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Jisung is comfortable.
That’s the strange part.
He’s sprawled across the couch with one leg tucked under the other, hoodie bunched at his waist, the room warm in the way it only ever is at night when the outside world has finally quieted down. The lamp by the bookshelf casts a soft, yellow pool of light. His phone is within reach. A glass of water sits on the coffee table, untouched but present. Nothing hurts. Nothing is wrong.
And still—his mind won’t sit still.
Exit first, he thinks, without meaning to. Front door: locked. Balcony door: locked too, curtain half drawn. Windows closed. Good. His phone battery is at sixty-two percent. Enough. More than enough. The charger is on the floor by the couch anyway. He can reach it if he needs to. He checks the clock. 9:47 p.m. Not late. Plenty of time left in the day. Or not much at all, depending on how you look at it.
His chest rises and falls. He notices that too. Not because it feels tight—because it doesn’t.
That’s new.
Jisung stares at the ceiling, letting his gaze unfocus. He tries to remember the last time he had a panic attack. The exact moment, not the vague sense of recently that his brain likes to offer up. He replays days in his head like flipping through a calendar he never learned how to read properly. Studio. Home. Dorm. Studio again. Minho’s place. Laughter. Takeout containers. Sleep.
Nothing sharp. Nothing catastrophic.
It’s been a while.
The thought lands gently, then immediately turns heavy. He doesn’t smile at it. He doesn’t let himself feel relieved. Instead, a different question creeps in, quiet and persistent.
What does that mean?
Does it mean the medication is finally working the way it’s supposed to? Does it mean therapy is helping more than he realizes? Or does it mean something else—something worse, something like the calm before a drop he won’t see coming?
He swallows and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, grounding himself in the small, physical sensation. He knows, intellectually, that panic attacks don’t work on schedules. He’s been told that more than once. They don’t announce themselves. They don’t need reasons that make sense. Sometimes they show up because the brain misfires, because the body decides there’s danger where there isn’t any.
Sometimes they show up because they can.
A few months ago, sitting in a too-quiet office with a box of tissues on the table between them, a professional had given it a name. Panic disorder. Said calmly, carefully, like it was something fragile. Explained symptoms. Cycles. The way fear of panic can become panic itself. Jisung had nodded along, taking mental notes that slipped through his fingers the moment he stepped outside.
Diagnosis felt like both relief and accusation.
At least it wasn’t imaginary. At least there was a word for it. But a word didn’t come with instructions he fully understood. It didn’t explain why his heart sometimes raced out of nowhere, or why breathing could suddenly feel like a skill he’d forgotten. It didn’t explain why it happened in safe places, with safe people, when nothing was wrong.
He exhales slowly, counting without counting. The room doesn’t tilt. His hands don’t shake. His pulse stays steady beneath his skin.
Comfortable, he reminds himself. Physically comfortable.
His mind keeps moving anyway, checking corners, scanning futures that haven’t happened yet. He wonders if not having an attack in a while is a sign of progress or just luck. He wonders if thinking about it too much will jinx it. He wonders, distantly, whether this—this constant watchfulness—is just how things are now.
The clock ticks over to 9:48.
Jisung shifts on the couch, pulling the hoodie sleeves down over his hands, grounding himself in the familiar weight of the fabric. Whatever it means, he’s okay right now. He tells himself that softly, not as a promise, but as an observation.
His phone vibrates against the couch cushion.
The sound is small, ordinary, but Jisung’s attention snaps to it instantly. He reaches for it before he can stop himself, thumb hovering as if the screen might bite.
The Boys💬 (8)
Chan: Anyone down for karaoke?
Chan: I.N says the place near the station is basically empty rn
Chan: We can grab food after
Jisung stares at the message, then at the three dots that appear and disappear as replies start rolling in. Changbin reacts first, enthusiastic as always. Seungmin adds a teasing comment. Felix sends a string of emojis that feel loud even through the screen.
Karaoke.
His chest doesn’t tighten, exactly. It’s more like something inside him shifts—subtle, internal, like a chair leg scraping quietly against the floor. He imagines it anyway: the small room, the low lighting, the way sound echoes weirdly in enclosed spaces. The press of people, even people he loves. The way his body might suddenly decide that singing is the wrong thing, that breathing is optional, that now—now—is the moment to panic.
