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Minho noticed things.
Maybe more than he should.
But it wasn’t a bad thing — not even close. He liked having this almost-superpower of reading people, like their emotions were written in highlighter while everyone else saw plain text.
Some feelings glowed on the surface. Others were buried deep.
Either way, Minho usually caught them first.
He realized early on that he could do this with Chuck. The kid was one of the youngest — maybe the youngest — and that alone already made him feel left out sometimes. Minho always saw it before Chuck ever said a word.
It happened on a completely normal afternoon. A week earlier, everyone had agreed to meet at the apartment Minho shared with Newt — something that had become a running tradition. But that night took a turn when Gally arrived carrying a backpack way too big to be innocent.
When they asked what was inside, Gally unzipped the bag with that look of you’re welcome, revealing three bottles of liquor and several cans of beer.
The older ones got excited instantly. Alby even smiled… for about three seconds, before remembering half the group wasn’t allowed to drink. Then the Responsible Leader Mode kicked in.
Gally hated that.
“Come on, man. They drink soda, we drink beer. Simple.”
Minho could tell it wasn’t malice — Gally just really wanted to have fun, in the very Gally-ish clumsy way he had. The younger ones insisted it was fine, that they didn’t mind. Alby battled between being responsible and being a teenager.
He eventually sighed, lifted his hands, and declared:
“Okay. But no one is getting wasted. Got it?”
That was more than enough for the group to explode into cheers and nearly tackle Alby in celebration.
The night went on — loud, chaotic, happy — but Minho, holding a cold beer, realized something was off.
Chuck was missing.
It wasn’t like Chuck to stay quiet, or far, or hidden. So Minho scanned the apartment until he found the kid sitting between two doors, hugging a cup of juice like it was a lifeline.
“Hey, kid!” Minho almost had to shout — someone was blasting random music from the living room.
Chuck lifted his head, gave a tiny awkward wave, and went right back to stirring his juice with the straw, completely absorbed in the spirals he was making.
Minho sat beside him. They stayed silent — the comfortable kind of silence that only happens between people who trust each other — until Minho gently asked what was wrong.
Chuck hesitated, then slowly broke: he felt left out for being the youngest, and when the others drank alcohol, the distance felt even bigger.
Minho tried comforting words, the kind that sounded sweet but didn’t hit where they needed to. He saw immediately that it wasn’t working.
So he made the reckless-but-well-intentioned decision.
He pressed his cold beer can against Chuck’s arm.
“Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
And offered the can.
Chuck’s eyes widened. He hesitated, sniffed the drink, made a face, and took a sip.
He spat it out immediately.
Minho laughed so hard he drowned out the music.
“I don’t wanna drink this gross stuff!” Chuck protested, grabbing his orange juice like it was holy water.
After that night, Minho realized he really had this strange ability: noticing everything, helping when he could, comforting when no one else saw the need. The whole group teased him:
“You can’t hide anything from Minho!”
But that confidence cracked the day a newcomer arrived.
His name was Thomas — Alby brought him in.
The moment Minho saw him, he felt… nothing.
No signal. No instinct. No emotional read whatsoever.
Just a wall.
It irritated him more than he wanted to admit.
But Thomas adjusted quickly. He talked easily, smiled without effort, and was way more friendly than Minho expected. At first, he seemed almost scared to sit with the group, like he was entering foreign territory. Minho assumed he was introverted.
That impression vanished in a week.
Still, Minho couldn’t read him.
Thomas was expressive — sometimes too much. And when he disliked someone, he made it painfully obvious.
He and Gally, for example, never got along. And Minho had no idea why.
The only thing Minho knew for certain about Thomas was that he got along extremely well with Newt.
And honestly?
That shocked the hell out of him.
From the very first day, they clicked. Newt was always next to Thomas — talking, laughing, touching his arm, leaning closer than usual. Minho knew Newt like the back of his hand. This behavior was… new.
Months later, Minho finally understood why.
Because that was the day Thomas introduced Teresa.
Teresa was beautiful — the kind of beautiful that made the room pause. Confident, charismatic, bold, smart. She fit in immediately, maybe because half the boys rarely interacted with any girl outside their families.
But Minho didn’t watch her.
He watched Newt.
And he saw:
The slight retreat.
The smile that tightened.
The way his gaze flicked away too fast.
The subtle inch his body curled inward.
Jealousy.
Plain and simple.
And it got even clearer when a stupid rumor started circulating — a running joke that maybe something had happened or was going to happen between Thomas and Teresa. They were always together, after all.
For the group, it was harmless teasing.
For Minho?
It was the exact opposite of harmless for Newt.
The final confirmation came during Alby’s pizza night.
Everyone was hanging around the living room. Music low, smell of cheese filling the air, laughter bouncing around the walls.
Newt was leaning over the kitchen counter, holding a soda, eyes locked on Thomas and Teresa as if they were reenacting a crime scene.
Minho approached casually.
“You know… you might wanna be less obvious.”
Newt nodded distractedly.
“Yeah, sure… huh? What?”
He finally turned to Minho, confused.
“What are you talking about?”
His British accent made the denial sound ten times more dramatic.
“Your very clear jealousy. Not healthy, by the way,” Minho teased, leaning against the counter.
Newt rolled his eyes — not annoyed, but panicked.
“I’m not jealous, Minho. For God’s sake.”
He took a fast sip of soda to hide the pink rising on his cheeks.
Minho lifted a brow.
“Newt… you’re staring at them like you’re solving a murder. And this isn’t even a crime show.”
“It’s not jealousy.”
“Right.”
“Minho.”
“Newt.”
Newt dropped his cup with a loud thunk. Minho nearly laughed.
“I’m just watching! They’re friends.”
“Mhm.”
“They are!”
“Mhm.”
Newt turned slowly, wearing the exact expression of someone contemplating homicide.
“You are impossible.”
“And you like someone more than you admit.”
Minho tapped his arm twice.
“Go talk to him. Because — spoiler — he notices when you disappear. And when you pretend everything’s normal. And you, my dramatic blond friend, are NOT normal right now.”
Newt’s eyes softened — scared, exposed, cornered by the truth.
In the living room, Teresa laughed at something Thomas said.
Thomas laughed too — that soft, shy laugh Newt absolutely hated hearing for reasons he refused to admit.
Minho jerked his chin toward them.
“Go.”
Newt closed his eyes. Exhaled.
And before he could back out, Minho gave him a gentle shove.
“Go already, drama queen.”
Newt walked toward Thomas.
Teresa saw him coming.
She smiled — knowingly — and politely stepped aside, giving space neither of them asked for.
“Newt?” Thomas blinked. “Are you okay?”
Newt swallowed hard.
“Can you… come with me for a minute?”
“Sure. Did something happen?”
“Just… come.”
He took Thomas’s wrist gently, like he was afraid Thomas might break, and guided him toward the hallway. Minho watched them go with the victorious expression of someone who just won a bet.
They disappeared into the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms.
Thomas opened his mouth to ask again.
Newt closed the door behind them.
The soft click echoed down the corridor.
No one downstairs heard what happened next.
Minho, biting into a slice of cold pizza, smiled to himself.
“Finally.”
And went back to the party.
Without telling a soul what he knew.
Or what he imagined.