Archive of Our Own

The peach trees have ripened perfectly this year, blushing hard under the late-spring sun as if flattered by the attention they are receiving. Their branches heavy with the weight of the fruit, soft and fragrant, holding a sweetness that clings to the air.

Jisung stands between the rows with a woven basket hooked over one arm, his other hand shading his eyes as he appraises which peaches are the perfect ones for an offering. His mother had said to him, "A proper introduction requires good fruit, not the ones that bruise if you so much as breathe on them," and so Jisung is taking his time. His valuable time. 

He's not sure why he is so nervous. New neighbours aren't unusual in their valley, though they rarely stay for long—the harsh winters aren't suited to city folk. Their farm is old, older than Jisung's grandparents, and their grandparents before them, older still than the stone walls crawling with vines or the crooked barn that leans as though it'll topple over any minute.

People come and go. The land remains.

Still… there is something about his new neighbour that has set the household whispering.

A man, alone, renting the old cottage. No family in sight. No partner. No pets. No visitors. He'd arrived at dawn a few days ago while Jisung and his father were in the field, in a small hired wagon. He had been dressed in simple clothes and wore a distant gaze. Jisung's father had waved from between the crops, and the man had nodded once, politely, then slipped inside the cottage and shut the door.

It wasn't rude, not really. More like… hesitance. A person unused to being seen.

Jisung understands that feeling more than he wishes to admit out loud.

He plucks the last peach and places it carefully atop the others. "All right," he mutters to himself. "If he doesn't like peaches, I'll just pretend they're for the goats."

The goats, for their part, are grazing a few yards away, clearly uninterested in his social anxieties. Gary, the eldest, bleats at him with the lofty authority of the village judge announcing a verdict. Though the judge has bushier brows.

"Yes, I know. Mother is going to ask how it went, so I can't come home until I've at least knocked."

Gary bleats again, and this time it sounds suspiciously like encouragement. Jisung rolls his eyes to the sky. "Even you are mocking me."

Regardless, he straightens the basket, brushes off his shirt, and sets off down the dirt path leading to the cottage. The lane is quiet, the midday breeze warm at his back. Grass whispers around him, the constant music of nature. Bees drift lazily between wildflowers along the path, and somewhere far off, he can hear children shrieking with laughter.

And there, tucked between two ancient oaks, sits the cottage.

Up close, it's smaller than it was when he visited as a child. It's a dark cottage made of stone and timber, its roof a patchwork of moss and weathered shingles. Smoke curls from the chimney in a thin line, and the shutters are open, but inside, it looks dim.

He reaches the little gate, the paint long peeled away, revealing greying and old wood. He hesitates for a moment, adjusting the basket in his hands, taking a few deep breaths.

"It's just peaches, Jisung," he murmurs to himself. Absolutely the kind of thing his mother would tease him about later.

The garden is neat but sparse, maintained by the old man who lives down the road whenever it is unoccupied. Jisung notices the herbs and flowers around the area: rosemary, thyme, and lavender. The chrysanthemums that usually take over the garden have yet to show their bright petals, normally arriving with the late summer sun; Jisung always liked to come pick a few whenever he walked past, as long as the place wasn't lived in, of course.

Once at the wooden door, he raises his hand and knocks. After a few moments, the door creaks open, and there he is, the mysterious man.

Jisung had not been prepared for this. Not that he'd expected anything in particular, well, perhaps an elderly wanderer, or a gruff woodsman. But instead, the man at the threshold looks young, his face shaped by quiet solitude, his almond-shaped eyes seeming unused to meeting anyone else's. The man looked almost shocked when he took the sight of Jisung in.

His hair is dark, to his shoulders and loose around his face. He has high cheekbones, an almost perfect, sharp nose, and a soft mouth; his lips are the shape and colour of spring petals, the upper lip towering over the other; the reverse of his own, he muses to himself. He's kind of gorgeous.

He blinks rapidly at Jisung.

Jisung blinks back.

"Hello," Jisung says, his voice embarrassingly breathless. "I—um… I'm from the farm across the lane. My family wanted me to welcome you to the neighbourhood. With, uh… these."

He awkwardly lifts the basket. The man regards it as though it were a sacred offering he wasn't sure he deserved. Slowly, he opens the door even wider.

"Peaches," he says. His voice is soft and unexpectedly gentle. "You brought me peaches."

"Um. Yes?" Jisung winces inside. Why did he say it like a question?

"Beautiful," the man whispers, eyes locked on Jisung, but then they flick back down to the peaches. "The peaches; they're beautiful."

For a moment, Jisung forgets how to breathe. He had looked at him when he said that, right?

Then the man seems to realise he is blocking the doorway and steps back with a shy stiffness that reminds Jisung of himself. "Sorry. Would you like to come in?"

Jisung's stomach flip-flops, which is absurd, because this is a simple neighbourly greeting, not an invitation into an enchanted castle where a prince would sweep him off his feet and seal their fate into eternity.

Ah, his mind was running away with itself again.

He nods. "If you don't mind."

The cottage interior is warm with the earthy smell of herbal smoke. Not cosy, exactly, not yet. It's a space preparing for a new existence, holding its breath and waiting for the right moment to exhale. Jisung's gaze drifts to the single mug resting by the hearth, and the single wooden chair pulled close with a neatly folded blanket atop it. Quiet loneliness hangs in the air here.

Jisung shifts his weight, suddenly aware of himself awkwardly standing in the centre of the room.

The man clears his throat.

"I—ah." He glances around, following Jisung's gaze; something resembling embarrassment flickers across his face. "Sorry. It's… not much, I know."

"Oh," Jisung says quickly, softening, because the apology is unnecessary. "No, it's fine. Really. It just looks like you're still settling in."

"Yes," the man says, relief softening his shoulders. "That's one word for it." He hesitates, then straightens himself up. "I'm Minho, by the way. Lee Minho."

"Jisung," he replies, smiling more easily now that they've exchanged something personal. "Han Jisung."

Minho repeats it under his breath, as though testing the shape of it around his lips. "Jisung…"

Something warms in Jisung's chest at the sound, at how Minho looks at the ceiling as he repeats it, as if it's important that he say it over and over until it sticks in his memory.

Adorable.

Before Jisung can dwell on that thought, he sees Minho gesturing at the room. "I was going to head into the village eventually. For… everything. Yeah, I need everything." He huffs a small, self-conscious laugh. "I didn't realise how empty it would feel until I slept here the first night."

Jisung's heart gives a soft, sympathetic tug. "The village isn't much. Not like the big cities," he says honestly. "We'll have what you need, though. There's a carpenter who owes my mother a favour, and a woman near the square who sells second-hand things for cheap or for labour. Chairs, tables, everything you need, really."

Minho's brows lift slightly. "Oh, really?"

"Mhm. And if you don't like anything, my mother will insist you take something spare of ours anyway." Jisung grins. "She's very generous, aggressively so."

That draws a real smile from Minho this time, his lips pressing into an adorable straight line. It might not look like much, but Jisung can tell it's honest.

"I see," he says. "Then I suppose I should be grateful I met you first."

Jisung ducks his head, warmth blooming in his cheeks. "Well… if you'd like, I can walk you into the village now. It's not far, and market day isn't until tomorrow, so things are quieter today before the chaos."

Minho looks startled by the offer, as though he hadn't expected kindness to continue beyond the peaches and kind words. He hesitates.

"I wouldn't want to trouble you," he says automatically.

"It's not trouble," Jisung replies, gentle but firm, because he really doesn't mind. "I was heading that way later anyway."

That isn't strictly the truth, but Minho doesn't need to know that.

Minho studies him for a moment, searching his face with an intensity that makes Jisung feel far too perceived, and he must find whatever he's looking for, because Minho nods.

"All right. If you're sure."

"I am."

Minho sets the basket of peaches carefully on the small table near the hearth, as though it's something precious. Then he reaches for a coat hanging by the door—it's simple and well-worn, mended at the elbow with a gorgeous stitched floral pattern. Jisung notices the care taken in it and realises that Minho is someone who fixes rather than replaces.

As they step out together, the afternoon light feels brighter than it was when he entered the cottage, somehow. Jisung lets the gate swing shut behind them and falls into step beside Minho.

"So," he says, to fill the quiet, even though it was never an awkward one. "What brought you out here? To the valley, I mean."

Minho's gaze drifts to the hills beyond the farm, rolling and green beneath the endless, open sky. He looks almost confused when he answers. "I needed somewhere… quiet," he says after a moment. "Somewhere I could stay without being noticed."

Jisung hums in understanding. "Then you picked the right place. The people here are pretty good at minding their own business. Well, mostly."

"I hope so," Minho murmurs.

They walk for a while in companionable silence. Jisung points out various landmarks as they go: the old well, the crooked signpost that was supposed to be replaced and never was, the path that floods every single year without fail. Minho listens attentively, asking small, thoughtful questions. He doesn't interrupt, but Jisung knows he is genuinely interested in what he has to say.

When they reach the edge of the village where signs of life start to appear, Minho slows, as though bracing himself.

"It's okay," Jisung reassures him. "People might stare a bit since you're new, but they'll forget soon enough."

Minho's lips curve faintly at that, only replying with a curt nod.

They pass the bakery, the apothecary with its jars of dried herbs, the little stall where an elderly man sits in his chair carving wooden toys with a sharp knife; Jisung should buy something for Sooah, his niece.

Jisung greets people as they pass, waving and exchanging a few words. Minho keeps close behind him, quiet but observant, his feline eyes taking everything in, like he's memorising it.

When they get to the furniture shop, which is more of a cluttered storehouse, really, Jisung helps Minho choose a chair, then another, then a narrow table. Minho seems slightly overwhelmed by the options, by the weight of choosing objects meant to last.

"You don't have to decide on everything today," Jisung says softly. "Just start small."

Minho exhales, tension easing from his shoulders. "Thank you, Jisung. I appreciate your patience."

By the time they leave—with a borrowed horse and cart—the sun has dipped lower in the sky, and shadows stretched long across the road. Minho carries two bundles with other purchases, and Jisung takes one from him without asking.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," Jisung says lightly. "I'm used to working the farm with my father every morning. I can handle this, don't worry."

Minho's eyes widen, and a light flush paints his cheeks, but he just nods anyway and accepts Jisung's help. They walk back toward the cottage together, steps falling into an easy rhythm.

When they reach the gate, Minho pauses. "I was glad you came to greet me today, Jisung. With the peaches. And… everything else."

Jisung smiles, his heart doing something warm and fluttery in his chest. "Me too."

Minho hesitates, then adds, almost shyly. "Perhaps… you'd like to come by again sometime? I could make tea or bake something. You know, once I'm settled in."

Jisung laughs. "I'd like that."

As he heads back towards his home, he glances over his shoulder once. Minho is still standing by the gate, watching him go, the last of the sun catching in his dark hair.

For reasons Jisung can't quite name yet, this day feels like it's important.

By the time Jisung has made his way up the path to his house, the sun is spilling its last rays, the light turning to honey as it spills across the fields. The smell of dinner hits him before he even opens the door, onions softening in oil, apples stewing in cinnamon, and bread warming in the oven.

It's home.

His mother stands at the hearth, the sleeves of her dress rolled up to her elbows, a wooden spoon in hand, stirring the pot with the authority of a woman who has fed this household for decades and will not tolerate any interruption.

His father sits at the dining table, his back straight, methodically peeling more apples into one long, unbroken spiral. Across from him, Hajoon leans back in his chair, laughter rumbling out of him as his wife, Yura, bounces their daughter Sooah gently on her knee.

Sooah squeals, delighted by something only she understands, and Hajoon immediately abandons whatever he was joking about to make an exaggerated face at her. She shrieks louder, her tiny, little fists waving in the air.

"Don't encourage her," Yura says fondly, though she's smiling too.

Jisung pauses just inside the doorway, warmth spreading through him at the sight of it. He loves these evenings; it's nothing special or out of the ordinary, but it's his. His family. It happens often enough that he can't really call it special, with Hajoon and Yura stopping by for dinner with Sooah in tow. It usually means Jisung can slip in quietly, take a seat, and let the attention of his parents scatter elsewhere.

Usually.

Today, the moment he closes the door, his mother turns.

"You're late," she says, eyes sharp with interest. "Did you visit the new neighbour, then? Or did you get sidetracked walking in the forest for hours again?"

Jisung rolls his eyes, but he can't blame her for thinking that; it does happen often.

"I visited him."

"And?"

He opens his mouth, then closes it again as she advances towards him, her spoon still in hand like a weapon. Han Eunsook is relentless when she wants to be.

"Sit," she commands, pointing to the chair beside the table. "You can tell me everything while I finish."

Hajoon perks up immediately. "Oh? Is this about the new mysterious neighbour?"

Jisung shoots him a look. "He is not mysterious."

His father snorts softly without looking up from his important task. "That's exactly what a mysterious man would have you believe."

Yura laughs quietly, adjusting Sooah in her lap. "Did you take him the usual Han greeting? A basket of peaches?"

"I did," Jisung confirms, sitting down. He feels suddenly very aware of himself, of the way his heart is still beating a little too fast to be normal. "He appreciated them."

His mother arches an eyebrow. "Appreciated them how?"

Jisung exhales. There it is. "I don't know? In a normal, polite way."

"Mm," she hums. "Name?"

"Minho. Lee Minho."

His father finally looks up, his face scrunched up in a way Jisung can only describe as grumpy. "Sounds city."

"Sounds like a normal man with two hands and a roof over his head," Jisung mutters.

Hajoon grins. "And? What's he like? Is he old and crazy? Or is he young and naive to the life of a country dweller?"

Jisung hesitates, and that doesn't go unnoticed.

"Well," his mother says lightly, "now I know this is worth hearing."

"He's young, quiet," Jisung begins, choosing his words carefully. "Not unfriendly. Just reserved. The place is still pretty empty."

"Empty?" Yura echoes, sympathetic. "That big cottage must feel lonely even when it's full."

"He apologised for the lack of furniture," Jisung adds before he can stop himself, feeling weirdly eager to talk about the man.

"Ah, he's one of those," Hajoon says, letting out a low whistle.

"One of what?" Jisung asks, bristling.

"One of those people who think that taking up space in other people's lives is an inconvenience," Hajoon answers gently. "The worst kind of people."

"When did you become so philosophical?" Jisung asks, his face scrunching up. "Besides, he's just new here. He doesn't know anyone, so he's… shy? Besides, I offered to take him to the village and help him get a few things."

"And did you?" his mother asks.

"Yes."

She studies him, spoon resting against the rim of the pot. "You didn't overextend yourself again, did you, Jisung? she asks. "We don't want the same thing to happen that did with Haru. That boy took advantage of your kindness, and I never want to see so much sadness in your eyes again."

The room stills.

Even little Sooah seems to sense a change, her babbling softening as she presses her face into Yura's shoulder. Hajoon straightens in his chair, his earlier teasing evaporating as he looks between them.

Jisung swallows. It hurts.

"I know," he says quietly. "I remember."

Of course he does. Everyone remembers.

Haru had stayed one winter too long, had taken warmth and meals and gentle attention as things he was owed rather than gifts freely given, never saying thank you or showing gratitude. He'd leaned on Jisung's open heart until it bowed under the weight, and then, once Jisung had given him his purity, he'd left without so much as a letter. Jisung hadn't spoken much for weeks after that.

His mother had noticed. She always does.

"I promise, I didn't overextend," Jisung says, meeting her gaze steadily, despite feeling the need to run to his room and hide under the covers for the rest of the night. "I offered to walk him into the village and help him. That's all. I didn't promise what I couldn't give."

His father finally looks up, knife stilled in his hand. He studies Jisung's face the way he always does when something matters.

"And he didn't ask for more?" his father asks.

"No," Jisung answers honestly. "If anything, he seemed surprised I offered at all."

That seems to ease something.

His mother exhales slowly and turns back to the pot, stirring again. "You have a generous heart," she says, not accusing. "That's never been a fault. But it means that people sometimes forget to be careful with you."

"I know," Jisung repeats. "But Minho isn't like that."

Hajoon tilts his head. "You sound awfully sure for someone you met today."

Jisung hesitates, then shrugs. "I just… I can tell when someone is asking for more than they're given." Jisung sighs, closing his eyes. "Well, now I do. And he wasn't. He apologised for things he didn't need to, and looked quite uncomfortable accepting help."

Yura nods slowly. "That doesn't sound like the type of person looking to use someone."

"No," Jisung agrees. "I think he's not used to being helped."

His mother glances at them over her shoulder. "Those people can be just as dangerous, my boy," she says gently. "They don't know when to stop giving, either."

Jisung smiles faintly. "I'll be careful."

She studies him, and he can see the lines of worry on her face. But she lets it pass and nods. "Good."

His father resumes peeling apples and speaks up again. "Did he say why he came here?"

"He said he wanted to be somewhere quiet," Jisung replies. "Somewhere he could go without notice."

That earns a soft, humourless huff from his father. "This place notices everything. Just not in the ways a city man is used to."

Sooah chooses that moment to wriggle free of Yura's arms and toddle toward Jisung, her arms lifted high in silent demand. He lifts her onto his lap without thought, settling her comfortably against him. She immediately grabs his shirt.

"See?" Hajoon says. "I told you she's already claimed you."

Jisung looks down at his niece fondly, her bright eyes fascinated by something so mundane.

His mother sets the spoon aside at last and comes to sit across from him. "You should invite him over for dinner."

Jisung nearly chokes. "What?"

"He's alone," she says simply. "You already broke the ice, and it would be rude not to."

"It wouldn't be rude," Jisung protests weakly. "It would be… forward. I don't think he—"

"It would be kind," she counters.

"And entertaining," Hajoon adds with a grin.

Jisung glares at his brother. "You're not helping."

"I never do."

"Tomorrow or the day after," his mother says, unmovable in her decision. "Whenever feels right. Tell him we'd like to meet him properly if we are going to be neighbours."

Jisung opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. He knows that look. This decision has already been made.

"…All right," he says, resigned.

Her smile is soft but victorious. She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand briefly. "Good."

Dinner goes on as it usually does after that. Bowls are passed around, bread torn and shared. Hajoon tells a story, and Sooah clearly doesn't understand but laughs at it anyway. Yura bakes the apple pie, so her mother-in-law can rest her feet. The house hims with warmth.

And yet beneath all of it, Jisung feels uneasy.

Later, lying in bed with the window cracked open to the cool night air, Jisung wonders if Minho has eaten well. If his new home feels less empty now. If he's sitting alone, wishing he weren't.

Tomorrow, Jisung decides, he'll invite him over.

Jisung dreams of heat first.

Not the honest heat of sunlight or a comforting hearth, but the close, breathless heat of another body pressed fully against his. Green linen sheets tangled around their legs. The faint scent of sweat, soap and skin, all familiar enough to make his chest loosen and his tummy swirl.

He's on his back, his fingers curled into fabric that slips beneath his hands. Haru is above him, braced on his arms, their foreheads touching. The air between them feels charged, heavy with shared breath.

Haru's mouth brushes his, a kiss meant to be savoured. Jisung sighs into it, his hips lifting instinctively against his lover, his body already knowing the rhythm they've learned together. Haru smiles against his lips; he always loved how eager he is.

"Easy, sweet thing," he murmurs. "I've got you."

Jisung believes him. He always believed him.

Haru kisses along his jaw, his throat, murmuring nonsense words that feel like praise even though he doesn't understand some of them. His hands are warm, certain, mapping Jisung as if this body belongs to him, and at some point, Jisung would have said it does.

"I love you so much, Jisung," Haru whispers, breath hot against his ear. "I'll never leave you."

Jisung's fingers tighten, his breath coming out soft and desperate. "You promise?"

Haru laughs quietly, a sound that vibrates through their connected chests. "I promise. I could never walk away from you. Never."

The bed shifts beneath them, rocking gently, the world narrowing to skin and breath and the steady press of Haru's weight. Jisung arches, caught in the moment, in the feeling of being wanted, chosen, of being held like something precious.

But then it changes. Something is wrong.

The warmth cools. The kisses linger too long in one place, growing possessive rather than tender. Haru's hands press harder, pinning instead of holding. Jisung tries to move, to roll them over, but the sheets cling to him like tar.

"Haru?" he breathes.

The name doesn't land how it should.

Haru lifts his head.

His face is still his, mostly, but the affection has drained from his eyes, leaving something hollow behind. His smile stretches wider than it ever did before, splitting unnaturally at the corners.

"I said I'd never leave," the thing says, its voice layered. "Why are you trying to pull away?"

Jisung's heart slams against his ribs. "I-I'm not…"

The bed beneath them softens, sinking, swallowing him inch by inch. The walls darken, crawling inward, and the weight above him becomes unbearable, crushing.

"I loved you," Jisung whimpers, panic breaking through. "I loved you."

The thing's smile sharpens. "You still do."

Jisung shoves, finally breaking free, and falls.

He hits the ground hard, palms scraping against wet earth. The bed is gone, and so is the room. He's on his feet then and running through a forest that reeks of rot and sweetness, branches clawing at his skin as something chases after him.

He dares to look back at the creature that wears Haru's face like a lie.

Its limbs bend wrong, too long, joints snapping and reforming as it bounds towards him. Its mouth hangs open in a grin stretched by hunger, not affection.

"You belong to me," it snarls.

Jisung trips on a branch, his hands hitting the ground first, and the creature lunges—

But then steel sings. The creature's body crumples, dissolving into smoke and ash before it even hits the ground. Silence crashes down around him, thick and ringing in his ears.

Jisung lies there, shaking, afraid to even breathe. Then boots step into his view, he lifts his head slowly to see who they belong to.

The man standing over him is clad in dark leathers, two swords hanging loosely in his hands, the blades darkened and steaming. And then the man turns, and for a moment, Jisung is stunned. But the face is unmistakable.

Minho.

It's not the quiet man from the cottage. This version of him is harder, older, something ancient and watching behind his eyes. But it's him. The same mouth. The same sharp nose and steady gaze.

"You shouldn't believe people who promise you forever," he says calmly.

Jisung opens his mouth to speak, but then Minho shifts his weapons, attaching them to his hip, and then holds out a hand.

Before Jisung can take it, the forest fractures, dragging him away. Light splinters through the trees, the ground falling away beneath him.

He wakes with a sharp gasp, his heart racing, his body soaked in sweat and sheets twisted around his legs.

Moonlight spills across his room. It's still night.

Jisung presses a hand to his rapidly beating heart, and Haru's voice still lingers like a bruise. But so does the memory of the man who arrived only days ago, and already feels impossibly tangled in his thoughts.

Jisung stares at the ceiling, unsettled in a way that sleep won't fix.

Talking about Haru often triggers memories and dreams for Jisung, but never anything quite like that.

Jisung manages to sleep without dreaming again, then wakes the next morning with the lingering sensation of hands that are no longer there.

It takes him a few moments to realise he's alone in his bed, the pale morning light slanting through the window, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. His heart is beating faster than usual, his skin too warm, as though his body hasn't quite caught up with the fact that none of it was real.

Haru's voice echoes faintly in his head.

I'll never leave.

Jisung exhales shakily and presses the heel of his hands into his eyes until the image fractures and fades. He swings his legs out of bed, grounding himself in the creaking of the wooden floorboards, the familiar chill grounding beneath his feet.

It was just a dream, he tells himself. A memory tangled with fear, the old wounds reopening in strange shapes.

And yet.

Minho's face rises unbidden in his thoughts, and that, Jisung cannot explain away so easily.

By the time he joins his father in the fields, the sun is already climbing, heat settling into his shoulders. They work side by side in comfortable silence, as they tend to do, hands moving through well-worn motions—checking the irrigation lines, pulling stubborn weeds, lifting crates of early produce. Jisung prides himself on his strength and endurance, despite looking smaller than the average farmhand; his body and mind have still been shaped by the farm.

Today, though, everything feels heavier.

His muscles protest sooner than they should. His grip slips. Sweat stings his eyes, his head throbbing faintly behind his temple. His father glances at him more than once, brow furrowing, but says nothing at first.

When Jisung nearly stumbles hauling a crate across the row, his father finally speaks up.

"You're not yourself today, lad," he says mildly.

"I didn't sleep well," Jisung admits with a sigh, embarrassed by the weakness in his voice.

His father studies him for a moment, then nods. "Go rest. I'll finish up alone for today."

"I can help—"

"You already have," his father says, firm but kind. "Go rest."

Jisung doesn't argue. He sheds his gloves and wanders to the edge of the field, near the house, where the grass grows softer and the wild daisies cluster thick and bright. He lowers himself into the grass with a sigh, the earth cool beneath his back, the sky an endless blue overhead.

The hum of insects fills the air, and bees drift lazily above him, unbothered by his presence as they bound from flower to flower. He lets his eyes close and breathes in the green, living scent of the land.

But his mind, the traitor that it is, drifts to his dream. To Minho.

The memory of the man in the dreams sends a strange shiver through his chest, and he feels a sense of awe, rather than fear. The way he'd stood there, framed by darkness and light, calm where everything else had been monstrous.

Is he some kind of punishment sent to torture him?

Jisung laughs weakly to himself, thinking about how ridiculous he's being. He's just a man.

A shadow falls over his face. Jisung blinks his eyes open, and the sun disappears, replaced by a silhouette that steals the breath from his lungs entirely. Minho stands above him, the bright afternoon light flaring behind his head, turning his dark hair into a halo of fire, and for a moment, all Jisung can do is stare, stunned by the echo of how eerily similar it feels to looking up at him in his dream.

Beautiful. Unreachable. Dangerous in a way he cannot name.

"—Are you enjoying laying with the bugs?" Minho asks, amusement apparent on his face.

The spell shatters.

Jisung jolts upright, nearly tangling himself in daisies. "I—Minho, hey. I was just—"

Minho laughs, the sound soft and musical, clearly delighted. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

Jisung scrambles to his feet, face burning. "I wasn't—I mean, I was just resting."

"Mhm," Minho hums, eyes flicking pointedly to the crushed daisies clinging to Jisung's clothes. "It makes sense, you do fit in with the bugs."

