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Summary
“Do you have any idea how old I am, pretty thing?” Minho asks the boy as the door shuts behind them. Jisung, he’d said his name was, on the short walk back to Minho's apartment. A pretty name for a pretty boy Minho thinks.
“And just how old are you, hm?” he questions as he turns, beginning to back him against the door. “I know you’re at least eighteen,” he says “They wouldn’t have let you inside the bar if you weren’t.” he reaches his hand up, cupping Jisung’s chin in his palm.
“Old enough,” the boy answers with a puff of his chest, clearly trying his best to keep his shaky eyes from breaking contact with Minhos.
Minho’s grip tightens against the boy's jaw. “That’s not an answer,” he tsks “Tell me or this stops right now.”
“T-twenty, I’m twenty.” he concedes. “Twenty-one in September.”
or
Minho really shouldn’t want, but he just has to have.