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The locker room was loud in that post-practice way. Sticks clattering into racks, skates scraping against concrete, someone blasting music from a speaker that definitely wasn’t allowed. Jisung was sitting on the bench, unlacing his skates, hair damp and cheeks flushed from drills. He looked soft in the fluorescent light, jersey half off over his pads, laughing at something Chan said.
That’s when it happened.
One of the rookies—the kind who flirted with everyone without meaning anything by it—dropped onto the bench beside Jisung with a grin too bright for how tired everyone was.
“Hey, Jisung,” he said, nudging him with an elbow. “If you ever get tired of carrying Minho’s line, you should come skate with me instead. I’d treat you better.”
Jisung blinked, startled by how bold the rookie was, then laughed. Polite, confused, not encouraging, but the rookie didn’t notice the difference.
“Oh, uh-” Jisung rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks warming. “I’m good where I am.”
The rookie leaned in anyway, grin widening. “Come on, you sure? I could show you a good time. On the ice, I mean.” He winked, clearly thinking he was hilarious.
Jisung snorted, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously charming,” the rookie corrected, pretending to toss his hair like he was in a shampoo commercial. “You should give me a chance sometime.”
Jisung opened his mouth to shut it down properly, to say he was taken and wasn’t interested, but the rookie was already laughing and standing, tossing a towel over his shoulder like the whole thing was a joke he’d forget in five minutes. Jisung shook his head again, smiling in that awkward, what-just-happened way, and went back to unlacing his skates.
Across the room, Minho froze. He’d been pulling tape off his stick, half listening to the chatter around him, half watching Jisung the way he always did. Sue him, he thought his boyfriend was pretty, so he watched, quietly and subtly, like he couldn't help it. He saw the rookie sit too close. Saw the lean in. Saw the grin. Saw Jisung laugh, even if it was polite and confused. And something in Minho’s chest tightened.
Not jealousy exactly. It was quieter and deeper, more glass-like. A fear he didn’t want to name and a thought he didn’t want to think. Because he and Jisung were still new, still figuring each other out. And that’s when Minho’s mind started to spiral.
What if Jisung realized he could do better? What if someone easier, louder, more charming than Minho came along? What if Minho wasn’t enough?
Minho looked away before Jisung could catch his expression, jaw tightening, tape crumpling in his fist. He finished packing up in silence, shoulders tight, and with movements too precise even for him. He slipped out of the locker room, head down with his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.
Jisung looked up when he finished getting his skates off and slipped his shoes on with a quick tie of the laces. Minho wasn’t there. Not across from him like always, not standing to grab his stick before he left, just gone. Jisung quickly changed out of his padding and jersey into loose joggers and a t-shirt, grabbing his gear bag and throwing a bye over his shoulder to the rest of the team, and went to look for Minho. Because Minho wouldn't leave without saying bye to Jisung. Right?
✦ ✧ ✦
Minho didn’t know how long it had been since he left the locker room. Time seemed to slow down or speed up without any indication of which one it was. The rookie’s joke was still echoing in Minho’s head long after the laughter faded the farther he walked down the hallway. He knows it wasn’t serious. He knows it wasn’t meant to hit anything tender. But it did anyway, slipping under his ribs like a cold draft. He keeps replaying it, the way the rookie leaned in with that easy grin, like he could have everything at his fingertips with a simple tone and smile.
The hallway is dim and quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every thought louder. He stops and leans against the wall, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, jaw clenched, staring at the floor like it personally offended him. His breath comes shallow, not angry but just too much.
He hears footsteps before he sees him. Jisung rounds the corner, hair still damp and drying into waves, t-shirt soft where it falls on his frame, eyes scanning until they land on Minho. His expression softens immediately when he sees the look of Minho spiraling, concern blooming across his face.
“Minho?” Jisung’s voice is gentle, low, the kind of tone he only uses when he’s worried. “What's going on in your head?”
Minho’s shoulders twitch, barely. He shakes his head without looking up. “It’s nothing,” he mutters, voice rough. “It’s stupid.”
Jisung takes another step forward, putting his gear bag down and taking Minho’s gear bag and placing it next to Jisung’s. “Maybe it is,” Jisung says, softer still, “but I still want to know.”
Minho’s breath catches, a tiny sound he tries to swallow. He keeps his eyes on the floor, like looking at Jisung might make the words too real or worse, true. “He was flirting with you.”
Jisung blinks, surprised, but Minho keeps going, the words tumbling out in a quiet rush.
“And you laughed,” he says, jaw tightening. “I know it didn’t mean anything. I know he probably didn’t know, you know, about us. But we’re still… new. And I’m not—” He stops, breath fluttering. “I’m not perfect. I’m not always good at this. And I just—” His throat works around the rest, his voice coming out in a whisper. “I don’t want to lose you.”
The confession hangs there, as fragile as a glass ornament, trembling between them. Jisung’s chest aches. He closes the last bit of distance and wraps his arms around Minho’s shoulders, tugging him in with a firmness that doesn’t ask permission. Minho resists for a heartbeat, just long enough to pretend he’s fine, then he breaks, melting into Jisung like gravity finally won. His forehead presses into Jisung’s shoulder, breath warm and uneven against the fabric, hands drifting to Jisung’s waist and fingers curling into Jisung’s shirt like he’s afraid of slipping.
Jisung holds him tighter, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of Minho’s head, fingers threading through his hair. Minho shifts, turning until his face is tucked into the curve of Jisung’s neck, breath ghosting over skin, hiding there like it’s the only place he feels steady.
“Minho,” Jisung murmurs, voice steady despite the way his heart is pounding, “you’re a great boyfriend.”
Minho’s shoulders tense, like the words hit a bruise he didn’t expect.
Jisung keeps going, slow and warm, each word a gentle hand smoothing over something raw. “You’re attentive. You notice things before I even say them. You’re protective in your own quiet way. You’re loyal. You’re steady. You’re… you.”
Minho exhales shakily against his neck, fingers tightening in the fabric like he’s anchoring himself to the sound of Jisung’s voice, the warmth of his body, the certainty in his words.
“And I don’t want anyone else,” Jisung whispers, lips brushing Minho’s temple. “Not when I have you.”
Minho makes a tiny sound—barely there and muffled against Jisung’s skin—but it’s enough to break Jisung’s heart all over again. Minho’s arms wrap around him fully now, pulling him close, holding on like he’s afraid Jisung might disappear if he loosens his grip even a little.
Jisung presses a soft kiss to Minho’s temple, lingering there. “You’re not losing me,” he says quietly. “Not now. Not because of some dumb joke. Not ever because you think you’re not perfect.”
Minho nods against him, small and slow, like he’s letting the words sink in one by one. Jisung rubs slow circles between Minho’s shoulder blades, feeling the tension unwind under his palms, the way Minho’s breathing evens out against his neck. The hallway feels still around them, like the world has paused just long enough for Minho to breathe again.
When Minho finally lifts his head, his eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, lips parted like he’s still catching up to everything he’s feeling. Jisung cups his jaw gently, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone.
“You’re mine,” Jisung says softly, leaning in until their foreheads touch, “and I’m yours. Okay?”
Minho nods again, this time with something steadier behind it, something that looks a little like relief.
Jisung smiles, small and warm. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Minho closes his eyes, breathing in the warmth of his boyfriend, letting the last of the doubt dissolve in the quiet space between them.