'Cause the spaces between my fingers (are where yours fit perfectly)

by Layla_Teneh

Summary:

When Chan learns he was the subject of a joke Minho let go too far, pride and hurt tear them apart before either of them is brave enough to admit how real it had already become. What should have been love turns into silence instead, and neither of them knows how to fix what they’ve broken.

But some promises don’t disappear. They linger. They wait. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get a second chance to keep them.
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Minho opened his mouth, words hesitating on the edge of his tongue. May be something like, 'How have you been? It's been a long time. You look-'

But Chan finally looked up. His eyes met Minho's, clear and distant, and that was all it took for every word Minho had rehearsed in his head to disintegrate.

"Minho-ssi," Chan said, tone polite, clipped. "I hope we can keep this professional relationship until this project ends."

The formality of it landed like a quiet slap. The soft "-ssi" after his name, not Rino in his sweet voice, not Minho-yah, nothing that gave off the idea that they had talked about been buried together and were not strangers that met through a business proposal.

~<3

Chapter 1: If I can't have you, is love completely off the table?

The music playing in Chan's headphones did nothing to drown out the chatter around him.

And he liked it that way.

The hallways of Haneul University were always noisy on a Friday afternoon; the sound was a living thing, bouncing off the concrete pillars and polished glass. Flyers for dance showcases curled at the corners on noticeboards, clubs shouted about bake sales, a freshman strummed a guitar on the steps. Voices spilled into the corridor like warm sunlight, and Chan let them wash over him. It was the sound of a place where people felt safe enough to laugh.

He'd earned a little of that safety himself. Years of tutoring for free, covering library shifts, staying late in the recording booth so a classmate could finish a project. People trusted him with their half-broken laptops and half-broken hearts. They felt safe with him, and he made sure they kept feeling so. It had become part of who he was: a steady point in a busy campus.

"Channie!" A familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

BamBam was weaving through the crowd with two iced coffees, hair gleaming under the strip lights. Today a small red streak flared against his black fringe, which could only mean one thing. Mark had done something to his hair again. Chan was already bracing for the sight of BamBam's boyfriend in some outrageous matching shade by lunchtime. BamBam thrust one cup at him with a grin that was all teeth and trouble.

"You forgot breakfast again."

"Had an early morning, Bam-ah," Chan said, snatching the coffee with mock outrage. The cheeky little smile tugging at his mouth softened the words.

They fell into step. BamBam filled the walk with chatter, Mark's latest modelling gig that wanted him in crimson, a professor who kept butchering his name in lectures. Around them, students streamed past in waves, but the rhythm of BamBam's words and Chan's quiet interjections felt familiar, almost like home.

At the quad, two figures waved them over. Sana, cool and precise with a camera bag slung across her shoulder, and Jamie, his pale hair almost blinding in the morning sun, flour still smudged on her sleeve from an early baking experiment.

"Morning idiots!" Jamie greeted them cheerfully, slapping both of their backs gently. BamBam and Chan howled in pain, exaggerating everything tenfold like actors in a cheap drama.

Sana shook her head, adjusting the strap of her camera bag. "You two are ridiculous."

BamBam, picture of maturity, blew raspberries at her.

They settled into their usual rhythm on the steps of the quad: BamBam draped over the railing, Jamie breaking a muffin in half to share, Sana already snapping photos of passers-by. Chan laughed until his eyes crinkled, shoulders loose for the first time all morning. Different majors, different schedules, but by now the pattern of their mornings was muscle memory.

A ripple of movement caught his eye from across the grass. Under the cherry trees a cluster of seven boys occupied one of the stone tables, all younger than him, second and third-years mostly, a little kingdom unto themselves. He knew their faces the way everyone on campus did, even if they'd never traded more than a few words.

Han Jisung was the first to glance up. Hood pulled over his hair despite the sun, a notebook balanced on his knees. When he caught Chan looking, his mouth curled into an impulsive grin and he lifted a hand in greeting. Chan waved back, a little too enthusiastically. The kid was his junior and had worked with him a lot during their classes. Him and Changbin too. Both of them looked all menacing and brooding from the outside, but were a pair of cuties.

Around Jisung the rest of the group sprawled like a photo spread: Changbin with his ever-present headphones, a drumstick tapping a nervous rhythm against the table; Hyunjin, long hair tied back, sketching absent-mindedly; Felix leaning over his phone, freckles golden in the light; Seungmin and Jeongin arguing softly over something Chan couldn't make out.

And in the centre, Lee Minho. Legs crossed, scrolling through his screen with the air of someone who didn't need to look up to be noticed.

They looked, Chan thought, like a band poster come to life, cool, effortless, a little untouchable. He tugged his gaze away, laughing at something Jamie said, but the image stuck in the corner of his vision like a watermark.

"What are you smiling at?" BamBam asked, following his line of sight.

"Nothing," Chan said quickly, taking another sip of coffee.

Sana smirked at his reaction and poked his stomach, her eyes curling up with mirth. "Getting lost in your loverboy this early in the morning, Chan-ah? Tsk, tsk. At least try to be subtle, you idiot."

He rolled his eyes, but the heat at the back of his neck gave him away.

So here was the thing: he loved helping people and being needed. And so everyone on the campus had a really good impression of him. On good days it almost felt like the entire campus, students, staff, even a few professors, were his friends.

Almost. Because there was one person he never let himself call a friend out loud.

Lee Minho.

The only person in Chan's life who had caught his attention romantically. His first real crush. It was obvious enough to anyone paying close attention, but for now only his closest friends knew. (He preferred it that way, thank you very much.)

Jamie perked up immediately. "Wait, loverboy? Are we finally talking about Channie's immensely huge crush on the Mystery dude? Let's call him Mystery Crush, please!"

Chan groaned, already regretting everything. "There is no Mystery Crush."

"No Mystery Crush because we know its Minho." BamBam made a show of leaning toward Jamie like a gossip columnist. "He's been mooning over Minho since the other's orientation week. The man practically vibrates when Minho says hello."

"I do not!" Chan hissed, cheeks heating.

Sana cackled softly, lifting her camera just to hide her grin. "Uh-huh. And you didn't just nearly break your neck looking at him five seconds ago?"

Jamie clutched her chest dramatically. "Our responsible Channie, crushed by a crush! How the mighty have fallen!"

"You're all children," Chan muttered, burying his face in his coffee. His ears were already hot, which only made BamBam smirk harder.

BamBam patted his back in fake sympathy, voice pitched just loud enough for Sana and Jamie to hear. "Don't worry. We'll keep it a secret how you call me up, all squealing and jumping around like a kangaroo whenever Minho so much as says hi to you. And then you go on—"

He was winding up for the kill; Chan could see it in the gleam of his eyes.

Chan didn't let him finish. He snatched BamBam's own coffee and shoved it back toward his face, nearly sloshing it down his shirt, then threw an arm around his shoulders and yanked him in tight.

"Oh my, would you look at the time!" Chan forced the words out through his teeth, smile fixed like a game-show host's. "We're going to be so late for the first class, aren't we?"

BamBam yelped and tried to wriggle free, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "He's deflecting! Classic deflecting!"

Jamie whooped. "Oh my god, he's blushing. You're blushing, Channie."

Sana calmly raised her camera. "Hold still. This deserves to be immortalised." The shutter clicked as Chan tried to duck behind his sleeve.

"Delete that," he groaned.

"Never," she said sweetly.

By the time they finally gathered their bags and headed toward the lecture halls, Chan's heart was hammering for entirely different reasons than being late. His friends' teasing clung to him like static, warm and humiliating all at once. He told himself he hated it (part of him didn't mind at all).

 

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The first class had passed in a blur, the kind of easy, breezy lecture that felt more like background noise than actual work. Half the students had been asleep, drooping over their notebooks, and the professor hadn't even bothered to arrive on time. By the time the lecture began, the pace had been so slow that the class ended early. Chan didn't mind. Days like these gave him the luxury of letting his mind wander.

It was bright outside, sunlight spilling into the hallways in warm, golden streaks. The air smelled faintly of late spring blossoms and freshly printed flyers plastered across every noticeboard. Maybe, he thought, he could finally visit the swimming club today, get a few laps in, let the water clear his head. The thought alone painted vivid, colorful images of moving through the water, the cool embrace of the pool against his sun-warmed skin.

Just as he was letting himself get lost in that imaginary weightlessness, a familiar voice cut through the daydream.

"Channie Hyung!"

He turned, and there was Jeongin, practically bouncing over to him, grin wide and infectious.

Ah, yes. Jeongin. His roommate. Jeongin had taken over the room after Chan's old roommate, Younghyun had graduated. The boy was a freshman, still full of energy and that kind of unrestrained optimism that could make even Chan's most tired mornings feel a little brighter.

And Jeongin was very close friends with Seungmin and Hyunjin, who were friends with Changbin, Felix and Jisung, and who were friends with Minho. So, by extension, Jeongin was a friend of Minho, a very close friend too. The main point of the whole friendship being that Chan saw a lot of Minho now that Jeongin had started living with him.

And well, how much ever may Chan deny it, it was nice to see Minho's (beautiful, ethereal) face at least twice a day even though they didn't really talk with each other.

(Chan wanted to talk to him, desperate for even a hi from the younger, but he was a chicken, hiding the moment Minho's name was even mentioned. That's why he was still, you know, single.)

"Hi, Innie! Wassup?"

"Hyung, hyung. Promise me you won't say no." Jeongin said, his eyes already turning into puppy eyes.

"Well, I can't really agree to something I don't know, can I?"

Jeongin's grin widened like he'd already won the battle. "I'm going to a party tonight! Jackson Wang's throwing it, you have to come!"

Chan raised an eyebrow, trying to hide the twitch of excitement that went against his better judgment. "Jackson Hyung's party? I don't know, Innie... I've got a lot to catch up on, swimming practice, some tutoring-"

"Hyung, come on!" Jeongin whined, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "It's literally going to be fun! Everyone's going. You'll regret it if you don't. I promise you won't regret it!"

Chan chuckled, shaking his head as he adjusted his bag on his shoulder. "You always say that, Innie. And you're usually right, so I'll consider it."

"Consider it?" Jeongin gasped, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. "No, no, no. You're coming. That's the final verdict. End of discussion. And I'll personally make sure you have fun, even if I have to drag you there myself."

Chan laughed, the sound low but genuine, and felt the warmth of the friendship settle around him like a familiar coat. "Alright, alright. I'll come. But only because you asked nicely, and only because I know I am going to have to drive you back home after your legs turn Jell-O from dancing."

Jeongin's reaction was immediate, pure joy bursting from him as he clapped his hands together and practically bounced on the balls of his feet. "Yes! You won't regret it, Channie Hyung. I promise!"

Chan shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You're ridiculous, Innie. Also, don't you have class, like right now?" He arched an eyebrow, watching the boy like a mix of exasperation and amusement.

The fox-like boy's grin turned sheepish. "Uh... yeah, but..." His words tumbled out as he pivoted, his backpack bouncing precariously. "Tonight, Hyung! You better not forget, promise me you'll be there!"

And with that, Jeongin darted off, his backpack swinging, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor, leaving Chan to watch the familiar chaos trail behind him.

Chan allowed himself a small shake of the head, suppressing the chuckle that threatened to escape. The thing about Jeongin was that he had this uncanny knack for turning even the most ordinary Friday afternoons into a mini-adventure. Watching him dart through the crowd now, bag bouncing and hair catching the sunlight, Chan felt that familiar tug of fondness. 

Almost without thinking, his gaze tracked the younger until he vanished completely behind the corner of the lobby. It was a habit he'd built the first week they'd moved in together; Jeongin had a spectacular talent for tripping over his own feet, misjudging curbs and colliding with doors, and yet somehow he always popped back up with a sheepish grin, as if gravity were just another challenge to overcome.

But as much as the invitation to the party sounded like a stroke of spontaneity, Chan wasn't someone who could tumble into things the way Jeongin did. Because even if the whole campus knew him, if professors smiled when he passed, if first-years greeted him like an older brother, Chan's circle of people he actually called his own was small. And their yes or no had the power to tilt his decisions entirely. 

The party might look too good to be true, but before he let Jeongin drag him into Jackson Wang's chaos, he had to make sure of one very important thing: whether BamBam would be there.

Chan thumbed his phone out of his pocket as he walked, the screen lighting up against his palm. The contact list was short enough that his finger found BamBam without even scrolling. He hesitated for a moment, debating whether to text or call, then pressed the call button anyway. The dial tone thrummed in his ear as he turned down the hallway, weaving between clusters of students.

"Channie! What's up?" BamBam's bright voice came through almost immediately, a mix of teasing and genuine warmth.

"You're going to Jackson Hyung's party tonight, right?" Chan asked, trying to sound casual, like the answer didn't matter as much as it did.

There was a pause on the other end, then a small laugh. "Ah... no, I'm skipping it. I've got plans. My boyfriend and I are going out, finally got a reservation at that rooftop place."

Chan slowed his steps. The faint hum of chatter around him faded as the words sank in. "Oh. Right. No worries. Have fun then," he said lightly, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"You sure you're okay?" BamBam's tone softened. "You don't have to go if you don't feel like it, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. I know." Chan's thumb traced idle circles on the edge of his phone. "Enjoy your dinner. Tell Mark Hyung I said hi."

"Will do! Text me later if you survive the night," BamBam said with a laugh before hanging up.

The hallway felt a little quieter after the call ended. Chan slipped the phone back into his pocket, his earlier resolve slipping with it. He slowed his pace, already rehearsing the excuse he'd give Jeongin about why he couldn't make it, assignments, a late swim, anything at all. And the younger knew how workaholic he was, he could get away with it too.

That was when a familiar mop of brown hair appeared at the other end of the corridor. Jisung, hands full of sheet music and headphones slung around his neck, spotted him instantly and grinned like a cat catching sight of cream.

"Hyung!" Jisung called, jogging up with his usual bounce. "You're coming to the party tonight, right? Please say yes."

Chan blinked, caught off guard. "I was actually thinking of skipping..."

"Skipping? No way!" Jisung cut him off before he could finish. "You can't. Not this one. Everyone's going, and it won't be the same without you. Plus, you know how Jeongin gets when he plans something, he'll sulk for a week if you bail." He gave Chan an exaggerated pleading look. "Come on. I'll even save you a spot on the couch if it gets too loud."

Something about the earnestness in Jisung's face cracked through Chan's hesitation. It had been a while since he'd been at a party just for the sake of it, no tutoring, no responsibilities. And Jeongin had asked so hopefully.

"Come on, Hyung, everyone's going to be there. Minho Hyung even moved his dance practice to a later date for it. That's how important this is."

Minho was going to be there? 

Minho was going to be there!  

Chan exhaled slowly, trying to not let his excitement show, the corner of his mouth tilting up. "Fine. But only because you're as persuasive as Innie."

"Victory!" Jisung threw a fist into the air, then clapped Chan on the shoulder. "Trust me, Hyung. You won't regret it."

And well, the swimming pool was going nowhere, he could always practice tomorrow.

 

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Maybe Chan was regretting coming to the party a little.

He knew a lot of people here, of course, classmates, club members, even a few teacher's aid who always ended up at Jackson Wang's legendary events, but parties had never really been his scene. He didn't drink, and the idea of dancing shoulder-to-shoulder with sweaty bodies on a floor where people bumped into each other more than they actually danced didn't exactly thrill him.

So he hovered off to the side instead, a red cup of fruit punch in his hand. He'd made sure to grab it the second the bowl had been filled, before anyone had a chance to spike it. The drink was cold and sweet against his palm, a small, steady anchor in the crush of heat and noise.

If nothing else, the party was proof that Jackson knew how to host. The sprawling house-turned-venue pulsed with light, every corner draped in string lights or neon signs. The music rolled from the speakers like thunder, and yet there were quiet pockets, a lounge area with low sofas, a balcony where people could catch their breath, as if Jackson had personally thought through every kind of guest. The man really knew how to throw a party, and Chan found himself respecting him even more for it.

He was tucked into one of the less crowded corners now, leaning back against the wall. From here, the room unfolded like a living thing: a mass of dancers moving as one, bursts of laughter from the kitchen, the shimmer of glasses raised in cheers. He liked it this way. Far enough that no one drunk enough would stumble into him or try to drag him into some half-coherent conversation or, worse, a fight.

He was still nursing his fruit punch when a sudden movement happened through the crowd. It was subtle at first, a shift in heads turning, voices pitching higher, phones discreetly raised, but Chan had been on campus long enough to recognize the signal. Someone had just arrived.

Sure enough, the front door opened wide, spilling in a gust of cool night air, and in came a small procession like they owned the place.

Han Jisung burst in first, hoodie half off one shoulder, already laughing at something Changbin said. The younger's energy hit the room like a spark; even over the music, Chan could hear his quick, bright voice.

Right behind him was Changbin himself, a black bomber jacket thrown over his usual muscle tee, a drink already in his hand despite having just stepped inside. He grinned at someone across the room and raised his cup in greeting.

