The world had shifted twenty years ago when the first Paranormals emerged—people born with abilities that defied physics and logic. Now, society existed in a delicate balance between the gifted and the ordinary, with Paranormals holding most positions of power while the ungifted navigated a world where their neighbors might read minds or manipulate elements. Minho stood firmly in the former category, his ability to duplicate himself up to five times making him invaluable in nearly every profession he attempted, from construction to security to entertainment. Yet for all his power, he found himself helpless when it came to the one ordinary person who had captured his heart completely.

Jisung had been his shadow since childhood, the only constant in Minho's life as his duplicates came and went on various errands and jobs. While Minho could fill a room with versions of himself, Jisung remained singular, breathtakingly unique with his delicate features and the kind of beauty that turned heads wherever he walked. Minho had memorized every curve of him—the way his slim waist fit perfectly between Minho's hands when they wrestled or hugged, the way his bubble ass provided the softest cushion when Minho grew tired and needed to rest his head while they watched movies on Jisung's couch. These touches started as jokes, as friendly affection, but neither man could pretend any longer that the electricity between them was platonic.

The problem was the weight of history. They had been best friends for fifteen years, sharing secrets and traumas and dreams, building a fortress of trust that neither wanted to crumble. Minho watched Jisung date others with a jealousy that made his duplicates flicker and fade uncontrollably, while Jisung traced the lines of Minho's face when he thought the other wasn't looking, wondering what it would be like to kiss the original rather than just observing the copies. They orbited each other like binary stars, close enough to feel each other's heat but terrified that collision would destroy everything they had built.

One rainy Tuesday, Minho found himself with all five duplicates deployed on various tasks, leaving just the original version alone in his apartment when Jisung arrived soaked from the storm. They fell into their usual positions on the couch—Jisung seated, Minho stretching out with his head resting on Jisung's plush rear, arms wrapped around that slim waist he adored. The comfort was immediate and overwhelming, and Minho realized with sudden clarity that he had been using his ability to avoid vulnerability, sending copies to face the world while he hid behind his friendship with Jisung. He tightened his grip on that waist and felt Jisung's breath hitch above him.

"I can't send a duplicate to do this," Minho whispered against the small of Jisung's back, feeling the shiver that ran through his best friend's body. Jisung turned slowly, looking down at Minho with eyes dark with want and fear in equal measure. "I want you, all of you, just you. Not five versions of me trying to figure this out—just me, risking everything." Jisung's hand found Minho's hair, fingers trembling as he leaned down until their foreheads touched. "Then just be here," Jisung breathed. "Be here with me, and we'll figure out the rest." And for the first time in his life, Minho let all his copies fade away, choosing to be singularly, terrifyingly present as he pulled Jisung down into a kiss that felt like finally coming home.

Scenario One: The Morning After the Storm

I wake up to the sound of rain against the window and the warmth of Jisung's back pressed against my chest. We're on his couch—when did we fall asleep? My arm is draped over his waist, my fingers resting on the subtle curve of his stomach, and I can feel every breath he takes. It's torture and heaven simultaneously. I could duplicate right now, send one version to make coffee, another to start breakfast, a third to answer the texts piling up on my phone. It's instinct at this point, a defense mechanism against intimacy. But Jisung shifts in his sleep, pressing that perfect bubble ass back against me, and I force myself to stay singular. I bury my face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his shampoo, and think about how terrifying it is to want someone this much when you have nothing to hide behind. My hand slides down to grip his waist properly, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his hips, and he stirs with a soft noise that makes my chest ache. "Stay," he mumbles, half-asleep, covering my hand with his own. I don't send a single duplicate anywhere. I just hold him tighter and whisper, "I'm not going anywhere."

Scenario Two: The Club

The bass is thudding through my ribs as I watch from the bar, three of me scattered through the crowd keeping eyes on Jisung while the original nurses a whiskey. He's dancing—god, the way he moves should be illegal, hips swaying, that slim waist twisting in ways that make my mouth dry. A guy approaches him, hands reaching for those hips I consider mine, and I feel my duplicates tense simultaneously with the original. I could send a fourth to intervene. I could surround Jisung with versions of myself, block out the world, keep him safe and marked and claimed. But that's the coward's way, using my power to avoid actually saying what I want. So I down my drink, recall all three copies in a blink—they dissolve into light and return to me—and I cross the floor myself. I slide behind Jisung, fitting myself against that plush ass, gripping that tiny waist with both hands, and the other guy backs off immediately. Jisung melts back against me, recognizing my touch instantly. "Took you long enough," he says over the music. I lean down to his ear, my thumbs stroking the skin under his shirt. "I wanted to be the one touching you. Just me."

Scenario Three: The Confession

We're in my kitchen at 2 AM, Jisung sitting on the counter in nothing but my oversized hoodie, his bare legs swinging, that perfect ass perched on my granite countertop like he belongs there. I've got four duplicates cleaning the apartment—one doing dishes, one folding laundry, two reorganizing my chaos—because I'm nervous and old habits die hard. But I make the fifth stay right here, present, vulnerable. "Recall them," Jisung says softly, watching me with those dark eyes. "All of them. Just for a minute." My throat tightens. It's like asking me to strip naked, to be defenseless. But I look at him—really look at him, the way the moonlight catches his cheekbones, the way the hoodie slips off one shoulder, the way he's looking at me like I'm enough as just one person—and I pull them all back. Four flashes of light return to my body, and suddenly it's just me, standing in the middle of my kitchen, heart hammering against my ribs. Jisung's smile is worth the terror. He opens his arms. "Come here, then." I cross the space between us, fitting myself between his thighs, my hands finding that slim waist automatically, pulling him to the edge of the counter so I can feel him against me. "I've loved you since we were sixteen," I admit against his lips. "All of me. Every version." He kisses me slow and deep, and for the first time, I don't feel the urge to split myself apart at all.