Archive of Our Own

─  Subject: FW: Clarification Needed: “We Met Through Business”??? ─

Minho is dying.

Not literally, but he’s pretty sure his soul is attempting to leave his body out of sheer, overwhelming cringe. He’s been slumped on the couch for twenty minutes, hoodie half-zipped, phone held above his face, watching The Clip™ on loop.

Because for some odd reason, he just can't stop. 

There he is– Lee Minho, in crisp 4K HD. His face looks normal– polished, polite, borderline charming even, if you don’t know any better. But he does know better. He knows the anatomy of his own disasters. He knows what’s coming.

Because right there, timestamped and screen-recorded by at least ten fan accounts, is the exact moment he fumbles the question. His smile flickers for exactly 0.5 seconds, a tiny glitch in the matrix before his brain visibly crashes. 

“Ah,” says Minho-on-screen, expression blank, eyes screaming, “...Like the other members… you can say we met through business.”

Business.

Business.

Minho groans, a low sound of genuine physical pain, and rolls onto his stomach like a whale succumbing to the tide of secondhand embarrassment. He buries his face into the cushion of the couch until his breathing turns it warm. The soft farbic smells like the lemon-scented cleaner they use and faintly like Jisung’s perfume, which somehow makes it worse.

He wants to crawl into the nearest wall.

Or explode. Or crawl into the nearest wall, and then explode.

@minhossungie: that’s not what u say about ur husband but ok
@iluvmisosoup: love their consensual ass work relationship
@bddrmj4ever: he knows what his orgasm face looks like btw

Close enough, Minho thinks, the screen’s harsh light highlighting the grimace etched into his features. 

They’re not wrong– he does know what Jisung’s orgasm face looks like. Unfortunately for Minho, so do half the fans, if they’re paying close enough attention.

The clip loops again, because of course it does.

Minho wonders, not for the first time, how much of this is Jisung’s fault, when the front door swings open with a jaunty click. 

Jisung enters like he owns the place– which, to be fair, he technically does, fifty percent. He kicks off his shoes– one, then the other– with practiced chaos and drops his bag by the wall.

“Jagi, I’m home~!” he sings out, all syrup and sunshine, far too bright for Minho’s current mood. “Did you see? We’re trending!”

“Don’t,” Minho’s voice is muffled by the cushion. “I’m trying to merge with the couch. I’m becoming the couch. The couch doesn’t do interviews. The couch has no public image to ruin.”

Across the room, Jisung’s laughter bubbles out like a shaken soda can. Ιt’s a bright, stupid, adorable thing, too much for Minho’s dignity to handle. “True.”

The air gets knocked out of him as Jisung collapses onto his back, knees digging into his ribs. “But the couch also didn’t tell millions of viewers we’re business partners.”

“We are business partners,” Minho mutters into the upholstery. “We have joint custody of three cats. That’s legally binding.”

“Ah yes. Very professional.” Jisung snatches the phone from Minho’s limp grip. He scrolls, still perched on him. “Ooh, this one’s good.”

He clears his throat and reads in a dramatic whisper: “‘Minho was three seconds away from saying “We share a bed” and had to reboot his entire personality in real time.’”

Minho makes a sound like a dying walrus. “I blacked out! I don’t even remember saying it!”

Jisung scrolls more, bouncing with each new meme. “This one just says ‘they fuck’ with a screenshot of your face. That’s it. That’s the whole tweet.” He wheezes. “Accurate.”

“They’re not supposed to know that!” Minho finally unsticks his face from the cushion, turning his head to glare at Jisung. “We’re supposed to be subtle!”

Jisung raises a perfect, unimpressed eyebrow. “Subtle. Right. You mean like last night when you–”

“Don’t you dare quote me,” Minho cuts in, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s trying to be annoyed, but Jisung’s cheeks are flushed with laughter, his eyes disappearing into happy crescents, and Minho feels his own mouth betray him, twitching upward. Damn it.

His happiness makes Minho’s stomach do that horrible fluttery thing it’s been doing since their first date. It’s so unfair. He just committed public verbal manslaughter on national television, and Jisung looks like the sun came out.

