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The first thing Minho realises is that silence has weight.
It is not an abstract concept or a poetic exaggeration. It is tangible. It presses against his ribs and settles into the hollows of the room as though it has chosen to stay.
Silence did not always feel like this.
There was a time when they lived folded into one another’s lives in that perpetually chaotic dorm, when space was scarce and privacy even scarcer. Back then, silence was a rare and precious thing, something earned only in the narrow spaces between relentless schedules, careless laughter, and the metallic clatter of dishes abandoned in the sink at two in the morning. It would arrive softly, almost shyly, after the noise had exhausted itself.
And when it did, it was never heavy.
It was warm. It belonged to all of them.
It carried the faint scent of laundry detergent that never quite rinsed out and ramyeon left boiling a minute too long. It hummed with the quiet knowledge that someone was always just a wall away, breathing, shifting, existing in the same small universe. That kind of silence did not press down. It wrapped around them, shared and familiar, like a blanket thrown over tired shoulders.
Now, it settles differently.
Now, silence presses against his ribs like an uninvited confession, intimate and accusatory all at once.
The dorm is a memory softened by time, reduced to anecdotes and the occasional fond exaggeration.
Now, they have their own individual apartments, immaculate and intentional, each space arranged to reflect a version of themselves they have carefully cultivated. Their lives are no longer braided together by proximity. They are compartmentalized. Separate companies. Separate calendars. Separate worlds that run parallel but no longer overlap by default.
Distance has become practical. Necessary. Adult.
Jinki is no longer a presence down the hall, no longer a door left half open, no longer a quiet hum of movement in the kitchen at odd hours. He exists somewhere else now, in another building, under another roof, operating on a schedule Minho has to check rather than instinctively know.
The absence is subtle, but it is everywhere.
Minho stares at his phone for an unreasonable amount of time before typing. The screen reflects back at him, patient and indifferent. He unlocks it, locks it, unlocks it again, as though waiting for the right words to assemble themselves without effort. As though reaching out should not require this much thought.
His thumb hovers above the keyboard, suspended in a hesitation he does not quite want to examine.
Hyung. When are you free?
He deletes it.
Rewrites it.
Are you busy this week?
Deletes that too.
It feels absurd, almost laughable in its cruelty. How can someone he once argued with over toothpaste caps and shower schedules now feel like a distant constellation, visible but impossibly far? How does a person shift from being within arm’s reach to something you have to search the sky for?
The thought unsettles him more than he cares to admit.
He types again, slower this time, each letter deliberate, as though the act itself requires courage.
I miss you. When can I see you?
The words look bare on the screen. Unadorned. Honest in a way that makes his throat tighten. There are no jokes cushioning them, no casual deflection, no convenient emojis to dilute their weight.
For a fleeting second, his thumb hovers over the delete key. Old instincts stir. Tease him instead. Make it lighter. Make it easier.
He does not.
He lets the vulnerability remain exactly as it is. And then, before he can talk himself out of it, he presses send. The message whooshes away, leaving his pulse erratic and embarrassingly boyish.
It takes ten minutes for Jinki to reply.
Ten excruciating minutes during which Minho contemplates every possible interpretation of his own vulnerability.
I miss you too. I’m free Thursday night.
The breath leaves Minho in something perilously close to relief.
—
They meet in the lobby of a hotel so opulent it seems constructed from vanity itself. Marble floors polished to a celestial sheen, chandeliers refracting light like captured constellations, staff moving with the hushed precision of a well-rehearsed symphony.
Minho paid and chose it purposefully.
Neutral ground.
Somewhere that belonged to neither of them.
Jinki arrives in a long coat, hair slightly longer than Minho remembers, eyes crescented with that same guileless softness that has always been his undoing.
For a moment, Minho forgets how to breathe.
They do not hug immediately.
Instead, they stand facing each other, a breath too far apart, suspended in the delicate awkwardness that only exists between people who have known one another for years. Too long to feign indifference. Too deeply to maintain composure without effort.
There is a pause that feels almost ceremonial.
Time folds in on itself. In the quiet stretch between them lives every version of who they have been together: exhausted trainees, reckless twenty year olds, men learning how to endure what the world demanded of them. All of it hangs there, unspoken but unmistakably present.
They search each other’s faces in a way that is far too familiar to be casual. Not checking for change exactly, but for confirmation. You are still you. I am still me. We are still this.
The air hums with something fragile and restrained.
