Chapter Text
Minho wiped his hands on his apron, the hum of the espresso machine blending with the quiet chatter of customers. The message on his phone still lingered in his mind.
Channie:
Don’t forget your meds. And eat something too, please.
Simple and short. But it was him. Minho couldn't think about how he longed this before. And for some reason, that was enough to make Minho’s chest flutter in a way he wasn’t ready to deal with in the middle of a lunch rush.
He exhaled through a laugh he couldn’t quite hide.
Get a grip, Minho. It’s just a text.
But it wasn’t just a text, not when the man who’d barely looked at him for two years now remembered little things about him. Not when Chan had said please.
“Boss, order for table three’s done!” Felix called out, sliding a plate onto the counter.
“Got it,” Minho replied automatically, carrying the tray to the customers with his usual practiced smile. He was good at this, at moving gracefully, at hiding whatever mess of emotions stirred inside him. The bakery had become his comfort zone, his little bubble where everything made sense. Flour, sugar, laughter, simple things that didn’t ask for too much.
But today… everything felt different.
Maybe it was the way the sun filtered through the windows, or how the customers seemed warmer than usual.
Or maybe it was because Chan had driven him here this morning, hand brushing against his every so often, had kissed him like it was normal. The butterflies in his stomach lingers up until now, red flushes his face as he remembers the confession, the cuddles, and again yes, the kiss.
He shook his head, forcing himself back to focus.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jiyoon asked suddenly, sidling up beside him as he boxed up an order.
Minho blinked. “What?”
“You’ve been spacing out every ten minutes. And smiling to yourself,” she said, grinning knowingly. “If you’re gonna flirt through text, at least be subtle about it.”
“I’m not-” he started, but Jiyoon only laughed.
“Right. And I don’t work here six days a week.”
"Well, you actually don't" Hyunjin said, peeping his head from the backdoor before disappearing again. Jiyoon scoffed and rolled her eyes.
"Hey! I got assigned to another branch for your information" Jiyoon said and they hear say 'yeah yeah' from afar, making Minho laugh.
"Alright, that's enough. How are things are going in the Gangnam branch?" Minho says, crossing his arms. Jiyoon sighed for a moment before replying.
"It's okay I guess, there was a problem with the suppliers last week, so I had to handle that. But, that's sorted already! so I guess everything is smooth sailing like here"
"Hmm, that's good. Let me know if you need help, alright?"
"Okay, oppa! I'll catch ya later, I should take these to Jisung" She replied taking all the receips from the register. Before she could disappear completely, she turned to her brother. "By the way! I'm really happy for you big brother" She said, before speeding at the office.
He sighed before heading back to the counter.
He looked back at the spot she left, a tiny smile tugged at his lips. He couldn’t deny it anymore, the way Chan had been lately was making something shift inside him. Something he thought he’d buried after years of silence and coldness.
It felt dangerous to hope again. But he couldn’t stop himself.
Hours later, the bakery began to quiet down. The last few customers trickled out, the tables were wiped clean, and Hyunjin was counting the cash register while Jisung and Jeongin cleaned up the counter.
Minho sat at the corner table, notebook open, pen in hand, though he hadn’t written anything for the last half hour. The words just wouldn’t come.
He glanced at his phone again. No new messages.
Chan was probably busy, it was Friday, after all. Meetings, deadlines, a mountain of paperwork. He knows this, and what could possibly change since it's been always like this for years.
But still, Minho couldn’t help checking the clock every few minutes. It wasn’t like him to wait around for someone, especially not Chan. But after that text earlier, after the way Chan had looked at him this morning, soft, almost tender and Minho found himself… wanting.
It was frustrating.
Because he didn’t want to expect anything from someone who had already broken him once. But this time, it didn’t feel like the same Chan anymore.
He tried to busy himself but his mind couldn't focus. But then again he had to keep going until the day ends so he could go home already.
“Hey,” Hyunjin’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “You okay? You’ve been staring at that page for like ten minutes.”
Minho looked up, forcing a small smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”
Hyunjin exchanged a knowing glance with Jisung. “Right. Tired. Sure, that’s what we’re calling it.”
“Guys,” Jiyoon warned, rolling her eyes. “Leave him alone.”
