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The puck shouldn’t have hit him. It wasn’t meant for him, just a bad bounce, a freak ricochet, the kind of angle that makes the whole rink inhale at once. One moment Minho is skating backward, calling out a defensive shift with that sharp, steady calm he wears like armor, the kind that makes everyone else on the ice feel like things are under control simply because he’s the one speaking, the kind that has Jisung making heart eyes.
The next, a slapshot ricochets off a stick and slams straight into his ribs.
The sound is awful, a hollow, echoing thud that vibrates through the boards and seems to punch the air out of the entire rink. Minho’s breath leaves him in a harsh, punched out gasp. His knees buckle. He drops to one knee, hand clamped over his side, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to hold the pain in by sheer force of will.
Jisung’s world goes silent. He doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe, he just moves, skating faster than he had all game, faster than he even knew he could. The cold air burns his lungs, but he barely feels it. All he sees is Minho, hunched over, breath stuttering, the lines of his body wrong in a way that makes something inside Jisung crack.
“Minho.” His voice breaks on the name, thin and sharp, and the team flinches on the ice like the sound hit him too.
Minho tries to wave him off, stubborn even now , but the gesture is weak and shaky and nothing like the confidence he usually carries, that he carried a second ago. Jisung reaches him first, skidding to his knees on the ice, hands already on Minho’s shoulders, steadying him, grounding him.
“Hey,” Jisung whispers, voice trembling despite how hard he’s trying to keep it steady. “Hey, look at me.”
Minho opens his eyes, breath shallow, face pale under the harsh rink lights. “Ji,” he rasps, trying for a smile that doesn’t quite land. “Relax. I’m fine.”
Felix leans over to Hyunjin and mutters under his breath, “He’s definitely not fine.”
Hyunjin elbows him without looking away. “No duh. Look at him.”
The rest of the team goes quiet in worry. Because Minho never shows pain. Not like this and not enough for his knees to hit the ice. Never.
Chan skates in fast, eyes wide, voice tight. “What happened? Did it hit bone? Minho, talk to me.”
Jisung doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even blink. His hand stays steady on Minho’s waist, the other braced against Minho’s chest like he’s the only thing keeping him upright. “He’s hurt,” Jisung says quietly, voice thin but unwavering. “I’ve got him.”
Chan hesitates. “Ji—”
“I’ve got him,” Jisung repeats, softer but firmer. A boundary, a promise, a claim without ever saying the words. He’s mine to take care of.
Chan reads it instantly, the way Jisung’s body curls protectively around Minho, the way his thumb rubs slow circles into Minho’s side, the way he doesn’t look away even for a heartbeat, even the way Minho leans into the contact without realizing. Chan nods once, stepping back. “Okay. I’ll clear the way.”
Minho tries to laugh at the determined face Jisung is making, but the sound catches, and he winces, hand flying to his ribs. Jisung’s panic spikes so sharply he feels dizzy.
“Okay, no,” Jisung says, voice shaking. “We’re done. Up. Now.”
“Bossy,” Minho murmurs, but he lets Jisung haul him up, leaning into him more than he probably realizes. Jisung slides an arm around his waist, supporting him as they skate slowly toward the bench. Minho’s breath stutters every few steps, and each time, Jisung’s grip tightens like he can absorb the pain through touch alone.
Chan follows at a distance, worry etched into every line of his face. “Is he breathing okay?”
“He’s breathing,” Jisung says, voice tight. “That’s enough for now.”
Minho pokes Jisung’s cheek weakly. “Hey, don’t yell at Dad,” he mumbles, trying for teasing, trying to make Jisung smile instead of tense.
Jisung glares at him. “Stop talking.”
Minho smiles, soft and crooked. “Can’t. You look cute when you’re mad.”
Changbin mutters, “Oh my god, he’s flirting while dying.”
Seungmin sighs, trying for a sense of normalcy if Minho feels fine enough to tease. “He always does.”
The moment they’re off the ice, Minho’s legs wobble like solid ground makes it worse. Jisung catches him instantly, arms wrapping around his waist, holding him upright like instinct. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, guiding him to the wall. “Just breathe.”
Minho leans his head back, eyes closed, jaw tight with pain. The fluorescent lights make him look too pale, too fragile, and Jisung hates it. He hates the way Minho’s breath stutters, hates the way his eyebrows knit together, hates the way he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt as much as it does.
“Minho,” Jisung whispers, cupping his cheek now that they’re off the ice. “Talk to me.”
Minho opens his eyes, and even through the pain, he manages a soft, crooked smile that hits Jisung square in the chest. “You’re shaking,” Minho murmurs, thumb brushing Jisung’s wrist. “Breathe, Ji.”
Jisung’s breath stutters. “Stop comforting me. You scared me.”
“Didn’t mean to,” Minho says, voice softening.
Jisung leans in and presses a soft kiss to Minho’s temple, lingering just long enough to make Minho’s eyes flutter. “You’re hurt,” he whispers.
Minho hums. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Jisung helps him toward the locker room, one hand steady at Minho’s waist, the other hovering like he wants to hold more of him but doesn’t know where it won’t hurt. Inside, the team stays silent, watching and worried, but giving space.
