Archive of Our Own

The music hit him before he even reached the house.

Chan’s place—technically the frat’s house, but everyone just called it Chan’s—was already spilling people out onto the lawn, porch lights cutting wide yellow circles through the dark. Voices blurred with bass, someone yelled from an upstairs window, and a half-deflated inflatable flamingo lay dying in the bushes.

College, Minho thought dryly, stepping over it. Truly beautiful.

“Minho!”

Jisung’s voice cut through the noise first, then Jisung himself came down the front steps, nearly taking out a couple making out by the railing. He smelled like cheap beer and expensive cologne, hoodie half-zipped over his frat letters.

“You’re late,” Jisung accused, like Minho had missed something important.

“It’s barely ten,” Minho said, letting himself be pulled into a quick, lopsided hug anyway. “Calm down, weirdo.”

“Hyunjin said you’d bail and stay home with your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told him. Tragic.”

Minho rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged up. “Where is he?”

“Inside. Trying to ‘subtly’ flirt with the new guy.” Jisung put heavy air quotes around subtly. “Come on, everyone’s here.”

The front room was a chaos he knew by heart. 

Couches pushed against walls, coffee table already stained with rings from sweating cups, lights dimmed just enough that no one had to see themselves clearly. Felix was behind the makeshift bar they’d set up on a folding table, glitter dusting his cheeks, pouring something blue into a row of plastic cups.

“Minho!” Felix beamed when he saw him. “You made it. I was taking bets.”

“Why is everyone acting like I never leave my room?” Minho muttered.

“What the hell is that?” He nodded at the blue concoction.

“Electric depression,” Felix said cheerfully. “Try it?”

“That’s not a selling point.”

Felix just shoved a cup into his hand. “Live a little.”

Across the room, Changbin was holding court near the speakers, yelling over the music about something gym-related to anyone who would listen. Jeongin hovered nearby with a bowl of chips, nodding along at all the right beats, more amused than invested.

Hyunjin materialized at Minho’s side like he’d been summoned, hair falling perfectly around his face in a way that wasn’t fair for a human being.

“There he is,” Hyunjin said, leaning in to be heard over the music. “I was told there would be a cat.”

“Ask again and I’m feeding you to Changbin,” Minho replied. “He looks like he could use more protein.”

Changbin glanced over, offended and delighted all at once. “I heard that!”

“Good,” Minho called back.

Someone jacked up the volume another notch. The bass rattled Minho’s ribs. He took a cautious sip of Felix’s blue disaster and winced.

“Thoughts?” Felix asked, watching his face with too much interest.

“Tastes like a lawsuit.”

“Perfect.”

It was loud, and hot, and utterly typical. For a second, Minho let himself just float in it—the buzz of conversation, the comfort of familiar faces, the easy rhythm they fell into at every party.

Then his gaze slid past Hyunjin’s shoulder and snagged on the kitchen doorway.

Seungmin.

He was leaning back against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other, a red cup balanced loosely in his hand. The overhead fluorescent in the kitchen was unflattering on everyone, but somehow Seungmin still looked composed—oversized sweatshirt, the varsity jacket which clung so perfectly on his frame, dark hair pushed back from his forehead, expression as unimpressed as ever.

Beside him, Chan was mid-rant about something, hands moving a mile a minute. Seungmin listened with that flat, dry patience he reserved specifically for Chan and people he’d reluctantly decided not to murder.

Minho felt his shoulders stiffen before he could stop it.

“There it is,” Jisung murmured under his breath, following his line of sight. “The murder aura.”

“Shut up,” Minho said automatically.

He didn’t look away.

The thing about Seungmin was that he never seemed to try. He just existed—quiet, observant, his comments cutting exactly where they meant to. He’d been like that since first year, when they’d clicked over shared annoyance at their pledge class and built themselves into something that had felt solid.

Before everything went sideways.

Now, every time Minho saw him across a room, it landed like a bruise he’d forgotten about until something pressed on it.

As if he could feel the weight of the stare, Seungmin’s eyes flicked up, scanning the room. They caught for half a second, dark and unreadable.

There was a time that would’ve meant something—a tired eye-roll that said come save me from Chan, a silent conversation across a crowd.

Now, Seungmin just arched an eyebrow, cool and distant, then looked back at Chan like Minho was part of the furniture.

The twist low in Minho’s chest irritated him almost as much as the look itself.

“Are we…” Hyunjin glanced between them, lowering his voice. “Still pretending you two don’t have weird energy?”

“We don’t have weird energy,” Minho said.

Jisung snorted so violently he choked on his drink.

Felix patted his back. “Sure you don’t,” he said lightly. “Totally normal to stare holes into your… what is he today? Enemy? Acquaintance? Or something you guys don’t wanna define?”

Minho took another swallow of electric depression, welcoming the burn. “He’s a guy who lives here and complains a lot,” he said. “And forgets to take his turn on trash duty.”

“Right,” Hyunjin said. “That’s why you’re glaring at him like he kicked your puppy.”

“I don’t have a puppy either.”

“Exactly,” Jisung wheezed. “He kicked the hypothetical puppy.”

Minho didn’t dignify that with an answer. 

Instead, he let his gaze drift away, skimming over the crowd as if he wasn’t tracking Seungmin’s every movement from the edge of his vision.

It was stupid, anyway. Whatever this thing between them was now—sharp words in the hallway, doorways shared for one second too long, the occasional shove when they brushed past each other—it worked. 

It was stable. 

Balanced at its own miserable equilibrium.

They didn’t talk about the past. They didn’t talk about that night. They didn’t talk about the way Minho had tried to help and Seungmin had looked at him like he’d set him on fire.

They didn’t talk, period, unless it was to pick a fight.

Safer that way.

“Minho.”

He blinked, dragged back to the present. Chan had appeared, sweat-damp hair curling at his temples, eyes bright from adrenaline and too much caffeine.

“You’re on beer run rotation,” Chan said. “We’re already low and it’s not even eleven. Take someone with you.”

“I went last time,” Minho protested.

“And I’m going now,” Chan shot back. “We can trade trauma stories in the car. Very bonding.”

From the kitchen, Seungmin snorted, clearly having heard that. 

“God, don’t encourage him,” he said, finally stepping away from the counter. “He’ll make it a team-building exercise.”

Chan clutched his chest. “My own brother in arms, betraying me like this.”

“Tragic,” Seungmin deadpanned.

Minho’s mouth moved before his brain had a chance to veto.

“Pretty rich, hearing you complain about betrayal.”

The words cut through the noise like someone had hit mute.

Jisung sucked in a quiet breath. Felix’s fingers tightened around his cup. Hyunjin went very still beside Minho, gaze flicking between them.

Seungmin froze for a heartbeat in the doorway, expression shuttering down. When he looked at Minho, there was no warmth, no old familiarity—just a chill, assessing flatness.

“You going somewhere with that?” Seungmin asked calmly.

Minho shrugged, felt his own jaw set. “Just calling it like I see it.”

For a second, it was like the whole room leaned in, waiting.

Then Seungmin huffed out a soft, humourless laugh. “Right. Because you’ve always had such great vision.”

He brushed past Minho on his way to the living room, shoulder clipping Minho’s just hard enough to be deliberate. The contact was brief, sharp, a flash of heat through fabric.

Minho swallowed against the reflexive urge to reach out, to catch his wrist, to say—something else.

Instead, he tipped back the rest of his drink, throat burning.

“Yep,” Jisung said faintly. “Totally normal energy.”

Hyunjin glanced at Minho, eyes softer than his tone. “You could always… I don’t know… talk to him like a human person instead of a Twitter thread.”

Minho snorted. “Pass.”

Across the room, Seungmin had already folded himself into a new conversation, leaning in to hear Felix over the music, expression relaxed in a way it never was around Minho anymore.

Whatever. Minho dragged his gaze away, fingers tightening around the empty cup.

It wasn’t like they were important to each other now.

Not anymore.

It started with a text.

[You coming?]

Seungmin stared at the screen for a second longer than he’d admit, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The little contact name at the top—"Jungwoo" with a half-assed emoji—glowed back at him.

He could already hear Minho in his head.

Don’t go. He’s an asshole. You deserve better.

Seungmin locked his phone instead.

“I’m heading out,” he called toward the other side of the room.

Minho was spread out on his bed, hoodie riding up just enough to show a strip of skin above his sweatpants, laptop open on his stomach. He didn’t look up.

“Where?”

“Library.”

“Library doesn’t make you put on cologne,” Minho said, flipping a page in his notebook without glancing over. “Or that shirt.”

Seungmin glanced down at himself—plain black t-shirt, jeans. Nothing special.

“Maybe I want the textbooks to fall in love with me.”

“Yeah, you and organic chem. Real soulmates.” Minho finally looked up, eyes narrowing a little as he took him in. 

“You’re going to Jungwoo’s.”

It wasn’t a question.

Seungmin’s fingers tensed around his phone. “You don’t know that.”

Minho snorted. “Right. My mistake. You always wear your ‘I’m making bad choices’ shirt to the library.”

“It’s just a shirt.”

“It’s just a guy,” Minho shot back. “A guy who’s already flaked on you twice, by the way.”

“He was busy.” Even to his own ears, it sounded weak.

Minho closed the laptop, sitting up. “He was drunk. Then he was hungover. Next time he’ll be dead, I guess. Very committed to the bit.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. 

“Why do you care?”

The question landed between them, heavier than he meant it to.

Minho’s mouth pressed into a line. “Because I was there last week when he ‘forgot’ you were supposed to meet and tried to hit on Jisung instead. Because I saw you pretending it didn’t bother you.”

“It didn’t,” Seungmin lied immediately.

“Right.” Minho’s voice went flat. “That’s why you came back and stress-cleaned the entire kitchen.”

“I like cleaning.”

“You cleaned the inside of the toaster, Seungmin.”

Seungmin shrugged, shoulder tight. “Maybe it was dirty.”

Minho huffed out a breath, the kind that usually preceded a fight or a laugh. This time, it did neither.

“You could do better,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”

The words scraped somewhere tender. Seungmin shifted his weight, suddenly too aware of the difference between their beds, the shared posters on the wall, the way Minho’s hoodie was one of his that had gone missing and never come back.

“Not everyone has a line of people waiting,” Seungmin said, lighter than he felt. 

“Some of us take what we can get.”

Minho’s jaw clenched. “You’re not ‘taking what you can get.’ You’re letting Jungwoo treat you like a backup plan because he thinks you won’t call him on it.”

“Oh, so you care now?” The bitterness surprised even him. “That’s rich, coming from someone who disappears for two days and shows up with hickeys and a new playlist.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because I know what I’m signing up for.” Minho swung his legs off the bed, elbows braced on his knees. “Because I don’t let them make me feel like I’m… grateful they noticed me.”

The word grateful hit like a slap.

Seungmin’s throat felt tight. He forced a laugh. “You really think I’m that pathetic?”

Minho’s head snapped up. “That’s not what I—”

“Forget it.” Seungmin grabbed his keys, shoving them into his pocket. “I’m going. Don’t wait up or whatever.”

“Seungmin—”

He didn’t turn around.

“Have fun policing someone else’s standards for once,” he tossed over his shoulder, and slammed the door before Minho could answer.

He should’ve known the night was going to go sideways the moment the door opened.

“Hey,” Jungwoo said, leaning in the doorway. His smile was easy, like Seungmin hadn’t spent ten minutes outside working up the nerve to knock. “Thought you bailed.”

Jungwoo leaned in, and there was that smell of unfamiliarity. Seungmin lets himself be kissed, even though he winces when it makes contact.

“You said ten,” Seungmin replied.

“It’s, like, ten-ish.”

It was ten twenty-five.

Seungmin swallowed his irritation.

Not worth it. He’d made the choice to come. He wasn’t going to stand here and pick a fight over twenty stupid minutes.

Inside, the apartment smelled like cheap beer and something overly sweet—cologne, maybe, or a candle trying to cover up the fact that no one had taken the trash out. Voices drifted from the living room, punctuated by laughter.

“I thought it was just us,” Seungmin said, hesitating.

“It is,” Jungwoo said easily. “We’re just pre-gaming here first. Come on, Felix brought snacks. He’s trying to make everyone eat pretzels so they don’t die.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile. Felix always did that—hovered with water and chips, hovering between mom-friend and glitter demon.

The living room was fuller than Seungmin expected—half the frat, plus a couple of people from their year. Music played low from someone’s phone. Empty bottles were already clustering on the coffee table.

“Seungmin!” Felix waved him over, bright as ever. “You made it. Want some food before you drink? Please say yes, Chan’s about to lecture everyone on hydration.”

“There will be a quiz,” Chan added from the armchair.

Jungwoo laughed, dropping a hand to the small of Seungmin’s back for a second before letting it fall away. “Relax, Dad. We’re not starting a riot.”

“You say that now…” Chan muttered.

It was… fine. It was the usual. 

Felix pressed pretzels into his hand, Jeongin asked about a class, Jisung appeared briefly to tell a story that made no sense. Jungwoo stayed close, brushing Seungmin’s arm when he leaned in to talk, smiling just a little too wide.

Seungmin let himself relax by degrees. 

It was easier in a crowd. 

Easier to ignore the part of him cataloguing every small dismissal—late texts, rescheduled plans, half-listened answers.

Maybe Minho was wrong. Maybe Jungwoo would prove him wrong.

Then Jungwoo’s phone lit up on the table.

A new notification banner flashed across the screen, bright and bold for anyone nearby to see.

[You coming over after? I can ditch early]

The name attached to it—"Jaehyun"—wasn’t one of their frat brothers. 

But Seungmin recognized it anyway. 

Jaehyun was in their year, a familiar face from campus and a couple of parties; the last time Seungmin had seen them together, Jungwoo had joked a little too easily about “keeping his options open.”

Seungmin’s eyes lingered a second too long. The message preview stayed on the screen before fading.

He told himself he’d misread it. 

That it could mean anything.

Then the phone buzzed again.

[Don’t ghost me this time lol]

Jungwoo didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy laughing at something Changbin said, head thrown back, attention already sliding to someone else in the room.

Seungmin’s stomach dropped, a slow, familiar descent.

Seeing someone behind his back was one thing in theory—a vague suspicion, a joke in Minho’s voice. It was another thing entirely watching the proof light up in real time while Jungwoo’s hand drifted to Seungmin’s knee like it was a habit.

Of course.

Of course.

He looked away, pulse suddenly loud in his ears. It was fine. It didn’t have to mean anything. They hadn’t promised each other anything. He wasn’t stupid. He knew the game.

It still stung.

He took a long sip of his drink to drown it.

He didn’t see when it changed. One second, the room was humming with easy noise.

The next, the air went weirdly sharp.

“Hey,” a voice cut in, too clear, too loud.

Minho.

Seungmin’s head snapped up.

Minho stood just inside the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, hair mussed like he’d either run a hand through it too many times or sprinted here. His eyes found Seungmin first, quick sweep, checking. 

Then they shifted to Jungwoo.

Seungmin’s heart did a stupid, painful lurch.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted.

Minho ignored him.

He walked straight up to Jungwoo, crowd parting instinctively around him like they could feel something in the air.

“We need to talk,” Minho said, not bothering with a greeting.

Jungwoo blinked, thrown. “Uh. Okay? About what?”

“About you texting other people behind his back while you’re stringing him along,” Minho said, jerking his chin toward Seungmin.

Silence slammed over the room.

Every eye swung to Seungmin. Heat crawled up his neck, his face, burning under the weight of it.

“Minho,” he said, low, warning. “Don’t.”

Minho didn’t look back.

“No, I think we’re going to go ahead and do this,” he said, voice deceptively mild. “Since you decided to be bold enough to flirt with Jisung in front of him last week and now Jaehyun’s blowing up your phone asking if you’re coming over after.”

