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SIX 「western nights」 ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚
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DESPITE EVERYTHING SHE'D been through, Sylvia couldn't remember the last time she'd been at such a loss for words. Minho. Her Minho. The boy who knew her better than anyone else, despite her misgivings about it. The boy who'd seen the worst parts of her and accepted them. The boy that she didn't quite hate.
Sylvia felt drunk. The joy that strummed through her body, the burn of happiness that rushed through her veins—it was like a drug. Minho had initially been looking at Thomas, and when his eyes slid over to her, his expression brightened tenfold, his eyes widening.
She couldn't quite quell her shock. Every emotion, every thought she had splayed over her face. For once in her life, she couldn't hide how she felt. Because it was Minho. He was here.
"Minho?"
Minho grinned, dimples cratering. Sylvia thought she might be taken hostage a hundred times over if she could keep him smiling at her like that. His eyes twinkled as he quipped, "The one and only."
"What...how..." Thomas stammered.
"We'd just found you. Did you think we were gonna let these bunch of shuck-faces do anything to you? You both owe me. Big-time." He walked over and started cutting the tape off of Thomas.
"What do you mean you'd just found us?" Sylvia questioned. She felt so happy she wanted to giggle like an idiot.
Minho finished freeing Thomas from his tape and walked over to her. He stood over her, leaning close to her with the knife. He stared at her for a few moments, standing still. Now that he could see her face more clearly, his eyes darkened. His gaze trailed from the dark bruises on her cheekbone and jaw to the sure marks on her neck.
He paused, his hand reaching towards her neck, thumb softly brushing the swollen, red skin. His voice was low and angry when he spoke, "Who the fuck did this to you?"
