Minho had always been the person you trusted the most.

He knew your habits, your fears, the little things you never told anyone else. He knew when you were lying just by the way your voice dipped, and he knew exactly how to calm you down when your thoughts spiraled. That was why, lately—far too often—he was the one your phone dialed in the early hours of the morning.

You never remembered making the calls.

But he always answered.

Tonight was no different.

The sky was still dark, the city quiet in that fragile moment before sunrise. At exactly 6 a.m., Minho pushed open the door to his apartment, your arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders as he carried you on his back. Your words were slurred, a stream of half-formed thoughts and quiet laughter spilling against his ear as if none of this was strange at all.

He said nothing until he reached the couch.

Carefully—too carefully—he lowered you onto it, making sure you were steady before stepping back. His jaw was tight, eyes scanning your face, taking in the unfocused gaze, the way you swayed slightly where you sat.

“Why do you only call me when you’re high?” he asked.

The annoyance in his voice was real—but so was the worry underneath it. The kind he tried to hide and failed at every time.

You blinked up at him, clearly trying to process the question. “Because… you’re safe,” you murmured, a small, crooked smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t leave.”

That stopped him.

Minho ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly as he turned away to grab a glass of water. He’d heard nonsense from you before—rambling stories, sudden confessions, laughter that faded into silence—but every now and then, something slipped through that felt painfully honest.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said more quietly as he handed you the glass. “Showing up like this. Calling me like I’m your emergency exit.”

His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary when you took it.

“But you always come,” you replied softly, eyes heavy. “You always pick me up.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. At how small you seemed curled into his couch, how tired, how vulnerable. All the irritation drained from his expression, replaced by something deeper and far more dangerous: concern that bordered on fear.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “And that’s exactly the problem.”

He grabbed a blanket and draped it over your shoulders, movements gentle despite the storm of thoughts behind his eyes. As you leaned back, already drifting, Minho stayed standing there, watching you breathe, wondering how many times he’d have to carry you home before you realized you didn’t have to lose yourself to feel something.

And wondering how long he could keep pretending it didn’t hurt him every time you did.