Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

eleven months

The floor of the dance studio reverberated with the thump of the bass, echoing off the high ceilings and slick wood panels. Mirrors lined one wall, reflecting flashes of movement—spins, jumps, sweat-soaked shirts. The air reeked of effort and ambition, thick with the sharp scent of body spray and old tape wrapped around ankles. It was organized chaos, but it was theirs.

Minho watched it all from the corner.

His fingers tapped a rhythm on the metal of his wheelchair, brows furrowed as he followed the group’s formation. His jaw tightened every time someone missed a beat, his leg bouncing out of sheer instinct, until he remembered. His hand stilled it. His legs didn’t move like that anymore.

“Ryujin, tighter arms!” he barked.

She groaned, lifting her arms again. “Yes, drill sergeant.”

Yeji, barely catching her breath, rolled her eyes and whispered, “I miss the days when he actually danced with us. He was a lot nicer back then.”

“I heard that,” Minho snapped, not even turning his head. That made Ryujin laugh. So did Winter, who almost tripped in the middle of a spin.

“Focus!” Minho called again, louder this time, his voice cutting through the music. The track paused mid-beat, and the team let out a collective groan.

Hyunjin jogged over to him with his long black hair tied back in a low ponytail, cheeks flushed, shirt sticking to his spine. “Okay, coach. You gonna yell at us for breathing wrong now?”

“Not yet,” Minho muttered.

“Progress,” Hyunjin whispered to Felix as he walked back, making him snort.

Minho sat still, motionless except for the way his hand occasionally gripped his clipboard like it owed him something. He was used to this now—used to watching, instructing, snapping his fingers to reset the team’s rhythm. It had been five months since the accident. Five months since a drunk driver ran a red light and flipped his world sideways. His spine fractured in three places. The doctors called it a miracle he lived. Minho didn’t feel very miraculous.

“You’re all dancing like you’ve got two left feet,” he said now, dragging his voice low and even. “What part of ‘hit the beat’ don’t you understand?”

Yeonjun held up a finger, gasping. “Maybe the part where we’ve been at this for three hours, coach-nim?”

“Three hours is what it takes if you want to win,” Minho said, wheeling forward so he could study their lines. “You want to half-ass it? Fine. But you’re going to embarrass yourselves at prelims.”

A hush fell across the group. That word, prelims, was enough to make even Winter stop twirling her hair.

“From the top,” Minho said, hitting play on the speaker again.

Music blared, and they moved—better this time, sharper, more in sync. Minho didn’t miss that Winter adjusted her arm exactly how he’d told her, or that Ryujin’s lines were tighter now. San, steady and grounded at the back, carried the group through their transitions with practiced grace.

Felix made a whooping sound after a flawless lift. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Minho didn’t smile, but he did mark a little star on his clipboard beside Felix’s name.

The studio smelled like sweat and cheap detergent by the time practice wrapped up. The floor was sticky in places, and the air buzzed with the low hum of fluorescent lights above. The final beat of the music faded out with a soft click, leaving only the sound of heavy breathing and water bottles being uncapped.

Hyunjin rolled his eyes dramatically and muttered to Felix, “God, he’s been extra cranky lately.”

Felix nodded. “You’d think someone replaced his protein bars with drywall.”

“I heard that,” Minho said, sharp and low. He didn’t bother looking at them.

Hyunjin grinned. “I meant for you to hear it.”

But Minho didn’t reply. His tone, his expression—none of it invited conversation. 

Hyunjin was the first to notice.

“Uh-oh,” he whispered dramatically, nudging Felix with his elbow. “Trouble’s waiting by the door.”

Felix looked over his shoulder. A slow smile curved his lips. “Oh no. He brought the dimples.”

At the door, Yang Jeongin stood with his hands tucked into the front pocket of his oversized hoodie, shoulder bag slung lazily over one arm. He was smiling, soft and sheepish, dimples deep in his cheeks, and his whole face lit up when his eyes landed on Minho.

Hyunjin leaned toward Minho and sang under his breath, “Your boy’s here~”

“He’s not my boy,” Minho muttered, though his ears burned traitorously at the tips.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Yeji chirped, walking past with a wink.

As the team began trickling out in groups, still teasing, still laughing, still talking about ramen or soju or the never-ending deadlines of college life, Jeongin stayed by the door, waiting patiently, rocking on the balls of his feet like he had nowhere else to be.

Minho didn’t move until the room had cleared. Then he finally rolled forward, his wheelchair cutting a quiet path through the empty gym floor. The smell of sweat and exhaustion clung to the air.

“Hyung!” Jeongin beamed, walking toward him with the kind of energy Minho didn’t have the patience for tonight.

“What are you doing here?” Minho asked, not slowing down.

Jeongin shrugged, a little breathless as he jogged a few steps to match Minho’s pace. “I thought I’d walk you home.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Jeongin said, still smiling like Minho hadn’t just dismissed him. “I wanted to.”

Minho scoffed under his breath and kept wheeling forward. The sidewalk outside the gym was cracked and sloped badly, annoying to navigate on a good day. Today, it felt like a personal attack.

“I’m not a charity case,” he muttered.

Jeongin blinked, the smile faltering for a second. “I never said you were.”

“You show up like this—out of nowhere.”

“I figured you’d still be in practice.”

“And what if I wasn’t?”

Jeongin chuckled softly. “Then I’d wait.”

Minho exhaled harshly. “Unbelievable.”

The conversation hit a wall for a few steps. Jeongin walked beside him in silence, still holding Minho’s bag which he’d gently taken without asking again. Minho didn’t protest this time, but his jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t like being hovered over, especially not by someone who looked at him like he was a goddamn fallen star.

“So, I was thinking,” Jeongin said cautiously after a long silence, “what if we went out some—”

Minho stopped the wheels of his chair. “No.”

Jeongin blinked at the bluntness. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Because I’ve heard this before.”

“I’m asking again.”

“Why?” Minho looked at him, finally, his expression unreadable. “You’re not exactly subtle, Jeongin. But I’ve said no before. I meant it.”

Jeongin’s lips parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out right away. His shoulders shifted slightly under the hoodie. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it.”

Jeongin looked away for a second, eyes flicking toward the trees across the street, then back to Minho. His voice was smaller now. “I know you’re tired. I know things have been hard, but—”

“Don’t,” Minho cut in, sharp.

Jeongin flinched at the edge in his tone.

Minho dragged in a slow breath and looked away. “I don’t need people tiptoeing around me. I don’t need someone playing nurse.”

“I’m not trying to do that, hyung,” Jeongin said gently. “I just want to be with you.”

“That’s not any better.”

That shut Jeongin up for a moment. The silence felt heavier now—thicker, stretched taut like a thread ready to snap.

Still, Jeongin stood there beside him, fiddling with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “You know I’ve liked you since we met.”

Minho gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m not giving up.”

“You should,” Minho said, cold but not cruel—just tired. “You’ll only waste your time.”

“I don’t think it’s a waste.”

“That’s because you haven’t seen what happens when I let people in.”

The words came out before Minho could stop them, too raw, too bitter. Jeongin didn’t respond to that right away. He just walked beside him again, this time slower.

When they reached the dorm building, Minho stopped in front of the ramp. Jeongin shifted on his feet, quiet now, eyes cast downward.

“I guess… I’ll see you around?” he said.

Minho didn’t look at him. “Sure.”

Jeongin reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled something out, pudding. The same kind Minho once bought during a campus event, when Jeongin had tagged along like a puppy. Minho hadn’t even remembered that moment until now.

He held it out with a weak smile. “I saw these and thought of you.”

Minho didn’t take it. After a second, Jeongin lowered his hand, tucked the pudding back into his hoodie pocket, and nodded.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Goodnight, hyung.”

And then he turned around and walked away. No drama. No fight. Just… quiet.

Minho rolled himself inside, not watching him go. But he felt the empty space at his side the second Jeongin left it.

His phone buzzed in his lap.

Hyunjin

Jeongin came again

Felix

Do you ever feel bad for breaking that boy’s heart like every week 

Minho locked the phone without replying and tossed it into the side pocket of his bag.

He didn’t feel guilty.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

—

The cafeteria was loud, as always, filled with students rushing to get food and secure tables before the noon crush. Minho rolled his chair smoothly across the floor, ignoring the way people instinctively moved out of his path, too nervous to meet his eyes, too awkward to say hello. Hyunjin and Felix were already there.

“You’re late,” Felix said.

 “Let me guess, yelled at three freshmen until they cried again?”

“Just one,” Minho said. “And he deserved it.”

Hyunjin grinned, nudging the tray of fries toward Minho. “Eat. You’re less scary when you’re fed.”

Minho took a single fry, popped it into his mouth, and leaned back. His face was unreadable, but his shoulders were tighter than usual.

Felix groaned for the nth time, “I need to get laid.”

Minho didn’t even look up from adjusting the position of his cup. “Charming.”

“I’m serious,” Felix went on, throwing himself into the seat beside Hyunjin. “It’s been so long. I think I’m starting to hallucinate cute guys on campus who don’t exist.”

“Maybe your standards are just getting higher,” Hyunjin quipped. “Or maybe you’re finally developing taste.”

Minho glanced up, unimpressed. “That’s rich coming from someone who simps over Jeongin’s brother.”

Hyunjin sat up straighter like he’d been summoned. “Bang Chan is not a simp target. He’s a lifestyle. He’s what every man should aspire to be.”

Felix burst out laughing. “You’ve literally talked to him, what, three times?”

“Four, actually,” Hyunjin corrected with a dignified nod. “And every single time he remembered my name.”

“Wow, should we get you a ring now or later?” Minho muttered.

Hyunjin ignored him, dreamy smile still in place. “I’m just saying. The man holds a guitar like it’s made of his soul. He called me ‘Hyunjinnie’ once. I almost blacked out.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “You almost blacked out because you tripped over your own feet.”

“It was fate.”

“You’re delusional.”

“And you’re bitter,” Hyunjin shot back, lifting his drink and taking a loud slurp.

Felix snickered. “Maybe you should start writing poetry for him. Like ‘Ode to the Hyung I Barely Know.’”

“Shut up,” Hyunjin muttered, kicking Felix under the table.

