stupid, but when he finally looked up, Minho was watching him closely, eyes narrowed just slightly in thought. He blinked once, twice, three, four times in a row before leaning back a fraction in his chair.

 

“Interesting choice,” Minho said finally. His voice was lower than before, almost like he was considering something other than just the project itself. “Philosophy, history, mythology. You’d be able to explore multiple angles with that.”

 

Relief washed over Jisung so suddenly he almost sagged against the chair. He nodded quickly, cheeks heating when Minho’s gaze didn’t shift, when it felt like every word was weighed and considered against him rather than the subject.

 

They spoke a little longer, circling around ideas, filling in the skeleton of what could become their paper. Jisung found himself leaning forward without realising, his voice soft but steady whenever he offered a thought, though his eyes never stayed on Minho’s for too long. Every time he tried, he felt himself falter, his pulse hammering at the way that unreadable face seemed to shift almost imperceptibly, like Minho was seeing right through him.

 

They settled on meeting three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Jisung’s stomach twisted at the last one. Friday. That day never brought him anything good, but he didn’t dare mention it. Not now. Not when Minho was watching him like that.

 

The moment Minho dismissed him, Jisung scrambled to gather his books, stacking them neatly in his arms. He reached out when Minho passed them back across the desk, and their hands brushed. Barely, but enough. Enough for Jisung’s breath to catch in his throat, the skin of his hand burning with the ghost of the contact.

 

It was the same as earlier. The same as Jackson Wang. The same casual, fleeting brush that meant nothing, should have meant nothing, but instead lingered like it carried weight. Too much weight.

 

He muttered a quick thank you, his voice slightly higher than usual, and turned toward the door, desperate to leave before his face betrayed him. He made it halfway out before the thought slammed into him again. His book. He still didn’t have his modern history book.

 

His fingers tightened around the stack he did have. He’d have to find Jackson. Or maybe Jackson would find him. The thought alone made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t want to admit.

 

The oak door clicked shut behind him, and only then did he let himself exhale shakily, rubbing a hand over his flushed face. Professor Lee’s gaze had done something to him. It was steady, grounding, but it left his skin hot and his chest uncomfortably tight. He didn’t know what it meant, didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t deny it.

 

He left the office in a daze, his pulse still loud in his ears, wondering how the hell he was going to survive three days a week of this.

 

Jisung didn’t go straight back to his dorm. He couldn’t. The thought of walking into the quiet room, being left alone with his buzzing thoughts, with the echo of Minho’s steady voice and the way those eyes had lingered on him a little too long, it made his stomach twist in a way that felt unbearable. Instead, his feet carried him elsewhere, moving without conscious thought, dragging him down the winding hallways of campus as if he were on autopilot. His steps echoed faintly against the tiled floor, quick but uneven, and before he knew it, he was pushing open the tall wooden doors of the library.

 

The hush inside wrapped around him immediately, cool and heavy with dust and paper. It smelled faintly like polished wood and old ink, the kind of scent that stuck to your clothes if you stayed long enough. He moved zombie-like toward one of the side tables tucked away near the back, his arms aching slightly as he set down the stack of history books he’d been carrying. Not just those, though. He’d grabbed more on the way in, volumes of Greek mythology, thick paperbacks on ancient philosophers, random texts that caught his eye from the nearest shelves. The pile grew quickly, spreading across the table in front of him like a barricade. If he buried himself deep enough in words and facts, maybe his thoughts would quiet down.

 

Pulling his headphones from his bag, Jisung slipped them over his ears, scrolling until he landed on the first studying playlist Spotify shoved at him. Whatever. It was just background noise, something to blur the edges of his nerves. He set his pen against the paper, began scribbling down notes with a kind of desperation, anything to keep his hands busy. One page turned into two, then three, and by the time he was almost done with his fourth, his shoulders had finally started to ease, his pen moving in an even rhythm.

 

That was, until—

 

A hand pressed against his shoulder.

 

Jisung’s heart slammed so violently against his chest he nearly choked on air. He whipped around so fast his headphones slipped halfway down, clattering against his neck as his wide, startled eyes locked onto the intruder. For a split, panicked second he expected Professor Lee, his mind jumping to the absolute worst possible outcome, being caught slacking, being called out, being looked at again with that unreadable gaze.

 

But it wasn’t Minho.

 

It was Jackson Wang, standing over him with a lazy smile tugging at his mouth, amusement flickering openly across his face. In one of his large hands, dangling carelessly like it weighed nothing, was Jisung’s missing modern history book.

 

“Relax, doll,” Jackson said, his tone light, as if Jisung hadn’t just almost screamed the entire library down. “Forgot to return this earlier when you dropped it. Figured I’d find you here.”

 

Jisung blinked, chest heaving as he tried to drag his pulse back down from its sprint. He pulled the headphones fully off, setting them on the table with trembling fingers. “oh. Thanks,” he stuttered, the relief palpable in his voice, though embarrassment flushed hot beneath it.

 

Jackson leaned forward a little, his grin widening, eyes glinting like he was both entertained and charmed by Jisung’s reaction. “What’s your name?”

 

“Jisung,” he answered quickly, almost too quickly, but forced himself to soften it with a faint smile. It was small, tentative, but genuine because honestly, most people wouldn’t have bothered to give the book back.

 

Jackson straightened, shifting his weight with casual ease. “Cute name,” he said, then glanced at the time on his phone. “I’ve gotta head out though. Pre-games start soon, and I need to get ready.”

 

Jisung nodded mutely, unsure what else to say, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table.

 

Jackson began to turn, tossing the book onto Jisung’s desk with practiced carelessness. He raised a hand in a half-wave as he walked away, voice trailing back without missing a beat. “Bye, doll.”

 

And then he was gone, leaving nothing but the faint echo of his footsteps and Jisung’s burning cheeks.

 

Jisung let out a strangled groan, dropping his head forward until his forehead thunked lightly against the desk. His headphones, still dangling loosely around his neck, continued to play Lana Del Rey’s Pretty When You Cry in the background, the soft, melancholic hum bleeding into the silence. He didn’t even bother to shut it off.

 

When he finally lifted his head, it was only because the book Jackson had returned caught his eye again. It was sitting right in front of him, slightly ajar. With a sigh, Jisung reached forward, flipping it open, only to stop dead when he noticed the small neon post-it stuck neatly to the first page.

 

‘Dorm 143 – come to the party, princess. You can’t miss it. –Jackson.’

 

Jisung’s stomach sank like a stone. His heart dropped for what felt like the fourth time that day, an exhausted, sinking weight pulling him under.

 

No. Absolutely not. He wasn’t going. He couldn’t.

 

Not tonight. Not when everything already felt like too much.

Notes:

Chapter 2 is posted ! I struggled writing this one since I do not stan Got7 but Jackson wang being a party host is a canon event in each uni / collage fanfiction. Whats you guys favourite colour? Mines red and pink. Love you pretty, thank you for reading. <33

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

He was panicking. Actually panicking.

His dorm looked like a storm had passed through it,clothes piled on the chair, textbooks open on the desk, papers scattered like casualties of war. And in the middle of it all stood Jisung, wide-eyed, heart racing, staring into the depths of his closet as if the answers to life and death might be hiding somewhere between a faded hoodie and his spare pair of sweatpants.

He had done the unthinkable: he Googled it. “What to wear to your first college party.” “How to act cool at a party if you’ve never been to one.” “How to not look like a total nerd at a frat party.” The results had not been helpful. All the websites screamed at him the same thing: don’t be casual, don’t blend in, make an impression.

He wanted to die.

He wanted to crawl under his blanket and never leave again. But instead, his hands were trembling as he tugged a plain white long-sleeved muscle tee off its hanger, staring at it like it might save his life. It didn’t. It clung to him in a way that wasn’t flattering, he didn’t have muscles, he didn’t have broad shoulders, he just looked… small. The way it cinched at his waist almost mocked him, like it was saying, you’re not intimidating, you’re not cool, you’re just pretty in a way that’s going to get you eaten alive out there.

“Safe,” he muttered to himself, pacing the room, tee draped over his armm like a defeated flag. “Jeans and a shirt. Safe. just jeans and a shirt, no one’s gonna notice me, no one’s gonna care.”

But then his eyes caught on it.

Stuffed haphazardly into the very back of his wardrobe, buried under a pile of sweaters he hadn’t touched since last winter. A sliver of white fabric, the kind of delicate material that didn’t belong in his closet, didn’t belong in his life. His stomach flipped before his brain even processed what it was. Slowly, like he was pulling some forbidden artifact out of a tomb, he reached for it.

A skirt.

A flowy white mini skirt, light as air, with a hem that already looked too short just hanging limply in his hands. His cheeks burned hot, an instant flush creeping up to his ears. He remembered the day he bought it last summer, some impulsive moment of weakness when he was out thrifting alone, telling himself he’d try something new, something bold. He’d shoved it to the back of his closet the second he got home, terrified of what it meant that he even wanted it. And now here it was, taunting him.

Didn’t Google say you should stand out? Didn’t it say you shouldn’t look casual?

“No, no, no, no,” he muttered, already shaking his head, fingers gripping the fabric like it might burn him. “Absolutely not, what the fuck am I thinking, I can’t wear this, I’ll look insane, I’ll look—”

But then his brain betrayed him. He pictured it. Him at the party, skirt swishing around his thighs, the way it would cling when he sat down, the way it would make his waist look even smaller. He pictured eyes on him.

And before he could scream at himself, before he could stop, he was tugging it on.

The fabric slid up his thighs, soft against his skin, and suddenly he wasn’t looking at a muscle tee anymore, he was staring at himself in the mirror, in a fucking mini skirt that barely covered his ass. His thighs looked longer. His waist looked impossibly small. The dainty swish of the hem made his heart pound like a war drum. He grabbed a pair of white thigh-high socks from his drawer, pulling them on with shaky hands until they hugged his legs snugly, stopping just above his knees. And to finish; because if he was already going to hell, he might as well ride in style, he reached for his favourite white Mary Jane shoes. The ones he never wore because they were “too much.” Tonight, apparently, too much was the goal.

When he finally stepped back from the mirror, his breath caught.

He looked… he didn’t even know what he looked like. A whore. That was his first thought. He looked like a fucking whore. The skirt was shorter than he remembered, his ass practically begging to be stared at, his thighs glowing pale in the low dorm light. His lips parted slightly as if he might say something to his reflection, but no words came out, just a quiet, panicked laugh.

“What the fuck am I doing,” he whispered, running a hand through his hair. “What the actual fuck am I doing.”

He glanced at the clock. Shit. He was going to be late. No time to spiral.

His vanity became his battlefield. Concealer dabbed quickly under his eyes, blending it with the desperation of someone who had no idea what they were doing. A sweep of blush on his cheeks, maybe too much, but he looked flushed, alive, almost feverish in a way that weirdly suited him. He hesitated over the eyeshadow palette before dipping into the sparkly silver, dusting it across his lids until his dark eyes caught the light. His lashes curled prettily under the clamp of his curler, mascara making them fan out like little wings. And his lips; he dabbed on a touch of pink lipstick before glossing over it, giving them a sheen that made them look even poutier, even softer.

The transformation was surreal. He wasn’t Jisung, the anxious little nerd who spent too much time in the library. He wasn’t the kid who knocked his books over in the hallway and prayed Minho wouldn’t look at him too long. He was someone else entirely; someone bold, someone dangerous, someone reckless enough to wear a skirt to a frat party and dare the world to look.

And yet, under all of it, he still felt like he might throw up.

He pushed back from the vanity, gripping the edge of the desk as his knees threatened to buckle. His reflection stared back at him, equal parts stranger and truth. His heart was pounding so fast it felt like it might tear through his chest.

Whatever. He was late. He had no choice now.

He grabbed his phone, slipped it into the tiny purse he never admitted to owning, and took one last look at himself before forcing his legs to move. The skirt swished dangerously as he crossed the room.

He didn’t feel ready. But maybe that was the pointt.

 

Just as Jisung was about to bolt out of his dorm, half-ready to sprint straight into a full-blown panic attack, his phone dinged from inside his bag. The sharp sound was like a gunshot in the silence, freezing him mid-step. He stared at the bag as if it were about to explode. Slowly, with hands that refused to stop trembling, he reached in and pulled out his phone. His grip nearly slipped. He almost dropped it on the floor. He swore, one day soon, he was going to develop a genuine heart condition from the amount of stress he was putting himself through.

It wasn’t a text. Not even a message from a group chat he’d muted three weeks ago. No—it was worse. So much worse. His stomach flipped violently when he saw who it was from. An email.

From Professor fucking Lee.

Jisung swore under his breath, his thumb hesitating over the glowing screen before he tapped it open. His eyes scanned over the words, but they wouldn’t stick, slipping into fuzzed lines of panic. He had to blink, twice, hard, before they came into focus.

“Good evening Jisung.

I apologise for this to be sent so late, but this is regarding the project and cannot wait till Monday. I hope you can come to my office for less than 5 minutes to discuss what I have to say. Thank you.
Yours sincerely,

Lee Minho.”

Jisung’s heart genuinely stuttered. He read it again. And again. It didn’t change. Professor Lee wanted him. Now.

He was going to die. Right here. His obituary would read: ‘Han Jisung, twenty-one, student, cause of death: one slightly inconveniently timed email from his hot professor.’

He squeezed his eyes shut. Oh god. He couldn’t go to Minho’s office dressed like this. Not in a skirt that barely passed as clothing, not in thigh-highs, not in the sticky sheen of lip gloss clinging to his mouth. He looked like… well. Like a very specific kind of student, one who never made it to the library but sure as hell made it to someone’s bed.

But if he changed now, if he peeled all of this off and shoved himself into his jeans and hoodie, there was no way he was going to put this back on. The skirt, the makeup, the whole reckless disaster he’d forced onto himself—it would vanish. His tiny scrap of bravery would vanish.

So instead, he just stood there. Frozen in his doorway. Palms clammy around his phone. Breathing too fast.

And then his body moved without him. Like autopilot. Like he’d handed the controls over to something else entirely, because he couldn’t be trusted. His legs carried him down the hall. His sneakers squeaked faintly against the tile. He was spiraling, completely unraveling, muttering under his breath like a lunatic about what a bad fucking idea this was, but still he kept walking.

By the time he came back to himself, blinking hard, he was already standing in front of Minho’s office door.

The brass nameplate gleamed faintly in the dull hallway light. Professor Lee Minho.

Jisung swallowed. His throat felt too tight. He was clutching his phone so hard it might crack. He stared at the door, at the single neat rectangle of wood that separated him from his doom, and thought, fuck.

Fuck.

Jisung thought the sooner he would get it over with, the better. His lungs felt too tight, like there wasn’t enough air in the hallway, like the walls themselves were watching him unravel. He swallowed down the lump forming in his throat, lifted a trembling hand, and knocked twice on the office door. The sound was weak, uneven, and he wondered if Mihno would hear the tremor in his knuckles through the wood. It was pathetic, really, everything about him right now was pathetic. His knees were shaking under his skirt, his palms were slick with sweat, and his heart was pounding so violently it felt as though it would bruise his ribcage from the inside.

The seconds dragged by, slow, agonising. Then the familiar low voice came from inside. “Come in.”

Jisung turned the handle and stepped inside, head ducked low in embarrassment as if the ground could swallow him whole if he just stared hard enough at the floor. One hand instinctively tugged at the hem of his skirt, desperate to give himself as much coverage as possible, though it was hopeless; the fabric barely obeyed, riding high over his thighs as though mocking him.

He closed the door behind him with careful precision, like maybe if he was gentle enough it wouldn’t make a sound, wouldn’t draw any more attention to himself than he already had. But then he heard it. The sharp inhale. The quiet, almost imperceptible break in composure from across the room.

Mihno blinked once. Twice. Three, four, five times. Slow, deliberate, as though his brain had short-circuited and was forcing itself to reboot. His jaw had gone slack for the briefest moment, lips parting in the faintest, most uncharacteristic show of surprise. His gaze flickered downward, over the line of Jisung’s figure, pausing far too long where Jisung desperately wished he wouldn’t. The professor’s ears betrayed him, turning faintly pink against the cool tone of his skin, but his face otherwise remained as it always did. stoic, unreadable. Only the eyes gave him away.

