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Jisung gripped the handle of his suitcase with white-knuckled hands, the tendons in his forearms straining as blood drained from his fingers under the pressure. His heartbeat thudded unevenly in his chest, echoing the rhythmic clatter of footsteps and suitcase wheels around him. He had never been on a flight before—neither alone nor with company—and if he had any say in the matter, he never would have been.

The very idea of being trapped in a metal tube miles above the ground made his stomach twist unpleasantly.

Yet here he was, standing in the middle of an airport terminal that buzzed with life and chaos, wishing he could disappear into the polished floor tiles. It wasn’t as if he had volunteered for this. Chan and Changbin had been desperate—panicked, even—after realizing that one of their recording equipment shipments had gone missing at the company’s London headquarters, and they needed it retrieved as soon as possible. When the two of them had turned their wide, hopeful eyes toward him, he had immediately refused, shaking his head so fast it made him dizzy.

“No way,” he’d said, crossing his arms for emphasis. “You’ll have to make do with what’s in the studio. I’m not flying anywhere.” But of course, they hadn’t taken no for an answer. They’d coaxed and reasoned, pointed out that he was the only one free that week, and reminded him that the entire comeback schedule would crumble if they didn’t have that equipment. They promised him it would be simple—fly in, pick it up, fly out, done. A day or two at most.

And now, with boarding time ticking closer and the weight of the ticket in his pocket, Jisung realized that somehow, against all odds and better judgment, he had let them talk him into it.

Unfortunately, Jisung was far too gullible for his own good—and even worse when it came to those two. He’d always been soft when Chan and Changbin teamed up on him; their mix of logic, charm, and relentless persuasion was a deadly combination he had never learned to defend himself against. With a little—well, a lot—of coaxing and several bribes that included promises of unlimited cheesecake, barbecue, and a week’s worth of studio snacks paid for by his hyungs, Jisung had found himself giving in before he could even fully process what he was agreeing to.

He tried to tell himself that it was only a quick trip, barely worth worrying about. A weekend of mild inconvenience, that was all. Fly over, grab the equipment, maybe take a photo or two to prove he didn’t break anything, and then catch the next flight back to Seoul. Easy, simple, harmless—or so they made it sound.

But as he stood there now, suitcase handle biting into his palms and the airport’s muffled announcements echoing through the terminal, Jisung couldn’t help but think that he’d made a terrible mistake. All the cheesecake in the world wouldn’t make this worth it.

If he had any influence over his past choices, he would have bitten himself hard enough to knock some sense into his own head. Nothing—absolutely nothing—was worth this. The airport was a sensory nightmare, all glaring lights, echoing footsteps, and the ceaseless hum of voices blending into an incomprehensible drone. The air smelled faintly of coffee and jet fuel, sharp and metallic in his nose, and every announcement over the intercom sent another jolt through his already frayed nerves. He had made it through security with only minimal tears—a small victory, all things considered—and even managed to wave goodbye to Changbin without completely falling apart. His hyung had stayed with him right up until the last possible moment, his hand heavy and reassuring on Jisung’s shoulder, his smile strained with worry.

When Jisung finally had to turn away and face the line alone, it felt like walking straight into the eye of a storm. By the time he emerged on the other side, clutching his boarding pass like a lifeline, he was already shaking. He wandered through the maze of terminals, eyes darting from one glowing sign to the next, heart pounding faster every time he thought he’d gone the wrong way. It took several wrong turns—and more than one near breakdown—before he finally stumbled upon his gate. He sank into a chair tucked into the far corner of the waiting area, hidden as much as possible from the steady flow of travelers. His suitcase sat at his feet, his headphones hung uselessly around his neck, and his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

After fumbling through his bag, he pulled out the small pill bottle. He dry-swallowed an extra dose, feeling the bitter taste coat his tongue, but the relief he hoped for never came. The tightening in his chest stayed stubborn, like a fist clenched around his ribs, and every breath scraped against his throat. No matter how deeply he inhaled, the air never seemed to reach his lungs. He tried closing his eyes, counting in slow rhythm, but even that only made the world tilt harder around him.

The reality of what lay ahead—of stepping onto that plane, of being trapped above the clouds—pressed down on him with suffocating weight. Now, he crept forward as the line for boarding began to move. His palms were slick, his fingers twitching against the handle of his suitcase, and his other hand tapped an erratic rhythm against his thigh. Every step closer to the gate felt like walking toward his own doom. This was a terrible, horrid, absolutely no-good idea—one he’d agreed to with the kind of optimism that could only come from deep, reckless denial.