Minho stared down at his food, tuning them out—mostly. It was always like this with the three of them: loud, mildly inappropriate, and weirdly comforting. He preferred the silence, but their nonsense somehow made it easier to breathe, especially on days when his body felt heavier than usual.

Still, he’d rather deal with Hyunjin’s embarrassing crush and Felix’s dry spell than talk about Jeongin.

And he could already feel that topic sneaking up on him.

Hyunjin glanced at Felix, then leaned his chin on his palm. “So… how was class?”

“Fine,” Minho said flatly.

“Was he there again?” Felix asked, more carefully.

Minho didn’t answer immediately. He plucked another fry and stared out the window, watching a group of students pass by outside.

Hyunjin raised a brow. “We take that as a yes?”

“Jeongin was there,” Minho admitted. “Again. Waiting.”

Hyunjin made a quiet oof sound and leaned back dramatically. “That boy has it bad.”

“Worse than bad,” Felix added. “He’s practically wagging his tail whenever you breathe in his direction.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “He asked me out. Again.”

Hyunjin sat up straighter. “Did you say yes?”

Minho didn’t reply.

Felix frowned. “Minho.”

“I said no.”

Hyunjin groaned and dropped his head on the table with a thump. “Why are you like this?”

“Because I don’t want to date anyone right now.”

“Bullshit,” Felix said. “You don’t want to date him .”

Minho’s jaw twitched. “That’s not—”

“Don’t even lie about it,” Hyunjin said, lifting his head again. “You act like you don’t care but I see how you look at him. You get this twitch in your jaw whenever he smiles at you. Like you’re trying not to give in.”

“I’m not trying,” Minho muttered. “I’m not giving in.”

Felix sighed and pushed his tray aside. “You know, when he first started liking you, back when you were still able to dance, he was this shy, scrawny little kid who could barely say two words around you.”

Hyunjin smiled at the memory. “He used to follow Minho around like a lost puppy. It was so pathetic it was almost endearing.”

“He’s grown a lot,” Felix said seriously. “Still shy. But now he’s straightforward. He tells you what he wants. And what he wants is you .”

“Why does that make you mad?” Hyunjin asked, narrowing his eyes.

“It doesn’t.”

“It does,” Felix said, pointing a fry at him like a weapon. “It makes you mad because deep down, you know he means it. You just don’t want to let yourself want it back.”

Minho sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“He’s not some saint, okay? He keeps showing up, always pushing, always asking. He acts like I’m still the same person I was last year, but I’m not. I can’t be.”

Hyunjin softened a little. “Minho… he knows that.”

“He doesn’t act like it.”

“Because he doesn’t care about it the way you do,” Felix said. “You think your injury made you less. He never did.”

The words landed heavier than Minho liked to admit. He looked down at the table, avoiding their eyes.

A moment passed. Then Hyunjin smirked suddenly.

“Well, too late now,” he said.

Minho frowned. “What?”

Hyunjin grabbed Minho’s phone from the table and unlocked it with practiced ease.

“Hey—what the hell are you—” Minho reached for it, but Hyunjin spun away.

“Just doing you a favor,” Hyunjin sing-songed.

“Hyunjin, I swear—”

But it was too late.

Felix looked over Hyunjin’s shoulder and laughed. “He texted him back .”

Minho’s heart dropped.

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.” Hyunjin grinned and read aloud dramatically, “‘Okay. Let’s go on that date.’ Sent. Delivered. Read.”

Minho’s eyes widened. “You absolute bastard —”

The phone buzzed before he could finish. A message from Jeongin lit up the screen.

Jeongin

REALLY?!

i’ll pick the place!! 

thank you hyung!

i’ll text you later with details!

Hyunjin beamed like a proud mother hen. “Look at that. He’s already planning outfits.”

Felix kicked his foot under the table. “You’re going.”

Minho groaned and rubbed his temples. “You two are the worst.”

“You’re welcome,” Hyunjin said sweetly, handing the phone back. “You’re not backing out. If you do, I’ll tell your mom you broke a little boy’s heart.”

“I should throw this tray at your face.”

Felix grinned. “But you won’t. Because you’re secretly curious how this is gonna go.”

Minho didn’t answer. He stared at his phone, screen now dark again, but the text still burned in the back of his mind.

Jeongin. Smiling. Blushing. Saying thank you hyung like he’d just been handed the moon.

And now he had to go through with it.

He didn’t know if he was more pissed at Hyunjin…

Or himself for not hating the idea.

—

Minho regretted agreeing the moment the date came up on his calendar.

Even though he technically hadn’t agreed.

Even though it was Hyunjin who took his phone, texted Jeongin, and sealed his fate with one emoji-laced message.

Still, his name was on the screen, and his silence afterward made it real.

Now here he was, arms crossed as Hyunjin and Felix tore through his closet like raccoons with fashion degrees.

Hyunjin was going through his closet like it was clearance day at a department store. “You’re not wearing this,” he said, holding up an oversized hoodie with a grimace.

Felix was sprawled out on the bed, lazily flipping through shirts. “Honestly, you should thank us. You’d probably show up to the date looking like you just rolled out of your wheelchair.”

“Which I might,” Minho muttered, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, stop pouting,” Hyunjin said, tossing a crisp white button-up toward him. “It’s just a date, not a wedding.”

“I never said I wanted to go.”

Felix sat up. “Then you shouldn’t have let Hyunjin text him.”

“I didn’t let him—”

“But you didn’t stop him either,” Hyunjin grinned. “That’s called passive consent , baby.”

Minho gave him a deadpan glare. “Shut up before I add burpees to tomorrow’s routine.”

Hyunjin placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “Wow. Violence.”

“You two better be out of here in five minutes.”

“Sure, after we make sure you don’t look like an emotionally constipated professor.”

Minho rolled his eyes, but took the clothes they handed him. He wheeled himself into the bathroom, shut the door with more force than necessary, and got changed.

When he returned, dressed in white shirt and black slacks, simple, clean, minimal, Hyunjin’s expression lit up annoyingly fast.

Felix let out a low whistle. “Damn. No wonder Jeongin’s obsessed.”

Minho ignored them. “Get out.”

They gathered their things with dramatic flair, Hyunjin pausing at the door only to throw him a wink. “Text us if he kisses you.”

“Out.”

At exactly 7:00 PM, there was a knock.

Minho opened the door to find Jeongin standing there, nervously straightening his sleeves. He was in a pale blue dress shirt tucked into dark trousers, hair neat and face bright, even under the flickering hallway light.

He had flowers. Of course. Peonies. Pink Peonies.

Minho stared at the bouquet for a second too long.

“Hi, hyung,” Jeongin said, his voice soft. “I… brought these for you.”

Minho took them silently.

Jeongin smiled. “You mentioned them last spring. You said they were your mom’s favorite too.”

Minho glanced down at the flowers, then stepped aside. “Let’s go.”

The bistro Jeongin picked was clearly not Minho’s kind of place.

It was quaint—painfully so. All rustic wood panels and string lights, with fake ivy trailing from shelves full of old books no one had ever read. The kind of place couples came to take pictures of their drinks. Intimate. Close. Claustrophobic.

Minho rolled through the narrow entrance, jaw tight, already regretting this.

“Reservation for two,” Jeongin said quickly behind him, smiling at the hostess.

They were led to a table by the window. Jeongin gently moved the extra chair aside to let Minho get closer, helping him adjust with ease, like he’d already imagined doing this a hundred times.

That irritated Minho more than it should have.

Once seated, Jeongin folded his hands on the table, watching him carefully. “Is this okay?”

Minho looked around. “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” Jeongin said softly, and his smile twitched nervously. “I thought somewhere quieter might be nice. So we could talk.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think I want to talk?”

Jeongin’s fingers fidgeted for a beat, but he laughed anyway. “Well. We’re here. Might as well do something.”

The waitress came with menus. Jeongin thanked her, flipping his open right away. Minho only glanced at his, then out the window. He could feel the weight of Jeongin’s gaze across the table.

“You ever been here before?” Jeongin asked after a minute.

Minho didn’t look at him. “No.”

“Their pasta’s good,” Jeongin said, like that might soften things. “And they’ve got grilled fish. No onions.”

That caught Minho’s attention.

He looked at him then—just briefly. “How do you know I don’t like onions?”

Jeongin blinked, then smiled, a little sheepish. “You said it once. At the vending machine. Back when I was a freshman. You were complaining about how the gimbap had them.”

Minho stared for a long moment before turning back to his menu, saying nothing.

Jeongin cleared his throat and waved the waitress over, ordering for them both. He got the fish for Minho. Half-sugar iced tea, no lemon. All details that hadn’t been asked for.

Minho felt the beginnings of a headache behind his eyes.

“You know,” Jeongin said after a quiet moment, “I still can’t believe you said yes.”

Minho looked at him, unimpressed. “I didn’t.”

Jeongin blinked. “You—uh. I mean—Hyunjin texted me from your phone, so technically—”

“Exactly,” Minho cut in. “Technically.”

Jeongin winced. “Right.”

Silence stretched between them.

Minho watched the people outside the window. Students laughing. Holding hands. Walking without thinking about walking. His fists curled just a little on the table.

“I’m sorry if this is weird,” Jeongin said quietly. “You don’t have to stay.”

Minho finally turned to him. “Why are you doing this?”

Jeongin looked confused. “Doing what?”

“This,” Minho said. “You keep showing up. Waiting outside practice like some stray. Texting me. Smiling like I didn’t ignore you for a week straight. What do you think is going to happen?”

Jeongin looked down, fidgeting with the corner of his napkin. “I don’t know. I just thought… we could talk. That maybe you wouldn’t hate it.”

“I don’t hate it,” Minho said flatly. “I just don’t see the point.”

“The point,” Jeongin said carefully, “is that I like you.”

Minho scoffed. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” Jeongin said, a little firmer now. “I know you care more than you act like you do. I know you’re harder on yourself than anyone else ever could be. I know you hate being stared at. And I know you don’t let people get close, not really. But I’m still here.”

“That’s not romantic,” Minho said. “That’s stubborn.”

Jeongin smiled, eyes soft. “Maybe. But I don’t think it’s wrong to stay when I want to.”

The food arrived, steaming plates set between them. Minho barely touched his at first, appetite dulled by the tension in his chest. Jeongin ate in silence for a while, occasionally glancing up, searching Minho’s face for something he couldn’t find.