A couple of heads turned toward Jungwoo’s phone on the table. Jungwoo’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he forced a laugh.

“Okay, chill,” Jungwoo said. “We’re just hanging out.”

Hanging out.

Seungmin’s hands went numb.

“Right,” Minho said. “Hanging out. That's why you told him you didn’t have time last weekend? Because you were so busy fucking Jaehyun instead?”

Someone swore under their breath. Seungmin couldn’t tell who.

Jungwoo scoffed, the easy smile slipping. “Who even are you to get in my face about this? If he’s upset, he can say something himself.” He threw Seungmin a look that landed somewhere between apologetic and annoyed. 

“You know how it is, right? We’re not exclusive. It’s college. Nothing’s official. We’re just—”

“Don’t,” Minho said, low and sharp. “Don’t you dare put this on him.”

“Are you jealous or something?” Jungwoo shot back. “I didn’t realize he came with a guard dog.”

A few people snickered. The sound burned.

Before Minho could move, Chan stepped between them, one hand on each chest, captain-mode fully activated.

“Okay,” he said, voice firm.

“We’re not doing this in my living room. You—” he nodded at Jungwoo, “cut it out. You—” he turned to Minho, “take a walk. Now.”

Minho’s eyes were still locked on Jungwoo, something hot and ugly crackling just under the surface. “He’s been seeing someone else behind his back and lying about it,” he bit out.

“And you’re making a scene,” Chan said, not unkindly. 

“Out. Breathe. We’ll sort this later.”

Minho’s gaze finally, reluctantly, slid to Seungmin.

Seungmin wished it hadn’t.

Because there—just for a second, barely-there under the anger—was that same look he’d seen too many times. Worry, threaded through with something else he never named.

It felt like a spotlight.

He could feel everyone’s eyes on him.

Watching. Waiting to see if he’d cry, or yell, or crumble.

Jungwoo shifting uncomfortably. Jisung biting his lip. Felix hovering like he wanted to physically shield him.

Seungmin’s chest ached with something wild and humiliated and sharp.

He swallowed it down.

“Get out,” he said.

Minho frowned. “I’m trying to—”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Seungmin snapped.

The room flinched.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them until he had to tilt his head up to meet Minho’s eyes.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded, voice low but shaking.

“You barge in here like some hero, start calling people out like I’m too stupid to know what I’m doing—”

“That’s not—” Minho gets cut off.

“And you do it in front of everyone?” Seungmin’s laugh came out broken. “You really thought I needed you to come rescue me that badly?”

Minho’s expression flashed, something like hurt flickering across it. “I didn’t want him to keep—”

“Using me? Seeing other people behind my back? Making me feel grateful he noticed me?” Seungmin spit his own words back, the ones from earlier that Minho had held onto. 

“Thanks. Really. Great job making sure everyone here knows exactly how pathetic I am.”

“You’re not pathetic,” Minho said immediately.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Seungmin’s throat burned. “Next time you want to ‘protect’ me, don’t. I don’t need you deciding what I can handle.”

This was supposed to be fixing things, he thought numbly—dragging the truth into the light, proving Seungmin didn’t have to settle for scraps. 

Somehow it just felt like he’d rearranged the damage and slapped his name on it.

Minho’s hands curled into fists. “So you’d rather I let him keep walking all over you and sneaking around with someone else?”

“I’d rather you mind your own business.”

Jungwoo cleared his throat awkwardly. “Maybe I should just—”

“Shut up,” they both snapped in unison.

For a heartbeat, it was almost like before. Shared rhythm, shared target.

Then it was gone.

Minho exhaled slowly, like he was swallowing something back. 

“Fine,” he said. “You don’t want my help? Message received.” His voice dropped, rougher. 

“Don’t come crying to me when he screws you over again.”

Seungmin’s vision blurred at the edges.

“I won’t,” he said. “You’re not the only person in the world who cares, Minho.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Minho’s mouth opened, then closed.

Whatever he was going to say, he swallowed it. He stepped back, the gap between them widening in a way that felt less like space and more like free-fall.

“Good,” he said finally. “Glad to know you’ve got options.”

He turned and walked out, shoulders tight, the door slamming behind him.

The room exhaled.

Jungwoo mumbled something that might’ve been an apology and drifted away toward the kitchen, already checking his phone, thumbs moving fast. Seungmin didn’t need to see the name on the screen to know who it was.

Felix touched Seungmin’s arm gently. 

“Hey,” he said. “Do you want—”

“I’m fine,” Seungmin said.

His voice didn’t sound like his own.

He drained the rest of his drink in one go, not tasting it. The room buzzed around him, too bright and too loud. His skin felt wrong, his bones too tight.

Fine.

He was fine.

By the time midterms rolled around, Jungwoo was gone.

Technically, he was still enrolled. His name still appeared on group project sheets and lab rosters. But in the places that mattered—in the cafeteria line, in the frat group chats, in the Friday-night plans—he was a ghost.

"He’s not transferring," Changbin said one afternoon, balancing a tray of questionably edible food as they slid into a table. "He’s just staying with a friend off campus for the semester. That’s what I heard, anyway."

"He’s hiding," Jisung corrected, popping a fry into his mouth. "Coward. Can’t take a little public accountability."

The words rolled off his tongue easily. Too easily.

Seungmin stared at his own tray, appetite thinning. The pasta congealed slowly as the conversation washed over him.

He knew Jungwoo’s story by now.

Jungwoo "needed a break" from the frat, was "re-evaluating his choices," had "a lot going on" and "didn’t want drama."

Jungwoo had also deleted half the people from his socials, stopped responding in the group chat, and quietly disappeared to a cousin’s apartment on the opposite end of the city.

Apparently, it was easier to move zip codes of routine than to stay and look Seungmin in the eye.

Not that Seungmin had been trying.

"At least he’s gone," Felix said now, stirring his drink with his straw. "Less chance of him pulling the same stunt on someone else."

Jisung snorted. "Yeah, and more chance of him doing it somewhere else. International idiot tour."

Across the table, Hyunjin’s gaze flicked briefly to Seungmin, then away, like he was trying to be subtle about checking in.

It made Seungmin’s skin crawl.

"Can we talk about literally anything else?" he said.

The words came out sharper than intended. Jisung’s mouth snapped shut around whatever joke he’d been about to make. Felix’s straw stilled.

"Sorry," Felix said softly. "We didn’t mean—"

"I know," Seungmin muttered. "Just… tired of his name, that’s all."

That was part of it.

The other part was the way Jungwoo’s name never seemed to appear without Seungmin’s trailing behind it.

He’d hear it in pieces, slicing through hallways, carried on half-whispered conversations that always seemed to dip the volume two notches when he walked by.

"…you know, Jungwoo and Jaehyun and—"

"—yeah, and that guy from Chan’s frat, the one who—"

Laughter. A look. A nudge.

He wasn’t stupid.

He’d overheard one version of the story outside a lecture hall, two girls leaning against the wall with their coffees, voices pitched just loud enough to carry.

"Honestly, if you’re not official, you can’t call it cheating," one of them had said, shrugging. "It’s just messy."

"He was still seeing him, though," the other replied, wrinkling her nose. "While he was already lining Jaehyun up? That’s gross."

"And the other one knew. People warned him. He still went back. I don’t know. At some point, that’s on you."

Seungmin had walked past them, face carefully blank, earbuds in with no music playing. He’d pretended he didn’t know exactly who "the other one" was.

He’d pretended he didn’t hear the way the story kept mutating as it spread.

In one version, he was the clueless victim. In another, he was the pathetic one who "couldn’t take a hint." In the worst ones, he’d become something else entirely:

Just another side thing.

The guy Jungwoo had "kept around" until Jaehyun agreed to something more.

None of the stories mentioned Minho.

Or if they did, it was as a footnote.

"Did you see Minho go off on Jungwoo that night?"
"He was just drunk."
"Honestly, kind of hot."
"He was just defending his friend."

Friend.

Defending.

People had clapped Minho on the shoulder the next week, said things like "you really told him" and "someone needed to say it." The frat chat had a brief run of memes about guard dogs and "Minho’s moral crusade" before they got bored and moved on.

Jungwoo slipped out of their orbit.

The spotlight didn’t.

It just narrowed.

"You know they’re talking about you again, right?"

It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon in the common room. Midterms had thinned the crowd. Most people were in the library or holed up in their rooms. Seungmin had taken advantage of the rare peace, sprawling on the couch with his laptop, pretending to focus on a problem set.

He didn’t look up at Minho’s voice.

"Which they?" he asked. "There are so many."

He could feel Minho hovering behind the couch, the way the cushions dipped slightly when he shifted his weight.

"Couple of first-years in the hallway," Minho said. "Going on about Jungwoo ‘having to leave’ because of the drama. Like he got chased out of town or something."

"He left because he’s a coward," Seungmin said flatly. "Not because anyone made him."

"I know that," Minho said.

"Good for you," Seungmin murmured. "Gold star."

His fingers tightened subtly on the edge of the laptop.

It bothered him—how easily the narrative had flipped.

Jungwoo, the poor guy who had been outed by Minho.

Meanwhile, Seungmin was the one people saw every day.

He was the one who still had to walk into Chan’s living room and feel conversations hitch for half a second before smoothing back out.

He was the one who got the lingering looks, the curious glances that couldn’t quite hide the math people were doing—

That’s him.

He’s the guy.

The one who stayed when everyone else could see it was a bad idea.

"They didn’t say your name," Minho added.

"They don’t have to," Seungmin said. 

"Everyone knows how to fill in the blanks."

There was a beat of silence. The muted noise of a show played on the TV, someone’s half-finished Netflix binge.

"They’ll forget," Minho said eventually. "Something else will happen. Chan will set a pan on fire again or Jisung will fall off the roof trying to impress someone. People move on."

"Sure," Seungmin said. "From Jungwoo."

He stared at the half-finished sentence on his screen, the cursor blinking over a word he couldn’t bring himself to delete.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Minho asked.

Seungmin shut the laptop with a soft click.

"He gets to leave," he said. 

"He goes to his cousin’s place, he blocks some people, he starts posting thirst traps from a different couch, and suddenly he’s ‘trying to heal.’ " His mouth twisted. 

"I stay. I’m the idiot who stuck around after three cancelled plans, and a ‘we were never serious.’ "

Minho came around the side of the couch, leaning a hip against the armrest. "No one with a brain thinks you’re an idiot."

"Cool," Seungmin said. "So half the campus, at least."

Minho’s brow furrowed. "You’re not the one who did anything wrong."

"Aren’t I?" Seungmin met his eyes for the first time, something tired and raw sitting just behind the glare. 

"I knew what he was like. You told me. Everyone told me. I still went." He shrugged, a cheap, brittle motion. "At some point, that’s on me."

Minho opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked like he wanted to say three different things at once and was trying to pick the least destructive.

"I’m not blaming you," he said finally.

"Congratulations," Seungmin said. "You and, like, three other people."

It wasn’t fair. He knew that even as he said it.

Minho hadn’t started the whispers. Minho hadn’t written the comments on confession pages or the texts in private chats. If anything, Minho had taken the bulk of the initial heat—angry DMs from people who thought he’d overstepped, a tense call from Chan about "keeping things in-house," a couple of sour looks from guys who thought bros didn’t call each other out.

But Minho was still Minho.

He walked through campus and people saw someone who "did the right thing" in the wrong way. Overzealous, maybe. Dramatic, sure. But protective.

They saw someone who intervened.

They saw Seungmin and saw someone who hadn’t.

"You don’t get it," Seungmin said quietly.

Minho’s jaw tightened. "Then explain it to me."

He hated that part of him still reacted to that tone—the one that meant Minho was genuinely listening, walls down, attention on him like nothing else in the world mattered.

He’d missed that.

He pushed the thought down.

“When people tell the story,” Seungmin said, “you’re the one who stood up for me, Jungwoo’s the one who left, and I’m the idiot who got ‘used’ for months and then needed a rescue mission.”

"That’s not how it was," Minho said immediately.

"I know," Seungmin snapped. "But it’s how it sounds. ‘Minho called him out. Jungwoo dipped. Seungmin didn’t see it coming.’ " He laughed once, humourless. "

“I’m the punchline, Minho.”

Minho stared at him, some of the colour draining from his face.

"Is that what you think?" he asked slowly.

Seungmin scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. 

"Forget it. I’m just—" He reached for his laptop again. "I have work to do."

Minho’s fingers darted out, resting on the edge of the closed device, not quite stopping him but close.

"I don’t want you to feel like that because of something I did," he said.

"Too late," Seungmin said, then immediately wished he could snatch the words back.

He wasn’t supposed to feed Minho’s guilt. That was the thing about Minho: he could hold on to remorse like a grudge, except the only person he aimed it at was himself.

The problem was, the words were true.

If Minho hadn’t walked into that living room, hadn’t dragged the half-truths into the open, maybe Jungwoo still would’ve left eventually.

Maybe Jaehyun still would’ve "won" by default. Maybe Seungmin still would’ve had to swallow the fact that he’d been an option, not a choice.

But it wouldn’t have been a campus story.

It wouldn’t have been public property.

"Look," Minho said finally, voice tight, "if you want me to tell people I overreacted, I will. If you want me to say it was about me and not you, I’ll do it. I’ll—"

"And that helps how?" Seungmin cut in. "Then I’m the guy whose overprotective roommate made a scene for no reason. Great. Much better."

Minho flinched.

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.

"I didn’t do it to be a hero," Minho said after a moment, quieter. "I did it because I couldn’t stand watching him make you feel small."

Seungmin’s chest ached.

"Yeah?" he said, softer now, the fight draining out of him. "Because every day since then, it’s like the whole campus is looking at me and seeing exactly how small I was."

Minho searched his face like the right answer might be written there if he squinted hard enough.

There wasn’t one.

"I can’t change what happened," Minho said eventually. "But I can—"

"You can’t fix this," Seungmin interrupted. "You can’t un-say it or un-watch it or un-make everyone decide what they think of me." His throat worked around the words. "You already did the part you know how to do. You blew it up. That’s… that’s what you’re good at."

A flicker of hurt crossed Minho’s face before he looked away.

Seungmin immediately regretted that, too.

He wasn’t trying to be cruel. He was just tired.

Tired of his name sneaking into conversations like a punchline. Tired of having to hold his head up and pretend he didn’t hear.

Tired of being the one who stayed when everyone expected him to know better.

"I should go," he muttered, standing.

"Seungmin—"

"I’ve got a study group," he lied. "Tell Chan I’ll be back late."

He grabbed his backpack and slipped past Minho, careful not to let their shoulders touch.

In the hallway, the air felt too warm. Voices drifted from one of the open doors—someone arguing over a game, someone else laughing.

He caught his name in a sentence, a quick syllable swallowed by the rest.

He didn’t stop to hear the context.

He walked faster.

Behind him, in the quiet common room, Minho stood very still, staring at the spot Seungmin had just vacated.

From the outside, it still looked like Minho had come out ahead.

He hadn’t "lost" anything obvious. His reputation as the one who "stood up" held better than Jungwoo’s ever would. People might mutter that he’d gone too far, but under it was a grudging respect.

Seungmin carried the invisible part.

The knowledge that when people said Jungwoo got what he deserved, they always meant: and you should’ve seen it coming.

And Minho—no matter how he replayed that night, no matter how he told himself he’d done the right thing—couldn’t change the fact that the fallout had settled, not on Jungwoo, not on himself, but squarely on the person he’d been trying so hard to protect.

He just couldn’t see all of it yet.

Not the way Seungmin did.

The house was finally quiet.

Not silent—frat houses were never silent—but the noise had settled into a low, distant murmur.

