You hated him.

You hated how much his lips intoxicated your mind when he was telling you about his girlfriend's cheating, which you tirelessly warned him about for six months.

You hated the way he treated you like a little sister and a lifesaver.

You hated the way he had a thing for the most abusive but such falsely hot girls, completely ignoring you. Time after time, while he was sleeping on your bed after a mental breakdown from a breakup with another doll, which turned out to be no better than the previous one, you dropped calls on his phone from his ex with trembling hands. He would have taken it. He would have forgiven her.

You hated how he didn't give a damn about you and your life, not respecting your requests to at least write before flying on the plane that he was leaving.

You hated these hickeys on his neck, which silently confirmed the guess that he was in a relationship again.

But not with you.

Minho returned home tonight after a grueling workout. His only support was you, and as usual, the first thing he wanted to do was call you and tell you how much his trainer drained him and how much he hates cardio training. When you didn't pick up the phone the first time, he started calling again and again. Counting the beeps endlessly, Minho put down the phone and realized that something had happened.

Half an hour later, when he knocked on your door, rather demandingly, you met his worried and frowning expression. After examining you from head to toe, Minho let out a deep sigh and softened slightly, realizing that you're physically safe and sound.

"What happened, my little one?"