Lee Minho

Minho paced back and forth in the living room, his demeanor tense and rigid as he argued with a colleague over the phone. His voice, sharp and clipped, reverberated through the room as he barked orders into the phone.

"That's not acceptable," he snapped, his tone cutting through the room.

"We need those reports by Friday, no exceptions."

On the plush couch, you sat cross-legged, flipping through the latest issue of Vogue. A striking dress caught your attention, and a smile spread across your face.

"Minho, look at this dress," you called out, holding up the glossy page.

Minho paused mid-sentence, his head snapping towards you. His stern expression softened instantly, the lines of tension around his eyes easing.

"Hold on," he said into the phone, his voice suddenly devoid of its previous harshness.

He pressed the mute button and strode over to you, his steps quick and purposeful. Leaning in, he glanced at the elegant designer dress you were pointing to.

“It’s pretty,” he said, his tone warm and genuine. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his sleek black credit card, handing it to you without a second thought.

“Buy it,” he insisted, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Bending down, he kissed your forehead, the gesture filled with a tenderness reserved only for you. With one last look of adoration, Minho turned back to his phone, his expression hardening as he resumed the call.

"As I was saying," he continued, as if nothing had happened. "No excuses. I expect those reports by Friday."

"As I was saying," he continued, as if nothing had happened. "No excuses. I expect those reports by Friday." “Buy it,” he insisted, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Hold on," he said into the phone, his voice suddenly devoid of its previous harshness.