Jisung splutters. "Excuse me?"

Minho's smile widens. "I won't elaborate."

"That's unfair," Jisung pouts. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Minho hesitates then, the teasing retreating behind sudden shyness. He shifts his weight, glancing toward his house as if checking he hasn't intruded.

"I—um," he begins. "I baked something."

Jisung blinks. "You baked?"

"Yes," Minho says, then quickly adds, "With the peaches you gave me. I hope that's all right."

"Are you kidding? That's more than all right," Jisung says, a little breathless. "I love sweet things."

Minho lifts the cloth-wrapped dish he's been holding, then, revealing the faint, unmistakable scent of baked fruit and sugar. "It's a tart," he says. "I thought… I should share with you and your family."

Jisung stares at him then, heart thudding in his ears. Surely this man is an angel? No, a trick?

Jisung grins despite himself. "You picked the right way to apologise for calling me a bug."

Minho laughs again. "I don't take it back," he says, lifting his shoulders in a small shrug. "Sorry."

Jisung stares at him for a second, caught between indignation and the very inconvenient fact that Minho looks unfairly gorgeous when he's amused. The sun is still behind him, still haloing him in warmth, and Jisung hates how easily his mind tries to turn it into something.

"You're awful," Jisung declares. "Should've never helped you yesterday," Jisung jokes.

Minho's eyes narrow slightly, playful "I'm just being honest."

"That's not the same thing."

"It can be," Minho says, and then his gaze drops to the cloth-wrapped dish in his hands like he remembers why he came. His expression shifts, the teasing receding behind that careful shyness again. "I… should probably put this somewhere safe. Before it attracts every bug in your field."

Jisung's mouth twitches. "You're obsessed with bugs."

"Well, some of them are very cute," Minho replies with a straight face.

Jisung snorts, then gestures toward the house. "Come on. We can eat some inside. My mother's in town getting groceries, and my father's still out in the fields. It's quiet right now."

Minho hesitates like he's about to refuse out of habit, but then nods once. "All right."

Jisung leads him across the yard and up the steps. Minho's boots sound different on the wood than Jisung's do, as though the house can tell he doesn't belong there yet and is deciding what to do with him. Jisung opens the door and steps aside automatically, letting Minho enter first.

Minho pauses on the threshold.

The farmhouse is warm in the way lived-in places always are, even when it's quiet. Jisung watches Minho take the place in, the faint tightening in his shoulders, the way his gaze flicks over the hallways and kitchen and the corner where coats hang.

"You can come in," Jisung says gently in a way that reassures.

Minho's throat bobs. "Right. Yes." Then he steps inside.

Jisung leads him through to the kitchen. It's the heart of the house, always. The table sits near the centre, scrubbed clean but scarred with years of use—the table is even older than Jisung is. A bowl of peaches rests in the middle of it, and a bundle of fresh herbs hangs upside down from the beam to dry. The kettle is still warm on the stove, and the air smells faintly of the tea his mother brewed earlier.

Minho sets the tart down carefully on the table and removes the covering.

Jisung's mouth waters immediately. "Oh god, it smells incredible."

Minho's ears pinken, which is frankly unfair of him to be so endearing. "It's… simple. Just did what I could with what I had."

"Well, you had the most important thing. Peaches!"

Minho's lips press into that adorable straight line again. "That I did."

Jisung reaches for a knife. "Can I cut it?"

Minho makes a small sound. "I—yes. Of course."

The crust is golden and slightly uneven, as homemade things often are, as if it were shaped by hand rather than measured perfectly. Peach slices are layered in soft spirals across the top, glazed with something that shines in the light, and a dusting of sugar is lightly layered on top.

"It's beautiful," Jisung blurts before he can stop himself.

Minho glances at him, then away again. "It's not as beautiful as the peaches were."

Jisung pauses with the knife mid-air.

He looks at Minho, trying to decide whether that was meant to be flirtation or simply something he said without thinking. But the man's face is unreadable, and his fingers are fidgeting at the edge of his sleeve like he's bracing for regret.

Jisung decides, in that moment, to be kind.

"Well," he says lightly, slicing into the tart, "I'm not as beautiful as peaches either, so I think we can all accept that nature is simply showing off."

Minho makes a startled sound that might be a laugh.

Jisung cuts two generous slices, sets them on plates, and rummages for forks. He hesitates only briefly before taking out his mother's nicer plates, the ones reserved for when the village leader comes over for dinner. He tells himself it's only fair, Minho brought the tart, so it's the least he can do.

He sets a plate in front of Minho, and then they both sit down at opposite sides of the table.

Minho clears his throat after a moment of silence. "Your house is nice."

Jisung smiles. "It's old. Sometimes it groans more than my father after a tough day out in the field."

Minho's eyes widen slightly, as if Jisung's personification were a true fact. "Does it?"

"It does," Jisung says solemnly, and then ruins it immediately by grinning. "It's only the aged wood… most of the time."

Minho huffs a soft laugh, then picks up his fork like he's unsure if he's allowed to start, despite it being his tart. "Thank you. For letting me come in."

Jisung's chest twinges again, that soft, sympathetic ache he keeps getting around Minho. "You don't need to thank me."

"I think I do."

Jisung doesn't push. Instead, he decides to take a bite. The first taste makes his eyes widen.

It's still slightly warm, sweet and bright, the peaches soft without being mushy, the glaze faintly citrusy, the crust buttery and crisp at the edges. There's a hint of something herbal underneath, too, a careful touch that makes the whole thing taste like spring.

Minho watches him like he's waiting for judgment.

"This is…" Jisung starts, then stops, because he wants to convey just how perfect it is.

He takes another bite, slowly this time, savouring the flavour. "This is the nicest tart I've ever tasted."

Minho blinks. "That's—"

"I'm serious," Jisung insists, pointing his fork at him. "But don't tell my mother I said that. She'll be offended."

Minho's mouth twitches. "Your secret is safe with me."

Minho takes a bit of his own slice, chewing thoughtfully. "So… you said your mother went into the village?"

"Mm," Jisung replies. "She'll be back later. If she's lucky, she'll return before gossip finds her, but that's unlikely."

Minho's eyes narrow faintly. "Is gossip normal here?"

Jisung laughs. "Well, the village is small. People talk."

Minho's posture tightens. "Will it be about me?"

Jisung hesitates, then decides honesty is kinder. "A little. But as I said, people mostly stay out of other people's businesses. Whatever gossip is shared is usually light-hearted. Mostly, people are just curious."

Minho's fingers tighten around his fork. He tries to make it subtle, but Jisung sees the way his knuckles pale, the way his shoulders draw in as if he's bracing for impact.

"Curious about what?" Minho asks quietly.

Jisung tilts his head. "About why you're here," he admits. "Why alone. Whether you're running from something or maybe you're secretly rich! You could be a runaway prince, cursed to live among us mere peasants," Jisung jokes. Minho's eyes flick up, startled. "Not because anyone wishes you harm. It's just… what people do when they don't have answers. They make up wild stories."

Minho exhales through his nose, and he sounds almost relieved. "And which story is winning?"

"That you're rich," Jisung says immediately.

Minho blinks.

Jisung's mouth twitches. "I mean, you have no profession, yet you can afford to live in that cottage on your own. Maybe you're a duke in exile."

Minho scoffs. "I'm not."

"I know," Jisung says softly.

Minho looks down at his plate. "Do they… dislike strangers?"

"No," Jisung says, firm. "They dislike mystery more than strangers. If you give them a simple story, they'll stop inventing complicated ones."

Minho's gaze shows interest. "A simple story."

Jisung nods. "Like the one you told me, 'I moved her because I wanted peace, and I love to make peach tarts.'" He gestures at the tart. "That story? Perfect. Ten out of ten. I'd read it."

Minho's mouth curls, small and totally adorable. "You make everything sound easy."

"Only because I'm not living it," Jisung replies. And before Minho can retreat into that careful quiet again, he leans forward. "But… if you want, you don't have to be alone tonight."

Minho stills, confusion crossing his face.

"My family has invited you for dinner tonight. We'll have too much food, as usual, so it's no bother."

Minho's brows knit. "All of your family?"

"Yes. My mother, father, brother, his wife and daughter," Jisung says, smiling. "And before you panic, I promise they're not scary."

"Are you sure?" Minho asks. "Mothers are usually kinda scary."

Jisung's grin breaks wide. "Okay, yeah. She is a bit scary. But in a loving way!"

Minho looks back down at the tart, as if it might offer him guidance. "I don't want to intrude."

"You wouldn't be," Jisung counters, firmer this time. "You'd be welcomed… genuinely."

Minho's throat bobs. He presses his lips together.

Jisung adds quickly. "And if it helps, you already have a reason to come since you made the tart."

Minho's gaze lifts. "That's not a reason."

"It is in this house," Jisung insists. "If you bring food, my mother will adopt you immediately."

Minho makes a startled sound. "Adopt?"

"Metaphorically," Jisung says, laughing.

Minho's eyes linger on him for a moment too long. Jisung thinks he might be trying to figure out whether he is being kind out of habit or for some other reason.

"You don't have to say yes," Jisung says. "I just thought… You shouldn't have to eat alone in that cottage every night. Not if you don't want to. Plus, we are your closest neighbours!"

Minho's fork turns slowly between his fingers. "When?"

Jisung's heart gives a stupid, little leap. He covers it with a grin. "We usually eat just after sunset."

Minho nods slowly. "Okay then. Should I bring… something?"

Jiasung's eyes brighten. "You already did."

Minho looks at the tart again. His ears pinken. "I can make another. A smaller one."

Jisung laughs. "If you bring another tart, my mother will have you married off to someone by morning."

Minho freezes.

Jisung immediately backtracks, flustered. "Not to me! Not that I—I mean—she'll just… you know. She'll decide you're good husband material and start… yeah."

Minho's eyes soften then, amused at Jisung's rambling. "I see."

Jisung clears his throat, trying to recover his dignity. "Just bring yourself. And maybe… uh, your coat. It gets cold after dark."

Minho nods. "All right."

Jisung smiles. "All right?"

"All right," Minho repeats with a laugh, and it's one of the sweetest sounds Jisung has ever heard.

He looks down at his plate, suddenly too aware of the warmth on his cheeks. "Good."

They eat and chat a little more after that, their slices disappearing between them. Outside, the afternoon stretches on, sunlit and ordinary, like any other day. But inside the kitchen, it feels different. Charged with the knowledge that Minho will return that evening, and Jisung isn't sure why that makes him so happy.

Minho finishes the last bite, then sets his fork down carefully, glancing toward the window, to the fields where Jisung's father is still hard at work.

"I should go," Minho says. "Before I… take up too much of your day."

Jisung's chest twinges.

"You're not taking up too much of my day," he says. "But… okay. If you want."

Minho stands, hesitating, as if he doesn't actually want to leave.

"Thank you," he says.

Jisung smiles. "You're welcome."

Minho picks up the empty plate and automatically brings it to the sink. Jisung watches him, struck again by how instinctively he tries to make himself useful, as if usefulness is the only thing that earns him a place.

It makes Jisung want to reach for him, to tell him he doesn't need to overthink or earn his kindness.

But instead, Jisung just says, "Don't forget to come tonight."

Minho's mouth curves. "I won't."

And when the man finally steps back out into the sunlight, leaving Jisung feeling warmer than he should, he sits for a while staring at the crumbs on his plate, feeling oddly breathless.

By the time the sun begins to sink low enough to stretch in long, orange strands across the yard, Jisung is vibrating.

He paces the length of the kitchen for the fifth time in as many minutes, his bare feet shuffling over the worn floorboards. The house is alive again with voices, the clattering of dishes, and Hajoon and his father arguing good-naturedly about something not all that serious.

Jisung cannot stop moving.

"Do you need help?" he asks, hovering at his mother's elbow as she stirs the pot.

She doesn't look up at him. "You already asked that three times."

"I know, but… well, maybe you need help now?"

"No."

"I could chop something."

"Everything is chopped."

"I could set the table?"

"You already did that."

Jisung rocks back on his heels, then pivots and drifts toward the table anyway, straightening a spoon that is already straight. He presses his palms to the table, exhales, then immediately resumes pacing.

From his seat next to their father, Hajoon watches him with amusement.

"You're going to work a path into that floor," he comments. Jisung rolls his eyes at his brother's extremely helpful observation. "Do you want to borrow Sooah? She can help you feel less overwhelmed."

"I'm not overwhelmed," Jisung says defensively.

Sooah, seated in her little chair by the table, bangs her spoon against the wood.

Yura lifts an eyebrow, eyes following Jisung as he goes to take a seat. "Now you're bouncing your leg."

Jisung freezes. "I'm not."

His leg bounces again.

His father clears his throat. "Calm down, son."

Jisung looks down at his traitorous knee, forcing it to still.

"I don't know why I'm like this," Jisung whines, dragging a hand through his hair. "It's just dinner with the new neighbour."

"Hmm," his mother hums, unconvinced.

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you know something I don't."

She finally looks at him then, her eyes sharp but still full of the fondness of a mother. "I know you haven't stopped talking since I got home, and rearranging the furniture that hasn't moved since you were born."

"That's just… enthusiasm."

"You mean anxiety," Hajoon says cheerfully.

Jisung groans and presses his face into his hands. "I don't even know why I'm nervous. It's just… so long since I had made a new friend that I didn't grow up with, and—"

Yura smiles softly. "You want us to make a good first impression."

His mother sets down her spoon, walks over to him, and places her hands on his shoulders. "Jisung."

"Yes?" He asks, looking up at her.

"It's going to be okay. Just sit here and try to enjoy the evening with your new friend and your family. Okay?"

"Okay…"

His father reaches out and rests a steady hand on his knee. "There's nothing wrong with being nervous. You always are when you care."

"I don't—" Jisung starts, then stops.

Hajoon leans forward, grinning. "Does Jisungie have a little crush?"

Jisung glares at him. "Oh, shut up. You're enjoying this far too much."

"Absolutely," Hajoon agrees. "It's not often you bring someone home who makes you forget how to function. It's quite entertaining."

"I can function!"

Yura laughs quietly, fussing with Sooah. "You're doing fine, Jisung. Just breathe."

Jisung inhales. Exhales. "Thank you, Yura. You're my favourite."

She giggles. "Always."

But it doesn't last. He immediately pops out of his chair once his mother walks back over to the pot. "What if he doesn't like the food?"

His mother inhales, offended. "Excuse you?"

"Never mind," he mutters, sitting back down. "How could I have uttered such an impossibility. Your cooking is wonderful mother."

"That's right," she agrees.

He moves to the window, peers out into the yard where the lanterns are lit and then immediately steps away.

"I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?" he asks weakly.

"Yes," Hajoon agrees. "But it's quite endearing."

"Stop helping."

A knock sounds at the door.

Jisung freezes.

Everyone else turns toward the sound calmly, as if it's a perfectly normal evening with a perfectly normal guest. Which… really, it should be, right?

His heart slams into his ribs.

"I'll get it," his mother says, already moving.

"No," Jisung blurts.

Everyone stares at him.

Jisung's face goes hot instantly, as if his body has decided it will betray him in every possible way tonight. "I mean—" he scrambles, standing too quickly and nearly knocking his chair back. "I'll get it. Because… it's… I invited him. So. I should."

His mother's eyes narrow into something that looks like a smug kind of victory. "Of course. How thoughtful of you," she says sweetly, as though she hadn't waited for him to volunteer.

Hajoon makes a sound like a suppressed laugh, and Yura hides her smile behind her hand. Even his father looks faintly amused, which is frankly unforgivable.

Jisung marches to the door like he's waiting for an execution.

The knock comes again, gentle this time, as if the person outside is suddenly uncertain too.

Jisung inhales, exhales, and opens the door.

Minho stands on the threshold, coat neat, hair tucked back just enough that his face looks even sharper in the warm lantern light outside. His cheeks are slightly pink, as if he's been bracing himself all the way up the path. In his hands, he holds a parcel wrapped in cloth, cradled carefully against his chest.

For a beat, they just… look at each other.

Minho's eyes soften immediately when he sees Jisung, and a small, hesitant smile tugs at his mouth.

"Hi," Minho says quietly.

Jisung's heart does that stupid thing again, like it has too much room inside him. "Hi," he answers, just as softly, and then, because his brain is apparently made of useless fluff, he adds, "You came."

Minho's smile widens. "I said I would."

"I know," Jisung says, and then they both just stand there smiling like idiots, as if the doorway is suddenly the entire world.

Minho shifts his weight slightly. "You look…" he begins, like he hadn't meant to say it, catching himself and flushing. "…nice."

Jisung's throat tightens. "You do too."

Minho's gaze flickers down and back up again, like he doesn't quite know what to do with compliments. "Thank you."

Jisung opens his mouth to say something equally ridiculous, and then his mother appears behind him like a queen arriving to claim her throne.

"Well," she says brightly, leaning into Jisung's shoulder to get a look at their guest. "You must be Minho."

Minho straightens immediately, the shy softness replaced by polite composure. He dips his head. "Yes, ma'am, Lee Minho."

"Han Eunsook. Welcome to our home, Minho," she replies warmly, and then her eyes flick to the parcel in his hands with the speed of a hawk spotting its prey. "And what have you brought with you?"

Minho looks down at it, then back up. "I baked bread," he says, as if confessing to a crime. "I wasn't sure what was appropriate, so I… made something simple."

Jisung's mother's face lights up in a way that makes Jisung quietly pity Minho.

"Oh, that is very appropriate," she says, already reaching for it. "Thank you. That's incredibly thoughtful of you."

Minho hands it over carefully, still watching her reaction like he really cares what she thinks.

"And thank you for bringing over the peach tart," she adds, turning to Jisung with a pointed look as she tucks the bread under her arm. "Jisung told me it was lovely. Shame he ate it all."

Jisung makes a choking sound. "Mother—"

His mother smiles sweetly. "I can't wait to try the bread."

Minho's ears go pink, but he nods. "I'm glad."

"Come in," she says, stepping aside. "Dinner is just about ready."

Minho hesitates for only a breath before stepping fully into the house.

Hajoon rises first, offering his hand with a grin that's friendly and assessing all at once. "Han Hajoon," he says. "Jisung's brother. Welcome to our circus."

Minho's eyes widen slightly, but he accepts the handshake. "Lee Minho."

"This is my wife, Han Yura," Hajoon adds, gesturing toward her.

Yura smiles warmly. "It's lovely to meet you."

"And this tiny menace is Sooah," Hajoon says, tapping his daughter's cheek lightly.

Sooah stares at Minho with enormous, serious eyes, then promptly sticks her finger in her mouth and continues staring as if he is a fascinating new animal.

Minho's expression softens. "Hello," he says quietly to her, as though she is an adult who deserves respect.

Sooah blinks very slowly, then squeals.

Yura laughs. "She likes you."

Minho looks faintly startled by that. "Oh."

Jisung's father rises last, wiping his hands on a cloth. He's not a loud man, but when he speaks, the room listens.

"I'm Han Doyoon," he says, offering his hand. "Welcome."

Minho takes it, polite and steady. "Thank you for having me."

His father studies him for a moment in that quiet, weighing way he has. Then he nods, seemingly satisfied with whatever he finds. "Sit," he says simply. "Eat."

Minho blinks as if he didn't expect such straightforward permission. Jisung realises he's been holding his breath again and forces himself to exhale.

His mother claps her hands once. "Right. Everyone. Sit down before the food goes cold."

They gather around the table, chairs scraping softly. Jisung's mother directs traffic like an experienced commander, and somehow, Minho ends up placed between Jisung and Yura, as if the universe has conspired to make Jisung faint.

Minho sits carefully, posture straight, hands placed on his knees for a second as if he's reminding himself where to put them.

Jisung leans toward him just slightly. "You're doing fine," he whispers.

Minho glances at him, something relieved flickering across his eyes. "I'm trying."

Jisung smiles. "I can tell."

His mother sets the main dish down with a satisfied hum, then begins passing bowls. Conversation rises again naturally, as it always does: Hajoon teasing his father about overworking, Yura telling a story about Sooah trying to feed a chicken a pebble, Jisung's mother reminding everyone that the stew will taste better if they stop talking and start eating.

Minho listens more than he speaks at first, eyes moving around the table as if he's memorising the rhythm of them all.

Then his mother places Minho's bread on the table and unwraps it.

The smell hits immediately, warm, golden and alive, like the very idea of comfort wrapped up in a bundle. It's a round loaf with a crisp, crackling crust, slightly dusted with flour, the top scored neatly. Steam curls faintly as she breaks it open.

The inside is soft and airy, still warm.

Jisung actually freezes with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Oh," Yura says, clearly impressed.

Hajoon lets out a low whistle.

Minho's ears turn pink again. He looks down like he wants to disappear.

Jisung's mother tears off a piece and tastes it first, because she can. Her eyes widen. Then she nods.

"This," she announces, "is excellent."

Jisung stares at her. His mother does not hand out praise easily. Not like this. Jisung tears off a piece next and takes a bite.

He nearly chokes.

It's warm and chewy and perfectly salted, the crust crackling beneath his teeth, the inside soft and rich with flavour. There's a faint sweetness to it, like honey, and something else underneath—maybe rosemary, maybe just the deep, honest taste of well-made dough.

Jisung stares at Minho in disbelief.

Minho watches him like he's waiting for judgment again, like he cannot help it.

Jisung swallows and blurts, much too loudly, "How are you so good at baking?"

Minho flinches slightly at the attention, then relaxes when he realises everyone is looking at him with interest rather than suspicion.

He clears his throat. "I… started as an apprentice," he says carefully. "When I was young."

Hajoon leans forward. "Like, actually? Flour on your face, up before dawn, the whole deal?"

Minho nods. "Yeah. I learned at a bakery in the city. From the ground up."

Jisung's mother's eyes are shining now, which is a terrifying development. "And then?"

Minho hesitates, glancing at Jisung briefly, as if to check whether he should share. Jisung gives him a small, encouraging nod.

Minho exhales. "Later, I opened my own bakery," he says. "It was… small at first. Just one shop. But it did well."

Hajoon's brows lift. "How well?"

Minho's mouth quirks faintly. "Well enough that I opened another. And another."

Jisung blinks. "Wait."

Minho's gaze drops to his hands. "Eventually, I had many. In some bigger cities, too."

The table goes quiet for a heartbeat.

Then Hajoon sits back slowly, looking impressed and slightly offended. "So you are secretly rich."

Minho makes a small sound that might be a laugh. "I'm not—I mean, I suppose. I don't really… think about it that way. I give most of it away to animal shelters in the city."

"Very honourable," his father says. "And you don't need to work anymore."

Minho nods once. "Not really."

Yura smiles softly. "So you came here to rest."

Minho's shoulders drop a fraction, as if the words are a relief. "Yes," he says quietly. "I wanted somewhere quieter. Somewhere I wouldn't be noticed. I… didn't like the city anymore. The noise. The expectations. People… always wanting something."

Jisung's chest tightens at that last part. He manages to keep his face neutral, but he feels it like a stone dropping into water. It ripples.

His mother, ever practical, says, "And you chose this valley."

Minho glances around the table, then nods again. "Yes."

Hajoon grins. "Well, congratulations. You've chosen the one place where people pretend to mind their business but notice absolutely everything."

Minho's mouth twitches. "I've gathered. But at least the people here don't have ill intentions."

Jisung laughs, and to his surprise, Minho's eyes flick to him immediately, softening as if that sound matters to him.

Dinner continues after that, warmer now that the mystery has a solid shape. The stew is good, and the bread is devoured. Sooah alternates between staring at Minho and trying to feed him a piece of carrot. Minho, after a moment of hesitation, accepts it carefully, and Sooah squeals in delight.

Jisung watches Minho laugh softly at her, watches him loosen inch by inch at the table like a knot coming undone.

And underneath it all, Jisung can't stop thinking that the village was right, in a way. Minho really is someone with a past. But he isn't a runaway prince.

He's just a man who baked bread warm enough to make Jisung feel like there might be some kindness left in the world.

The night winds down slowly, the way it always does in their home.

Not abruptly, not with a clean ending, but in soft dissolves. Bowls sit empty longer than necessary, conversations taper into comfortable silence, and eventually chairs scrape back one by one.

Yura gathers Sooah, who is already sleeping against her shoulder, small fingers curled in her shirt.

Hajoon stretches, groaning dramatically about waking up early for work the next day.

His father stacks dishes with quiet efficiency, and his mother shoos people out of the kitchen before they can "ruin her system," which is code for leave before you get in the way.

Minho stands a little uncertainly near the table, like he's not sure how to exist now that the structure of dinner has ended.

"Hey," Jisung says, stepping closer. "I can walk you back."

Minho looks up, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "You don't have to."

"I know," Jisung says, softer this time. "I want to."

There's a brief pause, and Minho studies him like he did earlier, like he's trying to decide something important.

Then he nods. "Okay."

The night outside has settled fully now, the sky deep and endless, the last warmth of the day replaced by a gentle, creeping chill. The lantern by the door casts golden light behind them, stretching their shadows long across the yard before they step beyond it.

For a few moments, they walk in silence.

It's not awkward.

Every small thing feels louder than it should. The crunch of gravel underfoot. The brush of fabric when their arms swing just too close. The quiet rhythm of shared footsteps falling into sync without either of them trying.

Jisung is suddenly, acutely aware of Minho beside him.

Of his presence, and of the way it feels like something has shifted in the world, just slightly, just enough to make everything tilt.

"You didn't have to stay so long," Jisung says finally, just to fill the space.

Minho glances at him. "I wanted to."

Jisung's chest tightens.

"Oh," he says, because apparently that's all he's capable of.

Minho's mouth twitches up on one side. "Your family is easy to be around."

"That's because they already decided they like you," Jisung replies.

Minho huffs a soft laugh. "That's a dangerous assumption."

"It's not," Jisung insists. "My mother only gives that look when she's already planning your future."

Minho slows slightly. "My future?"

"Don't worry," Jisung adds quickly, bumping his shoulder lightly against Minho's arm without thinking. "You've only been semi-adopted. It could be worse."