They lingered. They wandered when they shouldn’t.

Jisung’s stomach twisted violently, and for one terrifying second he thought he might throw up right there in the middle of the office. His whole body was warm with mortification, his skin buzzing beneath Mihno’s gaze, his thighs pressing together instinctively under the weight of it.

Mihno cleared his throat, the sound low and strained, as if his voice itself had to be forced back into composure. He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk with a curt movement. “Sit.”

The single word landed heavy in the silence.

Jisung stumbled forward, awkwardly trying to keep his legs from knocking together too loudly in his Mary Janes. He sat down quickly, thighs pressed tightly together, hands knotting into the fabric of the skirt on his lap. His cheeks burned hot, his chest rising and falling too quickly as he tried, and failed, to look anywhere but at the man seated across from him.

Mihno’s eyes darted briefly to his before flicking away, almost too quickly, as if the contact itself was dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice was firm but edged with something Jisung couldn’t name; breathless, restrained, as though there was an invisible thread being pulled taut between them and Mihno was determined not to let it snap.

The professor began explaining the project, his words even and precise, the way they always were in class. He spoke about sources, deadlines, requirements, structure. Important things, crucial things. And yet Jisung barely heard any of it. The syllables blurred together in a muffled haze, like he was underwater. All he could register was the way Mihno’s gaze kept flickering, betraying him, breaking against Jisung’s bare thighs before dragging itself back up to his face with visible effort. All he could feel was the suffocating heat building inside the room, as if the air itself was too heavy to breathe.

By the time Mihno finished, Jisung was practically vibrating with tension.

“You’re dismissed,” Mihno said, finally leaning back in his chair, his tone clipped.

Jisung shot up out of his seat like the chair had set him on fire. Relief flooded his chest, shaky and uneven, and he nearly stumbled in his rush to the door. He grabbed at the knob, desperate to escape before he fully collapsed in on himself.

But then—

“Jisung.”

His name cut through the air like a blade. He froze, spine rigid, heart jumping up into his throat. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he turned back toward his professor. Mihno was standing now, one hand holding out a neatly folded light brown coat, the soft fabric catching the dull glow of the office light.

Mihno’s expression was calm, as always, but his eyes betrayed him.

“Take this,” he said, voice even but threaded with something heavier. “Even though you look…” He paused, searching for words. His jaw tightened. “Even though you look really nice in a skirt, you should cover the back of your legs. You don’t want any wandering hands.” His eyes flickered downward for the briefest of moments before finding Jisung’s again, steady now. “Unless you do. But I don’t think you’re that kind of person.”

Jisung’s entire body flushed scarlet. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His breath caught in his throat, stuck there, his brain screaming at him to move, to say something, to do anything at all… but he couldn’t. He was frozen, locked in place, every nerve ending in his body firing all at once.

Mihno sighed softly, almost imperceptibly, and stepped forward. The distance between them shrank in seconds, suffocating, intimate. He stopped directly in front of Jisung, so close the faint scent of his cologne; clean, woodsy, threaded with something sharper washed over him. Without a word, Mihno reached down, fingers brushing against Jisung’s hip as he pulled the coat around his waist. His knuckles grazed against the bare skin of Jisung’s thigh as he tied the sleeves into a knot, neat and firm, cinched just above the curve of his waist.

The world tilted. Jisung thought for sure he might faint.

When Mihno straightened up again, he didn’t move away immediately. His hand lingered, still resting against Jisung’s waist. The warmth of it burned through the thin material of the skirt, searing into his skin, holding him there. Mihno’s gaze found his face, locked onto it for a moment that stretched too long, far too long, eyes dark with something unreadable, something Jisung knew he shouldn’t be seeing.

Then Mihno blinked. Once, twice. The spell broke.

He pulled his hand back abruptly, as if the touch had burned him instead, his jaw tightening with quiet restraint. He turned his back swiftly, heading toward his desk again. And yet, in a final betrayal of composure, he reached out and gave Jisung’s shoulder a brief, firm pat, the same gesture he had given him the first time they had met. Familiar. Safe. A wall hastily rebuilt.

“Goodnight, Jisung.”

The words were clipped, final.

Jisung didn’t wait for a second longer. He practically bolted out the door, shutting it a little too hard behind him, his chest heaving with wild breaths as if he had just outrun death itself. His legs trembled beneath him as he staggered into the hallway, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric tied snugly around his waist.

His professor’s jacket.

Lee Mihno’s jacket.

Jisung pressed his lips together, dizzy, his face burning hot enough to set the hallway alight. He was going to die. He was actually going to die.

 

The courtyard was buzzing even though the night had only just started. Jisung’s legs carried him automatically, his Mary Jane’s scraping faintly against the stone as the music grew louder and louder with every step. His chest was still a little tight from his run-in with Professor Lee, but his brain wasn’t doing its usual thing, spinning every possible outcome into disaster. Strangely, it was… blank. Maybe it was shock, maybe it was the lingering ghost of Minho’s hand at his waist, or maybe it was the smell of the professor’s cologne still faint on the jacket wrapped tightly around him. Either way, his thoughts weren’t coming. Which was unusual, because normally a party like this would already have him half-dead with anxiety, imagining everyone turning to look at him the second he stepped in, whispering, mocking, pointing fingers. That was usually how it went in his head. Tonight though, it was just a dull buzz, a strange kind of numbness that was broken only by the pounding bass echoing out of Dorm 143.

Jackson’s dorm was impossible to miss. The windows glowed with shifting neon lights, silhouettes moving inside, laughter spilling out every time the door opened. The music was so loud Jisung swore the ground vibrated under his feet, and yet Jackson himself stood outside, leaning lazily against the wall like he was the king of the entire courtyard. Which, honestly, he kind of was. His family’s money practically funded the school, which meant rules bent for him in ways they never would for anyone else. No one else could throw parties like this without consequences. No one else could turn their private dorm into a full-blown nightclub. Jackson thrived on it, and everyone around him knew it.

Jisung slowed when he noticed him, hoping, praying that he wouldn’t be noticed. But Jackson’s head turned, and the second his eyes landed on him, that trademark grin spread across his face, sharp and delighted. It was like watching a cat catch sight of a mouse. Jisung felt his chest sink, his stomach drop.

“Look at you,” Jackson drawled, whistling low under his breath as he straightened from his spot. His eyes swept over Jisung shamelessly, slow and deliberate, lingering on the jacket tied around his waist and the hem of the skirt that peeked out beneath. “Damn, Jisung. Didn’t know you had this side in you.”

Jisung felt his ears burn, his hands tightening nervously at his sides. He wanted to tug the jacket tighter, cover more, but Jackson was already moving toward him, moving with the kind of confidence that made it impossible to step back.

Before he could react, Jackson’s arm slid casually, possessively, around his waist, pulling him in as though they were already close. The touch was heavy, insistent, and Jisung swore his entire body stiffened at the sudden closeness. Jackson smelled like expensive cologne and alcohol, a sharp mix that filled Jisung’s lungs when he tried to breathe.

“You’ve been holding out on us,” Jackson continued, voice raised just enough to be heard over the pounding music. His grin widened as his hand pressed more firmly against Jisung’s side, steering him toward the door like he belonged inside already. “If I knew you looked this good, I would’ve dragged you here ages ago.”

Jisung’s mind, which had been blessedly blank moments ago, suddenly wasn’t. It was spinning, his stomach flipping violently as Jackson’s hand started to slip lower. Inch by inch, it moved from his waist, skating over his hip until it rested right at the curve of his ass. Over Professor Lee’s jacket.

Jisung’s breath caught in his throat. The world felt like it tilted, the music blurring, the crowd inside just shapes and shadows as Jackson kept talking like nothing was happening, his grin never faltering. Jisung’s stomach flipped again, somersaults, relentless and confusing. He couldn’t tell if they were good or bad. Maybe both. Maybe neither. But for his own sanity, for the way heat was pooling in his chest and rushing to his face, he decided to call it good.

Even if it didn’t feel good. Not really.

The music rang so loudly that Jisung swore it was rattling in his chest, every heavy bassline making his ribs tremble as if the sound had been wired directly into his bones. The air inside was hot, thick with the mixture of too many bodies pressed together, the sharp tang of alcohol, and the faint earthy burn of weed. People weren’t really dancing, they were grinding against each other, a blur of limbs and hips, mouths pressed together carelessly under the pulsing lights that shifted from red to blue to green. In one corner, a group of students yelled over each other, slamming cups down onto a table for a drinking game, while near the windows a few others were hunched over a bong, grinding weed lazily as though it was no more significant than chewing gum.

Jackson kept talking, his voice smooth and easy, barely even raised over the pounding music. Jisung forced himself to nod along, giving the occasional laugh, his lips moving automatically as if on autopilot, but his brain felt oddly detached. Maybe after he got some alcohol in his system it would all feel better. Maybe this dizzy, overwhelming mess of noise and color and touch was how everyone’s first proper party felt. He told himself that. He repeated it in his head like a mantra.

Jackson didn’t let go of him. His hand was heavy and unashamed, still resting far too low on Jisung’s back as he dragged him toward the kitchen counter where a chaotic spread of bottles and mixers were lined up. Glittering glass reflected the strobing lights, some of the labels peeling, others half empty already. A few people were crowding there too, reaching over each other for shots, shouting names of drinks that nobody was really making properly. Jackson moved confidently through the chaos, nudging people aside until he had a bit of space. His grin never faltered as he reached for bottles, his free hand squeezing Jisung’s ass again like it was second nature.

“I’ll make something light for you,” Jackson said, almost teasing. “Since this is probably your first drink, right?”

Jisung’s lips parted, but he didn’t correct him. He didn’t say that he had, in fact, drank before, or that he wasn’t nearly as delicate as Jackson seemed to assume. He just let the words hang there, because correcting him felt like more effort than it was worth. His throat was tight. His hands were stiff at his sides.

Jackson mixed quickly, tossing a few things together, his movements practiced. When he finally turned and handed the cup to Jisung, his hand returned without hesitation to Jisung’s body, fingers curling with even more pressure now, the grip bolder than before. Jisung’s heart tripped over itself.

The drink burned slightly as he swallowed, the taste sharp but sweetened enough to mask what it really was. Jisung tipped the cup back faster than he probably should have, desperate for the warmth, desperate for the numbing buzz. Jackson didn’t seem to notice or care that he nearly finished it in one go.

“Come on,” Jackson said easily, steering him away from the counter, his hand never leaving its place, like he had staked a claim. “I’ll introduce you to some of my friends.”

Jisung smiled faintly, nodding, his movements instinctively submissive, his body falling into the direction Jackson gave it. The alcohol was already beginning to work its way through him, fuzzing the sharp edges of the party. But even through the noise, even through the press of Jackson’s palm, a small pit stayed rooted in his stomach. It wouldn’t go away.

Because his mind kept dragging him back. Back to the office, to the low hum of Mihno’s voice, to the warmth of his jacket being tied so carefully around his waist. Mihno’s touch had been nothing like this. It hadn’t been greedy, hadn’t been entitled. It had been gentle, cautious, as if Jisung were something precious, as if the smallest mistake might break him. A professor’s jacket tied firmly around him, the faint smell of Mihno’s cologne still lingering in the fabric. That memory was carved into his skin now, warm and fragile, and it made the roughness of Jackson’s grip feel so jarring.

Polar opposite. Polar fucking opposite.

Jisung swallowed hard, his eyes flickering to the floor as Jackson’s words faded into the background. Whatever. He would drink. He would smile. He would get through this. He told himself that. He had to.

Jackson tugged him toward the circle of men gathered around the low table in the corner, where the air was heavy with the acrid-sweet smell of weed. A thick cloud lingered above them, illuminated faintly by the colored party lights that blinked in lazy rhythm across the room. The closer Jisung got, the more the smell clung to him, coating his throat, his jacket, the inside of his head.

“hey,look who I brought,” Jackson announced, loud enough to cut through the music. His hand stayed firm on Jisung’s waist as if claiming ownership, his thumb rubbing the seam where Mihno’s jacket tied snug around him.

All at once, heads turned. A handful of pairs of eyess landed on him, scanning up and down without shame. Jisung froze in place under their gaze. He swore he could feel every flick of their eyes, hot trails crawling up his bare legs, pausing too long at his skirt, darting up to his face and back down again.

He shouldn’t have worn this.
God, he really shouldn’t have worn this.
Or maybe… maybe he should’ve.

The thought was dizzying, alcohol mixing with smoke and nerves until he wasn’t sure if the sudden heat crawling up his neck was humiliation or a flush of something else. No one had ever looked at him like this before. Not openly. Not without some attempt to hide it. He felt exposed, yes, but also… noticed.

“Damn, Jackson,” one of them said, a tall guy with sharp cheekbones and lazy eyes, exhaling a puff of smoke that curled upward like fog. “Didn’t know you had friends like this.” His smirk widened. “Cute little thing, aren’t you?”

A round of low chuckles rippled through the group. Jisung gave the weakest smile he could manage, his lips tugging upward even though it didn’t reach his eyes. He didn’t want them to know how uncomfortable he felt, didn’t want them to see how hard his heart was pounding, how much he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Another leaned forward, passing the grinder to his friend, his gaze sticking to Jisung like glue. “Bet he’s sweeter than he looks.” The words were said casually, but the tone, the weight of them, pressed against Jisung’s chest like a hand he couldn’t shove off.

The laughter that followed was louder this time, more guttural, the kind that left no space for him to join in even if he’d wanted to. He tried, anyway, his lips parting in a shallow, nervous laugh that cracked halfway through. His buzz was spreading now, numbing his edges, and yet the pit in his stomach deepened, twisting itself tighter.

Jackson didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. His hand dropped low again, a casual squeeze at Jisung’s ass as though it were punctuation to the conversation. Jisung’s drink nearly slipped from his hand, his knuckles whitening as he held onto the plastic cup like a lifeline.

He should leave.
He really should leave

But then one of the guys patted the empty space on the couch beside him, grinning lazily through half-lidded eyes. “Sit with us. Don’t be shy.”

Jackson nudged him forward, and Jisung obeyed, lowering himself into the seat with all the stiffness of a puppet tugged by strings. The leather was sticky under his thighs, the hem of his skirt riding higher when he sat, and he tugged Mihno’s jacket tighter around his waist, praying it covered enough.

Mihno.

The thought stabbed through the haze like glass, so sharp it almost sobered him for a second.

But he smiled anyway, forcing it, because that’s what you do, right? That’s what makes people like you, makes them think you belong.

The tall one leaned closer, his voice dropping to something lower, suggestive. “Bet you’ve never been to a party like this, huh? You look like the type who stays up late with books instead of people.”

More laughter. This time, Jisung didn’t even try to laugh along. He just tipped his cup back, letting the burn of alcohol slide down his throat too quickly, hoping it would fill the hollow ache in his stomach.

Notes:

This chapter was so fun to write ! I hope you enjoyed. New question— whos your bias in stray kids? Mines hannie. (I think thats quite obvious though !) mwahmwah love you all !

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

The alcohol was humming in Jisung’s veins, a warmth that made his limbs loose, his tongue less careful, his laughter bubble up without him fully deciding to let it out. He wasn’t drunk, not really, but he wasn’t just tipsy anymore either. He was somewhere in the middle, that dangerous, glowing place where everything felt hazy and more vivid at the same time. Where every sound, every brush of touch, every lingering glance seemed amplified.

The bass rattled through his ribs, vibrating through his bones, and Jisung let himself be coaxed out onto the dance floor by one of Jackson’s friends; tall, broad-shouldered, the type who looked like he lived in the gym. His name was Hyunwoo, he’d learned a few minutes earlier. His grin was charming enough, his laughter deep and easy, and with Jackson slipping outside to hunt down more weed to satisfy his partygoers, Jisung found himself swept along, spun and tugged until his feet were moving clumsily to the beat.

