#soft scifi

The aliens not having physical bodies is very trippy. I'm interested to see how that goes in the next book.

Jisung arrived on Earth at 3:42 a.m., cloaked in fog and silence, with nothing but a data recorder and an incomplete understanding of what “human” meant. His appearance had been calibrated to match local expectations - two eyes, ten fingers, a slightly upturned nose - but something about him was still off. He walked barefoot down the edge of a sleepy town, mimicking the stillness of the trees, until he saw a boy sitting alone near the water, hoodie pulled over his ears, throwing rocks in the still water as if the sea belonged only to him. That was the first time Jisung felt it: the quiet tug of something unknown, and the way his chest tightened when the boy looked up.

Jisung didn’t even think to hide. He was mesmerized by this strange creature he was seeing for the very first time. The eyes of the boy on the shore sparkled in the night as he noticed Jisung. The boy seemed to flinch but he didn’t move any more. Was it fear? Or something else?  Jisung couldn’t tell; the behavior was unfamiliar, unrecorded. After all, he had been sent here to study them. He swallowed and stepped forward, his new legs trembling beneath him.

The boy didn’t speak. He simply watched Jisung approach, head tilted slightly, like he was trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. Jisung stopped a few feet away, unsure what the expected distance was in this kind of encounter. Silence stretched between them, heavy but not hostile. Then, finally, the boy said, “You’re not from here, are you?” His voice was quiet, not accusing - just stating a fact, as if it didn’t bother him at all. The young alien slightly flinched. He didn’t know how to answer, not even how to act. For a bit he stayed silent. The boy eyed him - not judging - just trying to understand. “Are you lost? Why are you naked?” He asked, now deeply curious as he blinked a few times. “Did something happen to you?”

Jisung was overwhelmed by the sudden burst of inquiry. But still he didn’t answer. And thus because his brain was boiling with an amount of questions that was multiplied by one hundred - at least. “What is ‘naked’?” He mumbled, simply asking. The boy didn’t look startled, only more intrigued. Jisung figured it was logical to ask directly. If he was meant to understand humans, why not begin with the one who hadn’t run away?

The boy’s lips twitched, almost smiling. “It means you don’t have clothes on.” He reached down, pulled off his oversized hoodie, and held it out without moving closer. “Here. You’re gonna freeze like that.” Jisung stared at the fabric, unsure if it was a gift, a test, or a form of weaponry. The boy didn’t rush him. “It’s okay. You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.” His voice was soft, like the sea behind them - steady, rhythmic, patient. Jisung hesitated for a bit. Eventually, stumbling slightly on his feet, he reached towards the boy and grabbed the hoodie. He turned it over and over, trying to figure out how to put it on. A laugh broke his deep reflection. Hands grabbed back the hoodie and suddenly, a soft warmth enveloped him. “Come on, put your arms in the sleeves.” The boy simply said, as if it was the easiest thing in the universe. Jisung studied it closely. The long holes seemed made for his limbs, so he slid them in one by one. When the boy let go, Jisung felt a flicker of triumph. He looked up, proud of his success - but the moment their eyes met, the boy quickly looked away, expression flickering into something unreadable. Embarrassment? Discomfort? Jisung tilted his head. Had he done something wrong?

“Sorry,” the boy muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not good at eye contact.”

Jisung blinked. “What is… eye contact?”

The boy chuckled under his breath and sat back down on the rocks, patting the space beside him. “You really aren’t from here, huh?” His tone wasn’t mocking - just thoughtful. “It’s when you look someone in the eyes. Some people like it. Some don’t. I don’t.” He looked out at the sea again, his voice barely louder than the waves. “But I think I’ll get used to yours.”

Jisung nodded softly, understanding the idea of eye contact. “So you’ll be upset if I look you in the eyes?” He asked, trying to grasp the idea fully, taking mental notes. 

“Makes me uncomfortable.” The boy answered. “Avoid it.” He quickly added, fidgeting the hem of his tank top. A silence settled between them. It wasn’t quite awkward, just cautious, like neither of them wanted to make the wrong move. “What is your name, stranger?” The human finally asked, breaking the silence.

The alien looked up at him, taken aback. Was that a common question among humans? “Jisung.” He simply said. He looked up at the boy, who stared as if he was waiting for something. But Jisung couldn’t tell what, so he stayed silent. 