Jeongin smirked. “You say that like you’re not curious too.”
Minho groaned, shutting his notebook. “You’re all unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably right,” Felix said under his breath, earning a glare from Minho that only made the group laugh harder.
When the clock hit six, Minho finally took off his apron. “I’ll lock up,” he said, waving the others off.
Jiyoon lingered by the door. “You sure?”
“Yeah, go ahead. I’ll finish here.”
As the door shut behind them, Minho let out a quiet sigh. The bakery felt peaceful now, the smell of baked bread fading, soft music still playing faintly through the speakers. He leaned on the counter, letting his eyes close for a moment.
It had been a long day. But even as exhaustion settled into his bones, he couldn’t shake the quiet, warm ache that came with thinking about Chan.
He wondered if Chan was still at work, or maybe on his way home. He wondered if Chan was thinking about him, too.
He was cleaning up the counter around the coffee machine, back facing the front door as the bell over the door jingled.
Minho quickly turned around, surprised. "Sorry, we're--"
He froze.
It was Chan.
Still in his work clothes, hair slightly messy, tie loosened, carrying a brown paper bag that smelled distinctly like takeout.
Chan smiled faintly. “You weren’t home.”
Minho’s breath caught. “I- I was just closing up.”
“I figured,” Chan said, walking closer, setting the bag on the counter. “So I brought dinner.”
Minho stared for a moment, unsure what to say. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” Chan said simply. “Besides, if I waited for you at home, this'll just be cold. Annnnd I might just slice my finger while cutting some vegetables and you won't be there to take care of me”
That made Minho laugh, softly. "You make it seem like you'll die without me"
Chan moved near him, leaning against the counter. "Yep, I need a Minho in my life, problem with that?"
"Yeah, whatever you say" Minho turned around, trying to hide the blush creeping up his face. Chan’s grin widened as he chuckled.
They ended up eating at one of the corner tables, the one by the window, where the evening light spilled golden through the glass. Chan had unpacked the takeout: two bowls of noodles, some side dishes, and a little container of dumplings that Minho knew Chan didn’t even like but always ordered when it was for both of them.
“Why’d you bring so much?” Minho asked, eyeing the spread.
Chan shrugged, stirring his noodles. “I didn’t know if you’d eaten yet. Or if you’d want leftovers for tomorrow.”
Minho smiled faintly. “You really think I last that long without finishing them?”
Chan looked up, eyes twinkling. “True. I’ve seen you destroy an entire tray of pastries before noon.”
That earned a quiet laugh from Minho, soft, genuine, the kind that curled something warm in Chan’s chest.
They ate mostly in silence for a while, the quiet between them comfortable, filled with the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional sound of traffic outside.
But Chan’s eyes kept drifting toward him. The way Minho’s sleeves were rolled up, the smudge of flour still dusted on his wrist, the faint crease on his brow that always deepened when he was lost in thought.
Chan didn’t realize he was staring until Minho spoke, voice gentle.
“What?”
Chan blinked, then shook his head, smiling a little. “Nothing. Just-” He hesitated. “You look… at peace here.”
Minho tilted his head. “At peace?”
Chan nodded. “Yeah. Happier. Like this place fits you.”
Minho looked down at his bowl, twirling his chopsticks. “It does, I guess. It’s… simple here. Predictable.” He paused, then smiled faintly. “People don’t just disappear.”
The words hung there, quiet but heavy.
Chan’s hand stilled. “Minho-”
“It’s okay,” Minho said quickly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
But Chan didn’t look away. His voice, when he spoke, was low, softer than Minho had heard it in a long time.
“I did,” Chan admitted. “I didn't disappear, but I wasn't there for you”
Minho froze.
Chan set his chopsticks down and leaned back slightly, exhaling. “I know I did. And I told myself I had reasons, that it was better that way, that I was protecting myself, and that… maybe you were better off not seeing me at my worst.”
He looked down at his hands. “But that doesn’t make it right.”
Minho’s throat felt tight. The air between them seemed to thicken, a fragile thing, stretched with unspoken hurt.
Chan looked up again, gaze steady now. “I just wanted you to know… I never stopped thinking about you. Even when I was gone.”
