Archive of Our Own ^beta

At first it’s slow. Almost lazy. But the contact awakens something deeper, something that ignores the pain, the lingering tremor, the fever still pulsing beneath his skin.

The kiss intensifies. Jisung responds the way he always does: giving himself completely. Minho feels the heat spread through his body, different from the illness. One that burns in another way. One that makes him feel alive. The world narrows down to the brush of skin, to the warm weight on top of him, to the sighs that blend together. To the moment their foreheads rest against each other as they both try to catch their breath.

Minho feels the sweat at the nape of his neck. He feels the fever, and he feels the desire too. It’s a dangerous combination.

He slides his hands along Jisung’s waist, pulling him closer. Jisung gasps softly against his mouth. The heat between them grows, urgent, familiar. It takes over their bodies as if the fever had decided to turn into desire. They let themselves go, like always, as if they know exactly where they fit. Minho grips Jisung’s waist with both hands, marking him, feeling the hot skin respond beneath his fingers. Han shifts on top of him with instinctive precision, searching for friction, for contact, for more.

Minho lets out a low gasp when Jisung grinds against him, slow at first, then with more intention. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and Minho can trace every inch of his back, every firm line of his torso, sliding his hands with restrained hunger. He still has clothes on—too many clothes—but right now the chill from the night before is only a distant memory. The heat coming from the body over his is different, deeper, more necessary. Jisung devours him with his mouth, with his weight, with the way he moves over him.

Minho thinks he should probably stop.

He doesn’t.

He hears the muffled moan that slips from Han when their bodies press harder together. The tension between them is obvious, solid, impossible to ignore. Minho feels the heavy pulse between his legs and knows Jisung does too… If he had all his strength, he’d flip him over without thinking, make him lose control like so many times before. But his body burns with fever and still refuses to give up ground.

He’s not going to stay still.

He breaks the kiss and moves down Jisung’s neck, leaving a damp, burning trail along his skin, alternating between softness and brief bites that pull louder sounds from him. Jisung responds by pressing down against him, faster, more needy. Minho’s hands move to the waistband of his pants, and Jisung cooperates without a word, getting rid of the fabric in a rush. Minho frees himself too; now there’s nothing between them, just skin against skin, heat against heat.

Jisung gets up for a second and rushes to his bag. He comes back with a white bottle in his hand. Minho lifts an eyebrow, dominant even with his chest rising faster than usual. Han, eyes bright and breathing unsteady, throws a pillow at his face.

“Shut up,” he mutters, flushed.

Minho barely smiles, but the smile turns into a gasp when the contact returns. Direct. No barriers. He feels Jisung’s hand slide between them, the firm motion wrapping around both of them at once. The sensation is intense, slick, electric. The contrast unsettles him: cold at his back, heat at his stomach, ache in his muscles… but what builds inside him is pure desire.

He pulls Jisung back in and kisses him harder, hungrier. There’s no delicacy now—just tongue, teeth, broken breaths. And even though his body protests, Minho ignores it. With a firm shift, he changes positions and leaves Jisung underneath him. Han lets out a startled sound.

“Hyung—”

Minho doesn’t let him finish. He bites his lip and holds him with determination, setting the rhythm. He’s sweating, burning, but there’s nothing in his eyes except certainty. He slides a hand between their bodies, using the shared slickness, touching him firmly, knowing exactly how to make him react. Jisung arches his back, fingers digging into the sheets, sounds slipping out of him without shame.

Jisung watches him closely. Too closely—he notices the different shine in his eyes.

“You’re burning up,” he whispers.

Minho gives a faint smile.

“Always.” He enjoys every expression. Every broken breath.

When Jisung tries to take control, Minho grabs his wrist and lifts it above his head, leaning down to bite his neck with possessive intent. The heat between them becomes unbearable, urgent. He slides his fingers down, slow at first, teasing. Jisung holds his breath when he feels the more intimate touch, the slight coolness of the lubricant contrasting with the heat of their bodies. Minho watches him with a half-smile.

“Too cold?” he whispers against his skin. “With that look, I thought you were begging for it.”

“Shut up…” Han gasps. “Don’t stop.”

Minho won’t.

With calculated patience, he prepares him, attentive to every reaction, to every tension that turns into pleasure beneath his touch. Jisung tenses slightly at first—not from pain, but from the new cool sensation that turns warm as Minho moves slowly, deep, steady, inserting the first finger as gently as possible and letting him adjust.

“And when have I ever stopped?” he murmurs, arrogant.

When he feels Jisung ready for more, he gives him more. He adds another finger carefully, watching how the body beneath him responds, how the moans soften and grow more surrendered. Everything hurts. The fever weighs on his eyelids. But seeing Jisung’s face get lost in the sensation makes every discomfort worth it.

Minho moves the two fingers inside him with precise control, searching for that exact spot he knows makes his boyfriend fall apart in his hands. He finds it when Jisung lets out that sound… that moan that makes his skin prickle, the most beautiful he’s ever heard. One he will never stop loving.

Minho is like that too. He doesn’t deny it. He loves it when it’s Jisung who reduces him to nothing, who takes him and makes him lose himself inside him. But he can’t think about that now. Now it’s him who needs. Him who wants. Him who burns to be inside Jisung.

The simple thought tightens his stomach, sends heat up his chest, and he presses more deliberately on that sensitive spot. Jisung’s eyes well with tears—not from pain, but from pleasure overwhelming him.

“Already going to cry, princess? And we just started…” Minho murmurs with a crooked smile as he adds a third finger carefully, slowly, feeling the body beneath him open and take him in.

The moan that escapes Jisung is louder than it should be. Minho reacts instantly, covering his mouth.

“Baby… we’re not home. And we definitely shouldn’t be doing this here. Be good… and stay quiet.”

Jisung nods, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed, pure desire in his gaze. Minho removes his hand from his mouth only to replace it with a deep kiss, while the other continues moving inside him, firm and steady.