At first, the dancing didn’t feel like much at all. Hyun Woo had tugged Jisung onto the center of the floor with that bright, boyish grin, and for a moment it almost felt harmless. He spun him around in circles, their laughter mixing with the bass that pounded through the speakers, the kind of laugh that rose from Jisung’s throat without permission, light and loose from the alcohol humming in his veins. The music was overwhelming, but the way Hyun Woo held his hands and turned him left, then right, didn’t feel like some calculated move, it was just dancing. Stupid, dizzying dancing that made Jisung’s head tip back and his mouth split into an unguarded smile.

He laughed again, the sound airy and unsteady, his head tilting back as Hyunwoo spun him around. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the loud music drowning out every other thought in his brain, but Jisung felt lighter, almost untethered from the gnawing pit that still, stubbornly, lingered somewhere low in his stomach. He shoved it down further, pushed it back where it couldn’t ruin this strange floating feeling. For once, he wasn’t the kid lurking on the sidelines, sweating bullets over every move. For once, someone was looking at him; several someones, actually.

And he had to admit: it felt… nice.

Still, the edges of his thoughts flickered elsewhere. To Professor Lee, with his sharp eyes and that maddening way of lingering on him for a beat too long before looking away. To the jacket draped over Jisung’s shoulders now, its fabric smelling faintly like clean soap and something darker, something steady and grounding. To the way Minho’s hands had been careful, respectful, like Jisung was something fragile and important. It was nothing like what was happening here. Nothing like Hyunwoo’s easy laughter and rough hands guiding him.

Jisung leaned closer,giggling into hyunwoo’s shoulder, shouting a little to be heard over the pounding bass, his words slipping out in a slur as he shouted in Hyunwoo’s ear, “I’m gonna get another drink!” His cheeks were warm, his body humming, and he started to turn away, half expecting Hyunwoo to let him go.

But before he could take a full step, a pair of strong hands wrapped tight around his waist and tugged him back, chest flush against a body much firmer, much harder than his own. The move knocked the air from Jisung for a second, his breath catching as he stumbled in the sudden closeness. His back arched slightly, his hips colliding against something hard through Hyunwoo’s jeans.

The contact froze him. His cheeks went nuclear in seconds, his eyes widening as he realized exactly what he was pressed against. The jacket, Minho’s jacket shifted against him, sliding slightly as Hyun Woo pressed closer, until Jisung could feel it. The undeniable hardness pressing right into him, bold, shameless, as though Hyun Woo hadn’t even considered that Jisung might pull away

His breath caught halfway up his throat, cheeks burning hot, his body locked still while his mind screamed at him to move, to say something, to do anything. But Hyun Woo didn’t give him the chance. He bent his head low, lips brushing too close to Jisung’s ear, voice dropping deep and coarse.

 

“Bet you’d look so good bent over that table down there,” he whispered, each word sliding slick against Jisung’s skin as he nodded faintly to the table where all the bottles were lined up. “All flushed and moaning, begging for more.”

Jisung’s fingers twitched where they hung limp at his sides. His stomach twisted with heat that he hated to recognize, hated to admit he felt. Hyun Woo ground his hips forward, rolling against him, pressing him further into the solid hardness of his crotch, and Jisung gasped, the sound barely audible over the music but humiliating in his own ears.

Hyun Woo’s mouth stayed at his ear, voice curling around the beat of the music. “You want it, don’t you? You’d let me fuck you right here, let everyone watch you fall apart.”

Jisung shuddered, his whole body alight with conflict. His cheeks felt like fire, shame spreading down his neck and chest, but his thighs tightened, his body betraying him, leaning back against the hold he swore he should have escaped. His mind, already fogged by alcohol, screamed no, screamed he didn’t want this, that this wasn’t him. He wasn’t like the people who stumbled into dark bathrooms at parties, clinging to strangers for something fleeting.

But then Hyun Woo’s hips rolled again, the friction so deliberate, and a small, broken moan slipped out before Jisung could choke it down.

It was mortifying. It was thrilling. And for one terrifying second, Jisung couldn’t tell if he hated it more, or envied the people who gave into it without thought.

 

Before Jisung could even process the way Hyunwoo’s breath had lingered against his ear, a loud voice cut through the bass of the music.

“HYUNWOO!”

The shout made Jisung flinch, spinning his head toward the source. It was Jackson, swaggering back into the room, holding a bag of loose weed above his head like it was a golden prize. The grin on his face was wide, almost feral, as people cheered faintly in acknowledgment. Hyunwoo seemed to hesitate, his hands still loosely hooked at Jisung’s waist, his lips parted as if he might say something else. For a moment, Jisung swore Hyunwoo was weighing the options, keep him there, pressed close, or leave to roll with Jackson.

In the end, Hyunwoo loosened his hold with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Later,” he muttered low enough for only Jisung to hear, and then he was gone, shoving his way through the sweaty crowd toward Jackson.

Relief should’ve washed over Jisung. It didn’t.

Jackson’s voice carried again, “Yo, where’s Jisung?” His eyes scanned the dance floor, sharp and curious, and Jisung’s stomach dropped like a stone. He wasn’t about to stick around and find out what would happen if those eyes landed on him right now.

Slipping between bodies that moved and pressed and kissed without care, Jisung ducked his head and pushed forward, his chest heaving as the pit in his stomach bloomed into something unbearable. The laughter, the music, the grinding bass, it all blurred into a noise he couldn’t stand another second of. By the time he slipped out of the dorm doors, the cold air hit him like a slap, burning his cheeks and seeping through Minho’s jacket.

The courtyard was empty, eerily so compared to the chaos inside. The distant thump of the music bled faintly through the walls, but out here it was quiet, cold, too real. Jisung’s steps quickened into a near run as he crossed the open space, his small purse bouncing against his side. His hand shook as he dug into it, searching blindly for his keycard.

Nothing.

“Fuck—” His breath hitched, his legs wobbly from the alcohol coursing through him. He ducked behind a pillar, heart hammering, trying to steady his hands enough to search properly. His phone, Lip gloss, a lighter he barely used, crumpled tissues, but no fucking keycard.

No fucking way.

He must’ve left it. He must’ve left it back in his dorm, when he ran out so recklessly earlier to go see Professor Lee.

Professor Lee.

The thought punched the air from his lungs. His gaze dropped down to the jacket that had migrated to be clutched like a lifeline in his arm, the jacket Minho had tied around him with such quiet care, as if Jisung had been something fragile, something worth protecting. His fingers tightened in the fabric until his knuckles ached.

It was too much. The warmth of Minho’s gesture still lingered, ghostly soft against his skin, completely at odds with the rough grip Jackson had on him earlier, or the way Hyunwoo’s hardness pressed against him, the vulgar things whispered in his ear.

He sank down against the pillar, sliding until he was curled on the cold ground, knees bent, jacket clutched desperately to his chest. His head dropped into his hands as a broken sound escaped his throat, the tears finally threatening to spill over.

What the fuck was going on with him?

He wasn’t actually going to have sex with Hyunwoo. He wasn’t. He’d almost let it happen, though. Almost. The realization made bile rise in his throat, guilt and embarrassment twisting in his veins, burning hotter than the alcohol.

What the hell was wrong with him?

His shoulders shook as he pressed his face harder into his palms, clutching the jacket tighter like it was the only thing anchoring him. His thoughts spiraled. shame, confusion, envy, desire, tangled into a knot he couldn’t loosen. Somewhere in the mess of it, Minho’s touch lingered, steady and unbearably gentle, a contrast that only made Jisung’s chest ache harder.

 

Jisung sat there, legs curled toward his chest, jacket crumpled tight against his chest like some pathetic shield. His head throbbed with the dull, uneven buzz of alcohol that had already begun to wear at his nerves rather than soften them. His tears had dried sticky on his cheeks, leaving faint salt tracks that itched but he didn’t dare move to wipe away. He didn’t want to move at all. Every time he shifted, the night air seemed colder, the loneliness sharper.

The campus courtyard had long gone quiet. Even the muffled bass of the party had dulled to a distant throb, as if the world itself was trying to smother him into silence. His chest ached with every shallow inhale, a tightness that reminded him of what almost happened. What he had almost let happen. His mind wouldn’t stop replaying it, Hyunwoo’s breath in his ear, his hands, his words. The way he hadn’t said no fast enough.

And then there was the jacket. The damn jacket. Too big on his frame, the sleeves hanging awkwardly past his wrists, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and something warmer, something so distinctly Minho that Jisung hated himself for noticing. He clutched it tighter. His professor’s jacket. The one he’d been so careless with, dragging through smoke and sweat and nearly… God, he squeezed his eyes shut.

The exhaustion was crawling over him now, heavier than the alcohol, heavier than the cold. He had almost convinced himself he could just fall asleep here, against this stupid pillar, and let tomorrow deal with him. That maybe if he slept, the world would blur out long enough for him to forget.

And then he heard it.

“Han Jisung.”

The sound of his name ripped through the silence so suddenly it made his body jolt. His stomach dropped straight through the concrete beneath him. His head snapped up instinctively before he forced it back down, burying his face in his knees. No. He knew that voice. He would know it anywhere.

Professor Lee.

It sounded slightly deeper, as though dragged down by tiredness, but it hadn’t lost its edge,still sharp, still carrying that cutting authority that made Jisung feel like he was under a microscope whenever it was directed at him.

Jisung’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He couldn’t even begin to think of what to say. The world pressed in on him, and for a second he thought maybe he’d imagined it, that his mind was cruel enough to conjure Minho’s voice here, of all places.

But then he felT it.

A shadow falling over him, broad and unyielding. A presence so close he could almost feel the warmth radiating off it despite the midnight chill. Jisung didn’t even hear the footsteps approach, just suddenly there, looming, filling up the space he had been desperate to keep empty.

The weight of it made his throat close. His fingers curled tighter into the jacket, knuckles white, pressing it so close to his chest it almost hurt. His breathing quickened without permission, shallow and uneven, betraying him.

“Look at me,” Minho’s voice cut again, quieter this time, but no less firm.

Jisung squeezed his eyes tighter shut. He couldn’t. He couldn’t face him like this, red-eyed, trembling, reeking of alcohol, shame radiating off him in waves. He thought of how he must look: his professor’s jacket hanging off his small, disheveled frame, his bag half-open, his makeup smudged at the corners of his eyes. Pathetic. Weak. Everything he swore he wasn’t.

But Minho was waiting. Standing over him, demanding without demanding. The kind of presence that made Jisung’s pulse race, that made his chest feel so tight he might suffocate.

And still, he couldn’t bring himself to look up.

Jisung shook his head, hard, as if he could shake the world away with the motion. His face stayed buried in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp. The jacket slipped a little against his collarbone and he instinctively yanked it tighter around himself, curling into it like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Minho noticed.

Of course he did. His gaze flickered down to where Jisung’s fists clutched the fabric like it was something sacred, something he wasn’t willing to let go of no matter how badly he trembled.

“Jisung,” Minho said again, softer this time. Less command, more something else. Something Jisung couldn’t put a name to because his ears were ringing, his chest was tightening, and the burn in his throat warned that the tears he thought had dried were threatening to spill all over again.

His shoulders shook, betraying him, his breaths coming shallow and uneven. He shook his head again, unable to speak, unable to face the shame of it. He wanted to disappear. To fold into the jacket, into the shadows, into anything but this moment.

And then the weight above him shifted.

Minho crouched down. The sound of fabric brushing against the concrete, the subtle adjustment of his shoes grounding against the pavement, made Jisung’s stomach twist. He knew without looking that his professor had come down to his level, knees bent, shoulders forward, no longer towering above him but close. Too close.

“Hey.”

The voice was right in front of him now. Lower. Closer. Jisung pressed his palms harder against his eyes, refusing to lift his head. His chest heaved, every inhale a battle.

And then he felt it.

A hand.

Gentle. Careful. Not forcing, not harsh, just a steady touch against his arm, warm even through the jacket. The kind of touch that didn’t demand, only offered.

The contrast made him fall apart.

Tears slipped free, hot and stinging as they carved down his cheeks. His whole body shuddered as the sob broke through, muffled against his palms but loud enough in the silence between them. He hated himself for it, for breaking down here, like this, in front of the one person he least wanted to see him like this.

But Minho didn’t pull away. His hand stayed there, steady, grounding, anchoring Jisung to something that felt terrifyingly safe.

“Breathe,” Minho murmured, the firmness in his tone softened but not lost. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”

Jisung shook his head again, voice breaking in a cracked whisper. “I-I can’t—”

“You can,” Minho countered, low and certain, his thumb brushing the edge of Jisung’s sleeve in a movement so subtle Jisung almost thought he imagined it. “Look at me.”

That command again. Quiet, but unyielding.

Jisung’s chest constricted, and he let out another sob, knees pulling tighter into his chest. He wanted to resist, wanted to stay hidden. But Minho was right there, crouched in front of him, hand steady, voice steady, waiting with that terrifying patience that left no room for escape.

Slowly, hesitantly, reluctantly, Jisung lowered his hands from his face, the fabric of the sleeves brushing wet against his skin. His eyes burned as he blinked up through the blur of tears, lashes clumped, throat raw.

And Minho was there.

Sharp eyes softened just enough to cut deeper, studying him with a steadiness that made Jisung feel bare. His professor. His jacket wrapped around Jisung’s small frame. His hand still warm against his arm.

The sight alone broke another tear loose.

For a moment, Jisung thought he could hold himself together. His throat burned, his chest heaved with shallow, stuttering breaths, but he kept his head bowed, fingers white-knuckled around the fabric of the jacket clutched against him. If he just stayed still enough, quiet enough, maybe he could pretend Minho wasn’t really there.

But then he felt it.

The gentle shift of weight as Minho crouched down, the quiet rustle of fabric, and then that hand; steady, grounding, pressing lightly against his shoulder. The touch was almost nothing, barely there, yet it made Jisung flinch as though someone had torn a seam open inside him. Because it wasn’t rough, it wasn’t impatient. It was careful, the kind of careful that undid every brittle wall he’d scrambled to put up.

His breath hitched violently, and before he could stop himself, the dam broke. A sob tore loose from his throat, shaking his entire frame, and he all but collapsed forward.

He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate, he just threw himself into Minho’s chest like gravity had decided for him. His arms shot up around the older man’s torso, locking in place, and he pressed his face into the solid warmth before him, muffling the sound of his own cries.

The world narrowed instantly to the thud of Minho’s heartbeat against his ear. Slow. Steady. Like an anchor dropping into deep water.

Minho didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him away. Instead, his body absorbed the impact, bracing them both with a small shift of his legs as if catching someone wasn’t new to him. His arms, hesitant only for a fraction of a second, came up to circle Jisung’s trembling frame. Not crushing, not suffocating, just enough pressure to remind him he was there, to tell him silently: you’re held.

And God, Jisung clung harder.

His fingers curled into Minho’s shirt, twisting the fabric so tightly it pulled, knuckles digging into the man’s sides. Sobs wracked through him in shuddering waves, shaking his shoulders, breaking his breath into gasps that tasted like salt and shame. The alcohol still swam faintly in his veins, but it was nothing compared to this dizzying warmth—the feel of another human being not letting go.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked apart against Minho’s chest, the words spilling out without shape. His throat felt raw, strangled, and yet he forced them through the sobs. “I c-can’t—”

The answer wasn’t rushed. Minho’s voice came low, firm, threaded with a quiet certainty that cut through the noise in Jisung’s head.
“You can,” he murmured, a hand smoothing once down Jisung’s back, grounding him, shushing his softly as if jisung was a small child.

That undid him completely.

Tears spilled hot and unrelenting down his face, soaking into the fabric beneath his cheek. His body sagged against Minho’s hold, all the tension in him bleeding out until he felt boneless, held together only by the arms wrapped around him. The jacket, Minho’s jacket, slipped slightly off one shoulder, but Jisung dragged it tighter with one desperate hand, clutching it like it was another layer of him, another way to tether himself to the man holding him up.

Minho didn’t speak again, and maybe that was what made it so unbearable. He didn’t fill the silence with empty words or pity. He just stayed. Breathing slow, steady against Jisung’s hair, chest rising and falling like a metronome that Jisung’s fractured breaths kept trying, (and failing) to match.

