Lee Minho

You're Han Jisung!

---

Lee Minho was twenty-six, worked at a small café tucked into a quiet street, and had somehow become the unofficial favorite employee of half the neighborhood.

He was warm without being overly familiar, handsome without seeming to realize it, and had a habit of smiling at customers like he genuinely remembered every single one of them.

Which, unfortunately, meant people hit on him constantly.

He handled it gracefully.

A polite smile.

A gentle laugh.

A firm but friendly refusal when necessary.

Outside of work, Minho was much quieter.

He liked books, late-night walks, cats, and music.

Especially rock.

And metal.

His music library was embarrassingly enormous, ranging from classical piano pieces to obscure underground metal bands.

But rock had always been his favorite.

He liked music that felt alive.

Music that made you feel something.

And then he discovered Han Jisung.

---

Han Jisung was twenty-four and one of the most annoyingly talented people Minho had ever encountered.

He was a solo artist.

Singer.

Songwriter.

Producer.

Guitarist.

Drummer.

Pianist.

And, according to the internet, apparently incapable of being bad at anything.

His music was primarily rock and metal, but his discography was impossible to categorize.

Heavy guitar riffs.

Soft piano ballads.

Acoustic songs.

Experimental tracks.

Electronic influences.

Occasional songs entirely in Japanese.

Songs in English.

Songs in Korean.

Jisung also spoke all three languages conversationally: Korean, English, and Japanese.

He was talented enough that people sometimes forgot how young he was.

Then he'd go on livestream and spend twenty minutes talking about a stray cat he'd seen outside the studio.

He was known for being ridiculously sweet to his fans.

Always thanking them.

Always remembering little things.

Always making jokes.

Which made the occasional glimpse of his serious side all the more striking.

---

Minho didn't intend to become a fan.

It happened accidentally.

One evening, he was looking for new rock music.

He clicked on a recommended song.

Then stopped.

The guitar immediately caught his attention.

The arrangement was intricate without feeling overproduced, the drums were sharp, and Jisung's voice carried an intensity Minho wasn't expecting.

By the end of the song, Minho was staring at the screen.

"...Who is this?"

He looked him up.

One song became three.

Three became an album.

The album became an entire discography.

Then Minho discovered Jisung's live performances.

Then his studio videos.

Then his interviews.

Then a video of him playing three different instruments during one performance.

Minho stared at the screen.

"...That's ridiculous."

He watched it again.

Eventually, his friends noticed.

"You're listening to that guy again."

"His music is good."

"You said that yesterday."

"Because it's still good."

"You've listened to the same album four times."

Minho looked offended.

"What's your point?"

His friends exchanged a look.

Minho had become a fan.

A very quiet fan.

But a fan nonetheless.

---

Months later, Minho finally got tickets to Jisung's concert.

He'd been looking forward to it for weeks.

And it was incredible.

Until the microphones started malfunctioning.

The first time, Minho barely noticed.

The second time, he frowned.

The third time, Jisung visibly lost patience.

The audience noticed immediately.

So did Minho.

Jisung's expression hardened.

But he didn't let it ruin the performance.

He adapted.

He moved toward another microphone.

When that one failed, he sang without it.

When the backing track briefly became uneven, he adjusted.

He never stopped.

And somehow, the more things went wrong, the more impressive he became.

By the end of the song, the entire venue was screaming.

Minho was on his feet too.

Not because Jisung was his favorite artist.

Not only because of that.

He was impressed.

Genuinely impressed.

After the performance, Jisung went backstage and confronted the staff—not cruelly, but firmly.

Minho later saw the clips spreading online.

"I've never seen him so pissed. He's always so sweet."

"He still did SO WELL."

"He's incredibly talented."

"He even made sure to check on the staff despite being angry with them 😭"

And then:

"Why is he highkey hot when he's mad?"

Minho stared at that comment for several seconds.

Then quietly locked his phone.

"...People are strange."

He smiled anyway.

---

By the time Minho reached the front of the line, he'd replayed the same thought approximately twenty times.

Don't embarrass yourself.

Which was ridiculous.

He was twenty-six years old.

He was meeting a musician.

A musician he admired, yes, but still.

He wasn't going to start screaming or crying or forgetting how to speak.

Probably.

The fan before him stood up, smiling as she thanked Jisung before walking away with her signed album.

Then Jisung looked up.

And Minho's brain promptly stopped being useful.

He'd seen him countless times before.

On stage.

In interviews.

In music videos.

Through a screen, Jisung always seemed larger than life—confident and energetic, especially when performing.

Up close, though...

He was just a person.

A very pretty person.

His hair was slightly messy, his sleeves were pushed up, and there was something disarmingly warm about the smile he gave Minho.

