Chapter Text
Seungmin had known it was a bad idea.
Not in a vague, hindsight-is-twenty-twenty kind of way. He had known it in real time — sometime around Felix’s fifth dramatic loss during freshman orientation — when he’d felt the first wave of warmth creep up his neck and realized he was drinking far more than he ever had in his extremely responsible, carefully structured life.
Felix, unfortunately, had the competitive instincts of a golden retriever and the alcohol tolerance of a teaspoon. Which meant Seungmin, as the self-appointed voice of reason and loyalty, had volunteered to be the “black knight” for him.
At the time, it had felt noble.
Now, sitting beneath fluorescent lights that were just a little too bright and just a little too loud, Seungmin was reconsidering all of his life choices.
The reason for his current situation was not, as one might assume, a drunk fight. He is not built for physical confrontation. He preferred structured debates with citations.
Nor was it drunk driving. He had taken public transport. He had standards.
No, Kim Seungmin had been brought into the local police station for a noise complaint.
Apparently, arguing with a street cat at one in the morning qualified as being a public nuisance.
In his defense, the cat had been perched precariously on top of a concrete pole near campus, its tail flicking with the kind of reckless confidence that suggested it believed in its own immortality. Seungmin had simply been attempting to reason with it.
A random street cat with no owner to call, which somehow made Seungmin feel even more responsible.
“You’re one slip away from losing one of your nine lives,” he had informed it, perhaps a little too loudly.
The responding officer had kindly explained that cats, unlike dogs, generally did not fall off things.
Seungmin still wasn’t entirely convinced that this wasn’t overconfidence on humanity’s part.
Across from him now sat an officer who looked profoundly tired, as if this had not been the strangest part of his shift.
“Mr. Kim,” the officer said, in the tone reserved for promising students who had made deeply disappointing choices, “this will not go on your record. You haven’t harmed anyone, and you are not a repeat offender. However, you are too intoxicated to leave alone. You may call a guardian to pick you up.”
Guardian.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
It had taken months, actual months, of carefully drafted arguments, chore charts, budget spreadsheets, and persistent assurances for Seungmin to convince his parents to let him live independently near campus. He had presented it like a business proposal. He had cited growth opportunities.
Calling them now would not just be humiliating.
It would be catastrophic.
He mentally cycled through his options.
Felix was unusable. The rest of the orientation group had been drinking. His hometown friends lived hours away.
“Mr. Kim,” the officer prompted gently. “Your emergency contact.”
Seungmin’s brain, operating at approximately twenty percent capacity, made a decision.
“My girlfriend,” he said.
There was a pause.
The officer glanced up. “Your girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
There was just one small, insignificant detail.
He did not have one.
Trying not to let that show on his face, Seungmin pulled out his phone and scrolled through his recent calls. At the very top was an unfamiliar number, one he had dialled earlier that afternoon—hours before the pole incident, back when he’d actually done something useful.
Soonie. The wanted orange-and-white tabby.
Earlier that afternoon, Seungmin had been cutting across campus when he noticed a crowd gathered around the main notice board. Flyers overlapped one another in colorful desperation — tutoring ads, club recruitment, roommate searches — but one in particular stood out. Not because it was neon or messy like the others, but because it looked… intentional. Almost cinematic.
Across the top, in bold western-style lettering:
WANTED
Underneath it, in slightly smaller print:
FOR ASSAULT, PROPERTY DAMAGE, AND EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION
There was a sepia-toned photo of an orange-and-white cat staring into the camera with the kind of audacity that suggested he would absolutely do it again. One paw was mid-lift, frozen in what could only be described as suspicious behaviour.
Below the photo:
REWARD: MY DIGNITY (TAKEN HOSTAGE) AND POSSIBLY COFFEE
And then, in smaller but equally intense text:
KNOWN TO ATTACK WHEN INFORMED OWNER IS LEAVING FOR WORK.
HAS BITTEN WITHOUT REMORSE.
Seungmin had blinked at that line.
There was something deeply specific about it.
At the bottom:
Name: Soonie
Responds to: treats, praise, and possessiveness
If found, call immediately. He will pretend to be annoyed but is not.
That last line had made Seungmin pause.
Seungmin had huffed a quiet laugh despite himself.
The cat in the photo looked entirely unbothered by his criminal status.
And when Seungmin later found that exact orange-and-white menace perched confidently on the campus wall, tail flicking like he was surveying his kingdom, he hadn’t needed to double-check the poster.
“You,” he’d muttered, hands on his hips. “You are absolutely the suspect.”
Soonie had blinked at him slowly, as if to say, yes, and?
