Cold Shoulder.

The uneasy quiet of the cafeteria lingered with Minho long after he'd stormed out. He found himself walking aimlessly, the familiar campus buildings blurring into an indistinguishable mass. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm of anger and a sickening sense of self-loathing.

Every sharp word he'd thrown at Changbin and Hyunjin, every averted glance from Jisung, felt like another brick in the wall he was determined to build. It hurt, physically hurt, to be this cold to the one person who had shown him unwavering warmth.

But the vivid replay of Jisung in another man's arms, the image burned into his mind from that future he was desperate to outrun, fueled his resolve.

He ended up in an empty lecture hall, the cool, stale air doing little to soothe his agitated mind. He slumped into a seat near the back, staring at the blank projector screen. How was he supposed to get through two more months of this?

Two more months of pretending, of pushing away, of inflicting pain on the one he still, despite everything, felt himself drawn to. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his gallery.

Pictures of Jisung, laughing, signing excitedly, asleep beside him. Each one was a fresh stab, a reminder of the innocent face that, in his eyes, had become a mask for deception. He quickly locked the phone, shoving it back into his pocket as if the images themselves could betray him.

The afternoon passed in a blur of forced concentration in his architecture classes. Normally, the intricate details of design and structure provided a welcome escape, a logical world where lines and angles behaved predictably. Today, his mind kept drifting, replaying the lunch confrontation, the look on Jisung's face as he'd walked away, the protectiveness in Changbin's and Hyunjin's eyes.

They were loyal, he knew that. But their loyalty was misplaced, to a Jisung they didn't truly know. A bitter laugh escaped him. How ironic that his own best friends were unknowingly defending the one who would eventually kill him.

By the time his last class ended, the campus was already thinning out. Usually, Jisung would be waiting by the main gate, or Minho would swing by his music production studio to pick him up.

Not today.

Minho took a deliberate detour, heading for the campus library, then a quiet coffee shop on the other side of the university. He needed space. He needed to avoid that moment, the expectation in Jisung's eyes.

He ordered a black coffee, the bitter taste a fitting reflection of his mood. He watched students come and go, lost in their own worlds, their laughter and easy camaraderie a distant hum. He knew Jisung would eventually try to reach out, probably send him a text, a video message in sign language. He braced himself for it, rehearsing the vague, dismissive replies he would offer.

Sure enough, his phone vibrated. It was a video message from Jisung. Minho's thumb hovered over the play button, his breath catching in his throat. He saw Jisung's name, and a small, almost imperceptible icon indicating the length of the video. It was short.

Minho's mind raced, trying to guess the content. Was it a plea? A question about why he left? An angry accusation? He wished it was anger. Anger would be easier to handle than the raw, confused hurt he knew he'd see.

He finally clicked it. Jisung's face filled the screen, framed by the bright lights of what looked like one of the music studios. He wasn't angry. He looked... small.

"Hey, Minho," Jisung signed, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes still holding that concerned, wounded look from the morning. "I just... wanted to check in. I know you said you're tired. I hope you're okay. I finished up here early. I'm heading back to the apartment now. Will you be home soon? I can start dinner if you want. Just... let me know you're alright, okay?"

The video ended. Minho stared at his reflection in the dark screen, his own face drawn and shadowed. Just let me know you're alright, okay? The simple request was a dagger to his chest. He wasn't alright. He was a wreck, torn between the ghost of a future betrayal and the innocent, trusting face of the man on his screen.

He typed out a reply, his fingers stiff: "Yeah, I'm fine. Just grabbing coffee. Don't wait up for dinner, I'll probably eat out later. Get some rest."

He didn't add "See you later," or "Love you." He didn't use any emojis. He just sent it, watching the "Delivered" notification pop up with two blue tick marks appearing beside the text.

The act felt cold, clinical. It was another necessary cut, another step away. He knew Jisung would read between the lines, that the starkness of the message would sting. And it was meant to. This time, he wouldn't be caught off guard. This time, he would be the one to orchestrate the distance, to save himself from the inevitable fall.

★

Minho finally made his way back to the apartment an hour later, the building quiet in the evening light. He unlocked the door as softly as possible, pushing it open a crack and peeking inside. The living room was dark. He slipped off his shoes, trying to make no sound, and padded to their bedroom.

Jisung was already in bed, a soft lamp on his bedside table casting a warm glow over his sleeping face. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the picture of peaceful slumber. Minho's gaze lingered, a familiar ache twisting in his gut.

He hated this. He hated himself for doing this. He wanted nothing more than to curl up beside him, to apologize for the day, to confess everything. But the image of the other man, the betrayal, flashed behind his eyes, hardening his resolve once more.

He changed into pajamas in the dark, then carefully slid into his side of the bed, facing away from Jisung. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, listening to the soft sounds of the apartment.

Minutes later, he felt the subtle shift in the mattress, then a gentle presence behind him. A warm hand reached out, tentatively brushing the hair from his forehead.

Minho's breath hitched, but he kept his breathing even, his eyes squeezed shut. He felt a soft, feather-light kiss press against his temple, lingering for a moment. It was a silent gesture of affection, a tender query that asked if he was truly alright, if he was still there.

Then, Jisung's hand retreated. Minho heard the soft rustle of sheets, the faint creak of the bed as Jisung slipped out. He heard the click of the bathroom light, then the familiar rush of water as the shower turned on.

Alone in the dark, Minho finally let a single, hot tear escape, tracing a burning path down his cheek. It was a tear of profound sadness, of bitter anger, of overwhelming regret. But the moment it touched his jawline, he lashed out, wiping it away with a harsh, angry swipe of his hand. No. He wouldn't allow himself that weakness. He had to stay strong. He had to see this through.