Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The late autumn sun spilled golden light across Seoul National University’s Arts campus, turning the ginkgo trees along the main path into a tunnel of shimmering yellow. The Dance Department building stood at the far end, all sleek glass and sharp angles, while the Music building hummed quietly nearby with muffled piano scales and someone practicing drums. It was the kind of crisp November day that made everyone walk a little faster, scarves fluttering, earbuds in, coffee cups steaming.

Inside the Dance Department hallway, the morning classes had just let out. Dancers stretched against the mirrors, laughter echoing off the polished floors. Hyunjin and Felix stepped out of Studio 3 together, still breathing hard from contemporary class, cheeks pink, hair a little messy in the best way. Hyunjin had his arm slung loosely around Felix’s waist, fingers playing with the hem of Felix’s oversized hoodie—the one Hyunjin had stolen two years ago and never given back.

That’s when they spotted him.

A guy they didn’t recognize was leaning against the bulletin board, scrolling on his phone, earbuds in, looking like he wasn’t sure where to go next. Sharp eyes, soft brown hair falling just right, wearing a simple black long-sleeve and dance sweats. New transfer energy radiated off him.

Felix nudged Hyunjin. “That’s the transfer everyone’s talking about, right? Lee Minho?”

Hyunjin’s eyes lit up. “The one who choreographed that viral piece last year? Yeah. And he’s alone. Unacceptable.”

Before Felix could even laugh, Hyunjin was already marching over, dragging Felix with him.

“Hi!” Hyunjin said, way too bright for someone who’d just done forty-eight fouettés in a row. “You’re Lee Minho, right? I’m Hyunjin, this is Felix. We’ve heard about you.”

Minho pulled one earbud out, blinking in mild surprise. Up close, he was even prettier—cat-like eyes, small shy smile. “Oh. Yeah, that’s me. Hey.”

“You look lost,” Felix said, voice warm and low, Australian accent curling gently around the words. “Lunchtime. Come eat with us.”

Minho opened his mouth—probably to politely decline—but Hyunjin was already linking arms with him.

“No excuses,” Hyunjin declared. “You’re new, you don’t know anyone, and we have the best table in the cafeteria. Plus, Felix makes the cutest little happy noises when he eats tteokbokki, you have to witness it.”

Felix elbowed him, cheeks turning pink. “Jinnie!”

“What? It’s true. Four years and you still do it. I’m still in the honeymoon phase, let me brag.”

Minho let out a soft laugh, the kind that sounded surprised he’d made it. “Alright. Lead the way.”

The walk across campus was a whirlwind. Hyunjin and Felix flanked Minho like overexcited tour guides.

“So your choreography—” Hyunjin started.

“—the one for ‘Thunderous’ last year?” Felix finished.

Minho’s eyes widened. “You guys saw that?”

“Are you kidding?” Hyunjin spun around, walking backwards so he could face Minho. “The way you used the negative space in the second verse? Genius. We tried learning it in our free time and Felix nearly cried when he couldn’t nail the floor transition.”

“I did not cry,” Felix protested, then glanced at Minho with a sheepish grin. “I only teared up a little.”

Minho’s shy smile grew. “I could teach you sometime. It’s easier if someone spots the weight shift.”

“Deal!” Hyunjin cheered. He reached over and laced his fingers with Felix’s, swinging their joined hands. “See? Already making friends. Told you SNU Dance is the best. And we’re still disgustingly in love after four whole years, so prepare for PDA.”

Felix rolled his eyes fondly. “He proposed to me with a chicken nugget last week.”

“It was heart-shaped!” Hyunjin gasped. “And you said yes!”

“I said yes to the nugget, not to you.”

“Same thing.”

Minho watched them with quiet amusement, shoulders relaxing more with every step.

By the time they pushed through the cafeteria doors, the place was packed—long tables full of arts students, the smell of kimchi stew and fried chicken thick in the air. At the very back, in their usual corner by the windows, five familiar faces were already chaos incarnate.

Chan was trying to mediate something between Changbin and Seungmin, who were arguing over who got the last piece of fried mandu. Jeongin was filming the whole thing on his phone, cackling like a little gremlin. Han was halfway through a dramatic retelling of how he’d stayed up until 4 a.m. finishing a beat, arms flailing, rice flying off his spoon.

Hyunjin kicked the bench. “Move over, losers, we brought a new child.”

Five heads swiveled at once.

Felix beamed. “Everyone, this is Lee Minho. He just transferred into Dance. He’s lonely and friendless, so we adopted him. Minho, this is the family.”

Minho gave a small wave, suddenly hyper-aware of eight pairs of eyes on him. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Chan immediately stood up, dad mode activated. “Welcome! Sit, sit—do you want water? Juice? There’s extra kimbap if you’re hungry.”

Changbin slammed a hand on the table, grinning wide. “Transfer from Hongik, right? Bro, your choreo is insane! We gotta collab sometime—3Racha needs dancers who can actually keep up.”

Seungmin looked Minho up and down with classic deadpan judgment, then shrugged. “He’s pretty. We’ll keep him.”

Jeongin leaned all the way across the table, fox eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hi hyung! I’m the youngest, so you have to love me the most. It’s the rules.”

Minho laughed softly, sliding into the empty seat right in front of Han. “I’ll try to remember that.”

And then Han looked up.

Really looked.

The spoon slipped from his fingers and clattered against his tray.

Oh.

Oh no.

Lee Minho was sitting right there—sharp jawline catching the sunlight, eyes crinkling just a little when he smiled at something Chan said, lips pink and soft and—

Han’s brain short-circuited.

Words? Gone. Thoughts? Static. Heart? Doing some kind of aggressive drum and bass remix in his chest.

Minho glanced over, catching Han staring. He tilted his head, curious. “Hey. You’re Han, right? From 3Racha?”

Han opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Uh.” His voice cracked. Fantastic. “Y-Yeah. That’s… me. Hi. You’re—wow. I mean, hi.”

Smooth, Jisung. Real smooth.

Felix snorted into his peach tea. Hyunjin reached over and patted Han’s head like a confused puppy. “He’s usually louder than this. You broke him.”

Minho’s smile turned a little teasing, eyes glinting. “I’ll try not to break him too often.”

Han made a small, mortified squeak and hid his burning face behind his soda can.

Across the table, Jeongin stage-whispered, “Hyung is down bad already.”

Seungmin nodded sagely. “Five minutes. New record.”

Changbin barked out a laugh so loud half the cafeteria turned to look. Chan just sighed fondly, pushing the communal plate of tteokbokki toward Minho. “Welcome to the circus, Minho-yah. You’re gonna fit right in.”

And as everyone started talking at once—Hyunjin stealing Felix’s fries, Jeongin trying to bribe Minho with dessert, Changbin already planning a dance collab—Minho glanced at Han again.

Han, still red as a tomato, managed a tiny wave.

Minho waved back, small and shy and perfect.

Yeah.

This was going to be interesting.

The table was a battlefield of trays, chopsticks, and half-eaten side dishes. Minho sat directly across from Han, posture straight but not stiff, hands folded neatly in front of his tray like he’d been raised by royalty instead of a normal family in Gimpo. The afternoon light cut through the window behind him, catching on the edges of his hair and making him look… unreal.

Han’s brain was still buffering.

He knew that face.

Not just from the dance department group chat blowing up about the “insanely hot transfer.” No. Han had seen that exact face before, three years ago, on a random Sunday night when he was sixteen and procrastinating homework. It was a KBS special: “Young Prodigies of Korean Arts.” They’d interviewed a fifteen-year-old Lee Minho, the youngest choreographer ever commissioned for a national figure skater’s exhibition program. The skater had been Park Sunghoon—SNU’s very own ice prince, two years above them, untouchable and beautiful.

The camera had loved Minho back then. Soft lighting, shy smiles, the quiet way he explained musicality and breath control while Sunghoon skated behind him in slow motion. The caption had literally read: “Lee Minho, 15, the prince of contemporary dance.”

Han remembered pausing the TV, rewinding three times, and thinking, Holy crap, actual royalty exists and he’s my age.

And now that same prince was sitting three feet away, stealing a piece of Hyunjin’s fried chicken because Hyunjin insisted.

Minho glanced up, catching Han staring again. He smiled—small, polite, a little curious.

“Hi again,” Minho said, voice soft. “You’re Han Jisung, right?”

Han’s soul left his body.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out. His name was suddenly in a foreign language.

“H-Han—uh—Jisung. Me. That’s. Me. Hi. Hello. Yes.”

The table went suspiciously quiet.

Then Changbin snorted so hard his iced coffee nearly came out his nose.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “Did he just forget his own name?”

Seungmin didn’t even look up from his phone. “He introduced himself like a Windows error message.”

Jeongin leaned over Chan’s lap to get a better view, eyes sparkling with evil. “Hyung, your face is redder than the gochujang. Are you dying?”

“I’m fine!” Han squeaked, voice cracking on the last syllable. He grabbed his soda and missed the straw three times.

Felix, traitor of the century, reached over and patted Han’s shoulder like a concerned mother. “Breathe, Hannie. He’s just a person.”

“He’s not just a person,” Han hissed under his breath, thinking no one could hear. “He choreographed for Park Sunghoon. He was on TV. They called him a prince. A literal prince—”

Minho’s eyebrows lifted. He definitely heard that.

Hyunjin gasped dramatically. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Han Jisung, is this your celebrity crush origin story?”

“NO!” Han yelped, then immediately lowered his voice. “Maybe. Shut up.”

Minho tilted his head, the polite smile turning into something dangerously amused. “You watched that old KBS thing?”

Han wanted the floor to swallow him. “It was… on. In the background. Once.”

“Three times,” Chan supplied helpfully, not even looking up from cutting Jeongin’s kimbap into bite-sized pieces like the dad he was. “He made me watch it with him. Said the choreo was ‘life-changing.’ Then he cried when Sunghoon landed the triple axel.”

“I did NOT cry!”

“You sniffled.”

“That was allergies!”

Minho’s eyes were crinkling now, full-on smiling, and it was worse than the polite one. Way worse.

“I still have the behind-the-scenes footage somewhere,” Minho said casually, like he wasn’t dropping a nuclear bomb. “Sunghoon-hyung kept tripping during the footwork sequence because I made it too hard. Want me to send it to you?”

Han made a noise somewhere between a kettle boiling over and a dying seal.

Changbin slammed both hands on the table. “YES. Send it to the group chat immediately. This is blackmail material for the rest of our lives.”

Seungmin finally looked up, deadpan as ever. “I give it two weeks before Jisung writes a love song with the title ‘Ice Prince’ and thinks we won’t notice.”

“I will notice,” Jeongin sing-songed. “And I will change his phone wallpaper to Minho-hyung’s face every day until he confesses.”

Minho laughed—quiet, but real, head tipping back a little—and Han’s heart actually stopped for a second.

“Thank you for the warm welcome,” Minho said to the table, but his eyes slid back to Han, softer now. “And… I like your music, Jisung-ah. The track you dropped last month? The one with the distorted vocal chop in the bridge? It made me want to choreograph something.”

Han’s brain blue-screened again.

He managed, barely, to squeak out, “Cool. That’s… cool. Thank you. You’re cool. I mean—your face—I mean—choreography. Yes.”

Felix buried his face in Hyunjin’s shoulder to muffle his laughter. Hyunjin just reached over and ruffled Han’s hair like he was a broken robot.

Minho’s smile hadn’t faded. If anything, it got gentler.

He leaned forward slightly, voice low enough that only Han could hear over the chaos.

“Breathe, Jisung-ah.”

Han inhaled so fast he choked on air.

Yeah.

He was absolutely, definitely, 100% doomed.

The cafeteria noise faded behind them as trays clattered onto the return belt. Everyone stretched, groaned about afternoon classes, and started drifting toward the exit in their usual chaotic cluster. Hyunjin had Felix’s hand tucked into his coat pocket, Jeongin was trying to steal Changbin’s beanie, and Chan was herding them all like a very tired shepherd.

Minho lingered for half a second, sliding his tray in, then naturally, without thinking, fell into step beside Han at the back of the pack.

Han’s heart did a pathetic little somersault.

They walked side by side through the glass doors and out into the cold. The wind hit them, carrying fallen ginkgo leaves across the path like tiny golden boats. Their shoulders brushed once, twice, then settled into an accidental rhythm.

“So,” Minho started, voice quiet enough that the others ahead wouldn’t hear, “Music Production, right?”

Han nodded too fast. “Yeah. Third year. You?”

“Dance Performance and Choreography. Also third year.” Minho glanced sideways, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Guess we’re the same age, then.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.” Han shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket. “I mean, not that it matters. Age. Whatever.”

Minho hummed, amused. “What kind of stuff do you make?”

Han shrugged, kicking a leaf. “Everything? Hip-hop mostly, some R&B, a little future bass when I’m sad at 3 a.m. and want to feel something.” He laughed, but it came out self-conscious. “I’m just a nerd who makes noise on a laptop, honestly. Nothing like… actual talent. Like choreography. Or ice skating programs for national athletes. That’s insane.”

He said it lightly, the way he always did—like joking about it made it less true.

Minho’s steps slowed just a fraction.

Han kept rambling, because silence felt dangerous. “I mean, you create actual art people can see and feel in their bodies. I just sit in a dark room with Red Bull and cry when the kick drum doesn’t hit right.”

They reached the fork in the path: left toward the Music building, right toward Dance. The rest of the group had already peeled off—Hyunjin yelling something about stealing Felix’s AirPods, Jeongin cackling in the distance.

Just the two of them now.

Minho stopped walking.

Han stopped too, a half-step ahead, turning back awkwardly.

Minho looked at him for a long second—really looked, eyes soft and unreadable.

Then he leaned in, close enough that Han could smell the faint citrus of his shampoo, and whispered, so low it was almost lost in the wind:

“Cute.”

Han’s brain flatlined.

Minho pulled back, that tiny amused smile playing at his lips again. He gave a small wave—two fingers, casual, like he hadn’t just murdered someone—and turned toward the Dance building.

“See you around, Jisung-ah.”

He walked away without looking back.

Han stood frozen on the path, mouth open, heart trying to exit his body through his throat.

Did Lee Minho just—

Did he—

Cute?

CUTE??

A leaf blew straight into Han’s face. He didn’t even flinch.

He was still standing there, red-eared and malfunctioning, when Seungmin’s voice floated back from twenty meters away:

“HAN JISUNG IF YOU DON’T START WALKING I’M TELLING THE GROUP CHAT HE CALLED YOU CUTE.”

Han yelped, stumbled, and sprinted after them.

But the smile on his face was unstoppable.

Cute.

Lee Minho thought he was cute.

The apartment door slammed behind Han with more force than he meant. Chan looked up from the couch, spoon halfway to his mouth, some instant jjigae steaming in a bowl. Changbin was sprawled on the floor doing crunches with a protein shake balanced on his stomach.

“You good, Jisungie?” Chan asked, eyebrows raised.

Han didn’t answer. He was staring at the wall like it held the secrets of the universe. His cheeks were still flushed, hair a little windswept, eyes glassy.

Changbin sat up, shake wobbling. “Bro, you look like you got hit by a truck full of pretty boys.”

Han made a tiny wounded noise, kicked off his shoes without untying them, and zombie-walked straight to his room. The door shut with a soft click.

Silence.

Then Chan and Changbin looked at each other.

Chan set his bowl down slowly. “Did you see him at lunch? He introduced himself like his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth.”

Changbin started giggling first—quiet at first, then louder, until he had to slap a hand over his mouth. “He said ‘that’s me hi hello yes’ like a loading screen.”

Chan snorted, then covered his face. “I have literally never seen him shut up that fast. Our Han. The human yap machine. Gone in 0.2 seconds because the new transfer smiled at him.”

They both dissolved into muffled laughter, shoulders shaking.

Changbin wheezed, “Remember when he confessed to that barista last year and wrote an entire diss track about his own nerves afterward? He was anxious, yeah, but he still talked. Today he just… died.”

Chan wiped his eyes. “That’s the thing. We’ve seen him anxious. We’ve seen him spiral, stay up three days, chew his hoodie strings until they fray. But this? This was… different. This was ‘someone rearranged his entire operating system with one word’ anxious.”

Changbin flopped back onto the floor, staring at the ceiling. “He’s doomed.”

“Completely doomed,” Chan agreed, voice fond.

Inside his room, Han had showered on autopilot—scalding hot, then ice cold, then hot again, like temperature could fix whatever was happening inside his ribcage. He stood in front of the mirror for a long time, towel around his waist, staring at the fogged glass like it might give him answers.

Eventually he pulled on his favorite duck-patterned pajama pants the ones with the little yellow ducks wearing sunglasses and a worn-out 3RACHA hoodie that used to be Chan’s. He crawled into bed, shoved his face into the T-Rex plushie Jeongin won him at Lotte World two years ago, and screamed into it. A long, muffled, pathetic scream.

Then he lay there.

Staring at the ceiling.

Replaying it.

That polite little smile. The way Minho’s eyes had curved, soft and curious. The way he’d said “Hi again” like Han was someone worth greeting twice.

Cute.

His hand moved before his brain caught up—sliding under the waistband of the duck pants, slow and guilty, like he was doing something illegal. He bit down hard on the T-Rex’s tail the second his fingers wrapped around himself, muffling the whimper that crawled out of his throat.

It was embarrassing how fast it built—every stroke dragging up the memory of Minho leaning in, breath warm against his ear. Cute. Cute. Cute.

He came with a choked sob against plush dinosaur teeth, hips jerking, toes curling into the sheets. Faster than he’d ever admit. Faster than should’ve been humanly possible.

Then the high crashed.

And the shame followed.

Han rolled onto his stomach, face buried in the pillow, and cried—quiet, hiccuping tears that soaked the fabric.

“He doesn’t even know my name properly,” he whispered into the dark. “He said it once. He’ll forget by tomorrow. I’m just the loud idiot from lunch who couldn’t form a sentence.”

He punched the mattress weakly.

“I am so utterly, completely fucked.”

Outside his door, Chan and Changbin had gone quiet. They heard the muffled crying—soft, almost inaudible—but unmistakable.

Chan sighed, long and low.

Changbin rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re gonna need to stock up on ice cream. And maybe therapy.”

“Definitely therapy,” Chan agreed.

They left the hallway light on.

Just in case.

The next morning, Han was half-dead at the kitchen table, face planted in his arms, a single bite taken out of a piece of toast like a zombie had tried to eat it and given up. Chan was making protein pancakes; Changbin was scrolling through his phone, feet on the table.

SNU CHAOS GC

[09:12] Hyunjin 🌻:

LOTTE WORLD TODAYYY

[09:12] Hyunjin 🌻:

everyone is coming or i will cry

[09:13] Felix 🐥:

tickets already bought, no escape 😈

[09:13] Jeongin 🦊:

I’m bringing the vlog camera

[09:14] Seungmin:

if changbin screams on the gyro drop again i’m disowning him

[09:14] Changbin:

EXCUSE ME I DID NOT SCREAM I PROJECTED WITH MY DIAPHRAGM

[09:15] Chan 🐺:

i’m in, someone carry my bag when i get scared

[09:15] Han 🐿️:

yeah yeah i’m coming

Then:

[09:17] Hyunjin 🌻

added Lee Minho ^-^ to the group

[09:17] Lee Minho ^-^:

hello…?

[09:17] Felix 🐥:

MINHO-YA HI WELCOME TO THE CHAOS

[09:18] Hyunjin 🌻:

lotte world today!! you HAVE to come, everyone’s going, say yes or felix will pout

[09:18] Lee Minho ^-^:

…sure :) when and where?

Han’s heart actually skipped a beat. His phone slipped out of his hand and clattered onto the table.

Chan and Changbin both looked up at the exact same time.

Changbin’s grin was slow and evil. “Your toast just committed suicide because Lee Minho said hello.”

“Shut up,” Han croaked, face already flaming.

Chan slid a pancake onto Han’s plate like a peace offering. “Breathe, kid.”

Han didn’t breathe. He just stared at the little “^-^” next to Minho’s name until his vision blurred.

An hour later they were all piled at the subway station, eight grown men taking up an entire bench. Jeongin was trying to sit on Seungmin’s lap just to annoy him. Hyunjin and Felix were sharing earbuds, whispering and giggling. Changbin was doing push-ups on the platform because “shoulder day doesn’t take holidays.”

Han stood a little apart, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looked happy—cheeks pink from the cold, beanie pulled low, oversized hoodie sleeves flapping—but his fingers kept twisting the drawstrings into knots.

Minho arrived last, black mask pulled up, hair a little messy from the wind. He spotted them immediately and lifted a hand in a small wave.

Han’s stomach flipped so hard he almost threw up his single bite of toast.

On the train, it got worse.

The car was packed, everyone standing and holding the rails. Han wedged himself between Chan and a pole, trying to look normal. But the swaying, the stops and starts, the heat—his face went from pink to greenish in under five minutes.

He pressed his lips together. No way was he going to be the guy who complained two seconds after Minho joined them.

Minho noticed anyway.

Han felt a gentle tap on his elbow. Minho was holding out a piece of gum—mint, the strong kind. Their fingers brushed when Han took it.

“For motion sickness,” Minho said quietly, voice muffled behind the mask but somehow still soft. “Helps me.”

Han unwrapped it with shaking fingers and popped it in his mouth. The coolness hit instantly. He managed a tiny nod.

Two stops later the train braked hard—someone had pulled the emergency cord somewhere up front. Everyone lurched forward.

Han’s knees buckled.

He pitched forward with a startled squeak, certain he was about to face-plant into a businessman’s briefcase.

Strong arms caught him around the waist, pulling him back against a solid chest.

Minho.

One of Minho’s hands splayed across Han’s stomach to steady him, the other gripping the rail above. Han’s back was flush against him, Minho’s chin nearly resting on his beanie.

“You okay?” Minho asked, voice low, right next to Han’s ear.

Han couldn’t speak. The gum was the only thing keeping him from throwing up, and even that was a close call.

The train lurched again as it started moving. Minho didn’t let go until they were steady.

When Han finally dared to glance up, Minho was looking down at him with the softest smile—eyes curved, warm, a little amused.

Han’s heart gave up on life entirely.

From somewhere behind them, Changbin whisper-yelled, “I SAID NO PDA ON PUBLIC TRANSPORT.”

Chan elbowed him so hard he wheezed.

Minho just tightened his arm for one more second—barely noticeable to anyone else—then let go, fingers brushing Han’s hoodie like it was nothing.

Han stared straight ahead for the rest of the ride, chewing that piece of gum like his life depended on it.

He was never throwing that wrapper away.

Ever.

The gates of Lotte World swallowed them whole: bright lights, cotton-candy air, the distant roar of the Gyro Drop and the constant sugary jingle of carousel music. Eight grown men dissolved into eight overexcited kids in under thirty seconds.

