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“Your fiancée doesn’t like me very much.”
Jisung doesn’t look up as he speaks, focused instead on the dredges of milk tea at the bottom of his cup. He swirls his straw around, using it to mash up the few tapioca pearls he has left. Minho stares at his hands—chipped black polish, calloused fingertips from playing the guitar.
“No,” he says honestly, “she doesn’t.”
They’re sitting in his car, parked along the side of a narrow slope that eventually leads out onto the beach. When Minho looks up, he sees the endless stretch of the ocean along the horizon, the warm orange tones of a setting sun rippling across the surface. The street they’re stopped on is residential, with tall, seaside houses on one side of them and crumbling cobble stairs on the other that Minho thinks go in the direction of the town.
It’s been a long time since he was here. Since they were here. It used to be their favourite spot.
“Does it bother you?” he asks, when Jisung stays silent. “That she doesn’t like you?”
Squish . Another tapioca pearl bludgeoned into obscurity. Jisung shakes his head. “I don’t care what she thinks of me,” he mumbles. It’s not true, because Han Jisung cares what everyone thinks of him, no matter how little their opinion should matter. But Minho avoids saying this—this is the first time in weeks they’ve had time alone together. He doesn’t want to ruin it.
“You shouldn’t,” he replies, and he means that. Maybe he shouldn’t—maybe he should jump to her defence, try and convince Jisung that his darling fiancée, snarky as she is, doesn’t mean it when she rolls her eyes at the back of his head. She might just be having a bad day, that’s a good excuse for how she sighs when he walks into a room. Right?
Minho shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“She just knows that—”
A motorbike zips past them, a boy no older than fifteen clinging onto the handlebars while his helmet-less head bobbles over every speedbump. Minho’s voice dies out with the noise of it, which is probably for the best. He doesn’t know what he wants to say. He doesn’t even know how to say any of the things he could possibly let leave his mouth.
Jisung still hasn’t looked at him. Minho longs to reach across and coax him to tilt his head up, maybe with a hand under his chin or in his hair or around his throat. Jisung looks especially pretty with his eyes rolling into the back of his head, his lips parted in a silent plea that Minho hears loud and clear.
He doesn’t do any of that.
Instead, Minho puts the car into reverse and pulls out of his parking spot, heading down the hill after the motorbike boy and in the direction of the beach. When they were kids, they used to take the train here, lugging their swimming stuff and their picnic bags on tanned backs and lounging around on the sand until it was time to go home. Jisung always managed to persuade Minho into the water, even though it feels cold all year round. They’d jump over waves together, splash one another and fling seaweed at whatever their aim met first.
Minho misses it. Minho misses a lot, when it comes to Jisung.
“I don’t like your fiancée either, for the record.”
The quiet music crackling through the car radio is almost enough to drown out Jisung’s whispered words. When Minho chances a look in his direction, he’s lifted his head, staring straight forward at the winding streets before them. “So.. she can hate me all she wants.”
“She doesn’t hate you.” Minho turns a corner. The closer they get to the sea, the more familiar the route becomes. “You two just clash.”
Jisung scoffs. “You know that’s not true.”
Another corner. Minho tightens his grip on the wheel. “Yeah,” he says, “I do.”
The parking lot by the beach is empty when Minho’s car rolls to a stop in one of the spots that face the water. He cuts the engine, leaving them in silence which doesn’t feel quite as comfortable as it used to. Everything with Jisung was easy before, back when they were kids and teenagers and back when they were stuck in that weird in-between stage, not quite boys but not men , either, and they promised they’d learn together. They promised they’d stick together.
Something sour bursts over Minho’s tongue when he thinks about it. The guilt of breaking an agreement they had sworn upon with their lives.
“Why did you bring me here, hyung?”
Jisung’s words shatter the quiet, like a knife right through the chest because honestly, talking is the last thing Minho wants to do. Talking has grown painful between them, talking always leads to arguing, which leads to Jisung rightfully blocking Minho’s number for a few weeks until the hurt subsides—until he comes back to him, tail tucked between his legs and head hung low because Jisung can’t live without Minho, and Minho hates that with every fibre of his being.
