The Love Between Us
The Fever of the Burgundy Moon
The dorm was thick with the scent of rain and the low, rhythmic hum of the city outside. It was 2:00 AM, the hour when the line between reality and dreams blurred into a hazy, indigo mist. Most of the members had long since retreated to their rooms, the frantic energy of their comeback preparations finally replaced by the heavy silence of exhaustion.
Han Jisung, however, was wide awake.
He lay sprawled across his bed, his burgundy hair fanned out against the white pillowcase like a splash of spilled wine. The air conditioning was humming, but he felt a persistent, prickling heat beneath his skin that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. He shifted restlessly, the friction of his silk pajama pants against his thighs sending a jolt of unwanted electricity through his nervous system.
He had been playing a dangerous game for weeks. The "daddy" nickname had started as a joke, a way to poke at Minho’s icy exterior, but somewhere along the line, the joke had curdled into something far more potent. Every time he said it, he saw the way Minho’s jaw tightened, the way his dark eyes darkened further, and the way his hands would twitch as if he were fighting the urge to reach out and take what was being offered.
Tonight, the teasing had backfired.
Jisung closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he remembered the way Minho had looked at him during their late-night dance practice. Minho had been corrected his posture, his long, cool fingers lingering just a second too long on Jisung’s waist, his voice a low, gravelly vibration as he whispered, "Focus, Jisung-ah. You’re being sloppy again."
Jisung had smirked, leaning back into the touch, and whispered, "Sorry, daddy. I’m just tired."
Minho hadn't snapped back. He hadn't rolled his eyes. He had simply stared at Jisung with an intensity that felt like a physical weight, his hand tightening on Jisung’s hip before he abruptly let go and walked away to change the music.
Now, in the silence of the night, that look was haunting him. Jisung rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow to stifle a frustrated groan. He was turned on—painfully, distractingly so—and the source of his frustration was only a few feet away in the next room.
He tried to distract himself. He tried to think about lyrics, about the choreography for their title track, about what he wanted for breakfast. But every thought led back to blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, and the steady, grounding presence of Lee Minho.
Finally, unable to bear the tension a moment longer, Jisung sat up. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, syncopated beat. He knew he was being a brat. He knew he was walking into the lion’s den. But the heat in his gut was a fire that only one person could extinguish.
He padded across the cold floor, his footsteps silent. The hallway was a tunnel of shadows, the only light coming from the tiny green LED of the microwave in the kitchen. He stopped in front of Minho’s door, his hand hovering over the handle.
"Hyung?" he whispered, his voice cracking.
There was no answer. Jisung took a deep breath, his fingers curling around the cold metal. He pushed the door open, the hinges letting out a faint, rhythmic creak.
The room smelled of peppermint and expensive laundry detergent—Minho’s scent. The older boy was lying on his side, his blonde hair messy against the dark sheets, his face softened by sleep. He looked peaceful, almost vulnerable, a far cry from the "tyrant" of the dance studio.
Jisung crept toward the bed, his knees trembling. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the weight of his body causing the springs to groan.
Minho stirred. His eyes fluttered open, blinking slowly as they adjusted to the dim light. When he saw the silhouette of burgundy hair hovering over him, his expression shifted from confusion to a sharp, alert focus.
"Jisung?" Minho’s voice was thick with sleep, a low rasp that made Jisung’s toes curl. "What are you doing? Is something wrong?"
Jisung didn't answer immediately. He leaned forward, his hands clutching the edge of the duvet. "I can't sleep," he whispered, his voice trembling with a vulnerability he couldn't hide.
Minho sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked at Jisung, his gaze sweeping over the younger boy’s flushed face and his wide, sparkling eyes. He saw the way Jisung was biting his lip, the way his chest was heaving with shallow breaths.
"You’re shaking," Minho noted, his voice softening. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he rested it on Jisung’s knee. "Are you sick? Do you have a fever?"
"No," Jisung breathed, leaning into the touch. "I... I’m just... I need help, hyung."
Minho’s hand stilled. He wasn't an idiot. He had seen the way Jisung had been looking at him all day, the way he had been pushing and pulling, testing the boundaries of their relationship with every "daddy" and every lingering touch. He saw the way Jisung was looking at him now—pleading, desperate, and utterly undone.
"Help with what, Jisung-ah?" Minho asked, his voice dropping an octave. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it. He wanted Jisung to admit what he had been doing.
Jisung’s face burned a deep, brilliant red. He reached out, his fingers tangling in the front of Minho’s t-shirt, pulling the older boy closer until their foreheads were almost touching.
"I’ve been a brat," Jisung whispered, his eyes searching Minho’s. "I’ve been teasing you all week. And now... now I can't turn it off. I’m so hot, Minho. Please."
Minho’s grip on Jisung’s knee tightened, his long fingers digging into the soft fabric of the pajama pants. A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his lips—the look of a hunter who had finally cornered his prey.
"So the Quokka has finally realized he’s in over his head," Minho murmured, his breath warm against Jisung’s lips. "You’ve been very brave behind that 'daddy' nickname, haven't you? You thought you could just poke the tiger and not get bitten."
Jisung let out a small, shaky whimper, his head dropping onto Minho’s shoulder. "I’m sorry. I just... I wanted you to look at me."
