Chapter Text
The soft light of dawn filters through the curtains of Minho’s bedroom, casting a serene glow across the space. Minho wakes first, as he often does, lying still and savouring the warmth of Jisung beside him. The boy in question is still asleep, curled up in one of Minho’s oversized shirts that somehow fits him better than it should. Minho can’t help but smile at the sight.
Jisung finally stirs, blinking sleepily at Minho, his smile soft and unguarded. After a lazy breakfast prepared by Mrs.Lee and some obligatory cuddles with Soonie, Doongie, and Dori, Minho suggests they explore the city.
“Have you ever been to Gimpo before?” Minho asks as they slip on their jackets and prepare to head out.
Jisung shakes his head. “No. First time. I’m counting on you to be the perfect tour guide.”
“Perfect?” Minho snorts. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
They step outside into a late fall morning. Minho leads the way through his hometown, pointing out local cafes, old haunts from his high school days, and quiet corners of the city that he loves. Jisung takes it all in, wide-eyed and curious, as if every detail fascinates him. It makes Minho feel unexpectedly proud, sharing this side of his world with him.
The air nips at their cheeks, the crunch of leaves beneath their shoes filling the silences between words. The trees lining the road stand tall, their crimson crowns shimmering in the sun, casting shifting shades over the pavement.
Minho’s gaze drifts ahead, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “This street used to look a lot different,” he says, his voice low, almost as if speaking to himself. “There was this old bakery right where that tailoring place is now. My mom used to take me there every Saturday after dance class.” A faint smile tugs at his lips. “I’d always get these little cream-filled buns—they were my favorite.”
Jisung hums gingerly, watching Minho’s expression as he speaks. His breath puffs out in little clouds that hang in the breeze before disappearing. “You were such a cute kid, huh? Bet the bakery staff adored you.”
Minho scoffs, though his ears turn the faintest shade of pink. “Yeah, well. I might’ve thrown a tantrum or two when they ran out of buns. Can’t really blame them for closing down after that.”
The wind picks up, rustling the fallen pads around their feet. Minho tugs his jacket tighter around himself.
“Cold?” Jisung asks casually, though there’s a teasing lilt to his voice.
Minho huffs. “A little, yeah. Why, you gonna offer me your coat, gentleman?”
“Not exactly.” Jisung reaches over without waiting for a response, his hand brushing against Minho’s before capturing it fully. He interlocks their fingers, the heat of his palm a stark contrast to the coolness of Minho’s. Without a word, he pulls their joined hands into the pocket of his jacket, his grip firm but not overbearing.
Minho blinks, startled, his lips parting slightly in surprise. But Jisung just keeps walking, his eyes fixed ahead like nothing has happened.
“So, what else?” Jisung asks lightly, the tone of his voice making it clear he isn’t going to comment on the gesture. “Any other Minho childhood spots I should know about?”
Minho hesitates for only a moment before falling back into step, his hand resting snugly against Jisung’s side. “There’s the park up ahead,” he says, speaking a touch softer now. “I broke my first bone there. Fell off the monkey bars.”
“First?” Jisung laughs, and the sound fills the space around them brightly. “Yeah, that checks out. Minho, the fearless daredevil.”
“More like Minho, the clumsy idiot,” he mutters, and he doesn’t let go of Jisung’s hand. Neither of them looks at each other as the conversation continues, but the subtle shift in the air between them says more than words ever could.
In that peace, Minho notices the figure in the distance, blurred by the haze of autumn daylight. At first, it’s just a vague shape, indistinct and harmless. But as they draw closer, clarity sets in with a sharpness that tugs at his chest. Broad shoulders. That slightly uneven gait. And then the unmistakable slope of his jawline.
Jungwoo.
Minho’s grip tightens involuntarily around Jisung’s hand, and though he doesn’t glance over, he can feel Jisung’s head tilt in silent inquiry. Each step closer makes the air heavier, makes Minho more aware of every inch of space between them.
And then Jungwoo turns. Their eyes meet.
“Minho?”
