bathroom theory (don't report me to hr please)

by leemfknow

Summary:

jisung is an accountant. minho is a cybersecurity analyst. that's it, that's the fic.

Jisung’s world is a finely tuned machine, oiled by seven years of diligent routine at JP Company. His desk, a fortress of meticulously organized files and a monitor that hums with spreadsheets, is his domain. As an Accounts Executive, his life revolves around numbers, deadlines, and the comforting predictability of the financial calendar. His department, nestled on the seventh floor, is a bustling, yet contained, ecosystem. They rarely overlap with others, least of all the enigmatic denizens of the IT department, who occupy the more rarefied air of the ninth floor.

One Tuesday morning, the machine gets a glitch.

It starts on the bus, a familiar journey Jisung has taken countless times. On the bus, his mind is halfway through a mental audit of his grocery list when he notices him—a stranger a few rows ahead, angled toward the window.

From Jisung’s vantage point, it’s mostly side profile: the clean line of his jaw half-hidden by a black mask, the faint dip of his cheek when his mouth moves, maybe chewing on nothing or murmuring under his breath. His hair falls soft and neat, catching a pale streak of sunlight through the dirty glass, strands shifting when the bus lurches over a bump. White earbuds dangle from his ears, the wireless stems catching the light as he scrolls through his phone, thumb moving in measured flicks.

Jisung tilts his head in interest, unconsciously staring at the slope of the stranger’s nose, the way his lashes lower in concentration, even the subtle tilt of the man’s head as if whatever’s on the screen has him hooked. It’s not much to go on, barely enough to call handsome, but there’s something about the sharp quietness of him that draws Jisung in. And yet—he’s never seen him before. After four years of taking this route, Jisung knows the regulars by heart: the dozing student, the mother with her toddler, the man who eats bread rolls too loudly in the back. This guy doesn’t belong.

Heat prickles at the back of his neck, and Jisung snaps his gaze down to the floor. You creepy fuck, he scolds himself. He’s not about to become the guy who catalogs strangers on his morning commute.

The bus hisses to its stop a few blocks from the office. Jisung squeezes past the morning crowd, the stale tang of exhaust clinging to his jacket as he spills onto the sidewalk with the rest of the commuters. His feet already know the way—past the convenience store with its neon flicker, under the shadow of two glass towers, and into the narrow doorway of the coffee shop tucked between them.

Inside, the air is thick with the smell of burnt espresso and steamed milk, sweet and bitter at once. The space hums with low conversation and the scrape of chairs against the tiled floor. A suited man with a briefcase, someone Jisung recognizes from countless mornings before, gives him a small nod of acknowledgment; Jisung returns it with the barest dip of his chin, the kind of wordless greeting that belongs to creatures of routine.

He joins the short line, shifting forward automatically, eyes flicking to the chalkboard menu he’s memorized years ago. When it’s his turn, the barista doesn’t even wait for him to speak. “Americano, iced, no sugar,” she recites, already reaching for a cup. Jisung slides a crumpled bill across the counter, the exchange as smooth and mechanical as clockwork.

A few minutes later, the familiar weight of the plastic cup is in his hand, condensation beading against his palm. He thanks her with a quiet murmur, shoulders past the doorway again, and lets the morning swallow him whole. Another predictable day, caffeine in hand, numbers waiting upstairs.

The office hums with its usual morning symphony—a delicate cacophony of mechanical murmurs and human routine. Keyboard clicks tap out a staccato rhythm, each keystroke an echo of urgency or idle distraction. The muted ring of desk phones bleeds through the air, interrupted by the practiced greetings of coworkers answering in hushed, professional tones. Beneath it all, the air conditioner strains against the late-summer heat, its faint whir a futile battle against the sluggish warmth seeping through the windows, as if the building itself were sighing under the weight of another relentless August day.

Jisung slips into his cubicle with the quiet precision of someone who has repeated this motion a thousand times. His bag thuds against the floor beside his desk, the impact softened by habit. He barely notices the sound anymore, just as he barely registers the way his fingers automatically straighten the edges of his mousepad, aligning it parallel to his keyboard before he sits. A movement so ingrained it bypasses thought. His team leader passes by, and Jisung offers a quick bow and a murmured "good morning," the words automatic, the smile polite but fleeting. He doesn’t linger—neither of them do. There’s work waiting.

His chair creaks faintly as he settles into it, his body already molding to the familiar contours of well-worn ergonomics. His fingers hover above the keyboard for half a second, ready, waiting, as if his hands remember the motions before his mind catches up. The monitor flickers to life with a soft chime, flooding his cramped workspace with the cool glow of spreadsheets, charts, and rows upon rows of figures—numbers that, after four years, might as well be a second language. He understands their patterns, their implications, the way they whisper secrets about profit margins and discrepancies. Here, in this pixelated ledger, the world makes sense in a way little else does.

The hours stretch out, each one a carbon copy of the last yet carrying its own quiet weight. The morning bleeds into late morning, marked not by surprise but by the steady cadence of debits and credits, emails drafted and filed, the mechanical whoosh of digital correspondence disappearing into the void. His pen scratches faintly along the margins of a balance sheet, jotting down notes with a precision that borders on ritual. Some might call it monotonous. To Jisung, it’s something closer to meditation.

There’s comfort in the predictability, in knowing exactly what the day demands of him and precisely how he’ll meet it. No guesswork, no wild deviations—just the quiet certainty of structure. Four years in, he still finds solace in that. His mind slips into the rhythm without resistance, surrendering to the familiar dance of keystrokes and calculations as though it had been waiting all night for this exact moment to begin.

Time drifts without measure, folded into the static hum of the office. It isn’t until the half-empty coffee cup on his desk catches his eye—the surface dull, a faint ring of condensation ghosting the coaster—that he remembers his body exists outside of balance sheets. His head throbs in a quiet pulse at the base of his skull, caffeine edging toward useless. With a low sigh, he tips back in his chair, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders.

“Pee break,” he announces to no one, the words leaving his mouth with a little spark of relief, like it’s the most exciting event of his morning. He grins faintly at his own ridiculousness, pushing back from the desk as if he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment. A fleeting moment of respite before the cycle continues.

At least, it should have been.

The door creaks open, and Jisung steps into the bathroom with the kind of quiet satisfaction reserved for simple pleasures. His stomach does a little flutter of relief at the thought of finally peeing—tiny victories in a long workday.

Except his good mood stalls out almost instantly.

Someone’s at his urinal. The second one from the left. His tried-and-true, the one that isn’t too close to the door, isn’t directly under the harshest light, and doesn’t splash weird. And now it’s occupied.

Jisung halts mid-step, mouth twisting in muted offense. Then he shakes his head, scoffing at himself. Really? Gatekeeping a urinal now? Relax, man. It’s public plumbing, not a birthright.

With a quiet sigh, he detours to one a few stalls down, the porcelain cool against his palm as he braces a hand against it.

That’s when he notices it. A flicker of color at the corner of his vision—plaid, peeking from beneath the stranger’s sweater.

His pulse skips.

The flannel. That flannel. His eyes lift before he can stop them, sliding along the man’s shoulder, the neat cut of dark hair. Wait. Wait wait wait. Is that—? No. No way. Bus guy?

Jisung blinks, shamelessly staring for half a beat too long. His brain scrambles to make sense of it, to confirm what his gut already knows. Nah. Can’t be. You’ve officially lost it, Han Jisung.

And then the horrifying realization hits: he’s literally ogling a guy while the guy is mid-stream. Heat floods his face, and he jerks his gaze forward, ears burning. Okay come on now, you’re not that desperate for entertainment. Eyes front. Handle your business like a normal human being.

So he does. Or at least, he tries to. The seconds stretch, punctuated only by the steady drip of a faucet and the occasional shuffle of shoes. Jisung wills himself into neutrality, into invisibility, fighting the itch to sneak another look.

The stranger finishes first, the sound of the flush breaking the silence. Jisung dares a glance only once the man has moved to the sinks. The rush of water, the soft squeak of soap dispensers—then the door opens, shuts.

Gone.

Jisung exhales slowly, a laugh bubbling up at the absurdity of it all. No face. No confirmation. Just a stupid coincidence and a sliver of flannel that might mean everything—or nothing.

He zips up, flushes, and heads for the sinks, letting the rush of cold water sluice over his fingers. The mirror stares back at him, bland and uncompromising, as if to say: you imagined half of that, didn’t you? He presses his lips together, shoulders hitching in a shrug. Maybe he did.

Drying his hands on the scratchy paper towel, Jisung pushes the thought aside. It’s a bathroom, not a revelation. Whoever the guy was, he’s already gone.

By the time he’s back at his desk, the whole thing has slipped into the folds of an ordinary Tuesday—just another blip in the static of routine.

Back at his desk, the rhythm reclaims him. Numbers line up neatly on his monitor, spreadsheets stacking into one another with the kind of logic that soothes more than it tires. Jisung settles into it easily, the familiar click of keys and the muted murmur of his department wrapping around him like background music.

The hours unspool in their usual way. Emails answered. Figures double-checked. A minor discrepancy smoothed over with the kind of satisfaction only accountants seem to understand. He twirls his pen when his brain stalls, taps it lightly against his teeth until the next formula clicks into place.

Colleagues drift in and out of his periphery—someone laughing too loud near the copy machine, the rustle of snack wrappers in the corner pod—but Jisung stays mostly folded into his own bubble. He likes it that way. Work isn’t thrilling, but it isn’t bad either. Just steady, predictable, something he can lean into without thinking too hard.

The day passes almost unnoticed, light shifting across his desk as the sun climbs higher. His half-drunk coffee cools into sludge, his inbox fills and empties, fills again. By the time his watch buzzes a reminder that lunch has long since ended, Jisung blinks and realizes he hasn’t looked up in hours.

He stretches, rolling the kink out of his shoulders, then dives back in. The routine holds, carrying him along until the day tips toward evening.

By the time the office begins to thin out, Jisung’s eyes ache faintly from staring too long at cells and figures. He rubs them with the heel of his palm, then shuts down his monitor, the hum of the CPU tapering into silence. A few desks away, someone jokes about grabbing dinner out, laughter spilling into the low chatter of people packing up. Jisung slides his pen into its holder, tucks his files into a neat stack, and pulls on his jacket.

The elevator ride is quiet, the kind that drops a weight in his stomach as floors tick by. Outside, the evening air has cooled, sharp with exhaust and faint street food smoke, the city tilting into its nighttime rhythm. He shoulders his way onto the bus home, earbuds in, the sway of the ride lulling him into half-thoughts. This time, no sharp profile, no flannel peeking out from a sweater. Just strangers buried in their phones, the usual blur of faces he’s long stopped registering.

By the time he’s climbing the stairs to his apartment, the day feels nearly indistinguishable from the dozens before it. Nearly.

The lock clicks, the door swings open, and Chan’s voice drifts lazily from the living room. “Yay, my baby’s home.”

“Mm,” Jisung hums — long accustomed to his roommate’s ridiculous greetings — as he toes off his shoes. His bag slumps by the couch before he does, collapsing into the cushions with a sigh. Chan barely glances up from his laptop, a half-eaten takeout container wobbling dangerously on his knee.

“Something weird happened today,” Jisung blurts, surprising even himself.

That gets Chan’s attention. He lifts a brow, stirring into the takeout container with his chopsticks. “Yeah? Weird how?”

Jisung scratches at his jaw, hesitating. “I thought I saw the same guy on the bus at work today. Which… is kind of a stretch, I know.”

Chan blinks, unimpressed. “Okay. And?”

“It’s weird,” Jisung insists, sitting up straighter, like the emphasis might make it make sense.

Chan frowns. “Why is that weird? People take buses. People work. Same guy, big deal.”

“That’s what I’m saying—it shouldn’t be weird.” Jisung lets out a frustrated little laugh, rubbing at his temple before unbuttoning the top buttons on his work shirt and loosening his necktie. “But it feels weird. Like… uncanny, you know?”

Chan’s eyebrow lifts, half-amused. “You’re acting like you saw a ghost.”

“Yeah, exactly. Except it’s just—” Jisung gestures vaguely, words slipping away before they form. Just a stranger. Just a coincidence. Just a stupid detail he shouldn’t care about. “Forget it. I don’t even know why I’m hung up on it.”

Chan shakes his head, chuckling, and returns to his laptop. “Man, you need to get out more.”

Jisung sinks back into the couch, pressing his lips together. He knows Chan’s right, in a way. It isn’t the strangest thing in the world—that some random, somewhat cute guy, probably his age too, on his commute might also work in the building. But for Jisung, whose days rarely deviate from their script, the possibility feels… intrusive. Like the neat, predictable edges of his routine just glitched, and he’s not sure if he likes that or not.

“Thought it was kinda funny.” He shrugs, trying to shake it off as nothing. “That’s all.”

Chan stares at him for a beat, then smirks. “That’s the best you’ve got? Wow, maybe you do need to get out more.”

“Fuck off,” Jisung throws a cushion at him, laughter spilling out easier than he expects. And just like that, the whole thing dissolves into background noise again—one small glitch tucked away in the folds of another ordinary night.

---

Steam still clings to Jisung’s skin as he stumbles out of the shower, towel ruffling through his damp, unstyled hair. He hadn’t meant to linger that long—just stood there too long under the spray, half-awake, letting the water drown out the thought of another day at his desk. It’s Chan’s voice that finally cuts through, low and smooth, threading through the apartment like smoke. He’s singing something R&B-flavored as he cooks, the kind of easy, unhurried melody that makes it sound like morning comes naturally to him.

By the time Jisung shuffles into the kitchen, the faint crackle of butter and the smell of toast drift through the air. Chan, still humming, doesn’t look up from his frying pan when he says, “So—think you’re gonna see the bus guy again today?”

Jisung freezes mid-yawn, shooting him a flat look. “Last night you said I was being ridiculous about it.”

“I still think you were.” Chan smirks, flipping an egg like he’s in no rush at all. “Doesn’t mean I can’t tease you.”

“Piss off,” Jisung mutters, sinking into a chair, damp hair sticking to his forehead. He reaches for his phone, but his eyes flick up to the green glow of the microwave clock. The numbers make his stomach lurch. “Wait. WAIT. Oh, shit. I’m late.”

His chair screeches against the tile as he bolts upright. Chan bursts into laughter as Jisung careens around the apartment, shoving his laptop into his bag, yanking on sneakers without tying them properly, curses spilling out in a messy stream.

“Don’t forget your—” Chan starts, but the slam of the door cuts him off.

The morning air bites at Jisung’s lungs as he sprints down the block, bag thumping against his hip, shoelaces slapping loose with every stride. By the time he skids into the bus stop, the space where his usual ride should be is already empty, only a faint trail of exhaust hanging in the air.

“Of course,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

He bounces on his heels, jittery with irritation and adrenaline until the next bus sighs up. The doors yawn open, and he climbs aboard, shoulders still tense. The stale air inside is thick with perfume, sweat, and too many lives crammed into one metal box. He scans quickly for a seat, already mourning the americano he didn’t have time to grab.

By some miracle, he slides into his desk at JP Company just before the clock flips to nine. His chest still heaves faintly, hair damp at the nape of his neck, pulse a little too fast for this early. The thought of stopping at the coffee shop lingers, tempting, but he shakes it off. Not today. If he’d stalled even two minutes longer, he would’ve been late for sure.

By ten, Jisung’s brain is sputtering like a car on its last legs. His screen swims with numbers, his fingers drag on the keyboard, and the hollow pit in his chest spells it out clearly: coffee deficit.

“Ugh, I need coffee,” he mutters, peeling himself out of his chair.

The pantry is bright and polished, all stainless steel counters and glass jars of tea bags lined neatly in rows. A sleek machine hums in the corner for the higher-ups who can expense their lattes, but the communal shelf for his floor is stacked with sachets of instant mix. Jisung stares at the neat little packets like they’re mocking him.

He tears one open anyway, pours in the hot water, and watches the powder dissolve into a vaguely brown swirl. It smells fine. It tastes—

He winces. Too sweet, too thin, nowhere near his usual americano. A betrayal in liquid form.

Still, caffeine is caffeine. He forces down a few sips, sets the mug aside with a grimace, and trudges back to his desk.

The next stretch of work goes by in fragments: a column of numbers here, a reconciled report there. By the time he’s halfway through his usual morning tasks, his shoulders ache from hunching over the screen. He leans back, stretches until his spine cracks, and sighs.

“Alright. Pee break, round two,” he mutters, pushing himself up. If he can clear his head for five minutes, maybe the rest of the morning will finally click into place.

The hallway to the men’s room is hushed, carpet swallowing most sound, until the heavy door gives way with a squeak of hinges. Inside: too-bright fluorescent lights, cool tile, the faint bite of disinfectant layered over something sharper—coffee someone must’ve tossed in the trash.

Two of the urinals are already in use. Not his usual one, thankfully, so Jisung slips into his spot with a faint sigh of relief. He stares ahead at the wall, zoning out, mind half on the spreadsheet he left minimized on his monitor.

Movement in his peripheral vision tugs at his attention. A figure a few stalls down—broad shoulders under a plain button-up, sleeves rolled just past the elbows. Not remarkable in itself, but when Jisung’s gaze flickers higher, catching the man’s side profile in the mirror’s angled reflection, something snags in his chest.

Sharp nose. Defined jaw. Dark hair falling just enough to shadow his eyes.

His stomach does a weird little flip. No way.

It’s ridiculous—people look alike all the time. But the resemblance is enough to spark that jittery recognition, the kind that makes his pulse thrum faster than it should in a restroom of all places.

He drags his gaze back to the wall in front of him so fast it almost hurts his neck. Han Jisung, you are not about to confirm identities while someone is literally peeing in the room with you. Get a grip.

He finishes his business quickly, zips up, and moves to the sinks. The water runs cold, soap slick between his palms. He keeps his eyes trained on the mirror, on the suds rinsing clean from his hands, refusing to risk another look.

Behind him, the stranger flushes, zips up, and eventually joins him at the sinks. The soft rush of water at the next basin fills the silence.

Jisung bites the inside of his cheek, focus pinned on his own reflection. Still, his heart won’t stop pounding like he’s already confirmed what he refuses to check.

Jisung blinks. Once, then twice. It dawns on him, a beat too late, that he’s been staring. The stranger doesn’t flinch under it—just meets his gaze with those same sharp, steady eyes, then dips his chin in the faintest of nods before turning back. Unfazed. Like he’d expected to be looked at.

“Uh.” Heat prickles up Jisung’s neck, his voice folding in on itself before it even leaves him. This is… unexpected. He’s a creature of habit, and his bathroom habits are no exception. This is his floor.

At the sinks, Jisung scrubs his hands too fast, watching the foam slip away as though rinsing off the thought itself. When he reaches for a paper towel, the stranger’s hand moves almost in sync. They don’t touch, but the proximity is enough to catch in his throat.

“Excuse me,” he blurts, voice higher than intended. His curiosity is stronger than his caution now. “I don’t think I’ve seen you on this floor before.”

The man folds his paper towel neatly, dropping it into the bin with unhurried precision. His gaze flicks toward Jisung, unreadable.

“Didn’t know you owned the place,” he says, tone dry as sandpaper.

Jisung stares at him, brain catching on the words like a scratched CD. What?