He tells himself he’s jumping ahead. He hasn’t even answered yet.
Jisung opens the chat, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Types maybe, deletes it. Types I’m tired, pauses. That’s true, technically. He is tired. He just doesn’t know if it’s the kind of tired that makes sense to other people.
The three dots appear again. Someone else is typing. Time feels suddenly loud.
He thinks of the last time he went out. How he’d spent the entire night monitoring himself instead of enjoying it. Counting breaths between songs. Sitting near the door. Leaving early with an excuse that had tasted like disappointment on his tongue.
It’s fine, he tells himself. This is fine. It’s just one night.
Just tonight isn’t a good time, he reasons, carefully, as if constructing a legal defense in his own head. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean I won’t go next time. It definitely doesn’t mean I’m scared.
He types slowly, choosing each word like it might betray him if he’s not careful.
The Boys💬:
Jisung: I think I’m gonna stay in tonight 😅 feeling a bit wiped
Jisung: Have fun though!!
He hits send before he can rethink it.
The relief is immediate and sharp, like air rushing back into his lungs. His shoulders drop without him noticing. The room feels quieter again, steadier. Safe.
Then comes the second feeling, right on its heels—heavier, stickier.
Guilt.
He watches the responses come in, cheerful and understanding and completely undeserved, if you ask the part of his brain that’s always ready to be cruel.
The Boys💬:
Chan: All good!
Hyunjin: Next time then!
Felix: Rest well 🤗
No one pushes. No one questions it. No one makes a big deal out of his absence.
Somehow, that makes it worse.
Jisung sets his phone face-down on the couch and presses his palms into his thighs, grounding himself in the solidness of his body. He tells himself—again—that this is temporary. That he’s allowed to say no. That taking care of himself doesn’t make him difficult or disappointing or weak.
Tonight just isn’t the right time.
It’s definitely not because he’s afraid of what could happen. Definitely not.
His phone buzzes again.
This time, it’s not the group chat.
He flips it over.
Minho❤️:
Hey
If you’re not feeling up to going out, do you want company?
I can come by. Or we can just text. Whatever you want.
Jisung stares at the message for a long moment.
There it is—that careful phrasing. The way Minho always leaves space instead of filling it. Whatever you want. Not an expectation. Not an assumption. An open door, offered gently, like Minho is fully prepared for it to stay closed.
Warmth spreads through Jisung’s chest, soft and aching. He feels seen in a way that doesn’t make his skin prickle. He can almost picture Minho reading articles late at night, learning words like avoidance and safe person without ever saying them out loud. Learning how to stay without crowding.
The idea of Minho here—sitting beside him, breathing steadily, existing in the same space—makes something in Jisung unclench.
Relief blooms before he can stop it.
And then guilt follows, just as fast.
He doesn’t want to need this. He doesn’t want to be the reason plans change, or evenings shrink, or choices have to be adjusted around him. He doesn’t want Minho to feel obligated to orbit his anxiety, even when Minho has never once acted like that’s what he’s doing.
Jisung types, pauses. Deletes. Types again.
He considers saying yes. The thought makes his chest feel lighter. He imagines the quiet comfort of it, the safety of having someone there if his mind decides to turn on him.
Then he imagines the guilt lingering afterward, the voice that would whisper that he’s taking too much, asking too often, leaning too hard.
He exhales slowly.
Jisung:
I think I’m okay tonight
I just want to be alone for a bit
But thank you. Really 💖*.*
He adds a heart, then hesitates, and sends it anyway.
The reply comes quickly.
Minho❤️:
Okay
I’m here if you change your mind
No pressure
Of course he is.
Jisung sets the phone down again, this time a little more gently. The room feels both emptier and calmer for it. He curls his legs closer to himself, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, and lets his head rest against the back of the couch.
He feels relieved that he doesn’t have to go out. Relieved that he doesn’t have to explain. Relieved that he doesn’t have to be seen like this by anyone but himself.
And somewhere underneath all of that, the guilt hums quietly, persistent as static.
He tells himself—firmly, gently—that this is just one night. That he’s still connected, even from here. That choosing safety doesn’t mean choosing isolation forever.
The lamp keeps glowing. The clock keeps ticking.
Jisung stays where he is, alone but not abandoned, comfortable in his body even as his mind keeps watch—waiting, hoping, bracing for nothing at all.