Hyunjin followed with a kind of slow-motion grace, long hair tied back with a ribbon that matched the gleam of his earrings. He caught a strand of confetti between his fingers and flicked it away, eyes scanning the room as though he were on a runway.

Felix was next, freckled cheeks flushed from the cool air outside, his hand still on Seungmin's shoulder as if steering him through the crush. His grin was warm, open, the kind that made people smile back automatically.

Seungmin and Jeongin rounded out the group, the younger looking barely contained in his excitement, the elder already tugging at his sleeve as if to keep him from darting off into the crowd. Jeongin spotted Chan in his corner almost immediately and waved so enthusiastically he nearly dropped his phone. The younger had initially decided to come with Chan himself, but then something happened and Changbin was driving them. 

(Chan was still on the chauffeur duties while leaving though.)

The six of them moved like a living, laughing cluster, shedding the cold and picking up the party's heat in seconds. People parted for them without even realizing they were doing it.

And then, a pause. The doorway framed one more figure.

Lee Minho stepped inside a few beats after the others, as though time had slowed just for him. He was dressed simply, a dark shirt tucked into jeans, a silver chain catching the light at his throat. But he carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need to dress up to be noticed. While the others greeted friends or scanned for drinks, Minho's gaze was level, unreadable, as he took in the room with a glance.

For a heartbeat, Chan forgot about the music, the crowd, even the cup in his hand. It was like a picture he'd seen before but sharper now, moving, real. The other looked so ethereal and untouchable that it made Chan like him even more. His face was stoic but to the ones who really looked (like Chan did), his kind eyes were forever present. 

Chan swallowed, tore his eyes away and took another sip of punch, pretending his heart hadn't just started beating a little faster.

(His red ears were probably giving away all the nonchalant act he was trying to keep up, but he liked to believe that he was unreadable and keep his dignity.)

The group barely had time to shake the cold off before someone from the dance floor spotted them and started waving them over. A tall boy from the basketball team, Park Gunwook, called Jisung's name, grinning wide, and Jisung immediately bounded toward him, dragging Felix by the wrist.

"Oi, come play! We're doing 'never have I ever!'" the guy shouted over the music.

Felix turned mid-stride, laughing, his freckles lit up under the shifting LED lights. His eyes swept the edge of the room, and landed on Chan.

For a second Felix's grin softened into something warmer, something more familiar. He leaned close to Jisung to say something, then raised his hand to wave. "Hyung!" he called across the bass thrum. "Hyung, come sit with us!"

Chan's fingers tightened a little on his cup. He glanced at the circle forming near the low couches, a loud, sprawling mess of limbs and laughter, and instinctively took a step back into the safety of his corner. Parties weren't his scene; getting dragged into drinking games was even less so.

Jisung must have seen the hesitation because he cupped his hands around his mouth and called again, voice bright, "It's just soda for you, promise!" He pointed to an empty space beside him and Felix. "C'mon, it's fun!"

Chan hesitated. The music pulsed in his chest. Around him, strangers pressed closer, but on the other side of the room his friends (or at least people he liked enough to call friends) were waiting, already laughing. Jeongin was there too, looking at him expectantly. Hyunjin was also part of the circle, but him and Chan weren't on that good terms so he just looked for more people to join the game. The other four where down the hall playing beer pong, somewhere Chan would definitely not fit in.

He exhaled slowly, put his untouched cup down on a side table, and wove his way through the bodies toward the circle. The noise rose as he approached, Felix's smile widening until it nearly split his face.

By the time he sank down cross-legged onto the carpet between Felix and Jeongin, the tension in his shoulders had eased just enough for him to laugh at Jisung's dramatic retelling of how they'd almost been late because of Hyunjin's hair.

Someone had magically produced a half-empty bottle of rum and a stack of paper cups. Jisung immediately shoved a plastic bottle of soda in front of Chan, whispering, "Soda for you, Hyung. Pinky swear." Chan smiled his thanks and clinked the cup against the younger's before sipping.

"Never have I ever... fallen asleep in class," Jisung announced dramatically, wagging his finger around the circle. Half the hands shot up, including Chan's, and a chorus of groans and laughter went up. Jeongin muttered something about statistics class being a war crime.

"Never have I ever kissed someone at a party," Hyunjin drawled next, hair falling over one eye. The younger ones whooped. Chan hid a smirk behind his drink; his cup stayed on the floor.

The rounds went on, tiny confessions punctuated by giggles and mock outrage. Felix and Jeongin elbowed each other, Jisung hammed it up, Hyunjin tossed his hair like a model every time he "won." The circle shrank a little as people drifted off to dance or refill their drinks until it was mostly a few girls, Feilx, Jisung, Hyunjin, Jeongin, and Chan.

Then someone, Ryunjin, grinned and said, "Okay, okay. Never have I ever is boring now. Truth or dare?"

The change in the air was immediate. It wasn't dangerous yet, just a sharper kind of excitement. Cups shifted. Shivers ran down Chan's neck, as if warning him to stay away. But he was lost to the buzz by now, everything felt fun and he didn't want to leave when it was getting all steamy.

It started easy: Yuna dared Hyunjin to do his best impression of a catwalk, which he did with such flair the whole circle howled. Lisa had to chug a soda. Chaeryeong admitted to stealing someone's fries last week. Chan even laughed, shoulders loosening, until Felix nudged him and said, "Hyung, your turn, truth or dare?"

"Truth," Chan said automatically. Better safe than sorry.

Felix's eyes flicked to Jisung. A silent conversation passed between them, quick as a blink. Chan didn't catch it; his own pulse was loud in his ears.

"Okay," Felix said brightly, tone almost too casual. "Who's your crush?"

The circle erupted in the universal "oooh!" of a playground secret. Laughter, groans, someone whistled. Chan felt heat crawl up his neck and into his ears. The question was light, but it landed like a weight. For a moment all he could hear was the bassline from the DJ and his own heartbeat drumming against his ribs.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. "That's- come on, that's-" He gestured helplessly, hoping someone would laugh it off and pick a new question. Nobody did. Every face around the circle was turned toward him, grinning, expectant. Waiting.

Inside, Chan's thoughts scrambled. If he lied, they'd tease him for being boring. If he told the truth out loud, he'd die of humiliation. His fingers tightened around the cup until the plastic creaked. You're overthinking it. It's just a game. It's just drunk teenagers.

And Jisung was his friend. He wouldn't, right? Besides, everyone here was tipsy. They'd probably forget by morning. Just a silly game at a party. Nothing serious.

It's not like Minho would ever find out anyway, he thought, a flash of bitter amusement flickering through him. It's not like he'd ever look at me like that.

The noise of the party swelled, dimmed. Someone jostled the circle; a drink sloshed. Chan stared into the soda in his cup, saw nothing but bubbles and his own reflection. His heart hammered once, twice, like it was trying to escape his chest.

"Fuck it," he muttered under his breath, pulse hammering. "Fine." He leaned forward, the motion small but decisive. Felix mirrored him, leaning in obligingly so that only he could hear. Chan cupped his hand against the other boy's ear and whispered the name like a confession, low enough to be swallowed by the bass.

"Lee Minho."

Felix's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then softened into a grin that made Chan's stomach twist. "Okay," he said, sitting back, voice bright again. "He told me."

Around them the teasing noises started up, a mixture of mock-scandal and curiosity, but the game rolled on. Chan took a long sip of his drink, staring down at the bubbles. He told himself it was fine, that it would stay between Felix and him.

He didn't see the glance Felix and Jisung exchanged over his head.

And if he had, he would have probably realized something was about to happen.

 

_______

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"Hyung, we have some juicy news," Jisung announced as soon as he hit the sofa, words slurring just enough to make them sound conspiratorial. He flopped onto the cushions like a marionette with cut strings, a lazy grin plastered across his face. 

The party had gone on for hours. Dancing, sweaty teenagers and endless drinking games had blurred time into a smear of neon and bass. Laughter still clung to their clothes like static; even the hallway outside Minho's dorm smelled faintly of sugar, sweat, and cheap beer. By the time the clock ticked past one a.m., everyone had been herded out if they wanted any hope of looking presentable in class tomorrow. 

Minho had driven the others back himself, jaw tight on the steering wheel the whole ride. He didn't trust any of them to make it on their own, not in the state they were in. Jeongin had stumbled off home with his roommate, Chan, and now Minho's living room was a sprawl of half-empty water bottles, discarded jackets, and bodies collapsing into furniture. 

"What is it, Jisungie?" Minho muttered, pressing a cold bottle of water into Jisung's hand before sinking down beside him on the couch. His voice was gentle but wary; Jisung only got that look in his eyes when he was about to spill something he probably shouldn't. Across the room Felix was still kicking off his shoes, hair sticking to his forehead, while Changbin and Seungmin tried to untangle themselves from a single blanket on the floor. 

Jisung took a long gulp of water, eyes flicking toward Felix for just a second, quick, almost mischievous, before returning to Minho. "Hyung," he said again, softer now but with a spark of mischief. "You're never gonna guess what I found out tonight." 

"What did you find, Jisungie?" Changbin asked, his attention back on the tea being spilled. 

Jisung's grin stretched wide as the water cooled his throat. "Okay, so during Truth or Dare..." He paused dramatically, glancing around the room at the others, milking the attention. "Our perfect, boring, saintly Channie Hyung actually said something interesting for once."  

Minho raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. "Saint Chan? Interesting? Now I'm curious." 

Felix, perched cross-legged on the armchair, leaned forward like a cat about to pounce. "He told us who he likes," he supplied, voice sing-song, eyes glinting with the thrill of sharing gossip. "We made him whisper it in my ear. You should've seen his face." 

Seungmin snorted, trying to act unimpressed but his ears were pink. "You're joking." 

"Nope." Jisung slapped the couch arm for emphasis. "It's real. The guy who acts like an RA at a frat party actually has a crush. And not just anyone either~" 

Minho chuckled, shaking his head. "You two are menaces. So, who's the poor soul?" 

Jisung leaned in, as if telling the punchline to a joke. "You." 

For a heartbeat there was silence, then the room erupted in the kind of laughter that only comes from cheap beer. Even Minho laughed, a startled bark that turned into a real chuckle, raking a hand through his hair. 

"Oh, come on," he said, still grinning. "Now you're just making stuff up." 

"Swear on your cat," Felix said, hand over his heart, eyes sparkling. "He actually said it. We were all there." 

Changbin let out a low whistle. "Wow. Didn't see that one coming." 

Jisung snorted, the sound cutting through the low thump of the music still playing from somebody's speaker. "I told you, Hyung. It's like a drama." 

Felix's grin went slow and sly. "Drama? Let's make it a challenge." He turned to Minho, eyes glinting. "You're the one he likes, right? Bet you can't make him say 'I love you' by mid-semester." 

Minho raised an eyebrow, laughter spilling out of him before he could stop it. "What?" 

"Exactly that." Felix was already pulling his wallet out, notes sticking at odd angles. "Thirty bucks each. You have to make him fall in love for real and say the three magic words. By next semester. Winner takes the pot." 

"Hell yeah! That's going to be fun!" Jisung crowed.  

Changbin howled. "Oh my God. We're really doing this." 

Seungmin shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms. "That's- I don't know, isn't that-?" 

"It's a joke," Jisung cut in, bumping him with his shoulder. "We're not hurting anybody. Chan's already head over heels. We're just betting whether Minho Hyung can actually get him to say it." 

Felix leaned back, still smirking. "Come on, Seungmin. Thirty bucks, bragging rights, free barbecue for a month. What's not to like?" 

Seungmin hesitated, chewing his lip, then exhaled through his nose. "...Fine. But I'm not paying for your drinks when you lose." 

Minho chuckled, the sound low and cocky. "So let me get this straight. I just have to get him to say 'I love you' by next semester? That's it?" 

"That's it," Jisung confirmed, sliding the first crumpled bill onto the coffee table like a gambler at a poker game. "You in, or you scared?" 

Minho smirked, stretching his arms along the back of the couch. "Make it interesting. A hundred each. If I win, I'm eating steak for a month." 

A chorus of whoops rose around the room as they started slapping notes onto the table. The stack of bills grew crooked and ridiculous, a pile of drunken bravado. For them it was just a dare, a game to make the semester less boring. 

They didn't notice how much weight their joke would carry later, or how sharp the edges would feel when the game stopped being funny. 

 

.

.

.

 

The sun was already cruel by the time it reached Minho's window. Thin spears of light pushed through the blinds and fell straight across the living room like a spotlight on their collective wreckage. Jisung groaned and rolled over, dragging the blanket over his head until only a tuft of hair stuck out. His skull felt two sizes too small for his brain; every pulse behind his eyes was a hammer blow. Felix lay on his back on the rug, staring at the ceiling with the unfocused gaze of someone who'd just woken from a deep coma. His tongue felt like it was covered in sand, his hair stiff with sweat and confetti from some forgotten party streamer.

On the floor, Changbin reached for an empty bottle and croaked out a word that sounded vaguely like "water." Seungmin didn't even lift his head, just muttered "dying" into the couch cushion. The whole room smelled faintly of stale beer, fruit punch, and pizza grease. Phones, jackets and shoes were scattered like debris after a storm. And in the middle of the low coffee table, under the thin strip of sunlight, sat a fat stack of wrinkled bills, two-hundred-dollar piles from every one of them, an absurd island of green in the mess.

The door clicked and Jeongin stepped inside, freshly showered, hair damp, and very much sober. Chan had made sure to get some food and water into his system after they came home and then made him hangover soup by the time he was out of shower. All in all, he was in the best form while the others were... not.

He stopped dead. His hyungs looked like a crime scene of their own making. "Did you guys order pizza last night? What the hell happened here?" he whispered, then, louder: "Hyung?"

Minho stirred from his half-sitting sprawl against the armrest, cracking one eye open. His hair stuck up in ridiculous angles, his voice a rasp. "Innie. Volume," he muttered. Even talking made his temples throb.

Jeongin tiptoed closer, nose wrinkling at the smell, and there was a lot of it. Things were scattered around like they belolnged to the earth now. There were a lot of things that shouldn't be there and he had a lot of things to say, but then noticed the cash. "Hyung, why is there almost a thousand bucks on the table?"

Felix squinted at the question, pushing himself upright at the mention of money with a wince. As his head pounded, memories swam back, the circle, the whisper, the laughter, the bet. "Oh, God," he croaked. "Right. That."

Jisung poked his head out from under the blanket, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bleary. "Is it morning already?" His voice cracked like a teenager's. Then he saw the money. "Oh yeah, our 'investment'."

Changbin rolled onto his back, covering his eyes with one arm. "Tell me we didn't actually put down a hundred each," he muttered, voice muffled but edged with disbelief.

Minho rubbed at his temples and let out a dry chuckle that hurt his throat. "We did," he said. "Felix said a thirty, I said make it hundred. Everyone slapped their cash down like it was Vegas."

Jeongin's eyebrows shot up. "A hundred each?! What the hell were you betting on?"

For a moment nobody spoke. Felix gave a slow, pained thumbs-up. Jisung wheezed a laugh. Seungmin peeked out from under his arm. Minho, still massaging his headache, gave a lazy grin. "Me," he said finally. "They bet I can't get Chan to say 'I love you' by next semester. Winner takes the pot."

"Wait, seriously?" Jeongin's voice pitched up. He looked from one groggy face to another, but all he got back were smirks and muffled laughter. Felix snorted and dropped his head back against the couch.

"Dead serious," Jisung mumbled. "Channie Hyung confessed yesterday that he liked Minho Hyung. So we are just helping him anyway." Even hungover, his grin was wicked.

Seungmin let out a dry huff, sitting up gingerly, his hair sticking out at odd angles. "It's ridiculous," he said, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "This is how people end up on those campus gossip pages."

Felix rubbed his temples, eyes half-lidded but still glinting with mischief. "I was promised free barbeque for a month. I'm not backing out now."

"Same. If we're suffering through this hangover together, we're at least going to make it interesting." Jisung raised his hand weakly, as if pledging allegiance.

Minho glanced at the pile of bills again, a spark of competitiveness flaring under the hangover fog. "So we're still on?" he asked, voice low and scratchy. "I don't lose bets."

Seungmin sighed through his nose, then reached blindly for his water bottle without lifting his head. "Fine," he said. His eyes cracked open just enough to give Jeongin a look. "You also in, Innie?"

The youngest stood stiffly by the doorway, clutching the strap of his bag. He looked from one sprawled body to another, Felix lying starfish-style on the rug, Jisung wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, Changbin snoring faintly in an armchair, all of them groaning about their headaches but somehow laser-focused when money was involved. The stack of notes on the coffee table looked surreal in the morning light, like a prop from a movie left behind after the cameras packed up.

"Uh... sure?" Jeongin half-answered, half-asked, still rooted to his spot, scared he'd step on something slimy if he ventured further in. His nose wrinkled. "But why hundred? Aren't all of us broke?"

"Except Changbin hyung," Seungmin piped in from the couch without missing a beat.

