#i had to read this for class and I was going insane

[xinganhao]

✏️ seatmates joshua x reader.

prompt: "we sit next to each other every day, i lend you pencils, you share snacks with me, people are assuming we’re a couple, let’s go with that." ✶ part of my svt university milestone event

⤿ fluff, slight miscommunication, joshua is whipped, jeongcheol [if u squint!]. more content under the cut. ♡⸝⸝ prompt from anon!

It's not looking like a good start of the week for Seungcheol.

He had an insane bender the night before. He missed the morning bus to school and ended up walking the whole two-kilometer way. And now, the not-quite-a-couple duo who sat in front of him at class was back on their bullshit again.

With his fingers pressed to his temple, Seungcheol watches warily as the starry-eyed boy— Joshua, Seungcheol thinks his name is— places a canned coffee atop the edge of your desk. God, Seungcheol would kill for that right about now.

He's too far gone to make out anything the two of you are saying, but Seungcheol can fill in the blanks. It's probably something stupid, he thinks bitterly. Good morning, love. How was your weekend, love? I missed you, love.

Blegh.

There's only one thing he can think to do. Seungcheol whips out his phone and shoots out a quick slew of texts, trying to ignore the way that Joshua has begun to laugh a little too loud at something you just said.

Seungcheol it's a monday and i'm hungover and the pretty boy in front of me keeps making heart eyes at his seatmate he's laughing. i'm hungover to the heavens and he's laughing god what have i done to deserve this god when will it be my turn Jeonghan you think someone else is pretty? :( Seungcheol do NOT start with me rn

Seokmin doesn't think Joshua notices.

It's just like Joshua, really, to be a bit slow on the uptake when it comes to matters of the heart. And so Seokmin nods along, the perfect picture of indulgence, as you wheedle your way into Joshua's every day.

You don't even have to show up in the physical sense. Joshua fills in those gaps for you. I think they'll like this, Joshua (while holding a box of some obscure snack) tells Seokmin at the grocery store. They'll get a kick out of that, Joshua cackles as he snaps a photo of a silly eraser.

Seokmin knows he could, should probably ask his best friend what the hell is going on. The boy is in desperate need of a quick 'check-the-label' moment, honestly.

In the end, Seokmin decides: Not my circus, not my monkeys.

He figures the two of you will eventually hammer it out yourselves. It's a rite of passage, isn't it? The limbo of flirtation, confined in the four corners of a classroom. The happy crush that may or may not reciprocate.

As Joshua all but skips— honest-to-God skips!— to the Wednesday session of his class with you, Seokmin can't help the fond shake of his head at what Joshua has gotten himself into. Sharing snacks and stationery every M/W/F?

There are worse situationships to have, Seokmin concedes.

Professor Kang has been in the academe for nearly two decades.

He's watched relationships bloom, and last, and end. One or two students have even invited him to their weddings. There's no shortage of gossip in the faculty rooms; there's always a seating plan to orchestrate, a partnered project to use for a little drama.

He likes to think he has a sixth sense for this sort of thing, and that's why he initially believed that you and Joshua... aren't really a thing.

Sure, the two of you bend your heads together a little too close when discussing something. He notices, too, the exchanges— both the transactional and spoken ones. But he's unconvinced, for the most part of the semester, that there's not really anything worth reading into.

That is, until, you don't show up to class one day. On a whim, Professor Kang asks Joshua about your absence, and the boy fumbles with his phone for a couple of minutes.

"Doctor's appointment," Joshua eventually divulges, though there's a slightly worried crease in his eyebrows that has Professor Kang thinking, huh.

That huh gives way to an ah when, at the next class, the two of you slot right back into place. Professor Kang catches bits and pieces of your conversation with Joshua; how he eagerly inquires about your Friday plans, how he listens intently to your little rants.

As the two of you walk out the classroom, your shoulders brush. It's slight enough that anybody not really looking would miss it, would dismiss it, but Professor Kang can only watch with amusement. Joshua apologizes for crowding you— only to take an infinitesimal step closer as the two of you leave the classroom.

By the time the two of you are out in the hall, your shoulders are almost touching again.

Ah, Professor Kang thinks. He swears he's seen it all in the past twenty years, but he's not immune to making mistakes.

Perhaps they're a little bit in love, after all.

[estellan0vella]

All I'll Ever Ask: L. Mh Lee Minho x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 20K

CW: Anxiety, Soft Minho, Protective Minho, Protective SKZ, Abuse of Power, Attempted Blackmail, Fighting, Violence

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist Part I

The faint hum of Minho’s desk lamp fills his room in the Alpha Phi frat house, casting a soft, golden glow over the cosy chaos. The walls are adorned with a mix of framed photos, band posters, and a whiteboard covered in scribbles about everything from anatomy diagrams to doodles of what you suspect are the other frat members with Changbin being drawn criminally short. His scent lingers in the air, clean, warm and something uniquely Minho.

You’re curled up in his desk chair, legs tucked beneath you, wearing a pair of black yoga shorts and one of his oversized grey hoodies. It hangs loose on your frame, enveloping you in its softness. The cuffs drape over your hands, one of which fidgets idly with a silicone pop-it on the desk. The other spins the anxiety ring on your left hand, the repetitive motion grounding as your thoughts churn.

The blue light glasses perched on your nose catch the light from your laptop, reflecting faintly in the otherwise dim room. Your eyes skim over the open document in front of you, but frustration clouds your focus. You mutter under your breath, venting half-formed curses at the assignment that’s been tormenting you for days.

Behind you, Minho lounges on the bed, the epitome of relaxed confidence. He’s shirtless, the sharp cut of his collarbones and lean torso illuminated in the lamp’s glow. His grey sweatpants sit low on his hips and a hefty veterinary science textbook rests on his lap, though his dark eyes stray from it every few seconds to watch you. Amusement dances in his gaze as he takes in your fidgeting fingers and the tiny crease between your brows.

“You’ve been sighing like a goddamn storm cloud for the past ten minutes,” he drawls, closing his book with a soft thud and leaning back against the headboard. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, baby?”

You groan loudly, your head dropping to the desk with a dramatic thump. The pop-it lets out a weak little pop under your cheek. “This assignment fucking sucks,” you mumble, your voice muffled against the desk. “I didn’t even get to pick the topic. It’s like Jae—the professor’s assistant—has it out for me. He fails me on everything he marks. Everything.”

Minho frowns, sitting up straighter, his full attention now on you. “You’re kidding me. Everything? Even the ones I’ve looked over?”

You lift your head, tugging off your glasses and shoving them into your hair. “Yes! Every single one. I swear, it’s personal at this point. Maybe he hates my writing style or something, but I’m at my wit’s end.”

His brows knit together, a spark of protective frustration flashing across his features. “That’s total bullshit. I’ve read your work. It’s good, really good. Better than half the crap I’ve had to peer review for my classes.”

“I don’t know, Minho.” You exhale heavily, leaning back in the chair and rubbing the bridge of your nose. “It’s just I don’t know how to deal with it. Every time I see another failed mark, it feels like I’m suffocating.”

Minho swings his legs off the bed and strides across the room in a few easy steps, his bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. He plants himself behind you, his hands landing gently on your shoulders. His thumbs press into the tense muscles at the base of your neck, working out the knots with practised ease.

“You should talk to your professor,” he says, his voice low and steady, the kind of tone that makes you feel safe no matter how stormy your thoughts get.

“Easier said than done,” you grumble, though you can’t help but lean into his touch. The warmth of his hands is soothing, and your eyes flutter shut as he kneads the tightness away. “What am I even supposed to say? ‘Hey, Professor, your assistant has a personal vendetta against me, and it’s driving me insane.’ That won’t sound whiny at all.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his fingers still working their magic on your shoulders. “You don’t have to put it like that, silly girl. Just explain how you feel about your work. Writing’s subjective, right? Maybe Jae’s seeing it differently than you intend.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze. His expression is soft, serious, and utterly focused on you. It’s the kind of look that makes your chest ache in the best way. “You really think that’ll help?”

“I think it’s worth a shot.” He leans down, brushing his lips against the top of your head. The kiss lingers, warm and reassuring. “And if it doesn’t, at least you’ll know you did everything you could. But for the record? Jae’s a dick.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, a shaky but genuine sound. You rest your head back against his stomach, his skin warm through the hoodie. “I didn’t tell you I failed because I didn’t know how to handle it. Just the thought of admitting it made me feel like I was going to lose it.”

His arms wrap around you loosely, his chin coming to rest on top of your head. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, frustration lacing his voice, though it’s not aimed at you. “Don’t carry that shit on your own. You’ve got me, remember?”

You let out a self-deprecating laugh, craning your neck to look up at him again. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty good at internalizing everything. Panic spiral, rinse, repeat.”

“Fucking stop that,” he says firmly, though a teasing smile tugs at his lips. He flicks your forehead lightly, making you scrunch your nose in mock annoyance. “That’s what I’m here for. You don’t have to do this alone, sweetheart.”

You poke his stomach in retaliation, a smirk breaking through your frustration. “Fine, Mr. Fix-It-All. I’ll talk to the professor. But if I have a meltdown, it’s on you to clean up the mess.”

Minho grins, ruffling your already messy hair. “Deal. Just don’t let some asshole make you think you’re not amazing at what you do. You’re a badass, baby. Don’t forget that.”

You smile, the tension in your chest easing just a little. “Thanks, Minho.”

“Always, sweetheart,” he replies, pressing another kiss to your head.

The fidget cube spins endlessly in your fingers, its clicks and rotations keeping time with the chaotic rhythm of your thoughts. The assignment taunts you from the glowing laptop screen, each word blurred by the mental block you can’t seem to break through. The harder you try to focus, the more it feels like your brain is wading through quicksand. Anxiety bubbles under the surface, rising like steam in a pressure cooker, and every fidget is a small attempt to keep yourself from boiling over.

Behind you, Minho hasn’t moved. His hands rest lightly on your shoulders, his thumbs occasionally brushing soothing circles over the fabric of his hoodie that you’ve claimed as your own. His quiet presence is grounding, though he says nothing for a while, letting the silence stretch between you. Finally, he sighs with a dramatic exhale, his warm breath tickling the back of your neck.

“Okay, that’s enough of this,” he declares, voice laced with playful exasperation. His hands grip your shoulders firmly but gently. “Let’s figure this shit out, baby. Up you get.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, your eyebrow arching in disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘up you get?’ I’m trying to—”

Before you can finish, he swivels the desk chair around and slides it back a few inches, his movements deliberate and fluid. He pulls you gently but insistently to your feet, his fingers wrapping securely around your wrists. “I mean,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument, “you’re sitting in my lap. Maybe if I hold onto you, that overthinking brain of yours will actually chill the fuck out for two seconds.”

He plops into the chair, tugging you down with him as if this is the most natural solution in the world. He settles you sideways across his lap, his arms wrapping securely around your waist. You try to frown at him, but the warmth of his chest against your back and the way his thumbs rub slow, reassuring circles against your sides make it impossible. “You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, though your body instinctively relaxes against his.

“And yet, you’re still here,” he teases, resting his chin on your shoulder and peering at the laptop screen. His dark eyes scan the glaringly blank document with mock seriousness. “Alright, first step, let’s go through your old assignments. I want to see exactly what kind of bullshit this Jae guy’s been pulling. Maybe there’s a pattern.”

“Fine,” you mumble, reaching for the laptop and navigating to the folder where you’ve stashed every paper you’ve written for this class. The tension in your shoulders begins to creep back, but before you can start spiralling again, Minho reaches over to grab the mug of tea he made for you earlier. He presses it into your hands with a quiet but firm, “Drink.”

You roll your eyes but obey, the mug warming your palms as you take a sip. The faint sweetness of the tea soothes your throat, and something in Minho’s unwavering presence keeps you tethered as he leans forward to scroll through the latest assignment. His brows furrow almost immediately, his jaw tightening as his eyes skim over Jae’s comments.

“What the fuck?” he mutters, his voice low and incredulous. “This isn’t even constructive criticism. ‘Lacks depth?’ ‘Needs better support for arguments?’ That’s it? No examples, no explanation of what he wants? How the hell are you supposed to improve if he’s not giving you anything to work with?”

Your fingers abandon the fidget cube, moving to spin the anxiety ring on your left hand instead. Minho doesn’t miss the subtle shift. His gaze flicks to your restless fingers, and he lets out a soft sigh, pulling back slightly. “Okay, fuck this.”

Before you can protest, he closes your laptop and sets it on the desk, his movements decisive but careful. Grabbing the silicone pop-it toy from the mess of trinkets on the desk, he guides you up and leads you to the bed with an ease that leaves no room for argument.

He drops onto the mattress, leaning back against the headboard, and pulls you into his lap again. His arms wrap securely around you as he presses the pop-it into your hands.

“Here,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “Pop this thing until you feel like you can breathe again. No overthinking, no staring at that laptop. Just you and me, baby.”

You rest your head against his shoulder and the first pop of the toy echoes faintly in the quiet room, followed by another, and another. The rhythmic motion gives your restless hands something to focus on, and slowly, the tightness in your chest starts to loosen.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Minho speaks again, his lips brushing against your hair as he does. “Next lecture, you’re gonna talk to him, okay? We’ll figure out exactly what you want to say together. No stressing over it by yourself.”

You let out a short laugh, tilting your head to glance up at him. “So, now we’re scripting confrontations? Is that what we’re doing?”

“Well, yeah,” he says with a grin, clearly enjoying himself. “We both know you’re not gonna do it without a script. Let’s not pretend. We’ve walked around Target five times before you let me ask a worker for help finding something. Oh, and how about all the times I’ve had to complain about your coffee order? Honestly, I deserve a medal.”

“Minho—”

“No, no, I’m not done,” he says, his grin widening. “I see one tomato on your plate? Boom, gone. Not on my watch. And let’s not forget the time I literally did your return for you because you couldn’t even walk into the store because you were so anxious about being inconvenient. That’s right, baby. Boyfriend of the year, right here.”

Despite yourself, a laugh bubbles out of you, light and free. You shake your head, poking him in the chest. “You’re so fucking annoying, you know that?”

“And yet,” he says, dipping his head to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “you love me for it.”

You don’t reply, but the way you lean into him speaks louder than words. He grins, grabbing the remote off the nightstand and flicking on the TV. The screen lights up with a true crime documentary, and he drapes a blanket over both of you.

“Now,” he says, pulling you closer against him, “watch some freaky shit while you pop that thing. We’ll deal with Jae later. Right now, it’s just you and me.”

You press a kiss to his jaw, settling into his embrace as the documentary begins. The sound of the pop-it fills the quiet gaps between the narrator’s voice, and for the first time in days, the storm inside you feels like it’s clearing. With Minho’s arms around you, you can almost believe that everything will be okay.