He remembered the call being slightly chaotic.
“Hello, Min—” a girl’s voice had begun, “Who’s this—” the signal cutting in and out.
“I’m calling about the lost cat,” Seungmin had said quickly.
A sharp inhale on the other end. “You found him?”
“Yes. Orange tabby. Slightly arrogant posture.”
There had been muffled talking, someone in the background saying something that sounded like “Minh—ye—I can-,” and then static.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
“Yeah. I can pick him up. Café near the arts department?”
They had met there. A tall senior girl from the dance crew had arrived, breathless and grateful, thanking him repeatedly and insisting on buying him coffee for his trouble.
In retrospect, he realized he had never actually asked her name.
But he did know the cat’s.
And at this point, that felt close enough.
“It’s Soonie,” Seungmin said, with more confidence than he felt.
The officer stared at him.
“That’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Yes.”
There was a very long pause before the officer dialled the number.
Seungmin prayed fervently for voicemail.
The call was picked up on the third ring.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end was deeper than he remembered.
The officer cleared his throat. “Hello, Soonie-shi. Your boyfriend, Mr. Kim, is currently at the local police station. It is not a serious matter, he is simply too intoxicated to return home alone. We require someone to pick him up.”
Seungmin felt his entire body go still.
There was a beat of silence on the other end.
Then, very calmly, “My what?”
The officer blinked. “Your boyfriend. Mr. Kim Seungmin.”
The pause lasted longer this time, followed by what sounded like a low, incredulous laugh. Muffled voices in the background. Someone asking something. The caller responded with a short, sharp, “Give me a second.”
The officer shifted in his seat.
Finally, the voice returned, steadier now. He said something to the police officer which Seungmin didn’t quite catch, and the exchange ended with,
“Send me the address.”
The line went dead.
The officer stared at his phone for a moment, then set it down slowly, looking at Seungmin in a way that suggested he had consciously decided not to unpack whatever that conversation had just been.
“Mr. Kim,” he said gravely, “your boyfriend is on his way. Please take a seat over there and wait.”
Seungmin blinked at him.
His boyfriend.
On his way.
He was fairly certain he had just made a catastrophic error in judgment.
Minho had been in the middle of movie night when his phone started ringing.
He was sprawled across the living room floor with the others, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily as he reached into a bowl of popcorn without looking. Hyunjin had been passionately arguing about why the main character was making poor life choices, Chan attempting to defend the script with mild exhaustion, and Minho had just shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth when his phone began vibrating against the table.
Unknown number.
He wouldn’t normally answer.
But something about the late hour made him glance at the screen again, eyebrows drawing together slightly. He swallowed too fast in his distraction and had to cough once before picking it up.
“Hello?”
A throat cleared on the other end — official, restrained.
“Hello, Soonie-shi. Your boyfriend, Mr. Kim, is currently at the local police station. It is not a serious matter, he is simply too intoxicated to return home alone. We require someone to pick him up.”
Minho didn’t react immediately.
He blinked once.
Then again.
And then a third time, slower, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something that made sense.
“…My what?”
There was a faint rustle of paper. “Your boyfriend. Mr. Kim Seungmin.”
Minho lowered the phone from his ear, turning his head slowly toward his friends.
They were already staring at him.
Hyunjin had paused mid-chew. Chan’s hand was still resting on the remote, forgotten.
For a second, Minho just looked at them. Then he looked at Soonie, who was peacefully grooming himself, entirely detached from the legal implications of his romantic life.
Something in his expression shifted, not shock exactly, but dawning amusement.
A boyfriend.
And Soonie.
The connection formed quietly in the back of his mind, and he felt a laugh slip out before he could stop it.
“Hyung,” Hyunjin said cautiously, eyes narrowing, “why are you laughing? Who is it?”
Chan leaned forward, concern overtaking curiosity. “Is everything okay?”
Minho started to lift the phone back to his ear, still staring at the two of them as if this were suddenly the most entertaining development of his week.
"Give me a second." He said over the call.
Then looked at his friends, grinning.
“Soonie’s boyfriend, Kim Seungmin,” he said lightly. “Apparently, he’s waiting to be picked up. From a police station.”
There was a full second of silence.
Then—
“SOONIE’S WHAT?” Hyunjin nearly toppled off the couch.
Chan looked between them. “I’m sorry. I missed a chapter somewhere.”
Minho ignored both of them and focused back on the call.
“Yes,” he said, voice smooth now, the amusement settling into something sharper. “Please tell him to wait. I’ll be there shortly to pick him up.”
A pause.
“And let him know,” Minho continued, unable to resist, “that his boyfriend may take a little while. He’s currently grooming himself.”
