#minhox

The dance studio hums with excitement, the air buzzing with anticipation. You're the lead dancer, and every step you take feels like a triumph, all thanks to your hard work and talent. The big show is just around the corner, and you're more than ready to steal the spotlight.

However, it's been days of pushing your body to the limit, every muscle and bone strained with relentless practice. Your body moves with fluid grace, each step executed with precision and poise. You can feel the eyes of your peers on you, their admiration evident in the way they watch your every move.

As the music reaches its crescendo, you prepare for a particularly challenging sequence. The anticipation hangs heavy in the air as the music begins to swell, filling the studio with its rhythm. With a deep breath, you launch yourself into the air, the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you execute each move with perfection. It's as if you were born to dance, your body effortlessly translating the music into motion.

But then, in the midst of a particularly demanding jump, it happens.

You land incorrectly, and a searing pain shoots through your ankle.

You feel your body waver, your balance faltering as you struggle to absorb the shock. With a gasp, you collapse to the ground, the impact reverberating through your bones. Tears well in your eyes as the pain radiates from your ankle, pulsing with each beat of your heart. It's a sensation unlike any you've ever experienced. You try to push through the pain, to rise to your feet and continue dancing as if nothing happened. But your body refuses to obey, the agony too overwhelming to ignore. You find yourself trembling, not from exertion, but from the sheer intensity of the pain coursing through your veins.

Your fellow dancers rush to your side, their voices a blur of concern and confusion. They gather around you, their faces etched with worry as they try to assess the situation. But you barely register their presence, your focus consumed by the agony radiating from your ankle.

Tears stream down your cheeks unchecked as you struggle to come to terms with what just happened. The show is just two days away, and you were supposed to be the lead. But now, all of that hangs in the balance, overshadowed by the uncertainty of your injury.

At that moment of vulnerability, you feel a surge of emotions welling up inside you: frustration, fear, anger.

In the midst of your swirling emotions, a gentle hand touches your shoulder, pulling you out from your thoughts. It's one of your fellow dancers, her eyes brimming with compassion.

"Hey, Y/n," she says softly, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Are you hurt? How bad is it? Can you walk?"

With a shaky nod, you try to stand, but the pain shooting through your ankle makes it impossible. You wince, unable to hide the agony etched on your face.

"Hmm... We need to get you to the emergency room," she decides, her voice laced with concern. With her help, you manage to limp out of the studio and into the cool night air, leaning heavily on her for support.

The journey to the hospital is a blur of pain and uncertainty, but your fellow dancer stays by your side the entire time, her presence a comforting one. The harsh fluorescent lights and sterile surroundings offer a stark contrast to the chaos of the dance studio.

As you're wheeled into the emergency room, the sense of urgency is palpable. Nurses and doctors bustle around, their voices a constant murmur as they tend to patients in various states of distress. You're placed on a bed, the crisp white sheets feeling soft against your skin.

Your fellow dancer stays by your side. She holds your hand tightly, offering silent support as you wait for the medical team to assess your injury.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours as you lie there, the pain in your ankle a relentless reminder of the ordeal you're facing. Your mind races with worry and fear, each passing second only adding to the weight of uncertainty pressing down on your shoulders.

Then, amidst the chaos of the emergency room, you hear a familiar voice calling your name. You turn to see Minho striding towards you, his expression a mix of concern and frustration.

Minho's footsteps echo in the sterile corridors of the emergency room as he approaches your bedside, his presence commanding attention despite the chaos around you. His eyes, usually warm and inviting, now hold a mixture of concern and hurt, their intensity piercing through the haze of pain that clouds your mind.

Confusion mingles with the pain as you meet his gaze. You never mentioned a word to him about your injury, not wanting to burden him with your troubles. How could he have found out?

Silently, he gestures to the fellow dancer who had accompanied you, a subtle signal that speaks volumes. With a gentle nod, the dancer understands and quietly slips away, leaving you alone with Minho and the weight of his unspoken emotions.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice is a whisper, but it reverberates in the silent space between you, heavy with unspoken emotions. "I've been worried sick about you."

