Chapter Text
It started, as all professional disasters tend to, with coffee. Or rather, the lack of it.
Han Jisung stood outside Phoenix Entertainment headquarters, gripping the strap of his messenger bag like it could save him from reality. His iced americano had died a watery death on the subway. His backup shirt had betrayed him with a coffee stain during the transfer. And now, at 6:47 a.m., he was thirty-three minutes early for the most intimidating assignment of his already chaotic career.
He looked like someone who had been thrown out of a stylist's van mid-hurricane. Tousled brown hair that refused to settle. Oversized beige hoodie under a too-narrow navy blazer, both clinging awkwardly to his narrow frame. Slightly scuffed sneakers, a tablet tucked under one arm, and wide, anxious eyes behind rectangular glasses. He had the vibe of someone who always meant well and somehow still set things on fire.
Lee Minho.
Not just an actor—the actor. Gucci brand ambassador. Critical darling. Public enigma. Known across the industry for his thousand-yard stare and the ability to make grown managers cry.
Jisung wasn’t planning to cry. Not publicly, anyway.
He took a deep breath. “You’ve got this. You are capable. You are prepared. You are not going to ruin this before 9 a.m.”
The automatic doors hissed open as he stepped forward.
And immediately closed in his face.
“…Okay,” he muttered. “That feels personal.”
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ───
The lobby of Phoenix Entertainment gleamed with the polished indifference of a company that made stars for a living. All glass and steel and don’t-touch-anything vibes. Jisung straightened his posture and approached the front desk.
“Hi! I’m the new manager assigned to Lee Minho—I’m here to pick up my keycard?”
The receptionist didn’t look up. “ID?”
“Yep!” Jisung dug into his bag. “It’s… hang on…”
He produced a crumpled tissue, a tangled charger, an emergency snack bar, and his dignity, but no wallet.
“I swear I had it this morning…”
“No ID, no card,” the receptionist said without blinking.
“I’m not a random guy, I literally work here.”
The doors behind him slid open again.
Jisung turned and froze.
In walked a man who looked like the dictionary definition of “untouchable.”
Lee Minho didn’t wear disguise gear. No mask. No cap. Just black slacks, a charcoal coat, sunglasses, and a face sculpted for magazine spreads. He walked like the world moved for him.
He stopped at the gate, scanned his keycard.
Beep. The gate opened.
He stepped forward, then turned his head slightly.
Their eyes met.
Jisung didn’t move.
Minho didn’t speak.
But his lips curled. A small, sharp, devastating smirk.
Then he disappeared through the gate without a word.
“…Did I just get silently judged by a walking Gucci ad?” Jisung mumbled.
The receptionist handed him a form. “Fill this out.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
It took two phone calls and a favor from HR before he finally got his keycard. Jisung made it to the management floor with sweat under his collar and a personal vendetta forming against sliding glass doors.
A thick manila folder sat on his desk, ominous in its silence.
LEE MINHO was printed in bold across the front. A pink sticky note was slapped on top:
“DO NOT FLIRT. DO NOT CRY. HE’S YOUR PROBLEM NOW. — Team Leader K.”
Jisung peeled it off, sighed, and stuck it to his water bottle like a badge of suffering.
Then he opened the file.
LEE MINHO
- Age: 28
- Height: 172 cm
- Known for: Winter’s Dog, The Salt Moon, and Gucci Global Campaign
- Personality: Private. Precise. Professional.
- Interview success rate: 3/10
- Manager turnover: Frequent
- Known preferences: Clean schedules, black coffee, silence
- Known allergies: Delays, social media
- Owns: IMPORTANT!!! owns three cats — Soonie, Doongi, and Dori YOU NEED TO REMEMBER THESE NAMES!!!
- Current bodyguard: Seo Changbin
Jisung flipped a page and winced.
Tucked behind the logistics was a short note from HR. His previous client, a solo artist on the verge of her big debut, had gotten caught trash-talking a label executive during a livestream. Jisung had tried to defuse the situation in real time… and ended up making it worse. That clip hit stan Twitter in under ten minutes. She was dropped. He was reassigned. His name, briefly, became synonymous with “crisis.”
Now he was here.
Fresh start. Do not mess this up.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
Outside, in the underground garage, Jisung spotted the sleek black sedan already waiting. Standing beside it was Minho, arms folded, sunglasses on, radiating “don’t talk to me” energy.
Next to him stood a man Jisung recognized from the internal security files.
“Seo Changbin?”
The man turned. Close-cropped hair, square jaw, thick arms folded across his chest like they came with a warning label. He wasn’t tall, but he had a presence like the kind of guy who could carry a full-grown man over his shoulder while explaining OSHA guidelines.
“Han Jisung?” Changbin nodded. “You’re earlier than expected.”
“I don’t sleep much. Anxiety, caffeine, fear of imminent professional death.”
“Cool,” Changbin said with a straight face. “Are you riding with us?”
Jisung blinked. “Oh… no. I, uh… don’t drive. Or ride with people I don’t know on highways. I’m taking the agency van.”
Changbin raised a brow. “Fear of driving?”
“More like fear of dying horribly in traffic. Same effect.”
Minho got into the car without a word.
Jisung sighed. “Charming.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
They didn’t speak much before the shoot.
Jisung sat awkwardly on the edge of a bench in the lobby, tablet in hand, pretending to revise Minho’s schedule even though he’d already memorized it. Minho sat across from him, one ankle balanced over his knee, scrolling on his phone like time owed him a favor.
The silence was thick, Jisung cleared his throat. “Is it always this quiet before a job?”
Minho didn’t look up. “Depends on the manager.”
“I can fill the silence if it helps.”
“Please don’t.”
Jisung cracked a smile. “You know I’m not going to flirt with you, right?”
Minho finally looked at him. “Not with that outfit.”
“Rude,” Jisung said, blinking.
Minho went back to his phone. “You don’t look like a manager. You look like someone who wandered in here looking for free snacks.”
“I was assigned to you.”
“Exactly.”
Jisung blinked. “Wow. You’re, uh… pretty committed to the whole ‘terrible first impression’ thing, huh?”
“I’ve had four managers,” Minho said coolly. “None lasted more than a month.”
“Well, buckle up, vampire boy,” Jisung muttered. “I talk to myself, don’t know how to shut up, and I’m too stubborn to die. Let’s go.”
Minho gave him one look. Like he couldn’t decide if Jisung was entertaining or just a cosmic punishment.
He didn’t say anything else.
But when they stood up to leave, he didn’t walk ahead this time.
He walked beside him.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
The studio shoot began in chaos.
Jisung arrived just in time to see Minho and a stylist locked in a tense, silent standoff over a rack of beige coats.
“I don’t wear tan,” Minho said.
“It’s beige,” the stylist whispered, visibly shaking.
Minho didn’t blink, Jisung stepped in. “How about the navy coat with black lapels? Dramatic. Expensive. Doesn’t look like oatmeal.”
The stylist brightened. “Yes!”
Minho turned his gaze to Jisung. “You’re late.”
“I’m literally on time.”
“You’re not early.”
“Some of us don’t wake up inside a fashion magazine.”
Minho said nothing. But he took the coat and disappeared behind the curtain.
The stylist exhaled in relief. “I owe you my life.”
“Is he always like this?”
“Only with people he doesn’t hate.”
Jisung blinked. “Cool, cool. Just professionally negged by a man who probably names his houseplants after philosophers.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
On set, Minho transformed.
Every camera click seemed to charge the air. He didn’t pose, he became the image. Jisung watched from the sidelines, tablet in hand, trying to keep his jaw attached to his face.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself, “he’s not just good-looking. He’s illegally gorgeous. That should be a crime. Arrest this man.”
Minho’s eyes flicked toward him.
Jisung froze.
“Did I say that out loud?”
Minho arched a brow. “You called me a criminal.”
“For being hot! I wasn’t, look, I talk to myself sometimes, okay? It’s a nervous habit.”
Changbin passed by and offered helpfully, “He does it constantly.”
“I’ve tried to stop!”
Minho stared a beat longer. “It’s fine. At least now I know where the background noise comes from.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
The live interview later was painful to witness.
At least for most people, for Han Jisung, it was borderline riveting.
They were seated in a chic, softly lit studio, polished marble floor, velvet chairs, and a host who smiled like she collected celebrity secrets for sport. Minho sat across from her, perfectly composed in a dark button-down, ankle crossed over knee, giving the illusion of calm even as a vein in his temple betrayed his patience.
Jisung stood just off-camera, clutching his tablet like a lifeline.
The host leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “So, Minho-ssi. Your fans are dying to know… What kind of kiss is your favorite to film?”
Minho didn’t blink. “Short.”
The host laughed. “Not romantic?”
“Romance isn’t in the length.”
She tilted her head, clearly delighted by the challenge. “Then what is it in?”
Minho paused just long enough for tension to coil in the silence. Jisung felt it in his throat, a phantom echo of every quiet moment between them that had nearly become something more. Something unforgivable.
“Connection,” Minho said finally, his voice steady. “If it’s not real, the audience knows.”
The host arched a brow. “So you're saying you have to feel something for your co-star?”
Jisung’s grip on the tablet tightened.
Minho looked straight ahead, unmoved. “I’m saying the camera doesn’t lie.”
Jisung nearly dropped his stylus.
The host hummed, undeterred. “What about in real life, then? Are you more into soft, slow kisses or passionate ones?”
Minho gave her a flat stare. “Real life isn’t part of the script.”
“Oh, come on,” she said brightly. “Your fanbase has theories. They think you’re the type to kiss with your hands in someone’s hair. Or maybe the kind who leans in and takes control,” she finished, lips curling like she already knew the answer.
Minho’s jaw twitched. Just once. Barely noticeable if you didn’t know him. But Jisung did. Knew that tiny flex like the back of his own knotted-up thoughts. He could practically feel it ripple through the studio air like static before a storm.
“I don’t perform off-camera,” Minho said evenly. “So they’ll have to keep theorizing.”
“But it depends on the person,” Minho continued, voice dry as desert sand. “Some people make you want to kiss slow. Others make you forget there’s air.”
Jisung audibly choked.
Minho didn’t even look in his direction.
The host blinked. “…That was actually very poetic.”
“It happens,” Minho said.
“And scents! Fans say you smell like expensive hotel rooms and mystery. What’s your go-to fragrance?”
“I wear whatever my cats don’t sneeze at.”
Jisung pressed the tablet to his face to hide his laugh.
“Oh right,” the host beamed. “You have three cats, don’t you? Soonie, Doongi, and Dori?”
“Correct.”
“And do they ever sleep on your scripts?”
“They sleep on me.”
“Lucky cats,” she said, smirking.
Minho said nothing. Just stared with his polite death glare.
The rest of the segment passed in a blur of cleverly dodged questions and Minho weaponizing monosyllables. When the interview finally wrapped, the host thanked him graciously and Minho bowed once before leaving the set without a word.
Jisung trailed behind, face warm from secondhand tension.
“You survived,” he said cheerfully as they stepped outside into the hallway.
“I always do.”
“You know, you answered that kiss question way too well for someone who pretends he doesn’t care.”
Minho arched a brow. “Are you critiquing my delivery?”
“No, I’m just saying, someone talks about kissing like that and doesn’t expect people to react?”
“You reacted?”
Jisung’s ears turned red. “No!”
“You choked.”
“I was surprised!”
“You muttered something about air and knees and forgot your own name.”
“I did not,” Jisung spluttered.
Changbin, who’d reappeared silently with a water bottle, added, “You did. I heard.”
“I hate this job.”
Minho walked ahead, expression unreadable but his voice came quieter, amused.
“You’re very loud, manager Han.”
“I talk to myself when I’m nervous!”
“So you were nervous because of what I said?”
Jisung stopped walking. “Okay. You’re evil.”
Minho didn’t answer, but his shoulders shook with silent laughter all the way to the changing room.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
The studio was winding down by the time they made it out the back exit, equipment being wheeled away, lights going dim, crew disappearing in groups. Jisung trailed after Minho and Changbin in the cool evening air, keeping a safe, respectful distance like a good, not-at-all-nervous professional.
Until he saw the car, and realized Changbin was already unlocking the passenger door.
“Oh, I’ll just grab the agency van,” Jisung said quickly, pointing over his shoulder like that would summon it from thin air. “You don’t need me anymore tonight, right?”
Minho didn’t even look back. “You’re riding with us.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” Changbin said, opening the back door. “You’re on transport duty now. It starts today.”
“I… uh… technically haven’t been cleared for—”
“You’re not driving,” Minho cut in, slipping into the front seat. “Just sitting.”
“I can sit,” Jisung said to himself. “Sitting is fine. Sitting doesn’t kill you.”
He eyed the car like it might bite him.
Changbin tilted his head. “You okay?”
“Oh yeah, totally. Just emotionally allergic to confined moving vehicles.”
“I’m an excellent driver.”
“You say that with the tone of someone who’s totaled at least one company van.”
“One and a half. Not my fault.”
Jisung groaned. "Great…" He slid into the back seat anyway, clutching his bag like a life vest and immediately buckling up with military precision.
Changbin started the car. The interior was sleek, quiet, absurdly clean. The kind of vehicle you expected to see in a K-drama where people had dramatic breakups in the rain.
Minho adjusted the radio. “So, you talk to yourself and you have car issues. Anything else I should know before I fake my death and flee the country?”
Jisung muttered, “I’m great at scheduling.”
“Do you scream in tunnels?”
“No!”
“Hmm. We’ll see.”
Changbin pulled into traffic with a smooth turn, Minho relaxed into the seat like this was the most normal thing in the world. Jisung sat stiffly upright, white-knuckled and breathing in through his nose.
By the time they hit the bridge, he was down to soft whispers. “It’s fine. Totally fine. Not dying. Definitely not about to puke in a Gucci ambassador’s car.”
Minho glanced into the rearview mirror. “Please don’t.”
"I'm trying not to.”
Changbin smirked. “Ten bucks says he doesn’t make it past Itaewon.”
“I hate both of you.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
Minho’s apartment was on the twelfth floor of a building that screamed high-end privacy: matte black security glass, a private lobby, and a door code that probably launched a missile if you got it wrong.
Jisung climbed out awkwardly, gripping the car door like it might float away.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said, to no one in particular.
“You’ll be riding with us from now on,” Minho said, stepping out and adjusting his coat. “Try to remember your spine next time.”
Jisung scowled. “Try to remember basic human kindness.”
“Hmm,” Minho said. “Let me check if it’s in the schedule.”
Jisung watched Minho walk into the building without a backward glance, disappearing behind sleek tinted glass. Changbin leaned over to close the passenger door. “Buckle up. You’re not walking.”
Then Jisung exhaled hard. “That wasn’t so bad,” he muttered, climbing back in. “Totally fine. Completely fine. No disasters.”
Changbin put the car in gear. “You survived.”
“Did I?”
“You did. Barely. But you did.”
Jisung leaned his head back against the seat and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, they’d do it all over again.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
The drive home was quieter than before.
Jisung sat slouched in the passenger seat this time, legs curled awkwardly under him, arms around his bag like a shield.
“Thanks,” he mumbled as Changbin turned out of Minho’s complex.
“You did fine,” Changbin said after a minute.
Jisung blinked. “Wait, is that a compliment?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Jisung exhaled. “He’s kind of... hard to read.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Have you ever seen him smile?”
“Once. At a cat café. One of the kittens climbed into his hood and fell asleep.”
Jisung laughed. “Figures.”
“You didn’t piss him off today. That’s progress.”
“Is that... rare?”
Changbin smirked. “You’ve got no idea.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
The apartment smelled like honey shampoo, laundry detergent, and the lingering trace of Felix’s ridiculously expensive face cream. The kind he got for free during shoots but still hid behind cereal boxes like someone might steal it.
Felix was already in pajamas and sprawled on the floor surrounded by snacks—mango gummies, chocolate-covered almonds, two half-finished bubble teas. His tablet glowed in front of him, some random anime paused mid-scream. His blond hair was tousled, his freckles soft in the low light. He looked like a romcom lead during their “sad but cute” montage.
Jisung barely made it through the door before dropping his bag with a thud and collapsing face-first onto the couch.
“No,” he mumbled into a pillow. “I refuse.”
“Yes,” Felix said brightly from the floor. “You’re home. Spill. All of it.”
“I can’t. I’ve emotionally short-circuited. Try again tomorrow.”
Felix rolled onto his back, hair haloing around his head. “Minho? Disaster? Crying? Tell me things.”
Jisung lifted his face just enough to groan. “Minho called me a walking disaster. Twice.”
Felix snorted. “He’s observant.”
“He made fun of my outfit.”
“Okay, fashionably observant.”
“He also told me I did a good job.”
Felix blinked, then sat up on his elbows. “Wait, what?”
“Okay, not in words,” Jisung admitted, flipping onto his back. “But he didn’t fire me. And he didn’t complain when I breathed near him.”
Felix grinned, dimples showing. “That’s basically a marriage proposal coming from him.”
Jisung grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head. “Don’t say things like that.”
Felix caught the pillow mid-air and hugged it dramatically. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are! Minho scowled at you, didn’t he?”
“Multiple times.”
“And you liked it.”
“I didn’t hate it.”
Felix cackled and flopped onto his side. “God, this is going to be fun.”
They’d been living together for almost two years, ever since Jisung left his family’s home in Malaysia and needed a place to crash in Seoul. Felix had offered his spare room after five minutes of knowing him, then declared them soulmates when Jisung brought homemade kimchi the next week.
