Page 75 of Wish Upon a K-Star

“This isn’t the time to have this conversation.”

“I thought you’ve been wanting to talk,” Minseok says tauntingly.

An angry vein appears in Jongdae’s temple. “You know we’re trying to keep a low profile these days.”

Minseok’s jaw tenses, the first sign that he’s not as unaffected as he’s pretending. “No,youare keeping a low profile while I smooth things over so people forget your mistakes.”

The room is now too quiet. I shift awkwardly in my seat, and I can hear the sound of the cushions squishing beneath me.

Sooyeon clears her throat. “I think maybe we all need to cool off. We’re here to celebrate Robbie.”

“Yeah, let’s order food,” Jaehyung suggests, pulling his phone out.

Robbie looks a little annoyed, but he just nods. “Yeah, who’s next to sing? Jongdae-hyeong? You want a turn?”

JD still looks pissed until Sooyeon pats his shoulder gently. Her touch seems to relax him. He finally relaxes a fraction. “Yeah, let’s look at the song list.”

He moves to the couch with Sooeyon’s help.

Everyone’s shifting to make room for him, naturally catering to JD due to his injury.

But I’m still watching Minseok, so I see when he walks to the foyer and steps into his shoes. Should I stop him? Ask if he’s okay? While I’m worrying over it, he slips out of the apartment.

“Is he going to be okay?” Elena murmurs beside me. I guess she noticed Minseok leave too.

“I don’t think he’s in the mood to talk right now.”

Even when we were young, Minseok rarely ever got angry. When he did, he usually needed time to cool off before he would listen to anyone.

“You should go talk to him,” Elena says.

“Me?” I blink at her. “Why?”

“I think he’d listen to you.”

I shake my head. It doesn’t make any sense. Minseok would be much more likely to listen to one of the guys. But I get up anyway. Everyone is still too focused on Jongdae right now. And whenever I’m upset and storm out of a room, there’s always a part of me hoping someone cares enough to come after me. Maybe Minseok feels that way too.

He’s standing in front of the elevator but has yet to press the call button.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Nowhere,” he mutters, letting his head fall against the wall with a depressing thud.

“Come on.” I pull his arm, expecting resistance. But he follows me back like an obedient puppy.

Instead of going into his apartment, I open my own door.

He doesn’t protest as I pull him inside and deposit him on the couch. Now that I see him in real light, I can tell that the drunken flush on his cheeks is deeper than I thought. He must have had more than a few drinks. I go to the kitchen and fill a cup of water.

“Hydrate,” I tell him.

He obeys again.

I sit and wait for him to finish gulping it down.

“Are you done being mad?” I ask.

“No.” He pouts like a little kid.

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