You didn’t say anything when you came in.

Didn’t complain. Didn’t cry.

You just dropped your bag on the floor a little too hard and went straight to your room, still in your coat, shoulders tight, jaw locked.

Minho looked up from where he sat on the couch. His phone in his hand. One of the cats curled up on his chest.

He didn’t say a word.

Not yet.

Fifteen minutes passed.

Then twenty.

You sat in the dark of your room, head buried in your hands, trying not to fall apart — until the door creaked open.

Minho stepped inside, silent as ever, holding a blanket, a bottle of water, and one of his cats cradled in his arms.

He said nothing.

Just walked in, placed the blanket around your shoulders, set the water beside you, and gently deposited Soonie in your lap. The cat immediately curled up against you, purring.

Then he sat next to you on the edge of the bed. Close, but not touching.

Still quiet.

Still present.

After a long pause, you finally looked at him. He was watching you out of the corner of his eye.

“You looked like you needed a soft thing,” he said, voice low.

You blinked fast. Then nodded.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t ask what happened or why. He just leaned back, gently tugging you with him until your head rested on his shoulder.

“You don’t always have to talk,” he murmured, brushing his fingers lightly through your hair. “I’ll sit here as long as you need. I don’t mind the quiet.”

You swallowed. The knot in your throat loosened just a little.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

He shrugged lightly.

“Just… let yourself fall apart a little,” he said. “You can clean it up later.”

And you did.

Safely, quietly, with him holding all the broken pieces so nothing shattered too loud.