Hyunjin choked.
Minho could practically hear the officer reconsidering his career choices.
“Also,” he added, calm and efficient, “send me the address.”
When he ended the call, the room felt very quiet.
Hyunjin was staring at him like he’d just announced he was secretly married.
Chan spoke first. “Minho. Explain.”
Minho stood, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his shirt, far too composed for someone who had just learned that his cat apparently had a boyfriend in police custody.
“I’m going to pick up Soonie’s boyfriend,” he said simply. “I’d like to meet him.”
“You’re plotting,” Hyunjin accused.
Minho glanced at him, offended in the most unconvincing way possible. “I am not.”
“You are.”
Minho didn’t dignify that with a response, which, frankly, confirmed everything.
Chan rose as well. “Do you want company?”
“No, it’s fine. It’s the station near campus. I’ll go and come back.”
He was halfway to the door when he stopped abruptly, glancing back toward the couch.
“Right,” he muttered.
He crossed the room and bent down, scooping Soonie up from where the cat had been grooming through the entire scandal. Soonie stretched languidly before settling against Minho’s chest, purring like none of this concerned him in the slightest.
Minho adjusted his hold, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
“Well,” he murmured to the cat, tone almost conversational, “let’s go pick up your drunk boyfriend.”
Soonie only burrowed closer, utterly content.
By the time Minho reached the station, he had already failed, multiple times, to wipe the smile off his face.
He had tried very hard to be normal about this.
He had not succeeded.
The group chat had been exploding the entire drive over.
Changbin: I miss ONE movie night and suddenly someone is married?
Changbin: I’m on my way to Chan’s place right now. This is unacceptable.
Hyunjin: There’s a wedding ceremony. You need to dress accordingly.
Minho had muted the chat before he rear-ended someone from laughing.
He pulled into the parking lot, cut the engine, and sat there for a second, staring at the entrance to the police station as if preparing himself mentally.
Then he turned toward the passenger seat.
Soonie was sitting inside his carrier, grooming himself with the utmost dedication, completely detached from the fact that he apparently had a boyfriend in custody.
Minho opened the carrier door.
“Come on.”
Soonie flicked an ear but did not move.
Minho tried again, a little firmer this time. “Your boyfriend is waiting.”
Nothing.
On the third attempt, Minho leaned back and exhaled through his nose.
“I am more interested in your boyfriend than you are,” he muttered. “How did you even get one before I did? You little traitor.”
Soonie blinked at him slowly, then resumed grooming.
Minho stared at him for another second before shutting the door gently.
“Fine. Stay. I’ll go assess the situation myself.”
He stepped into the station alone.
The fluorescent lighting inside was just as harsh as he’d imagined. The same officer from the call looked up as the door chimed open.
For a moment, the man simply stared at him, clearly recalibrating expectations.
“Hello,” the officer began carefully. “I assume you are… So—Soonie? Kim Seungmin’s boyfriend.”
The hesitation on the name suggested this had been a long evening.
It took an almost heroic amount of restraint for Minho not to laugh.
He inclined his head politely instead. “I’m here to pick him up. Soonie is outside. He declined to personally retrieve his drunk boyfriend.”
The officer closed his eyes briefly. Just briefly. As if absorbing that sentence had cost him something.
“Please,” he said finally, gesturing toward the seating area, “take him home quickly.”
Minho followed the direction of his hand. He understood why the moment he stepped further inside.
There, seated under the same unforgiving fluorescent lighting, was a university student who looked like he had dressed responsibly for the day and derailed spectacularly at night. White jean jacket. White T-shirt. Blue ripped jeans. Bleached fringes in his hair falling into his eyes that moved every time he gestured. And he was gesturing a lot.
Kim Seungmin was currently talking at a speed that defied physics.
“You don’t understand,” the boy was saying, leaning forward with intense sincerity that would have been intimidating if his eyes weren’t slightly out of focus. “It is your duty to protect and serve civilians. I distinctly said girlfriend. I spoke to a girl this afternoon. A girl. You called and IT’S A BOY. BOYFRIEND.”
The officer in front of him looked like a man who had aged five years in twenty minutes.
“What if he’s some eighty-year-old ugly paedophile impersonating my boyfriend to— to— to sell me? Kill me? Do something to me. DEFINITELY DO SOMETHING TO ME.”
“Mr. Kim,” the officer said in a tone that suggested this was not their first exchange, “he acknowledged knowing you. And you are very drunk.”
“No.” The boy straightened as if preparing for cross-examination. “Are you even listening? How did you become a police officer if you cannot identify when someone is clearly bullshitting? I gave you a random emergency contact.”