It would be easier to bridge the distance immediately, to collapse the space with a laugh or a casual shove to the shoulder. But neither of them moves. The hesitation is not reluctance. It is recognition. A quiet understanding that the moment carries weight, and once broken, it cannot be reassembled in quite the same way.
So they linger there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, caught in the gravity of everything they do not have to say.
“You look good,” Jinki says, and his voice is still warm honey over gravel.
“So do you,” Minho replies, and means: You look like the home I lost.
The elevator ride is quiet.
Not the brittle kind of quiet that demands to be filled, nor the strained variety that sharpens the air. This silence is different. It is saturated. Weighted with everything that has not yet found language.
Minho feels it settle between them as the doors slide shut.
He becomes acutely aware of proximity in a way that borders on hyperawareness. The confined space magnifies everything. The subtle warmth radiating from Jinki’s side feels almost conscious, even though it is not. The faint trace of citrus from his cologne lingers in the recycled air, clean and understated, achingly familiar. When the elevator shifts, their shoulders brush with the slightest sway, a contact so brief it could be dismissed as accidental.
It is not accidental.
Or perhaps it is. But neither of them moves away.
Minho keeps his gaze forward, watching the illuminated numbers ascend, yet his entire body is attuned to the presence beside him. He registers the rhythm of Jinki’s breathing, steady and controlled. He wonders if his own is as composed.
The space is small, but it feels expansive in its implications.
They stand close enough to touch, close enough to bridge the distance entirely, yet held apart by something invisible and fragile. The hum of the elevator fills the gaps between heartbeats.
And still, neither of them speaks.
They used to bump into each other all the time. In the kitchen. In the hallway. On the couch.
Back when “alone” meant two in the morning after everyone else had gone to sleep.
Back when Minho could knock on Jinki’s door without texting first.
Back when Jinki was always available.
The suite is expansive, almost indulgent in its scale. Floor to ceiling windows stretch along one wall, revealing a metropolitan skyline that glitters in decadent defiance of the night. The city pulses below in indifferent brilliance, traffic threading through illuminated veins of concrete, lights flickering in windows stacked endlessly into the dark. It hums with movement and urgency, unaware that within this suspended height, something far quieter and far more fragile is taking shape.
Inside the room, time feels altered. Slower. Heavier.
Jinki steps in first.
There is no rush in his movements. He crosses the threshold with a kind of measured calm, as though acknowledging the significance of the space without naming it. He sets his bag down gently by the sofa, careful in a way that feels almost planned.
The soft thud echoes louder than it should.
He glances around once, taking in the sweep of the windows, the muted elegance of the furnishings, the anonymity of luxury. Then, almost absently, he says, “It’s been a while since we were alone like this.”
His voice is steady, light even. But it lands with weight.
Minho swallows before he realises he needs to. The word catches briefly in his throat, as if it has to travel through years to reach his tongue.
“Yeah.”
A while.
The phrase feels insufficient. Almost dishonest.
A while suggests weeks. Months. It implies something temporary, manageable, something that can be bridged with a simple rescheduling.
What it truly feels like is an eternity.
They sit on opposite ends of the couch at first, like polite acquaintances.
They talk about schedules. Solo activities. Interviews. Exhaustion. The artificial brightness required to survive public adoration.
But beneath every sentence lies something unspoken.
Minho watches Jinki as he speaks.
Not casually. Not the way one observes a friend out of habit. He studies him with the quiet intensity of someone who has spent years committing every nuance to memory. The subtle tension gathered in his shoulders as though he carries something invisible. The way his fingers fold into themselves, rubbing absently at his own hands when fatigue begins to seep through the cracks. The faint downturn at the corners of his lips, so slight it would pass unnoticed by anyone who has not learned the language of his face by heart.
Minho sees it all.
He always has.
“You’re thinner,” Minho says at last, his voice lower than he intends, softened by something dangerously close to concern.
It is not an accusation. It is not even a question. It is an observation shaped by familiarity.
Jinki looks up at that, genuinely surprised. His eyes flicker with something unguarded before he smooths it away. “You noticed.”
There is a quiet vulnerability in the admission, as if part of him did not expect to be seen so clearly anymore.
Minho does not hesitate.
“I always notice.”
The words settle between them, simple and unembellished. Not possessive. Not dramatic.
Just true.
The air changes.
It’s not dramatic. Not cinematic.
Just a quiet recalibration.
Jinki exhales, leaning back against the couch. “Sometimes I miss it.”
