The front door clicked shut, and the tension in the room shattered like glass.

Minho didn't wait.

Didn't give Seungmin time to breathe or think or second-guess. He grabbed Seungmin by the waist and spun him around, slamming him back against the kitchen table. The wood groaned, a bowl clattered to the floor and rolled; Jisung's food clattered everywhere, like an expression.

"Thank god," Minho growled against Seungmin's throat.

"I thought he'd never leave."

Seungmin's laugh was breathless, punched out of him as Minho's teeth grazed his pulse point. "You're insane. He's your boyfriend—"

Minho pulled back just far enough to meet Seungmin's eyes, pupils blown wide, lips slick. "I don't give a fuck anymore."

The kiss was brutal.

All teeth and tongue and the desperate, ugly hunger that had been building since the moment Jisung had walked through the door, all innocent smiles and doting hands, completely blind to the game unfolding right under his nose. Minho had been so careful, so controlled—fingers buried knuckle-deep in Seungmin's ass under the loose fabric of his shorts while Jisung sat three feet away, chattering about his day, pressing sweet kisses to Minho's cheek.

Seungmin had nearly come apart right there. Had bitten his lip bloody to keep quiet.

Now he didn't have to.

Minho's hands were everywhere—yanking Seungmin's shirt over his head, tearing at the button of his jeans, pawing at his cock through the thin cotton of his boxers. Seungmin moaned into his mouth, arching up, wrapping his legs around Minho's waist.

"Need you inside me," Seungmin gasped. "Now. I've been waiting—fuck, Hyung, I've been so empty—"

"Yeah?" Minho's hand slid down, cupping Seungmin's balls, fingers pressing against his slit. "Tell me how it felt, sitting there, knowing what was in you while he kissed me."

"Hate you," Seungmin hissed, but his hips bucked into the touch. "Hate you—watching him touch you, wanting to scream that you're mine—"

The words hit Minho like a fist to the gut. He froze for half a second, staring down at Seungmin's flushed face, his swollen lips, the tear tracks glistening on his cheeks.

Mine.

Something dark and possessive unfurled in Minho's chest. He grabbed Seungmin's thighs and hauled him to the edge of the table, lining up his cock—already hard, already dripping—and shoved in without preamble.

Seungmin screamed.

Not a quiet moan or a stifled gasp—a full-throated, raw scream that bounced off the kitchen walls. Minho swallowed it with another kiss, fucking into him in long, deep strokes that made the table legs scrape against the floor.

"Say it again," Minho rasped. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours—ah—fuck, right there—I'm yours. Hyung! I'm yours—"

Minho's rhythm turned savage. He gripped Seungmin's hips hard enough to bruise, slamming into him over and over, chasing the edge with reckless abandon. The guilt was there, lurking in the back of his mind—Jisung's trusting eyes, Jisung's gentle hands, Jisung's voice saying I love you—but Minho shoved it down, buried it under the wet sound of his cock fucking into Seungmin's heat, the desperate little whines spilling from his brother's lips.

"Close," Seungmin whimpered. "Hyung—Hyung—I'm gonna cum—"

"Cum for me." Minho's voice was wrecked, barely human. "Cum on your big brother's cock. Want to feel you squeeze around me."

Seungmin's orgasm hit like a freight train. His back arched off the table, his mouth falling open in a silent cry, his walls clamping down around Minho's length in rhythmic pulses. His cum splatters all over the table, some landing on the food Jisung had bought for them. For his Minho. The sight of it—Seungmin undone, Seungmin ruined, Seungmin—his—pushed Minho over the edge, primal instinct to make sure he remembers.

He came with a guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could go, pumping rope after rope of hot cum into Seungmin's abused hole. His hips stuttered, his vision blurred, and for a long, suspended moment, the world narrowed to nothing but the two of them, tangled together, breathing the same air.

Minho collapsed forward, his forehead pressing against Seungmin's. Their lips met in a slow, languid kiss—no more teeth, no more urgency. Just the taste of salt and sin and something that felt dangerously close to tenderness.

"Don't pull out," Seungmin murmured against his mouth. "Keep it inside. Please."

Minho's lips curled into a smirk. He pulled back slowly—just a fraction, just enough to see Seungmin's pout, his dazed eyes, the protest already forming on his tongue. He teases the tip, collecting some of the cum that oozes out and uses it to shove it back inside.

"Who said I was going to pull out?"

He reached into the drawer beside them, the one where he'd stashed it earlier. The plug glinted in the dim light, dark silicone curved into a shape Seungmin recognized intimately. Minho pressed a kiss to Seungmin's forehead, then his nose, then the corner of his mouth.

"Gotta make sure it stays."

Seungmin whimpered as Minho eased out of him, a gush of cum spilling onto the table, but Minho was already there, pressing the plug against his slick rim. The silicone slid in with a wet pop, filling him completely, sealing Minho's seed deep inside.

"There." Minho patted the base of the plug, watching Seungmin's stomach flutter. "Now everyone will know."

Seungmin's laugh was broken, wet. "He won't know."

"No." Minho's eyes darkened.

"But you will. Every time you walk, every time you sit, every time you remember what we did while he was right there." He leaned down, biting Seungmin's lower lip. "Every time I fuck you again. And again."

Seungmin shivered, a fresh wave of arousal curling in his gut. The plug was a constant pressure, a reminder, a promise.

He didn't know if he wanted to cry or beg for more.

Either way, he knew one thing for certain.

This tasted too good to regret.

The afternoon sun was a lazy yellow haze, filtering through the gaps between buildings as Jisung rounded the corner into the narrow alley. He'd told himself he was going to work. Minho had given him a reassuring smile, wishing him he had a good time at work, and that he'll call later. Jisung's heart stammered at that.

It was a lie. A flimsy, pathetic lie.

And Jisung had almost forgotten.

The thought struck him mid-step, freezing him in place for a heartbeat.

Today was the day.

He'd texted Chan three days ago, a single message after a particularly intense night with Minho—Minho fucking him raw against the headboard, calling him a desperate little whore while Jisung's mind drifted to a stockier frame, a different voice, a different kind of filth. He'd typed "Wednesday. 2pm. Usual spot." and then immediately deleted the conversation.

Now here he was.

His feet had carried him to the mouth of the alley before his brain could catch up.

And there—leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed, that infuriating grin already spreading—was Chan.

