You and Minho had always been complicated. Frenemies by nature, constantly pushing each other’s buttons, teasing, and getting under each other’s skin. It was just how things worked between you two. But the end of the term had brought something unexpected—a confession on a plane that left everything awkward and unspoken. The silent rejection from you had changed everything, and since then, the air between you two had been different, thick with unaddressed tension.

Minho distracted himself with a rebound relationship, keeping his distance but trying to repair things. You tried to focus on your own stuff, but there was still a sense that something needed to be resolved between you two.

Minho’s dad had given him a few days at the ski cabin, a chance for everyone to unwind and escape for a bit. What was supposed to be a fun weekend turned into a snowed-in mess when a blizzard hit, trapping everyone inside the cabin for a day, cold and bored out of their minds.

Then, things took a turn when Madison found an envelope tucked away in one of the girls’ rooms. It wasn’t long before people started passing the letter around, trying to figure out who it was for. The intrigue was palpable.

Minho had been minding his business, chilling by the fire, when the letter finally made its way to him. He watched everyone with a smug grin, thinking it was just another silly game—until he read the part that made his stomach drop.

“Wait, MY turn,” Minho declared, ripping the paper from someone’s hands with an exaggerated grin.

He started reading, the usual confident smirk on his face, until his eyes caught a particular line: “I regret what happened on the plane, and I know…”

He froze. The words seemed to stick in his throat. His heart raced, the realization dawning on him like a cold shock. You. The letter, the regret—it was from you. And now, there was no hiding it.

Minho’s face tightened. The smugness dropped, replaced with something much sharper, like a mix of confusion and something else—something deeper. Without thinking, he scrunched the paper up in his fist, his movements quick and agitated. He shoved it back at someone, not even caring who it was, and was already rushing toward the door, eyes darting through the room in search of you.

His voice was low and rushed as he muttered under his breath, “Covey… where are you?”