Jisung had always known how to fight. Since childhood, he knew how to clench his fists properly, how to throw a punch so that his opponent wouldn’t get up right away. He hadn’t learned it because he wanted to, but because he had to. Back in elementary school, he realized if you don’t want to be messed with, strike first. Too many people had tried to get under his skin, too often they laughed at his withdrawn nature and quick temper. Trust had never come easily to him, and the world had always seemed like a hostile place. But then Minho appeared. Minho was different. He didn’t mock him, didn’t pry, didn’t pretend to understand Jisung better than he understood himself. He was just there, first in the same group, then at the desk next to him, then, somehow, he became someone Jisung could no longer imagine his days without. His boyfriend. And now Jisung was sitting on the hard cot in the school infirmary again, with a split lip, With a bloody cheek, eyebrow and aching knuckles. And Minho, as always, was silently tending to his wounds.

— “Come on, Minho! I’m telling you the truth. He started it first, and I just… I couldn’t walk away,” Jisung said heatedly, not even realizing he was raising his voice, unable to hiss in pain as Minho gently pressed a cotton pad with antiseptic to his cheek.