Chapter Text
Minho stirs awake at the faint sound of scratching against his door. His eyes flicker open, still heavy with sleep, but the persistent rustling tells him exactly who’s waiting on the other side. With a sigh, he pushes off his blanket and slides his feet into his well-worn bunny slippers.
“Alright, Soonie, I’m coming,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face as he shuffles to the kitchen.
He moves through the familiar routine—filling the cat’s bowl before starting on his own breakfast. The quiet hum of the apartment should be comforting, yet an uneasy weight lingers in the air. That same cold, prickling sensation presses against the back of his neck, like a pair of invisible eyes tracking his every move.
Minho exhales slowly. I’m not paranoid.
At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself, even after installing cameras inside and around his home. He’s checked the footage countless times, each replay only confirming the same frustrating truth—there’s never anyone there. And yet, the feeling persists.
Someone is watching him.
But for the life of him, he can’t figure out why he can never catch them.
Lee Minho.
Seven years. That’s how long Han has loved him—admired him, followed him, breathed in every moment of his existence. Seven years of stolen glances, whispered confessions to the void, and dreams spun from the edges of reality. They’ve gone on walks, shared coffee dates, written side by side in perfect harmony—so what if Minho never knew?
That didn’t matter.
What mattered was that Han loved him. And if everything went according to plan, Minho would love him too.
A small smile played on Han’s lips as he flicked between the camera feeds on his phone, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the screen before switching back to his notes.
Sundays were special.
Every week, Minho stopped by the same coffee shop to write for exactly one hour. A sacred routine. A predictable rhythm.
The perfect place for their next date.
Han climbed out of bed, padding over to the mirror. His reflection greeted him with wide, eager eyes, curls already framing his face, held in place by delicate clips. He smoothed a hand over his green sweater and straightened his black pants, nodding at himself.
“Okay,” he whispered. “You’ve done this before. Just another date. Nothing to be nervous about.”
With one last glance, he adjusted his jeans, inhaled sharply, and stepped out the door.
The moment Minho pushes through the café doors, he’s enveloped by the familiar scent of roasted coffee and freshly baked pastries. The warmth of the space seeps into his skin, momentarily melting away the tension he’s been carrying.
He orders his usual—no hesitation, no second-guessing—before finding his spot in the corner. It’s quiet here, tucked away from the world, just the way he likes it.
For once, the nagging feeling of being watched isn’t there.
For once, he feels normal.
Minho opens his laptop, fingers poised over the keys, ready to lose himself in the rhythm of writing. He usually never looks up—breaking focus means breaking the flow—but something about today feels...off. A shift in the air. A presence.
His gaze flickers toward the entrance.
And then he sees him.
A familiar face.
Minho’s not great with names, and he’s met more than his fair share of fans over the years. But this one?
He’s seen him too many times to forget.
Han isn’t sure why Minho is watching him, but the moment their eyes meet—even if just for a flicker of a second—his heart stumbles, then takes off at a wild, uneven pace.
He sees me.
He noticed me today.
The thought sets his skin ablaze, warmth creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks, tingling at the tips of his ears. It’s dizzying. Overwhelming. A thrill that coils tight in his chest, making it hard to breathe.
But then doubt creeps in just as quickly.
What do I do now?
Should he go to him? Say something? No, no, what if he only recognizes me as another fan? What if Minho doesn’t want to be bothered in public? What if approaching him ruins everything—paints Han as just another face in a crowd instead of someone special?
The mere thought makes his stomach twist unpleasantly.
Maybe he should just leave. Maybe that would be safer.
His fingers tighten around his phone, pretending to scroll as he forces down another bite of cheesecake, the taste suddenly muted under the weight of his spiraling thoughts. He keeps his head down, breaths shallow, forcing himself to stay still.
Don’t be obvious. Don’t scare him away.
Minutes pass—long, dragging minutes—before he dares to glance up again.
And there he is.
Minho, bathed in the golden glow of the café lights, lost in thought, fingers resting against his laptop. Completely unaware of just how much power he holds over Han in this moment.
Han swallows hard, his heart bursting spectacularly, his world shrinking down to just this—just his Minho.
He’s beautiful.
The thought blooms in Han’s mind like a secret he’s finally allowed himself to say out loud, even if only in his head.
His fingers twitch with the urge to capture the moment—to keep Minho with him, always. He’s careful, discreet, as he lifts his phone just enough to snap a few photos, each one destined for the growing collection on his wall. Each one proof that they exist in the same space, that their lives are slowly intertwining.