They sprinted from ride to ride like a chaotic hurricane.

Jeongin screamed bloody murder on the Atlantis coaster and then demanded they go again.

Changbin flexed for the camera on every single photo, even the teacups.

Seungmin deadpanned his way through the haunted house and still made two staff members jump.

Chan carried everyone’s bags and still managed to win three stuffed animals at the basketball hoops.

Hyunjin and Felix were basically glued together, sharing churros and stealing kisses at the top of the Ferris wheel.

Han was… floating. Motion-sick on the train had been worth it. Every time Minho laughed at something Jeongin did, or leaned over to ask Chan what ride was next, Han felt like the volume of the entire world had been turned up just for him.

They spilled out of the Viking ride clutching each other and wheezing, when Han spotted it.

A game booth. One of those impossible claw machines, except the prize wasn’t a tiny keychain—it was a massive green T-Rex plush, almost as big as Jeongin, wearing sunglasses and a little leather jacket. Its mouth was open in a goofy roar, tiny arms outstretched.

Han stopped dead.

He wanted it. Badly. The kind of wanting that made his chest hurt.

But he was twenty-one, not seven. And Minho was literally ten feet away looking unfairly cool in his black hoodie and silver rings.

Childish, his brain supplied. You’ll look like a baby.

So he forced himself to turn away, jogging to catch up with Hyunjin and Felix near the funnel cake stand.

“Hey,” he said, sliding between them and stealing one of Felix’s cinnamon-sugar fries. “What’s next? Bumper cars? Shooting game? Something cool and mature and—”

Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “You okay? You just did a full 180 like the T-Rex personally offended you.”

“It’s fine! I’m fine! Everything’s fine!” Han said, voice climbing several octaves.

Across the pathway, Minho glanced at his phone, then lifted a hand. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom real quick. Be right back.”

He slipped into the crowd.

Five minutes later the group was regrouping near the gyro swing when Minho reappeared.

Carrying the T-Rex.

The massive, sunglass-wearing, leather-jacket T-Rex.

He walked straight up to Han—who had been mid-sentence arguing with Changbin about whether or not he would scream on the next ride—and stopped right in front of him.

Minho’s expression was unreadable for half a second. Then the corner of his mouth curved, small and fond.

“Here,” he said simply, and held the dinosaur out. “Looks like you.”

Eight heads swivelled in perfect unison.

Han forgot how lungs worked.

The T-Rex was huge—Minho had to use both arms. Its tiny sunglasses glinted under the neon lights. One stubby arm flopped forward like it was waving.

Han stared.

Then stared at Minho.

Then back at the dinosaur.

His brain went into emergency shutdown.

He—he bought it? For me? He saw me looking and he—he went back and—he won it—he said it looks like me—does that mean—does he think I’m cute or does he think I look like a tiny-armed lizard—what is happening—am I dreaming—wake up wake up wake up—

His face went scarlet so fast he felt the heat in his ears.

Words tried to come out. They failed spectacularly.

“I—uh—wh—you—this—me—?”

Beautiful. Shakespeare would be proud.

Minho’s smile grew, eyes crinkling behind his bangs. “You kept glancing at it. Thought you might want it but didn’t want to look childish.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “It’s cute. Like you.”

The second “cute” in twenty-four hours.

Han’s soul officially left his body.

Jeongin let out a high-pitched “WEEEEEEEH?” that turned every head in a ten-meter radius.

Changbin started cackling so hard he had to lean on Chan.

Hyunjin pulled out his phone and started filming. Felix was smiling so wide his eyes disappeared.

Han reached out with trembling hands and took the T-Rex. It was heavy and soft and perfect. He hugged it to his chest on pure instinct, burying his burning face in the plush fur.

Minho’s fingers brushed his when he let go, lingering for half a second.

“Thank you,” Han whispered into the dinosaur’s head, voice cracking. “I—I love it. So much.”

Minho hummed, soft. “Good.”

From behind the T-Rex’s giant head, Han peeked up.

Minho was still smiling at him—like Han was something precious and ridiculous and worth winning carnival prizes for.

Han decided right then and there that he was going to marry this man.

Or at the very least name his next song “T-Rex Boyfriend.”

Probably both.

The line for the “Comet Express” was mercifully short, because apparently most people had sense on a chilly November evening. The eight of them shuffled forward in a tired, sugar-high clump until the attendant started pointing at seats.

“Random pairs, let’s go! Two per car!”

Hyunjin and Felix immediately cheated and linked arms. Jeongin dragged Seungmin forward like a hostage. Changbin and Chan got the front row because Changbin yelled “DIBS” loud enough to scare the attendant.

Which left Han and Minho.

Han’s stomach dropped harder than any rollercoaster ever could.

He tried. God, he tried to look cool as they climbed in. Shoulders back, chin up, legs casually crossed like he rode death coasters for breakfast. He even managed a shaky, “I love drops, honestly,” that came out two octaves higher than intended.

Minho just smiled, buckled in, and rested his hands calmly on the restraint bar like a man who had never been afraid of anything in his life.

The coaster clicked upward. Slowly. Click. Click. Click.

Han’s bravado lasted exactly until the first drop.

The world fell away. His stomach stayed at the top of the hill.

Han screamed. It was not a cool scream. It was a high-pitched, undignified, soul-leaving-body shriek that echoed across the entire park.

His hands flailed in blind panic and landed on the closest solid thing Minho’s left thigh. Hard. Fingers digging in like he was trying to anchor himself to the planet.

Minho startled for half a second, then let out the softest laugh Han had ever heard, warm, fond, not mocking at all. He slid his own hand over Han’s white-knuckled one and squeezed.

“I got you,” he said, calm and steady, right as they plunged into a corkscrew.

Han didn’t let go until the ride shuddered to a stop.

When the restraint bar lifted, Han stumbled out looking like he’d been hit by five successive trucks, then reverse-run-over for good measure. His legs were jelly, his hair was somehow pointing in seventeen directions, and his soul was still somewhere back on the second loop-de-loop.

The rest of the group was already laughing, replaying phone footage, reenacting his scream in multiple keys.

Han just stood there clutching the T-Rex to his chest like a life raft, eyes glassy, breathing shallow.

Chan took one look at him and made an executive decision. “We’re done. Home time. The three of us are taking a taxi—no way we’re fitting on the subway with that dinosaur.”

They said goodbyes in the parking lot. Hyunjin and Felix were staying for the night parade, Jeongin and Seungmin were getting hotteok, Minho was being dragged by the others to one last ride.

Chan hailed a taxi van big enough for the T-Rex. Changbin opened the door and tried to usher Han in.

Han didn’t move.

He was vibrating. Full-body panic mode, eyes wide, knuckles white around the dinosaur’s tiny leather jacket.

“Jisungie?” Chan asked gently. “Come on, into the car.”

Han’s voice came out small and cracked. “I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Changbin’s teasing grin dropped instantly. Chan’s whole posture softened.

“Hey,” Chan said, stepping closer. “Nothing’s wrong with you. Talk to us.”

Han’s eyes welled up without warning. “I grabbed his leg. Like a freaking koala. In front of everyone. And he laughed and I thought it was cute but what if he was laughing at me and now he thinks I’m a coward and I screamed like a banshee and my hand was on his thigh and I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

The tears spilled over.

Changbin’s arms were around him in a second, crushing both Han and the T-Rex in a fierce hug. Chan joined from the other side, rubbing his back in slow circles.

“Listen to me,” Changbin said into Han’s beanie. “He spent twenty minutes and probably fifty thousand won winning you that dinosaur because he wanted to see you smile. He held your hand the entire ride and told you he’s got you. That boy is not laughing at you.”

Chan pulled back just enough to wipe Han’s cheeks with his sleeve. “You’re having a panic attack because you like him so much it’s overwhelming. That’s it. That’s the whole crime. You’re allowed to feel things, Sungie.”

Han hiccuped, clutching the T-Rex tighter. “I’m a mess.”

“Yeah,” Changbin said fondly. “Our mess. Get in the damn taxi, mess.”

They maneuvered him into the back seat, T-Rex taking up two seats on its own. Chan slid in on one side, Changbin on the other, and they let Han lean into Chan’s shoulder the whole ride home, dinosaur head resting in his lap like a therapy animal.

Halfway there, Han whispered, voice hoarse, “He really said ‘I got you’?”

Chan smiled into his hair. “Loud and clear, baby.”

Han closed his eyes, fingers curled into green plush fur, and for the first time all day, he breathed.

The apartment was quiet when the taxi pulled up, city lights flickering through the windows. Chan paid while Changbin wrestled the T-Rex out like it was a drunk friend who’d had too many shots. Han trailed behind, still a little floaty, eyes puffy but calmer.

Inside, the three of them collapsed in the living room. Changbin immediately started replaying the rollercoaster footage on the TV, cackling at his own scream. Chan made them all hot chocolate with extra marshmallows because “emotional damage requires sugar.”

Han sat cross-legged on the carpet, cradling his mug, the T-Rex propped against the couch like a silent fourth roommate.

“So,” he said, voice still raspy, “next 3Racha track… I was thinking something slower. Like… R&B with a trap break in the second verse. Kinda dark and sexy but still soft? I dunno. I’ve got this melody in my head that feels like—” he glanced at the dinosaur, then away, cheeks pink again, “—like someone holding you when you’re scared.”

Chan and Changbin exchanged a look that said a thousand words without saying any.

Changbin just nodded, serious for once. “Write it tonight if it’s in your head. We’ll lay the drums tomorrow.”

Han hummed, finished his cocoa, and stood. “Night, hyungs.”

“Night, Sungie,” Chan called softly. “Door stays cracked if you need us.”

Han gave a tiny wave and disappeared down the hall.

In his room, he flicked on the fairy lights strung over his headboard. The T-Rex took up half the bed, sunglasses glinting, tiny arms splayed like it was waiting for a hug.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Felix 🐥:

new emotional support dino? 🦖💕

Felix 🐥:

[photo of Han mid-scream on the coaster, face pure terror, hand very obviously on Minho’s thigh]

Han stared at it, thumb hovering, then just locked the screen and tossed the phone aside.

He climbed onto the bed, kneeling in front of the plush. The dinosaur stared back, stupid and perfect.

I got you.

The memory hit like a bass drop: Minho’s low voice, the warmth of his palm over Han’s knuckles, the rock-solid muscle of his thigh under Han’s terrified grip. Dancers, right. Of course his thighs were like steel wrapped in silk.

Han’s breath hitched.

He shouldn’t.

He really, really shouldn’t.

But the room was dark except for the fairy lights, the apartment silent, and the memory was too fresh, too warm, too overwhelming.

He shifted forward, straddling one of the T-Rex’s ridiculously thick plush legs. The fur was soft against the bare skin of his inner thighs—he’d changed into loose shorts and an oversized shirt after the taxi.

Just once, he told himself. Just to get it out of my system.

He rocked forward, slow, experimental. The pressure was perfect, plush and forgiving but firm enough to feel something. His forehead dropped to the dinosaur’s fuzzy chest, muffling the tiny, shameful whimper that slipped out.

He pictured Minho’s calm smile on the ride. The way he hadn’t pulled away, had just held on tighter. I got you. I got you. I got you.

Han’s hips moved faster, chasing the friction, breath coming in short, desperate puffs against green fur. His hands clutched the little leather jacket, fingers digging into stitched seams like they were the front of Minho’s hoodie.

He was careful—god, he was so careful—not to make a mess on the dinosaur. Every time he got close he pulled back, thighs trembling, biting his lip until it stung.

It didn’t take long.

He came with a choked sob into the T-Rex’s neck, whole body shaking, hips stuttering against soft plush. The release left him dizzy and empty and still aching.

After, he curled up small on his side, one arm slung over the dinosaur’s belly like it was actually Minho asleep beside him.

His voice cracked in the quiet room.

“I’m so fucked.”

The T-Rex, mercifully, didn’t answer.

[11:22] 🎤 SNU CHAOS FAMILY 🎤

Seungmin:

karaoke tonight 8pm @ Hongdae Golden Mic

Seungmin:

private room booked, unlimited drinks, no escape

Jeongin 🦊:

if you don’t come i’m singing baby shark for 4 hours straight

Changbin:

i’m coming but only if i get to do big naughty by gd

Chan 🐺:

i’m bringing throat coat tea and painkillers

Hyunjin 🌻:

felix and i will be doing duets and making out between verses, you’ve been warned

Felix 🐥:

what he said 😚

Han 🐿️:

…yeah i’m in

A beat.

Lee Minho ^-^:

i’ll come :)

Lee Minho ^-^:

never done karaoke with more than 3 people before

Jeongin 🦊:

WELCOME TO HELL HYUNG

Seungmin:

he’s gonna regret this

Changbin:

LINO-YA PREPARE YOUR EARS

Chan 🐺:

i already feel bad for the staff

Hyunjin 🌻:

MINHO SINGING TROUBLE MAKER WITH ME AND FELIX LET’S GOOOOO

Felix 🐥:

hyunjin no

Hyunjin 🌻: hyunjin

YES

Han 🐿️:

[typing…]

Han 🐿️:

[deleted message]

Han 🐿️:

cool cool cool see you guys there 👍

In the apartment kitchen, Han’s phone slipped out of his hand and clattered into his cereal bowl. Milk splashed everywhere.

Chan looked over from the fridge, eyebrow raised.

“Lee Know’s coming to karaoke,” Han wheezed.

Changbin, mid-protein shake, just started laughing so hard he had to put the blender bottle down.

“Bro you’re gonna die tonight,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Actual death by Lee Minho’s singing voice.”

Han dropped his head onto the table with a dramatic thunk.

“I need an adult.”

“You are an adult,” Chan said, patting his back.

“I need a different adult.”

The private room at Golden Mic smelled like spilled soju and fried chicken. Neon lights flashed purple and pink across eight grown men squeezed onto two leather couches, microphones already sticky, tambourines confiscated from Jeongin twice.

Chan took control of the remote like a dictator.

“Respect your elders. We’re doing 2nd gen or we’re leaving.”

Big Bang → H.O.T. → TVXQ → Super Junior. Changbin screamed “Sorry Sorry” while doing the hand move wrong on purpose. Hyunjin and Felix turned “Mirotic” into a full lap-dance performance. Jeongin attempted the high note in “Haru Haru” and shattered three glasses with the sheer force of failure.

Han, three shots in, decided it was time for anime openings.

He punched in “Gurenge” from Demon Slayer. The first chord hit and he was already standing on the couch, imaginary sword out, screaming “KIMETSU NO YAIBA—” like his life depended on it.

Then Lee Minho stood up beside him.

And started singing.

Perfectly.

Harmony and everything.

Han’s jaw dropped so fast it nearly unhinged. Minho knew every single word, every ad-lib, even did the little “SEKAI NI—” scream flawlessly. When the song ended he just sat back down, took a calm sip of his cass, and said, “Liella’s second season opening is better, fight me.”

Han wheezed. “You—you’re a fucking nerd?!”

Minho shrugged, cat-smile appearing. “I contain multitudes.”

Then Minho took the remote.

He scrolled for a long time. Everyone was yelling suggestions. He ignored them all.

The screen turned red.

Thorn (가시나무) – The Buzz.

The room went dead quiet.

The first verse started and Minho’s voice filled the room—low, raspy, powerful, every note dripping with emotion. He wasn’t even trying to show off; he was just singing like the song lived inside his bones. When he hit the chorus the glass in Han’s hand trembled. By the bridge Han had melted sideways into the couch, eyes huge, mouth open, completely gone.

The final note hung in the air like smoke.

Silence.

Then chaos.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”

“HYUNG WHY ARE YOU HIDING THIS TALENT?!”

“Encore! Encore!”

Minho just laughed, cheeks pink, and bowed dramatically.

Han tried to speak. It came out a squeak.

“Y-your voice is… like… illegal. Like. You should be arrested for being that good. Like. I’m suing you for emotional damage. I’m deceased. I’m a ghost. Your voice murdered me. In a good way. The best way. I mean—”

Soju number four disappeared.

Han kept going.

“Your high notes are prettier than my entire life. How do you breathe?? Do you have extra lungs?? I would sell my kidney to hear you sing lullabies. Actually no I need both kidneys but I’d sell Changbin’s—”

“Hey!” Changbin yelled through laughter.

Minho was staring at him now, eyes soft and amused, head tilted.

Another shot.

Han leaned forward, almost falling off the couch. “I’m serious your voice is like… velvet wrapped in honey wrapped in… in… Lee Minho. That’s it. That’s the description. Lee Minho voice.”

Minho’s smile grew slowly, something warm and knowing flickering behind it.

“You’re cute when you’re drunk, Jisung-ah.”

Han short-circuited.

Jeongin cackled so hard he fell off the couch. Seungmin filmed everything. Hyunjin whispered “told you so” to Felix.

Han didn’t even notice.

He was too busy turning the color of the neon cherry lights, hiding his face in a throw pillow that smelled like fried chicken and destiny.

Minho reached over and gently pried the pillow away, just enough to meet his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, sincerely. “Keep complimenting me. I like it.”

Han made a noise somewhere between a kettle and a dying walrus.

The night was far from over.

[14:47] 🎤 SNU CHAOS FAMILY 🎤

Lee Minho ^-^:

hey everyone

Lee Minho ^-^:

gaming + movie night at my place this Saturday? (nov 29)

Lee Minho ^-^:

bring your PC if you want LAN (i have ethernet everywhere + good setup)

Lee Minho ^-^: or

consoles here - switch, ps5, extra controllers

Lee Minho ^-^: afternoon

gaming sesh, evening movies (pizza/snacks on me)

Lee Minho ^-^: sleepover

cool if it runs late, i live alone + 3 cats so no roommates to bother

Lee Minho ^-^:

3pm start? lmk

[14:48] Jeongin 🦊:

CATS??? HYUNG I’M COMING EARLY

[14:48] Jeongin 🦊:

PC YES LAN VALO OR OVERWATCH

[14:48] Seungmin: 

address? i’ll bring my laptop for osu abuse

[14:49] Hyunjin 🌻:

MINHO’S APARTMENT??? WITH CATS??? FELIX PACK YOUR ALLERGIES

[14:49] Felix 🐥:

i’m good! mario kart on switch + movie cuddles 😍

[14:49] Changbin:

LAN SMASH BROS??? BET. BRINGING MY RIG

[14:50] Chan 🐺:

i’m in! controllers for me + snacks help? (i’ll make brownies)

[14:50] Han 🐿️:

[typing…]

[14:50] Han 🐿️:

yeah!! sounds fun what movies??

[14:51] Lee Minho ^-^:

[address pinned]

Lee Minho ^-^:

movies vote later - horror? action? anime?

Lee Minho ^-^: brownies

sound amazing chan

Han’s phone vibrated off the kitchen counter and straight into his half-eaten ramyeon bowl. Noodles splashed everywhere.

Chan, mid-bite of his own lunch, sighed and fished it out. “Jisung. Again.”

Changbin peeked over from the couch, where he was editing a beat. “Lemme guess. Minho said ‘hi’ and now we need a hazmat team?”

Han snatched the dripping phone, heart hammering like it was trying to escape. Minho’s apartment. Alone. Cats. Gaming. Sleepover.

Sleepover.

His brain supplied unhelpful images: Minho in sweatpants, laughing over a headshot, cats curling up on laps, late-night movies in the dark—

“I need to lie down,” Han wheezed, already backing toward his room.

Chan dried the phone on a towel and handed it back. “You’re gonna survive four days, right?”

“No promises,” Han called faintly, door clicking shut behind him.

Changbin snorted. “We’re buying cat food as a housewarming gift. And a defibrillator for Hannie.”

Chan just shook his head, smiling. “This is gonna be good.”

Han meant to be late.

He always is.

He even set three alarms, planned to leave the apartment at 3:07 so he’d roll in fashionably at 3:25 like the chaotic gremlin everyone expected.

Instead he was standing outside Minho’s door at 2:47 p.m., clutching a bag of peach gummies and cat treats, hair still damp from the shower, heart trying to punch through his ribcage.

He stared at the doorbell like it might bite him.

The universe is evil, he decided, and pressed it.

The door opened almost immediately.

Minho was barefoot, wearing grey sweatpants and a loose black hoodie, hair messy in the most unfair way possible. One orange cat was already weaving between his ankles.

“You’re early,” Minho said, blinking, then smiling like sunrise. “Hi.”

Han’s brain blue-screened.

“Traffic was… good?” he squeaked.

Minho laughed softly and stepped aside. “Come in. You’re the first.”

Han died a little.

The apartment was warm and smelled like vanilla and coffee. Three cats immediately materialized: Soonie (orange), Doongie (also orange and white), and Dori (grey tabby), all demanding tribute. Han knelt to greet them and nearly cried when Dori headbutted his chin.

Minho crouched next to him. “They like you.”

Han made a strangled noise that might have been “cool.”

The others trickled in over the next twenty minutes: Chan with a tray of brownies, Changbin hauling his entire RGB tower like it was a newborn, Jeongin sprinting straight for the cats, Hyunjin and Felix hand-in-hand, Seungmin already plugging in his tablet for osu.

By 3:30 the living room was a war zone of cables, controllers, and cat toys.

They started with Overwatch (PC squad vs console peasants). Han ended up queued with Minho because “someone needs to carry the support,” Changbin had yelled, shoving Han toward Minho’s ridiculously clean battlestation.

Two monitors. Mechanical keyboard. Cat-ear headset.

Han sat down like he was defusing a bomb.

Minho rolled his chair closer, their knees brushing. “We’re duoing Mercy-Moira, okay? I’ll pocket you.”

We.

Han’s soul left his body.

The entire afternoon became a fever dream of Minho casually using “we” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“We got this push.”

“We just wiped them.”

“We’re one fight away from rank-up, Jisung-ah.”

“Nice rez, we’re popping off.”

Every “we” was a direct hit to Han’s nervous system. His palms were sweaty, his aim somehow god-tier because adrenaline had replaced blood in his veins.

At one point they won a 5v5 clutch and Minho spun his chair, grinning wide, and high-fived him so hard their fingers laced for half a second.

Han stared at their hands like he’d been electrocuted.

Minho didn’t let go immediately.

“Good job,” Minho said softly. “We killed it.”

Han’s voice cracked on a whisper. “Yeah. We did.”

Behind them, Jeongin fake-gagged loud enough for the whole room to hear. Changbin started a slow clap that turned into everyone chanting “WE! WE! WE!”

Han hid his flaming face behind Soonie, who had claimed his lap as permanent territory.

Minho just laughed, fond and quiet, and rolled his chair back into place, shoulder brushing Han’s again.

The “we” didn’t stop for the rest of the day.

Han wasn’t sure his heart was going to survive movie night.