He rolled his shoulders like he was warming up for another round.
“Sir, if you are not going to protect me, at least let me leave. I need to run before some bulky, beer-bellied eighty-year-old shows up pretending to be my boyfriend and kidnaps me in front of you very capable officers. A crime happening inside a police station. No wonder people say justice is dead.”
Minho stopped walking.
He didn’t mean to.
But something about the absolute conviction in the boy’s voice made him pause.
Cute.
That was the word that formed, uninvited.
He looked, for lack of a better comparison, like a very well-groomed, very handsome dog barking at authority because he believed he had been wronged. All indignation. All principle. Absolutely no coordination.
Minho watched him for another few seconds, taking in the animated hands, the furrowed brows, the way his fringe bounced with each dramatic head movement.
He had, no, Soonie apparently, been accused of being an eighty-year-old beer-bellied criminal.
That felt mildly offensive.
Minho decided he had heard enough.
The officers had suffered enough.
And, technically speaking, as a senior — and now apparently as his boyfriend — he felt a strange sense of moral responsibility toward this drunk, loudly indignant student.
He stepped forward.
“Kim Seungmin?”
The name wasn’t loud, but it threaded cleanly through the station, weaving past Seungmin’s ongoing speech about institutional accountability.
He faltered mid-sentence.
His raised hand hovered in the air for a second before slowly lowering. He turned, not all at once, but in increments — first his shoulders, then his head, and finally his eyes, which took a noticeable second to catch up. The flush across his cheeks made the faint crease between his brows look deeper than it probably was. His white jacket sat slightly askew on one shoulder, like he had forgotten gravity was a thing that applied to him.
He stared at Minho.
Long enough that one of the officers shifted in his chair.
Seungmin’s gaze slid downward, assessing. Shoes. Jeans. Hands. Shoulders. Face.
“You are not a girl,” he announced at last, voice steady with the confidence of someone who believed he had made a breakthrough.
Minho stood where he was, hands loosely in his pockets, posture relaxed enough to look nonthreatening but straight enough to look deliberate.
Minho exhaled slowly through his nose. “I try not to be.”
Seungmin squinted harder, leaning forward slightly as if depth perception might reveal hidden truths.
“You are also not eighty.”
A faint twitch appeared at the corner of Minho’s mouth. “That must be devastating for you.”
There was a brief silence as Seungmin continued inspecting him like a suspicious artifact.
“You don’t have a beer belly,” he added, as if this were the final nail in the coffin.
There was a pause.
Minho lowered his gaze briefly to his own torso as if double-checking.
“Tragic, I know,” Minho replied dryly. “I’ve disappointed you deeply.”
Behind them, someone coughed into their sleeve.
Seungmin turned abruptly back toward the officer, agitation returning in a rush.
“Like I was saying,” he continued, raising a finger as if resuming a lecture, “I have a girlfriend. Made one up, but still a girl. A girl. And this—” he gestured vaguely at Minho without looking at him, “—this is not a girl.”
He turned back again, eyes narrowing.
“And he is not eighty.”
Minho tilted his head. “Should I be concerned about your preferences?”
Minho stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly but not enough to hide the amusement threaded through it.
“I’m here to take you home.”
Seungmin whipped back around. “With you.”
“Yes.”
Seungmin ignored Minho and turned back to the officer, “There was vocal evidence! You are ignoring that and suddenly I have a boyfriend. A BOYFRIEND. And now this random man is here trying to take me.”
He pointed at Minho.
“This is a procedural error.”
Minho tilted his head slightly, studying him.
“Is that the issue?” he asked calmly.
Seungmin frowned. “What do you mean is that the issue?”
“You’re very focused on the word boyfriend.”
“Yes, because I do not have one.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Minho replied mildly.
Seungmin stared at him.
Minho continued, tone lazy, almost thoughtful. “But for someone wearing a white jean jacket at one in the morning, you’re reacting very strongly to the concept.”
There was a pause.
The officer behind them made a noise that was dangerously close to a laugh.
Seungmin’s eyes widened.
“I am not reacting strongly,” he said immediately, which would have been more convincing if his voice hadn’t jumped half an octave. “I am reacting accurately. There is a difference.”
“So, if I were a girl,” Minho continued evenly, “this would be fine.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s not homo—”
“It changes the statistical probability of kidnapping,” Seungmin cut in quickly.
Minho blinked once.
“That’s your reasoning.”
“Yes.”
“Not, for example, that you object morally.”
Seungmin recoiled slightly. “What? No. Obviously not.”
“Good,” Minho said. “That would’ve been awkward.”
