~ 𝕡𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕠𝕡𝕙𝕠𝕓𝕚𝕒 ~ (Minsung)

🔒Chapter 26 - Healing🔒

3rd Person POV:

Morning came softly.

The sun filtered in through half-closed blinds, catching dust motes midair and casting warm light across the hardwood floor. The house was quiet—sleepy, not silent. There was a difference now.

Jisung blinked awake on the couch, neck aching, blanket bunched around his legs. He barely remembered the movie ending. His last clear memory was Seungmin arguing with Felix over the best Final Destination death scene while Minho tucked his knees closer to his chest and didn’t move away when Jisung shifted closer.

Now, Jisung stirred, groaning softly. He stretched, glanced toward the armrest—and saw Minho still there. Asleep.

Not across the house.

Not behind a locked door.

Right here. Bundled in one of Felix’s ridiculous neon quilts, breathing slow and deep. His hand was curled near his face. There was a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. Jisung didn’t move.

He didn’t want to break the spell.

Hyunjin was the first one up—probably because he was curled on the floor and Seungmin had kicked him at least twice in his sleep. He padded into the kitchen, ruffling his hair and yawning like a cat. A few minutes later, he reappeared with coffee and a whisper.

“You hungry?”

Jisung shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Okay. I’ll keep quiet. He looks peaceful.”

Jisung followed his gaze back to Minho. “He didn’t have a nightmare.”

Hyunjin smiled softly. “That’s a win.”

Felix woke next, loudly. He tripped over a pillow, swore under his breath, and then tried to mime silence while still knocking over a cup of pens. Changbin dragged him into the kitchen before he could ruin the moment any further.

By the time Minho stirred, the room smelled like cinnamon toast and fresh coffee. He blinked blearily, looked around—and didn’t panic.

That, too, was new.

“Morning,” Jisung said gently.

Minho sat up slowly, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. “You snore,” he mumbled.

Jisung snorted. “You’re not the first to say it.”

There was a quiet hum from Minho. Not quite laughter, but the sound lived in the same neighborhood.

The others filtered in gradually—Seungmin groaning about couch cramps, Felix complaining about instant coffee, Hyunjin digging through the fridge like a raccoon with manners. It wasn’t long before someone put on music—low and lazy—and Felix started making pancakes with the flair of a TV chef on too little sleep.

Minho stayed close. He didn’t talk much, but he didn’t leave either. When Hyunjin asked if he wanted orange juice or milk, he answered. When Seungmin offered him the last pancake, he accepted. When Felix pulled out a stupid card game none of them remembered how to play, Minho sat in.

He even won a round.

“Rigged,” Felix declared, flinging his cards into the air. “You’ve been practicing in secret.”

Minho shrugged, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Or maybe you just suck.”

Felix gasped like he’d been shot. “He speaks! And he insults!”

“Truly, a miracle,” Seungmin said dryly.

Jisung didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. He just watched the shape of Minho’s shoulders, the tilt of his head, the way his eyes followed the conversation even when he wasn’t speaking.