"Yeah, except him," Jeongin echoed faintly, eyes flicking to the rapper who was still asleep but had somehow contributed a neat wad of bills to the pile. Even unconscious, Changbin gave a small snore like a smug agreement.

Felix cracked one eye open, a slow grin tugging at his lips despite the pounding in his head. "It's not about the money," he rasped. "It's about the fun. About watching Minho Hyung try to pull this off."

Jisung poked his head out of the blanket, hair plastered to his forehead. "Somebody order greasy food before I die," he mumbled, then grinned. "And yes, Innie, you're in. Congratulations, you're part of the drama now."

Jeongin swallowed, still eyeing the pile of money. Everyone was hungover, their eyes red, their voices hoarse, but not one of them had reached to take their cash back. The bet, ridiculous as it was, was still alive.

He stood there a little longer, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the only functional one in a room full of corpses. Then he sighed. "Okay. You guys are all disgusting. And if you don't eat something real soon, you'll actually die."

A couple of groans rose in response, but nothing coherent.

"I'm serious," Jeongin said, planting his hands on his hips like a fed-up mom. "There's that soup place two blocks down. They're open. We can get something hot in our stomachs before we all implode."

Changbin cracked one eye open at the word "soup," as if his body had been programmed to respond. "Hangover soup?" he croaked, then shut his eyes again.

"Yes, soup," Jeongin said firmly. "Meat, rice, broth, all the good stuff. Exactly what your body needs."

Felix groaned as he rolled onto his side, trying to gather enough strength to sit up. "Sounds heavenly, but I don't think my legs work right now."

"They will if you use them," Jeongin shot back, tugging at his arm until Felix reluctantly got up on his elbows.

Jisung flopped onto his back like a dead fish, peeking up at Jeongin with pitiful eyes. "Innie, be honest. If I stay here and starve, will you inherit my hoodie collection?"

"You're not dying, hyung," Jeongin muttered, though he did grab Jisung's hoodie sleeve and yank until the older yelped. "Come on, seriously. Everyone up."

Minho dragged himself off the armrest with a groan, raking a hand through his disaster of hair. He blinked around the room, his voice still gravelly. "Fine. Soup. But someone else is paying."

"You still have a wad of cash sitting on the table," Seungmin said dryly, pushing himself upright with the stiff movements of someone eighty years older. He scrubbed his face with both hands, groaned, and added, "I hate all of you."

Jeongin ignored the theatrics and began shoving shoes toward their owners. One by one, like reluctant zombies, the group started moving, Felix holding onto the wall for balance, Jisung still wrapped like a burrito in his blanket until Jeongin snapped at him to leave it behind, Changbin stumbling upright with surprising energy once the promise of soup registered. 

They shuffled toward the door in varying states of ruin, muttering curses under their breath and swearing never to drink that much again. And the bet, ridiculous as it was, was still alive. And Chan, oblivious somewhere across campus, had no idea he'd become the prize. 

 

_______

. 

. 

. 

_______ 

 

It was a Monday morning.

Easily the worst kind of morning, the kind that felt like it had claws. The sunlight slicing through the blinds of his dorm room was too white, too sharp, like it was personally offended that he'd dared to stay out. Chan lay flat on his back for a while, staring at the thin cracks of light on the ceiling, trying to convince himself that his body wasn't as heavy as it felt. His head throbbed in small, steady pulses; his tongue was dry, his eyes sandy. He'd never been good at sleeping after drinking, and two nights of jagged, restless sleep had left him feeling like he was walking through water.

He'd bought Jeongin home from the party that night, a familiar ritual at this point. The younger had been barely upright, cheeks flushed, hiccupping apologies as Chan looped an arm under his shoulders and half-dragged, half-carried him up the stairs. He'd made him drink water, pressed a cold towel to his neck, coaxed him to eat some of leftovers from the dinner he had made so that his stomach did not kill him the next morning.

Because the stupid, reckless decision he'd made in the middle of that game, leaning toward Felix and whispering Minho's name, actually saying it out loud, had begun to crawl under his skin like a live wire. He hadn't thought about it in the moment. He'd been warm with beer, dizzy with noise, the circle leaning in and waiting, Felix's expectant eyes. "Fuck it," he'd thought, and said it. A two-syllable confession that had been locked in his chest for months, maybe years, spilling out in a single whisper.

Now, sleep deprived and exhausted, the memory replayed on a loop behind his eyes. The way Felix had smiled, the way Jisung had snorted, the way everyone had leaned back and laughed. They'd all been drunk. Felix's pupils had been huge, Jisung had been slurring. Seungmin had been leaning sideways like a tree in a storm. Surely none of them would remember enough to run off to Minho with it. Surely.

But there was always a possibility. A possibility that Felix had woken up early, texted someone. A possibility that Minho already knew and was just waiting to corner him in the hallway with that infuriating little half-smile. The thought made his stomach knot. His skin felt too tight. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and exhaled slowly.

By that morning, Jeongin texted to say he was heading over to "check on the others." Chan's stomach dropped at the phrasing. "Check on" what? Check whether they'd told Minho? Check whether they were laughing about it right now, turning it into a story, a joke, a dare? He tried to keep busy while he waited, answering emails, wiping down the already-clean desk, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, but his mind kept circling back to the same image: His larger than the world crush turning his affections into a joke.

When Jeongin finally came back in the evening, kicking off his shoes and humming under his breath, Chan watched him like a hawk. The younger's hair was damp from a shower somewhere else, his hands full of takeout containers. He was smiling. He didn't glance at Chan strangely, didn't ask any loaded questions, didn't act as if he knew something he shouldn't. Just the same gentle chatter about class schedules and cafeteria food, about how everyone at Minho's place looked like death warmed over and how the soup from the shop down the block was actually decent.

Chan sat very still on his bed, heart hammering in his throat. Every word Jeongin said was a small relief. Every casual movement chipped away at the panic. If Jeongin had spent the whole afternoon with the others and still came back acting normal, then maybe Felix hadn't spilled anything. Maybe Jisung and Seungmin had let it slide. Maybe Minho still didn't know. Maybe he was safe.

He forced a smile, nodded at Jeongin's question about food, and let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. The tension behind his eyes eased a fraction. Relief slid through him like warm water, leaving him tired but lighter.

Chan decided to trust (drunk) Felix with the secret and move on.

He still dragged himself through the next morning routine like a ghost: shower, teeth, clothes, coffee. The halls of campus buzzed around him, but the sound felt distant, muffled, like he was underwater. In his first lecture he filled a page with neat, perfect notes without taking in a single word. Every time the classroom door opened his head snapped up automatically, heart spiking, half-expecting Minho to walk in with some knowing look. He hated himself for it. He hated that a single slip at a party had him spiraling like this.

As he was walking down towards his last class, he heard a very enthusiastic "Channie!" from behind.

"Younghyun hyung!" Chan replied with the same energy, his spirits lifting right up upon seeing his hyung and ex-roommate.

He had missed him tremendously for the past semester. Don't get him wrong, Jeongin was an amazing roommate and Chan loved him, but Younghyun was the one who had helped him through his very first day here, guided him through classes, and made the dorm feel like home. Seeing him after six months was like having a piece of that comfort handed back to him. It sparked something childlike inside of Chan, something that hadn't stirred in a while.

Chan ran toward him and caught him in a tight hug.

"Woah there, young man," the elder wheezed, stumbling back a step before catching Chan's barreling body and holding him just as tight. "Missed you too, Channie."

"Hyung, what are you doing here? I thought you moved to Seoul for your new job?"

"I did," Younghyun chuckled, pulling back to look at him properly. "Got an apartment with three other guys too, it's a little loud, but its good chaos. I just needed a signature from the department on some ancient form. You know how company requirements are. And well..." He gave Chan's shoulder a fond squeeze. "I decided to take the longer route and guess who I ran into."

"Me!" Chan said immediately, beaming, his worries momentarily dissolving in his hyung's arms.

Younghyun laughed, his eyes crinkling at how cute the younger was acting. He had missed Chan tremendously too. On the way here, he had wondered whether the boy would be different, more distant, too busy, less excitable now that time had passed. But Chan immediately proved him wrong, clinging to him with the same warmth as always.

Still, as they pulled apart, Younghyun let his gaze linger. Chan's smile was bright, but his eye- his eyes carried something heavier, something tired. A flicker of concern tugged at him, but he didn't voice it just yet. Instead, he nudged Chan's arm and said lightly, "You look good, though. A little older. A little more stressed, maybe. Everything okay here?"

Chan forced a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm fine, hyung. Just, you know, Mondays. Classes. Nothing serious."

Younghyun hummed softly, unconvinced, but didn't press. He simply nodded, his smile warm, as though to say: I'm here if you need me, no matter what.

And for a moment, standing there in the corridor, Chan felt some of that weight on his chest ease as it always felt when he was with his Hyung.

Younghyun let his arm stay around Chan's shoulder as they drifted a little to the side of the hallway to let other students pass. They talked easily, falling back into their old rhythm, about Seoul, about Younghyun's new flatmates, about how messy Chan's schedule had gotten this semester. For a few minutes, it was almost like they were back in their old dorm, cups of ramen balanced on the desk between them.

A familiar voice cut through the corridor. "Well, look who's back on campus!"

Both of them turned. BamBam, phone in hand, strode up with that loose, effortless confidence he always carried. His hair was a shade lighter than the last time Chan had seen him, and his smile was wide.

"Bam!" Chan said, genuinely surprised. "I thought you were busy today."

"I am," BamBam said with a grin, sliding his phone into his pocket. "But then my class got canceled so I was going to sneak into yours. And Younghyun hyung? Wow, long time no see!"

Younghyun laughed, pulling the younger into a brief hug. "You've grown taller again, haven't you?"

"Or maybe you've shrunk," BamBam shot back, grinning, then turned to Chan. "You two catching up?"

"We were just talking," Chan said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, then make plans with me too," BamBam said, rocking back on his heels. "If hyung's here for a night, we're not letting him get away without a proper meal. Mark Hyung's treat. Dinner?"

"You making the poor soul pay when he isn't even here?" Chan scoffed, knowing neither Mark nor BamBam had a problem with them spending each other's money.

The other blew him a raspberry and turned towards the elder with very, very convincing puppy eyes.

Younghyun's face lit up. "I'd love that. It's been ages since I've had campus food. Or any food around here that isn't overpriced Seoul delivery."

Chan opened his mouth to make an excuse, his to-do list, the project he hadn't finished, the creeping embarrassment about the party still clinging to him, but stopped. BamBam and Younghyun were both looking at him expectantly, and he realised he didn't actually want to say no. All his non-existent resolve melted away pretty quickly.

"Dinner sounds good," he said quietly, almost to himself, then louder: "Yeah. Let's do dinner."

"Perfect," BamBam clapped once, satisfied. "I'll book us a spot. Seven, yeah?"

Younghyun nodded. "Seven's great."

"Seven it is," Chan echoed, trying to match their enthusiasm. The sound of their laughter washed over him, warm and familiar, but under it his mind still flickered back to Felix's ear and Minho's name, the slip of truth he'd thrown out like a grenade.

He smiled anyway, let Younghyun drape an arm over his shoulder again, and told himself that for tonight at least, he could just be Channie with his friends.

 

.

.

.

 

The corridor outside the dorm was hushed, that late-night hush where even a door hinge seems loud. Chan padded down the hall with the faint buzz of dinner still in his chest, a take-out box tucked under one arm. His cheeks ached from laughing, his jacket smelled faintly of grilled meat; for the first time in weeks he felt light, like all the noise in his head had finally been dialled down. Younghyun's warmth still clung to his hoodie, BamBam's ridiculous jokes still looped through his mind like a catchy song.

He unlocked the door quietly, expecting darkness. In his head Jeongin would be in bed already, maybe scrolling TikTok with one headphone in, the apartment silent and waiting for Chan to shower and crawl under his blanket to replay the evening until sleep took him.

Instead, brightness.

The living room glowed. The TV flickered blue against the walls, voices and laughter spilling out, the air thick with ramen and soda. Shoes were kicked off like fallen dominoes. Bowls, cans and blankets had colonised the floor. Jisung was draped over a beanbag, Felix curled up beside him, Seungmin sat primly on the rug as if refusing to be swallowed by the mess. Changbin dozed in an armchair, ramen bowl balanced on his stomach.

And then there was Minho.

Perched at the edge of the couch, phone loose in his hand, damp hair falling over his forehead. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Relaxed in a way that made him seem sharper. His eyes flicked up at the sound of the door. For a heartbeat Chan forgot how to breathe. Minho had never spoken to him directly, not once. They existed in parallel, close enough to share the same air but never words.

So when Minho's voice cut through the room, low and direct, it was like stepping into cold water.

"Where were you?"

Chan's fingers tightened on his bag strap. The question hung in the air and suddenly every head turned toward him. The movie's noise dipped into silence.

"Me?" His voice cracked up high. He wanted to glance behind him, to check if Minho meant someone else, but that would make him look even more awkward. He jabbed a finger at his own chest instead.

"Yes, Channie Hyung, you." Minho tilted his head, unreadable but intent. "It's late. I was starting to get worried."

The words hit harder than they should have. Worried? About him? His throat went dry. His chest gave a confused little lurch, half terror, half something unnamed.

"I– uh-" Heat crawled up his neck. "I was just catching up with an old friend. Younghyun Hyung. And, um, BamBam came too. We had dinner and, uh, yeah, time got away from me." A thin, too-high laugh. "Sorry. Should've texted."

He had no idea why he was explaining himself like that, as if Minho had the right to know, as if Minho were his boyfriend. But the urge to justify himself was stronger than his dignity.

"It's fine." Minho's gaze lingered a beat too long before he looked back at his phone. "Just... next time, let someone know."

Chan nodded too fast, almost bowing. "Yeah. Of course. I will. Sorry." He muttered a quick goodnight to the others and ducked into his room before his face could betray anything.

He shut the door harder than he meant to and winced at the sound. The muffled movie bled faintly through the wall. Inside, everything was still. His pulse was not. It thundered in his ears, a wild flutter like something trying to escape.

He leaned back against the door, palms flat, eyes squeezed shut. His body felt as if it had walked through fire and then ice. All the warmth from dinner, the laughter, the familiar smell of Younghyun's cologne, all gone. Replaced by the echo of Minho's voice.

He'd never heard Minho say his name before. He'd never heard Minho speak to him at all. In groups Minho had a dry quip for Felix, a teasing jab for Jisung, but never for him. They were parallel lines. Until now.

And what a first crossing. Where were you? I was starting to get worried.

He replayed it, the tilt of Minho's head, the weight of his eyes. It should have been nothing, just a casual question. But Minho had said worried. About him. Chan's stomach flipped again. It didn't make sense.

He pushed off the door and paced the narrow room, hands in his hair. Why had he rattled off an alibi? Why apologise, promise to text, as if he owed Minho an update? As if Minho were... what? His RA? His brother? His boyfriend?

He stopped mid-stride, pressing his knuckles to his mouth to smother a groan. His ears still burned. He could still feel the weight of Minho's gaze, heavy and unreadable. And under the embarrassment, something else sparked, small and dangerous.

He sank onto his bed, still in his jacket, the take-out box forgotten on the desk. The smell of grilled meat now made him faintly nauseous. All the good mood from the evening had evaporated, leaving only a strange, dizzy rush. His heart kept looping Minho's words: next time, let someone know. Next time. As if there would be a next time. As if Minho expected one.

He stared at the floorboards. His pulse refused to slow; it was a rabbit-fast flutter under his skin. He could still see Minho exactly as he'd been, the soft fall of damp hair, the way the hoodie clung to his shoulders, the calm weight of his voice cutting through the chatter. It was ridiculous. A handful of words, and Chan felt yanked out of orbit.

"Get it together," he whispered, dragging a trembling hand over his face.

For months Minho had been a background hum: beautiful, untouchable, always a step away. Chan had convinced himself he liked it that way. Two parallel lines, no collision. But now Minho had looked at him, spoken to him, said he was worried. And Chan's chest had gone molten.

He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Minho again, the curve of his mouth when he'd said "next time." All the warmth of the evening dissolved behind the sharp, bright memory of Minho's voice.

His heart thudded harder. It felt like being sixteen again, like having a crush so bad you can't eat. He pressed a palm to his chest to quiet it; it didn't work. He was hot all over, restless, his legs not his own.

This was supposed to be a harmless crush. Someone who made his day to day life at the mundane college a little brighter, a little more interesting. Someone who his friends teased him over and he never thought about again since they didn't really talk. But now that Minho was stepping forward and blurring that line by talking to him directly and being "worried" about him. It was putting all of his delusions and ideas in danger. 

Grave, grave danger.

He rolled onto his side and pulled the blanket over his head, like a child hiding from a storm. In the darkness, the world shrank to the echo of Minho's voice and the pounding of his heart. Embarrassment and anticipation tangled together until he didn't know which was which.

He hated it. He loved it. 

He couldn't stop.

 

.

.

.

 

"Hello, Bam-ah."

"Channie, it's two a.m. and you're disturbing my cuddles with Mark-hyung. If this isn't important, I'm hanging up."