Minho stills for half a second at the contact. Jisung feels it, too. That tiny, electric pulse.

But then Minho exhales, and the moment passes.

"I don't think I've ever been adopted before," he says.

Jisung grins. "First time for everything."

They keep walking.

The cottage comes into view sooner than Jisung would like (he'll unpack that later), nestled between the trees, its windows dark.

Jisung's steps slow.

"You don't have to walk me all the way," Minho says quietly.

"I know," Jisung replies.

He doesn't stop, and Minho doesn't argue again.

When they reach the gate, they linger. It's subtle at first. Neither stepping forward or back. Just standing there, caught in something unspoken. The night hums around them. Crickets, Wind in the trees. The distant creak of wood settling somewhere in the valley.

Jisung's heart is too loud.

He tells himself it's nothing.

Just the night. The quiet. Just the fact that he's standing too close to someone who feels like—

Dangerous, a voice supplies in his head.

Haru's shadow flickers in his mind, uninvited. Promises. Hands. The sharp, hollow ache of being left behind.

Jisung swallows.

He should step back, say goodnight, and go home. Keep things simple, safe, and untouched.

He knows this.

He knows this.

And yet—Minho is right there. Close enough that Jisung can see the way his dark hair shines as it catches in the faint light, how the shadows frame his face perfectly, the way his eyes look darker at night, deeper somehow. Close enough that he can feel the warmth of him in the cool air.

"You're quiet," Minho points out.

Jisung lets out a breath he didn't even know he had been holding. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous," Minho murmurs.

Jisung huffs. "You're one to talk."

Minho's lips twitch. Then something in his expression changes. "Did I… do okay?"

The question catches him off guard.

"At dinner," Minho clarifies. "I'm not very good at… that stuff."

Jisung stares at him for a second.

"You were perfect," he says, before he can overthink it.

Minho blinks.

Jisung flushes immediately. "I mean—not perfect, perfect. Just—god. Really good. They liked you. I liked—" He cuts himself off, pressing his lips together.

Minho's gaze hasn't moved. It's steady. Focused. Warm in a way that makes Jisung's thoughts scatter like startled birds.

"You liked?" Minho prompts softly, not letting it go.

Jisung's throat tightens. He should deflect. Pass it off as a joke. He should—

"I liked having you there," he admits.

The words land between them, fragile and honest. He sees Minho inhale, and something shifts again. Like a door opening just a fraction more.

"I liked being there," Minho says.

Jisung's chest aches.

It's too easy.

That's the problem.

It's too easy to stand here. Too easy to talk to him. Too easy to forget that things like this don't last. That people say things they don't mean. That warmth can disappear overnight.

He knows this. He's lived it.

And yet—

"You can come again. Whenever you want," Jisung says.

Minho's eyes flicker. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Jisung says. "You don't have to wait for an invitation."

There's a pause.

Minho doesn't answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at Jisung in that same searching way he's done before, like he's weighing something delicate, something that might break if handled wrong.

"Then, in that case… come with me tomorrow."

Jisung blinks. "What? Where?"

Minho shifts his weight slightly, one hand curling loosely around the wooden gate.

"I was planning to go into the forest," he says. "I saw some mushrooms growing along the edge this morning. I thought I could collect some. For cooking."

Jisung tilts his head. "You know which ones are safe?"

Minho's mouth curves faintly. "I wouldn't go in blind."

"That's reassuring," Jisung mutters.

Minho lets out a soft breath, almost amused, but there's still a thread of uncertainty there.

"I don't know the area yet," he adds. "And you… seem like you would."

Jisung does.

The forest isn't just something he's seen from a distance his entire life. It's something he knows. The way the light filters through different parts of it depending on the hour. The patches where the ground dips and collects water after rain. The quiet places where berries grow wild and untouched because nobody bothers to go so far.

He knows it like a second home.

And the idea of showing it to Minho—

His chest tightens again. That same warm, dangerous pull.

"You want me to guide you?" Jisung asks.

Minho nods once. "If you want to."

There it is again. Like he's bracing for the answer to be no.

Jisung exhales. "I do."

"Okay," he replies.

"What time?" Jisung asks.

"Just after sunrise," Minho says. "Before it gets too warm. Mushroom picking is better then."

Jisung hums. "You're serious about this."

Minho glances at him. "I like knowing what I'm doing."

Jisung smiles. "Good. Because if you accidentally poison us, my mother will never forgive you."

Minho huffs. "Noted."

They linger for just a moment longer, the plan settling between them like something newly planted.

Then Jisung steps back again, more decisively this time. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Minho echoes.

And this time, when Jisung turns to leave, he doesn't look back.

Jisung wakes to pale light filtering through the thin curtains, the sky still undecided between night and day. For a few long seconds, he simply lies there, staring at the ceiling, his body heavy with sleep but his mind already stirring. There's a strange awareness sitting beneath his ribs, something anticipatory, like the feeling before rain when the air feels thick.

Then he remembers.

Minho. The forest. The plan.

Jisung's eyes widen, and he pushes himself upright with a soft groan, dragging a hand through his hair as the reality of it settles in. Along with it, comes a second, far less pleasant realisation.

He never asked his father.

"Great," he mutters under his breath, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Brilliant. Absolutely planned that perfectly."

The farm doesn't pause for whims. It doesn't bend around feelings or new neighbours or the strange, persistent pull in his chest that he doesn't quite understand yet. If he wants the morning, he has to earn it—or at the very least, ask for it properly.

His father will be up already.

Jisung exhales, steadying himself, then stands and dresses quickly, pulling on clothes suited for the fields rather than the forest. If this goes poorly, he'll be working regardless.

The floor creaks beneath his steps as he moves through the house, the familiar sounds of early morning already unfolding around him.

He finds his father exactly where he expected.

Outside, near the edge of the yard, already inspecting the tools laid out for the day. The early light casts long shadows across the ground, catching in the lines of his father's figure, making him look as rooted as the land itself.

Jisung slows as he approaches. There's no point in delaying.

"Appa."

His father glances up, acknowledging him with a small nod before returning his attention to the tools in his hands. "You're up early."

Jisung huffs a faint breath. "Could say the same."

"I always am."

Jisung shifts his weight, suddenly aware of how young he must look standing there, asking for something that feels small but isn't. He rubs the back of his neck, buying himself a second before speaking.

"I wanted to ask you something," he says.

That's just enough to pull his father's full attention. "What is it?"

Jisung hesitates only briefly. "I was wondering if I could take the day off."

The words land heavy.

Not just a few hours. Not a break between tasks.

The whole day.

His father's gaze sharpens, not harsh, but focused in a way that makes Jisung feel seen all the way through.

"The whole day," he repeats.

"Just this once," Jisung adds quickly. "I'll make up the work tomorrow. I won't fall behind, I just—"

"What for?" his father asks, calm as ever.

Jisung exhales slowly, deciding not to dance around it.

"I'm meeting Minho. He wants to go into the forest. Mushroom picking. I said I'd show him around."

There's a flicker of recognition then, subtle but there.

"The new neighbour."

"Yeah."

Silence settles between them, stretching just long enough to feel intentional. His father sets the tool down in his hand, wiping his palms against a cloth before folding it once, neatly, as though giving the request the space it deserves.

"You were tired yesterday," he says.

Jisung shifts slightly. "I hadn't slept well."

"I noticed."

Jisung lets out a quiet breath, glancing at the ground. "I'll be fine. It's just—he asked, and I didn't think before I said yes, and I should've asked you first, but I didn't, and now I'm, asking properly, so—"

"You really want to go."

It's not a question.

Jisung looks up. "…Yeah."

There's no point pretending otherwise.

"Then go."

Jisung blinks. "Really?"

"Really."

"I'll make it up," Jisung says quickly. "I won't just—leave everything. I'll work longer tomorrow, or—"

"Jisung."

He stops.

His father's eyes soften. "The work will still be here."

Jisung huffs. "It always is."

"That's not what I meant."

Jisung falters again, something in the tone catching him off guard, but before he can untangle it, his father continues.

"You don't need to bargain for a day," he says. "Not when you rarely take one."

Jisung looks down, fingers curling loosely at his sides. "I know."

It doesn't sound as certain as he wants it to.

His father doesn't press.

Instead, he reaches for another tool, inspecting it briefly before setting it aside again. "Just don't forget where your feet are," he adds. "The forest's not forgiving if you stop paying attention."

"I know the paths."

"I know you do."

A small pause.

"And Jisung."

He looks up again. His father's expression is calm, but there is something beneath it. Not concern, exactly. Not warning.

Just… awareness.

"Don't lose track of time out there."

Jisung frowns slightly. "I won't."

His father nods once, satisfied. "Go on, then."

Jisung exhales, relieved. "Thank you."

His father doesn't look up this time, but there's the faintest curve to his mouth as he returns to work.

Jisung turns, heading back across the yard, the weight of the decision settling into something lighter with every step.

By the time he crosses, the world has begun to wake.

The air holds its morning coolness, but the light is stronger now, stretching across the fields in soft gold. Birds call from the trees, hopping between bushes, and somewhere in the distance, a creaky gate opens.

Everything feels… normal.

And yet, not.

There's a quiet awareness humming beneath his skin, something that makes each step toward the lane feel just slightly more significant than it should.

He spots Minho before he reaches the cottage.

Standing by the gate, just as he had the night before, a small basket in hand, his posture relaxed but not entirely at ease.

Minho looks up as Jisung approaches, and for a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then Minho's expression shifts, something soft and almost relieved showing on his face before it settles into something more composed.

"You came," he says.

Jisung huffs lightly. "You sound surprised."

Minho shrugs. "I wasn't sure."

"Why not?"

Minho hesitates. "Well, people say things. Doesn't mean they follow through."

Jisung studies him, something in his chest tightening at the weight of the statement.

"Well, I told you I would. I keep my promises."

Minho holds his gaze, for a second longer, as if testing the truth of it. "Okay. I trust you."

Jisung shifts his weight. "I asked my father if I could take the whole day off."

Minho's brow lifts. "You had to ask?"

"Of course," Jisung says. "The farm doesn't run itself, and it's easier on his body if I can help with some of the heavier lifting."

Minho hums, and Jisung is sure he can see the tips of his ears go red. That's strange.

"Well," Jisung continues, glancing toward the trees beyond the fields, "we should go."

Minho's mouth curves. "Lead the way."

Jisung turns without another word, but he's acutely aware of Minho falling into step behind him, close enough to hear the soft shift of his boots on the path, the quiet rhythm of his breathing blending with the morning air. The farm stretches out around them first—open, familiar, sunlit in that gentle way only early morning manages, when everything is still soft at the edges. The grass is still kissed with dew, brushing damp against his ankles as he walks, and the scent of the earth and growing things lingers thick and clean in the air.

But the path ahead narrows, winding slowly toward the treeline, and with every step, the world seems to transform. 

The forest doesn’t begin abruptly. It seeps in. 

First, the scattered trees, spaced wide enough for sunlight to spill easily between them, long shadows stretching across the ground like crooked, reaching fingers. Then more trees, closer together, their branches beginning to weave overhead, catching the light and breaking it into soft fragments that dance across the forest floor. The air cools, just slightly, carrying with it the scent of damp bark and moss, of something older than the fields. 

Jisung steps beneath the canopy, and the world quiets. 

Not silent—never silent—but different. 

The sounds of the farm fade, replaced by the layered music of the forest. Leaves whisper overhead as the breeze threads its way through them. Somewhere nearby, a bird calls, answered faintly from deeper within. Twigs crack softly beneath their feet, and the ground itself feels different here—softer, uneven, padded with years of fallen leaves that have long since surrendered to the earth. 

Jisung slows slightly, not because he needs to, but because this part always deserves it. 

“This is the easier path,” he says over his shoulder, his voice naturally quieter. “It curves along the ridge. If you go too far left, it dips into marshland. Right leads deeper in, but it’s harder to navigate if you don’t know where you’re going.” 

Minho doesn’t answer, and when he looks back, he finds him looking–not at the path, but at everything else. 

At the trees. 

The light. 

The way the forest breathes. 

“It’s… beautiful,” Minho says softly, almost like he hadn’t even meant to say it. 

Jisung’s chest warms, something quiet and pleased settling in there. “It is,” he agrees. “You should see it in the autumn. The whole place turns gold. And in winter, it’s quieter. Like it’s sleeping.” 

Minho hums again, thoughtful this time, his gaze lifting as sunlight filters through the leaves above, catching his hair in soft, shifting patterns. For a moment, Jisung is struck by how… right he looks here. Less out of place than he was in the village. Less guarded. 

Like the forest suits him. 

They walk deeper. 

The path narrows further, twisting between roots that rise from the ground like old bones, thick and gnarled, forcing them to step carefully. Ferns cluster in thick patches along the edges, their green vibrant against the darker earth, and here and there, small wildflowers peek through the undergrowth–white, purple, yellow–fragile things and easily missed if you aren’t looking for them. 

Jisung points things out as they go, almost without thinking.

“That tree split after a big storm a few years back,” he says, gesturing to a tall trunk that forks sharply halfway up. “Lightning hit it. Still living somehow. A real display of fortitude, huh?” 

Minho reaches out as they pass, fingers brushing lightly over the bark, like he’s greeting it. 

Jisung pretends the gentle gesture doesn’t make something in his belly dance.

“And there,” Jisung adds, nodding toward a cluster of rocks partially hidden by moss, “there’s a small stream just beyond that. Good place to rest if you’ve been out here a while.” 

Minho glances at him. “You’ve been out here alone?” 

Jisung shrugs. “Since I was a kid. My father taught me the safer paths. The rest… I learned by myself.” 

There’s a pause where Minho studies him for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face, then nods slowly, like he’s filing that information away somewhere important. 

They walk on. 

The light shifts again as the canopy thickens, dimming into something softer, greener. The air grows cooler still, heavier with moisture, and the ground dips slightly, the soil darker here, richer. Jisung slows to a stop, lifting a hand slightly as a silent signal. 

“This is where we start looking,” he says. 

Minho steps up beside him now instead of behind, their shoulders almost brushing as he surveys the area with a more focused gaze. The shift is subtle, but it changes something in the space between them. 

Minho crouches first. 

Jisung watches him, curious. 

“Okay,” Minho says, slipping easily into something more assured. “First rule—don’t trust anything just because it looks nice.” 

Jisung huffs a quiet laugh. “That feels like advice for more than mushrooms.” 

Minho glances up at him, one corner of his mouth lifting. “It definitely is.” 

Then he gestures to the ground. “Come here.” 

Jisung crouches beside him, knees brushing lightly against Minho’s as he leans in. The contact is brief and accidental, but Jisung feels it all the same. 

Minho points to a small cluster growing near the base of a tree. “See these?” 

Jisung nods. “Yeah. They look… normal?” 

“That’s how they get you,” Minho says dryly. “These are toxic. Not deadly in small amounts, but enough to make you regret your life choices.” 

Jisung leans closer, studying them more carefully. “How can you tell?” 

Minho reaches out, not touching them directly, but hovering his fingers just above. “The colour is slightly off. See how it fades unevenly toward the stem? And the gills underneath are too tightly packed.” 

Jisung squints. “You can tell that from here?” 

“I was taught this a long time ago and keep up to date with reading,” Minho replies simply. 

Jisung glances at him, then back at the mushrooms, trying to see what Minho sees. 

“Okay, so for this one,” he says slowly. “Uneven colour, tight gills. Bad.” 

“Bad,” Minho confirms, smiling sweetly. 

He shifts slightly, moving a few inches over and brushing aside a patch of leaves to reveal another cluster. “Now these—these are safe.” 

Jisung leans in, closer this time, without thinking, their shoulders pressing lightly together. He doesn’t move away. 

“How do you know?” he asks. 

Minho smiles faintly, clearly pleased by Jisung’s interest. “Uniform colour. Slight sheen on the cap. And the smell—” He pauses, then glances at Jisung. “Here.” 

Before Jisung can react, Minho gently plucks one and holds it out. 

Jisung hesitates for half a second before leaning in, catching the faint scent—earthy, but clean, almost nutty. 

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “That’s nice.” 

Minho watches him, something soft in his expression. “Right?” 

Jisung straightens slightly, watching the mushroom between Minho’s fingers, turning it over like it might reveal more secrets if he looks hard enough. 

“You’re so good at this,” he says, but there is a flicker of something there—pride, maybe, or relief at being seen. “It’s just practice.” 

Jisung glances at him, smiling faintly. “Still.” 

Minho meets his gaze for a second longer than necessary. 

Then he looks away, clearing his throat lightly. “We should collect a few more. Enough for a meal.” 

Jisung nods, though neither of them moves right away, as if something invisible has settled between them, something fragile and newly formed that neither quite knows how to touch without breaking. But the moment passes, or rather, it tucks itself quietly, beneath the surface, and Minho shifts forward, returning his attention to the forest floor with practised focus. 

They fall into an easy rhythm after that. 

Minho moves with a kind of quiet certainty, scanning the ground with sharp, attentive eyes, crouching here and there to brush aside leaves or part low-growing ferns. Jisung follows close behind or beside him, watching more than he works at first, learning the patterns Minho seems to recognise instinctively. It isn’t just about spotting the mushrooms themselves, he realises, it’s about understanding where they like to grow. The dampness of the soil, the shade cast by certain trees, and the subtle differences in terrain that Jisung has walked over a hundred times without noticing.

“Here,” Minho murmurs at one point, gesturing him closer again. 

Jisung crouches beside him, careful this time not to crowd too close—though their shoulders still brush occasionally, unavoidable in the narrow pockets of space between roots and undergrowth. Minho shows him another cluster, pointing out the slight curve of the caps, the thickness of the stems, the way they grow in small, deliberate groups like little neighbourhoods, instead of scattered randomly. 

“You want the ones that look, hm—intentional,” Minho says. “Like they belong there.” 

Jisung tilts his head. “So the messy ones are suspicious.” 

“Exactly.” 

“That feels like an unfair judgment. Being messy doesn’t mean you’re abnormal,” Jisung mutters, reaching carefully to pick one under Minho’s guidance. 

Minho watches his hands closely, nodding once when he does it right. “You’ll get faster.” 

“Or I’ll poison us both and your ghost will haunt me forever.” 

Minho huffs softly. “I’d prefer not to die, actually.” 

“Selfish,” Jisung says, but he’s smiling. 

They gather a small collection between them, placing each mushroom carefully into Minho’s basket. The forest seems to lean in around them as they work, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and growing things, the light shifting lazily overhead as the sun climbs higher and hotter. Time stretches, soft and unhurried, and Jisung finds that he loves conversing with Minho. He’s a little weird, but one of the most interesting people he’s met in a long time. 

Jisung starts to feel it then—the subtle shift from being guided to beginning to understand by himself. So when he spots another cluster a little further off, half-hidden beneath a low branch, he moves toward it with a flicker of confidence. 

“I think I found—” 

He reaches out. 

Minho moves fast. 

“Wait—don’t—” 

His hand closes around Jisung’s wrist before he can touch it, firm enough to stop him, sudden enough to startle. Jisung freezes, breath catching, his other hand hovering inches above the mushroom. 

“Don’t touch that,” Minho says, sharper than before, the calm stripped from his voice, replaced by something edged with real panic. 

Jisung blinks, looking down at the cluster again, then back at Minho. “What—?” 

“That one’s dangerous,” Minho says quickly. “Not just unpleasant. That’s—” He exhales, steadying himself. “That one can actually hurt you. Even handling it carelessly isn’t as good idea.” 

Jisung’s gaze drops to where Minho is still holding is wrist, not letting go. 

Minho seems to realise it a second later. 

His grip loosens slightly, but not completely. And when he looks up, time stutters—

They’re much closer than Jisung realised. 

Close enough that he can see the fine details of Minho’s skin. The slight blemishes there, the adorable little freckle on the tip of his nose, the crinkle of his eyelids, the plush pout of his lips and the one tooth that always seems to dig itself into it. He even notices how long his lashes are, long enough to cast shadows on the top of his cheeks. Close enough that their breaths mingle in the narrow space between them. 

Jisung’s heart stumbles. 

Minho’s eyes flicker, just slightly, dropping for the briefest moment to Jisung’s mouth before snapping back up again. 

Jisung feels it. That pull. That same quiet, dangerous gravity he’s been trying to ignore. 

For a second—just one—he almost leans in. It’s not even a decision, more like instinct, like something in him recognising something in Minho and wanting to close the distance before it disappears. 

But then, a sharp burst of wings cuts through the moment. 

A bird launches from a nearby branch, the sudden movement loud in the stillness, leaves rustling violently as it escapes the canopy. 

They both jerk back. 

The contact breaks as if it had never been there, the space between them snapping wide open again, filled now with nothing but air and the echo of what almost happened. 

Minho clears his throat, stepping back first this time, turning slightly away as he regains his composure. 

“I, uh—we should avoid that area,” he says, his voice carefully neutral again, though the faint flush at the tips of his ears betrays him. 

Jisung nods, a little too quickly. “Right. Yeah. Avoid the… death mushrooms.” 

Neither of them mentions it. 

Instead, Jisung lets Minho take the lead again, falling back into that earlier rhythm, though something has changed now—something quieter, more charged, like the air before a storm. He doesn’t reach out for any mushrooms again without asking, doesn’t trust himself not to repeat the same mistake, and Minho doesn’t stop him again, though his attention lingers a little closer, a little sharper than before.

By the time Minho decides they’ve gathered enough, the basket is half full, the contents carefully sorted and separated, and the forest feels warmer than it did when they first entered it. Almost too warm now. 

“You said there’s a stream nearby, right?” Minho asks, glancing up. 

Jisung nods. “Yeah. This way.” 

They walk side by side now, quieter than before, their steps slower. The path dips gently, the ground softening further underfoot, and soon enough, the faint sound of running water reaches them, threading through the trees. 

The stream appears gradually, glinting through the foliage before opening fully—a narrow ribbon of clear water winding over smooth stones, sunlight catching on its glittering surface. 

Jisung steps closer to the edge, crouching easily. “Here,” he says, brushing his fingers through the water. “It’s clean.” 

Minho joins him, setting the basket down carefully between them. They work together without needing to speak, rinsing the mushrooms one by one, turning them gently in the current to wash away the dirt. The water is nice and cold, and Jisung watches the way Minho handles each piece with the same care he used when picking them. 

There’s something grounding about it. 

Something quiet. 

Jisung leans back slightly after a moment, letting his gaze wander as Minho continues working. The forest here feels different again—lighter, more open, the trees spaced just enough to let the sun spill through in soft, dappled patterns. 

And that’s when he sees them. 

A cluster of berries, tucked just beyond the stream, their colour deep and rich against the green. 

Jisung’s eyes light up immediately. 

“Well,” he says, a hint of excitement slipping into his voice. “Now this… this is my expertise.” 

Minho glances up, following his line of sight. “Yeah?” 

Jisung grins, already pushing himself to his feet. “Oh, yeah.” 

He steps toward the bushes, confidence settling into him in a way that feels entirely different from before—familiar, certain, rooted. He crouches beside them, brushing leaves aside with practised ease. 

“These,” he says, plucking one carefully and holding it up, “are perfectly safe. Sweet, too. Best this time of the year.” 

He gathers a small handful, dropping them into his palm, then stands and turns back toward Minho, who is still crouched by the stream, watching now with that same quiet attentiveness he always seems to carry. 

Jisung walks back over, gives them a quick wash, then holds them out like an offering. “Here.” 

But before Minho can take one, Jisung pops one into his own mouth. 

“Oh,” he breathes, the sound slipping out before he can stop it, soft and almost indulgent as the sweetness blooms across his tongue. His eyes flutter shut for a second, head tilting slightly as he savours it. “Okay—yeah. That’s—” 

He huffs a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh, wiping his thumb lightly against his lips to catch the juices. “I forgot how good they are.” 

When he looks back up, Minho is staring at him. 

Jisung falters under the weight of it, something warm creeping up his neck. Minho’s eyes are a fraction wider than before, something unreadable flickering in them, and the faint flush that had touched his ears earlier has deepened, blooming more noticeably now against his skin. 

Jisung swallows. 

“...What?” he asks. 

Minho blinks, like he’s been caught somewhere he shouldn’t be, and quickly looks down at the berries in Jisung’s hand. “Nothing,” he says, though it sounds like it isn’t true at all. “Just—are they really that good?” 

Jisung’s mouth curves, a spark of something playful lighting in his chest. “You tell me.” 

Without really thinking it through, he picks one up between his fingers and lifts it toward Minho. 

Minho hesitates for the briefest moment. Then, almost instinctively, he leans in. 

His lips part, and Jisung feels it—that small, electric jolt racing from his fingertips to his arm—as Minho accepts the offering without question, without hesitation, like parting his lips for Jisung’s entry is the most natural thing in the world. 

But what Jisung doesn’t expect is the way Minho eats it. 

His lips brush Jisung’s fingers first, pillow-soft and warm, and Jisung’s breath hitches sharply at the contact, his lungs suddenly forgetting how to function. It should have been fleeting—just a moment, just enough to take the fruit—but Minho doesn’t pull away. 

Instead, he lingers. The wet heat of his mouth stays there, pressing lightly against his fingertips before closing more firmly, and Jisung feels the faint scrape of teeth as the berry is pulled away. The juice leaves a sticky-sweet trail across his skin. 

Jisung exhales shakily, and his fingers twitch involuntarily. But then MInho’s tongue brushes against them, slotting precisely between the gap. Jisung makes a sound—something caught between surprise and something far more dangerous—and immediately feels heat flood through him, sharp and sudden, settling low in his abdomen like molten honey, making his thoughts scatter like startled birds. 

Minho pulls back slowly. 

Too slowly. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Jisung’s hand is still suspended between them, fingers slightly parted where Minho’s tongue had just been, the ghost of it lingering in a way that feels almost unreal. The air feels so thick that it’s harder to breathe through, every inhale catching somewhere too high in his chest. 

Their eyes meet, and this time, they don’t look away. 

