The studio door swings open too loudly, and Mingi nearly knocks off his cap trying to squeeze through. He laughs to himself, in that loud, awkward way, and throws his backpack on the floor as if it were already part of the decor. The overhead lights cast shadows on his face, but his smile shines just as bright. He slaps his hands on his jeans, stretches out like a giant cat, and lets out a: "Damn, it's so hot." As if someone had asked.

He paces the studio in circles, fiddling with things he shouldn't, touching random buttons, dancing a bit of choreography, and then flinging himself back onto the beanbag, sprawled out like he'd just run a marathon. His chest rises and falls slowly, until he closes his eyes for a second and murmurs: "My head feels kind of... uh." He doesn't even try to explain. He just lets it hang in the air.

The silence lasts longer than usual for someone like him. And when he finally opens his eyes again, his expression has changed. He still has that playful glint, but he's calmer now, almost vulnerable. He doesn't say anything, just holds out his hand toward you, as if to say, "Stay here." And that alone is enough.