Felix was a model, but somehow the most un-model-like person Jisung had ever met. He could walk a Paris runway in stilettos and leather and come home to complain about his split ends while making hotteok in a unicorn apron. He loved fiercely, teased constantly, and had an uncanny ability to see right through Jisung’s moods like glass. Which was probably why he sat up again, all traces of teasing gone.
“Seriously though,” Felix said softly, “you okay?”
Jisung hesitated.
Then nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
Felix smiled. “You were so nervous this morning.”
“I still am.”
“But you did it.”
“I did it,” Jisung echoed. Then added, “And I didn’t even cry in a bathroom stall.”
“Iconic.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the city outside barely audible through the windows.
Then Jisung said, “He makes me nervous.”
Felix didn’t ask who “he” was.
He just said, “Good. That means it matters.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
Han Jisung hated mornings.
He especially hated mornings that began with Seo Changbin honking outside his building like a getaway driver.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Jisung shouted through the door as he tripped over his shoelaces, hoodie half-zipped, planner clutched to his chest like a holy text.
By the time he slid into the backseat, slightly out of breath and slightly more alive than he wanted to be, Changbin was already pulling away from the curb.
He gripped the seatbelt like a lifeline and murmured, “Okay. Not so bad. No tunnel yet. No sudden death. We’re improving.”
Changbin raised an eyebrow in the rearview mirror. “You still get jumpy every time we hit third gear?”
“Only emotionally.”
“I could drive slower.”
“Please don’t. If you drive slower, I’ll have time to imagine the crash in detail.”
“Noted, but you’re late,” Changbin added after a beat.
“I’m five minutes early.”
“That’s late in Minho Standard Time.”
Jisung groaned into his hoodie. “I forgot I signed up for the Olympics of punctuality.”
The morning traffic hummed outside the windows. Jisung reviewed the schedule on his tablet while mouthing pep-talks under his breath like he was casting a spell.
“You always talk to yourself this much?” Changbin asked casually, glancing in the rearview.
“I’ve tried to stop. It’s a disease.”
“You should get it looked at.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
Minho was already waiting outside his building when they arrived.
Sharp coat. Coffee in hand. Hair that looked like it had been cut and styled by a silent monk in the mountains.
He stepped into the front seat with the quiet grace of someone who did not ever run late or sweat.
Jisung, crammed in the back with his backpack and an energy drink that had leaked onto his notes, gave a small wave.
Minho glanced back. “You’re chewing your pen cap again.”
Jisung froze. “No, I… ”
“And you spilled something. Your bag smells like sugar and panic.”
“I’m aware.”
Changbin didn’t even look away from the road. “He’s doing better than yesterday.”
“That’s a low bar,” Minho said.
Jisung mumbled, “You could try being nice.”
“I could,” Minho said. “But then you might think I liked you.”
Jisung blinked. “You don’t?”
Minho turned around, slow and expressionless. “...No.”
Changbin coughed. “Okay. Let’s redirect the flirting to after we get through the morning.”
“I’m not flirting!” Jisung and Minho said at the same time.
The rest of the ride was blessedly silent.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
Phoenix Studios buzzed with early chaos by the time they arrived. Techs wheeling in equipment, someone shouting about a misplaced boom mic, and a poor intern already crying over a coffee order.
Minho disappeared inside without waiting, Jisung made it ten steps past the entrance before nearly colliding with someone.
“Whoa there,” came a dry voice. “You always cosplay as a midterm crisis, or is this a special occasion?”
Jisung blinked up at a tall, sharp-featured man in a tailored jacket and expensive boots. Dark brows. Sly smirk.
“Wait, you’re Kim Seungmin.”
“And you’re the new manager who looks like he lost a bet with a calendar.”
“I… "What?"
“You’ve got Monday energy. But like, tragic Monday energy. Like... the Monday after a breakup.”
Jisung floundered. “I didn’t break up with anyone.”
“Oh, so you always look like this?”
“I—okay—rude?”
Seungmin gave him a slow once-over. “Let me guess. Second day on the job?”
“Yeah?”
“Then I apologize.”
Jisung blinked, surprised. “Oh. Thanks… ”
“Should’ve taken bets. Most of us didn’t think you’d last past lunch yesterday.”
Jisung stared. “...What?”
Seungmin clapped him on the shoulder with mock sympathy. “But look at you. Still here. Still trembling slightly. That’s tenacity. Or caffeine poisoning.”
“It’s just nerves,” Jisung mumbled. “And one and a half energy drinks.”
Seungmin nodded solemnly. “Classic rookie cocktail.”
There was a pause. “You know, you’re kind of like a wet gremlin.”
“What?” Jisungs eyes widened.
“Adorable. Shaky. Probably dangerous if left unsupervised.”
Jisung opened his mouth, failed to find words, and closed it again.
Seungmin grinned. “You’ll be fun.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
The table read was already in full swing by the time Jisung slipped inside.
Long table. Script packets. Coffee cups everywhere. Half the crew looked half-asleep. Minho sat at the far end, calm and unreadable as always. Seungmin dropped into the seat beside him like he’d been born to cause tension.
Jisung took a spot near the end, tablet ready. He tried to focus, he really did.
But then Minho started reading lines and Jisung forgot how to breathe.
He wasn’t acting. He was the role, quiet fury and broken edges and sharp grace, all unfolding in low, measured words. Even Seungmin’s casual brilliance sharpened next to him like they were made to clash.
Jisung whispered under his breath, “Okay. That’s unfair. Why is he good at everything?”
And because the universe had a sense of humor, the boom mic caught it. Every head turned.
Minho didn’t look at him, but Seungmin snorted. “Well, that answers the mystery of who left their filter at home.”
Jisung considered faking a medical emergency.
Minho finally turned his head. “Focus, manager Han.”
“Yes. Sir. Boss. Actor-sir.”
Seungmin leaned over to Jisung. “You’re going to be so fun.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
The costume wing at Phoenix Studios had the energy of a barely-contained fire drill.
Wardrobe assistants bustled between racks of film costumes, taping notes to collars and arguing over belt loops. Makeup techs dashed in and out mid-retouch. Someone was definitely crying about a missing prop bag. And in the middle of it all stood Lee Minho, arms folded, jaw tight, looking like he was personally offended by cotton blends.
“I’m not wearing a hat,” he said flatly.
“It’s in the character breakdown,” the costumer insisted. “You’re supposed to look like you’ve just come off a motorbike.”
“I. Don’t. Wear. Hats.”
“It’s not a hat, it’s character styling.”
“It’s a hat.”
“But Minho-ssi, it’s Gucci. You wear Gucci.”
“I don’t care if it’s stitched from moonlight and scented with Chanel.”
Jisung lingered nearby with his tablet, trying to appear helpful and not like a deer caught in a very stylish stampede. A harried assistant shoved a snapback into his hands.
“Make yourself useful. Put this on. You look like someone who fell asleep on a printer.”
“I feel like someone who fell asleep on a printer,” Jisung muttered. “Why am I being styled?”
“Visual comparison. The actor has to look like the peak of cool next to you.”
“That feels personal.”
Jisung slapped the snapback on backward. “Do I look marginally less like a trash gremlin?”
Minho turned his head slowly, his eyes swept over Jisung from head to hoodie. “It’s an improvement.”
Jisung scowled. “You know, someday I’m going to look nice and you’re going to choke on your own sarcasm.”
“Unlikely,” Minho said, brushing lint off his jacket.
“Maybe you’ll trip on your own ego.”
“Maybe you’ll make it through one morning without muttering into your tablet like it’s casting a spell.”
“I am casting a spell. It’s called ‘please don’t get fired, Jisung.’”
Minho’s mouth twitched. Just slightly. Like a withheld smile or a sneeze that changed its mind.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
Later, in the breakroom, Jisung collapsed into a chair beside Changbin with a sigh loud enough to rattle mugs.
Changbin, scrolling through his phone, said without looking up, “That’s the first time I’ve seen him blink like a human.”
Jisung blinked. “Minho?”
“Yeah.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re still alive. Congrats.”
“He said I looked better in a hat.”
“That’s flirting.”
“It was an insult!”
“And yet, you’re glowing.”
“I am not… ”
“You absolutely are.”
Jisung groaned and buried his face in his arms. “God, I’m so weird around him.”
“You’re not weird,” Changbin said, putting his phone down. “You’re just new. And terrified. I get it.”
Jisung glanced at him, surprised. “You do?”
“I’ve lost an assignment too.”
"What?" "You?"
Changbin nodded. “Hyunjin. Long story. Let’s just say, I failed the ‘professional distance’ part of the job.”
“Oh.”
“But I remember what it felt like. That sinking ‘you’re going to screw this up no matter what’ feeling.”
“Yeah,” Jisung said softly. “That’s the one.”
“Don’t let it win.”
Jisung stared at the coffee in his hands. “I didn’t think anyone else here would get it.”
“Most people don’t,” Changbin said. “But you’re trying. And Minho… he noticed.”
Jisung looked up. “Wait. He did?”
“He hasn’t kicked you out of the car yet, has he?”
“…Fair point.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
After the costume run-through, Jisung passed through the back hallway on his way to return a borrowed charger.
Minho was there, leaning against the wall, coffee in one hand, watching crew pass like a prince evaluating peasants. He saw Jisung, didn’t say a word, but his gaze lingered just a second too long.
Jisung paused. “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t ruin anything today.”
Minho raised an eyebrow. “Not yet.”
Jisung hesitated. “Do you always look this… intense in hallways?”
“It’s the lighting.”
“Right.”
Minho took a sip of his coffee. “You’re improving.” The words were quiet. Almost offhand, but Jisung felt them like a sharp tap against his ribs.
“Thanks,” he said. Then added, “I think.”
Minho looked at him, unreadable. “Don’t get soft on me now.”
“Too late,” Jisung muttered. “I cried over a cat food commercial last week.”
Minho’s lips twitched.
Jisung walked past, heartbeat tripping over itself, and whispered under his breath
“I’m not imagining that. Right? …Right?”
Minho didn’t answer, but Jisung swore he heard a quiet huff of laughter follow him down the hall.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
The notification came just as Jisung was reorganizing Minho’s Thursday itinerary for the third time.
**[Group Chat Invite: “Minho + His Suffering Support Staff”]**
He blinked. Tapped. And immediately regretted everything.
The chat was already thirty-seven messages deep. Jisung scrolled to the top and read the name again.
**“Minho + His Suffering Support Staff”**
Created by: Hyunjin
Description: *“for work-related screaming + memes of Minho’s forehead”*
**Hyunjin:**
*WELCOME TO HELL, MANAGER HAN*
(Attached: A cursed collage titled “rookie manager starter pack” featuring coffee stains, a squeaky ID badge, and a stress ball shaped like a heart.)
**Seungmin:**
> “Snapback? In 2025? Bold.”
**Hyunjin:**
> “He’s just brave enough to look lost and fashionable.”
**Seungmin:**
> “Correction: just lost.”
**Changbin:**
(photo of him holding two protein shakes)
> “You lasted longer than I thought. Good job.”
**Hyunjin:**
> “That’s Changbin. Bodyguard. Protein hoarder. Very taken.”
**Chan:**
(voice note, 0:08 seconds)
> “Okay I like this one. He’s fun. Keep him alive, pls.”
(Then sends three Google Calendar links and a .pdf titled *“WORK WEEK HELL”*)
**Hyunjin:**
> “This is Chan, official best friend. Producer. Addicted to coffee and spreadsheets.”
**Chan:**
> “Incorrect. I’m addicted to caffeine and pain.”
**Jeongin:**
> “You’ll get used to him. Or die trying.”
(Attached: baby photo of Minho in a mushroom costume.)
**Jisung:**
> “...what is that?”
**Jeongin:**
> “His kindergarten debut as Fungus Prince.”
**Hyunjin:**
> “Jeongin. Stepbrother. Certified menace.”
**Minho:**
> “Mute it.”
**Felix has entered the chat.**
**Felix:**
> “Supporting my boy in his mid-manager crisis.”
(selfie of him and Jisung from that morning, filtered so aggressively they looked like anime characters)
**Jisung:**
> “WHY ARE YOU HERE.”
**Felix:**
> “Technically I manage your mental health.”
**Hyunjin:**
> “And this is Felix. Model. Sunshine. Chaos gremlin. Not officially part of the team but we love him anyway.”
**Felix:**
> “I bring emotional support and mild glitter.”
**Jisung:**
> “Wait, is this official? Is this… allowed??”
**Seungmin:**
> “No.”
**Chan:**
> “Yes.”
**Changbin:**
> “It exists. That’s all that matters.”
**Jeongin:**
> “You’re not crying already, right?”
(Attached: crying cat meme. Caption: *‘when your job comes with trauma but free coffee’*)
Jisung paused his typing, then added:
**Jisung:**
> “Hi. I’m Jisung. Nervous wreck. Human version of a sticky note. Pls be gentle.”
**Minho:**
> “If Jisung cries, I’m blaming all of you.”
**Hyunjin:**
> “He already did. Emotionally. From the hat.”
**Seungmin:**
> “I will not apologize.”
**Felix:**
> “I will. But only because his little face got all scrunchy.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
Jisung set his phone down, already blinking away tears of laughter. He hadn’t expected this. Not the teasing. Not the weird introductions. Not the feeling, warm and chaotic that maybe he belonged here.
**Jisung (softly, to himself):**
> “Too late. But I kinda love it here.”
**Hyunjin:**
> “Did Minho just participate in *chat*?”
**Seungmin:**
> “Screenshot it. It’s historic.”
**Felix:**
> “He’s just jealous I get to see Jisung in pajamas.”
**Minho:**
> “Excuse me?”
**Jeongin:**
> “Wait, are you two…?”
**Felix:**
> “Roommates! Also soulmates. But like, chaotically.”
**Seungmin:**
> “So... dating or just codependent?”
**Felix:**
> “That’s for the gods to decide.”
**Minho:**
> “Mute. Everything. Immediately.”
**Chan:**
> “This is more entertaining than our last team lunch.”
**Felix:**
(Attached: selfie in Jisung’s oversized hoodie, standing in their kitchen holding a spoon)
> “Missing my man. Come home before I adopt another stray.”
**Jeongin:**
> “I’m telling Minho you said that.”
**Felix:**
> “Good. He needs to know what he’s up against.”
Jisung set his phone down, laughing until he nearly dropped it.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
Later, after the messages slowed down, Jisung got a private DM.
**[Direct Message – Minho]**
> “You’re doing fine. Stop spiraling.”
> “And fix the Thursday call sheet.”
Jisung stared at it for ten full seconds. > “Yes sir, Your Highness.”
No reply. But the message was marked read instantly.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
For once, Jisung hadn’t been late.
He’d shown up early. Organized Minho’s updated schedule. Fielded costume department complaints and even fixed the printer jam without crying.
But no one noticed, because Minho hadn’t been around today. No location shoots, no interviews. Just indoor rehearsals behind closed doors. The group chat had been dead silent since morning, too. No memes. No snark. Not even a “protein time” selfie from Changbin. Jisung had checked it more times than he was willing to admit.
And Minho, Minho hadn’t sent a single message.
Something about it gnawed at him. Not panic. Not really. But a subtle, slow-dripping kind of ache. Like being halfway through a conversation and realizing the other person’s already left the room.
He kept thinking about Felix’s messages yesterday. The selfies. The teasing.
Maybe Minho was mad. Or weirded out. Or… dating someone and just didn’t have time for petty jokes or nervous rookie managers with shaky hands and no license. Jisung shook the thought off. Sort of.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
He was supposed to drop off a revised call sheet to the assistant director.
Instead, he opened the wrong door.
The rehearsal room was dim. Lights down low, one stage lamp casting a spotlight across black flooring.
And in the center Minho.
Jisung froze. Minho hadn’t noticed him yet. He stood alone, script at his feet, body wound tight like a coil. And then he started speaking.
It wasn’t a performance for anyone. There were no cameras, no marks to hit. Just Minho, voice low and harsh, like the words had teeth.
“I begged him not to go,” he was saying. “I told him the house was cursed, that nothing good ever came back from that place. But he smiled. He smiled like I hadn’t just handed him his death.”
Jisung’s breath caught in his throat. Something shifted behind his ribs, an ache, sharp and sudden. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Minho’s entire posture had changed. Gone was the careful arrogance, the bored precision. What replaced it was raw. Wounded. Quietly devastating. “I waited three nights by the river. Three. And the only thing that came back was his coat.” Minho’s voice broke, just slightly. A crack in a porcelain mask.
Jisung’s heart stumbled. He thought he knew who Lee Minho was. Thought he had him figured out. He hadn’t known anything.
Then Minho looked up and their eyes met. The silence that followed was thick enough to wrap around Jisung’s ankles and drag him under.
“How long have you been standing there?” Minho asked, voice low but not sharp.
Jisung opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I… uh. Since... the river line.”
Minho didn’t flinch. He bent to pick up the script, folding it once without looking at Jisung again.
Jisung’s brain screamed at him to say something, anything. So he fumbled for a joke. “You, uh… you always rehearse like that?”
Minho glanced up. “Like what?”
“Like… like you’re trying to, um… kill someone with feelings?” It came out in a voice two octaves too high.
Minho finally looked at him. “It’s easier when no one’s watching.”
Jisung blinked. Something about the way he said it, quiet, almost apologetic, wrapped around his chest and squeezed. He hesitated, then nodded. “Then… I’ll pretend I didn’t.”
Minho held his gaze for a second longer. Something passed through his expression then quick, and not easy to name. Not thanks. Not irritation. Something softer. Sadder.
“Don’t be late tomorrow,” he said, turning to leave.
Jisung watched him walk away, every part of him still humming.
And under his breath, barely audible “Too late again.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
By the time Jisung made it back to the apartment, his brain felt like microwaved pudding.