"But it is important, I swear!"

"...Go ahead."

"It's... it's about him, Bam-ah."

"Who-? Hell no. Chan, tell me you didn't make me get up from my cosy position to rant about stupid Minho."

"Hey, hey, he's not stupid. And, uh... well, he said something."

"Yes, Chan-ah. Did he say hi to you and make your heart go all mushy-mushy with his cute but uninterested smile?"

"He—" Chan cleared his throat. "He said he was worried about me."

There was a pause. "He what?"

"He asked where I was when I came home tonight. In front of everyone. Said he was worried." Chan exhaled shakily. "Bam, he's never even spoken to me before."

"So you woke me up at two a.m. to tell me Minho finally noticed you exist?"

"It's not like that," Chan hissed, rolling onto his back. "It felt... different. Like he actually meant it."

"Or," BamBam drawled, "he was just being polite because Jeongin talks about you like you're his mum. Don't overthink it."

"But—but, he said he was worried about me—"

"—at this point even I am—"

"—and what if he doesn't mean it—"

"—then he wouldn't have said it—"

"—and now he regrets saying that—"

"—Channie, I promise you he was just worried for you as Jeongin's roommate and part-time mother. Don't look into it too much, ok?"

"...Ok, I guess..."

"Good, can I go to sleep now?"

"But, Bam-ah, what if he—"

There was a long bleep that echoed in his room as the call ended. And Chan's phone screen went black. 

 

.

.

.

 

The next morning was brutal.

Chan's eyebags were the worst they'd been in months, a dark bruise under each eye that no amount of concealer or coffee could hide. He'd barely slept a wink, not even dozed, his brain looping Minho's voice like a broken song. At some point dawn had bled through his curtains and, with the same numb instinct that had carried him through his exam days, he'd showered, dressed, and somehow ended up on campus.

By his third lecture he felt like a ghost in his own body. He sat at his desk taking notes mechanically, the professor's voice washing over him without meaning. Every time he blinked too long, the scene at the apartment replayed itself with brutal clarity: Minho looking up at him, Minho's voice low but steady, Minho saying he was worried.

He tried to focus on something else, a line on the whiteboard, the sound of a pen tapping nearby, a random lyric stuck in his head, but the words always came crashing back, scattering his concentration like startled birds. His ears went hot first, then his whole neck followed, a flush he couldn't will away. Three separate classmates leaned over to ask if he was feeling unwell or wanted to go home. He mumbled something about not enough sleep, eyes glued to his notes, but he knew the tips of his ears were flaming red the entire time.

When the lecture finally ended, he slumped against the cool wall outside the classroom, rubbing at his burning face. Part of him was grateful BamBam didn't share any classes with him; if BamBam had caught one glimpse of him in this state, he would've had enough teasing material to last the semester.

Chan exhaled hard, dragging a hand through his hair. He had no idea how he was going to survive the rest of the day like this. Or worse, how he was going to get through the lunch.

By noon he felt like he was walking through water. His eyes stung from the fluorescent lights, his shoulders ached from holding himself so stiffly, and his stomach was an empty knot. Lunch hour meant the cafeteria would be crowded and noisy, exactly the sort of environment where he could lose himself if he kept his head down.

He slipped his tray onto the counter, took whatever food was closest without really looking, and started scanning for an empty corner. Out of habit his gaze snagged on a familiar table: Jeongin, Felix, Jisung, a couple of other friends laughing over something on a phone screen. Jeongin's head tipped back in laughter, sunlight catching the edge of his hair.

Chan's gut twisted. If he walked over there, Jeongin would wave him in, introduce him to whoever was sitting with them, and he'd have to smile through his exhaustion while trying not to think about Minho. Maybe even sit near him. He couldn't risk it. Not with his face burning the way it was.

He angled his body away and started for the farthest corner of the room, eyes fixed on a patch of tile like it was a lifeline.

"Hyung."

The voice slid through the din of the cafeteria like a hook catching his sleeve. Chan froze before he could stop himself, tray wobbling in his hands. He knew that voice, he'd been hearing it in his head all night.

When he turned, Minho was there, standing a few feet away with a paper cup in one hand. His damp hair from the morning workout had dried into a soft fringe; his expression was unreadable but direct.

"You're not going to sit with us?" Minho's gaze flicked to Chan's tray, then back to his face. "Come on."

NO? When have we ever sat together???? Is what he would have loved to say but instead his brain supplied him with an even more intelligent answer.

"I-" Chan's mouth went dry. His instinct was to make an excuse, to mumble something about an assignment and bolt, but Minho had already closed the distance, one hand light on Chan's elbow. It wasn't a tug, exactly, just a quiet insistence. 

All the butterflies, moths, elephants, or whatever they were combusted inside of Chan. He was pretty sure his entire neck was red and the blush was spreading to his face slowly.

"Come sit." The words weren't loud but they left no room for argument.

Before Chan could fully register what was happening, Minho had steered him through the rows of tables. Jeongin looked up first, surprise flashing into a grin, and shifted over to make space. The chatter at the table paused, then started up again with new energy, welcoming him in.

Oh, at least I can sit away from Minho, Chan thought, setting his tray down. But as Minho did not step away to go to the other side, his hands started shaking violently. 

Chan shuffled in his seat, hyperaware of Minho sliding into the seat beside him, close enough that their knees almost brushed under the table. His heart was already a wild, rabbit-fast flutter. He didn't trust his voice, so he focused on unwrapping his chopsticks, hoping no one noticed the tremor in his hands.

Jeongin nudged his shoulder. "Hyung, you could've just come over, you know. We saved a spot."

Since when have we ever sat together?!?

Chan gave a thin smile, eyes fixed on his tray. "Didn't want to interrupt." His chopsticks slipped against the lid of his rice, clattering once. He hoped the noise covered how shaky his breath sounded.

Across from him Felix was grinning. "Interrupt? You're practically Jeongin's and by extension our dorm mum. You don't interrupt anything." The table laughed.

Minho didn't laugh. He was leaning back slightly, one arm draped over the back of his chair, eyes on Chan as if the rest of the table was background noise. "Did you get any sleep?" he asked, low enough that only Chan seemed to catch it.

Chan's head snapped up. "Huh?"

Minho's expression didn't change. "You look tired."

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-

The words were simple, but they landed like a touch. Chan's stomach flipped; he forced a laugh that came out too thin. "Yeah, long night. Assignments."

Lies! I was up all night thinking about you like a silly little stalker.

Minho's mouth tilted, not quite a smile. "Don't run yourself into the ground." He picked up his own chopsticks, the conversation around them rolling on, but his knee brushed Chan's under the table for the briefest second, maybe an accident, maybe not.

The touch burnt through his pants and through all of his skin, sending shivers down his spine. If he had any less control over his body, Chan would have already fallen flat on the ground due to the shocks going through his body.

Chan stared down at his tray, pulse drumming in his ears. He couldn't taste anything. He couldn't even remember what he'd picked up to eat. All he could feel was the echo of Minho's words and the heat crawling up his neck.

He sat as still as he could, chopsticks poised above his rice. His knee was a live wire. Every few seconds Minho shifted just enough under the table that their legs brushed, a ghost of contact, a casual press of denim against denim. Each time it happened Chan's brain sparked like a short-circuit. His fingers tightened on his chopsticks until they squeaked.

He tried to focus on the table conversation, Felix talking about some new dance cover, Changbin laughing with a mouthful of food, but the sound came through as a blur. All he could hear was his own pulse and the scrape of Minho's chopsticks. All he could feel was heat building up his throat, ears burning, his knee screaming don't move don't move don't move.

"Hyung, you're not eating," Jeongin said around a sip of soda.

"Ah... yeah." Chan forced a smile, breaking a piece of eggroll he couldn't taste. "Just not that hungry."

Minho's knee brushed his again. Once. Twice. A little longer this time. Chan almost jumped. He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes on his tray, willing himself not to flinch, not to do anything that would give him away.

Then like a lifeline, he saw Jihyo standing at the edge of the cafeteria. She was scanning the room for someone, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair pulled back messily. Relief crashed over him so fast his body moved before his brain caught up.

"I- uh- sorry, gotta go!" he blurted, pushing back his chair so suddenly it scraped. His tray rattled. "Friend's waiting for me. Group project. Sorry." He didn't look at Minho. He didn't dare.

The table blinked at him. "Hyung-" Jeongin started, but Chan was already halfway across the room, weaving between chairs with his head down like a man escaping a fire.

When he reached Jihyo, he grabbed lightly at her arm, panting. "Hey. Jihyo. Hi."

She blinked at him. "Uh... hi? What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"No, no, just-" He forced a laugh, too loud, too high. "Could you... uh... take me with you? Wherever you're going?"

Jihyo's brows drew together. She glanced past him at the table of boys, then back at his flushed face. "O...kay?" she said slowly. "I was just meeting some friends from the film club."

"Perfect." Chan's smile was brittle. "That's perfect. Let's go."

She adjusted her bag, still looking at him like he'd grown another head, but she didn't press. "Alright, come on then." She steered him toward the doors, shooting one last confused glance over her shoulder. Chan didn't look back; he felt like if he did he'd combust.

As soon as they stepped away a little, his shoulders sagged. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, pulse still hammering from Minho's knee and eyes and voice. Jihyo slowed, staring at him. "Okay. Seriously. What was that?"

Chan scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'll tell you later. Please. Just... just keep walking."

She raised an eyebrow but nodded, leading him down the corridor toward the film club room. Chan followed like a man clutching a lifeboat, the echo of Minho's touch still burning against his skin.

As soon as they stepped out into the hallway's cool air, Chan's shoulders sagged. He let out a shaky breath, pressing a palm to his chest as if to slow his heart. The cafeteria doors swung shut behind them, muting the chatter and clatter. Jihyo stopped a few steps ahead and turned to look at him, hands on her hips.

"Okay," she said, her voice low but sharp. "What was that back there? You looked like a fugitive making a break for it."

Chan rubbed at the back of his neck, staring at the floor. "I just... needed to get out."

"Uh-huh." She stepped closer, eyes narrowing, then flicking toward the cafeteria door. "Did 'needed to get out' have anything to do with the table you were sitting at? Specifically the boy on the end with the pretty eyes and the scary resting face? Who looked at me like he wanted to personally curse me when you ran towards me?"

Chan's head shot up, ears going red. "What? No. I mean- what?"

"Oh my god." Jihyo's mouth dropped open and then curled into a grin. "It is about him. Chan, you practically sprinted over here like a heroine in a drama."

"I didn't sprint," he muttered, heat creeping up his neck. "And it's not- it's not like that."

"Sure." She started walking again, but slow now, bumping his shoulder with hers. "Totally not like that. Totally not blushing like you just walked out of a confession scene."

"I'm not-" Chan stopped, groaning into his hands. "You're impossible."

"And you," she said cheerfully, "are very obviously crushing on him. Who knew, Bang Chan? Mr. Composed Student Council Head Boy."

"I'm not composed," he mumbled through his fingers. "And it's not a crush. It's just... he said something."

"What did he say? 'Pass the salt'? Did you melt?"

Chan glared at her weakly. "He said he was worried about me."

Jihyo blinked, then let out a low whistle. "Worried, huh? Wow. That's practically a love confession in Chan-language."

"Stop," Chan hissed, but his ears were crimson. "It's not- you're making it weird."

"It was already weird," she said, laughing. "I've known you for years, and I've never seen you bolt from lunch like that. You're smitten, Channie."

He pressed his palms to his face and groaned. "I hate you."

"No you don't," she sing-songed, tugging at his sleeve. "Now come on, you can hide with me and the film club, Nayeon is going to be so happy to see you there. But at some point you're gonna have to go back and finish that lunch. Or your love story."

"Not. A. Love story," Chan muttered, but he followed her anyway, cheeks hot, heart still thudding like he'd run a marathon.

 

_______

.

.

.

_______ 

 

"What was that, hyung?" Jeongin asked, eyebrows raised, smirk already creeping across his face as he watched Chan's retreating back. The elder had practically bolted from the table, dragging his friend out with him like the cafeteria had burst into flames. His ears and neck were still pink even as the door swung shut behind him.

Minho didn't look at Jeongin straight away. He stayed where he was, one elbow resting on the back of his chair, eyes following the door a beat too long. Only when the noise of the cafeteria swallowed Chan completely did he glance back at the others.

"Just playing around a little," he said at last, voice calm and flat.

Felix snorted into his drink. "Looked like you were playing with fire," he muttered.

Jisung leaned across the table, eyes glittering. "Hyung," he said, mock-serious, "did you see his face? I thought steam was about to come out of his ears."

Changbin rolled his eyes but even he was fighting a smile. "You're going to kill him if you keep teasing him like that."

Minho only shrugged, the ghost of a smile flickering across his mouth. In his head he could still feel the tremor that had run through Chan's knee every time it had brushed against his under the table; still see the way Chan's hands had twitched around his chopsticks, the way he'd bitten his lip and stared hard at his tray like it might save him.

It was rare to see someone like Chan, always careful, always collected, lose his footing. Rarer still to be the one who caused it. A small, secret thrill curled in Minho's stomach at the memory, and the corner of his mouth curved up a little more as he idly picked at his food.

At first it had been nothing more than a joke. Tease him a little, break the ice, tick a box on a stupid bet. But the moment Minho saw Chan's composure crack, the subtle tremor in his hands, the way his shoulders had gone tight, the frantic little flicker of his eyes when their knees touched, something inside Minho shifted. The plan had been to get close enough to win quickly; instead, he found himself wanting to linger.

When Chan's fingers shook around his chopsticks, Minho had wanted to reach across and steady them. When Chan nearly jumped each time their knees brushed, Minho had to physically stop himself from sliding his hand up, pressing it to Chan's thigh just to feel him jolt again, to anchor that heat between them. The thought alone sent a pulse of warmth through his own chest.

This was supposed to be a silly bet. Easy money, a bit of fun. But he hadn't expected Chan to be this responsive, this endearing. Now the money sitting in the pot didn't feel like the point at all; the point was watching the elder's mask slip, hearing his breath catch, seeing colour bloom high on his cheeks. Last night it had been his words; today it was a casual brush of skin. If Minho pushed a little harder, what would happen next?

The stakes had just gone up.

Across the table, Jeongin caught the micro-expression on Minho's face, the faint curve of his lips, the glint in his eyes and let out a low, knowing whistle. "Just playing, huh?" he said, voice dripping with teasing.

Minho finally looked at him, one eyebrow raised in mock warning. "Eat your lunch, Innie," he murmured, his tone lazy but his gaze already drifting back toward the cafeteria doors Chan had fled through.

The satisfied glint lingered in his eyes, slow and deliberate, like a cat watching the spot where its prey had disappeared.

 

.

.

.

 

From Minho's place the library was a cathedral of quiet, rows of bowed heads, soft laptop glow, the shuffle of pens. But one person in particular caught his eye before he'd even crossed the room.

Chan.

He was a mess of movement at a back table, hunched over a laptop with papers fanned out like wings. His fingers flew over the keys, then darted to scribble something in the margins, then back to the keyboard. He chewed at his lip, brow drawn, oblivious to everything. Even the loose strands of hair falling over his eyes couldn't make him look less intense.

Minho paused for a second, just watching. It was so different from the Chan the public saw, calm senior, collected hyung. Here he was frantic, raw, almost boyish in his focus. It tugged at something in Minho's chest.

He slid into the chair beside him without asking, wanting to see what would happen. "Hyung," he said lightly. "Mind if I sit?"

Chan, still typing, gave a distracted, automatic "Nope, go ahead," without looking up. Minho smiled to himself.

Then Chan finally glanced over, and the moment of realisation crossed his face like a ripple of heat. Minho drank it in: the way the elder's pupils flickered wide, the faint catch of breath.

"Oh. Uh- hi," Chan said, voice pitched just a little too high.

Minho bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. 

Cute.

"Hi," he answered, soft and low. "Didn't know you were hiding back here."

Chan gestured at the chaos of notes. "Project. Deadline."

"Looks intense," Minho murmured, leaning an elbow on the table. He let his knee brush Chan's under the table, feather-light, pretending to shift his chair. "You always work this hard?"

Chan's fingers stuttered on the keys. "Something like that."

"That's cute," Minho said, pitched low so no one else could hear. He meant it as a tease, but the word landed heavier than he expected. "The way you're typing and scribbling at the same time. Like a mad scientist."

The tops of Chan's ears turned red, exactly the way Minho had hoped. He could see the elder swallow hard and refocus on the screen, trying to disappear into it.

"I- It's just how I work," Chan muttered.

Minho shifted a little closer, enough for their shoulders to almost touch. "Your hands are shaking," he observed, letting his smirk show this time. "You nervous?"

"No," Chan said immediately, too immediately. A sheet of notes slid off the table and he fumbled for it, knuckles pale.

"Sure." Minho deliberately nudged his knee against Chan's again, slow enough to be unmistakable. "Relax a little, Hyung, I'm not grading your paper."

