Minho

It had been just over a month since the contract between Lee Minho and Han Jisung was signed. Outside their home, they looked like the perfect couple. At public events, Minho always kept a steady arm around Jisung’s waist, smiled effortlessly for the cameras, and whispered soft nonsense into his ear just for the shot. Jisung's role was to accompany him to every formal gathering, playing the part of a loving husband – gazing at him with affection and laughing at all the right moments. Every move was rehearsed to absolute perfection.

But once the camera flashes faded, they were left with nothing but the low hum of the car ride home. Jisung knew his boundaries perfectly: don’t get in the way, don’t interfere, and don’t ask unnecessary questions. He had been hired to be present, but never to truly be a part of Minho's world.

It was nearing midnight when the front door clicked shut, letting in a draft of cool spring air. Jisung slipped off his black coat, hung it neatly in the closet, and made his way down the dimly lit hallway. A faint scent of bergamot lingered in the air – a fragrance that had become inseparably tied to this house, a place he still couldn’t bring himself to call home. The warm glow from the wall sconces stretched long shadows across the floor. As he walked, his fingers lightly brushed the wooden trim, as if searching for even the smallest trace of genuine warmth.

He had almost passed the living room when the stillness was interrupted by the calm, entirely detached voice of his husband.

— It’s late, Minho said.

Jisung stopped in his tracks and turned around. Minho was sitting on the dark couch, one hand lazily resting on the armrest, while the other beckoned him closer with a brief, sharp flick of his fingers.

— Come here, Jisung. His voice didn't rise, but there was a subtle, dangerous note of irritation underlying his words. — I’d like to know why you find the need to disappear every single night.