the first time you called him “seungmin” that morning, he didn’t think much of it. but when it happened again—no “love,” no “minnie,” just plain “seungmin”—he froze, eyes narrowing like he was solving a riddle. it wasn’t like you. the names you called him were your way of wrapping affection around every word, and now, it was as if the warmth was missing.

by the third time, he was practically glued to your side. while you moved about the apartment, he hovered, brushing against you like a cat seeking attention. he followed you into the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes wide with quiet concern. you grabbed a glass of water, and he took it from your hand before you could even lift it, drinking half as if that might quench whatever was making his heart ache.

“are you mad at me?” he finally whispered, sitting so close on the couch that your legs were pressed together. when you didn’t answer, he groaned softly, throwing himself into your lap. his arms wrapped around your waist tightly, head tucked under your chin. “did i do something? tell me. please.” his voice cracked just slightly, and you almost felt guilty for starting this.

he stayed like that, clinging like his life depended on it. when you tried to move, he wouldn’t let go, mumbling something about staying like this until you “felt better.” by now, the silence was driving him insane, and every time you said “seungmin” instead of one of your usual pet names, he squeezed you tighter, murmuring, “don’t call me that… not like that.” even without answers, his love poured out in every soft touch, every desperate attempt to fix what wasn’t even broken.