After a while, Jeongin set down his fork.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Minho looked up.

“Stop what?”

“Waiting. Hoping.”

Minho didn’t answer right away.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “You’re wasting your time.”

Jeongin nodded slowly, as if he’d expected that.

“But I’m not mad about it,” Minho added after a beat. “It’s your time to waste.”

Something in Jeongin’s face flickered—hurt, maybe. But he smiled anyway. Of course he did.

“You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “I don’t think I’ve ever liked someone who made it this hard to like them.”

“Then maybe take the hint.”

“I can’t,” Jeongin said honestly. “Because even if you never say yes… I still like the way you are when no one’s looking. The way you notice things. The way you care even when you don’t want to. I see it, hyung. Even if you don’t want me to.”

Minho didn’t speak.

The silence between them was thick now, heavy with unspoken things and sharp with edges. Minho pushed his food around his plate, jaw tense.

“I didn’t come here to beg,” Jeongin said softly. “I just wanted to know if you’d look at me. Really look. Even just once.”

Minho finally looked up.

And there Jeongin was—eyes too soft, shoulders too small, hands too polite on his lap like he didn’t want to make the wrong move. Not from the same world. Not from the dance room or the competitions or the burn of Practice mats and loudspeakers. Just… Jeongin. With his half-lopsided tie and too-pretty face, sitting across from him like it mattered.

Minho didn’t smile.

But he didn’t look away.

On the way back, Jeongin walked beside him in silence. The night air was cool, the streets half-empty. Street lamps flickered as they passed beneath them. Jeongin kept looking at him, but Minho didn’t turn to meet his gaze.

“I know I’m annoying sometimes,” Jeongin said finally. “And maybe I talk too much.”

“You do.”

“But it’s because I want you to hear me. Even if I have to repeat myself.”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Minho said, voice even.

“I don’t think it’s a waste.”

Minho finally stopped at the entrance to his building and turned toward him. “This doesn’t mean anything, Jeongin. Don’t mistake tonight for something it’s not.”

Jeongin’s smile didn’t drop, but it dimmed.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m still glad I got to see you.”

Minho stared at him, unimpressed. “Why?”

Jeongin shifted on his feet. “Because even if you’re not ready… I still am.”

Minho’s jaw ticked. “You’re too soft.”

Jeongin tilted his head, looking at him—not with pity, but with a calm that gnawed at Minho.

“And you’re too scared.”

The words settled in the space between them like a challenge.

“I should go,” he said. “Class early tomorrow.”

Minho nodded.

Jeongin reached out and gently tapped the peonies in Minho’s lap. “Put those in water, okay?”

“I know how to handle flowers.”

“I’m sure you do,” Jeongin said with a grin, eyes gleaming.

They stood there for a second. Just watching each other.

Then Jeongin leaned down. Close enough for Minho to smell his cologne, clean and warm and a little too comforting.

He kissed Minho’s cheek. Soft. Careful.

Minho flinched, not visibly, but Jeongin seemed to notice anyway.

“Goodnight, hyung,” he whispered, then stepped back.

Minho didn’t say anything. He wheeled himself forward, into the building, doors hissing shut behind him.

He didn’t look back.

But his cheek still burned.

—

The smell of grilled pork belly and sizzling garlic filled the air as Minho, Hyunjin, and Felix settled into their table at the Korean BBQ place near campus. It was a favorite haunt of theirs—familiar, loud enough to drown out unwanted thoughts, and always just chaotic enough to distract Minho from whatever was clawing at the inside of his chest lately.

Felix was already groaning about hunger before they’d even sat down. “I swear, if they take ten more minutes bringing the banchan, I’m gonna start chewing this napkin.”

“You’re disgusting,” Hyunjin said, flipping his hair over his shoulder. “Why would you eat that when you’ve got Minho-hyung’s tragic love life to chew on?”

Minho shot him a flat look. “Try me.”

Felix leaned in across the grill, grinning. “So. How was the date?” 

Minho didn’t bother asking what . He just exhaled through his nose and started stacking lettuce leaves onto a plate.

Hyunjin grinned, stabbing a piece of meat and dropping it onto Minho’s plate like a reward.

Minho gave him a flat stare. “This is your fault.”

“I did the work, sure,” Hyunjin said proudly. “But you could’ve canceled.”

Minho took a bite and chewed slowly, jaw tight. “Didn’t want to embarrass him.”

Felix grinned. “That’s sweet.”

“It’s not sweet,” Minho snapped. “It was just easier to go.”

Hyunjin tilted his head. “Easier? You showed up on time, you were dressed nicely, and you didn’t fake a family emergency to leave halfway through.”

“I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”

“You didn’t say you hated it either,” Felix added casually, watching him.

Minho looked up, eyes sharp. “It was a dinner.”

“It was a date ,” Hyunjin corrected with a smirk. “He brought peonies again, didn’t he?”

“He always does.”

“And he talked your ear off?”

“As usual.”

“And you just sat there like a statue?”

Minho didn’t answer.

Felix tried to soften the mood. “Did anything happen after?”

Minho hesitated, then reached for his water. “He walked me home.”

Hyunjin leaned in with a smug glint in his eye. “And?”

Minho shifted slightly in his seat, turning the meat again. “He kissed me.”

“WHAT?!” Hyunjin slapped the table.

“Calm down. It was on the cheek.”

Felix laughed, full and bright. “Still! That’s basically his version of third base.”

Minho rolled his eyes, but his ears were flaming.

Hyunjin made a high-pitched squeal and flailed a bit. “This is so cute. It’s happening. You’re falling.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are.”

“He’s not even my type.”

Felix raised a brow. “You’ve never said what your type is. You just glare at anyone who asks.”

“Maybe my type is quiet ,” Minho deadpanned.

“Then why do you keep replying to Jeongin ?” Hyunjin asked, all fake innocence.

Minho didn’t answer.

The silence didn’t last long. Felix grinned and started laying pork on everyone’s plates. “You could do worse, y’know. Jeongin’s a good guy. Sweet, loyal, good-looking. He’s been crushing on you since he looked like a baby deer in hoodies and oversized jeans.”

“He still dresses like that,” Minho mumbled.

Hyunjin smiled fondly. “But he’s confident now. Still shy, but... he knows what he wants. And he wants you , hyung.”

Minho’s expression didn’t change much, but he glanced down at his phone on the table. Notifications sat unread—one from a school group chat, another from Jeongin.

He hesitated, then picked it up.

Jeongin

hii

just got home

hope you’re not too tired after tonight

i had fun :)

also… if you ever feel like it, i’d love a second date 🥺

Yesterday at 10:43 PM 

He thinks about it for a while. Maybe what Hyunjin and Felix are saying is something to try. 

He opens his phone and texts him.

Minho

when are you free?

Sent at 1:19 PM

—

ten months

The season rolled in with gray skies and cold winds, but Minho had been wearing lighter jackets lately.

Not because the weather was warm, Jeongin kept pointing out that he’d catch a cold, but because the stiff weight on his shoulders had started to lessen. Not completely, but just enough to notice.

Maybe it was because he’d started seeing Jeongin more. It wasn’t like he’d planned to. The first date had been a reluctant agreement. The second was more like... an obligation. A "you already said yes once" situation.

But then there was a third. Then a fourth. Then a string of meet-ups he refused to label but didn’t cancel.

Now it was routine. Somehow, impossibly, Jeongin had weaved himself into Minho’s days like he belonged there.

He was ridiculous. He smiled too much, complimented Minho like it was breathing, asked to hold his hand sometimes but got too flustered halfway through to follow through.

And he always brought something. Pudding. Tea. Peonies.

It was annoying.

It was adorable.

Minho was doomed.

—

“Five, six, seven, eight—Felix, you’re two counts behind again,” Minho barked from his chair, clipboard propped on his thigh. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp. “One more time from the bridge.”

Felix groaned loudly. “I haven’t even digested lunch yet.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

Yeji chuckled as she adjusted her ponytail. “This is karma for gloating about your abs, Lix.”

“Don’t drag my abs into this, Yeji. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

Winter leaned against the mirror, panting. “Remind me why we agreed to this choreography again?”

“Because I told you to,” Minho said, not missing a beat. “Back to positions.”

The team shuffled into place with theatrical sighs, the beat thumping through the gym floor again. The mirrors fogged at the edges from heat and sweat, and the air smelled like effort, like pain and adrenaline and too many energy drinks.

Minho watched them closely, fingers drumming rhythmically on his clipboard. Every movement had to be precise, every transition seamless. They had two weeks until regionals. That was no time to slack.

And yet, even in the middle of the storm, there was... laughter.

Small moments. Ryujin tripping over Yeonjun’s foot and dramatically collapsing. San grumbling about how he missed the days when Minho was “moodier” and “easier to ignore.” Winter trying to beat the rhythm with her bottle cap for fun before getting smacked with a towel.

Things had changed. The team felt lighter, even with the grind. Because Minho was lighter.

“Break. Ten minutes,” Minho called, setting the clipboard down.

Groans of gratitude echoed through the studio as the dancers collapsed to the floor, stretching out their limbs, reaching for water, some already scrolling through their phones.

Minho wheeled toward the bench near the mirror wall, exhaling through his nose as he grabbed his towel and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

His phone buzzed.

Jeongin

are you bullying your team again, hyung?

poor lix hyung

i can hear his crying from the next building

Minho 

he deserves worse.

he was late by three minutes.

oh no

a crime most foul

what’s my punishment if i’m late to our dinner date tomorrow?

Minho’s lip twitched. The corners of his mouth almost betrayed him.

Minho

double the flowers.

and groveling. 

maybe a handwritten apology.

Jeongin

ooooh hyung likes being spoiled huh

stop typing. go study.

bossy hyung... 

i like it tho 

you sound so cute

Minho choked on his own breath.

He quickly turned his phone face-down, but not before—

“Oh my God,” Hyunjin’s voice said from above him. “Who are you texting with that face , Minho hyung?”

Minho looked up. “What face.”

“ That face,” Hyunjin mimicked, fluttering his lashes and clasping his hands like a lovestruck teen.

“Die.”

Felix leaned in, towel slung around his neck. “It’s Jeongin, isn’t it?”

Minho didn’t answer.

“You’re blushing,” Hyunjin gasped, “your ears are doing that thing again!”