A TV somewhere down the hall played at half-volume. Someone laughed, then shushed themselves. Doors clicked shut. Pipes groaned in the walls. 

Peak 3 AM behaviour for a house full of frat boys.

In the kitchen, the harsh fluorescent light hummed over a battlefield of red cups and sticky rings on the counter.

Seungmin stood at the sink, sleeves shoved up, hands moving on autopilot. 

Rinse, stack, repeat. The water had gone from warm to lukewarm to cold, but he didn’t bother adjusting it.

He liked the numbness in his fingers. It gave his brain something to match.

The party had thinned an hour ago. People drifting out in twos and threes, laughing too loud, shouting last goodnights up the staircase. Someone had asked if he was coming to the afters at Jaehyun’s place.

He’d said no.

He wasn’t going near that name.

He scrubbed at a stubborn smear on a cup like it had personally offended him.

"You know we have a dishwasher, right?"

Minho’s voice floated in from the doorway.

Seungmin didn’t jump, but only because he’d learned not to show it.

He glanced over his shoulder. Minho leaned against the doorframe, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp from a quick shower, or maybe from splashed beer. His eyes were tired, the kind of tired that settled in at the end of a week of exams and social disasters.

"Dishwasher’s full," Seungmin said. "You’d know that if you ever loaded it."

Minho made a face. "I loaded it yesterday."

"You put three plates in and walked away. That doesn’t count."

He turned back to the sink, letting the water run over his hands. One more cup. One more mindless, necessary task.

Behind him, footsteps padded closer. A cabinet door opened; something clinked.

"You’re going to prune," Minho said. "You’ve been at this since everyone left."

"Someone has to clean," Seungmin muttered.

"Chan did a sweep before he went to bed."

"Chan’s version of a sweep is kicking cups into one corner and declaring victory."

A huff of reluctant amusement. "Okay, fair."

The ambient noise—the fridge hum, the faucet, the distant TV—filled the space between them.

It felt different than it used to.

Heavier.

Like there was a third person in the room—the ghost of a night when Minho’s voice had cut across a crowd and changed the way people said Seungmin’s name.

"You don’t have to do it all yourself," Minho said after a moment. "Leave it for tomorrow."

"If I leave it for tomorrow, it’ll still be here tomorrow," Seungmin said.

"With fruit flies. And a smell." He rinsed another cup. "Might as well get it over with."

"You say that like you’re talking about midterms, not plastic cups."

"Same difference."

He could feel Minho watching him. It crawled between his shoulder blades, under his skin.

"What?" Seungmin finally snapped, setting the last cup in the drying rack with more force than necessary.

"Nothing." Minho held up his hands. "Just making sure you don’t dissolve into the sink."

"I’ll manage."

"You always do," Minho said quietly.

The words landed awkwardly, neither compliment nor comfort.

Seungmin turned off the tap. Water dripped from his fingers, pattering against the metal basin.

"You could have gone with them," he said, reaching for a towel. "To Jaehyun’s. Or wherever." He dried his hands with brisk, efficient movements.

"You didn’t have to stay here and supervise the cleaning."

Minho’s mouth twisted. "Pass. I’ve had enough of Jaehyun-themed events to last a lifetime."

"Thanks for bringing him up," Seungmin said, the familiar sour twist in his stomach returning. "Really missed hearing that name for five whole minutes."

"I didn’t—" Minho stopped, exhaled slowly. "You know that’s not what I meant."

"Doesn’t really matter how you meant it." Seungmin folded the towel with unnecessary precision and hung it over the oven handle. "People hear what they want."

"People are idiots." Minho’s voice dipped, frustration flaring. "They forget who did what five minutes after it happens. They just stitch together whatever version makes for the best gossip."

"Yeah," Seungmin said. "And funny enough, in all their versions, I’m still the common denominator."

Minho winced. "Seung—"

"Don’t," Seungmin said sharply. 

Then, softer, "I’m too tired for a moral support speech. Save it for the next crisis."

He moved past Minho toward the fridge, pulling it open. The dull light spilled out over a graveyard of half-eaten leftovers and mystery containers.

"Do you ever get tired of cleaning up after everyone?" Minho asked behind him.

Seungmin snorted humorlessly. "Do you ever get tired of blowing things up and calling it help?"

The silence that followed was sharper than any comeback.

He closed the fridge without grabbing anything.

"Sorry," he said immediately, reflexively. The word tasted like old pennies. "That was—"

"Accurate," Minho cut in, no heat in it. "Just because I don’t like hearing it doesn’t make it wrong."

That threw Seungmin off balance more than a shouted argument would have.

He turned to face him.

Minho had moved closer without Seungmin noticing, enough that the distance between them was just a few steps of linoleum. The overhead light carved faint shadows under his eyes, highlighting the tired slope of his shoulders.

"You’re not the only one people talk about," Minho said. "I hear it too. That I went too far. That I should’ve kept it private. That I just wanted an excuse to start something."

"Do you care?" Seungmin asked.

Minho opened his mouth, then closed it.

"No," he said first, automatic, defensive.

Then, grudgingly, "Yes."

Seungmin watched him for a long second.

He knew Minho. 

Knew how much weight he put on doing the right thing, even if he stomped all over the line to get there. 

Knew how he’d replay every decision like a game tape he was determined to annotate until it made sense.

"They don’t see what I see," Minho said, gaze dropping to the damp patch of countertop. 

"They don’t see you coming back at midnight. and cleaning the kitchen because you’d rather rearrange cups than admit you’re upset." He swallowed. 

"They just see the part where you kept going back. And they decide that says something about you."

"Doesn’t it?" Seungmin asked, quiet.

Minho’s head snapped up. "No. It says something about him. About how he made you feel like you had to be grateful for crumbs."

Seungmin’s throat worked around a laugh that didn’t sound amused.

"You know what people say about me now?" he asked. "When they think I can’t hear?"

Minho’s jaw clenched. "I’ve heard some of it."

"I’m the guy who doesn’t know when to walk away," Seungmin said. 

"The one who’ll settle for being second choice. The one who should’ve known better." He bit the inside of his cheek. "It’s not Jungwoo they’re calling pathetic."

"They’re wrong," Minho said, like he could rewrite the entire campus by decree.

"Maybe," Seungmin said. "Doesn’t change the fact that when I walk into a room, that’s what they see."

Minho’s fingers tapped once against the counter, an anxious little staccato. 

"What I see is someone who cared too much and trusted the wrong person," he said. "Which is not a crime, last I checked."

"Yeah, well." Seungmin dragged a hand through his hair. "You’re biased."

"Obviously," Minho said.

The word hung there between them, heavier than it had any right to be.

Seungmin blinked.

"Obviously?" he repeated.

Minho’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, a telltale nervous tic.

"You think I’d go nuclear on some guy at a party for just anyone?" he said, trying for lightness and not quite getting there. "You’re not interchangeable, Seungmin."

That admission slipped between Seungmin’s ribs like a knife warmed by someone else’s hand.

He was so tired. Tired of being dissected and discussed. Tired of hearing people slot him into stories he didn’t agree to.

Tired of craving something soft and real and getting fire instead.

"Interchangeable or not," he said hoarsely, "they still see me as the idiot who stuck around."

"Then let them," Minho said, stepping closer. "Let them be wrong."

He was nearer now, close enough that Seungmin could feel the heat of him, smell the faint mix of soap and cheap beer on his hoodie.

"Easy for you to say," Seungmin murmured. "You’re not the one they’re calling a side-piece."

Minho’s expression flickered, something dark passing through it.

"No," he said. "I’m the idiot who stood in the middle of the room and said ‘he doesn’t deserve this’ in a way that made it worse for you." His voice dropped. "If I could take that part back, I would."

"You can’t," Seungmin said.

"I know."

They stood there, toeing the edge of something sharp and familiar.

It felt like the countless almost-fights they’d had before everything blew up. The air too thin, their words too heavy.

Except now there was an extra layer—weeks of watching each other from opposite ends of rooms, of shared glances that snapped away too fast.

"I’m so done with being a lesson," Seungmin said suddenly, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "Don’t be that guy. I’m tired."

Minho’s features softened in a way that made Seungmin’s chest hurt.

"You’re not a lesson," Minho said. "You’re a person who got hurt."

"Same difference," Seungmin said, but the fight had bled out of his voice.

He realized, dimly, that they were close enough now that if either of them leaned forward, they’d collide.

He should step back.

He didn’t.

"What do you see when you look at me, then?" Seungmin asked, half-demand, half-dare.

"If you strip away what everyone else says."

It was an unfair question, and he knew it. But something restless in him wanted to hear it anyway.

Minho’s gaze dragged over his face—eyes, nose, mouth—as if he was memorizing the question before answering it.

"I see the same person I did before all this," he said slowly. "Stubborn. Too smart for his own good. Crap at asking for help."

"Wow," Seungmin said. "Flattering."

Minho’s mouth twitched. "I’m not finished."

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.

"I see someone who didn’t deserve to be made into a story," he said. "And I see someone who…" His voice faltered, then steadied.

"Who I can’t seem to stop caring about, no matter how many times we screw this up."

The room swayed, just slightly.

Seungmin’s fingers curled reflexively around the edge of the counter.

He should say something cutting. Deflect. Turn it into a joke.

"You have a shitty way of showing it." Is what came out instead.

"I know," Minho said again, and this time it sounded like an apology.

Something in Seungmin cracked.

All the humiliation, the sideways looks, the whispers—how long are you going to keep letting people treat you like that?—curled in on themselves and found a single point of heat.

Minho.

Not because Minho was the source of all of it.

But because Minho was the one thing that had always been there, steady and infuriating and impossible to ignore.

He moved before he could talk himself out of it.

One step forward, enough that his chest brushed Minho’s. One hand lifting, fingers closing around the front of Minho’s hoodie.

Minho’s eyes widened.

"What are you—" he started.

"Just—" Seungmin said, and then he pulled him down and kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was sharp and clumsy and too hard, teeth knocking for a second before they found a fit. Seungmin’s grip tightened in the fabric, like he was trying to anchor himself to something solid after weeks of drifting.

For a heartbeat, Minho went still.

Then his hands found Seungmin’s waist, fingers digging in through the fabric of his sweater. He exhaled against Seungmin’s mouth, a quiet, wrecked sound, and kissed him back.

Heat shot through Seungmin’s veins, sudden and overwhelming.

This was stupid. This was bad. This was all the things he’d told himself he wouldn’t do again.

He leaned in anyway.

Minho tasted like cheap beer and mint gum and something familiar that punched straight through Seungmin’s chest.

When they broke apart for air, they stayed close, foreheads almost touching.

"This is a bad idea," Minho said, voice rough.

"When have we ever had good ones?" Seungmin shot back, chest heaving.

A huff of something that might’ve been a laugh, if it weren’t so shaky.

"Seungmin—" Minho started.

"Don’t make it a thing," Seungmin cut in, the words tumbling out fast. "Don’t… turn this into another lesson or a fight about what it means. It doesn’t mean anything." He swallowed, the lie scraping on its way down. 

"It’s just—"

"Just what?" Minho asked quietly.

Seungmin searched for the right word and landed on the wrong one on purpose.

"Convenient," he said. "Familiar."

Familiar hurt was easier to manage than new kinds, he told himself. 

If Minho’s mouth could drown out the echo of other hands, other names, then maybe letting him touch what he’d already broken counted as some twisted kind of repair.

Something flickered in Minho’s eyes. 

Hurt, maybe. Resignation.

Then he let out a breath and nodded once.

"Okay," he said. "Convenient."

He leaned in again, slower this time, giving Seungmin space to pull back.

Seungmin didn’t.

Their mouths met again, less collision now, more intent. Minho’s hand slid up his back, hot through the fabric, sending a shiver down Seungmin’s spine. The counter dug into his hip; he barely felt it.

Minho’s other hand braced on the countertop beside Seungmin’s, knuckles brushing his.

"Bedroom," Minho murmured against his lips. It sounded like a question.

Seungmin’s fingers fisted in his hoodie again, answering for him.

Minho makes use of his strength, lifting Seungmin effortlessly, eliciting a small gasp when he leans in more. He licks his moans up, like this shouldn’t be what he was looking for, and yet, here they are, Seungmin’s legs locked around his hips like it’s the only lifeline he has left after Jungwoo.

Minho gently sets him down on the bed, as Seungmin’s doe eyes look up hesitantly.

“This…” He hesitates, not wanting to meet eyes.

“It doesn’t have to. You can back out,” Minho cages him, his breath shuddering.

“No, it’s just…” Seungmin gulps, as he stares back, “for tonight.”

Minho nods. Yeah. Just for tonight.

One night was safer to promise than forever, easier to swallow than sorry.

If they narrowed it down to skin and heat and not saying the wrong thing, maybe they could glue the cracks together long enough to forget where they’d started.

Seungmin catches his neck in his arms, as they kiss again, meeting needs and urges.

Minho’s hands roam around the edges of his sweater, fumbling. He’s still looking for something, anything, in Seungmin’s eyes. Like… regret. To back out before this becomes something out of convenience.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he gets Seungmin’s moans. The way his eyes convey he wants to fight back, but he doesn’t.

Seungmin is stripped off bare, and Minho follows soon. He can feel his eyes on him, like he’s memorizing every muscle.

“You’re staring,” Minho observes.

“Sorry, just…” Seungmin sits up, faces in close proximity.

Minho hitches his breath. “Yeah?”

“Can I blow you?”

He coughs. 

So much for straightforward.

“U-Uh, you don’t have to.”

Seungmin’s eyes flicker down.

“I just, need something to shut me up.”

Minho malfunctions for a bit, but he composes.

“You really don’t have to—”

“Just, make me forget.”

…

"Please?"

It’s sincere, and yet, it held so much conflicted reasonings. He knows he’s already one of the main issues, and yet, here Seungmin is, willingly choosing to give himself up. 

Give up his own dignity because he’s too tired to even fight.

Minho watches it. Seungmin’s hand cups his sweatpants; his hands may be huge, but it’s also the perfect fit for Minho’s own enraged dick.

Minho hisses, blood rushing even more down south.

Seungmin watches his reactions. He smirks.

He gives one sharp tug, cupping the entire thing. It reacts accordingly, protruding through even with the baggy fabric. Minho is letting it happen. He’s letting Seungmin take advantage of him the way he got taken advantage by Jungwoo. 

The air around them crackles as Seungmin takes it all off in one go. His dick springs up, bouncing like a sweet treat ready to be consumed. It’s red, it’s already leaking, and Seungmin thinks Yeah, this should fuck me up enough to forget.

He does an experimental tug. The pre leaks out like a fountain. Minho can’t grasp the severity of the situation. He’s really letting him do this because he’s too much of a sucker for Seungmin.

Too much of an ass-kisser. Hopefully I can kiss his ass. He monologues.

He’s intruded of his thoughts when something warm touches his tip.

Seungmin looks up, kneeling on Minho’s bed, as if he belonged there. That expression of innocence is making Minho want to bust early, but he urges. 

Everything about Seungmin was so… big, and yet, his tiny lips, filling so easily with Minho’s cock was the devil’s temptation. 

Seungmin hums. He fucking hums when his lips are wrapped around the tip. 

Minho tilts his head back, maybe not watching is going to prevent him from cumming too early. 

Maybe he can still veto this whole thing. Ctrl + Z this whole situation. 

But no, Seungmin is eagerly lapping his dick—vigorous tongue movement, like he’s done this before.

Done this before.

Fuck. That got Minho bothered. The vivid imagery of Seungmin being pliant, used, and face-fucked. It was supposed to disgust him, but he inserts himself in that same imagery. He was no different from Jungwoo.

He was using Seungmin. Seungmin was using him.