Minho’s gaze is darker now—no confusion, no shyness softening it, just something steady and intent, like he’s watching the effect he’s had and choosing not to hide from it. His lips part slightly again, as if he’s about to say something, but nothing comes. 

Jisung swallows. 

His pulse is loud. Everywhere. In his throat, in his wrists, low and insistent beneath his skin. 

He becomes painfully aware of himself—of the heat pooling through him, of the way his body has reacted without permission, of how close Minho still is. Close enough that if either of them leaned in slightly—

But again, he doesn’t. 

Not even when Minho’s gaze flickers again, just briefly, down to Jisung’s mouth. 

His breath stutters. 

The forest holds still around them, like even the wind has paused to listen. For a moment—just a moment—it feels like something is about to tip. Like the balance between them is shifting toward something neither of them can take back. 

Minho inhales, and Jisung feels it. 

Warm. Close. 

And then Minho moves back, breaking the moment like a snapping thread. 

Jisung exhales sharply, like he’s been underwater for too long and only just made it up for air. His hand drops slowly to his side, fingers curling in on themselves as if he trying to contain the lingering sensation for a bit longer. 

“...Those are good,” Minho says, his voice quieter than before, rougher. 

Jisung lets out a weak huff of laughter, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I told you.” 

Neither of them mentions what just happened. 

But it doesn’t go away. 

It lingers in the space between, in the way Minho doesn’t quite meet his eyes for a few seconds after, in the way Jisung suddenly finds it too hard to stay still.

 “Here,” he says after a moment, walking back to the bushes with the basket, throwing in a few more berries. “For later.” 

Minho nods, watching him intensely. “Thanks.”

The word ‘thanks’ is simple, but the way he says it isn’t. 

Jisung straightens, glancing back toward the stream as if remembering why they came here in the first place. 

“We should finish cleaning those,” he says a little too quickly. 

“Yeah,” Minho agrees. 

They return to the stream, the rhythm from before slipping back into place—but not quite the same. There’s a new awareness now that makes every small move feel deliberate. 

Their hands brush once as they both reach for the same mushroom. They both pull back immediately. 

Jisung laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “You go.” 

Minho huffs softly, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he takes it. 

They finish in silence after that, the sound of water filling the spaces where conversation might have been. The stream carries away the dirt, the evidence of what just happened, but not the memory of it.

Not even close. 

They leave the area slowly, neither of them in any particular hurry to break whatever quiet has settled between them. The forest shifts around them as they walk—light filtering differently now through the canopy, softer, warmer, catching in Minho’s hair and turning it into something almost burnished. Jisung finds himself noticing it more than he should. He seems to notice a lot about Minho. 

The basket swings gently in Minho’s hand, the collected mushrooms nestled carefully inside, and every now and then, Minho glances down at them like he’s checking they haven’t sprouted little legs and hopped out. 

Jisung understands the feeling. 

They walk, their steps unconsciously matching. The path unwinds beneath their feet, familiar to Jisung, but somehow different now with Minho beside him. The forest doesn’t feel like just his anymore. It feels… shared. Like it’s letting Minho in, piece by piece, the same way Jisung seems to be doing without quite realising it. 

“You come out here often?” Minho asks eventually, his voice softer than it had been earlier, like he’s careful not to disturb the quiet too much. 

“At least once a week,” Jisung replies. “With my dad, usually. It’s part of the work. But…” He glances at him briefly, then away again. “Sometimes I just come out on my own, just to be alone.”  

Minho hums. “I get that.” 

There’s something about the way he says it that feels heavier and more meaningful than the words let on. Jisung doesn’t press, though. He’s learning, slowly, that MInho is the kind of person who will offer things in his own time. 

By the time the trees begin to thin, and Minho’s cottage comes into view, the light has shifted again, dipping toward afternoon gold. The little house looks different from this angle, tucked into the edge of the land like it belongs there—Jisung supposes it always has, but it’s different, now that it’s occupied by Minho. 

Minho pauses just for a second when they reach it, glancing toward the door before looking back at Jisung. 

“Do you—” he starts, then hesitates, something uncertain flickering across his face. “Do you want to stay? I can cook them now. If you’re not busy.” 

Jisung doesn’t even pretend to think about it. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little too quickly. “I’d like that.” 

Minho’s shoulders loosen, and he nods once before they walk up to the door and enter. 

The cottage greets them with warmth. 

Not just temperature, but something deeper than that—the faint lingering scent of bread, of wood, of herbs drying somewhere unseen. It feels lived in now in a way it hadn’t the first time Jisung stepped inside. The furniture they’d gathered together sits in quiet harmony, mismatched but somehow perfect, each piece holding its place. 

Jisung lingers in the doorway, taking it in. 

“You did a lot,” he says, glancing around. 

Minho shrugs lightly, setting the basket down on the small wooden table. “Thought I might as well make it… liveable.” 

Jisung smiles faintly. He did a good job. 

He moves closer as Minho begins to unpack the mushrooms, observing as he handles them with the same care as he did in the forest—checking each one, brushing off any remaining dirt with precise, gentle movements. 

“Come here,” Minho says after a moment, nodding him closer. “I’ll show you what to do.” 

Jisung steps up beside him, close enough now that he can see everything clearly—the way Minho’s hands move, steady and sure, the small habits that betray experience. He reaches for a knife, and even that looks different in his grip—natural, sure, controlled. 

“These need trimming first,” Minho explains, his voice low and focused. “You don’t want the ends—they’re too tough.” 

Jisung leans in slightly, watching intently as Minho demonstrates, then carefully tries it himself when Minho passes him the knife. His first cut is a little uneven, and he huffs under his breath frustrated. 

“Like this,” Minho murmurs, reaching over to guide his hand. 

His fingers wrap lightly around Jisung’s wrist, adjusting the angle just slightly.

It’s such a brief, small touch. 

But it sears. 

Jisung swallows, focusing very hard on the mushroom in front of him as he follows the motion. “Right.” 

Minho lets go after a second, stepping back just enough to give him space, but not far. Not far at all. 

They fall into the rhythm of it together, slicing and preparing. Minho talks him through each step, explaining things in a way that’s simple yet precise, never talking down or rushing him. Jisung sometimes finds himself listening more to the sound of his voice than to the actual words, the low, sweet cadence of it settling somewhere warm in his chest. 

Oil heats in the pan with a soft hiss, and Minho moves with quiet efficiency, adding ingredients one by one. Garlic first, the scent blooming instantly in the small space, rich and comforting. Then the mushrooms, the sound of them hitting the pan is sharp before softening as they begin to cook. 

Jisung watches, completely absorbed. 

“You’re so good at this,” he says, unable to stop himself. 

Minho glances at him briefly, pride flickering in his expression. “It’s just practice.” 

“Still.” 

Minho doesn’t argue this time. 

The dish comes together slowly, each step deliberate, each movement purposeful. Jisung finds himself drawn in completely, forgetting everything else that’s been troubling him—the dream, the strange tension from earlier, even the lingering heat that hasn’t quite left his body. 

Here, in this space, with Minho moving around him, it feels… easy. 

Safe. Jisung hasn’t felt safe with someone else in a while. 

By the time they’re done, the cottage smells incredible—warm, savoury, rich with something that feels like home. 

Minho plates it carefully, setting the dishes down on the small table, and for a moment, they just stand there, looking at it. 

“Moment of truth,” Jisung says lightly. 

Minho huffs a quiet laugh. “Sit down before it gets cold.” 

They do, settling onto the chairs they’d chosen together days before, the table between them bearing the simple meal like it’s something far more important. 

Jisung takes a bite. 

“Oh.” 

Minho watches him, something almost cautious in his expression now. “That good?” 

Jisung looks up at him, eyes bright. “It’s—Minho, it’s really good.” 

The tension in MInho’s shoulders eases immediately, and he looks down at his own plate with a small, almost embarrassed smile. 

“Good,” he says. 

They eat slowly, not rushing, conversation coming and going in soft waves. It’s not constant, not forced—just enough to fill the space without overwhelming it. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don’t. 

And somehow, it never feels awkward. 

The light shifts again, and they sit there, evening beginning to creep in through the windows, painting everything in softer tones. The cottage feels smaller now, but in a good way—closer, warmer, like it’s holding them both in its embrace. 

Minho breaks the quiet first. 

He sets his fork down gently, glancing toward the window where the last of the daylight is thinning into something dusky and soft, the sky painted in muted gold and fading blue. For a moment, he just watches it, like he’s measuring something only he can see, before he looks back at Jisung. 

“I’ve got something. If you want.” 

Jisung tilts his head. “What kind of something?” 

Minho’s mouth curves, just faintly. “Brandy. Someone gave it to me a while back, can’t even remember who… but, uh, anyway. I haven’t really had a reason to open it.” 

There’s something about the way he says it—like this is a good reason. Like Jisung is a good reason to. 

Jisung feels that same quiet warmth bloom again in his chest. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I’d like that.”

Minho nods once, pushing his chair back as he stands. He moves around the cottage with the same easy confidence Jisung has already come to associate with him, retrieving a bottle from a shelf Jisung hadn’t noticed yet. The glass catches the low light, amber liquid glowing faintly within it like something preserved from another time. 

“Just one,” Minho adds, almost as an afterthought. 

Jisung huffs. “I trust you.” 

Minho’s eyes flicker at that, something unreadable passing through them, but he says nothing as he pours two glasses. 

Then, without asking, he crosses to the hearth. 

The fire takes a moment to catch, the small crackle of a kindling filling the room before the flames begin to grow, slow and steady, casting flickering light across the walls. It changes everything—the atmosphere, the space, the way the cottage pulls them into its embrace even more. 

They settle near the fire, close but not quite touching, the warmth curling around them as Minho hands him a glass. Their fingers brush briefly in the exchange, and this time neither of them reacts—not outwardly, at least. 

Jisung takes a small sip. 

It burns, just slightly, but not unpleasantly—warm, spreading through his chest, loosening something tight he hadn’t realised he was holding. 

“Good?” Minho asks. 

Jisung nods. “Yeah.” 

The fire pops softly. 

For a while, they sit like that—watching the flames, drinking slowly, the quiet no longer something that needs to be filled. It settles between them comfortably, like something shared rather than avoided. 

And then, somewhere between one breath and the next, the conversation shifts. 

It starts small. 

Fragments of their pasts, half-offered and gently received. 

Minho talks about the cottage and how he obtained it almost by accident. Jisung listens, asking soft questions, offering pieces of himself in return without really noticing when it starts to happen. 

It’s easy. 

Too easy.

And maybe that’s why Jisung doesn’t catch himself in time. 

“...After him,” Jisung says, his voice quieter now, gaze dropping to the amber liquid in his glass. 

The word slips out before he can stop it. 

Him. 

Jisung freezes. 

It hits him a second too late, the way it sounds when spoken aloud, the way it means something whether he intended it to or not. His chest tightens instantly, the familiar flicker of panic rising sharp and quick. 

“I—” he starts, too fast, already trying to backtrack. “I didn’t mean like—I mean, it’s not—” 

Minho doesn’t react the way he expects. 

He doesn’t tense or look disgusted or confused. 

Doesn’t pull away. 

Instead, he lets out the smallest breath of something that almost sounds like a quiet, relieved laugh. 

“Oh,” Minho says. 

Jisung blinks. Oh? 

Minho glances at him properly now, something softer settling into his expression, and yeah, he looks relieved. 

“Right,” he adds, like he’s piecing something together in real time. “Okay. That makes sense.” 

Jisung stares at him, completely thrown. “What?” 

Minho huffs softly, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that suddenly makes him look a little less composed. 

“I just—” he gestures vaguely between them. “Didn’t know if I was imagining things earlier.” 

Jisung stomach flips. 

“Imagining what?” he asks, even though he’s pretty sure he already knows. 

Minho's mouth quirks. “You know. The whole….” He trails off, then shrugs. “Thing.” 

The thing. 

The forest flashes through Jisung’s mind in an instant—the hand grabbing his, the almost kiss, the berry, the—

Oh. 

“Oh,” Jisung echoes. 

There’s a beat, and then Minho meets his eyes again, more direct this time. 

“For the record,” he says, “you don’t have to explain it away.” 

Jisung swallows. 

Minho tilts his head slightly. “I, uh… I like men, too.” 

There’s something almost wry in the way he says it, like he’s understanding something obvious. And suddenly, everything clicks. 

The tension that had been sitting in his chest all evening shifts, reshapes, and becomes something lighter. 

“Oh,” Jisung says again. 

Then a small, disbelieving laugh escapes him. “Oh.” 

Minho smiles—really smiles, this time, something easy and unguarded breaking through. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

Jisung shakes his head, breath catching in something that almost feels like relief. “Okay. That—” he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “This makes things a lot less confusing.” 

Minho huffs. “You’re telling me.”

They share a look, and something settles. An understanding. 

Jisung leans back slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time since the conversation began. 

“You can keep going, if you like,” Minho says. 

Jisung nods. “His name was Haru.” 

Minho doesn’t interrupt. 

Jisung glances at the fire as he continues, voice quieter but no longer tight. “We were together for a while. I thought…” He trails off, shaking his head faintly. “I thought it was a forever thing.” 

The words don’t feel as sharp now. Still heavy, but no longer suffocating. 

“He said all the right things,” Jisung murmurs. “Made it feel real. And then one day he just… left. Like it was nothing, Like I was nothing. It really fucking hurt.” 

The fire crackles. 

“That’s awful, Jisung. Total shit,” he says simply. 

Jisung lets out a small, surprised laugh at that, the bluntness of it catching him off guard. “Yeah,” he admits. “It kind of was.” 

Silence settles again. But it’s different now. 

Then Minho moves. 

His hand slides over Jisung’s, where it rests against his knees, warm and steady, like he’s not even thinking about it. 

Jisung stills, his breath catching slightly. 

“You didn’t deserve that,” Minho says, quieter. 

Jisung glances at him, at how close he is now.

Close enough that the firelight flickers across his features, softening everything, making him look almost unreal.  

“You deserve someone who stays,” Minho continues, thumb brushing lightly over Jisung’s knuckles, the touch absent in movement but deliberate in presence. Then he pauses, as if that thought alone isn’t enough—like it doesn’t come close to saying what he actually means. 

His gaze lifts again, locking onto Jisung’s. 

“You’re—” he starts, then exhales, shaking his head slightly, as if frustrated by the limitation of words. “You’re wonderful. Do you know that?” 

Jisung blinks, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice more than the words themselves. 

Minho doesn’t look away. 

“You’re kind,” he continues. “You’re considerate in a way that most people don’t even think about. You notice things. You take care of people like it’s just… part of who you are. Like you don’t even realise you’re doing it.” 

Jisung’s breath starts to feel uneven. 

Minho’s hand tightens slightly around his, like he doesn’t want him to slip away from this moment. 

“And you’re—” he falters again, but only for a second this time, his eyes flickering across his face like he’s trying to commit him to memory. “You’re probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” 

The words land heavy. 

Minho huffs out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath, like he can’t quite believe what he’s about to admit next—but he does it anyway. 

“When I first saw you,” he murmurs. “I almost—” He lets out a small, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “I almost tripped over my own feet. I just… stood there like an idiot, thinking, there’s no way. There’s no way that someone like you is just—real. Standing in front of me.” 

Jisung’s fingers curl slightly beneath his. 

Minho’s voice goes even softer, but still doesn’t lose its edge. If anything, it deepens. 

“And yesterday,” he continues, slower now, “when you were lying there in the grass, and I walked up and you looked up at me like that—” 

His thumb stills. 

“Those wide, buggy eyes,” he adds, a faint smile touching his lips at the phrasing, but his gaze never wavers. “I knew I was in trouble.” 

Jisung’s breath catches sharply. 

Minho leans in a fraction, not enough to close the distance, but enough that Jisung can feel the warmth of him now, close and steady. 

“And yeah,” Minho says quieter, almost like a confession. “It’s fast to feel like that. I know it is.” 

His eyes search Jisung’s. 

“But I can’t pretend I’m not already…” he trails off, exhaling softly. “Entranced by you.” 

The words settle between them, heavy and fragile all at once. Jisung feels it everywhere. In the way his pulse stutters, then races. In the way his chest feels too tight to breathe properly. In the way Minho is looking at him—like he’s already decided something, like he’s already fallen just a little too far to pretend he hasn’t. 

And maybe Jisung has too. 

“Minho…” Jisung breathes, barely more than a whisper. 

He doesn’t know what he’s about to say at first. 

 He just knows that he has to say something, because if he doesn’t, he might burst from the sheer weight of everything sitting inside him. His free hand lifts slightly, hovering for a second before settling lightly against Minho’s wrist, grounding himself in his warmth. 

“God,” he exhales, voice shaky, breath uneven. “Minho…” 

His eyes flicker down, just briefly, to Minho’s lips, then back up. There’s no hesitation left, no second-guessing. 

“Please,” he murmurs, softer now, but no less desperate for it. “Can you kiss me?” 

Minho doesn’t answer with words. 

He just closes the last inches between them, his hand sliding up to cradle Jisung’s cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across the soft skin beneath his eyes. The firelight dances across Minho’s face, casting his features in amber shadow, his dark eyes reflecting twin flames as they flicker down to Jisung’s parted lips. 

For a fracturing second, all Jisung can hear is the wild rush of his own heartbeat, thundering against his ribs like it might break free. The world narrows to the warmth of Minho’s palm against his skin, the subtle scent of pine and smoke that clings to him, the slight tremble in his fingers as they curl against Jisung’s jaw—then Minho’s lips meet his, soft, warm and slightly chapped but impossibly soft. 

The kiss is gentle for a single, trembling heartbeat—soft as a whisper against his lips, searching like fingers finding their way in the darkness. Jisung melts into it instantly, every nerve ending sparking alive, electric currents racing from his mouth to his fingertips.

Minho tastes like woodsmoke and the sweet tang of berries. His lips are slow at first, then hungrier, his mouth opening him up with an aching kind of devotion that makes his knees feel weak even when he isn’t standing. 

A gasp escapes his throat as his hands rise to clutch at Minho’s shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric there, desperate for something solid to hold onto as Minho deepens the kiss, tilting his head just so to fit them together perfectly.

Then Minho’s tongue is sliding along the seam of his lips, warm velvet against his tender skin, coaxing him open with gentle insistence. The first touch of their tongues sends sparks cascading down his spine. 

Jisung parts willingly, eagerly, and the kiss transforms into something molten: hot breath mingling, teeth grazing the swell of his bottom lip. Minho’s hand threads into the back of his hair, the strands catching between his fingers as he angles Jisung’s head. Jisung responds with a whimper, the sound vibrating against Minho’s mouth, a sound so vulnerable and wanting that Jisung should feel embarrassed. 

When they finally pull away, it’s only because their lungs demand it. Their foreheads touch, sharing the same air. A small, wondering laugh escapes Jisung, light as air yet heavy with meaning. Every kiss before this suddenly feels like practice for the real thing. 

Minho looks at him like he’s the only thing in the world, lips swollen and eyes shining. 

The fire crackles, the room wrapped in amber light and something softer, something newly fragile and impossibly strong at once. Jisung becomes aware of everything—the warmth of Minho’s hand still cradling his face, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way their breaths keep brushing together like they haven’t quite figured out how to become separate people again yet. 

Minho exhales first, like he’s grounding himself back to reality. 

“I should…” he starts, but the words don’t quite land. His thumb lingers against Jisung’s cheek, brushing once more before letting his hand fall. 

Jisung feels the absence of it right away. 

“Walk you home,” Minho finishes instead. “Before I lose my control and do something I shouldn’t. I want to take my time with you. Don’t want to rush.” 

Jisung swallows hard at the implication, and nods, even though a part of him just wants to say fuck it and let Minho have him. But he understands. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay.” 

They take a moment to gather themselves, straightening their clothes and finishing the last sip of brandy. It’s just small things, but it all feels strangely significant, like stepping out of something sacred and trying to pretend that everything hasn’t changed. 

When they step out into the evening, the air is cooler, the sky deepening into soft blues and purples, the first hints of night settling over the fields. The world feels quieter. 

They walk side by side. Close enough that Jisung can feel the warmth of Minho beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost brush with every few steps. 

It’s different from earlier. 

Every now and then, Jisung glances at him, only to find Minho already looking. Each time, they both look away. 

His house comes into view sooner than Jisung would like. 

The lights are on, glowing warm through the windows, familiar and grounding—and suddenly, sharply, real. The world he belongs to, waiting just a few steps ahead. 

They slow without meaning to, stopping just short of the gate. 

For a second, they stand in silence. Jisung shifts his weight slightly, his fingers curling at his sides, unsure what to do with himself now that the moment is ending. 

“Well,” he says, and immediately regrets how small it sounds. 

Minho huffs a quiet breath. “Yeah.” 

Another pause. 

“Can I—” Minho starts, but doesn’t finish. 

He doesn’t need to, because Jisung is already stepping closer. 

Minho’s hand finds him again, this time at his waist, pulling him in just enough that the space between them disappears, and the kiss that follows is nothing like the first. 

Not careful nor tentative. 

It’s warmer, deeper, like something already familiar but still overwhelming. Jisung leans into it instantly, his hands coming up without thinking, gripping tight at Minho’s coat as the kiss deepens, tilting, shifting, pulling them closer than they probably should be standing in the open like this. 

Minho exhales against his mouth, a soft, broken sound, and Jisung feels it like a spark, something that travels straight through him, settling low and dangerous. 

It almost tips. 

Almost becomes something more. 

Minho’s hand tightens at his waist, pulling him just a fraction closer, and Jisung’s breath catches sharply, his body responding before his mind can catch up, leaning in, chasing the warmth, the closeness—

And then—

Minho breaks the kiss.

Abruptly. 

Like he has to. 

They stay close, foreheads almost touching again, both breathing a little harder now, the air between them no longer quiet but heavy, full of everything they didn’t quite let happen. 

Minho lets out a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “If we keep going…” 

Jisung swallows, his voice quieter, a little wrecked. “Yeah.” 

Minho’s hand lingers for a second longer before he finally lets go, stepping back just enough to put space between them again. 

“Tomorrow?” he asks. “Dinner at mine again?” 

Jisung nods immediately. “Yeah. Tomorrow.” 

Minho smiles—soft, a little dazed, like he’s not fully back to himself. 

“Tomorrow,” he repeats. 

And this time, when Jisung turns toward the house, he does look back. 

Just once. 

And Minho is still standing there, watching him. Jisung’s chest tightens.

He pushes open the door and freezes. Because the second he steps inside, there’s a scramble. A thud. A muffled yelp. The unmistakable sound of multiple people trying very hard to pretend they weren’t just doing exactly what they were doing. 

Jisung slowly turns his head. 

His entire family is… not looking at him. His mother is suddenly very interested in a completely empty pot. His father is inspecting the same apple that he definitely finished peeling earlier. Hajoon is leaning far too casually against the wall, like he didn’t just nearly trip over his own feet. Yura is covering her mouth, shoulders shaking. And Sooah—well, she’s just staring at him, wide-eyed. 

“...Were you all—” Jisung starts. 

“No,” his mother says immediately. 

“Absolutely not,” Hajoon adds, too quickly. 

“We saw nothing,” his father says, nodding solemnly. 

His mother beams. “We definitely didn’t see you kissing the new neighbour, darling.” 

Jisung closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, his entire face is burning. 

“...I’m going to bed,” he mutters. 

Behind him, someone snorts, and someone else shushes them. 

And as Jisung disappears down the hall, heart still racing, lips still tingling, he doesn’t miss the way his chest feels lighter than it has in a long, long time. 

Or the way, just outside, beyond the door, Minho lingers a moment longer before finally turning to leave. 

The next evening feels different before Jisung even reaches the cottage. 

There’s a kind of quiet anticipation sitting beneath his skin, something lighter than nerves, but sharper than simple excitement, like every step toward Minho’s door carries a weight he doesn’t quite know how to name yet. The sky is dipping toward evening again, the same soft gold melting into blue, but it feels warmer, like the world itself has shifted slightly to accommodate this—whatever this is becoming between them. 

He doesn’t knock. 

The door is already slightly ajar, and when he pushes it open, the now-familiar warmth of the cottage wraps around him instantly, carrying with it the scent of something already cooking—garlic again, maybe, and something richer underneath. 

Minho glances up from the stove the moment Jisung steps inside, and smiles. 

“Hey,” he says, like Jisung being here is the most natural thing in the world. 

Jisung feels it in his chest. “Hey.” 

There’s no hesitation this time as he steps further in, shrugging off his outer layer and settling it aside like he belongs here now, like this is already something they’ve done a hundred times before. 

“What are you making?” he asks, drifting closer almost instinctively. 

Minho shifts slightly to make space for him at the counter. “Something simple. Thought I’d show you a bit more, if you’re still interested.” 

Jisung huffs a soft laugh. “Of course I am.” 

He leans in, probably closer than is necessary, watching Minho’s—strong and veiny—hands as he moves. There’s something hypnotic about it—the confidence, the ease, the way everything he does feels deliberate without ever seeming forced. Jisung finds himself tracking every small motion, every adjustment, like if he looks closely enough, he might understand how Minho makes it all seem so effortless. 

And of course, Minho notices. 

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, not looking up from what he’s doing, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth. 

Jisung doesn’t even try to deny it. “You're interesting to watch.” 

Minho huffs quietly, but there’s a flicker of something pleased in the way his shoulders settle. “It’s just cooking.” 

“It’s not,” Jisung says, softer now. 

Minho glances at him then, properly, and something in his gaze shifts again—warmer, maybe, or just more aware. 

“Come here,” he says. 

Minho hands him something to do—nothing complicated, just small tasks, but this time the space between them feels different. Jisung brushes against him once, then again, neither of them moving away, neither of them pretending it didn’t happen. 

And then Minho leans in. It’s quick. Barely more than a brush of lips against the corner of Jisung’s mouth, fleeting enough that Jisung almost thinks he imagined it. 

Almost. 

Jisung stills for half a second, blinking at him, and Minho is already turning back to the stove as if nothing happened. 

“Pay attention,” Minho says, but there’s a smile in his voice. 

