When it's YOU || minsung

Chapter 2

He faltered, breath caught, body tensing like it recognized the scent before his mind could react.

The room was dark and warm, lit only by the amber glow of a bedside lamp. In the center of the nest—chaos. Blankets, pillows, clothes—and not just Jisung's.

Minho's sweaters. His shirts. A scarf he hadn't seen in months. All tangled in the nest like pieces of himself woven into a storm.

His heart cracked at the sight.

That was his hoodie from winter. The one Jisung always borrowed but claimed he didn't. A black t-shirt Minho thought he'd lost. Even one of his old socks, clutched like a keepsake.

He hadn't known. Hadn't realized.

Jisung lay at the center. Flushed. Soaked in sweat. Tank top clinging to his chest. Trembling, panting, a faint sheen on his skin.

Minho nearly dropped to his knees.

Something cracked open in him—not just pity. Not just instinct.

Need.

The ache started low in his gut and flared sharp behind his ribs. Not lust. Not hunger. Something older. Wilder.

He should have stood. Should have walked away.

Instead, he whispered, "I brought you food. You've been in here too long."

Jisung blinked at him, dazed. "You didn't have to..."

"I did." Minho placed the tray down with care. "You always let me take care of you. Why would this be different?"

Jisung tried to sit up and failed. Minho caught him without thinking, slipping an arm behind his back. The moment their skin touched, Jisung exhaled—like the pain eased in an instant.

Minho felt it. The difference.

The tension in Jisung's limbs ebbed. The shaking slowed. His scent—still overwhelming—shifted, softened, clung to Minho like a second skin.

"You help just by being here," Jisung murmured. "It hurts less. But... also more."

Minho froze. "More?"

Jisung's voice broke. "Because it makes me want. You. And I hate that I do."

Minho's hands tensed where they held him.

This—this was the moment he had feared.

He wanted to say something, anything comforting, but the words lodged behind years of memory. Not this again. Not another heat turning into guilt. Not another moment where want became obligation.

He had promised himself: never again. Never another omega whose need became his burden. Never the guilt of being what they wanted when he didn't even know what he could give.

But this wasn't like before.

This was Jisung.

The boy who curled into him on movie nights. Who left silly notes in his hoodie pockets. Who looked at him like he was safety itself.

"I was scared," Minho confessed, voice low. "Not of you. Of what I might do. What if I mess this up? What if I cross a line?"

Jisung blinked up at him, eyes glassy. "You're not doing anything wrong. You're just... standing here."

Minho hesitated. Then, slowly—so slowly—he reached out.

His fingers brushed Jisung's arm.

It was like something locked into place.