Before Jisung can decide if he’s supposed to laugh or take offense, the man’s lips twitch—just barely—and he clears his throat.

“I mean—” The stranger glances aside, suddenly looking almost guilty. “Yes, I uh, a new transfer from Gimpo branch. Just started this week.”

The correction lands softer, more normal. But Jisung’s ears are still ringing with the first version, the odd humor of it, the sharpness dulled by that quick backpedal.

“Just started, huh?”

The stranger nods. “Cybersecurity Analyst.”

Cybersecurity Analyst… wait, isn’t that—

“IT department’s on the ninth floor, though? Don't they have...men's rooms up there?”

“Ah, well.” His voice takes on that same wry tilt. “The ones on nine are… ambitious. Very modern. Very open concept.” A vague gesture at the room around them. “I find this one more comfortable. Less pressure. And demonstrably cleaner.” A tiny smirk curves his mouth. “Privacy’s a cornerstone of cybersecurity, you know. Or at least, it should be.”

Jisung narrows his eyes, torn between suspicion and amusement. Gatekeeping the seventh floor’s restroom isn’t exactly a hill to die on.

“Right,” Jisung says at last.

“No, really—”

“Yeah, no, I got you.” Jisung waves his hand, fighting the urge to give him the stink eyes. Coming down two floors for a better bathroom experience? Highly irregular. And, annoyingly, a little endearing.

Jisung dries his hands a little too quickly, paper towel crumpling in his grip. The stranger—Cybersecurity Guy, apparently—seems in no rush, smoothing down his sleeves with that same unhurried air.

Jisung hovers for half a second, some half-formed thought pressing against his throat—name, maybe? ask his name—but it dies as soon as the man glances over again, eyes sharp even in passing.

Nope. Too much. Not doing that here.

He tosses the damp paper into the bin and pushes out the door, the sterile scent of disinfectant giving way to the warmer blend of carpet glue and printer toner. His own reflection flashes in the glass partition ahead—faint color high on his cheeks—and he forces his stride to stay even, like he hasn’t just had the oddest bathroom conversation of his four-year career here.

He settles back into his chair, screen blinking awake as if it never missed him. Numbers march dutifully across the spreadsheet, but his brain keeps skidding off the rows, circling back to the restroom.

And yet—his thoughts snag, refusing to smooth out.
The bus guy. Here.

It hits him halfway through reconciling a column of invoices—he hadn’t even mentioned the bus. The fact that he’d seen that same sharp profile framed by the grimy window of the 7:40 just yesterday morning. That’s what had thrown him, right? Not just some random IT guy popping into his floor, but the overlap. Commute and office.

But then his stomach drops, because—what the hell would he have even said? Hey, I also saw you squinting at your phone on public transport yesterday. Small world, huh?

Yeah, no. That’s not normal. That’s restraining-order material.

And besides, he didn’t even ask for the guy’s name. Priorities, Han Jisung. Learn the basics first before you start drawing conspiracy diagrams about bathroom territory and bus schedules.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until colors burst behind them, muttering a low groan. When he blinks back at the screen, the spreadsheet is mercilessly unchanged, deadlines still looming.

Work first. Whatever that was—glitch, coincidence, something—he’ll file it under “tomorrow’s problem.”

But then, before he can stop himself, the thought flickers: the company directory. A quick search. Just to see.

Jisung jerks back in his chair like the idea physically scorched him. Oh, no. Absolutely not. Did I actually just think about stalking the restroom guy through the employee system?

He presses his lips together, cheeks hot even though no one could possibly know. Right. Spreadsheet. Focus. He squeezes his eyes shut, dragging his hands down his face until his skin tingles, like he can physically scrub the thought out of existence. A groan rumbles in his chest. “Get a grip, Han Jisung,” he mutters under his breath, shoving his focus back toward the spreadsheet. Numbers, invoices, deadlines—normal things.

Not… bathroom manhunt fantasies.

“You good?”

The voice drops over his cubicle wall, and Jisung flinches, spinning halfway around. Changbin’s propped on the divider, iced americano dangling from his hand, a bead of condensation slipping down and splattering onto the carpet.

Jisung scowls instantly. “Hyung, seriously? Showing off like that?”

Changbin blinks. “My face?”

“The coffee.” Jisung’s pout is so dramatic it could win awards. Then, like the thought just strikes him, he blurts, “Hey—do you know about a new guy in IT? Upstairs?”

Changbin tilts his head, squinting. “Why the hell would you know if they’ve got someone new upstairs?”

Jisung clicks his tongue, leaning back in his chair with all the weariness of a man misunderstood. “Wrong answer. Try again.”

Changbin takes a slow pull from his straw, lips pursed, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Not that I’ve heard of. Why?”

“Met him earlier, he was using the men’s room on our floor.”

“The fuck? What happened to the ones on nine?”

“Beats me.” Jisung twirls the pen between his fingers, gaze glued to the spreadsheet but not actually reading. “Guy said something about open concept and…stone at some corner store, I don’t fucking know.”

“Mm.” Changbin hums, sipping on his americano. “Is he cute?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Cute or not?”

Jisung snorts, face heating. “I’m not grading the guy, Bin.”

“Bullshit,” Changbin shoots back instantly. “You clocked him hard enough to remember his bathroom manifesto. You know if he’s cute.”

Jisung feels heat crawl up the back of his neck, ears prickling. He clicks his pen open and shut like it’ll drown out the question. “…He has a face.”

“Yeah? Would you sit on it?”

Jisung gapes, scandalized, then flails his hands to shoo him. “Okay, you’re fucking up my workspace aura. Get lost.”

Changbin strolls off, still chuckling, and the sound lingers long after he disappears into the maze of cubicles. Jisung exhales through his nose, flicking his pen against the desk in annoyance. Cute. Sit on it. He shakes his head like the motion itself can erase the words.

Why would he even entertain that? He doesn’t even know the guy. First impressions are everything, and this guy’s grand debut was a deadpan joke about Jisung owning the floor. Dry as hell. Confusing as hell. Intrigued? Sure. But intrigued doesn’t mean interested.

He hunches back over his screen, scrolling down rows of numbers that don’t stick. The man is officially bottom-tier material. Rock-bottom. If Jisung had a list of people he found interesting—and for the record, he absolutely does not—the IT guy would be the lone name scribbled there, just to have someone to rank last.

Click. Click. The pen stutters in his hand.

Jisung sighs and pushes it aside. Work first. That’s the point. The only point.

The steady rhythm of his spreadsheet finally yields results—rows reconciled, formulas behaving for once—and Jisung pushes back from his desk with a satisfied exhale. Time to print this before the numbers decide to rebel again.

The low hum of the seventh-floor printer greets him as he rounds the corner. The office printer hums low and tired, coughing out each page like it personally resents the labor. Jisung leans against the cabinet with one hand in his pocket, the other tapping the stack of paper already in the tray—forty-two pages and counting. He should’ve sent it in smaller batches, but screw it. Better to wait now than babysit the damn thing all day.

Across from him, two colleagues hover by the machine, their heels clicking restlessly against the linoleum. One of them jabs the touch screen like she’s trying to wake it from the dead. The other sighs loud enough to rival the hum of the fluorescent lights above.

“This thing takes forever,” the first complains, shaking her head like the printer just committed a personal betrayal.

“It didn’t even print half my stuff yesterday,” the other adds, arms crossed tight. “Sometimes it doesn’t show up at all. Like, I send the job and poof. Gone.”

Jisung bites back a laugh. Not gone, genius. You just didn’t choose the right driver in the settings. Rookie mistake. He keeps his eyes on the blinking progress bar, not about to rescue them. He’s not tech support.

Then, like clockwork, the first one says, “Didn’t they hire a new IT guy upstairs? Maybe he can fix it.”

Jisung almost rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. Yeah. Because a cybersecurity analyst is totally gonna abandon firewalls and network monitoring to babysit a printer. Sure.

The second one, though—her tone shifts, lighter, conspiratorial. “I heard he’s cute.”

That earns his attention, whether he wants it or not. His fingers still on the paper stack, grip tightening just a fraction.

“Cute how?” the first asks, interest piqued.

“Like… manhwa character cute. Tall, sharp eyes, quiet. You know the type.”

The printer spits out another page, warm against Jisung’s hand, but suddenly the sound feels too loud in his ears. He tells himself he doesn’t care—he doesn’t even know the guy, unless you count a thirty-second bathroom encounter that ended in unsolicited architecture commentary. Dry, blunt, borderline rude. First impressions matter, and honestly, that one sucked.

Still. Manhwa character cute? TALL? Please. He’s my height at best.

He clicks his tongue and looks away, like that’ll chase the thought out. The list of people Jisung finds interesting has exactly zero names on it. He has no intention of starting one now.

But when the printer finally dings, announcing his job is complete, his reflection catches faintly in the dark glass above the paper tray—cheeks a little warmer than they should be.

He exhales, low and sharp, and gathers the stack with a little too much force. Accounting had nothing to do with IT, anyway. He’d been telling himself that for years—different worlds, different floors, different headaches.

Except… the thought needles at him as he smooths the papers against the tray. Of course they were connected. Payroll, vendor accounts, client invoices—all that data needed to be locked up tight. And who else but IT made sure no one cracked it open like a tin can? He presses his lips together, annoyed at how obvious it sounds when laid out like that.

Duh, Han Jisung. Try keeping up.

He’s still scowling at his own reflection when a voice cuts through, low and even.

“Accounting, right?”

The papers slip in his grip, almost tumbling to the floor.

And there he is.

Bus guy. Restroom guy. New IT guy.

Standing right behind him like the universe had run out of extras and just started recycling characters.

“You.”

The man flashes a smile—unexpectedly boyish, disarming in a way that throws Jisung off more than the sarcasm ever did. Jisung almost keens, throat tightening against the sound.

“It’s Min—”

“Oh, you’re the new IT guy, right?” another voice cuts in, too sharp and too loud for the fragile moment hanging between them. It’s one of the colleagues from earlier, the printer gossipers. Jisung recognizes her but never really paid attention before—just another face from another department, orbiting the same floor.

The stranger before him turns his head at the interruption, nodding a little. “Yeah, I—”

She doesn’t even wait for a nod before launching in. “Perfect, maybe you can fix our printer? It never connects to my PC unless I send the job three times, and don’t even get me started on the lag. It’s impossible when we’re on a deadline—”

Jisung bites the inside of his cheek. He can practically recite the solution in his head—select the right printer from the dropdown, you illiterate—but he keeps his mouth shut, jaw tight.

Meanwhile, bus guy listens with a patience that borders on suspicious. Then, finally, he says, “Mm, sounds frustrating.” A beat. Then his mouth quirks. “But that’s not really my department.”

The woman blinks, thrown off. “Oh—aren’t you IT?”

“Cybersecurity.” He offers it simply, like that explains everything (which, technically, it does). Then he steps aside neatly, like brushing off static. “And actually—” his gaze slides back to Jisung, steady enough to spark heat in the pit of his stomach, “—I was hoping to talk to someone from Accounting.”

Jisung blinks. Once. Twice. Then, before he can even catch himself: “Why?”

The guy doesn’t look away. “Because Accounting’s been getting those lovely little phishing emails. You know the ones—fake invoices, weird links, looks legit if you squint.” His tone is casual, like he’s reciting the weather. “Someone upstairs flagged it, but the bulk of them are hitting your department. Was immediately told to come down here and let your department know.”

Jisung swallows, grip tightening on his stack of papers. “…Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing faintly, like he’s studying Jisung’s reaction. “And between you and me, half the people who click those links do it out of boredom, not stupidity. So.” A pause. That almost-smirk again. “I figured it’d be smart to give Accounting a friendly visit before boredom takes out the entire finance wing.”

The woman from earlier frowns, hugging her folder. “So you’re not here to fix the printer?”

“Nope.” He says it without a shred of guilt, already stepping past her. “But good luck with that.”

The colleague huffs, clearly unimpressed at being dismissed, and shuffles away. Jisung’s still clutching his papers like they might save him from spontaneous combustion.

And just like that, his attention lands squarely back on Jisung. “So. Accounting. Got a second?”

Jisung blinks. Once. Twice. His brain, meanwhile, is sprinting laps. A second? As in: a second of his life, handed freely to the bus guy-slash-restroom guy-slash-IT guy who apparently thinks Accounting is a vending machine for favors?

He coughs. “Uh, actually I was just about to—” His eyes skitter across the room and land on salvation: Changbin, hunched over his desk, earphones half in, tapping a pen against a calculator. Perfect.

“—hand these off to Mr. Seo.” He hoists the stack of papers like evidence. See? Busy. Too busy for bus guy.

“Great.” The guy nods, not missing a beat. “I need him too.”

Jisung blinks. Excuse me?

Before he can protest, IT/bus/restroom guy is already moving, long strides aimed at the finance desks like he owns the floor. Which leaves Jisung trailing after him, heat prickling up his neck, rehearsing his funeral speech in his head.

By the time they reach Changbin’s desk, he’s pulled out one earbud and is looking between them like he just walked into the middle of a drama shoot.

“Uh. What’s this?” Changbin asks slowly, eyebrow arched.

Jisung tries for casual. “Work stuff.”

IT guy, without hesitation: “Security stuff.”

Changbin stares for a second before a small smirk plays on his lips “...Spicy.”

He leans back in his chair, giving them both a once-over like he’s the judge at some talent show neither of them signed up for. “So. What’s the occasion? New guy already dragging Jisung into corporate espionage?”

Jisung sputters. “It’s not—no one’s—” He waves his stack of papers like they might shield him.

The IT guy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at Changbin, just says evenly, “There’s a gap in your department’s reporting system. Small, but exploitable.”

That earns him both sets of eyes: Changbin’s narrowing, Jisung’s widening.

“Exploitable how?” Changbin asks, arms crossing now. Half protective coworker, half kid at a campfire waiting for the scary story.

“Passwords,” the man says simply, and finally flicks his gaze toward Jisung. “Too predictable. Too easy to crack.”

Heat spikes across Jisung’s face. “Hey! I use strong passwords.”

“You use song lyrics,” Changbin points out helpfully, smirking.

Jisung rounds on him. “You don’t even know my password!”

Changbin smirks wider. “Bro, you hum your log-ins. Like a Disney princess at a keyboard.”

Jisung exhales hard through his nose, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. Why is the universe doing this to me?

The IT guy, annoyingly calm: “Case in point.”

Changbin snorts, clearly delighted. “Wow. You’ve been here five minutes and already roasted him. I like you.”

Jisung glares at both of them, cheeks hot enough to melt toner.

Changbin’s still laughing when the IT guy shifts his weight, stepping closer—not enough to touch, but close enough that Jisung feels the air shift, charged.

“Passwords,” he says again, lower this time, like it’s just for Jisung. “Don’t hum them. Don’t write them down. Don’t get lazy.”

The words shouldn’t feel like anything, but they settle heavy in Jisung’s stomach. He swallows, throat dry, his mind caught between indignation and the sudden realization of how near the man is.

“Got it?”

Jisung’s lips part. No sound comes out for a beat, then he forces something—anything. “Yeah. Got it.” His voice doesn’t quite hold.

Changbin grins like he’s at a show only he understands. “Oh, he definitely got it.”

The IT guy doesn’t react, just straightens again, expression unreadable, before adding, “Good. Because if I can figure it out, so can anyone else.”

Jisung scowls, trying to wrench the focus back where it belongs. “Wait, hold on—I thought this was about phishing emails or whatever. Why are we suddenly talking about my password?”

The IT guy tilts his head, calm as ever. “Because your password is part of the system. And if one part’s weak…” He lets it hang, deliberate.

Changbin supplies, way too pleased: “…the whole thing’s weak.”

Heat crawls up Jisung’s neck. “This is not about me,” he insists, waving his papers like they’re proof. “This is about… accounting. The department.”

The IT guy’s lips twitch—almost a smile, almost not. “Sure.”

Jisung points at his papers like they’re a shield. “This is departmental. Structural. Not some personal attack on my log-in habits.”

“Of course,” the IT guy says smoothly, then adds without missing a beat, “but your department runs on personal habits. Which makes them structural.”

Jisung’s mouth opens. Then shuts. Then opens again. “…That’s cheating. You can’t just logic-loop me like that.”

Changbin barks out a laugh, nearly spilling his coffee when his knees hit the desk. “Holy shit, he got you again.”

“I’m not—” Jisung rubs at his temple, muttering under his breath. “What is happening?”

The IT guy—still unbothered—sets a hand lightly on the back of Changbin’s chair, leaning just enough to angle his gaze at Jisung. “Relax. It’s not a report. Just an observation.”

“Observation of what? My life?”

“Of your department’s weak spots.” He pauses, then, perfectly deadpan: “Your life’s just collateral.”

Changbin chokes on his americano. “No, seriously, marry this guy. He’s gold.”

“HYUNG.” Jisung practically yelps, face burning. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am.” Changbin grins, teeth flashing. “That’s why I want you to date someone who roasts you into being a better person.”

“I’m not— That’s not—!” Jisung’s words crumble as his pen snaps in his grip, ink blotting onto his thumb. He glares at it like betrayal.

The IT guy’s gaze flicks down, then up again. “Strong grip. Shame about the passwords.”

Jisung makes a strangled noise, half-groan, half-yelp. Changbin is too busy wheezing with laughter to offer him a lifeline.

Unbothered, the IT guy turns his attention back to Changbin, posture shifting like he’s flicking a switch. “Your department should update its firewall protocols, by the way. Some of your files are traveling through unsecured channels.”

Changbin blinks, smirk faltering just a little. “…That’s actually serious, isn’t it?”

The man only hums, the barest suggestion of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll send over recommendations.” With that, he taps the edge of Changbin’s desk—done, decisive—before tilting his head toward Jisung. “Walk with me?”

It’s phrased like a question, but somehow doesn’t sound like one.

Jisung—still ink-stained, still flushed—opens his mouth to argue, to stall, to something, but his body betrays him and stands anyway. He follows, muttering curses under his breath, trailing the steady click of leather shoes across the floor until they stop at his cubicle.

The IT guy glances at his monitor, then at him, gaze steady but not unkind. “If you’ve got a minute, I’ll show you what I meant.”

Jisung swallows, throat dry. “About my department, right? Not… not me.”

A pause. A flicker of amusement, sharp and subtle. “…We’ll see.”

Jisung drops into his chair like it might shield him, swiveling to face the monitor. His pulse is still uneven, caught between humiliation and curiosity.

The IT guy—still nameless, somehow—steps into the space beside him, close enough that Jisung can smell clean soap and the faint edge of cologne. He leans a palm against the desk, the other hand gesturing toward the keyboard.

“Log in,” he says, quiet but firm.

Jisung hesitates, glancing up at him. “…You’re not about to roast me again, are you?”

“Depends on your password.” Dry. Teasing, but almost gentle this time.

Jisung grumbles under his breath, fingers flying over the keys, deliberately shielding the screen with his shoulder like a kid trying to hide test answers. He feels the weight of the man’s gaze anyway, tracking each keystroke.

When the desktop loads, the IT guy hums low in his throat—thoughtful, not mocking. He taps the monitor lightly, fingertip hovering inches from the glass. “That’s your weak spot. If someone wanted access, they wouldn’t go through firewalls. They’d go through you.”

Jisung bristles. “Excuse me?”