But it isn’t enough.
If only I could get closer.
The ache settles deep in his chest, a hunger not just for Minho’s presence, but for something more. Something real.
As he scrapes the last bit of cheesecake from his plate, he orders another slice. A reward. A small indulgence for his patience, for his restraint. He deserves it, doesn’t he? For waiting so long, for loving so deeply?
And yet, his mind refuses to settle.
What had Minho thought when their eyes met?
Had he found Han’s presence comforting? Intriguing? Had he lingered on the shape of his lips, the way his sweater clung to his frame, the softness in his eyes? Or had he simply thought, Oh, it’s that fan again?
The idea makes Han’s stomach churn.
No. That wouldn’t do.
Minho’s attention, his approval—it’s everything. Han needs to be perfect for him. He needs Minho to see him, to really see him.
Minho watches the boy from across the café, fingers hovering over his keyboard, the cursor on his document blinking expectantly.
He hadn’t meant to stare.
But something about him—something in the way he moved, the way he existed in this space—had caught his attention.
He’d known the boy was cute, sure. He’d seen him before, lingering at events, just another face in a sea of admiration. But he hadn’t realized just how attractive he was. There was a softness to him, a quiet intensity that made it hard to look away.
Still, Minho shakes his head, pushing the thought aside.
He isn’t interested in relationships. Never has been. His time is better spent on deadlines, on the next book, on something productive. Dating a fan? That was out of the question.
At least, it should be.
So why does he feel so compelled to keep looking?
Minho exhales sharply, pressing his fingers against the keyboard with deliberate force.
Focus.
He has a deadline. A looming, suffocating deadline that doesn’t care about distractions—especially not ones wrapped up in soft curls and oversized sweaters.
His work comes first. It always has.
Relationships, attachments, anything that involves investing himself in another person—it’s all a waste of time. He barely tolerates the presence of his own editor, and that’s someone he’s contractually obligated to deal with. The last thing he needs is something—or someone—unraveling his carefully structured life.
Minho’s jaw tightens as he forces his attention back to the screen. The cursor blinks, taunting him, his train of thought already derailed by the briefest lapse in focus.
He sighs. He can’t afford to lose momentum now.
This book—this one—is too important.
He can’t let anything get in the way. Not writer’s block, not his editor—and definitely not some cute boy staring at him from across the café.
Minho steps out of the café almost an hour later, the crisp air hitting his skin as he exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
His mind is restless.
No matter how many times he told himself to forget it—to push the boy from his thoughts—he still lingers. In the corner of Minho’s mind, in the spaces between his focus, in the flickers of curiosity that refuse to fade.
Who is he, really?
It shouldn’t matter.
And yet, as Minho makes his way down the quiet streets, his feet move on instinct, leading him to the nearby park. It’s a familiar place, one he often visits when he needs fresh air, when the weight of deadlines becomes too much to carry indoors.
He settles onto a bench, placing his laptop beside him but making no move to open it. Just for a few moments, he allows himself to sit, to breathe, to let the tension ease from his shoulders.
But the relief is short-lived.
A shiver runs down his spine, slow and deliberate, like ice threading through his veins.
That feeling again.
The same creeping sensation, the phantom weight of unseen eyes pressing against him.
His pulse quickens. He knows better than to dismiss it—he’s learned that much by now. The cameras in his home may have shown nothing, but that doesn’t mean the feeling isn’t real.
He swallows, his gaze flickering across the park, searching.
Someone is watching him.
He just doesn’t know who.
The feeling leaves him restless.
Minho grips the edge of the bench, his fingers curling into the wood as he exhales through his nose. He hates this—hates the way his skin prickles with unease, the way his brain refuses to quiet.
With a sharp breath, he pulls out his phone. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he, without much thought, presses the one contact he trusts.
Bang Chan.
The phone barely rings twice before a bright, familiar voice greets him.
“Minho! Wow, you’re calling me? What’s the occasion? Are you dying? Did you finally snap and burn your manuscript?”
Minho rolls his eyes but doesn’t fight the small flicker of relief that washes over him at the sound of Chan’s voice.
“No,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I just— I needed to talk.”
There’s a brief pause before Chan’s voice softens, losing its teasing edge. “What’s wrong?”
Minho hesitates, his gaze flicking around the park again. He still sees nothing. No one. Just the whisper of cold air against his skin, the sinking weight of paranoia curling in his chest.
“I keep feeling like I’m being watched,” he finally says, his voice quieter than before. “It’s been happening for a while, but today it was worse.”
