Han Jisung didn’t realize how cold the night air was until the restaurant door swung shut behind him, sealing out the warmth and the clatter of dishes. For the first time in an hour, he could breathe.

But only barely.

He tugged his mask higher, fingers trembling just a little. His heart still beat too fast—tight, fluttery, like it couldn’t make up its mind whether to sprint or collapse. Beside him, Lee Know stepped down the short wooden steps with a quiet sigh, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the noise of the restaurant.

“You okay?” Minho asked, not looking at him but scanning the small alley like he always did—protective without making it obvious.

Han nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… wow. Seafood was good though.”

Minho gave him a sideways look. “You ate three shrimp and stared at your spoon.”

Han winced. Of course he noticed. Minho noticed everything.

Inside, dinner had started out normal—low lighting, soft chatter, the faint smell of grilled fish drifting from the kitchen. They had chosen a small place specifically because it wasn’t usually busy. Just two friends getting seafood on their night off.

But then someone had recognized them. One soft whisper. One excited gasp. Then more. Phones flashing from different tables. People getting up, crowding around the tiny booth. Questions tossed at them from every direction. Hands reaching—some for photos, some for autographs.

And the walls had closed in.

Han’s throat had gone tight so fast he couldn’t swallow. The noise became blinding. His fingers had turned cold, his breathing shallow, and every part of him buzzed with that old familiar tremor—the warning sign that his anxiety was winding up, ready to spin out of control.

Minho had felt it instantly. He always did.

He’d stood, calm but firm, shielding Han with his body in that subtle, protective way he pretended wasn’t intentional. He handled the situation with polite smiles, short bows, guiding them out without making it dramatic.

Now, outside in the quiet, Han let out a long, shaky exhale.

“Do you want to walk a bit?” Minho asked. “There’s a pier nearby. Less people.”

Han nodded again, slower this time. That sounded good. Safe.

They started down the narrow street, shoes tapping lightly against the pavement. Streetlights painted the road in warm gold, and the cold breeze carried the smell of the ocean. Han shoved his hands into his pockets so Minho wouldn’t notice the last flickers of shaking.

But of course he did.

Minho’s voice was softer now—rare, almost like he saved that tone for moments like this. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine. I know when you’re not.”

Han swallowed. His chest felt tight in a different way—not panic, just the ache of being seen too clearly.

“I just…” He cleared his throat. “I hate when it gets like that. I know fans mean well, but sometimes my brain just—” He tapped his temple. “It glitches.”

Minho didn’t laugh or tease him. He just walked beside him, hands in his coat pockets, eyes forward.

“You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed,” he said simply. “You’re human, not some fearless superhero.”

Han blinked at him. “You literally call yourself Leebit the superhero.”

“That’s different,” Minho deadpanned. “I’m perfect.”

Han snorted—finally, finally managing a smile. The knot in his chest loosened. A little.

They reached the pier, where only a few people strolled by, paying no attention to them. The ocean stretched out dark and endless, waves rippling softly under the moonlight. Han inhaled deeply, letting the air cool his lungs.

Minho leaned against the railing, watching him with that unreadable, catlike stare.

“You know,” Minho said, “you did well in there.”

Han raised a brow. “I panicked.”

“You didn’t run.” Minho shrugged. “You stayed until we could leave properly. That’s strength, idiot.”

Warmth pricked behind Han’s eyes, unexpected and embarrassing. He looked away quickly, focusing on the water.