The boy leans down, pressing a kiss to the back of Minho’s neck, right where his hair met the hoodie’s collar. “It’s okay. I like that you said ‘business’. It’s very...” He pauses, tasting the word. “Corporate.”

“That’s not a compliment!” Minho barks into the fabric.

“I’m making it one.” Jisung rolls off him, sprawling on the floor next to the couch. He props his chin on Minho’s shoulder, while his thumb flicks rhythmically over his phone screen, still scrolling. “From now on, I’m your business partner. Can you pass the remote, colleague?”

Minho’s stomach drops. “Jisung, no. No no, you’re not doing this. ”

But Jisung’s already grinning, the particular grin that means I’m about to make this my entire personality for the next week. He taps Minho’s nose. “I’d like to schedule a meeting. In the bedroom. Clothes optional. Very professional.”

Minho stares at him. Then at the ceiling, wondering if it could give way and crush him as a mercy. Then back at Jisung’s stupid, delighted, beautiful face.

He’s not going to live this down.

─ Subject: RE: Request for Snack Sharing – DENIED ─

Three days.

It’s been three days of this, and Minho’s starting to think the joke has its own lease agreement.

They’re on the couch, some action movie with blaring explosions in the background that neither of them are actually watching. Jisung is wedged into the corner, a bag of honey butter chips open on his chest, crunching away like he’s being paid per decibel.

Minho’s stomach rumbles. They’re his chips, technically, which he bought, but that's semantics. Minho has been paying for Jisung's food– and happily letting him steal his own– for years now. 

Somewhere between the third explosion on screen and the fourth handful of chips, he lnudges Jisung’s knee with his foot. “Baby,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with the exhaustion of someone who has been bullied for three days straight. “Can you please pass me the chips?”

Jisung doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Company policy.” Jisung pops another chip into his mouth, chews thoughtfully. “Business partners don’t share resources without proper documentation. I’d need a form. In triplicate. Signed by the head of the Snack Department.”

Minho stares at the TV, at a man jumping out of an exploding helicopter. If it were him, he thinks, dead inside, he would’ve stayed in the helicopter. Let it crash. Easier than dealing with this.

He turns his head– slowly, carefully– to look at the other disaster in the room.

“Jisungie,” he says, very calmly. “We've shared snacks. We’ve shared drinks. Chopsticks. That one yogurt you said you didn’t want and then ate half of anyway. My hoodies. A bed. Even a toothbrush.”

Jisung doesn’t even flinch. Reclined across the couch like a spoiled cat, thumb lazily scrolling through his phone, he says, “That was a one-time emergency. Also, a flagrant violation of HR guidelines.”

Minho’s eye twitches.

“I’m drafting a memo about it,” Jisung adds, voice flat and factual, as if he’s not rewriting their domestic life as corporate satire.

The worst part– the truly infuriating part– is how serious he sounds. Deadpan even, like he’s reporting the news. Minho knows that tone. It’s the tone that means he's having the time of his life.

In short– it's a trap.

Minho takes a deep breath. He is not going to fall for this kind of ragebait again. Probably.

He leans over, trying to grab the bag of chips himself. He gets within an inch of it before Jisung lifts it just out of reach, holding it hostage above his head. “That's unauthorized access to business assets!” he clucks, like a smug little officer.

Minho stares at him. Then, very dramatically, flops back against the couch with the force of all his disappointment. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” he threatens.

“Can’t do that,” Jisung chirps, unbothered. “The couch is your office now. I’m not authorized to enter after hours.”

On screen, the hero lands in a cool three-point stance. Minho, in contrast, lands face-first into the cushion again, this time out of pure self-preservation. He mutters something that might be I hate you, or a small prayer for patience. Either way, it sounds more like a dying squeak.

Jisung, heartless, lets out a delighted giggle, and a second later the bag of chips lands squarely on Minho’s head with a soft thunk.

"Hazard pay,” Jisung explains, like he’s doing Minho a favor.

Minho glares at him from under the crinkling bag, then shoves a chip in his mouth and chews on it aggressively.

He hopes Jisung can hear it. He hopes it’s annoying.

Divorce doesn’t exist for business partnerships. He checked.

─ Subject: URGENT – Business Partner Attention Required ─

Thirty-seven minutes.

Minho has been standing against the doorframe for thirty-seven minutes. 