For a second, neither of them breathed.
The sound of the city faded, replaced by the slow rhythm of Minho’s heartbeat in his ears.
Then he whispered, almost disbelieving, “You mean that?”
Chan smiled faintly, a small, almost rueful smile. “You think I’d bring dumplings for anyone else?”
That broke the tension, Minho laughed, shaking his head as he covered his face with one hand. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” Chan said, leaning forward just a little. “But I’m trying.”
Minho lowered his hand, meeting his eyes again. And what he saw there was quiet sincerity, that same boyish warmth from years ago, made something in him give way.
He smiled. Soft. Real. “I know.”
Chan’s lips curved, relief flickering across his face. “Good.”
Another pause. Then, almost shyly, Chan asked, “So… can I walk you home after this?”
"We live in the same house, idiot" Minho laughed.
"What I meant was, would you like to walk with me after this?" Chan said, smiling shyly.
Minho looked at him for a moment, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like running from what that question meant.
He nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Dinner was pleasantly good and Chan had helped him clean up and close the shop. When they stepped outside the bakery, the city was already soft and dim, it's the calm that only came after a long day, when the streetlights hummed and the air smelled faintly of rain... and soil.
Minho locked the door, turning back to Chan. “You parked nearby?”
Chan rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Uh. About that.”
Minho squinted. “Don’t tell me—”
“I walked.”
Minho blinked. “You walked? From home?”
Chan grinned, unbothered. “It’s only, what, forty minutes? I needed the air.”
Minho laughed incredulously. “You’re insane."
"I told you we're walking home"
"Yeah and I thought that you parked somewhere far from the bakery and that we'll walk from there"
"Well you thought wrong" Chan says, smiling, hands slipping casually into his pockets. "And, i'm with you so it's gonna be worth it"
He said it so easily, so quietly, that it made Minho’s chest ache a little.
“Come on,” Minho sighed, tugging at the strap of his bag. “Guess we’re walking home together, then.”
Chan only smiled wider. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
They walked side by side down the dimly lit street, their footsteps falling in rhythm. At first, it was just quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that didn’t need filling. The night air was cool, brushing gently against their skin, and every so often, Chan would lean close enough for their shoulders to brush.
Minho didn’t move away.
After a while, Chan glanced down at him, voice warm. “You know,” he said, “I kind of like this.”
“What?”
“This.” Chan gestured vaguely at the street, the calm, the small space between them. “Walking with you like this. It feels… normal.”
Minho smiled. “We are married, you know. Normal couples do this all the time.”
Chan chuckled, looking away as if to hide his grin. “Guess we’re finally catching up, then.”
A quiet laugh slipped out of Minho, and the sound made Chan’s heart lurch in the most familiar way.
Without thinking, Chan reached out and ruffled Minho’s hair, just a light, affectionate touch.
Minho turned to glare, cheeks pink. “Yah! My hair!”
Chan laughed softly. “Couldn’t help it. You looked too… perfect.”
The words came out before he could stop them, and Minho froze, eyes wide, mouth parting slightly.
Chan, realizing what he’d said, rubbed his neck and looked away again. “Sorry. That was- uh...I mean, you do look...”
Minho laughed again, cutting him off. “You’re terrible at saving yourself.”
Chan grinned. “I know.”
The air between them shifted, lighter now, warmer.
A few steps later, Chan stopped for just a second, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of Minho’s hair behind his ear. His touch lingered, gentle and slow.
“You should sleep early tonight,” he murmured. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard again.”
Minho didn’t move, heart fluttering at how careful Chan’s voice had become. “Says the one who just got fever from overworking himself” he whispered back.
"By overworking you mean, thinking about how I should confess my long-time suppressed feelings, then yes" Chan said. Minho only froze, blinking twice as he feels the heat in his ears.
Chan smiled faintly, that soft, dimpled smile that melted him every single time, and leaned forward to press a small kiss against Minho’s temple.
“I love you” Chan said quietly
Minho’s throat tightened, but before he could answer, Chan’s hand found his. Not deliberate, not planned, just a quiet brushing of fingers that turned into a full, steady hold.
Neither of them said a word.
