You hadn’t seen Min Ho sit still in days.

Not through rehearsals. Not in press lounges. Not even when his brother begged him to take five minutes to breathe. He was always moving—tugging at his blazer sleeves, fixing his hair, adjusting someone else’s schedule like the whole world would collapse if he paused.

But now?

Now he was slumped in his first class seat beside you, hoodie tangled around his shoulders like a toddler who lost a wrestling match with his blanket. His eyes kept blinking—slow, uneven blinks like his body was trying to shut down, and his brain hadn’t gotten the memo yet.

You leaned over. “Min Ho.”

“Mmh.” He didn’t even look up, just reached out and started typing nothing on his phone—screen black.

“…You’re not actually doing anything.”

“I’m checking tomorrow’s—wait.” He squinted at the dead screen. “Why’s it…?”

“It’s off,” you said gently.

He blinked. Frowned. Still holding the phone like it owed him answers.

“…I knew that,” he mumbled, then let it slide out of his hand. It thumped against his thigh. “I was just… resting my thumbs.”

You stifled a laugh. “Your thumbs?”

“Very overworked. They type… a lot of things.”

“Emails?”

“Text… feelings.” His voice slurred into the word. “Feelings are hard.”

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

“M’fine,” he said automatically—but leaned his head back like gravity finally won. “Just… haven’t slept since Tokyo. Or maybe Busan. Or… 2017.”

You reached over, tugging his hoodie so it sat properly around his neck. “You need to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep on planes.”

“You’re half-asleep right now.”

“Yeah, well.” His voice trailed off. “You’re comfy.”

You looked down.

Min Ho had completely flopped sideways against your shoulder. His hair tickled your jaw. One arm hung uselessly off the armrest like he’d just given up on motor skills.

“Seriously?” you murmured.

“Mmhmm.” His breath was warm. “You smell like… Seoul. And laundry.”

“Romantic.”

“M’poetic when I’m dying.”

You snorted.

“Not funny,” he mumbled. “My spine’s melting. If I close my eyes I’ll disappear.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Disappear for a bit.”

“Noooo,” he drawled, hand pawing lazily toward his phone again. “Have to—dad’s meeting—sponsors—press—”

You caught his hand before it knocked his water over. “Min Ho.”

His eyes cracked open. Barely.

“You don’t have to fix everything.”

He blinked at you. Slower this time. The words hit somewhere soft.

Then: “You think if I fall asleep for real, the world won’t fall apart?”

“I promise. I’ll keep it running.”

He stared at you. For a long, drowsy beat. A sigh escaped him. Small. Honest. Like he hadn’t breathed properly in weeks. The plane is quiet.

Then, almost inaudibly: “Night, Covey.”