The lecture hall is quieter now, the echoes of chatter and rustling papers fading as the last of the students filter out in pairs or small groups. The hum of their voices lingers faintly in the hallway before dissolving into silence, leaving you alone in the cavernous space with Jae, the professor’s assistant. He’s at the front of the room, gathering his things, his laptop, a few loose papers, and a sleek leather satchel slung carelessly over one shoulder.

You sit frozen at your desk in the middle of the room, the cool metal of your anxiety ring spinning beneath your fingers as you fidget. Minho’s words from the night before replay in your mind, his voice steady and reassuring: Just talk to him. You take a slow, steadying breath, tugging the edges of his hoodie closer around you. The weight of it feels protective, grounding.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you steel your nerves and make your way down the aisle. Your black flares swish softly with each step, and the cropped white turtleneck you’re wearing feels almost too revealing under the fluorescent lights, despite the oversized hoodie hanging loose around your shoulders. As you approach the desk, your stomach churns with a mixture of nervousness and determination.

Jae glances up as you stop in front of him, his expression neutral at first, then shifting into something harder to read, his gaze flickers over you briefly before settling on your face. “Oh, hey. Y/N, right?” His tone is casual, almost too casual. “You need something?”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat and clearing your voice. “Yeah, um, I wanted to talk about my grades. I’ve been failing a lot of assignments, and I just… I want to understand where I’m going wrong.”

His head tilts slightly, his lips curling into what might have been a polite smile if not for the strange glint in his eyes. “Grades, huh?” He sets his bag on the desk and leans back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright. What specifically do you want to know?”

You hesitate, feeling small under his scrutinizing gaze, but you push through. “Well, I’ve been reading the feedback you’ve given, but it’s not very specific. It’s hard to know what to fix when all I see is stuff like ‘lacks depth’ or ‘needs better support.’ I was hoping you could explain what you’re looking for, so I can improve.”

Jae’s lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smirk, but it makes your stomach twist uneasily. “Hmm,” he hums, considering you for a moment. “Yeah, I’ve noticed you’ve been struggling. But, you know, sometimes it’s not just about the writing. It’s about making the right… connections.”

Your brow furrows, confusion overtaking your nerves for a moment. “Connections?” you repeat, the word foreign in this context.

He shrugs, his smirk growing more pronounced. “Let’s cut to the chase,” he says, his voice lowering as he straightens up, stepping a little closer. “You’re a smart girl. If you really want to turn those grades around, there’s an easy way to make it happen.”

Your stomach twists harder now, unease blossoming into something closer to alarm. “What do you mean?” you ask, your voice cautious, even as the pit in your stomach deepens.

He leans in, his tone conspiratorial, as if he’s letting you in on some great secret. “You fuck me, just once, and I’ll make sure you never fail another assignment. Ever.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, the air in your lungs vanishing as the room seems to tilt slightly. Your brain stalls, struggling to process the sheer audacity of what he just said. “I—” you start, your voice catching in your throat. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jae chuckles softly, as if this is all a joke and you’re the one who doesn’t get it. “You heard me. Look, it’s not a big deal. Just one time. You do that, and I’ll make sure your grades are golden for the rest of the semester.”

Your heart pounds so loudly in your ears that his next words almost drown beneath it. The bile rises in your throat, and your voice, when it comes, is small, shaky, barely your own. “That’s… that’s not appropriate.”

He shrugs, unfazed, his smirk never faltering. “Think about it,” he says smoothly, his tone bordering on smug now. “I’m giving you an out here. No more stress, no more late nights trying to figure out what I want. Just one night, and it’s all good.”

The room feels suffocating, the fluorescent lights too bright, the walls too close. Your fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, your body trembling as adrenaline courses through you. “I—I need to go,” you stammer, taking a shaky step back.

Jae’s smirk deepens as he watches you retreat, his posture still casual, as if he hasn’t just turned your world upside down. “Suit yourself,” he calls after you, his tone infuriatingly light. “But don’t say I didn’t offer.”

You don’t stay to hear more. Grabbing your bag, you bolt for the door, your steps echoing loudly in the empty lecture hall. The hallway feels colder, the bile rising higher in your throat as your vision blurs with tears of humiliation and anger. His words play on a loop in your head, the weight of them crushing.

You don’t stop walking until you reach the Alpha Phi frat house, your breathing shallow and uneven. Your chest is tight, every inhale feeling like it catches somewhere in your ribs. Your hands tremble as you fumble with the front door, struggling to get it open. The chill of the evening air still clings to your skin, but the panic burning in your chest is what drives you forward.

Minho’s at his lectures, you know that much. But Jisung should be home, and if anyone can help you calm down, it’s him. Just the thought of someone familiar, someone safe, is enough to keep you moving.

The door swings open, and the warm hum of voices greets you. Laughter spills out from the living room, a sound that feels almost surreal against the chaos in your mind. Chan is the first to notice you as you step inside, his easy laugh fading the moment he spots you. He’s sitting on the couch with Seungmin, Jeongin, Hyunjin, and Changbin, all of them mid-conversation, but his eyes lock on yours instantly.

“Y/N?” Chan’s voice shifts, concern threading through it as he stands quickly. His brows knit together as he takes in the wide, glassy look in your eyes and the way your hands clutch tightly at the edges of Minho’s hoodie. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

The question cuts through the fog in your mind, but only barely. The words you need are trapped in your throat, jagged and sharp, refusing to come out. You feel frozen, the weight of the panic pressing down harder, your chest heaving with shallow breaths.

Chan is already moving, crossing the room in a few strides. He places a firm but gentle hand on your arm, his touch grounding. “Hey, come here,” he says softly, his voice steady and sure. “Let’s sit down.”

He guides you to the couch, motioning for the others to clear the space. “Guys, out. Now.”

There’s no hesitation, no argument. The others exchange quick glances but don’t question him. Seungmin and Jeongin head upstairs, Hyunjin and Changbin following close behind. Their laughter and chatter are gone now, replaced by the quiet weight of concern that lingers in the room.

Felix stays, though, settling on the couch beside you as Chan crouches in front of you. His warm, freckled face is creased with worry, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he leans closer.

“You’re on the verge of a panic attack, aren’t you?” Chan asks gently, his tone calm but firm and you nod. “That’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything right now, alright? Just focus on me and Felix.”

Felix nods, his expression soft and understanding as he shifts closer. “We’ve got you, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “Just breathe, love. We’re right here.”

You nod faintly, but the tears that have been threatening to fall spill over now, streaking hot down your cheeks. Your trembling hands clutch at the oversized hoodie, the fabric twisting under your grip. The room feels too bright, too still, but then Chan wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a firm, steadying hug.

“You’re safe,” Chan whispers, his voice right by your ear. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. You’re not alone.”

Felix shifts closer, his warmth pressing against your other side. His arm drapes gently around your shoulders as he leans his head against yours. “Just let us be here with you,” he murmurs, his accent soft and lilting. “Don’t worry about saying anything.”

The weight of their presence is overwhelming in the best way, their warmth wrapping around you like a cocoon. You let yourself lean into them, the tears coming harder now as the tidal wave of panic begins to crest. For a moment, you feel like you might drown in it, but their voices pull you back.

The sound of footsteps draws your attention briefly, and you glance up to see Changbin approaching, something small and colourful in his hand. It takes a second for your blurry vision to clear enough to realize what it is: your fidget cube. He holds it out to you silently, his dark eyes warm with understanding.

“I thought you might need this,” Changbin says softly, his voice steady but gentle.

You take it with trembling hands, managing a faint nod of thanks as he gives you a small, reassuring smile before retreating back upstairs. The familiar feel of the cube in your hands helps anchor you, its smooth surfaces and clicking mechanisms giving your fingers something to focus on.

Chan’s hand rubs slow, soothing circles on your back as he keeps his voice low and steady. “You’re doing great, Y/N. Just keep breathing. Deep breath in and out. That’s it.”

Felix hums softly, a sound almost like a lullaby as he presses a kiss to the side of your head. “You’re not alone. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Minho sits in the middle of his animal behaviour lecture, slouched low in his seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Normally, this class keeps his attention, discussions about operant conditioning, animal instincts, and behavioural patterns are usually right up his alley. But today, the professor’s droning voice feels like background noise. His mind is restless, caught somewhere between the monotony of the lecture and the clock on the wall, which seems to tick slower every time he looks at it.

He pulls out his phone, thinking maybe a quick scroll will distract him when it vibrates in his hand. A call from Changbin. Minho frowns. Changbin doesn’t call unless something’s wrong. His stomach twists as he answers, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Yo, what’s up?” he says, keeping his voice low. He glances around to make sure the professor hasn’t noticed him.

“Minho,” Changbin’s voice is quiet but laced with urgency. “You need to get back to the house. Now.”

Minho straightens in his seat, his body tensing. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s Y/N,” Changbin explains, his words coming fast. “She showed up looking for Jisung, but he wasn’t here. She’s in the living room with Chan and Felix now. Man, she looked like she was about to have a full-blown panic attack when she came in.”

Minho’s grip tightens on his phone. “Is she okay? Did she say anything?”

“No,” Changbin says, his tone grim. “She’s in that, you know, that nonverbal state she gets into sometimes when it’s bad. I gave her her fidget cube, but it’s not really helping. She’s completely shaken.”

“Shit,” Minho mutters under his breath, his mind already racing. He shoves his notebook and pens into his bag without caring about the mess. “Stay with her. I’m leaving now.”

“Chan and Felix are with her,” Changbin reassures him. “But yeah, hurry, man. She needs you.”

“I’m on my way.” Minho’s voice is clipped as he ends the call, already standing and slinging his bag over his shoulder. He doesn’t glance back at the professor, doesn’t care about the glares he gets from classmates as he manoeuvres his way out of the row. He takes the stairs two at a time and bursts into the hallway, his boots thudding against the tiled floor as he cuts through campus at a near jog.

His thoughts race alongside him. The image of you, wide-eyed, trembling, on the verge of breaking, plays over and over in his mind. He twists the rings on his fingers absentmindedly, picturing the way you’ve done the same when anxiety takes hold. He knows those rings are as much for you as they are for him. The thought makes him walk even faster.

By the time he reaches the Alpha Phi house, his chest is tight, and his breathing is shallow, not from exertion, but from the urgency pressing down on him. He doesn’t bother with his usual calm entrance, throwing the door open with enough force to make it bang against the wall. His eyes immediately scan the space, locking on the living room.

You’re curled up on the couch, the oversized hoodie you borrowed from him drowning your frame. Your knees are drawn up to your chest, your fingers twitching against the fidget cube Changbin handed you. But the small, rhythmic clicks aren’t soothing you the way they should. Your shoulders are stiff, your breathing shallow.

Chan is sitting beside you, his body turned toward you, his hand resting lightly on the back of the couch as if ready to intervene at any moment. Felix is on your other side, his soft, freckled face a mask of quiet concern as he leans close. Neither of them says anything when Minho steps into the room.

Chan stands, nodding toward Minho in silent understanding. “She hasn’t said anything,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low. “But she’s not in a good place.”

Felix glances up briefly, offering a small, reassuring smile before turning his focus back to you.

Minho doesn’t waste a second. He drops his bag to the floor, stepping around Chan to sit beside you. His dark eyes sweep over your face, taking in the tear tracks on your cheeks, the way your lips tremble even though you’re not speaking. His heart clenches, but he keeps his voice steady and soft.

“Hey,” he murmurs as he settles beside you, leaning forward slightly. “It’s me. I’m right here.”

You don’t respond, your gaze fixed on the fidget cube in your hands. Your fingers fumble with it, twisting and clicking aimlessly, but it’s clear it’s not enough. Minho doesn’t push. He knows you won’t meet his eyes or speak until you’re ready.

Instead, he extends a hand, holding it steady in your line of sight. “C’mere, baby,” he says gently. “Take my hand. You don’t have to do anything else.”

For a moment, you hesitate. Then, slowly, your trembling fingers let go of the cube and slide over his palm. You don’t look at him, but you begin twisting the rings on his fingers, your movements careful, deliberate. Minho releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“That’s it,” he says softly, his other hand resting lightly on your knee. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Felix leans closer, his hand brushing over your arm in a soothing motion. “We’re all here for you. Take your time.”

The room feels quiet, but it’s not heavy. It’s the kind of silence filled with understanding, the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the couch the only sounds. Minho stays still, watching as you twist his rings, your breathing begins to slow. The tension in your shoulders eases a fraction, but it’s clear you’re still struggling to ground yourself.

Minho leans in slightly, his thumb tracing small circles over your knee. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart,” he says softly. “No rush. Just let me know you’re here, okay?”

Your grip on his hand tightens briefly. An unspoken answer. Minho feels a wave of relief crash over him, though he doesn’t let it show. He just adjusts his position slightly, keeping himself as close to you as possible without crowding you.

As the minutes tick by, the room remains still except for the faint sound of your fingers twisting Minho’s rings. The cool metal shifts smoothly under your touch, catching the light with every turn.

Minho’s presence is unwavering. His dark eyes are steady, warm, and full of quiet reassurance, never leaving you. He waits, giving you the space you need to exist in this moment, no expectations, no pressure.

He’s the one to break the silence, his voice low and soft, with that familiar teasing edge that always makes you feel lighter. “So, this is where my hoodie went.”

The words are simple, but they land like a soft anchor, pulling you gently back toward the present. Your lips twitch just barely, a hint of a smile ghosting across your face. It’s fleeting, but Minho catches it, and the weight pressing on his chest loosens just a fraction.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he continues, leaning his head back against the couch with a casual air. His tone carries a playful warmth as if he’s inviting you to share a little moment of normalcy with him. “You look cute today. Those flares and that crop top? Already killing it. But you add my hoodie?” He smirks, lowering his voice to a murmur like he’s letting you in on a secret. “Sweetheart, I could just fucking eat you.”

This time, the smile on your face lingers a little longer, though your focus stays on his hands, your fingers still moving over the rings. Minho doesn’t push for more. He’s patient, letting you take these small, steady steps toward feeling like yourself again.

After a moment, he shifts slightly, brushing his knee against yours as he speaks again, his tone casual but inviting. “I’m making sweet potato noodles tonight. You wanna stay over?”

You nod, the motion small but deliberate, and something in his chest softens. His hand squeezes your knee lightly in acknowledgement.

“Good,” he says with quiet certainty. “Can’t have you missing out on my culinary genius. You’d be devastated.”

Before the warmth of the moment can settle completely, the front door bangs open, and the sound of loud, stomping footsteps fills the house. Minho doesn’t even flinch, but you tense slightly until a familiar voice cuts through the quiet.

“Seungmin called me!” Jisung declares, practically bounding into the living room with the kind of chaotic energy only he could bring. His pale green hair bounces as he moves, and his expression is a mix of exaggerated determination and genuine concern. “I’m here to save the day and my best friend from the suffocating void that is anxiety!”

Felix, who has stayed quiet until now, chuckles softly as he stands from the couch. “Alright, Ji, she’s all yours. I’ll make some tea.”

