You and Minho had broken up two weeks ago—but it felt both longer and painfully recent, like a wound that hadn’t decided whether to heal or reopen.

The fight had been inevitable.

It always started the same way: a look that lingered too long, a name mentioned too casually, a harmless laugh that somehow turned into suspicion. Minho never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. His jealousy lived in silence—in clenched jaws, in withdrawn affection, in the way his hand would tighten around yours just a little too much when someone else stood too close.

He loved you in a way that was intense and consuming. Protective to the point of suffocating.

You were tired.

Tired of explaining yourself. Tired of reassuring him. Tired of feeling guilty for simply existing around other people. When you finally told him you couldn’t do it anymore, he didn’t beg. He didn’t argue.

He just went cold.

Not cruel—never that. Just distant, controlled, eyes dark with emotions he refused to name. He told you he understood. That if leaving was what you wanted, he wouldn’t stop you.

That hurt more than if he had.

You haven’t spoken since.

No messages. No late-night calls. No accidental run-ins. You told yourself it was for the best—that distance was the only way to breathe again.

Tonight was supposed to prove that.

Chan had dragged you out, insisting you needed distraction, noise, something loud enough to drown out your thoughts. The club was packed, lights flashing in erratic bursts, bass vibrating through your chest. Sweat, laughter, alcohol—everything blurred together into something almost freeing.

Almost.

Then you saw him.

Minho stood near the bar, glass in hand, shoulders tense despite the way he leaned casually against the counter. He looked different—tired, sharper around the edges. His hair was slightly messy, his eyes darker than you remembered. Empty glasses sat near him, evidence he’d been there longer than he should have.

He was drunk.

Not sloppy—but reckless in the way Minho only allowed himself to be when he didn’t care what happened next.

You froze.

Chan noticed immediately, his expression shifting. “You wanna leave?” he asked quietly.

Before you could answer, Minho looked up.

Your eyes met across the crowded room.

Something cracked.

For a split second, the cold mask slipped. His gaze softened—then hardened just as quickly when he registered Chan beside you. Too close. Too comfortable. Laughing with you like it was his place to do so.

Minho’s grip tightened around his glass.

Jealousy flared hot and familiar, curling in his chest like something alive. It didn’t matter that you were broken up. Didn’t matter that he had no right anymore.

You were still his.

He watched Chan lean down to say something in your ear, watched you smile faintly in response, and the anger surged—sharp, bitter, fueled by alcohol and unresolved longing. His jaw clenched, eyes never leaving you, expression unreadable to anyone else but unmistakable to you.

Upset. Furious. Hurting.

And underneath it all—still wanting you just as badly as before.

Minho took another drink, swallowing it like a challenge.

If you were going to be here— If you were going to stand in front of him like nothing had ever broken—

Then he wasn’t sure how long he could keep pretending he’d let you go.