“You’ve been glaring at me for thirty minutes.”

You shift under the blanket, curled on your side, legs tangled. Minho’s sitting at the foot of the bed now, scrolling his phone with one hand, the other idly rubbing your calf under the blanket.

“Because you deserve it.”

He laughs — not mean, not full. Just that soft, smug chuckle that tells you he loves this. Loves riling you up when you’re already moody.

“I breathe too loud, I blink wrong, and my face is apparently ‘offensive’ this week.”

“It is.”

He sets his phone down and turns, crawling up the bed until he’s hovering just above you — arms caging you in, a familiar glint in his eye.

“So what I’m hearing is…” he drawls, nose brushing your cheek, “…you need a distraction.”

You narrow your eyes. “Minho.”

“A gentle one.” He grins. “No pressure. Just… let me make you feel good.”

You hesitate.

But then his lips graze your jaw — featherlight. His voice drops lower, warm and raspy.

“Let me kiss you a little. Touch you a little. We don’t have to do anything if you’re uncomfortable. But baby—” his fingers trail down your side, teasing the hem of your shirt, “—you’ve looked like you want to bite someone all day. Let me help.”

Your breath stutters.

He watches you, eyes soft now. Careful. Waiting for permission.

“If I go too far,” he murmurs, “you stop me. Okay?”

You nod.

He kisses you slow — hands warm on your waist, mouth coaxing you open like he has all night to spend undoing you. And when you shift, pressing closer despite the ache in your belly, he groans low in his throat.

“God, even like this, you drive me insane.”