Jisung lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, heat blooming under his skin. “You—”

Another quick kiss, this time fully on his lips, but gone just as fast. 

Jisung exhales sharply, staring at him. “You can’t just—” 

Minho shrugs, entirely unapologetic. “I just did.” 

There’s something playful there now, something lighter threading through the quiet intensity of yesterday, and it settles into Jisung easily, like something he didn’t know he needed. 

He finds himself leaning in a little closer after that. Not even consciously. 

The next time he steals a kiss, Jisung is ready for it—tilting just slightly into the contact, chasing it for a fraction of a second longer before Minho pulls away again, like he’s testing how far he can go before it becomes something more. 

Something neither of them is quite ready to let it become. 

Not yet.

They fall into a rhythm like that. 

Cooking. Talking. Moving around each other in the small space with an ease that feels almost startling in how natural it is. Every now and then, Minho reaches out—another quick kiss, a brush of fingers, something small but deliberate enough to make Jisung’s breath catch every time. 

And Jisung lets him. But more, starts to expect it. 

Starts to anticipate the moments when Minho will lean in, when he’ll get the soft, fleeting warmth, when their eyes will meet just long enough for something unspoken to pass between them. 

Dinner leaves them pleasantly full and a little flushed, the meal ending with laughter and more gentle teasing than either seems prepared for. As Minho clears their plates, Jisung finds himself wandering to the newest addition in the cottage—a slightly battered, overstuffed couch that must be fresh from the market. 

He sprawls on it, stretching his legs, feeling oddly at home. The seat dips invitingly when Minho joins him, sitting close enough that their knees touch. 

For a moment, neither speaks. The air between them is thick with anticipation and something softer, almost shy. Jisung drums his fingers on his thigh, glancing sideways at Minho, and Minho catches his gaze, a knowing little smile tugging at his lips. 

They both open their mouths at once— ”Can I—” overlapping, and Jisung laughs, nerves bubbling up. 

“You first,” Minho says. 

Jisung swallows, heat crawling up his neck. “Can we… kiss again?” The words come out small, hopeful, trembling with want. 

Minho’s eyes soften. “Yeah. Yeah, we can.” He shifts closer, raising a hand as if to touch Jisung’s face, then hesitates, letting Jisung close the distance first. 

The kiss is tentative at first—a question and an answer all at once. Minho’s lips are so soft, warm and gentle, but as Jisung surges forward, the kiss deepens. Tongues sweep together, slow and hungry, and Jisung’s hands find Minho’s shoulders, clutching for balance as Minho’s fingers slide down his back, settling at his waist. 

Jisung’s pulse pounds loud in his ears as Minho’s kisses grow more insistent, their bodies angling closer until Jisung finds himself drawn gently into Minho’s lap, legs straddling his thighs. The shift seems to ground them both—Jisung lets out a shaky breath, and Minho’s hands steady him at his hips. 

Minho pauses, searching Jisung’s face. “Can I…” His voice is a rough whisper, reverent and careful. “Can I touch you? Is that okay?” 

The simple, genuine question makes Jisung’s heart pull tight. He nods, eyes wide. “Yes. Please.” 

Minho’s hands settle on his hips, then slide downward, tentative at first, thumbs rubbing gentle circles through the fabric. When his hands finally cup Jisung’s behind, he lets out a quiet, involuntary moan—the sound vibrating between their mouths. Encouraged, Minho squeezes a little more firmly, and Jisung’s hips jerk forward, grinding down against him.

“Fuck,” Jisung breathes, the word spilling out. 

Minho’s grip steadies him, thumbs stroking the curve of his cheeks almost possessively. “You’re okay?” he murmurs, voice ragged. 

Jisung nods, his breath coming quicker. “Yeah. More than okay.” 

They fall together, mouths colliding in a hot, desperate kiss. Minho’s tongue finds his again, the kiss deepening, messier and wetter. Jisung feels himself unravelling, his hips rolling forward with every slow squeeze of Minho’s hands. The friction is dizzying, his cock hard and straining, pressing against Minho through the thin barrier of their clothes. 

Minho shifts beneath him, spreading his legs wider, letting Jisung sink closer. The movement drags their bodies together until Jisung is grinding down against the unmistakable ridge of Minho’s cock. Minho groans, and the sound makes Jisung’s whole body clench with need. 

“Shit, Minho…” Jisung gasps, muffled against Minho’s jaw as kisses slide sideways, messy and open-mouthed, along his neck. His hands bury themselves in Minho’s hair for balance as his hip cant down again, chasing friction. 

Minho’s hands knead and explore, learning the shape of Jisung’s body. “You feel so good on me, bug,” he whispers. 

The nickname muddles Jisung’s thoughts, makes the world tilt and go wonderfully soft. He hides a smile, then moans outright when Minho’s hands slip under the hem of his shirt, stroking his warm skin.

“Minho…” 

“It’s okay,” Minho says, soothing. “You can keep going. I want you to.” 

Jisung’s hips move without thinking, rutting harder, the friction hot and almost overwhelming. His cock is throbbing already, and when he grinds down, he feels the thick, heavy length of Minho’s arousal beneath him—it feels so big it makes his mouth water. 

He leans in, catching Minho’s lips again, kissing him deep and filthy, tongue stroking into Minho’s mouth as his hands wander, finding Minho’s shoulders, his chest, clutching at anything he can reach. 

Jisung finally pulls back, breathless and red-cheeked, eyes blown wide. He can’t help but glance down between them, then quickly away, his fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of Minho’s shirt. 

“I want—” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. His voice drops to a whisper, “Can I… would it be okay if I…” He bites his lips, unable to finish the sentence, but his eyes flicker downward again, the unspoken desire clear in his eyes. 

Minho’s hands tighten on his waist, his expression almost feral with lust. “Fuck, Jisung,” he rasps. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes. Please. Want… want to taste you.” 

Minho’s hands linger at Jisung’s waist, his fingers trembling just slightly as their eyes lock. The weight of Jisung’s words hangs between them, almost unreal. 

Then Minho nods, just once, breath shaky. “Okay.” 

Jisung brushes his lips over Minho’s one last time, slow and promising, before sliding out of his lap, dropping almost clumsily to his knees between Minho’s parted legs. The world narrows to the small space—the flickering firelight, the hush of Minho’s breath, the heat radiating off their bodies. 

Jisung glances up, and the look on Minho’s face is enough to make his chest squeeze with pride. 

He reaches, fingers deft, tracing the line of Minho’s thighs—so much more muscular than Jisung had realised—feeling the tension there, the way Minho’s muscles flex beneath his touch. The fabric of Minho’s trousers is warm, almost hot, and when he finally palms the heavy bulge straining against them, he can feel the distinct shape of it, thick and rigid, pulsing slightly against his palm. Minho lets out a strangled gasp, his head falling back against the couch cushions as his hips arch helplessly upward, seeking more pressure. 

“Jisung—” Minho starts, but the rest is lost in a broken moan as Jisung presses his thumb along the length, feeling the heat and hardness through the fabric. He works the buttons open carefully. 

Jisung tugs Minho’s pants down to his ankles with trembling hands, revealing him inch by inch. His cock springs free—thick and flushed dark pink, curving slightly upward, with prominent veins running along its impressive length. 

A bead of clear fluid glistens at the slit. God, it’s beautiful, Jisung thinks hazily, taking in how the heavy shaft rises from a neatly-trimmed nest of dark hair, his heavy balls drawn tight beneath. Jisung’s mouth floods with saliva, his own cock throbbing in need. 

He doesn’t rush. He wraps one hand gently around the base, feeling the silky skin stretched taut over rigid heat, impossibly soft against his palm. His thumb traces along a prominent vein, feeling it pulse beneath his touch as he leans in, breath ghosting over the crown. When he presses his lips to the head in a soft, reverent kiss, he tastes the salt-sweet bitterness of precum. Minho hisses through clenched teeth, his powerful thighs tensing as his hips stutter forward. 

He licks a slow stripe up the underside, feeling the prominent vein pulse against his tongue. Minho’s breath catches in his throat; his trembling hand finds Jisung’s hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, not pushing, just holding, grounding himself against the onslaught. 

Jisung smiles against him, lips parted and glistening, and then lowers his head, taking Minho into his mouth, savouring the weight on his tongue, the salty-musky taste, the way Minho’s thighs quiver beneath his palms. 

Minho’s reaction is immediate. His head falls back, a deep, helpless sound ripped from his chest. “Oh, fuck—Jisung…” His voice is ragged, thready, the sound of a man already completely undone. 

Jisung sets a steady rhythm, hollowing his cheeks until they ache pleasantly, letting his tongue trace the veins as he slides down. Saliva pools at the corner of his mouth as he takes Minho deeper with every pass, the heavy weight pressing almost against the back of his throat. 

His right hand works the spit-coated base in tight, twisting strokes, his thumb brushing over the sensitive spot just beneath the head each time he pulls up. Minho’s thighs shake, muscles clenching with each swirl of his tongue. When he glances up through his tear-spiked lashes, he sees Minho watching him, his adorable teeth poking into his bottom lip. His pupils are so wide they appear almost black. 

“God, Jisung, you look—” Minho’s words dissolve into a broken gasp as Jisung swallows him even deeper, until the head bumps the back of his throat. He moans around him, and the vibration makes Minho shudder, one hand tangled tight in Jisung’s hair. It’s still gentle, still letting Jisung set the pace, but it’s clear his restraint is wearing thin, and Jisung thinks it’s beautiful. 

He is beautiful. 

Jisung pulls off for a breath, licking his lips, smiling up at Minho. “You’re so big,” he whispers. “Taste so good.” 

Minho groans, cheeks flushed, hips rolling helplessly. “You’re perfect. Fuck—don’t stop.” 

Jisung obeys, swallowing him down again, working him with lips and tongue, getting lost in the slick heat and the heady scent, the weight of Minho’s cock on his tongue. He lets his hand drift up, cupping Minho’s thigh, feeling every desperate tremor. 

Minho’s eyes flutter shut, jaw tight, breath coming in ragged bursts. “Jisung, I—shit, I’m not—gonna last if—” His hips jerk slightly, the restraint in his voice just short of pleading. 

Jisung hums, encouraging, wanting nothing more than Minho falling apart for him. He bobs his head, deeper this time, letting his nose brush the soft hair at the base, and Minho’s grip tightens, a moan torn from his chest that sounds almost broken. 

“Fuck—Jisung, I—oh, god—I’m—” Minho’s warning is shaky, and Jisung gives a final, deep suck, tongue swirling, and feels Minho unravel. 

Minho comes with a shuddering gasp, body tensing, the sound raw and utterly vulnerable. Jisung swallows everything, letting Minho ride it out, his hand stroking soothingly up Minho’s thigh, anchoring him through every trembling aftershock. 

For a moment, the only sound is Minho’s harsh, uneven breathing, the soft crack of the fire. Jisung draws back, licking his lips, and looks up to see Minho staring at him, wrecked and shining, eyes dark and full of awe. 

“Jesus, Jisung,” Minho whispers, voice hoarse, reaching down with trembling hands to cradle Jisung’s face, thumbing gently over his cheek. He tugs Jisung up, not letting him go, and kisses him—slow, grateful, deep. The taste of himself on Jisung’s tongue makes him shiver, and he laughs shakily, pressing their foreheads together. 

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs, tender and awed. “I’ve never felt so—” 

Jisung smiles, flushed. “I wanted you to feel good.” 

Minho’s arms remain wrapped around Jisung, gentle after the storm, their bodies pressed close on the couch. The fire’s glow paints Minho’s skin in honeyed gold, and Jisung basks in the warmth radiating from both flame and flesh. He feels utterly seen, cherished, and also still achingly hard. 

Minho presses a soft kiss to his hairline, breathing in the scent of him. “Fuck taking it slow. Come to bed with me?” he whispers, uncertainty and hope braided in his voice. 

Jisung nods, cheeks still flushed. “Yeah. Please. I want to.” 

Minho stands, tugging Jisung to his feet. They move through the quiet cottage together, hand in hand, until they reach Minho’s bedroom—it’s a simple space, but made soft with worn blankets and the faint scent of lavender drifting from a pouch on the nightstand. 

Minho lights a candle and then turns back to him, searching his face. “Tell me what you want, Jisung.” His hands settle at his waist, gentle and secure, as if promising that whatever comes next will be for him, only him. 

Jisung swallows, suddenly shy in the space between longing and trust. “I want… um, your fingers. Want to feel you inside me,” he confesses. 

Minho smiles, sweet and a little regretful. “I wish I had oil or anything decent for you. I wasn’t exactly expecting…” His thumb strokes Jisung’s hip. “I’ll take care of you the best I can. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Jisung’s heart flutters at the concern. He shakes his head, grinning. “It’s okay. We can wait for that. I just—want you, Minho. In whatever way I can get you.” 

Minho’s gaze turns molten. “Then… can I taste  you?” he asks, voice pitched low. “Let me make you feel good.” 

Jisung’s breath catches. “Yes.” 

They stand together in the soft candlelight. A moment passes where the world narrows to the nervous flutter in Jisung’s belly and the warmth of Minho’s hands at his sides. Minho’s fingers move up, careful and slow, touching the buttons of Jisung’s shirt. The look he gives is question enough. Jisung nods again, and Minho begins to undress him, slipping the shirt from his shoulders, letting his hands run over bare skin as if he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch. 

Jisung’s hands fumble with his own belt, and Minho helps, easing trousers and underwear down, leaving him naked. He tries not to cover himself, but the vulnerability is dizzying. Minho’s gaze is so soft. 

Minho undresses too, then sits on the edge of the bed, guiding Jisung to rest back against the pillows. The mattress dips, the air thick with anticipation. Minho’s hands move to Jisung’s knees, gently coaxing them apart. 

And then Minho is there. He feels his breath ghosting over his thigh, then the press of his mouth there. Jisung’s heart hammers. He shivers at the brush of Minho’s lips, the slow, open-mouthed kisses that trail downward, the way Minho noses at the crease of his thigh, breathing him in.

“Can I?” Minho’s voice is rough.

His hands hold Jisung open, thumbs stroking soothing circles on his thighs. He shifts, gently spreading Jisung wider, and his breath catches audibly. 

“God, you’re pretty everywhere,” he whispers, gaze fixed between Jisung’s legs. 

“Please,” Jisung breathes, flushing hot at the words. 

Minho’s breath ghosts over him one final time before his tongue—hot and slick—makes first contact. The wet heat traces slow, patient circles, each one sending electric shivers up Jisung’s spine. He jerks at the intimate sensation, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as Minho’s hands tighten on his thighs, steadying him. Minho hums against him, the vibration adding another layer to his pleasure as he works his tongue deeper, the wet sounds mixing with Jisung’s increasingly desperate moans. Jisung’s fingers twist in the sheets, his knuckles white, as the pleasure builds. 

Every time Minho presses his tongue a little firmer, Jisung feels himself opening like a flower to the morning sun, the coil of need in his belly drawing tight. His thighs tremble against Minho’s palms, skin flushed and damp with sweat from the candlelight. 

When Minho finally lifts his head, lips glistening, a thin strand of saliva breaks as he speaks. “Just one finger, okay?” His eyes, dark as midnight pools, search Jisung’s face for permission. 

Jisung nods, barely able to form words. “Yes… Minho, yes, please—”

He watches as Minho’s lips part, taking his own finger into his mouth. The sight sends heat spiralling through Jisung’s belly. When Minho withdraws the finger and traces the tight ring of muscle, Jisung’s thighs quiver. The first breach burns—a stretching ache that makes him gasp and arch—but Minho works him open with exquisite care, knuckle by knuckle, his fingers curling slightly once fully seated. 

Jisung forces his muscles to yield, focusing on the velvet brush of Minho’s lips painting constellations across the tender skin of his inner thigh, the vibration of whispered praises—“so good,” “ beautiful,” “perfect” —warming his skin between each press. 

Jisung whimpers, thighs trembling like leaves before a storm. His skin burns everywhere they touch. Even with one finger, he’s so open, so desperate—his cock pulses against his stomach, leaving pearlescent trails across his taut skin. 

The rest of Minho’s praises blur into a symphony of breath and need as Jisung arches his back, eyes fluttering closed, forgetting everything but the feel of Minho surrounding him. 

Minho adds his mouth again, tongue tracing wet circles around where his finger disappears inside, the dual sensation making Jisung’s vision blue at the edges. When Minho crooks his finger just so, pressing against that perfect spot, Jisung’s spine arches off the bed, a broken cry tearing from his throat. 

His hips roll up blindly, chasing the white-hot pleasure that radiates outward like the ripples from a disturbed pond. The sounds escaping his lips would make him blush in any other context, but here, wrapped in candlelight and Minho’s devotion, he lets them spill freely, unashamed. 

He’s close, so close, the pleasure fraught and sharp, his body wound tight. “Minho, I—” The words are barely there. 

“It’s okay, bug. Let go. I’ve got you,” Minho murmurs, lips ghosting over his thigh.

Jisung comes undone like a frayed rope, finally snapping, his body clenching helplessly around Minho’s finger, every muscle tensed and shaking. He hears himself cry out—a broken, desperate sound that tears from his throat—hears Minho’s soothing voice murmuring honeyed praise, feels his strong arms gathering him up after, holding him close as the fractured edges of the world gradually soften. 

He buries his face against the hollow of Minho’s neck, breath coming in little gasps that ghost hot across Minho’s collarbone. Minho just holds him, one hand stroking the knobs of his spine, the other cradling the nape of his neck, pressing kisses into his damp hair until Jisung’s racing heart slows to match Minho’s steady rhythm and he feels whole again—safe in the circle of those strong arms, wanted in every gentle touch, feeling at home in this candlelit room where their bodies learned to speak without words.  

Morning arrives softly, like it’s trying not to disturb them.

The light slips in through the thin curtains in ribbons, pale gold stretching across the floor, climbing slowly up the edge of the bed until it lands on them, tangled together beneath the blankets. The cottage still smells faintly of last night, and beneath it, something new too. Something theirs. 

Jisung wakes slowly. 

Not all at once, but in pieces—first the warmth, then the weight of an arm draped securely around his waist, then the steady rise and fall beneath his cheek. It takes him a moment to realise where he is, and then another for the memory of last night to rush back in, bright and overwhelming, settling deep in his chest like something glowing. 

He doesn’t move even though he’s awake. He just stays there, listening.

Minho’s breathing is slow and even, indicating he’s still asleep, his hand loosely curled where it rests against Jisung’s stomach. There’s something about it—how easy it looks there, how natural it feels—that makes Jisung’s chest tighten in a way that isn’t painful, just… full. Like there’s too much feeling sitting there all at once. 

Carefully, he tilts his head just enough to look. 

Minho looks so unbelievably soft. The sharp edges of him dulled by sleep, his long lashes resting against his cheeks, his lips slightly parted. It’s almost unfair, how beautiful he is without even trying, how unreal he looks in the quiet morning light, even with drool forming at the corner of his mouth and the crusty remnants of watery eyes during the night. 

Jisung huffs a tiny breath of laughter, unable to help himself. 

Minho stirs. 

Not fully, just enough for his hold to tighten slightly, his nose brushing against Jisung’s hair as he exhales, voice low and rough with sleep, but still unfairly adorable. “You’re awake.” 

Jisung freezes for half a second, then relaxes and smiles. “Mm. Did I wake you?” 

“Don’t think you could if you tried,” Minho murmurs, though he shifts, eyes blinking open slowly. They settle on Jisung almost immediately, still hazy with sleep. 

There’s a quiet moment where they just look at each other, and then Minho lifts a hand, brushing it lightly along Jisung’s cheek, thumb tracing the same absent path like he’s memorising it. 

“Morning,” he says softly. 

The kiss that follows is gentle. Sleep-soft. Nothing like the urgency of last night, just the quiet press of lips meeting, lingering, learning each other in a completely different way. Jisung exhales into it, melting, and Minho hums softly in response, pulling him closer. 

It’s slow. The kind of kiss that begs you to stay. 

Jisung almost does. 

Almost lets himself sink fully into it, into this warm, steady space Minho seems to create just by being here, something that makes Jisung forget all about his past and the way he never thought he’d trust again. But then the world outside nudges back in, persistent, and he groans quietly against Minho’s mouth, pulling back just enough to press his forehead to his. 

“I have to go,” he mumbles, clearly not wanting to. 

Minho’s mouth curves faintly, though Jisung can tell there is also disappointment there. “Yeah?” 

“My dad,” Jisung sighs. “If I don’t show up, he’ll come looking for me. And I don’t think I can survive that conversation.” 

Minho huffs, brushing a thumb along Jisung’s cheek again. “Tragic.” 

“Devastating, actually.” 

They linger for a moment longer anyway. Just one more kiss.

And then another, for good measure. 

Eventually, Jisung forces himself to move, slipping reluctantly from the warmth of the bed, already missing it as soon as the cool air touches his skin. He gathers his clothes, pulling them back on in a quiet, almost shy sort of rush, aware of Minho watching him from the bed with a soft expression. 

At the door, he hesitates. 

Looks back. 

Minho is still there, propped up slightly now, hair messy, eyes warm, entirely too easy to stay for. 

“Come back tonight?” Minho asks, voice low. 

Jisung smiles. “Yeah. See you then.”  

The day moves on, whether Jisung is ready for it or not. 

Work grounds him, in a way. The familiar rhythm of it, the steady expectations, his father’s solid voice cutting through the quiet of the morning with instructions and reminders. It keeps his hands busy, his mind occupied—but not enough to stop the way his thoughts drift back to Minho, over and over again. 

Back to the way everything feels different now. 

By the time lunch passes and the sun sits high and warm overhead, its heat increasing each day, Jisung feels like he’s been walking around with something secret tucked just beneath his skin, something that hums happily, no matter what he’s doing. 

His mother catches on rather quickly. Out of everyone, she’s always seen through him. 

“Can you run into town for me, darling?” she asks casually. “We’re out of a few things.” 

Jisung narrows his eyes slightly. “Hajoon usually goes today, you could’ve asked him.” 

“I could have,” she agrees. “But I asked you, didn’t I?” 

There’s no winning that, so he goes. 

The walk into town is familiar, the path worn beneath his feet, but today it feels different. Brighter. Sharper. Like every detail is a bit more vivid than it usually is, like the world around him has been turned up ever so slightly. 

Or maybe it’s just him. He doesn’t think too hard about it. 

Not until he reaches the village and sees it: Hyunjin’s shop. 

He stops. Actually, he stops right outside the door, staring at it like it might bite him. Because suddenly, he has an idea that could end up in a great deal of embarrassment for him. 

“Are you going to come in,” a voice calls lazily from inside, “or stand out there having a crisis all afternoon?” 

Jisung groans under his breath. Of course he saw him.

 He pushes the door open, stepping inside to find Hyunjin where he always is—leaning against the counter, sketchbook and pencil in hand, like he’s part of the furniture, his long limbs draped in effortless ease, his eyes sharpening with interest. 

“Well.” He sets down his pencil and sketchbook, tucking a long strand of dark hair behind his ear. “This is unexpected. Haven’t seen you here in a while.” 

Jisung avoids eye contact immediately, busying himself with… absolutely nothing. “I just… need something.” 

“Mm,” Hyunjin hums, already suspicious. “Do you now.” 

There’s a pause. Jisung lingers near the shelves, pretending to look at things he absolutely does not need, heat creeping slowly up  the back of his neck.

Hyunjin watches him, waiting, then smiles, slow and delighted. 

“Oh,” he says softly. “This is going to be good, isn’t it?” 

Jisung closes his eyes briefly, as if that might save him. It doesn’t. 

“I need… oil,” he mumbles finally, too fast, like if he says it quickly enough it won’t be as embarrassing. 

Wrong. 

“Oil,” Hyunjin repeats, carefully. 

Jsung nods, refusing to look at him. “Yes.” 

There’s a pause, and then Hyunjin absolutely lights up. 

“Jisung,” he breathes, somewhere between thrilled and deeply entertained. “Oh my god.” 

“Don’t,” Jisung snaps immediately, face burning now. 

“Oh, I’m going to.” Hyunjin is already moving, far too pleased with himself. “You come into my shop looking like the sun is shining out of your ass, asking for oil—” 

“Jinnieee,” he whines. 

“And you expect me not to ask questions?” 

Jisung presses his hands over his face. “Please just give it to me.” 

Hyunjin laughs, soft and delighted, but he does reach for it, pulling a small bottle from beneath the counter and placing it down between them with exaggerated care. 

“There you go,” he says, eyes sparkling. “For… cooking, I assume? We both know you love cooking.” 

Jisung snatches it immediately. “I hate you, Hwang Hyunjin.” 

“No, you don’t, Jisungie,” Hyunjin replies easily, leaning his elbows onto the counter, chin propped in his hands like he’s settling in for a show he’s already bought tickets to. His gaze drifts over Jisung’s face, sharp and assessing, and then softens in a way that makes it impossible to keep pretending this is just teasing. “You’re glowing, though. Seriously.” 

Jisung scoffs instinctively, but it comes out weaker than intended. He turns slightly, fiddling with the edge of the counter, then stills altogether when he realises there’s no point in dodging it. Not with Hyunjin. Not ever. 

“...I met someone,” he admits finally, voice quieter now, something almost careful threading through it. 

Hyunjin doesn’t react right away, which is unusual in itself. He just watches, attentive now, the humour still there but gentler, like he’s realised how serious Jisung is. 

“Yeah?” he prompts softly. 

Jisung exhales, letting something out that’s been sitting in his chest all day. “Yeah. He moved into the old cottage. The one past the fields.” 

Hyunjin’s brows lift slightly. “The one that’s been empty for years?” 

“Mm.” 

“And you just… wandered over there?” 

Jisung huffs faintly. “I brought him peaches,” he mutters, like that explains everything. 

That earns him a quiet, fond smile. “Of course you did.” 

“He’s…” He hesitates, searching for the right words. “He’s different.” 

Hyunjin tilts his head. “Different how?” 

Jisung shakes his head slightly, a helpless smile tugging at his mouth. “I don’t know. Just—he looks at me like…” He trails off, then laughs quietly at himself. “Like I’m something worth looking at.” 

