When it's YOU || minsung

Minho's hand hovered at the doorframe.

He hadn't seen Jisung all day—not even a glimpse.

It wasn't unusual for the omega to stay curled up during the height of his heat, but the silence had begun to press in like a weight. Gnawing. Wrong.

Even Chan had noticed.

The pack leader had been pacing in and out of rooms all morning—checking supplies, frowning at his phone, rifling through drawers in search of anything that might soothe a suffering omega. He'd stopped in the hallway more than once, staring at Jisung's closed door, jaw tight with unspoken worry. Once, he even crouched near the bottom of the doorframe, listening. Then he stood, whispered something sharp to himself, and disappeared down the hall again.

"Painkillers aren't working," Chan muttered at one point, mostly to himself, but loud enough for Minho to hear.

That was when it started to get unbearable.

Hyunjin asked if Jisung had eaten.
Felix lingered in the corridor, chewing his lip.
Even Seungmin looked up from his book, brow furrowed.

But Minho—Minho felt it.

Not just worry. Not just instinct. It was deeper. Like a tether pulled tight inside his chest, fraying with every hour Jisung remained unseen. The need to do something scraped against his ribs like it had claws.

Chan had passed him again in the hallway, muttering about calling the clinic—though they all knew Jisung would never go. The thought of strangers touching him during heat, even for treatment, was unbearable. He was too vulnerable. Too exposed. And they all respected that boundary.

Still, Chan looked ready to break it, just for the sake of relief.

He turned to Minho suddenly, voice low and tight. "He keeps crying out when he thinks no one hears. Did you know that?"

Minho hadn't. But now the sound lived in his head, imagined and awful.

Chan sighed. "He wants comfort, but he's afraid to ask for it. Afraid of needing too much."

Then Chan's eyes flicked toward Jisung's door again. "He needs you."

That settled it.

So Minho cooked.
Because cooking was giving. Because movement was safer than feeling.

The scent of broth filled the kitchen—calming, grounding. He poured water with trembling hands, balanced the tray carefully, and walked with silent purpose down the hall.

Each step felt longer than the last.

The dim light spilled over the floor like dusk, and the stillness of the house seemed to hold its breath.

He passed the mirror and caught a glimpse of himself—strained eyes, lips drawn, shoulders stiff like he was bracing for something. Something inevitable.

The tray wobbled. He tightened his grip.

Steam rose in delicate curls from the soup, asking a question he wasn't sure he wanted to answer.

He paused at the door. That door. Thin now. Too thin. A boundary between the life he had and the one waiting just beyond.

He knocked once.

Silence.

Then—soft, cracked, barely audible:

"Minho-hyungie...?"

The sound struck like lightning down his spine.

He pushed the door open.

Heat hit him like a wall. Heavy. Sweet. Saturated in Jisung.