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Learning to coexist and care for another living being – let alone one that not only belongs to a different species but that can also literally change shape and morph into a common household animal at will – proves to be more of a challenge than Jisung could have ever anticipated.
If, you know, he had ever thought of the possibility of such a scenario becoming his reality, in the first place.
In the weeks following the events of that fateful morning where Saja – Minho, his brain chides in passing – so unexpectedly revealed his other form to Jisung and their companionship transformed into something new and entirely unknown, let alone unpredictable, it would be an understatement to say that Jisung's life took a bit of a… wild turn.
On one hand, Jisung is of course very glad that Minho, at least so far, hasn't shown any signs of reluctance, distrust or animosity towards him or his apartment, despite having spent most of his life in his cat-form, trying to slip in and out unseen between shadows and relying on rooftops and parks to navigate the neighborhoods and surroundings while remaining mostly hidden from human scrutiny – as he has explained in between languid and very much distracting stretches, curled atop Jisung's blankets or sunbathing by his windows.
On the other hand, however, Jisung would be lying if he said he isn’t struggling a little (a lot) trying to get used to a man-sized feline casually lurking around his house like he's been there all along, like he never belonged anywhere else.
At first, Jisung thought he should give them a couple days to process the drastic change that their lives had undergone, maybe try to slowly grow accustomed to the man-cat's existence, give them both some space to figure things out and see what Minho was comfortable with sharing, how much of himself was he ready to reveal. And, most importantly, what his plans for the future held in store, after choosing to reveal his nature to Jisung and possibly jeopardizing his safety and security, trusting his freedom and, well, his life, into the hands of a near-stranger.
Naturally, all Jisung's good intentions and cautious expectations were swept aside without so much as a glance, as Minho decided that apparently the best way to move past the shock and uncertainty brought forth by his revelations, was to graciously insert himself into Jisung's everyday life, seamlessly slipping into all of the places Jisung had never quite managed to fill by himself, nook by nook, cranny by cranny.
In the span of but a few weeks, the mysterious, elusive creature that Jisung had been trying to befriend for months, who seemed to enjoy nothing more than silently observing Jisung with his intelligent, curious eyes, silently judging him with the tip of his tail twitching in the air and disappearing into the shadows after getting his fill of cuddles, was now suddenly everywhere.
Sometimes he would simply laze on Jisung's couch in his human form, studying and observing the TV or the hustling and bustling of the outside world through the window like they were the most interesting things his eyes had ever witnessed and munching on snacks that Jisung wasn’t really sure were appropriate for a feline diet.
Other times he would sneak into Jisung's personal space in the kitchen to steal the food he was preparing, running off to hide behind the couch when Jisung pretended to huff and puff, scolding him for his misbehaviors – but ultimately softening and letting him have whatever he wanted, and sometimes even more.
And other times still, he would sit by his bed in the morning in his cat form, demanding head pats and belly scratches, or wait for him at the door at the end of the day, when Jisung got back home from work, asking to be fed and held.
Just like so, in the span of but a few weeks, Minho has become the first and last thing he sees every single day, a perpetual presence in his thoughts, no matter how hard he tries to keep his mind from wandering.
Minho is just... there. All the time.
The constant switches between his human and feline form are almost dizzying, like a merry-go-round spinning around too fast, a carousel of colors and shapes that Jisung can't quite stop from dragging him along. As time goes on the lines bleed and blur, but coming to terms with the fact that, really, this is Saja, no matter what size he chooses to assume, regardless of whether he's on four legs or two, with whiskers and fur or a soft, smiling mouth and shining eyes, is one of the most disorienting experiences of his life.
Even more confusing, however, is the constant push-and-pull between Jisung's body and brain whenever he finds himself in close proximity with the shifter.
Ever since their first meeting, he's been struggling to try and gain Saja's affection and trust, he's been so careful to avoid doing anything that might upset or offend the animal after his first slip-up, he's been trying to respect the boundaries between them, even when he was starting to feel more and more drawn towards the mysterious cat and more and more attached to its company.
Now, though, it feels like all of a sudden the rules have changed, like he doesn't know what to expect or what is acceptable anymore.
Jisung still wants to hold the cat, he still wants to pet him, to ruffle his fur and scratch behind his ears, just like before. Only now the idea of doing so makes his heart rate spike and his stomach clench and twist with inexplicable nerves, warmth flooding his cheeks and his throat growing dry.
Because what if Minho grows to hate it? What if it's too much, too weird, too uncomfortable for the shifter? What if, up until now, the animal hadn't minded, maybe had even grown used to his persistent attention, but had only been allowing Jisung to handle him out of necessity, out of a basic, instinctual sense of preservation?
Maybe it's pity, perhaps Minho is simply indulging Jisung's obvious, pitiful need for companionship – the same need he has insisted and convinced himself didn't exist in the first place. Or maybe Minho knows there's nowhere else for him to go, what with the freezing temperatures that have taken over the city since the night Jisung rescued him and brought him home, and it being the only safe, warm place he can rely on right now.
Jisung wouldn't be surprised if Minho has been humoring him all this time, if he was only waiting for the perfect moment to leave. He can't imagine he'd want to stay, not with Jisung, not when he could be somewhere much, much better than Jisung's tiny apartment.
And yet... a part of Jisung can't help but hope.
It's a part of him that he’d never seen coming, that he never expected to take root inside his heart, but that is now growing and blossoming and refusing to be ignored like he has been ignoring his own feelings and desires for so long.
It's an ache, a longing, that resonates deep in his soul, a call that sings with every touch of the other's skin against his own, with every meeting of their gazes, with every smile that Minho gifts him.
It grows, feeding off Minho's bashful revelation that Jisung was the first and only to know his true nature, that he'd wanted to tell him before but couldn't. It thrives off the way he remembers the warmth of Minho's smile when Jisung had asked for his name, of his expression once he realized Jisung wouldn’t throw him out nor run away even after the veil had fallen and the truth became undeniable.
It sparks like wildfire when he recalls how Minho had so easily melted onto his body, how he had wrapped his tail around Jisung's side and hidden his face in the crook of his neck. How they had fit so perfectly together, pressed to each other like puzzle pieces crafted from the same everlasting trunk.
Maybe, just maybe, that small, frail and unstoppable voice whispers in the back of his mind, Minho wants to stay.
"Jisung?"
