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Lee Minho was, by design, a quiet man.
He moved through the city like a background character: hoodie on, headphones over his ears, camera slung over one shoulder. He had three cats, no close friends, and a deep-seated grudge against small talk. Peace, to Minho, was a silent apartment and a full memory card.
So naturally, the universe decided to throw a human glitter bomb into his life.
Minho had been walking to his favorite cafe. The weather was cold and the clouds were hanging low and gray overhead. The tips of his fingers (he had forgotten his gloves) and his nose were so cold from the biting wind that they had become numb blocks of ice. He could practically feel the icicles forming on his eyelashes.
To his left, there it was...warm and cozy and inviting. The LED sign above the door with the name ‘Bean There, Brewed That’ flashing in electric blue lettering. He was just beginning to move towards the door when he saw someone through the foggy window.
A guy. Young. Curly-haired. His round cheeks slightly pink from the cold. He was tucked into an overly-plush corner chair like some hibernating squirrel. He was wearing a baggy pastel knitted hoodie and steel-rimmed glasses and he looked a lot like he just walked out of a Studio Ghibli movie.
He was drinking hot chocolate.
Minho could tell. It had marshmallows, a frankly disrespectful amount of whipped cream, and a thick layer of rainbow sprinkles.
But the boy was sipping it like it was the blackest coffee in existence. His brows were furrowed and one hand was scrolling mindlessly on his phone screen.
Minho stopped dead in his tracks.
He stared.
Then the boy burned his tongue, yelped, and started fanning his mouth while trying to play it off.
Minho smiled. Actually smiled.
And the next day, he came back.
Minho would shamelessly admit that he had become more of a regular than ever.
The boy was always there. Same spot. Same drink. Occasionally with a laptop, or a notebook, or with a stack of napkins and a pink glitter pen.
Minho took his seat in the opposite corner and ordered the same thing every day: green tea, no sweetener.
The boy never ordered the same thing twice. But whatever it was, it always came topped with an insane amount of whipped cream.
Minho didn’t stare. Not really.
He just... noticed things.
Like the way the boy doodled in the margins of his notebook when he thought no one was looking. Or how he mumbled to himself when writing—little nonsense phrases like “no no no, that’s too sad” or “this chord progression is illegal in seventeen countries.”
The barista caught on fast.
“You’re watching him again, Minho,” she said one morning. She was a middle-aged, no-nonsense woman with short and wine-red dyed hair. Her name tag read ‘Heejin’ and her pin said “I serve coffee and judgement.”
“I’m not—” Minho started.
“His name is Jisung,” she added, plopping down his tea. “Tips well. Occasionally sings to the pastries.”
“Sings?”
“Yesterday he serenaded a croissant. He’s an odd one, alright.”
Minho blinked. “…Why?”
“He said it looked lonely.”
Minho had no idea what to do with that information. Though he did smile. Again.
He probably looked stupid but it wasn’t like he cared anymore.
Minho wasn’t superstitious, but the pigeons in this city were really and truly evil creatures.
He was taking photos near the park when he spotted Jisung again. He was sitting on a bench, head tilted up toward the sky, headphones on, sipping what looked like hot chocolate (typical) from a thermos shaped like a bear.
Then came the pigeons, beginning their masterful descent, wickedness glinting in every single one of their eyes.
One of the birds swooped low, flapping past Jisung’s head, and the boy let out an unholy scream.
“Holy shit!! That bird just tried to scalp me!” Jisung shrieked, flailing as the pigeon dive-bombed past his head. His headphones slipped sideways as he fell off the bench, ducking from another pigeon that swooped low with a terrifying precision.
Minho, a few paces away, frowned at the sudden commotion. “What the hell—”
Before he could piece together the situation, another pigeon dove straight at him like it was targeting his eyeballs.
“Jesus!” he yelped. The lens cap flew off his camera as he stumbled backwards, his arms up in a weak attempt to shield himself.
The air filled with frantic flapping, scattered feathers, and the unhinged yells of two completely grown men being terrorized by birds that clearly thought that they ran this city.
“They’re everywhere!” Jisung shouted, bolting upright from the bench. “This is a coordinated strike!”
Minho turned to flee just as Jisung did the same.
BAM!
They collided at full speed, limbs tangling in a mess of jackets, headphone cords, camera straps, and startled gasps before collapsing in a graceless heap onto the grass.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry! I totally didn’t see you...are you okay? Did I break your spine? Your camera? Your face?! Did I knock out your teeth? Wait, do you have teeth? I mean, of course you have teeth, I just—oh my God—”
Minho blinked up at him, utterly dazed. His heart was still pounding. Partly because of the unexpected impact. Mostly because Jisung was now awkwardly half-sprawled across him, his face pink, his brown eyes wide, and one hand still clutching his thermos.
“I...uh. No. I still have all my teeth,” Minho eventually managed, his voice awkwardly soft.
Jisung froze. “Right. Of course you do. That’s a weird thing to say, sorry, I panic-talk, like, a lot. God, I’m so fucking stupid…”
They were still sitting half-on top of each other, and a few moments passed before it seemed to dawn on them both at the same time. Jisung quickly scrambled backward, almost slipping on the grass again in the process, while Minho sat up fast, brushing himself off and looking anywhere but directly at Jisung.
He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks flushed deep pink. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t see you. I mean, I saw you, but I was walking by so fast that—uh, yeah. I’m sure you know the rest.”
