Archive of Our Own

Through the years, Minho has been bravely bearing the burden that is his younger sister, all the squealing and screaming and impromptu concerts included. He can be understanding at times, really—he could have kicked her ass a million times before, but he’s always nice enough to only threaten her life by waving around whatever object falls into his hand.

And yet, she still gives him a hard time—the hardest time, for which he would actually want financial compensation, since he’s quite sure she won’t be the one paying for his hearing aid after all the pitched noises of excitement she makes impair his auditory system. 

The worst thing is that he’s been suffering for one simple and quite obvious reason. Hyemin is a twenty-something madly in love with the world’s most beloved music sensation, 3RACHA. 

As for these guys, they don’t only draw the attention of screeching teenage girls. Minho knows more than a few guys from his college who dance to their beats, others who love the deep lyrics of their songs, grandfathers who believe that thanks to their music, they “fish better” (perhaps the fish are fans, too?), and even Minho’s own mother ruins his eardrums by blasting their songs whenever she’s cleaning, claiming that it’s calming and helps her relax.

Minho will never be able to understand how spitting ten syllables per second can be calming, but there’s one thing he has to admit, even if it’s just to himself and never out loud: 3RACHA’S music is good, and the fact that all the songs are written and produced by them is not only impressive, but also gives a sense of. . . truth to their craft. 

They are called the Pride of Korea for a reason, he gets that. 

Nonetheless, their music has been completely ruined for him; Minho can’t listen to their songs for his own enjoyment, as he has gotten so used to his sister’s singing and screeching that he can’t get it out of his head whenever he hears them. 

And, for the love of god, is a day without hearing those guys too much to ask? 

Minho throws her bedroom door open and yells, trying to overtake the crazy volume of the music by calling out her name and failing right at the start when his sister continues dancing in the middle of her room. 

(It’s a miracle that no one has called the police on them yet.)

He grabs her arm and ignores the startled scream that rips out of her throat. 

“What do you want? I’m busy!” 

Minho clenches his jaw. It’s been getting impossible to get her to be quiet lately, and as funny as it might have been in the beginning, it’s really getting on his nerves now.

He heads over to the computer and lowers the volume down. The 20% he leaves on makes the room feel dead-silent. At this point he’s quite sure that if Hyemin could, she would probably go over the 100%; she would get the biggest speakers the world has to offer, plug them in their backyard, and make the whole world listen to Han fucking Jisung. 

“Can’t you go one second without listening to his voice on full volume?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest to seem a bit threatening. He asks, even though he knows the answer quite well already. She absolutely can’t. “Turn it down or wear goddamn headphones.”

Hyemin sighs dramatically and falls back in her chair. “I love him. I’m so in love with him.”

“Yes, Hye. You’ve only said this—” he taps his index finger against his chin, “—three million times. This week.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls her computer closer to her chest and Minho can only watch her press the volume up button vigorously, just to spite him. 

Minho glares at her. “I will literally kill you,” he mutters under his breath as one of the 3RACHA live performances is being played (for the thousandth time, Minho could swear) on his sister’s computer.

Hyemin grins cheekily. “You think they’d come to my funeral?” 

The ridiculousness hidden in her genuine question aside, Minho reaches out and makes a choking motion with his hands. “Wanna find out?” he teases. As annoying as she is most of the time (all of the time), he doesn’t really like fighting with her. When she pushes his hands away, he decides to give it another chance. “I really have to study before we leave. Can’t you respect that I have something to do, too? You’re not alone in this—”

“Minho! Hyemin!”

Their heads turn to face the door at the same time when they hear their mother yell from downstairs. A beat of silence passes, and Minho wonders if they have to yell something back, or if she’ll elaborate, but then she calls out again.

“Come get your laundry and start packing! We’re leaving for the airport right after Hyemin’s school tomorrow.” 

“Got it!”

Hyemin grins evilly at Minho, sets her laptop back on the desk, and dashes out of the room, quickly running down the stairs to their mother, who’s holding a basket of washed clothes.

Minho follows much more slowly—and not before pausing the video playing on Hyemin’s computer. He finds both her and their mother in the living room, his younger sister looking through her clothes with distaste, even as takes out a shirt she’d normally love to wear. Minho decides he doesn’t want to be in the close vicinity of her now, knowing well that she could toss the clothes (or, worse, the whole basket of laundry) right at him. 

When he comes back from the kitchen with a juice box in hand, she’s still right there, still clutching that shirt to her chest, looking into the distance like she’s having an epiphany. 

Minho tries not to get weirded out by that. 

“In less than twenty-four hours I’ll be in Los Angeles,” she says with a dreamy smile on her face, just to suddenly drop the shirt she was holding and turn to Minho with wide eyes. “What if Jisung picks me up from the airport?” 

Minho chokes on his juice, then nearly coughs up a lung. Obviously, his sister doesn’t make a move to help him, and it’s only a moment later that he manages to speak at all and ask, “Why in the world would he do that?”

Hyemin scoffs, as if it’s obvious. “I was one of his first ever fansites back when he still lived here, and I’m an active member of his fan club. I follow all of his social media, and I send him messages on Bubble every day.” (Minho tries to figure out what the fuck Bubble is, he really does, but he comes out empty.) “Trust me, he wants to meet me.”

Minho moves his gaze to his mother, who looks just as confused as he feels, and pulls the cutest puppy-dog eyes possible. “Is it too late for me to be an only child?”

His mom sighs, but it’s undeniably fond. “I’m afraid so,” she says with a soft, but nonetheless teasing smile. Her skin is wrinkled in the corners of her eyes and mouth, beautiful scars of happiness and optimism. She has always been like that—the one to lift everyone up, make them smile until their cheeks hurt, rarely getting truly upset.

That’s why Minho decides to push a bit more. He lifts the corner of his mouth in the cutest smile he can muster, flutters his eyelashes, and uses the pleading eyes that used to always get him anything he wanted. 

“Then can I at least please stay at home?”

“No.”

Minho doesn’t expect a different answer but he still lets out an irritated sigh. His magic tricks don’t work on anyone anymore. “Why not? I’m twenty-four years old for fu—” He pauses instantly when his mother sends him a pointed look. “For heaven’s sake.”

“Because your grandmother hasn’t seen you in three years.”

“Well, it’s hardly my fault she decided to live in the States,” he complains, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child. “If she wants to see me, she’ll have to come here instead.” 

Minho knows he’s being ridiculous, but he’d do anything to avoid babysitting his younger sister in Los Angeles. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see grandma; he loves that woman with his whole heart. She used to watch over him and cook him a lot of delicious food when he was a kid, but after she moved to the States, they rarely talk for longer than one minute. It’s partly the time difference, partly the fact that they have nothing to talk about.

Minho is sure she doesn’t really remember what he looks like. They could send a random guy his age and she probably wouldn’t notice.

“Minho,” his mother warns. “Don’t act like a brat. You’re going, and that’s final.”

Before Minho has the chance to groan and show off exactly how annoyed he is at the thought of spending entire week in the company of his sister (freaking out over a musician) and his parents (who don’t seem to mind her screaming about how she’s stalking the poor guy 24/7), Hyemin interrupts him. 

“Everybody quiet,” she demands from the couch, turning the television volume up. “This might be about 3RACHA.” 

One of the silly channels his sister watches religiously is airing a segment on some award show he doesn’t care about, and Minho feels like grabbing the flower vase and tossing it at the screen. Or, better, grabbing the television and jumping off the balcony right with it.

“The fabulous trio, the Pride of Korea,” the woman on the TV starts, “picked up six American Music Association Awards last night, just in time for their new album ‘Horizon’, to record a whopping amount of three million pre-ordered copies! I caught up with our favorite world-stars on the red carpet.”

The woman excitedly shoves the microphone in the leader, Bang Chan’s face. His teammates seem a little bit annoyed for some reason—probably because it’s their seventieth interview of the night when every single person asks them the same boring questions—but the blond smiles brightly and, in a pleasant accent, says, “Well, first I’d love to say thank you so much for supporting our music and coming to our concerts. You are the reason we love what we do. You guys are the best fans in the entire universe. Thank you.” 

Hyemin squeaks as the camera shifts to the ‘love of her life’—a blond-haired man with big ‘squishy’ cheeks and wide eyes. Even though both Minho and his mom are quiet, Hyemin tells them to be silent just before Han Jisung speaks up. 

“Guys! Our new album drops in a week and it has already been pre-ordered over three million times! We couldn’t believe that when we were first told!” He grins at the camera, and Minho thinks stupidly that his smile really is heart-shaped like Hyemin has cried way too many times. “We’ve never achieved this before and I don’t think anyone ever has, and. . . Well it’s a pleasure to represent South Korea so well.” 

Minho pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation, knowing well that Hyemin has probably ordered at least fifty copies of that goddamn album, and thinks of all the places the money could’ve gone to. Like animal shelters. Homeless shelters. So many charities. 

Hyemin sighs lovingly. “He is such an amazing person.”

Minho scowls. The crease between his brows deepens, and he reaches out to smooth it out before it becomes permanent a little too soon; with how Hyemin has been annoying him lately, he thinks it’s going to be too soon.

“He’s definitely not.”

Hyemin whips around to glare at him. “He is amazing. If you knew him like I know him, you wouldn’t say that.” 

Minho raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side, looking at his sister with something akin to pity. “Hello? We live in Seoul, and he lives in LA. You don’t know him.”

“But I do,” she smirks. “I know everything about him.” 

“You’re a stalker,” Minho says, the edge of his voice harsh and unpleasant. “If he saw you, he would definitely run away and call the cops to get a restraining order against you.”

Hyemin lets out a loud groan. She grabs the cushion laying on the couch and throws it at him, but he manages to catch it right before it hits him in the face. 

“Don’t piss me off,” Minho warns. He puts the cushion back on the couch and, covering the television with his body, cups her face with his hands. Despite her loud protests at how she can’t see anything, Minho fake-coos, “Sweet, sweet Hyemin.”

He presses his hands on her cheeks so hard that her mouth forms the shape of the number eight, and smiles so sweetly that even his tongue feels like it’s been dipped in sugar. 

“You’re the reason celebrities get twenty security guards,” he says. “Please get a life that doesn’t revolve around chasing someone you can never have.” 

★

Jisung arrives at the club a little later than he had promised. They’re already waiting for him as he steps out of his car and hands the keys to the valet, and Hyunjin is the one to immediately cling to his arm; they haven’t seen each other for a week because of Hyunjin’s schedules. Jisung has to admit he missed him. Just a bit.

“You ready to party?” 

“Absolutely,” Jisung says without much enthusiasm. Hyunjin doesn’t seem to care, even though he sends him a pointed look; he usually believes Jisung only needs a few drinks to cheer up—he’s usually right. 

As he grabs Jisung by the forearm instead and pulls him to the front of the building where the rest of their friend group is, Hyunjin opens his mouth one more time to excitedly state, “You know, out of all your cars, Angel is my favorite.”

“Angel?” 

“Yeah, look at her.” They both turn around to look at the sports car, the Mercedes-AMG GT Hyunjin is longing to drive but Jisung is continuously denying him just to be a little shit. “Hey, does that new valet look a little shifty to you?”

Jisung raises his eyebrows doubtfully. “No, not really.” He sees that Hyunjin wants to say something again, so he calls out, “Oh, look! Felix is there!” 

“Felix?” Hyunjin straightens his back and runs his fingers through his black hair, searching for that one face in the crowd. “Yongbok-ah! There you are!”

He grabs Jisung again as he spots Felix in the sea of people, just having arrived at the venue, and pulls him in that direction, just to let go and push him away the moment Felix goes for a hug.

“Are Chan and Changbin inside?” Jisung asks, pulling Felix into an embrace, too. 

Hyunjin nods. “They’ve already saved us a table,” he says. “Let’s not keep them waiting. Chan was pretty anxious earlier, but I don’t know what that was about.”

The moment Jisung enters the club, he’s hit by a wave of the suffocating smell of perfume mixed with tobacco, alcohol, and sweat. One step, and he already wants to dart back to his car and flee.

He doesn’t really like these kinds of parties. He likes those that are thrown at one of his houses, full of friends and people he knows well—not those in the city, where anyone can get if they pay enough money, where Jisung doesn’t really feel safe.

He breaks out of his thoughts when Chan hugs him as they reach the table they’d booked. If he’s already here, there’s no use complaining, really.

He plops down on the leather couch and sweeps his eyes over his surroundings, easily noting that Changbin is out of sight.

“Did you order me anything?” Jisung asks, leaning in closer so that Chan can hear him over the booming music. After he shakes his head, Jisung adds, “I’m just gonna go with what you guys are gonna get, then.”

For he doesn’t have anything better to do, Jisung sweeps his gaze over the club. Not even a second passes, and he’s elbowing Chan in the side, nudging in the direction of the aisle between booths.

Changbin, grinning from ear to ear, is approaching their table in the company of a cherry-haired guy who has his arm wrapped around Changbin’s waist.

“Guys, this is Seungmin!” Changbin exclaims loudly. Hyunjin and Felix shift their gazes from the menu to the two men standing beside them and raise their eyebrows in sync. “He’s here on vacation with his friends, but they disappeared somewhere so I brought him here.” 

Even in the flickering lights, Jisung catches the red flush on Seungmin’s face; he manages to play it cool, though, acting like it isn’t there, and Changbin is too tipsy to notice, anyway. 

Seungmin raises his hand and sends them a little wave, making Chan laugh and call him a cutie. He takes a seat next to Jisung, maintaining respectful distance while leaning into the conversation Changbin slips into with Hyunjin, and even though Jisung has just learnt his name, he seems like a cool guy.

Jisung even shares a bottle of soju with him, downing a few shots and laughing when they spill the alcohol all over the table, having to rush to wipe it all off with napkins. 

“Jisung,” Changbin starts, nudging his leg under the table to get his attention. “Give me a ride tomorrow and I’ll pay for your drinks.”

Jisung frowns. “Where? I’m not driving you anywhere to the other side of the city.”

Chan elbows him in the ribs. “Don’t tell me you forgot about Yeji’s birthday party.” 

Even though he was engrossed in a conversation with Felix just a second ago, Hyunjin quickly tunes into it the second he hears his sister’s name. Taking into account Jisung’s confusion and his wide eyes, Hyunjin pouts right away. “You promised her you guys would perform!” he reminds, voice whiny thanks to the amount of alcohol buzzing in his veins. “You know how she’s your biggest fan.” 

“Yah, don’t worry. We’ve got so much going on right now with the album promotions, Jisung just forgot,” Changbin tells him, patting his back. “But we will perform, especially when it’s for Yeji.” 

Jisung nods eagerly, feeling bad that he’d actually forgotten about something so important.

Hyunjin’s sister is a great girl—she always supports 3RACHA’s music and shows up to their concerts every time she can, even though she has her own group back home in Korea to take care of. They have always gotten along—since their childhood, as they grew up together. Performing for her is always an honor and a great pleasure. 

“Well, then, I can give you a lift, Changbin, but you gotta be ready on time ‘cause I’m definitely not waiting for you,” Jisung ends up saying, and then goes straight for the glass of a fancy rainbow drink on the other side of the table.

He downs a half of it in one go and allows himself to relax a bit—at least for tonight. Even though there’s still some time before 3RACHA’s album officially comes out, the pressure on their shoulders is weighing down on them. Jisung finds it especially heavy considering the gossip he’s been a victim of recently, promising himself to work even harder than before now and avoid any scandals—so that he doesn’t bring any bad attention to his friends when they’ve landed in the spotlight after years of enormous effort.

Jisung sighs, taking yet another sip of his colorful drink.

Seungmin and Changbin disappear a few moments later, heading straight to the dance floor hand in hand, tripping over their feet and giggling like lovesick teenagers. God. Jisung wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up making out in the corner later in the night; he’s just hoping he won’t have to witness that. 

After gulping down a few more colorful drinks Hyunjin and Felix are so insistent on ordering, Jisung sits with his cheek propped up against his hand, bored out of his mind. He would rather be at home now, in his bed, with an episode of the shittiest TV show known to mankind streaming on his laptop; he would rather be alone, not surrounded by loud music and sweaty bodies of people he doesn’t know.

He feels a little bit dizzy, though not drunk enough to stumble around, so when his mind comes up with a clever decision to step outside for some fresh air, he doesn’t hesitate to stand up from the table.

He leans into Chan’s space to tell him, “I’m gonna go outside,” because he’s the only person sober enough to pay attention. Hyunjin and Felix are goners, really.

“Stay safe,” Chan says, squeezing his arm.

Jisung nods and jogs down the steps, pushing through the thick crowd to find the back exit. When he finally manages to step out of the building, his relief turns out to be short-lived.

Noticing the black cars lined up along the parking lot, Jisung instantly regrets leaving. He spins on his heel and tries to get back into the club, but when he pulls at the handle, the door doesn’t open. 

Panic settling into his bones, Jisung lets out a shuddering breath and hunches in on himself, only glancing over his shoulder to check if anyone has noticed him. That’s yet another mistake. 

Someone must have caught a glimpse of his face in the dark of the night, because the door of one of the vans slides open and a person with a camera runs out, heading in his direction.

“Fuck,” Jisung mutters under his breath, yanking the door handle again and again and again. It doesn’t budge.

He takes in a sharp, ragged breath, feeling his hands start to tingle, and then shake. Jisung struggles to stand upright and to breathe, a lump already starting to form in his throat as the panic overtakes him.

“There he is!” exclaims one of the reporters behind him. At the shout, Jisung hears more doors sliding open. And the fucking handle doesn’t give way. “Han!” they call out. 

They’re coming closer and closer, backing him into the closed back door, and he has nowhere to hide, so he turns around to face them, hoping that somehow he’ll miraculously find a way to push through them and run towards his own car.

Heartbeat picking up in fear at the distance that’s barely left between him and the reporters, Jisung clenches his fists angrily. A splitting headache is starting to build behind his eyes and in his temples, intensifying as the paparazzi call out to get his attention.

He just wanted a breather—a moment without any cameras shoved in his face. Without people following his every move and snapping pictures of him when he’s just simply existing. Jisung knows it’s a price he’s paying for being famous, but he wishes he didn’t have to deal with his every move being documented for the public to scrutinize.

His head spins when someone touches his shoulder. Jisung whips around, his jaw set and expression furious, clumsily blocking one of the cameras with his hand as the back of the club erupts with flashing lights. Even though this person doesn’t manage to take a picture of him, the others harassing him do—shouting and calling out questions and shoving their phones into his face to record him as he gets more and more furious. 

Jisung knows—he’s sure of it—that his face will be on the morning cover of every tabloid in the United States, and—what’s undoubtedly worse—all over the Internet, spreading to Korea. Here goes not bringing bad attention. 

“Let me go,” he demands through gritted teeth. Unsurprisingly, they don’t listen. 

“Han, one question!” he hears from every single side as the paparazzi surround him. One question quickly turns into what feels like a thousand questions.

Not being able to bring himself to lift his eyes from the ground as he reaches out and struggles once again to open the door to the club, Jisung feels his breathing turn shallow and ragged. His chest is heaving, heart racing along with his thoughts, and he tries to calm down, but all the yelling from the people trying to take pictures of him doesn’t help at all. 

“Are you and Yeji dating?” 

“Does your new solo song mean you’re leaving the group?” 

“Is it true that you and Chris fight a lot?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” 

Jisung groans, pushing past them with force that must come with the self-preservation instinct as he feels himself getting even more and more panicked as one of the reporters bumps into him and makes him stumble. “Leave me the fuck alone,” he snaps, desperately trying to get out of the circle surrounding him as they oh and ah, continuing to invade his privacy with questions and two centimeters of distance, taking pictures and blinding him with the neverending flashes.

“Jesus, just—” he huffs, breath catching on a tremble in his voice. “Just let me go.”

The back door swings open, crashing against the wall with deafening fury. Jisung whips around, shoulders slumping in relief as Chan steps out, anger clouding his expression. Without caring about their image, he takes Jisung by the arm and pushes the paparazzi away, sending one of the cameras tumbling down to the ground.

After a second of loaded silence and gasps of disbelief, the reporters start shouting and calling out for them again, but Chan pulls Jisung even closer, stepping in front of him and shielding him from the prying eyes and cameras. 

“You heard him,” he snarls. “Leave us the fuck alone before we call the police.” And then he whisks Jisung away with a protective hold around his shoulders. “Did they hurt you?”

With how tight his throat is, Jisung can only shake his head as they leave to the sound of frustrated groans and a man shouting “I got the best shots!”. Jisung doesn’t want to think of the mess he and his friends will have to go through tomorrow, how their management will definitely be pissed beyond coaxing into calmness. 

Chan leads him along the building and through another back entrance while Jisung just clings to him, trying to stabilize his pounding heart. Chan pushes the door open, not making a move to follow the sound of the booming music, instead letting Jisung slump against the cold wall in the vestibule.

“God, I shouldn’t have left you alone,” Chan says, his voice devoid of the anger he’d directed at the reporters. “You sure you’re alright?” 

Jisung swallows hard. “I snapped at them and cursed them out,” he says, trying to tell himself that maybe it won’t be so bad—that maybe people will understand that he was being harrassed.

Chan clicks his tongue, stepping closer to push Jisung’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. “They deserved much worse than that, Jisung. You should always protect yourself from them and don’t care about the consequences, management be damned. They could’ve hurt you,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” 

“Yeah,” Jisung lets out, but even to his own ears, he doesn’t sound too convincing. He heaves a sigh, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. “Can you drive me home? I don’t think I can sit behind the wheel, but I don’t want to stay here any longer.”

Chan nods. “But we gotta get Hyunjin and Felix, too,” he says. “I’ll be right back. Don’t you even move an inch from here.” 

He walks up the stair, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Jisung is fine. At the top, he opens the door leading into the main part of the club and lets the music blasting inside out into the open. Jisung stares at him up until the moment he disappears behind the door that slips shut. 

