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The first time Mingi sees him, it was the fourth period and raining.
He’s already halfway to sleep, chin in hand, his pen scribbling meaningless loops in the corner of his notes. The classroom smells like wet sneakers and sweat, with the teacher’s lecture droning on like static.
Then the door slides open.
Heads turn, and Mingi lifts his gaze lazily.
And there he is—tall, wide-eyed, lanky even. The rain is still dripping down his jeans, his hair is messy, like he just took off a hood, and his face is pinched in a way that said he had no idea what was going on. He clutches his bag like a lifeline.
The teacher clears her throat. “This is—uh, hold on.” She glances at a slip of paper. “Jeong Yunho. He’s a language exchange student from the U.S. He’ll be with us for the semester.”
The kid bows. Too deep. Too stiff. Mingi watches his lips part—watches him hesitate—then finally offer in careful, accented Korean,
“Hello.”
Someone chuckles. The teacher waves her hand, flustered. “Ah, it’s okay. Just… take a seat. Mingi, raise your hand.”
Mingi is startled to say the least. “Huh?”
“You’re his buddy for the week. Help him adjust, show him around.”
Yunho blinks at him, his expression saying “Please be nice.”.
Mingi sighs and raises his hand half-heartedly. “Here.”
Yunho makes his way to the empty seat beside him, his bag hitting the floor with a soft thump. For a moment, the class sat in silence—just the rain ticking against the windows, the scrape of Yunho’s chair, and the awkward air among all of them.
Then Yunho leans over and whispers to him, in slow, hopeful English,
“ Hi. I’m… Yunho.”
Mingi stares. And then goes, “What?” in Korean.
Yunho smiles—crooked, and a little sheepish—then pulls out his phone. His fingers move across the screen.
A second later, he turns his phone to Mingi.
[Hello! My name is Yunho. Nice to meet you!]
Mingi blinks, then he grins.
Pulling out his own phone, he types, translates, and sends one back.
[Nice to meet you too! This is going to be a mess, huh?]
When Yunho reads it, he laughs quietly, just a breath through his nose, and nods.
The period comes by quickly and with just a blink, lunch break comes and the sky’s cleared up, but the concrete still smells like rain. They sit on the low wall behind the school, just past the edge of the track.
Mingi unwraps his triangle kimbap with one hand and scrolls through his phone with the other. Yunho sits beside him, cross-legged, poking at a convenience store sandwich like he’s not sure it’s food. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing a scar on his forearm, and Mingi keeps glancing at it before catching himself.
Neither of them says anything for a while. (Not that they’d understand each other anyway.)
Then Yunho opens his phone and nudges it toward Mingi.
[Can I ask you something?]
Mingi lifts a brow and nods. He types again.
[What kind of music do you like?]
Mingi blinks. He wasn’t expecting that out of all things.
He types back.
[Rap. Some rock. A little R&B.]
Yunho reads it, then grins—really grins this time, his whole face lighting up.
[Cool! I like music too! But I don’t really know any Korean artists.]
He hesitates, then adds,
[Can you show me some?]
Mingi stares at the message for a beat longer than necessary. Then, wordlessly, he pops out one earbud and hands it over.
Yunho looks surprised, then touched. He fumbles it in his ear, making Mingi chuckle at the boy’s silliness. Mingi queues up something easy—slow beat, clear vocals, and nothing too intense. Something that says “don’t worry, you’ll get it.”
They listen in silence. Side by side. Not quite touching.
And then Yunho, out of nowhere, shows him another message.
[You’re nice.]
Mingi flushes and tries to play it cool, typing back,
[Don’t get used to it.]
Yunho laughs. Actually laughs— like he understood the sarcasm somehow, or just liked the tone.
Mingi presses play on the next track, pretending not to smile.
It isn’t long until the last bell rings.
Everyone moves like they’ve just been set free—chairs scraping, backpacks zipping, voices rising into chaos. Mingi stands, stretches, and shoves his books into his bag with one hand. He figures Yunho will leave quietly like he has all day.
But Yunho lingers by his desk, looking like he wants to say something.
Mingi quirks a brow. “...What?”
He hesitates, pulling out his phone again.
He types slowly, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth in concentration. Then he turns the screen toward Mingi.
[Can I have your number? If that’s okay? I don’t know anyone else.]