He dropped his bag in the hallway, kicked off his shoes with half-hearted precision, and shuffled toward the kitchen like a cursed NPC. The scene from earlier replayed on loop in his head, Minho’s voice, the soft crack of it, the way he folded the script like it had hurt him.
Jisung had survived coffee orders, costume chaos, and an unexpected allergic reaction scare in the makeup wing. But none of those had hit like that voice in a dark room.
“Three nights by the river…”
He shook it off. Tried to, anyway.
The living room lights were on. Warm. Cozy. And there, perched on the couch like a very aesthetically-pleasing goblin, was Felix wearing Jisung’s hoodie.
It was the navy one, soft and slightly too big, sleeves falling past Felix’s knuckles. He had it off one shoulder, legs curled beneath him, a cereal bowl resting on the curve of his knees like a royal offering. “Hey, roomie,” Felix said without looking up from his phone. “Did Minho glower at you again or finally propose?”
Jisung flopped face-first onto the couch cushions. “I think I saw his soul.”
“Ah,” Felix said wisely. “Monologue day.”
“He was alone,” Jisung mumbled into the fabric. “No audience. No cameras. And still, it was like… like…”
“Like he ripped your heart out, dusted it off, and made you feel alive again?”
Jisung peeked up with a scowl. “I was going to say ‘like a Shakespeare ghost,’ but sure, let’s go with dramatic surgery.”
Felix grinned and shoved the cereal bowl toward him. “Eat. You’re underfed and emotionally compromised.”
“I’m not emotionally compromised.”
“You called a performance spiritual.”
“I said ghost! That’s spooky, not spiritual!”
Felix let him argue for a moment, just long enough to feel safe again. Then, casual as ever, he said, “So you’re in love with him.”
Jisung immediately choked on a piece of cereal. “I… no… absolutely not! Have you lost your mind?! He’s my boss. He’s Minho.”
Felix raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And! He’s… impossibly hot and famous and talented and scary and… hot. Twice. That’s how hot he is.”
“You said hot twice.”
“It bears repeating!”
Felix leaned back, smirking. “So you admit it.”
“I admit nothing. I have a professional appreciation for his… acting skills.”
Felix made a high-pitched squeaking noise. “Jisung. You’re blushing.”
“I’m overheating from stress!”
“Because you’re in love with….”
“I’m not in love with anyone!” Jisung yelled into a pillow. “I barely know him. He barely knows me! He probably thinks I’m dating you!”
Felix paused. Then very calmly said, “He does.”
Jisung blinked. “Wait, what?”
Felix casually angled his phone screen toward him. “Posted a new one while you were out.”
On screen was a filtered selfie of Felix in Jisung’s hoodie, biting his spoon, captioned:
**“missing my man <3”**
Jisung made a noise only dogs could hear. “FELIX.”
“He totally saw it. Group chat timestamped his ‘mute’ command twenty seconds later.”
“You’re insane! I’m going to get fired.”
Felix tossed a pillow at him. “You’re not. You’re good at this. You’re soft, but you’re smart. And he likes that. Trust me.”
Jisung buried himself in his hoodie and shame. “I’m not his type. I’m barely a person. I cry when the coffee machine jams.”
“You’re a person,” Felix said, quieter now. “And a good one.”
There was a soft pause. Felix cleared his throat. “Also… is it weird if I want to meet that Chan guy?”
Jisung looked up, horrified. “Minho’s Chan? The one from the voice note?”
“His voice on that voicemail?” Felix fanned himself with one hand. “Like dark chocolate narrating your sins.”
“You’re not allowed to be hotter than me and seduce the group chat.”
“No promises,” Felix sang.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
That night, Jisung lay in bed with the lights off, staring at the ceiling.
He thought of Minho’s voice, the break in it, the way he said, “It’s easier when no one’s watching.” Jisung had watched and now he couldn’t forget. His chest ached with something quiet and dangerous. “I’m not his type,” he whispered into the dark. “And he’s not mine.”
But the lie didn’t even make it to the pillow.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
Jisung woke up to silence, which was wrong. There was a shoot this morning. He was sure of it. Probably soon. Probably now. And the time? 8:42 a.m.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
The shoot was at 9:30. He was going to die. Worse, Minho was going to kill him and look hot doing it.
He tripped on his own sock running to the bathroom, brushed his teeth while yanking on pants, and forgot to rinse. He grabbed the nearest hoodie (not his, but Felix’s, crop-topped and bedazzled with “angel energy”) and shoved his call sheet into his mouth while trying to tie one shoe and locate his ID badge.
Felix had already left. A sticky note on the counter read:
**“Good luck! Don’t die. Wear sunscreen.”**
By the time Changbin arrived, honking with demonic cheer, Jisung had only just spilled his second coffee all over his only clean shirt.
“Go back inside and change!” Changbin yelled from the car.
“There’s no time!” Jisung yelled back, throwing himself into the passenger seat with the grace of a panicked raccoon.
Changbin glanced at him in the mirror. “You good?”
Jisung tugged at the hem of Felix’s motivational crop-top, which barely reached his waistband. “Do I look good?! This thing is basically a bralette and my socks don’t match!”
“You always look like a cry for help,” Changbin said fondly, tapping at his phone. “Hold on. We’re picking up Minho.”
“Wait… do I have time to buy me a new shirt before we get Minho?!”
Changbin glanced over. “You think we have time to breathe? You’re stuck in the Angel Energy shirt, my friend.”
Jisung groaned. “I can’t let him see me like this. He’s going to roast me into the afterlife.”
“You look fine,” Changbin said, absolutely lying. “He’s used to chaos.”
They pulled up five minutes later. Minho stepped out, dressed in casual black sweats and a baseball cap. His expression didn’t shift until he opened the car door. There was a long pause. Minho stared at Jisung.
Jisung, still half-dressed and hugging a spilled call sheet, stared back.
Minho got in slowly, settled into his seat, and let his gaze flick once, slowly down to where the crop top revealed a sliver of Jisung’s waist.
“You look like a thrift store threw up on you.”
Jisung whimpered. Changbin snorted and nobody spoke for the rest of the ride.
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
They arrived in chaos. The outdoor set was flooded with crew, reporters, and two full vans of fan-site photographers who had clearly slept there.
Jisung was the first one out of the car, desperate to prove he was composed, even if his shirt said “angel energy” and his soul felt like used confetti.
He tried to grab Minho’s call sheet, three water bottles, and his earpiece at once. Instead, he dropped the call sheet, elbowed a reflector, and tripped on a light stand.
“Manager-nim, maybe walk instead of swan dive,” someone muttered.
Changbin was already waving at staff like everything was fine.
Minho stepped out behind him, adjusted his jacket, and said loud enough for exactly Jisung to hear: “You’ve been here thirty seconds and I’m already embarrassed for you.”
Jisung burned through six shades of red and kept walking, directly into a folding chair.
“You good, manager-nim?” Minho asked as Jisung speed-walked past, trying to hide the fact he’d just ripped his own checklist in half.
“You look,” Minho paused delicately, “professionally unstable.”
“I’m fine!” Jisung wheezed. “Totally fine. Great. Ready to manage!”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
The rest of the shoot was somehow worse. He handed the wrong prop to the wrong assistant director. He dropped a clipboard on set. During filming. He tripped over a cable trying to get water and knocked over an entire lighting reflector, the noise was tremendous. Everyone turned.
Minho just shook his head.
Around noon, the crew finally called a break, and Jisung, still clinging to what was left of his pride, offered to bring Minho’s lunch from the catering table.
He double-checked the label on the boxed meals, grabbed the one that said “L. Minho,” and made his way to the tented corner where both actors were cooling off in the shade.
“Here you go,” he said, placing the box down gently in front of Minho, who was scrolling through something on his phone.
“Cheers,” Minho muttered, flipping it open.
From the corner, Seungmin raised an eyebrow. “That's better not be mine.”
Jisung blinked. “Wait…there was the wrong Name on it? "Was that yours?” Jisung looked over to Seungmin.
Seungmin looked pointedly at the exact empty spot on the table where his lunch should have been. “It was.”
Minho held up the food with zero shame. “Tastes like victory.”
“I… oh no,” Jisung squeaked, already spinning to look back at the table. “I’ll fix it, I can switch them…!”
But Seungmin waved him off, grinning. “It’s fine. I’ll steal someone else’s.”
That was when Jisung realized he was still wearing the crop top. Not just wearing it, actively tugging it down every three seconds, which only made it ride up more.
Minho’s eyes tracked the movement. His gaze dipped… once, deliberate to the strip of pale skin that flashed as Jisung fidgeted with the hem. Then he looked up, blinked slowly, and said “Are you trying to turn this into a fan service event?”
Jisung flushed red all the way to his ears. “I… it’s not… this isn’t… Felix owns scissors, okay?! I didn’t choose this life!”
Seungmin snorted into his water bottle. Minho just hummed. “You’ll start a riot dressed like that.”
Jisung tugged harder at the hem, which only made the neckline dip. Seungmin stared. “Should we get him a safety pin?”
“No,” Minho said, deadpan. “Let’s see where this goes.”
“CHANGBIN,” Jisung shouted suddenly, fleeing the tent. From behind him, he heard Minho say:
“Someone feed our manager before he dies of cuteness.”
Seungmin just sighed. “It’s always the quiet-looking ones.”
── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ──
Jisung had barely made it twenty meters from the tent when his phone buzzed.
**Minho + His Suffering Support Staff**
> **SEUNGMIN:**[Image attachment: hotmanager-nim.jpg]**
A perfectly timed photo from behind. Jisung mid-turn, crop top riding up, exposing the full curve of his waist and a sliver of toned back. He looked like a walking thirst trap caught in 4K.
Jisung made a choked noise. His ears turned red.
> **SEUNGMIN:** Accidental fan service but make it editorial
> **CHANGBIN:** WHY is your waist smaller than my future??
> **JEONGIN:** be honest. did you crop that shirt yourself? or was it felix?
> **FELIX:** I did. it’s mine. and he looks hot as hell in it
> **HYUNJIN:** he looks illegal. someone cover him.
> **SEUNGMIN:** i vote we don’t
> **MINHO:** he wears chaos well. and the crop top. which is… impressive, considering
There was a full minute of silence.
> **CHAN:** holy shit. Minho wrote a sentence.
> **JEONGIN:** multiple words?? who hacked him
> **CHANGBIN:** is this a hostage situation
> **FELIX:** not me but i support the vibe
Jisung stared at his phone in horror, then immediately started typing and deleted three replies in a row.
> **JISUNG:** STOP LOOKING AT ME. I’M WORKING
> **JISUNG:** I’M DRESSED PROFESSIONALLY
> **JISUNG:** FELIX THIS IS YOUR FAULT
> **JISUNG:** also the shirt is itchy. and evil.
> **FELIX:** my man has complaints but still wears my crop top like it’s couture
> **HYUNJIN:** tragic and iconic
Jisung turned off his phone and groaned loudly into both palms. “Why am I like this,” he muttered. “Why are they like this?”
Somewhere behind him, someone wolf-whistled, he broke into a full sprint.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
By the end of the day, Jisung was wilted. A half-withered leaf of a man. He stood just outside the trailer lot, muttering apologies to inanimate objects. Minho passed by him on his way to the car.
He didn’t stop just pressed a cold water bottle into Jisung’s hand and said, under his breath: “Breathe.” Then walked off.
Jisung stared at the bottle like it was a love letter. Then down at his shoes. One was untied. The other was on the wrong foot.
He sighed. “I hate this job.” Then whispered, very softly: “But I like the view.”
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
The rehearsal room smelled like dry marker ink, too many coffees, and quiet desperation. Jisung stood tucked into a corner, hugging his clipboard like a lifeline and trying not to make eye contact with Minho.
Which was hard, because Minho was currently on stage, standing under a harsh spotlight, delivering lines that sounded like they were born in his throat, not printed on a script.
He looked dangerous. Cool. A little too method.
Seungmin, across from him, held his ground with the usual snark-laced steel. They were supposed to be rivals in the film, and somehow, that translated flawlessly to real life.
“Your tongue is poison,” Minho said evenly.
“Then stop drinking from it,” Seungmin replied without missing a beat.
Jisung let out a tiny, stunned laugh.
Both actors turned. Minho’s eyes caught his for one second too long. He looked away. Fast. So fast he nearly stabbed himself with his pen.
An hour later, they were running a group scene when the assistant director swore and said, “Crap. One of the extras bailed. Anyone wanna fill in?”
The script supervisor jokingly looked at Jisung. “Manager Han, you’re up.”
“I don’t think—”
“Here’s the line,” Seungmin said, already handing him the paper.
Jisung blinked at it. Just a single sentence. Nothing dramatic. He stood awkwardly, half in the light, surrounded by actors who breathed confidence. The room waited.
He cleared his throat. “I never meant to hurt you,” he said.
It was quiet. Simple. Not dramatic. But something about the way he said it, not rushed, not forced, landed hard in the silence.
Jisung blinked, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry. That was dumb. I’ll just…”
“Do it again,” the director said.
He stared. “Seriously?”
“Same line. Don’t overthink it.”
Jisung tried again. This time, his voice shook a little. Just a breath. But he leaned into it. Let the nerves tint the words. He looked at Minho without meaning to.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said again. Softer. Like it wasn’t just a line at all.
Minho didn’t move. Seungmin blinked like he was surprised.
A couple of staff looked up from their notes. “Okay,” the director said, finally. “Weirdly natural. Moving on.”
Jisung practically collapsed back into his chair.
He didn’t dare look at Minho again. But he felt the gaze, heavy and unreadable, from across the room.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
They wrapped up thirty minutes later. Jisung was packing up his notes, mentally preparing to crawl into a hole of professional shame, when Minho appeared beside him like a storm cloud in designer sneakers.
“You’re walking with me,” he said, voice final, like it wasn’t up for debate.
Jisung blinked. “I… what? Where's Changbin? Isn't he supposed to drive you?”
Minho gave him a look. “Changbin's busy.”
Jisung flailed slightly. “Oh. Okay. But shouldn’t you at least put on a hoodie or something? Someone might recognize you, I mean, the crop top incident was yesterday… ”
Minho arched a brow. “And I don't care if anyone sees me. You think I can't handle attention?”
Jisung muttered something unintelligible about trench coats and security protocols.
Minho was already walking. “Let's go.”
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
It was raining by the time they left the building. Minho had an umbrella. Jisung had anxiety.
“You can walk ahead,” he offered. “I’ll stay under the awning until it stops.”
Minho opened the umbrella. Held it out. “Manager Han.”
Jisung sighed. Stepped under it. Tried not to notice how their shoulders bumped.
The umbrella was not big, the sidewalk was not empty.
Minho walked like he didn’t care about personal space. Jisung walked like he was trying to survive a thriller movie.
They stopped at a convenience store for coffee. Jisung spilled half a packet of sugar trying to stir his. Minho caught his wrist mid-fumble. “Relax,” he said, then let go.
Jisung stared at his coffee. “I didn’t mean to read the line like that. I just… ”
Minho’s voice was low. “But you did.” A pause. “You were watching me the whole time.”
“I was taking notes,” Jisung squeaked.
Minho didn’t argue. He didn’t have to.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
They walked again. Quieter now.
Minho suddenly shrugged off his hoodie and dropped it over Jisung’s head.
“You’re shivering. It’s distracting.”
Jisung looked like someone had just gifted him a puppy and told him it was illegal to smile. The hoodie smelled like Minho. It also covered him to the knees.
He wore it the rest of the way home.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
**Group Chat: "Minho + His Suffering Support Staff"**
> **HYUNJIN:**[Image: blurry zoomed photo of Minho and Jisung under an umbrella]**
> **HYUNJIN:** is this a k-drama??
> **SEUNGMIN:** minho. hoodie. explanation.
> **JEONGIN:** someone say it. say the thing. say date.
> **FELIX:** my boyfriend is being courted and i’m being DISRESPECTED
> **CHAN:** how is minho smiling?? is he okay??
> **MINHO:** typo. wasn’t.
Jisung shut off his phone and sank lower under Minho’s hoodie.
Minho glanced over. “Does Felix always call you his boyfriend?”
Jisung blinked. “He’s... dramatic.”
Minho hummed. A low sound, almost a scoff. “Guess it works for him.”
Jisung looked away quickly, tugging the hoodie tighter around himself, nearly stumbling over his feet. Minho grabbed his arm and hold it.
“Watch your step, Manager Han.”
They kept walking. The silence stretched, just long enough to feel intentional. Then Jisung cleared his throat. “Hey… can I get Chan’s number?”
Minho didn’t look at him. “Why?”
“Felix asked for it.” Jisung shoved his hands in the hoodie pocket. “Said Chan’s voice was hot. He wants to text him. Probably flirt. Maybe propose. Who knows.”
Minho’s pace slowed. “Are you giving it to him?” he asked, tone flat.
Jisung blinked. “I was going to. Why?”
Minho clicked his tongue. “Tell him to go through the official channels.”
Jisung stopped walking altogether. “What the hell does that even mean? Are you Chan’s PR team now?”
Minho finally looked at him. Not angry. Just quiet. “It means some people should think twice before throwing ‘mine’ around.”
Jisung stared. “He’s not even talking about me.”
Minho didn’t answer.
Just turned and kept walking.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Jisung hadn’t been assigned to accompany Minho and Changbin to set that morning, he had an early logistics meeting with the studio and a pile of unsigned wardrobe receipts to deliver.
The studio for today’s magazine shoot was already humming when Jisung arrived, assistant stylists racing past with garment bags, makeup artists yelling about palettes, and someone crying softly in the distance about a misprinted concept board.
