When it's YOU || minsung

Chapter 1

Grounding.

Necessary.

Inside, the house is full of mismatched furniture, soft rugs, unfinished art projects, and laughter.

Each member has a room that reflects who they are.

Minho's is the quietest. Top floor. Wide windows. Sheer curtains that flutter in the breeze. It smells like cedar and clean laundry. Three small indentations on the bed—where the cats sleep. A calendar with color-coded notes. A bookshelf filled with dance theory, cookbooks, and well-worn fantasy novels.

Chan, the beta leader, is the anchor of the house. His room is near the stairs—central. It doubles as a command center: whiteboards, messy notes, a speaker humming with music at all hours. He listens first. Carries storms without complaint. Minho trusts him like gravity.

Felix's room is sunlight in architectural form. Soft lights, dreamcatchers, pale wood, and Polaroids. He's an alpha too, but wears it gently. Felix bakes at midnight and sings lullabies during nightmares. His room always smells like vanilla and sage. Sometimes Minho naps there. Felix never asks questions—just smiles and adds another blanket.

Changbin's room is bold—black furniture, plush cushions, and gym clothes scattered everywhere. He's an omega with no time for nonsense and the best hugs in the house. A wall of framed pack photos dominates one side. Minho bickers with him constantly—but it always ends in laughter, snacks, and a shared playlist.

Seungmin's room is clean and chaotic in equal measure. Minimalist with corners of delightful mess: plushies, abandoned hoodies, a pristine desk. He's an omega with bite—sharp-witted, observant. He doesn't ask if something's wrong. He just drops Minho's favorite coffee on the desk and mutters, "Don't die," before walking off.

There's more—Hyunjin's art veranda, Jeongin's room that smells like books and candles, Jisung's den full of beanbags, wires, and lyrics.

And the garden Minho's built with quiet pride. Whats tarted as a few herbs has grown into a lush stretch of life—rosemary, mint, tomatoes, lavender, and a patch of basil he refuses to give up on. It's his therapy. He tends it barefoot, humming softly, cats watching fromt he porch. Minho doesn't say it, but he loves taking care of them. He's the best cook in the house, no contest. He feeds them to show love—hearty stews in winter, cold noodles in summer. He notices who's had a rough day and adds an extra helping of their favorite without saying a word. He keeps the kitchen spotless, the living room tidy, waters the plants, folds forgotten laundry without a word.

They share two cars for trips into the village—a 25-minute walk through mossy trails.

But Minho and Changbin each have their own motorcycles. Changbin's is a bold black Kawasaki Z900. Minho's is a red Ducati Monster 821—fast, sleek, precise. He rides like he dances—smooth, sharp, focused. Minho loved the power beneath him, the roar of his Ducati slicing through the still forest air like a wolf breaking into a run. Riding was freedom, discipline, adrenaline all in one. The village was a short ride away—twenty-five minutes on foot, but barely ten on the winding trail with the engine humming under him and the wind tugging at his jacket. He rode like he danced—graceful but aggressive, each movement controlled, intentional, sharp.

And yet... every time he rode beside Changbin, he couldn't help but push harder.

Changbin's Kawasaki was loud, wild, and just as cocky as its owner. Jet black, sleek, always polished like it rolled off a showroom that morning. Where Minho was precision, Changbin was chaos—thrilling, unpredictable. They didn't say it out loud, but every time they revved their engines at the edge of the pack house, it was a challenge. Who'd take the tight curve first. Who'd pull ahead in the final stretch toward the village. Who would Jisung glance at more when they pulled off their helmets.

Because Minho could deny a lot of things. But not how he loved riding with Changbin—testing limits, dragging curves, chasing victory.

And, with a smirk, maybe even let Changbin win. Once

Village outings were different—slower, warmer. The pack would pile into the two shared cars, music loud, windows open, Felix shouting directions like he was born with a compass in his bones. Minho always rode behind them, motorcycle humming like a loyal shadow, or sometimes in front with Jeongin gripping the seat behind him, helmet too big for his head and laughter loud in his ears.

Minho adored these afternoons—Jeongin always dragging him into odd thrift shops, Chan making everyone stop for the best coffee at the corner bakery, the betas and alphas bickering over who had to carry groceries. With Chan, it was easy: deep conversations between sips of tea, like old souls touching. Jeongin, on the other hand, was chaos bottled into sunshine, pulling him into games, challenges, laughter Minho didn't know he still had in him.

Felix and Hyunjin were the emotional lifelines—Felix always near Jisung like a twin flame, eyes alert, heart open. Hyunjin was elegance in motion, soft spoken but sharp-witted, always three steps ahead emotionally. And Seungmin—sweet Seungmin—was a mystery Minho never solved. Quiet, observant, with an inner fire he rarely showed. He watched everything. Knew everything. And he was fiercely protective of the ones he loved.

These were the bonds Minho held close. These were the ones that reminded him of who he was before the storm, and who he could be now—strong, sure, healing.

And then—there's Jisung. The omega Minho never saw coming. At first glance, Jisung is soft—round eyes, shy grins, an energy that draws you in. But beneath that softness is spark, mischief, and steel. He's smart, intuitive, funny in ways that make Minho forget how to guard himself.

He reads Minho's silences.

Knows when to speak.

When to stay.

When to offer, not ask.

Minho used to tense when touched by an omega. But Jisung? He curls beside him like it's the most natural thing. Minho finds himself leaning in.

Laughing more.

Softening.

He likes Jisung's midnight questions about the stars. The quiet presence that never demands, just supports. The affection that isn't clingy—it's steady, real. Jisung doesn't make him feel like he's failing for not being what alphas are supposed to be.

With Jisung, it doesn't feel like letting his guard down.

It feels like letting himself be.

Minho's still learning.

Still healing.

Still scared.

But in the rhythm of pack life—the breakfasts, the silences, the laughter—he's starting to believe that softness isn't weakness. That love doesn't have to be loud to be real. That home isn't walls. It's people. It's presence. It's the forest that holds them safe.

And Jisung at the center of it all.