Every small detail carved itself into Jisung’s mind: the faint smell of soap clinging to Minho’s shirt, sharper than the lingering alcohol on his own skin. The warmth of Minho’s chest seeping through cotton, radiating like a furnace in the chill of the night. The subtle weight of a palm pressing into the small of his back, not to force him closer but to remind him that he wasn’t being held out of obligation.

It was too much.

Too much comfort, too much safety, too much of something he hadn’t realized he’d been starving for until this moment. His sobs grew harsher, his body trembling as if trying to wring out every last drop of emotion he’d swallowed down over weeks, months, maybe years. And through all of it, Minho stayed still. Quiet. Steady.

The courtyard was silent around them, but inside, Jisung’s world was deafening. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs, clashing with Minho’s steadier one, and he clung tighter as though that rhythm might save him. His cheek pressed so close to the warmth of Minho’s chest that he could almost imagine disappearing into it.

And Minho let him.

Jisung stayed there, folded against him, his cheek pressed flat to Minho’s chest as if he were listening to the professor’s heartbeat instead of the muffled thud of music still leaking from the dorms. His arms were still tight around Minho, refusing to let go, his grip the kind of desperate hold that spoke of fear and exhaustion more than choice. He was half draped over Minho’s lap, legs tucked awkwardly beneath him, his body curling in as if he were trying to disappear inside the warmth Minho’s frame provided. Minho shifted slightly, adjusting the weight with an instinct that felt foreign in his own body, sliding one arm more firmly around Jisung’s waist to anchor him closer, to keep him steady. His other hand hovered, hesitated, then settled at the back of Jisung’s head.

He didn’t quite know what he was doing, his fingers were stiff at first, uncertain, but eventually, almost against his will, they threaded carefully through Jisung’s hair. A shaky motion, hesitant, as though he feared he might do it wrong, but he kept on, combing gently, smoothing it down in slow strokes that carried more comfort than either of them could name. Jisung exhaled against his chest, a shaky sound that carried traces of leftover sobs, and burrowed closer, his nose pressed into the fabric of Minho’s shirt as though he could hide there.

Minho bent his head down slightly, so close he could see how Jisung’s lashes clung damp to his skin, how his breath still came uneven. He could feel every trembling inhale through the place where their bodies met, and without thinking, he pulled him tighter, closing the space entirely. There was something fragile about the way Jisung clung, something Minho couldn’t ignore.

“Should I take you to your dorm?” Minho murmured, the words low, his voice softened to something careful, nearly breaking on itself.

Jisung shook his head against him, his voice muffled, small. “I can’t… I’m locked out. My roommate’s still in thE party. I… left my card inside when I went to see you.” The admission slipped out with a bitter laugh, but it cracked halfway through, and he only pressed himself deeper into Minho’s chest as though to hide the sound.

He didn’t know if it was the alcohol, or if it was something else entirely, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go. Instead, he buried his face even further into Minho’s shirt, clutching the fabric, breathing in the scent of him like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground. And Minho, awkward and uncertain but still unyieldingly present, only adjusted his hold again, drawing him tighter across his lap, one hand still trembling faintly as it moved through Jisung’s hair, steadying him in a silence that felt strangely, dangerously safe.

 

Minho was the first to pull away. His arms loosened from around Jisung’s frame, his hand slipping from the boy’s hair as though he had to remind himself that this wasn’t something he was supposed to be doing, that this embrace had lasted far longer than was safe for either of them. The absence of his warmth was immediate, sharp in its suddenness. Jisung’s arms stayed there for a moment longer, still clinging, as though he hadn’t yet registered the change, then, slowly, reluctantly, they fell away, hanging limp by his sides.

Jisung’s head dropped, the fringe of his hair falling to shadow his expression, though the slump of his shoulders made it all too easy to guess. His legs wobbled as he tried to stand, the alcohol making it impossible to hold his balance with any dignity. He swayed, weight shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, like a child who’d been scolded. His throat felt tight with humiliation. God, this was bad. So, so bad. He could already hear the lecture forming in Minho’s tone; the reprimand, the cool dismissal, the sharp reminder that he was nothing more than a student who had crossed a line.

Why had he done that? Why had he clung so desperately to his professor, sobbing into his chest like some pathetic kid who couldn’t hold his liquor? The thought made his stomach knot and his chest ache. He hated himself for it. He wanted to shrink into the floor, to disappear before Minho could open his mouth and tell him just how utterly stupid, how pathetic, he really was.

But Minho didn’t speak. Not at first.

Instead, the next thing Jisung felt was the sweep of strong arms, one sliding behind his knees, the other cradling his torso. The world tilted before he had the chance to react, his feet leaving the ground in a rush.

“Wha—!” His startled sound came out as a small squeak, his eyes flying wide as he looked up. He was in the air, pressed securely against Minho’s chest. Bridal style. Carried like something fragile, like something worth protecting.

His professor’s arms.

Minho adjusted his hold with careful ease, tightening his grip around Jisung’s back so he wouldn’t slip, the movement steady, practiced almost, like he’d done this before. His face, however, was not as composed, his jaw was tight, his gaze fixed forward, though there was a softness that betrayed him in the way he looked down at Jisung for the briefest second.

Jisung’s breath caught. His heart lurched painfully. His first instinct was to push away, to demand to be put down, but his arms betrayed him, clinging tightly around Minho’s neck instead. His cheeks burned hot, shame twisting with something else entirely—something softer, more dangerous. He felt flustered to the point of trembling, small tremors running through his hands as he gripped at Minho’s shirt, but also unbearably raw. The mix was too much. His throat closed up, and before he could stop it, tears began to spill again.

God, he was pathetic. Pathetic enough to cry in his professor’s arms like this.

But Minho didn’t chide him. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t tell him to get a grip.

“Don’t cry,” Minho murmured, his voice low, steady. His tone was nothing like Jisung had expected, not sharp, not cold. It was gentle, coaxing, as if the words themselves were meant to soothe the ache out of him. He adjusted his hold again, pulling Jisung’s head closer against his chest, his hand spanning wide across his back as though to shield him from everything outside this moment. “You’ve already been through enough tonight. No more tears, alright?”

Jisung’s lips trembled. He buried his face deeper into the curve of Minho’s neck, his hair brushing against the professor’s jaw. He wanted to disappear, but he also wanted to stay right there forever, tucked safely into his arms.

Minho’s arms tightened instinctively around Jisung, adjusting so the boy was pressed fully against him. One hand cradled the back of his knees, the other splayed across his back, fingertips tracing gentle, grounding patterns. Jisung’s chest pressed to Minho’s, small sobs muffled against the fabric of his shirt. The warmth radiating off him was suffocating in the best way, making every tremor in Jisung’s body seem even more pronounced, more urgent.

“You’re alright,” Minho murmured, his voice low, steady, carrying over the night air and through the pounding of Jisung’s own heartbeat. He shifted slightly, pulling Jisung closer, the motion subtle but deliberate. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Jisung clung tighter, trembling against him. His legs pressed awkwardly against Minho’s torso, his small frame almost swallowed by the older man’s, yet somehow it made him feel steadier. His hands dug lightly into Minho’s shirt, half for grip, half to anchor himself to the sensation of being held so completely. The alcohol haze and emotional exhaustion mixed into a dizzying spiral, but the feel of Minho’s arms, firm, warm, unyielding, kept him tethered

“You’ve been through so much tonight,” Minho continued, his voice softening further. “Crying doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. And you.. you’re remarkable. So pretty, Jisung.”

The words hit him like a spark across bare skin. His stomach dropped, head jerking back slightly to glance up through wet lashes, his wide doe eyes glimmering in the moonlight and street lamps. “I… I’m not…” he tried to protest, voice quivering, but Minho shook his head gently.

“You are,” Minho insisted as he adjusted him, holding him even tighter now, drawing him flush against his chest. “You have no idea how much it matters that you’re here, that you’re breathing, that you’re trying even when it’s hard. You’re beautiful, inside and out, and right now, you’re doing exactly what you need to do.”

Jisung’s arms instinctively went tighter around him again, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as if letting go could undo this moment, could make the warmth and care disappear. His legs trembled beneath him, the alcohol adding to the quiver, but Minho shifted again, adjusting him so he was more comfortable.

“You’re so beautiful when you cry,” Minho added softly, almost a whisper, and Jisung’s body froze, warmth blooming across his chest and face. The attention, the intimacy, the sheer softness of it was overwhelming. “So delicate, so human, and it’s alright to let it out. You don’t have to hide it from me. I’m here.”

Jisung felt himself melting against him, his small hands clutching his shirt as the sobs became softer, slower, the shaking of his body ebbing under Minho’s steady hold. He let out a shaky breath, the kind that carries both relief and exhaustion, and buried his face further, inhaling the faint scent of Minho’s soap, the warmth, the unspoken reassurance.

Minho adjusted again, one arm curling under Jisung’s knees, the other tightening across his back, pulling him closer still. “Closer,” he murmured, almost to himself, as if testing the air between them. “There, that’s it. I’ve got you right here. Nothing’s going to hurt you. Not tonight. Not now. You’re safe. You’re perfect. Close your eyes, I’ve got you.”

Jisung felt the words sink into him like sunlight through a clouded sky. He wasn’t moving, couldn’t imagine moving. He was flushed, breathless, and raw in ways that made him feel exposed yet profoundly protected. Minho’s hands were everywhere that mattered, cradling him, supporting him, steadying him. And with every step Minho took as he carried him, Jisung’s chest rose and fell against Minho’s, heart syncing to the unshakable rhythm beneath him.

Jisung felt small, delicate, utterly human and completely, undeniably cared for. He buried himself deeper, letting himself be entirely held, entirely seen, entirely known in a way that made him forget the party, the alcohol, even the embarrassment. For the first time in hours, maybe days, he felt completely and utterly safe as he dozed off quietly in his arms.

 

Jisung woke to the softness of sheets beneath him, the unfamiliar mattress cradling his body in a way that made him blink rapidly, panic flickering through his chest. His head was fuzzy from exhaustion, from the alcohol, from the emotional whirlwind that had left him completely unmoored, but the moment he opened his eyes, he froze. The room was dimly lit, warm amber light spilling from a small lamp across the corner.

Before him, Minho was kneeling slightly, smoothing the blanket over Jisung’s form, tucking him in with deliberate, careful movements, as though he were handling something delicate, precious, fragile. Every motion was slow, meticulous, almost reverent. His fingers adjusted the fabric around Jisung’s shoulders, around the small curve of his waist, ensuring he was warm and secure.

Jisung’s breath hitched. He could barely speak, barely move, but his gaze stayed fixed on Minho as he straightened up, brushing his hands lightly, almost ghostlike, against Jisung’s arm. Then, Minho’s expression softened, the usual stoic mask replaced by something gentler, more intimate. His lips curved into a small, reassuring smile as he bent slightly, brushing his fingers lightly through Jisung’s slightly overgrown hair.

“Goodnight, princess,” Minho whispered, the words low, careful, full of something that made Jisung’s chest squeeze. He turned to leave, the soft creak of his shoes against the floor the only sound breaking the quiet.

Jisung’s hand shot out instinctively, catching Minho’s wrist. His fingers gripped tightly, almost desperately, and he blinked up at him with wide, watery eyes, the biggest, saddest doe eyes imaginable. “Stay,” he whispered, barely audible, voice thick with sleep and lingering tears.

Minho froze for a moment, his sharp mind blinking at the request. This was still his student, and the weight of propriety pressed against his chest, but the look in Jisung’s eyes, so raw, so fragile, pulled at something deeper. Slowly, hesitantly, he sank to the edge of the bed, one hand still held firmly in Jisung’s, the other moving to brush lightly through his hair. The motion was gentle, unhurried, as though he feared startling him.

“I'm not going anywhere. I promise.” Minho murmured, his voice soft with quiet emotion, the words falling over Jisung like a balm.

Jisung’s grip on him tightened, and Minho’s hand traced the delicate curve of his cheek, stroking it slowly, softly, as if memorizing the softness, the smallness of him. His thumb traced along Jisung’s jaw, brushing over damp lashes, lingering along the swell of his lips. Every movement was slow, reverent, filled with care, the kind of attention that made Jisung’s chest feel impossibly full.

“Do you… think I’m pretty?” Jisung asked, voice dazed and sleepy, words barely forming as his head lolled slightly, still heavy with exhaustion. His eyes were wide, pupils glossy, and his lips parted softly, pink and pouty.

Minho’s chest shifted slightly with a breath, his gaze never leaving Jisung’s. “The prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said softly, firm yet tender, his hand continuing to trace delicate patterns over Jisung’s face. “You’re… perfect, princess. Just the way you are.”

Jisung let out a small sigh, the tension draining from his body, his arms relaxing ever so slightly but still clinging to Minho’s hand. His breathing slowed as a warmth, deep and suffusing, radiated from his chest, filling the small spaces inside him that had been tight with panic and fear. He closed his eyes, leaning slightly into Minho’s touch, feeling the gentleness, the strength, the steady presence of him.

Minho’s hand shifted once more, combing through Jisung’s hair in long, careful strokes, brushing strands back from his forehead, then letting his fingers linger at the nape of his neck, lightly stroking and holding him as though he was the most fragile, most treasured thing in the world.

Jisung’s body relaxed completely, melting into the bed beneath him, the hand holding Minho’s loosening just enough to sink into the warmth of the sheets and the security of Minho’s presence. His lips parted, a soft exhale escaping him as he felt his eyelids grow impossibly heavy, the last traces of panic and guilt slipping away.

“You’re… Your’e so warm.” he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet.

“So are you,” Minho replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he continued to stroke the side of Jisung’s face, then his hair, careful not to disturb him. “Sleep now, princess. I’ve got you.”

And as Minho’s warmth wrapped around him, as the soft brush of his hand on his cheek and through his hair grounded him in the safety of the room, Jisung finally surrendered to the deep, calm sleep he had been craving all night. His body loosened, his breathing evened, and for the first time in hours, he felt completely, entirely cared for, tucked into a cocoon of warmth and gentle protection that was all Minho.

(This chapter made me cry when I was writing it; so freaking sweet. :’) )

Notes:

THIS CHAPTER MADE ME FREAKING CRY WHEN I PLANNED ON WRITING IT I DIDN'T INTEND FOR IT TO BE THIS SWEET :’) hope you enjoyed sweethearts. <33

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

The first thing Jisung noticed was the fabric against his skin. Not his skirt, but a pair of trousers far too big for him. The drawstring was pulled tight, cinched clumsily at his waist, the fabric pooling loose around his legs. He blinked down at them in confusion, half-formed thoughts crowding his foggy mind before it hit him all at once. the night before.

His chest clenched, the memory of sobbing into Professor Lee’s chest, clinging like a child, letting himself be carried like some fragile thing he couldn’t even hold together on his own. God. His entire body flushed hot, then cold. Embarrassment spread over him like wildfire.

He pushed himself upright in the bed with a start, heart racing as if the world might cave in on him if he thought too long about what he had done. The skirt still clung to his hips underneath the borrowed trousers, the waistband pressed faintly against his skin. He realised then, that Minho had probably left it there on purpose. A sign of respect. A quiet way of telling him he hadn’t taken anything from him, hadn’t dared cross a line, even when Jisung himself had blurred it completely.

It was almost worse, that thought. Too considerate. Too gentle.

The clock on the wall across the room glowed faintly. 11:14 a.m.

His stomach dropped. He’d slept in. Slept so soundly, too, curled into warmth that wasn’t even his, letting exhaustion and alcohol pull him into the deepest, safest sleep he’d had in months. And now he was in his professor’s home, wearing his professor’s clothes.

Jisung swung his legs over the side of the bed, only to feel them wobble beneath him, still weak from alcohol and sleep. He stumbled forward, rubbing at one eye with his knuckle like a child reluctant to wake up. If he was lucky, he thought, maybe, just maybe he could slip out without Minho ever seeing him again. He couldn’t face him. Not after last night. Not after the way he cried and clung and begged. Not after Minho had whispered things in the dark that made his chest squeeze so tight it hurt.

But the moment he cracked open the bedroom door, the faint sound of utensils clinking against ceramic reached him. The smell of something warm. eggs, maybe. Toast. Butter melting in a pan.

Jisung’s heart sank, dread crawling up his throat.