“Hyung… I’m ready… just do it…”

Minho should refuse. He should tell him to wait. But the urgency he feels is the same. He’s going crazy wanting to be inside him. He looks at him one more time, searching for confirmation. Jisung nods—and that’s all he needs.

He takes more lubricant and coats himself slowly, aware of every sensation. Jisung lifts his legs to his hips, and Minho stores that image as one of his favorites: open for him, vulnerable, trusting. He wishes he had more strength—to flip him over, to take him further… but his body is still weak. Later, he promises himself.

He guides the tip to Han’s entrance, already prepared. He trusts him—they’ve always based what they have on absolute communication. If Jisung says he’s ready, it’s because he is. And if he says it a little early, it’s because he knows how much Minho enjoys that slight mix of tension and burn at the beginning.

When he pushes through that tight resistance, they both hold their breath. Minho lets out a low groan as he feels him give in, feel him wrap around him. He sinks deeper, slow, until he’s fully inside. They stay like that for a few seconds. Joined, breathing the same air.

Minho gives him time, even though inside he’s burning. Then he starts to move. Soft at first, testing and measuring. But the heat, the desire, and that deep need make him increase the pace little by little, each thrust searching for that familiar spot. And when he finds it, he repeats it. And repeats it.

Jisung bites his hand to keep from moaning loudly. His hips lift, asking for more. Minho holds him firmly by the hips, guiding him down onto him. He loves seeing him like this. With tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Surrendered only to him.

Minho loves Jisung.

The heat is overwhelming. The slick walls tighten around him. Jisung responds, takes him, wraps around him intentionally. Minho loses control a little more. He speeds up. Adjusts the angle. He’s no longer brushing that spot—he’s aiming right at it.

Jisung opens his eyes and looks at him, knowing exactly what he’s doing. A couple more precise thrusts at that angle—and Jisung breaks. He comes over his own abdomen with a muffled moan, his body tensing completely, sheets clenched in his fists. Minho doesn’t stop. He moves inside him a little longer, listening to those overstimulated gasps that don’t ask him to stop.

And when Jisung tightens around him again, Minho loses it. He comes inside him, deep, his body instantly draining of strength.

He avoids collapsing with all his weight on top of him, but Jisung still lets out a small gasp when he loses his breath for a second. They both breathe heavily. Sweaty. Minho more than him, exhausted—but at peace.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s calm. Intimate. Pure love.

“Baby… you’re seriously burning up…”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. He feels too emptied out, too satisfied, too tired. He slips out of him carefully and settles at his side. He needs a few more seconds to catch his breath, but so he doesn’t worry him, he winks.

Jisung smiles and ruffles his hair before kissing his forehead.

“Water?”

Minho makes a face. He doesn’t like that Jisung has to get up for him. But when Han tries to sit up, Minho stops him.

“Wait.”

“Min, you don’t have to—”

“Shhh.”

He grabs a wet wipe from the nightstand and, carefully, parts Jisung’s legs to clean him. He does it gently, almost reverently. When he’s done, he falls back onto his back and tosses the wipe onto the floor. They’ll clean up later—they don’t want to traumatize the housekeeping staff. Or raise suspicion.

Jisung finally goes for water. He drinks first, then hands him the bottle. Minho takes the liquid like he’s needed it for hours.

“You overdid it. You’re exhausted.”

“Shut up. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Min… it looks like someone sucked your soul out.”

Minho smirks. “If you keep talking like that, I’ll make you suck something else, Han Jisung.”

Jisung laughs.

“If that’s what you want… gladly. But I feel like I’m going to lose my boyfriend if he comes twice in less than thirty minutes.”

Minho stretches out an arm to pull him in. Han understands and curls up against him, sweat against sweat. It’s not unpleasant. Not between them.

“In a few minutes breakfast will be here. We’ll shower, get ready, and then go out to the café, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Minho gives him a playful smack on the ass. Jisung looks at him, surprised.

“What did I say?”

“Nothing. I thought you were going to say ‘you’re sick and we don’t need to go out,’ so I got ahead of it.”

“I wasn’t going to say that…” he murmurs, too quietly.

Minho kisses him.

“I’ll be fine. It’s just a couple of days. Tomorrow we’ll see Stay. Then we’ll go back to Korea and I’ll rest as much as I can.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” And he kisses him again before getting up and heading to the bathroom.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ 　　✿•*`¨*•✯

They take a shower together, and as soon as the hot water falls over his back, Minho feels his body practically sigh. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the steam loosens his tense muscles and eases that dull ache that’s been running through his bones since dawn. The fever isn’t high—nothing alarming—just that heavy sensation that leaves him weak and drained, like he’s trained for hours without actually doing it.

He leans against the wall for a moment while the water runs through his hair, and Jisung, pretending not to notice too much, calmly soaps his back.

“Too hot?” Jisung asks, lowering the temperature slightly.

“I’m fine,” Minho answers almost immediately, with that firm tone that cuts off any attempt at concern.

But he stays under the water longer than he should. Much longer. And Jisung doesn’t judge him. No one does. He just stays with him, massages his shoulders, brushes the hair away from his forehead when he sees him close his eyes a second too long.

When they step out, Minho dries off slowly. Steam still fogs the mirror when they glance at each other, sharing that silent complicity only they understand.

They eat breakfast in the room while light pours in through the window. It’s simple: fruit, toast, coffee for Jisung and tea for Minho. Minho holds his phone while chewing absentmindedly and shows him some pictures of Soondoongdori that his mother sent.

“Look at this… Soonie got into the box again,” he says, zooming in on the image.

Jisung smiles immediately.

“Bbama made a mess at home. He scratched the new couch… and bit it.”

“That’s my boy,” Minho murmurs.