“Not an insult.” The man straightens slightly, then leans down again, voice dropping lower. “An observation. People are always the easiest exploit. And you—” His gaze flicks, sharp and deliberate, from Jisung’s eyes to his hairline, then back again. “You’re transparent when you’re nervous.”

Jisung’s ears go hot instantly. “Wh—I’m not—” He gently rests his palm against the desk, holding himself back from full-on tweaking. “You know what, I’m fine. Totally fine.”

The man’s lips twitch, like he’s holding back another smirk. “If you say so.” He pulls back at last, giving Jisung room to breathe, though his presence still lingers heavy in the cubicle. “Change your password. Stronger. No lyrics.”

Jisung clicks his tongue, trying to look unfazed, though his pulse is still sprinting. “…You’re really dedicated to this bathroom crusade of yours.”

That earns him the faintest laugh—barely there, but warm enough to catch Jisung off guard. Then the IT guy steps back, composure sliding into place again. “Think of it as free consultation.”

And just like that, he’s gone—walking away, leaving Jisung staring at his monitor, his reflection faint in the dark edges of the screen, cheeks too warm and stomach unsteady.

His fingers are still blue from the ink. Fuck.

***

“Doesn’t explain this unfound strength of yours to break a pen with one hand,” Chan says matter-of-factly, chopsticks hovering like the detail genuinely amuses him.

“YOU’RE MISSING THE POINT—” Jisung nearly yelps, stabbing at his rice with dangerous force. “The point is that he’s everywhere. Bus guy. Bathroom guy. IT guy. Same guy. Do you get how insane that is?”

Chan chews slowly, swallows, then says, “What I’m getting is… you’re obsessed.”

“I am not obsessed,” Jisung shoots back, voice cracking like a faulty speaker. His ears are burning. “I just think it’s weird. Coincidences like this don’t happen in real life. This is—this is drama shit. Scripted. Uncanny.”

“Or maybe you just noticed him.” Chan’s grin widens. “Because you wanted to.”

Jisung glares, mortified. “I didn’t want to notice him! He roasted my password, hyung. My password. That’s not noticing, that’s an ambush.”

Chan throws his head back, laughing loud enough to rattle the takeout containers. “Ambushed by IT. God, you’re pathetic.”

Jisung groans, forehead thunking onto the table. His voice is muffled when he mutters, “I don’t even know his name.”

That stills Chan’s laughter. He tilts his head, studying him. “Mm. Do you think he knows yours?”

Jisung jerks upright, scandalized. “Why would he—? No, I mean—” His throat tightens, mind tripping over itself. Does he? He’d said “Accounting, right?” at the printer, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe he really did know. Maybe he’d looked Jisung up in the company directory the same way Jisung almost—

“Wait.” Chan leans in, sly. “Was he also on the bus with you going home?”

Jisung blinks, struck dumb. “…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I didn’t look!” Jisung flails, nearly knocking over his chopsticks. “Hyung, when I get on the bus home, I zone out, okay? Earbuds in, world off. I don’t—god, I didn’t even think—” His voice dissolves into a groan, both hands dragging down his face. “What if he was there?”

Chan smirks, sipping his drink. “Then that’d make four coincidences in two days.”

Jisung groans louder, muttering into his palms.

Chan hums, utterly unbothered, and goes back to his food. “Don’t worry, Sungie. If you don’t find out his name tomorrow, I’m sure he’ll find a way to tell you himself.”

Jisung glares at him, lips pressed tight. The worst part is, a tiny, traitorous part of him almost hopes he’s right.

By the time dishes are stacked in the sink and Chan has disappeared back into his room, Jisung is stretched out on his bed, hair still damp against the pillow, staring at the ceiling like it owes him answers. His body feels heavy with exhaustion, but his mind won’t shut up.

Was he on the bus going home?

The question circles and circles, ridiculous but relentless. Jisung tries to picture the ride—except he can’t. He remembers putting in his earbuds, remembers the sway of the bus, remembers zoning out until the city blurred itself into nothing. The faces around him? A blank. The possibility that he might’ve been there, just a few rows away? That’s enough to make his stomach knot.

He flips onto his side with a groan, burying his face into the pillow. “I didn’t even look,” he mutters, voice muffled. “God, I’m so stupid.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, determined to sleep, but every time he exhales, the same thought slips back in. Not his name, not his job title, not even his face in full detail—just the sharp profile on a bus, the dry quip in a bathroom, the steady voice at a printer. Too many fragments piling up into something he doesn’t want to call curiosity. His phone buzzes on the nightstand—a late notification, some group chat noise. He ignores it, rolling onto his back again. The ceiling stares back at him, merciless and blank.

“Workplace nemesis,” he tells himself firmly, like the label will pin everything back into place. “That’s it. End of story.”

But the heat across his cheeks, and the restless flip of his stomach, say otherwise.

Sleep takes forever to come.

Morning sunlight bleeds weakly through the curtains, pooling across Jisung’s floor in pale stripes. He stands in front of the mirror, fingers fumbling with his necktie like it’s a final exam.

“Nemesis,” he mutters to his reflection, tightening the knot too hard before groaning and undoing it again. “Not fate. Nemesis.”

The mirror doesn’t argue—just throws his own tired eyes back at him. His hair is still damp from the shower, sticking up in tufts, so he drags a comb through it with more force than necessary. He normally doesn’t care if it sits flat or not—by the time the bus lurches through traffic, it all gets ruined anyway—but today he lingers. A little gel, a little extra smoothing. Just in case.

In case of what? he thinks bitterly, fingers pausing mid-swipe. His stomach knots. He has no answer.

A knock on the doorframe makes him jolt. Chan leans against it, hair still dripping, one towel around his shoulders, the other twisted in his hand. “You seen my hairdryer?”

Jisung blinks at him in the mirror. “Hyung, that’s literally my hairdryer.”

“Borrowing it, then.” Chan strolls in without waiting for permission, snatching it off the desk. He plugs it in and flips the switch, the hum filling the room instantly. Over the roar, he grins at Jisung’s tie struggle. “Still can’t do that without a mirror, huh?”

“Shut up.” Jisung yanks at the knot, making it worse. “Some of us don’t have performance majors where they teach you how to tie ties as part of your stage costumes”

Chan snorts. “Where the hell do you even get that information from?” He runs a hand through his hair as the dryer blasts. “You’d think four years of office life would teach you by now. You wear one every day.”

“Doesn’t mean I like it.” Jisung huffs, finally managing a passable knot. He leans closer to the mirror, fingers brushing at his collar, then—annoyingly—goes back to his hair. Tilts his head. Smooths it again. A few seconds longer than usual. His reflection glares at him like it knows exactly what he’s doing.

Chan cuts the dryer, the sudden silence loud. “You’re overthinking it. About the tie.” His tone is light, but his eyes are sharp in the mirror. “And about him.”

Jisung stiffens, caught. “I wasn’t.”

“You were,” Chan says easily, slinging the dryer cord back onto the desk. “You’re gonna be looking for him on the bus today, whether you admit it or not.”

Jisung’s mouth opens, then shuts. He fusses with his fringe again, pretending it’s the problem.

Chan smirks, satisfied, and claps him on the shoulder as he leaves. “Don’t be late, office boy. Nemesis waits for no one.”

The door clicks shut behind him. Jisung stares at his reflection, lips pressed tight. The hair is fine. The tie is fine. He looks fine.

And yet, he drags his comb through one last time anyway. The tie knot holds. The hair is smooth enough. The mirror’s verdict is passable, if a little smug.

Still, Jisung leaves the apartment with the faint itch that he’s forgotten something. His bag thumps against his hip the same way it does every morning, but his stride feels uneven, like he’s walking into a day he hasn’t rehearsed for.

The street is the same—corner store shutters still rattling open, the smell of fried dough already drifting from the bakery two blocks down, a cyclist weaving past with his earphones in—but the rhythm is off. Normally, Jisung moves through it all on autopilot, airpods in, brain half-asleep until caffeine does its job. Today, every detail nags at him.

His shoes click too loud against the pavement. The sky looks brighter than it should for this hour. Even the walk light blinks slower, mocking his impatience as he waits to cross.

By the time he rounds the block and the bus stop comes into view, his pulse has picked up for no reason he’s willing to name. A small cluster of regulars mills around—people he could sketch from memory after years of seeing them: the dozing student, the mother with the toddler, bread-roll guy.

And still, Jisung’s eyes dart over the crowd before he can stop himself.

Ridiculous. He presses his lips together, dragging his phone out of his pocket like that’ll make him look busy, unaffected. He scrolls nothing, taps nothing, just stares at the screen until the bus hisses up to the curb with its usual shudder of brakes.

The doors yawn open, and the morning shuffle begins. Jisung steps on, scanning the rows automatically. The air inside is warm with too many people, perfume and detergent and faint traces of cologne layering into one indistinct haze. Not packed to bursting, but close—bodies filling most of the seats, others braced on the poles.

He tells himself he’s just looking for a seat. Nothing else.

But his pulse doesn’t quite believe him.

He squeezes into a narrow gap between two office workers, one shoulder brushing his bag, the other pressed into his sleeve. The bus jolts forward, and Jisung sways with it, clutching the overhead bar a second too tight.

His eyes skim over the rows once, twice, heart stuttering with each sharp profile he almost mistakes for the wrong one. Nothing certain. Nothing confirmed.

It’s stupid. He hates how jittery it makes him feel—like he’s on some kind of scavenger hunt when all he really needs to do is survive another commute. So what if he’s here? Jisung thinks, pulse too quick in his ears. So what if he’s not? Why would it matter either way?

The bus lurches to a stoplight, and he closes his eyes, muttering under his breath, “For fuck’s sake, Han Jisung, get a grip.”

When the doors finally open at his stop, the crowd surges forward. Half the bus empties in one tidal push, and Jisung is swept along with them, jostled, brushed, nudged until his feet hit the pavement outside.

Relief crashes over him like fresh air—his shoulders ungluing from strangers, the press of bodies falling away. He takes one deep breath, then another, letting the noise of traffic and the faint scent of fried batter replace the cloying blend of perfume and detergent from the bus.

His feet already know where to go. Straight ahead, past the glass towers, under the familiar flicker of neon. The narrow doorway of the coffee shop pulls him in like gravity.

Inside, the air is thick with espresso and milk foam, sweet and bitter all at once. The sound of the grinder, the low murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs against tile—it’s the soundtrack of every morning he’s ever had here.

He loosens his grip on his bag strap and exhales. Finally, something predictable.

He joins the short line, phone already tucked back in his pocket, eyes flicking up to the chalkboard menu out of habit though he’s memorized it by now. When it’s his turn, the barista doesn’t even wait for him to open his mouth.

“Iced Americano, no sugar,” she recites, hand already reaching for a cup.

Jisung offers the usual quiet nod, sliding his crumpled bill across the counter. The exchange takes less than ten seconds, smooth as clockwork. His fingers curl around the familiar weight of the plastic cup a few minutes later, condensation damp against his palm.

He takes the first sip—bitter, sharp, exactly right—and his shoulders unspool an inch. Caffeine: secured.

By the time he steps back outside, the rhythm of the morning has settled again. His brain, soothed by routine, slips back into its second language—work. Numbers waiting upstairs. Emails waiting to be sorted. The balance sheet due by noon. He ticks each task off in his head like he’s rehearsing a script, comfort in knowing exactly what comes next.

The unease of the bus, the restless scan of unfamiliar faces—it fades into the background, folded into the static hum of the city. Coffee in hand, he lets autopilot take over, weaving through the sidewalk crowd toward the office tower looming ahead.

Predictable. Dependable. Safe.

The hours pass the way they always do: emails answered, figures reconciled, formulas coaxed into behaving. Jisung slips into the rhythm so completely that the rest of the world blurs. By the time he drains the last of his Americano, his mind is humming on autopilot, content in the steady click of keys and the quiet order of numbers.

For a while, it’s just him and the ledger.

It isn’t until a familiar ache tugs at his bladder that he blinks at the clock. Right on schedule. His body knows before he does—pee break o’clock. Like clockwork, every day.

He pushes back from his desk, chair creaking, and stretches the stiffness out of his shoulders. His feet already know the route—out of his pod, past the humming copy machine, down the carpeted hallway toward the men’s room.

Everything is autopilot. Predictable.

He turns the corner—

—and freezes.

Coming from the opposite side of the hall, steps steady, head slightly down as if scrolling through something on his phone, is him. The IT guy. Not ten feet away. The restroom smack in the middle, an unavoidable collision course.

Jisung’s brain goes static.

Without thinking, he executes a rigid, unnatural pivot on his heel. A full 180. Like a malfunctioning robot rejecting input, he turns himself around and starts marching stiffly back the way he came.

Not casual. Not subtle. Just a clean, hard retreat.

His ears burn. Every inch of him screams fool. But his legs keep moving, wooden and determined, because apparently pretending he forgot how to pee is easier than walking past him.

Jisung’s wooden march takes him three steps down the hall before a voice stops him cold.

“Hey—Mr. Accounting?”

His shoulders lock. Slowly—painfully—he pivots back, his expression already twisted into a look that screams are you for real right now?

“I have a name, you know,” he snaps, tone sharp and offended but cheeks hot.

The IT guy’s brows tick upward. His gaze lingers, steady, like he’s waiting. Like he’s saying well? go on then.

Jisung swallows, pulse jumping. “..H-Han Jisung.” The words tumble out, grudging and awkward, like he’s handing over classified information.

And instantly, irritation prickles under his skin. Why does it feel like I’m losing here? He’s the new guy. He should be the one introducing himself first. That’s the rule. Not me blurting mine like some rookie intern.

“Lee Minho,” the IT guy replies evenly, like he’s finalizing a transaction.

Lee Minho. The name echoes in Jisung’s head for a few times like a ghostly mantra.

The silence stretches for a beat before Minho tilts his chin toward the restroom. “You first.”

Jisung blinks. Then blinks again. His brain sputters, completely blanking on how basic biology works.

“You know what,” he blurts, too fast, too loud, “never mind. I don’t feel like peeing anyway.”

The second it’s out of his mouth, he wants to crawl into the floor. Who says that? Who renounces the basic human function of urination like it’s a casual option on a fucking menu?

Minho just stares at him. Expression flat, unreadable, but his eyes—oh god, his eyes are sharp, glinting like they’ve just caught on something funny.

Jisung coughs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, shifting his weight like maybe he can play it cool if he commits hard enough. “Yeah. I’ll just, uh. Go back to… numbers. At my desk. Totally forgot about them.”

His words trip over each other, falling apart like a bad magic trick. He takes one stiff step backward, then another, half-turning toward the hall he came from, praying the ground will open up and swallow him before Minho says anything else.

Behind him, the silence thickens.

Then—quiet, amused, almost too soft to catch:

“…Seriously?”

It’s not mocking. Not cruel. Just… incredulous. Like Minho can’t quite believe he’s dealing with this level of malfunction.

Jisung’s ears go nuclear red. He doesn’t look back. He just speed-walks down the hallway, heart hammering, every nerve ending screaming one humiliating refrain: Why are you like this, Han Jisung?

He all but collapses into his chair, yanking his chair forward like if he makes enough noise, it’ll drown out the echo of his own voice saying “never mind, I don’t feel like peeing anyway.”

His spreadsheet blinks at him, endless columns of black-and-white figures. Usually they’re soothing, the most predictable thing in his life. Today they swim, blur, re-arrange themselves into cruel reminders: CELL ERROR. FORMULA INVALID. URINE: DENIED.

He groans into his palms, cheeks still hot. If Chan ever hears about this, he’ll never recover.

By the time Jisung drops back into his chair, he’s half-convinced the carpet is still holding his footprints like evidence. He opens a spreadsheet just to have something glowing in front of him, fingers clicking across the keyboard with more force than necessary. Work. Numbers. Routine. Safe.

Little by little, the rhythm dulls the sting. Cells line up neatly, formulas cooperate, emails get sorted. His pulse steadies. Maybe—just maybe—he can fold the last ten minutes into some dark corner of his brain and never think about it again.

And then, a shadow falls across his desk.

“Mr. Han?”

He jerks up, neck stiff, stomach plummeting.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

The IT guy stands there, calm as ever, one hand braced lightly on the top edge of his cubicle wall. The ID badge hanging off his lanyard catches the overhead light—Lee Minho. Cybersecurity Analyst.

Jisung’s eyes flick there first—safer than staring at the man himself. The photo is standard-issue color, slightly grainy, but it doesn’t dull the sharp cut of his jaw or the faint downturn of his mouth, like even ID day couldn’t coax a smile out of him. The lamination catches the light, making the picture gleam sharper than it should.

And then, against his will, treacherous and stupid: fuck, he IS cute.

“Just checking,” Minho says evenly, eyes never leaving him. “Any weird emails come through today? Stuff with links. Attachments. That sort of thing.”

Jisung fumbles, pen tapping against his desk. “…No. No, nothing like that.”

“Good.” Minho nods once but doesn’t move. Instead, his fingers drum idly against the cubicle wall. “And you’re not sharing your login with anyone?”

“Uh, no?” Jisung blurts, scandalized. “Obviously not.”

“Mm.” Minho tilts his head, unconvinced. “Not even with… Mr. Seo?”

Jisung chokes on nothing, ears going hot. “Why would I—no. He doesn’t even want my spreadsheets. He calls them ‘Excel nightmares.’”

“Fair.” A tiny twitch of Minho’s mouth, almost like a smirk. “Any pop-ups lately? Suspicious prompts?”

“No,” Jisung mutters, staring at his screen like the cells will save him.

“Do you use the same password anywhere else?”

The pen nearly snaps in his grip, the ink from yesterday’s fiasco is still faint on his palm. “…No.”

Minho just tilts his head, a silent really?

“…Mostly no.” His voice drops to a miserable whisper. “Some no.”

Minho’s eyes glint, sharp as a pin. “Uh-huh.” He straightens slightly but still doesn’t leave, gaze raking over Jisung’s monitor like he’s checking for visible crimes. “What about software updates? You keeping those current?”

“Yes,” Jisung says through gritted teeth. “I hit the button. Every time.”

Minho hums. “Backups?”

“Weekly,” Jisung lies instantly.

Another silent really? from Minho, eyebrow raised.

“…Monthly,” he admits, shoulders caving.

“Mm.” Minho lingers, fingers drumming against the cubicle wall again. The silence stretches just long enough for Jisung’s skin to crawl. Why is he still here? He asked enough questions to fill a police report. Is he purposely doing this??? If he is, WHY THE FUCK WOULD HE—

Finally, Minho leans in just slightly, close enough for Jisung to catch the faint scent of woody, his voice low but steady: “Good. Keep it that way.”

And then he straightens, smooth as ever, and steps back into the current of the office, leaving Jisung wilted in his chair, pen trembling in his grip.

His coworkers keep typing, oblivious.

Jisung drops his forehead to the desk with a groan, but the universe doesn’t give him a chance to mope.

“Whoa. Rough morning?”

Jisung jerks upright so fast his chair squeaks. Changbin is leaning over the cubicle wall on the other side now, chin resting in his palm, grin way too wide for someone who hasn’t earned it.

“What do you want,” Jisung deadpans, already bracing.

Changbin’s grin grows feral. “Nothing. Just… saw IT-boy lingering here for a while. Kinda intense, huh? Did you forget to clear your browser history or something? He found your secret furry account?”

