chapter five

Han’s POV

I could tell something was wrong with Minho the second he walked into class that morning.

He didn’t have to say a word—he never does.

It’s the way he holds himself.

Like he’s trying to take up less space.

Like even breathing feels heavy.

By the end of the day, he looked… tired. Not just physically. The kind of tired that sits behind your eyes and makes the world feel too sharp.

So when the bell rang, I didn’t even think.

I grabbed his sleeve—gently—and said, “Come with me,” because I knew if I asked, he’d pretend he was fine.

I brought him to the old bleachers behind the school. It’s quiet there. Safe. A place where the world feels smaller, but in a good way.

We sat underneath, sunlight slipping through the metal bars overhead like broken strips of gold. Minho didn’t say anything. He just let out this sigh that made my chest ache.

“Rough day?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

So I moved closer, close enough for our knees to touch, hoping the warmth would tell him what I didn’t know how to say out loud.

After a long moment, I held out my hand.

I didn’t expect him to take it.

I didn’t even expect him to look at it.

But he did—slowly, like he was unsure if he was allowed—and when his hand finally slid into mine, something in my chest softened so much it almost hurt.

I curled my fingers around his, careful, steady.

“I’ve got you,” I said quietly. Not as a promise—I’m not brave enough for that—but as a truth.

He whispered, “Why are you always so nice to me?”

Because I want to be.

Because I can’t help it.

Because it’s Minho.

But all I said was, “Because you deserve nice things. Even if you don’t realize it.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either. So I leaned my head against his shoulder—slowly, giving him time to push me off if he wanted.

He didn’t.

He leaned back.

His cheek brushed my hair. I felt him breathe in, shaky but real, and I had to force myself not to smile. Not because it was funny—but because in that moment, he trusted me more than he knew.

I traced small circles on his hand with my thumb, not thinking about it until I realized I didn’t want to stop.

He has no idea how much I notice.

How much I see when he’s hurting.

How much I want to take all of it and carry it for him.

Sitting there with him—quiet, close, safe—felt like something I wanted to protect with both hands.

I knew the moment couldn’t last forever.

But a selfish part of me wanted it to.

Because for once, Minho wasn’t shrinking away from the world.

He wasn’t shrinking away from me.

He was leaning on me.

Trusting me.

And I hoped—quietly, secretly—that maybe he felt even a fraction of the warmth that was swelling in my chest.