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estellan0vella · 1 month ago

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Jasmine and Honey: H.J Han Jisung x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 16.04K

CW: references to sex, mentions of past sexual activity, Type 1 Diabetes, including CGM use, insulin management, hypoglycemia episodes, seizure reference, Sibling overprotectiveness, love at first sight

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Han Jisung is exactly where he always is in Professor Bae's Tuesday morning lecture, back row, slouched so low in his seat it's a wonder he's still visible to the rest of the room. His messy ash-blonde hair is a chaotic halo around his head. He's dressed in the kind of shit that makes half the class look at him like he's performing a Dome Tour and the other half like he's homeless, oversized red polo layered over a red-and-white striped long sleeve, baggy distressed jeans frayed just above his red Converse, chains clinking every time he shifts, and enough silver in his ears to fuck up an airport metal detector.

He's fucking bored. He has his AirPods, one blasting some underground track he's testing, the other playing the lecture audio because, unlike what people assume, Jisung actually gives a shit about his grades. He just doesn't want anyone knowing he gives a shit about his grades. Especially not the people in this room, a majority of whom he's fucked and ghosted so thoroughly they can't even look him in the eye.

Which is exactly why he's in the back. Out of sight. Out of drama.

Professor Bae clears his throat, pulling up a new slide with the kind of enthusiasm that only someone getting paid to talk at college students can fake. "Alright, listen up, this is big."

Jisung barely glances up, but he clocks the shift in the room's energy. People are paying attention now. Phones drop onto laps, pens are picked up, a few heads even lift. That's rare. Something's up.

"You all know your investigative final is sixty-five percent of your grade, yeah?" Bae waits, letting the silence thicken, as if anyone here could forget that. Jisung watches a girl two rows ahead nearly have a panic attack in real-time.

"Well," Bae continues, "we're trying something new this semester. You're going to partner with broadcast journalism majors to make a filmed piece. Your job is the story. The facts. The research. All the meat of it. Their job? Presentation. Script reading. Looking pretty on camera."

The class erupts in groans, a few excited whoops, and Jisung tunes out most of it, head thunking back against the wall behind him, annoyed that this project just got ten times more annoying. He doesn't like working with people. Doesn't trust them to not fuck shit up. And broadcast majors? He can already imagine it, some overly peppy camera-hunter who thinks journalistic integrity is a brand of makeup.

"The broadcast journalism students will be joining us in five," Professor Bae announces, checking his watch. "Questions?"

No one says shit. Mostly because they're all groaning or whispering or, like Jisung, fighting the urge to claw their face off.

And then the door opens. He doesn't look up at first. Just hears the murmurs start again, lower now, like someone hot just walked in, or someone important.

You're walking in at the tail end of a group of maybe ten broadcast majors, all dressed like they're about to audition for a fucking news network commercial. But you stand out. Maybe it's the shine of your white satin mini dress, structured corset pulling in at your waist like a goddamn hourglass, the lace detail peeking beneath the bold, burgundy faux leather blazer you shrug off with lazy grace. Maybe it's the sleek black stiletto boots that click against the floor like you own it. Maybe it's your honey-brown hair, glossy and soft, pulled over one shoulder.

Or maybe it's your face.

Pretty doesn't even cut it. You've got these big, soft eyes and a mouth that's curved in this sweet, kind smile that's so sincere it makes his chest ache a little, and when your lips part, he notices your teeth, your bunny teeth, two prominent central incisors that shouldn't be hot but are. They really, really are.

Jisung sits up. Like, actually sits up. It's involuntary, spine pulling straight, eyes glued to you as you move with the rest of the group, listening politely while Professor Bae explains how to match up.

"Each of you has a number," Bae says, holding up a sheet. "Go ahead, pick."

The broadcast majors shuffle forward, picking slips of paper with a number that corresponds to a student in the class. You wait your turn, fingers playing idly with the strap of your white handbag.

"Fourteen,"

Bae checks the list. "That's Han Jisung. Back row."

You step up the aisle, graceful despite your heels, and when you stop in front of his desk, you smile again.

"Hi," you say, voice soft, "nice to meet you. I'm Lee Y/N."

Jisung blanks for a second, his brain buffering.

Lee. Something in his chest twitches. Lee? That's- That's a familiar name. Lee is- Lee is a super common name. He knows like seven Lees.

The little angel version of himself that sometimes tries to scream sense into him is waving a red flag the size of a billboard. But Devil Jisung kicks that little bastard off his shoulder so fast it should be illegal.

"She's hot, bro," his brain says. "Shut the fuck up and talk."

Jisung smiles, his default cocky grin toned down to something he hopes reads as charming instead of douchebag. "Han Jisung. Nice to meet you."

You smile a little wider. It makes his chest do something stupid.

"Mind if I sit?" you ask, gesturing to the chair beside him.

"Be my guest," he says, shifting his bag out of the way.

You slip into the seat and shrug off your blazer entirely. It's then that Jisung notices the white disc on your upper left arm, secured with a translucent patch.

A CGM.

You catch him glancing and speak before he can ask.

"I have type one diabetes. I hope that's not a problem. If it is, I can ask to switch partners-"

"What?" he cuts in, frowning. "Why the fuck would it be a problem?"

You blink, surprised at the intensity of his reaction.

You hesitate before answering. "Sometimes my blood sugar gets weird. We might have to reschedule filmings or—"

"That's fine," he interrupts again, more firmly this time. "Seriously. It's fine. My older brother has type one. Diagnosed, like, four years ago. I get it."

Your eyes soften even more. "Really?"

He nods. "Yeah. Jinwoo. He's the reason I know how to count carbs and spot low blood sugar before someone even notices it."

Your whole body seems to relax at that.

"Well, thank you," you say quietly, touching your bag for a moment like it grounds you. "I just like to be up front about it."

"Good," he says. "People should be. Anyone who gives you shit for it is a fucking idiot."

You laugh softly. "You swear a lot."

He grins. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

You glance around, then lean in just a bit. "I don't mind. It's honest."

God, you're cute. He has to focus. This is for class. This is sixty-five percent of his grade, not some frat house pickup line experiment.

"So," you say, tilting your head slightly. "Do you have any idea what you want to write about? I don't really know much about campus scandals. I live off campus. I don't like drama much. Unless I'm reporting on it, then it's facts."

Jisung lets out a breath of a laugh, surprised by how much he likes hearing you talk. Your voice is gentle, your cadence unhurried, and you look him right in the eye like you actually want to hear what he has to say.

"All I know," he starts, "is I want to blow the fucking roof off something big. I just don't know what yet."

You nod. "Sounds exciting. I'm excited to present whatever you come up with."

He beams, not even trying to hide it now. "Let's sit and brainstorm."

"Okay, tell me what you've got."

And just like that, Han Jisung is fucking hooked.

Jisung is sprawled across the navy-blue sheets of his twin bed, legs dangling off the edge, skin bare except for the navy basketball shorts riding low on his hips. His laptop's open in front of him, showing a blank Google Doc. He has a pen in his hand, tapping it absently against the side of his temple as he sighs dramatically for what has to be the fifth time in as many minutes.

There's a toner mask coating his ash-blond hair, a thick, creamy lilac spread all over the slightly choppy layers to keep the brassy tones at bay. A towel's wrapped loosely around his shoulders to catch any drips, though the back of his neck is already damp and cool.

All of his usual creative energy is buried beneath a layer of something warm and annoying and fluttery that keeps whispering bunny teeth and burgundy faux leather jacket every time he tries to focus.

"Fuck," he mutters, flopping back against his pillow.

The muscles in his stomach flex slightly with the movement, showcasing the dark ink spread across his skin. Another sigh escapes him. He throws his arm over his face dramatically.

The door creaks open. Jisung doesn't bother moving. "If it's Minho, I'm dead."

"It's not Minho," Felix's voice calls, light with amusement. "Though I'm starting to wish it was. What the fuck is going on with you?"

Jisung doesn't answer immediately. He peeks from beneath his arm, squinting against the ceiling light. Felix is standing there, hair wet from a shower, hoodie unzipped over his favourite EAT THE RICH tee, one brow raised.

"You're sighing like a K-drama protagonist," Felix mutters, stepping in and closing the door behind him. "What the fuck is this? 'Sadboy in Seoul'?"

Jisung groans, dragging his hand down his face. "I met a girl today."

Felix blinks. "You what?"

"I met a girl today," Jisung repeats, rolling onto his side to face Felix, propping his head up on his palm like this is some kind of slumber party confession.

"Oh yeah? Tell me about her. Don't fucking hold out."

Jisung sits up slowly, toner towel sliding slightly. "She's smart. Like, really fucking smart. You could see it in her eyes. Sharp, you know? Like she's thinking three steps ahead but still listening to every word you say."

Felix grins. "Pretty?"

Jisung shakes his head with exaggerated offence. "No. Beautiful. Like- fuck, her eyes, dude. And her hair? This honey brown, all shiny and soft. And her smile, holy shit, her smile. She's got these bunny teeth, like the cute kind, the ones that peek out even when she's not fully smiling."

He flops back again, arms stretched above his head in surrender. "I'm so fucked."

Felix's laugh is soft. "Ah, amor. The most potent poison."

Jisung groans again. "Shut the fuck up, Felix."

"I'm serious," Felix teases. "What's her name?"

Jisung barely thinks before answering. "Lee Y/N."

Felix goes still, his expression shifting from amused to horrified in a blink. "No."

Jisung frowns, sitting up. "What?"

Felix steps back, eyes wide. "Do not speak of this again, Ji. That's Minho's sister. That's my boyfriend's fucking sister. I have to delete this conversation from my brain. Minho cannot know I know any of this. Oh my fucking god. Why would you tell me that?!"

"What? How the fuck was I supposed to know?! I didn't know the fucker had a sister!"

Felix is pacing now. "Her name is literally Lee Y/N."

"Lee is a common-ass name, Felix!"

"The teeth, dude!" Felix shouts, gesturing wildly. "The bunny teeth! Minho has the exact same fucking teeth! You ignored the warning signs!"

Jisung's eyes widen, hands dragging down his face. "I ignored the panic alarm in my head. I remember now. Something was screaming at me, like, full-blown DEFCON ONE, but I told it to fuck off."

Felix throws his hands up. "That actually explains so much about you."

"It was Devil Jisung, man!" Jisung shouts, pointing to his shoulder like the fucker's actually perched there. "He drop-kicked Angel Jisung straight off my moral compass!"

Felix stops pacing and stares at him. "You're such a fucking idiot."

"I know!"

They both freeze, staring at each other in silent panic.

Jisung lowers his voice. "Okay. What the fuck do I do? What if Minho finds out?"

Felix glances at the closed door, then back at him, whispering with sharp intensity. "He will fucking kill you. Slowly. Painfully. With eye contact."

"Okay, punch me until I forget."

"Solid plan," Felix says seriously. "Brace yourself."