Jisung jolts, caught like a child snooping around the cookie jar. His head turns so fast he almost gets whiplash, eyes blinking into awareness to meet Minho's, the color of late afternoon and molten gold, almost reflecting the sun descending outside. There's a hint of concern in the shifter's expression, his delicate brows pulled together ever so slightly, the corners of his pretty lips tugging downwards.
"Are you okay? You've been staring into nothing for a while..."
Minho looks at him like it's not the first time he's called his name, like he's been trying to get his attention for a bit and Jisung hasn't noticed. Jisung swallows, hopes the deep, gulping breath he forces himself to take is not as awkward or unnatural as it feels. He has to clear his throat before speaking, for his tongue feels thick and uncooperative, his voice rough and unnatural.
"Yeah, no, I– I'm okay," he breathes, pasting a hopefully easy, believable grin on his lips, and blinks at Minho from the other side of his kitchenette. "What's up?"
Minho hums as he walks a little closer, his gaze lingering for a moment longer, contemplative. He doesn't appear particularly convinced, but fortunately he seems to decide not to question him further – probably for the better, considering that Jisung isn't really sure he knows the answer to the questions he has no doubt the other would ask, if he decided to press.
Instead, Minho tilts his head, the movement so similar to his cat counterpart that it's almost startling. It's still so weird, so unreal, that this man and that cat are one and the same, that Minho's human and feline features overlap to the point that Jisung finds himself looking at the other and expecting to see striped gray fur instead of supple skin and soft, silver hair.
"I was just wondering what you were cooking?" Minho finally asks, glancing over at the various ingredients spread on the kitchen counter and then back at him. There's a flicker of interest and curiosity in his gaze, and Jisung feels his heart melt a little at the sight.
He smiles, more genuine this time, and picks up the knife he'd left on the chopping board to resume his previous task, "Bibimbap," he supplies, "with extra meat, of course."
At the mention of 'extra meat', Minho visibly perks up, his eyes widening in delight and his tail swishing around excitedly behind his back. The sight of it makes something in Jisung's chest unfurl, especially coupled with the way Jisung's oversized sweater, a faded baby pink with sleeves so long the tips of Minho's fingers don't even poke out of the end, makes the other look much smaller than Jisung knows he is.
Jisung still remembers the first time he saw Minho wearing his clothes like it was yesterday.
The day of the 'shift', when he'd woken up with Minho's arm thrown across Jisung's stomach and the other's body curled protectively around him, and when the reality of the situation fully settled in and Jisung's mind actually processed the fact that the man in his arms – a man he had never seen before in his life, a man who was supposed to be a damn animal – was not only butt-naked but also sprawled on top of him, almost all of their body parts (including ones that Jisung tried his best not to think about) pressed flush against each other, it took all of his willpower for him not to freak out.
Again.
In addition, it didn't help that Minho didn't seem too bothered by his lack of clothing, if the way he was so comfortably draped over Jisung's body and snuggling into his neck was anything to go by. In fact, he seemed perfectly content, relaxed, like he didn't have a care in the world.
Like being naked and laying on top of Jisung was the most natural thing on earth and not something that would make anyone else (notably Jisung) explode in flames.
And sure, logically, of course Jisung knew why. He knew that if what Minho had told him was the truth – and he had no reason to think otherwise, considering the risk the other had taken and the danger he had put himself in by revealing his true identity to him –, then of course Minho wouldn't see anything wrong or shameful with his current state of undress. He'd lived all his adult life, basically since hitting puberty, as a cat, and as such it would simply be natural for him to... well, behave like one.
Nudity included.
Still, no amount of logic and reasoning could stop Jisung's face from burning red like a firecracker when Minho eventually rolled off him and sat up with a groan, stretching his arms above his head, spine curving in the prettiest and most graceful of ways, and Jisung was suddenly left to stare at the expanse of his back, at the sharp line of his shoulder blades, the toned curve of his waist, the willowy line of his tail, the muscled, smooth strength of his thighs and the soft roundness of his–
No. Nope, not going there again.
Back then, Jisung had averted his gaze, willing his traitorous, wandering mind to just stop before he said or did something stupid that he would inevitably regret and feel guilty for later, but still, it wasn't easy. Not when he could still feel the tingle of the other's arms around him, his breath against the shell of his ear, his hands brushing against Jisung's torso and the muscles of his chest.
Luckily for him, Minho hadn't paid much attention to his obvious struggle and, with a nonchalance that Jisung couldn't even begin to imagine having himself, simply got up from the bed and strolled towards the bathroom, unabashedly naked.
‘It's been a while since I've used one of these,’ he'd commented, turning the light on, and the sound of his voice had thankfully distracted Jisung from his inner turmoil, ‘but I'm sure I'll figure it out.’
It had taken Jisung a solid, mortifying minute before his brain caught on and made him scramble to follow the other man.
‘W-wait! Hang on, let me get you some clothes!’
Despite their whirlwind beginning and the embarrassment and awkwardness that had followed, all in all, their first day together in Minho's human form had gone... surprisingly well.
Sure, cutting holes in a pair of old underwear and sweatpants to accommodate Minho's tail was a bit surreal and almost made Jisung regret following the shifter into the bathroom in the first place. And maybe he should've considered that lending Minho his clothes might not have been the smartest decision and would inevitably cost him some of his meticulously set aside savings, but at the time he didn't really have a choice. He certainly couldn't let him wander around naked nor did he want to leave him alone, and none of his (very few) friends or neighbors could know of his existence, so, really, there wasn't much else he could do, was there?
And... truth be told, there was a small, foolish, yet persistent part of him that reveled in seeing Minho wearing his clothes, the same way he delighted in petting and pampering Saja back when he was just a cat.
So, when Minho had walked back out of the bathroom looking significantly more decent, smiling at Jisung with bright eyes, rosy cheeks and wet hair falling messily over his forehead, clad in Jisung's biggest (though, apparently, still a little distractingly tight) sweats and the warmest hoodie he owned, something foreign had fluttered like butterfly wings in his stomach, and for a split second he forgot how to breathe.
It felt like a scene straight out of a dream, like something surreal and impossible. Except it was real, as proven by the warmth and heat that he felt in his palm when he reached out and brushed back the wet strands falling over the other's eyes, carefully tucking them behind his ear, heart stuttering in his chest when Minho leaned into the touch with a soft, lovely purr rumbling in his throat.
He wanted to never wake up from that moment, he wished he could keep living in the pleasant illusion forever.
