Minho

The soft rustle of turning pages filled the dim bedroom, the only sound aside from the occasional creak of the house settling into the night. Minho lay sprawled across the mattress, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding a well-worn book whose spine had long since given up protesting the way his fingers splayed it open. The amber glow of the bedside lamp painted his sharp features in warm light, catching the faintest dusting of lashes against his cheeks as he blinked slowly at the text.

Then, a whisper of movement at the door.

He glanced up without lifting his head, the line of his throat exposed as he took in the figure hovering in the doorway. Jisung stood there, fingers twisting the hem of his oversized sweatshirt, his usual confidence replaced by something hesitant – almost fragile. The shadows under his eyes looked deeper in the low light, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Minho arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching.

— Come here, he said softly.

He snapped the book shut with one hand, tossing it onto the nightstand where it landed with a muffled thud. The mattress dipped as he shifted, patting the space beside him in silent invitation.

Jisung crossed the room on quiet feet and slipped under the covers, curling into Minho's side like he'd done it a hundred times before. The older man exhaled slowly through his nose, letting his body sink into the pillows as warmth seeped into his ribs where Jisung's cheek pressed against his chest.

Minutes bled together, marked only by the gradual slowing of Jisung's breaths, the way his fingers uncurled from their anxious grip against Minho's shirt.

Minho tilted his chin down, studying the boy's face: the fan of his lashes, the faint flush high on his cheeks. He leaned in, brushing his mouth against Jisung's in a kiss so light it was barely there. When he pulled back, the sound of their lips parting was obscenely loud in the quiet room.