And then Felix punches him.

"Fuck!" Jisung yells, stumbling backwards onto the bed, hand flying to his nose. "What the fuck, man?!"

"I said, brace yourself!"

"I thought you were kidding!"

Blood trickles from Jisung's nose, and he groans, lying back with a muffled curse.

Felix leans over, inspecting the damage. "Did it work?"

Jisung gives him a thumbs down.

"Well, it fucking needs to, okay?" Felix says, sounding near desperate now. "Minho is so fucking protective of her, Ji. You don't even understand. She almost died from a diabetic episode when she was, like, fifteen. He was seventeen. They were alone at home, she collapsed in the fucking bathroom. Had a seizure. Minho told me about it a few months ago. It fucked him up. He found her on the floor after the cats were freaking out. That's when she got diagnosed."

Jisung is quiet for a second. His fingers are wet with blood. "Shit. That happened with Jiwon once. I was sixteen. He was twenty-six. I came home, and he was just out cold. Scariest fucking moment of my life."

Felix nods solemnly. "That's why Minho is the way he is with her. She's his everything, bro. He'd kill for her. Imagine if you date her and it goes wrong"

Jisung winces. "I get it."

"No, you don't," Felix says. "He'll chop your balls off and make you watch as he puts them in a blender. And then he'll make you drink your own fucking balls."

Jisung makes a face of pure horror.

"Minho loves you, okay?" Felix continues. "But he loves her more."

"You need to help me win this girl over," Jisung blurts, clutching Felix's arm like he's about to pass away from heartbreak. "I'll beg, I'll drop to my fucking knees and beg, bro. Do you want that? Do you want me on the fucking ground like some snotty, pathetic little gremlin? Because I'll do it."

Felix rolls his eyes. "You already look like a gremlin."

"I'll cry," Jisung insists. "Like actual tears. I'll weep. And not the cute K-drama single tear, I'm talking full-body sobs. Snot. Buckets of it. Rivers. You'll be mopping my emotions off the fucking floor."

"Okay, that's enough-"

"I'll tell Chan and Changbin you made me cry," Jisung barrels forward, refusing to be deterred. "They'll beat your pretty little Aussie ass. I'm their tattooed love child. Chan will go full 'don't touch my cub' mode, and Changbin? Oh, you know that man's just waiting for an excuse to fuck someone up. And guess what, Felix? It'll be you."

Felix's composure cracks. He winces like he can already feel the consequences crawling up his spine. "You manipulative little shit."

"I'm desperate," Jisung says, holding a hand over his heart with sincerity so dramatic it's Oscar-worthy. "She's different, man. I don't just want to fuck her. I wanna, like, ask about her day. And listen. Actually listen. What the fuck is wrong with me?"

Felix backs up like the confession is physically painful. "Ew."

"I'm ill, Lix. Help me."

Felix glares at him. "No."

Jisung squints at him. Then his eyes go glassy. He takes a deep, trembly inhale and starts forcing out uneven breaths like he's prepping for the waterworks.

"Oh fuck no," Felix says, holding a hand up like it'll stop what's coming. "Do not cry at me."

"I'll do it," Jisung whispers, one tear slipping down his cheek.

"You bitch-"

"Too late," Jisung breathes, then lets out a single sob, ragged and broken.

Felix crumbles like a house of cards in a monsoon. "FUCK! Fine! I have to help you, don't I?"

Jisung immediately stops sobbing. "Yes! You're obligated. We're basically twins."

"God, I hate you."

"You are literally one day younger than me. It's fate. You were born to help me with this."

Felix groans, dragging a hand down his face like this is physically painful. "If I lose the best dick of my life because I helped you date his sister, I will kill you. Slowly. And then I will kill myself. And I will leave a fucking note that says you, Han Peter Jisung, are the reason there was ever a murder-suicide in the Alpha Phi house."

"I'll accept that. That's fair."

Felix sighs again, already regretting every life choice that led him here. "Alright. Eleven p.m. Every night. Here. We meet. This is our war room now."

Jisung's eyes light up with hope. "Fuck yes."

"Minho's always knocked out by ten anyway," Felix mutters, beginning to pace again. "Like a fucking ahjussi. Rails me from half eight to ten, then just—boom. Snoring like a truck driver."

Jisung starts counting silently on his fingers, brows furrowed like he's solving some genius-level equation.

Felix notices and freezes. "Are you seriously using your fingers to count right now?"

Jisung looks up. "What about the hour between ten and eleven?"

Felix throws his hands up. "That's my jerk off time, obviously."

Jisung nods solemnly. "Fair. Self-romance is important."

"Exactly."

A pause stretches between them. Felix stares at him with faint horror. "I cannot believe you had to count on your fucking fingers to realize there was an hour between ten and eleven. Are you six?"

"Math isn't linear when I'm bleeding,"

Felix just shakes his head. "No one else can know about this, okay? This whole operation is top secret, code black, eyes-only, need-to-know. And no one else needs to know."

Jisung mimes zipping his lips, locking it, and throwing away the imaginary key with so much dramatic flair it belongs in a K-pop music video.

"Jesus," Felix mutters. "Okay, come on. Let's clean your face and wash that fucking toner out before your hair turns lavender."

Jisung perks up. "I'd rock lavender, though."

"No, you wouldn't," Felix says, grabbing a clean towel and gently wiping at the blood on Jisung's upper lip with practised ease. "You'd look like someone who lost a bet with their stylist."

Jisung tilts his chin up, eyes fluttering closed like he's being pampered at a fucking salon. "Mmm. Soft hands."

"Don't flirt with me."

"Too late. I'm emotionally vulnerable."

Felix chuckles under his breath and continues dabbing at the blood, his touch surprisingly gentle. "How's your nose?"

"Broken. Spiritually."

"I meant physically, dumbass."

"I think I'm good. Just tender."

Felix hums and sets the bloodied towel aside. "Alright. Get your ass in the bathroom. Lean over the tub, I'll rinse the toner."

Jisung hops up, still shirtless, still in his stupid basketball shorts, tattoos flexing with every movement as he makes his way to the en-suite. He crouches beside the tub, flicks on the handheld showerhead, and tests the water temperature.

Felix kneels behind him and starts working the toner out with precision, fingers massaging through the strands with a gentleness that totally contradicts everything that's just happened.

"So," Felix mutters as he scrubs, "we're really doing this, huh?"

"We are," Jisung says, eyes closed, letting the warm water rush over his scalp. "Operation Win Y/N's Heart."

"More like Operation Don't Get Your Dick Chopped Off By Minho."

"Semantics."

Jisung is already twenty-five minutes into the study room booking when he decides that planning a journalism collab project while simultaneously pretending he isn't halfway in love with his partner is actual psychological warfare. The library is quiet as always, the kind of sterile silence that makes his ears buzz. The study room he's in is small, tucked in a corner with floor-to-ceiling glass on one side and bland, too-white walls on the other.

He's claimed the chair facing the door, his white backpack propped beside him, laptop open, notebook full of chaotic scrawls and half-doodles splayed next to it. His black t-shirt is loose but still snug around his chest and shoulders, the fabric stretching slightly every time he moves, the sleeves hitting just above the flex of his biceps. His black cargo pants have these metallic-style details that reflect the fluorescent lighting whenever he shifts. A silver chain hangs around his neck, catching the occasional glint of light when he moves.

He's also wearing sunglasses indoors. Rectangular ones with a mirrored tint. Not for the aesthetic, though, if anyone asked, he'd say that was the reason. The truth is that his nose is still bruised from the Felix Incident, and he's not in the mood to be questioned about why he looks like he tried to headbutt a doorframe.

He's halfway through typing out a line about potential misappropriation of funds in one of the smaller student clubs when the door creaks open. He lifts his head instantly, a grin already pulling at his lips before he even fully registers it's you walking in.

You step in like you own the place. Crisp white button-up tucked into a high-waisted beige mini skirt that sits just a few inches above your knees, structured and tailored like it was made for your body. The blouse has voluminous sleeves that make you look effortlessly elegant, the gold accessories you've chosen are minimal and stunning, delicate hoops, a dainty necklace that rests just above your collarbone, and that gold hairpin with mother-of-pearl detailing pinning your hair back, leaving two soft strands to frame your face perfectly. You smell like jasmine and honey, like a warm spring breeze and a clean kind of sweetness that makes his mouth go dry.

"Right on time," he says, flashing a grin as he leans back in his chair, arms stretched along the sides like he's lounging on a throne instead of an ugly-ass plastic chair in a university library.

You smile softly, setting your bag down beside your chair before sitting across from him. "I try to be," you murmur, voice light and gentle, a slight lilt that's almost musical.

Jisung swears internally. You're so fucking pretty it's actually stressful.

As you settle in, you pull a juice box from your bag and glance up at him, a little sheepish. "Is it okay if I drink this in here? I've walked a lot today and I don't want a blood sugar dip."

Jisung straightens instantly, waving his hand. "Yeah, of course. Go for it. Actually, hold up." He digs into his backpack before he pulls out a slightly squished box of Choco Pies. "I have snacks. Emergency stash. You want one?"

You light up, and he almost swears out loud because it does something to his chest he can't quite explain. "Oh, I love Choco Pies."

He grins, tosses one your way, and takes one for himself, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth. "Excellent taste. You have no idea how many people slander them. Fucking traitors."

You giggle behind your straw. "They're classic. Anyone who hates them has no joy in their life."

"Exactly," he says, mouth full. "We should blacklist them."

Once the sugar and caffeine start kicking in, Jisung wipes his hands and pulls his notebook closer. "Okay, so I've been working on some ideas for the broadcast piece. Like, potential scandals. Stuff we could dig into. Don't feel like we have to pick right now, I just wanted to throw some shit out there. Food for thought, you know?"

You nod, crossing your legs neatly and folding your hands in your lap, your attention fully on him.

"First one," he begins, eyes flicking to his notes. "Alleged grade tampering in the Engineering department. Rumour is one of the professors has been adjusting exam scores in exchange for favours. No hard proof yet, but I've got a guy who's willing to talk anonymously."

You hum thoughtfully. "That sounds intense."

"Next," he continues, flipping the page, "Housing scandal. Apparently, one of the student housing reps has been skimming off deposits. Like, charging more than what's listed and pocketing the difference. Might be harder to prove, but if we get enough testimonials..."

You nod again, more slowly. "That could affect a lot of students."

"Right? And then there's the sports funding situation. The women's volleyball team's been filing complaints about budget cuts while the football team gets all the good shit. Equipment, uniforms, and training space. There's a huge disparity."

Your brows lift at that one. "I didn't even know."

Jisung leans back, tapping his pen against his lip. "No one talks about it. But I've seen their training schedule. It's fucked."

You purse your lips, thoughtful. "They're all good ideas. I'll help present whatever you choose. I just don't want to get you into trouble."

He waves you off. "Trouble's part of the job. If we don't ruffle some feathers, we're not doing it right."