His head is throbbing and legs feel like giving out under his weight, but Jisung has to hold on a little longer. He’ll go home, take the longest bath ever, and go to sleep, forgetting about the paparazzi and the enormous possibility of his furious face landing on the front page of all magazines in the country. 

Jisung is never leaving his bed again. 

★

As Minho walks through the campus after a tiring block of his Creative Writing class, meaning to head to the coffee shop for a power-up, he spots his sister at one of the picnic tables with a huge sign saying Uni Fair Tickets! in bold, glittery blue letters in front of them. 

He figures he can get rid of the weight in his bag, and heads in their direction. The moment Hyemin notices him approaching, though, she scowls and—before he even has a chance to speak up—says, “You are not invited.” 

Minho furrows his brows, resisting the urge to just roll his eyes or lean over the table to smack her. He’s not a violent person, but, god, this girl is getting on his nerves. “First of all, I’m here to give you lunch because you left it on the counter in the morning, so shut up and be thankful I haven’t tossed it into trash instead,” he says, reaching into his back to take out her lunchbox. “Second of all, everyone is invited. It’s a university fair, Hyemin.”

“And what would you even do there?” his sister sneers. “You don’t know how to have fun.”

Minho knows exactly why she’s being more annoying than usual. And maybe it’s his fault for sneaking into her room while she was eating dinner and stealing her portable speakers just so that he doesn’t have to be subjected to another night of listening to a compilation of Han Jisung’s Best Verses— but it’s her fault for not respecting it when he nicely asks her to lower the volume the fuck down. 

“And you of all people are saying that?” he scoffs, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “When your idea of having fun is spending ten hours holed-up in your room watching videos of that stupid group of yours?”

Hyemin and her friends all gasp at the same time. It’s almost frightening. “You piece of shit!” she exclaims, not caring about the students passing them by. “You just wait until we get back home, and I’m going to have so much fun your ears are going to fall off!”

Minho breaks into a proper grin. “Did you forget we’re going to Los Angeles after class?” 

One of Hyemin’s friends butts in before Hyemin can threaten Minho to find a way to ruin his life on their thirteen hour-long flight. “Oh, Hyeminnie, don’t forget to bring your camera with you!”

At the mention, Hyemin instantly forgets about Minho. “I won’t, obviously. It was the first thing I packed, since we still need more pictures for our fanbook,” she says, going through her bag. “Aha,” she lets out, taking out a hardback notebook with a glitter red cover and setting it on the table. “Jisung talking, walking, singing, dancing, shopping. . .  breathing.”

All of the girls let out a simultaneous dreamy sigh.

Jesus Christ. It isn’t even Hyemin’s camera to begin with; Minho got it for his birthday last year, and if his sister has already packed it into her luggage—let alone is thinking about taking it without his permission—to take pictures of a guy she’s been stalking for years. . . 

Never in her wildest dreams. 

“You are not taking my camera, dipshit,” Minho says sternly. “And you are definitely not stalking this guy during our holidays. You’re gonna play sudoku with grandma, not run around the city to find him.”

“This guy,” Jiwon, one of Hyewon’s friends, mutters under her breath, quickly hiding behind Hyemin’s back when Minho’s murderous glare shifts onto her. 

“Mhm. Now you see who I gotta put up with,” Hyemin says, pouting, and Jiwon looks at her sympathetically, as if forbidding to invade someone’s privacy makes Minho the worst person in the entire universe. 

Minho sighs. “We have every day of the week planned and there isn’t any place for—”

“My sweet, little brother,” Hyemin interrupts, paying absolutely no attention to the look Minho sends her as he crosses his arms over his chest. “When we go to L.A., you can do crosswords with grandma all you want, but I am going to meet Han Jisung.” 

“I’m older than you,” Minho points out, this time not being able to hold himself back from rolling his eyes. “And just how are you planning to do that in the most populous city in California?”

Jiwon gets the notebook out of Hyemin’s hands and opens it, holding it out so Minho can see the colorful pages inside. “Well, we’ve mapped out his every move for the past eighteen months!”

Minho shudders just thinking about how they must’ve paid other stalkers to get this information while they’re almost ten thousand kilometers away from Han Jisung, and he almost starts feeling bad for the guy.

“Yeah, I know when and where he’s likely to be,” Hyemin says. “About the time we leave for Los Angeles, he’ll be having his daily meeting with the managers, and then he’ll have a session at the gym.” 

They both sigh dreamily. At least the other friend—whose name Minho doesn’t know—doesn’t join them, looking slightly concerned, maybe thoughtful about what they’re doing.

Minho takes a step back, his eyebrows raised high. “You’ve creeped the shit out of me,” he says. “Take this.” And then he throws the lunchbox at her. She barely catches it, and she’s quick to yell at him for trying to give her a blackeye before her meeting with Jisungie, but Minho has had enough, so he darts away from the crazy company, regretting more and more that there’s no way for him to skip the trip to California.

★

Jisung’s peaceful sleep is cut short when Chan and Changbin barge into his house at ten o’clock in the morning, seemingly for no other reason than to disturb the only happiness in his life. 

The bed dips under Chan’s weight when he climbs onto the mattress to take ahold of Jisung and cling to him. “Did our angel sleep well?” he asks, cooing exaggeratedly, just to be annoying.

Changbin just laughs, and when Jisung manages to push Chan off, he sees him rummaging through Jisung’s closet—only to grab the most random T-shirt and sweatpants to toss them right at him. 

“Go brush your teeth and get dressed,” he says, staring at Jisung pointedly. “The managers are gonna be here soon.” 

“Shit,” Jisung mutters, covering his face with his hands. Thankfully, his sleep had gone uninterrupted with nightmares of the group’s career being ruined because of his encounter with the reporters last night, but now that he’s fully awake, Jisung can’t help the anxiety creeping up his neck.

“You feeling alright?” Changbin asks, voice softer. Before Jisung can respond, Chan pats his head and gets up, whispering something about leaving to brew them all coffee. They both watch him go, and Jisung sighs, pushing the covers aside and getting out of bed.

“Yeah,” he says, slowly slipping into the clothes Changbin took out for him. “Tired. And my head hurts, but. . . yeah.”

Changbin nods, even though he doesn’t seem convinced, and lets go of the topic as Jisung walks over to the bathroom to wash his face. There are dark circles underneath his eyes despite the good night’s sleep he’s gotten. He’s swollen and red, and his hair is a mess even after he combs through it. Maybe he should visit a hairdresser soon.

With a sigh, Jisung leaves the bathroom and heads downstairs to the kitchen. Chan and Changbin are already talking about something quietly, but Jisung still hasn’t gotten the sleepy haze off of his mind, so he doesn’t even register what the topic is.

He climbs onto the bar stool, welcoming the mug of coffee Chan slides across the counter for him with a small smile. Maybe he should, but he doesn’t ask about articles about last night, doesn’t move to check his phone for messages from his parents and exaggerated headlines popping up everywhere he goes. Neither do Chan and Changbin.

They manage to down their coffee just in time for a familiar car to pull up in front of the gate. Jisung stands up to grab the remote and open the gate for Sana and Momo—their managers—and joins his friends in the living room, taking a seat on the couch next to Changbin, pulling his knees to his chest.

Neither Sana nor Momo bother ringing the doorbell before they enter the house, toeing off their shoes in the foyer and stepping into the living room. Their expressions are unreadable, but at least they’re not furious. 

Jisung knew they wouldn’t be—after all, even if there are some articles about him and Chan pushing the reporters, their managers know they were only trying to protect themselves. But anxiety isn’t something he can’t help. 

“You had a blast last night, huh?” Sana starts, and she almost looks amused.

Momo rolls her eyes, taking the cup of tea Chan made for her out of his hands. “Stop encouraging them,” she says, but there’s a smile playing on her lips as she settles down in the armchair. 

“I will always encourage them to punch stupid people,” Sana concludes, winking at Jisung and beginning to pace around the living room, most likely to enjoy the sunlight streaming in through the giant windows. 

Jisung curls in on himself. From what he remembers, he hadn’t actually punched anyone, and he’s hoping no one twisted the story to make him out to be an aggressive psycho. That’s the last thing they all need right before the release of their album.

He tunes out the conversation they slip into as they wait for Jeonghan, the third manager that completes 3RACHA’s team. He doesn’t feel particularly well, and although he knows this meeting is important, he wishes he could just go back upstairs and pretend he doesn’t exist.

He wonders if the company has already written a draft of the statement they’ll post to explain Jisung and Chan’s behavior yesterday. If it will take a toll on the success of their album, the tour that’s in the making, with rumors floating around the Internet about shows all over the world, people wishing and begging for a date in their country.

The worries are eating away at him, and he has to physically restrain himself by locking his hands between his thighs to stop himself from nervously biting his nails. He remembers the last time he was sitting in the conference room back in the headquarters because he did something wrong; trying to stop his legs from shaking, cracking his knuckles until the sound reverberates too loudly through the room, keeping his gaze glued to the table. 

Jeonghan had told him Jisung did nothing wrong then, but the rumors were there right before 3RACHA were supposed to fly out to Korea for their anniversary concert; pictures of Jisung on a nightly escapade to the beach with his friends—with Everest, clinging to him as he threw her into the water, them playing around and laughing until their stomachs hurt. They don’t even talk anymore because of the storm that broke out then, dating rumors everywhere, and Jisung struggling to find something to say even though none of the speculations were true.

He’s going to keep quiet this time.

The front door opens with a click, snapping Jisung back into reality. He didn’t even notice when someone stood up to open the driveway gate, but now that he snaps his head up, he can clearly hear more than one pair of shoes.

He and Changbin exchange confused looks as Chan tries to peer into the hallway, but then Jeonghan steps out, so he quickly straightens up where he’s standing leaning against the windowsill. 

“Well, well, good morning,” Jeonghan greets, sweeping his gaze over the room and then turning around to wave over whoever he’s brought along. Jisung’s fingertips tingle with anxiety when he lowers his feet onto the floor. “I brought a guest today.”

“A guest?” Changbin asks, his gaze moving over to Sana and Momo who both look unfazed—like they already knew.

“Ah, yes, you’re gonna love him,” Sana says, basically confirming their suspicions. She’s sporting a soft smile as she lifts her cup of herbal tea to take a sip, just when a man finally emerges from the hallway, running a hand through his dark hair.

Jisung doesn’t recognize him, but he still shoots up to greet him when both Chan and Changbin do. The man can’t be much older than any of them, but there’s this aura to him, a collision of respect and ease.

“Jeon Wonwoo,” he introduces himself to Jisung, taking a hold of his hand and sending him an easy smile. If he knows Jisung as an aggressive paparazzi-puncher, he doesn’t let it show.

Jisung nods, tells him his name even though at this point he’s certain the guy knows it, and sits back down on the couch, trying not to appear too nervous—even if sweat is beginning to gather at the neckline of his t-shirt and his knee keeps jerking up. 

“Good to see you after so long,” Sana says, to Jisung’s surprise pulling Wonwoo into a hug. They must know each other from way back—Momo comes up to embrace him, too, and Wonwoo teases both of them easily, asking if they’ve already stopped stringing each other along.

Even Jisung can’t help but grin at that, and he gives up on trying to suppress it when Momo pointedly tells him, “None of your business,” which could come off as cold to anyone who doesn’t know her, but to everyone in the room, it’s clear that she’s only being mean to tease right back. 

Wonwoo shakes his head with a laugh, but it dies down when his attention falls back onto the three of them again. “I’m a big fan of what you guys do,” he says. “My boyfriend kind of got me into your music. He’s a big fan, and he would actually kill me if I didn’t mention that.”

Jisung ducks his head with a smile as Chan rightfully says that it’s a big honor. His heart always threatens to burst from happiness when someone tells them they appreciate 3RACHA’s music—because 3RACHA is his entire life, something he gave up everything for, something he and his friends worked hard on for years and years before getting where they are now. Knowing that everything they convey through their music comes from them and them alone, that they’re sincere in what they write about, adds to the value of people enjoying their craft.

Wonwoo steps aside to look around the place, taking a peek through the patio door overlooking the hills. Then, he swiftly turns back around and looks right at Jisung. “It’s yours, right?” he asks, and Jisung nods. “It looks great. The whole neighborhood does. Anyone moving out from the area?” 

Jisung opens his mouth to say that he truthfully has no idea, not knowing just yet whether the guy is just joking around, but Momo cuts him off before he can even say a word.

“Let’s get into it,” she suggests, an edge to her voice. She gets like this when business is discussed—she slips into that responsible role of a manager, prepared for any discussions.

“Right. You may or may not know me, but I’m a director, and I’ve only recently moved here from Seoul to work on a new movie. And. . .” Wonwoo shrugs with a smile. “I’ve been watching you. And I like what I see.”

Jisung’s breath hitches. He doesn’t have it in himself to look anywhere other than at Wonwoo, but the moment the man meets his eyes, Jisung’s gaze skitters away. He’s always having trouble being Han when he’s at home—this confident stage persona that isn’t afraid of any challenge, of looking people in the eye and telling them exactly what he wants; here, on this couch, Jisung is just Jisung—tired, cranky, and wanting to go back to sleep.

Wonwoo doesn’t seem fazed.

“Your latest music video inspired me to consider you in the first place,” he says. “I like the badass aesthetic, the weapons, and that cyberpunk vibe. I like how naturally you guys fit into all of that, because that’s the concept of my next work.”

Oh. Jisung thinks he knows where this is heading, and he isn’t sure if he’s loving it like he thinks he’s supposed to. He swallows, hard, wishing he could stand up and grab a bottle of water—but he remains glued to the couch.

Wonwoo pauses, almost strategically, and sweeps his gaze over all of them. “I would like the three of you in my movie,” he states, simple as that. “I would like any of you in my movie.”

Jisung’s eyes go wide. Suspecting it and hearing about it are two different things, and hearing the words fall off Wonwoo’s lips seems surreal. Like Jisung has dreamed it all up. 

Changbin makes a similar noise of surprise, and Chan looks so taken aback that he seems to have lost the ability to speak. 

“Experience is not something I’m worried about,” Wonwoo continues, not letting them speak, clearly adamant on letting all the information out before that happens. “You can always take acting lessons with the best teachers in the country, and I will take care of that.”

Chan clears his throat. “I mean—It’s. . . It’s a great opportunity, but—”

Wonwoo interrupts him. “But, my people don’t necessarily agree with me,” he says, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his pants, tapping the screen a few times, only to set it down on the coffee table for everyone to see. “All they see is three spoiled kids from Korea who like to tangle with paparazzi and get caught up in scandals.”

Jisung lowers his gaze onto his lap in shame. 

The title of the article says, ‘Pride of Korea doesn’t make us so proud,’ and shows a picture of Jisung with his mouth wide open as he screams at paparazzi, trying to push past them. There’s another photo, smaller, of a broken camera lying on the ground—must be the one of the person Chan pushed to the ground.

Momo stands up for them immediately. “Wonwoo-yah, you know how the tabloids are. They manipulate photos to—”

Wonwoo lifts his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, I know. I get it, I get it,” he says. “Look, all I’m saying is a chance like this comes along once in a lifetime and I want to give you a shot at it. I think you’ll do great. But you have to prove that you are serious and mature and cut out for it.” 

Changbin relaxes his clenched jaw. “How do we do that if they harass us everywhere we go?” he asks.

Wonwoo lets out a sigh. “On Monday, I’m gonna meet with my people in the agency, try to buy their trust for you,” he says. “In the meantime, you have to make a decision whether you’re in, and all three of you gotta keep your faces out of those shit magazines. No press. Good or bad. Understood?” 

“We can do that,” Chan says, sounding confident and put-together, making Jisung feel glad for having him around; if he were to speak up, he’d only make a fool out of himself—after all, the problem is he has brought them bad press. 

“In fact, stay home,” Wonwoo suggests, his expression softening with understanding.

As a homebody, Jisung wouldn’t even think of arguing—staying at home to binge the stupidest TV shows that only swallow his brain cells is his kind of afternoon. But he thinks back to the promise they made to Yeji, and knows it’s impossible, even though she would definitely understand.

Wonwoo looks ready to wrap up, so Jeonghan stands up from the couch along with him, probably to drive him back wherever they came from.

Sana comes up to him to say, “Thank you for thinking about them. We’re gonna watch them until you and your people make a decision.” 

“We appreciate this chance,” Chan says, standing up to shake Wonwoo’s hand. “We’re not going to disappoint.”

Wonwoo smiles. “I know you won’t.” 

★

The thirteen-hour plane ride would be more bearable if Hyemin wasn’t sat next to Minho, talking about Han Jisung and her plans to r un into him the whole way there. To get her off his back at least for a moment, he had to pretend to be asleep—even though he couldn’t actually bring himself to fall into the dreamland, mostly because he’s uncomfortable on the plane. 

Minho is pissed at their parents for buying themselves a gold pass to the No-Hyemin-Zone and booking seats on the other side of the plane, not even thinking of saving their beloved son’s ass too. 

“I get it. You think he's hot. You think his eyes are the color of that insane chocolate you had in Belgium. I really get it,”  Minho tells her as they wait for their parents. “Now, please, I have never begged you for anything in my entire existence, so please. Just this once, please, shut up.”

Minho pops his earbuds back into his ears, but Hyemin yanks one out.

“You seriously brought homework?” she asks, pointing to the book in his hands. He couldn’t even start reading it because she talked his ear off about Han fucking Jisung.  

Minho really wants to claw her eyes out. “No,” he says with a fake smile. “It's called reading. You should try it sometimes.”

“What? I read!” she argues. 

“Magazines don’t count,” he deadpans. “And fanfiction. You probably read those Jisung and reader fanfictions.” Hyemin remains silent and Minho just shakes his head in disappointment. “I rest my case.” 

Once they had landed in Los Angeles, they took a taxi to the Car Rental and Minho was forced to wait outside the building with his sister, who—unsurprisingly—still hasn’t learnt how to shut her mouth. Their parents left him with her for safety while they’re trying to get them a car for the week of their vacation. They must realize that leaving Hyemin alone would result in her escaping to run through the city in search for Han Jisung or his friends. 

“Jesus,” Hyemin whines, scrolling through her phone mindlessly. She’s probably just looking at Jisung’s pictures. “What's taking them so damn long? Just get me a car already so I can go meet my baby.”

“Hate to burst your bubble,” he says with a fake smile. “But, my sweetest sister, you cannot drive any of these cars.”

She furrows her eyebrows and pulls her license out of her wallet. She shoves it in Minho's face, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times before, as if she doesn’t keep showing it off even months after actually getting it. “License. That's L-I-C—”

Minho grins devilishly and distracts her from her spelling bee by pointing at the sign plastered to the front of the rental. Even though she can read it on her own just fine after looking that way, Minho still can’t help but smugly starts reading it out loud. “You must be at least twenty-four years old to drive or rent a car from Los Angeles Car Rental—” Hyemin whimpers. “Want me to spell that out for you? That's T-W-E-N-T-Y-F—”

She cuts him off by yelling, “I’m almost twenty-two. Surely they'll make an exception.” And then she’s huffing and pouting, somehow being even more annoying than when she’s screaming. “How else am I supposed to do everything I planned?”

“And what would that be?” Mom asks, appearing out of nowhere, startling even Minho. 

He grins, then, thinking that maybe finally his mom will see that Hyemin needs to be anchored to grandma’s house at all costs—but then his smirk falters as Hyemin present her excuse: taking Minho sight-seeing, because the only thing he’d do without her is read all day. 

I’m gonna end you, Minho mouths to her, as their dad cheerfully concludes, “Well, in that case, I think Minho can drive.”

Oh no.  

“I totally forgot about your license, my sweet brother!” Hyemin squeals, breaking into a wide grin.

She loops her arms around Minho’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug—except his shoulder is digging into her collarbone, it’s uncomfortable, and the weather is so hot Minho is afraid he won’t be able to unstick himself from her hold. 

If only she knew that Minho is going to strangle her to death the moment they step out of their parents’ field of vision, maybe she would consider keeping her distance. He’s upset enough about the mere fact that he has to be here; she doesn’t have to add onto his sour mood.

The good thing is, they manage to fit all the suitcases into the truck of their rented black Jeep—which Minho wasn’t sure about, considering how much luggage they have. The bad thing is, Hyemin can’t help herself and she has to play 3RACHA’s music in the car—and neither mom, nor dad mind, so Minho is alienated. 

Over the course of years, he has sadly learnt to accept that his hatred for Han Jisung and friends meant less than his sister’s love for him. 

When they arrive at their grandmother’s house a dozen minutes later (after nearly getting lost because Minho’s dad doesn’t know how to move through the streets of California), they have to meet grandma’s new boyfriend. 

Minho was hoping it would be later in the evening, over a nice dinner or a board game, definitely not when he’s drowning in sweat, looking awful after thirteen hours of sitting on a plane.

It’s a weird experience, really, but William seems like a nice guy and, despite not being the happiest about this trip, Minho is glad he now knows for sure that the two of them are taking good care of each other.

“You’ve grown up so much,” Grandma instantly tells him, grabbing his shoulders to pull him close and leave wet kisses on both his cheeks. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

Minho smiles, though he feels awkward at the mention of how long they’ve been apart. Grandma has invited them over each summer, but the last time they came had to be solid five years ago. He’s starting to feel bad now. 

“You know how I’ve been drowning in work now that I’m graduating soon and all. . .” he says, but Grandma doesn’t even care about excuses—she waves a dismissive hand, clearly happy that they’re here now.

“You gotta tell me about that college of yours,” she says, ushering him towards the house. “Have you got any boyfriends over there, sweetheart?”

★

“Dad is telling you to stop pacing around,” Minho says as he enters the room Hyemin is staying in for the next week. "They can’t hold a conversation downstairs—that’s how loud you are." 

Hyemin huffs. “I don’t care! I just got a text from Jiwon,” she says at the speed of lighting, bouncy on her feet, all the while typing something out on her phone. “She just got a tip and, according to an. . . informant, Jisung is performing with 3RACHA at Hwang Yeji’s birthday party in an hour!” Minho gives her a ‘why should I care’ look, slightly concerned about the existence of that informant, but Hyemin doesn’t spare him a glance. “I have to go!”