Jisung steps aside to let Felix pass, then all but dives into the now-empty spot on your other side. He lands with a bounce, his knee knocking gently against yours as he turns to face you fully.

Chan gives your shoulder a brief squeeze before heading toward the kitchen with Felix, the two of them disappearing behind the swinging door. The sound of the kettle clicking on echoes faintly, a comforting background noise.

Now alone with Minho and Jisung, you glance up briefly, your eyes meeting Jisung’s for the first time. His usual playful grin is softened, though his energy is as unmistakably Jisung as ever. “Hey,” he says, his voice a little quieter now. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head, the movement small but definitive.

“Okay,” Jisung replies immediately, not missing a beat. His tone is light, free of any judgment. “What about throwing things? Crying? Hitting something? Hitting someone?”

Your fingers falter on Minho’s rings at the word someone. It’s a tiny pause, so subtle most people wouldn’t notice, but Minho and Jisung aren’t most people. Their eyes meet briefly over your head, an unspoken exchange passing between them.

“Alright,” Jisung says gently, shifting his tone. “No pressure. We’ll just sit here and vibe.”

You don’t respond, but your hands resume their rhythm, twisting Minho’s rings in a familiar pattern. Minho leans closer, his hand brushing a strand of hair away from your face. His touch is light and brief, but it lingers just enough to remind you he’s here.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Minho murmurs, his voice steady and grounding. His thumb resumes its slow, soothing circles on your knee. “Whenever you’re ready, we’re here.”

Jisung, never one to let a moment of silence sit too long, starts humming under his breath. The tune is random, a little chaotic, but it’s so unmistakably him that it feels like a soft tether pulling you further out of the fog. He adds exaggerated beatboxing noises, throwing a dramatic drumroll into the mix for good measure.

“Better than Spotify, huh?” he quips, nudging your arm lightly with his elbow. “I can do requests, too, if you’re into, like, anxiety-friendly bangers.”

A tiny laugh escapes before you can stop it, barely audible but real. Minho’s gaze flicks to you, his lips twitching into the faintest smile as he catches the sound.

“There she is,” Jisung says triumphantly, leaning closer with a grin. “You laughed. That means you’re stuck with me now.”

Minho smirks, resting his head lightly against the back of the couch. “You heard him, sweetheart. You’re officially stuck with us. Might as well give up and let us take care of you.”

You don’t respond, but you lean ever so slightly into Minho’s side, your weight shifting closer to him. His arm moves instinctively, wrapping around your shoulders and holding you securely against him.

The sound of the kettle clicks off in the kitchen, and a few moments later, Felix reappears, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of tea. He sets it down on the coffee table, his gentle smile returning as he hands one to you.

“Chamomile,” he says quietly.

You take the mug with both hands, the heat radiating through your palms grounding you further. The room is quiet again, filled only with the faint hum of Jisung’s off-key humming and the steady presence of the three people around you. 

“Come on,” Minho murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable.”

You blink up at him, your hands hesitating over his fingers for just a moment before you let them fall away. He stands smoothly, his movements deliberate but unhurried, and extends a hand toward you. You take it wordlessly, your fingers slipping into his, and he gives a gentle tug, guiding you to your feet.

“Good girl,” he says softly, his lips curving into the faintest smile as he squeezes your hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”

You follow him out of the living room, the familiar feel of his hand grounding you as he leads the way. Jisung throws an exaggerated thumbs-up from his spot on the couch, grinning as if he’s just overseen a major life event. You catch the faint sound of him humming something ridiculous under his breath as you leave.

The walk up the stairs is quiet, the hum of the house filling the silence between you. The faint creak of wood beneath your steps feels oddly comforting. By the time you reach Minho’s room, you’re already exhaling a little easier. The sight of the rumpled bedspread, the carefully cluttered desk, and the small pile of your fidget toys stacked in a corner feels like stepping into safety.

Minho closes the door softly behind you and steps closer, his hands brushing lightly over your shoulders. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s get you sorted and comfy.”

He moves to his dresser, pulling open a drawer and rifling through it before he pulls out one of his oversized jumpers and a pair of black basketball shorts. He sets the clothes on the bed and turns back to you, his expression softer now, his eyes scanning your face.

Stepping closer, he rests his hands lightly on the hem of your hoodie. “Can I?” he asks quietly, his voice gentle.

You nod, your fingers still clutching his rings. His movements are careful as he peels the hoodie off your frame, lifting it over your head and pushing it off your shoulders. He folds it automatically, setting it on the chair nearby before his hands find the hem of your cropped turtleneck.

He pauses, his eyes meeting yours briefly, silently checking in. When you nod again, he pulls it over your head just as gently, leaving you in your lace bra. His eyes flicker to yours again, scanning for any hint of discomfort, but he doesn’t linger.

“Almost there,” he murmurs, crouching slightly to help you step out of your flares. The fabric pools at your feet, and he scoops it up, tossing it onto the same chair.

He holds the shorts open for you, guiding the waistband up with steady hands before he reaches for the jumper. The oversized fabric swallows you as he pulls it over your head, the scent of him wrapping around you instantly. It’s soft, warm, and comforting in a way that makes your shoulders relax just a little more.

“Better?” he asks, his fingers brushing lightly over your arms, the touch tentative but grounding.

You nod, a small but sure movement, and he smiles faintly before stepping closer again. His hands move to your hair, unclipping the bun that’s come loose. The strands tumble down messily, and he works through them with careful fingers, smoothing out tangles with an ease that speaks to how often he’s done this for you.

Once he’s finished, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with that quiet, unwavering gaze. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks softly.

You shake your head and he doesn’t press.

“Okay, you hungry?”

You hesitate for a moment, then nod, your voice barely audible when you speak. “A little. That sweet potato noodles offer still on the table?”

“For you, baby? Obviously. We’ll go cook now, or you can sit and look pretty while I cook. Hmm?”

You nod again, a small, fleeting smile tugging at your lips.

“Good.” He presses a light kiss to the top of your head, lingering for a moment before pulling back. “Grab one of your fidget things, yeah?”

You reach for the silicone pop-it on the desk, the familiar texture calming as you clutch it in your hand. Minho takes your free hand again, leading you back downstairs to the kitchen.

The space feels lively when you step inside. Jisung is perched on a step stool, his head half-buried in a cupboard as he mutters something unintelligible. Boxes and bags clatter faintly as he rummages, and he lets out a dramatic groan.

“There’s no fucking Oreos left!” Jisung whines, turning to face the room with his hands thrown up. “Who eats all the Oreos and doesn’t replace them? That’s a crime against the Geneva Convention! An actual war crime!”

Minho rolls his eyes, steering you toward one of the stools at the kitchen island. You sit down quietly, the pop-it resting in your lap as your fingers press it rhythmically, the soft popping sound blending into the warm chaos around you.

Jisung bounds over, clutching a bag of popcorn triumphantly. He wraps his arms around your shoulders in a dramatic hug, leaning his head against yours. “Bestie! You’re alive. I missed you. I mean, you were gone for like five minutes, but still.”

You huff softly, the sound almost like a laugh, and Jisung grins before plopping onto the stool beside you. “Alright, let’s vibe.”

Minho is already at work, his movements practised and fluid. Sweet potatoes, spinach, sesame oil, and a variety of spices pile onto the counter as he pulls ingredients from the fridge. His hands move with precision as he peels a sweet potato, the rhythm of the peeler scraping against the skin oddly soothing.

“Can I get in on the noodles?” Jisung asks, watching Minho work with wide eyes. “I mean, you’re dating my best friend, so like you feed her, you have to feed me. It’s the law”

Minho doesn’t even look up. “Not how it works, you scavenger.”

Jisung clutches his chest dramatically. “So cruel. So heartless. I’m starving, Minho!”

“You just raided the cupboard!” Minho shoots back, but he sighs, shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll make extra. But you’re doing the dishes.”

“Deal,” Jisung says instantly, shoving another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

The warm, savoury scent of sesame oil fills the room as Minho starts cooking, the soft sizzle of vegetables hitting the pan adding to the comforting atmosphere. You sit quietly, watching him, the pop-it still in your hands. He glances at you occasionally, his gaze softening each time he sees the tension in your fingers easing.

Jisung nudges you lightly, his grin infectious. “You know he’s showing off, right? I bet he doesn’t go all out like this when it’s just him.”

“Shut up,” Minho mutters, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound small but genuine, and Minho’s shoulders relax slightly at the sound. He tosses the sweet potato noodles lightly in the pan, the smell of garlic and spices filling the kitchen as he turns to you with a smile that feels like home. In this moment, with the warmth of the kitchen and the familiar banter around you, the lingering weight in your chest feels just a little lighter.

The room is bathed in the soft, golden glow of Minho’s desk lamp, its warm light casting a cosy hue over the space. The faint blue glow of the TV on the wall flickers, illuminating the dim room as Corpse Bride plays, its melodic score filling the air. You’re seated cross-legged on Minho’s bed, a steaming bowl of vegetarian ramen cradled in your lap, the comforting aroma of miso broth mingling with the warmth of the room.

Minho sits beside you, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his own bowl resting in his hands. He’s shirtless, as usual, the smooth planes of his chest catching the soft light, and his black sweatpants hang low on his hips. His hair is slightly mussed, strands sticking up in different directions like he’s been running his fingers through it all day. He looks comfortable, utterly at ease, but his eyes flick toward you more than the TV, observing you with quiet attentiveness.

You’re wearing one of his oversized black t-shirts, the fabric hanging loosely on your frame, paired with a set of lacy green boyshorts and your favourite Alice in Wonderland ankle socks. Your hair is clipped up haphazardly, stray strands framing your face, and Minho can’t help but notice how you tug at the loose fabric of the shirt every now and then as if grounding yourself in its softness.

“Dunno why we don’t eat ramen like this every day,” Minho says, breaking the quiet. His voice is casual, a playful warmth weaving through his words as he slurps up another bite of noodles. “This shit’s perfect.”

You hum in agreement, twirling noodles around your chopsticks, though the motions are absentminded. Your bowl is loaded with colourful vegetables, tofu cubes, and the rich, flavorful broth he tailored just for you, separating the ingredients in the pan like second nature to keep it vegetarian. It’s something he always does, unprompted, and it warms you, even when you don’t have the energy to say so.

As the movie continues, Minho keeps stealing glances at you, his sharp eyes catching the subtle ways you’re quieter than usual—the way your chopsticks hover over the bowl, the way you push a piece of tofu around without eating it. His brow furrows slightly. He knows you too well to miss the signs.

“So,” he says finally, his tone light but laced with curiosity, “wanna tell me why you’re not going to your lectures?”

Your hand freezes mid-twirl, the noodles slipping back into the bowl. Your shoulders stiffen slightly, but you don’t look at him. Instead, your gaze fixes on the TV, the animated characters moving through the dim glow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Minho quirks an eyebrow, setting his bowl down on the nightstand with deliberate movements. He shifts to face you more fully, one leg bending as he props himself up on his elbow. “Two weeks,” he says, his voice dropping to something firmer. “You haven’t been to a single fucking class”

You shrug, your eyes still glued to the screen. “I just haven’t felt like it.”

“Uh-huh,” he replies, not buying it for a second. “Let’s try that again. Did you talk to the assistant? What’s his name- Jae?”

At the mention of the name, your reaction is immediate. Your shoulders tense, and your grip on the chopsticks tightens slightly. Minho notices, of course, his sharp eyes narrowing as he sits up straighter.

“Okay, so you did talk to him. What happened? Did he insult your work? Call you stupid? What?”

You keep stirring the broth, your chopsticks moving aimlessly as if they might somehow distract him. The weight in the room seems to press down harder, the background noise of the movie fading into nothing.

Minho leans forward, the mattress shifting under his weight as he watches you closely. “Did he touch you?”

“No!” you say quickly, your head snapping up to meet his gaze. “No, Minho, nothing like that.”

He studies you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours for any hint of what’s going on. The tension in his shoulders relaxes just slightly, but the concern etched across his face doesn’t fade.

“Alright,” he says slowly, his voice steady and careful. “But he did something. Something that’s got you avoiding your fucking lectures. So, what did he say? Verbatim.”

You shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “Min, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

His jaw tightens, and his hand flexes briefly against the bedspread. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, leaning back against the headboard as his eyes flicker over you. He doesn’t push. Not yet. But the silence feels heavier now like he’s waiting for you to crack.

“You spoke to the guy,” he says after a beat, his tone quieter but no less insistent. “And now you won’t even go to class. That feels to me like something happened.”

“Min, please,” you whisper, your voice carrying a hint of exhaustion like the weight of this has been pressing on you for days.

He leans forward again, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. His lips linger there, soft and warm, before he pulls back. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper now.

You nod faintly, but your lips press into a thin line, and Minho knows you’re not ready. He watches you for a moment longer, his hand brushing lightly against your knee in a silent show of support. Then he leans back into the pillows, his body shifting as he rests his arm behind his head.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “But just so we’re clear, you’re not going through this alone. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

You nod again, still not meeting his eyes. Your fingers tighten slightly around the bowl, but you don’t speak, and Minho lets the conversation drop. For now.

The room feels quieter, the muted colours of the TV casting soft shadows across the walls. Minho reaches for his bowl again, taking another bite of noodles as he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t push, doesn’t press, but his presence is steady, a quiet reminder that he’s here.

The weight in the room doesn’t lift entirely, but the warmth of Minho beside you, the gentle hum of the movie, and the familiarity of the space are enough to make it manageable. And for now, that’s enough.

You’re curled up against Minho, your face nestled against his chest, one hand loosely resting on his side. His oversized shirt engulfs you, the hem riding up slightly to reveal the curve of your hip as you shift in your sleep. The blanket drapes lazily over you both, but Minho’s mind is far from the peace that your quiet form exudes.

He lies still for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face. The way your brow smooths out in sleep, the soft flutter of your eyelashes against your cheek. It all tugs at his heart. But beneath the warmth he feels for you is a simmering frustration, not directed at you but at the situation. Something happened.

He can feel it in the way your laughter doesn’t come as easily, in the way you poke at your food more than you eat it, and in the way you’ve avoided your lectures for two weeks. And whoever caused that? They’re going to regret it.

Carefully, he begins untangling himself from you, moving with the kind of precision only Minho can manage. He lifts your arm gently, resting it against the pillow, and pulls the blanket higher over your shoulders.

Brushing a strand of hair from your face, he lets his fingers linger briefly against your temple before standing. The glow from his phone illuminates his path as he grabs it from the nightstand, padding silently out of the room. He closes the door behind him with a soft click, leaving you to rest.

The hallway is dim, lit faintly by the golden glow of a lamp someone left on. Minho moves with purpose, his steps quick but quiet as he makes his way to Felix’s room. A sliver of light spills out from under the door, and the faint sound of typing reaches his ears. Felix is still awake.