You smile softly, and he feels the dumb flutter again.

After a pause, Jisung glances at you, a grin creeping back. "Okay, now for something much more important."

You tilt your head. "Oh?"

"I have a question for you. It's an icebreaker. I ask it to all potential friends."

You raise an eyebrow, clearly amused. "That sounds serious."

"It is," he says, nodding like he's delivering a TED Talk. "Okay. Picture this. You're in a sauna. There's a fire. You have one towel. Do you cover your face or your body?"

You blink. Then pause, clearly taking the scenario seriously. "My body."

"Your body?"

"Well, yeah," you reply, sipping your juice. "Women get different towels. They're shaped differently and hook at the top. Covers everything."

Jisung gapes. "What?!"

You nod. "Yeah. It's like this wraparound thing. Keeps everything covered without having to hold it."

He slaps the table. "What the actual fuck?! I go to a sauna, I get this tiny little hand towel that barely covers my dick. I sit down, and my balls are playing peekaboo with everyone in the room. You're telling me you get a strap-on toga and I get a tissue paper loincloth?!"

You giggle, eyes crinkling. "It's not that dramatic-"

"It is that dramatic!" he cries. "I walk into a sauna and suddenly I'm on display like a fucking ancient fertility statue while women are walking around like they're in a luxury spa commercial?! There's a new gender-based injustice in this country, and it's towel inequality!"

You're actually laughing now, biting your lip to try and contain it, but it just makes your shoulders shake more.

Jisung stands up, pacing like he's preparing a protest. "I mean, seriously! My towel is so goddamn small it doesn't even qualify as a napkin. I tried tucking it in once, but it unrolled like I was a spring roll. I get out of the hot tub, I'm flashing more than the Seoul skyline at night!"

You're breathless with laughter. "Please sit down!"

He points at you. "You laugh now, but imagine your coochie was just one accidental elbow bump away from being broadcast to the entire sauna."

"I mean, technically, it is," you say through your giggles. "Towel or not."

He throws his hands up. "Then what the fuck is the point?!"

Once he finally sits back down, you shake your head, still smiling. "So, what would you cover?"

He huffs. "My face. Can't be recognised by my dick alone."

You nod. "Smart."

Jisung smirks. "Doesn't really matter, though. I have tattoos. I'd be identified either way. 'Hey, isn't that the guy with ROCKSTAR tattooed down his ribs and a compass on his tit? Yeah, that's him. The dude whose dick popped out during a sauna evacuation.'"

You dissolve into laughter again, head resting briefly against the back of your chair as you try to breathe.

And Jisung, watching you laugh, all wide eyes and soft perfume and bunny teeth and genuine joy, thinks he'd go into a hundred saunas with too-small towels if it meant making you laugh like that again.

Jisung is lying flat on his back on his bed, sprawled dramatically across the sheets. The only thing he's wearing is a pair of red boxers with a tacky kiss print all over them.

His limbs are stretched out like he's trying to become one with the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling while his brain replays every second of your last interaction on a loop, because he is deeply, irrevocably obsessed.

He sighs. Loudly. Again. The clock ticks softly on his desk. 10:59 PM.

"Cawcaw. Cawcaw."

The handle creaks. The door inches open. Jisung lifts his head in time to see something low and dark and suspiciously stealthy crawling across the floor.

"What the fu-"

"Shhhhhh," Felix hisses from the ground, eyes narrowed, wearing a black hoodie pulled over his hair and black sweatpants that make him look like a very small, very determined cat burglar. He pushes the door closed with the heel of his foot, then forward rolls into a standing position, chest puffed out and hands on his hips. "Operation: Y/N Briefing, underway."

Jisung snorts, still lying there like a useless puddle. "Nice jerk off session?"

"Yeah!" Felix chirps brightly. "Used a tentacle dildo, Minho got me for White Day. It has these suckers that-"

"Woah! Just the yes was fine! Jesus Christ, Felix. I do not need to be mentally assaulted right now."

Felix grins, dropping down to sit crisscross on the floor. "Then don't ask stupid questions. Anyway." He claps his hands once. "What did you find out about Y/N today?"

Jisung sighs like he's being asked to confess a great sin. "She smells like jasmine and honey."

Felix stares at him. Blinks. "I hate you. What the fuck. I could've told you that. I hug her all the time! You straight men are actually useless."

"Bold of you to assume I'm straight," Jisung says lazily, flopping onto his side.

Felix squints at him. "You're not gay."

"Could be."

"There's not even a whiff of queer about you," Felix declares, pointing an accusatory finger. "No eau de pansexual parfum like me and Minho. No bisexual B.O. like everyone else in this fucking frat. Just pure, undiluted, heteronormative horniness, which is insane because Chan and Changbin are basically your bisexual dads in a fully gay relationship and yet you, their goblin son, have not inherited even a single rainbow gene."

Jisung groans and presses his face into the mattress. "We got off topic."

"You think?"

"What I'm hearing in all that bullshit," Jisung mumbles, voice muffled, "is that you, my dearest Yongbokkie, know Y/N. And could give me a rundown."

"That's actually correct," Felix replies, standing with renewed energy. "And I've come prepared."

He skips over to Jisung's massive whiteboard, a custom-ordered monstrosity that takes up most of the far wall, and unfolds the little step ladder that lives underneath it. He climbs up two rungs, grabs a black marker, and begins writing in big block letters.

"Target: Lee Y/N," Felix announces, underlining the name twice. "Age twenty. Broadcast Journalism major. Cosmetology minor. Dreams of becoming a news anchor and eventually hosting her own news show, like a badass. Has great taste in friends."

Felix pauses to draw a small, shockingly accurate cartoon of himself with sparkling eyes and a speech bubble that says ICONIC.

"You're actually good at drawing," Jisung says, impressed despite himself.

"Thank you, I know,"

"Okay, what does she like?"

Felix doesn't hesitate. "We are obsessed with The Apothecary Diaries. Ob-fucking-sessed. Like, compulsive rewatchers. Season two dropped a few months ago. We've watched it five times already. If you don't like it, learn to. She loves that shit. Minho hates it, so he drops me off at her place anytime I so much as mention it. Learn the slowburn. Love the slowburn. Respect the sexiness of androgynous men like Jinshi."

Jisung nods, serious as a soldier. "Got it. Fall in love with a fictional androgynous man. Easy."

"Also," Felix continues, switching to a red marker, "her clothes? Mostly thrifted. She loves a good thrift haul. Usually goes with me and Minho, but Hyunjin or Seungmin take her if she asks. She's got range, too. Like one day she's pastel academia and the next she's punk grunge Barbie. It's art."

Jisung raises an eyebrow. "What else?"

"She goes out for ramen with Chan and Changbin all the time," Felix says, now writing FRAT NETWORK in the corner and connecting names with arrows.

"Why the fuck does everyone else in this house know her?" Jisung mutters, rubbing his temples.

"Because she's amazing and we love her," Felix replies brightly. "And before you freak out, she's never met Jeongin. Also, she brings us cupcakes sometimes."

Jisung groans. "I want cupcakes."

"Earn them," Felix says, tapping the whiteboard like it's a sacred text.

"Okay, music?" Jisung prompts.

"All kinds," Felix says, ticking off his fingers. "SHINee, BLACKPINK, Dua Lipa, Eminem. She's got playlists for moods. There's a sad bitch playlist, a power strut playlist, one called News Anchor Vengeance"

"Love that for her," Jisung says genuinely.

"Obviously, she has type one diabetes," Felix continues, now writing in green. "So. Insulin issues. Piss poor pancreas." He draws a sad pancreas with Xs for eyes.

"Jesus Christ," Jisung mutters, biting back a laugh.

"Honestly?" Felix says, turning serious for a moment. "She's god-awful at remembering her insulin. She's always doing something. Her CGM alarms go off, she ignores it, and then Minho's phone starts freaking out because she's going hypo and doesn't notice."

Jisung frowns. "Shit."

"It happened once while I was giving Minho a blowjob," Felix says bluntly. "Had to stop mid-suck and sprint to her apartment. Total boner killer. Got there and she was slumped over her kitchen table, pale as fuck. We had to sit her up and practically force sugar water into her mouth."

"Holy shit," Jisung breathes. "That's scary."

"It's happened more than once," Felix says, turning back to the whiteboard. "Minho gets so fucking scared. You have to be ready for that. She needs someone who pays attention."

Jisung nods, then says, "So what if I carry juice boxes and Choco Pies?"

Felix gives him a deadpan look. "You do that anyway, you man-child."

"I'll carry more!" Jisung protests, sitting up. "I'll be the snack mule. A diabetic's knight in shining sugary armour."

Felix uncaps the blue marker like he's about to change history. With a theatrical flourish, he writes Lee Minho, then adds: Felix's sexy man. Then, without an ounce of hesitation or shame, he squats slightly, tongue poking out in concentration, and draws a massive, veiny dick right under Minho's name. It curves across the board like a fucking mural, complete with motion lines and a smiley face on the tip.

Jisung sits up slowly on his bed, blinking at the artwork. "Now why the actual fuck did you do that to my whiteboard?"

Felix drops the marker and claps his hands together proudly. "Jisung, while the rest of you know him as Minho, stoic, grumpy, borderline homicidal, I know him as MinHUNG. This is my artistic interpretation of how I see my boyfriend. A big, massive penis that I love to bounce on. It will stay on the board. It is part of the strategic planning."

Jisung pauses, squints at it again. "Art. Truly."

"Thank you!"

There's a beat of silence as they both stare at the phallic monstrosity scrawled across the wall.

"Now," Felix continues, uncapping another marker, this time pink. "Let's get to the biggest fucking problem in this entire operation: the Tower of Doom, the Grand Dick-Guardian, the Ultimate Cockblock, Minho."

He quickly draws a crude tower, labelling it with dramatic curls that read Y/N's Tower and adds flames to the base, just because he can. Then, next to the tower, he draws what looks like a hunched, evil old woman with a frown and murderous eyebrows, labelling her Mother Gothel Minho.

"At the top of this tower," Felix says, tapping the peak of the drawing, "is your Rapunzel. And you..." He grabs the brown marker and draws what is, unmistakably, a squirrel. It's got a long tail and little fangs, and he writes Han Squirrel-Sung next to it before placing the rodent several feet away from the tower.

Jisung raises an eyebrow. "I'm a squirrel?"

"You're chaotic, impulsive, and way too horny. Yes, you're a squirrel," Felix deadpans.

Jisung looks at the tiny, fanged creature. "Okay. I can work with this."

"Here," Felix says, drawing a squiggly path that winds around Mother Gothel Minho. "This is the Avoidance Route. Me, your faithful, slutty sidekick, will be guiding you on the treacherous journey to the tower while also keeping you from getting castrated and fed to the cats."

He draws another chick halfway along the path, next to a sign that says Danger Zone: Minho's Wrath Radius and a stick figure of Minho holding a machete.