Not that Minho is counting. He’s just… observant. It’s a skill. A strength. Possibly even a flaw, like in those tragic plays where people fall in love with their own reflections and die. Minho gets ignored by his boyfriend for half an hour and starts spiraling into philosophical crises. Same genre.

He’s still there, arms crossed, trying to telepathically will Jisung into looking up from his phone. The telepathy isn’t working. Minho suspects Jisung’s brain has a very specific spam filter that blocks all non-vibrational forms of communication.

He clears his throat. Once. Loudly.

Jisung doesn’t move. He’s sprawled on the couch, half-buried in a throw blanket and fully buried in his phone. He’s got one leg hooked over the armrest, scrolling with the kind of focus usually reserved for solving sudoku, or defusing bombs.

Jisung doesn’t do either of those things.

He waits three seconds– long enough for dramatic effect– then tries again. Louder, adding a little more bass. A little more I am a man who deserves attention, a little less pitiful wet cat left out in the rain.

Nothing.

“Jisung-ah,” Minho calls, like he’s the protagonist of a workplace drama and not, in fact, a slightly needy boyfriend being emotionally neglected by someone wearing socks with little cartoon sharks on them.

“I require your attention,” he says, very put-together, because if he starts begging now, there’s no recovering.

“Hmm?” Jisung doesn’t even glance up. “Oh my God, this guy got his arm stuck in a vending machine trying to steal Skittles! They even had to call the fire department. It's still in there!”

Minho takes a slow, measured breath. 

A less stable man would flip the couch. He would end the relationship, walk into the night, move to the countryside and become one with the moss. But he’s not that kind of man. He is calm. He is patient. He is unfortunately in love with a menace.

A less affectionate man wouldn’t find this whole thing adorable.

Minho pushes off the doorframe and plants himself directly in front of the couch, blocking Jisung’s view of the TV that’s also not being watched. “That sounds fascinating,” coolly, folding his arms. “But you forgot something more important.”

Jisung looks up with his most irritatingly innocent expression, eyes wide. Head tilted. Blink, blink– like he’s never seen Minho before in his life and isn’t sure how the strange man in his living room got in. Minho knows this game. He just didn’t expect to lose it so quickly.

“Did I forget to wash the dishes?” Jisung asks, dead serious.

“No.”

“Did I forget to do laundry?”

“No.”

“Did I leave the milk out? The oven on? My will to live in the practice room?”

Minho gives up. There is no winning this.

He drops to his knees between Jisung’s legs, which is less smooth than he imagined. His knee pops audibly and his balance nearly gives out halfway down. Romantic dignity? Gone. He’s too young to have joint pain and too old to be in this situation. He rests his chin on Jisung’s thigh and whines, a full-bodied sound that he’s definitely not ashamed of.

“I’ve been trying to hint that I want to cuddle for thirty-seven minutes,” he mumbles into the soft cotton of Jisung’s sweatpants. “You’re ignoring me. I’m being neglected.”

Jisung’s lips twitch like a cat spotting prey. A stupid, lovesick cat with malicious intent.

Minho dares to hope.

Jisung’s hand, which had been frozen mid-scroll, finally moves. It lands on Minho’s head, but not affectionately– more like he’s checking for a fever. “Cuddling crosses a line, Minho-ssi. We’re business partners. That’s very unprofessional.”

Minho narrows his eyes. The betrayal. The audacity. The -ssi.

“Don’t,” he warns, but it’s too late.

“I’m just saying,” Jisung says, already enjoying himself too much, “as your business partner, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to engage in physical intimacy. Think of the HR implications.”

Minho lets out a tired sigh. He’s going to lose this war, and they both know it. “There is no HR department in our living room.”

“Well,” Jisung says, cheerful and merciless, “that’s poor management planning.”

Minho flops forward, full-body, face-planting into Jisung’s lap. His forehead lands against Jisung’s stomach with a quiet thud, and he makes another dying walrus sound. “You’re the worst,” he groans.

“You say that,” Jisung says, smiling down at him, “but you’re the one harassing a colleague right now.”

Minho groans deeper, into Jisung’s thigh this time. “I hope a vending machine eats you.”