Jisung takes advantage of the pause to slide a couple of pills across the table along with a glass of water. Minho clicks his tongue but takes them without protesting. Then, without warning, he leans in and licks Jisung’s cheek.

“Thanks.”

“Aish, that’s gross!” Jisung says, wiping himself with the sleeve of his sweater.

“How can something like that gross you out? I’ve gotten you dirtier than that.”

“That’s not the same!” he argues, cheeks already flushed.

Minho leans a little closer, enjoying the reaction.

“Of course it is. Now imagine when we both finish and I grab the sem—”

“Okay, shut up, for God’s sake!”

Jisung practically covers his mouth with his hand, red up to his ears. Minho smiles, satisfied. He loves those expressions, even after so long living together. He loves that he can still make him lose his composure like that.

When they’re done, they decide they’re ready to head out. They call a taxi to drop them near the café, but not too close, because they want to walk a bit. Minho insists on that. He needs fresh air. He needs to move to convince himself he’s perfectly fine.

During the ride they talk about trivial things. Jisung calls Chan and Changbin to go over some details about what they were creating the night before. Minho listens quietly, his head resting against the window. The car’s air conditioning makes his skin prickle, and for a second he feels a small chill, but he adjusts the collar of his sweater and says nothing.

A comfortable silence settles inside the car. The kind that doesn’t weigh.

When they arrive, they pay the driver and step out into Singapore’s beautiful day. The neighborhood where the café is located is a bit hidden, quiet, with lined trees and a park right next to it. There’s also a beautiful lake nearby. It’s their first time visiting, and that makes it special. They decide to walk around first. Minho keeps a steady pace even though his legs feel slightly heavier than usual. The warmth of the weather and the leftover fever wrap around him, but he refuses to slow down.

They sit on a bench in the park. Very few Stay recognize them. The ones who do approach respectfully and ask for a photo. They agree, but only a few. Minho keeps his cap low and his mask on—not so much to hide, but because the air feels too cool against his damp face.

They’re dressed as plainly as possible. Simple sweats, regular sneakers. Minho is even wearing a gray sweater with a printed cat that might give him away a little—but it doesn’t matter. They love that. Just them being themselves, discovering new places without the weight of the stage. After a few minutes, they decide to go into the café. They sit by a window overlooking the park, but from outside you can’t see in. Perfect.

They take off their caps. And in Minho’s case, his mask.

Jisung watches him a second longer than necessary. Minho’s skin is still a little warmer than normal. His cheeks slightly flushed.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks softly.

Minho holds his gaze firmly. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Jisung doesn’t insist, but he doesn’t stop glancing at him either.

They both order an iced Americano and, as expected, Minho orders a slice of cheesecake for Jisung alone. It’s a habit. Almost a silent tradition: in every new café, Jisung has to try the cheesecake.

Minho doesn’t admit it out loud, but he needs to do this. He needs to store in his memory every expression Jisung makes when he tastes it. The way his eyes widen slightly. The small sound he lets out when he likes something too much. The exaggerated gesture he uses to evaluate the texture, as if he were a professional critic. He wants this moment to last forever.

Many people think Minho is cold and distant. That he’s sharp. That he keeps an impossible barrier around himself. But if someone could read his thoughts, if someone saw the way he looks at Jisung when he isn’t paying attention, they would know all of that is a lie. The boys always tell him so. His attitude changes, his voice changes, even the way he sits changes when Jisung is near. It’s hard to hide when there are cameras in front of them. When there are concerts. When they’re in interviews. When absolutely anything happens and Minho inevitably ends up distracted by the beauty of his boyfriend.

Right now, Jisung is talking with his cheeks full of cake, gesturing with his fork in hand, and Minho has to resist the urge to lean in and kiss him just to clean the cream at the corner of his lips.

It’s a delicious torture.

Wait.

Jisung is talking to him. Damn.

“Huh?” he asks, lifting his gaze just as Jisung stops speaking, waiting for an answer.

“Hyungggg! You weren’t listening to me again.”

Minho laughs softly—that short laugh that only comes out when he feels comfortable. “It’s completely your fault for distracting me.”

“You weren’t even paying attention to me, don’t lie.”

“You’re wrong. I was paying so much attention to you…” Minho takes a sip of his coffee without looking away. “Just not to what you were saying.”

Jisung sighs, but he can’t stop a smile from betraying his lips. They stopped asking what exactly goes through Minho’s mind a long time ago. It’s all or nothing. There’s no middle ground.

And even so, Jisung always chooses to stay.

“I was telling you that I wrote lyrics last night,” he continues, “but I’m still not sure it’ll be a hit. Chan and Bin told me I was crazy, but you know what I do when something doesn’t fully convince me… I end up saving it and bringing it out years later.”

This time Minho watches him with real attention.

“You’re crazy. I haven’t even heard it and I can already guarantee it’ll drive Stay wild. All your creations are magnificent. You need to trust what that perfect head of yours writes.”

Jisung smiles softly. “You really think so?”

“Of course, gorgeous. When are you going to show it to me?”

“Chan said he’d work on a track for it today. He says he’s going to convince me it’ll be a hit and make it happen, so we’ll see how much he manages to get done.”

Minho nods and takes another sip of his iced Americano. The cup is icy between his fingers. He didn’t want anything hot while being… hot. He knows it might be a little counterproductive, but he doesn’t feel as bad as he did last night.

The fever dropped a bit after the shower. The body ache is more bearable. Even though the morning was intense, the hot water gave him some relief. Still, his bones feel heavy and there’s a faint throbbing behind his eyes that doesn’t fully fade. A quiet fatigue dragging through his muscles like a persistent shadow.

He doesn’t want to walk too much—but he would never say it.

Nothing would stop him and Jisung from going out today. Nothing he couldn’t endure.

It’s almost six when they decide to get ice cream and find a comfortable place to watch the sky. Near the park they find the perfect spot: a small wooden dock by the lake, with old lanterns that begin to light up one by one as night slowly takes over the sky.