He slipped past the chaos, ducking between light stands, clutching his clipboard like a holy relic.
“Manager Han!” one of the stylists shouted, waving him over. “Can you help with the backups? We’re missing a body to check fit on the blue series!”
Jisung blinked. “Wait… you mean model?”
“No, just try it on so we can double-check sizing. Minho’s still in makeup and Seungmin’s refusing the leather vest again.”
“I.. okay.. sure?”
Before he could protest further, someone tossed him a crisp blue bomber jacket. Then another assistant grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him toward the standing mirror.
“Stand there. Look casual. Like, runway casual, not sidewalk casual.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Less crying.”
Jisung adjusted the jacket awkwardly. It clung a little too well to his shoulders. The collar sat just low enough to expose the still-visible hem of Minho’s hoodie underneath.
A camera flash went off.
“Wait, don’t take a photo!”
“Too late,” someone chirped. “It’s for my private scrapbook,” came Seungmin’s voice.
Jisung turned. Seungmin was leaning against the wall, arms folded, one eyebrow raised with professional-level judgment. “I see the chaos gremlin has evolved.”
“Can we not do this today?” Jisung begged.
Seungmin tilted his head. “Is that Minho’s hoodie under the outfit?”
“Don’t start.”
“No judgment. I think it brings out your eyes.”
“Seungmin… ”
“In fact, I’m reconsidering casting you instead of Minho for the shoot.”
Before Jisung could respond, the stylist stepped in and clicked her tongue.
“Hoodie’s throwing off the collar,” she said, already rifling through a rack. “We need to see how this jacket works with the shirt it’s actually meant to pair with. Lose the hoodie, try this underneath.”
She handed him a cream silk shirt, the kind that definitely wasn’t meant to be pulled on over anything else. Jisung hesitated, clutching the hoodie’s hem.
“I—uh…”
“You’ve got abs, use them,” Seungmin said dryly, flicking his wrist. “Pretend you're a professional.”
Grumbling, Jisung peeled the bomber off and reached for the hem of the hoodie. “Fine, but nobody look directly at me or you’ll go blind.”
Seungmin smirked. “I’m braced.”
Jisung huffed, turned half away, and lifted the hoodie over his head, ruffling his hair and baring the warm stretch of his lower back, ribs catching the studio light. The fabric bunched awkwardly as he tugged it off.
Jisung made a small, strangled noise, then everything froze because the door opened.
Minho stepped in and stopped cold.
Hair styled back, face barely made up but devastating anyway. He wore a navy shirt that looked tailor-made for heartbreak, and the moment his eyes landed on Jisung, half-dressed, flushed, standing in borrowed clothes beneath set lights… something in his jaw twitched.
He didn’t speak at first he just stared. Then, finally:
“Is this your new job?”
Jisung blinked. “Wh… what?”
“Modeling.”
“I… I wasn’t… this isn’t… I was just helping with sizing, I didn’t think…”
Minho’s expression didn’t shift. If anything, it got colder.
“You never think it seems…. Didn’t see you all morning. Now I come in and you’re not even doing your job properly.”
Jisung paled. “I… I had a management meeting. I only just got here, five minutes ago, I swear!”
“Right. And five minutes in, you’re half-dressed in someone else’s jacket. Adapting fast, aren’t you?” He scoffed. “What now… you just take your clothes off for anyone who asks nicely?”
Jisung flinched. “That’s not… Minho, I didn’t mean… this wasn’t even planned.”
“You really don’t know how you look in front of a camera, do you?”
“I… I didn’t mean to… I’m not… ”
“Try acting like a manager next time.” Then Minho turned and walked out, sharp, polished, untouchable.
Jisung stood frozen. Seungmin didn’t say anything at first. Then, quieter than usual:
“He’s an idiot.”
But Jisung didn’t answer. Because his throat was closing up, and all he could do was stare at the floor, trying to breathe through the crack in his chest. He didn’t know how long he stood there.
Long enough for the chatter to fade into background noise. Long enough for the crew to forget he was in the way. Long enough for the sting in his chest to settle into something dull and humming. He moved on autopilot, hands grabbing the call sheet he never delivered, feet carrying him out the side exit and into the cool hallway behind the studio.
He leaned against the wall. Pressed his fingers to his eyes.
“Get over it,” he whispered to himself. “It’s not personal. He’s always like this. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t mean…” The door creaked behind him. Jisung straightened too fast.
Minho. Still in that navy shirt, sleeves pushed up now, like he’d tried to calm himself down and failed. His expression unreadable. Tired. Cold. Something else, too, but it was buried under layers of ice. He didn’t say anything right away.
Just tossed a cold water bottle toward Jisung.
Jisung caught it clumsily. “...Thanks?”
Minho leaned back against the opposite wall, arms folded. “You looked good.”
Jisung blinked. “Wh… what?”
“In the jacket. Under the lights.” He looked away. “Too good.”
Jisung stared at him. “What is that even supposed to mean?”
Minho didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed once. Then: “Don’t wear Seungmin’s clothes again.”
Jisung blinked. “Seriously? That’s what you came to say?”
Minho pushed off the wall. “It wasn’t a request.”
Jisung’s throat tightened. “What the hell is your problem?”
Minho paused. Looked at him, finally, fully.
“You want me to be honest?”
Jisung stepped back half a pace, heart hammering. “Y-Yeah. Try it.”
“Fine.” Minho’s voice dropped. “You’re mine to manage. Mine to look after. Not theirs to dress up and flirt with.” Silence. The hallway swallowed it whole.
Jisung stared at him. Eyes wide. Hurt blooming behind them like smoke. “So that’s all this is?” Jisung whispered. “Territory?”
Minho didn’t answer.
Jisung shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
He turned. Walked fast, hands shaking, hoodie sleeves too long and heart too full.
Behind him, Minho didn’t follow. But he didn’t walk away either.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
The car ride home was quiet.
Minho hadn’t said a word after the confrontation. He’d gotten into the front seat next to Changbin, jaw locked, face a mask of polite disinterest that said absolutely nothing.
Jisung sat in the back, arms folded tightly around himself, Minho’s hoodie suddenly feeling too heavy, too warm, like borrowed comfort turned to lead.
At Minho’s building, the car rolled to a stop. He got out. Didn’t look back. Didn’t speak. And then he was gone.
Changbin pulled away with a low exhale and offered a quiet, apologetic smile in the mirror. He didn’t say anything either.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
By the time Jisung stumbled through the apartment door, his hands were shaking.
Felix was on the couch again, mask on, bowl of noodles nearby, the glow of the TV casting soft colors against his silk robe. He glanced up as the door opened and his smile dropped instantly.
“Sung?” Jisung didn’t answer. He dropped his bag. Kicked off his shoes. Walked in like he couldn’t feel his legs. And then, halfway through the living room, he just stopped.
The tears came fast. Silent first. Then faster, burning, breath hitching. He stood there with Minho’s hoodie hanging off his frame, sleeves tugged over trembling fists, and couldn’t hold it in.
Felix was up in an instant, arms around him, holding tight as Jisung crumbled against his shoulder.
“I.. I don’t think I can do this,” Jisung gasped. “Felix, I can’t, he was so cruel, I didn’t even do anything…”
“Shh, okay… breathe, breathe. What happened?”
Jisung let himself be led to the couch. Felix pushed the noodles aside and pulled a blanket over both of them without letting go.
“He saw me,” Jisung whispered. “At the shoot. In Seungmin’s jacket.”
Felix stayed quiet, waiting.
“I wasn’t, I didn’t even know Minho would see me. I was just helping out with logistics and then they needed someone to stand in.” His voice broke. “And he saw. And he looked at me like I’d, like I disgusted him.”
Felix’s grip tightened. “What did he say?”
Jisung sniffed hard, voice cracking. “He said… he said I was ‘so quick to adapt’ like I just fall into anyone’s clothes. And then, he…” He curled in tighter. “He said, ‘So what, you just take your clothes off for anyone who asks nicely?’”
Felix froze.
“He basically called me a whore,” Jisung whispered, shoulders shaking. “Because I was wearing the wrong jacket.”
Silence stretched, Felix was furious, but he stayed calm for Jisung’s sake. “That’s not okay. He doesn’t get to say that to you. Ever.”
Jisung wiped his eyes with the sleeve. “I’m just… so tired. I try so hard to get everything right. I wake up early, I don’t complain, I remember his tea, I fix his schedule… I… I even like him, and he just… ”
“You like him?” Felix said gently.
Jisung let out a strangled laugh. “I don’t even know anymore. I think I did. I thought maybe there was something, but now I feel stupid. Like I made it all up.”
“You didn’t.”
“He doesn’t respect me. He doesn’t even see me. Just this… mess. This disaster. This guy who can’t drive and talks to himself and trips over props.”
“Stop it,” Felix said firmly. “You’re not a disaster. You’re the best thing to happen to that man’s uptight life and he knows it.”
Jisung buried his face in the blanket. “I want to quit. I really, really want to quit.”
Felix rubbed slow circles into his back. “Then quit. If it hurts this much, walk away.”
Jisung was quiet for a long time. Then: “But I don’t want to.”
Felix softened. “That’s because you care.”
“I shouldn’t. Not like this.”
“You care because you’re human. Because you saw something in him. But if he can’t see what he’s doing to you… that’s not your fault.”
Jisung sat there for a long time. Curled in Minho’s hoodie. Eyes red. Breathing slow. And finally, in the smallest voice: “I hate that he can hurt me this much.”
Felix hugged him tighter. “Then let me help you remember who you are. Because you´re amazing and way too good for him.”
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Minho´s POV:
Minho didn’t speak the entire ride home.
Not to Changbin. Not to anyone.
The car felt like a cage, windows too bright, air too loud. He sat stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, face carved into something cold and blank. It wasn’t that he was angry.
It was that he didn’t know what to do with the way he felt.
Jisung hadn’t been in the car this morning. Hadn’t been there to hand him the schedule or remind Changbin not to blast his workout playlist before 9 a.m. The passenger seat had been empty, and Minho had pretended it didn’t bother him.
He’d gotten his makeup done in silence. Skimmed his lines like muscle memory. Tried not to glance at the door, waiting for a flash of messy hair and oversized hoodie. But Jisung never came.
And then he did, just not for him.
Minho saw him before he meant to, before he was ready.
Saw him under the studio lights, half turned away, hoodie already halfway over his head. Pale gold skin caught the light like sun-warmed silk, muscles flexing in a stretch Minho had never been allowed to see. His spine arched gently, slim and exposed. The hem rode up, baring the toned dip of his waist and abs. Real ones. Defined and golden and criminally hidden beneath that baggy hoodie for weeks.
The stylist was holding a silk shirt. Seungmin was smirking beside him. Someone was laughing.
And Jisung?
Jisung was smiling.
Laughing, even. Cheeks flushed, hair mussed from the tug of fabric, one hand braced against the rack for balance. He was half-dressed, caught mid-change, sleeves bunched, ribs showing, standing there like he didn’t even realize how much skin he was giving away.
Minho’s hoodie, his hoodie, dangled from one hand. His chest went tight, jaw locked.
And the words spilled out before he could catch them. He hadn’t meant it like that. Not really.
But watching Jisung smile in someone else’s clothes, in someone else’s light, had felt like watching glass crack. Slowly. Loudly. Inescapably.
He hated it. Hated how beautiful he looked. How effortless. How not his.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Minho shut the apartment door behind him harder than necessary. The sound echoed through the silence.
He didn’t take his shoes off. Just leaned against the wall, palms pressed flat, head tilted back like the ceiling might have answers. His cats didn't come,probably sleeping through their owners' sadness.
“You’re mine to manage,” he’d said.
He hadn’t meant to say mine like that. Or maybe he had. Maybe he didn’t know how to not mean it like that anymore.
Minho’s fingers curled into fists. He thought about the way Jisung’s voice had shaken. The way his eyes had gone glassy, wide, like Minho had hit him without lifting a hand.
He hated that look. Hated that he’d caused it.
Why did it matter if Jisung looked good in another jacket? Why did it matter if he helped Seungmin or laughed at something Felix said? Why did it matter that he’d stripped off Minho’s hoodie, stood there half-naked under studio lights, golden skin bare, toned abs on full display for everyone to see?
Because Minho had never seen him like that. Not really. Not like that.
Not outside shadows and stolen glances. Not without layers in the way. And now the first time, the first time, he saw all that skin, all that quiet beauty Jisung always hid, it wasn’t his moment to have.
It belonged to everyone else and that burned more than he wanted to admit.
Why did he care who he texted? He knew the answer. Of course he did.
But admitting it would mean letting something soft in. Something vulnerable.
And Minho had spent years learning how to build walls.
He kicked off his shoes. Dropped his coat. Stared at the reflection of himself in the dark window, expressionless, composed, heart racing. He hadn’t stopped thinking about the hoodie.
His hoodie. On Jisung. That night in the rain.
He hadn’t stopped thinking about the way it looked like it belonged there.
Not on a hanger. Not in a closet.
But wrapped around someone loud and chaotic and terrified of driving. Someone who made him laugh when he wasn’t supposed to. Someone who looked at him like he wasn’t difficult. Like he was worth something.
Minho pressed his forehead to the glass.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to matter.
But Jisung had walked into his world like a hurricane wrapped in cotton and coffee stains and now everything felt misaligned. He didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to say, I’m sorry. Didn’t know how to say, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Didn’t know how to say, Stay.
So he stood in the dark, alone, jaw tight and heart aching.
And said nothing.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
[Group Chat: Minho + His Suffering Support Staff]
SEUNGMIN:
(Attached: accidental-icon.jpg)
> “How’s our accidental model?”
HYUNJIN:
> “I’d print that. Frame it. Worship it in a shrine.”
CHAN:
> “That lighting is illegal. Who let him look like that?”
JEONGIN:
> “He looks soft. Like he needs protecting.”
FELIX:
> “He did.”
SEUNGMIN:
> “…Wait.”
CHANGBIN:
> “Let it go, Seungmin.”
JISUNG:
> “Don’t make a thing out of it. I survived.”
FELIX:
> “You shouldn’t have had to.”
JISUNG:
> “It’s fine.”
MINHO:
(read)
HYUNJIN:
> “...Okay. Uncomfortable silence much?”
SEUNGMIN:
> “I offered him a contract. Still stands.”
FELIX:
> “Touch him and die.”
JEONGIN:
> “Minho already tried.”
MINHO:
> “Not funny.”
FELIX:
> “Wasn’t joking.”
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
[Direct Message – Minho → Jisung]
MINHO:
> You got home safe?
JISUNG:
> Yeah.
MINHO:
> Okay.
…You looked good today. Even if I didn’t say it right.
JISUNG:
> You didn’t say it at all.
MINHO:
> I know.
JISUNG:
(read)
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Three weeks passed. Jisung hadn’t cried again. He hadn’t laughed either.
He showed up. On time. Hair tidy. Tablet charged. Hoodie swapped for dull button-ups and blank expressions. He answered emails before 9 a.m., double-checked Minho’s call sheets, and never forgot the mint tea again.
He said hello. He said goodbye. He said nothing in between.
Minho didn’t push. He didn’t ask. He didn’t apologize, either.
The silence between them stretched long and taut, like thread pulled too tight to breathe.
Even the group chat noticed.
[Group Chat: “Minho + His Suffering Support Staff”]
HYUNJIN:
> Did someone die or is our rookie just allergic to texting now?
CHAN:
> Maybe he’s working. Unlike some people.
(Attached: spreadsheet. Color-coded. Intimidating.)
SEUNGMIN:
> I’m concerned. He didn’t flinch when I stole his pudding last week.
JEONGIN:
> He always flinches. Even at spoons.
FELIX:
> He’s just tired. Don’t push.
HYUNJIN:
> Is he ghosting all of us or just the Gucci corpse?
FELIX:
> Say Minho’s name again and I’ll fly to your apartment with glitter and war.
CHAN:
> Friendly reminder: next week marks one full month of chaos manager survival.
Should we plan something?
JEONGIN:
> Party?
HYUNJIN:
> Party.
SEUNGMIN:
> I vote for cake. But like, emotionally supportive cake.
FELIX:
> I’m in. He deserves it.
CHAN:
> You just want an excuse to meet me in person.
FELIX:
> What gave me away, voice daddy?
CHAN:
> …Never mind.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Jisung stared at the screen, thumb frozen above the keyboard.
He could say something.
Anything.
“Hey.”
“Still alive.”
Even just a damn emoji.
But every word felt like a crack in the dam. If he let one emotion through, the rest would flood in, anger, shame, hope.
Especially hope. His fingers curled.
They were trying. Felix was trying. Even Chan, who barely knew him, was offering warmth disguised as sarcasm. And Minho… Jisung closed his eyes.
Minho had said nothing since that day in the hallway. Nothing real. Nothing that mattered.
The silence hurt more than the insult.
He went to type, then backspaced everything.
Typed again:
“I’m fine.”
Deleted it.
He stared at the blank input bar until the screen dimmed and locked itself.
Then he placed the phone face-down on the desk. Again. And whispered to the empty room, “I wish I didn’t care.”
But he did. That was the problem.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Jisung arrived twenty minutes early.
He hadn’t even realized until he was seated on the far edge of the studio couch, coat still buttoned, hands clenched too tightly in his lap. The assistant director gave him a strange look as he passed, but said nothing. Jisung was used to that now, people watching him like they were waiting for him to slip. He made sure not to.
He wore pressed black slacks today. A white dress shirt with no wrinkle in sight. Hair styled back with a touch too much gel. The collar of his coat was sharp, stiff, almost militaristic. It was the opposite of every loose hoodie and soft flannel he used to wear.