The name hits him like a pebble skipping across still water, rippling through his chest. “Jungwoo,” he says, dragging out the syllables and managing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
The older man stops just short of them, his gaze flicking briefly to Jisung before settling back on Minho. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah,” Minho replies, steadier than he expects. He forces himself not to react when Jisung’s grip on his hand strains just imperceptibly in return. He doesn’t want to think about how comfortably scorching Jisung’s palm is, about the faint pressure that feels as much like a question as it does a promise.
“Long time no see. Still in school?” Jungwoo asks, his tone light, casual.
“Yeah. You know, the usual—studying, working. Nothing exciting.” Minho shrugs, the motion deliberately careless. “What about you?”
Jungwoo gives a short laugh, familiar in a way that makes Minho’s stomach twist. “I’ve been working with my dad at the firm. It’s been… busy, to say the least. But you already know how it is.”
The words carry an easy boldness that makes Minho want to look anywhere but at him. His gaze darts down the street, catching on nothing, as if the caterpillar on the sidewalk can somehow offer an escape to another dimension. Perhaps lead him into Alice in wonderland, wouldn’t that be fun?
Jungwoo’s expression shifts, a slight curve of his lips that Minho recognizes too well. “So, are you going to introduce me?”
“Oh, right.” Minho clears his throat and gestures toward Jisung, forcing his mouth into what he hopes passes for a relaxed smile. “This is my frie—”
“Boyfriend,” Jisung interrupts smoothly, leaving no room for argument.
Minho freezes, caught somewhere between mortification and something else he doesn’t quite have a name for. His eyes flick to Jungwoo, who blinks, visibly startled.
For a moment, Minho thinks Jungwoo might say something, but then his gaze drops. It’s subtle, but Minho catches it—the way Jungwoo’s eyes linger just a fraction too long on their wrists, tucked into the safety of Jisung’s jacket pocket.
“Ah,” Jungwoo says finally, carefully neutral. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Kim Jungwoo, Minho’s ex.”
Jisung shifts moderately, his free hand extending. “Han Jisung.” Their palms meet for a handshake, their grips straining a few nerves out of their knuckles.
It isn’t awkward, not exactly. It’s something else entirely—a strange collision of Minho’s past and present, maybe even his future. Well, who said Jisung was a part of his future?
After a brief exchange of pleasantries and good lucks, Jungwoo excuses himself, his footsteps fading into the hum of the street.
Minho lets out a slow breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding.
“You know,” Jisung says, his tone light but edged with a sharper bite, “if you’re going to introduce me, you should probably get it right.”
Minho glances at him, brows furrowing. “There are rules to this?”
“Of course,” Jisung replies easily. “And that one’s non-negotiable.”
Minho hums, the sound subdued in his throat. “Noted.”
He gestures toward the avenue ahead, eager to shift the mood. “Wanna check out the shopping center? It’s small, but I used to hang out there with my high school friends all the time.”
“Sure,” Jisung says, a smirk itching his words. “But I’m your boyfriend, not just a friend.”
The laugh that escapes Minho is shy, almost breathless. It isn’t really a laugh at all, just a flutter in his chest that he can’t quite keep contained.
***
The chime of a song he doesn’t recognize drifts through the store, blending with the quiet whirs of jewelry cases opening and closing. Minho isn’t even sure how they’ve ended up here, trailing after Jisung like a lost cat in his own town. Something about Chan’s earrings, Jisung had said—because of course Jisung would care about something like preventing infections.
Minho only half-listens, his attention snagging somewhere else—on the rows of silver bands lined up neatly under the glass.
Two rings sit side by side, perfectly placed on their velvet bed of pink and green. The first has a simple, sleek band, engraved with the silhouette of a bunny that curves in the metal just so, soft and precise. The second ring mirrors the same minimalist elegance, but instead of a bunny, there’s the form of a rather pointy bear, grounding the piece with a quiet, comforting weight.
Next to them, a small card offers a funny little anecdote—Minho had mistaken what he thought was a bear for a quokka, and the bunny? It’s just as cute as you’d imagine. The words are fine, amusing even, but they don’t hold his gaze for long.
The rings, though? They do.
The bunny, almost too perfect, the bear adorable and warm. They’re not just objects to look at—they feel meant to be worn, to be held, to be part of something. To be part of a pair. A duo of sorts. The way they fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle, like they’ve always belonged to each other. It’s a connection he doesn’t even want to question.