“The dorm?”
“Us.”
The word lands differently.
Minho feels it before he understands it. His heart gives a small, traitorous stutter, as though it has been caught off guard by something it should have anticipated.
He laughs.
It comes out thin around the edges, brittle in a way he hopes is not obvious. “We’re still us.”
The reassurance feels automatic, almost rehearsed. A line delivered because it should be true.
Jinki tilts his head slightly. There is no challenge in his expression, no accusation sharpening his features. Only a kind of unfiltered sincerity that has always been his most disarming trait.
“Are we?”
The question is gentle.
That is what makes it unbearable.
Minho stands abruptly, the movement sharper than he intends. The sudden shift fractures the fragile stillness of the room. He crosses toward the window as if pulled by gravity, by the need for distance, for something vast enough to contain the discomfort rising in his chest.
The city stretches beneath him in fractured brilliance. Lights smear into abstraction against the glass, dissolving into streaks of gold and white as his vision blurs for a fleeting second. From this height, everything looks orderly and controlled.
Inside the room, nothing feels controlled at all.
“I don’t get to see you anymore without scheduling it two weeks in advance,” he says. “I don’t get to hear you humming in the kitchen. I don’t get to greet you first thing in the morning. I don’t get to…” He trails off.
“To what?” Jinki prompts softly.
“To be yours,” Minho whispers, almost involuntarily.
The room stills.
Jinki rises slowly.
He walks toward Minho, each step measured, as though approaching a skittish animal.
“You were always mine,” he says.
The simplicity of it is devastating.
Minho turns, and suddenly the distance between them is smaller, smaller in a way that feels intentional, as if gravity itself has conspired to collapse the space they have carried for months. Close enough to count the rise and fall of his chest. Close enough that every heartbeat seems louder.
“Then why does it feel like I lost you?” Minho asks, voice tight, words almost trembling under their own weight.
Jinki reaches out slowly, purposefully, letting his fingers graze the lapel of Minho’s jacket. The touch is light, careful, almost chaste, but it carries more meaning than either of them says aloud.
“You didn’t lose me,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, intimate. “You just stopped living in the same hallway.”
Minho’s laugh comes out uneven, fractured, as if trying to hold back something that has been gathering in his chest. “It’s not the hallway I miss,” he admits, the words tasting like confession, bitter and necessary all at once.
The room holds its breath with them, the silence swelling around the truth neither has dared to say until now.
It is the late-night whispers, soft and conspiratorial, the kind that linger in the air long after the words have faded.
It is the shared blankets, tangled and warm, a quiet testament to proximity and trust.
It is the unguarded moments when Jinki would collapse into him without pretense, carrying exhaustion and honesty alike, a weight neither needed to explain.
Jinki’s hand slides from his lapel to his wrist. The touch is subtle, casual in its motion, yet the current it sparks feels anything but small.
“Then what do you miss?” Jinki asks, voice low, almost tentative.
Minho does not answer with words. He lets the silence speak, thick and charged.
He closes the distance between them, deliberate and unhurried, every movement carrying the gravity of the unspoken.
Their first kiss is not frantic. It is measured, careful, reverent, a quiet acknowledgment of all that has been held and all that has been waited for.
It lingers like a secret made tangible, like a promise made without words.
Years of restraint condense into a single, trembling exhale. Jinki’s lips are warm, familiar, and devastating all at once. Minho’s hands find their way to Jinki’s waist, hesitant at first, as if afraid the weight of himself might fracture under the closeness.
Jinki responds, not with urgency, but with a profound steadiness, a depth that matches Minho’s own held-back longing.
The kiss deepens, slow and wilful, carrying with it the gravity of everything they have suppressed and deferred.
Minho feels the past surge back in waves, incessant and vivid. The dorm nights spent tangled in depletion, the quiet companionship of shared routines, the unspoken desires folded neatly beneath jokes and camaraderie. Each memory presses against him, sharpening the intensity of the present, making it impossible to separate what is now from all that has been.
They break apart only to breathe.
“Minho,” Jinki whispers, and there is something undone in his voice.
“I’ve missed you,” Minho says again, because it is the only truth that matters.
Jinki’s hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.
“You have me tonight,” he says.
The words are both promise and absolution.
Minho presses forward, guiding Jinki backward until the back of his knees meet the edge of the bed. The city lights frame them like witnesses.
There is no rush.
Only premeditated unraveling.