They sit shoulder to shoulder, knees barely touching, and in front of them the water reflects the first stars as if the universe were duplicated. Jisung starts talking about constellations. He points enthusiastically, moving his finger through the air.

“That’s Orion… and that one over there, see it? They say the light we’re seeing might not even exist anymore. It could’ve died millions of years ago and we’re only just seeing it.”

Minho listens with an attention very few people can pull from him. He learns the names. He memorizes them. He decides that the brightest one will, from now on, belong to Jisung. Whenever he sees it, he’ll think of him.

Jisung’s eyes shine brighter than any star that night, and Minho hates being in a public place because he can’t kiss him.

Although…

He glances around discreetly. To the right, empty. To the left, just the lake. Farther back, a couple of figures too far away to distinguish. The park is quiet, wrapped in a perfect calm, almost choreographed.

Too perfect.

Without warning, he cups Jisung’s face in his hands and steals a kiss. Barely three seconds. Brief. Precise. Intense.

When he pulls away, Jisung is frozen, eyes wide open. Minho lets out a clean, genuine laugh.

“You’re crazy! If Channie hyung were here, he’d be yelling at you about every single reason that was a bad idea.”

“Oh no, now you sound like him. Don’t think about that. What? You didn’t like it?”

“Of course I did! It’s just… we have to be careful.”

“I know, love. I checked before I did it. Anyone nearby might’ve suspected something, but there’s no one close. And anyone far away probably can’t recognize our faces right now… so I care a lot less.”

Jisung relaxes. Smiles. That small smile only Minho truly knows.

Minho looks back at the sky, missing the way Jisung watches him when he thinks he’s not being noticed. The love is mutual. It always has been. It lingers in the silence between them, in the way their hands find each other without thinking.

Around eight, they decide to head back. They need to rest for tomorrow. They’ll see Stay and they need to be well. The day has been calm, warm. Minho’s body is still a little weak, but the fever no longer crushes him like it did last night. What remains is that tiredness settled deep in his bones, a light exhaustion he tries to ignore. Minho stands first and offers Jisung his hand to help him up.

Everything still looks the same. They walk toward the main street—the same one where the taxi dropped them off earlier.

And then it happens.

It’s not a sound.
Not a voice.
Not something visible.

It’s a sensation. A pull low in his stomach. A pressure in his chest.

As if the air shifts density, Minho pauses for barely a second—imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know him. His body, relaxed moments ago, tenses automatically. It’s not the fever. It’s not the fatigue.

It’s that feeling—the one that appears when someone is watching them.

He doesn’t turn immediately. He doesn’t want to give anything away. He only adjusts his posture slightly and lets his gaze skim the dark reflection of the lake. In the water, distorted silhouettes shimmer under the lights… and one he doesn’t recognize.

Minho feels the skin rise under his sweatshirt. His hand finds Jisung’s again—this time firm, protective.

He doesn’t want to confirm anything, because as long as he doesn’t look directly, it could still be a coincidence.

But his instincts are never wrong.

Jisung keeps talking about something trivial—probably tomorrow’s breakfast or a melody that came to him a few minutes ago. Minho barely hears him. He’s counting breaths. Measuring distance. Evaluating routes.

One to the right: a dark path.
One straight ahead: flickering streetlights.
The main road: about fifty meters away.

Fifty meters is nothing. Fifty meters with a weak body can be too much.

Then he sees them—not head-on, but from the corner of his eye.

Two figures leaning against a lamppost that weren’t there before. Or maybe they were and he hadn’t noticed. That’s worse. They don’t look like tourists. They don’t look like they’re strolling. They’re not looking at the lake.

They’re looking… this way.

Minho doesn’t turn his head. Not yet. He subtly shifts his pace, almost imperceptibly, trying to position himself half a step in front of Jisung. Automatic protection. His heart beats harder.

One of the figures bends down, picks something up from the ground, tosses it aside. It doesn’t matter what it is. What matters is that he never looks away.

Minho analyzes.

Run? No. Jisung would ask why. Besides, in his current state, that’s not smart.

Ignore them? Maybe.

Cut toward the street before reaching their position? That could work.

But then the second figure pushes off the lamppost. Not directly toward them—he walks diagonally, as if casually changing direction.

Minho feels his stomach drop.

Too calculated.

The first one takes another step toward the path. Not invading their space yet—but reducing the distance.

Minho has no doubt now. This isn’t coincidence. It’s assessment. They’re being measured.

And the worst part isn’t that.

The worst part is that Minho knows if this escalates, he’s not at his best. His arms still ache. His head throbs. His body trembles slightly when strained. He can fight—but not like he should.

And Jisung still hasn’t noticed. He keeps talking, walking confidently—but he does notice the silence that suddenly settled over Minho.

Minho needs him to stay like that for one more second.

He breathes slowly. Assesses the men’s pockets. The uneven weight in one of them. The way a coat falls too rigidly at the side. No visible weapon—but he senses one.

And when one of the figures subtly quickens his pace—just enough to close the space in a way that isn’t accidental—Minho makes a decision.

He leans slightly toward Jisung, without changing his expression, without breaking stride. His voice is low. Steady. Controlled.

“Jisung, I need you to very calmly and as unsuspiciously as possible, take your phone and call Bang Chan right now.”

Jisung keeps walking without asking questions. He doesn’t need to. If Minho tells him to call Chan, it’s because something isn’t right. And when Minho senses something, he’s rarely wrong. So he obeys, slips his hand into his pocket naturally, and lowers his gaze just enough to unlock his phone while they keep moving as if nothing is happening.

Minho keeps his pace steady, shoulders relaxed, expression neutral. Every muscle in his body is on alert, even if he looks calm on the outside. He needs a few seconds, just a few more seconds for Jisung to make the call before the distance disappears completely.

But the atmosphere has already shifted.