They just walked, hand in hand, beneath the quiet streetlights, and for the first time in a long time, Minho felt the weight in his chest finally ease.
The world wasn’t perfect. Their history wasn’t clean. But tonight, it didn’t matter.
Because Chan was beside him. And for the first time, Minho let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, this was how healing began.
~
By the time they got home, the walk had left them pleasantly tired. The house felt different now, softer, somehow. Like the walls had heard their laughter and decided to keep it.
They didn’t talk much after that. Just exchanged quiet smiles as they moved around each other, falling into an easy rhythm, Chan grabbing towels, Minho setting out their nightclothes. They showered one after the other, steam fogging up the mirror and the faint scent of mint shampoo lingering in the air.
When Minho stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulders, he saw Chan already on the bed, hair damp, shirt slightly wrinkled, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
Chan turned his head lazily, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You look like you could fall asleep standing,” he teased softly.
Minho rolled his eyes but smiled anyway, sliding under the covers. “And whose fault is that? You dragged me into walking forty minutes home.”
“Hey,” Chan murmured, voice low and amused. “Worth it.”
Minho didn’t answer, but his chest felt warm.
They lay there, facing opposite sides at first, the silence stretching comfortably between them. Only the sound of their breathing filled the room, slow, steady, syncing little by little.
Minho shifted slightly, turning on his side. A few seconds later, he felt it, the mattress dipping behind him, a familiar arm hesitantly wrapping around his waist.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe at first.
Then slowly, his hand found its way over Chan’s, fingers threading together.
Chan let out a small breath, almost a sigh of relief. His forehead came to rest against the back of Minho’s neck, his voice barely above a whisper. “Is this okay?”
Minho hummed softly, closing his eyes. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”
The warmth of Chan’s chest pressed against his back, heartbeat steady, calm and sure. Without meaning to, Minho turned slightly, enough to face him. Their eyes met in the dim light, sleepy and soft.
For a long, quiet moment, they just looked at each other.
Then, wordlessly, Chan pulled him closer, their foreheads brushing, breaths mingling in the faint hush of night.
Minho smiled against his chest as Chan’s arms tightened around him.
“Goodnight, Chan.”
“Goodnight, Minho,” Chan murmured back, voice drowsy and tender.
And as the world outside faded into stillness, the two of them drifted off, tangled in warmth, wrapped around each other like they’d finally found where they were meant to be all along.
~
It was one of those quiet nights when the city outside seemed to hum instead of roar. The dinner table between them was set simply, nothing fancy, just Minho’s homemade pasta, a bottle of wine they’d been saving, and two candles flickering faintly against the soft jazz playing in the background.
Minho twirled his fork idly, smiling across the table. “You’re getting better at setting the mood, you know.”
Chan smirked, leaning back in his chair. “What can I say? I learn fast.”
“You? Learning to relax? That’s new.”
Chan chuckled, shaking his head, but his gaze lingered on Minho for a little too long. The kind of gaze that made Minho’s heart skip, not out of illness, but warmth.
After a while, the conversation drifted to lighter things, bakery stories, Jiyoon’s recent visit, Jeongin accidentally using salt instead of sugar again and Minho laughed so hard his eyes crinkled. Chan laughed too, but quieter. Watching.
Then, as Minho reached across the table to pour him another glass, Chan spoke softly, almost without thinking.
“I like this.”
Minho blinked. “The pasta?”
Chan’s lips curved. “No.” His voice was low, a little rough. “This. You. Us. Just… being like this.”
Something flickered in Minho’s chest. He set the bottle down carefully. “You sound serious.”
Chan shrugged lightly, looking away, almost embarrassed. “Guess I am.” A pause.
“I used to think love was loud. Complicated. Something you fight for, or against.” He smiled faintly. “But it turns out, it’s this. Just… coming home to you.”
Chan swallowed, continuing. “For a long time, this place felt like a house. A place I slept in. Worked in. Existed in. But now…” His voice softened. “Now, when you’re here, it feels like… warmth. Like a place I want to come back to.”
Minho’s breath hitched. The room felt smaller, warmer.
“Chan…”
“I’m not good at saying these things,” Chan admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you should know. You make it easy to be… happy. Easier than I ever thought it could be.”