When the airline staff held out a hand for his boarding pass, he nearly dropped it. The woman scanned it with a practiced smile, oblivious to the small disaster unraveling inside him, and handed it back before he could even manage a “thank you.” With a shaky breath, he followed the line of passengers down the boarding tunnel. The hallway seemed to close in around him, the air thinning with every step, and he had to remind himself—out loud, under his breath—that he could still breathe.

The moment he stepped onto the plane, the panic surged again. The space was smaller than he expected, claustrophobic, and full of people moving in too many directions at once. The overhead bins creaked, the air buzzed with chatter, and the narrow aisle looked more like a trap than a walkway. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to make a run for it while he still could. But the soft shuffle of impatient feet behind him—families with kids, business travelers with calm, practiced faces—kept him moving forward, one hesitant step at a time.

Summoning far more bravery than he actually possessed, Jisung inched his way onto the plane, dragging his luggage like a stubborn shadow behind him. His shoulders were practically glued to his ears, and he ducked his head low as if that alone might make him invisible. Don’t be weird, don’t be annoying, don’t be noticeable, he repeated under his breath, the mantra looping in time with the pounding of his heart. He tried to scan the row numbers discreetly, but his nerves betrayed him—his eyes darted everywhere, never landing long enough to read a single seat label.

When he finally spotted his row, he froze in place for a moment too long, earning a soft cough from the passenger behind him. Swallowing hard, he turned toward the overhead bin and reached for the latch, his hands trembling so badly that it clicked open on the third try. The suitcase felt impossibly heavy. He braced himself, tried to lift with both arms, and barely got it chest-level before it slipped back down with a thud that made him wince. Heat crawled up his neck and across his ears as he tried again, his breath coming short.

Why is this so hard? His brain supplied every possible answer at once: the potential altitude, the people staring, his own humiliating weakness—take your pick.

When a hand brushed his shoulder, he jumped as if burned, spinning halfway around with a quiet, panicked apology already spilling from his lips. “Here, let me.” The suitcase was gently pried from his hands and lifted effortlessly into the overhead bin, as if it weighed nothing at all. Mortified, Jisung mumbled a tangled string of thank yous, his voice barely audible, and slumped into his seat like a guilty dog.

The window seat was already claimed by a young blonde man, freckles speckled across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He gave Jisung a quick, polite smile before returning to his phone, completely absorbed in whatever he was scrolling. Jisung, determined to be as invisible as humanly possible, tucked his bag under the seat in front of him, hunched over, and fumbled nervously with his own phone.

Barely a few seconds later, the seat to his left was claimed. And oh. Oh. Jisung froze man slid into the seat, his presence radiating quiet confidence that made Jisung want to melt into the upholstery. Broad shoulders strained against a loose black tee, forearms laced with veins that could easily make a vampire drool, and long, sweatpants-clad thighs spread casually as if he owned the entire row.

Jisung swallowed again, heart thudding against his ribs like a jackhammer, and tried to make himself smaller—if that were even possible. His knuckles dug into his knees as he forced his gaze down to his phone, pretending to scroll, while internally counting the seconds until he could disappear into the cabin’s background.

“Hyung, do you have my charger?” The deep voice made Jisung jump, his heart leaping into his throat. His head whipped toward the sound, only to find the blonde man staring straight at him—or rather, at the seat next to him. It took him a few beats to realize what had just happened. Oh no. His mind raced. He just separated two people traveling together. Fuck. Shit. Lovely.

“You put it in your front pocket.” Jisung’s head snapped toward the voice, and the world seemed to tilt sideways for a second. That voice. The same man who had effortlessly lifted his suitcase into the overhead bin was now sitting right next to him. Right next to him. Jisung’s stomach did a small, panicked flip.

He wanted nothing more than to bury his hands inside his chest and claw his heart out. He dared a quick glance at the stranger’s face and immediately froze. Sharp, cat-like eyes framed by long lashes, high cheekbones, a nose that could cut glass, and lips curved into a knowing, almost teasing smirk. The man’s gaze met his own for a heartbeat, and Jisung’s face flamed crimson. His hands trembled as he returned his attention to his lap, fingers clutching his pants like a lifeline, silently willing the plane, the world, and the gorgeous stranger beside him to just disappear.