Except Minho's stomach, which up until then had not made a sound at all, chose that precise instant to grumble, loud and demanding, and the moment was inevitably broken.
Jisung remembers laughing, remembers how the sound bubbled up in his chest and out of his lips before he could stop it, how it reverberated through the room and filled the space between them with mirth. How Minho had pouted, but joined him soon after, the sound of his giggles and his beautiful, full smile the most precious thing Jisung had ever seen.
‘Breakfast?’ He'd asked, and Minho's expression had lit up with excitement.
‘Can I help?’
A little over a month has gone by since that day, and while things have more or less settled into some kind of routine, there are still moments that catch Jisung off-guard, times when he looks at Minho and suddenly feels like he's standing on the edge of a precipice, and the only thing he can do is watch and wait and wonder if he's going to fall to his demise or not.
Even now, watching as Minho eagerly pads to his side to peer at what he's doing, his face only a handspan away from his own, eyes glistening with fascination and delight as he stares at the meat and fresh vegetables in child-like wonder, Jisung can't help but dread the leap.
Because what if he closes his eyes and finally, finally lets go of the fear and anxiety holding him back, only for Minho to realize that the reality is not what he expected at all, and decide that it's not worth staying? That he doesn't want to live with or depend on someone as boring and uninteresting as Jisung, that he deserves so much better than this cramped apartment and pitiful human in sweatshirts two sizes too big?
It's a constant worry that Jisung can't seem to shake, no matter how many smiles Minho gifts him, no matter how many times he allows him to pet him or hold him close, no matter how many times he wakes up with the small weight of Saja on his chest, the shifter having climbed onto his bed sometime during the night and cuddled up against him for warmth.
Jisung can't help it.
He's so, so scared of losing the one thing that makes him happy, the one thing that has managed to make him want to get out of bed in the mornings and face the world, the one thing he's been looking forward to coming home to at the end of his repetitive days, even on the worst of them.
The one thing, as surprising and improbable as it still feels, that somehow chose him, out of every single person on the planet, out of everyone who could have found the cat that first night Saja wandered into his life and changed it for the better.
The one that made him believe that the boundless string of fate and destiny had finally reached him too, however strangely and unexpectedly, that he had his own thread to follow and that the universe wanted to reward him in simpler, more grounded ways, compared to the imaginary grandiosity his mind had dreamed about in childhood.
"Jisung?"
He jolts again, once more pulled from his thoughts, but he's faster to react this time and manages to blink, breathe in and relax before turning to look at Minho. It's infinitely more difficult to look into his eyes, into his concerned, awfully pretty, golden gaze, but he forces himself to meet it anyway.
"Yeah?"
Minho looks at him, opens his mouth, hesitates. The shifter seems to change his mind at the last moment, and finally shrugs, offering him a small smile and a tilt of his head, "Nothing," he murmurs, voice soft and kind, "I just think you're cute when you space out."
Jisung chokes on air, sputters and coughs like a dying fish.
"W-what–"
Minho is taller than him, if only by an inch or two, but it feels a lot more than that when he leans even closer, grins in a way that feels much too sly and teasing for Jisung's liking, and presses the tip of his index finger to the spot between his brows.
"You get these little wrinkles here," he tells him, tone low and airy, "and your cheeks get all puffed and round… Like a hamster."
Minho’s tone starts off playful, giddy even, but quickly morphs into something almost absent-minded, contemplative, mirroring the way his eyes start trailing down Jisung’s face, following the light and nearly imperceptible caress of his fingers as they touch and travel from his forehead, down his nose and to his cheekbones in a gentle, feather-like dance. There's nearly no pressure behind the touch, and yet Jisung shivers under the attention, feels his heart pick up speed, thundering in his ears in a way that is both exhilarating and terrifying.
"Oh," Jisung blurts, voice breathy and a little faint.
For a moment, he feels like he should say something, do something, and yet his mind refuses to cooperate, blanking completely as he finds himself captivated by the hues in Minho's eyes, flickering like shimmering golden flames, intense and more beautiful than they've ever looked before.
They hold something in their depths, something that Jisung can't quite decipher but wishes so desperately to.
Jisung’s breath hitches. His skin prickles like an electric current running beneath its surface, buzzing with too much energy, too much feeling.
It's odd, it's strange and foreign.
It's... warm?
Just as the thought registers in his mind, Minho jolts as though he's been burned, jerks his arm away and takes an uncharacteristically clumsy step back. He stumbles, catching himself with a hand on the edge of the countertop at the last second, and when he rights himself back to his full height, he's looking anywhere and everywhere but at Jisung, cheeks so adorably flushed that it's almost enough to distract Jisung from the panicked glint in his eyes.
Jisung's heart twists and squeezes, a vicious stab of hurt and confusion sinking its claws in his chest.
He swallows and licks his lips, fingers shakily reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair away from his eyes. A beat of silence passes, and a whisper of discomfort ghosts across his nape, itching at his senses like tiny drops of acid.
Not quite panic, but dangerously close.
Jisung doesn’t like the way his mind scrambles and rushes to come up with an excuse for Minho's reaction, because the more he searches for a reasonable explanation, the less confident he gets, the less rational and grounded he feels, and the more that dreaded, sickening anxiety slowly crawls up his spine, tightening the invisible noose around his throat.
"Minho?" He manages to ask, and while his voice sounds somewhat steady, the way Minho flinches at his call makes Jisung's stomach sink, "What–"
"I–" Minho cuts him off, and Jisung watches in shock as the shifter cringes at his own action but soldiers on, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to– I don't know what happened–"
Jisung frowns, confused, "What do you mean, what–"
Minho shakes his head, lips pulled into a thin, tight line. He looks tense, upset, and Jisung doesn't understand why, doesn't understand what he did to make Minho act like this, what he did wrong, what Minho regrets. All he knows is that it stings, more than it probably should, because to him it feels a little like rejection. It feels like Minho was simply curious, indulgent, and maybe his human form's instincts, however foreign and unfamiliar, were just eager to explore, and Jisung is just...
He doesn't know.
He doesn't know.
Minho takes another step back, puts more distance between them, and Jisung tries to swallow down the lump in his throat, but it's impossible.
Maybe he doesn't need to know, after all. Maybe that's not the point, because it's clear that Minho has no intention to clarify or offer any sort of explanation. Maybe, even if it was only for a moment, he felt something, but now he can't wait to get away from Jisung.
Can't wait to run away, like he did when they first met and Jisung thought he could bring the cat home, rid it of its freedom.