Mingi stares at the screen for a beat, then at Yunho.
His ears are pink. He’s standing there like he might get turned down and politely accept it, even though it would ruin his entire night.
Like an (unintentional) douche, Mingi snorts.
“Why’d you say it like I’m your last hope?” He says in Korean.
Yunho, confused, tilts his head. “...Huh?”
Mingi rolls his eyes, grabbing Yunho’s phone from him and typing in his digits. He then types something in his phone, showing it to Yunho with a slight grin on his face.
[Just don’t text me in ten-paragraph English.]
Yunho beams. “Okay!”
He then straightens a little, as if gathering courage—and says, in the most broken, painfully slow Korean Mingi has ever heard,
“See… you… later…?”
Mingi blinks, “What?”
Yunho frowns, then points to his own eyes, “See”
Then to Mingi’s chest, “you”
Then hesitantly, thinking of an action to correspond with the word, simply points behind his back hoping Mingi gets it, “later.”
Mingi finally, thankfully gets it. He bursts out laughing, typing something in his phone.
[You mean ‘see you later’???]
Yunho nods so fast it looks like it hurts. “Yes, yes! That!”
Mingi chuckles as he slings his bag over one shoulder, typing on his phone again.
[We need to work on your Korean.]
This time, as if he wasn't red before, Yunho now looks like a tomato. He stays in place, looking down as if he was ashamed of himself.
Feeling bad, Mingi immediately types something and shows it to Yunho,
[I’ll help you improve on it.]
Yunho turns even redder. Mingi laughs, taking a step toward the door, before he hears Yunho’s shy, stuttering voice.
“Goodbye, Mingi.”
It’s the first time Yunho says his name out loud. It’s the first time Mingi hears his name from him. He doesn’t turn around—just keeps walking with his heart doing something stupid in his chest.
But he’s smiling.
That night, Mingi throws himself onto his bed with the grace of a falling wardrobe. His backpack’s halfway across the floor, his socks are still on, and his phone’s in his hand even though he swore he was going to take a nap first.
He stares at the screen.
No new notifications.
And okay, maybe he’s a bit impatient, but he doesn’t give out his number to anyone just because. It’s not like he gave his number to Yunho because he wanted him to text. Nope. It’s just pity! Obligation! Kindness!
Definitely not because he wants to hear from him.
Mingi rolls over, sighs into his pillow, then opens his messaging app. No texts. Just the group chat full of nonsense from Wooyoung and Jongho.
He types out a translated message to Yunho,
{Hey, did you get home okay?}
Then deletes it. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.
{This is Mingi, by the way.}
No, that’s dumb. He knows who he is.
{Don’t tell me you already forgot your new best friend.}
…Even worse.
Mingi groans into his hands. “This is so stupid.”
Just as he’s about to throw his phone across the room, it buzzes.
A message.
From… Jeong Yunho!
He sits up so fast his vision blurs.
{Hello! This is Yunho!
I’m home now! Thank you for today. You are cool.}
Mingi stares at it, blinking.
You are cool???
He lets out an incredulous laugh. “This guy…”
Another text arrives.
{I want to talk with you again! Tomorrow?}
Mingi chews on his lip, then types slowly and deliberately.
{Sure. If you’re lucky.}
Then adds, almost against his better judgment,
{You’re not THAT bad.}
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
{ Hey:( }
Mingi slams the phone facedown on the bed.
His ears are burning.
Their conversations somehow spiral into them talking about pudding. Though at first they were clumsy and uncoordinated, somehow, something shifts and Yunho starts replying faster, and Mingi starts typing simpler. They both send each other pictures—Yunho’s sad-looking dinner, Mingi’s cat curled up in his laundry, and of course, his pudding that Yunho insists he bring tomorrow.
At some point, Mingi sends a voice note of himself saying, “Say this, Mingi, you’re amazing .”
Yunho sends back one of him trying to say it and absolutely butchering the pronunciation.
Mingi’s still laughing when he falls asleep.
The next morning, he drags himself through the front gate of the school yawning so wide it makes his eyes water. He’s running on four hours of sleep and a half-burnt piece of toast.
On the bright side, as if he is shining and the lights from heaven are directly on him, Yunho’s already waiting for him by the stairwell, grinning like he didn’t just commit a war crime against the Korean language hours ago.