"Thought you'd have forgotten," Chan's voice rang in Jisung's ears, a siren's lure pulling him closer. Chan pushed off the wall, hands sliding into his pockets as he walked forward, casual and deliberate.

Jisung's breath hitched. "I—"

"Were you just coming back from their place?" Chan hummed, stopping just a foot away. His eyes swept over Jisung—the hoodie, the joggers that hugged his thighs, the way his hands were fidgeting at his sides.

Jisung stumbled a step back, his cheeks flushing. "Yeah. Told Minho I had to go to work." The lie came out smooth, practiced. He'd been rehearsing it all morning.

Chan's smirk sharpened. "You're such a flimsy boyfriend to him." He stepped closer, closing the distance, and his hands found Jisung's waist—snaking around, settling low, one palm landing sharp on Jisung's ass. The contact sent a shudder through Jisung's whole body, his knees threatening to buckle.

Chan's eyebrows raised suggestively. His fingers pressed, traced, and then he felt it—the subtle ridge of the plug's base, nestled snugly between Jisung's cheeks. "So you did remember," he trailed off, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

Jisung squirmed, his breath catching. "S-Stop, we're still outside."

"Then why're you pressing against my hand?" Chan's thumb traced the outline of the plug through the thin fabric of Jisung's joggers. "You're already dripping for me, aren't you?"

Jisung's eyes fluttered shut.

He should push away.

Should say no. Should turn around and go back to Minho; who was unknowingly absentmindedly fucking his brother again on a different surface of their apartment . Minho, who had been so good to him lately—so attentive, so eager to please, always giving in to Jisung's weirdest kinks, always holding him after, whispering praise into his hair.

The aftercare was amazing. Minho made him feel loved.

But with Chan...

Jisung's stomach did a somersault at the thought of going behind his boyfriend's back. The thrill of it, the danger, the way his heart pounded like it was trying to break out of his chest. It fueled something dark inside him, something that made him feel alive in a way that was entirely depraved.

It had been a few days since he and Minho had properly fucked—Minho had been busy with work, and Jisung had been... waiting.

Preparing.

He'd edged himself in the mornings, thinking about Chan's hands, Chan's voice, the way Chan used to take him apart. It wasn't Minho's hands, voice, or dick he had been thinking about. Maybe it had been rooted deep inside that he had to pull it out of the depths to realize.

He's a pathological cheater.

The plug had been his own idea, a secret gift to himself, and to Chan. Like the depravity of even planning to leave it in when he had completely foan entirely depraved wayace.

Like he forgot about Minho.

"Fuck," Jisung breathed, his resolve crumbling. "People can see us."

Chan glanced around.

The alley was empty, save for a stray cat picking through a dumpster at the far end. "No one's watching, baby." He leaned in, his lips brushing Jisung's ear. "But if you want, we can take this somewhere private. You prepped all of this, after all."

Chan tugs at his earlobe, licking a stripe. "It'd be a waste to leave you empty with just a plug now, won't it?" He grinds forward, his hips slo, likeagainst Jisung's front. Their bulges meet, and Jisung's mouth waters at the print that protrudes, tenting.

Jisung's hand came up to grip Chan's forearm, his nails digging in.

"Fuck." He breathes out. "Fuck. O-Okay. Y-Your place."

Chan pulled back, his grin widening. He kept one hand on Jisung's ass as he guided him deeper into the alley, toward the fire escape that led up to his studio. He pushes once on the base, causing Jisung to wince.

"Good boy," he murmured, and Jisung's knees went weak all over again.

They climbed the stairs in silence, the metal creaking under their weight. Chan unlocked the door and pushed it open, revealing a small, cluttered space—bed against the wall, desk covered in papers, a half-empty coffee mug on the nightstand.

It smelled like Chan. Earthy, warm, familiar.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Chan turned to face Jisung, his eyes dark and hungry.

"Now," he said, his voice low, "let's see what you've been preparing for me."

His hands found the waistband of Jisung's joggers, pulling them down along with his boxers in one swift motion. The plug was revealed—a sleek silicone thing, the base a subtle black circle pressed snugly against Jisung's hole.

Chan let out a low whistle.

"Were you really walking around like this?" he said, his fingers tracing the rim of the plug. "Did Minho know?"

Jisung shook his head, his cheeks burning. "No. This… was for you."

Chan's eyes flickered with something—satisfaction, maybe, or possession. He pulled the plug out slowly, watching Jisung's face contort as the sensation hit. "Good. Now bend over the bed."

Jisung obeyed, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress as Chan stepped behind him. The afternoon light fell across Jisung's back, casting long shadows. Chan's hands spread his cheeks, and Jisung heard the sound of a bottle cap opening.

"N-No need for lube…" Jisung's voice dies down of embarassment.

Chan raises one eyebrow at that, dick twitching and anticipating. He shoves it all off, as it bounces. Jisung watches the way the tip is already flaring, a bead of precome he wanted to lap off and suck into his body.

"You're going to take me so well," Chan murmured, slicking himself up. "And when I'm done, I'm going to fill you up, and you're going to go back to Minho with my cum inside you. Think you can do that?"

Jisung whimpers at the thought. He tries to answer, but he's met with a slap on his ass, shrieking from the sudden impact.

"Scratch that. You will do that."

Chan pushed in, and Jisung's world narrowed to that single point of intrusion—slow, deliberate, consuming. The stretch was perfect, the angle hitting just right, and Jisung's moan escaped before he could stop it.

Chan's hand came down on his ass, a sharp slap that echoed in the small room. "Keep quiet," he growled, but there was a playful edge to it. "Or the neighbours will hear what a slut you are."

Jisung bit his lip, his eyes squeezing shut as Chan began to move—deep, steady thrusts that built a rhythm of pleasure and guilt and everything in between. And he thought of Minho, waiting at home, oblivious.

The thought made him harder.

Chan's rhythm slows for a moment, a calculated pause that makes Jisung whimper beneath him. His hips are still grinding against Jisung's ass, that plug long gone and replaced by Chan's thick cock splitting him open, sliding in and out with a wet, obscene sound that fills the cramped studio.

"Mmph—Chan—why'd you stop—" Jisung's voice is breathless, his cheek pressed against the rumpled sheets, fingers gripping the mattress like it's the only thing grounding him.

Chan doesn't answer.