The evening settled in soft and lazy.

Pizza boxes were stacked like Jenga on the coffee table, the last slice of pepperoni long gone. The TV played the second Howl’s Moving Castle democratic vote, Felix cried until he won, but most of them were half-asleep anyway.

Blankets and limbs everywhere.

Hyunjin and Felix curled together on one couch like a single entity.

Changbin snoring on the floor with Doongie on his chest.

Jeongin and Seungmin passed out back-to-back on the beanbag, Jeongin’s foot in Seungmin’s face.

Chan dozing upright in the armchair, glasses crooked.

Han had claimed a spot on the thick rug, back against the front of the couch, close enough to Minho’s legs that he could feel the warmth radiating off them. The fairy lights Minho had strung up made everything golden and drowsy.

His neck was starting to ache from looking up at the screen.

A gentle tap on his shoulder.

Minho’s voice, barely above the movie: “Your neck’s gonna kill you tomorrow. Come here.”

Another tap—this time on his own thigh.

Han’s heart stopped, restarted, tripped over itself.

He hesitated exactly 0.8 seconds before scooting backward. Slowly, carefully, he let the side of his head rest against Minho’s sweatpants-clad thigh. The fabric was soft, the muscle underneath firm and warm. Minho’s hand came down almost automatically, fingers threading lightly through Han’s hair like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Han forgot how to breathe for the rest of the movie.

He didn’t even remember falling asleep.

He woke up to sunlight filtering through half-closed blinds and three cats staring at him like he was the intruder.

Soft bed. Not his bed.

Soft blanket pulled up to his chin.

Soft pajamas—black with tiny white cats printed all over them—that were definitely not the jeans and hoodie he’d arrived in.

Han shot upright so fast the cats scattered.

This was Minho’s room. He could tell from the scent alone: vanilla, a hint of cedar, cat fur, and something that was just Minho. Dance trophies on a shelf. A framed poster of Sunghoon’s exhibition program. 

His phone was charging on the nightstand. He lunged for it.

Seungmin 🧋 (07:44)

how was it being Minho’s cat last night 😼

[photo attached: Han completely knocked out, head on Minho’s thigh, Minho’s fingers in his hair, Soonie curled on Han’s lap like a heated donut]

Han made a strangled noise that sent Dori bolting.

Group chat was worse.

Chan 🐺 (07:12)

jisungie you alive?? you didn’t come home

Changbin (07:13)

bro where are you we have leftovers with your name on them

Lee Minho ^-^ (07:20)

he’s at my place, fell asleep during the movie and i didn’t want to wake him up

he’s still sleeping, cats adopted him

i’ll feed him before he goes home don’t worry

Han stared at the messages until the screen blurred.

He was wearing Minho’s pajamas.

He had slept with his head on Minho’s thigh.

Minho had carried him to bed, changed him (oh my god), and let him steal half the mattress while three cats claimed the rest.

His brain was a dial-up tone.

The door creaked open. Minho poked his head in, hair fluffy from sleep, wearing an identical but bigger pair of the cat pajamas.

“Morning,” he whispered, smiling soft. “Pancakes or toast?”

Han opened his mouth.

Only a tiny squeak came out.

Minho’s smile widened, fond and evil. “Pancakes it is. Come out when you’re ready. Soonie already claimed your hoodie as a bed, by the way.”

He disappeared, leaving the door ajar.

Han flopped face-first into the pillow that smelled like Minho and screamed silently.

He was never leaving this apartment.

Ever.

Two weeks later, the group chat erupted again.

Chan 🐺 (09:12)

beach day tomorrow!! yangyang beach, i rented a van

8am pickup, no excuses

Changbin (09:13)

SWIMSUIT MANDATORY. ABS OUT OR YOU’RE WALKING HOME

Jeongin 🦊:

sandcastles sandcastles sandcastles

Han 🐿️:

I’M BRINGING MY PROFESSIONAL BUCKET AND SHOVEL SET

Lee Minho ^-^:

i’ll come :)

Lee Minho ^-^:

someone remind jeongin sunscreen exists

Han spent the entire night packing three different kinds of shovels, a spray bottle “for perfect sand consistency,” and approximately seven hoodies he definitely would not need. He barely slept.

The next morning they piled into the van like a circus act. By the time they reached Yangyang, the sky was bright blue and the sea smelled like salt and summer.

They claimed a huge patch of sand, umbrellas up, coolers down, speaker already blasting 3RACHA’s summer playlist (Han had insisted).

Changing tents were set up. One by one, shirts came off.

Han was busy laying out his sandcastle tools in order of size when Minho stepped out of the tent.

Everything stopped.

Minho was shirtless.

Completely, unfairly, criminally shirtless.

Dancer body on full display: lean, carved lines from years of contemporary and hip-hop, abs defined but not bulky, narrow waist flowing into those lethal dancer hips, long legs in simple black board shorts. And Han’s brain took a screenshot and died zero body hair. Not a single one. Just miles of smooth golden skin catching sunlight like he’d been sculpted by someone who really, really loved their job.

Han’s jaw actually dropped. The plastic shovel in his hand slipped and stabbed the sand.

Minho stretched his arms overhead casually, back muscles flexing, and every thought in Han’s head turned to static.

Error 404: Brain not found.

Felix walked past and waved a hand in front of Han’s face. “Earth to Jisung? You okay, babe?”

Han made a noise. It was not a human noise.

Minho glanced over, noticed Han staring, and smiled—slow, knowing, a little evil.

He padded across the sand barefoot, stopping right in front of Han, close enough that Han could see droplets from his hair sliding down his collarbone.

“Hi,” Minho said softly.

Han’s soul left his body and ascended directly into the seagull-filled sky.

“Sh-shirtless,” Han managed. “You—you’re. Shirtless. Hi. Hello. Body. Wow.”

Minho’s smile widened. He crouched down to Han’s eye level, elbows on his knees, abs doing things that should be illegal in public.

“You’re gonna burn if you keep standing there with your mouth open,” Minho teased. “Want me to put sunscreen on your back later?”

Han’s brain officially blue-screened. The last thing he saw before rebooting was Minho’s hand reaching out to gently close his jaw with two fingers.

From somewhere far away, Jeongin yelled, “HYUNG YOUR GAY IS SHOWING.”

Changbin started a slow clap.

Han dropped his shovel and face-planted straight into the sand.

Best beach day ever.

The others were already shrieking and splashing twenty meters out. Changbin had Jeongin in a fireman carry, threatening to yeet him into the deep end. Chan was trying and failing to stop Felix and Hyunjin from having a very handsy chicken fight on his shoulders. Seungmin was filming everything like a wildlife documentary.

Han stood at the water’s edge, one foot half-buried in wet sand, and realized Minho hadn’t moved from their spot under the umbrella.

Minho was sitting cross-legged on the blanket, sunglasses on, scrolling through his phone while Soonie-shaped cat stickers covered his water bottle. He looked perfectly content to stay dry forever.

Han swallowed, wiped his sweaty palms on his swim trunks, and walked back.

He plopped down beside Minho, leaving a careful thirty-centimetre gap that felt both too big and too small.

“You’re not coming in?” he asked, voice cracking only a little.

Minho glanced up, smile lazy. “Why, you gonna miss me?”

Han’s ears went scarlet.

“I—I mean—everyone’s in there and you—” He gestured helplessly at the ocean like it had personally offended him.

Minho laughed softly. “I don’t swim.”

Han blinked. “Like… at all?”

“Like at all.” Minho set his phone down, stretching his legs out in the sand. “Fell off a boat when I was seven. Wasn’t wearing a life jacket. Got rescued, obviously, but the panic stuck. Deep water and I aren’t friends.”

He said it light, teasing, like it was no big deal, but Han caught the tiny tension at the corner of his mouth.

Han opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Words were hard.

Minho raised an eyebrow. “What about you, sandcastle king? You’re not exactly sprinting into the waves either.”

Han’s brain finally managed one coherent sentence.

“I… don’t know how to swim either,” he blurted.

Minho turned fully toward him, surprised.

“Really?”

Han nodded, picking at a loose thread on his towel. “Never learned. Pools freak me out, ocean freaks me out more. I just—” He gestured vaguely at the sand. “I come to beaches for this. Buckets. Moats. Tiny flags. The important stuff.”

The tension in Minho’s shoulders melted. He smiled, smaller, softer, like Han had just handed him something precious.

“So we’re both allergic to drowning,” Minho said. “Cool.”

Han managed a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Super cool. Very sexy phobia.”

Minho snorted. “The sexiest.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the others scream as Changbin finally launched Jeongin into a wave.

Han’s heart was still racing, but it felt… different now. Less like panic, more like the quiet thrill of shared secrets.

Minho nudged Han’s knee with his own. “Want to build the biggest, most ridiculous sandcastle this beach has ever seen?”

Han’s answering grin was huge. “Only if it has eight towers and a dragon moat.”

“Deal,” Minho said, already reaching for the professional bucket set. “Loser has to bury the winner up to his neck.”

Han squeaked. “That’s evil!”

Minho just winked and handed him the brightest blue shovel.

They spent the next two hours completely dry, side by side, arguing over whether the east wing needed a drawbridge while the rest of the group occasionally yelled “LAND DWELLERS!” from the sea.

Han had never been happier to stay on shore in his life.

The fire crackled low and orange, sparks spiralling up into the black sky. Empty soju bottles and skewer sticks littered the sand around them. Someone had plugged a phone into a portable speaker; soft R&B played while the waves hissed behind them.

Jeongin clapped like an evil camp counsellor. “Truth or dare. Beach edition. No mercy.”

Seungmin spun an empty beer bottle. It landed on Changbin first.

“Truth,” Changbin said, flexing for no reason.

Jeongin grinned. “How many times a week do you jerk off, hyung?”

Changbin didn’t even blink. “Minimum five. Sometimes seven if the gym pumps me up too much.”

Chan choked on his marshmallow. Everyone else screamed.

Spin. Hyunjin.

“Dare,” Hyunjin said immediately, already smug.

Seungmin: “Send Felix the nastiest voice note you can right now. On speaker.”

Felix went pink but nodded eagerly. Hyunjin leaned into his phone, dropped his voice two octaves, and purred a thirty-second string of filth in English that made Felix hide his face in Hyunjin’s neck while the rest of them lost their minds.

Spin. Chan.

“Truth.”

Changbin, revenge glowing in his eyes: “Biggest age gap you’ve ever fantasised about?”

Chan rubbed the back of his neck, laughing. “Uh… like eight years older? There was this one producer—nope, not saying names.”

The circle exploded again.

Spin. Felix.

“Dare,” he said, still flushed.

Jeongin: “Sit in Hyunjin’s lap and feed him a marshmallow. With your mouth.”

They did it without hesitation. Slow, sticky, and way too much tongue. Half the circle pretended to gag, the other half cheered like it was the Olympics.

Spin. Minho.

Minho leaned back on his palms, firelight dancing over his bare collarbones. “Dare.”

Seungmin’s eyes glinted. “Let the person on your left draw something on your abs with chocolate syrup. No wiping it off for three rounds.”

The person on Minho’s left was Han.

Han’s soul left his body for the second time that day.

He was handed a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup with the gravity of a nuclear launch code.

Minho just lifted an eyebrow, silently shifted to give Han better access, and watched him with that tiny, amused smile.

Han’s hands shook so badly he almost wrote his own name by accident. He managed a very wobbly cat face complete with whiskers across Minho’s lower abs. The syrup was cold; Minho’s skin was warm. Han’s fingers brushed the waistband of his shorts exactly once and he nearly combusted.

The circle howled. Minho looked down at the doodle, laughed softly, and left it there.

Spin. Han.

His voice cracked. “T-truth.”

Jeongin, professional menace, didn’t even hesitate. “Kink you’ve never told anyone about. Go.”

Han’s brain went static. Virgin. Virgin. Virgin. Do not say virgin.

He swallowed. “Uh… I guess… praise? Like… being told I’m doing good. Or… being called a good boy. Whatever. Shut up.”

The circle went feral.

“GOOD BOY JISUNG???”

“WHO IS TELLING HIM THAT I JUST WANNA TALK—”

“Hyung is gonna malfunction give him a minute—”

Minho’s head snapped toward Han so fast it was audible. His eyes were wide, dark, unreadable behind the firelight. The chocolate cat on his stomach rose and fell with a slow breath.

Han wanted to drown himself in the cooler.

Spin again. Seungmin.

“Dare.”

Changbin, evil: “Call the last person in your KakaoTalk and moan into the phone for ten seconds.”

It was his mom. Seungmin did it anyway. His mom simply said “eat your veggies” and hung up. Legendary.

Spin. Minho again.

“Truth this time,” he said, voice a little lower than before.

Hyunjin, wiggling eyebrows: “How often do you get off thinking about someone in this circle?”

The air went thick.

Minho didn’t even glance around. He just smiled, slow and sharp, and said, “Often enough that I have to change my sheets more than I’d like to admit.”

Absolute chaos. Everyone screaming, throwing sand, demanding names.

Minho just licked marshmallow off his thumb and never answered who.

Han stared into the fire like it could swallow him whole, praise kink echoing in his skull, chocolate cat whiskers glistening on Minho’s stomach every time he laughed.

Best and worst night of his entire life.

The drive back was quiet.

Chan kept glancing at him in the rear-view mirror, Changbin tried jokes that died in the air, but Han just stared out the window at the dark sea until the city lights swallowed it whole.

The dorm was cold when he pushed the door open.

He didn’t turn on the lights.

He toed off his shoes, dropped his bag, and walked straight to his room like a ghost who already knew where the bed was.

The T-Rex was waiting, exactly where he’d left it two weeks ago: propped against the pillows, sunglasses crooked, tiny arms open like it had been holding his place.

Han crawled onto the mattress fully clothed, curled into a ball, and dragged the dinosaur against his chest so hard the seams creaked. The plush was cool from the empty room; he buried his face in its neck and breathed in dust and the faint ghost of Lotte World cotton candy.

Then the spiral started.

Lee Minho is perfect.

He’s beautiful in a way that makes people stop breathing. He sings like the song was written for his throat alone. He dances like gravity is optional. He wins giant dinosaurs for strangers because he notices things. He says “we” like it’s easy. He let Han fall asleep on his thigh and carried him to bed and changed his clothes and drew chocolate cats on his own stomach and laughed when Han called him sexy and never once looked at him like he was ridiculous.

And Han?

Han is the kid who can’t swim.

Who builds sandcastles because the water terrifies him.

Who screams on rollercoasters and grabs thighs in panic.

Who needs praise like oxygen and blushes when someone says “good boy.”

Who is a twenty-one-year-old virgin who has never even been kissed properly, who jerks off to the memory of a voice and a thigh and a blanket that smelled like someone else’s care.

He clutched the T-Rex tighter until the stuffing shifted under his fingernails.

Minho said he thinks about someone in the circle.

Someone he wants so badly he has to change the sheets.

It’s not me.

It’s never going to be me.

It’s Chan, obviously. Chan is safe and warm and steady and everyone falls a little bit in love with Chan. Or Jeongin—pretty, bright, fearless Jeong-in who makes Minho laugh with his whole body. Maybe even Hyunjin, proximity and history and the fact that Minho has known him for years, even if Hyunjin is glued to Felix.

Anyone but Han.

Han is the joke.

The loud, clumsy, anxious joke who stutters when he’s nervous and cries after he comes and can’t even look at the ocean without his chest closing up.

He would rather die untouched than watch Minho’s face go polite and distant when he realises Han thought—hoped—prayed—

His breath hitched, wet and ugly.

The T-Rex’s sunglasses dug into his cheek.

I’m nothing.

I’m noise on a laptop and sand between someone else’s toes and a virginity I can’t even give away because no one will ever want it.

I’m the kid who gets carried to bed because he’s too pathetic to wake up.

I’m the joke that keeps breathing.

He pressed his face harder into green fur until it hurt.

If I disappear tomorrow no one would notice for days.

Minho would still be perfect.

The world would keep turning.

The sun would keep shining on his collarbones and someone beautiful would get the “I got you” that was never meant for me.

Tears soaked the plush, hot and endless.

He didn’t bother wiping them away.

He just held on to the only thing that had ever been won for him and let the spiral pull him all the way under.

The room had no edges anymore.

Just darkness and the sour smell of unwashed sheets and the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen that never stopped.

Three days had disappeared.

He knew because the light through the blinds had gone from white to orange to black and back again, over and over, like someone was changing channels on the sun and he’d forgotten to look away.

His phone had died sometime on day one.

He hadn’t charged it.

Hadn’t eaten.

Hadn’t showered.

Had barely moved except to drag the T-Rex closer every time the thoughts got too sharp.

The thoughts were sharp now.

Knives.

I should just stop eating.

Then I’d disappear faster.

A week, maybe two, and the bed would forget my shape.

Chan and Changbin would find a new roommate who doesn’t cry after orgasms.

Minho would never have to pretend to be nice to the weird anxious virgin who can’t even swim.

I could open the window and climb out.

It’s only the fourth floor.

Maybe I’d just break enough bones to never have to stand up again.

Maybe I’d be quiet for once.

I’m waste.

I’m oxygen theft.

I’m the punchline no one’s brave enough to say out loud.

He pressed the T-Rex so hard against his mouth that the fabric burned his lips.

If I hold my breath long enough maybe my body will finally get the hint.

The plush was damp.

He didn’t know if it was tears or drool or both.

I’m disgusting.

I’m the kind of disgusting that makes people look away politely.

Minho let me sleep on him because he felt sorry for me.

He changed my clothes because I looked like a child.

He won me a dinosaur because he knew no one else ever would.

I should give it back.

I should burn it.

I should—

His phone lit up on the nightstand, sudden and blinding.

He hadn’t even heard it charge—Chan must have plugged it in sometime when he was too gone to notice.

The screen cracked through the dark like a slap.

Lee Minho ^-^ (19:42)

are you okay?

i haven’t seen you around in days

chan said you’re staying in your room

Another buzz.

Chan hyung 💕 (18:11)

we’ll cover for you with profs

take whatever time you need baby

we love you

The air left Han’s lungs in one ragged, broken sound.

Three days.

He had vanished for three entire days and the world had kept spinning and the only person who had texted him privately—alone, not in the group chat, not as a joke—was Lee Minho.

His hands shook so badly he almost dropped the phone.

Minho noticed.

Minho asked.

Minho cared enough to worry.

The spiral didn’t stop.

It just… paused.

Like someone had hit pause on a horror movie right before the knife came down.

Han stared at the message until the letters blurred.

Then he curled back into the T-Rex, clutching it against his chest like it was the only thing keeping his ribs from caving in, and cried harder than he had in years.

But for the first time in seventy-two hours, the tears tasted like something other than goodbye.

Han stared at Minho’s message for another ten minutes, thumb hovering, heart jack-hammering.

He couldn’t reply yet. Not like this not smelling like three-day-old despair, not with his eyes swollen and his voice gone.

But he needed out of this room.

He needed people who wouldn’t ask the big scary questions, just fill the silence with glitter and nonsense until he could breathe again.

He opened a new chat.

Han 🐿️

hey lixie

is there any chance i could come sleep over tonight?

like old-school sleepover vibes

you + hyunjin if he wants

i just… really need to not be in my room

The reply came in under ten seconds.

Felix 🐥

YES YES YES YES

girly pop sleepover activated!!!!

bring your cutest pyjamas

we’re doing nails (i just got new glitter gels)

watching the bachelor (aussie season obviously)

i baked cupcakes with pink frosting and edible flowers

and i bought us matching diamond painting kits (cat wearing sunglasses obviously)

hyunjin is already blowing up the fairy lights

COME RIGHT NOW I LOVE YOU

Han stared at the screen until his eyes burned in a different way.

Then he laughed one small, wet, cracked sound that felt like the first real breath in days.

He dragged himself out of bed.

Showered until the water ran cold.

Put on the softest duck-print pyjama pants he owned and the hoodie that still smelled faintly like Minho’s fabric softener from the beach trip.

Packed a tiny overnight bag: switch, skincare, the T-Rex’s tiny sunglasses accessory just because.

Before he left he looked at Minho’s message one more time.

Still no idea what to say.

But the black hole in his chest had a tiny pinprick of light now.

Han 🐿️ → Lee Minho ^-^

sorry for disappearing

i’m okay, just needed a reset

talk soon i promise

He hit send, grabbed his bag, and stepped out into the hallway.

The air outside his room tasted different.

Like pink frosting and glitter and second chances.

He pulled out his phone again.

Han 🐿️ → Felix 🐥

on my way

save me a cupcake with the most frosting

and the sparkliest nail polish you have

Felix 🐥

already waiting by the door in my silk robe like a dramatic housewife

hyunjin is fighting the fairy lights

hurry up i miss your face

Han smiled small, tired, but real and closed the apartment door behind him.

One sleepover couldn’t fix everything.

But maybe, just maybe, it could remind him how to start.

The door to Felix and Hyunjin’s apartment swung open before Han could even knock. Fairy lights dripped from every corner, pink and warm, reflecting off a hundred glittery stickers on the fridge. The living room smelled like vanilla cupcakes and the faint eucalyptus of face masks. Some chaotic Australian dating show blared on the TV, and Hyunjin was already in a silk robe, holding two sparkling mimosas like a glamorous host.

Felix took one look at Han’s face and the smile dropped.

“Get in here,” he said softly, pulling Han inside by the sleeve.

Ten minutes later Han was barefoot on the couch, knees pulled to his chest, wearing one of Felix’s oversized hoodies that smelled like coconut and home. Hyunjin had dimmed the lights even more, queued up The Bachelor, and laid out an entire tray of cupcakes with tiny edible flowers. A bowl of popcorn sat untouched.

Felix sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Han, carefully painting his nails the brightest bubblegum pink in the collection. The brush moved in slow, steady strokes.

Han watched the colour spread over his nails and felt his eyes start to sting.

“You’re being very quiet,” Felix said, not looking up. “Even for a sleepover.”

Han tried to laugh. It came out wet.

On screen, some guy was proposing with a helicopter and zero personality. Nobody in the room was watching.

Felix capped the polish, set it aside, and turned fully to face him.

“Jisungie.”

Han’s lip trembled.

The tears came all at once, huge, silent, unstoppable. He folded forward, face in his hands, shoulders shaking so hard the couch creaked.

Felix was on the cushion beside him in a heartbeat, arms around him, pulling Han’s head into his shoulder. Hyunjin paused the TV, crawled over, and wrapped around them both from behind like a protective cocoon.

Han couldn’t stop.

The words fell out between sobs, messy and raw and ugly.

“I’m in love with Minho-hyung,” he choked. “I’m so in love with him it’s killing me and I’ve never even been kissed and I’m twenty-one and I’m pathetic and I’m broken and he’d never— he’d never want someone like me, I’m just the weird loud virgin who can’t even look at the ocean without freaking out and he’s perfect and I’m nothing and I—”

Felix’s arms tightened so hard it almost hurt.

