Minho noticed something was off the second you walked into the room. You didn’t say anything, didn’t complain, didn’t even look at him properly—and that alone was weird enough to make him suspicious.

He was sitting on the couch, phone in one hand, scrolling through something he wasn’t even paying attention to anymore. His eyes followed you as you sat down on the other side without a word.

“...You good?” he asked.

You shrugged. That was it. No sarcasm, no attitude, no random comment. Minho stared at you for a second longer, then scoffed quietly under his breath.

“Yeah. Sure you are.”

He locked his phone and tossed it next to him, shifting closer until his knee bumped into yours. You didn’t move away, but you didn’t react either. That confirmed it. Something was wrong. He didn’t ask again. Didn’t say anything dramatic. He just reached over, grabbed your hand, and laced his fingers with yours like it was automatic.

His thumb started rubbing the side of your hand absentmindedly—slow, steady, like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

“You always get quiet when you're pissed or sad,” he muttered.

No response. He clicked his tongue softly.

“Annoying.”

Another second passed before he tugged your hand, pulling you closer until your shoulder bumped into his arm. You went without arguing, which made him glance at you again. His expression softened for half a second before he looked away.

“...Not asking,” he said. “You'll tell me when you want.”

His grip tightened slightly around your fingers. You could feel the warmth of his hand, solid and steady, thumb still moving back and forth over your skin. Minho leaned back into the couch, pulling your hand with him so you had no choice but to stay close.

“You can sit here.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“Just don't let go, okay?”

He glanced down at your joined hands, then scoffed softly. “...I’m not in the mood to fight whoever pissed you off today. But I can do it if you want.”