His hand is reaching for Jisung's jacket, discarded on the floor beside the bed. He fishes out the phone—Jisung's phone—thumb swiping across the screen. He makes sure to give lazy thrusts to keep Jisung occupied and cockdumb. To make sure he's not planning something wicked and deviant.

He'd memorized the password months ago, back when they first started this little arrangement. Four digits. Simple. Jisung had never changed it.

Chan scrolls through the messages, past the group chats, past the notifications from Minho—"Babe, you wanna call tonight?" and "Love you <3"—until he finds the right thread.

Minho 💖

Chan's lips curl into a smirk as he types, his other hand still gripping Jisung's hip, guiding him onto his cock at a lazy, teasing pace. Jisung mewls, trying to find a good angle.

JIsung 💖: "Hey, babe, sorry to bother you, but can you come over to Chan's place? I'm helping him with something and I need an extra hand. It's important. Come quick okay? Love you."

He hits send before Jisung can glance back and see what he's doing.

The phone gets tossed onto the pile of clothes, and Chan's hands return to Jisung's waist, gripping tight as he picks up the pace again.

"Good boy," Chan murmurs, leaning over Jisung's back, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Taking me so well. You love this, don't you? Cheating on your precious Minho with your ex."

Jisung's response is a strangled moan, incoherent, lost in the haze of pleasure and guilt. His hips push back to meet Chan's thrusts, already addicted to the feeling.

In the dim quiet of the brothers' apartment, Minho has Seungmin pressed against the kitchen counter, his mouth slotted against his younger brother's in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and hunger.

They'd barely made it past the living room before Minho had cornered him, his hands already yanking at Seungmin's shirt, pulling it over his head. The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across Seungmin's pale skin, his chest heaving as Minho's mouth trailed down his neck.

"Fuck. Open your mouth more, Seungmin," Minho instructs, pulling back just enough to look at him.

Seungmin obeys immediately, his lips parting, tongue flat and waiting.

Minho's eyes darken with satisfaction. He leans forward and spits—a thick glob of saliva that lands square on Seungmin's tongue. Seungmin doesn't flinch. He waits, his gaze locked on Minho's, pupils blown wide.

"Good," Minho says, his voice a low growl. "Now. Swallow."

Seungmin's throat works as he gulps it down. His lips part again, and he lolls his tongue out to show Minho—empty, obedient, his face already hazed like he's drunk on his brother's essence.

Minho's cock twitches in his jeans, aching for a second round.

They'd already fucked this morning, after Jisung had left for his supposed shift. Quick and filthy, but it never stopped the blood flow from constricting Minho's dick. The tight heat of his own little brother's hole, remembering his shape; every vein and the tip hitting so deep, that Seungmin's belly protrudes with his size.

His phone buzzes against the counter.

Minho ignores it, his mouth finding Seungmin's again, licking into him like he's trying to taste every part of him.

But the phone buzzes again. And again.

"Minho," Seungmin murmurs against his lips, breathless. "Your phone."

"Fuck," Minho mutters, pulling back reluctantly. He grabs the phone, squinting at the screen.

Jisung 💖: "Hey, babe, sorry to bother you, but can you come over to Chan's place?"

Jisung 💖: "I'm helping him with something, and I need an extra hand. It's important. Come quick okay? Love you."

Minho's brow furrows.

He reads it twice, a knot forming in his stomach.

Wait.

Didn't Jisung say he was going to work today?

Did he run to Chan coincidentally?

Also, Chan's place? Why is Jisung at Chan's place?

Did something happen on the way?

Minho is replaying the moments of this morning, as his brain tries to think reasonably about the circumstances. Minho had never pried into the details of their breakup—hadn't wanted to seem possessive or insecure—but the mention of Chan's name sends an ugly, possessive streak through him.

"Sorry, Seungie," Minho says, his voice tight as he looks up from the screen. "Jisung needs me to come over to Chan's place."

Seungmin's pout is immediate, his lips jutting out in a way that makes Minho's heart clench. But he doesn't argue. Instead, he steps back, picking up his discarded shirt and pulling it over his head.

"You should go," Seungmin says, his voice carefully neutral. "We can't have him be suspicious of us."

Minho nods, running a hand through his hair. He knows Seungmin's right. They're already too far gone down this path—fucking in secret, stealing moments when Jisung's back is turned. Keeping it hidden is the only way to keep it going.

"Although," Seungmin adds, his head tilting, "why is he at Chan's place? I think I remember him telling me they ended on bad terms?" Seems like Seungmin had caught up to that suspicion as well.

And that only further proved Minho's twisting knot.

Minho's jaw tightens.

Ever since he'd gotten addicted to his younger brother's body, he and Jisung hadn't had time for themselves—not really. Quickies here and there, sure, a handjob in the shower, but nothing full-fledged. But Minho always thought he gave Jisung a life-changing orgasm whenever they fucked.

So why, again, is he at Chan's place?

"Don't know," Minho admits, his voice gruff. "But the mention of Chan's name got me thinking about when he fucked you first." The growl that escapes him is involuntary, a possessive streak that coils in his chest like a snake. The twisted part of his mind didn't even mention Jisung.

Just Seungmin getting fucked by Chan.

Seungmin huffs a laugh, stepping closer to press a quick peck on Minho's cheek. "Don't worry, hyung. Chan and I only did it to piss you off. And it worked. I'm yours now." The words send a jolt through Minho, unexpected warmth spreading through his chest. "Don't keep Jisung waiting."

The kiss—chaste, innocent, on his cheek—shouldn't have made Minho blush as furiously as it did. He clears his throat, shoving his phone into his pocket.

"I swear, when I get back home, I'm going to make up for years of things I've wanted to do to you," Minho threatens, a knowing smirk curling his lips.

Seungmin's eyes gleam. "I'll be ready to take you up on that then."

Minho grabs his keys and heads for the door, his mind already churning with questions he doesn't want to ask.

Why was Jisung at Chan's place? Why did he need Minho's help?

And why did the thought of walking into that apartment make his skin crawl with something that felt dangerously close to jealousy?

The walk to Chan's place is a blur of asphalt and bitter thoughts.

Minho's feet carry him on autopilot, his mind churning with questions that have no answers. The afternoon sun beats down, but he barely feels it. All he can focus on is the phone in his hand, the message from Jisung burned into his retinas, and the nagging itch at the back of his skull that something is wrong.

