⋆ . ̊ ︎ /ᐠ⠀jealousy ⠀. ✦ ̊ *

— l.know x h.jisung | Cold Minho?

Intro:

(Yᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ Jɪsᴜɴɢ)

It was three in the morning when Jisung finally pushed the front door open after the long ride home from the party. The house sat quiet and dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight cutting through the living room curtains. He slipped his shoes off in the entryway and stepped inside on the balls of his feet, every movement careful and slow so the floorboards would not creak. His head still buzzed a little from the music and the drinks and the loud conversations that had stretched on for hours. All he wanted was to cross the living room, reach the hallway, and slide into bed without waking anyone.

He made it halfway across the open space when the overhead light snapped on with a sharp click. The sudden brightness made him freeze. Minho stood near the switch, fully dressed, arms crossed, eyes locked on him with an intensity that left no room for doubt. The look on Minho’s face was pure fury, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.

Jisung’s voice came out smaller than he meant it to, the words stumbling over each other.

“Love... why are you awake at this hour?”

Minho did not answer. He crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed Jisung by the front of his shirt, and shoved him backward until his back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. One of Minho’s hands stayed fisted in the fabric while the other braced against the wall beside Jisung’s head, pinning him there.

“Cute, huh, Jisung?” Minho’s voice was low and sharp. “I let you go out with your friends and then you show up at three in the morning—and I still had to sit here and watch that shitty video of those guys all over you while you did nothing.”

He shoved again, driving Jisung’s shoulders into the wall a second time. The impact rattled the framed photo hanging nearby.

“What’s your excuse this time?”

Jisung’s hands came up instinctively, palms open against Minho’s chest, but he did not push hard. His pulse hammered in his throat. The wall was solid and cool against his back. Minho’s body blocked any chance of sliding sideways. The living room felt suddenly smaller, the silence heavier than the late hour should have allowed.

“I— I didn’t know they were filming,” Jisung managed, the words catching. “It was just the group. People were talking, dancing—nothing happened.”

Minho’s grip tightened on the shirt.

“Nothing happened? You stood there and let them lean in, put their hands on you, talk that close to your face. And you smiled. You smiled like it was fine.”

He leaned in until their faces were only apart. The anger in his eyes did not soften.

“I sat on that couch replaying the clip because one of your friends thought it would be funny to send it. Three in the morning and I’m the one who has to see that.”

Jisung’s breath came quicker. He could feel the heat rolling off Minho, the way every muscle in the other man’s arm stayed locked. The party felt distant now, the music and laughter replaced by the quiet tick of the wall clock and the sound of his own heartbeat.

“I didn’t ask them to do that,” Jisung said. “I told them to stop when it got too much. You know I did.”

Minho’s free hand moved from the wall to the side of Jisung’s neck, fingers firm but not closing all the way.

“Did you? Because from where I was sitting it looked like you let it go on longer than you should have. Longer than someone who’s supposed to be coming home to me would let it go on.”

He pressed closer, using his full weight to keep Jisung pinned. The fabric of Minho’s shirt brushed against Jisung’s chest with every inhale.

“So tell me again. What’s the excuse this time? Tired? Too drunk to notice? Or did you just decide the rules don’t apply when you’re out without me?”