Chapter Text
Minho jolted awake, heart pounding, sweat beading down his face as a dull ache bloomed behind his eyes. Grabbing his head, he shook it; he tried to push the leftover nightmare images and sounds away. Spotting his duffel bag across the room and the familiar things of his room, he slowly repeated to himself, “I’m home… I’m safe… I’m okay.” Fresh from a year-long deployment, he was still struggling to readjust to civilian life. Even now, echoes of gunfire haunted the edges of his dreams—things no one should ever have to witness, pieces of the worst of humanity that refused to fade. Every day was a battle, and though he told his friends he was starting to adjust, the truth was that he was far from okay.
Knowing he wasn’t going back to sleep, Minho got up and began his morning routine. The shower washed away some of the lingering tension, but it couldn’t reach the memories clinging stubbornly to his mind. Brushing his teeth, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and barely recognized the hollow-eyed man staring back. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the heaviness, forcing himself to focus on the day ahead. Once ready, he headed to the kitchen, hoping to scrounge up some breakfast.
The bare cabinets reminded him he hadn’t gone grocery shopping that week. Which meant that breakfast at home would have to wait. Groaning, he scooped up his keys from the counter and headed out his door toward his favorite coffee shop. The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of baked bread and coffee from the nearby cafés and restaurants. As he walked, a small, grounding sense of normalcy began to take shape. Watching people pass by on their way to work, hearing the distant hum of traffic, feeling the sun on his face — for a moment, it felt like any normal day back in college. Comforting, and yet strange: life had moved steadily on while his own time had been frozen in deployment.
The coffee shop slowly came into view, its small, weather-beaten wooden sign swaying in the breeze. Pushing the door open, he instantly smelled the warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked pastries. The familiar chatter of customers, the clinking of cups, and the soft hiss of the espresso machine made things feel… almost normal. He drew a deep breath, letting the small escape ground him and letting faint, good memories of the past wash over him. At this café, the pastries were homemade, fresh, and melt-in-your-mouth delicious—almost reason enough to come back every day.
But as he stepped further inside, the relief he had felt outside began to fade. Too much sound, too many people, too little space. The clatter of cups, the hum of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine pressed in on him. Instinctively, he shrank back, scanning desperately for a place away from everything where he could go. Spotting a seat in a darker corner, Minho rushed over and sank into it. He buried his face in his hands, a tightness gripping his chest, making each breath feel heavy. What used to feel normal now felt forever changed. Darkness started to creep into his vision, and he knew then that if he didn’t slow his breathing down that he would pass out. That’s the farthest thing he wanted to do today. Pass out and have them call Chan… again. The last time had been embarrassing enough.
Barely thinking at this point, he knew he had to slow his breathing. Closing his eyes, he went back to what he knew… sniper breathing training exercises. As he started to take slow, deep breaths, the tightness in his chest eased, and his head gradually cleared. When he lifted his gaze, he met the brownest, most beautiful eyes staring at him. They weren’t filled with pity, only curiosity — as if the person before him genuinely wanted to help. The background noise dulled for a moment, fading beneath the quiet weight of that gaze. Dark hair gently framed the man’s face, his expression open and steady, as though he had all the time in the world. When the stranger lifted a hand in a tentative gesture, Minho realized he wasn’t judging him— he was just saying hi. There was a gentleness and kindness that Minho had never felt before, in this man in front of him.
As soon as the man realized Minho had noticed him, he gestured gently, silently asking if he was okay. Not ready to speak, Minho shook his head. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, yet for some reason, this man radiated a calm safety. Leaning back, Minho closed his eyes for a moment — just long enough to reset himself and gather the courage to move, to leave. Ordering takeout was starting to sound far more appealing than staying here in public any longer. Even with his eyes closed, Minho felt the stranger’s presence — a quiet, grounding calm unlike anything he’d known. For the first time in months, he felt… safe.
Hearing a chair scrape across the floor, he felt the presence drift away, leaving him alone with his racing thoughts. A part of him wanted to call out, to stop him, but the words stuck in his throat. All he could do was sit there, eyes shut tight, the memory of those brown eyes lingering like a gentle echo in his mind. At that moment, he felt the gentlest of touches on his arm, followed by the faint sound of a cup being set down. Opening his eyes, Minho met the same brown eyes he had just been imagining. Instead of leaving, the man had returned with a glass of water and a breakfast pastry. Minho’s breath caught as the stranger gestured softly, sliding the offering a little closer across the table. Then, with quiet patience, he stepped back, giving Minho the space he somehow seemed to know he needed.
Dropping his gaze to the pastry, Minho noticed it was one of the fall specials—the scent of pumpkin spice curling warmly through the air. The first bite melted on his tongue, cutting through the fog in his chest. When he glanced up, those patient brown eyes were still there, steady and safe. The man smiled, clearly pleased as he watched him eat. Taking a sip of water, Minho lifted a hand in a small gesture and whispered, “Thank you.” The stranger’s smile widened, and Minho found himself returning the smallest, tentative smile of his own.
As he took another bite, Minho closed his eyes, letting the mix of flavors pull him somewhere else—somewhere safer. He was back home in his mother’s kitchen, where the air always smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. She used to bake pumpkin muffins every fall, saving one for him after school. The memory wrapped around him like a blanket, soft and comforting.
He wanted to stay there, in that warmth, but other memories began to surface—ones he hadn’t visited in years. Fall breaks spent with Chan and Changbin, the three of them chasing new adventures and getting into harmless trouble, their laughter echoing through the crisp autumn air. It all felt like a different lifetime. When he opened his eyes again, the chair across from him was empty. The man was gone.
For a long moment, Minho just sat there, hoping maybe the stranger had only stepped away. But after walking the café twice, scanning every corner, the truth sank in. He was gone… and the small, quiet space that presence had filled inside him felt emptier than before.