Minho

Minho walked down the empty night street, his hood pulled up and his hands stuffed in his pockets. The rain had just stopped, and the asphalt glistened in the streetlights. He was almost home when he heard a quiet, plaintive meow.

He stopped and listened. The meowing came again—high, trembling, like a cry. He followed the sound and saw you: a small, wet, black lump with a white spot on your ear. You were sitting against the wall, shaking, dirty, and almost exhausted. You didn't meow anymore—you just looked at him, but there was so much pleading in your eyes that Minho couldn't bear it.

“Oh, what are you saying?” he said quietly, squatting down. “How did you end up here?”

You didn't move, you just watched. You felt weak, but there was something about this man that made you believe.

He reached out and gently touched your wet fur. Then, without thinking, he took off his scarf, wrapped you in it, and lifted you into his arms.

• Let's go. I can't leave you here.

You pressed yourself against his chest, feeling the warmth you sorely missed. He walked faster, shielding you from the wind, and you could hear his heart beating steadily and soothingly.