The words hang between them, a bit more vulnerable and honest than Jisung intended. 

Hyunjin’s expression shifts again. “And that’s new?” he asks gently. 

Jisung doesn’t answer right away; he doesn’t need to. Haru lingers in the silence between them, unspoken but present, like a shadow that hasn’t left for a while. 

“You haven’t let anyone close to you since him,” Hyunjin states. 

Jisung’s throat tightens, but he nods. “I know.” 

There’s no bitterness in his tone, not anymore. Something that’s now finally settled into acceptance rather than ache. 

“He left,” Jisung says after a moment, more matter-of-fact than wounded now. “And I think I kept expecting that to mean something about me. That I’m not worth it.” 

Hyunjin looks at him with something that’s not quite pity. “You are, Sungie.” 

“I know that now,” Jisung glances up, meeting his eyes. “It’s… new, and we haven’t known each other long, but… I think Minho made me realise that.” 

Saying his name does something. It settles in the space between them, warm and real, like placing something precious down and trusting it won’t be mishandled. 

“Minho,” Hyunjin repeats, smiling. “So that’s his name.” 

Jisung nods, and the smile that follows is softer than anything he’s shown so far. “He’s—” He stops, exhales, then tries again, more honestly this time. “He’s kind. And patient. And he cooks like it’s… like it matters. Like feeding someone is the same as taking care of them.” 

Hyunjin hums. “His love language. And you like him.” 

Jisung lets out a breath. “Yeah. So much.” 

Hyunjin’s smile deepens, slow and knowing. “Good.” 

Jisung huffs lightly, nudging the counter with his hip. “You’re not going to interrogate me?” 

“Oh, I am,” Hyunjin says immediately. “Just… later.” His gaze flickers over Jisung again, gentler now. “I’d rather just bask in you being happy again.” 

Jisung glances at him, his eyes at sudden risk of tearing up. “You know I don’t actually hate you, right?” 

Hyunjin snorts. “I would hope not. That would’ve been a lot of time wasted being best friends.” 

Jisung smiles, a little crooked. “I mean it. I—I love you, Jinnie.” 

Hyunjin’s expression stills for a second, warmth blooming in his eyes, before he rolls them slightly, like he has to deflect at least a little. “I know. I’m very lovable.” 

Jisung laughs, and for a moment, everything feels right. Settled. 

Until the door opens behind him. 

The bell chimes softly, cutting through the moment, and Hyunjin’s attention flicks up instantly. 

“Right on time,” he murmurs under his breath. 

Jisung turns just as Chan steps inside, the door closing quietly behind him. He looks like he always does—composed, steady, easy in a way that makes people trust him without question—but there’s something subtle in the way his eyes move, how they land on Hyunjin first, just for a second longer than necessary. 

“Afternoon,” Chan says, warm and professional, despite the fact that they’ve all known each other since they were kids. “We got that delivery sorted—”

“Jisung has a boyfriend,” Hyunjin blurts immediately. 

Jisung freezes. “Hyun—he’s not—”

Chan pauses mid-step, blinking once, clearly caught off guard, and then slowly turns his head toward Jisung. “He does?” 

Jisung makes a strangled sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Not yet, but I guess you can say I’m seeing someone. And I told Hyunjin that in confidence.” 

Hyunjin shrugs, entirely unapologetic. “I’m very bad with secrets.” 

“You didn’t even try,” Jisung mutters, though he doesn’t actually care. He knows Hyunjin would only spill this to Chan or their other two friends. 

Chan’s mouth curls slightly, amused by the pair of them as he steps further in, setting something down on the counter. “Well. Congrats.” 

Jisung glances at him, a little flustered still, but something warm settles again in his chest. “Thanks.” 

Hyunjin leans back against the counter, entirely too pleased with himself, eyes darting between them like he’s already planning the next thing he’s going to say. 

And Jisung—standing there with a small bottle tucked away and something even bigger blooming quietly beneath his ribs feels giddy from excitement. Of something new coming into play in his life. 

Chan glances at the door, then the back of the shop. “Anyone else here?” 

“No,” Hyunjin answers.

Then Chan steps closer, reaching out, sure and certain, pressing a brief kiss to Hyunjin’s lips. It’s not dramatic. Just a soft, familiar peck, something they’ve done a hundred times and more before. 

Jisung recoils instantly. 

“Absolutely not,” he says, already turning away, one hand coming up to shield his eyes in exaggerated horror. “In my presence? In my good, honest, single presence?” 

Hyunjin snorts. “Oh, please. You literally just told me about your cottage boyfriend.” 

“Oh my god, not my boyfriend. And that is completely different,” Jisung shoots back, peeking through his fingers. “I have class. Decorum. Shame.” 

Chan huffs a quiet laugh. “Right, and that bottle of oil I saw you shove into your pocket was what, exactly?” 

Jisung chokes. “That was—” He flounders, then points accusingly at Hyunjin. “He forced me into it.” 

“I just handed you the bottle,” Hyunjin replies. “You did the rest all on your own.” 

“I hate both of you,” Jisung declares. 

Hyunjin tilts his head. “I seem to recall you just saying you love me. So I don’t think you hate us, actually.” 

Jisung exhales, shaking his head as a reluctant smile finally breaks through. “...No. I really don’t.” 

He lingers for a bit longer, leaning against the counter as Hyunjin starts rambling about some new shipment and Chan hums along, occasionally correcting him with precision, their dynamic slipping effortlessly back into that careful balance of business and lovers. Jisung smiles as he watches them. 

Then he remembers he actually has things to do. 

“Right,” he says, pushing himself upright. “If I don’t bring back what my mother asked for, she’ll hit me with that wooden spoon again.” 

They both shiver, having also been at the receiving end of it. 

“See you both later,” he calls, and then he’s gone again, back out into the afternoon light, the warmth of the sun catching on his skin as he steps onto the street. 

The rest of the errands pass in a blur of familiar stops and familiar faces. A sack of flour balanced awkwardly against his hip, a bundle of herbs tucked under his arm, a small wrapped parcel of spices his mother insists taste better from one particular stall and nowhere else. It’s routine. 

But even as he moves from place to place, exchanging greetings, nodding along to bits of gossip, he can’t quite shake the hum beneath it all. 

Minho lingers in everything: In the warmth of the sunlight; In the sweetness of the fruit samples; in the absent way Jisung catches himself smiling for no reason at all. 

By the time he finishes, his arms are full and his patience is wearing thin, but there’s still one more stop he finds himself making without really deciding to. 

His feet just… take him there. 

The smaller house sits at the edge of the village, half-hidden behind a crooked fence and a riot of overgrown greenery that looks more intentional than neglected. The door is open, voices drifting out into the afternoon air, familiar enough that Jisung doesn’t bother knocking. 

He steps inside like he’s always welcome. Which, yeah, he kind of is. 

“Hello?” he calls. 

“In here!” Jeongin’s voice rings out, bright and unmistakable. 

Jisung follows it, stepping into the back room to find exactly what he expected—Jeongin perched on the edge of a table, swinging one leg idly, while Seungmin stands nearby, watching him with a kind of exasperation that never quite leaves his face. Not until he and Jeongin are alone at least. 

They both look up when he enters. 

Jeongin lights up immediately, his eyes narrowing into thin lines as he smiles. “Jisung!” 

Seungmin’s expression shifts, too. “You look suspiciously happy.” 

Jisung pauses mid-step. “...Do I?” 

“Yes,” they both say at the same time. 

He groans. “Not you two as well.” 

Jeongin hops down from the table, already circling him like he’s inspecting something. “It’s the face. You’ve got that face.” 

“What face?” 

“The one people get when something is happening,” Jeongin says, entirely unhelpful. 

Seungmin hums. “He’s right.” 

Jisung stares at them, then sighs dramatically, setting his things down on the nearest surface. “You’re both unbearable.” 

“And yet you came here anyway,” Seungmin points out. 

Jisung opens his mouth to argue, then stops. “I did.” 

Jeongin leans in slightly, eyes bright with curiosity. “So?” 

Jisung hesitates, but tells them everything anyway. Not in a single, neat line, not in any kind of careful order, but in pieces that tumble out of him, one after the other. The peaches. The cottage. The way Minho had looked at him the first time they met. 

He doesn’t linger on the more intimate details, not really, but they’re there in the spaces between his words, in the way his voice softens, in the way his faze drifts slightly as he’s replaying it all in real time. 

And when he finally stops talking, the room feels warmer somehow, fuller with it. 

Jeongin is staring at him like he’s just been handed the best story of his life. Seungmin looks… softer. Thoughtful. 

“Well,” Jeongin says after a beat, dragging the word out with a grin that’s all teeth and delight, “that was a lot.” 

Jisung groans. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

“No, no, I’m glad you did,” Jeongin adds quickly, stepping closer again. “He sounds—” he gestures vaguely, looking for the right word. “Good. He sounds really good for you.” 

Seungmin nods once. “He does,” he agrees. “And you sound different when you talk about him.” 

Jisung blinks. “Different how?” 

Seungmin shrugs lightly. “Lighter.” 

Jisung looks down for a second, considering it, then exhales softly. “I think I am.” 

Jeongin beams like that’s exactly the answer he wanted. “Then I like him already.” 

“You liked him before I even started talking,” Jisung points out. 

“That’s because I trust your taste,” Jeongin says. “Well. Your current taste.” 

Jisung sighs. “Yeah, understandable.” 

Seungmin steps close enough to bump his shoulders against Jeongin’s. “He is right about one thing though. He does sound good for you. You deserve to have something that feels easy, and not something you have to fight to keep.” 

For a second, Haru flickers again at the edges of his thoughts—just a reminder of what it used to feel like. 

Then it fades. 

Jisung exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah. I think I might have a chance to have that now.” 

Jeongin makes a small, satisfied sound. “Good.” 

The moment settles into something softer after that, the conversation easing naturally into lighter things the way it always does with them, like none of it needs to be held too tightly to still matter. Jeongin disappears briefly into the kitchen and returns with a small tray, balancing three mismatched cups and a teapot that’s seen better days but still pours perfectly. 

They sit together for a while, sipping slowly, the warmth of the tea curling through Jisung’s chest in a way that feels grounding after everything he’s said. Jeongin chatters about something trivial, Seungmin looks at him like he first did when they fell in love, like a puppy obsessed with its owner. Jisung listens more than he speaks, content to just be there, to exist in a space that feels steady and known. 

When the cups are empty, and the light outside has begun to soften again, Jisung gathers himself, says his goodbyes, and steps back out into the late afternoon—errands finished, heart a little fuller, and his thoughts already drifting, inevitably, back toward the cottage. Jisung smiles.   

By the time the sun has dipped low behind the hills, painting the sky in bruised violets and golds, Jisung finds himself once again at the familiar cottage door with the little bottle of oil stuffed in his pocket. 

He barely raps his knuckles against the wooden door before Minho opens it—hair still a little damp from a hasty wash, cheeks pink in the lingering warmth of the day. They don’t bother with greetings this time; Minho’s eyes widen a fraction, surprised by Jisung’s urgency, but before he can say a word, Jisung closes the distance in two strides and kisses him, hard. 

The door thumps shut behind them. Jisung presses Minho back, mouths colliding in a hungry, breathless rush, all the restraint of the previous nights swept away by the need to have Minho is the most complete way possible. 

Minho recovers quickly, hands coming up to Jisung’s waist, pulling him in closer, deepening the kiss until there’s no space between them. 

There’s no talk of dinner, no small talk, only the savor of mouths finding each other again—more familiar than before, but never routine, as if they’re both starving and have finally been offered a feast. Minho’s tongue teases at Jisung’s lips; Jisung opens for him, gasping into the heat and the taste, dizzy with relief at finally being here once more. 

They break apart only to breathe, foreheads pressed together, smiles blooming against each other’s mouths. 

“Hi,” Minho laughs. 

Jisung grins, catching his breath. “Hi. Missed you.” 

Minho’s hands tighten at his waist. “I missed you too. Come here,” he murmurs, and they fall into each other again, kissing urgently, clinging as if the day apart has been a week. 

Jisung’s hands fist in Minho’s shirt, tugging him closer, pressing their bodies together. He breaks the kiss, panting, forehead pressed to Minho’s cheek. 

He’s barely able to contain himself. “Minho, please… can you take me to bed? Please… I need you.” 

He feels Minho’s breath catch, feels the shiver that runs through his body. Minho doesn’t hesitate; he just cups Jisung’s face, kisses him hard, and pulls him through the cottage, down the short hallways and into the bedroom, not breaking contact for a second. 

In the dim room, lit mostly by candlelight and the last remnants of the sun, they strip each other with trembling hands—shirts tugged overhead, trousers and underwear pulled down, the air thick with anticipation. 

Jisung’s skin prickles in the cool air, but Minho’s hands are everywhere—stroking his arms, skimming his chest, mapping the planes of his back. Every touch lingers, as if Minho can’t quite believe Jisung is real. Little does Minho know, Jisung feels exactly the same. 

They fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, mouths meeting over and over, kiss after kiss—messy, biting, desperate. Minho’s tongue teases at the seam of his mouth, hot and wet and needy, and Jisung opens for him, giving everything, letting himself be devoured. 

Between kisses, Jisung remembers. He breaks away, cheeks flushed, breath coming fast, and fumbles in the pile of discarded clothes by the bed. 

“Oh, wait—I almost forgot—” His fingers close around the little bottle in his pants. He holds it up, triumphant and shy at once. “Um. I got oil. Just in case you want to go the whole way.” 

For a heartbeat, Minho just stares at him, eyes wide, lips parted, hair wild from Jisung’s fingers running through it. Then something feral flickers in his gaze, his desire going dark and bright at the same time. 

“Fuck, Jisung,” Minho growls, surging up to capture his mouth in a bruising kiss. “You have no idea how much I want you. You’re so fucking gorgeous. God, I want you so much that I can barely breathe.” 

Jisung’s heart stutters, the raw hunger in Minho’s voice making everything inside him swirl, like an army of a thousand tiny butterflies has suddenly decided to dance. Minho’s hand wraps around Jisung’s cock, then, stroking him firmly. Jisung whines, hips jerking up, lost in the relentless drag of Minho’s palm. 

Minho pulls back, just far enough to look him in the eyes. “Let me see you, bug. On your stomach.” 

Jisung does as he’s told, shivering as he rolls onto his front, cheek pressed to the pillow, arms curled underneath himself. He feels Minho’s weight shift behind him, hands gentle as they guide his knees apart, exposing him to his heated gaze. 

Minho’s hand settles on the small of his back, grounding, making him feel safe and desired all at once. He hears the soft pop of the oil bottle, the slick sound of Minho warming it between his palms, and then the muted thunk of it being thrown onto the bed. 

“You’re perfect,” Minho whispers, voice thick and worshipful almost. “So beautiful, especially like this.” 

Jisung whimpers, a sound that escapes unbidden from the back of his throat, and then Minho’s hand is cupping the curve of his ass, thumb gently spreading him open. The first slick finger traces the tight ring of muscle, teasing with feather-light circles that send sparks shooting up Jisung’s spine. The oil smells faintly of lavender and warms quickly against his heated skin, leaving a glistening trail wherever Minho touches. Minho’s other hand splays possessively across the dimples at the base of his back, steadying him as his breathing grows ragged, uneven puffs that betray his barely-contained desire. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Minho murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of Jisung’s shoulder. 

“It’s good,” Jisung breathes, body arching, hips tilting up to chase more. 

Minho’s finger presses in, slow and steady, and Jisung’s breath hitches at the stretch, the delicious, burning fullness. Minho shushes him, thumb stroking soothing circles along his spine. 

“That’s it, bug. So good for me—taking it so well.” 

Jisung moans, cheek pressed to the pillow, hips rocking back into Minho’s hand. The finger works deeper, curling gently, and then Minho adds more oil, working him open with patient, relentless care. Every time Minho pushes a little further, the pleasure sharpens—sweet and overwhelming and everything Jisung’s craved.

Minho leans over him, mouth at his ear. “You want more?” 

“Yes, please,” he whines. “Need it. Want to feel you inside me—” 

Minho groans, the sound vibrating against Jisung’s skin as he presses another hungry kiss to the slope where shoulder meets neck, teeth grazing the tender flesh. His finger slides deeper, past the second knuckle, then withdraws until just the tip remains, only to press in again with agonising precision. The world narrows to the relentless, perfect slide—Minho’s touch, Minho’s voice, the way pleasure coils low in the deepest hollow of Jisung’s belly. 

“You’re mine now, right?” Minho whispers, hand never faltering. “You’re so fucking perfect. You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me, bug.” 

Jisung shivers, every word sinking deep. “Minho—please—more. I need—” 

He hears Minho’s breath catch behind him, feels the weight of his body shift as Minho pours more oil into his palm, and then there are two fingers pressing against him, sliding in together—slow at first, careful, but with a hunger that’s impossible to miss. The stretch is sharper, the fullness overwhelming, and Jisung whines, hips rocking back into Minho’s hand.

“That’s it,” Minho soothes, voice dark and thick, “You’re taking it so well, bug. So good.” He scissors his fingers, gently stretching, curling them until he finds that spot inside that makes Jisung’s vision white out, his body arching helplessly into the mattress. 

Minho keeps working him, coaxing him open, adding a third finger when Jisung whimpers and begs, “More, Minho, please, I can take it—want to be full for you—” And Minho gives it to him, his other hand stroking soothing lines up Jisung’s spine, grounding him as his body shakes with pleasure. 

Jisung is lost to it—drooling into the pillow, moans spilling out in broken, desperate sounds. He’s never felt so exposed, so wanted, every nerve alight with sensation. Minho’s fingers move steadily, twisting and thrusting, stretching up until he’s ruined for anything but Minho, until his legs are shaking and his thoughts are nothing but Minho’s name. 

“Look at you,” Minho murmurs, awe and hunger tumbled together in his voice. “Perfect. Perfect for me. You’re ready, bug.” 

Jisung lets out a ragged moan, body arching and desperate to be filled. 

Minho presses a kiss to the back of his neck, then pulls his fingers free, slow and careful, and Jisung whimpers at the loss of them. He hears Minho moving behind him, the soft, slick sound of him stroking himself, coating his cock in oil, and then the blunt head nudging against Jisung’s entrance. 

Then he feels his weight settle over him, the heat of Minho’s chest scorching against his sweat-slick back, thighs trembling as they bracket his own. Minho’s cock presses against him—thick, insistent, slippery with oil—before breaching him with agonising slowness as Minho’s body presses him flat into the mattress. 

The stretch burns perfectly at his edges, has Jisung’s fingers twisting in the cotton sheets until his knuckles bleach pale, face pressed so hard into the pillow that the fabric dampens with his open-mouthed gasps. Minho’s lips find the nape of his neck, the shell of his ear, murmuring velvety reassurances that vibrate through his bones as he inches deeper, claiming him inch by inch. 

“That’s it, relax, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, bug,” Minho murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. “You’re so good for me. So beautiful.” 

The push is endless, thick, filling—a slow, inexorable pressure that steals the breath from Jisung’s lungs and makes stars burst behind his eyelids. When Minho finally seats himself fully inside, hips flush against the curve of Jisung’s ass, his breath comes in harsh, broken pants that he can feel against the back of his neck. 

For a long moment, they stay still, just breathing together. Minho’s heartbeat is a wild drumming against Jisung’s spine, his weight a delicious anchor. Every inch of Minho’s trembling body presses against Jisung’s, from their tangled calves to where Minho’s forehead rests between his shoulder blades now, and every part of Jisung feels stretched and claimed. 

Then Minho moves—a single shallow thrust that tears a gasp from Jisung’s throat before he slams forward with bruising force, driving so, so deep. 

“Fuck,” Jisung chokes out, voice shattered as Minho sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust harder than the last, the headboard cracking against the wall. Jisung’s face twists on the pillow, eyes rolling back, and Minho seizes his jaw, wrenching him into a passionate kiss that’s all clumsy teeth and tongues. Minho swallows Jisung’s broken cries. 

Jisung is lost—lost in Minho’s mouth, in the heavy, relentless thrust of Minho’s cock inside him, in the way his hands roam over his hips, his back, his waist, holding him close. Each movement rocks him deeper into the mattress, pleasure building, lightning-hot and inescapable. 

There’s nothing but Minho now—his name, his voice, his body wrapped around him, claiming him, worshipping him. 

Minho whispers between kisses, words broken by gasps and moans. “Feel so good, bug, so good around me—” 

Jisung can’t respond, can only whine and moan, his cock trapped between his body and the bed, untouched but aching, leaking, every thrust driving him closer and closer to the edge. 

With each surge forward, Minho presses his chest flush to Jisung’s back, enveloping him in heat. Jisung feels the tremble in Minho’s arms, the rough shiver in his breath as he holds himself back, stretching out the moment. The mattress creaks softly beneath them, the room flickering in candlelight. 

Then Minho slows down, rocking into him with deeper, rolling motions, each one hitting that spot inside him that makes Jisung gasp. Jisung turns his head more, finding Minho’s face just above his shoulder. Their eyes meet in the soft line. Again, Minho leans down, their lips meeting in a kiss that is slow and almost strangely gentle compared to the kiss before. 

“Beautiful,” Minho murmurs again, almost like he doesn’t know he’s saying it. “I want to remember you like this always.” 

Jisung shivers, his entire body melting under the weight of Minho’s words, the sincerity in every syllable. He feels Minho’s hand find his, their fingers tangling on the bed, anchoring them together as Minho rocks forward, slow and deep, the movement less frantic than before. Like Minho has regained his control.

Minho’s hips stutter, and Jisung can feel him unravelling, the tension in his body rising, but Minho still doesn’t let go, not completely. He peppers kisses along Jisung’s shoulder, his neck, their hands squeezed tight together. 

“Stay with me,” Minho whispers, voice thick and trembling. “Please, Jisung, let me—let me feel you, just like this.” 

Jisung nods helplessly, overwhelmed and struggling to form words, pressing back into Minho’s warmth, needing him everywhere. He can feel Minho’s heart pounding against his back, the tremor in his breath as he loses himself to the rhythm. 

When Jisung finally comes, whining with his cock trapped between his body and the sheets, Minho lets go, too. It’s not with a shout or a gasp, but with a slow, guttural moan pressed into the curve of Jisung’s neck. He holds Jisung close, bodies moulded together, their joined hands fisted in the sheets as Minho spills inside him, hips grinding in slow, lingering rolls that make Jisung’s body clench around him, drawing out every pulse, every wave of pleasure. 

They stay like that as the aftershocks fade, Minho still joined with him, lips tracing soft paths over Jisung’s shoulder, his jaw, his hair. Jisung feels the weight of him, the safety of his arms, and the deep, quiet rush of being adored in a way that makes the world feel endless and safe. 

Fuck, is he in love already? Surely not, right? 

The thought lands heavy and bright all at once, like something fragile being dropped into his chest and somehow not shattering on impact. Jisung lies there, still catching his breath, still wrapped in Minho’s warmth, his arms, and for a moment, he doesn’t move at all. He just lets himself feel. 

Minho is still pressed close behind him, solid and steady, one hand on his waist, the other tracing absent, soothing patterns over his skin like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. It’s not hurried or demanding. Just there. 

Safe. That’s what it is. 

Jisung swallows, eyes slipping shut as the realisation settles deeper, seeping into every corner. Safe. With Minho, everything feels safe. Safe in a way that makes him feel like he can breathe properly for the first time in so long. 

And it’s not just this. 

It’s not just the way Minho touches him, or the way he looks at him. It’s everything. The way he listens. The way he makes space. The way he doesn’t rush him, doesn’t push, doesn’t take more than Jisung is ready to give. 

The way he stays. 

Jisung’s chest tightens slightly at that, something softer threading through the warmth now. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? That quiet, impossible thing he didn’t realise h’d been waiting for. Not intensity. Not the kind of feeling that burns fast and bright and leaves nothing but ash behind. 

This is different. 

This is someone standing in front of him and choosing him, again and again, in small ways that build into something bigger before he even notices it happening. 

He shifts slightly, turning just enough in Minho’s arms to look at him. 

Minho’s eyes are already on him. 

“You okay?” Minho murmurs, thumb brushing lightly along his side.

Jisung nods, but the movement feels heavier than it should, like it carries something unspoken with it.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. 

And he is. More than okay. 

The quiet lingers between them for a moment longer before Minho presses one last gentle kiss to his shoulder and shifts slightly behind him. 

“Come on. Let’s take a bath.” 

There’s something deeply intimate about it in a completely different way. Not the heat, not the urgency from before, but the care in it—the way Minho moves with quiet attentiveness, guiding him up slowl, making sure he’s steady, that he’s comfortable. Jisung lets himself be led, limbs still loose and heavy, his body humming faintly with the aftershocks of everything that just happened. 

The cottage feels quiet now, wrapped in the hush of the evening. The water is warm when Minho fills the tub, steam curling faintly into the air, and Jisung watches him for a second as he moves—still a little dazed, still not entirely convinced this is real. 

Minho doesn’t rush; his hands are gentle, careful as he cleans them both, treating Jisung as if he is something fragile rather than something he had just held so tightly and fucked so hard. It makes Jisung’s chest ache. 

“Okay?” Minho asks quietly. 

Jisung nods, swallowing. “Yeah.” 

It’s quieter after that. Easier. They move around each other in the small space with a familiarity that feels almost startling, like they’ve done it so many times before instead of this just being the beginning. 

By the time they make their way back to the bed, the air has shifted again. The urgency has faded into something softer, something that wraps around them like the blankets Minho pulls up over their bodies. 

Jisung ends up half-tucked against Minho’s side, his head resting just below his shoulder, Minho’s arm draped loosely around him again. It feels natural. Effortless. Like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be. 

The quiet they find themselves in isn’t empty. It’s full in its own way—the crackle of the dying fire in the next room, the faint whisper of wind outside, the slow rhythm of their breathing beginning to match again. 

Jisung traces absent patterns against Minho’s chest, fingers light, thoughtful. 