Seungmin takes initiative and goes even deeper. Minho, on instinct, thrusted his hips. He hears that sinful moan, and he grabs Seungmin by his hair. “F-Fuck, S-Seung, I’m going—”

“Do it.”

He watches his hands eagerly pumping his cock like he wants to milk him, and he fucking lulls out his tongue. Seungmin, on his knees, eagerly waiting. 

Minho spurts. Heavy. It lands everywhere.

On his face. On his tongue. On his lips. On his cheeks.

Seungmin laps it up, his hands continuing to squeeze the length dry.

Minho squirms at the stimulation. “W-Wait—”

They switched positions; Seungmin pushes Minho down on the bed. 

He watches him spit on his hands.

Seungmin strips his own sweatpants off, and his dick springs out.

Fuck. Even he’s big there as well. Minho licks his lips, biting his lower lip.

Maybe he’ll let me use it.

His head is snapped out of his thoughts when he watches Seungmin.

Spit and cum mixed on his hands, as he inserts two digits in himself. Minho can’t see from this angle, but he knows he’s trying to dig deep.

His face scrunching, frustrated that he can’t get the angle right.

Minho leans up, but Seungmin pushes him back down roughly.

“Stay.”

Seungmin huffs, as he does all the work.

“Let me—”

“You’ve done too much already. Just—” Seungmin becomes antsy, as he straddles Minho’s still creamed dick, his small butt looking so minuscule next to Minho’s engorged dick,

Minho looks down, eyes focused like he’s driving on a busy highway. 

Seungmin positions himself, grabbing Minho’s shaft with one of his hands, angling it.

“W-Wait, did you prep well? Condoms?” Minho shakes him with worry.

“Don’t care.” Seungmin grunts as he tries to connect the blunt head inside. Minho should be standing up at this moment, telling Seungmin to stop himself, but when he looks at his face, he can’t help it.

“F-Fuck.” Seungmin gasps when he feels it finally give leeway.

Minho grunts, face scrunching. The feeling of skin-to-skin contact, without any barriers, has him reeling. “S-Seung, don’t force it—”

“Please. Just. Shut up.” Seungmin whines, something hurt underlying it.

“You don’t have to force anything you want here,” Minho reasons. 

Seungmin ignores him, when he slams his waist down on his dick, fully sheathing him inside. Minho lulls back, feeling everything all at once. 

He stares at his figure, slowly trying to compose himself after cumming a second time in record time. Seungmin is using him. Nothing here was personal. It was all to forget. But was there ever anything to forgive?

He feels Seungmin loom over, his arms caging him. 

“Hyung,” Seungmin shakes his hips, feverish, but he’s still got half a mind. 

“Please. Just. Make me forget for a while.”

Minho shouldn’t continue instigating this any longer, but he’s already meeting Seungmin’s own motions. He angles himself to get better leverage on making sure Seungmin can’t function properly for a while. 

Minho will make that promise that, just for tonight, he’ll make sure Seungmin forgets.

Even if any of this wasn’t real.

Even if this was just out of ‘convenience’. 

He’ll keep giving. And he’ll take what he can get.

After that night, it didn’t become a thing so much as it became routine. 

It slipped in through the cracks of their schedule—between exams and chapter meetings, after parties and half-finished movies. 

Some nights it started with an argument in the hallway that burned too hot to fizzle out, words snapping until one of them got too close and the rest dissolved into kissing. Maybe a quickie in the school’s dingy bathroom.

Other times it was quieter. Seungmin appeared in Minho’s doorway, always at midnight, eyes shadowed, mumbling, “Can I crash here?” like they didn’t both know what that meant. 

There were patterns, if anyone had been looking closely. 

Minho’s hand would always find the back of Seungmin’s neck when he was too wound up; Seungmin would always steal Minho’s hoodie afterward and pretend it was just because he was cold. 

They never talked about it in daylight. 

In the mornings, Seungmin would slip out of Minho’s bed and back into sarcasm like armor, Minho would crack a joke about snoring or bed-hogging, and they’d wordlessly agree not to mention the way their knees had been touching under the blankets all night. 

To everyone else, they were the same as before—bickering, sharp, orbiting each other a little too closely. 

Only in the blurred edges of the day, when the house was sleeping, and the whole world felt like it had narrowed to a single room, did the line between spite and comfort vanish, replaced by something neither of them dared to name.

Minho told himself that counted for something—if he couldn’t undo the damage in public, at least he could be the one to hold the pieces together in the dark.

Felix noticed it first in the small things.

Not the obvious stuff—everyone saw the way Minho and Seungmin bickered like it was a competitive sport, the way their arguments could light up a whole room. That was just background noise in the frat at this point. You tuned it out like the hum of the fridge.

It was the gaps between the noise that made Felix pay attention.

Like now.

The living room was in its late-afternoon lull.

Muted light through half-closed blinds, the TV droning some forgettable show, a couple of guys scattered around scrolling through their phones. Felix sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop open but forgotten, a half-eaten granola bar balanced on his knee.

On the couch, Minho and Seungmin were doing their usual bit—arguing over something stupid. This time, it was a controller.

"You cheated," Seungmin said, jabbing a finger at the paused screen. "No one’s reflexes are that good."

"I didn’t cheat," Minho replied, leaning back like the picture of innocence. "I’m just better than you."

"You changed the settings when I went to get water."

"If you abandon your post mid-game, that’s on you." Minho shrugged. "Natural selection."

Felix watched them over the top of his screen.

It looked normal, at first glance. 

Same sharp banter, same dry delivery. 

But Seungmin was sitting closer than he used to—thigh pressed against Minho’s, shoulder brushing his every time he gestured. 

And Minho, who usually had a whole repertoire of ways to physically escape an argument, wasn’t moving away.

If anything, he was leaning in.

Their knees were knocking together every few seconds, easy and unconscious.

Felix frowned slightly, biting into his granola bar as he watched Seungmin snatch the controller out of Minho’s hands.

"Rematch," Seungmin said. "With both of us actually present."

"You say that like it’s going to change anything," Minho said, but he took the second controller anyway, their fingers brushing in the handoff. Neither of them flinched.

They used to.

Felix closed his laptop softly.

"You two are weird," Jisung commented from the armchair without looking up from his phone.

"You’re weird," Minho shot back on autopilot.

"You love me," Jisung replied absently.

"Tragically," Minho said.

Seungmin snorted.

Felix chewed slowly, watching the way Seungmin’s mouth twitched at the corner at that exchange, like he was fighting a smile and losing.

Weird.

He let it go—for the next ten minutes, anyway. The game resumed, trash talk flying back and forth, Jisung adding sound effects that no one asked for.

It was only when Minho inevitably won and Seungmin let out a string of curses under his breath that Felix’s attention snagged again.

"Best of three," Seungmin said.

"This was best of three," Minho replied. "You lost the first two."

"Those were warm-ups."

"That’s not how numbers work."

Seungmin huffed, then did something that made Felix’s inner alarm bells start quietly ringing.

He slumped sideways into the couch, shoulder dropping against Minho’s, head tipping just barely in his direction as he grumbled at the screen.

And Minho… adjusted.

Not away. Around.

He shifted his arm so Seungmin’s weight fit there more comfortably, controller balanced one-handed for a second while he made space like he’d done this a hundred times without thinking about it.

Felix’s eyes narrowed, the pieces on the mental pinboard in his head shuffling a little closer together.

Okay.

That was new.

He waited until later that night to say anything.

Felix prided himself on timing. 

Too early and people shut down; too late and the window closed altogether. 

You had to catch feelings when they were still hovering close to the surface, not buried under three layers of sarcasm and denial.

The kitchen was mostly dark, the only light coming from over the stove. 

Someone had left a pot soaking in the sink, evidence of a half-hearted attempt at cooking. The house had settled into its nighttime creaks and sighs.

Felix rummaged in the fridge, fishing out a can of something caffeinated he definitely shouldn’t be drinking this late.

He was just closing the door when Minho walked in.

"You’re up late," Felix said.

"So are you," Minho replied, opening a cabinet to grab a mug. "Hypocrite."

"I’m a responsible insomniac," Felix said. "There’s a difference."

Minho grunted, noncommittal, and reached for the kettle. The soft rush of water filled the quiet as he turned on the tap.

Felix popped the tab on his drink and leaned back against the counter, watching him.

Minho moved like someone who’d done this exact dance a hundred times—mug, kettle, tea bag, spoon. It was one of the ways Felix could tell how rattled he really was: the more he retreated into small rituals, the more something underneath was trying not to come apart.

"Couldn’t sleep?" Felix asked, casual.

"Midterm," Minho said. "Professor Lee’s exam is tomorrow."

"You’ve been ready for that since, like, week three."

"Doesn’t mean I want to fail it now." Minho set the kettle on the stove and flicked the burner on. The little clicks of ignition punctuated the sentence.

Felix took a small sip of his drink, the fizz sharp on his tongue.

"You and Seungmin were very… touchy today," he said lightly.

The kettle wasn’t boiling yet, but the air in the room shifted anyway.

Minho’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.

"We were playing a game," he said. "You were there."

"I was," Felix agreed. "You also let him practically sit on you while you lost."

"I did not lose."

"Deflection," Felix said. "Cute."

Minho shot him a look. "What are you getting at, exactly?"

Felix took his time answering, tracing a circle on the side of his can with one finger.

"You two used to fight like you wanted to kill each other," he said. "Now you fight like you want to kill each other and also… nap on each other."

"That’s a wild interpretation," Minho muttered.

"Is it?" Felix tilted his head. "Because from where I’m standing, the vibes have changed."

Minho stared very intently at the kettle like he could will it to boil faster.

"We’re not doing this," he said eventually.

"Doing what?" Felix asked, all innocence.

"Whatever intervention you’ve rehearsed in your head. I’m not in the mood for your ‘let’s unpack your feelings’ episode tonight."

Felix smiled faintly. "You think I rehearsed. That’s flattering."

"Felix." There it was, the warning tone.

Felix let it sit for a beat.

"I’m not asking for a TED Talk," he said. "Just… noticing. That’s allowed, right?"

Minho said nothing.

The kettle began to mutter, a low, rising sound.

"You’ve been acting weird since the Jungwoo thing," Felix went on, gentle. "More than usual. Both of you."

Minho’s hand tightened on the handle of the mug.

"Wow," he said. "Really thought we were done saying that name every five minutes."

"We are," Felix said. "I’m not here to rehash it. I just…" He hesitated, choosing his words. "You blew up your entire reputation in one night for him, you know."

"I didn’t blow up my reputation," Minho snapped. "I told the truth."

"You did," Felix agreed. "Loudly. In front of a lot of people."

"Because he was being treated like shit," Minho said, heat creeping into his voice. "Because no one else was going to say anything."

"And then afterward," Felix continued mildly, "you two barely spoke for weeks, and now he sneaks into your room at ungodly hours and you let him steal your hoodies and you both pretend nothing’s different. Except it is." He took another sip. 

"You see why someone might have questions."

The kettle whistled, sharp and shrill.

Minho turned away to take it off the burner, using the noise as an excuse to not answer.

Felix watched his shoulders rise and fall once as he poured water into the mug.

"We’re…" Minho started, then cut himself off with a humourless huff. "It’s complicated."

Felix’s brows lifted. "That’s not a label I’ve heard you use lightly."

Minho set the kettle down, staring into the cup as the tea bag darkened the water in slow, swirling clouds.

"You’re not going to let this go, are you?" he asked.

"Not if it means watching my friends implode in slow motion," Felix said, soft but firm.

Minho’s fingers tapped against the mug, then stilled.

"We made a deal," he said eventually. "Me and Seungmin."

Felix hummed. "Uh-huh."

"We keep things simple." Minho’s mouth twisted around the word. "We don’t talk about it. We don’t make it a big thing. It’s just…"

He trailed off.

"Convenient?" Felix supplied.

The look Minho shot him this time was too sharp to be anything but a bull’s-eye.

"He said that," Felix realized quietly.

Minho’s jaw clenched. "It works," he said, a little too fast. 

"We’re less…" His hand flickered in the air, searching for a word. "Explosive."

"You’ve just moved the explosion," Felix said. "From the living room to behind a closed door."

Minho flinched like the words hit a bruise.

Felix set his drink down on the counter, the faint thunk punctuating the silence.

"Minho," he said, "I’m not trying to pry for fun. I just… I see you. Both of you."

"Fantastic," Minho muttered. "We should start charging admission."

"You think this is a joke?" Felix asked, and there was enough seriousness in his tone that Minho finally looked up.

Felix met his gaze, steady.

"He walks into a room now and I can feel him brace," Felix said, voice low. "Like he’s waiting for someone to look at him and see ‘that guy’ again. It’s in his shoulders, in the way he avoids certain corners. And you—you watch him like you’re waiting to jump in front of the next bullet."

Minho swallowed.

"I’m just making sure it doesn’t happen again," he said. "That’s all."

"Is that what you tell yourself," Felix asked, "when he shows up at your door at two in the morning and you let him in?"

Colour rose in Minho’s cheeks, a faint, betrayed flush.

"He told you?" he demanded.

"He didn’t have to," Felix said. "You both look like you’ve slept about three hours total this week, and somehow you’re always more relaxed the mornings after you both disappear. I can connect dots." He paused. "I’m not twelve."

Minho stared at the mug like it might offer an escape route.

"We’re not…" he began, then stopped. "It’s not like that."

"Okay," Felix said. "So what is it like?"

Minho closed his mouth again, for once genuinely lost, like the map he usually followed had been swapped while he slept.

"It’s—" he tried again, frustration threading through his tone. "He doesn’t want it to be anything. He said so."

"And you?" Felix asked.

Minho’s fingers tightened around the handle.

"Doesn’t matter," he said.

"It does," Felix said, gentle but firm. "Because right now, it looks like you’re giving him the closest thing you know how to give, and calling it ‘nothing’ because he asked you to."

Minho’s laugh came out rough.

"What, you want me to sit him down and say ‘hey, I know everyone’s been calling you pathetic for months, but actually I’m in love with you, surprise’?" he snapped. "That’ll really help his reputation."

Felix blinked.

"Didn’t say that," he said quietly. "But thanks for the data point."

Minho froze.

"I—" he started, then shut his mouth with a click of teeth.

Felix softened.

"Look," he said. 

"I’m not asking you to confess anything you’re not ready to. I just… I need you to be honest with yourself, at least." He tapped the counter lightly. "Because from where I’m standing, this ‘convenient’ thing? It’s not neutral. Not for you."

Minho stared at him, every defensive instinct warring with the part of him that, annoyingly, respected Felix’s ability to see through him.

"He chose this," Minho said finally. "He chose… me. In whatever way he can right now. I’m not going to take that away by asking for more he can’t give."

"Maybe," Felix said. "Or maybe you’re letting him call scraps a feast because you’re scared if you say you’re hungry, he’ll leave."

The words hung there, heavy and too close to something true.

Minho looked away first.

"You done psychoanalyzing me?" he asked, voice thin.

Felix picked his drink back up, rolling the cool can between his palms.

"For tonight," he said. "Just… promise me one thing."

Minho didn’t answer, but he didn’t walk away either.

"If this starts hurting more than it helps," Felix said softly, "for either of you… don’t pretend it’s fine just because you’re used to pain. That’s not the same as being okay."

Minho’s throat bobbed.

"You sound like Chan," he muttered.

"Chan would’ve used a spreadsheet," Felix said. "You’re getting the gentle version."

For the first time all night, the corner of Minho’s mouth twitched upward.

"I’m not going to break him," he said quietly.

Felix held his gaze.

"I know," he said. "That’s what I’m worried about."

Minho frowned. "That makes no sense."

