stars × cnblue kangminhyuk

9 : His Wrath, His Comfort

Kang Minhyuk's glare was sharp enough to slice through the silence. His hand gripped mine tightly as he turned to the three girls, their heads lowered, fingers twisted together nervously. None of them dared meet his eyes.

"How can you disrespectful women call yourselves my fans?!" His voice thundered, louder than I had ever heard. "Do you wish to spend the night in jail?!"

The girls flinched at his roar, their shoulders trembling. I did too, clutching onto his shirt instinctively. In all the time I had known him, I had never seen him like this. Minhyuk was usually whiny, grumpy, and annoyingly sarcastic—but he never lost control like this. This was the first time I'd seen him raise his voice, especially at fans.

But tonight was different.

Before I could process what was happening, a flash lit up the street. Then another, and another. I turned my head and saw people swarming in, most with their phones lifted, recording. A man with a bulky camera was snapping pictures relentlessly. The media—they always appeared out of nowhere, as if they had a sixth sense for scandals.

The girls panicked and quickly covered their faces, bolting into the night before the cameras could capture them clearly.

Minhyuk's chest rose and fell rapidly, his breaths heavy with fury. He didn't let go of my hand as he pulled me into the building, striding toward his condo with determined steps. He didn't even glance at me, but his grip was firm and unyielding until we finally reached the living room.

Suddenly, he turned sharply. His eyes blazed like fire as his teeth clenched. "Why the hell don't you fight back?!"

I froze, staring at the floor as guilt weighed down on me. My lips pressed together, unable to form an answer. He was right. I hadn't fought back—I couldn't. The shadows of my past had paralyzed me, dragging me into a dark place where I was powerless all over again.

Minhyuk exhaled harshly, then stepped closer. Without another word, he grabbed a tissue and began wiping the chocolate cake smeared in my hair. His movements were rough at first, but then his touch softened as he guided me to the sink. He wet his hands and carefully brushed the cream from my hair, his fingers grazing my scalp in gentle strokes.

When he was done, he cupped my cheeks with both hands, his gaze heavy with something between anger and concern. "Never go out alone without me again."

I nodded weakly. My voice wouldn't come out even if I tried. I was still shaken—shaken by the incident, shaken by how violent fans could become, and shaken by how desperately he seemed to want to protect me.

"Wash this for me." He peeled off his shirt, drenched with latte, and shoved it into my hands. A hiss escaped his lips as his back stiffened. "Ah, this is all your fault."

When he turned around, my breath caught. His back was raw and red, the skin scalded from the hot latte.

The coffee had been meant for me. But he took it instead.

"Sorry..." My voice wavered as guilt pierced my chest. "I'll apply some ointment. Where is it?"

"There." He gestured toward the cabinet near the fridge.

I hurried to grab the ointment and returned, my hands trembling as I pressed a wet cloth against his back. He flinched slightly, but didn't pull away. Carefully, I rubbed the ointment over the burn, tracing the lines of muscle beneath feverish skin. His body was still warm—too warm.

"You're still running a fever. Why did you follow me? You should've been resting." My tone was firmer now, though my heart clenched.

He rolled his eyes at me, stubborn as always. "I could've rested peacefully if someone didn't sneak out without telling me. And maybe if someone brought her phone so I could at least contact her."