There was a long silence, the good kind. Minho’s eyes softened, his lips trembling just a little as he whispered, “Then stop trying so hard to say it.”
Chan looked up just as Minho reached for his hand across the table. Fingers brushed, then held.
Chan gave a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be dramatic.”
“You’re not,” Minho said, shaking his head gently. “I just… didn’t expect to hear that.”
“Why not?”
Minho looked down at his plate, fingers tightening around his fork. “Because for a long time, you made me feel like I didn’t belong anywhere near you.”
The words weren’t bitter. Just honest.
Chan nodded slowly. “I know.” His voice trembled just slightly. “And if I could undo even half of that, I would.”
Silence stretched between them, not heavy, just full.
Then Minho leaned back in his chair, exhaling through a small smile. “You’re trying now. That’s what matters.”
Chan looked up. Hope flickered across his face, soft and bright.
“You know,” Minho murmured, “I like this too.”
Chan’s breath stopped. “Yeah?”
Minho nodded, a tiny smile tugging his lips. “Yeah. Us. Like this.”
Slow. Safe. Warm.
Chan’s shoulders loosened with relief, his smile blooming, soft, boyish, the one Minho had once loved so stupidly it hurt. The one he was slowly letting himself love again.
A moment passed.
Then Chan, unable to help himself, whispered:
“Can I kiss you?”
Minho blinked.
The question landed between them with gentle weight, not rushed, not assuming. Just a quiet want.
Minho’s smile widened, just barely, just enough. “You're asking like we haven't been kissing”
"Well, you know... like you said, just setting up the mood" Chan says.
Minho stood up slowly, moving around the table. Chan watched him, breath held, hands still, eyes lifting to meet him.
When Minho reached him, he placed a hand on Chan’s jaw, thumb brushing lightly against his cheek.
“You really want to kiss me?” Minho murmured.
Chan nodded once, almost shyly. “Yeah.”
Minho leaned in, stopping just a breath away, teasing, whispering against his lips:
“Then do it.”
Chan didn’t waste a second.
He kissed him, softly first, hesitant, testing the waters. And when Minho sighed against his mouth, leaning in, Chan deepened it just a little.
Warm. Slow. Gentle.
Just a loving kiss.
When they finally separated, Minho rested his forehead against Chan’s, breath warm, voice barely above a whisper.
“Don’t disappear again, please”
Chan cupped the back of his neck gently. “I won’t. Not from you.”
Minho closed his eyes, letting the promise settle somewhere deep inside him, like warm water soaking into cold hands. He didn’t immediately trust it, not fully, not blindly, but it settled anyway. It found a space inside him that had been hollow for a long time, a space he had assumed would never feel full again. And now, with Chan’s words still echoing between them, something quiet and fragile began to unfold in its place.
He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. It wasn’t racing, it was steady, firm, almost grounding. He breathed out slowly, letting the moment wash over him. Not healed. Not perfect. He knew they had a long way to go before they could call themselves anything close to whole. But this, this honesty, this softness, this willingness to try felt more real than anything they’d shared in years.
When Minho finally opened his eyes, Chan was already watching him. Really watching him. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no guilt, no guardedness, only pure, unfiltered warmth. It was the kind of expression Chan rarely let anyone see, a look so gentle it almost made Minho flinch. It carried a thousand unspoken things: apologies, longing, hope.
It made Chan look like someone who had been waiting for him for a long time.
The faint light in the dining room reflected in Chan’s pupils, making them shine softly, like he was holding the whole room’s glow inside him. And for the first time in a long while, Minho didn’t look away.
Slowly, the corner of Minho’s mouth lifted, not quite a smile, but close. Something tender, almost shy.
“…Come here,” Minho whispered.
His voice wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t commanding. It was an invitation, gentle but sure, like a hand extended across a familiar gap they were finally ready to close.
Chan inhaled sharply, a tiny, involuntary sound, as if the words had hit him somewhere vulnerable. Instead of moving forward, he placed his free hand underneath Minho's chair, pulling the chair closer towards him, making Minho gasp softly.
Chan stared at his eyes briefly before closing the last few inches between them. Minho had slipped one hand along the side of Chan’s face, fingers brushing the soft skin just below his ear. His thumb moved slowly, like he was memorizing the texture of someone he never thought he’d touch like this again.