“They’re not.”

“They are,” Felix said. “That’s the same color as the strawberry jelly you yelled at me for spilling.”

Minho sighed and grabbed his whistle. “Hyunjin. Thirty burpees.”

“What?!”

“You’re disturbing.”

“Felix teased you as well!”

“Now, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin dragged his feet to the middle of the studio and started counting out loud, flopping dramatically with every rep. “One! Oppression! Two! Injustice! Three! Minho hyung is a tsundere!”

Yeji clapped like she was at a concert.

Minho tried not to smirk. He tried . But the burn in his ears wasn’t going away.

Minho closed his eyes and tilted his head back, exhaling slowly.

He was doomed. Absolutely doomed.

And the worst part?

He didn’t mind it so much anymore.

—

nine months

Minho didn’t usually panic. He didn’t freeze. He didn’t fumble.

He choreographed ten-minute group sets with a single glance. Snapped entire rehearsals into shape with the raise of a brow. Told off fully grown dancers without lifting his voice.

But this?

This stupid, normal, harmless date in his own apartment had him scrubbing the kitchen counter with the corner of his shirt like it personally offended him.

It had to be nerves. He refused to call it that, but what else could it be? His heart had been pacing since early afternoon. He’d vacuumed the floor twice. Rearranged the same three throw pillows five times. He even refolded the damn kitchen towels.

Why?

Why was he doing all of this?

He didn’t even know if they were dating. Really dating. Jeongin hadn’t said anything outright. But they’d been out together—more than once. More than twice. Texted all the time. Laughed a lot. Talked more than Minho ever liked talking.

And that was the worst part.

He liked it.

He liked Jeongin.

And he didn’t know how to stop anymore.

What made tonight worse was that it was happening here. His space. His safe, private, never-inviting-anyone-over space. And he was the one who’d invited Jeongin.

It had to be a brain lapse. Maybe guilt. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the memory of Jeongin’s bright smile on their last date—or the peonies he always brought, remembering a throwaway comment Minho had made over a year ago about his favorite flowers.

This was the worst.

Dinner was already done—braised short ribs, sweet soy glaze, rice perfectly steamed. Jeongin once mentioned it was a comfort food growing up. Minho never forgot that.

Now the food sat warming on the stovetop while Minho glared at it like it might explode. He was about to wipe down the coffee table again when a knock echoed through the apartment.

Minho’s shoulders stiffened.

He rolled toward the door and opened it.

There was Jeongin. Standing with a soft smile, hoodie sleeves tucked into his fists, hair slightly tousled from the wind, and a bouquet of peonies held close to his chest.

“Hey, hyung,” he said, voice a little louder than necessary. Minho knew Jeongin tried to modulate it, especially in quiet spaces, but he didn’t always get it perfect. Sometimes he spoke too soft, other times too loud—but Minho had stopped caring about that months ago.

Minho’s eyes briefly flicked to the flowers. “You’re early.”

Jeongin tilted his head, then reached into his pocket for his phone and glanced at the time.

“Only by a minute,” he said with a small grin. “Didn’t wanna be late.”

Minho sighed and moved aside. “Come in.”

Jeongin slipped off his sneakers and padded in comfortably, stepping over to the side table near the entry. Without needing to ask, he placed the flowers in the tall glass vase Minho had already filled with water.

“You prepped a vase?” Jeongin asked, tone playful, his eyes sharp despite the boyish curve of his mouth.

“Coincidence,” Minho muttered.

“Uh-huh,” Jeongin said, unconvinced.

His voice carried clear, but Minho still saw it, the slight tilt of Jeongin’s head as he tracked his voice, the focused look in his eyes whenever Minho turned away while speaking. He was trying his best to keep up. Always did.

Minho didn’t acknowledge it out loud. He just made sure to speak while facing him, like always.

Dinner came next.

They sat across from each other at the dining table. Minho plated the food like a restaurant chef would—clean portions, neatly arranged. Jeongin stared at it like he’d just been handed a feast.

“You made all this?” Jeongin said, eyes wide.

Minho nodded. “Don’t act like I can’t cook.”

“I’m not! It’s just…” Jeongin trailed off, smiling shyly. “It smells amazing.”

They ate slowly. Jeongin kept talking between bites—about a ridiculous group project, Seungmin’s passive-aggressive spreadsheet rants, Jisung nearly getting kicked out of the library for laughing at memes during midterms.

Minho mostly listened, tossing in curt replies where necessary. Still, he found himself smiling—small, hidden, but there.

At one point, Jeongin misheard him and leaned in. “What was that?”

Minho repeated the comment, slower and facing him this time. Jeongin nodded with a sheepish grin.

“Sorry,” he said. “Left ear’s been crap today.”

“It’s fine,” Minho muttered, almost reflexively. “You’re still annoying.”

“Cute annoying?”

Minho snorted and didn’t answer. Jeongin laughed anyway.

Later, they moved to the couch.

Minho picked something to stream. A movie neither of them had seen—some action comedy with decent reviews. Not that he could pay attention. Not with Jeongin sitting so close. Not with the way he shifted now and voice whisper-soft when he reacted to a scene.

Minho’s hands felt clammy.

The movie had barely started, but Minho was already regretting his choice.

He hadn’t thought much when he picked it—a comedy-action flick with a solid rating. Loud enough to fill the silence but light enough to avoid anything too emotionally dense. Safe, he thought.

But there was nothing safe about this moment.

Jeongin sat beside him on the couch, one leg tucked under the other, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over his hands. His body leaned in just enough that Minho could feel the heat of him radiating through the small space between them. The scent of Jeongin’s cologne—soft, clean, with a faint floral note lingered like a challenge. Like temptation. Like a reminder that he was here, right next to him.

Minho hadn’t moved since they sat down. He was painfully aware of every inch of his body. Well, the unparalyzed parts of his body. His arms were too stiff. His shoulders too high. His spine ramrod straight. His lap was covered with a pillow, but the fabric wasn’t doing enough to hide the fact that he was very much affected by Jeongin’s presence.

And Jeongin had no idea.

The younger boy giggled softly beside him at something on screen, a slapstick moment involving a banana peel and a slow-motion fall, and the sound tugged at something in Minho’s chest. He turned his head slightly, eyes catching the curve of Jeongin’s smile, the faint dimple in his left cheek, and the tiny flicker of light reflecting off his earring.

Minho swallowed. Hard.

His eyes shifted back to the screen, but he couldn’t focus.

A loud explosion in the movie pulled a gasp from Jeongin, and he jumped slightly, his shoulder bumping Minho’s arm. Jeongin laughed awkwardly. “Sorry,” he whispered, turning to Minho.

But the way he turned, body angled toward him, face illuminated by the TV’s glow, made Minho’s throat go dry.

“It’s fine,” Minho mumbled.

“What’d they say just now?” Jeongin asked, pointing at the screen. “I missed the line.”

Minho turned his head to answer, but Jeongin was already leaning closer to hear. Closer than he’d been all night. Minho’s words got caught somewhere between his chest and mouth, and instead of speaking, he just reached for the remote and turned on the subtitles.

Jeongin blinked at him, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, hyung,” he said, genuine.

Minho nodded once, avoiding his eyes.

Silence followed, but it wasn’t comfortable.

Jeongin giggled again at another scene, and this time he reached for the bowl of popcorn between them. When he set it down, his fingers accidentally grazed Minho’s. Just a second, barely a brush, but it made Minho twitch like he’d touched an open flame.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jeongin asked gently, voice quiet enough to not overpower the movie but still clear.

Minho turned to him again—and that was a mistake.

Jeongin looked stunning under the dim light, the gentle orange hue from the table lamp casting shadows across his soft features. He looked relaxed, content, comfortable. And here Minho was, not relaxed, not comfortable, and increasingly aroused.

He tugged the pillow tighter across his lap.

“Hyung?”

Minho realized he hadn’t answered. He forced a nod. “I’m fine.”

Jeongin tilted his head slightly, studying him. His brows furrowed. “You don’t… look fine.”

Minho didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His gaze dropped to Jeongin’s lips and lingered there too long. He looked away quickly.

“Do you—” Jeongin started again.

Minho cut him off with a kiss.

It was sharp. Abrupt. Thoughtless. His lips pressed against Jeongin’s before either of them had time to register what was happening. Jeongin froze, caught off guard, his eyes wide against Minho’s closed ones.

For a second, just a second, Minho regretted it. Thought he’d overstepped. Thought Jeongin would pull back.

But then Jeongin’s hand reached up, tentative fingers curling around Minho’s wrist.

And he kissed back.

Softly at first, uncertain. But as Minho leaned in further, tilted his head, deepened the kiss, Jeongin matched him. Their lips moved in sync, mouths warm and open, breath mingling. The TV became nothing but background noise. The popcorn bowl was long forgotten. The rest of the world melted into silence.

Minho’s hand found Jeongin’s cheek, brushing the soft skin there. Jeongin’s other hand curled in the fabric of Minho’s shirt. Their bodies shifted, adjusting without words, driven purely by want.

By the time they pulled apart, Minho’s chest was heaving.

Jeongin’s lips were kiss-bitten and red, eyes half-lidded, hair slightly tousled. His hoodie had slipped lower, exposing the smooth line of his neck.

Minho stared at him, blinking.

“Well…” Jeongin whispered breathlessly. “That explains the pillow.”

Minho blinked again. Then scowled. “Shut up.”

Jeongin just laughed and leaned forward to steal another kiss.

Minho’s chest still rose and fell in heavy waves, breath caught somewhere between desire and disbelief. Jeongin was still close, close enough that their knees brushed, close enough that Minho could smell the faint sweetness of Jeongin’s shampoo, feel the heat radiating off his flushed skin.

Jeongin licked his lips, eyes wide and dazed. “Hyung…” he whispered, voice rough around the edges.

Minho's gaze darkened. His hands flexed slightly on the pillow still in his lap, trying to rein himself in, fighting the urge to grab Jeongin by the jaw and kiss him senseless again. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But instead he tilted his head slightly, eyeing the younger boy.

“So,” he drawled, voice low and unreadable. “Does this mean we’re dating now?”

Jeongin blinked.

The question hung in the air, suspended between two heartbeats.