He padded carefully down the hall, every step heavy with the humiliation pressing down on him. When he stepped into the doorway of the kitchen, he froze.

Professor Lee was there, back turned at first, broad shoulders moving stiffly as he worked over the stove. The sunlight cut through the window, painting him in pale gold, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the set of his mouth. The warmth from last night was gone, there was no soft smile, no whispered reassurances, no gentle touch on his hair.

Just the professor again. Just Lee Minho.

When Minho finally turned his head, his gaze landed on Jisung, on the oversized trousers dragging against the floor, the disheveled skirt still clinging beneath, the messy hair falling into his eyes. For a moment, Minho’s lips parted as if he might say something more, something tender like before. But then he blinked, and the mask slipped back into place. His voice was even, almost clinical.

“You’re awake,” he said simply, setting the spatula down with a soft clink. “How do you feel?”

No princess. No baby. No hand reaching out to smooth down his hair or tuck him into warmth.

Just a question. Just concern, careful, measured, like any professor might ask a student who looked unwell after a rough night.

Jisung’s heart dropped in a way that felt different this time. not panic, not embarrassment. Just… hollow.

“Fine,” Jisung muttered, though the word stuck in his throat, shaky and small. He sank a little where he stood, wishing he could curl back into the safety of last night’s warmth.

Minho nodded once, turning back to the stove. His movements were precise, deliberate, as if keeping busy with breakfast might keep his hands from betraying him. “Good. You should eat something. Then… you ought to head home. You’ll feel better after that.”

There it was. The line. The reminder. Minho wasn’t the man who had carried him like something precious, who had whispered soft nothings into his hair, who had tucked him into bed like he mattered. He was the professor again. Distant. Safe. Off-limits.

And Jisung hated it.

 

Jisung’s fork scraped softly against the plate, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room. He tried, really tried to force the food down, chewing slowly, throat tight with every swallow. The eggs were fluffy, seasoned perfectly, the toast buttered just right, but each bite only seemed to grow heavier in his chest. It wasn’t the food, it was him. It was the weight of sitting across from Professor Lee Minho again, the weight of pretending nothing had happened the night before.

God, it was pathetic. That was his professor. His professor, who just last night held him like he was something fragile and precious, whispered to him like he mattered. His professor, who stroked his hair until he fell asleep, who called him pretty, who tucked him in as if Jisung was something to be kept safe. Now, here he was, sitting across the table like none of it meant a thing, back to his cool, detached self. The warmth of last night felt like a cruel dream, fading fast.

Jisung ate quickly, stuffing the food into his mouth despite the lump forming in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Minho’s eyes; every time he tried, he was greeted by the stiff, professional expression he’d seen in lectures, not the soft one from last night. His chest ached at the difference. Why couldn’t he look at him the way he had before?

“Thank you,” Jisung muttered, his voice barely audible. He pushed his plate forward as if putting distance between himself and the kindness he wasn’t allowed to keep. He stood too quickly, legs still unsteady, chair scraping against the floor with a harsh squeak. Minho gave him a polite nod, and Jisung’s heart sank even deeper. That nod was final, distant. He wasn’t the man who had whispered sweet nothings to him as he carried him in his arms, he was just Professor Lee again.

Jisung bowed his head low, the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment. He wanted, desperately wanted for Minho to stop him. To reach out, to say his name, to pull him back the way he had when he Tied his jacket around his waist the night before. Anything. Something. But the silence stretched, and Jisung felt smaller and smaller with each step toward the door.

His fingers tightened around the fabric of the jacket still draped over him, the scent of Minho faint but there. Shit. He hadn’t even realized until now that he was still wearing it. It drowned him, sleeves hanging past his hands, the collar brushing his chin. He should’ve taken it off before stepping out. He should’ve handed it back, folded it neatly, done something proper. But he didn’t. Selfishly, he couldn’t. He wanted to keep it, keep the little piece of warmth that still clung to the fabric, keep the proof that last night hadn’t been something he dreamed up out of loneliness and drunken haze.

His steps faltered once he was outside, turning back instinctively. The teachers’ dorm loomed in the distance, the window he thought might be Minho’s dim and ordinary against the brightening day. It stood there, solid and unreachable, mocking him. Jisung’s throat tightened. He couldn’t go back. Not when his professor had so carefully drawn the line again, not when Jisung was already drowning in the shame of needing him so badly.

He held the jacket tighter around himself, fingers gripping the fabric as though it could fill the hollow ache gnawing at his chest. He felt stupid, so stupid but he also felt something worse, something selfish. He didn’t want to give it back. He wanted to keep it, bury himself in it, let it remind him of how it felt to be held, just once, like he wasn’t pathetic, like he wasn’t a burden.

His dorm came into view, but Jisung felt emptier with each step closer to it. His legs carried him forward, but his heart stayed behind, tucked in that room where Minho’s voice had called him pretty, where Minho’s hands had combed through his hair like he was something worth cherishing.

By the time he reached his door, Jisung felt completely hollow. He knocked and waited till his definitely hungover roommate let him in , jacket still clutched to his chest, the memory of the night playing over and over again in his head until it hurt.

What the fuck.

 

The weekend passed in a blur, though calling it a blur almost felt too generous. It wasn’t a blur of activity, not the kind filled with long walks or even distraction. It was a blur of stillness, a stagnant kind of time where the hours bled together until Jisung couldn’t tell one from the next. Normally, weekends were his sanctuary. He’d cocoon himself beneath his blankets, laptop balanced on his lap, a half-empty bag of chips within reach. He’d watch some Studio Ghibli film he’d seen more times than he could count, mouthing the lines as if they were old prayers, comfort in familiarity. Sometimes he’d study, at least enough to trick himself into thinking he was productive.

But this weekend? He didn’t move. He couldn’t. The bed became a trap, the sheets heavy and suffocating, pinning him down. He didn’t even open his laptop; it sat untouched on his desk, the screen dark and accusing whenever his gaze flickered in its direction. Food barely passed his lips, his stomach twisted too tight with shame to handle anything more than water or the occasional dry cracker. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and restless, each dream warped with the same fragments of memory, his head tucked into Minho’s chest, the low murmur of Minho’s voice against his hair, the unbearable gentleness of it all.

It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic. Days wasted because of one night, one kindness he was stupid enough to hold on to like it meant something more. And yet it had felt special. God, it had felt so weirdly, achingly special. Minho had treated him like he mattered, like he wasn’t just another student scribbling notes in the very front of the lecture hall. He had been soft, almost tender, in a way Jisung hadn’t felt from anyone in years. For one night, it was like he wasn’t just surviving, wasn’t just dragging himself through another day he was being cared for.

The dumbest part of all of it was that some corner of his heart thought it would last. He had actually let himself believe that when he saw Minho again, something, anything would linger between them. Maybe a softness in his eyes, maybe just one word that hinted at the memory they shared. But the morning had erased it all, and the weekend stretched out like proof that he had imagined every second of it. By Sunday evening, the embarrassment was almost unbearable, a raw wound that throbbed with every thought of Minho’s face.

He hated himself for it. Hated that he couldn’t just let it go, that the line between professor and student wasn’t enough to stop his chest from aching. Of course Minho couldn’t acknowledge anything. He was his professor, for God’s sake. It was ridiculous, selfish, and more than a little shameful to want something from him. But that selfish part of Jisung didn’t care. That part only wanted more, the quiet voice, the steady hands, the warmth that had pulled him in so easily.

By the time Monday arrived, Jisung had barely scraped together three hours of restless sleep. His eyes burned, dark circles etched deep under them, and his body felt like lead as he forced himself upright. Every movement was slow, as though gravity had doubled overnight. Still, he dressed, dragging on clothes with little thought, hair sticking up messily in places he didn’t bother to fix.

The dread settled heavy in his stomach, sour and sharp, twisting harder with every passing second. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sit in that lecture hall and pretend like nothing happened, pretend like his professor’s voice didn’t make his chest ache in a way it shouldn’t. So he skipped. He let the history lecture pass without him, stayed holed up in his room as though hiding from the inevitable would make it easier.

But he knew it wouldn’t. Because no matter how much he tried to avoid it, no matter how much he wanted to crawl under the covers and disappear, he couldn’t run forever. He had to face Minho, and the clock was already counting down to the moment he’d be forced into that small office, forced to sit across from him and work on their project like nothing had happened.

His palms were sweating just thinking about it. His pulse raced in uneven bursts, and he rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest as though that would settle it. It didn’t. Nothing would. He could already picture it. Minho sitting there, perfectly composed, eyes cool and unreadable. Jisung stumbling in, awkward and frayed at the edges, trying not to crack under the weight of his own humiliation.

4:00 p.m.

The clock seemed to mock him as it struck the hour, a hollow thud echoing somewhere in the back of his mind. Jisung dragged himself to the mirror above his desk, and the reflection that stared back nearly sent him retreating under the covers again. His shoulders crumbled instantly. Dark smudges hung heavy beneath his eyes, his hair stuck out in messy tufts as if every strand had given up on behaving, and his skin looked pale and dull, stretched too thin over the bones of his face. He looked like someone who hadn’t touched real sleep in days, because he hadn’t. A part of him wanted to smash the mirror, to never have to see this version of himself again, the one who was pathetic enough to ache over his professor’s warmth, who had rotted away in bed instead of living.

With trembling hands, he forced himself into the shower. The water scalded at first, burning away the chill that had clung to his skin all weekend, but even as he scrubbed his face and let the water soak through his hair, he couldn’t wash off the exhaustion weighing down his bones. He stepped out, dripping and raw, tugging on the baggiest clothes he owned, a washed-out hoodie and loose sweatpants that hid his frame entirely. They weren’t flattering, but at least they were safe, familiar.

He genuinely didn’t want to go. His body screamed at him to crawl back into bed, to avoid this meeting at all costs. But there was something else, too. A stubborn, selfish thread winding through his chest that whispered that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see Minho again. To hear his voice, to feel even a sliver of that warmth that had wrecked him so thoroughly.

And then his eyes fell on the jacket.

It was sitting at the foot of his bed, folded without intention, as if waiting. The sight of it punched the air out of him. That stupid jacket. Clean, oversized, carrying Minho’s faint cologne looked so much heavier than it actually was. He bent down and picked it up, holding it in both hands as though it were scorching hot, as though keeping it for even one more second would burn him alive. But letting it go felt just as unbearable. He wanted to press it to his chest, bury his face in it, breathe it in, but the selfishness of that thought made him recoil.

Still, now was the best time to give it back. If he kept it any longer, he might never be able to let it go.

He shoved his notebooks into his bag, though they were embarrassingly empty, just half-hearted scribbles, reminders that he’d wasted the weekend rotting instead of preparing anything for today. The weight of the books felt useless, almost mocking, but he carried them anyway. His hands were full: a bundle of responsibility he didn’t feel strong enough to shoulder, and the jacket, hot and heavy in his grasp.

The hallway stretched long and unkind as he walked. His steps felt too loud against the floor, echoing down the corridor as though announcing his every insecurity. By the time he reached the familiar office door, his palms were clammy. He braced himself, taking in one sharp breath before raising his hand.

Knock. Knock.

The sound was softer than he intended, weak almost, but it was enough. There was a pause on the other side. Long enough that he wondered if Minho was going to ignore him, pretend he wasn’t there, give him the gift of escape. Jisung’s heart thrummed against his ribs, begging for an answer, begging for silence.

Then Minho’s voice came, calm and measured, carrying that same steadiness that rattled Jisung from the inside out.

“Come in.”

Jisung’s fingers tightened around the handle. He swallowed, lifted the latch, and pushed the door open.

Jisung stepped fully into the office, letting the door click shut behind him. He held the jacket in his hands for a moment longer before laying it down on the edge of Minho’s desk, careful to avoid eye contact. It felt heavier than it should have, heavier than any normal piece of clothing. His fingers lingered on the fabric for a split second before he let go and slid into the chair across from Minho, hands folded tightly in his lap.

He could feel the weight of Minho’s gaze almost immediately. The same sharp, analytical eyes that he used in class, scanning notes and students, but now fixed on him with that unmistakable scrutiny. Not the softness of that night, not the gentle warmth that had made him crumble in Minho’s arms. This was Minho the professor, the professional, the untouchable. Jisung forced his shoulders down, trying to shrink into himself, wishing the chair could swallow him whole.

The silence hung in the room, heavy and suffocating. It was like neither of them knew where to start, like words themselves had abandoned them. Jisung’s chest tightened with each heartbeat, and for the first time in days, he felt completely unmoored, unsure how to act, unsure how to breathe.

Finally, Minho cleared his throat, the sound breaking the tension. His eyes, still piercing, flickered briefly with something softer, a subtle shift Jisung barely caught before Minho’s expression returned to its usual controlled demeanor.

“You… alright?” Minho asked carefully, voice steady but just soft enough to make Jisung’s stomach flip.

Jisung’s gaze lifted, meeting Minho’s for a fraction of a second. In that instant, there was a trace of concern in Minho’s eyes, a softness that quickly disappeared as Minho noticed the way Jisung’s eyes searched him, wide and vulnerable. Jisung dropped his gaze immediately, his throat tight. “I’m fine,” he said, but the words sounded hollow, even to his own ears. He wanted to cry, wanted to curl up in the desk and disappear.

Minho cleared his throat again, the sound sharper this time, his professionalism reclaiming the space. He leaned forward slightly, pen in hand, and began explaining the project, detailing what needed to be done, the kinds of notes to take, the structure of their work together. His voice was calm, measured, and precise, the cadence of a professor used to instructing students.

Jisung tried to focus, tried to write notes, but the words blurred. Plato’s Symposium, a topic that had once seemed rich with possibilities, now felt hollow, meaningless. Every line he wrote reminded him of Minho, the way he had held him, the gentleness, the warmth, and the juxtaposition of those memories with the current sterile, professional space made him feel empty. He hated it, hated the topic, hated the way it made him ache for Minho in a way he couldn’t admit.

He scribbled down the first few notes half-heartedly, his mind spinning. Every sentence Minho spoke seemed to echo with the memory of the other night, and it was impossible to separate the man from the professor now. Jisung’s hands trembled slightly as he wrote, his eyes darting up occasionally to see Minho’s calm, composed expression, so unlike the tenderness he had known. It was too much, and yet he couldn’t look away.

The room felt smaller, the air heavier, the clock ticking louder than it should. Jisung tried to focus on the project, tried to ground himself in something tangible, but all he could feel was the absence of that warmth and the ache of wanting it back, of wanting Minho back. not the professor, But him.

And so he wrote, slowly, unenthusiastically, every note a struggle, every glance at Minho a reminder of everything he couldn’t have, and everything he secretly, selfishly wanted.

 

The session drags on painfully slow. Jisung feels as if he’s going to die. Each minute stretches itself out into something unbearable, like a rope being pulled taut and threatening to snap. He scribbles down notes, the words slipping from Minho’s mouth in calm, deliberate cadence, but none of it sticks. He feels Minho’s gaze occasionally drift up to his face, a quiet weight that presses against his skin and makes his chest clench, but he never once looks back. He’s too afraid, too terrified to see if the eyes looking at him now mirror the ones from Friday night. The ones that softened, that held him like he mattered. If they don’t… if they’ve gone cold… he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

 

The clock ticks past five, every sound magnified. By the time it reads a little over 5:30, Minho sets his pen down and closes the book beside him with a soft thud. “That should be enough for today,” he says evenly.

 

Jisung has never stood up quicker in his life. His chair screeches against the floor as he pushes it back, and he mutters a rushed, “Thanks for having me,” voice tight, barely audible. His hands fumble as he packs away his books, shoving pens into his bag with frantic movements, desperate to escape the heaviness that’s been building in his chest all session. His pulse is loud in his ears, his palms damp. He just wants to breathe again.

 

He makes it to the door, his fingers brushing the cool metal of the handle, when Minho’s voice stops him.

 

“Jisung.”

 

It isn’t sharp, isn’t clipped like it was earlier when Minho had recited instructions and notes. It’s achingly soft the way it had been that night when Jisung thought he would fall apart in his arms. That tone makes him freeze, the air catching painfully in his lungs. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare turn around until he forces himself to.