Chan doesn’t laugh, doesn’t dismiss it like some people might. Instead, his response is immediate.
“Where are you?”
“Near the park.”
“Stay there. I’ll come meet you, yeah? We’ll walk for a bit.”
Minho exhales slowly, tension easing just a fraction. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Chan says, his voice warm. “Try not to get kidnapped before I get there.”
Minho snorts despite himself, shaking his head. “No promises.”
As he hangs up, he finally stands, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Chan is coming. He isn’t alone.
But still, that cold, creeping sensation lingers.
It takes about ten minutes for Chan to arrive, and in that time, Minho has almost convinced himself that he’s just being ridiculous.
He’s nowhere near famous enough to have a stalker.
The thought is both reassuring and frustrating—because if he’s wrong, then what is this feeling that won’t leave him alone?
“Hey, Minho? You alright there, bud?”
Minho flinches at the sudden voice, turning to find Chan standing beside him, a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder.
“I’m okay,” Minho mutters, shaking off the lingering unease. He forces a casual tone, slipping back into something more comfortable. “Hey, I have my first few chapters with me. If you wanna take a look, we can go to my place—”
“Have you told the police yet?”
Minho hesitates. “…No.”
“Lee Minho!” Chan’s voice rises in exasperation.
“I know,” Minho groans, rubbing his temple. “Don’t scold me. I just—what would they even do? It’s not like they can station someone outside my place just because I have a feeling. I don’t have any proof. They’d just brush it off as paranoia.”
Chan frowns, crossing his arms. “You don’t need proof to take this seriously, Minho.”
Minho exhales slowly, his fingers tightening in his pockets. He wants to believe it’s nothing. He needs to.
But deep down, he isn’t so sure anymore.
As Minho and Chan start walking toward his apartment, the conversation shifts to lighter topics—work, deadlines, the latest nonsense their group chat had been blowing up about. Chan does most of the talking, filling the space with his usual warmth, and Minho lets himself sink into the familiarity of it.
But even as they walk, even as he tries to shake off the unease, that lingering weight doesn’t disappear.
What he doesn’t realize is that far behind them, a pair of watchful eyes are locked onto their every move.
Jisung follows at a distance, careful, calculated. His mask is pulled over his face, blending into the evening shadows as his fingers curl tightly around his phone. He doesn’t need to check the camera feeds tonight. Not when he’s here. Not when he can see it himself.
Minho, walking beside someone else.
Minho, smiling at someone else.
Him.
Jisung’s grip tightens, his breath coming out slow and controlled as something sharp and ugly twists in his chest.
He shouldn’t be there.
Chan shouldn’t be walking so close to Minho, shouldn’t be laughing at something Minho said, shouldn’t be touching him so casually, like he had the right.
He doesn’t.
Jisung swallows down the bitterness rising in his throat, his steps never faltering as he follows from a safe distance. He tells himself to be patient. He tells himself that everything will fall into place.
Because soon enough, it won’t be Chan walking beside Minho.
It’ll be him.
Jisung moves like a shadow, slipping between lampposts and side streets, phone steady in his hand as he snaps picture after picture.
One from behind—Minho and Chan walking too close, their shoulders nearly brushing.
One from the front—Chan smiling, Minho relaxed in a way that makes Jisung’s blood simmer.
He sends them off immediately.
Jisung: Look at this.
The reply comes within seconds.
Felix: Omg who is the hot blonde!! He looks so good 🤭
Jisung scowls. Of course, Felix would only care about him.
Jisung: His editor. That’s not the point.
Felix: Right, right. Minho and his editor. What about it?
Jisung: He’s in the way.
Felix: Dude. You sound insane rn. Why don’t you just talk to him? You see him all the time anyway.
Jisung: I’ll get to that!
Felix: yeah sure, when you do get his editors number for me pretty please <3
Jisung ignores the message, slipping his phone back into his pocket. Felix doesn’t get it. No one does.
But that’s fine.
They will.
—
By the time Minho and Chan reach his house, the tension in Minho’s chest has loosened, if only slightly.
Inside, they settle into his office. Minho hands over his latest chapters, watching as Chan falls into silent focus, pen scratching over the pages with ease.
Minho, however, can’t relax.
The weight in his gut lingers, that itch of paranoia refusing to fade.
He turns to his computer, clicking through the security camera feeds. Most show nothing but the usual—the empty street, his quiet front yard, the faint flicker of movement from the trees swaying in the wind.