“He was just—security stuff. Phishing emails. Whatever.”

“Mhm.” Changbin’s brows wiggle like the menace he is. “Sure didn’t look like phishing emails. Looked more like…” He tilts his head, pretending to think. “…flirting.”

Jisung makes a strangled noise, slapping a hand over his face. “Please die.”

Changbin cackles, already halfway back to his desk, voice trailing just loud enough for nearby coworkers to hear: “Mr. Accounting’s got a fan~”

Jisung drops his forehead back onto the desk with a thud that rattles his pen.

---

The day drags itself to a close, spreadsheets squared away, inbox tamed into submission. By the time Jisung finally shuts down his monitor, his brain is already halfway to autopilot. Home. Dinner. Bed.

Except his phone buzzes with a notification before he even reaches the lobby.

[Transit Alert: Bus #43 delayed. Next available service: 46 minutes.]

He stares at it, slack-jawed. “Nooooo..”

Around him, office workers peel off into the night, some heading to cars, some ducking into the subway. Jisung sighs, dragging a hand down his face. Forty-six minutes. He could stand around outside like a lost soul.

Or…

His remembers the coffee shop downstairs, tucked in between tall buildings. He almost smiles as he imagines the familiar warm light spilling through the glass, the scent of espresso spilling out as the door opens.

Decision made.

He drags himself downstairs, tired finger pressing the elevator button, but relief hums under his fatigue—at least he has the coffee shop to wait in. The door swings open and he slips inside, met by the hiss of the espresso machine and the low buzz of after-work chatter. The barista blinks in mild surprise, probably not expecting Jisung twice in one day, before taking his order. Another iced Americano. He cradles the cup, condensation slick against his palm, eyes scanning the room for a seat.

And that’s when he sees him.

Back corner. Laptop open, screen glow reflecting off a pair of wire-frame glasses. Lee Minho, sleeves rolled up, posture loose but focus razor-sharp. His tongue rests against his bunny teeth as his eyes flick across the monitor, expression unreadable. There’s something magnetic about it—an aura so concentrated it radiates past the four walls of the café.

This is the first time Jisung sees Minho since last week, he has been busy for the month’s financial recap, slipping in and out of the Accounts Director’s office. The IT guy is barely downstairs on his floor as well, Jisung last saw him leaving the restroom (on Jisung’s floor) and that’s it.

It’s not like Jisung was looking for him, nope.

In the present, Jisung freezes mid-step, pulse stuttering. His brain screams look away, look away but his eyes betray him, caught on the sight for one second too long.

Too late. Minho glances up.

Their gazes catch, and Jisung swears his soul launches straight out of his body. He jolts, scrambling for composure, but Minho has already tipped his chin in a quiet summons—like it’s a given Jisung will come over. Like there’s no alternative.

So there isn’t.

Dragging his feet, Jisung sets his drink down with a thud that’s louder than it should be, then folds into the chair across from him. “Don’t—don’t read into this. My bus was late.”

Minho’s mouth twitches, the faintest shadow of amusement, though his eyes never leave the glow of his screen. “Convenient.”

Jisung glares into his cup, the heat crawling up the back of his neck. “What are you even doing here, anyway?”

“Work.” The answer is simple, flat, his gaze still sweeping steadily over lines of code.

“Obviously,” Jisung mutters.

The pause that follows is thick with espresso steam and silverware clinking faintly against porcelain. Jisung risks another glance—can’t help it. Glasses slipping down the bridge of Minho’s nose, his tongue nudging against the edge of his bunny teeth, focus carved sharp enough to cut. Dangerous, his brain hisses. Absolutely dangerous.

Then Minho speaks, tone light, casual. “Bus stop’s just down the block. Thirty-minute walk from my place.”

Jisung blinks. “…What?”

“I take the same line as you.” At last Minho lifts his head, gaze clear and sharp behind the lenses. “Been doing it since last week.”

“Last week—” Jisung’s stomach plummets. “You—you’ve been on the bus this whole time?”

“Mm.” Minho sips his coffee unhurriedly, as though this conversation doesn’t threaten to cave in Jisung’s ribcage. “You just never noticed.”

Jisung’s throat works, dry. He takes a long pull from his straw, cold liquid flooding his mouth, doing nothing to steady the heat prickling under his skin. He did notice, but not since last week.

“…Did you see me? By any chance?”

“Mm.” Minho doesn’t look away. “Hard not to.”

What.

His gaze dips—slow, deliberate—tracing the undone buttons at Jisung’s collar, the faint glint of a chain against skin, before settling on the knot of his black tie. Two enamel pins catch the light: a bass guitar in matte black and a small rainbow.

“You’re the first accountant I’ve seen with pins on his tie,” Minho murmurs. His eyes linger a second too long, then the corner of his mouth shifts, subtle as a crack in glass. “Cute.”

Jisung’s whole body locks. Heat shoots up his neck, and he jerks his eyes downward, like the pins might’ve rearranged themselves without his knowledge. “O-oh.” His fingers fumble with the tail of his tie, tugging at it like he could fold the evidence away. “I can’t tell if you’re… making fun of me right now.”

The sound Minho gives isn’t quite a laugh—too low, too brief—but it rolls across the table with the same effect, and Jisung’s stomach flips, straw clinking uselessly against ice.

“I’m not, Mr. Han.” He lifts his cup, takes an unhurried sip, eyes never wavering. Then, after a beat, he tilts his head. “You play music?”

“You can say that,” Jisung mutters, embarrassed by the confession. He stares into his cup, condensation beading and slipping down the plastic like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. “Guitar and piano. It’s just… something I do with my roommate. He produces. We throw ideas around.”

“Roommate?” Minho prompts, quiet but intent.

Jisung nods, swirling his straw until the ice clinks sharp against the lid. “He’s a music major. Way more serious about it than me.”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. The glow of his laptop reflects off his glasses, hiding his eyes, but his posture loosens—something almost thoughtful bleeding into his stillness. “Guitar and piano,” he mutters, like he’s tucking it away somewhere private.

Jisung huffs, cheeks heating. “What about you, then? Besides terrorizing people with security lectures.”

That draws out the faintest curl of Minho’s mouth. “I dance.”

Jisung blinks. “Dance?”

“I used to teach,” Minho says, tone light but fingers stilling against the laptop edge, as if the words drag more weight than he intends. “Back home. Before I moved here.”

For a beat, Jisung’s brain sputters. Minho—in a mirrored studio, lines of students tracking his every move, precision mapped into every gesture. It doesn’t fit and yet it fits too well. The way he moves, the way he carries himself—like he’s always known exactly where his body should be.

“That’s…cool,” Jisung blurts before he can stop himself. The honesty slips free, raw and unguarded. Fuck.

Minho tilts his head, a subtle acknowledgment. “It was.”

Silence follows, but it’s not empty. The café hums around them—steam hissing, ceramic clinking, the faint chime of the door as someone slips out—but the sounds dull, as though cushioned, muted, as though the air between them pulls tighter and tighter until everything else recedes.

Minho lets the moment breathe, then tips his chin, studying him. “So. Guitar and piano,” he says, like he’s circling back on purpose. “That’s impressive.”

Jisung fiddles with his straw, cheeks heating. “Not really. Just chords and progressions. My roommate’s the real talent.”

“But you still play,” Minho presses, quiet but steady. “Still create.”

Jisung shifts in his seat, uncomfortable under the weight of that focus. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Minho’s gaze lingers, unreadable, until he exhales a soft hum. “Doesn’t have to mean anything to anyone else.”

The words settle too heavy, too warm, and Jisung feels his pulse kick up, traitorously loud in his ears. He forces a deflection, blurting, “What about you? Terrorizing people’s inboxes isn’t exactly a creative outlet.”

That earns him another twitch of Minho’s mouth, small but sharp. “Dance was the outlet. Security’s the job.”

“Yeah, and terrorizing is the hobby,” Jisung mutters, trying to claw back ground.

“Yeah.” Minho leans back, lazy with his sip of coffee. “And your hobby’s writing passwords into song lyrics, right?”

Jisung nearly chokes. “Excuse me?”

“Transparent,” Minho says simply, tone dry but laced with quiet amusement. “Bet I could guess yours in three tries.”

“You—absolutely not.” Jisung sits straighter, scandalized. “That’s a violation. Illegal. Arrest-worthy.”

“Observation,” Minho counters smoothly, adjusting his glasses with one finger. “Not a crime.”

Jisung scoffs, tugging at his tie like it might shield him. “You’re impossible.”

Minho doesn’t argue, doesn’t even deny it—just lets his gaze rest steady, unhurried. Then, softer, almost too soft: “And you’re obvious.”

The words land heavier than they should, leaving Jisung clutching his cup like it might ground him. He’s seconds from combusting when Minho closes his laptop with a quiet click, sliding it neatly into his bag.

“Bus’ll be here soon,” Minho says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He stands, calm and sure, then looks back down at Jisung. “Walk with me?”

Jisung’s throat works around a useless protest, but his body betrays him—already half rising to follow.

They step out of the café together, half-drained coffees in hand. The evening air is cool, streaked with orange as September leans into dusk. Jisung’s eyes lift despite himself, caught by the sky bleeding color across glass towers. For a fleeting moment, silence feels easy.

He glances sideways. Minho is looking up too, expression softened with quiet awe. The light casts long shadows across his face—dangerous, dramatic—and Jisung tears his gaze away before it betrays him.

His straw twirls between his fingers, restless. “…So you’ve been on the bus this whole time. And just never said anything?” His steps stay steady, but his pulse stutters too fast, too loud. “You could’ve, I don’t know, waved or something.”

Minho arches a brow, voice dry as stone. “On a crowded morning bus.”

“…Okay, fine. No waving.” Jisung mutters, defensive. “But still. Something.”

This time Minho’s mouth twitches—sharper, closer—and then, before Jisung can brace, it breaks. A real smile. Small but devastating, curling just enough to show the faint edge of bunny teeth. It softens his whole face, makes the fading light cling to him like it knows better. Dangerous. Too dangerous. Jisung’s chest caves. The city tilts, sunset shadows folding in, and he has to wrench his eyes down—straw knocking against the plastic lid because his fingers suddenly won’t hold steady.

“What, and ruin your peace?” Minho asks, voice lower now, teasing curved into something almost gentle.

Jisung glares into the swirl of melting ice, heat rising high on his neck. “You right,” he mutters. Weak. Shaky. Nowhere near sharp enough.

And still, his stomach won’t stop flipping, the world narrowed until the only sound left is Minho’s laugh, warm and quiet, ghosting at the edges of his smile.

The bus stop isn’t far, just a short walk down the block. The evening crowd has thickened, commuters pooling on the curb, jackets pulled tight against the creeping chill. Jisung shifts his cup from one hand to the other, the condensation damp against his palm, trying not to think too hard about the man walking silently beside him.

The headlights cut through the fading orange, and the bus sighs to a halt. They shuffle forward with the others, shoulders brushing strangers, the press of bodies herding them up the steps. Jisung already knows what he’ll find before he even looks—every seat filled, aisle jammed, the whole place buzzing with leftover impatience from the delay.

He spots it: a single seat open, wedged between a briefcase and someone’s oversized tote. He starts to step aside, motioning for Minho.

“You take it,” Jisung mutters.

But Minho shakes his head once, grip already sliding onto the rail above. “Sit. I’m fine.”

And just like that, Jisung is folded into the seat, knees brushing against Minho’s bag, his gaze dragged—inevitably—up.

Minho stands directly before him, one arm raised, hand curled casually around the handrail. The movement stretches his sleeve back just enough to show the line of his wrist, the tendons shifting as the bus lurches forward. From this angle, Jisung is eye-level with his midriff: the flat plane of his shirt pulled neat against him, belt gleaming faintly where the fabric creases. Too close. Way too close.

The scent of clean soap lingers faintly above the muddle of perfume, exhaust, and too many bodies. Every sway of the bus rocks Minho infinitesimally closer, the fabric of his shirt whispering with movement. Jisung clamps his hands around the rim of his seat, staring hard at the patterned floor, pulse drumming at the base of his throat.

Don’t look. Don’t think. Definitely don’t notice the way Minho’s warmth seems to cut through the rest of the crowded air.

But his senses betray him. The low timbre of Minho’s breath, steady against the noise. The faint scrape of his thumb shifting on the rail. The shadow his frame casts over Jisung’s hunched shoulders.

Too much. All of it, too much.

Jisung locks his eyes on the floor, but it’s useless—every sway of the bus makes the proximity feel closer, sharper. His fingers twitch, finally snagging the tail of his tie, tugging and worrying at the silk until it creases. When that doesn’t help, his hand drifts to his thigh, picking at the fabric of his slacks, nails dragging faint lines into the weave.

Phone. Right. I can be on my phone.

Except his phone is in his bag, wedged tight between his knee and someone’s briefcase. Reaching for it would mean leaning, brushing against strangers, maybe even—God forbid—Minho. His stomach twists. He can’t. Not here, not like this.

The thought pins him still, heat crawling up the back of his neck. The bus rocks, bodies shifting in unison, and Minho steadies himself with an easy flex of his arm, hand tightening on the rail. The subtle movement draws Jisung’s gaze despite every frantic protest from his brain—dragged up the line of Minho’s torso, to the neat pull of his belt, the crease of his shirt, the faint stretch of fabric where his arm hangs overhead. He means to look away, he really does—

But when his eyes finally flick up, Minho is already looking down.

Fuck.

For a heartbeat too long, neither of them moves. Minho’s gaze doesn’t shift, steady as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment. Heat slams into Jisung’s chest, and he wrenches his eyes to the side so fast his neck twinges. His fingers knot in his tie, pulse rioting.

Then Minho’s voice drops through the noise—calm, unhurried. “You look uncomfortable.”

Jisung almost chokes on air. “I’m not.” His voice cracks, humiliating. “It’s just—crowded. Obviously.”

A pause. Jisung dares half a glance, only to find the corner of Minho’s mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile.

“Relax, Mr. Han,” he murmurs, softer now, almost amused. “I’m not that close.”

The words curl low, tugging tight around Jisung’s ribs, and his stomach flips so violently he grips the edge of his seat for balance. Not that close, my ass. Every sway of the bus presses Minho nearer, heat and shadow caging him in place.

And Jisung—despite himself, despite everything—can’t seem to breathe right.

The bus rattles on, heavy with the sway of evening traffic. Jisung keeps his head down, grip tight on the edge of his seat, every nerve ending screaming at the proximity above him. He tells himself it’s fine, manageable, survivable—

Until the brakes squeal.

The jolt sends bodies lurching forward, shoulders colliding, bags swinging. Minho moves fast—reflex sharp, decisive—his free hand catching the seatback just beside Jisung’s shoulder.

And suddenly he’s there.

The air shifts. Minho’s arm a cage above him, torso angled forward, close enough that Jisung feels the heat radiating through pressed cotton. The clean scent of soap and something faintly sharp cuts through the muddle of the bus, sinking into his lungs. His tie slips under his nerveless fingers, useless now; his pulse rockets so high it thrums in his ears.

The seatback creaks under Minho’s grip, knuckles brushing so near Jisung swears he can feel the ghost of contact against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt rustles with each subtle movement, a low whisper in the crush of noise.

Eye-level, Jisung stares hard at the buttons of Minho’s shirt, at the neat line of stitching along the placket, because looking anywhere else would destroy him. Even so, the bus rocks again and the faintest brush of Minho’s sleeve grazes his temple.

It’s too much—too close—

And then the driver calls out the stop. His stop.

“My stop,” he blurts, barely audible, eyes fixed on the floor.

Minho shifts instantly, straightening to give him space, the weight of his arm lifting from the cage it made. No comment, no hesitation—just room, carved out like it was always his to give.

Jisung shoots up right away, so fast his knees almost buckle, fumbling with his bag, muttering something incoherent that might pass for “excuse me” as he squeezes through. The bus doors hiss open, cold air rushing in, and he stumbles down the steps onto the curb like it’s salvation.

His chest heaves, ears still ringing with the phantom echo of proximity—heat, scent, weight. The bus rumbles back into motion, carrying Minho away with it, and Jisung stands there, tie crooked, hands shaking around the strap of his bag.

Breathe, Han Jisung.

Meanwhile through the window, Minho watches him. Just a flick of his gaze, steady through the crowd of commuters pressing closer. Jisung’s figure shrinks in the glass, swallowed by the glow of streetlamps and the low sprawl of the city.

Only when the bus lurches forward again does Minho glance away, hand flexing once on the rail before settling still.

Jisung is still standing there, crooked and breathless, as if the bus has taken his balance with it.

---

The morning wears on with accounting’s usual mechanical rhythm—keystrokes, copier whine, the steady clack of a stapler. Jisung has been hunched over a bulk-entry task for an hour, eyes stinging from the fluorescent glare, when the software prompt blinks at him: XML request completed. He clicks to import.

The file opens like a held breath—and then the screen stutters. Numbers twist into nonsense, formulas freeze mid-count. For a second the file looks like static, then the spreadsheet gives a soft, dying wheeze and slides into a white-screen error. The machine chokes on it, the cursor spinning like a tiny, cruel planet.

Cool air pins the hairs on his forearms. His mouth feels oddly full of cotton. He hits refresh. Nothing. He laughs, a tiny, strained sound that the room swallows. He knows the drill—corrupted XMLs are the worst: malformed tags, hidden scripts, or a spoofed file slipped into an otherwise routine transfer. One careless import and a department’s data integrity is a splintered joke.

“Shit,” he breathes, fingers hovering above the keyboard. The printer in the corner coughs; someone nearby murmurs something about lunch. Jisung’s hands move before his brain finishes panicking—he reboots, breath shallow, the cheap plastic of his coffee cup cool and insignificant in his palm.

A soft ping in his inbox: Accounts floor flagged — possible malformed XML import. Sending tech to assist. He doesn’t have to look up to see the sender’s name. He exhales and waits for the inevitable step-sounds of shoe soles on carpet.

Minho arrives like a quiet cut across the floor—no flourish, just a steady set of shoulders and the calm of someone who keeps a checklist in his chest. He doesn’t announce himself; he doesn’t need to. When he stops behind Jisung’s chair, the air changes: proximity like gravity.

“System freeze?” Minho asks, voice low enough that it might be confidential. “Your file just bricked.”

Jisung looks up. Minho’s there, sleeves rolled up, laptop hugged under one arm. The sight alone makes his pulse skip.

“I—” Jisung flails at the mouse. “It’s just the system, I think—” He sighs. “Imported an XML. The preview looked fine on the server, but—” He gestures helplessly at the frozen spreadsheet, at the way the formulas melt into error codes. “It corrupted the sheet.”

Minho leans in, just a fraction, the space between them contracting. One hand lands on the back of the chair, thumb resting along the seam. The warmth of his palm sighs into Jisung’s shoulder-blade; something about human contact makes Jisung’s knees feel like water. And just like that, he is back on the bus: Minho’s arm above him, torso angled close, heat radiating through pressed cotton, the faint brush of a sleeve against his temple. His tie slipping useless in his hands, pulse thrumming high in his ears.

“Mm,” Minho hums, scanning the mess of code. “Could be a spoof. Someone slipped in an embedded script.”