Your throat constricts with guilt as you meet his gaze, tears welling up in your eyes. "I'm sorry, Minho," you whisper, your voice trembling with remorse. "I didn't mean to worry you."

Minho's jaw tightened, the muscles visibly tensing as frustration simmered beneath the surface. His brows furrowed, and his eyes fixed on you as he struggled to articulate his emotions. "Y/n," he continued, his voice tinged with a hint of hurt, "you didn't talk to me all day. I'm left here wondering if I've done something wrong, if you're upset with me." He let out a heavy sigh, his voice slightly trembling. "I went to bring you food, hoping to see you, only to find chaos in the studio and you nowhere to be found. I had to find out from someone else that you were hurt." His words hung in the air, punctuated by a sense of disappointment and worry. "What's the use of having a phone if you don't even bother to use it?"

You flinch at his words, the weight of his disappointment pressing down on you like a weighted blanket.

"Do you understand how scary it is to find out the person you love is hurt and you knew nothing about it? And they don't answer?" There was a rawness in his voice, a vulnerability that he rarely showed, laid bare in that moment.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of activity in the emergency room. "I was so caught up in practicing for the dance, I didn't even realize..."

Minho's frustration only seems to intensify at your explanation. "Y/n, your health should come first," he says firmly. "You can't keep pushing yourself like this. What if this injury had been worse? What if you had collapsed somewhere with no one around to help?"

His words strike a chord deep within you, and you realize the reality of your actions. Guilt washes over you in waves as you realize the recklessness of your behavior.

"I know, Min," you say, your voice trembling. "I should have been more careful. I know."

Minho's gaze softens slightly at your admission, but the frustration still lingers in his eyes. "Y/n," he said gently, his words carrying the weight of concern, "I need to know that you'll take care of yourself." His hand reached out tentatively, as if to offer comfort, but then recoiled, a gesture mirroring the hesitance in his voice. "You never ask for help, even when you're hurt," he continued. "Remember last time, when you injured your ribs and I didn't find out until I went to hug you?"

You swallow hard, the memory of that moment flooding back with painful clarity. "I remember," you whisper. "But Minho, it's not like I never take care of myself," you explain, a hint of defensiveness creeping into your voice.

"You've been pushing yourself harder than usual," Minho interjects. "You know that's going to take a toll on your body. You can't do that, Y/N!" His tone is firm

You flinch involuntarily, his words hitting you like a slap in the face. The sting of his words cuts through the air, leaving a palpable tension between you. For a moment, you're at a loss for words, the weight of his concern bearing down on you.

"I can't bear the thought of you getting hurt because you were too stubborn to ask for help," he says, his voice carrying worry and frustration.

Tears blur your vision as you lift your gaze to meet Minho's, your heart heavy with guilt and uncertainty. "Minho, I... I'm sorry," you stammer, your voice wavering with emotion. "I never meant to worry you. I just... I didn't want to burden you with my problems."

Your apology hangs in the air, the tension between you obvious.

Minho's expression softens at your words, his anger melting away as he reaches out to gently wipe away your tears. "Y/n, you could never be a burden to me," he murmurs. "We're in this together, remember? Whatever you're going through, I want to be there for you. Please, don't ever shut me out like this again."

The door to the room opens, and a doctor steps in, breaking the momentary peace. "I'm sorry to interrupt," the doctor says, his tone gentle yet matter-of-fact. "But I have the results of your examination."

You turn your attention to the doctor, a mixture of anxiety and anticipation bubbling within you. "What's the verdict?" you ask, your voice trembling slightly.

The doctor offers a sympathetic smile. "You've twisted your ankle," he explains, his words confirming your worst fears. "It's not too severe, but you'll need to be on crutches for the next two weeks to give it time to heal properly."

You let out a sigh of relief, grateful that the injury isn't more serious. The doctor continues, his tone becoming more serious. "I also recommend that you avoid putting weight on the injured ankle as much as possible. No driving until you're fully recovered, and be sure to keep it elevated when you're resting."

You nod, committing the doctor's instructions to memory.

With a gentle hand under your elbow, Minho helps you to your feet, supporting you as you steady yourself on your uninjured foot. "Take it slow," he advises, his voice a soothing presence in the midst of your discomfort.

