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Minho’s apartment is too clean to be lived in. The kind of clean that says control more than comfort. But Chan’s not thinking about that now. He’s pinned between the wall and Minho’s mouth, and for once, he doesn’t want to win.
Minho kisses like he knows what Chan needs before he asks for it. Slow. Hands low on his waist. Still holding back, but not by much.
Chan breaks first. Leans his forehead against Minho’s, chest still heaving a little. “You always kiss people like you’re making a deal?”
Minho laughs, breath hot on his skin. “Only when I already know the outcome.”
Chan rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move.
He looks around the room instead. Glances over Minho’s shoulder. And stops.
Framed degree on the wall. University name he knows too well.
He blinks. “Wait. You went to Seonghan?”
Minho doesn’t even turn. “I did.”
Chan shifts. “I went there too.”
Minho hums, soft. Doesn’t look away. “I know.”
Chan pulls back just slightly. “What do you mean you know?”
Minho’s eyes stay steady. “You don’t remember, do you?”
📚
He’s always been good at going unnoticed.
Not out of fear. Not anymore. It’s just easier that way. Easier to keep your head down, to hold your bag too tight, to stay one step behind everyone else until you stop being part of the room entirely.
Minho exists like background noise.
He doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t really feel anything about it anymore. It’s always been like this, quiet corridors, hands tucked in sleeves, footsteps light enough that people don’t turn around.
And then there’s Chan.
Minho doesn’t remember the first time he saw him. Not really. It wasn’t a thunderclap, wasn’t slow motion in a movie. It was just one of those days where the sun hit too hard and the campus smelled like wet concrete, and Chan’s laugh cut through the noise like it belonged there.
He was loud. Broad-shouldered. Half-dressed in a jersey with someone else’s number on the back. The kind of guy who talked with his whole body, hands moving too fast, voice too warm, always tilted just a bit too far toward someone else’s orbit.
Minho hadn’t looked long, but the next time, he’d looked for him on purpose.
Now it’s been three weeks and Minho knows where Chan gets coffee in the morning. Which path he takes across the quad after practice. That he changes his shoes before class. That he holds tension in his shoulders when he thinks no one’s watching. That when he laughs too hard, he ducks his head like he’s embarrassed to have felt something real.
Minho never thought of it as obsession.
It isn’t that. He doesn’t want anything from Chan. He’s not chasing attention. He’s not deluded. He knows Chan doesn’t see him, but he watches him and when Chan smiles at his teammates like he’s holding the whole team together with nothing but his shoulders and his voice, Minho doesn’t see a golden boy. He sees someone tired. Someone kind.
Someone so tightly wound behind all that easy noise that Minho sometimes forgets to breathe just watching him.
He doesn’t tell anyone. He doesn’t write it down. He doesn’t even admit it to himself, but every time Chan passes within a few feet, and Minho makes sure not to move, not to breathe too loud, not to exist too much.
He wishes he could be someone Chan might notice.
Just once.
📚
It’s almost evening.
Practice ended a while ago, and the quad is thinning out, less noise, less sun. A breeze picks up through the hedges near the gym, rustling the dry leaves that haven’t been swept all week. Minho’s been here for a while, legs pulled up to his chest on the concrete bench under the eaves, pretending to read. The book’s been open to the same page for half an hour.
He hears them before he sees them. Shoes against pavement. Voices. Laughter sharp and careless.
The team exits in a pack like always. Towels slung over shoulders, sweat still clinging to their shirts, bragging about drills and missed shots and the fight with the coach over the new rotation. Minho doesn’t look up right away. He’s learned not to be too obvious, but when the group scatters, Minho sees him.
Chan doesn’t follow the others. He sits.
Back to the building, knees up, elbows resting on them. One arm hanging loosely off the side, fingers twitching against the concrete like he’s trying to count something he can’t name.
No one talks to him. No one even looks back.
He’s not wearing his usual expression, not the easy grin, not the loud spark that keeps people orbiting him. This version of Chan is quiet. Still. His eyes are downcast. Shoulders hunched like they’re used to it.
Minho watches him breathe.
It’s not the moment he was expecting. Not the kind that makes anything happen. Just one of those soft, real things that settles under your ribs and doesn’t leave.
He should look away, but Chan’s so still, it feels like a permission. Like if Minho moved, it would break something.
Chan runs a hand through his hair, exhales slow, and tilts his face toward the sky. Minho watches him blink three times. Watches him close his eyes, then open them again like he’s trying to stay here, just a little longer.
Then he stands. Pulls his jacket on and leaves.
Minho doesn’t move until the footsteps fade and when he finally lowers his gaze, the page in front of him has blurred.