Who could’ve imagined? A bunny and a quokka. Huh.
He stares longer than he means to, long enough that the rest of the store fades away.
“Minho?”
The voice startles him, and he blinks up to see Jisung standing beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush.
“What are you looking at?” Jisung asks, tilting his head vaguely as he follows Minho’s gaze to the glass.
Minho nods faintly, his chin jerking forward toward the display. “Those two.”
Jisung leans in just a little, his expression soothing as he sees the rings. “They’re pretty.”
“Yeah,” Minho murmurs, his voice quieter than he intends. He tears his gaze away from the display, his eyes landing on Jisung instead. “Did you find the earrings for Chan?”
Jisung turns back to him, his lips curving into a small smile. “Oh, yeah. They’re these really tiny black hoops in silver. He’ll love them.”
Minho nods, a tightness settling somewhere in his chest. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Won’t be long,” Jisung says, brushing past him with the kind of ease that makes Minho’s heart stutter.
And then it happens—a fleeting press of lips against his cheek, quick and thoughtless, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Jisung moves on without a second glance, already walking to the cashier to finalize his purchase.
But Minho freezes.
The spot on his cheek where Jisung’s lips touched burns—not physically, but with an ache that sinks into his skin and refuses to leave. He stands there for a moment, his lips parting like he wants to speak, but no words come.
He shuts his mouth, eyes squeezing tightly together.
It’s all an act.
It’s all an act.
It’s all an act.
It’s all an act.
It’s all an act.
The words repeat in his head like a mantra, a lifeline he doesn’t want to hold onto but knows he can’t let go of. Otherwise he’ll become completely delusional.
When he opens his eyes, the rings are still there, glinting faintly under the light. He forces himself to turn away, his footsteps quiet as he makes his way toward the exit.
***
After another leisurely lap through the shopping center, Jisung"s collection of bags growing with every stop, they finally step outside. Minho leads the way, determined to get Jisung to try one of Gimpo’s famous ice cream stands.
The air feels heavier now, thick with the kind of warmth that clings to skin before a storm. It’s only as they join the short line at the cart, the faint, sweet smell of waffle cones wafting toward them, that Minho looks up. The sky, once clear, is smeared with charcoal clouds creeping in from the horizon.
A low growl of thunder rolls in the distance, barely there but unmistakable, and Minho’s brows knit together.
“Think it’s gonna rain?” Jisung asks, glancing up.
Minho hums. “Looks like it. Did you bring an umbrella?”
“No,” Jisung says, weirdly with a prideful grin. “Forgot it at the hotel. But I don’t mind a little water.”
The queue becomes an afterthought, left behind as the first drops of rain dot the pavement. What begins as a timid drizzle swiftly builds into a deluge, soaking through layers of clothing before either of them can properly react.
Jisung mutters a curse, pulling his jacket collar up in a futile attempt to shield his face. The plastic bags are sacrificed for his clothes’s safety. But the rain laughs at his efforts, threading through his hair and dripping down his neck and plastering his shirt to his chest. Beside him, Minho breaks into laughter, unbothered by the water streaming freely down his forehead and nose.
“We should’ve seen this coming!” Jisung shouts over the cacophony of rain hammering the ground.
Minho’s grin is bright, like he belongs in the chaos. “We’re close! Just run!”
Their footsteps slap against the wet pavement as they bolt, laughter cutting through the storm in bursts. Puddles splash around their ankles, and Jisung almost slips when Minho yanks him out of the path of a particularly deep one. Their hands graze for a fleeting moment before they’re running again, giggling like kids who’ve just gotten away with something.
By the time they make it home, water pools around their feet as they stand in the entryway, dripping and breathless. Minho tosses his jacket onto the nearest hook, shaking his head like a drenched cat, droplets scattering across the tile.
A note sits on the kitchen table, the edges curling slightly from the damp air. Minho picks it up, scanning his mom’s handwriting quickly. “They’re out with friends,” he announces. “Won’t be back until midnight.”