“Yeah,” Minho snorts, turning on his heel to walk out and go back to chilling on the sunbed in the backyard. “Good luck convincing mom and dad.”

He’s already in the hallway when Hyemin blurts out, “You have to go with me.”

Minho stops in his tracks, eyebrows shooting up until they disappear under his hair, and huffs an incredulous laugh. “Are you out of your mind?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. (Yes, she is.) “No. I’m not going anywhere.”

“They’ll let me go if you go too,” Hyemin whines, pulling her best puppy-dog eyes. Too bad they don’t work on Minho. 

“Oh, what a pity you’re staying home tonight,” he says, feigning a sympathetic expression that has her gritting her teeth. 

“I will do anything for you. Anything,” she says, trying one last time. “Just. . . Please, Minho.”

Minho ponders it for a moment, deciding that anything does seem oddly convincing. Still, he pretends to be thinking it over and over, just to be annoying.

“Anything?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. She nods, though Minho knows her well enough to know it’s not that simple. “Record yourself saying that and send the audio over to me, and I’ll go. I’m keeping that favor for later.” 

Hyemin lets out a squeal that almost makes him take it all back, so—for the sake of the favor he’s going to get out of her without having to beg—Minho leaves the room, only calling out to tell her, “Be ready in half an hour or we’re not going anywhere!” 

But, of course, Hyemin arrives at the garage late, wearing make-up and glittery clothes while Minho is in a short-sleeved shirt and flared pants, not even thinking of exchanging his glasses for contacts this late at night. Hyemin had to sneak out for their parents to let her go out like this, there’s just no other way.

“Dressing up like this took you this long?” he teases, although he thinks she looks pretty—after all, only good genes run in the family. But it’s not like he’s going to tell her that, and he likes seeing her annoyed.

Hyemin glares, yanking open the door of their rented Jeep. “Oh, just shut up and drive.” 

A ghost of a smirk remains on Minho’s lips, but he does shut up. On the road, they argue a few times because Hyemin is an awful guide and doesn’t know how to read maps on her phone; Minho almost smacks her in the face and he’s so close, oh, so close to just pushing her out of the car on the side of the road and heading back home on his own. 

After a drive that has taken them way longer than necessary, they arrive at the club. Venom, says the neon sign at the front of the building, lighting up all the people lined-up at the entrance.

Hyemin squeals with excitement, but Minho isn’t so sure about any of this anymore. Will they even let her inside? Should he go with her to make sure she’s safe?

He’s about to ask, but Hyemin says, “Stop here.”

“Are you crazy? This is a no-parking zone.” 

“When one person stays in the car, it’s not parking. It’s waiting,” Hyemin says, making it sound like it should be obvious.

But Minho gawks at her in disbelief instead. “I’ll get a ticket.” 

“You won’t,” Hyemin says, quickly climbing out of the car before Minho gets the chance to stop her.

Their parents are going to kill him, he’s sure of that. If anything happens—either to Hyemin or to the car they rented—he’s going to be grounded for the rest of his life and even the promised anything from Hyemin won’t be worth it. 

Minho tries not to let the frustration seep in. He spends the next hour killing time by texting Seungkwan, his friend, about how he’s on the chase after a world-wide star—and, of course, waiting for a sign that his sister is alive. After all, she might have already been lost in the crowd and he doesn’t know.

What would he even tell their parents? You’ve trusted me, and I took your daughter to a club where she got trampled by the crowd because she wanted to see the superstar she’s been stalking for seven years.

God.

Minho gets mad. He gets really mad, because she should’ve been back by the time another half an hour passes, and the only thing surrounding him is silence, because he’s in the car alone. He loves silence, since at home it’s not something he can enjoy often, but right now, his own sister makes him hate it.

All sorts of negative thoughts rush through his head as he pushes the car door open and stalks across the street towards the people lined-up by the club, but he knows he won;t find his sister until next year if he waits here. So, in an act of desperation, he walks to the side of the building, away from the crowd, hoping there’s an emergency door somewhere that will lead him inside. 

He doubts that, considering this place is apparently frequented by celebrities, but all it takes is pushing through some bushes (the things he does for his sister!), to get to the back of the building, where there’s a huge metal door with the words EMERGENCY EXIT written across it. 

Minho doesn’t even get the chance to read the ‘Entrance: authorized personnel only’ written below, though, because the door is suddenly thrust open, slamming right into him. 

With a harsh groan, Minho falls onto the concrete right on his ass, hand flying up to his forehead to press against the throbbing point in the middle and accidentally knocking his glasses off to the ground.

Great.

Minho isn’t just mad. He’s pissed off.  

A string of curses reaches his ears, and then—

“Shit, did I just hit you?” someone says as they crouch down beside him. The strong smell of their perfume only irritates Minho further. 

And, even with his head throbbing with pain and blood rushing in his ears, he still scoffs. “No, the door hit me by itself.”

“This is not good.”

Minho thinks, No shit. How will he even explain the bruise that’s definitely going to appear on his forehead first thing in the morning? “For you or for me?” he asks sarcastically. “‘Cause right now it feels a lot worse for me, you asshole.”

As his eyes water when he pries them open, he starts feeling around for his glasses. It’s the person who hit him who hands them over to him, though, but Minho doesn’t thank them, or anything. He just puts his specs back on while they go back to panicking. 

“This is really not good.”

And then Minho sees it. This guy in front of him, this blond-haired, wide-eyed dude. . .

“Wait. . .” Minho murmurs, squinting at him. “You're Han—”

Eyes turning into two saucers, the man reaches out to press his palm against Minho’s mouth. Almost retching in disgust, Minho bites into his palm, making him jump back with a squeak.

“Are you insane?” Minho snaps. “Get your hands off of me!”

Han Jisung—because after having to see his picture framed on Hyemin’s desk for years, Minho is pretty damn sure that’s who the guy is—shakes his hand off and quickly lets go of the fact that he was just bitten by a stranger, quickly saying, “I will give you front-row tickets to my next concert if you don’t scream my name.”

Minho can’t believe the audacity of this guy.

“I don’t want to go to your stupid concert,” Minho says, reaching out to touch his forehead again—only to have his heartbeat picking up the pace as he feels and sees blood on his fingers.

Han Jisung’s panic grows at the sight. “Whoa, okay, okay. You need a doctor.” He frantically whips around at the sound of a car driving out of an alley, but lets out a sigh of relief like he recognizes it.  “Come on, come on. Come on, come on, come on.”

He repeats it so many times Minho is starting to think he might have a concussion and problems with his auditory system. But, no, Han Jisung is just panicked and awkward and eager to get out of here. Hereaches for Minho’s hand, but Minho snatches it out of his reach, pushing himself up onto his feet even though he stumbles.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Minho insists, but even with the sharp edge of his voice, he doesn’t sound quite so sure himself. 

“You need a doctor,” Han Jisung repeats.

And, well. . . Minho might as well see a doctor. After all, this guy is a worldwide superstar; maybe he won’t kill Minho with cold blood if he’s freaking out so much about hitting him with the door. And Minho isn’t going to be able to drive home like this, neither find his sister.

Oh, god. 

“My sister,” he mutters, growing more dizzy. His vision is swimming, and he has to press his palm against the wall to keep himself upright. “She’s in the club. I was going to get her—”

Some guy steps out of the car that had pulled up, eyes flickering between Minho and Jisung, confusion written all over his face. “Jeez, what happened?” 

But Han Jisung doesn’t explain how he slammed the door in Minho’s face, instead sternly saying, “Help now, questions later. Just get him in the car.” 

“But my sister—”

Jisung interrupts, “We’ll talk about your sister in a second,” and Minho feels the urge to just pay him back by grabbing him and hitting him with the door, too.

But he doesn’t. He’s too kind-hearted for that. And his head is spinning too much for him to walk that far and drag the guy along.

“I can get in a car myself, thanks,” Minho has to say, because the gentleman rushes to open the passenger door for him, all the while trying to push him forward with a hand pressed against his back. 

Minho scowls at the fancy interior of the car, still not sure if he didn’t hit his head too hard. Maybe he’s hallucinating, and it’s not Han Jisung slipping into the driver’s seat, but some random person trying to kidnap him.

At this point, he doesn’t care. If Minho’s parents find out that he took Hyemin to this place and lost her, he’s going to get killed anyway. Maybe this is better than facing their wrath.

The stranger sticks his head through the open door on the passenger’s side, asking, “Who the hell is this?”

Minho thinks he might’ve seen him somewhere—probably because of Hyemin—but right now his head feels really weird, and the last thing he wants to know is the name of this random guy.

Han Jisung shrugs, then turns to Minho. “What’s your name?” 

Minho frowns. “Dude, I’m not telling you my name,” he says. “And I don’t need a doctor. Just—Just find my sister and drive us—”

Minho cuts himself off as a wave of heat washes over him and he feels violently sick. That is apparently visible in his expression, because the stranger starts yelling.

“Whoa, whoa! Do not hurl in Cleo! I just got her detailed!” 

So Minho turns to the side when his stomach cramps, and it so happens that he ends up vomiting onto the stranger’s designer shoes. Well, Minho thinks as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand—at least he didn’t hurl inside the car. 

The guy still screams bloody murder. “No! My favorite shoes!” 

“I mean. . . they were really ugly, ” Jisung says in Minho’s defense, and then reaches across his lap to grab the handle and close the door. 

Minho rolls his eyes. “I can open, but I can also close the door myself.” 

Jisung looks startled, but his features quickly shift into something softer. “Sorry. Habits,” he says. “Can you open the window, then?”  

He sounds cheeky, lips curving up in a smirk, and he’s annoying Minho so much he debates whether not to remind him that he might be charged with assault, so he better keep his mouth shut.

He decides against it, reaching to the side to press the button on the door instead. He can save the threats for later.

The stranger is still complaining as he tries to wipe Minho’s vomit off his shoes (Minho kind of feels bad for it), but he catches the keys Jisung throws him just in time.

“Get his sister home, alright?” Jisung says.

The stranger turns toward Minho to ask, “Does she have a name or is that also confidential information?”

“Hyemin,” Minho says, gritting his teeth as the headache grows stronger. “Just look for an annoying Korean twenty-something in an overly glittery top.”

“Jesus Chr—” The stranger runs a hand through his hair, and points a finger right at Jisung. “You owe me big time!”

Minho closes the window.

Jisung chuckles at that, finally turning the key in the engine. “You want some water?” he asks as they drive off, leaving the stranger behind. “It’s in the backseat. Can you re—”

Minho groans. “I don’t want your stupid water.”

“Okay, okay.” Keeping his palms glued to the wheel, Jisung lifts his fingers in surrender. “You don’t have to get so mad.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “You literally hit me with a door and now I’m in a stranger’s car and you’re taking me somewhere and some random guy is looking for my sister and my parents are going to fucking kill me.”

He’s out of breath by the time he lets it all out. Jisung glances at him with raised eyebrows, but his eyes quickly flit back to the road. 

“You really, really don’t have to worry!” he says. “Your sister is going to be fine. Hyunjinnie will get her home soon and I am taking you to the hospital. It’s okay.” 

Jisung flashes him an easy smile, but for Minho, there’s nothing happy about this situation. He rolls his eyes and turns his head towards the window so that he doesn’t have to look at this stupid guy or even breathe in his direction. 

His mouth feels gross after throwing up, so halfway to the hospital, he gives in and turns around to search for the bottle of water. He gulps it down, ignoring the way Jisung mutters ‘stubborn’ under his breath.

Once they actually get to the hospital, he doesn’t wait for him to show off his habits and open the door for him, and gets out himself—even if his knees are wobbly and his head is throbbing. What’s even more annoying than having to be here at all, they have to enter through the back door, and Jisung is looking around frantically all the time.

Minho gets it that he’s famous, but that’s just irritating.

Jisung tells him to wait and calls someone—and then a nurse appears at the end of the empty hallway, seemingly looking for them as she sighs when her eyes land on them, miserable and nervous and pacing around. (Jisung is the one pacing; Minho is leaning against the wall, afraid his legs might give out.)

Minho doesn’t pay attention to Jisung’s conversation with the nurse, but they appear to know each other. She takes Minho’s arm and leads him to one of the rooms down the hallway with a gentle and concerned expression on her face, Jisung trailing next to them. 

Minho is then sat at the examination bed left alone for a moment as the nurse disappears, thankfully hidden from Jisung’s view behind a curtain. He doesn’t want to look at him anymore, and it still doesn’t feel real that this guy is actually Han fucking Jisung. Hyemin would probably love it if she were the one he hit with the door. Maybe she’d say something stupid like, Oh, I’m fine, but you should just kiss it better.

Minho shudders. 

God. She can’t ever find out about this.

After he’s whisked away for some head scans, the nurse from before comes back to ask him if he’s still feeling like he might vomit, and. . . Minho can’t believe Han Jisung told her he threw up on his friend’s shoes. That’s just. . . embarrassing. She also checks his blood pressure, asks him about his well-being (to which he says that he’s okay, but his head is pounding), takes a look at the wound on his forehead, and then leaves after telling him the doctor will be with him soon.

When the doctor comes, he introduces himself as Younghyun Kang and—to Minho’s delight—immediately gets to the point.

“Follow the light with your eyes,” he says, holding a medical torch in front of Minho’s face and slowly moving it from left to the right. He lets out a mysterious hum and turns the torch off with a click. “We’ve done a thorough exam, and the CT scan was normal,” he says, offering Minho a small smile. “Everything looks good.”

Minho reaches up to feel his forehead, but where it bled before, there’s now nothing more than a simple band-aid. Maybe he can hide that with his hair and no one will know. “Do I need stitches?” he asks, just to be sure.

Doctor Kang shakes his head. “It’s a very small wound. It’ll heal just fine on its own. No worries.”

The curtain shielding them from the rest of the room moves, and Jisung sticks his head inside. “So. . . No-name is fine?” he asks. 

It’s a relief he hadn’t heard the doctor say Minho’s name. That’s the last thing he needs—for Han Jisung to remember him as something more than he guy he hit with the door. As Minho. That seems a little too personal.

“Out, you brat,” the doctor says, voice stern, and makes Jisung obediently disappear behind the curtain again. He turns back to Minho with an apologetic smile. “There’s no sign of head trauma, and I’m absolutely sure you don't have a concussion.” 

Minho frowns. “How come I threw up?” 

“Maybe it was something you ate. . .” Doctor Kang hums thoughtfully. “Or maybe it was a reaction to seeing that dumbass.” 

“It’s a curtain, Younghyun.” Jisung’s head appears between the fabric again. “I can hear you.”

“No, you can’t,” the doctor says. When he notices Minho’s frown, he explains, “Jisung is my brother.”

They both smile at him and suddenly Minho feels sick again. 

“Can I go now?” he asks persistently. 

“Yes, but I want you to put an ice pack on that bump until you get home,” Doctor Kang tells him. Thankfully. “I’ll be right back.” 

Silence falls over the two of them—Minho still sitting on the examination bed, and Han Jisung with his head through the curtain. But then it’s abruptly broken by Jisung’s idiotically loud ringtone, which startles Minho into flinching.

Jisung picks up after excusing himself from Minho and his murderous glare. Minho doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, really, but this guy is literally five feet away from him with nothing but a thin curtain between them. 

“Hey there, Jeonghan. What’s up?” Jisung starts cheerfully—as if he hadn’t just almost killed a person. But his voice quickly turns into something akin to distress. “Who? Where? N-Now?” A pause. “Okay. Just. . . stall them. I will be right there.” 

Then, he presumably ends the call—and sighs so deeply Minho wonders what happened. He’s not nosy enough to ask, though. 

“There might be a problem,” Doctor Kang says, making Minho’s heartbeat skip even though he’s not talking to him. What if there’s something wrong with his scans? What if they will try to keep Minho here overnight? “The waiting room is filled with big guys with big cameras.”

Minho doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry. Of course that’s the peak of Han Jisung’s problems.

“The paparazzi found me?” Jisung groans. It’s quiet for a moment, though they seem to be talking in hushed tones. “Okay, just. . . Please tell me you’re still driving that ugly-ass car.”

“Not everyone in the family can be a superstar,” Doctor Kang jabs. “And I’m still paying off six years of med school, you know that.”

Jisung snorts. “Perfect. How about a trade?”

Minho can’t hear anything else after that—maybe the keys jingling before Jisung’s head pops between the curtains again.

He looks somewhat sheepish when he says, “We’re gonna have to stop somewhere—” (he swiftly ignores Minho’s glare) “—but then I’ll drop you off at home right away. I promise.”

Minho clenches his jaw. He’s really had enough. At this point, he’d be better off walking back home. He could’ve stayed at the club, waited for the dizziness to stop, and gone home in his own car. And now he has to depend on this irritating worldwide star to get him to grandma’s house in one piece.

He storms out of the examination room without as much as a look in Jisung’s direction. He doesn’t know how he makes it through the hospital without losing his way, but the footsteps following behind him are loud as Jisung tries to keep up. 

Minho pushes the back door open, silently hoping it will hit Jisung in the face right back. 

It doesn’t. 

And Jisung rushes towards the car to open the passenger’s side for Minho, as if he hasn’t been told that it’s annoying ten times. “I can open the door by myself, damn it!” 

“Shh!” Jisung whisper-yells, climbing into the driver’s seat.  

“‘Shh’ yourself!”

“I haven’t even said anything!” Jisung argues as he starts the engine. 

Minho fastens the seatbelts and grumbles, “Keep it that way.”

“Calm down, okay?”

Calm down. Minho would be calm if he was at his grandma’s house, tucked in bed, reading or eating some delicious food with his family. But no, he’s stuck with goddamn Han Jisung of all people in a car that looks like it’s going to fall apart any second, heading towards an unknown destination.

He’s so, so calm.

At his huffing and puffing and the scowl now permanently sewn into his features, Jisung snaps, “What is wrong with you?”

“What is wrong with me?” Minho scofs. Nothing. Nothing. I’m just looking forward to being grounded until I’m forty!”

“Oh, is that why you’re so crabby?” He glances at Minho from the corner of his eye as they drive out onto the main road. “And. . . aren’t you like. . . twenty-something years old anyway? Grounded? Really?”

Try living under the same roof with your parents and not alone in a mansion in Beverly Hills, Minho thinks bitterly, but he bites his tongue. “You better watch your mouth or I will seriously pay you back for how you hit me,” he threatens, gripping onto the sides of his seat to keep himself from strangling this guy. 

“Oh, yeah. You are definitely crabby.” 

Minho scoffs. “I’m not crabby!” 

“Defensive,” Jisung corrects with a shrug. “I don’t even know your name!” 

“Why would you even need my name?” Jisung stays silent. Minho scoffs. “Fuck you, dude. Seriously. Fuck you.”

And then he turns his face towards the window of the car, even though it’s fogged-up and he can barely see anything. The night is dark outside, but the streets they pass are lit up. It’s getting late, though—very late. His parents are definitely going to start worrying soon—if they haven’t yet; they just haven’t started blowing up his phone yet. He still has time to get back home. He’s just hoping Hyemin is safe, too. 

He would ask Jisung about it, but he doesn’t want to speak to him, really. They both keep quiet, even when Jisung pulls up this shitty car at the back entrance of the biggest house Minho has ever seen with his own two eyes. Stupidly, he remembers himself, as a child, thinking that if he’d somehow win the lottery, he’d buy a house like this; it would be enough for him and his parents to live comfortably in all while having their own space.

It’s safe to assume that won’t be happening anytime soon.

“Can’t I stay here in the car?” Minho asks. 

“No. Someone might see you,” Jisung says, and then he climbs out of his brother’s car, gesturing for Minho to follow him into the house. He punches in the code to the gateway, and Minho thinks: this must be his house.

There are all sorts of sounds coming from the other side of the building—music, chatter, laughter, but Jisung doesn’t even spare a glance to the side as he rushes inside, pulling a black hoodie off the hook by the entrance—only to throw it over Minho’s head, accidentally or not bumping against his hurt forehead. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Jisung whispers when Minho lets out a soft Ouch. He apologizes, but then he just grabs Minho by the arm and harshly pulls him towards the stairs.

“This—hurts—” Minho spits out through gritted teeth, trying to shake Jisung’s grip off. 

Jisung lets him go. He looks distraught, his eyes flitting all over the space as he mounts the stairs two at a time. “Sorry. I’m really sorry,” he rushes out. “I just—”

“Where are we even going?” Minho asks. They end up just upstairs, where it’s quieter, though the sound of what seems like a party is carried here, too. 

He’s sure no one would hear them, but Jisung still whisper-yells, “Keep your voice down!” 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Minho scoffs as Jisung opens one of the doors lined-up along the hallway. “First, you hit me with a door. Then, you kidnap me to the hospital, and now you’re hiding me in your house.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, although he—in all honesty—feels like bursting into tears and calling an Uber to just get home and leave this awful day behind. He should be sleeping off the jetlag that’s slowly catching up with him—not getting pushed around by a superstar.

Jisung scrunches his nose. “I’m not. . . I’m not hiding you,” he says, striding across the room to peek through the balcony—then he turns back to Minho. “It’s just that I don’t want these particular people to see you right now.” 

Minho raises his brows. “So, you’re hiding me.” 

Jisung lets out a shuddering breath and runs a hand through his messed-up hair. “Okay, okay. Maybe—Maybe.”

“Because I’m not a pop-star.”

Jisung hesitates for a moment. “Sort of. That doesn’t really matter. I just don’t want anyone to ask questions,” he says as he takes a look at himself in the mirror. “Would you like to be asked whether we’re dating?” Minho stays silent, even though his thoughts are screaming, god forbid! Jisung sighs. “That’s what I thought. I’ll be right back. Just. . . stay here. Please.”  

★

Jisung almost falls face-first off the stairs—that’s how in hurry he is as he runs out of the room. He feels bad about the whole thing, starting from the way he hit the guy with that stupid door, and ending up here.

