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Summary
“I-” Jisung begins, all for the sentence to melt into nothingness when his eyes are drawn to Minho’s suddenly-bare neck, his train of thought thoroughly, thoroughly derailed because there, winding up the beautiful column of Minho’s throat, is a breadcrumb-trail of splotchy, red hickeys.
Love bites.
Kiss marks.
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Or, in between thinking about confessing to Minho and wishing that Minho would confess to him, Jisung finds that none of that really matters because Minho has just walked into the studio with kiss marks climbing up his neck—marks that were left by a mouth other than Jisung’s.