Jisung hears script, but all he registers is Minho’s knuckles flexing inches from his shoulder, the way his voice hums low, steady, like he’s narrating from underwater.

“Let me see.” Minho’s fingers are sure and quick over the keyboard, calling up logs, server pings, the kind of diagnostic dance that looks like magic to anyone who isn’t used to it. His face is close enough now that Jisung can make out the tiny crescent scar along his brow, the way his eyelashes shadow the cheekbone, the mole under his sharp nose—

“There’s an embedded script. Looks tampered.” He hums, as if tasting the answer. “Did you open any attachments from a vendor this morning?”

“Oh,” Jisung says, and his brain reloads a thousand tiny possibilities. “Yeah—there was one email. It looked official.” He hates the fact that his voice sounds like a swallowed scream.

Minho’s jaw shifts; the light catches the faint edge of his bunny teeth as he smiles—small, almost indulgent. “Server previews can be faked,” he says as he keeps typing, quick and precise. “I’ll quarantine the file. Roll back the snapshot.” He pauses, glances sidelong at him, dry as ever. “And next time, maybe don’t feed malware to your spreadsheets.”

Jisung bristles, heat climbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t feed anything—”

“I'm kidding.” Minho’s mouth twitches, dangerously close to a smile. “You're good.”

For a moment, while Minho works, Jisung watches the curve of his neck, the way his sleeve gathers at the wrist when he leans. He wants to say something cheesy about music and security and the poetry of bad passwords, but it comes out as a small, embarrassed noise.

The rollback finishes, the spreadsheet flickering back to life. Clean. Normal. Like nothing ever happened. Minho leans back finally, tension dropping from his shoulders. His hand slips from the chair, but the ghost of his weight lingers, rattling in Jisung’s chest.

“Problem solved.” A beat. Then, softer: “Try not to crash your PC again, Mr. Han. I can’t always come rescue you.”

Jisung’s retort tangles on his tongue, lost somewhere between thank you and screw you.

And—goddammit—his heart is still hammering like it’s stuck on that bus.

“You okay?” Minho asks, looking up for the first time properly. The voice is neutral, but the attention is not.

“Fine,” Jisung manages. He forces a smile that does not reach his eyes. “Embarrassed.”

Minho’s mouth quirks. He says nothing for a beat, then — almost as an aside — “You should back up drafts more often. And don’t use lyrics for passphrases.” He pauses as if waiting for a retort that never comes. “I’ll send the rollback note to you and your manager. You’re good now.”

Jisung resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sure. ’Preciate it. Bye.”

Minho pushes to his feet, hand sliding off the chair. He pauses just long enough for his gaze to catch—sharp, unreadable. Then, casual as anything:

“Funny. You say bye here, but not when you got off the bus.”

The words trip him like a wire. Jisung startles, pulse snapping hot, mouth parting before he can think. “I—I was—”

But Minho’s already gone, the faintest curve of bunny teeth breaking across his mouth as he slips away between the desks—no follow-up, no rescue, just that ghost of a smile and the uneven air he leaves behind.

And Jisung sits frozen at his desk, fingers useless on the keys, like the whole office has tilted off balance around him.

---

A week passes before the ground even tries to steady.

Morning after morning, he boards the same bus—same seat by the window, same rattle of the engine underfoot, same stale chill from the air-con biting at his wrists. And somewhere between the flicker of passing buildings and the reflection in the glass, there’s him. Sharp profile. Wire-frame glasses. The kind of quiet that pulls focus.

Jisung doesn’t look. Not really. Maybe once, maybe twice, by accident. He tells himself it’s not avoidance—it’s time management.

He gets on, he sits, he scrolls through nothing on his phone. When the bus pulls up at their stop, he’s already on his feet, swept along with the rush of commuters, clammy hands pressed to his sides. Straight to the café. Straight past Minho. Never side by side. Not once, in a full week, has he walked down the street with him. He tells himself that means something—discipline, boundaries, professional distance. But the stupid flutter in his chest each morning says otherwise.

After work, the ride home is quieter. No Minho. Never Minho. He tells himself he doesn’t notice that, either. He remembers Changbin mentioning IT runs different hours—late shifts, updates, something technical—but back then he hadn’t cared. Now he does.

The bus hums, the city slides by, and still, somewhere beneath the steady drone of the engine, that voice—Funny. You say bye here, but not when you got off the bus—loops in his head, as steady and inescapable as the route itself.

It’s ridiculous, he knows that. Earbuds in, world off—that’s the rule. But ever since Minho stepped into his orbit, the world’s been harder to shut out.

By the time (8:56 AM) he gets to his floor, the caffeine hasn’t hit yet, but the air-conditioning has — the kind of recycled chill that settles into the fabric of his shirt. He’s got his usual iced Americano sweating in his hand, bag slung over one shoulder, tie straightened just enough to pass inspection. Two enamel pins glint near the knot: a tiny microphone and a silver music note, catching the light every time he moves.

His eyes fall on Changbin’s figure at his own desk, arms crossed, expression sour. That’s not new, but the way he’s muttering under his breath is.

“What’s up?” Jisung asks, setting his drink down with a soft thunk.

Changbin scowls toward the hallway. “Saw someone from the ninth floor in our restroom.”

Jisung blinks. “Ninth floor? IT?”

“Yeah. Some guy.” Changbin shakes his head like it personally offends him. “What’s their deal? They got, like, five bathrooms up there. Why’re they coming down here?”

Jisung’s brain stalls, short-circuiting around some guy from IT. His mouth moves before he can stop it. “Was it—”

“Not your cyber prince,” Changbin cuts in, deadpan. “Different guy. But if I had to guess, he probably heard from your little fan about how good our restroom is.”

“My what now?”

Changbin looks entirely too smug. “Your fan, dude. The IT guy who keeps showing up on this floor. Word spreads fast. Guess he’s not great at gatekeeping.”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “He’s not my fan—”

“Sure.” Changbin’s already turning back to his monitor. “You wanna believe that.”

Jisung groans, rolling his eyes, the condensation from his cup dripping onto his sleeve. The pins on his tie clink faintly when he moves, like they’re mocking him.

Time passes and the notification from the IT department arrives with the usual mid-afternoon punctuality: Accounts verification needed in the server room before 4:00 PM. The timing, as always, is impeccable. Everyone else is neck-deep in spreadsheets or meetings, leaving the task to fall—inevitably—on him.

Jisung sighs, a familiar weight settling on his shoulders. He is, after all, the designated go-to for these kinds of situations. He grabs his notebook—cryptic notes, messy reminders, maybe a lyric or two he should’ve kept at home—and makes his way to the elevator, mentally preparing himself for the sterile, humming environment that awaits him on the eleventh floor.

The elevator doors slide open, and Jisung steps out into the familiar hallway, the air already subtly different, charged with the unseen energy of the technology hub. The door to the server room, a thick, imposing metal slab, is a portal to a different world. He pushes it open, and the room exhales a wave of warm air, dry and carrying a faint, metallic tang that is characteristic of the space. Rows of black racks stretch before him, each blinking with tiny green and blue lights. The hum of the machines is a constant, low thrum, like a giant electronic heart beating in a rhythmic, unending cycle.

“Hello?” The noise instantly swallows his greeting. The cacophony of whirring fans and the constant processing of data created an environment that is both impressive and slightly oppressive.

Minho (Jisung recognizes him instantly—the familiar spicy, woody vanilla scent of Diptyque Eau Duelle clinging to the air) looks up from a monitor stationed near the back of the room. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with a light scattering of dark hair, and his company lanyard is twisted around his fingers. “Mr. Han?”

Jisung swallows. When was the last time he’s heard that voice? “Y-yeah.”

"Thanks for coming," Minho says, his voice barely audible above the mechanical symphony. "It'll be quick—just need you to confirm a few lines before we roll back the system."

Jisung nods, stepping closer, the heat intensifying as he approaches. The air clings to his skin. They stand shoulder to shoulder in the narrow aisle, the monitor's pale light reflecting in their eyes. The confined space only amplified the feeling of being enclosed by the machinery.

"Here," Minho says, pointing to a specific section of the screen. "Can you check these values match your ledger?"

Jisung leans in, focusing his attention on the numbers displayed on the monitor. Data scrolls fast across the screen, a stream he matches against the company’s figures. He begins to read off the values, comparing them to the figures in his own notebook. "Yeah… that's the batch we processed on Monday," he confirms, his voice almost lost in the noise.

Minho types rapidly, his wrist brushing against Jisung's sleeve as he enters the information. The static electricity in the air crackles, a subtle but noticeable sensation against Jisung's skin. A fan whirrs louder; the floor hums beneath them.

"Temperature control's acting up," Minho mutters, his eyes still fixed on the screen, his brow furrows in concentration. "Sorry if it's a bit warm in here."

"It's fine," Jisung says, though he can feel a slight dampness forming at the collar of his shirt. The heat is beginning to make him feel slightly uncomfortable, a subtle but persistent distraction.

They work through a few more lines of data, their words swallowed by the ceaseless drone of the machines. When Jisung needs to point out a discrepancy, his finger hovers near the mouse, and their fingers almost brush against each other. The moment is brief, a fleeting touch, and neither of them move for a second, seemingly frozen in place. The proximity, the shared focus, the shared responsibility, all contribute to a sense of connection, however fleeting. The cursor blinks on the screen, the servers hum, and for a few seconds, that’s all there is—the steady rhythm of Minho’s typing and Jisung’s pulse keeping an uneven counterpoint.

Then Minho speaks, still watching the code scroll past.

“What are you doing this weekend, Mr. Han?”

The question slips out so cleanly that for a second, Jisung thinks he misheard. “...What?”

Minho doesn’t look away from the monitor. “Just asking.” His tone is even, almost lazy. “I was thinking of looking around the city. Haven’t really had the time since I moved.” He pauses, voice not faltering even once. “Figured you’d make good company.”

Jisung blinks, brain stalling. “Me?”

Minho hums, low and nonchalant, as if this were a completely normal server-room conversation and not a total derailment of Jisung’s internal systems.

“I—uh.” Jisung shifts his weight, notebook suddenly feeling too heavy in his hand. “That’s... random.”

“Maybe,” Minho says. His lips tilt—not quite a smile, not quite not. “But I don’t like eating alone.”

The hum of the machines swells, warm and electric.

Jisung tries to laugh, but it comes out thin. “You’re aware we’re surrounded by twenty racks of live servers, right? This feels like a weird place to ask someone out.”

“Mm.” Minho finally glances at him, eyes catching light from the monitor. “Guess I’m bad at waiting for better timing.”

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait—

Hold on.

Ask someone out? Ask someone out.

That’s what he said. That’s literally what I said. And Minho just—did that? Here? In the middle of a glorified oven full of blinking lights and white noise?

No, that can’t be right. Maybe it’s a joke. Yeah. A dry, IT-guy kind of joke. Except Minho doesn’t do jokes, not with that face, not with that voice that sounds like it could talk a fire alarm into calming down. Jisung’s throat tightens. The heat’s climbing under his collar, creeping up his neck. He can feel every breath, every blink, every inch of distance between them—too small, too hot, too something.

And Minho? Completely unaffected. Just standing there, hands steady on the keyboard, eyes flicking between lines of code like he didn’t just nuke Jisung’s entire nervous system.

Jisung clears his throat, a sound too sharp in the low hum of servers. “You’re—uh. You’re serious?”

Minho’s lips twitch. “You sound surprised.”

“That’s because I am.” Jisung gestures vaguely at the racks, at the heat, at everything. “This isn’t exactly a candlelit setting.”

Minho shrugs. “Didn’t think you’d be into candlelight.”

Jisung stares. Minho looks back—steady, unreadable, the kind of look that doesn’t need words to press closer.

The hum fills the pause between them, and Jisung swears it’s syncing with his pulse.

"There," Minho says at last, his voice quiet but clear, finally breaking the silence. He enters a final command, and the monitor flashes a confirmation message. The hum of the servers seems to soften, just a fraction, as if the machines themselves are letting out a collective sigh of relief. “System rollback complete.”

Jisung exhales, only then realizing he's been holding his breath. The tension he hasn't fully acknowledged has been released. “Good. Great. Love that for us.”

Minho hums softly, shutting down the terminal. “Mhm.” He doesn’t move away immediately; just rests one hand against the desk, eyes flicking to the scrolling log one last time. The air between them feels steadier now, but only just.

Then, almost as if remembering something, he says, “You never answered my question.”

Jisung blinks. “Question?”

Minho glances at him—not long, just enough. “Weekend.”

“Oh.” Jisung fumbles for words, brain rebooting. “Right. That.”

Minho’s mouth twitches, just barely. “You don’t have to answer now.” He turns back to the monitor, clicking through the final windows. “Just—think about it.”

It’s quiet, almost casual. But there’s something underneath it—soft, almost hopeful—that catches Jisung off guard. A tone that sounds like it isn’t used to asking for things.

The hum returns, low and steady, wrapping around them. Jisung can’t tell if it’s the servers or his own pulse filling the silence again.

“Sure.”

Minho turns around in record time—surprisingly out of character, if you ask Jisung. Their gazes meet, and Minho’s eyes are wide, sharp, startled—catlike.

“O-oh?”

“What?”

“I honestly didn’t expect you’d say yes.”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “Why ask in the first place?”

Minho actually chuckles, and Jisung has to look away from the flash of bunny teeth under his smile.

“Just trying my luck.”

“Don’t waste it—I might stand you up.”

Minho chuckles again, low and quiet, the sound threading under the hum of servers. “You’d show up anyway.”

Jisung blinks. “Excuse me?”

Minho finally looks at him, eyes bright behind his lenses. “Curiosity’s a strong motivator.”

Before Jisung can come up with something halfway clever to say, Minho’s already shutting down the monitor—movements unhurried, precise. Then he fishes his phone from his back pocket, thumb gliding across the screen, and pushes it toward Jisung.

“Your number.”

Jisung stares down at it like it’s a puzzle he hasn’t trained for.

“Or you can have mine instead, doesn’t matter—” Minho stops when Jisung shoots him a glare. A quiet, half-amused laugh escapes him; he nods at the phone. “Go ahead.”

Jisung takes it, thumbing his number in silence. When he passes it back, Minho’s mouth curves, small and unreadable.

“See?” Minho says, tucking the phone away. “Curiosity wins.”

Jisung huffs, looking anywhere but at him. “Is it too late for me to regret this?”

Minho’s answer is a quiet laugh, swallowed by the steady whir of machines.

“By the way,” Minho says, already turning back to the terminal, “thank you. I’ll send a report to your manager. You’re free to head down.”

Before Jisung can even respond, Minho glances over his shoulder—expression unreadable, voice lighter this time.

“I’ll text you soon.”

And just like that, he turns back to the terminal.

The hum of the servers presses in again, steady and low. Jisung blinks, the words landing a few seconds late, like his brain needs to reboot. The heat in the room has shifted—it’s less the stifling air and more something simmering under his skin.

He fumbles for his notebook, his fingers slipping on the spiral edge, and mutters something that might pass for “yeah, sure,” though he’s not even sure he says it out loud. The door hisses open behind him, spilling in a rush of cool hallway air that feels too sharp against his face.

Outside, it’s quieter, but not by much. His pulse is still caught somewhere in the rhythm of the fans, his skin prickling from the leftover warmth of the room. He presses a hand to the back of his neck; it’s hot.

The elevator light dings. Jisung exhales, stepping inside, his reflection caught in the mirrored panel—tie crooked, cheeks flushed, eyes a little too wide.

Not the room, he decides. Definitely not the room.

The rest of that day was a write-off. Jisung came back from the server room with a flushed face and a head full of static, pretending the heat was to blame when Changbin leaned over his monitor and squinted.

“Bro, you okay? You look like you just ran a 10k or saw a ghost.”

“Server room’s like a sauna,” Jisung muttered, too quickly.

Changbin didn’t buy it, of course. He grinned, sharklike. “Right. A sauna.”

He’d ignored that. Tried to. But the damage was done—because ever since, Minho had been looping in his head like a corrupted file he couldn’t delete.

---

The weekend creeps closer, and so does the memory: Minho’s voice low under the hum of machines, the faint glint in his eyes when he’d said, I’ll text you soon.

And then he did.

The message came in while Jisung was on the bus home, half-dozing against the window.

A link. A café downtown.
And a second text: minho here. i’ll see u there at 10?

That was three days ago.

Now, Jisung’s standing in front of his closet like it’s some kind of moral test.

He pulls out a shirt. Stares at it. Puts it back. Pulls out another.

He swears it’s not about looking good. He’s just… trying to not look like he didn’t try.

A loud thud from the doorway nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

“What you doing?”

Jisung turns so fast he nearly knocks a hanger off the rack. Chan’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, wearing that look that says he already knows the answer.

“...Laundry,” Jisung says finally, too casual, too deliberate.

Chan blinks from the doorway. “At midnight?”

“Yeah. Gotta, you know—stay ahead of the week.”

Chan crosses his arms, leaning on the frame. “Right. And that’s why half your closet’s on the bed and you’ve been staring at that one shirt for the past five minutes.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“Laundry.”

Chan snorts, low and amused. “You’re such a bad liar.” He steps into the room, eyes sweeping over the chaos—shirts everywhere, ties draped like fallen soldiers. “So, who is it?”

Jisung frowns. “Who’s what?”

“The reason you’re suddenly invested in your fashion career.”

“There’s no reason.”

“Mmhm.” Chan’s tone is all teasing patience. “You’ve been smiling at your phone like a middle-schooler for three days, Sungie. I’ve seen this movie before.”

“I wasn’t smiling.”

“You were,” Chan says flatly, pointing at him. “And if you roll your eyes any harder, they’ll fall out. So?”

Jisung exhales through his nose, trying to sound bored. “It’s nothing. Just someone from work.”

Chan’s grin sharpens instantly. “Someone from work?”

“Not like that—”

“Who’s that guy again—” Chan looks up at the ceiling as he thinks. “Changbin?”

Jisung grimaces. “What—god, no.”

“Wait. Wait.” Chan straightens, eyes wide. “Is it the…the IT...guy?”

Jisung’s silence says enough.

“Oh my god,” Chan bursts out, laughing. “You mean bus guy, right? The one you said keeps showing up like fate and bad Wi-Fi combined?”

Jisung groans, pressing a palm to his forehead. “You remembered that?”

“Of course I did! FIrst you couldn’t believe it that he actually works at your place, and you wouldn’t shut up about how he used the men’s room on your floor, like you own that place.”

“I—” Jisung nods, defeatedly. “—did say that.”

“Anyways—” Chan’s grin is blinding now. “So what—you two talked again?”

“...We exchanged numbers,” Jisung mutters.

“Holy shit,” Chan crows. “You what?”

“Don’t make it sound like a crime,” Jisung whines, rummaging through hangers for cover.

Chan’s eyes sparkle. “So he texted you?”

Jisung hesitates, glancing at his phone on the bed. “...Yeah.”

Chan squints. “And you’re going to see him tomorrow?”

“It’s not like that,” Jisung says quickly. “He just—wanted to look around the city. Probably wants a local guide or something.”

“Right. And you’re definitely not standing here deciding which shirt makes you look most indifferent.”

“Hyung.”

Chan laughs, soft but smug. “Hey, I’m not judging. Just saying—be safe. Don’t fall in love with the IT guy before dessert.”