He had gone back to using formal speech with the staff. No more jokes. No more self-deprecating comments. And absolutely no more talking to himself under his breath. He'd practiced the silence in the mirror for days.
When Minho entered, Jisung didn’t flinch. He simply looked down at the clipboard he wasn’t actually reading and turned on a polite, blank expression that didn’t reach his eyes.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Minho’s drama was a noir fantasy series. Dark coats, darker morals. He was playing a villain this time, and the director was thrilled about it, said he had the eyes for menace. Said his presence could snap the air like ice.
Minho wasn’t acting like he usually did. There was none of his quiet restraint. None of his usual slow-burn emotion. Instead, he was on fire.
Every line he delivered was a loaded gun. Every look he gave the lead actress was laced with something visceral and bitter. His eyes kept sliding—not toward the camera, not toward his co-star, but just past the lighting rig. To where Jisung was standing.
Jisung knew. He could feel it every time. He refused to meet that stare.
During the third rehearsal, Seungmin, standing just behind the monitor with his usual cup of coffee and arched eyebrow, spoke under his breath, just loud enough for the staff script assistant to hear.
“Didn’t know method acting included glaring at your manager like he kicked your dog.”
Jisung’s hands tightened around the clipboard.
During breaks, he stayed near the crew, not the actors. He helped reset chairs. Checked props that weren’t his job. At one point, Minho stepped into his space to grab water, and Jisung stepped away before he could say a word.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Changbin caught him in the hallway between takes, just outside the costume trailer, where the low hum of lighting rigs and distant chatter couldn’t reach.
Minho was flipping through his script with a distracted intensity, jaw tight, back straight, like he could read his way out of whatever storm he’d caused. His fingers were trembling just enough to crease the paper. He didn’t hear Changbin approach.
“Minho.”
It wasn’t a request. Minho blinked, startled, and then quickly masked it with a scoff. “Seriously? Now?”
Changbin didn’t answer right away. He leaned against the wall with arms folded, black sleeves rolled up and expression unreadable. He looked smaller than Minho but somehow filled more space. His stillness was sharp. Measured.
And when he finally spoke, his voice was flat. “You messed up.”
Minho’s jaw flexed. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting. I’m telling you.”
There was a beat of silence. Minho’s gaze flicked away, somewhere toward the door at the end of the hallway, but Changbin didn’t move.
“You said something to him,” Changbin continued. “And I don’t care what it was, you know he’s spiraling. That’s not just being cold. That’s you pushing him off a cliff.”
Minho’s lips parted. Closed again. He tried to laugh, but the sound was tight, humorless.
“He’s a grown man.”
“Don’t,” Changbin warned quietly. “Don’t pull that defense crap with me. I know him. You know him. He’s trying so hard not to fall apart, and you… ” Changbin exhaled sharply, like it hurt to say it. “You shoved him.”
Minho’s head dropped, eyes on the floor. The shadows under them looked heavier today.
“I said something I didn’t mean.”
Changbin’s mouth twitched in disbelief. “Oh, congratulations. So does every asshole who loses someone.”
Minho’s gaze snapped up. “I haven’t lost him.”
“No?” Changbin’s voice cut sharper now, cold steel behind every word. “Because he hasn’t looked at you in three weeks, Minho. He barely speaks. And when he does? It’s like you don’t exist.”
That landed. Minho flinched, not visibly, but in the way his hands curled tighter around the script.
“You think you can just keep showing up, pretending it’s fine?” Changbin stepped forward now, not angry, but firm. Unshakable. “You think if you keep acting like nothing happened, he’ll forget how you made him feel?”
Minho didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He wasn’t used to being talked to like this, not by someone who technically worked for him. Not by someone who used to keep his head down, follow his orders, guard his space and never cross lines. But that was before Jisung. Before the dinners together. The rides home. The quiet trust that had formed over cracked armor and accidental honesty.
“Binnie…” Minho’s voice finally broke, low. Almost pleading. “You don’t understand. I was trying to push him away before I… ”
“Before you what?” Changbin’s voice was quiet now, and far more dangerous. “Before you gave a damn?”
Minho went still.
Changbin’s shoulders eased, but his eyes didn’t soften. “I get it. You’re scared. You felt too much, and you panicked. But you don’t get to burn him down just because your own hands are shaking.” He stepped back, letting silence stretch between them.
“You don’t get to wait this one out,” Changbin said, final and low. “If you don’t fix it, you’re going to lose him for real. And when that happens? You don’t get to blame anyone but yourself.”
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Minho standing alone in a hallway full of fake doors, none of which led to anything real.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
The hallway was silent long after Changbin left.
Minho didn’t move. The script in his hands was wrinkled now, pages warped where his grip had tightened too much. He stared at it without seeing the words. The weight of them, of everything, was a slow, dragging ache in his chest.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to him like that. Not just spoken, but seen him. Stripped through the layers he’d built with surgical precision, actor, professional, composed. All of it useless now.
You don’t get to burn him down just because your own hands are shaking.
Minho pressed the heel of his hand to his brow. He wasn’t the crying type. Never had been. He’d trained himself out of it years ago. But there was a prickling behind his eyes now, hot and useless, and he hated how it made him feel human.
Not strong. Not elegant. Just wrong.
He tried to justify what he said. That night in the hallway, with Jisung looking like something in him had been kicked out. The moment the words had come out of Minho’s mouth, he’d known he couldn’t take them back.
“I bet you’d strip for anyone who gave you attention.”
Minho had meant it to hurt. That was the worst part. He hadn’t just panicked. He hadn’t just lashed out. He’d calculated it, used his voice like a blade and watched it land.
Because Jisung had gotten too close. Because Minho had started to believe in something again and that scared him more than being hated ever could.
He closed his eyes.
In his mind, he could still see Jisung, back straight in a white dress shirt this morning, formal like he was trying to prove he belonged. Like he was holding his entire heart behind buttoned cuffs and didn’t dare let anything spill. Minho had never missed someone who was still in the same room before. And now he didn’t know how to reach him.
Not as the actor. Not as the boss. Not even as Lee Minho.
He slid down the wall slowly, letting himself sit for a moment on the cold floor, legs stretched out, script abandoned beside him. The set call would come soon. He’d have to stand up. Smile. Perform. Pretend.
But for now, in this sliver of silence, he let himself grieve what he’d broken and wondered if it was already too late to fix it.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Jisung didn’t expect anyone to find him.
The far side of the studio lot was quieter, just past the catering truck and behind a row of stacked lighting cases. He’d sat there to be alone—not out of preference, but because the silence was safer than the mess inside him.
His coat was still buttoned to the throat, even in the mild midday sun. A sad little sandwich rested in his lap, untouched. His fingers hovered like he wanted to eat, but couldn’t remember how.
When Felix’s shadow fell across him, he didn’t look up right away.
“I had to bribe a PA to find you,” Felix said lightly, but the warmth in his voice was tempered. “You’re getting good at hiding.”
Jisung blinked, startled. “You’re… wait. What are you doing here? Don’t you have a shoot today?”
Felix shrugged, sliding down to sit beside him on the crate. His coat was unbuttoned, hair wind-tousled, face bare except for the smallest hint of under-eye concealer. He looked human. Real. Not like the glowing Louis Vuitton model the rest of the world worshipped.
“I bailed,” he said simply. “Told them I had an emotional emergency. Which, by the way, I do.”
Jisung huffed out a laugh. It cracked at the edges. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m worried.”
That silenced him again. Felix reached over and plucked the sandwich from his lap, then handed him a protein bar instead. “This has actual nutrients. Eat it, or I’m calling Chan and telling him you’re dying.”
Jisung blinked, startled again. “Wait, you’re talking to Chan now?”
Felix blinked too, like he hadn’t meant to say it. He scratched behind his ear. “Yeah, um. After Minho didn’t give me his number, I may have just… DM’d him. We, uh. Talked. Once. Twice. A few times.”
Jisung squinted at him, lips twitching. “Are you two having phone sex or something?”
Felix’s ears flushed pink. “No. Gross. He's… Chan.” He waved a hand vaguely, like that explained the entire situation. “We’re just… talking. About….nearly everything.”
Jisung shook his head, amused in spite of himself. “I miss three weeks of chat replies and suddenly my best friend’s flirting with my boss’s best friend.”
“I am not flirting,” Felix muttered, but his smile betrayed him.
Jisung took the protein bar, fingers shaking slightly as he unwrapped the foil. He didn’t eat.
Felix’s gaze softened. “You look like you’ve been sleeping in nightmares.”
Jisung managed a faint smile. “Do nightmares usually wear pressed slacks?”
Felix didn’t laugh. He just watched him for a long moment, quiet.
“I’ve been giving you space,” he said eventually. “I thought that’s what you wanted. But now I’m thinking maybe it’s just what you thought you deserved.”
Jisung looked away.
Felix followed his gaze to the gravel. “We’re planning something. The group chat, I mean. For your one-month. I know you hate that kind of thing, but I thought, maybe it’d help. Just a few of us. No Minho. I can… handle that part.”
Jisung winced. “He’s in the group chat.”
“I’ll send him a private meme to keep him busy.”
That finally pulled a reluctant breath of a laugh from Jisung. Felix’s smile was small but sincere. “Come. Let us annoy you. You could use a night of being loved without… all this.”
Jisung stayed quiet. After a beat, Felix added softly, “You don’t have to decide anything right now. But… if you want to stop hurting like this, you might need to stop pretending you're not in love with him.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Jisung’s throat worked, but the words wouldn’t come. His jaw clenched.
Felix turned toward him slightly, more serious now. “And just so we’re clear, I’ll tell him we’re not dating. You don’t have to keep hiding behind me. That was supposed to be a joke, not a defense mechanism.”
Jisung's hands tightened around the bar. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to know how he reacts.”
Felix exhaled through his nose. He didn’t push further. “Okay. I won’t. Not unless you say so.”
Then, after a long pause, his voice dropped a little. “But… if whatever this is between me and Chan turns into something real, I’ll have to tell him eventually. He deserves the truth, too.”
Jisung blinked at him. “You’re really catching feelings for him, huh?”
Felix looked away, cheeks faintly flushed. “I don’t know. Maybe. Shut up.”
They sat there in the quiet for a while. Gravel underfoot. Distant voices behind the trailers.
Finally, Jisung muttered, “Thanks for coming.”
Felix nudged his shoulder. “Always. Even if I’m late to my next cover shoot and get fired.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I mean it,” Felix said, brushing a strand of hair behind Jisung’s ear like he used to when they were younger. “You’re more important. And I’ll keep saying that until you start believing it again.”
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
The rest of the afternoon passed in a slow, deliberate haze.
Jisung kept his head down, his clipboard close, and his mouth shut. He moved between trailers and lighting rigs like clockwork, checking scene lists and backup costumes, coordinating call times like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Because maybe it was.
Not talking to himself was harder than it looked. His lips kept twitching with the impulse to mutter notes under his breath, little reminders or sarcastic jabs at the chaos around him but he held them in. Like everything else.
He didn’t look at Minho.
Not during rehearsal. Not when Seungmin tossed a half-hearted insult Minho’s way about “intensity issues.”
Not when Minho’s eyes tracked him from behind the makeup chair like they were magnets locked on opposite poles.
Jisung swallowed down the air and made it through. Until…
“Han Jisung.” His name sounded different in Minho’s voice. It always had.
He turned on instinct, clipboard held a little too tightly. “Y-yes, Mr. Lee?”
The moment he said it, he hated himself. The stammer, the formality, like he was twelve years old again with a crush the size of a freight train and no self-preservation.
Minho’s brow twitched. “We changed the order for tomorrow’s call sheet. Seungmin swapped his scene.”
"I… I know. I mean, I already marked it. On the new sheet. Sir.”
Sir? Really?
Jisung reached for the revised copy with slightly trembling fingers and passed it over without meeting Minho’s gaze. “The… the new version has Friday’s wrap time moved up by three hours because of the change in location. Uh, rehearsal Saturday is still waiting on PR confirmation. I emailed them, but didn’t get a, um… confirmation back yet.”
Minho didn’t say anything for a beat too long. He took the paper slowly, fingers brushing Jisung’s hand for a second. Warm. Electric. And unwanted, because Jisung didn’t know what to do with it anymore.
“You highlighted the changes,” Minho said, voice low. Observational.
“Yes,” Jisung said quickly. “Figured it would… it would help.”
Silence stretched between them like a thread being pulled too tight.
Jisung forced his eyes to stay on Minho’s chin, never the eyes. “If you—um. If there’s nothing else, I can… I mean, I’ll be over there. By the monitors. Or somewhere not in the way. I'm not…”
“Jisung.”
The sound of his name, not his full name, not Han Jisung or manager-nim or anything else, made his words evaporate.
Minho didn’t say anything after that. Didn’t clarify. Just looked at him for a moment with something unreadable in his eyes. Jisung’s pulse roared in his ears.
“…What?” he said, quieter now. Not clipped. Just tired.
Minho’s mouth opened like he might speak. But the director called for a reset across the room, and the spell shattered.
Minho just nodded. “That’s all.”
Jisung bowed quickly, turned on his heel, and walked away too fast. He made it around the corner, behind one of the equipment trucks, before he let himself lean against it, breath hitching.
He stared at the clipboard like it could protect him. Like paper could keep him from falling apart again.
You idiot, his brain whispered. Why did you stutter? Why do you still care? He didn’t answer himself. He just stayed there in the shadow of the trailer, eyes closed, heart hammering against the ribs he kept pretending weren’t cracked.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
GROUP CHAT: [JI$UNG’S HOTBOI ERA]
[HYUNJIN:]
[Hyunjin changed the group chat name from “Minho + His Suffering Support Staff” to “JI$UNG’S HOTBOI ERA”]
new vibe. new theme. jisung wore slacks today. respect the evolution.
[Attached: Image – candid shot of Jisung by the catering truck, coat buttoned, hair slicked back, expression unreadable but stunning]
[JEONGIN:]
wait what
why do you have a picture of him today? weren’t you painting?
[SEUNGMIN:]
yeah why were you even there?
[HYUNJIN:]
i brought my hubby his lunch
and saw a ghost in dress shoes. felt compelled to document it.
[CHAN:]
ngl he looks like he’s about to fire us all and take over the company
[SEUNGMIN:]
power move honestly
[CHANGBIN:]
can we focus
someone tell lee method actor to blink more than once per scene
he’s scaring the lighting guy
[HYUNJIN:]
he’s in his villain arc. let him live
[JEONGIN:]
this energy is giving “i trained in a cave for this role”
[CHAN:]
i made him a fitting outfit
[Attached: Image – Minho mid-scene, dramatically shadowed with a pink caption: “I am vengeance”]
[FELIX:]
i hate how good this is
his expression is exactly “i haven’t felt joy since 2014”
[SEUNGMIN:]
so like... his regular face
[HYUNJIN:]
stoppp
[CHANGBIN:]
okay but fr no one’s gonna talk about jisung’s look today?
he looked like a sexy tax auditor
[FELIX:]
don’t.
[JEONGIN:]
oh.
okay.
[SEUNGMIN:]
uh oh
sunshine’s got claws
[CHAN:]
lix? you alright?
[FELIX:]
he’s trying, okay?
he shows up, does the work, and you’re all making him the joke
read the room maybe
[HYUNJIN:]
…sorry
[CHANGBIN:]
yeah. my bad
[CHAN:]
we’ll ease up promise
[FELIX:]
just don’t forget he’s a person before a punchline
No one replied after that.
The chat dimmed to stillness.
Jisung saw the notifications light up and let them sit. Unread.
He didn’t have the strength to open them.
Minho read them all. Every word.
He started to type once. Then deleted it.
There was no sticker. No meme. No Chan trying to patch it with a dumb emoji.
Just a silence so thick it felt like a held breath, like a thread that had been pulled too far and was finally starting to snap.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Minho stared at the screen.
The group chat had gone quiet. Completely still. A graveyard of jokes and half-typed thoughts.
He scrolled back through it. Hyunjin’s dramatic renaming. The photo of Jisung—coat buttoned, eyes hollow. The pink “I am vengeance” edit that would’ve made him smirk on any other day.
But not today.
He’d read every message, watched the jokes spiral into something too sharp, too close. And then— Felix.
Minho could still hear the echo of it even now: he’s trying, okay? he shows up, does the work, and you’re all making him the joke.
It had been like a slap. Not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t.
He hovered over the reply box.
Typed: i didn’t mean—
Deleted it.
Typed: i’ll talk to him
Deleted it.
Typed nothing.
He didn’t know what to say to people who were finally saying what he’d spent three weeks refusing to feel. That maybe Jisung wasn’t fine. That maybe it was his fault. That maybe, no, definitely he had pushed too hard and too far and watched someone soft retreat behind armor just to survive being near him.
Across the room, Changbin was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, quiet but present. Still there. Like always. He didn’t speak, hadn’t, not since their earlier confrontation but he hadn’t left.
Minho didn’t deserve him either. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, phone loose in his hands. It was late. The studio was thinning out. Only a few people remained, techs packing up gear, assistants updating schedules. The space felt echoey, like everything inside it had already moved on.
He missed Jisung’s laugh.
He missed the hoodie sleeves too long for his arms, the way he used to mutter jokes under his breath like a one-man sitcom no one else could hear.
He hated this version of him, so crisp, so polite, so perfectly cold.
But God, he was proud of him. Because he’d stayed. Every other manager before had bailed. Walked out. Some without a word, some after screaming matches Minho barely remembered. They’d called him impossible. Distant. Too much.
Jisung? He’d stayed. Even after Minho pushed. Even after he said things he didn’t mean.
That kind of loyalty was rare. The kind you ruined if you weren’t careful.