Chan's apartment is in an older building, the kind with peeling paint and a buzzer that's been broken for years. Minho's been here once before, back when Jisung had dragged him to pick up a forgotten charger. The memory feels distant now, like it belongs to someone else.

He rounds the corner to the second floor and stops dead.

The door is open.

Just a crack, but enough. Enough for a sliver of dim light to spill into the hallway, enough for a curl of sound to slip through—a sound that makes Minho's blood run cold.

No. No, that's not—

He steps forward, slow, careful, his sneakers silent against the worn carpet. His heart pounds in his ears, a frantic drumbeat that drowns out everything except the growing, horrifying certainty of what he's about to find.

The apartment is dark, curtains drawn, the only light coming from a single lamp in the corner. The air is thick with sweat and sex, a familiar scent that twists Minho's stomach.

And then he hears it.

A wail. High and breathless, desperate, broken into fragments of sound that Minho recognizes better than his own voice.

"Fuck—Chan—right there—please—"

A moan follows, drawn out and filthy, and then Chan's voice—gruff, low, laced with smug satisfaction.

"That's it, baby. Take it. Take all of it. You love this cock, don't you?"

Minho's blood boils. His hands clench into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The rage is immediate, hot and blinding, surging through him like a wildfire.

But beneath it, something else stirs.

Something darker.

His cock twitches in his jeans, thickening despite the fury coursing through his veins. Holy fuck. He hates himself for it. Hates the way his body responds to the sounds of his boyfriend being fucked by another man. Hates the way his mouth goes dry, his pulse racing for all the wrong reasons.

He creeps around the corner, his movements mechanical, dissociated. Like he's watching himself from outside his own body.

And then he sees them.

The bed is pushed against the far wall, sheets tangled and damp. Chan is propped against the headboard, his thighs spread, his cock buried deep inside Jisung's ass. Jisung is on top, riding him with frantic, desperate energy, his head thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream.

The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, wet and obscene. Jisung's hips bounce, his ass slamming down onto Chan's lap, each thrust drawing a guttural moan from deep in his throat.

"Yes—yes—fuck me—Chan—fuck—"

Jisung's voice is wrecked. Raw. His eyes are glazed over, unfocused, lost in the pleasure that's consuming him whole. His hands grip Chan's shoulders for balance, nails leaving red crescents in his skin.

"You're doing so well, baby," Chan coos, his hands finding Jisung's hips, guiding his rhythm. "Taking me so deep. Look at you. So fucking perfect."

Jisung whimpers, his hips stuttering. "I love your cock. I love it so much—wish I could sit on it forever—please—don't stop—"

Chan's lips curl into a smirk, his eyes flicking up—and locking directly onto Minho's.

He knows. He wanted to find them like this.

The realization hits Minho like a punch to the gut. Chan's gaze is steady, unblinking, filled with a dark amusement that makes Minho's blood run hot and cold at the same time.

Minho should leave. Should turn around and walk out, pretend he never saw this. Should go home and confront Jisung, scream at him, break things, end this farce of a relationship.

But his feet are rooted to the floor.

His eyes trace the line of Chan's cock sliding in and out of Jisung's hole, the way Jisung's body accepts it so eagerly, the slick shine of lube and sweat and desire.

And it shouldn't make him hard.

It shouldn't make him think of Seungmin, of the way his brother had looked at him this morning, flushed and obedient, swallowing his cum like it was the only thing that mattered.

It shouldn't make him wonder what it would feel like to be in Chan's place, to have Jisung bouncing on his cock while Seungmin watched from the doorway.

The thought is sick. Twisted. Wrong.

And Minho can't stop it.

He bites his lip, hard, tasting copper. His hand drifts down to his own crotch, pressing against the bulge straining against his jeans, and he hates himself for it.

Chan's smirk widens. He knows. He fucking knows.

And he keeps fucking Jisung, slow and deep, deliberate, his eyes never leaving Minho's.

"That's it, baby," Chan murmurs, his voice carrying across the room, loud enough for Minho to hear. "Let everyone see how much you love this. How much you need it."

Jisung moans in response, oblivious, lost in his own pleasure. His hips move faster, chasing that peak, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Minho stands there, frozen, watching his boyfriend get fucked by his ex—watching Chan claim what was his—and feeling his own dick throb with a hunger he doesn't want to name.

The world has gone sideways.

Chan's hands find Jisung's hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he slows the frantic pace, then stops entirely. Jisung whines at the loss, his hole clenching around nothing, his body trembling with need.

But Chan doesn't give him a second to complain.

He grips Jisung by the waist and lifts him off, the sound of his cock slipping free, wet and obscene. Jisung slumps forward, his head lolling, his fucked-out face slack with pleasure. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, mouth hanging open.

Chan grabs him by the jaw and smashes their lips together.

It's not a kiss—it's a claiming. Tongues tangle and slide, wet and desperate, fighting for dominance that Jisung surrenders immediately. Chan's hand stays fisted in Jisung's hair, holding him there, owning him. His eyes never leave Minho's.

The kiss stretches on, filthy and wet, broken only by Jisung's muffled moans. Chan's free hand drifts down, finding Jisung's chest, rolling a nipple between thumb and forefinger—then twisting.

Jisung breaks the kiss with a sharp cry, his back arching, a broken moan spilling from his lips. It's the same sound Minho has heard a hundred times, the sound of Jisung coming undone under his own hands.

That was mine. That sound was mine.

Chan's smirk is a knife in the dark.

"Come down on me, baby. Suck my cock."

The words ring out, loud and deliberate, meant for Minho's ears. Chan doesn't whisper. He doesn't soften. He wants Minho to hear every syllable, every command, every proof of ownership.

And Jisung—god, Jisung—obeys.

He slides down on Chan, hands all over his body. He doesn't hesitate. His lips find Chan's chest first, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the sweaty skin, trailing over abs that flex under his touch. His tongue traces the lines of muscle, tasting salt and skin, until he reaches the base of Chan's cock.

It's thick. Long. Heavy against Jisung's cheek as he nuzzles it, breathing in the musky scent, already leaking precum from the tip.

Jisung laps it up.

His tongue drags along the shaft, slow and savouring, collecting the slick bead that's sat at the head. He moans at the taste, his eyes fluttering shut, his mouth already opening wide.

He takes half of it in one go.