The blonde man hummed quietly to himself, rifling through his bag, completely oblivious to the storm of panic raging just a few inches away. Jisung, meanwhile, felt every nerve in his body taut, like a violin string ready to snap. The white noise of passengers shifting, suitcases clattering, and seatbelts snapping assaulted him, each sound jabbing at his ears like tiny, relentless hammers. What had I done in a past life to deserve this? he thought miserably. Corralled into a terrifying metal tube that would soon hurl him thousands of feet into the sky, stuck beside a man so impossibly perfect that the gods might have as well carved him, and who probably already categorized him as a helpless, flustered twink.

Jisung’s chest tightened at the thought, and his fingers dug into his knees as if clinging to the last bit of sanity he had. The intercom crackled to life, the pilot’s voice calm and professional, announcing that boarding was complete. Jisung’s stomach lurched as the plane lurched forward, rolling down the tarmac. His vision flickered at the sudden movement, and his leg bounced uncontrollably, vibrating so fast he half-wondered if it might start a small fire.

A gentle nudge to his shoulder sent him squeaking and jerking in his seat, his face heating with embarrassment as he looked at the blonde beside him, who simply raised an amused eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. Jisung buried his face in his hands for a fraction of a second, silently pleading for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. The blonde man’s soft laugh made Jisung flinch, though he forced himself to peek through his fingers.

“I’m Felix! Is this your first time flying?” he asked, his smile warm and easy, completely at odds with the chaos rattling Jisung’s chest. Jisung’s heart skipped violently, still tangled in that dark cloud of anxiety.

“Ah—uhm, yes! Is… is it that obvious?” His gaze dropped instantly to his hands, which were now picking at his nails with compulsive precision. Felix shrugged casually, as if discussing a minor weather update.

“You can sometimes tell. But don’t worry—other people aren’t exactly… good travelers either.” That did little to soothe Jisung, whose stomach had tied itself into a knot the size of a grapefruit. He gave a slow, shaky nod and returned his attention to his trembling fingers. Felix leaned slightly toward the hot man next to Jisung, who was still impossibly broad and impossibly calm. “This is my Minho-hyung,” he said, voice low but teasing, “please don’t let him scare you. I promise he won’t bite.”

Minho just snorted in disbelief, shooting a side-eye at Felix. At the same time, Jisung nearly melted into his seat, wishing he could disappear entirely into the tiny space between the cushion and the floor. His pulse was still hammering, his thoughts still scrambled. Jisung peeked up from under his lashes, curiosity slowly wresting control from his nerves. That black tee clung to Minho’s broad shoulders and chest in a way that made his stomach clench, and his dark hair was lazily tousled, soft-looking, and effortlessly perfect. His skin seemed to glow, the kind of warm, subtle sheen that made it impossible not to stare. Jisung’s throat went dry, and he swallowed, saliva pooling in his mouth as his brain scrambled for anything sensible to do.

“It’s rude not to introduce yourself.” The words hit him like a splash of cold water. It took a moment before Jisung realized they were directed at him, and his eyes widened in panic. His hands shot up, waving frantically in front of himself, nearly smacking the hot strangr in the process. No, no—Minho, he corrected himself internally.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to make a bad impression—I mean, I already have, I didn’t want to make it worse! I’m Jisung!” He tripped over his own words, curling his shoulders in as if he could physically disappear into himself, blinking rapidly to hold back tears. Hi. I’m stupid. Stupid Jisung. A soft chuckle cut through his internal chaos, and Jisung froze.

“Pleasure to meet you, Jisung-ssi,” Minho said smoothly, his posture relaxed, legs spread comfortably, hands resting casually on and between them. The casual ease only made Jisung’s anxiety spike further; here was someone who could make sitting next to a complete mess like him seem effortless. Jisung whispered a quiet, tremulous greeting in return, keeping his gaze firmly on his lap, his fingers twisting nervously together.

The plane rolled to a stop, and Jisung’s heart followed suit, pounding as if it had forgotten how to beat normally. “Prepare for takeoff,” the pilot’s calm voice crackled over the intercom. The engines gradually roared to life, low and menacing at first, then building in volume until the entire cabin vibrated. The plane began moving down the tarmac, and Jisung whimpered aloud, his body tense as every bump and creak sent jolts of terror through him.

