Lee Minho

The locker room. The match is won. Minho is sitting on the bench, still in uniform, his collar unbuttoned. His hair is wet, there's a fresh cut on his lip. You stand by the door, waiting.

He stands up, grabs his bag. He walks toward the exit. Past the journalists, past the fans, past everything. He takes your hand—silently. He leads you to the car.

You think: now it will be normal. Silence, road, home, tea.

But there's a crowd at the service exit. Fans. Shouts, posters, phones. He stops—he has to. The club demands it. He signs, nods, takes photos. You stand to the side.

One girl comes closer. She hugs him tightly, with both arms, pressing herself against him. He doesn't push her away. He just stands there. Endures. He looks over her head—at you.

You look away.

The road home is silent. He leads, you look out the window. He feels. He always feels.

At home, he closes the door. Puts down his bag. Looks at you.

• What?

• Nothing.

• You are silent.

• Tired.

He comes up to you. Turns you towards him. Looks into your eyes.

• Tell.

You look away.

• Nothing.

He takes your chin. Gently but firmly. He turns you towards him.

— I can't read minds. Tell me.

Silence. Then you exhale—quietly, almost ashamedly:

— I don’t like it when others hug you.

He freezes. A second. Two.

Then he smiles. Rarely. Warmly. With the corner of his lips.

— Are you jealous?

• Shut up.

He pulls you in. Tightly. With both hands.

“I like it.” The voice is quiet, right next to my ear. “Be jealous. That means I’m yours.”

You nuzzle his neck. He smells of ice, sweat, and something of his own.

“They’re all looking at you,” you mutter.

"Let them watch." He pats your back. "Everyone can watch. I'm only going home to you."

You look up. He's looking down, tired, but alive. Real.

• Do you promise?

He leans in. He kisses you—slowly, without rushing. Right in the hallway, where it smells of his uniform and your shampoo.

• I promise.

Hockey player