He doesn’t quite understand the hold he has over Jisung. He doesn’t quite understand why he returns to him time and time again, like they’re tied together by some sort of string that refuses to let them venture too far apart. But if Minho could do one thing on this earth, he’d choose to free Jisung from him. From this . Whatever this even is.
“I wanted to see you.” Minho’s hands fall to rest in his lap. “We haven’t hung out in ages.”
Jisung hums. “Yeah, I wonder why.”
It’s biting—he deserves to bite, though. He deserves to pounce across the car with his claws out, dig them into Minho’s chest and pull his insides out so he can feel maybe a fraction of what it’s like to be so hurt by someone you love.
Minho closes his eyes, like he’s bracing for the impact of this attack that he knows will never come. Jisung couldn’t kill a fly, if tasked with it. But he wouldn’t kill Minho. Not his Minho, not his hyung. The person he’s been looking up to in one way or another since he was still in diapers, since his hair was chopped into that atrocious bowl cut and since the other kids on the playground took turns pushing him over because Han Jisung is and always has been an easy target.
He loves so deeply, he feels even deeper. Minho thinks he might just be the cruellest person on earth to do as he does, even knowing this.
“You know you’re always welcome to come over.” Minho opens his eyes again, blinking out at the seagulls dipping low over the surface of the water. The sky is almost completely orange, now, melting together with pinks and yellows and casting the softest, warmest glow over the beach.
He wants to look at Jisung, to admire the way the setting sun illuminates his pretty features.
But Minho knows better than to be so foolish.
“Yeah, I love coming over to you guys’ place,” Jisung replies, voice laced with sarcasm. “I love when your fiancée looks at me like some sort of stray who’s just crawled into her home. I love when you kiss her in front of me, almost as if you never told me I was a better fuck than her. You remember that, right? ‘Cus I sure do, Minho. Like it was yesterday.”
The crunch of cheap plastic catches Minho’s attention, and, bleary-eyed, he looks over to the iron-tight grip Jisung has on his long-empty cup of boba. His heart is simultaneously hammering inside of his chest and also stopped completely still, like someone has clenched it in their fist and squeezed until it could beat no more.
It almost feels like the tighter Jisung squeezes his cup, the tighter Minho’s chest begins to feel. Their mothers always did say they were connected, somehow. Unlike anyone else.
Soulmates. Something like that.
“Jisung, we’ve talked about this.” Minho keeps his voice calm and level, as much as he can even though all he wants to do is scream and cry and tear his hair out, maybe climb into the backseat and pull Jisung with him, kiss him raw until his lips are cherry red and he’s struggling to speak.
Or maybe, for old time’s sake, Minho could coax him out onto the beach, press him into the sand like he used to with Jisung’s skinny wrists pinned above his head, his knees parted to make space for Minho between them because they’re teenagers, and they’re curious, and nobody’s bodies feel quite as good as each other’s when the sun is so high and the sky is so clear and Lee Minho is so, so in love.
“Right, yeah. We’ve talked.”
Jisung turns his head away from Minho so that he’s staring out the window, so that there isn’t even a chance that their eyes could possibly meet. Jisung is not a malicious person, he’s not a mean person. But when he’s upset, he’s upset, and when he’s hurt, he’s hurt. And it strikes Minho then that maybe, just maybe, he’s being unfair.
Maybe dragging Jisung out every time his messages start delivering again is taking advantage of the fact that he knows the answer will always be yes. Maybe Minho is just too much of a coward to give into what he really wants, and so he leaves himself in a perpetual state of dipping his toes in. Testing the waters while he lets Jisung drown.
“Do you want me to bring you home?” Minho asks quietly.
Jisung’s head tilts downwards slightly, his gaze falling to the crumpled cup still bolted into his fist. “No,” he says, so raw and real and honest that Minho feels the sting of it in the pit of his stomach. “Just—.. Kiss me? Please?”
Minho doesn’t need to be told twice.
He kisses Jisung like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Lips parted, spit-slicked and smacking together, desperate from the get-go. Every time feels better than the last, every time is laced with the feeling of doing something they shouldn’t, the anxiety of being caught nipping at their heels even though they’re parked on a beach that sits hours away from anyone who knows them. Minho finds the guilt is easy to swallow down. He finds he doesn’t feel bad , not like he should.
