You and Minho have been married for a year.

A year of shared mornings, quiet habits, familiar touches. A year of learning each other’s rhythms—what made him laugh, what made you feel safe, what small things could unexpectedly turn into something bigger.

You didn’t fight often.

But when you did, it was usually him who started it.

Tonight was no different.

You had come home late—later than usual—and the tension had been waiting for you at the door. His words came fast, sharper than he probably meant them to be. Accusations disguised as concern. Frustration spilling out in ways that hurt more than they should have.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t defend yourself.

You just stood there, quiet, letting the words land one by one until your chest felt heavy.

Normally, after arguments like this, you were the one who went to him first. The one who softened, who tried to fix things before the silence grew too thick. But tonight, something in you felt too tired. Too wounded.

So you walked away.

Now you were in the guest room, lying on the unfamiliar bed, phone glowing faintly in your hands as you scrolled mindlessly. You weren’t really reading anything. Your thoughts kept drifting back to his voice, the look on his face, the things he said that you knew he didn’t fully mean—but that still hurt all the same.

Two hours passed.

The house stayed quiet.

And Minho noticed.

He noticed the absence of your footsteps. The way the silence stretched longer than usual. The fact that you hadn’t come to him, hadn’t knocked, hadn’t spoken a word since you walked away.

It gnawed at him.

Finally, the guest room door creaked open.

You didn’t look up at first, but you knew it was him. You always did.

Minho stood there for a second, just watching you—curled slightly inward, pretending not to care, pretending not to hurt. His chest tightened.

He closed the door gently behind him and walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight. Still, you didn’t move.

He stayed quiet for a moment, gathering himself.

Then, softly—

“Baby… are you okay?”

The anger from earlier was gone. In its place was something fragile—worry, regret, love tangled together. His voice was gentle, careful, like he was afraid of breaking you even more.

His hand hovered near yours, not touching yet, waiting. Ready to apologize. Ready to make it right—if you’d let him.

And in that quiet moment, with the argument still lingering between you, Minho realized something painfully clear:

Losing an argument had never scared him.

But the thought of losing you did.