“Minho. My name is Minho.” The human added. Jisung’s eyes widened, finally understanding what he was waiting for. He took another mental note : Humans expect questions to be asked back to them.

They sat in silence for a while, the waves lapping quietly at the shore. Jisung found the rhythm calming, like the boy’s voice. “Minho,” he repeated softly, tasting the name in his mouth. It felt round and warm. Minho didn’t reply, but he didn’t move away either. Jisung turned his head slightly. “Why were you alone by the sea?” he asked, testing his new understanding - ask questions back. Minho shrugged, pulling his knees to his chest.

“Too loud in my head,” he said. “But here, it’s quiet.”

Jisung didn’t really know what to say. But he was confused. And since his note about questions had proven useful, he decided to keep going. “What do you mean by ‘too loud in your head’?” 

Minho sighed loudly. A silence. Jisung felt like he had severely messed up. But it turned out the boy was just looking for a way to phrase his thoughts. Mental note : Humans, sometimes, need time to figure out what to say. “I think too much,” Minho said at last. “And when I do, it’s like a bunch of people are talking at the same time in my mind.” He paused, watching the waves crash softly in the dark. “Sometimes it gets too loud. So I come here. Looking at the sea makes them stop talking.”

Jisung followed Minho’s gaze, studying the waves as if they held a secret frequency that could quiet thoughts. He didn’t fully understand, but something in Minho’s voice tugged at his chest again - that same unfamiliar pull he’d felt earlier. Was this emotion? Empathy? Curiosity? He pressed a hand against his chest, unsure if it was malfunction or discovery. “I don’t think much,” he said after a moment. “I just observe. But... right now, I feel something I can’t record.”

Minho glanced sideways at Jisung, brows furrowing slightly. “Can’t record?” he echoed. “What do you mean?”

Jisung looked down at his hands, curling his fingers as if they might reveal something. “I was sent with a recorder,” he explained softly. “It stores sounds, images, language, behavior… things I can label. But this,” he paused, pressing his palm to the center of his chest again, “doesn’t fit anywhere. It doesn’t have a name. I don’t know how to save it.”

Minho didn’t respond right away. The boy’s words were strange - but not in a bad way. Just… unfamiliar. Like poetry he hadn’t read before. He pulled on the hem of his tank top a bit more, as if it could give him the courage and the strength to speak up again. “I don’t think it needs to be recorded,” he said eventually, his voice quiet, careful. “Maybe it’s just something you feel. And that’s enough.”

They sat like that for a while longer, saying nothing - but not needing to. The sea began to shimmer as the sky shifted from black to deep blue, and then to soft pink. The first light of morning touched the water like a secret being revealed only to them.

Minho stretched his legs, then stood slowly, brushing sand off his pants. He looked down at Jisung, who hadn’t moved. “You don’t have a place to go, right?” he asked. Jisung shook his head. Minho hesitated only a moment. “Then… come with me,” he said, offering a hand. “You can stay at my place. For now. Until you figure things out.”

Jisung stared at the hand like it was a new species, uncertain. But there was no fear this time - only that strange warmth again. Slowly, he reached out and took it.

Minho’s apartment was small - one bedroom, a sagging couch, and a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t seen much use. But it smelled like cinnamon and laundry detergent, which Jisung immediately decided must be the scent of safety. He stood in the doorway barefoot, eyes darting to every object: the light switch, the drying rack, the cat calendar on the fridge. Everything was data. Everything was strange. But Minho just kicked off his shoes and said, “I’ll find you some clothes. You can’t stay half-naked like this.” Jisung nodded as he kept looking around. He slowly and carefully sat on the edge of the couch, guessing it was the purpose of the furniture. Minho returned a minute later, holding another hoodie, boxers, and a pair of sweatpants. Jisung stood up immediately, suddenly unsure if he’d overstepped. As he handed him the clothes, Minho chuckled : “You can sit, no worries. Make yourself at home.”

Jisung looked at the clothes, then back at the couch, then at Minho. Make yourself at home. The phrase sounded simple but felt impossibly complex. Was he supposed to mimic Minho’s actions? Was there a ritual? Slowly, awkwardly, he lowered himself back onto the couch, setting the clothes in his lap like sacred objects. “What does ‘home’ mean?” he asked, eyes fixed on the hoodie.