The officer coughed again, shoulders shaking this time.
Seungmin crossed his arms, which only made him sway a little more and glared.
“This is not about that. This is about consistency. I spoke to a girl. Now you appear. That is a plot hole.”
Minho nodded slowly.
“You made up a girlfriend.”
“That’s not relevant.”
“It is entirely relevant.”
Seungmin opened his mouth, then hesitated.
“…It was a strategic fabrication.”
“And now,” Minho said lightly, “the universe assigned you a boyfriend instead.”
“That is not how the universe works.”
He paused mid-gesture as he felt a hand close around his wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you to your boyfriend,” Minho said calmly, stepping closer and helping him to his feet before he could protest further. “Let’s go.”
Seungmin stumbled upright, deeply offended by gravity.
“But who are you?” he demanded, attempting to dig his heels into the floor and failing. “Why is no one stopping him? This is highly suspicious.”
The officers, notably, did not intervene.
“And just because you are handsome,” Seungmin continued indignantly, pointing at Minho with misplaced conviction, “and not eighty, does not mean you can kidnap me. We are in a police station. I will file a complaint.”
Minho leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to sound reasonable.
“I think the police are currently considering filing one against you.”
Seungmin gasped quietly.
“You have two options,” Minho continued smoothly. “Stay here. Continue debating constitutional law. Possibly have them call your parents at two in the morning.”
Seungmin froze.
“Or,” Minho went on, steering him gently toward the exit, “you can come with me. I’ll take you to Soonie.”
That got him.
Seungmin’s head snapped up.
“You know Soonie?”
Minho allowed himself the smallest smile.
“I do.”
There was a beat.
“Orange and white.”
“Yes.”
“Bit his owner for leaving him.”
Minho paused.
“…That was not public information.”
“It was implied,” Seungmin said defensively.
Minho shook his head, faintly amused.
“He’s in the car.”
Seungmin froze.
“In the car.”
“Yes.”
“You want to take me to a car.”
“To see the cat.”
“In a car.”
Minho inhaled slowly.
“You are currently in a police station arguing with someone who is offering to take you home. Do you truly believe this is the safest hill to die on?”
Seungmin opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“You could still do things to me in a car.”
“Like what.”
“I don’t know,” Seungmin muttered, jaw tightening stubbornly. “Suspicious things.”
Minho leaned in just a fraction — not enough to crowd him, but enough that Seungmin’s focus snapped back to him whether he liked it or not.
“Kim Seungmin,” Minho said quietly, almost thoughtfully, “your imagination has produced exactly two scenarios tonight. Either a random girl answers the phone, or an eighty-year-old beer-bellied criminal mastermind does. There are apparently no other human beings in between.”
Seungmin blinked at him.
“You are,” Minho continued evenly, eyes flicking down briefly to the way Seungmin was swaying in microscopic increments, “not currently equipped for suspicious things.”
There was a split second of silence.
Then one of the officers actually laughed a short, unrestrained burst before catching himself and coughing into his fist.
Seungmin turned slowly toward the desk, staring at the officer like he’d just been personally betrayed by the justice system.
“You’re supposed to be impartial,” he said, voice wounded.
The officer pretended to reorganize paperwork.
Seungmin swung back to Minho, bristling.
“I am perfectly equipped,” he insisted. “You are the suspicious one here.”
“Oh?” Minho’s tone didn’t change, but there was something sharper under it now. “On what grounds.”
“First of all,” Seungmin said, lifting one finger as though beginning a formal presentation, “you appeared too quickly.”
“You called.”
“I gave a number.”
“You gave my number.”
“That is circumstantial.”
Minho’s mouth twitched.
“Second,” Seungmin pressed on, leaning forward slightly before catching himself on the edge of the desk, “you are far too calm. Criminals are calm. Overcompensation.”
“I’m calm because you’re loud.”
“That’s subjective.”
“And third,” Seungmin continued, gathering momentum now that he had a structure, “you are dressed well. That is suspicious.”
Minho glanced down at himself. “You object to grooming.”
“I object to strategic grooming.”
A pause.
Minho folded his arms loosely.
“You think I dressed up to abduct you.”
“I think you are underestimating how this looks,” Seungmin replied, nodding seriously. “Handsome man. Late night. Police station. Car.”
Minho stared at him for a long moment.
“If I were planning to abduct you,” he said slowly, “I would not begin the process in front of law enforcement.”
“That,” Seungmin replied immediately, “is what a competent criminal would want us to believe.”
Another cough-laugh escaped from somewhere behind them.
Minho exhaled softly through his nose, a sound halfway between amusement and disbelief.
