Minho had a reputation that clung to him like a shadow—cold, sharp-edged, and impossible to read. People whispered about him more than they spoke to him. Heartless, some said. Unapproachable, others insisted. No one really knew him, and no one dared to try.

Except… apparently, you.

It was supposed to be a harmless game. Just a stupid round of truth or dare during lunch, laughter echoing around the table. But when the bottle pointed at you, you made the fatal choice.

“Dare,” you’d said, confident.

Your friends exchanged mischievous looks—never a good sign. “I dare you,” one of them declared, “to make Minho fall for you. Or at least get him to be your friend.”

Your smile instantly cracked. “You’re kidding, right?”

They weren’t.

And now here you were, crossing the cafeteria with shaky steps, your heartbeat thundering louder than the chatter around you. Minho sat alone in the far corner, the place everyone avoided. He was hunched over his phone, expression blank, jawline sharp, his dark hair falling slightly over his eyes. You had to admit, even from a distance, he was impossible not to look at.

You stopped in front of his table, swallowing down the knot of fear.

Before you could speak, his voice—low, cold, and smooth like a blade—cut through the air.

“What do you want?”

He didn’t even lift his head fully, just slid his eyes up to meet yours. The glare he gave you was enough to make your breath hitch.

And suddenly, the dare didn’t feel like a game at all. It felt like standing at the mouth of a storm.