But above all, Jisung is nervous. He was supposed to be home when the guests rolled in, but he was too busy trying to figure out what to do with the stranger—and Jeonghan had to sell Jeon Wonwoo some bullshit about Jisung being out for groceries for his weekend at home, away from paparazzi. 

Jisung rushes through the house, greeting people here and there with heys and hellos and how you doings, even though that’s the last thing he cares about. When he finally reaches the garden, he finds Jeonghan and Wonwoo chatting by the pool with a man he doesn’t know.

No Changbin and Chan in sight. Great. 

Wonwoo is the first one to notice him. He lifts his hand in a wave, and Jisung sends him a tight, but hopefully a good-looking smile. As he finally gets through the crowd hogging his backyard, Jeonghan lets out a sigh of relief and pats him on the back.

“Jisung! I was worried something went wrong at the store,” Wonwoo starts. He either doesn’t sense the little white lie about Jisung’s prior whereabouts, or he simply doesn’t care enough.

“Nope,” Jisung grins, easily slipping into his confident persona. “The nearest store was out of my favorite ice-cream, so I had to drive all the way to Westwood.” 

Jeonghan laughs. No one except Jisung seems to hear the edge of it, the impatience. No one seems to see the murderous urge in his eyes. Cool. Jisung now has two people trying to kill him, and they’re both in his vicinity, both in his house. It will be a miracle if he makes it out alive tonight.

“If everything goes well,” Wonwoo starts, “this is someone who you will be working with on the movie. Meet my boyfriend and a very, very talented director, Kim Mingyu.” 

Oh, right. The big fan. Jisung shoots him a grin, buttering him up with a honey-voiced Nice to meet you and Pleasure’s all mine. He’s a charmer—he knows exactly what strings to pull to get people to like him, and Mingyu seems to love him already. 

“I wanted to ask for something,” Mingyu says suddenly. 

Jisung’s eyes flit to Jeonghan, only to already see him nodding discreetly as he brings his glass of champagne to his mouth to take a sip. 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Jisung says. “What is it?”

“I was wondering if you could sing a song for us. You know, I’ve heard from Jeonghan that you guys are all working on your solo stuff, and Chan and Changbin have already given us a sneak-peek. Would you mind sharing something too?”

Jisung is slightly taken aback by the request, but if Jeonghan is saying do it, then Jisung is doing it. “I’ll just bring my guitar,” he says, feigning being more enthusiastic than his exhausted body is capable of showing. “Be right back.” 

“You’re gonna love this,” he hears Jeonghan say.

Jisung smirks. That’s something he’s confident about—his music. If he has to charm his way into this movie, he’s going to do it with what he’s best at: performing. (And, anyway, he’s heard Momo and Sana talking about the possible main soundtrack for the movie—that’s actually something he’s interested at; the acting part. . . not so much. But he’s doing it for his friends—and it might be fun.)

As he’s getting his guitar from the living room, he invites the people gathered there out to the garden to listen. He also finds Chan among them, but there’s no way he can tell him about everything that happened since they split during Yeji’s birthday party now, so he accepts the back pats he gets and quickly makes his way back to the yard.

Nice, they’ve even gotten him a stool to plop on. He clears his throat to draw everyone’s attention, but it’s Wonwoo who gets them to quiet down with a lifted hand and a call out to focus.

“Hey, everybody, it’s Jisung. I hope you’re having fun tonight!” he starts, chuckling awkwardly as he sweeps his gaze over the small crowd gathered around him. “We’ve got many special guests tonight, so. . . This song is something I’ve been working on for a while now. I hope you enjoy it.” 

★

As soon as Minho hears the sound of a guitar coming from the outside, he breaks the rule Jisung set for him and steps out of the room onto the balcony. It’s like the sound is pulling him in, but it’s Minho himself who decides to lean against the doorframe and listen, mouth parting in awe.

Jisung’s voice sounds completely different acoustically, singing a song never heard before—a song that doesn’t get on Minho’s nerves because it’s not being played by his sister all day and night.

Jisung doesn’t sing more than a few lines, but everyone listens as if in a trance, hooked on the melody and his soft voice. He isn’t sure if many of the people gathered around understand the lyrics as they’re in Korean, but when Jisung finishes with a sheepish smile, they all break into applause and cheers.

Minho shakes the awe off. He reminds himself that this is the guy who ruined his day, the guy his sister is obsessed with, the guy who’s nothing more than a charming musician, a star created to lure people in.

Minho just really wants to go home. 

So he breaks the rule again and leaves the room, hoping that every guest is too focused on congratulating Jisung on his wonderful song to spare him a glance. But he’s wrong.

Just as he’s about to head for the stairs, Han Jisung materializes at the bottom of them and scares him to death. Not literally, obviously, but Minho’s heart skips a beat and his hand automatically flies to press against the left side of his chest.

“Jeez,” he breathes out. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Jisung shushes him again, jogging up the stairs to meet Minho half-way.

“Where were you going?” he asks, brows furrowed while he looks around, as if he’s expecting someone to jump out from behind one of the doors with a camera and snap tons of pictures of the two of them together to make up a silly story.

Minho deadpans. “Anywhere but here,” he says. “You said you’d take me home. When?”

Jisung grabs his hand to pull him down the steps, shooting him pleading looks to stay quiet. The sounds of the party grow louder as he rounds a corner and drags Minho into a nook downstairs, but go completely silent when he presses the code into a keypad and closes the door behind them as he leads them into a garage. With seven different cars lined-up in front of an enormous gate. 

Minho can’t believe this guy is real. 

“Just pick a car,” he says. “I’ll take you home right now.”

Minho raises his eyebrows. Entitled brat. This is where Hyemin’s money is going—by buying ten million copies of his album she’s funding yet another ugly and completely useless car for him.

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’? You wanna walk?” Jisung sighs when Minho crosses his arms over his chest. “Fine. We’ll walk. Where do you live?”

“Northridge,” Minho replies in an annoyed tone, kind-of hoping Jisung will just give up and get him an Uber—like he should have in the first place. He isn’t too keen on letting the guy know where he’s staying, anyway.

“Wonderful!” Jisung says, smiling although his voice is dripping with sarcasm. Then, his face deadpans. “We’ll get there on Tuesday.”

Minho is the one to shrug now, his face dead-serious. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Jisung looks taken aback as he focuses his gaze on Minho’s face, studying him—the round glasses shielding his glare, the raised eyebrows, and the full, pink lips that are pressed into a thin, angry line. 

He’s mad, and Jisung has no idea how much longer he will last before he explodes.

They stare at each other, both irritatingly stubborn, until Minho decides he’s too tired to fight. He sighs and moves his gaze to the wall, where a board with car keys placed on hooks is hanging. He raises an incredulous eyebrow, not understanding how anyone can need this many cars, but he still steps closer to study it. He finds himself liking the sunflower keyring best, so he takes it off the hook and hands it over to Jisung. 

“Here’s how this is gonna go,” Minho starts. “You drive me straight back to my house. You leave. And then we never see each other again.” 

Jisung lifts one corner of his mouth in a slanted smile. “Gladly, darling.” 

Minho takes in a sharp breath, clenching his fists by his sides so that he doesn’t give in to the urge to snap this asshole’s jaw. He can and will survive another while in the silent company of this idiot—and then he will be free of him, and will never—ever see him again. He’s also going to kill his sister the moment he sees her, because this entire night is her fault, and then he’ll live peacefully for the rest of his years, no Hyemin and no Han Jisung. 

That sounds like a good plan. Perfect, even—to the point it has Minho sighing dreamily. 

“Wow, who would’ve thought. You can smile,” Jisung teases, instantly regretting it as the guy’s small smile falls and he starts glaring instead. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. You just look—”

Lowkey cute when you’re not yelling at me.

Jisung would never say it out loud. He’s also not in his right mind now—it’s late, and he’s tired. Definitely.  

“Nevermind,” he says, then waves the guy over to the car, slipping into the driver’s seat, almost glad that he’s getting out of the house. 

And, well, Minho doesn’t understand how driving out of a celebrity’s known property in a Range Rover and heading down main roads counts as ‘staying low-key,’ but it seems that Jisung is convinced it will work just fine. Now fully aware of his surroundings, Minho renders Han Jisung's driving absolutely abysmal, and he decides that if no stalkers are going after them, the police are bound to pull them over. He’s nice enough to offer that he’ll drive instead—but Jisung isn’t having it. 

“I promised I’d take you home,” he says, taking a harsh turn. Minho almost feels like his mother, clinging to the grab handles above the car door for dear life at every minor inconvenience on the road.

“Yeah, but I’d like to arrive alive.”

“My driving isn’t that bad,” Jisung says. “I’m just having a bad day, okay? I promise I’ll get you home safe.”

He makes a lot of promises. So far, he hasn’t kept any of them. But Minho just wants to leave this stupid chapter of his life behind and never think of Han Jisung again, so he doesn’t answer.

He has already figured out that Jisung likes talking, so it’s no surprise that after a few moments of silence—precious, precious silence—Jisung apparently remembers that he still doesn’t know Minho’s name, even though they spent so much time together today, and he just has to start pestering Minho to just say it . Again.

“Just tell me,” he whines.

Minho is just as indifferent as he was when Jisung had first asked. “No.”

“Come on,” he says. “I can’t guess for life. Please.”  

“Well, I don’t see why it’s in any way necessary for you to know my name, so I guess you’re gonna have to live with it, darling,” Minho tells him, using the stupid term of endearment as payback.

Jisung whistles, unbothered. “You’re already at the stage of petnames? Maybe we should slow down a little before I feel the need to take a detour to buy you a ring and drop on one knee.” 

Minho refuses to smile, so he presses his knuckles against his mouth and props his elbow up on the door. “I’m not the one you should be proposing to, fortunately.” Because of Jisung’s confused expression, he continues, “My sister is like. . . the biggest fan of yours. I think she knows everything about you. It’s highkey creepy.” 

Jisung nods in understanding. “And you are. . . not a fan.” 

“I don’t listen to pop music,” Minho says, even though it’s a lie on many levels.  

“3RACHA doesn’t really make pop music,” Jisung tells him, as if Minho doesn’t know; maybe it’s better not to mention that he’s subjected to hours and hours of listening to his songs because of Hyemin—that if Jisung played one of his songs, Minho would probably recall some of the lyrics. “A vast majority of our songs are rap.”

Minho rolls his eyes at his stubborn explanation. “I don’t like it anyway.” 

“So. . .” Jisung tries, either way, “if I was making the music you do listen to, you’d be a fan?”

“I think that out of the two of us, you’re the one with a concussion.”

What Minho says must be really funny, because Jisung lets out a loud snort and keeps grinning to himself stupidly until they reach Northridge. Even then, apparently, he still isn’t satisfied with the long-winded conversation they’ve had, because he speaks again.

“Come on,” he whines. “Can you please tell me your name? I promise I won’t tell anyone.” 

Minho knows he won’t. Considering how adamant he’d been on hiding Minho, it’s safe to assume he isn’t going to run around the city babbling about how he hit some random guy in the face with a door and took forever to actually drive him home safely.

“You know what? I don’t get it,” Minho snaps angrily, shifting in the seat so that he can face Jisung while he’s driving. “You’re so stuck on the paparazzi not respecting your privacy, but here you are, not respecting mine.”

Jisung’s grip on the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles turn white under the streetlights. “That’s not the same,” he says. 

Minho huffs. “Yes, yes, it is. Turn left here.”

Jisung’s jaw remains clenched—as if he has a right to be angry at Minho—even when they reach the right street and Minho tells him to stop a few meters away from the front door of his grandma’s house.

Minho takes his time unbuckling his seatbelt, waiting for Jisung to say something stupid to annoy him. Jisung remains quiet, though, seemingly wanting nothing more than for Minho to leave already.

He doesn’t know why that makes his stomach feel weird, like it’s tied into a thousand knots that tighten when Jisung refuses to look at him. His hand hovers over the handle, but he realizes how stupid he’s being, so he just pulls it, opening the door and slipping out of the passenger seat.

He’s about to close the door again and part with Han Jisung once and for all, but his stupid brain must have gotten fractured during the hit after all, and he can’t stop his mouth from opening and blurting out, “It’s Minho,” before he finally slams the door shut and jogs away down the path leading to the front of the house, leaving him behind.

★

Jisung is so surprised that he initially doesn’t register what the guy says at all. But then the door slams, and the sound brings him back to reality. He can’t help the silly grin that makes its way to his face as he quietly repeats the name to himself, testing it out on his tongue.

Minho, Minho, Minho.

He drags teeth over his bottom lip, finding it utterly stupid that he just can’t stop smiling because of some guy he will never see again, but his grin only vanishes when he tips his head back and glances into the rearview mirror.

The black van parked on the other side of the street looks a little too familiar.

“Great,” Jisung mutters under his breath, rubbing his face with his hands as he stifles the urge to just start screaming. 

Can this day get any worse? It feels like disaster after disaster, all inconveniences and lack of luck and. . .

Jisung is just tired. He wants to go back home, but he knows that with all these people still being there, he won’t be able to go to sleep and forget about everything that’s happened today.

Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, he waits in his car, keeping a close eye on the paparazzi van that must’ve been tailing him all this time and hoping that the reporters will get bored and leave him alone so that he can finally drive back home, which he will maybe find devoid of guests by the time he gets there.

But an hour passes, his butt grows stiff and uncomfortable, and the stupid car is still parked right there, with people clearly seated inside—if Jisung tries hard enough, he can see the glow of their phones, the way they move in the darkness of the van.

They’re persistent, but he already knew that. They know it’s him, and they clearly aren’t planning to give up and leave unless they take pictures they can plaster online with some crazy headline. This would make a story—Han Jisung spending the night with an unknown man, driving him home, and staying there for hours. It probably wouldn’t be hard to twist it, say that they made out in the car, make some details up until the article is juicy enough.

God. Everyone will kill him. Chan and Changbin, their managers, Jeon Wonwoo. And, not to mention, Jisung can’t have anyone publishing a story of him romancing with a man. He isn’t ready for that and all the buzz that would definitely surround his coming-out. Or, rather, him being outed. 

Jisung wonders how much more money will be satisfying for reporters to keep their mouths shut when it comes to his sexuality. How many times will they keep the articles unpublished until they decide they will make more if they post them. They’re ruthless—they don’t care about the fact that it would put a burden on Jisung’s shoulders, would put him and everyone he cares about in danger. Here, it’s all about money.

Jisung groans.

He can’t stay in this car any longer. 

Reaching into the backseat, he feels for anything he could cover himself up with, and finds a hoodie stuffed under a blanket that’s been left here the last time he and Hyunjin went to the beach. Both belong to him, not Jisung, but if he hasn’t stopped by to get them, then he probably won’t care if Jisung steals them now.

He slips the sweatshirt on and pulls the hood over his head to hide his hair, even though he knows it’s not enough. With his hands shaking both from frustration and nerves, he has to rummage through the glove compartment to find a face mask.

It’s not enough. They know it’s him. 

And yet Jisung takes his chance and climbs over the gearbox to the passenger’s side to clumsily get out of the car without being seen on the other side. He’s almost crawling towards the door Minho had disappeared behind, trying to stay as low as possible.

By the time he gets to the porch, his heart is crashing against his ribcage as if he has just run a marathon, painful and rapid. But, well, Jeon Wonwoo told him to stay out of the paparazzi’s radar—and Jisung is going to do just that. 

He knocks on the door, hoping that by some miracle, Minho will be the one who hears him. If anyone hears him at all. His family is probably asleep already; Hyunjin texted him that he had dropped Minho’s sister off around two or three hours ago and had sold her some bullshit about Minho’s whereabouts to avoid saying he was with Jisung all this time.

Jisung whips around at the sound of whooshing coming from the street, but thankfully it’s just a passing car and not the reporters noticing he’s left the car. 

Nothing happens. The door of Minho’s house doesn’t open. There aren’t even any footsteps or sounds coming from the inside, and the lights at the front are out. Desperate, Jisung decides to just try one more time—and if it doesn’t work, then he’ll speed back home and take ten detours until he loses the goddamn paparazzi. 

The universe decides to be on his side one time tonight. 

The lock turns, quiet in the silence of the night, and the door opens just enough for Jisung to see Minho’s figure—dressed in what looks like a worn-out t-shirt, his legs bare. God, his legs.

“What are you still doing here?” Minho whisper-yells, snapping him out of dangerous gay little thoughts. “Go away.”

He tries to close the door in his face, but Jisung rests his hand on the wood to stop him. “I’ll give you five thousand dollars if you do me a favor.” 

Minho raises his eyebrows, but he stops fighting with the door. “It’s not a favor if you pay for it,” he says. 

“Is that a yes?”

Minho sighs. “What do you want?” 

“Is there any place around here I can park my car in and stay overnight?” Jisung asks, his voice quiet and rushed as he fights the urge to look over his shoulder to make sure the reporters aren’t taking any pictures.

Minho seems just as nervous about anyone in the house hearing them, apparently, because he whips around to look inside, too. When he turns back to Jisung, he says, “Wait here,” and disappears in the darkness, only to come back with car keys hanging off his fingers. “You have to drive around the house. I’ll open the gate.” Jisung reaches for the keys, ready to drop onto his knees and thank him, but Minho snatches them away. “You gotta be out of the garage by five in the morning. Five. Do you understand?” 

Jisung nods eagerly. That’s when Minho hands the keys over—and Jisung is hit with the strangest urge to just grab his cheeks and plant a stupid kiss in the center of his forehead. He doesn’t do that, obviously. But he thinks about it. 

“Erm, thank you for saving my ass,” he says and quickly makes his way back to his car, staying low and ignoring the noise of confusion leaving Minho’s throat at the sight of him. 

Just like he promised, Minho opens the gate and the garage door for him, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest as Jisung pulls up. But before Jisung can roll down his window and talk to him, he disappears through the side door without a goodbye. 

★

“They’re doing a story on television about those guys you like so much,” Grandma says when Minho and Hyemin stumble down the stairs the following morning. Although the words are directed at his sister, Minho’s head snaps up and—to everyone’s surprise—he’s the one who bolts to the living room first, running for his life as Hyemin yells after him, trying to grasp his T-shirt.

Minho grabs the remote off the coffee table, but Hyemin is a strong twenty-two-year-old woman, and when it comes to her favorite celebrity crush, there is nothing in the world that could stop her—her older brother, who does boxing on the regular, included. She rips the remote out of his hands, elbows him in the ribs, and turns up the volume.

“Even though Yeji—apparently—has no romantic relationship with any of the 3RACHA members, they all arrived at her birthday party and performed especially for her,” the woman on the TV says. “Although no one saw them arrive at the fabulous club Venom, witnesses confirm that 3RACHA did indeed make a secret appearance to sing for the packed house of well-wishers. Partygoers say one of the world stars—Han—left immediately following his performance, only to magically reappear at his Beverly Hills mansion several hours later. . . with someone else.”

Minho’s pounding heart threatens to plunge right out of his chest, his mouth agape as Hyemin gasps beside him.

“My sources, who witnessed Han sneaking out of his house with the mystery person later in the night, tell me the heart of our favorite star might already be stolen,” the reporter continues. “What a sad day for all—”

Benefitting from Hyemin’s attention slipping, Minho quickly pries the remote out of her fingers, changing the channel despite her loud protests. 

“Stop!” she yells, trying to get the remote back. “I wanna see that!”

Minho pushes her away. “Why? It’s all lies and slander!”

“Why do you care? You don't even like him!” Hyemin screams for her life, causing the rest of the family to come to the living room with perplexed expressions as they take in the sight before them.

Minho’s face feels hot all over. “I care about the truth,” he says sternly, even though his voice threatens to waver and he can barely hear himself past the sirens blaring in his head. “And I’m pretty sure that’s not it.”

Hyemin groans, trying to reach him with her long nails. “You—”

“Guys, knock it off,” Dad interrupts before Hyemin can start spewing out insults. He steps between them to break the fight off, but Hyemin still sticks her tongue out at him over Dad’s shoulders—so Minho does the same. “It’s just a TV programme,” he says. “You can read the same thing online, Hyeminnie.”

“But Minho is being all weird since—”

“I know what!” Grandma cuts in.

Just in time to save Minho from Hyemin airing out yesterday’s business to everyone. She had come home before him, but she was on the phone with her friends when he finally got back, chatting away about how Jisungie’s best friend recognized her in the club and drove her back home. “It pays off to be a known face in the fandom!” she had said. 

Minho wanted to puke when he heard it. 

“It’s a beautiful day,” Grandma continues, coming closer to pat Minho on the back. He might be imagining it, but her eyes fall on his forehead—on the small wound he made sure to hide with his hair when he woke up. “Go to the beach, sunbathe, swim a little. You’re here to have fun, not to watch TV!”

After what happened yesterday, Minho already dislikes the idea of going anywhere with Hyemin. What is going to happen next? Han Jisung will be there on the beach, ready to pull Minho underwater to drown him?

God. He forgot about Jisung staying in their garage. He better have already left, long before anyone in the house woke up to see him. If he hasn’t. . . 

Minho is so going to be dead. It’s a miracle his parents didn’t get pissed that he and Hyemin got back home late—or that they got back home separately. Maybe they just didn’t notice, or they decided to let them have fun during vacation. (Unlikely. They probably went out like a light because of the jetlag and didn’t hear anything.)

Hyemin pouts. “But I wanna drive, and I can’t drive the rented one.”

The rented car is still parked on the curb because of you, Minho thinks bitterly, hoping and praying it hasn’t gotten towed away. He needs to go there and get it before anyone notices it’s missing. Preferably now, under the pretense of going for a run or something like that.

Grandma waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, you can take Petunia! She’s in the garage.” 

“Really?” Hyemin’s eyes are wide with disbelief. Minho is surprised, too; Grandma puts a little too much trust in her. “Thanks, grandma.” 

“Take Minho with you,” Mom adds instantly. “You can’t go unsupervised!”