And yet, when Jisung finally sets his phone aside and starts carding his fingers through Minho’s hair, slow and gentle, Minho is instantly, pathetically soothed. He doesn’t want to be the kind of person who needs this, this creature undone by a scalp massage and a warm lap, but– well. He is.

“See? It’s so easy. I’m so easy,” Minho mumbles, closing his eyes. “This is all I wanted.”

He feels Jisung’s lips press lightly against the crown of his head, and almost purrs about it.

“You should’ve submitted a cuddle request form,” Jisung replies, scratching behind Minho’s ear.

“I have,” Minho says, turning his head to the side so he can breathe. “It’s called staring at you from across the room until you notice me.”

Jisung hums thoughtfully. “Ah. That must’ve gone to spam.”

Minho snorts, too content to argue. “You’re the worst business partner ever.”

Jisung shrugs, utterly unbothered, and tugs Minho by the strings of his hoodie until he’s half-sprawled on top of him, tangled and warm and right where he belongs.

"You’re so lucky you're cute,” Minho sighs, and finally lets the tension drain from his shoulders. 

“I know.” Jisung presses a kiss to his temple. “Can you believe you’re technically getting paid to cuddle with a cutie like me?”

Minho lets out a huff, burying his face in Jisung’s shirt. It smells like laundry and home.

He believes he needs a raise.

─ Subject: Notice of Inappropriate Conduct During Post-Work Hours ─

It’s a random Tuesday.

Practice ends like it always does: with Minho’s limbs feeling like overcooked noodles and his brain reduced to static. Jisung is already in the living room, peeling off his sweaty practice shirt. The dim lamp light spills across his back, catching on the shifting lines of muscle, the sheen of effort, the faint red marks from too-tight stagewear. 

And Minho doesn’t think– he just acts. In two steps, he’s behind Jisung, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his face into the damp curve of his neck. The smell hits him first– clean sweat, citrus deodorant, and something like heat. Minho wants to take a bite. 

“Missed you today,” Minho mumbles, voice rough from hours of rehearsal.

It’s easy. It’s true. It’s–

Jisung goes still for a second, just a heartbeat, and Minho feels the tension slide out of his own spine in response. There it is. The quiet moment before they remember they’re supposed to be subtle. He wants to sink into it, to stay here until he stops thinking and his body stops feeling like it’s still at practice. He tightens his hold slightly, his palms drifting lower, fingertips skimming the waistband of Jisung’s sweatpants, seeking skin–

Jisung’s hand comes up and pats Minho’s back. 

Not strokes. Not rubs. Pats. Three firm, rhythmic pats, like he’s closing a deal. “Mm. Appreciate the initiative,” he says, voice bland as a board. His other hand, the traitor, is still holding his sweaty shirt. “But this kind of contact is not in your current job description.”

Minho goes rigid. Then limp. Then rigid again, but spiritually. He lets his hands slide down to Jisung’s waist again, slower this time, testing the waters. Just a little skin. Something to salvage his pride.

No dice.

Jisung catches his wrists and pries them away. “Whoa there,” he says, mock-gentle. “That level of PDA isn’t covered under our business agreement. You’ll need to submit a request for review.”

Minho’s soul bolts out of his body so fast it leaves a cartoon dust trail in the shape of his outline. He stands there, arms dangling where Jisung left them, heart bruised, libido in shambles.

He considers simply laying down on the floor and never getting up.

I am a clown. I am a clown in a business casual costume.

“That’s it,” Minho announces to the room, to the universe, to the cruel gods who cursed him with a stupidly hot, emotionally deranged boyfriend, to whoever pulled his strings the wrong way during that interview. “I’m cancelling this partnership.”

Behind him, Jisung finally turns around, still shirtless, still smug. “Can’t do that. We have joint custody of three cats, remember?” he asks, grinning.

Minho’s arms are still dangling. He thinks about letting them stay there forever, just to make a point. He thinks about buying a one-way plane ticket, moving to another country and starting a new life where he never has to hear the words business partnership again. He thinks about yeeting himself out the window.

Instead, he shuffles to the couch and collapses face-first into the cushions. The same cushions that have already absorbed so many of his emotional crises this week– they may start actually charging him for it.

He doesn’t move. He refuses.