The sight is obscene—Jisung's lips stretched around Chan's cock, his cheeks hollowed, his throat working to accommodate the intrusion. He sinks deeper, his nose brushing against the coarse hair at the base, and holds there, gagging slightly, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

"Yeah, there you go," Chan groans, his hand finding the back of Jisung's head, guiding him, not forcing. "Who's my favourite cocksucker? Who's my sweet, pathetic, cheater?"

Jisung hums in response—a sound of pure, mindless affirmation that vibrates around Chan's cock.

"You get off on this, don't you?"

Another hum. Jisung's hips grind against nothing, his own cock hard and neglected, dripping onto the floor. He's getting off on the degradation. On the shame. On the fact that he's here with Chan, worshipping his cock as it deserves.

Minho's jaw is clenched so tight his teeth ache.

Fuck it.

His hand moves before his brain catches up, reaching down to palm himself through his jeans. The pressure is a relief, a distraction, a surrender. He whips his cock out, the cool air hitting the flushed skin, and wraps his hand around the shaft.

He strokes himself in time with Jisung's bobbing head. Each bob, each wet suck, each guttural moan from Chan—Minho matches it, his fist sliding over his own length, his hips thrusting into his grip.

Chan's eyes track the movement.

The smirk on his face deepens, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He watches Minho watch them, watches the way Minho's hand moves, watches the conflict and the hunger warring on his face.

"I'm gonna cum soon, baby," Chan says, his voice low, rasping. His hand tightens in Jisung's hair, pulling him off just enough so the tip rests against his lips. "You want it inside you? Where? Mouth? Hole?"

Jisung whimpers, his tongue darting out to lick the slit, tasting the precum that's flowing freely now.

"Mouth," he breathes, his voice wrecked, barely human. "I want it in my mouth. Want to taste you. Want to swallow it all."

Chan's eyes flick to Minho one last time—a challenge, a question, an invitation.

"Then open wide, baby. Show me how good you take it."

Jisung opens his mouth.

Chan's hand tightens in Jisung's hair, holding him steady as his hips thrust forward in short, sharp strokes. Jisung's eyes are glassy, tear-streaked, his mouth stretched wide around the thick shaft. He's drooling now, saliva and precum dribbling down his chin, pooling on his tongue where it wraps around Chan's cock.

"I'm gonna cum," Chan grunts, his voice ragged, strained. "Open wide, baby. Show me."

Show him.

Jisung's tongue lolls out, pink and slick, resting on his lower lip. His eyes flick up to meet Chan's—then drift sideways, just for a moment, but Chan catches him, tilting his head back to his angry cock.

"Focus. Open."

His mouth waters. He opens wider.

Chan pulls out with a wet pop, his fist already pumping, and the first thick rope of cum arcs through the air, landing across Jisung's cheek. The second hits his lips, white and heavy, and Jisung's tongue darts out to catch it, lapping it up like a man starved. The third stripe lands across his nose, his forehead, painting his face in a mask of possession.

But Chan isn't done.

He grips his cock, still half-hard, and slaps the wet head against Jisung's outstretched tongue. Once. Twice. A teasing, wet smack against the muscle that's desperate to taste him. He shoves it in—just the tip—then pulls out, letting it rest against Jisung's lips. He slaps it again, the sound obscene in the quiet room.

"Lick it clean," Chan orders.

Jisung obeys immediately, his tongue dragging along the shaft, collecting every drop of cum and precum. He moans at the taste, at the salt and musk and the knowledge that he's finally got a fill of someone else's cum inside him.

Chan's hand finds Jisung's chin, tilting his face up. He smears the last of the cum across Jisung's lips with his thumb, then pushes that thumb inside, letting Jisung suck it clean.

"Get on all fours."

The command is sharp, brooking no hesitation. Jisung is already moving, scrambling onto the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress. He drops to his elbows, arching his back, presenting himself. His hole is pink and swollen, still slick from earlier, clenching around nothing.

Chan steps behind him, gripping his hips, aligning himself. The head of his cock presses against Jisung's entrance, teasing, pushing just slightly before pulling back.

"Should we leave Minho a present?"

The words are low, conversational, as if Chan is discussing the weather. He pushes in an inch—Jisung gasps, his fingers curling into the sheets.

"I'll leave you plugged full of my cum," Chan continues, sliding deeper, his voice dropping to a growl. "Send you back to him with my load dripping down your thighs."

Jisung keens, a high, broken sound, his body trembling as Chan seats himself fully, balls-deep, cock buried to the hilt. The stretch is perfect, the fullness overwhelming.

"And you'll walk around with it," Chan breathes, beginning to move, slow and deep. "Every time you sit down, you'll feel me leaking out of you. Every time he fucks you, he'll taste me first."

"Yes—" Jisung sobs, his hips pushing back to meet Chan's thrusts. "Yes, yes, yes—"

Chan's pace turns furious.

He fucks into Jisung like a man possessed, each thrust sharp and punishing, driving the air from Jisung's lungs. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by Jisung's broken moans and Chan's guttural grunts.

The bedframe creaks. The headboard knocks against the wall. And in the corner—

Minho's hand moves faster.

He's stroking himself in frantic, desperate jerks, his breath coming in ragged pants. His cock is leaking, precum smearing across his fist, but he doesn't care. He can't care. Not when Jisung looks like that—on his knees, taking it, taking everything—and not when Chan is watching him, that smug fucking smirk still plastered on his face.

Fuck everyone.

Minho grits his teeth, his hips bucking into his own grip.

Fuck Chan.

The image of Jisung's tongue lapping at Chan's cum burns behind his eyelids.

Fuck Jisung.

The sound of his boyfriend moaning another man's name rings in his ears.

Fuck Seungmin.

His baby brother's face flashes in his mind—dark eyes, parted lips, the way he'd gasped under Minho's touch.

His orgasm builds, hot and sharp, coiling low in his gut. He tries to be quiet, tries to hold it back, but a low grunt escapes his lips as his body seizes, his cock pulsing in his hand. Cum spurts from his tip, landing in thick ropes across the polished floor at his feet. It splatters against the dark wood, white and stark, pooling in the gaps between the planks. Some of it splashes onto the baseboard, dripping slowly, leaving a trail of evidence.

