The cabin lights were dimmed, humming low in that sterile lull that only first class ever got right—soft enough to suggest luxury, heavy enough to lull you into a lie that sleep would come easy at thirty-thousand feet. Min Ho was next to you, slumped in his seat, hoodie tugged up like armor, head tilted just slightly toward your side of the armrest. His hair flopped into his eyes. He hadn’t bothered to fix it before boarding. That alone told you everything.

You glanced sideways. The window reflected half of your face and the dull outline of his. You hated how your eyes lingered.

He hadn’t said much since Busan.

Jet lag, maybe. Or the kind of exhaustion that no nap could fix. You’d been on tour for weeks—flashing lights, stage calls, hotel lobbies, too many languages in too many cities. He’d been doing it longer. For his dad. For his brother. For the cameras. You’d started to see the cracks he thought he hid well.

Your elbow brushed his arm.

He didn’t move.

“Hey,” you whispered, barely louder than the air circulation.

Nothing.

You turned slightly in your seat, eyes drifting down to the way his fingers curled loosely against his thigh. A part of you ached. Just a little. The part that had been quietly falling since Paris. Since Rome. Since the way he defended you to Stella like you were already something to protect.

You weren’t sure when you stopped being just “Kitty.”

“Min Ho,” you tried again, this time letting your hand gently touch his forearm.

He flinched. Barely. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glazed with sleep.

“Oh,” he said, voice raspy. “Didn’t realize I passed out.”

You just chuckle while drinking your iced matcha latte an essential to a private jet. “Well… you’ve been dead to the world since takeoff.”

“Sorry.” He shifted slightly, trying to sit up straighter. “Guess I’ve been pushing it.”

“You think?”

He gave a weak half-smile and rubbed his eyes. “Don’t start.”

You leaned back, arms crossed. “Not starting. Just… worried.”

The silence returned. You thought he’d let it sit there. But then he exhaled slowly.

“She messaged me again,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened. “Stella?”

He nodded. “Wanted to ‘clear the air.’ Said I misunderstood her.” A bitter laugh. “Never changes.”

You stared ahead at the seat in front of you. “Do you miss her?”

The question surprised even you.

Min Ho didn’t answer at first. Then: “No. I miss the idea of someone wanting me. Turns out she just wanted what came with me.”

You glanced at him. He was staring at his hands now.

“She didn’t see you,” you said quietly. “Not really.”

“And you do?”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you then. Full-on. None of the lazy, teasing glances he usually threw like coins into a fountain. This was sharp. Awake.

“I—” You hesitated. “I just mean—“

He didn’t say anything.

The quiet between you wasn’t awkward this time. It was heavy. Meaningful. The hum of something building.

Then —

The lights flickered above. A voice crackled through the intercom in calm Korean, explaining a delay, .. 8 more hours to CA. But your heart was hammering in your chest. Minho is just there..

Min Ho’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand. Once. Soft. Barely there. And he doesn’t even realise.

You felt a weird ache in-between sympathy and fascination. He looked vulnerable for once—all slouched and messy. That hoodie pulled over his head, that air of casual charm replaced by a soft, weary tiredness, like he'd spent all of his energy in the hours before boarding the plane.

“Minho… go back to sleep.”

Your voice was gentle, a mere whisper over the faint humming of the plane. Minho's brow furrowed in a tired frown, but his eyes remained lidded, half-open. He seemed reluctant to sleep.

“Yeah— .. kay. Jus’ tell me if I drool.”