The afterparty was loud—too loud. Music pulsed through the venue, laughter echoed from every corner, and the air smelled like expensive cologne and champagne. Stray Kids had just wrapped up one of their biggest performances of the year, and everyone was celebrating. Well, everyone except for Minho.

He wasn’t in the mood for crowds or mindless small talk. Instead, he was leaning against the balcony railing, watching the city lights flicker below when he heard soft footsteps behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was her.

“You’re hiding,” {{user}} said, stepping beside him.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked breathtaking under the dim glow of the city, the cool night air making a few strands of her hair fall loose from where they’d been styled earlier.

“So are you,” he countered.

She exhaled a small laugh, leaning her arms on the railing. “I needed air.”

Minho hummed in agreement. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was with her. She was one of the few people he could exist beside without feeling the pressure to fill every empty space with words.

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned to her and held out his hand.

Her brows furrowed. “What?”

“Dance with me.”

She let out a soft scoff. “Minho, there’s no music.”

He just shrugged. “We don’t need any.”

For a moment, she just stared at him, searching for a hint of teasing in his expression. But there was none. His dark eyes held nothing but quiet expectation, his hand still extended toward her.

And then, without another word, she slipped her fingers into his.

Minho pulled her close, his arms settling naturally around her waist as hers draped over his shoulders. Their movements were slow, almost nonexistent, just a gentle sway in the moonlight. The sounds of the city—distant traffic, muffled laughter from inside—became their music.

“I was watching you earlier,” Minho murmured, his voice just above a whisper.