Chan slams into Jisung one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and holds there. His body tenses, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he empties inside Jisung's waiting heat. Jisung's own orgasm follows, triggered by the feeling of being filled, his cock twitching against the sheets as he cries out, milked dry by the rhythm.

For a moment, there's only heavy breathing.

Chan pulls out slowly, watching his cum seep from Jisung's stretched hole, trickling down his thighs. He reaches for the plug on the nightstand—the same one from earlier—and presses it against Jisung's entrance, sliding it in with practiced ease. Jisung whimpers at the pressure, at the fullness, at the knowledge of what's now locked inside him.

Minho's present.

Chan pats Jisung's ass, a sharp smack that echoes in the quiet.

"Good boy."

He turns toward the corner, where Minho is still standing, his softening cock in his hand. Chan looks at the floor—at the puddle of cum drying on the walkway—and raises an eyebrow. Minho finally comes to his senses, shoving his dick back inside his jeans and leaving in haste, heart and breath stammering.

"Looks like you had fun too," Chan mutters to himself.

The silence is heavy, choking.

Jisung stirs, rolling onto his side. His eyes are still hazy, but they drift down to the floor, to the gleaming white stain that's separate from the wet spot beneath the bed. He blinks.

"Chan...?" His voice is hoarse, confused. "What's that?"

Chan shrugs, bending down to grab his jeans.

"Could've landed there by accident."

He doesn't meet Jisung's eyes. He just looks to where Minho used to be.

And smirks.

The TV drones on—some reality show Seungmin isn't paying attention to.

He's sprawled across the couch in nothing but a loose t-shirt and boxers, the evening light filtering through the curtains. His mind is elsewhere on Minho. On the sounds he'd heard earlier through the walls. On the plug still nestled inside him, a constant reminder of what his brother had done to him that morning.

His phone buzzes.

He picks it up lazily, then freezes.

Chan: [video attached]

Chan: Thanks for convincing Jisung to come back. 😊

Seungmin's lips curl into a slow, wicked smirk. Convincing. Right. As if he'd done anything but plant the seed. Jisung was already primed to cheat; Seungmin just watered the garden.

He taps the video.

The screen fills with an overhead shot—ceiling-mounted, wide-angle. The entire bed is visible. And there, in crisp detail, Jisung is on all fours, being fucked into the mattress by Chan's relentless hips. The audio is clean, no static: Jisung's high, breathy moans, the wet slap of skin, Chan's guttural grunts.

They planned this—the whole setup.

It had been bound to happen at some point. Seungmin's short chat at the cafe about getting back at his brother really had an underlying purpose. Chan had confessed to him that he still missed Jisung, and that he was aching to break them up with a purpose finally.

Seungmin ignited that burn.

He proposed the idea. He instructed Chan to take it slow.

It took a lot of patience. The slow lure of Chan meeting up with Jisung to "reconcile" their relationship. Then after a few days had passed… Jisung had caved so, so easily. It was futile for him to resist Chan's reluctant advances.

They needed to work around the triggers for Minho as well, and when the opportunity of Seungmin walking out deliberately in only a big shirt, cum was still slicking down his thighs. When Minho had fucked his fingers into him the very first night, Seungmin knew.

He got him.

They got them.

Seungmin's breath catches. He watches, mesmerized, as Chan pounds into Jisung, each thrust driving a broken cry from the smaller man's lips. Jisung's face is half-buried in the pillows, but his mouth is open, drool pooling on the fabric. His eyes are glazed, lost, perfect.

Seungmin's hand drifts down to his crotch. He palms himself through the boxers, feeling the heat, the growing hardness. The plug shifts inside him with the pressure, sending a dull pulse of pleasure through his guts. Minho's cum is sloshing around.

He imagines being there.

Not just watching—participating.

He'd crawl onto the bed, press his body against Jisung's front, and capture his lips in a filthy kiss. He'd taste Chan on Jisung's tongue, the salt and sweat and sex. He'd slide his hand down, wrap it around Jisung's cock, stroke him in time with Chan's thrusts. And when Chan pulled out to cum, Seungmin would be right there, tongue out, slotting between Jisung's spread cheeks, lapping at Chan's release as it leaked from Jisung's hole.

The thought makes him groan, low and desperate.

He fast-forwards the video, scanning for something. And then he finds it.

In the corner of the frame—barely visible, but unmistakable—a figure. Dark hair, sharp jaw, hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking furiously.

Minho.

Seungmin's heart pounds. His hyung. His brother. Standing there, watching his boyfriend get ravaged, getting off to it.

Well, well, well.

Seungmin licks his lips. That makes things easier.

He sits up, the video still playing on his phone. His fingers find the cast icon, and with a single tap, the footage transfers to the TV. The screen flickers, and suddenly Jisung's moans fill the room, echoing off the walls. The overhead shot is massive now, larger than life.

Seungmin drops his boxers and kicks them aside. He settles back against the couch cushions, legs spread wide, the plug pressing against his prostate. He reaches behind himself, fingers finding the base of the plug, and begins to work it in and out—slow, deliberate, fucking himself open on the silicone.

His eyes never leave the screen.

He watches Jisung take it. He watches Chan dominate. He watches Minho in the corner, fist pumping, face twisted in a mix of rage and arousal.

Come home soon, hyung.

Seungmin's breath comes in short, sharp gasps. The plug stretches him, fills him, but it's not enough. He wants Minho's cock. He wants Minho to walk through that door, see this video playing, see his little brother spread open and waiting, and lose his goddamn mind.

He imagines Minho's reaction. The shock. The fury. The inevitable surrender to the same dark hunger that's been consuming them both.

On the TV, Chan slams into Jisung one last time, burying deep. His body shudders. His cum floods Jisung's insides. And in the corner, Minho's hand speeds up—

Seungmin moans, matching his rhythm to the scene. His own cock is hard, leaking, untouched against his stomach.

He doesn't touch it. Not yet.

He wants Minho to be the first to wrap his hand around it when he gets home.

The video loops. Jisung's cries start again from the beginning.

Seungmin leans his head back, eyes half-lidded, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

Come home, hyung. I've got a present for you.

The door clicks open after a few minutes.

Seungmin hears it over the looped audio of Jisung's moans, over the wet slap of Chan's hips against skin echoing through the apartment's speakers.

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't even stop.

His fingers keep working the plug in and out, the silicone slick with lube and his own leaking arousal, the tip brushing his prostate with every deliberate push.