"I feel like I'm in a really cursed Disney movie," Jisung mutters.

"You're the reason we need a full infiltration strategy," Felix retorts, grabbing a fresh marker. "Your fuckboy history does not help your case, Ji. If you were like Seungmin, you wouldn't even need me. Minho would hand you the key to the tower himself."

Jisung groans. "Don't say that."

Felix continues, unbothered. "But no. Unfortunately, you like a wet dick too much. You like sex like Seungmin likes civil codes, frequently and with great emotional detachment. Minho knows that. We all know that. You don't have to speak; your dick enters a room five minutes before you do."

"I'm charismatic," Jisung defends weakly.

"You literally fucked a girl in the middle of the living room at the party we threw two months ago," Felix says. "Middle of the fucking living room. I was on the couch. I saw everything."

Jisung grins like he's proud. "Might I remind you, Changbin dared me."

"Yes," Felix says, throwing his hands up. "And it was glorious. A sight to behold. I was shocked. I genuinely thought you were a bottom, but no, you topped her like you were being paid."

"I always go full send with a dare," Jisung replies with a shrug. "You know this about me."

Felix clicks the marker closed and tosses it onto the desk. "Yeah, well, full send got you the reputation of Alpha Phi's resident sex demon, and Minho knows exactly what you're like. Which means he's going to be ready to fucking gut you the second he senses you looking at Y/N like you want to rail her on a library desk."

Jisung sighs deeply, letting out the kind of groan that starts in his soul. "I am twenty-one years old."

"And Minho could kill you and get away with it," Felix says, shrugging. "Probably by feeding your remains to us. You know Changbin would eat human meat if you told him it was jerky. Hyunjin's so iron-deficient, he wouldn't question it. And Seungmin? That fucker would turn it into a legal grey area and still find a way to win the argument."

"Jesus."

"This is the reality," Felix says, tapping the board for emphasis. "You're dealing with the scariest man I've ever let top me. And I've been tied to a balcony railing during a thunderstorm. Minho is the final boss, Ji. There is no continues if you fuck this up."

Jisung lies back again, staring up at the ceiling. "So what do I do?"

Felix smirks and points to the board. "You follow the plan. You stay stealthy. You earn her trust. You carry juice boxes and Choco Pies like a devoted snack mule. You learn about her likes and dislikes. You do not mention your dick. You do not flirt aggressively. You do not rail her until I tell you it's safe."

Jisung blinks. "Wait, I need permission?"

"From me, yes. I'm the cockblock commander in this mission."

"Cockblock commander?"

"At your service."

At exactly 3:00PM, Jisung is sitting in the study room, posture unusually straight, hands hovering above the keyboard of his laptop like he’s preparing for battle. He looks hot. Objectively. The black button-up shirt layered over the sheer long-sleeve clings in all the right places, especially across his chest and shoulders. The silver jewellery draped on him, layered chains, rings stacked on every other finger, and his usual mess of earrings, make him feel powerful.

His laptop screen is filled with open tabs, each one a piece of research on The Apothecary Diaries. Arcs, themes, character profiles, fan theories. Because you like it. And he’s decided he’s going to like it too, if it kills him.

He checks the time again. 3:06PM.

You’re not usually late. Just as he’s about to stand, the door swings open.

“Sorry! I got a bit hypo and needed to sort that out.”

He’s on his feet in seconds. “Shit, are you okay?”

You nod quickly, giving him an apologetic smile. “I’m fine now. Just needed to stabilise.”

He exhales, relieved, and as you step fully into the room, his brain screeches to a halt. You’re wearing a champagne-toned silk slip dress that hugs your body like it was tailored to every curve. The fabric glows in the light, thin enough to whisper secrets and barely thick enough to conceal the very obvious fact that there’s no bra underneath. And, oh, fuck, your nipples are pierced.

Thrown over the dress is a sky-blue pinstriped button-up, oversized and worn open. Your heels are champagne to match. A blue shoulder bag swings from one shoulder, your gold hoops catching the light with every movement, and your statement heart necklace rests just above the swell of your chest.

Your hair is pulled back into a loose twist, secured with a matching sky-blue claw clip, and those same two strands fall to frame your face. You smell like jasmine and honey again. Sweet, warm, familiar. He wants to press his face into your neck and inhale like a degenerate.

“I asked Felix, my brother’s boyfriend, what to wear because of the heat, and he said this since the dress is thin.”

He curses Felix in his head. He’s going to murder that Australian bastard. He’s going to drown him in his own glittery bathwater. Because, of course, Felix told you to wear that. Of course Felix, smug chaotic angel of lust and aesthetics, saw this exact moment coming and orchestrated it like a fucking horny mastermind.

Jisung clears his throat, forcing a smile. “That’s fine. Felix is right. Which is rare, honestly.”

You smile as you set your bag down and sit across from him. “Oh, you know Felix?”

He nods, smoothing his expression. “Yeah. I’m Alpha Phi, too.”

You pause. “Wait, so you know my brother? Minho?”

Jisung’s heartbeat stutters in his chest. He nods again, casual as he can manage. “Yeah. I know Minho.”

You don’t seem to catch any tension in his voice. You just smile and lean forward a little, unaware that the lighting and angle are sending Jisung’s pulse skyrocketing.

He slams his laptop shut before you can see what’s on the screen, praying you didn’t catch a glimpse of the sixteen open tabs on The Apothecary Diaries.

“So,” he says, reaching for his notebook. “I’ve finalised some ideas for the piece. Thought we could pick one and start the outline.”

You nod, pulling a pen from your bag. He forces himself to keep his eyes on your face. Your face. Your eyes. Not your chest. Not the silk. Not the tiny gleam of gold pressing against your dress. Not the faint, transparent shimmer of the fabric when the light hits you just right.

He’s going to kill Felix.

He flips his notebook around and pushes it across the table. “Alright. So I’ve narrowed it down to three we can realistically investigate without either of us getting arrested or expelled.”

You hum thoughtfully, eyes scanning the page. “Okay, what’ve we got?”

“Option one,” he says, tapping the first bullet point. “The missing student fees. Someone’s been skimming off deposits from student housing applications, extra charges, never documented, and students not getting reimbursed.”

You nod, brows pulling together. “That sounds important. Do we have anyone willing to talk?”

“Working on that. Option two, fake internships. Someone’s been faking placement approvals through Career Services. There’s been complaints, but no official investigation yet.”

“That’s shady,” you murmur. “And what’s option three?”

He leans back, letting his fingers tap the edge of the table. “The women’s volleyball team funding. They’re getting barely any budget, while the men’s teams get new gear every semester. I already emailed the team captain. She’s willing to talk.”

You pause, eyes brightening. “I like that one.”

He grins. “Me too. I figured if we’re gonna cause trouble, we might as well do it for the right reason.”

You laugh softly. “It’s a good message. And it highlights something people don’t talk about enough.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

“Oh,” you suddenly say, biting your lip. “Please don’t mention to Minho that I’m doing this.”

His brows shoot up. “Really?”

You nod, looking vaguely guilty. “He’s super protective. He thinks I stress too easily, and he’ll probably assume this extra credit thing is pushing myself too far. I don’t want to deal with the whole lecture.”

Jisung smiles, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t worry. It’ll be our secret.”

You visibly relax. “Thank you.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though his heart is doing somersaults. Not only did you ask him to keep a secret from your terrifying older brother, but you trust him to do it. Which, to be honest, is kind of dangerous.

Because Han Jisung is not a safe bet. He never has been. But for some reason, right now, he wants to be.

You go back to the notebook, pointing at the volleyball budget section. “So this is the one we’re doing?”

He nods. “Yeah. You down?”

You meet his eyes and smile again, this soft, grateful thing that feels like it’s aimed directly at his ribs. “I’m down.”

The clock on Jisung’s desk ticks over to 11:00PM precisely, the minute hand slicing through the silence like a knife.

Jisung, on the other hand, is fully alert, crouched behind the door, eyes narrowed with the intensity of someone about to commit violence. In his hand is a thick notebook, and it’s gripped like a weapon.

The door creaks open slowly, and Felix pokes his head in, eyes darting left and right. The notebook comes down on the side of Felix’s head with an impressively loud thud.

Felix stumbles forward, arms flailing. “What the shit?!”

Jisung doesn’t say a word. Just lifts the notebook again and whacks him in the back with a full-body swing. Felix yelps, arms shooting over his head as he scrambles to the other side of the room, stumbling over Jisung’s discarded boots.

“CAW- shit- CAW!” Felix whispers, ducking behind the desk as Jisung follows like a predator with murder in his eyes. “HATE CRIME! THIS IS HOMOPHOBIA! YOU ARE A FAKE ALLY, HAN JISUNG!”

“You sent her in that fucking dress, Felix! What the fuck were you thinking?! I nearly busted a nut in the middle of the library!”

“I gave fashion advice, not a live sex show!”

“I was wearing baggy jeans, Felix!” Jisung whispers violently. “If I wasn’t, my dick would’ve been sticking out like an eight-inch fucking flagpole!”

Felix freezes mid-dive across the bed. His head pops up slowly. “Eight inches?”

Jisung glares, still holding the notebook in the air. “Yes.”

Felix’s eyes drop to Jisung’s crotch automatically, shameless and curious. “Your dick is that big?”

Jisung just nods, deadpan.

Felix whistles, low and impressed. “Goddamn. No wonder you walk like you’ve got a fucking secret.”

“Shut up,” Jisung huffs, flinging the notebook onto the bed and flopping down after it, chest heaving.

Felix throws himself onto the floor dramatically and stretches like a cat. “Okay, but how’d it go today?”

Jisung exhales through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. “She doesn’t want Minho to know about the extra credit broadcast thing.”

Felix lifts an eyebrow, clearly unsurprised. “Yeah. I’m also sworn to secrecy. She loves him, obviously, but he’s overprotective as fuck. I think part of him still sees her as that fifteen-year-old girl he found nearly dead in the bathroom.”

Jisung’s entire body stills, eyes flicking up.

Felix continues, softer now, voice low but steady. “He’s not really reconciled that she’s okay now. That she’s moved on, grown up. He’s still stuck there, frozen in that moment, and everything she does, he filters through that lens. But what the fuck do I know? That’s just my take.”

Jisung is quiet for a long moment, fingers tapping the mattress rhythmically. “Fuck. That’s heavy.”

Felix shrugs and pulls himself off the floor, brushing off his sweats. “Yeah, well. He’s been through it. Doesn’t excuse him trying to run her life, but I get it.”

Jisung sits up straighter, brow furrowed. “I need to actually get to know her.”

Felix tilts his head. “You want to get to know her.”

Jisung shrugs helplessly. “I just don’t know how. Every time I talk to her, I’m either so busy pretending I’m not hard or I’m too focused on not saying something dumb.”