Jisung takes a deep, steadying breath and turns his attention back to the stove, forces his body to move and stir the meat still cooking on the pan, trying to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary is happening. That nothing is wrong, that he doesn't care and he's not going to, even when Minho will disappear and Jisung's disappointment will sink in, get lodged in his chest like a thorny vine around his heart.
"You... can you plate the rice and take out the side dishes while I finish this?"
It's a miracle that he's able to keep his voice neutral, that he's able to speak at all, but Jisung will take what he can get. From the corner of his eye, he sees Minho snap his head up to look at him, but Jisung doesn't turn around.
It takes a couple of seconds, but eventually, Minho moves, his footsteps a little too heavy for someone who is supposed to be as graceful and as light as a feline, though he's out of his line of sight soon enough and Jisung is left alone.
The sound of his heartbeat, so loud it almost drowns out everything else, is a familiar background noise, one that Jisung has had to learn to deal with throughout the years.
He breathes in. Breathes out. Turns down the heat to stop the meat from burning. Reaches for the two bowls as soon as Minho sets them on the counter. Places the cooked, unevenly cut and seasoned beef over the fluffy, steaming bed of rice, adds the stir-fried vegetables on the side. The eggs take very little to fry on the already heated pan, and Jisung tries to focus on making them perfect, tries to direct all of his attention to the task and nothing else.
When he's done, the plates look edible enough, even if the presentation is far from his best creations.
The food tastes good though, Jisung knows it does. He's been cooking for himself long enough to have learned to appreciate simple things, but it's still odd to prepare food for someone else, and doubly so to share it, especially with someone who is just starting to learn to live again.
Minho always looks at his dishes like they're the most delicious thing he's ever seen, eats them with delight and eagerness. It usually makes Jisung feel warm and fluttery inside, and at the same time, the knowledge that the shifter's diet must have been quite dull before he found Jisung has made him determined to do his best to make sure Minho never goes hungry again.
Not under his care, not if he can help it.
Jisung takes another breath. Picks up both bowls.
And if his hands are shaking, well, he'll just have to make sure Minho doesn't notice.
He doesn't need his pity.
As soon as he can, he excuses himself to escape to his room. Lets the door slam shut behind his back, locks it and lets out the tremulous sigh that has been trapped in his lungs like smoke waiting to dissipate since Minho touched him in the kitchen. It's a heavy, tense sound that seems to echo around the room, and then silence follows its path.
Jisung knows he's being ridiculous.
He knows that he's blowing things out of proportion, knows that his anxiety has always been his worst enemy, but knowing doesn't make things any easier. Knowing doesn't make the fear go away, doesn't make the thoughts stop, doesn't stop the tightness in his chest or the sweat cooling on his skin.
Minho will leave. Minho will leave him. Minho is disgusted. Minho hates him. Minho doesn't want to stay.
Minho will leave. Minho will disappear, run away again. Minho will be gone and Jisung will be alone again, like always. Like he has always been.
The small voice at the back of his head – the one that has tried to protect him from his own thoughts time and time again, always tried to lessen the poison eating away at his soul, to rationalize and reassure – tells him that he doesn't actually know if Minho will leave and that maybe, maybe he should just talk to the other. Maybe there is a very reasonable explanation behind his reaction and Jisung is jumping to ridiculous conclusions.
A very little, very quiet part of him whispers that maybe, just maybe, he should give Minho the benefit of the doubt. That he should trust that the bond they’ve created during the past months, despite its fragility and tender roots, means something, that Minho will not break it just like that.
That Minho, at the very least, cares about him.
Jisung shakes his head, wraps his arms around his middle and backs away from the door.
He doesn't go far though, not really, just to his bed, where he lets himself fall on top of the mattress, the unmade duvets bunching around him as a result.
It doesn't matter what the little voice at the back of his head says. It doesn't matter what tiny bits of rationality his exhausted mind offers him. In this moment, it all feels like a beautiful lie that he wants to believe so, so badly, even if it's all just a fancy illusion.
The sting, on the other hand, is very much real.
The cold ache that clings to his heart is very, very real.
Minho had been so close, so gentle, and yet Jisung could only think about how easily he pulled away, how quickly he dismissed the strange new tension between them.
Minho is different from him, Minho probably doesn't feel the same things a human does and all these new sensations and impulses are nothing but burdensome inconveniences to him.
Jisung curls into himself and closes his eyes, squeezes them shut with enough force to see blacks and whites burst behind his eyelids, sparks of color like lightning flashing through the skin.
He's pathetic, he knows it. He knows that what he's doing is cowardly and childish and he'll probably come to regret his actions in the morning, especially when he stops for even a second to think about Minho – about Saja, his little lion – having to sleep on his dingy, lumpy couch because Jisung has decided to hole up in his room and avoid him like the plague for no apparent reason.
The guilt already finds its space, squeezes through the cracks in his chest, an uncomfortable, hollow sensation.
It's not enough to make him get up though, not yet, and it's not enough to make him go find Minho and apologize, either. Instead, his fingers find the softness of his covers and he pulls them up to his ears, burrows deeper into the bed and hides under the blankets, until there is nothing but darkness around him and the heat of his own body trapped by the fabric.
It's warm, and it smells like home and safety.
It smells like Saja, like Minho.
It smells like comfort and affection and Jisung tries to breathe in the familiar scent, tries to fill his lungs with it, to let it soothe his nerves, but the more he focuses on it, the more he remembers Minho's fingers on his skin, the way they seemed to burn with their touch, the way they made his heart stutter and his breath catch.
How they made him feel.
The scent brings forth the memory of Minho's eyes, of the way they looked at him, the way they made him feel small and too big for his body all at once, and how much he would have given just to know what Minho was thinking in that moment, what he wanted to say, what he meant to do.
The thoughts send shivers down his spine, and Jisung swallows, curls up tighter, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs. The tightness in his chest is stronger than ever, his heart beating so fast against his ribs that he wouldn't be surprised if it bruised them.
It feels a little like longing, but Jisung doesn't know what he longs for.
A part of him wants to go to Minho and find out.
Another part of him wants to run away.
So he stays still, trapped in his thoughts and emotions, unable to act on any of them.
Jisung sighs, defeated, and lets the darkness surround him, until it swallows him whole.