“...Can I ask you something?” he says eventually, voice soft in the candlelight. 

Minho hums, his hand shifting slightly where it rests against Jisung’s arm. “Anything.” 

Jisung hesitates. “I know you moved here from a city. But where?” 

Minho exhales quietly, his fingers brushing once along Jisung’s shoulder. “I moved from Briarford. And yeah, we have a couple bakeries there.” 

“We?” 

“My brother and I,” Minho continues, and there’s something warmer in his tone that shifts. “Felix. And my best friend—Changbin. Felix is a freckled menace, and Changbin follows him around like a puppy following any order he gives.” 

The names settle easily, like they belong to him in a way that’s deep-rooted. 

“What was it called? The bakery,” Jisung asks, a small smile tugging at his mouth already, because he can almost picture it. 

Minho huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating faintly through his chest. “You’re going to laugh.” 

“I won’t,” Jisung promises immediately. 

“You will.” 

“I won’t,” he insists again, nudging him lightly. 

Minho sighs, but there’s amusement threaded through it. “Pawsitively Sweet.” 

Jisung goes very still, then a soft, disbelieving laugh escapes him anyway. “Oh, Minho.” 

“I told you,” Minho mutters, though he only sounds fond. “I’m a very serious cat lover.” 

“It’s cute,” Jisung says quickly, lifting his head just enough to look at him. “It’s really cute.” 

Minho raises a brow. “Cute wasn’t really the goal.” 

“Well, you failed,” Jisung replies, grinning. 

Minho nudges him lightly, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth now, small and real. 

“Felix approved it,” he admits. “He said if I was going to open a place, it should feel… warm. Something people would remember. He had a lot of opinions for someone who was just fifteen at the time.” 

“I like him already,” Jisung murmurs. 

Minho hums softly. “For someone who called yoghurt a fruit, he’s bright. Always has been. Even when we were kids, he was the one who dragged us into things, convinced us to try something new, and made everything feel a little less heavy.”

Jisung chuckles. “And Changbin?” 

“Changbin is constant. Loud and annoying sometimes. Stubborn as hell.” 

Jisung snorts. 

“But,” Minho continues, a faint smile softening his voice. “He’s the kind of person who stays, who you can rely on. No matter what. Doesn’t matter how bad things get, he just… stays.” 

Something about the way he says it tells Jisung there might have been a time when Minho was worried he would be left behind. 

Minho doesn’t seem to notice. He’s looking somewhere distant now, like he’s seeing it all again. 

“We grew up together,” he adds. “All of us. Same streets. Same schools. Felix used to follow us around everywhere, even when we told him not to.” 

“I bet he didn’t listen,” Jisung says. 

“Never,” Minho replies, a tender smile painting his face. “Not once.” 

Jisung smiles against his shoulder, picturing it and how similar it might have been to his life. Young boys moving through a world that felt bigger then. Together. 

“The bakery is mine, but at the same time, it’s ours,” Minho continues. “I built it from nothing. And it was hard work.” 

“And you left?” Jisung asks gently. 

Minho goes quiet for a second. “Yeah. I did.” 

He doesn’t elaborate right away, and Jisung doesn’t push. He just lets his hand rest there, warm and steady against Minho’s chest, a quiet reminder that he’s here. That he’s listening. 

After a moment, Minho’s hand shifts, fingers threading loosely through Jisung’s hair.

“I needed something different,” he says simply. 

Jisung nods against him, understanding more than the words themselves explain.

Jisung tilts his head slightly, pressing closer, his voice soft when he speaks again. “I’d like to meet them,” he says. 

Minho’s hand stills, then resumes, slower this time. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Jisung murmurs. “They sound important to you.” 

“They are.” 

There’s another pause. 

“You’re starting to be, too.” 

Jisung stills, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything at all. Can’t find anything to say. So he doesn’t. He just shifts closer, tucking himself more firmly into Minho’s side, letting the words settle where they want to. 

Outside, the night deepens. Inside, wrapped in warmth and something steadily growing between them, Jisung lets his eyes close. 

And this time, when sleep finds him, he only dreams of Minho and the life they might build together in the future.

Jisung wakes slowly, not all at once, but in drifting awareness returning in gentle layers. First, the warmth, then the weight of Minho wrapped around him, exactly where he should be. 

He just lies there, eyes still closed, breathing in the faint scent of something undeniably Minho. There’s a quiet, fragile kind of peace settled in his chest, the kind that feels like it might vanish if he moves too quickly, or if he thinks too hard about it. 

It feels so right. 

Jisung exhales softly, the sound barely audible, and lets himself turn just slightly, enough to look at him. 

Minho is already awake.

Jisung pauses, caught off guard for half a second. Minho’s eyes are open, but not fully focused, like he’s been awake for a while but hasn’t quite gathered himself yet. There’s something so soft about him in the morning light that makes Jisung want to pinch his cheeks, his hair mussed and falling into his eyes. 

And for a moment, Jisung just looks at him before smiling. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice quiet and warm. 

Minho blinks. Just once. 

Then again, slower this time, like he’s trying to bring something into focus that won’t quite settle where it should. 

Jisung’s smile falters, only slightly. It’s small enough that he doesn’t even really register it himself.

“Morning,” Minho says, but there’s a pause before it. A fraction too long. A hesitation that doesn’t quite fit into the softness of everything else. 

He shifts a little closer, pressing a light, familiar kiss to the corner of Minho’s mouth. Something soft and easy that feels natural now. 

Minho stills. It’s subtle, but undeniable. 

Jisung pulls back just enough to look at him again, brows knitting. “You okay?” 

Minho’s gaze lingers on him for a second too long, searching, like he’s trying to place something. 

Then he nods, quick and almost automatic. “Yeah. Just tired.” 

Jisung hums softly, accepting it without question. Last night was a lot, so it makes sense, plus, there’s no other reason for Minho to be acting strangely. 

“Same,” he admits, a quiet laugh slipping out as he presses his forehead briefly to Minho’s shoulder. “I should probably get going soon. My dad will have my head if I’m late.” 

Minho nods again. “Right.” 

There’s that pause again. 

Jisung doesn’t name it. Doesn’t linger on it. Just stretches slightly, disentangling himself from the warmth of the bed with a quiet reluctance, gathering his clothes from where they’d been left in a trail of the night before. 

Minho sits up, too, slower, his movements a little less certain than usual. 

They don’t talk as they get ready. 

It’s not uncomfortable, just… quieter than it has been with them so far. 

Jisung fills the space easily, anyway, offering a small smile and a soft “I’ll see you later?” as he pulls his shirt over his head. 

Minho nods. “Yeah. Okay.” 

And that’s enough. It has to be. 

Jisung leaves with a lingering glance over his shoulder, a soft smile still tugging at his mouth, something warm and steady sitting beneath his ribs. 

He doesn’t see the way Minho watches him go. Doesn’t see the confusion that settles in once the door closes. 

The farm manages to distract him from the weird feeling sitting uneasily in his chest. He still thinks of Minho and finds himself smiling to himself for no reason. If his father notices it, he doesn’t say anything. 

By the time the sun begins to dip again, colouring the sky in soft gold and fading blue, Jisung is already halfway down the path before he even realises he’s made the decision. 

When he arrives at the cottage, he pushes the door open, stepping inside. 

“Minho?” he calls, shrugging off his outer layer as he steps further in. 

He hears nothing at first, but then detects movement. Minho appears from the back room, stopping short the second he sees him. 

And something is not right. 

It’s jarring in its suddenness. Like the ground beneath Jisung’s feet has become uneven without warning.

Minho doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look at him softly. 

He doesn’t look at him like he did the night before, or any of the moments that had built into something Jisung had started to trust. 

Instead, his entire body goes still. His eyes sharp and narrow. 

“Who are you?” Minho asks. 

Jisung blinks, and for a second, he thinks it’s a joke. 

A weird one. 

He lets out a small, confused laugh. “What?”

Minho doesn’t laugh back. 

His posture shifts instead, something defensive settling into it, his shoulders tightening, his expression hardening in a way Jisung has never seen before. 

“I said,” Minho repeats, slower this time, each word precise, “who are you, and why are you in my home?”

The air leaves Jisung’s lungs all at once. 

“What—Minho, it’s me,” he says, stepping forward instinctively, confusion already beginning to twist into something sharper, something unsettled. “Jisung.” 

Minho’s eyes flicker over him, searching, but there’s no recognition there. None. Just wariness. Just distance. “I don’t know anyone called Jisung.” 

His stomach drops. 

“What do you mean you don’t—” he starts, voice catching slightly as he tries to piece this together, tries to make it make sense. “Minho, stop. That’s not funny.” 

“I’m not joking,” Minho says, sharper now. “You need to leave.” 

The words hit harder than anything else. 

Jisung stares at him, searching his face, looking for anything familiar, anything that tells him this is still the same man who held him last night, who kissed him like he meant it, who whispered things against his skin like he mattered. 

There’s nothing. 

“Minho,” he says, quieter, more desperate. “You call me bug.” 

It’s a small thing. Stupid, even. 

But it’s theirs. Or it was. 

“Bug?” he repeats, brows furrowing. “What are you talking about?” 

“It’s—it’s what you call me,” he insists, the words stumbling over each other now. “And last night, you—Minho, please, just—”

“Listen, I don’t know what you think is going on,” Minho’s voice cuts in, firm. “But you need to get out.” 

Silence falls heavily, and Jisung doesn’t move.

For a second, he just stands there, rooted to the spot, his mind scrambling to catch up to something that doesn’t make sense. That can’t make sense. 

This is Minho. 

This is—

“Get out,” Minho repeats again. 

And this time, there’s no room for misunderstanding. Jisung swallows hard. The words stick in his throat, everything he wants to say tangling together into something useless and broken. There’s too much of it. Too much confusion. Too much hurt rising too fast for him to even begin to sort through. 

So he doesn’t. 

He just nods. It feels distant. Automatic. Like his body is moving without him. 

“Okay,” he says quietly. 

Then he turns.

The door feels heavier when he pushes it open this time. The air outside is colder, sharper against his skin, despite the sun still being out. He steps out into it without looking back, the sound of the door closing with finality behind him. 

And he walks, because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Because nothing makes sense anymore. 

Because just this morning, he felt like his life had finally fallen into place, and now… well, now it’s like it never happened at all. 

Jisung doesn’t even remember making the decision to turn toward Hyunjin’s house.

One moment, he was walking, the world around him blurred and indistinct, his thoughts a tangled mess of disbelief and something sharper that keeps catching in his chest every time he thinks too hard about it. The next moment, he’s standing at the crooked fence he’s known since he was a child, the familiar gate half-hanging on its hinge like it always has. Jisung reckons Hyunjin refuses to fix it as a way to remember those he’s lost. 

Ending up here is instinct. It has to be. 

Because there’s only one place he knows to go when something breaks like this. 

The door is closed, so he lifts his hand and knocks. He hears footsteps behind the door, and suddenly it opens. 

Hyunjin’s expression shifts into worry the second he sees him. 

“Jisung—” 

That’s all he gets out before he breaks. 

It’s not quiet or even something he can stop. The tears come fast and sudden, like something inside him has cracked open under the pressure, his breath hitching sharply as it all spills out at once. The sound that leaves him is small and broken and nothing like the way he usually carries himself, and he hates it—hates how it feels, hates that it’s happening again, hates that he can’t hold it in. 

But he can’t. 

Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate. 

He reaches for him immediately, pulling him inside with both hands, the door shutting behind them with a soft thud as he guides Jisung further into the house, one hand steady at his back, the other coming up to cup the back of his head in a way that is so instinctively gentle it almost makes things worse. 

“Hey—hey, what happened?” Hyunjin’s voice is softer now, stripped of anything playful that usually exists there. 

Jisung shakes his head, but it’s useless. The words won’t come out properly, his chest too tight, his throat too raw with everything he’s trying and failing to hold together. 

“Hyunjin, he—” His voice cracks, breaking off entirely as another wave of tears hits, his hands curling uselessly into the fabric of Hyunjin’s shirt like he needs something to hold onto or he’ll just fall apart completely. 

Hyunjin’s grip tightens slightly. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, guiding him further in. “Come sit down. Breathe first, okay?” 

Jisung lets himself be moved because he doesn’t have the energy to do anything else. 

They barely make it into the main room before another presence shifts into view. 

Chan. 

He’s already there, standing near the doorway to the back room, his posture straightening the moment he sees them, something alert and concerned settling onto his face in an instant. 

“What happened?” he asks, his voice held in a way that doesn’t demand answers but expects them eventually. 

Hyunjin doesn’t look at him right away, his attention still fixed on Jisung as he guides him down onto the couch, crouching in front of him so they’re eye level, one hand still resting against his arm. 

“I don’t know yet,” Hyunjin says quietly. “But it’s bad.” 

Jisung lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand across his face in a useless attempt to steady himself, but the tears keep coming, slower now, heavier, each one feeling like it’s pulling something loose from his chest as it falls. 

“He—” Jisung tries again, swallowing hard. “Minho—he didn’t—” 

His voice falters again. 

Chan moves closer then, not intruding but near enough that his presence settles into the space, his friend always reliable. 

“Take your time,” he says gently. 

Jisung nods, even though it feels like his whole body is trembling under the weight of everything he’s trying to say. 

“He didn’t know me,” he finally manages. “I went to his cottage, and he—he looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I’d never—” His voice breaks again, sharp and painful. “Like none of it happened.” 

Hyunjin stills. 

“What?” he says. “That’s not—what do you mean he didn’t know you?” 

“I told him,” Jisung insists, shaking his head, his hands coming up like he can physically hold onto the memory if he tries hard enough. “I told him it was me, I told him my name, I told him—he calls me bug, Hyunjin, he—he didn’t even recognise that. He just—” His breath stutters. “He told me to get out.” 

Silence drops heavy into the room. 

Hyunjin’s face darkens immediately, something hot and furious flashing across his face so quickly it’s almost violent. 

“That’s bullshit,” he snaps, already pushing himself to his feet in one sharp motion. “That’s absolute bullshit, I’m going over there—” 

“Hyunjin.” Chan’s voice cuts through it clearly. 

Hyunjin freezes mid-step, jaw tight, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he turns, frustration radiating off him in waves. 

“What?” he demands. “You heard what he said, didn’t you? That guy—” 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Chan says simply. 

Hyunjin falters slightly, his anger stuttering just enough for the thought to catch. 

“What do you mean it doesn’t make sense?” Hyunjin asks, still tense. 

Chan glances at Jisung, then back at Hyunjin. “From what Jisung’s saying, they didn’t just meet yesterday. This isn’t someone forgetting a face. This is…” He pauses, brows knitting. “This is something else.” 

Jisung swallows hard, his breathing still uneven but slowing now, his mind catching on the words. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It doesn’t make sense.” 

Hyunjin looks at him again, his anger still there but tamed, edged with concern instead of pure fury. 

Jisung shakes his head, his voice quieter, more uncertain. “Why would he tell me all about his brother and best friend? About his bakery they run in Briarford? About everything?” His chest tightens. “Why would he tell me all of that if he was just going to pretend he doesn’t know me?” 

Chan exhales slowly, folding his arms loosely as he leans back slightly, thinking. “Then maybe he’s not pretending.” 

Jisung’s stomach twists. It’s impossible. 

“What do you mean?” Hyunjin asks. 

“I mean,” Chan continues, “if it doesn’t make sense as a choice he would make, then maybe it isn’t one.” 

Silence again.

Jisung stares at the floor, his thoughts spinning, trying to catch onto something solid, something that explains this in a way that doesn’t feel like his entire world has just been pulled out from under him.

“Then what is it?” he asks. 

Chan looks at him carefully, something thoughtful settling there. 

“Those people he told you about,” he says. “His brother and best friend. They’re really important to him, right?” 

Jisung nods slowly. “Yeah.” 

“Then go ask them.” 

Jisung looks up. “I—what?” 

“Go to Briarford,” Chan says simply. “Find them. Ask them what’s going on.” 

Jisung hesitates immediately. “Do I even have a right to do that?” he asks, his voice smaller now, more fragile than it’s been since he walked through the door. “What if we’re wrong? What if he really is doing it on purpose?” 

Hyunjin scoffs softly, folding his arms. “I don’t think we’re wrong. What Chan said makes sense.” 

“You don’t have to be certain,” Chan says. “But you won’t rest well until you know either way, right?” 

Jisung stills. Because, yeah, that’s the truth of it. 

“No,” he admits. 

Chan nods once, like that’s exactly what he expected. 

“Then you go,” he says. “Because if you don’t, you’re going to sit here and tear yourself apart, wondering what happened. And that’s worse.” 

Jisung exhales, long and shaky, his hands tightening slightly in his lap. The idea of it feels big. Overwhelming. Briarford isn’t far, but it’s still a bigger world than he knows. 

But the thought of not knowing feels worse. 

Much worse. 

“...Okay,” he says finally. 

It’s quiet and unsteady when he says it, but it’s there. And for the first time since he walked out of Minho’s cottage, something shifts again. 

He has direction. And right now, it’s enough. 

The next morning arrives grey, and Jisung has barely slept. 

What rest he got was fractured, full of turns and thoughts that circled so relentlessly they became their own kind of fever. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Minho standing in that doorway, saw blankness where recognition should have been, and heard those words again. 

Who are you? 

By dawn, lying still had felt impossible. 

So he left a note for his parents and went. 

The road to Briarford stretches longer than he expects, first through the familiar countryside where hills fold into one another in sleepy greens, where sheep graze half-hidden in the morning fog, and the wind smells of damp earth and pine. But gradually the land changes. The farms thin. The roads widen. Houses gather closer together, and then closer still. 

And then the city rises. 

Briarford seems to appear all at once, not looming so much as unfolding as layers. 

Stone bridges arch over narrow canals that catch silver light. Buildings lean shoulder to shoulder in rows of old brick and painted timber, their upper windows spilling flower boxes over streets below. Laundry hangs strung between alleyways, and market stalls spill into the roads in all directions in bright, unruly bursts of colour.

It’s overwhelming how much the whole place moves.

Carts rattle over cobblestones, bakers carry trays to storefronts, and apprentices dart through crowds with flour on their sleeves. The air smells impossibly full of everything: coffee, riverwater, fresh bread and chimney smoke, all layered together. 

Jisung stands still in the middle of it for a moment. This is where Minho came from; these streets shaped him. He can almost see it, some younger version of him slipping through the crowds with flour on his face and hands. Laughing with his brother, arguing with Changbin, carrying trays before sunrise. 

The thought hurts and steadies him all at once. 

He starts asking people, awkward at first, then with increasing desperation. 

“Excuse me, do you know a bakery called Pawsitively Sweet?” 

An old woman selling chestnuts points left. A delivery boy points him toward the river. A fishmonger insists it’s two streets over, and don’t miss the mural with cats. 

And somehow Jisung still can’t find it. He walks in circles, gets turned around twice, and somehow ends up in a square with pigeons and a fountain and no bakery at all. 

At one point, he laughs aloud in disbelief, half hysterical. 

Of course the universe would make him work for this. But then, turning down a narrower side street he hadn’t noticed before, he sees it. 

There it is, a painted sign swinging gently above a warm, honey-coloured storefront. 

Pawsitively Sweet.

The lettering curves around an illustration of a sleeping orange-and-white cat wrapped around a loaf of bread. 

Jisung stares. It is somehow deeply, painfully charming. 

Very Minho. 

The front windows are fogged softly with warmth from within. Through them, he sees movement, crowded tables, and hanging copper pans catching light. 

This is it. He’s here. 

For a while, he just stands outside, fingers tightening around the strap of his satchel. Then he takes one steadying breath and steps inside. The warmth hits him first, and then the scent. God. It wraps around him right away, rich enough to make his knees weak. Butter browning. Fresh bread. Cinnamon. Citrus. Sugar caramelising. Coffee dark and bitter beneath it all. 

It smells like comfort made tangible. 

People crowd the front counter, voices overlapping in cheerful chaos. And over all of it is the soft domestic hum of a place loved into existence. 

Jisung can almost feel Minho in it. 

He stands awkwardly near the entrance for a while, suddenly uncertain. His eyes move over shelves lined with pastries glazed to jewel brightness, braided loaves, tarts shining with fruit. The most endearing of all are the small cat-shaped biscuits in jars. A speciality, Jisung assumes. 

And then he sees him. 

Freckles and golden hair falling into his eyes. He moves fast, talking to three customers at once, sliding pastries into paper, laughing as he does it. 

It must be Felix. 

There is something about him that feels unmistakably connected to the way Minho described him, like memory made real. 

He looks younger and even brighter than Jisung imagined. And energetic. Jisung edges closer, then stops, because Felix is busy. Very busy. Every time Jisung thinks he can approach, another customer appears, another tray arrives, another question pulls him away. 

So Jisung waits and waits. Long enough to start feeling foolish. He’s half considering leaving and coming back when Felix finally looks up properly, and their eyes meet. Felix pauses briefly, and there’s a strange perceptiveness in that look. 

He says something to the woman beside him, wipes the flour from his hands, and steps out from behind the counter. 

Up close, he looks even younger.

And sharper. 

There’s curiosity in his face now, and concern. 

“Hey,” he says gently. “You’ve been standing there for a while.” 

Jisung opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. 

Felix’s brows lift slightly. “Are you okay?” 

It’s asked so simply, so sincerely, that something in Jisung nearly unravels all over again. 

He swallows hard. “I… I need to talk to you.” 

Felix studies him more carefully now. “What about?” 

Jisung’s fingers tighten around his satchel strap. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. 

Then he finally says it. “It’s about Minho.” 

Everything changes then. Felix stills entirely, the bustle of the bakery seeming to fall strangely distant for a second. Even the noise around them blurs. Felix’s expression empties in surprise, then sharpens into something Jisung can’t quite grasp. 

Felix glances at the back room, then back at Jisung. “Come with me.” 

Felix leads him through a narrow door behind the counter and into the quieter back rooms of the bakery, where the noise of customers softens into a distant hum, muffled by brick walls and hanging sacks of flour. 

Rows of cooling bread line wooden racks. Dough rests beneath cloth in broad bowls. Copper pans hang overhead, catching muted light from a high, frosted window. Somewhere deeper in the bakery, someone is kneading at a table, humming a soft tune. 

It feels more intimate here. 

Felix brings him to a small table tucked near a window where herbs sit drying upside down from a beam. He motions for Jisung to sit. The man waits, doesn’t press or rush. He simply folds himself into the chair opposite him and watches with an attentiveness that feels unnervingly like Minho’s. 

That almost undoes Jisung again. 

For a moment, he doesn’t know how to begin. He just stares at his hands, and then, somehow, the words start coming. And once they do, they don’t stop. He tells Felix. Not everything, not the most private parts. 

Some things still feel too sacred to put into a stranger’s hands, even if this stranger has Minho’s eyes in a different shape and his warmth turned sunshine instead of moonlight. 

But he tells him enough, and Felix listens without interrupting. Only sometimes his mouth softens, sometimes his gaze drops, sometimes his fingers tighten faintly around the table. And Jisung can’t tell if it’s empathy or recognition. Maybe both. 

When he reaches the end, his voice has gone quiet. Thin and fragile. 

“And then I went back,” he says, staring somewhere just past Felix’s shoulder. “And he looked at me like I was a trespasser.” 

The words still don’t sound real. ”Then he says the part he hadn’t meant to, the part he hadn’t even fully admitted aloud. “It’s ridiculous. Because it happened so fast.” 

His mouth twists, almost embarrassed. “But I think…” He stops and looks down, then forces himself through it. “I think I’ve fallen in love with your brother.” 

The confession lands between them with a kind of trembling honesty that makes even the room feel altered. 

Jisung exhales shakily. “There was just… something.” His fingers curl against the table. “Like something pulled us together.” 

When he looks up, expecting surprise, discomfort, anything—but Felix is just watching him.. Very still, and very quiet, and strangely unsurprised. 

That unsettles Jisung, because Felix should look shocked. Shouldn’t he? Instead, he looks almost… sad. 

Jisung frowns and leans forward slightly. “Wait. You’re not surprised. Why aren’t you surprised?” 

Felix exhales slowly through his nose, gaze dropping for a moment as if weighing something old and heavy. When he looks back up, something in him has gone careful. There’s grief in it. 

“There’s…” he starts. “There’s a reason.” 

The words make a cold run through Jisung’s spine, “What reason?” 

Felix shakes his head, and the movement carries actual pain. “I can’t tell you.” 

Jisung stares. “What do you mean you can’t tell me?” 

“I mean exactly that.” 

Frustration flares. “You know what’s happening, don’t you?” 

Felix says nothing, which is answer enough. 

Jisung pushes back from the table slightly. “Felix. If you know something, how can you not tell me?” 

Felix leans forward then, sudden intensity entering his face. This matters. Whatever this is, it matters. 

“Because some things can’t be broken by being explained.” 

The words are strange, almost like a riddle. 

Jisung blinks. “What does that even mean?” 

Felix gives a small, helpless laugh that holds no amusement. “I know how that sounds.” 

“Then explain it.” 

“I can’t” 

Again. Felix is putting up a wall. And strangely, despite everything, Jisung believes him. 

Believes that this isn’t cruelty. There is something far too sincere in Felix’s anguish. Too real. Felix reaches across the table suddenly, covering Jisung’s hand with his own. 

“Listen to me,” Felix says quietly. 

Something in his deep tone makes Jisung obey. 

“Do not give up.”

“What?” 

“Don’t walk away because he forgot.” 

Jisung’s throat tightens. Felix’s fingers press faintly over his. 

“You have to force him to listen. Tell him how you feel.” 

Jisung stares at him as if he’s lost his mind. “Felix, he told me to leave the house.” 

“Then go back.” 

Jisung shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re telling me to throw myself at someone who—who doesn’t know me.” 

“I’m telling you,” Felix says, and now his voice trembles slightly, “that forgetting and not feeling are not always the same.”

“Why?” he whispers. 

Felix’s eyes shine strangely. “Because I think you matter more than you realise.” 