“I—” Jeongin faltered, lips twitching nervously. “I… I don’t know. Do you want to be?”

Minho smirked, sharp and just a little cocky. He reached forward slowly, cupping Jeongin’s jaw with a firm, possessive touch. “Not how that works, baby,” he said, voice dipping into something rougher. “If you want something from me, you ask properly.”

Jeongin’s breath caught. His pupils dilated.

He swallowed, hard, and then sat up straighter. His voice was softer now, shy, almost trembling, but determined. “Hyung…” He looked straight into Minho’s eyes, hands curled tightly in his lap. “Can I… can I be your boyfriend?”

There was no hesitation in Minho’s answer. Just a quiet, “Yes.”

And then Minho surged forward again, this time with a more certain kind of hunger. His hand slid from Jeongin’s cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss—slower now, more thorough, deep with something that felt like a promise. Jeongin whimpered into his mouth, hands finding purchase on Minho’s chest, melting into him with every second.

When they finally broke apart, Minho’s thumb brushed across Jeongin’s kiss-swollen bottom lip.

“You’re mine now,” he said softly, firmly.

Jeongin’s dimples peeked out, cheeks blooming pink. “Okay, hyung.”

Minho kissed him again.

And again.

And again, until the credits rolled and their food was cold and nothing else mattered but the way Jeongin curled into him like he belonged there.

Because now… he did.

—

eight months

Dating Jeongin officially didn’t change the way Minho moved through his days, at least not outwardly. He still rolled into practice with that same crisp command, still barked counts and corrections, still drilled the team until Yeji groaned and Winter threatened to boycott training. On the surface, he was the same choreographer they all knew—sharp, focused, untouchable.

But something had shifted.

It was in the way his phone vibrated more now, subtle buzzes in the middle of breaks that made him glance down with a rare softness in his eyes. It was the barely-there smile when he read a text, the light tap of his finger on the screen before tucking the phone back into his lap, pretending no one saw it.

They all saw it.

“Who is it?” Ryujin grinned as she leaned over the studio mirror to peer at him during cooldown.

“No one,” Minho muttered, ears turning a telltale pink.

Yeonjun raised a brow. “That ‘no one’ made you smile like a dumbass just now.”

Minho shot him a glare, but the damage was done. The team broke into knowing laughter, the air filling with teasing whistles and poorly disguised winks. Minho groaned and wheeled himself toward the sound system, dismissing them with a curt, “Go stretch or something.”

They didn’t stop whispering.

After practice, Hyunjin and Felix flanked him like vultures as he grabbed his hoodie from the bench.

“So,” Hyunjin said, dragging out the word with a wicked grin. “Are we gonna talk about the fact that you’ve been acting like someone’s boyfriend?”

Minho rolled his eyes. “I haven’t.”

“You have,” Felix chimed in, bouncing beside him. “And we’re happy for you! Just... also nosy.”

Minho pulled his hoodie on with practiced ease. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Felix pouted. “Come on. You clearly have a boyfriend.”

“I don’t—”

“Oh please,” Hyunjin said, flopping into the seat beside him. “Jeongin’s been practically glowing. You’ve been less terrifying. The team’s been suspiciously spared from death these past few days. Connect the dots.”

Minho sighed, long and slow. “Fine.”

Hyunjin and Felix leaned forward at the same time, like kids hearing bedtime stories.

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. We’re dating.”

Felix clapped. “Knew it!”

“Knew it since the third time you let him walk you home without complaining,” Hyunjin added smugly.

Felix suddenly brightened. “Wait. We haven’t met him properly since you made it official. Like, officially-official. Can we? Please?”

Minho groaned. “You’ve met him before.”

“But not as your boyfriend,” Felix said with sparkly eyes.

Hyunjin nodded eagerly. “I want to hear him call you ‘hyung’ again. Your ears turn red like clockwork.”

“You’re all children,” Minho muttered, but he reached into his hoodie pocket anyway and pulled out his phone. “If I do this, you two are never allowed to bring it up again.”

“No promises,” they said in unison.

Minho sighed again and dialed. The phone rang twice.

Then Jeongin’s voice chirped through the speaker, high and sweet and so completely unaware. “Hi hyunggg~!”

Hyunjin and Felix grinned like devils as Minho’s ears turned crimson in real time.

Minho coughed and looked away. “Jeongin.”

“Mm?”

“You busy?”

“Sort of… why?”

Minho rubbed at his neck, glancing at the two idiots beside him. “Felix and Hyunjin want to meet you. Officially.”

There was a pause on the line. Then Jeongin’s voice came, a little hesitant. “Oh. I… I’d like that. But I already made plans with Channie hyung and Changbin hyung. We’re supposed to hang out today.”

At that, Hyunjin sat up so fast his hair flopped over his eyes. “Bang Chan?” he asked way too loudly. “ That Channie hyung?”

Jeongin’s laughter was soft but surprised. “Wait. Was that Hyunjin?”

Felix leaned in, guilt obvious. “Hi, Jeongin. Sorry, we put you on speaker.”

“Oh my god,” Jeongin said through a groan. “That was not fair, hyung!”

Minho snorted. “Now you know what I’m dealing with.”

Jeongin huffed on the line. “So embarrassing…”

“But since we’re all here,” Hyunjin jumped in brightly, “maybe we could all hang out? You, your hyungs, us—super chill!”

There was a pause. “You want me to bring Channie hyung and Changbin hyung to meet you guys?”

“Yes,” Hyunjin said immediately. Then quieter: “Very much.”

Minho blinked at him. “You’ve never even met them fully.”

“I’m expanding my social circle.”

Felix coughed pointedly. “He wants to expand into someone’s lap, more like.”

Hyunjin kicked him under the table.

Jeongin was laughing again. “Okay, okay! I’ll ask if they’re cool with it. I mean, I don’t think they’d mind.”

Minho exhaled. “You sure?”

Jeongin’s voice softened. “Of course. If they say yes, I’ll text you the place. You’re not backing out, right?”

Minho rolled his eyes. “You already texted the group. I’d look like an ass if I did.”

“You are an ass,” Jeongin teased lightly, and Minho could hear the grin in his voice.

Felix and Hyunjin made kissing sounds until Minho hung up the call.

“You’re whipped,” Felix declared.

Hyunjin leaned his chin on his hand, dreamily. “Did you hear the way he said hyunggg~ again? That was so cute.”

Minho tossed his phone into his lap and sighed. “If I knew it’d come to this, I’d have never let you two meet him.”

They both beamed at him.

“But you’re glad we did,” Hyunjin said knowingly.

Minho didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The lights in the restaurant were soft and golden, casting a calm glow on the polished wooden tables and the quiet bustle of late-evening diners. It wasn’t fancy, nothing expensive or stiff, but it was warm, cozy, and just busy enough to drown in conversation.

Minho was early. He’d been the first to arrive, even before Felix and Hyunjin, which never happened. Now, sitting at a four-person table tucked against a side wall, he fiddled with the napkin in his lap, looking up only when the entrance bell jingled.

Hyunjin burst in first, practically glowing. “I’m here!”

Minho’s eyes skimmed him once and then did a double take.

“You look like you're going to a blind date at a rooftop bar in Gangnam,” Minho said flatly.

Felix, who trailed in behind him with his hair still wet from a rushed shower, snorted. “You should’ve seen him putting on that outfit. Changed three times. I’ve never seen anyone so stressed about a group hangout.”

“It’s not just a group hangout,” Hyunjin replied, flipping his perfectly parted bangs over one ear with an air of determination. “Bang Chan is going to be here. The Bang Chan. Do you have any idea what that does to a man?”

Minho rolled his eyes. “You’ve mentioned it. A lot.”

Hyunjin smoothed the sleeve of his cream sweater like it was armor. “I’m manifesting destiny, hyung.”

Felix slid into his seat, mumbling under his breath. “More like manifesting delusion.”

“I heard that,” Hyunjin snapped.

“You were meant to,” Felix said, grinning.

Minho ignored the bickering. He was busy regretting this already.

He didn’t know why he agreed. Maybe it was because Jeongin had said “Channie hyung and Changbin hyung are coming too,” and Minho had caught the hesitant tone in his voice. Like he was unsure if Minho would be okay with that. And even if Minho didn’t say it aloud, the truth was: Jeongin always made an effort. Whether it was for him or for the people Minho tolerated, Jeongin tried.

So here they were.

“So,” Hyunjin said suddenly, leaning in across the table. “How do I look? Honest opinion.”

Minho blinked slowly. “Like you’re about to propose.”

Felix cackled. “Or like you lost a bet.”

Hyunjin threw his napkin at them. “You’re both assholes.”

Minho was about to fire back when the bell above the restaurant door jingled again, and his head snapped toward it on instinct.

There Jeongin was.

He looked like he always did around other people: relaxed, approachable, and warm. His hoodie was soft-looking, sleeves pushed up his forearms, and his smile was bright despite the slight flush on his cheeks. And behind him, flanking either side, were the infamous hyungs, Bang Chan and Seo Changbin.

Minho’s gaze immediately settled on Jeongin. The younger’s face lit up the second their eyes met.

“Hyung,” Jeongin called out with a little wave. Not loud, not attention-seeking. Just warm and sweet like it always was when he looked at him.

Minho felt something flutter in his chest, an instinctive reaction he still hated letting show. He watched as Jeongin walked up to him, each step sure and casual, and only then noticed what was in Jeongin’s hand.

Peonies.

Again.

Soft pink peonies in a neat little bouquet, the same kind Jeongin had shown up with on their first date, the same kind Minho once offhandedly said he liked. A passing comment. Jeongin had remembered.

He tried not to let his face give anything away, but when Jeongin reached him, he leaned down and gently kissed Minho on the cheek before placing the bouquet in his lap.

“Hi, hyung,” Jeongin said, a little breathless. “These are for you.”

Minho’s ears burned.

Felix and Hyunjin gawked openly across the table, Hyunjin’s mouth hanging open in something between scandal and delight.

Bang Chan coughed lightly behind Jeongin. “Sorry we’re late.”

“No problem,” Minho muttered, regaining his composure quickly. He gestured toward the open chairs. “Take a seat.”

Jeongin turned slightly, hand still on the back of Minho’s chair, and said, “Hyung, this is Channie hyung, my brother, and that’s Changbin hyung, Channie hyung’s friend. Hyungs, this is Minho, my boyfriend, and his friends, Felix hyung and Hyunjin hyung.”