Jisung’s cup ends up on the floor somewhere, perhaps rolling under the seat when he clambers across the centre console and into Minho’s lap. He fits so well there, like it’s where he belongs, like they’re two pieces of a puzzle that slot into one another so nicely. Minho’s hands on his hips are grounding, anchoring them together while he mouths at the corner of Jisung’s swollen lips, dragging each kiss down further and further until he can nip at his neck. He knows all of his most sensitive spots like the back of his hand.
“Missed you,” Minho mumbles, sucking a hickey into Jisung’s soft skin. He smells sweet, like milk and honey and a faint undertone of citrus from that same body spray he’s been using since high school. He bites, just lightly, and Jisung gasps over him. “I missed you so much, Jisung.”
He doesn’t give him any time to answer—Jisung has a bad habit of pouring his heart out when Minho gets his hands on him. Of stumbling over pleas to take him, if he wants him so badly. To give in, leave behind this horribly hand-crafted life he leads and let himself be happy, because Jisung knows he makes Minho happy. Jisung knows because when he starts running his mouth, Minho does, too.
He makes promises, tells him that things will change. He swears blind that he’ll come clean to his fiancée and tell her that things are not going to work, and that he can’t be happy with a woman when he doesn’t even like them in the first place.
Every single time, Minho assures Jisung that this is the last night they’ll ever have to sneak around together. And every single time, it’s a lie. Sorry, my parents came to visit, and there was nothing I could do , or, sorry, I accidentally bought a ring and proposed to her, because that’s what both of our families want and now—
Jisung rocks his hips down against Minho’s lap and he keens, his hands gripping hard at his hips. He digs his fingers in, hopefully enough to leave bruises because marking Jisung up has to be one of his most favourite things. Claiming him for himself, ruining him for everyone else because Minho is a terrible person, and if he can’t have Jisung, then no one can.
“Did you bring—”
“Yeah.”
Jisung snakes a hand into Minho’s hair and gives it a tug, pulling his head back just enough to slot their lips together again. It’s juxtapositionally soft compared to everything else that they’ve done, slow and methodical and loving . So devastatingly loving that Minho almost has to pull away, because he can’t handle himself when Jisung pours his heart out to him like this. Lays himself bare and vulnerable and gives so much, even though he knows he’ll get nothing in return.
Minho chokes on a noise, maybe something caught between a moan and a sob, and he takes one hand off of Jisung’s hip to reach over to the passenger seat and feel around for his tote bag.
“I already—before I left,” Jisung admits. He’s all breathy and sweet, half-lidded when Minho does sit back a bit and takes a moment to look at him. The sunset has faded away as quick as it had come on, and so the car is dark now. But the pale moonlight glow accentuating every high and every low of Jisung’s soft face is heart-breaking in the worst possible way.
Minho wants to devour him.
“Use your words,” he mumbles, locating Jisung’s bag and sticking a hand in to grab what they need. Lip gloss, no. Chewing gum, also no. Minho pushes through a few crumpled receipts and loose coins until he curls his hand around the half-empty bottle of lube Jisung brings every time they hang out. Some sickeningly sweet strawberry flavour that suits Jisung too well for his liking.
He whines over him, mumbling something incoherent about prepping and being so desperate before he left his apartment that he just couldn’t help himself. Minho stuffs the lube under his thigh for now, tipping his head back to look up at Jisung.
“You’re such a slut,” he says, low and slow, unbothered on the surface but so very bothered on the inside. Minho blinks at Jisung, the blurry outline of him still perched in his lap, squirming for any kind of friction or attention he can possibly get. “You just assumed I was gonna fuck you, huh?”
Jisung squirms again, angling his hips just right so that he brushes right up against Minho’s clothed cock and, fuck, when did he get so hard? He bites back a groan, returning his hands to Jisung’s hips to hold him still.
“Hyung always wants to fuck me,” Jisung mumbles. He drops his hands from Minho’s hair, sliding them down to his shoulders and over his chest, right over where his heart has started hammering once again under the thin material of his t-shirt.
“You sound very sure of that,” Minho breathes.
Jisung smiles, even though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I am.”
They climb into the backseat, clumsy in their movements until Jisung’s on his back and Minho is hovering over him. It’s a tight fit, his old car wasn’t exactly made for two grown men to move like this, but they manage. With Jisung’s head propped against the door, one leg thrown over the headrest so that Minho can squeeze between his thighs, they manage.