Chan leaned into the touch immediately, instinctively, as if his body had been waiting to respond to Minho’s hand for years.
And then Minho leaned down and kissed him.
This kiss was nothing like the first one. It wasn’t hesitant or testing. It didn’t tremble or question. It was steady, warm, certain, lingering in a way that said he wanted it. A way that said he wasn’t afraid of wanting it anymore.
Chan’s breath caught against Minho’s lips, and Minho felt him melt just slightly, just enough for their bodies to fall into an old, familiar rhythm that neither of them had forgotten. Chan’s hand came up slowly, almost cautiously, resting against Minho’s waist like he was afraid of holding too tightly. Minho didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, deepening the kiss by a fraction.
The world around them softened. The only thing that existed in that moment was the warmth of Chan’s mouth and the way he exhaled softly every time Minho brushed a little closer.
When Minho finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead stayed pressed against Chan’s, his breath mingling with the older man’s. Chan’s lashes fluttered, eyes still half-closed, like he was trying to savor the last seconds of the kiss.
Minho whispered, barely audible, “This… feels right.”
And Chan, voice thick with emotion he couldn’t quite hide, responded just as quietly:
“So right.”
And that night, their hands stayed intertwined on Chan’s lap. Their breaths remained warm between them. And for a moment that stretched long and gentle, the world felt safe. Not healed. Not perfect. But real. And real was more than enough.
Chan had stayed close, carried the dishes for Minho, brushed flour from his cheek when they ended up baking dessert just for fun, and kissed him goodnight like it was the easiest thing in the world.
The following morning, the sunlight spilled softly through the curtains, painting the room in warm gold. The air was calm, filled with that quiet kind of peace that comes after laughter and confessions that didn’t need words.
Chan stirred first. The faint weight of Minho’s arm draped over his chest was the first thing he felt, followed by the steady rhythm of Minho’s breathing against his shoulder.
He smiled. Slow, lazy, genuine.
For once, Chan didn’t rush to get up. He simply lay there, tracing small circles against Minho’s back, his other hand tucked under the pillow.
“Stop staring,” Minho mumbled, voice groggy.
Chan chuckled quietly. “You’re awake.”
“I was,” Minho said, eyes still closed, “until someone’s heartbeat got too loud.”
“That’s funny,” Chan murmured. “Because someone’s snoring got louder first.”
Minho cracked an eye open and glared weakly at him. “I don’t snore.”
“You do,” Chan teased, grin widening. “Like a cat purring. It’s kind of cute, actually.”
Minho groaned, hiding his face against Chan’s chest. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Chan murmured, pressing a soft kiss into his hair, “you’re still here.”
That shut Minho up. But his hand slid up to rest against Chan’s heartbeat, thumb tracing lazy patterns. They stayed like that for a while, the world outside starting to wake, but neither of them moving.
When Minho finally spoke again, his voice was small but full of warmth. “You know, I could get used to this.”
Chan smiled. “You already have.”
Minho scoffed. “Confident much?”
“Maybe.” Chan’s hand moved to cup Minho’s cheek, gentle but sure. “You make it easy to be.”
Minho just shook his head, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm,” Chan said softly, kissing the top of his head. “But you love me anyway.”
The words hung in the air, not a question, not quite a statement either, but Minho didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned in closer, mumbling, “I do,” before closing his eyes again.
And Chan heard it. But instead of saying anything, he smiled and Minho couldn't see it as he was laying against his chest. Chan's heart was fluttering, like Minho could already feel the sudden loud beating of Chan's heart.
Chan only tighten his hold, pressed a kiss once again on top of Minho's head before leaning his cheek on the younger's head.
They didn’t rush that morning. Breakfast came late, with Minho still in his pajamas, cooking while Chan leaned against the counter watching him, the same way he used to, but this time with something softer in his gaze.
Everything felt normal now. Easy. Like love wasn’t something they had to chase anymore, it was simply there, in the way Chan reached for Minho’s mug to pour him coffee first, or the way Minho pressed a kiss to Chan’s lips before leaving for work.