"Hi!"

Minho smiled back.

"Hi."

He placed his album on the table.

Jisung glanced down at it before looking back at him.

"Oh, you brought this one."

"Yeah."

"Is it your favorite?"

Minho hesitated.

"One of them."

Jisung's eyebrows lifted.

"One of them?"

A quiet laugh escaped Minho.

"You have too many good songs."

For a moment, Jisung simply stared at him.

Then he laughed.

"That's a good problem to have."

"Definitely."

Minho found himself relaxing.

This was easier than he'd expected.

Jisung was exactly like he seemed in interviews—friendly, expressive, and genuinely interested in whoever was sitting in front of him.

Then Jisung tilted his head slightly.

"You look familiar."

Minho blinked.

"Do I?"

"I think I've seen you somewhere before."

"I don't think so."

"Hm."

Jisung studied him for another second, as though genuinely trying to place him.

Minho couldn't help smiling.

Maybe he'd seen him at a concert.

Maybe another fan event.

Or maybe Jisung was simply saying that to make conversation.

Either way, it was strangely flattering.

Then Jisung smiled.

"Well, I'm glad you're here."

Something warm settled in Minho's chest.

"Me too."

He wasn't sure what else to say.

He'd spent months listening to this man's music, watching his performances, and admiring how effortlessly talented he seemed.

Yet somehow, sitting across from him, Minho wasn't thinking about any of that.

He was just thinking about how nice Jisung's smile was.

And how unfairly easy it was to smile back.

"Well, Jisung continues, holding out his hands like he does with all fans, "What's your name?"

Minho almost doesn't hear the question to begin with.

He's too focused on the fact that Jisung is offering his hands—warm, strong, probably calloused from playing so many instruments—to hold Minho's.

Minho's hands are shaking when they lace their fingers together. He has no idea how fans handle this part.

His hand is only slightly smaller than Jisung's, paler in comparison to Jisung's honey skintone, and now all Minho can think about is how well their palms and digits fit together.

"Minho," Minho answers, gulping hard, his hands trembling slightly in Jisung's grip because holy shit. "Lee, uh, Lee Minho."

You're Han Jisung!

---

Lee Minho was twenty-six, worked at a small café tucked into a quiet street, and had somehow become the unofficial favorite employee of half the neighborhood.

He was warm without being overly familiar, handsome without seeming to realize it, and had a habit of smiling at customers like he genuinely remembered every single one of them.

Which, unfortunately, meant people hit on him constantly.

He handled it gracefully.

A polite smile.

A gentle laugh.

A firm but friendly refusal when necessary.

Outside of work, Minho was much quieter.

He liked books, late-night walks, cats, and music.

Especially rock.

And metal.

His music library was embarrassingly enormous, ranging from classical piano pieces to obscure underground metal bands.

But rock had always been his favorite.

He liked music that felt alive.

Music that made you feel something.

And then he discovered Han Jisung.

---

Han Jisung was twenty-four and one of the most annoyingly talented people Minho had ever encountered.

He was a solo artist.

Singer.

Songwriter.

Producer.

Guitarist.

Drummer.

Pianist.

And, according to the internet, apparently incapable of being bad at anything.

His music was primarily rock and metal, but his discography was impossible to categorize.

Heavy guitar riffs.

Soft piano ballads.

Acoustic songs.

Experimental tracks.

Electronic influences.

Occasional songs entirely in Japanese.

Songs in English.

Songs in Korean.

Jisung also spoke all three languages conversationally: Korean, English, and Japanese.

He was talented enough that people sometimes forgot how young he was.

Then he'd go on livestream and spend twenty minutes talking about a stray cat he'd seen outside the studio.

He was known for being ridiculously sweet to his fans.

Always thanking them.

Always remembering little things.

Always making jokes.

Which made the occasional glimpse of his serious side all the more striking.

---

Minho didn't intend to become a fan.

It happened accidentally.

One evening, he was looking for new rock music.

He clicked on a recommended song.

Then stopped.

The guitar immediately caught his attention.

The arrangement was intricate without feeling overproduced, the drums were sharp, and Jisung's voice carried an intensity Minho wasn't expecting.

By the end of the song, Minho was staring at the screen.

"...Who is this?"

He looked him up.

One song became three.

Three became an album.

The album became an entire discography.

Then Minho discovered Jisung's live performances.

Then his studio videos.

Then his interviews.

Then a video of him playing three different instruments during one performance.

Minho stared at the screen.

"...That's ridiculous."

He watched it again.

Eventually, his friends noticed.

"You're listening to that guy again."

"His music is good."

"You said that yesterday."

"Because it's still good."

"You've listened to the same album four times."

Minho looked offended.

