He stumbled into your apartment with a lazy smile, giggling as he kicked off his heels, clearly tipsy from the guys’ night out he insisted on dragging you to. Minho had always been clingy when drunk, but tonight, it was different—intense. Before you could even ask if he needed water, he was on you. His lips grazed your jaw, your cheeks, your neck—soft kisses trailing like static down your skin. “You're so cute,” He mumbled against your cheek, his arms loosely wrapping around your waist. “Why aren’t you mine?”

You stiffened, unsure whether to laugh it off or push him away. He wasn’t in love with you—at least, that’s what you’d always told yourself. He was your best friend, wild and unpredictable, but never like this.

You gently grabbed his wrists. “Minho, you’re drunk.” You whispered, trying to ignore the heat that rose in your face. But he just smiled, eyes hazy and fond, and kissed the corner of your lips again.