Chapter Text
The digital clock on the bus dashboard read 3:42 PM.
Seungmin closed his eyes, took a measured breath, and resisted the overwhelming urge to scream. His life operated on a strict, invisible track. He wasn't just punctual; he was a machine. When a helicopter had literally clipped the edge of his apartment complex the previous semester, he hadn't panicked. While neighbors gossiped on the sidewalk, Seungmin had simply dusted off his uniform, grabbed his backpack, and walked to school. It was an inconvenience, sure, but not an excuse to be late.
But today, a mundane three-car pileup on the bridge had trapped his bus in a standstill, completely completely wrecking his perfect record.
Instead of letting the panic consume him, Seungmin forced his eyes back down to the open textbook on his lap. If he was going to be late, he was at least going to make the most of every agonizing second. His vocal lessons at JYPE were demanding, but he also had a brutal mid-term exam the next morning. Balancing the heavy book on his knees, his fingers flew across a set of flashcards, committing historical dates to memory while the bus engine idled mockingly. He couldn't control the traffic, but he could control his preparation.
When the bus doors finally hissed open near the JYPE headquarters, Seungmin bolted.
Now, he was sprinting through the pristine corridors of the building, a horrific fifteen minutes late for vocal lessons. He was desperately trying to clutch his textbook and loose study notes against his chest while simultaneously pushing his slipping round glasses back up his nose, when-
CRASH.
It felt like colliding with a brick wall that had suddenly decided to skip merrily.
The impact sent Seungmin reeling backward. His center of gravity betrayed him, and he hit the tiled floor hard. His backpack tore from his shoulders, his notes erupted into a flurry of loose paper, and his glasses skittered away into the shadows.
Just thirty seconds prior, Lee Minho had been floating.
If anyone had told him a year ago that he would clear all of JYPE's grueling preliminary dance practical in record time, he would have laughed. But the evaluation results had just been posted, and the praise from the head dance instructor was still ringing in his ears: Flawless technique. Exceptional rhythm. He hadn't just passed; he had excelled so thoroughly that his status as a permanent idol trainee was officially locked in.
He was ecstatic. The pure, adrenaline-fueled joy was buzzing under his skin, making him so blissfully careless that he had walked right out of the studio without even realizing he’d left his water bottle behind. He was practically skipping down the hallway, humming a baseline, utterly oblivious to the world around him-
Until he ran straight into a human hurricane.
The other guy took the brunt of the collision, tumbling backward into a mess of papers and flying spectacles. Minho blinked, his brain catching up to his body, looking more mildly amused than injured. A sheepish, brilliant grin spread across his face.
“Ah, sorry about that,” Minho said, immediately dropping to one knee to help gather the scattered papers. “I definitely wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Clearly,” Seungmin muttered, blindly patting the floor until his fingers brushed against plastic frames. He shoved his glasses onto his face, ready to unleash a rare torrent of academic fury on the idiot who had ruined his morning. “You should really watch-”
The words died in his throat.
The guy was pretty. Unfairly pretty. He had the kind of sharp, striking features that usually belonged on a billboard or a high-budget drama poster. Is he a celebrity? Seungmin panicked internally. No, he looked too young, and Seungmin memorized faces for a living. A trainee, then. A very genetically blessed trainee.
“You okay there? Sure you didn’t get a concussion?” Minho’s grin widened, extending a hand to help Seungmin up. Before Seungmin could take it, Minho shoved the neatly restacked pile of books into his arms. “I think that’s everything.”
“Uh… thanks. I… I have to go,” Seungmin stammered. Frustrated by his sudden inability to form coherent human sentences, he scrambled to his feet and practically bolted down the hallway.
Great. Phenomenal, Seungmin chided himself, his face burning as he sprinted toward the vocal room. Since when did a cute face turn his brain into mush? He inwardly cringed, comforting himself with one absolute truth: JYPE was a massive company. He would simply avoid this hallway forever, pretend this never happened, and never see the guy again.
Back in the corridor, a breathless voice shattered the quiet.
“Minho-hyung!” Jaehyun panted, catching up and leaning against the wall. “You left your water bottle in the dance studio. What are you even staring at?”
Minho took the bottle, his gaze still anchored to the empty hallway. “Since when does JYPE let puppies roam the building?”
“What?”
“A puppy. With a tiny mole on his cheek. He looked like a chocolate chip cookie.”
Jaehyun stared at him, deadpan. “Let me get this straight. You ran into a literal dog that looks like baked goods?”
“No, a guy,” Minho said, finally looking at his friend with an exasperated sigh. “He had these massive, round eyes, floppy hair, and this ridiculous pout when he was mad. He looked exactly like a puppy. And the mole was cute.”
“Right… okay. And why do you care?”
“I don’t,” Minho said softly, turning away.
There was no point trying to explain it to Jaehyun. Jaehyun was a textbook straight guy from a deeply traditional family; he wouldn't understand the sudden, breathless spark Minho had just felt. He wouldn't get why Minho already knew this stranger was going to occupy his thoughts for the foreseeable future.
“Whatever. I’m going to check with the instructor about tomorrow’s schedule,” Jaehyun said, shaking his head. “Try not to lose your mind over pastries and dogs.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go.”
As Jaehyun walked away, Minho’s eyes caught a glint of metal beneath a nearby bench. He knelt down and pulled out a small keychain—a plush white dog with floppy black ears. On the back, written in a precise, neat handwriting, were three initials: KSM.
Minho traced the letters with his thumb, a soft, helpless smile tucking into the corner of his mouth. His heart did a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
“See you around, KSM,” he murmured, slipping the charm safely into his pocket like a treasured secret.