Minho | intimidated

Jisung clutched his acceptance letter to the Seonghwang Academy of Witchcraft with trembling hands, his heart hammering against his ribs as he approached the towering gothic dormitory. At eighteen, he was finally beginning his first year, but the excitement was drowned out by the whispers that had followed him through the orientation halls—warnings about his assigned roommate, Lee Minho, a third-year student with a reputation that sent shivers down underclassmen spines. The upperclassmen spoke of Minho in hushed, fearful tones, describing him as aloof, intimidating, and someone who preferred solitude over company. Jisung had spent the entire summer dreading this moment, imagining a cold, cruel witch who would make his freshman year a living nightmare.

When Jisung finally worked up the courage to push open the heavy oak door to their shared quarters, his worst fears seemed confirmed. Minho stood by the window, silhouetted against the dying afternoon light, his frame imposing and muscular beneath the dark fabric of his tailored academy robes. He was easily six feet tall, with broad shoulders that seemed to fill the room and sharp features that gave him an almost predatory elegance. The older student turned slowly, dark eyes sweeping over Jisung with an unreadable expression, and for a heart-stopping moment, Jisung considered fleeing right then and there.

But then Minho spoke, his voice unexpectedly gentle, almost warm. "You must be Han Jisung," he said, stepping forward to relieve him of his heaviest trunk with an effortless strength that made Jisung's knees weak for entirely different reasons. "I've prepared the left side of the room for you. The desk gets good morning light if you like to study early." Jisung blinked, stammering out a thank you as he noticed the small touches Minho had added—a extra pillow on the bed, a organized shelf cleared specifically for Jisung's potion ingredients, and a warm cup of chamomile tea waiting on the nightstand. The intimidating exterior, he realized, housed someone who had been paying attention to his needs before they'd even met.

Over the following weeks, Jisung discovered that Minho's reputation was built on misunderstanding and the natural intimidation of his physical presence. The third-year was endlessly patient, helping Jisung navigate the complex social hierarchies of the academy, tutoring him in advanced spell theory during late-night study sessions, and defending him good-naturedly when upperclassmen tried to haze the nervous freshman. Minho cooked for him when Jisung got too absorbed in his studies to eat, remembered how he took his coffee, and listened with genuine interest to his dreams of becoming a healer witch. The scary upperclassman everyone feared was, in reality, the kindest person Jisung had ever met.

On the morning of Jisung's nineteenth birthday, he woke to find a small, elegantly wrapped box on his pillow, accompanied by a handwritten note in Minho's careful script: "For the witch who finally stopped flinching when I enter the room. Happy birthday, Jisung-ah." Inside was a sleek crystal-communicator, the latest magical technology that allowed witches to stay connected across vast distances, something Jisung had mentioned in passing weeks ago that he couldn't afford. When Jisung looked up with tears in his eyes, Minho was leaning against the doorframe, looking uncharacteristically shy. "Now you have no excuse not to text me when you're pulling all-nighters in the library," Minho said with a soft smile. In that moment, clutching the phone and looking at the man who had transformed from a source of terror into his closest confidant, Jisung realized that sometimes the best friendships begin with a little courage and a roommate who is nothing like the rumors say.

Scenario One: The First Sight

I saw him before he saw me. I was perched on the windowsill of our shared dormitory, supposedly reading my Advanced Transfiguration textbook, but my eyes kept drifting to the courtyard below. The first-year students were arriving in waves, all wide eyes and trembling excitement, clutching their trunks like lifelines. And then I spotted him—small, nervous, with fluffy hair that the wind kept messing up. He kept looking around like he expected someone to jump out from behind the gargoyles. I watched him trip over his own feet on the cobblestones and my chest tightened with something protective and sharp. I knew who he was immediately. Han Jisung. My new roommate. The administration had sent me his file weeks ago, and I'd memorized every detail. Eighteen, from a small village, top of his entrance exams, terrible at potions, afraid of heights. I told myself I was just being a responsible upperclassman, but as I watched him adjust his glasses for the third time in thirty seconds, I felt something dangerously close to anticipation. He looked soft. Not weak—there was a stubborn set to his jaw—but soft in a way that made me want to clear every obstacle from his path. Then I remembered what people said about me. The rumors. The fear. I gripped my textbook harder. He was going to hate me.