Hands exploring familiar topography as if reacquainting themselves with sacred terrain. Jackets fall to the floor. Breath mingles. Foreheads rest together in silent acknowledgment of all the years they pretended this wasn’t inevitable.
Minho kisses along Jinki’s jaw, slow, worshipful.
Jinki exhales sharply, fingers tightening in Minho’s shirt.
The past and present converge in the space between heartbeats.
Minho swoops Jinki up effortlessly, and Jinki instinctively curls his knees around Minho’s waist. It feels natural, almost inevitable, given Jinki’s smaller frame and lighter build.
They fall into each other again, kissing with a fervor that makes the world outside the room disappear. Jinki tangles his fingers in Minho’s hair, tugging roughly, as if to anchor himself, while Minho steadies him in his arms, holding him close and careful, straining only slightly to keep his grip sure.
Every movement is urgent and unguarded, a raw declaration of the months they have held themselves apart. The kiss deepens again and again, neither wanting to relinquish the heat and the closeness, caught in a rhythm that is both desperate and venerating.
Minho takes a few measured steps, still holding Jinki tightly against him, the weight of him fitting seamlessly in his arms. Minho pushes Jinki to fall backward onto the bed and immediately follows, collapsing on top of him.
“Ouh, starting rough, huh?” Jinki teases, a grin tugging at his lips, eyes sparkling with mischief despite the heat of the moment.
Minho disregarded the words lingering in the air and began to remove his clothes with determined urgency, peeling them away layer by layer. Without hesitation, he turned his attention to Jinki, helping him shed his garments as well. Instinctively, Jinki reached for Minho, taking him into his mouth with a mix of eagerness and immediacy. A sharp jolt of adrenaline coursed through Minho, making him flinch at the sudden surge of sensation. The effect was heightened by the sight of Jinki still lying beneath him, vulnerable and exposed, amplifying every pulse and shiver within him.
“My intrusive thoughts are winning…” Minho admitted, his voice rough with the weight of desire and a flicker of frustration. There was something confessional about it, a surrender to the urge he could no longer contain.
“Do whatever you want. I am yours tonight,” Jinki replied, his words are beautifully soft, hanging between them like a quiet promise.
The pause that followed was not emptiness but tension, a fragile space charged with anticipation that made every heartbeat echo louder.
Minho’s pulse spiked, a thrill surging through him as he moved, thrusting himself deeper into Jinki’s mouth. Each motion sent ripples of sensation coursing through him, so intense that stars seemed to ignite behind his closed eyelids.
Moans escaped him unbidden, not just of pleasure but of release, of the unspoken power dynamics, of the surrender and the claim, of the raw intimacy of being so fully witnessed.
Jinki endured him with quiet fortitude, taking him further with each push, his throat stretching, a soft gag marking the edges of their rhythm. Yet there was resilience in his patience, a shared understanding that the friction of discomfort only made the tension between them sharper and more electric.
Every motion, every moan, every silent gasp was a negotiation of power and surrender, of minds and bodies colliding in a slow, consuming storm.
“You are doing so well. It feels like you are even better than the last time,” Minho breathed, his voice thick with both admiration and hunger.
Jinki continued to take him in, steady and unflinching, as Minho’s movements pressed him further. Time seemed to stretch, each thrust measured, building a rhythm that was equal parts control and surrender.
Minutes passed, and the heat inside Minho became unbearable. Without a word, he reached the edge, and Jinki felt the sudden warmth of gooey liquid fill his mouth and slide down his throat. The surprise flickered across Jinki’s expression, but he did not pull away. Instead, he endured it with quiet resilience, the intimacy of the act deepening the tension that had been mounting between them all along.
Jinki swallowed hard, his throat tightening around the memory of Minho’s release, and softly said, “That was hot.”
His eyes flicked to Minho, who was still flushed and trembling from the intensity of his own release.
Without hesitation, Minho shifted, guiding Jinki to turn over and expose himself. His hand moved to the small LV pouch he had brought earlier, retrieving the tiny bottle of lube with conscious care. He poured it into his palm and spread it thoroughly over Jinki’s butthole, coating him with a slick sheen. He poured again, this time to cover only his fingers, ensuring they were ready for the next step.
Minho did not wait any longer. Slowly, he inserted a finger inside Jinki. The sudden intrusion made Jinki flinch forward, a sharp moan escaping him as heat and tension coiled through his body. Every movement was precise, calculated, yet carried a raw intimacy that made the moment feel charged and consuming.