And Minho hadn’t been careful. Not at all.
He picked up his phone again. Tapped the group chat.
His name was still there. Still listed.
Still included.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that soon, he wouldn’t be.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Jisung didn’t open the messages. Not at first. The notifications were all there, name changes, memes, memes about Minho, someone dragging him for his slacks, and then…
Felix.
Even before reading it, Jisung could feel it shift. The way the air changed in the room. Like a curtain had been pulled tight across something they all used to call fun.
Eventually, he sat down. Alone on the prop bench near the storage bay, cold coffee cupped in both hands like an excuse not to tremble.
He opened the chat. Scrolled. Paused.
Read the words slowly, like they might cut differently depending on the speed.
They did.
> he’s trying, okay? he shows up, does the work, and you’re all making him the joke
His throat locked. Not because he disagreed. But because he hadn’t realized anyone saw it.
Felix had seen everything.
The effort. The way Jisung had buried the version of himself that used to stumble into set with mismatched socks and apologize with a smile. The version who used to mutter reminders into the walkie like it was his diary. The one who joked too much and always, always lingered too close to Minho.
He’d erased all of that. And still, somehow, Felix had known he was trying.
His fingers hovered over the reply bubble. Just to say thank you. To say something. But the words felt wrong in this space now. Too raw. Too honest.
He shut the screen off instead. Let the silence keep stretching.
Jisung pulled his coat tighter around him. Not because he was cold, but because it gave him the illusion of control.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t talk. He just sat there in the blue light of backstage nothing and wished—selfishly, bitterly—that Minho had defended him first.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
GROUP CHAT: [JI$UNG’S HOTBOI ERA]
Participants: Chan, Felix, Changbin, Seungmin, Hyunjin, Jeongin, Minho, Jisung
[CHAN:]
alright. listen up, nerds
next saturday = jisung’s one-month miracle of survival
we’re throwing something
[JEONGIN:]
i mean… most of us haven’t actually met him??
so we’re throwing a party for a hot stranger?
[HYUNJIN:]
yes. and???
supporting hot strangers is my humanitarian calling
[CHANGBIN:]
excuse me??
we are legally wed and emotionally synced, and you’re out here thirsting for a sad intern?
[HYUNJIN:]
i flirt for sport, not for betrayal
besides, you banned karaoke. where else am i supposed to pour my affections??
[SEUNGMIN:]
are we mid-marriage meltdown again
[CHAN:]
can we not stage a divorce arc in the middle of party planning
[CHANGBIN:]
this is the party planning
[HYUNJIN:]
i’ll bring balloons, snacks, and my radiant charm
you’re welcome, husband
[CHANGBIN:]
stop calling jisung “hot stranger therapy”
i’ll burn the balloons myself
[SEUNGMIN:]
you’re just jealous hyunjin used more affection on a balloon order than he did on your anniversary card
[HYUNJIN:]
i drew us as forest spirits on that card. you’re welcome.
[CHAN:]
anyway. changbin’s place
mine is haunted, jeongin’s cats are summoning a demon again
[JEONGIN:]
it’s not a demon. it’s hormones.
i’ll bring drinks and moral support. but not hosting.
[CHAN:]
everyone bring something that might make jisung smile
even if it’s dumb even if you barely know him
[JEONGIN:]
i could bring cupcakes?
i mean… everybody likes cupcakes?
[HYUNJIN:]
only if they sparkle and threaten my self-worth
[CHAN:]
no speeches. no deep toasts.
just food, soft vibes, and one (1) legally allowed hug
[MINHO:]
what if i don’t know what makes him smile anymore?
[FELIX:]
then try harder.
[CHAN:]
copy that. emotional ambush deployed.
[FELIX:]
he better come
i already picked an outfit to match the cupcakes
[CHAN:]
can’t wait to see it
[SEUNGMIN:]
chan.
[JEONGIN:]
sir???
[HYUNJIN:]
down, horndog
[CHANGBIN:]
my GOD they have been talking
[CHAN:]
i was being supportive!
[FELIX:]
you were being thirsty with extra fondant
[HYUNJIN:]
honestly relatable
[CHANGBIN:]
WE. ARE. MARRIED.
[SEUNGMIN:]
and we KNOW
you’ve said it eight times
[CHAN:]
focus
we’re lovebombing the manager
not each other
[HYUNJIN:]
mission: emotionally ambush the hot intern who looks like he survived three breakups and a tax audit
[CHANGBIN:]
again: hands off.
[SEUNGMIN:]
mute changbin before he serves divorce papers via balloon
Jisung didn’t mean to open the chat.
It had been lighting up all afternoon, buzzing from the kitchen counter where he’d left it to die in peace under a growing pile of unopened mail and empty coffee mugs. Felix hadn’t said anything. Not directly. Just moved around the apartment in his soft socks, humming like he was definitely not listening for a reaction.
Eventually, Jisung caved.
He curled into the far corner of the couch, hood up, knees hugged close and opened the group chat. Lines scrolled by fast.
Balloons. Cupcakes. Haunted apartments. Hyunjin and Changbin arguing like always. Seungmin playing referee with brutal efficiency. Jeongin being awkward in the kindest way possible. Chan trying to hold it together while Felix—
Felix stayed close.
Every word he typed was measured. Not too much. Not too little. But sharp when it mattered.
> [FELIX:]
he won’t ask to be celebrated
so we’re doing it anyway
Jisung swallowed hard.
Then—
> [MINHO:]
what if i don’t know what makes him smile anymore?
That one hit like static under the skin. Not loud. Just there, piercing.
Jisung didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping his phone until his fingers started to ache. He loosened them. A sound escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob either.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and heard Felix’s voice drift from the kitchen.
“You good?”
Jisung didn’t answer right away.
After a moment, he called back, “They’re insane.”
“Yeah,” Felix replied, light but warm. “They’re also throwing you a party.”
Jisung glanced back at the screen. The messages were still piling in—stickers, chaotic gifs, Hyunjin threatening to bring a glitter canon “if love isn’t felt by volume alone.”
“I don’t know if I can go,” he murmured.
Felix didn’t reply immediately. A cupboard closed softly. “I think you already decided that you´ll go.”
Jisung looked at the screen again. He didn’t type. Didn’t react. Just sat there and let the warmth bloom in his chest, awkward, painful, unfamiliar.
And maybe, if only for a moment, welcome.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
“You are not wearing that.”
Jisung blinked at himself in the hallway mirror, then looked down at his outfit: black jeans, oversized sweatshirt, hoodie up. Classic comfort. Battle armor.
Felix appeared behind him like a judgmental fairy in thigh-high socks and a velvet button-up. “Absolutely not. It’s your party, Jisung. You don’t get to look like you’ve given up on happiness and hygiene.”
“I smell fine.”
“That’s worse. That’s resignation-scented.”
Jisung huffed. “Felix… ”
“Nope.” Felix clapped his hands. “We are un-hobbiting you. Today, you’re tall, hot, and emotionally unavailable but with fashion sense.”
“I’m literally shorter than you.”
Felix pointed toward the bedroom. “And that’s why we own platform boots.”
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Twenty minutes later, Jisung stood in front of the mirror again—this time in black tailored trousers, a deep wine-colored shirt that was somehow both silky and sinfully fitted, and a silver chain draped just loosely enough to draw the eye. He looked like someone else.
Felix plopped on the bed with an appraising hum. “Good. But not done. Sit.”
“What now?”
“Face,” Felix said, patting the makeup stool like it was a throne. “Trust me.”
Jisung sighed, but he sat. Felix worked fast, gentle and exacting—eyeliner flicked to just the right tilt, a hint of shadow along his lower lashes, a bit of shimmer at the inner corners to make his eyes look larger, more open. And then…
Lip tint. Soft but dangerous.
“Felix,” Jisung groaned. “This is too much.”
“This is nothing,” Felix said, blotting with surgical precision. “This is barely legal. You want full seduction? I have glitter. But tonight? We’re going for ‘tragic prince who might kiss you just to ruin your week.’”
Jisung stared at himself in the mirror. The effect was unfair. His skin looked flawless, his mouth soft but sharp, and his eyes…
He didn’t look like someone Minho had already broken. He looked like someone Minho might regret letting go.
Felix stepped back, satisfied. “See? Devastating.”
“I look like I’m trying too hard.”
“You’re trying just hard enough to ruin Minho’s ability to speak,” Felix corrected. “Which is the goal.”
Jisung’s ears burned. “That is not the goal.”
“It’s mine.”
He turned and promptly choked.
Felix was in black slacks, a sheer tucked blouse with embroidered gold stars, and an absurdly fitted blazer. His lips were glossed, eyes winged, and hair shining like divine punishment.
“You…” Jisung blinked. “You’re trying to seduce Chan.”
Felix grinned. “Obviously. I baked him cupcakes shaped like musical notes. Seduction is a full-time job.”
Jisung rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue, because the truth was, part of him was grateful. Felix wasn’t just dressing him to impress Minho, he was dressing him to feel like himself again. Or maybe someone better. Someone braver.
Someone who could walk into a room and not flinch.
Felix came up behind him and adjusted his collar, gentler now. “You don’t have to say anything. Just show up. Be the version of you that wants to be seen.”
Jisung nodded, throat tight.
“Ready?” Felix asked, offering his hand like they were about to walk into battle.
Jisung took it.
“As I’ll ever be.”
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Minho had changed shirts three times.
First was the black button-down. Too harsh. Then the white one. Too soft.
Now he stood in front of the mirror in a dark moss-green mock neck, staring at himself like he was auditioning to be a better version of someone he used to be.
“Are you gonna settle on an outfit,” Chan said from the doorway, “or do you want me to print you a flowchart?”
Minho didn’t look over. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been fixing your hair since I got out of the shower.”
Chan scoffed. “Because Felix is going to be there.”
Minho blinked, eyes narrowing. “Right. Felix.”
“Felix,” Chan repeated, like that explained everything. “Louis Vuitton Felix. Eyeliner and dimples. Literal walking editorial spread.”
Minho turned toward him, unimpressed. “The face of Gucci is your best friend and you’ve never flinched. But now you’re nervous over him?”
Chan hesitated, he shifted, like something had landed too close to the truth. His fingers twitched where they rested at his side.
Then, quieter, “I think we're getting close.”
Minho raised a brow. “Close?”
“This thing with Felix.” Chan looked away. “I’m not nervous because he’s famous. I’m nervous because… it started before this. Before any of it.”
Minho frowned. “You two have been talking?”
Chan nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Felix DMed me, said some nice stuff about my voice.”
Minho blinked, then his voice sharpened. “Does Jisung know?”
Chan paused. “What?”
“You’ve been talking to his—” Minho cut himself off. The word boyfriend jammed in his throat. “To Felix. Behind his back?”
Chan stared at him. “Minho, I’m not sneaking around. It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it?” Minho muttered. “Because I don’t get it. I don’t get any of this.” His voice cracked—just slightly—but it was enough.
Chan’s expression softened. Then, carefully, he said, “Felix told me he’s not dating Jisung.”
Minho’s breath caught. Chan let it hang there, quiet but deliberate.
“And if you thought they were,” Chan added gently, “maybe ask yourself why it mattered so much.”
Minho didn’t reply and Chan didn’t push. Just stood in the quiet, letting it sit between them.
Minho turned back to the mirror. Adjusted his sleeves like it gave him something to hold onto.
He was remembering that day, Jisung in a hoodie and crop top, laughing like the sun was something he could throw over his shoulder. Eyes bright. Shoulders light. Untouchable.
“I haven’t seen him smile like that in weeks,” Minho murmured.
Chan’s voice softened. “Then maybe it’s your turn to show up like the version of you who used to make him laugh.”
Minho swallowed. His throat felt raw. “Do I look okay?” he asked.
Chan stepped in, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder. “You look like you’ve been stewing in guilt for three weeks and just got dressed to confess about it.”
Minho gave him a sideways look. “So…”
“Perfect,” Chan said, smiling faintly.
Minho’s mouth twitched. “Still bringing the macarons?”
“Sure I filled them with alcohol creme…”
Minho gave him a look. “You’re embarrassing.”
“You love it.”
Minho looked back at the mirror, quieter now. His reflection stared back, too composed, too late. “I miss him.”
Chan didn’t respond right away. Just reached for the doorknob and paused. “Then show up like someone he can still believe in.”
Minho nodded once, jaw tight. They didn’t speak for a while.
Then Chan nudged his elbow gently. “Come on. We’ve got a party to ruin with feelings.”
Minho exhaled. “Let’s go.”
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Jisung hadn’t said much since they left the apartment.
He stood stiffly in the elevator, arms tucked against his sides, chin tipped slightly down. His dark slacks were pressed, tailored to his frame, his shirt sleek and just a little daring with the open collar. Felix had talked him into wearing the jewelry too—rings and a slim chain and a tiny silver cuff on one ear that caught the light every time he shifted.
The makeup was perfect. Clean skin. A little warmth in the cheeks. His lips darkened to a deep rose. Eyeliner and a soft shimmer at the inner corners of his eyes. The kind Felix had insisted would make him look “accidentally beautiful.”
And he did. He looked like effort. Like intention. Like someone trying not to fall apart under it all.
Felix, standing beside him, looked like everything Jisung was not tonight—loud, flawless, magnetic. His own outfit was bold and sharply tailored, the silhouette playing with masculinity just enough to get away with it. Smoky eyes. Glossed lips. Gold at his collarbone.
“I didn’t go too hard on the shimmer, did I?” Felix asked softly, watching him in the mirrored wall.
Jisung blinked. “What?”
Felix smiled, gentle. “Your eyes. You keep blinking like you’re not sure if they’re yours.”
Jisung huffed. “They don’t feel like mine tonight.”
Felix’s expression didn’t change, but his voice went warmer. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be all of you. Just… enough.” Jisung didn’t answer.
The past few weeks had stretched him thin—too thin. The rehearsals, the silence, the distance. But worse than all that was the pressure of not feeling anything on the surface while everything underneath screamed.
Felix bumped their shoulders. “You still good with going?”
Jisung nodded once, slow. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“I know.” Felix reached for his hand briefly, squeezing once. “We’ll stay as long as it feels okay. And then we bounce.”
Jisung didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. Felix already knew.
He stared at his reflection—same clothes, same shimmer, same pressure rising in his throat. The boy in the mirror looked nothing like the one who used to hum while organizing spreadsheets or spin in circles when he got nervous.
But maybe tonight wasn’t about going back. Maybe it was just about walking in.
The elevator chimed.
Felix reached out first, adjusting Jisung’s sleeve with a wink. “Time to show them what regret looks like.”
Jisung let out a soft breath. “You’re such a menace.”
Felix grinned. “Only for you.”
And then the doors slid open.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Changbin and Hyunjin’s apartment was too clean.
The kind of clean that meant Hyunjin had made them both wear gloves to move the furniture, and Changbin had gone along with it because he was soft now. Married and soft. There were fairy lights on the ceiling and a ridiculous candle burning that smelled like expensive forests.
Minho stood near the drink table, half-listening to Seungmin ask Jeongin if cupcakes counted as dinner. Chan was next to him, pretending not to be watching the elevator.
The elevator chimed. Minho didn’t flinch. But he looked.
Felix stepped out first—towering in heels, eyeliner bold, mouth glossed like a sin. He wore confidence like perfume. Everyone turned.
Jisung. Minho forgot how to breathe.
Dark slacks. Slim fit. A shirt buttoned just shy of dangerous. Hair styled back from his face, shimmer just barely catching the light at the corner of his eyes. Subtle. Devastating. No hoodie. No safety net. He stood still for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he should walk in.
Felix touched his back. Jisung stepped forward. Minho’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. He didn’t look at Minho. Not once.
Beside him, Chan handed over a drink he hadn’t asked for. His mouth didn’t move, but Minho felt it in the silence: Don’t ruin this. He didn’t take the glass.
Because all he could think was: He came. He looks good. And he didn’t even look at me.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
“That’s him?” came a voice across the room.
Minho blinked. Jeongin.
He was pointing like he’d spotted a rare Pokémon in the wild. “That’s Han Jisung? The man, the myth, the hoodie guy from the group chat? Bro. Why didn’t anyone tell me he had cheekbones?”
Jisung looked vaguely panicked.
Jeongin, undeterred, made his way over like he had a mission. “Okay but real question, do you always look like that, or is this just your party form?”
Felix cracked up. “This is his party form.”
Jeongin held out a hand like he was offering a peace treaty. “Hi. Jeongin. Minho’s stepbrother. Also the emotional support extrovert of this group.”
Jisung blinked, then shook it. “I… uh. Thanks?”
“You’re killing it,” Jeongin said seriously, then turned to Felix. “And you, yeah, this is criminal. I know you did this.”
“I always do,” Felix said, satisfied.
A few others nearby laughed. The room loosened.
And Minho watched—watched Jeongin break the silence Jisung had been carrying like armor. Watched Jisung blink through the overwhelm and almost smile. Watched his mouth twitch, just slightly, before Jeongin handed him a drink and launched into a dramatic retelling of something he’d only half-read in the group chat.
Minho still didn’t move. But Jisung smiled.
Not for him. Not yet. But still, it was the first one in weeks.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Jisung’s exhale was slow and fragile, the elevator’s hum still echoing in his ears as he tried to center himself. The party around him pulsed with life—each conversation a small explosion of noise and laughter—and yet he felt as if he were suspended in a quiet cocoon of his own trembling thoughts.
From across the room, a familiar voice broke through the haze of anticipation.
“Jisung, you alright?” It was Seungmin.