Jisung shakes his head faintly, overwhelmed. “That doesn’t make sense.” 

“No,” Felix agrees softly. “But some truths arrive before they make sense. You just have to trust in it.” 

Jisung almost laughs at how cryptic that is. 

Instead, he says, very quietly, “Why do I trust you?” 

Felix’s expression softens. “Maybe because some part of you knows I’m trying to help.” 

Outside, someone calls Felix’s name. Neither of them moves. 

Jisung sits there with flour in the air and sunlight striping the old wooden table and the impossible weight of a secret being kept from him by someone who somehow feels honest anyway. 

And against all logic, he believes him. 

Felix’s thumb brushes once over the back of Jisung’s hand before he lets go. “Go back to him.” 

Jisung’s heart beats hard enough to hurt. 

“And when he pushes you away?” Felix’s mouth curves sadly. “Love him louder.” 

The moment lingers after Felix says it: Love him louder. 

The words settle somewhere deep and unresolved, too large to absorb all at once, and for a moment, Jisung can only sit there, staring at the flour-dusted table as if the grain of the wood might offer him some answers. It doesn’t. 

Eventually, Felix rises, brushing his palms absently against his apron, though there is flour on him still, stubborn as his freckles. He looks younger when he smiles, but older somehow in the quiet gravity he’s just carried. 

“I should get back before my staff starts rioting,” he says lightly, as though they hadn’t just spoken about something enormous. 

Jisung stands too, slower, his limbs still carrying the strange heaviness of emotional exhaustion .

For a second, they only look at each other. It feels like there is an odd, shared intimacy between them now. Not born of friendship, but of a shared knowledge. Or perhaps a shared burden, Jisung doesn’t know yet. 

But when Felix steps forward and folds him briefly into a hug, quick but fierce, he doesn’t question it. 

He holds only for a second, then lets go. 

Felix leads him back through the bakery’s warm, living heart. The afternoon rush has softened, though the place still hums with life. Someone is laughing near the pastry case. A child is pressing both palms against the glass, trying to choose between different colours of the same cat-shaped biscuits. 

Everything feels strangely brighter and lighter than when Jisung arrived. 

As they move toward the front, Felix glances over his shoulder. “You’ll go back?” 

Jisung hesitates, then nods. “I think so.” 

Felix's smile is wide and relieved. “Good.” 

They take a few more steps through the warmth and bustle of the bakery, weaving between trays and customers and the constant soft music of cups touching saucers. Then Felix slows and looks back at him again, studying. And whatever he finds makes his expression shift, because he must look wrecked. Must look as exhausted as he feels. 

Felix’s brows draw together slightly. “When did you leave this morning?” 

Jisung blinks at the question. “Early.” 

“And have you eaten?” 

The question makes him pause, because, no, he hasn’t. Not since some hurried bread before dawn. 

Felix makes a face before he can answer. “That’s what I thought.” 

Jisung almost protests, says he should probably be going, that there’s a road home still ahead of him and too much to think about already, but Felix is already steering him gently by the elbow. 

“No heroic suffering,” he says firmly. “Sit down before you fall over in my bakery.” 

Despite himself, Jisung almost laughs. 

Felix glances back at him with mock severity. “I’m not joking.” 

He guides him toward a tucked-away corner near the front windows, half-hidden behind a shelf of preserves and trailing ivy. A little nook he hadn’t noticed before. 

It’s the sort of corner people write letters in. 

Or fall in love in. 

A curved bench wraps around a small wooden table worn smooth by years of elbows and teacups. Cushions crowd the seat in faded florals and stripes. A knitted cat sits absurdly in one corner like that’s its home. 

Sunlight filters through the lace curtains, turning everything into amber. 

It is unbearably cosy. 

Jisung sinks into the bench before realising how tired he is, and his whole body seems to melt into the cushions. 

Felix stands over him, satisfied. “There.” 

“I’m fine,” Jisung murmurs. 

Felix gives him a look. “No, you are traumatised and underfed.” 

Then he leaves before Jisung can argue. For a while, he just sits, listening, watching as the bakery moves around him. And slowly, for the first time since arriving in Briarford, he relaxes. He hadn’t realised how much he needed to stop moving. 

When Felix returns, his arms are full. He sets everything down with careful ceremony. A thick mug of hot chocolate, dark and fragrant, with cream melting lazily over the top. A slice of cheesecake so delicate it almost looks fake, pale and glossy atop a crumb crust. 

And beside it, a biscuit shaped like a sleeping cat. 

Jisung stares. “Felix…” 

“Eat.” There’s no room for protest. He slides into the opposite seat, and there is something almost shy in him suddenly. Something Jisung hasn’t seen yet. 

Felix nudges the plate slightly toward him. “These,” he says, tapping the cooking, “are Minho’s.” 

Jisung looks up. 

Felix smiles, but it carries memory in it. “The cat biscuits and the cheesecake. They were the first things he ever made entirely his own.” 

Something in Jisung’s chest catches, thinking about young Minho working hard over his own recipes. 

“Before that, he followed his mentor’s recipes. Improved them, sure, argued with everyone about butter ratios.” Felix laughs softly. “But these… these were his alone.” 

Jisung looks down at the cat-shaped biscuit as though it might reveal something. 

“He created this all on his own?” 

“When he was just sixteen.” Felix’s eyes brighten at the memory. “He was obsessed with getting the ears just right.” 

Jisung laughs. That sounds exactly right. 

“Three days,” Felix says. “Three days he stayed awake trying to perfect a biscuit shaped like a cat.” 

“Of course he did.” 

Felix grins. “Changbin was ready to murder him.” 

The hot chocolate warms Jisung’s hands through the mug as steam curls up against his face. He takes a sip, it’s rich and dark and tastes like childhood winters and comfort, despite them being on the cusp of summer. 

Felix watches him carefully. “You should try the cheesecake.” 

Jisung does and nearly closes his eyes. It is impossibly light with lemon beneath the sweetness. Silk against his tongue. 

“Oh,” he breathes. 

Felix beams. “I know.” 

Jisung takes another bite. Then another. Something in him uncoils; being able to eat something Minho made. To taste a recipe born from those same hands that touched him. There is something almost intimate in it. 

Then he breaks off one pointed cat ear and studies it. “This is ridiculous.” 

Felix leans forward. “Cute ridiculous or bad ridiculous.” 

“Dangerously cute ridiculous.” 

Felix looks smug. “Pretty sure that was Minho’s goal.” 

Jisung shakes his head, but he’s actually smiling now. And Felix sees it, and seems quietly relieved by it. 

After a while, Felix almost absently says, “You know. Minho used to say food is how you tell people you intend them to stay in your life. Cooking was his way of showing his love, so if he cooked for you, he was giving you his heart.” 

Jisung goes very still. Suddenly, everything makes sense. 

The mushrooms. The bread. Even the tart. The dinner they shared by firelight. His chest aches with it. 

Felix must see it, too. “He cared.” 

Not cares. 

Past tense. 

But somehow it doesn’t feel final; it feels like a promise. 

Jisung stares into his hot chocolate and says, almost to himself, “I miss him already.” 

Felix doesn’t answer that; he only reaches across the table and nudges the biscuit toward him again. 

“Eat,” he says softly. “So you have strength to fight my brother later.” 

And somehow, that makes Jisung laugh. 

It slips out before he can stop it, startled and bright, cutting through everything heavy that had been pressing against him all day. Fellix smiles as though he’s been trying to coax that sound out of him this whole time. 

Jisung finishes the hot chocolate slowly after that, lets the warmth settle in his chest. The cat biscuit disappears, and the cheesecake, too, though he takes his time with it, savouring it, knowing who shaped the recipe. 

Outside the window, the afternoon has begun its slow lean toward evening. Eventually, Jisung stands, reluctant in a way that surprises him. He thanks Felix more times than feels necessary. Felix waves it off, but he looks at him intently and says, “Don’t let him push you away.” 

Once he’s done, Felix guides him to the front door. They reach it just as it opens inward. 

And a man nearly barrels through carrying two heavy sacks of flour over one broad shoulder as though they weigh nothing at all. 

He stops short when he sees them. 

The first thing noticeable about him is his presence. Solid. Dense. Like the room subtly rearranges itself around him. The second thing he notices is that this man must be Changbin. 

There’s no one else he possibly could be. 

He’s broad-shouldered and compact with powerful forearms dusted in flour, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. 

“Well,” he says. “Who is this?” 

Felix’s entire face lights up. “Binnie!” 

There is such an easy affection in the name that it makes Jisung’s chest ache unexpectedly. 

Changbin lowers the flour sacks to the floor with a heavy thud. “A customer?” 

Felix gives him a look. “No… A friend.” 

Something unreadable flickers across Changbin’s face, like he’s curious. Like he senses more is happening than he’s being told. Which, to be fair, is true. 

Jisung opens his mouth to introduce himself, but Felix beats him to it. “This is Jisung.” 

Changbin wipes a hand on his apron and offers it immediately. “Seo Changbin.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Jisung says. 

Though it feels absurdly inadequate. 

Changbin glances between him and Felix, then one brow lifts. “Well,” he says slowly. “You two look like you’ve been up to no good.” 

Felix snorts. “Something like that.” 

Changbin laughs. “Should I be worried?” 

Felix shakes his head. “No.” Then something passes between them, some silent conversation older than words. “You’ll meet again, don’t worry.” 

Changbin blinks. “What does that mean?” 

Felix only smiles. “You’ll see.” 

Changbin squints. “I hate when you do this oracle nonsense.” 

Felix nudges him. “You love it.” 

“Tolerate it.” 

Jisung can’t help smiling. The ease between them is impossible not to feel. Minho had spoken of them with warmth, but seeing it is something else. Living proof. Family. 

Felix reaches out then and briefly catches Jisung’s wrist before he steps toward the door. 

His voice drops so only Jisung hears. “Remember what I said.” 

Jisung nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

Then Changbin, hauling one sack back onto his shoulder, calls after him as he steps toward the street, “Hey.” Jisung turns. “If my idiot best friend is involved in whatever’s going on here, don’t let him get away without a fight.” 

Jisung laughs again, something in him loosening. “I’ll try.” 

And as Jisung steps back out into Briarford’s golden afternoon light, bakery warmth clinging to his clothes, he carries something new with him. 

Not answers, but a lifeline. 

By the time he makes it home, the sky has begun the slow, mournful drift into evening, where the sun gives itself over to violet, and the fields start to slumber beneath the long shadows. The journey back should have tired him, but something restless drives him onward, something wound too tightly to let him move at an ordinary pace. Felix’s words have followed him all the way from the city like a second pulse. The thought beats in time with his footsteps until the farmhouse comes into view. 

He pushes through the kitchen door with enough force to make it knock against the wall, startling everyone inside. His mother, bent over the table sorting greens for supper, straightens so fast her chair nearly tips. His father looks up from his mug. Hajoon stops midway through slicing bread, and even little Sooah freezes with jam on her fingers. 

They all stare. 

And Jisung, breathless from more than walking, crosses straight for the cupboards. 

“Jisung?” his mother says, worry immediately sharpening her voice. “What on earth—” 

He barely hears her. His hands are already searching the shelf until they close around an old, woven basket, the one they use for gathering fruit in the late summer. The familiar roughness of the handle against his palm sends something electric through him. 

His mother comes around the table all at once. “Darling, slow down. What is happening? We’ve barely seen you lately and now you storm in looking like the devil’s after you.” 

That almost makes him laugh. 

Instead, he turns, basket clutched against his chest, cheeks wind-flushed. “I’ll explain later.” 

His mother blinks. “Later?” 

There is that maternal disbelief. 

Jisung leans in quickly and kisses her cheek before she can launch into what he knows would be a very long speech. 

“I promise,” he says, already backing toward the door. “I just… I need to do something.” 

His father, who has been watching him with a silence too knowing to be accidental, turns to her and says, “let him go.” 

His mother turns on him. “Go where?” 

But Jisung is already slipping out into the deepening dusk, the door closing behind him on her protests. Outside, the evening has become something almost enchanted. The farm is washed in blue shadow, and the first star has appeared. Beside the shed, hanging from its hook exactly where it always has, waits the old lantern. 

Jisung stops and looks at it. Of course. 

He steps toward it as if answering a summons, lifts it carefully from its hook, and strikes a flame. The wick catches after a breath, then another, until warm amber light blooms against the shadows. It flickers over his hands, over the basket at his side, and over the path before him. 

Lanternlight. A guide through the dark. 

He stares at it a moment longer, and an almost laugh catches in his chest, because now he’s determined even more to do what he has to do. 

Start at the beginning. 

The peach trees stand beyond the house in murmuring rows, their leaves whispering in the breeze, and Jisung lets the lantern lead him there. Its light sways with each step, painting gold over the bark and grass, turning the orchard into something magical. Insects hum unseen in the dark, and Jisung lets the sound wash over him. 

He sets the basket down beneath the oldest tree and begins. One peach at a time. He chooses slowly, fingertips brushing the velvet skin before twisting the fruit from its branch. The ripest only. The sweetest. Each laid into the basket carefully, as though it might bruise under the weight of Jisung’s hope. 

The same way he did the first time. 

A gift. 

And as he works, a strange calm settles over him, woven through grief and determination. Because this feels right in a way logic or sense can’t touch. If some cruel enchantment has pulled Minho from him, then he will return to the road they first walked together. 

With peaches and the light of the lantern that has guided Jisung home many times. Except now, his home has a different destination. 

When the basket is full, heavy and fragrant against his arm, he lifts it and turns, the lantern swinging from his other hand. Its glow spills in a moving circle before him, and he follows it. Out of the orchard, and across the slumbering fields. 

The path to the cottage is one he could walk blind now, but tonight it feels transformed. Older somehow. Every step sounds louder in the quiet, every breath touched by anticipation. The lantern throws gold over stones and roots, over wildflowers folding in the night, over the narrow path cutting toward the forest edge, and Jisung lets that little flame guide him as though it knows something he doesn’t. 

As though it knows it can lead him back. 

When Minho’s cottage finally appears through the dark, tucked beneath the trees with one dim light burning in the window, Jisung stops at the sight of it. 

And for a moment, he simply stands there in the moonlit hush, lanternlight trembling over his face, looking less like a farmer’s son and more like someone out of one of the old stories his grandmother used to tell. A boy carrying fire through the darkness. 

Finally, he squares his shoulders and walks to the door once again. 

The knock sounds louder than it should in the hush of evening, three measured taps against old wood, and when the door opens, Jisung forgets every word he had prepared. Minho stands there framed in warm amber light from within the cottage, hair a little mussed, sleeves rolled, face caught between confusion and guardedness. He looks as though he already knows he ought to send Jisung away, as though some instinct has risen to protect himself. 

Jisung sees the refusal gathering in him and acts before it can become words. 

“Just listen,” he says, breathless enough to sound desperate. “Please. Just let me say this.” 

Minho stills. 

Jisung lifts the basket between them, peaches glowing softly in the lanternlight, and for a heartbeat, Minho only looks down at them, brows knitting faintly, as if the sight reaches somewhere he can’t name. Jisung clings to the small hesitation and starts. 

“Not long ago, I came here carrying peaches from my family’s orchard,” he says, voice shaking at first but strengthening as he goes. “You had just moved in. I remember opening this same door and looking so serious, almost suspicious, and I thought I’d be making a fool of myself showing up uninvited, but my mother insisted. But then you took the basket from me as if it were something precious, and then crafted it into the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. And I don’t know…something happened in me right then. I can’t explain it any better than that. I just felt, somehow, as though a part of me already knew you.” 

His fingers tighten around the basket handle. 

“And I know how absurd that sounds. I know it should take longer to say what I’m about to say, but I don’t care anymore because it’s true. I fell in love with you, Minho.” 

The words land between them with clarity, and it’s truly the first time he’s admitted it out loud. 

“I didn’t need years. I didn’t need a lifetime of knowing you to know what I feel. I knew it when you taught me about mushrooms in the forest. I knew it when you cooked for me and fed me with those careful hands as if nourishment was an act of tenderness. I knew it when you kissed me in front of your fire and looked at me as though I was worth it. I knew it waking in your arms and when you gave me a name that only you would say. Like something only you have the right to say.” 

His breath catches, but he doesn’t stop. 

“You are one of the most endearing people I have ever met. You’re gentle in places the world teaches people not to be. You care in these quiet ways that seem small until suddenly they are everything. And maybe I should have been frightened at how quickly I felt it, considering the heartbreak I felt in the past, but I wasn’t. Because it felt right. You felt right. Like something in my life had clicked into place without me even realising it.” 

His eyes sting now, but he lets himself be seen. 

“And then yesterday you looked at me and didn’t know who I was.” 

The words come out quieter. 

“And after all we had shared, after all of it, you told me to leave as if I’d invented us.” He swallows hard. “It broke me.” 

The lantern trembles slightly in his hand. 

“But I didn’t give up. Because I know none of it was imagined. I know you felt the same, and I know it was real to me. Real enough that I travelled all the way to Briarford on foot to find your brother. Real enough that I’m standing here again at your door with peaches in my arms, exactly how this began, because I thought…. If I have any chance of reaching you, maybe I have to start at the beginning.” 

He steps a fraction closer. 

“The first time I came here, I brought you an offering of fruit. This time I brought you my heart, but they’re both bruised just as easily as the other.” 

Silence follows that. Not an ordinary one, but the kind that seems to suspend into the whole night. And Minho doesn’t speak, he just stares and stares, as though every word has struck somewhere deep and he does not yet know what to do with the way it aches. 

Jisung feels suddenly too raw to stand beneath that gaze much longer. His throat tightens dangerously. Before the tears can spill, he sets the basket gently at Minho’s feet and gives the smallest, broken nod. 

“Well,” he says, trying to will his voice to be steady, but failing. “At least you know now.” 

He turns before he can fall apart. 

Just one step before a hand catches his wrist. 

And behind him, ragged with disbelief. “Bug?” 

Minho says the name as though dragged back from the edge of something terrible. 

“Bug.” 

And then he is pulling Jisung into him with such a force that it steals the breath from both of them. There is nothing tentative in it, nothing careful. It is the embrace of a man afraid that if he loosens his hold even slightly, what he has regained will vanish like mist. 

His arms lock around Jisung so tightly it almost hurts, his face buries itself into the curve of his neck, and all at once Jisung feels the tremor running through him. It takes him a moment to realise that Minho is whispering against his skin, the words tumbling over and over. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” 

The apology is raw, almost childlike in its desperation, and Jisung’s heart gives in on itself. He wraps himself around Minho just as fiercely, one hand pressing to the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, the other holding him close at the waist as if he can somehow steady the earthquake moving through him. 

He tries to soothe him, murmuring that it’s all right, that he’s here, that none of it matters now, but Minho clings harder, as though remorse has its teeth in him and refuses to release. When Jisung finally leans back enough to look at him, his own breath catches. Tears have gathered unchecked on Minho’s face. Not restrained tears, not a few drops, but full, shaking grief pouring through him as though the dam has broken entirely. Jisung wipes one away with his thumb, and another replaces it immediately. 

There is too much unravelling to stand exposed on a doorstep, and Jisung knows with absolute certainty that what Minho needs is not forgiveness spoken, but somewhere more private and safe to break apart. So he takes his hand and guides him inside without a word. Minho comes as if led in a daze, his fingers clinging to Jisung’s as though they cannot bear separation even for a second. The cottage receives them in its old familiar warmth, everything unchanged and yet transformed by the fact that Minho remembers him again. 

Jisung brings him to the bed, and there, beneath blankets still carrying the faint scent of lavender and smoke, they curl together as naturally as if their bodies have always known how. Minho folds into him, head against Jisung’s chest, and Jisung gathers him close, stroking through his hair while the storm runs its course. He lets him cry. Lets whatever old terror this is move through him without interruption. 

Sometimes Minho mutters broken apologies, and sometimes only shakes with tears. Jisung just holds him tighter, presses soft kisses to his temple, whispers whatever comfort rises to him in the moment. The kind of words lovers invent when meaning matters more than words. Outside, the wind moves faintly through the trees, and inside time seems to loosen, as though the whole night is bending to them. 

When Minho finally quiets, his breathing evening out against Jisung’s ribs, he lies there a long while. 

Jisung feels the shift in him before he speaks. 

“There was a girl,” Minho says at last, voice rough. 

Slowly, in long threads, Minho tells him about Briarford again. About the city streets where he and Changbin grew up, where Felix trailed after them, younger and stubborn and adored. About the bakery, before it became a bakery, when it was only a dream held together by ambition. And among those memories, always there, a girl who moved through them as naturally as any of it. A childhood companion. 

“I found out that she came from a family of witches,” Minho says quietly, not as though confessing something absurd, but something true. 

And Jisung believes him at once. 

Perhaps another man might laugh, but Jisung has lived too long close to the earth and seasons to think the world contains only what can be explained. He has seen seeds split stone. Seen places in the forest older than prayer itself. Felt presences in growing things. Magic has never seemed impossible to him, only seldom named. 

Minho goes on to tell him that they were eighteen when she confessed her love for him. That he refused her, gently but truly, not knowing refusal could become a catastrophe. His voice changes when he repeats her words, as though even now they carry the cold with them. 

“She told me that if she could not have me, then nobody would. She said everyone I fell in love with would abandon me when I treated them like strangers.” 

Jisung feels cold despite the blanket. 

“She cursed me to never keep love,” Minho says. “Anyone I truly fell in love with… I would forget them.” 

The words hang in the room like a suffocating smoke. 

“She also made me forget the curse itself, unless it was broken. Curses can always be broken somehow.” 

Jisung understands at once why Minho never spoke of it. Why even he looked bewildered by what happened. 

And Felix. 

He asks how Felix knew. 

Minho tells him that Felix had been sneaking where he should not, young and impossibly curious. Of course Minho thought Felix just saw the rejection, because that’s all Minho had remembered for years. But she must have also found out and threatened him if he did not stay silent. 

And suddenly, Felix’s refusal to elaborate makes sense. 

Jisung lies very still, absorbing it, relief rising through shock like spring water. Because beneath all this strangeness is one simple mercy: Minho had not cast him away. Minho loves him. 

But another question presses on Jisung. 

“Why didn’t it last? Why can you remember?” he asks, almost afraid of the answer. 

Minho lifts his head, then looks at him with such tenderness that it makes Jisung ache. “Because you came back.” 

When Jisung only stares, Minho’s hand rises to his face. 

“She said they would all abandon me. That the forgetting would make them leave and fall out of love with me.” 

His thumb strokes Jisung’s cheek. 

“But you didn’t leave.” Minho finally smiles. “You broke it.” 

Jisung laughs a little through sudden tears, half-disbelieving. 

Minho smiles faintly, exhausted but luminous in the moonlight through the window. 

“Maybe we have known each other longer than this life,” Minho says, almost shyly, as if the thought embarrasses him despite how sacred it is. “Maybe we’re soulmates.” 

The word should feels ridiculous, but instead, Jisung finds it lands perfectly. 

And then, almost as though confession has loosened every guarded part of him, Minho begins telling him what he loves. 

Not in dramatic declarations, but in those unbearable intimate details only true attention can find. The way Jisung squints so adorably in the bright sun. The way he speaks to trees when he thinks nobody else hears. The way his whole face transforms when he laughs, his mouth taking on the most beautiful shape. The softness hidden beneath his stubbornness. How beautiful he looked the first time he stood at his door, and how Minho knew he was in trouble the moment Jisung looked up at him from the grass with those wide, impossible eyes. 

“I loved you before I understood I was doing it,” Minho admits. “And I love you now.” 

Jisung can think of nothing to say except “I love you, too.” 

The words leave him like a surrender, like someone stepping willingly into deep water and allowing it to swallow them whole. 

And then he kisses him. 

Slowly, with a tenderness so profound it feels almost sacred. His mouth moves over Minho’s like learning a poem by heart, as if each kiss might heal some part of what the curse wounded. Minho makes a soft sound into his mouth, somewhere between a sigh and something breaking open, and Jisung feels it all through him. He cups Minho’s face in both hands and kisses him deeper, pouring everything he cannot possibly say into touch instead. 

When they part, only to breathe, their foreheads rest together, and there is no need to speak. 

Jisung only looks at him for a long moment, memorising the long, damp lashes, the flushed cheeks, the mouth still parted, and feels a tenderness so overwhelming it’s almost too much. 

Then, with a softness bolder than passion, he presses Minho back into the pillows.

This time, he leads. This time, he worships. 

He kisses down Minho’s throat, lingers where his pulse leaps, mouths over collarbone, over the chest he slept against, the body he has both held and been held by. Not hurriedly. Minho deserves devotion. 

Minho’s hands move through his hair, over his shoulders, not guiding, only receiving, and there is something in that surrender that excites Jisung even more. 

When Minho whispers his name, breathless and awed, Jisung nearly comes undone from that alone. 

He lifts again to kiss him, and Minho’s arms circle him, drawing him close until there is no space between them at all, only warmth and shared breath and the slow rocking tide of two people learning how to belong to another person. Moonlight spills over skin and blankets, over the small room that has become the axis of Jisung’s world, and everything beyond it seems impossibly far away. 

Their lovemaking this time feels less like fire than soothing springs. 

There are more confessions between kisses, their hands clasped in the dark as Jisung rocks gently into him. At one point, Minho laughs softly through more tears, overwhelmed by joy, and Jisung kisses those tears away, too. 

Jisung holds Minho as though cradling something precious returned to him by a miracle. There is no rush to the end, only the slow unfolding of trust. When they finally crest and fall together, it feels less like a climax and more like a release from some old sorrow neither of them had known they were carrying before this. 

Afterwards, they lie tangled in the hush that follows, Jisung draped half over Minho’s chest, listening to his heartbeat settle under his ear. 

Outside, dawn begins its first pale gathering.

The curse is broken, and the lantern has burned out. 

And in the first hush before the morning wakes, wrapped in the arms of the man he crossed darkness to reclaim, Jisung understands something simple and enormous, that some loves are not found, they are remembered. 

The light that guided him here can rest now, because he’s finally found where he was always meant to be.  Right here with Minho.