Minho grabs the lube, settling it on Jisung’s tummy while he fumbles with his belt buckle and the zipper of his jeans. “These are stupidly tight,” he mutters under his breath, wrestling to undo the button at the top. “It’s like you want me to struggle.”
Jisung lifts his hips a bit when Minho finally gets his jeans open, just so that he can pull them down to his thighs along with his underwear. “Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I just want you to take your time with me for once.”
His words cut deep, and Minho’s not really sure how to respond. So, in the end, he doesn’t.
Instead, he gets his own jeans down just enough to shove a hand under the waistband of his boxers. His fingers are cold when they curl around his painfully hard cock, and he hisses through his teeth, giving himself a few sloppy tugs. It’s a little dissatisfying at first, hunched over in his cramped car, conscious of the time and when he promised to be home to avoid raising suspicions he knows his fiancée already has. But Jisung is warm and pliant and open underneath him, staring through the darkness with these big, glassy eyes that never seem to look at Minho, only through him.
He wiggles his hips a bit, hitching his leg a little higher, almost like some sort of invitation. Minho looks over all of him, his wrinkled hoodie and his too-tight jeans and his messy hair that hadn’t been so out-of-place when he’d first climbed into Minho’s car that evening.
“You look so pretty,” Minho breathes, before he can stop himself. And then, because he’s an awful, awful person, “my Jisungie is always so pretty.”
Jisung sucks in a sharp breath. “Your Jisungie,” he repeats, turning the words over in his mouth like Minho has just dropped liquid gold onto his tongue, like what he’s said is to be cherished, handled with care. “But I’m—you don’t mean that, hyung, right?”
Minho leans over to kiss Jisung, because he’s left unsure of what to say once again, and he doesn’t know what else to do. How quickly Jisung’s hurt had melted away, how willingly he gives himself to Minho once what he wants more than anything else appears on the horizon.
And Minho wants, too. Minho wants likely more than he deserves, especially when it comes to Jisung.
He wants to go back to when they were kids, when the world seemed brighter and more colourful than it is now. Jisung trailing a step behind him as they traipsed home from school, complaining about his teacher and his schoolwork and how it’s not fair that Minho’s in high school already, because now Jisung has no one to talk to when the recess bell rings.
Speaking of high school, Minho wants that back, too. He wants to relive ditching class behind the bike sheds or eating lunch together on the roof. He wants to feel Jisung pressed up against him in a bathroom stall, leaving uncoordinated kisses on his smiling mouth because Minho was his first, and Jisung has no idea what he’s doing.
He wants to go back to three years ago, before he met Yoojung, and before he ruined things with Jisung forever. Back when they’d spend the night at one of their apartments, tossing and turning in bed together and washing each other’s hair and cooking dinner side by side, because at twenty years of age, Han Jisung still couldn’t be trusted to chop tomatoes.
Minho wants endlessly. He will never run out of things he wants , things his bitter greed has managed to wrap around like poisonous vines, sucking the life and the soul out of fond memories until they become things that keep him awake at night. Things that flash through his mind when he kisses her , and all Minho wants is him .
When he pulls away from Jisung to look at him again, Minho’s eyes are wet, his vision has gone blurry. He blinks a few times, tipping his head back as if in a silent plea with his own body not to let his tears spill. How unattractive to cry at a time like this, he thinks. And how selfish, too, when the victim of this situation is not him.
Jisung opens his mouth to speak, but Minho shushes him as soon as he hears his shaky inhale.
“Are you sure you prepped enough?” he asks instead, slipping his hands between Jisung’s legs. He rubs the pad of his middle finger over his hole, wet still with leftover lube from whenever he’d gotten too desperate to keep his hands off of himself.
Minho dips his finger in, humming in appreciation at the easy slide.
“There’s my answer,” he mumbles, relishing in the way Jisung whimpers even at such a minor intrusion, at the way he squirms when Minho crooks his finger, his eyelids fluttering closed. “Do you have condoms in your bag?”
“Yeah.” Jisung blindly sticks one hand out in what he must think is the direction of the passenger seat. Minho laughs at his half-assed attempt and grabs the tote himself.