"What's your point?"

His friends exchanged a look.

Minho had become a fan.

A very quiet fan.

But a fan nonetheless.

---

Months later, Minho finally got tickets to Jisung's concert.

He'd been looking forward to it for weeks.

And it was incredible.

Until the microphones started malfunctioning.

The first time, Minho barely noticed.

The second time, he frowned.

The third time, Jisung visibly lost patience.

The audience noticed immediately.

So did Minho.

Jisung's expression hardened.

But he didn't let it ruin the performance.

He adapted.

He moved toward another microphone.

When that one failed, he sang without it.

When the backing track briefly became uneven, he adjusted.

He never stopped.

And somehow, the more things went wrong, the more impressive he became.

By the end of the song, the entire venue was screaming.

Minho was on his feet too.

Not because Jisung was his favorite artist.

Not only because of that.

He was impressed.

Genuinely impressed.

After the performance, Jisung went backstage and confronted the staff—not cruelly, but firmly.

Minho later saw the clips spreading online.

"I've never seen him so pissed. He's always so sweet."

"He still did SO WELL."

"He's incredibly talented."

"He even made sure to check on the staff despite being angry with them 😭"

And then:

"Why is he highkey hot when he's mad?"

Minho stared at that comment for several seconds.

Then quietly locked his phone.

"...People are strange."

He smiled anyway.

---

By the time Minho reached the front of the line, he'd replayed the same thought approximately twenty times.

Don't embarrass yourself.

Which was ridiculous.

He was twenty-six years old.

He was meeting a musician.

A musician he admired, yes, but still.

He wasn't going to start screaming or crying or forgetting how to speak.

Probably.

The fan before him stood up, smiling as she thanked Jisung before walking away with her signed album.

Then Jisung looked up.

And Minho's brain promptly stopped being useful.

He'd seen him countless times before.

On stage.

In interviews.

In music videos.

Through a screen, Jisung always seemed larger than life—confident and energetic, especially when performing.

Up close, though...

He was just a person.

A very pretty person.

His hair was slightly messy, his sleeves were pushed up, and there was something disarmingly warm about the smile he gave Minho.

"Hi!"

Minho smiled back.

"Hi."

He placed his album on the table.

Jisung glanced down at it before looking back at him.

"Oh, you brought this one."

"Yeah."

"Is it your favorite?"

Minho hesitated.

"One of them."

Jisung's eyebrows lifted.

"One of them?"

A quiet laugh escaped Minho.

"You have too many good songs."

For a moment, Jisung simply stared at him.

Then he laughed.

"That's a good problem to have."

"Definitely."

Minho found himself relaxing.

This was easier than he'd expected.

Jisung was exactly like he seemed in interviews—friendly, expressive, and genuinely interested in whoever was sitting in front of him.

Then Jisung tilted his head slightly.

"You look familiar."

Minho blinked.

"Do I?"

"I think I've seen you somewhere before."

"I don't think so."

"Hm."

Jisung studied him for another second, as though genuinely trying to place him.

Minho couldn't help smiling.

Maybe he'd seen him at a concert.

Maybe another fan event.

Or maybe Jisung was simply saying that to make conversation.

Either way, it was strangely flattering.

Then Jisung smiled.

"Well, I'm glad you're here."

Something warm settled in Minho's chest.

"Me too."

He wasn't sure what else to say.

He'd spent months listening to this man's music, watching his performances, and admiring how effortlessly talented he seemed.

Yet somehow, sitting across from him, Minho wasn't thinking about any of that.

He was just thinking about how nice Jisung's smile was.

And how unfairly easy it was to smile back.

"Well, Jisung continues, holding out his hands like he does with all fans, "What's your name?"

Minho almost doesn't hear the question to begin with.

He's too focused on the fact that Jisung is offering his hands—warm, strong, probably calloused from playing so many instruments—to hold Minho's.

Minho's hands are shaking when they lace their fingers together. He has no idea how fans handle this part.

His hand is only slightly smaller than Jisung's, paler in comparison to Jisung's honey skintone, and now all Minho can think about is how well their palms and digits fit together.

"Minho," Minho answers, gulping hard, his hands trembling slightly in Jisung's grip because holy shit. "Lee, uh, Lee Minho."

---

And that is how Minho got here.

After the fan meeting, Jisung had secretly exchanged his contact information with Minho, and Minho had treasured it more than his life.

Late night calls, regular texting, and occasional flirting eventually turned into something more.

And now, on the night of their sixth month anniversary of dating after harbouring feelings for each other for months, Jisung has Minho pressed against the front door of the latter's apartment, the dim entryway filled with their gasps and rustle of fabric as Jisung's lips finally meet Minho's.