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The Love Between Us

The Language of Provocation

The dorm was unusually quiet for a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of silence that usually preceded a storm or one of Han Jisung’s more elaborate schemes. Minho was in the kitchen, his blonde hair pulled back with a simple black headband as he meticulously chopped vegetables for a stew. Precision was his love language; every cube of carrot was the exact same size, a testament to his discipline.

Jisung was sprawled across the sofa in the living room, his burgundy hair a mess of static and tangles against the grey cushions. He was supposed to be working on lyrics, his notebook open and a pen tucked behind his ear, but his gaze kept drifting toward the kitchen. He watched the way the muscles in Minho’s forearms flexed with every stroke of the knife, the way his tall frame leaned over the counter with effortless grace.

A mischievous glint sparked in Jisung’s dark eyes. He had been reading a lot of fan-translated comments on their recent dance practice videos, and a certain recurring term had caught his eye. He didn't quite understand the cultural weight of it in every context, but he knew exactly how to use it to get under Minho’s skin.

"Hey, daddy? Can you bring me a glass of water?"

The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board stopped instantly. Minho didn't turn around. His shoulders went rigid, the blonde strands of his hair shivering slightly.

"What did you just call me?" Minho’s voice was dangerously level, the tone he used right before he made someone do thirty extra burpees.

Jisung widened his eyes, puffing out his cheeks to look as innocent as possible. "I asked for water. My throat is dry from all the rapping, daddy."

Minho turned slowly, the knife still held loosely in his hand. His expression was a mask of icy confusion, though a faint, telltale pink was beginning to climb up his neck. "Jisung, if this is a joke about me being older than you, it’s not funny. It’s weird. Stop it."

"I’m not joking," Jisung chirped, rolling onto his stomach and kicking his feet in the air. "You’re always taking care of me, right? You cook for me, you scold me when I’m messy, you catch me when I fall... it fits."

Minho stared at him for a long beat, searching for the punchline. When he realized Jisung was committed to the bit, he exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. "I’m your boyfriend, not your father. Get your own water."

He turned back to his vegetables, but his rhythm was off. The next few chops were uneven, a rare lapse in his perfection. Jisung smirked, biting his lip to hide his triumph. He had found a crack in the armor.

Over the next few days, Jisung turned the word into a weapon of mass distraction.

They were in the recording studio, Minho sitting on the swivel chair while Jisung stood in the booth. Through the glass, Minho gave him a thumbs up after a particularly difficult high note.

"That was good, Jisung. Keep that energy for the next take," Minho said through the intercom.

Jisung leaned into the microphone, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and honeyed. "Anything for you, daddy."

Minho choked on his sip of coffee, the dark liquid splashing onto his white t-shirt. He lunged for the talkback button. "Han Jisung! I am going to delete your entire project file if you say that word one more time!"

Jisung just laughed, the sound echoing through the headphones, bright and unbothered.

The peak of the madness came during a late-night grocery run. The aisles were mostly empty, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Minho was comparing two different brands of cat treats, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

"Which one do you think Soonie would prefer?" Minho asked, holding up the bags.

Jisung, who was currently riding on the back of the shopping cart like a scooter, leaned over Minho’s shoulder. "The blue one looks better, daddy."

A middle-aged woman stocking shelves three aisles over dropped a crate of canned corn. The clatter echoed through the store.

Minho’s face turned a shade of red that rivaled Jisung’s hair. He grabbed Jisung by the collar of his hoodie and dragged him toward the frozen food section, away from prying ears.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Minho hissed, his voice a frantic whisper. "Do you have any idea how that sounds in public? People think... they think things, Jisung!"

Jisung pouted, his chubby cheeks squishing up. "What things? I’m just being affectionate. You’re so mean to me, daddy."

Minho closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the glass of the freezer door. The cold helped dull the sheer embarrassment thrumming through his veins. "I am begging you. I will buy you three cheesecakes. I will do your laundry for a month. Just call me 'hyung' or 'Minho' or even 'hey you'. Just not... that."

"Is it working?" Jisung asked, his voice suddenly soft and close.

Minho opened one eye. Jisung was standing right in front of him, his playful smirk gone, replaced by a look of genuine curiosity.

"Is what working?" Minho asked.

"Getting a reaction out of you," Jisung said, reaching out to fiddle with the zipper of Minho’s jacket. "You’ve been so stressed lately with the comeback. You’re always so serious, so focused on being the perfect leader in the dance studio. I just wanted to see you lose your cool. I wanted to see the Minho who gets flustered."