Jisung dreams of soft whispers and gentle, calloused fingers grazing across his skin like the touch of a butterfly's wings, sliding over his cheek, down his neck, ghosting over his collarbones and slipping under his shirt. Everywhere they touch, they bring forth the kind of warmth he's always longed for but could never quite seem to find – warm, soothing, something that spreads all the way down to his limbs and makes them feel pleasantly heavy.
In his dream, the darkness around him is almost liquid, viscous and thick, clinging to his skin like honey, enveloping him in a protective veil and cocooning him from the world around him.
There's a voice, too, he thinks, a whisper, words too low to be deciphered, but gentle in a way that makes him feel safe. He hears the person hum, feels the soft vibration of the sound against his skin and sighs, content, melting into the touch when he feels gentle fingers card through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp.
He feels lax and loose, like he's floating in a body of water, drifting wherever the current takes him. The air around him is warm and smells nice, like summer and tangy lemons, and Jisung turns into the touch like a sunflower following the light of the sun, chasing the feeling of comfort that seeps into his bones and makes him feel as if he could sink into the mattress and disappear forever.
"Saja," he whispers in his dreamy fantasy, his voice echoing in the space around him, bouncing off invisible walls like ripples in a pond.
The fingers in his hair freeze, and there is a long moment of quiet and stillness before they resume their careful exploration, a little slower, a little more hesitant.
"I'm here," the voice replies, and Jisung feels it like a caress, "I'm right here."
Jisung smiles, and in his sleep-addled state, he reaches out for the warmth to hold on to it, to keep it close. His hand finds fabric, soft and worn, and he doesn't hesitate to grasp at it and curl his fingers around it, trying to bring it close.
"Saja..." He repeats, voice eerily realistic and raspy even in his dream. "Don't leave."
He doesn't know if he imagines it, but there is an intake of breath, a hitched inhale, and then a rustling of fabric as someone's weight settles on the bed next to him.
A moment later, a featherlight touch grazes his forehead, soft as a kiss, and everything melts into a blur that he cannot hope to grasp.
"I won't," the voice finally whispers, impossibly quiet, "I'm always with you, aren't I?"
Morning comes like it always does, even if he doesn't want it to, and Jisung wakes up to an empty bed.
Sunlight streams from behind the closed curtains of his window and paints the walls a buttery yellow, and just like that, whatever memory left from his dreams slips away, like water through his fingers.
His head feels groggy, cloudy, as if he’s been sleeping for days, and his eyes are heavy with exhaustion. It takes him a few moments to sit up and even longer to push himself out of bed, to kick his sheets away and finally stand up, swaying unsteadily on his feet.
Every step he takes towards the door is heavy and calculated, a conscious effort that wears on his mind, and a distant part of him knows that no matter how much he wants to just ignore everything and retreat into his duvet nest until the anxiety coiling like a serpent in his gut eases, he has things to do.
Minho is waiting for him, his job won't disappear just because his brain feels like it's been put through a blender, and he has no excuse to wallow in misery and let the thoughts and feelings slowly eating him away from the inside out take over.
He needs to get his act together.
So, despite the fatigue, despite the dread, Jisung walks to the door and reaches over to unlock it.
To his utter surprise, he finds that it's already unlocked.
It's strange, he's sure he locked it before turning in last night, even if it wasn’t a conscious effort. He remembers doing it, remembers the metallic sound of the key turning in the lock, clear as day, but maybe it was all a part of his dream. Maybe he didn't, after all.
A little more awake and alert, Jisung opens the door and steps into the hallway.
The house is silent, but he can see the morning light streaming from the window in his living room, and he can smell the delicious scent of fresh coffee wafting through the air. There's a weight in his stomach and a flutter in his chest as he heads straight for the kitchen.
He tries to tell himself that he’s not hoping for anything, that he’s not already daydreaming.
He fails.
Before he gets to the kitchen, he can hear noise, the clinking of porcelain, the clacking of plates and cutlery, and some rustling of fabric. He can't see Minho just yet, not when there are still walls and a doorway between them, but his anticipation grows with each step, with each noise, with each moment.
When he finally sees him, Minho is sitting by the table, a glass of milk in his hands and an absent look on his face, his amber eyes trained to an undefined spot somewhere in the distance. He doesn't seem to have noticed Jisung, or if he has, he doesn’t show any sign of acknowledgement.
Jisung leans against the doorframe, his heart thumping, all of his hair standing on edge. He can feel the blood rushing in his ears, can hear the low rush of it, but somehow, all of it feels dimmed. Distant. Like it's not actually happening to him.
Jisung opens his mouth and tries to come up with something to say, no matter how dull, something that would start the conversation without betraying the storm of emotions swirling inside him, when suddenly Minho's gaze finds his, and it's like being instantly enveloped in a sea of molten gold, amber eyes boring into his own and capturing his soul, paralyzing him on the spot.
Minho's face goes through a series of subtle changes, flickers of emotions flashing in his eyes, in the curl of his lips, the shift of his brows, so sudden and so visible that it's jarring, like seeing a wall of raw, unguarded feelings laid out in front of him, cracked open and bared for Jisung to see.
For a long moment, nothing moves or shifts, and the two of them only stare at each other, locked in a muted battle of wills, in a fight that has neither a beginning nor an end, no victor to crown, no reason or rhyme.
It could have lasted mere seconds, could have lasted hours, a day, a week, a lifetime, and Jisung wouldn't know the difference. Not when his mind is like this, tangled in an odd sort of frenzy that's both empty and too full at the same time, a paradox that makes no sense, no matter how much he struggles to escape its grasp.
Then, Minho's eyes soften and he lowers his gaze, turns his attention to his glass.
"There's coffee in the pot," the shifter says, voice calm and carefully neutral, like his words are nothing but a white flag waving above a battlefield.
"Oh," is all Jisung manages to say, voice a soft, broken squeak as his fingers cling to the doorframe, his knuckles going white with the force of his hold. "Thank you."
It takes him a moment, a conscious effort to ease his grip, to let the tense muscles of his arms relax, even if only a little. The action does not go unnoticed, not with the way Minho's eyes flick towards him for a short moment, observing.
"I tried making it like you do but... It's my first time." Minho murmurs, "Might not taste the best."
Jisung swallows, runs a hand through his hair, pushes the wild strands back from his face. He wants to say something, he doesn't want to say anything, and it's frustrating and painful all at the same time. He takes a step into the kitchen and then another, until he reaches the counter and the coffee maker sitting on top of it.
"I'm sure it's fine," he says, voice small, and pours himself a cup.