Minho knocks once, sharp but not loud, before twisting the handle and stepping inside. Felix is sprawled across his bed, his laptop propped on a pillow in front of him as he scrolls through what looks like a recipe website. His face lights up slightly when he sees Minho, but the curious tilt of his head suggests he knows this isn’t a social call.

“What’s up?” Felix asks, closing the laptop and sitting up, his brows furrowing as he takes in Minho’s tense expression.

Minho closes the door behind him, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. “Y/N trusts you.”

Felix blinks, slightly taken aback. “I’d say so, yeah. Why?”

Minho runs a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose as he chooses his words. “Good. I need you to find out what her dickhead professor’s assistant said to her two weeks ago.”

Felix frowns. "I'm gonna need more context"

Minho steps forward, his voice dropping as he explains. “The day she came here. On the verge of a panic attack. You and Chan were with her, yeah? Something happened before she showed up.”

Felix nods slowly, his posture straightening. “Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

Minho’s expression hardens. “Before she came here, she spoke to her professor’s assistant. That guy’s been failing her on assignments she absolutely should’ve passed. Since then? She hasn’t gone to a single journalism lecture. Not one. She won’t tell me what he said or did, and I need to know. She trusts you. So, you talk to her, get her to open up, and then you tell me.”

Felix leans back, crossing his arms as he studies Minho. “You’re asking me to break her trust?”

“Yep,” Minho says bluntly, not missing a beat.

Felix snorts, though there’s no humour in it. “Why not go to Jisung? She tells him everything.”

Minho shakes his head, his tone flat. “Because Jisung’s gonna lose his shit. He’d storm into her lecture hall, make a scene, and scare the crap out of her. She doesn’t need that.”

“And you’re not gonna overreact?” Felix asks, his brows arching sceptically. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re already planning murder.”

Minho’s lips curve into a cold smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Oh, I’ll react. But not in front of her. Jisung would go full ‘big dramatic protector’ and freak her out. Me?” He taps his temple with a finger. “I fix problems at the root. Like a plucking a weed.”

Felix tilts his head, considering this. “So you’d break his nose?”

“Maybe a rib,” Minho muses, his tone conversational. “Depends on what he did.”

Felix exhales sharply, shaking his head, though the corner of his mouth twitches. “Fair enough. But is she okay? Like, actually okay?”

“Some days are better than others,” Minho admits, his voice softening slightly. “But her anxiety’s been worse lately.”

Felix leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “If this assistant guy’s the reason break something for me, too. Preferably twice.”

Minho chuckles lowly, though the humour doesn’t reach his eyes. “Consider it done.”

Felix nods, his voice steady. “Alright. I’ll talk to her. It might take time, though. You know how she is about opening up.”

“I know,” Minho says, running his hand through his hair again. “But you’ve got that gentle-ass aura or whatever. She trusts you. Just ease into it. When she tells you, you tell me. Then I’ll take care of the rest.”

Felix nods again, his gaze firm. “You’ve got my word. I’ll handle it.”

Minho pushes off the door, clapping Felix lightly on the shoulder before heading for the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle, glancing back. “You’ve got her, right?”

Felix’s expression softens, his voice resolute. “Always. And you?”

Minho nods, his tone firm. “Always.” With that, he slips out of the room, his footsteps quiet as he heads back to yours, his mind already turning over what needs to be done.

For now, he’ll focus on making sure you feel safe. But the second he knows who’s responsible for the weight you’ve been carrying, he’ll make damn sure they regret it.

A few nights later, Minho's room is enveloped in a hushed stillness, the only sound the rhythmic rise and fall of Minho’s breathing as he sleeps beside you. His arm is tucked under the pillow, his body curled slightly toward you. For a moment, you watch him, his peaceful expression a stark contrast to the restless storm in your own mind.

You let out a quiet sigh, your fingers brushing against the fidget cube resting on the nightstand. Careful not to disturb Minho, you slip out from under the covers. His oversized t-shirt falls to your mid-thigh, paired with his basketball shorts, your feet protected from the cool floor by your Ravenclaw socks.

Your movements are deliberate, your breath steadying as you take the fidget cube in one hand and tiptoe toward the door. You glance back at Minho one last time, his chest rising and falling with even breaths, before quietly pulling the door shut behind you.

The hallway is dark, save for the faint glow of a nightlight someone left plugged in near the stairs. You pad quietly toward the kitchen, the familiar creaks of the floorboards grounding you as you move. When you reach the kitchen, the faint hum of the refrigerator greets you, a soothing backdrop to the clicking of the fidget cube in your hands.

You set a mug on the counter, pulling the kettle from its base and filling it with water. You flick it on, the soft whoosh of heat filling the space as you reach for the box of chamomile tea. Your hands tremble slightly as you unwrap the tea bag and drop it into the mug, but the repetitive motion of brewing steadies you. By the time the kettle clicks off, your breathing has evened, the warmth of the mug in your hands a comforting anchor.

As you turn toward the stairs, the faint glow from the living room catches your attention. Curious, you step closer and peek in. Felix is sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging over the edge as he leans forward, a controller in his hands. The faint sounds of gunfire and the hum of voices filter through his headset, blending into the quiet of the house.

He glances up as you approach, his face lighting up in recognition. He pulls off his headset, pausing the game. “Hey,” he greets, his voice soft but warm. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

Felix pats the cushion beside him. “Come sit. I’ve got tea if you want more.”

You smile faintly, lifting your own mug in response. “Already covered.”

“Smart girl,” he says with a grin. “Come on, sit down anyway. Let me ruin your night with my terrible gaming.”

His easy humour coaxes a small smile out of you as you settle onto the couch, tucking your legs underneath you. Felix leans back, draping one arm over the back of the couch, his posture casual but his gaze attentive. He studies you for a moment as you sip your tea, the faint steam rising in soft curls around your face.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

You shake your head, your gaze falling to the fidget cube in your lap. “No, just too much on my mind.”

Felix nods, his tone light but knowing. “You’ve been like this a lot lately. Wanna talk about it?”

You hesitate, your fingers fidgeting more rapidly with the cube. “It’s nothing. Just... stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” Felix raises a brow, his voice softening further. “Does this ‘stuff’ happen to involve a certain professor’s assistant?”

Your hands freeze, the cube stilling in your lap for just a second before your fingers start moving again. You don’t look at him, focusing instead on the swirling tea in your mug.

Felix leans forward slightly, his expression calm but serious. “Hey, no pressure. I just want to help. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

The words fall out before you can stop them, quiet and trembling. “He… he said something.”

Felix doesn’t move, doesn’t react, his gaze holding yours. “Okay,” he says softly, his voice encouraging. “What did he say?”

You bite your lip, your grip tightening on the cube. The words catch in your throat before you force them out. “He said if I- if I fucked him, he’d make sure I passed all my assignments.”

The confession hangs heavy in the air, the silence that follows almost deafening. You feel your chest tighten, your breathing uneven as you clutch the cube harder. “I didn’t know what to do,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I just- I left. I haven’t gone back to class since.”

Felix exhales slowly, his hand reaching out to rest lightly on your knee. His voice is calm, steady, but there’s an undercurrent of quiet anger. “That’s a lot. I’m so sorry you had to deal with that. That’s so fucked up.”

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, your grip trembling. “I felt so stupid. Like, I should’ve said something, but I just froze.”

“Hey,” Felix says firmly, leaning closer. “Stop that right now. None of this is your fault. That guy’s a fucking creep, and you did the smartest thing you could’ve done. You got out of there. That’s not stupid.”

His words make your chest ache, the tears spilling over despite your best efforts to hold them back. “I keep thinking, what if I see him? What if he’s in the hallway? I can’t even think about going back. I just-”

Felix cuts you off gently, his hand squeezing your knee. “You’re safe, okay? He can’t touch you here. And you’ve got Minho, Jisung, me, the whole fucking house. No one’s letting him near you.”

You sniffle, your breathing uneven as you lean into his words. Felix moves closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. His other hand rubs slow, comforting circles on your back.

“We’ll figure this out, alright?” he murmurs. “No one’s gonna make you do anything you don’t want to. And that guy? He’s gonna regret ever saying that to you. Trust me.”

A weak laugh escapes you, shaky but real, and Felix grins faintly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “There she is,” he says warmly. “Now, let’s finish that tea and get you back to bed. You deserve some rest.”

The late morning sun streams softly through the blinds in Minho’s room, painting the bed in streaks of pale light. The golden glow highlights the tousled strands of your hair spilling across the pillow, the curve of your shoulder peeking out from under the blanket.

You’re curled up, your body angled slightly toward the spot where Minho had been lying just a little while ago. Your breathing is steady but shallow. Not quite the deep rhythm of restful sleep.

Minho stands by the door, his hand resting lightly on the frame as he watches you for a moment. His sharp eyes take in the faint crease in your brow, the way your body shifts under the blankets as if even unconscious, you’re searching for some comfort.

He doesn’t need to ask if you slept badly. It’s written all over you, in the faint shadows under your eyes and the restless energy still clinging to you.

With a quiet sigh, he steps into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him with deliberate care. The faint click echoes softly in the stillness as he heads toward the kitchen, his mind already turning over what he can do to make your morning better.

In the kitchen, Minho moves with his usual precision. He grabs your favourite mug that he bought for you, the Corpse Bride one with the chipped handle you refuse to replace, and sets it on the counter beside his black cat mug.

As he measures out the coffee grounds, the rhythmic clink of the scoop against the machine’s edge fills the room. The aroma of fresh coffee begins to waft through the air as the machine hums to life, steam curling upward.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs pulls his attention. He glances over his shoulder to see Felix padding into the kitchen, barefoot and dressed in a loose hoodie and sweatpants. His hair is a little tousled, and there’s a slight pink tint to his cheeks, the telltale sign of someone who’s been awake for a while but not quite ready to face the day.

“Morning,” Felix says, his voice soft as he heads for the fridge. “You’re up early. Y/N still out?”

“Trying to sleep,” Minho replies, grabbing the creamer from the counter. “Didn’t have a great night, though.”

Felix pauses mid-reach, the fridge door cracked open, and turns to look at him. “Yeah, about that.” He closes the fridge door, leaning against it with crossed arms. “I know what happened.”

Minho freezes, his hand hovering over your mug, the creamer unopened. His head turns slightly, his expression carefully neutral. “When did she tell you?”

Felix’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Last night. She couldn’t sleep, came downstairs to make tea. We talked.”

Minho places the creamer down slowly, turning to fully face Felix. “What did she say?”

Felix exhales softly, his fingers drumming against his forearm. “She told me what that assistant said. Jae.” He pauses, watching Minho’s reaction. “He propositioned her. Said if she slept with him, he’d make sure she passed all her assignments.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Minho’s shoulders tense, his fingers curling into a loose fist before he forces them to relax. He doesn’t speak immediately, instead turning back to the counter. He picks up the creamer, pouring it into your mug with a steady hand as if the ritual of making coffee can anchor him.

“She told you that?” he asks finally, his voice low.

Felix nods, stepping closer to the counter. “Yeah. She was shaking when she said it. Sniffling, trying to hold it together. I didn’t push her. It just came out.”

Minho sets the creamer down again, reaching for the pumpkin spice syrup you love. He adds a careful amount to your mug, stirring it slowly with a spoon. The metallic clink against the ceramic is the only sound in the room for a few beats. When he finally speaks, his voice is tight but calm. “Are you going to tell her you told me?”

Felix studies him for a moment, noting the way Minho’s knuckles tighten slightly around the spoon before he sets it down. “Are you going to tell her that you know?”

“Not yet,” Minho says, his voice softening. “Once I've dealt with it, then I will. If I tell her before she might spiral”

Felix leans against the counter, his expression contemplative. “You’re scarily good at this boyfriend thing.”

“Practice,” Minho mutters, grabbing a napkin to wipe the rim of the mug. He looks up then, meeting Felix’s gaze. “Let me guess. You’re wondering if I’m planning to fight him.”

Felix raises an eyebrow, smirking faintly. “No, I’m assuming you’re planning to fight him.”

A humourless smile tugs at Minho’s lips. “I’m not going to fight him. Not yet. I’m going to have a quiet, friendly conversation with him. He’s going to quit, and when he does, I’ll tell her.”

“And his nose?” Felix asks, his voice light but his eyes sharp.

Minho’s smile turns cold, his tone conversational. “Oh, his nose is absolutely getting broken. A little incentive to stay away.”

Felix’s grin widens slightly, though his eyes remain dark. “Good. She’s been holding it in, Min. She’s worried, maybe her anxiety’s making her think you’ll blame her or something, but it’s really weighing on her.”

Minho exhales through his nose, his fingers tightening slightly around the handle of your mug. “I see it,” he admits quietly. “The way she smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. The way she keeps saying she’s fine, even when she’s not.” He pauses, his voice softening further. “She carries too much. Always trying to be invisible, not to bother anyone.”

Felix tilts his head, his expression thoughtful. “She’s just like Jisung, you know? Same anxious brain. Same need to please everyone. You’re basically dating the female version of him.”

Minho lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he picks up the mug. “Thanks for that image. Really needed it.”

Felix smirks, crossing his arms again. “You’ve got this, though. Just be careful. Don’t make her feel like she’s not in control.”

“I know,” Minho says, his tone firm. “Thanks for telling me. I’ve got her.”

Felix watches him leave, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “I know you do,” he murmurs, the kitchen falling quiet again.

The journalism lecture hall empties slowly, students filing out with the shuffle of papers and muted conversations that fade into the hallway. The sound of the last student’s footsteps echoes faintly, the large room gradually falling into silence. Outside, Minho leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his face impassive but his eyes sharp and dangerous. 

A few students glance at him curiously as they leave, their expressions ranging from confused to wary, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. His focus is fixed entirely on the room and the man still inside it. As the door swings shut behind the last student, the faint click marks the beginning of what Minho has come to do.

Straightening, he steps inside with deliberate, measured strides, the sound of his boots on the polished floor echoing faintly in the quiet. The atmosphere in the lecture hall shifts immediately, the air thickening as if sensing the weight of his presence.

At the front of the room, Jae is bent over his desk, sorting through a stack of papers with a distracted expression. The sound of Minho’s approach draws his attention, and he looks up, his face neutral at first. But when he sees Minho, his brows furrow slightly, confusion flickering across his features.

“Can I help you?” 

Minho doesn’t answer immediately. He stops a few feet from Jae’s desk, his stance casual but his eyes locked on Jae’s with a piercing intensity. He tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Jae, right? The professor’s assistant?”

Jae straightens slightly, frowning. “Yeah, that’s me. I don’t think I’ve seen you in the class. Are you-”

“Oh, I’m not in the class,” Minho interrupts smoothly, his voice cold and edged with quiet steel. “My girlfriend is, though. Y/N. The one you tried to blackmail into fucking you for a passing grade.”