Jisung doesn’t seem fazed, busy wringing water from his sleeves. “Looks like it’s just us tonight,” he says casually, his voice tinged with amusement.
The note is discarded as Minho turns toward him. “Take the first shower,” he says, already peeling his wet socks off with a grimace.
“You go,” Jisung counters, crossing his arms. “I don’t mind waiting.”
A pointed look from Minho follows. “Jisung. Shower. Now.”
Instead of complying, Jisung’s smirk sharpens, and he takes a step closer. “Or,” he begins, dragging the word out, “we could shower together. Save time.”
The suggestion hangs in the air, bold and reckless, as Minho’s expression twists between exasperation and disbelief. “You’re actually ridiculous,” he says, though the faint blush creeping up his neck tells another story.
Jisung leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What? It’s efficient,” he teases, water still dripping from his hair onto his already-soaked shirt.
“Efficient my ass,” Minho mutters, arms crossing tighter. His lips twitch against a smile, but he manages to hold it back. Barely.
“Minho-yah,” Jisung says, dragging the honorific out shamelessly as he pouts, his face far too close now. “Don’t make me beg.”
The sigh Minho lets out is long-suffering but laced with resignation. “Fine,” he says, shoving Jisung lightly toward the hallway, though the way his ears finally turn red betrays his attempt at nonchalance.
Jisung grins, victorious, as he saunters off, peeling his jacket from his shoulders. Minho watches him go, shaking his head with a huff. Next time, he thinks, he’ll make Jisung beg.
***
What starts as a simple double shower quickly escalates into something far filthier, steam swirling around them like a veil of heat. Minho’s chest plastered against the fogged-up glass, his breath coming out in shaky, desperate gasps. The echo of skin meeting skin fills the confined space, mingling with the guttural sounds spilling from Minho"s lips, curses and broken pleas dripping into the humid air.
Jisung has him pinned, one strong arm locked around Minho’s waist, holding him up as his cock drives relentlessly into him. Minho can feel the slick glide of Jisung’s length, the sheer fullness making his legs quake, his body threatening to go limp under the ruthless pace. The water has long been forgotten.
“ Fuck , Minho,” Jisung breathes out, his voice low and rough. He leans in, his lips brushing over Minho’s ear, the teasing contact sending a thrill down Minho"s spine. “You feel so fucking good around me, clenching so tight. You know how crazy that drives me, don’t you?”
Minho whimpers, his head falling forward. Every word sends a shockwave straight to his dick, which aches with need, leaking and heavy between his thighs. He tries to keep quiet, biting down on his lip to stifle his noises, but it’s a lost cause. A strangled, pornographic moan escapes, and Jisung chuckles darkly at the sound.
“C’mon, baby,” Jisung taunts, his hand coming up to squeeze Minho’s ass, fingers digging into the flushed skin and landing a stinging slap. “Don’t hold back on me. You love this, don’t you? Love getting your pretty ass fucked this hard, hm?”
“ Ah, fuck— Jisung ,” he whines, his voice cracking around the name. His nails drag down the glass, leaving streaks in their wake as he presses back, desperate and shivering. “Need you,” he gasps. “Fill me up, make me feel everything.”
The demand snaps something in Jisung, his grip tightening as he pulls Minho back, angling his hips to thrust deeper. Minho cries out, the sound obscene, shattering the last of his composure. Pleasure lances through him, white-hot, and he feels like he’s coming undone, his body melting under every punishing drive of Jisung’s cock.
But Jisung doesn’t stop there. He spins Minho around, lifting him effortlessly until Minho’s thick thighs wrap around his waist, their mouths crashing together in a fevered, messy kiss. It’s all tongue and teeth, desperate and hungry, and Minho clings to Jisung like he’s the only thing keeping him anchored.
“Look at you,” murmurs Jisung, pulling back just enough to bite at Minho’s jaw, his voice dropping into a sultry, possessive growl. “So fucking beautiful when you fall apart for me. You like it when I make you feel this good, huh?”
“ Mm , just— just for you,” Minho whimpers. His head falls back as Jisung trails open-mouthed kisses down his neck, and he knows he’s completely and utterly down bad for this man.
A thrilling realisation to stumble upon while being fucked within an inch of your sanity.