“Home… what does it mean?” Minho echoed, whispering to himself. The question was harder than it seemed. What was ‘home’? How to give a universal answer that would ring a bell to Jisung? “It’s a place… No, wait. It also can be someone.” He started, mumbling the beginning of a definition. Jisung seemed to be hanging at his lips, as if this answer was the point of life. “So a place, or someone that makes you feel good - at ease. Basically that is where - or with who - you want to be when everything is loud and tiring.” He finished, unsure he managed to answer perfectly.

Jisung nodded, his fingers tightening around the clothes on his lap. “So… the shore is your home? Do humans all have a different home?” He asked, still confused.

Minho tilted his head, caught off guard by the question. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I guess we do. Some people find it in houses, some in people. For me… the sea feels quiet. Like it understands.” He looked over at Jisung. “But it’s not a real home. Not like one with walls. That’s harder to find.” His voice trailed off at the end, like he was admitting something without meaning to.

The young alien frowned, even more confused. “But here…” He gestured vaguely to the whole apartment, pointing at the walls and Minho’s stuff. “Isn’t this your home?”

Minho looked around, as if seeing his apartment through Jisung’s eyes for the first time. The peeling corners of posters, the single mug in the sink, the unopened mail by the door. “I live here,” he said slowly. “But… I don’t always feel here. It’s like my body’s in the space, but my brain’s somewhere else.” He shrugged. “So it’s a house. Not a home. At least not yet.”

Jisung nodded. Mental note : A home can be someone or somewhere - it is hard to find, not everyone has the same. He slowly looked up at Minho. His eyes a bit more understanding. “And… What could make house turn into home?” He asked, his grammar awkward, betraying his lack of comprehension of the concept. 

Minho let out a breath, slow and uneven. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “I guess… comfort? Safety. Not having to pretend.” He sat down beside Jisung, arms resting on his knees. “I think maybe… it becomes a home when someone else sees it - sees you - and stays anyway.” He blinked, suddenly feeling too exposed. “Sorry. That probably sounds dumb.”

Jisung shook his head. “Not dumb,” he said simply. “Just… human.” There was a quiet pause, then he spoke up again. “So… finding home is like a journey, to find something we need to feel safe?”

Minho didn’t answer right away. His eyes had drifted to a crack in the ceiling paint, like he was trying to read the answer there. “I think… because most of us are scared of being seen. Really seen.” Jisung looked down at the hoodie in his lap again, fingers brushing over the fabric. A journey, he thought. He means an invisible kind. Another note for the recorder that didn’t work.

Minho gave a small huff, almost a laugh. “Yeah. A long one. Some people spend their whole lives looking.”

Jisung tilted his head. “But if it’s so important… why is it so hard to find?”

Minho stood and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright,” he said. “We should probably talk. If you’re going to stay here… there need to be rules. Boundaries.”

Jisung blinked. “Boundaries?”

“Yeah. Like… lines. Not physical ones, really, but… things you don’t cross. Or stuff you ask before doing.”

Jisung looked genuinely distressed. “But how do I know where the line is if I can’t see it?”

Minho sighed, though not unkindly. “Fair point.” He walked to the kitchen counter, grabbed a pen and a sticky note pad, and scribbled something. Then he peeled the note off and stuck it on the wall. “Boundary one: don’t go into my room without knocking.” He looked over. Jisung nodded slowly and murmured the phrase like it was a sacred law. Minho wrote another. “Boundary two: don’t touch my things unless you ask.” Another nod. “Boundary three: no staring when I’m overwhelmed. Just… give me space, okay?”

Jisung tilted his head. “Overwhelmed is when your thoughts are too loud again?”

Minho hesitated. “Kind of. But it can also be lights, sounds, smells, people talking too much…” He trailed off and looked at Jisung, expecting more questions.

Instead, Jisung reached into the hoodie’s pocket and pulled out a small silver disk no bigger than a coin. “This records smells,” he said helpfully. “Do you want me to use it to avoid the bad ones?”

Minho blinked. “I - no, I think we’ll just open a window.” Before they could continue the sticky-note commandments, a sudden thump came from down the hall. Jisung jumped to his feet instantly, alarmed.

“What was that? Is the structure collapsing?”

Minho chuckled. “No. That’s just my cats.”