✦⋆𓆩✧𓆪⋆✦
Minho arrives at Jisung’s apartment the next morning. Minho’s presence makes the apartment feel different.
Not louder. Not fuller. Just… steadier.
They’re curled together on the couch now, Jisung half draped over Minho’s side, the familiar weight of him pressed warm and solid against Jisung’s back. The opening scenes of Howl’s Moving Castle glow softly on the screen, all drifting clouds and gentle music, the kind of movie that never demands anything from him. Jisung has seen it a hundred times. He knows every beat, every turn. That’s part of why he loves it—nothing jumps out unexpectedly.
Minho’s arm is loose around his waist, fingers resting idly against the hem of Jisung’s hoodie. Not gripping. Not anchoring. Just there.
Jisung exhales and lets his head tip forward, resting against Minho’s chest. The rise and fall beneath his cheek is slow and even. He listens to it without meaning to, the rhythm slipping quietly into his own breathing until his lungs follow along on instinct.
This—this—is safe.
He feels it in his body before his mind can argue.
The tight vigilance he carries everywhere else softens here, loosening its hold just enough to let him sink into the moment. Minho smells faintly like laundry detergent and something warm, familiar. Jisung focuses on that, on the texture of Minho’s shirt beneath his fingers, on the low murmur of the movie.
He tells himself not to think about panic attacks.
Not about how they tend to happen when he’s alone with Minho. Not about how unfair that feels, like his brain has chosen the one place he actually wants to be calm and decided to sabotage it. He doesn’t want to analyze it. He doesn’t want to anticipate it. He doesn’t want to turn this into another thing to monitor.
Mostly, he doesn’t want to burden Minho with it.
Minho already does so much—quietly, without making a show of it. He reads. He learns. He adapts. Jisung doesn’t want to be the reason Minho has to stay alert, counting breaths and watching for signs. He just wants to exist here, curled into him, normal and easy.
As if sensing the slight shift in his thoughts, Minho tilts his head down a fraction. His chin brushes Jisung’s hair.
“Comfortable?” he asks softly, voice low enough that it barely competes with the movie.
Jisung nods, the movement small. “Yeah.”
Minho hums in response, a quiet sound that vibrates faintly through his chest. Jisung feels it where his cheek rests, grounding him in the present in a way that words never quite manage. He adjusts without thinking, pressing closer, aligning himself more fully with Minho’s breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
Minho’s hand moves—not to pat or rub or soothe in any obvious way—but to rest more securely at Jisung’s side, thumb brushing a slow, absent-minded arc against fabric. It’s not a technique. It’s not an intervention.
It’s just Minho being there.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Minho murmurs after a moment, like he’s speaking directly to the tension Jisung hasn’t named out loud. “We’re just watching.”
Jisung swallows, throat tight for reasons he refuses to unpack. He shifts his head slightly, listening to Minho’s heartbeat beneath his ear. It’s steady. Unbothered. Real.
“I know,” he says quietly.
And he does. He really does.
The movie plays on, but Jisung barely notices. What matters is the present moment—the weight of Minho’s arm, the sound of his breathing, the gentle cadence of his voice when he speaks again, softer this time.
“I’ve got you,” Minho says, not dramatic, not urgent. Just a fact.
Jisung lets his eyes close.
For once, his mind doesn’t race ahead. It doesn’t scan for exits or symptoms or what-ifs. Anchored by the warmth beneath him, he stays exactly where he is—here, now, breathing in time with the person who makes the world feel manageable again.
✦⋆𓆩✧𓆪⋆✦
Jisung wakes slowly, the way he always does when he’s fallen asleep somewhere that isn’t his bed.
For a few hazy seconds, he doesn’t know where he is. There’s warmth beneath his cheek, a steady rise and fall that rocks him gently. The TV is still on, light flickering softly across the walls, the volume low enough that it feels distant, unreal. His body feels heavy, loose with sleep.
Then something catches.
His chest feels… wrong.
Not pain. Not sharp. Just tight, like someone has wrapped a band around his ribs and pulled it one notch too far. He takes a breath automatically—and it stops short, shallow, unsatisfying. He waits for the rest of it to come.
It doesn’t.