“You are so wet and yet still so tight. I love it,” Minho confessed, his voice low and heavy with desire, each word carrying the weight of his fascination and hunger.
Jinki let out a moan as he responded, his voice breathless and sensual. “Who else would I open up to?” The words hung in the air, a quiet admission wrapped in heat and trust, deepening the connection between them as much as the actions themselves.
Minho sensed that Jinki was ready for more, and without hesitation, he added a second finger. The sudden fullness made Jinki squirm, his body arching slightly as he surrendered to the sensations coursing through him. He allowed himself to fully indulge in the heat and pressure that Minho’s fingers provided.
Minho took his time, moving deliberately as he explored, feeling the subtle contractions of Jinki’s inner walls, the slick warmth that enveloped him, and the taut, responsive muscle that might be his prostate. Every shift and tightening was a revelation, a delicate balance of tension and release, wetness and resistance, each sensation pulling them deeper into a private, intimate rhythm that existed solely between them.
“Let us see if you can take a third one,” Minho said, his voice thick with excitement and a teasing grin spreading across his face.
“Last time, I remember I managed to fit my whole fist inside.” The words carried both challenge and anticipation, sparking a thrill that danced between them, heightening the tension of what was to come.
Jinki offered no words in response, only breathy moans that trembled between them. He had not fully realised how much he was already affected, the presence of Minho’s three fingers inside him making his body rock back and forth, craving more, aching to be taken.
Minho sensed it instantly and responded, quickening the rhythm of his fingers, each movement purposeful yet urgent, teasing and plunging in a relentless dance that drew every moan from Jinki’s lips.
“Can you just fuck me now?” Jinki urged, his voice husky with need, raw desire threading through every syllable. The plea carried both surrender and command, a spark that set the pace for what was about to unfold.
“Ouh, you are demanding now,” Minho said under his breath, letting a soft, almost amused chuckle escape him.
The sound carried a mixture of affection and desire, a quiet acknowledgment of Jinki’s boldness that only seemed to heighten the tension between them.
Minho withdrew his fingers, slick with lube and the evidence of Jinki’s release, letting the remnants trickle down before shaking them off. He placed his hands on Jinki’s cheeks, spreading them gently but firmly, guiding himself to align with Jinki’s entrance. Jinki was as ready as ever, his body arched, butt raised, and face flushed with anticipation and desire.
Minho eased himself in slowly, taking care to let Jinki adjust to every inch as he settled fully inside, pausing to let the tension and heat between them build.
“Ready?” Minho asked, his voice low and steady, laced with expectation.
“When would I not?” Jinki replied, his words soft yet charged, carrying the absolute trust and eagerness that made the moment feel both intimate and consuming.
Minho began to thrust, setting a moderate pace for the moment. His hands settled on Jinki’s waist, steadying him and giving him the space to adjust, ensuring every movement was comfortable and controlled.
Jinki felt a rush of sensations he had not experienced in what felt like an eternity. The fullness, the heat, and the rhythm of Minho moving inside him were overwhelming in the most exquisite way, yet every second was savoured, every moan a testament to how deeply he had missed this.
He had not realised until now just how much he longed for it, how much he missed Minho’s touch, the shared intensity, and the quiet electricity that passed between them. The aura surrounding them, the connection, and the effortless chemistry were all something Jinki had yearned for without fully knowing it, and now that it was here, every moment felt sacred, intense, and impossible to let go.
“I will go faster now,” Minho said, his voice low and edged with anticipation.
“Please go as fast as you can. I need you,” Jinki responded, his words trembling with urgency and desire, carrying the weight of his need and the trust he placed in Minho.
Minho gradually increased his pace, each thrust becoming more deliberate and forceful, amplifying the chorus of moans that filled the space between them. The sound of his hips meeting Jinki’s cheeks was charged with the same heat and intensity they had once poured into performing every one of their title tracks. Jinki’s head lolled back, his moans spilling freely, uncontrollable and hot, while Minho leaned forward to capture a fleeting, hungry kiss.
The kiss was not enough for Minho. With a quiet determination, he pulled out and guided Jinki to turn back over, lifting his legs and curling them inward against his chest. He inserted himself in again, deeper this time, letting his movements meet Jinki’s lips more fully. The rhythm was more intimate, more consuming, and every motion carried the weight of both desire and connection, drawing them closer with each movement.