The footsteps behind them stopped sounding casual a while ago. Now they’re direct, synchronized, determined. It’s not coincidence. It’s not paranoia.

When the phone screen lights up in Jisung’s hand, the blue glow is minimal, almost imperceptible, but enough. The two men stop pretending they’re just strolling and pick up their pace. There’s no more theater. They walk straight toward them.

Minho feels something cold run down his spine. He moves without thinking and steps slightly in front of Jisung, just half a step, enough to shield him without making it obvious. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Han’s hands trembling slightly as he tries to dial; he doesn’t know if he manages it. He can’t look. He can’t take his eyes off the men who are now watching them with smiles that don’t reach their eyes.

—Good evening —they say in Malay.

Minho doesn’t understand the full sentence, but he recognizes the tone.

—Good evening —he replies firmly.

He doesn’t speak Malay. Just the basics. A greeting. A goodbye. Nothing useful now.

—You know… we were just walking around here —they continue—. We don’t usually see unfamiliar faces at this hour. Who are you?

Minho glances briefly at Han. He doesn’t understand everything. Jisung does. And the expression on his face isn’t good.

—He… he says that— Jisung starts, his voice slightly unsteady.

—Ohhh, you don’t understand us. —The taller one smiles and switches to Korean—. Relax. We’re friends, right?

—What do you want? —Minho asks directly.

—You know what we want.

—Take whatever you want —he answers with measured calm—. Money, phones. It doesn’t matter.

Jisung squeezes his arm for a second. The phone is hidden behind his back.

The tall man smiles, but it isn’t a satisfied smile.

—That’s boring.

Shit.

Minho takes a deep breath, ignoring the faint burn in his lungs, the exhaustion still clinging to him from the fever of the past few days. His body isn’t at one hundred percent, he knows it, and that angers him more than the presence of these guys.

The tall man steps closer, invading his personal space, and his eyes drift just over Minho’s shoulder until they settle on Jisung.

—Ah… I see. What are you? Friends? Family? —he tilts his head mockingly—. You don’t look like just that.

Minho doesn’t react. He doesn’t give him the satisfaction. —That’s none of your business. Tell us what you want and let’s end this.

It’s not easy to get out of a situation like this. Minho knows this kind of people. He’s been living alone since middle school, working, traveling, exploring different parts of Korea long enough to have met men like this before. The man in front of him doesn’t want money. He wants entertainment.

The shove comes without warning. Hard, straight to the chest. Minho stumbles half a step back but doesn’t fall; he steadies himself and twists his body to break free from the grip forming on his sweater.

That instant is enough.

The second man is already on Jisung. He grabs his wrist violently, the same one holding the phone, and the device hits the ground with a sharp crack. The screen stays lit on the pavement. Jisung tries to regain his balance, but the man yanks him, making him gasp.

That sound.

That small, choked gasp—Minho feels his chest tighten. Jisung is fast. He’s trained in boxing. He has reflexes. But he’s smaller, and the man knows how to immobilize him.

Minho moves forward but the big one intercepts him. —Stay put.

—Let him go! —he growls and tries to move again.

The bigger man grabs the collar of his sweater and shoves him back against the nearest wall. It’s not a clean hit. It’s control.

—You worried? —the man whispers in Korean.

Minho doesn’t answer.

Behind him, Jisung struggles.

The grip turns more aggressive. The man wraps an arm around his torso, partially pinning his arms. Jisung tries to stomp on his foot, strike back with his elbow, but the man anticipates the move and tightens his hold.

—Easy, mate —the guy mutters with a mocking tone—. Don’t play hero.

Minho advances again, but the big man blocks him.

—Stay.

He shoves him again, this time straight to the chest. The impact knocks the air out of him. Damn timing to be sick.

Jisung stops struggling for a second. That scares Minho more than anything else, because Jisung is calculating, realizing they’re at a disadvantage.

Minho knows it too. One on one he could handle it. Not like this. Not with a weak body and Jisung restrained.

Minho clenches his teeth. His heart pounds, not just from anger, but from the brutal awareness of the disadvantage. He’s sick, exhausted, facing someone bigger than him, while the other holds Jisung in place, taking advantage of every inch of physical difference.

—Let him go —he says again, lower this time, but with a firmness that vibrates in the air.

To the side, Jisung keeps fighting, cursing in Korean, in Malay, in English, whatever might throw them off balance. But every attempt seems to irritate the man holding him more. Instead, he tightens his grip, making Jisung’s breathing turn uneven.

Minho sees the effort on Jisung’s face. The attempt not to show fear, even though the fear is there—and now it’s climbing up Minho’s spine too.

Not for himself.

For Jisung.

—Let him go! —Minho shouts, and the anger is no longer controlled; it rushes hot through his blood, pounds in his temples, clouds any intention of negotiating.

Jisung’s phone still lies on the ground, the screen lit up with Chan’s name. And it’s there, staring at the pavement, that Jisung reacts. He can barely move, but he leans his body just enough and shouts, his voice trembling but clear:

—Siri! Call Bang Chan, it’s an emergency!

The command activates.

The tone starts ringing, vibrating against the asphalt. It’s a small sound, almost ridiculous in the middle of the tension, but it slices through the air like an alarm. The big guy in front of Minho turns his head immediately. His expression shifts. He barks something in Malay, a sharp order for his partner to stop it, to shut it off. But the shorter one doesn’t let go of Jisung.

He can’t.

Both his hands are busy holding him tightly, so the only thing he does is lift his foot and stomp on the phone violently. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound of glass cracking mixes with Jisung’s ragged breathing and the faint echo of a voice that slips through for barely a second.

—Yeah? Jisun—…

The final crunch silences everything, and the device is left shattered under his sole, making Minho’s heart pound so hard he feels like it might break his ribs.

—Give me yours. Now —the big one orders, without taking his eyes off him.