Jisung follows, the soft shuffle of socked feet behind him, and settles beside him with a content sigh. He pats Minho’s back again, but this time it’s softer. Almost fond. “Severance package includes unlimited chips and only one cuddle per month, if you're interested."

Minho turns his head slightly, cheek still smushed against the couch, and peeks out at him with one eye.  “It’s a Tuesday. I missed you.”

Jisung tilts his head, eyes flicking over Minho’s face.

Then, with absolutely no mercy, he says, “Sounds like a you problem, partner.”

Minho groans, but it’s starting to sound less like death and more like surrender. He reaches out blindly, fingers catching Jisung’s wrist, and tugs. It’s not particularly graceful, but it gets the job done.

Jisung doesn’t resist. He lets himself be pulled, grinning like he’s known all along this is where things would end up. He crashes down into the cushion abyss, landing sprawled across Minho’s chest with a soft oof and a burst of laughter that shakes through both of them. 

Minho lets out a huff of air, part amusement, part fond annoyance, part pure exhaustion. His arms curl around Jisung automatically, muscle memory at this point. 

It’s warm, it’s messy, it’s everything he wanted twenty minutes ago before he was emotionally torpedoed by business roleplay. He lets out a soft sigh, tension bleeding out of him as Jisung shifts, slotting himself into the crook of Minho’s side.

Then he leans in, and presses a kiss just below Minho’s jaw.

Minho swallows. His pulse stutters.

Another kiss, this one at the hinge of his jaw. Jisung’s nose nudges into his neck. His lips brush the sensitive skin there, and Minho feels his breath catch– just for a second. 

“We smell like the practice room,” Jisung murmurs, sounding amused.

“We do,” Minho agrees, though his hand curls instinctively around Jisung’s waist, pulling him a little closer.

“Don’t you want to take a shower, hyung?”

Minho tilts his head back with a purr. “Together?”

Jisung snickers. “Yes.”

Minho can feel the smile against his throat as he thinks about the vending machine guy, trapped by impulse, that should’ve been easy, should’ve been simple, but absolutely wasn’t. 

Same, he thinks. Same.

This partnership might be hell.

But the benefits? Unmatched.

─  Subject: PRIVATE – Intimacy Protocol Requires NDA Signature ─

It’s late. 

Late enough that the city outside their window has gone quiet except for the occasional drunken shout or distant siren. Minho's bed is a mess of tangled sheets and tangled limbs, and for once– for once– the word business is nowhere in his brain. 

There's only Jisung: the heat of him, the taste of his mouth– still a little like toothpaste– and the way his back arches when Minho's hands slide under his shirt.

Minho is kissing his neck, right under his jaw where he's learned Jisung gets shivery, and his palms are flat against the warm skin of Jisung's ribs, and he's thinking, Finally. Finally, no jokes, no memes, just–

"Should we," Jisung gasps, "sign an NDA first?"

Minho freezes. His mouth is still pressed to Jisung's pulse point. He can feel the blood jumping there, fast and alive, but his brain has just screeched to a halt like a bad brake. His body is still in it, but his soul has walked out the door and is now curled in the hallway, gently weeping.

No. 

He lifts his head, looks at Jisung's face. Jisung's eyes are dark, lips swollen, but there's a tell-tale quirk at the corner of his mouth. The bastard is trying not to smile.

Minho narrows his eyes. Not this time. He is not letting Jisung win this round. He is not letting this stupid joke get in the way again. Not when his whole body is burning with want and his brain has finally, finally gone quiet except for the feel of Jisung under his hands.

He surges up and kisses him full on the mouth, hard enough to be a full stop. Jisung makes a surprised noise, but immediately kisses back, hot and hungry, and Minho thinks, Good. Good. Back on track.

He shifts again, dragging his hands lower, fingertips skimming the sharp lines of Jisung’s waist, just under the hem of his shirt. He moves back to Jisung’s neck–

"I mean,” Jisung breathes, already flushed, “this is pretty sensitive information–"

Minho cuts him off with another kiss. This one is messier, more desperate, fueled by pure spite. Jisung's laugh is starting to vibrate against his lips, but Minho is determined. He kisses him again, and again, every time Jisung opens his mouth to speak.

