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The city glittered beneath them like spilled diamonds.
From the thirty-something floor of Han Jisung’s penthouse, the skyline stretched endlessly beyond the glass walls of his bedroom — towers blinking black and silver against the dark. Expensive. Cold. Too quiet for someone who supposedly had everything.
Jisung was half-buried in black silk sheets, hair messy against the pillow, one arm thrown over his eyes. Dead asleep.
Minho sat beside him with one knee up, shirt hanging open and cigarette balanced between his fingers. The tip glowed orange in the dark before he took a slow drag, exhaling toward the ceiling.
The room smelled faintly of smoke, expensive cologne, and rain from the cracked-open balcony door.
He glanced over.
Still asleep.
Cute.
Annoyingly cute, actually.
Most clients either shoved him out immediately after or got clingy in a way that made his skin crawl. But Jisung had just… passed out. Like his body had finally given up after running for weeks.
Minho reached over, nudging his shoulder lightly.
“Hey.”
Nothing.
Another nudge.
“Rich boy.”
Jisung groaned dramatically and rolled onto his back. “Mmph… what time is it…”
“Late.”
“Helpful.”
Minho snorted softly, then held the cigarette toward him. “Want one?”
Jisung blinked at him through sleepy eyes for a second before laughing quietly. “You offering me post-hookup cigarettes like we’re in an indie film?”
“You say hookup like you didn’t literally pay for me to be here.”
“Ouch.” Jisung clutched his chest weakly. “You wound me.”
But he still took the cigarette.
Their fingers brushed briefly.
Jisung sat up against the headboard, blanket slipping down enough to expose the intricate tattoos along his torso. Minho looked away before he could stare too long.
The city lights reflected in Jisung’s eyes while he inhaled… then exhaled steadily in front of himself, coughing lightly.
“You smoke like a teenager trying to impress people,” Minho said.
“I am trying to impress people.”
“Bit late for that.”
Jisung grinned sleepily.
And there it was again — that stupid warmth in Lee Know’s chest he really didn’t like.
Silence settled for a moment. Not awkward. Just… tired.
Comfortable.
Minho wasn’t used to comfortable.
“You always this quiet after?” Jisung asked eventually.
“With clients? Usually quieter.” Lee Know shrugged. “You talk enough for two people anyway.”
“That’s because the silence makes me nervous.”
The words slipped out casually, but something about them felt honest.
Minho turned slightly. “Why?”
Jisung stared out at the skyline.
“…Makes the apartment feel too big.”
That hit harder than it should’ve.
Minho looked around the bedroom again — the minimal designer furniture, marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, the massive bed that could probably fit five people comfortably.
Too big.
Too empty.
“You live here alone?” he asked.
“Mm.”
“Sounds miserable.”
Jisung laughed under his breath. “You’re kinda mean, you know that?”
“You signed up for me. Literally.”
“Yeah.” Jisung looked at him then, softer now. “Guess I liked that you didn’t pretend.”
The cigarette burned lower between Minho’s fingers.
Most people wanted a fantasy from him. Sweet lies. Fake affection. A polished version of intimacy that disappeared once the money hit his account.
But Jisung was looking at him like he wanted the real answers.
“You do this often?” Minho asked quietly.
Jisung smirked tiredly. “Hire pretty men to emotionally devastate me? Not often.”
“Wasn’t aware I was devastating.”
“You’ve got the vibe.”
Minho rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now despite himself.
Jisung noticed immediately.
“Hey…” he mumbled. “You should smile more, you look pretty when you do.”
Minho chuckled. “And you should sleep more.”
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
Jisung hesitated.
Then shrugged one shoulder. “Anxiety induced insomnia.”
Minho understood that feeling more than he wanted to admit.
Outside, rain began tapping softly against the glass.
Jisung leaned his head back against the headboard, eyes growing heavier again. “You ever think it’s weird?” he murmured.
“What is?”
“How strangers can know your body before they know your favorite food.”
Minho went still.
The city lights flickered across his face while he looked over at Jisung — messy hair, sleepy eyes, expensive loneliness wrapped in silk sheets.
“…What’s your favorite food?” Minho asked before he could stop himself.
Jisung smiled instantly, small and genuine.
“Cheesecake.”
Minho laughed quietly. “Of course it is.”
“And yours?”
There was a pause.
Then, softer than before—
“I like pudding...”
Jisung blinked at him.
“…You like pudding?” he echoed, smiling subtly like the sentence didn’t quite compute in his brain.
Minho leaned back slightly against the headboard, narrowed his eyes immediately. “Why do you sound so happy about that?”
“I’m not— I’m mean,” Jisung defended through a laugh. “I just expected you to say something intimidating. Like whiskey. Or steak. Or— I don’t know— motor oil.”
“Motor oil?”
“You have the vibe.”
