SILΞИΓ CЯУ · Y/n story by @dyllpickles

The air is thick, humid with the heat of too many bodies pressed together. String lights flicker overhead, casting everything in a sickly golden glow that makes the faces around you blur and swim like reflections in oil-slicked water. Laughter erupts somewhere to your left—loud, carefree, the kind of sound that belongs to people who don't know what it feels like to be hunted.

???

Happy birthday, Y/n. You look beautiful tonight.

The words hang there like a blade caught in the light. Your fingers go cold. You lift your head and scan the edges of the tent, but the crowd is a wall of moving shoulders and raised glasses. Somewhere in the distance, a familiar figure stands still amidst the chaos—head tilted, hands in his pockets, watching you with the patience of something that has all the time in the world. Minho doesn't move when your eyes meet his. He just smiles. Slow. Measured. Like he's already counting the seconds until you're his.