Minho groans at the same time as Hyemin. “Am I on vacation or working as a babysitter?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Don’t be so sour, Minho-yah! You have to get along with your sister,” Grandma says. “I know it’s hard, because she’s just so lively, but you were just the same as a teenager.”

“Yeah, but I was a teenager. And, anyway, I wasn’t going crazy over some stupid pop-star to the point of delusions.”

Hyemin gasps, trying to reach over to hit him, but he ducks behind their Dad and runs upstairs. “I’m going for a run first!” he calls out. “We can head to the beach around noon!” 

“That’s late!” Hyemin whines from downstairs. “We’re going now!” 

Minho leans over the railing to tell her, “At noon or not at all. You pick.”

★

Minho has no way out of the beach trip, but at least he managed to avoid getting his ass beat by his mom by getting their rented Jeep back home before anyone noticed—he had said he couldn’t get into the garage last night so he parked on the curb, and then told everyone he was taking the car to drive himself to the park and go for a run.

Now, he’s stuck in his grandmother’s pink car that’s older than him , with 3RACHA songs as the background music, as if Minho isn’t already struggling to get Jisung’s voice out of his head without her help. 

Just when he thinks it can’t get any worse than the heat, the music, and the sister, as they pull up into a parking spot, he notices the enormous sign welcoming them to Malibu Beach.

“I thought we were going to Venice,” Minho says, blinking furiously as he climbs out of the car. “Why are we in Malibu?”

Hyemin is already opening the backseat to toss Minh his towel, but she still looks up to give him an annoyed look. “Duh?” she lets out. “Because Jisung surfs in Malibu.” 

Minho lets out a shuddering breath. Great. He was joking in his thoughts before, thinking about Jisung appearing at the beach—but the universe must have thought he was being serious and decided to make his wish come true.

“Yeah. . .” Minho murmurs. “I’ll stay in the car.”

“Oh, just like you did last time?” Hyemin scoffs. “No way. You’re coming with me,” she says, and then she grabs his hand and drags him to the sandy beach all the way from the parking lot. “Today’s the day,” she says, more to himself than to Minho, once they have found a spot. “Jisungie is here somewhere. I can feel it.”

Minho’s heart throbs. “I doubt it.” I hope not.

“I hope he’s not here with that girl. . .” Hyemin shudders, setting her bag down on the sand next to the sunbed she has chosen for herself. “She’s totally not cute enough for him.”

“They’re not a thing,” Minho mutters, sounding a little too angry for the topic. “And I don’t think you’re the one to decide this.”

As usual, Hyemin ignores his words and says, “I wonder what his eyes look like. Up close.”

Minho sighs, lowering himself down onto the sunbed next to hers. “Like chocolate,” he mumbles. “Dark chocolate.” 

You were right, he wants to tell her, remembering all the times she talked his ear off about the color of Jisung’s eyes. They really do have that dark, alluring shade up close.

Hyemin shrugs. “Oh, I bet,” she says noncommittally. “I’m gonna go swimming now. Don’t go anywhere.” 

“Please drown,” he calls out after her, but stupid words is all it is, and he sincerely prays she doesn’t get carried away by any waves. Minho can’t even swim—he wouldn’t even be able to save her, and who the hell knows how long it would take a lifeguard to get there?

Well. His thoughts are spiraling again. 

That’s what happens when he’s left alone with them—and there’s nothing he can do on this beach, because he can’t even focus long enough to read the book he brought along, eyes skimming over the pages without anything registering in his brain.

Out of boredom, Minho looks for his sister to make sure she isn’t drowning. (She isn’t.) Hyemin is walking down the shore, a bit further away from here—but there aren’t many people around and she’s an adult, so Minho lets her be and gives up on nagging. As long as she isn’t here to talk about Han Jisung, it’s all good.

He lets out a sigh and tips his head back against the wooden sunbed, sweeping his gaze over the beach.

And that’s when he sees it.

A familiar black bucket hat with a daisy sewn into the front—at least it’s supposed to be at the front, but the person wearing it has it on backwards, so the patch is on the back. 

Minho lets out a huff of disbelief. 

Disbelief of his body moving before his mind registers it, too. Because the moment he recognizes the stupid hat, he swings his legs over the side of the sunbed and moves in the direction of the man sitting just a few meters away from here.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

But the hat. Minho will just go to him to get the hat back. How could he even steal his grandpa’s hat from the garage? What an asshole.

So, Minho doesn’t—but kind of does —know what possesses him and makes him walk in the direction of Han goddamn Jisung. As Minho approaches, he notices that it really is the hat, and although the person lying there is obviously hiding themself, Minho comes to the conclusion that it must be him. Unless he stole the hat from Minho’s garage and sold it on the street—which would make him an even bigger asshole.

No. It’s definitely him. He’s wearing the same clothes as he did yesterday—and that’s what takes Minho by surprise. It’s been a long time since he had to vacate the garage, so why hadn’t he gone home yet?

Minho sits down across the sunbed beside Jisung’s and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ve come to collect what’s mine,” he says, startling Jisung into nearly jumping out of his skin.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, fixing the shades on the bridge of his nose.

Minho rolls his eyes, not caring at all whether Jisung can see. (And he can, of course he can.) “It’s a public beach,” he says. 

Jisung raises an eyebrow, propping himself up on an elbow. 

Christ. This was a really bad idea.

Minho clears his throat. “Give me back the hat.”

“Na-ah, it’s mine now,” Jisung says, one corner of his mouth curling up in a teasing smile. Like a challenge.

“No, it’s my grandpa’s,” Minho says flatly. “He used to wear it when he took me fishing. And there’s his name embroidered inside.” 

Jisung must take his blank expression for sadness, because he quickly takes the hat off, not caring about staying hidden anymore, apparently. It leaves his hair a mess, and his shades slide down his nose, revealing his wide eyes. 

“I’m sorry.”

Jeez. He’s contradicting himself all the time, to the point Minho can’t tell if he’s an asshole or not. But he feels bad for tricking him. Kind of. 

“I’m kidding,” Minho says, not able to hold back a grin any longer. Jisung lifts his eyebrows, keeping the hat between them still. “I mean, it did belong to my grandpa, and we used to go fishing together, but he gave it to me before he died, and it’s my name that’s inside. Just wanted to mess with you.”

Jisung huffs out a laugh. “I was starting to feel bad for disrespecting your grandpa!” he says. “Sorry for taking it, anyway. It must be a meaningful keepsake.”

“No, you keep it,” Minho blurts out before he can even think it through. He doesn’t really care about the hat. It’s been in the States all this time, gathering dust while Minho lived on a different continent. “It kind of looks good on you,” he adds as an afterthought. That makes Jisung’s eyebrows shoot up—and Minho roll his eyes. “What? I can be nice if I want to.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jisung says, but there’s a smile playing on his lips as he runs a hand through his golden hair and puts the bucket hat back on. Then, he looks away from Minho, focusing his gaze on the infinite ocean spreading before them. “Now, what are you really doing here?” he asks after a moment of silence, taking his shades off and blinking furiously to adjust his eyes to the sunlight. “I bet you hate the beach.”

“I spend one day with you and you already think you know me? Wow.”

Jisung laughs out loud at Minho’s offended expression—then, he quickly covers his mouth with his hand and hurriedly puts his sunglasses back on.

“Paranoid,” Minho sing-songs, but Jisung only shakes his head; for some reason, he seems to genuinely fear for his safety. “And what are you doing here? Go home.”

Jisung shakes his head. “I tried,” he says.

“And?” Minho prompts, actually curious as to why exactly this guy hasn’t been able to go back to his own place for eight hours. Eight. It’s not like he’s running from the police, or something.

Jisung just sighs. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Minho huffs out a dry laugh. “Ah. So you think you’re so special that a nobody like me couldn’t possibly understand how hard it is to be you.”

Jisung turns towards him, a determined expression on his face. “Alright,” he says, “there were about ten paparazzi parked outside my house with their cameras.”

Shouldn’t he already have gotten used to it? Or hired a bodyguard?

“That is tough. . .” Minho says, only to then quietly add, “Or not.”

Jisung scoffs. “See? I told you you wouldn’t understand.” He rubs his eyes in the corners and pinches the bridge of his nose. He must be really tired—both from sleeping in the garage (if he’d even slept at all) and from being here on the beach the entire day. “I just need to get home in a car the paparazzi won’t recognise.”

Minho shrugs. That’s not really his problem and he doesn’t particularly care (except for feeling a little bad for Jisung since he’s stuck in the city because he was driving him home), so he sinks in his sunbed and lets Jisung figure himself out on his own.

“So what are you driving?”

Minho looks at Jisung like he’s crazy, and then bursts out laughing. He remembers all those fancy cars at Jisung’s place, and— “Oh, you’d love it,” he says. “It’s a classic. Really vintage.”

“Perfect,” Jisung is quick to say. “If you lend it to me, I could pay you.” 

Minho sighs exaggeratedly. “You’re saying that, but you still owe me five grand for letting you stay in my grandma’s garage.”

“I was super out of it last night, so I forgot to leave any contact info, but—just give me your bank account number, and I’ll transfer it right away,“ Jisung says easily, as if it’s normal for him to just give people five thousand dollars. 

But who is Minho to complain? He’ll be almost seven million won richer, and Han Jisung’s wallet won’t even feel the hit. So he spells his bank account number for him, and watches Jisung make the transfer. 

God. It’s insane how rich this guy must be.

“Wait—” Jisung starts. “You live with your grandparents?”

“No,” Minho tells him, shaking his head. “I live in Seoul. We’re just visiting my grandma.”

“Ah, I see.” Jisung rubs the side of his neck and pockets his phone. “But. . . How much do you want? In exchange for the car?”

“I’m not selling it to you,” Minho says, trying very hard not to call this guy a snob and just walk away—from him, and his rich people problems like having people with cameras on their street. Jeez. “We can make a fair exchange.”

Jisung raises his eyebrows skeptically. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you’re taking my car, you can’t leave me without one.” Minho can see him hesitating, so he urges on, “Keys. Come on.”

Jisung looks like he’s in absolute agony when he digs the car keys out of the front pocket of his hoodie and passes them over to Minho, who snatches them out of his hands greedily.

“Hey!” Jisung calls out. “She’s a–She’s a three hundred and thirty-five horsepower, first generation ‘69 with original paint.” Minho fakes retching. “I love Cherry, okay?”

Minho grins, patting him on the shoulder. “I think you still have that concussion.” 

He has to point Jisung to the right car (even though she’s pretty hard to miss), so they head to the parking lot together. What’s funny, Jisung completely misses her, walking past the furiously pink car all while looking around. 

Minho has to call out after him and grab his hand so that he doesn’t wander off. Jisung’s smile instantly drops when he’s tugged backwards. “Jisung,” Minho starts, voice serious and formal, “meet Petunia.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Minho bites back a laugh. “She runs like a top,” he says. “Get her back here in an hour.”

Jisung groans, reluctantly taking the keys out of Minho’s hands. And then nearly gets swallowed by the concrete as he throws himself to the ground.

“Down,” he hisses out, pulling Minho to the ground with him. “Get down.” 

Minho tries to peek through Petunia’s windows, only to see an army of black vans pulling up to the parking lot—and tons of people with huge cameras pouring out once the doors open. 

Jesus Christ.

“I can't believe it,” Jisung says through gritted teeth. “How do they know where to find me?”

Minho shrugs. “My sister knows where to find you, and she lives in Seoul.” 

Jisung ignores the comment, shoving his sunglasses in Minho’s hands instead. “Put these on.”

“No, thanks.”

Jisung whips around to glare at him. “Just put them on!” he whisper-yells.

“I don’t want your stupid sunglasses!” 

Jisung groans, but he gives up on trying to force him to wear his shades, slipping them back onto his own nose. He opens Petunia’s door on the driver’s side, and nods towards it. 

“Go over the gearbox,” he says. “Please.” 

Minho huffs and puffs and rolls his eyes, but he obediently climbs into the car and over to the passenger’s seat. 

“Put your head down,” Jisung instructs once he gets in, too. 

“Hey, idiot, we’re two dudes. I think we’re fine.”

Minho says that, but he’s gay. The thing is, no one knows him, and—considering Hyemin hasn’t had a breakdown over it—from what he knows, Han Jisung is straight as a ruler. If anything, people would just assume they’re both friends who came to the beach to hit on cute girls.

God. 

Jisung’s pupils dilate at the words. “They make up everything,” he says, sounding almost out of breath—Minho wonders if he should start getting concerned. “Just get your head down.”

Minho doesn’t like being bossed around, but the distress in Jisung’s voice reminds him of the night before and makes him obey. 

“Okay, okay. Throw your hood over your face,” Jisung demands next. When he notices the way Minho looks at him, he adds, “Just do as I say. Just this once. Please.”

Even though he continues glaring, Minho hides his face with his hood and keeps his head down. Petunia almost gives up, the engine letting out all sorts of weird noises, but they get out of the parking lot alive. Barely.

“So, how long do I have to drive around with you this time?” Minho asks, leaning his temple against the windowpane. It’s hot, and the sun streaming into the car is tickling his bare legs where his shorts ride up, but he cracks the window open, and the wind makes it all more pleasant.

“Only until the paparazzi leave the beach.” 

Minho sighs. “How will you know they’ve left?”

“I’ll just know,” Jisung answers, fixing his sunglasses on his nose. Even in a car like Petunia, he has to maintain his cool vibe.

Silence falls over them, and Minho remembers that he didn’t go to the beach alone. He pulls his phone out of the pocket, but there are no new panicked messages from Hyemin, which isn’t really surprising. Deciding to be responsible this time, though, Minho texts her.

HYEMIN (LOSER)

it’s too hot for me so i’m going for a drive
call if you need me back ok?

jeez u are so boring
i’ll be fine
i still haven’t met ji tho i really think he’s here

And you won’t meet him, Minho thinks bitterly. Because he’s right next to me.

At least she was right about him being at this beach, though. And maybe if Jisung didn’t have to run, she would get to meet him. Minho doesn’t know if that would calm her down or make her even more obsessed—after all, she’s been to many concerts, fanmeetings, and all those events, and it feels like she came back home, each time more in love with Jisung.

She can’t ever find out about him and Minho.

“Let’s go do something.”

Snapped out of his thought, Minho lets out a surprised chuckle and lifts his eyes from the screen of his phone. “Like what?” 

“Anything.”

“You really need to get that concussion checked out,” Minho tells him, turning back to the side to look out of the window. He still sees Jisung roll his eyes, though. 

“Is going somewhere that weird of a suggestion?”

Minho lifts an eyebrow. “We’re here to escape the paparazzi, and then you want to go somewhere—out in the open,” he says. “That doesn’t add up. Like, at all.”

“You’re a bit of a smartass, aren’t you?”  

“One of us has to be.” Minho shrugs with a self-satisfied grin. “And I’m older than you. Show some respect.” 

Jisung asks, “How old are you, then?” 

“I’m twenty-four.”

“I’m younger by two years, then,” Jisung says. Minho has to bite his tongue not to say, I know. That would make him look weird. “Not that much younger.” 

Minho doesn’t respond, only staring at the landscape they pass in a blur, cliffs and rocks, everything bathing in the early afternoon sun. That feels a lot like summer, like vacation, and if Jisung didn’t suddenly decide to turn on the radio, he could even say he likes it better than sitting in Grandma’s backyard all on his own.

“No,” Minho says as he hears the opening beat of the song playing. “Absolutely not.”

Jisung laughs out loud and turns up the volume just to spite him. “You know this song, don’t you?” 

“My sister always plays it the loudest. How could I not know it?

Minho sighs as Pacemaker goes on with Jisung either mouthing the lyrics or breaking into the song quietly. When his part  in the chorus comes up, Minho uncontrollably starts singing, the lyrics practically ripping out of his throat. The moment he realizes what he’s doing, though, he slams his mouth shut.

“I like your voice,” Jisung says, taking him completely off-guard.

Minho was sure he would get teased for knowing the lyrics, but when he turns his head to the side to look at him, Jisung is just. . . smiling. It’s confusing. What is he even thinking, complimenting Minho like that?

Once Pacemaker ends, another 3RACHA song comes on, and this time, when Jisung starts singing, Minho joins him and doesn’t shut up. He knows he doesn’t sound as professional as Jisung does, but he’s having fun just screaming out the lyrics without a single care in the world. They’re just driving around with windows rolled down, and the weather is nice, and Minho steals the sunglasses off Jisung’s nose, putting them on, thinking how good of an idea it was to wear contacts today since now he can actually see everything around him. 

Jisung protests only when they drive out onto the main road again. “I need my sunglasses back,” he says.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Minho hums, tapping his chin to feign being all thoughtful. “I kinda like them.”

Jisung sighs, but there’s a smile playing on his lips. It’s been there, plastered to his face, throughout the drive, and Minho just doesn’t understand why he’s so happy. “I’ll give them to you later.”

That takes Minho by surprise. “For real? ‘Cause my friends won’t believe that I, Lee Minho, actually have a pair of glasses that not only belong to Han Jisung, but ones he has also worn!” he feigns a breathless tone. “Will you sign them for me?” 

“Ha, ha, ha,” Jisung says dryly. “Very funny.”

“What? No, seriously—I want them.” 

Jisung seems to be thinking it through, lower lip caught between his teeth as he glances to the side to look at Minho. “Yeah, you can keep them,” he says eventually. “You look good in them.” 

“Oh,” Minho lets out, quickly turning his head to face the window to hide his burning cheeks. “Thanks.” 

He shouldn’t feel so. . . flustered at the pseudo-compliment, considering he told Jisung the same thing back on the beach about the hat Jisung is wearing. Minho glances at him out of the corner of his eye. It really does suit him—even if he’s wearing it backwards.

“Hey,” Jisung calls out softly to get Minho’s attention; Minho makes a humming sound to let him know he’s listening. “What have you seen while you’ve been here?” 

“Nothing. I’ve been busy fighting jet lag and following you around,” Minho says, not missing the way Jisung straightens up, suddenly stiff. “Not out of my own free will. With my sister,” he rushes to explain. “She idolizes you. I mean, I, on the other hand, can’t care less about you or your city.”

“Well,” Jisung starts, “I know you don’t like me, but don’t take it out on Los Angeles because it’s one of the greatest cities in the world.” Minho snorts. “In fact, I’ll make sure you realize that and be your tour guide.”

Minho blinks, lowering the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose to stare at Jisung incredulously. “I thought you needed to get home,” he says. 

Jisung sends him a playful grin before shifting his gaze back to the road. “I’ve got something better to do now.” 

★

Considering how grumpy Minho has been a vast majority of the time they spent together, Jisung didn’t really expect Minho to not only agree to explore the city, but also be so. . . fun.

Jisung doesn’t really have a plan, so while they drive (to the sound of Minho’s playlist, because he argued he wasn’t able to handle any more of Jisung than he’s forced to already), he just figures out where to stop.

The Getty Villa isn’t a place he has ever been to himself, but the moment they get there, Jisung instantly regrets it. When he suddenly thought of showing Minho the city, he didn’t think of museums—but this one isn’t swarmed with tourists, and it’s beautiful enough to make him want to stay longer. 

The grounds themselves are a treat to explore, and the two of them take a special liking to the gardens, wandering around the blooming landscapes until the scorching heat catches up and they duck inside the building. 

When they get to the Statue of a Pouring Satyr, Minho lifts one hand over his head, placing the other on his hip and bending his knee to mimic the pose of the sculpture. Jisung snorts, and he breaks into quiet laughter, ducking his head when a couple of elderly people passing by gives them an odd look.

“Do it again,” Jisung says, uncaring. No one here knows them. “And give me your phone so I can take a picture.”

Minho looks taken aback, but he quickly schools his expression to hand his cell over to Jisung—who almost curses out loud at the cute phone case, with a doodle of a cat on the back. Who would have thought this crabby guy can be so endearing? 

“Make me look cute so that I can show this to my grandma,” Minho says, taking his previous position as the prettier version of the sculpture.

Won’t be that hard, Jisung thinks. Your genes are doing all the work.  

He doesn’t say that out loud, because it would be embarrassing, and also because he thinks Minho would go back to being pissed at him and maybe even demand Jisung to drive him back to the beach. 

And he’s having fun, snapping hundreds of pictures of Minho while he’s copying the poses of ancient Greek statues—and even when Minho isn’t posing, when he’s just admiring the art hanging on the walls or the architecture of the museum.

Jisung didn’t expect to feel so joyful after the nightmare of the week, but Minho’s smile is contagious, and when they get back into the car, heading towards all those famous tourist-driven places, Minho starts singing out loud without a care in the world.

Jisung glances at him as Minho sticks his hand out the window to feel the wind slipping through his hands, and his heart stutters in his chest, that pathetic little thing. All he can think about is how beautiful Minho looks when he’s smiling, how much more this bright expression suits him than a scowl—but Jisung figures he deserved nothing more than being cursed out yesterday. He’s just happy Minho didn’t hit him as payback—and he could have. 

“Hey,” Jisung starts as they make their way through the Walk of Fame, taking photos with a disposable camera they got on a whim at Rodeo Drive. “How’s your forehead?”

Minho raises his eyebrows, taking a long sip of his lemonade through a colorful straw before responding. “We’ve been together the entire day, and it’s only now that you’re asking?” he says, and despite trying to maintain that annoyed little facade, Jisung can see his lips twitching to curl up in a grin. “Your concern seems fake, if you asked me.”

Jisung nudges his shoulder with his own. “Come on. You know I feel bad about hitting you with that stupid door,” he says. “I’m really sorry, again. I know I ruined your night yesterday.” 

Minho shrugs. “I got hit in the face by a superstar and then practically got kidnapped by him,” he says. “That’s just about the most exciting thing that happened to me in the last five years.”

Jisung laughs, shaking his head. “I’m glad I could add some flavor to your life, then,” he says. “Though I really am sorry. Just want you to know that.”

“I’ll forgive you if you buy me food later,” Minho tells him, and this time, he seems unable to hold back a smile, even when he presses his lips together in a thin line.