Inside, Minho felt a thrill he hadn't expected. Watching Chan crumble at the edges was intoxicating. The elder's composure was legendary; to be the one who cracked it open felt like holding a live wire. He wanted to see what other reactions he could draw out, a smile, a glare, maybe even a confession.  The urge startled him. This wasn't supposed to feel like this.

Then Chan's gaze flicked up and snagged on someone across the room, Yugyeom waving a thick folder at him. Minho saw the relief bloom across Chan's face like sunrise, and for a second he forgot to smirk.

"Ah, my partner's here," Chan blurted, already shoving papers into his bag. "We- we've got to finish something before the deadline."

"Right now?" Minho asked, eyebrow arched, pretending at laziness even as his mind spun.

"Yes. Sorry, Minho-ssi." Chan snapped his laptop shut, almost yanking the charger from the socket, and all but bolted toward Yugyeom.

Minho stayed at the table after Chan had fled, fingers drumming idly against the wood, but his thoughts weren't idle at all. They were full of the look on Chan's face a few seconds ago, the startled widen of his eyes, the uneven breath, the way colour had flooded up his neck until even the tips of his ears were pink.

It wasn't just funny anymore. It was addictive.

Every time Minho brushed his knee against Chan's under the table and watched the elder twitch, every time he murmured something low and saw Chan's throat work as he swallowed, it sent a little spark of satisfaction through him. It was like pulling threads out of a tightly woven fabric and seeing what lay beneath.

He found himself cataloguing each detail without meaning to: the tremor in Chan's fingers when he picked up a dropped pen; the way his voice cracked when he tried to sound calm; how his teeth caught his bottom lip when he was flustered, leaving it just a little more red, a little more soft-looking than before. All those tells, all that restrained energy, and Minho was the one unlocking it.

A shiver of anticipation ran through him at the thought. What would Chan look like if he really lost it? Not just the little stutters and blushes, but completely undone, eyes down, words tripping over each other, his whole body giving away what his mouth tried to hide. His face and neck red, his knees giving out beneath Minho as he moved further, moved in closer.

Minho wanted to see it. He wanted to see it all. Wanted to draw it out of him slowly, with a look or a touch, until the composure cracked all the way. It wasn't even about the bet anymore. The money was pocket change compared to the thrill of coaxing those reactions out of someone who never let anyone see them.

His lips curved into a small, secret smile.

He wanted another round.

Next time, he thought. Next time I'll push a little further.

 

.

.

.

 

The next few weeks were absolutely filled with Minho teasing out those reactions from Chan.

Simple things, sliding into the seat beside him at lunch, brushing past him in the corridor, calling his name across the quad, were enough to have Chan blushing to his roots, fumbling with his chopsticks or his pens like a first-year caught out. Minho found himself looking for excuses to do it, a casual "hi" in passing, leaning just a little too close to point at Chan's notes, an offhand joke murmured under his breath so that only Chan heard. Every time the elder went pink and ducked his head, Minho's smirk deepened. 

(He wondered if bringing Chan to his knees would be just as simple as this.)

But then things changed because of this. 

Minho, the Minho who had not talked to another students the entire time he was here (exceptions being his hooligans of course), was talking, even teasing Chan. 

He was laughing freely with the elder, inviting him out to intice him, sharing his things so Chan would trust him more, and giving out stories, albeit a lot of fake ones, of himself so that Chan would think he knew him even more. Anything to win the bet, right?

Right?

The ripple spread outwards too. 

Because Chan was already close with Jeongin, it was natural for the others to drift in, too. Lunches that used to be just the seven of them became tables full of noise, Seungmin dryly commenting on Chan's notes, Hyunjin balancing his chin on Chan's shoulder to peek at a video, Felix sliding a homemade brownie across the table with a grin, Jisung and Changbin dragging him into their ridiculous debates. Chan laughed more, spoke more, the shy politeness giving way to real warmth. He helped Seungmin troubleshoot a presentation, listened patiently to Hyunjin's story about a botched rehearsal, translated a line of lyrics for Jisung. Even in the studio after hours, he'd be there, leaning over a laptop with Changbin or clapping Felix on the back after a good take.

Minho watched it happen, watched Chan's walls begin to come down, watched the way his blushes shifted from embarrassment to something softer, almost fond. Sometimes Chan would even tease back, a quiet quip, a roll of his eyes, a flick of his fingers against Minho's wrist, before retreating behind that bashful smile again. Each little interaction made something in Minho coil tighter. He found himself looking forward to the sound of Chan's laugh, the way his shoulders shook when he tried not to smile, the quiet thanks murmured under his breath when Minho did something kind.

It just meant that Chan was falling for the traps he was laying, right? That Minho would get over with this bet before the elder's graduation easily, wouldn't he?

But it made something happen in Minho's stomach. Something he was terrifieed of even looking at, let alone naming. 

Something Seungmin caught in his expression and confronted him for.

It was one of those rare warm afternoons when the campus lawn was dotted with students. Chan was sitting cross-legged on the grass, surrounded by a loose circle of people. He was half explaining something to Hyunjin, half balancing Jisung's laptop on his knees while Felix tried to feed him a piece of brownie. Jeongin was leaning against his shoulder, laughing at something Changbin said. The scene looked more like a family picnic than a break between classes.

A few meters away, under the shade of a tree, Minho sat with Seungmin, a coffee cup cooling between his palms. He wasn't even pretending to look at his phone; his eyes were fixed on the scene in front of him.

Seungmin followed his gaze and let out a low sigh. "You've been staring for ten minutes, Hyung."

Minho's mouth quirked. "Observing."

"Uh-huh." Seungmin took a slow sip from his drink. "Observing or plotting?"

Minho finally looked at him, one brow raised. "What's your point?"

Seungmin tilted his chin toward the group. Chan had just handed Hyunjin a pen and was reaching over to smooth the corner of Jisung's printout, talking all the while. "My point is, do you remember what's at stake here?"

Minho said nothing, but his jaw ticked.

Seungmin kept his eyes on Chan. "When we started this, it was a bet. A joke. I am extremely guilty of letting it get to this point." He paused, fingers tightening on his cup. "I realised too late that he's not like the others. He helps everyone, even the ones who are planning to break his heart because they wanted a good laugh."

They both watched as Chan leaned over, listening intently to something Changbin was saying. He reached up to fix Hyunjin's collar, murmured something to Felix, and the whole circle burst into laughter again. Chan's face lit up with it, unguarded.

Seungmin's voice dropped, quiet but steady. "He's become family to all of us. Even to me. If you keep pushing, if you're still thinking about winning that stupid bet..." He turned to meet Minho's eyes. "Are you really ready to break his heart, Hyung?"

The question landed heavier than Seungmin expected. Minho didn't immediately deflect. He just watched Chan across the grass, watched him smile at Jeongin, watched him brush crumbs off his own knee and hand Felix a napkin.

When Minho finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost thoughtful. "It was supposed to be simple."

"It never is," Seungmin murmured.

Minho's fingers drummed once against his cup, a faint crease appearing between his brows. For the first time, Seungmin thought he saw something like hesitation flicker across Minho's face.

Across the lawn, Chan looked up at that exact moment, scanning the crowd as if he'd felt the weight of Minho's stare. Their eyes met briefly, the elder flashing him a bright smile, before Chan turned back to Hyunjin, listening intently to what the taller was saying.

Seungmin nudged him. "Think about what you're doing, Hyung. It's not only one heart you're going to break here."

Minho didn't answer. He just kept watching, the cool coffee forgotten in his hands.

 

.

.

.

 

The sky over campus had gone a soft slate grey a few weeks later, the kind of winter dusk that makes everything quieter than it really is. Snow had yet to fall. And for some reason, Minho was sure that Chan would look magnificent during it. Chan laughed with a junior near the old fountain. He was explaining something with his hands, dimples showing, his breath white in the air.

Minho stood a little off to the side, hands in his coat pockets. Seungmin's voice from the afternoon three months ago still sat heavy in his chest: It's not only one heart you're going to break here. It had been more of a warning than an opinion, although he had chosen to ignore it completely. Minho had walked away from that talk with his jaw set and his stomach in knots.

Minho replayed the last few weeks in his mind: Chan's shy smiles when Minho teased him, the way his ears went scarlet at the smallest touch, the quiet "goodnight" texts that had started to happen without either of them agreeing to it. The late-night conversations that bled into morning greetings. The tiny things that had slipped past Minho's guard until, before he realised it, Chan wasn't just a bet anymore. He was just Chan, warm, open, infuriating, and somehow essential.

Now, watching Chan brush snow off his sleeves and smile down at the younger student, Minho realised that something dark was swirling in his chest. He did not like Chan giving off his smile to someone who was not Minho. Didn't he like Minho? Then why would he be smiling that way for someone else?

He crossed the space between them before he could think better of it. The junior took one look at him and mumbled a goodbye and trotted off, leaving Chan alone at the fountain. Chan turned at the crunch of Minho's boots on the thin snow, surprise flickering in his eyes.

"Minho?" he said, smiling faintly. "You're out late. I was just—"

"I needed to talk to you," Minho said, stopping in front of him. They were close enough that Chan's breath misted against Minho's scarf. Snowflakes landed on Chan's dark hair and melted against the warmth of his skin.

First snow of the season. About right time.

Chan tilted his head. "About what?"

Minho's throat felt dry. Seungmin's warning pulsed again in his ears but he ingnored it. It's just a step up in the plan. He took a slow breath. "About us."

Chan blinked. "Us?"

"You've noticed how I've been..." Minho gave a crooked smile. "Hovering. Teasing you. Sitting next to you every chance I get."

Chan's ears turned pink immediately. "You have been... a little more..." He trailed off, shifting his bag nervously. "Is that what you want to talk about?."

"Yeah," Minho said quietly, thinking where he was going to take to conversation from here. "Kind off."

He stepped a little closer, almost without realizing he was moving, and caught the way Chan's eyes widened in that split second. Chan's breath stuttered in his chest, shallow and trembling, as though the weight of the world had suddenly been dropped into his arms. Minho's own heart was pounding too hard, too fast, but before he had the chance to stop himself, before he could sort through the storm of thoughts crowding his head, the words had already slipped free, reckless and unplanned, tumbling out of him like something torn loose.

"I like you, Channie Hyung," he heard himself say, voice firmer than he felt. "I like the way you blush at my stupid jokes, the way you look after everyone, the way you somehow make me want to be better. I'm done pretending it's just fun for me."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Snow fell around them, soft and merciless, as if it belonged to a different world entirely, one untouched by the mess unraveling here. Chan just stared at him, wide-eyed, frozen in place as though his body had forgotten how to move. His lips parted soundlessly, his throat bobbed, but no reply came. He gripped the strap of his bag tighter, so tight his knuckles were chalk-white against the fabric. Minho could see his chest rising and falling too quickly, like he was trying to breathe through a storm.

And Minho felt like he had been knocked out of his own body. He blinked, his brain catching up with what his mouth had already thrown into the world. What the hell did I just say? He hadn't meant it, hadn't even thought it through. The words had spilled out like venom, sharp and irreversible, and now they lingered between them, hanging heavy in the frozen air. He felt sick. He felt cornered. He felt everything he shouldn't have.

And strangest of all, beneath the panic, beneath the guilt tightening in his chest, was the smallest, most unwelcome flicker of relief. A release of pressure, like something bottled up had finally broken open. He didn't understand it, didn't want to understand it. It made no sense, because none of this was supposed to happen, none of this was supposed to feel this way.

"You..." Chan's voice cracked, so raw and thin it barely reached him. "You like me?"

Minho's throat tightened. The desperate hope in those three words burned like fire, and yet his own answer came out smooth, steady, practiced, as though the lie had already been waiting in his mouth.  Now that he had said it, might as well proceed with it, you know, with the bet hanging over his neck and all.

"I do," he said, forcing himself to meet Chan's eyes, though the weight of them made his stomach churn. "I just had to tell you. You don't have to say anything right now. I just... needed you to know." The lie sat on his tongue like ash, but he pushed through it, because what else could he do? He couldn't pull the words back. He couldn't undo the look on Chan's face.

Chan's lips pressed together, trembling at the corners. His gaze darted away, down to the snow at his feet, as if meeting Minho's eyes would be too much, too dangerous. For one fleeting heartbeat, Minho thought he might step closer, might close the gap between them, might say something that would lock this moment in place forever. But instead, Chan's hands fumbled uselessly with the strap of his bag, his fingers clumsy, trembling.

"I— I should go," he stammered, his voice barely holding together. "I just— I need to think."

And then he moved. Too quickly. Too desperately. He brushed past Minho, their shoulders nearly colliding, and the crunch of his boots in the snow grew harsher with every step, like he was running from something too big to face.

Minho stood rooted to the spot, staring after him with a hollowness spreading through his chest. The air felt colder, sharper, biting at his skin as if punishing him. His own confession—or what he had forced into the shape of one, still echoed in the silence. His lips tingled with the ghost of words he wished he could swallow back down. He raised a hand to his mouth, half-expecting to scrape the truth off his tongue, to take it back before it ruined everything. But it was already too late.

Chan was gone, swallowed by the falling snow, and Minho's chest burned. Not with love, not with longing, but with something uglier, something more poisonous. He couldn't name it. Didn't dare to. The only thing he knew for sure was that, for reasons he couldn't begin to explain, a tiny exhale of relief had slipped out of him the moment Chan turned away.

Relief that it was out. Relief that it was over. Relief, though he had no idea why.

The contradiction cut deeper than any truth could have. His guilt pressed down heavy and merciless, but underneath it, his body betrayed him with that twisted, inexplicable sense of freedom.

He didn't know what the hell he was feeling. He didn't know why he had said what he had said. He didn't know why he felt lighter and heavier at the same time.

All he knew was that Chan was walking away, carrying something fragile that Minho could break with a single truth.

And still, above them both, the snow kept falling.

 

.

.

.

 

Chan was avoiding Minho.

And that was irritating Minho to no ends.

He really thought they were closer than that. Hell, he even had confessed (although it really was unsure how much of it was true) to the elder. Wasn't his confession supposed to make Chan fall utterly in love and confess too? Why the hellwere they back to the point they were before the bet?

For the first few days Minho told himself it didn't matter. Campus was big, schedules were messy, and Chan was the type who always had a dozen things to do at once. Of course they wouldn't run into each other every day. Of course.

But for the past two weeks, Minho had been simmering. Chan's careful, composed demeanor had always fascinated him, but now it was downright maddening. Every attempt to get close, every small step forward, was met with the same vanishing act. Chan moved through campus like a fleeting shadow: cheerful, bubbly, helpful to everyone but him.

He saw it happen again and again.

One afternoon, Minho was coming out of the library just as Chan was at the front desk helping a lost fresher. Chan bent down slightly, smiling patiently as he pointed out directions on a crumpled map. The kid beamed like Chan had just given him the world. Minho slowed his steps, waiting for the moment when Chan would finish and look up, maybe catch his eye. But the second Chan's gaze lifted and met his, the smile faltered, not gone, but dimmed, replaced by something tight and uncertain. And before Minho could even open his mouth, Chan muttered something to the kid and left the building through the side door, vanishing like smoke.

It was the same in the cafeteria. Minho spotted him across the room, tray in hand, laughing at something a junior said. Minho pushed through the tables, moving closer. By the time he reached the spot, the chair was empty, tray gone, as if Chan had never been there at all.

"What the hell..." Minho muttered under his breath, ignoring the curious look Changbin shot him from across the table.

He started asking questions. "Have you seen Chan today?" he asked Felix one morning.

Felix grinned. "Yeah! He helped me carry my books to the lecture hall. Said he didn't mind because he was headed that way anyway. And then he headed off to another direction with this girl. I think her name is Sana?"

"Hyung's been helping me and Hyunjin prep for a presentation," Seungmin added casually. "Since he was in the same class and knows what material works the best. Why?"

"Nothing," Minho said flatly, taking a sip of his coffee, though his irritation burned hotter with every word.

Same as always. Bubbly as always. Helpful as always. Everyone else saw the Chan they knew, dependable, cheerful, and endlessly willing to lend a hand. He was everywhere, smiling at everyone, giving pieces of himself away without hesitation.

Everyone except Minho.

With him, it was different. With him, Chan went rigid. With him, Chan vanished.

And Minho hated how much it got under his skin. He was sure he was feeling irritated because of the fact that he was not able to continue with the bet. Nothing else. 

One evening, he sat in a quiet café with Jeongin and Hyunjin, though he barely touched his drink. He was staring out the window, watching Chan on the far side of the courtyard through the glass. Chan was kneeling to pick up a stack of notes a girl had dropped, gathering them carefully and handing them back with a reassuring grin. The girl's face flushed bright pink as she thanked him, and Chan just waved it off, easy as always.

Jeongin followed Minho's gaze and smirked. "You're staring again."

"Shut up," Minho muttered, though his eyes didn't move.

He saw the moment Chan looked up, saw him freeze, saw the smile slip. Chan said something quickly to the girl, adjusted his bag, and then he was gone. Disappearing behind a cluster of students before Minho could blink.

Minho's jaw tightened. "Every damn time," he muttered.

