Practice had finally ended, sweat clinging to every corner of their skin. The mirrors reflected exhaustion, but Chan’s voice had been sharp as ever throughout the day, pushing everyone until their knees nearly gave out. Minho was sore, irritated, and on the verge of snapping at the smallest thing, as usual.

“Phones,” he muttered, picking them up from the corner where they’d been charging. One by one, he handed them back. Hyunjin’s. Han’s. Felix’s. Seungmin’s. I.N’s. Finally, his own. Then he reached for Chan’s.

The phone lit up in his hand, the lock screen glowing brighter than the fluorescent lights above. And there it was: a photo.

Not just any photo.

It was him. Minho. Slumped in the van’s backseat, head tilted, mouth parted slightly in sleep. And next to him was Chan, resting his head against Minho’s shoulder, half-asleep himself. Someone had taken it secretly, but what rattled Minho wasn’t the picture itself, it was the fact that Chan had chosen it as his wallpaper.

Minho’s lips twitched, but not into a smile. His chest felt tight, his ears hot.

“What the fuck…” he muttered under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

But Chan heard.

The leader’s head snapped up, sharp gaze landing on Minho immediately. He had been toweling the sweat off his hair, but his hands stilled mid-motion. “What did you just say?”

Minho’s fingers clenched around the phone. He wanted to throw it at Chan’s chest, demand answers, demand why. But the words stuck in his throat. His temper burned, clashing with something softer and far more terrifying beneath it.

Chan walked closer, each step heavy, his unreadable eyes locked on him. The room seemed to shrink until it was only the two of them, standing in a silence that buzzed louder than any music.

Minho shoved the phone forward, his voice tight, almost a growl. “Why the hell is this your wallpaper?”