He tries not to think about Minho waking up early to make him breakfast, tries not to think about Minho fumbling around the kitchen, all familiar and comfortable in his home, his clothes, but at the same time so out of place, a puzzle piece that fits perfectly into the board but is not of the right color.
He tries not to think of the events of the previous night, either. About Minho's gentle touches, the feeling of his breath on his face, his scent, the way his fingers felt on his skin, the way he made him feel, all the reasons for the emptiness that still stabs at his heart like a knife.
Once again, he fails.
So he focuses on his coffee instead, brings the mug to his lips and takes a sip, tries to focus on the pleasant warmth as the liquid slips down his throat. He doesn't miss the cautious looks Minho sends him over the rim of his cup, doesn't miss the tension hanging heavy over their heads like a storm cloud about to rain down on them.
And he knows it's his own doing.
He knows it's his own fault.
He knows that he has to fix it somehow, to put an end to this strange, awkward tension, to make things right between them, to let Minho know that he doesn't want to push him away, that he's sorry, that he's stupid and anxious and a mess of a person but that he still cares, he still wants him here, he still wants him by his side and wants to take care of him and protect him and be the human Minho chose to rely on.
He wants to be enough.
The coffee is good. It's sweet, rich and has just the right amount of milk to give it a nice, velvety texture. It's warm, comforting and familiar, and Jisung is hit with a wave of fondness that makes his eyes misty and his heart swell in his chest.
Because Minho remembers, Minho pays attention, Minho tries.
Minho cares for him too.
Jisung sniffles.
Minho glances up at the sudden sound, his hand stilling mid-fidgeting with his now empty glass, eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up so high that they almost disappear into his hairline.
"What?" He blurts out, "Is it– is it that bad?"
Jisung doesn't reply immediately – he can't, not when his voice is stuck in his throat and he's fighting the helpless urge to laugh and the desperate need to cry at the same time – a bundle of anxiety, mirth, guilt, and gratitude intertwining together in his chest and tugging at his heart with a strength that threatens to crush him.
"Jisung?" Minho tries again, worried, hesitant, his expression a mix of confusion and apprehension, as if he's afraid he'll scare him away, like Jisung is a startled bird ready to flee.
Jisung sniffles again, a fat, traitorous tear sliding down his cheek, and he lifts the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe it away. The fabric comes back wet, stained, and Minho's eyes zero in on the faint smudge of moisture immediately, widening in horror.
But before he can say or do anything to comfort him – or, worse, apologize –, Jisung finally finds his voice, and his words come tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall.
"It's good," Jisung chokes out, "It's good, Minho, thank you."
The shifter's mouth opens in surprise, a soft 'oh' forming on his lips, before his brows furrow.
"But... You're crying," he points out tentatively. "Doesn't... Doesn't that mean you don't like it?"
"That's not..." Jisung tries to explain, but his words get tangled in his throat and he has to swallow to make his tongue move again, to force his voice out.
He still doesn't know how to deal with the emotions raging inside him, how to organize them into coherent thoughts and speak them out loud, how to express the swirl of confusing, contradicting feelings that make him want to either bury his head in Minho's chest and sob or wrap him up in his arms and hold him close until the sun burns out.
He still doesn't get why his brain does this, why he lets his insecurities rule him, why the fear of being open and vulnerable drives him to shut himself in, until there's nothing left inside him but anxiety, uncertainty and panic clawing at his chest, the weight of self-blame pressing down his spine and crushing his lungs.
Why he clings to the shadows and hides in the dark, escapes from the light like a scared, wounded animal.
Minho tilts his head, his gaze still worried and hesitant, still watching him like he's ready to bolt the moment Jisung tells him to leave, and it only serves to make Jisung feel worse.
Before his guilt can add even more fuel to the fire, however, Minho gets up from his seat and carefully walks around the table, not hurrying, not rushing, just slowly walking towards him. His every step is measured and carefully calculated, each movement deliberate and soft, as if to show that he doesn't mean harm, that there's no reason to be scared.
He looks every bit like the cat he is – sleek, powerful and calm –, and Jisung would snort at the irony if he wasn't busy trying to keep his stomach from dropping to his feet and making a run for the hills.
Minho stops in front of him, looks at him with an unreadable expression on his face, amber eyes flicking all over his features, as if trying to find a way to read his mind, to decipher what is hidden behind the storm in his eyes and the unshed tears blocking his vision.
There's a moment of contemplative silence, one that seems to stretch for ages, and Jisung waits, barely breathing, the pressure inside him growing to impossible heights with each passing second.
Then, Minho's gaze lights up with something, and Jisung swears his heart stops beating.
Because right then and there, Minho changes the trajectory of his life with one single gesture, one simple touch.
He lifts his hand, palm open, and very, very carefully, slowly and gently – as if he's afraid of hurting him, as if he's afraid that Jisung will bolt at any given moment –, he reaches out to cup Jisung's cheek. No more than a few seconds pass, and Jisung feels his warmth seeping into his skin like a jolt of electricity, spreading through his body and bones.
And before Jisung can fully comprehend what's happening, Minho takes a step forward, closer, so much closer, until there is no space left between them and Jisung's head begins to spin, and he can feel the tip of Minho's nose brushing over his forehead. Until he has no choice but to squeeze his eyes shut and stop breathing altogether.
Time slows down and turns into molasses, his mind grinds to a halt, and something warm, moist and textured brushes against the corner of his eye.
A tongue, his mind supplies, dazed. A rough, sandpapery feline tongue.
It trails a featherlight path down the tear tracks on his cheek, over his mole, and back to the corner of his eye, slow, gentle and careful, warm and comforting.
Purring reverberates through the room, loud and all-consuming, and the sound makes Jisung's head spin. It buzzes in his ears, in his chest, thrums in the air, and Jisung's fingers twitch in the empty space between them, the urge to reach out, to hold and touch so strong that he nearly gives in.
He grips the counter behind him for support instead, lets the edge of the hard marble dig into the soft flesh of his palms, but even that feels like a weak attempt at a deterrent. Like putting the lid on a pot after letting it boil over already, and yet he can't help it, not when it feels like the only thing preventing him from doing something that he'll regret, something as sweet and tempting as it would be foolish.
Like trying to trap the wind or catch a falling star.
Jisung opens his mouth. The only thing he finds is empty air, and the sound that escapes his lips comes out too wobbly to resemble anything coherent, so he snaps his jaw shut again.