"Maybe he's busy?" Hyunjin suggested lightly.

"He's busy for me but not for everyone else?"

"Then maybe get the hint if he's avoiding you." Jeongin said, sipping his drink.

"How am I meant to do anything when he keeps avoiding me?" Minho snapped back, sharper than he meant to.

Jeongin just raised an eyebrow and went back to his drink, Hyunjin also side-eyeing the elder, but Minho's irritation only deepened.

Because it wasn't just annoyance anymore. It was need. He needed to know why. He needed to know what it was about him that made Chan flee. He needed to know what Chan had thought about his confession. And more than that, he missed the way Chan had looked under his touch, the way his voice had cracked, the flush that painted his skin when Minho pushed too close. He wanted to see that again. Wanted to pull more of it out of him. The memory of it had burrowed deep, a constant itch under his skin.

So, as he leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers against the side of his cup, a plan began to form. If Chan wouldn't stay still when Minho walked toward him, then he'd just have to corner him. Somewhere Chan couldn't escape with a polite excuse or a sudden phone call. Somewhere private, where Minho could look him in the eye and ask what the hell he was running from.

And maybe, just maybe, when he finally caught him, Minho would push again, until Chan stuttered, flushed, and fell apart the way he had before. Until Minho saw those plump lips bitten red, heard that breathless voice crack.

The thought made Minho's mouth curve into a slow, satisfied smirk. Two weeks was enough. It was time to stop chasing shadows.

It was time to corner him.

 

.

.

.

 

It took Minho another week to finally spot Chan in a place he could work his plan out in. 

He was just casually lounging around after his class and hallway smelled faintly of chalk dust and metal lockers, a familiar, mundane scent that did nothing to calm the storm thrumming in Minho's chest. 

He leaned casually against a wall at the far end, eyes fixed on Chan. He seemed to be talking to  a underclassman called Jay. The elder was mid-laugh, as Jay seemed to go on about something funny, gesturing slightly with one hand while holding a stack of notebooks in the other. Minho's lips curved into a slow, almost imperceptible smirk. Two weeks of disappearing acts and avoidance, and now, finally, he had a chance to make Chan stop.

(Also, why was Chan laughing that way with the Jay guy? Minho was sure he wasn't that funny. He could even bet that he was funnier. What was he saying to make Chan's eyes sparkle that way?)

He moved silently, almost predatory, closing the distance with slow, deliberate steps. Every footfall was measured, every breath controlled. He wanted this moment to linger, wanted to draw out the tension, the anticipation, just as Chan had done to him so many times before. As he approached, he saw Chan's focus entirely on Jay, his voice bright and cheerful, completely unaware of the danger looming just behind him.

Minho's hand shot out suddenly, resting lightly on Chan's shoulder. The elder stiffened immediately, instinctively gripping his books tighter against his chest. Minho's thumb pressed a little, coaxing the perfect reaction, and then, without warning, he pushed. Chan went against the locker with a sharp clank as Minho's hand slammed against the metal beside his head. The sound echoed down the corridor, a punctuated declaration that Minho had arrived.

"Minho-ssi!" Jay's voice wavered, rising in polite alarm. "Uh, hey, maybe give him some space-"

Minho spun his head slowly, eyes narrowing into a deadly, focused glare that pinned Jay to the spot. "Leave," he said, voice low and icy. Jay froze, caught in the intensity of Minho's stare, before mumbling an apology and backing away.

Chan's body pressed against the cold locker, his books clutched so tightly they threatened to crumple under the pressure. His eyes darted toward the door, toward any escape route, but Minho had anticipated it all. His stance shifted imperceptibly, one hand resting against the lockers on the other side of Chan, effectively corralling him in a narrow space. The hallway seemed to shrink around them, the echoes of their breaths loud in the emptiness.

"Minho-ya!" Chan's voice was small, hesitant, an attempt at excuse-making. "I-I should- uh- I was just talking to Jay... I, uh, need to go-"

Minho leaned closer, just enough for Chan to feel the warmth radiating off him. His eyes locked onto Chan's, sharp and searching, like he was stripping away all the polite masks and small talk. Chan was trying to leave, again. What was so different now? Wasn't he just laughing with Jay? Couldn't he do the same with Minho?

"No. You're not going anywhere," he said slowly, deliberately, letting the words sink in. "Tell me why you've been avoiding me. You owe me two weeks worth of answers."

Chan's hands shook slightly as he hugged his books tighter. His chest rose and fell with short, shallow breaths. The world seemed to narrow to the heat between them, the closeness of Minho's body, the impossibility of escape. Words caught in Chan's throat, and his lips parted and pressed together again, as if he were trying to form a sentence without letting the panic in his chest spill out.

Minho's gaze didn't waver. Every twitch, every micro-expression, every flutter of Chan's eyelashes was cataloged with precision. He could see the blood rising in Chan's cheeks, the slight tremor of his hands, the way he shifted instinctively against the locker, looking for a way to disappear. And yet, Minho didn't budge. He wanted to see it all, the fluster, the stutter, the restraint crumbling under his scrutiny.

"Hyung," Minho breathed, voice low, dangerously soft. "I want to know why you keep vanishing whenever I come near."

Chan's lips quivered, the words trapped, his mind scrambling for an excuse that wouldn't reveal the truth. His knees were nearly buckling, his heart hammering in a frantic rhythm he could no longer control. The books in his hands were the only barrier between him and Minho's relentless proximity, but they did little to dull the intensity of the moment.

Minho's smirk deepened, and he leaned just slightly closer, careful not to overstep but close enough that Chan could feel every subtle shift of his weight. "I'm not asking nicely anymore," he said, the threat in his tone paired with the thrill of dominance he felt at watching Chan squirm. "I'm asking because I need an answer. And I won't let you run this time."

The lockers pressed cold against Chan's back, the metal biting into him through the thin fabric of his jacket. He hugged his books tighter, fighting the rapid thrum of his heart. 

"I-I wasn't avoiding you!" he stammered, voice rising in a mix of panic and defensiveness. "I've just been busy, okay? With classes, and... everything else. I swear."

Minho's eyes narrowed, and the slow curl of his lips made it clear he didn't buy a single word. "Bullshit," he said flatly, stepping closer. His presence was overwhelming, pressing into Chan from the other side of the narrow corridor. "You've been busy for everyone else, but the moment I try to see you, you vanish. Don't insult me with that excuse."

Chan's throat tightened. He opened his mouth, trying to form another defense, but Minho didn't let him speak. His hand brushed against Chan's forearm, lightly at first, and then his fingers grazed the books, nudging them down slightly as if to remind Chan that he was cornered. The touch made Chan shiver, and his face flamed hotter than it had in weeks.

"I-" Chan began again, voice cracking. He pressed his lips together and tried to swallow, but the words tumbled out before he could stop them. "I... I've been avoiding you because- because I like you too!"

The air seemed to catch around them. Minho froze, momentarily stunned, his hand still hovering over Chan as the confession hit him in full force. Chan's head jerked slightly back, eyes wide, and the heat rising in his cheeks was impossible to ignore.

Minho leaned forward slightly, the teasing glint returning to his eyes. "You... like me?" he asked, voice low, deliberate, pressing against Chan's senses like a physical weight. "That's the real reason you've been running? All this time?"

Chan's hands tightened around his books, fingers trembling. "Y-yes! And- and you- you make me so... so nervous whenever you touch me or- or even speak to me, and I just- I couldn't think straight for a week when you said that you liked me. And-" His words tumbled into a flustered mess, and he broke off, flustered, eyes darting anywhere but Minho's.

Before Minho could respond, before he could even process the honesty, Chan pivoted sharply, shoving past him, and bolted down the corridor. The books bounced against his chest as he ran, the sound of his shoes echoing against the lockers.

Minho stayed frozen for a moment, watching the retreating figure. He blinked, stunned, then a slow grin spread across his face as he realized exactly what had just happened. Chan had right there, in the middle of the hallway, with everyone long gone, admitted it. Admitted that he liked him.

He could still see Chan's bright red cheeks even from a distance, could still feel the intensity of the fluster, the panic, the desperation in the way he'd bolted. And somehow, against every instinct, Minho felt an odd thrill at being the cause of it.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, hand brushing the locker where Chan had been pinned moments before. "You little idiot."

And yet he didn't chase. Not yet. For now, he just let Chan run, burning with embarrassment, and stood there, watching, savoring the confession that had finally, irrevocably, reached him.

He was halfway through the bet now. 

But why was his heart going so fast?

 

.

.

.

 

The snow crunched softly beneath their boots as they made their way across the college grounds. The world felt hushed, as if the falling flakes were swallowing up the usual noise of campus life, leaving behind only the sound of their footsteps and the occasional puff of visible breath in the cold air. For once, neither of them spoke right away. Chan had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, shoulders slightly hunched against the chill, while Minho walked just a little behind, his gaze fixed more on the shifting patterns of snow than on anything ahead.

It should have felt awkward, maybe it did, but the silence wasn't unbearable. It was steady. Familiar in a way Minho couldn't name. Still, something gnawed at him, some itch under his skin that wouldn't let him leave the quiet untouched.

"Hyung," Minho said suddenly, voice low.

Chan hummed in acknowledgment, tilting his head slightly but not looking over.

"Have you ever, you know, been with someone?" The question slipped out sharper than he intended, like he'd been holding it back for longer than he realized.

Chan blinked, startled by the abruptness. He slowed his pace, as though buying time to process, before shaking his head with a small, sheepish laugh. "No. Not really."

Minho frowned. "Not really? What does that even mean?"

"I mean-" Chan rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I've always been focused on academincs, you know. At a point I wanted to, uh, try, but it never went anywhere. I've never, you know, been in an actual relationship. Not once." His tone was so matter-of-fact, but the flush creeping up his ears betrayed his shyness.

Minho stopped walking altogether, staring at him like he'd grown another head. "Wait. Never?"

Chan finally glanced over, catching Minho's disbelieving expression, and laughed again, softer this time. "Never."

The word landed heavier than Minho expected. Something twisted in his chest, uncomfortable and tight. "You're telling me," he pressed, his voice a little too urgent, "that not at any point, ever, there was no one? No first love, no ex, nothing?"

"No," Chan said again, firmly this time, though his voice softened at the edges. "No one. It's just not how it worked out for me."

Minho's jaw tensed. He couldn't look away from Chan's face, from the calm honesty in his eyes. It unsettled him. He didn't know if he hated it or if it pulled him in closer. How did no one ever date Chan? The most beautiful person inside and out Minho had ever met? How was he single for this long?

(That was another question raised in Minho's mind with how quickly he had switched from disbelief to relief when he knew Chan had never dated anyone.)

"What about you?" Chan asked quietly after a moment, his gaze flicking over to Minho with a gentleness that nearly undid him.

Minho hesitated. He considered lying. Another lie was never going to harm anyone, would it? But with the way Chan was looking at him with such sparkling eyes that seemes to call his name, he suddenly decided otherwise. 

A truth in a while never hurt anyone.

His throat felt tight, the words bitter before he even spoke them. "Yeah. Once. And it was... bad. Really bad."

Chan's expression immediately softened with something close to hurt, as though he felt the echo of Minho's pain himself. His brows knit together, his voice dipped into something tender. "I'm sorry, Minho-ya. You didn't deserve that."

Minho scoffed, more to cover the way his chest ached than out of real amusement. "Don't pity me, Hyung. I stayed too long. I let her make me feel small. Like I should be grateful she even looked at me." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, trying to force the memories back down. "By the end, I didn't even recognize myself. The others had to put me back piece by piece."

Chan's steps slowed again until they came to a stop under the dim glow of a streetlight, the snow still drifting down lazily around them. He turned fully toward Minho now, his face open, unguarded, and it nearly knocked the air out of Minho's lungs.

"You're worth so much more than that," Chan said simply. His voice was low, firm, steady in a way that made it impossible to dismiss. "You should never have been made to feel less. Not by anyone."

Minho's chest tightened painfully. He wanted to laugh, to roll his eyes, to say something cutting that would push the moment away. But the sincerity in Chan's voice burned too deeply, settled too uncomfortably close to the parts of him he tried to keep locked away.

Chan shifted awkwardly, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "I don't know how good I'd be at it, but I'd try to be better. Better than that. Even though I have never been in a relationship and have no idea what goes on, I will make sure you see yourself for the way I do. I'll make sure to adore and spoil to the way you deserve."

Something inside Minho cracked wide open at those words. His defenses crumbled before he could stop them, and he found himself ducking his head, biting down on the sudden smile threatening to break free. His hand twitched at his side before he finally gave in and reached out, shoving lightly at Chan's shoulder.

"You're such an idiot," he muttered, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him.

Chan laughed, startled but not offended, the sound ringing out like something bright in the frozen air.

And just like that, the silence between them no longer felt heavy. Their steps fell back into rhythm, side by side, and Minho found himself strangely content with the steady crunch of snow beneath their boots.

But then, as quickly as the warmth had bloomed in his chest, the memory hit him. The bet. The cruel little game he'd agreed to, the one that had started all of this. His stomach lurched violently, his pulse stumbling over itself as guilt slammed into him like a punch. How could he even look at Chan, so pure, so painfully sincere, knowing what he'd done? Knowing what he was still doing?

He faltered, his steps slowing, his expression faltering despite his best efforts to keep it together.

"Minho-ya?" Chan's voice cut through immediately, sharp with concern. He slowed too, angling his body toward Minho. "Are you okay? You don't look so good. Do you want to head back? Maybe get some rest? I can even carry you to the dorm."

Minho swallowed hard, forcing the guilt down, locking it away behind a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He shook his head quickly. "No. Don't stop. Keep talking, Hyung."

Chan blinked at him in surprise. "Huh?"

Minho forced a small grin, sly enough to cover the way his chest hurt. "I just... feel better when I hear you talk."

Chan's face softened immediately, warmth lighting up his features, and he nodded, falling back into step beside him as he began talking about nothing in particular, little things, everyday things, whatever came to mind.

Minho let him. He listened, even smiled at the right places, but the guilt weighed heavy in his stomach, pressing harder with every step.

And yet, despite it, he couldn't deny it was true, Chan's voice really did make him feel better.

 

.

.

.

 

"Hyung, we need to talk."

Felix's voice cut through the laughter like a blade. He stood in the doorway, still in his practice clothes, hair damp from sweat and snow. His eyes, normally warm, were dark and fixed.

They were all sprawled around Minho's living room like they always did after a long day. Jeongin sat cross-legged beside Changbin, Hyunjin lay draped across Jisung and Seungmin's laps, a half-eaten bag of chips balanced on his stomach. Minho himself had chosen the armchair by the window, a little apart from the chaos, pretending to scroll through his phone. The familiar buzz of chatter filled the space, or it had, until Felix spoke.

Hyunjin straightened immediately. Jisung stopped mid-gesture, chip crumbs falling onto the rug. Even Seungmin, who had been quietly scrolling through his phone, looked up with a questioning frown. For a heartbeat the only sound was the low hum of the heater.

Felix didn't wait for anyone to answer. He walked straight across the room, past the coffee table, past Jisung's muttered "What's going on?" and went to the shelf where the old ceramic pot sat, the pot they'd all thrown their money into months ago. The pot that had started as a stupid idea on a bored evening.

Minho's heart lurched hard enough that he thought he might actually be sick. His fingers tightened around his phone until his knuckles went white. Guilt, sharp, cold, instantaneous, climbed his spine. He already knew. He knew what this was about. He was glad that they were finally going to talk about it.

(He was a coward to start that conversation on his own.)

Chan's face flashed behind his eyes: Chan leaning against the fountain with snow on his hair, Chan's shy texts at night, Chan's voice cracking when he'd finally blurted, I like you. They'd been talking, texting, laughing again. Minho should have been happy. He was. But every time they hung out, every time Chan smiled at him without hesitation, guilt burned at the back of his throat like a swallowed secret.

When Felix's hand closed around the pot, Minho's stomach turned to ice.

Felix placed it in the middle of the rug. He didn't look at anyone as he sat down cross-legged on the floor beside it. His shoulders rose and fell once, twice.

"I forfeit," he said flatly. "I can't do this anymore."

Jisung blinked at him. "What do you mean-"

"I can't." Felix cut him off, his voice sharper now. "I can't keep pretending that we're not going to absolutely crush Channie-hyung's heart if we keep this bet going. I know I was the one who came up with it. I know I was the one who hyped you all up. But this isn't funny anymore." He pushed the pot forward a little with the heel of his hand. "I forfeit. All my shame's in your hands. Do whatever you want with it."

Silence fell, thick and electric. The heater hummed. Outside, wind rattled the windowpanes.

Hyunjin sat up fully now, eyes darting from Felix to the pot and back again. Seungmin's lips were pressed into a thin line. Jeongin looked down at his knees.

Felix's words sat in the air like a heavy fog. No one reached for the pot. The TV in the background was still playing but nobody heard it; even Jisung's leg, which had been bouncing against the coffee table, stilled mid-air. The sound of Felix's voice saying I forfeit echoed in the walls of Minho's living room.