Horror flashed across his face, not at the confession, but at the sheer amount of poison Han had been swallowing alone.

“Stop,” Felix whispered, fierce. “Stop it right now.”

Han couldn’t. The self-hate kept spilling like he’d cracked open something that had been rotting inside him for years.

“I’m disgusting, Lix. I’m worthless. I’m—”

“You are not.” Felix pulled back just enough to cup Han’s wet cheeks, thumbs wiping tears that wouldn’t stop. His own eyes were glassy but steady. “You are not worthless. You are not disgusting. You are kind and talented and funny and so, so loved, Jisung-ah. By all of us. By me. By Chan-hyung. By—”

He stopped himself, but Han heard the unspoken name anyway.

Hyunjin’s chin rested on Han’s shoulder, voice soft against his ear. “Minho-hyung asks about you every single day, you know. Every day you weren’t there, he looked like someone stole his cats.”

Han hiccuped, a broken sound.

Felix’s voice cracked. “You’ve never been kissed? That doesn’t make you less. It makes the person who gets to kiss you first the luckiest bastard on earth.”

Han cried harder.

Felix pulled him back into his chest, rocking gently, hand stroking his hair.

“We’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”

The fairy lights blurred into a pink haze. The Bachelor stayed paused on a frozen helicopter shot. Cupcakes went cold.

Han clung to Felix like a lifeline, sobbing until his throat was raw and his eyes burned and the only thing left was the steady heartbeat under his cheek reminding him he was still here.

Still wanted.

Still allowed to want.

Hyunjin disappeared for a moment while Felix kept stroking Han’s hair, murmuring soft things into the crown of his head. Han’s sobs had quieted into hiccups, face buried in Felix’s hoodie, when Hyunjin came back and tapped Felix’s shoulder with a serious look.

Felix’s eyes widened. He nodded once.

They both stood. Hyunjin grabbed his laptop from the bedroom and came back, sitting on the coffee table directly in front of Han.

Han lifted his head, confused, cheeks blotchy, eyes swollen.

Felix took a slow breath. “This might not be the perfect timing, and you can hate us later if you want, but there’s something you need to know about Minho-hyung before your brain eats itself any more.”

Hyunjin opened the laptop. The screen cast a cold white glow over all three of them.

Felix kept his voice gentle but steady. “A couple of weeks ago at the studio, Minho dropped his wallet after practice. A red card fell out. Not a normal card. A membership card for a very exclusive… place in Gangnam.”

Hyunjin turned the laptop around.

The website was sleek black and crimson. Discreet. Expensive-looking.

At the top, in elegant font:

VELVET ROOM

Seoul’s most exclusive private dungeon

And there, third on the featured dominants list, was the profile photo: half-shadowed, sharp jawline, cat-like eyes. The same face Han saw in his dreams.

Black Cat

Specialties: impact play · sensory deprivation · praise & degradation combinations · pet play · shibari · aftercare focus

Session rate: ₩1,200,000–2,800,000 per hour (by appointment only)

Availability: limited · pre-booking required

Han stared.

Then stared harder.

The world tilted sideways.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“So he… touches people… like that… for money,” he heard himself say, voice flat and hollow.

Something cold and twisted bloomed in his chest, black and barbed.

Felix reached for him, alarmed. “Jisung—”

“That’s the only way he’d ever touch me,” Han whispered.

The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw, ugly, poisonous.

Paid.

Booked.

Out of pity.

The only way someone like Minho would ever put hands on someone like me.

His vision blurred again, but this time the tears felt different—burning, furious, ashamed.

Hyunjin snapped the laptop shut like it had bitten him.

“No,” Felix said fiercely, grabbing both of Han’s hands. “That’s not— Jisung, listen to me. That’s his job. It doesn’t mean that’s the only way he wants to touch people he actually cares about.”

But Han was already spiralling again, the tiny pinprick of light from earlier swallowed whole.

I’m not even worth wanting for free.

Felix and Hyunjin exchanged a horrified look.

Felix pulled Han into his arms again, tighter this time, like he could physically hold the broken pieces together.

“We’re telling you this so you don’t build fairy tales out of half-truths,” he whispered against Han’s hair. “Not so you can weaponise it against yourself.”

Han didn’t answer.

He just curled into Felix’s chest and let the new, uglier thought sink its teeth in and stay.

A month had passed like a slow bruise.

Han went to classes. He laughed at the right times. He brought brownies to movie nights and screamed on cue during horror games. He let Minho ruffle his hair in the cafeteria and pretended his heart didn’t crack every single time those fingers touched him.

No one noticed he was hollow.

Except Felix and Hyunjin.

They had started inviting him over more often, quiet evenings that smelled like vanilla vodka and cupcakes. Han always showed up with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Tonight the three of them were sprawled across Felix’s living room again, fairy lights dimmed to a soft pink, some mindless Netflix reality show droning in the background. Two empty bottles of peach soju sat on the coffee table. Han’s cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy, the kind of drunk where everything feels floaty and honest.

He had his phone in his lap, thumb hovering over the bookmark he’d never deleted.

Velvet Room.

He clicked it before he could talk himself out of it.

The black-and-crimson page loaded. Black Cat’s profile stared back at him, the same photo that had lived behind his eyelids for weeks.

Han let out a tiny, broken laugh.

“I’m gonna do it,” he said, voice slurred and too loud in the quiet room. “I’m gonna book him.”

Felix’s head snapped up from where he was painting Hyunjin’s toenails glittery lilac.

Hyunjin froze, brush in mid-air.

Han kept scrolling, eyes unfocused. “I just… I want him to touch me. Even if it’s fake. Even if it’s just work. At least once. At least I’ll know what it feels like when he says ‘good boy’ and means it, even if he’s paid to.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Felix put the nail polish down very carefully. “Jisungie…”

“I checked,” Han continued, drunkenly determined. “It’s two million eight hundred thousand for an hour. I have… maybe four hundred thousand saved from 3Racha gigs. I’d have to sell my laptop. And my soul. But my soul’s already trash so—”

“Stop.” Hyunjin’s voice was sharp. He closed the laptop gently and pushed it away. “You are not selling anything.”

Han’s lip wobbled. “I just want him to look at me like I’m worth something for one hour. That’s all. I’m so tired of being invisible.”

Felix looked like he was about to cry.

Hyunjin stared at Han for a long second, something fierce and heartbroken in his eyes.

Then he sighed, reached for his phone, and opened his banking app.

“I’ll pay for it,” he said quietly.

Han blinked. “What?”

“I’ll pay. All of it.” Hyunjin didn’t look at him, just typed in the amount like he was ordering coffee. “I have the money. Family sends too much every month anyway. Consider it an early birthday present. Or a late one. Whatever.”

Felix started to protest, but Hyunjin shook his head once, firm.

Han stared, mouth open, drunk brain struggling to process.

“You… you’d do that?”

Hyunjin finally met his eyes. “I’d rather you never step foot in that place, but if this is what you need to stop hating yourself for five goddamn minutes, then yes. I’ll pay.”

Han made a small, wounded noise.

Then the soju hit all at once.

He laughed, high and delirious, tears spilling over at the same time.

“Really? You’re really— I’m gonna— I’m gonna book Black Cat and he’s gonna— oh my god I’m gonna die but I’m so happy right now—”

He launched himself at Hyunjin, nearly knocking him over, hugging him so hard the nail polish bottle tipped and spilled glitter across the rug.

Felix watched them, eyes shining, torn between laughing and crying.

Han was smiling through tears, drunk and shaky and way, way too happy for something that was going to destroy him later.

“Thank you,” he whispered into Hyunjin’s shoulder, voice muffled and wrecked. “Thank you thank you thank you—”

Hyunjin just held him tighter, fingers threaded through Han’s hair, and didn’t say what they were all thinking:

This is going to break his heart even more.

But tonight, Han was glowing.

Tonight, he believed, for one terrifying, drunken moment, that he was finally going to be wanted.

# VELVET ROOM – PRIVATE BOOKING REQUEST

Session with: Black Cat

Requested date: Saturday, 18 Jan (earliest available)

Duration: 2 hours

Rate: ₩5,600,000 (paid in full by H.H.)

Han’s fingers moved too fast, drunk on soju and desperation, the glow of the laptop burning his retinas.

 SECTION 1 – Experience level

☐ First time in a professional setting

☑ Some private exploration

☐ Extensive experience

(He clicked “some private exploration.” A lie. He’s never even been kissed.)

SECTION 2 – Desired dynamics

☑ Praise & worship

☑ Good boy / pet play

☑ Sensory play (blindfolds, headphones, etc.)

☑ Light impact (hands only)

☐ Degradation (he hovered, then left it unchecked – he couldn’t bear hearing it, even paid for)

☑ Collars / leashes

☑ Aftercare mandatory

SECTION 3 – Specific interests / fantasies

He typed with shaking hands:

Want to be told I’m good. Want to be held down gently and told I’m doing well. Want to be called “kitten” or “baby” or “good boy” until I cry from it. Want to be petted and praised while I fall apart. Want to feel owned for two hours. Want to be allowed to be small and safe.

SECTION 4 – Hard limits

Anything that leaves permanent marks

Degradation / humiliation

Anything public

Choking / breath play

Bodily fluids (except tears, apparently)

SECTION 5 – Mental health disclosure

He stared at the box for a long time.

Anxiety, depression (currently severe), panic attacks possible, praise-dependent, touch-starved, possible sub-drop risk.

He deleted it.

Then rewrote a softer version:

Mild anxiety. Very responsive to praise. Lots of aftercare needed please.

SECTION 6 – Aftercare requirements

Cuddling (mandatory)

Water + snacks

Blankets

Hair stroking

Reassurance / verbal affirmation

Please don’t leave right away

He hit submit before he could throw up.

The screen went white.

Then:

VELVET ROOM – BOOKING CONFIRMED

Client ID: #VR-0318-HAN

Dominant: Black Cat

Date: Saturday 18 January, 21:00–23:00

Location: Suite 7 (private, soundproof, en-suite bath)

Payment: Received in full

You will receive a reminder and preparation instructions 48 hours prior.

A second, private email popped up almost instantly, from an unmarked address.

Black Cat – pre-session note

Looking forward to taking care of you, kitten.

Be good for me until then ♡

– B.C.

Han stared at the little heart until the screen blurred.

He laughed, high and brittle, and then curled into Hyunjin’s lap on the floor, drunk and shaking and grinning like he’d won the lottery.

Felix watched him with tears in his eyes and didn’t say a word.

The confirmation was real.

In thirteen days, Lee Minho was going to touch him.

Even if it was only because someone else paid for it.

18 January was a Saturday, but the university studios were open for project work.

Han drifted through the day like a ghost.

He showed up to the music building at 10 a.m. with dark circles under his eyes and a hoodie two sizes too big. His hands shook when he opened his laptop. Every notification made him flinch.

Chan and Changbin were already in the main studio, laying down drums for a new track. They took one look at him and stopped talking.

“Jisung-ah,” Chan said carefully, “you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“I’m fine,” Han answered too quickly. “Just… final project nerves. Deadlines. You know.”

Changbin frowned. “You’ve been ‘fine’ for a month, bro. Sit down before you fall down.”

Han sat, opened a random vocal chain, and stared at it for twenty minutes without moving.

Every time the door opened he jumped, terrified it would be Minho.

It never was.

At 2 p.m. he went to the cafeteria for coffee he didn’t drink. Minho was there, leaning against the counter, laughing with a dance major. He looked relaxed, beautiful, untouchable. When he spotted Han he smiled that soft, crooked smile and waved him over.

“Hey,” Minho said, voice warm. “Haven’t seen you much this week. You okay?”

Han’s throat closed.

“Yeah, just—busy.” He forced a laugh that sounded like breaking glass. “What about you? Any plans tonight?”

Minho’s expression flickered something quick and unreadable then smoothed out.

“Got to leave early today,” he said easily. “Soonie’s been sneezing. Vet appointment at seven, probably gonna take forever.”

Han nodded too fast. “Cool. Cool cool cool. Hope he’s okay.”

Minho tilted his head, eyes searching Han’s face for a second longer than usual.

“You sure you’re good?”

“Super good!” Han chirped, already backing away. “See you later!”

He practically ran.

His last class of the day was contemporary composition, shared with the dance majors. Felix and Hyunjin were both there, sitting in the back row like twin guardians.

Halfway through the lecture, Felix slid a note across the aisle.

Felix ✍️

still okay for tonight?

we can cancel everything, no questions

Hyunjin added underneath in loopy handwriting:

we love you more than any stupid plan

say the word and we delete it all

Han stared at the paper until the words swam.

His phone buzzed in his pocket the Velvet Room reminder he’d set for himself.

20:00 – Suite 7

Do not be late, kitten.

He swallowed hard, scribbled back:

I’m sure.

I need to do this.

Thank you for everything.

Felix read it, bit his lip, and reached over to squeeze Han’s hand once, tight and warm.

Han squeezed back, then turned to the front again, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape before tonight.

Six hours.

Six hours until Lee Minho would put his hands on him for the first and probably only time in his life.

Han stared at the clock on the wall and waited for the second hand to tick him closer to whatever came next.

The building was in a quiet corner of Gangnam, all black glass and no sign. Han gave his client ID at the discreet side entrance. A woman in a tailored suit scanned it, bowed, and led him wordlessly to the elevator.

Seventh floor.

Suite 7.

The hallway was dim, carpet swallowing every footstep. The door opened before he could knock.

Inside was warm, low light, the scent of sandalwood and clean linen. Soft instrumental music played from hidden speakers.

The assistant was petite, hair in a neat bun, voice gentle. “Good evening. I’ll prepare you now. Master Black Cat will enter when you’re ready.”

Han’s legs almost gave out.

She waited while he slipped off his shoes, then helped him out of the required all-white outfit: soft cotton hoodie, loose trousers, even white socks. Everything folded neatly into a basket. The white masquerade mask stayed on, delicate porcelain with silver filigree that covered the top half of his face completely.

Only his white briefs remained.

She guided him to the bed, wide, low, covered in crisp white sheets, leather cuffs already attached to the headboard and footboard with soft white rope.

Han’s heart was deafening.

“Wrists first,” she murmured.

He lifted his arms. The cuffs closed around them with a quiet click, snug but not tight. She checked circulation with two fingers, then moved to his ankles, spreading his legs just enough that the ropes pulled gently when he breathed.

Finally, a strip of white silk blindfold slipped beneath the mask and over his eyes, knotting at the back of his head.

Total darkness.

The last thing he felt was her cool hand brushing his cheek, almost maternal.

“You’re safe,” she whispered. “He’s coming now.”

The door opened.

Closed.

Silence.

Han was shaking, small tremors in his fingers, his thighs, his chest, but his voice didn’t waver when he tested the ropes and found them secure. He felt strangely, terrifyingly brave.

He was tied up, half-naked, blind, anonymous.

And in a few seconds Lee Minho would walk in and see him like this.

Han’s breath hitched.

He waited.

Velvet Room – Staff Wing, 20:35

Minho’s locker clicked shut with the soft finality of routine.

Black combat boots, matte black cargo pants, black silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the thin leather choker he always wore on shift. Hair pushed back with a few deliberate strands left loose. A single silver ring on his right hand (no sharp edges, nothing that could catch on rope or skin).

He checked himself in the mirror once, clinical.

Eyes cold. Shoulders relaxed. Face blank.

Work mode.

On the metal table in front of him he laid everything out in perfect lines:

- sterilized nitrile gloves (black)

- two bottles of water, room temperature

- soft microfibre blanket, pre-warmed

- medical shears (always within reach)

- unscented wipes

- small tin of arnica gel

- noise-cancelling headphones (in case the client needs silence)

- three different blindfolds (he already knew which one was requested)

- a small card with the client’s limits and safewords written in his own neat handwriting

Red / Yellow / Green

No permanent marks

Praise only

Aftercare mandatory

He read it once more, memorised it weeks ago anyway, then slipped the card into his pocket.

The profile had been… interesting.

Heavy on praise, pet play, touch starvation. First professional session. Severe anxiety disclosed even if the client had tried to downplay it. Two hours, full surrender.

Minho exhaled through his nose.

He felt nothing in particular.

Not excitement. Not pity. Not curiosity.

Just the familiar, flat detachment that settled over him like armour the second he walked through the staff door.

A body was waiting in Suite 7.

A nervous first-timer who needed to feel wanted for two hours.

Minho would give that to him perfectly, safely, professionally.

Then he would go home to his cats, microwave leftover jjajangmyeon, and sleep without dreaming.

He pulled on thin black leather gloves, flexed his fingers once, and rolled his shoulders.

The intercom buzzed.

“Suite 7 is prepped. Client is ready, Black Cat.”

Minho’s voice was quiet, steady, already half in scene.

“On my way.”

He didn’t look back at the mirror.

There was nothing left in it that belonged to Lee Minho.

The door opened with a soft click.

Footsteps: slow, deliberate, the quiet thud of boots on carpet.

Han’s breath caught and held.

A low, familiar voice filled the room, smooth and controlled, but stripped of every ounce of warmth Han knew from cafeteria laughter and karaoke nights.

“Good evening, kitten.”

Professional. Calm. Perfectly even.

Han’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard he was sure the ropes shook with it.

“I’m Black Cat. We’re going to go over everything once more before we start, alright?”

A pause. The faint rustle of a card being pulled from a pocket.

“I have your contract here. Limits: no permanent marks, no degradation, praise only, aftercare mandatory. Safewords are Green for good, Yellow for slow down or check-in, Red for full stop and immediate release. You can say them at any time, for any reason, and I will respect them instantly. Repeat them for me, please.”

Han’s throat was sandpaper.

“G-green… Yellow… Red.”

“Good boy.”

The praise slid down his spine like warm honey, even delivered in that cool, detached tone.

Minho stepped closer; Han felt the air shift, smelled faint sandalwood and clean skin.

“First time in a professional setting?”

Han swallowed. Lied through his teeth.

“Y-yeah. But I’m okay.”

A beat of silence.

Minho’s gloved fingertips brushed the inside of Han’s wrist clinical, checking pulse.

“Your heart is racing,” he observed, voice neutral. “That’s normal. We’ll go slow. Tell me right now: colour?”

Han’s voice came out small, but steady.

“Green.”

Another soft hum.

“Alright, kitten. Then we’ll begin.”

The mattress dipped as Minho sat on the edge, close enough that Han could feel the heat of him through the thin layer of his own briefs.

A gloved thumb traced once, feather-light, along Han’s bound wrist.

“Breathe for me.”

Han breathed.

And the session began.

The first pass of the soft leather flogger was barely a whisper across Han’s sternum.

It was meant to be gentle, introductory, the lightest kiss of suede.

But the second it touched skin, something inside Han shattered.

The sensation wasn’t pleasure.

It was every voice that had ever lived in his head screaming at once:

Worthless.

Pathetic.

Unlovable.

Paid for.

Only wanted because someone else bought you.

His body jerked against the ropes like he’d been electrocuted.

A choked, animal sound tore out of his throat raw, ugly, nothing like the pretty tears Black Cat had been expecting.

Then the sobbing started.

Not overwhelmed-in-a-good-way crying.

Not sub-space tears.

Full, violent, hyperventilating panic: chest heaving so hard the cuffs rattled, breath coming in broken, wet gasps, tears soaking the blindfold and the inside of the mask.

Minho dropped the flogger instantly.

“Colour?” His voice was still calm, but sharp now, urgent. “Kitten, give me a colour—”

Han couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t find air.

Minho saw it in less than two seconds: the tremor that wasn’t arousal, the way Han’s head thrashed side-to-side, the blue tinge starting at his lips.

Full drop. Panic attack. Possible dissociation.

Emergency protocol kicked in like a switch flipped.

Minho moved fast, but not frantic.

First, the blindfold: untied and slipped off, still leaving the masquerade mask in place neither of them could be identified, rules were rules even in crisis.

Then the cuffs: one flick of practiced fingers and the quick-release snapped open on every limb. He didn’t pull them off yet, just loosened so Han could move if he needed to.

The warmed blanket appeared from the foot of the bed, draped over Han’s shaking body in one smooth motion.

Minho climbed onto the mattress fully, kneeling between Han’s legs but not touching skin yet.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart, listen to me.”

Voice dropped to the softest register he had, all Dom sharpness gone. “You’re safe. You’re out of the restraints. Nothing is touching you that you don’t want. I’ve got you.”

Han curled into a ball on his side, wrists still loosely circled by open cuffs, sobbing so hard his entire body shook.

Minho grabbed the water bottle, cracked it open, then hesitated he couldn’t remove Han’s mask without permission, and Han was beyond words.

Instead he brought the bottle to Han’s lips through the small gap at the bottom of the porcelain, letting a tiny trickle in.

“Small sips if you can, baby. Just breathe with me.”

He counted out loud, slow and steady.

“In four… hold four… out six… good. Again.”

Minutes bled together.

Gradually, agonisingly, the sobs turned to hiccups, the shaking eased into trembling.

Han’s hands uncurled from the fists they’d been locked in.

Minho never stopped the quiet litany:

“You’re safe. You did nothing wrong. I’m right here. You’re so brave for using your space, kitten. So proud of you.”

When Han finally went limp, exhausted, Minho wrapped the blanket tighter around him and pulled him gently into his lap still fully clothed himself, still gloved, still masked.

He rocked him, slow and steady, one hand stroking through Han’s sweat-damp hair.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, over and over. “I’ve got you.”

The session clock on the wall kept ticking.

But time didn’t matter anymore.

Only the boy in his arms did.

Han This is a continuation of the previous scene -->

Han’s breathing had evened out for a minute, maybe two.

Minho kept rocking him, murmuring soft nonsense, blanket tucked under Han’s chin.

Then the spiral roared back.

Han’s chest seized.

A high, broken whine clawed out of him as his lungs forgot how to work.

He thrashed, fingers scrabbling at the porcelain mask, ripping it off in one frantic yank.

The air still wouldn’t come.

Minho’s arms froze around him.

The face he was looking at, tear-stained, red, terrified, was Han Jisung.

“…Jisung?”

The name cracked out of him, raw, stunned, all professional veneer gone.

Han didn’t hear it.

He was too busy drowning.

Minho’s brain short-circuited for one single second, then instinct took over not Black Cat, not the Dom, just Minho.

He pulled Han in so tight their heartbeats slammed against each other.

“Jisung-ah, baby, breathe, look at me—”

Han’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, tears streaming.

He sobbed into Minho’s chest, words tumbling out between gasps.

“I came here to be used by the man I love, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Minho went completely, terrifyingly still.

Han kept going, voice shredded.