Felix sighs and saunters over to the whiteboard, still covered in the mad scrawl of their nightly strategy sessions. He finds a blank spot in the corner, grabs a marker, and clicks it open with a flourish.

“What are you doing?”

“Apparently,” Felix says. “I am teaching you how to converse with another human. Listen the fuck up, hetero. And yes, I do mean that derogatorily.”

Jisung throws a pillow at him, missing by a mile.

Felix ignores it. “Lesson one. You ask open-ended questions. Nothing, yes or no. Example: What’s something that’s made you smile this week? Not Did you have a good day? Got it?”

Jisung narrows his eyes. “That’s cheesy as fuck.”

Felix writes it down on the board anyway. “Yeah, and so is wanting to hold hands and make eye contact with a girl you actually like for once in your life. Next tip, use names when you speak to her. People like hearing their name. It feels personal.”

“Felix,” Jisung says flatly. “This is starting to feel like an MLM recruitment seminar.”

Felix throws a marker at his head. “Shut the fuck up and listen to your queer Yoda.”

Jisung groans but leans back, letting the words wash over him. Because honestly? As much as he wants to drag Felix into the hallway and yell at him until Minho kicks them both out, he needs this. He’s floundering. He’s confused. He’s a chaotic fuckboy with a slowburn crush that’s setting his entire emotional equilibrium on fire.

And Felix, for all his dramatics, actually knows what he’s talking about.

The library is uncomfortably quiet in the way it always is around midterms. Jisung’s tucked away in the back study room he booked a week in advance, already settled in front of his laptop with a half-eaten Choco Pie beside him and an open juice box balanced dangerously on the corner of the table.

Because he’s finally editing the last few pieces of the broadcast project, the filming footage is almost fully pieced together and the audio crisp and balanced. The transitions are smooth. The story’s solid. And most importantly, you’re fucking stunning on camera. Warm, expressive, professional. Your voice doesn’t just narrate the injustice of the volleyball team’s budget cuts, it drags the viewer into the story and makes them care.

Jisung adjusts his black baseball cap, tugging the brim down over his eyes. His oversized black t-shirt hangs loose over his frame, the graphic on the front faded but still visible: a cartoon squirrel giving the middle finger with one paw and holding a cigarette in the other. His jeans are two-tone denim, light wash on one side and medium on the other, cuffed at the ankle above his chunky sneakers. He’s got his aviator-style glasses on today and silver rings stacked on almost every finger. His ears are a chaotic mess of silver again, the industrial bar catching the fluorescent lights as he shifts.

Then there’s a soft knock at the glass door, and a familiar face pokes through.

“Hey,” you say, voice a little breathless and hopeful. “I was wondering if I could hang in here with you? I’ve got a cosmetology assignment due and I cannot concentrate in my apartment. My neighbours were fighting again, the library’s packed, and I just really need some peace.”

“Of course,” he says, already sitting up straighter and nudging his backpack off the second chair. “Come sit. We can play some music, eat Choco Pies, and drink juice boxes like civilised adults.”

You laugh, stepping inside and shutting the door quietly behind you. “Perfect.”

The moment you sit across from him, Jisung has to bite his tongue.

You’re wearing a rust-red bustier-style top, the delicate lace trim peeking out from beneath a bold burgundy faux leather blazer. Your black denim mini skirt is pleated, short enough to leave his brain malfunctioning every time you shift in your seat. The thigh-high black stiletto boots make your legs look like they go on forever, and you’ve slung a matching burgundy shoulder bag on the back of the chair. Your hair’s styled soft and loose, tucked behind one ear on one side and spilling over the other shoulder.

You pull your notepad toward you and start scribbling almost immediately, brow furrowed in concentration, lip tucked between your teeth in a way that makes Jisung’s heart clench stupidly. He watches you for a moment, then quickly turns back to his laptop before he starts staring like an idiot.

Jisung glances at the whiteboard beside the table, still smudged with faded ink from some engineering study session, and his mind drifts to Felix’s voice echoing in his memory. He swallows, takes a sip of juice, and leans forward slightly.

“Hey,” he says, careful to keep his tone casual. “Y/N, can I ask you something?”

You glance up, a little surprised, but smile. “Sure.”

He taps the edge of his laptop, scrolling through the clips. “So I’ve been doing my homework. On The Apothecary Diaries.”

Your eyes light up instantly. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” he grins. “I’m halfway through the second arc. And I gotta say, Jinshi is kind of a fucking menace. I didn’t expect to like him this much.”

Your mouth parts in delighted shock. “Right?! Everyone thinks he’s just this pretty face, but he’s actually clever. Manipulative as hell, but clever.”

“He’s a drama queen,” Jisung laughs.

You giggle, resting your chin on your hand. “But he’s efficient. Like, he’ll have someone publicly humiliated and reassigned by the end of breakfast. That’s power.”

Jisung shrugs, smiling. “I kind of love Maomao more, though.”

You gasp, dramatically clutching your chest. “You’re a Maomao fan?”

“Dude, how could I not be? She’s weird as fuck. She sniffs things and licks mysterious powders and just shrugs when she nearly dies. She’s a little gremlin genius.”

“She is a gremlin genius,” you agree, laughing again. “Also, the slow burn between them? It’s unreal.”

“It’s torture,” Jisung groans. “They’re so obviously into each other and refuse to do anything about it. I yelled at my screen twice last night.”

The two of you collapse into laughter, shoulders shaking as Jisung turns the volume up on his phone, playing soft lo-fi in the background to match the sudden ease between you. Your notes are forgotten, your assignment abandoned as you both sit there, cross-legged and comfortably close, trading favourite episodes and lines and fan theories like it’s the most important conversation in the world.

You’re back to writing in your notebook, fingers curled neatly around a gel pen, lips pursed in that same soft concentration that makes Jisung’s brain go smooth every single time. He watches you from the corner of his eye as he peels open another Choco Pie, casually munching on it as he leans back in his chair.

The sweetness coats his mouth, the marshmallow and chocolate a familiar comfort, when your voice cuts through the calm, soft and hesitant.

“Hey, uh, so,” You keep your eyes on your notes, but your voice wavers slightly, your pen pausing mid-sentence. “Tell me if I’m miles off here, and I won’t be upset, seriously, but I’m kind of getting the feeling that you like me. And I was wondering if you’d want to go on a date?”

Jisung immediately inhales a chunk of the Choco Pie into the wrong part of his throat.

His eyes go wide, his body lurches forward, and he starts choking, coughing so hard that the chair wobbles under him. He slaps a hand over his chest, the other grabbing at the table as his eyes water and his lungs betray him in the most humiliating moment possible.

“Oh god, wait! Don’t die!” you gasp, immediately dropping your pen and moving around the table to him. “Jisung, oh my god, breathe!”

You start patting his back with both hands, gentle but urgent, trying not to make too much noise in the dead-silent library room while also trying to save the very man who’s now actively dying of a Choco Pie-induced tragedy. His face is bright red, his body hunched over, wheezing like he’s just run five kilometres in the heat of July.

The irony is not lost on him. Han Jisung, known Alpha Phi flirt, confident bastard, walking dick joke, the guy who has had entire threesomes without blinking, has just been asked on a date by a pretty girl and has nearly died choking on a marshmallow.

Mortified doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Finally, finally, he swallows whatever chunk of dessert was trying to assassinate him and drags in a rattling breath. He’s still hunched over, his black t-shirt clinging to his back with sweat, the squirrel on the front now squished into a wrinkled mess of fabric as he lets his forehead thunk dramatically onto the desk in front of him.

You’re still rubbing his back, gentle circles between his shoulder blades.

“Jesus fuck,” he wheezes, voice hoarse. “That Choco Pie just abused my throat.”

You snort quietly, still rubbing his back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cause, like, medical trauma.”

He lifts his head slightly and looks up at you with wide, stunned eyes. “Wait. You knew I liked you?”

You smile, sweet and calm, like this isn’t the most chaotic way for a confession to unravel. “Yeah. I figured it out.”

“How?! I’ve been trying to hide it!”

You raise a brow, still smiling. “You tried to hide it by memorising my favourite anime, bringing me snacks every time we study, and staring at me like I invented oxygen. You’re not subtle, Jisung.”

He groans and drops his head back down again. “I thought I was being cool.”

“Nope.”

“I’ll plan the date,” he mumbles into the table, voice muffled by sheer embarrassment.

“Okay,” you say, still rubbing his back in those soft, steady circles that are somehow more comforting than anything he’s felt in weeks.

And then your CGM beeps.

Jisung freezes.

He knows that sound. The shrill, too-familiar alert that means levels have dropped too low, too fast.

He lifts his head sharply and looks at you, eyes instantly scanning for the signs. And there they are. Your hands, which were calmly rubbing his back just seconds ago, are trembling. Subtle, barely noticeable unless you know what to look for, but Jisung does know. Because he’s seen it before in his brother. Too many times.

“Oh my god,” he blurts, already standing up. “You haven’t had anything to eat in, like, three fucking hours. You didn’t have juice. You didn’t have a Choco Pie.”

“I-” you start, a little breathless, but Jisung is already moving.

“Sit. Now. Don’t argue.”

You blink at him but obey, sitting in his chair as he tears open a fresh Choco Pie like his life depends on it. Without hesitation, he squats down in front of you and shoves the soft chocolate treat into your hands, guiding it to your mouth like you’re on autopilot.

You take a bite, chewing slowly, and he’s already grabbing a juice box from his backpack.

“You need sugar fast,” he says under his breath, panic carefully restrained under the layer of calm he’s learned to keep. He shoves the straw into the box, then presses the end of the straw gently to your lips. “Here. Drink.”

You sip without complaint, trusting him fully, and he watches every detail with hyper-focused attention, your pulse fluttering just under your jaw, the tremble in your fingers as you grip the box, the slight sheen of sweat starting to break across your temple. His own breathing has gone shallow, adrenaline rushing through him in waves, but he keeps his hands steady.

“Keep sipping,” he murmurs. “Just a little more.”

You obey, and after a minute, the colour starts to return to your face.

Jisung doesn’t move. He stays crouched in front of you, watching your fingers like a hawk until they stop shaking.

You blink a few times, slowly starting to register the world around you again.

“Okay?” he asks softly, eyes locked on yours.

You nod, a little embarrassed now. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t,” he says immediately. “Do not apologise.”

You smile faintly, hand brushing his as you pass the half-finished juice box back. “You’re good at this.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “My brother. I’ve seen it happen a lot. I know what to do.”

There’s a beat of silence, one that feels thick with unspoken things.

“You didn’t even hesitate,” you say quietly.

“I care,”

You look at him for a long moment, like you’re seeing him completely for the first time.

Then you smile again. “So about that date?”

Jisung grins, slow and wide. “Yeah. We’re definitely going on that date.”

And this time, he doesn’t choke on his Choco Pie.