Even as their lips met in a heated kiss, Jinki’s moans continued, vibrating against Minho’s mouth and sending shivers through him. The sound, the warmth, and the rhythm of it all drove Minho to become more intense, more greedy, his desire deepening with every tremor that passed between them.
Every breath, every sigh, and every pulse of sound only fueled the fire that consumed them both, making each movement and touch feel sharper, more urgent, and impossible to resist.
Tonight was exactly what they both had needed. It was long craved, a desire that had been building for years. Minho had wished for this moment for so long. Ever since he had moved out of the dorm in 2021 while Jinki remained, opportunities like this had been rare.
When they did happen, it had always been rushed, fleeting, leaving them longing for more. But now, in this moment, it felt necessary, almost overdue, a reunion that had been waiting silently for far too long.
They broke apart briefly to catch their breaths, the air heavy with heat and shared anticipation. Then Minho pressed forward again, thrusting faster and harder, each movement carrying the intensity of every missed moment, every unspoken longing, and every craving that had built between them over the years.
“Allow me to do this as well,” Minho breathed against his skin, seizing the opportunity to take Jinki’s hardened cock in his hand. It was already slick with pre-cum and sweat, glistening under his touch, and the natural moisture made every stroke glide smoothly. Minho’s movements were intentional, teasing and precise, each motion drawing soft, involuntary sounds from Jinki and adding another layer of intensity to the charged, intimate rhythm between them.
Jinki’s moans grew wilder, tender and unreserved, echoing through the space between them and vibrating against Minho.
“Fuck, you are so hot, Hyung,” Minho confessed, his voice husky and heavy with desire. “I love hearing you moan even more than I love your singing voice.” The words carried both awe and hunger, a mix of admiration and longing that made the heat between them burn even brighter.
Jinki heard Minho’s confession and his moans grew even louder, sending ripples of heat and tension through both of their bodies. “Minho… I… am… close…” he gasped, each word trembling with need and anticipation.
After a few more forceful, urgent thrusts, they both reached the edge together, their releases colliding in a surge of heat and relief. It was the second time for Minho, yet his body still emptied inside Jinki with the same intensity as before. Jinki followed shortly after, his release spilling onto his belly, some of it landing on the sheets beneath them, marking the aftermath of their shared intensity.
Both of them panted, bodies slick and warm, resting against each other for a few quiet minutes.
“I do not know when we will get a chance like this again, but for now, I am satisfied,” Minho said, his voice heavy with breath yet carrying a calm, contented weight.
“I will be waiting,” Jinki replied, a soft smile tugging at his lips, a quiet promise lingering between them, warm and steady, like the memory of what they had just shared.
—
The city outside was quiet as they finally sank into stillness, the world around them fading away.
The sheets were tangled and warm beneath their bodies, evidence of their shared intensity.
Their breathing gradually fell into rhythm, slow and steady, syncing like two halves of a single pulse.
Minho lay on his side, eyes fixed on Jinki’s chest rising and falling. There was a languid softness to him now, an afterglow that made him look achingly young, delicate, and utterly present, as if time itself had paused to let this moment linger.
Jinki opened one eye, blinking slowly against the dim light.
“Why are you staring at me?” he asked, his voice soft, teasing, but tinged with curiosity.
Minho offered a faint smile. “I am making sure you are still here,” he replied, his tone gentle, almost adoring.
Jinki shifted closer, pressing his forehead against Minho’s collarbone, seeking warmth and connection.
“I am here,” he breathed, steady and reassuring.
In that quiet, suspended moment, Minho realised something, a clarity that came not from words but from the weight of their closeness, the rhythm of their breathing, and the undeniable presence of the other beside him.
He did not miss the dorm.
He did not miss convenience.
What he missed was access.
He missed proximity.
He missed the unfiltered version of Jinki, the side of him that existed only behind closed doors, intimate and uncontainable, a private self that no one else ever saw.
“Next time,” Jinki crooned sleepily, “you do not have to wait so long to text me.”
Minho brushed his fingers through Jinki’s hair, careful, gentle, lingering.
“Next time,” he agreed, his voice soft but certain.
Outside, the city continued its indifferent glittering.
Inside, two men who had once shared a hallway realised that distance was a mere logistical inconvenience, not a verdict on what they shared.
Minho pressed a final kiss to Jinki’s temple, and he no longer felt the weight of silence.
All that remained was the quiet certainty that some connections, no matter how stretched by time or ambition, endure, indestructibly tethered. Both went into deep sleep right after.