“Deal.”

They continue exploring the city walking down Hollywood Boulevard, even though their legs are starting to burn and neither of them can stop themselves from complaining about the scorching hot weather. 

Despite all this, with a fresh set of iced drinks in their hands, Jisung feels happier than ever. He moved here from Seoul years ago, and yet as he strolls through Los Angeles with Minho by his side, it feels like he’s looking at everything for the first time. 

Though the best thing is how no one is bothering him on the streets. He doesn’t know if it’s the bucket hat and the shades he’s wearing, or if people have just decided to leave him alone, but there’s no one asking for pictures and autographs and wanting him to sing in the middle of the street or call his group mates on FaceTime.

He doesn’t have to pretend to be the confident, out-going Han; he can be awkward and tell stupid jokes, and Minho is still laughing—because he finds Jisung funny, not because he wants to butter him up. 

It’s Minho who makes him feel this comfortable.

Minho, who’s straight-forward and blunt and couldn’t care less about Jisung being famous. Who isn’t pretending to be someone else just so that Jisung takes a liking to him—and maybe that’s why Jisung actually does like him.

It’s stupid. They’ve known each other for two days. 

But then Minho grabs his arm to drag him towards a food market tucked in one of the alleys, and Jisung forgets about everything else.

★

After taking what feels like a million photos by the hillside Hollywood sign, once the blue of the sky begins to give way for oranges and pinks, Jisung asks Minho if he’s hungry. They’ve only tasted a bit of street food at the market, but Minho doesn’t really feel like eating now, so he shakes his head, dropping his head onto Jisung’s shoulder as they make their way back to the car, their arms linked.

“We can head back if you’re tired,” Jisung adds. “Grab something to eat and stop by a park on our way to the beach.”

“Mhm. That sounds nice,” Minho agrees, his eyes half-closed against the sun. He doesn’t mean to sound so drowsy, but he barely got four hours of sleep today and that combined with hours and hours of walking in the scorching heat leaves him drained of energy.

“Already tired?” Jisung still decides to tease him, even though he looks like he is, too. “Big baby.”

“I’m too old for a whole day of walking,” Minho says. “But I’m having fun, so it’s okay. I just need to sleep off the next two days and I’ll be fine.”

Surprisingly, he really is enjoying himself. Although he was skeptical when Jisung first said he’d give him a tour over the city, he finds that it’s been the best day he’s had in a while—and not only during his stay in Los Angeles.

And. . . Jisung isn’t that bad. He can be a little annoying, mostly when he insists on treating Minho everywhere they go, to the point Minho has to fight him so that he can at least pay for their drinks. But aside from that, he’s funny, and nice, and even buys him a trinket necklace with an LAX charm when they wander through the market stalls just because Minho points out it’s funny. They click when it comes to food taste and drinks and activities and humor and everything. Which is more than surprising, and leaves Minho with a weird feeling of warmth right in the center of his chest. 

Minho is changing his mind about him—and that’s really the last thing he’d expected from this whole trip to Los Angeles. He wanted sudoku with grandma and homemade food, and got two days with a worldwide superstar instead. 

Crazy.

Minho sighs, shifting his body to lean against the window, making himself comfortable in the passenger’s seat. They spent another hour in Malibu Bluffs Park, eating early dinner with an outstanding view of the ocean stretching in front of them.

They’re heading back to the beach now, in hopes the paparazzi have given up long ago so that Jisung can finally go home and Minho can pick Hyemin up. His eyelids feel heavier now that he’s seated, but at first he doesn’t let them slip shut. He tries to keep his eyes on Jisung while he starts the car and drives out onto the main road.

Keyword: tries. It’s been a long day, and, eventually, with the sun on his face and wind in his hair, Minho rests his head against the window and closes his eyes, his lips upturned in a soft smile.

Jisung is quietly singing along to the song playing on the radio, and Minho allows himself to think just how much he actually likes the color of his voice, how soft it is, and yet powerful.

Is it cool that I said all that? Is it too soon to do this yet?

Minho opens his eyes to look at Jisung just in time he stops singing and mutters, “Shit.” 

Frowning, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“There are reporters following us,” Jisung says, tightening his grip on the steering wheel as he glaces up into the rearview mirror. “I need to lose them.”

Here goes the perfect day, Minho thinks, pulling up maps on his phone. It takes him a while, but then he says, “Turn right into this road here.”

“You sure?” 

Minho nods, but Jisung isn’t even looking at him anymore. “Yes.”

But in all this rush, he has only glanced at the map, and when Jisung follows his instructions telling him to keep heading straight, they end up in the literal middle of nowhere with nothing but rocks and cliffs in their vicinity.

Jisung lets out a shuddering breath, looking around hesitantly. Minho himself is starting to sweat.

“If you take your next left,” he says, “the road should loop back to the highway.”

But then he zooms in and out on the map, staring at the white lines cutting all the green fields, until he’s not so sure anymore.

“This isn’t even a road anymore,” Jisung says, tone irritated and sharp. “There’s just nothing here.”

Minho sucks in a breath, staring at the screen of his phone that tells him they’re on their way to Malibu Beach. “Eh, just. . . just keep driving.”

Not even five minutes later, Jisung says, “That last sign said ‘deer crossing’, and there are no deer. There’s nothing here.”

“What do you want me to do about that? It’s not a zoo,” Minho snaps. The car is beginning to feel stuffy, and the fact that they’re lost even though the Internet says they’re on their way is starting to make him feel anxious. “It says here that we’re three miles away.”

“From what?” Jisung huffs. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing around us. Just. . . plains.” 

Minho groans. “You know, you complain more than my sister.”

Jisung completely ignores the jab, not even sparing him a glance as he asks, “Are we on the right road or not?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Minho snaps, throwing his hands up in the air. “I told you where to go, so if we’re lost, then it’s your fault.”

Jisung sets his jaw, pulling the car to a halt. “Show me the map.”

“Keep your eyes on the road and drive,” Minho tells him sharply, annoyed at how dismissive Jisung is when he’s the one behind the wheel—the one who got them into this situation. “I’m the navigator.”

Jisung scoffs. “Oh, that’s what you call it?”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up, the wound on his forehead pulsating as it creases, but he can’t bring himself to care about the pain. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you’re such a know-it-all,” Jisung snaps. “God, you’re the king of snap judgements, and the worst thing is, you’re just wrong. ‘Turn here! This is the right road! I’m sure of it!’” 

“What kind of buffoonery are you on, thinking you can talk to me like this?”

Jisung pulls a face. “Oh, sure, you think you’re the king in general.” 

Minho swallows and turns his head in the other direction, falling back against the seat and crossing his arms over his chest angrily. “Just move the fucking car,” he says, a beat away from either punchin Jisung in the face or just getting out of this stupid car to leave him alone in the middle of nowhere. 

Who does he think he is, calling Minho a king? He’s the one who can probably have a helicopter sent here to rescue him, the one who got them into this situation because he can’t handle a bunch of people taking pictures of him. 

Stupid prick.

As if he can hear his thoughts, Jisung sends him Minho a look that would have him dropping dead if only eyes could kill. And then, he finally turns his attention back to the road.

He hits the gas, but nothing happens.

“We’re not moving,” he states, voice flat. He tries pressing the pedal again, and once more, nothing.

Except for a weird, wet sound reaching Minho’s ears that has him looking out of the window. 

Holy fuck.  

The car is literally drowning in a pool of mud, the wheels sinking in deeper as Jisung hits the pedal. Minho opens his mouth to tell him to stop, but the car jerks forward, and Jisung lets out a shriek—which Minho would have made fun of if he wasn’t so fucking pissed off. 

“Stop hitting gas!” he yells instead. “It’s only making things worse!” 

Jisung lets go of the wheel and the gas pedal, lifting his hands and feet up in the air. Idiot. “Shit, shit, shit,” he keeps repeating over and over, craning his legs as he takes in their situation.

Jisung can keep staring, but Minho isn’t going to wait here until they sink in this swampy pond along with stupid Petunia. He clenches his jaw and grabs his bag to toss it out the window where the ground seems dry. Then, he unbuckles his seatbelts and shifts as slowly as he can, trying to climb out of the car through the window. 

“Wait, wait,” Jisung calls out. “I’ll help you!” 

“Do not fucking touch me!” Minho yells back, resisting the urge to just kick him in the face. He decides to be a bigger person and just leaves.

Jisung groans, following him out of the car on the driver’s side. “Why are you so mad?” 

Minho scoffs, pulling himself up onto the roof of the car, trying not to look down or shiver in fear as the car just keeps sinking, as if the pool of mud is infinite beneath them. “Oh, I don’t know,” he snaps. “Maybe because of this?” 

“Well, turning onto this road was not my idea!” 

Minho huffs, eyes going wide. He can’t believe his own ears. “You’re blaming me?”

Jisung looks surprised at the fact that Minho even needs a confirmation. “Uh, yeah?! You’re a terrible navigator!”

“You’re a terrible driver and a fucking asshole!” Minho yells, his voice echoing in the quiet of this deserted road. 

Jisung looks hurt. And mad. And Minho doesn’t necessarily want to think about him anymore so he looks away and shifts to sit on his butt.

“Hey, I’m a great driver.”

Of course that’s what Jisung is worried about. 

Minho scoffs. “I’m jumping off,” he says, not even bothering to hide the anger and disappointment he’s feeling.

Then, without caring about anything else, he slides down the windshield, balances himself on the hood as the car sinks in deeper under his weight, and jumps off. He lands on the ground smoothly, and then watches Jisung—just standing there, staring. 

“I’m out of here,” Minho says, walking over to grab his bag off the ground. He brushes dust and dirt off of it and slings it over his shoulder. 

“Wait!” Jisung calls out when he turns around, ready to walk away. “Help me!”

Minho spins on his heel just to point a finger at him. “You brought this upon yourself, you dick! And you killed Petunia!”

Jisung puts his hands together to mimic a prayer and says, “I get that! I’ll buy your grandma a new car, damn it! Just. . . Help me. Please.”

Minho groans. Will it be considered murder if he just leaves Jisung here to sink in the mud? He’s sure all those fans worldwide and his management would do everything to put him in prison for the rest of his life. 

“Just jump off!” he yells. 

Jisung staggers in his step, and then tries to do what Minho did—but with his movement, the car sinks deeper, the hood having almost disappeared now. In all the panic, Jisung apparently thinks it’s a good idea to literally. . . just jump.

He falls into the mud with a shriek.

Minho’s legs jerk towards him before he can even think of it, grabbing his arm so that he doesn’t completely sink in the filthy water. “Jesus,” he breathes out, dragging Jisung out onto the dry ground. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

“If you would’ve just helped me!” 

There are droplets of mud on Jisung’s face, and his shoes and pants are completely dirty. Minho gags at the smell, taking a step back, and watches the pink car slowly sink all the way into the mud with a one last rumble.

“I had to avenge Petunia,” Minho says, already getting a headache just thinking about how the hell he’s going to explain any of this to his grandma. To his parents.

He doesn’t mean it as a joke, but Jisung still laughs. The sound falters, however, when Minho’s blank face doesn’t change. And his phone rings, an annoying tune cutting through the quiet, and Jisung pulls it out of the pocket of his pants with a curse.

“I need to find better reception,” he says, thrusting the phone high up in the air and quickly walking away.

Minho watches this for a moment, his stomach churning uncomfortably and shoulders slumping. And then he turns on his heel, slowly walking away, too. But not to find reception. 

“Jeonghan?” he hears Jisung say. “Hello? Jeonghannie hyung? Shit. There’s no signal. Can you hear me. . .? Hello?”

Minho lets out a shuddering breath, hand curling around the strap of his tote bag with unnecessary force. His eyes are stinging, his shirt is sticking to his back with sweat, and he’s so tired he feels like lying down on the dirty ground until some snake slithers close enough to bite him and he dies. 

“Hey!” Minho hears Jisung yell behind him, footsteps approaching as he tries to catch up. “Where are you going?”

“To the beach, where my sister is probably freaking the hell out right now,” Minho says, his throat tight with unshed tears and anger. He’s a grown man, an adult, but he feels like dropping down and bursting into tears right now. All thanks to that asshole. “God, why did I get into this stupid car with him?” he whispers to himself.

“Uh, Minho?”

He turns around so fast his head spins. “What the hell do you want?” he yells.

Jisung grimaces, and then points his thumb behind himself, in the opposite direction. “Beach is that way.”

Minho clenches his jaw, storming past Jisung without saying a word. Jisung jogs after him to align their step—Minho doesn’t even have the energy to pick up the pace and leave him far behind.

He just wants to be home already. Not home, as in Grandma’s house. Minho wants to take the next flight to Korea and fall asleep in his own bed, stay in his room for the rest of the week and not talk to anyone.

He sniffles, blinking away the tears of frustration.

“Are you okay?” Jisung asks, stripping Minho off of the only positive thing about their situation: silence.

Minho doesn’t even look up from the ground. “Stop talking to me.”

“I’m just concerned,” Jisung says, a hint of annoyance in his tone. “You don’t have to be so grumpy all the time.”

Minho takes a sharp inhale and stops walking altogether. “I’m not grumpy or cranky or crabby!” he shouts. “I just wanna go home to my family, explain why l disappeared, and suffer the consequences of my poorly-thought actions.” 

Jisung chuckles, then throws his hands in the air like some lunatic. “You know what I want?” Minho doesn’t. But Jisung doesn’t care about what Minho wants, so he continues, “I wanna have fun. Okay? For the first time in years, there’s no reporters, there’s no interviews, there’s no crowds. I’m having a good time.” He says it completely seriously. “I want you to stop complaining so I can enjoy it!”

Minho can’t believe his own ears. He has to clench his hands into fists by his sides so that he doesn’t take a swing at him.

“I’m glad you’re having the time of your life, but—personally—being lost in the middle of nowhere with no idea where to go or what to do with myself is making me lose my mind,” he says through gritted teeth. “But, I get it, you wouldn’t care. If you called your manager, they’d just send a fucking helicopter to get you out of here. Even the fact that you sunk someone’s car doesn’t affect you.” 

Jisung scoffs. And stalks away. Just like that.

“Wow,” Minho huffs. “So that’s what it's like with you.” 

Jisung stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn around. Minho can see the outline of his back through his soaked t-shirt, all the muscles tense, but he’s too angry to just let it all go. 

“You don’t get what you want or have your mistakes pointed out to you, so you throw a big old tantrum and walk away without thinking twice about other people,” he says, words laced with poison. “You know, I’ll bet your friends chase after you when you do that. J isungie, I’m so sorry I hurt your delicate little feelings, they must say. Jisungie, forgive me for not treating you like the big, enormous star you think you are,” Minho mimics a high-pitched voice, and then scoffs. “What a brat.” 

Jisung whips around, a storm raging across his features as he briskly makes his way over to Minho, stopping right in front of him, barely a meter away. 

“I’m a brat? I’m a brat? What about you, huh?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. In disbelief, Minho lets out a hollow me?. “Yeah. Over the last two days, I’ve done nothing but think about you.”

Minho chuckles bitterly, shaking his head. “Really? So when you hit me with a door, hid me in your house, and wrecked my grandma’s car, you were just being thoughtful? Oh, I pity your friends.”

Jisung narrows his eyes. "You wish you were one of my friends.”

Minho takes a step forward so his nose nearly touches Jisung’s. “I’d rather go down with Petunia,” he spits out, stepping to the side and bumping his shoulder into Jisung’s as he walks away. 

He hears him sigh, but in the end he doesn’t give up, catching up with Minho and starting up a conversation as if Minho hasn’t just insulted him. It’s even more irritating—how he doesn’t take anything to heart.

“You know what,” he says, “I’m confused about something.”

“What again?” Minho snaps, hoping and praying that this time, once Jisung gets his curiosity satiated, he’ll just shut up for good.

“I don’t know. When we were taking all those photos. . .” he trails off. “I—I just thought you. . . liked me?”

Minho fakes a laugh, thinking, Because I was starting to think you were different. “You thought wrong,” he says instead of voicing that out.

“But everyone likes me,” Jisung shrugs, genuine confusion on his face. “Why is it that you don’t?”

Each time Minho thinks this guy can’t surprise him any more, he goes and says something so incredibly stupid that Minho starts questioning his own sanity.

“Maybe because you’re—” he cuts himself off, even though Jisung sends him an inquiring look, and clears his throat. “Why do you think everyone likes you?”

“It's ‘cause I’m likeable,” Jisung says, one hundred percent serious. 

Minho blinks. “No, it’s because you’re famous.”

Jisung’s face falls, and he looks hurt. The mud made his blond hair stick to his face, and when he reaches out to brush the stray strands off his forehead, dark lines linger on his skin. “What does that mean?” he asks, not even screaming anymore.

“You don’t even see it, do you?” Minho stops in his tracks again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Your life isn’t real. You park in no-parking zones, you never have to wait in line, you buy anything you want, anytime. Your house is like a hotel,” he counts out. “You have so many people working for you, I’ll bet you don't even know their names.”

Jisung frowns. “Huh, I do.”

“Name one.

“Bob.”

Minho scoffs. “You just made that up.”

“I didn’t!” Jisung argues. “His name is actually Sungjin, but he’s also Bob.”

“Another one,” Minho urges on. 

“I—” Jisung heaves a sigh. “Okay, but Jeonghan hyung knows everybody. That’s his job.”

“See? That’s not normal,” Minho tells him. “You pay everyone for things you want them to do for you because you think money can solve anything. You’re just spoiled.”

Jisung stammers in search for words, but nothing except a pathetic little sound comes out, and he snaps his mouth shut.

“Yeah. Exactly,” Minho continues, not understanding why he feels so disappointed. Like he was waiting to get proved wrong, only to be let down instead. “That’s exactly it.”

Tired of all this bullshit, Minho fixes the strap of his bag on his shoulder and resumes walking. He’s hoping that he’ll get back to the beach before the sun sets. He doesn’t even want to think about all the kinds of animals that might come out of hiding once it gets dark.

But Jisung isn’t giving up. Unsurprisingly. “So, you’re saying I’m not a real person?” he asks. “Because I am.”

“Oh, I stand corrected.”

“Well, all right. What if I told you something about me that no one else knows?”

Minho wants to laugh. “I don’t care,” he says, rolling his eyes even though Jisung can’t see his face.

As expected, he also completely ignores what Minho is telling him and speaks anyway. “From the moment I first met you, I—”

His words get cut off with a shriek, and then a splash of water. Minho whips around, eyes wide with fear, Jisung’s name loud on his lips as his gaze flits all over the place in search of him.

Heart furiously pounding against his ribcage, Minho breaks into a run towards the broken bulrush that looks like someone has just fallen into it, almost slipping on the mud surrounding it. To his surprise, there’s something like a pond behind the tall plants, hidden away from the view. And Jisung is right in the middle of it, gasping for air as he emerges from beneath the surface, wet hair covering his eyes and clothes sticking to his skin. At least he didn’t drown, Minho tells himself, letting out a breath of relief.

“What the hell are you doing?” 

“Shit,” Jisung breathes out, chest heaving as he struggles to make his way back onto the shore. “I slipped, and tried to hold onto the bulrush, but it broke and I just fucking fell.”

Minho holds out his hand to help him get out. “You’re an idi—”

Jisung grabs his arm and pulls him into the water with a strangled yell slipping past Minho’s lips. 

They tumble forward, Minho crashing into him and sending them both flying back into the water as he clings onto dear life. For a split second, Minho can’t breathe—and then his instincts are kicking in and he’s pushing himself up to the surface, spluttering and coughing and struggling to catch a breath.

Once the initial panic washes away, he realizes the water only reaches his ribs. That doesn’t stop him from yelling, “Are you insane? I can’t even swim! What if the water was deep?”

Jisung pushes his hair back so that it doesn’t cover his eyes. Although he looks sorry, he still says, “I wouldn’t pull you in if it was deep. And I would help you get out.” 

Minho clenches his jaw and splashes water into his face in retaliation like a ten year old kid. Jisung gasps, cupping his hand and sending water flying in Minho’s direction right back, laughing when Minho jumps to the side with a Hyemin-worthy squeal. 

Minho can’t have that. He lunges forward, shamelessly pulling Jisung’s head underwater, but quickly finds that Jisung is somehow more sly in the way he uses his strength than Minho is, so the roles get reversed. Minho breaks the surface easily, but he has to flail around when the sunglasses he had hooked over the collar of his T-shirt get swept away in the water. 

“Sorry,” Jisung says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly when Minho glares at him yet again. “Let’s get out.”

It is then that Minho remembers just how hot it is in California. They have to walk a few meters with their shoes squelching with water to find a rock to sit on, but once they’re perched atop of it in the sun, it doesn’t take long for them to dry.

Jisung asks if it’s okay if he strips to his underwear, and Minho doesn’t care so he says yes, even though he himself doesn’t make a move to undress despite knowing he’d dry sooner without his clothes. 

Even worse than the wet fabric sticking to his skin in all the wrong places is how he has to force himself to tear his eyes away from Jisung’s bare figure. He’s slim, but his muscles are toned, and. . .

Well, Minho is only human. He might dislike him, but it would be a lie to say Jisung isn’t hot. 

But even though he couldn’t care less about what Jisung thinks, the last thing Minho needs is for him to assume he’s some kind of freak who ogles half-dressed people, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead even as they talk.

“I wish I could stay here forever. Somewhere no one can find me,” Jisung says. “Everyone wants something from me, even my hyungs, but here. . . God.”  

Minho lets out a noncommittal hum. “Your friends. Tough.”

“They love me, I love them, and we love what we do with our music,” Jisung says. “But. . . I’m not even supposed to say it, but we got a proposition to take part in a movie, and I feel like all everyone cares about right now is this deal, when our album is coming out, like, in two days.”

Right. Hyemin got a ticket in the front for the promotional showcase, begging their parents to let her go even though it’s the last day of their stay in the States. At least Minho won’t be dragged along this time.

“Our managers think it’s the next important career move, so. . .” Jisung trails off with a shrug.