“You’re this cautious about getting into a car,” Minho continued, voice steady, almost curious now, “but you were arrested for a noise complaint.”
Seungmin straightened immediately, offended on principle.
“It’s not an arrest,” he corrected sharply, though he had to steady himself against the edge of the desk in the process. “It’s detention. There’s a difference.”
One of the officers shifted uncomfortably.
Minho tilted his head. “Is there.”
“Yes,” Seungmin insisted, brows knitting together as if he were explaining something painfully obvious. “An arrest implies formal charges. This is a temporary holding situation pending responsible retrieval.”
There was a pause.
Minho looked at the officer.
The officer very deliberately did not confirm or deny.
“And,” Seungmin added, lifting his chin despite the faint sway that followed, “I was serving a noble cause.”
Minho’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened slightly.
“A noble cause.”
“Yes.”
“You were brought in for a noise complaint.”
“I was saving a cat.”
“You were yelling at a cat?”
“I was reasoning with it.”
“You were lecturing it then.”
“I was preventing a fall.”
“You were debating physics.” Seungmin could feel Minho twisting his words on purpose, and irritation flared hot in his chest.
“It was on a narrow pole,” Seungmin insisted, his hands flying up in exasperation, voice gaining momentum now that he was back on solid argumentative ground. “Structural instability was evident.”
“Cats climb.”
“Cats fall.”
“Rarely.”
“You don’t know that,” Seungmin shot back immediately. “You weren’t there.”
Minho studied him for a long second — the flushed cheeks, the stubborn set of his mouth, the way his hands kept moving even when he wasn’t speaking, like his thoughts couldn’t stay still.
“And you,” Minho said quietly, “felt personally responsible.”
Seungmin hesitated.
“It looked like it was going to slip,” he muttered, softer now. “Someone had to intervene.”
A small silence settled between them.
Behind the desk, one officer exhaled through his nose in what might have been reluctant amusement.
Minho’s mouth twitched.
“Right,” he said finally. “Hero.”
Seungmin frowned. “That was not sarcastic.”
“It absolutely was.”
“You’re still suspicious,” he decided finally, defaulting back to safety.
“Of course, I am.”
“You admitted it.”
“I didn’t.”
“You implied it.”
Minho sighed softly and glanced toward the officers, who were watching this like a late-night drama they hadn’t meant to start.
“Do you plan to stay here,” Minho asked, turning back to Seungmin, “and continue litigating feline physics until sunrise?”
Seungmin looked at the clock on the wall as if it had personally betrayed him.
“It’s only—” He squinted. “What time is it.”
“Late,” one of the officers supplied flatly.
Seungmin huffed, folding his arms again, a mistake, because it made him sway. Minho caught his elbow automatically this time. Seungmin glanced down at the hand, then up at Minho.
“I can stand on my own.”
“I’m sure you can.”
He didn’t let go.
There was something subtly different now. The sharp edge of the earlier sarcasm had dulled. Minho’s grip wasn’t restraining; it was steadying.
“You were worried about the cat,” Minho said quietly. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just stating.
Seungmin hesitated.
“It was going to fall,” he said again, but softer.
“And if it did?”
“I would’ve felt bad.”
Minho studied him for a moment — really looked at him this time, beyond the volume and indignation and dramatic hypotheticals.
There was a beat.
Behind them, a chair scraped against the floor.
“That’s enough. Both of you. Take this outside. Continue your… whatever this is… at home.”
Minho nodded immediately.
“Come on,” he said, nudging Seungmin gently toward the door. “You can evaluate my criminal profile in better lighting.”
“I haven’t ruled that out,” Seungmin warned, but he was moving now, less resistant than before.
At the threshold, he paused again.
“And no suspicious things.”
“None,” Minho replied evenly. “You’re not dressed for it.”
The officer behind them actually laughed again.
Seungmin looked betrayed a second time.
“If I disappear,” he announced to the room at large, “this will be cited in the report.”
“We’ll accept liability,” one replied dryly.
Minho gently rested a hand at Seungmin’s elbow again.
“Come on,” he said, softer this time. “Hero.”
And this time, when Minho guided him toward the door, Seungmin didn’t resist — not fully.
He just muttered something about statistical probabilities and procedural failure as the cool night air hit them both.
“If this is a kidnapping—”
“It’s not.”
“I will remember your face.”
“That’s flattering.”
“And I will describe it in detail.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Seungmin blinked at the sudden coolness, then instinctively leaned a fraction closer — not consciously, just enough to steady himself.
Minho noticed.
He didn’t comment.
They walked toward the car in silence for a few steps, the earlier argument settling into something quieter between them.