Felix perked up immediately at Changbin’s name, suddenly sitting straighter. “Oh! You’re the one in composition, right? I saw your set at the school showcase last fall.”

Changbin smiled, modest but pleased. “Yeah, that was me. Thanks.”

“And you’re Bang Chan,” Hyunjin said, way too quickly, eyes bright. “I mean—Jeongin’s brother. Of course.”

Chan laughed, warm and easy. “Yeah. We met before, right?”

Hyunjin visibly lit up and nodded like he’d been blessed.

Minho bit back a groan.

They all began settling in, arranging the chairs around the table. Jeongin naturally took the spot next to Minho, dragging his chair in so their arms could brush—casually, not obviously. But Minho noticed it.

He always noticed when Jeongin was close.

The server brought menus, but conversation was already in full swing. Hyunjin, now slightly flushed, took immediate charge of ordering, possibly as a way to stay cool under Bang Chan’s amused attention.

“We’re getting samgyeopsal, galbi, and spicy pork. No arguments,” Hyunjin declared, flipping through the menu like a seasoned general.

“Can we also get tteokbokki?” Chan piped up, half-raising a hand.

“Of course,” Hyunjin answered quickly. “You can have anything you want.”

Jeongin stifled a chuckle from across the table.

“Wow,” Minho muttered under his breath. “He’s not even subtle anymore.”

Felix leaned in with a smirk. “Do you hear that? The sound of Hyunjin’s dignity shriveling under the weight of thirst.”

Hyunjin hissed at them from across the grill, cheeks now the color of the raw meat on the platter. “I will kill you both.”

Changbin, meanwhile, had his arms casually folded as he watched Felix with clear interest. “You said you’re in the dance team too?”

“Yep,” Felix replied, flipping his hair a little without meaning to. “Mainly locking and freestyle, but Minho choreographs our routines.”

“He choreographs well,” Changbin said, voice lower now. “I watched a few of your videos online. You’re good. Real clean technique.”

Felix blinked, slightly stunned. “Wait—you watched?”

Minho internally sighed. This was about to become another mess, wasn’t it?

Across the table, Jeongin turned to Minho, voice quieter. “I didn’t know you liked galbi. You never order that when it’s just us.”

“That’s because you always end up ordering four types of noodles and forget we came for meat,” Minho said, deadpan.

Jeongin laughed, hand brushing Minho’s beneath the table. “That’s not true.”

“It’s completely true.”

They shared a small look, Minho’s stern, Jeongin’s teasing, that might’ve gone unnoticed if not for Hyunjin’s keen eyes.

“Oh my god,” Hyunjin interrupted, pointing an accusatory chopstick. “You’re totally doing the couple stare.”

“What couple stare?” Minho asked, instantly defensive.

“That one!” Hyunjin said, wildly gesturing. “The ‘I pretend to hate everything you do but also secretly think you’re the sun’ stare.”

Minho scoffed, looking away, but his ears betrayed him—pink again.

Chan leaned forward, sipping his soju with a grin. “So…you two are official?”

Jeongin blinked, then nodded. “Yeah.”

“Yup,” Minho added, nonchalantly stabbing at a piece of pork. “Apparently.”

“Apparently?” Felix echoed.

Hyunjin gasped dramatically. “Minho, did you not ask properly?!”

Minho gave them all a blank look. “He asked.”

“Ohhh, Jeonginnie!” Chan said, half proud, half scandalized. “My aegi is so bold.”

Jeongin looked sheepish now, scratching at the back of his neck. “I mean. Someone had to.”

Minho sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, then took a long sip of his own soju. “Can we eat before you all make this worse?”

But it was no use. The teasing continued relentlessly through dinner.

Felix and Changbin had somehow ended up sharing the grill and now seemed locked in an accidental flirting war—Changbin kept brushing Felix’s hand when turning the meat, and Felix was giggling a little too much for someone claiming not to be tipsy.

Hyunjin, on the other hand, was in full campaign mode with Chan.

“Do you want another drink?” he asked, batting his lashes.

“I think I’m good—”

“Are you sure?” Hyunjin was already pouring it anyway.

Chan chuckled and lifted his glass. “Thanks.”

Minho leaned toward Jeongin again. “Your brother has no idea what he’s in for.”

Jeongin beamed, eyes fixed on Minho’s face. “He’s been single for a long time. I hope it works out.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Even if it means Hyunjin becoming your brother-in-law?”

Jeongin shrugged, trying to suppress a smile. “Would that make you jealous?”

“I don’t get jealous,” Minho replied, tone sharp—but his fingers twitched under the table when Jeongin leaned a bit closer.

“I think you do, hyung.”

Minho looked him dead in the eye, lips twitching. “You’re lucky I like your stupid face.”

“I really am,” Jeongin said, softer this time.

They shared another quiet moment amidst the chaos, Hyunjin loudly asking Chan if he believed in soulmates, Changbin teaching Felix how to flip galbi without tongs, and Felix nearly setting a napkin on fire.

Jeongin rested his chin in his palm, watching Minho with soft eyes, even when Minho looked away.

The night lingered, laughter and warmth bubbling under the low hum of conversation. The soju bottle emptied faster than expected, and their plates were soon scraped clean.

By the time the group filtered out of the restaurant, the city had grown quieter, lights casting blurred halos in the mist of the night. The group stood at the curb, slightly swaying and entirely too chatty, thanks to the bottomless soju bottles that had become casualties of the dinner table.

Minho sat in his chair, his head leaning slightly back as though gravity had gotten heavier in the past half hour. The bouquet of peonies rested in his lap, petals gently shaking with every movement of his wheels. His eyes were half-lidded, lips parted slightly as he blinked at nothing in particular.

Hyunjin, whose skin was flushed and eyes glassy, draped himself lazily over Bang Chan’s shoulder and groaned, “I think I’m gonna die. I can feel the soju in my blood, hyung. In my soul.”

Bang Chan snorted and adjusted his hold on Hyunjin before looking over at Minho. “We’re gonna head out. This one’s seconds from confessing his undying love to me, and I’d rather he not remember that tomorrow.”

“I can still hear you,” Hyunjin muttered into Chan’s neck.

“Exactly.”

Jeongin, who had been quietly standing behind Minho’s chair, nodded. “We’ll head out too.”

Minho squinted up at him. “Are you sure? You live further.”

Jeongin shrugged, stepping behind the wheelchair and gripping the handles. “You’re drunk. I’m not. Let’s go.”

Felix giggled from beside Changbin, cheeks flushed, clearly two drinks past his limit. “You’re so lucky, hyung,” he murmured to Minho, “Jeongin’s, like, boyfriend material. Actual husband-tier.”

Minho gave no response, except for the barest twitch of his jaw. His hands remained folded in his lap, thumb grazing the ribbon tied around the bouquet. The silence he held was thick—not annoyed, not cold, just... contemplative.

As the others peeled off in pairs, Jeongin adjusted the angle of the wheelchair and began to push Minho down the empty sidewalk. The air was crisp and cool, cutting through the heat of Minho’s skin. 

Minho had no idea how much soju he'd drunk. All he knew was that he was warm, maybe too warm, and the stars above them were spinning like a carousel.

"Hyung, careful," Jeongin said softly, pushing the wheelchair forward with slow, patient steps.

"I'm fine," Minho muttered, squinting up at the dark sky. "Not drunk."

Jeongin let out a breathy chuckle. “You just called the moon ‘bro’ and tried to fist bump it.”

Minho tilted his head back lazily. “It was shining at me weird. I was just being polite.”

The streetlights glowed gold along the path home, their shadows stretching long on the quiet sidewalk. There was no traffic, no noise except for their footsteps and the low whirr of Minho’s wheels rolling across the pavement. The peonies Jeongin gave him earlier sat loosely in Minho’s lap, petals jostling softly with each bump in the sidewalk.

“You’re warm,” Minho mumbled. “Behind me. I can feel you.”

Jeongin slowed a little. “Do you want me to stop pushing?”

“No,” Minho said, a little too quickly. “I… like it.”

Jeongin smiled, lips closed, heart heavy and fluttering at the same time. “Okay.”

They fell into a quiet rhythm, Minho’s head tilted lazily to one side, Jeongin behind him, the air still faintly touched with spring. They were nearly back to Minho’s apartment when Minho spoke again, this time quieter, like something had been weighing on him all night.

“I didn’t think this would be my life,” he said suddenly.

Jeongin blinked. “What?”

“This.” Minho gestured vaguely, eyes staring ahead at nothing. “Being in a chair. Not dancing. Watching instead of moving. Feeling like… everything I used to be is something people miss, but I can’t give anymore.”

Jeongin’s hands on the push handles tightened slightly.

Minho continued, voice slurring slightly but not just from the alcohol anymore. “Sometimes I get so fucking angry. At the world. At myself. I try not to show it. I don’t want pity. But... it hurts, you know? I feel like a burden. Even if people say I’m not.”

“You’re not,” Jeongin said softly.

Minho tilted his head back, looking up toward the boy behind him. “But it feels like I am.”

There was a pause. “I don’t see you that way.”

Minho turned his head away. “You’re always so damn kind.”

“Should I be meaner?” Jeongin teased gently.

“Yes,” Minho murmured. “Make me hate you so this isn’t so hard.”

Jeongin didn’t respond to that, and for a while, the silence was heavy.

But then Minho spoke again. “You’re so pretty.”

That startled a soft laugh from Jeongin. “Hyung—”

“Pretty,” Minho repeated stubbornly. “And warm. You smell like… like those peach gummy candies. Makes me want to eat you.”

Jeongin flushed bright red. “You’re drunk.”

“I am,” Minho agreed, “but I’d say it even if I wasn’t.”

He sounded exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally too. Like the words had been stuck in him for weeks, months even, and now they were finally breaking free because he was too tired to hold them in.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to say that,” Minho added, his voice low, almost ashamed. “But I didn’t want to... let myself.”

“Why?” Jeongin asked, voice just above a whisper.

Minho didn’t answer. His hand had found the stems of the peonies in his lap, fingers brushing lightly over them.

“Because you deserve someone whole,” he finally said. “And I haven’t felt whole in a long time.”

