Lee Minho had two rules at work: Keep things professional. Don’t get attached.

But ever since Han Jisung joined the production team at their music company, both rules had been at risk of getting shattered.

“Hyung, we should add a softer melody here,” Han suggested, tapping his pen against his notebook as they sat in their shared studio.

Minho barely looked up from his laptop. “No.”

Han groaned, flopping dramatically onto the couch. “You hate every idea I have.”

Minho sighed, finally glancing at him. “That’s not true.”

Han sat up immediately. “Oh? So which of my ideas do you like?”

Silence.

Han smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Minho rolled his eyes and went back to his work, ignoring the way Han always seemed to get under his skin.

They were polar opposites. Minho was precise, methodical, a perfectionist who needed silence to concentrate. Han, on the other hand, was chaotic, impulsive, always humming some unfinished melody and scribbling lyrics on sticky notes he left all over the studio.

It was exhausting.

But the worst part?

Han Jisung was insanely talented.

Minho hated to admit it, but the younger composer had an ear for melodies that made Minho’s carefully structured beats sound effortless. He was unpredictable, and Minho… kind of admired that.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

Their work relationship had been nothing but arguments, stolen glances, and late-night tension. But things changed one night when they were working overtime on a track for an important client.

Han had been quieter than usual, tapping absently at the keys of the keyboard, his usual spark missing.

Minho noticed.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly.

Han sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Just tired. Wondering if I’m even good enough for this job.”

Minho frowned. “Where’s this coming from?”

Han chuckled dryly. “Not everyone’s as confident as you, hyung.”

Minho stared at him, something tightening in his chest.

Without thinking, he reached out, resting a hand on Han’s shoulder.

“You’re good enough,” he said, softer than usual. “More than good enough.”

Han’s eyes widened, searching Minho’s face for any hint of insincerity.

Minho’s fingers twitched where they touched Han’s skin. Too close. Too dangerous.

He pulled back quickly, clearing his throat. “Get back to work.”

But Han didn’t stop looking at him.

And that was when Minho knew—he was in trouble.

The next few weeks were… strange.

Han didn’t tease him as much. He still filled the studio with his bright energy, but whenever their hands accidentally brushed, or when Minho complimented his work just once, Han would hesitate, looking at him like he was trying to figure something out.

Minho tried to ignore it.

But ignoring things had never been his strong suit.

One night, after finishing a song demo, Han finally spoke up.

“Why do you act like you hate me?” he asked, staring at Minho from across the desk.

Minho blinked. “What?”

“You’re always grumbling, always dismissing me.” Han paused. “But then sometimes… you look at me like you actually care.”

Minho exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t hate you, Han.”

Han tilted his head. “Then what is it?”

Minho hesitated.

Because how was he supposed to say you drive me crazy, and I don’t know how to deal with it?

Finally, he sighed. “You’re… distracting.”

Han’s lips curled into a small smile. “Distracting how?”

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know how.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

Then, suddenly, Han stood up and walked around the desk until he was standing right in front of Minho.

“You’re distracting too,” Han murmured.

Minho’s breath hitched. “Han—”

“I like you, hyung.” Han’s voice was quiet, but firm. “And I think you like me too.”

Minho clenched his fists. He should push him away. He should say it was unprofessional, that they couldn’t risk their work for something uncertain.

But when Han smiled—soft and expectant—Minho gave in.

With a sharp inhale, he closed the distance, his hand cupping Han’s cheek as he kissed him.

Han melted into it, his fingers curling into Minho’s hoodie, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.

When they finally pulled apart, Han grinned. “Took you long enough.”

Minho rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips.

“Shut up and finish the track,” he muttered.

Han just laughed, sitting back down—but this time, their hands stayed close, fingers barely touching.

And for the first time in a long time, Minho didn’t mind the distraction.