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Jisung leans his head back, lazy. Like he can’t be bothered to pick it up. Like it’s too heavy, or he’s too sleepy. “Do you think it would fuck everything up if we slept together for real?”
“Everything,” Minho says, not quite a question, but not understanding. A general repetition for the benefit of the both of them. Because his throat hurts a little bit, and he needs a second to swallow it down.
He brings his hand back to steering. Both of them right where they’re meant to be.
“Everything, like— us,” Jisung waves his finger between them. “You’re my best friend. And I’m yours. And I’ve always wondered, you know?”
Minho is white knuckling the wheel. He can still feel Jisung beneath his fingertips, or maybe just within his bloodstream. Injected there to sit. Stay.