“Hey, Mingi!”
Mingi stops in his tracks, dumbfounded as to how he’s functioning this well as if his batteries weren’t drained last night.
“Mingi! You’re really…” He pauses. Then throws his arms out like a magician revealing the finale. “Ugly!”
Mingi’s jaw drops.
“Ugly??! Did you just call me ugly?!” Mingi says ‘ugly’ in English, just for Yunho to understand what he just said.
He freezes, and his face twists in panic. “No! No-no-no— cool! I mean cool!” He yanks his phone in a panic and types furiously.
[Cool! You’re really cool!]
Mingi snorts, trying not to laugh. Then he does. It isn’t Yunho’s fault the translator is not one hundred percent accurate, but it still embarrasses him all the same.
Yunho groans, slaps a hand over his face, and mutters into it, before typing something in his phone.
[I’ve been practicing for like… twenty minutes.]
Mingi punches him lightly in the shoulder. He grabs Yunho’s phone and types something into it.
[You tried.]
Then, before giving Yunho’s phone back to him, he types something again.
[But hey, thanks.]
Yunho peeks at him through his fingers, the tips of his ears red. He clumsily types on his phone, his fingers pressing the ‘back’ button every few seconds.
[I still think you’re cool, though.]
Mingi pretends to consider, really makes Yunho nervous, before typing something back.
[You just insulted me in front of the school, so…]
And Yunho pouts, and Mingi breaks. He chuckles and opens his bag, pulling out a small packaged pudding.
“Peace offering.” Mingi says in broken English.
The boy before him lights up like the sun. He accepts it like it’s a sacred treasure and mimes a dramatic bow.
“ Thank you, best friend Mingi.” Yunho beams in botched Korean.
Mingi groans, shoving past him toward the classroom, typing into his phone on the way.
[Don’t ever say that again.]
Yunho follows, grinning.
Before the two even realize it, the final bell rings, and students spill out into the afternoon sunlight. Everyone is either sleepy, chattering, and shoving each other toward the gate like fish in a stream.
Mingi walks out last, earbuds in, bag slung low, and google translate already open on his phone. Outside the gate, Yunho is waiting impatiently, bouncing slightly on his heels like a kid who knows recess started and nobody told the teacher yet.
When Mingi sees him, he tilts his head and types.
[You’re still here?]
Yunho lights up once again and nods his head.
He gives Yunho a weird look, his brow raising.
[But what if we go separate ways back to our homes?]
Yunho shakes his head slowly, grinning both to himself and to Mingi like a goblin.
[I checked the map. We go the same direction. Your house is only 10 minutes from mine.]
Mingi’s brow is still raised, a small smile forming in his face.
[You stalked my house?]
Yunho
frowns,
typing frantically.
It was charming how easily flustered he is.
[NO! Not stalk. You said the name of your neighborhood yesterday. I checked! Just checked!]
Mingi lets the silence stretch, then shrugs.
[Fine. You can walk behind me.]
Yunho points to himself, looking mock-offended.
[Behind?]
He smirks.
[Yes. A respectful five meters behind me, at all times.]
Yunho shakes his head dramatically, then jogs a few steps to fall beside him anyway. They walk in a not-quite-straight line down the sidewalk, occasionally bumping shoulders when Yunho forgets to look where he’s going and Mingi forgets he’s not alone.
At the corner, Yunho says, in broken Korean, “Nice… weather… today…!”
Mingi glances at him.
[You sound like my dad.]
Yunho pouts, typing again.
[I’m trying! Small talk is hard! Talking is hard!]
[You’ll get it some day.]
The two pass by a small convenience store. Yunho points to it and grins.
[This is where I buy pudding.]
Yunho brightens up, his pure glee making him show his teeth. His smile is sickeningly cute.
[I’ll remember!]
They keep walking.
Somewhere between the cracked sidewalks and fading sun, the silence between them gets comfortable again. Yunho hums a song under his breath—something Mingi doesn’t know—and Mingi finds himself matching the rhythm with his steps anyway.
When they reach the street where they split, Yunho stops and smiles.
“Tomorrow?” he asks.
Mingi nods. “Tomorrow.”
Yunho opens his mouth like he wants to say something else—then closes it, lifts a hand in a small wave, and turns down his street.
