Minghao is all light and joy and wonder at the world; brightness and beauty and sharp humour that makes you want to scream and groan and hit him and laugh until you cry all at the same time.
And he's beautiful and long and skinny and he loves you, so much, and yet you never seemed to notice.
He loves to watch you talk about your interests; he could look at the way your eyes light up, the endearing way your lips move, and the gestures you make as you talk, for hours on end and never be tired. He's been in love for months now, hopelessly, desperately in love, until he thinks he can't stand keeping quiet any more.
Minghao loves you, to the moon and back.
Yet he can't tell you. He can't even drop a hint, he's struck dumb, paralysed, fascinated, spellbound by the bright light in his life that is you.
And today, walking together, his heart jumps into his throat every time your knuckles brush his, his long fingers twitching with the urge to wrap around yours, entwine with your hands and feel your gentle pulse in your wrist.
Or would your pulse be as wild as his, as excited, joyful, and unrestrained? He hopes so — if only he could get up the courage to actually hold your hand.
Your hand brushes against Minghao's for the twenty-third time (he counted), and everything grinds to a halt once more.
Before he quite knows what he's doing, words are spilling out of his mouth, sharper than he intended, stumbling over his words and his Chinese accent becoming thicker in his flustered state.
"Listen if your hand brushes against mine one more time then I will grab it and never let go that's your last warning," he blurts, cheeks and ears flushed the colour of sunsets and your favourite red hoodie you've stolen from him five times in the last month and a half.
You look up at him, your own face tinting a soft pink. You're so gorgeous, breathtaking, flawless, amazing, that Minghao wonders if there are enough words in any language to properly give justice to your existence.
"Oh," you murmur, looking back down at your hands, centimetres apart, his hand quivering and flexing, balling into a fist and relaxing in nervousness.
Your hand slips into his, carefully, timidly, and Minghao's heart stops for a split second, the entire world freezing around him as you lace your fingers between his as if they had always been meant to fit there.
"O-okay."
Minghao is all light and joy and wonder at the world; and he feels like he's floating as he squeezes your hand, his heart finally restarting as a smile brighter than the sun spreads across his cheeks and feels like it's about to rip his face in half with how wide he's smiling.
And he's beautiful and long and skinny and he loves you, so much, and he could write a thousand songs in a thousand languages just about that breathless, perfect moment when your hands fit perfectly together, when you finally noticed.
All the love songs and sonnets in the world can't describe how he feels; not even the greatest poets could put into words the feeling when you smile at him, and Minghao feels like screaming and kissing you when you swing your tightly woven hands ever so slightly as you continue on your way, a smile on your face.
Minghao loves you, to the moon and back, and your hand in his is warm and soft.
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uhhhh so like all of my major series have ended,,,,
I'm working on fantasy!seventeen but I also need ideas for a new series so,, if you would,, please leave ideas here
in the meantime have a Minghao fluff inspired by an otp prompt I saw on tumblr and wrote in less than 45 minutes