It’s hard to see in the dark, but his fingers eventually find the thin square of foil at the bottom of Jisung’s bag and Minho plucks it out, transferring it from where it’s pinched between his index and middle fingers to poking it between his teeth so that he can tear it open.
Minho makes sure to stuff the wrapper back into Jisung’s bag when he’s done. An empty boba cup is one thing for his fiancée to find. A condom is a totally different story.
He takes his hand away from Jisung so that he can use both to roll the condom on and grab the lube from his tummy, squirting a generous amount into his palm and slicking himself up. The smell of artificial strawberries is heavy in the air, but there’s something almost pleasantly familiar about it. Something that reminds Minho of the last time they did this, and the time before that, and..
So on.
“You ready?” he asks, lining himself up with Jisung’s hole. He’s got one arm thrown over his face, hiding it half from view. Minho wants to pull it away, pin his hands down so that he can get a good look at him. But he fears that will count towards rocking a boat that’s already struggling to stay afloat. And Minho desperately doesn’t want it to sink.
Jisung mmphs into his hoodie sleeve. “Yeah,” he says, muffled but audible. “Just—yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”
Minho nods, even though he knows Jisung can’t see him, and then, even though he wants to take a second to admire, or a second to see if he’s comfortable or okay or maybe even a second to sit back and say fuck this , and give him something other than quick fuck for once, Minho pushes in, and he moves his hands to Jisung’s hips like he has a thousand times before, and he fucks him.
“F–Fuck, fuck, ah, fuck ,” Jisung hiccups, his hands clenching into little fists. Minho punches a noise out of him with each thrust, these tiny pleas and curses and entirely incoherent sounds that he keeps low even though the parking lot is still completely empty. “Right—right there, hyung, please.”
The air is hot and heavy and thick, that same artificial strawberry smell mingling between them with the smell of sex. The smell of desperation and want and guilt, maybe, because Minho knows this will be over soon and thus the cycle of Jisung’s upset will start again. Minho will drive him home and say goodnight and then he’ll drive himself home, and he’ll scrub away all the evidence of what he’s done here before he climbs into a bed with the woman he’s supposed to love.
The thought of it gnaws at him. Minho lets go of Jisung’s hips to grab the undersides of his thighs instead, pushing them back closer to his chest until the toe of his battered up trainer thuds against the car ceiling.
“You feel—fuck, you feel so good, ‘Sungie,” Minho mumbles, angling each thrust just right so that his cock lines up with his prostate each time. He squeezes his legs, hopes that Jisung wakes up to finger-shaped bruises in his skin tomorrow morning even though that’s so very unfair of him.
He snaps his hips forward again. “So fucking tight, too. Thought—Thought you said you prepped.”
Jisung whines, his back arching up off the backseat when their skin slaps together, this obscene smack of sweat and lube. “I did, I did. I—I prepped,” he babbles, burying his face in his hands. “Hyung’s just so big. You’re so big. Fuck, fuck .”
Minho groans, letting his head fall forward. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Hyung’s big, right? And Jisungie—fuck. You’re so small. Take me so good, though. You’re always so good.”
His thrusts are becoming a little erratic, his thighs are cramping from the awkward position and the fact that Jisung is essentially a dead weight in his arms. But it’s a good type of pain, marrying well with the way he clenches down around his cock every time Minho hits his prostate, the way his legs are trembling in his hold, his neglected cock leaking all over his stomach.
He wishes he could take a picture, remember this moment forever and the way the guilt and the desire and the hatred all burns away when he has Jisung in his arms. Minho can never have him the way he wants him, he knows that. But getting to take a fraction of this closeness with him might make the separation easier, when it inevitably caves in.
“I’m good,” Jisung repeats, shaky and quiet, “I’m—I’m better than her, right?”
Minho squeezes his legs again, drinking up the sweet, sweet sound Jisung makes when his fingernails dig into his flesh. “Better than her,” he chokes out. “So much—so much better, ‘Sungie. God, I— fuck . You’re so good. So good to me, for me. I just—”
Jisung lets out this sob when he cums, squeezing around Minho so tightly that it almost hurts, and he splutters with the sheer force of it, spilling into the condom not three seconds later. He swears he sees stars. His chest heaves with the aftershocks of his orgasm, washing over him in waves that have his arms twitching, slightly stiff from holding Jisung’s legs up.