"You’ll hurt yourself first," Felix said simply. "And he’ll let you, because he thinks that’s just how you love people. Loud. Messy. Self-destructive."

The kettle had gone silent, the tea in Minho’s mug long since steeped too dark.

Minho stared down into it like he might find an easier answer in the swirling brown.

"Felix," he said finally, "do me a favour and don’t bring this up to him."

"I wasn’t planning on it," Felix said. "He needs a break from being a conversation topic.”

Minho huffed, a ghost of a laugh.

Felix stepped away from the counter, pausing in the doorway.

"But you should talk to him," Felix added. "Eventually. Before ‘convenient’ turns into ‘unfixable.’ "

Minho didn’t reply.

Felix headed back toward the dark hallway, drink in hand.

As he passed Seungmin’s door, he glanced at it, the faint sliver of light visible at the bottom. 

Awake, then.

The first sign Minho should’ve stayed in his room came when he heard Hyunjin laughing from the end of the hall.

Not just any laugh, but the one he did when he was actually amused—head tipped back, hand over his mouth like he couldn’t help it.

Minho paused halfway down the stairs, hand on the railing. 

The house was already in full swing—parties frequent here, music thudding through the floorboards, lights dimmed to hide the worst of the week’s neglect, people spilling from the living room into the kitchen and back.

He’d told himself he was coming down for water. Maybe to make sure Chan didn’t accidentally burn the house down "experimenting" with new drink ratios.

He hadn’t told himself he was coming down because he knew Seungmin would be here.

Of course, Seungmin would be here. Seungmin lived here. It was stupid to even label it like that.

He took the rest of the stairs, slipping into the flow of bodies.

The living room was its usual chaos. Jisung and Changbin were arguing over the aux, Felix was perched on the back of the couch supervising, Jeongin hovered near the snack table like it was a science exhibit.

Minho’s gaze slid past them, scanning on instinct.

He found Seungmin near the far wall.

And then he found Hyunjin.

They were standing close—too close for just casual party talk, not close enough for Minho to pretend he was imagining it. Hyunjin had one shoulder propped against the wall, cup in hand, hair falling in soft waves around his face. He was saying something animatedly, hands moving, eyes bright.

Seungmin was looking at him.

Not the bored, half-lidded stare he reserved for people who annoyed him. Not the flatly polite expression he used on strangers.

Actually looking at him.

Minho’s stomach twisted before his brain fully caught up.

He watched Hyunjin lean in to say something near Seungmin’s ear, watched Seungmin’s mouth twitch into a reluctant smile, watched his gaze flick up beneath his lashes like he was trying to hide that it pleased him.

The twist sharpened.

"There he is," Felix said at Minho’s elbow, making him jump.

"Don’t do that," Minho muttered.

"Walking into a room? I’ll try." Felix bumped his shoulder lightly. "You made it. I was taking bets."

"Did I win anything?" Minho asked, eyes still glued to the far wall.

"I get to not owe Jisung five bucks," Felix said. "That’s something. Want a drink?"

"Water," Minho said. "I’ve got a midterm on Monday."

Felix raised an eyebrow. "You can have one drink and still destroy an exam, you know."

"Water," Minho repeated.

Felix studied his face for a beat, then followed his line of sight.

"Ah," he said quietly. "Right."

Minho didn’t ask what that meant.

He knew.

"I’m not—" he started.

"Jealous?" Felix suggested.

"Interested," Minho snapped. "I’m not interested."

"In water?" Felix asked mildly. "Or in what’s happening over there?"

Over there, Hyunjin laughed again, softer this time, like Seungmin had said something only he could hear. His hand brushed Seungmin’s forearm in that absent, flirty way he did when he was dialed all the way in on someone.

Seungmin didn’t pull back.

Minho swallowed.

"I’m getting my own drink," he muttered and headed for the kitchen without waiting for Felix’s answer.

The kitchen was marginally quieter, the music muted to a bass line through the wall. 

A cluster of people hovered near the counter where Chan had set up a makeshift bar, bottles and mixers spread out like a failed science experiment.

"Minho!" Chan called, already too enthusiastic. "Help me settle a bet. Is this too much vodka or exactly enough vodka?"

Minho eyed the cup in his hand. "That’s a war crime."

"So that’s a no on taste-testing," Chan said cheerfully.

"I like my organs functional, thanks," Minho replied, reaching for a clean cup and the tap instead.

He filled it halfway, staring at the stream of water a second longer than necessary.

Hyunjin. Seungmin. Wall.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about this.

Seungmin wasn’t going to avoid people forever. 

Not just because of Jungwoo; that would’ve meant letting that whole disaster own him. And Seungmin was many things, but he wasn’t the type to stay down just because the campus rumour mill tried to staple him to a narrative.

Of course he’d go after something better. Someone who didn’t need a public spectacle to prove a point.

Someone like Hyunjin.

Who was pretty and charming and didn’t set rooms on fire by accident.

Minho clenched his jaw.

"You look like you’re trying to kill the faucet with your mind," Felix observed from beside the sink.

"Wouldn’t be the worst casualty tonight," Minho said.

Felix gave him a look. "You could say something, you know. To him."

Minho snorted. "What, ‘hey, remember that time I made your entire love life public property and then decided I’m allowed to be upset when you talk to other people’? I’m sure that’ll go great."

"Or," Felix said patiently, "something simpler, like ‘I like you and it’s kind of killing me watching you flirt with other people.’"

"No," Minho said flatly.

Felix sighed. "Then at least don’t stand in the kitchen and glower at the wall. It’s weird."

"I’m not—" Minho started, then cut himself off as he caught sight of them again through the doorway.

They’d moved.

Hyunjin and Seungmin were closer to the center of the living room now, half-turned toward each other. The crowd ebbed and flowed around them, but they stayed locked in their own little bubble of conversation.

Hyunjin said something, gesturing with his cup, and Seungmin laughed—actually laughed, shoulders loosening, head tipping forward for a second before he caught himself.

Minho felt something sour rise in his throat.

He’d been the one patching Seungmin together after the fallout. The one seeing the cracks, the late-night knock at his door, the way Seungmin used convenience like a shield.

Now someone else was getting the version of Seungmin who could laugh at a party without flinching.

"I’m going to…" he said vaguely, abandoning his water and setting the cup down with more force than necessary.

Felix didn’t stop him.

"Maybe don’t start a fight," Felix called after him.

Minho pretended he didn’t hear.

He circled first, weaving through clusters of people, pretending to look for Jisung or Jeongin or literally anyone else. He checked the snack table and answered a question about an assignment he barely registered..

Every few seconds, his eyes dragged back to them.

They’d migrated toward the couch now. Hyunjin sat on the armrest, long legs crossed, leaning down to be on Seungmin’s level. Seungmin stood close enough that their knees brushed every time someone squeezed past.

Minho ground his teeth.

He wasn’t… scared of Hyunjin, exactly. 

Hyunjin was harmless in that "accidentally breaks hearts because he doesn’t realize how pretty he is" kind of way. He was dramatic and soft and absurd and had cried once watching an animated commercial.

But he also knew exactly how to make someone feel like they were the only person in the room.

And right now, that person wasn’t Minho.

He drifted closer until he was within earshot, heart pounding annoyingly hard for someone who absolutely did not care.

"—I’m just saying," Hyunjin was saying, "if you hated the movie that much, why did you stay?"

"You were the one who wanted to watch it," Seungmin replied. "I wasn’t going to make you sit through it alone."

Hyunjin clutched his chest. "See? This is what I mean. You act all grumpy, but you’re secretly soft."

Seungmin rolled his eyes. "I’m not soft. I just have basic human decency."

"Tomato, tomahto," Hyunjin said, grinning.

Minho’s chest tightened.

He hadn’t known they’d hung out one-on-one.

Of course they had. Why wouldn’t they have? Friends do that kind of stuff.

"You could’ve left," Hyunjin continued. "Most people do when I pick something weird."

"Most people don’t shut up for the entire runtime," Seungmin said. "I stayed to see if you’d actually combust from holding in your commentary."

Hyunjin laughed, that bright sound again.

"So you stayed for me," he said.

The words weren’t heavy. They hovered somewhere between joking and sincere.

But the way Seungmin looked at him—quiet, a little fond around the edges—made Minho’s spine go cold.

He stepped forward before he’d fully decided to.

"Didn’t realize we were doing movie dates without informing the group chat," Minho said.

His voice slid into the space between them like a knife.

Both heads turned.

Hyunjin blinked, then smiled. "Oh, hey. We were just talking about you."

"Great," Minho said. "My favourite hobby."

Seungmin’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Relax. We were talking about how you snore during movies."

"I don’t snore," Minho said.

"You do," Seungmin and Hyunjin said in unison.

Hyunjin snickered.

Minho forced a smirk. "Glad to know my alleged breathing patterns are party conversation material."

"We were also discussing your terrible taste in villains," Hyunjin added. "But that felt too mean to say behind your back."

"I don’t have terrible taste," Minho protested. "I just understand them."

"That’s what worries me," Seungmin muttered.

On another night, this might’ve been easy. Banter, the three of them bouncing off each other, tension diffusing into something almost normal.

Tonight, the air felt wrong.

Maybe it was the way Hyunjin’s knee stayed pressed against Seungmin’s. Maybe it was the way Seungmin didn’t edge away to make room for Minho, like he used to.

Minho shoved his hands in his pockets.

"So," he said, voice a shade too light, "how long have you two been doing private screenings?"

Hyunjin opened his mouth, but Seungmin beat him to it.

"A couple weeks," he said. "Why? You jealous you didn’t get invited to watch me suffer through his taste?"

The word hit like a thrown glass.

Jealous.

Minho barked out a laugh. "Please. You think I want to listen to him monologue about camera angles for two hours?"

"You survived three seasons of that crime show with me," Hyunjin pointed out.

"That was different," Minho said. "There were snacks."

Hyunjin shook his head, amused.

"For the record," he told Seungmin, "if we’re doing this again, I’m picking something good next time. And we’re going somewhere that doesn’t have a couch designed by the devil." He nudged Seungmin’s leg. "My back still hurts."

"You can pick whatever you want," Seungmin said. "As long as you stop pausing every five minutes to yell at the plot."

"No promises."

Minho’s fingers curled into fists inside his pockets.

He knew this script. The light, easy back-and-forth. The half-sincere complaints about each other’s habits. The casual "next time" slipped in as it had always been there.

He’d written most of it with Seungmin himself.

Now he was watching someone else improvise new lines.

"Wow," he said, the word coming out more biting than he intended. "Already planning a sequel. That was fast."

Hyunjin’s smile faded at the edges. He glanced between them, sensing the shift.

"Well, yeah," he said slowly. "If he wants to. I’m not—"

"It’s not a big deal," Seungmin cut in. "We’re just hanging out."

Hanging out.

Minho’s jaw ached.

"Right," he said. "Because that always works out great."

Silence flickered.

Hyunjin’s brows knit. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Minho said.

Seungmin’s eyes flashed. "Say it, Minho."

"Drop it," Minho said.

"No," Seungmin said. "If you’ve got something to say about who I spend time with, use your words."

Minho could feel people nearby shifting, conversations dipping just enough to listen without looking like they were listening.

He hated it.

Hated the way every tense moment turned into potential entertainment now.

"I don’t care who you spend time with," he lied.

"Could’ve fooled me," Seungmin muttered.

Hyunjin held up his hands, backing a half-step away. "Okay. I am sensing a vibe that is not about me," he said lightly. 

"So I’m going to go… check on the snacks. Before Jisung eats them all."

He clapped Seungmin on the shoulder once, quick, and slipped into the crowd.

Minho watched the spot where his hand had been like it had left a mark.

Then he dragged his gaze back to Seungmin.

They stood facing each other in the middle of the living room, music pounding around them, everyone pretending not to stare.

"Seriously," Seungmin said, voice low now, for Minho alone. "What’s your problem?"

Minho’s pulse thudded in his ears.

He could say it.

‘I don’t like seeing you with him. I hate that I didn’t know you were hanging out. I hate that he gets your soft laugh and I get your anger.’

"You really want another round of being skimped around last second after last time?"

Seungmin’s expression shuttered.

There it was. The landmine.

"Wow," he said. "We’re doing that."

"I’m just saying—" Minho started.

"No, you’re not ‘just saying’ anything," Seungmin cut in.

"You’re comparing Hyunjin to Jungwoo like that’s remotely fair."

"I’m comparing situations," Minho said, heat creeping into his voice.

"No, you’re projecting," Seungmin snapped. "Again."

A few people nearby shifted uncomfortably.

Felix appeared at Minho’s periphery, worry stamped all over his face.

"Hey," he said, a little too brightly. "Maybe the middle of the room isn’t—"

"We’re fine," Minho and Seungmin said in unison.

They weren’t.

"You think I don’t remember what happened last time I ‘hung out’ with someone you didn’t approve of?" Seungmin demanded. "Because the campus sure hasn’t forgotten."

"This isn’t about approval," Minho hissed. "It’s about—"

"What?" Seungmin stepped closer, chin lifting. "About you getting to decide who I’m allowed to be seen with so you don’t have to watch me make choices you don’t like?"

Minho’s hands twitched at his sides.

"You’re the one who said you were tired of being a lesson," he said. "I’m trying to make sure you don’t end up the same punchline twice."

Seungmin laughed, sharp and humourless.

"You are not the main character of my growth arc," he said. "You don’t get to control the syllabus."

Felix winced.

"Guys," he tried again. "Seriously. Kitchen. Balcony. Anywhere but here."

Minho barely heard him.

"I’m not trying to control anything," he said, louder than he meant to. "I’m trying not to watch you walk into fire again just because someone holds the door open."

"He’s not Jungwoo," Seungmin shot back. "You don’t get to slap the same label on everyone who looks at me twice."

"That’s not what I’m doing."

"Then what are you doing?" Seungmin demanded.

The word hung there. Challenge. Accusation.

Minho’s heart hammered.

He thought of Felix in the kitchen, saying if this starts hurting more than it helps, don’t pretend it’s fine.

He thought of Seungmin showing up at his door at dark, of convenience, of hands and mouths and the unspoken agreement not to call it anything.

He thought of Hyunjin’s easy grin and the way Seungmin had said you can pick whatever you want like there’d be a next time.

"I’m—" Minho started, then stopped.

The truth clawed at the back of his throat.

Seungmin watched him, eyes dark and guarded.

Minho swallowed it down.

"I’m trying to make sure you don’t get hurt," he said instead.

Seungmin’s mouth pressed into a line.

"Too late," he said quietly.

That landed deeper than any shout.

They stood there, the space between them thrumming with all the things they weren’t saying. Around them, the party tried to pretend it wasn’t orbiting their gravity.

Hyunjin reappeared at the edge of the circle, expression wary.

"Everything good?" he asked carefully.

Seungmin didn’t look at him.

"Yeah," he said, gaze still locked on Minho. "Everything’s great."

Minho forced a smile that felt like it might crack his face.

"Perfect," he said. "Enjoy your movie marathons."

He turned on his heel before he could see Seungmin’s reaction, shouldering past a couple of people with muttered apologies.

Felix called his name once, but Minho didn’t stop.

He made it to the kitchen on autopilot, ducked into the relative dim, braced his hands on the counter, and let his head drop forward.

Jealousy tasted bitter.

Not the hot flare he was used to in arguments, but something colder underneath.

The knowledge that for all his noise and righteous anger, he’d never actually asked for a place in Seungmin’s life that wasn’t negotiable.

Convenient.

Familiar.

Replaceable.

Hyunjin was none of those things.

Minho exhaled slowly, knuckles white against the counter.

Minho closed his door more gently than he wanted to.

Slamming it would’ve felt good for half a second. Then Chan would appear out of nowhere with a speech about hinges and deposit fees, and Minho wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable.