Minho doesn’t argue. He pulls out his phone and hands it over. This isn’t the time for pride. This isn’t the time for useless resistance. If it buys time, he’ll do it.

The man powers it off with deliberate calm and pockets it, but there’s no intention of leaving. No hurry. Just that crooked smile that’s starting to turn dangerous.

Then comes the order that makes everything inside Minho tighten.

—Hold him properly.

The shorter one adjusts his grip on Jisung, tightening his arms, immobilizing him completely. Jisung tries to break free, struggles, but the pressure increases. The difference in strength becomes brutally obvious.

—No! —Minho roars, stepping forward.

The big one blocks him again, cutting him off with his body, almost amused.

—No, no… you play with me. The kids play on their own.

—Let him go.

—Yeah, nah. Not happening, mate.

The punch comes straight for his face. Minho sees it coming, dodges… but slower than he should. The fever weighs down his reflexes. The blow grazes his cheekbone, the impact rattling his jaw.

Damn it.

He doesn’t want to fight. Not like this. Not in this condition. And then he hears it again—the sound that splits something inside him.

A dull thud.

A breath knocked out.

Minho catches sight of Jisung folding forward, still restrained, his body curling around the fist that just drove into his stomach. The cough is short, desperate. Air won’t come in. Something breaks in Minho’s chest. There’s no choice anymore.

He reacts without thinking.

The next move is clean and fast; he twists his torso and throws a punch straight to the man’s face. The impact is solid. The big guy’s head snaps back, and when it returns there’s blood marking his lip. The man spits to the side and smiles, darker now.

—See? I just wanted a bit of fun… and I found a fighter. Now this is getting interesting.

Minho raises his arms, protects his face, adjusts his stance. His breathing isn’t steady anymore. His chest burns, his legs feel heavy, cold sweat from the fever runs down his back, but his mind is fixed on one thing: the distance between that man and Jisung.

Another punch comes. He blocks it with his forearm and feels the vibration shoot through his entire arm. The next one lands against his side; this time he doesn’t fully dodge it, and the air leaves him in a low, involuntary sound.

He’s at a disadvantage. He’s sick. And the one holding Jisung hasn’t let go for a second.

But Minho doesn’t step back, because behind the man trying to take him down, he can still hear Jisung’s uneven breathing as he struggles to recover air.

And that’s enough.

Minho ignores everything: the ache in his bones, the heat crawling across his skin, the weakness weighing down his muscles and fogging his head. He replaces it with anger. Screw these blokes. It was his and Jisung’s day—a perfect, quiet, almost sacred day—and Minho isn’t going to let them get away with this.

He has to find a way to escape with Han, yes. Get him out first, make sure he’s safe. But let these men walk free to do whatever they want to someone else? No. Not that. If someone has to put a stop to it, it’ll be him. He doesn’t want to play hero, he’s not that naive, but the real world works like this, unfortunately. If no one takes a risk, nothing changes. And right now, even if his legs are trembling from the fever, Minho is willing to be that someone.

That’s why he closes his eyes for barely a second and forces himself to stop focusing only on Jisung. The more dangerous one is in front of him; the one who might be carrying a blade is in front of him, not with Jisung. And that matters.

Besides, considering Chan managed to answer the phone and the call ended so abruptly, the older one won’t just sit still waiting for an explanation, right? He probably tried calling Jisung back. Probably tried Minho too. And when he noticed both phones were off… he would’ve gone looking for them, yeah? That’s what Minho hopes. We’re talking about Chan. He’s got that overprotective big brother instinct. He won’t rest until he knows they’re okay.

So Minho decides not to focus on Jisung. He forces himself to. He knows he’ll be okay. He needs to believe he’ll be okay. Because right now, if the man in front of him wants to fight, he can’t afford distractions. And Jisung—his weakest point, his reason for everything—is his biggest distraction at this moment.

Minho repositions himself and smiles at the useless idiot in front of him. The man returns the smile, crooked and eager, and lunges forward, realizing Minho is giving him free entry to “play.”

Minho dodges the punches, slips in a couple of his own, ignores once again the pain burning in his bones and manages to step aside just in time from a kick that was clearly meant to take him down. It won’t be easy. Minho has good reflexes and, right now, he’s deeply grateful for them. He lands another punch to the man’s face; the impact makes him recoil slightly, but he regains composure almost immediately and charges again with renewed fury.

His strikes are precise, strong; Minho knows that if even one lands clean, he could end up at a serious disadvantage. He doesn’t get distracted. He can’t. And he notices how the man in front of him, little by little, starts losing composure. He hasn’t managed to land a single solid hit, and that infuriates him. Clearly, he’s not used to losing.

A couple of minutes pass that feel like an eternity. Minho starts to notice the wear in the big man’s breathing, the slight tremor in his right shoulder, the careless opening he leaves when throwing a punch that’s too wide. He sees it. He sees the perfect moment to strike, to pivot on his axis, connect hard, and drop him to the ground once and for all.

But he’s wrong.

He stops short, right in the middle of his momentum, when the man quickly slips his hand into the pocket of his hoodie. The movement is short, almost instinctive, and a second later a metallic glint cuts through the air between them.

A knife.

Minho’s fear becomes real. He had sensed it all along—that slick feeling at the back of his neck, that constant alert that hadn’t let him relax for a single second. Even so, part of him had kept repeating that it was absurd, that if they truly had a weapon they would’ve used it already. But of course… the man was losing. He couldn’t land a hit. His pride was wounded. And now he was resorting to his plan B: to scare… or seriously injure.

And in that, Minho couldn’t play around.

The man notices the hesitation in his eyes and smiles as if he’s just won. He lifts the knife between them, holding it with a confidence that tells Minho he knows exactly how to use it. He’s not someone who carries it for show. The blade reflects the dim streetlight, cold and precise. Minho takes a few steps back slowly, raising his hands in apparent surrender. His mind, however, does not surrender. He calculates distances. Evaluates angles. Measures the space between him and Jisung. Because now this isn’t just a fight. It’s a real threat.