Minho pulls back a little at the noise, enough to look him in the eye, and Jisung is met with wide pupils shining in the morning light and deep, blazing embers, wild and bright and, by now, painfully familiar.
"Now the tears are gone," Minho murmurs when the purring eventually stops, his gaze never leaving Jisung's. While he speaks, his thumb moves to trace the curve of his cheekbone, gentle, as delicate as flower petals, and then, slowly and ever so carefully, he lets his hand fall. "No tears means happy Jisung, right?"
The words make Jisung's heart swell to double its size, make his insides turn into melted mush, and before he can process it, his hands are lifting, moving on their own accord, reaching out to take Minho's and squeeze them in his own.
In his mind's eye, the words he wants to say form easily, flow without a hitch, spill from his tongue in a wave of burning sincerity.
In his mind's eye, he's confident, brave, fearless, and everything he's never been.
In his mind's eye, Minho smiles, pleased, relieved, and the light in his eyes shines like the sun.
That's not who he is though, no matter how much he wishes to be, so he can't do any of that. He's awkward, scared and full of doubt, terrified of change and loss, of putting his heart out there only to have it stomped on by fate, by cruel destiny, by the fickle hands of the unknown.
Minho's presence doesn't magically erase his insecurities, as much as Minho's existence in and of itself is something straight out of a fairytale.
But it helps. Still, it helps so much.
Because even if he can't say what he wants to, even if he can't find the strength within himself to change and grow into a version of himself that is brave enough to bare his soul to the world and live freely, carefree and unbound, it still feels good to hold Minho's hands, to know that his friend is here, solid, tangible and real, and not just a product of his own imagination, not a daydream, not a memory.
That Saja is here and not out in the streets somewhere, cold, hungry and alone.
Minho's hands are warm, his fingers strong and a little rough with callouses and the result of living a life on the run. They feel safe, grounding, an anchor in the stormy sea of his thoughts, the one thing that keeps him from being swallowed whole by the dark waters.
"Yeah." Jisung eventually murmurs, voice trembling ever so slightly, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He gives Minho's hands another gentle squeeze, laces their fingers together, and he can't ignore the way Minho's gaze briefly flicks down to their joined hands, the way the small movement makes the shifter's breath stutter, lips parting, or the way Minho's eyes are still gleaming, clear and intense and so, so beautiful.
"No tears mean happy Jisung."
Minho beams, so bright that he could replace the sun, the moon and the stars.
(So bright that Jisung knows that he'd follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked.)
"Thank you." Jisung breathes out at last, hoping that the simple words can convey even a fraction of what he feels inside, that Minho can understand that this isn't just him showing gratitude for the coffee he made him or for making him stop crying, that it's far more than that. That it's an apology and a promise all at once, a clumsy bandage pressed against a nasty gash – a painful, temporary fix, but a fix nonetheless.
That Jisung means it with every fiber of his being.
Minho's fingers twitch in his grip and then squeeze back, tight and secure, strong and firm, as if to assure him that he's heard his silent message loud and clear. That it's okay, that they're okay.
Jisung feels something inside him loosen, the heavy, iron ball that has taken residence in his stomach since the previous night dissipating in the morning sun.
Of course, he knows that he's still a mess, that it's not going to be that easy – nothing ever is, not in real life –, but it's a start, a tiny step forward in the right direction. It's not perfect, but it's progress, and that's all that matters.
It's enough.
"Hey, Jisung?"
"Hm?" Jisung hums, blinking up at his friend, only to find Minho already looking at him, gaze unreadable, like the surface of the sea on a calm day, and just as deep, just as unfathomable.
"I'm really happy too," Minho whispers, "I'm happy you found me."
And, if for the rest of the day Jisung stumbles his way through a busy Monday with the faint echo of Minho's words playing over and over again in his head, no one but him needs to know.
After that, the weeks go by in similar fashion, as the days blur together like ink on wet paper, and the sun chases away the frost on the windows and makes way for gentle spring.
It's nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to write home about, and yet, Jisung knows that it's the happiest he's been in years.
They fall into a routine, a comfortable pattern, and even though there are still nights where Jisung lies awake, tossing and turning, and days where his anxiety is so bad that he can't even leave the bed, everything feels lighter somehow.
As if the simple fact that he's not alone anymore makes all the difference in the world.
On some days, he still fears the unknown, the unpredictability of it all, the fragility and impermanence of it – of their friendship, their relationship. He still doesn't know what tomorrow holds, what will become of the two of them and whether he can be what Minho needs, but it gets easier to breathe around the worry.
On other days, he's able to ignore the constant pull of doubt and just enjoy Minho's company.
He teaches the shifter how to cook, watches in mild terror and fascination as Minho nearly burns the kitchen down multiple times in a row, and tries his best to ignore the way his heart does little flips in his chest when Minho's expression brightens and the other cheers once, eventually, he succeeds in making something edible.
He buys Minho clothes that actually fit, watches with bated breath as the other tries them on, and he doesn't know whether the butterflies in his stomach are the result of relief, fondness, or something else entirely when Minho spins in front of the mirror, eyes shining like a kid in a candy store, and declares that he loves everything he got.
He shows Minho his favorite movies and cartoons, tells him all about his favorite books, and introduces him to music and all of its wonders, watching in awe as the other discovers a whole new world – one that, until now, he couldn't even begin to imagine.
Minho listens to everything he says with rapt attention, soaks up every word like a sponge, and it's honestly, truly, unbelievably endearing.
Each moment they spend together is unique, special and important in its own way.
Each makes Jisung feel warm and happy, each fills his soul with a quiet, warm joy, and no matter how often he plays them back in his mind, how many times he replays Minho's sweet, melodic laughter and how frequently he lets his eyes linger on the curve of the other's soft lips, he never tires of it.
No, of him, he corrects himself, and the admission sends shivers down his spine.
Minho's warm presence lulls him to sleep every single night, and by now, he's so familiar with his scent, his voice, his face, that his features occupy his head to such extent that they start to bleed into his dreams, that they've permanently painted themselves into the landscape of his subconscious and invaded his mind, seeped into his heart and soul.
It should be uncomfortable, suffocating, smothering, and yet he's never felt freer, more alive.
Sure, Jisung doesn't know what to make of any of this, doesn't know what to call the butterflies that dance in his tummy whenever Minho's tail wraps around his wrist in his sleep or coils around his waist during the day. He doesn't know what to make of all the times he wakes up cradled close to the shifter's broad chest, of the feather-light kiss Minho steals from his cheek one late night on the couch after he thinks Jisung has fallen asleep.