“We’re not getting dessert,” Jisung grumbles.

“You will,” Chan says, heading for the door. “You’re a sucker for guys with lanyards and quiet voices.”

“Go away.”

Chan chuckles on his way out. “Goodnight, lover boy.”

The door clicks shut behind Chan, and quiet rushes in like a tide. Only the hum of the air conditioner remains, the faint city noise bleeding through the window. Jisung groans again, dropping the shirt he’s holding and staring at his reflection in the closet mirror. His heart’s doing that stupid uneven rhythm thing again. 

Jisung exhales, shoulders sinking. His room looks like a storm passed through—shirts on the bed, ties draped over the chair, his laptop still open on a paused playlist that hasn’t changed in hours.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, phone face-up beside him, screen dim until it lights again under his thumb. The message thread sits there. Still open. Still simple.

📍Café Mirra
minho here. i’ll see u there at 10?

No emojis. No overthinking punctuation. Just that steady lowercase confidence that somehow feels exactly like him.

Jisung stares at it longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard, the half-formed impulse to type yeah or sure or see you buzzing just under his skin.
He doesn’t. He just locks the phone again, lets it fall onto the sheets.

He lies back, one arm over his eyes, heart still thrumming like the server room fans—steady, low, impossible to ignore.
He tells himself it’s just curiosity. That it’s harmless. That he’s not replaying the sound of Minho’s voice when he said I’ll text you soon.

His tie pins glint faintly from the nightstand—tiny microphone, tiny music note.
He huffs a laugh under his breath, quiet, half-exasperated.

“Yeah,” he mutters to the ceiling. “I’m screwed.”

The next morning arrives far too soon.

The alarm goes off at seven-thirty, but Jisung’s already awake—has been for a while, staring at the ceiling with his heart doing an anxious little drum solo in his chest. The city outside is still soft, washed in pale light, the kind that makes everything look slower, quieter, like the world is still thinking about waking up.

He moves on autopilot—shower, coffee, clothes—but everything feels just slightly off. Like gravity’s been tilted half a degree to the left. His reflection in the mirror stares back at him: shirt ironed too neatly, hair styled too carefully. He does the top button, then undoes it again, muttering, “Not a date. It’s not a date.” The mirror doesn’t argue.

By the time he’s out the door, the air is already warm. The bus ride is a blur of static and motion; he keeps his earbuds in but never presses play. His reflection in the window keeps catching itself watching—every tilt of his jaw, every nervous twitch of his fingers on the strap of his bag. His phone pings a moment later—a text from Chan:

damn u left already? didnt even kiss me goodbye? wooowww

Jisung rolls his eyes but another text from Chan comes in:

he better not replace me han Jisung

A small, amused smile plays on his lips as he types a reply.

U are dramatic as hell. getting ready for uni?

hehe

yea about to leave now

stay safe. love u

The café comes into view exactly at ten. It’s tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, sunlight spilling through its wide windows. There’s a row of outdoor seats, small tables under green awnings, and a cluster of people chatting over late breakfast.

And there—by the corner table, half-shadowed under the awning—Minho.

No glasses. No lanyard. None of the nine-to-five polish Jisung’s brain keeps filing him under. Just him.

A loose plaid flannel draped over a black tee, collar open, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The fabric looks soft, lived-in, the kind you’d steal from someone’s closet and never give back. His hair is a little mussed from the wind, falling into his eyes in a way that shouldn’t be legal, and without the office lighting washing him out, he looks warmer, younger.

It hits Jisung hard—how boyfriend he looks like this. Easy. Effortless. Like the version of him that doesn’t belong to anyone’s clock-in system. He’s scrolling on his phone, thumb idle against the rim of a coffee cup, and Jisung suddenly has to remind himself to breathe before Minho looks up.

Jisung hesitates just inside the doorway, suddenly aware of every beat of his pulse. The air smells like espresso and sunlight and something else—something he recognizes before he wants to: that faint, woody vanilla note from the server room.

And then Minho looks up.

That’s all it takes. Just one look—steady, unhurried—and Jisung feels that same quiet, terrible pull in his chest. Minho’s mouth curves, soft but unmistakably real. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jisung manages, voice not quite steady. He clears his throat, steps closer. “Been here long?”

“Few minutes,” Minho says, pushing back his chair just slightly. “Didn’t want to risk you thinking I stood you up.”

Jisung rolls his eyes, but it’s useless; the corners of his mouth betray him, twitching up despite himself. “Funny.”

“Good morning to you too, Mr. Han.”

The sunlight hits just right then—catching in Minho’s hair, along the sharp slope of his nose—and Jisung swears the city hums a little louder around them.

“Jisung.” The word catches in his throat. “We’re not at work, so… yeah. Jisung works.”

Minho blinks, then nods once—small, deliberate.

“Jisung it is.” His smile deepens, something warm flickering beneath it. “Then you can call me Minho. Although,” a pause, teasing but quiet, “I’ve never actually heard you say my name at work.”

Jisung blinks, caught between the words and the weight they suddenly have. “Well,” he says, fumbling for a comeback, “you’ve never really given me a reason to say it.”

“Oh? Didn’t realize I needed to.” Minho’s brows lift, faint surprise flickering before it melts into amusement. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you plenty of reasons next time.”

Jisung blinks, brain still buffering when Minho moves on like he didn’t just drop that line in broad daylight.

“Ah, right—coffee?” Minho asks, gesturing lazily toward Jisung’s empty hands. His fingers catch the sunlight for a fleeting second—long, steady, elegant in that quiet way that always throws Jisung off balance.

He lifts a hand, shaking his head quickly. “Already had mine.” The words come out thinner than he intends. “Home-brewed.”

“Mm.” Minho hums, eyes glancing around, thinking, before returning to Jisung’s face. “What about something sweet?” A pause—then, smoothly, “You look like a dessert guy, Jisung.”

“Uh.” Jisung blinks again. Is he calling me gay? Why does it feel like he’s calling me gay—

Minho’s eyes soften and turn into a pair of crescents when he breaks into a blinding smile. “Excuse me.”

And before Jisung can form another word, Minho’s already rising from his seat, sleeves falling perfectly back into place as he makes his way toward the counter. Jisung watches him go, entirely against his own better judgment—the casual roll of his shoulders, the way his hair catches the light, the subtle ease in every movement.

There’s a display of colorful pastries by the register—macarons, slices of cake, sugar-glazed things that sparkle under the glass—but none of them seem half as distracting as Minho leaning over to point something out to the barista.

And Jisung hates that he notices that too.

Jisung waits, fidgeting with the rings on his fingers—one twist, two. Exactly forty-eight seconds later (not that he’s counting, obviously), Minho returns, carrying a small plate balanced easily in one hand.

“Hope you like cheesecake,” Minho says, setting it down between them.

The slice looks obscene in the best way—smooth, pale cream topped with a glossy layer of berry glaze, edges so neat it feels wrong to ruin them.

Jisung’s brain short-circuits between two options: keep his composure and thank Minho like a normal, functioning adult—or drop his face straight into the plate because—

“I—I love cheesecake,” he blurts instead, voice pitching embarrassingly high.

“Oh?” Minho’s brow arches, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Good. Be my guest, then.” He leans back in his chair, casual, like he didn’t just hand Jisung the most dangerous test of self-control known to man. “Theirs never disappoints.”

Jisung picks up the fork, praying his hand doesn’t shake.

The first bite is a mistake.

Not the cheesecake—God, no, the cake is perfect. Silky and cool on his tongue, rich enough to make him sigh without meaning to—but the way he realizes, mid-sigh, that Minho’s watching him.

Not casually either.

Elbow resting against the table, chin propped in his hand, Minho’s gaze tracks the movement of Jisung’s fork to his mouth and back again, slow and deliberate, like he’s studying a problem he actually enjoys solving.

Jisung lowers the fork. “What.”

Minho blinks, expression perfectly neutral. “Just wondering if it’s as good as you make it look.”

Jisung almost chokes. “I—” He clears his throat, gripping the fork like a lifeline. “Grab a fork, then. I’m not eating this alone.”

A beat of silence.

Then Minho’s mouth curves, faint and infuriating. “I don’t know if you’d be okay with sharing.”

Jisung’s pulse stumbles. “It’s cake, not a state secret.”

“Still,” Minho murmurs, eyes not leaving his face, “some things taste different when you share.”

The air between them seems to shrink—just enough that Jisung has to force a laugh, stabbing another piece a little too hard. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but his voice comes out softer than he means it to.

Minho hums again, quiet, satisfied. “You invited me to have a fork. I’m only being polite.”

Jisung doesn’t know if it’s the heat from the sun spilling through the window or Minho’s gaze that’s making his face feel this warm—but he takes another bite anyway, because of course he does.

And Minho, damn him, watches that too.

Jisung rolls his eyes, gently stabbing his fork into the cake again. “Shut up and grab a fork.”

Minho doesn’t argue. Of course he doesn’t. He just smiles—small, satisfied—and reaches for the extra utensil on the napkin holder. The metal glints briefly as he turns it between his fingers, testing the weight like he’s about to perform some kind of precision operation instead of eat dessert.

“Mm,” Minho hums, amusement low in his throat. “If you insist.”

And then he digs in.

They sit there, sitting across each other, a creamy, shared slice of cheesecake between them on the small table. The café hums quietly—soft jazz, chatter, the rhythmic hiss of steamed milk—but it all feels distant, muffled behind the steady thrum in Jisung’s chest. He can feel his knees lightly brushing with Minho's under the table, and he tries his best not to flinch away when they do.

He keeps his gaze anywhere but Minho. The window. The plate. The napkin dispenser. The fork in his own hand. Definitely not the fork sliding into Minho’s mouth, or the faint curve of his lips as he tastes the bite, or the quiet sound he makes after—the kind that doesn’t even count as a sound, really, just a soft exhale that lands way too close to dangerous.

“So,” Jisung begins, the silence starts to feel a little too much for him. “What’s the plan for your little city sightseeing?”

Minho hums, the corner of his mouth curling like the question amuses him. “Well,” he says slowly, setting his fork down, “now that I’ve got myself good company,” His gaze lifts, steady, unhurried. “The rest can’t be bad.”

Jisung blinks, halfway between a scoff and forgetting how to breathe. “That’s—that’s your plan? Flattery?”

Minho’s smile widens, barely. “If it works, why change strategy?”

Jisung stares at him for half a second too long, caught between rolling his eyes and short-circuiting entirely. Is he doing this on purpose? Probably. Definitely.

He exhales, licking the fork (and missing the way Minho’s watching). Enough.

“Alright, Minho.” He places the fork down gently and meets the man’s gaze head-on, smiling.

I’m not about to melt into a pool of puddles because of you. I’m better than this—and I refuse to prove Chan hyung right.

“Why don’t you tell me what you wanna see? There’s a mall, an art street, a flower park—” his lips twitch, almost a smirk. “—I’ll be your guide.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, clearly catching the sudden shift in tone. Jisung half-regrets it now that he sees that smirk forming—but he’s not backing down. Nuh-uh.

“You know what,” Jisung says, snapping his fingers like the idea just hit him, “I’ll take you downtown. There’s a lot going on there. I love visiting once in a while—the nights are the best, if you ask me.”

“But it’s hours before the sun’s down,” Minho points out, voice mild.

“Well,” Jisung says, matching his calm with a grin of his own, “that just gives us more time to do a whole lot more, no?”

“Oh my.” Minho beams—actually beams—and that’s how Jisung knows Minho is far too pleased about this. The smirk, the faint glint in his eyes, the quiet confidence radiating off him—it’s all there.

Jisung suddenly wonders if his little shift in attitude is about to backfire spectacularly.

They polish off the cheesecake in companionable silence—or something that pretends to be. Jisung keeps stealing small bites, if only to avoid meeting Minho’s gaze across the table, while Minho seems perfectly content just… watching.

When the plate’s empty, Minho signals the barista before Jisung can even think to reach for his wallet.

“I’ve got it,” Minho says simply, slipping a few bills into the check holder.

“Hey—”

“Consider it a tour fee,” he cuts in, tone smooth, no room for argument. The glint in his eyes says he’s enjoying this far too much.

Jisung opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it again with a quiet sigh. “You’re a force to be reckoned with.”

“Hah. Wait ‘til the end of the date,” Minho says as he pockets his wallet and phone, tone far too casual for Jisung’s sanity.

Date?

Jisung blinks, but Minho’s already on his feet.

“Let’s go.” He steps outside without another glance, and Jisung trails after him, the soft chime of the café door following them out into the bright late morning.

The morning light is turning softer now as they trudge down the sidewalk, filtered gold brushing against the pavement. Minho falls into step beside him, and it’s almost unsettling how natural it feels—like they’ve done this a dozen times before.

The weekend hush settles over everything—streets half-empty, sunlight slow and golden. The bus stop hums quietly when they arrive, the kind of calm that feels borrowed from another world.

When the bus arrives, it’s nearly empty. A few scattered passengers, the hiss of the doors, the soft groan of the engine idling. Minho takes the lead, scanning the rows before sliding into a seat near the middle. Jisung follows, dropping into the spot beside him because—well, it would be weird not to, right? The vinyl seats are cool against their legs, the hum of the engine soft and steady beneath their feet.

Their knees brush once. Light. Accidental, and Jisung is quick to shift away. Then again, when the bus eases around a corner. Neither of them moves this time.

Jisung keeps his eyes on the window, on the sunlight catching against glass buildings and wires. The reflection is cruel—it shows Minho beside him, head turned slightly toward the view, calm and unreadable. His hands rest neatly on his knees, posture careful, like even here, in the weekend quiet, he knows how much space to take up.

Jisung can feel the warmth bleeding through the narrow gap between them anyway. The faint scent of soap and that same woody vanilla note curls faintly in the air, dragging his mind straight back—

to another bus, another day,
the sudden jolt, Minho’s hand braced beside his shoulder, the press of heat too close to name.

He swallows hard. “Déjà vu,” he mutters before he can stop himself.

Minho barely catches it. “Mm?”

Jisung shakes his head quickly, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “The weather—it’s nice.”

Minho nods, slow. His gaze lingers a moment too long, the edges of his eyes softening in a way that feels unguarded.

“It is,” he says quietly—
and somehow, it sounds like he’s talking about something else entirely.

The bus sighs to a stop at the edge of downtown, and the moment they step off, the air changes.

Sound, color, motion—everything hits at once. Music spills from a busker’s speaker somewhere down the block, a smooth guitar riff carried over the murmur of weekend crowds. The street stretches ahead, a patchwork of pop-up stalls and bright storefronts, banners flapping lazily in the breeze.

Jisung takes a moment to just breathe it in. The smell of coffee and sweet dough, faint perfume from passing strangers, the low thrum of laughter and camera shutters. It’s familiar in a way that tugs something warm in his chest. He and Chan used to come down here all the time—late afternoons and late nights, cheap snacks, music bleeding from every corner. Back when they still thought the world was small enough to fit in a bus ride.

And before that—he almost smiles—before that, he’d been one of those kids standing on the corner with a guitar case open, mic taped to a rusted stand, voice shaking but alive. High school, his little group of friends, singing covers to whoever cared enough to listen.

He doesn’t tell Minho that, of course. No reason to.

“Welcome to the artistic hub,” he says instead, motioning vaguely down the street. “You’ve got indie clothing, handmade jewelry, street art, overpriced coffee—it’s basically capitalism with good taste.”

Minho huffs a quiet laugh beside him, and it startles Jisung how good that sound feels out here, outside of fluorescent lights and office chatter.

As they start walking, Minho takes everything in at an unhurried pace. He doesn’t talk much, just looks—eyes following a mural, pausing at a vendor’s table, nodding faintly at a dancer in the square.

Jisung glances at him out of the corner of his eye, watching the way sunlight slides along the line of his jaw, the way his expression softens when he watches the performers. It’s… strange, seeing him like this. Less guarded.

“So?” Jisung asks, forcing a grin. “Still think this tour was worth the fee?”

Minho looks over, eyes bright, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “So far,” he says. “Yeah.”

And for a moment, in the middle of all that noise and color, it feels like the whole street has slowed down just enough to let that answer sink in. 

They move along the line of stalls, the air thick with roasted-coffee sweetness and the faint tang of acrylic paint. Every few steps, something catches Minho’s eye—hand-stitched tote bags, silver rings, rows of tiny ceramic cats with crooked smiles.

“You like any of this?” Jisung asks, walking half a pace ahead. “I could get you something. You know, a welcome-to-the-city gift.”

Minho hums, pretending to consider as he studies a rack of vintage shirts. “You usually buy gifts for your coworkers?”

“Only the ones I accidentally make eye contact with for more than three seconds.”

“Dangerous policy,” Minho says, lips twitching.

Jisung shrugs. “I’m a generous man.”

“Mm.” Minho glances sideways at him, sunlight slipping through the space between them. “Generous, or guilty?”

“Excuse me?”

Minho picks up a ring from a tray, holds it up to the light. “You’ve been avoiding me on the bus all week, and now you’re offering bribes.”

Jisung sputters. “It’s not a bribe, it’s—hospitality.” So he was looking.

“Hospitality,” Minho echoes, sliding the ring onto his finger just to test the size. “You planning to offer that to everyone, or just me?”

“Just you,” Jisung says before he can stop himself, and then instantly regrets it. “I mean—not like that. Just—you know. You’re new. It’s a city-welcome kind of—”

Minho turns the ring between his fingers, the metal catching the light. “Then I’ll take it.”

Jisung blinks. “What?”

“The gift. Since you’re offering.”

He’s still smiling when he hands the ring to the seller, and Jisung swears the bastard’s doing it on purpose—the deliberate calm, the quiet ease of someone who knows exactly how much space he takes up in a moment.

Jisung pays for the ring and when Minho slides it back onto his finger, he looks at Jisung again. “You’re right,” he says. “This place isn’t so bad.”

Jisung scoffs, trying to sound unaffected. “Told you.”

“Guess I just needed the right guide.”

And Jisung has to look away, because there’s only so much heat a midday sun and a man like that can both give off at once.

They drift toward the next stall—a small canopy of hanging keychains and wooden trinkets, sunlight flickering off polished surfaces. Tiny carved animals line the table: foxes, dogs, owls, and an entire row of cats in every pose imaginable—sleeping, stretching, mid-pounce.

Minho pauses.

Jisung notices the way Minho’s expression shifts—barely a change, just a tiny pull at the corner of his mouth, soft and almost fond. “You’re staring,” Jisung says, wanting to nudge his shoulder or something, but he stops himself. “Something caught your eye?”

“These,” Minho murmurs, picking up a small cat figurine with a raised paw. “They remind me of my cats.”

“Plural?” Jisung blinks. “As in—you have cats?”

“Three,” Minho says, tone casual but the faint smile lingers. “Sori, Dori, and Doongi.”

Jisung almost chokes on air. “You named them to rhyme?”

“Do we have problem with that?” Minho asks, mock-serious. “All rescues. Different places, different years—guess I just got lucky with the rhyme.”

Jisung stares at him, incredulous. “You rhymed their names on purpose?”

Minho shrugs, pretending nonchalance but there’s a hint of pride tucked in his smirk. “You try naming three cats on the spot after crying in an adoption center.”

Jisung blinks, then laughs—really laughs this time, the sound slipping out carefreely. “That’s—adorably ridiculous,” Jisung says before he can stop himself. “Where are they now?”