He leaned his forehead against the wood for a moment instead, eyes closed, fists pressed against the frame.

The music downstairs thudded faintly through the floor, a dull heartbeat he couldn’t quite escape.

Hyunjin’s laugh echoed louder than the bass.

Already planning a sequel. That was fast.

Minho let his head thunk once against the door.

He hadn’t meant to go for the jugular. He never did. But there was something about watching Seungmin smile at someone else like that—easy, unguarded—that made every ugly instinct in him claw its way to the surface.

He pushed off the door with a sigh and crossed to his bed, dropping down onto the edge. The springs creaked in protest. His room was mostly dark, lit only by the strip of LED lights along one wall and the glow from his desk lamp.

He should’ve stayed downstairs. Or better, never gone down at all.

He’d told himself he was past this. Past the part where seeing Seungmin with anyone else made his vision go weird around the edges.

Apparently not.

He scrubbed a hand over his face.

From this angle, he couldn’t see the party. 

But he could picture it.

Hyunjin drifting back over with some self-deprecating joke, Seungmin letting his shoulders drop another half-inch, the rest of the house eventually forgetting the argument in favor of new gossip.

Minho exhaled slowly.

He’d left before he could say something truly irreversible.

Small victories.

A knock hit his door—sharp, three beats in quick succession.

He didn’t need to ask who it was.

"What?" he called, voice rougher than intended.

The door opened without waiting for permission.

Seungmin stepped inside, closing it behind him with a soft click. The muted noise from the party dulled immediately, replaced by the hum of the heater and the faint buzz of Minho’s desk lamp.

He looked… composed, on the surface. Hair a little mussed from the crowd, cheeks faintly flushed, cup still in hand. But his eyes were too bright, too steady in that way that always meant he was hanging on by his fingernails.

"We’re just walking into people’s rooms again now?" Minho said, because it was easier than hello.

"Don’t pretend you lock it when I’m not around," Seungmin shot back. "I need to know what that was downstairs."

Minho stared at a spot over his shoulder.

"It was a party," he said. "People drink. People argue. Alcohol. You’ll live."

"That’s not an answer, and you didn’t even drink," Seungmin said.

He crossed the room, stopping a few feet away. Close enough that Minho could smell the faint tang of alcohol on his breath, the familiar detergent from his shirt.

"What is your problem, Minho?" he demanded. "What exactly did I do wrong this time?"

Minho let out a humourless breath.

"You showed up. You existed. You laughed at Hyunjin’s jokes. Terrible sins, all around."

"Don’t do that," Seungmin said, voice sharp. "Don’t turn this into some ‘woe is me, I’m dramatic for no reason’ bit. You came at me in the middle of the living room. Again."

Minho felt his shoulders tense.

"I didn’t—"

"You did," Seungmin cut in. "You dragged that Jungwoo comparison right back out in front of everyone like we haven’t been choking on it for weeks."

Minho’s jaw ached.

"I didn’t say his name," he said.

"You didn’t have to," Seungmin snapped. " ‘Hanging out, that always works great.’ What else was that supposed to mean?"

Minho opened his mouth, then shut it.

He’d meant it. And he hadn’t. Both at once.

"I just…" he started, then forced the words out. "I don’t want you to get dragged through the same mess again."

"Right," Seungmin said. "Because God forbid I make choices without you hovering over them like quality control."

"That’s not it."

"Then what is it?" Seungmin stepped closer, in his space now, eyes dark. 

"Every time I so much as look at someone, you have something to say. First Jungwoo. Now Hyunjin. What’s next? You going to fight the barista for spelling my name wrong?"

"I’d pay to see that," Minho muttered.

Seungmin didn’t smile.

"You’re not funny," he said. "You’re… I don’t even know what you are right now."

Minho swallowed.

"Concerned," he said finally. "For starters."

"No," Seungmin said. "Concerned was talking to me in private. Concerned was warning me before everything blew up. You did that already. This—" he gestured between them, back toward the door, "—this is something else."

Minho looked away.

He could feel the walls of the room closing in, all the words he’d been shoving down for months pressing against his ribs.

"You really think Hyunjin is going to do that to you?" he asked, grasping at the safer thread. "Text you while he’s lining up someone else? Make jokes about ‘keeping options open’ when he thinks you can’t hear?"

"No," Seungmin said immediately.

"Then why—"

"Because he’s not Jungwoo," Seungmin snapped. "And you don’t get to slap the same warning label on everyone I like just because you’re still mad at yourself for how that went down."

The words hit home with uncomfortable precision.

"I’m not mad at myself," Minho lied.

Seungmin’s eyebrows shot up.

"You’re not?" he asked. "Then why do you look like someone kicked your dog every time his name comes up?"

"I don’t—"

"And why," Seungmin continued, voice rising, "did you feel the need to do a live commentary on my love life in the middle of the house again tonight? You can’t honestly think that’s about ‘protecting’ me at this point."

Minho felt something in him snap.

"What do you want me to say?" he demanded. "That I should’ve kept my mouth shut? That I should’ve watched you smile at him and just—what? Gone upstairs and pretended it didn’t feel like getting punched?"

Silence dropped over the room at that.

Seungmin blinked.

"Why would it feel like that?" he asked, slower now, the anger tempered with something else.

Minho’s heartbeat thudded in his ears.

Because you were leaning the same way you used to lean at me. Because you were telling him stories you used to save for me. Because I’ve gotten used to being the one you drag into things and suddenly I’m not.

"You’re my friend," he said instead. It came out hoarse. "I don’t like watching my friends walk into fire."

Seungmin’s laugh was sharp.

"No," he said. "You like to be the one holding the extinguisher."

"I like you not getting burned," Minho shot back.

"And I like not being treated like I can’t tell when something’s hot," Seungmin snapped. "You keep calling it caring, but from where I’m standing, it always feels like control."

The word stung more than Minho wanted to admit.

"I’m not trying to control you," he said. "I’m trying to stop you from being the campus’s favourite cautionary tale for the second time this semester."

"Too late," Seungmin said quietly.

Minho’s breath caught.

"That’s on them," he said. "Not you."

"Is it?" Seungmin’s mouth twisted. "Because the way I hear it, Jungwoo ‘had to leave’ and I ‘should’ve known better.’ "

Minho looked at him then, really looked.

He saw the tightness in Seungmin’s jaw, the way his shoulders were held stiff like he was keeping himself from collapsing inward. He thought of the cafeteria, of overheard whispers, of the way Seungmin’s name had become shorthand for don’t be that guy.

"I never wanted you to be the punchline," Minho said, voice low.

"But I am," Seungmin said.

"He got to disappear. You got to be the one who ‘stood up for me.’ And I’m the idiot who stuck around. That’s the story, right?"

"Not my story," Minho said.

"Yeah?" Seungmin asked. "Then what’s yours?"

Minho hesitated.

His story was messy and selfish and full of things he had no right to say.

"You think I enjoyed any of that?" he said. "You think I wanted everyone to know our business? I watched him make you small for weeks, and when I finally snapped, I did it in the worst possible way. I know that. I live with that."

"Congratulations," Seungmin said. "You feel bad. That doesn’t undo anything."

"I know it doesn’t," Minho said sharply. "I can’t unring the bell. I can’t make them stop being idiots. All I can do is—"

"All you can do is what, exactly?" Seungmin cut in, stepping closer again. "Blow up my conversations when they get too close to something you don’t like? Choke out anyone who looks at me twice unless they pass your test?"

"No," Minho insisted. "That’s not what I—"

"Then tell me," Seungmin said. 

"Tell me why it’s suddenly your business who I watch movies with."

Minho felt the ground tilt under him.

Because you’ve been in my bed for weeks. Because we agreed to call it nothing and my stupid heart didn’t listen.

"We have something," he blurted, then winced at how vague it sounded.

Seungmin’s eyes cooled.

"Right," he said. "The ‘convenient’ arrangement."

Minho flinched.

"You’re the one who called it that," he said. "I just—went along with it."

"You didn’t just go along with it," Seungmin said. 

"You hid behind it. It was perfect for you. You get to be ‘just a friend’ in public and then get pissed when I give anyone else attention, because privately—" he broke off, laughing once, bitter, "—privately you already have access."

The word tasted sour.

"That’s not—" Minho started.

"Isn’t it?" Seungmin demanded. 

"You realize what it looks like, right? You don’t want to date me, you don’t want to claim me, but the second I start thinking maybe I could try something with someone who isn’t radioactive, you act like I’m doing something wrong."

"I never said I didn’t want—" Minho bit the rest off.

Seungmin’s gaze sharpened.

"Didn’t want what?" he asked. "Say it. For once."

Minho’s heart hammered against his ribs.

He thought of Felix in the kitchen: If this starts hurting more than it helps, don’t pretend it’s fine.

He thought of Seungmin on his doorstep every midnight, asking to crash like his legs might give out if Minho said no.

He thought of Hyunjin’s hand on Seungmin’s arm.

"I’m jealous," he said.

The words landed between them, heavy and undeniable.

Seungmin blinked, taken aback.

"What?" he asked.

"I’m jealous," Minho repeated, each syllable scraping on the way out. 

"I hate seeing you look at him like that. I hate that you have jokes with him I wasn’t there for. I hate that he gets what I’ve been expecting for.”

Silence stretched.

Seungmin swallowed.

"You’re jealous," he said slowly. "Of Hyunjin. Because we watched a movie."

"I’m jealous," Minho said again, the dam broken now, "because I like you more than this stupid ‘convenient’ thing lets me, and watching you move on like it’s the easiest thing in the world is driving me insane."

There it was.

Not the full I’m in love with you tearing itself out of his chest.

But more than he’d ever let himself say out loud.

Seungmin stared at him, all the air gone from his face for a moment.

"You… like me," he echoed, voice thin.

"Don’t say it like it’s the most surprising thing you’ve ever heard," Minho snapped, panic morphing into irritation.

"We’ve been glued at the hip for two years. You think I’m crawling into bed with just anyone because it’s fun?"

"You didn’t exactly make it sound special," Seungmin shot back. " ‘Convenient,’ remember? Your word of the day."

"Your word," Minho corrected. "I just didn’t contradict you because you looked like you’d bolt if I did."

"So instead you were happy with this," Seungmin said, gesturing vaguely toward the bed, the room, everything. "With me being your secret, your habit, as long as no one called it anything."

"I wasn’t happy," Minho said.

"I was…" He raked a hand through his hair. "I don’t know. I was scared."

Seungmin’s mouth twitched, humourless.

"Of what?" he asked. "Of me?"

"Of losing you," Minho said, too fast to stop.

The room seemed to duck in around them.

"Newsflash," Seungmin said quietly. "You’re doing a great job of that anyway."

Minho’s throat closed.

"You can’t tell me this is nothing and then act like I’m cheating on you for talking to someone else," Seungmin went on, voice shaking now, finally. "You don’t get to have it both ways."

"I’m not—" Minho started.

"You are," Seungmin said. 

"You want me close enough to crawl into your bed when you’re lonely, but not close enough that you ever have to admit what that means in daylight. And the second I try to build anything that isn’t orbiting around you, you torch it."

"That’s not fair," Minho said, stung. "I didn’t torch anything tonight."

Seungmin laughed, the sound brittle.

"You made a scene," he said. "Again. You threw the word ‘fire’ at me like I don’t know what I’m doing. You made it about you. Again."

Minho’s teeth dug into his cheek.

"I don’t trust him the way you do," he said. "I don’t trust anyone not to use you as a stepstool."

"That’s not your call," Seungmin said. "You don’t get to decide who’s safe enough for me to want."

"Someone has to protect you," Minho snapped. "You clearly won’t."

He knew he’d gone too far the second he said it.

Seungmin’s whole body went very, very still.

When he spoke, his voice was calm in the way that meant everything inside had iced over.

"There it is," he said. "There’s the part of you that thinks I’m an idiot who needs saving."

"That’s not what I—"

"Don’t," Seungmin said. "Don’t tell me that’s not what you meant. You’ve been telling me who to avoid, who to trust, how to fix my reputation. You did it with Jungwoo, and now you’re doing it with Hyunjin."

"I didn’t even say his name—"

"You don’t have to," Seungmin cut in. "You stand there and glower and make comments and suddenly it’s about whether Minho approves."

He stepped back, putting space between them like he’d been burned.

"You keep saying you did it because you care," he said. "But from where I’ve been standing, being cared about by you feels a lot like being controlled and humiliated and then told to say thank you."

The words knocked the wind out of Minho more effectively than any punch.

"I never wanted you to feel humiliated," he said, the protest weak even to his own ears.

"Intent doesn’t erase impact," Seungmin said.

"You did what you thought was right. Great. Gold star. I’m the one who has to live with the looks. The jokes. The fact that when I walk into a room, everyone knows exactly how stupid I was for staying." He swallowed.

"And now, on top of that, I get to be the guy you’re jealous over but not willing to choose."

Minho’s hands hung uselessly at his sides.

"I am choosing you," he said quietly. "Every night you knock on my door—"

"That’s not choosing," Seungmin snapped. "That’s… habit. That’s convenience. That’s you taking what I’m stupid enough to offer because it’s better than nothing and calling it ‘enough.’ "

"It’s not enough," Minho blurted.

Seungmin laughed again, softer this time, but no kinder.

"Then why haven’t you asked for more?" he asked. 

"Why is the first time you admit you ‘like me more than you should’ when I talk about watching a movie with someone else?"

Minho opened his mouth, found nothing.

Because I thought you’d say no. Because I thought I didn’t deserve it. Because I thought having you like this was better than not having you at all.

None of those sounded any less pathetic in his head than they would out loud.

"You don’t get to claim me now," Seungmin said, voice low. 

"You had every chance to say this before you turned me into a story. Before you decided for everyone that I was the guy who needed saving."

"I wasn’t trying to—"

"I know," Seungmin cut in. "I know you weren’t trying to hurt me. That’s the worst part. You keep hurting me on the way to what you think is helping."

He took another step back, hand finding the doorknob behind him.

Minho’s chest constricted.

"Where are you going?" he asked, hating the way the words came out small.

"Out of here," Seungmin said. "Before we say something we really can’t come back from."

"Are you going to his place?" The question slipped out before Minho could stop it.

Seungmin froze.

For a second, Minho thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then Seungmin looked at him, something fragile and furious flickering in his eyes.

"Not your business," he said.

The words landed like a door slamming even before the actual door did.

He opened it, hesitated just long enough to add, "For what it’s worth, I wasn’t planning on it. Not tonight."

Minho’s heart did something stupid and hopeful.

"But now?" Seungmin continued, mouth twisting. "I don’t know. Maybe I should spend at least one night with someone who doesn’t treat me like a problem to solve."

Minho flinched like he’d been struck.

Seungmin stepped into the hall.

"Seungmin," Minho said, desperation finally bleeding through, "I—I don’t know how to do this right. But I’m trying."

Seungmin paused, back still to him.

"Then stop deciding what ‘right’ looks like for me," he said softly. "For once."

He closed the door.

The click was almost gentle.

It felt like a crack down the center of Minho’s chest.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the wood, breathing too fast.

Minho sank down onto the bed again, elbows on his knees, hands pressed over his face.

He’d finally said more than he meant to.

And somehow, it still wasn’t enough.

He’d wanted to protect Seungmin from getting hurt again.

Instead, he’d walked him straight into a different kind of pain and called it care.

And now, for the first time, he had to face the possibility that the person Seungmin might need protecting from the most—

was him.

Days blur.

Not in the peaceful, cinematic way—more like a bad loop. 

Lecture, half‑cold coffee, frat house noise. Rinse, repeat.

The only real change is the negative space where Seungmin used to be.

