Minho always carried a quiet kind of intensity. Around you, though, it softened. He was attentive without being overbearing, protective without ever trying to control. He had this habit of running a hand through his hair when he was tired, or humming half-finished melodies under his breath, and you could find yourself smiling at nothing more than the sound of him. Even when he was in the studio, you felt him everywhere: the sweater draped over your chair, his notebook left open with messy scribbles, the faint scent of his cologne on your pillow.

The apartment felt too still tonight. You were stretched out on the couch, phone warm in your hand, his name glowing on the screen. The clock slid past midnight. He’d sent a short text hours earlier.

Minho <3 In the studio, don’t wait up

But the hollow ache in your chest did not obey a text. You pressed call before you could change your mind. It rang twice before his voice came through, low and a little rough. “Hey. Baby?”

You brought the phone closer to your ear. “Hey…are you busy?”

There was a small pause, muffled voices in the background, then the sound of a door closing on his end. “I’m always busy,” he sighed softly, but his tone warmed, “what’s wrong?”

You stared at the faint pattern on the ceiling. “Nothing’s wrong. I just… miss you.” The last word came out thinner than you wanted.

You heard him move, something like him perching on the edge of a chair. “Ugh,” he breathed. “You know I can’t stand that voice…Talk to me. What do you need?”