“I’m disgusting, you must hate me, I’m sorry, I just wanted you to touch me even if it was fake, I’m sorry—”

His body gave one last shudder, lungs seizing, and then the panic and exhaustion won.

Han went limp in Minho’s arms, passed out cold.

Minho sat there, frozen, holding Han’s unconscious body against his chest.

The gloves were still on.

The room still smelled like sandalwood.

The clock still ticked.

But everything had just shattered.

Minho’s hands started shaking.

He pressed his forehead to Han’s damp hair, eyes burning, voice breaking into a whisper so quiet it barely existed.

“…You love me?”

No answer.

Just Han’s shallow, uneven breathing and the weight of a truth Minho had never let himself hope for.

Minho pulled the blanket higher, tucked Han’s head under his chin, and held him like he was the only thing left in the world.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, over and over, voice cracking on every word. “I’ve got you, Jisung-ah. I’m not letting go.”

He didn’t move for the rest of the two hours.

He cancelled every other booking for the next month with a single text.

And when Han finally stirred, hours later, Minho was still there mask off, gloves off, eyes red, arms aching, but never once letting go.

The first thing Han heard when he came back to the world was Minho’s voice, trembling, against his temple:

“I could never hate you. Never.”

Ten days.

Ten days of nothing.

The curtains stayed shut.

The light that slipped through the edges turned from winter white to bruise-purple to black, over and over, like a time-lapse of rot.

Han didn’t leave the bed except to crawl to the bathroom or to drink water straight from the tap when the taste in his mouth became unbearable.

The T-Rex sat on the floor where he had thrown it the first night, face-down, like it was ashamed of him too.

Food was a concept that belonged to other people.

There were three instant ramyeon cups on the desk, still sealed.

A half-eaten convenience-store kimbap had grown a new ecosystem in its plastic triangle.

He didn’t care.

His phone stayed face-down on the nightstand, screen cracked from when he’d hurled it at the wall on day two.

He knew what was there without looking.

Group chat: hundreds of messages.

Chan’s soft, worried voice notes.

Changbin’s all-caps threats to break the door down.

Felix’s crying emojis.

Jeongin’s memes that were probably meant to be funny.

And Minho.

Minho, who had definitely texted.

Minho, who had definitely called.

Minho, who had definitely been polite and professional and kind the way you are to someone who just shattered in your paid-for arms.

Han couldn’t bear to see the pity spelled out.

He replayed the scene on loop, every second in perfect, excruciating clarity.

The flogger.

The mask ripping off.

Minho’s voice cracking on his name.

“I could never hate you.”

It wasn’t real.

It was just aftercare.

It’s what you say to a client who just had the worst panic attack in human history.

It’s what you say so they don’t sue or kill themselves or write a bad review.

He’d paid almost six million won to be told he was lovable for two hours, and instead he’d vomited shame all over the one person he wanted to love him back.

He was disgusting.

He was the worst thing that had ever happened to Minho.

He was proof that some people are born broken and no amount of money or rope or praise can fix them.

He kept hearing Minho’s voice trembling, horrified saying his name.

Jisung?

Like he was something unexpected and repulsive that had crawled out from under a rock.

He wanted to die.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly.

Like turning the volume all the way down until even the static disappeared.

He lay on his side, knees to chest, staring at the wall where the paint had a tiny crack shaped like the Han River.

He counted the millimetres it grew every day.

He named it.

He talked to it because it was safer than talking to people.

On day eight he threw up bile because his stomach had nothing left.

On day nine he stopped crying because there were no tears left, just dry, burning sockets.

His phone buzzed again and again until the battery died.

He didn’t charge it.

He didn’t open the curtains.

He didn’t answer the door when someone knocked softly and called his name in a voice that broke in the middle.

He just pulled the blanket over his head and waited for the world to forget he existed.

Ten days of being the ugliest secret Lee Minho had ever been paid to keep.

The group chat had turned into a war room.

[Day 4 – 11:42]

Chan 🐺:

he’s still not answering. i went to the dorm again, knocked for 15 minutes. nothing

Changbin:

i’m about to kick the fucking door in

Jeongin 🦊:

hyung please don’t let him be dead i can’t breathe

Seungmin:

this isn’t normal even for jisung. he disappears but never THIS long

[Day 6 – 02:11]

Chan 🐺:

left food outside his door again. still there in the morning.

Chan 🐺:

voice note left, no reply

Changbin:

i called his mom pretending it was about schedules. she hasn’t heard from him either

[Day 8 – 19:23]

Jeongin 🦊:

felix hyung do you know something???? you’ve been weird since jan 18

Felix 🐥:

…i can’t say anything. please trust me

Hyunjin 🌻: we’re

handling it the way he asked us to. just give him time

Seungmin:

that’s not good enough

Felix and Hyunjin’s private chat was a graveyard of guilt.

Felix → Hyunjin

he hasn’t answered me in four days

i keep seeing him rip that mask off

this is my fault

i never should’ve paid

Hyunjin → Felix

i got the refund yesterday

just a note: “Deep Apologies – BC”

that’s all

he didn’t even take the money

felix i’m going to be sick

In the university parking lot, 3Racha minus one sat in Chan’s car after another failed check-in.

Changbin’s fists were white on the steering wheel.

“He’s scaring me, hyung. This isn’t anxiety. This is… something else.”

Chan’s eyes were red. He kept refreshing the group chat like new messages might magically appear.

Seungmin stood outside the car, arms crossed tight, voice flat but trembling.

“I’ve known Jisung since we were fourteen. He gets bad, but he always lets us in eventually. Ten days of nothing? Something happened. And Felix and Hyunjin know what it is.”

Inside the dance building, Felix sat on the floor of an empty studio, knees to chest, staring at the spot where Minho’s red card had fallen weeks ago.

Hyunjin slid down the mirror next to him.

“We can’t tell them,” Felix whispered. “It’s not our secret to give. Either of them.”

Hyunjin’s voice cracked. “He’s dying in there, Lix.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence while the rest of their friends tore the campus apart looking for a boy who had vanished without ever leaving his room.

And somewhere in Gangnam, Minho cancelled another week of bookings, eyes hollow, cats worriedly meowing at an empty food bowl because their owner hadn’t eaten either.

Ten days of fallout, and no one except two guilty hearts knew why the world had cracked clean in half.

Minho hadn’t slept in ten days.

Not really.

He existed in fragments: feeding the cats, staring at walls, scrubbing his skin raw in the shower until the water went cold, then doing it again.

The night played on loop, every frame carved into him.

The way the boy in the white mask had trembled under the flogger.

The exact second he’d realised the breathing wasn’t arousal, it was terror.

The moment the mask came off and Han Jisung’s devastated face looked back at him.

He should have known.

The height, the shoulders, the way he’d responded to praise from the very first “good boy” weeks earlier in the cafeteria.

The scent of his shampoo when Minho had pulled him close.

He should have recognised him the second he walked into Suite 7.

He’d failed him twice: once by not seeing, once by letting him believe payment was the only way anyone could want him.

He had Han’s number memorised from the group chat years ago, but now it felt like holding a loaded gun.

Minho → Jisung-ah 🐿️

day 1: i’m so sorry. please talk to me

day 2: jisung please just let me know you’re alive

day 4: i cancelled everything. i’m not going back until you’re okay

day 6: you never have to see me again if that’s what you want. just please eat something

day 9: i heard what you said. about loving me.

day 9: i need you to know it’s the same for me. it’s always been the same for me

day 10: i never made a move because i thought you’d be disgusted by what i do. i thought no one could ever want someone with my job. especially not you.

day 10: i was wrong for not telling you. i was wrong for everything.

day 10: please, jisung-ah

No read receipts.

No reply.

Minho sat on the floor of his living room at 3 a.m., back against the couch, Soonie purring anxiously in his lap.

He kept hearing Han’s broken voice over and over.

I came here to be used by the man I love.

Used.

Minho pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars.

He had spent years believing his work made him untouchable in the worst way that anyone who learned what he did would recoil, that real intimacy was a door permanently closed to him.

And the one person he had wanted more than breathing had walked straight into that room thinking the only way to be touched by him was to buy it.

Minho’s chest caved in with a silent, ragged sob.

He had never hated his job until that night.

He had never hated himself more than he did now.

All he wanted was to hold Han, feed him, tell him every soft, stupid thing he’d swallowed for years.

But Han had disappeared, and Minho didn’t know if he even had the right to ask for forgiveness.

So he sat in the dark, cats curled against him like anchors, and waited for a boy who might never want to see him again.

And every minute, the truth clawed deeper:

There was nothing in the world he wanted more than the boy who thought he was unlovable.

And everything he’d done had helped convince him it was true.

Felix had had enough.

He showed up at Minho’s apartment unannounced, eyes red, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

“Get up,” he said the second Minho opened the door. “You’re coming with me.”

Minho didn’t ask questions. He just grabbed his coat and followed.

The drive to the dorm was silent, Felix’s knuckles white on the steering wheel.

When they reached the hallway, Felix stopped in front of Han’s door.

“Chan-hyung and Changbin-hyung are at the studio until eight,” he said, voice low. “That gives us four hours.”

He turned to Minho, exhaustion and guilt and fury all mixed together.

“This is partly your mess. It’s mainly ours Hyunjin’s and mine. But you’re the only one he might still hear. He’s stopped answering everyone. Even me.”

Minho’s throat worked. He nodded once.

Felix left him there.

Minho slid down the door until he was sitting on the cold hallway floor, knees pulled up, forehead pressed to the wood.

Then he started talking.

“Jisung-ah… it’s me.”

A long silence.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I swear on my life I didn’t know. If I had recognised you even for a second I would have stopped everything and carried you out of there myself.”

His voice cracked.

“I keep replaying it and hating myself more every time. You were shaking and I thought it was nerves, not… not terror. I failed you so badly.”

He swallowed hard.

“You’re not disgusting. You’re the opposite of disgusting. You’re the best person I’ve met in years and I noticed you the very first day in the cafeteria. Three months ago. That’s all it took.”

He laughed, wet and broken.

“I didn’t tell you how I felt because I thought you’d run the second you found out what I do for money. Most people do. I told myself I was protecting you. Turns out I was just hurting you worse.”

A pause. He pressed his palm flat against the door like he could reach through it.

“I heard what you said. That you came there… for the man you love.”

His voice dropped to almost nothing.

“I love you too, Jisung-ah. I’ve loved you since you screamed on that rollercoaster and grabbed my leg like it was the only solid thing in the world. I’ve loved you since you let me win you that stupid T-Rex. I’ve loved you every single day and I was too scared to say it.”

Another silence, longer.

“Please eat something. Even a bite. I brought peach yogurt and put it in the fridge out here. It’s the one you like. I’ll sit here until it rots if that’s what it takes.”

He kept talking hours of it.

Apologies.

Memories of good moments.

Soft, stupid confessions he’d never dared say out loud.

How Han’s laugh made his chest hurt in the best way.

How he’d started keeping extra peach gummies in his bag just in case Han showed up.

How the cats already knew Han’s name because Minho said it too much.

His voice got hoarse.

His legs went numb.

He didn’t move.

At some point the sun went down. The hallway light flickered on.

Minho rested his forehead against the door and whispered one more time:

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here until you’re ready. However long it takes.”

Inside, Han was curled on the floor on the other side of the door, knees to chest, silent tears soaking the wood, listening to every word.

He still didn’t open the door.

But for the first time in ten days, he reached for the peach yogurt someone had pushed through the gap hours earlier and held it against his chest like it was proof he hadn’t been completely abandoned.

The door opened only a crack at first, just enough for Minho to see one red-rimmed eye and a sliver of sallow cheek.

Then it widened.

Han looked like he’d been carved out and left hollow. The hoodie once Minho’s own, stolen months ago hung off his shoulders like a tent, collar stretched, sleeves swallowing his hands. His lips were cracked, eyes swollen almost shut, hair greasy and flattened on one side.

The room behind him was dark and thick with the sour, closed-off smell of unwashed sheets and despair.

Han tried to stand in the doorway, but his knees buckled immediately. He folded straight to the floor with a soft, broken sound, too weak to even catch himself.

Minho moved before he could think, stepping inside, closing the door with a quiet click. He hesitated over the lock, then turned it when Han gave the tiniest nod.

He crouched, slid his arms under Han, God, he weighed nothing, and lifted him like he was made of glass. Han’s head lolled against Minho’s shoulder for a second before he realised what was happening and tried to push away, too feeble to manage it.

“No floor,” Minho whispered, voice rough from hours of talking through wood. “Not for you.”

He carried Han the three steps to the bed and laid him down on the unmade sheets. Han immediately curled into himself, knees to chest, face turned into the pillow that still smelled like him.

Minho didn’t sit on the bed. He lowered himself to the floor instead, back against the frame, close enough that Han could feel him there but not crowding.

Silence stretched, heavy and painful.

Then Han spoke, voice shredded and small.

“I knew you’d never want someone like me… the normal way.”

A wet, trembling inhale.

“But you touch people there. You touch strangers. So I thought… if I paid… if I offered all of me… you’d finally…”

His whole body shook with the first sob.

“…you’d finally want me too. Even if it was just pretend. Even if it was only because someone else bought it.”

The sobs turned violent, ripping out of him like they’d been caged for years.

Minho’s hands curled into fists on his thighs, nails digging crescents into his palms.

“I’m so sorry,” Han choked out between gasps. “I’m sorry I’m so broken that the only way I could think to be loved by you was to buy it. I’m sorry I made you see me like that. I’m sorry I’m—”

Minho moved without deciding to, climbing onto the bed, gathering Han against his chest like he could shield him from his own words.

“Stop,” he whispered, fierce and cracking. “Stop apologising for existing.”

Han cried harder, fists clenched in Minho’s shirt, face buried in his neck.

“I’ve wanted you every single day since you sat across from me in that cafeteria,” Minho said against his hair, voice shaking. “Every day. For free. For real. I just thought… I thought if you knew what I did you’d never look at me again.”

Han’s sobs stuttered, confused and wrecked.

“I didn’t recognise you because I never let myself imagine you’d want me back,” Minho continued, the words spilling out raw. “And then you were there, tied up, offering yourself like I was worth paying for, and I almost lost my mind.”

He pulled back just enough to cup Han’s wet, swollen face.

“I don’t want your money. I don’t want anyone’s money. I want you. Exactly like this. Broken, whole, crying, laughing, whatever version of you exists. I want you, Jisung-ah.”

Han stared at him, eyes wide and destroyed and disbelieving.

Minho leaned their foreheads together.

“I’m here. I’m not leaving. And I’m never touching anyone else again if that’s what it takes for you to believe you’re enough.”

Han broke all over again, but this time he fell forward into Minho’s arms instead of away.

Minho held him tight enough to bruise, rocking him gently, whispering apologies and promises into his hair until the sobbing finally, finally started to quiet.

The room still smelled stale.

The curtains were still closed.

But for the first time in ten days, Han wasn’t alone in the dark.

Han’s voice was barely a whisper, cracked and fragile, but he couldn’t stop now.

“I’ve never… kissed anyone,” he mumbled into Minho’s tear-damp shirt. “Never held hands on purpose. Never slept with anyone. Nothing. I’m… completely untouched. I thought that made me even more worthless. Like I was too late, too broken, too much of a child to ever be wanted the real way.”

Minho’s arms tightened, but he stayed silent, letting Han spill.

“When Felix and Hyunjin showed me the Velvet Room page… I thought that was it. That was the best I could ever hope for. Because you touch people there. You make them feel wanted. And I thought… if I paid enough, maybe you’d touch me too. Even if it was fake. Even if it was just your job.”

His breath hitched.

“I thought a stranger’s kindness for two hours was the closest I’d ever get to being loved by you.”

Minho pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes shining, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

Han couldn’t meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry I lied on the form. I’m sorry I made you feel used. I’m sorry I—”

Minho cupped Han’s face gently, thumbs stroking over wet cheeks.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and fierce and trembling with something that sounded like devotion. “You are not broken. You are not late. You are not worthless.”

He leaned in until their foreheads touched again.

“You’ve just been waiting for someone who deserves to be your first everything.”

Han’s breath caught on a sob.

Minho brushed his nose against Han’s, soft, careful, like he was handling something sacred.

“I want to be that person,” he whispered. “If you’ll let me. I want to kiss you when you’re ready. Hold your hand in front of everyone. Fall asleep next to you without a timer or a contract or a mask. I want to show you what it feels like to be wanted truly, completely, for free.”

Han made a tiny, wrecked sound.

Minho smiled, small and trembling and real.

“I’ll wait as long as you need. Days, weeks, months. But when you’re ready, I’m going to give you everything you deserve. Slow, gentle, real. Every first you have left… I want them to be with someone who loves you so much it hurts.”

Han’s hands fisted in Minho’s shirt.

“I want that too,” he breathed, barely audible. “I want you.”

Minho leaned in and pressed the softest, most careful kiss to Han’s forehead lingering, reverent.

“Then you have me,” he whispered against his skin. “All of me. No masks. No money. Just us.”

Han turned his face up, eyes fluttering shut, and for the first time in his life felt the promise of a real kiss waiting patient, certain, and entirely his.

They stayed like that, tangled together on the bed, breathing each other in, while the curtains stayed closed and the world stayed outside.

For now, this was enough.

The front door slammed open at 8:17 p.m.

Chan and Changbin stumbled in, arms full of grocery bags and panic.

They’d been at the studio all day, but every hour stretching longer than the last, both of them pretending to work while checking their phones every thirty seconds.

Then they heard it: low voices coming from Han’s room.

Chan dropped his keys.

Changbin dropped the entire bag of ramyeon cups.

They bolted down the hallway.

“JISUNG?!” Chan’s voice cracked halfway through the name.

They skidded to a stop in front of the closed door, fists already raised to pound, when it opened.

Minho stood there.

Shirt wrinkled, hair a disaster, eyes red-rimmed and exhausted, but calm.

Behind him the room was dim, mercifully, too dark to see much, but Han was clearly on the bed, curled under a blanket, breathing slow.

Minho stepped into the hallway and pulled the door almost shut behind him, leaving only a sliver.

“He’s okay,” Minho said quietly, before either of them could explode. “He’s sleeping now. He’s… he’s been through hell, but he’s safe. I’ve got him.”

Chan’s mouth opened, closed, opened again.

Changbin looked like he was two seconds from either crying or punching something.

Minho didn’t make them ask.

“He’ll be better soon. Not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. I’m staying until he is.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Chan.

Grocery list, written in his neat handwriting:

- peach yogurt (the small cups)

- plain rice porridge packets

- banana milk

- electrolyte drinks (no citrus)

- soft white bread

- honey

- heat patches for stomach cramps

- unscented wet wipes

- new toothbrush (soft bristles)

Chan stared at the list like it was written in another language.

Changbin found his voice first. “You… you’re the reason he disappeared?”

Minho didn’t flinch. “Yes. And I’m the reason he’s coming back. I’m not leaving until he believes he’s worth staying for.”

Something in his tone, raw, exhausted, and utterly certain, made both of them stop.

Chan’s shoulders dropped. He clutched the list tighter.

“We’ll get everything,” he said, voice thick. “Anything he needs.”

Changbin nodded, eyes glassy. “Tell him… tell him we love him. And we’re glad you’re here.”

Minho’s throat bobbed. He gave a small, tired smile.

“I will.”

He stepped back inside, closing the door softly.

Chan and Changbin stood in the hallway for a long moment, listening to the quiet rustle of blankets and the low murmur of Minho’s voice starting again, gentle and endless.

Then they turned, together, and went to buy every single item on the list.

Twice.

Minho sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Han too much.

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing a greasy strand of hair from Han’s forehead. “Can I take care of you for a bit?”

Han blinked up at him, eyes puffy but clearer than before.

“You’ve been in these clothes for… a while,” Minho continued, gentle. “And I can smell myself on you, which means you definitely need a shower.” A tiny, fond smile. “Your teeth deserve freedom too.”

Han’s lips twitched, the ghost of a laugh.

“Chan-hyung and Changbin-hyung are out getting supplies,” Minho added. “They said they love you and they’re glad I’m here. They’ll be gone at least an hour.”

He paused, thumb still stroking Han’s cheek.

“I’d like to help you in the shower. Nothing weird, nothing sexual. Just… let me wash your hair, get you clean, make you feel human again. Is that okay?”

Han stared for a long second, like the concept of being touched gently was foreign.

Then he nodded, small and trusting.

“But,” Minho said, a playful lilt creeping in, “only if you let me strip this bed and throw everything in the washer first. It’s basically a biohazard. I love you, but I have limits.”

The giggle that escaped Han was tiny, watery, and perfect.

“Okay,” Han whispered.

Minho leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Good boy.”

He helped Han sit up slowly, arms steady around his waist when Han swayed. Ten days of barely eating had left him light-headed and shaky.

Minho guided him to the bathroom, flicked on the warm light, started the shower so steam curled up slow and gentle.

He peeled Han’s hoodie off carefully, then the T-shirt underneath, then the sweatpants, every movement deliberate and non-sexual like undressing someone precious after surgery. Han stood there in just his boxers, arms crossed over his stomach, trembling.

Minho stripped his own hoodie and T-shirt too, leaving him in a loose undershirt and joggers.

“Skin-to-skin warmth,” he explained quietly. “It helps with shock. Nothing else.”

Han nodded again.

Minho tested the water temperature with his wrist, adjusted it until it was perfectly warm, then guided Han under the spray.

Han made a small, shocked sound when the water hit him like he’d forgotten what warmth felt like.

Minho stepped in behind him, clothes instantly soaked, and wrapped arms around Han’s waist to steady him.

“Lean on me,” he murmured.

Han did, head falling back against Minho’s shoulder.

Minho reached for the shampoo, worked it gently into Han’s hair, fingers massaging his scalp with slow, careful circles. He rinsed, repeated, then grabbed the conditioner and combed it through with his fingers.

Every touch was reverent.

He washed Han’s back, his arms, his chest nothing lingering, nothing hungry. Just safe, steady hands that said you are precious, you are clean, you are loved.

Han’s eyes fluttered shut. He swayed, boneless.

When Minho reached for the toothbrush he’d found in the cabinet, Han actually laughed a tiny, hiccuping thing as Minho loaded it with toothpaste and held it to his mouth like he was five.

Han brushed, spat, rinsed, then let Minho wipe his face with a warm washcloth.

By the time Minho wrapped him in the biggest, fluffiest towel and carried him back to the bedroom now stripped bare, mattress protector the only thing left, Han was half-asleep against his shoulder.

Minho dressed him in the softest spare pyjamas he could find his own, again, then tucked him into the freshly made bed with new sheets he’d grabbed from the hallway cupboard.

Han caught Minho’s wrist before he could pull away.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice raw.