It’s exactly 11:00 PM when the door to Jisung’s room creaks open, and Felix slithers in with the precision of a seasoned thief. Dressed in black, hoodie up, socked feet silent on the floor, he expects to find the room dark, quiet, and ready for another covert strategy session. What he does not expect is to see Han Jisung perched at his desk with his laptop open, and two very familiar figures standing in front of the whiteboard, completely transfixed by the chaotic mess drawn across it.

Chan and Changbin are here, and they are staring. They are both locked onto the massive, veiny dick that’s been proudly displayed near the top left of the board since the first week of this entire ridiculous mission.

Felix freezes, halfway through the doorway, then slowly turns to Jisung with wide, betrayed eyes.

“We agreed on need to know, you fucker!” he hisses, keeping his voice low but seething. “Why are these two bisexuals here? This is top-secret shit! We swore! Swore on the JiBalls!”

Jisung holds up his hands like a hostage negotiator. “I need you and my pseudo gay dads to pull off the biggest fuckeroo of the century! If I’m going to survive taking Y/N on this date next Saturday, we’re going to need all the backup Seoul has to offer. Minho is a military-grade protective older brother. You think I can sneak around him without support? I need you. I need them. I need the full force of the Three Muskequeers.”

“Oh shit. You’re actually going on a date with Y/N?”

Jisung nods solemnly. “Seongsu. Saturday. She doesn’t know yet. I’m surprising her. But I can’t get her there if Minho’s breathing down my neck like the fucking Terminator. So I’m recruiting all three of you to help distract him.”

Felix stares at him for a moment, then slowly turns to face Chan and Changbin. “Okay. But first, serious question: where did you two go wrong with Jisung? There’s barely even a whiff of fruitiness on this man. He’s your son in every way but queerness. You’ve been his pseudo gay dads for two years. I expected at least bisexual vibes.”

Changbin squints at the whiteboard. “I know, right? I thought for sure he’d turn out pan. We raised him right. We nurtured queerness. We gave him a home full of open sexuality and found family and musical theatre nights. I mean, look at how many earrings he has.”

“Wow,” Jisung says, crossing his arms. “So we’re at stereotyping now? Is that what this is?”

Chan gestures vaguely at Jisung’s outfit. “Ji, you dress too varied to be straight. You bounce between hot emo boy and 90’s fever dream on a daily basis. That’s queer behavior. The math doesn’t add up.”

“Can I remind you both that you didn’t raise me?” Jisung says, jabbing a finger toward them. “My parents raised me. You two just took me to get my ears pierced and give me soju all the time”

“In mine and Chan’s hearts,” Changbin says softly, placing a hand over his own chest, “we raised you.”

Felix groans and rubs his face with both hands. “Okay. Focus, homo dads. Look at the plans, not the dick.”

Chan finally drags his gaze away from the veiny masterpiece and squints at the whiteboard. “Wait, hold on. You guys have been planning this? All of this?”

Jisung and Felix both nod. No hesitation.

“This is kind of insane,” Changbin says, stepping closer, eyes scanning the scribbled routes and cartoon diagrams. “I can’t believe none of us noticed. Not once. There’s, like, coded sections and shit.”

“No one could know,” Felix says firmly. “For the safety of the JiBalls. If Minho found out? Game over.”

Jisung nods with the solemnity of a man who knows the danger. “Felix and I swore to keep it secret. If I wanted to remain JiHung and not JiDeBalled, this entire thing had to be between the pansexual and the hetero”

Felix throws a dramatic hand in the air. “We have kept this between us with the stealth of international spies. We have plotted. We have strategised.”

Changbin paces for a second, chewing his lip. “Okay. What if we take Minho to visit his appa in Gimpo for the weekend? He hasn’t gone in a while. The cats will distract him.”

Felix shakes his head. “Too suspicious. If we go to Appa’s place without Y/N, he’ll know something’s up. It’s literally her appa too. She’d never miss it.”

Chan, who’s been quiet up to this point, suddenly perks up and pulls out his phone. “I found this last week for Felix and Minho’s anniversary and never used it. Love hotel. One of the fancy ones in Gangnam. Private rooftop hot tub, couples massage package, the works.”

Felix grabs the phone. “Yes. YES. I like this plan. I can work with this. I will tie him to the bed if I have to. I will ride that man until he forgets his own name and wakes up three orgasms deep, wondering what year it is.”

Changbin throws his fist in the air. “YES. Power bottom. We love to see it.”

Chan and Changbin exchange a look, and both glance back at Jisung, shaking their heads like disappointed parents.

“Such minimal fruitiness. We failed as his queer dads.”

“Tragic.”

“I SWEAR TO GOD,” Jisung explodes. “YOU TWO ARE NOT MY PARENTS.”

Chan sighs dramatically. “Teenage angst has come late. Puberty must’ve stalled.”

“I- You- UGH.” Jisung throws his arms up and then just drops. Right onto the floor. Sprawled face-down, done with all of them.

Felix crouches beside him, poking his side. “You broke your son.”

Chan and Changbin crouch beside him as well, cooing softly like actual appas trying to comfort their cranky child.

“There, there, Ji,” Chan murmurs. “You’ll still be our disappointment.”

“Still love you, little hetero goblin,” Changbin says, patting his back.

Jisung groans into the floorboards.

And despite the humiliation, the roasted ego, and the looming threat of Minho’s vengeance, he feels weirdly comforted.

Because somehow, surrounded by these chaotic, wildly inappropriate, emotionally deranged assholes, he’s got the best team a guy could ask for.

The car jerks to a very ungraceful halt in front of your apartment building, the tires making a short screeching sound against the curb as Jisung yanks the gear into park. His hands are tight on the wheel, knuckles white, the leather interior of the rental vehicle still way too pristine to feel like it belongs to him.

There’s a fresh coffee cup wedged in the centre console, the lid spotted with a smear of lip balm, his, because his lips always dry out when he’s nervous. And today, he’s very fucking nervous.

He just passed his driving test two weeks ago, and he is, by all metrics, a barely competent driver. Chan flat-out refused to let him borrow his car, going on a full three-minute rant about emotional attachment to his steering wheel and how Jisung’s bull-in-a-china-shop energy wouldn’t mesh with the delicate balance of his suspension.

Changbin laughed in his face when he asked. Hyunjin just looked at him, sipped his iced americano, and shook his head slowly. Seungmin called him a menace to society, and Jeongin said he’d rather be hit by a truck than hand over his keys.

So now, here he is, sitting in a shiny, just-cleaned Hyundai Avante rental, gripping the wheel like it might escape. He looks good, at least. The oversized knit sweater he’s wearing is striped black and white, slightly loose but still hugging his ridiculously broad shoulders and thick pecs.

The patent black leather pants are tight and shiny enough to catch the morning sun, and the thick black belt with a silver statement buckle cuts perfectly across his waist. His boots are chunky platform ones that add an inch or two to his height. Silver rings line nearly every finger, his signature silver chain resting against the knit collar of the sweater. His hair is slicked back today, not a strand out of place, and his black sunglasses sit perched on the bridge of his nose.

He unlocks his phone and opens the group chat. Felix named it The Muskequeers and Their Loser Hetero, and he hasn’t stopped trolling Jisung since. The latest message is a photo from Felix, timestamped literally two minutes ago. It’s a shot of Minho, naked, clearly post-fuck, his arms handcuffed to a Harry Potter-themed headboard with a visible, drawn-on lightning bolt on his forehead.

Jisung snorts so hard he nearly chokes and immediately slams the phone screen off, locking it and tossing it into the cupholder. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself, laughing under his breath. “That unhinged fairy actually did it.”

Then the front door to your building opens, and everything in him stills.

You step outside like you own the entire street, the late morning sunlight catching the sharp lapels of your double-breasted red romper. It hugs you perfectly, gold buttons gleaming in the light. The matching red trench coat flares slightly behind you, and your knee-high black boots click softly against the pavement as you approach. A black handbag swings effortlessly from your shoulder. Your hair is curled to perfection, each strand bouncing gently with your steps, and your makeup is a flawless masterpiece.

Jisung slowly slides his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose as you reach the passenger door, his eyes raking over you like he’s trying to etch the image into the back of his skull. You flash him a soft, sweet smile and open the door, sliding in.

“Hey,”

“Okay,” Jisung exhales, pulling his glasses back up, “buckle up. I just passed my test, I’m a horrendous driver, and we’re driving for, like, ten minutes. Traffic-dependent.”

“Got it,” you say with a little laugh as you click your seatbelt in. “I trust you.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” he mutters, then slams his foot on the gas like you’re both in an action movie.

The car jerks forward, tires squealing a little as he takes off down the road, accelerating far too quickly for someone who’s barely gotten a grip on lane discipline.

Jisung cranks the volume on the stereo.

Pink Venom starts blasting through the speakers, the bass heavy and aggressive, the kind of beat that seems to rattle your bones. Jisung immediately starts rapping along under his breath, his voice smooth, precise, and on beat. He transitions to the chorus without missing a single word, then starts singing it like he’s on stage and Jennie’s watching.

“Why didn’t you pursue music?”

He glances at you quickly, a grin tugging at his lips, before his eyes dart back to the road. “I thought about it. Audited some music classes for a bit. I liked it, but journalism just hit different. There’s something about digging for truth. Exposing shit. I like knowing what people want to hide.”

“That’s kind of hot,”

Jisung just smirks, hands tightening on the wheel as he swerves into a smaller street, zipping past slower traffic. “I know.”

He takes another sharp turn and starts weaving through the backstreets like he’s channelling a Fast & Furious character.

“Okay,” you laugh, gripping the seat with one hand, “you’re not a bad driver. You’re just… fast.”

Jisung grins, full teeth, and hits the turn signal a full second before taking another sharp left. “That is, without question, the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Low bar,” you tease.

“Extremely,” he agrees.

The rest of the ride is filled with chaotic turns, matching beats, and shared glances that feel like lightning behind sunglasses. Jisung doesn’t miss the way your lips move when you mouth the words along with him. You don’t miss the way his voice dips just a little deeper when he raps.

And for the first time since his driver’s test, Jisung doesn’t feel like he’s about to crash, not into a car, not into a building, not into the anxiety that usually haunts him when something matters too much.

Because this matters. You matter.

And for once, he’s steering toward something good.

Jisung’s parking job is, in a word, atrocious. He swings the wheel way too late, overcorrects, nearly bumps the curb, then finally settles the car at an angle that would make any driving instructor physically wince. But it’s in the lines, technically, so he puts it in park and throws both arms in the air like he just finished a victory lap. The engine shuts off with a grumble, and he turns to you, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve achieved vehicular mediocrity,”

"That was barely passable.”

“And yet,” he says proudly, stepping out and slamming his door with a dramatic flourish, “here we are. Alive. Parked. Ready to thrift.”

You raise an eyebrow as you round the front of the car. “We’re going thrifting?”

“I thought we could,” he says, voice a little softer now, sliding his sunglasses up onto his head as he opens his palm toward you. “You mentioned you liked it. So I did some research.”