"I’m always looking at you," Minho countered, his hand sliding up from Jisung’s knee to his hip, pulling him firmly onto his lap.
Jisung gasped as he felt the solid weight of Minho beneath him. The proximity was overwhelming, the scent of peppermint and warm skin filling his senses until he couldn't think straight.
"You wanted my attention?" Minho whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Jisung’s ear. "Well, you have it now. All of it. But if we do this, Jisung, we’re doing it my way. No more jokes. No more teasing. Do you understand?"
Jisung nodded frantically, his arms wrapping around Minho’s neck. "Yes. Anything. Just... please."
Minho pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. His expression was no longer cold; it was burning with a fierce, protective desire that made Jisung’s heart skip a beat.
"Say it," Minho commanded, his hand sliding under the hem of Jisung’s shirt, his palm hot against the small of his back.
"Say what?" Jisung breathed.
"You know what," Minho said, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin of Jisung’s hip. "If you’re going to call me that, you’re going to mean it. You’re going to ask for what you want."
Jisung swallowed hard, his throat dry. He looked at Minho—the tall, blonde dancer who had caught him a thousand times on the practice room floor, the man who had seen every one of his flaws and loved him anyway.
"Help me... daddy," Jisung whispered, the word carrying a weight it never had before. It wasn't a joke anymore. It was a surrender.
Minho’s eyes darkened, a low growl vibrating in his chest. He didn't waste another second. He surged forward, his lips crashing against Jisung’s in a kiss that was raw, possessive, and utterly consuming. It was the culmination of weeks of tension, a release of all the unspoken words and stolen glances that had been building between them.
Jisung melted into the kiss, his fingers tangling in Minho’s blonde hair, pulling him closer as if he could merge their bodies into one. He felt Minho’s hands everywhere—on his back, his hips, his thighs—guiding him, marking him, claiming him.
Minho broke the kiss to trail a line of biting nips down Jisung’s neck, lingering on the sensitive spot just below his ear. "You’ve been such a handful lately," Minho murmured against his skin. "Always running your mouth, always tripping over your own feet. I think you need to be reminded who’s taking care of you."
"Show me," Jisung panted, his head falling back as Minho’s teeth grazed his collarbone. "Please, show me."
Minho pulled back, his hands moving to the waistband of Jisung’s pajama pants. He looked up at the younger boy, his gaze intense and unwavering.
"I’m going to take care of you, Jisung-ah," Minho promised, his voice a low, steady vow. "But tomorrow, when we’re back in that studio, you’re going to be the most focused, most disciplined student I’ve ever had. No more backtalk. No more distractions. Do you agree?"
Jisung could only nod, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. He would agree to anything in this moment, anything to keep Minho’s hands on him, anything to stay in this bubble of heat and devotion.
"Good boy," Minho whispered, the praise sending a fresh wave of heat through Jisung’s body.
The rest of the night was a blur of sensation. Minho was thorough, his movements as precise and deliberate as his choreography. He knew exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly how to make Jisung unravel. He was patient when Jisung was too sensitive, and firm when he was too frantic. He was exactly what Jisung needed—a grounding force in the middle of a storm.
When the sun began to peek through the curtains, casting a soft, golden light over the room, Jisung was curled into Minho’s side, his burgundy hair a mess against the older boy’s chest. He was exhausted, his body feeling heavy and limp, but the fire in his gut had finally been extinguished, replaced by a deep, resonant hum of contentment.
Minho was awake, his fingers idly tracing patterns on Jisung’s arm. He looked down at the younger boy, his expression soft and uncharacteristically tender.
"You okay?" Minho asked, his voice a low rumble.
Jisung hummed, a small, sleepy smile playing on his lips. "I’m perfect. Best help I’ve ever had."
Minho chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Jisung’s head. "Don't get used to it. You’re still doing extra laps today for all the trouble you’ve caused."
Jisung groaned, burying his face in Minho’s neck. "You’re so mean, hyung. I thought we were having a moment."
"We had several moments," Minho corrected, his hand sliding down to give Jisung’s backside a playful, gentle squeeze. "But the 'daddy' privileges come with responsibilities, Jisung-ah. And one of those responsibilities is making sure you don't get lazy."
Jisung looked up, his dark eyes sparkling with a familiar, mischievous light. "Does this mean I can still call you that?"
Minho sighed, a look of mock-exasperation crossing his face. But he didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled Jisung closer, his arms wrapping around him like a shield.
"Only when we’re alone," Minho said, his voice firm but laced with affection. "And only if you behave."
Jisung beamed, his chubby cheeks squishing up in a way that made Minho’s heart ache. "I’ll try. But no promises."
Minho rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He had known from the moment he met the clumsy, burgundy-haired rapper that his life would never be simple again. He had known that he would spend his days catching him and his nights holding him.
And as the city woke up around them, the blonde dancer and his burgundy-haired boy drifted back into a peaceful, dreamless sleep, finally finding the perfect balance between the discipline they needed and the devotion they craved.
The game was over, but the love—the fierce, protective, and undeniably domestic love—was only just beginning. And as long as they had each other, they knew they could handle whatever rhythm the world threw at them. Even if it involved a few extra laps and a lot more cheesecake.