Jeongin’s voice cracked when he answered. “You don’t need to be whole to be loved, hyung.”

Minho turned his head slightly. The soft streetlight above cast Jeongin’s face in gold, and even in the shadow, Minho could see the sincerity in his eyes.

They didn’t say anything more as they reached the apartment building.

Inside the elevator, Minho slouched slightly in his chair. Jeongin stood quietly beside him, eyes occasionally glancing at him. When they reached the top floor and entered Minho’s apartment, it was dimly lit, just the kitchen light left on, soft and warm.

Minho exhaled heavily, like he’d been holding something in all night. “I feel like shit.”

Jeongin crouched down in front of him. “Do you want to sleep? Or a shower first?”

“Sleep,” Minho muttered.

Jeongin didn’t hesitate. With practiced gentleness, he helped Minho transfer from the chair to the bed. He removed Minho’s shoes, unbuttoned his shirt, and folded the blanket over his legs. Then, he disappeared into the bathroom, reemerging with a warm, damp cloth to clean Minho’s face and neck. He was so gentle about it, so quiet.

Minho’s eyes fluttered shut. “You’re too good to me.”

Jeongin didn’t answer. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Minho’s temple.

Then, he whispered, “Goodnight, hyung.”

And like he always did, even without being able to hear everything perfectly, he made sure Minho felt it anyway.

—

The gym was too bright for the way Minho’s head pounded.

The warm sun filtering through the studio windows felt like a personal attack as Minho wheeled himself into the dance room alongside Hyunjin and Felix. All three looked like hell. Felix had his hoodie drawn up to his eyebrows and dark shades covering half his face like he was trying to disappear. Hyunjin leaned into the wall, clutching a bottle of Pocari like it was a lifeline, hair still damp from the rushed shower he’d taken that morning to try to seem semi-functional. It didn’t help.

Minho, ever the composed one, looked murderous. His jaw was locked tight, eyebrows stitched in the middle, eyes glassy but sharp. He hadn’t spoken much since they arrived, only muttering a low, “Stretch or die,” before closing his eyes and letting the pounding in his head settle just enough to not black out.

“This is your fault,” Felix muttered under his breath, voice rough from lack of sleep.

“My fault?” Hyunjin groaned. “You were the one who challenged Minho-hyung to a shot-off. I tried to stop you!”

“You literally said, and I quote, ‘let’s see if we can make hyung loosen up.’”

“...Okay, yeah, that sounds like me.”

Minho sighed and tilted his head back against the mirror. “I hate both of you.”

“But we love you,” Felix grinned weakly.

The gym was quiet save for the shuffling feet of the few dancers who arrived early. It was that weird in-between hour where the sun wasn’t high enough to energize you but also not low enough to give permission to crash. Just the perfect kind of hell for a hangover.

“I think I blacked out,” Hyunjin whispered. “Do you remember anything after we left the bar?”

“Barely,” Minho muttered. “It’s all a blur.”

Bits and pieces floated in his mind like scraps of dreams. Someone guiding his chair. Warm hands on his back. A soft laugh. Jeongin’s voice whispering, “Hyung, you’re heavy,” and then, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Vague memories of his apartment, lights too bright, a blanket being pulled up to his chest.

But most vividly, he remembered the kiss. Not on the lips. On the side of his face. Barely a breath away from his temple. The softest brush of lips. A “Goodnight, hyung,” barely heard, and even then, Minho didn’t know if he imagined it.

He rubbed at his face, not for the headache but to hide the fact his cheeks were warming again.

It was so stupid. So small. A single, gentle moment. But it stayed in his mind like a loop. Replay. Repeat.

Just then, the door creaked open and in came the rest of the team—Ryujin, Yeji, Yeonjun, Winter, San. Everyone stopped short when they saw the three of them looking like the aftermath of a car crash.

“Rough night?” Yeji smirked.

“Define rough,” Felix mumbled.

“You guys look like actual corpses,” San laughed.

“Get changed. Practice starts in fifteen,” Minho barked, already wheeling to his usual post.

The team groaned but did as told.

Practice was mercifully light. Mostly cleanup and polish. Minho didn’t push them hard, not because he was being kind but because his own body was still recovering. His head throbbed every time someone hit the floor too hard or clapped too loud.

Still, the air wasn’t heavy. Despite everything, there were laughs. Jokes. Teasing about Felix’s impromptu drunk dancing. Hyunjin’s failed attempt to serenade a stranger. Minho even cracked a smile when Yeonjun tried to copy one of his old routines and flopped hard.

But nothing quite snapped him out of his daze.

Not until Jeongin stepped in.

He looked like he had come straight from class—sweatpants, hoodie sleeves too long, a familiar canvas bag over his shoulder. Minho’s eyes locked onto him instantly, and the world stilled a bit.

Jeongin waved sheepishly. “Can I stay here until my next class? Just an hour.”

Minho nodded. “You didn’t have to come all the way here just for that.”

“I didn’t,” Jeongin said with a grin. “I also came to give you this.”

He pulled something out of his bag: a little cup of pudding and a bottle of hangover drink.

Minho blinked. “...Seriously?”

Jeongin handed it over, cheeks slightly red. “Figured your head was killing you.”

Minho looked at the pudding in his hand, then back at Jeongin, his lips twitching upward. “It is. Thanks.”

Hyunjin elbowed Felix. “He’s smiling again.”

“I swear, if you say one more thing, you’re doing laps,” Minho threatened, but there was no bite in it.

Jeongin plopped down beside him on the mat, pulling his knees to his chest, content to just sit there. Not talk. Not interrupt. Just… be there.

It was annoyingly comforting.

The warm weight of someone who never demanded too much but always gave enough.

Minho peeked sideways at him. There was a little bit of cream on Jeongin’s lower lip. His hair was soft, face clean of any product, and his usual dimple peeked as he smiled slightly while watching the team go through formations.

Minho swallowed thickly and turned back to the dancers.

He didn’t know what was going on in his chest.

He only knew one thing.

He didn’t want to be without this.

—

seven months

The competition was nearing now, and the air inside the studio felt sharper—more purposeful. The floor was already slick with sweat, the walls echoing with counts and music as Minho stood, stood, at the front of the group, arms crossed and eyes laser-focused.

His recovery had been faster than most expected, and though he was still under strict orders to take it easy, Minho had been cleared to walk and even resume dancing in moderation. His balance wasn’t perfect, and some routines still strained muscles that had lain dormant too long, but he was here. On his feet. Teaching again.

“Again from the top!” he barked, clapping his hands.

The dancers groaned, but none of them dared to protest. Even after weeks away from the floor, Minho hadn’t lost his edge. If anything, he seemed fiercer now—more determined, more present.

Felix slid across the floor beside Hyunjin, whispering, “He’s even scarier now that he can chase us.”

Hyunjin snorted. “Don’t remind me.”

They returned to formation just as the music started again. Minho moved along the sidelines, correcting posture with a sharp eye. His steps weren’t perfect, not yet, but he was walking. He could feel the rhythm through his bones again, not just in his head. And that alone was enough to make every ache worth it.

During a short break, Minho leaned against the wall, grabbing his towel from the bench. He was wiping sweat off his neck when the door opened.

Jeongin stepped in quietly.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just gave Minho a small wave and held up a familiar brown bag with a pudding cup peeking out from the top.

Minho couldn’t help it, his lips twitched upward.

“You know,” he said as Jeongin padded over, “you’re not obligated to bring pudding every time you visit.”

Jeongin handed it over anyway. “Maybe. But I like seeing you eat it.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of bribing me into liking you more?”

“No,” Jeongin said, smirking, “this is my way of staying your favorite.”

Hyunjin, eavesdropping from the corner, whispered to Felix, “They’re flirting again.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “God, just date already.”

Jeongin sat cross-legged beside Minho, watching the rest of the team stretch out and hydrate. He didn’t talk much, didn’t need to. His presence was enough. That was always the way with Jeongin, he never interrupted, just slipped into place beside Minho like he belonged there.

They shared a quiet few minutes. Jeongin peeled the lid off the pudding cup and handed Minho a spoon. Minho took it with a soft hum of thanks and ate slowly, watching the team wind down.

His phone buzzed on the bench. Twice.

Then again.

Minho frowned and reached for it.

엄마 (Mom).

He sighed, mouth still full of pudding, and waved briefly at Jeongin before stepping into the hallway to take the call.

“Hello?”

“Minho-yah,” his mom’s voice came through clear and warm. “You never call unless I call first. I should start charging you for it.”

Minho chuckled. “Sorry, I’ve been… preoccupied.”

“I heard,” she said, amused. “Hyunjin told me you’re walking and terrifying everyone again.”

“That snitch.”

His mom laughed. “I’m happy, Minho. You sound good.”

There was a pause—short, but heavy with something maternal and knowing. Then she added, “I wanted to remind you that you have your check-up this weekend. Saturday morning, 9 a.m. Don’t be late.”

Minho blinked. “Wait. That’s this weekend?”

“Yes. Did you forget again?”

He winced. “Maybe.”

She sighed gently. “Please don’t skip it. I know you feel better, but that’s exactly why you need to be careful. Overdoing it now would be stupid.”

Minho nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. And Minho-yah… you’re doing so well. I’m proud of you.”

Minho’s chest tightened at the warmth in her voice.

“Thanks, Mom.”

When he walked back into the studio, Jeongin looked up immediately. “Your mom?”

Minho nodded, wiping his face with a towel. “Check-up this weekend.”

Jeongin’s lips curved slightly, but there was concern in his eyes. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Minho blinked, caught off guard by the offer. Jeongin had always been gentle, but something about the way he asked—so casual, yet so earnest made Minho pause.

“I’ll let you know,” he said finally, voice softer than he meant.

Jeongin just nodded, already knowing he would show up whether Minho said yes or not.

The rest of practice went by in a blur of sweat, laughter, and callouts. Minho let his voice rise louder now, more certain. He demonstrated a few steps here and there, feeling his body catch up with his instincts again.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, he kept thinking about what came next.

The check-up.

The progress.

The what-if’s.

And maybe, if he let himself hope a little, the boy who always brought pudding, even when he didn’t have to.

—

Saturday mornings in Seoul always felt a little too slow for Minho. The streets didn’t move quite as fast, the air smelled cleaner, and the sky was a little too blue—as if the universe itself knew how to make people feel vulnerable.