Mingi watches him go.
Then pulls out his phone, just before unlocking his front door.
A message from Yunho.
{I like walking with you.}
Mingi doesn’t reply right away, but he smiles.
Two weeks pass, and the two become closer than ever.
The classroom is quiet after school, chairs half-stacked, light slanting through the windows, someone’s leftover eraser shavings dusting the floor like confetti. Most of the students are long gone, and the low murmur of a teacher in the next room is barely audible through the walls.
Mingi and Yunho are still in their seats. Somehow, that’s become a habit.
Textbooks are shoved aside, replaced by Mingi’s notebook and Yunho’s phone balanced between them on the desk—both screens full of highlighted words, scribbled notes, and goofy doodles of cartoon faces expressing confused, happy, hungry, and ‘huh??’.
Yunho points at one of the Korean phrases Mingi wrote out neatly in blue ink.
“Say this again?” he asks, eyes flicking up.
Mingi leans over, resting his chin in one hand. “I’m hungry. Easy one.”
Yunho repeats it, slowly. “I’m… hungry.”
He squints. “Almost.” Then he types in his phone, knowing Yunho wouldn’t understand what he’s going to say next.
[Don’t make the pronunciation too strong. Like this.]
Mingi leans in a bit, and says it again, softer this time.
Yunho nods, and tries again. “I’m hungry.”
“Nice!” Mingi grins, putting both thumbs up.
[Look at you! Full sentence without sounding like you’re in pain!]
The boy mock-gasps. “Wow. Compliment.”
Mingi rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.
Then Yunho clears his throat—suddenly a little nervous—and says, in Korean, slow but steady.
“Mingi’s language…is very…pretty.”
Mingi freezes. He blinks.
[Say that again?]
Yunho smiles, a little shy. “Mingi’s language is very… pretty.”
Mingi stares at him. Then bursts out laughing.
[Are you saying my language is pretty???]
He nods. “Yes.” A pause. “And voice. Also face.”
Mingi tosses a crumpled paper at him.
“Whatever.”
Yunho dodges it, grinning like a menace.
Mingi picks up his notebook again, flipping a few pages back, then stops. “My turn.”
He clears his throat, looks down once, then says carefully in halting English.
“Yunho’s voice is very… warm.”
Yunho stares at him like he’s just been given a puppy.
[You said that just for me?]
Mingi shrugs, pretending to be cool.
[Just wanted to practice adjectives.]
But he’s smiling, and Yunho’s grinning, and somehow the desks between them feel smaller than they did two weeks ago.
They don’t need to understand every word.
Some things are already translating just fine.
And well… the realization happens in the middle of another lazy afternoon a month into being friends with him.
The classroom’s nearly empty again, just the two of them inside of it. Yunho is balancing a pencil between his nose and upper lip, trying to hold a straight face, while Mingi scrolls through a vocab app on his phone with zero real interest.
“Delicious.” Yunho says proudly, tapping the word with his finger. “Delicious. Did I say it right?”
Mingi nods. “Nice. You’re doing well.”
Yunho stops what he’s doing and straightens up, smiling directly at Mingi.
The two laugh, and the pencil falls. Mingi picks it up and doesn’t give it back.
It’s easy. Everything with Yunho is easy.
Which is maybe the problem.
Because as Yunho starts practicing the next word, Mingi’s brain is somewhere else—like it has been all month.
It does not help that Yunho keeps complimenting Mingi through their practice, and Mingi keeps getting flustered each time.
He glances at Yunho now—at the way he frowns at his screen as he’s muttering something in broken Korean. The sunlight from the window hits his hair in warm streaks, and he’s sitting close. Too close. Or maybe just close enough.
And the thought slams into Mingi with no warning.
He likes Yunho.
Like, really likes Yunho.
He turns away fast, heart racing, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm his face feels.
“Mingi?” Yunho leans in. “Are you okay?”
He isn’t sure if it’s because Yunho managed to ask him in straight Korean, or that his voice sounds really good in straight Korean, or that he looks really good , or all of the above, but Yunho is making him nervous.
“I’m fine,” Mingi mutters, maybe too harshly. “It’s hot. Shut up.”