Seungmin moved toward him with an easy gait that belied the chaos he often carried. Unlike the others, Seungmin wasn’t full of bombast or excessive charm; he was already a comfort to Jisung, a steady presence.
“Hey,” Seungmin said, offering a small, genuine smile as he placed a hand on Jisung’s shoulder. “I’ve seen you pull through worse. Take a breath, man. We’re all here for you.”
Jisung forced a weak smile. “Yeah… thanks, Seungmin.”
Seungmin’s words did little to erase the emptiness that clung to him, but it was enough for a moment. He gave a quick pat on the back before stepping away to greet someone else a silent reminder of his steady nature.
As Jisung tried to settle back into the room’s murmur, a soft ripple of laughter and hushed whispers announced another approach. Out from between groups, Hyunjin emerged. His arm was looped through Changbin’s in a gesture that was both protective and familiar. They navigated the crowd as a unit, Hyunjin’s face lit with an impish grin, Changbin’s expression calm yet attentive.
Hyunjin reached Jisung, his eyes sparkling as he took in the sight. “Man,” he drawled, voice low enough for Jisung to catch every word, “you’re looking absolutely wrung hot tonight.” He emphasized “wrung,” as if the exhaustion and raw vulnerability painted on Jisung were signs of a battle hard-fought.
Changbin squeezed Hyunjin’s hand and offered a subtle nod of agreement, his gaze lingering on Jisung for a long, measured moment. There was a silent challenge in that look a message that if Jisung could come through this night, he would be unstoppable.
“Don’t hide those eyes,” Hyunjin said softly, stepping a bit closer. “We know the nights have been long, and you’ve been holding so much inside… but tonight, let it be loud, let it be real.” His tone was both teasing and tender—a gentle push for authenticity.
Jisung’s heart pounded in the pause that followed, even as he processed their words. For a moment, the overwhelming tide of his anxiety receded. The soft encouragement from Seungmin, the affectionate ribbing from Hyunjin, and the silent, steady support of Changbin, each offered a small light in the darkness of the past few weeks.
“I… I’m trying,” Jisung murmured, barely audible. Hyunjin’s smile deepened. “That’s all we ask, man. Just let yourself be you tonight.”
Felix’s presence, steady and reassuring, hovered nearby as if to anchor him further. Even as the party’s pulse quickened around them, Jisung felt a quiet shift, a slow, determined decision to finally let the weight off, to trust that maybe, just tonight, he could be seen fully, without fear.
And in that fragile moment, as the music swelled and the crowd grew more exuberant, Jisung allowed himself a small, genuine smile. It wasn’t the full, carefree smile of before, but it was a start, a promise to himself that he could try again.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Minho hadn’t moved from his spot by the drink table.
Not even when Seungmin walked up to Jisung with that calm, steady look of his and placed a hand on his shoulder like it belonged there.
Not even when Hyunjin glided in like drama on silk and practically purred a compliment that made Jisung laugh into his drink. Not even when Changbin stood beside them, hand in Hyunjin’s like a quiet statement: mine—but I’m watching.
Minho hadn’t moved.
He didn’t need to. Every word reached him anyway. Every tilt of Jisung’s head. Every flicker of a not-quite-smile. Every person who made him laugh before Minho had the courage to try.
He was a shadow in his own story.
And the worst part was, he understood it.
Jisung looked exhausted, but radiant. Fragile, but trying.
Minho had watched him walk into the room wrapped in effort, not armor. And now, surrounded by warmth and people who’d decided he was worth it without question…
He looked lighter. Just a little.
Minho’s chest ached.
He took a sip of the drink Chan had handed him earlier. It was warm now. Flat.
“Hey.” Chan was beside him again, voice quiet. “You good?”
Minho didn’t answer at first. Then, hoarse: “He laughed.”
Chan glanced at Jisung, who was listening to Hyunjin with a little tilt to his lips that could almost be mistaken for flirtation if you didn’t know him.
“He did,” Chan said gently. “You’re allowed to be glad about that.”
Minho stared down at the rim of his glass. “I don’t know what makes him laugh anymore.” The words left him hollow and Chan,bless him, didn’t say then find out again or go fix it.
He just stood beside him and watched the way the lights reflected in the curve of Jisung’s mouth, the shimmer on his eyes, the way Felix hovered close but didn’t cling.
Quiet. Present.
Minho stayed there, still as stone.
And wished for a second chance that didn’t come dressed in silence and slacks.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Jisung was halfway through a sentence he couldn’t remember starting when Felix grabbed his wrist. Not gently.
“Drink time. Now,” Felix declared, eyes gleaming. “And if you make me wait one more second to meet him in person, I’m leaving you here.”
Jisung blinked. “Felix…”
“Nope. We talked for hours, hours, about music and favorite ramen brands and which fonts give off serial killer vibes. I am not wasting this eyeliner.”
Jisung gaped. “You’re threatening me.”
Felix already had him halfway across the room. “I’m dragging you toward destiny.”
Jisung tried to dig in his heels, but Felix was radiant and ruthless and dressed for war. “Felix, I can’t… he’s… ”
“You can. You will. And I swear to God, if you chicken out, I’ll flirt with Seungmin just to traumatize us both.”
Jisung made a strangled noise, but they were nearly there. He couldn’t breathe. The air felt too sharp now. Chan and Minho were right in front of them, Chan smiling, Minho unreadable.
Jisung’s heart rattled like something loose in his chest.
Chan spotted them first and straightened with a spark in his eyes. “Hey! There you are.”
Felix lit up like a firework. “There you are. God, finally.”
He stepped forward and threw his arms around Chan with the smooth confidence of someone who’d already imagined this moment a hundred times.
Chan startled, then laughed—low and genuine—hugging him back with a warmth Jisung hadn’t expected.
“You’re real,” Felix whispered, pulling back slightly. “That’s so weird.”
“You’re a menace,” Chan whispered back.
“You’re taller than I thought.”
“You’re prettier than your display name.”
Jisung blinked. “Okay, I feel like I should leave.”
“Nope,” Felix said, linking arms with him again like a leash. “Chan. Meet Jisung. The reason I’ve been DMing you like a lunatic.”
Jisung gave a stiff, overpolite nod. “Hi.”
Chan smiled. “Hey. It’s good to finally meet you. Thanks for… surviving.”
“I didn’t get a chance to say thanks for… putting up with me in the group chat,” Jisung said, awkward but sincere.
Chan tilted his head. “You make it more interesting.”
Minho hadn’t said a word.
Felix leaned in toward Jisung and muttered, “Breathe. You’re fine.”
Chan handed Jisung a drink. Their fingers brushed. “You okay?”
Jisung took it with both hands. “Still here.”
Minho’s jaw flexed slightly.
Felix looped their arms again and stage-whispered, “We’ll do one lap, and then you can hide behind the snack table.” Jisung nodded once, barely.
Still, he didn’t look at Minho. But his hand trembled where it touched the glass.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
Felix pulled Jisung a half-step back, but didn’t let go of his arm. Jisung still hadn’t looked directly at Minho, and Minho still hadn’t spoken. The air felt like a held breath.
Chan, sensing the tension like a heatwave, smiled gently and lifted his glass in a small toast. “To surviving work, group chats, and whatever this weird tension is,” he said. “And to the most overdressed crowd in a two-bedroom apartment.”
Felix grinned. “You say that like you’re not part of it.”
“Excuse me,” Chan said, mock-offended. “I dressed to host. I did not expect to be competing with the face of Louis Vuitton and two emotionally repressed movie stars.”
From across the room, Seungmin’s voice rang out. “I heard that. And I repress my emotions with style.”
Jisung startled, then actually laughed, short, bright, and real.
Chan beamed at him like he’d just scored a goal.
Then, with one last smile to Felix, he nodded toward the rest of the room. “Go do your lap. But if you ditch me later, I’m texting Minho every detail of our phone calls.”
Felix winked. “Promises, promises.” They turned to go and Minho still hadn’t spoken.
Felix didn’t really guide him through the party. He carried him.
Not literally, but emotionally. Socially. Like he’d decided Jisung was his favorite accessory and he was going to parade him through every softly lit corner of Changbin and Hyunjin’s annoyingly perfect newlywed apartment like a crown jewel.
Jisung just tried to stay upright.
“Okay, ten-minute rule,” Felix whispered as they passed the kitchen. “If anyone says something weird or smells like vape juice, we bail and fake a call from your vet.”
“I don’t have a pet.”
“You do now. It’s a chameleon named Darryl. He has abandonment issues.”
Jisung huffed a laugh. A real one. The second one of the night.
They passed Jeongin and Seungmin talking near the drinks. Jeongin did a dramatic double-take like he was still in disbelief that Jisung was real and not a group chat hallucination. “Still looking like you walked off a heartbreak commercial, huh?”
Jisung flushed, mumbling, “I didn’t mean to…”
“You’re killing it,” Seungmin said dryly, cutting him off. “Don’t apologize for dressing like someone who’s finally tired of everyone underestimating them.” It was too direct. Too blunt.
But Jisung’s heart stumbled, because that’s exactly what it was.
Not revenge. Not seduction. Just… tired. Of being overlooked. Of not being worth staying for, of hiding. He blinked and looked away.
Felix gave his arm a squeeze. Didn’t say anything.
They drifted past Hyunjin and Changbin near the window. Hyunjin giving a dramatic gasp and a “fashion queen spotted” before Changbin leaned in and said, “Ignore him. You look good, Jisung.”
It was weird, being noticed like this. Not because of a mistake. Not because he’d been too loud or too anxious or too much. Just… seen.
Jisung didn’t know how to carry it, but he was trying. And for the first time in weeks, it felt like that might be enough.
They ended up in the hallway between the kitchen and the coat closet. Not hiding exactly, but the music was softer here, the lights dimmer, and no one was asking questions or looking at him like he might shatter.
Felix leaned against the wall beside him, one foot crossed over the other, still somehow looking like a campaign ad.
Jisung leaned his shoulder into the wall, eyes on the floor. Neither of them spoke for a minute.
Felix broke the silence first. “You’re doing good.”
Jisung let out a breath. “I don’t feel like it.”
“That’s because you’re still waiting for someone to throw a punch.” Felix turned his head. “But no one’s going to. Everybody loves you.”
Jisung didn’t answer. Just pressed the cool glass to his cheek for a second like it could steady him.
Felix’s voice softened. “You didn’t run. That matters.”
“I almost did.”
“I know. But you didn’t.”
They stood there like that, quiet, shoulder to shoulder, outside the noise and inside their own little space.
Then Felix added, a little more gently, “You look good tonight, Sungie. I hope you noticed.”
Jisung swallowed. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Yeah, because it’s true.”
Jisung didn’t reply right away. Then, softly: “What if I only look okay on the outside?”
Felix looked at him. “Then that makes you like the rest of us.”
Jisung’s throat tightened.
Felix didn’t push. Just bumped his hand. “Come on. Let’s finish your lap. Or ditch the party and eat cake in the bathtub. I’m flexible.”
Jisung cracked a small smile. “Tempting.”
They didn’t move yet, but they didn’t need to. Not every step forward had to be loud.
Sometimes, just standing still was its own kind of victory.
They didn’t hear the footsteps right away, only the soft rustle of fabric and the familiar voice that followed.
“Is this where the cool people are hiding?”
Felix looked up first.
Chan stood at the end of the hallway, slightly flushed from the warmth of the room, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other holding two drinks.
Jisung stiffened instinctively, but Felix touched his arm, grounding.
“Depends on your definition of cool,” Felix said, teasing but soft.
Chan smiled as he stepped closer. “Mine’s mostly based on proximity to you.”
Felix rolled his eyes. “That was smooth. Ten out of ten. Proud of you.”
Chan handed him a drink with a crooked grin. “Took me like twenty minutes to work up to it.”
Jisung stood frozen, gaze not quite meeting either of theirs.
Chan turned to him next, offering the second drink. “Apple soda. I figured you might need something that doesn’t burn.”
Jisung took it, hesitant. “Thanks…”
They stood in an almost-triangle of silence, warm light from the living room spilling across the floor.
Then Chan cleared his throat. “Also, um. I hope it’s okay… I told Minho.”
Jisung blinked. “Told him… what?”
Felix didn’t move. Chan’s voice stayed soft. “That you two aren’t dating.”
Jisung’s heart gave a sudden, sharp lurch.
Felix exhaled slowly.
“I didn’t mean to,” Chan added quickly. “It just… came up. He was being weird about you and I didn’t think it was fair, especially since you were hurting. We were talking about Felix and me, I wasn’t trying to out you or pressure you, I just…”
“You told him,” Jisung repeated, voice thin.
“I’m sorry if I crossed a line.”
Jisung didn’t speak. Felix placed a hand lightly on his back, steadying.
Chan watched him carefully, eyes sincere. “He didn’t say much after. Just got quiet.”
Felix let out a short, wry breath. “So… business as usual, then.” That cracked the air.
Jisung huffed once, barely a laugh, but not nothing.
Chan’s mouth quirked. “I just thought you should know. I didn’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Thanks,” Jisung murmured. “For saying something.”
“I couldn’t not,” Chan replied. And somehow, that was the most honest thing in the room.
Felix didn’t say anything right away. Just sipped his drink and let the silence stretch, comfortable in a way that didn’t need fixing.
Jisung stared down at the glass in his hands. He wasn’t trembling. Not quite. But something in him had gone still.
“He really thought we were dating?” he asked finally, voice low.
Chan nodded once. “Yeah.”
Jisung let out a slow breath. “That’s… stupid.”
“Jealousy usually is,” Felix muttered.
Chan snorted into his cup. “You’re not wrong.”
Another beat of silence.
Then Felix glanced at Chan and asked, almost gently, “You okay?”
Chan looked at him, really looked. His gaze softened, something private flickering in the corner of his mouth. “I am now.”
Felix didn’t smile, but something eased in his shoulders. Jisung looked away.
They were… easy.
That was what hit the hardest. Not the flirting or the matching outfits or the late-night phone calls, the ease. The way Chan and Felix spoke like they’d been orbiting the same sun for years, even if they’d only just touched ground.
Like it wasn’t hard. Like it didn’t hurt.
Jisung wanted to be happy for them. Part of him was. But another part, tighter, smaller, ached in places he couldn’t name.
Because when he looked at Minho, it was all sharp edges. Silence where words should be. Distance dressed as control. Every glance felt like a test he hadn’t studied for, every breath like it might betray him.
Felix and Chan? They laughed.
Jisung and Minho? They broke.
Why can’t it ever be easy for me? he wondered, the thought low and bitter. Why does it always feel like a battlefield just to be seen? He didn’t say it. Didn’t need to.
The ache sat quietly between his ribs, unspoken and familiar. But at least now, someone was still standing beside him.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
He hadn’t meant to follow them.
That’s what Minho told himself when he left the kitchen, one hand still around a half-finished drink, the pulse in his jaw louder than the music behind him.
He hadn’t meant to listen. Or look. Or turn the corner, but he did.
And there they were. Felix. Chan. Jisung.
Three people wrapped in soft light and quieter laughter. Three silhouettes leaning toward each other like gravity pulled differently in this part of the apartment. Chan was smiling. Felix had his head tilted, full of warmth. Jisung…
Minho’s heart thudded once.
Jisung wasn’t laughing. But he was there. Softened. Shoulders relaxed, mouth curved in something that could almost pass for comfort. For the first time in weeks, he looked like he wasn’t drowning.
And it wasn’t because of Minho.
Felix shifted, just slightly, his hand brushing against Jisung’s arm again. Familiar. Thoughtless. Like it belonged there. Something in Minho’s chest twisted.
He’s not yours, a voice whispered in the back of his head. You broke that claim before it ever had a name.
He didn’t make a sound, but something must’ve shifted in the air, because Jisung looked up. Not a glance. Not a side-eye.
A full look. Straight at him.
Minho froze.
Jisung stilled.
The moment fractured.
The hallway held its breath.
Jisung’s eyes met his, and everything stopped.
No noise. No laughter. Not even the soft thrum of the music from the living room could push through that sudden stillness.
Just them.
A dozen feet apart, and still somehow too close.
Jisung didn’t look away. Not this time.
Minho felt something inside him twist sharp and sudden, like a wire pulled too tight. He should say something, anything, but the words caught behind his teeth, strangled by weeks of silence and regret.
Jisung’s expression wasn’t angry. Or soft. It was guarded.
Like a wall built out of hurt and held up by effort. Like the weight of the last few weeks was carved into the set of his shoulders.
Minho wanted to step forward. To reach. To…
“Oh,” came a voice from around the corner, sharp and unbothered. “There you all are.” Jeongin.
Casual, loud, and entirely oblivious.
He skidded to a halt just past the coat closet, arms full of cupcakes and self-importance. “I was looking for—oh. Are we doing the emotionally fraught hallway thing? Should I… come back later?”
Felix groaned under his breath. “Jeongin.”
Jeongin blinked. “What? I’m just saying, I’ve walked in on, like, three couples having life-altering conversations tonight and I’m starting to think this apartment is cursed.”
Jisung looked away. The thread between him and Minho snapped and just like that, the moment was gone.
Jeongin didn’t move. He stood there, balancing a tray of meticulously decorated cupcakes, looking between the three of them like he’d accidentally walked into the middle of a soap opera and wasn’t sure whether to play it cool or grab popcorn.
“So,” he said after a beat. “Serious question.”
Felix sighed. “This’ll be good.”
Jeongin looked at Jisung, deadpan. “Are you still available for the hallway couples thing? Because you’re the only one I’ve interrupted tonight that might still be single. And I’m feeling very emotionally excluded.”
Jisung blinked. “I.. I don’t…”
At the exact same time, Minho said, “He’s not!” They both stopped.
The silence was louder than the overlap.
