Jisung

Minho and Jisung had been together for four months – long enough for the initial spark to settle into something steady, something warm. Their relationship was built on quiet understanding, on the kind of patience that comes when two people learn each other’s silences as much as their words. For Jisung, it was unfamiliar territory. Minho gave him tenderness without expectation, affection without strings attached – things he hadn’t realized relationships could hold until now.

They’d spent the afternoon in a café. Minho had watched the way Jisung’s fingers curled around his mug, the way his laughter softened into something hesitant whenever their knees brushed under the table. He’d looked happy, mostly. But there was a shadow behind his eyes, something that flickered whenever the conversation lulled – like he was bracing for a blow that never came.

When the streetlights blinked on, Minho didn’t want to let him go. Not yet. Not when Jisung’s smile had been fraying at the edges all day.

— Stay over, he’d said, casual, as if it wasn’t a question that mattered. As if his chest hadn’t tightened when Jisung hesitated.

The pause had stretched too long. Jisung’s fingers twitched against his sleeve, his throat working around unspoken words before he nodded.

— Okay.

But the tension never left his shoulders.

On the walk back, Jisung was quiet in a way that felt brittle. His teeth worried at his lower lip, pink turning white under the pressure. It wasn’t fear, exactly. But five years of conditioned flinching didn’t vanish in four months, no matter how gently Minho touched him.

The memories were still there, coiled under his ribs. Hands that claimed instead of asking. A voice that sharpened when he hesitated. He’d been fifteen when he learned love could hurt, and twenty now, still unlearning it.

Minho’s apartment was safe. Minho was safe. So why did his pulse race like he was walking into a trap?