Jisung blinks, fully awake now. He tries again. In through his nose, slow, careful. The air reaches his lungs but it feels thin, like it’s slipping through his fingers before it does any good.
Okay, he tells himself immediately. You were asleep. That happens sometimes.
He shifts slightly, careful not to move too much. Minho is still there beneath him, solid and warm, one arm loosely around his back. He can feel Minho’s chest rising steadily under his cheek, completely unbothered. His phone glows dimly in Minho’s other hand, thumb scrolling lazily.
Everything is normal.
That should help.
Jisung focuses on Minho’s breathing, tries to match it. In. Out. In—
His own breath stutters halfway through, chest refusing to expand any further. A flicker of unease sparks behind his ribs.
Don’t do this, he thinks. Not now.
He swallows, throat suddenly dry, and tells himself it’s nothing. Maybe he slept wrong. Maybe he’s dehydrated. Maybe his body just needs a second to wake up properly. He’s had weird sensations before that didn’t turn into anything.
He can ignore this. He has ignored worse.
Except his brain doesn’t let it go.
What if this is how it starts?
What if this is one of those times?
You were fine five minutes ago.
His heart gives a small, sudden thump, then another, quicker this time. He becomes painfully aware of it, of the way it seems louder inside his own body. His chest tightens further, muscles pulling inward like they’re bracing for something.
He tries to take a deeper breath. It won’t go.
The air feels trapped at the top of his lungs, leaving him light, floaty in a way he knows too well. His fingers curl into the fabric of Minho’s shirt without him realizing it, grounding himself in the texture.
Stop, he tells himself sharply. You’re thinking about it too much.
Because he knows this part. He knows that noticing it makes it worse. He knows that fear feeds the sensation, turns discomfort into danger, turns a tight chest into the certainty that something is very wrong.
The thought slips in anyway, unwelcome and loud.
What if it’s a panic attack?
The question hits like a match to dry grass.
His heart rate spikes, racing ahead of him, thudding harder now. His breath turns quicker, shallower, each inhale barely brushing the edges of relief before slipping away. Heat floods his chest and neck, followed by a cold prickle along his arms. His hands feel strange—too light, almost disconnected, like they don’t quite belong to him.
No. Not here. Not with Minho.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He stays exactly where he is, frozen in place, afraid that any change will tip him fully over the edge. Minho’s breathing stays steady beneath him, maddeningly calm, a contrast so sharp it almost hurts.
Jisung’s thoughts begin to loop, fast and unforgiving.
You were safe. You let your guard down. You shouldn’t have fallen asleep.
He’s right there—don’t make this his problem.
His chest feels tighter still, like it’s caving inward. The room starts to feel subtly unreal, edges softening, the glow of the TV too bright against the dark. His ears ring faintly, a high, distant sound that makes it hard to focus on anything else.
He tries to tell himself facts.
You’ve felt this before.
It won’t kill you.
It will pass.
The words don’t land. They slide right off the fear, useless.
His breathing turns ragged despite his efforts, every inhale chased by the fear that the next one won’t come. His heart is pounding now, frantic, as if trying to escape his chest altogether. Sweat prickles along his spine.
Minho shifts slightly beneath him, adjusting his grip, and the movement almost sends Jisung spiraling completely. He stiffens, holding his breath without meaning to, terrified that Minho will notice—that he’ll look down and see it written all over him.
So Jisung stays silent.
He stays still.
And as he lies there, pressed against the person who makes him feel safest in the world, the panic continues to build anyway—quiet, relentless, filling his chest and his thoughts until there’s barely room for anything else.
The moment Jisung stops pretending, something inside him gives way.
The tightness in his chest doesn’t loosen. It locks. The fear sharpens, solidifying into something unmistakable, something with edges he recognizes all too well.
This is it.
The thought doesn’t arrive calmly—it crashes in, loud and absolute.
His heart is racing now, no longer just fast but frantic, pounding so hard it feels like it’s shaking his whole body. Each breath comes out thin and shaky, barely enough to count as air at all. His head feels light, like the room is tipping sideways, like if he opens his eyes too wide he might fall right through the ceiling.
Panic attack.
Naming it doesn’t help the way he hopes it will.
Jisung’s fingers dig into Minho’s shirt, grip tightening until his knuckles ache. His chest jerks as he tries to inhale again, lungs refusing to cooperate, and this time the sound that comes out of him is broken and sharp.