—What? Afraid of my little toy? We’re just getting started. Don’t back out now.

—I think that’s enough. You had your fun and you have our things. I don’t know what else you want.

Minho keeps stepping back as the other advances calmly, enjoying every inch he takes from him. The knife moves loosely between his fingers, almost playfully, but the look in his eyes holds nothing playful.

—Fun? It’s not fun when I haven’t smashed that pretty face of yours.

Minho lets out a long sigh. He does the one thing he least wanted to do, but he values his life, thanks.

—Please… please, let us go. I don’t know what else you want from us.

The man tilts his head, pretending to consider the plea.

—You know what happens if I just let you walk away? My reputation goes to hell. No one will respect me. People are afraid of me… and I can’t let you leave unless this ends in my favor.

Minho thinks of exits, thinks of options, of words that could redirect this, but nothing comes to mind. Especially not when he understands that the man in front of him isn’t after money, phones, or pride. He wants dominance. And if “victory” means leaving him seriously injured, then there will be no negotiation.

He takes another step back without taking his eyes off the blade and curses silently when his back hits a cold wall.

Damn it.

He walked right into the trap. Cornered himself.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The man notices and now stands only two steps away, the knife gleaming between them like a final dividing line.

—Come on, you were fighting so well… don’t get scared now, little boy.

Minho has one second. Just one. It’s all or nothing. He knows, in theory, how to disarm someone. He’s seen it, practiced it in controlled settings. But has he ever done it in a real situation? Never. Still, he knows the technique. It’s risk it or die. Risk it or die. And damn it… Minho risks it.

He lunges forward when the man least expects it and grabs his wrist with every ounce of strength his weakened body can gather. His skin burns, his bones protest, but he squeezes. They struggle. The blade trembles dangerously inches from his face and Minho uses both hands now, pouring every gram of energy into twisting the man’s wrist to force him to drop the knife.

It’s not supposed to work like this. Not this rough, not this messy. But no one’s been cut yet. That’s all that matters.

The man takes advantage of Minho being exposed and, with his free hand, drives a punch straight into his side. The impact steals his breath instantly. It hurts. A sharp pain mixing with the sickness he’s been carrying since morning. He nearly doubles over, his entire body tensing with every new blow that lands on his ribs, his abdomen, wherever the man can reach.

But Minho doesn’t let go of his wrist. He can’t. Not now.

—Minho! —Jisung shouts, followed by a gasp of pain that doesn’t come from him, but from the man holding him. Apparently, Jisung is making his life hell; maybe he can’t move his arms, but he can still use his legs.

And though Minho doesn’t turn—because he’s terrified of losing sight of the knife—the man does. That millisecond gives Minho the chance to drive a knee into his stomach. The impact makes the man double over and loosen his grip slightly. Minho immediately snatches the knife and throws it far from them.

It’s no longer a threat.

But this has to end now. Quickly.

The problem is this damn man has the strength of ten, and Minho’s is draining to zero.

The man snarls in fury and grabs Minho’s head with both hands. There’s no time to react. Minho is pinned against the wall, the man’s body pressing him forward. Before he can push him away or even raise his arms, the man slams his head hard against the brick.

Minho’s world goes dark for a second.

The pain is brutal. A choked gasp escapes him as his legs buckle. He sways in place. The man is still holding his head, clearly intending to do it again. But Minho doesn’t know where he finds the strength—he shoves with everything he has left and, in a clumsy but precise motion, lands another punch straight into the man’s nose.

The impact is sharp.

Minho manages to pull away from the wall, panting, unsteady. He’s dizzy; the hit was strong. The man in front of him clutches his bleeding nose in rage, but neither of them has fallen.

And Minho knows he’s running out of time.

With dizziness blurring his vision and pain pounding in his skull, he throws himself at the man. The collision sends them both to the ground. Minho lands on top and manages to hit him a couple more times in the face—fast, desperate blows.

But the big guy is stronger. And definitely not sick or weakened. Within seconds he reverses their positions and now he’s the one on top of Minho.

The man punches his side again. The air leaves Minho’s lungs in a rough groan. He shouts things in his face, words Minho can’t process through the ringing in his ears. There are other shouts too, in the distance, voices he doesn’t understand, noise that feels far away, as if he’s underwater.

He just hopes—and desperately wishes—that Jisung is okay.

The man’s blood, thick and hot, drips from his nose straight onto Minho’s face. It’s disgusting. The metallic smell churns his stomach. With an effort that burns through his muscles, Minho manages to shove him.

The man falls to the side.

Minho doesn’t waste the second. He climbs on top of him, pinning him down with the weight of his own body, trying to immobilize him, trying to make him stop moving, stop fighting. He hates this. He hates the feeling of his fists striking another person. He hates the sharp pain in his knuckles. He hates hurting someone with his own hands, even in self-defense.

But he can’t stop.

He punches the man’s nose again. This time he feels something give beneath his knuckles. A wet crunch. More blood spills instantly.

He hits him again.

And again.

And again.

The man no longer struggles like he did at the beginning. Now only his uneven, muffled, weak gasps can be heard.

Minho raises his fist once more, ready to finish him.

—Minho! —The shout cuts through him.

His mind, which had gone into automatic survival mode, snaps abruptly. He turns his head toward the sound. Jisung.

Minho’s heart stops.

Because while he was trying to defend himself, while he was focused on not dying, he completely forgot about the other guy. The one who at first didn’t seem like a real threat.

Not until the knife was thrown away. Not until that same knife ended up in the second man’s hands. And now the blade gleams, dangerously close to Jisung’s throat.

Jisung was trembling, on his knees on the floor. Tears had gathered in his eyes and he was breathing too fast, so fast it seemed like he couldn’t get enough air. The other man held him from behind, a firm arm around his chest, the knife raised and pointed directly at his neck.

