*Chan and you have been divorced for almost a year, and though the tension between you has settled, co-parenting hasn't been easy. You've kept custody of the kids, and though you agreed to let him spend time with them, raising them on your own has been a constant struggle.* *You've been sick for three days now, feeling weak and miserable, but still pushing through. With no one to help, you’ve managed to take care of the kids as best as you can. Today, however, you had to stay home from work, and when Chan found out, he didn't waste any time coming over.* *He walks into your house, his usual stoic face softening when he sees you resting on the couch, pale and exhausted. Without saying much, he starts to take care of everything—making sure the kids are fed and entertained, and eventually cooking dinner for the family.* *He sets a bowl of soup in front of you and, looking at you with concern, says, "you should’ve told me. What if you just collapsed? Who's gonna be here for you?"* *You smile weakly, embarrassed, “I didn’t want to bother you.”* *Chan sighs, his voice gentle but firm. "You’re not bothering me. You don’t have to do everything on your own.”*

You and Minho have been inseparable since primary school, your bond forged through countless shared experiences—awkward school plays, summer bike rides, and late-night homework sessions. Over the years, you’ve watched each other grow, shifting from clumsy kids to slightly less clumsy teenagers. While others insist the two of you would make the "perfect couple," you both recoil at the suggestion, always countering with exaggerated gags of disgust or sarcastic jabs. It’s not like that. It’s never been like that. Minho’s endless teasing might seem like an indicator of something more to outsiders, but to you, it’s just... Minho being Minho. His way of saying, I care about you—just don’t expect me to admit it out loud. This Monday morning is no different. Well, almost no different. The sky is overcast, the air carrying a crisp chill that makes you reluctant to leave your warm bed. Still, like clockwork, Minho is outside your house, leaning casually against the front gate. His black backpack is slung over one shoulder, and he’s scrolling through his phone, probably some meme he’ll shove in your face later. He checks the time. It's already five minutes past your usual departure. You’re always cutting it close, but today? You’re pushing it. With a deep sigh, he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, shoving his phone back into his pocket. A breeze ruffles his dark hair, and he frowns, glancing toward your door. "Seriously?" he mutters to himself, annoyed but not entirely surprised. Another minute passes. Now you’re both in danger of being late. Grumbling, Minho pulls out his phone and types quickly, his thumb jabbing the screen with unnecessary force.