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The rain fell in relentless sheets, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers tapping for attention. Outside, the streets of the city were shrouded in a heavy autumn chill, the kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there. Minho didn’t mind the weather; the world always seemed quieter when it rained.
In the small warmth of his apartment, Minho stood in front of his counter in the kitchen, filling the ceramic bowls of his three cats—Soonie, Doongie, and Dori. The cats circled around his legs like fuzzy satellites, meowing impatiently, their voices cutting through the steady hum of rain.
“All right, all right, I hear you,” Minho murmured with a chuckle, nudging Doongie gently with his knee as the she tried to climb onto the counter. “Patience is a virtue, you know.”
The cats paid him no mind, their attention fixed entirely on the bowls he was carefully portioning out. Once satisfied, Minho carried the bowls into the living room, the cats trotting at his heels, tails high in anticipation. He set the bowls down in their usual corner and watched as they pounced on the food with single-minded determination.
Minho leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips. There was something comforting in their simple happiness, a sharp contrast to the chaos of his life outside these walls. For a moment, he let his thoughts drift, absently tracing the grooves in the wooden frame of the doorway.
But the peace was fleeting. The Strays—the gang he had clawed his way to lead—were never far from his mind. Their next job loomed large in his thoughts: another deal, another skirmish, another line crossed. Each step deeper into this life felt heavier than the last, but turning back had never been an option.
He was pulled from his reverie by a sound that sliced through the rhythm of the rain: three short, sharp knocks on the door.
Minho froze.
His first thought was of The Strays, but he dismissed it almost immediately. They always called or texted first; they knew better than to just show up. His mind cycled through possibilities, but each was quickly discarded, leaving only one person.
Jisung.
The name came with a pang of dread that coiled tightly in his chest. It wasn’t often, but sometimes, Jisung came to him. And when he did, it was never good. Minho felt the familiar twist of conflicting emotions: fear, frustration, and a stubborn, aching concern.
Minho approached the door slowly, his bare feet soundless against the worn floorboards. He could already feel the turmoil rising inside him, each step heavier than the last. His mind flashed with memories—Jisung on this same threshold, slumped against the frame, bleeding and barely conscious. Jisung with a black eye swollen shut, a trembling hand clinging to Minho’s shirt. Jisung with a fractured arm, his breath hitching in pain as Minho tried to patch him up.
Minho’s hand hovered over the door handle as the flood of memories threatened to overwhelm him. He closed his eyes, his forehead resting briefly against the cool wood of the door. There was no telling what state Jisung might be in this time, but Minho knew one thing with certainty: he couldn’t turn him away. Not ever.
Taking a deep breath, Minho steeled himself and opened the door.
Jisung stood there, drenched from the rain, shivering slightly. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, and his lower lip was split, a bead of blood trailing down to his chin. His jacket was torn at the sleeve, exposing bruised skin beneath. His posture was tense, but his eyes...
Minho’s heart sank at the sight of them. They were the same eyes he had seen every time Jisung came to him like this—eyes that held too much pain, too much exhaustion, and far too much resolve for someone so young.
Minho exhaled slowly, his hand tightening on the edge of the door.
“Come inside,” he said, his voice softer than he intended.
Jisung hesitated for only a moment before stepping past him, the scent of rain and blood trailing in his wake. Minho closed the door behind him, leaning against it briefly as his shoulders sagged under the weight of everything he couldn’t say.
Here we go again.
The living room felt colder than it should have, despite the steady warmth of the lamps and the sound of rain tapping against the windows. Minho led Jisung to the couch with calm, deliberate movements. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask questions. He just gestured to the seat, and Jisung sank into it without resistance, his movements slow, like a marionette with its strings cut.
Jisung’s gaze was empty, hollow. His hands rested limply in his lap, stained with rain and something darker. Minho had seen him like this too many times to count—broken in ways Minho knew he could never fully mend. He could bandage the cuts, ice the bruises, even hold him close to keep the nightmares at bay for a while. But the boy Minho had once known—bright, reckless, and filled with sharp wit—was long gone.
Yet Minho would never stop opening the door. Never stop letting him in.
“You shouldn’t have come back here,” Minho said at last, his voice rough, laced with worry. “It’s too dangerous.”
The words were a futile protest. Even as he spoke, his hands reached for Jisung, pulling him close. It was an act of love, but also of self-destruction. Minho wrapped his arms around him, drawing him into the warmth of his chest.
The instant relief was dizzying. Minho’s entire body exhaled with a weight he hadn’t realized he was holding, a fleeting solace in knowing Jisung was safe—for the moment. Here, in his arms, no one could touch him. Not his gang. Not his father. Not the world that had chewed him up and spit him out.