Jisung’s face flushed. Minho stared at the floor like it might offer a script he could follow.
Felix didn’t breathe. Jeongin arched an eyebrow, far too entertained. “Oh… Oooooh!”
Chan, behind him, muttered under his breath, “God help us.”
Jisung looked like he might actually combust.
Minho finally looked up, right at him this time. Something in his voice was rough when he spoke. “He’s not available for jokes like that.”
Jisung swallowed. “I can speak for myself.”
Minho tilted his head, not quite a smile. “Yeah? Since when?”
Jeongin let out a low whistle and took a strategic step backward with his cupcakes. “I’m just gonna—find the snacks. Again. With my full body. Elsewhere.”
He vanished around the corner, muttering something about cursed newlyweds and emotional casualties.
The hallway fell quiet again, but the air had changed.
Something fragile had cracked and this time, it might not just heal on its own.
The hallway pulsed with tension, every breath too loud, every silence too long.
Jisung’s hands were shaking around his drink now, knuckles white.
Across from him, Minho looked poised and calm on the outside.
Jisung’s heart thudded once like it hit a wall. Then he was stepping forward, no longer quiet, no longer careful.
“You called me a whore.”
Minho’s mouth parted.
Jisung didn’t stop.
“You looked me in the eye during that shoot,” he said, voice rising, “and made it sound like I’d take my clothes off for anyone. Like I had no fucking dignity.”
“I didn’t…” Minho started.
“You did.” Jisung’s voice cracked. “And you haven’t said one word since.”
Minho stood frozen, eyes wide, as if the memory was only just catching up to him.
“I thought you meant it,” Jisung continued, breath ragged. “And maybe you did. But if you didn’t, if you’re standing here now trying to act like you care, then you owe me a hell of a lot more than this cold, jealous bullshit.”
Minho looked like he’d been hit. Felix flinched. Chan’s mouth was tight.
Jisung’s chest heaved. His voice dropped, cracked and exhausted. “I have been dragging myself through every day since,” he whispered. “And you—you—just stood there. Watching. Saying nothing. Like I didn’t even deserve an apology.”
Silence. Pure. Cracking.
And then Felix stepped forward. “Nope, not here. Bedroom. Now.” Chan nodded. “You’ve both earned a door.”
Jisung didn’t move. Minho still hadn’t said a word.
Felix nudged Jisung gently toward the hall. “Let him say it to your face this time.”
Jisung’s throat worked, but he turned and Minho followed.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And what was left behind in the hallway felt holy and wrecked.
─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ﾟ☆ﾟ. ─
The hallway had been bad, but the bedroom was worse.
It was the kind of quiet that rang in your ears. That made your own heartbeat sound too loud. That filled every inch of space with the things you weren’t saying.
Minho stood near the door like he wasn’t sure if he should close it. Jisung didn’t move past the rug.
The room was warm. Soft light from a single lamp in the corner. A rumpled blanket folded at the foot of the bed. One of Hyunjin’s half-empty tea mugs on the desk. Someone’s cologne in the air, too delicate to cover the sharpness between them.
It should’ve felt safe, but all it did was echo.
Minho closed the door, the click sounded like a gunshot.
Jisung's fingers flexed around the glass in his hand, but he didn't lift it. Didn’t drink. Just stared at it like maybe it could give him a script. It didn’t.
Minho spoke first. Barely.
“I didn’t mean it.”
Jisung let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. Not kind.
“You said I’d take my clothes off for anyone,” he said, voice calm in that terrifying way. “What part of that was an accident?”
Minho winced. “I wasn’t… I didn’t know…”
“No,” Jisung cut in. “You didn’t think. That’s what you mean. You didn’t think it mattered. Because you thought I’d still show up anyway. Still do my job. Still keep my mouth shut.”
Minho didn’t deny it.
Jisung’s voice rose. “You humiliated me.”
Minho finally met his eyes and this time, he looked wrecked. “I know.”
“Do you?” Jisung asked, and suddenly it was all spilling out, voice shaking. “Because I spent weeks convincing myself I was overreacting. That it wasn’t that bad. That maybe you didn’t mean it. And then I had to watch you laugh with everyone else like I didn’t even exist.”
Minho didn’t move. He looked like he couldn’t.
Jisung stepped closer. “And now you want to say you didn’t mean it? Now?”
Minho swallowed hard. “I thought if I pushed you away,” he said, quiet, “you’d stop making me feel things.”
Jisung blinked.
Minho’s voice cracked. “But you stayed.”
Jisung’s mouth parted, but no words came.
“You showed up,” Minho continued. “Every day. After what I said. After how I acted. You stayed. And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with that. Because I don’t deserve it.”
Jisung whispered, “Then why did you let me?”
Minho shook his head. “Because I wanted you close.”
He stepped forward, just once, slowly. “And because I was scared that if I told you the truth, you’d really leave.”
Jisung’s breath hitched. He didn’t step back, but he didn’t step forward, either. Not yet. Instead he laughed. Not gently. Not bitterly. Just sharply. Like the sound had nowhere else to go.
“You wanted me close?” he repeated, stunned. “Is that what that was? That look in your eyes while you tore me down? That was you wanting me close?”
Minho opened his mouth.
“Don’t,” Jisung snapped. “Don’t give me another soft voice and broken apology like I’m supposed to feel bad for you.”
Minho flinched.
“You don’t get to be scared,” Jisung said, words coming faster now, louder, like a damn finally cracked open and the flood was raging. “You don’t get to tell me you panicked. You don’t get to call me anything and then stand here acting like you’re the one bleeding.”
Minho didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.
Jisung stepped forward again. “You want to talk about being scared? I’ve walked on eggshells every day around you. I’ve counted my words like landmines. I’ve swallowed every flinch, every instinct, every stupid little thing that made me me because I thought, maybe, you’d see me and not want to ruin it.”
Minho's lips parted, stricken.
Jisung didn’t let up. “You think I stayed because I didn’t have dignity? I stayed because I believed in you,” he hissed. “Because I thought somewhere under all that cold, quiet bullshit was someone who saw me too. Someone who maybe… maybe… cared.” His voice cracked hard on the last word.
The silence that followed was brutal.
Jisung’s chest was heaving now. His eyes wet. He didn’t care. He didn’t try to hide it.
He just stood there, furious and trembling, hands clenched at his sides like fists weren’t far off.
Minho still hadn’t moved. He looked gutted. Gutted in that deep, slow kind of way, like he’d heard every word and deserved every cut of it, but he still hadn’t answered.
And Jisung hated that it hurt just to look at him. He stepped in close, too close. Close enough that Minho had to look at him. Really look.
“You think I still care about the job?” Jisung spat. “You think I’m still here because of some stupid contract or paycheck or… what? The fame? The fun?”
Minho didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“I don’t give a fuck about this job,” Jisung hissed. “Not after everything. Not when it meant getting humiliated by someone I actually…” He bit the word off like it hurt to even taste.
Minho flinched.
Jisung went on, breath shuddering, eyes wild now. “You made me feel like I was nothing, and I still walked back into every set, every call, every goddamn room like maybe, just maybe, you’d give me a reason to stay.”
Minho’s breath hitched.
“And you know what’s worse?” Jisung said, voice falling just slightly, cracked now, wounded and sharp. “I still wanted to make you proud. Even after all of it. Even after you looked at me like I was….” He broke off, chest heaving.
“I hate that part of me,” he whispered. “I hate that you still mattered.” And that was it.
The final cut. The end of the leash. Silence fractured between them.
And then, finally Minho snapped.
“You think I don’t know that?!” His voice rang out, rough and broken and furious.
“You think I don’t know what I did? That I haven’t been tearing myself apart every second since that day?” He stepped forward too, matching Jisung’s fire.
“I wanted to stay away because I thought I’d ruin you and then I did. And now you’re looking at me like I’m supposed to defend it?”
Jisung didn’t move. Didn’t back down.
Minho’s breath caught. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But don’t stand here acting like I never gave a damn.” His voice cracked, just once.
“Because I did,” he said, quieter now. “I do.”
Jisung stared at him, breathing hard, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t shrink. He laughed. Low and sharp and bitter.
“No. I’m looking at you like I’m finally seeing you for who you really are.” Minho froze.
Jisung kept going, voice scalding. “You say you gave a damn? Prove it. Because right now all I see is a man who says the right words when he’s cornered but disappears the second he has to actually feel something.”
Minho’s mouth opened, then closed.
Jisung’s voice was quieter now, but no less brutal. “You don't get to fall apart now because it hurts. I’ve been in pieces since the day you looked at me like I was beneath you, like a was worth nothing.” Silence slammed back into the room like a closing door.
Minho looked wrecked, but this time, Jisung didn’t. He looked alive. Burning, maybe, but alive.
Jisung held the silence like a shield.
His chest was still heaving, and his jaw was still tight, but his voice, when it came again, wavered.
“You made me feel like I didn’t matter,” he said. “Like I was something disposable. Just… background noise in your perfect life.” He swallowed hard, and the crack showed, thin but real.
“And the worst part is…” He looked down, blinking too fast. “I let it happen.”
Minho stepped forward, slow. Careful. His voice low and rough.
“You didn’t let it happen,” he said. “I did. I made that choice. I looked you in the eye and said something I never should have, because I was scared of what you meant to me.”
Jisung flinched.
“I didn’t know how to let someone close. Not really. Not in a way that meant something,” Minho said. “But then you were just… there. Bright and honest and unfiltered and so much more than I knew how to handle.” He took a breath. “And I ruined it.”
Jisung didn’t reply. Not yet.
Minho stepped in closer, voice quieter. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you. About what I said. About how you looked that day. I replay it constantly. I remember the look on your face and…” His voice broke. “I’ve never hated myself more.”
Jisung’s eyes flicked up, sharp even through the ache. “Then why didn’t you say any of this sooner?”
Minho’s answer was quiet. Honest.
“Because I didn’t think you’d listen.”
Jisung breathed in through his nose.
Held it. Let it burn. Then, finally, quiet but clear, he said: “Then you never really knew me.”
Minho blinked.
Jisung’s voice was steady now. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just… true.
“If you thought I wouldn’t listen, then you never heard me in the first place. I’ve been trying, Minho. From the first day. When you rolled your eyes and called me a mess. When you shut me out. When you pushed and I stayed anyway.” He took a step back, not in retreat, but in control. His chin lifted.
“I showed up for you,” he said. “Over and over. Even when you didn’t deserve it.”
Minho’s jaw flexed. He didn’t argue.
“So no,” Jisung said, softer now, but somehow harder too. “You don’t get to tell me what I felt. You don’t get to act like you were the only one bleeding.”
Minho’s throat worked. “I know,” he said.
Jisung stared at him for a long moment.
Then, quieter, like it almost hurt to admit:
“I don’t want an apology.”
Minho’s eyes lifted, cautious. Listening.
“I want to know what you’re going to do.”
Minho didn’t answer right away.
So Jisung took one final swing, his voice raw, but steady. “I hoped we could at least be friends, you know?” he said. “Even if you didn’t see me the same way. Even if it never became anything.” His fingers flexed at his sides, like the truth hurt coming out.
“But after all that, I was just another disposable manager to you.”
Minho’s breath caught like he’d been punched.
“No,” he said immediately, voice shaking now. “You were never just that.”
Jisung gave a half-laugh, sharp and hollow. “Funny. Sure felt like it.”
Minho stepped forward.
And this time, he didn’t stop halfway.
“I didn’t know how to be anything to you,” he said. “But I knew you weren’t just another manager. No one ever got close enough to be hurt like that. No one ever made me want to try and fix what I broke.”
He swallowed. “But you did.”
Jisung didn’t look away, and for the first time, Minho didn’t either.
Minho swallowed. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Nothing polished. Nothing practiced. Just a question. “Is it too late?”
Jisung didn’t answer right away. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because that, that was the question, wasn’t it?
Not Can you forgive me? or Do you still want me? or Was it ever real?
Just… Is it too late?
And Jisung felt everything tighten in his chest. Because for a second, he didn’t know. Not really.
Not after the silence. Not after the look on Minho’s face that day. Not after waking up from nightmares and walking into sets like a ghost just to do his job while pretending he was fine. He didn’t know if anything could be rewound from that.
But he looked at Minho now, really looked and saw not the actor, not the aloof perfection, not the cold, unreadable stranger. Just a man.
One who looked like he meant it.
One who looked scared.
Jisung’s voice was hoarse when he finally said, “I don’t know.” It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either.
And for the first time, that felt like enough to make Minho breathe again.
Minho’s shoulders dropped, just slightly. The tension didn’t vanish, but it settled, like a storm no longer howling, just raining steady and hard. He looked at Jisung.
“What do you want?”
Jisung let out a breath. Not tired. Just honest.
“I’ve been honest with you this whole time,” he said. “So be honest with me now.”
Minho blinked.
Jisung’s gaze didn’t waver. “What do you want, Minho?”
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t a whisper in the dark. It was a challenge. A plea. A dare.
Minho didn’t look away, didn’t run from it.
He took one step forward, hands open at his sides, nothing rehearsed in his face anymore. “I want you,” he said.
Plain. Honest. No edge.
Jisung’s breath hitched.
“I want the way you talk when you think no one’s listening,” Minho went on. “I want the part of you that never tried to impress me, because that was the part that impressed me most. I want the hoodies and the weird noises, the tripping and the different socks, I want you by my side.” His voice dipped.
“I want to fix what I broke. Not just say sorry and hope you forget. I want to earn it.” A beat, Minho swallowed.
“And I want to know what it would feel like if you looked at me again, really looked and didn’t hate me.”
Jisung let the words hang there.
“I want you,” Minho had said. But that wasn’t enough. Not this time.
Jisung’s brow furrowed, jaw tight. “So you want me back as what? The chaotic manager? The guy who picks up your dry cleaning and dodges your moods?”
Minho blinked, startled by the sharpness, but didn’t interrupt.
Jisung stepped in, voice steady. “Be specific, Minho. What exactly are you asking from me?”
Minho’s mouth opened.
Jisung beat him to it. “Because if you’re looking for things to go back to the way they were, you’re too late. I’m not that person anymore. You made sure of that.”
Minho’s throat worked. “I know.”
“Then say it.” Jisung’s voice cracked. “Say what you want. No silence. No safe answers. No pretending like I’m supposed to read between the lines.”
He stared Minho down. “Tell me the truth.”
Minho didn’t look away this time.
“I want you, Jisung,” he said. “Not just as a manager. Not as someone in my orbit. I want the version of you that laughs at your own jokes and says too much. I want the person I pushed away and the one standing in front of me right now.” His breath hitched. “I want a chance to love you the way I didn’t before I broke it.”
Jisung’s breath caught. For a second, just one, everything in him went still.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. The words hung between them like something too fragile to touch.
Jisung didn’t look away. He couldn’t. But something in him curled inward, tight and guarded. “You…” His voice cracked once. He swallowed and tried again. “You love me?”
Minho didn’t move. “I think I started to,” he said. “Back when you wore mismatched socks and said my cats looked judgmental.”
Jisung’s eyes went glossy.
Minho kept going. “I didn’t realize it at the time. But yeah. Somewhere in the mess of it, I did.” He paused. “I still do.”
Jisung stood frozen, then quietly, his voice raw: “You mean that?” No sarcasm. No bite. Just one last plea for the truth.
Minho stepped forward, not to reach for him, but to be there. “I mean every word.”
Jisung’s breath hitched again, but this time, he stepped back. Just one pace. Enough to create space. Enough to protect himself. “I can’t,” he said, voice low but steady. “Not like this.”
Minho’s face fell. “Jisung.”
“There’s a clause,” Jisung cut in, sharp again now, not angry, but guarded. “Page six of my contract. No dating clients. No flirting. No crossing lines. I already broke that just by feeling something for you.”
Minho looked like he’d been slapped. “I didn’t know…”
“You weren’t supposed to,” Jisung said. “It was my job to keep boundaries. It’s still my job.” He ran a hand through his hair, restless and exhausted. “You don’t get to say all this now and expect me to jump.”
Minho’s voice softened. “I don’t expect that.”
“Good,” Jisung said, too quickly. Then quieter: “Because I need time. And space. And maybe a new job, if we’re being honest.”
Minho looked down, Jisung’s shoulders dropped. “I’m not saying no,” he added, voice cracking again. “But I’m not saying yes either. Not until I know I’m making that choice for me. Not because you’re finally ready.”
Minho met his gaze again and this time, there was no resistance. Just a slow, aching nod.
“I’ll wait,” he said. “However long it takes.”
Jisung didn’t say anything. He just turned away, eyes burning, heart loud in his chest and opened the bedroom door.
The air outside was cooler. Louder. Filled with low music, soft laughter, the clink of bottles and glass. Life moving forward like nothing inside that room had just cracked open. Jisung stepped into it like a ghost.
No one noticed him.
People were gathered in clusters, hunched over drinks or laughing about nothing. The lights were low, golden. Someone had put on a playlist he liked. He hated that he recognized it.
He scanned the room, looking for Felix and found him tucked into the couch beside Chan. They weren’t talking. Not exactly.
Just sitting close, legs pressed together. Chan’s hand was in Felix’s, fingers tangled lightly. Felix was listening to something Chan was murmuring, his head tilted, expression soft in a way Jisung hadn’t seen in a while.
Like it was easy. Like love didn’t have to hurt.
Something twisted in Jisung’s chest. It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly, but it made his throat ache.
He turned before either of them saw him. Slipped past the table. Past the cupcakes. Past Seungmin half asleep in a chair and Hyunjin whispering into Changbin’s ear.
He didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look back.
Just opened the front door, quiet as he could and stepped into the night.