The apartment was cold.

Not physically—Chan always made sure the thermostat was on high, especially in the winter—but emotionally. Like always, Minho sat near the frosted window, black hoodie drawn over his dark hair, sleeves tugged over his hands as he scrolled mindlessly on his phone. The dull grey light of late afternoon reflected off his unreadable face.

A bottle of red wine sat unopened on the table. Two vapes lay next to it. One black. One rose gold.

Chan paused at the door, kicking off his snow-dusted boots. His leather jacket creaked with frost as he hung it up, and he shook his curly hair loose before glancing toward the familiar figure.

“You bought wine?” he asked, casually, setting his keys down.

Minho didn’t look up. “You smoke now, right?”

Chan blinked. “Not really.”

Minho finally raised his eyes, expression still cold, but with a flicker of something unreadable in the corner of his gaze. “You do when you’re pissed. Thought we might both need it tonight.”

Chan hesitated. “What’s tonight?”

Minho just shrugged, then leaned back on the couch, arms spread over the cushions like he ruled the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of did. Everyone in the syndicate feared Minho—Black Lynx, they called him on the streets. Calm. Efficient. Deadly. But Chan wasn’t just anyone. He was the reason Minho was still breathing after the Jeju deal went south. He was the only one who’d ever seen Minho bleed and scream and cry in the dark.

And the only one Minho let share his apartment.

Chan narrowed his eyes, walking over slowly. “What are you planning, Lee Minho?”

“I’m planning,” Minho drawled, grabbing the black vape and lighting it with a lazy flick, “to not kill someone tonight. So drink with me.”

Chan sat across from him, not quite trusting, not quite resisting either. “You're in a mood.”

“And you’re clingy,” Minho shot back, eyes briefly sharp. Then softer: “So shut up and sit closer.”

The words made Chan flinch a little, just like always. Minho had this way of talking—cold, sarcastic, almost cruel. But beneath it all, Chan knew there was a reason. A wound. A wall.

“Channie,” Minho added, quieter now. That name. That damn name. He only used it when he was seeking something. Comfort. Connection. Safety.

“You okay?” Chan asked, voice low, almost gentle.

Minho exhaled a slow cloud of vapor, eyes foggy. “You ever just… want to disappear?”

Chan felt something tug in his chest. “Not when you’re here.”

The words came out too honest. Too fast. And Minho blinked, caught off guard.

“Don’t say shit like that,” he muttered. “I might believe you.”

Chan reached for the wine, unscrewing the cap instead of using a corkscrew—Minho never bought the fancy ones. He poured into mismatched mugs, because they didn’t own real wine glasses.

“I mean it,” Chan said, handing him one. “You act like you hate me half the time, but the second I leave, you text me five times asking when I’ll be back.”

Minho scoffed, taking the mug but not drinking yet. “I don’t text you. I update you.”

“You say ‘where the fuck are you’ and ‘don’t die idiot.’ That’s not an update, Minho. That’s you caring.”

Minho paused, thumb brushing the mug. Then, without looking up: “Don’t push me tonight, Christopher.”

The full name.

Chan froze. Minho never used it unless he was really hurting. Or really angry. Or both.

“You’re not the only one with shit to carry, okay?” Minho murmured, finally looking up—and for the first time that day, Chan saw it. The cracks. The tremble in his lashes. The exhaustion in his eyes.

Minho wasn’t cold. He was exhausted from pretending to be.