"Yes."

"Yes, he's asleep."

"No, but..."

" Okay but..."

"Yes."

"Okay, have a nice evening. Yes, yeah, yes. Goodbye."

I was stirring slightly, not completely awake. My mind was still foggy from sleep, and I was too tired to even begin to reflect where I was or what I was doing there. I groaned and rolled over on my stomach.

Somehow the movement felt very wrong. A few seconds later, I understood why. If I'd tried to make such a manoeuvre in my own bed, I would most likely have fallen over the edge and onto the floor. But I hadn't. And now that I came to think about it, the bed I was laying on was much softer than my own and the blanket was both warmer and lighter than the one I used myself at home. My hands started wandering on both sides of my body, but none of them reached an edge. I slowly opened my eyes and sat up. 

I was in a kingsized bed with soft white cotton blankets, dark wood for it's headboard and a gossamer canopy that was very see-through but still had a sweet feel to it. 

I shook my head to clear it from all remnants of sleep, and began to remember where I was.

Minho had taken me home after the paint incident. And now I was sitting in his bed, just having over-heard a phone call he'd made.

I heard the sound of steps outside the bedroom, and quickly laid down again. I didn't know what to say to him, so it was just simply best to pretend to still be asleep.

I closed my eyes and breathed as slowly as I could. I moved just a little so that it would seem like a normal sleeping position.

The door opened and closed. Too late I realised that I still wasn't wearing any shirt, and that the blanket was down by my waist, my flat stomach exposed. It was to late to fix that now though.

Minho almost made no sound. The only thing telling me that he indeed was in the room were the ever so quiet sounds of his breath.

I felt the bed dip a little to my right.

Why didn't he say anything? Why didn't he try to wake me up, or simply leave now that he saw that I wasn't awake?

Was he looking at me?

I felt a big urge to cover my stomach with my hands so that he wouldn't be able to see the utter lack of muscles, but I fought it. Instead I yawned a little like I knew I did in my sleep and slowly rolled over to the side, facing him but now more covered by the blanket.

I heard a low chuckle.  So he WAS looking at me.

"Min-ah" he said it so quietly that it impossibly could be meant as a wakeup call.

Somehow his barytone voice made me shiver involuntarily, as is someone had run a finger up my spine.

"Taemin."

I felt warmth fill me. I felt so much more cared for when I was with him than I'd ever felt at home. At the house with my family, with the people that were supposed to love me unconditionally. But that hated me because I hadn't turned out the way they'd wanted me to. Because I wasn't straight.
Because I loved a boy.

Love, I wondered, was it the feeling a mother felt when she looked at her newborn child for the first time? Or was it the feeling I that I felt when I looked at Minho? Or both?

And how much can you love someone before it's physically impossible to deny it to yourself anymore?

And what does it feel like to be kissed?

I felt a warmth and softness of a fingertip ghosting over the skin of my jaw, then my cheek, to finally come to rest next to my lower lip.

My insides where exploding into millions of fireworks. Minho. Minho was sitting here right now, right next to me. Minho was sitting here, thinking that I didn't know it. He was sitting here because he wanted to himself, not because he felt pity for me, not because he felt obliged to, but because he wanted to.

"Taemin," he whispered, his finger gently caressing my lower lip. "I know that you don't think that you deserve love. I know that you don't think you're beautiful. And it's such a shame really-" he sighed. "it's such a shame that you can't see yourself with my eyes. For if anyone deserves love, it's you. And you're the most sweet and beautiful person I've ever met."