Jisung’s breaths were rough and stuttering, a telltale sign of how much he was holding back. Minho felt the tension in Jisung’s frame melt as he leaned into the embrace. His fingers clawed at Minho’s back, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality.
Minho’s chest tightened. The desperation in Jisung’s touch, the silent plea for something only Minho could offer, made it impossible to breathe.
But it couldn’t last.
They broke apart, the air between them thick with words unspoken. Minho’s heart twisted as he watched Jisung’s shoulders sag, his gaze falling to the floor. Without a word, Minho went to the bathroom and retrieved his first aid kit.
As he walked back from the bathroom, the first aid kit clutched in his hands. His steps slowed as his eyes landed again on Jisung. It seemed like it was physically impossible for Minho to walk into a room with Jisung in it, and not to be drained to him like a magnet.
Jisung sat hunched on the couch, his shoulders caved inward, the light catching on the fresh bruises marring his cheekbone and jawline. His clothes were soaked through, sticking to his frame. His hoodie was torn at the sleeve, the fabric near the hem dark with what Minho could only assume was blood. He looked smaller than Minho remembered, fragile in a way that seemed impossible for someone who carried so much weight on his shoulders.
Minho’s gaze lingered, taking in the hollow way Jisung stared at the floor, his fingers absently stroking Dori’s fur. The cat purred, curling closer against him. It was a sight that struck Minho like a knife to the chest—Dori never let anyone but him touch her. No one, except Jisung.
For a fleeting moment, Minho could almost hear the echo of a younger, happier Jisung.
“Look, Minho-hyung! Dori likes me better than you,” Jisung had teased once, his smile bright and mischievous and his eyes fully of giddiness as he held the cat in his lap. “Guess she knows who the real badass is around here.”
The memory was so vivid, Minho could almost hear Jisung’s laugh. But the sound was quickly swallowed by the heavy silence of the present.
Minho blinked, shaking away the ghost of a boy who didn’t exist anymore. Still his chest ached, the kind of ache that came from yearning for something you could never have again.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to move, sitting down beside Jisung.
“Let me see,” Minho murmured, his voice low and steady as he opened the first aid kit. His hands worked with practiced precision, cleaning the cuts and scrapes, applying bandages to the deeper wounds.
As his fingers brushed against Jisung’s skin, Minho couldn’t help but look into his eyes. They were glassy, reflecting both pain and something deeper—something that made Minho’s stomach twist. It was love, tangled with desperation, guilt, and a plea for something Jisung could never say out loud.
Minho’s own chest tightened.
“Why do you keep coming back?” he finally asked, breaking the silence as he pressed a bandage to Jisung’s cheek. His voice was rough, strained with the weight of a question that had haunted him for years. “You know he’ll hurt you worse if he finds out you’ve been with a Stray.”
Jisung’s breath hitched. His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t pull away. After a moment, his voice came, soft and trembling.
“Because you’re the only one who still understands me. Who still sees me.”
The words hit Minho like a punch to the gut.
“I’ve tried, Minho,” Jisung continued, his voice breaking. “I’ve tried so fucking hard to stay away, to do what he wants, to forget about you. But I can’t—I can’t stop.”
Jisungs hands trembled as he gripped the edge of his hoodie, tears spilling over his lashes. “I can’t just stop... stop loving you.”
The confession shattered something inside Minho. His breath left him in a sharp exhale as he stared at Jisung, his own emotions clawing to the surface.
Minho wanted to scream, to tell Jisung how much he despised him for this—for coming back, for relying on him, for making him feel this way. But he also wanted to tell him how much he loved him, how much he longed for these fleeting moments, no matter how much they hurt.
Loving Jisung was easy because it felt like breathing. It was natural, instinctive, and undeniable.
But it was also easy to hate him, because every time Jisung showed up on his doorstep, bruised and battered, Minho was reminded of how powerless he was. Jisung was a walking storm, chaos and destruction wrapped in a boy Minho couldn’t stop caring for, even when it destroyed them both.
But living without him? That wasn’t just hard—it was impossible.
Minho’s hands trembled as he reached for Jisung again, pulling him into a soft hug. Jisung melted into him, sobbing into his shoulder, his fingers clutching desperately at Minho’s shirt.
“I hate you for this,” Minho whispered, his voice breaking. “But I- I can't and won't ever stop loving you,"
Jisung didn’t respond, his cries muffled against Minho’s chest. Minho held him tighter, his own tears slipping silently down his cheeks. He wanted to take Jisung’s pain, to bear the weight of his shadowns, to give him even a moment of peace.