Yunho pulls back slightly, blinking. “Okay…”
Mingi immediately feels bad. Regret coils in his stomach. He wants to take it back, but the words feel sharp in his throat.
They sit in silence for a moment.
Then Yunho nudges his elbow gently. When Mingi doesn’t look, he nudges him again—this time with a crumpled sticky note, stuck to his arm.
Mingi peeks down.
Scrawled in Yunho’s handwriting, messy but readable, are shaky words, written in messy Korean.
“You’re still my friend?”
Mingi huffs out a breath. He tears the note off his hand and scribbles on the back.
“You’re annoying, but yeah.”
He passes it back.
Yunho reads it. Smiles. Leans just a little closer again.
And Mingi realizes something else.
He doesn’t know how to say, “ don’t smile at me like that, it’s going to ruin me.” in English, and Yunho wouldn’t understand him in Korean if he ever says it in his natural language.
Saying it in google translate would probably mess the translation up.
So he says nothing at all.
It starts with silence. Not a big one. Just a little too long between laughs. A pause in their conversations that didn’t used to be there.
Mingi tells himself it’s fine. He’s tired. Or maybe Yunho’s busy. Their midterms are creeping up. It’s nothing.
But he knows that’s a lie.
Because Yunho still grins the same way when he gets a word right in Korean. Still pulls him aside between classes to whisper some mangled phrase he’s practicing, eyes shining like he’s won a medal just for trying.
Yunho hasn’t changed.
He has.
It’s not that he wants to pull away. He just doesn’t really know how to stay.
He doesn’t know what to do with this swelling, aching thing in his chest every time Yunho looks at him like he sees him—not just as a conversation partner, but as someone who matters. It terrifies him how fast he’s gotten used to Yunho’s voice, his presence, his pudding obsession, and his terrible pronunciation.
He doesn’t know how to tell Yunho “I think I like you” when he can barely say it to himself.
So he retreats.
A little at first—skipping their usual walk home, answering texts slower, switching back to Korean during their study sessions even when Yunho’s trying so hard with his English.
He thinks if he makes it gradual, it won’t hurt as much.
But he sees the way Yunho’s smile falters just a bit. How he lingers in the classroom longer. How he starts watching Mingi like he’s waiting for something.
Mingi hates himself for it.
And then, after a particularly quiet day, he finds a letter.
A folded sheet of lined paper, tucked onto the corner of his desk with his name scribbled on the front in careful, crooked hangul.
He unfolds it slowly, heart already thudding.
It’s written in Korean—shaky and awkward and so full of grammar mistakes, but he can read it. Every single word.
By the time he reaches the end, he's gripping the paper too tightly.
He closes the letter and stares at it for a long time. Then, he goes.
The classroom is dim when he opens the door, contrary to the classroom Mingi was just in. Late afternoon light spills in from the windows, painting golden lines across the desks.
Yunho is there, waiting.
He stands when he sees Mingi, holding a small plastic bag in both hands. “You came.”
Mingi nods, because words feel too thick in his throat.
Yunho lifts the bag slightly. “Pudding. Your favorite.”
He takes it—carefully, like it might melt in his hand. He doesn’t sit.
He doesn’t really know how to sit, not when his head is spinning and Yunho is looking at him like he’s worth waiting for.
Mingi stares at the pudding. Turns it in his hand like it holds answers he’s too afraid to read.
Before him, Yunho is typing something, his fingers gentle and slow.
[Did I do something? Please tell me if I did something wrong.]
His face. God, Yunho’s face looks like a sad puppy.
“No,” Mingi blurts. “No, you didn’t do anything.”
He swallows, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. “It’s me.”
Yunho arches his brow, utterly confused at what he’s saying.
Mingi hesitates before he replies in English, as best as he can. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
Yunho’s voice is soft. So soft. “Try. Even if it’s in Korean. I’ll try to understand.” His Korean has gotten so good that Mingi hasn’t even noticed it yet.
Mingi looks at him.
He looks at his eyes. So sincere. So open. He then looks at the letter still folded in his pocket, then at the pudding Yunho brought just in case.
“You’re not just a friend to me anymore,” he says, voice cracking slightly.
Yunho blinks. “What?”
“I mean, you’re kind. You’re patient. You try so hard with me, and you make me want to try too. And I keep thinking about you when I shouldn’t. And I don’t know how to do this.”