Then Seungmin stopped abruptly.
“There better be a cat.”
Minho glanced at him sideways.
“There is.”
“And it better be orange and white.”
“It is.”
“And if it’s not—”
“You can file a complaint.”
Seungmin nodded solemnly, satisfied with the contingency plan.
Minho unlocked the car.
The interior light flickered on.
And inside, on the passenger seat, orange and white fur glowed under the soft dome light.
Soonie lifted his head lazily.
Seungmin went very still.
All the indignation drained out of his face in real time.
“Oh,” he breathed.
Minho watched the transformation with open fascination.
The boy who had been threatening paperwork and statistical analysis and criminal profiling seconds ago was now staring at the cat like it was proof of divine intervention.
Soonie blinked once, unimpressed.
Seungmin stepped closer to the open car door, crouching without being asked, as if proximity alone would confirm authenticity.
“This is Soonie,” he said, voice lowering instinctively.
“That’s what she said.”
Seungmin blinked up at him.
“Where is she then?”
“What?” Minho frowned. “I was using a—”
“The afternoon girl,” Seungmin clarified, rising just enough to look properly accusatory again. “The owner. What did you do to her?”
Minho stared at him for a full second.
“I threatened her,” he said flatly, rolling his eyes.
“To replace her with you?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
Seungmin’s eyes widened. “Do you hear how that sounds?”
Minho dragged a hand slowly down his face, already exhausted by the direction this was going.
“She’s on the dance team,” he said evenly. “She was with me when you called. She answered my phone.”
Seungmin squinted at him.
You could almost see it — the internal loading wheel spinning.
Slow.
Unreliable.
“So,” he said carefully, “you are… the original owner.”
“Yes.”
“And she did not disappear under suspicious circumstances.”
“No.”
“And you did not stage a hostile takeover of cat custody.”
Minho leaned back against the car, folding his arms.
“No.”
Seungmin nodded once, absorbing this like it was a legal deposition.
Then, as if remembering something critical, “Why didn’t you answer your own phone?”
“I was filming a dance practice video.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“You handed my number to law enforcement.”
“That was—” Seungmin hesitated, glancing briefly at Soonie as if seeking counsel. “Unfortunate.”
Soonie, evidently tired of being excluded from the debate, let out a small, unimpressed meow from the passenger seat.
Both of them looked down at him.
And just like that, Seungmin’s entire face softened.
“You see?” he said quietly, almost triumphantly. “He agrees with me.”
“He absolutely does not.”
“He does.”
“He’s asking for food.”
“That,” Seungmin replied with deep seriousness, “is emotional expression.”
“That,” Minho countered, “is manipulation.”
Seungmin looked personally offended on Soonie’s behalf.
Minho watched him for a moment instead of arguing — the way he hovered close but not too close, the way his fingers lingered near the edge of the seat without grabbing, the careful gentleness that had replaced all the earlier dramatics.
Soonie shifted in the passenger seat, tail flicking lazily against the leather.
“Go on,” Minho said lightly, nodding toward the cat. “Your boyfriend would appreciate you petting him.”
Seungmin’s head snapped up so quickly his fringe fell into his eyes.
“Excuse me?”
Minho didn’t look away. “He’s not eighty. Nor does he have a beer belly. The criminal allegation is still under review. Overall, I’d say you have decent taste.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Seungmin with open appraisal. “My Soonie, unfortunately, has questionable judgment.”
Seungmin straightened slowly from his crouch, dignity assembling itself piece by fragile piece.
“First of all,” he said with solemn gravity, “I meant Soonie’s owner to be my girlfriend. It is unfortunate, really, that it turned out to be a man—”
“Okay,” Minho cut in smoothly, not raising his voice, “that’s homophobic for sure.”
Seungmin’s hand shot up instantly, palm outward, like he was objecting in court.
“Second,” he continued over him, undeterred, “Soonie could be nearing eighty in human years for all I know. Feline aging is nonlinear. Third, I am not homophobic. According to conventional social standards, I am expected to have a girlfriend. That is statistically normal. Officers would have accepted that narrative easily.”
Minho just stared at him.
The night air hummed faintly around them.
“So your argument,” Minho said slowly, carefully, “is that you fabricated heterosexuality for bureaucratic convenience.”
“Yes.”
“That is not helping your case.”
“It is extremely logical.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I am sober equivalent.”
“You are in my car.”
“I am verifying the cat.”
Minho pushed off the door, stepping closer — not aggressively, just enough that the space between them narrowed without Seungmin noticing at first.
“For someone who spent twenty minutes arguing about statistical probability of kidnapping,” Minho said quietly, “you’re very comfortable standing this close.”
