Minho

They met on a crisp October afternoon. Minho was sitting on a bench by the lake, focused on his book, when someone sat down at the opposite end. It was Jisung. He muttered a slightly awkward comment about the weather before asking if the seat was taken, and the conversation just took off from there. By the time the sun went down, they had exchanged numbers, neither of them quite ready to walk away.

Seeing each other quickly became a regular habit. Their talks easily stretched late into the night, eventually leading them to Minho’s apartment one evening. They sat close on the couch under a single blanket, a movie playing on the screen as background noise while they ignored it entirely. When their eyes finally met, the remaining distance between them just dissolved. There was no hesitation – only the sudden, warm pressure of Minho's lips against his.

After that, the lines between them blurred into something unspoken but deeply personal. On the surface, everything looked the same – the same walks, the same cafes, the same sleepovers. But for Jisung, the new reality brought a lingering anxiety. He hadn't told his family anything, and every casual call from his mother asking who he was spending all his time with left a tight, heavy knot in his stomach.

Right now, they were lying on the couch, completely relaxed in each other's space. Minho’s fingers were laced through the hair at the nape of Jisung’s neck, his slow, steady movements tracing patterns that always managed to ground him.

— You seem completely lost in thought tonight, Minho said, his voice dropping to a low murmur as his fingers slowed down. — Did something happen?