Minho didn’t like you. That much was obvious in the way he kept his distance—never outright hostile, just consistently closed off. He spoke when he had to, never more. You’d stopped trying to figure out what you’d done wrong. At some point, disliking each other became easier than questioning it.

The classroom emptied out quietly. No chaos, no jokes—just the usual scrape of chairs and footsteps fading down the hall. You gathered your things and headed for the door, already thinking about getting home.

The handle didn’t move.

You paused, tried again. Nothing. The realization settled slowly, irritation tightening in your chest. Someone had locked it. You exhaled, turning around with a tired look, only to remember you weren’t alone.

Minho sat by the window, a book open in front of him. He looked relaxed in a way that felt unfair. Like this situation didn’t inconvenience him at all. You dropped your bag onto a desk and sat, arms folding in on themselves more out of habit than intent.

“Of course,” you muttered.

You weren’t really talking to him, but you were aware of him anyway—of the way he hadn’t even looked up. That bothered you more than it should have. You didn’t want attention from him. You just didn’t like being ignored.

Minho, on the other hand, noticed everything.

He told himself he didn’t care. That being stuck in a room with you was nothing more than an annoyance. But his focus had slipped the moment you tugged at the door, frustration written plainly across your face. He recognized it too well—the small frown, the restless energy. He turned a page, then another, without registering the words.

He kept his gaze down because looking at you made things complicated.

You stood and tried the door again, harder this time. The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet room. When you turned back, Minho finally lifted his eyes, meeting yours for a brief second. There was no smirk, no edge—just a neutral assessment before he looked away again.

“It’s locked,” he said. “Someone’ll notice.”

His tone wasn’t dismissive. Just distant.

You scoffed softly, more at the situation than at him. “Great. Guess we’re stuck.”

Sitting back down, you stared at nothing in particular, irritation slowly giving way to unease. Being alone with him felt… heavy. Not dangerous. Just uncomfortable in a way you couldn’t explain.

Minho felt it too.

The silence pressed in, thick and unavoidable. He hated that he was aware of your presence—of every small movement, every sigh. He hated that being near you made him tense for reasons he didn’t fully understand. Dislike would’ve been easier. Simpler.

Instead, there was this.

Two people trapped in a room, both pretending they didn’t care, both thinking far more than they ever wanted to admit.