Jae’s face drains of colour instantly, the papers in his hands falling to the desk with a soft rustle. His mouth opens and closes a few times, like a fish gasping for air. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammers, his voice faltering.

“Don’t,” Minho cuts in sharply, his tone dropping into something lethal. “Lie to me.”

Jae swallows hard, his hands twitching as they grip the edge of the desk. The flicker of panic in his eyes is unmistakable, but Minho’s unrelenting gaze holds him in place. After a tense beat, Minho jerks his chin toward the chair behind the desk.

“Me and you are gonna have a little talk,” he says, his voice steady but cold enough to freeze the air between them. “So sit down. Now.”

Jae hesitates, his eyes darting toward the door as though calculating his chances of escape. Minho doesn’t miss the movement. He takes a single step closer and slams his hand down on the desk with enough force to send the papers scattering to the floor.

“I said. Sit. The. Fuck. Down.”

The command sends a visible jolt through Jae, who stumbles backwards before nearly tripping into the chair. He sinks into it hastily, his movements frantic and uncoordinated, and looks up at Minho with wide, trembling eyes.

Minho’s hand lashes out suddenly, gripping the back of Jae’s head before slamming his face down against the desk with a sickening thud. The impact sends a burst of blood streaming from Jae’s nose, and he lets out a muffled cry of pain, his hands scrambling to push himself upright.

Before he can make another sound, Minho clamps a hand over his mouth, silencing him. “That,” Minho says evenly, his voice steady but laced with venom, “is for terrifying my girlfriend.”

Jae’s muffled whimpers grow louder, his tears mingling with the blood dripping onto the desk. Minho leans closer, his grip on Jae’s head tightening as his voice drops into a cold whisper.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You will quit as the professor’s assistant, and you will tell the professor exactly what you did. Every girl you’ve tried this shit with. Every word you said to Y/N. Because if you don’t, I swear to fucking God, you’ll never walk again. Are we clear?”

Jae nods frantically, his head jerking up and down against Minho’s hand as tears stream down his face. Minho’s eyes narrow as he grabs Jae’s nose, twisting it sharply enough to draw another strangled cry of pain. 

“Words, asshole,” Minho sneers, his voice cutting through Jae’s sobs like a blade.

“Yes!” Jae blurts, his voice trembling with desperation. “I’ll quit! I’ll tell him! I swear!”

Minho releases his grip abruptly, stepping back slightly as he watches Jae clutch his nose with trembling hands. Blood streams between Jae’s fingers, staining his shirt and dripping onto the papers scattered across the desk. Minho tilts his head, his expression unreadable as he studies the pitiful sight in front of him.

“Why her?” Minho asks suddenly, his voice quiet but cutting. “Because she’s quiet? Because she’s anxious? Is that why you thought you could pull this shit with her? Thought she'd be too scared to tell anyone?”

Jae doesn’t respond, but the panicked look in his eyes gives Minho all the confirmation he needs. Without warning, Minho slams Jae’s face against the desk again, the impact louder this time. Jae cries out, his voice muffled as blood pools on the desk beneath him.

“You made a mistake,” Minho says evenly, his tone almost conversational. “Because you upset her. And you know what happens when people upset my girlfriend?”

Jae whimpers, his body trembling as he clutches the edge of the desk. 

Minho leans closer, his voice dropping into a cold whisper. “When people upset her? Make her scared to go to class? Take advantage of their authority over her? I get pissed off. And when I get pissed off-” He trails off, gesturing to Jae’s bloodied face with a small, humourless smirk. “Well, let's just say this is me holding back.”

Jae sobs openly now, his hands shaking as he tries to stem the flow of blood. Minho tilts his head slightly, his gaze dark and unrelenting.

“You will never talk to her again,” he says, his voice quiet but resolute. “You won’t look at her, you won’t breathe near her. Because if you do, I won’t stop here. I’ll find Chan, Changbin, and Jisung. And trust me, they’ll be far less forgiving than I’ve been. The whole fucking frat house will come for you"

Jae lets out a strangled squeak, shaking his head frantically as Minho straightens. “And just so you know,” Minho adds, his tone turning icy, “the only reason you’re walking out of here today is because my girlfriend is too soft-hearted to want you hurt. But me? I don’t have that problem.”

Without waiting for a response, Minho wipes his hands on his jeans as if brushing off dirt, his movements calm and deliberate. He doesn’t spare Jae another glance as he turns on his heel and walks out of the lecture hall, the door swinging shut behind him with a decisive click.

The room falls silent again, save for Jae’s ragged breathing and muffled sobs, his blood pooling on the desk beneath him as he clutches his broken nose.

Minho steps into his room at the frat house, closing the door behind him with deliberate quiet. The air inside is warm and familiar, filled with the soft scent of lavender from the diffuser you insisted he get. You’re completely buried beneath his blankets, only a few strands of your hair spilling out over the pillow giving away your position.

He pauses in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he watches you. The anger that had been burning hot in his chest earlier is still there, but now it simmers, dulled by the sight of you curled up and peaceful, your breathing steady and rhythmic. He exhales softly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly.

Walking over, he crouches by the bed, his movements careful and precise. His hand reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. His fingers linger there for a moment, his touch soft.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm. “I need to talk to you. Then you can go back to sleep.”

You stir slightly, your body shifting under the blankets. Your eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, and you blink at him, your face scrunching up in that familiar way he finds so endearing. “Min?” you mumble, rubbing at your eyes with the heels of your hands.

“Yeah, sweetheart. It’s me,” he says gently. “Sit up for me, okay? Just for a little bit.”

You groan softly, a sleepy protest, but you push yourself up, the blankets pooling around your waist as you sit. Your hair is a mess, a halo of stray strands framing your face, and your cheeks are puffy from sleep. Despite everything, Minho thinks you look impossibly adorable.

“What’s going on?” you ask, your voice still heavy with sleep.

Minho moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his expression serious but calm. He’s careful as he speaks, watching your reaction. “I spoke to Jae today,” he begins. “He told me what he did.”

The sleepiness in your eyes vanishes instantly, replaced by something sharp and anxious. You stiffen, your body going still. “Did you hurt him?” 

Minho tilts his head, his lips quirking into the faintest smirk. “I only broke his nose a little bit.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, you seem caught between shock and something else. Maybe relief, maybe disbelief. 

“He’s going to tell the professor what he did to you,” Minho continues, “and to any other girls he tried to pull this shit with. Your assignments will probably get regraded, and you’ll finally get the marks you deserve.”

You nod again, but you still won’t meet his eyes. Instead, your fingers find a loose thread on the blanket, picking at it restlessly. Minho watches you for a moment, his heart tightening in his chest. He stands briefly to grab your silicone pop-it from the desk, then sits back down and places it gently in your hands.

“Here,” he says softly. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, your fingers moving over the pop-it’s silicone bubbles in a steady rhythm. The soft popping sound fills the quiet, and your breathing begins to steady as you focus on the motion. Finally, you speak, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I just- I felt gross,” you say, the words trembling. “I tried so hard on those assignments, Min. I put everything I had into them, and he didn’t even see that. He didn’t see my work. All he saw was my body.”

Your hands tighten around the pop-it, your fingers pressing harder against the bubbles. The sound feels louder now, punctuating the silence. “I didn’t even feel like a person,” you continue, your voice breaking slightly. “I felt like an object. Like that’s all I was to him. My intelligence didn’t matter. My hard work didn’t matter. All that mattered was if I’d fuck him to pass.”

Minho’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. His gaze stays fixed on you, his hands clenched into loose fists in his lap as he fights the urge to let his anger show. This isn’t about him, it’s about you, and he needs to let you say everything you need to.

Your voice drops even lower, trembling with emotion. “And I don’t know, I thought maybe you’d think less of me. Which is stupid, I know, but-”

“It’s not stupid,” Minho interrupts gently, his tone firm but kind. “Baby, you have anxiety. I know you know I’d never think less of you, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy for your brain to believe it. That’s not your fault.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you seem frozen. Then Minho shifts closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you against his chest. His hand rubs soothing circles on your back as you continue fidgeting with the pop-it, the steady rhythm grounding you.

“I’m proud of you, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice soft. “It must’ve been so hard, keeping all that in. But you’re here, baby. You got through it.”

You hesitate for a beat, then admit quietly, “I told Felix.”

Minho keeps his expression neutral, pretending he doesn’t already know. “You did?”

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. He was so nice about it. He didn’t get mad, just comforted me.”

Minho smiles faintly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “That was really brave of you, sweetheart. My brave girl. How did I get so lucky?”

You pull back slightly, your lips quirking into the tiniest of smiles. “You calmed me down at that awards night,” you say, your voice soft. “Told me I was beautiful. Jisung set me up on a date with Felix because he thought you’d just fuck me around, and then you showed up at my apartment after the date, and, well, now here we are.”

Minho chuckles, shaking his head. “Ah, yes. That’s how I got so lucky. I was so fucking pissed at Jisung for that, you know.”

You laugh softly, the sound quiet but genuine. “I remember. Jisung caught us kissing that night in my apartment, and he was so mad.”

Minho smirks, leaning closer. “And then you locked him in the living room so we could have sex in your room.”

Your giggle grows louder, and Minho grins, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “There she is,” he murmurs, his voice full of affection.

Minho shifts slightly, his weight sinking into the bed as he tilts your chin up with gentle fingers, guiding your gaze to meet his. His thumb brushes lightly over your jawline, the motion soothing, almost absentminded, as if his hand belongs there and nowhere else.

“Baby,” he starts, his voice low but steady, every word deliberate. “I need you to know something.”

You swallow hard, your hands pausing their rhythmic popping on the silicone toy in your lap. His tone is so certain, so resolute, that it demands your full attention. His thumb moves again, a tender stroke against your skin that feels grounding.

“I will never think less of you for anything,” he continues, his gaze boring into yours. “Not for your anxiety, not for being scared of something, none of it. Okay?”

Your throat tightens, and you try to blink back the sting in your eyes, but it’s no use. A tear slips out, trailing silently down your cheek. Minho’s hand moves immediately, his thumb brushing the tear away as if he’s wiping away more than just a drop of salt water, like he’s trying to erase the weight of your fears entirely.

“That shit doesn’t make you weak,” he says, his voice soft but fierce. “And it sure as hell doesn’t make me love you any less.”

You nod silently, your throat too tight to speak, but your eyes stay locked on his. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t rush you to respond. He just stays there, his hand cradling your cheek like you’re the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

Minho shifts closer, his voice dropping even lower, softer but no less firm. “I’m not gonna hold it against you for having fears or for assuming what I might feel. I get it, baby. Your brain runs a million miles a minute sometimes, and that’s okay. But all I ask-” He pauses, his thumb tracing slow circles on your cheek. “is that you ask me how I feel, okay? Could you do that for me, my silly girl?”

You nod again, finally finding your voice, though it’s small and trembling. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I need,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a faint, reassuring smile. His hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he lets it drop, resting it lightly on your knee. “That’s all I’ll ever ask.”

You look down at the pop-it in your lap, your fingers resuming their soft, steady movements over the silicone bubbles. The gentle popping sound fills the quiet space between you, grounding you as you process his words. You take a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly, and when you glance back up at him, there’s a faint hint of playfulness in your tone.

“Did he cry?” you ask tentatively, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Minho’s smirk is instant and smug, his brows lifting slightly. “I think he might have pissed himself a little.”

The laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, light and genuine. It catches you off guard, and the sound feels foreign after so much tension, but it’s freeing. Minho’s grin widens, clearly pleased with himself.

“I’m serious,” he says, his tone teasing but proud. “I’m scary.”

You giggle again, shaking your head. “I know. My scary guard dog.”

“Damn fucking straight,” Minho replies, puffing his chest out slightly in mock bravado. “Returning your food when the order’s wrong, fighting off creeps who think they have a chance with you, taking back tops when they’re the wrong size. I’ve got this shit down to a fine art. Honestly, Hyunjin should be jealous. I could pass his art history major for him, I’m that good. And let’s not forget, I’ve got better hair.”

You snort. “I don’t know about that,” you say, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Hyunjin’s hair is pretty majestic.”

Minho gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like you’ve just delivered a mortal wound. “Okay, fine,” he concedes with exaggerated flair. “Hyunjin’s hair is like a fucking Renaissance painting. But I’m prettier, right?”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, and Minho narrows his eyes at you in mock suspicion. “Well,” you draw out, your lips twitching. “You’re sexier. And scarier.”

Minho’s smirk returns in full force, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Damn right, I am.”

You laugh again, this time louder, freer, the sound filling the room with a warmth that hadn’t been there before. Minho leans forward, his hand coming up to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger there, brushing lightly against your cheek as he presses a kiss to your forehead. His lips are warm and firm, lingering just long enough to feel like a promise.

When he pulls back, his expression softens, the smugness melting into something gentler. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and full of affection. “I knew you had good taste.”

“I guess I do,” you reply quietly, your tone playful but sincere.

Minho leans back slightly, his hand sliding down to rest over yours. His fingers lace through yours easily, the pop-it still cradled in your other hand. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence between you filled only with the rhythmic popping of the toy and the soft hum of the world outside the window.

Then, Minho breaks the silence, his tone turning light again. “You know,” he says, his eyes narrowing playfully, “Jisung owes me a massive apology. For that date setup with Felix. Biggest cockblock of my life.”

You shake your head, your smile lingering as you glance down at your intertwined hands. The warmth of his touch, the steadiness of his presence, it feels like a lifeline, pulling you back to a place of safety.

“Thank you,” you say softly, your voice almost a whisper. “For everything. For being here. For listening.”

Minho squeezes your hand gently, his expression softening again. “Always, baby. You don’t have to thank me for that. It’s just what I do.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache, but this time it’s not from sadness. It’s from the overwhelming relief of knowing you’re not alone, of having someone who sees all of you, the messy, complicated parts, and chooses to stay anyway.

Minho shifts closer again, his forehead resting against yours, his dark eyes gazing into yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, the words a quiet vow. “And I protect what’s mine. Always.”

The evening air carries a crisp coolness, just enough to brush against your skin but not bite. The streets are alive with the hum of student life, clusters of laughter and chatter spill out of bars and restaurants, mixing with the occasional sound of a passing car. You walk arm-in-arm with Jisung, his boundless energy an anchor in the buzz of activity.

Your black leather flares swish with each step, the soft click of your black heeled boots echoing against the concrete. The strapless white tube top you’re wearing fits snugly, accentuating your silhouette, and the small white purse hanging from your shoulder ties the outfit together.

Jisung looks as effortlessly cool as ever. His black cargo trousers and white sneakers give him a laid-back edge, and the Eminem t-shirt beneath his black zip-up hoodie looks perfectly lived-in. His beanie is pulled low over his messy hair, the soft fabric framing his expressive face, while the silver chain around his neck catches the glow of the streetlights as he gestures animatedly. His free hand flails as he sidesteps a group of loud, tipsy students, pulling you closer to him.