“M—Minho,” he manages, voice barely there.
Minho’s scrolling stops instantly.
He feels the shift beneath him—Minho’s attention snapping fully into place—but Minho doesn’t move away, doesn’t sit up abruptly. His body stays steady, grounded, like an anchor that won’t budge.
“What is it?” Minho asks softly, already lowering his phone, voice calm in a way that almost hurts to hear.
Jisung swallows hard. His mouth feels dry, tongue thick. The words tangle in his throat, panic making everything feel urgent and impossible at the same time.
“I—I think—” His breath stutters violently, chest hitching. “I—I’m having—” He gasps, a short, desperate sound. “Panic—”
Minho’s arms tighten just enough to let Jisung know he’s there, not trapping him, just holding him in place. One hand slides up to Jisung’s back, broad and warm, steady.
“Okay,” Minho says immediately, like the word is a hand reaching out. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
The room feels too bright, too unreal. Jisung’s heart is slamming against his ribs, every beat loud and wrong. He tries to breathe and can’t find the rhythm, can’t draw in enough air no matter how hard he tries. His vision swims, dark at the edges, and his thoughts start to scream over one another.
You can’t breathe.
Something’s wrong.
What if this one doesn’t stop?
His head spins, nausea curling in his stomach. He feels detached from his hands, his legs, like his body is slipping away from him piece by piece.
Minho shifts just enough to bring his face closer to Jisung’s, keeping his voice low and even.
“Look at me,” he says gently. “You don’t have to do anything else. Just listen to me, okay?”
Jisung nods weakly, though he’s not sure Minho can see it. His chest feels like it’s caving in on itself, muscles trembling with the effort to breathe.
Minho places one hand flat against Jisung’s upper back, firm and grounding. The other rests over Jisung’s hand where it’s gripping his shirt.
“Breathe with me,” Minho says. “Not deep. Just slow.”
Minho inhales—slow, exaggerated, deliberate—and Jisung feels it beneath his cheek. Minho exhales just as slowly.
“Good,” Minho murmurs, even though Jisung doesn’t think he’s done anything right yet. “Again.”
Jisung tries. His inhale is shaky and incomplete, but Minho doesn’t correct him. He just keeps breathing, steady and patient, giving Jisung something to follow when his own body feels out of control.
The panic surges anyway.
His thoughts won’t leave him alone, spiraling tighter and faster. His chest burns now, throat tight, breaths coming in quick, useless bursts. His head feels light, like he might pass out, and the fear of that makes everything spike higher.
Minho doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t rush.
“This is a panic attack,” Minho says calmly, like he’s naming something harmless instead of terrifying. “You’ve had these before. I know it feels different every time, but it’s the same thing.”
Jisung shakes his head weakly, a helpless sound clawing its way out of him. “I—can’t—”
“I know,” Minho interrupts softly. “I know it feels like you can’t breathe. But you are. Your body knows how.”
Minho’s thumb presses gently into the back of Jisung’s hand, grounding, real.
“Answer me something,” Minho continues. “What can you feel right now?”
The question cuts through the noise just enough to give Jisung something to grab onto.
“Y—you,” he gasps. “Your—shirt.”
“Good,” Minho says immediately. “What else?”
The room spins. His heart pounds. But Jisung focuses, drags his attention back.
“C—couch,” he manages. “The—fabric.”
“That’s it,” Minho says, steady as ever. “You’re here. You’re on the couch with me. Nothing bad is happening.”
The panic crests higher, a final, desperate surge that makes Jisung’s breath hitch painfully. Tears sting his eyes, blurring everything.
Minho doesn’t flinch.
“This is like a wave,” Minho reminds him quietly. “It rises. It feels like it’s going to swallow you. But it doesn’t last.”
Minho breathes again, slow and deep, letting Jisung feel every rise and fall.
“It’s going to crest,” Minho continues, voice unwavering. “And then it’s going to fall. You don’t have to fight it. Just stay with me while it passes.”
Jisung clings to him, chest heaving, heart racing, the panic roaring through him like a storm. But beneath it all—beneath the fear and the dizziness and the relentless thoughts—Minho is there, solid and unshaken, breathing steadily through the worst of it with him.
And even as the panic peaks, even as it feels unbearable, a small, distant part of Jisung hears Minho’s words and holds onto them.
