The dorm was quiet that night.

Too quiet.

You knew something was wrong the moment you stepped inside. The lights were dim, the members’ laughter absent, and only one door was cracked open — Minho’s.

You knocked softly. “Min?”

No answer. But you heard a sniffle. And Minho doesn’t sniffle. Not unless something hurt him in the kind of way he tries very hard to hide.

You slipped inside.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, hoodie pulled over his head, head down, shoulders tense. His phone rested beside him — screen still glowing with comments.

Hateful ones.

The fake stays again. Calling him cold. Mean. Unlikable. Acting like they knew him.

Your Minho. Who woke the members up with breakfast when they were too tired to move. Who choreographed until his feet ached but still smiled whenever someone walked in. Who loved so deeply he had to hide you from the world to protect you.

Seeing him like this made your heart squeeze painfully.

“Minho…” you whispered.

He didn’t look up, just wiped the corner of his eye roughly with his sleeve, pretending nothing was wrong.

“Tough day?” you asked gently, sitting beside him.

He swallowed. “They’re annoying. You’d think they’d know me by now. But apparently I’m ‘cold,’ ‘arrogant,’ ‘rude’—” His voice cracked, just barely. “They don’t even know me.”

You reached out, sliding your hand onto his cheek.

Minho froze. His breath hitched — the way it always did when you touched him with that soft, careful tenderness he secretly lived for.

You cupped his face fully, thumbs brushing his skin like he might break if you pressed too hard. His eyes fluttered closed.

“There you are…” you murmured. “My Minho.”

He opened his eyes slowly. They were glassy but warm — the kind of warm he only ever showed to you.

You shifted closer and lifted his chin slightly.

Then you traced your finger along his cheekbones, across the slope of his nose, over the soft curve of his lips. Slow, gentle, precious.

He swallowed again, eyes locked on you.

“You’re treating me like I’m fragile,” he whispered.

“You’re treating yourself like you’re not,” you countered softly.

He let out a shaky exhale.

Your fingers continued tracing him — forehead, jaw, the small beauty mark near his eye — as if memorizing him. As if comforting him with pure touch.

“You know,” you said slowly, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes, “when you get sad like this…”

He blinked. “Mm?”

“You look like a little cat.”

Minho stared at you.

Then he huffed a laugh — small, breathy, surprised.

“A cat?”

“Well, yeah,” you said, nodding seriously. “Your ears metaphorically go down… your eyes get shiny… and you get all quiet and pouty. Very cat-like.”

A real laugh escaped him this time, warm and light, the one that always made your chest flutter.

“You…” Minho shook his head, smiling despite himself, “are ridiculous.”

“But did it make you laugh?”

He looked at you — really looked — and his expression softened into something tender enough to melt you.

“Yes,” he whispered. “You always do.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands found your waist. Yours stayed on his face, palms warm against his skin.

For a long moment, he just breathed you in.

“You’re the only person,” he murmured, “who can turn a night like this into something okay.”

“And you’re the only person who thinks pouting is a personality trait,” you teased.

He pulled back, eyes shining again — but this time with affection, not hurt.

“I love you,” he said quietly, almost like a secret. “The real stays love me. The members love me. But you… you’re the only one who sees me.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheek again.

“I always see you, Minho.”

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes, letting himself be soft — something he hardly ever allowed.

And you held his face like it was something precious.

Because to you, it was.