“We’re two pretty best friends,” he announces suddenly, his voice brimming with exaggerated pride.

You laugh, leaning into his arm as your smile stretches wide. “We even have matching mental illnesses.”

“Exactly!” Jisung cheers, throwing his free hand up like he’s proclaiming your shared anxiety as a badge of honour. “Anxiety crew, represent!”

His exuberance draws a few amused glances from passersby, but you don’t care. His humour, his ease, it’s exactly what you need to shake off the heaviness of the week.

You tilt your head, glancing down at his outfit as you ask, “How come we’re all in black and white? Did you guys plan this?”

Jisung groans dramatically, his entire body exaggerating the motion as he throws his head back. “Hyunjin insisted,” he says, his tone dripping with faux exasperation. “Something about ‘aesthetic cohesion’ and ‘timeless elegance.’”

Your laugh bubbles up before you can stop it, the sound mixing with the steady rhythm of your boots clicking against the sidewalk. “That man loves a theme.”

“Loves it way too much,” Jisung mutters, though there’s no real bite in his tone. “You should’ve seen him lecturing Changbin about matching his belt to his shoes. Nearly gave the man an existential crisis.”

The two of you laugh together, the sound easy and light as you approach the bar. The familiar neon sign above the entrance glows a vibrant blue, its light spilling out onto the sidewalk. The steady thump of bass pulses from inside, vibrating faintly through the pavement, and the warm buzz of voices filters through the open doorway. Jisung holds the door open with an exaggerated flourish, bowing slightly as he gestures for you to enter.

The bar wraps around you in a wave of sound and warmth. The chatter of patrons, the clink of glasses, and the faint, rhythmic beat of music from the speakers create a lively symphony. The air smells faintly of citrus and beer, mingling with the aroma of wood from the polished tables and bar counter.

Your eyes scan the room, searching through the sea of faces until they land on a familiar booth near the back. It’s packed with your group. Chan, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin are crammed together, their laughter carrying even over the din of the bar.

Drinks sit scattered across the table, condensation pooling around the bases of the glasses as everyone gestures animatedly, their hands cutting through the air in exaggerated motions as they talk.

Minho spots you first. His dark eyes light up immediately, and a slow, easy grin spreads across his face. His gaze locks on yours, his expression softening with something unspoken but undeniable.

Felix notices the shift in Minho’s face and nudges Changbin, who slides over to make room in the booth. Felix stands, waving enthusiastically, his signature bright smile beaming at you across the room.

“There’s our power duo!” Felix calls out, his voice carrying above the din.

You and Jisung weave through the crowd, dodging chairs and bodies with ease. When you finally reach the booth, Felix steps aside, his grin widening as he gestures toward the newly cleared space. “Ladies and gentlemen, the anxiety icons have arrived.”

You laugh as you slide into the booth beside Minho, with Jisung quickly claiming the space on your other side. The moment you’re settled, Minho’s arm drapes over your shoulders in a fluid motion, pulling you into his side. The warmth of his body against yours is immediate, his woodsy cologne wrapping around you like a cocoon.

“Hi,” you murmur, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. The noise of the bar fades slightly, muffled by the closeness of him.

“Hi, baby,” he replies, his voice low and smooth, the words sending a ripple of comfort through you. He slides a drink across the table toward you, a strawberry daiquiri with a tiny paper umbrella perched delicately on the rim.

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face as you pick up the glass, the condensation cool against your fingers. You take a sip, the sweet tang of strawberries washing over your tongue, and you hum in satisfaction. “You know me too well.”

Minho smirks, his dark eyes glinting with amusement as he presses a quick kiss to your temple. “Only the best for my girl.”

The conversation around the table continues, bursts of laughter and teasing filling the booth as the rest of the group dives into their drinks. Chan and Hyunjin are deep in a debate about the best way to pour a draft beer, their hands miming the action with exaggerated gestures. Jeongin and Seungmin watch with amused expressions, occasionally throwing in dry commentary that makes Changbin nearly choke on his drink.

But Minho’s attention never wavers from you. His fingers absentmindedly play with a strand of your hair, twirling it gently before letting it fall back into place.

His other hand rests on the table and you reach over, your fingers brushing against his as you begin to fidget with the cool metal bands. The motion is familiar, calming, and Minho’s lips twitch into a small smile at the gesture.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the noise of the bar. 

Your cheeks warm at the compliment, but you smile, your fingers still toying with his rings. “You’re biased.”

“Damn right, I am,” he replies without hesitation, his grin widening. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

You glance up at him, your smile softening as your eyes meet his. His arm tightens around your shoulders slightly, pulling you closer to his side.

Jisung’s voice cuts through the quiet bubble around you, pulling your attention back to the group. “Hey, are we playing darts or what? I’m ready to kick Changbin’s ass.”

“You couldn’t hit the board last time,” Changbin fires back, his grin mischievous.

“Details,” Jisung retorts, waving a dismissive hand. “This time, I’m fueled by friendship and alcohol.”

The group bursts into laughter, and Minho chuckles softly, his hand brushing over your shoulder. “You wanna play, baby?”

You shake your head, still nestled against him. “I think I’ll sit this one out. I’m pretty comfortable right here.”

Minho’s smirk returns, his voice dropping just slightly as he murmurs, “Can’t blame you. I’m an excellent pillow.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you tease, though the fondness in your tone gives you away.

He leans closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Too late.”

The sound of the group heading toward the dartboards fills the booth, leaving you and Minho alone for a rare moment. His fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your face toward his, and his dark eyes search yours with a quiet intensity.

“I mean it,” he says softly, his tone earnest. “You’re stunning.”

Your heart flutters, and for a moment, you forget the noise of the bar entirely. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice almost lost in the hum of the room.

Minho smiles, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your lips which you happily reciprocate. When he pulls back, his smirk returns, lighter now but no less confident.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice filled with affection. “Always the prettiest one in the room.”

The booth is alive with laughter, the warm glow of the bar's hanging lights casting everyone in soft hues of gold and amber. Drinks clink together as stories flow freely, the kind of energy that only exists when you’re surrounded by the people you trust most.

Felix is mid-story, his hands gesturing animatedly as he recounts one of Hyunjin’s failed attempts at “artistic photography.” Even Hyunjin can’t hold back his laughter as Felix mimics his exaggerated poses, their voices blending into the hum of the crowded bar.

You’re nestled against Minho’s side, his arm draped protectively over your shoulders, anchoring you in the lively chaos. His thumb rubs slow, absentminded circles against your upper arm, grounding you as your fingers toy with the cool metal of his rings. The weight of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing, is a constant comfort.

But then, cutting through the warmth of the moment like a shard of ice, comes the sound of loud, grating laughter. It’s obnoxious and overblown, the kind of noise that demands attention whether you want to give it or not. The entire booth turns instinctively toward the sound, and the moment your eyes land on the source, your stomach plummets.

Jae.

He’s standing near the bar with a group of equally rowdy friends, all of them leaning against each other and laughing too loudly, their voices slurred with the unmistakable edge of too much alcohol. His presence feels like a punch to the gut, and you freeze, your fingers stilling against Minho’s rings.

Felix notices immediately. His laughter cuts off mid-sentence, and his usual bright smile dims into something tight and unreadable. Minho, however, doesn’t even try to mask his reaction. His arm tightens around you, and his dark eyes narrow as they lock onto Jae with a sharpness that could cut through steel.

“Min,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the din of the bar. “Just enjoy the night, okay? Please?”

Minho’s jaw tenses, the muscle ticking as he takes a slow, deliberate breath. He doesn’t respond immediately, and you can feel the controlled anger radiating off him in waves. Before he can say anything, Jae’s voice cuts through the air like nails on a chalkboard.

“There she is!” he shouts, pointing at you, his words slurred but still sharp enough to carry across the bar. “The little slut that ruined my life!”

The world tilts slightly, your vision narrowing as the words hit you like a slap. The booth goes completely silent. The laughter and easy chatter are gone, replaced by a thick, oppressive stillness.

Jae stumbles forward slightly, his friends egging him on with jeers and smirks. “The one who has to send her big, bad football player boyfriend to save the day!” he sneers, his tone dripping with mockery.

Minho stiffens beside you, his grip on your shoulder tightening. His voice, when he speaks, is eerily calm, a quiet storm brewing just beneath the surface. “He’s dead,” he says simply, his tone flat.

Felix doesn’t hesitate. He pushes his drink aside, his movements deliberate as he rises to his feet. “Yup.”

Jae isn’t done, his voice rising above the ambient noise of the bar as he continues his tirade. “She just couldn’t keep her mouth shut or spread her legs! Too pious to fuck me for a better grade, and now look where it’s gotten me.”

The laughter from Jae’s group is harsh and grating, echoing across the room like a bad joke no one asked to hear. The implications of his words click into place for everyone at the booth.

Chan’s usually calm, composed demeanour cracks, his expression hardening into something cold and unyielding. Hyunjin’s jaw drops, disbelief and anger flashing across his face. Changbin’s hand clenches into a fist against the table, his knuckles whitening.

Jeongin and Seungmin's faces go as cold as ice and Jisung, seated beside you, vibrates with barely contained fury, his sharp gaze darting between you and Jae.

“Motherfucker,” Jisung mutters, his voice low but brimming with rage.

Minho doesn’t wait for Jae to speak again. He hops over the table in one fluid motion, his movements calm but with a predatory edge that makes the air feel heavier. Felix follows immediately, his expression grim, and Jisung is right on their heels, his hands already clenched into fists.

Chan curses under his breath, pushing his chair back as he stands. “This is about to turn into a fucking bar brawl,” he mutters, glancing at Seungmin. “Stay with Y/N.”

Seungmin nods, his expression unreadable as he shifts closer to you, sliding into the space Minho just vacated. The others follow the trio, their expressions a mix of anger and determination.

You sit frozen, your fingers trembling as they grip the edges of your purse. The familiar weight of your fidget cube presses against your palm, and you pull it out with shaky hands. The soft clicks and rotations offer a small measure of comfort, but your chest still feels tight, your breaths shallow and uneven.

You drain the rest of your strawberry daiquiri in one go, the sweetness doing little to settle your nerves. Without thinking, you reach for Felix’s abandoned pina colada and take a long sip, the chilled drink momentarily grounding you.

Seungmin’s arm wraps around your shoulders, his touch steady and reassuring. His presence, calm and unflinching, feels like a lifeline as you struggle to keep the panic at bay. He follows your gaze toward Jae, whose bandaged nose is a stark reminder of Minho’s earlier confrontation.

Seungmin’s lips quirk into a faint smirk. “Did Minho do that to his nose?”

You nod, your voice small as you murmur, “Yeah.”

Seungmin huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “He held back.”

The comment draws a weak chuckle from you, the sound shaky but real. Seungmin’s smirk widens slightly as he gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice dropping into a reassuring murmur. “They’ve got this. Jae doesn’t stand a fucking chance against Minho and Felix. And if the others gets involved?” He grins faintly. “Game over. I mean have you seen Chan's shoulders?"

The words settle over you like a blanket, offering a small measure of comfort. Jae leans against the bar like he owns the place, his arms crossed in mock confidence as he spots Minho approaching with the group behind him. His friends egg him on, their laughter obnoxiously loud as they slap him on the back, goading him with jeers and grins.

“Well, if it isn’t the boyfriend,” Jae sneers, his voice carrying over the bar’s thumping bass. His words are slurred, his bravado clearly fueled by the alcohol in his system. “Here to defend your little slut again?”

The temperature in the bar seems to drop. Minho stops just short of Jae, his hands hanging loose at his sides. His knuckles flex once, the tendons in his hands tightening as though preparing for action. His dark eyes bore into Jae with a calmness that’s far more dangerous than any shouting match could be.

Minho takes a slow, deliberate breath and his neck rolls lazily to one side, a quiet crack breaking through the tension. “You’ve got about three seconds,” he says, his voice low and measured, “to shut the fuck up.”

Before Jae can respond, a blur of motion cuts between them. Jisung surges forward, his fist swinging with everything he has. The impact lands square on Jae’s cheek, a sickening thud that reverberates through the room as Jae’s head snaps to the side. He stumbles against the bar, gripping the edge for balance.

“You fucking asshole!” Jisung snaps, shaking his hand out with a wince. “You don’t get to talk about her like that!”

Jae barely has time to recover before chaos erupts. His friends lurch forward, fists flying wildly, but Chan, Changbin, Felix, Hyunjin, Minho, and Jeongin are faster. The music fades into the background, drowned out by shouts, curses, and the sound of bodies colliding.

Felix moves with a precision that’s almost clinical, his taekwondo training evident in the sharpness of his kicks and punches. One of Jae’s friends lunges at him, but Felix sidesteps effortlessly, delivering a swift kick to the guy’s ribs that sends him sprawling.

“I always forget Felix did taekwondo for like ten years,” Seungmin mutters, his arm steady around your shoulders.

“Twelve,” you correct automatically, your voice shaky but steady as your fingers work furiously at the fidget cube in your lap. The rhythmic clicks and rotations offer a small anchor against the chaos.

Seungmin smirks faintly, sliding a forgotten glass of Sex on the Beach toward you. “Here. Looks like you need this more than Jeongin does.”

You nod, grateful, and take a long sip. The sweetness of the drink calms your nerves slightly, but your gaze remains fixed on the fight unfolding before you. Minho is a force of nature, calm, controlled, and devastatingly efficient. He moves through the fray with a predator’s grace, every punch deliberate and unrelenting.

When one of Jae’s friends tries to grab him from behind, Minho twists effortlessly, slamming an elbow into the guy’s stomach before throwing him into a nearby table.

Hyunjin and Jeongin work in tandem, their usual playful energy transformed into something almost terrifying. Hyunjin distracts one of Jae’s friends with feints and jabs, giving Jeongin the opening to sweep the guy’s legs out from under him. The two share a brief smirk before turning to face the next opponent.

Chan and Changbin are unrelenting, their punches landing with a precision that speaks to years of dealing with troublemakers. One of Jae’s friends charges at Chan, but Chan steps aside at the last moment, letting the guy crash into a table. Changbin follows up with a solid punch to the guy’s jaw, sending him crumpling to the floor.

Jae tries to regain his footing, his face twisted in rage as he lunges at Minho. But Minho is faster. He grabs Jae by the hair, yanking his head back before slamming his face against the edge of the bar. The impact is brutal, the sound of bone meeting wood audible even over the music.

“Enough!” the bartender shouts, slamming his hand on the counter. His voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Take this shit outside, or I’m calling the cops!”

Minho straightens slowly, releasing Jae, who collapses to the floor in a heap. Blood drips from his already broken nose, staining the floor beneath him as he groans in pain.

Minho doesn’t spare him another glance, his focus shifting as he turns and walks back toward you with a calmness that’s almost eerie. His chest heaves slightly, his adrenaline still running high, but the moment his eyes meet yours, his expression softens.