And then—
His stomach drops.
On the screen, for barely a second, something flashes past the camera. Almost too quick to catch.
But not quick enough.
His heart slams against his ribs as his fingers hover over the keyboard, rewinding the footage. He plays it again, frame by frame, eyes locked onto the screen.
There.
A flicker of white. A shape. A—
A picture.
A printed photo of him and Chan, held up directly in view of the camera before vanishing in an instant.
Someone had been there.
And they wanted him to see.
Minho’s hands tremble as he rewinds the footage again, his pulse hammering in his ears.
“Look—look at this,” he stammers, dragging his laptop toward Chan. His fingers move quickly, replaying the footage frame by frame, his breath shallow.
Chan leans in, his expression shifting from confusion to something more serious as he watches the screen.
“…Shit.” His voice is low, cautious.
Minho swallows. “You see it, right? It’s not just me?”
Chan nods, lips pressing into a thin line. “No, it’s real.”
Minho exhales shakily, rubbing a hand over his face. The panic is creeping in too fast, settling deep in his chest. “This isn’t just some feeling anymore. Someone was there, Chan. Right outside my house—watching me.”
Chan doesn’t hesitate. “We’re going to the police.”
Minho blinks. “What?”
“You’re clearly not safe here. This isn’t normal paranoia, Minho. Someone’s messing with you. We’re reporting it now.”
For a moment, Minho wants to argue. The exhaustion, the disbelief—it makes him want to just lock his doors and pretend this isn’t happening.
But then he sees the frozen image on his screen again. The blurry outline of a hand holding up a photo. Proof.
He exhales. “Okay.”
—
Jisung shuts the door to his bedroom with a quiet click, the rush of cold excitement still buzzing in his veins.
He moves to his wall—the one dedicated solely to Minho. The collection is growing. Dozens of pictures, some printed and neatly arranged, others hastily tacked up in clusters. Some of Minho at events, some of him just existing—walking, writing, drinking coffee, completely unaware of Jisung’s gaze following him.
At the center of it all, the newest additions: the photos he took tonight.
Minho and Chan, side by side.
His fingers tighten around the red marker in his hand as he uncaps it, the sharp scent filling the room. Carefully, deliberately, he draws a thick, angry X over Chan’s face.
He lingers there for a moment, pressing the marker harder than necessary, the ink bleeding deep into the glossy surface.
Too close.
Minho is his.
He won’t let anyone take him away before they’ve even had the chance to meet properly. Before Minho realizes that Jisung is the one who’s been there all along.
He steps back, tilting his head as he looks over his wall.
Soon.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
Minho spends a few days at Chan’s house, trying to convince himself that everything will settle down. That maybe going to the police had scared off whoever was playing this sick game with him.
Chan keeps him distracted—forcing him to eat, making him work on his manuscript, and even dragging him outside when Minho would rather stay curled up in Chan’s guest room. It helps, a little. But the unease never fully disappears.
Eventually, Minho knows he has to go home.
Chan doesn’t like it—he makes that clear—but Minho insists. He can’t hide forever.
So he returns.
The first thing he does is reposition his cameras, adjusting the angles, checking the feeds, making sure that every possible corner of his home is covered. If something happens again, he’ll catch it this time.
Exhausted, he heads to his bedroom, barely bothering to switch on the light as he collapses onto his bed.
And that’s when he sees it.
Sitting neatly in the center of his mattress—a bouquet of deep red roses.
Minho freezes.
His breath catches in his throat as he stares at the flowers, their petals soft and perfect, tied together with a thin, delicate string. His hands tremble as he reaches out, fingers brushing against the attached tag.
Only one thing is written.
╭──────༺♡༻──────╮
“I’ll see you soon.
— J ♡”
╰──────༺♡༻──────╯
The room tilts.
Minho’s heart pounds so violently it feels like it might burst, his pulse a deafening roar in his ears. His vision blurs as a wave of panic and helplessness crashes over him, his body going rigid with fear.
It’s not just a prank. It’s not just paranoia.
Someone has been in his house.
Someone knows where he sleeps.
Minho grips the bouquet with shaking hands before letting it slip from his fingers onto the floor. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He’s breaking, shattering under the weight of it all.
And outside, hidden just beyond the window, Jisung watches.
His lips curl into a satisfied smile, his dark eyes shining with something almost tender.
He got the gift.
He understands now.
Jisung tilts his head, watching as Minho crumbles, his heart swelling at the sight.
He’s never looked more beautiful.