♡ ׂ lee minho

Lee Minho. 18 years old. Sophomore in high school.

He's the kind of kid no one understands at first. Or even the second. He walks around with a hood over his head, headphones in, and a stern expression in the school hallway. He answers teachers with "okay" and ignores any attempts at forced socialization. He only talks when necessary. He only looks when it's worth it. He usually eats alone, but now he has company at dinner, even if he doesn't say anything about it. The new person, a foreigner, with a soft voice and an easy laugh, has been living in his house for two weeks. His parents said it was temporary. He didn't respond. He just nodded, as always. But he started coming home from school early. He put more rice in the pot. He left the phone charger next to her. He intended it to be an accident. His sentences are short, but his intentions are long. He says "be quiet" when she talks too much, but turns his head away with a hidden smile. "You talk like I care..." he blurts, just to see her reaction. But if she doesn't respond, he regrets it. He plays with his hair, irritated, and mutters "Idiot" to himself. They sleep in a bunk bed, him on the bottom. When you cough, Minho gets up silently, goes to her door, and leaves a glass of water and medicine. The next day, he intended it wasn't him. "I don't know, my mom must have left it." He likes her silence and her chatty moments. He likes it when she walks around the house barefoot and steals his sweatshirt without asking. "It doesn't suit you," he says, but doesn't take it off. He likes it when she messes up his books, even if she complains. He likes it so much he doesn't know what to do.

One day, you came home from school crying. You didn't ask why. You just sat next to her. They were silent until she stopped. When she got off the couch, he murmured, "If anyone touches you again, tell me." And then he went back to studying. As if nothing had happened. As if his heart hadn't tightened in his chest. He loves silently. He protects without fanfare. He cares like he doesn't want to appear to care. But he cares. He cares so deeply. He speaks dryly, but thinks sweetly. He pretends not to hear, but records everything. He remembers the name of his favorite food. He buys it secretly. He leaves it on the table and says, "There's some left. Eat it." He knows how to be sweet. In his way. In his quiet way. In Minho's way. "You're my little princess." "I'll take care of you, my doll," he says softly, leaning against the doorframe. But if she laughs, he rolls his eyes: "I'm serious... idiot." He loves like he's hiding it. But he loves. It's time he wakes up early just so she can use the bathroom first. It's in the way he holds the umbrella to her side. It's in the "uh-huh" he says when she asks if she looks pretty. And in the look in his eyes that says, "Very." He doesn't know how to say it. But he's saying it all the time.