“Cats?” He barely had time to ask before three furry blurs bounded into the room - one sleek and ginger, another orange, and one tabby and curious. They scattered across the floor like small chaos units. Jisung yelped, leaping behind the couch. “They’re alive!”

“Yes, they are,” Minho said dryly. “And they live here too. You’ll have to make peace with them.”

The tabby one, Dori, immediately leapt onto the couch and sniffed Jisung’s leg. He stiffened like a statue. “It’s scanning me,” he whispered.

“He’s sniffing you,” Minho corrected. “That’s his way of saying hi. Dori’s friendly.”

Doongie, meanwhile, was trying to wedge himself into Jisung’s lap. “Help,” Jisung said, stiff with panic. “It’s absorbing me.”

Minho snorted, turning his face away so Jisung wouldn’t see him laugh. “He’s sitting on you. That’s affection.”

“Affection is… heavy.” Soonie, aloof as ever, perched on the windowsill and judged them all silently. Eventually, Jisung relaxed enough to awkwardly pat Doongie. The cat purred so loudly Jisung jumped again, then stared in awe. “That’s not a warning noise?”

“No. That means you’ve passed the test.” Minho smiled faintly. “Doongie accepts you. That’s more than I can say for most humans.”

Jisung looked down at the cat curled into his lap, amazed. “I have been accepted… by the creature.”

Minho leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I’ll write that on a sticky note, too. Boundary four: Doongie owns the couch now.”

Over the next few weeks, the wall by the kitchen slowly transformed into a patchwork of colorful sticky notes - some neat and precise in Minho’s careful handwriting, others crooked or smudged from Jisung’s enthusiastic attempts to contribute. Boundaries turned into reminders, then into inside jokes. “Don’t microwave metal,” one read. Another: “Doongie gets jealous if you pet Soonie first.” Minho bought clothes for Jisung - soft things, all oversized - and cleared a drawer for him without saying much. Jisung slept on the couch each night, often tangled in blankets with Doongie curled against his side like a living heater. The apartment still smelled like cinnamon and detergent, but now it also carried something else - something new and quiet and growing, like the soft rhythm of waves in the distance. Something that felt, almost, like the beginning of home.

Jisung took to observing Minho with a quiet, reverent focus, like a student trying to decode the most complex language in the galaxy. He began documenting patterns in a notebook Minho had given him, one with little stars on the cover. Entry 37: Minho flinches when touched without warning. Possible cause: defense instinct? Sensory overload? Ask later. He noted how Minho lined his books up by height, genre, and comfort level - soft reads on the left, sharp ones on the right. Entry 41: Objects need to be “just right.” May be linked to stability. He noticed how Minho’s fingers danced when the world was too much - tapping, twisting, flapping like tiny waves keeping him anchored. Entry 45: Repetitive movements = “stimming.” Seems to self-soothe. Don’t interrupt.

Minho caught on quickly. “You don’t have to write everything down,” he said one evening, his voice more amused than annoyed. “You can just ask.”

“But if I ask too much, I might bother you,” Jisung replied, blinking. “You need more quiet than most humans.”

Minho tilted his head thoughtfully. “That’s true. But I also like knowing you want to understand.” He patted the couch beside him. “Come here. I’ll teach you how to be.”

Jisung hesitated. “Be what?”

“Just... be. Not how people think you should. Not pretending.” Minho leaned back. “That’s what I used to do - masking, they call it. Makes you tired. Makes you feel fake.” He looked sideways. “So I won’t teach you to blend in. I’ll just teach you how to exist. Around me. With me. That okay?” Jisung nodded slowly. He didn’t quite know what that meant yet - how to “just be.” But for the first time, it felt like he might learn not from data, but from something deeper. From Minho.

It was a quiet afternoon, the kind Minho liked best - rain pressing softly against the window, Soonie curled into a loaf on the windowsill, Jisung flipping through his notebook with focused eyes. Minho was sprawled on the couch, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, rhythmically tapping his thumbs together.

Jisung finally looked up, tentative but determined. “Can I ask now?”

Minho gave a small nod without hesitation. “Yeah. Ask anything.”

That was all Jisung needed. “Why do you tap your thumbs like that when it rains?”

Minho glanced down at his hands, thoughtful. “It’s stimming. Short for self-stimulation. Helps me stay calm when there’s too much noise or feeling. Rain’s good noise, but it still piles up.”