At first, it’s easy for everyone to pretend they don’t notice.

“He’s probably at the library,” Changbin says on Monday, stuffing his face with cereal at 2 p.m. “Midterms grind.”

“Or hiding from Chan’s new ‘house bonding’ spreadsheet,” Jisung adds, waving his phone. “Honestly? King behaviour.”

But Tuesday comes and goes, and Seungmin’s door stays shut.

No sarcastic comments drift down the hallway. No half‑assed “turn it down” when Changbin’s speakers shake the walls. His mug doesn’t appear in the sink. His shoes are lined up neatly by his door like he pressed pause.

By Wednesday, even the group chat starts circling it.

[Felix]
 anyone actually seen seung today?

[Jisung]
 thought he was w u losers

[Jeongin]
 he dipped before econ. didn’t say hi. Weird.

[Chan]
 did anyone check on him?

[Hyunjin]
 he left me on read. rude.

Nobody says what they’re all thinking. 

The last time the whole house watched him that closely, it ended with Jungwoo gone and Seungmin’s name stitched into every half‑whisper on campus.

Minho tells himself it’s fine.

Seungmin said he was done being a lesson, done being watched. Of course he’d pull back. Anyone would.

So Minho lets himself believe, for about a day and a half, that this is just Seungmin taking space.

On Thursday, that illusion cracks.

It’s small things at first. 

Seungmin slips out of the kitchen the second Minho walks in. His laughter echoes down the hall—and then cuts off mid‑sound when he clocks Minho’s voice. 

The few times Minho catches a glimpse of him across campus, Seungmin pivots, headphones in, head down, cutting a clean path in the opposite direction.

He’s not just avoiding Minho.

He’s avoiding everyone that might lead back to Minho.

Friday night, the house goes through the familiar motions of another party. Lights down, speakers up, Chan shouting about volume levels and liability. People filter in, and the frat slides into its usual roles.

Except one.

“Has anyone invited Seungmin?” Chan asks finally, halfway through pouring a very questionable punch.

“He saw the event in the chat,” Jisung says. “He sent a thumbs‑up. That counts.”

“A thumbs‑up is what you send your landlord,” Felix mutters. “Not your friends.”

They all look at Minho like it’s his fault the emoji wasn’t heartfelt enough.

“He doesn’t owe us a party appearance,” Minho says, defensive even though no one has accused him of anything yet.

“Sure,” Hyunjin says lightly, twisting his cup between his fingers. “But he also hasn’t sat in the living room for longer than thirty seconds in, like, a week.”

“That’s not new,” Jisung points out. “He was born eighty years old and allergic to fun.”

Felix shakes his head. “No. This is different.”

He glances at Minho, gaze too sharp to be casual.

“You know it is.”

Minho looks away, jaw tight.

He doesn’t say, Yeah. Because he hasn’t even done his midnight circuit once.

By the time the party is at full volume, the absence has stopped being background noise and turned into a weight everyone’s trying not to acknowledge.

Jeongin keeps checking the doorway like Seungmin might randomly materialize with a bowl of chips and a withering comment. Chan drifts past Seungmin’s door twice on his way to refill the ice, slowing just enough to listen for movement and then pretending he didn’t.

Eventually, even pretending gets old.

Chan corners Minho in the kitchen, away from the worst of the noise. 

There’s glitter on his cheek and worry in the set of his shoulders.

“When was the last time you two actually talked?” he asks.

Minho takes his time answering, focusing very hard on lining up plastic cups.

“A few days ago,” he says. “He told me to stop ‘deciding what right looks like’ for him and left.”

Chan grimaces. “Yeah. I got that summary without the direct quote.”

He hesitates, then adds, “Look, I’ve tried knocking. He doesn’t open. Felix texted him; he gives one‑word answers when he bothers at all. Jisung got left on delivered. Jeongin says he practically sprinted the other way after class.”

Minho’s stomach sinks further with every data point. “So he doesn’t want to talk. That’s… an answer.”

“It’s not a good one,” Chan says. “And I’m not saying kick down his door. But someone has to get through to him that he doesn’t have to vanish just because the house is a mess.” He pauses. “And like it or not, that someone is probably you.”

Minho lets out a humorless laugh. “You’ve seen how well that usually goes.”

“I have,” Chan says. “Which is why I’m not asking you to stage Part Two of the Living Room Debacle. I’m asking you to knock on his door like a person and see if he’ll even open it for anyone.”

“He’s avoiding me,” Minho points out. “On purpose.”

“He’s avoiding all of us,” Felix says, appearing in the doorway with uncanny timing, a half‑finished drink in his hand. His eyes are serious, all the usual brightness dialed down. “You’re just the easiest excuse he has.”

Minho bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Felix shrugs one shoulder. “He doesn’t just not come to parties. He’s skipping movie nights. Study hangouts. Even the sacred ‘complain about Professor Lee’ sessions. He’s not hiding from our noise, Minho. He’s hiding from being seen.”

“And from being seen with you,” Hyunjin adds quietly from behind Felix, having apparently caught the tail end. His voice is softer than his words. “The whole campus still has your last big scene on replay. You know that, right?”

Minho already knows. He’s heard the whispers, too—about guard dogs and moral crusades and the guy who “blew up Jungwoo’s spot.”

But hearing it out loud now, with Seungmin missing from every room, hits differently.

“So what,” he says. “I go knock, he tells me to screw off, and we’ve successfully confirmed he’s still alive and hates me. Congratulations.”

“Or,” Felix says, “you go knock, and he doesn’t answer. And then we really know how bad it is.”

Chan folds his arms. “We can’t force him to talk to us. But we can at least make sure he knows he’s not going to be punished for existing in the same house as you.”

Minho stares at the counter.

The thought of walking down the hall and putting his knuckles to Seungmin’s door makes something in his chest curl in on itself. Every conversation lately has felt like trying to defuse a bomb with oven mitts on.

But the idea of doing nothing—of letting Seungmin rewrite the story in his head as I disappeared and no one came—sits even worse.

“Fine,” he says finally, voice low. “I’ll go.”

“Now?” Jisung yells from the living room as if he’s been eavesdropping the whole time. “Do it now. Dramatic hallway walk. Very cinematic.”

“Not helping,” Minho mutters, but the decision is already made.

Felix touches his arm briefly as he passes. “Hey,” he says. “You’re not going there as the guy who yelled at Jungwoo. You’re going there as the guy who knows how he takes his tea and which songs he skips on playlists. Don’t forget that.”

Hyunjin adds, softer, “And maybe… don’t tell him what you think is best for him this time. Just ask what he wants.”

Minho doesn’t promise anything.

He just steps out of the kitchen, leaving the thump of the music behind as he heads down the quieter hallway toward Seungmin’s door.

Each step feels too loud.

He passes the bathroom, the supply closet, the dent in the wall from that one ill‑fated Changbin pull‑up attempt. The closer he gets, the more he notices the details around Seungmin’s door:

The absence of the usual stack of library books against the frame. The faint line of light at the bottom, proof he’s awake and actively choosing not to be part of the noise.

Minho stops.

His fist hovers in the air for a second.

Then he knocks.

Three short raps. No drama. No speech prepared.

“Seungmin,” he says, pitching his voice low, hoping it carries through wood but not down the whole hall. “It’s me.”

Silence.

Behind him, the party goes on—bass, laughter, someone yelling about the aux. The house keeps breathing around the gap.

Minho closes his eyes for a beat, then leans closer to the door.

“I’m not here to fight,” he adds, quieter. “I just… want to know you’re okay.”

There’s a soft, almost imperceptible sound from the other side. Floorboard. Shift of weight. The tiniest scrape of movement.

He’s there.

He’s choosing not to answer.

The choice hangs between them, heavier than any slammed door.

Minho’s throat works.

“Look,” he says, forcing the words out. “If you don’t want to see me, fine. I get it. But Felix is hovering in the kitchen like his soul left his body and Chan keeps doing drive‑bys past your door. You don’t have to talk to us. Just… come steal a drink or yell at Jisung’s playlist so everyone knows you’re not—” he stops himself before he says gone. 

“So everyone knows you still exist.”

For a moment, there’s nothing.

Then, finally, the sound of a lock turning.

The knob twists.

The door opens a crack.

And Minho is face‑to‑face with the person he’s been orbiting from a distance all week—Seungmin, eyes shadowed, expression flat in that very specific way that means there’s too much underneath.

He’s not missing.

He’s hiding.

He looks at Minho like he was expecting someone else. Or no one at all.

“What do you want?” he asks.

His voice isn’t sharp so much as… worn. Like he’s already tired of the conversation they haven’t had yet.

Minho swallows.

“Just to talk,” he says, short and steady.

Seungmin’s gaze flicks down the hallway—checking for an audience—and then back to Minho.

“You’re not great at quiet,” he says.

“Can I… come in?” Minho answers. 

There’s a beat where Seungmin could still slam the door. He doesn’t. He exhales, like he’s already regretting it, and steps back.

“Five minutes,” he says. “Before I remember you’re bad for my blood pressure.”

Minho slips inside. The door closes with a soft click, dimming the distant thud of the party to a muffled pulse.

The room is small, the air warm. 

Bed made too neatly, desk cluttered with open notes, one hoodie draped over the back of the broken chair. It smells like detergent and the ghost of instant ramen.

Seungmin sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. He doesn’t offer Minho a seat, but he doesn’t tell him to stay standing, either.

Minho lowers himself to the floor with his back against the opposite wall, putting space between them that still feels too narrow.

“So,” Seungmin says. “Talk.”

Minho stares at a scuff on the carpet between them.

“About that night,” he says finally.

Seungmin’s fingers tighten where they’re laced together.

“The Hyunjin one or the Jungwoo one?” he asks. “You’ve got a growing collection.”

“The last one,” Minho says. “My room. Where I—” He stops, grimaces.

“Where I said too much and not enough at the same time.”

Something flickers in Seungmin’s eyes. 

Wariness. Curiosity. Hurt that hasn’t decided what to do with itself yet.

“I remember,” he says. “Shockingly.”

Minho gives a small, humourless huff.

“I told you I was jealous,” he says. “And that I… liked you. More than I was supposed to. And then I made everything worse.”

“Congrats,” Seungmin says flatly. “You’ve recapped the trauma.”

“I didn’t come here to do a recap,” Minho says quietly. “I came because you’ve been avoiding everyone and I can’t tell if you’re doing that because of them, or because of me, or because of… that.” He gestures vaguely between them.

Seungmin looks away, staring at the wall over Minho’s shoulder.

“Little of column A, little of column B,” he says. “Column C is ‘I don’t have the energy to be perceived right now.’”

“And column D?” Minho asks, before he can stop himself.

Seungmin’s mouth twists.

“Column D is you standing in my doorway saying you’re jealous like that helps,” he says. “And then acting like it’s my fault I didn’t rearrange my whole brain on the spot to accommodate the revelation.”

Minho flinches.

“I didn’t expect you to rearrange anything,” he says. 

“I just—” He breaks off, searching for words that don’t sound like excuses. “I panicked watching you line yourself up for someone else again. I thought telling the truth would… I don’t know. Clear something.”

“It didn’t,” Seungmin says. “It made it messier.”

“I know,” Minho says. “That’s why I’m here. Not to defend what I said. To actually… own it.”

He forces himself to meet Seungmin’s eyes.

“When I said I was jealous,” he says, “I didn’t mean ‘I have a mild preference you keep your schedule open for me.’ I meant I hated seeing you look at someone the way I’ve spent months pretending I don’t want you to look at me. I meant I’ve been treating ‘convenient’ like a safety net because I was terrified if I called it anything else, you’d cut the rope.”

Seungmin’s expression doesn’t soften. But it does sharpen, like he’s listening for once instead of just waiting to block the next hit.

“You could’ve said that then,” he says.

“I was busy being an idiot,” Minho says. “And a coward. And a hypocrite. Take your pick.”

Seungmin’s jaw works.

“The thing is,” he says slowly, “you didn’t just say you were jealous. You tried to tell me who I’m allowed to get close to. Again. You turned your feelings into rules for me.”

“I know,” Minho says. “That’s the part I keep replaying and wanting to rip out of my own mouth.”

“Why?” Seungmin challenges. “Because it made you look bad? Or because it hurt me?”

“Both,” Minho says, without hesitation. “I’m not going to pretend I like seeing myself as the guy who makes you shrink. But I hate even more that I keep doing it.”

Seungmin looks at him for a long moment, weighing that.

“You said you were scared of losing me,” he says quietly. 

“Do you actually get what that sounds like from where I’m sitting?”

Minho swallows.

“Like I was trying to chain you to me,” he says. “Instead of asking you to stay.”

“Yeah,” Seungmin says. 

“Exactly like that.”

He leans back on his hands, eyes on the ceiling.

“You jump in front of whatever you think is going to hurt me. Jungwoo. Gossip. Hyunjin. And now your own jealousy. You put yourself in the way and then you decide that’s ‘love’ or ‘care’ or whatever you want to call it.”

He drops his gaze back to Minho, tired and direct.

“But no one asked you to do that,” he finishes. “Not like this. Not where the cost is me feeling like I can’t breathe around you.”

The words land like a punch and a confession at once.

“I know no one asked,” Minho says, voice low. 

“That’s the part I’m finally starting to hear. I kept telling myself I was doing the right thing. But the ‘right thing’ in my head didn’t have space for what you actually wanted.”

“You sure you’re hearing it?” Seungmin asks. “Because five days ago you were still telling me who I should and shouldn’t watch movies with.”

“I’m trying to hear it,” Minho corrects. “That’s… all I can honestly claim right now. That I’m trying, and that I know trying doesn’t undo the damage.”

Silence stretches. The bass from downstairs buzzes faintly through the floor.

Seungmin looks down at his hands again.

“You said you like me,” he says. The words are careful, like he’s testing the weight of each one. “More than this ‘stupid convenient thing’ lets you.”

“I did,” Minho says.

“Do you still?”

Minho blinks.

“Do I—?”

“Still,” Seungmin repeats, a little sharper. “Or was that just something you made up for the moment?”

There’s a brief, almost absurd flash in Minho’s brain of how easy it would be to say no. To backpedal. To claim it was all heat of the moment.

The thought makes him nauseous.

“Yes,” he says. “I still do. That hasn’t changed.”

He lets out a shaky breath.

“It’s the one thing in this whole mess that’s actually been consistent,” he adds. “I liked you when you were with Jungwoo. I liked you when you were pretending you weren’t hurt. I liked you when you showed up at my door and called it whatever you didn’t wanna say. I liked you when you told me I was hurting you.”

“Great,” Seungmin says. “So you like me and your way of showing it is detonating my social life and then getting jealous when I talk to someone kinder.”

“That’s what I’m trying to change,” Minho says, the frustration finally bleeding through. Not at Seungmin—at himself. “I don’t want to be the person you have to recover from to get to the happy ending in your tags.”

That gets the faintest flicker of a reaction out of Seungmin. His mouth twitches, almost against his will.

“You read my tags?” he asks.

Minho flushes. “Felix forwarded the doc. Accidentally. On purpose.”

Seungmin huffs out a breath that might be the ghost of a laugh.

“Of course he did,” he mutters.

Another beat passes.

“So what now?” he asks. “You’ve confessed. Twice. You’ve apologized. Twice. I’ve told you I feel controlled and humiliated. Once in public, once in private. Where does this go that isn’t just… another loop?”

“I don’t know,” Minho admits. “I know what I want. I don’t know if that’s something you can—or should—give me right now.”

“What do you want?” Seungmin pushes.

Minho’s heart kicks hard against his ribs.

“I want to stop pretending this is nothing,” he says. 

“I want to stop calling you ‘convenient’ like that’s not the most insulting thing I’ve ever agreed to. I want to… actually be allowed to care about you without it turning into a spectacle or a guide.”

