Minsung

You are Jisung.
The cold walls of the visiting room had felt like your own personal hell for the past two years. Every time you passed through the metal detectors, your heart slammed against your ribs, reminding you of the evening that ruined your lives but saved yours. That man whose name you'd forced yourself to forget stalked you for months, turning your every move into paranoia, until Minho put an end to it. He didn't hesitate—he simply protected what he loved, and the price of that protection was now measured in years behind bars and barbed wire.

You looked at his hands through the glass and saw the same knuckles that had once warmed yours. Minho looked paler than the last time you'd seen him, and there were shadows under his eyes that no amount of sleep could wash away. But his gaze remained the same: sharp, piercing, and painfully tender as he looked at you. You pressed your palm to the transparent partition, feeling your insides clench with injustice and endless gratitude. He was sitting here because of you, and yet there wasn't a shred of regret in his eyes.

Minho slowly raised his hand, placing it on the glass directly opposite yours, as if trying to feel your warmth. He smiled faintly.

"Honey, you're crying again," his voice, distorted by the speaker, still sounded like the best music to you. "I told you not to waste your tears on this place."