Hyunjin slowly sat up from Seungmin's lap, eyes flicking from Felix to the ceramic pot. "You're serious?" he asked, his voice thin. He'd been grinning a second ago, but now it was gone. "This isn't some new prank?"

Felix didn't answer immediately. He was still crouched on the carpet beside the pot, his broad shoulders tight. When he finally spoke, his accent thickened. "I'm dead serious. I started this, but I'm not doing it anymore. It's... wrong." He touched the rim of the pot with one finger like it was toxic. "We're not just risking some random guy's fleeting feelings anymore. We're risking Chan Hyung. And I can't stomach that."

Minho's stomach turned, a cold weight sinking lower and lower. He could still see Chan's face in his mind, the way his eyes had gone wide and uncertain at the fountain when Minho had confessed. The shy texts afterwards. The tentative jokes. The dimples. And under it all, a creeping guilt he hadn't wanted to name. Now Felix had dragged it into the light and set it down in the middle of his living room.

Seungmin pushed Hyunjin's legs off his lap and leaned forward. His usually sharp eyes were softer than Minho had seen in a long time. "He's right," Seungmin said, voice low but steady. "It's not a game anymore. I thought it was harmless at first, like a stupid dare. But he's become... someone we rely on. Someone who cares about us without asking for anything back. We're supposed to protect that, not use it. I said it before but I should have taken this step faster." He fished a folded envelope out of his hoodie pocket, thumb running over the edge before he dropped it into the pot. "I'm done. Take my share, burn it, I don't care."

The soft thunk of the envelope against the ceramic echoed like a gunshot.

Hyunjin's fingers curled on his knees. He stared at the pot for a long beat, then slid off the couch and kneeled next to Felix. "I've been thinking the same thing," he admitted quietly. "I can't even look at him sometimes. He's... he's like a brother now. And he's still the one who smiles at us the most. The ones who never backs down from problems, neither his, nor ours." He dug his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a stack of cash, and set it down. "I'm out."

Jisung gave a weak laugh but it broke halfway. "We're all trash," he muttered. "I knew it was a bad idea, but I went along anyway." He dragged his cap off, rubbing his face. "I'm not good at this kind of thing. I don't want to see his face when he finds out." He shoved his crumpled bills into the pot. "I'm done too."

Changbin let out a long, tired sigh, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. For once, he didn't look like the loudest in the room. "I should have stopped this from the beginning," he said. "I let it slide because I thought we'd get bored before it mattered. But it matters now." He stood, crossed the living room with slow steps, and dropped his envelope onto the pile. "Hyung deserves better than us."

Even Jeongin, who had been silent this whole time, pulled his knees up to his chest. "I... I don't want to do it either," he said softly, reaching into his backpack and taking out a small roll of notes. "He's done so much for me already. It's not right." He added his money to the growing heap.

The pot no longer looked like a prize. It looked like evidence. A heap of crumpled bills and coins, a physical reminder of something ugly they'd all done but didn't want to carry anymore.

Only Minho hadn't moved.

He sat apart from them, hands pressed to his knees, staring at the pot. Everyone else had already stepped back. All that was left was him.

And in the heavy silence, images of Chan flickered behind his eyes. Chan laughing so hard his eyes disappeared when Minho whispered some dumb joke. Chan falling asleep on the couch after helping Hyunjin study, head tipped against Minho's shoulder. Chan texting him at 2 a.m. about nothing, and Minho answering back until dawn. Chan smiling shyly at him in the snow, his hair wet with melting flakes. His eyes passionate about the things he liked and the way he talked about MInho deserving better. His hands going to scratch his neck at a small hint of praise directed towards him. Him helping Minho with all his stupid problems without ever judging. 

They weren't trophies. They weren't points in a game. They were memories, warm and stubborn, embedded under Minho's skin. Chan wasn't a bet anymore. He wasn't one for a long, long time. He was Chan. Warm. Open. Infuriating. Essential.

Minho's chair creaked as he finally stood. His chest ached, but his hands were steady as he reached into his wallet, pulled out his share, more than his share, everything he'd put in, everything he'd "won", and set it down on the pile. The notes fluttered against the ceramic.

"I'm out too," Minho said quietly. He didn't look at any of them; his eyes stayed on the heap of money. "For good." 

He offered no more explaination. But his face must have showed all of his emotions, as none of them even asked him why.

No one spoke at first, but the shift in the room was almost physical, like a pressure easing. Felix let out a slow breath and finally sat back. Hyunjin closed the pot's lid with a soft click and pushed it aside like it was something cursed. For a beat the seven of them just sat there, the air heavy and strange. Then Jisung cleared his throat. "Well," he muttered, "that was depressing."

Changbin let out a small laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. We suck."

"We do," Seungmin agreed, but his voice had a hint of a smile now. "But at least we stopped sucking before it got worse."

Felix leaned back on his palms, exhaling hard. "Feels like I've been holding my breath for weeks. I thought you'd all fight me on this."

"Why fight when we all already knew?" Hyunjin said. "It's like ripping off a band-aid."

Jeongin hugged his knees. "So, no more bet?"

"No more bet," Felix said firmly. "We're done."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore. It was tired, but looser. Jisung was the first to break it with a crooked grin. "Guess that means Minho-hyung can stop pretending he doesn't like Chan now."

Minho's head snapped up. "What?"

"Oh come on," Hyunjin drawled, his grin slow and dangerous. "You're the only one who hasn't noticed you staring at him like he hung the moon."

"I do not-" Minho began, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

"Yes, you do," Seungmin chimed in dryly. "You go soft every time he walks into the room. Even Changbin Hyung can tell, and he's oblivious."

Changbin made an offended noise but took the insult.

Jeongin giggled behind his hand. "It's actually kinda cute."

Minho shot them a look, but his ears were red now. "You're all ridiculous. Shut up."

"'Shut up,'" Jisung mocked lightly, sing-songing the words. "Hyung's blushing."

"I'm not-" Minho cut himself off when Hyunjin leaned forward to squint at his face.

"You totally are," Hyunjin crowed. "Look at him! He's tomato-red!"

Minho clapped a hand over his cheeks, half hiding his face. "I hate all of you."

Changbin chuckled, slinging an arm around Minho's shoulders. "Nah, you love us. Just not the way you love Chan-hyung."

Minho peeked out from between his fingers, his face was still hot but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "You're all dead to me," he muttered.

But it wasn't true, and they all knew it. The pot was sealed, the bet was over, and the room, for the first time in weeks, felt safe again. The teasing rolled over him like a tide, warm and familiar, and though he grumbled and tried to swat their hands away, Minho couldn't quite stop the small, embarrassed smile breaking free on his face.

 

_______

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_______ 

 

Chan's palms were clammy inside his sleeves. He kept shifting the bouquet from one arm to the other, trying not to crush the flowers or drop the chocolate box balanced on top. The little box of cat treats sat tucked under his elbow like a secret. He'd rehearsed this a dozen times in his head, but standing behind their building now, under the soft glow of the streetlamp and the faint scent of blooming jasmine, he felt about twelve years old.

He had asked Minho to meet him here yesterday night when they were talking. He had thought about this moment for weeks, months even. Even before Minho had confessed to him (BamBam would probably give you a better explaination) about asking him out and actually going on a date with Chan's long time crush. And well, he had panicked when Minho had outright told him about his feelings and maybe avoided him a little, but it had all ended well with Chan being truthful about his feelings as well.

And well, Mark could probably hear Chan from his boyfriend's phone with the range he had hit that day.

The sky today was a soft peach, and stray cherry-blossom petals drifted down whenever the breeze moved. This little hidden spot behind their dorm had always been where they ended up during late-night talks, but now, in daylight, it looked almost magical, petals caught in the grass, the wall warm from the afternoon sun.

He heard the familiar crunch of footsteps and his breath caught. Minho turned the corner, scarf gone now, hair mussed by the wind. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat Chan forgot how to breathe.

"Minho-" he began, voice wobbling. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Minho, hi." His ears burned. He thrust the flowers forward a little too fast, nearly jabbing Minho with them. "I... um... I wanted to ask you something."

Minho's eyebrows lifted. He came closer, slow, his own blush creeping up his neck. "You did?" His voice was softer than usual.

Chan nodded quickly, the movement jerky. "I- I was wondering if- if you'd maybe wanna go out with me?" The last words came out in a rush.

For a second Minho just stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted. A petal landed in his hair. Then he ducked his head, and Chan realised with a jolt that Minho was blushing too, really blushing, the tips of his ears red, his smile shy.

"I'd really like that," Minho said quietly.

Something in Chan's chest went loose and warm. He laughed, breathless, half–relieved, half–giddy. "Oh! And, um- these," he added quickly, fumbling with the little box and almost dropping it. "They're for your cats. So... they, um- like me too. Can't have them disapprove, right?"

Minho gave a startled laugh, the sound so soft and fond it made Chan's stomach flip. "You're ridiculous," he murmured, taking the treats from him carefully, their fingers brushing. Both of them went still at the touch, cheeks going redder.

Then Minho stepped closer, close enough that Chan could smell the faint citrus of his cologne under the spring air. "Can I-?" he asked, almost shyly, and before Chan could answer, Minho wrapped his arms around him. It wasn't a tight hug, just warm and tentative.

Chan squeaked before laughing and hugging him back awkwardly, still holding the flowers between them. "Careful, you'll crush them," he mumbled into Minho's shirt, his own face burning.

Minho chuckled against his hair. "I don't care about the flowers."

Chan pulled back just enough to look at him, both of them red-faced and smiling like idiots. He tried to coo at Minho's ears the way he always did with the cats, fingers brushing the tips. "You're blushing," he teased softly.

"You are too," Minho shot back, voice barely above a whisper.

Chan laughed, breath catching on the scent of blossoms around them. He shifted the bouquet to one arm and slid the other around Minho's back, giving him a shy little back hug, chin resting against his shoulder. Minho leaned into it immediately, his own hands tightening a little on Chan's shirt.

"I'm really happy right now," Chan admitted, voice small.

"Me too," Minho said.

"You do look that way," Chan said, moving away from the hug to look over at his face more intently. "You look like there's some weight lifted off of your shoulders. You do look more free than the last time we talked."

And it was true. Usually Minho looked like he was burdened by something everytime they were together and it cause Chan to be sad because he thought he had done something. So he had pushed this as far as he could, but the elde just couldn't hold his feelings in anymore and asked him out. 

Minho tensed up at his words, his eyes momentarily turning guilty but it was all changed back to his care-free expression again. His eyes turning cresents and ears back to being red.

"Think I wanted this more than I thought I did," He said quietly, gently slipping his hand in the crook of Chan's elbow as they started walking.

A breeze moved through the trees, scattering petals over their hair and coats. For a long, quiet moment neither of them moved. Chan just held him, clutching the flowers close, feeling Minho's warmth seep through his shirt and thinking, a little dazedly, that spring had never felt so new and so sweet.

(One thing Mark should've really invested in was ear plugs because the way his dear boyfriend and Chan were squealing was sure going to cause his ears damage.)

 

.

.

.

 

Graduation was in a week.

One week and he'd be gone from the campus that had been his whole world.

One week and he'd no longer pass Minho in the corridor, no longer have an excuse to sit next to him in the library or trade sleepy smiles at the vending machines at two a.m.

That thought alone was what had Chan's stomach in knots as he stood in front of the mirror, trying for the fifth time to smooth the front of his shirt. BamBam had practically dragged him to his dorm, thrown half his wardrobe on the bed and refused to let him leave until he looked "worthy of a K-drama confession scene." The result was a perfectly fitted black shirt tucked into soft slacks, a silver chain at his throat and hair styled away from his face. He looked older, sharper and more nervous than he'd ever been in his life.

His fingers brushed the pocket of his blazer, feeling the small velvet box hidden there the promise rings he'd saved up for since last two months. His thumb rubbed the edge of the box like a talisman. In his other pocket was the folded scrap of paper with the speech he'd rewritten at least ten times. It wasn't long, just words he wanted to say out loud before he lost his courage.

He knew Minho wasn't new to dating. He wasn't naïve about that. But this would be Chan's first time stepping over that line with anyone, and he didn't want to do it half-way. If Minho said yes, if Minho wanted him too, he wanted the memory to be solid and good.

BamBam poked his head in from the doorframe. "Chan-ah, you're gonna crease that shirt if you keep fussing," he teased gently. "You look good. Now breathe before you pass out."

Chan laughed weakly, tugging at his cuffs. "I'm fine. Totally fine." His heart was thudding like a drumline under his ribs.

"Uh-huh. Sure." BamBam rolled his eyes but reached out to straighten the chain at Chan's collar. "Let's enjoy your last party. And maybe finally do what you've been dying to do for months."

Chan swatted at him but smiled anyway, nerves softening just a little. He glanced at his reflection one last time: dark eyes bright with hope and fear, hair falling just right.

Tonight. It had to be tonight.

Because in a week he'd be gone, and if he didn't say anything, he'd regret it forever.

He grabbed his jacket, feeling the weight of the rings and the paper, and followed BamBam out into the spring evening, the campus buzzing with music and laughter ahead of them. The scent of blossoms hung heavy in the air. Somewhere in that crowd was Minho, the boy whose beautiful face he'd memorised, whose smile he wanted to keep seeing.

He kept all those thought aside and tugged at his jacket sleeves as he walked in, trying to ground himself. His heart was bruising itself against his ribcage with all the thoughts. He told himself it was just nerves about confessing, about the rings burning a hole in his pocket. But then his gaze swept the room, and it landed on Minho.

And everything else fell away.

Minho stood near the center of the room with Jeongin and Hyunjin at his side, casually leaning against a tall table, a drink in hand. The neon lights caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the sweep of his hair, and for a moment Chan swore he'd never seen anyone look so effortlessly beautiful. His shirt was loose but tucked just enough to hint at his slim frame, sleeves rolled up to reveal his wrists, unfairly elegant for a college party.

Chan's chest ached. Just one week left, he thought, and already he couldn't breathe from looking at him.

As if sensing the weight of his stare, Minho turned his head. Their eyes met across the room, and Minho's lips curved into that lopsided, knowing smile that always made Chan's knees go weak. It was simple, nothing extraordinary. but Chan felt his whole body heat, his ears burning.

Lily nudged him hard in the ribs. "Oppa, close your mouth. You're staring."

Chan snapped his jaw shut, flustered. "I'm not—"

"Yes, you are,"Lily laughed, already peeling away to greet Sullyoon an Jiwoo.

Chan stayed frozen a moment longer, clutching the strap of his bag like it was the only thing anchoring him. Every little detail about Minho, the way he sipped his drink, the casual way he leaned closer to Jeongin to hear something over the music, even the flick of his hand through his hair, had Chan falling all over again.

I love you. I have for a while, but I was a coward. 

He wanted to run to him, to pull him aside, to blurt out the words he'd been carrying for months. But his feet didn't move. Not yet. For now, he just let himself look, let himself drink in the sight of Minho glowing brighter than all the lights in the room.

Chan knew, more certain than he'd ever been in his life: he was in love.

And he was going to confess it tonight.

But before Chan could do anything, before he could even take a step toward Minho, a hand caught his wrist and tugged him in the opposite direction.

"Hyung! Come on, play Truth or Drink with us?" a bright voice cut through his haze.

Chan blinked down to see Gun-il looking up at him with sparkles in his eyes, practically vibrating with excitement. For a second Chan could only stare, his heart still galloping from the sight of Minho. He managed a chuckle, reaching out to ruffle the younger's hair out of habit. 

"Ah, Gun-il..." he started, the automatic "no" already on his lips.

"Okay, it's decided then, let's go, Hyungie!" Gun-il crowed before Chan could finish, already pulling on his hand with the force of a much larger person.

"Uff-" Chan gasped at the sudden movement, stumbling a step. His head whipped up instinctively, looking over his shoulder to get one last glimpse of Minho.

But Minho was nowhere. The spot where he had been standing with Jeongin and Hyunjin just moments ago was empty. The neon lights glinted off empty glass instead of Minho's eyes. Chan's stomach dropped a little, a soft sigh slipping out before he could stop it. Well... maybe a game couldn't hurt. Maybe it would give him a moment to steady his nerves before finding Minho again.

"Oh!" Gun-il exclaimed suddenly, halting mid-stride before marching forward again. "Looks like Changbin-ssi and his friends are joining too!"

Chan's neck snapped up so fast it almost hurt. Changbin's friends meant Hyunjin. Hyunjin meant Jeongin. And Jeongin meant Minho.

The little flicker of disappointment in Chan's chest vanished, replaced by a sharp, fluttering hope. His pulse thudded at the thought of sitting in the same circle, maybe close enough to brush knees. His hand slipped into his pocket, fingertips grazing the edges of the rings, as Gun-il dragged him toward the forming circle.

Tonight, Chan told himself, heart hammering. Tonight, I offer him my heart and beg him to be gentle with it.