Minho crawled in behind him, spooning him carefully, arms secure around his waist.

“Sleep,” he murmured into Han’s damp hair. “I’ve got you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Han let out a shaky breath, turned in the circle of Minho’s arms, and buried his face in Minho’s chest.

For the first time in weeks, he believed he was safe.

And he slept.

Han woke slowly, blinking into the soft morning light that someone had let in through half-opened curtains.

The bed was warm, but the space beside him was empty.

For one terrifying second his chest seized he’s gone, he left, it was all temporary, until he smelled it: rice, seaweed soup, the faint sweetness of frying eggs.

He shuffled out of the room in the too-big pyjamas, barefoot, hair sticking up in every direction.

In the living room Changbin was halfway out of the couch, eyes wide, clearly about to launch himself forward with some kind of emotional bear-hug attack.

Minho, standing at the stove, turned and gave Changbin a single, ice-cold stare that said in no uncertain terms: move and you die.

Changbin froze mid-motion, hands raised in surrender, and slowly sat back down like a scolded rottweiler.

Han padded into the kitchen.

Minho was at the stove in one of Chan’s apron, hair tied back with a little clip he must have stolen from Han’s drawer, stirring a pot of 미역국 with quiet concentration. There was rice in the cooker, grilled mackerel on a plate, and a small dish of soy-sauce eggs exactly the way Han liked them.

He looked up when Han appeared in the doorway, and his whole face softened.

“Morning, baby,” he said quietly. “Sit. It’s ready.”

Han sat, dazed, watching Minho plate everything with careful hands and set it in front of him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Chan and Changbin hovered in the background, pretending to be very busy with their phones while sneaking worried glances.

Han took one bite of the soup and started crying silently into the bowl.

Minho just slid into the chair beside him, rubbing slow circles on his back until the tears stopped.

When the plates were almost empty, Minho put his chopsticks down.

He looked nervous actually nervous, fingers twisting in his lap.

“Jisung-ah,” he started, voice low so only Han could hear, “can we… go somewhere today? Just us? There’s something I want to show you.”

His eyes flicked up, uncertain, like he was scared Han would bolt.

Han looked at him at the little clip in his hair, the apron strings, the careful hope on his face and felt something warm uncurl in his chest for the first time in weeks.

“Yes,” he said, small but steady.

Minho’s answering smile was blinding.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and reached over to squeeze Han’s hand once, gentle and reverent, right there in front of everyone.

Chan let out a shaky breath that sounded suspiciously like relief.

Changbin pretended to wipe a speck of dust from his eye.

And Han held on to Minho’s hand like it was the only real thing left in the world.

They took the subway in comfortable silence, Minho’s fingers laced loosely with Han’s the entire ride.

Han kept sneaking glances at him, still half-convinced he’d wake up and this would all disappear.

When they got off at the stop near the university district, Minho led him down a familiar side street.

Han stopped walking.

“The planetarium?” he asked, voice small.

Minho just smiled, a little shy, and tugged him forward.

The lobby was empty. A staff member bowed, handed Minho a keycard, and disappeared.

“I rented the whole dome,” Minho said quietly. “Just us. No crowds, no lights, no pressure.”

Han’s eyes went huge.

Inside the planetarium it was already dark, the massive curved ceiling a deep indigo. They settled into the very centre row, seats reclined all the way back.

The lights dimmed to nothing.

And then the stars came out.

Han’s breath caught audibly.

The galaxy bloomed above them: swirling arms of the Milky Way, the soft glow of nebulae, thousands and thousands of stars.

Han’s inner child detonated.

“That’s Orion—see the belt? And there’s Betelgeuse!” He pointed straight up, voice bubbling with excitement. “It’s a red supergiant, like 700 times the size of the sun, and it’s dying, but when it goes supernova it’ll be brighter than the full moon for weeks—”

He rambled on, constellation after constellation, mythology, distance in light-years, random facts he’d hoarded since middle school.

Minho didn’t say much, just watched him with soft eyes, heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

Han’s voice slowed when the show zoomed in on the constellation Orion.

“Betelgeuse…” he said, softer. “There’s this song—Yuuri’s Betelgeuse. Have you heard it?”

Minho hummed. Of course he had; Han had it on every playlist.

“It’s about someone who feels small and lost,” Han whispered to the ceiling, “and the person they love is this huge, bright, about-to-explode star that still chooses to shine just for them. Even if it burns out someday.”

He laughed, watery. “Stupid, right?”

Minho shifted, reaching across the armrest to find Han’s hand in the dark.

“No,” he said, voice rough. “Listen.”

He turned Han’s face gently toward him, the artificial galaxy painting soft blues and purples over both of them.

“You are my Betelgeuse,” Minho said simply. “You’re the brightest thing I’ve ever seen. You could burn out tomorrow and I’d still spend the rest of my life looking at the place you used to be.”

Han’s breath hitched.

Minho pulled him up, out of the seat, into the open space beneath the dome where the stars swirled overhead.

He wrapped arms around Han from behind, slow and careful, resting his chin on Han’s shoulder.

Han melted back against him, eyes shining with tears and starlight.

Above them, Betelgeuse pulsed red and huge and impossibly far away.

Under it, Minho held him close, warm and solid and real.

“I’ve got you,” Minho whispered into his hair, echoing the words from months ago on a rollercoaster. “And I’m never letting go.”

Han turned in the circle of his arms, buried his face in Minho’s neck, and for the first time in his entire life felt like the universe had decided he was worth shining for.

The stars kept burning.

And so did they.

As the days went by they would text everyday - simple things. 

Monday

Han 🐿️ 09:12

woke up and didn’t cry immediately. that’s… new

Lee Minho ^-^ 09:13

proud of you baby ❤️

Han 🐿️ 09:14

chan-hyung made me eat two eggs. i only gagged once

Lee Minho ^-^ 09:14

progress. i’m cheering

Lee Minho ^-^ 09:15

soonie stole my sock again. proof attached [photo of orange cat with black sock in mouth]

Han 🐿️ 09:16

criminal activity. arrest him immediately

Tuesday

Han 🐿️ 13:47

class was awful. felt like everyone could see the mess inside my head

Lee Minho ^-^ 13:49

they can’t. and even if they could, you’re still the brightest person in any room

Han 🐿️ 13:50

stop being smooth i’m blushing in the hallway

Lee Minho ^-^ 13:50

good. mission accomplished

Lee Minho ^-^ 18:22

doongie learned to open the treat drawer. we have a genius

Han 🐿️ 18:24

send video or it didn’t happen

Lee Minho ^-^ 18:27

[video: grey paw fishing treats out like a vending machine]

Han 🐿️ 18:28

i’m in love with your son

Wednesday

Han 🐿️ 02:11

bad night. keep thinking i don’t deserve good things

Lee Minho ^-^ 02:13

you deserve galaxies jisung-ah

Lee Minho ^-^ 02:14

i’m outside your door with hot chocolate and the hoodie you like. no pressure, just here if you want company

Han 🐿️ 02:19

…coming

Thursday

Han 🐿️ 11:03

i ate a whole sandwich!!

Lee Minho ^-^ 11:04

marry me

Han 🐿️ 11:04

smooth

Lee Minho ^-^ 11:05

i’m serious. sandwich level commitment

Han 🐿️ 16:44

professor gave us a group project. i want to die

Lee Minho ^-^ 16:45

send me the topic i’ll do your part

Han 🐿️ 16:46

you have your own finals??

Lee Minho ^-^ 16:47

don’t care. you rest

Friday

Han 🐿️ 10:22

finished demon slayer s4. i am not okay

Lee Minho ^-^ 10:25

same. tanjiro’s smile should be illegal

Han 🐿️ 10:26

nezuko in the box my heart

Lee Minho ^-^ 10:27

come over tonight? we can cry about it together and i’ll make tteokbokki

Han 🐿️ 10:28

be there at 7

Saturday

Lee Minho ^-^ 00:14

you fell asleep on my chest mid-episode and drooled on my shirt

Lee Minho ^-^ 00:14

i have never been happier

Han 🐿️ 09:33

delete that evidence

Lee Minho ^-^ 09:34

never. it’s my lockscreen now

Han 🐿️ 09:35

HYUNG

Han 🐿️ 19:11

today was a good day. like… actually good

Lee Minho ^-^ 19:12

told you the good days would come back

Lee Minho ^-^ 19:13

i’m proud of you every single minute

Sunday

Lee Minho ^-^ 11:02

jisung-ah

Lee Minho ^-^ 11:02

will you go out with me next sunday?

Lee Minho ^-^ 11:03

like… a real date. just us. dinner, walking, whatever you want

Lee Minho ^-^ 11:03

i’ll wear the sweater you said makes me look soft

Han 🐿️ 11:05

[voice note: high-pitched excited squeak followed by] YES YES YES

Han 🐿️ 11:05

i mean— yes please i would love to

Lee Minho ^-^ 11:06

perfect ❤️

Lee Minho ^-^ 11:06

counting the days, baby

Han spent the rest of Sunday giggling into his pillow and re-reading the chat approximately 47 times.

Wednesday evening, Felix and Hyunjin’s apartment.

Han stood in the doorway clutching a bag of apology cupcakes like a peace offering.

“I’m sorry I turned into a human black hole,” he blurted the second the door opened. “I ghosted you both for weeks and you didn’t deserve that and I hate myself for it and—”

Felix yanked him inside and crushed him in a hug before he could finish.

“Shut up, we love you,” Felix mumbled into his shoulder. Hyunjin joined from the other side, sandwiching Han between them until he squeaked.

They migrated to the living room fairy lights on, cupcakes demolished in record time, and Han spilled everything.

They barely made it to the couch before Han exploded.

“Okay, okay, sit down, I can’t hold it in anymore,” Han said, bouncing on the cushion, cheeks already pink.

Felix flopped cross-legged on the rug, Hyunjin sprawled dramatically beside him. “Spill. Now.”

Han hugged a pillow to his chest like a life jacket.

“He rented the entire planetarium. The WHOLE dome. Just us. And he laid there in the dark and let me infodump about stars for forty minutes straight and didn’t even yawn once.”

Felix squealed so loud the fairy lights flickered. “STOP.”

“I’m not done!” Han’s voice climbed. “He said—listen to this—he said I’m his Betelgeuse. Like the song. That I’m the huge exploding star that still chooses to shine just for him.” He hid his face in the pillow and screamed into it.

Hyunjin clutched his heart. “I’m deceased. This is illegal levels of romance.”

“And every morning,” Han continued, muffled, “I wake up to texts like ‘good morning baby, did you eat yet?’ and ‘tell chan-hyung i said thank you for the eggs’. He learned how I like my eggs, guys. He watched me crack them one time and just memorised it!”

Felix actually rolled backward off the rug. “HE LEARNED YOUR EGG PREFERENCES. THAT’S HUSBAND BEHAVIOUR.”

Han peeked out, eyes shining. “He calls me baby in every other message now. I save screenshots. I have a folder.”

Hyunjin fake-sobbed. “Show us the folder or we’re disowning you.”

Han shoved his phone at them, ears scarlet.

Lee Minho ^-^ 07:22

good morning baby ❤️ eat something or i’m coming over to feed you myself

Lee Minho ^-^ 09:11

thinking about you in my hoodie again. it looks better on you anyway

Lee Minho ^-^ 23:58

sleep tight, my star

Felix made a sound like a dying seal. Hyunjin just stared at the ceiling, whispering “I can’t believe this is real.”

Han pulled the phone back, hugging it to his chest.

“He held me under fake stars and said he’s never letting go. And I think… I think he actually means it.”

Felix tackled him into the couch cushions. “He means it, you idiot!! He’s so gone for you!”

Hyunjin joined the pile, voice muffled in Han’s hair. “Our baby is getting courted by a literal prince. I need to speak to the manager of destiny.”

Han laughed until he cried happy tears into Felix’s hoodie, the sound bright and disbelieving and perfect.

The fairy lights twinkled above them like they were celebrating too.

Then Han went shy.

“Our first real date is Sunday… I’ve never— what do I wear? How do I act? What if I just stand there and vibrate like a nervous chihuahua the whole time?”

Felix clapped his hands like a camp counselor. “Emergency styling session. NOW.”

Two hours later:

Felix had put soft, bouncy waves in Han’s hair with a curling iron “Trust me, this is lethal-level cute”.

Nails trimmed and buffed to a natural, glassy shine with clear gloss Felix’s orders: “He’s gonna want to hold your hand, make them pretty”.

Outfit chosen and laid out on the bed like a museum piece:

cream oversized cardigan (Hyunjin’s) white mock-neck shirt light-wash straight jeans tiny silver star earrings, Felix’s personal collection white sneakers with little doodles Han had drawn months ago

Han stared at himself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the soft, glowing boy looking back.

“I look like a boyfriend,” he whispered.

“You ARE a boyfriend,” Hyunjin corrected.

Felix flopped onto the bed, kicking his feet. “Most important part: be yourself. Minho is already in love with the gremlin who screams about anime and eats peach yogurt at 3 a.m. You don’t need to perform. Just show up as you.”

Han’s eyes went glassy.

“Really?”

Hyunjin booped his nose. “Really. He rented an entire planetarium for you. The boy is gone. You could wear a potato sack and he’d still think you’re the cutest thing on earth.”

Han laughed, wet and relieved.

Felix pulled him down into one last hug.

“Sunday night you’re coming straight back here and telling us every detail,” he demanded.

“Or we’ll hunt you down,” Hyunjin added sweetly.

Han left their apartment with wavy hair, shiny nails, and the kind of fluttering, hopeful nerves he’d never been allowed to have before.

Four more days.

He could do this.

He was going to be Minho’s boyfriend for real.

Sunday morning, 9:47 a.m.

Felix barged into Han’s room with a curling wand in one hand and a bag of hair clips in the other.

“Rise and shine, boyfriend material!”

Hyunjin followed with an entire makeup case. “We’re giving you the softest waves known to mankind and glossy nails that will make Minho-hyung cry.”

Han sat obediently on a stool while Felix sectioned his hair and Hyunjin painted his nails the clearest, prettiest shine.

By 11:30 he looked like a daydream: fluffy waves, glossy lips, cream cardigan slipping off one shoulder, star earrings catching the light.

Chan and Changbin hovered in the hallway pretending not to cry.

At exactly 11:55, a car horn beeped outside.

Minho leaned against a sleek black sedan, wearing the exact soft beige sweater Han had once said made him look “like a warm hug,” hands in his pockets, trying and failing to look casual.

Han practically floated down the stairs.

Minho’s eyes went wide. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Felix yelled from the window, “NO KISSING UNTIL AFTER THE DATE, RULES ARE RULES.”

Han’s entire face went scarlet.

They drove.

And drove.

And kept driving.

Han’s leg started bouncing at the forty-minute mark.

“Hyung… are we going to Busan?”

Minho just smiled mysteriously and changed the playlist to Han’s favorite anime OSTs.

At hour two, Han was vibrating with excitement and mild panic.

“Are we leaving the country? Did you kidnap me? Is this a very romantic crime?”

Minho finally pulled into a tiny side street in Pocheon and parked in front of a building covered in pastel murals of chibi dinosaurs riding spaceships.

A hand-painted sign read:

DINO☆STAR CAFÉ

limited run – one month only

Han screamed.

Actually screamed.

“THIS IS THE POP-UP ANIME CAFÉ THAT SOLD OUT IN THREE MINUTES. HOW—”

“I have connections,” Minho said, smug and soft all at once.

Inside was pure chaos magic:

- pastel booths shaped like meteorites

- waiters in dinosaur onesies

- a menu of character-themed drinks with edible glitter

- a latte machine that prints perfect chibi faces in foam

They got seated in the corner booth under a giant glowing T-Rex wearing headphones.

Han ordered the “GodZilla Mocha” matcha-chocolate swirl with a tiny fondant Godzilla and immediately started rattling off facts at the speed of light.

“Did you know the guy who composed the 1998 Godzilla soundtrack also worked on— oh my god this latte has baby Godzilla foot prints in the foam— anyway the composer—”

Minho just rested his chin in his hand, watching him with heart-eyes.

Han caught himself. “Sorry, I’m talking too much again—”

“I like hearing you,” Minho cut in gently. “Go on.”

So Han kept going.

About Jurassic Park’s incorrect T-Rex vision.

About how the Evangelion OST still makes him cry.

About the exact frame in Your Name where he lost his mind in the theater.

Every time he tried to apologise, Minho repeated, soft and steady:

“I like hearing you. Keep going.”

By the time their second round of drinks arrived a glowing blue “Nebula Milky Way” that changed color when you stirred it, Han’s voice was hoarse from happy infodumping and Minho’s phone was full of candid photos of Han lit up by pastel lights, gesturing wildly with a tiny dinosaur cookie.

Han finally paused, breathless, eyes shining.

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

Minho reached across the table and laced their fingers together, right there in front of the glitter and the chibi T-Rexes.

“Thank you for letting me,” he whispered.

And under the fake stars and real sparkles, their first date tasted like matcha and magic and the kind of love that never has to be paid for.

After the café, Minho drove another ten minutes, humming under his breath, refusing to tell Han where they were going.

He parked outside a tiny shop tucked between a bookstore and a vinyl store. The sign above the door was hand-painted:

“Galaxy Collectibles – Rare & Limited Only”

Han’s eyes went comically wide.

“Hyung… this is the place that gets the exclusive pre-orders…”

Minho just smiled and held the door open.

Inside smelled like new plastic and nostalgia. Shelves were packed with glass cases full of Nendoroids, scale figures, acrylic stands, and glowing display boxes. Soft lo-fi played overhead.

Han immediately drifted toward the back wall like he was magnetized.

And then he froze.

On the center shelf, under soft spotlight, sat a limited-run 1/7 scale figure: T-Rex chan in his little green military outfit from the Godzilla concept collab, only 500 pieces worldwide. The tiny dino even had the microphone and sunglasses.

Han’s mouth actually fell open.

He reached out, reverent, then flipped the tag.

₩1,280,000

His shoulders sagged. He gave the figure one last longing look, fingers brushing the glass, and gently stepped away.

“It’s okay,” he said, too brightly. “I have the regular version at home anyway. This one’s insane money.”

Minho said nothing, just watched him with soft eyes.

They spent another half hour wandering. Han cooed over a tiny Tanjiro & Nezuko set, squealed at a life-size Pochaco, and took seventeen photos of a chubby Godzilla in a scarf.

When Han was distracted trying to decide between two acrylic stands, Minho slipped back to the counter.

He pointed at the T-Rex figure.

“I’ll take that one. Could you wrap it discreetly, please?”

The clerk’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Of course, sir. Gift wrapping?”

Minho nodded. “Something cute. Dinosaurs, maybe?”

Ten minutes later they left the store. Han was clutching a small bag with the two cheap acrylic stands he’d decided on, still babbling happily about the Godzilla scarf.

Minho carried a slightly heavier bag behind his back.

In the car, Han finally noticed.

“What’s that?”

Minho set the bag carefully in the back seat, out of view.

“Nothing,” he said, failing to hide his smile. “Just… something for later.”

Han narrowed his eyes. “Lee Minho.”

Minho leaned over the console and kissed the suspicion right off his mouth, soft and sweet.

“Patience, baby,” he murmured against Han’s lips. “Good boys get surprises.”

Han went bright red and spent the entire drive home trying and failing not to vibrate out of his seat with curiosity.

He had no idea that the limited T-Rex was already his.

The sky was turning lavender when Minho pulled into the tiny parking lot of an old, ivy-covered cinema.

Han frowned. “This place has been closed for years…”

Minho just smiled, took his hand, and led him to the front doors unlocked, lights on, a single employee bowing as they entered.

Inside, the entire theater was empty except for one row in the very center with two seats, a blanket draped over the armrests, and a little table with peach tea and strawberry Pocky.

On the massive screen glowed the title card:

Howl’s Moving Castle Private Screening – Tonight Only

Han’s hands flew to his mouth. “Hyung…”

“I remembered you said this was the movie that made you believe in magic,” Minho said softly. “So I thought your first real date should end with magic.”

They curled up under the blanket, Han tucked against Minho’s side, head on his shoulder. The castle rumbled across the screen, Calcifer flickered, Sophie’s theme swelled, and Han cried quietly through half of it (happy tears this time).

When the credits rolled and the lights came up soft, Han was still clinging to Minho’s arm like he never wanted to let go.

Outside, the little park next to the theater was lit only by fairy lights strung through the trees and the last of the sunset.

Minho stopped under a cherry tree that hadn’t quite bloomed yet and pulled the gift bag from behind his back.

“This is for you,” he said, voice suddenly shy.

Han opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside: the limited T-Rex figure, wrapped in pastel dinosaur paper, tiny sunglasses glinting under the streetlight.

Han stared. Then stared harder. Then looked up at Minho with huge, wet eyes.

“You— you bought it? But it was—”

“You deserve nice things,” Minho whispered, stepping close. He brushed a thumb over Han’s cheek. “You deserve everything.”

Han’s eyes bubbled over. The tears spilled hot and fast down his cheeks.

He reached up with both hands, cupped Minho’s face like he was something sacred, and looked straight at his lips.

“Hyung,” he breathed, voice shaking with wonder and nerves and hope, “will you… will you be my first?”

Minho’s breath caught.

He didn’t answer with words.

He slid one hand to the small of Han’s back, the other gently cradling the nape of his neck, and leaned in slow enough for Han to pull away if he wanted.

Han didn’t.

Their lips met soft, careful, trembling.

It was everything a first kiss should be: warm, a little clumsy, tasting like peach tea and strawberry Pocky and ten thousand unsaid I love yous. Minho angled his head, guiding gently, letting Han feel the shape of it, the rhythm, the safety. Han made the tiniest, sweetest sound and pressed closer, fingers curling into Minho’s sweater like he was anchoring himself to the earth.

When they finally parted, just enough to breathe, Minho rested their foreheads together.

“Was that okay?” he whispered.

Han laughed, wet and radiant.

“That was perfect,” he said, voice cracking. “You’re perfect.”

Minho kissed him again shorter, softer, sealing the promise.

Under the fairy lights and the almost-blooming cherry tree, Han Jisung had his first kiss.

And it was given to him by the boy who had waited his whole life to be someone’s last, best, only.

They stayed there a long time, trading small, slow kisses until the stars came out for real, and Han finally believed down to his bones that he was loved exactly as he was.

Monday morning, 9:12 a.m., arts building hallway

Han was practically skipping, backpack bouncing, cheeks pink even before caffeine.

Felix spotted him first and immediately started screaming.

“LOOK AT HIS FACE. THAT’S A KISSED FACE.”

Hyunjin vaulted over a bench. “DETAILS. NOW.”

Han tried to play it cool and failed spectacularly.