“Put it all on me,” Minho whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “Your hell, your demons, everything —give them to me. I’ll carry them.”
Jisung didn’t answer, but his grip on Minho tightened. They stayed like that, tangled in each other’s limps, their love both a salvation and a curse.
Minho stood up after the hug, lifting Jisung with the kind of ease that came from doing it too many times before. Jisung instinctively wrapped his arms and legs around Minho, clinging to him like a koala. His body felt fragile in Minho’s arms, impossibly light, the way a person only becomes when they’ve been whittled down by pain and exhaustion.
The cold from Jisung’s soaked clothes seeped into Minho’s skin, and he shivered at the feeling. His hands steadied against Jisung’s back, feeling the shudder of his trembling breaths and the subtle, constant shiver running through him. He smelled faintly of blood and sweat, with a metallic sharpness that made Minho’s stomach twist. But beneath it all, there was still something achingly familiar—a scent that was uniquely Jisung.
Minho’s throat tightened as he glanced down at Jisung’s face, pressed against his shoulder. His features were sharper now, his cheeks hollow, and his skin looked pale against the deep shadows of bruises. He was so much thinner than Minho remembered, and the thought hit like a punch. He wanted to cook for Jisung again, to make him eat until he was full and warm and alive. To see him smile and laugh, teasing him about how Minhos was to kill him with the amout of delicious food he always made him eat.
But that version of Jisung felt so far away.
He carried him to the bedroom, carefully lowering him onto the bed. The bedside lamp clicked on, casting the room in a soft, golden glow. Minho saw Jisung’s eyes wander around the space, and he wondered what he saw. The room was the same as it had always been—his walls lined with shelves holding books and knick-knacks, the faint scent of sandalwood lingering in the air. Did Jisung notice the little details? Or was he too tired to care?
What Minho did notice was the exhaustion etched into every part of him. The way Jisung slumped slightly forward, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world was too much to bear. His face was pale and drawn, his lips cracked, and his eyes—Minho couldn’t stop staring at his eyes. They were dull now, but there was still a flicker of something, a spark that refused to die no matter how many times life tried to snuff it out.
Minho’s chest tightened again, a fierce and overwhelming need to protect Jisung surging through him. He crossed the room, opening the closet and pulling out a soft towel and the oversized shirt with the cartoon cat on it—the same one Jisung had given him years ago for his birthday.
When he turned back, Jisung’s gaze locked on the shirt. His expression shifted, softening in a way Minho hadn’t seen in so long. A small, genuine smile broke through the exhaustion, and for a fleeting second, Minho saw the boy he used to know.
Jisung reached for the shirt, his fingers brushing against the fabric like it was something precious. Minho’s heart swelled, an aching mix of happiness and grief. He couldn’t help but stare at Jisung, feeling the familiar ache that came with remembering what they once had—and what they could never fully have again.
“You should dry off,” Minho murmured, handing him the towel.
He turned away as Jisung stood to change, his wet clothes falling to the floor with a quiet rustle. Minho stared at the wall, his thoughts spiraling. How many times would they end up like this? How many times would Jisung come to him, broken and bleeding, only for Minho to patch him up, knowing he’d never truly heal?
But he stopped himself. No. Jisung needed him now. He had to be here, present, focused. Even if it tore something inside him apart, Minho would be his anchor.
“I’m done,” Jisung’s soft voice broke through his thoughts.
Minho turned around and froze. Jisung was sitting on the bed, the cartoon cat shirt hanging loosely on his thin frame. He looked warm, cozy, and heartbreakingly vulnerable. The bruises on his face and the cuts on his arms didn’t diminish how beautiful he looked to Minho in that moment. His heart clenched painfully.
He’s never been more beautiful, Minho thought. And the realization hit him like a tidal wave: he would endure every painful departure, every moment of dread, every piece of heartbreak—just for the chance to see Jisung like this again.
Minho gestured for Jisung to move back toward the headboard, and Jisung did so without question, already knowing the routine. It was muscle memory for both of them. Jisung slid under the covers and looked at Minho expectantly, shifting slightly to open them up for him.
Minho felt a small spark of happiness as he saw the faint excitement in Jisung’s eyes, the way he seemed almost childlike in his anticipation. He turned off the bedside lamp and slipped into bed.
As soon as he lay down, Jisung scooted closer. It wasn’t just a movement—it was a quiet, desperate declaration. His head found Minho’s shoulder, his arm draped over Minho’s middle, and their legs tangled together as if it was the only natural way they could exist.