Footsteps. Fast. Urgent. Pounding down the hallway like a man possessed.

Minho rounds the corner, and Seungmin finally lets his gaze slide from the TV to meet his brother's face.

The sight is delicious.

Minho's chest heaves.

His hair is a mess, sticking to his forehead with sweat. His eyes are wild—red-rimmed, glassy, darting between the massive image on the screen and Seungmin sprawled on the couch, naked from the waist down, legs spread, plug disappearing into his stretched hole. His jeans are strained at the crotch, a swollen outline pressing against the denim.

"You're home~ Hyung~."

Seungmin's voice is honeyed, syrupy, laced with mock sweetness. He tilts his head, letting his tongue dart out to wet his lower lip.

Minho's mouth opens. Closes.

His throat works, but no sound comes out. His gaze snaps to the TV, where the video loops back to the overhead angle—Jisung on all fours, Chan pounding into him, and in the corner, a shadowed figure with his dick in his hand.

Minho's own silhouette.

The colour drains from his face, then floods back in a violent rush of red.

"You fucking knew."

The words tear out of him, raw and ragged. He takes a step forward, fists clenched at his sides.

"You fucking knew about this."

Seungmin laughs. A light, airy sound that doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn't stop moving the plug, doesn't slow down. The wet squelch fills the silence between Minho's breaths.

"Of course I knew, hyung." He pushes the plug deep, holding it there, feeling the stretch. "I set it all up."

"Why?"

Minho's voice cracks. The anger wavers, and underneath it Seungmin hears something fragile—something that's splintering.

"Why?"

Seungmin's smirk softens into something almost contemplative. He watches Minho's face, cataloguing every micro-expression: the furrow of his brows, the tremor in his jaw, the way his hands shake.

"Because Chan wanted him again." Seungmin shrugs like it's simple. "And at first, I wanted to break you guys off. It was annoying—constantly hearing you fuck like rabbits through the walls. Every night. Every morning. The headboard banging, Jisung's little squeals. It grated on me."

He bites his lower lip, eyes dropping to the bulge in Minho's jeans.

"But I can't help it. I want you too, hyung." His voice softens, drops to a near-whisper. "You've ruined me."

He pushes the plug in one last time, hitting that perfect spot, and a low moan escapes his throat—genuine, unhidden. His back arches, hips lifting off the couch cushions.

Minho stands frozen. The TV plays on. Jisung's cries fill the room.

The next emotion flickers across Minho's face—anguish. Pure, gut-wrenching anguish. His eyes glisten, and for a moment, Seungmin thinks he might cry. Thinks Minho might actually have a small part of the rationale flicker back to life.

But then something shifts.

Minho's jaw tightens. His breathing slows. The anguish doesn't disappear, but it transmutes—burns down into something darker, something that settles in his gut and hardens his gaze.

He takes a step forward.

Then another.

He walks toward the couch, eyes fixed on Seungmin, while on the screen his own past self strokes furiously in the corner, caught in the frame of his brother's trap.

Seungmin watches him approach, heart pounding, a thrill shooting through his veins.

"So..." He lets the word hang, savouring the tension. "What will you do now, hyung?"

The zipper is deafening in the charged air.

Before Seungmin can react, his face is pressed into the couch cushions, the fabric rough against his cheek.

The plug is yanked out—a sharp, wet pull that tears a moan from his throat, his hole clenching around nothing, gaping and slick. Then Minho's cock is there, not teasing, not waiting, just plunged to the hilt in one brutal, seamless thrust.

Seungmin's vision whites out.

There's no tenderness. No hesitation. Just the searing stretch, the fullness that punches the air from his lungs. Minho's hand tangles in his hair, yanks his head back until his spine bows, the strain burning through his neck and shoulders—painful, degrading, perfect.

"I knew you were a fucking menace, but I didn't think you'd stoop this low..."

Minho's voice is a growl, low and guttural, rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips waste no time—they pull back and slam forward, a brutal rhythm that jolts Seungmin's entire body. The couch creaks beneath them, the springs groaning in protest.

Seungmin's mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. His fingers scrabble against the cushions, searching for purchase, finding none.

The remnants of Minho's morning release—sticky, warm, still inside him from their earlier encounter—mix with the fresh lube, creating a wet, obscene squelch with every thrust. Seungmin's own cock, trapped between his belly and the couch, leaks precum into the fabric.

Minho's hands leave his hair.

Both of them grab Seungmin's wrists, yanking his arms back, holding them pinned at the small of his back with brutal force. The position arches Seungmin's spine further, presenting his ass at a perfect angle, and Minho takes full advantage—fucking into him as nothing else exists, like he's trying to burrow inside his brother's very bones.

"You wanted to break Jisungie and me up?"

Minho's breath comes in harsh pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and drips down his temples. His face is flushed—crimson spreading across his cheeks, down his neck, colouring his ears.

He rips his shirt off over his head in one fluid motion, discarding it somewhere Seungmin can't see. His chest heaves, muscles tensing and flexing with every movement.

"You did a great job, my dongsaeng."

The word drips with venom, with irony. He slams his hips forward, grinding deep, holding himself there for a heartbeat before pulling back.

"So I hope you can replace him."

The snarl is almost feral. His thrusts quicken, lose any remaining rhythm, and become pure animal instinct. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, drowning out the still-playing video of Jisung and Chan, like Minho is trying to drown out their noises with his own.

With his own brother.

Seungmin tries to speak.

Tries to form a witty retort, some cutting remark to maintain the upper hand. But his brain is short-circuiting, overwhelmed by the sheer force of Minho inside him. Every nerve ending is firing, every cell in his body focused on the stretch, the burn, the fullness that borders on too much.

"I—" he starts, but it dissolves into a moan as Minho hits that spot again, the one that makes his toes curl and his vision blur.

"Too bad you'll never get the love I gave my Jisung."

Minho's voice cracks on the name. The venom is still there, but underneath it—something raw, something wounded. His hips don't slow, don't soften. If anything, they get harder, more desperate, like he's trying to fuck the betrayal out of his system.

Seungmin's fingers curl into fists, trapped behind his back. His teeth sink into his lower lip, drawing blood, the copper taste sharp on his tongue.

And despite the angle, despite the brutal pace, despite everything—

He grins.

It's small. Almost hidden against the couch cushion. But it's there, pulling at the corner of his mouth, a flash of teeth in the dim light.