Jisung is giggling now, breathless, his hands in Minho's hair not pulling him closer but just... shaking. "Min–Minho,” he gasps between kisses, breathless and wheezing. “I can't–"

Minho kisses him again. It's becoming a strategy. A lifestyle. He is going to kiss Jisung into silence until the sun comes up if he has to. Into next week. Into retirement, even. 

Jisung is squirming, laughing so hard he's going red in the face, and every time Minho pulls back to check if he's won, Jisung gasps another one-liner. 

"This is– is definitely–"

Kiss.

"–violation of the dress code–"

Kiss.

"–we really should consult legal–"

Kiss. This one lands on Jisung's laughing mouth and stays there, and Minho feels the giggles shake through both of them, uncontrollable, infectious. He's frustrated, his body is still humming with the heat of a moment that's now 50% laughter, but Jisung's laugh is doing something annoying to his chest. It's making him want to laugh too.

Minho pulls back, breathing hard, and glares down at Jisung, who's still wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. "Han Jisung, you're fucking impossible," Minho says, but it comes out sounding like I love you.

Jisung grins up at him, chest still heaving. "It comes with the package, partner."

Minho groans and flops down onto the pillow beside him, hiding his face. He feels Jisung roll over, press himself along Minho's side, still giggling softly.

Still giggling. Still infuriating. Still the best thing in the world.

His laughter slowly fades, trailing off into quiet little huffs against Minho’s temple. “You know,” he whispers, fingers tracing patterns on Minho's back that are definitely not corporate-approved, “In cases of extreme cuteness, all prior agreements are void.”

Minho turns his face into Jisung's shoulder. “I’m not being cute.”

“You are,” Jisung leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead. Then another, softer one to the bridge of his nose. “You’re being so cute.”

“I will kick you.”

“No you won’t.” Jisung pulls him closer, one arm wrapping securely around his shoulders, tucking his head under his chin.

Minho sighs, the last of his fight dissolving into the dark. His hand slides across Jisung’s waist, settling there. “No,” he agrees, voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t.”

Jisung hums, half-asleep already, his fingers slowing against Minho’s back. 

Minho thinks he should say something. Something meaningful. Something that isn’t a joke or a kiss or a groan of defeat. But all he manages is a soft, tired, “You’re the worst.”

Jisung smiles into his hair, already half-dreaming. “Love you too.”

Minho rolls his eyes, but there’s no bite left in it– just hopeless affection. He tucks himself closer, pressing into the warmth, into the heartbeat, into home.

He doesn’t have to say anything more.

─  Subject: Contract Renewal Proposal – Terms & Conditions ─

Minho stares at the Sudoku. 

The Sudoku stares back.

The little numbers swim across the screen. He’s been stuck on the same square for twenty minutes, thumb tapping a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like the words business partner. He can’t focus. He feels... off. Unsettled in a way that nine rows of logic can’t fix.

Usually puzzles help. Usually, they clear his head.

Not today.

The door swings open. Jisung kicks off his shoes, drops his bag, and crosses the room smelling like wind and espresso. The coffee shop down the street, Minho registers distantly. The one with the tiny tables and overpriced muffins. 

“Hey baby,” he says, climbing onto the couch. “You look like you’re trying to solve world peace.”

“Mm.” Minho doesn’t look up. “Just... nine squares.”

He taps the screen again. Still nothing.

Then there’s movement, weight shifting the couch cushions, and suddenly, Jisung is climbing into his lap, straddling him, knees bracketing his thighs. He kisses him, slow and sweet, cold hands cupping his jaw. “Missed you, colleague.”

Minho kisses back, but it feels wrong. Off. His heart’s not in the joke. Or maybe it’s too much in it. 

Jisung pulls back just far enough to study him, and the teasing fades from his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Minho looks at Jisung’s face, so familiar, so his, and something behind his ribs cracks open. For days it’s been jokes– business partners and company policy and submit a request form– and he’d laughed. He’d played along. But every time Jisung said it, something in Minho’s chest had twisted a little tighter. Because what if, underneath the laughter, some part of Jisung heard the echo of Minho’s stupid interview answer and wondered if that’s how he really saw them? What if all the teasing was just Jisung dressing up his own uncertainty in punchlines?