📚
The library is nearly empty. Midweek, late afternoon. The kind of hour where light drips through the high windows in long, pale streaks and everyone’s half-asleep with their faces in books.
Minho is already carrying too much.
A folder tucked under one arm, two books wedged between his side and his hand, his laptop open and barely balanced. He doesn’t like making two trips. Doesn’t like lingering longer than he needs to. Move in, move out. Don’t take up space.
He rounds the corner too fast. Someone else does too.
They collide, just enough for the folder to slip. A few pages flutter to the floor between them.
“Ah—shit, sorry,” the other voice says.
Minho’s already crouching, reaching. One of the hands beats him to it. Picks up the top page. Tucks it neatly back into the stack. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t look.
“Careful, kitten,” the voice adds, too casually. Too quick.
Minho looks up, just a little. He freezes.
Chan’s already walking away. Slouched hoodie. One hand raking through his hair. The other stuffed in his jacket pocket like the whole world is familiar and none of it asks anything of him.
“Your lashes,” he calls over his shoulder, not turning. “You blink like a cat.”
And then he’s gone.
Minho stands still for a second too long. The hallway feels louder than it is. No one else saw. No one else noticed, but Minho’s heart doesn’t stop hammering until the silence comes back.
He presses the folder tight to his chest, walks out the other side of the library like nothing happened.
He won’t write it down.
He won’t say it aloud.
But from now on, when he sees Chan he’ll hear that voice in the back of his mind.
And it’ll stay.
📚
It’s cold, but not cold enough for the pool to be closed. Or maybe it should be. Minho doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t care. He’s just passing through, same path, same time, same sharp smell of chlorine and sun-warmed concrete that never really fades from this corner of campus. He doesn’t look, doesn’t want to, but he hears them before he sees them. Boys laughing too loudly, footsteps slapping against wet pavement, something heavy hitting tile, and voices overlapping until it’s all the same sound. Minho pulls his jacket tighter. Lowers his head. Keeps walking. It isn’t courage. It’s routine.
Then someone notices him.
“Hey.”
He pretends not to hear it.
“Hey, sad face.”
Another laugh, footsteps coming closer. Shoes dragging, no urgency. A voice nearer, just behind him. “Lost something?”
A slap on the shoulder. Not hard. Not yet. But Minho stumbles anyway. He stops. Breathes in. Doesn’t speak.
“Can you hear, or what?” one of them asks. Another voice behind his back. A laugh. “C’mon, don’t ignore us.”
Minho turns slightly. Tries to step away. One of them blocks his path, broad-shouldered, arms out like this is a game he’s already decided to win.
“Let him through,” someone says. Minho hears it immediately.
Chan.
It’s not a shout. Not even a warning. It’s quiet, flat, like he already knows they won’t listen.
They don’t.
Another shove to his arm. A hand on his shoulder. One of them nudges his foot. Someone else mutters, “Throw him in already,” and they’re laughing. It’s not mean, not even deliberate. It’s careless. Cruel in the way only people who don’t think they’re being cruel can be.
Then the hands. One at his side, one at his back. And the ground gives out.
He doesn’t feel the fall, just the cold.
It slams into him hard. Icy. Unforgiving. He doesn’t breathe. His chest seizes. He kicks once, wrong, arms flailing with no weight behind them, his foot scrapes tile but there’s nothing to push off.
He can’t swim. He can’t remember how to hold his breath. Everything drowns.
There are voices above, but they’re distant. Faded. Useless.
He hears his own name, maybe, then nothing.
Then something else.
A splash.
Louder than the others.
Arms wrap around his chest. One pulls under his arm, the other around his ribs, strong, sure, fast. He’s being dragged up before he realises he’s still sinking. The air hits him like a slap. He gasps, coughs, spits out water that burns on the way out.
He’s pulled out. Onto the deck. Dropped onto something hard and real.
He coughs again. Tries to speak. Can’t.
Chan is already kneeling beside him. Soaked through. Hair dripping. Shirt clinging to his chest like second skin.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak at first. Just places one hand on Minho’s back, not heavy. The other hovers like he’s not sure where to put it.
“Breathe,” he says eventually. “You’re okay. I've got you.”
Minho nods. He doesn’t know if it’s true.
“I told them to stop.”
Minho looks at him.
“I tried.”
It’s the first time Minho’s ever heard his voice shake.
“They’re idiots,” Chan adds, softer now. “They don’t think.”
He’s not angry. Not really. He sounds like he’s ashamed. Minho wants to say something. He doesn’t know what.
Chan watches him for a second longer. Then helps him sit up, careful. Doesn’t say anything while Minho steadies himself. Just waits.
“I should’ve stopped it earlier,” Chan says.