Scenario Two: The Realization

He flinched. It was subtle—a tiny jerk of his shoulders, a widening of those big eyes—but I saw it. I saw it, and it felt like someone had punched me directly in the sternum. I'd only turned around from the window. That was all. I'd heard the door open, known it was him, and turned to greet him with what I thought was a welcoming expression. But he looked at me like I was a monster. Like I was everything the underclassmen whispered about in the dining halls. The muscle I'd spent years building for quidditch, the height I'd been teased about as a child, the sharp features I'd inherited from my father—they all felt like weapons in that moment. Weapons I was using against this small, trembling boy who just wanted to survive his first day. I watched him clutch his acceptance letter like a shield, and something inside me crumbled. I didn't want to be scary. I didn't want him to be afraid. I wanted... I didn't know what I wanted. But as I crossed the room and took his trunk—watched him shrink back instinctively before realizing I was just helping—I made a silent promise. I would undo whatever damage the rumors had done. I would make him feel safe. Even if it took all year.

Scenario Three: The Nightmare

I woke to the sound of crying. Not loud, dramatic sobs, but the kind of muffled, desperate weeping that comes from someone trying desperately to be quiet. It was 3 AM. The dormitory was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the gap in the curtains. I sat up in bed, heart hammering, and looked across the room. Jisung was curled into a ball under his blankets, shaking. Nightmare. It had to be. I'd learned over the past month that he got them often—memories of his old school, of bullies, of failing his entrance exam the first time. He never talked about them in the daylight, but the dark always brought them back. I hesitated at the edge of my bed. We were friends now—real friends, not just roommates—but this felt like crossing a line. Then he made a sound, small and broken, and I was moving before I could stop myself. I knelt beside his bed and touched his shoulder gently. "Jisung-ah," I whispered. "Hey, it's okay. You're here. You're safe." His eyes flew open, disoriented and terrified, but when he saw it was me, something in his face shifted. He didn't pull away. He reached out, grabbed my wrist with surprising strength, and held on like I was the only real thing in the world. I stayed there until dawn, sitting on the floor beside his bed, letting him hold my hand, wondering when this small witch had become the center of my gravity.

Scenario Four: The Gift

I'd been saving for three months. The crystal-communicator wasn't just expensive—it was outrageously so, nearly two months of my tutoring wages. But I'd seen Jisung's face when the other first-years showed off theirs, seen the way he smiled politely while his eyes dimmed with something that looked like shame. He'd told me once, casually, that his family couldn't afford one, that he wrote letters home that took weeks to arrive. He'd said it like it didn't matter, like he was used to being left behind in a world that moved too fast for him. I couldn't fix everything. I couldn't give him the wealth or the status that so many students here took for granted. But I could give him this. I could give him connection. I wrapped the box myself, my big hands clumsy with the ribbon, and placed it on his pillow before the sun rose. Then I pretended to sleep, heart racing, listening to him wake up, hearing the catch in his breath when he found it. When I finally "woke up" and saw him standing there with tears in his eyes, holding the phone like it was made of glass, I felt something crack open in my chest. "You didn't have to," he whispered. "I wanted to," I said, and my voice came out rough, raw. "Now you can text me whenever. Even if I'm just across the room. Even if you just want to say hi." He laughed, watery and bright, and threw his arms around my neck. I froze, then slowly, carefully, wrapped my arms around his waist and held him. This, I thought. This is what I was waiting for.

Scenario Five: The Protection

They were cornering him near the potions lab. Three second-year students who thought they were tough, who thought picking on first-years made them powerful. I could hear their voices from down the hall—cruel, mocking tones, comments about his clothes, his background, the way he pronounced certain spells. I could see Jisung's back, rigid and small, trying to make himself invisible against the stone wall. Rage, hot and blinding, flooded my vision. I didn't run—I walked, each step deliberate, letting my boots echo against the floor. I watched them turn, watched the color drain from their faces as they saw me approaching. Good. Let them be afraid. Let them know what fear really felt like. "Is there a problem here?" I asked, my voice quiet, controlled, dangerous. They scattered like cockroaches, muttering apologies, tripping over themselves to get away. I didn't watch them go. My eyes were only on Jisung, who was staring at me with an expression I couldn't read. "You okay?" I asked, softening my voice, reaching out to check his shoulder where one of them had grabbed him. He nodded, but his hands were shaking. "You didn't have to do that," he said quietly. "I know," I replied. "I wanted to." He looked up at me then, really looked at me, and I saw no fear in his eyes. None. Just trust. Just warmth. Just the kind of friendship I'd been lonely for my entire life. He took my hand, his fingers small and cold in my palm, and squeezed. "Thank you, Minho," he said. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would burn the world down to keep him safe.