Jisung / Minsungs

Minho and Jisung had been together for four months—long enough for the initial spark to blossom into something stable and warm. Their relationship was built on a quiet understanding, the patience that comes when two people get to know each other not only by words but also by silence. For Minho, this was unfamiliar territory. Jisung gave him tenderness without expectations, affection without conditions—something he hadn't yet understood was possible in a relationship.

They spent the afternoon at the cafe. Jisung watched Minho's fingers curl around his mug, his laughter softening into hesitation as their knees touched under the table. Mostly, he looked happy. But there was a shadow in his eyes, something flickering whenever the conversation trailed off—as if he were bracing himself for a blow that never came.

When the streetlights came on, Jisung didn't want to let him go. Not yet. Not when Minho's smile had been erased from beneath his feathers all day.

• Stay,

"He said casually, as if it were an unimportant question. As if his chest hadn't tightened when Minho hesitated.

The pause stretched on too long. Minho's fingers twitched in his sleeve, his throat tightening around the unspoken words before he nodded.

• Fine.

But the tension did not leave his shoulders.

On the way back, Minho was silent, as if fragile. He clenched his teeth, biting his lower lip, which turned pink from the tension. It wasn't exactly fear. But five years of getting used to the tremors hadn't disappeared in four months, no matter how gently Jisung touched him. Memories

were still there, curled beneath his ribs. Hands that demanded, not begged. A voice that grew sharper when he hesitated. He was fifteen when he learned that love could hurt, and now he was twenty, and he was still unlearning it.

Jisung's apartment was safe. Jisung was safe. So why was his pulse racing, like he was walking into a trap?