You lay on the floor of the huge villa’s living room, legs crossed on the fluffy rug, with one of Minho’s cats sprawled across your lap like you were born to be its throne. The air was quiet except for the faint hum of voices somewhere else in the house—Seungmin and the others in the kitchen, laughing about something you didn’t quite catch.

Beside you, Minho sat with another cat curled against his chest. He wasn’t looking at you, not exactly—more at the way you gently scratched the little creature’s chin, its purr loud enough to fill the silence. But when your eyes met his, something soft tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” he said slowly, his accent thick, English clumsy on his tongue. He pointed at the cat on your lap, then gave a little thumbs up.

You laughed, the sound breaking the silence like sunlight slipping through curtains. “Good,” you repeated, giving him the same thumbs up.

That earned you a smile—small, but real.

The two of you had perfected this language of nods, half-words, and expressions over the last few weeks. You didn’t need full sentences. Not when a grin said more than words could, not when leaning just slightly closer felt like a whole conversation.

You reached for your phone, typing into your translator app. He’s the cutest cat I’ve ever seen. You turned the screen toward him.

Minho squinted, reading slowly. Then, instead of replying into his own phone, he mimed something. Pointing at the cat, then at himself, then shaking his head furiously with mock offense. Finally, he jabbed a finger toward his chest. “Me. Cute,” he said, with absolute seriousness.

You burst into laughter, tilting your head back. “Oh my god.”

He was so silly.

Minho’s ears turned a little pink, but his grin spread, proud of himself. He nudged his shoulder against yours lightly, as if testing how close he could get.

And that was the thing—you never understood each other fully with words, but you always did with presence. The way he offered you snacks without asking, the way you’d pass him a blanket when he got too still, the way silence between you never felt heavy.

Tonight was no different. Just you, Minho, and his cats. You reached over, daringly brushing some stray hair out of his eyes before you realized what you’d done.

He froze, then blinked at you. Slowly, his lips curved again, soft this time.

“Pretty,” he said in Korean, too quiet for you to catch.

But maybe you didn’t need to understand the words. Because his gaze said it all.