Minho genuinely laughed against his knee. “You know, you’re funny. I like that.”
That alone made Jisung sit a little straighter.
Because that wasn’t part of the script.
People didn’t usually like this part. They tolerated it. They rushed through it. They left as soon as the money stopped needing justification.
Jisung hugged the blanket a little tighter around himself, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt in a completely different way now.
Minho turned his head towards Jisung, still resting on his knee and eyes bright from laughter. The look made Jisung’s stomach flutter.
“…Most people leave after,” Minho added, like it was nothing.
Jisung slightly frowned. “You mean like… immediately?”
“Mm.”
“…Why?”
Minho shrugged one shoulder, like the answer was obvious but not interesting enough to explain. “Job’s done.”
That should’ve made sense. It did make sense. And yet—
Jisung’s gaze dropped to the cigarette ash slowly lengthening.
“So you’re just… staying here because you feel like it?” he asked quietly.
Minho let out a small breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “Is that weird?”
Jisung opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
It felt weird. Not because Minho was doing something wrong, but because Jisung couldn’t figure out what part of this was supposed to be real and what part wasn’t.
His chest tightened slightly.
He wasn’t used to people lingering unless they wanted something.
And Minho… didn’t look like he wanted anything right now.
That was the problem.
Jisung shifted his weight, suddenly hyperaware of how much he had already said. Cheesecake. Anxiety. Silence making the apartment feel too big.
God.
Why was he talking so fucking much?
He glanced away toward the glass wall, city lights blurring slightly in his tired eyes.
“I’m probably talking too much,” he muttered. “Sorry. I just— I don’t usually—”
“Hey.”
Minho’s voice cut in gently.
Not sharp. Not impatient.
Just… there.
Jisung looked back.
Minho had leaned forward slightly, cigarette now resting in the ashtray on the bedside table. His hands were free, open, unguarded in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.
“You’re fine,” Minho said.
Jisung blinked. “I am?”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“You don’t have to edit yourself.”
That landed somewhere weird in Jisung’s chest. Warm, but sharp around the edges.
He swallowed. “That’s… not usually how this works.”
Minho tilted his head. “How what works?”
“This.” Jisung gestured vaguely between them. The bed. The room. The entire situation. “You’re supposed to be… you know. Professional. I’m supposed to not… talk about cheesecake and insomnia like a sad podcast.”
A corner of Minho’s mouth twitched.
“A sad podcast,” he repeated.
“Don’t laugh you dumbass.”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
That made Jisung look up again.
Minho’s expression had shifted—less guarded now, like something had softened without him noticing.
“I actually…” Minho hesitated, like he was annoyed at himself for continuing. “I like it.”
Jisung went still. “Why?”
Minho’s gaze flicked briefly to him, then away, like eye contact was a decision he had to make.
“You’re… easy to talk to,” he said finally. “And you don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”
Jisung’s throat tightened a little at that.
He looked down at his hands.
“That’s not a compliment,” he muttered.
“It is,” Minho corrected. Then, after a beat: “Kind of.”
Jisung huffed a quiet laugh despite himself.
There was a pause again. The rain outside filled it easily, soft against glass.
Then Minho added, almost reluctantly—
“And you’re sweet.”
Jisung froze.
“…What?”
Minho glanced at him like he’d said something inconvenient.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” Jisung said immediately, way too fast. Then he frowned. “You just called me sweet.”
“So?”
“That’s not… usually what people say after—” He stopped himself, ears turning faintly warm. “After anything.”
Minho’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to figure out why Jisung looked so shocked.
Then, casually—
“And you’re handsome.”
Jisung made a sound that was somewhere between a cough and a glitch.
“Okay, no, wait—”
“And,” Minho continued, unfazed, “you ask questions like you actually want answers. That’s rare. You asked me my favorite food a few minutes ago like it mattered,” he said. “Most people don’t even ask my name twice.”
That landed heavier than anything else in the room.
Jisung stared at him.
Completely, utterly awake now.
“…Are you trying to emotionally damage me or something?” he whispered.
Minho actually laughed this time, low and real.
“No.”
Then, quieter:
“I’m just telling you what I see.”
That did it.
Jisung looked away fast, like the city outside suddenly became extremely interesting.
Because this was the part that didn’t make sense.
This was the part where he was supposed to feel detached. Safe. In control.
But Minho sitting there like this—like he wasn’t performing anything at all—made something in Jisung’s chest twist in a way he didn’t have language for yet.
He swallowed.
“…So you don’t usually stay,” he said again, softer now.
Minho shook his head.
“No.”
“Then why are you still here?”
A beat.
Minho’s gaze settled on him again, steady.
“I think I wanted to see what you were like when you stopped pretending too,” he said.
Silence.
Not heavy this time.
Just… honest.
And for the first time that night, Jisung didn’t know what to do with that kind of honesty at all.