The words spill out before he can stop them. “You know I’d never think of you as a business partner, right? Even if– even if we weren’t... even if you were just my best friend. That’s not– that’s not how I think of us. Not ever.”

His voice cracks. He feels stupid. The joke was– is funny. But somewhere under the laughter, something small and insecure had curled up and whispered: But what if he thinks you meant it? What if he thinks that’s the best you can do?

He stops, breathing hard. The Sudoku lies abandoned in his hands, a grid of numbers that suddenly feels less complicated than the look on Jisung’s face. Minho wants to take it back, wants to laugh and say never mind, I’m being ridiculous, haha, but the truth is sitting heavy in his throat, and he can’t seem to swallow it down.

Jisung’s face softens. The teasing evaporates. He takes Minho’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “Of course, baby. Of course I know that.”

“I never thought you were serious,” he says quietly. “We always say things for the cameras– all of us. For the people. For the fans. They can’t know, but we know.” He presses their foreheads together. “You never pretend with me.”

Minho closes his eyes. “I wish I didn’t have to pretend at all.”

Jisung laughs, soft and private. “Hyung, look at us. We work together, live together, sleep together. We’re not subtle. We never were. The cats know. The fans know. The vending machine guy probably knows.” He kisses Minho’s nose. 

Minho feels the tightness in his chest start to unravel. “You didn’t... you didn’t think I was  ashamed?”

“Ashamed?” Jisung’s voice cracks on the word. He cups Minho’s jaw more firmly. “Have you watched that clip? You took, like, ten whole seconds to answer. You looked like you were about to confess to a crime, not just a secret relationship. No one believed your ‘just colleagues’ bit. That’s why everyone was laughing.”

Minho whines. “You’re making fun of me.”

Jisung blinks at him, wide-eyed and faux-innocent. “I’m just being honest with you. If you managed to fool someone out there, that someone is definitely not me.” He leans in and presses a kiss to Minho’s forehead, then one to each eyelid. His thumbs brush beneath them, catching nothing but skin. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, hyung. It’s too big to hide.”

Minho laughs, despite himself. There’s something stupidly comforting about the way Jisung says it. “I love you.”

It comes out so easy, and so simple.

Jisung smiles– bright and stupid and annoyingly perfect. “I love you too,” he says, and then, grinning, adds, “as a business partner.”

Minho bites his cheek. Not hard, but just enough to make him yelp.

“That’s abuse!” He smacks Minho’s arm, but he’s already laughing. “I’m reporting you.”

Minho kisses the spot he bit. “You can break the contract,” he says, pulling him closer. “If you want.”

Jisung settles into his lap, arms looping around his neck. “Nah,” he replies, brushing their noses together. “I want to renew it.”

Minho pulls back, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?” What are the terms?” he asks.

Jisung shifts in his lap, pressing closer, and Minho's arms tighten automatically around his waist. Jisung cards his fingers through his hair– nails dragging lightly against his scalp in the way that makes him shiver– and kisses him, slow and deep. “Lifetime contract. No exit clause.”

Minho grins against his mouth. “And the fine print?” He kisses his way up Jisung's throat, feeling the pulse jump under his lips.

Jisung leans in, lips brushing Minho’s ear, and murmurs something that makes Minho’s ears burn. Something about mandatory morning kisses, overtime in Jisung’s bed, and a very specific dress code involving Minho’s grey sweatpants and nothing else.

Minho laughs, breathless, his forehead thunking against Jisung’s. “That’s so unprofessional.”

“Take it or leave it,” Jisung whispers, nipping lightly at his earlobe.

There it is, Minho thinks. The real fine print. Not a joke, not really. Just Jisung’s way of saying forever without actually using the word, wrapping vulnerability in a punchline, gift-wrapping fear as flirtation. A promise, disguised in teasing. Minho feels the weight of him, solid and real in his lap, arms looped trustingly around his neck, and something clicks into place– a door locking from the inside, safe and sound.

It’s the kind of closeness you don’t joke about, even when you do.

Minho wouldn’t dream of leaving it. 

He kisses him again, deeper this time. A yes made of mouth and hands. Then, he shifts, already standing, lifting Jisung with him. “I’ll take it.” 

Some partnerships, he’s learning, are worth the fine print.