Minho's release spills deep inside him—hot, thick, flooding the space the plug had so carefully preserved, replaced with a fresh batch. The sensation is overwhelming, a primal marking that Seungmin feels in his very marrow. His own climax follows moments later, not from Minho's cock—that would be too much to ask—but from the grinding against the couch cushions, the friction of his trapped cock against the fabric, the sheer wrongness of it all sending him over the edge.

He comes with a broken moan, his spend soaking into the couch, adding to the mess they've already made.

For a long moment, there's nothing but ragged breathing. The video of Jisung and Chan has long since ended, leaving only the wet sounds of their panting, the creak of the couch springs settling.

Minho is still inside him. Still hard, despite having come. His chest heaves against Seungmin's back, sweat slicking their skin together. His grip on Seungmin's wrists loosens, then releases entirely.

Seungmin's arms fall limp, numb from being pinned. He doesn't move immediately. Every muscle aches—his neck from being yanked back, his shoulders from the strain, his hole stretched and throbbing around Minho's softening cock.

He finally pushes himself up, turning his head to look back over his shoulder. His eyes meet Minho's.

Minho looks wrecked. His hyung's face is flushed, his hair plastered to his forehead, his lips parted as he struggles to catch his breath. His gaze is unfocused, staring at the mess they've made, at the slick coating of his cock as he slowly pulls out.

Seungmin feels the emptiness immediately. The trickle of Minho's cum starts to leak out, sliding down his thigh.

"Come on, hyung," Seungmin huffs, his voice hoarse, wrecked. He pushes himself upright, ignoring the protest of his joints.

"Take a picture. Send it to Jisungie..."

He turns fully, facing his brother. There's a wicked smile spreading across his lips—tired, but triumphant. His eyes glint with something dark, something satisfied.

"Let's finally seal the deal."

Minho's brain is static.

He knows he should say no. He knows this is insane, that sending a picture of his cum leaking out of his little brother's hole to his boyfriend is crossing a line that can never be uncrossed. He knows this will destroy everything—his relationship with Jisung, his relationship with Seungmin, his own sense of self.

But his body is already moving.

His jeans are on the floor, discarded earlier. He bends down, his muscles screaming, and retrieves his phone. The screen lights up, showing Jisung's previous text message, who he had finally connected, turned out to be Chan's doing all along.

They're doing all along.

His thumb hovers over the camera icon.

Seungmin watches him, still smiling. He shifts on the couch, spreading his legs slightly, letting the evidence of what they've done become visible. Cum drips from his hole, trailing down his inner thigh, glistening in the dim light.

"Make it good, hyung," Seungmin says, his voice soft now, almost gentle. "You want him to know he's replaced, right?"

Minho's jaw tightens.

He opens the camera. Points it at Seungmin—at the mess, the leaking cum, the flushed skin, the satisfied expression.

Click.

The flash illuminates the room for a split second, capturing everything. Seungmin's hole, gaping and slick. The trail of cum. The way his brother looks back at the camera with dark, knowing eyes.

Minho's thumb moves to the chat.

Minho 💖: [image attached]

Minho 💖: Let's break up.

The words hang there, irreversible. The three dots indicate Jisung has seen the message appear, then disappear, then appear again.

No response comes.

Minho lowers the phone. His hand trembles now, the adrenaline fading, leaving only the cold weight of what he's done.

Seungmin watches him, his smile finally fading into something softer, almost vulnerable.

"Regret?" Seungmin asks quietly.

Minho looks at him. At his little brother, still naked, still marked with his cum. At the phone in his hand, the screen showed the conversation that had just ended his relationship.

"No," Minho says, and the word surprises even him. "No, I don't."

He sets the phone aside. Crawls forward, onto the couch, until he's hovering over Seungmin. His hand reaches out, cups Seungmin's jaw, and tilts his face up.

"But you're going to be the one to fix this," Minho murmurs, his thumb tracing Seungmin's lower lip. "You wanted to replace him? Fine. But you're going to earn it."

Seungmin's breath hitches. His eyes search Minho's, looking for the lie, the anger, the regret.

He finds none.

Instead, he finds something new. Something hungry. Something that's been lurking beneath the surface all along, waiting for permission.

Minho leans down and kisses him—not the brutal, punishing kiss from before, but something slower. Something that tastes of exploration, of beginning.

When he pulls back, his voice is low.

"Now clean up. We're not done yet."

Regret has never tasted so good.

They're too busy exploring each other's bodies when Seungmin's phone vibrates on the kitchen island. Minho's choked-off groan captures Seungmin's moans, noises he's never made before coming to life, drowning out the phone's vibrations. It continues to vibrate until the call dies down.

"Huh," one gruff man in business attire expresses concern at the lack of an answer, "is Seungmin busy?" He looks towards his wife's direction. "It's not like for him to miss my calls."

His wife gives a long sigh. "Can you stop meddling with your son's business every hour?"

The man gives him a conflicted look. "Is it so bad of me to check up on my boys?"

"They're adults. They can look after themselves." His wife flicks through a magazine cover.

"Besides, you're going home on the next flight for what you did with that corporate attendant, Changbin-ah." His wife is disgruntled, flicking to the next page with extra force.

"Love, you know how important it is we try to stay independent." Changbin glums, trying to reason.

"I don't care. That wasn't how you're supposed to talk to them, regardless." His wife fumes.

"Let me handle the rest. You go back home with the boys. I can't afford you messing up our only potential in climbing the ladder." She sits up from her spot and leaves the terminal, not before she gives him a disdained look, as Changbin sighs and scratches his head in frustration.

He stares back at the phone, Seungmin's caller log ID sitting there—missed call.

He scrolls down and goes to Minho's caller log instead.

He calls. Minho doesn't have much of a habit of actually picking up his calls, but he tries regardless.

It dies down, sending straight to voicemail.

"Yeah, she's probably right," Changbin mutters to himself, "I should spend some time with the boys. She can handle the rest." The intercom of the terminal rings out, and a random passenger's name is being called out for delayed flight responses.

Changbin gets up and makes his way to the check-in, already humming and thinking of ideas he could spend with his sons. Besides, he hasn't been home in a while. His wife will get back to him with great news about their affirmations and deals. Right now, he can focus on relaxing by himself with Seungmin and Minho.

It would be nice to have a family bonding with just his sons.