“You tried,” Minho murmurs.
Chan meets his eyes. Fully, finally. Minho feels it, how real this is. How close.
Chan pushes a hand through his wet hair. His jaw is tight. “You should go home.” He stands. Takes a step back. Water trails behind him, quiet and cold.
📚
He doesn’t talk about it.
Not the fall. Not the water. Not the way Chan looked at him, soaked and furious and too soft all at once. No one asks, and Minho doesn’t offer. He moves through the next few days like nothing happened. Keeps his head down. Takes the longer way to class. Sits farther back in the library than usual.
But something has changed.
It doesn’t come with a moment. No dramatic haircut. No music in the background while he runs up stairs in slow motion. Just a small, private choice that starts on a quiet morning when he wakes up and doesn’t feel like letting things go on the way they were.
He cuts his hair a few days later.
Shorter than he’s ever worn it. Nothing dramatic. Just clean, sharp, deliberate. It makes his face look different in the mirror. More angular. Less forgettable. He looks at himself a little longer than usual. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away either.
He starts waking up earlier.
Not to be better. Not to be impressive. Just to have space. Time to stretch. Time to move. Time to feel his body exist in a way that isn’t caged by silence or stillness. The gym is empty at dawn. The weight room even more so. He goes when no one else is around. Learns how to breathe deeper. Stand straighter.
His clothes shift too. He doesn’t shop. Doesn’t throw anything out. He just starts choosing different things. The jacket he stopped wearing. The dark shirts with collars that stay flat. His sleeves stay rolled now. His shoes are cleaner. No one notices. That’s not the point.
He sees Chan twice that week.
Neither of them say anything.
The first time, Chan is walking with his teammates. Loud. Playful. His laugh cutting through the quad like it always does. He doesn’t see Minho standing in the hallway, out of the way, watching.
The second time, it’s practice.
Minho lingers longer than he means to.
Chan’s on the ice, moving fast. Confident. He’s shouting something across the rink, adjusting his grip on the stick, eyes focused like he’s trying to outrun something invisible.
Minho thinks, for a second, that he wants to say goodbye. He doesn’t.
The next week, he walks all the way to the arena after dark.
There’s a game. Not a big one. Just a quiet match before break. He stands by the glass, outside the locker rooms. Cold air seeping into his jacket. He doesn’t want to be seen. He doesn’t want to talk.
He just wants to look at him one last time, but Chan isn’t there.
He waits. He doesn’t know why.
Someone on the team walks past. Doesn’t say anything at first, then glances back and shrugs.
“He’s gone,” they say. “Got picked up last week. Stray Blades wanted him. He left early.”
That’s all.
Minho nods.
Walks away.
He doesn’t look at the team’s socials. Doesn’t follow the press.
But weeks later, months, maybe, he sees a post by accident. A highlight reel. Chan in a new jersey. Faster. Stronger. Smiling like someone else.
Minho watches the video once.
Closes the app.
And files the name away.
📚
The clipboard is heavier than it looks. Cheap pen attached with a string. Ink slightly smudged on the top corner where someone else held it too tight. Minho doesn’t sit. He stays standing, one arm across his chest, the other holding the pen like it might snap if he grips it any harder.
Stage name.
The question is printed small, just above a blank line.
He stares at it for too long.
The studio isn’t loud. Music filters in faintly from the main floor, layered with the dull bass of whatever track is playing in the lounge. There’s a hum coming from somewhere near the light fixture overhead. The smell of sweat and perfume clings to the curtains. Someone laughs behind the door. Everything feels distant.
Minho’s fingers tighten on the clipboard.
He doesn’t think about all the names he could use. He doesn’t list them out. Doesn’t try anything on in his head. There’s only one that stays. One that has always stayed, even when he tried not to let it.
Kitten .
He remembers the way it sounded when Chan said it. The first time, like a joke. Offhand. His lashes, he said, soft like a cat. Then again, when he was dripping wet and half drowning on the pool deck. Take care, Kitten .
It wasn’t special.
Not really.
But no one else had ever called him anything like that.
No one else had said something that didn’t come with a laugh behind it.
Minho writes it down. No hesitation now. Five letters. Nothing fancy. Just his.
He hands the clipboard back and doesn’t look up while they read it aloud. He doesn’t flinch when they say it again, this time with his shift next to it. Doesn’t offer context. Doesn’t give it weight.
He already gave it everything.
It isn’t a mask.
It’s not a role.
It’s a version of himself he hasn’t met yet. Not fully. But one he’s decided to become.
And if that version of him carries Chan’s voice somewhere deep under the skin, echoing soft and unfinished, he won’t apologise for it.
No one ever saw him before that name.
Now, they will.