You didn’t mean to flirt.

Not really. You were just talking. Laughing. The guy — a mutual friend — had said something dumb, and you laughed too loud, your hand brushing his arm as you leaned in, still giggling.

Minho saw it from across the room.

He didn’t say anything. He never did right away.

But when your eyes finally found his, his expression was unreadable — calm, still, just the tiniest lift of a brow and a flick of his gaze.

You swallowed.

Uh-oh.

Later, when you finally returned to where he sat on the couch — legs crossed, arms resting across the back like he hadn’t just been watching you the whole time — you could feel the shift.

“You two seemed to be having fun,” he said casually, not looking at you.

You tilted your head. “What’s that tone?”

“What tone?”

“That one. The ‘I’m not jealous but I absolutely am’ tone.”

He gave a short laugh through his nose — not amused.

“I’m not jealous,” he said coolly. “Just observing. You seemed… very entertained.”

You sat beside him, your thigh barely brushing his. “You mad?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

He glanced at you. Finally.

And that was when you saw it — the storm behind his eyes, the tightly wound control, the please don’t make me say it first look.

You softened. “Minho.”

He looked away again. “You don’t touch me like that when you laugh.”

Ah.

You smiled — small and real — then swung one leg over his lap, straddling him before he could blink.

“Maybe because you’re never funny,” you teased, voice low against his ear.

He stiffened for half a second — then his hands came to your waist like instinct.

You leaned in close. “If I wanted someone else, do you really think I’d come home to you?”

His fingers tightened, just slightly.

“No one else gets to look at you like that,” he murmured. “Only me.”

You smirked. “There’s the jealousy.”

He rolled his eyes — but his mouth found yours before you could say another word.