Your expression warms instantly, eyes softening as your fingers slip into his. Jisung’s heart does a little fucking somersault in his chest. You’re smiling at him like he just gifted you a puppy made of glitter and rainbows.

He tries to play it cool, grinning casually as he gently pulls you forward. “Chan and Changbin helped me map the route. Like two proud queer appas guiding their tragically heterosexual son through the wilderness of taste and fashion.”

You blink up at him, laughing. “They really do act like your gay appas.”

“I think they’ve accepted it at this point. I’m their disappointing straight son who dresses like a bisexual but dates women and has no concept of restraint,” Jisung says, gesturing with his free hand as you both weave through the narrow streets of Seongsu. “They even helped me check wheelchair accessibility. For reasons I don’t fucking know.”

“Better to be thorough,”

The first thrift shop has racks of clothes spilling out onto the sidewalk. Oversized jackets, colourful scarves, even a box of retro sunglasses balancing on a milk crate. Jisung pushes open the door for you, letting the familiar scent of incense, denim, and fabric softener wash over both of you as you step inside.

Immediately, your hands are in motion. You gravitate toward the racks of crop tops, pulling one designed to look like a butterfly with beaded wings. “Cute,” you murmur, glancing at Jisung.

He nods, clearly approving. “Definitely. That’s hot.”

You smile again, that quiet smile that makes something in his chest tug painfully. You keep browsing, picking out a few miniskirts, some pastel heels, pausing every so often to hold them up to your body and ask, “What do you think?”

And every time, Jisung gives his full attention, nodding or cocking his head thoughtfully before answering like he’s a fashion editor and not a frat boy who just recently learned the difference between blush and highlighter.

Eventually, you hand him the basket, shared now, full of your finds, and he takes it without hesitation, slinging it over his forearm like a devoted little pack mule.

Then Jisung starts grabbing the ugliest things he can find. A sweater with a rat pattern so grotesque it might actually have been cursed. A neon orange bucket hat that looks like a traffic cone mated with regret.

You raise an eyebrow. “Who the fuck are those for?”

“The other Alpha Phi members,” he says proudly, holding up the rat sweater. “This? Hyunjin. He wears fucked-up fashion ironically, and this looks like the kind of thing he’d pair with leather pants and call a ‘statement.’”

You snort.

He picks up the bucket hat and taps it against your arm. “This? Seungmin. I’m gonna glue it to his head while he sleeps. He’s gonna wake up with new personality traits.”

You giggle, reaching toward a nearby rack and pulling out a t-shirt so hideous it might be illegal, lime green, with a Comic Sans slogan that says “Let’s Taco Bout It” next to an aggressively detailed taco. “Minho,” you say sweetly.

Jisung clutches his chest. “You’re trying to get me murdered.”

You shrug innocently. “And you can’t even tell him I picked it, because he’ll kill you, not me.”

He stares at you for a second, then starts laughing. “You’re secretly evil. I love it.”

He tosses a shimmering gold crop top with tassels for Changbin, then spots something on the floor and bends down to pick it up. A pair of clown shoes. Literal fucking clown shoes. Bright red, enormous, the kind of thing that makes honking noises if you step too hard.

“Jeongin,” he says solemnly, turning them over in his hands. “You know he’d wear these unironically. Probably to class. And then try to argue it’s a ‘commentary on capitalist performance anxiety.’”

You cackle and start searching the accessories section, eyes lighting up as you find a pair of delicate white fairy wings with glitter swirls. “Felix.”

Jisung sees them and doesn’t even blink. “He’ll wear those to the gym.”

Then Jisung finds a long black trench coat, exaggerated collar, matte and a little too dramatic.

He holds it up. “Ah, yes. Chan. The predator fashion is alive and well.”

You snort, and Jisung freezes. Turns to look at you with wide eyes, like you’ve just performed a magic trick. “Did you just snort?”

“No.”

“You did,” he says, grinning wickedly. “You full-on piglet-snorted. Oh my god, that’s fucking adorable.”

You glare at him playfully. “Shut up.”

He doesn’t. He laughs. Loudly. Brightly. In a way that draws glances from the cashier and the kid trying on a jacket two aisles down. He laughs like he’s just won something. Because he has.

He finally sobers up enough to steer you toward the register. You reach for your wallet, but Jisung hip-checks you gently, forcing you back a step as he moves forward.

“Don’t even try.”

You frown. “Let me pay for my stuff at least.”

“Nope,” he says, slapping his card on the counter. “Date rules. I invited you, I pay.”

You squint at him. “You’re being obnoxiously traditional.”

He shrugs. “Sue me. I’m romantic.”

The cashier rings everything up while you watch him, arms crossed. Jisung pretends not to notice the way your eyes keep flicking to him, the way you look at him like you’re trying to memorise him.

He picks up the bags, looping the handles over both arms, and turns to you with a smug little grin.

“Lead the way, pretty girl.”

And you do, stepping back out into the sunlight as the bags sway at his side, your laughter trailing behind you like music as you walk.

------------------------------------------------------

The next thrift store is quieter, a little more curated than the last. The layout is cleaner, racks spaced apart with soft overhead lighting, and everything smells vaguely like linen spray and cedarwood. There's a low hum of music, and the shop assistant nods politely as you and Jisung enter. He shoots you a smile before grabbing a second-hand wire basket from the stand near the entrance and looping it over one arm like he’s about to do a grocery run instead of continue what is slowly becoming a full-blown fashion adventure.

You’re already moving with intent, fingers trailing along a rack of jackets, eyes flicking between options. You stop at a dark grey corduroy overshirt, hold it up in front of you, then glance at Jisung thoughtfully.

“This would look really good on you,” you say, turning it slightly so the light hits the fabric.

He shrugs with a small grin. “Try me.”

You toss it to him and he catches it with one hand, still grinning. He holds it up to his chest, glancing in the nearest mirror and nodding slowly. “Not bad. That’s a tick in your column.”

You move on, picking out a couple of vintage graphic tees, one with a faded rock band logo and another with a retro comic book design. You hold each one up to him, tilting your head as you examine the colours against his skin tone. One of them is a muted red, the kind that would pop against his pale complexion and platinum-toned hair. You nod in approval and add it to the basket.

Jisung watches you work like he’s been hypnotised. There’s something quietly endearing about the way you take your time, frowning when something doesn’t quite match your vision of him and shaking your head as you place it gently back on the rack. He lets you run the show for a while, amused at how serious you get when choosing something for him, only offering occasional commentary.

Then he wanders over to the accessories section while you're distracted by a pair of cargo pants. Nestled between a glass display of old brooches and a tray of mismatched earrings, Jisung finds a tiny wooden box full of rings. Most of them are bulky, gaudy things, not his taste. But in the corner of the box, almost tucked beneath a plastic skull-shaped ring, he sees a pair of matching silver bands. Thin, minimalist, slightly textured with a brushed finish. Nothing dramatic. Just clean, simple, and matching.

He glances at you, still absorbed in a pair of cropped black jeans, then quietly slips the rings into the basket.

When you turn around, Jisung’s holding a hideous vest up to his chest. It’s a mustard yellow knitted thing with neon orange zig-zags and faux fur trim around the armholes.

You blink. “That’s hideous.”

He gasps, scandalised. “You don’t like it?”

You stare at it, deadpan. “It looks like a construction cone had a lovechild with a disgruntled teddy bear.”

Jisung’s grin widens. “Okay, but picture this: I wear this and take you to meet my parents. Fancy restaurant. You in a beautiful dress. Me? This fucking nightmare of a vest. Fur shedding in the appetiser.”

You laugh, shaking your head as he folds it and shoves it into the basket like he’s actually considering it. He starts picking up increasingly offensive pieces, a pair of velvet lime green pants with rhinestones down the seams, a shirt with a slogan that says “MILK ME” in glitter letters, a faux crocodile-skin trench coat in bright red.

You wrinkle your nose at each one as he holds them up and describes the exact situations he’d wear them in.

“This one for Valentine’s Day,” he says, brandishing a pair of sequined suspenders. “With a bowtie. And no pants.”

“Please don’t,” you groan, covering your face.

“Too late. I’ve committed. This is now my seduction fit.”

You’re wheezing, eyes watering as he slips a floral muumuu over his shoulder. “Beach trip.”

“That’s for your beach trip,” you shoot back, grinning.

He grins right back. “Only if you agree to rub sunscreen into my back while I wear it.”

You groan again, hiding behind a clothing rack while he dramatically models a hot pink tank top with shoulder pads. “I’m gonna need bleach for my brain.”

“Babe, if this doesn’t scream alpha male, I don’t know what does.”

Eventually, he lets you pull the worst of it from the basket and throw it into a reject pile, laughing as you mutter under your breath about fashion crimes. Then the tables turn.

Jisung starts picking things out for you. And unlike his trolling spree, he’s surprisingly thoughtful about it.

He starts with a black lace top with a corset-like bodice, holding it up and nodding slowly. “This. With leather pants. You’d kill a man in this.”

You roll your eyes but don’t put it back.

Next, he grabs a short red satin dress with a cowl neck and spaghetti straps. “This. For me. To see. Please.”

You give him a look. He raises his hands innocently. “I’m just saying. Red’s your colour.”

Then it’s a sheer white blouse with pearl buttons. A pleated plaid skirt. A soft baby blue cardigan that you instinctively press against your chest, the texture too perfect to resist. And despite the flirtation, Jisung doesn’t make a big deal of it. He just keeps handing things over, gentle, teasing, but not pushy.

You raise an eyebrow when he holds up a mesh bodysuit with rhinestones.

“...Seriously?”

He shrugs. “What? It’s cute. You’re cute. Do the math.”

You roll your eyes again, but your smile gives you away.

Eventually, the two of you are standing at the checkout again, your basket significantly heavier and your cheeks sore from smiling. You reach for your wallet, determined this time, but Jisung moves faster. He hip bumps you sideways with enough force that you stumble slightly, laughing as he wedges himself between you and the register.

“Jisung-”

“Nope,” he says, card already out, handing it to the cashier with a practised flick. “You paid last time we got lunch. This one’s mine.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I’m adorable.”

“Obnoxious.”

“Generous.”

You glare at him. He blows you a kiss.

As the cashier bags everything up, he nudges your side with his elbow and murmurs, “Besides, if I’m gonna convince Minho I’m a decent human being, I need to start racking up points. That means paying for your stuff and pretending I’m not staring at your ass in that coat.”

You blink. “You’re not pretending at all.”

Jisung grins. “Told you I was bad at pretending.”

You shake your head, but the smile blooming across your face says otherwise. And as the two of you step back into the bright Seoul sun, arms full of thrifted chaos and accidental intimacy, Jisung feels lighter than he has in months.

Like somehow, just by walking beside you, he’s managed to thrift himself into something that actually fits.

