Loneliness eats at the heart of the bold, scratches welts so deep in the souls of the wild until there is nothing left but the distorted flicker of a shadow. Minho doesn’t wait for it to creep up on him however, and is more than ready to take on the side of him that he keeps dormant,—hidden from the savage beasts creeping in the many offices of Seoul. He doesn’t hide it now, allows the pages in his book to be turned by shy hands and downward glances. They boil a fire in the pit of his belly—he yearns for their touch, their wry smiles and lowered eyes. He wants you to call him Sir, wants you to let the word sit on your tongue,  the meaning behind it a little hard to swallow.

Hovers: ○○○○
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