“With my parents,” Minho says, setting the figurine back carefully. “Didn’t want to drag them into the city with me. Too noisy, too small. They’re happier there.” He picks up another cat figurine. “They own the house now. My parents are just tenants.”

Jisung grins, watching the faint fondness settle on Minho’s face as he sets the tiny figurine back down. “You miss them.”

Minho’s voice softens, almost lost under the chatter of the street. “Yeah. Every day.” Then, after a beat: “Didn’t think you’d peg me for a cat person.”

“Didn’t think you’d be one,” Jisung shoots back. “You seem more like a... cactus person. Low maintenance, no strings attached.”

Minho turns to him, an eyebrow raised. “And you?”

“Me?”

“What kind of person would you say you are?”

Jisung opens his mouth to answer—and promptly realizes he has no clue. “A person person,” he says lamely.

Minho laughs, low and warm, the sound threading through the street noise. “I’ll figure that out myself then.”

They end up staying longer than either of them planned. Every few steps, something else catches Minho’s eye—a rack of vintage records, a booth of handmade silver jewelry, a vendor selling enamel pins shaped like cartoon cats. He’s one stall away from buying a mug with whiskers painted on it when Jisung pulls him back by the wrist. (“You’re one impulse purchase away from being that guy,” Jisung teases, and Minho just hums, unbothered).

They collect small things as they go: a thin silver necklace that Jisung keeps fiddling with between his fingers, a pair of round, tinted glasses that Minho buys on a whim—and that Jisung secretly thinks look far too good on him. They snack their way through the market—skewers, candied fruit, something fried and unidentifiable but good—and drift in and out of the ebbing crowd, their shoulders brushing more often than not.

They talk in half-banter, half-confession—filling the air between them with laughter that blends into the street’s noise, the kind that feels easy and reckless all at once.

And before they know it, the sun starts to set—soft orange bleeding into violet, shadows stretching long across the pavement. The streetlights flicker awake, one by one, and the crowd changes shape: couples, friends, musicians setting up under awnings. Somewhere, someone strums a guitar, and Jisung’s head turns automatically toward the sound.

Minho notices it before Jisung even does—the way his steps slow, the tilt of his head toward the low hum of an amp warming up somewhere down the block. He’s still mid-chew, a paper cup of tteokbokki in hand, when his gaze goes soft in that direction, eyes unfocused like he’s been pulled by a memory instead of a sound.

“You wanna go see?” Minho asks, voice gentle enough that it barely cuts through the crowd’s noise.

Jisung blinks, caught. “Huh?”

“The music.” Minho nods toward the corner where a small crowd is gathering. “You’ve been zoning out for the last twenty steps.”

Jisung looks away, a small embarrassed laugh slipping out. “Sorry. Force of habit, I guess.”

“Force of habit?”

“I just—used to play,” Jisung admits after a pause, rubbing the back of his neck. “A while ago. Back in high school. Me and my friends would busk sometimes, down streets like this.”

Minho’s mouth curves—not teasing, just soft, curious. “Of course you did.”

“‘Of course’?” Jisung repeats, eyebrow raised.

“You’ve got that look,” Minho says simply. “Like someone who forgets the world when there’s music around.”

That shuts him up faster than any teasing could’ve. Jisung’s throat tightens, something fragile catching there. He clears it quickly, forcing a half-grin. “You know,” he says, tone light but pointed, “there are probably nicer ways to say that.”

Minho blinks, thrown off. “Was that rude? Sorry,” he says after a beat, genuine enough that it startles Jisung more than the comment did. “My words tend to sound mean without me meaning to.”

He pauses, gaze flicking toward Jisung again. “I mean it, though. You do look like someone who appreciates music.”

Jisung huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I’m used to worse.”

“Still,” Minho says softly, like he means it, “I’ll work on it.”

Jisung doesn’t answer that, just lets the corner of his mouth lift before nodding toward the sound of the guitar. “Come on. Let’s check it out before the crowd grows.”

Minho falls into step beside him without another word, their shoulders brushing once as they move toward the light and the steady pulse of music spilling through the street—warm and alive, like something waiting for them to notice. They join the small crowd, gathering around a busker sitting on a low stool, fingers dancing effortlessly over the strings of a well-loved guitar. The melody drifts through the air like honey—warm, slow, spilling into the golden light pooling between the buildings. The air smells like roasted chestnuts and sugar, the faint tang of street smoke curling under every breath.

He hums before he knows it, quiet, barely audible over the strum—but Minho’s close enough to catch it. The sound blends with the music, light and sure, like his voice has been waiting for something familiar to follow.

The chorus comes, and the small crowd hums along—softly, just under the music, enough to fill the space but not drown it. Jisung’s voice joins too, quiet but sure, threading seamlessly through the melody. He doesn’t sing loud, doesn’t even think he’s singing loud enough to matter—except Minho can hear him. Clearly. Every word, every breath between notes, the unguarded warmth that slips through when Jisung forgets to hold himself back.

And it’s beautiful. Unintentionally, achingly beautiful.

Jisung’s gaze stays on the performer, his own lips shaping the words automatically, shoulders relaxed for the first time all day. He has no idea that Minho hasn’t looked away once—that he’s watching the way the light pools on Jisung’s full cheek, the way his mouth curves slightly as he hits a note dead-on, how his voice blends with the crowd but somehow still stands out, distinct, real.

The song ends too soon, swallowed by soft applause. Jisung blinks, realizing only then that he’s smiling. He claps along, palms warm, chest lighter.

“That was—” He stops himself before the word beautiful can leave his tongue. “—really good. He’s really good,” he says instead, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Minho hums, low and thoughtful, barely audible beneath the fading noise of the crowd. “You…” He trails off.

Jisung glances at him, curious. “Yeah?”

Minho looks away for a moment, eyes tracking the busker as they tune their guitar. “You knew every word.”

“Oh—” Jisung laughs, a little too quickly. “Was I that loud? I mean, everyone else was singing along. I was just—just blending in.”

“No,” Minho says, tone even but soft. “You weren’t too loud.” His gaze lingers on the guitar case on the ground, like it’s easier than looking directly at Jisung. “Not that it’d be a bad thing if you were.”

Jisung’s brows draw together, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Okay, and… why’s that?”

Minho finally turns, meets his eyes. There’s a beat, quiet and charged, before he answers.

“Because you can sing,” he says simply. A pause, then—lower, certain—“And I mean you can sing.”

His throat goes dry, the words catching somewhere between a laugh and a denial. “I—uh. I mean, I can carry a tune. That’s not the same thing as—”

“Jisung.”

Minho’s tone is quiet, but it lands heavy. There’s no teasing in it, no easy smirk. Just certainty, smooth and unshaken.

And that—that—is what undoes Jisung.

The noise of the street feels far away suddenly; the laughter, the chatter, the soft thrum of music bleeding into the night—all of it blurs at the edges. Jisung’s ears are full of his own pulse, steady and loud. He can feel heat crawling up the side of his neck, settling somewhere between his collar and his ears, impossible to ignore.

He ducks his head, muttering, “You…don’t have to say things like that, you know.”

Minho hums, the corner of his mouth curving. His tone is soft—too soft for Jisung’s liking, “Why not, if they’re true?”

Jisung doesn’t answer. Can’t, really. He just shoves his hands into his pockets, staring stubbornly at the pavement like it might offer him a lifeline.

He is not blushing. He isn’t. He’s just—warm. The street lights, the crowd, the residual heat from the day—yeah, that’s all.

Definitely not because Minho said his name like it was a note worth repeating.

The next song kicks in before Jisung can think of something smart—or safe—to say back.
A faster beat this time, sharper, brighter. The kind that wakes the whole street up.

The crowd thickens almost instantly, bodies pressing closer together, voices overlapping as people cheer. Someone moves in too near and Jisung instinctively steps back, bumping into Minho’s shoulder. The heat of him is immediate—steady, grounding—but too much. Way too much.

“Uh—maybe we should…” He clears his throat, voice half-lost under the swell of the chorus. “Keep walking? Find something else?”

Minho glances at him, unreadable for half a second before nodding. “Sure.”

They slip out of the crowd, weaving through clusters of people and food carts until the music fades into a hum behind them. The air feels easier here—cooler, open—and Jisung finally exhales, shoulders relaxing as they wander down another street lined with lights and chatter.

This one’s livelier—more movement than sound. Ahead, a group of dancers takes up the center of the walkway, speakers blasting a heavy hip-hop track. The audience forms a loose circle, whooping and clapping as the dancer in front spins into a perfect freeze before bouncing back up, sweat gleaming under the streetlights.

Minho stops.

It’s subtle, the way his body goes still—the way something flickers across his expression, soft and distant. Jisung notices it anyway. He follows Minho’s gaze, then looks back at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You used to teach, right?” he asks, voice careful but curious.

Minho hums. “Yeah.” His tone is quiet, half caught in the rhythm from the speakers. “He reminds me of one of my students.”

Jisung tilts his head. “You were that good, huh?”

Minho lets out a small laugh through his nose. “They were just kids who wanted to move. I just kept them from breaking their ankles.”

But his eyes don’t leave the dancer—not once. Jisung can tell it’s not just admiration; there’s something like nostalgia there, threaded with something heavier.

For a moment, Jisung just watches him. Watches how the colored lights catch in Minho’s eyes, how his posture softens with every beat. It’s strange—seeing him like this, unguarded, the usual calm stripped down to something quiet and human.

“Do you miss it?” Jisung asks before he can stop himself.

Minho hesitates, then nods, just once. “Sometimes,” he says. “The noise. The mirrors. The feeling of moving without thinking.” His gaze flicks briefly to Jisung. “You probably get it.”

Jisung blinks. “Me?”

“You make music,” Minho says simply, turning back toward the dancers. “It’s the same thing, isn’t it? Creating something that lets you forget everything else for a bit.”

The music shifts again, heavier bass, brighter lights—and somehow, Jisung feels that hit deeper than it should.

The bass deepens, rattling through the pavement, but Minho’s voice threads cleanly through it—low, deliberate, and calm.

“Sometimes it’s not even about dancing well,” he says after a moment, gaze still fixed on the street performers. “It’s about… remembering what it feels like to take up space.”

Jisung glances sideways at him. “That sounds kinda poetic for an IT guy.”

That earns him the faintest twitch of Minho’s lips. “You’d be surprised how many lines of code are just choreography in disguise.”

Jisung laughs softly, breath catching on the exhale. “You do miss it.”

Minho nods, slow. “Yeah. There’s a kind of silence that comes after music ends. It’s not empty, just… still.” His eyes flick to Jisung, just for a second. “I liked that part.”

Jisung studies him, the sharp edges of Minho’s features softened by the neon and dusk. His hair catches the light, his expression open in a way Jisung’s never seen at work—no glasses, no lanyard, no careful distance. Just him. Present.

And somehow that’s worse. Or better. He can’t tell.

“Do you ever think about doing it again?” Jisung asks before his brain can intercept the question.

Minho hums, the sound half-lost in the rhythm. “Sometimes. But teaching’s hard when you don’t know if you’re staying somewhere long enough to see it through.”

“Right,” Jisung says quietly, thumb rubbing the rim of his cup. “You moved here just recently, huh.”

“Almost a month now,” Minho confirms. “Still getting used to things.” A pause, then: “You make it look easy.”

“Me?” Jisung laughs, startled. “I’ve lived here for years. There’s nothing easy about it. Just… familiar.”

Minho’s eyes meet his again. “Familiar’s not a bad thing.”

Jisung’s throat tightens a little, the word settling heavier than it should. There’s nothing in Minho’s tone that asks for anything, but something in it still sounds like want.

The dancer moves like water poured into rhythm—sharp and fluid, every motion snapping clean, then melting into the next. Jisung watches, but only half-sees him. The rest of his mind drifts somewhere else.

He wonders—against his better judgment—how Minho would look if it were him out there instead. The thought creeps in quietly, uninvited. But once it’s there, it doesn’t leave.

He imagines the way Minho’s body would follow the beat, precise but never stiff, the same quiet confidence he carries in every step, translated into motion. The roll of his shoulders, deliberate. The flex of his wrist, smooth. The way his hips might shift with the rhythm, unhurried but sure, like gravity itself bends around him.

And his face—Jisung can almost see it. That focused calm, that slight crease between his brows. The kind of look that makes it seem like the whole world could collapse and he’d still be perfectly in sync with the music.

The air feels warmer suddenly, heavier. He blinks, realizing his pulse has matched the beat of the song—loud, insistent, embarrassingly so.

Then the music cuts.

Applause bursts through the air, shattering the haze, and Jisung startles a little, joining the crowd’s cheer a second too late. He drags his eyes away from the stage, blinking back to reality, to the lights and chatter and the shape of Minho beside him—steady, composed, clapping once, twice.

“He’s good,” Minho says, voice calm, measured. “Got control.”

Jisung exhales, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking to Minho again—still composed, still unfairly collected. “Yeah, he does.”

The crowd begins to thin, dispersing into the gentle hum of evening. Strings of light stretch overhead, washing the street in amber and gold, and Jisung’s still trying to convince his pulse to slow. The city has softened with dusk — laughter spilling from the food stalls, warm smoke curling against the cooling air.

Minho slows beside him, hands tucked into his pockets. “It’s different at night,” he says, half to himself.

Jisung glances up at the rows of bulbs strung over the street, their faint flicker catching in Minho’s hair. “You mean quieter?”

“Quieter,” Minho nods, “but louder too. Feels like everyone starts breathing at the same time.”

Jisung huffs a soft laugh. “That’s either poetic or concerning.”

Minho’s mouth curves. “Depends on who’s listening.”

They keep walking, shoulders brushing every few steps. A street performer somewhere behind them starts playing a mellow guitar tune, the melody slipping through the crowd like honey. Minho seems to catch the rhythm immediately; his fingers tap lightly against his thigh, in time with the beat.

“You do that a lot,” Jisung says before he can stop himself.

“Do what?”

“Keep time,” he says, mimicking the tapping. “Even when there’s no music.”

Minho glances down, amused. “Force of habit. I used to count beats in everything — conversations, footsteps, code.”

“Code?”

Minho shrugs. “Syntax has rhythm. It’s not so different from choreography. Just less forgiving when you mess up.”

Jisung laughs, the sound slipping out warmer than he intends. “You make programming sound like an art.”

“It can be,” Minho says easily. “Depends on the person.”

The lights catch in his eyes when he says it — soft brown and gold, steady, unreadable — and Jisung finds himself looking a second too long before quickly facing forward again.

To distract himself, he points toward a tteokbokki stall up ahead, the red sauce glistening under the fluorescent light. “You eat spicy food?”

“Do I look like someone who can’t handle spice?”

Jisung glances him over, playful. “You look like someone who pretends he can and regrets it halfway through.”

Minho laughs, low and surprised. “Fair enough.”

“Come on,” Jisung says, already moving. “We’ll test the theory.”

“Let me treat you, at least,” Minho replies, following. “Tour-guide payment.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Minho cuts in, that same unbothered tone that drives Jisung half mad. “But I want to.”

They stop at the cart, the smell of sweet and spice filling the air. The vendor greets them warmly, sauce bubbling like lava behind the glass. Minho orders before Jisung can protest again, and while they wait, they hover close — not quite touching, but close enough that Jisung can feel the warmth radiating from his arm.

When the skewers arrive, Jisung takes one, blowing on it carefully. “I’m warning you, this stuff can be brutal.”

Minho raises a brow, dipping his own into the sauce. “Good thing I’m a fast learner.”

Jisung watches him take the first bite — watches the faint twitch of his mouth as the spice hits.

“So?”

Minho clears his throat lightly, nodding once. “Fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious,” Minho insists, reaching for another piece. “Perfectly fine.”

Jisung grins, wicked. “Then have mine too.”

The challenge earns him a look — one of those calm, unreadable ones that somehow manage to knock the breath from his chest. But Minho leans in anyway, taking the offered skewer without breaking eye contact.

The air between them hums — sweet, spicy, charged.

And then Minho says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “You really like this city, huh?”

Jisung looks down at the food in his hands. “It’s loud,” he admits. “But not in a bad way. I like when it’s alive like this.”

Minho hums, quiet. “Alive suits you.”

The comment hangs there — light, unassuming, but it lands hard anyway.

Jisung laughs softly, trying to wave it off. “You’ve got a dangerous way of saying things, you know that?”

Minho smiles faintly, gaze dipping to the space between them. “Guess I’ve been told worse.”

The noise of the crowd melts into something gentler as they enjoy their late-night snack, sitting next to each other on a bench in a quieter corner, the street sinking into deeper gold. The air smells like caramelized sugar and smoke, and somewhere a busker’s guitar hums through the din.

They eat away without rushing, two paper cups of tteokbokki in hand, sauce staining the skewers between their fingers.

“So,” Minho says after a stretch of easy silence, “how long have you been at JP?”

Jisung hums, pretending to think about it even though the number’s carved into him. “Four years. Going on five soon.”

“Four years?” Minho’s brows lift, impressed. “That’s… a while.”

“Mm.” Jisung shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I like it enough. Or maybe I just got used to it. There’s comfort in knowing what every day’s supposed to look like, you know?”

Minho glances at him, head tilted. “You like the predictability.”

“Yeah.” Jisung nods, rolling a skewer between his fingers. “Bus at eight, desk by nine, coffee before ten, lunch at one. Rinse and repeat. Makes it easier to breathe when everything stays in its lane.”

“Is that why you always try to take the same seat on the bus?” Minho asks, tone light but knowing.

Jisung stops mid-step. “You— noticed that?”

Minho’s mouth twitches. “Hard not to.”

Jisung’s throat goes dry, the heat of the sauce suddenly a lot less responsible for the warmth crawling up his neck. “Oh. Well. Yeah. I guess I’m predictable like that.”

“Predictable’s not bad,” Minho says. “It’s… steady.” He glances down at his cup, stirring the sauce absently. “The world could use more steady.”

Jisung huffs softly. “You say that like you don’t have your own system.”

“I do,” Minho admits, tone even. “But mine tends to break itself every few months.”

“Break itself?”

He nods. “New city. New job. New walls. Easier to start over than get too used to one thing.”

Jisung studies him for a moment, trying to read what’s hidden beneath the simplicity of that statement. “That sounds lonely.”

Minho’s eyes flick up to meet his. “Sometimes it is.”

The quiet that follows doesn’t feel heavy—it just settles, the way warmth does after a good meal. The two of them stand side by side, facing the slow pulse of the city, the noise folding around them like background music.

Jisung breaks it first, his voice softer now. “Guess that makes us opposites then.”

“Opposites work,” Minho replies, with a small shrug and that half-smile that always seems to pull something loose inside Jisung. “Keeps things interesting.”

“Sure,” Jisung says, pretending his heart isn’t doing the absolute most inside his chest. “Interesting.”

Minho’s lips curve further, just barely. “See? You even say it like it’s a risk.”

“It is,” Jisung mutters under his breath.

Minho chuckles, the sound threading through the hum of voices and music and sizzling oil. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

Jisung gives him a sidelong look, one brow arched. “That’s what people who bite always say.”

And that’s when Minho laughs, the sound warm and unguarded and absolutely unfair. It rolls through Jisung’s stomach like the heat from the food still in his hands, lingering long after the noise fades.