Jisung helps him out of his gear slowly and carefully and hands gentle but firm. Minho hisses when Jisung brushes the bruise, and Jisung immediately leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Minho’s forehead. Not lingering. Just enough to say I’m here.
Minho’s breath softens. “You’re gonna spoil me.”
“Good,” Jisung mutters. “Maybe you’ll stop throwing yourself in front of pucks.”
Minho smirks. “No promises.”
Jisung glares. Minho reaches up and taps his cheek lightly. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Smile for me. Please?”
Jisung tries. Fails. Tries again.
Minho leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth and Jisung melts.
✦ ✧ ✦
Their apartment is warm when they get home with soft lighting, blankets thrown over the couch, the faint scent of detergent lingering in the air. Minho moves slowly, carefully, leaning on Jisung more than he cares to admit. Jisung guides him to the bed, helping him sit, helping him breathe through the pain.
“Arms up,” Jisung says gently.
Minho obeys, letting Jisung pull his hoodie off. His shirt rides up, and Jisung gets a look at the bruise forming. It’s angry, dark purple, blooming like something violent and fragile all at once. Jisung’s fingers brush the bruise, and Minho flinches.
Jisung immediately leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Minho’s forehead, gentle and apologetic and reverent. “Sorry,” he whispers.
Minho’s breath catches and not from pain this time. It catches in the way that he feels cared for. “Ji…”
Jisung looks up, eyes soft and worried. “Let me take care of you.”
Minho stares at him, finding gentleness and a fierce determination behind Jisung’s eyes, and nods. Jisung helps him lie down, then climbs in beside him. He doesn’t touch him at first, afraid of hurting him. Minho reaches out, hooking a finger in Jisung’s hoodie. “Come here,” he murmurs.
Jisung slides closer, careful, gentle, tucking himself against Minho’s uninjured side. Minho wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. Jisung presses a soft kiss to Minho’s jaw, quick and warm. Minho exhales, relaxing into him. “You’re good at this.”
“Good at what?” Jisung asks, brushing Minho’s bangs from his forehead.
“Loving me.”
Jisung’s breath stutters. “Minho…”
Minho smiles, brushing his nose against Jisung’s hair. He’s soft. Warm. Completely undone with a faint pink dusting his cheeks. “There it is,” he whispers. “There’s my Sungie.”
Jisung hides his face in Minho’s chest, careful of the bruise. Minho kisses the top of his head, lingering this time, soft and full of warmth.
“Stay with me tonight?” Minho asks quietly.
Jisung nods instantly. “Always.”
Minho smiles, eyes closing as he relaxes into Jisung’s arms. And Jisung holds him in a way that’s so gentle, protective, full of love he’s still learning how to show and kissing his hair every so often just to feel him safe.
The room settles into a soft, warm quiet. The kind that feels like it wraps around them rather than sits between them. Minho shifts a little, trying to get comfortable, and the movement pulls at the bruise in a way he didn’t expect. A small sound slips out of him, barely more than a breath, but sharp enough to cut through the quiet.
Jisung freezes.
His head lifts immediately, eyes wide, panic blooming so fast it almost knocks the air out of him and arms lifting, hovering uselessly in a frozen state. “Did I—” His voice cracks. “Minho, did I squeeze you? Did I hurt you?”
Minho blinks up at him, surprised by the sudden rush of worry. “Ji,” he murmurs, soft and tired, “no. You didn’t do anything.”
“But you made a sound,” Jisung whispers, already pulling back like he’s afraid to touch him. “I felt you tense. I— I thought I pressed too hard.”
Minho reaches out, catching his wrist gently before he can retreat any farther. His fingers curl around Jisung’s hand, warm and steady. “It was just the bruise complaining,” he says, voice low, coaxing. “You didn’t hurt me.”
Jisung’s breath stutters, shoulders still tight, eyes still too wide. Minho tugs him closer slowly, giving him time to resist if he needs to. He doesn’t. He folds back into Minho’s side like he’s been waiting for permission.
“See?” Minho whispers, brushing his thumb along the back of Jisung’s hand. “Perfect.”
Jisung exhales shakily, the tension leaving him in small, uneven waves. He tucks his face into Minho’s shoulder again, careful of the bruise, breath warm against Minho’s skin. “You scared me,” he mumbles, voice small.
“I know,” Minho says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “I’m okay.”
Jisung nods, but he stays close, closer than before, with one hand resting lightly over Minho’s ribs like he’s guarding them from being hurt more, the other curled into Minho’s shirt as if anchoring them both. The room settles around them, warm and quiet, the kind of quiet that feels safe rather than empty.
Minho’s breathing evens out first, slow and steady, his body softening under Jisung’s touch. Jisung stays awake a little longer, watching the way Minho’s lashes rest against his cheeks, the way his lips part slightly when he finally relaxes, the way his hand stays curled in Jisung’s hoodie even in sleep.
He presses one last kiss to Minho’s hair, soft and lingering, full of everything he doesn’t know how to say yet. “I’ve got you,” he whispers into the quiet.
And he holds Minho through the night, warm and steady, until sleep finally pulls him under too.