Minho’s body reacted instantly, pulling Jisung closer, his arm wrapping around him protectively. It felt right, like this was the only place they were meant to be. He let his hand glide gently from Jisung’s hair to his back and up again, a soothing rhythm meant to comfort them both.
“I’ll watch over you,” Minho whispered. “You can sleep now.”
Jisung’s breathing slowed, the tension in his body melting away as he relaxed into Minho’s embrace. It didn’t take long before he was fast asleep, his face finally peaceful.
Minho lay there, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts a storm of contradictions. This—this moment, holding Jisung, protecting him, loving him—was everything he wanted. But it came with a cost. It hurt to know that it couldn’t last, that morning would come, and Jisung would leave again.
But for now, in this fragile, fleeting moment, Minho let himself believe in the dream. Even if it was wrong. Even if it would hurt. Because Jisung was still his Jisung, and Minho would endure the hell that came with loving him—again and again.
🌙
Minho stirred awake, his body slowly pulling him from a deep, dreamlike slumber. For a moment, he felt warm, cocooned in a strange sense of peace he hadn’t felt in what seemed like years. The remnants of a beautiful dream lingered in his mind—Jisung’s laugh echoing softly. The memory felt so real it brought a faint smile to Minho’s lips.
But as consciousness settled, the warmth faded. He opened his eyes to the dull grey light filtering weakly through the blinds. The sound of rain pattering against the window was soft but relentless, like a constant reminder of something unfinished.
Minho frowned, instinctively reaching to his side—only to find the space beside him cold and empty.
Reality struck like a punch to the gut.
He sat up slightly, his chest tightening as he took in the stillness of the room. The air felt heavier now, pressing down on him as he realized Jisung was gone. The bed that had held them both just hours ago now felt vast and hollow, the sheets rumpled but unoccupied. Minho exhaled shakily, the chill of the room seeping into his skin.
His eyes drifted around the space, aking in the familiar sight of his bookshelves, the worn nightstand, and the scattered belongings that hadn’t changed in years. Everything was the same, and yet it wasn’t. The ache in his chest deepened as he stared at the door, half-hoping it would open, half-knowing it wouldn’t.
The déjà vu was suffocating. He couldn’t count how many mornings like this he’d endured—waking to an empty bed, feeling Jisung’s absence like a wound that refused to heal. Every time, it was the same. The hope, the fleeting moments of peace, and then the cruel realization that he was alone again.
His arm brushed against something soft. Confused, Minho turned his head again and froze.
There, resting on the pillow beside him, was the shirt Jisung had worn last night. It was neatly folded, placed with care as though Jisung had intended it to say what he couldn’t.
Minho’s breath caught, his hand trembling as he reached for it. The fabric was long cold but still faintly carried Jisung’s scent—a bittersweet mixture of rain, sweat, and something just inherently him.
Minho’s chest constricted as he pulled the shirt closer, clutching it to his face. The smell was almost unbearable, the ache it brought sharper than any knife. He curled onto his side, pulling his knees toward his chest as if that would help keep the pain at bay.
His breaths came shallow, uneven, and he felt the tears prick at his eyes before he could stop them. He let them fall, hot and silent, his body trembling as he lay there. He hated this—this vulnerability, this helplessness that consumed him every time Jisung left.
And yet, he couldn’t stop.
The emotions churned inside him, love and hate locked in a relentless battle. He loved Jisung more than he thought possible, but he hated the way that love made him weak. He hated the pain that came with letting Jisung back into his life, knowing it would only end like this. And more than anything, he hated himself—for always opening the door, for always letting him in, for always hoping that maybe this time it would be different.
Tears streaked his face, dampening the shirt, but he didn’t care. The pain was overwhelming, a suffocating weight on his chest that made it hard to breathe. He stayed like that, curled up in the cold, until the sound of a soft meow broke through the haze.
Soonie jumped onto the bed, her small paws pressing into the mattress as she approached him. She let out another soft meow, her big eyes watching him curiously before she curled up against his chest. Minho blinked, his hand automatically reaching out to stroke her fur.
Her warmth was a small comfort, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. He let out a shaky breath, the corners of his lips twitching into the faintest smile as she nuzzled against him.
“I guess it’s just us again,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
As he lay there, his hand moving rhythmically over Soonie’s fur, he let himself sink into the quiet moment. The pain was still there, sharp and unrelenting, but it was manageable. He knew it wouldn’t go away—it never did.
But as much as he hated himself for letting Jisung in, for letting him leave, he knew he’d do it all over again.
Because Jisung needed him.
And if being there for Jisung, if helping him escape his demons, even for a moment, meant tearing himself apart piece by piece—Minho would do it. Every single time.
Even if it destroyed him.