Waves fall, Minho had said.
So Jisung stays.
He breathes.
And he waits for the wave to break.
The panic doesn’t disappear all at once.
It loosens.
At first it’s barely noticeable—a fraction of a second where Jisung manages to pull in a fuller breath, where the air reaches a little deeper into his lungs before slipping away. His chest still feels tight, but not locked anymore. The burning eases, just enough for him to realize how hard his body has been working.
Minho keeps breathing beneath him, steady and slow, and Jisung follows without thinking, letting his lungs borrow the rhythm until it starts to feel like his own again.
In.
Out.
The dizziness dulls, the room settling back into place. The ringing in his ears fades to nothing. His heart is still racing, but it’s no longer frantic—it stumbles, slows, finds something closer to a normal pace. His thoughts, once loud and merciless, begin to lose their grip, each one drifting past instead of crashing down on him.
You’re okay.
It’s ending.
The realization comes quietly, almost cautiously, like he’s afraid to scare it away.
Jisung’s body trembles as the last of the adrenaline drains out of him, leaving behind a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. Every muscle feels weak, like he’s run miles without moving an inch. He’s suddenly acutely aware of how much energy the panic stole from him.
Minho doesn’t say anything yet. He just stays there, hand warm and solid at Jisung’s back, letting the moment settle.
When it’s finally over—really over—the weight of it hits Jisung all at once.
Embarrassment blooms hot in his chest. The familiar, awful kind that makes his throat tighten and his eyes burn. He hates this part. Hates how small he feels afterward, how exposed. Hates that it happened again, right here, with Minho underneath him, witnessing all of it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers before he can stop himself, voice rough and unsteady.
Minho shifts slightly, careful and unhurried. He doesn’t correct him yet. Instead, he eases his arms open—slow, deliberate—leaving space between them.
An invitation.
No pressure. No assumption.
Jisung stares at the space for half a second, fighting the urge to pull away, to swallow it all down like he always wants to. He tells himself not to cry. Tells himself he’s fine now, that it’s over, that there’s no reason for this sudden ache in his chest.
His eyes fill anyway.
The tears come quietly at first, slipping down his cheeks before he can stop them. Then his breath wobbles, and the dam breaks completely.
Jisung leans forward and takes the hug.
Minho’s arms close around him instantly, firm and warm, pulling him in without squeezing too tight. Jisung buries his face into Minho’s chest, clutching at his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. His tears soak into the fabric, darkening it, but Minho doesn’t react—doesn’t stiffen or pull back.
Jisung inhales shakily.
Minho smells like clean laundry, the familiar detergent grounding and steady, layered with something softer underneath—something unmistakably Minho. Warm. Real. Safe. Jisung breathes it in again, deeper this time, letting it anchor him in his body.
His shoulders shake as the last of the emotion spills out, quiet sobs muffled against Minho’s chest. He feels ridiculous and overwhelmed and so, so tired all at once.
Minho’s hand moves slowly up and down his back, not rushing, not trying to fix anything. Just there.
“I’ve got you,” Minho murmurs again, voice low and certain. “You’re okay. It’s over.”
Jisung clings to him, breathing in time with him now, the worst of it behind him. The panic is gone, leaving only exhaustion and the ache of having been through something too big for his body to hold alone.
But Minho is here.
Jisung’s breathing evens out slowly, the hitch in his chest fading until it’s just exhaustion left behind. His tears taper off into quiet, shuddering breaths, his face still pressed into Minho’s shirt. He doesn’t move away right away. He just stays there, letting himself be held.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles finally, the words muffled and clumsy. “I’m— I didn’t mean to—”
Minho’s hand stills for a moment, then resumes its slow, grounding movement along Jisung’s back.
“No,” Minho says gently, but firmly. “No apologies.”
Jisung sniffs, his fingers curling tighter in the fabric. “But I—”
“Jisung.” Minho tilts his head slightly, resting his cheek against Jisung’s hair. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
The words sink in slowly, like they have to work their way through layers of habit and shame before they can land. Jisung swallows, throat tight.
“It’s just…” He hesitates, then exhales shakily. “It’s scary. Being seen like that. I hate it.” His voice cracks again, softer this time. “I feel like I lose all control. Like I’m not… me anymore.”