He swallows.

“And if—if there’s a version of this where you ever want to try being something that isn’t just ‘friends with benefits who never, ever talk about it’…” He trails off, shakes his head. 

“I’d say yes. I’d want that. But I’m not asking you for it. Not tonight. Not after everything.”

Seungmin’s expression shutters, then cracks, then settles somewhere complicated.

“You’re not asking,” he says slowly. “But you kind of are.”

“I’m not asking you to decide now,” Minho says. “I’m asking you not to run away from the question forever.”

A muscle jumps in Seungmin’s jaw.

“You know the stupid part?” he says quietly. “The part you probably don’t deserve to hear?”

“What?”

“I didn’t go to Hyunjin that night,” Seungmin says. “After we fought. I walked around campus for two hours and then went back to my room and stared at the ceiling instead.”

Minho’s breath stutters.

“Why?” he asks. It comes out almost a whisper.

“Because I didn’t want to be with someone who didn’t know the whole story,” Seungmin says. 

“Who thought I was just some guy he watched a movie with. I didn’t want to start anything with someone whose image of me didn’t include all the stupid, messy parts you’ve seen.”

He looks at Minho, eyes suddenly very clear.

“And that pisses me off,” he adds, “because it means you already have a head start you didn’t earn.”

Minho doesn’t know what to do with that, so he does the only honest thing left.

“I don’t know how to love people quietly,” he says. “I’m trying to learn. For you. Not just because I want you to say yes. Because I don’t want to keep hurting you in the name of helping.”

Seungmin exhales, long and uneven.

“I don’t know how to trust that,” he says. “Not yet.”

“That’s fair,” Minho says.

They sit in that for a while. 

“Here’s what I can do,” Minho says eventually. “I can give you space without disappearing. I can stop making decisions on your behalf. I can stop using ‘I care about you’ as an excuse to set things on fire.”

He smiles, small and self-conscious.

“And I can… keep liking you,” he adds. “Out loud. Even if you can’t do anything with that yet. Even if the answer is just, ‘okay, noted, please stand over there.’ ”

Seungmin lets out a surprised, strangled little sound that might be a laugh.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says.

“I know,” Minho says.

They lapse into quieter silence. The air between them still hums with everything unresolved, but it’s less suffocating now. More… known.

After a minute, Seungmin nudges Minho’s socked foot lightly with his own.

“For the record,” he murmurs, not quite looking at him, “I wasn’t avoiding everyone because I wanted you gone.”

Minho’s chest tightens.

“Why, then?”

“Because every time I see you, I remember that I let you call what we had ‘convenient,’ ” Seungmin says. “And I hate that as much as I hate what you did in that living room.”

He meets Minho’s eyes.

“If we ever try this,” he says, “it can’t be because we’re both too messed up to walk away from bad habits. It has to be because we actually choose it. Choose each other. Not just because I choose you at midnight  when everything hurts.”

Minho felt something in his chest loosen at that — not forgiveness, not yet, but the outline of it. 

For the first time, the idea of touching Seungmin didn’t feel like slapping a bandage over a wound he’d opened; it felt like maybe, if he was careful, his hands could help it knit.

“I can live with that condition,” he says. “I’m terrible at waiting. But I can live with it.”

Seungmin huffs, the edge of a real smile finally breaking through.

“Then… maybe stop hiding in the kitchen and glaring at walls,” he says. “Start with that.”

“Only if you stop hiding in here and pretending you evolved past having friends,” Minho shoots back, a little easier now.

“We’ll see,” Seungmin says.

He doesn’t ask Minho to leave or invite him onto the bed. 

They just sit there, the quiet stretching out, softer now but still dense with all the things they haven’t decided.

After a moment, Seungmin’s fingers twitch against the mattress. 

He glances down at Minho on the floor, then slides off the bed with a muted sigh. 

The mattress springs creak; the frame gives a tiny complaint. He sinks down beside Minho, back hitting the same wall, knees drawing up.

There’s a careful handspan of space between them.

“Don’t make a thing out of it,” he mutters.

“I haven’t said anything,” Minho points out.

“Your breathing is smug,” Seungmin says.

Minho huffs out a laugh before he can choke it back. The sound loosens something in the air.

For a while, they just sit there, shoulders almost-but-not-quite aligned, staring at the opposite wall. 

The bass from downstairs is more pulse than song now, a distant heartbeat they’ve both stepped away from.

“Minho,” Seungmin says quietly.

“Yeah?”

Seungmin’s gaze drops to his own hands, thumbs worrying the frayed cuff of his sleeve.

“You said you’d… keep liking me,” he says, voice thin around the edges. “Even if this is all I can give you right now.”

“I did,” Minho says. “I do.”

“Okay,” Seungmin murmurs. He takes one slow breath, then another, like he’s counting himself in. “Then… don’t freak out about this.”

“About wha—”

Seungmin moves before he can finish.

His hand snags in the front of Minho’s hoodie again, knuckles brushing the hollow of his throat as he drags him in. 

It’s not smooth; he misjudges the distance a little, their noses bump, their teeth click.

Then his mouth finds Minho’s, and the clumsiness dissolves into something else entirely.

Minho stiffens for a single heartbeat—surprise, reflex—then everything in him leans. 

His hand comes up, fingers splaying at the hinge of Seungmin’s jaw, thumb slotting instinctively into the warm curve just beneath his ear.

Seungmin makes a small, involuntary sound at the contact. 

It ghosts between them, half-breath, half-whine, and Minho swallows it without meaning to, angling his head just enough that their mouths fit better.

The kiss isn’t hard this time. It’s not about anger, or proof, or drowning something out. 

It’s slow and a little shaky, like they’re both learning how to do this without an excuse.

Minho lets his other hand drop, fingers brushing Seungmin’s thigh where their knees are bent side by side. The fabric of Seungmin’s sweats is soft and worn under his palm. He curls his hand there, testing, thumb stroking a small, absentminded arc against the inside seam.

Seungmin shivers.

He leans in more, closing the last scrap of space, his chest pressing along Minho’s arm. 

His own free hand flattens tentatively against Minho’s ribs. He hesitates, then slides it upward, palm tracing the curve of Minho’s chest through the cotton, feeling the way it rises and falls too fast.

Minho’s fingers at his jaw flex, tilting Seungmin’s face that extra fraction so he can deepen the kiss. 

His thumb moves, slow and deliberate, brushing along the edge of Seungmin’s lower lip when he pulls back a breath, catching the slight dampness there.

Seungmin’s eyes flutter open, dazed and dark.

“This doesn’t mean I’ve decided anything,” he says, breath fanning warm over Minho’s mouth.

“I know,” Minho answers, just as quiet. “You don’t have to.”

“Good,” Seungmin says, though the word catches a little. His fingers bunch in Minho’s hoodie again. “Because I’m… I’m not promising anything.”

“You’re here,” Minho says. His thumb traces another slow line along Seungmin’s jaw, feeling the faint roughness of the skin there. “That’s already more than I expected.”

Seungmin swallows. His gaze drops, lands on Minho’s mouth, then darts away.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters.

“Again, I know,” Minho says.

He means to leave it there—to sit in this thin, fragile peace and not push—but Seungmin leans in first this time, quicker, surer.

The second kiss lands surer, mouths finding each other like they’d been aiming for this for a long time. 

Seungmin shifts closer on the floor, thigh pressing fully against Minho’s. The contact is solid, warm, and undeniable.

Minho’s hand leaves his jaw, slides back, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of Seungmin’s neck. 

It’s softer than it looks, a little damp from a too-quick shower, and Seungmin exhales sharply when Minho’s fingertips graze the bare skin just under his hairline.

He opens his mouth on a small, startled inhale, and Minho takes the invitation without thinking—tongue brushing lightly against his, a careful, questioning sweep. 

Seungmin answers with a shaky sort of eagerness, his grip on Minho’s hoodie tightening until the fabric stretches between his knuckles.

Their shoulders bump the wall behind them. 

The angle is a little awkward; Minho adjusts without breaking the kiss, shifting his weight so Seungmin can lean more fully into his side.

Seungmin takes the offered support immediately, pressing in until he can feel the steady line of Minho’s body along his own.

His hand leaves Minho’s chest to skate down his side instead, dragging over the curve of his waist, the dip of his hipbone, then settling low, fingers hooking in the waistband of his joggers like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to go lower.

Minho’s breath stutters.

“Okay?” he manages, voice rough against Seungmin’s mouth.

Seungmin doesn’t answer with words. He noses along Minho’s cheek instead, breath hot against his skin, and presses his lips to the sharp line of his jaw. 

It’s barely more than a brush, but it sends a bright, shivery line of awareness down Minho’s spine.

“Yeah,” Seungmin murmurs there, into his skin. “I’m… yeah.”

Minho’s hand in his hair tightens fractionally, thumb stroking the shell of his ear. 

His other hand abandons Seungmin’s thigh and finds the narrow span of his waist instead, thumb slipping under the hem of his hoodie. 

His fingertips meet bare skin again—warm, tense, a faint tremor running through the muscle there.

Seungmin’s breath catches.

He tilts his head back up, chasing Minho’s mouth. 

This kiss is messier—more wanting than cautious now, more pressure than finesse. 

He shifts again, turning his body until he’s half-facing Minho, half-climbing into his space on instinct.

Minho lets himself lean too.

His back slides a little down the wall; he spreads his knees to make room without thinking about it.

Seungmin fits against him in the new angle, one knee braced between Minho’s legs, one thigh pressed along the outside of his. Their chests are flush now, heartbeats knocking into each other in a shared, uneven rhythm.

Seungmin’s hand finds Minho’s shoulder, then his collarbone, then the bare strip of skin at the base of his throat where his hoodie has slipped open. 

His fingertips splay there, feeling the wild thrum underneath.

“Still just… ‘convenient’?” Minho asks, the words barely making it out between kisses, half-teasing, half-broken.

Seungmin pulls back just far enough to look at him.

His lips are a little swollen, his cheeks pink, his hair pushed back by Minho’s fingers. 

There’s a smear of something like disbelief and something like awe written across his face, softening all the sharpness.

“Don’t make me say it yet,” he whispers. “Please.”

Minho’s hand at his waist steadies, palm broad and steady over the quick rise and fall of his breathing.

“I won’t,” he says. “You don’t have to call it anything.”

Seungmin exhales, relief and fear tangled together.

“But you know,” Minho adds, quieter, the words meant for this room and no one else. “Right?”

Seungmin’s fingers curl against his throat.

He doesn’t say yes.

He doesn’t say no.

He just leans in again. 

But before Minho could accept it, he placed a finger between their lips; a shush motion, which gets a whine from Seungmin when he stops the invitation.

“Can I try something?” Minho asks, his eyes are shaking with anticipation.

“I mean, sure,” Seungmin gulps, but the next second he’s being lifted (again, effortlessly) by Minho. 

Minho gives him a flash of his smirk. “Didn’t wanna do it on the floor.”

Seungmin huffs, but he lets himself be carried, as he’s plopped down on his bed.

This time, Minho’s the one on top, staring with intensity. They dance around with their eyes for a bit, and Minho’s hand flies up to Seungmin’s shorts, padding at something thick.

Seungmin winces. “H-Hey—”

“I’ve been obsessed with this since I saw it,” Minho rubs it, the same way Seungmin vividly did on their first time. 

“I know you like to act big and all, but I’m glad it makes up for the fact that you actually are.” Minho’s unstoppable with his teasing and jokes at this point, so Seungmin brushes it off when he feels the cold air of hit him.

His own dick. Already at full mast, and Minho licks his lips.

Seungmin moans when Minho licks the tip; observant, experimental, and a little giddy and being a little shithead when he finally has Seungmin at his own pace. He can take his own time glorifying this part of Seungmin.

“M-Min, you don’t have to.” Seungmin urges, as Minho continues licking, like a lollipop. He hasn’t even put it in his mouth yet. 

“I can’t even get a turn with this?” Minho smirks, tugging it slowly and torturously. 

“Tell me,” Minho grips his dick and wriggles it around, slapping it on his other palm, “did you ever use this?” 

Seungmin groans, gritting his teeth,  trying to keep himself composed enough to focus on Minho’s relentless assault.

“N-No.”

Minho gasps, dramatically. 

“So I get to be the first?”

Seungmin sits himself up at the implication.

“W-Wait—” He’s cut off when Minho finally lunges down, the hot cavern of his mouth engulfing his dick whole. In comparison, for what Minho had in girth and stretching, Seungmin had in length. 

He may not have had Seungmin’s flexible cheeks, or that he hadn’t had a gag reflex, but Minho still tries. 

He chokes at first, a small cough, but he keeps going. Seungmin has to wriggle his dainty legs from thrashing about, as Minho begins to slobber all over his cock like it deserves to be consumed. 

Minho particularly likes teasing the tip, as he kisses it, and inserts his tongue in the little slit, which causes Seungmin to jolt, unconsciously thrusting his hips out of desperation.

“M-Min! W-Wait! That’s too much!” Seungmin bites his lips, moans incoherently, and he’s practically babbling nonsense as Minho continues sucking like a vacuum.

“I have to,” Minho breaks off, before spitting at his saliva-shining cock. 

“How else are you gonna slide inside me easily?”

There’s no lighting in the room and yet it still manages to glisten and shine. It’s amazing what Kim Seungmin’s cock is capable of. It’ll be more amazing what Seungmin’s cock would feel inside Minho’s stomach.

Seungmin flushes, embarrassed. He can’t believe this is even happening right now.

All his life, he’s always accepted that he’s fine with receiving. So to find Minho, who’s appreciative as much as he was with his own dick, ready to give, it gives him a brain haywire. 

“Hey, Seung,” Minho calls out, “where do you keep the lube?”

Seungmin finally phases back to reality, cocking his head to the bedside table, a little weakened from the stimulation.

As Minho reaches out for it, he notices… a thing.

Actually. His thing.

“Kim Seungmin,” Minho’s voice gravels, and then comes a huff of a laugh.

Seungmin looks up, dazed, still mussed.

Minho takes out a piece of garment. “Is this my fucking underwear?”

Oh.

Seungmin gulps. “W-Weird, how’d that get in there—”

Minho fucking sniffed it.

Seungmin feels colour drain in his face.

Minho looks at Seungmin, then looks back. He’s giving himself whiplash at this point.

“I-It’s not what you—” 

“Forget it.” Minho tosses the underwear somewhere.

“If anything, that got me more horny.” Minho grabs the bottle of lube, inspecting that it’s somehow half-empty from the weight of it. Seungmin is already praying inside his mind that this moment is what he’ll be more known for in their relationship—

Relationship?

Seungmin’s eyes focus to Minho.

Minho uncaps the bottle with a focused expression, not bothering to meet Seungmin’s gaze.

And Seungmin just chuckles to himself, which catches Minho off guard.

“What?” Minho asks when he finally got the lid off.

“Nothing… just,” Seungmin leans in close to give Minho another passionate kiss, lips smothering and full of that warmth.

I already labelled it.

Minho doesn’t back off, kissing with as much intensity and warmth. His eyebrows wriggle at the sudden change of moment, but it doesn’t matter. As long as this is what Seungmin wanted, then he’ll give back more.

“You know what, changed my mind. I wanna fuck you again.” Minho declares when they break off the kiss.

And Seungmin just giggles at that.

“Whatever you want, hyung.” 

Minho smirks as they fall back onto the bed, heartbeats in sync, their hands all over one another, and their heads finally on the same line. Even if they still struggle to find a meaning to all of this, they’ll find something beneficial.

Something not out of convenience.

But something more… 

“Wait, you haven’t even cummed yet—”

“Just shut up and get inside me, hyung.”