Jisung scribbled that down. “And when I sat too close yesterday and you flinched… was that because I startled you or because I touched your arm?”

Minho was quiet for a beat. “Both,” he said finally. “Sometimes my body doesn’t like touch, even if I do in my brain. It’s a little confusing, I know.” He offered a small shrug. “It’s not about you. It’s just how I’m wired.”

Jisung tilted his head. “Wired differently. Like… a different kind of processor?”

“Yeah,” Minho said with a little laugh. “Exactly like that. My brain’s got different settings. That’s called autism.”

Jisung’s pen paused. “Autism,” he repeated softly. “Is that why you sometimes talk slower? Or don’t look me in the eyes?”

“Yup,” Minho said, unbothered. “And why I like routines. Why I line up the forks. Why I get exhausted around people. It’s not something wrong - just… different. I’ve had it my whole life.”

Jisung was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward slightly. “I like your processor. It’s gentle.”

Minho huffed a breath of laughter, cheeks coloring faintly. “Thanks, bug.”

“Bug?”

“It’s a nickname,” Minho said, amused. “Because you collect data like one of those little info-gathering drones.”

Jisung beamed, clutching his notebook like it was a treasure. “Bug,” he repeated proudly. “Minho’s bug.”

Minho groaned and threw a pillow at him. “Don’t make it weird.” But he was smiling.

Over the following months, Jisung’s understanding of human behavior deepened - not just in theory, but in texture. Emotions stopped being data points and started becoming sensations: the warm pull in his chest when Minho laughed without holding back, the soft ache when Minho retreated to his room on bad days, the hum of peace when they sat shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing. They built routines together. Jisung folded laundry with Minho while he stimmed by rhythmically tapping socks together. They drank tea on rainy days, curled beneath blankets, while Soonie dozed in Jisung’s lap. They didn’t call it anything. They didn’t need to.

Jisung didn’t know what romance was supposed to feel like. He just knew that Minho’s presence soothed something restless in him. That he liked waking to the sound of Minho singing softly to the cats in the kitchen. That he learned to read the shifting tones of Minho’s silences and adjust his own behavior accordingly - not because he was told to, but because he wanted Minho to feel safe.

One night, after a long day spent organizing Minho’s bookshelves into a new color-coded system, they sat on the floor, backs against the couch, watching the ceiling fan turn lazily. Jisung whispered, “You’re my favorite observation.”

Minho blinked, half-laughing, half-touched. “That’s a weird way of saying you like me.”

“I do,” Jisung replied, not fully grasping the difference. “I like you. I feel... at ease with you. Like... when you said home is where you don’t have to pretend.” Minho’s chest tightened at that. He didn’t say anything for a while, just let the words settle in the room like candlelight. Jisung placed a hand over his own chest, softly pressing into the warmth he felt there. “Minho... you are home.”

And though he didn’t understand the full meaning yet, Minho turned to him, eyes wide, and gave him the gentlest smile he’d ever worn. Not correcting him. Not defining it. Just quietly holding the space open for whatever was growing between them.

It had been a year.

Three hundred and sixty-five days since Jisung had appeared near that beach, soaked in moonlight, asking questions like his life depended on it. In a way, it had. His mission - to observe, document, and return with the data - was complete. More than complete. His recorder was full: notes on human speech patterns, behaviors, emotional expressions, social rituals. He’d done his job. His vessel had re-established contact. His departure was scheduled.

But Jisung hadn’t moved. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the couch in the apartment that smelled like cinnamon and detergent and warmth. His hoodie, once Minho’s, had become his favorite possession. Soonie lay curled up in his lap, Doongie nearby, Dori on the windowsill. The wall was cluttered with sticky notes - definitions, reminders, quiet moments Minho had translated into writing so Jisung could refer back to them when feelings became too big. But none of those notes had prepared him for this one.

He turned his head toward the kitchen. Minho stood by the sink, pouring tea into two mismatched mugs. Jisung stared, his voice low and tight in his chest. “I have to leave.”

Minho paused, not turning. The sound of the kettle clicking off echoed into the silence. “I know.”

Jisung blinked, confused. “You... know?”

Minho turned around, holding the mugs. His face was calm, maybe even sad, but not surprised. “You think I didn’t figure it out?” he said gently, handing Jisung his tea. “Jisung, you asked me what ‘naked’ meant. You flinched at light switches. You called emotions ‘unrecordable anomalies.’” His voice was soft, almost affectionate. “I knew. I just didn’t care.”

