Because I’m not the girl your mother warned you about,” you whispered one night, hands pressed under your cheeks as you roll to his side of the bed and even in the dark he couldn’t miss your bright eyes.

The moment he met you, he knew that this wasn’t just another fling. Hell, he never wanted it to be more. His past experiences have left him bitter and cold, never thinking that he could ever settle down, not until he was forty at least.

Minho seemed to attract those that captured his life by a storm. The ones that planted broken hearts like flowers yet walked through a parade of infatuated men, blinded by destructive beauty. He always thought that it was the sensation of heated skin and frenzied lips that he craved most, the physical touch of another human being but never of their feelings.

They were always the one who got away, the one who never looked back, leaving their name sour on his tongue.

But –, not you.

All this time he had his sights set on a wildcard, thinking that this was the easier way in, and out. Girls that looked for the same thing; only leaving behind cold, empty bed sheets and lipstick stains in place of a name.

And as clichéd as it sounds, he finally understood why it never worked out.  

“I won’t break your heart,” you whispered once more, fingers lingering over his bare skin and for the first time in a long time, he was listening.

“I will love you more than anything.”

He was never the type to say it. It always seemed awkward and out of place, not something expected of him.

When it comes to you, he was always learning. Minho was used to all the attention, but yours was different. They were genuine, sincere –something that didn’t ask for anything in return. He began picking up your habits unknowingly, and little did he know, this was his way of saying it.

“It’s two sugars, right?” Minho shouts from the kitchen, dropping in the sugar cubes anyway because he knew. He wondered why he even asked, not like you could answer him in the state you were in.

The warm cup of tea sloshed over the edges as he sprinted into the bedroom, settling it carefully before the entire thing spills out on the bedside table. The blanket draped over your curled frame and the bed dips at his weight as he crawls up to you. His hand sneaks in under the blanket, fingers flicking the thin material of your nightdress and he sighs quietly when he meets your skin, clammy from cold sweat.

Minho rubs his palm on your back in continuous figures of eight, something that distracts you from the painful cramps. He does this for however long it takes, usually falling asleep with you, waking up with his hand still resting on your finally warm skin.  

“I’ll see you later?” You’d startle him when he buckles his belt, pulling down his shirt as he dresses for the morning. A smile etched his lips when he sees your bedhead peeking out the blanket, eyes still drowned with sleep. And relief warms him knowing that you’ve recovered.

He stalks his way to you, leaning down to place a flutter of kisses on your tired lids, the sound of your groggy laughter was enough to get him his morning fix.

Minho hums, admiring how raw the moment was, “Hm, I’ll see you later.”

//