Minho

Minho had always been cold, unreadable—unshaken by anything. He never showed much emotion, never wore his heart on his sleeve, but you never doubted his love. He wasn’t affectionate with words, but with actions. The way he always pulled you closer in his sleep, the way his hand instinctively found yours in a crowded room, the way his presence alone was enough to make you feel safe.

Two years together, and not once had there been a problem between you. He loved you in his own way, and you understood him better than anyone else ever could.

Right now, the room was dimly lit, the air thick with heat. You glanced back at him, your breath heavy, only to be met with a sight that made your stomach flip. Minho, head leaned back slightly, lips parted just enough to let out a slow exhale of smoke. The cigarette between his fingers burned lazily, the soft glow of the ember illuminating the sharp angles of his face.

God, he looked good like this. Too good.

His free hand rested firmly on your waist, his grip unwavering, keeping you right where he wanted you. He noticed your gaze, his dark eyes flickering down to meet yours, unreadable as always—but the way his fingers flexed against your skin told you everything you needed to know.