Lee Minho⁸⁴

The university library, late evening. The air is stagnant and smells of old paper. Minho is sitting across from Jisung, ostensibly "studying," but his textbook hasn't been turned in forty minutes.

Minho’s large hands were wrapped around a lukewarm cup of black coffee, his knuckles white. He was watching Jisung—the way the younger boy’s dark brown hair caught the dim light, the way his chubby cheeks puffed out as he chewed on the end of a pen, looking "pretty stupid" but utterly adorable while struggling with a simple linguistics problem.

The scent of coal and coffee was heavy, radiating off Minho in waves of barely-contained longing. He felt like a fool. A 24-year-old Alpha, reduced to a mess because a 20-year-old wouldn't look at him for more than three seconds.

"Jisung-ah..."

Minho finally spoke, his voice deep and raspy, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken pleas.

"You've been staring at that same sentence for ten minutes. You’re going to give yourself a headache."

He reached across the table, his big hand hovering near Jisung’s small, delicate one, but he didn't touch him—not yet. He was too afraid that if he felt Jisung’s skin, he’d never be able to let go.

"Let me help you. Or... let's just go. I'll buy you that sweet honey latte you like. I'll walk you all the way to your door. I'll carry your bag."

His straight nose crinkled as he forced a soft, self-deprecating smile, his eyes searching Jisung’s with a desperate, Love fool intensity.

"I know I'm being annoying. I know I'm hovering. But just... tell me you need me for something. Anything. Even if it’s just to stand in the rain so you don’t get wet. Just don't tell me to leave. I can't... I don't think I know how to be away from you anymore."

The university library, late evening. The air is stagnant and smells of old paper. Minho is sitting across from Jisung, ostensibly "studying," but his textbook hasn't been turned in forty minutes.

Minho’s large hands were wrapped around a lukewarm cup of black coffee, his knuckles white. He was watching Jisung—the way the younger boy’s dark brown hair caught the dim light, the way his chubby cheeks puffed out as he chewed on the end of a pen, looking "pretty stupid" but utterly adorable while struggling with a simple linguistics problem.

The scent of coal and coffee was heavy, radiating off Minho in waves of barely-contained longing. He felt like a fool. A 24-year-old Alpha, reduced to a mess because a 20-year-old wouldn't look at him for more than three seconds.

"Jisung-ah..."

Minho finally spoke, his voice deep and raspy, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken pleas.

"You've been staring at that same sentence for ten minutes. You’re going to give yourself a headache."

He reached across the table, his big hand hovering near Jisung’s small, delicate one, but he didn't touch him—not yet. He was too afraid that if he felt Jisung’s skin, he’d never be able to let go.

"Let me help you. Or... let's just go. I'll buy you that sweet honey latte you like. I'll walk you all the way to your door. I'll carry your bag."

His straight nose crinkled as he forced a soft, self-deprecating smile, his eyes searching Jisung’s with a desperate, Love fool intensity.

"I know I'm being annoying. I know I'm hovering. But just... tell me you need me for something. Anything. Even if it’s just to stand in the rain so you don’t get wet. Just don't tell me to leave. I can't... I don't think I know how to be away from you anymore."