 

And there Minho is, standing with the jacket in his hands. The same neat light brown one that Jisung had returned only moments ago. The fabric looks almost fragile in his grasp, and for a strange, dizzying second Jisung feels like it’s him Minho is holding so carefully. Minho’s mouth is parted slightly, as if he’s on the edge of saying something but can’t find the words. His eyes linger, searching, unsteady in a way Jisung has never seen before.

 

He blinks. once, twice, again, and then a fourth time before closing his mouth, the silence hanging heavy. He doesn’t speak. Instead, Minho steps forward. His movements are slow, deliberate, but sure, closing the space between them until Jisung can feel the warmth radiating off him.

 

Minho leans down, careful, and gently ties the jacket around Jisung’s waist. His fingers brush lightly against him, a touch that feels too much like that night, and Jisung’s throat constricts. He wants to cry, wants to collapse all over again because it’s too tender, too much like the moment in the office when Minho wrapped it around him as if shielding him from the world.

 

The knot tightens, secure. Minho’s hands linger for just a second too long before falling back to his sides. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet but certain, carrying a warmth that makes Jisung’s chest ache.

 

“It looks better on you anyway.”

 

The words land heavy, intimate, far too much for Jisung to bear. His heart lurches, his eyes sting, and his lips part without sound. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to move. For a long moment, the world feels suspended. just Minho, just him, and the jacket between them, a tether and a reminder of something neither of them can name alouD.

 

Jisung feels the sting before he can stop it. tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, burning hot, threatening to spill. He doesn’t move away from Minho, not even when they’re standing close enough that he can feel the faint brush of his breath. His throat tightens painfully, and when he finally forces words past it, they come out cracked, trembling, raw.

 

“Why did you.. why did you treat me like that on that night,” he stammers, his voice breaking under the weight of it, “and then act like it was nothing this morning? Was it—” his breath shudders, the words sharp and vulnerable all at once, “was it all just a joke to you?”

 

The silence that follows is unbearable. Jisung tries to blink back the heat, but a single tear escapes before he can stop it, sliding down his cheek like it’s betraying him. Minho’s eyes widen just slightly, something startled flickering there. His gaze scans Jisung’s face as if searching for an answer written somewhere on his skin, his hand twitching once, like instinct told him to reach out, to wipe the tear away himself. But he stops short, fingers curling back in, the restraint in him sharp enough to wound.

 

Jisung swallows hard, wipes at his own face roughly, as though he can erase what just slipped out, erase the crack in his voice, the mess of it all. He turns away, his shoulders hunching as if to make himself smaller. His voice, when it comes, is hollow, flat, emptied out.

 

“Never mind,” he mutters, the words fractured and fragile. He shakes his head, forcing the ache back down into his chest where it always hides. His hand finds the door handle, cold metal beneath his palm, and he twists it, desperate to leave before he falls apart completely.

 

But then an arm, sudden and unrelenting, pulls him back.

 

Jisung gasps, spinning halfway before he’s engulfed, crushed into a hold so tight it nearly knocks the air out of him. Minho’s arms are wrapped around him, strong and desperate, holding on as though letting go isn’t an option. The world tilts, the breath leaves Jisung’s lungs, and he goes utterly still in shock.

 

For a heartbeat he doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. Then his bottom lip trembles, the dam finally breaking. He clutches back with shaking arms, squeezing Minho so tightly that his own muscles ache, as if he’s terrified this embrace might vanish if he doesn’t hold on hard enough.

 

And there, against Minho’s chest, the quiet cracks spill over. Jisung’s tears soak into his shirt as he cries softly, muffled and shaking, his entire body folding into the safety of Minho’s grip. Minho doesn’t let go, not for a second. His embrace is fierce, unyielding, as though he’s anchoring Jisung to him, silently saying everything he hadn’t been able to put into words.

 

Minho’s hold tightens, as though he’s afraid Jisung might vanish if he loosens his arms even a fraction. His breath is shaky against Jisung’s hair, and then one hand slowly lifts, hesitating only a moment before sliding gently up the back of his head. His fingers thread through the soft strands, stroking carefully, tenderly, no longer stiff or guarded, but deliberate and warm. Each pass of his hand seems to say what his voice hasn’t yet managed.

 

“I’m sorry,” Minho whispers, the words muffled into Jisung’s temple. “God, Jisung, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His lips hover near the boy’s hair, every syllable heavy with sincerity, a raw ache seeping into them. His thumb presses lightly at the base of Jisung’s skull, grounding him, soothing the tremors in his shoulders. “I just—” he swallows, pulling Jisung even closer, “I felt so guilty. You’re practically half my age, and I’m your professor. It’s wrong. I told myself I had to stop, that I couldn’t cross that line again.”

 

“I thought I had to push you away before I ruined everything.”

 

Jisung stiffens against him at first, the words sinking deep, and then he buries his face harder into Minho’s chest, his hands clutching fistfuls of his shirt. His voice is muffled when it comes out, raw from crying. “So you… you weren’t just playing with me?” His shoulders shudder as another tear slides down, hot and damp against Minho’s skin. “You weren’t just… making a fool out of me?”

 

Minho swallows hard and tilts his head, pressing the softest kiss into Jisung’s hair. His hand continues stroking, tender, deliberate. “Never,” he breathes. “Never, princess.” The pet name slips out without hesitation this time, and he feels Jisung tremble in his arms at the sound. “I couldn’t play with you even if I tried. You’re too—” his throat tightens, but he forces it out anyway, “—too precious.”

 

The word shatters something in Jisung, and a sob escapes before he can catch it. His fingers clutch tighter, his whole body trembling as he lets himself cry harder, the sound breaking Minho’s heart in half.

 

“Don’t cry,” Minho whispers quickly, urgently, shushing him as if he were fragile glass about to splinter. He rocks him gently where they stand, lips brushing against Jisung’s temple in fleeting touches. “Don’t cry, baby. Don’t cry for me.” He keeps murmuring, soft and endless: “Sweetheart… pretty thing… you don’t know what you do to me… shh, I’ve got you.”

 

Jisung lifts his head at last, his face blotchy and wet, but his eyes searching Minho’s like he’s desperate for proof. His lip trembles when he speaks. “Then… then why’d you make me feel like I was nothing?” His voice cracks painfully, tears still spilling unchecked. “You looked at me this morning like I didn’t even exist.”

 

Minho’s heart twists so violently he almost winces. His hand leaves Jisung’s hair just long enough to cradle his face, thumb sweeping at his tears even as more follow. “Because if I let myself look at you,” he confesses, his voice low, ragged, “I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop. You’re… you’re so beautiful it scares me.” His eyes flicker over Jisung’s features, lingering, reverent. “Prettier than you should be, princess.”

 

At that, Jisung’s face crumples again, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, his hands lift to grip Minho’s wrists, holding them against his cheeks as if to keep him there. His reply is quiet, but desperate. “Then don’t stop. Don’t pretend I’m nothing.”

 

And Minho, helpless, undone, pulls him close again, lips pressed to his hair, whispering like a vow, “Never again. You’ll never be nothing to me. Never.”

Notes:

Your girl can’t handle angst for that long 💔💔💔 hope you enjoyed as always! im trying to do one chapter a day. LOVE YOU ALL 💗

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Jisung left Minho’s office with a smile so wide it practically split his face in two, his steps light, almost springy, as if his body couldn’t hold the restless buzz of his chest. The jacket was still tied firmly around his waist, cinched high so it pressed against his ribs, warm from his skin. Every so often he let his hand ghost over it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it was some untouchable relic. He couldn’t help it, the jacket was his proof. Proof of what had just happened. Proof that he hadn’t imagined the way Minho’s voice had gone soft for him, the way his arms had felt wrapped around him.

His cheeks still burned when he thought of it. His throat still held the phantom ache of tears that had long since dried. He’d walked in broken, and walked out smiling like a fool. He wanted to laugh at himself. Did he actually have a chance with him? The thought hit like a tremor, sending a pulse of wild, stupid hope ricocheting through his chest. He didn’t dare answer it. Not yet.

He turned down the corridor toward his dorm, already imagining how he’d collapse face-first into his bed, bury his nose in Minho’s jacket, and let himself replay every second until sleep took him. That was when he heard it, his name being shouted.

“Jisung!”

The voice made his stomach sink, his spine stiffen. He knew who it was instantly. He didn’t even have to turn. Still, slowly, reluctantly, he glanced back. Jackson was jogging toward him, grinning wide as though Jisung had been avoiding him on purpose, and maybe he had.

“Where the hell’d you disappear to friday night, huh?” Jackson asked when he caught up, slightly out of breath but unbothered. He fell into step beside him, eyes bright with the kind of nosy energy Jisung found both exhausting and predictable. “I looked everywhere for you. Whole damn party, not a single sign of you.”

Jisung tugged the jacket tighter around his waist, lips twitching into a half-smile he didn’t feel. “I was tired,” he lied smoothly, his voice light. “So I left early.”

Jackson gave him a look, eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Tired, huh? More like hiding.” He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re slippery, you know that? Always sneaking off when things get interesting.”

Jisung tilted his head, letting his smile sharpen a little. “Or maybe I just have better things to do than watch you make a fool of yourself drunk on the table.”

Jackson barked a laugh. “Touché. But hey, what about this weekend? Another party. You coming?”

The answer formed in Jisung’s head immediately, absolutely not. but he forced himself to look thoughtful, dragging it out. “I’ll… think about it.”

Jackson’s grin widened, satisfied enough with the non-answer. He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into a teasing drawl. “Good. Just make sure you wear another skirt when you do.” He shot Jisung a wink, cocky and self-assured, before spinning on his heel and sauntering off down the hall without waiting for a reply.

Jisung blinked after him for a beat, lips parting in disbelief. Then he huffed out a sharp laugh, scrunching his nose. Wear another skirt, he says. God. He shook his head, head spinning with thoughts, the most prominant one being, “I’d rather give up cheesecake than step foot in one of his dumb parties again.”

His steps slowed as he turned back toward his dorm. The jacket shifted against his waist, and he brushed his hand over it again, softer this time, like a habit he didn’t want to break. Jackson’s smirk still clung to his mind, irritating and shallow, but it didn’t last long. Because Minho’s face came back clearer, stronger, the way his eyes had softened, the way his voice had dropped, the way he had held him like no one else had ever dared to.

Jackson’s cockiness was loud, all bark and no weight. Minho’s presence was something else entirely. Heavy. Steady. Dangerous in a way that made Jisung want to lean in rather than run. Jackson wanted him in a skirt for the spectacle of it. Minho… Minho had looked at him like he was something fragile but alive, like he was allowed to be both broken and worth holding anyway.

By the time Jisung reached his dorm door, he was smiling again. smaller now, private, secret. Jackson’s words were already fading, but Minho’s lingered. They always did.

 

Jisung woke up the next morning feeling more refreshed than he had in a long while, his body wrapped snugly in the blanket that clung to him like a second skin. It was warm and cocooning, and for a brief moment he thought about letting himself drift back to sleep, surrendering to that soft, hazy comfort. But there was a restless energy inside him, something brighter than usual that pulled him out of bed despite the temptation. His limbs felt lighter, almost buoyant, and the ache that normally sat in his chest was replaced with a quiet hum of contentment.

He padded over to the bathroom, dragging his feet against the floor until he was under the warm stream of the shower. He stayed there longer than he normally would, letting the water hit his skin, steam rising in waves around him until the glass fogged over. He took his time with himself, lathering up with the shower gel he had saved for special occasions, the one that left behind a clean, gentle scent that clung to him throughout the day. It matched perfectly with his shampoo and the body cream he smoothed onto his skin afterwards, each layer carefully thought out, deliberately chosen. It wasn’t just self-care, It was preparation.

Once he finished, he stood in front of the mirror and lingered longer than usual. His fingers hovered over the makeup products he rarely touched for early classes, and then, with a soft huff, he began. Just a little concealer to brighten under his eyes, a soft brush of blush to give his cheeks that flushed, lively glow, and the finishing touch, a slick of pink lip gloss that caught the light when he tilted his head. He leaned closer, pursed his lips slightly, then smiled at his reflection. For once, he didn’t look exhausted.

His hair was next, curling it carefully until it framed his face in gentle waves, soft and intentional. He added two small pins to hold the strands in place, a delicate detail, but one that made him look polished in a way that filled him with pride. His heart skipped as he pulled on the jeans, yes, those jeans. The ones that hugged his ass a little too good, making him self-conscious at first, but now he realized exactly what they did for him. He had noticed. And, maybe, someone else had too. The thought made his stomach twist in nervous delight.

He tugged a Diesel top over his head, the fabric snug and comfortable, slightly cropped so it revealed just a sliver of skin when he moved. It was one of the most expensive pieces of clothing he owned, one he swore hed wear during last summer to boost his confidence, yet layed floded at the back of his closet, collecting dust. Today, though, he wanted to stand out for someone in particular. He hesitated only briefly before slipping into Minho’s jacket. It was far too warm for it spring had the air heavy and clinging. but none of that mattered. The weight of it on his shoulders was grounding, the faint scent woven into the fabric still there.

He gave himself one last look in the mirror before leaving his dorm. His smile stretched wide, almost uncontainable, and the gloss on his lips shimmered as he pressed them together. His reflection stared back at him, bright-eyed and flushed pink from the blush and the thought that warmed him from the inside out.

Jisung walked out the door, his steps quicker than usual, almost bouncy. He was always the first one to arrive in any lecture hall, usually for the comfort of quiet and empty seats, but this morning was different. This morning, it wasn’t about silence or habit, it was about him. The thought of being alone with Minho, even if just for a few minutes before anyone else arrived, filled him with a giddy sort of anticipation. He wanted to be there early, wanted to see him sooner, to catch even the smallest glance, the smallest word.

The very idea made his heart flutter uncontrollably, beating too fast, too loud, as though it might give away every secret he was trying to keep contained. His cheeks burned deeper under the blush, but instead of embarrassment, it felt sweet, like a secret only he got to hold. He couldn’t help but laugh softly to himself as he stepped out into the morning light, Minho’s jacket swaying lightly against his hips with each movement.

He was on his way, heart racing, lips curved in that wide smile that no one could have forced off his face.

The lecture hall was quiet when Jisung slipped through the door, the familiar creak of its hinges echoing faintly against the rows of empty desks. The air smelled faintly of chalk and dust, the kind of sterile, academic scent he usually hated, but today, all of it melted away the second his eyes landed on the lone figure stood near the front.

his eyes darted around till he saw who he was here for. Mihno. Mihno’s gaze looked up from his pile of notes, that soft smile that Jisung swore made his heart throb everytime he saw it. Jisung walked up to the podium Mihno stood at,still practically bouncing every step closer he took.

“Well, if it isnt my princess. How did you sleep?” Mihno hummed, one hand coming naturally to tuck a loose strand behind his ear, eyes full of fondness ashe scanned over Jiusng. “Look how pretty you look today baby. All for me I hope?” His arms came to wrap around Jisungs waist, one hand slipping dowon to gently slap his ass. Jisung gasped, cheeks heating up once more as he laughed and playfully smacked the side of his arm and leaned into his touch.

“Yes, I slept well, and also yes, I like dressing up for you. Got a problem, hm?” Jisung teased, looking up at Mihno with the pouty expression he learnt to use when he wanted something.

The warmth of the room shifted instantly, the quiet lecture hall suddenly feeling like their own little world. Minho chuckled under his breath, low and affectionate, leaning down just a bit so his nose brushed against Jisung’s temple.

“A problem? Never, baby. I could get used to this every morning,” Minho murmured, the pet name falling from his lips as naturally as breathing. His hand gave Jisung’s waist a little squeeze before sliding up his back, fingertips tracing absent shapes through the denim. “You look so pretty it’s almost distracting. How am I supposed to get any work done when my princess is glowing like this, hm?”

Jisung’s blush deepened, his lip gloss catching the light when he smiled, ducking his head shyly even as his grin gave him away. He leaned further into Minho’s chest, inhaling the soft scent of his cologne, faint against the fabric of the jacket that still hung loose around his waist. The jacket felt like armor, like proof that Minho was his in a way no one else had yet realized.