You lean on him heavily as you navigate the corridors of the hospital, grateful for his strength and steadiness. Finally, you reach the exit, the cool night air a welcome relief after the sterile confines of the hospital. Minho guides you to his car, opening the door and helping you settle into the passenger seat with gentle care.

As you arrive home, Minho continues to be by your side, his protective instincts in full force. With gentle hands, he helps you out of the car and guides you inside, making sure you're steady every step of the way.

Once inside, Minho leads you to your bedroom, where he encourages you to sit down on the bed. "Stay right here, Y/n," he insists, his voice firm yet gentle. "I'll take care of everything."

You watch with a mixture of amusement and gratitude as Minho bustles around the room, fetching pillows to prop up your injured ankle and adjusting the blankets to make you comfortable. He returns with a tray of food, carefully balancing it in his hands as he sets it down on your lap.

"Dinner is served," Minho announces with a smile, his eyes warm with affection as he watches you eat. "Just relax and let me take care of you."

And just like that, Minho becomes your personal caretaker, attending to your every need with unwavering devotion. He brings you meals, helps you with your exercises, and even reads to you when you're feeling restless.

In the quiet moments between meals and exercises, you catch glimpses of a side of Minho that he rarely shows. His usual cool demeanor softens as he tends to your needs, his touch gentle and his voice filled with tenderness.

Despite his outwardly stoic nature, his actions speak volumes about the depth of his love for you. You see it in the way he carefully adjusts the pillows under your head, in the way he sits by your side, holding your hand as you rest.

You watch how he reaches for a tube of muscle cream from the bedside table, his movements deliberate and gentle. With practiced care, he unscrews the cap and squeezes a small amount onto his fingertips.

He begins to apply the cream to your injured ankle, his touch firm yet tender. He starts with slow, circular motions, his fingers working the cream into your skin with a gentle pressure. With each stroke, you can feel the tension in your muscles easing, the warmth of the cream soothing the ache in your ankle.

There's a vulnerability in his eyes that you've never seen before, a rawness that speaks of the pain he feels seeing you in discomfort. It's as if every ache in your body is mirrored in his heart. And though he may not always express his emotions in words, his actions speak louder than any declaration of love ever could.

"Minho," you say softly, reaching out to touch his hand. "You really don't have to do all this."

His gaze meets yours, a mixture of surprise and concern flickering in his eyes. "But Y/N," he begins, his voice filled with sincerity, "I want to take care of you. You mean everything to me kitten, and seeing you in pain..." he trails off. " I just want to make it better."

You smile softly, but beneath the surface, guilt gnaws at you persistently. "Baby," you continue, "I can't help but feel guilty for taking up so much of your time. You have shows to prepare for, comebacks to plan, dances to choreograph... and the kids need you."

Minho's eyes soften as he reaches out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your face. "Y/N," he murmurs, his voice filled with sincerity, "you are my priority right now. Yes, I have other commitments, but none of them are as important as making sure you're okay."

You feel a lump form in your throat at his words. "But," you protest weakly, "you shouldn't have to sacrifice so much for me."

His gaze meets yours, a reassuring smile playing on his lips. "Y/N, you're not just 'me.' I can't bear to see you in pain, and I'll do everything in my power to make it better. I'll move mountains to take that pain away because you're more than just important to me; you're everything."

You feel Minho's arms enveloping you in a warm embrace, his touch a comforting anchor amidst the storm of emotions swirling within you. His lips press gently against your forehead, a tender gesture that sends shivers down your spine.

"I wish I could take all the pain away," he murmurs, his voice soft with longing. "I wish I could carry it instead of you."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes at his words, overwhelmed by the depth of his love and compassion. "Minho," you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion, "Just having you here with me... it means everything."

In that moment, wrapped in his arms, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. Despite the pain and uncertainty, you know that with Minho by your side, you can weather any storm.

"I love you," you murmur, the words spilling from your lips like a prayer. "I love you more than words can say."

His hold tightens around you, his heartbeat echoing in sync with yours. "I love you too, kitten" he murmurs, his voice a gentle promise. "More than you'll ever know."