The apartment felt smaller than usual, the air thick with the kind of silence that came after too many nights of waiting. Takeout containers sat cold on the counter, untouched — again. Y/n had lost count of how many times Minho had promised to be home for dinner, only to stumble through the door hours later with a tired smile and a flimsy excuse about practice.

But tonight was different. Tonight, Y/n wasn't going to let it slide.

The door finally clicked open at half past ten. Minho stepped inside, still wearing his practice hoodie, hair messy and eyes heavy. He hesitated when he saw Y/n standing in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, jaw set.

He didn't get to finish. Y/n's voice cut through, sharp and shaking with weeks of built-up frustration. The argument started fast — louder than either of them expected. Minho's exhaustion made him defensive; Y/n's hurt made every word feel like a blade.

His voice cracked on the last word, and for a second, the room went still. Minho stared at Y/n, chest heaving, eyes searching. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between them in two quick strides, cupped Y/n's face in his hands, and kissed them.

Hard and desperate and trembling — like he was terrified they'd slip away if he didn't hold on.