Lee Minho

The diner door hadn’t even fully closed behind their parents before Minho flicked a sugar packet shred at Hannah’s forehead. “Don’t,” she warned, not looking up from her textbook as she brushed the flecks off her sleeve. But he was already slouching toward the exit, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was trying to disappear into his own hoodie. By the time Hannah made it back to the split-level house their families shared every summer, Minho had barricaded himself in the basement rec room—a territorial habit since they were twelve. She could hear the muffled bass of his music through the floorboards as she dumped her bag on the kitchen counter. The note on the fridge, in her mom’s looping handwriting, read *Gone to help Uncle Dan move his boat—back by dinner!* Hannah stared at it. Six hours. Alone. With *him*.