(42) I’m scared and I don’t want to be alone.

The door slammed shut a little louder than necessary and you didn’t dare look over your shoulder because clearly, you weren’t the only pissed one in this apartment.

Honestly, there was no reason for you to be so mad since you were obviously at fault here. But Minho just had to be the dramatic one, blowing the fight way out of proportion.

So you’d forgotten your lunch date, getting caught up with deadlines and your short-tempered boss constantly barking up your back the past week, which was the last thing you wanted on your list, so it’s totally forgivable, right?

Minho didn’t seem to think so; purposely ignoring your blaring calls until your battery ran out, making you wait outside his studio for an hour, probably just to make sure you had a taste of your own medicine. He refused to spare you a glance, grunting dully to your apologies all the way home and the silence he insisted on was enough to strangle you.

Of course, it was understandable at first. But he was being an immature about it, only ticking you off even more for some reason. Maybe because you were already so exhausted, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders and were close to combusting into a million, tiny, bitter pieces.

“I’m going to shower.” You say it out of habit, and he didn’t follow you in or try to as he usually would.  

And you didn’t want him to anyway, not today.

You didn’t bother turning on the heater, keeping the shower tap on cold since everything felt so hot, and you’re bothered from all the bickering. You took your time in hopes that the water would cool your livid skin so much so you didn’t realize the pads of your fingers wrinkling, having to reapply the shower gel the second time. A generous amount this time since the smell of lemons calmed you down a little.

The cooler air of the bedroom made you wince and you noticed a pillow missing from his side of the bed, the green hoodie and ripped jeans he wore strewn over the seater at the corner of the room. A sigh left you, your heart sinking a bit because you may have buried the hatchet but your boyfriend surely hadn’t.

Poking your head out the door slightly, you saw his bare feet dangling off the armrest of the couch, having made himself comfortable to sleep on the furniture for the rest of the night by the looks of it. At this point, you might as well talk to a wall and you were just too worn out to hold up another petty argument so you left him to it.

It wasn’t a good feeling, going to bed mad at each other. You know that he wasn’t sleeping either, probably staring off to the ceiling while twiddling his thumbs with his pride hanging on a damn thread. The sound of thunder rumbled in a distance, lightning flashing through the blinds and your eyes darted to the closed door, expecting him to barge in because Minho doesn’t take storms very well.

And he did. Longer than you expected, but when the bed dipped at his weight, your heart stuttered from something other than the rolling storm. You blink to the bed side lamp on your side, your back facing him as you counted down the seconds until you feel his arm sneaking around your waist, his chin nestled by your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” You asked quietly, a smile creeping on your lips.

“I’m scared…” He whispered, breath tickling your skin, “And I don’t want to be alone.”

His fingers curled in between yours, tugging gently and you turn around to face him. Even in the dark, you could see the apology in his softer gaze.

“I’m sorry.” You said once more, reaching out to brush his hair off his eyes. He blinked slowly, just as tired as you were.

“I’m sorry too.” Minho sighed, making you smile sheepishly seeing him close his eyes, at ease when you slide your hands over his shoulder, thumb brushing the dip of his collarbone.

“Don’t ever go to bed angry at me, ever.” He chuckled deeply at your response, running his finger over your lip as you sulked lightly, reading his mind— stop with the pouting, or I’ll kiss you.

And he did.

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