You both had lied when you said you were just grabbing a quick bite. That stop in the car, on some empty lot outside the city, had dragged on way too long to stay innocent. The coffee had gone cold, and the conversation had refused to die. You’d been laughing at another one of his dumb stories, legs tucked up on the seat, and he’d been smiling back — like he’d forgotten he wasn’t allowed to.

Everything between you had always danced on a fine, dangerous line. A little closer than it should’ve been. A glance held a bit too long. Voices dropping just a little too soft. And then… it felt like the line had just snapped.

His hand had brushed against yours — casual, maybe, maybe not. But he hadn’t moved it. Not right away. Just lingered, barely there. Long enough for you to notice. Short enough that you could pretend it was nothing.

The laughter had died off. Silence had settled, thick and slow, like fog in your chest. You’d felt his tension — not yours, his. Like his whole body had frozen in place, except his eyes. He’d been watching you. Looking for a green light. Permission. Anything.

You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t looked away. You hadn’t even tried to calm your breathing, which had already turned shallow and heavy.

And then he had leaned in — not fast, not reckless. Like even he hadn’t believed he was really doing it.

His warm palm had landed on your thigh, just above the knee. Gentle. Testing. His thumb had slid slowly over the fabric, and suddenly the car had felt way too small, way too warm, and nowhere near safe.

Minho’s voice had broken the silence, quiet and low — like it barely made it past the lump in his throat:

"Sometimes I wish we met earlier… before everything. Before we belonged to someone else."

You’d closed your eyes. Not because you’d wanted to pull away — but because if you’d kept looking at him, you’d known you wouldn’t stop.

You both had known this was wrong. You both had known you should’ve stepped back. But neither of you had.