Six months later, Seoul is just starting to bloom into spring again. The air has that first warm bite of the season, sunlight pouring over the sidewalks in wide golden stripes as Minho and Felix make their way down the familiar block toward your apartment.

They’ve got paper bags in hand, Felix insisted on picking up takeaway from the tofu stew place you love, and Minho’s in the kind of rare, relaxed mood he only really falls into when he's with Felix. His hoodie’s half-zipped, headphones around his neck, and his hand swings lazily as he walks. Felix is humming something tuneless, face hidden behind sunglasses too big for his face.

“Can’t believe you didn’t tell her we were coming,” Minho says, amused.

“I like chaos. Besides, she’ll love the surprise. Unless she’s asleep, in which case we better brace for a full-force Y/N Stare of Death.”

“I taught her that stare, I am so proud,”

They turn onto your street, and Minho naturally lifts his eyes to your apartment window like he always does, just out of habit. He’s about to make a dumb joke about how your curtains are still ugly when he slows to a full stop.

Felix keeps walking three more steps before he realises Minho’s frozen. He turns back. “Babe?”

Minho’s staring. Felix steps beside him, squinting up at your window too, and immediately sees what’s going on.

The living room curtains are half-drawn, and inside, lit by the soft flicker of your TV, where an episode of The Apothecary Diaries is playing, of all things, is you, laughing as you say something to a man standing close beside you. Not just any man.

A dyed-blonde man. Felix knows that hair. Knows those broad shoulders. Knows the tattoos visible because said man is very clearly shirtless.

The BLESSED ink on the right pec. The compass beneath it. The word ROCKSTAR curling down his left side, dipping beneath the waistband of grey sweatpants.

Minho doesn’t move. His eyes narrow. Then they widen. Then they zero in.

And Felix sees it at the exact same time Minho does, the moment Jisung leans down and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, gentle, soft. You giggle, eyes crinkling, clearly happy. And then, right there in plain view, the two of you kiss.

Minho short-circuits.

Felix, panicked, jumps straight onto Minho’s back, arms wrapping around his shoulders in a full koala grip, legs locking tight around his waist.

“No no no no no,” Felix chants into his ear, already regretting this entire outing.

Minho doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just stands there, jaw clenched so tight, Felix is genuinely concerned he’ll break a molar.

“GET OFF MY SISTER!” Minho suddenly yells, voice booming across the block like a fucking war cry.

Inside the apartment, you and Jisung are both laughing about some dumb line from the show, completely oblivious to the storm that’s hurtling toward your front door.

Minho’s already moving. Sprinting now, food bags forgotten on the sidewalk, Felix still clinging to his back like a determined human backpack.

“MINHO, WAIT!” Felix yells, bouncing wildly as Minho takes the stairs two at a time. “We can talk about this like emotionally stable adults!”

“YOU LET THIS HAPPEN!” Minho shouts, not even slowing down.

“YOU THINK I WANTED THIS?!”

Minho doesn’t respond. He hits your floor like a battering ram and makes a beeline for your apartment door. He jams the spare key you gave him into the lock, turns it- Clunk.

The door stops halfway. The chain. Minho curses loudly. Felix curses louder.

Minho presses his face to the gap in the doorway and yells into your apartment like a man possessed. “HAN JISUNG, I SAW YOU! THROUGH THE WINDOW! GET OUT HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

Inside, Jisung’s face pales like someone pulled the batteries out of his soul.

You blink at him, frozen on the couch. “What?”

“We had a good run, jagiya,” Jisung says solemnly, turning to you with wide eyes and deadly calm. “Six beautiful months. More than most people get in a lifetime. The matching rings? Keep yours. I’ll keep mine. That way, when we’re both seventy and bump into each other in a market in Busan, we’ll know it was real.”

You’re still gaping. “Ji-”

“I must now flee.”

He kisses you dramatically on the forehead, then spins toward the window like he’s about to dive straight out of it, crime drama style.

You grab the back of his sweatpants. “Ji, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Going on the lam,” he replies, unbothered. “I’ll dye my hair black again. Go by Kim Siwoo. Change my major. Vanish. Become a legend.”

Outside the door, Minho is still yelling and rattling the handle. “YOU’RE DEAD, HAN JISUNG. DEAD! I’M GOING TO DISEMBOWEL YOU WITH A RING LIGHT!”

Felix is slumped against the wall now, fully defeated, whispering to himself, “This is how I die. Caught in the crossfire of a love story and a protective brother’s rampage.”

You’re still clinging to Jisung’s waistband as he tries to wedge one leg onto the windowsill like a dramatic criminal who’s seen too many action movies.

“Ji,” you say again, wheezing, “you can’t jump out a window.”

“I must,” he insists, heroic as ever. “You were worth it. Every lie. Every thrifted hoodie. Every Juice Box of Shame.”

You press your hand to Jisung’s chest gently, eyes locked on his as he’s halfway into a window escape like this is a low-budget heist film. His fingers are still curled around the windowsill, mouth open with whatever panicked speech he was about to give, but you just shake your head.

“Stay,” you say softly. “I can handle Minho.”

Jisung hesitates like he doesn’t quite believe you, eyes flicking between your face and the door where your brother is still screaming murder. You turn on your heel, padding barefoot through the apartment in your red silk pyjama shorts and matching red camisole, the cotton soft and clingy against your skin.

As you near the door, you already see Minho’s face smashed between the small gap created by the chain lock, one eye bulging like he’s trying to summon psychic murder with pure sibling rage. Felix is still clinging to his back, arms looped tightly around Minho’s shoulders, looking like he’s been through war.

You plant your feet, press your palm against your brother’s forehead, and push gently, just enough to nudge his head out of the gap so you can close the door all the way, fingers working the chain off with a small click.

Then you open the door fully and lean in the frame, blocking the entrance with your body. You plaster on your brightest, most innocent smile.

“Min! What’s up, big bro?”

Felix hops down from Minho’s back like a child dismounting a playground slide. He lands with a huff and immediately starts brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. “I tried to stop him. I tried, Y/N. I even used the ‘don’t kill him’ voice.”

Minho doesn’t even hear him. He pushes past you without hesitation, eyes wild, mouth open in a silent scream of rage, scanning the room for his prey.

“MINHO, DON’T-”

Too late.

Minho bolts into the living room, eyes locking on Jisung, who’s still shirtless in his grey sweatpants, tattoos on full display. The BLESSED and compass on his right pec, the bold ROCKSTAR ink running down his left side and dipping into his waistband, are all just there, shining under the light like a giant neon sign that reads: YES, YOU CAUGHT US.

Jisung lets out a yelp and scrambles, dodging as Minho lunges across the coffee table.

“You fucking whore!” Minho howls, voice hoarse and feral.

“You saw nothing!” Jisung shrieks, bolting to the opposite side of the table like it’s a cartoon chase sequence. “We could’ve been rehearsing! Maybe we’re method acting!”

“I’LL METHOD YOUR FUCKING SPINE!”

You walk into the room as the world’s worst game of chase continues, circling the table like a sitcom gone rogue. Felix slides down onto your couch, utterly defeated.

“I told you to brace for the reveal,” he mutters, burying his face in a cushion. “You said, ‘how bad could it be?’ and now your brother’s trying to murder your boyfriend with his bare hands. Happy now?”

You ignore him. Because Jisung has now ducked behind you, breath coming fast, arms looping gently around your waist as he uses your body as a human shield.

“I’m using you for survival,” he whispers in your ear.

“Do what you need to,” you whisper back.

Minho stops short on the other side of you, chest heaving.

“I cannot believe this! My friend! And my sister! You were supposed to be my friend, Jisung!”

Jisung peeks over your shoulder with a sheepish look. “Look, we’re not just messing around, okay?” He pauses, glancing down at you. “I love her.”

Your heart lurches.

You look up at him.

He’s still breathless. Still panicked. Still hiding behind you like a little shit. But he’s not joking. Not being flirty. He means it.

“I’m in love with her,” he says again, firmer this time.

Minho blinks.

You take a step forward and gently reach for your brother’s hand. He’s still burning with fury, but his fists loosen just enough for you to wrap your fingers around his.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way, Min,” you say quietly. “I know it’s a lot. But it’s true. I love him too.”

Minho’s face twitches, lips pulling into something unreadable. His eyes flick between the two of you. You. Then Jisung. Then you again.

Then, unexpectedly, he smiles.

“My friend,” he says slowly, “and my sister.”

He pulls both of you into a hug with so much force that you nearly fall forward. Jisung stiffens like he thinks this is a trap, but Minho doesn’t swing a punch. He just squeezes you both, arms locked tight.

Felix stares from the couch, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

You and Jisung both glance over Minho’s shoulder at Felix.

He looks like someone just rewrote the laws of physics. “How the fuck did he flip that fast?! He was going full nuclear two seconds ago!”

“I don’t know,” you mouth back.

“I’m terrified,” Jisung mouths at the same time.

Minho finally pulls back, beaming like a proud camp counsellor. “This is so great! My two favourite people!”

You, Jisung, and Felix all nod simultaneously, eyes locked in mutual fear.

“So great!” you say with a fake-bright tone.

“The best,” Jisung adds, swallowing audibly.

“Yay,” Felix says weakly.

Minho claps his hands. “Okay! You guys go get dressed, and I’ll plate the food! Felix, come help!”

Felix stares at you for a full three seconds before forcing himself up with a wince. “I will never recover from this,” he mutters.

You and Jisung bolt from the living room like it’s on fire, sprinting down the hallway to your bedroom and slamming the door shut behind you.

“WE’RE FINE!” you shout to the others. “Just changing!”

You both stand in your room, heaving.

Jisung stares at the door. “He’s gonna murder me at dinner, isn’t he?”

“He might,” you say, reaching for your dresser. “But he might also serve you stew and ask how you take your rice. Honestly, at this point, it’s a coin toss.”

Jisung starts pulling on a t-shirt, still breathing hard.

You grab a pillow from your bed and jam it into his shirt, stuffing it between his abs and the fabric like a makeshift flak jacket.

“What are you doing?”

“In case he tries to stab you,” you say without looking up. “I’m not taking any chances.”

Jisung stares down at himself, now absurdly bulked out with the pillow, and then looks at you.

“You’re perfect,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “And you’re dramatic.”

“I almost died today.”

You grin. “But you didn’t.”

Jisung pulls the shirt the rest of the way on, pillow bulging from beneath the cotton.

“Let’s go have lunch with your brother,” he says with grim determination.

You nod. “Let’s.”

And as you step back into the hallway, hand-in-hand with a man who may or may not be assassinated with a spoon by your older brother, you realise something strange.

You’re happy. Despite the chaos. Despite the drama. Despite everything. You’re just happy. And that? That’s the best kind of chaos.

Han Jisung Taglist: @puppymsworld

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101 @strayk1ds143 @skzlover24 @bussdownflockiana @wickedbutlovely

Proofread by the fabulous @hwangjoanna <3

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