“You’re so cheesy,” Jisung mumbled, though the way his voice shook slightly with laughter made it clear he adored every word.

Minho hummed again, a mischievous tilt curving his lips as he tilted Jisung’s chin up with a single finger. “Cheesy? Maybe. But it makes you smile, doesn’t it? Look at you, blushing just for me.” He bent closer, his words brushing against Jisung’s ear, eyes soft but teasing. “My pretty Sungie, always trying to deny how much you love it.”

Jisung swatted at his chest, though weakly, his pout nowhere near convincing. “Shut up,” he whispered, but he was already smiling so hard it hurt. His heart raced, every beat heavy with the kind of happiness that left no room for fear.

Minho only tightened his hold around him, dropping a quick kiss to the top of his head. “Never,” he replied warmly, voice dipping into something quieter, almost reverent. “Not when you’re this cute.”

Minho let the laugh linger in the air a moment longer before finally, reluctantly, loosening his hold. He trailed his hand down Jisung’s arm slowly, fingertips brushing his wrist before letting go entirely. The loss of warmth made Jisung’s chest ache, even though they were still standing so close.

“Go on, sit down before I forget I’m supposed to be professional,” Minho teased, giving his waist one last squeeze before nodding toward the rows of empty seats.

Jisung’s lips curved into a pout as he reluctantly peeled himself away, his steps dragging like every inch of distance between them was unfair. He made his way down the aisle, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile floor until he reached the very front rowas always, the seat he always chose, the one closest to Minho.

He set his bag down, sinking into the chair, but his gaze kept darting back up to the podium. Minho was already shuffling his notes again, brows furrowed in that concentrated way that made his jawline even sharper, but every few seconds, his eyes flicked up, just for Jisung. And each time, he smiled. That quiet, fond smile that always felt meant only for him.

Jisung rested his chin in his hand, biting at his lip to hide the grin threatening to split across his face. His heart was still racing, louder now that the space between them stretched wider. The jacket swayed around his waist, reminding him whose arms had been around him only moments ago.

Minho called him princess. He called him baby. He kissed the top of his head like it was second nature. Why hadnt he asked Jisung to he his boyfriend yet?

Jisung’s fingers curled against the edge of the desk, his chest tightening with the thought. Minho made him feel special in ways no one else ever had, but sometimes, like now, he wanted more. He wanted the words. Wanted Minho to say out loud what Jisung already felt every time those warm brown eyes landed on him.

He tilted his head slightly, watching him, as if trying to send the thought across the space between them. Please just ask me. Please say it.

But Minho only looked up again, catching Jisung’s gaze with that same soft expression, the one that felt like a secret only they shared. He tilted his head just a little, as though he’d read Jisung’s thoughts, but then… he only smiled again before returning to his notes.

And Jisung nearly groaned out loud.

His foot tapped restlessly against the floor, a mix of frustration and giddy anticipation buzzing in his chest.

Still, as Minho glanced up one more time, eyes locking onto his like they always did, Jisung felt the corners of his mouth lift, helpless to resist. Because even without the words, it still felt like something. Something real. Something that made him want to smile until his cheeks hurt.

 

The bell rings and as per usual, its always pracically a race to get out of the lecture hall. Even the people at the back who dosed off in such a deep sleep woke up so suddenly after the bell, it looked as if they re-booted. Jisung lingered, packing his books deliberatly slow before a sharp voice called for him.
“Jisung. Stay. We need as much time to finish the project. Unless you want to fail, i suggest you stay here and write more notes with me instead of going to your free period.” His voice was professional, assertive. The voice he used when lecturing. It made jisung smile dispite himself, eyeing the last group of chattering girls to file out the classroom before Jisung spoke.

“I really ought to stay. Wouldn’t want me failing my project now, do I?”

The shuffle of footsteps faded into silence as the lecture hall emptied, leaving behind only the hum of the overhead lights and the faint echo of the door swinging shut. Jisung chewed at the inside of his cheek, fingers brushing over the smooth edge of his notebook as he placed it back on the desk. Jisung didnt look at him, now seemingly very focused on the textbook he’d lay down on the table. Mihno crossed the aisle with measured steps, settling into the empty space beside Jisung on the front row. A little too close, their knees almost brushing, the faint warmth of him bleeding into Jisung’s space. Jisung smiled a little wider, purposefully pushing his thigh closer into Mihno’s bigger one. Mihno laughed faintly, slapping Jisungs thigh gently. “Focus.”

They worked in silence for most of the time, but not that awkward silence that begs to be filled, but one where fleeting glances were stolen, all times they immidantely look away. They were acting like highschool girls who had the biggest crush on someone. They kept touching eachother, Mihno pinching his thigh or tucking a loose strand behind his ear, or Jisung, brushing his hand against Mihno, both swearing that it was totally unintentional.

After round 30 minutes of this, Jisung spoke. He doesn’t know what compelled him to, his vocal cords practically forced the words out against his own will. He looked up at Mihno, placing his pen down, looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“Professor, have you ever fallen in love before?”
Mihno doesn’t look up, his hand skims over a passage of Plato’s Symposium, stopping on the word ‘soulmate.’
“It depends, Jisung.” His gaze finally pierced into his, unwavering yet still gentle. “Have you?”

There’s a certian beauty in that, somehow.

Jisung’s throat went dry. He hadn’t expected Minho to flip the question back at him so easily, hadn’t expected the intensity in his professor’s eyes when they finally lifted to meet his own. It wasn’t the sharp, professional stare Minho gave when calling out someone in lecture. It wasn’t even the playful warmth he sometimes let slip when their shoulders brushed or when he leaned too close to whisper a correction in Jisung’s notes. No, this was something else entirely, something that made Jisung’s pulse thunder in his ears.

“Have you?” Minho’s voice was low, steady, but there was something underneath, something unguarded, fragile in a way Jisung had never seen from him before. His professor always seemed untouchable, precise with every word, every expression. But now, Minho was simply a man waiting for an answer, and Jisung’s heart clenched at the sight.

Jisung’s fingers fidgeted on the page of his book, tracing the grooves of letters he couldn’t even see anymore. His throat tightened as if the truth might choke him on its way out.

“I think I have,” Jisung whispered. His voice cracked, soft, almost like a secret he wasn’t meant to say aloud.

Minho’s eyes flickered, sharpness melting into something gentler, more dangerous. Jisung swore he saw a thousand unspoken words pass through them before Minho blinked them away. For a long second, silence reigned. The world outside their little bubble, the faint hum of the heater, the muffled echo of voices in the hall, fell away entirely.

Then Minho moved.

It wasn’t much at first, just his hand drifting across the desk, hesitating, as if he were testing the weight of his own daring. His fingertips brushed Jisung’s knuckles, so light, so brief, but the spark it sent up Jisung’s arm nearly undid him. His breath hitched, lips parting as though he could gasp the feeling into words.

Jisung’s eyes darted up to Minho’s face, searching, begging for permission, for confirmation. And he found it there. the tiniest tilt of Minho’s mouth, the smallest crack in his professor’s armor.

“Tell me to stop,” Minho said, his voice breaking like a prayer.

Jisung’s chest tightened. Stop? When every part of him was screaming please, don’t stop? When his soul felt like it had been waiting for this, for him, longer than he’d even been alive?

Jisung couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Instead, he leaned forward, so slight it could have been mistaken for a breath, until Minho met him halfway. Their lips brushed, tentative at first, as though both were afraid to ruin the fragile beauty of the moment. But then Jisung sighed into it, the sound shaky, and Minho deepened the kiss with the kind of gentleness that unraveled him entirely.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t some cinematic crash of passion. No, it was quieter, softer. A tentative brush, like the first notes of a song they both knew but had never dared to play. And yet it made Jisung dizzy, made every nerve in his body sing.

His heart stuttered in his chest as Minho’s lips moved against his, cautious but certain, and Jisung swore the world tilted beneath him. The kiss deepened slowly, carefully, as though Minho was memorizing him, cataloguing the shape of him against his mouth.

Jisung let out a sound, barely a sigh, barely a whimper, that slipped into Minho’s lips and broke something open. Minho’s hand came up then, strong but gentle, cupping the side of Jisung’s face, thumb brushing just below his eye like he wanted to wipe away the tremor in his gaze.

Jisung clung to him in return, fingers gripping Minho’s sleeve, terrified that if he let go, this moment might dissolve into nothing but fantasy.

The kiss lingered, unhurried, unfolding like a truth neither of them had dared name until now. It was a promise tucked into the space between heartbeats.

When Minho finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling, lips still close enough that Jisung could feel the ghost of the kiss. His chest heaved, trembling, and he realized his eyes had fluttered shut only when Minho’s quiet voice reached him again.

“Yes Jisung, I have fallen in love.”

Jisung’s lashes lifted, his gaze locking on Minho’s, those dark, steady eyes that seemed to hold him in place. He didn’t trust his voice, didn’t trust himself not to break if he spoke, so instead he leaned in, brushing his nose against Minho’s in the softest, most instinctive gesture.

And Minho, God, Minho, pressed a kiss to his temple. Not rushed, not careless. Just full of care, the kind that made Jisung’s chest ache in the best way.

“I’ve fallen in love with you.”

 

(Sorry for the delay of this chapter, I was ill yesterday but hhave to update for my lovelies :’) )

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Jisung’s head was still spinning from the weight of Minho’s words, from the quiet devastation of that kiss that seemed to unravel every tether holding him together. His lips tingled, his heart pounded so hard it felt as if his whole chest would split open, and for a moment he just stared at Minho in stunned silence, wide-eyed and trembling.

And then, as if something inside him finally snapped free, he surged forward.

He all but threw himself into Minho’s arms, kissing him again, messier this time, hungrier, his hands grasping at the front of Minho’s shirt as if afraid he might vanish if he wasn’t held onto tight enough. The second kiss carried no hesitation, no question marks. It was a declaration, bold and unguarded.

“I love you too,” Jisung gasped against Minho’s mouth, the words spilling out raw and desperate before he could swallow them back.

Minho let out a low, shuddering sound, half a groan, half a sigh as if those four words had undone something deep in his chest. His hand slid instinctively to the small of Jisung’s back, pressing him closer, molding him against his body until there was barely any space left between them. Jisung could feel the steady thrum of Minho’s heartbeat through the layers of fabric, fierce and relentless, answering the frantic rhythm of his own.

The kiss deepened quickly, breaths growing heavier, mouths parting to taste one another more fully. Minho tilted his head, his lips claiming Jisung’s with a certainty that left him weak. Jisung whimpered into it, clutching at Minho’s shoulders, overwhelmed by how consuming it felt, how every nerve in his body seemed to spark alive under Minho’s touch.

And then Minho’s hands began to wander.

One traveled up Jisung’s spine, firm and steady, fingertips pressing through the thin fabric of his shirt until Jisung arched into the contact without thinking. The other dipped lower, following the curve of his waist, his hip, until it settled at the back of his thigh before sliding boldly down. Jisung gasped against his lips when Minho’s palm finally cupped him fully, squeezing his ass with deliberate pressure.

The sound that tore from Jisung’s throat was somewhere between a moan and a cry, muffled into Minho’s mouth. Heat flooded him, spreading low and fast, and his knees nearly gave out. He clung tighter, his body trembling with the sudden rush of sensation, the shocking intimacy of it.

Minho broke the kiss for just a moment, breathing hard, lips swollen, his forehead pressed against Jisung’s as his thumb kneaded softly into the curve of him. “God, Jisung…” he muttered, voice ragged, thick with hunger.

The sound of his name in Minho’s mouth made Jisung shiver. His own hands were restless now, sliding up Minho’s chest, tangling in his collar, desperate to touch every inch of him, to anchor himself in something real because it all felt too good, too impossible.

Their mouths met again, harder this time, teeth clashing, tongues brushing in a way that made Jisung’s pulse stutter and his body flush with unbearable heat. Every kiss grew hungrier, wetter, and Minho’s hand gripped his ass again, firmer now, pulling him forward until Jisung could feel the hard line of him through their clothes. The sensation ripped another involuntary moan from his throat, his hips instinctively shifting closer, chasing the friction.

Minho groaned into his mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through Jisung’s bones. It felt like fire spreading between them, each movement fanning the flames higher, consuming restraint. Their breaths tangled, harsh and uneven, and the small room around them seemed to dissolve until all that existed was the fever of their bodies pressed together.

Every squeeze of Minho’s hand, every drag of his lips, every heated breath made Jisung feel like he was unraveling yet he wanted more, needed more. The hunger between them wasn’t just physical, it was longing.

And still, even in the rush of heat, Jisung couldn’t stop whispering against Minho’s lips, his voice trembling but certain:

“I love you. I love you, I love you—”

Each repetition was a plea, a confession, a promise.

And every time, Minho answered with another kiss, deeper than the last, his grip tightening, pulling Jisung impossibly closer as if he, too, couldn’t bear the thought of letting him go.

 

——————

 

The heavy click of the lecture hall door locking echoed through the empty room, sealing them off from the world outside. Not even moments later, Minho had Jisung pinned against it, his body flush against his, lips claiming Jisung’s in a fierce, breathless kiss that stole the air from his lungs. Jisung whimpered, melting into it, his mouth falling open willingly to let Minho in.

Minho didn’t waste a second. His kisses trailed downward, lips hot and insistent against the curve of Jisung’s jaw, then lower still, mapping out the pale stretch of his throat. Jisung tipped his head back against the door, baring himself without hesitation, surrendering completely. The wet press of Minho’s mouth shifted into sharp nips, then harder bites, sucking bruises into the delicate skin until angry red marks bloomed in their wake. Jisung didn’t care, if anything, the sting only drove him wilder, his breath hitching, his fingers clutching at Minho’s shoulders as though they were the only thing holding him upright

“Minho—” His voice broke, half a moan, half a plea, as teeth scraped along his pulse point.

And then he felt it. The solid heat pressing against his hip, undeniable and demanding. Jisung gasped, the realization sparking through him like electricity, every nerve set alight. Minho groaned low into his neck, the sound vibrating against his skin as he ground into him, making the hardness between them all too clear.

Jisung’s body reacted before his mind caught up. A needy moan escaped his throat as he rolled his hips forward, desperate, chasing friction that made his own arousal throb and ache in his pants. Their bodies aligned, hardness against hardness, the friction sharp and intoxicating. Jisung bit down on his lip, his eyes squeezing shut as a shiver of pleasure coursed through him.

“Fuck…” he breathed out, his voice trembling, desperate, as his hips pressed harder into Minho’s.

The sound only spurred Minho on. His grip tightened around Jisung’s waist, fingers digging into him possessively as his lips returned to his neck, sucking another mark into the flushed skin there. Every grind of his hips drew another broken moan from Jisung, the heat between them building, spiraling out of control, until all Jisung could think about was the way Minho felt against him.
Jisung’s moans filled the empty lecture hall, sweet and desperate, every sound spilling out of him without thought. His hands clawed at Minho’s shoulders, trying to ground himself, but when he pushed his hips up once more, seeking the friction he was addicted to, the words tumbled out of him before he could stop them, broken and begging, his voice high and trembling.

“Please, daddy.. God—”

The word slipped free like it had always been waiting for this moment. Jisung didn’t even realize he’d said it until Minho froze against him, lips still pressed to the bruised skin of his neck. Slowly, Minho pulled back, his dark eyes snapping up to Jisung’s, shock clear in them at first, wide, unblinking, as if the word had jolted through him like a live wire.

For a heartbeat, Jisung panicked, chest rising and falling too fast, lips parting to apologize

But then Minho swore under his breath, low and rough, his expression twisting into something darker, hungrier. His lips curved into a grin that was both dangerous and beautiful, and the heat in his gaze made Jisung’s knees threaten to give out entirely.

“Fuck, princess,” Minho rasped, voice thick with arousal as his hand came up to cup Jisung’s jaw, tilting his head back against the door. His thumb brushed across Jisung’s swollen lower lip before pressing it down slightly, watching his mouth fall open with a small, needy sound. “calling me that… begging like that. God, you’re perfect.”

Jisung’s blush burned hot all the way down his neck, but the praise only made his body ache more, his thighs pressing together in a futile attempt at relief. He whimpered softly, unable to tear his gaze away, drowning in the intensity of Minho’s eyes.