Minho doesn’t interrupt.
“And the diagnosis,” Jisung continues quietly. “I know what it’s called, but that doesn’t mean I understand it. Sometimes it feels like this huge thing I’m supposed to manage, and I don’t even know where to start.” He presses his forehead harder into Minho’s chest, voice barely audible. “I don’t want you to think I’m broken.”
Minho’s arms tighten just a fraction, enough to be reassuring.
“I don’t,” he says without hesitation.
Jisung lifts his head slightly, just enough to hear him better.
“I’ve been reading,” Minho admits softly. “About panic disorder. About what it feels like, what helps, what doesn’t.” He pauses, thumb brushing gently against Jisung’s shoulder. “Not because I think you need to be fixed. But because I want to understand how to be there for you when it happens.”
Jisung blinks, the weight in his chest shifting.
“You don’t need fixing,” Minho continues, voice steady and certain. “You’re you. Panic attacks don’t change that.”
Jisung’s lips tremble again, but this time it’s not panic—it’s something warmer, heavier.
“When people say ‘in sickness and in health,’” Minho adds quietly, “they don’t just mean physical stuff. Mental health counts too. All of it does.”
Jisung lets out a shaky breath. “You didn’t sign up for this.”
“I signed up for you,” Minho replies immediately. “That includes the hard parts. And the quiet parts. And the parts where you don’t need anything from me at all.”
He shifts just enough to look at Jisung properly now, forehead resting against his. His voice stays low, intimate.
“I’ll always be here,” Minho says. “Whether you need help, or space, or someone to sit with you and do nothing. If all you need is a hug, I can do that too.”
Jisung stares at him for a moment, chest tight in a different way now. He nods, once, small and sincere, then leans back into Minho’s embrace.
“Okay,” he whispers.
Minho holds him, no questions asked.
The TV continues playing quietly in the background, the world outside the apartment moving on without them. Jisung stays curled against Minho, exhausted but safe, the panic a distant memory now.
The apartment eventually grows quiet again, the kind of quiet that settles instead of presses in.
Jisung stays tucked against Minho for a while longer, letting the last of the tension drain out of him. Eventually, he shifts just enough to reach for his phone, hesitating with it in his hand. The screen lights up his face softly in the dim room.
The group chat is still there. Still active. Messages piling up about bad singing and inside jokes he doesn’t need context for to understand. For a moment, the familiar flicker of hesitation sparks—What if I don’t know how to rejoin? What if it’s awkward?
He exhales.
It doesn’t have to be big.
Jisung scrolls through his camera roll, finds a blurry, badly timed screenshot from the movie—Howl mid-expression, ridiculous and dramatic—and sends it without overthinking.
The Boys💬:
Jisung: me after doing absolutely nothing all day
The responses come almost immediately. Laughter. Emojis. Felix’s enthusiastic caps lock. Changbin threatening to steal the picture.
Something warm settles in Jisung’s chest.
It’s small, but it’s something. And it feels… good.
He glances at Minho, who’s watching him with that soft, unreadable expression that somehow always means I see you. Jisung thinks—briefly, cautiously—about next week. About maybe inviting them over instead. About safe spaces and familiar walls and knowing exactly where the exits are.
He doesn’t decide anything yet.
But he doesn’t dismiss the idea either.
I won’t let this decide everything, he tells himself quietly. Not as a challenge. Just a promise.
There will be more panic attacks. He knows that now. They won’t vanish just because tonight ended gently. His diagnosis is still something he’s learning how to live with, something that will take time and patience and days that don’t look like progress at all.
But he also knows this:
He isn’t alone.
And somehow, that makes the future feel less terrifying.
Later, they move to the bedroom, the lights dimmed low enough that the world feels distant and kind. Jisung curls into Minho’s side under the covers, legs tangled together, the glow of the screen warm between them. Stardew Valley music hums softly as they tend to their little pixelated farm, moving side by side without rushing.
Minho fishes. Jisung plants seeds.
They don’t talk much. They don’t need to.
Jisung rests his head against Minho’s shoulder, breathing easy, present in his body in a way that feels earned. The panic is gone now, replaced with a quiet sense of coexistence—with Minho, with himself, with whatever tomorrow might bring.
For tonight, he is safe.
For tonight, he is loved.
And that is more than enough.