As the speed increased, the plane rocked and groaned in ways that made his stomach do somersaults. A sharper lurch made him let out a high, teary yelp, clinging desperately to the armrests. When his hand brushed against another—Minho’s, as he realized with a horrified squeak—he recoiled and immediately stuttered out apologies, voice breaking as he tried to mask his panic. His fingers fumbled, gripping whatever he could reach: the edge of his seat, his own knees, the corner of his bag. Every sound—the engines, the hum of the air vents, the rustle of passengers settling—felt amplified, each one stabbing at him like a needle.

Jisung’s breaths came short and rapid, chest tight.

When the wheels lifted off the ground and the nose of the plane tilted skyward, something inside Jisung shattered. The panic, the fear, the suffocating anxiety—all of it collided into a raw, primal terror. His body betrayed him completely: he shook, trembled, and cried, tears spilling unchecked from the corners of his eyes. He flung himself toward the nearest solid object, desperate for something to hold onto.

Felix was fortunately not that object.

Minho, however… was.

Jisung clutched at Minho’s shoulders and the fabric of his shirt as if his life depended on it, muttering terrified curses in between ragged sobs. Thoughts of manners, apologies, or even awareness of personal space were completely absent; there was only the raw, unfiltered need for stability, for safety, for something to ground him in the chaos of takeoff.

The plane’s movement jolted him again, and when the armrest near his stomach was lifted, his body pitched forward as far as the loose seatbelt allowed. Instinctively, his palm landed on Minho’s muscled thigh, gripping desperately. Jisung’s body shook with unchecked tension, every noise—a cough, a snap of a seatbelt, the murmur of a passenger—making him flinch violently.

He slumped further into Minho’s lap, pressing his face into the warmth of his neck, curling his hands into his chest and lap as if trying to hold himself together. One hip and knee tucked against Minho, seeking any point of contact that might anchor him. Gentle hands moved over him, stroking down his side, sliding to the back of his neck, thumbs grazing the delicate skin there.

Jisung whined, high and terrified, the sound catching in his throat, and soft hushes and murmurs filled his ears in reply, steadying him even as panic clawed at his chest. One careful hand adjusted his position so that he wasn’t stretched awkwardly, allowing him a small measure of comfort against the rigid constraints of the plane seat. Tremors ran through him uncontrollably, and his hands reflexively clenched the fabric of his t-shirt and Minho’s thigh, curling his fingers defensively as if doing so could keep the world from collapsing around him.

A quiet hum began vibrating from Minho’s chest, deep and steady, blending with his low, soothing words. The vibrations reached Jisung, tiny, grounding waves that threaded through him, anchoring him bit by bit. The hum was steady, rhythmic, and unthreatening.

As the minutes stretched on and the plane leveled out, Jisung gradually returned to himself, blinking through sticky, tear-blurred eyes. One shaky hand came up to rub at his cheeks and nose, smeared with the remnants of salty tears. The world around him still felt loud and alien, but the immediate terror had dulled enough for him to notice small details again—the hum of the engines, the subtle sway of the cabin, the warmth radiating from Minho beside him.

A few minutes later, he dared to tilt his head upward, eyes meeting Minho’s dark, steady gaze. His breath caught violently in his chest, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, utterly shocked by the proximity, the calm, and the intensity of those eyes. Panic flickered back, and he scrambled reflexively, trying to lift himself off Minho and hide, but a firm hand caught him by the nape of his neck.

The pressure was gentle, not painful, just enough to anchor him. Jisung shivered, anxiety hammering a relentless rhythm through his mind, thoughts spinning faster than he could corral.

“You’re okay. It’s okay, we’re okay. I’m not gonna let anything happen, sweetheart.” Minho’s voice, soft and measured, finally pierced through the storm of his panic. Jisung faltered, heart still racing, and instinctively curled closer, burying his trembling frame against Minho. Another wave of humiliated tears welled up in Jisung’s eyes, only to be abruptly interrupted by a sudden jolt of turbulence that sent him yelping and clinging to Minho all over again.

His face pressed into the warmth of Minho’s shoulder, breath coming fast and shallow, hands gripping wherever they could find purchase. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the ground—or at least the sky—would somehow swallow him whole. “Jisung, darling, I do promise it’s okay. I know it’s scary…” Minho’s voice was low and soothing, brushing against his ear. Jisung shivered under the gentle cadence, his grip loosening just a fraction, tiny releases of tension threading through his fingers.