His mother insisted on coming with him to the hospital. Not because Minho couldn’t go alone, he’d insisted several times that he was fine, but because she was still a mother, and nothing ever truly stopped her from worrying. Not the accident. Not his protests. Not even the months that had passed since.

The waiting room was cold. Minho’s hands, despite everything, felt colder. His mother sat beside him, flipping through a medical pamphlet she didn’t seem to be reading.

“Did you take your vitamins like I told you?” she asked out of nowhere, her voice quiet but firm.

Minho didn’t bother hiding his sigh. “Yes, eomma.”

She nodded, still not looking at him. “Good.”

They didn’t speak again until the nurse came to call them in.

The examination room was sterile and bright, the kind of lighting that made everything feel too real. Minho hated the way the hospital smelled—like antiseptic and something always just faintly sad.

The check-up was routine. Reflex tests, muscle scans, an updated X-ray. The doctor was familiar, warm, and professional, someone Minho had grown to trust over the past few months. After looking through his recent scans, the man leaned forward, a bit more animated than usual.

“Your recovery is stable. No signs of further complications,” he said, glancing between Minho and his mother. “But… there’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.”

Minho’s brows furrowed slightly. His mother straightened in her chair.

“There’s a new surgical procedure being offered here in Korea,” the doctor began, carefully measuring his tone. “It’s still under experimental classification, but we’ve had several patients go through it with… remarkable outcomes.”

Minho blinked, not quite understanding. “What kind of procedure?”

“It’s a neural regeneration process. Basically, reconnecting and rebuilding the severed communication between your spinal cord and your lower limbs. If successful, it could bring movement back.”

The words crashed over him like a wave. Minho felt his lungs forget how to work for a second.

He looked down at his lap, at the chair he had been bound to for months. The thing he had tried to pretend he’d come to terms with. But he hadn’t. Not really.

His fingers gripped the arms of the chair.

His mother was silent beside him.

“The procedure isn’t without risks,” the doctor continued. “We have no guaranteed success rate. Some patients have regained movement. Others, minimal improvement. But you, Minho—you’re a strong candidate. Your spinal cord isn’t completely severed, and your healing progress so far is very promising.”

Minho could barely contain the swell of hope blooming in his chest.

“But,” the doctor added, “I need you to take time to think about it. This isn’t a simple decision.”

Before Minho could say anything, anything at all, his mother spoke, voice tight, almost fragile.

“We’ll think about it,” she said quickly, standing up and gripping the back of Minho’s chair. “Thank you, doctor.”

The hallway outside the exam room was quiet. Minho let himself be wheeled out in silence until they reached a small garden area in the hospital courtyard. His mother parked the chair under a tree, and Minho immediately turned to face her.

“Why did you say that?” he asked.

She wouldn’t look at him.

“Eomma.”

“I heard what he said.”

“And?” he pressed, more sharply than he meant to.

“I’m not ready to sit through another surgery. Another chance for them to tell me something went wrong. I can’t—” her voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again, Minho.”

Minho swallowed hard, throat burning. “I’m still here.”

He pulled her down until she was kneeling in front of him, and he hugged her tightly.

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “You don’t have to be scared.”

They left the hospital not long after. His mother had finally agreed, though her grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled the whole way. She didn’t speak much in the car. But Minho didn’t mind.

The restaurant was quiet, tucked into a small alleyway that smelled of roasted sesame oil and seaweed soup. It was one of those home-style Korean places his mom used to bring him to when he was a teenager—before the accident, before everything. The kind of place that served banchan in ceramic dishes and always brought you warm barley tea, unprompted.

Minho sat across from his mother, their lunch barely touched between them.

His chopsticks hovered over the grilled galchi on his plate, but he hadn’t taken a bite since sitting down. The hospital visit lingered in his head like smoke, thick and bitter and impossible to shake off. His mother sipped her tea quietly. She’d been quiet the whole walk from the hospital, too.

Her hand reached across the table to gently cover his.

Minho blinked. He hadn’t realized he was gripping the edge of the table like it had wronged him.

“I know what you're thinking,” she said softly, “and I want you to know... I'm not trying to hold you back.”

Minho looked up at her, surprised. “You wheeled me out of the room before I could even ask a question.”

Her hand squeezed his. “Because I was scared.”

Minho’s chest tightened.

She pulled her hand back, folding her napkin neatly on her lap before speaking again. “When the doctor said there was a chance… a procedure that could help… I wanted to be happy for you. I really did.” Her voice caught. “But all I could think about was those nights in the ICU. The tubes. The wires. The way you stopped responding for minutes at a time. I thought I lost you. And I—Minho-yah, I don’t know if I could do that again.”

Minho’s fingers curled into his lap.

He wanted to be angry. Wanted to shout that it wasn’t fair, that she wasn’t the one stuck in a chair, waking up every day in a body that wouldn’t move the way it used to. But when he looked at her, he saw the truth, this wasn’t her trying to stop him from living. This was a mother who had already once come close to losing her son.

“I get it,” he finally whispered. “I do.”

His mom sniffled, quickly dabbing her eyes. “But if this is what you want, Minho… I’ll be scared. But I’ll stand behind you.”

He nodded. His throat felt too thick to speak.

After a while, the tension ebbed, and the food no longer felt like cement in their mouths. They ate in companionable silence, then talked about lighter things, his coursework, upcoming performances, the way Seoul’s autumn was finally starting to set in.

His mom smiled at him mid-meal and said,“You look good lately,” 

“Brighter, lighter… glowing, almost. Have you been eating well?”  she said softly, setting her cup down.

Minho scoffed lightly and picked at the steamed rice in front of him. “I’m glowing because of carbs, probably. Too many late night take-outs.”

She tilted her head. “No. That’s not it. There’s something else. Or someone.”

That made him pause. Minho didn’t look up immediately, choosing instead to chew a piece of grilled chicken as if it required his full attention. But the way his ears began to turn pink betrayed him.

His mom’s eyes lit up. “Ah. I knew it. I knew there was something different.”

Minho sighed and finally looked up at her. “You’re annoying sometimes.”

She only smiled wider. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

He pressed his lips together, then exhaled. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” she echoed, laughing. “You’re the worst at hiding things, Minho. Tell me.”

Minho glanced out the window, avoiding her eyes like a teenager being teased. “There’s someone. I guess.”

“You guess?”

He smiled, despite himself. “We’re dating.”

The word felt strange and soft in his mouth. It was still new, still tentative in his head, but it was real.

Her eyes widened. “Oh. Minho! That’s wonderful. Who is it? Someone I know?”

He shook his head. “Probably not. He’s younger than me. Social studies major. Jeongin.”

She leaned forward, curious. “Jeongin. Is he the one you mentioned before? The one who always brought you flowers?”

Minho raised a brow, surprised. “I didn’t think you remembered that.”

“I remember everything about you, Minho.” Her voice lowered, more tender now. “So, how did this happen?”

Minho didn’t know how to explain it, really. It wasn’t like he had suddenly fallen for Jeongin overnight. It had been a slow burn—an irritation at first, the way Jeongin never gave up, never got tired of waiting. Then came the realization that he didn’t mind being waited for. That he missed the boy’s quiet presence, his soft dimpled smiles, his clumsy thoughtfulness.

He shrugged. “He was persistent. Still is.”

She chuckled. “Persistent is good. So long as he treats you well.”

“He does,” Minho said, softer this time. “He really does.”

Her smile widened. “That’s love.”

His mom beamed. “You should bring him next time. I’d love to meet him.”

Minho laughed softly, finally feeling the weight in his chest begin to shift. “He’ll probably faint from nerves.”

“He sounds sweet. And I like sweet for you, Minho-yah.”

They lingered a little longer at the table before she flagged the server for the bill. She insisted on paying, like always.

Minho wheeled himself into his apartment an hour later, exhausted. Not just from the commute, but from the emotional push-and-pull of the day. The sterile brightness of the hospital room still flashed in his mind—the x-rays, the word “experimental,” the way his heart had leapt into his throat at the thought of walking again.

He pulled off his jacket and let it slump onto the side table before dragging himself to the bathroom for a quick shower. When he came out, damp hair still sticking to his forehead, his phone buzzed.

Iyen is calling…

Minho answered it immediately, towel slung around his neck. “Hey.”

“Hi, hyung,” Jeongin’s voice came through, warm and soft. “Are you home now?”

“Just got in.”

“How was the hospital?” There was caution in his voice, but no judgment. Just concern.

Minho took a deep breath. “They did scans. My spine’s doing better than expected. Nothing regressed.”

“That’s good news.”

“There’s more,” Minho said, moving toward the couch and sitting. “The doctor mentioned something. A new surgery. An experimental one, apparently. It’s meant to reconnect certain neural pathways. Some patients… got function back in their legs.”

There was silence on the other line for a beat.

Then, quietly, Jeongin asked, “Are you going to do it?”

Minho rubbed his hand across his face. “I don’t know. I want to. I hate the chair, Iyen. I hate what I lost. I feel like a shell most days. But I’m scared. My mom’s scared. She’s already lived through almost losing me once.”

Jeongin’s voice was so gentle, it nearly broke him. “You’re allowed to be scared. But hyung, if this could give you something back… I’ll support whatever you choose. I’ll be here. Always.”

A breath caught in Minho’s throat. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear that.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Did you eat?” Jeongin asked after a moment.

“Yeah. Lunch with my mom.”

“Was it okay?”

“She cornered me about you.”

Jeongin gasped. “What did you say?!”

“That you’re cute and persistent and slightly annoying.”

“Hyung!”

Minho grinned. “She wants to meet you.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. So start planning your outfit and bring flowers.”

“Peonies? Pink ones?”

“Yup.”

Jeongin groaned into the phone. “Why are you like this?”

Minho chuckled, his heart finally starting to slow from the day’s chaos. “You make it easier to be like this.”

There was a pause again, longer this time. Then, quietly, Jeongin said, “I love you, hyung.”

Minho’s breath caught.

And maybe he wasn’t ready to say it back, at least not yet. But he felt it. Felt it settle into the quiet spaces inside his chest, where it had started growing since the moment Jeongin smiled at him across a cafeteria months ago.

He smiled softly and whispered, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”