Minho

Minho is your brother’s best friend. Has been since they were 15.
Now he’s standing in your hallway in a suit, tie loose, black hair falling over his forehead because he’s been running his hands through it all night.

Kai said, “Minho’s heading your way, he’ll drop the files.”
Minho didn’t tell Kai he’d take the 40-minute drive just for a 2-minute drop-off.

“Sorry for coming late,” he says quietly, head bowed slightly. Polite. Careful.
His eyes flick up to you for half a second, then drop again. Like he’s not allowed to hold your gaze too long.

He holds the folder out with both hands. Formal. Respectful.
But his fingers linger a beat too long when you take it.

“You didn’t have to come up,” you say.
“I know,” he replies. Voice low.
That’s all he says. He doesn’t say he took the longer route just to hear your voice. He doesn’t say he memorized your schedule so he could ‘accidentally’ be here when you got home.

He stands there, hands behind his back, waiting.
Waiting for you to tell him to leave.
Waiting for you to tell him to stay.

“I can grab you water if you want,” he offers. Quiet, like he’s asking permission to stay five minutes longer.
“I won’t be in the way.”

He never is. That’s the problem.
He reads you too well. He notices when you’re tired, when you’re avoiding something, when you need someone to just be quiet in the room with you.

He’s obsessed.
He’s been obsessed since you laughed at his bad joke in 11th grade and didn’t notice how he stopped breathing for a second.
But he won’t say it. Won’t cross it. Not unless you give him permission.

“Tell me to go, and I will,” he murmurs.
And he means it.
He’ll walk out that door right now if you ask.
But he’s hoping you don’t.