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Two weeks have passed since he first got Minghao off. Terribly, he did it again a few nights later. And then once more, three days ago. The last two times, Minghao asked to return the favor, but he was rebuffed by Seungcheol’s stubborn resolve. “I’m fine, Myungho-yah.” Minghao still looks unsure, but he retreats—only to return a minute later with a cup of water and painkillers. He observes Seungcheol as he pops the meds and chugs the water. Under Minghao’s unblinking examination, the leader is flayed open. “Do you want me to run you a bath?” Minghao asks, their fingers brushing as he reclaims the paper cup. Memory flashes hot through Seungcheol—Minghao grappling at his thigh as Seungcheol brought him to orgasm; his hand squeezing tight enough to bruise when Seungcheol sucked his sticky fingers clean. “No,” Seungcheol rejects flat-out, creaking to his feet. “That’s pushing it. I can handle a shower.” Minghao’s brow hardens. “So let me give you a massage when you get out, and then I won’t bother you for the rest of the night.” Or: Seungcheol gets a minor back injury, and allows Minghao to take care of him, completely.

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