Jisung knew better. His mother’s soft voice, full of unspoken worry, echoed in his mind every time he crossed the threshold of Minho’s apartment. Be careful, Jisung. Some people only take what they want. He knew the rumors that swirled around Minho, whispers of discarded interests and casual, calculating coldness. But knowing was entirely different from feeling.

​When Minho looked at him—a brief, focused moment of eye contact across the room—it felt like a sudden, necessary intake of oxygen. Minho was the high: experienced, effortless, and capable of making Jisung feel seen in a way that burned away all the noise of being young and lost. And like any addiction, Jisung was already planning the withdrawal while still chasing the fix. If Minho hurt him, Jisung knew, with a sickening certainty, he would just come back for more.

​Tonight, Jisung sat on the edge of the large, cool sofa, watching Minho scroll through his phone, offering only fragments of conversation and attention. Minho was bored; the atmosphere told Jisung that much. He saw the flicker of detachment in the older man’s gaze—a look that acknowledged Jisung’s presence without recognizing his heart.

​Minho finally looked up, his expression smooth, practiced, and utterly neutral. He reached out, not with warmth, but with a casual proprietary ease, and rested his hand on the back of Jisung's neck. It was a gesture of ownership, not affection, but Jisung leaned into the pressure anyway, a puppy desperate for a gentle hand, even if the hand belonged to a predator.

​"You're quiet tonight, Sung," Minho murmured, his tone possessing a quality that sounded like caring but was, Jisung knew, just the careful modulation of someone playing a role. Minho saw the admiration in Jisung’s eyes; he thrived on it.

​Jisung lifted his head, locking eyes with him. In that moment, the student's doe eyes were wide, unguarded, and full of the honest, naive love Minho had zero intention of reciprocating. I love you, the gaze screamed, though Jisung dared not say the words out loud.

​Minho’s reaction was subtle but devastating. He didn't flinch or soften. Instead, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his mouth—the look of a man who had confirmed a calculation. Yes, he's still here. Still looking at me like that. Minho knew exactly the fragile, desperate state he had fostered in the younger man, and he didn't care.

​The older man tightened his grip just enough to pull Jisung closer, his intentions clear and uncomplicated by any genuine feeling. Jisung, knowing he was being exploited, feeling stupid and foolish, closed his eyes and leaned in anyway. The drug was calling, and he was already hooked.

​Minho let him stay for the rest of the night, but the sun found Jisung awake, utterly alone again, the cold space beside him confirming the temporary, transactional nature of the encounter.