Jisung sat cross-legged now, smoothing down his hoodie with exaggerated (and purposeful) focus. “It’s okay. I was busy dodging Satan’s pigeons. No one can be blamed for what happens during a chaotic aerial ambush.”
Minho glanced at him. And despite everything, the bird assault, the chaotic and accidental tackle, the awkward couple of moments that it took to untangle themselves—Jisung looked cute. Unbelievably so.
His cheeks were pink from the cold and the embarrassment, and a feather was sticking out of his hair.
Minho swallowed hard, and contemplated the best way to break the news to him. “You’ve got, uh—” He gestured vaguely at his own head.
Jisung reached up. “What? Do I have a concussion?!”
“No, no,” Minho said quickly. “Just…a feather.”
“Oh. Nice.” Jisung plucked it from his hair and held it up. “A souvenir from my near-death experience.”
They both laughed, and this time it wasn’t awkward—it was just light and breathless and a little too long.
Then Minho stood, offering a hand out.
Jisung hesitated, then took it. “You sure you wanna touch me? I might be cursed or something. I could be attracting the pigeons.”
“I’ll risk it,” Minho said, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
As Jisung stood, they lingered close for a second. Just a beat too long. Then Minho looked away, blushing again, and Jisung, still holding the feather, twisted it awkwardly in between his fingers.
“I think I should call a pigeon lawyer,” Jisung finally broke the silence.
Minho huffed out a laugh, and Jisung took that as his sign to continue.
“I swear, that pigeon had a grudge. You must’ve looked like his ex.”
Minho laughed again. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jisung grinned. “And you’re the tea guy. Right? From the cafe up the street?”
“Um, yeah.” Minho blinked. “I’m Minho.”
“Jisung,” the other said. “It’s nice to finally meet you, even if our meeting wasn’t…well, as pleasant as we probably wanted it to be.”
Minho nodded in agreement, then forced himself to ask the question that he’d been longing to ask for a long while:
“Jisung, would you wanna get a drink? With me?”
For a second, Jisung hesitated. Then his lips pulled into a bright, adorably goofy grin. “Sure. We’ve already survived the winged apocalypse together. Feels like a bonding experience, so it’s only right if we hang out properly.”
Minho resisted the urge to cheer aloud.
Their first official drink together was hot chocolate and tea, naturally. Jisung sat criss-crossed in the café booth and talked with his hands like they were part of some musical theater number.
“So I write songs,” he explained between sips. “Mostly pop stuff. Some emo. A little lo-fi.”
Minho chuckled. “And you go to school for it?”
“Yep. Music production. I live with two roommates and one fungus. The fungus may be sentient. I haven’t asked.”
Minho felt something warm settle in his chest. Like maybe this was the beginning of something. Something rare.
Something worth it.
Weeks passed, and with each day they became more and more of their own thing.
Minho brought his laptop. Jisung brought chaos, snacks, and a notebook.
Minho always ordered his tea. Jisung ordered diabetes.
They sat together. Worked in silence. Joked. Shared earbuds and listened to suspicious demos that Jisung made at 3 a.m.
Minho stopped going to the café for tea.
He went for Jisung.
Jisung came over to Minho’s place one Friday night.
“Just so you know,” Minho said at the door, “the cats don’t warm up to people easily.”
“Neither do I,” Jisung said. “We’ll bond over our trust issues.”
He walked inside and immediately crouched.
“HELLO, FURRY GREMLINS. I AM YOUR UNCLE.”
Soonie sniffed him. Doongie tried to climb his hoodie. Dori stared at him from a bookshelf like a silent sentinel.
“I love these fur babies,” Jisung whispered in complete awe and adoration, as he lay on his stomach on the floor with his feet waving in the air. “Tell them that I’d die for them.”
“They probably already know.”
That night, they watched a Marvel movie on Minho’s couch.
Well, technically, they started a movie. Then they got distracted by a debate over which of Minho’s cats would win in a fight against an Avenger. Then by a stray grape that rolled under the coffee table. Then by silence.
Though not awkward silence. The good kind.
Minho looked over. Jisung was already looking at him.
“I like you,” Jisung said. Just like that.
Minho blinked. “You do?”
“I mean, yeah. You’re cool. And thoughtful. And your cats haven’t tried to kill me yet.”
“I like you too.”
“Good,” Jisung grinned. “Because otherwise this would’ve been so embarrassing.”
So then Minho leaned in and kissed him.
Jisung kissed back.
When they pulled back, Jisung was flushed a bright shade of red. “That was, like... in the top ten moments of my life.”
Minho smiled. “Just top ten?”
“I’m leaving room for future greatness.”
Jisung still managed to spill something nearly every morning....coffee, cereal, the occasional glass of juice he swore he was holding properly.
The cats, predictably, continued their reign over the apartment, strutting across countertops and settling on pillows with a very inflated sense of importance. But somewhere in the middle of that soft chaos, mornings had grown warmer. They passed mugs back and forth without needing to ask, went on lazy walks where Minho would pretend not to smile at Jisung’s rambling observations, and spent quiet hours editing photos together. Jisung would hum under his breath, unaware of how often Minho paused just to look at him.
They fell asleep wrapped around each other like it was the most natural thing in the world, Jisung’s curls brushing against Minho’s nose, Soonie curled against his side like a purring hot water bottle. It was weird, in a way that made Minho’s chest ache. And it was warm. And it was good. He’d once come to the city to escape people, to find silence and space.
Now, he woke every morning right next to the one person who’d quietly, stubbornly become his favorite part of the day.