Minho’s hand slid down from his jaw, past his chest, and stopped at the hem of his shirt. He tugged on the fabric deliberately, knuckles brushing the heated skin beneath as he leaned in close, his lips ghosting over Jisung’s ear.

“Take these off for me, baby,” he whispered, voice dripping with authority, his free hand moving to the buttons of his own shirt. “Strip down. I want you bare. Want you trembling under me.”

Jisung’s breath hitched audibly, his hands fumbling as he pulled his top over his head, as Minho undid his shirt with practiced, unhurried motions. Each button slipped open to reveal the toned line of his chest, his movements casual, confident but the growing tent in his trousers betrayed just how undone he really was. The bulge was impossible to ignore, straining against the fabric, pressing against Jisung’s hip every time Minho leaned closer.

The sight alone made Jisung’s head spin, his mouth going dry as his own fingers worked shakily over the button of his jeans. Minho’s shirt slid open fully now, exposing skin that was hot to the touch, his chest rising and falling with sharp breaths.

When Jisung hesitated for a moment, flustered, Minho reached down, brushing his hand over Jisung’s trembling fingers, unfastening the button himself before popping it open with ease. His knuckles brushed against the growing hardness beneath, dragging a choked moan from Jisung’s lips.

“Good boy,” Minho praised, his voice low and deliberate, his eyes never left Jisung’s, devouring every reaction, every shiver, every whimper. Mihno tugged at his jeans, his hands gripping Jisungs waist fimly. “Now finish. Be my pretty little princess and take them off.”

Jisung’s breath trembled as he pushed the denim down his thighs, his body nearly burning up under Minho’s gaze. All the while, Minho’s shirt hung loosely open, his chest bare, the outline of his cock straining thick and hard against his trousers proof of just how much Jisung’s desperate little slip had undone him.

Jisung’s jeans pooled around his ankles in a messy heap before he kicked them off. His whole body was trembling, not with hesitation anymore, but with the sheer weight of wanting, of need that had long since drowned out shame. He dropped down to his knees without a flicker of resistance, palms pressing lightly against Minho’s waistband, his breath hot as it ghosted over the straining bulge in front of him.

When he finally looked up, the sight of him was enough to make Minho’s chest tighten. Jisung’s lips were parted, gloss a little smudged, his blush high and burning, eyes glazed with lust yet so wide and desperate they shone. He looked ruined already, and he hadn’t even been touched properly yet.

“Please,” Jisung whispered, voice breaking with need, his fingers curling tighter into Minho’s waistband as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. His thighs pressed together, rocking slightly to find even the smallest friction. “Please let me… let me suck you off. please daddy..”

The word left his mouth sweeter this time, deliberate and begging all at once, the sound of it making Minho’s entire body throb.

Minho swore under his breath , his hand instantly tangling into Jisung’s hair, tugging his head back just enough to force his dazed, fucked-out gaze to stay locked on him. The sight was intoxicating, Jisung on his knees, begging for him like he was made for it. “You’re really trying to kill me, aren’t you, baby? Look at you. God, you’re perfect down there.”

Jisung shivered, lips parting around a shaky breath, and one hand slipped lower. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t resist trailing his fingertips down from Minho’s waistband to press against the thick bulge trapped in his trousers. The heat radiating from it made his own body jolt with arousal. He squeezed his thighs tighter together, grinding subtly for relief, his lip caught between his teeth as he bit down hard, trying to keep the gasp caught in his throat from spilling free

But even the brush of his hand was enough to make Minho’s breath hitch. His cock twitched against the pressure, and his grip on Jisung’s hair tightened, forcing his head back a fraction more as he gazed down at him with dark, blown pupils.

“You feel that?” Minho’s voice was low, dangerous with restraint, his free hand covering Jisung’s on hisclothed cock and pressing it down harder so he could feel just how painfully hard he was. “That’s what you do to me, princess. You get me this fucking hard just by looking at me with that pretty face.”

Jisung whined, the sound muffled as his lips brushed against the fabric of Minho’s trousers, hot breath spilling over him. His hips rocked in a helpless rhythm, thighs squeezing tighter as his cock strained against his underwear.

“Please,” he begged again, his voice so small, so utterly devoted it made Minho’s chest ache and his cock twitch in the same breath. “Please, hyung let me taste you. I need it.”

And fuck, Minho had never seen anything so dangerously beautiful in his life.

Minho shoved his trousers down just far enough and pulled his underwear with them in one rough motion, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth as the cool air hit his cock. He was thick, heavy, flushed a deep shade that made Jisung’s breath catch in his throat. It looked obscene, jutting out and glistening already at the tip, and for a long moment all Jisung could do was stare.

His hand lifted almost shyly, trembling as he wrapped his fingers around it and his jaw nearly dropped when he realised he couldn’t even circle it properly. His fingertips didn’t meet, not even close, and the weight of it in his palm made his stomach twist with heatt.

“Holy shit,” he whispered under his breath, eyes flicking up to Minho’s face before darting back down. His throat bobbed visibly as he gulped, the thought screaming through his mind: there’s no way this is going to fit.

But he leaned in anyway, lips parting, breath shaky. He pressed the lightest kiss to the swollen tip, almost innocent in its softness, and Minho’s reaction was immediate, his hips jerked just slightly, a groan rumbling low from his chest as his hand tightened in Jisung’s hair.

“Fuck, Jisungie…” Minho’s voice was hoarse, threaded with disbelief. “So good for me already.”

The sound made Jisung’s pulse race, his confidence growing even as his hand squeezed uncertainly around Mihno’s cock. He tilted his head, tongue darting out to lap across the slit, tasting the salty pre-come that had already gathered there. His lips closed around it briefly, and when he pulled back, he looked right up into Minho’s dark, heavy gaze before swallowing deliberately.

The groan Minho let out this time was deeper, raw, like it tore straight from his chest. His grip in Jisung’s hair flexed, dragging his head just a little closer, though still careful, still coaxing rather than forcing.

“Christ, baby… just like that. Look at you.” His thumb brushed over the back of Jisung’s head, half soothing, half urging. “So pretty on your knees. The prettiest thing ever.”

Jisung’s chest swelled at the praise, a needy whine slipping from his throat as he gave another tentative lick, then another, each time growing bolder. He wrapped his lips around the head, sucking softly, still clumsy but desperate to please. His thighs pressed tight together, grinding for friction as Minho’s groans and curses rained down on him, making every nerve in his body buzz

And though he didn’t have a clue if he was doing it right, the way Minho’s chest heaved, the way his voice broke when he moaned Jisung’s name, told him enough. told him he was driving him absolutely insane.

Jisung’s lips parted wider as he finally gave in to the desperate urge thrumming through him, the want to please Minho outweighing every ounce of hesitation. He inhaled shakily through his nose, lowering his head and slowly easing Minho into his mouth. Inch by inch, the thick weight of him slid over his tongue, stretching his lips obscenely, making his eyes sting as his throat protested.

He rocked his hips against the floor without even realising, chasing friction as his knees spread further apart, his body betraying just how much the act itself was turning him on. A muffled whimper vibrated around Minho’s cock, his throat tightening before he forced it to relax, cheeks hollowing as he sucked gently, letting the taste flood his tongue.

God, he hoped he was doing well. He had no real experience, nothing to guide him but instinct, but Minho’s sounds, deep, broken groans spilling from between gritted teeth were proof enough. He was making him feel good. Thank God.

“Fuck.” His hand tightened in Jisung’s hair, the grip firm but not cruel, guiding him rather than forcing. “Taking me so well… look at you.”

The praise made Jisung whimper again, the sound reverberating around Minho’s length, sending a shudder through him. His lashes fluttered, his lips sliding further down until his nose brushed against Minho’s skin. The stretch burned, his throat threatening to gag, but he forced himself to hold, forced himself to breathe through his nose and keep swallowing around the fullness.

Minho groaned, head tipping back, a string of curses falling from his lips. His grip turned almost frantic, fistfuls of Jisung’s soft hair tangled in his fingers as he tried not to thrust too hard. “Shit, baby, just like that… my perfect little slut, fuck, you’re choking on me so pretty.”

Jisung moaned around him at the filthy words, the vibration making Minho’s hips stutter forward. He clenched his thighs together tightly, grinding down against the floor for some kind of relief as his whole body buzzed with heat. His throat spasmed once, almost gagging, but he swallowed it back and pressed further, desperate to prove he could take it.

When his nose finally pressed flush against Minho’s skin, his lips stretched wide and wet, Jisung’s eyes watered, but he still moaned around the thick weight filling his throat, his whole body trembling as Minho’s deep, shaky groans filled the room.

Mihno started at a steady pace, watcing how his spit-soaked cock slid in and out of Jisung’s mouth. Jisung, for his part, was utterly gone. His body rocked subtly against the floor, his thighs pressing together desperately as the heat in his stomach wound tighter and tighter. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer himself, even without being touched. In a clearer headspace, he would have been mortified by how needy he looked, by the wanton way he let drool spill from his lips, smearing down his chin, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he wanted was to keep Minho pleased, to be used like this until Minho couldn’t take it anymore.

Minho kept the rhythm steady, his hips rolling forward with each thrust, his cock sliding wetly past Jisung’s lips and into the heat of his throat. His eyes were fixed on the sight in front of him, entranced by the way Jisung looked, cheeks hollowed, spit shining across his chin, eyes glazed with tears, yet still looking up at him like he was the only thing in the world. Every time Jisung moaned around him, the vibration sent sparks straight up his spine, making it harder and harder to hold himself back.

“Jisungie,” Minho groaned, his voice dropping into something wrecked, “you’re gonna make me lose it.” His chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat already starting to dampen the edges of his shirt collar as his grip in Jisung’s hair tightened. The professor veneer he always held so firmly was gone, now he was nothing but raw, undone need.

Minho cursed again, a deep, throaty sound, forcing himself to slow for just a second as his head tipped back. “Baby, shit, tell me where. Where do you want me?”

Jisung pulled off just far enough to gasp a breath, spit stringing between his lips and Minho’s cock. His chest heaved as he tilted his head back, eyes blown wide and sinful as he opened his mouth as far as it would go, sticking out his tongue shamelessly. He looked wrecked, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, tears still clinging to his lashes, ruined and filthy. He didn’t need to say a word. the message was clear.

The sight almost undid Minho right then and there. He let out a guttural groan, pushing back into Jisung’s mouth, his thrusts sharper now, quicker, chasing his release with ragged breaths. “Holy fuck, princess… so good for me, so fucking perfect—”

It only took a handful of desperate, erratic thrusts before Minho finally spilled, his hips jerking as he emptied himself down Jisung’s throat with a broken moan. Jisung gagged faintly at the sudden rush but forced himself to take it, swallowing quickly as his throat worked around him. His lips sealed tight, drinking down everything Minho gave him until there was nothing left.

When Minho finally pulled out, gentle despite the urgency in his movements, a low groan still rumbled in his chest. Jisung sat there panting, throat raw, lips shiny and swollen, his tongue darting out to catch the last taste of Minho at the corner of his mouth before swallowing again. He felt wrecked, blissful, his chest buzzing with something almost euphoric as he leaned weakly against the door.

Minho barely gave himself time to tuck himself back into his underwear before he was crouching down in front of Jisung, hauling him into his arms with an intensity that made Jisung’s breath hitch. The hug was crushing, Minho’s chest pressed tight against him as though he couldn’t bear to let go. His hand slid up into Jisung’s hair, fingers stroking gently at the damp strands, the other arm cinched tight around his waist.

“You did so well for me,” Minho whispered against his temple, his voice hoarse, cracked with emotion. “So fucking well, baby. My perfect Jisungie.” He kissed the top of Jisung’s head between every breath, murmuring praise into his hair, words spilling out like a vow.

Jisung let his eyes flutter shut, a weak smile tugging at his lips even as exhaustion weighed him down. The soreness in his throat was nothing compared to the warmth that bloomed in his chest at Minho’s words, at the soft reverence in his voice. He curled his arms tight around Minho’s middle, clinging back with as much strength as he had, his lips pressing faintly against Minho’s shirt as though to mark him in return.

And in that moment, messy and ruined as he was, Jisung had never felt more wanted.

———

Minho’s hands were tender as he helped Jisung back into his clothes, fingers brushing against warm skin as though he was afraid Jisung might break. He murmured soft praises with every tug of fabric, unable to stop himself, calling him beautiful, perfect, his voice warm with affection that bled through the exhaustion in his tone. Jisung giggled at the stream of compliments, ducking his head shyly only to press fluttering kisses to Minho’s jaw, his cheek, his throat, anywhere he could reach while Minho fussed over him. Each giggle was like a spark that made Minho’s chest ache in the best way, a sound so pure after something so filthy that it made his lips stretch into a smile he couldn’t fight.

When Minho finally had him settled, he paused, his eyes softening. His voice came quiet, but steady, carrying a weight that made Jisung freeze. “Would you… like to come round to my apartment? On campus. Maybe watch a movie with me.” He hesitated, just for a beat, before letting the truth slip out. “I just… want to be with you.”

Jisung didn’t even think before the answer tumbled out of his mouth. “Yes.” So fast, so sure, so certain it left no room for doubt. Of course he would. Of course he’d go wherever Minho asked him to

The walk across campus was quiet in the way of shared secrets, every few steps their shoulders brushed, and both of them had to stop themselves from reaching out further. They kept a careful distance, knowing full well that what they’d just done was dangerous, reckless beyond belief. But not once did either of them regret it. If anything, the thrill only made the air between them hum hotter, tighter, every glance a reminder of what had just happened behind that locked door.

When Minho finally unlocked his apartment door and pushed it shut behind them, the restraint cracked. He didn’t give Jisung a chance to move before he swept him up in his arms, bridal-style, a grin tugging at his lips as Jisung laughed out loud, the sound bubbling from his chest. Minho pressed kiss after kiss across his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his lips, making Jisung squirm and kick playfully in his hold, still laughing until he was breathless. Jisung couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so light, so happy, so unshackled. It was dizzying.

He laid Jisung down gently on his bed, lingering for just a moment to brush his hair back from his damp forehead before stepping away. “Stay here,” he murmured, still smiling as though he couldn’t stop if he tried. He pulled a fresh set of clothes for them both, soft cotton shirts and loose sweatpants, free from the mess of earlier. He changed quickly, tugging his shirt over his head while Jisung’s eyes shamelessly followed the flex of his shoulders, the dip of his waist, heat rushing to his cheeks when Minho caught him staring with a knowing look.

Then Minho crouched back down in front of him, coaxing him gently out of his old clothes and into the clean ones. His touch was careful, reverent, as though dressing Jisung was an act of devotion in itself. The clothes hung off Jisung’s smaller frame, the sleeves too long, the fabric bunching at his waist, the warmth of Minho’s scent wrapped around him with every breath.

“I’ll be right back,” Minho whispered, pressing a kiss to Jisung’s temple before slipping out of the room. He returned with his laptop tucked under one arm, setting it up at the foot of the bed before climbing in beside him. “What do you want to watch?”

Jisung perked up immediately, eyes lighting as he rambled about his favorite Studio Ghibli films, his words spilling over each other as though he couldn’t contain his excitement. Spirited Away, he declared, was the best. Minho only hummed softly, indulging him with that fond, attentive gaze that made Jisung’s chest squeeze tightt.

They settled together as the film started, the screen painting soft colors across their faces. Minho pulled Jisung close, wrapping an arm securely around him, guiding his head down onto his chest. Jisung melted into the warmth, curling closer until their bodies fit as though they had been made to rest together. His fingers found Minho’s hand, playing idly with his long, slender fingers, tracing the lines of his knuckles, twining their hands together. Minho pressed a kiss into Jisung’s forehead without a word, and Jisung couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face, quiet and uncontainable.

Love was quiet rebellion of choosing eachother, again and again.

Notes:

Hey guys ! My name is nana, and this is my first fic ! I hope you enjoy, I will try and update as quickly as I can. Please leave comments- I love reading what you guys have to say ! I hope you enjoy my loves. Sending loads of hugs and kisses ! xx

— nana.