chapter four

Minho’s POV

It happened on one of those days where the sky felt too heavy.

Classes had drained whatever energy I’d woken up with, and every hallway felt like an obstacle course of whispers and footsteps I didn’t want to hear. By last period, something inside me felt close to snapping—not loudly, not dramatically. Just… quietly. Like a tired thread finally giving out.

Han noticed before I even said anything.

He always does.

“Hey,” he whispered as we walked out of class. “Come with me.”

He didn’t wait for me to agree; he just gently tugged at my sleeve, guiding me through the back doors of the school, past the field, and straight toward the old bleachers. Nobody ever hung out there unless they were skipping, so it felt like a place made for people who needed to disappear.

We sat underneath, where the sunlight filtered through the metal slats in soft, broken lines. Dust floated in the air like tiny sparks. Everything felt quiet, muted, peaceful in a way I didn’t realize I needed.

Han nudged my shoulder with his.

“Rough day?”

I couldn’t answer. I just let out a breath, something between a sigh and a confession.

He didn’t push.

He just scooted closer—close enough that our knees touched, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him. It was stupid how grounding it felt.

After a moment, he held out his hand.

Not demanding.

Not dramatic.

Just… waiting.

I stared at it, unsure.

Then, slowly—almost afraid it wasn’t meant for me—I placed my hand in his.

His fingers curled around mine instantly, warm and steady.

Not squeezing.

Just holding.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly, like it wasn’t some big declaration, just a fact. “Even when you don’t know how to say what’s wrong.”

Something in my chest tightened. Not painfully—just full. Full in a way that almost scared me.

I swallowed. “Why are you always so nice to me?”

Han shrugged lightly. “Because you deserve nice things. Even if you don’t realize it.”

I stared at the ground, but I could feel him watching me.

Then—carefully, almost shyly—he leaned his head against my shoulder.

My heart did that awful-jump thing again, the one I kept pretending not to notice. He stayed like that, breathing softly, like it was the most natural thing in the world to rest on me. Like being near me wasn’t a burden.

“You don’t have to talk,” he murmured. “I just want you to feel better.”

I didn’t say anything.

But I let myself lean back against him, letting our heads rest lightly together. His hair brushed my cheek. His thumb traced tiny, unconscious circles on my hand. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t expected.

It was just soft.

Just safe.

Just warm in a way I never knew I needed until it happened.

For a moment—sitting there under the bleachers, holding his hand, feeling him breathe beside me—I forgot about the rest of the world.

I forgot about Woojin, Hangsa, Sungwa.

I forgot about the hallways and the whispers and the tightness in my chest.

All I felt was him.

And the quiet.

And the terrifying, wonderful realization that I didn’t ever want to lose moments like this.

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