He holds out his hand, his voice steady but still tinged with adrenaline. “Come on, baby.”

You set the empty glass down, your fingers trembling slightly as you slip your hand into his. His grip is warm, solid, and grounding, and the tension in your chest begins to ease. Minho helps you out of the booth, keeping you close as he leads you toward the exit. The others begin to follow, Chan calling out as they regroup.

“Let’s head back to the frat,” Chan says, his voice firm as he wipes at a smudge of blood on his knuckles.

The group murmurs their agreement, Felix throwing one last disdainful glance at Jae, who is still groaning on the floor. “Yeah, let’s go,” Felix mutters, shaking out his wrists.

As the group moves toward the door, Minho slows his pace deliberately. Just before stepping outside, he pauses, his eyes cutting down to Jae’s hand, which is splayed weakly on the floor.

Without missing a beat, Minho steps on it with all his weight. The sickening crunch of bone is faint over the music, but Jae’s howl of pain cuts through the room like a blade.

Minho doesn’t look down as he continues walking. His hand tightens slightly around yours, his focus already back on you. The cool night air greets you as you step outside, washing over your heated skin and easing some of the tension from your body. The faint hum of distant traffic mixes with the muffled bass from the bar, the world outside feeling calmer, quieter.

You glance up at Minho as the group starts making their way back toward the frat house. His arm slips around your waist, pulling you closer to his side as you walk. His presence is steady and reassuring, and for the first time since the night began, you feel like you can finally breathe.

“Feel better?” you ask quietly, your voice hesitant.

Minho smirks faintly, his dark eyes glinting in the streetlights. “Not yet,” he admits, his tone low. His arm tightens around you slightly as he adds, “But I will. Once we’re home.”

The frat house is alive with energy as the group spills inside, their voices bouncing off the walls, fueled by adrenaline and a few drinks too many. Everyone heads straight for the kitchen, where Chan takes command like a seasoned general, throwing open cabinets and yanking out bottles.

You lean against the counter, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You bend down, tugging at the zippers on your heeled boots, muttering under your breath when one gets stuck.

Minho, mid-pour with a bottle of vodka in hand, glances at you. His eyes catch on the sight of your Bambi socks, the design peeking out as your boots come off. He snorts, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, the words laced with affection.

You look up, holding one boot in your hand as you stick your tongue out at him. “And you love it.”

“I do,” he says, shaking his head with mock exasperation as he pours pineapple juice into your glass. “Heavy on the vodka, right?”

“Always,” you reply, your lips twitching into a small smile.

Before you can settle, Jisung is suddenly in front of you, his expression unusually serious as he wraps his arms around you in a warm, slightly desperate hug. The smell of his cologne mingles with the faint scent of booze clinging to his hoodie. You melt into him, your hands clutching at the soft fabric of his hoodie as he presses his cheek against yours.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrug, your face still buried in his shoulder. “I didn’t want to make it a big deal,” you mumble, the words muffled against him.

Jisung sighs, the sound heavy with frustration and concern. “It is a big deal. You’re my best friend. I’m supposed to know this shit.”

You don’t respond, your fingers tightening slightly against his shirt. The weight of the night threatens to creep back in, but the comfort of Jisung’s hug and the chatter around you keeps it at bay.

Minho slides a glass across the counter toward you, the condensation forming small droplets that glisten under the overhead lights. “Here,” Minho says, his voice soft but firm. “Drink.”

You smile faintly, your free hand reaching for the glass. The first sip is cold and sweet, the tang of pineapple cutting through the vodka, and you hum in satisfaction. Minho’s lips twitch into a satisfied smirk as he leans against the counter, watching you.

Chan, standing nearby with his arms crossed, tilts his head as he studies your face. “You alright?”

You glance at him, nodding. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Chan uncrosses his arms, pulling you into a brief but firm side hug. His grip is strong and reassuring, and when he lets go, he places a hand on your shoulder. “Good,” he says simply. “You know this whole house has your back, right? Every one of us.”

“Yeah, I know,” you reply, your voice soft but genuine.

“Damn right we do,” Felix chimes in from the island, raising his glass of rum and coke in a toast. His grin is bright, the kind that could lighten even the darkest mood. “We need our two anxious mascots in tip-top shape.”

Jisung looks at Felix with furrowed brows. “Who’s the second one?”

Minho raises an eyebrow at him, his voice dry. “You, dumbass.”

Jisung blinks once, then twice, before nodding in agreement. “Yeah, makes sense.”

Felix’s laughter is the first to break, and the rest of the room follows, the sound rippling through the kitchen like waves. Minho pours himself a glass of whiskey and coke, the ratios leaning heavily in favour of the whiskey.

He moves behind you, his arm snaking across your chest to pull you gently back against him. The comforting weight of his presence settles over you, and you let yourself lean into him, your head resting against his chest.

“The cube helping you, baby?” he murmurs, his lips close to your ear, the low timbre of his voice sending a wave of calm through you.

You nod, your fingers clicking the toy’s buttons rhythmically. “Yeah. It’s helping.”

Jisung bounds toward the speaker in the corner, pulling out his phone with the dramatic flair of someone announcing their magnum opus. “We need music!” he declares, his fingers flying over the screen.

The opening beats of Hey Daddy by Usher fill the kitchen, the smooth rhythm instantly lightens the atmosphere.

You giggle, sipping your drink as the guys start bopping along to the music. Hyunjin pulls Felix into an impromptu dance, their movements overly dramatic as they spin and pose like they’re auditioning for a music video. Jeongin laughs so hard he nearly spills his drink, and Chan claps along, his grin wide.

Minho keeps his arm snug around you, his free hand resting lightly on your waist. His thumb traces small, lazy circles against your side, his touch grounding. He leans in closer, his voice a quiet murmur against your ear. “You always smell like mango and passion fruit.”

“It’s my shampoo, conditioner, body spray. Everything, really,” you reply with a small laugh, glancing up at him.

“I love it,” Minho says simply, his tone sincere. “And I love you.”

His lips press a kiss to the crown of your head, lingering for a moment. You smile, your fingers tightening around the glass in your hand as you tilt your head back to look at him.

“I love you too,”

Across the kitchen, Chan raises his glass, his voice cutting through the music. “Alright, let’s get super fucked up!”

“And talk about how ugly Jae and his friends are, right?” Felix adds, his grin mischievous as he looks to you for confirmation.

You nod, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Right.”

Felix leans forward, clinking his glass against yours with a wink. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Seungmin, perched on a stool nearby, takes a sip of his drink before adding dryly, “Jae gives off major bitchless energy.”

Hyunjin nods enthusiastically, his voice light and playful. “Very demure. Very ‘I don’t get any pussy.’”

The night winds down into a comfortable haze, the once-lively frat kitchen now littered with half-empty bottles, abandoned cups, and the remnants of snacks scattered across the counters.

The music is still playing, though quieter now, and the energy in the house has shifted. Laughter is softer, conversations slower, the kind of relaxed vibe that follows a night of good drinks and better company.

Minho’s arm stays firmly around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your side. His touch is steady, grounding, a quiet promise of safety even as the chaos of the evening fizzles into a low hum. He leans down, his breath brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “Come on, baby. Let’s head upstairs.”

You nod, leaning into him for a moment before he gently guides you toward the hallway. His hand rests lightly on your back, steering you past the remnants of the night.

Jisung is sprawled across the couch in the living room, one arm draped dramatically over his face, muttering something about how Seungmin stole his drink.

Felix, meanwhile, is perched on the coffee table, dramatically belting out the chorus of whatever song is playing, much to the delight of Changbin and Hyunjin, who are egging him on.

Minho chuckles softly as he watches them, shaking his head in amusement before nudging you forward. “Come on, before they rope us into Felix’s karaoke session.”

The climb up the stairs is slower than usual, your legs a little unsteady from the drinks and the lingering adrenaline of the night. Minho keeps a firm hold on you, his hand brushing lightly against your back every few steps as though to remind you he’s there.

You step inside his room, the door clicking shut softly behind you. The room is dimly lit, the warm glow of Minho’s desk lamp casting soft, golden shadows across the walls.

Minho leans back against the door, his eyes fixed on you as you reach for the zipper of your leather flares. The tight material peels away slowly, revealing the long expanse of your legs and your white panties. You pull your top over your head revealing your strapless white bra as you toss the top onto the chair in the corner of the room.

Minho stays where he is, watching you with a look that’s equal parts admiration and hunger. His gaze roams over you, taking in every curve, every line, with a reverence that makes your cheeks warm. His voice is low and rough when he finally speaks. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You glance at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you coming to bed?”

He smirks, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that way that always makes your stomach flutter. “Demanding, aren’t we?”

“Always,” you reply, sliding under the cool blankets and settling into the soft mattress.

You watch as Minho pulls his hoodie over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso. He tosses it aside, then shucks off his cargos with the same ease, leaving him in just his boxers.

When he joins you under the blankets, the warmth of his body seeps into yours immediately. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close until your back is pressed against his chest. His chin rests lightly on the top of your head, and you sigh softly, the tension in your body melting away.

For a while, the room is quiet, the distant hum of voices and music downstairs fading into the background. Minho breaks the silence first, his voice low and steady. “I don’t think he’ll bother you again.”

You hum in agreement, your head turning slightly so you can glance up at him. “I think bouncing his head off a bar and crushing his hand might have been enough of a deterrent.”

“You think so, huh?”

“Yeah,” you reply, your lips curving into a faint smile. “I think he got the message loud and clear.”

Minho shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. His dark hair falls across his forehead, and his expression softens as his fingers brush lightly against your cheek. “I’d kill for you, baby. You need to know that.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. His gaze is unwavering, his thumb tracing small circles on your cheek as he continues. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe. Absolutely nothing.”

Your breath catches, your chest tightening at the weight of his words. There’s no hesitation, no doubt in his tone, and the intensity of his conviction makes your eyes sting.

You reach for his hand, your fingers brushing over the cool metal of the rings still on his fingers. The familiar motion of twisting them grounds you.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I know, Min.”

He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that’s soft but full of emotion. It’s not rushed, not hungry, it’s steady and sure, a quiet vow in the way he holds you. When he pulls back, his eyes search yours, and a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “I mean it, you know. You’re everything to me.”

You nod, your fingers still toying with his rings. “And you’re everything to me.”

The words hang in the air between you, unspoken truths finally laid bare. Minho presses a kiss to your forehead before settling back down, his arms wrapping securely around you. You rest your head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into a sense of peace you hadn’t felt all night.

Downstairs, the faint sound of Felix’s laughter drifts up the stairs, followed by Jisung’s voice dramatically proclaiming something about being the world’s best singer. You smile against Minho’s chest, the warmth of the moment wrapping around you like a blanket.

“Home,” you murmur, your voice heavy with sleep.

Minho’s arms tighten around you slightly, his lips brushing against your hair. “Home,” he echoes, his voice full of quiet certainty. “Right here.”

Got carried away with the word count but protective men do something to me. A week of writing and rewriting and forcing my boyfriend to proof read and it's here!

[hms-no-fun]

Oh yeah the big pickups to work in an office job infuriate me to no end. A whole parking lot full of death machines that have never known the touch of a gravel road or hauled anything larger than a big Costco run. I have a nice lil electric hatchback tho.

the thing is, i always wanted a car. my parents took me on a lot of road trips when i was growing up (i remember a couple years before he died, my dad told me he was very proud to have shown me so much of the country when he himself had grown up poor and could only travel as far as the next job took him), so of course i have in me that quintessential American longing for The Road. in high school, i fantasized about getting into a car and disappearing into traffic, traveling to some distant corner where nobody lived and finding a situation to occupy. god help me, as a teen i bemoaned being born too late and longed for the naive vision of the 60s i'd received from my parents and pop culture and the rusted-over kitsch that dotted the remains of Route 66 (which my dad loved to talk about).

i hate car culture in part because i used to love car culture. it's a microcosm of indoctrinated American patriotism in general. they sell you on the dream, right? the freedom of travel, of expression. i wanted to be the millennial Jack Kerouac, whose work i did not actually read because i was young and dumb and drowning in dysphoria. but as i got older i saw how quickly little bumps and scratches can turn into massive financial burdens, to say nothing of cracked windshields or flat tires. then my mom died and i was given the responsibility of handling her car, a silver scion xb. i was 19, i did not have a license and had next to zero experience driving, nor had i ever had a job before. when i say "given the responsibility to handle her car" instead of "given her car," i mean that i didn't just get her car. like, i had it, i had the keys and no one was around to tell me not to drive it. but in order to get the title signed over to me, i had to go through an insane bureaucratic process of proving that my mom was dead, and that i was her kid, and that i should have the title to the car. this took months of back and forth miscommunication as dated notices were sent and bills piled up. because it wasn't just the car i got, but the debt as well. some $30,000 of it left unpaid by mom, which i was now expected to pay in her stead. my first job was working night shifts at a wal mart stocking the frozen food department, and that was the job where i rode my bike on the highway to get to work. i didn't drive because i didn't have a license, didn't have experience, was terrified of highway drivers, and knew very distinctly that if anything went wrong i'd instantly be in so much more debt (monetary and bureaucratic) than i already was. eventually my sister, a career nurse with three kids and a house, took over the car from me.

nobody understood why i didn't drive that car more. even my mom, when she was still alive, she said "when i was your age, i was dying to get out of the house." i was too! but for all that cars culturally represented freedom, in practice what they came to represent to me was the expected cost of participating in society. i was already sensitive to adults sneering at me for my perceived immaturity (the joys of being a millennial), which only compounded on learning that i didn't have a car or license, that i wasn't proactively joining Clubs or Organizations, that i wanted to pursue the arts of all things, that i wasn't Christian, etc etc etc. i never got out to see live music because i didn't have a car and didn't have money. i didn't get my first smart phone until late 2015. i spent a lot of my college years feeling alienated because i was at least two years older than everyone else (i already didn't want to go to college straight out of high school even before my mom died), still used a flip phone, and didn't have a car. which is to say i was a working class person trying to get by in a middle class institution. and i only got in because i was very good at peddling my sob story for sympathy points. FAFSA loves to finance the odd tragedy, i'm telling you (don't worry, i still had to take on a ton of student loan debt). when i expressed to family that i didn't want a car because i didn't feel safe as a driver, and felt that i shouldn't need to have a car in order to participate in society, they said "everyone feels that way at first, but you just have to get over it. or move to a big city. good luck affording that!" as a related aside, when i told those same people that i liked being in college for the pursuit of knowledge and wanted to graduate towards being a sort of generalist, they flatly insisted that that's not how college works anymore, and that i should instead put my energies towards a Useful Degree that would Get Me A Good Job.