Chan hadn't even realised where Gun-il had dragged him until he was already on the floor. The carpet was warm under his palms, music from the speakers in the next room a low thump against the chatter. He blinked once, twice, and then his stomach dropped, he was sitting in the circle, directly between Jeongin and Minho.

Minho.

He could smell the faint citrus of Minho's cologne over the heavier scents of the party. The younger's knee brushed his for the briefest second and it was like an electric shock up his spine. He curled his hands on his own knees to stop them from fidgeting.

"Hey..." he murmured, soft enough that only Minho would hear.

"Hey," Minho answered back, his tone perfectly casual, but when Chan risked a glance up he caught the betraying detail: the tips of Minho's ears were flushed red, the colour creeping up the side of his neck into his hairline. He was trying very hard to look at anything else, the bottles, the people, the far wall, and it made Chan's chest feel warm and painful at the same time.

Before Chan could think of anything to say, Jeongin leaned forward on his elbows, grinning like he'd just been handed a front-row ticket to a show. 

"Oh my god, you two," he said loudly enough for the circle to quiet a little. "You're like- honestly worse than my parents. Sitting there all shy and smiley like a newlywed couple. Can you please just get on with it already and end everyone's suffering?"

Chan's head whipped toward him, his face going up in flames. "Innie!" he hissed, swatting at the younger's arm.

Jeongin dodged the swat easily, smirk growing wider. "What? Did I lie?"

A few of the others snickered. Ryunjin gave a low wolf whistle. Even Hyunjin, sprawled on a cushion across from them, raised a brow and said, "He's not wrong, hyung."

"Cut it out," Chan muttered, ducking his head and trying to hide his own burning ears.

Next to him Minho let out a short cough that might've been a laugh, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. His profile was calm, almost bored, but the red at his ears betrayed him just as surely as it did Chan. He shifted slightly so that his shoulder brushed Chan's, a small, wordless reassurance that made Chan's heart beat even faster.

"Alright, alright, enough!" Yeji's bright voice cut over the teasing, clapping his hands together. "We're playing, remember? Truth or drink!"

Someone in the back cheered. Bottles and little shot glasses were pushed into the centre of the circle, their glass catching the low light. A couple of people shuffled closer, crossing their legs, tucking stray hair behind ears. The music in the next room dimmed to a low background thrum as the focus shifted here.

Chan's pulse was a steady thump in his throat. He could feel Minho's warmth on one side, Jeongin's playful energy on the other. He tried to smile but his palms were damp. Chan wasn't sure if it was the game, the alcohol, or just the fact that Minho was sitting so close he could feel every small shift of his body. He could still hear Jeongin's teasing ringing in his ears.

Around them everyone was leaning in, grinning, whispering guesses about who would get called out first. The empty bottle was spun once as a test; it clattered over the wood and rolled lazily to a stop, making everyone laugh.

As he watched the bottle get set upright again, Chan realised he'd never felt more aware of the night tilting under him, like a coin about to land on one side or the other. He wanted to look at Minho. He wanted to reach out. Instead he sat still, heart hammering, as the first round of questions began.

It was easy, at first. Someone dared Chaeryeong to sing the school fight song standing on a chair. Haewon had to eat a spoonful of wasabi. Changbin admitted he'd once fallen asleep in the library for an entire afternoon. People were leaning into each other, laughing, drinks sloshing. A warm, reckless night in the last week before graduation.

Chan sat his knees bent, the cool condensation from his fruit juice seeping into his palm. He didn't drink and everyone knew it, so no one even bothered to push it on him anymore. The only reason he had the juice at all was because Minho had wordlessly slid it over a few rounds ago, their fingers brushing for a second. Minho hadn't looked at him when he did it, but his ears had been red.

That tiny act was enough to make Chan's stomach flutter. He caught himself watching Minho's hands more than the game: long fingers idly tapping his beer bottle, thumb swiping at the lip before he took a slow pull. He looked so calm, like nothing in the world could reach him. Only the soft pink creeping up his neck betrayed anything.

"Hyung, you look like a cat ready to bolt," Jeongin whispered, leaning into Chan's shoulder.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Chan murmured back, forcing a smile.

"Yeah, but you're staring at him like you're in a drama," Jeongin teased, nodding toward Minho.

Chan choked out a laugh and looked away. Minho shifted slightly, thigh brushing Chan's. It felt like a live wire under Chan's skin.

The bottle spun. Another question. Another round of laughter. Seungmin leaned back against Jisung, who was already red-cheeked from shots. Felix howled when a girl admitted to sneaking into the faculty room at night. Someone else confessed their first crush had been a professor. The whole room vibrated with the kind of giddy energy that came from secrets finally being said aloud.

Chan answered one truth when the bottle pointed at him ("What's your go-to study spot?") and endured a few playful boos for being boring. He smiled, cheeks warm, and sipped his juice. Minho caught his eye then, gave the smallest curve of a smile, before tipping his beer.

Another spin. Another secret. The air got thicker, warmer. People were laughing louder now, words blurring at the edges from drink. Minho's knee brushed his again. Chan's heart drummed harder. He felt like if he didn't confess tonight, he'd explode.

Then the bottle slowed to a stop in front of a tall boy Chan barely knew, Gun-il's friend from some elective. He was already pink from drink, grin sharp with mischief.

"Truth or drink?" someone called.

"Truth," he drawled. "But actually..." he sat up straighter, eyes glittering, "...I want to make everyone else drink."

A ripple of groans. "Here we go," someone muttered.

"I say," he drew it out, relishing the attention, "everyone who's ever made a bet on love drinks. Right now."

For a heartbeat the room was silent except for the low thump of the bass outside. Then a few scattered chuckles. Some people reached for their glasses, playing along with mock guilt. Someone elbowed a friend and knocked back a shot.

But the boy wasn't finished. He wagged his finger. "No, no, not just silly bets. Not on celebrities and Idols dating each other. Real bets, ones with people you know peronally and directly. Betting on making the other fall in love and make them say 'I love you'. You know who you are."

The tension in the room grew tenfold. Minho's shoulder's stiffened and his jaw ticked. Chan hated that look on him. Protectiveness flared hot and fast in his chest. This was supposed to be a party, a last week of laughter, not some cheap public gutting. If the game was making Minho uncomfortable, if it was dragging up something he didn't want aired, then Chan would stop it. He'd burn the whole stupid game down if he had to.

Immediately.

"Hey, I don't think that's-" His voice came out sharper than he'd intended, cutting across the chatter like a snapped string. Heads turned. The little circle sobered as people realised they'd never heard him sound angry before.

But the boy cut through him and waved his sentence away. 

The boy's grin widened, sharp and cruel. "You sure you want me to shut up now?" he asked, voice smooth but edged with venom, as if daring Chan to stop him. "The great Bang Chan," he continued, leaning back like he owned the circle, "the guy everyone on campus would literally worship the ground you walk on, and yet, and yet... someone you liked, loved even, bet on your feelings like they were cheap cards. Had fun with them. Played with them."

Chan's chest seized. Every fiber of him wanted to leap forward, to grab Minho, to erase this statement from the room with his fists or his words. "Stop it!" he barked, voice sharp, shaking with fury and panic. "Stop spreading stupid rumors! Stop making problems where none exist! You don't know anything!"

The boy only smirked wider, tilting his head, enjoying every second of Chan's unraveling.

Chan's gaze snapped to Minho, desperate for denial, for some small, human sign that the boy's words were lies. "Right, Minho-ya?" he demanded, voice cracking, hope and fear colliding.

Minho couldn't look at him. Not once. His dark eyes stayed fixed on the carpet, on the edge of the circle, anywhere but on Chan. His hands curled in his lap, trembling slightly, and the faintest quiver of his shoulders betrayed the weight of the truth.

Chan's eyes raced around the circle, seeking the others, Changbin, Hyunjin, Felix, Jisung, Seungmin, Jeongin, anyone to deny it. But one by one, he saw the same thing: heads down, faces tight, tears welling in some, shame and guilt painted in the lines of their expressions. Their silence was a confession in itself.

The room felt impossibly heavy, like every heartbeat had been pressed into Chan's chest, and for the first time he felt powerless. Everyone in the room had frozen and were looking at Chan in worry, unsure whether they wanted to leave so that Chan could have his space or stay and give him comfort.

"Oh, poor Channie, did even know he was bet on like a sack of potatoes. That his feelings were nothing but a few pieces of paper for-"

Then Minho's voice cut him off, low, raw, and trembling with fury. "Shut up!" he yelled, his fists clenching so tightly the knuckles went white, the veins in his neck standing out as he shook with rage. 

His eyes, wide and shining with unshed tears, locked on the boy, trembling with a mix of anger, betrayal, and fear. Every nerve in his body seemed to scream; Chan could see it in the small, subtle twitches, the way Minho's jaw worked, his fingers curling tighter around his own lap, the sharp inhale he fought to control.

Chan's own chest ached violently at the sight. Protective fury, heartbreak, and disbelief collided in him, leaving him frozen. He wanted to roar back at the boy, to rip him out of the room and make him swallow every cruel word. He wanted to comfort Minho, to shield him from the shame and hurt. But his own throat was caught in a vice of fear and sorrow.

They had bet on him? On his feelings?

The room itself felt impossibly heavy, the circle around them like walls closing in. One by one, Chan's eyes found the others, Changbin, Hyunjin, Felix, Jisung, Seungmin, Jeongin, their faces downcast, shame and guilt etched into every line, some with tears running freely, unable to meet his gaze. The crushing weight of confirmation settled over him: the boy had been telling the truth. Every whisper, every teasing comment, every private glance had been part of a game he hadn't consented to, a game that had unknowingly shaped the boy he loved.

Chan's knees weakened, hands trembling as he clenched them into fists. The velvet box was suddenly a useless weight against his chest, the words he had memorized for this night meaningless and hollow. He had believed in the small, stolen moments with Minho, believed they were theirs, but now they were fractured, corrupted by the knowledge of that cruel game.

He wanted to curl into himself, to disappear from the room, to erase the humiliation, the heartbreak, the betrayal, all of it. But he couldn't. He couldn't look away from Minho, couldn't stop the ache in his chest at seeing the younger's trembling face, couldn't stop the guilt and love and fury that made his entire body quake.

And in that silence, under the weight of everyone's stares and tears, Chan realized something brutal and undeniable: everything he had loved, every hope he had nurtured, had been built on a lie.

Everything.

Chan didn't move at first. He just stood there, a still island in a storm of shame, anger, and disbelief. The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating: the revelation of the bet, the betrayal of trust, the fact that Minho had fallen for him amidst it all. Everyone else's faces were a blur, guilt and fear written so clearly it almost hurt to look at them.

He wanted to scream, yell, hold his head between his hands and cry. Was everything Minho ever told him and did for him a lie?

Then he spoke calmly. Almost too calm. "Is it the truth?"

The single word cut across the tension like a scalpel.

Minho flinched, chest rising and falling rapidly. The others froze. "Channie Hyung-" he whispered, voice breaking, but the words were fragile, trembling.

Chan's eyes held him, steady, unwavering. "Is it the truth?" he repeated, softer this time, but each syllable carried a weight, a demand for truth, a quiet danger that made even the air in the room taut.

Minho's lips quivered. He wanted to shout, to deny, to explain, to reach for Chan, but all he could do was breathe fast and hope, pray, that Chan would understand, that he would forgive. But Chan's calm... it wasn't understanding. It was a storm just below the surface.

"Is that guy telling the truth?" Chan asked a third time. His voice was low, flat, controlled, almost menacing in its serenity. "Answer this one question. If you say he's lying, I will make sure he gets hell for lying that way. But if he's saying the truth..."

Minho's head snapped up, dark eyes glistening. "I... I fell for you, Chan Hyung. We- we were stupid to form that bet, I just... I couldn't help it. It wasn't a game for me. It wasn't a gaame for a long time. Please, please believe me."

Chan's chest ached, but his face stayed carefully neutral. He let the confession hang there, unmoving, unblinking. Inside, everything was breaking, the velvet box in his pocket felt heavier than a boulder, the careful words of his speech hollow and useless. Every brush of Minho's hand, every shy smile, every stolen moment now shimmered with bitter irony.

Lie. Everything was a lie.

All the moments Minho had spent laughing and being vulnerable and supporting Chan were all fake. Six months where Chan had handed out his heart to Minho very openly were fabricated. Six months of Minho treating him that good and then telling him that he liked Chan was just a step to win the stupid bet.

And then he turned. Slowly. Deliberately. Each step measured. His calm was worse than anger, it was ice, impenetrable, final.

"Chan Hyung, wait!" Minho cried, voice raw, desperate, catching on tears. He scrambled to his knees as if he could physically block him, but Chan didn't look back.

The others weren't silent. Felix's hands shook, Hyunjin's voice cracked as he tried to call him back. Jeongin's usual grin was gone, replaced by tears that ran freely down his cheeks. "Hyung! Please! Don't go! You can't leave like this!"

Changbin's shoulders were slumped, guilt written in every movement. "Hyung, we- we didn't mean it that way! We were stupid! We didn't think-"

"Stop talking," Chan said, and the single command, calm and cold, froze them in place.

He finally looked at the seven, one by one: Changbin, Hyunjin, Felix, Jisung, Seungmin, Jeongin, and Minho. Every eye met his for a heartbeat, and every single one dropped immediately, shame and regret burning their gazes. Tears streaked some faces, choked sobs barely held back.

"You. All of you. Never, ever talk to me again," he said, voice low, measured, but with a weight that made it feel like a verdict.

Felix lunged forward. Hyunjin, Jeongin, even Minho took a step. "Chan Hyung! Please!" Minho's voice cracked, small, raw, pleading. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't-"

"You've done enough," BamBam's stepped in. He had moved across the room to where Chan and the others were when he heard Minho yelling at the random guy. He had heard enough since. His voice cut across them, final, immovable. Lily moved in as well, arms wide, shaking her head. "You've all done enough," she repeated firmly, blocking their path. "Let him go."

Chan's steps were deliberate, slow, each one echoing in the stunned silence of the room. Every heartbeat thrummed with the weight of betrayal and heartbreak, every nerve in his body taut with the cold control he maintained. He didn't look back, though the ache in his chest was deep enough to shatter him.

Minho dropped to his knees, shoulders trembling violently, tears streaking down his face. "Chan-ah, please, don't leave me. Don't go. I swear, I swear it wasn't a game for me! I love you! I love you!"

Chan stopped dead in his track. Turning back once and looking at the younger shaking on his knees. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet box he had carried for weeks, the one he had imagined holding out to Minho tonight. The leather felt impossibly heavy in his palm, each second stretching like an eternity.

Without a word, he walked forward deliberately and let the box fall beside Minho, the soft thud echoing louder than any shout. The younger froze, eyes wide, fingers twitching as if he could catch it, but Chan didn't wait for him.

"Unfortunately," Chan said, calm and measured, each word sharp as a blade, "you lost the bet, Minho-ssi." He let the pause hang, giving the weight of the statement time to sink in. "I never said I love you. I was going to tonight but..." His eyes flicked down at the box, as if seeing it now made the gesture meaningless, "I hope you can repay your loss to the other by selling these. I saved up for months to be able to afford them, so they actually do cost a fortune."

Minho's breath hitched. His knees were bent, hands hovering near the box, unable to move. The others were frozen, some mouths open, some covering their faces, guilt and heartbreak mirrored in every gesture.

Chan's steps carried him away from the circle, slow and deliberate, each one measured, precise, almost ritualistic. The soft echo of his shoes on the floor sounded impossibly loud in the stunned silence of the room behind him. The velvet box at Minho's feet seemed suddenly fragile, absurdly small, a symbol of everything that had gone wrong, everything he had been carrying inside him for months.

His chest ached in a way that felt physical, a deep, hollow pain that pulsed with every heartbeat. Love and fury intertwined, a venomous cocktail that made his fingers clench and unclench involuntarily. He had wanted tonight to be perfect, to speak the words he had rehearsed a hundred times, to make the memory worth it, and instead, the betrayal had cut the edges off everything, leaving only raw, ragged grief.

Minho's voice called out behind him, raw, desperate. "Channie Hyung, wait! Please, please! Don't go! I can explain myself, I swear, please don't leave me this way. HYUNG-" 

But Chan didn't turn. He could feel the plea in the younger's voice, the ragged ache, the tears that had surely fallen, but it didn't reach him. The hurt ran too deep, the betrayal too sharp, and his calm, his deliberate detachment, was the only shield he had left.

He wanted to cry too, ask Minho why he had done that. Shake him by his shoulders and demand answeres from him. But he had no power left in his limbs now or emotional energy to disssect what had just happened.

And just like that, Chan disappeared into the night, leaving Minho kneeling in the wreckage of what could have been, every unsaid 'I love you' shattering like glass under the weight of betrayal. 

_______ 

 

Notes:

HELLO EVERYONE!!!!! I AM BACKKKKK :D
Welcome or welcome back to my ao3 where we love angst 🥰🥰 So this is just getting started and I hope, I REALLY HOPE, that you like it and the next chapters hold up to your expectations and you love reading through this!!!
LOVE YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART <33333