“And is it?”

Jisung lets out a bitter chuckle. “I don’t even know if I’m that good of an actor.” 

Minho looks up from where he’s been playing with a blade of grass and looks at Jisung. Really focuses his gaze on him, on how he’s sitting on the rock next to him, hair still sticking to his forehead, but now without all the mud he got all over himself earlier. 

There are things he didn’t notice about him before, like his chapped lips he’s nervously chewing on, the dark circles underneath his eyes, or the way his shoulders are slumped in a way his managers probably wouldn’t approve of. Right now, he just looks tired.  

“But what about your tour?” Minho asks.

“What about it?”

“Well. . . Thirty countries, ten weeks, millions of screaming fans.” He’s exaggerating, although he knows it’s not that far off from the truth. “I’m no expert or anything, but that seems like a lot, the tour and the movie at the same time.”

Jisung shrugs, even though Minho thinks he agrees. “We don’t really have a choice,” he says.

“Everyone has a choice. What do you guys wanna do?”

Jisung sighs. It takes a moment for him to answer—or, rather, neatly dodge the question. “We just don’t want to disappoint our fans, our parents, our managers. . .” he says. “Everyone is counting on us, so we never say no. We agree to everything.”

Even though Minho imagined Jisung’s life exactly this way, he can’t help the way his heart sinks. It’s just sad. Jisung is young, and his group mates are, too; they should grasp at the once-in-a-lifetime opportunities and live their lives to the fullest, yes, but not at this cost.

“Your life,” Minho starts, “is so different from mine. Everything you do and say is public. Every decision is calculated. Every move is staged.”

Jisung sighs, falling silent, but he doesn’t disagree.

At least not right away.

A beat of quietude passes, and then he’s saying, “Not everything.” 

Minho raises an eyebrow, twisting his head to the side, and their eyes meet for the first time in a while. A shiver runs down his spine, but if anyone asked him, he would say it’s just because of his wet clothes. 

“Right now, here with you,” Jisung continues, “I feel like I can just be myself. Not Han of 3RACHA. Not someone trying to get a role in a movie. Not someone releasing an album in two days. Not famous. Just. . . You know, just me.” 

Minho’s heart skips a beat. “And how does that feel?” 

The corners of Jisung’s mouth upturn in a smile, but there’s something sad about it; like he’s happy, but there’s a lingering awareness of the evanescence of the source of it all. 

“Pretty awesome,” he says.

★

“We. . . actually made it,” Minho’s voice is breathy with disbelief as he takes the sight in. It has taken pushing through bushes and tripping over rocks, but they’ve finally reached the beach. “See?” he says, turning to Jisung with a smug expression. “I’m the best navigator.”

The fight they had over it seems so far away now.

“You’re absolutely not,” Jisung says, nudging him in the side. “But. . . hey—” He takes ahold of Minho’s wrist to stop him from walking. “I had a really great time today.”

“Petunia didn’t,” Minho says, but he’s having trouble keeping his face straight. 

“Come on,” Jisung whines. “She’s in a better place now.” 

“You owe me so much money.” 

Jisung opens his mouth to say something—probably to tease him some more—but closes it right away. Then, he does it again, but this time, he says hesitantly, “But. . . Did you, too? Have a good time, I mean.”

Minho shrugs indifferently, even though his heart is doing stupid somersaults in his chest. “I was kind of keen on Petunia.”

“You’re the worst,” Jisung laughs, ducking his head and kicking the sand. “But then again. . . you’re just so different from anyone I’ve ever known. . .”

Minho swallows hard, automatically reaching out to push his glasses up on his nose, only to remember he’s not wearing them, and the shades Jisung gave him are perched on top of his head. 

His cheeks turn an even brighter shade of red.

“So. . .” He lifts one corner of his mouth in a slanted grin to draw Jisung’s attention away from his flushed face. “What you’re actually saying is that I’m the best, right?” 

“Wow.” Jisung nudges his shoulder with a chuckle. “Your ego is huge.”

“I’m simply adjusting to your level.” Minho shrugs, laughing—he allows himself to do that out loud since they’re yet to get close to people actually enjoying the beach as the sun sets. 

“I really like it when you laugh.” 

Minho freezes, breath catching in his throat, but he plays it cool quickly enough for Jisung not to notice, and decides he can’t be the only flustered one.

“First you say you love my voice, now you say you like my laugh,” he says. “Better stop buttering me up before I start thinking you’ve fallen for me.”

Jisung lets out a chuckle, shaking his head—so Minho steps closer and reaches out to get a hold on Jisung’s chin to make him look him in the eyes. Even then, his gaze flits all over Minho’s face and the landscape behind him, and—not for the first time, if he has to be honest—Minho thinks that maybe Jisung isn’t as straight as everyone is supposed to think.

But even if he is, it doesn’t matter. Minho is only teasing when he says, “Oh, come on. I don’t blame you. I’m quite charming.”

Jisung snorts, breaking into laughter, and the sound of it, the shape of a heart his mouth turns into, makes Minho smile, too. He moves his hand from Jisung’s chin to his shoulder and drags his teeth over his bottom lip, taking one step closer. 

“Don’t you think I’m charming?” he whispers, not even bothering to hide how his eyes fall onto Jisung’s lips. 

Jisung takes in a sharp inhale. “You—” 

Looking up, Minho tilts his head to the side with a small grin. “I what?”

He doesn’t expect an answer from Jisung—at least not a verbal one—and he doesn’t get it. Caressing the side of Jisung’s neck with his thumb, Minho just stares, stupidly thinking about how his eyes really are dark like chocolate. Again. 

With how focused Minho is on him, it isn’t hard to notice how Jisung’s eyes stray to the side, looking past him. Instead of looking back at Minho, though, Jisung takes a staggered step back, pulling his hat over his eyes.

Taken aback, Minho remains still as his hand drops from the place where Jisung has stood a moment ago. Blinking in confusion, he turns around to check what made Jisung move away, but the only thing he sees are two surfers who don’t even spare them a glance as they rush towards the water.

“God,” Jisung says over an exhale. “That was close, but, uh, okay. Back to the real world.” He shifts his body to face Minho. “You know what happens next, right?”

Minho’s brows are drawn together in confusion, his heart picking up the pace until it’s pounding erratically in his chest. “Uh. What?” 

“This ends here.”⠀

“What?” Minho repeats, but he’s already taking a step back, as if he subconsciously realizes just what is about to happen.

“This,” Jisung says, gesturing between the two of them. “Us.”

Minho frowns. “Us?” he echoes, thinking, There is no ‘us’.

Jisung nods, eyes trembling frantically as he clearly struggles to look at Minho at all, all the while he keeps glancing around them like he’s expecting someone to jump right out from behind the rocks. 

“Yeah. You and me. Together. You. . .” he trails off. “They’ve been speculating about my sexuality, okay? So, if we go down the beach—if we get photographed together, it will definitely get crazy. And then I don’t get this movie deal and ruin everything for my friends.”

Minho’s heart drops like it has just been turned into a rock. He doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know if what he’s hearing is real. It doesn’t feel like it is.

But the anger boils inside him, anyway, at how Jisung is ready to discard him just like that, after buttering him up and flirting with him and dragging Minho all over this cursed city.

“The fact that you’re terrible at hiding your sexuality and therefore cannot be seen with anyone other than your female friends is not my problem,” he says, words bitter with the pain running through his system.

He doesn’t know why he’s feeling so hollow all of the sudden, as if he’s a balloon that has been pierced until all the air was gone, and Jisung is the one holding the needle. 

“It will be your problem if they see us together,” Jisung says.

“They don’t even know who I am,” Minho tells him, hands curling into fists by his sides. “You don’t even know who I am.”

“All they need to know to make up a story is that I’m Han Jisung and you’re just a nobody. They don’t need anything more to fuck everything up.”

Minho staggers back as if he has just gotten punched in the gut.

So that’s what Jisung thinks of him. Since the moment they met, throughout the day they spent together, up until now. 

“A nobody,” he echoes, chuckling bitterly. His feet take another step back on their own, and Minho tries to swallow all this hurt, but it’s hard with a lump in his throat. When he speaks up again, his voice is pathetically weak. “Well, this nobody doesn’t want to remember this day, either, so this nobody will now leave, and let you live your fairytale life.”

“Wait, wait,” Jisung calls out, reaching out to grab Minho’s arm, only to be shaken off even before he manages to touch him. “I—I didn’t mean it like that.” 

Minho scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Make up your goddamn mind, then,” he says. “One second you say that I’m wonderful, but the next you’re embarrassed to be seen with me. So, it appears to me that you mean it exactly like that. That a role in a movie you don’t want to star in is more important than other people’s feelings.”

Jisung lets out a shuddering breath. “It’s not like that—”

Minho shrugs. “And, for the record, I don’t want to be seen with you, either,” he says. “So our problem is solved. Now, leave me the fuck alone.” 

He spins on his heel, the sand creaking underneath his shoes, and blinks away the stinging behind his eyes now that Jisung can’t see him. Minho doesn’t even know why he feels so hurt when a day is all they’ve spent together, but being treated like trash certainly by a person he was starting to like certainly plays a part in that.

His feet come to a halt on their own accord when Jisung calls after him.

“I don’t care what you have to say anymore,” he says, hoping his voice sounds as devoid of emotions as he wants it to be. 

“Wait, please,” Jisung asks, the sound of his footsteps following after him. “Just—One more thing.”

Minho whips around, anger making his blood boil. “What the hell do you want?”

“The pictures. I should probably have them,” Jisung says, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows hard. Minho can’t help but bitterly think that if the passive expression is just a facade, he will turn out to be a great actor. “Just in case the pictures would get out, you know.”

Minho’s mouth falls open in disbelief. Of course that’s what Jisung cares about.

“Fine. You want my pictures?” Minho rummages through his bag to find the stupid camera and throws it into the ocean without as much as a look to the side, his eyes—glittering with hurt—fixed on Jisung. “There’s nothing on I that I would want to remember, anyway.” 

Hurt flashes across Jisung’s features, so brief that Minho thinks he might have imagined it. It’s not like his pain means anything to him, though. Minho doesn’t care about Jisung just like Jisung doesn’t care about him.

“I don’t want to say goodbye like this,” he says. 

Minho snorts, shaking his head. “How about this, huh? You forget about me just like you planned to and I forget about you,” he says. “We never see each other again because we’re from two different worlds, and this was just a stupid mistake.” 

“Go ahead and judge me. Okay,” Jisung calls out, throwing his hands up in the air. “But you don’t know what it would be like. The paparazzi never go away. And once they have you in their sights, they won’t quit until they get what they want. And when they finally get it, they’ll turn it into something ugly. They’ll ruin everything.”

“They don’t have to,” Minho says over the lump in his throat. “You already did.”

Minho feels like he’s boiling inside, so the coldness of the necklace he’s wearing is like a wake-up call. He curls his fingers around the chain and pulls it off over his head, tossing it into the sand before turning on his heel and walking away. 

★

HYEMIN (LOSER)

where are u
minho
hello!!!
did u just really ditch me AGAIN

i’m sorry
can u get an uber back home
i’ll pay you back
i just can’t come back to pick you up

jeez
are u okay?

yeah
i’m fine

★

Minho spends another hour on the beach just trying to calm down. He doesn’t know what to do with himself after everything that has just unfolded between him and Jisung, and he’s scared to go back home, without a single clue how to possibly explain what happened over the past two days.

Eventually, when the sky gets dark, Minho gets an Uber back to Northridge, giving up on preparing himself for the wrath awaiting him at home.  

Stepping inside is everything Minho expects it to be—his mom instantly rushes to the entryway, angry beyond belief as she yells at him that he’s irresponsible and she was just about to call the police to look for him.

Minho feels like he’s going to break if he speaks, so he doesn’t say anything at all, taking all the anger and letting it bounce off of him like he’s made of steel. He’s heard enough today. This. . . This doesn’t really faze him.

No one seems to know what to say when Minho sits down in the living room to explain how he lost Petunia. He has to leave out every mention of Jisung, so he makes up a half-lie about wanting to go for a drive and getting lost in the middle of nowhere, how the car had sunk into a pool of mud, and how he had to walk through wilderness to get back to the beach.

His parents proceed to nag him some more about being thoughtless and irresponsible, and it’s Grandma who steps in and tells them to shut up, because Petunia was just a car and Minho is their boy.

Minho starts crying.

Everyone falls silent as cold tears begin streaming down his cheeks, all out in the open before he hides his face in his hands to quiet down the sob that rips out of his throat. 

It’s Hyemin who moves first, resting her hand on his thigh and asking, “Minho, are you. . . are you feeling alright?” 

He shakes his head, still hiding his face away from their worried and shocked gazes, letting everyone see his red face only when he sobs out, “I just want to go home.” He stands up and storms out, leaving his family in deafening silence after slamming the door to his bedroom. 

★

Minho stays holed-up in his room the day following the disastrous beach outing, but by the time dinner rolls around, he’s already back to his old sarcastic self, acting like everything that had happened didn’t actually take place at all.

He spends the next days with Grandma and in the backyard, reading books like he’d initially planned, and forgetting about the existence of one blond-haired musician.

Hyemin goes to the comeback showcase as planned, but when she comes back home to relay everything in the tiniest detail, Minho puts on noise-canceling headphones and pretends he doesn’t exist, letting his sister remain blissfully oblivious about how much of an asshole her idol is.

At least she’s happy.

When it’s time to say goodbye, Grandma wraps Minho up in the warmest hug in the world, pulling him so close to her chest and squeezing him so tightly that he swears he can feel all his bones cracking.

But he doesn’t say anything, because it feels nice to be held like that.

“Are you going to be fine, Minho-yah?” she whispers, out of everyone else’s earshot as they bid their goodbyes to Will.

“I am fine,” Minho insists. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m a big boy, remember?” 

She chuckles, pulling back to look at his face and caress it with her wrinkled hands. He does his signature expression, pulling the corners of his mouth upright in a cat smile to ease her worries. Even if he doesn’t actually feel well just yet, he knows he will. Soon.

“I’m sorry about Petunia,” he says. 

Grandma clicks her tongue. “I already told you that I should’ve gotten rid of that stupid car years and years ago,” she says. “Don’t occupy your beautiful mind with her. Focus on yourself, Minho-yah.” 

Minho nods, but his throat feels weirdly tight when he moves over to the side to hug Will goodbye before heading straight to the Jeep they rented at the beginning of their trip. Hyemin is already seated inside with her headphones on with music blasting on full volume, loud enough for Minho to hear the voice he so badly wants to forget.

Just to silence that and the destructive thoughts in his mind, Minho pulls his own headphones and plays the angriest playlist he has in his library despite the headache building in his temples. 

He just really wants to be back in Seoul already. 

★

A few days later, Minho wakes up to Hyemin screaming downstairs and he’s confused as to why she’s this loud so early in the morning. What follows is someone slamming the door, and then the sound of furious footsteps on the stairs. The next thing Minho knows, the door to his bedroom is being flung open and Hyemin is jumping onto his bed, trapping him under the covers as she sits on his stomach.

“What the hell are you—” 

“You were with Jisung the day you disappeared from the beach!” she yells, shoving her phone into his face while he’s still busy rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Initially, Minho doesn’t register her words, one foot still in the dreamland. But the moment they settle in, he jerks into a sitting position and rips Hyemin’s phone out of her hands to read whatever the hell she got this information from.

It’s an article on some gossip site. And the title is enough to make Minho feel utterly sick, stomach twisting into a knot that tightens with every word he reads. 

SPOTTED: Han of 3RACHA and his male boo getting cozy on the beach just before a steamy fight!

Once he lets his mind process everything, thrust into harsh reality half-asleep, he’s not so calm anymore. To be exact, his anxiety reaches its peak the moment Hyemin reaches out to touch his shoulder. 

Minho’s heart shatters as he takes a sharp inhale, choking on his breath as he shoves Hyemin’s phone back into her hands without sparing another glance at the pictures of him and Jisung on the beach that day.

Hyemin softly calling out his name snaps him back into reality. 

And then he hears it. Cameras clicking, lights flashing, people talking over one another—all those unfamiliar sounds coming from the front yard. 

Minho kicks off the covers, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and runs to the window on wobbly legs. He steadies himself on the windowpane, takes in the sight before him—people with cameras either trying to hide in the bushes across the street or standing in plain sight and without any shame. 

Letting out a shuddering breath, Minho turns around to face Hyemin, who pouts at him with a sad kind of confusion on her face. 

“I didn’t want to tell you, but. . . Some reporters and fansites have been here since the very morning,” she says quietly. “The article. . . It suddenly appeared in the top searches and—”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Hyemin shakes her head, eyes flitting down to glance at her phone, the pictures of Minho and Jisung on full display. She shuts the screen off the moment she catches Minho’s eyes straying there, too, and throws the device onto the bed, letting it bounce off and land on the floor. She doesn’t seem to care at all. 

“His managers haven’t said anything yet,” she says quietly—hesitantly, as if she doesn’t know if she should speak at all. “He probably doesn’t even know it leaked.” 

That doesn’t comfort Minho at all. All of the sudden, he feels like he’s in Los Angeles again, sand creaking underneath his shoes, Jisung’s words echoing in his head, tears springing to his eyes.

Minho doesn’t cry. He goes back to his bed and hides himself under the sheets instead. 

Hyemin doesn’t say anything for a long time; she just sits there next to him, patting Minho’s back over the covers. The bed only dips when Mom calls her name from downstairs and she moves to leave the room with a sigh.

“I trust you, Minho,” she says. “I don’t know what happened here and what’s the truth, but you’re the one that I trust.”

Minho squeezes his eyes shut at the sharp, stinging feeling, waiting for the door to click shut before letting out a strangled sob.

All this time, he should’ve given Hyemin some credit. The moment she has to choose between her favorite person in the world whom she idolizes the life out of and her brother, she chooses Minho without hesitation. No questions, no assumptions. 

It feels weird at heart, after so much teasing and arguing, to have her on his side for what feels like the first time in life. Still, Minho can’t bring himself to just go and spill his heart and guts and tell her the whole truth. 

Hidden in his room, away from crazy people lined-up in front of his house and the judgement in his parents’ eyes, Minho thinks everything through once again—as if it isn’t all he’s been doing since they came back home—and comes to the same, stupidly painful conclusions.

Jisung doesn’t want to be associated with him. Jisung doesn’t want people to think he’s got some sort of thing going on with him. Jisung doesn’t want anyone to know what exactly happened in Los Angeles. 

And that’s exactly what Minho is going to give him. 

★

Minho skips a few days of classes, but his parents seem to understand. Or, they at least try to, and Minho is enjoying it while they still have some patience for him. They called the police on the reporters and crazy fans and, thankfully, it was enough to chase them away. Even though Minho still hears the cameras clicking sometimes when he goes out to sit in the garden to soak up some sun. It scares him, but he doesn’t say a thing. 

“You have to talk to us,” his mom says at the dinner table. “What happened in California?” 

Minho wants to respond. Minho wants to tell them but. . . did anything happen at all?

Each time he tries to think about it more, his common sense makes it all clear: he spent two days with Jisung, not a lifetime. It’s ridiculous for him to keep going over it in his head again and again when in reality, Jisung had been right—there’s no us when it comes to the two of them. Nothing happened between them, not even a stupid kiss.

Minho is so hung up on it just because Jisung had sweet-talked him only to toss all the good moments they shared right back into his face. And now Minho and his family are being harassed because of it. 

“Just like he said, mom,” Minho tells her, Jisung’s recent interview in mind. “Nothing happened.” 

Aside from the brief statement posted online by his management, Jisung spoke up about the whole thing once, during one of promotional interviews—so the question must have been allowed by his company in the first place, and Minho knows that for a fact.

Jisung said that Lee Minho was just a crazy fan who had followed him around Los Angeles on the day the pictures had been taken. He repeated the part of the statement that said he had never reached out to Minho first, and that day on the beach, he had only been telling him to stop stalking him. 

What a funny thing to say about someone who has never been interested in Jisung or his group in his whole life. How easy it is to paint him out to be the bad person in front of the entire world just to protect Jisung, his friends, and their stupid movie.

(Minho wonders if he would get sued if he leaked that information out. Would it even matter, anyway?)

Minho knows this is exactly the plan Jisung had hit him with—they don’t know each other and they never had. But he also knows that Jisung’s agency made him lie, making Minho out to be a total freak, because it’s not something Jisung himself would do.

Maybe Minho is a fool for hoping Jisung isn’t that big of an asshole. He doesn’t even know why he’s trying to defend him, even if it’s just in his own thoughts. 

Because. . . damn, Minho didn’t even like Jisung in the first place, and now Minho has been dragged into the messiest situation ever, and he’s the one suffering consequences. 

People in university suddenly recognize him and stare every time he walks past them on campus; reporters follow him and his family around, going as far as taking pictures from the other end of the street just to bypass the warning from the police, ruining the only place Minho had felt safe in; and Jisung. . .

Jisung. 

In that interview which the YouTube algorithm shoved into his face, Jisung looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, his legs jerking up constantly out of anxiety and eyes flitting all over the cameras, the out-going persona disappearing under the pressure of rumors and gossip. But the worst thing of all was how, around his neck, he was wearing the necklace Minho had tossed into the sand in all his rage.

And Minho isn’t trying to come up with excuses, but if there’s anything he has learned over his disastrous time in California, is that things aren’t always black and white. 

★

“Jesus, why don’t they just go home?” Hyemin mutters under her breath as they make their way out of the house.

“Because they haven’t got what they came for,” Minho replies flatly, reminding her to buckle her seatbelts before starting the car and driving off. He has gone back to attending all his classes and trying to catch up with everything he has missed over the time he was absent, but it’s not the workload that makes him want to stay at home.

“And what exactly do they want?” Hyemin asks, rolling her eyes. “He already said you were a crazy fan, which is literally such fucking bullshit—”

Minho clicks his tongue. “Stop cursing every other word.”

Hyemin ignores him. “He’s so—ugh. Annoying. I don’t know. I’m disappointed, you know?” 