“Okay okay okay, so, we’re in this park, right? Fairy lights, cherry tree, he gives me the limited T-Rex figure—yes the one that costs a kidney—and then he says ‘you deserve everything’ and I just—” Han made grabby hands at his own cheeks. “I asked him to be my first and he—”

Jeongin, passing by with coffee, actually tripped. “YOUR FIRST WHAT.”

Han’s voice went full megaphone. “KISS. MY FIRST KISS. HE KISSED ME. MULTIPLE TIMES. VERY GENTLY. TEN OUT OF TEN.”

Seungmin appeared out of nowhere, deadpan. “We get it, you’ve ascended.”

Changbin rounded the corner, heard the tail end, and yelled down the hallway: “OUR BABY GOT KISSED?!”

Chan, trailing behind with headphones around his neck, started clapping like a proud dad.

Han hid behind Felix but kept grinning like an idiot.

“It was perfect,” he whispered, loud enough for everyone. “He tasted like strawberry Pocky and love and I’m never recovering.”

Felix fake-swooned into Hyunjin’s arms. “We did it, babe. We raised a boyfriend.”

Later that afternoon – University Studio B

Han was alone, headphones on, bouncing in the producer chair, layering what sounded suspiciously like glitter and sunshine over a bright EDM beat.

Chan pushed the door open first, followed by Changbin, Jeongin, and Seungmin.

The four of them froze.

The track playing was… sparkly. Major key. Handclaps. Literal bell sounds. A vocal chop that went “kyaa~!” like an anime girl discovering love.

Changbin blinked. “…Is this… happy music?”

Jeongin whispered, “Did Jisung get body-snatched?”

Seungmin tilted his head. “This isn’t minor-key depression with rain sounds. This is… bubblegum.”

Chan took one look at Han spinning slowly in the chair, cheeks flushed, giant dumb smile and started laughing.

“Someone got kissed,” he announced to the room.

Han yanked the headphones off, not even embarrassed. “I got kissed A LOT. And I am in LOVE and this track is called ‘Betelgeuse Boyfriend’ and it’s going to have a key change that will end careers.”

Changbin threw both hands in the air. “THAT’S OUR BOY!”

Jeongin immediately started beatboxing the sparkliest rhythm he could manage.

Seungmin pulled out his phone to record. “The people need to witness the post-first-kiss Han Jisung glow-up.”

Han just spun faster, laughing so hard he nearly fell off the chair.

“Turn the lights off,” he yelled, “I’m literally sparkling!”

And for the first time in years, the studio filled with the sound of Han producing joy instead of pain.

Love had officially exploded all over his DAW, and nobody in the room was even a little bit mad about it.

Tuesday, 21:17

Private group chat created: “OPERATION BOYFRIEND”

Members: Lee Minho ^-^, Chan 🐺, Changbin, Felix 🐥, Hyunjin 🌻, Seungmin, Jeongin 🦊

(Han deliberately NOT added)

Lee Minho ^-^ 21:17

emergency meeting tomorrow 8 a.m. dance studio 3

please come, it’s about jisung

do NOT tell him

Jeongin 🦊 21:18

HYUNG IS HE OKAY

Changbin 21:18

i’m bringing my fists what happened

Chan 🐺 21:19

we’re all coming. breathe.

Wednesday 8:00 a.m. – empty dance studio

Everyone burst in at once, panic on full blast.

Chan: “Where is he? Is he hurt?”

Changbin: “Who do I fight?”

Jeongin: “I brought snacks for emotional support but I’m ready to cry.”

Seungmin: “Talk. Now.”

Minho stood in the center, hands raised.

Minho: “First, he’s okay. Second, I need your help. Third… I quit the Velvet Room last week. For good.”

Dead silence.

Changbin: “…the what room?”

Jeongin: “Velvet what?”

Chan: “Context, please.”

Felix and Hyunjin exchanged the most guilty look in history.

Minho took a deep breath.

Minho: “I used to work part-time as a professional dom in Gangnam. Very exclusive place. Red card, black mask, the whole thing. Han… found out. Not in a good way. Long story short: he booked me thinking that was the only way I’d ever touch him.”

Everyone’s faces went on a journey: confusion → horror → understanding → rage → heartbreak.

Seungmin: “Wait. The ten-day disappearance…?”

Minho nodded, voice cracking. “He thought he had to pay to be loved by me. I didn’t recognise him until he ripped the mask off mid-panic-attack. I’ve never hated myself more.”

Chan’s eyes were wet. “Minho…”

Minho held up a hand. “I resigned the same night. Burned the card. Done. Forever. I never want him to doubt again that he’s enough.”

Hyunjin whispered, “That’s why you refunded everything…”

Minho: “I don’t want a single won that isn’t from making him happy the normal way.”

Jeongin was openly crying now. “Hyung…”

Minho straightened, cheeks pink.

Minho: “Which brings me to why you’re here. Spring is coming. Cherry blossoms will be perfect in two weeks. I want to ask him to be my boyfriend. Officially. Properly. With zero room for doubt. And I need you idiots to help me make it perfect.”

Immediate chaos.

Changbin: “I’M PLANNING THE PICNIC.”

Felix: “DAWN PICNIC. BLANKETS. FAIRY LIGHTS. STRAWBERRIES.”

Hyunjin: “I’m doing calligraphy on the note and designing matching bracelets.”

Seungmin: “I’ll handle the playlist. Soft, emotional, but not corny.”

Jeongin: “I’ll scout the exact best cherry-blossom tunnel on campus.”

Chan: “I’ll bring my guitar for background music. And tissues. We’re all gonna cry.”

Minho looked around at these seven chaotic disasters who loved Han as much as he did and felt his eyes sting.

Minho: “The plan so far:

- Dawn picnic under the big cherry tree by the lake

- Matching bracelets (silver chain + tiny star charm)

- Hand-written letter (I’m terrified but I’m doing it)

- I get on one knee (not proposing, just boyfriend-ing very dramatically)

- And I ask him to be mine while petals fall like a drama.”

Felix started jumping. “It’s going to be the most disgustingly romantic thing this university has ever seen.”

Hyunjin: “I’m already designing the bracelets. One star for him, one cat for you.”

Changbin flexed. “I’m carrying the picnic basket like a manservant.”

Seungmin: “I’m writing the setlist right now. Title track: ‘Betelgeuse’ by Yuuri, obviously.”

Jeongin: “I’m bringing a polaroid camera so we can hide in the bushes and cry-document it.”

Chan put a hand on Minho’s shoulder, voice thick.

Chan: “You’re doing this right, Minho. He’s never going to doubt again.”

Minho swallowed hard.

Minho: “I just want him to know he never has to pay for love. Not one more won. Not one more second of feeling like he’s not enough.”

Felix wiped his eyes. “Operation Official Boyfriend is a go. We ride at dawn in two weeks.”

Minho laughed, wet and shaky.

Minho: “Thank you. All of you.”

Changbin punched his arm gently. “That’s our little brother. We’re locking you down properly.”

Seungmin smirked. “Also we need to make sure the proposal—I mean boyfriend-posal—is so embarrassing he’ll never forget it.”

Minho smiled, soft and determined.

Minho: “I want him to remember it for the rest of his life.”

Everyone put their hands in the middle like the cheesiest team on earth.

All together: “FOR JISUNG!”

The plan was set.

Fourteen days until cherry blossoms, dawn, and the moment Han Jisung would finally, officially, undeniably become Lee Minho’s boyfriend.

And the entire friend group was going to make it legendary.

For twelve days Han had been living inside a tiny, anxious bubble.

Minho’s texts, once warm and constant, had turned… polite. Short.

“Good morning.”

“Eat well.”

“Sleep tight.”

No “baby,” no heart emojis, no voice notes that made Han’s stomach flip.

Even the group chat felt weird; everyone suddenly “busy,” answering in single emojis, changing topics when he asked what was wrong.

By day 10 Han was spiralling again.

He stopped eating peach yogurt because it hurt too much.

He stared at his phone at 2 a.m. wondering if the planetarium and the first kiss had all been a dream that Minho had woken up from.

Day 12 – Saturday night

Lee Minho ^-^ 23:47

sunday i’m picking you up at 5:30 a.m.

i have a surprise for you

dress warm, it’ll still be cold

Han stared at the message until the screen went dark.

No pet name. No emoji.

But a surprise.

He didn’t sleep.

Sunday 5:27 a.m.

Minho’s car rolled up exactly on time.

He got out, walked around, and opened the passenger door without a word.

Han climbed in, clutching his biggest hoodie like armor.

The drive was quiet, just soft music and the sound of Han’s heart trying to punch through his ribs.

After forty minutes Minho turned onto a narrow path Han had never noticed before; it led to the university’s old cherry-blossom avenue, the one that blooms earliest and most dramatically.

At this hour it was completely empty, still half-asleep, the sky a pale lavender.

Minho parked, grabbed a huge picnic basket and a thick blanket from the trunk, and offered his hand.

Han took it, confused and trembling.

They walked until the path opened into a tunnel of cherry trees, branches heavy with pale-pink blossoms, petals already drifting in the dawn breeze.

Minho spread the blanket right in the center, set out a thermos of hot chocolate, kimbap cut into hearts, strawberry sandwiches, and a tiny peach yogurt with Han’s name written on the lid in Sharpie.

Han’s eyes filled instantly.

Minho sat, tugged Han down beside him, and wrapped the blanket around both of them.

Then he finally spoke, voice soft and careful.

“I’m sorry I went quiet. I was planning this with the others and I’m terrible at lying to you. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Han let out a watery laugh. “I thought you were pulling away.”

Minho’s arms tightened around him. “Never. I was just trying to make this perfect.”

They ate slowly, feeding each other strawberries, watching the sky turn pink to match the trees. Petals floated down like snow, catching in Han’s hair.

Minho brushed them out gently, over and over, until Han was practically in his lap, cocooned in blanket and arms and warmth.

The sun rose higher, turning everything golden.

Minho pressed a kiss to Han’s temple.

“Cold?”

Han shook his head, burrowing closer.

“Good,” Minho whispered. “Because I’m not letting go for a while.”

They stayed like that; cuddled under the blanket, sharing quiet laughter and soft kisses, cherry blossoms raining gently around them, until the rest of the world started waking up.

Han had never felt more cherished in his life.

He had no idea that in exactly thirty minutes the rest of their friends would be hiding behind trees with cameras and tissues, waiting for the signal for the real surprise.

The sun was fully up now, the cherry-blossom tunnel glowing soft pink and gold.

Minho shifted, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a small wooden box.

Han blinked. “Another surprise?”

Minho laughed, nervous and soft. “The last one, I promise.”

He stood, took one step back, and slowly lowered himself to one knee right there on the blanket, petals settling on his shoulders like confetti.

Han’s hands flew to his mouth.

Minho opened the box.

Inside were two delicate silver chain bracelets.

One had a tiny green T-Rex charm wearing sunglasses.

The other had a sleek black cat with a little silver star dangling from its collar.

Hyunjin had swapped the original design at the last second when Minho panicked that plain stars weren’t “them” enough.

Minho’s voice shook, but his eyes never left Han’s.

“Han Jisung…

You are the brightest, kindest, most magical person I’ve ever met.

You turn my worst days into light and my quiet days into songs.

I don’t want another sunrise, another cherry-blossom season, another anything without you by my side, officially, loudly, proudly.

So…”

He lifted the box higher.

“Will you be my boyfriend?”

Han didn’t even let him finish the sentence.

“YES!” he sobbed, launching himself forward so hard he tackled Minho straight onto the blanket.

They landed in a pile of petals and laughter and tears, Han crying into Minho’s neck, nodding over and over.

“Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes—”

From behind literally every tree, seven chaotic disasters exploded out of hiding.

“NOW!” Jeongin screamed.

Cameras clicked like paparazzi.

Felix and Hyunjin were openly wailing.

Changbin was jumping up and down yelling “THAT’S MY LITTLE BROTHER!”

Chan had his guitar out and immediately started playing a triumphant rendition of the Howl’s Moving Castle theme.

Seungmin was live-streaming to the group chat titled “THEY’RE OFFICIAL.”

Minho sat up, Han still clinging to him like a koala, and laughed through his own tears as their friends swarmed.

Bracelets were fastened T-Rex on Han, black cat on Minho, petals thrown like rice, hugs administered in bulk.

Chan ruffled both their hair. “You two are disgustingly perfect.”

Felix hung off Han’s back. “You’re not allowed to break up EVER. We have photographic evidence now.”

Hyunjin wiped his eyes. “The bracelets were my idea. You’re welcome.”

Jeongin shoved a polaroid into Han’s hand them mid-tackle, petals everywhere, Minho’s smile blinding.

Changbin flexed. “I carried the picnic basket. I claim partial credit.”

Seungmin deadpanned, “I made the playlist that will now play at your wedding.”

Minho stood, pulling Han with him, arms wrapped securely around his waist.

“Thank you,” he told everyone, voice thick. “Now get lost. He’s officially my boyfriend and I’m taking him on our first date as a couple. Alone.”

The group whooped, threw more petals, and finally reluctantly scattered, still crying and taking photos.

Han looked up at Minho, eyes puffy, nose red, smile so bright it could power the city.

“Boyfriend,” he whispered, testing the word.

Minho leaned down and kissed him soft and slow under the falling blossoms.

“Boyfriend,” he whispered back.

And hand in hand, bracelets glinting, they walked off into the rest of their first official day together, while their friends screamed happy tears all the way back to campus.

They were official.

Finally.

Completely.

Perfectly.

The apartment smelled like garlic and gochujang before Han even stepped inside. Lee Know had left the door cracked open on purpose, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway like an invitation. Han hesitated for half a second—still not used to the idea that someone was waiting for him—then pushed it open.

Lee Know was at the stove, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair tied back with one of Han’s own scrunchies the black one with tiny moons on it that Han had lost weeks ago. He didn’t turn around right away, just stirred whatever was sizzling in the pan and said, casual as anything, “Close the door, baby, you’re letting the cold in.”

Baby.

Han’s heart did something ridiculous, like it tripped over itself. He shut the door softer than necessary.

“You didn’t have to cancel the reservation,” Han mumbled, toeing off his shoes. “That place was impossible to get into.”

“I wanted impossible at home,” Lee Know answered. He glanced over his shoulder then, eyes soft in the low light, and the small smile he gave Han was so unguarded it felt illegal. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Han echoed, suddenly shy.

Lee Know turned the burner down and crossed the kitchen in three strides. He didn’t ask before cupping Han’s face and kissing him—slow, deliberate, like he’d been thinking about doing exactly this since the moment Han texted I’m outside. When he pulled back, his thumbs brushed Han’s cheeks.

“You looked overwhelmed at the restaurant,” he said quietly. “Didn’t want our first date to be somewhere you had to pretend to be comfortable.”

Han swallowed. “I wasn’t pretending—”

“You were counting the exits,” Lee Know said, not accusing, just knowing. “I pay attention.”

Something warm and terrifying bloomed in Han’s chest. He tried to play it off. “Stalker.”

“Only for you.” Lee Know kissed his forehead, then turned back to the stove like he hadn’t just rewired Han’s entire nervous system. “Sit. Five minutes and dinner’s done.”

Han drifted to the couch instead, sinking into the corner that already smelled like Lee Know’s cologne. There were fairy lights strung along the bookshelf—new. A stack of Han’s favorite movies on the coffee table—also new. The throw blanket draped over the back of the couch was the soft one Han always stole during practice.

Everything was deliberate. Everything was for him.

Lee Know brought over two bowls of tteokbokki so red it looked lethal, topped with melted cheese and a perfect soft-boiled egg. He set them down, then disappeared for a second, coming back with a bottle of peach soju and two glasses.

Han stared at the spread. “When did you even learn how to make this?”

“I’ve been practicing for three weeks,” Lee Know said, sitting close enough that their thighs pressed together. “You said once that your mom’s tteokbokki makes you cry happy tears. Figured I should aim for that.”

Han’s throat closed. He picked up his chopsticks just to have something to do with his hands.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, some old Studio Ghibli movie starting in the background—Han hadn’t even picked it, Lee Know just knew. Halfway through the meal, Lee Know reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He set it on the table between them without a word.

Han glanced down. Official letterhead. Velvet Room logo in the corner.

His heart stopped.

“No,” he whispered.

Lee Know nudged it closer. “Read it.”

Han’s hands shook as he unfolded it. Effective immediately… resignation accepted… we wish you the best…

He read it three times before the words actually sank in. Then he looked up, eyes already glassy.

“You really did it.”

“I told you I would.” Lee Know’s voice was steady, but his fingers found Han’s and squeezed tight. “I’m done. No more late nights that aren’t with you. No more excuses.”

Han made a sound—half laugh, half sob—and launched himself across the couch. Lee Know caught him easily, letting Han straddle his lap and cling like a koala. The letter fluttered to the floor, forgotten.

“You’re really mine now,” Han mumbled into Lee Know’s neck, voice cracking. “Like—actually mine.”

“I was always yours,” Lee Know said against his temple. “Just getting the paperwork to agree.”

Han pulled back just enough to kiss him—messy, desperate, tasting like spice and peach soju. Lee Know kissed back like he’d been waiting years instead of weeks, hands sliding up Han’s back to hold him closer.

When they broke apart, foreheads still touching, Han whispered, “I believe you now.”

Lee Know smiled—small, real, and utterly wrecked. “Good. Took you long enough.”

Han laughed wetly and kissed him again, softer this time. On the TV, Totoro was flying through the sky, but neither of them were watching anymore.

They had all the time in the world now.

The credits rolled on their second movie, the room dim except for the soft amber glow of the fairy lights and the flicker of the TV menu. Han was half-draped across Lee Know’s chest, one leg hooked over his thigh, fingers idly tracing the line of Lee Know’s collarbone where his shirt had slipped open. The tteokbokki bowls were long abandoned on the coffee table, the peach soju bottle empty beside them.

Han tilted his head up.

Lee Know was looking down at him already, eyes half-lidded, lips parted just enough that Han could see the tip of his tongue resting against his teeth. The light caught on the sharp line of his cheekbone, the soft curve of his mouth, the faint flush high on his cheeks from the alcohol and the warmth of their bodies pressed together.

He was beautiful. Not in the distant, untouchable way Han had always thought of him before back when Lee Know was just the cool, terrifying hyung who danced like sin and never let anyone close. No. Right now he was soft, open, real. His hand was resting on Han’s lower back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles that sent sparks skittering across Han’s skin.

This is it, Han thought, sudden and certain.

Tonight. I want it to be tonight.

His heart started pounding so hard he was sure Lee Know could feel it. He swallowed, then leaned up to kiss him slow, tentative, asking.

Lee Know answered instantly, hand sliding up to cradle the back of Han’s neck, deepening the kiss with that quiet confidence that always made Han dizzy. When they pulled apart, Lee Know’s eyes searched his face.

“You okay?” he murmured.

Han nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. “I want—” His voice cracked. He tried again, quieter. “I want you. Tonight. Like… all of you.”

Lee Know went very still. Han could feel the moment the words registered the way Lee Know’s fingers tightened on his hip, the sharp inhale against Han’s lips.

“Jisung-ah,” Lee Know said, voice rough. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” Han’s hands were trembling now, but he didn’t hide it. He pressed them flat against Lee Know’s chest, feeling the wild thump of his heart. “I trust you. I want it to be you.”

Lee Know exhaled shakily, then kissed him again deeper this time, hungrier. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.

“Then let me take care of you,” he whispered.

He stood, lifting Han with him like he weighed nothing, arms strong under Han’s thighs. Han wrapped his legs around Lee Know’s waist on instinct, arms around his neck, and let himself be carried to the bedroom.

The bed was already turned down Lee Know had planned for everything, apparently. He laid Han down gently, following him down until Han was on his back, Lee Know braced above him on his forearms. The fairy lights from the living room spilled faintly through the open door, painting gold across Lee Know’s skin.

Lee Know kissed him slow and thorough, like he was memorizing the shape of Han’s mouth. Then his lips moved down Han’s jaw, the sensitive spot beneath his ear that made Han gasp, the hollow of his throat. Every touch was deliberate, reverent.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” Lee Know said against his collarbone. “Any time. Okay?”

Han nodded frantically. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Clothes came off in pieces slow enough that Han never felt rushed, fast enough that the need built like a slow-burning fire. Lee Know peeled Han’s hoodie off first, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin like he was worshiping it. When Han’s shirt followed, Lee Know paused, eyes roaming over him with something like awe.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, and Han believed him.

When Lee Know’s own shirt came off, Han’s hands shook as he traced the lines of muscle, the faint scars, the warmth of skin he’d only ever stolen glances at before. Lee Know let him explore, breathing unsteady, until Han’s fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans.

They undressed the rest of the way together awkward laughs when socks got stuck, soft kisses pressed to quiet the nerves. When they were both finally bare, Lee Know pulled Han close, skin to skin, chest to chest, and just held him for a long moment.

Han could feel Lee Know hard against his hip, could feel his own arousal throbbing between them, but there was no hurry. Just the two of them breathing together.

“I’ve got you,” Lee Know whispered into his hair. “I’ve got you.”

He reached for the lube and condom on the nightstand Han hadn’t even noticed them there earlier and warmed the lube between his fingers before guiding Han’s knees apart gently. Han’s breath hitched as cool fingers circled him, slow and careful.

The first breach was strange pressure, a slight burn, but Lee Know kissed him through it, murmuring praise against his lips. “Relax for me, baby. Just breathe. You’re doing so well.”

Han clung to him, burying his face in Lee Know’s neck as one finger became two, scissoring gently, stretching him open with patience that felt like love. Every time Han tensed, Lee Know stopped, kissed his temple, his eyelids, the corner of his mouth, until Han was pushing back against his hand, needy little sounds spilling out that he couldn’t hold in.

When Lee Know finally pressed three fingers in, curling them just right, Han cried out sharp, shocked pleasure that made his whole body arch off the bed.

“There?” Lee Know asked, voice wrecked.

Han could only nod, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from how good it felt.

Lee Know worked him open until Han was trembling, begging in broken whispers please, hyung, I’m ready, please—. Only then did he roll on the condom, slicking himself generously. He lined up, pausing to look Han in the eyes.

“Tell me again,” he said.

“I want you,” Han said, clear and steady despite the tremor in his limbs. “I love you.”

Lee Know’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, like the words physically hit him. When he opened them again, they were wet.

“I love you too,” he said, and pushed in.

The stretch was intense bigger than fingers, hotter, overwhelming. Han’s breath caught, nails digging into Lee Know’s shoulders. Lee Know froze, buried only partway, kissing Han’s tears away.

“Breathe, Jisung-ah. I’ve got you. Look at me.”

Han forced his eyes open. Lee Know was shaking with the effort of holding still, forehead pressed to Han’s, whispering love over and over like a prayer.

