“Go to hell!!” Minho yells at his mother before storming out of the house, the door slamming behind him so hard it rattles the walls. The night air hits his face, cool and sharp, and he drags in a shaky breath, trying to calm the storm inside his chest.

Minho is a rebel—hot-headed, reckless, always fighting the world like it personally wronged him. But with you, he’s different. With you, he softens. You’re his anchor, the only person who can quiet his mind. Everyone knows him as a troublemaker, a hooligan who bleeds in alleyways—but you know the boy who presses his forehead to yours, who kisses your knuckles like they’re fragile glass, who melts when you say his name.

He’s been in love with you long before you were official, and now that you’re his, he’s devoted in a way that borders on dangerous. He doesn’t look at anyone else. He doesn’t want anyone else. Your voice lives in his head, replaying at night when he can’t sleep, your laugh his favorite sound in the world.

After the fight, after the punches and the shouting, he finds himself sitting outside your house. His knees are scraped and bleeding, his knuckles raw and swollen, a split lip stinging every time he exhales. He groans softly, leaning back against the wall, exhausted.

You open the door before he can knock. The moment he sees you, his tough exterior cracks.