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Summary
Jisung draws in a breath that sounds too loud in this intimate stillness, his chest rising under Minho's arm. His phone tilts uselessly in his hand, forgotten and gone dark, and he sets it aside on the nightstand without really looking or thinking about it. The rest of the world fades. All he can feel is that warmth and weight, the steady pressure, the way his body seems to orient itself around that single point of contact.
"Hyung?"
"Yeah?" Minho murmurs, his voice a sleepy rumble against Jisung's shoulder.
Jisung hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"
Minho's fingers still. A small pause stretches between them. "Okay."
"Why do you–" Jisung exhales, the words slipping out rougher and much more uncertain than he expects. "Why here? You always touch… yeah, you always– here."
Minho’s hands always end up in the same place. Jisung finally asks why.