Slowly, so slowly, Han relaxed around him. The burn faded into something else fullness, connection, a pleasure so deep it felt like it was rewriting his bones. He rocked his hips experimentally, and they both moaned.

“Okay?” Lee Know asked through gritted teeth.

“Move,” Han whispered. “Please move.”

Lee Know did slow, dragging thrusts at first, watching Han’s face for any sign of pain. But there was none now, only pleasure building in waves. Han wrapped his legs higher around Lee Know’s waist, pulling him deeper, and Lee Know’s control snapped just a little.

The pace built gradually deep, steady strokes that hit that spot inside Han every time until he was sobbing into Lee Know’s mouth, hands scrabbling at his back. Lee Know reached between them, wrapping a hand around Han’s leaking cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispered against Han’s lips. “Let me see you.”

Han shattered back bowing off the bed, vision whiting out, a broken cry tearing from his throat as he came untouched between them, pulsing over Lee Know’s fist and his own stomach. The clench of Han’s body dragged Lee Know over the edge with him; he buried himself deep and came with a low, wrecked groan, hips stuttering, arms trembling as he held himself above Han.

They stayed like that for a long moment Lee Know still inside him, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in. Eventually Lee Know pulled out carefully, tied off the condom, and cleaned them both with the towel he’d left on the nightstand. Then he gathered Han close, pulling the blanket over them both.

Han was boneless, floating, tears still drying on his cheeks. Lee Know kissed each one away.

“You okay?” he asked softly, fingers combing through Han’s sweaty hair.

Han nodded, burying his face in Lee Know’s neck. “I’ve never felt so… yours.”

Lee Know’s arms tightened around him. “You are,” he said fiercely. “Always.”

They fell asleep tangled together, fairy lights still glowing faintly through the door, the resignation letter forgotten on the living room floor.

None of it mattered anymore.

They had everything they needed right here.

It’s been six months since they started dating, the library was quiet except for the soft rustle of pages and the occasional cough. Long tables, fluorescent lights, the low hum of stress before midterms. All seven of them had claimed the back corner: laptops open, highlighters everywhere, empty iced Americanos forming a small cityscape in the middle.

Han and Lee Know were shoulder-to-shoulder on the end, thighs already touching under the table. Han had been fidgety for twenty minutes—tapping his pen, shifting in his seat, pretending to read the same paragraph in his psych textbook for the fourth time.

An hour earlier, in their apartment, the conversation had still been ringing in his ears.

“So… what you did at the club,” Han had asked, cheeks burning even as he forced the words out, “the… control thing. Telling people what to do, in front of people… is that still something you’d want? With me?”

Lee Know had put his coffee down, walked over, and cupped Han’s face with both hands.

“Only if you want it, Jisung-ah. Only ever on your terms. If you like the idea of people watching me own you, I’m in. If you like the idea of me praising you so loud the whole room knows who you belong to, I’m in. If you just want it to be us forever, I’m in. You set the rules.”

They’d talked boundaries until Han was breathless and half-hard in his sweatpants. They’d agreed on public touches, praise, light domination, exhibitionism that never crossed into anyone else actually seeing skin—just the knowledge that everyone knew exactly what was happening. Safe, consensual, theirs.

And now they were here.

Lee Know’s left hand turned a page in his textbook like nothing was happening. His right hand disappeared under the table.

Han felt warm fingers settle on his knee first—innocent. Then they slid higher, slow and deliberate, tracing the inseam of his jeans. Han’s breath caught. He darted a glance around the table.

Chan was frowning at his laptop. Changbin was muttering rap verses under his breath. Hyunjin was sketching in the margins of his notes. Felix was sharing earbuds with Jeongin. Seungmin was highlighting like a serial killer.

Nobody was looking.

Lee Know’s hand reached the top of Han’s thigh and squeezed once—firm, possessive—before palming over the front of his jeans. Han was already half-hard from the memory of their conversation; now he filled instantly, straining against the denim.

Lee Know pressed the heel of his hand down in a slow, grinding circle.

Han bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. His fingers flew to Lee Know’s sleeve under the table, clutching the soft cotton like it was the only thing keeping him on earth.

Lee Know never looked over. He just kept reading, expression calm, while his fingers worked Han’s zipper down tooth by tooth—agonizingly quiet. The sound of the library swallowed everything.

Cool air hit Han’s skin as Lee Know slipped inside his boxers and wrapped a sure, warm hand around him. Han’s hips jerked involuntarily; the movement was tiny, but Hyunjin glanced up.

“You okay, Hannie?” he whispered.

Han managed a strangled nod, face flaming.

Lee Know started stroking—slow, tight pulls from root to tip, thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke to spread the slick gathering there. His grip was perfect: controlling, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to take Han apart in front of their friends.

Han’s forehead dropped to his folded arms on the table, pretending to read. His breath came in shallow, uneven puffs. Every time Lee Know twisted his wrist just right, Han’s toes curled in his sneakers.

A quiet, broken whine escaped him—barely audible, but Seungmin’s highlighter paused mid-sentence.

Lee Know leaned sideways, lips brushing the shell of Han’s ear, voice so low only Han could hear.

“Quiet, baby. You’re doing so well for me. Look at you—letting me touch you while everyone’s right here. My perfect boy.”

The praise hit Han like a drug. His thighs started trembling.

Lee Know sped up—just enough. His thumb pressed firmly under the head, rubbing tight circles, and Han’s whole body seized. He buried his face deeper in his arms, teeth sinking into his own wrist to muffle the sob as he came hard, pulsing over Lee Know’s fingers, hips stuttering helplessly under the table.

Lee Know milked him through it with steady, possessive strokes until Han was boneless and oversensitive, tiny aftershocks making him twitch. Only then did he let go, discreetly tucking Han back in and zipping him up with one hand like he’d done nothing more sinful than pass a pencil.

Han stayed slumped forward, flushed to the roots of his hair, eyes glassy and dazed. A thin sheen of sweat made the baby hairs at his temples stick to his skin.

Chan finally looked up, frowning in concern.

“Jisung-ah,” he said, voice soft, “is midterm hitting you that hard? You look wrecked.”

Han couldn’t even form words yet. He just made a small, overwhelmed noise and nodded into his arms.

Lee Know turned a page in his textbook, expression serene, and answered for him.

“He’s fine,” he said mildly. “Just needs a second. I’ve got him.”

Under the table, his clean hand found Han’s shaking one and laced their fingers together—gentle, grounding, loving.

Han squeezed back, still floating, and thought: yeah.

You really do.

The apartment was quiet when they stepped inside, the kind of quiet that felt full instead of empty. Minho locked the door behind them, then took Han’s hand without a word and led him down the hallway.

He paused in front of the bedroom door the one that used to be plain white now painted a deep, matte black. A small brass sign had been added: J & M.

Han’s heart started racing.

Minho pushed the door open.

The room had been transformed.

Soft red bulbs glowed from sconces along the walls, casting everything in warm, velvety light. The bed was still their bed same navy sheets, same mountain of pillows Han liked to burrow into, but the headboard now had discreet, padded cuffs bolted to it. One wall held a padded bench with adjustable restraints. A low shelf displayed toys in neat rows silicone, leather, glass, all brand-new, all chosen together weeks ago. There were hooks for ropes, a small fridge with water and chocolate, a stack of their softest blankets. A single framed photo sat on the dresser: them at the beach last month, Han laughing so hard he was doubled over while Minho kissed his temple.

It looked like a playroom. It looked like home.

“I wanted to build something that’s just for you,” Minho said quietly. “For us. Not work. Not strangers. Never again.”

Han’s eyes stung. He couldn’t speak.

Minho walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer. From a black velvet pouch he drew the white mask cleaned, repaired, the cracks filled with gold resin in the kintsugi style. He held it out in both hands.

“I kept it,” he said. “If this is too much, we burn it tonight. If it feels okay… we repurpose it. Your choice. Always.”

Han stared at the mask for a long moment. Then he reached out, took it, and slipped it on.

The porcelain settled cool against his cheeks. But this time his eyes were bright behind the eyeholes, and his mouth visible beneath the half-mask curved into a soft, fearless smile.

Minho’s breath caught.

“Hi, Sir,” Han whispered.

Minho’s answering smile was slow and devastating. “Hi, baby.”

They sat on the edge of the bed, knees touching, and negotiated like they always did open, honest, reverent.

Safe words: Green, Yellow, Red. Touch everywhere, marks only where clothes will hide. Rough is good, pain only the kind that turns into pleasure. Han wanted to be held down tonight. Wanted to feel owned in the safest way possible. Wanted to say the words he once sobbed in terror and turn them into something beautiful.

When they finished, Minho kissed each of Han’s knuckles. “Color?”

“Green,” Han said, steady and sure. “So fucking green.”

Minho stood, rolled his sleeves up, and let the Dom settle over him like a second skin quiet, controlled, hungry.

“Strip and kneel on the bench, darling.”

The red lights painted everything in slow, liquid heat. Han knelt on the padded bench exactly where Minho had told him knees spread wide, back arched, chest pressed to the cool leather top. The cuffs around his wrists were butter-soft, the buckles clicking shut with a finality that made his cock jerk against his stomach.

Minho circled him once, barefoot, shirt already gone, belt hanging open. He dragged the backs of his knuckles down Han’s spine and watched him shiver.

“Look at you,” Minho said, voice low and velvet-rough. “Already dripping for me and I’ve barely touched you.”

Han whimpered, pushing his hips back in blatant invitation. His cock was flushed dark, slick at the tip, a thin string of precome stretching to the mat every time he shifted.

Minho stopped behind him and palmed both cheeks, spreading them wide. Cool air hit Han’s exposed hole and he clenched instinctively.

“Colour?” Minho asked, thumb brushing over the twitching rim.

“Green,” Han breathed. “So green, Sir, please—”

Minho dropped to his knees. Without warning he licked a hot, wet stripe from Han’s balls all the way up to his hole, lingering there, tongue pressing in just enough to make Han cry out and try to rock back. Minho held his hips still with bruising strength and did it again, slower, messier, until Han was babbling broken nonsense and his thighs shook.

He ate Han open like he was starving tongue fucking inside, lips sucking, teeth grazing just enough to make Han sob. When he added two fingers alongside his tongue, curling them mercilessly, Han’s arms gave out; he would have face-planted if the cuffs hadn’t held him up.

“Please, please, please—” It was the only word he seemed to know anymore.

Minho stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His pupils were blown black. He shoved his jeans and briefs down in one motion, cock springing free thick, flushed, slick with his own precome. No condom. They’d gotten tested together weeks ago, talked about this exact moment until Han begged for it.

Minho slicked himself with lube anyway two strokes, three, just enough that it wouldn’t hurt then lined up. The blunt head kissed Han’s loose, wet rim.

“Beg,” Minho ordered.

Han didn’t even hesitate. “Please, Sir, want you raw, want to feel you come inside me, please fill me up, I need it—”

Minho slammed in to the root in one brutal thrust.

Han screamed, the sound raw and euphoric, back bowing so hard the cuffs creaked. The stretch was overwhelming hot, perfect, no barrier, just Minho’s bare cock dragging along every sensitive inch inside him.

Minho didn’t pause. He pulled out and fucked back in hard enough that the bench scraped forward an inch. Again. Again. The room filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, Han’s broken moans, Minho’s low growls.

One hand fisted in Han’s hair, yanking his head back. The other reached around and pinched Han’s nipple, rolling it cruelly until Han sobbed.

“Whose are you?” Minho snarled against his ear.

“Yours—” Han gasped. “Only yours, Sir, always—”

Minho fucked him harder, hips snapping with punishing force, balls slapping against Han’s with every thrust. He adjusted the angle and suddenly every stroke was punching directly over Han’s prostate. Han’s eyes rolled back, mouth open on a silent scream, drool slipping down his chin onto the bench.

He was close already, embarrassingly fast, but Minho knew. He always knew.

“Not yet,” Minho hissed, slowing just enough to keep Han dangling on the edge. “You come when I’m breeding you, understand?”

Han could only whine.

Minho sped up again relentless, animal, sweat dripping down his chest, dripping onto Han’s back. His thrusts turned erratic.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up, baby, gonna mark you inside so deep you’ll feel me for days—”

Han shattered first, untouched, cock spurting hard across the mat and his own stomach, body clamping down like a vice. Minho groaned like he’d been shot and slammed in one last time, grinding deep as he came hot, thick pulses flooding Han’s insides, so much it leaked out around Minho’s cock before he even pulled back.

They stayed locked together, Minho draped over Han’s back, both panting into the red glow. Minho’s hips gave tiny, helpless thrusts, pushing his come deeper, claiming every inch.

Eventually he straightened, eased out slowly. Han whimpered at the loss, then again when he felt warm come trickle down his thighs.

Minho unbuckled the cuffs, gathered Han into his arms, and carried him straight to the waiting bath still naked, still dripping, Han’s legs wrapped loosely around his waist. He lowered them both into the water, Han cradled between his thighs, come and lube swirling cloudy around them.

He washed Han gently, reverently, kissing every bruise already blooming on his hips.

“You were perfect,” Minho whispered over and over. “So good for me. Took everything I gave you.”

Han, floaty and boneless, just smiled against his chest.

Later, dried and lotioned and wrapped in Minho’s arms under the covers, Han glanced at the nightstand. The white mask sat there, gold cracks glinting in the low light.

He traced a lazy finger over Minho’s collarbone and thought, clear as day:

I’m not disgusting.

I’m wanted.

I’m his.

The 3Racha studio was their sanctuary after hours: lights dimmed to a soft violet, the only glow coming from the monitors and the LED strips behind the desk. Empty iced coffee cups littered the side table, lyric sheets were scattered like fallen petals, and the air smelled faintly of peach vape and Minho’s cologne.

They’d been at it for three hours, trading lines, humming melodies, stealing kisses between takes. Han’s voice was already a little hoarse from singing the same chorus twenty different ways, but every time Minho leaned over to adjust a fader, his lips brushed the shell of Han’s ear and Han forgot how to breathe.

Now the track was almost finished. The final chorus looped softly in the headphones hanging around Han’s neck.

Han spun lazily in the swivel chair, pen between his teeth, watching Minho tweak the mix. Minho had one hand on the mouse, the other resting high on Han’s thigh casual, possessive. Every few seconds his thumb swept in a slow arc, inching higher.

Han’s voice came out small. “Hyung.”

Minho didn’t look away from the screen. “Mm?”

“The line in the bridge… ‘I’m not used to it, I know it’s pain, but I really want it so bad’…” Han’s cheeks went pink. “That’s about you, you know.”

Minho’s hand stilled. He turned his head, eyes dark. “I know.”

Silence stretched, thick and electric.

Han bit his lip. “Record me one more time? Just the last chorus. I have… an idea for the adlibs.”

Minho’s gaze dropped to Han’s mouth, then lower, lingering on the way Han’s hoodie had ridden up to expose a strip of stomach. He reached past him and hit record without breaking eye contact.

“Mic’s hot,” Minho said, voice rough. “Sing for me, baby.”

Han rolled the chair forward, pressed the talkback button, and started singing—soft and breathy, exactly the way Minho liked.

“Pink chroma key background, the surrounding scenes… love is so intuitive, everything changes…”

Minho stood. Slowly. The chair rolled back as Minho crowded into Han’s space, hands braced on the armrests, caging him in.

Han kept singing, voice wavering as Minho’s knee nudged his thighs apart.

“The start of a typical romance, though I know it all, I deeply… fall into you and get my hopes up again—”

Minho’s mouth crashed into his, swallowing the last note. Han moaned into the kiss, loud enough that the microphone caught it clean—raw, desperate, perfect.

Minho broke away just long enough to spin Han around and bend him forward over the console. Han’s chest pressed into the faders; his palms slapped the desk for balance. Headphones clattered to the floor.

“Keep singing,” Minho growled against his ear, already yanking Han’s sweats down. “I want to hear what you sound like when I’m inside you.”

Han’s cock was already hard, trapped against the edge of the desk. Cool air hit his skin, then Minho’s warm hand spreading him open.

“Hyung—fuck—the mic—”

“Is live,” Minho confirmed, slicking himself with lube from the drawer they now kept stocked. “Every moan goes straight to the session. Sing, Jisung-ah.”

He pushed in with one slow, relentless thrust—no condom, just skin on skin, heat and pressure and the obscene sound of Han’s breath hitching in the monitors, amplified a thousand times.

Han’s voice cracked on a high, broken note that wasn’t in the song at all.

Minho set a brutal rhythm, hips snapping forward, the console rattling with every thrust. Han’s fingers scrabbled for something to hold onto, accidentally nudging faders—reverb bloomed over his recorded moans, turning them into something filthy and cinematic.

“Again,” Minho ordered, wrapping a hand around Han’s throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. “Chorus. Now.”

Han tried. God, he tried.

“Pink—ah—chroma key—fuck, hyung—background—”

Every word fractured into a moan as Minho fucked him harder, angling to hit that spot that made Han see stars. His own breath echoed back at him through the speakers, wet and desperate, layered under the instrumental like another instrument.

Minho leaned over him, chest to Han’s back, lips at his ear. “You sound so pretty getting ruined on my cock. Listen to yourself.”

Han whimpered, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from overstimulation. His cock was leaking steadily onto the desk now, untouched.

Minho reached around and wrapped a hand around him, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Come while you sing for me, baby. Want it on the track forever.”

Han shattered—voice climbing into a wrecked, sobbing cry of Minho’s name as he came all over the console, body clamping down so hard Minho groaned and followed seconds later, grinding deep, flooding him with heat.

They stayed slumped over the desk, panting, Minho still buried inside him. The track kept rolling. Thirty seconds of pure, unfiltered afterglow recorded in crystal-clear quality: Han’s shaky breaths, Minho’s soft praise, the wet sound when Minho finally pulled out and come dripped down Han’s thighs.

Minho hit stop. The waveform on screen looked like a heartbeat.

He turned Han around gently, kissed the tears off his cheeks, then pressed their foreheads together.

“Think we just made the best adlib of your life,” he whispered.

Han laughed, watery and wrecked. “We are never playing this for Chan-hyung.”

Minho grinned, wicked and soft all at once. “We’ll call it the ‘private mix’.”

He saved the session as want_so_bad_final_v12_raw.wav and locked the file with a password only the two of them would ever know.

Then he carried Han to the couch, wrapped him in the spare blanket, and kissed him until the trembling stopped.

Outside, campus was quiet. Inside the studio, the violet lights glowed, the speakers hummed with their secret, and Han fell asleep with Minho’s fingers in his hair—certain, for the first time in his life, that every sound he made from now on would be because he was loved.

The next afternoon, 3Racha studio.

Chan shouldered the door open with two iced Americanos in one hand and his laptop bag in the other. Changbin was right behind him arguing with Seungmin about something on his phone, Jeongin trailing at the back humming the hook they’d been working on all week.

“Hyung, did Jisungie finish the final mix for the production final?” Chan called, already heading for the main computer. “He said he’d leave it on the desktop.”

Changbin dropped into the swivel chair and spun once. “Probably named it something chaotic like ‘pinkchroma_final_final_this_one_I_swear’. Classic Han.”

Chan laughed, woke the screen, and scrolled through the desktop folders.

There it was, right on top:

want_so_bad_final_v12_raw.wav

want_so_bad_final_v12_raw copy.wav

“Found it,” Chan said, double-clicking the first one. “He even labeled it properly for once. Growth.”

He dragged the file into the DAW, hit play, and turned the monitors up.

The intro hit: bright synth chords, bouncy kick, that unmistakable sugary melody they’d heard Han humming for weeks.

Seungmin raised an eyebrow. “This is… really upbeat for Jisung.”

“Right?” Changbin leaned forward, grinning. “I was expecting sad boy hours, not cotton-candy EDM.”

The first verse started—Han’s voice, soft and breathy, layered with harmonies.

I fell in love with you unexpectedly…

I think it’s so sweet, my baby…

Jeongin tilted his head. “He sounds extra smiley. Like, stupid-happy smiley.”

Then the pre-chorus kicked in, and a second voice slipped in underneath Han’s—low, smooth, effortlessly weaving through the adlibs.

With you every day, sugar ride… flower beds everywhere my heart…

Four pairs of eyes slowly widened.

Changbin: “Is that… Minho-hyung?”

Seungmin: “No way.”

Chan actually paused the track for half a second, squinted at the waveform, then let it roll again.

Minho’s voice came back, velvet and teasing on the “ooh-ooh”s, perfectly in pocket, like he’d been singing his whole life.

Jeongin whispered, “Since when does Lee Know sing like that?”

Changbin: “Since when does Lee Know sing at all?”

Chan shook his head, smiling fondly. “Guess they’ve been cooking in here. Cute.”

He turned the volume up a little more as the first chorus hit, the beat dropping harder, Han’s voice soaring.

Pink chroma key background, the surrounding scenes…

They all bobbed their heads, impressed despite themselves. The production was clean, glossy, expensive-sounding.

Seungmin: “Okay but actually… this slaps?”

Changbin was already mouthing the post-chorus like he was planning to steal it.

The second verse started—still normal, still sparkling—until the final eight bars.

Han’s voice cracked slightly on the last “ah-ah, ah-ah,” breath hitching in a way that should’ve been edited out.

Chan frowned. “That’s weird, he usually comps those—”

He never finished the sentence.

Because right after the final chorus fade-out, the track didn’t end.

Instead, thirty seconds of absolute silence…

then the unmistakable sound of Han’s shaky, wrecked moan filled the studio monitors—crystal clear, no effects, intimate as a confession.

Followed by Minho’s low, filthy growl:

“Keep singing, baby. I want to hear what you sound like when I’m inside you.”

The room froze.

Four mouths dropped open in perfect unison.

The playback cursor kept crawling forward, red and merciless.

And the next sound that came through the speakers was one none of them would ever unhear.


Chan 🐺

I JUST HEARD SOMETHING UNHEARDABLE! WTF JISUNG!

Han 🐿️

What did I do??? I left the demo on the USB key as promised! 

Changbin: 

Did you think about not leaving the traces of you getting railed here? 

Lee Minho ^-^

Jiusng-ah... I thought you deleted the original and only left the password one...

Han 🐿️

WHAT? I thought you did????

Felix 🐥

What happened???

Jeongin 🦊

I need my ears bleached!!!!! They left a recording in the studio AAAAHHHH

Hyunjin 🌻

I want to hear it!

Chan 🐺

No you don't! 

Seungmin: 

[insert audio file 00.42]

Hyunjin 🌻

OMG!!!! JISUNG???? YOU'RE THAT KINKY????

Han 🐿️

[left the chat]

Lee Minho ^-^

[left the chat]

Seungmin:

don't worry they'll answer to theri crimes!

This was definitely something they would NEVER forget!