Seungmin froze.
He looked down.
He was, in fact, standing very close.
The realization crept up his spine slowly. Not embarrassment exactly — more like awareness. He cleared his throat and stepped back a careful half-step, restoring a socially acceptable radius between them.
“That is unrelated,” he muttered.
“Of course it is.”
Soonie meowed again, louder this time, breaking whatever tension had begun to coil between them.
Seungmin immediately leaned back toward the open passenger door, fingers brushing cautiously over the cat’s fur. The earlier suspicion drained from his face as quickly as it had arrived.
“You see?” he said softly. “He missed me.”
“He met you once.”
“Bonding is rapid under stress.”
Minho watched him for another second — the way his voice gentled without thinking, the way his movements slowed when he touched the cat.
Then he stepped back, giving Seungmin room.
“Get in,” he said at last.
Seungmin hesitated only briefly before sliding into the passenger seat, still half-turned toward Soonie as if reluctant to break contact.
Minho walked around the hood of the car, the cool night air brushing past him as he rounded to the driver’s side. He took his time getting in — partly because he wasn’t in a hurry, partly because he needed a second to reset his expression.
Once seated, he shut the door with a soft click.
Seungmin buckled in with unnecessary seriousness.
“And you are absolutely not going to do suspicious things,” he said, staring straight ahead.
“I will drive.”
“That is still vague.”
Minho rested his hands lightly on the steering wheel but didn’t start the engine yet. He turned his head slightly toward Seungmin, one eyebrow lifting in slow, deliberate curiosity.
“Now,” he said evenly, “it’s starting to sound like you’re expecting something.”
Seungmin blinked at him.
“I am not.”
“You are very concerned about what might happen in this car.”
“That is called risk assessment.”
Minho’s mouth curved faintly.
“Relax. I have standards.”
Seungmin narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean.”
“It means,” Minho replied lazily, shifting his gaze back toward the windshield, “I don’t pursue people who think it’s unfortunate I turned out to be a man.”
No raised voice. No accusation. Just fact.
Seungmin froze in the passenger seat.
“I did not say unfortunate in that way,” he protested quickly. “I meant statistically inconvenient.”
“That is not better.”
“It is mathematically accurate.”
“It was homophobic adjacent.”
“It was not.”
Minho finally glanced at him again, expression unreadable but not unkind.
“You fabricated a girlfriend because it felt easier to explain.”
“Yes.”
“And then panicked when that girlfriend became me.”
“Yes.”
“That is a sequence of events.”
“It is a reasonable sequence.”
Minho shook his head faintly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“I’m not offended,” he said. “I’m just clarifying that I am not desperate.”
Seungmin processed that in silence.
“…I did not imply desperation.”
“You implied preference.”
“I implied probability.”
Minho stared at him for a second.
“You implied I was an inconvenience.”
“You were an unforeseen variable,” Seungmin corrected automatically.
“That might be the least romantic way anyone has ever described me.”
Seungmin looked genuinely alarmed.
“I was not attempting romance.”
“That much is clear.”
There was a brief, fragile silence in the car.
Then, almost reluctantly—
“For the record,” Seungmin muttered, staring stubbornly out the windshield, “it was not unfortunate that it was you.”
Minho didn’t move.
“Oh?”
Seungmin shifted in his seat, clearly irritated at himself for having to elaborate.
“It’s just that,” he said, words coming slower now, more deliberate, “if I had to be accidentally assigned a boyfriend by the universe, statistically speaking… you’re not a bad outcome.”
Minho blinked.
“That is the most backhanded compliment I have ever received.”
“It is not backhanded,” Seungmin protested. “It is efficient.”
“It’s insulting.”
“It’s mathematically generous.”
Minho let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
“You called me an unexpected variable five minutes ago.”
“Yes.”
“And now I’m a ‘not bad outcome.’”
“Yes.”
“That’s progress.”
Seungmin folded his arms again, but there was less heat in it now.
“I am simply acknowledging that you are… aesthetically acceptable.”
Minho turned fully toward him this time.
“Aesthetically acceptable.”
“Yes.”
“That’s it.”
“You’re symmetrical.”
Minho actually laughed.
Soonie looked between them like he regretted everything.
“And,” Seungmin added, quieter, almost begrudgingly, “you showed up.”
The air shifted again — softer this time.
Minho looked at him for a moment longer than necessary.
“Drive,” Seungmin muttered quickly, retreating back into defensiveness.
Minho did.
And as the station disappeared in the rearview mirror, Minho realized he’d just agreed to drive home the loudest, prettiest liability he’d ever met.