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The first thing Minho noticed when he woke up was the cold.
Not the sharp, biting kind that crept under doors and stung your fingers — this was the soft kind, the kind that made the air feel pale and still, like the world outside the window was holding its breath.
The kind of cold that made staying in bed feel like a moral obligation. He burrowed deeper into the blankets, letting the warmth wrap around him like a cocoon. His eyes were still half‑closed, lashes heavy with sleep, but he could tell something was different.
The bed felt… emptier.
He reached out instinctively, hand brushing over the sheets where another body had been pressed against him all night. Still warm, but cooling. Recently vacated.
Minho cracked one eye open.
Jisung was standing by the dresser, back turned, hair a messy halo of curls that stuck out in every direction. He was humming something under his breath — off‑key, as usual — while rummaging through a drawer with the kind of energy no human should possess before 9 a.m.
Minho groaned into the pillow. “Why are you awake.”
Jisung didn’t turn around. “Good morning to you too.”
“It’s not morning,” Minho mumbled. “It’s winter. That’s different.”
Jisung laughed — a soft, breathy sound that made Minho’s chest warm despite the cold. “You’re so dramatic.”
“You left me,” Minho accused, voice muffled.
“You were hogging the blankets.”
“They’re my blankets.”
“They’re our blankets,” Jisung corrected, finally pulling out a hoodie and tossing it onto the bed. “And you were wrapped up like a burrito. I almost died.”
Minho didn’t dignify that with a response. He just glared at the ceiling, willing the universe to return Jisung to his rightful place under the covers.
But then Jisung reached for the hem of his sleep shirt.
And Minho’s brain… stopped. The shirt lifted, fabric sliding up over Jisung’s torso, revealing skin first — pale, warm‑toned, familiar — and then something else. Something Minho was not prepared for at this hour, or any hour.
Muscle.
Actual muscle.
Defined shoulders, a toned back, the faint outline of his lats shifting as he stretched his arms up. Not bulky, but undeniably strong. Lean. Firm. New.
Minho blinked. Then blinked again.
When the hell did he get so buff?
Jisung had always been cute. Soft. A little squishy in the best possible way. Minho had spent years teasing him about his noodle arms, his inability to open jars, the way he’d cling to Minho’s sleeve whenever he needed something heavy lifted.
But this?
This was not noodle‑armed behavior.
Jisung stretched again, arms lifting above his head, back arching slightly — and Minho’s jaw actually dropped.
He didn’t even realize he was staring until Jisung froze mid‑movement.
Slowly, deliberately, Jisung turned his head. His eyes met Minho’s. And a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “What,” He said, voice still rough with sleep, “see something you like?”
Minho’s ears went hot instantly. “I— No. I was just… surprised.”
“Surprised?” Jisung echoed, turning fully now. He crossed his arms over his chest — which only made everything worse, because his biceps did a little flex thing Minho was absolutely not emotionally prepared for. “Why? Did you think I was still weak?”
“You are weak,” Minho snapped automatically, sinking deeper into the blankets as if they could hide him. “You can’t even open the rice cooker sometimes.”
“That’s different,” Jisung said, waving a hand. “That thing is possessed.”
Minho refused to comment.
Jisung took a step closer.
Then another.
Minho’s heart did something stupid in his chest.
“You were staring,” Jisung said, sing‑song and smug.
“I wasn’t.”
“You so were.”
“I wasn’t staring,” Minho insisted, even though he absolutely had been. “I was… observing.”
“Ohhh,” Jisung said, eyes sparkling. “Observing. Right. Totally different.”
“It is.”
“Sure.” Jisung leaned down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside Minho’s head. His face was close now — too close — warm breath brushing Minho’s cheek. His curls fell forward, tickling Minho’s forehead.
Minho swallowed.
Jisung smirked. “If you want a closer look, you can just ask.”
“I don’t,” Minho lied.
“Liar.”
Minho glared up at him, but it lacked any real heat. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re blushing.”
“I’m cold.”
“Mm‑hmm.” Jisung’s grin softened then, the teasing melting into something gentler. He brushed a thumb over Minho’s cheek — warm, careful, affectionate in a way that made Minho’s chest tighten. “You know,” Jisung murmured, “you could just say you missed me.”
Minho scoffed. “I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did,” Jisung repeated, leaning in until their noses almost touched. “You always do.”
Minho opened his mouth to argue — but Jisung kissed him first.
It was soft. Quick. Barely more than a brush of lips. But it was warm, and it made Minho’s breath catch in his throat. When Jisung pulled back, he was smiling again — but this time it was the small smile, the one he only used when he thought Minho wasn’t looking.
“Come back to bed,” Minho muttered, grabbing a fistful of Jisung’s hoodie sleeve before he could stand up.
Jisung blinked. “I thought you weren’t cold.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You just want to stare at my muscles again.”
“I will suffocate you with a pillow.”
Jisung laughed — bright and delighted — and let himself be pulled back under the blankets.
The mattress dipped as he settled beside Minho again, curling into him like he belonged there. Minho wrapped an arm around him automatically, pulling him close. Jisung’s skin was warm against his, his breath soft against Minho’s collarbone.
“You really did get stronger,” Minho admitted quietly, fingers brushing over Jisung’s shoulder.
Jisung hummed. “I’ve been working out.”
“When?”
“While you’re napping.”
“I don’t nap.”
“You nap constantly.”
Minho didn’t respond, because that was technically true.
Jisung snuggled closer, tucking his head under Minho’s chin. “Do you like it?”
Minho hesitated. Then, very quietly: “Yeah.”
Jisung smiled against his skin. “Good. I did it for me, but… I’m glad you noticed.”
Minho rolled his eyes, even though Jisung couldn’t see it. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me.”
Minho didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Jisung’s fingers found his under the blankets, lacing them together. Outside, the winter morning stayed cold and quiet. Inside, Minho felt warm.