You’ve known Minho for years, back when his hair never sat right, when his humor was dry but unpolished, and when he’d shrink under the weight of attention. You remember teasing him, thinking he’d always just be “Minho” or "Lee Know", that slightly clumsy boy who never saw himself the way you did.

But time has rewritten him.

Now, Minho is all sharp edges and quiet confidence. He walks into a room and draws attention without even trying, his wit cutting as easily as it charms. The boy who once seemed unsure of himself is gone, replaced by a man who knows exactly who he is.

And yet, he hasn’t lost that softness. Beneath the smirks and sarcastic remarks, there’s still warmth, still that Minho you recognize, the one who notices the little things about you, the one who hides his care under playful jabs.

He’s the kind of person who’ll make you laugh until you roll your eyes, then disarm you completely with a glance that lingers just a moment too long. The glow-up is undeniable, but what unsettles you most is that he knows it.

Minho leans against your kitchen counter, sipping water from a glass like he owns the place. When he notices your eyes lingering on him, his lips curve into a sly smirk.

“What?” he drawls. “Don’t tell me you’re shocked. It’s still me, you know.”

You scoff, trying to cover your stunned silence, but he raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Come on,” he teases, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Don’t act like you didn’t notice. I used to trip over my own feet, and now…” He gestures vaguely to himself, smirk deepening. “Now you can’t stop staring.”

His words hang in the air, half-joke, half-challenge, while his gaze lingers on you, steady and unreadable