He doesn't know what to make of the growing sense of rightness in his gut, the bone-deep sense that, for better or for worse, the both of them were meant to meet, to cross each other's paths in life, to find one another in the darkness.
"Jisungie."
However, if there's something that he learned from all of this, it's that wondering, pondering and overthinking won't do them any good, so he decides to focus on the present instead. On the here and now. On Minho.
"Hm?" Jisung hums, tilting his head to the side and glancing down at the other man.
They're sitting on the couch in his living room, and it's dark outside. Minho is sprawled out across the sofa, his head in Jisung's lap, and his breath is slow and regular, sleepy and calm. He is watching the TV screen, gaze strangely focused, and although he looks peaceful and content, and as if he's about to drift off at any given moment, his body is strangely rigid beneath the blanket that Jisung laid over him earlier.
There's a furrow between his eyebrows, and Jisung feels the sudden urge to smooth it out with his thumb.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips at the thought.
His hand finds its way into Minho's silver hair, strands so impossibly soft between his fingers, and he scratches lightly behind Minho's ear – a trick that he discovered not long ago, a way to get the half-cat purring and rumbling in record time.
This time, however, the sound doesn't come.
Instead, a few moments pass, the background noise of the television filling the silence, and Jisung frowns.
"What's wrong?"
The furrow deepens at that, and Jisung can hear Minho take a deep breath. The shifter's gaze is still fixed on the screen in front of him, but his attention isn't really there, at least not entirely.
"I, uh–" Minho begins, voice quiet and a little tentative, and there is something in the air, something that makes Jisung's skin prickle, something that has the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It's not fear or dread, not exactly, but it reminds him of the thrill that you can sometimes catch from a horror movie or the way your ears buzz and a shiver runs down your spine as you near the peak of a rollercoaster.
Jisung can practically hear the wheels turn in the shifter's head, can see the uncertainty etched onto the other's delicate, beautiful features, and his curiosity piques.
Something in the air shifts as the moment drags on and Jisung continues to card his hands through Minho's hair.
He doesn't know whether it's the lighting, the angle of his head, or the peculiar atmosphere, but in that instant, Minho looks ethereal. More than he ever has, more than Jisung ever thought possible, and the sight knocks the breath straight from Jisung's lungs.
Especially when Minho turns and finally glances up to meet his gaze.
Stardust. That's what it feels like, how the galaxies behind Minho's eyes swirl and collide, how they crash together like waves on the shore, painting everything gold and warm ocra, like the surface of the sun and the infinite possibilities of the universe.
Like fireflies and starlight and the bright, burning heat of a supernova.
"I need to tell you something," Minho says, slowly, carefully, and his voice is low and heavy with something that Jisung can't quite place. "Something important."
A pause. Jisung's heart flutters.
"Okay?" He replies, confused, unsure of what's going on and what brought this on all of a sudden, and his mind jumps back and forth through the past few hours, trying to figure out whether anything happened that could have triggered this. "What is it?"
Minho opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He closes it.
He does so again and again, and by the sixth time, the furrow between his brows seems as if it's been sculpted in stone.
"Minho..." Jisung begins, intending to assure him that whatever it is, everything will be alright, that he can tell Jisung anything without worrying about the outcome, that he's here and he's not going anywhere, but before he can continue, Minho lets out a huff of frustration and buries his face in his hands.
"Ah, forget it, it's– it's nothing."
Jisung blinks.
"Uh... are you sure? You said it's important."
"Yeah," Minho mumbles from behind his fingers, and although Jisung can't see his expression, he knows the shifter well enough by now to know that there's an embarrassed flush on his cheeks, a cute dusting of pink, and Jisung feels the overwhelming urge to coo, "but nevermind, please. Don't worry about it."
Jisung pauses, still unsure as to what's happening, as to what brought this on, and for a moment, he contemplates asking again, prying a bit more and making sure that the other is really okay – that whatever it is, whatever is plaguing his mind, doesn't eat him up inside.
In the end, however, he ultimately decides against it.
He trusts Minho, he reminds himself, and in turn Minho has trusted him enough to reveal his biggest secret to him, to show him his most vulnerable, fragile self, so if Minho doesn't want to share whatever it is that's troubling him right now, he should respect that.
Besides, they have all the time in the world.
"Okay," Jisung breathes out and sends him what he hopes is an encouraging smile, even though he knows that the other won't see it. "But I'm here if you change your mind."
Eventually Minho peers at him through his fingers, his eyes still glowing like twin stars, and Jisung feels a pleasant warmth spread through his chest when the shifter's lips quirk into a small, soft smile of their own.
"I know," Minho whispers, and it sounds like a promise.
And so, Jisung returns to running his fingers through Minho's hair, watching the way the other's eyes fall shut, how his body gradually relaxes again as the tension bleeds from his frame, how the crease between his brows smoothes out the longer the two of them remain tangled together in comfortable silence.
He lets his gaze travel across Minho's features, lets his eyes roam over the other man's sharp cheekbones, his straight nose, the slope of his jaw, the gentle curve of his lips.
A minute passes.
The world continues to turn around them, oblivious to the small, private universe they have created for themselves within these four walls.
Two minutes.
The movie drones on in the background, Minho's breathing slows as he gradually drifts off to sleep, and Jisung's heart stutters in his chest.
Three minutes.
He's beautiful, Jisung thinks, and the thought isn't new or groundbreaking, not really. No, he's thought it before, countless times even, and yet, he can't help but feel as if there's something different about this – about this moment, about this realization.
Four minutes.
Minho stirs in his lap, and a small, quiet sigh escapes his lips as he burrows closer, seeking out his warmth, and Jisung can't help the fond smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth as he lets his thumb ghost over Minho's temple.
Five minutes.
A familiar sound reaches his ears, a low, rumbling purr that echoes through the room like a quiet lullaby, and he feels something inside him melt, something inside him give, like the final snowbank during the first, tentative signs of spring.
"Goodnight, Minho," Jisung murmurs into the silence of the night, the words barely more than a breath, and slowly bends down.
His heart is beating a mile a minute, a thundering beat inside his ribcage, and he feels as if he might combust, as if his entire body is on fire, and yet, he continues to move forward, until his lips find the warm skin of Minho's forehead.
Jisung lets them linger there, the shifter's purrs echoing in his ears, and closes his eyes.
He stops counting.