of course they were sympathetic, at least on the surface. they told me these things in a kind tone, the way adults always do when what they're saying boils down to "it's not fair, but life ain't fair." and i've just never been able to accept that. before i knew anything about socialism or communism or materialist dialectics, when i was still very much under the thrall of post-Clinton liberalism, i still felt this deep-rooted conviction that when people said "life isn't fair," they were giving up something. that it was an excuse, an appeal to a higher power, a resignation to the status quo. my experience with cars, by the time i hit 25, was that you bought them for the freedom they promised, and then spent of your life driving that car between one of maybe five locations on the regular and doing very little else. the only time i ever felt free in a car was on a road trip, which happened with vanishing irregularity as all the associated costs skyrocketed in the 2000s. all the other time was spent driving in circles looking for parking, only to balk at how expensive it was. spent stuck in traffic for hours, amid concrete dunes of overpasses tangled with one another like a four-year-old's first try at tying their own shoes. spent angrily judging the poor driving conduct of other people, spent resenting anyone and everyone who inconvenienced their drive, spent rubbernecking at horrific accidents on the side of the road, spent worrying about car payments and insurance payments and how much it's gonna cost to get a tune-up, and then someone breaks in and steals all your stuff and your insurance doesn't want to pay for it, and then you get into an accident and you spend months haggling with your insurance and their insurance in the hopes that someone will maybe pay for the debt you've had to take on in getting your car repaired, because of course professional life doesn't take a break just because your mode of transportation got totaled.

and if i was applying for a job and the employer found out i didn't have a car, i was denied on the spot. i learned very quickly to lie about such things as often as possible. but i also learned that i could only bluff for so long before the lack of a car became a genuinely insurmountable hurdle. which fucked me up tremendously because at no point in my adult life, to this day, can i ever imagine being able to afford all the associated costs of having a car. in many respects, not having a car was the only reason i was able to survive the way i did. it meant i could work part-time while i was in school (with student loans making up the shortfall), share an apartment with two or three or four other people, and just barely have enough to eat the bare minimum and go see a movie sometimes. of course i wanted the freedom all my car-owning friends had, but mostly i wanted it so i could drive out into the middle of nowhere at night and be truly alone. i wanted a car so that i could escape from the frictional sandpaper bureaucracy of american existence... and i knew from experience by then that that's simply not how the world works.

it took me until 2020 to finally move to seattle, one of those mythical Big Cities with Actually Existing Public Transit. and holy shit, it's a revelation! i have better access the place where i live now than i ever have, and it's a freedom that costs SO MUCH LESS than the same would've cost me back home. but i've also lived here long enough now to see all the ways in which our transit system here is deeply flawed and run by the wrong people. i see many of the same forces at play here as i did back home. i see now how car owners and allies to the car dealership fiefdoms of the nation utilize car ownership and road maintenance as a tremendous lever of power. they've deliberately trapped us in this cycle of poverty and personal transportation reliance, and used the money they got from us buying their cars to then buy politicians so that they defund public transit and oppose any urbanist reforms. did you know that much of america used to be covered by street cars and rail lines? if you live in the midwest or on the west coast, your town very likely only exists the way it does because of mass public transit. they were necessary for bringing people into these remote places to create new markets for wealth extraction. once the population in those places was stable, and mass-produced personal vehicles became the norm, the capitalists of those areas deliberately allowed the transit networks to "go bankrupt" (ie they pretended transit is a business and not a utility that pretty much by definition can't turn a profit in a traditional manner) so they could be bought up and liquidated by future car dealers. this is what i think of when i remember my family telling me "that's just not the way the world works."

why? it used to be the way the world worked. why can't it be again? if the current status quo is the result of choices that created economic pressures which shaped the nature of society, why can't we do the same thing again but different? the way things are now is sick. it's unhealthy. the vast majority of microplastics come from car rubber, and what socioeconomic classes do you think are mostly likely to live close to high-traffic roads? it's not rich people, i'll tell you that. it's not the car dealers or the small city councils worried that a bus connection might bring the poors in. when i say "car owners need to be oppressed" i'm talking about these people. suburban supremacist dictators and their sycophantic liege lords whose biggest priorities in life are to keep gas prices low and to maintain their god-given right to never having to see a poor person. i hate these people because i've been sneered at by them my whole life, while they have been personally responsible for many of the same socioeconomic conditions which resulted in the deaths of both my parents, along with many other members of my extended family. i've long since stopped believing in the idea of "death by natural causes." only the rich live long enough to die old. the rest of us die by a thousand cuts borne of neglect. our healthcare is gatekept, our education is gatekept, our transportation is gatekept. freedom is a thing to be bought, and when you don't have money, the next best thing is your blood. you give it up for a piece of something and you convince yourself that it's enough for you. but it is only a piece, and its apportionment is the result of greed and avarice happening in broad daylight all around us. i fully believe that a genuine war will need to be waged against the car barons before this horrendous now can be toppled, and it will be a war because they are aligned with the cops and with capital. this, too, is a microcosm, and in it we see the nature of our struggle for socialism unburdened by neoliberal word salad.

people have made the world this way. and people will make it something else.

[amphitriteswife]

helloo! I read your dg's onlyfans fix and I scream so loud with happiness 😭😭 your fics is so cool and I start following you🤩

Since I saw the request is open, are you by any chance fine with a fic about x top male reader? If does, can you make a hc for Lee jihoon and Dg (both fluff and smut) about how different they're from the past to future?

🍭 dating Jihoon is difficult, he has a busy life, making sure he keeps his grades up, fighting everyone in sight and doing errands for Charles. If you’re dating him you must understand that he doesn’t have a lot of time, but he tries his best.

🍭 jihoon wouldn’t even have noticed that he had fallen for you at first, he thought it was attraction and not love and never acted upon it as he deemed it to be unnecessary’ yet later found out he had a big fat crush. Such a Jihoon thing

🍭 Jihoon would prefer it if his partner is from a other school, mainly because that way he can avoid other’s getting in his business, and he especially wants to maintain his relationship private. He doesn’t want other’s harassing you from his school.

🍭 If you are from another school, he would often drop by when his classes are over to see you and walk home together, or he’d just make it a date. He doesn’t actually know when it started but he made it a tradition to wait for you, if he doesn’t have anything he needs to do for Charles.

🍭 Jihoon would actually skip a lot during this period, he still maintains his grades ofcourse. But he finds himself skipping school to see you instead. Wether its on your break or if you have free period, he’s always there. It’s a rare occasion for him to decline seeing you.

🍭 jihoon likes to hang out with you but also doing something productive, his ideal dated would be wither chilling and having deep conversations or doing something fun for the both of you. He would like to have romantic dates too, but most of the time he teases instead of being romantic

🍭 He would enjoy library dates too, most of the time the two of you wouldn’t even be studying but still, he just likes spending time with his boyfriend, most of the time he would be flirting with you instead.

🍭 loves kisses, like long sloppy kisses. He’s a romantic but also a curious and experimenting teenager who is still 18, so he might be curious to where and on what you liked to be kissed on.

🍭 Cinema dates, he’s broke so its not that often. But he tries his best, so he considers it something special. Watching a movie with you and just spending time after a whole week of studying and learning always brings him some sense of relief.

🍭 Jihoon is cocky and arrogant, even if you’re a dom, he himself is one too. He’ll challange you for power and will not back down. This jihoon will 100% be a brat, he would probably try to make you submit to him.

🍭 Likes giving more than receiving. He wants to make you feel good, he wants to make sure you won’t get enough of him the moment you’re with him.

🍭 BIG fan of oral. It’s the only time he likes to receive than give. He likes the feeling of your lips around him and the fact that you’re on your knees for him. It boosts his ego.

🍭 LOVES rubbing. He has a thing for rubbing his own member against yours, the friction and feeling makes him go insane. He’s the one riding tho because it gives him more power.

🍭 he would probably come more than the average male, don’t tease him for it though. He’ll get angry. But it’s usually on the face or chest. In return he doesn’t mind it on his body either

🍭 When we’re talking about Jihoon, he likes non traditional sex. So oral, masturbation and daring things would he on his list, this is simply because he hasn’t been intimate with a man before and would probably experiment a lot.

🍭 He is definitely on the kinkier side, he doesn’t have many preferences and usually goed with what his partner wants. Although he may find himself seeing things that will stick in his system.

🍭 the forest down there has been chopped but the stems are still there. His hair down there doesn’t really bothers him, but if you prefer him to be clean shaved he’ll get straight to waxing. If you like hik bushy he wouldn’t complain either

✨ DG in contrast to Jihoon is also busy but always tries to find time for you, he often pushed away his work or manages to do then easily. If you’re a fellow kpop star like him he will do a lot of collaborations with you.

✨ Lavish dates, but it would be closed off and a private one. His fans are crazy so he just wants to make sure you won’t have his stalked fans in your presence. Or that they try to kill you or sum. He’s still traumatized by that one stalker girl and doesn’t want you to be in the same situation

✨ He will take you to concerts. If you don’t like any kpop concerts that’s fine too. He’s DG, he’ll find a way to get any ticket of any artist you want. No matter how expensive. You’ll have front row VIP tickets, maybe you’ll even have a one on one meeting with them.

✨ If he goes on tour you’re going with him. He doesn’t take no for an answer. He’ll call your work up and who are they to refuse DG? So you’ll spent the next 50 days traveling different places and seeing DG perform

✨ very big on hand holding. He doesn’t want to make it obvious because crazy fans so he’ll keep it lowkey. But he’s VERY big on pda. Especially if you initiate it first.

✨ if you also decide to become a idol yourself around the time he became one after changing his identity, be prepared for a lot of collabs and interactions as well as Q&A’s. Maybe you both can have crazy fans together 😔 (he’ll protect you from them)

✨ he won’t reveal that he’s dating you. Ot’s not because he feel embarrassment or doesn’t want to be seen with you, quite the opposite actually. He loves you a lot and isn’t afraid or ashamed to be with you. But he would rather not say anything as it may form a threat to you. He’ll always remind you ofcourse if you feel some way about it

✨ In contrast to Jihoon, DG is actually a switch. Being a kpop idol can be quite hard and exhausting so having someone who can be dominant and who does all the work while he only has to lie down doesn’t sound so bad to him

✨ Has a thing for tops apparently. It’s not like he’s a sub. But he just prefers to have someone who can keep up and step up in certain times. He actually considers it a turn on

✨ kisses a lot during sex. He loves passionate sex the most. One where the both of you are enjoying yourselves mixed with love. Ofcourse there’s a certain account of lust but it’s not the main point unlike Jihoon

✨ in contrast to Jihoon, DG is actually more of a giver. Especially in the oral category. He’s has no problem in giving you a blow job or getting on his knees under the table. It adds to the excitement. After all no one would expect to see THE DG on his knees sucking off his boyfriend.

✨ he’s clean shaved, expected from an idol ofcourse. But he actually doesn’t mind if his boyfriend has body hair, it might also be one of his turns on. It gives him the feeling that is more raw

✨VOCAL. He’s moaning LOUDLY. He frankly doesn’t care if anyone hears him. Besides most ppl would even enjoy hearing him. He idol with a beautiful voice remember? He’ll be whimpering and whining, even crying it feels good enough.

✨ His hair is important. It’s what makes him so recognizable as DG. And what’s also important to him is you. Now what does this indicate? It means you’re the only one who gets to pull his hair or give him a facial that also messes up his hair

That’s all i could think about- sorry if it’s now what you imagined

[moo-oon]

VAGUE OFMD SPOILERS!!! (not truly)

I recently read Margaret Atwood's “Bluebeard’s Egg” and it reminded me of Izzy Hands. Here are quotes that fuel/support my insanity:

(Sally=Izzy | Edward=Ed)

“Stupidity like Ed’s can be a health hazard, for other people.”

“What if he wakes up one day and decides that she isn’t the true bride after all, but the false one?”

“(But does she [Sally/Izzy] want him to see her more clearly, or not? Most likely not. If he did he would notice the incipient wrinkles, the small pouches of flesh that are not quite there yet, the network forming beneath her eyes. It’s better as it is.)”

“Trouble with your heart? Get it removed, she thinks. Then you’ll have no more problems.”

“Technically she’s second-in-command” (I mean come on)

“But she isn’t interested in having an affair with anyone but Ed.”

“Oh, come on, Ed, she could say. But she knows also, most of the time, when to keep her trap shut.”

“But no one will think of the egg. How does it feel, to be the innocent and passive cause of so much misfortune?”

“That’s fine with Ed, who hardly notices what he eats, but the angel is getting tired of being an angel.”

“It’s held together only by Sally, who sits in the middle of it, working on a puzzle. The puzzle is Ed.”

“The stories didn’t say what happened to the women the princes had already married, though Sally wondered about it.”

“Her version of Ed is not something she’s perceived but something that’s been perpetrated on her, by Ed himself, for reasons of his own.”

[puppyeared]

When you backread through a fun conversation you had with someone for hours an angel gets its wings

[brittlebutch]

finally found a place to read With the Light online and i'm thrilled; if you haven't read this manga i do Legitimately recommend it

[macroglossus]

being evaluated for adhd by having one of those full psych evals that last like two hours. scared frightened etc.... last time i took it i lied extensively bc i was 13 and thought they might tell my mommy if i said i had suicidal thoughts. and i still have a habit of lying to therapists bc i'm embarrassed......... AGH idk. what if i take it and they tell me that the reason im Like This is bc im genuinely just weird and shitty and not bc im mentally ill at all. SCARED

[vraska-theunseen]

google how to not be sosososo anxious all the time. its not even like stress that motivates me to get things done it's just like. i make a mistake and misunderstood instructions in class and my teacher is like "you were supposed to figure out precisely where 180 was before taping the draft and punching your marks" when i like an idiot guesstimated it and after a moment of me going "oh..." bc its something i can't fix bc i've already punched in all the holes on the part he's like "i think you'll be okay" and goes back to what he's doing and then for three hours im like he's so annoyed with me i bring things to him too much and ask him too many questions and make the stupidest mistakes every day he hates me. i ask a friend something and they don't respond because they're busy or forget about it or don't see it or any number of other reasons and then a couple weeks later i send them something else and they don't respond for a few hours and its enough time for me to convince myself i said something a while ago that they took offense to without realizing and they're ignoring me and i send another message saying "are you mad at me did i do something can you tell me what i did so we can work it out" and he's like "what?". a friend posts about people treating them badly in a way that's clear they're talking about a specific phenomenon or person and im always like omg are they talking about me did i do something bad and not realize it... and its someone i talk to so infrequently and casually it obviously would not be a concern or someone i've known for so many years that they would obviously come to me if there was any conflict that arose. help

[southern--downpour]

pros of new hyperfixation: dopamine :) 

cons of new hyperfixation: i cannot focus on school work all i want to do is read trigun nothing else is interesting rn

[sludgeguzzler]

man. i changed so much these past years

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[just-rogi]

.

[melonpond]

almost forgot to post this painting here but, ducks!

[astrxealis]

subtle hints of horror crawl up on me ever since new year man

[navree]

am once again negatively polarizing myself against a historical event because people don't know what they're talking about (sorry to the ides of march this time)