With Jisung’s hand snaking between them to wrap around Minho, it doesn’t take long for the tension to peak. They come apart together, Minho’s vision going blank as he spills over Jisung’s fingers, Jisung following with a harsh groan.
But even after the high fades, they aren’t finished. They emerge from the shower still tangled together, skin still flushed, and Minho finds himself bent over the bathroom counter. The cool marble electric against his heated skin, and Jisung’s hands are back on him, claiming, whispering filthy promises that make Minho’s toes curl.
***
“Are they asleep?”
“I think so.”
Mrs.Lee shares a knowing glance with her husband before gently shutting the bedroom door. The muted tune of their conversation fades into the hallway, leaving only the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the house settling.
Minho lies on his side, staring at the wall. The room feels quieter than usual, the weight of his thoughts pressing down in the tranquility. Beside him, Jisung shifts in the bed, tossing lightly, his breathing uneven. Minho knows the signs by now—Jisung isn’t asleep, not yet.
It’s ironic, in a way. Minho had always thought Jisung was the restless one, the talker, the one who couldn’t keep quiet when his thoughts got the better of him. But tonight, it’s Minho who’s holding onto words that are too heavy to say out loud.
The sheets rustle again as Jisung turns to face him. Even without looking, Minho can feel the weight of his gaze, curious in the dim light spilling through the curtains. His chest tightens.
“Minho?” Jisung’s voice is a whisper, quiet but close enough to make his heart stumble.
A hum is all he delivers in response, a sound that barely acknowledges the question. He can’t trust himself to speak just yet.
Jisung shifts closer, his tone gaining a playful edge despite the late hour. “You’re not asleep, are you?”
He exhales, finally turning to meet Jisung’s eyes. His friend’s face is just visible in the shadows, his features softened by the dingy light. “What gave it away?” Murmurs Minho, his voice dry but warm.
There’s a pause, and Jisung tilts his head, studying him. “You’re thinking too loud,” he teases, though there’s a layer of sincerity beneath it.
Minho lets out a quiet laugh, but it fades too quickly, replaced by the tension coiling in his chest. He hesitates, the words pressing at the back of his throat, desperate to escape. Maybe it’s the quiet, or the fact that they’re alone like this, but suddenly, it feels impossible to hold back.
“Jisung,” he begins, his voice quieter now, hesitant. He shifts onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as his fingers twist in the hem of the blanket. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
Jisung doesn’t interrupt, his silence an unspoken encouragement.
Minho takes a breath, steadying himself. “The bet,” he says, his voice faltering for a moment. “It’s been on my mind.”
“What about it?” Jisung asks, his tone light but curious.
Minho turns his head to look at him, his expression unreadable. “You don’t need to—,” No. Fuck no . This is stupid . Abort mission. Abort the fucking mission right now. Has Minho gone insane? Apparently, he’s overdue for a check-up. First thing in the morning. Because what the hell is this? He’s actually being ridiculous. He can’t be this dumb. He’s not just rolling over and accepting defeat, right? Is he seriously this stupid?
Confusion creeping into his eyes, Jisung blinks. Cute. He must’ve gotten the trait from Minho. “What? I don’t need to what?”
“You don’t need to do the whole boyfriend thing, too. We can just tell everyone at uni this is all part of the bet.”
Perfect. Or not perfect. Well, it’s believable. A good enough lie, at least. Something that’ll get him through this shitshow.
“No.”
“No?” Minho raises an eyebrow, completely thrown off by the response.
“I want to.” Jisung’s hand slips under the covers, finding Minho’s and threading their fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “If I’m gonna win, I have to commit.”
Minho snorts, a laugh escaping him before he can stop it. Commit? Seriously? The guy who can’t even commit to a homework deadline wants to commit to Minho because of some dumb bet? Yeah, right.
“Okay then.” Minho mumbles it, but his lips twitch into a smile before he can stop it. And Jisung, of course, mirrors the shit-eating grin like he’s won some kind of prize.
Jisung leans in, kissing him slowly, pulling away only to catch their breaths. “‘Night, Jagi.”
“Night, Sung.”
And maybe, just maybe Minho really is stupid enough to try again tomorrow.