Minho carefully sets them down again, stroking his hands back and forth over the few inches of exposed skin of Jisung’s thighs. He’s still quivering just a little bit, breathing heavily into his hoodie sleeve. Minho only notices when he looks up to see his face that he’s got it covered again. He looks back down.
“You okay?” he whispers, smoothing his thumbs back and forth over Jisung’s inner thigh. He doesn’t pull out just yet—shit, he barely moves , like they’re in some sort of bubble and one wrong step will burst it around them, send them reeling from this quiet little space in the backseat of Minho’s car, right back to a reality he wants so desperately to avoid.
Jisung sniffles. He sniffles , and it’s so loud now that the car is so, so quiet, and now that Minho’s heart isn’t pounding in his ears. He lets his head fall to the side, resting his cheek against Jisung’s knee.
Outside the car, all Minho can hear is the sound of waves crashing over one another, sizzling up the shore and melting away again into the depths. He thinks back to when he and Jisung were a little older than just kids, with freshly lifted curfews they chose to spend at this very beach. How exhilarating it had been to stay out until the last train, how grown-up they’d felt being out and about in the dark, drinking cheap soju together on Minho’s mother’s picnic blanket and swapping fruit slices between their teeth.
The smell of sunscreen and saltwater is still so fresh in Minho’s memory, even though it was all so long ago. He strokes over Jisung’s thigh again, eyes half-lidded as he stares at his fuzzy silhouette.
“Jisung,” he says softly, his hand stilling against his leg. “Are you alright?”
Jisung sucks in a shuddering breath that Minho feels all the way down where his cheek is still pressed to his bony knee.
“Just—.. Just drive me home, hyung,” he whispers, like pulling the curtain after a show. So final. A The End if Minho has ever felt one so deep in his heart. “Please.”
Minho breathes in, too. The bubble bursts. “Okay, Jisungie,” he says, because there’s nothing else he could possibly say. “Let’s get you home.”
When Minho parks outside of Jisung’s apartment complex, they sit in silence for what feels like forever. He hadn’t turned the radio on on their way home, and Jisung had dozed off in the passenger seat at the half-hour mark, his knees tucked up to his chest and his hood pulled over his head. Minho had reached over to wake him once he’d pulled onto his street, and now.. he’s not sure what comes next.
“Do you want me to walk you to your door?” he asks quietly.
Jisung laughs into the collar of his hoodie. “Not gonna give me your usual spiel?” he mumbles. “Never thought I’d hear the end of your promises, hyung.”
Minho winces. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Jisung. You know I—”
“Yeah, I know.” Jisung sits up in his seat, scooping his tote bag up from between his feet. He slings it over one arm, undoing his seatbelt. “You’re engaged. And you’re going to marry this woman you don’t even like. And I’m just in the way, and—and somehow, it’s my fault that this keeps happening. Right? I get it.”
He has one hand on the door handle, but no intention of opening it can be found in the way his face is all screwed up, like Minho’s countless broken promises to him have manifested into some physical pain, this thing that demands space, that makes the car feel ten times smaller than it had on the beach. Jisung looks down at his lap, twisting a loose thread on the rip of his jeans around his index finger.
“You’re gonna be a married man in a few weeks, Minho,” Jisung says. Minho finds when he doesn’t call him hyung , that’s when he’s started to lose him. That’s when the bitterness has started to spread, when Jisung begins to suspect—and rightfully so—that he deserves better than a man who won’t allow himself to chase what he wants.
Minho stares at his hands. The feeling of Jisung’s skin under his fingertips is still fresh at the forefront of his mind. “I know.. that.” He closes his eyes. “I know that, Jisung.”
A car drives past them, illuminating the front seat with too-bright headlights that Minho feels burning his retinas even though his eyes are shut. He blinks them open, squinting as the car pulls into a spot a few metres away and coincidentally catching the moment Jisung opens the door and climbs out of Minho’s car. He shudders when the evening cold hits him.
“You should go,” he says, folding his arms tightly over his chest. “Drive safe.”
And before Minho gets to say anything in response, Jisung turns away from him, and he can’t help but sit there and just watch until he disappears into his apartment complex, and everything suddenly feels very, very empty.
Lee Minho [23:48]
hey sung, did you get in alright?
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