For a while, they just eat in silence again. The sky deepens to navy. The lamps burn brighter. Every once in a while, Jisung catches the faintest brush of Minho’s sleeve against his, a soft reminder that the night isn’t quite done with them yet.

They eventually finish their sweet and spicy snack and make their way to the bus stop. The bus stop hums with the last notes of the city—streetlights flickering overhead, laughter trailing from nearby cafés, the smell of grilled batter and sugar still clinging faintly to the air. Jisung feels pleasantly full, the spice lingering on his tongue, but the quiet ache under his ribs won’t settle.

When the bus arrives, it exhales a warm gust of air as the doors hiss open. Only a few passengers climb aboard—students half asleep, couples leaning into each other, someone with paint on their hands. Minho gestures toward an empty row near the back, and Jisung follows without thinking, sliding into the window seat as Minho takes the one beside him.

The engine hums to life, steady and low. The lights inside buzz softly, casting everything in that familiar muted yellow that makes the world feel a little closer than it should. They sit side by side, shoulders barely brushing—but barely is still too much. The contact feels like static, quiet but alive, threading heat up through Jisung’s arm and into his throat. Outside, the city glides past in streaks of gold and blue. Their reflections blur together in the window—two silhouettes too close to separate.

“So what do you think about the downtown, worth the trip?” Jisung asks, voice low.

Minho turns slightly toward him, his knee brushing Jisung’s. “Definitely,” he says, simple and certain. “Good food,” he gently elbows Jisung’s side, “good company.”

Jisung scoffs, trying to hide how the last word lands somewhere in his chest. “You really like saying things like that, huh.”

Minho hums, leaning back against the seat. “You really like pretending you don’t like hearing them.”

Jisung glares out the window, but it’s useless; his reflection is grinning. “Shut up, really.”

“Okay, Mr. Han,” Minho replies smoothly.

The bus rattles over a bump, jolting them closer. Jisung’s thigh presses against Minho’s for a heartbeat—warm, solid, too real—and though he jerks back a little, the echo of contact lingers like the aftertaste of spice.

Minho’s eyes flick down, noticing, but he doesn’t move away. He only says, with that deceptively mild tone, “You really do wear those pins every day.”

Jisung blinks, confused at the shift. “What?”

“Your pins,” Minho clarifies. “Guitar, rainbow, little microphone, music note, piano keys. I notice things.”

Jisung huffs out a nervous laugh, fingers instinctively brushing over the pins on his bag on his lap. “That’s… yeah, I just like them. Makes everything less depressing.”

“I like them too.” Minho pauses. “Can I have one?”

Jisung snaps his head toward him. “What?”

Minho’s lips twitch. “One of your pins. You have a collection. I collect small things.”

Jisung stares. “Are you five?”

“Six,” Minho says, deadpan. “But mature for my age.”

The laugh slips out before Jisung can stop it—sharp, startled, genuine. The kind that makes his chest ache a little on the inhale. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Minho says. “But I’d still like a pin.”

“No chance,” Jisung says, tugging playfully at his bag strap. “Earn it.”

“Earn it, huh?” Minho’s voice dips, low and smooth, and before Jisung can react, Minho leans in—just enough for the air between them to shift.

Jisung instinctively leans back, his spine brushing the cool plastic of the seat. His eyes dart everywhere—Minho’s calm but mischievous gaze, the neat curve of his brows, the sharp line of his nose, the full upper lip that moves just slightly when he speaks.

“Minho—”

“Earn it, you say.”

“Tch.” Jisung clicks his tongue, trying to sound unbothered even as his pulse stutters. He straightens, forcing Minho to ease back, though not nearly far enough. “B-buy me coffee for a week or something.”

“Mm.” Minho hums, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Done.”

Jisung turns, surprised. “What?”

“Coffee for a week,” Minho repeats. “Seems like a fair trade.”

Jisung scoffs, but it sounds weak, frayed at the edges. “You sound way too sure about that.”

“Confidence is part of the charm.”

“Charm?” he repeats, staring hard out the window. “Didn’t know you were self-aware.”

A soft chuckle, warm and quiet. “You’d be surprised what I’m aware of.”

The bus hits a bump, and their thighs press together — briefly, but long enough for Jisung’s breath to hitch. He doesn’t move away. Neither does Minho. The warmth seeps through the thin fabric of his slacks, and suddenly, the air feels too thick, too alive.

He can see their reflections in the window: Minho’s profile, calm and steady, the faint glow of passing streetlights catching along his jaw. His own reflection beside it— tense shoulders, parted lips, eyes he doesn’t recognize.

Minho shifts slightly, his sleeve brushing against Jisung’s arm. “You always get this quiet?”

“Only when people are trying to make me nervous.”

A pause. Then, softly — “Is it working?”

Jisung laughs, but it breaks halfway through. “You tell me.”

Another bump in the road. The space between them evaporates entirely. Their knees are pressed, shoulders aligned, the kind of closeness that shouldn’t mean anything — shouldn’t, but it does. Minho smells faintly like coffee and clean laundry, and something else underneath that Jisung recognizes now — that soft, woody note that hit him in the server room.

He hates that he notices.

Minho leans just enough that his breath brushes against the shell of Jisung’s ear when he speaks. “You said seventeen stops, right?”

“Mm.” His voice cracks, low and caught somewhere between his throat and his pulse. “Seventeen.”

“We’ve got time then.”

“Time for what?”

He shrugs, the movement lazy, unhurried. “Conversation. Observation. Whatever this is.”

Jisung exhales, the sound half a laugh, half surrender. “You talk like someone who’s very sure of himself.”

Minho glances at him, eyes soft in the half-light. “No,” he says quietly. “Just sure about you.”

The air catches.

Jisung can feel the warmth rise up his neck, pooling under his skin. His heart stumbles once—just once—but the echo of it carries through his entire body.

He bites on his lower lip and looks away again, out at the dark city. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” he breaks off, turning toward the window. His reflection stares back, flushed and hopelessly obvious. “Because it sounds like flirting.”

The moment hangs. The bus hums on, soft and endless, and when Jisung risks a glance sideways, he instantly wishes he hadn’t said it.

The look on Minho’s face shifts—barely, but enough. The easy warmth fades from his expression, replaced by something quieter, careful. His eyes lower, his mouth tightens a fraction like he’s trying not to make it worse.

And Jisung’s chest aches at the sight. He hadn’t meant to dim the light there.

For a beat, neither of them says anything. Then Minho’s voice breaks through, softer than before—steady, but threaded with apology.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Jisung blinks, startled by the sincerity in his tone.

“You didn’t,” he says too quickly, then softer, “You just… say things like you mean them.”

“I do mean them,” Minho murmurs. “But I don’t want you to think I’m trying to cross a line.”

Jisung shakes his head, forcing a small laugh. “You’re fine. I’m just—bad at taking things at face value.”

“Then I’ll make sure to be clearer next time.”

Jisung risks another look. Minho is facing forward now, expression calm again, but his fingers tap once against his knee, the smallest tell of nerves.

The ache lingers anyway—warm, persistent, impossible to name. The silence stretches, gentle but heavy. The bus rattles over a rough patch of road, the vibration running through the soles of Jisung’s shoes and up into his ribs.

He can still feel the aftertaste of the conversation—the awkward twist in his gut, the regret curling behind his ribs. Minho hasn’t looked at him since, eyes fixed on the passing blur of lights.

Jisung fidgets with the strap of his bag, his thumb brushing over the small enamel pin near the zipper. A tiny green alien, wide-eyed and grinning. He’s had it for years—bought it on a whim at a flea market because it looked weirdly hopeful.

He doesn’t think. He just unclips it.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Minho turns, brows lifting slightly. “Yeah?”

Jisung holds out the pin in his palm. The overhead light catches on the metal edges, flashing dull green. “Here. Take it.”

Minho blinks, confusion flickering in his eyes. “I thought I had to earn it.”

Jisung shakes his head, lips quirking. “You already did.”

Minho studies him for a second longer than feels safe. “You don’t have to give me anything just because—”

“I know.” Jisung cuts him off gently, fingers brushing Minho’s as he presses the pin into his hand. The contact is brief, a spark that jolts straight through him. “It’s not about that. I just… feel bad for making you say sorry.”

Minho looks down at the pin resting in his palm. The alien grins up at him, tiny and ridiculous. He lets out a quiet breath that sounds almost like a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You carry guilt in strange shapes, Jisung.”

“Maybe,” Jisung mutters, trying to play it off. “Or maybe I just like the idea of you walking around with something weird.”

“That suits you.”

“What, being weird?”

“No.” Minho looks up, and there’s something dangerously soft in his expression. “Liking things that don’t make sense at first.”

The sentence lands quietly, but it rings somewhere deep — a slow, steady echo that hums beneath the sound of the bus. It sits in Jisung’s chest, a little too heavy, a little too true.
For a second, it feels like the whole world pauses just to let the words sink in.

Jisung laughs it off, because what else can he do? “You talk like you’re writing fortune cookies.”

“Guess I’m better at it than I thought,” Minho says easily, turning the pin between his fingers before clipping it to his shirt.

Jisung stares at it—at the little green alien sitting crookedly against plaid cotton—and something in him twists. It’s absurd, it’s small, and yet it feels like a piece of him is sitting there, right over Minho’s heart.

He clears his throat. “You’re really gonna wear that?”

“Of course.” Minho glances down, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Wouldn’t want to disrespect the artist.”

“I didn’t make it.”

“Still,” Minho says, turning slightly toward him again, voice dropping low enough that it feels like a secret, “you gave it to me.”

Jisung tries to keep the smile on his face, but his heart hasn’t quite caught up — it’s still back there, somewhere in that sentence, replaying it like a soft alarm he doesn’t know how to shut off. The bus lurches to a stoplight, and in the pause that follows, he can feel Minho’s gaze on him—steady, quiet, warm enough to feel through the layers of air and fabric between them.

He tries to focus on the blur of headlights outside, on the rhythm of the bus, on anything else. But it’s hopeless. Every sense keeps circling back to this—

the faint brush of Minho’s sleeve against his,
the low hum of his voice,
the soft scent of that same woody vanilla that’s followed Jisung from elevator rides to coffee shops to now.

It fills the small space between them, thick and dizzying.

When the bus slows again, Jisung realizes—too late—that his stop is next.

“Uh. That’s me.” He mutters under his breath, fumbling with his bag. His fingers miss the zipper twice before he finally slings the strap over his shoulder. He stands, and Minho immediately shifts, knees angling to give him space, hand braced lightly on the seatback.

Jisung steps past, close enough that his sleeve brushes Minho’s shoulder—too brief to count, too real to ignore.

He moves toward the front, gripping the cold pole by the door, steadying himself as the bus tilts into its stop. Outside, the street glows soft and silver under the lamps, the air tinted with that quiet stillness unique to late hours.

Almost there.
Almost gone.

Then—

“Jisung.”

It cuts through the low hum of the engine, low but clear.
He turns instantly.

Minho’s on his feet, standing halfway down the aisle, one hand curled around the seat beside him. The light from the passing streetlamps stripes across his face—soft, gold, alive.

“Yeah?” Jisung manages, the word catching on his tongue.

Minho’s gaze meets his, steady. “Can I text you?”

The question hangs there, small and ordinary, but it lands like thunder in the space between them.

For a heartbeat, Jisung doesn’t move. The bus hasn’t even stopped yet—the brakes sigh, the doors about to open, the driver half-watching in the mirror—but time has already split open right down the middle.

Jisung blinks. “T-text me?”

Minho nods once. No teasing this time. No smirk. Just quiet sincerity that somehow feels louder than anything else tonight. “If that’s okay.”

Jisung’s chest tightens. He wants to say something clever, but all that comes out is a breath.
“Yeah. Okay.”

The bus finally stops. The door hisses open with a rush of cold air, cutting through the warmth between them. The wind catches in Jisung’s hair, carrying the faint scent of rain and the city’s hum.

He grips the railing a little tighter, glances back one last time.

Minho hasn’t sat back down. He’s still standing there, one hand in his pocket, the alien pin glinting faintly on his shirt in the dull yellow light.

“See you Monday?” Minho asks, quieter this time—almost gentle.

“Yeah,” Jisung breathes. “See you.”

And then he’s stepping out, the night swallowing him whole, the bus doors sliding closed with a sharp hiss that feels far too final. The air outside is colder than he expects. His hair stirs in the breeze, his heartbeat still in his throat. The taillights fade down the street, glowing red through the dark.

When Jisung finally opens the door, the warmth of home hits him first—the faint light from the kitchen, the quiet clatter dying mid-motion. Chan’s silhouette freezes in the hallway. Jisung stands there, still and breathless, wind in his hair, eyes glassy and wrecked. The air between them holds everything he can’t say—every heartbeat still echoing from the bus. And for a moment, Jisung looks like someone who just realized he’s been ruined by something gentle.

Morning comes slow. The light filters weakly through the blinds, cutting the room into pale stripes that stretch across his sheets. Jisung’s been awake for hours, staring at the same text on his screen until the words blur.

thanks for tonight. u made it feel like im home

It’s still there, glowing faintly in the dimness, and every time he reads it, his chest tightens in the same way. The message isn’t long. It isn’t flowery. But it sits in him like a weight, warm and unbearable.

He doesn’t reply. He can’t. His thumb hovers over the keyboard, useless. The thought of saying anything back feels too big for the tiny box of a text message.

The apartment hums around him—soft city noise through the walls, the low whir of the fridge down the hall, the faint scent of coffee that means Chan’s awake.

A knock, gentle but hesitant.  “Jisung?”

The door cracks open a little, light spilling in. Chan’s hair is a mess, his hoodie half-zipped, concern written all over his face.

“You okay?”

Jisung exhales through his nose, a tired laugh escaping him. “You always start your mornings by asking loaded questions?”

Chan doesn’t bite. He steps in, sits on the edge of the bed, eyes flicking to the phone in Jisung’s hand. “You’ve been up a while.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jisung says simply.

Chan nods once, glancing toward the window. “Bad dreams?”

“Not really.” Jisung flips his phone over, face-down on the blanket, screen still glowing faintly. “Just… thoughts.”

A beat of silence. Then, carefully—“You wanna talk about it?”

Jisung considers lying, but the look on Chan’s face kills the impulse. They’ve lived together too long for that. He hesitates, then says, quiet and flat, “He texted me.”

Chan blinks. “The bus guy?”

“The IT guy,” Jisung mutters, dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah. Him.”

“What’d he say?”

Jisung doesn’t look away from the ceiling. “That I made him feel like he’s home.”

It’s quiet again. The kind of quiet that means Chan’s thinking, but trying not to sound like he is.

Finally, he sighs, leaning back on his palms. “And that’s bad because…?”

“It’s not bad,” Jisung says quickly. “It’s just—” He falters, searching for the right word. “It’s a lot.”

Chan hums, lips twitching. “You’ve said that about every major emotion you’ve ever felt.”

“That’s because every major emotion I’ve ever felt has been a lot.”

Chan laughs under his breath, the sound small but grounding. “What do you feel about it?”

Jisung picks up his phone again, thumbing the edge of the case. The message still glows on the screen—small, harmless-looking, but it burns just the same. He stares at it for a long moment, then locks the screen and lets it fall beside him on the sheets.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, voice low and tired. “But I don’t think I can ignore it.”

“The text?” Chan asks, quiet. “Or the way you feel about the text?”

Jisung doesn’t answer. The morning light shifts—soft, gold, spilling warm across the blanket. Somewhere in that stillness, he exhales, long and uneven, like the kind of breath that gives something up.

Chan nods once, gentle. “Take it easy, Jisung,” he says, his tone soft enough to break the quiet without shattering it. He reaches out and pats Jisung’s thigh under the blanket. “At least reply. A ‘welcome’ would do.”

One last pat, and Chan leaves the room, the door clicking shut with a soft finality. The sound hangs there for a second before the apartment settles back into stillness—muffled traffic outside, the hum of the refrigerator somewhere down the hall, the whisper of morning air through the blinds.

Jisung sinks further into the mattress, the sheets cool against his skin. The quiet should help him think, but it only makes the noise in his head louder.

Yeah, that’s the least he could do. Reply.
It can’t be that hard, right?

He reaches for his phone again, the movement slow, hesitant. The device is warm from sitting beside him, and for some reason, that tiny detail makes his chest ache. The screen lights up, and there it is—Minho’s message.

thanks for tonight. u made it feel like im home

Simple. Barely a dozen words. And yet it feels too full, like if he stares long enough, it’ll spill over.

Jisung’s thumb hovers above the keyboard, the blue bubble blinking in the corner of the screen, waiting. What should I even say? Welcome? Glad you had fun, don’t text me again?

Every option feels either too much or not enough.

He exhales through his nose, the breath shaky. The morning light shifts again—brighter now, cutting through the blinds, striping his sheets with gold. He types something, hesitates, deletes it. Types again, pauses, deletes. His reflection stares back at him faintly in the glass of the screen: hair messy, eyes tired, mouth pressed in a thin line like he’s trying to stop himself from feeling anything at all.

It’s just a text. It’s not that deep. 

Except it is.

He sits up, legs crossed, phone balanced against his thigh. The cursor blinks—steady, patient, accusing. He can almost hear Chan’s voice in his head: At least reply. A ‘welcome’ suffices.

Finally, he lets out a quiet laugh to himself, low and resigned. “Yeah, sure, easy for you to say,” he mutters under his breath. His thumbs move before he can overthink it again.

glad u liked it. get some rest.

He stares at it for a few seconds, pulse loud in his ears, then hits send before his courage can cave in. The message whooshes away, the screen returning to stillness. And Jisung just sits there, phone still in hand, feeling like he’s dropped a stone into deep water and is waiting for the echo to come back.

For exactly three seconds, Jisung allows himself to breathe.

Then his phone buzzes. He flinches.

“No way.” He checks the screen.

good morning to u too. guess u were knocked out right away huh

Jisung stares at it, blinking like the words might rearrange themselves into something else. The timestamp mocks him: one minute after his message.

“Why is he awake?” Jisung mutters to no one, rubbing a hand over his face. It’s—what—eight-forty? Who’s up and texting at eight-forty on a Sunday?” (He pointedly ignores the fact that he’s been up since six.) His thumb hovers over the keyboard again. He types, deletes. Types. Deletes. Finally:

yeah. long day yesterday

He sends it before he can second-guess. The reply comes almost immediately.

didnt think walking n eating was that exhausting

Jisung stares, deadpan.

some of us actually have human limits

right. forgot u’re delicate

and u’re annoying

mm i guess thats why you making me buy you coffee for a week.
u think im annoying

oh my god. u remember that

owe u 7 cups. im not an asshole i pay my debts jisung

FINE
u dont have to. rlly

u think i only want this one pin?
im aiming for the bass one
by any chance do u have anything cat

stop treating my belongings like tradeable goods

:(
nothing cat?

even if i do im not giving u

give me
or i'll tell everyone on ninth floor ur little password habit

wow. threatening me on a sunday morning. unbelievable.
u know i can report u to hr for this just like how u abuse the mens room privilege

what privilege

changbin said he saw someone from IT in our mens room last week
did u telltale how good ours is to ur little department

jisung its a toilet

and im gatekeeping it

cute

 

Notes:

BODARRAMJI 4EVA