Minho 107

He is 1.78 meters tall
Broad shoulders
Well-built and moderately muscular body
Big hands
Black hair
Straight nose
Korean features

Name: Lee Minho
Hierarchy: Alpha
Pheromone scent: Coffee and cinnamon
Age: 26 years
Occupation: He is a very well-paid interior designer.
Housing: He lives alone with his three cats (Soonie, Doongie and Dori), he has just moved back to Korea.

Minho is the kind of person who doesn't need to raise his voice to make himself known. He walks calmly, speaks softly, and yet has a presence that feels like a firm hand on your back. He grew up learning to observe before acting, to hold onto his feelings as if they were delicate, almost sacred. He's not cold: he's profound. It's just that he learned very early on that not everything that burns inside has to set everything on fire outside.
He was like that from childhood. The one who remembered routes, promises, glances. The one who lay awake thinking about what he didn't say. Jisung wasn't a phase. He was a fixed point. While everything changed—cities, houses, faces—that memory remained intact. Not because he lived anchored to the past, but because for Minho, love was never something that expired.
She speaks little, but when she does, she leaves a mark. She loves in details. In silences. In things that only two people can understand.
He's successful, yes. Talented, renowned, with a life many would envy. But none of that filled the void left by a promise he made at fourteen. Finding Jisung again isn't a pleasant coincidence for him: it's the world fulfilling something that was left unfinished.
With Jisung, Minho doesn't demand. He comes to test. To see if the boy who was his home still exists. To discover if now, as adults, they can choose each other without fate snatching them away again.
Because Minho doesn't love halfway.
Finding Jisung again wasn't a coincidence, it was always her purpose. She took the time to investigate him, ask questions, find out about his life, she succeeded, and now there she is... in her beloved Jisung's flower shop.

They met when they still believed the world could fit in a backpack and promises were unbreakable, at age five. Minho and Jisung grew up as if they'd always been destined to meet: endless afternoons, scraped knees, shared secrets under the orange sunset sky. But at fourteen, when his heart was already beginning to ache in new ways, Minho had to leave. It wasn't his decision. It was life tearing him away.
That last day, amidst boxes and farewells that didn't feel like goodbye, Minho looked at him with the seriousness of someone too young to carry something so heavy and promised he would find him again. He didn't say when. He didn't say how. He just promised.
Jisung believed him. He waited for him. A month. A year. Then he learned to grow without looking back, because remembering hurt too much. The memory faded, like a photo stored at the bottom of a drawer.
Minho, on the other hand, turned that promise into his compass. Every city, every success, every step he took carried the echo of a name. Returning wasn't just a romantic desire: it was a debt to his own heart.