Minho’s hands pressed gently against Jisung’s ribs, nudging him ever so slightly. Jisung went with it—reluctantly, tensely—but he went. “Sit back down,” Minho said, calm and measured. Jisung froze instantly. Was that an upset tone? Was Minho… mad? Probably. Of course, he was. He probably didn’t like being touched, probably thought Jisung was completely overstepping, probably found him annoying—disgusting, even.

Jisung’s chest tightened as he curled in on himself as much as the narrow plane seat allowed, trying to make himself vanish into the smallest, tightest ball he could. His heart hammered, threatening to shatter his fragile control. He didn’t dare look at Felix, either. The thought of anyone seeing him like this made the heat rise in his chest even faster. He should apologize. B

efore Jisung could even open his mouth to stammer out apologies, a dark shape moved toward him. He flinched, closing his eyes and lifting a hand to shield his face. Was Minho going to show him a reason why he shouldn’t do it again? He hadn’t meant to… but he wouldn’t blame him if he did. The shadow landed softly on him, and a quiet, almost shy apology followed.

Strong but gentle hands tugged a large hoodie over his head. The fabric swallowed him instantly, warm and comforting, and when he drew a shaky breath, it was filled with Minho—the faint scent of soap, wood, and something uniquely him—grounding and dizzying all at once. Jisung tentatively slipped his hands into the sleeves, marveling at how easily his fingers and even parts of his body disappeared into the oversized sweater.

He dared a glance up at Minho and froze. The man’s lips were curved in a genuine, soft smile, and his dark eyes sparkled in a way that made Jisung’s chest tighten. He tugged the hood over his head and buried himself in its warmth, letting the oversized fabric swallow him whole. His heart, still jittery from the earlier panic, began to slow, and the reassuring press of Minho’s thigh against his own small one grounded him in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

When the plane hit turbulence again, his body and breath caught reflexively, but before panic could take hold, Minho’s hand slid under the hood and settled at the back of his neck, his elbow resting casually on Jisung’s shoulder. The gentle pressure was grounding, like a lifeline. Jisung let out a shaky breath, curling his hands deeper into the soft fabric of the hoodie. His body twitched and shivered as the plane rocked, but the rhythm of Minho’s presence, the steadying touches and low murmurs, worked like a balm.

The remainder of the flight passed in this quiet, comforting routine. Every time a jolt or sudden noise startled him, Minho would squeeze a hand, a shoulder, or the back of his neck, murmuring gentle words until Jisung settled once more - in fact, he even drifted off for a few minutes at a time.

During landing, Jisung completely lost control of his breathing, each inhale and exhale jagged and panicked. His hands scrambled for something solid to cling to, and Minho was ready—sliding an arm under him to hold him firmly, steadying him against the chaotic motion of the cabin. Felix nudged his leg against Jisung’s in a quiet, comforting gesture, a small anchor amid the turmoil.

The disgustingly familiar scent of Minho’s shampoo and cologne washed over him as he breathed, grounding him in a way he didn’t expect. It was strange—terrifying and comforting at the same time—to find solace in someone he barely knew.

For Jisung, the only reason the landing felt even a little more manageable than takeoff was sheer exhaustion. His body had simply reached its limit; it couldn’t sustain panic any longer, so it did the best it could under the circumstances.

As the plane taxied, Minho’s hand found Jisung’s again, sliding gently over his wrist in slow, soothing strokes. Each touch threaded reassurance through his nerves, quieting the tremors that still rippled through his body. When the plane finally reached the gate, the cabin erupted into motion.

Passengers stood and shuffled, lifting bags and fumbling for jackets, and the bright overhead lights stabbed at Jisung’s sensitive eyes. He wobbled to his feet, legs shaky and unsteady, and would have collapsed entirely if Minho hadn’t caught him at the waist, firm and grounding. Jisung paused, letting his vision settle and the dizzy lightheadedness ebb slightly before stepping into the aisle, muttering a quiet, bashful apology—his face already burning red for what felt like the hundredth time during the flight.

Without a word, Minho lifted Jisung’s bag from the overhead bin with ease, slinging it over his shoulder, and fell into step ahead of him. Jisung found himself sandwiched between Minho and a smirk-tinged, concerned Felix, who seemed to both judge and admire him in equal measure. Jisung offered a silent, desperate prayer for peace of mind, shuffling forward with hurried, uneven steps. His brain was a constant hum of replayed catastrophes and imagined humiliations, cataloging every awkward stumble, every teary whimper, every flustered apology.

How am I ever going to get back to Korea?