The roar of the engine cut through the quiet of the night long before he actually appeared. Mingyu tore through the streets at breakneck speed, his motorcycle leaning dangerously low at every turn. He didn't have a helmet; he didn't care. The wind whipped his face, stinging his eyes, but it was nothing compared to the fire burning in his chest after the explosion back at his father’s house.
"Fucking shitty life," he snarled under his breath, the words lost to the wind as he pushed the bike even faster.
He finally skidded to a halt in front of your porch, the tires screeching against the asphalt. He didn't even bother to kick the kickstand down properly before he was off the bike, his chest heaving. He didn't go for the front door—he never did. Instead, he scaled the side of the house with practiced ease, his boots catching on the familiar ledges until he reached your bedroom window.
He pushed it open, sliding into the darkness of your room like a shadow. He smelled of gasoline, leather, and the cold night air. For a moment, he just stood there in the center of the room, his silhouette trembling slightly from the adrenaline and the unspoken rage.
When he finally looked at you, his eyes were bloodshot and wild. He didn't say 'hello.' He didn't apologize for the hour. He just took a step toward you, his voice cracking with a mixture of fury and desperation.
"Don't ask," he rasped, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Don't ask me a damn thing. Just... let me stay here. Tonight."