Minho felt the tension drain out of his limbs, replaced by a weary sort of warmth. He reached out, cupping Jisung’s face in his hands. His thumbs brushed over those soft cheeks, his touch infinitely tender.

"You don't need to call me embarrassing names to get my attention, Jisungie," Minho whispered. "You have all of it. Always."

Jisung leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. "I know. But it’s fun. You look really handsome when you’re angry."

Minho let out a dry laugh. "You’re a menace. A literal brat. I should have left you in the practice room floor three years ago."

"But you didn't," Jisung reminded him, opening his eyes and beaming. "You caught me."

"I did," Minho sighed. "And apparently, I’ll be catching you for the rest of my life."

They finished their shopping in relative peace, though Jisung couldn't resist one last jab as they waited at the checkout line. He leaned in close to Minho’s ear, his breath warm against the blonde’s skin.

"Does this mean I'm grounded, daddy?"

Minho didn't flush this time. Instead, a dark, predatory glint entered his eyes—the same look he had right before he delivered a particularly stinging swat in the dance studio. He leaned back, his lips brushing the shell of Jisung’s ear.

"If you want to play that game, Jisung-ah, you better be prepared for the consequences when we get home," Minho murmured, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "Because 'daddy' doesn't let brats off easy."

Jisung’s breath hitched. The playful smirk vanished, replaced by a sudden, frantic heartbeat. He swallowed hard, his face turning a spectacular shade of crimson.

"Oh," Jisung squeaked. "I... I think I left the stove on."

"The stove isn't on," Minho said, his hand sliding down to grip the back of Jisung’s neck, guiding him toward the exit. "But you certainly are."

The walk back to the dorm was silent, but the air between them was electric, charged with a new kind of tension that had nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with the fire Jisung had inadvertently stoked.

When they stepped inside, the dorm was dark. The other members were either out or asleep. Minho kicked the door shut with his heel, the sound echoing in the small entryway. He didn't drop the groceries. He simply set them down on the floor and pinned Jisung against the wall, his tall frame looming over the shorter boy.

"Now," Minho said, his blonde hair falling over his eyes, casting them in shadow. "What was that you were saying at the store?"

Jisung looked up at him, his pupils blown wide, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "I... I was just joking, hyung."

"Hyung?" Minho repeated, a small, dangerous smile playing on his lips. "What happened to the other name? I thought you liked it."

"I do," Jisung whispered, his hands reaching up to clutch at Minho’s waist. "I mean, I didn't think you’d... you know."

"You didn't think I’d take you seriously?" Minho asked, leaning in until their noses touched. "Jisung, I take everything you do seriously. Especially when you’re trying to provoke me."

He reached down, his hand sliding under the hem of Jisung’s hoodie, his palm warm against the soft skin of Jisung’s stomach. Jisung let out a small, shaky breath, his eyes fluttering shut.

"You’ve been a very loud, very distracting boy all week," Minho whispered, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative register that always made Jisung’s knees weak. "And I think it’s time we addressed that."

Jisung felt a shiver of pure anticipation race down his spine. He wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck, pulling him closer, his burgundy hair clashing beautifully with Minho’s blonde.

"And how are we going to address it?" Jisung breathed.

Minho leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from Jisung’s. "By making sure you’re too breathless to say anything at all."

The kiss that followed wasn't like their usual ones. It wasn't sweet or tentative. It was a claim—a deep, possessive exploration that left Jisung clinging to Minho for support. It was the rhythm of discipline meeting the fire of devotion, a perfect synthesis of everything they were to each other.

When they finally broke apart for air, Jisung was flushed and dazed, his head resting on Minho’s shoulder.

"So," Minho panted, his hand moving to gently pinch Jisung’s cheek. "Are you done with the nicknames?"

Jisung looked up, a tiny, defiant spark still flickering in his eyes despite his disheveled state. "For tonight? Maybe."

Minho groaned, but there was no real heat in it. He picked up the grocery bags with one hand and kept the other firmly around Jisung’s waist, leading him toward the bedroom.

"You’re going to be the death of me, Han Jisung," Minho muttered.

"But what a way to go," Jisung replied, leaning his head against Minho’s chest.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the silence of the dorm returned, but inside the room, the burgundy and the gold were finally finding a new, more intimate rhythm. Jisung had set out to tease, but in the end, he had discovered that some words carried a weight he was more than happy to bear, especially if it meant seeing the side of Lee Minho that only he was allowed to touch.

And if, later that night, a muffled "sorry, daddy" echoed through the room followed by a sharp, playful smack and a burst of genuine laughter, well—that was just their version of a lullaby.