Chan arrived at the office exactly fifteen minutes early, which in itself wasn’t suspicious. What was suspicious, however, was the fact that he was humming.
Changbin noticed first. “Okay. What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” Chan asked, flipping through his papers, tone far too casual.
“You’re smiling.”
“I always smile.”
“No, you don’t, Well atleast for a few days. Like the other day when you said you looked like you won a lottery. I thought that was a one time thing...” Seungmin cut in from his desk.
“But then it's becoming a daily routine... you know before-you frown. You glare. You sigh dramatically. But this-” he pointed at Chan, “-this is new.”
Chan’s brow furrowed, still smiling slightly despite himself. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m serious,” Changbin said, leaning forward. “Is this what happens when you actually get enough sleep? Should we expect this every day now?”
Chan tried to play it off, busying himself with his laptop. “Maybe I just had a good morning.”
Seungmin raised an eyebrow. “A good morning, huh? That’s code for something.”
“It’s code for you two needing to mind your own business,” Chan muttered, typing too fast to be natural.
“Sure, sure,” Changbin said, smirking. “It’s just weird seeing you like this. You’re usually one bad email away from flipping your desk.”
“Must’ve been a really good morning,” Seungmin added dryly, eyes narrowing.
Chan froze for half a second, just enough for both of them to notice.
Seungmin and Changbin exchanged glances, then burst out laughing.
“Fine, don’t tell us,” Changbin said, still chuckling. “But whatever it is, keep doing it. You’re actually… turning into a human these following days.”
Chan tried to glare, but it came out half-hearted, the corners of his mouth tugging up again. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was,” Seungmin said. “Surprisingly.”
As they went back to their work, Chan sat at his desk, unable to wipe the faint smile off his face. The memory of Minho’s sleepy grin from earlier lingered in his mind, warm and steady like the sunlight streaming through his window.
When Seungmin and Changbin had left, the younger nudged Changbin on the side. "Told you we're going to witness more first times of him" Both of them laughed.
"Hope Chan-hyung stays that way. He really needs it" Seungmin agreed before the part ways, going on to their separate stations.
~
Days turned into weeks, and soon enough, their life fell into a comfortable rhythm, a kind of peace Chan hadn’t realized he’d been missing all along.
Minho’s health had improved drastically. His arrhythmia, once unpredictable and terrifying, was now carefully managed with medication and regular check-ups. The color had returned to his cheeks, the tiredness under his eyes gone. Sometimes Chan would catch him humming in the kitchen early in the morning, or laughing with Jiyoon over the phone, and it still felt unreal, that this was the same Minho he used to look right through.
Now, he couldn’t not look.
Their mornings began the same way, Minho cooking breakfast while Chan hovered nearby, pretending to help but mostly just watching. They’d drink coffee side by side, their shoulders brushing. Chan would walk Minho to the bakery before heading to his office, and some days, he’d show up again around lunch with takeout, insisting that “the bakery food doesn’t count as a real meal.”
Minho's friends had gotten used to it by now, Felix teasing (without the stuttering of course), Hyunjin pretending to gag every time Chan appeared at the counter.
“Seriously, hyung, just open your own café if you love this place that much,” Jisung joked once.
Chan only grinned. “Maybe I just love the person who runs it.”
Minho, red-eared and trying not to smile, would threaten to throw flour at him.
Their evenings were slow and easy, sometimes cooking together, sometimes curled up on the couch with a movie neither of them finished.
Chan started initiating date nights too, small, quiet dinners where they’d talk about everything and nothing. Minho would catch Chan staring across the table sometimes, eyes soft, almost reverent. When asked why, Chan would just shrug and say, “Just making sure you’re real.”
And Minho would laugh, but secretly, his heart would race every single time.
They’d built something steady. Safe. So normal that even Changbin and Seungmin and their other co-workers started teasing him about “finally learning what happiness looks like.”
But more than routine, it was the small things. The way Chan’s hand would automatically find Minho’s as they crossed the street. The way Minho would sneak an extra pastry into Chan’s bag every morning before he left.
They didn’t talk about the past anymore. They didn’t have to.
Because somewhere between burnt breakfasts, shared umbrellas, and quiet laughter in the dark, they’d already rewritten their story.