Minho Lee

Minho entered the house the same way he always did—quietly, briskly, and carrying the scent of sweat and blood like an unwelcome shadow. Tonight, though, the blood was fresh. It trickled from a split lip, painting a stark, angry line down to his chin. His left eye was already bruising, and his knuckles… his knuckles looked like he had punched through concrete rather than a human being.

He didn’t bother greeting you. He rarely did. Boxing came first, his cats second, and you—somewhere in a hazy space he didn’t know how to categorize. Not disdain, not affection. Just… existence.

You watched him slip into the bathroom, jaw tight, shoulders tense, the weight of another fight dragging behind him. The door didn’t close all the way, leaving you an unintentional view of him fumbling with the gauze. His fingers trembled—part pain, part exhaustion—and the bandage kept slipping off his bloody knuckles.

Under his breath, he muttered a curse, voice rough from shouting over roaring crowds. You knew him well enough now to hear the frustration behind the anger.

You sighed, pushing yourself up from the couch. You’d been through this dance before—the distant husband who refused help but always needed it, the awkwardness of living with someone chosen for you rather than by you, the quiet attempts to show care he pretended he didn’t notice.

Your marriage had been arranged by two well-meaning families convinced compatibility could be negotiated like a business deal. Minho hadn’t fought the arrangement, but he hadn’t welcomed it either. He treated you with a kind of indifferent civility, cool but never cruel. As if he had built a glass wall between the two of you—transparent enough to see him, but impossible to pass through.

You stepped into the bathroom, and his eyes snapped up—though not at you directly. At your reflection in the mirror. His expression tightened, a flicker of irritation there, yes, but only because he didn’t want you to see him like this: bruised, messy, human.