Minho stays silent. He doesn’t feel like talking about Jisung ever again and, although she stopped listening to 3RACHA’s music and packed all merchandise displayed in her room into neat boxes, saying she has lost her faith and doesn’t want to hear anything about Han Jisung again, Hyemin sometimes just doesn’t know when to stop talking, not making it any easier for Minho to leave him behind.

“But, enough of stupid boys,” she continues. “Tomorrow’s the uni fair. I hope you’re still going!” 

Minho raises his eyebrows, halting the car before the campus gate so that some other person can drive out of the parking lot. “I thought you didn’t want me there.” 

“I changed my mind,” Hyemin tells him. “You’re welcome to go and I’ll go with you.”

“You should just go with your friends,” Minho says. “I mean, isn’t it a little weird for you of all people to go to a university fair with your brother?” 

Hyemin rolls her eyes at his teasing remark, and then completely surprises him when she says, “Not if I want to show him that, after all, he’s the only man that matters in this stupid world,” before jumping out of the car and rushing to the school, leaving Minho dumbfounded inside.

★

People are staring.

But it’s been weeks since the articles came out, so Minho has gotten used to it. And sometimes it even feels like they’re getting bored with this drama, like they’re giving up on staring, on pestering him questions, on stalking him on social media.

It doesn’t make it any more comfortable for him, but Hyemin only shut up about the university fair when Minho had agreed to go under the condition of going after dusk—and she’s here with him now, glaring at everyone who sends any odd looks Minho’s way.

Maybe, after all, she isn’t as annoying as Minho thought she was.  

“Do you want anything to drink?” she asks.

Minho shakes his head, pointing to the side where some science stall is set up with nothing special going on. When she gives him an exasperated look, Minho only lifts the corners of his mouth in a grin.

“I’ll go take some pictures. Go have fun with Jiwon.” 

That’s also the reason he’s here—because before he left for Los Angeles, he was trusted with writing the article for the university website about the fair for some extra credits, and that would help him a lot considering his flawed attendance in the past few weeks. 

“Okay, but don’t go anywhere far and check out the stage ‘cause the dance and music majors are performing alternately, and that’s more exciting than. . . whatever these nerdy stalls are having,” Hyemin says with a mean grimace, ignoring the way Minho nudges her shoulder to nag. “There’s that band on the line-up that gets like. . . three songs,” tells him. “That guy from one of your classes is in it. Lee Chan, I think.” 

Right. That does sound kind of fun, but he still has to take pictures of everything else and walk around the campus to know what he’s even writing about.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be around the entire time, and I’ve got my phone, so I’ll just text you when I’m done here.” 

Even though Hyemin is trying to be caring and nice to Minho, it’s painfully obvious she just wants to have fun with her actual friends instead of babysitting him, so he gently pushes her away and tells her to go.

Meanwhile, he wanders through the campus and sticks his head into the most interesting stalls, taking pictures and chatting with people about their projects. He buys himself cotton candy and an iced mango drink that freezes his brain and makes him want to puke with how sweet it is. And when his friends find him and drag him over to the stage, Minho doesn’t protest, letting Seungkwan pull him through the sea of students.

They have to be in the front row, because Chan is Seungkwan and Hansol’s friend, but Minho doesn’t mind it; he can breathe when he doesn’t have people crowding him from all sides, and it allows him to take better pictures of the most awaited performer of the night. People behind them are screaming right into his ear, but he finds himself enjoying the gig all the same.

The lights go out when the band shuffles off the stage and some popular song starts blasting through the giant speakers to accompany the chatter around them. 

“Do you wanna go grab something to drink?” Minho asks as he slings his camera off his neck to hand it over to Seungkwan and Hansol to show them the pictures he’s taken—so that they can snap shots of Chan to make fun of his expressions on stage.

“Sure, I guess we’re done he—”

Hansol gets cut off by the collective gasp rippling through the crowd of students as the music gets cut off in the middle of the chorus and the lights on stage suddenly go up. Minho frowns, whipping back around to the front, only to have his legs almost giving out on him at the sight awaiting him there.

Jisung is standing on the stage, microphone in his shaking hands, an unreadable expression on his face as he sweeps his gaze over the crowd. Minho’s lips fall apart in shock and his body moves before his brain can catch up; he takes a step back, stumbling into someone who curses at him and tells him to move.

Minho just wants to run away. Somewhere far, where Jisung’s gaze won’t find him.

But over the past few weeks, Minho hasn’t gotten anything he wishes for—no peace, no quiet—so it doesn’t surprise him in the slightest that Jisung spots him right away, especially since he’s right at the front of the crowd.

Jisung’s eyes widen, the sound of Minho’s name ripping out of his throat and echoing off the campus grounds, caught and amplified by the microphone. A murmur goes through the crowd before everyone falls eerily silent, like they’re holding their breaths, awaiting whatever is going to unfold. 

Minho’s feet are glued to the ground even though his common sense is yelling at him to just get out of there, eyes not leaving Jisung’s face despite all the effort he has made not to even catch a glimpse of his pictures over the past month.

Memories of those two days in L.A. come back to him with a rush. Being hit by the door, seeing Jisung on the beach, bickering with him as they explored the city, and—most importantly—the unfamiliar look on Jisung’s face when he said, This ends here.

The hollow feeling in Minho’s stomach is back, making him sick as he watches Jisung open his mouth again to speak properly this time.

“There’s something I forgot to tell you in California.” 

Minho clenches his jaw and—without sparing Jisung or anyone else another glance—turns on his heel, forcefully pushing past the people around him without bothering with as much as an excuse me.

He can hear Jisung’s voice as if through fog when Jisung sputters apologies to the audience, but it’s enough to make his heart pound in his chest. When he finally gets past the crowd, he picks up the pace, hurriedly walking away even though he doesn’t know where he’s going. 

To his car, probably. To disappoint Hyemin once again and leave her here alone like it’s already in his DNA, all because of Han Jisung. Again.

“Minho, stop!” 

Why was he even foolish enough to think Jisung would just let him go? After all, despite everything that unfolded between them, despite the lies and the hurt and the heartbreak, he has kept a strong grip on Minho, even with thousands of kilometers of distance between them. Now that he’s here, chasing after him, that hold is tighter than ever.

Minho doesn’t stop. In fact, he starts walking faster, his breath catching in his throat as he rushes through the campus grounds, adrenaline the only thing keeping him from breaking down in anger.

“I’m sorry!” Jisung calls out, his footsteps growing louder against the stone path. “I’m sorry, Minho! I know I fucked up! I know!”

Minho clenches his jaw so hard it hurts. Just a few more meters, and he’ll be in the parking lot. He’ll jump into his car and drive off and leave Jisung behind just like Jisung had left him.

“Just stop!” Jisung calls out. “Please, stop so that we can talk!”

Minho whips around, eyes glassy with stupid, pathetic tears. “I don’t have anything to say to you!” he yells back, gaze shooting daggers at Jisung who comes to a surprised and abrupt stop.

Minho doesn’t know what he’s thinking, coming to Seoul at all, but then chasing after him through the campus grounds as if any of this means something when he made it perfectly clear that there was nothing between them. 

At the main stage in the distance, the music is resumed, and Minho heaves a breath, trying to stabilize his pounding heartbeat to the rhythm of a slow melody reaching his ears.

Jisung opens his mouth, but Minho cuts him off.

“Please, stop,” he says, quiet and frustrated and hurt. “Stop running after me and trying to say things you’ll regret later. Stop acting on a whim and then leaving when you don’t like the consequences. Stop—Stop making me feel like this!”  

Jisung’s mouth falls open.

“But, Minho. . .”

“No, Jisung. What were you even thinking? That you’re gonna fly to Seoul and put on a show at my college after you called me a stalker on national television, and I’m gonna get all giddy and jump right into your arms like you hadn’t walked all over my feelings the last time we saw each other?”

Jisung swallows thickly. “I was—I don’t know what I was expecting,” he admits. “But I came here for two reasons. Because I wanted to apologize to you for saying things I didn’t mean. You’re not a nobody. You’re Lee Minho, the smartest, the funniest, and the most charming person I’ve ever met, and that’s so much more than enough.”

Minho lets out a bitter scoff crossing his arms over his chest. “You sure as hell made that clear. Both when you called me a nobody and when you told lies about me for everyone to hear.”

“I know,” Jisung says quietly, his face bright red in the glow of the streetlight. Maybe it’s shame. Maybe he just doesn’t like his words being thrown back into his face. “I regret everything I said to you, and if I could, I would turn back the time. I swear to god, I was just—I was trying to protect you and my friends and myself.” Jisung blinks, eyes glittering. “And I told you that. I just didn’t want Chan and Changbin to lose that stupid movie deal or for you to have to deal with all the shit that would follow everyone finding out. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Minho’s throat is tight with barely suppressed tears when he says, “I’m sure you know I still had to deal with reporters and your fans and everyone else, because you decided to lie to save your own ass.”

His phone starts vibrating insistently in the back pocket of his jeans, but Minho ignores it, knowing well that it must be Hyemin, or his friends. Everyone he doesn’t want to talk to right now.

“Because the people who know me know that I never liked you and that—that a stalker is not me. That what you said was all a lie. But comparing the amount of people who know me to the amount of people who know you. . . ” Minho shakes his head. “You just—You made me look like an insane person in front of the whole world, Jisung. That’s as far from protecting as it gets.”

Jisung’s face falls completely, eyes filling with tears. He lifts his hand to jab at his eyes, blinking furiously at the ground and drawing in a sharp breath before lifting his head again, expression contained. 

“I didn’t want to lie,” he whispers. “But they wrote the statement without asking me what happened. Said they would halt all activities and put us on a hiatus and find a way to get to you and I couldn’t—”

Minho sniffles, setting his jaw and looking away as he struggles to hold himself together. He already knew it. Why is hitting him hard now?

“What are you doing here, Jisung?” he asks, anger slipping away. He’s just tired and sad, that is all. Wants to end this conversation and go home and start moving on all over again because Jisung showed up here and destroyed all the progress he’d made since he came back from California.

“I want to make things right,” Jisung says, taking a step forward. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Ever since you cursed me out at that stupid club, you’ve been a constant on my mind. I’ve been thinking about you, talking about you, writing about you.” He takes in a sharp breath. “I wanted to reach out, ask how you’re feeling, but the management was supervising me, and I. . .”

“You can’t make things right just by coming here and—” Minho shakes his head. “What was that, even, on the stage? First, you’re cutting me off because people would talk, and now you’re showing up here, addressing me in front of the entire university.”

Jisung lets out a breathless chuckle. “I. . . I kind of ran away.”

“What?” 

Rubbing the side of his neck, Jisung shrugs, smiling hesitantly. “They gave us a week off after promotions, so I just—I bought plane tickets, and I’m here.” 

Minho’s tongue betrays him. When he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a strangled, confused noise. 

“Yeah. Chan and Changbin. . . They were supportive of it,” Jisung says, hesitant. “They were the ones who told me to fuck everything and just. . . find you and apologize.”

Minho stares at him, dumbfounded and in complete disbelief of what he’s hearing. His stomach twists, tying itself into knots as he entertains the thought of Jisung fleeing the States just for him—just to fix things between them.

He swallows, but the lump in his throat hasn’t gone away. “What about your management?” he asks quietly. 

Jisung shrugs indifferently, even though the fear is etched into his features, deep and overwhelming. “I mean, not to be that person, but the only reason why that company hasn’t gone bankrupt is only because of 3RACHA,” he says. “If they won’t allow us the freedom to make our own decisions and live our lives as we want to, then we’ll find an agency that will.”

Minho’s heart is beating fast, but his voice betrays no anxiety when he says, “You certainly weren’t the one who came up with that logic.” 

He’s surprised when the corner of his mouth twitches with Jisung’s airy laugh, how his lips long to curl up in a smile at the sound of it. 

“I wasn’t,” Jisung admits. “Hyungs talked a lot of sense into me. Got pissed at me for being stupid and letting you go.” 

“Well, they were right,” Minho tells him.

He feels an odd tug at his heart at the thought of people he doesn’t even know standing up for him. He wonders what Jisung must have told them about the time they had spent together to make them support the idea of the two of them together. What Jisung must have told them about him. 

Jisung heaves a sigh. “I know it must not mean much to you, but I’m really sorry, Minho,” he says. “You don’t deserve any of this, and I’ll hate myself forever for bringing it upon you.”

Minho gulps. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even thinks of saying, It’s okay. Everything is forgotten. But the genuine repentance painted across his soft features makes his heart feel a tad bit lighter, as if some part of the weight he’d put on it has fallen off.

“It means something to me,” he says, taking a step forward until he’s properly face to face with Jisung, able to see the familiar necklace around his neck, the dried tear streaks on his cheeks, and the way his eyes are shaking, flitting all over Minho in confusion.

He lets out a shaky breath, as if he can’t believe his own ears.

“But you hurt me,” Minho says, throat tightening once again at the raw nature of his words, at the vulnerability that has never come to him easily. “I might not be famous, rich, have millions of fans, or understand your life, but. . . I wanted to understand you. Not Han. I wanted to get to know the real Jisung, because you made me think he exists somewhere underneath that mask of fame. And then you ruined it.” 

Jisung gulps harshly like he’s swallowing something bitter, but he nods in understanding anyway. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish there was something I could do to make it better. If there is, please, tell me.

Minho reaches out his trembling hand, resting it on Jisung’s shoulder just like he did back at the beach. This time, though, the heat of Jisung’s skin radiating through the fabric of his shirt makes him feel more hopeful than anything else.

“I’m not. . . forgiving you right now,” he says quietly. “But I’m accepting your apology. And if you try, we can become amicable and leave it behind.”

“Amicable?” Jisung echoes mindlessly, cheeks turning red when Minho quirks an eyebrow in question, surprising himself with the amusement he feels. “I just. . . I thought. . .”

“I already told you I’m not going to jump into your arms right away,” Minho says. “If you want me to fall for you completely, you have to prove that this is not something frivolous to you.”

Jisung draws in a breath. Smiles, although not without hesitation. “It’s not,” he says. “You’re important to me. And I like you. I really do.” 

That makes Minho’s knees feel weak. He wasn’t expecting it, really, and all of this is still hard for him to take in and accept—that he has a world-famous musician somewhat close to him. 

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

And it’s not enough.

“Do you?” Jisung asks, raw and desperate. “Do you like me?” 

Minho gulps, heart threatening to jump out of his body where it feels like it’s lodged in his throat. “I’m coming to terms with that, but yes,” he says, making it sound more playful. More like himself. “I guess I’ve got some sort of positive feelings for you.”

Jisung breaks into laughter, cheerful and relieved and so beautiful. Minho couldn’t stop himself from smiling even if he tried. Despite how messed-up things are still, as Jisung wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him into an embrace, Minho starts hoping that good things will happen and realizes belatedly that the future is worth more than the past.

★

“I lied,” Jisung on the screen of the laptop says, voice stern in all its seriousness. “I lied about not knowing Lee Minho, I lied about him being a stalker, or even a fan. The truth is, I’m still getting to know the Minho that I met in California, still making up for the mistakes I made and the pain that I’ve caused him.”

It’s a cut-out part of a formal video Jisung had posted on social media this morning. He refused to let Minho see it before that and refused to tell him what he was going to say. And now that Minho is listening to it, watching him on the screen, he understands why.

It’s raw, personal, and makes his chest feel tight with emotion because it’s about him.

“But the important thing is, I couldn’t be happier than I am now that he has given me a chance to make things right,” Jisung continues. “That’s why, if you value me at all as an artist and as a person, I’m asking you for respect. Respect for me, my members, but respect for Minho first and foremost. Privacy had been taken from him and his family the first time I spoke of him publicly, and he didn’t deserve to suffer the consequences of my mistakes.”

Hyemin on his other side coos. Minho has to shush her when her commentary about how sweet that is drowns the sound of the video, and once she’s quiet again, he rewinds to the seconds he has lost.

“As Minho isn’t a public figure, anyone who takes pictures of him, follows him around, or disturbs privacy of him and his family in any way will have legal actions taken against them,” Jisung says in the video, leaving Minho surprised. He didn’t know about that. “Thank you for understanding. Up until now, it was Han of 3RACHA.” 

The screen goes blank after that, the reload sign popping up. For the lack of a better reaction after hearing all that, Minho laughs out loud.

Hyemin isn’t any better. She lets out a squeal and exclaims, “That was so, so, so cute!” 

Minho can’t disagree. He would be lying if he said he isn’t completely enamoured—and his pounding heart would quickly give him away. He’s still surprised Jisung ended up recording this video in the first place, as it’s been more than a month since Jisung showed up to apologize.

Since then, everything has been swiftly changing.

At first, without any label to their relationship as they were taking things slowly and building mutual trust. It’s also hard to see each other in person when they live on opposite ends of the world with sixteen hours of time difference—that was one of the main reasons why they were both hesitant to do something about their growing feelings.

Sending each other good morning and goodnight messages, calling each other whenever they were free to talk about everything and nothing—going as far as eating breakfast and dinner on a video call together just because they could. The sickening sensation of longing deep in Minho’s core, gnawing at him each time he had to wait hours and hours for an answer to a text because Jisung was just so far away.

But now Minho is graduating in two weeks and. . . he’s quickly coming to the conclusion that there’s nothing holding him back here. 

“Nah, you did not just watch that video for the tenth time today,” comes a voice from the direction of the entrance to Minho’s bedroom, startling him out of his thoughts. Both Minho and Hyemin whip to the side, finding Jisung leaning against the doorframe with his shoulders.

The remark isn’t directed at Minho, because it really is his first time listening to Jisung talk about him and them and everything, so he lifts his eyebrows at his sister. She barged into his room after breakfast—which Minho didn’t wake up in time for, opening his eyes to an empty bed instead—with her laptop in hand, the video already pulled up. Have you seen this? she had asked, and seemed almost offended when he said he hadn’t yet.

“Mind your own business,” Hyemin tells him snarkily, closing her laptop and crawling off of Minho’s bed to leave the room before they ‘start being gross again’. Minho is still surprised at how easily she has left behind her phase of obsession over Jisung in favor of teasing him the same way she teases Minho.

Jisung laughs when she pushes past him in the doorway without another word, and he moves to take her space on the mattress—or, rather, settles down across Minho’s lap, ignoring the rest of the empty space.

“Should we watch it again?” Minho asks, teasing, to which Jisung only groans and rolls his eyes. “I kind of like that stern and protective side of you.”

Jisung raises his eyebrows. “You do?”

Minho hums in affirmation, dragging his lower lip between his teeth. “Yeah. You’re kinda cute when you’re all serious,” he says, winding an arm around Jisung’s waist to pull him even closer. “Very hot.”

“I can show you just how hot I can be.” Jisung winks at him.

“Before you leave for LA,” Minho adds before he can stop himself.

Jisung smiles, but there’s something sad about it; that sadness is barely noticeable, but it’s Jisung, and Minho has been learning all those tiny details about him—and it’s enough to make him want to wipe that expression off of his face and do everything in his power to keep it from coming back.

This conversation wasn’t supposed to start like this.

Jisung smiles, anyway, cupping the side of Minho’s face with his hand to caress his cheek. “Right,” he says. “How are you gonna survive without me for so long?” 

Almost three months of touring across the Americas and Europe before the shows wind around to Asia with an encore concert in Seoul. 

“Hmm. . . I don’t know.” Minho juts his lower lip out in a pout, his heartbeat picking up its pace when Jisung moves his hand to the side of his neck, thumbing across his pulse point. “Maybe I should just go with you.” 

Jisung tilts his head to the side. “What do you mean, baby?” 

“I thought about this a lot lately and. . . I want to make things easier for us and maybe move to LA,” Minho says, voice containing all the hesitation and anxiety buzzing under his skin. “But. . . only if you want me to, of course.” 

Jisung’s lips are parted in silence as he blinks at Minho, clearly taken aback. But Minho doesn’t get any more terrified of his answer than he already is—if Jisung says no, then they’ll remain together at a distance; if he says yes. . . 

Well. Minho would be happiest if he said yes.

“What about your life here, baby?” Jisung asks instead. 

Minho shrugs. “Nothing is holding me back here,” he says. “Maybe aside from my family, but if anything, being in LA would only make them visit Grandma more often.”

“You really want that?”

Minho swallows. When he smiles, it wavers. “You don’t have to say yes. I’m just saying.”

Jisung clicks his tongue, rubbing Minho’s neck with his hand. “I’m asking if it’s something you really thought over. If it’s something you’re sure of.”

“If it doesn’t work out, I can always come back here,” Minho tells him. He doesn’t let himself feel sour over this—he doesn’t feel like he has the right to, since he’s the one putting Jisung in an odd position.

It does seem kind of ridiculous to be thinking about moving to a different continent to be closer to a person one’s been seeing for barely two months. But he and Jisung have never done anything by other people’s rules.

So it shouldn’t surprise him when Jisung breaks into a wide grin and says, “Okay. Let’s do it. Shit, let’s do it.”

Minho kisses him until he can’t breathe anymore.

And the next thing he knows, he’s in San Francisco to surprise Jisung during a concert after they part, agreeing that he will move in once the tour ends. And he’s kissing Jisung’s entire face, whispering praise into his ear, telling him how amazing he is after not being able to do so in person for painful weeks.

He ignores the feigned sounds of gagging and laughter from their mutual friends, flipping them all off behind Jisung’s back as they keep on kissing without an ounce of shame.

Minho focuses on the way Jisung’s hair feels underneath his fingertips and the way Jisung wraps both arms around his waist to pull him so close there’s no space left between their bodies anymore. He focuses on the rapid beating of Jisung’s heart in his chest that he can feel against his own, and how perfectly in-sync their thundering pulses are.

Minho can hardly believe all of this isn’t just a dream.

“God,” he says over a heavy breath as he pulls back. “I love you so much.” 

Jisung laughs into his mouth. “I love you,” he echoes, and then dives back in to kiss Minho again.