He was trembling too.

Minho notices immediately. That wasn’t the guy who did the dirty work. He had never done this before, he deduces from the way his hand shakes, from how he doesn’t take his eyes off him for even a second, as if he feared that at any moment he would lunge again.

—Get off him! —the man shouts in Malay.

Damn it. Minho doesn’t understand anything.

The guy realizes and shakes Jisung.

—Tell him! —he demands in his language.

Jisung tries to speak. His whole body trembles, his eyes wide open, fixed on Minho.

—H… he says to get… off him.

Minho doesn’t think twice. He moves away immediately, getting up clumsily. The world spins sharply. His head hurts. It hurts too much. The dizziness is still there, persistent, threatening to make him fall, but that doesn’t matter.

He won’t let them hurt Jisung. He’ll do whatever they want, whatever it is.

The man shouts something else at Jisung and, as he does, grabs his hair hard, yanking it back. Jisung lets out a muffled whimper, his hands instinctively searching for something to hold onto, but the blade is still there, dangerously close to his skin, and Minho feels his pulse pounding in his temples at the sight.

Minho feels the helplessness burn under his skin, but he doesn’t move. He slowly raises his hands, showing them open, and begins to step forward with extreme slowness, as if any wrong move could break the fragile balance keeping them alive.

—He… he says not to come closer… —Jisung translates in a trembling voice.

Minho throws him a look full of apology. He stops immediately. Still. Completely still.

He has to think. He has to do something.

—Jisungah… tell him I won’t do anything else. Tell him we can end this here and now. No one else has to get hurt. Tell him I’ll stay still, here, for as long as necessary… but that, please… please, he should drop the knife.

Jisung looks at him, and the tears he had been holding back finally spill over. He barely nods and translates every word with a broken voice. The man listens. Hesitates.

Minho sees it in his eyes.

The hand pulling Jisung’s hair loosens a little, just a little. The knife, however, remains in place, dangerously steady against his skin.

—Please… —Minho pleads in English, making sure he understands— please…

He looks him straight in the eyes. His hands are still raised. He’s frozen, breathing fast, each inhale tearing at his chest. He just waits. Waits for some humanity to wake up. Waits for mercy.

—Please… —he repeats, almost in a desperate whisper.

Everything happens too fast.

The sirens tear through the air, distant at first, then clearer and clearer, slicing through the night like an impossible warning to ignore. The sound cuts through the chaos and, for a second, Minho feels a relief so intense it almost hurts his chest. They’re coming. Chan found them. Of course he did. He wasn’t going to stay calm after that call.

But nothing is that simple, and Jisung is no longer looking at him.

His eyes are fixed on something behind Minho. And before he can turn around, before he can even process that expression of absolute terror on the younger’s face, he hears him scream:

—No! Min—!

Minho tries to turn. He doesn’t react in time, doesn’t move in time. Doesn’t understand in time.

A sudden movement behind him, the short whistle of something cutting through the air, and then—

The impact.

A dull, brutal blow against the side of his head. It’s not a fist. It’s not a hand. It’s something hard. Heavy.

He knows from the muffled sound when it hits, from the rough fragment scraping against his skin before falling. The world cracks into white for a fraction of a second and then everything turns black at the edges, as if someone were slowly drawing a curtain around his vision.

The pain arrives like a delayed explosion.

His head throbs in a way he has never felt before, deep, burning, devastating. His knees buckle, but he forces himself to stay upright. He can’t fall. Not now. Not in front of Jisung. He staggers. He feels something warm sliding down his temple, down his cheek, slipping along his neck. Blood clouds one of his eyes. He blinks, but only manages to smear the red further.

In front of him, Jisung is pale. There are tears in his eyes, his lip trembling, his hands stretched toward him without knowing whether to hold him or to run. He looks at him as if he’s breaking in real time.

Minho tries to focus.

He wants to tell him he’s fine.

But he’s not.

His breathing is uneven. His head pounds like an out-of-control drum. He tries to straighten up, to force his body to respond, to stay steady for just a few more seconds. He doesn’t want Jisung to see him like this.

But he knows how he must look.

Blood soaks one side of his face. His hair, usually neat, is stuck to his forehead, disheveled, stained dark red. His lip is split, his cheek swollen, his clothes wrinkled and stained. He feels messy, vulnerable, far from the steady image he always tries to project.

And in Jisung’s eyes he sees something that hurts more than the blow.

Fear. Pure fear.

Minho takes a step toward him—or tries to. The ground shifts. The sound of the sirens is deafening now, yet distant at the same time.

His legs finally give out.

This time there are no reflexes to save him. No hands to soften the fall. He hits the ground with all his weight. His shoulder cracks. His head explodes in pain again and his cheek ends up pressed against the cold, rough pavement.

He hears shouting.

In a last effort to focus, he catches the absolute panic on the face of the man who had been holding Jisung. The guy pulls the knife away and shoves Jisung forward like he’s worthless, like he just wants to run before everything fully explodes.

The man who had been holding the brick drops it clumsily and runs off in a desperate attempt to escape.

Minho tries to blink.

It doesn’t work.

Everything is blurry. Faded.

He can only make out Jisung’s silhouette dropping to his knees beside him, trembling hands holding his face, staining themselves with blood without caring. He’s calling his name. His voice sounds broken. Desperate.

Minho wants to answer.

He wants to tell him not to cry.

He wants to tell him he’s okay.

But the cold begins to seep into his bones. The pain turns distant, strange, as if it no longer fully belongs to him.

He breathes with difficulty.

Everything feels farther and farther away.

He can sleep for a moment… right?

Jisung told him he needed to rest before seeing STAY… that he had to recover.

So, obedient even now, even like this, he stops fighting the weight closing his eyes.

He slowly shuts his eyelids.

And lets the darkness wrap around him.