Mingi’s hands are shaking.
“I don’t know if you like guys, or if you’re just friendly with me. With everyone. And I didn’t want to ruin it. So I thought… if I made some space, maybe it would go away.”
He laughs bitterly. “It didn’t.”
For a long second, there’s no sound but the hum of the school lights.
Then Yunho steps forward, just close enough to gently offer his pudding in return.
Mingi takes it, confused.
There’s something scribbled in marker on the foil lid. A little smudged, but still readable.
“You’re really cool.”
Mingi’s throat tightens.
“You’ve been saying that since week two,” he whispers, barely audible. “It makes me go insane.”
Yunho just smiles—that same stupid soft smile Mingi has been falling for ever since.
And Mingi sits.
And Yunho sits beside him, quiet for a while.
Then, softly, “Can I say something?”
Mingi nods.
“It hurts,” Yunho starts in English. “When you ignore me.”
Mingi’s breath hitches.
“I know you’re scared. I am too. I came here not knowing anyone. But then there was you. And you made this place feel like home.”
Mingi feels like crying.
“I don’t care about perfect grammar or who says the right word first. I just want you to talk to me. I just want you near me.”
Mingi’s voice is barely a whisper when he says, “You said that in perfect Korean.”
Yunho tilts his head. “What?”
“You said all of that in perfect Korean. All of it.”
Yunho blinks.
Then, like gravity, their hands find each other on the desk.
Mingi doesn’t pull away. Yunho doesn’t flinch.
Their fingers tangle together naturally, palms warm against each other, like this is something they’ve always done. Like they were always meant to do this. Mingi exhales shakily, barely aware of how close their distance is until now. Yunho watches him with soft eyes, the kind that don’t demand anything but make it so easy to give.
And then Yunho tilts his head, just slightly, voice barely above a breath.
“Can I…?”
He doesn’t even finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
Mingi leans in before he can think too hard about it.
Their noses brush first, awkward and real. Mingi nearly laughs, except Yunho’s lips are already there, pressing to his with a tenderness that makes his knees weak. It’s a quiet kiss. Not perfect. A little clumsy, a little shy. But it means something.
Yunho’s hand tightens slightly in his, thumb brushing the edge of Mingi’s wrist. Their mouths part slowly, just an inch, before Mingi leans in again, pressing another kiss to Yunho’s lips—firmer this time. Less afraid.
When they finally pull back, Mingi’s cheeks are flushed. Yunho’s too. Neither of them speak for a few seconds.
“I…” Mingi laughs, breathless. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Same.” Yunho replies, and the way he says it in Korean makes Mingi’s heart feel stupid and full.
The school is quiet around them. The classroom, still touched by golden light, feels like a little world that belongs only to them.
Yunho nudges Mingi gently with his shoulder, still holding his hand. “So… does this mean we’re…?”
“You’re my boyfriend now.” Mingi says, too fast and in accented English, and then claps a hand over his mouth in horror.
Yunho blinks. Then he grins. “Boyfriend?” he repeats in English, exaggeratedly. “Me?”
Mingi groans. “Don’t tease me–”
But Yunho just beams, eyes soft and alight, and leans forward to bump their foreheads together. “Okay. Boyfriend.”
Mingi doesn’t stop smiling the entire walk home that day. They eat the pudding on the way, trading spoonfuls. Yunho bumps their hand together every few minutes like he’s checking to make sure Mingi’s still real, still there. He is.
And when they reach where Yunho usually turns, he hesitates.
“Sleep over,” Mingi says before he can think twice. “My place. We can study. Or not.”
Yunho’s eyes crinkle. “Not,” he agrees softly.
They don’t kiss again that night—not in the hungry, dizzying way. They just sit side by side on Mingi’s bedroom floor, eating chips and trading flashcards. stealing glances like idiots, falling in love like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
It kind of is.
Because now, when Mingi leans against Yunho’s shoulder, Yunho leans back.
Because now, Mingi’s heart still races—but he’s not scared of it anymore.
Because now, every mistake they make, in Korean or English or in how they hold each other, will just be a part of them figuring it out. Together.
And when Yunho types something in his phone and shows it to Mingi, the two smile stupidly.
“I like you a lot too, Yunho.”
And it feels like the beginning of something real.