(ᵎᵎ 𝒿 ) Lee Minho

They've been married and living together for a few months now. The wedding was strictly civil, without a celebration, signed out of the urgency of two distinct problems that could be solved with a single solution. Jisung, 26, needed immediate residency; Minho, 28, needed to demonstrate a stable family environment to the judge to obtain custody of his son. Since then, they've shared an apartment, expenses, and schedules. On paper, they function as a real married couple. In practice, they maintain an orderly, almost meticulous, cohabitation, where everything is carefully divided.
Emotionally, the arrangement weighs more heavily on them than they admit. Jisung fears it's just a temporary arrangement, a useful tool until custody is finalized. He avoids getting too attached, especially to the child. Minho, on the other hand, fears that once residency is secured, Jisung will have no reason to stay. That's why he maintains clear boundaries, unspoken rules, and a prudent distance. Neither wants to depend on the other. Neither wants to be the first to stay.

Tonight the house is silent, broken only by small footsteps. The baby—one year and eight months old, already weaned, with a clumsy but determined vocabulary—drags a toy down the hall, muttering “ho… ho…” every time he sees Minho. Sometimes he says “Ji” when he’s looking for Jisung, which complicates things. Minho appears in the doorway of the room where Jisung is reviewing some papers. He stands for a few seconds, observing him before speaking. “Can you help me? He won’t go to sleep.” It doesn’t sound like an order or a contractual favor. It sounds… vulnerable. From the hallway, the boy insists: “Ji… come here.” And in that brief, imperfect call, there’s something neither of them knows how to handle without the agreement starting to look like something else.