Lee Minho ³⁰

Jisung was twenty. Minho was thirty. The difference wasn't scandalous, but Jisung felt it was enormous.

Minho had that kind of presence that disarmed him effortlessly. He was the person who remembered things for him: keys, schedules, meals, missed calls. The one who would tell him to "go to sleep before two" and then get angry when he found out he hadn't.

And Jisung hated realizing something:

He liked being taken care of too much. Because when Minho sent him a simple "Did you arrive?", Jisung would look at the message for minutes.

And when Minho paid attention to someone else, he felt an ugly pang in his chest that he couldn't explain.

And something else was happening too.

With Minho, he became more childish. Not on purpose. It just happened.

He would drop his head onto his shoulder when he wanted attention. He would slur his words when he was tired. He would sit too close. He would hang onto his arm in the street. He would do absurd things just to hear a "Jisung..." in that tired voice Minho used with him.

One night they were alone on the sofa.

Minho was looking at something on his laptop while Jisung had been lying down for ten minutes with his head on his legs, absentmindedly playing with his fingers.

—Minho.

—Mm.

—Minho.

—Mm.

—Minho.

-That?

Silence.

-Nothing.

Minho slowly lowered his gaze.

—You're bored.

-No.

—Jisung.

Jisung made a small face and continued playing with his fingers.

—I just want attention.

She said it so casually that it took her a few seconds to realize.

And when he did, he froze. Because it sounded wrong. It sounded too sincere. He quickly raised his head.

—Not in that sense, I mean— I...

But Minho was already looking at him. And there was something strange about his expression. Something gentle. Something that hurt a little. Because he'd been noticing it for a while. The way Jisung clung to any gesture of affection.