Rain drummed against the greenhouse roof, the sound loud enough to hide how uneven Chan’s breathing had become. Minho’s knee pressed into the couch on either side of him, tie loosened, sleeves rolled like he’d just walked out of a fight—or into one.

“You followed me,” Chan said quietly, hands hovering near Minho’s waist but not quite touching.

Minho tilted his head, fingers slipping under Chan’s chin, guiding his gaze up. “You disappeared.”

“I needed space.”

“And I didn’t?” Minho’s voice dropped, not angry—worse. Honest.

Lightning flashed, silver across glass and leaves. For a second, they looked frozen in a photograph: Minho above him, eyes sharp, Chan beneath him, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

“You don’t get to walk away and expect me to stay still,” Minho whispered.

Footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the door.

Chan’s hand finally tightened at Minho’s waist—

—and the handle began to turn.