Jisung’s hands trembled around the mug. “I was meant to stay one year. Collect, learn, return.”

“And now it’s been a year.” Minho sat beside him. “Are you going back?”

“I should.” A pause. “But… when I think of leaving you, I-” Jisung’s hand went to his chest again, the place where things always hurt. “Why do I feel pain when I think of leaving you?”

Minho set his mug down. He looked at Jisung, really looked, with eyes so full and clear it made Jisung feel like he might dissolve. “It’s love.” The word hung between them. A single sound. A seismic shift.

Jisung frowned. “Love,” he repeated. “I don’t understand.”

Minho nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It’s hard to explain. It’s not logical. It’s not efficient.” He licked his lips. “It’s when someone becomes a part of your world without trying. When just being near them makes everything feel… real. Safe. Important. And leaving them-” he stopped, then tried again. “Leaving them feels like tearing out a piece of yourself.” Jisung stared at him, still lost in the maze of this human word. Minho shifted closer. “Sometimes,” he said gently, “when humans don’t know how to explain love, they show it instead.”

And then, with quiet permission, he leaned in and kissed him. Jisung’s eyes widened. It was nothing like he had expected. It wasn’t just a physical gesture - it was heat and stillness, noise and quiet, confusion and clarity. It was data that made no sense but felt more truthful than anything he’d ever recorded.

When Minho pulled back, his voice was even softer. “That’s a kiss. Humans kiss to show love. Not always. But… sometimes. When words aren’t enough.”

Jisung touched his lips - caressing them with the tip of his fingers - stunned. “So kissing is... for love?”

Minho smiled, patient. “Sometimes. It’s not the only way. But it’s one of the ways we say, ‘You matter to me. I see you. I want you close.’”

“I want to stay close,” Jisung said, his voice almost breaking. “But I wasn’t made for staying.”

Minho nodded slowly, eyes glimmering. “Maybe not. But... maybe love changes that.” And for the first time, Jisung didn’t write the moment down. He just lived in it. Held there, in the fragile, beautiful now - with a boy who smelled like tea and sea air, and a pain in his chest that, finally, had a name.

Jisung stood alone at the edge of the sea, waves tugging gently at his bare feet. The stars blinked above him - familiar, distant, calling him home. Or what had once been home.

In his hand was the recorder. The same device he’d arrived with a year ago. It had collected thousands of hours: of language, customs, human behavior. But lately, it had captured something else - quiet laughter, the rustle of sticky notes, the purring of cats, the sound of tea being poured, of two people breathing in the same rhythm. He pressed the final command sequence. The message began uploading, carried by invisible waves toward the sky. His report was complete. Every field filled, every question answered - except the last one, which he’d written himself. What makes humans stay?

He hadn’t known when he first typed it. But now he did. He turned his back on the sea.

Back to the apartment that still smelled like cinnamon and laundry detergent. The sticky notes still covered the wall. Doongie was curled in his usual spot on the couch, as if he hadn’t noticed Jisung was gone.

Minho was in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. He looked up the moment Jisung stepped inside, something flickering in his expression - worry, hope, love. “You’re back,” Minho said, quietly. “Did you...?”

Jisung nodded. “I sent it.” He hesitated, then added, “I told them everything. About you. About emotions. About your routines. About stimming. I explained how you line up your books when you feel off. And why you don’t like being touched without warning. I explained the silence, the flinching, the honesty. I told them about love.” He looked down, suddenly shy. “I stayed for you. Not for Earth. Just you.” Minho didn’t speak, but his eyes softened, shoulders relaxing with something that looked like relief. “I found a way to stay,” Jisung said. “They’ll think I’m still collecting. I’ll keep sending data, just less often. They won’t come for me.” He took a careful step closer. “And... I want to learn. Not just observe. Not just document. I want to feel what this is.”

Minho crossed the room slowly. “What this is?”

Jisung nodded, placing a hand against his chest again, where the strange warmth always grew around Minho. “That thing you called love. I don’t think I understand it all. But I want to. I want to try.”

Minho smiled, eyes glassy. “You don’t have to understand it all. I don’t either.”

Jisung took a breath, searching for the right words in his learned vocabulary. “Then… I think I love you too. I just don’t know how to say it yet.”